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vellichor-of-the-solivagant · 20 days ago

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How To Plant Snapdragons | 21

Task Force 141, Keegan & Konig x Female Criminal!Reader

Previous Chapter / Masterlist / Discord

Content Warning: Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Sucking

You immediately buried your face in your hands, elbows on your knees, and folded down into your lap, completely ignoring the lance of pain that flared through your nerves as your body protested the motion. “God,” you muttered through your palms, voice muffled but dripping with secondhand shame. “That was embarrassing.”

The room blinked. Then Hesh let out a loud, sharp laugh. “That was what got you embarrassed? Not the knife in your stomach, not the threats, not the psychological warfare—you talking like some posh royal while covered in dirt and blood is what broke you?”

You groaned, fingers dragging down your face. “I looked like a mummy. And I just went full Pride and Prejudice on a laptop camera. Kill me now.”

Soap snorted. “You sounded like a Shakespearean ghost with a vengeance.”

“‘Thee shalt rue the day,’” Gaz quipped in an exaggerated accent, dramatically holding a hand over his chest. “‘For thou did unleash thy treachery upon mine comrades!’”

“Et tu, Shepherd?” Hesh chimed in, nearly doubled over with laughter.

Even Price cracked the ghost of a smirk behind you. “You handled it fine,” he said gruffly. “It shut him up.”

You peeked up through your fingers, glaring. “I’m never living that down, am I?”

“Nope,” the boys chorused.

Rodolfo passed by with a water bottle and muttered, “Your accent was very elegant, though,” before briskly walking away to stifle his grin.

You sighed and sat upright with a wince. “Great. I’m now ‘the tragic noblewoman who got stabbed and insulted a general in flawless Victorian English.’ That’s my legacy now.”

“As if you had a legacy in the first place,” Hesh called over his shoulder, already walking away like he’d dropped the mic.

You shot him a death glare and muttered, “Oh, shut the fuck up, bitch.”

He spun dramatically on one heel, arms raised in mock victory. “There we go! Back to the gremlin side of her. You're welcome, people.” With a deep, overly theatrical bow, he took in the room’s laughter, grinning as if he’d just delivered the punchline of a stand-up routine. The soldiers’ chuckles echoed around you, trying to make light of the situation, of the tension that still clung to the air like smoke.

But beneath the laughter, something darker lingered. They laughed as if they hadn’t just stared death in the face—as if they hadn’t lost comrades, friends, people they had known since birth. They laughed as if the town they grew up in, the town that had once been filled with memories of childhood, wasn't now a twisted image of war, its streets painted in blood. The life they knew had been shredded, and they still laughed, because it was easier to joke about the pain than to acknowledge how close they had come to losing everything.

You felt the weight of it all pressing on you, suffocating you. You couldn’t let them see it. You couldn’t show the cracks, not now. Not with everything still at risk.

But deep down, you knew the truth of it. You had kept the secrets about Shepherd and Graves, hidden them from them all, all to save yourself. And in doing so, you had to make a choice. A choice that gnawed at your conscience.

To save them, you needed to save yourself. But to save them, you had to be willing to sacrifice yourself, to make sure the truth didn’t destroy them. You were selfish for a selfless reason. And yet, you were selfless for a selfish reason. A terrible paradox that you couldn’t escape. No matter what you did, no matter how much you wanted to protect them, it would come down to this: you couldn't save them all without losing something of yourself in return.

And so you let the laughter wash over you, even though it was hollow, even though it felt like a cover for the unspoken fears and sacrifices weighing heavy on your heart. You gave the smallest of smiles, the mask firmly back in place.

You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Unbelievable.”

Gaz clapped once. “We survived betrayal, a knife wound, and a royal monologue . . . but that’s the true personality reveal.”

Soap nodded solemnly. “Tragic noblewoman by day. Unfiltered gremlin by night.”

“You people are the worst,” you muttered, but even you couldn’t keep the amusement out of your voice.

Price stood beside you, arms still folded, a rare, subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Are we now?” he muttered.

You blinked at him and sighed. “I guess not.”

He patted your shoulder in silence and walked off toward Rudy and Alejandro.

But still, you needed to do one thing.

You called for Alejandro and Rodolfo, your voice hoarse as you forced the words out. Slowly, you rose from your chair, using the table to prop yourself up. The pain was sharp, like a thousand needles tearing through your nerves, but you fought through it, leaning heavily on the table to keep yourself steady. Before you could even process it, Keegan and Ghost were at your side, moving with the speed of instincts honed in combat.

You muttered a low thank you to them, still feeling the tremor of your body resisting the movement. Your eyes drifted to Alejandro and Rodolfo, the Vaqueros’ leaders who were scattered across the room, watching you intently, each of them with their own unspoken thoughts. It felt like they were waiting for something—answers, perhaps, or the truth. Something you weren’t sure you had the right to give.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words felt trapped in your chest, stuck, like your breath couldn’t escape. You tried to choke them out, but it was as though your throat was dry, the words too heavy to leave your lips. You gasped for air, the desperation clawing at you as you opened and closed your mouth, like a fish stranded in a barren aquarium. The world seemed to stretch on endlessly, and for a moment, you thought you might crumble under the weight of it all.

Then, you swallowed, and for the first time, your head lowered in a bow. A deep, respectful bow, though filled with shame. Your voice was barely a whisper, but it carried across the room. "I'm sorry," you murmured. "I'm sorry for not telling you anything. For not speaking of the things I already knew. I'm sorry for dragging you and your dear brothers into this mess. I'm sorry for wrecking your beloved town. I'm sorry for not being able to stop Shepherd and the Shadows in time. I'm... I'm sorry for your loss."

There was nothing you could say that would undo what had already been done. No apology that could erase the damage. But you said it anyway, because it was all you had left to give—your regret, your guilt, the truth of everything you had failed to prevent. It was small. It was hollow. But it was real.

The room was still. Even Hesh, who usually found something to crack a joke about, was silent. The weight of your words hung in the air, thick and unspoken, as if everyone understood just how much you carried.

And as you stood there, bent by the burden of it all, you realized that the worst part wasn’t the sacrifice or the guilt—it was that you knew this would never be enough.

"I don’t know how I could ever make amends for this," you whispered, your voice barely a breath as you lowered your head even further, fighting the surge of pain that coursed through your body. "I . . . I don't think I’ll ever be able to set things right with any of you. I realize this isn't something that can be fixed with words. And I’m not asking for forgiveness—I don’t believe I deserve it. But please, just know, from the bottom of my heart, that I truly regret all of this. Everything that’s happened is on me for staying silent. I . . . I’m so sorry. To each and every one of you."

"And if you wish to blame me, please, do so," you said, your voice breaking as you forced the words out, a quiet, almost bitter acceptance. "And if you wish to end me, please, wait. Wait until I’ve taken care of Shepherd. Until I’ve handled my father. After that, I'll return to Las Palmas and—"

A hand landed gently on your shoulder, interrupting your words. Alejandro's deep voice, calm yet firm, echoed in your ears. "That's enough." His touch was reassuring, his presence steady as he patted your shoulder. "You've done enough."

The moment the words hit you, a wave of exhaustion and emotion crashed over you. Your eyes blurred, and despite your best efforts to hold it together, tears began to slip down your face. You sniffed, the tears falling, splashing softly onto the ground next to your shoes. The weight of everything—the guilt, the pain, the responsibility—was too much to keep inside.

Alejandro froze, his eyes widening as he saw the tears streaming down your face. For a moment, he was lost, unsure of how to react. “Uh, uh . . .”

Rudy was already walking away from him.

The Vaqueros, sensing the discomfort in the air, couldn't help but start teasing in a lighthearted, almost mischievous way. "Oh, what’s this? Ale making a woman cry?" one of them joked.

Alejandro's head snapped their way, and he pointed at him, crisp curses spilling out from his mouth at a rapid pace that people would think he was secretly a rapper.

But you, ever proud, straightened your back quickly, brushing the tears away with an almost harsh swipe. You sniffed hard, shaking your head. "I'm not crying," you insisted, voice a little wobbly but filled with defiance. "It’s just . . . the wound's giving me hell, that’s all. Nothing more."

Keegan, always quick to call out contradictions, raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he said, his voice teasing yet soft, "You sure about that?" He reached over, brushing a thumb under your eye, wiping away the remnants of tears before giving you a small, knowing smirk.

You gritted your teeth, feeling the burn of the wound once again. You glanced down at your stomach, your hand instinctively moving to the bandages wrapped tightly around your torso. "It’s really painful," you muttered, and just as the words left your mouth, you pressed your hand down a little too hard, feeling a rush of warmth soak through the fabric.

You looked down, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to freeze. Your hand, which had been clean moments before, was now smeared with blood. The stark red stood out against the bandages, which were now visibly soaked through. Panic spread like wildfire through the room. “Oh, look, free ketchup.”

“The fuck,” Ghost murmured, his eyes shifting down to your hand.

The rest of the room erupted in chaos.

“Bandages! Bandages!" Gaz shouted.

“On it!” Hesh rushed back into the medical room.

"Get her on the table!" Soap yelled, chasing after him.

Logan followed behind in a hurry.

You could feel their eyes on you, their worry palpable, but you simply tried to stay calm, gritting your teeth against the pain. "You guys act like I'm dying," you muttered, your voice hoarse, but it was clear they weren’t going to let you brush this off any longer.

“YOU ARE DYING!” the sergeants and Hesh exclaimed from inside the medical room as Ghost, Keegan and even Price ushered you inside.

The ceiling was cracked, water-stained, and home to two stubborn spiders locked in a silent war. You watched them crawl and clash, mandibles clicking in a rhythm that matched the dull throb in your stomach. The table beneath your back was cold, rough wood scraping against your spine. Most of your clothes had been peeled away, discarded for the medics and practicality, leaving only what was necessary for modesty—and even that felt like a luxury in front of Ghost and Keegan.

The air was still, heavy with tension, but neither of them said a word until Ghost broke the silence.

“You’re damn quiet,” he muttered, squinting down as he pulled the curved needle through your skin with steady, gloved hands. “Pain like this’d have most people screamin’ and you’re just starin’ at bugs like it’s nothing.”

You didn’t answer right away. The stitch burned—thread dragging through already irritated flesh—but your lips didn’t so much as twitch. Your eyes stayed on the spiders.

Ghost glanced up briefly. “Hell of a tolerance,” he said.

A few more seconds passed before you finally spoke, voice quiet. “Before I met any of you—before the Ghosts, it was just me.” You exhaled shakily through your nose. “After Makarov, after I escaped . . . I didn’t have anyone. Had to patch myself up. Stitch my own wounds. In a basement. In bathrooms. In alleys.”

You blinked slowly. The spiders had stilled.

“It was either adapt,” you said flatly, “or die.”

The words lingered in the air, hollow and sharp.

Keegan, off to the side, folded his arms, his mouth tightening. Ghost didn’t say anything at first. He just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and kept working—slower this time. Gentler.

Then, after a moment of silence, you spoke—your voice flat, almost dispassionate. “I’ve been tortured before.” Your eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, tone dry, unfazed. “A needle’s nothing to me now.”

Keegan huffed quietly. “That’s supposed to be a flex?”

“Damn right it is,” you muttered.

Soon after, Ghost tied off the last stitch with a small, practiced tug, and Keegan stepped in to help him wrap fresh bandages around your waist. The pressure was firmer this time—intentional. Protective. The edges of the gauze itched faintly against your skin, but it was a good kind of discomfort. A reminder that you could still feel something. That you were still alive.

Keegan helped you slip on a shirt from Alejandro’s stash. It smelled faintly of cedar—warm, worn, and somehow comforting as the fabric brushed over your skin. You let out a deep sigh, heavy in your chest, and stayed seated on the edge of the table, legs dangling and swinging lazily like a child waiting in a doctor’s office.

Ghost moved to the door, hand on the handle before cracking it open. The hallway beyond filled with familiar faces as soon as light spilled through the gap—Soap, Gaz, Hesh, Logan, and Price all peering in, eyes scanning for blood, for motion, for signs that you were still in one piece.

You didn’t meet their gazes. Instead, you stared upward, expression unreadable as you watched the old cobwebs shifting on the ceiling fan.

Then, in a low voice, barely above a whisper, you murmured, “Two missiles recovered. Shepherd’s out of the bag. My father’s still pulling strings from inside the Gulag. Hassan’s on the loose. Has the third missile.”

Your fingers tapped against your knee slowly. Measured. One-two-three, one-two.

“Shadow Company . . . ” you sighed, voice growing quieter. “Need to clean house. Get the old guys back.”

The silence that followed stretched, brittle and humming with the weight of your words. Then, another sigh escaped your lips—this one softer. Lighter. Like your soul had exhaled for the first time in days.

Keegan’s hand landed on your head, fingers ruffling your hair in a gentle, almost brotherly way before smoothing it down. The motion was grounding. Familiar.

“You should stop thinking about those things for now,” he said quietly, the deep timbre of his voice cutting through the fog in your mind. “Rest. We’ve still got some time to breathe. To plan things out.” He nodded toward the door, where the others lingered. “Together.”

You looked up at him, lips curling into a small, grateful smile as you leaned into his hand just slightly—just enough. Then your gaze shifted toward the group crowded in the doorway, their postures tense yet soft, waiting.

“Let’s talk with Laswell again,” you said, voice steadying as your mind turned. “And . . .”

Your eyes drifted across the safehouse—over scattered gear, blood-stained gauze, weapons piled in the corner—searching for something you couldn't quite place. Then your brow lifted. The realization clicked into place like a round chambering into a rifle.

“. . . Why does it feel like I’m forgetting something?”

You snapped your fingers.

“Right—Graves. Release him. He won’t harm anyone as long as I’m here.”

The room fell into a brief, startled pause.

“. . . Are you sure?” Soap asked cautiously.

“I’m sure,” you replied, calm and deliberate. “If he tries anything . . .” You shrugged, a dangerous glint flashing in your eyes, voice taking on that cold edge again. “Well. I’m in a generous mood—but not that generous.”

Even Price raised a brow, exchanging a glance with Ghost.

Keegan huffed, hand leaving your head. “We’ll keep eyes on him. But it’s your call.”

You hopped off the table without a second thought. The instant your feet hit the ground, a collective wave of panic surged through the room.

“For fuck’s sake—” Soap’s voice cracked as he lurched forward. “Can you not give us a heart attack for once?”

Gaz muttered something under his breath about “bloody maniacs,” and Price raised a hand like he was about to scold a room full of unruly cadets. Even Ghost froze mid-step, watching you like you were about to keel over again.

You, in true fashion, waved them all off with a stiff hand and started walking—slow, dragging steps, but steps nonetheless. “I’m fine,” you muttered, though your gait had all the grace of a shot-up scarecrow.

Keegan was at your side in two strides, his hand warm and steady against your back. “You’re barely stitched up,” he said, voice low but firm. “Want me to carry you?”

You cringed, your nose scrunching in distaste, and shot him a sideways look. “I can walk,” you insisted, with all the pride of a gremlin monarch.

He lifted an unimpressed brow, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Right. And who was begging for a piggyback ride earlier when we were in the town?”

Your glare could have curdled milk. “I wasn’t begging. I didn’t want to swim in sewers where vermin and people’s shit are literally best friends. Excuse me for having standards.”

That earned a snort from Hesh, who sauntered over with the most obnoxious swagger and planted a hand on the jut of his hip like some dramatic soap opera character. “Oh please. Dad threw us into way worse shit growing up. Remember that jungle op? We had ants crawling in our boots and something laid eggs in Logan’s sleeping bag.”

Logan, from the back, muttered a soft “Don’t remind me,” with a distant look that screamed trauma.

Hesh continued, “You getting spoiled now or something?”

Your mouth fell open, a scathing retort bubbling right behind your teeth—until Logan, ever the quiet snarker, fired a shot you didn’t expect.

“She just wants to ride Keegan,” he said casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

You blinked. Jaw fully unhinged. Your brain short-circuited for a solid two seconds before you spun toward him.

“What the actual fuck did you just say to me?”

Logan’s eyes widened. He’d poked the bear—and the bear had teeth.

You charged towards him—or at least tried. Your body protested every step, stitches pulling, but your pride pulled harder. You limped with purpose, hand raised like you were about to commit war crimes. “Come here, you cunt!”

Logan was already backing up, stumbling into Soap and Gaz as he made his escape, laughing breathlessly.

The others erupted into laughter. Soap was doubled over, wheezing. Gaz had his phone out, clearly filming. Price pinched the bridge of his nose like this was the 400th time he'd seen this exact scenario with his team even before you came. “And people wonder why I have migraines,” he muttered.

Keegan didn’t stop you—just kept one hand on your back to make sure you didn’t keel over mid-rage. He leaned in, voice close to your ear. “You’re going to bleed again, gremlin.”

“Worth it,” you gritted out, eyes locked on Logan like a shark tracking blood in the water.

It took a team effort—literally. Keegan and Hesh flanked you like security escorts, while Soap blocked the hallway with his arms outstretched, forming a makeshift human barricade. Logan had vanished somewhere down the hall, and you were still mid-rant, breathing hard, muttering vengeance.

“He called me out like that in front of everyone,” you seethed, limping with rage. “Like I won’t beat his ass in front of God and—”

“Alright, alright,” Price finally stepped in, a hand gently clamping down on your shoulder like a dad trying to calm a tantrum-throwing wild animal. “You’re stitched like a cheap rug, bleeding through your shirt again, and you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not—” you started, but then a dizzy spell spun the room sideways, and Keegan was already guiding you down with a firm hand.

“Sit,” he said simply, pointing at a dusty old chair in the safehouse corner like it was a throne. “Now. Before I make you.”

You glared at him, but the ache in your side and the warm trickle you felt soaking the bandages again made you sigh in defeat. You sat—heavily. The chair creaked under you. Your shoulders slumped. The adrenaline drained from your limbs and your stubbornness fizzled into the air like smoke after a fire.

Soap crouched in front of you, waving a hand in front of your face. “Oi, Bonnie, ya good?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, even as your head tilted back and your eyes closed. “Just . . . need a minute.”

Keegan crouched next to you, unwrapping a clean roll of bandages, pulling up your shirt with clinical precision—though his touch was careful. “You tore the edge of the wound again,” he muttered.

Ghost knelt beside him, grabbing gauze. “We’ll patch you up again. But if you move one more time without permission, I’m sedating you myself.”

“Bet,” you whispered, your lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Do it. Make it a cocktail.”

Gaz snorted from the side. “She’s delirious. That’s the ‘I’m seeing stars but I won’t admit it’ voice.”

“I’m not delirious,” you mumbled. “I’m just tired and I hate Logan.”

Logan’s voice drifted faintly from the hall. “Love you too!”

You weakly raised a middle finger in his direction, eyes still closed. Rare words from him, he wasn’t vocal about his affection and would often show it in actions and the way he would care for someone.

Hesh chuckled and leaned against the wall. “She’s still got fight in her. That’s a good sign.”

Once Ghost tied off the new set of bandages and Keegan wiped off the fresh blood on your side with practiced ease, he helped pull your shirt back down. This time, he didn’t tease or make a remark. Just a gentle pat to your knee and a rare, small smile.

“You’re not invincible,” he said.

You cracked an eye open. “Neither are you.”

“Fair,” he said, standing again.

Soap offered you a water bottle. You took it without a word, gulping down half in seconds.

Price stood at the center of the room, arms crossed, his face set in that signature steel-jawed resolve. “We’ll plan after you rest,” he said firmly. “You’ve done more than enough for now.”

A quiet fell over the group, just for a moment. Not heavy—just thoughtful.

At the same time, just beyond the doorway—half in shadow, half in muted light—Alejandro and Rodolfo stood with their arms crossed, watching the unfolding chaos like spectators at a live comedy tragedy. Behind them, members of Los Vaqueros lingered, some chuckling quietly, others murmuring among themselves. The energy inside the safehouse was… feral.

Alejandro exhaled through his nose, smirking faintly as he watched you slap at Logan while Soap cackled, Ghost rewrapped your bandages for the third time that hour, and Keegan hovered beside you like an overworked trauma nurse. Price—stoic, stiff, and silent—stood like a statue off to the side, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes like a stormcloud. He looked very much like the Ringmaster of a circus that had long since rebelled.

“Es un circo, ¿no?” Rodolfo muttered, lips twitching.

One of the younger Vaqueros leaned toward Alejandro, glancing at the door before whispering in Spanish, “Ruidosos, ¿verdad?”

Alejandro’s eyes followed the scene inside: Soap and Gaz trying to hold in laughter, Ghost’s shoulders tense with something like unspoken concern, Keegan still crouched beside you with one hand on your knee, trying to soothe your irritation while Logan barked a laugh from a safe distance.

Without missing a beat, Alejandro murmured back, low and amused, “Ser ruidoso equilibra ser sangre fría.”

(Being noisy balances out being cold-blooded.)

The Vaquero beside him snorted quietly in agreement.

Then came the moment where Keegan, Soap, and Ghost all moved at once—one adjusted your pillow, one set your legs up on the makeshift cot, and the last handed you a water bottle and quietly told you to “shut up and sleep.” You gave a grumble in response, already drifting.

This time, no one argued. You laid back—more from exhaustion than surrender—and finally, finally, closed your eyes, your fingers curling faintly against the scratchy blanket.

Alejandro and Rodolfo exchanged a glance as your breathing evened out.

“She’ll be asleep in seconds,” Rodolfo said softly.

“She deserves it,” Alejandro replied, his tone losing some of the humor. “The girl’s been walking around like her pain doesn’t matter.”

The two men continued to watch in silence as the rest of the team filed out of the room one by one. The door clicked shut. And peace—or something close to it—settled over the safe house.

And there, bound onto a pillar, Graves grumbled.

You blinked slowly, adjusting to the light above you that hummed faintly in the otherwise quiet room. The sterile scent of antiseptic still lingered, blending with something vaguely metallic—dried blood, maybe. Your limbs felt heavy, like they'd sunk too far into the bed, like part of you hadn't caught up with the rest yet. You groaned, shielding your eyes with the back of your hand.

How long had you been out? Were the others resting?

You started to sit up, your body protesting in dull aches, until a shadow leaned over you. A gloved hand touched your back, gentle but firm. Your eyes landed on the figure, and despite the mask, you knew who it was.

“Keegan,” you breathed, your voice cracked with sleep and lingering pain, but soft—like a secret meant just for him. A small smile ghosted across your lips.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded, eyes never leaving yours, and helped ease you into a sitting position. Your hand reached up, fingers brushing over his jaw before slipping behind his neck, pulling him closer until his forehead brushed against yours.

Then, with a sigh, he bent lower and rested his chin atop your head, the familiar warmth of him grounding you in a way nothing else could. His other hand settled at your waist, thumb tracing idle circles over your shirt. You leaned into his chest, the steady beat of his heart a metronome for your breathing.

Silence stretched between you. Not uncomfortable, just necessary. Finally, he broke it—his voice low, close enough that you felt the words more than heard them. “We have something to talk about.”

You didn’t even lift your head. “Not about the plans, yeah?” you murmured.

“Not about the plans,” he echoed.

You closed your eyes, your brow gently pressing against the front of his vest. After a beat, you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

It was so soft that if he hadn’t been holding you so close, he might have missed it. But he heard you.

You knew what he wanted to talk about. You knew it the moment your fingers tightened slightly at the hem of his shirt. This was about you. About him. About the complicated, blurry shape that had been “you and Keegan” before you left—before things twisted and tangled and you ended up letting parts of yourself spill into others’ hands. Soap. Gaz. Even Ghost. And maybe even Price. It hadn’t been a secret. You hadn’t lied. But you hadn’t said anything either.

No labels. No definitions. A relationship carved out of shared moments and quiet longing, quiet understanding. You’d loved him, still loved him—God, you loved him. But you also feared what love meant. What it demanded of you. You’d always told Keegan your issues were a mess of threads. Abandonment. Trust. Commitment. And his response was never to untangle them, just to hold them with you.

But he needed confirmation. He deserved confirmation. All of them. That something between you still lived. That it mattered. And that it deserved to be named. Whether that name came now or later, you weren’t sure. But one thing was certain—you weren’t running from it anymore.

“. . . Okay,” you murmured into his chest, voice steadier this time. “Let’s talk.”

A moment of silence, before he spoke.

“Well, I guess I should have known your type from all the books and fiction you've read,” Keegan commented, dry and teasing, his usual brand of deadpan humor wrapped in something gentler.

You snorted, nose scrunching as you leaned back slightly to look at him. “Are you not supposed to be angry?” you asked, almost curious, your tone testing the waters.

He raised a brow, the motion subtle beneath the shadow of his mask. His eyes stayed locked on yours. “You want me to be angry?” he asked, voice quiet—calm in that way only Keegan could manage, like thunder just on the edge of a storm that hadn’t decided to hit yet.

The air stilled between you, just for a beat. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly unsure if you were poking at a bear or asking for comfort. “. . . No,” you admitted, softer. “But I wouldn’t blame you if you were.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, his silence pressing in—not heavy, but thoughtful. Then he exhaled through his nose, and the hand on your waist flexed gently, grounding. “I’m not angry,” he said, voice firm and low, “I’m . . . trying not to be hurt. There’s a difference.”

That made your throat tighten.

He reached up, gloved fingers brushing hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “I knew what I was getting into. I knew about your walls. Hell, I even told you I’d wait behind them until you were ready to open the door.” A slight tilt of his head. “But you didn’t open the door. You walked out of it and gave pieces of yourself to people who hadn’t even knocked yet.”

Your lips parted, but he held up a hand, not harsh—just needing to finish.

“I’m not blaming you. I know it’s complicated. I know you’re trying. But I want you to be honest with me the same way I’ve been with you. Not just about what happened,” he paused, “but what you want. What you need.”

He looked down at you again, and this time, there was no judgment in his gaze—just raw sincerity. “I’m not going to make you choose. But if I’m standing here, still holding on to something that doesn’t exist anymore, I need to know.”

You swallowed, the ache in your chest tightening just behind your sternum. Keegan always had a way of speaking plainly when it counted. Always stripped his words down to their weight.

You blinked at him, voice barely above a whisper. “. . . It still exists.” Your fingers reached up, curling around the edge of his vest. You didn’t meet his eyes when you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just . . . I don’t know if I should be doing this.” You swallowed. “Feels wrong to hold onto something good when I’m on borrowed time. Yet I can’t stop myself.”

Keegan stilled, his hand instinctively pressing against your back. “You’re not—”

“I can’t even keep myself from getting hurt,” you cut in, soft and tired. “How am I supposed to protect anyone else? How do I keep you safe?”

There was a pause, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, Keegan leaned in closer, voice low like a promise, “You don’t have to protect me. Just let me be here.”

You felt like crying again. The pressure bloomed behind your eyes, a lump catching in your throat. But you forced it down. Steady. Don’t fall apart. Not yet.

You lifted your gaze, meeting his.

His eyes—cold as ever, like ice tempered against steel. That wintry kind of quiet fury. But you’d known them long enough to see through it. There was heat behind the frost, something tense and flickering just for you. You reached for him again like you couldn’t help it. Fingers curled at the edge of his balaclava, tugging it down in a practiced, tender motion. The other hand slid to the back of his neck, pulling him in.

His breath caught—but only for a second.

Then his lips found yours again, like muscle memory. Familiar. Firm. And yet somehow, impossibly, deeper and carried weight. It knew too much. It remembered.

Keegan leaned into you slowly, guiding you down onto the cold metal of the table with a steady hand behind your back. He didn’t ask permission—but you didn’t need him to. His other hand found your waist, fingers curling in slightly like he needed to hold, not just touch.

He slotted himself between your legs again, moving as if he’d been starved for this—this closeness, this warmth he only ever let himself have with you. The kiss turned heated, not in lust, but in desperation. His lips moved with purpose, with a need to feel you. And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting for this to happen all over again and he kissed you like he’d fight for every second of it.

The kiss unraveled between you like a dam breaking.

What started as familiar—firm lips pressed to yours, controlled and steady—quickly twisted into something neither of you could contain. The need was too much. Too long buried. Too many nights spent wondering if this moment would ever come again.

Keegan's mouth moved over yours with reckless hunger, and you matched it. Tongues brushing, teeth grazing—heat building in the space between. It was the kind of kiss that had no rhythm, just need. You gasped into him, the sound caught in his throat as he swallowed it down, his hand fisting the fabric at your back like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

When you parted, it wasn’t by choice. It was a necessity. Breaths ragged. Chests heaving. The room was suddenly too hot.

A slick string of saliva still tethered your lips, stretching between you. His eyes bore into yours, stormy blue and wild—still sharp like ice, but no longer cold. You couldn’t tell where the silence between you ended and the tension began. You parted your lips to speak, to whisper something stupid or honest or both, but he didn’t let you.

Keegan surged forward again.

This time, his kiss was deeper—possessive. He kissed you like a man with nothing to lose, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other sliding lower, fingers brushing over the hem of your shirt, feeling the heat of your skin beneath it. You gasped softly when he pressed you back against the table, the metal cool through the thin fabric of your clothes.

His hands mapped over you with intent—slow, steady, reverent.

They moved along your waist, gloved fingers tracing the lines of your body like he was relearning them, reminding himself of where to touch, and where not to touch. He was careful, aware of the bandages under your shirt, but still firm. Still claiming. His thumb brushed the bare sliver of skin beneath your ribs, drawing a soft, shaky exhale from your lips.

He pulled away from your mouth—just barely—but his trail didn’t stop. A kiss on your jaw. Another at the hinge where it met your neck. You tilted your head slightly, silently offering him more. Then, you felt it. His lips on your neck. Soft, at first. Feather-light. Then firmer. Sucking.

You clenched your jaw to stop the sound that rose from your throat, pressing your lips together so tightly they trembled. But Keegan didn’t miss the way your body reacted—arching slightly, fists tightening in his shirt.

And then he bit.

Not harsh. Just enough to sting. Enough to mark.

Your breath hitched. One of your hands shot up, curling into the collar of his vest, anchoring yourself. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to fall apart too quickly. Not like this. Not when he was being so damn careful with you.

He kissed the bite after. Like an apology.

Your heart pounded in your chest, wild and erratic, syncing with the pulse you felt in your throat—right where his lips had just been.

“. . . Keegan,” you whispered, breathless. “I’m dirty. Literally.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, but you meant it. You were bloodied, sweat-stained, bandaged in places you couldn’t even feel anymore. There was dried mud crusted along your knees that you couldn’t see right now. Your shirt was the only thing that was probably clean, free of sweat and blood. But you were a mess. You felt like a mess.

But Keegan didn’t even hesitate.

“I wiped you clean when you were out,” he murmured, voice low—gravel and heat right against your jaw. “Don’t think I didn’t take care of you.”

You blinked up at him.

And then, without a word, he reached for his glove.

You watched, breath catching, as he brought it to his mouth and tugged it off with his teeth—slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. The sound of fabric slipping over skin was suddenly loud in the quiet space, your stomach twisting at the sight. You felt heat rush to your neck, your cheeks, your ears, burning its way down, curling low in your belly.

He tossed the glove aside, and then his bare hand—calloused and cold—slipped beneath your shirt.

You gasped softly, instinctively arching just slightly as his touch met your skin. He was slow about it, the pad of his thumb grazing just under the bandages, careful not to touch what would hurt.

He leaned down, chest hovering over yours, his face close—so close his breath tickled your ear. Then, he murmured, low and warm, “Cover your mouth for me, sweetheart.”

The words hit you like a jolt. Every nerve ending fired at once, all heat and tension and ache. And at the same time, you heard the noises outside of the room, the sound so dangerously close at the moment. But your hand rose instinctively, hesitating halfway, and he caught it—guiding it gently to your lips, as if to say, go on. His gaze pinned you there, heavy and unreadable, but his touch . . . his touch was anything but unsure.

His hand—still under your shirt—moved higher.

You swore your breath stopped. You didn’t dare speak. Couldn’t. Because if you did, everything you were holding in might fall out with it.

Keegan’s hand lingered beneath your shirt, fingers gliding over your skin, careful not to brush against bruises or healing wounds. His touch was steady, tracing the dips and rises of your waist like he was memorizing you all over again. You shivered—not from the cold, but from him.

Then, slowly, his hand moved to the hem of your shirt.

You watched his eyes, the way they flicked up to yours for permission—even if he didn’t say it aloud. Silent understanding passed between you, and you gave the faintest nod.

He curled his fingers into the fabric and began to tug it upward. Not all the way—just enough. Just until the soft, worn cotton lifted past your ribs, gathering just above your chest. The cool air of the room swept over your exposed skin, and goosebumps bloomed in its wake. His gaze dropped, and for a moment, he didn’t move—just looked. At you. At the curve of your chest, the subtle rise and fall of your breath, the way you let him see you like this—unguarded, real.

Then his hand—bare, rough, and warm now—came to rest just beneath the edge of your bra. He didn’t push, didn’t rush. Just settled there, like he was grounding himself in the moment, in you. His thumb ghosted lightly over a scar, one he knew. His touch paused there—almost reverent—then moved again, finding another, then one more. His jaw tightened.

These weren’t all old. Some were new. Fainter, redder, unfamiliar. His fingers lingered on them like a silent apology, quiet grief for the time he wasn’t there to keep you from earning them. And when he leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of your ear, he whispered, softer this time, “Still with me?”

You gave the smallest nod, your breath catching in your throat.

His head dipped again.

He kissed the swell of your breast, slow and reverent like he was memorizing the feel of you with his mouth. His gloved hand trailed up your ribs, then gently tugged down the edge of the bra’s cup with practiced care. The movement made your chest rise subtly, the shift revealing more of your skin to the cool air between you.

Keegan gazed at your exposed breast, his icy blue eyes darkening with a hunger he couldn't hide, and then he shifted his eyes on you. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned down, his breath ghosting over your nipple before he took it into his mouth. He suckled gently at first, tongue swirling around the hardening peak, before drawing it between his teeth. At the same time, his hand cupped your other mound, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he massaged it, thumb and forefinger rolling and plucking at your nipple. He seemed determined to lavish attention on every inch of your skin he'd revealed, worshipping you with his mouth and hands like you were something precious and fragile. The dual sensations sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, and you felt yourself melting under his touch, a breathless moan escaping your lips, muffled by your hand.

You could feel the hard, thick length of him throbbing against you, even through the layers of fabric separating you, and Keegan inhaled sharply as you pressed yourself against him, his grip on your breast tightening reflexively. He rocked into you instinctively, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate grind that sent sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine. The hand not occupied, slid down to your ass, gripping the curve of it and pulling you harder against him.

With a final, hard suck on your nipple, Keegan released it from his mouth and pulled away. He gazed up at you, eyes dark and intense, drinking at the sight of your heaving chest and flushed skin. His hand left your breast, trailing down your stomach slowly, fingertips grazing over your skin. He paused at the waistband of your pants, not yet touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his palm.

Keegan looked up at you, his icy gaze molten with desire, silently seeking your permission. At your nod, he slowly, almost reverently, began to unbutton your pants. He slipped his bare hand underneath the waistband of your panties, his fingers skimming over your lower belly, making your muscles flutter at his touch. As he leaned down to capture your nipple between his lips once more, his hand dipped lower, finding your sensitive, aching clit. He circled it slowly, teasingly, his calloused fingertip grazing the swollen nub and sending a jolt of electric pleasure shooting through your core. A muffled moan came from you as your hips bucked instinctively into his touch.

He massaged your clit with a steady, deliberate rhythm, his fingertip circling and pressing, coaxing more of your arousal from your core. Your hips began to move on their own, rocking against his hand as the pleasure built with each rotation of his skillful fingers. Without warning, he slipped a long finger inside your soaked folds, your walls clenching around the intrusion. He stroked slowly, carefully, his finger curling and uncurling, brushing against that special spot deep within you. Your eyes fluttered shut, a silent moan catching in your throat as you lost yourself in the sensation, your body responding eagerly to his touch.

Keegan's finger continued its slow, deliberate strokes, each one sending waves of pleasure radiating through your core. He could feel your walls fluttering around him, growing tighter and wetter with every pass. His thumb, slick with your juices, rubbed firm circles around your clit, the stimulation almost too much to bear. He could feel you tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and he knew you were close. Leaning down, he captured your nipple between his teeth once more, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, the sound muffled by your hand. At the same time, he slipped a second finger inside you, stretching you, filling you, stroking along that spot that made your toes curl and your back arch off the table.

He pumped his fingers steadily, curling them just right. His thumb pressed harder on your clit as he felt your walls start to tremble around him, your body tensing, coiling, ready to snap. He could feel your heart pounding, your chest heaving, your skin flushed and hot under his touch. He was taking you to the edge, pushing you, demanding your release.

Keegan's fingers began to move faster, pumping into you with a newfound urgency, yet he maintained an eerie silence. The room filled with the muffled sounds of your shared breaths, your gasps, and whimpers stifled by the hand you gripped over your mouth. His thumb rubbed your clit with quick, purposeful circles, the slick glide of his touch echoing obscenely in the quiet room. He could feel your body tensing, your hips rocking into his hand, silently begging for more. Leaning down, he pressed his forehead to yours, icy eyes boring into your own as he purred under his breath, "I've got you." His fingers curled just right, stroking that perfect spot inside you as his thumb pressed down hard on your clit.

Your climax hit you like a shockwave, your body seizing, back arching off the table as you gripped his bicep with white knuckles, a silent scream trapped in your throat. He worked you through it, fingers pumping steadily, drawing out your pleasure until you collapsed back onto the cold metal, your chest heaving in the silence, only your ragged breaths and the racing beat of your heart breaking the quiet.

As the last waves of your silent climax ebbed away, Keegan slowly withdrew his fingers from your still-quivering body. He brought his glistening hand to his mouth, his icy gaze locked with yours as he licked your essence from his fingers, one by one. His tongue swiped over each digit, savoring your taste with a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. The intimate, almost erotic gesture sent a fresh surge of heat rushing to your core. He made no sound, but the gleam in his eyes spoke volumes.

Flustered and overwhelmed by the intensity of your shared moment, you quickly covered your face with your hands, a muffled groan escaping your lips. "Keegan, stop giving me that look," you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper. The heat of your palms against your burning cheeks offered little relief from the blush that crept up your neck and painted your skin a deep, rosy hue. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your blood singing with a desire that left you breathless and weak.

Keegan didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The silence between you was electric—charged with all the things neither of you could bring yourself to voice aloud.

His gaze never left your form, steady and unblinking as he fixed his mask. And even though your face was buried in your hands, you could feel his stare. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, quiet, but it reached you like a warm gust against your skin. “You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he muttered, the rare softness in his voice sending another wave of heat washing over you.

You peeked through your fingers, only to meet those piercing blue eyes—cool and unreadable to others, but to you, they were something else entirely. A contrast to the way his gaze drank you in like you were something sacred like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

“Stop it,” you breathed again, barely able to keep the smile from your lips.

But Keegan just stepped closer, leaning in enough that his breath ghosted across the shell of your ear. “Not a chance,” he whispered, low and firm.

Then, without a word, Keegan’s touch shifted—no less tender, but steadier now, more grounded. He helped you sit up, his gloved hand supporting your back. With quiet patience, he reached for your pants, fingers working at the zipper with practiced ease, like this wasn’t the first time he’d taken care of you in small, wordless ways.

You adjusted your bra, tucking yourself back in with quick, slightly shaky hands. Your shirt followed, tugged down, and smoothed over your frame as you exhaled slowly, still trying to steady the rhythm of your heartbeat.

Keegan didn’t rush. He didn’t look away, either. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary—thumb brushing over your hip.

Your hand flew to your neck, instinctively pressing against the spot where his teeth had marked you. It throbbed faintly—tender, warm, and unmistakably his. A part of you wanted to scoff at yourself, to brush it off as nothing, but the sensation lingered like a secret etched into your skin. You tilted your head slightly, fingers ghosting over the blooming ache. “What do we do with this?” you murmured, half-teasing, half-serious.

Keegan just looked at you, the corner of his mouth twitching beneath the mask. “Wear it,” he said simply, his voice low and unbothered. “Let ‘em wonder.”

Your breath hitched—caught between a laugh and something far softer. Something more dangerous. And all you could do was let your hand fall away, heat still curling beneath your skin where his mark lived now. But you knew better than not to have a banter with him over small things. “I’ll just say an insect bit me, then.”

Keegan gave a quiet, amused huff through his nose, eyes crinkling just slightly. “Yeah?” he murmured, stepping in close again, his gloved fingers brushing yours at your neck. “Must’ve been one hell of an insect. Real territorial.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, lips twitching. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mm,” he agreed, not even pretending otherwise. “But you’re the one letting me bite you.”

That smugness was barely there, buried beneath something softer—relieved, maybe. Grateful. A warmth in his voice that you only ever heard when you were alone like this.

You sighed, defeated but flustered, and muttered, “Fine. It was a damn wasp.”

Keegan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Better hope it doesn’t bite again, then. ‘Cause next time, I’m not stopping at the neck.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed his face away, trying to hide the way your lips twitched upward. Keegan let you, leaning back just enough to watch you with that same unreadable glint in his eyes.

Then your gaze dropped, and your brow arched pointedly at the very obvious bulge in his pants. “What do you do with that?” you asked, tone dry but teasing.

Keegan followed your eyes, then looked back up at you, unbothered. “Tactical patience,” he said smoothly, adjusting his gloves like it was any other day.

You snorted. “That’s not regulation.”

He shrugged. “Neither are you.”

You laughed—quiet, breathy, a little flustered still—and shoved him again, but this time he caught your wrist, gently, and pressed a light kiss to your knuckles.

“Unless you want to help with it,” he murmured, voice low, laced with just enough teasing to make your breath hitch.

You raised a hand in mock exasperation, laughing dryly as you shook your head. “Absolutely not.”

He stared at you for a beat, then scoffed with feigned offense. “How dare you.”

Before you could react, his hand covered your face entirely, palm smushed against your cheek and forehead, pushing you away with dramatic slowness.

You burst out laughing, hands flying up to grab his wrist. “Keegan, get off!” you cackled, gripping at him as you tried to wriggle free, but he held firm, matching your grin with that rare, boyish glint in his eyes.

“Disrespect,” he muttered.

You were still laughing as you finally peeled his hand off your face, cheeks aching from how hard you were smiling.

Next Chapter / Archive of Our Own / Discord

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bullet-prooflove · 1 month ago

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Scar Tissue: Billy Butcher x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @darknightfrombeyond

Prequel to:

Addict (NSFW) - Billy realises he's an addict when it comes to you.

You fight like you fuck.

Fierce, dirty and without the barest shred of mercy.

Just like Billy.

Billy, the man who taught you how to throwdown, to stay strong, be tough. The one who also got kicked out of the SAS for fraternization because at heart that place is still a boy’s club and there’s no room for a Captain who fucks her Major.

“This is bollocks.” He says quietly as he watches you pack your shit up in the officer’s quarters. His own room is just next door, the official scene of the crime. “An absolute bag of shite-”

“I’m a big girl Major, I knew what I was getting into.” You inform him, stuffing the your medals into the side panel of your holdall. They clack together in the velvet box causing his teeth to grind together. “You can walk away with a clear conscience.”

“It ain’t fucking fair.” He asserts, tasting the bitterness on his tongue as you zip the bag up, slinging it over your shoulder.

He knows he’s not telling you anything new. You’ve been a woman in the British army for over a decade now, you know how the game works. He gets to keep his rank, his squad and you get dishonourably discharged. It makes his blood fucking boil.

“It doesn’t matter.” You say as you hover in the doorway before you take your leave. “It’s all about the mission right? That’s what you taught me. You’ll forget all about me as soon as I walk through that gate.”

But Billy, he doesn’t forget. He still fantasises about you when he fucks his fist in the shower, dreams about you when he closes his eyes. You consume his thoughts when a song from your playlist comes on the radio, the one you used to listen to, to help you wind down after mission.

He thinks he must be god damn hallucinating when he runs into you at the Bureau of Superhuman Affairs. You’re clad in a camel coloured overcoat with a scar that looks like crumbled paper staining the majority of your throat and the underside of your chin. A skin graft he realises, he has a similar one across his back from where that little twat Firefox tried to immolate him.

“So this is where you ended up.” He says as you stand across from each other in the marble foyer. “Heard you left the Great British Empire after the army fucked you over, didn’t know where you landed though.”

“Greener pastures.” You respond, your voice deeper, more raspy. Damage to your voice box he assumes, from your dance with death.

“Right…” He says, tucking his hands into the pockets. “Look I’m not going to apologise again-”

“You didn’t apologise the first time.” You remind him, your cadence is sharper this time like a hunting knife driving into his belly.

That’s right, Billy didn’t apologise because Billy didn’t do anything fucking wrong other than putting that cunt Captain Daniel’s in his place for describing in vivid detail how he wanted to bend you over the desk in the comms room. It had all unravelled after that because Major Butcher didn’t just beat the shit out of someone for no reason, not back then.

“This has been real nice and all but I got shit I need to do-” He captures your arm before you step away and he sees that spark ignite in your eyes, that ferociously he fell in love all those years ago.

“What if I could make it up to you?” He says in a rough, hushed tone. You don’t speak, you simply tilt your head indicating that you’re listening. “You want the fucker that did that to you” – he gestures at the rumpled pink edges of the burn that’s seared into your flesh – “I can find him.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Butcher.” You say wrenching your arm out of his grasp. You linger though, still standing there within his proximity because you want Firefox, Billy can sense that with every fibre of his being.

“I’ll be keeping this one love.” He tells you, with a fierceness that rivals the infernos that burn in the very the depths of hell. “Trust me, I’ll make sure of it.”

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damneddamsy · 9 months ago

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renegade | aemond targaryen x oc (part ix)

a/n: Silverwing being ride-or-die is my new favourite trope

Princess Aemma Velaryon's death reached Dragonstone only after her forlorn brother, Prince Lucerys, feverishly searched the seas and skies alike for any sign of her or Silverwing. All he came upon of her was the shredded length of her velvet cloak by the shores of Shipbreaker's Bay, his sister's sweet lavender perfume lost to the salt of the sea. He had clung to it like it was his lifeline, and that's how they found him in the Sea Dragon tower, within Aemma's chambers—crying his eyes out and calling out to her.

Luke sobbed deeply, pulling at his hair. "It should've been me."

Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon walked in on Luke, eager to see her children again, and eventually registering his undone suffering. Once the mother noticed the familiar article of clothing—formerly her own—she went insensate. Her shoulders shook, composure gone to ashes, and sank to her knees. Daemon was stoic to the scene, save for his hand that went to direly fist at his sword.

The older prince spoke first, relieving the tension. Despite his grave face, his tone was forbidding, intending to burn. "Who the fuck did this?"

Luke's upper lip curled, his hands clenching at his sister's cape. "Him."

Nothing else needed to be said. The reality of who was capable of executing such treason was well understood, though uttering his name was like spitting venom.

Rhaenyra roared out with the visceral fury of a dragon, and once that drained, she was but an empty vessel. She heaved a solemn breath, palming at her abdomen. The misery that wracked her labours was far less cruel than whatever this was, the anguish overwhelming, her chest aching with the burden of mourning two daughters, their deaths igniting the flames of war.

When she tearily looked to her side, Daemon had disappeared.

Prince Daemon had been conditioned to barbarity and grief, so much they were welcome drinking companions of his. Aemma was no different to this addition. In her, he saw echoes of his own turbulent youth—the same steely determination, the same unpredictability, the restless drive to remain an enigma to those around her. Perhaps it was this reflection of his own wild spirit that spurred him to seek out grisly revenge.

Daemon's warpath toward Caraxes suddenly stopped as he saw him standing before the painted table. The hollow swordsman. The one-eyed kinslayer. A mirror of Daemon's worst motivations. Here stood the rider of the beast that had slain his daughter.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister without hesitation, the Valyrian blade slicing through the air with a menacing swish.

"Poetic justice or self-destruction?" he muttered, masking his fury.

Aemond bore a black smile, barely lifting his lips. "Depends on which of us you ask, uncle."

Rumours had begun to spread that Aemond Targaryen had defected to the Blacks. Some even called it a surrender. Perhaps it was the stabs of a prickling conscience, the blood stains of love in his hands, or the affliction of sorrow that had overtaken him, making him ready to face the wrath of a grieving mother—and his own death. Bereft of his truest calling, shattered by dreams he had destroyed with his hands, the one-eyed prince swiftly concluded that life held no meaning without his princess. He intended to follow her footsteps soon enough, to fulfil the conclusive detail of their promise: never to part from Aemma henceforth.

Without Aemond and Vhagar, King’s Landing had become perilously vulnerable. The soaring pall of the largest and most terrifying dragon no longer loomed over the capital, and it was clear to all that their strongest defence was now absent. The Greens' was evidently morale staggered. With Vhagar’s absence, Rhaenyra’s forces could bring the fire with seven dragons and fewer consequences, and rumours of dissent spread throughout the city. The Greens were losing their grip, outmatched in numbers and firepower, leaving the smallfolk exposed and the city teetering on the edge of defeat.

Terrible fables spoke of King Aegon and Aemond One-Eye’s grandiose schemes to slay the false queen under the guise of begging for mercy. But these tales were discredited when it was revealed that Aemond had been imprisoned in the chambers of the late princess—a ruthless move orchestrated by Queen Rhaenyra. It was, in every sense, a final sentence.

“If that savage snake truly loved her,” Rhaenyra had said vengefully to her husband, “then that place will drive him mad. Let his evil haunt him. I want to see the fear in his eyes when I burn him.”

Yet fear was not something Aemond would entertain. He would sooner fall on his sword than show terror before his wretched half-sister.

Over time, however, he did fall—deeper into madness consumed by the unfamiliarity of being locked in the space that had once been Aemma’s. The burden of memory became the iron bars and chains of this prison. Numb to everything else, he wandered her chambers aimlessly, haunted by her absence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once—in the vanity, where strands of her hair clung to her hairbrush; in the bureau, where her meticulously folded maps and lists remained undisturbed; and in the faint perfume that lingered in the air, forever scenting her dresser.

A full moon's cycle passed before Aemond began hearing her voice. A breathy echo, a laughing whisper, a figment of his broken mind. With each crash of the waves against the jagged rocks beneath her balcony, he would catch that soft, familiar sound: My friend.

The echo eased him in ways nothing else could, drawing a smile to his face. If this was madness, it was madness he welcomed. My love, he thought, and in that moment, he would’ve gladly surrendered to it.

Jace was the one who finally confronted Aemond, his vengeance boiling over upon his return from the Vale. Sword in hand, he cornered the one-eyed prince in his sister's chambers. What was surprising was how the captive did not baulk at the sight of the angry prince. He simply tilted his head, offering his neck and awaiting the onslaught.

"Fucking murderous cunt," Jace spat, barely above a whisper, trembling with restrained fury.

Aemond was inured now. It resounded in his mind with every breath, a constant reminder of what he'd become. His gaze remained distant, vacant as he met Jace's stare.

"Mount your dragon," Jace ordered, dripping with disdain. "I only spare you this avail because of how dearly Aemma loved you."

Aemond didn’t even blink. It took more effort than expected to form words after days of silence.

"I will not fight you," he muttered, voice gravelly from disuse. "So, get it over with. Finish me."

But Jace wasn't about to grant him that release.

"You're coming with me," he growled, eyes blazing with wrath. "I won't believe my sister is gone until I see it with my eyes. Find me Silverwing, and only then will you get what you so desperately crave."

Aemond turned away, blinking back a rare sting of emotion clouding his vision. He had been so benumbed, that the sensation sliced him raw. His jaw clenched, forcing his voice through the anguish tightening his throat.

"Silverwing sank beneath the waves."

"Then she should've washed ashore by now," Jace snapped, his tone sharpening. "Or been spotted near Storm's End, or found by sailors off Driftmark. Someone would've seen her. I will not grieve with my family until I know for certain. Until I’ve seen damning proof."

Aemond’s teeth ground together in frustration. "My hope ended with her."

"Hope?" Jace sneered, the word wresting bitterly in his mouth. "Know this, uncle—gods forbid I find what I seek, you won’t just be dead to the realm, you’ll be nothing more than a relic of a prince no one will remember."

We cannot know the ancient minds of dragons. They were not merely instruments of war—they were beasts of chaos, as unreliable as the gales they rode. A bitter reminder of how little command Targaryens truly held, even over their own beasts. Yet, the Good Queen's Silverwing had always been distinct from the others—gentler, some would say, with a serenity that belied the strength coiled within her shimmering, pale-scaled body.

Her loyalty to her peaceful rider ran deeper than bloodshed or battle, for it was not assumed upon command or duty but of a friendship that transcended power. It was instinctual, a mutual loneliness that they shared. Silverwing had intuited Aemma’s presence since her first touch upon her scales, the soft whispers of affection, the implicit trust.

Following Aemma's descent from her dragon's saddle, the waters hit her hard, churning her into the abyss. Just as the waves threatened to pull her deeper, Silverwing cut through them, her talons outstretched, and in a swift, precise motion, she plucked Aemma from the depths before the sea could claim her entirely. Silverwing’s grip was painstaking, cradling her rider’s limp form between her sharp talons, ensuring she was protected. With a great struggle, Silverwing battered her wings against the storm, fighting the ocean’s pull, lifting them both back into the air, finding cover above the storm clouds.

And now, in the quiet of this remote sanctuary, camouflaged against rocks, their bond held firm, even as Aemma lay unconscious amidst the mud and grass, suspended between life and death.

The old dragon sensed more than the warmth of her rider's skin when she nudged her snout against her constantly, letting out a low, concerned rumble. She felt the pulse of her heart, flimsy but steady, the rhythm of her breath, shallow but resilient. Every beat, every rise and fall of Aemma’s chest was a call to Silverwing, one that she refused to neglect.

Silverwing would shift her body closer at night, nestling Aemma to the earth, her massive wing folded protectively over the young princess' limp body like a shroud of safety from the bitter storms and the chilliness of dusk. Her fiery breaths ghosted over Aemma, keeping her warm.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days, but Silverwing never left, only venturing far enough to find sustenance, returning quickly, her eyes scanning the skies for any threats that might approach. But none came. The world remained unaware of the little hidden firth by the hills and the fragile life it cradled.

Silverwing’s troth was not just an animal instinct—it was a devotion to the one person who had never treated her as a mere beast. For nigh on a week, Aemma had doted on her, spoken to her in the tongue of Old Valyria, just as Alysanne did, with the same reverence and care, and Silverwing, in turn, had taken her into the skies, free from the burdens of the mortal realm.

In this isolated place, far from the throes of war, Silverwing held the last vestige of hope for her rider’s survival. It wasn't until a dark-haired sailor had stumbled upon their refuge that the mighty she-dragon let out her first roar in a while.

Addam of Hull hadn't expected much that day. He had set out on his small boat with nothing but the hope of catching enough fish to feed Driftmark's shores. The oceans had been restless ever since the bloodshed over Shipbreaker's Bay, and his mind had drifted as the waves lapped at the sides of his skiff. He cast his net, whistling a well-known sea shanty, letting the salt air fill his lungs, when something unusual caught his eye, beyond a small inlet of water rambling away from the beach.

A flash of silver. A rustle in the trees.

As his little skiff crept closer and into the currents of the slight strait, Addam’s heart surged. There, nestled within the protective embrace of the rocks, lay a great silvery-blue dragon that was the name on everyone's fuller lips—Silverwing. Her glittering hide was unmistakable, though it bore the wear of days spent at the mercy of the weather. She lay low to the ground, her immense wings tucked tightly around something as if guarding a prized jewel.

Addam wasted no time. He rowed forth, with all the strength he could muster, his mind racing. Could it be? Could Princess Aemma have survived the hand of fate, the cruel sea, her murderous husband, and the relentless storm? Could it be that Rhaeynra's heir was very much still alive?

As he drew nigher, disembarking his boat and clambering up the rocks, Silverwing raised her head, her auburn eyes locking onto him with a vicious intensity. She cautioned him with a low rumble, ready to spew out her ire.

For a moment, Addam feared she truly might lash out, mistaking him for a foe, but she did not move. Instead, she took a prudent sniff and juddered her head, softening almost.

Eventually, she unfurled her wings narrowly, revealing the motionless form of Princess Aemma cradled beneath her. She was drenched, emaciated, tattered, bruised, and her silver hair matted to her gaunt face, but her chest rose and fell.

There was yet life in her. Barely. All alone. No one else. Just Silverwing standing vigil over her as if she’d been guarding the princess all these days. Ten days.

"Gods be good," Addam murmured.

Silverwing shifted away, stooping into the rocky niche, as if to offer her rider to him, but kept her weather eye on him. Addam made quick work of it, lifting her carefully into his arms off the wet ground. She was light, too light, but she stirred faintly at his touch.

"Princess?" He was unsure if she could hear him.

As he carried her back toward the boat, shrouded her in the coils of his nets, her fiery guardian observed the sailor, her vigilant eyes never leaving Aemma’s form.

She pierced a startling trill at her rider's saviour.

Addam jerked in shock, nearly dropping his docking ropes.

Silverwing rose off the ground, and shook herself off, wings beginning to unfurl as if preparing to take flight.

"You—er, stay," Addam stammered, desperately gesturing with his palms, trying to convey some form of command to the dragon.

He knew full well he was speaking to a creature that answered to no man but her rider, and she was not going to let just anyone snatch the princess away unless she was certain they meant no harm.

Carefully, Addam took a step closer, heart thudding in his chest as he bowed his head to the dragon.

"I'm not here to harm her," he said softly as if Silverwing could understand his plea. "I want to save her."

For a long moment, the dragon stayed unmoving, watching him closely, casting her own unfamiliar judgement. Then, with a slow and deliberate movement, she backed away scarcely.

"Thank you," he whispered, though he wasn’t entirely sure if he was thanking the dragon, the gods, or fate itself.

Returning Princess Aemma in such a state to her kin on Dragonstone would have them questioning Addam's heartening intentions toward her. Rather than have them cast their vile aspersions on him and taint his shoddy name further, the brothers knew it was only proper to nurse the princess to health before anything else. The secret of Aemma's survival would remain closely guarded for a while longer.

"She thinks I'm her father," Addam quietly shared with his brother, Alyn, upon the fifth evening of secretively nursing Princess Aemma in their meagre home. It had been a total of sixteen days since she was believed deceased.

Alyn raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the small, makeshift room where their heir to the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms lay in a thrifty cot, wrapped in linen blankets and tended to with great care. Her condition had steadily improved, but she remained barely conscious and frail.

"What do you mean, ‘she thinks I’m her father’? Is she delirious?" He asked.

Addam leaned against the doorframe, picking off the herbs from his thumb. "Perhaps she seeks comfort. And she finds it in the late Laenor."

As they spoke, a soft groan emanated from the cot, interrupting them. Aemma stirred, her dark eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again. Her lips moved silently, murmuring incoherent words. Addam and Alyn exchanged a glance, their choices harshening.

Alyn's brow furrowed. "How is she then?"

"Better than expected," Addam replied, shaking his head. "Her fever broke, I've stopped feeding her milk of the poppy. She recalls her mother often. The poor thing had nearly cracked every rib in her chest, the healers had to brace her spine with wood until yesterday. The blood of Old Valyria heals quick, I suppose."

Alyn nodded, absorbing the solemnity of his brother’s words. "And the dragon?"

"Stays close, hovers around the Driftmark groves. I've been feeding her, too," Addam said, shaking his head with a small, wry smile.

Alyn clapped his brother on his back, grateful for him. "How are you faring?"

Addam shrugged casually. "I’m doing what I can."

"Good. Keep watch," Alyn instructed, nodding at him. "On the morrow, I’ll prepare a fresh supply of herbs and check on the guards. There's only so long that we can keep her out of prying eyes."

Addam sat by the firelight in the hearth, his eyes constantly drifting to the young girl as she lay nestled beneath the heavy blankets, adjusting them around her again, his movements careful, almost tender. Every now and then, Aemma would stir, her brow twitching in her sleep, speaking illegibly. The flicker of the flames stained her face in hues of gold and shadow, silvery hair glinting, making her seem almost unearthly, untouchable. She could not have been older than fifteen, an age no child should have to raise battlements in a war.

“She’s strong,” Addam murmured, more to himself than to anyone in particular. “Stronger than I imagined.”

"A future queen," Alyn said. "There's hope for her yet."

The second sons of the Blacks and Greens, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen, were unlikely allies as they scoured the realm despite their bitterness, united on a front to find a whiff of Aemma or Silverwing, searching high and low, from the misty mountains of the Vale to the shadowed peaks of Harrenhal and the foggy forests of the Riverlands. Every whisper of a silver-blue dragon sighting raised their hopes, only to be dashed moments later.

The weight of Aemma's absence dangled over them like a blade. Jace was fierce, relentless in finding that damned dragon himself, dead or alive. Maybe they were on a wild goose chase, led astray to not confront the reality that awaited them. Every dead end with clueless lords and fishermen was a new wound, yet he never yielded.

Their unwavering trepidation whenever the folk and lords saw Aemond cut deeper than a lash of a thousand scorpions. Each glance was a reminder, a searing echo of his own words to Aemma that fateful night: "Better to be feared than scorned." But now, as their suspicions pressed down on him, the question gnawed at his memory—was it really? The cold satisfaction he once sought had curdled into something far more bitter, and he found himself wondering whether 'fear' had ever truly been the answer, or if it had only left him more isolated, more empty.

Aemond, however, wore a stoic mask over his understanding of the truth, though beneath it, the torment tore at his soul. If Aemma's room had been perfect chaos, this was his purgatory. His nights grew sleepless, plagued by the recollections of his mistakes, the sight of her empty saddle still burned behind his eyes. He carried the guilt like a second skin, abrading when it got too thin. A little part of him was driven to heed Jace, an insignificant confidence, not by burden but by desperation—a need for redemption, to see her alive, to prove to himself that she had somehow survived.

Now, close to five nights, it had become custom for Jace, drunk on grief and rage, to drag his feet outside Aemond's pitched tent, embracing his shining sword, fighting his morals. Fighting the inevitable. Jace never spoke to Aemond directly, but his accusations found a way into his earshot.

"Aemma was good. Peaceful," he would hear Jace lament. "She had dreams. She was our sunshine. Now she’s out there somewhere, alone in death. Or worse. And you, of all people, claim to be the one who loved her? You never did. You fucking murderer. Selfish cunt."

This night, a familiar darkness flickered alight in Aemond. Unfailing despair powered him to react. He walked out of his tent, stepping forward in a threat until Jace's raging face was inches apart, his sword slipping from his grasp. His single eye narrowed.

"Say it again," Aemond dared, his voice low and cold. "Say that I do not love her. Say it, bastard."

Jace shoved him by his chest, his rage boiling over. "You threw her away like she was nothing! For your treacherous family! You never gave a fuck about her, and that is the truth!"

Aemond stumbled back but didn’t fight back. How could he, he had nothing left to withstand. His mouth twisted in pain, but his voice remained hard.

"Hate me all you want. Blame me. Strike me down. Your words hold facts. But don’t think for one second that your fury burns hotter than mine. Or that your love for her transcends mine own."

"Fuck you!"

Jace shoved him again, shouting out his rage, this time harder, the power of his wrath pushing Aemond back a step. And again and again, until Aemond fell back into the mud. Back again to ten years ago, when a spiteful Aegon had towered over him, Sunfyre peering over his shoulder mockingly.

Jace met his gaze, the two facing eye to eye, the consequence of years of rivalry and betrayal still fresh between them. But beneath it, there was something else now—shared desperation, grief that only they could understand. The closest brother of Aemma and her husband.

Aemond's breath hitched, bearing himself with his palms, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth. He looked Jace in the eye, his jaw tight.

"I have nothing left. Seize your sword and end it all."

Jace leaned down, seething, his voice trembling with scorn. "Look at where your absolution got you. Begging your foes for death. Pathetic."

Aemond’s hand twitched toward his dagger on instinct, his face a storm of rage and remorse. He had been so accustomed to being on his back, bearing through the punches thrown, facing defeat, now when he was made to encounter this yet again.

"Yes. That is all you see," Aemond agreed, his expression darkening. "All you ever see. Aegon, Rhaenyra, you. A pathetic boy too sightless for power. I've belonged nowhere but with Aemma all my life"—his voice cracked—"and now she's gone, too. And I am left trapped in this resenting world."

Jace stayed quiet, breathing deeply.

"I could not save her," he whispered, the words hollow as they left him. "No atonement will ever free me from this, even while I chase forgiveness from a ghost. I will never know peace again until my last breath."

His trembling fingers unsheathed his dagger and threw it to Jace's feet. "Make your shot count, nephew. Plunge it into my other eye, and take what is due. I do not care anymore."

Jace’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He took a step back, torn between fury and pity, his expression unreadable. He looked away, blinking back tears as if the significance of Aemond’s words was too much to bear. He couldn’t bring himself to speak—there was nothing left to say.

"You don't deserve peace, not even in death," Jace eventually whispered before walking away.

The air was dense with the scent of salt and damp wood as Aemma lay in a bed draped with soft linens, the faint sounds of the lapping waves against the rocky shores of Driftmark echoing in her ears. Her body felt heavy, as though weighed down by an invisible force. Pain coursed through her like a vicious tide, abrupt and relentless, yet there was a warmth surrounding her that whispered of safety.

Fingers of consciousness began to weave their way through the fog enveloping her mind. Flashes of memory flickered like distant constellations—Silverwing’s fierce wings, the chaos of the storm, and Addam’s urgent voice calling her name. She struggled against the haze, her heart pounding with the remnants of fear and desperation.

"Aemma." The voice broke through her reverie, softer now, tinged with concern.

She fought to open her eyes, the effort feeling monumental. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered, and the dim light of the stuffy room began to emerge. A figure stood at the foot of the bed, cloaked and hooded, shrouded in shadow.

A wave of shock washed over her, and before she could fully grasp the situation, he lunged forward, pressing a warm hand to her lips to silence her gasp. Heart racing, Aemma’s gaze narrowed, the edges of her memory sharpening.

"Ssh, my love," he shushed her.

She recognized the intensity in his gaze, even from beneath the hood. He hovered close, his presence both alarming and strangely familiar. His silver hair rolled off his neck and shoulders, catching the light and casting shadows that accentuated the depth of his expression. One striking violet eye shone through the darkness, piercing and filled with emotion, while the other was shrouded in shadow.

“Aemond,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, like the faintest breeze. It felt like a lifetime since she had last spoken, her throat dry and cracked.

He flinched at the sound of her voice as if she had struck a nerve. Slowly, he lifted his head, an indigo eye swirling with a charged storm—pain, regret, and something darker lurking beneath the surface.

His voice was as firm as steel, yet equally gentle. "We've done our parts here. You’re coming with me, and this time, forever."

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 7 months ago

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Not to sound like I'm coping but I feel like in a way Kifaji (hope I wrote his name right) telling Leona to go to the "place where he should be" almost ALMOST kinda of like as if Leona knows the right place for him , the place where he should be or where he could thrive is in NRC with the rest of his dorm . Everyone in NRC would shred me to pieces the second I say the real treasure IS the friends we've made along the way , I know.

[My full thoughts on the book 7 part 11 Leona update here!]

I think that’s the implication, yes…! Especially if you subscribe to the “dream!Kifaji was born from Leona’s remaining hope, conscience, and/or self-awareness that this is a dream” idea. (I discuss that more in detail here!)

This is particularly meaningful because Leona has previously expressed that he saw no value in NRC schooling. He feels like he already knows everything because of his own intelligence and because of the high-quality education that was afforded to him as royalty. Leona doesn’t bother going to classes in part because he thinks there’s nothing new they can teach him. He can easily ace the exams without so much as studying.

But the fact that dream!Kifaji told Leona to go to where he belongs… back to reality, with his real dorm members… Maybe that’s a part of himself acknowledging that Savanaclaw is where is he needed and wanted. Jack and Ruggie made their thoughts on the matter clear in their own dreams. In their happiest fantasy worlds, Leona is there and thriving as their leader in some way, shape, or form. They make that clear when they’re fully awake, too. They’re going to wake up their king, they’re going to save their dorm leader. And now Leona, too, is realizing that this is where he should be.

I find it really interesting how he and Lilia, some of the oldest students in the cast had very similar arcs regarding their opinion of education. Both of them were very much against the idea at first, believing that there was nothing they could gain from school… only to end up enrolling later and recognizing that it’s a place where they can forge precious relationships with their peers—something that textbooks cannot teach. As corny as it is to say, the real treasure we gained really was the friends we made along the way 😭

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Leona Kingscholar #Kifaji #Neii #jp spoilers #notes from the writing raven #Lilia Vanrouge #book 7 chapter 11 part 2 spoilers

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saintvainglorious · 5 months ago

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Fics I Enjoyed in January - DC Comics Fic Rec List Part 2

I am still neck-deep in DC fandom this month and the fics have been so so good. Unlike last time, I am too tired to write mini summaries/reviews, so I'm going to feature my favorite quote from each fic instead.

My first DC Comics fic rec list is here!

Floor Plans by @oh-mother-of-darkness (Teen & Up, 1k, 2016) “I really didn’t want to die,” he finished. “I was kind of hoping if I laid here long enough, I would remember what that felt like.”

Losing two brothers in six months takes an emotional toll.

almost right by @bitimdrake (Teen & Up, 3k, 2020) He desperately wishes that he didn’t know what Dick’s cheekbone feels like under a gauntleted fist.

Bruce sucks in a breath, hand raising to fix the cowl. Dick flinches back.

but more with love by @danishsweethearts (Teen & Up, 3k, 2022) Dick wakes up one morning, groggy from a dream that he thinks might’ve been about the circus and also about his favourite car and also about how lonely he is, and realizes that he can’t remember what his mother’s voice sounds like anymore.

O Robin, Robin, wherefore art thou Robin?

The Mechanics of a Hug by @sohotthateveryonedied (General Audiences, 4k, 2017) “You know… that crushing sense of depression? Like,” Dick chews his lip. “It’s. A physical weight. Makes it hard to breathe?” “Yeah,” Tim says, soft. He smiles, wryly. “I sort of hoped you didn’t, though.”

“So,” Tim ventures. “It's… what, a cuddle pollen?” Bruce just shrugs. “Something like that.”

No Pain, All Gain by @sohotthateveryonedied (General Audiences, 1k, 2020) Tim’s eyes go even wider. “You stole my organs?” “Technically,” Jason chimes in, “the doctors stole your organs. We just gave them permission.”

Bruce checks Tim’s IV. “Are you in any pain? Do you need more morphine?” Tim’s pupils are so wide that only the faintest ring of blue can be seen. He watches Bruce the way a five-year-old watches cartoons. “I’m all good, B-dog. All Gucci, like we cool teens say." His words are slurred almost beyond recognition, but Tim doesn’t seem to notice or care. "I could fight Superman right now.”

The Wind Sits in the Shoulder of Your Sail by @birdchildsnest (Teen & Up, 7k, 2020) “Oh my god. Bruce. I can’t even tell if you’re serious. When everybody finally eats the rich—they’re going to eat you first.”

At least, back then, Tim had barely been a teenager. He could almost forgive his own volatility. And he’d been smart enough (scared enough?) not to tell Jack that he didn’t need him. What was his excuse now? Bruce was his dad (at least, in the legal sense), but (surprise, surprise) it turned out that Tim wasn’t any better at being a son. Or Tim and Bruce still have some things to sort through after the adoption.

I Left My Conscience On Your Front Doorstep by @dustorange (Teen & Up, 21k, 2022) He doesn’t want to be loved if being loved is like this.

"I think I'm leaving," Dick whispers. "I think I'm not coming back."

bad boys bad boys (whatcha gonna do) ♫ by @drakefeathers (Teen & Up, 20k, 2014) "They live their lives thinking they can charge through the city with the right to hurt and kill and destroy as many lives as they want. And they do it all without a shred of remorse." “But—” Damian begins, brow furrowed in confusion. “Isn’t that like you?”

a Jason and Damian as Batman and Robin AU!! featuring a bunch of graffiti, a rival dynamic duo, and Cat Jason (a cat named Jason).

The Biggest Mistake by @oh-mother-of-darkness (General Audiences, 1k, 2016) “I could ground him anyway, if it would make you feel better.” “He only said it because I called him ‘a garbage can so ineffective it actually became garbage.’”

"You know what really needs to be addressed? Bruce's truly terrible treatment of Damian." -Me, on a daily basis

been a number and a name by @wynterstars (Teen & Up, 35k, 2023) “Turns out if you just say ‘spacetime’ until people’s eyes glaze over they don’t really question anything you say. Also, somehow nobody expects me to be able to actually do enough math to explain it.”

On a field trip, Robin has a close encounter with the newest super in Metropolis, only to discover the hard way that Superboy secretly works for Lex Luthor. They agree to work together on a plan to free Superboy from Luthor’s hold, but Robin isn’t sure how far he can trust him—and his developing feelings only make things more complicated.

clean it like you mean it by @wynterstars (Teen & Up, 70k, 2024) "Wait, ugh, you're not my dead dad, right? If I'm getting a dying vision of my dead dad I want a do-over because he suuuuucked."

When Gotham's crooks have to scrub down their lairs, who do they call? Jason Todd, Gotham's first and only underworld crime scene cleaning specialist. He's spent his life dodging the Bat, but after a chance encounter he saves Robin's life. Tim Drake finds himself drawn to the conflicted rogue, and soon Jason becomes Robin's street informant. But they can only stay on opposite sides of the law for so long before something breaks.

3:16 by @wufflesvetinari (Teen & Up, 70k (WIP), 2023) “Try to decouple one thing from the other. I’m proud of you, but ice cream isn’t my grand statement about whether you’ve been good or bad today. Good things are good. Happiness is precious. Sometimes you just want caramel chocolate chip.”

The knife pushes thin along Dick’s carotid artery, cupping the indent between neck and jawline—forcing him to angle his chin. The metal is warm, pulled with execution speed from under Damian’s pillow. “Okay,” Dick says quietly, tracking the intricacies of his own heartbeat—counting the space between breaths. “Guess I did need a shave.” (With faltering steps, Dick and Damian become Batman and Robin.)

wolf-king of rome by @mysterycitrus (Not Rated, 25k, 2024) “You go after Joker, but you don’t kill him, because it’s not about the Joker dying, it’s about Bruce breaking his code for you. It’s about Bruce loving you enough to change himself for the worse. It’s about your idea of grieving.”

Jason doesn’t fear Dick Grayson. Fear itself has changed shape for him, since his return from the Pit - it tastes of dirt in his mouth, of drowning, of fire and blood and laughter, more than a tangible face. Still, he’d be stupid not to be cautious. Dick liked playing on an uneven field, and would do anything to keep him off balance, so he just had to stay focused. That’s the nature of the armistice, both waiting for the other to make a move. It’s like balancing on the head of a pin.

Declensions by @dustorange (Teen & Up, 13k, 2018) “Do not tell them your name. Do as I did to survive. I lied. I have always lied. Make one up. Do not let them have you. Say your name is…is…is…Richard Grayson. Or something. They are going to steal you; do not give them anything to steal.”

“My father,” Dick says, “worked the rope. It cut him. His hands were never clean.”

Passiontide by @bigdvmnhero (Teen & Up, 5k, 2025) Despite its faults, the day had tried to be good. He felt young, like someone's son.

On the 96th day Bruce didn't call, Dick remembered their old game. Three things he knew: 1) In three months, it would be Dick's death anniversary; 2) Bruce was still missing his check-ins; 3) Here Dick was, persisting. Imagine the things I'd survive, Dick thought distantly, if I loved Bruce less. Or: Agent 37 and his various crises of faith, on Day 277 at Spyral, Day 150, and Day -0.

the time you won your town the race by @silverwhittlingknife (Teen & Up, 4k (WIP), 2022) Tim. Tim is Dick’s. Death sharpens, clarifies these things. Who will receive the body, decide on the funeral, receive condolences, make all the decisions that matter. No one has questioned it, not even Tim’s friends. There’s a terrible clarity about death. If Dick said, let’s burn everything he owned, Alfred would do it.

He doesn’t know exactly what Tim would say. But he knows what Tim would do. Tim dies. Dick doesn’t take death for an answer. A Red Robin 12 AU.

door, opening by @cowboysorceror (Mature, 70k (WIP), 2024) Dick, with the keys to every locked door Jason has ever tried to open, tucked inside the cradle of his skull; all of that, snuffed out like a candle.

It’s barely audible, but he knows what he heard. A short, four-note whistle, chirping down – E, C#, then jumping up to A, F#, a little trill on the finish. He waits a moment, head turned slightly towards the dim shapes of storage containers between him and the ramp, eyes straining against the blackness. Long, stretching seconds. There it is again. His gloved hand, prickling with cold, closes into a fist. It’s a wood thrush. A small North American songbird that doesn’t sing at night, doesn’t live in the city. He knows what it means. It means hold, steady, not yet. It means wait for me, I’m behind you.

#fic recs #fanfiction #dc comics #batfamily #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #kon el #timkon #god i read so many emotionally devastating fics this month my whole soul is a shattered wreck #Floor Plans is my favorite by that author read it back in high school and never forgot will always be haunted by the Tim on the floor fic #almost right hit WAY too close to home uhhhhh maybe i should acquire a therapist #but more with love is 100% how I'd want Dick telling his family about the origins of Robin to go down in canon #(and is also a fic about Bruce fucking up but his relationship with Dick still being repairable which i. desperately needed this month #after reading many MANY other fics where It Will Never Be Okay Between Them (And That's The Point))#I Left My Conscience On Your Front Doorstep aka yet another fic that has made me be like hmmmm maybe i need therapy for my father issues #been a number and a name aka delightful 90s references AND Kon's origin being the Death of Superman animated movies #(my FAV version of his origin ever) AND Tim crossdressing??? rlly what more could u ask for in a Timkon fic chefs kiss #wolf-king of rome literally had me writing an essay to multiple friends explaining how galaxy brained this fic is #the themes of that whole fic series (the body is a haunted house) are once again therapy inducing im rotating them in my mind #Declensions is just straight up literature they just weren't writing Dick fic like this when i was in high school i feel blessed #the time you won your town the race was the only silverwhittlingknife fic I hadn't read yet and oh my god the SCREAMS i SCRAMPT #it was so so hard to pick a favorite quote from door opening that fic has got some spectacular prose #some other quotes I strongly considered for that fic:#“Jason worries sometimes that there’s a piece of him that will be fifteen forever calcified like a little black pearl”#“Gotham is a shade a moon-pale queen withered by the grief of the centuries the crypt of the empire”

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pochiperpe90 · 4 months ago

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[ENG] Esquire Italia: The natural and collective duty of anti-fascism

In the country that invented fascism, where a widespread rate of intellectual hypocrisy is such that it isn’t ashamed to distinguish between being anti-fascist and defining oneself as "not fascist", Sky Studios and Lorenzo Mieli for The Apartment, a company of the Fremantle group (which will have international distribution), in co-production with Pathé, in association with Small Forward Productions, in collaboration with Fremantle and Cinecittà, have launched the series M. II figlio del secolo, based on the novel by Antonio Scurati, directed by Joe Wright, on SkyAtlantic in January. Presenting it first, without fanfare, at the 81st Venice Film Festival.

This is the most important cinematographic work ever created in Italy, on the deafening truth of its fascist history. Never before has fascism been so authentically described in its identity as a criminal movement, constantly violent, dedicated to political murder, torture, brutality in all its forms, first to the punishment, and then the destruction, of democracy.

Benito Mussolini is a murderer, a criminal dictator, a hitman of freedom. Fascism has never had a shred of decency, historical truth condemns it for its massacres of civilians, for its racial laws, for the devastation it brought to all of Europe through the excitement of the idea of war as a heroic necessity. But the memory of fascism, its traces, become confused until they dissolve in the family channels of Italians, who easily prefer to dilute, but without managing to absolve, the collective conscience of the least national State in Europe. In a country that should have the courage to be ashamed, through which to build civil conscience, M. Il figlio del secolo, is a visual text, a tool for reflection and teaching. Effective not only because it’s a bearer of truth, but above all because the language that composes it is dictated by the plurality of contemporary elements that are indispensable to maintain the attention and empathy of the public. From the piercing soundtrack composed by Tom Rowlands of The Chemical Brothers, to the adrenaline-filled screenplay by Stefani Bises and Davide Serino, to the epic photography by Seamus McGarvey: the energy is constant. The light on the crime of an ideology without principles and therefore opportunistic, changeable, unscrupulous, is always on.

Those who don’t understand that Luca Marinelli, the protagonist of this eight-part film, suffered in dissolving principles and humanity to identify with the opposite of himself, offers the measure of the sensitivity with which they relates to the honesty of an actor's cultural work. Always reducing everything to the amount of material compensation that should justify and compensate for every disturbance.

Luca Marinelli had the courage to abandon himself to the evil that Benito Mussolini embodied. Evil is pervasive, it’s grotesque, it’s a caricature that becomes monstrosity, it’s many other nuances, but in its entirety it’s what opposes humanism, with the sole purpose of hurting others, for oneself.

Joe Wright, the director of M. Il figlio del secolo, is English. Did this help in placing violence at the center of the narrative as the identity of fascism, without discounts?

LM After a hundred years we are still experiencing the aftermath and the new involutions of the story we tell. Hatred and violence are a concept that every human being can understand, in every latitude. Joe is geographically English, yes. But as he always said, it’s important to talk about people and not nations. The concept of nation is something that is mostly used by the powerful to foment distinctions that can lead to heavy tragedies. What we tell is a universal story: the life of a person, and of a country, that we seem to have forgotten. If you know history you cannot be a fascist.

And yet, Italians were fascists. Even the many who did not oppose were guilty. Is this the weight of history?

LM I am not a historian but I can say that in that period politics, power, institutions, the monarchy and the Church played their part. But there was also a popular responsibility. History is astonishing: the succession of its events leaves you stunned.

Your Benito Mussolini is intimate, theatrical, it tells of the fascination that the man was able to transmit to others. What explanation did you give yourself?

LM I think that the trauma that the devastation of the First World War left on Europe and Italy is underestimated. Violence had become an integral part of society, but this didn’t justify it. Mussolini applied it to everyday politics, surrounding himself with people accustomed to the use of violence and quick to exercise it. Mussolini exploited emptiness and desperation, with skill and unscrupulousness has generated a new mix, a political form that fools everyone and continually changes direction according to convenience. But violence is an indispensable constant.

When Mussolini has to prepare the lists for the elections of April 6, 1924, he realizes the unpresentability and unreliability of his gang of thugs. He enlists other politicians, of different affiliations, who surrender to fascism in order to sit in Parliament. The scene in the film says: humanity is disgusting, and it’s on this tragedy that we will build our triumph.

LM Having been an opportunist politician, I think he had no trouble recognizing these attitudes in others. It’s his ruthlessness that is associated with contempt in the human race. In the monologue magnificently written around his gigantic effigy, he says: wanting more and more until you take everything, this is fascism. And this is Mussolini.

What did you learn?

LM A lot, both from myself and from the people around me. I had never spent seven months on a set with three hundred colleagues. But above all I loved Joe's dedication, his placing himself before art as if it were a divinity. And humble before his craft, he is guided by this: for me, a fundamental guide, an inspiration. The long period of filming gave me the opportunity to look at what was happening at different times and confirm how art is a process of communion.

In the film you give many speeches. Have you built a relationship with words?

LM They are frightening words in their ruthlessness and cruelty. They exude criminal ingenuity. The words were the first sound approach to the film. When I read the eight scripts in a row, I understood that I would have to do a great job of mnemonic organization. In many dialogues and speeches, the precision of each word was important. I made a plan to learn with the right timing, because his speeches, the role, required theatricality, but also authenticity. I didn't want memory to prevent me from feeling free to be there, in that moment.

What did you feel?

LM First a lot of curiosity, to understand how everything that was written in the script would be realized. Then I heard Joe explaining to four hundred people that they shouldn't be extras, but actors. That they couldn't just appear, that they had a collective responsibility. I knew we were all listening and their help was fundamental.

A challenging acting test?

LM A lot. The fifteen days in the Parliament chamber, reconstructed in an extraordinary way, were one of the most difficult periods. When we finished filming there was a moment that will be difficult to forget: a collective embrace between people who for seven months, ten hours a day, traveled together through history. A testimony to the common awareness of having explored the dark sides of the human soul and having touched the abyss. It's something that marks you. It took time to move away from hatred.

Have you ever had a moment of diabolical attraction?

LM No. I was just fascinated by the idea of being able to honestly tell the truth with this project. I felt the freedom of being able to ride history without the risk of being misunderstood.

"After a hundred years we are still experiencing the aftermath and new involutions of the history we tell"

Among the criticisms received, that of having played a grotesque Duce.

LM Life is also made up of grotesque moments. But from a comedy situation we can quickly slip into a tragedy. We must be very careful to notice these dynamics.

In Italy there are not many fascists, but many non-antifascists.

LM In my opinion, for all those who care about the idea of humanity and collectivity, it’s a natural moral duty to be anti-fascist.

#luca marinelli #the old guard cast #tog cast #Esquire italia #magazine #rivista #english translation #eng trans #mine #sorry for my english #M il figlio del secolo #joe wright

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shizukateal · 7 days ago

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See, here's the thing. Rumi and Jinu are interesting. They are genuine narrative foils, which is something incredibly rare for a het pairing in this type of genre. They both live in shame, both trying to escape themselves without confronting their issues at root, both suffering under an authority figure who empowers them but also holds their condition over their heads. That's what fuels their enemies-to-lovers arc and it's fucking golden, it's amazing.

Sadly, all of this is bogged down by the script slotting them into the Usagi/Mamoru dynamic in the beginning, wherein Rumi is dragged by the nose like a 6-year-old getting her pigtails pulled as Jinu negs her. I understand that it's an attempt at levity and humor -and to be clear a lot of this is just a me problem of not liking this cliché- but it's completely unnecessary and I feel like it robs them of their uniqueness. Their best moments together are the ones when they're either on equal ground or when Rumi is on top and able to refute Jinu, because that's when he develops, that's when his character gains depth. If the script was as bad as some of the shoujo I've read then Jinu would remain this smug jerk with a conveniently tragic past who gets away with being the love interest by occasionally doing a good/romantic deed. It is crucial to me buying his sacrifice in the end in spite of his very, very gross misdeeds that he genuinely feels tempted when Rumi points him to listening to his conscience instead of the voices that want to keep him in his remorse. Do you understand how thematically poignant that has to be for me to feel a single shred of sympathy after what he does to Rumi in the third act? Do you?

You don't need to give him a headstart by essentially infantilizing Rumi's attraction, his strategy to manipulate her is already solid, he's using not only her secret but also making himself look pitiful and vulnerable with her and exploiting her sense of altruism. That's it, that's all you need for an opening. I'm not saying that you need to make Rumi's personality more "serious", but don't flatten her to fit this trite dynamic, you don't need to make her more "relatable" to a little girl who wouldn't know how to act in this type of relationship, her problems and personality are already relatable enough!

#kpop demon hunters #rumi #jinu #bitching and moaning

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sincerelyneo · 9 months ago

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i don’t know how to properly articulate my feelings at the moment so let me just rant.

when sm announced that they’d be making a new boy group (riize) i was super excited; especially since the group was set to debut shotaro and sungchan (ex members of nct) who i really liked. and when the group eventually debuted and had good music i was fully ready to tune in and support those boys.

however, when seunghan’s hiatus was announced, my feelings toward the group shifted. all the content and new music just felt off, like there was sad tension around it. for me this was weird because i consider myself ot7, and i love those other six boys a lot (don’t get me wrong), but for me, i couldn’t fully support the group on principle.

this was because every time i saw content of the group i had this gnawing feeling in my mind that would ask the question ‘in what world is it acceptable to punish and penalise a person for having a life?’ people keep pointing out that seunghan was a teenager in those pre-debut photos that were leaked (without his consent, btw), as if it changes anything. whether he was 17, 23 or 40, having romantic relationships is normal, and the fact that he’s being punished for that is just disgusting and disappointing.

i was really excited yesterday when seunghan announced his return. i even thought about officially launching a separate blog that i’ve been working on for riize, which i’d put on the back burner since i was keeping my support minimal. but now, with him withdrawing from the group, it’s honestly left me feeling sick.

i really do love those boys, but i can’t support the group in good conscience—and i feel guilty about it. i think it’s because it’s obvious those boys aren’t being protected. it makes me wonder if the fandom and company would turn their backs on another member if their privacy was similarly violated. that’s what i mean when i talk about it on a principle level.

this whole situation feels dystopian, honestly. it’s insane. and sm keeps allowing it to happen—like with karina apologizing for her relationship not long ago. it’s heartbreaking to see talent and hard work thrown away because people can’t accept that idols are real human beings with lives and emotions, not products to buy and sell.

this is so rambly, and i hope it made sense. i’m just really frustrated by the news and disappointed. and like i said, i still love all seven of those boys, but i’m struggling to fully support the group knowing that sm and these fans have ruined a man’s career without a shred of remorse or care. it’s terrifying, truly.

#riize #seunghan #literally just me rambling #rant #i’m literally so pissed off #i hate everyone #fuck sm

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redbirdandbluebird23 · 2 months ago

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Shared Trauma

Masterlist

Written for @jaydick-week 2025

The first time it happens, Dick chalks it up to one of the Militia men having a bad day or a crisis of conscience. He's seen the footage from Bruce and that sent by Babs, he knows these people are some of the best of the best in their chosen profession; there's literally no other reason they'd miss such an easy shot. But Dick goes home for the night with a bullet graze to his upper arm rather than a through and through to the brain.

But it turns out to not be an isolated incident.

They don't pull their punches with Bruce or Damian or Tim, or any of the police.

But they do with Dick.

To begin with, it's a half formed theory that Dick's still not one hundred percent ready to accept because: Why him? Why would they be pulling their punches with him? Is it because he's the youngest? He's not a child anymore, older now than…

No , he won't go there.

Bruce has drilled it into them all to test hypotheses when they have them, so he really shouldn't be as surprised or mad as he is when Dick tests this one in particular by throwing himself in front of Batman when he's surrounded by Militia men.

Dick's half expecting to be torn to shreds by a round of bullets, but his theory holds out, and suddenly there's an eerie silence where there was gunfire.

Bruce grabs him and grapples away before the Militia can react. Dick's expecting questions, some anger and then maybe some praise about thinking things through and thinking on his feet. But instead, Bruce benches him for being reckless and putting his life in danger.

It leads to a blow out fight, the worst they've had since…

Since Bruce accepted the video the Joker sent without any other evidence that Jason was gone .

Damian steps in in the end, sweeping Dick away to Bludhaven and away from the war zone Gotham's become before Dick can truly do proper damage to his relationship with Bruce.

"He never listens!" Dick shouts, the urge to punch something like rearing its head like a living thing beneath his skin that scents blood.

"He worries, more so now after everything that has happened." Damian says calmly in the face of Dick's agitation.

"They don't want to hurt me. I don't know why, but I proved it. I saved his life, he should listen to me instead of sending me away like- like-"

Damian steps forward and rests a hand on his shoulder. Dick feels the fight leave his body; it leaves him feeling tired and drained.

"Take a day or two. Cool off and reset your head, then come back to Gotham." Damian says softly.

"You're going back." It's not really a question, he already knows from the tone of Damian's voice.

"Someone needs to watch father's back, especially when we still have no idea who exactly is behind this." Damian says, pulling his gauntlets back on.

Dick collapses back onto the sofa, the Nightwing suit feeling more constricting than it has since he switched to mainly black from traffic light colours after Jason… "It feels familiar, like they know us somehow."

Damian hums as he pulls his cowl back on. "At least a day, Richard. Rest ."

"Fine." Dick agrees, because it's Damian asking .

"If anything happens before then, I will contact you." Damian says over his shoulder before he disappears out of the window to head back into no-man's land.

Read on Ao3

#jaydick #dickjay #jaydickweek2025 #dick grayson #jason todd #dick grayson/jason todd #reverse robins #arkham knight

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gullemec · 5 months ago

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Red Underlined

Golden Cage - Chapter Six

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: You confront the aftermath of your night with Butcher and your father hosts a rather interesting dinner party.

Warnings: angst, language, butcher being emotionally constipated and a dick about it, discussion of sex, discussion of grief, daddy issues galore, discussion of death/murder, reader has an emotional breakdown, discussion of suicide (not reader), sexual tension, Homelander is a creep, unwanted touching (from Homelander)

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.8k

A/N: Lots of emotional constipation and angst and daddy issues here, proceed with caution! Also Homelander makes an appearance and is such a nasty creep so beware of that too.

This time when you wake, it's with a start. No warm embrace, no welcome weight tethering you, just the cold shock of reality rousing you from a fleeting dream. Your heart thuds as your half-awake brain searches the room.

Butcher sits across from you, perched in the room’s stiff wingback chair, his silhouette outlined by the pale dawn light. He’s fully dressed, boots planted firmly on the floor, arms crossed like he’s preparing for a battle.

“Butch?” Your voice comes out groggy, uncertain. He doesn’t look at you. “What are you doing?”

“Get dressed,” he says, flat and clipped.

You blink at him, confusion prickling under your skin. Yesterday’s clothes are scattered around the room, discarded in the heat of passion. Gathering them, you can’t help but notice how he averts his eyes, a rare show of decorum. But his body is stiff, his expression locked in that impenetrable mask.

Does he regret it?

The thought coils in your gut like a snake, equal parts hurt and fury. You’ve had enough of his hot-and-cold act, especially after the mind-blowing sex you'd shared just hours earlier.

By the time you’ve dressed, the tension in the room feels suffocating. Without another word, he leads you out to the waiting van.

He may be older than most of the guys you usually sleep with, but his maturity level might actually rank below theirs.

The silence on the highway is unbearable, the minutes dragging like hours. You stare at him, his profile rigid as he grips the wheel, his jaw tight. Finally, you snap.

“Look, I’m not doing this,” you begin. “I'm not subjecting myself to another awkward car ride, so you'd better come right out and tell me now if you regret last night.”

He exhales hard through his nose, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

“I don't,” he says, after what feels like an eternity.

“You don't what?” you push, unwilling to let him off the hook.

His lips press into a thin line, the struggle playing out across his face as he tries and fails to find the right words.

“I don't regret it. At all. Last night was one of the best nights of my fucking life, all right?”

Your heart skips, but the relief is short-lived.

“But it was a mistake,” he continues, voice low. “We shouldn’t have done it.”

The sting of rejection hits you like a slap. “Why not? Because you suddenly grew a conscience?”

“Listen, love, you're young. You got a future ahead of you. I'm too damn old for you. I’ve got more baggage than Heathrow, and none of it’s carry-on.”

“You think I care about that?” you fire back, your voice rising. “You think I don’t know who you are by now?”

“It’s not just that,” he says, cutting you off. “This job? This life? It’s dangerous. You don’t have room for emotional ties if you want to survive it.”

“Who said anything about emotional ties?” you retort, even as your chest tightens. You could play it cool. Maybe the two of you could be purely physical, using the kinetic energy you share for sexual release alone. Sure, you'd be betraying the growing sentiment you'd developed toward the abrasive man, settling for his physical affection alone if he truly couldn't find it in him to serve you emotionally, but at least you'd have some shred of him to keep for yourself.

But the way he shakes his head tells you it’s not an option.

“You deserve more than that,” he says firmly, eyes fixed on the road.

You scoff, anger bubbling up. “That’s rich, coming from you. You certainly weren't saying that last night when your dick was—”

“You think I don't want to be able to give you that?” His voice is raw, startling in its honesty.

The fight leaves you for a moment, the truth of his words sinking in. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t let you see the cracks in his armor.

“You’re gonna meet someone,” he says, quieter now. “Someone who can give you the life you deserve. Someone who doesn’t drag you into this mess. Someone better.”

You scoff, hurt quickly turning to anger. “That’s bullshit,” you snap, your voice trembling. “Don’t pretend you know what I want, Butcher. You think I’ve got some perfect life waiting for me? Have I ever given you any reason to think I want anything more than being a part of the Boys? You think I don’t know exactly what I’m signing up for?”

He says your name, gently, like a prayer, finally turning to look at you.

“Listen to me,” you tell him. “This is the most alive I've felt since my mom died. For the first time in my life I feel like I'm really making her proud. And I'll be damned if you get to decide what my future looks like.”

He finally turns to look at you, his hazel eyes softening. “Of course you get to decide what you want, if that means working with us. But you deserve to be happy, love. And I can’t give you that. I’m sorry.”

The apology hangs heavy between you, cutting deeper than you’d expected. You turn away, staring out the window as your eyes sting. You won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.. He cannot know the deadliness of the blow he has so casually dealt you.

“Thanks for being honest, I guess,” you say quietly, your voice brittle.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words. Finally, Butcher clears his throat. “I get it if you don’t want anything to do with me after this. MM and Frenchie can take over—”

For an angry, petulant moment you want to agree, to let your hurt be known. But it's not what you want, not even close. As much as the sting of rejection smarts right now, complete separation from him would hurt even more.

“No,” you interrupt, the word sharper than you intended. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself. “It doesn’t have to be like that.”

A part of you does feel relief, knowing that you would have fallen into bed with him regardless of his true feelings for you. Your bones and atoms had screamed at you incessantly to crash your very being against his, and you had fulfilled that request. Maybe you could let go of this preoccupation now.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The road hums beneath the tires, the tension easing just enough for you to breathe.

“It was just a one time thing,” you offer, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

He nods, too quickly. “Purely physical,” he agrees.

“Right. No one has to know,” you assert.

Probably for the best. It was bad enough that everyone at your internship thought you only got the position because of your father, you didn't need the others in the Boys thinking you were only there because you were fucking their boss.

Still, he holds your gaze, shoulders tense, only tossing a glance toward the road when absolutely necessary. He's assessing you for truthfulness, picking up on the smallest tells in your voice that you're not as casual about this as you'd like him to think.

You hesitate for a moment.

“It was really good, though,” you admit.

And, like a dam, his cool facade releases, posture softening. “It was really fucking good,” be agrees enthusiastically.

“Like, so good,” you repeat.

You both laugh.

Fuck.

~~~

For your entire life, family dinner has been a fortnightly tradition.

There is a salient moment in your childhood memory; your parents, tucked away in some corner of the house they thought you wouldn't detect, voices raised in frustration. Your father, increasingly away from home, was missing out on your childhood. Your mother, desperate to keep your life as stable as possible, begging him to change. Despite his philandering ways, there was a love there between your parents, at least once upon a time. And thus a compromise was reached and the family dinner tradition was born.

Of course, CytoGenix duty called from time to time and family dinner was deemed of lower priority, leaving you and your mother to dine alone, huddled at the end of the ten-seater dining table. Then there were the four years you spent studying abroad, missed dinners you had no idea would be your mother’s last. Still, family dinner had been an honored tradition for the most part.

And when you were bedridden, steeped in grief and disbelief, it was your father's suggestion that you restart the tradition. It was the only thing that roused you from that dark numbness. For a couple of months there it was good. Just you and dad, navigating the fog together, united in your heartbreak.

That was, until he announced there would be a guest joining you at dinner one night. You had assumed an aunt or distant cousin, some estranged family member who’d made their way through the woodwork upon hearing the news of your mother’s untimely passing. That pretense fell away the moment Monica strolled into the dining room, dressed for Paris fashion week. You’d held a polite smile, asked polite questions, and offered polite answers to the rare, offhand question she threw your way. It was at one of these fortnightly dinners that Monica and your father, hands grasped together tightly, announced they were getting married. It was harder this time to offer a polite congratulations, forcing a pained smile until you could excuse yourself to sob in the privacy of the bathroom.

And no, you didn’t go to the wedding.

It’s in that enormous dining room that you sit now, pushing a charred brussel sprout around on your plate.

“You know, sweetie, you have such a glow about you lately,” Monica coos from across the table. Her tone is all honey, but her eyes hold the sharpness of a blade. You resist the urge to roll your eyes anytime Monica uses terms of endearment toward you, as if her saccharine words could disguise the fact that she’s closer to your age than to her sexagenarian husband.

Still, you flush at implication. Is there a blinking sign floating over your head that reads I just got fucked so hard I saw stars, ask me about it?

“I’ve been getting out more lately,” you offer instead of the expletive laced response you really want to say.

“I’ve noticed,” your father says, his tone carrying more irritation than interest. “I’ve also noticed you’ve been taking a lot of personal days at the office.”

He's not wrong. Ever since the day you’d woken up in the basement of the laundromat and had your entire world turned on its axis, something profound had shifted. Discovering that Vought—and by extension CytoGenix, too—likely bear responsibility for your mother’s death has a way of making intern projects feel laughably small. You figure that Adam and Emily have the menial lab experiments covered in your absence.

Your father sets his knife down deliberately, licking his teeth before speaking. “I want you to take this seriously,” he says, his voice cool but weighty. “This isn’t just an internship—it’s the family name we’re talking about.”

Something about the scrape of Monica’s knife on the china grates on you, or maybe it’s the way you fucking hate brussel sprouts. Maybe it's your father's condescending tone and the fact that the family name has only ever brought you pain and misery. Perhaps it's the fact that all of you sitting here together now is a bastardization of a tradition your mother created in hopes that you'd have some semblance of a normal childhood.

“What about me, though?” The words spill out before you can stop them. “What about what I want?”

The room falls still. Monica freezes mid-cut, her fork hovering. Even you’re surprised at the sharpness in your own voice.

“Maybe you forgot, since you didn’t bother showing up to my graduation, but I majored in biology, not pharmacology or business. I never wanted to come back here, let alone do this internship. So excuse me if I miss a few days here and there, okay?”

The heat of your anger makes your face flush, sweat prickling at your spine. Across the table, Monica blinks, her expression unreadable. If you didn’t know better, you’d think she almost looked impressed.

But your father doesn’t yell, doesn’t slam his fists on the table like he did when you were younger. Instead, he does something that is perhaps even worse. He dismisses you, a loose hand wave and unaffected expression rendering your impassioned cry moot. The calm, detached response somehow cuts even deeper.

“Nonsense,” he says coolly. “Someone needs to take over the family business when I go, and if you ask my cardiologist he'll tell you that day isn't too far off.”

“Baby, don’t talk like that!” Monica gasps, her performative worry grating on your nerves. She turns to you. “Your dad’s been overseeing testing on a new heart medication in the labs—which you’d know if you bothered to show up.”

You zone out completely as the two of them bicker back and forth, about your father's health, about your insolence, and then eventually about frothy gossip they'd overheard during their recent outing to Le Bernardin.

Your mind drifts.

What do you want? You’d chosen biology at Cambridge as a compromise, a way to avoid outright rebellion against your father’s wishes. Your mother used to tell you to go after what set your heart on fire, to never settle for anything that didn’t light you up inside. She always spoke as if your success was inevitable, like there was no version of reality where you wouldn’t do something extraordinary.

Only, maybe she'd never considered a reality in which her advice and listening ear no longer existed, where her very absence snuffed out that spark entirely.

What would she say about the Boys, about Butcher? She was a sensible lady, and classy, so it probably would have taken her some time to warm up to the idea of you cavorting around with a crew of vigilantes. Still, you want to believe that she would see the spirit with which you speak about them, the way you feel a million times more purpose scheming and spying in a dingy, dimly lit basement than you ever did sitting in a cubicle reading lab reports. You imagine her reaction to Butcher, her mother's instinct warning you to guard your feelings, and her inability to deny that you were glowing.

You're pulled from your daydream when your ears perk up at something Monica says. “Sorry, what was that?” You ask.

She examines you for a moment. “I said that production has been set back for a special product we've been making for Vought. There was an… unfortunate accident.” She spears her steak, her gaze dropping. “Ashley’s furious. They’re demanding a meeting.”

This time Monica is on the receiving end of your father's casual dismissal as he waves her off like a gnat. “I already spoke to her. Told her they can come to dinner at the Lakehouse. We’ll pour them some wine, ease the blow.”

Monica sets her jaw on edge. “It's going to take a lot of wine for this to go down smoothly, darling,” she says curtly. Her tone lowers. “The losses were huge, it's going to take years and billions to recoup—”

Your effort not to smile is Herculean.

Then your father’s voice cuts through. “I want you there,” he says.

You blink. “Me? Why?”

“You need to start familiarizing yourself with Vought if you’re going to take over. Think of it as a lesson in conflict resolution.” He chuckles, ignoring Monica’s pointed glare.

And, to everyone's surprise, you don't argue this. “Okay, I'll be there.” Your mind swirls with all the ways you can take advantage of this opportunity.

You choke down the last brussel sprout before bouncing up, giving your dad a kiss on the cheek before you leave.

“See? I told you she'd come around,” you hear him say before the door shuts behind you.

~~~

You don’t bother going home after dinner. Instead, you head straight for the laundromat, the adrenaline from your dinner revelation buzzing in your veins.

The basement is alive with chatter as you burst through the door. MM, Hughie, Kimiko, and Frenchie greet you with a chorus of smiles and hellos, their faces lighting up at your excitement.

Butcher, on the other hand, freezes. He bolts upright from the couch as if you’d hit him with a stun gun, his wide eyes darting over your face. For a moment, it looks like he might say something, but his mouth clamps shut before finally settling on an awkward wave before returning to his usual seat on the couch. The others glance at him, puzzled by his bizarre reaction, but say nothing.

You don’t entirely blame him. It's the first time you've seen each other in the week since you slept together. The memory lingers sharper than you’d like to admit. The rest of the car ride home had passed in companionable conversation, punctuated by argument every time you wanted to pull over to take a picture of a cool looking tree or pretty sunset. By the time you pulled up in front of your apartment you were dead tired, asleep on your feet. But just as you turned to leave, Butcher squeezed your hand. “Be safe, alright?” he'd said, and you told him you would be.

You thought about him that night when you touched yourself, something you've been making a bad habit of lately. You wondered if he might have been doing the same.

None of that matters now. You’re here for a mission.

“I’ve got a lead,” you announce, diving into an explanation of the upcoming dinner and its potential as a goldmine for intel. Everyone is receptive, earning you a back pat from MM and a good job, ma poupette from Frenchie. You can't deny the way their praise feels like sunlight on your face.

Hughie chimes in. “You should wear a wire. We’ll be outside in the van, listening in. If anything goes sideways, we’ll be ready.”

You nod, reassured by the thought of their backup. Soon, they’re deep into planning—locations, entry and exit points, contingencies. You hang back, content to watch them work.

That’s when Butcher sidles up beside you.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, voice low. “Privately.”

Your pulse quickens as you nod and follow him into a side room. He shuts the door behind you, and the air between you feels suddenly charged. You're embarrassed by how flustered you feel just by being so close to him again, like your body knows his and reacts involuntarily at the proximity. Your cheeks flush as you draw your eyes up to meet his, putting effort into controlling your breath. Did he want to discuss what happened again? Did he change his mind about this physical element of your relationship? Did he pull you into this room because he absolutely could not wait a second longer to tear your clothes off and have you again, right here, right now?

He interrupts your spiraling thoughts by pulling a manila envelope from his trench coat and shoving it into your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask, confused.

“Your mum’s autopsy report. The unredacted version,” he says, his voice unusually soft. “Had it smuggled out of Vought Tower.”

Your breath catches. You grip the envelope, your excitement from earlier replaced by a rising wave of guilt. How had you let yourself become so wrapped up in your feelings for him that you’d lost sight of why you were working together in the first place?

You start to pull the papers out, but his hand covers yours, stopping you.

“I’m warning you,” he says. “It’s not good.”

You nod, swallowing hard.

The words on the pages blur together at first, dense medical jargon making your head spin. Some of it is familiar, pulled from the sanitized version Vought had given you. But there are new phrases here, ones that jump out like knives.

Internal injuries consistent with a traumatic car accident or fall from a great height.

No external injuries noted.

Partial exsanguination.

You shake your head. None of this makes sense. You were told that your mother was found in her apartment, like having fallen and slipped in the shower. You didn't have to be a medical examiner to know that a person wouldn't have such catastrophic injuries from a slip, couldn't bleed to death from a wound with no external injury.

Your hands tremble as you flip to the final page, one you'd examined at length in the past. Your eyes fall to the Cause of Death header. As before, you see ‘accidental’ written beneath it. Except next to it, previously obscured by a thick, black redacting line, you find two letters. SR.

“SR?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Butcher grimaces. “Supe-related. It means a Supe killed your mum.”

You suspected it, readied yourself for it, stayed up late at night agonizing about it. Yet, with the evidence in your hands now, finally real, you begin to tremble. There was no running from the fact that your mother had suffered, that she had been afraid in her last moments. What did she think when the Supe showed up at her apartment? Had she begged for her life? Had your father and Monica contracted with Vought to get your mother out of the picture?

Your legs give out beneath you, vision swimming. Before you meet the ground, strong arms catch you, wrapping around you. You're enveloped in Butcher's arms as he gently guides you both to the floor, pulling you in tighter as you rest against the wall. Your lungs heave in great, powerful bursts, awful croaking sobs escaping from deep inside you. You sob in the same way you did on the night you received the life-altering news, unabashed and involuntarily. Butcher says nothing as he rocks you back and forth, a large hand running up and down your back. He lets you get it all out, like he's been here, like he knows this pain all too well. When the sobs subside and your breathing steadies, he helps you to your feet, his hands lingering just long enough to ensure you’re steady. You wipe your eyes and manage a grateful glance, knowing that speaking would only unleash another torrent of tears.

Butcher steps back slightly, his hand lingering on your shoulder as if anchoring you to the moment. His face softens, guarded but undeniably tender. He clears his throat, glancing away before meeting your eyes again.

“I know what it’s like, you know,” he says, voice quieter than you’re used to. “To lose someone and not have the answers. To lie awake at night, over and over, trying to piece together the truth that everyone else seems happy to bury.”

You blink, surprised by his tone. “You’re talking about Becca?”

He shakes his head. “Not just Becca. My brother, Lenny.”

The name hangs in the air like a heavy weight. He exhales sharply, as though it physically pains him to say it.

“Lenny was... different from me,” he continues, the rough edge in his voice softening further. “He wasn’t like this.” He gestures vaguely at himself, the trench coat, the scowl, the hardened demeanor. “He was the better one. Gentle, kind. Always trying to keep me in line. He was... the only good thing left in my life, for a long time.”

You stay quiet, the gravity in his voice pulling you in.

“But I couldn’t protect him.” His jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists. “He was dealing with his own demons, and I was too blind, too wrapped up in my own shit, to see what he needed. He...” Butcher’s voice falters, his words cracking. “He didn’t make it. Took his own life. And I’ve spent every day since wonderin’ if I could’ve stopped it, if I could’ve done somethin’ different.”

You reach out instinctively, your hand brushing against his arm, offering the same silent comfort he’d given you earlier.

“That’s why I’m telling you,” he says, looking at you with a rare vulnerability, his eyes sharp and glassy. “Whatever it takes, we’re going to get the bastard who did this to your mum. You’ve got my word. I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. Not like I did.”

His words ignite something deep inside you, a mixture of gratitude, determination, and pain. You nod, your voice unsteady but resolute. “We’ll get them. Together.”

Butcher’s lips twitch, almost forming a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he nods, the unspoken understanding between you solidifying like steel.

“Just promise me,” he adds, his voice rough again, “you don’t lose yourself in this. Revenge is a funny thing. It takes more than it gives. Trust me, I know.”

You swallow hard, hearing the weight of his warning but knowing, in your heart, that this path is the only one you can take.

“I’ll try,” you say, though you’re not sure if it’s a promise you can keep.

Butcher seems to hear it in your voice but doesn’t push. Instead, he straightens, his usual stoicism returning. “Get some rest,” he says, pulling his trench coat tighter around himself. “Big day tomorrow.”

As he walks toward the door, you glance at the manila envelope still clutched in your hands. The truth you’ve been searching for is finally laid bare, but it feels heavier than you ever anticipated.

Before he steps out, Butcher pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. For a moment, there’s something in his gaze, something soft and almost protective.

“You’re tougher than you think,” he says gruffly. “Don’t forget that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the truth and the ache of everything it means.

~~~

You're darting around your apartment in a short cotton bathrobe when three raps fall against your door in quick succession, alerting you to the arrival of Hughie and Butcher.

Thrusting the front door open, you barely greet the men before scurrying back upstairs. Dinner at the Lakehouse starts in an hour and a half. You're running late and you know it.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” you shout over your shoulder, already halfway up the stairs to your loft.

Butcher steps inside first, glancing around the expansive living room with its vaulted ceilings and tastefully expensive decor. Though he’s been here once before, briefly, you can feel the weight of his presence in the space. Hughie follows, lingering awkwardly by the door as if afraid to touch anything.

“You sure this is just yours?” Hughie asks, his voice filled with awe as he surveys the plush furniture and abstract art pieces that probably cost more than his yearly salary.

“Doesn’t look like the digs of someone in our line of work, does it?” Butcher mutters, one eyebrow cocked as he gestures toward the oversized painting above your couch.

You cringe upstairs, pausing mid-search for your shoes. Do they know the painting cost a cool twenty grand? Do they know your father didn’t even blink when you charged it to his credit card?

The size and opulence of your apartment feel like an accusation, another reminder of the gulf between your world and theirs.

Pushing the thought aside, you turn to your reflection in the mirror. The maroon dress you’ve chosen clings to you like a second skin, fabric cascading over your hips and down your thighs to lightly skim the floor. The neckline rises to your collarbones, giving the illusion of modesty. It's what happens when you turn around that's worthy of a commotion; your back is bare save for delicate straps that criss-cross your back, dipping dangerously low beneath your waist, leaving little to the imagination. You’d be lying if you said you weren't looking a little forward to seeing Butcher's reaction.

Taking a steadying breath, you smooth the silk down your sides and make your way downstairs. The clack of your heels on the wooden steps draws their attention immediately. Hughie’s head snaps up, his mouth slightly agape before he quickly averts his gaze, his cheeks flushing.

Butcher, on the other hand, doesn’t bother to look away. His eyes rake over you, unapologetic, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and something darker, something you’re afraid to name. He doesn’t speak, but his jaw tightens, and for a moment, he seems rooted in place. His eyes burn a hole through you, jaw firmly remaining on the ground. It's as though he's never seen you naked, reduced to tears by his relentless—

Get a hold of yourself.

“Wow,” Hughie stammers, standing abruptly. “Uh, you—wow, yeah, you look—”

“Thanks, Hughie,” you interrupt, sparing him further embarrassment.

He awkwardly holds up the wire and listening device, his hands trembling as he explains how it works, assuring you that you'll be safe and that they'll step in if anything goes sideways. You distantly wonder would cause this mission to go awry, and what exactly the Boys would do to help you. You nod along, your mind only half-focused on his words as he hesitates, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of threading the wire through your dress. You've grown quite comfortable around the guy, but it's hard to imagine how this couldn't be an awkward interaction. He frets, deeply uncomfortable manipulating your dress or touching your skin.

“Uh, maybe you should—” Hughie stutters, gesturing vaguely toward you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Butcher growls, snatching the wire from Hughie’s hands. “I’ll do it.”

Before you can protest, Butcher steps closer, the heat of his presence washing over you. He hands you the mic, his voice low and rough. “Stick this under your sternum.”

You do as he says, tucking it into place with trembling fingers. He takes the wire and, with surprising gentleness, pulls the side of your dress open where the straps criss-cross. His fingers brush your skin as he threads the wire through, and suddenly the air feels too thick to breathe.

His hands pause at your waist, his eyes lifting to meet yours. The smoldering intensity in his gaze steals the air from your lungs, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he reaches up to place the earpiece in your ear, “is so you can hear us in the van.”

His eyes read wistfulness. Yours return the favour.

The proximity, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek, sends shivers racing down your spine. You force yourself to stay still, fighting the instinct to lean into him, to close the infinitesimal distance between you. Your flesh reacts to his touch, his breath fanning on your face sending flutters down your spine. You inhale deeply, committing his warm scent to memory. It takes all your self-control not to reach out and touch his neck.

Butcher lingers a moment too long, his eyes flicking to your lips before he catches himself. He pulls back abruptly, shoving his hands into his pockets as if to hide their tremble.

Hughie clears his throat loudly, snapping you both back to reality. “Uh, so... ready to go?”

Your cheeks burn as you step back, smoothing your dress and avoiding Hughie’s curious gaze. “Yeah,” you mumble, grabbing your coat and clutch. “Let’s get this over with.”

Shit. You have no idea how to explain to Hughie what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. You have no idea how to explain to yourself what the fuck just happened between you and Butcher. He said it was a one time thing, and you had agreed. So why did it feel like neither of you really meant that now?

You don't wait around to find out. Cheeks hot, you pull on a heavy wool coat and throw your keys in a clutch, mumbling to Hughie and Butcher that your car is waiting downstairs for you, the three of you hurrying out of the apartment.

Your heart is racing, your cool utterly lost, and you haven't even started the mission yet.

~~~

The Lakehouse is hardly a house at all. Perched on eight sprawling acres of pristine waterfront property, the six-bedroom estate is more like a luxury resort. It boasts a private beach, a boathouse, a fully staffed kitchen, and amenities that wouldn’t be out of place in a five-star hotel. This was supposed to be your childhood home, a place where your family would gather to escape the chaos of the city. But, of course, your father’s relentless ambition had other plans. Weekdays in the city turned into every week in the city, and the Lakehouse became little more than a backdrop for corporate schmoozing and high-stakes dealmaking.

You’ve only been here once since moving back, and that visit had been for a similarly uncomfortable dinner with grumpy shareholders. That’s how it works with your father. When he invites someone to the Lakehouse, it means he’s either wooing them or trying to quell a crisis. Tonight, it’s the latter.

The heated marble floors feel too smooth under your heels as you drift through the dark wood-paneled corridors, a ghost in your father’s world. The hum of conversation grows louder as you approach the atrium, a cavernous space filled with old money charm and new money ambition. When you step inside, the low murmur of voices barely shifts.

Your father, however, notices immediately. His face lights up as he strides over, announcing your presence to the room with an enthusiasm that feels both practiced and performative. You’re greeted with nods and distracted glances from the scattered groups of investors, politicians, and Vought executives who occupy the space.

You paste on a polite smile and glide into the crowd, the maroon silk of your dress flowing like water around your frame. The fabric clings in all the right places, and you’re acutely aware of how much the dress is working in your favor tonight. You flit from one conversation to the next, exchanging hollow pleasantries with anyone willing to give you the time of day.

“Yes, I’m his daughter.”“No, I don’t work for CytoGenix yet, just shadowing.”“Of course, I’m honored to follow in his footsteps.”

You parrot the answers you know they want to hear, offering carefully crafted tidbits about your life in exchange for half-hearted words of encouragement or patronizing nods.

“So,” one executive asks, swirling his glass of whiskey, “you’ll be running CytoGenix one day, huh?”

You want to tell him you’d rather set the place on fire and dance on the ashes. Instead, you laugh, a soft, practiced sound, and offer some noncommittal response that earns an approving chuckle.

After thirty agonizing minutes, you can’t take it anymore. Your smile feels brittle, your cheeks sore from holding it in place. Excusing yourself with a vague promise to freshen up, you slip out of the atrium and into the cool night air.

The back terrace is wide and expansive, the kind of place meant for grand parties or quiet reflection. Tonight, it acts as your refuge. You pull your heavy coat tighter around your shoulders as you step to the edge, your heels clicking softly against the stone.

The view is breathtaking. The lake stretches out before you, the surface calm and glassy, reflecting the fiery reds and burnt oranges of the setting sun. The horizon blurs in the distance, where the vibrant sky meets the still water. The crisp fall air fills your lungs, sharp and invigorating, cutting through the lingering tension from the evening.

For a moment, you let yourself exhale fully, allowing the facade to fall away. Out here, there are no prying eyes, no hollow pleasantries, no suffocating expectations. Just the quiet lap of water against the shore and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You grip the stone railing and gaze out at the horizon, wondering if this is what your father feels when he’s here, if he ever lets himself feel anything at all. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that you’re only here for one reason: to play your part. But the thought lingers like a shadow, just out of reach, as the sun dips below the horizon and the lake fades into twilight.

Your serenity is interrupted when the terrace door opens with a creak. You swear under your breath at the unwelcome intrusion.

“Hey there sweetheart,” a voice beckons out behind you. Instead of the warmth you’d normally feel at this kind of greeting, you find the hair at the back of your neck standing on end, unsettled to your core. Your stomach tightens, and you hear Butcher’s muttered curse in your earpiece.

You turn, finding Homelander closing the door behind him, joining you on the balcony.

“Homelander.” You turn, keeping your tone neutral, but your heart beats louder in your chest. "Enjoying the evening?"

He steps onto the balcony, closing the door behind him, his gaze tracing you with that predatory intensity that sends a ripple of discomfort through your veins. “Indeed I am.” He eyes you up and down, slow and deliberate, his words syrupy and laced with an unsettling warmth. “Enjoying the view even more.”

��Fuckin' prick,” Butcher growls under his breath through the earpiece.

You offer a strained smile, your pulse quickening despite yourself. “The lake’s amazing this time of year,” you say, grasping at the first thing that pops into your mind, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.

Homelander takes a step closer, his presence overwhelming. “Not as incredible as you,” he says with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand rests on your waist, and you recoil instinctively, every nerve in your body screaming to move, to get away. “You’re something special, you know that?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping, “I’ve had my eye on you all night.”

A burst of anger flashes in Butcher’s voice. “I’m gonna kill him,” he hisses, but you can hear the strain in his words—he knows he can’t act just yet.

You swallow. Despite your knowledge of who he is, what he is capable of, you're not immune to his charisma. The quasi-genuine emotion in his voice is almost believable, bombarding your defenses. You stiffen against him, clutching onto the balcony railing like it might save you.

Your stomach churns as Homelander's fingers curl possessively around your waist. Your muscles stiffen, but you stand your ground, ignoring the dread welling inside you. “I was just heading back inside,” you mutter, the tension radiating from your body palpable. You try to sidestep, but his hand snaps out, gripping your wrist in an iron hold, pulling you back toward him.

“No need for that, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice low, with a dangerous edge. “Don’t tell me those perky tits and round ass are gonna go to waste.”

“Enough, I'm going in,” Butcher's voice cracks through your earpiece, barely holding back the fury in his words. “No!” Hughie chirps, eliciting jumbled groans from Butcher. If he thinks he's disgusted listening to it, he should try hearing it spoken directly into his ear.

You press your palm to the cool railing, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, the air thick with tension. You take stock of the situation, calculating your next move. The terrace is isolated, the fall air too cool for the partygoers inside. No one would hear you if you screamed right now. Still, your proximity to the party would prevent Homelander from doing anything too egregious. He may be sociopathic and narcissistic, but he's not stupid. He can't hurt you, at least not right now.

Your mind races as you swallow the vile words bubbling up. It’s your turn now. You meet his gaze head-on, your voice barely shaking. “Back off, asshole,” you say, each word dragging itself from your throat with the kind of anger you’ve been keeping locked inside for months. “Step the fuck off.”

The world feels suspended for a heartbeat, and then another. You brace yourself for whatever comes next—the snap of your wrist, the rush of air as he lifts you into the sky—but all you hear is his shallow, ragged breath. He doesn’t move.

To your utter shock, he lets go of you. Only his hand remains, grasped around your wrist. You turn to face him.

You feel the anger roll off of him in waves, concentrated and palpable. You fight to keep your breathing even as you contend with the electricity falling off of him, a live wire spinning out behind you.

“You know who my father is,” you state, voice calm and even once again. “You don't want to do this.”

“That fuckin’ bastard is getting a bullet—”

His face falls, menacing energy leaking out of him. You feel the malicious energy exuding from his very being, every nerve in his body wanting to hurt you in this very moment, the barest thread tying him to reality.

Please, you think. Give Butcher a reason to run in here. Let him save me.

He holds onto you, fist tightening around your wrist painfully. He gazes up at you, unnaturally blue eyes pleading.

“I'm going in. I don't fucking care I’m going,” Butcher crackles into your ear.

“Stop,” you say, simultaneously to Butcher and Homelander. “Just walk away.”

For a moment, the tension is unbearable. But then, to your shock, both men stand back. Butcher's voice fades from within your ear. Homelander takes a step backward, though it’s not out of mercy, but rather a calculation. A predator retreating from its cunning prey. His fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you again.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, his voice almost too smooth. He turns away from you with a languid motion, desperately trying to coax his boner away.

You swallow the bile rising in your throat and steel yourself. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

You stare up at him, daring him to act up even a little bit. His eyes are lifeless, shark-like. He doesn't move.

His smile is a razor. “Sure.”

You take a breath, then turn, letting the distance grow between you. “I really need to get back to my dad,” you mutter, your voice almost too casual as you slip past him and back inside.

You slip back inside, the warmth of the party pressing against you. Your footfalls echo against the wood panelled walls, softening the jagged edges of your inhaled breaths. You pause for a second, ensuring he isn't following you, before ducking back into the dinner party.

~~~

Dinner is served: Filet mignon, perfectly seared, accompanied by a side of Catalonian salad.

It takes all of your energy not to tear into the meal, desperately trying to recall your brief time spent at finishing school in your teens. An array of assorted cutlery borders your meal; you select what you hope to god is the correct fork.

The minutes stretch on in blessed silence, the clink of cutlery and soft murmurs as everyone devours the fresh seafood. Cloth napkins flutter delicately to dab at dribbles of butter staining chins.

“A toast,” Ashley says, cutting through the meal’s quiet indulgence. “I'd like to extend Vought's gratitude toward the Morgans tonight for this lovely get together,” she raises her wine glass, all of the partygoers offering theirs up in the toast. She raises her glass in a practiced gesture, and everyone follows suit, toasting dutifully before draining their drinks.

When she speaks again her expression is serious. “But,” she continues, her tone now sharp, “I'd like to discuss the status of V2. After the recent attack, our shareholders are understandably concerned.”

Monica stands from the table, patronizing smile plastered on her face. “Ashley,” she begins, flashing a disingenuous smile, “We so appreciate your condolences on CytoGenix’s recent loss of two beloved security guards. May they rest in peace.” Her hand presses to her chest in exaggerated grief, screwing her eyes shut in mock sincerity.

You scoff quietly, wondering how someone so transparent in their deceit made it this far in the industry. How did your father fall for her when your mother was right there?

She continues. “What happened was a freak accident. V2 remains a well-guarded secret. We can assure you that CytoGenix is fast at work replacing all of the destroyed product.”

The room erupts into hushed murmurs, sidelong glances communicating dissatisfaction with Monica's response. She's trying desperately to downplay what happened, what you did, and she's failing miserably.

“Monica, as an executive at both Vought and CytoGenix, I'm a little concerned about your nonchalance. Are you not concerned about the loss of 13 billion dollars in profits here?” Ashley’s voice is measured but biting, her sharp gaze trained on Monica without faltering.

Monica's face falls ever so slightly. It's barely perceptible, but you notice the infinitesimal twitch in her smile, the twinkle dying in her eyes. The energy in the room shifts as the din of cutlery and small talk silence. The two women stare each other down. Electric tension crackles around the room.

Then, the squeak of a chair as it’s pushed back snaps you from your thoughts. You’re caught off guard when your father rises from his seat, one hand raised in an almost theatrically calm gesture.

“Ladies, please,” he says, a placating smile on his face. “I am willing to put my name and reputation on the line here to tell all of you,” he makes a sweeping gesture to the room, “CytoGenix is committed to ensuring favorable outcomes for everyone sitting at this table. I have taken on the responsibility of guarding the remaining vials myself. The future of V2 rests under my watchful eye.” His chest erupts in a hearty chuckle, as though it was silly that anyone doubted his company's ability to make money. A laugh that threatened danger if it was not met with a positive response.

As if on cue, everyone devolves into soft laughter, like the room itself has exhaled collectively. Stanley Morgan, ever the consummate politician. Ability to command a room unmatched, he basks in the light chatter of the relieved guests.

Sometimes your father's power scares you. Times like right now.

You find an excuse to leave once dinner is finished, feigning sleepiness to avoid being dragged into the inevitable dessert round with the insufferable business crowd. As you pull on your coat, your father crosses the room and gives you a quick, almost absent hug. He presses a kiss to your hairline, the gesture so fleeting, so routine, but for a moment, you feel a flicker of something you can’t quite place.

“Stay safe, kiddo. I love you,” he says, and for a moment you forget. So you pretend.

You pretend that you just had a normal weekly dinner with him and your mom, just like old times. You pretend that she's just in the other room, finishing up the whipped toppings for her favorite dessert, key lime pie. You pretend that your father always tells you that he loves you, that he doesn't save it for occasions when he's drunk and you've finally done something that makes him proud.

You hug him back. You tell him you love him too.

#billy butcher #fanfic #fanfiction #theboys #the boys tv #the boys amazon #the boys fanfic #william butcher #the boys #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher fanfic #billy butcher x you #the boys series #angst #butcher x reader

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edupunkn00b · 2 months ago

Text

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

All Logan has left is his field work and with the impossible discoveries he's made in the great Vert Woods, nothing could keep him away. Well, Remus might have something to say about that.

Written for @syrcaljirk for the @tss-camp-and-coffee's Camp Cartoon event.

WC: 5243 - Rated: G

Another bolt of lighting crashed, over-illuminating the sopping field notebook cradled in Logan Stèle’s lap. Blinking against the temporary glare, and fingers long gone from cold to aching then to numb, Logan wiped away the rivulets of water collecting on his notebook and continued his work.

The rain had fallen, unrelenting, for hours, pouring down upon the trees, the ground. Him. It fell hard enough Logan might have believed literal buckets were dumped on his head as he sat scrunched under the partial cover of the stony shelter he’d managed to find beneath a basalt outcropping.

Grateful, as always, for the stone-based waterproof notebook his old advisor had insisted they bring in surplus, Logan scratched out another sketch of the Podaxis pistillaris growing before him.

This was his eighth trip in as many weeks to the Vert Woods and each visit brought a different, impossible discovery.

Despite the obvious visual evidence before him, fungi in the Agaricaceae family simply did not grow in this type of forest. Agaricaceae were strictly desert fungi, the specimens before him literally nicknamed ‘desert shaggy manes’ for their preferred climate and their shredded rings that more closely resembled hair than the remnants of their volva.

Not only could the Agaric. not survive in the wet, chilly climate of the northern rain forests, but here they would they find nothing resembling their preferred diet of desert termite casings. Its spores would have long dissolved in the combination of damp loamy soil and frequent soaking downpours Logan had observed over the past seven hours.

It had to be a mimic.

A carefully sealed spore print developing in the deepest part of his discovered crevice, Logan not-quite-patiently recorded his observations. These specimens truly were remarkable, sprouting so quickly their growth was visible, granting Logan the view he’d ordinarily need time lapse photography to record. Just as well, as all his previous attempts to leave behind field cameras had failed. The first set’s lenses had been smeared by some thick organic material. The next had drained their solar batteries so completely even their internal memory had failed. Another set of cameras had broken completely.

The last set had just disappeared.

His dwindling supplies would not in good conscience permit him to sacrifice any additional cameras after that incident.

With darkened skies raging overhead, he recorded his own observations and waited for a break in the storm before he began his hike back to basecamp and his tiny—and efficient—field lab.

For now, though, he thought to himself as another clap of lighting crackled overhead, he was safest here. And so was the developing print. Turning to a fresh page to capture a larger growth sprouting just past the first, he figured he might as well make good use of his time while he rode out the storm.

Eyes just barely closed but teeth gritted in concentration, Remus shoved down the irritation creeping up his throat. He chanted, calling for another bolt of lightning only seconds after the last. This one struck near enough to make the tiny hairs on the backs of his fingers stand on end. Bright enough to see his own veins through his eyelids.

And still the alchemist camped in the forest, in Remus’ forest, his ward. The forest air choking on the poison of his electronic gadgets, the ground weeping beneath the tread of his jagged plastic soles, the forest’s creatures shrinking from sight.

Draped in the skins and fur and hair of animals and plants whose deaths had been fast and brutal, executed without prayer or gratitude, the alchemist lingered, unbowed by his storm as he surveyed the sacred grounds, carving his rock-on-rock runes with undying perseverance.

Well, Remus would just have to see about the undying part.

Energy crackled between his fingers as he pulled up the heat and power of the ground beneath his bare feet. Freezing rain pelted his face, plastering his clothes to his skin. The wind whipped his long hair back and the scent of ozone rose up around him.

Bright white fire gathered in his hands and his eyes flew open. He focused on the small figure at the bottom of the cliff and aimed.

Power sizzled through his veins, hot and staticky, drawing on the anger of the earth, the broken rock and torn roots crying out for protection. And revenge.

Fingertips glowing brighter than the bolts carving the sky, Remus muttered the final words of the spell. Without warning, his brother’s old spores bloomed around the alchemist, copper spike and rose russulas and thousands upon thousands of amanitas bigger than his palm.

Remus dropped his hands with a curse and turned his back on the alchemist. He slunk back home under a clear blue sky.

The storm showed no sign of abatement, in fact each clap of thunder followed sooner after the one that preceded it and the rain pooled at the edge of his rocky shelter, already splashing over the lip of what would be delusional to call a cave.

If it weren’t for the racket of the storm—and the anxiety that rose with the level of the water, when the mushrooms around him sprouted to new life, Logan might have thought he was dreaming. Russula emetica, Chroogomphus rutilus, and Amanita muscaria bloomed from impossible surfaces. Amanita shot up from bare rock, the Russula twining around the trunk of a long-dead oak.

Excitement bubbling in his chest, he turned to a new page and hurriedly captured the scene, wishing bitterly his still camera had not broken on his first attempt. Even his hand-crank radio was malfunctioning.

Pencil on paper it was, then.

The skies darkened and Logan swore under his breath, briefly toying with the idea of venturing out from his shelter to get a closer look. Then, just as suddenly as the Amanita sprouted, the rains just… stopped.

A perfect blue sky broke through the clouds, the sun now well past its zenith. If he left now he might make it back to basecamp with enough daylight left for the solar chargers to revive what was left of his devices. Unwilling to risk being caught in another downpour, this time without even the minimal cover he’d managed to find earlier today, Logan slipped his notebook and pencil into his pocket and oh-so-carefully picked up the tiny covered box in the back of the crevice. And the blooming spore print within.

Tipping open the lid, he wrapped the Agaricaceae cap in many-times over reused stone paper paper and checked the print. A perfect canoe shape, dark brown spores from a cream-colored cap. “Remarkable,” he whispered, turning the print to catch the light. A literally incredible discovery, especially growing in tandem with—

Logan gasped, eyes snagged on the now fungi-free field before him. Where once had been a riot of contradictory species, now stretched a flat meadow of five kinds of clover, Papaver rhoeas and Pterostylis parviflora.

He checked the cap he’d secured in his bag. An empty parchment packet was all he found.

The print, however…

The spore print remained pristine and solid, the dark brown marks blurred at the edges, staring back at him, the sole proof of what he’d seen today. Gently stowing away the precious evidence, Logan hurried out toward the path back to camp, back to his lab where perhaps he could begin to make sense of this impossible forest.

“Why wouldn’t you let me get rid of him?” Remus spat, tiptoeing between a patch of poppies and a fallen maple. “One good strike and he’d’ve fed you for a century!”

More red blossoms unfurled before him, tiny camellias tracing his path back home.

“But it is me,” he argued. “Looking after these woods is my job now.” The petals reached for him, velvety soft brushes against bare ankles.

It was more soothing than Remus would ever admit aloud. Not that he needed to.

“I know,” he sighed, footsteps slowing. His house—their house—lay just beyond the mossy, weathered remnants of a pre-solar tower. The poppies grew thicker now, carpeting the path ahead.

Scattered across them lay a staggered set of bare patches between him and the front door, stepping stones across a floral creek.

“I know you’d be here if you could.”

The groundshake struck just before its warning alarm. Ancient systems reliant on an increasingly failure-prone network of sensors, the series of alarms meant to rouse the surrounding cities and villages from their beds in time to seek shelter were now little more than an added nuisance.

They’d have deactivated the seismic sirens long ago. If there had been anyone left who knew how to, that was.

Now Logan was faced with the choice of the certain danger of rockslides racing down from the summit or the high but vague chance of falling trees in the woods.

His feet and hands decided before the rest of his mind could, snatching up his go-bag and darting out into the cool, dark forest.

His feet had been rash.

Not ten paces into the woods, Logan realized his mistake. Towering Sequoia sempervirens, after centuries of strain and stress of acid rain, methane bursts, and decades of drought in the Dry Years, the once great Kings of the forest trembled with the earth, the crackling and splintering of the dry, rotten trunks drowning out the screeching sirens at base camp.

Too late, Logan turned back, old solar lights glittering through the trees, beckoning him to over-promised safety. A younger tree, not more than three hundred years old, split a dozen meters up from where he stood. It fell through its sibling trees and crashed to the ground, blocking his path.

The world cracked behind him and the sky was blotted out by the carcass of one more great Redwood.

Remus woke with a start, his own breaths deafening in the odd hush blanketing his home. He sat up and scrunched his toes against the ground beneath him.

It ached, pulled and stretched, crying in terror and pain.

Leaping to his feet, he grabbed the pot of sage ashes on the hearth. He ran uphill through the underbrush, headed for the still waters of Lake Frère.

He chanted with every step, pounding his message into the earth, scattering the burnt sage along the trail for any of the forest’s creatures to follow. The earth shakes. Seek water. The earth shakes. Seek water.

The first shuddering jolt threw him to the ground. Remus dropped to his knees but kept the ashes safe, with only a little spilling over the lip of the pot. Back on his feet, he ran on, dusting the trail step by step as he carved out a path to safety.

Three tiny red poppies appeared just as the cool, heavy scent of lake air filled his lungs, the promise of safety within its depths. “No!” he paused the spell to shout. “We’re going this way,” he said, then resumed his chanting.

Another blossom appeared, several steps to the left.

“No way,” he insisted, slowing and pointing up the hill. “We’re going that way.”

Two more steps forward and a wall of English holly shot up, barricading the path.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

Deep roots shrieked around them, the pained cries of ancient ones meeting a final, violent death and the ground broke beneath them. Remus touched a shoot nearest him, whispering condolences, ease and calm, and shouted at the sky. “This is no time for—“

The ground shook again, jolting him forward. And away from the water.

Bright red poppies lined the path ahead. “Fine!” he shouted. “We’ll do it your way!”

Remus smelled the alchemist’s blood before he saw it. “Serves you right,” he muttered, yelping when a vine slapped his bare calf. “What?” he snapped back. “Who runs into a forest in an earthquake?”

As he’d trekked downhill through the woods, the great growling rumbles of the earth dissolved into little more than periodic spasms, the last hiccupping gasps as the ground finished its seizing and settled into another long, fitful slumber.

One such aftershock dropped a ferny branch down on the bloodied alchemist’s face and he sputtered to life.

“Wha—Agh!” Confusion turned to pain, seeping through the soil and digging cold fingers into Remus’ skin. The alchemist pushed weakly at the trunk, barely more than a branch, really, holding him fast to the ground.

Red amanitas sprouted around his head, near enough to touch.

“What are you doing?” Remus hissed, too low for the clumsy alchemist to hear.

Or so he’d thought.

“Who’s there?” he croaked, fear and pain tightening his throat. Even if Remus hadn’t already felt the man’s injuries through the ground between them, his choked words would have drawn him closer.

“No-one,” Remus answered. Red petals nudged him closer and he shook his head. Yes, fine, he would help him. But he didn’t need to be nice about it.

“Wha—“ he began, twisting to see. The alchemist’s voice broke, a stifled whimper. Besides the gashes and what looked like a sprained if not broken ankle, he likely had at least a few cracked ribs. And maybe worse.

“Stay still,” Remus growled. “You’ll only make your injuries worse flopping around like that.”

Ignoring his advice, the alchemist turned and stared. “You’re—“

The ground shifted beneath them, twisting the tree on top of him. With a pathetic little groan, the alchemist’s eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

Logan was warm. Not hot, with the sticky heat of humid nights or the glaring sun bearing down on him and the baked, barren ground back home. No, warm like soft springs, tea perfectly steeped and cooled. Gentle sunrises as the steam lifted up off the forest lakes.

Warm and comfortable and—

Logan’s eyes flew wide open, unseeing through an inky blackness surrounding him. The last he’d remembered, he’d been trapped under the biggest tree he’d ever seen, a monstrous specimen so large he’d mistaken it for part of the cliffs. It had hurt, far more than rad poisoning, far more than decompression, far more than anything else he’d ever experienced.

And now? Now he felt warm, wrapped in dark softness, dry and safe and completely without any pain.

“Am I dead?” he whispered into the black silence.

It was not a voice that answered him, but a snore. Several feet away, a very soft, very human snore.

Logan pushed himself upright and sat listening. Other, smaller sounds reached his ears. The distant call of a night bird—an owl, perhaps?—followed by a rustle and the snap of twigs. Wind through the trees.

It was only then a flicker of thin, silver light shot over his legs—rather, over the chunky knit blanket covering his legs.

Next to him was a window, draped in heavy, tightly woven hemp. It waved gently with the breeze, releasing a flicker of moonlight with each movement. Reaching for the curtain, Logan peeled it back, drenching the room in soft moonlight.

He was lying in a nest of blankets, a soft mattress beneath him, overstuffed with grasses and dried moss. If the scent wafting up with each movement was a reliable indicator, of course.

The bedding was tucked into one corner of a small stone house, a hut, really. The floor nothing more than packed dirt. A paneless window stretched alongside it, a sturdy brick-lined stove at the far end.

Two walls lined with books bound in all colors, baskets—both filled and empty—teetered in a haphazard stack by the door, bits of dried and drying herbs hung from the rafters, the walls, the doorway.

And at the end of the bookshelves slept a man.

Wrapped in a blanket much like the ones piled around Logan, most of the man’s face was tucked beneath the covers. Thick eyebrows and a mass of dark, plaited hair peeked out above them. He turned, a beam of moonlight spilling over his temple.

The front door swayed with the breeze, and Logan’s go-bag sat undisturbed beside it. Nothing would stop him from leaving.

Still holding the curtain open, Logan tried to peel away the covers one handed, but he only succeeded in getting himself further tangled within. He released the window coverings, plunging the room into darkness. He’d seen enough to know he was no longer dressed in his own bedclothes, the shirt and pants he’d gone to sleep in before he was woken by the groundshake.

Logan managed to free one leg but when he worked the other out, pain shot out from foot to hip and he cried out. He slapped a hand over his mouth but the snoring across the room suddenly stopped.

“You’re awake,” the man growled. He groaned and the sounds of movement filled the room.

Twisting, Logan tried to reach the curtain, to allow some light inside but he only succeeded in getting further tangled, foot twisted painfully in the blankets. A cry leaked out past his lips and he fell back against the bed, helpless.

“Yeah, I know he’s hurt,” the man muttered.

Was there someone else there? Logan clawed desperately at the bed, trying to reach the curtain but he’d gotten twisted up so badly every movement sent fire up his leg. A sharp crack-crack-crack stilled him and, after a moment, a soft glow filled the room.

The man stood at the other side of the room, a tiny antique lantern held aloft. Logan’s eyes darted around, searching for whoever the man had been speaking to, but there was no-one else there. In the brighter light, he could now see what he’d thought were herbs were vines of Mandevilla spp. and Phaseolus coccineus, their bright red blossoms seemingly uncaring their species did not grow indoors.

Nor bloom at night.

“H—how?” Logan stammered, curtain and blankets forgotten.

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he set the lantern atop the brick stove and knelt next to Logan. Careful, deft hands extricated his leg from the covers and Logan got a better look at the stiff splint wrapped around his ankle. Scowl notwithstanding, he maneuvered Logan’s injured leg gently, adjusting a pillow beneath it Logan hadn’t even realized was there. The elevation helped.

“Did—did you do all this?” Logan asked, gesturing to his leg, his clothes he realized were from the same cloth as the man’s own tunic. “Did you bring me here?”

He grunted. “You didn’t walk yourself here.” The breeze blew one of the Mandevilla close enough to brush against the man’s hand and he glared at it.

“Thank you,” Logan said, holding his breath when the man’s head whipped around, glaring at him instead. “F—for all of this, for finding me, for—“ His voice cracked. With the surprise and pain fading, his thirst made itself known and he licked dry lips.

Without speaking, the man pushed up to his feet and lit the stove. He picked up an ancient-looking kettle and poured some into a small clay cup then set the kettle on the hottest part of the stove. “Here,” he said, moving to his side. He helped Logan sit up and held the cup to his lips. “Drink.”

Logan sipped at the water. It was fresh and clean, not recycled or even silty like the rainwater he collected at base camp. He wondered how much of basecamp survived the groundshake. Likely not much.

“Thank you,” he said again when the cup was empty. He leaned heavily against the supportive arm the man still wrapped around his back.

Movement caught his eye and, over the man’s shoulder, he spotted—hallucinated, surely—one of the longer vines stretching down where it draped over the bookshelves. It snaked its way across the floor and up over the man’s other arm. It sniffed at the cup in his hand like a favored pet.

“Cup’s empty,” the man said. “Yours is outside. It’ll rain in the morning.”

“Did you just—“

The man grunted again and slowly lowered him onto the bed. “You’ll recover faster if you rest,” he said, ignoring his question.

And ignoring the blossoms insistently poking at his foot. That was the final evidence Logan needed, the final proof that he was utterly and completely delirious. “Agreed,” he whispered, the soft bed buffing away his earlier curiosity. “Thank you,” he said one more time and let his head sink into the pillows beneath him.

“You’re—“

The man hesitated and as his eyes closed, Logan imagined he heard the rustle of leaves against the floor.

“You’re welcome.”

Logan was asleep before the kettle began to boil.

The sun was more than half-way in its march across the sky and the alchemist still slept.

Remus had not.

“I know he couldn’t get far with his foot like that,” he muttered, crushing another bundle of dried burdock root. The rhythmic scrape of granite against granite and scent of cloves and lemon balm simmering on the stove soothed the dull ache behind his eyes. “He wouldn’t hafta go far to damage yo—“

“Hello?”

He nearly dropped the pestle. One arm hugging the mortar to his chest, his other hand outstretched and a spell on his tongue, Remus spun around.

The alchemist looked just as startled as he felt. “I… I apologize, I hadn’t meant to interrupt…” Eyes darting around his home, the alchemist floundered, mouth working like a thirsty fish before finally shaking his head. “If I may ask… Wh—who were talking to?”

Remus ignored the question—and the red blooms dancing in the window sill behind him—and brought the poultice to the alchemist’s bedside. His bedside. “This is for you,” he said, allowing the alchemist to smell the mixture like he might with any creature of the woods.

The wind laughed through the poppies, only growing louder at his glare.

“Is there—“ The alchemist twisted, looking back at the window. “Is there someone outside?”

Remus didn’t answer and simply peeled back the bottom edge of the covers, revealing deep red and purple bruising on the alchemist’s injured leg.

He gasped, tensing until the poultice touched his skin. “I… I expected that to hurt.”

“Pretty messed up way to heal something if you have to hurt it first,” Remus muttered, watching the poppies from the corner of his eye as he worked. The blood red petals crept down from the window, dragging their stems behind them in a train.

“I suppose that makes sense,” the alchemist said after a few moments. “Do you… do you heal a lot of people in the woods? I—I’d thought, well… I’d thought there wasn’t anyone for kilometers, not… Not recently at least.”

Remus shrugged. “You’re here,” he said, blowing at the first layer of poultice. It needed to crust over before he applied another or he’d end up with a soggy mess and have to start all over again.

The alchemist seemed to consider that and finally nodded. “Well, yes, I… we—“

“We?” Remus put down the mortar and stared at him. “Who’s we? Who else have you brought here? Where are they?”

“N—no—nowhere,” he stammered, doe eyes wide with fear. The sudden movement had jostled his ankle and it screamed its pain through the air, but Remus held his gaze. “They—they’re… they’re gone.”

Remus started to rise. “And where did they go?” He had enough basil but would need to gather more sage before he confronted them. Alchemist tribes were finicky. Their tribesman’s presence could be protective. Or be considered an act of war.

“No—where,” he said at last. “They’re all… dead,” he finished at last, avoiding his eyes. “My advisor was old, at least forty. He found the gravi—the environment was insurmountable. The other two assistants…” Lips pressed tightly together, he shook his head and breathed hard through his nose. “The snows took them.”

Against his better judgement, Remus sat back down and touched the blanket next to his hand. Poppies curled around the man’s head, much like the halo of amanitas he’d seen when he’d found him. “How long have you been here? It hasn’t snowed since…”

“Six sol—years ago.”

Remus frowned, glancing up at the poppies. The blossoms showed no reaction to his strange dialect. “Let me finish,” he said at last and picked up the mortar. “Then you should rest.”

The alchemist nodded, eyes fluttering shut as he spread another layer of the poultice. The pain fizzled away from the air and he sighed. “Thank you… ah…” He opened his eyes, placid blue deeper than Frère Lake. “M—my name is Logan…”

He fell silent then, watching, expectant. The petals around his head tapped the pillow behind him, also waiting.

“Remus,” he said.

Logan smiled. “Thank you, Remus.”

Time marked by a daily reapplication of Remus’ pungent concoction, Logan managed to maintain a semblance of coherency. There were days when the only time he was conscious was when Remus carefully peeled away the blanket to check on his ankle. Whatever other, less visible, injuries he’d suffered seemed to be taking their toll as he slowly recovered.

Still, the relief he felt as the angry purple bruising faded to greens and yellows was marked.

“You’ll soon be back on your feet,” Remus said one morning—No, afternoon. Long, dappled shadows cast by the old maple outside Remus’ window meant it must be afternoon by now.

“I wish…” There were still several months until the weather would turn. If Remus was right, he’d be well enough to make the trek back with enough time still to assess and repair basecamp for the oncoming season. He’d been making due with the remaining supplies, recycling what he could and jury-rigging what he must.

There were benefits to only requiring a single functioning sleeping shelter.

“I wish I knew how to properly thank you for… helping me,” Logan finally said.

“You can stay away,” Remus grunted, covering his ankle with a fresh cloth and loping across the room in two strides. He busied himself with scraping the stone bowl he used for the treatments, back turned to him.

“Oh… ah, of course.” Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Had a blood clot shifted into a dangerous vein? Was his fatigue something more than simple recovery? Under the covers he felt his pulse. It was steady. “You have been more than generous in my convalescence. I apologize for the inconvenience, I—“

A green tendril unfurled from the Papaver spilling in from the window. It trailed over his leg, red blossoms opening along its path.

Logan stared, breath caught in his throat. He… he was fully awake, fully aware, completely lucid. But this… this couldn’t be real. “Re—Remus?” he stammered. “Please, I… Is…” Finally Remus turned and glared at the flowers as they spread over his legs. “Is this real?”

“Don’t think this will change my mind,” he snapped, addressing the flowers.

“What?”

Remus looked at him then and sighed, arms crossed over his chest. “I—“ He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, they’re real. What, you thought you were still dreaming?” he asked. “You talk in your sleep but not like this.”

“I—I what?” Logan shook his head, a thousand questions colliding. When did he talk in his sleep? When had Remus noticed? Did he watch him as he slept? What did he say? “I—wait, these… Is this… Is this normal for these woods?”

The flowers seemed to turn to Remus, like they, too, awaited his answer.

“It’s not… abnormal,” he said after a moment.

“They’re remarkable,” Logan whispered, reaching to touch one of the petals before thinking better of it. “May I…” He looked at his go-bag still sitting by the door. “May I have the notebook and pencil in my bag?”

“Are you kidding?” Remus stomped closer and the flowers rose up between them. He tried to wave them away, scowling. “Oh, stand down.” He looked at Logan then. “You think I’m just gonna let you cast runespells in my own home?”

“Rune—What? No, I…” Logan pushed up to a seat and the flowers moved with him. “No, I have a field journal. It’s in my bag. For notes?” He mimed holding a book with one hand and writing with the other.

Remus hissed, eyes squeezed shut and both hands up like a shield. After a moment, he lowered them.

The flowers in his lap danced.

“Oh, ha ha,” he spat at them. “Very funny.” He looked at Logan again, eyes narrowed. “Fine, but if you try anything, even he can’t stop me from defending us.”

He? Logan glanced at the flowers. “Okay,” he nodded.

Pinching the strap with a thumb and two fingers, Remus picked it up and carried the bag back to the bed without letting any other part of it touch him. He set it down within Logan’s reach and backed away, eyes sharp. “Open it slowly,” he ordered when Logan reached for the bag.

Nodding, Logan carefully unfastened the front flap and pulled out his field book and a pencil. It was getting dull, but it would work well enough. He didn’t think taking out a knife to sharpen it would engender any additional trust from his already jumpy healer.

The flowers seemed to watch him, as well, inching closer as he opened the book, flipping past pages of fungi and spore print reproductions and various flora he’d found on his trips through the woods. He’d once imagined he’d share his findings with the follow-up research team.

Five years of silence disabused him of the hope one would ever arrive.

Remus flinched when his pencil touched the paper but eased as Logan traced the rough shape of the nearest blossom. Remus stepped closer, watching.

It was difficult to accurately capture the form of the moving blossom, and he kept restating his lines as he worked. After a few minutes, Remus muttered, “You gotta stay still or he can’t do it.”

At first Logan wasn’t sure who he was talking to but the flowers nearest him stopped moving, so still even the breeze from the window didn’t move their petals.

Logan stared for a moment before smiling. “Thank you,” he murmured and quickly sketched the rest of the bloom. When he was done, he turned the book so they both—Remus and the flowers—could see. “They’re quite lovely. I… The picture can’t properly capture their behavior—his behavior?” he asked, noting Remus’ single nod. “But… These flowers don’t grow like this anywhere I’ve ever seen before.”

Remus looked down at the book. “May I?” he asked, voice soft.

“Of course.” Logan passed him the book and watched as he slowly turned each page back to front. “You… made all of these?”

“I—I sketched them, yes,” Logan nodded. The flowers nudged Remus’ hands the way a pet or a tiny toddler might bop its head against a beloved person to get their attention. “Did you… make them?” he asked, impulsively reaching out to stroke one of the flowers.

“You hear that?” Remus asked the nearest blossom, chuckling. When he looked up at Logan, he was smiling. The first smile he’d seen on him. “It’s a long story, but it’s a little bit the other way around.”

Something in that smile gave Logan a courage he didn’t deserve and he reached for Remus’ hand. “I’d love to hear it someday.”

#sanders sides #tss #sasi #ts logan #ts remus #logan sanders #remus sanders #intrulogical #sanders sides fanfiction #ts roman #kinda #tss camp cartoon #my first story for the event! \0/

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