#//He broke all over again. & far worse than the damage Dawn could ever do to him. All bc of that rage & weight of what he did to incur it

[dutybcrne]

Making myself sad by wondering if Kaeya had NEVER seen Diluc mad at him before that fateful confrontation

[obssessivethorn]

“Home” [Genshin Impact]

Synopsis: In the final moments before battle, the traveler's worry grows fast. Their own twin stands at the other end of the battlefield, refusing to put their resolve to rest and come home. Archons forbid their fight be to the death.

Trigger Warnings: Angst, Major character death(s), death in general

Word Count: 2,889 words

Date Posted: July 8, 2021

Note: This is based purely off of fan theories, my own predictions, and knowledge of the game as it is currently. It will include spoilers for the “We will be reunited” archon quest if you have not gotten that far into the story yet. As well as hints of lore from the Honkai Impact game. This is in no way in indication of the game’s ending and should be taken as merely a fan based prediction/theory of one of the many possibilities of this story’s ending. Please enjoy! (This turned out longer than intended-)

Let me know if you want to see more to this au type thing. I’d gladly write about Diluc and Kaeya reconciling and seeing each other as brothers again as well as other stuff with the characters!

"Home"

★★★

The traveler had gained the former power back, their hand retracting from their resonance with the holy statue. Their friends stood around them, watching with widened eyes which hold a burning amazement. The traveler’s power unlike any they have ever seen.

Wings stretch to their sides to bask in the moon’s godly light. An ethereal glow began to emanate around their being as if they too had taken the form of an archon. Each element’s swirl could be felt within their body, bringing forth a familiar feeling. Near completion.

With their power restored once more, their feet landed back to the ground. Sword in hand, they turned back to their friends. From adepti to everyday workers, the traveler has gathered their closest and very best known fighters and friends to help them.

The battle was approaching, yanking every breath of fresh air and common sense from the traveler. Their friends would be fighting faceless beings. People turned to monsters. Who couldn’t be saved.

But the traveler couldn’t hold the same courage they could. On the other side of the battlefield stood their sibling. Their twin. Flesh and blood who they have traveled worlds together with. And they would fight. Archon forbid, to the death.

A shaky breath left their lips, eyes closed shut after gazing harshly at the ground for too long. Feeling a hand placed on their shoulder pulled them back to reality before they could spiral further into fear’s welcoming grasp. Looking back at the owner of the limb, they could finally find a clear breath to fill their lungs.

Venti’s sorrowful smile pierced the traveler. A silent understanding blew through their hair, sending golden wisps in different directions. Archons forbid death.

Taking a step back, the wind god left a lingering warmth upon the traveler’s shoulder. He made his back to where the other archons stood, powerful grace dawning him as the traveler had never seen before. A true god ready to fight a war once again.

The traveler took a sigh, grasping any courage they could find before turning their gaze to their friends.

“Alright, so as you all probably know, The Abyss Order has finally risen.” Their voice shook, cracking every other word. They cleared their throat before continuing.

“We were unable to prevent them from creating what is essentially a mechanized god. However, this does not mean we are doomed!” The traveler looked upon the sea of faces. Fear, shock, and suppressed somber mixed together.

How could they let this happen? It was never supposed to come to this. Dragging their friends into a war. Starting a war to begin with! Children stood among the crowd. While they may be talented vision holders, they were still too young to face this. But they still insisted. Pleading with the traveler to let them help. And they let it happen.

Their breath began to shorten again, tears fighting their usual calm composure. They could feel themselves spiraling once more. How could they let this happen? Let it get this far? Let children-

A voice broke them from their thoughts yet again.

“Traveler!”

Looking over to the figures running around the outside of the crowd, they saw four familiar Knights Of Favonius growing closer. Amber waved her hands high to grab their attention as the small group approached.

“Mondstat has been evacuated, all of the citizens are being led to Liyue by the knights of Favonius.” Amber smiled, reassuring the Traveler of innocents’ safety.

“Great, and the people of Liyue?” The traveler asked, redirecting their attention to Jean.

“Safely protected by a shield covering the harbor.” The woman smiled. “But if worse comes to worse, you can’t forget that both cities’ people are still able to fight. While Mond has the Knights of Favonius, Liyue has the Qixing. Each nation has their own means of defense, so trust us, Traveler. Even Schneznaya has the Fatui.” Jean’s grin grew wider, excited pride slipping through her calm mask.

The traveler smiled back, chuckling at their own worry. “You’re right, they should all be able to hold their own and protect each other, with Visions or not.” They turned back to the crowd, Amber, Lisa, Jean, and Kaeya now by their side.

“Now, as we stand, the Abyss Order is marching our way. Their movements may be unpredictable to us, but we know this land better than they do. It definitely won’t be easy,” the traveler took a quick breath, heart weighing heavier in their chest. “But The Regions of Teyvat will triumph today.” The crowd’s cheers roar through the field.

“Nicely said, Honorary Knight,” Jean turned to the traveler, smiling proudly at them.

“Ya know, I didn’t think you had such a thing in you,” Kaeya mused, patting their shoulder.

“To be honest,” the short blonde chuckled,” I was totally speaking out of my ass there.” Their light grin faltered, falling into uncomfortable worry.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re not alone, traveler,” Jean placed a hand on their shoulder, sympathy painting her features.

“We’re all here for you,” Lisa gave them a quick, meaningful hug. “Besides, what would I do without my little helper~.” The traveler let out a light laugh, however, the easy moment couldn’t compete with the bubbling anxiety filling their lungs.

Air weighed heavily.

Gentle breezes turned to cold gusts.

“May the archons protect us.” Jean prayed, stepping away to rally her section of the Knights. Lisa and Amber followed suit, preparing their squadrons both mentally and physically.

Kaeya remained by the blonde’s side, gazing at the crowd with an unreadable expression.

“Are you going to be okay?” The traveler’s question broke him from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a piece of his mask beginning to slip. “I understand.”

The traveler’s face morphed into confusion. Understand? Understand what? What could Kayea, a man of many eloquent words, mean by such a short, vague statement?”

The man chuckled again.

Another crack in his mask.

His eyes drifted to Diluc, then to Dainsleif. Crack.

A sigh escaped his lips, forcing his smile to fall sour.

Crack.

His gaze fell to the floor, watching his now fallen, damaged mask lay among the dancing grass as if it had separated from a slain hilichurl.

The man who stood before the lost twin was not the same flirty and mischievous Knight of Favonius they had met all those months ago.

This man was Kaeya. A Khaenri’ahn who’s life was ripped away by the archons themselves. A man sent to create a downfall of other nations in retaliation for the onslaught of his country’s people. Kaeya Alberich. Khaenri’aian survivor.

His gaze drew from his Mond identity laying idly by his feet, to the traveler. “I understand why you’re scared.” Tears brimmed in the man’s eyes, a glint of fear sparkling in his pupil.

All previous disdain for the people who had fallen seemed to hide, a glimpse of it remained hiding beneath his eyes. But it soon became evident to the traveler, whatever conversation he had with Dainsleif, was enough to inject guilt and sympathy within his veins. But still not enough to instill total remorse.

A silent understanding passed between the two. No words passed through the air between them.

Despite being humans turned monsters, despite Kaeya’s place of blame on his people, they were still victims of the Cataclysm.

The traveler placed a hand on their friend’s shoulder. They sent a quick smile, opening their mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

“Hey, traveler!”

Turning their head to the sound of their name, they were met with a certain ‘tone-deaf’ bard.

Kaeya nodded with a slight smile, turning away and walking in the direction of his brother.

“Are you ready?” The archon’s voice was soft, contrasting from his usual high pitched giggles.

The traveler had expected a witty one liner to help bring up their mood or a quick joke poking at their seriousness. However, the bard merely looked drained, eye bags lining his face with a somber expression painted over his soft features.

“I don’t know.” The words brush past their lips before they could think. Were they ready? They had to face their twin of all people. How could they be ready? “I plan to bring them back.” They stated. “To bring them home.” The traveler stared out into the crowd, watching people prepare.

“But will you be able to?” Venti stared intently at the ground as if it were his enemy. The question was aimed mainly at himself rather than the traveler and seemed to slip past him before he could stop it. He quickly shook away the thought, noticing the growing worry on the lone twin’s face. “Of course you will!” His mask was back up, a playful ‘hehe’ drawing past his lips.

“Yeah, I will,” the traveler breathed, a lie beautifully woven within the truth.

•~•

The city of Mondstat lay dim in the distance, the army of Knights and vision holders drifting further from home with each step.

Across the clear fields of Windrise stood monsters. Creatures from the Abyss wielding dark and power hungry gazes.

Many stared in disgust, watching the distant crowd draw closer. Other however, glanced at the group in pity, quickly averting their gazes to refocus their minds. Few knew the true story of the fallen nation 500 years ago, letting their hearts weigh heavy with sympathetic solitude.

Leading the enemy was a familiar figure. The Abyssal Royalty stood proud yet steeled away, gazing at their opponent from across the grassy pathway. Few stems of small lamp grass paved the way between both sides, guiding each distant traveler to meet their other half once again.

Away from their allies, the lost twins hesitantly stepped nearer. A temporary truce of peace passed between them, its wick quickly beginning to burn.

“Lumine,” Aether broke the evening silence. His voice held strong, only to be mocked by the hurt hidden beneath his golden eyes.

“Aether.” Lumine mimicked her brother, the same strong yet weak presence plaguing her voice.

A silent plea from both siblings rang through the surrounding air.

“We can leave, go home! Together..”

“My battle and your journey are yet to be over.”

“After all this time, you still keep saying things that make no sense. Who are you battling other than me?”

The traveler’s twin paused, momentarily shocked from their sibling’s words.

“I’m fighting those who tore us apart.”

The Abyssal twin’s gaze hardened, shifting into an icy glare which shot through their sibling’s heart. Oddly, the sharpened look seemed to pass through the traveler, aimed at a distant being among the crowd of Knights.

“Those who..” the traveler’s words drew thin, disappearing within the air.

A crackling rang through the air, drawing the twins and their respective allies’ attention. Three familiar diamonds tore through the sky, ripping an entrance for a rather infamous figure to emerge.

“Your journeys must end here, outlanders.” Golden eyes pierced the twins, an authoritative air emanating from the unknown goddess. “You’ve altered the weight of destiny from your first arrival, now you must own up to your actions.” With a flick of her hand, the god isolated the three, barriers blocking the view of both armies racing toward their leaders. Their screams fell silent as the last cube sealed them in, the last view being the face of Barbatos, reaching out in elegant mimicry of the day he tried and failed to rescue her. Once again, he wasn’t fast enough.

Within concealment, the twins readied their swords, tri-wings stretching after years of rest.

“Fight as long as you wish, but you will always come back to the same point. Failure.”

Upon hearing her words the twins launched forward, entering yet another intense dance with the god.

•~•

For what felt like hours, the three battled as they had once before, only with the twin’s new found strength to differ. The outlander’s feet hit the ground, enough adrenaline pumping to let them ignore the battered bruises.

The fallen goddess now lay still, defeated by the twins with the joint help of the archons’ powers. A wind-bearing bard tends to a scared girl, broken from the evil which once plagued her.

The abyssal twin gazed at their sibling in awe. A twinge of pain entered their chest at the thought of what they must have gone through trying to find them. How could they have so badly abandoned their own twin? Millions of questions and blame raced through their mind, blurring their vision with tears.

A name reached their ears. Was it theirs? Wait. It was from their twin. Why were they shouting his name? They were safe now.

The traveling twin rushed forward, pushing their other half out of the way and taking the incoming blow. They fell to the ground clutching their chest in pain. The cold felt strangely welcoming. Only, their hands filled with warmth. Now wasn’t the time to nap, but sleep’s comforting embrace wanted to engulf them. Closing their eyes for a second wouldn’t hurt.

•~•

Tears began to pour, outweighing the pellets of falling rain. “Please, wake up.” They cried, pain filling their chest with each second passing by. “We can go home now, the war’s over.” They hiccuped, silently denying an unreal truth.

“Majesty!”

“Honorary Knight!”

Shouts from either side could be heard, only to fall on the deaf ears of the traveler’s sibling. Upon viewing the sight, the surroundings fell silent. Not even the thundering sky could dent the area’s torturous quiet.

Holding their twin close to them, the abyssal sibling let tears slip through their grasp. “We can leave now, just like you wanted!” A small squeeze around their hand gave them hope, gasping with widened eyes.

Below them, the traveler forced their eyes into a squint. Their hand squeezed lightly within their sibling’s. “Home is wherever we are together.”

A sob left the abyssal twin’s lips, forcing a cry to echo in the pouring rain. “You’re right, we’re home! We’re together. We’re-.” Their twin’s grip loosened.

“Hey…,” the crying blonde nudged their other half. “Hey, wake up… we’re home.” Their nudges grew to hasty shaking. “Come on, wake up.” Sob.

“Wake up!” Sob. “Come back!” Crack.

The final thread holding the lone twin’s hope snapped, releasing a titlewave of buried emotions. Unsaid words of appreciation. Unplanned surprise hugs. Introducing new friends which they both longed for. Battle training in different worlds. Fulfilling their prophecy for this world. Long forgotten “I love you”s. Gone. With a stupid flick of a wrist.

The now lost twin sat alone, hand traveling through matted blonde locks stained with blood. As to who the red liquid belonged to, they hadn’t a clue.

Silence once again weaved through the solemn tension which hung frigid with every breath. Tears continued to stream down the outlander’s face, falling onto the face of their loss.

“Your majesty…” An abyssal mage floated steadily toward their ruler. Its words were phrased more as a question of fear rather than a statement.

Wordlessly, the Abyss Ruler began to stand, hooking their arm underneath the crook of their twin’s knees and their back. Their eyes didn’t leave the body now laying limp in their grasp. A hollow warning passed through the air as they slowly trudged to the wind Statue of the Seven.

The statue of Windrise was a signature point of Mondstat, the giant tree creating an elegant background for the stone monument. Windwheel asters lined the edge as anemo crystalflies drifted through the general breeze.

The now lone traveler placed their sibling down on the ground in front of the statue, kneeling beside them. Another broken sob left their lips, silently pleading with whatever remaining archon Teyvat had left to bring their twin back, punish them for their actions, kill them too, anything.

“Anything please,” they whimpered, eyes squeezed shut to prepare for any punishment the gods may bring. “Just don’t let them suffer for my mistakes. It should have been me. If only I was faster.”

The wind’s light breeze grew heavily, picking up into gental gusts of air. The change wasn’t enough to gain the attention of the traveler, however. Only a new voice entering their mind broke their distraught focus.

“Open your eyes, child.”

Doing as the voice said, the blonde was met with a young bard whose physical body seemed as if it was disintegrating. Patches of pale skin detached from the main vessel, floating upward toward Celestia only to vanish within the rays of the rising sun.

“Your twin will never be forgotten, and neither will you.” The bard outstretched his hand, an ethereal light seemed to emanate from him. “Your story will be remembered.” An empathetic smile dawned his lips, attempting to distract from the pain which glimmered beneath his gaze. An understanding of pain.

“Lord Barbatos?” The still kneeling traveler gazed up in awe at the god. “The wind archon?”

Light chuckles passed his lips. “Yes, only… I am no longer the archon of wind, merely another god whose time is finally up.”

“Please, punish me. I’ve only caused pain to the people of Teyvat.”

“No.”

“No?” The blonde whimpered.

“No, just please, come home.” The bard bent down in front of them, pushing a strand of hair from their face as he had 500 years ago. 

Oh, how the beautiful fall.

•~•

[wherethewordsare]

Because you said it so wonderfully and i crave more, please my love give me more of this 🥺

”Jaskier saying that people weren't made to be alone and Geralt shooting back something about barely being human anymore”

Pretty please

As always, thanks @kuripon for the beta reading and edits TT~TT

You Gently Gift it to Me: Geralt hated Jaskier. That was to say he hated how easily Jaskier reached for him, how he did not flinch away when Geralt grew close to him or how casually he would touch Geralt’s shoulder, his arm, even his hand. It made Geralt recoil into himself, his skin growing tight and hot where Jaskier’s hands landed, felt even through the layers of armor. 

But most of all, Geralt hated how much he craved every single one of those things and how desperately he wanted to push into every touch like it was a lifeline to a drowning man. 

He was grateful that Jaskier seemed to understand when the touch was simply too much, never rolling over in the dark to press against Geralt and retreating if Geralt scowled. Though he always scowled, he just assumed there was something particular Jaskier had picked up on. And he never pushed, he never took or invaded beyond that. 

Part of Geralt wished he would, wished that Jaskier could hear the way his blood screamed under his skin while they sat around the fire and the world seemed too small and too large until Jaskier would press his shoulder easily into Geralt’s and the tension in his body would melt ever so slowly. 

The worst of it though was the too tender look in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt returned from a hunt, battered and bleeding, as if Jaskier himself had been inflicted with the wounds. Geralt wouldn’t let him tend to the wounds, no matter how he hovered or how he fussed or how much he needed those same gentle hands on the parts of him that felt like were breaking into pieces. 

This time had been a particularly spectacular fuck up on his part. The cockatrice had a mate apparently and they were smart enough to flank him. He had taken down one while the other sank it’s razor sharp claws into his shoulder and arm. He could barely move it after that but he, by some miracle, still managed to slay the other beast. 

Looking down he knew that it was too much blood dripping out of his armor. He had survived worse, but this wasn’t good. Stitching it up was going to be another matter altogether. 

When he finally stumbled back into camp, it had taken Jaskier exactly three seconds before realizing what was happening and jumping up to rush the witcher. 

“Sit down, darling, come on, right there…” He was nearly frantic, his eyes never settling on one particular part of Geralt as he took in the damage. Geralt could only sit and let the bard ramble at him. 

Then he couldn’t. Jaskier was on his knees between Geralt’s thighs, leaning in, deft fingers undoing the buckles of his armor with a kind of familiarity Geralt couldn’t begin to understand. The aching tiredness in his bones warred with his need to escape those bright blue eyes that seemed to pin him in place. 

Instead of pulling away, mostly because he could barely move, Geralt schooled his face into the look that usually made Jaskier retreat. The air smelled of fear and blood and salt. When those same eyes met his, they were shining wet and Jaskier was blinking rapidly. 

“No, Geralt. Not this time. If I don’t help, you’ll bleed out,” Jaskier said firmly. Geralt’s armor fell away, catching only for a moment against the bulk of his good shoulder and then those hands were on him, tugging away the remains of his ruined shirt. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled in warning. Only when fingers, steady and warm, grazed against his sides did he pull away, remembering himself. Remembering the things he was allowed. Gentleness had never been on that list. He simply couldn’t afford it. 

“No, you’ll never reach this one where it is. Just let me help you,” his voice broke and that smell of salt seemed to flood against Geralt’s tongue, hot and bitter and bright. 

Still he flinched away, his hand coming up to protect his wound from Jaskier’s prying eyes and prying fingers. He looked away from where Jaskier hovered too close, too warm, and too kind. He felt the tension of it behind his eyes, in his fingertips; the need to reach out and hold screaming in his sore muscles and torn skin. 

“I’ve done this alone plenty of times, Jaskier. This time isn’t any different,” he said flatly, tugging the small medical kit of theirs from the bard’s hands. “I don’t need you to do it.” It felt like a lie, one that hollowed him out and rang in his chest. He needed. 

Jaskier didn’t move from where he sat, his head tilting to catch Geralt’s eyes. “People weren’t made to be alone, Geralt,” he whispered. Slowly, hesitantly, his hands covered Geralt’s on the kit, not pulling it back but waiting. “You don’t have to be alone. When was the last time you let someone care for you?” 

He felt sick and his head swam. He knew his hands would never be steady enough to hold the needle and thread, but still he could not relent so easily. 

“I’m not a person,” he snarled, pulling so far back he nearly tipped off of the log completely. “I’m a mutant, Jaskier. I haven’t been a human longer than you’ve been alive.” He tried to roll his shoulders but winced as more blood seeped from the gashes left there. 

“That’s a load of shit, Geralt of Rivia, and I don’t care what your ridiculous pride says.” Jaskier’s voice shook but his hands were still steady, not pulling away for once. It was too easy to give in and hand over the pack.

Geralt turned his face away as he relented, unable to watch as those same hands slowly cleaned his wounds, dosed him with potion and poultice and sewed his tattered body back together. He bit down on his inner cheek to stop the stifle the small noises that seemed to bubble up in his throat every time Jaskier brushed away the gore or carefully pressed into his skin. 

While he sewed, his free hand rested on Geralt’s shoulder blade, more as a way to soothe than to move the process along. Geralt could hear him humming softly, a tune that was all at once familiar and unknown to him, as though he had heard it dozens of times in a dream.

He wanted to ask about it. He wanted to lean into the warmth of Jaskier’s body and rest while his body healed. 

He wanted to pull away and retreat into the dense woods around them and not come out again until he had had a chance to figure a way to discourage the bard from following him. It only took a moment to consider turning around on the path and not seeing Jaskier there for that thought to be banished nearly instantly. 

For his part, Jaskier did not flinch away when growled at, did not stammer or falter when Geralt winced and tensed. All he did was continue his litany of soft words and half remembered melodies while his hands never once left Geralt for a moment. 

When he was finished, he wiped Geralt’s skin again with what could pass as a reasonably clean cloth before helping him, albeit unnecessarily, to his bedroll. He let himself be maneuvered carefully into the furs, a waterskin pressed into his hand with a gentle nudge to drink. It dawned on him with frightening clarity that Jaskier wanted to do this for him. His chest ached with the want of it. 

“When was the last time you let someone care for you?” He had asked with that look in his eyes that made Geralt feel too seen, too exposed. He tried to think of an answer that didn’t make him sound pathetic and alone in this world but that answer simply didn’t exist. No one cared for witchers, no one had to. They were built to exist without the need of compassion. 

No one except Jaskier, who now pulled his own bedroll close to his but did not lay down. Instead sat up, his hand hovering unsure. Geralt swallowed, his throat tight. Slowly, he lifted his good hand and wrapped his fingers around Jaskier’s wrist, pulling it towards his head. For a moment he let it hover there, unsure, until Jaskier leaned down slightly.

“Geralt, I won’t…” He licked his lips and took a shaky breath. “Only if you want, but know I’m not going to tell you no and I would never-”

“I know.” It sounded harsh even in his own ears so he tried again. “I know and I want you to.” Geralt closed his eyes as he brought Jaskier’s hand down the rest of the way. 

Slender fingers slid into his hair and blunt nails dragged gently across his scalp making his whole body tingle. It felt like heaven and he groaned as everything else faded away. 

Above him Jaskier began to hum softly again, that tune he still couldn’t place. He cracked an eye open and turned slightly, making Jaskier’s fingers drag over his forehead and down to his cheek where he let them rest lightly. 

“That’s not one of your usual songs,” Geralt murmured. He felt nearly boneless under the attention of those fingers. For a moment he wanted to drag the bard down into the bedroll to feel the weight of him against his chest but that would be asking for too much. 

“I didn’t realize I was humming it. It’s not mine, you’re right,” Jaskier smiled, humming through a few more bars. “My gran used to sing it to me and my sisters. I sometimes hum it when you’re tossing and turning.” In the dying firelight, his cheeks flushed. “I won’t anymore if you don’t-”

“No, please,” Geralt turned again, pressing his cheek into Jaskier’s palm. “Please. I-” he huffed. “It’s nice.” He felt his insides quake as Jaskier shifted ever so closer, his hand sliding easily back into Geralt’s hair. 

He made no move to press in after that and Geralt was immensely grateful and also deeply disappointed. 

He could see himself easily trusting those hands that had pulled him back together, even when they couldn’t see the wounds they darned back together. As he drifted into sleep, Geralt thought that maybe in the morning, he’d like to still feel what it was like to be cared for.

[catzula]

Change

a/n: this is a lil brain dump bcs I've been really inactive lately, sorry!! I wrote it in one sitting and I dint really know how I feel about it but yeah

warnings: toxic relationship i think? But its resolved in the end. Angst, miscommunication, anger management issues, conflict, break-up, but as I said, resolved in the end.

honorable mentions: female reader, 1.9k words, not proofread

Katsuki Bakugou.

Many might think he's an open book, a simple, hotheaded boy with anger management issues. He doesn't know any feelings other than anger. He can't understand others' emotions, doesn't care. 

They were right about him being bad at controlling his emotions, but everything else was false. Bakugou had never been a simple person, and it was rare he met someone who truly understood him. You, for instance, were the only one that had come as close to understanding him, but no one could ever understand someone fully, could they?

Still, ever since he had met you, Bakugou was trying to change, or he liked to think he did. You did, too. 

You tried to ignore those times it became apparent that he couldn't, didn't, wouldn't. As much as Bakugou tried to prove to you that he was giving it his best to try and change, there were times that proved it incompetent, not enough, and even a lie.

But you always did your best to forget, suppress the thoughts. It was near impossible not to when Bakugou came back to you, an apology hanging from his lips -although never spoken-, warm hands pulling you to him for a hug. 

He's trying to change, you repeat to yourself. He's trying to change.

You think of the last fight you had and shiver as he lies on you, eyes droopy with sleep, nuzzling his face to your neck as you rub soothing circles on his back. The way his back rises and falls steadily makes you smile. 

It was gradually getting worse, the fights. 

As the months passed and exams approached, Bakugou became even more jittery. You felt your heart sink as you remembered his spitting words, "you're not even in the hero course! How would you fucking know how I feel?" But you did. You knew your boyfriend far too well, and even though you weren't experiencing it firsthand, you could see how stressful it was for him.

"Stop fucking babying me!" He had shouted when you tried to approach him, to get him to calm down. "Can't you see I'm trying to change? I'm doing all of this for you, and you keep asking for more- I-I'm doing it for you, okay? I'm trying to become better, so stop asking for more!" 

You weren't asking for more, that, you wanted to say. You were trying to-to help.

"I don't want you to do this for me, if all the reason you're changing is for me, stop! I want you to change for yourself, not for me!"

That was unfair, how he was looking at you like he hated you, like he wanted you to disappear.

It's okay, you tell yourself. Katsu's with me now, in my arms, calm, promised me he would try to get better. 

And he did, too. He always did. After a fight, Bakugou became the kindest person you knew, treating you like fragile glass, showing you love in his way. And it always led you to think. This is it. No need to worry anymore, you tell yourself when he kisses you softly, oh, so- so softly that you're sure there's no way this man that's holding you like this would ever hurt you ever again. Never. 

That never is never longer than a few days, though. 

In a few days' time, he- Katsuki forgets. The spite comes back, the snarky comments fitted in his sentences, the slight anger in his eyes. Why is he so angry? That, you can never tell. He's furious with you all the time, even when he himself doesn't know it.

"Katsuki?" You whisper meekly, and his eyes flutter sleepily. "Do you love me?"

Yes, he wants to say, I love you more than I love myself. But it's a soft grunt you get as an answer. 

It's okay, though, since you understand it well.

~

"Tell that extra to bring my shit back." It's a gruff sentence voiced with a fury that tears you away from your thoughts. 

For a second, your heart leaps. It's Katsuki! But the feeling sinks quickly. "It's Bakugou to you." You remember when he told you that, you remember too well the way he spitted the words as if he had spitted them on your face, a lump appearing in your throat quickly. He's not talking to you, rather about you, and it stings even more. You're the extra now, an extra that has his belongings in their room and nothing else, and he can't even tell you to bring them himself. Kirishima does it for him.

A half a bottle of his perfume that was never successful at suppressing his sweet smell. 

A sweatshirt of his that he knew was your favorite. 

A pair of socks, pencils and some other pieces of clothing, the usual. 

A full, newly-bought bottle of his shampoo.

For some reason, that last one hurts more than anything else. It's not the shampoo itself, rather the fact that it's new, that Bakugou bought it just a few days ago when breaking up was never a thought. 

Why did you break-up? It's very complicated. So complicated that you don't know it yourself. But you do know that he's angrier than ever, with you even more, for some fucking reason. He can't stand the sight of you, you know, he knows, too.

Bakugou himself doesn't know why he's so angry at you. He was the one who broke up, so what gives him the right to feel like this? Why do his hands clench into fists with the sight of you? His heart beating twice as fast with fury, head dizzy, his teeth clench, he can't breathe, a tightness heavying on his chest. With anger, he repeats. All these feelings are because he's so angry with you. 

The day you knock on his door, a soft thump audible from the other side of the door, Bakugou knows you brought back the box of his belongings, and he wants nothing more than to open the door and pull you in. But what is he going to do after that? He doesn't know. All he does know is that the lump in the back of his throat is because he's holding back angry shouts. His eyes are stinging with tears that are caused by anger. There is a feeling boiling in the pit of his stomach that makes him feel sick, but it must be fury.

Why did you leave it to the door? Couldn't you have waited for him to open it and look at you for once? Do you hate him that much? 

You have the right, too. 

~

Bakugou hates to see you cry. 

It's so annoying, he decides one day, as he catches a glimpse of you crying in your friend's arms, hugging them, telling them how much you missed Bakugou as they rub circles on your back. 

"He never deserved you, anyway." He hears them say. It makes you cry even more.

Seeing you cry always makes him feel angry, Bakugou decides. 

~

The way he discovers the reason for his anger is in a rather sick way.

All it takes is for him to see you laugh. 

It's spring, the winter you broke up is over, the feelings aren't, though. 

You're laughing, and you look so pretty under the tree, body swiftly shaking with laughter that doesn't seem to end.

Bakugou knows you like spring, and he notices it's been more than a winter since he last saw you laughing like this. Even before you broke up, he realizes you hadn't been laughing as you did now. That realization stings. You always laughed, smiled when you were with him, but it had a tinge of bitterness that never seemed to go away.

For the first time, it doesn't anger him, but it hurts. 

Somewhere inside, Bakugou had always been able to sense your bitter melancholy. It's a feeling you felt even when you were the happiest, but he just hadn't realized it. Like pieces of a puzzle, every other realization starts dawning on him too. 

He was angry at you because you always made him feel like he could never make you happy. All he could do was make you cry, you cried and cried, whenever you were with him, and it made him feel so frustrated- he hated it, he hated, hatedhatedhatedhatesyou.

But it wasn't you, it was never you Bakugou was angry with, but it was Bakugou himself. 

Bakugou hates himself for never being able to make you happy.

Bakugou was never angry at you, he realizes. He was heartbroken. All those times he thought it was fury he felt when he saw you- 

People think Bakugou doesn't feel anything other than anger. 

They're wrong. 

Bakugou feels many other things than anger, but he doesn't know how to differentiate them. 

~

The next time you meet, there are two changes you realize about each other. 

It's a cold night, another sleepless one you let yourself feel everything you suppress during the day. You don't expect to hear footsteps approaching you, it's the dead of the night and very cold, but you freeze when you take note of the sweet smell the sound brought with it.

You can't speak, do anything other than raising your eyes that are wet with tears to see if it really is the owner of your heart.

"We need to talk."

You don't want to, but you missed his voice more than you thought, that you're unable to leave. 

But it's the moment your eyes meet with his blood-red ones that you realize why he's here. For the first time in a long while, there isn't a trace of anger in Bakugou's eyes. 

He looks sorry, and that night is the first time you hear him apologize to you. 

Despite how much he wishes it was, this apology isn't the last.

Bakugou is flawed. He will and does make you cry, maybe more than anyone else. He knows it, and you do too. But love is a strange thing, and it took him years to realize that you would rather cry your heart out than be without him.

So this time, when he takes you between his arms and lets you cry, two things have changed since the last time you both were in this position. 

1: You noticed that this wasn't going to be the last time you cried because of Bakugou.

Throughout your relationship, you hoped, prayed that fight you had was going to stay the last, it never was. This way of thinking was flawed, damaging the relationship as much as the fights did. Bakugou could feel your growing sadness, dissatisfaction, fear that you were going to fight at every smallest disagreement you had, and they did nothing but make him angry, turning the conflict into a full-blown fight.

2: Bakugou wants to change. And not for you, but himself. 

He wants to be a better person. He always did, but it was only because you asked him to. He wanted to be better for you, and it was the only thing he could think of whenever you told him he had to change. Its pressuring, made him insecure, made him feel like anything he did was never enough. But this time, right then as he envelopes you and pulls you into his embrace, Bakugou wants to be a better person. Not for you, not for anyone else. He just wants to be better, and he will start here. 

[afterhoursfic]

what about eskel as the kaer morhen's sex toy? eskel doesn't get enough dick while he's out on the path and the other wolves (including vesemir, maybe) are happy to have a few nice warm holes to use whenever they feel like it, whatever eskel's doing at the time. and it's not like he has a problem waking up full of cock.

All plot and little porn makes jack a dull boy but oh well. Honestly, I’m in love with this idea and don’t have the proper words to say so but Eskel as nothing more than a hole for his brothers to use is perfection.

I’ve also added Vesemir, there’s no explicit fucking between the two but he just gives Eskel a helping hand here and there.

.

Normally, when he found himself on the last stretch up to the gates of Kaer Morhen he felt the stresses of the past year slowly melt away almost as if it was taking a deep sigh before he could finally relax. This year was different though, instead, his body felt tight and uncomfortable, itchy almost and no matter what he tried he couldn’t make that feeling go away.

He knew the cause of it, of course, It had been just over a year since he last shared a bed, or hell even a hand with someone, and the winter months would only add to that growing timeline. To some, it was a stupid thing to get worked up over but in all that time he had never been truly satisfied, his hand barely took off the edge and often left him feeling worse than before, couple that with almost every brothel kicking him out on sight and having to hear his brothers forays under the sheets meant he was in for a shit few months.

Sure it had never been easy to find a partner, even less so after he got the scars that littered the side of his face but there was always someone who wanted to try their luck with him, to brag about the fact they took a witcher to bed, and yet it seemed his luck had run out.

When he finally passed the gates to the keep he only spared his brothers and Vesemir a quick nod as he settled Scorpion in the stables, if they noticed anything was odd they didn’t say it, but he could feel their eyes boring into him all the same.

After that he eagerly made his way back to his rooms, ignoring Lambert’s attempt to goad him into a game of Gwent, and giving a grunt when Vesemir announced food would be ready in an hour. Once he was behind a closed door he first went to his trunk and dug through it until he found the wooden cock, he’d bought on a whim decades ago now.

It wasn’t the first one he’d owned but he quickly learned not to take it out on the path with him between the monsters that always seemed to damage his belongings and the people who liked to kick him out of towns when he came back from a job, sans his bags, he decided it would just be easiest to leave it here, the worst that could happen would be if Lambert found it and paraded that bit of information.

Now though all he wanted was to get off, to try and ease the edge off, and so he quickly stripped before he almost tore his bag searching for the small vial of oil. In record time he had two fingers slicked and pressing into him, only doing himself the barest courtesy of prepping himself before he was slicking up the wooden cock and pressing it into him.

It felt good for all of a second, to have something other than his fingers pressing into himself, but it still wasn’t a real cock and even as he began to fuck himself and aimed it towards his prostate, he felt little relief. He knew he wouldn’t be satisfied by the end, but he was here now so may as well come, so with one hand fucking the dildo into himself and the other stripping his cock he soon came with a groan and sure enough, he just felt worse afterwards, unsettled almost, and it was only by tossing the wooden cock into the corner of the room that stopped him from destroying it with a blast of igni.

He could feel the frown on his face as he got up to grab a cloth to clean himself before dressing again, could feel the way his muscles bunched up under his skin, coiled tight as if ready for a fight and he knew he had to watch himself tonight lest he gets riled up at his brothers and lash out them before Vesemir forced him to say what afflicted him. He definitely did not want to be having that conversation with any of them, especially as he pictured Lambert’s grinning face.

Dinner was a tense affair, for him at least, offering nothing but grunts here and there as his brothers spoke a little of their own adventures over the past year, apparently, Geralt and Lambert had worked a job together and not only that but Geralt had met an interesting woman by the name Countess Mignole, who Vesemir had had a dalliance with in the past and even got chased out the woman’s window when caught. Any other time he would probably enjoy his brother’s ribbing of their mentor but now all he wanted was the privacy of his room, in fact, he only stayed as long as his food and drink lasted before he bade them farewell and went left for another very unsatisfying hand job before he went back to bed.

The next couple of weeks weren’t any easier on him. During training he lashed out, normally so controlled and level-headed, now he let his emotions get the better of him by constantly using aard to fling his brothers, and one time Vesemir, across the courtyard just to feel something satisfying, and it was satisfying the first few times, but that soon lost its appeal, not that he stopped doing it though.

Of course, he was chastised, most of their training was supposed to be without signs and even then they were only used to disarm and throw each other off, nowhere close to genuinely hurting one another, but watching Geralt, the famed white wolf be thrown back against the keep’s wall definitely helped him.

Mealtimes were no better, most of the time he could skirt by the others to pick up a bit of food from the kitchen, ignoring their lingering stares and attempts at conversation as he just wanted to eat and get on with the day. Dinner though he couldn’t avoid and would often watch his brothers, well mostly Lambert, get exceedingly drunk on his shitty vodka and bragging about the men and women he bedded, and how more than half of them had come to him begging he takes them to bed.

He wasn’t jealous, or at least that’s what he tried to tell himself, but whenever the conversation turned his way it usually ended with him telling them to fuck off before he stomped off to his room. Okay so maybe he was a little jealous.

It all culminated one night when he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get comfortable no matter what he did, and was filled with the sort of energy that was slowly making him crazy so that he was ready to tear down the walls of this keep just to get rid of it.

He wasn’t that stupid or desperate, yet, and so he simply picked up his sword and headed down to the courtyards, the faint light of dawn beginning to peek over the castle walls as he struck his sword down against the first training dummy.

He watched it crack and fall apart under his sword in a matter of blows and soon moved onto the next one and the next until a shout rung out behind him.

“That’s enough, wolf” He turned to hurl a snarl towards Vesemir but at the sight of the older witcher, of the stance that brooked absolutely no argument, he bit his tongue and instead dropped his sword to the floor, a mistake clearly as he heard Vesemir’s scowl “That’s no way to treat your weapon, wolf, have I taught you nothing”

With a put-upon sigh, he bent down to pick up the blade and didn’t bother to look up as he started to walk back to his rooms to try for the hundredth time to get some sort of relief until he felt a hard hand on his shoulder, a touch that practically branded him even through his clothes and he hated that his knees felt just a little weak, gods when was the last time he had been touched.

He doesn’t even fight it when Vesemir forces him to his knees, just settles on his knees, face cast down as he waits for his punishment. What he doesn’t expect though is a gentle hand lifting his head up and the almost assessing gaze from the other witcher before Vesemir hums to himself and tilts his head in question “When’s the last time you were fucked?”

He doesn’t bother answering, just clenches his jaw and stares back up at Vesemir, which is answer enough apparently as the older witcher just frowns down at him “I’ll leave the boys to it, they’ve been clamoring to get into bed with you since you arrived”

That gets his attention. Sure the three of them had slept together before, when the days were dark and cold and the nights even more so and they needed a brother’s warmth to take the chill from their bones, but it had been years since they’d done anything together, at least for him. Ever since he’d gotten the scars stretching across his face he’d kept to himself, saw the way people flinched and pulled away from him, and he couldn’t bear that from his brothers.

The thought was pushed aside when he felt a pressure at his cock and he looked down to see Vesemir’s boot against the line of his cock, hard against his breeches for gods knew how long and he couldn’t help the moan that broke free as he thrust against the pressure once, and then again and again until he humping Vesemir’s boot, the only thought of moremoremore until he felt a gentle hand card through his hair and it was that that did him in, that had him come with a shout and caused a sizeable wet spot to stain the front of his pants until he was left panting and limp.

The next thing he knows he’s inside the great hall and is being handed off to Geralt and not much longer he’s in a bed with far too many hands pulling at his clothes, turning to see Lambert behind him, but he can’t even say anything before he feels a finger circling his rim before pushing in.

It’s as if all the air leaves him then and all he can do is hold onto Geralt in front of him as he’s fucked on two, then three, then four fingers. He comes again as a fifth finger teases his hole and it earns a chuckle from his brothers.

He whines when he feels the fingers pull out, but he can’t even comment when suddenly he’s being moved onto his front, on his elbows over Geralt with his ass up before Lambert slides into him. His groan is cut off when a forceful hand in his hair is pulling him down and suddenly his mouth is full of Geralt’s cock, barely able to stop himself from choking on it.

Between the two of them, they figure out a rhythm so that he’s either sinking down onto Geralt or pushed back onto Lambert, filled from both ends for the first time in decades, and he’s almost shameful to say how much he missed this, how much he missed being fucked and moved around as if he were nothing but a hole.

He could feel his mind go hazy with it, just let himself relax as he let them use him how they pleased, whether that was by forcing his mouth onto their cocks until they stretched the back of his throat and left him gagging and struggling for air, or using all the strength and stamina they possessed to fuck into his ass for hours until he was an aching, come-filled mess, and even then begging for more.

He’d lost count of how many orgasms he’d had, only knew that a hand hadn’t touched his cock once and yet it was still hard and flushed red, even as another dry orgasm shook through him and wring out another orgasm from both Lambert and Geralt with muttered swears about what a needy slut he was, how he wanted to be their breeding bitch for the winter and couldn’t go a minute without a cock in him.

In dispersed between the moments of brutal fucking that left him a weak, begging mess, were softer moments that were somehow worse, that would have tears at the corner of his eyes if he were able when Geralt slowly fucked into him, oh so careful and gentle as he pressed small kisses along the scars on his face or when Lambert had him pressed face down into the mattress and slowly rolled his hips into him, a comforting weight at his back as he promised to look after him, that they were all he needed.

It was sometime in the early morning when they finally retired to sleep and for the first time in months, he felt relaxed, comforted now that he was surrounded by his brothers, and fell into a restful sleep.

He had half expected that to be it, that they would help him that once to take the edge off, to make him himself again for the rest of the winter lest he physically tear the walls down, and a part of him hurt at the fact but when woke up to an empty bed he didn’t dwell on it.

He took a moment to admire the bruises and scratches littered on him, even the ache that seemed to stretch across his whole body when he stood up before making his way to the kitchen for food and then probably back to his own bed for some more much-needed rest.

That plan was derailed as soon as he stepped into the kitchen, Vesemir working over the stove making some sort of stew for dinner, whilst Geralt and Lambert sat at the small table, Lambert finishing off his breakfast before they all turned to look at him.

The next thing he knew Geralt was up and pushing him back onto the table, quick hands removed his trousers and two fingers pushed into his swollen rim still leaking their come from only a few hours before. He couldn’t keep back the moan in the back of his throat before suddenly Geralt pulled his fingers out to be replaced by his cock.

That’s how he found himself being fucked over the breakfast table, his brothers chatting amicably with each other whilst he was reduced to a desperate wanton mess under Geralt’s hands. He was only half-hard by the time he felt Geralt come into him, how he still had anything left was a surprise to him but he was left panting and whining for more when the other witcher pulled out of him, but he wasn’t left long when he felt Lambert move by his head.

Lambert’s breakfast seemingly finished he was shifted on the table until his table was hanging off of one end and soon Lambert’s cock was teasing at his mouth and with a hum, he began to suck down the younger witcher’s cock. So focused on just how good it was to have a cock in him first thing in the morning, he jumped when he felt rough hands pinch at his nipples, the mix of pain and pleasure sending a shiver through him as he heard Vesemir chuckle above him, but that didn’t stop the older witcher until he was coming with a shudder with Lambert’s cock so far down his throat he was struggling to breathe.

There was a passing remark from Vesemir to clean up whatever mess they made as he left, and then it was just the three of them, Lambert finished soon after with a growl and he was promptly settled back onto Geralt’s cock, now sat on the bench whilst he ate breakfast, and when down pushed face-first onto the table and fucked within an inch of his life before he and Geralt were coming together with a shout.

The following weeks had the same pattern, namely the three of them using them however they wanted, well mainly Geralt and Lambert.

Occasionally Vesemir would find him and offer his boot for him to hump or a hand for him to fuck into, one time he was even given a pillow to rub his cock against whilst he was kneeling between the other witchers legs, yellow eyes boring into him the whole while and after offered a gentle hand and a kind word before being sent on his way.

His brothers were more forceful, insistent in their need, namely, they’d push him against any surface they could, sparing a couple of fingers to prep him, not that they needed it given how often he was on one of their cocks, always open and dripping come. It didn’t matter what he was doing, whether it was reinforcing the walls around the keep, or repairing the fence around the stables.

Normally he could hear them coming and was able to at least move to a somewhat softer surface before he was shoved face-first to the ground and his clothes all but torn off of him. Not that he had any complaints, he was the most rested he’d been all year and there were truly no words to describe how good it felt to be wanted and craved, to be woken up with Lambert cock’s fucking his hole, all the while telling him how good his hole felt clenched around his cock, how desperate he was for them all, that they could bend him over anywhere and he’d beg to fucked like needy bitch he is.

It’s when Lambert calls him a pretty, little cum dump that he comes, only his brother is long from over and instead, he’s shushed back into sleep whilst Lambert continues rocking into him and when he wakes in the morning he can feel the come spill down his thighs, but he’s only given a minute to admire it before Geralt is pushing him onto his back and forcing his legs wide so that he can push his own cock into his hole.

He almost mourns the end of winter. Whilst he’s itching to get back out on the path he’s not looking forward to leaving his brothers, to go through another year of villager’s ire and even less of their coin, but especially without the feel of his brothers fucking him like they’re desperate for him. It’s not that he’s obsessed, well maybe a little, but now that he’s had a taste of being nothing but a hole to be used whenever someone wants now, he needs more like it’s a physical ache.

So when Geralt asks for his help on a big contract he’d heard about on the way up to the keep, how can he refuse when it means he gets even longer to be nothing more than a cock dumb hole meant to be fucked.

[lvlyhao]

「PART TWO: FEAR」

HUMANITY SERIES; Q.K

A/N: took me long enough to post, I know, but thank you to that last anon for reminding me of the series lol with school i tend to forget what i have and haven’t posted but i’ll do better from now on. i hope you like this :)

important: this chapter includes mentions of vomiting and though i’ve already put a warning for violence and gore in the masterlist, i’m saying it again: please don’t read this if you are not okay with that!!!!

word count: 2.1K

pairing: qian kun x reader

disclaimer: the characters in the story below do not reflect real people or present real facts. this is purely fictional, and you may not copy, change, translate or repost my work in any way. all rights reserved © cherry-hyejin 2021.

previous chapter || next chapter

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

“I’m heading out”, your hands fondly squeeze Taeyong’s shoulders from behind him. He does not look up from his task for a few seconds, counting rolls of gauze. Then, upon processing your words, he twirls to face you. His eyes trail up and down your figure, making a mental checklist of everything you need to be safe. Apparently, one thing is missing.

“Take Jaehyun with you”, he asks, “or maybe Yuta. Johnny is always good to have around, and so is Renjun. Those swords of his are no joke”, he rambles, losing focus. The way he places his hands on his hips and sighs tells you he’s absolutely drained. “Or maybe I should go with you—”

Shaking your head fervently, you pat his cheek for his attention, observing the streaks of noon sunlight across his face. He stares at you with concern and shifts his weight.

“You’re staying right here and so are the boys, Tyong. We haven’t found a survivor in weeks, and taking one of them is always more stressful than anything”, you reason. Recollections of how the boys attract trouble wherever they go cloud your mind, far too many to count. The air suddenly feels too chilly, with shivers running down your spine. 

“Just stay here and maybe find a way to rest. You know Doyoung won’t mind keeping track of the supply for you.”

At this point, he knows it’s no use arguing. 

“Just be careful… and get back before dawn”, he adjusts the collar of your jacket, thinking back to the weather outside of the grey walls of the dorms. “All I’m saying is you never know what you’re gonna find.” Giving you a tight-lipped smile and a nod, he resumes his job, and you leave him. Headed to the heavily locked iron doors guarded by the towering figures of Shotaro and Sungchan, you ask yourself if there was any hidden depth to Taeyong's words.

“You never know what you’re gonna find, huh", you mutter.

Now, roaming the deserted streets on your own and basking in the orange glow of the afternoon, you just think he was wrong. 

It’s already been a couple of hours since you left: you’ve explored parts of the district you barely even knew before the virus, seeing all kinds of animals scurrying around your path. You’ve also eaten the rice balls Jaemin packed for you, and you’ve gawked at the decaying building that used to be your favourite theatre. It’s all the same as you imagined it would be. Not many walkers litter this part of town—just 7 or 8 you managed to avoid—and no people. No one worth rescuing.

Wandering like this, in silence, brings back memories you're not sure you like. Weekly game nights with your friends, attending Jisung’s dance presentations, playing in the park’s playground at night... All of those feel foreign to you, parts of life too good to have ever been yours. Still, the need for a shot of wistfulness takes over, and you sigh. Better now than when it gets late, then. With a shake of your head, you pick a destination and start moving.

You’re conscious of your surroundings as you keep one hand on the bow and make your way across the square. Dry, fiery leaves crunch under your boots, being the only sound you pick up. Nothing looks out of the ordinary, either. The same old abandoned stores seem to look down at you, their busted windows moaning in the wind. But, right then, something jabs at your gut. It's a silent alert to a threat you can't see. 

Damnit. You better pick up the pace.

As soon as you make a turn to the left, spying the pizza place you used to visit, you freeze. Walkers, maybe 10 of them, whimper and try to get past the debris to reach something inside a pharmacy.

How could you not notice them earlier? They’re not a quiet horde, and the awful stench is not something you should have missed either. Have you been that lost in your nostalgia?

Whatever happened, you don't have much time. If the undead are making that much effort to get around the rubble, there has to be someone inside. A fellow human being—hopefully, a nice one. Someone you can help.

Acting out of instincts, you drink in your surroundings. Having your back hastily pressed against a tree trunk is not ideal, but it's what comes to you. While you can't call yourself a strategy master, jumping right into action is not the right plan when someone else's life is in danger. 

Mind racing, you know you need a better shooting spot now if you want to make a move. Drawing them out to an alley is not a totally bad idea either. They wouldn't be able to escape, and maybe then they could flee.

As soon as you found a perfect corner for that, the screech of old door hinges catches your attention. A second later, shattering glass.

Shit. They broke in.

With no more time to assess the situation, you quickly climb up a rotting picnic table. The zombies, some missing a limb, slowly drag their feet towards a man in a plaid, blue shirt. 

He's petrified, head lashing from side to side, looking for a way out. You know very well there is none, and soon enough it will be too late. He’ll be just at reach for those disgusting, putrid fingers. If they get a bite in, it's over for you, and it's over for him.

That’s when you take the stupidest decision of your life.

Screaming.

“YO, YOU POINTLESS MEAT SACK! WHY DON’T YOU LOOK OVER HERE?”

The boy might just get whiplash from how fast his eyes find yours. His are dark and desperate, but there is something else to them—to him. Something you will never find it in you to explain. 

It could have been the way the stares right at your soul, or how his face displays every emotion from relief to terror. You could even say it was how his knees buckled under his weight or his fluttering hair in the wind. You can blame your reaction on a lot of things, but none of them startles you as much as yourself. 

A cold hand grasps at your heart, squeezing it tightly in your chest. Blood drains from your face, and your frame shakes in the wind. You know this sensation all too well to have doubts, although it is what you swore never to feel again. Fear. Not for yourself, no, even when the undead start walking towards you instead. You don't—can't— care enough about your life, and you know it. It is all for him, the beautiful stranger you are going to save.

The first two arrows find their aim, speeding right through the undead’s skulls, but something shifts in your arms. The rest of your arrows now seem to swerve a bit to the sides, lodging themselves on necks or shoulders. In other words, not where they are supposed to. 

Oh, how much you hate that the walkers will only die if you damage their brains.

“Annoying bastards, I swear—”

Falling into a state of near panic, you drop to the floor unceremoniously and race to the horde. If your bow won't do the trick, your other weapons will.

Momentarily thankful for their lack of agility, you pull out the knives hidden on the sides of your shoes. In a flurry of drive, you slash and stab everything around you. While throwing some hand-to-hand-combat here and there, your eyes start to burn. The walkers smell even worse from up close, you bitterly recall from past encounters. It's one of the things that make fighting harder—the urge to run away from them at every second.

The more daring among them clutch at your clothes, keeping your movement limited, but you manage to cut off their hands. The slick sound it makes is enough to make bile rise up your throat, but you swallow it back.

“C’mon, Y/N”, you pant, kicking what had once been an adult woman in the chest to send her down to the asphalt. “You’ve had tougher battles than this." With a breath as deep as you can manage, your knife cuts at another zombie.

It is true, you know. It's impossible to count the times you’ve been up against groups of 20 or more. You were always fine. Right now, though, wincing from multiple wounds scattered around your skin, you question how the hell did you do it.

Hurriedly glancing to your right, you notice 5 are already dead—well, dead-er than they had previously been. The lady you kicked struggles to get up, giving you a gap to spin and bury your knife into her scalp. She goes limp right away, and you stare. 4 more to go.

Just as you retrieve your blade and turn to face the other walkers, something bites your dominant hand. Hard.

With your knife tumbling down in a metallic clunk, fire shoots up your arm. The first thing you do is wiggle your hand back and forth. Some part of you thinks it was going to let go like it’s some sort of dog. You realize you were wrong when darkened saliva flows into the cuts, your mind going blank with agony.

You figure it was one of the undead you had pushed down before, only to lose sight of him later. And, yes, wiggling was a poor attempt at getting him to drop you, but you did it out of pure alarm. Fear is gradually taking over you now, freezing cold and impossible to fight.

With only your non-dominant hand free, you sloppily sink your blade down however many times it takes for the corpse to stop moving. The pain you feel is sharp, travelling through your veins like blue fire. As his grip slackens, the body slumps to the ground, a wet thud echoing. Despite the agony that threatens to blind you, you're aware of the other 3 walkers you have yet to take down.

One is easy enough, with an arrow embedded deep on one side of her neck, and another coming down on her brow bone. Repugnance swirls in your gut, and you have to look away. Their skulls are incredibly soft.

Your remaining enemies pace at either side of you, circling you with dead eyes and faltering strides. You keep your wounded hand close to you while the other clutches the leather grip of your weapon. It's time to put an end to this.

Choosing to go for the right first, you slash at his chest, grimacing at the black blood that oozes. It taints his shredded red hoodie and sprinkles at your front. The shudders that course through you in silent rage give you the strength to finish it off.

In one clean, powerful strike, your knife goes through an eyeball, but he collapses a bit too fast. You can't recover your blade.

Having no weapons on your hands, even for a second, is critical. The walkers are borderline sluggish, but it was easy to lose track of them: your severed hand was proof.

To your relief—or mild disgust—, hasty strides bounce at the pavement behind you, followed by heavy thuds on a slimy surface. It takes no more than 3 seconds for the last body to tumble by your feet, face down. 

It's only then you see the skull, or better, what is left of it. Blood and brain flow over a gaping crack, done by something sharp. You could guess it was the heavy, black rock that you find before you, held in the hands of the man you are supposed to be saving.

From there, you realize his medium length hair is a faded blue, with dark brown at the roots. A grey university hoodie hugs his slim figure under the plaids, matching his cargo pants and busted sneakers. His face is all sharp angles and soft edges, but his gaze is nothing short of magnetic.

Wide, chocolate eyes glare at the body with such horror your own throat tightens. Then, with no words shared, he lets go of the rock and stumbles back like he cannot believe what he did. Your own eyes divert to the cloudless sky, hearing him vomiting on the concrete in a matter of seconds. Poor dude.

Pity, combined with the reminiscents of adrenaline and dread, settle in you. Your thoughts boil down to one small detail: the Sun is setting.

The throbbing on your hand momentarily vanishes, lost in the memory of Taeyong very clearly telling you to be back before dawn. Aside from that, the memory of what you did to get the walkers' attention still burns at your mind. That goddamned shout. Having a sense of hearing as acute as they did, you are sure any other zombies around you are coming your way.

You have fucked up big time.

-------

final notes: ik chapter one wasn’t all that exciting but i’m hoping this one is better wheeze two more to come, stay tuned <3

[puckinginsane]

If The World Was Ending

Isn’t that your house?

That wasn’t the text message he was expecting from his teammate. Maybe are you ok? Did it hit you? Have you heard from anyone else? What was more unexpected was what was on the link he sent. A link to a tweet. A tweet that had a picture of his house on it. Not the house he currently lives in, but the house he currently still owns. It wouldn’t have been for much longer. He was weeks away from closing on the sale. The sale he had been waiting one long year for. It didn’t look like his house anymore, though. It was in shambles. It looked like a tornado hit it. It looked like a tornado hit it because a tornado actually did hit it. 

As soon as he got over the initial shock he went right into panic. Was his girlfriend there when the tornado hit? Ex. Ex girlfriend. They’re not together anymore. Sometimes he forgets. Sometimes he is in denial. Sometimes he’d rather not remember. The decision was a mutual one, but that didn’t make it any less harder. It was about a year ago that they realized that they were looking for different things. He wasn’t looking for forever, although neither was she. Sometimes people just grow apart and that’s what happened to them. It didn’t mean they stopped wondering about each other and it sure as hell didn’t mean they still didn’t love each other. 

He didn’t care that there could be potential for another touch down. He didn’t care that it wasn’t safe to be driving. He didn’t care that roads were closed. He didn’t care that the neighborhood he used to call home was in shambles. He had to make sure she was ok. It was dark but he could still see the devastation on people’s faces. Some of them lost everything. At least they were ok. Maybe she’d be ok too. The pictures of the house looked bad. Could she survive that? He didn’t waste time in trying to get in touch with her, not even knowing if he’d get through, he just knew he had to go. 

They had broken up and he was planning on selling the house but said she could stay until it was sold. There was no use in it being empty when she needed a place to stay and he had moved out. She was taking care of it. Getting it ready for showings. Making sure the landscaping was kept up with. She was happy to do it even though the memories that the house held kept it impossible to move on. 

She didn’t tell him but she stopped staying at the house a few months ago. It was too painful. If she was going to get over him she had to leave everything behind. She didn’t want him to think it was harder on her than he thought so she couldn’t tell him. She still looked after it, though, she'd never break a promise to him. 

She saw the house on the news and her heart immediately sank. She knew he’d think she was there and assume the worst. She didn’t think about anything else but needing to go there, if not for anything but to see the damage. Maybe he’d go too and she could show him that she’s ok. It didn’t matter how much seeing him again would hurt, thinking about him worrying was so much worse. 

The road was blocked from driving all the way to the house so she stopped at the roadblock and walked the rest of the way. She didn’t see him or any of his vehicles. Maybe he wasn’t worrying as much as she thought. She didn’t think too much into it, though, she wasn’t staying that far away. She gasped when she got to the house. It’s absolutely destroyed. It looks like a child came by, ripped the roof off, bent the gate like a paperclip, tore everything out and threw it all over like it was nothing. 

There are people taking pictures, some just looking around in shock, some falling to their knees over the sight of their empty foundation where their house once was. As bad as the house looks, some people have it a lot worse. She thanks her lucky stars she decided to move out, she would have been home.

He arrives not much longer after she did. Even with all of the carnage around them the first thing he saw was her. All he wants to do is walk up behind her and hug her. Relief rushes over him. He thought she could be dead. The house is just a building but she is family. It doesn’t matter that they broke up and haven’t talked in a while, she will always be family to him. 

As he walks towards her he starts to take the rest of the scene in. It looks like something straight out of a movie, straight out of a nightmare. He never thought he’d be right in the middle of something like this. He watches as she looks at her phone, seeing if she has service, she doesn’t. She wants to reach out to him. She doesn’t even know if he knows. 

It doesn’t dawn on him that he might startle her since she is unaware that he is even there, but he doesn’t care. Everything in him is screaming that he needs to hug her, to be close to her. He wraps his big tattooed arms around her and she jumps but immediately settles down when she realizes it’s him. She takes a deep breath. “Oh god, Tyler, you scared the shit out of me.” Her voice is soft and sullen. He silently laughs to himself. He had forgotten how easily she startles. 

“I’m sorry,” his low, deep voice vibrates in her ear. “Are you ok? Were you home? Fuck, I’ve been so worried.”

She turns to face him and hugs him, he hugs her back. He hugs her so tight and this time he may not ever let her go. “I wasn’t here.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank god.” He buries his face in her hair, taking in the all too familiar scent of her shampoo. A scent that hasn't changed in the whole time he's known her. A scent that once gave him comfort and now every time he smells anything close to it, it pains his heart just a little bit, reminding him of how stupid he was to let her walk away from him. “I don’t know what I would have done if anything happened to you.”

She can feel the tension in his body slowly begin to dissipate. She rubs his back, knowing that calms him. "I'm sorry about your house." That's not what she should have said. That's not what she meant to say. Something like I'm fine or thank you or anything other than that, but she was caught off guard and wasn't expecting him to say something like that. 

"The house doesn't matter. I mean it does, but it doesn't. All that matters is that you weren't in it." He then starts to wonder if she wasn't here then where was she? An irrational wave of jealousy rushes over him as he assumes she was with some guy. "Where were you?" He never had a great poker face, wearing his heart on his sleeve, no filter. He was honest and said whatever came to mind, usually before thinking about it first. He knows he has no right to question where she was or be mad about it. "Sorry. Forget I asked."

"I was at my condo."

"Oh. I didn't know you had one."

"I couldn't stay here any longer. I thought time would have made it easier but it just made it harder. The more I lived here without you, the more I wished things were different. I still come by and make sure everything is taken care of but I just couldn't sleep here anymore." She tried everything. She tried sleeping in different rooms thinking that maybe it was their room that was the problem, it wasn't. She slept in every room in the house and it didn't change how she felt. She couldn't move on without leaving it all behind.

"I would have helped you, you know." Meaning he would have paid for the whole thing and not think twice. He wants her taken care of. 

"I know you would have, but it would have been something else tying us together and that's the last thing I needed."

"Right."

"The timing couldn't have been better. The house sold."

"And you weren't here tonight."

"And I wasn't here tonight."

They stand there, where the entrance to the driveway once was, and look at what's left of the house and the property. Mother nature can be a cruel bitch sometimes. It only takes a few minutes to destroy everything. They could have been home. If they were still together they would have been here. He bought the new house to start a new beginning. To figure out his life. To decide what he really wanted. This could have been so much worse if they were still together.

It's so dark out since the power is out everywhere in the neighborhood and it's 10 pm. And eerily quiet other than the occasional tree branch snapping from someone stepping on it. People are starting to come by just to take pictures. Tyler decides that it's best to just go home, regroup, and come back in the morning when it'll be easier to see.

"I should get going. There's not much we can do tonight. I'm coming back in the morning to get a better look at it."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Her playful tone tells him she's asking just to bust his balls, not that she's actually wondering.

He grins. She always was quick witted, something he liked most about her. "No, but I don't have a choice."

"Do you want me to meet you here?"

"Yeah. If you're not busy. If you want to."

"I want to."

"Thanks." He rubs his hand over his beard. A nervous habit of his. "So, uh, I parked next to you."

"Let's walk back together then."

He walks close behind her, making sure she keeps her balance as she walks over some rubble. She gives him an appreciative smile and they proceed to their cars. They both feel drawn to each other, neither of them wanting to part ways, but they have to. There’s nothing they can do tonight. Tomorrow’s another day. Tomorrow they assess the damage and truly say goodbye to the last thing that was connecting them together.

“Hug the dogs extra close for me tonight.” One of the hardest parts of their breakup was having to leave the dogs behind. Technically they were his dogs but they became hers too. She’d take care of them when he was away, even before they moved in together. Sometimes she feels as if she misses them more than she misses him, most times. It’s easier to miss them, they never did anything wrong. She often wonders if they miss her too, how hard it was on them when she didn’t move to the new house, if they’re ok without her there.

“I will.” He almost tells her they miss her, but knows it wouldn’t be fair to her to say that. Tyler isn’t known for thinking before he speaks but he couldn’t do that to her. He knows how hard it was to leave them. He gives her one more hug before tearing himself away. He almost offers to follow her home to make sure she gets back safely, but thinks better of it. He’d just want to come in, to see how she’s living now, if she needs to be taken care of, to spend more time with her. “Get home safe. Text me when you get there.”

“You do the same.”

They finally go their separate ways and they do let the other know when they reach home safely. She goes right to bed even though she knows it will be impossible to fall asleep. The silence of the night is too much for her to bear. Her mind starts to race. She can’t stop thinking about him, wondering if it’s all in her mind, wondering if he felt it too. There’s something still there between them. She feels drawn to him. Seeing him again brought all of those feelings back that she thought she finally got over. She thinks about texting him, but knows no good would come from it so she turns on some music and tries to drown out the world.

When he gets home he does as he promised and hugs the dogs just for her. They’re happy for the love and attention. They follow him to bed and join him, giving him little room to himself. Three labs take up a lot of space. He’s having a really difficult time falling asleep, and it’s not because of the dogs. He doesn’t want her to be alone tonight. He doesn’t want her to be alone ever. He’ll see her in the morning, though, and that’s going to have to be good enough. He picks up his phone to text her, but puts it back down and turns on a movie instead. 

It's a rough morning for both of them. He has to find a way to get through practice on very little sleep, which is not anything new for him but today he's emotionally drained and needs to pull himself together and get focused. His teammates count on him and even though they all know by now that his house was destroyed he will not use that as an excuse to work less hard than anyone else. The first thing he does it check in with everyone else to make sure they're ok, the rest is routine. 

She called out from work knowing she wouldn't be productive and that she'd need to take a half day anyway. There's no way she was going to let Tyler go to the house and deal with it on his own. She manages to get a few hours of sleep before she gets a text that he'd meet her at the house at 1pm. She takes a longer shower than usual, hoping that it will wake her up a bit more. She stops at Starbucks on the way there to pick up a coffee.

Tyler gets to the house first. His heart almost stops when he sees it in the daylight for the first time. It looks so much worse than he even imagined. He could barely see what it actually looked like last night in the dark. Seeing how bad the damage is just makes him even more thankful that she wasn’t there. She probably wouldn’t have made it. It’s almost hard to concentrate on anything else but the fact that he could have lost her forever. Sure, losing the house is a tragedy but losing her would have been the end of the world. 

Her heart sinks when she pulls up to the end of the street and she can see the carnage. The closer she gets, the worse it looks. She sees Tyler frozen in place and can only imagine what’s going through his head. She wraps her arm around his back and hands him a coffee of his own. “I figured you’d need it if your night was anything like mine.”

He sighs. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Not at all.”

They look around at the neighborhood at everyone else assessing their damage. “It’s fucking crazy, right? This sucks.”

She turns her attention back to the house. “It does.” For the first time it dawns on her that she actually could have been there. It had crossed her mind last night for only a moment but this is the first time that she realizes that she could be dead right now. She was so worried about what he was thinking that she didn't really take the time to think about everything else. A wave of emotions rushes through her and she lets out a sob she didn’t know she was holding in. 

He quickly wraps her up in a hug. The sound of her crying breaks his heart and he’d do anything to make it better. “We’re ok and that’s what matters.”

“Yeah. I know. It’s just...shit it’s so bad, Ty.”

He rubs her back,  trying to find the right things to say. He knows that there's nothing he can do to change what happened and that he has to try to bring her mind somewhere else. They start to walk up the driveway as far as they can go before they hit the palm tree that fell right in front of the front door. “Remember when we barely made it through the door that day?” She smiles, remembering the exact day he’s talking about. “You kissed me like...it was the greatest kiss.”

“I remember. It’s not like we made it too far into the house before clothes started disappearing.”

“I never looked at that kitchen counter the same again after that.”

He laughs. “Yeah. It was great, though.”

“Really great.” 

They look into each other’s eyes, smiling and remembering all of the good times they had together, until the sound of Julie’s voice behind them makes them both jump. They didn’t know she was there, or how long she’d been standing there. They bashfully say their hellos and start to walk around the property. Each step is more painful than the last. It’s quickly becoming apparent that there’s no salvaging the house. The backyard, one of their favorite parts of the property, is unrecognizable. The roof was completely torn off and destroyed. Most of the house is destroyed.

They talk with their real estate agent about the next step. He has already called his insurance company so he’s going to have to deal with that at some point. He will have to revisit this heartbreaking scene all over again. After Julie leaves they stick around a little longer, neither of them wanting to go. Not only would they be leaving the house behind, but each other. He’s not ready to let her go just yet. This time he’s spent with her has sparked something. Maybe it’s just familiarity, maybe it’s just getting over that worry he had that she was gone, maybe he’s second guessing every single decision he’s ever made. Who knows if this feeling will wear off or not but right now he knows that all he wants is more time with her. 

He’s not crazy. She feels the same things he is. She could have been in that house last night. It starts to put things in perspective. What is the point of living if you’re living without the one you care about the most? Isn’t it time she put her fears aside and take a leap of faith? It could have been her last day on Earth and all she could think about was him. That look in his beautiful brown eyes says that he feels the same. Neither of them have been great with words but they could always tell what each other were feeling by the looks on their faces. She sighs. Will she even sleep better tonight than last night? Will the same thoughts keep her awake? 

“Do you want to go out to lunch?” he finally breaks the silence. 

She knows she should say no, that she’s just kidding herself thinking that there’s still anything between them. Lunch wouldn’t hurt, though, right? It’s just lunch, and she didn’t eat breakfast. “Lunch sounds good. Where do you want to go?”

“Do you want to pick some stuff up from Eatzi’s and go to my place?”

“Oh I don’t know, Ty, the dogs…”

“Would love to see you again.”

“Exactly. And I’d love nothing more than to see them but I don’t want to leave them again, and honestly I’m not sure I could handle leaving them.”

“We can go to your place then. I don’t feel like being out anywhere. I’m tired and this shit has gotten me so fucked up.”

She can’t say no to that. She doesn’t really want to be alone either. “Ok, yeah, we can go to my place.”

After they pick up their lunch Tyler follows her to her condo. It’s an upgrade from the condo she lived in when they first met, so he’s happy about that. He still wishes he knew. He wishes that he could have helped. It’s close enough to her job that on cooler days with nice weather she can walk, which is one of the reasons she chose it. She gives him a quick tour before they sit down to eat. 

“Do you like it here?” He can’t help worrying about her. If there were any notion that she was unhappy he would do anything to fix it.

“I do. It’s close to work, modern, perfect for me.”

“It’s nice.” He’s so happy that she found this place and loved it enough to move in. It saved her life. He knows that memories of him is one of the main reasons she moved, besides the fact that the house sold, but he’s fine with that as long as she’s safe. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. How are you liking the new house?”

“I love it. The boys do too. You’d like it too.” She just gives him a look. The look that tells him don’t start. A look he had become all too familiar with during their relationship. He got that look a lot. He can’t help smiling. It’s like nothing has changed in the year they’ve been apart. It feels like no time has passed. 

“That smile isn’t going to help you this time.”

He coyly shrugs, as if he has no idea what she’s talking about. “No?” He often uses his charm to get out of trouble, and more times than not it works. She always puts him in his place when he needs to be, though, another thing he loves most about her. 

“Nope.”

“You’ve changed.” He loves teasing her. He knows she can take it and that she loves it too. It became their language at one point.

“I know.” She rubs her eyes to try to stay awake. The lack of sleep is starting to catch up to her. She can’t even muster up the energy to joke back with him. Normally she would quip back with something like you’re not as cute as you think you are, but not this time. She’s enjoying his company, though, and doesn’t want him to leave.

“If you need me to go so you can sleep, I’ll go.” He would rather stay but would never put her in an uncomfortable situation. He leaves it up to her. 

“Please stay. You’re tired too, right? Maybe we can lay down? If that’s ok. If you’re not seeing anyone, obviously.”

He can’t fight the grin that creeps across his face. “I’m not seeing anyone. I’m down for some cuddles if you are.”

“I honestly don’t think I could sleep without them at this point.”

“You neeeeeed me.”

His sing-songy tone makes her smile and she rolls her eyes. He’s so full of himself and she absolutely loves it. “I’ve had a lot of time to think since last night. I just don’t want to waste any more time pushing you away because I’m scared of the future. I forgot to focus on what’s important, and that’s the now. I don’t know if you feel the same…”

Before she can finish talking he gets up and hugs her. He wasn’t sure if she was on the same page as him, but this confirms that she is. Maybe they can make things work, maybe they can’t, all he knows is that right now all he wants is to be with her.  He can worry about tomorrow tomorrow. “I do.” He takes her hand and sands her up. “I want to be here for you however you need me.”

She hugs him and rests her head on his chest. “Thanks, Ty.”

It’s a little surreal for both of them as they walk towards her bedroom. Neither of them thought in a million years that this would ever happen. They had moved on, so they thought, or didn’t think, it’s all a blur now. Sometimes it takes a life changing event to put things into perspective and skew the way you thought you wanted to live your life. People grow and learn and evolve. They thought they were growing apart, but maybe they needed that time apart to realize that what they really need is to be together. They get into bed and he holds her close. He may never let her go. She immediately relaxes against his body and closes her eyes. He may or may not be her forever, but all that matters is that he’s her right now and that’s good enough for the both of them.

[yongiefilms]

IN ABSENTIA.

pairing: lee donghyuck x reader

genre: angst (i’m sorry in advance); breakup!au

warnings: swearing; indirect mentions of blood; mentions of a toxic relationship

word count: 1.3k

summary: they never said all love was good.

author’s note: this is the first little one-shot i’m publishing on here so i hope you can support and give it love! thank you and i hope you enjoy!

You wanted to punch him in the face. You wanted to punch Lee Donghyuck right between his eyes to make him suffer pain. But would you? No, you wouldn’t. No matter how much he made you angry and got on your nerves you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t hurt the boy you loved so dearly. It wasn’t in you to cause him suffering of any kind—physical or otherwise. 

Plus you never considered yourself to be violent. You didn’t fight with your fists, but used your words against others. That was your weapon—the words that rolled off your sharp tongue, words that could pierce through another to where it really could torment them in the chest of where their frail heart laid. You could break another whenever you opened your mouth, something worse than the notion of being beaten black and blue. Scars on the inside of the soul are far more permanent than those that appear on the flesh.

You suppose that’s what drew you to Donghyuck in the first place, besides his honey voice and mole scattered skin. He was sharp-witted, too much for his own good and had an air of mischief that others mistook for being mysterious. You knew better. You learned better after being with him for so long. He was just as clever as you and had an even more so sharp tongue. Polar opposites attract, but those who are the same have an undeniable explosive attraction that makes it harder to step away. 

You do admit you were blinded at first by chemistry, but now looking at him in this present moment you could see the change. He still looked like the boy that snapped at you for dropping your caramel macchiato on him the first time you met with the same long brown locks that framed his face and his wide condescending eyes, but he has long transformed into a boy you couldn’t learn to love and accept. Something just shifted suddenly and you were finally wide awake from the unrealistic dream. So maybe you can punch him and get away with it, but you still wouldn’t. You wouldn’t become like him, someone rotten enough to cause hurt.

That’s why arguing was pointless right now more than ever when you didn’t even know why the argument started in the first place. He had barged into your apartment at the dawn hours of the morning, jolting you awake from your slumber due to the loud smacking the door made from hitting the wall from the impact of his antics. At that moment you regretted giving him a spare key and you still do, but it would soon be over.

You stood taking the heat from his words and let him ramble on with his utter nonsense because to argue with the hot headed person he was wouldn’t get you anywhere for no compromise could be reached after what would feel like countless hours when in reality it was mere minutes.

He wouldn’t back down and he wouldn’t surrender. Knocking sense into him was hard, nearly impossible for he never swayed in any direction. He stood firm in his beliefs and his stubbornness would only make things worse. He would always think he was right, even when he was wrong, but he would never admit it, even if the earth opened up and swallowed him whole. That’s how you learned you had to tell him straight out and that’s what you would do. You had to tell him the truth. You had to tell him those dreaded words you practiced in your head over and over again for this moment. For this time it had to be done. You couldn’t let it drag on any longer for his sake and most certainly your own.

The outburst was sudden, but not unexpected. He made you break and this was the result, an explosive reaction of three simple words after the unnerving tranquility from your side.

“I just can’t!”

His anger peaked beyond the levels of frustration. “What do you mean you can’t?” he questioned. His hands slammed down on the table, rattling all the contents and getting a jump out of you. You startled him, you could tell because his eyebrows furrowed and a crease appeared on his forehead. You never yelled at him and you never fought back, always holding your tongue in an argument you knew you couldn’t win even if you tried.

You thew your hands up in an exasperated fashion and turned away from him. Confrontation wasn’t a strong suit of yours, it never was, but for him that was a different story. You guess that’s one distinction you had out of many similarities. You couldn’t look at him straight in the face, dead center into his sharp eyes. You knew weakness when you saw it. You didn’t have the time to break, especially when you finally had the nerve to speak out.

You paced back and forth in the living room of your small minimalistic apartment complex till you were sure there would be a hole in the ground from how long you kept pacing, tasting your next words on your tongue carefully.

This dreaded moment.

“I can’t…” your voice broke. This was harder than you realized. “Be with you.” The words were said, the ones of a journey reaching its end. A book closing shut once the last words were read on the page. You closed your eyes tightly shut afraid to see his reaction, even though you were turned away. You had to make some part of this tolerable for yourself. 

You knew his deep brown colored eyes would not only be filled with anger, but hurt and devastation. After all he was still human. He still feels the raw emotions that claw in his chest. You knew it yourself for there were already tears prickling at your eyes and you hastily whipped them away with your sleeve. The ache was unbearable but it had to be done.

This is for the best.

Quiet surrounded you both, besides the clock in the hall that ticked after every second that passed by, and silence for Donghyuck was never a good thing. There were always words he wanted to voice and he had much to say. You knew when he spoke after recovering from the shock that they would be harsh and impale your skin till you were left bleeding with the wounds wide open, unable to heal. He had that effect to break you down and build you up all the same.

This was agony.

“Wow,” he spat at the ground. “So much for I love you huh?” he bitterly said with a laugh. “I just knew it, I knew it the moment you would walk through that door you would break my heart, and you know what? I don’t care that you did. I don’t care! My heart has been broken too many times and this time I don’t feel a thing. You made me numb to the core. So fuck you. Fuck you and your little group of friends. I’m done with you.”

The words suffocated you, took your breath away till you were sure you would collapse from the impact. You could feel his piercing gaze on your back, still unable to look at him, but you didn’t turn around to give him that satisfaction because you knew if you looked into his eyes one last time that you would break into a million pieces. You didn’t want to shatter any further than you could. You didn’t want the shards to stab through your skin and give you stinging pain. You were fragile, yet broken on the inside.

This you couldn’t endure.

The door slammed shut and you heard the footsteps fade into the hall. He was gone and this time you knew he wouldn’t come back.

Lee Donghyuck left that day and never returned for he was too far lost in the fabricated bliss of his mind, heart, and soul. He was always there, but never present. That was his death in absentia, at the hands of the only one who could truly damage him both inside and out, himself.

[notapaladin]

life is a road and i wanna keep going

“I will write a fic for Acatl’s birthday!” i say, a month and change AFTER his...actual...birthday. (February 24th, mark y’all’s calendars for next year). I do not plan ahead. Anyway, have some fluff.

also on AO3

-

Acatl woke up cold, alone, and with a nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something. The first two were normal—it was the tail end of the dry season, after all—but the third wasn’t. His memory was usually a reliable thing.

The conch shells were still blaring outside, heralding the dawn. He made his devotions to the gods, hoping the pain would jar loose whatever it was. There were no festivals he needed to prepare for, it wasn’t market day or any of his siblings’ birthdays, and his temple had been refreshingly free of any suspicious deaths for a while, so what…?

Nothing sprung to mind. Pinching his ears to stop the flow of blood, he went to wash his face and hands. There was a thin skin of ice on the surface of the basin, and he broke it with a muttered curse. As he bent his head, a lock of loose hair fell into his eyes.

There was a sliver of white in it. No. I have to have seen wrong.

He hadn’t.

He scrubbed at his skin quickly and rifled through his hair until he’d separated the offending strand—no, two strands. Two. He would have bet a fistful of cacao beans that neither had been there yesterday. He heaved a disgusted sigh and yanked his hair back, tying it tightly out of his face and his sight. But not being able to see it didn’t mean he could forget it was there. I’m getting old. The thought was disquieting. He was barely into his thirties, for the Duality’s sake, and surely it was too soon for him to become decrepit.

When he rose to his feet, his knees complained. Apparently it wasn’t. Wonderful, he thought sourly. Just wonderful.

But then he stepped out into his courtyard and found it occupied, and despite himself his gray mood started to lift. Teomitl sat under the tree, looking fresh-faced and lovely as the dawn, and when his gaze lighted on Acatl he beamed. “Good morning.”

He frowned back at him. Yes, of course he was happy to see him, but there really wasn’t a reason he could think of for the man to be here. It was far too early for his usual lunchtime intrusion—which, admittedly, had become less of an intrusion and more of a pleasant routine reminder that he was indeed supposed to eat something, even if Teomitl did keep scowling when he told him that. There had been no recent damage to the boundaries, and if anything had happened to Mihmatini he knew very well that Teomitl wouldn’t be smiling about it. Maybe he just wants to see you, whispered a voice in his mind. He ignored it, as well as the resulting butterflies in his stomach.

“...Teomitl, what are you doing here?”

Teomitl all but bounced to his feet. That smile was downright infectious, and he had to look away before it caught him too. Then Teomitl spoke, and all chances of that were over. “I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday.”

“A what.” Acatl blinked at him, hearing the words but not understanding them. Wait. Wait. Yesterday was Five Grass, which means today is...oh, gods. He’s right. At midnight, he’d became another year older. And it had slipped his mind entirely. I am getting old.

“...Did you…” Teomitl stared back incredulously. “You forgot your own birthday?”

He dropped his gaze to the ground, feeling his heart thump hard against his ribs. “It’s not important.” It was never important. He was a priest, sworn to give his life to the gods; ever since the day he’d announced his vocation, even his own family hadn’t done more than mildly remark upon it. It would have bothered him more if there hadn’t been so many other, worse reminders of their disapproval.

“Of course it is.” Teomitl drew himself up to his full height, eyes narrowed in a way that dared Acatl to say otherwise

He didn’t. His heart was hammering too fiercely. He cares. And yes, he’d known that—it was hard not to, with all the little reminders that Teomitl had no intention of leaving his life unless Acatl threw him bodily out of it—but it felt more real, now. The hope that he’d ruthlessly beaten back was cautiously trying to raise its head again. “I…”

Teomitl smiled, faint and victorious; clearly, he’d realized there would be no arguing on this point. “You’ve survived another year of everything Tizoc’s reign has thrown at us. That’s deserving of celebration.”

“...That explains it,” he muttered. Even without any major catastrophes, the constant awareness of paper-thin boundaries and a singularly unworthy Emperor were enough to turn any man’s hair white.

“Hm?”

He felt his face heat. “Nothing.”

And now Teomitl was scowling lightly at him. “Acatl.”

He’d promised himself that he would never lie to him, even over something as embarrassing as his own vanity—and it was vanity, which seemed even more ridiculous now with the pulse point of Teomitl’s presence beating under his ribs. “...I thought I was too young for gray hair. I was mistaken.”

Teomitl shook his head dismissively and stepped closer. Acatl suddenly noticed that his courtyard was much smaller than he’d thought it was; from this distance, he could pick out the myriad shades in Teomitl’s dark eyes. He hastily averted his gaze, but not before catching the edge of Teomitl’s frown as the man informed him, “You’re only thirty-two. That’s not old.”

“Older than you,” he pointed out with what was perhaps a bit of a justified huff in his voice. There were times it didn’t bother him. There were even times he forgot entirely; Teomitl swam in the political currents of the palace like an ahuitzotl, and it always made him question which of them was the younger. But a man was entitled to feel his age when his hair started showing it, Duality curse him.

“...I don’t mind. Gray hair makes you look distinguished.” Teomitl shrugged with feigned carelessness, a faint tinge of color in his cheeks. Before Acatl could ask what on earth he meant by that, he continued, “Anyway. I, uh. I thought maybe...I could buy you something to eat? If you’re not busy. Today should be the day that Cozcatl’s running her mother’s tamale stall, and I know you love her cooking.”

Cozcatl made tamales that could wake the dead. She did things with chilies that would have made the head imperial chef weep for joy. They weren’t expensive or extravagant, nothing that would make it onto the palace banquet tables, but if Acatl hadn’t been a priest, he thought sometimes that he might have married her for her food alone.

He found himself smiling. “...Thank you.”

The temple could manage without him for a single morning. It was his birthday, after all.

- -

The Sacred Precinct was busy as it always was, but the city beyond it was even more so. Neither he nor Teomitl had dressed formally—though Teomitl’s crimson cloak and the gold in his ears marked him as a man of imperial blood, drawing more admiring eyes than just Acatl’s—so the jostling crowd meant they had to stick close together. Even though it warmed him from the inside out each time their arms brushed, he didn’t mind.

He should have minded. He was being selfish, wanting what he couldn’t have; his face burned all over again when fingers brushed his arm and he thought fleetingly of catching them in his own. Teomitl was a dozen years younger than him, soon to be Revered Speaker, and married to his sister. It wasn’t so very long ago that he’d been Acatl’s student. That had mattered once.

Teomitl cast him a sideways, smiling glance. “I know you don’t want a celebration, but I should probably warn you that Neutemoc is going to invite you to dinner.”

Neutemoc’s favorite way of celebrating birthdays when they’d been children had been to heave him into the nearest canal and run away laughing before he could wrestle him in too. He closed his eyes briefly. “Ah.”

“I thought you probably wouldn’t like it. I wanted to treat you to something from the palace kitchens instead.”

He shook his head, redirecting the little bubble of joy from the idea of Teomitl thinking so much about him to something more appropriate. “No, that’s fine. It will be good to see the children again.”

“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl’s smile turned fond and wistful, as it always did when they lit on the topic of Acatl’s nieces and nephews; though the age gap between him and his brothers meant he’d been an uncle himself practically since birth, evidently it was a different matter entirely when it involved the family he’d married into. The first time Mazatl had called him Uncle Teomitl unprompted, he’d beamed so happily that Acatl had fallen in love all over again. “I can’t believe how tall Necalli’s getting! Soon he’ll be looking me in the eye. Time’s flown.”

Strands of silver in his hair. Teomitl smiling on the temple steps, meeting him as one man to another. The tidal shift when he’d looked at him—gods, he couldn’t even remember what the occasion had been, some meal where Teomitl had been wiping crumbs off his hands and chuckling at Acatl’s first truly honest description of what he thought about Quenami—and instead of garden-variety fondness he’d thought oh and Duality preserve me, I love you.

“It has.” Things changed, and sometimes it was for the better.

The sun was warm, but not as warm as the look in Teomitl’s eyes.

He had to turn his face away again; the crowd around them and the noise of a living city in his ears wouldn’t let him forget they were in public, and he focused on that and not the occasional slide of their cloaks against each other’s limbs. Gradually he became aware that they weren’t alone—that as they made their way through the markets to Cozcatl’s stall, a group of men with the bearing and battle scars of Jaguar Knights were attempting to follow them unobtrusively and not doing a very good job of it.

He cast a glance in Teomitl’s direction and saw him unbothered. It didn’t help. “Are the guards really necessary?”

“For you? Yes.” Teomitl’s quick smile was far too innocent. “You can’t deny you tend to attract danger.”

“Hmph,” he muttered, and forcibly bit back the part of him that wanted to ask is that why you’re still around, then? It felt too close to flirtation for him to risk. Remember Mihmatini, he thought—but remembering Mihmatini didn’t help, because then his memory was happy to dredge up the conversation with her where she’d maintained unwavering eye contact as she’d told him that she and Teomitl had come to an agreement and she didn’t care if her husband had feelings for anyone else, and her gaze had been far too searching for comfort.

Before Teomitl could say anything else that could make his heart feel dangerously soft and open, he spied a familiar striped awning set over a broad window and made a beeline towards it. He could have found Cozcatl’s stall if he were blind and operating on smell alone, but the awning did help.

The woman herself was indeed setting out the morning’s selection of flatbreads and tamales, and beamed at them as they approached. Cozcatl was a little older than he was, a widow with three young children and a wide streak of gray in her hair, but her crooked-toothed smile made her beautiful. “Good morning, my lords! Will you be having your usual?”

He took a moment to look over the steaming pots and their maize-wrapped offerings. “If you have it, yes.”

She looked very much as though the idea of her not having their usual orders—fish with chili for Acatl and cactus fruit with honey for Teomitl—was laughable, but only smiled as she handed them over and Teomitl, as was his custom, paid her far too much for them.

Acatl blinked at the two tamales in his hands; he’d accepted them without thinking, but he was sure he’d only ordered one. “Ah, you gave me an extra.”

She waved him off. “It’s a gift.”

As they walked away, Teomitl grinned at him. “I think she likes you.”

He unwrapped one tamale and took a bite, closing his eyes in bliss. Ah, there was the flaky fish, the shreds of bitter greens, the sharp heat of the chilies. Delicious. Then Teomitl’s words registered, and he glared at him as he swallowed. “She does not. She was just being polite.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Teomitl huffed. “You’re a likable man, Acatl.”

“I…” It was rank flattery, just on the verge of being an outright lie—even if Teomitl seemed to be fond enough of him, it was hardly as though anyone else was lining up to agree—but it wasn’t anger that made him flush and fall silent. Teomitl’s tone hadn’t been teasing or mocking in the least; he’d said it as simply as he might have remarked on the weather, and it struck him to the core. I am short-tempered and petty and pessimistic, and he looks past all that and calls me likable. He could have melted on the spot.

Of course, then Teomitl commented, “I wonder what she would have done if I’d told her it was your birthday?” and that effectively slaughtered the moment in cold blood.

“Gods, please don’t.” Even the idea made an embarrassed flush crawl across the back of his neck.

“I won’t!” And Teomitl smiled, all sunshine. “What do you want to do now that we’ve gotten something to eat?”

He took another bite of his tamale, humming in pleasure at the bright burst of chili across his tongue. “I should check on my temple.”

“Alright, then we’ll go back there and—” Teomitl cut himself off as they turned a corner, the indistinct shouting they’d been hearing suddenly much louder and immediate. It seemed that a pen full of turkeys had gotten loose; since they were disinclined to remain caged, half the market was now engaged in either trying to catch them or figuring out who to blame for it. “...It’s a nice day. Let’s take the long way around.”

“...Good idea.”

The alternate route past the markets took them along a narrow canal that would fit perhaps two boats abreast. The streets were narrow here too, which meant that though there was no one around he still had an excuse for walking closer to Teomitl’s side than propriety dictated. He was happily listening to a tale of how hunters in Maya lands had brought a black jaguar and a white crocodile all the way to the House of Animals and agreeing that yes, he would like to see them when something in the water caught his eye.

“Is that—” he began.

And then the tlilcoatl latched its jaws around his ankle and pulled him into the canal.

“Acatl!”

Teomitl’s scream followed him, but he was in no shape to respond. Tlilcoatls were massive black serpents, a full armspan around with venomous fangs and jaws that could swallow a person whole, but the real danger was in their coils. If it pinned his arms, it would crush him to death. Frantically he tried to reach his knives, but the serpent had dragged him under before he could even take a breath, and his lungs were already burning.

And then it looped a coil around his chest, and he knew he was doomed. He still struggled, but it was the uncoordinated flailing of a desperate, dying man.

Pain.

Black spots in front of his vision.

The sudden bright bloom of ichorous blood in the water, and the coils around him jerking as something struck them. Teomitl…?

He renewed his efforts, but the snake weighed more than he did and its throes of pain were churning the mud at the bottom of the canal, making it impossible for him to tell which way was up. But there was Teomitl’s hand holding a knife and glimmering with Huitzilopochtli’s power, and there was another crimson bloom in the water, and suddenly the serpent’s coils went slack and his limbs were free.

Strong hands grabbed him under his arms and hauled him towards sunlight, and he broke the water with a gasp. Nothing felt broken, but everything hurt. His leg was a snarl of pain, and if Teomitl hadn’t been supporting him he never would have made it to dry land. Even when he did, it was some time before he could finish coughing up water and get back on his feet. It was early in the season for tlilcoatls; they usually came with the rains, and ones this size were thankfully rare.

He looked down at his ankle. Painful and bloody, but it bore his weight and wasn’t turning black, and he could still think clearly enough. A dry bite, then. The snake’s forked tail had caught Teomitl across the ribs, leaving two nasty-looking slashes he was currently prodding clinically at; it made Acatl bite his lip in agitation, but since he wasn’t wheezing or clenching his teeth in pain he probably hadn’t broken a rib. Probably. Gods, let him not be too badly hurt. I couldn’t bear it if he was.

Teomitl clearly had other concerns. He pressed his cloak to the wounds and huffed, “Well, that wasn’t the birthday present I’d had planned for you. Are you alright?” and all Acatl could do was stare.

The words flowed like tar through his mind. A birthday present. That’s right. I’m thirty-two today. I found gray hair this morning. Today’s my birthday, and Teomitl...Teomitl wanted to celebrate...

And then he burst out laughing. He was aware it was vaguely hysterical, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “A birthday present—” His laughter was a wheezing, near-silent thing that turned his face red and had been known to startle small children, and he literally couldn’t remember the last time it had been startled out of him. He might have snapped or screamed or stormed off, but Teomitl’s words had jarred him into hilarity instead. It was just too much, the last straw for his mind. Oh, my sweet man. My beloved.

His legs folded under him, and he crumpled slowly to the ground—now Teomitl was looking concerned, but he could no more have stopped laughing than he could have flown. It felt like an eternity before he could wheeze anything reassuring through an aching stomach and too-tense ribs. There were tears in his eyes. “Ah...hah, forgive me...it was just...the snake on top of everything else, and the way you said it—”

Teomitl smiled at him, warm and...gods, he could almost call that look tender, and it made his heart flutter. “It’s more than alright. Come on, let’s—”

“My lord!”

Ah. There were the Jaguar Knights, far too late to be of any help. They took in their charges’ soaking wet and bloodstained appearances with shock that only lasted a moment before they registered that Teomitl was deeply unhappy with them, and then it was replaced by very sensible and appropriate terror. After angrily commandeering their cloaks, he ordered them into the canal to drag out the tlilcoatl’s corpse before it could pollute the waters and then dropped to his knees by Acatl’s side, slicing the thick cotton for bandages and muttering viciously under his breath. There was some truly impressive profanity involved. As Acatl let himself be bandaged, he found himself smiling despite the pain. Some things didn’t change.

“There. How do you feel?”

Teomitl didn’t quite look at him. Acatl hoped he wasn’t blaming himself. But he flexed his foot and it didn’t hurt any more than it had already, so he couldn’t see why. They were both reasonably unhurt; Teomitl’s side had already stopped bleeding. There was nothing the man should have been castigating himself for, not after saving his life.

“I’m fine,” he said, and meant it.

- -

Teomitl didn’t speak again until they made it back to his house, though Acatl could feel simmering frustration pouring off him in waves. It felt a little like walking next to an unleashed jaguar, though the growling was replaced by stony silence and a steady flexing of his hands as though he’d like to wrap them around someone’s throat. Acatl wasn’t sure whether to comfort him or keep his distance.

Then they limped into his courtyard and Teomitl stopped, turning to meet his eyes directly. “...Acatl, I’m sorry.”

He blinked, trying to remember if they’d had a disagreement recently. He’d said he was fine. “For what?”

“Well, my guards are incompetent, for one thing. And…” Teomitl dropped his gaze. As Acatl watched, he started to blush. Gods, it was so much more appealing than it should have been. “I wanted…” He gestured helplessly, nothing at all like his usual stabbing motions, and visibly groped for his next words. “I wanted the day to be good for you.”

Oh, he thought. He felt like he was melting all over again, and for a moment he wavered on his feet with the sheer force of the love that pulsed through him. “It was.” He was bloodstained, sore, and still hungry, but he remembered the sweet pain of that laughter and all the myriad ways Teomitl had shown he cared for him.

“But—” Teomitl bit his lip and fell silent, looking so disappointed that it yanked on all of Acatl’s heartstrings.

He couldn’t blame what he did next on pity. Love and desire, yes, but not pity. His mind simply went from I want to make him smile again to the lightning-flash realization of I can do that in an instant, and without a second thought, he reached over and took Teomitl’s hand in both of his.

He felt his heart skip a beat as the man met his eyes and slowly—so slowly—started to smile. He’d been right. Words spilled out of his mouth, raw with the truth. “You were there by my side. So far, I’ve had a wonderful day.”

The very edge of that slow smile turned teasing. “...Only so far?”

He huffed, feeling impossibly fond even as a spike of honesty prompted him to murmur, “Well, it could always get worse.”

Teomitl took a step forward, well into his personal space, and lowered his voice. “It could get better, too.”

He still hadn’t let go of Teomitl’s hand.  It could get better was a meaningless platitude, the sort of thing that was easy to dismiss—but not when Teomitl was looking at him like that, with so much warmth in his gaze that even the thought of it heated his blood in return. He would have dismissed flirtation; he wasn’t someone to be played with and set aside. But Teomitl’s gaze was as steady and direct as it ever was, and it made him swallow hard. “...How so?”

“Well, I was going to take you on a tour of the palace gardens, but now...I’m not sure.” Teomitl shrugged almost carelessly, but the spark in his eyes was anything but. “Maybe we could find out. Together.”

The coward’s way would be to drop Teomitl’s hand and this line of conversation, to go inside and lay down before he fell over. He was done with being a coward. Amazed at his own daring, his heart hammering against his ribs, he whispered, “Maybe we could. I’m sure you have a few ideas.”

“Mmm. I do. Do you want to hear them?” They were very close now, and Teomitl leaned in closer. Warm breath puffed gently across his face.

He wasn’t sure he was breathing himself. He had to lick his lips several times before they were moist enough for him to speak. “Yes.”

The brush of lips against his own felt like a hummingbird’s wings—that soft, and that fast. By the time Acatl blinked, Teomitl had already pulled away. His voice was barely audible as he breathed, “Well?”

So this was what it felt like to live in a world where Teomitl had kissed him. The breeze was cold, but the sun was warm on his back and the hand in his was warmer yet. His ankle still throbbed, but the pain was bearable. A loose lock of hair in front of his face showed him yet another gray strand. His breath came slow and measured, his heart thumping like a great drum in his chest.

“I think,” he murmured, “that we should continue this inside.”

They did.

All in all, it was an excellent birthday.

[yanara126-writing]

Sweet Azalea White Rose and Yellow Zinnia

Favaen mourns the loss of her god and comes to a decision.

-

Read here or on Ao3. (2585 words)

Have fun! Comments always welcome! :)

-

In your eagerness to celebrate the spring, do not forget that winter is needed to prepare for it.

Those had been His last words to her, spoken with the same warm fondness she’d known since childhood, without a trace of rebuke or censure, only a soft reminder. At least that’s what she had thought at the time, now she was not so sure anymore.

Knowing now what had occurred in the former colony, the words suddenly seemed a lot more ominous, a warning for the world as a whole, rather than the gentle hint she’d taken it for.

Favaen sighed and stared down at her most recent project. It was a silver ring; the frame was already finished and now there was only the filing and polishing left to do, the fine work that was always the hardest for her. Later she would fit a small adra stone into it as well, but for that she would need equipment which she didn’t have here. Thoughtfully she turned the ring over in her hand and watched the weak candlelight reflect from it.

Winter… a fitting word, for she hadn’t ever felt so cold before. There was a vast emptiness whenever she tried to reach out to Him, cold, foggy, and seemingly endless, where once there’d been warmth and comfort and understanding. She wanted to be brave, to reach further into the darkness and drag Him back out of it, but every time she tried, she froze in fear. What would she find there? What would she do if there was nothing in the silence? If they were right and He was gone…

With a huff she turned back to her ring and forcefully filed away at the metal. No, certainly there was not nothing, but perhaps she just wasn’t the one meant to find Him again. He hadn’t come to her after all, he’d come to a Readceran farmer. And it really wasn’t surprising, she was hardly the epitome of purity and forgiveness He deserved. It was fine. It was fine. She was fine.

Favaen stopped her work again when her hands started shaking too much for the delicate work. Wet droplets pearled from the silver in her hands, glittering with a mockery of His divine light. She certainly felt like a mockery herself, sitting in her room in the dark of night and envying a dead man. Distantly she knew her shoulders were shaking, but if from the constant cold she was feeling or the tears she couldn’t say nor care about.

It hurt. It hurt so much, and there was no one now to sooth that pain. Only the deafening silence and the secrets her god had taken with him to the grave, his own or his avatar’s.

The still sharp edges of the ring were starting to bite into her skin, and for a second, she thought about pressing even harder, perhaps the blood would wash away a little of her pain. But as soon as the thought came, she knew it was a bad idea. Hurting herself wasn’t going to make anything better, all it would do was make mother even more worried.

Slowly Favaen opened her hand, the movement a bigger struggle than she had expected. Again she reminded herself that there was nothing to be had with this, and besides, the ring was supposed to be gift for mother once she was finished, so sullying it with blood would be even worse.

Quickly she slid the ring into her pocket and wiped her still shaking hands on her grey work tunic that she hadn’t bothered to change out of after a day spent fixing up some damaged furniture from the Children’s Sanctuary. Sleep would not come, so why bother. Somehow, she felt filthy, even without having bloodied her hand. The walls of her small room were beginning to close on her, feeling suffocating in the way they only had started to recently.

When she couldn’t take the pressure on her soul anymore she shot up from her chair, breathing heavily, causing it to dip backwards and crash to the floor with a thump that broke the silence of the night jarringly. Favaen flinched. Nervously she looked to the door, but no sounds followed from outside, the noise seemingly having gone unnoticed by the rest of the temple.

She couldn’t stay in here. Her breaths were coming in short bursts and the slowly creeping feeling of suffocation was only worsened by her still coming sobs. Making a decision, she scrambled to the window, fumbling with the ledge a bit and then finally throwing it open, gulping in the fresh air. Without throwing a look back she climbed outside, not bothering even to change out of her dirty tunic and leggings. There would be no one to see her, and even if, Favaen had never bothered much with appearances.

Nimbly she climbed up the wall outside, using subtle nooks for footholds and pulling herself ever higher with the experience of someone who had done the same many times. A slight wind tugged on her hair, determined apparently to blow it before her eyes and trip her, but the breeze was no match for Favaen’s desperation to make it to the top. Of course she could have taken the stairs up to the roof, but she didn’t want to risk waking anyone. The idea of talking to someone was far more frightening right now than the climb up.

It didn’t take long, and she reached the ledge. Grabbing it with stiff fingers she dragged herself up and over it, rolling onto her back and no doubt dirtying her clothes even more. Her hands hurt, her eyes stung, her bare feet were rubbed open in places, but none of that mattered as she stared up into the night sky.

How many times had she been up here? Sometimes with other acolytes, sometimes with mother, sometimes alone. She had felt so many things on this roof, under this sky, under these stars, be it awe, happiness, frustration, contentment, but nothing compared to her feelings now, the fear, shame, and desperation. She looked up and didn’t see the many lights and waymarkers to whatever future you wished for from before. Instead she saw shards, broken pieces of a whole, scattered through an unescapable void of darkness. It felt like drowning in His corpse.

She tore herself around and away from the sight so violently that she hit her head against the roof under her. With a pained groan and closed eyes, she sat up, pressing her face into her hands and pushing down the resurfacing tears. Coming up here was a mistake, but else was she supposed to? Where would it be better if everything was a reminder?

Perhaps she wanted to look for answers out there, perhaps she just wanted away from her own thoughts again, or perhaps it was something completely different, but she pulled her hands away again and opened her eyes. What Favaen saw then was different from before, but yet oddly the same, the comparison and contrast giving her pause like few things did these days.

She saw the city under her. The small lights coming from the lanterns on the streets and out of the occasional window mirrored the stars above, dots of brilliance embedded in a blanket of blackness.

It didn’t make the hurt go away. It didn’t change anything. It didn’t suddenly make everything better. But it did keep her gaze. It struck something within her, something she couldn’t define yet but felt nonetheless.

And so she didn’t flee back down, but stayed. Minutes and hours passed by, as Favaen sat on that rooftop alone, knees drawn to her chest and arms slung around them, just watching these different and yet similar lights shine both in solitude and harmony. Occasionally a baby would cry, a bird would call, a lone person would hurry along the streets beneath, but the general air of quiet and isolation remained unbroken through the night.

Favaen sat and watched in silence, with only one thought that kept returning. Was this how it felt to be a god? Detached from the world, only observing but never taking part, not truly. Was that why He’d done what he’d done? Had He been lonely?

Time kept passing, but Favaen noticed none of it. The world, empty and cold, flickered past her, nothing more than a passing moment, even as it was the only thing she was aware of.

Until the world started changing. Slowly the lights all melted together, no singular one remaining and all becoming brighter for it, flooding the city with a blooming radiance. Favaen, being so thoroughly drowned in her thoughts, doubts, and feelings, took a few seconds to understand what she was seeing. The sun was rising.

She had spent the whole night up on the roof. Not far away the temple’s bells heralded morning mess, which she was clearly going to miss. The panic that usually accompanied the realisation that she was late failed to appear this time. What was the point if He was gone? She was just so tired.

The sun rose higher, the air warmed, and only then did Favaen notice how cold she’d become in her short work tunic. It was designed for the heat of the forge after all. As the sun inched higher into the sky, slowly but surely filling the world with warmth and light, Favaen found her eyes and attention glued to the skyline. Most lanterns in the city still burnt, as the people were only starting to wake up, and though the sun overshone each and everyone of them, they still shone with the same splendour as when they’d been alone.

Favaen had expected the dawn to hold the same pain the stars had held for her, but as she watched them pale and merge together, just like their brethren on the ground, there was a sweetness to her pain. There was the awe and wonder and oh so painful hope that had accompanied every dawn since she had found her calling.

She couldn’t make sense of what her brain was racing to tell her, what her soul yearned to believe, not yet at least, but in the pale morning light she lifted her scraped hands, only half aware of her actions, and muttered a prayer. A soft light enveloped her fingers, warmth spreading through them, and when the light receded the cuts and bruises had vanished, leaving behind unmarred skin.

Her cheeks were wet. It wasn’t raining. She had to be crying again.

She was, but this time it wasn’t desperation that had forced the tears to flow. She didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t so bad. The tears blurred her sight of the dawn, but that wasn’t so bad either. This way she could almost pretend He was here, His hands on her own, softly scolding her because she had been so careless with herself again.

That carelessness had gotten her scolded many times, from not only Him, but also her teachers. For a long time, she hadn’t understood what it mattered to them. Scrapes and bruises happened, and she was hardly going to die from them. Only her master at the Abydon temple, the closest to a father figure she ever had, had ever bothered to explain it to her. Back then he’d asked her why she always took care of her tools. Favaen had told him the very same thing every student was told over and over again until they remembered, that even the tiniest fracture could have disastrous consequences. In return he’d asked her why she thought it would be different with herself. That lesson had stuck, and though she didn’t always remember, from then on, she made an effort to at least patch herself up afterwards.

Tools… the memory sparked an idea in her mind, and she looked over the city with different eyes. She was a tool, they all were, tools to be shaped by Abydon and then wielded by themselves to carry on his teachings. They were hammers, sickles, chisels, and nails, and everything else, there was use for everyone somewhere. That was a base believe in the faith of Abydon, and one she had always found comfort in. Perhaps it wasn’t so far fetched to apply the same believe to Eothas, if maybe in a different form.

The lanterns. The stars. The candles. All the small lights that shone the way until the next dawn. Each different, but each with the same purpose.

She didn’t know why Eothas had done what He did. Perhaps she would never know. But she knew her purpose, she knew what she had to do until He returned. And He would return, she was sure of that now. Until then she would be a light the world needed. She would be the tool to prepare for His spring.

Perhaps she wasn’t innocence incarnate. Perhaps she didn’t have the endless patience of her peers. Perhaps she wasn’t as merciful and gentle as she should be. But maybe that wasn’t what He needed right now. Maybe that wasn’t what the world needed right now.

Favaen was stubborn. Favaen was confident. Favaen was resourceful. And Favaen had experience that others of her faith didn’t.

Looking towards the dawn, her cheeks still wet but eyes full of determination, she made a vow to herself, to Eothas, to Woedica, to all would hear it. She would weather the winter. She would shine through the night, as brightly as she could, and pave the way for all who would follow. And when He returned, when the next dawn rose, when the winter ended, she would be there to greet him. And the dawn each morning would be her reminder of this vow, to never forget it as long as she lived.

The solemn yet hopeful moment was broken by children’s laughter floating up to Favaen’s hide out. It seemed mess was already over and the school day for the temple children was about to start. Favaen smiled at the sound of shuffling feet, the thumps of small, running boots, giggles and shouts of protest alike. The world was moving, and she would do well to remember that.

A yawn forced its way out her mouth, and without any conscious choice of her own she found herself sprawled across the roof on her back. With the adrenalin and desperate melancholy finally gone, her muscles apparently refused to keep holding her up, the many sleepless nights at last catching up to her. The roof wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it also wasn’t awkward enough to warrant the effort of moving either. The slowly spreading warmth of the day almost made it cozy, and her brain even more sluggish. In her sleep deprived and already halfway dozing brain, the warm sunlight almost felt like a blanket.

Any fight she could have put up against her overworked body would have been doomed from the beginning, so she didn’t even try. The temple would survive without her for a few hours.

Curled up on the roof she was gently lulled to sleep by familiar words, sung in the slightly off key chorus of children’s voices.

Rejoice all ye who dwelleth in the shadow, who are broken and beaten. The winter soon comes to an end. Spring shall rise, bringing light and life to the world. Radiant light, radiant life, and thy soul shall find warmth in his arms.

[luckyrockets]

Chapters: 1/24 Fandom: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Momota Kaito/Oma Kokichi, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added Characters: Momota Kaito, Oma Kokichi, Saihara Shuichi, Harukawa Maki Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Virtual Reality, Psychological Trauma, Hospitals, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change Summary:

Three days. It had been only three days since everything came to an end. At least, it felt like that much time had passed.

Momota stared into his bathroom’s mirror, hands gripped tightly at either side of the sink below it. The lights of the room had been off for a while now to the point that he could barely make out his own features. It didn’t really matter though, even if he could… He didn’t feel like he would recognize himself anymore.

The features didn’t feel like his. Every time he looked in the mirror, something always felt off. Eyes that stared back weren’t the right color and his nose seemed bigger than he thought. His face had speckles of freckles he didn’t recall, while his hair didn’t fall the correct way. It just felt wrong the more and more he saw himself.... He just wanted to feel normal again. Standing in the dark had its advantages. The lack of sight forced his mind to fill-in-the-blanks of the reflection that fixated back from the mirror, piecing together some resemblance of what he knew he should look like … What was that phenomenon called again? … Autokinetic Effect? … Or maybe Pareidolia? Momota wasn’t even sure if those words existed if he were being honest.

Hands moved away from the sink, opting to sit at his sides before turning into tightly balled up fists. It was another repetitive action that he found himself doing during his silent showdown with his reflection. What number was this now? If he had to guess, probably... the hundredth time since he started his solo staring match.

… How long had he been staring in the mirror, anyway? He wasn’t sure anymore. Two minutes? Two hours? Maybe even two days? He hoped it had been long.

Splish… Splash… Splosh…

It dawned on him that the tap was turned on, something he did way before getting distracted by his own reflection. Earlier, Momota had the idea that maybe the sound of faucet could help. The rushing waters that currently sprayed out the tap were meant to help his thoughts from wandering into a dark place. It didn’t work, obviously, his mind instead masking the sound allowing him to continue thinking negatively. Now, he stood, even worse off while the sink’s tub had overflowed.

Water continuously poured onto the floor, easily soaking through his house slippers. With such a sensation at his feet, his mind raced to remind him of the last time he could recall his slippers were this wet, but the water wasn’t warm enough to send him into that thought. It was ice cold... Momota could almost picture it steadily filling the room and drowning him in its freezing temperature.

He momentarily wondered if anyone had noticed how far the flood had gone out now. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the water trailed slowly , being illuminated by the light in the connecting bedroom. It had a night light permanently plugged in, an obnoxiously bright one at that. He had tried to turn it off, unplug it, hell, even break the damn thing but, he still couldn’t seem to remove it. The brightness had made the floor glisten immensely, though, if that were from the water or how clean it was he didn’t know.

Momota wasn’t sure how far the water had made it and was curious if there would be any lasting damage. Whatever the case, it was nothing he really cared about. It wouldn’t change the fact that his room was an empty place anyways. The walls were a bleak white color with a grey border running along the top edges. There was a bed with a baby blue blanket that he had bunched up into a ball at one point. In the corner, a TV was attached with a singular power button. Momota had yet to find a remote for it… that is, if it even had one in the first place. Regardless, when he had tried to turn it on, it was a channel with no noise and the occasional messages that looked as if they were drafted in a powerpoint program. The words would relay different things such as mealtimes and other information Momota cared very little about. Finally, there was a cabinet for what he assumed were for his clothes.

Rummaging through it the first time, he had found a few sets of unrecognizable clothing and a mystery bag. It was mainly junk filled but out of the search came an important discovery, a wallet. It contained exactly 3200 yen, a stamp card for some grocery store he had never heard of, and... an ID. The photo on the ID, no matter what Momota wanted to believe, was his own. The name on it had been Itō Shiro though, not Momota Kaito. His birthday was correct, April 12th, but the year he was hesitant about believing. If it was right, then it would mean he was currently 22 years old and knowing that was messing with his head … Hadn’t he only been 15 three days ago?

His eyes began to wander towards another door in the main room. He could count the amount of times it opened on his fingers.  Nurses or doctors would come in to check on him, ask how he was doing, give him some medicine, and then abruptly walk out. Never had he seen the outside of his room. The most he knew was what they told him and they said he would start therapy soon. Momota wasn’t sure what therapy they could even administer that would make his entire existence being fake go away.

… Or make the screaming stop.

At times, he heard his “classmates” screaming from outside his door, which usually led to a chain effect. The more he heard the screams, the less he recognized those voices screaming, which caused Momota to panic. He would eventually start screaming himself and desperately try to escape his room. It never worked. Someone always seemed to be holding his door shut, preventing him from seeing who was hurt or the potential cause of their screaming. He rolled his shoulders back, watching his facial features seemingly growing darker in the mirror.

Instinctively, his arm jerked back as if to throw a punch. The sensation of the glass already seemed present in his knuckles as he thought about what he was about to do. Maybe, just maybe, if he broke his fist through the mirror, those nurses would let him out of his room... Maybe then he could finally catch a glimpse of ANYONE as he was being carted away out there. Maybe… Maybe.... Maybe he could see Shuichi, or Harumaki, or--

Suddenly, a loud clang rang through his ears, stopping his fist right before the glass could meet it. It caught him off guard and he turned to the side quickly, but nothing seemed to have fallen in his room. With the night light as his only light source for the moment and being limited to the ground, it could have obscured the cause for all he knew. He moved slowly, his still heavily drenched slippers making disgusting slapping noises as he trudged along the ugly, beige floor. He did his best to ignore the noise now, making his way to the light switch in the main room and flicking it on to properly investigate. Nothing seemed to be amiss... well, besides the majority of his floor still being overrun with water. All seemed fine inside, so the only conclusion he could draw was that it was coming from outside his room. … Right?

Momota looked at the exit and wondered if it would let him out. He never once tried to open the door to just open itl, only when it was for the purpose of attempting to save anyone outside of it. Fixating down at the handle, the feeling of being helpless began to manifest, but he tried to remind himself that he wanted to be helpful. The dire necessity to save the people he cared about grew stronger, over taking all other thoughts as he reached for it. There was already that scenario playing through his head. The feeling of the handle refusing to give, frustration boiling behind his eyes at another failed attempt to rescue anybody... He placed his hand on the handle and pushed down.

Click. It opened.

The surprise completely threw Momota off, making him forget all of the frustration and anxieties from the moment before. Hesitantly stepping out, he stared intensely at the new environment that greeted him. The hallway was bright, almost burning his retinas, but seemed empty. He continued to walk further out of his room, slightly dazed, and forgetting momentarily why he even came out here. His eyes slowly moved across the area. What time was it, now that he thought about it? There were no doctors or nurses wandering the halls and all the doors all seemed shut...

Wait, why was he out here again?

The clang, right...

Nothing seemed amiss in the hallway. Maybe he had imagined it after all? Had he been so sleep deprived these days that his mind was starting to make noises due to his lack of rest? He had to be extra sure though… Besides, what if someone was hurt and needed his help? What if they needed him ? Momota began his walk, looking at the doors as he shuffled by. There seemed to be six rooms. Three that lined up on either side of the walls.

Each door had a laminated name on it, none of which Momota recognized either. He momentarily remembered some fun fact he had read once. “ You can’t read in dreams .” He reassured himself while also reminding him that this whole scenario was really happening. An urge to open any of the doors and see who was inside was ever so tempting. He paused for a moment to grab at the handle of the one closest to him, standing in front of it for quite a while, before he let go and continued on. He needed to find out where the clang came from first.

His slippers left wet footprints with every step he made as he rounded what seemed like the third hallway. Once again, Momota started to believe he may have imagined that sound. Maybe he was going crazy. Whether from lack of sleep or from staying in his room too long, his mind was probably making it up. He was ready to start the long walk back to his room when he finally eyed a door that didn’t match the uniformity of the rest. It was slightly ajar, a small bit of light peeking out from the crack that didn’t seem bright enough. If anything, it was more than likely the same night light that plagued Momota’s nights. He wondered if this was a mistake, if a doctor had forgotten to secure the door before leaving. The night light was bright enough to almost blend in with that of the hallway, that the added light may not have even been noticeable. Maybe the person inside hadn’t noticed the door still open.

Momota looked up at the door and saw another name that he did not recognize.

“Mizushima”. It was printed, laminated, and taped on to it.

With the door already open, it couldn’t hurt to look inside, right? The curiosity got the better of him and he carefully pushed the door further open, looking into the room. He had expected it to reassemble much like his own, but his jaw nearly dropped at the sight.

The room was the beginning of a hoarder’s nest. There were so many different items pushed tightly against the walls that some were starting to obscure the path made for walking through it. He couldn’t make out exactly what everything was-- but, he could faintly see a magazine stack, a toy train... and a figure sleeping in the bed.

This person had to have been here longer than Momota, given the mess they had, he was certain. How long could they even keep you here? Could they keep him here for years if they wanted to? Keep him from seeing other people who were not doctors and nurses dressed in white for the rest of his life? Momota gritted his teeth at the prospect. No, he wouldn’t let them. He’d find his escape route and get everyone else out too, even if it killed him.

Momota made his way into the room, flicking on the actual light without even thinking. He winced as soon as he did, looking over at the lump under the covers. They didn’t stir though, they seemed completely buried beneath the blankets. Momota gave a sigh of relief, using the opportunity to look through the room, and headed to the farthest end of it. He figured, given the possibility that if this Mizushima woke up, he could act like he walked into the wrong room. It may at least confuse them long enough for him to make an immediate escape.

He began to pick up magazines strewn on the floor, looking for dates, trying to get an idea of how long this person had been staying in this room. He felt his skin go pale once he realized the dates on some of them were older than 2 years. Could they have really been keeping someone so long? The idea put dread into his stomach. Had he moved from one inescapable prison to another? He shook his head. He couldn’t let that sit with him, not right now at least. Momota continued to shift through the room. There were clothes strewn about, some pamphlets describing different types of medications, and then some crayon drawings.

The drawings seemed childish in nature, but also too elaborate to be so at the same time. Momota looked through them and a sudden feeling of guilt washed over him. He realized how personal this really seemed to be, rummaging through someone else’s belongings while they slept not even 10 feet from you. For all he knew, this was their child’s drawings. He set the paper down, groaning slightly as he began to push himself up off the ground. He could come back when it was presumably morning, or when this person was awake at the least to ask questions.

Momota turned heel, making his way back to the door. His heavy footsteps squelching underneath while his eyes kept steady on the person in bed. If he hadn’t known any better, he would have almost believed they weren’t breathing. He was too distracted and let his focus stray on them for too long. So much so, that his slippers landed on a discarded magazine that had fallen from another pile. His footing lost completely and he desperately tried to regain his stance, instead falling forward, straight flat onto the ground.

Not only that, but while in this midst of falling, he tried to grab at a pile to stop himself, but only succeeded in pulling it down with him. He yelped in pain as his face hit the floor while piles of items quickly fell onto his back. Momota groaned, pain filling his whole body. He struggled to lift himself back up, items falling from him as he did and coughed out violent, suppressed air. Covering his mouth quickly, to try and dull the sound, he looked up to check the person on the bed but they didn’t move. Not once...

Momota began to wonder if the person was either deaf or just a really heavy sleeper. Maybe they weren’t breathing after all, a voice sounded in his mind, maybe they were dead. They hadn’t even shifted at all and he supposed that was lucky, but now he couldn’t even shake the idea of them possibly being a corpse. He took an unsteady breath, calming his coughing down slowly and removing his hand from his mouth. It was time to head back to his room, this night becoming too much for him now.

Then, the sirens were suddenly filling his ears as he looked toward his hand.

Blood.

There was blood seeping between his fingers, sticky and red. It filled his nose with the sickening scent. He wanted to vomit, feeling all the warmth escape his body instantly. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They told him he was basically better and that his body would just cough once in a while, right? The doctors told him it was just an after effect, that he shouldn’t have any blood come up. Panic set in, only triggering more coughs to escape from his mouth. He got up and quickly rushed out of the room. The ringing in his ears sounded like the trial room, inside of the cockpit, the squelch of a bod--

He ran straight, hitting a wall in front of him. The world shouldn’t be spinning. It was supposed to be safer now, there shouldn't be any blood. Momota fell to the ground, coughing onto the floor violently. He couldn’t hear anything other than the ringing in his ears. Not even the noise that sounded near the end of the hall did he hear anymore. Wheels squeaked their way towards him and a pair of eyes fell onto him.

Momota breathed in heavily, trying to calm down. Just calm down and the blood will stop. Just calm down and you won’t cough. He couldn’t die here, he hasn’t done anything with his life yet. He can’t die here, he can’t die here, he can’t--

Momota opened his eyes, looking down at the blood droplets that had made their way to the floor. He tried to breathe easy, to relax, but the lingering scent and taste of blood was going to send him into another panic at any moment. There were also eyes that he could feel on his back and he wondered if a doctor had probably heard all of his fussing around, coming to finally check on him. He didn’t have the heart to look up at them, whoever they were. If anything, they would just put him back in his room, or another entirely just to find out why he was coughing up blood again. His eyes closed, gulping down saliva mixed with the metallic taste best he could. Maybe he could play this off somehow and recompose himself.

He breathed in and out, trying to relax, but it was futile as a coughing fit erupted from his lungs violently. It burned as he doubled over in pain. A hand made its way to his back. It seemed hesitant at first, like it wasn’t sure if it should be there, before the base of it began to rub circles into the fabric above his skin. Slowly, it brought him comfort, his cough receded, and he slumped slightly against the wall.

The stranger didn’t speak. Once the coughing had finished, their hand was recovered. Momota slowly drew his gaze up, turning his head towards the figure. His eyes widened and stared back in utter disbelief. The figure before him carefully slumped  back into his wheelchair.

The young man shifted his torso, his hands going to the wheels of the chair to back up slightly and give Momota more space. Dark hair framed the small, pale skinned face that Momota could compare to being almost as white as the walls in his room. Bags lay under his eyes, he looked as tired as Momota had felt.

He looked Momota over, dark eyes obviously scrutinizing him. The young man could see the blood drying on the other’s face. The stain caked mostly against his nose, which had turned a red color and was obviously going to be bruised the next day. It also held tight into the excuse for facial hair that Momota had. The young man huffed, closing his eyes before turning his head towards the doorway behind him. He could see the imprints of waterlogged footsteps leading into the room, scowling at the sight. His face turned back to the other man on the ground. “Momota-chan, what were--”

The sentence was stopped with a shocked noise as Momota lurched forward, grabbing his hand from one of the wheels. He held it in a vice like grip, pulling it closer to himself. The young man wailed, trying to pull away from him. The sleeve of his hospital outfit had pulled up in the action, revealing his wrist covered in yellowish marks.

Momota held his hand for a while and the young man relented to let him, breathing deep breaths. One… Two... Three... Then he could finally speak. “... You… You aren’t dead… Ouma…” It was all he could muster out. He looked up at Ouma, who in response had rolled his eyes before pulling his hand away. Momota let him, allowing his own flop to the ground instead.

“Oh no, I’m SUPER dead, Momota-chan! Didn’t you know? This is Hell! We’re in Hell. I guess you’re just too dumb to notice that, huh?” The sarcasm practically leaked from his entire being. He leaned back into his chair, grumbling something under his breath that Momota couldn’t quite make out.

“I’m not dumb!” Momota growled out, new life sparking into him. “This is a hospital, not Hell! Stop fucking around!”

Ouma sighed, looking back towards Momota and eyed him over. Momota wasn’t very much to look at, if Ouma were honest. Compared to how he remembered him, he was different. His cheeks were sunken in, probably due to the fact he had been on a feeding tube for what was over a month. Despite his skin being slightly pale at the moment, it still held a tinge of someone of a darker complexion. Ouma assumed a few days out in the sun would bring that color right back though. Momota’s hair was flopped sadly over to the right side while his facial hair had begun to sprout unevenly around what used to be a clean shave along his goatee. They were a dark black color, it seemed too. The blood was the same from last time he saw him, though Ouma knew better. He could obviously tell Momota had been having a nose bleed just now and not dying of some unknown illness.

This was Momota Kaito alright, but it was obvious the simulation had clearly gone about prettying him up. He wasn’t half bad looking, to say the least, but not as picture-perfect as one would have remembered. Though, maybe he could have probably gotten away to being as very close of a look alike if he wanted. Ouma had seen this difference in himself too. He could remember his face in the simulation at least and they contrasted the very slight differences in himself now. His body was much thinner for sure, much more unhealthy looking in reality.

“Why were you in my room?” Ouma tried to ask again, his tone much more demanding than before. “Don’t lie and say you didn’t. I saw your footprints on the ground. It’s pretty creepy to go snooping around people’s rooms, you know?”

Momota huffed at that statement. “Like you’re one to talk!” At least, Momota seemed back to his usual self. “I heard something and wanted to see if anyone was hurt! Also, that’s not your room unless you’re sharing it!”

“What-- Oh, right, you’re that dumb. God, even Gokuhara-chan wouldn’t have fallen for that trick after he turned on the lights. That’s just so sad, Momota-chan..” Ouma shook his head with a tsk, giving a pitying look. “You probably mistake department store mannequins for employees, don’t you?” He moved the wheelchair to turn it, yawning in an exaggerated tone before Momota could retort. “Well, this conversation is putting me to sleep! I’m gonna--”

Ouma groaned as Momota had, again, grabbed at his hand to keep him in place. He let himself sit still but gave him a look regardless. Momota wasn’t looking at him though, instead his gaze was transfixed at the other’s arm. Ouma tried to remove his hand now, but Momota stubbornly kept it before observing the arm back and forth, looking up at him puzzled.

“Why are you in a wheelchair?” Momota asked, the concern in his voice almost poisonous, feeling undeserved if anything. “Did someone hurt you?” There was an anger that began to show through his eyes, but it wasn’t at Ouma. That resentment sounded through his voice, boiling deep in his chest. It made Ouma’s heart flutter a bit, but he quickly suppressed that feeling away. This was enough, and he pulled his arm away again to signal that to him. There was a slight hesitation but Momota relented and let him go.

Ouma smiled a sardonic, tight lipped smile. “Why yes,” he said, familiar venom coating his own words. “Actually, someone dropped a hydraulic press on me.”

He regretted his statement almost immediately. The hallway grew dead silent, the buzzing of lights the only noise breaking it. Somehow, it made it worse. Momota looked as if Ouma had stabbed him right then and there. All the confidence and anger that had been inside him had disappeared at once. If this had happened before, Ouma would have maybe revelled in seemingly bringing this stupid bastard down a peg.

Maybe… Just maybe.

But, now... he just felt… awful?

Momota stood up slowly, turning his sight away from Ouma and glared down at his own feet. Nausea was rising up again and he felt like he needed to vomit. He could visualize the press, inhale that familiar smell of blood, and could hear the sickening squelch... then nothing. Only silence. The feeling of bile rose to his throat immediately. It was all too intense and he needed to escape before he puked. Before he couldn’t hold back angry, frustrated tears any longer.

He covered his mouth and turned his back on Ouma, wanting to move away from him entirely…. But, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to return to his own room at all. He stood there dumbly, trying to figure out exactly where he could go from here. There was probably somewhere he could escape to, a rec room of sorts. He began to let his feet move him away. Ouma eyed him before letting a groan erupt from his throat.

“No,” Ouma huffed, trailing after him. He attempted to grab at his shirt with one hand, the other attempting to keep the wheelchair going straight, but ultimately it began to sway to the side. “Wait. Stop, I can’t keep this shitty thing--” He apprehended the fabric into his hand, gripping it tightly. Ouma grinned triumphantly at his capture and looked up at Momota's back. “Where are you going? We were talking, I thought you didn’t like when I ran away from your conversations, why do you get to leave mine?”

Momota paused as he felt his shirt pull tight against his stomach. He didn’t retort, he knew if he tried he would end up losing the battle with his nausea. He closed his eyes and swallowed down the bile threatening to escape his throat, a sick noise bursting from his chest out of his throat as he took in a breath of air. Concern bloomed in Ouma’s eyes at the sound.

“I- Are you okay??” He released Momota’s shirt, wheeling himself so he could try and face him. Momota took this chance and made a break for it, going towards the trash can at the end of the hall. His slippers squished and squashed against the clean floors. Their wetness, again, being Momota’s literal downfall. He fell to the ground, throwing his hands to catch himself this time. His eyes were screwed shut as he began to spew out stomach acid.

Momota’s whole body began to ache, but he did not let himself fall to the ground. He let his eyes open for a moment, only to find himself back in the hanger. The walls were cold and unwelcoming, the sound of silence filling the room. He could still see the small, pale figure shivering on his coat. Momota could tell he was putting on a brave face, his lips tightly closed and his eyes shut as he waited to die. He waited for his executioner to hit the button and trade out a slow death for a far quicker one. Momota wondered if he would feel as calm when it was his turn to die.

He wondered how he could ever feel calm again knowing this was his fault.

It was true that Harukawa was the one to seal their fates, but Momota hadn’t the heart to blame her. He blamed himself. If he had been braver, maybe just a bit stronger, maybe he would have tried to confront Ouma earlier. If he could have worked out what Ouma was doing before Harukawa had a chance to even think of resorting to killing. If he had tried to understand Ouma better, or if he had tried to get others to understand Ouma better.

If, if, if.

Ouma withdrew at the sight, feeling his own body begin to retch. He held the feeling down though. He noted the fact there didn’t seem to be any food in the vomit, just acid. When was the last time Momota had eaten? He heard hospital food tasted rather nasty, but he didn’t think that would deter Momota’s ravenous appetite. Ouma gulped down and approached again, placing a hand against Momota’s back once more.

Momota breathed slowly as he looked up at Ouma. Ouma could see the lack of focus in Momota’s eyes, like he wasn’t quite where the other was. He wondered if Momota could see the fear he felt, looking at him like this. If he could see the uncertainty of what to do now, how his brain wasn’t finding a solution. Momota took in another breath as the fog lifted from his eyes, attempting to speak.

“... Your death… I didn’t want--” Momota heaved again, looking back to the ground. Ouma frowned, assuming what Momota wanted to say. He presumed Momota was saying he didn’t want to use the press, that he didn’t want to be part of his plan. A part of him wanted to be snarky and said he could have chosen to not do it if he very well wanted, nobody forced his hand.

“H-Hey… You’re fine. I… I don’t blame you, you know?” Ouma wasn’t sure where this nervous feeling was coming from, maybe guilt. It swelled in his chest, ready to burst, and he wanted it to go away. He looked around the hallway, paranoid. Momota was making more noise than Ouma ever did in the nights he’s spent here. Orderlies would probably come poking about, and Ouma wasn’t up dealing with them. He pulled at Momota’s clothing again. “Come on, let’s get out of the hall.”

“... To…” Momota gave a dry heave, trying his best to sit up. “To… Where?” His body shook, this vulnerability wasn’t something Ouma was used to seeing in him. He looked around, as if he had forgotten where he was. He wheeled himself back, releasing Momota from his grip. “My room, come on.” He headed towards it, looking back momentarily towards Momota.

Momota sat in front of his own bile for a moment, nothing running through his head. His whole body felt weak, he couldn’t find the energy to even lift his head. He heard Ouma cough, as if trying to grab his attention. He probably thought Momota was ignoring him, or out of it. He heard Ouma huff in exasperation.

“Earth to Momota-chan~” Ouma gave a sing-songy tone to his irritation. “You shouldn’t rest in the hall~” He continued his teasing, maybe hoping to rile Momota up so that he would follow him. Even resorting to saying ‘here boy, come on, who wants a treat~?’ Momota just didn’t have the energy to get up. He heard Ouma huff again.

Wheels squeaked away, presumably into the room. Momota heard nothing after, and could only assume Ouma had given up. So, he continued to sit, no thoughts. He was so tired, he wanted to sleep so badly, but he was trying to stop the exhaustion, trying to keep himself from falling into his own sickness. He heard the wheelchair again, it approached him. Momota wondered what Ouma was up to now, but didn’t have it in him to look at him.He heard a thump against the floor, and then tugged at his clothes.

“ Move. ” Ouma demanded, pulling harder. “You don’t have to stand, but you have to move. Drag yourself.” Momota could feel Ouma trying to drag him, trying to get him away from the puddle. He let him, trying to be as helpful as he can to follow his lead. Ouma drew them both to the wall closest to his door, groaning at the exertition. He reached over for a blanket he had, presumably, thrown on the ground, pulling it over both of them. “Dumbbass just sleeps in a hallway, unbelievable…”  Ouma grumbled, fixing it carefully.

Momota was unsure what to do or say as Ouma relaxed, almost against him but not quite. Momota could feel his eyes droop close, feeling an ease overtake him. The blanket was warm, warm enough to distract him from the cool ground around him. He didn’t know why Ouma had decided to take to the floor as well, why didn't he just leave Momota out in the hall by himself. He wondered if in the morning he’d get an earful for it. Ouma yawned quietly, moaning about the lights before pulling himself more under the blanket. Momota listened as Ouma grew quiet, falling asleep from what he could tell.

Momota relaxed, finally being able to find it in himself to rest.

[somethingmorecreative1]

Renegade Dawn, Chapter 2 [klance fic]

the klance pacific rim au 

Here’s Chapter 1, if you haven’t read it yet! And here’s the AO3 link if you’d rather read it there. 

Stay safe, stay healthy, and take care of yourselves xoxo

;;

Chapter 2

September 2029—Year 22 of the Kaiju War

The Kaiju roars in agony as the plasmacaster blows through its chest and destroys the heart cavity. Its empty screams echo off of the buildings and the partially destroyed Wall of Life in Los Angeles as it collapses.

“Great job, beautiful!” Lance exclaims, moving into a complete standing position on the gyro-stabilizers, the elliptical pedals that hold him in place in the cockpit.

“Are you okay?” Allura asks, looking over at him through her helmet. She looks tired, but her eyes are bright, just like they are after every Kaiju kill. Clawtooth, codename for the Kaiju that attacked Southern California early this morning, had gone down after a long fight. Some of the coast was destroyed in the battle, with a large piece of the completed and supposedly indestructible wall torn to shreds.

Lance nods, surveying the Kaiju’s body where it’s scattered in pieces around them. He says, “Yep. I’m glad we were here. This son of a bitch would have ruined L.A.”

“Riptide, get back to the coast and prepare for pickup,” the voice interrupts from the comm system, speaking over the heavy noise in the cockpit of their Jaeger. Lance and Allura don’t recognize the voice, but that’s probably because there are only a few officers left at the Shatterdome. Even Lance, Allura, and their Jaeger, Sunshine Riptide, had been only half an hour from being relocated to Hong Kong when the Kaiju was tracked heading toward L.A.

Through the drift, Lance can feel how angry Allura is about them being relocated. He hums along with her, equally as pissed, and they start walking back toward the coast, crushing the skull of Clawtooth for good measure. Fuck Kaiju.

“It’s bullshit that we’re doing this,” Allura grumbles aloud, even though she knows Lance can feel and hear everything in her head. She must be really angry to vocalize it too. “The only reason L.A. isn’t in ruins is because of us.”

“I know,” Lance agrees, tapping at the control panel hanging from the roof of the cockpit. “I thought the Wall of Life was supposed to be indestructible and keep everyone safe, but this bastard tore through the wall in less than twenty minutes. Cutting the Jaeger Program is a bad idea.”

Allura hums in agreement, and they trudge toward the coast.

The first time that Lance met Allura was one of the most embarrassing and best things to ever happen to him. After the Garrison, Lance received his placement at the Shatterdome in Los Angeles. It was a miracle really; L.A. had been his top choice because it was close to his family and it was still one of the more active bases on the Pacific Rim.

Lance had been brought into the Jaeger Program, the Pan-Pacific Defense Corps, with a dozen other new candidates from across the world, including Allura. Lance had spotted her first, standing in line with the other cadets, all beauty and grace. She hadn’t even glanced his way, which obviously meant that she was just his type. After the briefing from their superior officer (that Lance had barely listened to; he had been fantasizing about his future with Allura, whose name he hadn’t even known at the time), Lance had walked up to her, smirked, and said, “Are you religious? Because you’re the answer to all my prayers.”

Allura had stared at him for half a second before slamming her knee into his crotch. She’d left him curled up on the ground, moaning and biting back tears as the other cadets laughed.

Later that day, when they were being paired up for physical training, one of the officers paired him with Allura, and she had frowned at him before throwing the first punch.

Lance dodged, sweating nervously. His voice shook more than he wanted to admit when he said, “Listen, about earlier—”

She threw him on the ground and smirked, “Do you believe in doctors? Because you’re going to need some serious medical attention when I’m done with you.”

Honestly, the heart eyes that Lance had for Allura just got worse after that.

His training from the Garrison finally kicked in, and after a few minutes of her thoroughly kicking his ass, he was able to get back into the fight. Once he was paying attention, he discovered that they were somewhat evenly matched. She was good, but Lance could keep up and hold his own too.

They drew a decent sized crowd. Eventually, Lance thought that their superior officer came over to watch as well, but he was so focused on the fight and the energy between him and Allura that he wasn’t paying attention to anything else.

Allura had him pined to the ground, and Lance was fighting his way out of it when a sharp whistle broke his concentration. Then, a voice barked, “Enough!”

Both him and Allura turned to look. A few officers were standing there, along with the Marshall. Lance immediately rolled to his feet, face burning, wondering what they had done wrong.

“Interesting,” the Marshall had said, raising an eyebrow. “It seems as though the two of you are drift compatible.”

And the rest had been history.

Lance and Allura started their training together then, since they were ahead of the other pilots in their program who hadn’t found a co-pilot yet. The Marshall and their commanding officers all kept a close eye on their training, and after two years, they started building Lance and Allura’s Jaeger, a Mark IV angel, if Lance was honest. He and Allura had fought with the engineers over her name and design for weeks.

They became best friends somewhere along the way. The first time that they had done a drift test, it had been so different from the last time, the time he had tried with Keith. With Allura, he had all the training that he and Keith hadn’t had. He understood exactly what the drift was and how it worked; he knew what he needed to give to make this work with Allura.

He wasn’t even worried about drifting with Allura. It had been as easy as breathing.

Now, as he thinks about it, he can feel Allura going through his memories with him, smiling at several of the times they’ve had together so far.

Lance wonders what they’ll do if the Jaeger Program is completely decommissioned.

The tone in the drift shifts enough for Allura to speak again. She says, “That won’t happen. The Wall isn’t a good enough defensive tactic. Jaegers are the only thing strong enough to fight the Kaiju.”

“What if we’re moved over to Hong Kong and they ground us?” Lance asks.

Allura is worried about it, he can tell through the drift, but she says, “I don’t think that will happen. Sunshine Riptide is the most successful Jaeger that’s still operational. The only Jaeger that had stronger pilots and more drop-kills than us at the time was Black Paladin.”

“Yeah, and that worked out well for them,” Lance mutters, voice bitter and sad at the same time.

Allura prods at the feeling gently, but Lance guides her away from it. Even though it’s been three years, he’s still not ready to share that aloud with her. She’s seen everything, of course, but drifting with someone is different. There are things that Lance has seen in Allura’s memories that he would never dare ask her about. This just happens to be one of his.

“That was a freak accident,” Allura challenges him, secure in it now, after years of thinking about it, worrying over it, regretting it. “It was before the new system for categorizing the Kaiju was developed. If they had known that Kaiju was a Category 3, they never would have sent Black Paladin in without backup.”

“I know,” he sighs. He doesn’t argue with her, mostly because she’s right, but also because he’s tired. They’d been deployed at 2:45 this morning, and it was well past 08:00 now. Lance needed a nap.

They walk the rest of the way in silence. As they leave the city, it starts to wake up behind them. There are several helicopters zipping through the skies, getting close enough to film them as they walk. Absently, Lance hopes that someone has gotten their kill on camera so it will play repeatedly for the next couple of days. It would be a good thing for the world to see. Despite the destruction of the city and the potential lives that had been lost, the United Nations needs to know that defunding the Jaeger Program is a terrible idea. If Sunshine Riptide hadn’t been here, all of L.A. could have been destroyed.

The helicopters and the loading ship are waiting for them at the coast, and as they make their way over to it, Lance grins at Allura and says, “You wanna wave to the crowds?”

She laughs, bright and easy, and they both turn and lift their arm to wave in the direction of the city.

“Please proceed onto the loading dock, Riptide,” the voice from base replies, probably completely aware (and unhappy, if Lance has to guess) at their publicity stunt.

He smirks over at Allura, and they follow orders.

;;

“Prepare for drop,” the AI hums through the cockpit, and Lance and Allura jerk as the helicopters release them. They drop to the ocean, hitting the water and seafloor with a sharp thud. They’ve been dropped far enough out that they can barely see the coastline because the impact from the drop can often cause a small earthquake if they are too close to any fault lines. In a fight with the Kaiju, it doesn’t seem as important, and the Wall does help avoid damage to the city, but the Jaegers have to be careful when being transported.

Which means that Lance and Allura have to walk all the way over to the Shatterdome now.

Once they’re standing upright, Allura picks up her right foot, and Lance echoes her immediately. They walk through the water, and the coastline gets closer and bigger with every step.

Through the drift, Lance can see that Allura is thinking about the last time they were here in Hong Kong, when they fought against the Kaiju with two other Jaegers: Metal Lipstick and Black Paladin.

It had been a legendary battle. It was the first time that there had ever been a double event—two Kaiju coming through the breach at once. They had lurked down the Pacific and descended upon Hong Kong hour after their arrival. Sunshine Riptide had been deployed from L.A., journeying across the ocean to join the fight with Metal Lipstick and Black Paladin.

Both were mythical Jaegers. In fact, with Sunshine Riptide there, they were the three most powerful Jaeger teams in existence, all fighting together at once. Metal Lipstick, piloted by a set of twins from Australia, had some of the best defensive tactics in the world, and Black Paladin—well, Black Paladin was the most successful Jaeger to have ever been built. Its life was young, having been built specifically for its pilots, but its power couldn’t be defined by age.

Lance can still hear the echoes of the other pilot’s voices in his memories, but he blinks hard. The last thing they need is to get caught chasing the rabbit in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

They don’t talk as they make their way over to the coast. It doesn’t take long to get there; the Hong Kong Shatterdome is built on an island off the coast of the city, where the Jaegers have easy access to the water so they can stop the Kaiju before it reaches the coast. The massive building sticks out against the rest of the coastline. Shatterdomes are easily the biggest structures on the planet, and to house Jaegers, they have to be.

Up ahead, the base has a loading tank prepared for them. It’s designed to roll the Jaegers into the Shatterdome to avoid hurting the pilots in such close quarters. Even though the Shatterdome is big, it’s not big enough for a Jaeger to just walk inside with its pilots.

“Sunshine Riptide,” a distinct voice, heavy with an Australian accent, filters through their communication system. “Welcome to the Hong Kong Shatterdome!”

Allura grins immediately and reaches up to hit her speaker. “Hello, Marshall. It’s nice to be here.”

“Under unfortunate circumstances, I’m afraid, but we’ll have to take what we can get in these times I suppose, eh?” he asks, voice still bright. “Please be careful on the loading tank and removing yourself from the Jaeger. A team will be out to assist you and bring you into the facility.”

“Copy that, boss,” Lance says, smiling at Allura. Even though they might be getting the plug pulled on them, he guesses that it’s worth it to see Allura this happy. She doesn’t get to see her uncle, Coran, very often anymore, not since he took the Marshall’s position. At least she will get to spend some time with him while they’re here.

They trudge forward, continuing up onto the loading tank easily and carefully climbing up out of Riptide. When they open the top hatch, Lance is blinded by the sun. It glints off Riptide’s sharp metal, flickering different colors in the light.

Coran’s team helps them climb down to the ground, and Lance shakes himself, blinking to get the haze of the drift to fade. Staying in the drift for a long time takes a toll on the mind, and it still makes Lance a little dizzy and overwhelmed after they’ve been in for a long time.

Allura grips his arm and jostles him softly, “Wake up.”

“I’m awake,” he says, batting her hand away.

Groups of officers and military personal are standing around them and their Jaeger, looking up at Sunshine Riptide in all her glory. She stands tall, so tall that she’s blocking the sun. She’s a Mark IV, rebuilt for Lance and Allura when they finished their training. She was decommissioned after being torn to shreds in one of the very first Kaiju battles, but they rebuilt her, loaded her up with a new neural interface, and slapped on a bright orange coat of paint. She has two plasmacasters, one in each fist, built to destroy the Kaiju in close combat, which she’s designed for. To Lance, Sunshine Riptide is one of the most beautiful Jaegers in existence.

Some of the people around them are also looking over at Lance and Allura, and their expressions are too close to awe and amazement. Any other day, he would be preening under the attention, smirking and flirting his way through the crowds, but today, he’s too worried about their future.

Allura glances over at him when one of the officers gives them the go ahead. The Shatterdome’s bay doors are opening a few hundred yards ahead of them, and there are people everywhere. Every Shatterdome has been pulled and moved to Hong Kong, so everyone in the Pan Pacific Defense Corps is grounded here now, well, what’s left of them.

Lance removes his helmet, tucks it under his arm, and steps up to Allura’s side. She nods, and they step out in front of the tank where their Jaeger has been loaded. It’s a brisk walk, but it’s something that Lance always takes pride in. People in front of them clear a path, parting for them, and they enter the Shatterdome bay to a round of applause because of their most recent victory.

The base is full. There are soldiers, mechanics, and scientists crowding the floor, and there are even more people on the higher levels as well. In this bay, there are a handful of Jaegers—probably the last ones in the world. Only three have made it this long and this far; Crystal Venom, Omega Shield, and Razor Edge sit in the Shatterdome already, and now that Sunshine Riptide joins them, that means they have four Jaegers left in this fight.

Within the last few months, Kaiju activity has increased exponentially, more than it has over the entire length of the war. More and more Jaegers have been defeated because of the growing number of attacks and strength from the Kaiju. Now, there are only a few remaining.

It’s why the United Nations pulled the funding for the Jaeger Program. Jaegers were dying so fast, and the Wall seemed like the only other option. Jaegers are expensive to make and run and investing money in something that seemingly doesn’t work does seem like a waste.

But Lance knows that it’s not. Jaegers are the only things that stand in the way of the Kaiju destroying their world. If there’s anything he can do about it, he’s not going to let that happen ever.

“Ah! And here’s a friend you may remember. Sunshine Riptide, welcome to Hong Kong!”

Lance hears Coran’s voice before he sees him, but when a crowd of soldiers clears out of the way, there he is, standing in the middle of the base, gesturing up to their Jaeger. He’s standing with two other people. The person on Coran’s right is short and looks young. She’s dressed in a navy-blue military uniform with a pair of round, large glasses on her nose. On Coran’s left, there’s a tall man, dressed in a leather jacket with a duffel slung over his shoulder. His black hair hangs down to almost his shoulders—

“Pilots!” Coran calls excitedly, “Join us!”

Lance feels Allura hesitate at the same time as him. Normally, she’s very excited, not at all hesitant, to catch up with Coran. But this time—this time is different.

Because Keith Kogane is standing on Coran’s left, and he’s looking over at Lance like he’s just come back from the dead.

;;

After the Garrison, Lance hadn’t heard anything from Keith in almost two years. He never really forgot about him, never forgot the feeling of drifting with someone and almost being destroyed by it. He thought about it a lot actually, especially as he trained with Allura. He thought about what could have been different, what they could have done to make it better, to maybe have not tried to kill each other and destroy any semblance of a chance at being co-pilots.

In the end, Lance always reminded himself that it never mattered because they weren’t drift compatible and they never would be.

The first thing that he ever heard about Keith after the Garrison was in an online interview. He had been checking his tablet, scanning through the news, when he saw it.

Jaeger Black Paladin takes down largest ever Cat 2 Kaiju in Hong Kong last night. Pilots Takashi Shirogane and Keith Kogane famed for victory.

Allura had found him later, obsessively looking through the internet for more information about Keith.

As it turned out, Keith had found drift compatibility with someone else too—Takashi Shirogane, an older and more experienced pilot from Hong Kong. Staring at his face on the tablet, Lance had a vague feeling that he knew this man, and he finally he realized that it was because of the memories he got from Keith when they drifted together.

Keith and Shiro were placed in a Mark IV Jaeger, Black Paladin, in Hong Kong. Keith had even finished his training almost six months early so they could put them in a Jaeger. The fight with the Cat 2 Kaiju in Hong Kong had been their first battle together, and they quickly ran through the ranks of all other Jaeger pilots in the world. Their drop-kill numbers were so high, accuracy so amazing, that they were deployed for every Kaiju attack they were physically close enough to.

Lance and Allura were finally deployed for the first time eight months after Keith and Shiro’s first victory, and Sunshine Riptide ripped through the Kaiju just as quickly as Black Paladin did. It made Lance smug, and he often wondered if Keith kept up with him as much as Lance watched the headlines for Keith’s name.

Almost a year later, the first ever double event happened in Hong Kong. Lance and Allura were deployed from L.A., and Metal Lipstick was sent over from Australia to join Shiro and Keith in the fight. It wasn’t the first time that Jaegers had teamed up to fight the Kaiju, but it was the first time that all three of the most powerful Jaegers were fighting together.

Lance remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Allura had physically jerked when he had heard Keith’s voice for the first time since they were eighteen.

“Prepare for drop,” the AI hummed just as the helicopters dropped them in the ocean, right on the other side of the Kaiju.

“Nice to meet you, Sunshine Riptide!” the voice from Lance’s memories—Shiro’s voice—said, echoing in the cockpit of their Jaeger.

Lance smirked and hit the button on his comm system, “Same, we’ve been waiting on a chance to save Keith’s ass.”

Shiro laughed a little, but Keith was back, growling, “Fuck you, Lance.”

Allura and Lance joined the fight then, putting aside everything else. It was harder than any other fight so far, even with all three Jaegers. Allura and Lance led the first one, codename Diablo, while Black Paladin and the Australian Jaeger, Metal Lipstick, finished off the other.

Diablo had Lance and Allura around the waist, crushing them slowly as the plasmacaster powered up. Then, they shoved their left fist into its chest and fired.

“Empty the clip!” Lance shouted through clenched teeth, his ribs aching, as they kept firing into the Kaiju. “Empty the clip!”

Finally, Diablo fell into the ocean, just as Black Paladin and Metal Lipstick were turning to aid them.

Allura grinned, reached up to the comm, and said, “Thanks for the help, but we’ve got it.”

Lance was laughing, grinning at her too because holy fuck, she was the best thing to ever happen to him.

After the battle, they were all stationed at the Hong Kong Shatterdome for a few days to get repairs done on their Jaegers. Sunshine Riptide was so damaged that she wouldn’t make it home without the important repairs completed first.

Lance met Shiro officially for the first time, but when they shook hands with each other, he felt how weird it was. He already felt like he knew Shiro from seeing him in Keith’s memories, even just the little that he had, and Shiro was looking at him the same way, like he knew him too.

Keith had stood off to the side with his arms crossed, glaring in their direction.

“This is Allura,” Lance said to Shiro, reaching out for her arm to pull her forward. “She’s my co-pilot.”

Shiro smiled at her softly, and Lance grinned while they shook hands. She was being uncharacteristically nervous now, meeting Shiro. Lance would tease her about it later.

“You guys were impressive,” Shiro said, looking between both of them. “We’ve been keeping up with your deployments, so we were excited that you were coming for this one.”

Allura started to thank him, but Lance interrupted. His grin widened, and he shot a look over at Keith, “Oh yeah? Keith’s just been waiting for a rematch.”

Keith rolled his eyes, not at all friendly, “Whatever. I’d still kick your ass.”

He laughed and winked at him, relishing in Keith’s glare and how he couldn’t take his eyes off Lance’s frame. Sure, they hated each other and were rivals in every essence of the word now, but who said Lance couldn’t have a little fun with it?

It wasn’t the only time that they had seen each other since the Garrison. They spent a couple of more days at the Hong Kong Shatterdome, and when Allura took to hanging out with Shiro, Lance and Keith had no other option than to be around each other too.

It worked out, mainly because of how much Allura berated and begged Lance into being nice to him so she could talk to Shiro. He listened to her, only because she was his best friend and loving co-pilot, so when they all went out to a dive bar where no one would recognize them to celebrate, Lance called for a truce.

“I’m just saying,” Lance’s voice was a little too loud because of the last couple beers he’d had. “This is stupid. You’re stupid.”

“Wow,” Keith had crossed his arms over his broad chest. “What a great way to talk to someone you want to be friends with. Really, has anyone ever told you how good you are with people?”

Lance scowled at him, “I’m not giving up.”

The other man had shrugged, “Whatever, Lance.”

After that night, things between them became a little better in terms of the limited amount of times they had to deal with each other. There were only a handful of times and places where they were deployed to fight together, and even fewer times where they got to see each other outside of the Jaegers and the Shatterdomes.

Which is right about the time that Lance developed a huge fucking crush on Keith. In all actuality, it hadn’t developed—Lance had finally become aware of it.

He had been working on a plan to get Keith to start talking to him again. In fact, Allura was even talking to Shiro, which was good for him too. If Allura could get Shiro on their side, then they would all four have to spend time together and—

Then the accident happened.

Black Paladin was deployed to defend Hong Kong from a supposed Cat 2 Kaiju, codename Knifehead. They were already sent out to meet Knifehead in battle when the Marshall and techs realized that the Kaiju wasn’t a Cat 2—it had been the first ever Cat 3.

And Black Paladin was unprepared for it.

Lance can still remember watching the video feed of it the next day. Seeing Knifehead tear off their Jaeger’s arm, then, completely rip out the right side of the Jaeger—Lance thought he was going to be sick while watching it.

Sunshine Riptide hadn’t been close enough to help. Even if they had been deployed at the same time, there wasn’t anything that they could have done.

That morning, Lance and Allura had received the report at the L.A. Shatterdome. Shiro was dead, and Keith—Keith was in a coma. He had killed the Kaiju on his own, controlling the Jaeger by himself, and effectively killing his brain with the amount of strain on the neural bridge. He had even gotten the Jaeger back to the coast on his own, lasting almost a full hour in battle by himself.

It made sense that they thought he wouldn’t make it.

So Lance and Allura—they didn’t know what to do. It was like their world had been ripped away from them. Black Paladin—Shiro and Keith—they had been the strongest and most successful Jaeger pilots ever.

And the Kaiju had taken them away. Just like that.

In the time that Keith was in a coma, there was another Kaiju attack, another Cat 3 along the coast of California. Allura and Lance had begged the Marshall to deploy them, and when they went, they were both so angry that they ripped the Kaiju to shreds, hoping every last helicopter got it on camera so it would play it, as if it would justify all the wrongs the Kaiju had already done to them.

It hadn’t.

Lance and Allura did their best to deal with it. Allura was so sad, and Lance was practically distraught. When they drank too much one night and stumbled into bed together, Lance didn’t regret it because at least he had felt something for a little while.

A few weeks later, Keith surprisingly woke up from his coma, but before Lance and Allura could get over to Hong Kong to visit, he left the hospital, left the Shatterdome, and disappeared without a trace.

And it’s been three years since.

[psychosistr]

The Scars Beneath

Day 1 of @josuyasuweek - Sports AU/Scars/Confession

Summary: While Josuke’s lying comatose in the hospital, Okuyasu keeps him company and ponders on the different types of scars they both have, as well as what they really mean.

Notes: I’m going to try having something written for each day of this event, but one or two of them might be late due to my work schedule ^^” This just looked like a lot of fun ^.^ Also, I’m using this as a sort of holiday gift for my BFF, as many of these stories are based off of a Modern!AU RP that we do that I’m planning to turn into stories soon, so happy holidays, C! :D

The sun was setting outside of the hospital. Nearly all of the other visitors had gone home for the day and the rest were being steadily escorted out by the nursing staff. One of the few left in the building was a teenage boy in a scruffy tank top and beaten up old blue jeans who was sitting by the bed of another teenage boy.

The one lying on the bed was unconscious, hooked up to all sorts of monitoring machines and tubes that made the other boy wince whenever he looked at them. On the footboard of his bed was a clipboard with information on his condition, one word that stood out being “coma”. Aside from that, and a few bandages crisscrossing over his torso that could be seen through his thin hospital gown, the boy looked like a sleeping angel with the way his normally stylized hair now lay limp and disheveled around him. His name was Josuke.

The one sitting next to him still had his hair stylized into its usual small pompadour, albeit with a few hairs out of place. He had bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept properly in a while, and his eyes were slightly red and misty as if he’d been crying earlier. Which was most likely the case given how desperately he was clutching at the unconscious boy’s hand. His name was Okuyasu.

Josuke had wound up in the hospital again after their most recent battle with a few very powerful stand users. The enemy had captured several members of their group, Josuke included, and trapped them in a crushing machine that was only being stopped from killing them thanks to his cousin (he refused to say nephew, they both hated that term) Jotaro’s stand Star Platinum using all of his strength to stop the machine. While this kept their immediate death at bay, the ones that Josuke was trapped in the crusher with were severely injured and nearly dead with the enemy stand users remotely causing them more harm while mocking them from the safety they had outside of the machine.

Josuke, being the kind person that he is, had used his stand Crazy Diamond to keep the others alive with its healing abilities. Unfortunately, every time he used his stand to fix one thing, the enemies would inflict something ten times worse. His stand ended up being the only thing keeping the others alive and if he stopped healing them for even a moment then they would die, leaving him no room to find a way out. Between that and the fact that they were still attacking Josuke himself, he ended up pushing himself past his limits while his enemies mocked him for how useless he was.

Thankfully Okuyasu and the rest of their group had shown up when they did and were able to bust open the machine holding Josuke and the others prisoner. The enemy stand users were easily defeated now that they were outnumbered, but the others were still in critical condition.

Josuke had lost consciousness by the time the others had arrived, but his body and will had gone on autopilot and, even with his eyes glazed over and his mind unresponsive, he continued to give everything he had to keep the others alive and used his stand to keep them from bleeding out- he’d lost the strength to fully close their wounds by that point, but he was still the only thing keeping them alive.

It wasn’t until the ambulances arrived that they were finally able to get Josuke to stop. Once the others were being treated by the doctors and loaded into the vehicles, Okuyasu came up behind Josuke’s kneeling body and wrapped his arms around him with the words “You did great, Josuke. You saved the day. Now take a break.”

Josuke had fully passed out in his arms on the spot, his flickering stand finally disappearing as his subconscious allowed him to rest. Okuyasu then carried him into the ambulance and had been allowed to ride with him to the hospital.

That had been more than a week ago. Okuyasu had come by every day to visit his boyfriend in the hospital and see if he’d woken up yet. From dawn to dusk, he’d sit right by Josuke’s bedside and alternate between talking to him about how the others were doing, doing his homework that was sent to him, and sitting quietly holding his hand like he was now.

The others came to visit Josuke, of course, but Okuyasu was the one who spent the most time there. He knew that the hospital was safe- the SPW facilities had special guarded sectors set aside for them in case of emergencies- but he couldn’t help wanting to be there to make sure that he was the one to keep his boyfriend safe. Maybe it was because he blamed himself for what happened- for not being there when Josuke was in danger.

Then again, Josuke was never the type to like being saved, so it probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Given back up in a difficult fight, especially when it was against multiple opponents? Absolutely. But that was different from being treated like a damsel in distress who needed someone stronger to come and save him, and Okuyasu knew from experience that Josuke was NO damsel- hell, he knew first-hand how strong the guy was!

But that strength was also part of the problem.

Josuke was strong, in many ways, but one thing that many people in his family (on both sides of the family tree) held great strength in was their pride- something the flashy teenager had in spades. He would act like he wasn’t hurt, even when he was, because his pride demanded that he be strong enough to continue fighting alongside his friends and family despite his injuries- he refused to stand back and play the role of nursemaid while everyone else took to the frontlines. He would act like everything was okay, even when it clearly wasn’t, because his pride demanded that he continue smiling and being the shining star of the group to make everyone else feel better- a healer had to focus on those around him, not the other way around. He would smile, even when he was unhappy, because his pride demanded that he be the strongest emotionally out of everyone around him- he would be there to comfort everyone else, but he couldn’t let anyone else be there to comfort him and take on his burdens.

Okuyasu was the only exception to these rules, although it was hardly Josuke’s choice in the matter.

When Josuke got hurt, Okuyasu would be the one to forcefully pull him aside and bandage him up enough to get back into the fight. When something was bothering Josuke, Okuyasu started to pay extra attention and try to figure out what it was so he could deal with it to the best of his ability (usually by breaking something). When Josuke put on that fake smile, Okuyasu would see it and hold him until he eventually broke down and let the perfect mask slip.

Josuke hated to let others see what was beneath that perfect smile and positive attitude that he wore around everyone else. Beneath the mask was something that most people would consider ugly:

Scars.

Jagged, ugly, and twisted marks that many would see as imperfections- blemishes that could never be treated and would forever mar something that was once seen as pristine.

Okuyasu had scars, too, obviously- visible right on his face. He had more that could be seen on his arms and along his shoulders before disappearing beneath the edges of his shirt. His scars were out in the open for the whole world to see and judge. Most people formed their opinions of him right away because of his scars, usually jumping to the conclusion that he was a thug and a tough guy (though he wouldn’t complain about the second part). People viewed him as someone who couldn’t be trusted and kept a close eye on him wherever he went.

The ones who could see past his physical scars, however, quickly got to see the deeper scars underneath the surface. They got to learn about his past, about his family, and about all he’d been through in his life to wound him so deeply. Those scars were what ultimately endeared people to him, making them see the pain that both types of scars left on him and wanting to be closer to him. His scars helped him form bonds with people.

Josuke’s scars, on the other hand, were hidden a lot better than his boyfriend’s.

Having a stand that could heal others but couldn’t actually heal his own wounds meant that when he got injured in a fight there would be scars from it. Josuke was careful not to get a scar in an obvious place if he could help it, with most of them being on his legs and far enough inward on his torso that they’d only ever be visible with his shirt off. He would smile and joke about never letting his face get scarred, calling it his “moneymaker” and being overly dramatic in a comedic way about it being damaged. The truth, however, was that he just didn’t want a scar where people could see it and feel bad for him- especially his friends and family, because looking at it would just be a constant reminder of a bad fight where one of them failed to help him when he needed it. So, to avoid making anyone feel bad, Josuke tried his hardest to only receive scars from the chest-down and let no one else see them.

Okuyasu had seen them, however. They’d been together for nearly a year now, so of course he’d seen them. More than once, at that.

The first time had been by accident, just a quick glimpse when he’d walked into Josuke’s room while the other teen had been changing clothes. They had been together for a few months by then, but the idea of accidentally catching his boyfriend half-naked had flustered Okuyasu so much that he’d immediately apologized and slammed the door shut with a bright red face. While waiting for him to finish changing, Okuyasu kept thinking of the brief glance he’d gotten of his boyfriend’s chiseled body. He was gorgeous, no denying that, especially with the slight flush that had appeared on Josuke’s cheeks when he saw Okuyasu at the door. One thing did stick in his mind, however- an odd pair of scars right beneath Josuke’s pecs. He knew what they were from now, but was incredibly curious about it for several weeks afterwards.

The second time had been on purpose, taking place during their first actual night of intimacy. There had been a lot of shy glances and awkward fumbling of clothes until they’d both wound up shirtless- all of their scars exposed for the other’s judgement. It had been nerve-wracking for Okuyasu, to have someone as perfect and hot as his boyfriend looking at him in such a way. But, when he finally worked up the courage to look back at the other boy, he noticed that Josuke seemed far more anxious than he was- self-consciously holding his shirt to his chest in an attempt to hide his body from his lover’s gaze while nervously biting at his lip. It was the most vulnerable and scared he’d ever seen the normally confident and brave boy, and, by some miracle, his mind came up with just the right words to say before he wrapped Josuke up in his arms and held him close so the other boy could relax and feel the safety and love he deserved:

“You’re perfect. I love you.”

That was the first look that Okuyasu got at both the scars on Josuke’s body, as well as the ones hidden deeper within. After seeing deeper into his beloved Jojo’s heart and mind, there was no going back- he began to see everything the other boy tried to hide. He saw his flaws, his insecurities, his anxieties, his coping mechanisms, and his fears.

And, with each new scar he found or each new one that formed over time, Okuyasu would do the only thing he could ever think to do: Hold his boyfriend and remind him that he was perfect and loved, scars and all.

Okuyasu’s mind began to return to the present, his thoughts being reined in by the faintest twitching of the fingers he’d been holding in his palm the whole time. “Josuke..?” He asked quietly, observing the other boy’s face as his eyelids began to twitch and spasm slightly as well.

Finally, those bright, beautiful eyes opened and looked towards him with great difficulty. “O..Oku..yasu…?” His voice was rough and scratchy from lack of use- a sound that Okuyasu was uncomfortably familiar with by now.

Okuyasu just smiled at him, the corners of his eyes tearing up. “Geez, took you long enough! You get enough beauty sleep yet?”

Josuke smiled back, giving his boyfriend’s hand a weak squeeze to comfort him. “Five more minutes.” He joked with a small smile before he started to look tired again. “Did…Did we win…?”

“What kind of dumb question is that?” Okuyasu grinned while stroking his thumb along the back of Josuke’s hand. “Of course we did! You should’ve seen it, I ripped the door clean off that crusher thing and-” He stopped when he noticed that Josuke was looking at his own chest, likely feeling the bandages there now. “……” With a sigh, the pompadoured teen shrugged with a roll of his eyes. “I mean, it wasn’t that bad. Eh, I’ll tell ya about it later.”

“Okay…” His boyfriend’s answer was non-committal at best and Okuyasu could already tell what he was thinking about.

“Hey,” He began before shifting over to sit on the side of the bed so that he could lean down and lovingly smother his beloved in a warm embrace. “You’re perfect. I love you.”

“Oku…” Josuke was surprised by the sudden embrace, but his look of shock soon began to turn into something more solemn. “……” His arms were still heavy from not using them for a week, but he managed to lift them enough to wrap them around his boyfriend. “…Thank you…”

At first the injured boy’s arms were light on his boyfriend’s shoulders. But, by the time he’d gotten close enough to bury his face against the other’s shoulder and Okuyasu could feel drops of liquid soaking both the cloth of his shirt and his exposed skin, Josuke’s grip had turned almost desperate and white-knuckled, his body trembling as he clenched the back of Okuyasu’s shirt and bunched up the fabric in his grip.

And Okuyasu held Josuke close for as long as he needed him to, just like he always did in these moments when the other boy’s wounds were open and exposed for him to see. He didn’t mind; he would never mind, even if he had to do this for the rest of their lives. He would always be there to patch his boyfriend up and kiss away the pain from his wounds.

After all, they both had scars, and it was part of what made them who they are.

Part of what made them love each other.

Part of what made them perfect.

End Notes: What can I say? I’m a sucker for hurt and comfort fics ^^” Also, yes, in our RP AU Josuke is post-op trans, so I thought I’d throw in a reference to that. Looking forward to the rest of the event :D

[seductresses-temple]

Every Little Thing He Does is Magic

This rambly little ficlet is dedicated to the most awesome Fandom Mom ever @dewitty1 ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 I know it’s a few days late but HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! I hope you like this little bit of drarry that tumbled out of my mind and typed itself up on my phone. Many hugs to you!!!

Every Little Thing He Does is Magic

Pairing: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter

Rating: Teen? I suck at rating anything that isn’t Mature of Explicit lol

Warnings: N/A

Dating Post-War had been difficult. More difficult, anyhow, than Harry had anticipated. He thought things would have been better once Voldemort was gone. He wasn’t on the run anymore. He didn’t have the looming threat of someone/thing trying to kill him on an annual basis -for the most part. There were still a few stragglers left over from Voldemort’s reign of terror, somehow evading capture from the Auror’s. Even then, things in Harry’s life had calmed down considerably. Despite attending trials, helping to repair a very damaged Hogwarts, and eventually going back for the optional 8th year; Harry’s life had gained so sort of normalcy yet his love life was in shambles.

From living under the Dursley’s strict, narrow-minded view of what was normal, to finding out he was a wizard, and then finding out he was the Chosen One; Harry never really had an opportunity to explore his sexuality like the average teen. He had been with Ginny and for a long time that had felt right, great even, until after the war.

Suddenly nothing about them felt right anymore.

Suddenly nothing really felt right anymore.

There were parts of Harry that wished he could have blamed his and Ginny’s break up on his attraction to men. It would have been so much easier if it had just been a matter of him being gay and not like women at all, but that wasn’t it either. Pansexuality aside, something was just fundamentally different about Harry after the war. Something with his magic. It felt...alive, wild, untamable.

No matter what Harry tried to do, his magic felt like a life force: thrumming, pulsating, coursing through him and threatening to spill out at any moment. It was an inescapable feeling of self awareness that left every inch of him feeling saturated, electrified, and oh so, incredibly on edge. It was like destroying the Horcrux inside of him had broken a dam and every bit of him was flooded.

It was yet another thing that made Harry feel abnormal and ostracized, especially when it drove Ginny away. There was nothing quite as depressing drifting apart from the person you have feelings for and feeling helpless to stop it. The more Harry tried to ‘fix’ him, and fix him and Ginny, the worse it seemed to get. By the time she’d gotten drunk at one of the 8th year parties he constantly refused to go to and made out with Luna, Harry couldn’t even blame her. They decided to cut their losses and end it before they ended up resenting each other.

“Your magic is suffocating,” Ginny had said when they made the decision. She’d confessed that whether it was during sex, out on a date, or even just sleeping next to each other at night, Harry’s magic was like a crushing weight around her neck. Harry would never forget those words, would never forget watching the way Ginny moved so freely, so unencumbered once they broke up. It was hard to forget when he’d had to watch it happen with every person he tried to be with after her.

Until Draco came along….Harry couldn’t forget that either.

“Gnnf!” was the only noise Harry could make as he went crashing down into the snow, a blur of blonde and grey coming down with him.

“Fuck! I’m sorry,” an all too familiar voice was saying as he was quickly hauled to his feet.

Harry was fairly certain he had never heard anything so sympathetic come out of Malfoy’s mouth before but he didn’t have too long to dwell on it. Before Harry could even follow what was happening a large man came rushing toward them, wand drawn and pointed at Malfoy.

“They should have given you the Kiss along with your father, boy,” the man snarled, taking a step closer.

“Leave him alone,” like a man possessed, Harry moved between Malfoy and the stranger’s wand, magic already starting to radiate off his body.

“You stay out of it, boy!” the man spat, waving his wand around, and sounding far too much like uncle Vernon for Harry’s liking.

His magic felt like a sea at his command: powerful, fluid, and unrelenting. Harry waved an irritated hand, a wandless and wordless Expelliarmus sending the man’s wand careening off into the far distance.

“Good luck finding you wand,” Harry laughed, leaving behind a very distressed and sputtering wizard as he led off a very quiet, shivering Malfoy.

Maybe it was the fact that Harry still felt indebted to the git’s mother, or felt responsible for him since he’d spoken at Malfoy’s trial, or maybe that it was because Harry secretly thought Malfoy was fit, but whatever it was...something made Harry want to protect the little blonde arsehole. Harry had seen enough of fighting and as much as Harry thought Malfoy was a prat, they’d been kids, the war was over, and Harry would be damned if he’d sacrificed so much just to watch an adult that was probably older than both of them attack a kid.

“I could have protected myself,” Malfoy finally muttered after they were a considerable distance away.

“You’re welcome,” Harry rolled his eyes, feeling his magic crackling inside of him, spiking up with his annoyance. Only Malfoy could be so much of a git that he couldn’t even say thank you when Harry had just come to his rescue.

“I’m not some frail damsel in distress,” Malfoy added, stomping forward in the snow, teeth chattering slightly.

“You’re such an insufferable little shite,” Harry huffed, stomping forward in the snow until he was ahead of Malfoy.

“And you’ve got a fucking hero complex!” Malfoy snapped, stomping along until he’d passed Harry.

“Git! I should have left you to get your bollocks hexed off!” Despite the snow coming up well past his ankles, Harry was practically running through the snow, hell bent on not letting Malfoy beat him to the castle.

“Oh no, the almighty saviour would have left me to fend for myself!” Malfoy snorted, stopping dead in his tracks to reach down and chuck a snowball at Harry’s head.

Snow melting and creeping down his back, Harry turned on his heels, nearly skidding in the snow as he stopped to stare at Malfoy. His magic, his anger, all rolling inside of him like a tidal wave. He took a step closer and immediately saw Malfoy still, his breath hitching in his throat. The air around them felt thin as Harry marched forward, his magic feeling as if it were going to jump out of his skin and bury Malfoy alive in the snow.

“What, nothing to say now, Malfoy?” Harry taunted when they were face to face, their noses practically touching. He gave his magic a mental push, relishing in the way Malfoy’s knees buckled just a little.

Served the prat right, after all.

They stood like that for what felt like ages, Harry’s magic crashing over Malfoy repeatedly like waves against the shore, the two of them glaring at each other as they stood rooted in the snow. Neither of them wanted to be the first to look away. Neither of them wanted to be the first to back down. Until Malfoy’s hand was suddenly fisted in the front of Harry’s coat, his lips crashing against’ Harry’s. A tiny moan got lost between them and when Harry found himself slipping his tongue into Malfoy’s mouth, he wasn’t even sure who it had come from.

Prat.

Every time Harry thought he had Malfoy figured out, the git managed to surprise him.

That first kiss led to their first date. Malfoy quickly turned into Draco and Draco had -annoyingly- quickly captured Harry’s heart. He was the only one who could tolerate his magic, not only tolerate it, but seemed to genuinely enjoy it. Every time Harry though it was getting to be too much for Draco, Draco always managed to go toe-to-toe with him. While Harry’s magic was erratic and overbearing, Draco had a magic all his own. He had an unwavering ability to be completely unfazed by Harry’s power. It was exhilarating and before long, Harry had fallen fast and hard. Everyone thought they’d eventually crash and burn but Draco held tight to Harry, thriving where so many had crumpled before.  

“What are you doing up?” a sleep voice came from underneath the covers.

Harry moved the blankets back and stared down into Draco’s hazy grey eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. Draco always looked best in the morning with his messy hair and raspy voice, the way his eyes looked like they would slide shut again at any second, and the way he loved to cuddle close to Harry and convince him to go back to bed.

“I was thinking about how we got together, love,” he leaned down and placed a kiss to Draco’s hair.

“At the crack of dawn?” Draco sat up with a yawn, looking about the room. It was dark save for the glowing light of the telly that Harry had been watching on mute while he reminisced. Draco fumbled for his wand and cast a quick Tempus, immediately making a noise somewhere between a distressed whine and a disgruntled snort.

“It’s four in the morning, you nutter,” flopping back down into bed, Draco tugged at Harry’s arm until Harry slipped against the sheets and came crashing back against the pillows.

“Come to bed, Mr.Potter,” Draco grumbled, shuffling closer beneath the blankets until he was close enough to sling a leg over Harry’s and bury his face into the soft fabric of an incredibly worn yet still miraculously comfy Weasley jumper.

Smiling, Harry wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, resting his cheek against a soft mound of blonde hair. “Whatever you say, Mr. Potter.” Harry settled down into the warmth of his plush bed beside the man who, much to everyone’s surprise -even Harry’s- had been his husband of nearly ten years. Warm, content, and at peace, he was able to sleep knowing that no matter how out of control his magic got, Draco was always there to tame the storm and keep them going strong.

[art-of-the-wild772]

Happy Little Miracle

"No! You are too young to be a father!"

"I'm turning eighteen next month, dad, I-"

"I don't care! And you!" Clark yelled, turning to look at Damian who flinched at his stare. "You should have been more careful!"

"I was in heat-" He tried to defend himself.

"And you weren't thinking straight!" That got a pained look on Jon's face. Damian immediately tried to comfort him.

"No, Jon, it's not like that-"

"Enough!" He turned and grabbed his son's hand, dragging him away. "We're going home. You both are too young to become parents. Think about what you did and how you're going to correct it." And with that, he slammed the door, Jonathan looking behind and trying to get away from his dad's iron grip.

"Damian..." Bruce had been silent, watching the fight unfold. He should've said something.

Gently, he placed his hand on his son's shoulder to try and comfort him. He only shrugged it off.

The adult looked hurt, but he wasn't stopping there. His son was off worse. His boyfriend's father just dragged him off, probably broken their relationship for them, and he just learned that he was with child just days ago.

So, he stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around the other's shoulders, bringing him close to his chest. This time, Damian turned around almost instantly, hugging his father tightly.

°•'°•'°•'°•'

Midnight.

It's been hours since the fight and Damian still wasn't over it.

Once the small hug fest with his father was done, he locked himself up in his room and hasn't come out since. Alfred would come and go to check on him and bring him food, but honestly, he was anything but hungry.

His nest was a mess as he kept rearranging it every ten minutes. It just never felt right. He and Jon made the nest before they moved on to... oher... activities- and now he just cannot get the blankets and shirts and jackets and trousers and all the pillows to cooperate.

He sighed in frustration as he threw the pillow he'd been trying to add in the pile to the edge of his bed, grabbing a jacket and burying his face in it. It was Jon's, mind you. The alpha's scent was still fresh since he took it off to add to the pile barely a week and a half ago. His own scent was slowly mixing in, but he didn't mind. He liked how both of them smelled together.

There was a tap on his window.

He looked to sew if it would rain, but the clouds that were in the sky was small and scarce so that couldn't be it.

Must've been a bird then.

He looked down at the blue jacket in his hands, taking another huge breath as he buried his face in it again. He could almost feel Jon beside him.

Another tap.

He looked up again..

Birds can be stupid.

He looked down again.

Third tap.

Okay, that's enough.

He stood up with the jacket in one hand, going up to the window to see what the hell was happening outside. Before he could reach it, though, a rock whizzed last his face as it broke a part od the window very close to the handle.

There was a knock on the door.

Quickly, the young adult turned to hide the damage just as Alfred opened the door.

"Sir?" He asked. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, Alfred, I'm fine." He smiled slightly. "Just went to let in a little air."

The butler stared on for a minute. "I understand that you are upset, young master," He tried to choose his words carefullt. "But please, don't take it out on the windows." Damian looked down, defeated. You cannot hide anything from Alfred Pennyworth.

"Yes, Alfred."

"Shall I bring you a warm cup of milk with honey, sir? That used to cheer you up when you were little."

"No, thank you Alfred." He looked up, a genuine but sad smile lm his face. "I'd like to go to sleep right now. Today has been stressful." He rubbed his slighrlt red eye, not just for show.

"As you wish." The butler bowed his head slightly and went to close the door. "Good night, sir."

"Good night, Alfred."

Silence for a few moments.

Immediately, once he deemed it safe, he ran and opened the window, knowing exactly who it was that broke it.

"Jon!" He whisper yelled, his eyes furuous.

"Hi, Dames..." The other smiled sheepishly, coming out from his hiding spot behind a tree.

"What are you doing!?" He asked, his hand clutching the windowsill. He was leaning so far out he was almost going to fall.

"I wanted to see you!"

"By braking my window!?"

"I didn't know how else to call you-!"

"On my phone, maybe!?"

A light turned on in the room just by the one under Damian's.

"Hide!" The omega said, slight worry etched into his brows.

Looking around, and having no time to run back to the trees, Jon jumped into the bushes in front of the wall, curling up as best he could. Damian rolled his eyes, face palming.

He's your boyfriend and you love him. He's also the father to your child.

Something dawned on him then.

He didn't have time to think of it, though, as Richard opened the window and looked out, seeing his baby brother leaning on the windowsill of his bedroom. His curious look turned sympathetic.

"Hey, little D." He said softly, mimicking Damian's pose. "You doin' okay?" He asked.

"Yeah, yeah." The omega replied, rubbing his face with his palm. "Just wanted some fresh air." He leaned his cheek on his opened hand, looking down at his brother with a tired smile.

"Okay, just don't stay up too late."

"I won't." And with that, the alpha closed the window and went back inside.

Damian counted to ten before, looking down at the hushes with an angered expression again.

"Jon!" He whisper yelled.

The shrub shuffled a little before a mop of black hair popped out. Lifting his head, the teen smiled up at him boyfriend, the latter rolling his eyes.

"Come on, already." The omega said.

Witg a curt nod, the alpha placed his hands on the old wooden fence decorated with vines on the wall and began to climb up. He was in the room in less than half a minute, met with the sight of his boyfriend curled up in their nest. His heart warmed.

He didn't take it down.

Quietly, he walked over, standing by the bed. When Damian moved to the side, he took that as an 'okay' and climbed in, wrapoing the other up in his arms.

They were quiet for a good ten minutes, just enjoying each other's company.

"Is it really true?" Damian almost missed the question. He was half way asleep, the scent of the alpha enveloping him nicely, a safe feeling washing over him.

Slowly, he turned to the other side, stuffing his hand bellow the sheets and pulling out a pregnancy test. He repositioned where he was before and gave Jon the test. The latter took it in his hands, seeing as it read positive.

"I got five more if you don't believe me." His chuckle was barely audible.

The alpha dropped his hand, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't believe it. He really couldn't. He was going to be a dad.

"Jon?" He was brought back to reality by green eyes staring at him, the omega leaning on his elbows to get a good look at his companion. "You okay?"

"Y- Yeah," He replied, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "I'm good. Just... thinking..." He said honestly. He removed his arm and looked at Damian seriously. "What are you gonna do?" His voice was meek, quiet, almost like he was afraid to speak louder.

"Keep it." The omega replied after a second. He's had enough time to think about what he was going to do, and killing an innocent being who hasn't even developed a face is not a choice. He was going to give life to this child and teach it how to live it, make sure that it has all the love in the world.

"Oh." Jon said. "Okay.".

"You're not upset?" His eyes held a little nervousness.

"No, of course not." He smiled, brushing his hand over Damian's cheek. The omega nuzzled into it. "I mean, yeah, dad it right, but I don't wanna miss this... opportunity either. I mean- I'm gonna be a dad!" He sat up, getting exited.

"Shh!" Dispite his warning, the omega chuckled at the alpha. He can be such a kid sometimes.

"I'm gonna be a dad..." The latter repeated again, softer this time.

There was moment of silence.

His eyes widened.

"I'm gonna be a dad..." His voice wavered, Damian sporting a concerned look. "I'm gonna be a dad?!" His hands went to his hair, his face becominf terrified.

"Shhh!!" Immediately, he placed a hand over the other's mouth, looking at the door to make sure no one was coming.

He turned back to Jon, looking at him with more concern. The teen was starting to hyoerventalate.cBoth of them had enough time to reflect on the recent events that occurred, yet neither really got the grasp od what it all meant. Seems the alpha finally did.

"Shh- Shh.." Damian shushed, bringing Jon's face between his neck and shoulder were his scent gland was. He produced sweet and calming pheromones all the while rubbing his back. "Breathe, Jon." He said, tightening his grip over his head ever so slightly.

The alpha's arms wound themselves around the other's chest and waist, holding him as tightly as he could. He took deep breathes, starting to calm down.

They were like that for a few minutes, holding and comforting each other.

"Dami?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you sing me the song?"

"Jonathan." He said, slightly annoyed as he rolled his eyes. "That was your fifth grade English assignment, are you serious?"

"Please?" Blue pleading eyes looked at him, his bottom lip slightly trembling. He rolled his eye again.

"Fine." The omega said, pulling the teens head back in the crook of his neck. Honestly.

He felt the smile on his skin so he flicked his head, yet it never wavered. He smiled a little himself.

He took a deep breath and began softly.

The sun is setting

And the sky is turning dark.

The moon is rising

And the stars light up like sparks.

The hand in Jon's hair started to pet it gently, nuzzling his cheek to the other's temple.

The clouds are clearing

And the wind is breezing by.

The trees are calming

And the birds who fly high.

The ground is stilling

And the night is now ahead.

The dreams are coming

And the great Earth said:

Somewhere, in the middle of singing (it was probably Jon), the started swaying for side to side.

As much as Damian may not like to admit it, this felt really nice.

"Close your eyes

And rest your heads.

He looked at Jon who also started singing, not moving his head away from where it was.

Cuddle up nice

In your warm beds.

You can feel

Safe and sound

Whenever the dark

Will come around.

The alpha's grip tighten slightly, the young adult returning the gesture like it was second nature.

For the fireflies and I

Keep the monsters away.

And never shall you,

On the wrong path, sway.

So when the dawn comes,

The sun will shine bright.

And wash away all

Your fears of the night."

He finally moved away from the comfortably place he was, staring at Damian in the eyes. A hand went up to caress his cheek so he did the same.

The Earth then stilled

And silence lent a hand.

To help the creatures sleep

In this great, big land.

A soft kiss was shared between them, little happy smiles on their lips.

"We're gonna sing the song to our kid."

Damian wanted to make a sarcastic retort, but stopped himself when he noticed what Jon said.

Our kid.

Instead, his smile widened even more, placing a hand over the one on his cheek.

-

-

I'm not usually one to post fics here cause they're annoying but here's part 1 of HLM. Part 2 is posted on ao3 and Wattpad, under the same name; part 3 is done now too.

[unabashedhonesty]

Random Guy Following Me At 4:00 AM

Okay, so I'd probably be doing Humanity, Fate, and Karma gross injustice altogether if I didn't share this: So, I typically work twelve-hour shifts at a nightclub nearby the Las Vegas Strip. My husband and I live on the far side of the valley, up near the mountains. Since he's a cancer survivor, his energy still isn't what it used to be, so he doesn't pick me up at 3-5 a.m. from work anymore; I get Lyfts home instead. Or, if a coworker is leaving work around the same time, I'll occasionally be fortunate enough to get a ride. Anyways, one night, after a particularly torturous shift due to absolutely ZERO money flow, I was given the option of leaving early. I debated it at first -- on the one hand, I had made absolutely no tip money that night (it was AVN weekend) and I needed to at least leave with ride money so that I could get home. On the other, I was exhausted, frustrated, stressed, and just wanted to be DONE. Then one of the ladies I work with offered to give me a ride home if I left right then. I agreed and went about my clocking-out process. (We have to get a signature from three managers and changed out of our work clothes and into our street clothes before we are allowed to clock out and leave, so it takes several minutes.) I tried to hurry along so as not to keep her waiting, but she said to take my time. Good timing, too, because we had lots of feature acts performing that night and every manager was running nonstop all night, so it was hard to nab them in good time. Twenty minutes later, I return to the locker room, change, and clock out -- only to discover that my coworker had left me behind. And, now that I was clocked out, I couldn't clock back in. I could find no one else to get a ride from. I hadn't made enough that night money to pay for one. I couldn't wait until my husband was awake enough to come pick me up; the club would be long closed by then -- and I would be forced to leave anyways. I had no choice but to walk the eleven miles back to my house. At 3:30 a.m. Sunrise wasn't until after 7:00, this time of year. The walk was going to be AT LEAST three hours. So, with earbuds in, keys in my fist, and a 25-pound work duffel bag on my back, I set out to get myself home. Now, at first, I hardly spared a second thought to my "going for a walk" regimen; it's a routine I've had engrained since I was old enough to be on my own. It's almost Pavlovian, I suppose, to do certain, specific things that I normally wouldn't even think about if I were out with a companion -- yet, even as I was doing my usual 360-degree-casual-glancing-around tick to discreetly survey my surroundings, occasionally pretending to adjust the earbud that I'd purposely damaged so that I could keep one ear open at all times, it had never occurred to me before that night just how normalized the real terror women face everyday is. And nothing spelled it out clearer than when, about five or six blocks from my workplace, I noticed a man walking about 50 yards behind me. I tried to think nothing of it, but it's not a major street we're on, so there aren't many people(witnesses) around. Not that I'm paranoid, or anything. But, my mom always said "trust your gut first, your heart second," so I played it cool and casually began singing a little louder. I continued my idle glances around and noticed the guy still hadn't changed course -- and he seemed to be getting closer. I started to sing even louder and off-key, throwing in a few unflattering dance moves while I was at it -- because my entire skin is tingling with anxiety at this point. Finally, I hit an intersection. Because of the direction I was going, I needed to cross either way, so I hit both crosswalk buttons and prayed one would activate before that guy caught up with me. The guy caught up with me, so I kept up my nervous dancing around and pretended to be so engrossed in my music that I wasn't paying attention to anything around me. I readjusted my keys in my fist without really thinking about it. When at last the walk signal flashed, I started trotting as casually as I could. One of my earbuds had fallen out, so I was just putting it back when I suddenly heard a voice next to me, "So, you wear your sunglasses at night, too?" I glanced up and pretended to not really hear him, still adjusting my earbud. But, out of professional reflex from being in the food/bar service industry for so many years, I couldn't stop the, "I beg your pardon? Could you repeat that?" from leaving my mouth. But then I began to process the man now walking alongside me: His voice and tone was light, silky, and a little in the high register. His stride was long, laid back, leading with the feet -- akin to the way flamboyant men carry themselves. He was tall and appeared around his early thirties, with a full, trimmed beard. He was also sporting a pair of fabulous sunglasses that John Lennon would have been jealous of. I suddenly began to relax. Finally returning the friendly smile aimed my way, I chuckled and explained that, yes, I wear slightly tinted glasses because light gives me headaches. The next thing I know, I'm wrapped up in a surprisingly pleasant conversation with a random stranger as if we'd been lifelong friends. Then, he catches me off guard by eventually saying, "You know, when I saw you walking earlier, and you kept turning around, I was thinking, 'Oh, my god, this girl is probably so terrified right now. How do I make myself not-scary?'" Now, he laughed to dispel the tension -- and I laughed as well -- but then we began discussing the very real danger we were both so acutely aware of that we had to politely laugh about it. Let me say that again: THE VERY REAL DANGER WE WERE BOTH SO ACUTELY AWARE OF THAT WE HAD TO POLITELY LAUGH ABOUT IT. Then, suddenly, we were sharing horror stories about getting jumped, assaulted, and/or attacked on the street -- about how we got away by shear guts, ingenuity, and luck. I told him about the pocket knife I'd lost years ago, when my car had broke down and I had to walk to the nearest gas station and was jumped by a man who wanted a quickie instead of a "no." I'd had my left hand in my pocket. When he grabbed me in a bearhug and started to pick me up, I produced the knife and proceeded to slam it into the man's kneecap before running as fast as I could. (Oh, and this was in broad daylight, on the side of a busy highway at 9:00 in the morning, by the way. Guess how many people pulled over to help me...???) This young man seemed fascinated -- but not surprised -- when I told him my routine every time before I go outside. Even as I explained it to him, it began to truly dawn on me the amount of wrongness about the whole thing. This young man acknowledged how frightening that must be; that, yes, even he's had to deal with harassment before, but never to the extreme that women do. He also commented on how he can't imagine living with that constant worry, always having to suspect everyone just to be sure. I couldn't express to him enough how breathtaking it is to finally talk to someone who GETS IT. I didn't have to break it down into simple terms and examples to explain just HOW different the everyday world is for different individuals. I nearly wept with relief that -- FINALLY -- I met somebody who actually understood. This young man ended up keeping me company until we reached his neighborhood. He apologized for having to leave me, but we said our farewells and he wished me a safe remainder of my journey. I thanked him once again and I continued on. Out of instinct and habit, I was still aware of his presence until I was out of range. Before that happened, however, I noticed him answer his phone as he was walking away. I faintly heard his voice as he answered it. It was not quite the same voice with which he spoke to me; it had become a bit flatter than the tenor he'd used earlier. I glanced through the bars bordering his neighborhood as he walked towards wherever he was headed. His stride had changed; it wasn't airy and flamboyant anymore, but wide and a little heavy. The only words I caught before I lost sight of him was, "No, I'll be right there. I just had to..." A lot if things clicked into place as I finished the final two hours of my walk: 1) Yes, I had been initially wary of the strange man who had been walking in my direction. 2) I immediately acted on those feelings in a way that I hoped would deter him from me and/or draw attention to myself from other people -- JUST because he was walking near me. 3) I immediately relaxed when I took note of specific characteristics this man exhibited -- which I later realized I subconsciously filed under NON-THREATENING. 4) This young man opted to keep me company the rest of his way home so that I wouldn't have to walk alone -- without ever bringing attention to that. 5) Never once did he ask me any personal questions nor did he ever comment on my appearance. 6) Although I was harassed/followed by three other people that night, none of them came about until that young man was no longer at my side. And last, but not least..... 7) That young man consciously acknowledged the reality of my situation, took it upon himself to safely see me as far as he could, and purposely altered his demeanor and behavior to put me at ease to do so. Yes, I relied heavily on stereotyping -- both as a preliminary for my own safety as well as a guide for how to asses and handle my circumstance. But that's what it took in order for me to be safe and for a kind stranger to help me feel safe while he provided a buffer. Everyone, what bothers you about this entire picture? How many things about it bother you? Worse yet, how many can relate with this story? I just want to give a shout out to this gentleman who was a personal hero to me this day. You've restored a bit of my faith in humanity. You've shown me that there are people out there who hear our cries and see our struggle -- whatever they may be. You've proven people can understand and be conscientious of others. You've reminded me that there truly are good and decent people who do the right or considerate thing just because that's what they do. I hereby dub thee Sir Real-Man. Thank you for your kindness and empathy.