Ubi Tu Gaius, Ego Gaia

Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia

This wasn’t supposed to be your place in life, you were the second daughter, a spare given to the temple of Minerva to serve as one of the many temple maidens. But when your father comes to you, telling you of your sister’s sudden passing, suddenly you’re thrust into a new role. Expected to fill her place in a political marriage to the famed General Marcus Acacius Rome’s beloved war dog.

Rating: Explicit +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Warnings: Dubious Consent/Coerced Consent, Age Gap (no specified ages), Virginity Loss *discomfort mentioned, no blood* , Implied physical abuse from a parent, Patriarchal world and expectations of women, Grinding, Unprotected p in v sex, reader is a virgin, first time sex *please let me know if I miss anything*

Word Count: 8k

Author Note: Hello, first time writing for a Pedro Pascal character, but finally saw Gladiator II and I couldn't resist writing this! Please note, there is very little research into Rome actually done, I'm not writing this based on historical accuracy, just had an idea and wanted to write it. The title is based off a common Roman wedding vow meaning, Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.

Please let me know what you think!

Your sister is dead, you shall be the one to marry General Acacius.

It had been the most your father had ever spoken to you in your entire life, the most he’d even looked at you.

Being born the second daughter of a noble family is about as important as a new pair of sandals. Especially when you were the last born of five, and three of the five being boys. Your father was more than happy to direct his attention to his sons and his wars. Your sister and yourself were content to live in the house learning from your mother, waiting for the day your father drafted a marriage contract and sent you to a new household.

Until it was decided that in a bid to gain the gods favor you were given to the temple of Minerva as a temple maiden, at ten you were bundled up with your few worldly items and left to the Priestess' devices.

It was a sudden and chaotic change. But after the first year you found, you didn’t mind this new living arrangement. Yes, you had chores now, and you needed to share things. But you grew to like your new home with other women and girls working in the temple. Learning the day-to-day needs, and expectations of your new home. You flourished, and your mother and sister visiting every now and again helped you settle as well.

The last time you’d seen your sister she’d been an excited mess talking the whole time of her engagement to General Acacius, that they’d be wed as soon as he’d returned home from another conquest.

“Just think sissy, me, a famed general’s wife!”

Her eyes glowed in the lamplight as she’d clutched your hands in hers. You’d given her a smile and a nod, as she went on and on. Whilst you’d thought to yourself that you’d be stuck cleaning the temple floors for the next week due to staying out longer than allowed.

“You’ll be there right?”

Her question pulls you out of your glum thoughts, and you give her a wide eye-scrunching smile. You don’t have the heart to disappoint, maybe with your father’s status you can ask for the time…

A pain twinges through you at the thought, the high priestess had been kind, giving you the time in exchange for you doing more chores when you returned.

But today, a day you expected your sister to visit, with her finished bridal veil in tow. You expected to ‘oh’ and ‘aw’ over her hard work, compliment her delicate needlework, ask her jokingly which parts your mother had helped with. To comfort her, she’d mentioned fainting spells had started since the date had been announced.

Maybe you’d even offer to bring her into the inner sanctum to ask the goddess to protect her, and her future husband. To give her calm in the coming ‘battle’ of marriage.

But now you sit across from your father. A beast of a man, skin tanned and leathered from the sun. Scars criss-cross along his arms, you resist the urge to glance at his left pinky. Where only a ghastly stump sits.

His voice brokers no argument, yet, you can’t stop yourself.

“What do you mean?”

He blinks, those dark eyes boring into you, and you see a flash of anger, mixed with surprise. Again, your existence has been a fleeting one in your father’s opinion. He was the one who sent you here…he was the one who gave you to the gods. He can’t just–take you back.

“I wasn’t aware you were an imbecile–”

“I’m not, but you cannot take me from the temple–from Minerva herself–”

“I have made the appropriate tithes and the priestess herself has granted your hand–”

“I am to serve the goddess, that is what you–”

“And now you shall serve the family!” It’s the way he stands, the clatter of the chair he once occupied. The roar of his voice, the one you know he uses to order his troops into battle with. You cower, well aware that this rage is one you don’t survive.

Tears brim over your lashes, and you bite your cheek to stop yourself from arguing further, here in the temple, you are free to share your opinions. Voice concerns, even vent frustrations, rare luxuries in this male dominated society. You’ve found you enjoy the thrill of conversing, and theology the other maidens and priestesses provide.

But now, that’s all being taken, when you’re so close to the priesthood. To take the sacred robes of Minerva, learn the sacred rights. Bless soldiers, generals, and emperors in their great conquests for the Roman Empire.

That was your purpose, your place in this world. Being born a woman was a curse in this empire, but here you were safe, here you could make a life.

“You shall be collected in the morning, the wedding will take place in a week's time.”

That tone again. One brokering no peace, no argument. The voice he commands thousands with, and you are one of them.

The next morning passes in a blur, your few things taken by slaves. You’re barely given enough time to hug the girls, and women you’ve come to see as your new family. Careful to hide your tears as the High Priestess stops you outside the temple doors.

“Go with Minerva’s blessing,” her voice is soft, though there is an edge to it. You don’t respond, for fear that you’ll fall to your knees and beg her to stop this. Claim Minerva’s hold over you, refuse your father’s demands.

But she won’t, your father is a powerful man, marrying you to another powerful man, and not even the goddess of war can prevent it.

You’re whisked away on a chariot handled by one of your father’s trusted soldiers. A clear warning to behave, the city passes by. A few of the bustling crowds pause to watch you entourage, but it’s fleeting, they return to their day-to-day lives as it's nothing new to see a noble pass in their gilded transports.

A blink and you’re home. The home you hadn’t seen in years, still a marbled behemoth, a villa of luxury befitting one of Rome’s finest generals. The sandstone pillars glow in the mid-afternoon sun. Banners the color of blood mark the door, along with coal black braziers that will be lit when the sun disappears behind the mountains.

Awaiting you is a group of slaves, heads bowed, they drop to kneel as you are escorted from the chariot and into the house.

It’s barely changed, since you last ran about the halls, as a wild precocious child. Tripping over your feet to follow your older brothers. The large atrium, with a lapis lazuli lined pool. Filled with various plants your father brought home to your mother. More braziers and torches line the halls.

Gold, and weapons decorate the walls, all of them spoils of war taken by your father. Silk curtains billow in the afternoon wind, and distantly you smell the incense your mother uses throughout the villa.

Your sister used to smell of it, well, the incense and rose water. A pang ricochets through your chest. Her voice doesn’t greet you, and you’ll never hear it again. Instead it’s the rush of silks, and the patter of feet, and your mother enters the atrium, in the warm glow of the sun she shines.

Dark hair in tight ringlets cascading down her back, her eyes shine with unshed tears. She stops seeing you in the entrance, then her arms spread wide, and like a child you rush into them.

She smells of her personal fragrance of jasmine, and cinnamon. The mixture your father had gifted her after a long campaign many years ago. She buries her nose into your hair, fingers threading through the tresses. She presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head.

“Mama,” you whimper into her bosom, and she shushes you. Pulling back, her hands cup your face, thumbs brushing against the apples of your cheeks.

“Well, not the way I expected my beloved child to return to me but,” another kiss is pressed to your forehead. Her lips are soft and warm, tears well and threaten to spill a lump gathers in the back of your throat. “I am grateful to have some time with you again.”

For a moment, you’re grateful for the reprieve as well. But it’s short lived. She ushers you into the house, into her personal chambers. Where she sits you on the lounge, it’s darker here. Not as many windows, and most of them blocked by curtains.

The incense is thicker here, and you stifle a cough as you settle into the dimness with her.

“Oh my dear one, how I’ve missed you.” She smiles, and again her eyes take you in. Just as you do her, she’s aged in the years you’ve been gone. Where once was smooth skin, you see wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. The creases of her lips, a few grey hairs decorate her dark curls.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t under…better circumstances.” You mutter, fingers toying with the robes you had left in. They’re still the temple robes, a simple woven woolen tunic. Good for completing chores, and easy to move in.

Not like her opulent robes, her pure white muslin, with a deep blue dyed sash. A golden belt cinching in her waist. Her smile falters, a look of pain crosses her expression.

“Y–your sister fought hard against the sweating sickness,” her voice wavers, and tears spill over her lashes, smudging the kohl lining her eyes. “But, she has been given her last rights, and she rests now in Elysium.”

You nod, your chin quivers, as your own tears rain down from your eyes. Your mother tuts, and leans forward her hands warm and soft, unlike your now calloused fingers and palms.

“She would not want us to mourn–”

“But Mama, she wanted this,” you gesture to the room of grandeur around you. Feeling your mother’s gaze watching you as you struggle with your next words, “I was promised to Minerva–to the gods!”

You stand beginning to pace as you consider everything, and are finally able to do so.

“She should be here, I should be at the temple, learning the rites, blessing soldiers–”

“My darling you’re here now,” your mother’s voice is firm, a tone you recognize as her warning, and just like your father you know she’s not going to entertain you abandoning this marriage. “Come.”

She offers you a bedecked hand, rings, and bangles gleaming against her skin. All the finery a woman could want. Sullenly you take her hand as she pulls you beside her, her hands take yours in a solid grip.

“Your sister’s passing was a tragedy, but the gods have smiled upon us, in that Acacius is willing to continue the betrothal with you,” her voice is soft, you stare at your clasped hands. She’d done this before, when you’d first been promised to the Temple of Minerva.

How strange to be here again, a child begging her mother to see reason and send you back. She pulls your hands up to her lips, pressing a warm kiss to them, as more tears spill from your eyes. Rolling warm, and wet down your cheeks.

“I don’t want to marry him Mama,” a soft sob leaves you, and you bury your face into her shoulder, losing yourself in her smell once more, you forget how much you’ve missed her. Missed this, just being with her, but there’s a hollow feeling inside of you, your sister should be here, and that makes more tears form. Another tut and her arms wrap around you, a hand goes to your cheek, another to your back. “I was happy at the Temple.”

She hums low in her throat, the hand on your back rubbing soothing circles against your spine. She is warm, and solid, a soothing presence and she lets you weep. You don’t know how long you cry for but finally the hiccuping sobs ebb and you calm.

She pulls back her hands returning to your cheeks as she takes in your red eyes, and tear-streaked face.

“My love, I will say this to you, I understand more than you know,” she brushes a stray strand of hair out of your eyes, curling the wayward pieces behind your ear. “I know the fear of marrying a man, much less a military man.”

You sniffle as she gives you a weak smile. “I swore to the gods, I would never commit the sin of marrying one of my girls to someone like their father.”

She pulls back, her hands resting on her lap, your tears have dried and you sigh, nodding, face downcast as you consider her words.

“I swear my love, I know your sister dreamed of love, and of a grand marriage, I assure you that General Acacius is a good man,” her fingers lift your chin and your eyes meet, she gives you a final wistful smile, “it may not be a marriage of love, but…maybe it can be a marriage of equals.”

The next week passes in a blur, and suddenly it’s the hour before your wedding. The final adjustments to your sister's dress are being made. You stand alone, a slave placing pins in the areas the garment might drag.

Silently staring at the reflection in the copper before you. You don’t recognize the girl in the reflection. Your hair has been styled in the traditional bridal braids. A golden hairnet pinned against your scalp, a few strands have managed to escape. Make up paints your skin, mica shimmers on your eyelids, kohl darkening your waterline.

The slave pauses in her adjustments, she glances up with a fearful look.

“M–my lady, I’ve run out of pins–”

A spark of your father’s rage courses through you, of course it doesn’t fit you it was meant for your sister.

“Go fetch some then!”

You don’t mean to snap but your nerves are shot as it is. She jumps and with a fearful bow leaves the room. Alone you slump, staring at yourself, unwilling to keep staring at the stranger before you. Your sister truly spared no detail, the embroidery along the edges is her finest work. With golden thread painstakingly sewn into the edges, when it catches the light it almost seems to glow like fire. The main shawl dyed a deep burgundy, is decorated with words of protection, along with her favorite flowers, pale lilies blooming along the skirt.

I want him to think me a goddess made flesh.

You hear her in the back of your mind, and wonder…if you should have admonished her. Maybe her vanity was her downfall, and the gods sought to correct her error. Tears spring to your eyes at the thought, no, they couldn’t have.

She was good, and kind; her only wish was to marry and give her husband strong sons. Now she lays alone, and cold in the family crypts.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud chorus of calls from the atrium.

You hear it somewhere below, the revels have begun. The boisterous voice of your father as he jokes and cajoles with his old war fellows. The wine is flowing freely tonight, he has much to celebrate.

“-it’s a good thing you had another one!”

A laugh from your father as he claps someone on the back.

“Ha! The only thing a second daughter is good for!”

The rage sparks again, and before you can stop to think, you’re grabbing a jar of perfumed oil. Throwing it with a shriek, it lands with a satisfying shatter against the copper mirror. The thick liquid drips to the floor in a dark puddle on the sandstone.

Your outburst has called attention to the crowd, a few moments of silence and your mother appears with the slave who left you. She gives a withering glare to the woman, who cowers, before turning her gaze to you. You clench your fist ready to fight, the rage in you growing, daring your mother to say something, anything.

“My love–” there is no time to admonish you, as a great rushing of horses and the wheels of a chariot sound, along with calls from the atrium.

He's here.

Before you can think your mother and the slave rush to finish the last minute adjustments, and finally the fine veil is placed over your head. You're dragged through the halls, almost tripping on the skirt, that’s still too long for your legs.

Your sister’s belt is cinched so tight it cuts into the soft fat of your stomach, at least an old pair of your sandals fits, one of the only things of yours on you tonight. Your mother stops you just outside the atrium. The crowd is rowdy, the sweet smell of wine, the smokey herbs of the many roasted beasts, and finally the mixture of the florals from the many bundles of your sister’s favorite flowers fills your nose.

It’s beautiful, and your sister would have been beaming. You feel your stomach churn, your mother’s fingers rub soothingly along your arm, but it doesn’t quell the fear to run, the deer forced into the hunter’s trap.

You don’t want to, but your eyes search the crowd, none of your brothers are in attendance. Your mother mentioned that all had been called away to far reaches of the Empire, one a rising commander in his own right. Another a promising scholar in Alexandria, and the last is a Senator, most likely schmoozing with the twin emperors to gain more political favor.

Of course none of them felt it dire to come to their younger sister’s funeral, and the other’s marriage. You’re not surprised…though maybe a bit hurt, after all…they should have at least come home to give your sister her last rights. But even that is too pitiful a request compared to their great lives.

There are others here, all your father’s friends, and their wives, entertaining themselves with food and drink. Dressed in the finery expected for nobility, none of them take your attention for too long.

You see your father speaking animatedly with someone you don’t recognize. He wears the traditional Generals uniform, the armor a pitch black, with the extravagant golden embellishments. A long red cape, fastened at his shoulder, you almost wonder if the man came straight from campaign.

Then again…the twin emperors have been insistent that their empire grow, and the General has been the ever faithful war dog. You’d never met him in person, only the high Priestess of Minerva could bless the generals before a campaign.

You are loath to admit it, but he's handsome. In a rugged way, a strong jaw, full lips, a proud nose, with tanned skin. His beard is shorter but well kept, and his hair, was probably once a deep brown, has greyed and silvered with age, is kept in neat curls.

His eyes remain on your father, but as if the gods enjoy your torment, seem to feel your gaze upon him. He turns, and those eyes the color of polished mahogany lance through you.

For a moment you forget to breathe, forget to think. Those eyes take you in, just as you had done moments ago. But it’s short lived as your father spots you, and your mother.

“Ah! Acacius, your bride arrives!” He leaves the General to come usher you over, you’re grateful for the veil, the fabric is thick enough it hides your face, so he can’t see your face very well, can’t see the panicked look in your eyes, as your father yanks you from your mother’s protective grasp.

You want to reach out to her, to claw your way back, scream, dig your fingers into his eyes till he releases you, but resist. As he pushes you to the General, up close he’s nothing like you thought. He bows his head to you with a soft, “my Lady.”

You respond in kind with a low bow and a muttered, “my Lord.”

And with that the ceremony begins, with Acacius taking his place besides the officiant. One of your father’s many senatorial friends.

Your father’s grip is a painful shackle around your wrist, the stump of his left pinky digs into your arm.

“You will do well to make him happy girl,” he snarls beneath the music, his gaze burning a hole into the side of your skull. “It’s because of me, he accepted you, remember that.”

You bite your cheek, the taste of copper filling your mouth as you ignore the remark, in favor of staring at the man who will take his place.

The ceremony is short, the officiant stumbles over your name, as he clearly practiced for your sister’s name. It makes the ache in your chest grow, through the ceremony you feel the General’s gaze upon you as the final call for the gods to bless your union is made.

“General, you may now reveal your bride, and take her to your home as is commanded by the gods.”

Your heart has leapt from your chest to your throat as his hands take the veil and lift, revealing your face to him.

Your eyes meet his, and he stares silently at you, those dark eyes taking you in, he leans forward and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. His lips are soft, the rasp of his beard against your skin sending a chill down your spine. The kiss is quick, emotionless, before pulling away, he glances to the side, you follow his gaze. Your mother stands beside your father, tears stream down her face, and your heart breaks seeing her in such despair.

“Take a moment with your family, I will collect you in a moment.”

You don’t waste a second rushing away from him to your mother’s arms, she collects you with a soft sob. You can’t help the tears that spring forth.

“My love, my dear,” she weeps into your hair, and you cling to her, a little girl once more. Afraid of your father’s anger had you broken something, or worse he had come home from a failed campaign, and no one would be spared from his rage.

She would be alone after this, alone with only your father for company, and he barely stayed home long enough to acknowledge her. She presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Please…Mama, please,” a whimpered plea into her bosom, where your tears stain the silk, you look up to her eyes wide and terrified. “Don’t let him take me.”

Her lower lip quivers, and more tears spill from her beautiful eyes, she shakes her head, her answer, and it cleaves your heart into two. She can’t stop this, no matter how much you beg, plead, all she could do was make sure he was a good man. You feel it then, Acacius’ arms wrap around your middle, the shriek that leaves you is animalistic, your fingers claw into your mother’s dress.

“No! Mama! No!” It only takes one pull from Acacius for your mother to release you, your fingers pulled from her dress by your father. So you go to the next best thing, his arms, nails dig into skin. He grunts, the only sign of his pain, as he hauls you away from your mother who wails in chorus with your panicked shrieks.

Your mother collapses, her palms slapping against the marbled floors in grief, your father just stands there, no better than a statue. No one will comfort your mother tonight…though you hope, somehow your sister will. That her spirit will curl about your mother’s form and give her rest.

Or maybe she’ll spare you the horrors of the wedding night, but as you struggle uselessly against Acacius you know neither of those things will happen. As he drags you from the atrium to his chariot. You struggle, scream, and cry a final plea to Minerva to intervene.

But alas she does not answer, and you're dragged from the safety of your mother’s arms and to Acacius’ villa where your wedding night awaits.

It’s quiet in the spacious bedchamber, as you consider the marble flooring beneath your feet. Acacius hasn’t appeared since he placed you here. You don’t know how long it’s been, but you’ve ripped the veil and golden hairnet off. Your hair remains in its painful tangle of braids, you’re unsure of how to get them out without help.

You take in the room around you, and from what you could see of Acacius’ villa like you thought it’s a luxurious home, maybe even greater than your father’s.

You take in the fineries here, golden chairs and marble-topped tables. The fires of the braziers warm the room comfortably, and a soft breeze from the outside keeps the air fresh. The light of the fires gleam off the cups, and decanters of wine placed about the room, even the bed silks are a fine fabric you’ve never felt before. You absentmindedly run your hand over the softness, considering your options. The bed is pushed to the farthest wall, a behemoth of dark wood, and fine muslin curtains.

Large windows line the eastern wall, to let in the light of the morning, and doors lead to what you can only assume is a terrace. Your legs twitch as you consider rushing to the doors, seeing how far the drop is, escaping into the night, the General none-the-wiser.

But the idea is foolish, he’s a General with thousands at his beck and call, you are a noble girl, raised in the halls of a temple…You’d get no further than the city gates if you’re lucky.

Your thoughts are interrupted as the sounds of footsteps echo into your silence. Your head snaps to the noise, a deer suddenly aware of the danger lurking somewhere in the trees.

He stands in the doorway, orange light of the fires play over his face, his eyes black pits, face unreadable. Your heart stutters in your chest, as you both consider each other.

He’s removed his armor, though it does nothing to soothe you, he still stands with the rigidity of a military man. Prepared for battle should he need to be. You consider fighting him, but it’s a laughable idea.

He could kill you with a flick of his wrist if he so dared, but he hasn’t moved closer. So you both remain silent, observing.

It is a tense standoff, both of you sizing the other up, Acacius makes the first move. Taking a chair and settling into it with an exhausted huff.

You tense, watching him as he takes a cup and decanter, pouring a healthy swig of wine, before drinking deeply. He leans forward, elbows resting against his knees, his fingertips trace the rim of his cup.

“I am pleased to see you haven’t run yet,” he gives a humorless chuckle, and takes another drink. “I will say, this is not how I expected my wedding night to go.”

You remain silent, waiting for his next move, he doesn’t say anything for a moment staring into the cup with a pensive look.

“Those braids look uncomfortable,” those umber eyes meet your gaze. You can’t find your voice, so you nod. He sets the cup aside and stands, you can’t help your gaze falling to his exposed legs. The bunching of his muscles beneath his skin, the subtle strength there as he approaches you, a subtle grace to his movements that years of swordplay, and war-making has refined. The glow of his skin in the firelight, paints golden highlights along his flesh.

A clearing of his throat stops your exploration, your gaze snaps up to Acacius, he gives you a small gesture to turn around. Tense you follow his directions, a moment of indecision, before the softest touch against your scalp.

You can’t stop the yelp that leaves you, and the jolt of your body. The touch leaves, and there is a sigh through his nose. You wince, awaiting the strike that’s sure to come.

Acacius surprises you again, a hand cups your chin and turns you to face him. You’re shivering, and fearfully you look up at the General.

“I–I’m sorry–”

“I promise, I will not strike you my Lady, I just want to unbraid your hair.” His hand is warm, his fingers large, and his palm is rough with calluses from holding a sword. You try not to notice how his hand easily encompasses your lower jaw. You nod, and again turn away.

This time when his touch returns you steady yourself. For such large fingers, you’re surprised at their delicate caresses. As he finds the pins, and ties that keep your bridal braids in place. Slowly the pain of the too tight braids are relieved.

His touch is gentle, the final braid is undone and he takes a moment to card his fingers through your tresses. A ripple of something courses through you, goosebumps alight along your skin. He chuckles, you finally find your voice.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

He doesn’t answer, instead you feel the brush of his knuckles against your cheek, again you jolt away.

You know what must be done tonight, but you had hoped, and prayed, that he’d busy himself with his something, anything else. That you’d be forgotten and left to your own devices for the night. Acacius sighs through his nose, disappointment clear in his tone.

“It is our wedding night—”

“I know my Lord–”

“I do not wish to force you.”

The statement silences you, your heart pounding in its cage as you clench your fists in your lap.

“My Lord Acacius please–”

“My Lady,” he kneels beside you, one of his hands easily encasing both of yours. You resist every urge in your body to pull away from him, to scream, shout that you won’t allow him near you. “Your father told me, he would visit in the morning, to assure his daughter had done her duty.”

You will give him this, he looks disgusted at the prospect, those full lips pulled into a grimace as he considers you. You glance down at his hand over yours, before meeting his gaze again.

“Lord Acacius please, I was given as a child to the Temple of Minerva, I have no…no sense of the things required of a wife.”

You press forward, one of your hands leaving the captivity of his to cover it. He seems surprised at the touch, glancing down at your hand before meeting your gaze again. His eyes are beautiful, and considering him for a moment, you recall your sister’s voice.

He’s handsome sissy, you would agree.

You can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes, you do agree, he’s handsome. A part of you was jealous that she remained at home, with your mother. But after settling in the temple you knew this life would never be yours, and some small part of you…knows that hint of jealousy still lingers, somewhere deep in your mind. It would have grown a bit more seeing who she married today.

“You can learn–”

“I was given to Minerva,” you snap, a spike of your father’s rage, Acacius’ brows lift, a flash of surprise crosses his face. The hand beneath yours tensing.

“What’s done is done, and your father would sooner kill you then return you to the temple.”

His eyes darken and your shoulders slump, he’s well aware of your father’s reputation then. Well aware of the violence he so easily wielded even when not in battle.

“But you could return me–”

“I do not intend to.”

That statement leaves you bewildered, and scrambling to come up with something, anything for him to change his mind. He leans forward, in the glow of the braziers he looks otherworldly, and you can’t find your voice.

“I swear to you, I shall be a devoted husband, and I am willing to give you liberties in this union,” you consider silently, gaze going from his eyes and to his lips, “I cannot give you all the freedoms priesthood promises, but you will want for nothing.”

You bite your cheek, searching his umber eyes for any hint of a lie. His other hand comes up once more to cup your cheek. This time you do not flinch from his touch.

“I can make it pleasurable for you,” heat rises to your face as his thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek, “but this union must be consummated tonight, as the gods demand.”

The silence between both of you is thick, he’s right, you know he is. There is no way you will be able to return to the temple, it is either death or Acacius.

I swore to the gods, I would never commit the sin of marrying one of my girls to someone like their father.

Your mother’s words ring out in your mind, you close your eyes to stop the tears forming there, and nod.

“I need to hear you,” he whispers, he’s moved closer to your face, the warmth of his breath ghosts over your lips. “Please, my Lady.”

“I–I accept Lord Acacius, but–” you don’t know why it tumbles from your lips so freely, “but please, I don’t want it to hurt.”

His lips press to yours suddenly, your eyes snapping open at the touch. The kiss is quick, he moves on from your lips to your cheek, then jaw, ending at your neck.

You gasp as his tongue slips from between his lips, wetting the skin above your pulse. A heat rushes through you as his lips suck on the skin there, teeth nipping.

Your fingers turn to claws as they grasp at his tunic, his hands shift easily, one going to cup your head. The other around your waist pulling you against him. His lips continue their exploration of your neck, finding new bits of flesh that he attends to.

Pulling noises from you that surprise you, as a feeling courses through you, like you're hot and cold at the same time. You can feel your pulse between your legs, his mouth shifts further up your neck, Acacius pauses at your ear.

“As we are going to be husband and wife,” he whispers into the shell of your ear, his lips sending electric zaps along the cartilage. You shiver as his voice drops to a rasp, “please call me Marcus, can you do that?”

He nuzzles into the corner of your jaw, giving the skin another nip, a soft keen leaves you, as the nip sparks with a soft pain before dulling to a throb. As your fingers flex again in his tunic, unsure if you want to pull him closer or push you both apart.

He has to be doing something, must have given you something, for this–feeling, this sensation to be burning through you.

The hand at your waist is quick, fingers plucking at your sister’s belt, and it releases with a soft clink. The soft leather falls away, leaving your dress to sag, heat rises again to your cheeks and you squirm a moment.

Acacius’ hand in your hair tightens, and for a moment you fear you’ve angered him. But all he does is move lower, the tip of his nose trailing down your neck, along the path he created with his lips.

Marks of varying colors have bloomed across your skin, before stopping just above the cut of your bodice. Those deep brown eyes meet yours in silent question, you give a nod. The pulse between your thighs is growing.

He works quickly finding the folds of your dress that keep it around your shoulders and covering your breasts. The silk falls away, you move to cover yourself, only the other temple maidens, and the priestess’ had ever seen you naked.

Embarrassment fills you, should he see you, but Acacius is quick, his hands find your wrists. The short tussle sends you back onto the bed, Acacius hovering above you. He positions your hands beside your head. For a moment you consider fighting once more, thinking he intends you harm, but freeze as you see his eyes explore your newly exposed flesh. You can feel every touch of his gaze as he takes in the swell of them, your nipples pebbling in the sudden chill.

“M–Marcus–ah!”

Saying his name spurs him into his next move, his face descends and he presses a kiss to your sternum, then shifting to your right breast. The scrape of his beard on your skin sends flutters of pleasure through you.

A surprised moan leaves you as his lips find your nipple, pulling the hardening bud between them, sucking lightly your body convulses. Your eyes roll, the muscles of your abdomen clench, fingers twitch digging into his knuckles as he keeps them pinned. You gasp, back arching, pressing harder into his mouth. As if your body begs for more of the sensation.

“M–Marcus,” you whimper his name as his tongue swirls around the bud, and gives it another suck, toying with it gently between his teeth. “Marcus please!”

Your mind is becoming a fog, unsure of what you’ve begun to beg for, but the pulsing between your thighs has grown almost painful, and even as Acacius switches to your other breast giving the neglected bud the same attention.

You squirm, thighs pressing together, another soft moan leaves you as the pressure gives some relief. Acacius pauses in his attention to your breast, his eyes are changed, that umber brown swallowed by the dark of his pupil. He presses kisses to the swell of your breasts, before asking, “What do you need of me my Lady?”

You whine struggling to understand his question, as your thighs writhe, you bite your lip whimpering.

“You said it wouldn’t hurt–”

“Where does it hurt?” His reaction is quick, he returns to your face pressing a kiss to the underside of your chin. “Tell me.” His breath is warm, and smells of the sweet wine he indulged in before all this.

“B–Between–” it feels foolish to say it, to mention the heat between your legs, the strange throb that’s continued to grow since he began to touch you.

“Where?” he asks again, another soft kiss to your jaw.

“Between my legs,” you whine, the writhing of your thighs no longer offering the necessary relief. You feel feverish, unwell, your stomach tightening uncomfortably. Acacius huffs a laugh against your neck, he releases your hands trailing his fingers down your arms. Over your breasts, where he pauses a moment to toy with your nipples once more.

Your body reacts back bowing, pressing yourself into his palms, Acaius hums appreciatively, before his hands delve lower. Pushing down the rest of your sister’s wedding gown, you’re left bare to him.

Again the embarrassment of it floods you, but Acaius is quick to stop you, laying on his side, he pulls you against him, one hand cupping your hip, cradling it between his legs where something rubs against you, your other hand nestled between your bodies, the other splayed to the side finding purchase in the sheets.

Acacius pauses taking his bottom lip between his teeth whilst considering you.

“I promise this will make the pain go away,” he whispers against your cheek, and you nod, half mad with the overwhelming sensations devouring every coherent thought.

“Please.” You whine, and his hand slides between your legs, a noise leaves you that’s closer to a howl than anything. The rough pads of his fingers find your clit, two circle the bud slowly, teasingly. Before pinching it between them, your hips buck into his palm. He groans softly into your hair. Your fingers grasp at the sheets, the sudden onslaught of pleasure leaving you reeling in its wake.

Only a few garbled pleas, and his name can leave your lips, it’s all your mind can remember to say. As his fingers release your clit, and return to swirling in indiscernible patterns around the sensitive bundle.

It feels like too much, the rough stroke of his finger pad against your clit, your fingers close around his wrist.

“W–Wait–” your tongue can barely form the words, it’s too much, and if he keeps touching you like this, you fear you’re going to break. A sensation you can’t name growing in your belly, the throb between your legs. The wetness there drips down your thighs, staining the sheets beneath you.

“T–too much, it’s too much.” Acacius hushes you, the muscles of his wrist flexing against your palm, as he continues his pattern. Every touch sends bolts of lightning up your spine, clouding your thoughts.

“It’s alright, let it come,” he whispers against your throat, the rasp of his beard adding another feeling that makes your body ache. Muscles bunching, toes curling, your mouth opens in a silent scream as something washes over you. Overwhelms you, your nails dig into his shoulder. He muffles a noise into your collarbone.

This must be the gods, or death, or–or something. Your body convulses, the throbbing between your legs pulses with every beat of your heart. Eyes rolling in your skull, Acacius groans as you settle. Something hard presses against your hip, but you're still caught in the undertow of whatever spell he’s placed you in.

“M–Marcus,” you whine, as his finger toys with your clit again, the feeling borders on painful, as the touch causes another throb to race through you. “Wh–what did–”

“To help with the next part,” he hums, his fingers leave between your legs. He pulls away from you. Body shivering at the loss of his warmth, the solid form of his body against yours, and you feel more exposed than ever before. A deer caught in the line of Diana’s arrow. As those soft umber eyes look over your exposed flesh, pausing at the swell of your breasts heaving with every breath. He pulls instantly at his wedding tunic, shucking the last article of clothing off.

His skin is a sun kissed tan, and scars lace across the expanse of his flesh. Swords, spears, knives. All manner of brutality has marked him, as your gaze travels lower you stop. The hardness you felt against your hip, long, with a mushroom-like head, a pearl of fluid leaking from the tip. It bobs with his breathing, veins pulse along the shaft, it looks painful. You pull your hazy gaze to meet his, and your breath hitches.

His eyes gleam in the firelight, he reminds you of the towering Jupiter, or Mars. A god made flesh, and your heart stutters as he kneels on the bed between your legs. That fear returning full force. You stumble, and scramble in the sheets. They stick to your sweat-coated skin, and you can’t escape as he settles over you.

Caging you beneath his form, you struggle, Acacius traps your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I will go slow,” he whispers, as again, tears brim along your lashes. His thumb rubs the hollow of your cheek, in an attempt to soothe. It doesn’t, as your heartbeat spikes, and your hands go to his chest weakly. His skin is rough, the scars knotted and strange against your fingers. He makes a noise low in his throat as your hands splay over his flesh.

“But–I thought–” he settles between your thighs, you look into his eyes, pleadingly, a gasp leaves you as his length brushes against your core. He grunts, and his length twitches, you feel it, sudden and foreign. You squirm, and a hand lashes out grabbing your hip to still you.

“Be still,” he whispers through clenched teeth. It’s a command and you listen, forcing your eyes closed, his hand leaves your hip to trail between your bodies. For a moment you think he only means to pleasure himself, but you tense as the head of his cock brushes against your cunt.

“Acacius what–” you're silenced by the pain, though his previous ministrations helped, he’s large. The stretch of him entering you burns, your fingernails dig into his flesh, as if that will quell the pain of him entering you.

You can’t breathe, can’t think, as all your mind can focus on is the stretch of his cock filling you. The way his length spears you, opening you, a soft whine of pain leaves you. Acacius huffs above you, the fingers beside your head curl into the sheets. He leans down forehead against your shoulder.

“So tight,” he rasps, he almost sounds to be in pain as well. You think for a moment, maybe he’ll stop, that it’s too much for him as well. But he presses on, inch by painful inch he opens your cunt. “I’m sorry.” It’s whispered to the flesh above your heart, his lips brush the skin, sending a jolt of something through you once more. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, he settles. You whimper feeling the press of his hips between your own.

“Acacius, please…” You don’t know what you’re begging for, as the uncomfortable fullness settles. You swear you can feel every part of him, the throb of his cock as it rests heavy and thick in your cunt a warm sort of pain that lingers behind your navel. His cock twitches and you jolt, Acacuis grunts above you, again that hand returns to your hips.

“Y–You must be still,” he gasps, your fingers flex, you glance down, seeing the red half moons where your nails dug into his flesh. You silently hope he felt a bit of the pain he put you through. “Tell me when it stops hurting.”

You glance up, those eyes giving you pause, he’s watching you. Taking in every wince, every hiss of breath as he remains still inside you. For a moment you consider lying, telling him it’s too much, but as you both remain there you feel it. The burn subsides, though the fullness remains.

You take your lip between your teeth considering him, the greatest General of Rome, waiting for your lead. You shift, and Acacius gasps, your cunt flutters around him. He shudders above you and his length throbs again inside you.

“D–Don’t–move,” he pants his fist clenching again on your hip, his head lowering to press his forehead to your shoulder again. A stutter of breath against your skin. “Does it still hurt?”

A whispered plea into your breast, you hesitate to answer him, fearing another onslaught of pain. His voice is soft, as his hips give a subtle thrust, “I swear my lady, I will make sure we both find our pleasures.”

A choked noise leaves you, as his pelvis grinds against your clit, your cunt walls quiver around him. Acacius gasps, his arm shakes, and you whine.

“Please–” he grunts, “tell me I can move.” His dark eyes meet yours and your lungs refuse to breathe, your heart stops beating for a moment, and the world slows. His skin shins with a layer of sweat, he’s trapped his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Move,” a whispered acceptance, Acacius takes it with fervor, pulling his hips back, your head falling back into the softness of the sheets. You feel every inch of him, every pulse of his veins as he pulls from your soaked core.

Acacius curses under his breath as he begins a steady, hard rhythm. Every thrust of his hips sends new shock waves of bliss up your spine. Your cunt flutters around his shaft, with every thrust he seems to plunge deeper.

Your legs shift, thighs settling on the solid form of his hips, the movement making you tighten. Acacius gasps, you feel it, another pulse of his cock. He grunts a hand moving from beside your head to between your bodies. Fingers finding your clit again, you keen, toes curling as another wave threatens to overwhelm you.

“Are you close?” He huffs, his hips continue in their thrusting, his fingers dance along your clit. Your eyes can hardly focus on the man straining above you, all you can offer is another high pitched moan, your hips beginning to rise to meet his thrusts.

Acacius groans again, his arm shaking as he pistons into you with a gratuitous fervor, the sounds of your coupling fill the room. Your skin shines with sweat, as does his, those eyes meet yours as he grits his teeth.

His fingers press against your clit, and his cock thrusts so deep inside of you that for a moment you see stars. Your body stills, you forget to breathe for a moment, you think a scream of his name leaves you, as your back arches pressing into Acacius who shouts.

Your cunt quivers around his length, you feel a warmth as his cock throbs inside of you. Both of you remain still, breath returning in soft pants as your vision returns to you. Acaius huffs above you, his hair, once well styled is mussed about his face. But you think distantly that it suits him, he leans down pressing his forehead to your chest.

For a moment you wonder if you will have to remain like this, until with a slow movement Acacius pulls from you. A whine leaves you, as he pulls from your cunt.

You lay on the bed, eyes closed, sweat cooling uncomfortably on your skin. None of your muscles wish to work, and you don’t sense Acacius still in the room.

You’re shocked to feel…disappointment worming its way into your mind, after everything you should be grateful that he’s left you be.

But you’re surprised again as his footfalls sound, with a tired blink you open your eyes and glance up. Acacius has put on a robe, and he kneels beside the bed with a rag, he takes his time cleaning you.

It reminds you, for a moment, of the baths in the Temple where you would clean, and help clean other initiates. His hands are careful as he reaches between your thighs, noticing you tense he’s gentle. Careful of your still sensitive core the roughness of the rag makes you whine, hips bucking away from it. His hand steady's you as he works.

The rag cleans away the wetness that drenches your thighs, and butt. He finishes his cleaning, and then moves to lift you from the edge of the bed to the middle, carefully tucking you into the soft sheets. Your body doesn’t respond to anything, not even the want to help him does it respond, until he turns to leave.

“Marcus,” your voice is soft, unsure, but he stops and turns looking at you, “aren’t you…going to stay?”

His eyes seem to lighten at the question, he bows his head, “Would you like me to?”

You nod, and he relaxes moving back to the bed he settles in beside you, careful not to move you too much. You don’t mind it though, you notice that his sheets smell of jasmine. You huddle into the sheets, staring at the general silently.

And you consider…this marriage my not be one of love…but maybe…of equals.

The Mirage of a Goodbye

Here is my story for @almostfoxglove 's angst writing challenge! The moodboard gave me some trouble while I thought about what I could write, but once the ideas came, it was fun to write it, and a little heartbreaking too. It's been a pleasure to participate. I hope anyone who reads it will like it.

@schnarfer, thank you so much for being so wonderful and sharing your thoughts with me! They have been tremendously helpful and appreciated. And to my friends @thundermartini @encasedinobsidian and @joelmillerisapunk for always being so supportive and sweet. Love you all!🫂♥️

Masterlist // AO3 link

pairing: din djarin x fem! able-bodied reader summary: Forgiveness and healing are heavy words. They come with a price, one that may be life-changing tonight. word count: 2700 tags/warnings: medieval au, angst, did I say angst?, a good dose of angst, grief, mentions of death, established relationship, eight years gap (if it can be considered an age gap), mentions of pregnancy, reader has no description other than having hair, no use Y/N

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The sound of the pestle grinding against the mortar, the constant, uninterrupted motion, is almost numbing. A reprieve. Bathed in candlelight as the moon rules the sky, and insomnia is her cruel fellow. Seizing her focus while the food, her maid's last attempt to nourish her, lies forgotten on the table in front of the hearth as she stands in the alcove where her healing tools reside wearing only a nightgown.

Her body is cold as ice. It has been since the day he abandoned her, and nothing is powerful enough to warm her.

The rotation of her wrist, pulverising, transforming the blend of herbs into a mixture to combat infection, mutes the cacophony in her mind, offering a solace -the safety her chambers haven't been able to provide.

It puts a halt to the endless reminiscence in the spare seconds that had invaded her dreams, building in exchange a wall of loneliness sinking its claws around her, tall and wide. Unapproachable. Ripping them beyond recognition as the week-long celebrations for the anniversary of the end of the war became grief and death, turning them into a void shell. The musings of an innocent girl who had yet to experience the world's cruelty in its fullest, not being a mere spectator trying to aid anymore, but proof of how all souls are victims of it.

"My lady."

The voice is low and gruff, his, with a cadence ingrained in her core; it's impossible not to recognize it the moment it reaches her ears despite the caution infused in it.

It doesn't come alone, though. It's accompanied by his hushed steps, tiptoeing into her room, softly sealing the secret door they had discovered many years ago - a covert entrance used countless times to spend time together, seeking privacy and hidden from the outside world.

“The prodigal son has returned.”

She turns to stare at him, at Din, memorizing the details that make him whole. Real. Not the mirage that had been her companion while he was gone, poisoning her mind, experiencing a whirlwind of emotions. Hurting, raging, and mourning in equal amounts. Becoming a raw creature, seething with longing, so much it ached; hating him beyond words, hating herself for trusting him, for hoping she'd be someone's first choice for once. Believing she'd never see him again as the days spanned, becoming weeks, lifetimes of misery and penance. Crippled. Barely surviving the vipers at court, learning a role she had never expected to have bestowed upon her as the loss tried to devour her, paying for a sin she hadn't committed.

He's dressed in dark leather and with no trace of his armour tonight, the obsidian scales embellished with hints of gold she had gifted him after becoming the General of her father's army, of the realm's army.

His frame has not changed. Strong and beautiful, sturdy, flooded with life, luring her with his chestnut curls. Tall and broad as the day he vanished three months ago, as she remembers him under her touch, caressing his soft skin, bronzed and scattered with scars and freckles. Gripping her hips, helping her take her pleasure atop him, encasing her body amidst the sheets, feeling safe. Treasured. His weight, caging her, burning alongside hers, dancing, adoring her with his cock sheathed inside her, splitting her, inebriated by the passion, the ecstasy growing till exploding, claiming her with his seed.

“Are you preparing one of your remedies?”

“I’d say so," she states, cutting, a vicious chuckle ripping her tone, refusing to accept his attempt to break the tension between them, thick enough to leave a bitter metallic taste on her tongue. “Why? Do you also think it's beneath me to prepare them now? That I shouldn't care?"

The firstborn. The boy. The heir. The future king.

Those had been her older brother's titles -pushing her to exist in his shadow since she was born eight years later than him. She’d learned to accept it, watch her absent parents cherish her in their own way but do nothing to mask their preference. Favoring him, spoiling him, giving him their attention and praise, whereas she was handed to nursemaids and tutors without an extra thought. Not growing resentful and even becoming grateful, happy and keen, valuing the lack of pressure on her shoulders, the freedom it provided. Allowed to learn and become a healer, to prioritise love over political alliances in a marriage, and not be chained, used as bargaining flesh.

A sentiment she had been sure about. But Din’s presence only accentuates her doubts, every decision she has made since her future imploded.

Her heart longs to mend, run to him, bury her face on his torso, and breathe his soothing scent -the hints of rosemary from the soap she prefers merged with his musk- feel his arms envelop her, squeeze her hard, and never let go, allow him to ground her like only he knows how to do. But she doesn't surrender, steeling herself, fuelling her anger, folding her forearms over her chest to prevent herself from reaching for him, staring at him in silence, expectant, purposefully making him uncomfortable.

“No, I… I brought you something.”

The tension in his frame bleeds to his words as he approaches her, maintaining his distance. Insecure, hovering around the table as he sets down the bundle he's carrying, shrouded in a thick cloth.

The shape is foreboding, straight, and long, causing a pricking sensation that traverses her from the base of her spine to her neck as she unwraps it, recognising it instantly. A sharp blade black as coal, with an angular hilt carved with an engraving she doesn't require to see to be certain it's there. The will be done. Branding it, bestowing a name almost forgotten, a myth considered lost long ago. The Darksaber. A blade of kings, of worthy rulers blessed by the Gods.

“What have you done?” She demands. The pain of his betrayal stabs her, slicing her heart, and making her recoil in disbelief and rage.

“It’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“It’s my gift to legitimise your reign," he offers, raising his palm, trying to hold hers. But she moves backward, using the table as a barrier, swatting his attempts, her pain blinding her to the damage her rejection provokes.

“It’s not. This is a curse. Tradition…”

“You’re breaking tradition. I thought…”

“You thought? How could you? The only way to yield it is by winning it in combat. You know it. Everyone knows the legend. What have I done to deserve this?”

“I only wanted to help,” he implores, failing, interrupted by her reproaches.

“Help? How? By leaving when I needed you the most?" Her finger points at him accusingly, being both judge and executioner. "The only reason the Lords accept me as their Queen is because I’m the only option. And you go and bring this? No one would believe I’d best you. They are going to declare it’s a favor from the Gods.”

“I…”

“Is this your attempt to get the crown without bloodshed? You would have more than enough shore. The Armorer and his cohort still think the crown should have gone to your father, not mine.”

“I’d never do that.”

“Color me surprised," she scoffs, "your actions are speaking quite loudly. Perhaps I should do that, give you the crown, and be free from everything."

“What do you want from me.” It's just a murmur, begging, reverberating in the walls like a roar, as intense and dangerous, silencing her

She wishes to curse at him, wound him, scar him as much as he has done to her. Send him away, sentence him, banish him from her presence, enforce the power she has now, the one she's still getting used to, but she doesn't. His solemn countenance, sad, haunted, the lack of sleep in his stare, glassy with unshed tears, the intensity in them, the one perpetually existing in his gaze, make her shudder and lift the veil of her sorrow.

They are one of her earliest memories: his eyes. Brown, filled with kindness and childlike wonderment. He’s unremarkable to many, low born, easy to forget, to pass over, undeserving of a second glance. The eyes of an orphan, the son of the king's brother-in-arms, who had perished leading the rebellion that had granted her father the throne, adopted by the new king and raised with his children, sharing the age with her brother. She had forever been aware of the truth, conscious of their uniqueness from the beginning.

Honest, trustworthy, pools to his soul that matured as he grew and developed new shades. Magnificent. Protective. Always looking at her with respect, sometimes teasing but never mocking, attentive, knowing of her worth independent of her sex, by being herself. Bewitching her, lavishing her with the attention she deserved, allowing her to bask in it as much as she desired, encouraging her to do so, constantly seeking her, falling in love in stolen moments. Infatuated and passionate as they kissed, losing their innocence together, sharing countless nights in the sanctuary of her rooms, asking her to marry, promising to never hurt her or give her motive to doubt his loyalty.

“The truth.” Two words, simple, easy to voice, yet massive and terrifying to answer to, decisive. “It was naïve of me to presume you'd still want me, but you left. You looked me in the eyes announcing my father and brother’s death, kneeled like everybody else, declared me queen, and left.”

“I’ve never stopped wanting you. You must believe me, but it was not appropriate for me to approach you. Appearances…”

“Fuck appearances! We were an open secret. People may not have proof of the depth of our connection, but they know what we meant to each other. I had convinced Father. He planned to announce our betrothal that day. Once you returned from the hunt.”

“I tried to later," he admits with remorse embedded in his expression, "but you were talking with Lord Vanth.”

“You thought I’d stray?”

“No. Never, but it made it impossible to ignore my shortcomings.”

“What?”

“I’m no politician. I don’t understand the court's intrigue. I’m a warrior. I’m not good enough for you, a Queen.”

“Don’t you think that’s why you’re the right one? Why I'd choose you over anyone else,” she offers, her tears falling, rolling down her face like rivers, unstoppable. “I know it’s selfish to ask, but the only way I can confront it, not be destroyed by the Crown, is if I have someone as loyal and faithful as you. The warrior you are, who has the army’s fealty and respect. A shield. A sword. A friend who will see me and not a tool for power, who will not muffle me to aid his own ambition but support me. A Consort I love and who loves me just as fiercely.”

“I…”

“Why did you leave?” she requests, gentler, still not giving in.

“I got scared. I couldn’t breathe, so I went to our tree.” Her hope grows at his confession, loud, taking root in her chest, blooming. "We haven't been there in a long time.”

“Oh.”

She stays still as he approaches her, tracking his movements, holding his gaze, gasping at the first contact. His skin grazes hers, grabbing her fingers, restoring the warmth she had been bereft of, infusing her lungs with fresh air.

“I was remembering our moments there and sensed this pull in my gut as if someone were calling me. My father’s voice echoed in my mind, urging me to do what we said we'd do as kids. Crack the riddles and find the Darksaber.”

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Because I wouldn’t have been able to leave you." The rawness is proof of his honesty, letting him tug her closer. "It sounds insane, and perhaps it was the fear taking control, but I couldn't ignore it. It took me longer than I intended, but I found it.” His mouth curls at her response, the obvious wish to question for more details. "I’ll tell you everything," he promises, pecking her knuckles slowly, relishing in the action, the privilege. “Once I touched the hilt, all fell into place. I wasn't scared anymore. I was sure where I was meant to be. Beside you. Always." His lips grace her again, worshiping, resting his other hand on her lower abdomen. "I saw you. I felt so proud. You looked so beautiful. Powerful, holding the saber for everyone to see, with the crown in your head and your belly swollen, carrying our child.”

“What?” As soon as he says it, she knows it's true, suddenly remembering how long it has been since she last bled, no longer able to claim that her tiredness came from her lost sleep, from the myriad of tasks she had to face each day, no longer able to assume her nausea was a present from her anxiety, deny what her body had known for weeks, no longer able to restrain her fears.

Her heart gallops against her ribs as her palm lands close to his, not touching, forming a protective barrier with only a few inches between them.

How could she be a good mother when her own had been so lacking? When she barely knows how to reign. Who she is. How to embrace her identity now. When the terrifying prospect of having to do it alone seems so certain at this juncture, and the worry of being pressured to renounce her child for being born out of wedlock looms in her mind.

“Will you forgive me?" His question is a plea, a whisper slipping from his mouth with sorrow infused in his irises as he cradles her cheeks, kissing her forehead, and his thumb caresses her cheekbone. Ensuring her attention and belief in him as he keeps talking. “You’re not the only option. You’re the best one, better than your father was, and better than your brother or me could have ever been.”

It’s easy to believe him. Understand his motives and feelings. Forgive him despite needing time to heal. To picture them together, facing every challenge as a team, turning the Realm into a better place to live, safer and prosperous, raising the child in her womb and any other they would be blessed with, being the parents they never had, growing old, and creating thousands of memories.

“I’m sorry. I tried my best. Don't ever forget that I love you.”

It's a vow sealed with a secret barely contained, with a grievous hue alluding to a deeper significance in his visit. Pushing her to move, raise her hands to his chest to pull him closer and taste his lips, ask what worries him, what he's yet to voice, and share his burden. But a sudden knock on the door distracts her. It opens with urgency before she has time to welcome the intrusion, showing the concerned expression of one of her guards.

“Your grace, the General has come back.”

Her jaw opens, ready to state the obvious and acknowledge the man before her. But when she looks, her hands are empty, raised in the air with nothing to grasp. She’s standing alone, bewildered, frozen, staring at the void where he had been seconds ago as Ser Mayfeld continues informing her, and dread invades her.

“He was found unconscious atop his horse in the stables. He has a serious wound on his thigh. The fester has reached his blood, and the healers don’t think he’ll survive.”

The glint of the blade invading the corner of her eye, lying where Din left it, ensures her sanity. No godsend. Damnation, trying to take her man, demanding a price she's unwilling to pay.

Awakening her from her stupor as the pestle calls for her. Giving a new meaning to the tug she had sensed earlier, not only a seek for comfort in the motions and aromas of the healing herbs anymore but a forewarning of the need for a salve to clean the infection.

She seizes it, feeling its weight on her palms, her mind enumerating what she will need, trembling, almost knocking down the other tonics on the table, grabbing them in a rush to throw them in her satchel. And starts to run.

He deserves to live, to be a father. And her child deserves the father she knows Din would be. Stern only when forced to, gentle, patient, silly in private, fun, dotting, attentive, and loving.

She refuses to yield. It cannot end like this when the future is close enough to graze it.

She won't let him go without a fight. He must survive.

Npt (because there was interest in my WIP Wednesday!) @whocaresstillthelouvre @milla-frenchy @jennaispunk @604to647 @pascalssbabyy

@yxtkiwiyxt @aurorawritestoescape @secretelephanttattoo @baronessvonglitter @burntheedges

𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 “𝘽𝙤𝙗” 𝙍𝙚𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙭 𝘾𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣!𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 – 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. 𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙨—𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙜𝙚𝙩. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙗𝙮𝙚. 𝙃𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙙𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙒.𝘾. – 7.5𝙆

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 – 𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩/𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮, 𝙥𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖, 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙮, 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 – 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 (𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙚-𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧), angst, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 (𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡, 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙), fluff, 𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 (𝙨𝙮𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙨, 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙡, 𝙚𝙣𝙙-𝙤𝙛-𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚), 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙙, 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 possible 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙋𝙏𝙎𝘿 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙨 (𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙤𝙗’𝙨), 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙠𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙨, 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜—𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮.

This one is for you, babes @asxgard 🫵🏻👀❤️‍🩹

The folding chairs in the community room at St. Margaret’s Recovery Center were mismatched and creaky, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead in a way that made Bob Reynolds’ skin itch. But he sat anyway, long limbs tucked in uncomfortably, a cup of instant coffee cooling in his hands.

He was here for them. The others.

A man named Luis was shakily recounting the time he stole a car stereo to buy fentanyl, his voice cracking when he mentioned how he hadn’t seen his daughter in five years. The room stayed quiet and kind. No one judged. That’s why Bob came. It wasn’t always about what he said—it was about the fact that he showed up at all.

The door opened mid-share, a breeze of cold air cutting in.

“Sorry, sorry,” a woman whispered as she ducked in, clutching a canvas tote and a pet carrier, with a dark furball sleeping in it. She looked like she hadn’t slept well, wrapped in a threadbare gray hoodie and baggy jeans. She didn’t smell like perfume—more like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of cat.

Bob looked up briefly, then down again. Something about her felt like gravity.

She sat at the back, exchanging a quiet nod with one of the staff. Her friend, Bob assumed.

After the circle broke and people began to gather in twos and threes—plastic cups refilled, someone passed around store-bought cookies—Bob drifted toward the coffee table. So did she.

They reached for the same sugar packet at the same time. Their fingers brushed.

What a fucking cliché.

“Oh—sorry,” she said, a small smile flickering across her lips. “I’m not actually in the group. I just came with Jules—she works here,” she blurted, as she played with a sugar pocket. “She invited me to come—well, more like she forced me. To leave the house.”

Bob looked at her, really looked this time.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m just here to listen.”

She tilted her head. “You volunteer?”

“I guess. You could say that.” He paused. “It helps me stay grounded.”

She nodded as if that made perfect sense. “For-former nursing student,” she offered after a beat. “Used to volunteer, then work nights in a nursing home. Gave good sponge baths, terrible coffee. Dreams of truly becoming a nurse.” She glanced away. “Had to… shelve that.”

Bob’s brow furrowed just slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged, a gesture so simple it hurt. “Life,” she said. “And a body that didn’t keep up.”

A pause stretched between them.

Bob opened his mouth to say something—anything—but her friend Jules called her over. “Hey! We’ve got to be out in five!”

“Duty calls,” she said with a breath of humor. She turned to go, then glanced over her shoulder. “Take care, Bob-the-volunteer.”

He blinked. “Wait—I didn’t catch your name.”

“I guess you didn’t,” she said with a grin.

Then she was gone.

────୨ৎ────

A few weeks later, Bob was standing in line at a small neighborhood pet store near the New Avengers’ Watchtower, holding a giant bag of salmon-flavored kibble that Alpine—Bucky’s very opinionated cat—had decided was the only food she’d touch while Bucky was away on mission. He had offered to take care of her, since of almost all the members of the group, she felt most attached to him after Buck.

As he reached the front, he heard a familiar voice ahead of him at the counter.

“No, not the chicken pâté, the one with the little pumpkin blend. Mayhem gets picky when she’s stressed.”

Bob looked up. And there she was.

She turned, startled, as if she could sense him.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning. “Salmon man,” she pointed out to the bag of kibble.

He raised an eyebrow. “You again.”

She laughed softly, then noticed what he was carrying. “So you’re cat-sitting?”

“Alpine,” he said. “My friend’s cat. She has opinions.”

“Mayhem’s the same. She’s one of my latest fosters.” She gestured to the small carrier at her feet. A pair of tiny black ears and vivid green eyes peered out from the shadows.

“Foster?” Bob asked.

“I don’t work anymore. So I take care of kittens for the shelter. Temporary residents at my place.” She looked down, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Figured if I can’t save people, maybe I can save hairballs, with no thoughts behind those striking eyes.”

The way she said it—like it wasn’t meant to sound sad, but it kind of was—knocked something loose in Bob’s chest.

“I never got your name,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Nope. Still haven’t.”

He laughed. “I’m Bob.”

“I know, Bob-the-volunteer.” She smiled at him before telling him her name.

There was a pause. Bob swallowed.

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime?” he asked. “I mean, if you’re not busy saving kittens.”

Her smile softened. “That’s kind of you. But, I… don’t date. Not anymore.”

His face fell slightly, but he nodded. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

They paid, made small talk. She loaded the kitten into a cloth sling at her chest like a sleepy baby. Big green eyes looking around.

As she turned to leave, she hesitated.

“If we ever run into each other here again,” she said, voice low, “maybe we could get that dinner. One dinner. Just so it’s not awkward. T-the hypothetical next time we bump into each other?”

Bob smiled. “Deal.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, not until, they did, in fact, bump into each other again four days later.

Their ‘one dinner’ was at a quiet Lebanese place tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. Low lighting, cracked leather booths, and music so soft it barely registered. She picked it because it was close to her apartment and she knew the servers—they gave her free tea when she brought the kittens in to visit.

Bob showed up with his hands in his jacket pockets and an awkward, quiet sort of hope in his eyes.

She wore a simple black cardigan, a bit of color on her lips, and a hesitation that hovered between every breath.

“No flowers?” she joked gently, eyeing his empty hands.

“I figured you wouldn’t want the cliché,” he said, lips twitching. “Besides, I read somewhere lilies are for funerals.”

Her brow lifted. “Morbid.”

“You started it.”

And just like that, the tension cracked.

They ordered too much food. She stole falafel off his plate; he didn’t even pretend to protest. They talked about cats. About movies they loved. About stupid jobs they’d had as teenagers. She told him about the time she had to chase down a dementia patient, while volunteering at the home, who escaped in a hospital gown and fuzzy slippers. He told her about working at Alfredo's Bail Bonds, wearing a chicken suit as the restaurant's mascot.

But near the end, as the check came and the plates sat nearly empty, her smile faltered.

“I need to be honest,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass.

He looked up immediately, attentive.

“I wasn’t joking, that day. About my body not keeping up.”

His posture shifted, ever so slightly. “Okay.”

“I have metastatic breast cancer,” she said plainly. “Triple-negative. Aggressive. It’s already spread. They gave me a timeline.”

Silence settled around the table like dust.

“I’m not in treatment,” she went on. “I tried once. Chemo nearly killed me faster than the cancer. It came back anyway. I decided not to do it again. So—what I’m saying is—I’m dying. And I don’t want pity, or a savior. I don’t want to be someone’s heartbreak project. I want to focus on Mayhem, find her a good family.”

Bob’s face didn’t change in the way she expected. No flinch. No sharp intake of breath. Just quiet understanding. Deep. Anchored.

“You thought that would scare me off,” he said gently.

She met his gaze. “Wouldn’t it scare you? Come on, I've just practically dropped a bomb on you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’ve lived through a lot of endings. But I don’t think I’ve ever really lived through love.”

“To drop the word 'love' to a person you've seen only a handful of times, that's intense stuff, Bob."

“Friendship, then. Maybe?”

A pause.

“You don’t have to give me forever,” he said. “Just give me now.”

She looked at him, long and hard. “You say that now. But when I’m in pain, when I’m not able to walk far, or eat, or breathe without help… You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Maybe,” he said honestly. “But I’ll still want to be there.”

She didn’t answer. But when they stepped outside into the cold night air, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.

────୨ৎ────

They began to see each other once or twice a week. Always her place—small, second floor, plants in the windowsill, and a kitten in various states of chaos. Mayhem, claimed Bob’s lap immediately.

They built rituals.

Tea with honey every evening she had energy. Rooibos for her. Chamomile for him.

Late-night walks, slow ones. She got winded easily, so he adjusted his pace without her ever asking.

Rooftop stargazing on the crumbling building above her apartment. She brought a threadbare blanket. He brought the good thermos. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all.

He never pushed.

He stayed even when she warned him again, softly, that she was already slipping. “The decline starts slow,” she said one night. “You’ll notice the tiredness before anything else. Then the brain fog, the forgetting, when this thing gets to my already mushy brain. I’ll start losing my grip on the good days.”

Bob listened. Always. Quietly.

One night, they sat on her couch, her head on his shoulder. Mayhem curled up between them.

“Why don’t you run?” she asked suddenly.

“Because running never got me anywhere good,” he replied. “And because I don’t want to.”

“I’m not your redemption story, you know?”

“I don’t need you to be.”

She looked at him, eyes burning.

“You’re going to love me, and I’m going to die. How is that fair to you?”

Bob’s voice was quiet. “How is it fair to anyone, ever, to love someone and lose them? But we still do it. Because the loving part matters. The caring for someone does.”

And then—frustrated, scared, aching—she said, “You should go. You should find someone whole. Someone—“

He didn’t move.

“Dammit, Bob. Don’t you get it!?” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to matter.”

He looked at her—soft, steady.

“You didn’t want to matter either,” he said. “But you do, woman.”

And in the silence that followed, she kissed him. Fierce, trembling, like trying to stop the tide with her hands.

He kissed her back like she was something sacred.

When she pulled away, she muttered, “You’re so idiotic—so damn stupid for doing this.”

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But I’m here.”

────୨ৎ────

She didn’t say “I love you.”

She thought it sometimes. Quietly. When he curled around her at night like he could guard her from what was coming. When he hummed to Mayhem in the kitchen while scooping kibble into a bowl. When he kissed her wrist instead of her mouth on the days her breath was short and her mouth tasted like metal. She thought it when he stayed past midnight cleaning up after a nosebleed, never flinching. Never backing away.

But she didn’t say it.

Saying it felt like handing him the knife and asking him to hold it to his own chest.

It wasn’t fair. It would never be.

So instead, she said things like “I like you being here,” and “I sleep better when you’re around.”

Bob understood. He didn’t push.

He just stayed.

────୨ৎ────

The first time she collapsed, it was a Tuesday.

She was walking from the kitchen to the bedroom with a mug of tea in hand, and then she wasn’t. She was on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling, breath shallow and mug shattered beside her.

Bob had been in the bathroom trimming his beard. He ran to her like the floor had opened beneath him.

“No—hey, hey, I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

She was shaking. Disoriented. Embarrassed.

“Blood pressure,” she whispered. “Too low, again. It’s happened before, nothing new.”

He carried her to the couch, got her a cool cloth, and knelt beside her like a soldier kneeling before his commander.

When she was lucid again, she found his hands trembling. His eyes red-rimmed.

“You shouldn’t have to see this,” she said, voice hoarse.

“I want to see it,” he said. “I want to be here for all of it. The good and the shit. You don’t get to push me out just because it’s scary.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, thumb swiping the faint trace of moisture.

“I’m not scared for me,” she said. “I’m scared for you. This is not fair, Robby.”

Robby.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I’ve survived worse,” he whispered. “But I won’t survive walking away.”

After that, he started staying over more often.

At first, she called it “a couple nights a week.”

Then it became most nights.

He never made a big deal of it. He brought his favorite hoodie and a spare toothbrush, quietly folded his missions around her appointments, slipped into her world like he’d always belonged.

It became their home.

On good days, they walked to the little corner market together. On really good days, they danced in the kitchen to Nina Simone and Otis Redding while Mayhem batted at their feet—she was so chaotic and mischievous, such a little demon, that requests to adopt her were almost conspicuous by their absence.

On bad days, he read to her—his voice low and calm—even when she couldn’t keep her eyes open. On worse days, he held her hair back while she vomited into the sink and said, “You’re okay. I’ve got you,” over and over like a prayer.

And sometimes—just sometimes—when his hands started to tremble, or his vision narrowed, or a news headline triggered something in him he couldn’t name, she would pull him down into her lap and run her fingers through his hair, slow and steady, until the shaking stopped.

They carried each other like sacred things.

────୨ৎ────

The first time they made love was on a soft night in early spring.

The window was cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and the smell of rain that had passed through earlier still clung faintly to the world outside. The sky was that deep blue right before dusk settles into true night, and in the kitchen, warm light pooled around her as she plated dinner—just pasta and roasted vegetables, simple and comforting, the only kind of cooking she felt up for lately. She wore a soft sweater that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of threadbare leggings. The scent of basil and garlic clung to her skin.

Bob arrived just as she was lighting a candle for the table—unnecessary, but it made the room feel gentler, like time had slowed. He carried a bundle of fresh lavender tied up with kitchen string, and a tiny paper bag from the bakery she loved, the one with the lemon cookies dusted in sugar.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said, smiling.

“I like watching you smile,” he said simply. “Figured I’d give myself a gift.”

He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t just come from sleep deprivation. A faint bruise bloomed near his collarbone, just above the neckline of his shirt—he’d been on a mission the day before, one that had gone sideways, he said, but it was fine now, nothing to worry about. Still, his eyes lingered on her like she was the only soft place left in a world made of sharp edges. She caught him staring at her once, halfway through dinner, and he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Now I am,” he murmured, and reached for her hand across the table.

Later, in bed, the hush between them was reverent, like the air before a storm or a cathedral at dusk.

They kissed for a long time first, half-under the covers, half-tangled in each other’s limbs. The kind of kissing that made the world drop away—slow and searching, a conversation of mouths and sighs. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, grounding her. She curled her fingers into his shirt, then under it, dragging her nails across his back in a silent ask.

He groaned, quiet and breathy, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

When they undressed each other, it wasn’t rushed—there was no tearing or frantic fumbling. Just gentle discovery. Reverence. Her sweater caught at her elbow and he helped her out of it, kissing the bare skin of her shoulder as it was revealed. She pushed his shirt up slowly and pressed her lips to the bruise just below his collarbone, lingering there like she could kiss the pain away.

“You sure?” she asked again, barely above a whisper, searching his face.

“I want everything,” he said, voice low and steady. “I want you. You have no idea how fucking much.” He almost whimpered, shaking in need now.

“Did you just whimpered—? Fuck, that was hot.” She pulled him down to her again.

Their bodies met in slow, tender rhythm, the kind that built not from urgency but from knowing. He started above her, hands braced on either side of her head, his forehead resting against hers as they moved together, breath synced. Her legs curled around his waist and she arched up into him, gasping when he filled her—stretching and grounding her in equal measure. Her nails dug lightly into the backs of his shoulders, not from pain, but from the sheer feeling of it.

He kissed her through every shiver and sigh. Her mouth, her jaw, the spot just beneath her ear that made her whimper. She bit his shoulder once, playful and unthinking, and he huffed a soft laugh before groaning, grinding deeper into her like it undid him.

“Damn, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured against her throat.

“Good—well, maybe not.” she breathed, smiling, and kissed him hard.

At some point, she rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, bracing herself on his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and tickled his face. He looked up at her like she was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe she was real and here and choosing him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, running his hands over her thighs, up her waist. His thumbs traced the curve of her hipbones like they were holy.

“Right back at you, cowboy.”

She rode him slow, their movements fluid and unhurried, more about closeness than climax. He sat up halfway to meet her, one hand splayed across her lower back, holding her to him as he kissed her again—deep and aching.

Then, they increased their pace, making it a bit messy and rough, but not too much.

When she gasped, he caught it with his mouth. When she moaned, he kissed it into something sacred. His fingers found the back of her neck, the curve of her lower spine, the soft place where her pulse fluttered.

She leaned forward, and he caught her lower lip between his fingers, caressing it with a gentleness that nearly undid her. His thumb brushed across it, then he leaned up and kissed her again—tender at first, then deeper, nibbling gently until she gasped against his tongue.

They moved again—sideways this time, shifting instinctively into something even softer. She lay on her side, back to his chest, and he curled around her like a shelter, one arm under her head, the other cupping her hip, guiding her with slow, rolling thrusts that made her tremble and whisper his name like it was a secret.

Tears slipped from her eyes—she didn’t even know why. Maybe because it felt too good. Too real. Too much like something she’d never get to keep.

Bob kissed them away, murmuring against her skin, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When they finally fell apart together, it wasn’t fireworks—it was warmth and stillness, a kind of peaceful unraveling. She pressed her forehead to his and breathed with him until everything settled.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, their legs still knotted. His fingers traced circles on her bare shoulder, and she played lazily with the ends of his hair. Her skin felt tender, loved. So did her heart.

“I wish we had more time,” she whispered into the silence.

Bob didn’t lie. He never did. He just kissed her temple and whispered, “Then let’s live the hell out of the time we do have.”

She nodded against his chest, a soft hum of agreement.

And in that quiet, candlelit room, under the hush of spring, it felt—for a moment—like time had finally decided to wait for them.

────୨ৎ────

It was in the way her hands trembled while trying to stir the honey into her tea.

How she missed words sometimes, reaching mid-sentence into silence with furrowed brows and a quiet, “What was I saying?”

It was in the bruises that bloomed easier, darker, as if her skin was giving up secrets before her lips did.

Her body betrayed her first.

And she tried to keep it quiet at first—playing it down, calling the fatigue a “bad day,” brushing off the coughing fits and the bruises, the slurred words, the fall she swore “was nothing.”

But Bob saw it. He saw it all.

One night she collapsed in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom. He heard the soft thump—barely audible, like a pillow hitting the floor—but his instincts kicked in like a lightning bolt.

He was on his knees beside her in seconds.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, flushed, breath short, one wrist already swelling. “I just got dizzy. I—”

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice breaking. “And it’s okay.”

He held her close. She cried into his shoulder.

He carried her to bed, and stayed up watching her chest rise and fall all night long, counting every breath like a sacred vow.

The hospital stays began after that.

Short ones at first. A few nights for dehydration, an infection that wouldn’t clear, a chemo-related complication even though she wasn’t on chemo anymore. Then there was a seizure scare—brain metastases, they said gently, words wrapped in sterile white light and soft voices.

Bob hated hospitals. He hated the smell, the sounds, the memories. The taste of too many days lost in places just like this.

But he sat by her side every time. Brought Mayhem’s favorite blanket. Taped a drawing she made on the IV pole—a stick figure of a black kitten with heart that said, “still here.”

He read to her when she was too tired to talk. He played music on his phone, soft old jazz, classic rock, movies soundtracks, warm indie folk. He made bad jokes about hospital food and wonky bed remotes. He brought chamomile tea from home because she swore hospital tea tasted like regret and piss.

When she was lucid, they talked.

Really talked.

About death. About what came after. About what didn’t.

“I’m not scared of dying,” she said one night, voice fragile in the hospital dark. “I’m scared of leaving too little behind. About leaving you behind, Robby.”

Bob took her hand, thumb grazing her wrist.

“You’ve already left more than most people ever do,” he whispered. “You made me want to live, darling.”

At home, she wrote letters.

One for Bob. One for Mayhem: “To be read by your next forever mom or dad, you rascal”, it said. One for her friend Jules, who dragged her to that recovery center meeting where she met him. A few for other patients she’d met during her own cancer journey—notes of hope, humor, brutal honesty.

The one for Bob took the longest.

She kept it in a small envelope, hidden inside a book she knew he would read after—the one they read aloud together some nights, alternating pages, voices low and tender.

She never told him she was writing them.

He found out later. Much later.

────୨ৎ────

The night she said “I love you,” it came out of a dream.

She woke up gasping, hand clenched in the sheets, tears wet on her cheeks.

Bob sat up instantly, heart hammering, reaching for her.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

She blinked at him, disoriented. Scared.

“I was… I was gone. And you were still looking for me.”

He held her face gently, thumbs brushing her temples.

“I’ll never stop looking for you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers.

And then she said it. “I love you.”

It wasn’t a whisper. It was fragile and clear and raw, like cracked porcelain cradled between them.

Bob leaned in and kissed her forehead, “I love you,” he replied, voice thick. “Since the pet store. Since the first night you gave me your favorite mug and told me to not drop it.”

She laughed a little, hiccupping, and pulled him down until they lay curled around each other like the world might break but this moment wouldn’t.

────୨ৎ────

He didn’t propose marriage. He proposed presence.

It was one evening, while they sat on the rooftop wrapped in layers of blankets, stars blurry through light pollution but still there.

She was thinner now. Color draining from her skin, as the days went by. Her voice came and went, rough and hoarse. But her fingers were warm when he held them.

“I know you’re still trying to protect me,” he said, quiet, without accusation. “But it’s not about sparing me. It’s about what I want, too.”

She looked at him, tired but still sharp.

“And what do you want?”

“You,” he said. “To the end.”

He didn’t need a ceremony or rings. Just permission.

After a long pause, she nodded. “You already have me,” she said. “But okay. You can stay. Even when it gets really bad.”

He kissed her knuckles.

“It’s already really bad,” he said softly. “But it’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They lived the hell out of the time they had left.

He held her when she cried. She steadied him when his mind frayed. They watched stars when she could, and on the nights she couldn’t leave the bed, he pointed out constellations from memory on the ceiling with his fingers, drawing them in the air. Sometimes he would make them up.

She told him once that she didn’t think she could ever feel lucky again.

Then she looked at him: “But then you walked in.”

“And I stayed, which has been the greatest honor of my life.”

────୨ৎ────

The day before she died was a good day.

The kind of day that had become rare—precious. She woke up without nausea. Her hands trembled, but not so badly she couldn’t hold a spoon. Bob made tea and toast while Mayhem patrolled the windowsills like a sleepy little gremlin, her mews grumpy and loud.

“Ekekek-“ she would chirp as she watched with frustration a bird in the other side of the window.

They watched an old movie—one she loved and half-quoted even though her voice was slower now, her sentences softer, occasionally trailing into silence when fatigue crept in. Bob didn’t mind. He filled in the lines when she forgot them.

They danced again. Barely more than swaying, her arms around his waist, face tucked against his chest.

“I don’t want it to end yet,” she murmured, her voice nearly inaudible beneath the low hum of the record spinning in the corner. The soft crackle of vinyl filled the space between words like breath between heartbeats. “I know I don’t have much time left.”

Bob held her tighter, arms wrapped fully around her as they swayed gently in the living room. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, right over his heart.

“Then don’t go,” he said, his voice attempting levity—but it cracked slightly at the edges.

She laughed against his shirt, a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender and affection and inevitability all braided into one.

That night, she reached for his hand as he cleared the mugs from their late tea. Her fingers curled around his, tugging him toward the bedroom. “Come to bed early,” she said softly.

He tilted his head, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth. “Tired?”

She shook her head. “Not because I’m tired,” she murmured, and something flickered in her eyes—mischief, desire, memory. “Because I want you. Like that. How can I not? I mean—have you seen yourself lately? That stubble of yours is driving me crazy, my love.”

Bob chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You like that, huh?”

She leaned up on her toes, brushing her lips against the scratch of his jaw. “I love it,” she whispered. “And I need to feel… me. Just for a little while. Not sick. Not dying. Just a woman who wants her man.”

And he understood. God, he understood. She wanted to reclaim her body, her desires. To feel like herself again—not the version disappearing by inches, but the one who still craved closeness, who still chose him. Not as her nurse, or guardian, or someone just waiting for the end—but as her partner. Her love.

Their lovemaking that night was quiet. Reverent. Like a prayer whispered beneath blankets, made of skin and breath and memory.

He touched her slowly, taking his time with every inch of her. Not out of caution—but out of reverence. His fingertips traced the curve of her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs—delicate, yes, but still her. Still strong. Still alive. When his hand moved over her stomach and down between her legs, he watched her face the entire time, gauging every flutter of her breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice deep and low, hoarse with emotion. “We can stop.”

She shook her head immediately, voice trembling but sure. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please—don’t you dare.”

Bob nodded, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Okay. I won’t.”

He undressed her gently, peeling away fabric like it was woven from moonlight. Her body had changed—softer in some places, thinner in others—but she was still breathtaking. Her eyes locked onto his as she undid his shirt, her hands slow and certain, brushing over his chest, down the trail of hair toward his waistband. He caught her lower lip between his fingers, tracing it once with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed her—first sweet, then deeper, until she sighed into him, her hands rising to cradle his face.

Their bodies moved together slowly, wrapped in soft linens, her legs around his hips, her hands tangled in his hair. She arched under him with a quiet gasp when he entered her, her mouth falling open. He kissed her then, deeper, his fingers laced with hers as he moved in rhythm with her breath, with the ache between them. She bit his neck once, playfully, and he groaned softly, grinning into the kiss. He bit her lip once again, in the same way.

“I missed this,” she whispered. “I missed you like this, Robby.”

“I’m right here,” he said, voice thick. “I never left.”

She kissed him again, deeper now—urgent, not desperate. Her fingers traced his jaw, moved across his chest, down his back like she was trying to memorize every inch of him all over again. Her body trembled beneath his, but it was strength, not weakness. Willpower. Want.

When he whispered, “I love you,” into her mouth, she didn’t answer in words. Her eyes brimmed with tears instead, her lips pressing harder against his like she could pour the truth back into him without speaking.

After, they lay tangled in the quiet, their skin warm from shared breath, her head nestled against his chest. Bob’s fingers moved slowly down the curve of her spine, over the small of her back. Every few moments, he leaned down to kiss her hair, just to prove to himself she was still there.

“I’m not scared tonight,” she whispered eventually, voice feather-soft.

He swallowed. His throat was tight. “I am,” he admitted into her hair.

She tilted her face up, eyes dark and tender, and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Then stay close,” she said.

And he did.

He held her as she drifted into sleep, her breathing slow and steady against his ribs. His arms wrapped around her completely, like if he held tight enough, the dawn might forget to come. And in that quiet, dark room, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her against him, and the fragile, sacred gift of still being here.

He didn’t sleep right away. Just watched her. Counted each slow rise of her chest. As if unconsciously he knew the end was near.

Didn’t expect that near.

It was Mayhem who told him something was wrong.

Bob woke to her frantic meows, paws nudging at his side, climbing over the blanket. At first, he thought she was being her usual chaos demon, demanding breakfast. She was relentless—pacing, pouncing, crying louder now.

He reached a hand across the bed. Her side was cool.

The light was strange. Early. Pale. Still.

Her body—still. Too still.

He turned.

She was facing him. Eyes closed. One hand curled loosely over his chest where it had been when she fell asleep.

Her lips parted. No breath.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey—baby, wake up. Darling?”

He touched her cheek. It was cold.

Her hand slipped from his chest like a leaf falling from a branch.

He didn’t cry. Not at first, but the will to do so was there.

He sat there, silent. A slow-motion fracture through the middle of his ribs.

He smoothed her hair back, kissed her temple, her forehead, the corner of her mouth. He rested his forehead against hers, as her head was resting on his pillow.

“I love you,” he whispered. Again. And again. And again. “Thank you. I love you. I love you. I-I love you, darling. Oh, baby.”

Mayhem settled beside her, tiny purring rumbling low and constant, a feline vigil.

Bob didn’t move her. He just stayed and clung to her as much as possible, to her naked, now cold form.

The sun rose. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.

She was gone, and his gravitational axis, thrown completely off balance. Because of that small detail.

She was gone, truly gone.

────୨ৎ────

The funeral was small. Quiet. Her friend, Jules, gave the eulogy. Bob stood beside the casket, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. His teammates joined him, to support and care for him.

He moved part-time back into the Watchtower after. The apartment felt like walking barefoot across broken glass. Her slippers still tucked by the bed. Her favorite mug on the windowsill. The book she never finished halfway open on the coffee table.

Mayhem was his shadow. Always following him around.

One week later, the now adolescent cat, knocked down a stack of books from the nightstand, batting them one by one onto the floor with feral delight.

Bob sighed, kneeling to pick them up.

"You won't give a day's truce, eh, you little devil?"

A small, battered book they have half read together, slipped out and landed face down. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded letter.

His name in her handwriting.

He sat there for a long time, hands shaking, just staring at the curve of each letter.

He opened it.

“Hi, Bob. Robby, my love, lover boy, sweetheart, my darling.

If you’re reading this, then I guess Mayhem finally completed her villain origin story and brought down a bookshelf. Good for her. I hope she didn’t eat the corners of this letter. She tried once. I saw her. I told her no. She blinked at me and did it anyway. Absolute chaos. She’s your cat now. Sorry.

Also—yeah, I left this where I knew she’d eventually find it. Figured if anyone could make you laugh on a day like this, it’d be her.

So… hi. Deep breath. You, not me. I’m—you know. Past breathing now.

I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve said goodbye better. I hope I held on long enough that you weren’t alone. I hope you weren’t scared. I hope it was peaceful. I hope you know I didn’t want to go—not from you. Not from this.

I’ve been thinking about this letter for a long time, and still… no words feel big enough. Not for what we had. Not for what you gave me. But I need to try, so here it goes.

I love you.

God, I love you.

I loved you in a way that terrified me. In a way that healed me. In a way that made me feel more alive than any scan or countdown ever could. You didn’t look at me like I was dying. You looked at me like I was still here. Like I was worth staying for.

You gave me more than comfort, Bob.

You gave me days.

Real days. Golden, messy, stubbled, kitten-clawed days. Days with tea and laughter and record players and forehead kisses. You gave me mornings I wanted to wake up for. Nights I didn’t want to end. You gave me time that felt like living, not waiting. Not surviving. Just being. And loving. And being loved.

You never ran. Not when it got hard. Not when I got scared or small or angry or hollowed out by the chemo. You stayed. You chose me, over and over, even when I couldn’t have blamed you for needing to look away.

Especially then.

If you’re hurting now—and I know you are—it’s only because it was real. Because we were. And I hate that I’m the reason your chest aches right now, but… if it means we got to have this? I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for more time. Not even forever could make me trade what I had with you.

But I need to ask you something. One last thing.

Stay.

Stay here. Stay soft. Stay kind. Stay messy and honest and you.

Don’t shut yourself down just because this ended. Don’t pull away from love just because it hurts. Let it in. Let it hurt. Let it heal.

You carry light and ache in equal measure, Bob, and the world needs people like you. The world needs you.

Broken and trying. Soft and brave. Still showing up.

Cry when you need to. Laugh when it surprises you. Keep stargazing from rooftops. Put honey in your tea. Dance in the kitchen. Let someone hold your hand someday. Let them see you.

And take care of Mayhem, please.

She’s a menace, but she loves you.

She’ll sleep on your chest again. You’ll wake up to claws in your ribs and fur in your mouth and know she’s watching over you in her gremlin little way. Feed her the expensive treats. Not too often. She’ll get ideas.

And when it gets too quiet—play the records I liked. Even the sappy ones.

Especially the sappy ones.

You were the last good thing I got to love.

The best part of my last chapter.

And if there’s more after this—for me, for you—I hope we find each other again.

I’ll be looking.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for letting me love you.

Thank you for making it all count.

I love you, my darling.

Always,

Yours.

P.S. I love you. I love you.”

He laughed. It broke into a sob halfway out. He folded the letter against his heart and sobbed.

Something inside him cracked. And softened.

“Fucking hell…”

────୨ৎ────

Grieving was a funny thing. Unpredictable. Cruel. Soft. Sometimes it came in like a scream and other times like silence that wrapped around your throat.

But still—

He started showing up again.

It didn’t happen all at once. He didn’t wake up one morning and feel whole. But the ache didn’t stop him from moving, either. He just started.

First, it was the recovery center. Quiet mornings, soft hellos. He told stories now—not about gods or galaxies or things that shattered, but about people. About love that arrived like lightning and stayed like breath. About grief that cracked you open without warning. About the way someone’s laugh could still echo in your bones long after they were gone.

He never spoke her name to the group, but somehow everyone knew she existed.

He began visiting the oncology ward, too. Not for answers—he wasn’t that naïve anymore—but just to be. He brought warm things: fleece socks, old paperbacks, little packets of herbal tea she’d once loved. He didn’t try to fix anyone. He didn’t promise miracles. He sat by hospital beds, held hands when asked, and listened when silence was all there was to offer. Sometimes he’d hum under his breath. Sometimes he’d let them talk about the fear. Other times, they’d just breathe in tandem for a while.

Presence. That was enough.

He kept fostering kittens. More than he meant to. Sometimes naming them after her favorite old movies—one little tuxedo cat was dubbed “Ripley” and refused to sleep anywhere but on his back. Sometimes he let Mayhem decide. She was choosy, with opinions like firecrackers. If a kitten made it past her glare, it was a keeper.

He stayed in the apartment less. Too many ghosts in the shadows. Too many memories clinging to the mug she’d chipped, the blanket she’d wrapped around both of them, the spot on the floor where she’d once slow-danced him through tears.

Mayhem and Alpine struck an uneasy truce at the Watchtower. Alpine, regal and disdainful, ruled from the bookshelf with the air of a monarch. Mayhem, all teeth and chaos, played the part of court jester with far too much enthusiasm. They would never admit they liked each other. But more than once, Bob walked in to find them curled up together in a patch of sun, like the war between them had been forgotten for a few sacred hours.

And when it got too heavy—when the weight of her absence pressed in until he could barely breathe—he’d take out her letter. The paper was soft at the creases now, well-worn, well-loved. He knew every line by heart. Still, he’d read it again. Her voice rose in his mind like a tether, grounding him, keeping him from vanishing into the hollow places.

Stay, she had said.

So he did.

Some time passed. Weeks? Months? Grief made time slippery.

It was dusk when it happened—one of those golden, velvet evenings that stretched slow and soft. The light outside melted across the walls like spilled honey.

Bob sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sorting through a shoebox labeled with her name in his blocky handwriting. Mayhem snoozed on the back of the couch, curled into a comma of contentment, tail twitching in her sleep. Alpine lounged on the armrest like a sphinx, judging everything in the room with half-lidded eyes.

He pulled out a photo—creased in the corner, a little blurry. She was laughing, mid-sentence, Mayhem tucked under one arm like a wriggling gremlin. Her hair was a little messy, sunlight caught in the strands, her smile so full it hurt to look at.

He smiled back at her.

“You’d yell at me for keeping your cracked mug,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of the photo. “But I can’t toss it. Feels like tossing you.”

A soft chirp interrupted him. Mayhem stretched, yawned with drama, then launched herself like a missile under the table.

“Mayhem—don’t—don’t even think about chewing that cord—”

A crash. A thud. The wobble of something precious trying not to fall.

Bob groaned. “Mayhem, you diabolical little thing, the lights are on but no one’s home, huh?” He ducked under the table just in time to see her batting at a cable like it had personally insulted her. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, unrepentant. “Hey—don’t bite me—”

He laughed. It broke out of him unguarded, warm and aching. “You’re a menace,” he said, scooping her up. She flailed briefly in protest before settling, purring like a tiny engine against his chest.

He stood there for a moment, arms around her, the photo still in his other hand. The light outside was soft, stained gold and blue. A plane passed overhead. Someone two floors down was playing a familiar song through their open window—one of hers. A quiet ache curled around his ribs, but it didn’t hollow him out this time. It held him.

He looked toward the window.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Not to the cat.

To her.

Always to her.

Then he tucked the photo back into the box, flicked on the lights, and carried Mayhem into the kitchen.

It was time for dinner.

And he was still here. Still staying. Still loving.

Just like she asked.

He didn’t know the storm that was coming.

Didn’t know the name Victor Von Doom.

Didn’t know the sky would split again, and this time, it might take him too. Maybe, then, she would welcome him.

But for now—

There was light. There was a cat.There was dinner.

And there was still time.

Just enough. Almost.

So about that ending—I’m sorry? 😃

@sarcazzzum @cupid4prez @qardasngan @kmc1989 @trelaney

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akotafi

5 months ago

The Dreadful Need in the Devotee Masterlist - Completed

Summary - During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival, a thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together.

Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion has decided you need a sworn sword.

I’ve messed with canon and aged everyone up, so we start our story off with y/n being fifteen and Jon being sixteen, then go from there!

Ch 1: The Little Lion Ch 2: The Bastard Son Ch 3: Cyvassse Ch 4: Greensight Ch 5: The Tourney of the Hand Ch 6: The Chamber of the Little Lion Ch 7: Within Lannister Grasp Ch 8: Secrets Revealed Ch 9: Enter Stage Left: House Tyrell🔥 Ch 10: Aftermath Ch 11: Roseroad Ch 12: Weirwood Ch 13: The Queen's Nameday Ch 14: The Son of the Morning Ch 15: Duality of a Lioness Ch 16: The Young Wolf Ch 17: Northern War Camp Ch 18: The Fall of the Lannisters Ch 19: Post War Revelry Ch 20: The Lion and the Star🔥 Ch 21: As Time Unfurls🔥