#that he made himself a wooden knife 'that wasn't sharp'

[yandere-romanticaa]

𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘬.

¡! ❞ You can never love him, not in the way he loves you. You say that over and over but Dazai Osamu has other things in store for you.

"So... Is that how it is?" said the brunette with a tone colder than ice and a face devoid of any and all emotion. He sat in a wooden chair with his arms placed in front of him as he stared downwards at your shaking form. Deafening silence filled the room as neither one of you was willing to speak up, not after the horrible mistake you had just committed.

"You will never be my first love, no matter how hard you try Dazai! Someone else already took that place, someone that isn't you!"

Those words echoed loudly inside Dazai's mind and he tried to hard to prevent himself from scoffing. Even now a dead man was more important to you, a rotting hunk of flesh that couldn't say nor do anything but you didn't budge, you never budged. What you said, it... it hurt. It hurt him and it still hurts. It felt as though he got stabbed in the chest and the knife was being twisted over and over and over and all over again and the sheer force of the pain would bring Dazai back down to Earth, back to the Hell he calls a home, back to you.

Is this karma? Is this divine retribution for all his past actions?

His dear old Odasaku always wanted for Dazai to become good, to be good but his past had caught up with him and old habits die hard. He was torn and conflicted - was he nothing more but a waste of space or a human being that deserved to live if not a happy then a so called normal life?

It dawned on him and after what felt like an eternity, Dazai grinned, a wicked, devilish grin that grew and grew until it almost made you throw up. His face was inches away from yours, chapped lips just barely threatening to steal yet another precious kiss from your own as Dazai finally decided to break the horrible tension.

"You were right dear, I will never be your first love..."

Was he coming to his senses? What was he saying, is it foolish to get your hopes up yet?

"But..."

You could feel his cold and long fingers on your face, toying with the bruised and bloody flesh as his chocolate brown eyes glared horribly at you, as if they were sharp daggers ready to kill anyone who dared to get in their way.

"...I have become something much, much more important, something that you just won't be able to live without."

You could feel one of his arms swiftly creeping up towards your head and you felt a sharp thug upwards, causing you to yell in agony as his other hand painfully squished your cheeks, his fingernails ripping into the softness of your cheeks. Dazai carefully watched the tiny trickles of crimson red blood fall onto the white bandages on his hands, as if he was admiring the view so to speak. Well he was, actually. Your pretty blood had now stained his bandages and it could be considered a work of art, to him at least but, that wasn't too important at the moment, not when you had oh so carelessly broken his heart into a million little pieces.

"I may not be your first love but I sure as Hell am going to be your last one. And that darling is much more important."

If you weren't going to let him heal you he was left with no choice other than to break you.

🕊️ TAGS: @yanroma, @oneoftheprettynerds, @misskisses, @sxy0ung, @rosemary108233, @itssara-chan

This man is so hard to write for I swear, but I really tried with this, m'kay?

#yandere #yandere x reader #yancore #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #yandere imagines #yandere x you #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #yandere dazai #bsd dazai osamu #yandere dazai osamu #yandere dazai x reader #yandere dazai osamu x reader #yandere bungou stray dogs x reader #yandere bungo stray dogs x reader #yandere bungo stray dogs #yandere bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs #yandere bsd imagine #yandere bsd x reader #yandere bsd

[fantasylandloser]

Cupid

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x woc!reader

Summary: idfk Daryl + apocalypse + love

Warnings: canon typical violence, injury to reader, lots of hurt comfort, angst, nno specific plot

A/N: I just started watching twd and everybodys so attractive and traumatized, I don't know what to do with myself. Anyway enjoy, or don't.

******

When you first met Daryl, you very quickly learned to be cautious of him and his brother. The color of your skin caused unnecessary distress to the eldest brother, and he made sure everyone else was aware of this problem if he was in the mood.

You were tactful about avoiding him for the most part. Until Merle was missing. You weren’t particularly sad about it. You surely wouldn’t miss him, then you began to notice Daryl without worrying his brother was behind him. 

He was quiet, withdrawn, helpful, kind in his own way. He was many things, maybe even a good man. The first time you found yourself around him on purpose, you’d been spooked. You ran to the first person you saw, which was Daryl and he pushed you behind him. You hardly realized the way you gripped onto him when he held up his bow an arrow to shoot the walker. Your heart was beating so loudly that when he told you ‘it’s dead now’ you barely heard him. And you didn’t get to thank him before Carol pulled you away. 

The next day Daryl found ten perfectly carved wooden arrows outside his tent. He knew it was you. He never told you thank you though, he didn’t know how. 

The next time he goes through a bunch of arrows again he finds more outside his tent, probably twenty, they’re perfect, each of them. He hates them. He doesn’t understand them. Which is why you find them thrown back at your feet, when he finds you at the creek washing clothes. 

“I can carve my own arrows.” You look taken back slightly, but nod nonetheless. 

“I’m aware.” You say trying your best to appear unruffled, but you were also well aware others were watching the two of you. 

“You don’t need to be wastin’ your time makin’ these.” He nods to them. Then looks away from you when he sees your look of disappointment. 

“I understand. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Your reply is so soft he barely hears you, and he knows he’s a dick by how gutted you sound , but he can’t bring himself to pick the arrows back up so he just walks away. 

You stay away from him again after that. Only near him when the group is all together, never making eye contact or standing too close. 

*****

The next memorable interaction between Daryl and you is when Andrea shoots him. It was the most reckless thing you’d ever seen in your opinion, and you didn’t have a problem telling her so, much to the shock of the rest of the camp. You couldn’t help being so mad though, you’d finally found safety on the farm and you were a little upset to have it compromised. No other reason. 

Someone must have told him when he woke up because when you pass by his tent for the tenth time in an hour, he calls you in. It’s awkward considering how little the two of you have spoken. He doesn’t ask you for anything, even though you offer plenty. He just reaches into his back pocket, hands you a sharp knife with an impeccable blade, tells you that he found it while he was in the woods and figured you’d have use for it. 

He asks you to show him the technique you used when you carved his arrows. His way of apologizing you think. You tell him there wasn't a technique, but you let him watch you carve one and he realizes you’re so into it you don't recognize the method to your own madness, you’re just using it to cope, to create. 

After that  day he lets you carve his arrows, sometimes sitting with you while you do it. The two of you didn’t do much talking but you both appreciated the company. 

******

“Raise your arm more.” Daryl tells you. You huff slightly not annoyed, just frustrated. 

“It’s heavy.” You complain.

“You made it.” He counters, squatting beside you. 

“Not for me.” You murmur. He sighs and takes the crossbow from you. Something you made mostly of wood and spare parts you found around the camp. It was really badass in Daryl’s opinions but for whatever girly reason you were embarrassed. 

He had found it when he was looking for you, put away the best you could in your tent, but still it caught his eye. He wasn’t snooping, as you said he was. 

Daryl can’t help but admire it, but that’s all he does. He won’t accept it as a gift, not something you put so much work into, so he offered to teach you how to use it instead. You regretted saying yes to that as your shoulder ached.

“Just somethin’ you gotta learn how to do now.” Is all he can offer, you only sigh while stretching your arms once more before taking the crossbow back from him. 

“Hold up” You still, but you keep your arm lifted. You let him move the strands of curly hair out your face, some of them falling back to exactly where they were. 

‘Alright now you can actually see the target.” You scoff, seeing how pleased he is with himself, but can’t help the amused smile that lights up your face. 

“I hate you.” You say, with no bite behind it, but you can actually see the target now. You don’t hit it on the first ten tries, but when you finally do, you smile in triumph, pleased with yourself. You allow yourself that joy for a few seconds, you’ve forgotten Daryl at this point. Because you reload without so much as looking back at him and continue on until the sun is no longer in the sky. For a reason unknown to Daryl, this blooms a feeling of pride in his chest. 

******

Sometimes you found yourself watching Daryl's arms. It wasn’t something you did purposefully, he’d be showing something to you and your eyes would just wander. It was a stupid habit that only caused you more trouble than you needed. 

“Are you listenin’ to me?” No you were not. 

“No.” Your cheeks heat up at your admission, your eyes finally making their way back up to his. “I’m sorry.” You catch the amused glint in his eyes and you know you were caught.

“It’s alright, we'll pick back up-” Daryl’s name is called before he can finish speaking. Shane and Rick nod him over and he gives you a quick look before walking over. They leave to make a run an hour later. 

Everytime Daryl leaves you watch for him, waiting for him to get back. You wish you didn’t, but you couldn’t do anything else with him gone, too scared, too nervous. That’s how you end up in such a stupid accident. Falling off the roof of the RV had to be the most embarrassing thing you’d ever done, and stupid. You probably would have been able to just get up and dust yourself off with a few scratches and possibly some sore muscles if you hadn’t landed right on an arrow you’d carved while you waited. 

You don’t cry out surprisingly, it’s probably shock. You’re barely aware of your surroundings as Dale and Andrea come from inside and rush you towards the house. You let them push you into the room and lay you on the bed, you let Hershel look at it, but the second he mentions pulling it out you panic, defensively covering it with your hands.

Carol is on the porch waiting for them to get back and they see the panic in her face before she has the chance to say anything. And Daryl sees that you aren’t on top of the RV like you usually are when he’s gone and he starts sprinting towards the house, the others are a close second behind him. 

“No please.” You’re not crying still, but you’re panicked, blocking Hershel from getting to you.

“I just want to help you, but you gotta calm down.” Hershel tells you. You let out a series of no’s while you get out of bed. When Daryl finally makes it to the room and sees the situation, he feels a bit of relief. He’s sure you’re in pain and he hates that, but it’s better you be in pain than dead.

“How the hell did this happen?” Daryl asks, when you hear his voice, your head snaps towards him and you call for him. 

There's a series of voices answering his question, but he ignores them all when Hershel says “She’s delirious, I need you to hold her down.” 

“You gotta lay back down, sweetheart.” Daryl tells you, he walks to you slowly trying not to spook you, He’s never seen you so terrified and he knows the pain must be too much when you're malnourished and sleep deprived and he knows you give most of your rations to Lori. 

“I don’t want them to take it out.” He knows you barely know what you’re saying. But he thinks you’re calming down some as your eyes grow wet. You clutch your side as the pain finally catches up with your senses. 

“Just lay down and let me look at it.” If you weren’t so out of your mind in pain you’d realize that he was lying, but you were. You agree lying back down. Once you do he attempts to lift your shirt, but it’s stuck to the arrow that hasn’t been pulled out. 

He sighs, his arm going around the top of your chest signaling Rick to grab your legs. “Baby, you’re gonna have to let him pull it out.” He sees your panic swell again but grabs your hand before you can do anything. 

“Just breathe, okay.” When Hershel starts to go to work on your wound, you face Daryl’s chest as you quietly cry. “I know, I know.” He soothes. Daryl realizes that he doesn’t think he’s seen you cry often since all of this has started and it makes his chest ache a little. 

When everything calms down after you pass out from the pain, and Hershel stitches up your wound Daryl finds himself sitting there still with his hand in yours. He doesn’t leave your side until your eyes open.

*****

Daryl gently touches your hair while you tell him about your life before infection. Your head is in his lap and he doesn’t even remember climbing into the bed with you. He allows himself the intimacy, says to himself that it’s to comfort you and not at all for him.

He doesn’t know when he started to feel so comfortable with you, but he thinks you have a way about you that would make any man break down his walls. It scares him. He hates it. He thinks you’re cupid, shooting him with arrows, making him love you.

“Were you with anyone before all this started?”  You ask. He only shakes his head. You hum softly, your hands fidgeting with the hand of his that isn’t in your hair. After a while of silence Daryl realizes you fell back asleep, but he can’t bring himself to leave you just yet. 

You’d lost so much blood in the day prior, more blood than he thought was survivable, but Hershel said you were fine. He couldn’t shake this feeling though, he just wanted you to be fine, he didn’t want to be scared. 

When the herd came for the house Daryl felt panic constrict his throat in a new way. Chaos ensued as he looked for you. When he finally found you, you were holding your own with a group of walkers, he would have found the time to be proud if it weren’t for the way his heart was beating. 

By the time you make it to his motorcycle, you killed nearly a dozen with his help. “Hurry the hell up.” He rushes, even though you’re hurrying to the best of your ability. 

****

“Where is she?” Daryl asks as he walks through the prison, he doesn’t get an answer but he doesn’t need one as your head pops out at the sound of his voice. 

He sees the betrayal in your eyes as you look at him, still he gets closer, just wanting to be near you. He starts to say your name, maybe to apologize, you’re not sure, and you don’t care. You shove him away from you. He comes back. 

“You left.” Your voice betrays you, as it quivers. “We needed you here.” 

“He’s my brother.” He tries to explain,

“And what are we?” Your voice rises, and it’s the first time you’ve ever yelled at him. It startles him slightly. “Are we not family?” You ask. “What am I?” Daryl clearly doesn’t have an answer for you. 

“Baby-” He calls when you turn away, ignoring Merle’s presence as you did before. “Give her space.” Carol tells him. “She’ll come around.”

“What the hell did I miss, little brother?” Merle asks, only to be ignored.

When you finally come back from wherever you run off to, you don’t make a sound if Daryl or Merle speak to you. It’s like how it was before Merle left the first cam, except worse in so many ways. 

Daryl just wants you to understand, he doesn’t know how you don’t. He wants to tell you it wasn’t personal, but the words don’t seem right. He works to find the right ones but it’s no matter, they’re aren’t any. 

You’re holding baby ass kicker when he finally gets a moment with you. Everything that happens is usually so public to the group now that you have to stick together, so he knows that everyone knows what you mean to him. It’s unnerving.

“M’sorry.” You pause your actions momentarily before going back to tending to the baby. When you don’t so much as acknowledge him, he goes where you and ass kicker are before getting on his knees willing you to look at him. 

“You gotta talk to me, alright? Even if you just want to yell or scream or hit me, give me somethin’” He pleads, he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You exhale a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I pushed you earlier. Wasn’t right.” Daryl almost scoffs because of course you’re apologizing.

“Deserved it.” He whispers to you, still on his knees in front of you, waiting for your eyes to land on him. You shake your head in disagreement. 

“If you leave again, or something happens…” You pause and Daryl wants to tell you nothing will happen and he won’t leave you but he can’t promise that to be true. “I want you to know that I love you,” You whisper. “It’s all I could think about since you left. How I should have told you- how I might never see you again.” When you finally look at him you see his tears, you know he’s hurting. 

“I’m not trying to make this harder for you, I just wanted you to know.” He nods, holding his face in your lap, trying to gather his emotions. With the hand that’s not holding the baby you stroke his hair gently, allowing him to cry.

#daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl x reader #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon angst #fantasylandloserfic

[tfyoulookingatgiuxs]

Nowhere to run

Ghostface!Eddie Munson x Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Nowhere to run. but you kept doing it. Eddie was there with you though. But running away from the problem you created seems too easy, don't you think?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Yandere!Ghostface!Eddie, Lovesick!Eddie, fem!reader, family issue, toxic relationship, knife, murder, jealousy, manipolation, chasing, angst, bad ending.

𝐀/𝐍: So. Bringing a smut with Eddie Ghostface seemed too corny. I tried something that works better for me. Hope you like it. Sorry about my English, this is not my native language. Support and reblog! (DIVIDER NOT MINE)

You ran through an isolated parking lot and, recognizing the place, you realized that you were close to your home. You looked over your shoulder to see if he was still behind you.

You were in total panic, you were crying and you wished this was just a simple nightmare.

You heard the heavy footsteps of his boots and you sped up your run until you arrived in front of your door. You opened it and locked it, locking the locks attached to the door as well. You wasted no time, you went upstairs and hide inside your large closet, hoping he wouldn't find you.

You were chased. But not from just any person you might find on the street, but from Eddie Munson. He was a boy in his late twenties who still attended the same school as you due to his failing grades. He had a low reputation and was called a freak along with his friends. Even though he had a scary appearance, he was actually a boy with a heart of gold. You knew it very well. You knew him. And what's more, you were dating. You were engaged. So why?

You wished you knew.

But you thought this was triggered because of you. You were his girlfriend, his first girlfriend to be precise, and as such, he was afraid of doing something wrong with you. In short, the little complexes you have when you start a relationship, but he had overcome this complex, and you knew it very well, you had helped him. You had always been so available to him and Eddie did the same thing to you. But your boyfriend, beyond this, was in love with you, he was really in love with you, to the point of madness. He was overprotective and jealous to say the least of other guys who got close to you.

You never said anything, but apparently you should have. Eddie started acting strange and you always felt a bad feeling. But you trusted him, so you let it go again. One night, though, you caught him coming home in his Halloween outfit, Ghostface. A ruthless serial killer with a white mask that is nothing short of frightening. He had taken off his mask while carrying someone's body.

Jason Carver.

Jason Carver lately, he wanted to give trouble to the metalhead, playing tasteless games on you or he approached you and made fun of you by flirting with you. All to make Eddie jealous, and therefore annoy him. He had always done it with him. Jason and Eddie hated each other because they were opposites. But both never raised their hands. Eddie didn't like this kind of thing unless he had to, but he always thought that if he got into a fight with anyone he would lose from the start. He wasn't incredibly strong like Jason, but that didn't matter to you. But that night you changed your mind.

He had killed him.

And you were paralyzed as soon as he saw you.

You remained in that corner without saying anything while he, with his costume full of blood, tried to justify himself and explain the situation.

You remained silent. Nodding.

But then you ran away. It was as if you realized what had happened that very evening. After two days you decided to go home but he chased you and you panicked.

He had entered. Now there's no turning back.

His boots could be heard on the wooden floor.

"Sweetheart..." He said teasingly. He was in your room, you caught a glimpse of his Ghostface costume as he held a sharp blade.

Your tears continued to fall.

It was your fault. You had transformed him.

"Please come out, I don't want to hurt you. I would never hurt you."

Was it true?

Eddie always said and stated that he would never lay a finger on you, because he loved you. But you were afraid...

Was it the right thing to do? Did you have to stay hidden? Or come out and pray Eddie figures out why you're running away?

You didn't know.

But your instincts suggested staying in the closet.

Eddie, after checking under the bed and the rest of the room, left. From the various sounds you could guess that he was going to your parents' room. Your parents weren't there that evening and neither were your brothers and sisters, you were a large family, but no one was present in the house this evening. Such misfortune was truly unheard of. You came out of your hiding place and ran towards the front door. As dangerous as the situation was, you didn't want to report Eddie. You loved him after all. You wanted to go out and think clearly and think about what to do to make your now crazy boyfriend see reason.

You were in front of the door but you clumsily tripped and fell down the stairs and a searing pain shot into your leg making you scream. It wasn't broken, but you took a chance, it was definitely fractured or something, but the worst thing was that every single movement of your leg hurt. You were done for.

You cried again and again and Eddie walked down the stairs at a slow pace.

He bowed, looking at your tear-filled face as you trembled.

“Shhh…” He hissed as he brushed against your injured leg making you gasp. The metalhead wrapped his arms around you hugging you "That's why you don't have to run away sweetie, otherwise you'll hurt yourself. And you know how sad it makes me to see you in this state" he said as he put the blade down on you and picked you up.

You continued to cry and sniff as you felt Eddie's latex gloves caressing your hair.

"Why don't we go home? So we can treat this leg and explain to me why you ran away?" He proposed as your head was pressed into his chest, you couldn't do anything else. You gasped and sobbed in response.

"Come on pretty girl, don't cry, everything will be fine..." he said taking you upstairs, more precisely to your room. He made you lay down and he sat next to you staring at you for a while.

He took off his mask revealing his brown curls "Now let's do this. If you tell me now why you ran away, I will heal your leg" he proposed. Was he a threat by any chance? Not very likely. Eddie would have treated you anyway, this is because he doesn't want to make you suffer, but certainly when he wants to know something he will always try to make you spit it out.

Unfortunately you couldn't even form a sentence due to the pain and crying. So Eddie sat on the bed next to your face caressing it "Baby, stop crying, nothing happened, you just hurt yourself. If you want it to go away you have to calm down, okay?" His tone was soft, which made Eddie even crazier than he already was. Was he manipulating you by any chance? Or was he sincere? Too many questions and zero answers. Your head was a total mess and you just wanted to regain control. You listened to him. You took deep breaths and he smiled at you "That's right. Good girl" He praised you then placed a light kiss on your forehead.

“I-I’m sorry…” you apologized.

"It's okay baby. Don't worry. If you ran away, was it because I accidentally scared you?" He asked and you nodded "Aw, I'm so sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to. I'll try not to scare you anymore, okay?" You nodded again as more tears rolled down your face.

You missed him. You missed old Eddie. That bastard rabbit heart that was scared of even his own shadow, even if he didn't show it. You missed that boy who pestered you with Lord of the Rings and Dangeon & Dragons all day. You missed Eddie. Edward Munson. The boy you were so in love with. But now he had become an Eddie with a boundless love for you and a murderous madness if anyone dared to touch you.

It was your fault.

Eddie bandaged your leg trying to ease your pain. Your leg hurt but not like before so you felt slightly better "I love you so much sweetheart" he said picking you up again and planting a kiss on your forehead "Me too..." You answered sincerely. Your life had now changed and now the only thing you could do was hope that you could change Eddie. And if you didn't succeed, well then you deserved it. After all, your parents were right.

"You only bring trouble and turn even the best souls into monsters just like you"

Insignificant words. But real today. They were right to think of you this way, they were right to not love you, they were right to belittle you because ultimately this is who you were. A monster who transformed others. This was your destiny, nowhere to run.

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things eddie #eddie munson angst #eddie x reader #eddie munson x female reader #ghostface!eddie #ghostface!eddie munson #lovesick!eddie #scream

[thepaperpanda]

A Helpful Ally || Tommy Shelby x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: After yet another "disagreement" with people he "works with", Tommy meets you on his way home, already knowing that you will not let him handle things on his own.

Warnings: none

Word count: 740

Authors: Bear & Cass

A/N: today’s prompt: Recovery

As a result of yet another fight he had gotten into, Tommy had an intense pain in the side of his chest. Normally, he would not have gotten to your place, but he met you on the street on his way home and after being asked too many questions, he agreed to follow you to your house. "I told you, Y/N, I'm fine, it's nothing."

"No, Tom. I'm done with your excuses. Get inside on your own, or I'll drag you in myself," you growled, frustrated with his nonsense. It was obvious he didn't look good, yet he remained stubborn, as always.

With a loud sigh and rubbing his temple, Tommy stepped into your flat and slowly took his thick, black coat off, hanging it on a wooden hanger standing by the door.

"Tommy, you look like shit this time. What happened?" You asked as you walked into the bathroom to get whatever you needed.

"Just a little disagreement," he told you simply, and headed to your living room.

As you grabbed a bottle of whiskey for him, you muttered, "Little you say? It looks like a big argument where you got beaten up to me." Tommy took a seat on a couch and followed you with his blue eyes. "Might be considered a big disagreement."

"Undress," you ordered, handing him the bottle.

He accepted the bottle but put it on a coffee table standing in front of the couch. "I don't need it."

"If you say so," you nodded and sat down. Once your equipment was on the coffee table, you began slowly unbuttoning his vest and shirt.

He let you do that, his gaze never left your face. "You're not a nurse. How do you imagine patching me up?"

During the course of undressing him, you told him, "Well, my aunt is a nurse, and she showed me a few things, perfect for situations like this."

The wound wasn't deep, which made you sigh in relief. "The little disagreement doesn't involve a knife, I thought," you offered him a glance and curled your lips in a mischievous grin.

To prevent himself from groaning, Tommy clenched his teeth together as you ran your fingers along the edges of his wound. Looking at him briefly, you began cleaning the wound carefully so that it would not get any worse.

Tommy sat calmly, breathing steadily despite the sharp, burning pain that spread throughout his body whenever you touched the wound. "I appreciate it."

"Tommy Shelby appreciates something? That's something new," you said as you carefully wrapped the wound. "You ain't leaving this house today, I hope you know that."

His eyebrow was cocked. "What do you mean?"

Your reply was simple, "You're staying with me tonight. I'm not letting you walk around like this."

"Y/N, it's far from necessary."

"There is a wounded person in my house. I apologize for that, but I will decide where you stay. I will also take into account that this will not be the first time you stay here overnight," you winked at him as a smile spread across your lips.

A mischievous grin appeared on his lips as he recalled your naked form curled against him during one of his many overnight stays at your apartment. After treating his wound, you kissed his cheek before getting up.

His hand briefly stroked your cheek.

"I'll put the stuff away. You can go to the bedroom, I'm sure you remember where it is."

Tommy heeded your advice, and soon he was lying on your bed with his hands under his head.

When you joined him in your bedroom, you commented, "For once, you listened to me. This was something new for you."

"Will you now play a nurse for me, Y/N?" He asked, raising one of his eyebrows.

"Mr. Shelby, I have no choice but to keep an eye on you since you like to get yourself into trouble so much," you bit your lower lip, gently caressing his cheek.

He smiled at you. I really appreciate your kindness and sweet gesture, Y/N."

Turning your head away slightly, you tried to hide the blush that crept onto your cheeks. "Oh, Tommy, you're such a sweet talker!"

Tommy caught your chin between his thumb and index finger and pulled you close to him; after brushing your noses together, he whispered softly, "I can be sweet for people I deeply care about, Y/N."

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x y/n #thomas shelby #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fluff #peaky blinders fluff #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #paperpanda fluffember #fluffember 2022 #fluffember

[slightlyunconventional]

hello friends 🫶🏻 more k/az fic for you all !! loved writing this one and i might even go so far as to say im pretty proud of it! wow!! anyway i hope you enjoy reading more k/az torture <3

spices (a.k.a. writer is horny for holdbacks and absolutely loves ravaging pretty boys)

Kaz looked up in disinterest from the fan of playing cards in his hand. The rowdiness of this card game was exhausting - Jesper and Nina shrieking in delight every time they won a single thing, Matthias grunting Fjerdan curse words because he didn't understand the game, Wylan showing Jesper his hand every thirty seconds because he also didn't understand the game - and Kaz was sick of it. The relief that washed over him when he heard Inej call his name from the kitchen was almost palpable. He sighed tiredly and slammed his hand face-up onto the table (a Royal Flush, might I add) and strode through to the kitchen, revelling in the outcry of the others on the table at his win.

The kitchen of the Slat was a rundown room, all battered counters and barely functional appliances, but Inej made it feel homely, warm. Kaz thought she did that to any room, though. He felt his shoulders ease and the day's stress begin to fade as he gazed at her slight form, dark hair twisted easily into a sleek braid which cascaded down the bronze of her back and shoulders. She looked totally in her element as she cooked, her small hands making fine work of slicing vegetables and preparing various cuts of meat, all the while she hummed a gentle tune that met Kaz's ears like the loving touch of a hand in your own.

"You called," he said, softly. Inej turned to face him with a smile.

"Yes," she said, "I just needed another pair of hands."

Kaz nodded. "What can I do?"

Inej gestured to an old wooden board with various vegetables lined up across it. "Could you chop those up for me, please?" she asked, voice kind and melodic, "I just have to keep an eye on this pot, so it doesn't boil over."

"Of course."

Admittedly, Kaz wasn't the best at anything that went on in kitchens. He'd never really had any practise, apart from in far gone years of youth - years which he had elected to forget - but he tried his best nonetheless. He slid off his gloves tentatively and lay them on a clean section of the counter, then picked up a knife and got to work. Between the clacks of the knife on the board he stole glances over at Inej, who was stirring a large pot on the top of the stove. His haphazardly cut vegetables were nothing in comparison to the perfectly even slices she had already produced.

Kaz heard the sizzle of the pot as Inej added a variety of spices, ones he knew to be Suli from his listening to Inej's stories about her parents and childhood. The air became heavy with their strong scent. He tried not to focus on the delicate work of her hands but instead on the not-so-delicate work of his hands. They shook slightly as he levered the knife up and down, and it took a moment or two to register why. His head felt a tad light, and he found himself relying slightly more on his mouth for breathing, and suddenly, like a fire roaring to life, a burning, incessant tickle bloomed within his sinuses. He'd never felt anything like it - the itch was like an inferno, its flames licking at his nostrils and pricking tears into the corners of his eyes, shallowing his breaths into short, sharp, irritated hitches.

"-hiih-hiHh-hHH-hhiiIHh-!"

Kaz's chest stuttered desperately as he fought hard to keep the impending sneeze at bay. His breathing now came out in rapid gasps - he knew he couldn't hold out for much longer but he was still willing to try.

He lifted his free hand shakily to his face, pressing two slender knuckles firmly against his nose, and fought to regulate his unsteady breathing. The grip he had on the knife in his other hand had tightened as he struggled against his nose. Speaking of his nose, the fiery tickle from before had spread like wildfire in his sinuses, and was creeping its way into the back of his throat, threatening to tease out the irritated fit he was trying so desperately to hold back. He knew it would inevitably be no use trying to fight it, but he did value the last shreds of his dignity very much.

The aroma of the spices in the air only seemed to be getting stronger as the steam from the pots on the stove carried the scent throughout the air. Kaz's eyes were streaming now, as his nose would be had it not been for the firm press of his knuckles against its tender, sensitive surface. It was all he could do to blink back irritated tears and continue trying to cut Inej's vegetables clumsily with just one hand. He could feel his nose twitching instinctively under the press of his fingers, begging to be freed of its torture. Kaz would do no such thing.

"h-hiiHHh... hHaAAhh-!?"

Each sharp intake of breath was threatening, burning, like he could explode at any moment.

A particularly strongly scented spice made its way into the air. The tickle in Kaz's nostrils quickly peaked, becoming so fiery, and so, so unbearable, that he dropped the knife he held with a clatter and clamped his hand over his nose, refusing to back down. His breaths became vocal, desperate, almost whining hitches that pled for release as he fought and fought against his instinct. He brought a single, shaking hand up to his eyes to weakly wipe the hot tears from them, too caught up in the haze of trying his damnedest not to sneeze that he didn't notice Inej approaching him from behind.

That was, until, she placed a gentle hand onto his upper arm.

"Kaz," she said, "let yourself sneeze."

Kaz's glassy, streaming eyes met hers, his brows furrowed deeply and his chest still stuttering desperately.

"B-buhhht, I c-can't... don't... don't- hiihHh--wantto-kKSHHHhiiew! hah-hAH-haHiiIHh'KSCHHhiih! 'kKSSCHHhiiewh! -sSHHhiihh! HaAHh'KKISCHHhiew! Oh, I'm... I c-cahh-haAHh'ASCHHhiew! 'ISCHHhih!"

The fit started pitchy and rapid, with sneeze after sneeze barreling its way out of Kaz, with barely time for a breath in between - and they just wouldn't seem to stop. He gasped again, unable to do anything but hover his shaking hand in front of his face in a last ditch attempt to cover the violent sneezes volleying through him.

"-haAHHSCHHHhiew! huh-huUHh'hkKSCHHhiihh! 'KKSHHHhiewh! ...it's the... it- haAHhiihHh-... the sp-hehHAh'ISCHHhiew! S-sorr-ISCHHhiih!"

Kaz's sneezes rapidly grew messier and more vocal, as though he'd been holding them off for a century. Each outburst snapped him forward at the waist and left a fine mist of spray upon the air - and there was nothing he could do but let it happen.

"The spices, I know," said Inej. Kaz felt her hands on his shoulders and she began to guide him towards the door.

"W-wait, I'm nohhiIHh-! Not done--! hiihHH'SCHHhiew! haAh... hah-haheHh..."

"You need to get out of here, Kaz. The sooner you get out and get cleaned up - and for Saints' sake blow your nose - the sooner this will stop."

"haAHHSHHhiew!"

"Exactly. Now let's get you to the bathroom," Inej said, guiding him by the shoulders out of the kitchen. Amidst his incessant sneezing, he heard Inej say, "Not a word," to the others sat at the table, who had long since abandoned their card game in favour of eavesdropping on Kaz's issue.

Kaz's head was spinning when Inej sat him down on the lid of the toilet. The entire way from the kitchen to the bathroom, Kaz was sneezing, over and over, aimed directly downwards so as a result each explosion sent spray right down his front. The tickle in his nose still burned fierce but he managed to hold off the next few outbursts in order to regain stability.

"Saints, Kaz," Inej said incredulously. He looked up at her, eyes still shining with irritated tears, right as his breath snagged in his throat and he snapped forward with three harsh sneezes.

"haAHh'sSCHHhiew! 'aAHSHHhiew! huhh-hUHiihH'KSCHHhiih!"

Inej set herself to looking for a box of tissues in the bathroom cupboards, while Kaz sat pitifully on the toilet seat, sneezing lazily into the open air. After a short fit of about five sneezes, he managed to catch himself a break, though the sneezing was replaced by incessant soft sniffling. Inej turned back to him and pressed a wad of tissues into his hand.

"You look awful," she said matter-of-factly, "now, blow your nose."

Kaz obeyed. He put his face into the tissues, glad for something to cover himself with, and blew his nose. The heavy congestion which had taken up residence in his sinuses shifted, triggering a fit of pitchy sneezes into the tissues.

"haAHh'iISCHH-hiew! 'huhHiisSCHHh! 'hiisSHHiew-isSCHhiiewh!"

He finished the set with a miserable series of sniffles.

"Bless you. That was adorable," Inej said, "Spices made you so itchy, huh?"

Kaz's only response was another sneeze.

"huUHh'iiSCHHhuh!" He wiped at his nose with the tissues in his hand, still sniffing wetly. "Not adorable," he said thickly. Inej breathed out a laugh.

"Sure you're not," she replied. "At least your sneezing is slowing down now. Bless you again, by the way."

Kaz tilted his head. "But I'm not g- oh. huH-hiiHh'sSCHHhiiewh! h-haAHh..."

"Another bless you might be in order," Inej said.

"hhaAHhh'kKSHHhuh!" He sniffled thickly again.

"Called it," said Inej with a smirk. Kaz rolled his watery eyes.

"Well I knew that one was coming."

#wooo!! finally #snz #snzblr #snz kink #snz blog #snzario #snzfic #sneeze kink #s/ix of cr/ows

[yukiokumura]

After fuming for a while, Yukio actually got a couple hours of sleep. Well, it felt like a couple hours. In reality, the rocking of the ship, the hard wood of the storage room floor, and the chilly night made it hard to sleep at all. Yukio gritted his teeth and hugged Sinbad close. The dog was more than happy to snuggle and Yukio was so angry at his situation that he didn't mind when the large mutt drooled on his shoulder.

But then he got angry at himself. Who was he now to sit in a dark corner and fume? If he couldn't sleep, he would do as he always did and be productive. Make himself useful. So Yukio released Sinbad and began looking around the storage room. In between a couple boxes on the shelves, Yukio found a paring knife. The blade was small but sharp. It wouldn't be useful for much, but it was better than nothing. So he made sure the blade guard was firmly attached before pocketing it and walking to the door. He grabbed the handle and pushed it, but of course the door didn't budge.

That bastard had locked him in the storage room and he was stupid to think that anyone would have unlocked it for him.

Yukio growled and looked through the seams of the doorframe. Through the very dim light of the outside lanterns, he could see the shadow of the wooden beam that had been slung across the door. Yukio pulled out the paring knife again.

It took a while with such a small knife, but after probably twenty minutes, maybe more, Yukio managed to lift the wooden bar enough to force the door open with a slam of his shoulder. He heard the beam splinter but it gave way enough for him to push his arm through and shove the wood up the rest of the way. Yukio opened the door wide with a huff and gave the broken lock a satisfied look.

He climbed the few steps up to the deck with Sinbad on his heels and ducked almost immediately once he'd stepped outside.

"Watch it," Reiji muttered as he passed by carrying a box on his shoulder.

"Oh great, the Prince got out," Izumo grumbled as she grabbed the box from Reiji. "Look, if you aren't going to sit still where the Captain put you, stay out of the way." She turned with a huff towards the bow of the ship where a loose rope was swinging wildly in the wind.

Yukio wrinkled his nose a bit. Stay out of the way. No, he wouldn't be a liability on this trip. Tatsuma and his brother had done what they could to help and, as much as he hated this ship's captain, he would make sure to do his due diligence.

He turned his head and spotted the woman from earlier steering the ship. Shura. He had learned all of their names during his time waiting in Renzou's quarters and Yukio had made sure to commit them to memory. He crossed the deck towards the steering wheel and before he could open his mouth, Shura spoke.

"No, I don't know when the Captain will wake up and I don't know how far away we are from Tartarus," she said sternly.

"I wasn't going to ask that," Yukio growled. "Now will someone allow me to speak or will I be silenced the entire trip?"

"Hell's fuckin' bells. What do you want, Your Highness?" Shura asked in a sickly sweet voice. Yukio realized he was going to have to get used to that tone despite how much it absolutely pissed him off.

"I want to be useful to the ship during this trip," he managed to speak in a steady tone as he crossed his arms. "So tell me what I can do to help."

Shura raised an eyebrow and was silent for a beat before she returned her attention to steering the ship. "Lundstrom!"

"Yeah?" Two voices responded, one from the hatch leading below deck and one from the bulking blond that was working at the base of the mast.

"Our prince wants to make himself useful! Give him the newbie treatment!"

The Lundstroms both grinned and Yukio heard a loud sigh of relief from the crow's nest.

"Does that mean I get to skip my shift?!" Lewin called down.

"If he does it right within the first twenty times, sure!" Shura called back.

"Wait, what?" Yukio looked between them as Gunnar and Gunnan approached the helm. "What am I doing exactly?"

"This!" Gunnar grabbed Yukio's arm and lifted him effortlessly, depositing him down on the deck. Just as he released him, Gunnan pushed a mop into his hands.

"Newbies are stuck on cleaning duty for the first few days. Maybe less if you do it right," Gunnan said, with a smirk. "Here's your bucket and you can get the mopping water from the ocean."

Yukio thought of protesting. He really did. After all, Yukio had never touched a mop in his life. He had no idea how to do it, nonetheless how to do it properly. On top of that, how in the world was he supposed to get water from the ocean when they were currently moving through it at full speed?

But Yukio bit his lip and let out his frustration in a light growl.

"Fine," he muttered. "I'll clean."

"Great!" Gunnan smacked the back of Yukio's shoulder and propelled him towards the edge of the ship. Gunnar tossed an empty bucket at his feet once Yukio regained his footing.

"Let us know if you need any help, Your Highness!" Gunnar grinned with his brother.

Yukio glowered at them, but somehow managed to contain his frustration once more as he snatched up the bucket and stalked towards the edge of the ship.

Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating. He felt as though he had become a punching bag the moment he'd stepped on the ship. He was a new toy, someone new to boss around, and they all knew he was at their mercy and in their territory.

Well, the only way to fix that was to make it his territory as well. He would integrate himself into the crew whether they liked it or not.

But until then, he had to clean. Yukio looked over the edge of the ship and sighed. They were moving rather quickly and the deck was high up above the surface of the water. There was no way he could get it with just his hand and the bucket. He needed... a rope.

He turned around to look for one when Sinbad trotted up to him, a coiled up rope between his teeth. Yukio smiled.

"Good boy," he murmured, putting down the bucket in order to give Sinbad proper attention. "You saw me with the bucket and knew exactly what I needed, didn't you? What a smart, experienced crew member you are."

Sinbad whined happily, his tail wagging in utter glee. Yukio dedicated a few seconds to his praise before taking the rope and fastening it around the handle. The knot was clumsy, but he was sure it was sturdy at least. Then he wrapped the rope around his arm and began to lower the bucket.

"HEY!" A familiar voice paused Yukio in his tracks and Reiji rushed over, snatching up the rope and preventing it from lowering any further.

"What are you doing?" Yukio frowned.

"What are YOU doing?!" Reiji shot back as he ripped the rope from around his arm. "You're gonna snap your fuckin' wrist like that!"

"I—" Yukio blinked in shock. "But—"

"I! But!" Reiji repeated mockingly. Yukio's face burned red in angry humiliation. Reiji continued. "Pay fucking attention." He wrapped the end of the rope around the center of his palm once, making sure it ended in the center and closed his fist around it. He waved it in Yukio's face. "Like this. It'll give you a strong hold but if the bucket gets away from you, you can just let go and avoid losing a fucking hand. We can replace a bucket, but no one’s got time to wait on you hand and foot if you get hurt. Got it?"

"I wasn't expecting you to wait on me!" Yukio shot back as he tugged the rope away. Reiji let it go with a roll of his eyes.

"Just don't get tugged out by the waves," he snapped before heading back towards the bow. Izumo was sitting on the bowsprit, fearless of the churning water below her and immediately began impatiently snapping at Reiji upon his return. He, of course, gave it right back to her before they returned to work.

[Continue reading!]

#yukio okumura #renzou shima #blue exorcist #yukishima #shimabon #yukibon

[solemneris]

Child, staring off into the distance: ...

Me: let me know if there is anything you need.

child: ... a knife?

#true story #preschool #he said it with the most innocent smile #and then wanted me to know #that he made himself a wooden knife 'that wasn't sharp'

[mlmxreader]

The Three Of Us | Eddie Brock x Male!Reader

request; “Hey, Trust me?” Male reader for Eddie/Venom? - anon

summary; Eddie visits you on your day off, hoping to introduce you to a new member of the relationship.

warnings; swearing, hints of monster-fucking???

Eddie didn't even try to keep Venom a secret from you, even if he had wanted to, even if he knew that it was for the best, Eddie couldn't bring himself to keep it a secret, he couldn't lie to you and pretend like there wasn't a symbiotic alien parasite living in his body... even if Venom hated being called that. He was just a symbiote. But the fact still remained that you had never actually seen Venom in person, only on screens and in pictures in The Daily Bugle. And Eddie knew that, if he was going to continue having you as his boyfriend, then he needed to show you Venom in the flesh, he needed to show you what the symbiote looked like and felt like and how he spoke and how he showed affection - Eddie knew that he needed to get you and Venom to meet, as much as he knew that it was a bad idea, as much as he knew that it was a terrible idea.

Which explained why he was making his way up to your flat on your day off, his motorcycle parked on double yellow lines out on the road, his helmet tucked beneath his arm as he clumsily made his way up the stairs.

"Eddie!"

The voice was sharp in his mind, a freshly sharpened knife cutting through his thoughts with the deepness of thunder and the volume of a heavy metal concert; it made Eddie jump a little before he growled and shook his head.

"What?"

"We're meeting (y/n) today," Venom started, "don't be a dick."

Eddie rolled his eyes, sighing heavily as he trudged up the stairs and tapped his fingers on his helmet to the tune of 'Unsainted' by Slipknot, almost daring to hum along to it but having to put such a temptation aside as he finally reached the white wooden door and raised his fist to gently knock. He smiled when you answered.

"Eddie, your heartbeat is too fast," Venom warned. "Why are you shaking?"

Eddie cleared his throat as he looked at you, always at a loss for words, his ability to speak ripped away by how handsome you always were. He swallowed thickly. "I'm not late, am I?"

"No," you smiled back, so kind and so warm, so utterly handsome. Eddie loved the sight of your smile, and he could feel himself relax as you dared to continue, "no, you're not late, you're..." you brought out your phone to check the time, chuckling quietly. "You're actually an hour early. C'mon, get inside and go sit down, I'll make coffee."

Eddie was a little eager to comply, entering your little flat and closing the door behind him, he made his way over to the sofa and sat down on the plush dark brown cushions, relaxing into them as he felt the soft fabric beneath his fingertips. His helmet was put on the floor beside the sofa's arm, sandwiched between soft brown fabric and a light brown coffee table with a pair of earphones chucked on it and an empty can of Red Bull tangled with them.

"It smells nice here," Venom said. "I like (y/n)."

"Yeah, okay, buddy," Eddie grumbled, rubbing his temple and chewing at his lip so much that it bled, dripping down to his shirt before he realised and swiped his tongue along the opened flesh. "Just... don't get too excited."

"Why?"

"(y/n) might not like you, man," Eddie quietly explained, "shit, I mean, he'll probably be scared of you."

"We'll be nice," Venom promised. "We'll be nice to (y/n), because he's nice."

Drinking coffee was awkward as you sat beside Eddie and as he continued to chew at his lip, wondering how exactly he was supposed to introduce you to the symbiote that wouldn't shut up; but then he figured he could wing it - he couldn't lie to you, and you would appreciate his honesty, so what else was there for him to do except jump off in the deep end?

He waited for a moment, finishing his coffee before he cleared his throat and dared to stumble over his words as he explained, "we, uh, I, I mean, I wanna... wanna show you the parasite."

"Parasite?!" Venom practically screamed, snarling. "Take that back!"

"Alright," you said slowly, nodding and looking at him with concern. You had seen Venom on the television and in newspapers, you knew what he looked like, how he was so tall and had muscles for days and how long his tongue was and how sharp his teeth and his claws were, you saw how powerful he was when he picked up a car during a fight and threw it as if it were nothing more than a crumpled ball of paper. If you were honest, you had to admit, the images of Venom in the media did make you feel a certain way, always making your eyes go wide and your eyebrows raise as you shifted in your seat and clenched your jaw, excitement in the pit of your stomach. "Yeah, yeah, no, I'm... I'm ready."

Slowly, you watched as your boyfriend became overwhelmed with something thick and oozing, his body becoming coated in the black symbiote, those eyes without pupils and those long and sharp claws and those sharp teeth and that long tongue and that large body; it made you bite your lip as the symbiote, which was far too big for the sofa, towered over you and bared his teeth in what you could only guess was a smile.

"Hello, (y/n)," he held out a clawed hand, his voice still rough and deep and booming but it was evident that he was trying to speak gently and quietly. "We are Venom."

You laughed as you shook his hand, which was so much bigger than yours, knowing that he could probably sense how your heart raced and knowing that he could probably feel the shaking of your hand. "Nice to meet you, Venom..."

"You're nervous," he thundered, trying to make himself seem smaller as he hid his teeth and slumped against the back of the sofa. "We're sorry."

"I'm nervous, yeah," you admitted, swallowing thickly. "But, it's a good kinda nervous."

"It is?" Venom questioned.

"Hey, trust me," you laid your hand on his shoulder and tried not to growl at how the muscles felt beneath your hand. Fuck, you were attracted to him. "It's a good kinda nervous... I mean, it's not every day your boyfriend shows you he's got an alien in his ass, and it's definitely not every day that that alien is... really hot."

"Tell him it's okay," Eddie said from within Venom. "Tell him that, if he's willing, we... the three of us can be together."

"Eddie says we can all be together," Venom told you. "If you would like to, that is."

"Is that your way of asking me to be your boyfriend as well as Eddie's?" You mused, looking the symbiote up and down for a moment. "Because the answer's yes."

#eddie brock x reader #eddie brock imagine #eddie brock x you #eddie brock one shot #venom x reader #venom imagine #venom x you #venom one shot #monster x reader #male reader #male!reader #x male reader #x male!reader #male reader fanfic #male reader fic #male reader insert #mlm fanfic #mlm fic #mlem writes

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 6

The final part!! I hope this is a satisfying conclusion! Thank you so much to everyone who has reblogged/commented/shared - it has meant so much. Special thank you again to @morganofthewildfire I'd still be working away at this fic if it wasn't for you, I don't know I ever would have finished it off. Your comments and analysis helped me so much and made this fic better than I could have alone, I'm so grateful.

13k - masterlist - ao3

--

There are five weeks between the eventful wrap party and her first day shooting the Netflix miniseries in Antica. Five weeks for Aelin to sort her shit.

It’s ambitious, and probably unattainable, but she needs a goal.

She needs something to draw her mind away from Rifthold and the director she knows is no longer there.

She gives herself a week of self pity. A week of lying around her sparsely decorated and impersonal Orynth apartment dwelling and pointedly ignoring the headlines she knows have been released. Elide let her know only one picture was captured of her with tears in her eyes leaving the party. Only one and gods bless Elide she shut it down.

Aelin lies on her uncomfortable couch in well-worn pyjamas with unwashed hair and runs through the photos on her phone of her and Fenrys, her and Manon, and the group of them together on set doing whatever shit they used to do.

She spends more time than she should like that. She sits there until her coffee table is overflowing with takeaway wrappers and Aedion and Elide have stopped texting more than once a day. She’s awful for ignoring them but she’s still mortified.

She hasn’t been able to look Aedion in the eyes since he dropped her back at her apartment after their long flight home from Rifthold. He didn’t say much. After he managed to again get her out of the party with minimal press she had cried, curled up between Aedion and Lysandra in their bed, and he didn’t offer judgement or instruction.

He just held her, whispering words she can’t remember but appreciates anyway. Now she hasn’t replied to any of his texts.

She hasn’t texted Fenrys or Manon either. She doesn’t know what to say.

She knows Fenrys jumped immediately into another movie, an action movie she knows he’s been chomping at the bit to get training for, and Manon into the second series of her show that she’s probably too famous for now.

They’re busy. They’ll understand. At least that’s what she tells herself.

The worst thing she does in that week is pour over the photos she has of Rowan. She didn’t realise she had so many but her camera roll is full of silver and green.

There are photos of just him, looking like Rowan, tall and handsome and understatedly happy, smiling covert little smiles at Aelin behind the camera. He was used to her instructing him to pose by the end of filming, she loved snapping away as he did anything. Eating, sleeping, smiling, everything - if it was Rowan she wanted it captured.

Now every photo is a knife to the chest.

The ones of the two of them together are worse, they twist the knife, pain splicing through her until she can hardly breathe. There are pictures of their cheeks pressed together, eyes shining, some serious, some silly. In all of them Aelin can clearly see her own happiness.

She can’t stop looking at them even as tears swell in her eyes and her throat gets tight.

For one week.

Until it’s been seven days since her flight landed back in Orynth and she gets up off her couch and deletes them. She almost doesn’t, her thumb hovers over the button for a good minute before she presses down but then it’s done and they’re gone. She showers and changes her clothes, she throws away all the rubbish on her coffee table and makes a plan.

Filming the movie with all of them it was easy to feel better than she did before, surrounded by new and exciting things, new people who didn’t know her before or treat her differently because of it. It was easy to lose herself in who she was there and with them.

Now though, she’s back to real life and real life lasts for an uneventful three weeks.

She tries what she can, she reads, she runs, she bakes, she teaches herself how to knit. None of it is satisfying and it's hard to make it stick. It’s all boring and never quite captures her attention the way she hopes. Never captures her attention enough to tear it away from Rowan and Rifthold.

A week before she flies out to Antica it changes.

She stumbles upon the change, completely accidentally, and she doesn’t realise what she’s needed until it's right in front of her.

Her usual run route is obstructed by construction and so she takes a left where she usually takes a right, heading down into the west side of the city, the side she doesn’t often frequent.

She used to. She used to spend hours strolling the streets letting the warmth of the sun and Sam’s hand in hers settle into her skin as they observed the numerous bakeries and small boutiques. Thankfully the scenery appears to have changed since.

The chill breeze of the September Orynth air teases the loose strands of hair tickling her face as she comes to a stop outside the sleek shop front. The wooden panels are painted a dark, glossy black and the windows are polished so brightly they reflect what’s left of the sunlight.

Music of Mistward the sign reads in curved, white lettering.

She can see her reflection in the shop window, her cheeks flushed, hair unruly, her running gear nowhere near to what would be appropriate attire for the shop dripping in class but she can’t turn away.

A bell tinkles as she pushes through the door, her headphones gripped tight in her fist as the gentle jazz playing over the sound system greets her. She doesn’t like jazz, it’s not her thing, but along with the musk of wood in the air it’s soothing in welcoming her in.

She passes walls of guitars and violins until she reaches the instrument that caught her eye. It’s sleek, black lid propped open revealing the elegant strings, pulled tight in neat lines. The sharp contrast of the keys against each other, bright against the deep black of the case. Her fingers ghost over them, dying to press down.

She hasn’t played since those days in Rowan’s Doranelle home. She’s wanted to, longed to feel the cool keys under her fingertips and the flood of the music pouring out of her, but the cheap keyboard in her Orynth apartment wouldn’t do Rowan’s beautiful instrument justice.

Aelin would rather not play at all than attempt a cheap imitation of what she felt there.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice sounds behind her, low and raspy but cheerful all the same.

She turns, taking in the older man, his grey hair cut short and his classic shirt and slacks pressed crisp. She glances back to the piano before facing him fully.

“Stunning,” she breathes.

The man steps forwards and offers her his hand. She slips her hand into his and he pumps firmly as he introduces himself.

“Emrys,” he says. “Welcome to Music of Mistward.”

“Aelin,” she says, surprised to hear her voice thick.

“Great to meet you, Aelin,” Emrys says with an ancient smile. He nods towards the piano. “Do you play?”

“No,” she says and Emrys’ smile flickers. “Yes, I mean I used to. I want to,” is what she settles on.

He nods, satisfied, before taking a step closer to the piano. He runs a hand over the top, almost reverently and smiles to himself.

“Antique,” he starts, “almost one hundred years old but well loved. I acquired it recently - here we deal mostly in antique instruments, it’s a passion for both myself and my husband. The previous owner only sold it to me when she inherited it and didn’t know how to play, she wanted it to find a good home.”

He shares a smile with her as if she’s in on the joke but her breathing still hasn’t settled.

“Satin Ebony finish,” Emrys continues, “eighty-eight keys, all original but preserved to the highest quality. Accompanying bench, cut with refreshed velvet. I don’t know in all my years I’ve seen such a fine instrument as old as this.”

Aelin glances back to the piano, it’s big, it won’t fit in her apartment in Orynth but she doesn’t care. She can… adjust. She hasn’t felt a pull like this in a while, she doesn’t want to deny it when she does.

“How much?” she almost demands from the man in front of her.

He appraises her and she knows what he sees. Her bedraggled state and the tension through her shoulders doesn’t give the impression of someone with this much cash to throw around. She abruptly ignores that the way she probably can afford this is because of Rowan’s movie.

When he doesn’t speak she repeats herself, more firmly. “How much?”

“Our price includes delivery and tuning on arrival.” He seems apprehensive of telling her the truth. Aelin waits.

When he finally reveals the figure Aelin blinks. And then she extends her hand. “I’ll take it.”

To his credit Emrys just nods, shaking her hand. “You don’t want to at least play it first?”

Aelin feels the smirk she hasn’t worn in a while creep onto her face. “Is there a risk you’re pulling a fast one on me?”

Emrys returns her smile, a playful glint in his eye. “Not a chance, Aelin. Please follow me to the register where I can take your details.”

Aelin almost stumbles. Almost, but then recovers.

“Any chance I can pay a deposit and then let you know where you’ll be delivering sometime soon?”

Emrys winks knowingly. “Absolutely.”

She follows him to the counter, signs away part of a disgustingly large total of money but leaves with a sense of satisfaction. It’s an accomplishment, a step for purely selfish reasons.

The first thing she does when she leaves the shop is call Elide.

Aelin meets her new therapist two days before she flies out to Antica.

She hasn’t called her old one in months and thinks that’s probably a sign. And she’s all about changes at the moment.

She isn’t shooting in Antica for too long, only a couple of months until she’s back in Orynth and then back to Rifthhold for press. Her stomach drops everytime the thought wanders into her head.

She’s excited to be back in Rifthold, but the company is daunting.

Fenrys and Manon will easily be pissed at her disappearance. She knows Manon will play aloof but she also knows she’ll be upset, Fenrys too. Aelin didn’t mean to hurt them, didn’t mean to drop off the face of the Earth, and she knows she’s let them down but Fenrys and Manon remind her of Rowan. She couldn’t trust the conversation not to eventually steer towards him and Aelin isn’t ready for that.

Their break-up feels weirdly anticlimactic. After everything they built to, Aelin just dipped.

She knows it seems that way to Rowan at least. She hasn’t texted him, or rang him or anything since the party. She’s wanted to, wanted more than anything to hear his voice as she cried, but it’s not fair to him to drag it out and she knows that. She knew when she drew the line she had to stay on her side of it, no matter how much it hurt.

She had cried until her head pounded and her throat was raw. She cried until her eyes itched with no tears left to fall, until all that came out of her was hoarse screeches as she ached to hear him call her Fireheart one last time.

But no one needs to know that, she had kept it as hidden as she could.

She definitely didn’t need any more paparazzi pictures of her with red-rimmed eyes looking downtrodden. She couldn’t bear the thought of Rowan, or worse her mother, seeing them.

She knows Fenrys and Manon; Aedion, Lysandra and Elide would see through her flimsy excuses and so it was easier to stay quiet.

She’s not thinking about facing them yet. She supposes that will be something that likely comes up with this new therapist, but so far on her own, she’s choosing avoidance.

She gets Maeve’s number from Dorian, and she comes highly recommended by a number of Dorian’s other high profile clients. She’s well-versed in non-disclosure agreements, secret sessions and back street exits; she feels like the perfect fit for Aelin.

Unofficially, Dorian lets her know Maeve takes no shit, and that’s also just what Aelin needs.

They agree to online sessions while she’s in Antica, but Maeve recommended an initial meeting and Aelin is open to all of her suggestions.

Their first hour is not directly her most life changing but it’s a start.

“Welcome, Aelin,” Maeve says, sweeping an arm out towards the firm-looking, orange couch in the centre of the room.

Aelin takes a seat, mutters her thanks and glances around the room.

The room should feel cold with the exposed brick and minimalistic decor, the only furniture being the couch Aelin perches on, the almost regal armchair Maeve reclines in and a lamp, but it doesn’t and she gets comfortable tucking her feet beneath her thighs and leaning against the arm.

“So,” Maeve begins, surveying her in the way only a true professional can. “Let’s get started.”

Aelin feels bare beneath her gaze, and like everything about Maeve and her practise it should be unnerving but she just blinks against the scrutiny.

“Why are you here today? You could start with sharing why you have made this appointment.”

And isn’t that the million gold-mark question?

Aelin takes a deep breath through her nose and raises her chin.

“I don’t want to move backwards,” she admits. “Or maybe I just want to know I’ve actually moved forwards.”

Maeve’s expression stays calm, but Aelin knows she’d be smirking if she could. She’s well aware of how therapy works but even so, speaking her thoughts aloud can help to verify them in her own mind.

Aelin hopes so at least.

Their hour is over quickly and Aelin is resolved that Maeve is a good fit, reassured in Dorian’s claim that the woman takes no shit. Her all-knowing assessment of Aelin should have been unsettling but the frank dissection is what she needs.

Online therapy, especially fitting it around shooting might be a challenge but it’s for the best. As much as she values her independence and standing on her own two feet, Aelin is big enough to admit that facing her mother again may require some professional guidance. Seeing Rowan too, but again, she’s not thinking about that yet.

Antica is hot and Aelin is sweaty within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned luxury of the airport. That feeling lasts the entire time she’s there, disrupting the otherwise enjoyable time she has shooting the series.

Her new co-stars are fine, they invite her out with them and make her smile but she can’t help as though a part of her is always comparing them to who and what she left in Rifthold. Aelin tries her best to enjoy her time there with them, she hosts dinner parties and invites them to a game of Aedion’s but nothing quite hits the same as her time spent on The Crescent City.

She rationalises it to Maeve, that The Crescent City was a big turning point in her life and that it has nothing to do with Rowan, Fenrys or Manon, but she’s not sure she even believes it herself.

She spends the rest of her time in Antica trying to convince herself, and Maeve, that she’s moving past it. That she’s moving forwards or else she’ll move backwards. She’s not sure how much of it is futile.

The Crescent City is done, whether she likes it or not, and she can’t deny it changed her in ways she didn’t expect. It’s a hard pill to swallow that maybe it changed her beyond return to how she was before. She also can’t quite figure out whether she thinks that’s a bad thing or not.

They have a dinner for the core cast and crew, including Rowan, once they’re all back in Rifthold for the beginning of the press cycle. They have one night to reacquaint before they’re shoved into the whirlwind that is interviews, photoshoots and promotion.

She’s seen the trailer already and it’s just as she expected but more. It’s dark and dreary with flashes of brightness from herself and Fenrys and she’d want to watch it if she chanced a viewing as a member of the public.

What is surreal, is to see herself in a polished version of the film they were creating. Or at least a part of it.

She said each of the lines, rehearsed them over and over until they fell off her tongue without thought, but she still doesn’t recognise the girl in the trailer. A droplet of pride slips down her chest at the realisation that it’s not Aelin in the trailer but Feyre. She knows she’s good, has known it all along, but the realisation and reaffirmation is ecstasy better than any drug.

She hovers outside the restaurant, watching through the window, needing a couple more seconds before she submits herself to the assault of them all again. She still hasn’t replied to either Fenrys or Manon and the thought presses on her like lead but it’s too late to change that now.

If she’s honest she’s concerning herself with Fenrys and Manon in the hopes of distracting herself from the fact that she’s seconds away from Rowan. Seconds away from him in the flesh, his solid body in front of her that she had learned almost as well as her own.

Her palms are clammy and she wipes them against the fabric of her trousers. The upcoming interviews and photoshoots will all be styled for her and so she’s relishing in her last moments for a while of truly dressing like Aelin.

She takes a step towards the restaurant door, the tip of her trainer bumping the wood when a voice sounds behind her.

“Well, hello there, Stranger.”

Aelin braces herself, hand paused outstretched where it had been reaching for the door.

She turns, biting her lip as she faces Fenrys. He looks the same as he did, skin still golden, eyes still dancing with mischief, but his golden curls are trimmed shorter than the last time she saw him. His expression is carefully blank.

“I- Hi… um,” she stumbles over the words. “I’ve missed you.”

Fenrys breaks almost immediately. “Oh thank the fucking gods.”

He surges forwards and wraps her into a tight hug. Aelin clings to him, fighting the tears in her eyes as she buries her face in his chest. She’s gone far too long without this, without him, and it’s all her own fault.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” Fenrys asks. “Oh wait, no you don’t. I’m assuming your phone broke, or was stolen or something since you never replied to any of my texts letting you know.”

Aelin knows her cheeks are stained pink. “I’m sorry,” she admits.

“I know.” His voice softens, losing the teasing edge as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek.

He pauses before he speaks again, his eyes running over her face. “You could have texted me anytime, you know. Manon too. I know you might forget or try to convince yourself otherwise, but we are your friends. You could have called us about literally anything.”

Aelin feels like she could cry. She’s not sure that she isn’t.

“It doesn’t have to be about anything serious, especially not related to the movie,” or Rowan he doesn’t say but Aelin hears it. “We just wanted to hear your stupid voice.”

Aelin pouts. “My voice isn’t stupid.”

She pokes her tongue out as he rolls his eyes, easily falling back into the dynamic they had shaped a few months ago.

“Not what I meant,” he says before pausing, taking her in as she stands in front of him. “You can’t lose us that easily, you know. We’re like rats or fleas or something. Hard to get rid of.”

“Nice,” she comments, but her chest is tight at his words.

He smiles at her before adding, “and you had fucking better text me back.”

Aelin laughs through the sniffles he’s kindly ignoring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and finds his contact. Hi she sends and feels his phone buzz against her.

“Much better,” he says and releases her from his arms. “Now, are you ready for a night of the finest dining all on the studio credit card?”

Aelin laughs again. “Lead the way.”

He shoots her a wink and waltzes ahead to hold the door open for her.

Fenrys’ presence shouldn’t reassure her the way it does, especially after the way she has treated him but she clings to him anyway. He’s her buffer for now, a crutch for tonight and tonight only. Once tonight is over and tomorrow begins she and Rowan can be professional, they managed it for months during filming and this should be no different.

Rowan still looks the way he did the night she broke his heart.

His silver hair falls elegantly over his forehead as he bends his head to talk to Manon, the pair of them are engrossed in a conversation as she and Fenrys walk over, not spotting them yet. She loves his hair, loves the thick silver waves and the way they feel between her fingers. She loves the way any attempt he makes to arrange the thick strands is never quite able to tame the beast. She loves the shirt he has on, with the sleeves rolled up exposing inches of tanned skin and dark ink, the same worn green cotton she wore numerous times around his living room all those months ago. She can still remember the feel of it against her bare skin.

His smile is the same, his green eyes crinkling as his lips barely part as he does his best to hold it back.

His smile is the same until he spots her.

He catches sight of her when she reaches the table and his smile drops, the shutters closing over his expression so fast she wouldn’t know he knew how to smile had she not just seen it.

It tears her chest in two and any attempt at a smile on her part is futile. It’s all she can do to make it to her seat without stumbling and she’s sure she misses any other greetings she gets as she slumps onto the chair opposite Manon. She absently notes Fenrys dropping in at her side.

She can’t look away from Rowan, her eyes scanning to try and find anything that distinguishes him from the man she loved all those months ago. She finds nothing. He’s still Rowan and Aelin still… fuck.

He recovers before she does, ever the collected courtier, clearing his throat and nodding.

“Aelin,” he says and she adores the sound of her name on his tongue.

“Hi Rowan,” she manages and hears how weak she sounds. Rowan hears it too. She can tell from the purse of his lips and the tension in the hand he rests along the back of Manon’s chair.

Aelin allows her eyes to drift to Manon and she finally catches the thunderous expression the younger girl wears.

“Hi,” she whispers and Manon blinks.

“Hi?” Manon repeats incredulously.

Aelin is fucked.

“Five months and I get a hi?”

It’s loud and a few heads turn their way. It’s simultaneously mortifying and everything Aelin deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly.

She could lie, make up some useless excuses but in the end there’s nothing else but the truth and if Manon wants her to grovel she will, she’s just not sure this is the time or place.

Fenrys shares her thoughts. “Later, Manon,” he says, gently.

Rowan’s eyes stay firmly glued to the tablecloth as Manon frowns, seemingly unwilling to let it go.

After a few seconds, seconds Aelin spends waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her, Manon nods. She nods and turns to Fenrys, demanding to know what he’s ordering. And just like that Aelin has a moment to catch her breath.

She knew this dinner wouldn’t be easy, knew she’d be walking into the lion's den of her own making, but she hadn’t expected it to be as hard. Hadn’t expected seeing Rowan to feel like a slap, hadn’t expected Manon’s hurt to scrape across her skin leaving her raw.

She tries not to think she deserves it, Maeve would only raise a brow as if to say we’ve been over this. The thought is sobering, and she manages to lift her head.

It is what it is, what’s done is done and she can only apologise and move forwards.

As much as she tries to resist, Aelin finds herself watching Rowan throughout the night. It’s scary how familiar he feels, he should feel like a stranger, but he feels like she knows him too well. He laughs when she expects, rolls his eyes when she predicts. He orders what she thought he would and he sips away at an orange juice the way he did the first dinner they all had together.

Aelin already feels so different than she did the last time she was in Rifthold and he seems unchanged.

She observes for most of the night, feeling drained despite her minimal contributions to the conversations. She speaks when spoken to and actively avoids speaking when Rowan does, she definitely doesn’t respond to anything he says even though she wants to at least twice and wants to laugh a couple more.

She makes it through and clings to Fenrys again as they all leave, linking her arm through his as they leave the restaurant. He knows what she’s doing but graciously guides her out of the building. Once on the pavement outside the restaurant he pauses and turns to her.

“What hotel are you staying in while you’re here?”

The rest of the group are milling about, calling taxis and bidding their farewells. Aelin doesn’t know how she’s getting back yet, she’s assuming she’ll split a ride with someone.

“Um, the Glass Castle, I think,” she says, desperately trying to recall the name of the hotel she dumped her bags in a few hours earlier.

“Boo,” Fenrys laughs, pointing his thumb down. “They’ve got me in the Torre Cesme. Think I’m ages away from you.”

Aelin laughs, disappointed but ready to order her own taxi back when a voice she didn’t expect sounds.

“I’ve just ordered a cab to the Glass Castle, I’m staying there too. You can jump in if you want.”

Rowan.

She shoots Fenrys a panicked look but his expression is pure glee.

“That would be great thanks, Boss,” Fenrys says, shrugging his arm out of hers and nudging her towards Rowan.

“No problem, Boyo.” Rowan offers Fenrys a dark grin at the nickname and the sight of it stills her. It’s new, he used to roll his eyes whenever Fenrys would drop it into conversation, but now Rowan’s playing along. And the grin, the curl of the lips and the narrowing of the eyes, it’s sexy as fuck.

It’s only taken one night and she’s back in the danger zone. She doesn’t want to be, hell, she wants him to take her back to his hotel room and peel off her clothes but this is Rowan. She’s spent the last few months trying to get over him, falling into bed with him the first night she sees him again would not likely be defined as progress.

He’s also not likely to want that after what she did.

“You don’t have to,” she says. The first direct thing she’s said to him since their greeting.

“I know.” A slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “But we’re going to the same place, it wouldn’t seem logical to take different cars.”

Logic. That’s all it is.

“Right.” She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so awkward with him, not even at the start. “Thank you,” she says, following him to the car.

Fenrys shoots her a grin as he slips into his own taxi. Traitor.

Rowan holds the door open for her and slips in behind her. She tries not to think anything of the fact he could have easily taken the front seat.

The ride is silent apart from the easy chit chat he makes with the driver, another thing she’s not sure she noticed him do before, and she stares out the window as the city passes by. The streets of Rifthold are not her home but she feels a brightness as she glances down the curving roads, spotting groups of people milling about enjoying the night.

She knows the first call she made to Elide in weeks was the right call. Elide is the only person she’d trust with her bank account and access to real estate listings. The link to the flat her friend had sent over has stayed open in her browser since she got it.

It’s modern with classic twists, situated in a recently renovated old warehouse with miles of exposed brick and rustic wooden panelling. She loves the master bedroom the most, with its adjoining en suite with a huge bathtub she can picture herself soaking in. She has a viewing booked in two days but doubts she’ll even need it.

It’s not long before the taxi pulls up outside the hotel and she follows Rowan through the glass doors. He presses the button for the lifts and Aelin shifts in the awkward silence.

Awkward is not something she’s used to with Rowan. Or it wasn’t before.

The doors slide open and again she follows him inside.

He pauses with a hand hovering over the buttons for the floors. “Which floor?”

“Nine.”

Aelin hates these one word exchanges compared to the hours they used to share talking about everything and nothing. She can’t believe this is the man she was so vulnerable with.

His short huff of laughter drags her gaze to his face.

“What?”

“Makes sense,” is what he says, shaking his head and pressing only the button for the ninth floor.

The ride takes seconds, a minute at most, filled with the silence between them.

When the doors open to the ninth floor she steps out, determined not to follow him again, and she feels him follow her. Even now she’s so aware of his powerful body and the way he moves it. She shouldn’t be so attracted to the power emanating from him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the sureness of his steps. She wants him, doesn’t think she ever stopped, except now he’s the forbidden fruit. Forbidden only by her own actions.

She reaches her door, room 905, but pauses with her key tucked in her hand.

“Thanks for letting me share your cab,” she says, finding herself desperate not to say goodbye yet. “I can transfer you for half.”

That finally, finally, cracks a whisper of a smile but she’s not sure she enjoys his laughter if it’s at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

That should be the end of it, she should open her door and shut it behind her, they have a few weeks ahead of them that will be hard enough without any complications.

She left him and he seems gracious enough to have mostly moved past it.

“It was good to see you, Aelin,” he says, seemingly unwilling to let the night end as well. She doesn’t let the seed of hope sprout because what would be the point?

Nevertheless, Aelin smiles, leaning back against her door.

Rowan continues, “even if I wasn’t sure how the night was going to go.”

Her attention is spiked. “What do you mean?”

She can’t lie, a part of her expects him to back down at the edge to her voice. He doesn’t.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to pretend nothing ever happened between us.”

She blinks, giving herself a second to process.

Maybe this isn’t the same Rowan from all those months ago. That night he let her walk away from him, gods know she needed it, but a dark little part of her had wanted him to fight her harder. Fight harder for her. When he hadn’t she’d taken it as her sign.

She knows the expectation was toxic, if he had fought her it would have only pissed her off, but she wishes she’d had someone to tell her it was the wrong choice. It would have helped to hear in the moment, rather than be faced with Rowan months down the line that she wants and can’t have.

The Rowan in front of her, the third Rowan she’s known, stares her down. His eyes peel away each of the layers she’s worked with Maeve for months to don in a second.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

It’s honest and maybe she’s not the same Aelin as a few months ago either.

That’s what she had asked for that night in the cool air, to move past them with as little commotion as possible, stirring up as little attention as they could. She hadn’t wanted to let them eclipse the movie and yet that ended up being exactly what she had accomplished.

Now though, Aelin knows better.

Rowan nods as his eyes dart across her face. He seems to step closer without realising. Aelin notes the motion, still so aware of him and his proximity to her.

His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I was so angry at you for leaving.”

Aelin loses her breath at his confession.

Eventually she manages, “was?”

He looks away from her, glancing down the dark hallway, his jaw tight. When she’s with him she forgets about the world around them, there’s probably-definitely-CCTV in this hallway but he’s here and she can’t let him go yet.

His fists curl and uncurl as he takes a deep breath.

“Was,” he says shortly. “I was so angry at you, the way you did what you did was shit.”

Aelin swallows. He’s not wrong.

“I know.”

“But now I don’t know.” She lifts her eyes to his, swimming in the openness she doesn’t deserve. And fuck that. That is such bullshit. She meets his stare, returning all that he isn’t saying. “I spent a long time thinking about it, thinking about you, and it took me a while but now I get it.”

That hurts more than she expects. She didn’t expect him to be all over her the minute they reunited but his understanding was always a kicker.

“I know why you did it,” he continues. “And that took most of the wind out of my sails.”

Aelin frowns. He can’t possibly know why.

“I don’t think you do.” He tilts his head, an invitation for her to expand. “Or you’d know that nothing has changed.”

“Hasn’t it?”

His question throws her. Completely.

She tilts her head up to look at him, closer to her than he’s been all night, pushing her to keep being honest with him.

She’s dazed being this close to him again after so long, the green of his eyes stronger than she remembers. Or maybe her brain had assured her the memory of him couldn’t have been real.

“I don’t know,” she admits, unable to fight the way her body leans into him.

His teeth graze his lower lip and she follows the motion.

He’s silent for a beat too long and her skin is thrumming under his attention. She doesn’t know how she’s gone this long without him, she doesn’t know how she thought she’d survive never having him again.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” he says finally, drawing back and a rush of cool air fills the space he had taken. “Goodnight Aelin.”

He turns and she watches his back down the hallway. He slips easily into a room a few doors down and she’s left watching the path he’d taken, feeling the weight of his eyes on her lips.

Her head thuds against the door as she screws her eyes shut. She wants to scream, wants to chase him down the hall, wants to fly back to Orynth where she was safe.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

She tucks herself into her hotel room and readies herself for the whirlwind that’s about to hit. These next few weeks are going to be hard, not just dealing with the Rowan situation, but she can’t fight the excitement she feels.

Fuck. She’s back in Rifthold, back where she loves, doing what she was born to do.

This is big. She can feel it.

The Crescent City is not her first project, and so she’s been a part of press cycles before, she knows how they go. What she doesn’t know is how a press cycle for something like this works.

The only word she can find is insanity.

There are somehow earlier mornings than they had while shooting and often longer days. She gets poked and prodded in hair and make-up for hours before they spend all day sat in a hotel room filming repetitive interviews for various magazines.

She and Fenrys are genuinely friends and yet they still have to put on a show in front of the cameras. She plays up her laughter when he cracks a joke and he makes sure to never look away from her for longer than two seconds when she speaks or a producer behind the camera makes a comment.

She loves Fenrys but it’s exhausting. Her only blessing is that for most of her engagements she’s with Fenrys and Manon with Rowan conducting his own interviews separately as she had hoped.

Sometimes though, given their relatively similar ages and general level of chemistry, they get grouped together.

The four of them are filming a video for Buzzfeed, filling in a quiz to find out which character from The Crescent City they’re most like. She’s unsurprised to discover her result is Rhysand and it’s fun even if her heart does pound every time she has to act like she’s unfazed and friendly with Rowan.

There’s a moment, just a moment, where she almost breaks from her friendly and unbothered interview persona. It’s her turn to read the question, what item could you not survive without on a desert island?

It’s Rowan that speaks. “Her shampoo,” he says, “it’s jasmine.”

There’s a split second where she doesn’t speak, where all she can do is stare at Rowan, stunned that he remembered and thought to mention it now.

In that split second she’s transported back to memories of them together in the shower at her rented apartment, kissing lazily under the spray after spending hours between her sheets. She remembers dumping the shampoo into her hand and then onto his head, massaging his thick locks and surrounding them in the scent of jasmine.

She remembers how he kissed her neck as she did, trailing his hands over her silky curves, slick with the soap, with his kisses building in heat until her hands dropped to his shoulders. He’d lavished kisses down her chest until he’d jerked back, shampoo in his eyes and she’d laughed until he was safe and pressed his lips again to hers, continuing where he’d left off.

She’s shocked he’d bring this up when there’s a camera on the two of them and she can only imagine the comments it will spark. She’s not sure she cares if it keeps Rowan’s eyes on her.

“It’s luxurious for a reason,” she says when she recovers, tossing her thick locks over her shoulder. “Well worth it.”

She doesn’t miss the flicker in his own mask at her comment.

That kind of interaction will no doubt ignite the sparks she’d only ever wanted to avoid.

As the press cycle goes on and on, and they get closer and closer to the premiere it only becomes harder for her conviction to hold.

She tests her own argument, the clear line she drew in the sand, when she manages to keep it professional with Rowan and she’s not sure where that leaves her. She had thought they would overshadow everything about the project and now she’s not sure.

She said nothing had changed and he had challenged her.

She’s still not sure who’s in the right.

Everything is simultaneously completely new and exactly the same. Rowan is still gorgeous, still charming in his own reserved way, still almost reverent when he talks about his craft throughout interviews. He still talks with his hands and Aelin still can’t draw her eyes away from their motions, she still craves the touch of them on her skin. He’s still seven years older than her and the director of her big break.

Yet there are differences.

They’re still often on the same page, offering similar answers and backing each other up but now he never backs down from a challenge. Now he doesn’t hold back those comments she knows he was always dying to let slip. She should be annoyed, everytime he drops a line that pushes her to expand a little part of her wants to roll her eyes.

She doesn’t though. Her blood heats and her skin prickles. She loves this with him. Loves the dance they play, the teasing, verbal games that shouldn’t start her off but do. She loves the smirk he wears when they end up down that path, and she knows she wears it’s mirror image.

She always ends up squirming in her seat and it should be wrong but it isn’t. The cameras can’t see below their chests and the flush in her cheeks could easily be from the warmth of the day.

She’s beginning to wonder if she’s powerless against Rowan Whitethorn. If she’s powerless against the green of his eyes or the curl of his accent. The slant of his brows or the points of his teeth when he smiles.

She doesn’t know that it’s just one thing. It’s all of the things, it’s all of him, and more so than ever she’s completely fucked.

But they aren’t talking outside of the interviews and photoshoots, and the knowledge of which hotel room is his itches her toes every night. It would be so easy to sneak down the hall, to knock on the door and slot her lips to his when he opened.

It’s only a couple of nights before the premiere when the temptation becomes too much. She’s been around Rowan all day, surrounded by the smell of his aftershave, the notes of pine and freshness and Rowan and it’s too much. She strides down the hallway, resolved in her decision and closes her fingers over the button for the lift.

She needs to be elsewhere or she’ll make some bad decisions.

She’s come so far, survived months without him, she can’t cave due to proximity.

The hotel bar is deserted when she walks in and makes a beeline to the bartender. Yeah, maybe after her wobble at the wrap party a bar isn’t the best decision she could make but her options are limited. Trying to sleep with Rowan is, after all, probably the worst of both options.

“Just a sparkling water please,” she says to the barman who nods and returns a moment later.

“Put it on my tab.” A voice from the end of the bar.

A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she closes her fingers around her glass. Of course he’s here. She should have spotted Rowan the minute she walked in and it’s cruel that the reason she didn’t was that her thoughts were too wrapped up in him.

“Be careful what you sign up for,” she says as she walks over, her steps measured as she comes to a stop before him. Her hips swing of their own accord and his eyes dart up and down the length of her. “I can put a number of these away.”

The smile he gives her is surprisingly unguarded. It seems he’s done holding himself back too. Aelin loves it.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, nodding at the stool next to him. She obliges as he speaks again. “It’s hard to switch off sometimes.”

He’s always on the same page as she is. Aelin shrugs, taking a sip of the drink he bought her.

They’re quiet for a moment, both unsure of how to break the silence between them when one of the last things they knew was the taste of each other’s lips.

“I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, that one day this will just be my job, but I never do,” Aelin says eventually, tracing a fingertip through the condensation gathered on her glass.

Rowan nods, smiling softly down at the bar and taking a sip of his own drink. An orange juice as usual.

“It’s hard to sleep at the end of days like today,” he says. “It’s why I’m in here.”

The bar is dark at the late hour, and quiet with no one else in there but them and the bartender. There’s something about the late hour, the darkness and the stillness surrounding them a break from the recent rush, that feels a little bit too close. She feels a little too exposed under the weight of his gaze but she rolls her shoulders back and leans an elbow on the bar as she turns towards him.

“I thought you’d be used to all of this by now,” she says and he cocks his head.

“Why?” His question is coy, begging her to expand.

“This is not your first rodeo and all of that,” she says with a smile.

Rowan laughs softly, the sound curving around her like an embrace.

“It can still be overwhelming after your first big movie,” he says gently, but with an edge to his voice that she needs to immediately get rid of.

“I don’t doubt that,” is what she whispers and his brow seems to soften, sensing her lack of malice.

She hates the way they’re in the position where he assumes the worst of her. She has to make that change.

“I don’t think if I get to do this for the rest of my life that it would ever feel normal.”

“No,” Rowan agrees, “I don’t think it could.”

“So then we need this film to do well.” Aelin shifts on the stool, finding herself leaning closer to him without conscious thought. He doesn’t retreat. He stands his ground until they’re only inches apart. “Lest we find ourselves fading into obscurity.”

“I doubt you ever could,” he says with a laugh and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard.

As he looks at her, his expression soft in the dim light, his smile holds something special for her and her chest lifts that she managed it. That he was willing to give that to her.

“My agent sent over the initial critic reviews earlier,” he says and her stomach plummets.

“And?” she demands, her voice wobbling slightly. Her confidence from a minute ago vanished.

This is the moment where she could sink, the moment this could all be over.

“And they’re good,” he almost whispers.

“Good,” she repeats and it’s not a question but he nods.

She wants to throw herself at him at the news, a couple of months ago she wouldn’t have even hesitated, but now she sits clenching her fists and trying not to smile too wide. It feels like a waste. She’ll never get this feeling again.

She turns to him and he’s smiling so she does what she’s wanted to for months. Aelin leans forwards and wraps an arm over his shoulders, pressing her chest to his.

His arms slip up slowly over her shoulders at first, unsure but gaining confidence as he tightens his grip around her, drawing her further into his chest. Aelin laughs a little, throwing her other arm around him and resting her face against his shoulder.

It’s not enough, it never could be with him, but it will do. She’s just happy he didn’t push her away.

Eventually, after a length of time that feels far too short, she pulls back to see him gazing down at her with an expression she can’t name. His brows are drawn in with his lips gently parted. He’s happy but apprehensive, open but distant. Aelin will take what she can and the distance between them has always been too far.

She wants nothing more than to close it, to draw herself into him and he into her, but she can’t. They’re here for one thing and one thing only and she refuses after what they’ve been through to mess it up again.

She knows he can read her own expression but she doesn’t care. She’ll hide from everyone and anyone but she’s realising she could never hide from him.

She wants Rowan, will probably want him for the rest of her life, but she made the call and he’s wrong, things haven’t changed.

Apart from all of the things that have.

The day of the premiere Aelin feels sick.

Her stomach twists and she tosses and turns all night and the dark circles under her eyes are brutal as a result. Her make-up artist tuts but diligently packs concealer on until Aelin looks well rested. Or as close as she can.

She’s trying not to think of the stretch of carpet she’ll have to walk tonight, a smile plastered across her face as she poses for the hundreds of cameras. Their premiere is one of the biggest of the season and, along with Fenrys, she’s the star.

She’ll have nowhere to hide.

Aelin sits in front of her mirror, her hair and make-up are done but she’s yet to get dressed. She takes herself in, making sure to note every strand of hair to every line of her lips, feeling as though she needs to remember this moment. The moment before it all explodes.

They’ve been building to this for almost a year now and this is as close to a culmination as she’ll get.

Her dress is something fierce. Endless, flowing velvet in the darkest shade of black. Long sleeves and a fitted bodice with an almost indecent dip in the back. The dress would be modest without that cut out, she can’t wear any underwear it dips so low.

It would be a simple dress, some might even dare to say boring, if it weren’t for the back. The majority of the fabric that remains is covered in gold embroidery taking the form of a dragon, coiled to strike. Aelin adored the dress the moment her stylist revealed it to her. She didn’t consider any of the other dresses, didn’t even acknowledge them as options.

The dress is what she needs, something strong, something to help her hold her head up high. She can walk the red carpet and stare down every single person who doubted her and know that they were wrong.

Aelin doesn’t need their approval. She doesn’t need the reassurance of faceless commenters, she doesn’t need the support of the magazines and the newspapers. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval. On anything.

Aelin is confident and self-assured and she can walk the red carpet knowing that.

Her sessions with Maeve have helped to reassure her stance, but she’s realising day by day she’s known it all along. It’s just taken a little bit of digging to uncover it.

She slips into her dress and it slides on like a second skin. She takes in her appearance, the arch of her brow and the red smirk of her lips makes her look intriguing, like a confident young woman.

Aelin was born to be an actress but she’s proud to say the sight in the mirror is real.

She poses for a few photos before she’s led out of her room and into the car, waiting to take her to the theatre.

She spends the ride in silence, barely listening to the jabbering of the aide in the car with her, and she focuses her thoughts on the calm before the storm. She takes deep breaths and centres herself the way Maeve has taught, she knows this could so easily be overwhelming but she’s determined to enjoy it.

The car stills and she can hear the noise of the crowd outside. She takes a final deep breath and allows her lips to spread into a smile. This one is genuine, nothing forced about it, and she pauses for one last beat.

This is big and Aelin is ready.

The car door opens and the sound hits her like a wave, slamming down onto her and it's so loud she can hardly think.

This is it. This is the moment she has dreamed of.

The nights where this image was all she could cling to to make it through could never have compared to how it feels standing here now, screams of her own name wrapping around her and urging her on.

Her steps are slow and purposeful as she glides down the path forged for her, the red carpet beneath her stilettos is plush and bright. She pauses where she’s instructed, rolling her shoulders back and smirking at the cameras with a hand on her hip.

She knows she looks incredible and the shouts of the photographers do nothing to change her mind. They are here for her, they’re all here for what she has accomplished, along with Fenrys, Manon, Chaol and Rowan and everyone else involved.

There are so many forces upon her, the flashing of the lights, the screams and shouts calling her name or Fenrys’, the magnitude of what this is could knock down a lesser individual but all it does is raise Aelin up.

She’s been through worse than this and survived, she’ll stare down the lense of all of these cameras, of everyone who has ever spoken her name and she won’t cower, she won’t just survive. She’ll thrive.

A warm hand lands on her waist and somehow the flashes of the cameras explode.

“Hey, golden girl.” Fenrys’ words are almost hard to hear even though his lips brush her ear. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aelin wraps her arm around his back and grins, “I thought I’d at least show my face.”

He returns her smile and together they pose for the cameras, their shoulders back and smiles confident. She’s not sure this could be better.

Until she turns slightly to her left and gets flashes of silver where she and Fenrys are gold.

Rowan and Manon, posing for their own pictures mere metres away. He looks spectacular, the deep black of his tuxedo doing nothing but bringing out the depth of his tan and the shine of his silver hair.

He’s smiling his public smile and it’s gorgeous even though it’s not her favourite of his smiles, she loves the private ones he used to save just for her, and her own smile falters at the sight.

She’s here with Fenrys and it’s not wrong but it doesn’t feel right. The arm around her waist shouldn’t belong to Fenrys.

She should be where Manon is, smiling up at Rowan while they marvel at what they’ve accomplished. She knows her smile has dropped and she fumbles for anything to plaster onto her expression other than the longing she feels for Rowan.

As if she’d called his name he turns to her, green colliding with blue, and she knows he feels the same.

And that hurts far more than all of the months they spent apart.

All the months she spent hurting, trying to deny what she always knew, trying to pretend that they were anything other than a force of nature. They had been an eclipse, threatening to over take all of this but she was wrong. Rowan was wrong too.

It doesn’t matter whether everything or nothing has changed because she wasn’t right in the first place.

She should have known better than to think that whatever flimsy decision she made could halt what they were, what they should be.

She can only hope he forgives her. She can only hope he feels the same.

But the thing about this new Rowan is that she can’t read him the way she used to read her Rowan, she can’t tell if the way he steels himself and turns away from her is a dismissal or if the look they shared had been just as painful for him as it had been for her.

“A masterpiece.” - Rifthold Reporter

“Fenrys Moonbeam shines alongside Aelin Ashryver in The Crescent City. See our full review here.” - Wyrd Stone

“Latest Rowan Whitethorn flick smashes Box Office records.” - Valg Weekly

“Unapologetic, daring and thought provoking. Award nominations expected to follow for The Crescent City.” - Terrasen Tribune

Her phone has not stopped buzzing for the past four days.

Dorian texts every waking hour with the updates he gets, the numbers coming in and all her latest offers. It’s surreal. She knew they were good but she’s not sure she ever really expected this. Aedion texts her a picture every time he sees or hears her name, it should be terrifying the frequency with which he texts her but she has to fight back her smile each time he does.

She managed to find an hour the night before to call Lysandra and the majority of their call had consisted of Aelin repeatedly asking what the fuck was happening while Lysandra cackled down the phone.

She’d even got a text from Lorcan. It was alright, he’d written. Followed by, I hope I die before ever having to watch you make out with someone like that again.

She’d sent three middle finger emojis and a kissy face in response.

Now is probably not the best time to move to a different country but she’d signed her name on the papers two days before the premiere and Rifthold is calling, irrespective of the fact she’s only been back in Orynth for two days.

Most of her stuff headed out yesterday with the moving company leaving Aelin with two suitcases to fly back to Rifthold with tomorrow.

There’s one last place she needs to go before she heads back to finally get a good night's sleep before her flight tomorrow. She’s never set foot in this graveyard before, she’s never had the courage to dare before, but she’s emboldened. By the success of the movie, by her progress in the past year, by her sessions with Maeve. This has felt like a natural step.

The shining, black headstone is understated and classy and completely to his taste.

Sam Cortland. Beloved son and brother, taken far too soon.

Aelin waits with her head bowed, allowing all of her emotions to rush through her veins. She doesn’t fight them, it would be pointless to try, and she embraces the tears that gather. Eventually she steps forwards, placing the smooth, small stone on the crest of the headstone.

She rests her hand on the cool stone for a moment before sinking down and crossing her legs beneath her as she leans against it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says aloud, “I can almost hear you telling me to stop being such a sappy shit. I can’t help it, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

She pauses, letting the wind drift through the field sweeping her words away.

There’s no one else here but her and Sam, no one else she’d want to hear her confession.

“I wonder what you would have made of all this. I think you’d tell me to enjoy it all, to not miss a moment, and I’m not. I’m just choosing the ones I want to savour. And this is one of them, Sam. I wish you’d been there with me, you would have loved it, the cameras, the lights, everything.

“I have to keep pinching myself to know it’s real, I did it, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you.”

She sighs, letting her head tip back to rest against the stone. She didn’t prepare anything to say, didn’t realise she’d even want to speak to the open air but here she is.

“I’m not the same Aelin as the girl you knew anymore,” she says after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t think I would have the capacity to love again after you but I did, and I feel terribly guilty that I do. I have to remind myself that this is what you would have wanted, you would have wanted me to be happy.”

The silence in the field is more than an answer enough. So typically Sam to give her an answer without so much as speaking a word.

“I was happy,” she says, trailing a fingertip along the words etched into the stone. “I will be again.”

A faint haze of sunlight drifts through the Orynth autumn clouds, a whisper compared to the chorus of brightness she misses in Rifthold, and she stands, brushing off the dirt from her jeans. She touches the stone one last time before turning and heading out of the graveyard.

Her visit was years overdue but her chest didn’t crack open the way she had expected, the tears hadn’t been relentless the way she had expected. She’ll visit him again the next time she’s back in Orynth, probably visiting Elide and Lorcan for Yulemass, and she’ll visit again and again for as long as she lives.

But for now, she has a plane to catch.

Months later and two days before the Oscars, when they’re all back in town for the ceremony held in her new home city of Rifthold, Fenrys throws another party.

She’s managed, this time, to stay in touch with Fenrys and Manon, having made up with the younger girl before the press cycle had finished. Aelin knows her upset was real but partly suspects the animosity was a front. She even finds herself participating in the group chat with the three of them and Rowan. She’s only texted him one to one once to wish him a happy birthday and they had caught up briefly but not texted since.

She’s missed him in a different way to the last time she missed him. This time missing him doesn’t feel necessary, it feels wrong not to text him, wrong to be away from him and she’s itching to see him again.

It’s no one's birthday this time but they’re all together again to celebrate, no matter the results they’ll see in two days. Aelin is very carefully measuring her excitement about her own nomination for best actress. Fenrys is up for best actor, Rowan best director and the movie best picture.

She’d almost dropped her phone in the toilet when she found out from Dorian a few weeks ago.

The party is small but still in full swing by the time she arrives. Big names from the industry, all in town for the ceremony, are scattered all around Fenrys’ Rifthold apartment. He’d bought a place here not long after Aelin and she’s secretly relieved she’s not the only one so moved by their experience.

She waves to a few people she knows and tries to stay calm when she spots Sartaq Khagan in the corner chatting away to a small group of people. Holy shit Fenrys has some famous friends.

Aelin finds herself a glass, tops her orange juice off with a splash of lemonade and begins her rounds. So many more people want to talk to her after the movie dropped.

Her mother had been one of them, and Aelin’s thumb had hovered over the accept button for a moment before decidedly pressing decline. She had blocked her mother’s number a moment later, and then she had made some calls closing the bank account her mother kept topped up and arranging for every penny she’d ever received from Evalin Ashryver to be paid back.

It had hurt, emotionally and financially, especially in the month she’d moved to Rifthold, but it had been worth it. To never let Evalin pass any judgement over her life again was a relief worth any cost. Aelin’s hoping there’s a possibility she could end up with a reward.

She doesn’t know how long she spends talking to big name after big name and it’s a realisation that drops onto her that she fits in here. Aelin Ashryver is a big name. No matter the outcome of the ceremony she has prospects, already a number of projects lined up and she’s loving every minute of it.

She drains her cup for the third time tonight and heads back into the kitchen. She’s barely seen Fenrys all night, and she doesn’t even know if Manon is here.

She frowns into the fridge, there was definitely a full bottle of orange juice in here the last time she topped herself up. She shuts the fridge and spins around.

“Looking for this?”

She should have known.

Rowan looks predictably gorgeous in the dim kitchen lighting. All tanned skin and silver smiles. He’s dressed in her favourite look of his too, worn denim jeans and a soft cotton shirt.

It’s the softness in his gaze that really takes her though, it seems the animosity from the last time they saw each other has faded if not disappeared. Her chest squeezes at the thought. She has no idea what could have triggered it but she will take it.

“Nope,” she says, stepping over to where he stands with an arm braced against the counter at his side, the other holding out a bottle of orange juice. “I was hoping Fenrys would have some chocolate in there but I guess this will have to do.”

She takes the bottle from him, her fingertips brushing his and she feels her cheeks heat at the innocent brush.

His smile is genuine and she knows what he’s remembering because she’s thinking of it too. The first time she visited his house during filming and their moment in the kitchen. They’ve been through cycles, she supposes, but hopefully now for the better.

“I’m sure we can find you some somewhere in here,” he says as she fills her cup, pulling open the cupboard next to his head.

Aelin smirks. “I’m going to leave the rummaging through Fenrys’ cupboards to you. You could find anything in there.”

Rowan winces, closing the door before returning her smile. This is friendly and the hope that’s been planted in her chest begins to sprout.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “We wouldn’t want to risk it.”

Aelin pauses for a moment, taking in the glory of him in front of her. He’s still Rowan, he’s still tall and deliciously broad. His silver hair is slightly more grown out and there are a couple more lines around his eyes but she doesn’t care, in fact it’s charming. He’s still and always will be stunning. She takes a sip of her drink before she takes one of her biggest risks so far.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, not daring to look away from his face.

He bites his lip, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin before he speaks. “I’ve missed you too.”

The smile that spreads across her face is all too telling but he’s smiling too so she doesn’t think it matters. He definitely feels the same and she’d be annoyed at the months she spent worrying but the relief is too sweet.

“Good,” is what she says, far too happy they’re here to bother with pretending she’s anything other than ecstatic. “Congrats on your nomination.”

His eyes dart to the floor and then back up at her, he’s too modest about his own skill and Aelin adores it. “Thank you,” he says softly, “you too.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you.”

“Me neither,” Rowan says.

He’s close to her now, closer than he has been to her for months and her skin cries out for contact. She almost can’t believe she’s here now, talking to Rowan without any animosity, days before the Oscars that she’s nominated in.

The smile that takes over her face is completely of its own accord. She’s floating and it seems Rowan is too if the beat they share, exchanging incredulous smiles, is anything to go by.

“It’s crazy, right?”

She’s been asking herself the question for so long it seems only natural it slips out to him.

He laughs softly, and the rough sound curls straight to her core.

“Definitely,” he agrees, his voice low. “I don’t think last time felt like this.”

Aelin slaps a gentle hand to his chest and ignores the thrill that shoots through her at the eventual contact. “I get it, this is not your first nomination.”

Rowan rolls his eyes and she didn’t know how much she missed this, playing with him. She adores his reaction every time, the begrudging amusement he only lets shine through to make her smile.

“Some of us have never been nominated before, this is all completely new.” Aelin takes a sip of her drink. “I had to give up my social media accounts to Elide, it got so crazy.”

Something flickers over Rowan’s face at her comment. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes darting across his face trying to decipher the expression. “She’s always had access and I still do so I can post if I want to but it just became a lot. It stopped being fun when I would see what people were saying, whether it was good or bad I don’t want to see it anymore.”

Rowan nods before his eyes lock onto hers, the intensity in his expression shreds her control.

“And you said nothing had changed?”

Aelin gets it now.

She shifts her weight, leaning as close to him as she can without sliding herself completely into the circle of his arms. “I was wrong. Lots of things have changed,” she says, her voice quiet but strong. “And lots of things are now right that weren’t before.”

She doesn’t mean to skirt around the truth, hiding in veiled words and double meanings, but as always, Rowan sees her. He sees her meaning and he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Aelin has ever seen him wear.

“I’ve been looking for you two.”

Fenrys bursts into the kitchen, startling Aelin back from Rowan. She hides her guilty smile in her drink and notices Rowan doing the same. Fenrys just grins, clearly enjoying whatever he thinks he’s seeing.

“You’re missing out, we’re playing kings in the living room if you want to join?”

Rowan glances at her before he turns back to Fenrys. “I think we’re good, thanks.”

Fenrys’ smile turns smug and Aelin resists the temptation to flip him off. She’s in too good of a mood to be annoyed at him.

“Okay, see you later, lovebirds,” Fenrys says, already on his way back out of the door.

Aelin pretends she isn’t blushing as she turns back to Rowan, his green eyes shining.

“This might sound crazy,” he says with an alluring tilt to his lips, “but do you want to get out of here?”

She’s reached a point she truly never thought she would.

She’s an Oscar-nominated lead actress in a box-office-record-breaking movie.

She’s happy, healthy and out from underneath the thumb of Evalin Ashryver.

The part that’s most uplifting, the part that has her unable to wipe the smile off her face as she strolls down the streets of Rifthold, is the arm she has tucked through Rowan’s.

They’ve been walking for a little while, enjoying the cool night air and the ease with which they managed to sneak out of Fenrys’ party. Her heels are killing her and Rowan very graciously offers her an arm to lean on and each time she takes a step in time with him she smiles.

“I never thought I’d like doing television,” he says.

She didn’t know he’d taken on a miniseries, similar to the one she’d done after filming, but she’s loving the recap she’s getting of the months they’ve been apart. The chill of the air is more than fought off by the warmth of Rowan by her side. The streets are mercifully empty and she can bask in the knowledge that it’s just the two of them out here, that they’re insignificant, that anyone who sees them will immediately dismiss them.

“I always thought I’d stick to movies, singular stories but I enjoyed it. I guess change can be good.”

Aelin laughs softly and squeezes his arm. He looks down to her, a question written in the slant of his brow.

“Change can definitely be good,” she says as she takes in the sights of the skyscrapers surrounding them. “I would know that I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I bought a flat recently.”

“You did?”

He’s so graciously giving her the floor to say what she needs to say and she holds his arm even tighter.

“It’s right here in Rifthold.” Aelin avoids his gaze, lest he think it’s a speedy invitation and that that’s all this is. “I bought it just after we were back here for press, I realised that I adore Rifthold and being here. I missed it when I wasn’t here and I don’t feel there’s anything holding me in Orynth anymore.”

Rowan laughs softly, his feet scuffing the floor.

“What?” she demands.

“I swear I’m not following you,” he says and she feels a smile creep onto her face. “I bought a loft here too.”

Aelin gasps. “But your house was gorgeous!”

Rowan’s smile twists as he looks away from her. “I didn’t say I sold the house.”

Aelin cackles as she squeezes his arm, the sound joyous and bright as it echoes around them. “I knew being Mr Big-Name-Director has its perks.”

“It does,” he agrees with a smirk.

Aelin wants to kiss that smirk. Wants to pull him down and twist her fingers through his hair as his own tangle along her skin.

Instead she says, “I copied you somewhat too.”

He only raises a brow.

“I bought a piano like the one in your house. It was too big for my old flat in Orynth and so I knew what I had to do.”

“That’s good,” he says as his arm drops out of hers. She almost pouts until he instead tangles their fingers together. Her smile says it all, reflected back in his own. “You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks are glowing. “You’ll have to come over and I’ll play for you sometime, neighbour.”

“I’d love to.”

Aelin slows, using the hand tangled with his to pull him to a stop too. Her free hand trails a gentle path up his chest before coming to rest at his collar, her fingertips tracing the golden skin peeking out from his shirt. His free hand finds her waist.

They’re close, closer than they have been in such a long time when he speaks.

“I don’t know what you think has or hasn’t changed.” His hand leaves hers to cup her cheek. “But I still feel the way I used to about you.”

Her heart takes off, pounding within her chest.

“I do too, Rowan.” Some of the easiest words she’s ever said to him. There’s something about the way the streetlights shine through the silver tips of his hair and the way his calloused fingers feel between hers that she’s feeling brave. “I loved you then and I love you now.”

His eyes flicker across her face as his smile dawns, taking over his face as he smiles so brightly. This is all she’s ever wanted, to have a Rowan like this, with pure, unfiltered happiness in his eyes as he looks at her.

“You love me?”

“I do. To whatever end.”

His lips are barely a whisper from hers and she only acknowledges the thought that they’re in public for long enough to realise she doesn’t care.

“And I love you.”

His words are simple, but sweet. They wash over her and settle into her skin as his lips land on hers. He kisses her with what she can only describe as love. His lips pour devotion onto her and his hands light a fire inside her as he tastes her tongue.

They kiss for longer than she can keep a track of, wrapped up together illuminated only by the street lighting. She’s missed this, missed him, and she can’t help but feel right when his hands are on her. She can’t help but feel right as she stretches onto her toes to throw herself into his kiss.

This was never wrong, this was one of the first things she knew was right.

She loves him and he loves her and nothing and nobody else matters.

She doesn’t win the Oscar, and neither does Rowan. Fenrys does and she screams herself hoarse cheering him on as he makes his way to the stage.

The moment that takes the cake is when The Crescent City takes best picture. She takes to the stage with some of her best friends to recognise what they achieved together and maybe she is a soppy shit but she definitely cries. Fenrys laughs at her and Manon grins but Rowan just throws his arm around her shoulders and it's worth it.

Afterwards, she logs into her Instagram account for the first time in a long time. She posts a picture of Rowan looking absolutely delicious with his tux unbuttoned and his bow tie hanging untied around his neck with a greasy burger in one hand and hers in his other.

Posting him is a statement but she doesn’t care. In fact, she wants the world to know. She wants the world to know that nobody does it like he does. Nobody does it like they do.

#rowaelin #nobody does it like you do #aelin galathynius #rowan whitethorn #throne of glass #rowaelin au #ndilyd #i cant believe it's the last part of this fic #crazy #hope you all enjoyed

[gwen-ever]

Until My Last Breath (Prologue)

Summary: When Smaug arrived, he not only killed the dwarves of Erebor, but he also destroyed the lives of the few who survived... whether he did it on purpose or not.After a hundred years, a part of Thorin's past will come back to haunt him in the form of a dwarf who last knocks on the door of Bilbo Baggins' house, resurrecting old grudges and the pain of a life no one wants to talk about. Geira, daughter of Geiri, is anything but an open book, an exiled who no one wants around, a warrior who has no one to fight for, but only an oath she must fulfil.

Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC

Rating: M

Warnings: none.

AO3 LINK: HERE

Note Number I: English is not my first language, I have a wonderful beta @lathalea <3 (i am so much greatful you can't even imagine) but maybe I will mess up few times.

Note Number II: The Story takes place during the quest but there is a whole backstory that starts since Thorin's childhood so there are going to be a lot of flashbacks. THEY ARE NOT IN A CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER so the whole back story could be guessed but will be explained later in the story.

Note Number III: I will mix up the book events and the movie events, fixing what where (from my point of view) some mistakes were made. I have decided to do so simply because there are some lacks of infos here and there and so many lost possibilities in some actionless time, as happened in Mirkwood and Laketown.

I am blood of your blood, and bone of your bone, stone of your stone

I gift you my body so it can fall instead of yours.

I give you my soul so it can  wait for yours in the Great Halls.

I lend you my voice so it can order your commands

I present you my sword so it can slay the ones who wish to harm you.

No other dwarf will be mine, no other dwarf will own me,

no one will sleep next to me, no life will come out from the womb of mine.

No one I will serve over the crown, over the Seven Stars, over the Father of all fathers, over the King of all Kings.

I offer myself to you, until the end of times, until the mountains soar to the sky,

until all the blood dries, until the fires of Mahal’s forge blaze high.

Until my last breath, until my last glance, until my last blow,

until the last time my hands touch the rock our Father gave to us,

my life is yours and your wish is mine.

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

The house of Bilbo Baggins was more crowded than usual that evening, and the owner was more than a little disconcerted: not only had his peace of mind been disturbed, not only was his larder completely, utterly, depleted, but his kitchen, indeed his whole house, was overrun with dwarves! Thirteen dwarves! Plus a wizard he had met in the morning whom he barely knew and had marked the door with a rune, thanks to which his guests had recognised the Hobbit's dwelling. Truly, Bilbo Baggins did not know how to begin to drive them out, he had been trying since the first one (Dwalin, if he remembered correctly) had walked in through the round door, obviously without being heard by any of them.

Crockery, knives, pots and pans, everything had begun to fly from one side of the room to the other without ever stopping. He tried more than once to stop them, without ever succeeding! At that moment his Took blood was more useless than a fork when eating soup. In fact, his Baggins blood had gotten the better of him, leading him to accept the situation with no small amount of annoyance, including those black strokes on his yellow walls and the fragments of food scattered on the floor. Oh, not to mention his good wine, totally gone! It had taken him hours to sort out his pantry between days before and now all his food, all his tomatoes, all his wine, all his cheese, everything, gone, vanished, and it was not even the time for the spring solstice party yet!

And now, or in heaven's name, now Gandalf had even had the courage to tell him that he would have to get used to them! To all of them! To the twelve dwarves in his kitchen! And what on earth did the wizard mean by saying  that he would have to put up with them forever!

Annoyed, he began to walk down the corridor arguing with Gandalf and putting his hands on his hips.

"I don't understand what they are doing in my house!" he shouted, raising his voice.

The wizard didn't reply, but a small voice behind him did and before he knew it his entire set of porcelains was in the air.  His cutlery was being knocked over his table. Knife blades were being dulled by their rubbing against fork handles, and before he knew it, in time to the music, his entire kitchen set was flying through the air.  Oh no, no no no, not that chair, no, not that plate, no not that other plate! No, stop, please!

His pleas were soaring through the air, as if they were leaves on a wind, as were his dishes. And Gandalf sat smoking his pipe on a chair with an amused smile while all this happened before his eyes. Bilbo ran to the kitchen to put an end to this madness, but as soon as he did so, he noticed to his surprise that all the things that had been flying over his head until just now were neatly stacked on top of each other on his kitchen table.

He blinked, several times adjusting his braces, unable to believe his eyes.

The dwarves seemed highly amused by his reaction, and began to laugh, until three knocks on the door brought silence and an icy air that he could feel all the way down to his hobbit ankles.

"He is here," Gandalf said.

From the doorway a short while later another dwarf entered and it didn't take him long to realise that he was different, very different from the others who had entered his home moments before. Every single beard turned to face the newcomer as he walked inside.

Bilbo didn't know who it was and he didn't even really care, no one would enter his house unannounced, no one.

But he couldn't admit that his blood ran cold in his veins as soon as that dwarf started talking to him and asking him all those strange questions. What did he mean by axe or sword? Did he really believe that a hobbit like him had ever picked up either weapon? Who did he think he was? He could not hide his confusion at the last statement of the so-called Thorin Oakenshield.

"He looks more of a grocer than a burglar," he joked.

It was all too absurd for Bilbo's poor hobbit ears, all so surreal! His life, monotonous and lonely until a few hours ago, was now changing, he could feel it in his bones, and he could not understand if it was a good thing or not: he had always dreamed of adventure when he was a young hobbit, but now it was different; the walls of his home were so comforting and safe, every object was a certainty for him. His life was there and he would never leave it, no sir!

Calmness, however, continued to reign for a long time, during which the largest of the dwarves, with a long red beard, went to his kitchen and with an almost surreal care began to prepare a soup. Thorin Oakenshield sat down at the head of the table and was soon joined by the oldest of the dwarves who had entered his house, Balin, and two of the youngest, the two brothers Fili and Kili.

They began to talk in low voices, in a calm and quiet tone, just like everyone else in his house. It seemed absurd, but at least he was able to sort out some of the leftovers that had been left behind in the kitchen back in his own larder and eavesdrop, even if he didn't want to (it was rude) on some of the conversations that various small groups of dwarves were having. The ties of kinship were quickly understood, as was the realisation that Thorin was not really just another dwarf. No more plate was flying, no more song was being sung, but not out of fear, out of respect.

He turned his head, watching the almost regal profile as he spoke to the bear who came into the house first, but he could not hear what they were talking about, the fact was that their faces were dark, and Dwalin's eyes moved insistently over him.

A short while later Bombur returned with the soup, handing it to Thorin, and in the blink of an eye the groups of dwarves in his house were grouped together again, sitting around the table. He wasn't invited, that's normal, there's a meeting in a house and the owner of that house isn't invited! Not that he cared, of course not, the apple he was putting in the basket in the kitchen was certainly more interesting.

But he couldn't help but listen.

"What news from the Ered Luin, did they all come?" asked the older dwarf.

"Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms," the voice of Thorin spoke, setting off a round of small laughs and joyful murmurs.

"And what do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?"

A long wait ensued in which Bilbo swore he could hear the heart of every single dwarf in the room beating wildly.

"They will not come,"

The dwarf's reply was sharp and decisive. Disconsolate murmurs rose from his dining room that only increased in volume and quantity when he spoke again. "They said this quest is ours and ours alone,"

They began to talk in low voices, in a calm and quiet tone, just like everyone else in his house. It seemed absurd, but at least he was able to sort out some of the leftovers that had been left behind in the kitchen back in his own larder and eavesdrop, even if he didn't want to (it was rude) on some of the conversations that various small groups in that group were having. The ties of kinship were quickly understood, as was the realisation that Thorin was not really just another dwarf. No more  flying plates, no more singing songs, but not out of fear, out of respect.

A coughing noise, however, stopped the murmurs and caused Bilbo to turn to the table from behind the kitchen wall as well, distracting himself from his chores. Gandalf settled into the small chair and began to search the sleeve of his grey robe.

"This indeed, it is not entirely true," he explained as he slowly pulled a long wooden pipe from his sleeve. "There is someone else who has yet to arrive," the sorcerer explained, barely looking Thorin in the eye.

For all the pipe weed in the world, again?

The dwarf at the head of the table stopped sipping from his goblet of ale, giving him a sidelong glance but remained silent. Instead, the dwarf named Gloin spoke, crossing his arms over his chest. "This means yet another division of profit, all of which should have been agreed upon first." he muttered.

"Agreed, this matter should have been dealt with weeks ago," Dori pinned, pulling himself up.

Gandalf did not even look up at the elder dwarf, adjusting the tobacco in his pipe.  "My decision was made after our meeting in the Ered Luin. And Master Gloin, I think that our member does not wish any of that gold in that Mountain."

"Who is it?" grunted Dwalin suspiciously, looking up at the wizard who lit his pipe with his fingertips.

Bofur chuckled under his big black mustache, puffing an avalanche of white smoke from the side of his mouth. "Another burglar?"

"A burglar for the burglar," Fili grinned at the back of the room.

"A burglar made for the burglar," Kili added and their banter invited the murmurs from just before. This time, however, they were louder, more confused, as was his hobbit head.

A torrent of questions flooded the room as they all asked questions of the wizard, who, bewildered, tried to answer; only Thorin's intervention put an end to the commotion created, shouting warnings in their native tongue. Then he turned to the sorcerer himself, glancing at him.

"The questions that have arisen around this table are fair," he began earnestly, "I have not been informed of any others, none of this was a part of the bargain, Gandalf."

Gandalf smiled with the side of his mouth taking a puff of his pipe. "I was told to find the fourteenth member of this company and so I did, the addition of a fifteenth should not be an unsolvable problem."

"As I said it wasn't in the agreements and last minute clauses at a time like this are not convenient, not at all," retorted the dwarf bringing silence again.

Bilbo looked at the dwarves, clouded by the smoke from the pipes and the warmth of the candles around the table. They looked at each other's hands or watched Thorin in silence, not uttering a breath.

Gandalf put down his pipe and crossed his arms on the table, moving slightly closer to the dwarf with long raven hair.

"I assure you that my choice was not taken lightly, and if I had thought it was right a few months ago I would have reported it to you back then. But it was not possible," Gandalf lowered the tone of his voice even further. "You must trust me on this."

"Is this person crucial to what we must accomplish?" he asked quietly, looking straight into his eyes.

The wizard murmured a small "yes" between his lips, nodding his head slightly as he continued to look the dwarf lord straight in the eye.

Thorin said nothing, watched the wizard for a few more seconds before letting himself go off the back of his chair and then he took a sip of ale from his mug again. The conversation had ended in a few simple sentences, yet Bilbo noticed how the wizard continued to look at Thorin insistently.

Gandalf brushed his gloves around his hands with his fingertips dropping his gaze downwards for a few seconds before turning his head back towards him.

"Bilbo, my dear fellow," he called to him in a manner far more cheerful than his face was capable of showing. "Let us have a little more light".

----/////----

A snort passed her lips.

She was dreadfully late, which she hated from the bottom of her heart; and she hated the fact that she was going to a strange house of a Hobbit whose identity she did not know, although after all those years she had become accustomed to being in the homes of strangers quite often. Perhaps the real reason for her stomach clenching was not whose house it was but who she was supposed to meet in that house and the reason why she was going to that house. Because when she would see them again, all of them , it would not be pleasant or easy.

Far from it.

She didn't even think it would ever happen, nor did he want it to happen again.

She slung her sack over her shoulder as she climbed up the little dirt road, passing funny grass-covered houses by the round door: if it had been daytime, a riot of colours would have accompanied her path and perhaps, for a few minutes, she would not have thought about the imminent meeting.

She would have stopped for a few brief moments on that bench next to the path and sat there for a short while, perhaps lighting her pipe or watching those very peaceful people go about their simple business. Watching them do simple, mechanical things, perhaps in another life she might even have stayed in such a place, in peace, with someone. But no, too many years had passed, she had seen too much, heard too much, and she would not be able to live like that, not there.

Suddenly, a faint pale light caught her attention: she approached it and, with a thump in her heart, recognised the rune that the sorcerer had traced so that they could all see it. She reached the garden and climbed the small steps that led to the round green door. She ran a hand over her leather bodice and gathered in her heart all the emotions she could possibly feel.

Hatred, fury, pain and anger, so much anger.

She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the voices she could hear through the door.  Taking a deep breath to calm her already jangled nerves, she knocked, hearing a great commotion and excited voices from inside.

The door suddenly opened, and it was the sorcerer himself who filled her field of vision: he broke into a rather smug smile, proud to have been right for the umpteenth time.

He knew she would come at last.

She had met him only a few weeks before and he was exactly as the rumours said. Gandalf's every move was studied and planned and, who knows why, everything corresponded to the plan he had devised; how every cog in that mechanism worked was a great mystery. Yet for that, she could not but admire him.

So, after he had silently nodded his head, she entered the cosy, warm house that smelled of good food and wine and was lit by the soft light of candles; she followed him into a corridor and the smell of ashes and moss entered her nostrils, as well as that of processed tobacco and malt. In a few steps she found herself in front of a small room where, around a table, were crammed all the others who, as soon as they glimpsed their new guest, assumed the most surprised and astonished expressions she had ever seen. Their faces turned pale, their beards seemed to stretch to the floor, and none of them dared say a word. Only one of them stood up so fast that he knocked over the stool on which he was sitting, irate.

"What is she doing here?!"

The rumble of thunder rumbled through the room and like a thunderbolt it brought to light old hidden shadows, old whispered words, broken oaths.

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

You're blood of my blood, bone of my bone, stone of my stone,

I embrace your body to let it protect me

I take your soul and forge for it a place next to me in the Great Halls

I take your voice which I will hear above all others

I take your sword and I present you my shield which will protect you from my enemies.

No other dwarf will be yours, no other dwarf you will serve,

no one will  keep you company at night, no life will come out from you.

No one you will serve over me, over the Seven Stars, over the Father of all fathers, over the King of all Kings.

I offer myself to your hands until the start to the end, until the skies fall on the ground,

until all the bones crack, until the  fires of Mahal’s forge blaze high.

Until my last breath, until my last glance, until my last blow,

until the last time my hands touch the rock our Father gave to us

my desires are yours, your pain is mine.

#thorin #thorin oakenshield #thorin x oc #thorin fic #thorin fanfiction #the hobbit fan fiction #king under the mountain #quest of erebor #middle earth #middle earth fic

[amethystpath-writes]

Revenge of The Two Weeks (3)- that's right. We named it, folks.

Continuation of this original story.

Continued directly from here!

@tears-and-lilies @whatwhumpcomments

If anyone would lile to be added or removed from any tag lists, plz let me know! I don't mind either way!

Heed the tags.

******

The flaps of Hero's tent flapped in the wind, distracting him slightly from the task at hand. The commander was testing his strategy; he was testing all of the mens' strategy, trying to figure out who might gain his own title when he retired- if he ever retired.

Hero picked the tip of his finger up off of the map, replacing it with another finger on his other hand while he moved his first to the right side of the parchment. The commander was wanting to expand to the eastern part of the lands. Problem was the number of geological obstacles: craters, hills, ponds, and mushy swamp-like areas galore.

Sighing, Hero threw his head back. It seemed impossible. He eyed the blue flag closest to his right finger, picked it up, and threw it over the shoulder. There, he thought, Get rid of the bloody pond. If only it worked that way.

There were three blue flags, all within several hundred meters- realistically speaking- of one another. Very little room for our legions. Hero debated whether or not to fight on horseback. As great and obedient as the horses were, they were large and clumsy in close proximity. With little space, there was too much room for error. So no horses. That fixes that problem.

One yellow flag. The marshes. A big ole stretch of hard-to-walk-through mush, at least for a human. So yes to the horses. Or no? God, I don't know. The swampish lands would result in more army and artillery men's deaths than if a few horses fell into the ponds. Keep the horses. And that would allow for the use of their bows, which would presumably be an advantage.

The horses will require resting breaks. What would happen if they exhausted a bunch of them? Men would have to walk, which would exhaust them. That was better than all of the men exhausting themselves at least.

Hero bounced a fist off the table. This was so frustrating. He thought, now, maybe he wasn't cut out to serve under the commander's- and certainly not the king's- name. But he had to. Because fighting was all Hero could do. He wasn't good at anything else, but if he failed in this test of strategy, he was done for. He'd be demoted, become one of those scavengers of the army who were responsible for picking up dismembered body parts and burning them. How disgusting. How lowly. How vile.

"You kept the dagger."

Hero gritted his teeth together, jaw askew. He didn't need to turn to know who that was. "Yeah? It's my dagger. Just because you stole it from me then gave it back doesn't mean it hasn't always been mine. Of course I kept it."

The tent flaps were quiet, Hero realized. Villain must have been holding them still. It was with this information that he began reaching for his dagger, saying as a distraction of sorts, "Do you remember Grandad?"

Villain laughed. "Don't try to settle me with your old stories. I don't care about them anymore."

"You used to." Hero swallowed, adjusting the handle of his dagger until it felt just right.

Spiders crawled up his spine to the base of his skull. He spun, dagger held with the blade outward. This hadn't been his plan. First, Hero's plan had been to launch the dagger at the wooden tent post, just close enough to scare Villain. But now he was in front of him.

"Cute," his younger brother commented, and pushed Hero's wielding hand aside. "But I have my own." He hummed. "You give into me so easily. You ought not to, for your own sake. To me it's fascinating, but who knows when I might actually decide to slit your throat?" It was with this that Villain brought his own dagger to Hero's neck. "And what would you ever do to stop me? You already had the chance to both throw a blade at me and stab me with it. You've done neither."

Hero rolled his eyes. Villain was shorter than him which only aided in the harshness of the sharp dagger on his neck. His brother was pushing up at a cruel angel, one that Hero had to avoid swallowing against.

"What do you want me to tell you? You're right, okay? You're right. I have guilt and I hoped that I'd never see you again because of it. But you're alive." He took a breath. "It's up to you what you do with your life from here. You can chase me around crazily as you have been, thus driving me to continue ignoring you every chance I get. Or," Hero ventured, "we can work on reestablishing what lost relationship we had."

The knife cut in. Hero squeezed his eyes shut, let his nostrils flare. A warm trickle slid down his neck into his uniform. "You might not want to maim a trusted person of the Guard and Commander."

"Oh, I don't think that matters much." Villain cocked his head to the side, peering at the map left on the table behind Hero. "If anything, I'd replace you. The Commander likes tough boys, isn't that still right?" He sighed. "I know I overstayed my two weeks in the woods, but well..." Villain laughed. "After a wolf tore my friend and a six year old child apart before eating them, the woods actually welcomed me. I'd tell you where I stayed, but I promised the boys I wouldn't compromise them."

Hero's breath caught. "Some of them still live in the woods?" He tried to pull back, away from the blade, but Villain pushed it forward as Hero pulled back.

With a shrug, Hero's younger brother- who had been gone, presumably dead, for five years said, "Sure. Not all of them felt like returning to a place that couldn't accept them as they were. They found new families, ones that fought to keep them alive. They became brothers to one another."

"How poetic." Hero scoffed. "They should be brought back. They're not safe out in the woods."

The dagger slashed through the air, away from Hero's neck, but not straying at all from his shoulder. Hero hollered out, but Villain clamped a hand over his mouth before anyone else could hear. Not that it mattered. Like Villain said before, the worst that could happen was Hero lost his position, which Villain certainly didn't mind. Still, he wanted to torture his older brother this way for a little longer before he did anything too drastic.

"Funny," Villain spat, stance like a cobra ready to strike. "You didn't say that when you led us all to the woods before. Do you know how old the youngest was?" His voice was venom.

"Six."

"No, that's just the one who died. My friend who was also killed by the wolf was sixteen- just to give you a little perspective."

"Five, then."

"Three or four." Villain explained, "He didn't even know his own age." And then he turned to blame, "You left him in the woods. You took him away from his family, and you are the reason he's going to grow up always overexerting himself to please others, only to feel like he's never enough."

Villain bit his tongue to stop himself, but then said it anyways. "I'll be surprised if he doesn't kill himself in three or more years. He feels like a disappointment to himself, Hero, because a man he was supposed to look up to told him he wasn't enough and then sent him off into the woods- where he watched every horrific image you can think up happen."

"I don't know what you want from me!" Hero roared, and this time he finally did move to fully strike a blow on his brother. He shoved his shoulders hard enough that Villain nearly fell on his bottom.

Lucky for Villain, he was able to balance himself out before that could happen.

"I'm sorry, alright! I'm sorry that I failed the four or five of you-"

"Seven of us."

"-and that I was too cowardice to see for myself if you lived or died. I'm sorry. But I can't do anything to fix it except offer myself to you now. So that's what I'm doing, Villain. I'll be a better brother this time around. If you're looking for something, some sort of closure though...you're not going to find it another way. Because no matter how much you torture me, you'll never be satisfied knowing that I left you. That I created memory after memory with you just to leave you to packs of vicious wolves and hungry, lonesome bears.

"I fucked up, Villain, I know I did. But I can't fix it now. I was- and am still- just as scared as you were in those woods. Different scenario, but same, same hot-coaled fear. I'm sorry I wasn't as brave as I made myself sound. I wanted to be a role model to you, but I- I don't know, brother." Hero sat on a cot in the tent, put his head in his hands for a moment before looking up again.

"The Commander is a daunting man and I found myself cowering. You haven't seen him, Villain, haven't endured the training he puts us through, or the screaming he does- like we're prisoners of an enemy kingdom and not soldiers of his own. I'm not making excuses for myself; I know I was wrong. I know what I did is unforgivable, but I'm begging you, brother, please-" Hero kneeled, throwing his knees to the floor, tilted his head to the ground with eyes closed "-please try to understand."

A hand landed on Hero's soldier, but he kept his head down. He wished he would have opened them before, for a new pain bloomed in his shoulder. His mouth became gaped and he choked on the feeling, especially as it spread.

Villain twisted the dagger with a sick satisfaction. "I'll understand when you walk yourself into the woods for two weeks."

Twist. A sharp gasp. Ragged breathing.

"When you hear the deep growl of a wolf- deeper and more impactful than thunder."

Another twist. A pained holler and cry.

"When you watch the person who did everything they could to make you feel at home dies as he's immobilized by razor teeth in their leg. And when the teeth finally rip into the throat of a boy who doesn't want to die after minutes of fighting."

A plunge of the dagger. A wordless scream. A limp body- still breathing, but in so much pain that it can't even think of moving- against Villain's leg.

"When you wake up with your own bloodied fists and two piles of bones and drawn out, tattered rags beneath you- because you slept on a branch in a tree to avoid getting eaten yourself. When you spill every ounce of fluid in your body out into a creek because you're so traumatized. When you suffer the way I did...when you spend just the first week in the woods like I did, maybe then I'll try to understand."

As a finish, Villain yanked his dagger from his brother's shoulder and said, "You don't get to keep this one." He wiped the blood off on his pant-leg and walked out.

******

@badthingshappenbingo

Original Work

Knife to the Throat

#revenge of two weeks #original series #medieval whump #revenge #sibling whump #whump of a minor #(both main characters are now adults) #slight- #gore #abandoned #mention of suicide #past abuse #long post #hero x villain #hero x villain story #hero whumpee #villain whumper #badthingshappenbingo #original work #knife to the throat #part 3

[one-boring-person]

Only Traitors Consort With The Damned. (Part Three)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: none

Context: The senior officer (Y/n) is expecting arrives.

A/N: Im not really sure where this story is going, but anyhow. I'm sorry, there really isn't that much mention of the boys in this, but I guess this can kinda count as a filler chapter?

Masterlist.

My hands are shaking as I check my watch yet again, biting my lip nervously as I shift in place, my coat drawn tightly around me to fight off the cool night air, the rest of my clothes as smart as possible, to make a good impression. In my left hand, I hold the creased envelope, the edges torn and dog-eared from being handled so much, the letter inside stained slightly from where I picked it up with my hands covered in gore, the contents nearly branded into my memory by now. A senior officer is to meet me at the Santa Carla train station at eight o'clock exactly, should the train be on time for once. Since I received this information two days ago, I have not stopped fidgeting and worrying with myself, my nails bitten down to the bed, the skin painful and red, my nerves running rampant within me, resulting in a thorough tidy-up of the shed and many unforseen training fights with the hand-made dummy behind it, my knuckles as sore as if I've been in a real fight.

Even now, I can feel the bruising under my gloves smart with every movement, my fingers flexing instinctually as I watch the thinning stream of people emerging from the station doors, eyes hoping to catch sight of the officer soon, knowing the uniform will be the tell tale giveaway. My own uniform is neat and tidy for once, as the rules of the SRS state, my long overcoat concealing the weapons I'm obligated to carry around with me: a gun loaded with wooden bullets, three vials of holy water, a stake and a silver knife. Legally, I'm allowed to carry these weapons in full view, being a Hunter for the SRS and all, but most of us choose not to, seeing as the civilians tend to find the sight of them pretty unnerving, but there are some, more arrogant ones, who choose to flaunt their status for the whole world to see, making them easy targets for almost any supernatural being. A wry grimace makes it's way onto my face as I recall the time when my first drill sergeant as a Cadet stalked into a werewolf pack with all of his silver weaponry out on show, instantly resulting in an all out brawl, which only some of us survived. The sergeant was the first to die.

"(Y/n)! It's been too long!" A horribly familiar voice snaps me from my thoughts, my eyes swiftly locating the tall figure walking over to me. Elijah Finch, the lanky, dark haired man I went to Hunting School with, wearing the neatly pressed black jacket of a senior officer, the rank badges sewn onto his chest showing that he has also reached a very high number of kills, as well as a completely new status.

"It's good to see you, sir." I address him with the correct formality, a tight smile forcing it's way onto my lips, my posture straightening as I salute him. For a brief second, I see a faint glimmer of pride flash through the crystal depths of his eyes at the title.

"Ah, don't call me that, (Y/n). We're friends, and that's not how friends talk to each other." He grins as he steps over to me, dropping his holdall momentarily in order to sweep me up into a tight embrace.

Relaxing into him, I return the hug, inhaling the familiar smell of his cologne as he crushes me into his chest, clearly happier to see me than I am him.

"If you say so, Elijah." I respond in his ear, pulling away after a minute, smiling at his broad grin, taking note of the new scar on his right cheek, the pale line splitting his sharp cheekbone in two, "The hell happened to your face?"

"Oh this? Nothing too bad, just had a bad encounter with a possessed child." Elijah smirks, picking up his bag again and slinging it onto his back, refusing my offer to help him out.

"A child gave you that?" I lift an eyebrow at him, finding this amusing.

"A possessed child." He corrects me, falling into step beside me as I lead him away from the train station, aiming to get to the main road, where we can pick up some decent food without coming across David and the boys.

"Sure." I chuckle, rolling my eyes, "You hungry?"

"I could eat. Anywhere good in town?"

"Eh, I guess. Most of them are takeaways, but there's a pretty decent diner just off the main road." I inform him, sticking my hands into my pockets as we walk, hunching my shoulders a little as the cool wind blows around us, chilling me to the bone.

"Lets go there, then. I'll pay." The tall Hunter says decisively, giving me a pointed look when I glance at him queationingly.

"Sure, if you don't mind." I frown slightly at this, fumbling with the notes in my pockets a little out of protest, "When did you become a senior?"

"A month back, I think. Yeah, it was around the beginning of September or so." He replies, clearly looking as if he wants to go on, something which I am only too happy to allow.

"Oh yeah? What was the mission?" I inquire, referring to the SRS concept that a Hunter is promoted to Senior only after completing a particularly difficult hunt.

"Oh, it wasn't too difficult. There was a coven of vampires trying to take over the French Quarter, back home in New Orleans, and had started a fight with the witches that already lived there. I had to go in with a squad of Hunters and eliminate the bloodsuckers, before everything got out of hand. I managed it, and didn't lose a single member of the squad." He goes on to explain, sounding impossibly proud of himself as always, his tone laced with self-confidence.

"Congrats, it sounds like it was well deserved." I congratulate him, stopping outside the diner I usually stay out of, preferring to go to the one on the Boardwalk, my jaw clenching as I see that it is closed for the night.

"Damn that sucks. Is there another one nearby?" Elijah asks, blue eyes looking the structure up and down, hand adjusting on the straps of his bag.

"Err, yeah. There's one just over there." I inform him, pointing at the entrance to the Boardwalk, which lies a good 25 metres away down the road.

"Lets hope that one isn't closed, too." He muses, allowing me to hesitantly lead the way again.

Quickly, we make our way onto the Boardwalk, where I then quickly locate the diner and direct Elijah over to it, hoping the boys aren't anywhere nearby. Thankfully, this one is open, meaning the two of us easily get a table, our uniforms giving us some sort of advantage over other customers, even though the insignia is not a particularly widely recognised one. Sitting at a window table, we take the time to look at the menu properly before deciding on something to order, doing so and relaxing back into our seats as we wait, both of us instinctively turning to look out the window, where I instantly spot the four people I didn't want to see tonight.

Across the pavement, David, Dwayne, Paul and Marko have pulled up on their motorcycles, the four of them drawing attention to themselves as always, something which makes me grit my teeth in annoyance, knowing that Elijah will easily spot them.

"They the resident biker gang?" The Hunter asks, gesturing to the boys with a curious expression.

Tensing almost indiscernibly, I try to suppress the rising fear inside me, nodding as I reply to him.

"It is. They like offering races to anyone who catches their eye." I explain to him, only revealing half of the truth behind them, eyeing the four vampires as they talk amongst themselves, David pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, followed by a lighter, his icy blue eyes suddenly locking with mine across the space. A smirk makes it's way onto his face as he sees me.

"They do, huh? I bet you could easily beat them on yours." Elijah muses out loud, looking me over with a critical eye.

"Yeah, well the only problem with that is that my bike is back in New Orleans, and has been for my entire time here." I remind him, recalling the black Triumph back in the garage at Headquarters, suddenly wishing I could ride it again, missing the exhilaration of the ride.

"That's too bad. I'm surprised, though, you and that bike were pretty much inseparable."

"It's the best vehicle I've ever driven." I shrug, returning my gaze to the four motorcycles outside, only to find their riders gone. Confusion fills me, eyes searching for them, until I hear an unmistakable voice behind me, my heart dropping in my chest.

"So this is where you got to, kitten. We were wondering where you were." David's smirk is practically audible in his tone, my jaw tightening as I turn to face him, only now registering what he called me, a deep blush blossoming on my cheeks.

"Hey David. I didn't realise you were looking for me." I smile cordially at him, trying to signal to him with my eyes for him to leave, before he's caught.

"We got worried." The platinum blonde affirms, eyeing Elijah, who watches the exchange in confusion, "Who's your friend?"

"This is Elijah. He's a close friend of mine. Elijah, this is David, Dwayne, Marko and Paul, some friends I've made here." I introduce them, trying not to reach over and slap their reaching hands away from each other, reminding myself that they boy have gloves onñ and so the difference in temperature shouldn't be too noticeable.

"Nice to meet you, Elijah." David greets, tone sounding forced and completely false.

"Nice to meet you, too." The tall Hunter smiles, shaking David's hand, eyes flicking over the others in turn.

David turns to me once again once he's finished shaking hands, blue eyes teasing.

"Let us know when you're next free, we'd love to spend more time together again." The vampire tells me, before he and the boys step out, Marko and Paul pushing and shoving each other on their way, nearly upsetting a few of the tables.

Once they've left, Elijah looks at me with an eyebrow raised.

"Friends?" Is all he says.

"What, are you implying that I can't make friends?" I tease, hoping not to have to go into too much detail.

"Of course not. They just seem pretty interesting characters." He shrugs, looking over as the waiter brings us our food, thanking him pleasantly before returning his gaze to me.

"They are, but they're a great cover-up story at times." I reason, tucking into my food.

"Ah, right. Makes sense. Anyway, you got any plans later?" He queries, casually, cutting up some of his own food as he does so.

"No, why?" I respond, confused.

"Because I am in the mood for some hunting."

Part Four

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys) #kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys) #dwayne(the lost boys) #santa carla #marko(the lost boys) #star(the lost boys)

[yumestar19]

Can you make him confess... his sickness!?

When they heard Christo moaning, the demons instantly knew something was wrong. Even Red Magnus let his fist drop and stopped in the middle of his training to face his troublesome-looking friend.

"Are you okay, Christo?" Red Magnus asked with a smile that was too cheerful for Christo to look at, so he dropped his glance.

"I'm fine." He simply said, shaking off the sick feeling that made his limbs ache like... Damn, he couldn't even find a simile. He pushed two fingers against his throbbing temple, silently wishing for the pain to ease. Of course, this would have required luck and let's say luck was something he didn't have because his superior always picked up the worst horoscopes for him. His lucky word for today was "confession". Yeah... He wouldn't go that far...

As Red Magnus didn't stop glaring at him, (his stare almost screamed "suspect", Christo swore he had heard it), the tactician asked politely, "Why don't you continue training?"

"'Cause something's super wrong with you."

Christo's smile dropped, but he tried hard to make a good expression. At least, he had worn a smile for a split second, before the harsh coughing made him hide his face into the soft fabric of his cape.

"I'm fine", he mumbled, sounding less confidently than before.

"Ohohoho, nobody said anything about you not being fine just now" Seraphina's laugh hurt in his ears and he sunk deeper into the fabric, closing his eyes.

"But my, you really look pale", she said at least with a compassionate tone of voice that made her sound like a worried old lady.

"Don't you two have anything better to do than mocking me with your lame jokes?", Christo asked and looked up when he had made sure that there was no blush on his face anymore. Still, he felt like his cheeks were on fire and he could see on his friend's faces that they knew it, too.

That he, an angel, had come down with something only demons could catch.

A demonic sickness.

Damn, how he hated the small grin on Seraphina's face.

"If you are truely sick, then I may need to drop the "you're an angel" attribute of mine, because only demons can get sick, but you should know that."

Christo growled to himself. Why did this spoiled princess always twist the knife into his wound? Didn't he feel awful enough already? Wait, he just needed to think hard... Think hard, think hard... Damn, his headache was killing him. And still, he didn't know how to escape from the situation.

"You know, I don't know why you always mistake me for an angel. Do I have anything in common with such low creatures?" While saying that, he imagined the dumb grin of his superior and it felt so right to continue talking, "Angels are disgusting, awful creatures that will surely accuse you of anything randomly, like... They don't even have proof-supported reasons!" He shook his head like he couldn't believe it.

"So, you're calling me an angel, Christo?", Seraphina asked with a grin wider than the devil's mouth when consuming helpless human souls.

"Y-Yes, ehm no, of course not, no one's an angel here..." Christo looked around like he wanted to make sure. Sweat dropped from his forehead and he was now sure that his body temperature has risen to 200°C, at least it felt like he had developed a moderate fever. Damn, when did the atmosphere turned so hot? Even his throat felt sore and burned and it didn't help with the cough. Oh, when did he cough? He forgot to cover his mouth and yes, they heard it loudly.

Double failure: Usalia and Zeroken just came around the corner.

Now, he was ready to burst into flames.

"What's wrong with you, plip?" A worried child voice squeaked out. Usalia ran as fast as her small legs could carry her and she stopped sharp in front of him. The noisy scratch of the wooden floor made Christo grit his teeth.

"Nothing, nothing", he replied, keeping his composure. Of course, he felt fine. Of course, he was okay. He sense the alrightness throughout his entire body. NOT. (Expect you took away the bone aches, the clogged-up nose, the killing headache and the irritating feeling in his throat, but who would be so kind to stop his suffering? No one, of course.)

"You moaned about your pain a few minutes ago", Red Magnus reminded him.

Christo sighed and looked at all of them. Anger formed a knittering winkle over his nose. Somehow, however, he managed to not shout at them, as it was obvious that they weren't the cause for his malaise.

"Don't you all have something better to do than messing up with another person's life when they are in the middle of a cri... Critical thinking process?" He bit his tongue, surely he almost let the truth slip out. He shook his head and shook it again and again, until he felt so dizzy that he needed to steady himself with one hand on the wall. He smiled like the support made him look cool, when in fact, he looked like he was about to fall over. Zeroken rushed on his side and couldn't stopped himself from making an 'Awwww'-sound.

Of course, God hated him.

"Nawww, you look like a drunk."

"Have you got yourself a drink, plip?"

Christo was short before shouting that angels didn't carelessly drink (although he wondered if his superior had one glass or more whenever he called for stupid reasons), but he kept his mouth shut. There was the urge to cough, building up like a small fire that turned quickly in a major fire. How long was he able to resist? How long could he breathe? He heard the rattling, the little shakes in his voice when he spoke.

"I'm really... fine. Just a little... tired from... thinking."

'Or perhaps, a little bit too much tired from dealing with all of this disturbing non-sense', he thought for himself. It was then that he realized he was tired. Really tired. He could doze off in an instant. Of course, that was no option... Not here, not in front of them.

But this wooden floor almost seemed comfortable... He just needed to let himself fall on it, curl up and sleep. Every problem of his would be banned from the dream world. No pain, no cough, no sniffle, no disturbance.

He still had his pride though. That's why he didn't fall for it...

"Christo, you seem kinda pale. Better sit down." Killia advised him.

Of course, he didn't listen. He just focused on the voice. Had Killia's voice always sounded that soft and lovely like the singing voice of an angel? If so, he hadn't noticed until now. Perhaps, feverish illusions. He was fine with them.

"I'm okay, sweetheart", he said.

Wait... Did he just call Killia 'sweetheart'? Surely, the fever must have gotten higher. He shook his head and he immediately regretted what he just said.

"I knew he was gay!" Seraphina shouted half-angrily, half-victorious. How could a person be angry and victorious at the same time? It was a question that Christo never considered asking. But suddenly, he really wanted an answer. But first, he should clear the misconception.

"I'm not gay", he told them. Quietly. It was almost a whisper.

"You speak without confidence. I just found you out", Seraphina said, adding her usual Ohohoho-laugh at the end.

"I'm not gay!" Christo said now louder. It didn't help with his sore throat. He felt the fire burning. In his heart, too.

"If anything, I'm pan."

"Gay or pan, it's the same though", Seraphina told him.

"It's not the same, Seraphina." Killia told her. Surprised, she turned around and looked at him with her mouth open.

"And you consider yourself...?"

"Bisexual", Killia said with a bright smile.

Now, they were talking about sexual identity. Great. Christo really meant it. It was great that they didn't focus on his ill... He shook his head. He wouldn't even call it sickness for God's sake. He would go with "a little bit under the weather". Nothing several. Maybe, he should think about renaming it after his harsh coughing send him mercilessly down on his knees.

And the attention was back on him again.

He heard steps coming closer. Felt like a horror scene. Shadows were above him. The air was thick and it was hard to breath. He swallowed and it hurt. He clinged on his chest as the pain grew inside him. First, a little pounding, he could bare it, it's okay. Then, as the coughing started again, the pain was a cross over his chest, squeezing all the air out of him. Felt like monsters were laying their cold hands on him, suffocating him. He gasped for air. His breathing was out of rhythm, something between deep intakes and short outcomes. Almost like a panic attack. Was he panicking? He didn't know. Didn't want to know. The pain was the only thing he could focus on. And his breathing. He needed to calm himself down. Breathe in, breath out. Damn, why was something so simple so hard right now? Rattling. Didn't sound good. Should he sit up? Should he lay down? Was he able to move?

Questions overhelmed him. Unregular like his breathing. Uncontrollable. He was desperately trying to grab answers. Grabbed someone. Who was it? A demon? He would have laughed if he had had breath for it. He was safe. Maybe, he thought so. Safety didn't exist in the Netherworlds, did it? Why should he feel safe?

He pushed the hands aside with all the strength he could muster. His own hands reached for his bow and arrows. Could he make a hit in this condition? He wasn't sure. His finger trembled as he put them on the wooden grip. Sweat. He could taste it. Salty and bitter. He bit his tongue. The blood tasted like metal. Disgusting. He put the arrow between the arrow rest and shelf, then bend the strings. His fingers wouldn't stop shaking. Something awfully felt wrong.

The shadows stepped away from him. Scaried faces. Oh, he must be looking like a psychopath. His hair all messed up, his eyes red like blood, his pupils reduced to small points. Survival bonus. The tension of the string shook his body. He let go of it. Didn't saw what was hit. Just a sound similar to metal crashing. Then, everything went silent.

He smiled seemingly happy, then he crashed to the ground.

"Christo!"

Who was calling the angel's name?

It wasn't even his real name though.

"Christo..."

His name sounded funny. Was it a German word? 'Christ' maybe? Or did it come from the word 'Christmas'? He was born one day after the holy night. Coincidence, maybe?

"Christo!!"

Now, they were getting annoying. Voices calling out for a codename... Oh, wait, they didn't know it was one.

He was really dumb when being unconscious, wasn't he?

For the sake of not being called dumb, he opened his eyes, only to look into a burning light. He thought he was looking into the sun. Beautiful. Not really. It hurt.

He closed his eyes again, moaning. Maybe, rainy days were better days to get back to consciousness.

"Christo..." A quiet voice said.

"I wanna sleep", he replied, grabbing a pillow. He coughed softly into it. His throat still felt awful. Even more burning than before. He couldn't resist to the coughing urge, so he hid his face in the soft fabric, swearing to never let go of it. Somebody gently removed it from him.

"You need to keep your airways open" this someone said. It was Zeroken who put a worried glance on him.

"You really scared us, bro."

"I was so worried about you, plip!"

"Yeah, you made us super worried!"

"I'm glad you're awake." Killia said, even smiling a little.

"But you didn't need to attack us so suddenly, did you? Not that I was scared. I know how weak you are, ohohohoho!"

Christo looked up at them and met everyone's glances. Behind their kind faces worries lied. He couldn't even imagine how they felt right now. Maybe better than him. Maybe worse than him.

Maybe, they felt the same.

There was a call. From his superior. He didn't care for answering. Not now. He was feeling weak. Weaker than before. But somehow... Cooler.

He felt a cold towel on his forehead. Refreshing. He calmed down a little, he even relaxed. His thoughts were still a mess. He couldn't figure out where he was.

The underground was soft. A mattress? And there was a blanket... Though, he wasn't under it. He wished he did. He was shivering. Was it winter? Was there even weather in the Netherworlds?

No, he guessed no, Celestia hadn't snow either.

"Shhh, you are in the hospital" Killia explained while stroking through Christo's hair. It was a simple act, but it was good enough to calm the angel down.

"H-Hospital?" Christo asked weakly. He seemed to not know what it was. Something off the place. He shouldn't be here. He wasn't sick.

Coughing.

Maybe a little.

Harsh coughing.

Okay, he was really feeling down and ill and he had never felt that horrible in his entire eternity life.

His coughing eased a little. He put a hand on his chest in hope of finding the pain and rib it out. Then, he wouldn't need to feel it anymore.

This pain... It was cross-shaped. Though, he didn't know why he thought so. Just felt like it.

Someone put his hand on his. It was Killia. A warm touch. A wonderful feeling. If he hadn't been that sick, he might have smiled about it.

"Tell me what happened", Christo begged. He couldn't live with his ignorance.

"You attacked us, but you didn't hurt us", Killia told him.

"The healer said you had a high fever" Zeroken added.

"But a really really high one! Like... 41°C or more, plip!"

"A dangerous temperature for angels." Seraphina added. Her voice unusually cold.

"This was needlessly added" Christo said, "Cause I am not an angel!"

He coughed. Then, he coughed again. Suddenly, he remembered his lucky word.

Confession

Why was it so big in his head? The word felt out of place. It didn't sum up the story. Maybe he should just go over with it.

He opened his mouth, but he closed it in an instant. He didn't feel ready to tell them.

In truth, he never wanted to confess.

Especially not when all forces of the world were against him.

This couldn't be one of his lucky days. He knew it.

And when all of his friends were looking at him, troubled, worried, maybe even scaried, he couldn't tell them.

He looked away, breaking with all of their glances. He felt the rush of the fever. An energy draining and pushing at the same time.

He opened his mouth again. This time, words came out.

"I need to tell you something", he said.

"I'm actually... You see, I'm actually... An..."

"Sick, you wanna say?"

Killia was really a blessing. Christo just nodded.

It seemed like the confession took a little bit of his burden.

And soon, he would recover...