#Possibly even have broken bones from being crushed by those talons

[bonefall]

Why is applefur jealous of marshwing ?

Her jealousy definitely didn't start off murderously strong. It was pretty standard stuff before the Dark Forest twisted it into open hate.

Marshwing and Applefur are from the same litter, but Marshwing's life is charmed. He's saved from an eagle, by the warrior who becomes deputy of ThunderClan, surviving serious wounds. He's a marvelous apprentice. He grows quickly into a respected warrior. He's picked to go on the journey to save the lake at the beginning of OotS.

Basically; He's a great warrior. It's not too out of left field to be jealous of him.

Another dimension I do want to add though-- Toadkit died in the fox trap that canonically kills Marshkit. He might have died saving his brother. I think it could be VERY juicy if the Dark Forest starts encouraging Applefur to blame Marshwing for this, saying that he was supposed to die instead.

[boytouya]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦

words:2.3k

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, blood, angst, open ended/ambiguous ending, descriptions of death.

request: “Can i request sukuna x male reader. Where reader keeps reincarnating with each lifetime for a curse and every time he remembers sukuna, he dies after gaining memories back. You can choose if theres a good ending or angst. Thank you king! I fell in love with him especially after reading that one shot i had to watch jjk and hes hot! Thank you for turning me into a sukuna simp! Much love”

a/n: i went,,,overboard with this request 🗿 BUT IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITESSIJEHSHE i’m honored to have introduced you to such a foine man

When you were five, only then had you understood the curse deemed ‘Ryoumen Sukuna.’ A rather tall man with two heads, one of which had splattered blood onto your sneakers. You understood the concept of death, of course, but could never truly comprehend the feeling of nothingness after watching your life flash before your eyes until nineteen. But there you stood, clutching the loop of your shorts when you witnessed the murder of your entire village. You didn’t know evil could have a moral compass, but the tall curse seemed to exclude half of the women and children. After the widening of youthful eyes and curdling screams you learned the monster took likings to things too. Women, with shaking forms and broken spirits. He’d stop before them, stare at them with eyes that could- in fact- kill, if they truly wanted to. But then he stopped in front of you.

“Close your eyes, Brat.” Death's hands were just as large as your family painted them out to be, if not larger. Calloused and riddled with blood as they are placed over your ears. You do as he- it says, squeezing your eyes shut and enclosing your eyes behind the meat of your palms just to be extra careful. You can see stars behind your eyelids, just as you can feel the sickening twang of death lingering in the air. You were aware it would happen at some point, Death would find its place for you over and over and over again, you’d been told since the day you were born.

There’s another sound, only muted under large palms. You don’t need your sense of sight or hearing to know what it was, the warm chunks splattering onto your skin was enough. Immediately, you flinched. When you opened your eyes, there were piercing eyes staring straight into your own. It looked so human, but something was off. Uncanny, as if it took years to manipulate its flesh and bone to emulate humans to a T. But there was nothing human behind those eyes, instead a void of nothingness. Death itself. If Death could express interest, you’d have thought that was the expression it was imitating. It offers a hand, one of four. Larger than your face, with sharp claws that could almost be described as talons. Darkened by dirt and remains of your loved ones, if it truly wanted to kill you, it could. It could tear you limb from limb with the wave of a finger. And it knew that.

So you took the hand, and he became your second home.

When you were ten, you learned about the red string of fate. It could never be broken, and those connected by it would always reunite, no matter the circumstances. You often had nightmares, those of which filled with blurred faces and sharp pain that reached you in your lucid state. Dreams of talons, piercing eyes, and double headed monsters. You dreamt under the stars, tasted metal on your tongue, and choked on smoke that wasn’t actually there. You dreamt of facial markings, details that you couldn’t exactly place, a name that you couldn’t quite remember. It left your tongue feeling thick in your mouth, racked tremors through your body, and caused premature dark circles to accumulate under your eyes.

When you were nineteen, you experienced your last breath. The air was stolen from your lungs, crushed under years of heartbreak and terror, and snatched from you in the dead of night. Your eyes glazed over, and nothingness overtook you. It left you for someone else to find, cold and lifeless. A void, similar to the eyes you had finally placed. But that didn’t matter much then, you had already drifted away from your body.

And that was that.

Thus, the cycle repeated. Under different names, different ages, different genders. There was always something gnawing away at your conscience, you felt as though you were forgetting something. But when you finally remembered, it was too late. And there was nothing you could do about it.

It was almost like deja vu, stepping outside your home to find blood splattered on the concrete floor. It made your blood run cold, sent a tremor through your body and made you feel like you were five again. Small and defenseless. You take it as your best interest to go back inside before you pass out, but the second you whip your body around you meet something- someone?- large and sturdy.

“Sukuna.” That was it, the sour taste at the tip of your tongue, the lingering sensation at the back of your brain. Him. He didn’t look the same, no, much smaller with tufts of pink hair. There’s something behind his eyes this time, something almost irrevocably human. For some reason that’s much scarier than what you remember. What you think you remember. He’s much more human, but the way he looks at you is everything but humane. He looks frustrated, angry at something, as if he’ll implode any second and go on a rampage. Dread bubbles up in your stomach, nearly erupting through your mouth as bile. It felt as though something should be happening, like something usually happened when the itch went away. He chuckles, low in his throat as he cranes his neck to put his face uncomfortably close to your own. His hands, still large, find their way to your wrist, gripping your right hand uncomfortably tight. For a moment, you consider how long a trip to the hospital would be if he shattered the bone beneath his fingers. But instead there’s a jolt of electricity that would’ve had you yanking your hand back if he weren’t holding it.

“What? You look different.” He all but purrs, inspecting your palm with long nails. Not long enough to be talons, but longer than those of a claw. It was true, you did look different. He wondered if you spent your lifetimes looking exactly the same. That couldn’t have been possible, he would’ve found you much easier, then. Still quite boyish, as if the body you were in didn’t originally belong to you. Clearly grown out of cargo shorts and polos, much taller than you were before. There was no way he could have forgotten you, the way you jumped when the remains of your loved one splattered across your legs. The way you stared back at him with a look of acceptance, the way you grabbed his hand and allowed him to lead you out of the village. It explained the body memories perfectly, the feeling of large palms on your head and remnants of a brain splattering onto your knees.

“Last time I saw you,” He let’s go of your wrist with a bored expression, then replaces its spot with the top of your head. He shoves you down, and you make an effort to ignore the crack your knees make when they smack against the concrete. Then, he crouches down to stare you directly in the eye, just like he had the first time you met. His eyes were no longer dark, instead a deep shade of red that caught light from the moon. They reminded you of vials of blood. “You were this tall. Much cuter in this century.”

“And you were bigger.” Sukuna laughs as if hearing that was the funniest thing in the world. He leans his weight into you and uses you as a support beam, laughing until his ribs burn and beg for a break. But how could he laugh at a time like this? He didn’t think it was weird? He’s existed for centuries, murdered for millennias and only now has he seen you. That wasn’t how it worked, when you died, you died. But Sukuna was a walking oxymoron to that statement. When he died, if he died, he would return. He’d return through you, the last fragments of his soul would stay bound to yours until the end of time. Perhaps that’s how he knew, how he remembered. Perhaps that’s why he still took the time to find you, even after countless years of failure. It was peculiar, but not as much as being bound to Death himself. It was a sick game of turning the phrase ‘Til’ death do you part,’ because in your case it was literal.

“You’re still a brat.” His voice is closest to something fond, as if he’s reminiscing sweet memories. It was much different on your account, and part of you wondered if Sukuna understood that. He makes no effort to help you up (he explains that you’re “a big boy now”) as he invites himself into your apartment. Nothing special, he doesn’t care much for family photos or if you have them, but the stacks of letters and books on your table peak his interest. He tears apart envelopes as if he owns them, reads through the contents and discards them to the floor if he deems them useless. The way he sits nearly breaks your chair, and, honestly, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

So you sit beside him.

“You were so scared,” He says, almost as if he were bragging. But he was known to be arrogant and cocky, that was just his nature. He didn’t truly mean it like that, in fact, he looked quite reverent after letting the thought drift into the air. It was kind of funny, such a powerful thing fawning over past memories. But that wasn’t how this should go, you had your memory back, so why hasn’t anything happened? “When you grabbed my hand you stopped shaking.”

“...”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t keep you long,” He visibly frowns, the skin around his lips worry, but you can't tell if it’s genuine or not. He looks at you with something knowing the second the thought enters your head. “I looked for you, at first. You died young, for a human.”

Ninteen. ‘I should have been there,” he wants to add.

“Why aren’t I dying now?” You interrupt and let the panic sink in, the thought of impending doom sits on your shoulders because, really, it could happen at any moment. But this time, you don’t want it to. You remember accepting death when it came to your door at the young age of five, nineteen, countless times over and over. You had only ever gotten this far, you weren’t ready yet. You couldn’t start over, not now. “Sukuna?”

The question sours his mood in the blink of an eye, and instead of looking through your things, he raises himself from his seat to rest his palms on the table. It seemed he had a thing for staring down at people, making them cower under his stone cold gaze. You note the way his jaw clenches. You open your mouth to speak again, but he seems to have other plans. He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips purse together under the pressure of his large fingers. The movement feels familiar, like he’s done it before. The five years you spent with him were still a bit of a blur, but you remembered holding his hand quite often. He’d tell you to close your eyes if there was something he didn’t want you to see, he’d ruffle your hair a bit too hard, let you sleep on his back if he was out in the town. But that was all you remembered. He remembered it all.

“Respect your elders,” He lets go and sits back down as if he hadn’t just thrown a tantrum over you interrupting him. Sukuna was centuries old, but even then, he’d exhibit immature behavior sometimes. Living for so long had to get boring (and lonely) at some point, perhaps that was why he looked for you. He did consider you something close to family, after all. In truth, there were some lifetimes where you met. Some when you were friends, something more than that, and something inseparable. And that’s why you hadn’t died yet, you didn’t remember it all. “It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking.”

“You’re much more handsome in this life.” His smile is much more intimidating than sweet, the sinister curl to his lips would only ever be associated with bloodshed in your eyes. But it was much more than that. Nights of sleeping together, days of laughter and flirtatious comments, soft moments that only you had seen. And it was bittersweet, because he knew the second he’d jog your memory you’d be gone. It wasn’t just a curse for you, but for him. Maybe it was his punishment for hurting so many people, dragging an innocent soul down with him and hanging them by the red string of fate. The comment makes your skin prickle with heat. Sukuna was quite the charmer when he wanted to be, easily picking at your weak spots with whatever you wanted to hear. But the comment was much more for the sake of his own, instead of yours.

Sukuna stands, hot on his heels as he holds out his hand one last time. If something were to happen to you tonight he’d make the most out of it, just as he did countless times over and over. So many years of starting over, getting to know you in various different bodies, realizing that being trapped away was the only way you’d get to live a full life, it was always on his mind. You were always on his mind.

So you take his hand. And for the millionth time, he’d become your second home.

taglist:

@ryoukuna @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @kissesdenji @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @princejasno @mel-bigia04 @mhasimp666 @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shadows-of-nightmares @rinkindaugly

[98prilla]

Shifted

Thomas decides to see what all the Side’s animal forms would be. It does not go so well for Anxiety. 

This is set pre accepting anxiety, and diverges a little from the cannon of that episode, fair warning.

He is terrified. His heart is pounding as he pulls further back into the shadows, hiding under the couch. He can hear the others out there, talking, laughing, having fun. This isn’t fun.

“An owl? Really, Thomas, owls aren’t even actually smart, their eyes take up much of their cranial cavity.”

“Come on, kiddo, they are symbols of wisdom. And those wings sure must be nifty! I’m having a pawsome time myself!” A groan at the pun.

“I always thought Logan was a bit bird brained.” Roman mutters. “But seriously, a dragon? While the scales are quite flattering, it is a bit strange, considering I usually fight them.”

“I don’t know, Roman, I guess cause you’re always talking about questing I just settled on a fantasy creature. It is pretty cool." He rolls his eyes at the huff of pride he can hear as Roman no doubt puffs up his chest, flares his wings.

“Speaking of strange, where's anxiety?” his ears flatten against his head, pulse picking up again. They’re talking about him.  

“He should be here. I did summon him.” Thomas, confused. He curses his inability to sink out in this form.

“Perhaps he has taken the form of a smaller animal and is hiding.” He almost hisses, could Logic shut up for once?

“Aw, maybe we should look for him! He’ll probably be so cute!”

“Please. That weirdo is probably a venomous spider or a little parasite. Who cares, where he is?” yes, thank you Roman, for once being not a moron.

“Patton, if you’re worried perhaps you can sniff him out. You are a cat, after all.” No. Nonono. Logic, shut it!

“Good idea, Logan. Give it a try!” and he is outta here before he even knows what he’s doing.  

His terror skyrockets and he shoots out from under the couch to the startled yelps of everyone else. Everything is big, huge, compared to him, the living room seems endless.

The stairs, he just needs to get to the stairs and he'll be able to physically enter the mindscape, he’s so close-

Then there is the flap of wings, a victorious shriek, and talons are digging into his shoulders pinning him down.

“Well, what have we here?” He shoves aside his fear, proud as his voice comes out just as scathing and steady as ever.

“Get off, you overgrown lizard.” He bites out, Roman’s scaled head coming into view. He glares at Roman’s laughter.

“Anxiety, kiddo? Is that you?”

“No, its Joan, yes it’s me, Patton, now get off, Roman!” His heart is beating fast, too fast, and his words are wavering. He is afraid, afraid, afraid. He hates this, hates it, he just wants this to be over.

“Hmm. I don’t think I will. Think about it, Thomas. We have the opportunity here to get anxiety out of our way for good.” His stomach drops, his blood goes cold, he is shaking.

“Roman, what are you suggesting?” Logan, he can’t be considering this, please no, please!

“I mean, we don’t need to vanquish him. We can keep him like this. Put him in a cage, or something.”

“I'm not a pet, you idiot, and you can’t keep me like this forever.” He hisses out.

“Oh contraire, little mouse, we can keep you weak enough you don’t have any choice.” His heart lurches as he is lifted up, Roman's wings buffeting him, they are in the air.

“Roman, put me down! I… please! Pleasepleaseplease…” he is crying now, begging, because he can’t, this can’t be happening, they can’t actually intend to keep him locked in this form, weak and powerless, in a cage.  

The floor seems so far away, and he feels sick, from the altitude shift or what is happening or both, he can’t tell. The anguished terror is filling him and he lets out a broken, choked sob.  

This is what he gets, for thinking he could ever be accepted, for thinking he could ever be tolerated, much less liked. All he’d ever done was his job, and this is his reward.

“Logan, what-" he lets out a squeak despite himself as a blur of gray rams into Roman, sending him spiraling off balance.

Then he feels the talon’s grip slip, and he screams. He is falling, flipping through the air. From this height in this form his bones will break, shatter, with his luck his neck will snap. He has time to cry for help, before he impacts.

“Gotcha!” The halt is jarring, and he is shaking, instinctively flattening himself to make as small a target as possible as he tries to get ahold of himself. He realizes it’s soft, the ground.

He looks up and nearly screams again, instead flattening further. Patton has caught him, sitting on his back haunches, he is caught in Patton's front paws.

“p-p-put me d-down. Please.” His voice is a whisper, trembles making him stutter, but Patton instantly complies, much to his relief.

He hears a shriek and looks up, just in time to see silver talons coming right at him, then they crash into him and he feels a ripping pain in his shoulder.  

He can hear Patton yelling, Logan screeching, Roman growling, and it is loud so loud and all he can think is he is about to die-

“Enough!” Thomas yells, and suddenly the ground isn’t so close, suddenly he is stumbling to his feet, lunging for his normal spot on the stairs, reaching it in two strides. He lets out a relieved sob as he clutches the bannister, looking back at the others.

Logan has landed in a heap on the couch. Patton and Roman are tangled around each other on the floor. Patton's gaze meets his, worried.

“kiddo, you’re bleeding.” He lifts his hand numbly to his shoulder, mildly surprised as it comes away sticky and red. He lets out a broken, bitter laugh.

“Gee, wonder how that happened. Not like someone was trying to kill me, or worse hold me captive and torture me for my whole existence." His voice is raw and instead of biting sarcasm, it comes out as an almost whisper, red rimmed eyes glaring at the floor as he shakes, from latent fear and pulsing anger.

“Anxiety-" he half successfully chokes back another sob, harsh laughter tearing at his lungs.

“no, know what, it’s fine. It’s fine, Thomas. I always knew I wasn’t wanted. I was an idiot to hope you might… might ever actually change, actually want me around. Hell, even care about me like I care about you and keeping you safe.” He can barely stand, he doesn’t know if it’s from the pain and blood loss or the adrenaline fading or the panic attack he can feel pressing against him, tightening his chest.

“Kiddo…” he shakes his head.

“Y'know, if you really wanted me dead, all you had to do was ask. I would’ve done it myself.” He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t see the pained shock on Patton's face, the suspicious surprise on Roman's, the horror on Logan’s. The pain on Thomas's. Instead, he flips up his hood, hugging himself as he wordlessly sinks out.

He managed to lock the door before he collapses to the floor. His chest feels like it's being squeezed by a boa constrictor, his ribs crushed and all the air shoved out of his lungs. His vision narrows to a dark pinprick, gaze unseeing as he sees Roman's talons again and again, falling and splattering against the floor, bones shattered, bars, a cage, closing in, pressing him tight, he can’t breathe, he’s choking, he’s dying, god, he’s going to die here. Why not? He laughs hysterically, that’s what they want, may as well give it to ‘em.

“virgil, no. It’s not what we all want. Come back to me, stormy. Focus on my voice. You can do it, Virgil.” Virgil. None of them know his name. Only, only…

“Dee?” he chokes out, blurry vision focusing enough to see Deceit, holding his hands in his lap, rubbing circles on his knuckles.

“There we are. Hello, dearest.” Deceit reaches up, softly wiping away his tears, brushing back his hair.

“I’m an idiot. I’m a stupid idiot.” He mutters.

“No. Virgil, you’re not. It’s ok.” He hisses in a breath of pain as Dee places a hand on his shoulder, vision going speckly at the slight contact. Dee pulls away, eyes wide, face darkening to fury.

“You’re hurt. Vee, you’re bleeding" he just shrugs, another sob clawing its way out of his throat.

“Doesn’t matter.” He whispers. Deceit hisses, and pulls him onto his lap.

“It does. Even if they don’t care, even if they don’t love you, I do. It matters to me. You will always matter to me. You’re my baby, Virg. Even if you’ve left the nest, you’re still my little rain storm. Got it?” He feels Dee's extra arms removing his hoodie, then all six are cradling him against Dee's chest, holding him tight and safe and secure, letting him relax and melt into the touch, knowing Dee will never let anything hurt him. He feels Dee press a kiss to his head.

“you’ve wiped yourself out, love. I'll take care of that nasty shoulder gash. Get some sleep, dearest.” Weakly, he clings to Dee's shirt. He doesn’t want him to let go, he doesn’t feel safe, if Dee lets go.

“I’m staying, darling. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

“remus-"

“can rain down all the hell he wants. Until you’re better, they deserve it.” He finds he can’t argue with that. He falls asleep to Dee humming softly, stroking his forehead and holding his hand, his other arms working to gently bandage his shoulder.

Deceit sighs as he hears a crash. Looking up, he sees Remus kick in the door, eyes aflame.

“who hurt him? Who’s ass do I gotta beat until it falls off?”  

“hush. I just got him settled.” Dee replies. In three strides, Remus is beside him, head cocked unnaturally far to the side, like a snapped neck.

“He’s ok?” Remus asks, neck snapping back to a normal position with an audible click.

“yes. Keep an eye on him, please?”

“What? Where're you going?” Remus asks. Deceit’s eyes flash.

“I am going to go see what exactly those half-witted buffoons did to send him spiraling. Then I am going to determine whom it is I need to beat the shit out of.” Deceit growled, stepping away from the bed.

“Boo, you never let me have any fun.” Remus pouts. He instantly stops as Virgil lets out a small sound, immediately climbing into the bed with him and spooning around him. Virgil curls against him immediately, stilling as he clings onto Remus.

“Thank you.” Deceit murmurs from the doorway. Remus nods.

“I'll take care of our little stormy night. You go teach ‘em a lesson, Dee.” Remus replies, relishing the sharp fanged smile Deceit flashes him, before sinking out. As an afterthought, he snaps, replacing the door, before turning his attention to Virgil, trying to mentally send him all of his love. Virgil is more of a brother to him  than Roman has ever been, and he hates seeing him hurt.

“hang in there, vee. Dee'll fix everything.”

“I highly doubt he wants to be called right now.”

“But he was so scared! We have to help!”

“I don’t know Pat, seeing us might make it worse.” He clears his throat. He meets three sets of surprised eyes with steel. Thomas yelps and falls backwards, catching himself on the wall.

“Who is that?!”  

“Deceit, you scurrilous snake, what are you doing here?” his eyes narrow at that.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Roman, was I not wanted here at this exact moment?” his voice is a perfect mimicry of Virgil's, and to his satisfaction it makes Roman flinch.

“Thomas. This is Deceit. He is responsible for the lies you tell not only others, but yourself. I am puzzled as to why you have appeared now. To my knowledge, no lies have been spoken.” Logan explains, and his hands ball into fists.

“Oh, truly, why ever would I be here? It'ssss not like Anxiety returned bloody and injured, in the midsssst of a panic attack, talking about how nobody wantssss him and it doessssn't matter. I’m sure that hassss nothing to do with it, Logic.” He hisses out, spitting Logan's title like it burns his tongue.

He can see Patton's guilty face out of the corner of his eye, knows whatever happened, it wasn’t him. But Roman… yes.

“So Thomas, dear, care to explain what happened?” He asks, sickly sweet, turning his gaze to Thomas, who has a slight frown on his face. As an afterthought, he notes that Thomas isn’t afraid of him, despite his scales and sharp fangs. Interesting.

“I thought it would be cool to see what everyone’s animal forms would be. Logan was an owl, Pat was a persian cat, and Roman was a dragon. But we didn’t see anxiety anywhere so we thought he was small and hiding and maybe too scared to move. Pat was gonna find him, then a mouse shot out from under the couch and Roman…” Thomas trails off, eyes shifting away, but it’s enough to confirm his suspicions.

“Roman. Care to continue?” Roman meets his ice cold gaze imperiously.  

“gladly. I captured the fiend in my claws. Hurting him was an accident. I merely meant to catch him while he was small and couldn’t hurt us and contain him. Keep him small, so he’d stop bothering Thomas. It’s not like we need him, anyways.” Roman scoffs.

Rage is filling him. Because Roman truly thinks he is in the right, truly thinks he didn’t do anything wrong, and his voice is proud as he speaks about traumatizing Virgil, who is the youngest, the smallest, the most vulnerable to start with. How dare he?

Before he can think, he has crossed the room, he rears his hand back and slaps Roman hard enough to send him reeling backwards.

“You are a heartless, soulless bastard. I told him not to come, I told him he’d get hurt but he didn’t listen. You know why? It’s certainly not because he wants to be included, he doesn’t yearn for your acceptance, it doesn’t break him a little more each time you all dismiss and send him away unwanted. He definitely doesn’t just want to be liked! He never has a hard enough time just being himself, being afraid, all the fucking time, and you have certainly helped make him feel right at home.” He hisses, ignoring the tears stinging at his eyes as he whips around, facing the rest of them.

“And you’re no better. How do you think it feels, knowing the person who conjured you doesn’t even want you? How terrified would you be, surrounded by people who have never showed you kindness, who have admitted their distaste, small and defenseless, being threatened to be put in a cage? His worst fear is something happening to Thomas and being unable to reach him, to react and help. It’s his job to protect Thomas, and you were threatening to keep him away, to put Thomas’s own safety at risk for your own stupid biases! You were threatening to make his nightmare real, and not a single fucking one of you said otherwise, did you?!” He yells, slowly looking at each of them in turn. No one will meet his eyes now, not even Roman.

“you don’t deserve him. You don’t deserve his name. No wonder he hasn’t told you. You’re a bunch of ignorant bullies. And you’d say I’m the bad guy. You all picked out the most vulnerable and pounced.” He shifts his head, turning to Thomas, a curling, empty smile on his face.

“It was a fucking pleasure, Thomas. I’ll be taking my leave.” The lie is bitter and acrid on his tongue, tasting of ash as he sinks out.

He returns to Virgil's room, immediately hurrying to his bedside, because he is crying, despite Remus's attempts to soothe him.

“Vee, what’s wrong?” he asks. Virgil glares at him through his tears.

“you said you were gonna stay!” he lets out a soft breath, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I know. I just had to check on something. But you know Remus would never let anything hurt you, right?” Virgil nods, leaning back into Remus's arms.

“That’s right, starshine. You’re safe.” Remus whispers, rocking Virgil gently, who responds by pressing his face into Remus's chest.

“You’re staying now, right?” Virgil mumbles. He smiles, slipping under the covers.

“I am. No lies this time.” He murmurs as Virgil lays down, curling into him. He reaches out with all six arms, pulling Remus closer, hugging both of them and sandwiching Virgil in warmth and safety.

“What was it?” Remus asks lowly, once Virgil is out again. He sighs.

“Shapeshifting, animal forms. He was a mouse. Roman was a dragon. Threatened to keep him locked up. It got physical.”

“You mean Roman was a bitch and attacked Virgil unprovoked.” Remus's voice is flat, and he shoots him a soft look, one of his hands slipping into Remus's.

“I’m going to kill him.” He squeezes Remus's hand.

“Later. We can work on murder plans later. Right now Vee needs us.”

“Anxiety, it’s dinner time!” Patton's voice trills. He opens his eyes with a groan, freezing instantly.

This… isn’t his room. It isn’t even the commons. He’s laying in soft bedding. He realizes he’s in a little plastic hut. His heart speeds. He looks down at himself, human, good.

He flinches as the house is lifted up, leaving him exposed. His breath catches in his lungs, Patton is looming over him, he is giant. He skitters back, realizing his back is pressing against metal wire. Cage, he is in a cage, he is tiny, in a cage.

He scrambles, trying to claw his way out, trying to bend the wire enough to wriggle out.

“hey, now. None of that kiddo.” His stomach flips as hands squeaze around his waist and he is lifted into the air. He is barely as tall as Patton's ring finger, he is so high in the air as Patton places him down on his palm.

“patton please, please, just let me go, please!” he begs, feeling tears slipping down his face.

“Aw, I know kiddo. But this is better for everyone. This way you’re still around but don’t bother Thomas.” He stumbles as Patton places him back in the cage, doubling over and choking on sobs as a small food dish is placed inside, the shadows of bars shading his face.

He is still begging, pleading, screaming, for Patton, for anyone, to let him out, let him go, but he knows no one is coming, and the bars are pressing in, and soon there won’t be any more space, any more air.  

“hush, stormy, shhh. It’s ok. It’s ok, lovely.” His eyes fly open, and he clings to Dee, feeling all of his arms cradling him tight as he sniffles into his shoulder, sobs shaking his thin frame.

“Just a dream, Vee." He feels Remus's hand on his, feels the terror and residual fear draining out of him as the nightmare is removed from his mind. The pros of dark creativity. Remus can steal other people’s bad thoughts, bad dreams, but then he experiences whatever the thoughts were. He hears Remus's sharp inhale as he sees it, feels his hand tighten it’s grip.

“thanks ree.” He manages, his voice hoarse and sore.

“Virgil, love, we should talk about it. I only got minor details from them.”

“what’s to say? They were going to keep me in a cage, they d-didn't want me.” Dee draws back a tad, looking down at Virgil's face, eyes hidden behind his bangs.

“did anyone help? Surely not all of them went along with this.” He shrugs, taking a deep breath.

“R-roman g-g-rabbed me in his talons and st-started flying. But he yelled… I think L-Logan tried to stop him. He was an o-o-owl. I think he rammed Roman and made him drop me. P-p-patton c-caught me. And… and he put me down, right away, when I asked. I… I don't think they woulda let Roman k-keep me.” He mumbles out, shaking. Dee feels his heart breaking, can feel the murder on Remus's face.

“That's good, Virge. They were trying to defend you.” Virgil shakes his head.

“but they didn’t. Only p-patton even cared I was h-hurt. Thomas… Thomas didn't say a-anything.”

“but he changed you back.” His brow creases as he looks out from Dee's arms at Remus's words. “if he agrees with Roman, he wouldn’t have changed you back.”  

“He's right, lovely. Thomas doesn’t hate you. I know that. That is fact.” He sighs.

“Doesn’t feel like it right now.” He mumbles.

“I know. And that’s ok, Virge.” Dee kisses his head softly. He startles at a knock on the door.  

“Remus, see who it is?”

“If it’s princey stab him for me.” Virgil mumbles, making Remus chuckle and ruffle his hair.

“Gladly, stormy.”  

He throws open the door, leaning in the doorway with a cocky grin, teeth sharp and eyes glinting.

“Well, well, hello there Daddy. Have I been naughty?” he teases, moving to block Patton's view of the room.

“Remus… what… what are you doing here?” Patton asks nervously.  

“Apparently playing the butler. Y'know, Patton, in the movies the butler is always guilty of murder.” He tilts his head slowly, relishing the fear that races across Patton's face. “Now, what are you doing here, daddio?” Patton fiddles with his sweater sleeves, a frown settling on his face.

“I just… I know he probably doesn’t want to see us right now, heck, maybe ever, and I don’t fault him for it. Today… today was bad. Really, really bad. I just want to make sure he's ok. And apologize. We… we chewed out Roman. His actions were unacceptable. Just… I would never let that happen. He’s not… he’s a person, and I don’t always agree with him, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to take away his voice or opinion. Can you just… pass that on, for me? Please?”  

Remus looks back at the bed, softening as he sees Virgil uncurling from Dee, sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, leaning against Dee, who has an arm around his shoulders. Virgil looks up at Dee, a silent question.  

“No lies.” Dee murmurs, and Virgil bites his lip. “You wanna let him in?” He asks softly. Virgil hesitates, but nods.  

“If he means it... yeah.” Virgil mumbles.  

“He does. Remus, stop playing. V- Anxiety says he can come in.” He calls, catching himself before using Virgil’s actual name. Remus sighs, but steps aside.  

“Well? Come in then.”  

Hesitantly, Patton steps inside the dark room, taking in the soft, dark carpet, the dark to light purple gradient painted on the walls. There are also posters for bands carefully hung in frames, and a few posters for movies that Anxiety must like. He sees fairy lights strung across the ceiling that sparkle like stars without the main lights turned on.  

He lets out a soft noise of hurt as he takes in Anxiety, knees pulled to his chest, his shoulders hunched. His eyeshadow is smeared all over his face, his eyes red and puffy. He glances at Deceit, not as surprised to see him here, tilting his head. Deceit nods minutely, and he sits down next to Anxiety, legs dangling over the edge of the bed, careful not to touch him, to give him space.  

“hey kiddo. How’s your shoulder?” He asks.  

“better. Dee helped. It still... still hurts.” His voice is quiet and unsure and hoarse.  

“Yeah. I think it would be pretty strange if it didn’t. I’m glad you’re going to be ok, though. Even if it hurts now, it’ll feel better eventually.”  

“will it?” He is surprised as Patton pulls him into a hug, startled, but after a moment he leans into it, tucking his chin against Patton’s shoulder.  

“I have never wanted you to die. I have never wanted you to leave. You’re one of my kiddos, kiddo, and that means I stand up for you when something hurts you, no matter who or what it is.”

“i’m scared. I hate... I hate being small... I hate... it’s so big, everything... I could drown, in a puddle, I could be crushed by a book, I could be stepped on, I could be crushed, I could get hurt and no one would know, no one would realize or find me. I could be caged...” He chokes out, fear flooding through him again. “I could be caged and my influence squashed, and then no one would protect Thomas, look out for dangers, keep him... keep him on task, keep him motivated to d-do better. I c-can't... trapped, and b-bars and it-it's too much... too small...” He is shaking again, on the edge of hysteria, but Patton is rocking him, holding him.  

“Oh honey... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We didn’t know you were gonna be that little. I’m sorry we didn’t ask permission first, we weren’t thinking. I promise, promise,” he pulled back so Anxiety could see his eyes, tears spilling down his own cheeks, “that I will physically fight anyone who suggests we do that again, who even dares to mention putting you in a cage. I nearly did fight Roman, Logan had to hold me back.” That gets a weak laugh out of Anxiety, imagining Logan holding back a kicking and spitting furious Patton. “I love you, kiddo. I really, really do, and if anyone has a problem with that, has a problem with you, they’ll have to go through me first.” Patton’s voice is fierce, and he doesn’t have to look at Dee to know that he isn’t lying.  

“T-thomas-”  

“Is worried about you, kiddo. I came to check on you cause he wanted to make sure you were gonna be ok. What you said... really, really scared us, but we didn’t wanna summon you, because we knew you probably didn’t want to be summoned. He’s sorry, too. We all are.”  

“Even Roman?” He asks, bitterness in his voice. Patton hesitates, sighing.  

“I don’t know. I think... I think he’s sorry he got yelled at, sorry he got in trouble, sorry we didn’t agree with him. But I don’t think he’s sorry for what he actually did to you, said to you. Which makes me angry, because he should be sorry, but he isn’t, and if he isn’t, I can’t change that. What I can do is make sure you are going to be alright. I can learn what else we shouldn’t do without asking your permission. I can be better at speaking up when Roman threatens or takes jabs at you, and eventually, hopefully, his attitude will change as he learns none of us are going to enable him anymore. I’m sorry it went this far.” He blinks, surprised. He didn’t expect Patton to acknowledge Roman’s inability to see his own wrongdoings. He didn’t expect Patton to admit to his own shortcomings. He didn’t expect Patton to be... honest.  

“What would you like us to do for now, Anxiety? Clearly, you have two people who love you very much helping your right now, so I feel ok leaving, if you like. I just didn’t want you to be alone, when you were so upset. Thomas... all of us, want to speak with you about what happened, to try and make ammends, but we’ll do that on your terms, so there’s no rush. Just, whenever you’re ready to talk, we’re ready to listen.  If you like, I can bring you meals, if you don’t wanna leave your room for a while. I wanna keep you healthy, and I know if I leave you to your own devices it’ll be chips and soda for every meal.” He lets out a little snort at that, because Patton is right, of course, and he’s already calmed down so much because Patton is being so nice, and he knows Dee would have told him if Patton had lied.  

“that all sounds good, yeah.” He mumbles, shifting out of Patton’s hug, pulling his knees to his chest once again.  

“ok. Is there anything else you need, or would like me to do?” He bites his lip, thinking.  

“Just... just let them know I’m ok? If they’re really that worried about me.” Patton squeezes his non injured shoulder once as he stands, smiling gently.  

“Will do, kiddo. If you ever need anything, or just want some company, don’t be afraid to call me up.”  

“I... might.” Patton smiles again, soft and warm.  

“I love you, Anxiety.” Patton turns away, but before he sinks out, Virgil steels his courage.  

“Virgil!” He shouts, and the room seems to freeze. Remus is staring at him in wide eyed surprise. Deceit has stopped rubbing his back, and Patton falters mid step, before turning to face him, something akin to awe on his face. “That’s... my name. My name is Virgil.” A huge smile blooms across Patton’s face, his eyes light up with tender joy, and he sniffles, wiping away tears.  

“Virgil. I think that’s a lovely name, Virgil. I know I'm usually a blabber mouth, but it when it counts, I can keep a secret.” Patton winks, sending a smile flashing across his own face as warmth blooms in his chest. With a wave, Patton sinks out, and he collapses back against Deceit with a long, low sigh.  

“You sure about that, Virg?” Remus asks, from where he’s leaning against the wall, having simply observed everything.  

“yeah. Yeah I... think I am.” He feels Dee press another soft kiss to the top of his head.  

“Proud of you, lovely.” He smiles, closing his eyes as he feels Remus settle on the other side of him. He is still scared and afraid and knows the nightmares won’t leave him alone for ages, now. But he also knows that at least Patton is on his side. And Patton is almost more of a mama bear than Deceit. If the two of them are looking out for him, he knows nothing will hurt him like this ever again.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Rise: Killan

The universe of Killan’s story belongs to @wildfaewhump​. If you haven’t read their Iesin and Talvos or Pathverse stories, go! Go read! Read them or face my wrath. I have so much wrath to share.

CW: Referenced past torture, scarring, referenced dehumanization and briefly referenced pet whump, but this is not a piece about any of those things

Killan stopped, just at the edge of the rock along the riverbank, taking in a deep breath. The air was thin here, where the trees became scraggly pines that clung to rocky soil, hints of snowfall still littering the earth even this late in spring. 

Leather boots covered his feet, he’d made them himself. It had taken forever to make the kill, tan the leather, cut it around his foot, sew it together. But he’d done it. Coated against the water, they kept his feet warm, but he wouldn’t have needed them, anyway.

He just never lost the habit of wanting to feign humanity, no matter how clear it was that he wasn’t human at all.

Not anymore.

Not a man.

Before, he couldn’t have stood here like this in just a shirt and pants without freezing. His fingertips should be blue, but when he looked down they were the same as always. Pale skin, roughened and scarred, but still skin - feeling only a faint chill. The dark talons on his right hand didn’t feel cold at all.

Killan lowered his eyes to look at them, clicking them together a little. The place where they’d been attached to the knuckles of his hands still held faint scarring where they’d been stitched on even as his bones blended, accepting with each addition parts that had been someone else’s body a little more easily.

Killan was so many people now, most of them fae. He was the only human left in his body but he could have told anyone who asked - cut his skin now and the blood ran pale, a pearlescent shimmer in what had once been a flat dark red when oxygen met wound. 

Break a bone and find it hollowed inside, lighter weight easier for his wings to carry. 

Make an incision along the wicked scar down his side and you’d find he lost a kidney and some ribs but gained other organs that weren’t there before. Killan would tell you - the wings were one life he stole, it took two for the eyes because the first set didn’t take, my hand was one along with some air sacs, the other air sacs and the lungs were another…

He was so many fae who should be alive, but instead there was only Killan Josta left to wear their parts, a child’s nightmare hiding under the bed, in the dark woods, a set of glowing eyes in the dark.

Not fae, either. 

Watch Killan Josta open his eyes and see the pale color was replaced by a saturated, overwhelming blue, a black slit-pupil, eyes that would never sit in true comfort in his skin. They weren’t meant to be there. He still bled instead of crying.

Monster.

Hurt the creature and make it cry out in pain and hear two voices, two sets of vocal chords operating simultaneously, a shrieking fae scream alongside the lower human voice. Calon Nie had loved to hear both screams at once. So had the humans who had chained him down for entertainment.

Everyone was a monster, when given power over something new.

Everyone but... everyone but the ones who had saved him.

Buachaill del. Pretty boy.

Calon Nie’s pretty human, left alone to wander and stumble and plead, to make the mistake of asking for help. Captured, bought and sold, beaten and bled and sold and bought again, until there hadn’t been anything in Killan’s life but survival. 

Until there had been no Killan left, that name held and hidden deep within himself. There had been only the creature, the monster, the pet the piece of fascinating conversation start the thing.

Not man or fae or boy or anything but organs and skin and wings to be bruised, broken, bloodied. Not even a favored animal.

Just a thing that knew how to keep living.

Raise your chin at the four-count whistle, hold up your hands at the three. Let them touch your talons, your wings, run their grubby fingers through the feathers you can never get clean. Feel the lash against the skin you were never meant to have for your own when you disobey. Fingers prodding and pressing at your scars. Chirp and trill for the men, the women, the children who call you the unnatural offspring of degeneracy when you were never that.

And it wouldn’t matter if you were, no one could deserve this. No one could earn this.

But this is life, this is all you’ll ever be, guard what’s left of you as deeply as you can and give them the mindless animal doing tricks for their coins, their hands, the promise that if you’re good it won’t last forever.

Feel the press of the muzzle keeping your jaw locked while you weep and beg to be seen as human again. See them lock up your voice and laugh when you try to speak and you can beg all you want, it won’t happen, they’ll never see you as a boy again.

It will never happen, and then one day… 

One day, stop begging.

Slide away, into your own mind. Live for the moments where you’re fed for being good, the soft velvet of a horse nosing a carrot right out of your hand, the warmth of their breath curling up in winter stables with them. Curl up on straw and hold the chain around your neck and learn to stop crying.

Until he gives the five-count whistle.

Then you cry on cue.

Live for nothing but the hope that this day will end, because it has to, and then begin the next day living for the end of that one, too. Pray for the night because you are never alone until then.

Pray that it will one day end, and know that you are not praying for salvation, only darkness.

Until someone looks you in the eyes and takes a risk and you end up saved anyway.

Next to him, the river rushed by, swollen with a winter’s melt. The roar of water was deafening, and he couldn’t even imagine how loud it would be at the bottom of the waterfall, hundreds of feet below. 

Somewhere further up there were fae courts hidden, deep inside the mountains. They didn’t want him either, but at least he wouldn’t be sold there. He wasn’t a curiosity to the fae, but an abomination, a warning, something to be feared. Something to be sent away as quickly as possible, but for all Calon Nie’s cruelty, it was only one fae that had held him captive and carved into his skin.

It had been a dozen of his fellow humans-

No. Not human anymore.

It had been a dozen or more humans who had bound his hands, forced muzzles on until he bled, sliced his skin to show the change in blood and marvel over his reddish tears, buried their hands in his feathers until he could not help but scream at the violation.

They loved to hear him scream.

Fae rejected him - but humans overwhelmed him.

Not fae either.

Killan looked down at his hands - fingers and talons, a madman’s puppet tossed aside, a piece of decoration in a human’s receiving hall, a pet kept hidden away until they tired of cutting him, a dirty slave for sale in the streets, keep him as a pet or the same way you keep a painting on the wall.

I promise you, messire, you’ve never seen anything like this! Show the man your hands, creature.

Even now, just remembering the whistle, Killan’s fingers twitched with unconscious need to obey.

The sun was rising, the sky a brilliant scattering of pink thrown up against the gathering clouds and a growing golden light finding its slow way along the world he could see below. The forest ran to the curve of the earth, and he could, with sharp fae eyes, see the smoke of chimneys in a village that would have taken him a day to climb down the mountain and walk to, but with wings…

Killan slowly flexed his wings out as wide as they would go, closing his eyes as his back straightened instinctively to balance the weight. The chill air ruffled along his reddish-brown feathers, a playful hint of breeze.

You know how to do this, the breeze whispered to him. You knew the moment he gave them to you. 

He wasn’t meant to have them, but he did. They were blended into his back in a mass of scarring and changed bones, shoulder blades shifted out. On fae, the transition was seamless. On Killan, every inch of his skin told the story of screaming agony.

But the fae who had owned them was dead, along with every other one sacrificed to Calon Nie’s game. If they were anyone’s wings now, they were Killan’s. 

I don’t have to be ashamed of what he did to me. I didn’t ask to be a monster.

The water burst from the confines of the earth next to him, tumbled and rolled into the air before it fell and fell and fell and crashed back down to earth below. Killan sighed softly, watching breath puff out before his face, and then turned away from the dawn.

He walked, step by silent step, back along the riverbank, watching the water running the other way, chasing the flight back down to ground. He stopped next to a thin pine tree, reaching out to touch the needles, crushing them between his fingers to release the scent, closing his eyes and breathing it in.

I didn’t ask to be this. It’s not my fault.

It’s not my fault I have new parts.

It’s not my fault I can fly.

Against his back, the breeze slipped around him again, dancing air that ran along the edges of feathers, beckoning. Beneath that, a faint shimmer of mystery. While fae and humans both looked away, Killan could call and have starsong reply, if only faintly, to his cries for help.

The mysteries recognized him as a mystery himself, not a monster. Not understood but not entirely turned away. 

And he wasn’t alone, either. There were others out there who had been broken and bent to someone else’s will, who could see beyond the way he had been stitched together and know there was still a whole person inside.

Eitilt.

The breeze called again, and Killan stopped to look over his shoulder at the dawn. Farther than the sun’s light could reach, stars still shone, visible in the blue as brightly as they’d been in the black the night before.

Fly.

Killan took off running, back towards the cliffside, racing with his wings curved against his back and his feet pounding on rock. The roar of the river alongside felt like it ran with him right to the edge, where instead of stopping Killan flung himself out into space, the spray of water beside him.

Wings curved, he fell.

The air flew past his ears as he plummeted towards the earth, mysteries a song that wound around hollowed bones and filled the places inside him with air. The bottom of the waterfall came closer and closer, a frothing white spray where the water was wearing the earth down beneath dirt, beneath stone, to bedrock underneath it all.

Instinct told him things that human experience never could, and he let his body - bent and broken and twisted and remade, rebuilt, created by a fae who named himself Killan’s god - tell him when to stop.

Down and down and down and-

Now.

His wings snapped out, catching the breeze and slowing his descent, sending him forward instead of down and he trilled, beating wings heavily to head back up again. His back ached a little but he caught a current that helped carry him up, air that rested under his feathers like hands slipping around a small child to lift them up onto a mother’s hip to be carried.

The sky was not his mother, but she would be here to lift him where his own mam could not.

He burst upwards, spinning, breathing thin air as though he’d always been able to do so, human and fae lungs filtering every ounce of oxygen he needed in tandem. The sun warmed his face, and he closed his eyes against its touch. Sun on his face, stars at his back, Killan let the currents carry him a little further.

And then he dove again. 

Fly.

He dropped like a stone, rushing downwards, spinning in the air before he snapped his wings out again and cut a hard left. Around him the air itself celebrated with him everything his broken body could still do, all the things he’d been given alongside what he had lost.

Sharp talons could tear apart a rabbit and defend him from attackers just as easily.

Rise.

Fae eyes saw far, farther than even the keenest human sight, and kept him safe. He could see in the dark, he could see them coming before they could see him. 

Rise.

Hollowed bones let him fly, kept him lighter, along with the places added to him to hold air, to bring him higher and higher, to help him-

Rise.

Fae blood carried oxygen more easily, let him climb higher into the air, the currents under his feathers like a friend lifting him up. As high as he could go, not quite so high as a full-blooded fae but he felt the air thinning and thinning and the stars were ever closer, their song welcoming him even if the fae did not.

Ardu th’uas. Rise above.

He slowed, spinning in the air, letting starshine and sun wash all his ruined skin clean.

Leanh na realtai. Child of stars, you, too.

His heart stilled, here where the air was thinnest, with the question he never voiced. Even ruined, I am?

And every time, the certainty returns.

Even ruined, you are.

Iron and earth may be blind, but the stars see you.

Killan dropped again.

He spun with his wings pressed tightly, speeding to earth so fast the air was a scream and he couldn't find the breath to laugh. The forest below him, the sky above him, the sun and stars. 

Killan Josta, as he was, should not exist. 

He did, though, and in this moment with his wings snapping out to slow his descent, catching an air current that pulled him back around towards the mountains, he feels them.

Something like friends.

They were calling him back to the waterfall and the cliff and the camp in the woods where they will be waiting for him, the ones who saw beneath his skin to the boy still hiding under a monster, the man half-buried by cruelty but still trying to break free of its legacy. 

They were waiting, with breakfast probably already ladled out for him. 

First, though…

First Killan Josta, who had a name again, wanted to fly. One more time he climbed the currents, found the pockets of air to push him higher and higher and higher, until there was a half-breath of pause as high as his broken, remade body could go.

He let that pause draw out, listening to the stars whisper in human ears.

Sing, Killan Josta.

He trilled, a cry as much of gratitude as it was of joy, and wrapped his wings around himself to plummet to earth again. 

Rise.

Killan fell, and fell and fell, and then just when he could fall no further without breaking on the earth, his feathers caught the air and he flew.

-----

Tagging Killan’s crew:  @astrobly​​​​ @burtlederp​​​​ ​, @finder-of-rings​​​​ ​, @slaintetowhump​​​ ​, @quirkykayleetam​​​ ​, @whumpallday​​​ , @whumppsychology​​​, @doveotions​​​, @broken-horn​​, @moose-teeth​​, @whumpfigure​​, @spiffythespook​​, @oceanthesarcasamfox​​,  @whump-only​(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

[mxvladdy]

A Break- Prt. 4

Hey Hey. Here is part 4 (yay). I think this story is almost at the end. I'm thinking one more large part and an epilogue.

Hope y'all like!

To be caught so unaware was an embarrassment to his lineage. He had been trained since birth to never let his guard down. He was the eldest son, a target had been placed on his back since conception. No doubt his ancestors were laughing at him now as he bled out on the grimy floor.

His team had been hit during a lull between shifts. Such an amateur mistake. Talon struck just as he was winding down for the night. The warm buzz of alcohol and his girlfriend’s laughter promising to send him into a peaceful slumber. Hanzo’s good mood dissipated the moment his head hit the pillow and the sirens blared to life in his room. He should have never gotten this comfortable. The weeks at this compound had been boring, to say the least.

Begrudgingly, Hanzo had to admit that it had been a clever attack. The southern wall was this location’s weakest. The high winds and frozen spray from the ocean constantly wearing down the cement and weakening the steel. Sombra- the ever thorn in Winston’s side- had disabled Athena and her turrets for just enough time to sneak through and create a hole large enough for their team to infiltrate Overwatch’s halls. It had been sheer dumb luck that Reinhardt was early to his patrol spot that tonight. The first flood of talon operatives caught off guard just as much as he was. It was a quick and dirty fight. While Talon grunts had the advantage of numbers; the German giant was a seasoned fighter.

Hanzo’s room was lucky closest to the initial fight. Using Reinhardt’s boisterous fighting style to guild him down the maze-like corridors Hanzo entered the fray. Together they pushed back the seemingly endless waves of bodies being thrown at them. “Where is the rest of the team?” Wilhelm roars over his shoulder, a fresh gash from a fight with a talon assassin blinding his good eye. He swings out wildly, catching a few foot soldiers with his hammer.

“I cannot say,” Hanzo calls back, letting his arrow fly true around his german shield. “I was unable to reach them.” Damn it. He switches to melee, his quiver empty and useless on the floor. They were separated from the team and outplayed. Fine. Hanzo wipes the blood and sweat from his brow. These bastards may have divided them, but he would never let them be conquered.

“Move!” Hanzo shouts between a wild spray of bullets. Wilhelm grunts with the force of the projectiles bouncing off his shield. The sides of which begin to crack from the damage. Pulling an arrow from a fallen enemy’s chest the marksman readies himself.

Reinhardt looks back at him knowingly. He feels the hairs on his arms rise as the dragons awaken, the corridor filling with the scent of ozone. “With pleasure my friend!” He laughs, dropping his shield and jumping to the side. Hanzo’s dragons roar to life from his skin, maws wide and greedy for blood. They shoot down the hall, amplified by their master’s frustration. The psychic link he shared with them allowed him to feel the spill of his enemies' blood and splintering bone as they built momentum. It did little to soothe his pride, but it felt good all the same. Ignoring his fighting companions' shouts of victory, Hanzo cocks his head. Something about this whole encounter made him uneasy. Everything about this was too easy. The enemy fell back too easily, and for such a planned break-in. Talon would have checked which agents were here and would have planned accordingly to counter them. “Wilhelm, we must-”

Then the floor caves; a large metal hand breaking through. Unforgiving fingers wrap around his torso. Despite how loud hundreds of pounds of concrete and rebar being torn apart had to be. Hanzo heard nothing but the high pitch whine of fear and rush of wind as he was pulled down. Time froze for a moment. His gaze hyper fixated on Wilhelms' wide-eyed look of panic. One gargantuan hand reaching for the archer unsuccessfully as Hanzo plummets.

Hanzo wakes to the feeling of warmth all over. For a moment in a dazed illusion, he thought he had perhaps slipped in the shower. A hot liquid spread across the tattered remains of his sleepwear and coated his face. The coppery scent of it assaulting his nostrils and making him gag. He blinks up in a daze. The hole he fell though was all but a pinprick above him. What little light he had was dimmed by grey and deep crimson spots swimming in his vision. Kuso .

He tries to move but stops at a sharp pain shooting through his thighs and spine. He couldn’t feel his legs. Damn it, he can see the exposed wires of his crushed legs sparking dangerously in the dark. The rubble and metal debris crushing his lower half. Hanzo looks away swallowing down his growing sense of dread and presses a trembling hand to his open side resting back on to the slab of concrete, careful not to jostle himself too badly.

Hanzo gnashed his teeth together at the searing pain slowly waking up around his body. Each thump of his racing heart traveling around his body like lightning. He couldn’t reach the ruins of his legs to turn off the neurotransmitters, the phantom pains clawing at his psyche. It was like he had lost them all over again.

Breathing was utter agony. His rib cage protested against each shallow phlegmy breath. He felt so light-headed. His dragons come out slowly, their forms sluggish to take shape. It was worrisome how long it took them to manifest their bodies. They appear less opaque, the borders around them wispy and weak. He hadn’t much time left.

“Peace-” He wheezes at them. They ignore him in order to circle him. Their fear clouding his mind. Pinned. Danger. Rest when safe. They nuzzle him, muzzles and little tongues swiping at the drying blood on his face. Help. Help. What do? Their voices rise in unison. “Shh.” Hanzo tries again. He listens to them panic over his broken body. His heart sank as the list grew. Hanzo already knew his legs were bust and his spine worryingly unresponsive. But the growing tightness of his chest and limited visions raised alarms. “Akuma.” Hanzo breathes. He reaches out blindly with his free arm. The larger of his two dragons come closer, bumping his cool translucent nose against his hand. Hanzo strokes his ancient beast calmingly to regain his composure. “Find Genji-” He pauses, feeling light-headed with each word. “ quickly .” Hanzo hates how weak he sounded. He drops his hand then. The red streak left behind a stark contrast to the blue of his scales and large white mane.

The great beast rose, nodding its head once before blurring down the corridor. Hanzo looks to the slimmer dragon, her antlers scratching uselessly at the rubble around his legs. “Ibuki.” She ignores him scratching and pawing harder at a large chunk of concrete to no avail. “Ibuki,” He is softer this time, trying to reach out for her. He cries, pulling something in his side. He falls back as a coughing fit disorients him. Ibuki is there when he comes too wrapped around him gently. Her little blue tongue lapping at the grime on his purpling ribcage.

Hanzo shakes his head, even the slightest touch hurt. She stopped whimpering in distress. I’m scared . Her words are shared between them in the silence. “I know.” He murmurs back. She nuzzles at his limp arm, rubbing and licking at his open palm. Hanzo lets her, too afraid to admit that he couldn’t feel it. “Go.” Hanzo says. Ibuki starts, his hoarse command was absolute. “You are too bright my friend. It will draw attention to my position. Catch up with your brother, or better yet find Ana.” He smiles weakly, steeling his resolve. “I’ll be fine. I promise.” He lies.

It was better this way. At least they could bring the team to his body. Better than letting Talon get to him. He shudders at the thought. They no doubt would use what was left of him as a guinea pig. That scientist of theirs was the stuff of his nightmares. If she knew his thoughts she said nothing, giving him one last bump with her snout before speeding off herself. He shivers at the loss of her warmth.

Hanzo drifts alone for who knows how long; every slow blink felt like hours. He counted his breath to mark the time. Each slow pull of oxygen was like inhaling glass, the dusty air cutting his already tender throat. Yet, he focused on it. Focused on the pain of living, centering himself, feeling the myriad of wounds littering his body. The physical pain was nothing compared to the dread creeping into his head. The dark whispers of the countless bodies of his past coming to claim their due. They mocked him, laughing at the finality of his situation. He didn’t need the memories of the past to tell him the inevitable. This had always been a possibility. He knew that. He knew that it was more likely than not that he would die bleeding out in some grimy hole rather than at home or of old age. He thought he was ready for it when it came. But thinking and knowing were so different.

He regretted that it had to end this way. But, remorse was nothing new to him. It’s acrid taste was always there at the back of his throat.There was no chance of redemption now. A failure even in death. The knowledge that he was going to die down here, broken and alone, knocked what little breath he had left out of him. After all this time, he didn’t want to be alone anymore, not for this. He wanted his brother. To see him and make sure he was ok. He wanted one more chance to rebuild what he had destroyed all those years ago. He wanted to sit and meditate in the gardens with him one more time.

Hanzo choked, swearing he could smell the wild scents of Bastion’s garden. The overgrown honeysuckle bush would be blooming now. It’s pale yellow flowers climbing up the old munition house’s walls. He could almost taste the tomatoes they grew just for him; his favorite heirlooms would be a deep purple by now and ready to pick. Damn, he could taste them in his favorite dish. The salt and balsamic vinegar pungent, overpowering the taste of pennies on his tongue. Mind frantic for anything to keep him conscious latched onto the book still sitting on his nightstand. Mei had just given it to him; she was looking forward to his view on her favorite characters. Their little book circle had grown over the past few months. Lena and Ana join in, first for tea, then the company and book recommendations. How cruel . Hanzo chuckles humorlessly at the weak attempt his body put up to keep him alive. He could enjoy the irony though. Finally, for the first time in his life he had things to look forward to. People in his life wanted him for something more than his birthright. He had his family. He had true friends. He had you-

The hopeless pit in his stomach consumes him. Fresh tears streak down his face, leaving tracks in the dirt and cracking blood coating his face. The viscous liquid begging to matte in his disheveled beard. He couldn’t bear the fact that you were going to be yet another person he would hurt.

Hanzo drifts for who knows how long. Soul floating between realms. Every slow blink felt like hours. The clicking of his dry throat as he struggled for breath was his only reminder that he still lived. The dark void around him felt like a warm blanket. Would you miss him? A selfish part of him hoped so. But the other part of him hopes you will hate him. That you would wipe his face from your memory. Perhaps you would be hurt for a while, but it is for the best. Soft memories of you flint across his eyes. The hours alone in the back of your shop tasing new blend ideas and biscuits that complement them. Your soft fingers intertwined with his in bed. His rough fingers marveling at how smooth yours were. That blinding smile in the morning when you wake to see him still there, afraid he might have left in the night to go back to whence he came. How many times had you insinuated you would like him to live with you. He wished he had said yes. It would have been nice to have a proper home.

A sense of calm rolls over him thinking of you. His rattling breath becomes fainter in his ears as he slips away. At last, Hanzo succumbs with a sigh.

The first breath after death hurt like a bitch. Air barreling itself back into his lung, pushing his bruised and broken ribs to expand. Pushing the splintered bone out of the tender tissue with each staggered breath. His blood flowed sluggishly again ridding themselves of the dead cells and burning all the while. A weak pulse started up in his temple. Hanzo gasps, eyes rolling behind his lids. Who?

The bioemitter’s low light fills the cavernous space. The light bobs along with the steps of its owner. “ My how the mighty fall.” Hanzo’s lips twitch, pulling up instinctively into a sneer. That smarmy tone of superiority. It would put his late uncle to shame. “Come now. Is that any way to greet your savior?” Akande flashes the wounded man a predatory smile.

“You have saved me from nothing.” Hanzo spat still too weak to do much but glower up at the hulking fighter. “Leave.” He would rather die from the acid slowly seeping out of his stomach wound then hear anything the man had to say.

Akande ignores him, coming to crouch close to the archer. He tosses the emitter casual up in the air. “I came to see if you have thought on my offer a little bit more.” His sharp gaze looks over the fallen prince. “I believe we could- help each other.”

Hanzo scoffs, getting a sick sense of satisfaction from the flecks of blood that splatter on Akande’s pristinely smug face. “I would have thought my actions were clear enough. But, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Oh?” His smile falters for a moment before pulling tighter.

Hanzo nods weakly matching the other man's smile. “Your brazen tactics and foolhardiness on top of your lack of concern for your underlings shows me just how pathetic your organization actually is.” The strike was swift and expected. Stars erupt in his vision as his head cracked hard against the concrete behind him. His nose throbbed as it was broken again .

Akande’s grin was gone. His false mask of pleasantry was replaced with open hostility. “I see.” He looks at the healing device dwarfed in his large palm. “Very well,” He crushes it into dust with a flick of his hand. Hanzo hisses as the warm healing light was lost. “Your consent isn’t necessary. It was merely a formataly to ask.” Cold mechanical fingers latch into Hanzo’s matted hair. His cry of pain echoing as he is pulled out of the rubble. The metal of his knees catching on the beam that had pinned him. With a hearty pull, Akande separated the last few wires connecting the archer's prosthetics to his upper thighs. His legs connective sensors and wires sever with a snap. The noise of it lost as Hanzo’s screams jumped in pitch catching in the back of his throat. He grapples unsuccessfully against the hand dragging him. Akande smirks. “Rest assured Dragon. I will make you into perfection . You don’t even have to be breathing for me to do it.” He grabs at the small man’s throat with his free hand. Warm fingers as strong as iron cutting off what little air Hanzo could get.

Akande watches blankly as the archer struggles, blood spots erupting in his wide eyes. Fear cutting through his asinine attempt at bravery. Moira could fix the damage with ease. He cocks his head at the tiny pop of Hanzo’s trachea snapping under the strain. Well, tools don’t need to speak.

Preoccupied as he was with subduing his latest super-assassin Akande did not notice the streaks of blue and green barreling towards them. He was unprepared for the feel of teeth and claw ripping into his back and legs. With a roar of indignation, he threw the broken archer away, trying instead to grapple with the ancestral beasts.

Hanzo lands with a wet thud, sliding to a stop a few yards away. What little healing he had gotten from the emitter completely undone. He watches immobile, coldness seeping into his limbs. He accepts the darkness this time without a fight.

“Still nothing?” Tabby licks at the smear of icing on her thumb from her perch on your countertop. Man, it must be bad. You normally would be down her throat for putting her ass on a cooking surface. She watched you pace, your eyes never leaving the tiny screen of your phone.

“Am I overthinking this?” You ask swiping through your last few texts. Had you said something that offended? Hanzo was normally fine with telling you if something made him uncomfortable, so why would this time be different. Besides, your last couple days of messages had been completely innocent. He was helping you choose which dessert would be featured on your site for the holidays. You had it narrowed down to three before he had stopped responding. “He promised to call last night. He said he was off duty today so he could stay up late.” He sent you his schedule for the upcoming months. He was off, you had planned to stream a movie together to unwind.

Tabatha sighs loudly. “People forget BB.” She hops from the counter and wraps a strong hand around your waste. “It’s normal.” She leads you to your living room trying to console you. It didn’t help at all. People forgot sure. You forgot a lot. But Hanzo doesn’t. The man practically lived through his phone’s planner. It was one of the things you loved about him. He was predictable- reliable. “ Come on -” She takes your phone and tosses it somewhere over her shoulder to be lost in your couch cushions. “Tell ya what. You can call him tomorrow after work. Don’t act like you haven’t been blowing up the poor man’s phone.” Tabby drops down on top of where your phone landed. “Relax with me.” She flicks on Netflix, a new season of your favorite baking show had just dropped. It was the best show to get some new ideas from. Especially with the back to back holidays coming up. You had to stay fresh to keep up with the competitors.

With a sigh of defeat, you sink into your armchair, notebook in hand. He’ll get back to you when he could.  

The weeks passed in a dizzying blur. Each day you found your hand inching closer and closer to your phone. Tabatha, bless her, had been keeping you busy. Bills waited for no man and salaries had to be paid. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for you to focus on. It was better than thinking of the dead weight in your pocket. Just be patient. You trust him right? So trust him. She would say each time she caught you staring holes into your phone. You trusted him. So you waited.

“You think he ghosted?” The words were barely over a whisper. A breath from one of your younger workers to another. They meant nothing by it, you knew that. They were both sweet kids, just concerned. You couldn’t deny that your mood and work attitude have been suffering from all this. But it still stung like a slap all the same. Doubly so because you were thinking it too. It was stupid to even think about that. Hanzo was too mature for such a cheap tactic. He always carried himself with such pose and talked so much about honor and duties. Leaving you like this would be beneath him.  

Locking up after another day of silence you trudge home for the first time in a long time by yourself. You had had a revolving group of close friends that had taken it upon themselves to keep you company as you sulked. Tonight they had all planned a big blow-out bar hopping event, with you as the “guest of honor”. Sweet- but not what you needed. Besides, you couldn’t rely on them forever damn it. You were a big girl. This wasn’t your first break-up.

But this one hurt the most.

You sigh pocketing your phone as your friends blow up your phone for the third time that night. You just needed a night to yourself. Nothing some junk food and games couldn’t numb you for a bit. With the promise of pizza and your fuzzy blanket you trudge up the stairs to your home. Hmmm-perhaps some tea too, or was it a hot chocolate night?

Junk food and a steaming cup of chocolate in hand you ready yourself for a long night of adventure quests and shitty npc dialogue. Just as you were setting up your desk and booting up your pc you were distracted by the sharp percussion of knuckles on your door. “In a second!” You holler over your shoulder. You figured it was a friend coming to pester you. Expecting Tabby or her girlfriend you swing the door open ready to chastise them. You slam the door immediately, double latching it.

“Oi!”

“I’m calling security!” You shout behind you, running for your phone.

“Ah! Wait-” Not a chance in hell. You lunge for your phone. Of all the cherries on top of an already shitty situation.

“You have two seconds to leave or I’m serious!” Your voice shakes the phone pressed against your ear. The other side of your door is eerily quiet. Did he leave? Peering out to your entry hall you felt something smooth and warm plopped down onto your shoulder.

It was a wonder the entire block didn’t hear your scream. Flinging your phone away, the little green thing whizzed across the small room. It landed tangled around your phone hissing like a wet cat on your carpet. It’s little clawed feet wiggling up in the air in distress. “I told you Mizuki.” You watch dumbfounded as the omnic from months before bent down to pick up the spitting little-Was that a dragon?

“I apologize for her. She gets ahead of herself sometimes.” The omnic pays you little attention. Their slim fingers untangling their little friend from your phone. “Here,” They hand the device back to you. “Nice place you got here! I can see why my brother felt so comfortable here. We-well- he was never allowed to have nic-nacks and stuff.” They walk your place casually looking about. The little glowing snake nuzzles itself under their metal chin.

You watch befuddled as they make themselves at home. Poking and prodding at your decor. The chrome accents of their plating a stark contrast to your old world decorum. “Did he get you those?” You follow the raised finger over to your display case of trinkets. Key chains, shells, postcards, and all sorts of little items that sat innocently on your wall.

“Yeh?” You sputter dumbly. You clamber up your ottoman not taking your eyes off your- Kidnapper? Intruder? Guest? “I-wait brother?” The omnic nods giving you time to catch up with what in the world is happening.

“I admit, this wasn’t how I wanted to introduce myself. But I haven’t seen you at your store.”

“Oh! So you're stalking me now?” Your phone raises in a flash.  

“What! No- put that down!” The omnic jumps up and snatches your phone from your ear before you could blink. “Gods, can you hear me out for a second?” You gape at the audacity of their statement. Even this little dragon was glaring at them now. A fluffy green brow raised. “Oh- yea Ok. I’m out of line.” They rub at their neck mulishly. “Let’s start this over. I’m Genji.” Genji. You knew that name. Hanzo had mentioned his troublesome brother once or twice in passing. But never that they were an omnic. Was it common for Japanese families to “adopt” omnics? “

You’re lying.” Hanzo’s “brother” groans flopping back down onto your couch.

“Who would lie about being related to Hanzo? You know him.” They wave their hands up exasperatedly. “You think anyone would willingly be related to that nerd?” Well, that sounded like something a younger sibling would say. “Here,” With a hiss of an unseen clasp they fiddle with their face place. “Genji Shimada in- what remains of my flesh.” Scared lips smile up at you as he patiently lets you look over his face. The similarities were striking.

You squint. “I guess the eyebrows are a family trait.”

“Ha! We both had caterpillar brows out the womb. Keep that in mind if you ever want kids. ” He winks in mirth. Just like that the tension in your body seems to dissipate. For some reason, you believed the very odd man that had just invited himself in. But really, who else besides Tabatha knew Hanzo’s name? Still didn’t explain everything- or anything- really. The questions tumble out of you. A month worth of insecurities and inner thoughts bubble over. Genji sits and listens to you ramble. Show him your text, his promise to watch stupid movies with you.

He doesn’t say anything while you vent your frustration. He only cuts you off when you began to tear up and ask the question you had dreaded all this time. “Did Hanzo send you to break up with me?” The coward, the absolute coward. He was supposed to be better than that.

“Never.” The raw emotion in his voice made you pause. He looked at you warm brown eyes, so familiar to Hanzo’s, pleading with you to listen. Everything about his screamed honesty, and that scared you even more. Genji rose hand raised as if trying to find a way to comfort you. “I-Hanzo did not ask me to come. I’m sure if it were up to him we would have never met.” He pulls away going to look out onto the dark city streets.

“Why?” You hadn’t really brought up meeting the relatives. Hanzo had met your closest friends and family in passing when they would drop by the shop for an afternoon pick me up. You wanted to meet his side but had always been too cowardly to ask. From what little you gathered from him his parents had passed and his brother was- complicated. Guess that wasn’t a lie.

Genji shrugs. “He has always been self-deprecating to the point of cruel. Perhaps he thought he was undeserving of being in a relationship. Or perhaps being happy around me. I’m sure that is at the top of his list. But, after…” He pauses. His throat clicks dryly, moisture beginning to brim under thick lashes. He puts his faceplate back on. “After this month- It was probably to protect you.” He can’t look at you and say what he needs to. All those days spent in the ICU ward of the base watching his brother slip, only to be brought back by the sheer power of his dragons or Angies pig-headedness. He was tired. He was tired and at a loss.

It wasn’t until last night did he think of you. A sudden jolt of a memory right when he was trying to get some rest after being dragged from Hanzo’s bedside again. You didn’t know what happened, or anything for that matter. Genji knew his brother well enough that he wouldn’t want loose ends like that. Not that he was dying. He was too stubborn to go like this, damn old goat.  

Genji berated himself mentally for the mere thought of his brother just-just dying on him.  

But it was those thoughts that lead him here. He didn’t know how deep in the relationship you were with Hanzo. But after that afternoon of him gushing over every little thing about you. He was at least confident that you meant the word to his brother. “Seriously?” Genji jumps, pulled back to the moment by you scoff. “Are you-what kind of sick joke.” You can’t even finish the sentence. This was like a plot out of a damn movie. A really bad movie. “Listen Genji,” You shoot him a scathing glare. “If Hanzo doesn’t have the balls to tell me himself it’s over fine. But don’t you dare insult my intelligence by-”

“Have you heard of Overwatch?” He cuts you off mid tirade.

“Of course I have- who-what does that have to do with anything?” You feel yourself getting heated. Maybe you should call security. Genji nods fishing for his com device. Pulling up some candid and posed photos of him and his brother up for you to see. He tosses the device to you. You catch it on reflex, flipping it around to look. Gingerly you begin scrolling through the sea of smiling faces, picking up on Hanzo immediately in each shot.

Seeing him like this made you smile in turn. One picture in particular making your heart clench. His arm was thrown around Genji, bridge piercings catching in the morning light. He was laughing at something someone must have said. His head thrown back, shoulders frozen in time near his ears. Genji was laughing too, his mask off, face scrunching cutely as he snickers.

The next picture must have been out of sequence. Hanzo looked older. Despite the date on the picture being before the other one. His hair wasn’t cut and his piercings were missing. He looked tired. Deep purple bags under his eyes, a frown you only saw when he was deep in concentration harassing his beautiful features. Both arms were crossed over his broad chest in agitations as the picture was taken. He was dressed differently too. Expensive looking robes hugged his muscular form. Another was of him stretched out on a ratty couch. A young man with dreads sleeping on his shoulder. By his feet on the floor was a young woman with glasses. She was distracted but a weird floating robot vying for her attention from the multitude of tablets littered about her. Hanzo looked relaxed. His reading glass perched on his crooked nose and a paperback resting on his crossed leg. You gut twisted. You never knew this side of him. He never talked about his friends, or co-workers in depth. Were you not worth it? To be included in this part of his life?

“My brother and I, we are members of the newly reformed Overwatch. He was out on base when attacked. It was-” He pauses catching himself on the memory of his brother's crumpled form. Had that been what it felt like when Hanzo watched the light leave his eyes on that cursed night? The wet gurgle of blood filling punctured lungs. His listless eyes swollen from damage, losing the few threads of life they still held. What was worse was his dragons, the hollow of pain and shock before they exploded in a flash blue and yellow scales. Their light snuffed out with their master. Having to take his brother's remains to the status units so Angie could have some still whole cells and tissue to work with when she arrived had almost killed him too. Others had offered, but it was his duty. He needed to do this. “An enemy tried to take him captive. It didn’t end well for either party.”

Akande- the coward had fled with what remained of his crew after watching the great dragon fall. His plan backfired as more reinforcements arrived then he had anticipated. Sombra blinking them out faster than Mei could freeze them. Genji had wanted to go after him. Get him while he was down. Attack with the same savagery. But now wasn’t the time. Zenyatta convinced him to stay with only a few words and a soft touch. In that time of self-reflection by his brother’s bed, he knew fighting wouldn’t help. He needed his brother back for that. He needed you for that.

“But,” He watches struggle. His words stunning you out of your anger. He could see his truths turning in your eyes. The sudden jerks and twitches of your gaze flitting about him then to the side. Looking into your memories, bring forth any civilian knowledge you had of the defunct organization. “The Petras Act.” You whispered covering your face. It made sense. In a weird way. Hanzo’s shifty nature when bringing up his work. The sudden departures in the middle of the night. Oh, Gods. Every trinket he ever got you. The news reported strange activities in those regions. It couldn’t be.

Genji scoffs, plopping down on the floor by your feet. “The Petras Act is bullshit. I-nor my brother could sit around and watch as Talon took over.” He stretches the truth a little. If you thought Hanzo was doing it for a higher purpose it couldn’t hurt. “I’m sure he would have told you in time. He just wants you safe.” Of that he was confident. Keeping you at arm's reach from his work was a logical thing to do. A very Hanzo thing to do. He never thought of the emotional aspects of things until it was too late.

You shake your head. Eyes peeking out from between your fingers. All this was coming so fast. “Wait. You said he was attacked? Is-is he ok?” Genji shifts under your gaze trying to find the right words.

“He is… finally stable. Mercy, our medic, put him into an induced coma.” You gasp. It felt like a sucker punch to the chest. The shock of it brings tears to your eyes. “That's why I came here.” Genji scoots closer seeing this as an opportunity to grasp at your hand. He squeezes it comfortingly. “She is going to wake him up soon, and I think you should be there.”

“Why?”

“As emotionally constipated as my brother is, I know he would want to see you when he wakes up.” Genji pulls away, raising to his full height. “I want you to know, you aren’t a dirty secret to Hanzo. When I found out about you, when he finally opened up about you. I’ve never seen him so happy.”

“I realize that. But I just- do I really even know him?” You look up at him pleadingly. This was all happening so fast. A one-two punch of revelations that you could have never anticipated.

“If you come with, you can ask him yourself.” Genji’s offer floats in the dead air of your living room. A thousand and one questions rushing through you. Was he really what he said? The photos, no way they were fake. Right? What would a man like Hanzo, an actual vigilante, want with a regular business owner. Were you a cover? No, not the way this stranger in your house explained it.

Damn him. There was only one way to get to the bottom of this. “Can I text my friend where I’m going?” It was a stupid question, but if you were going to end up in a ditch at least you’d make an attempt. You can feel the man’s exasperated expression through the metal covering his face. “Right. That whole ‘underground thing’.”

“You can’t for obvious reasons but, I understand the sentiment. We are heading to Illios, I cannot divulge where but would that be enough for you?” No. But it would have to do. Grabbing your phone you text Tabatha and her girlfriend telling them you made the brash decision to take a vacation to Greece like you had been wishing to do for ages. Seconds after you hit send your phone started ringing. You glance at the man.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” He sighs. “I’m not kidnapping you. If you don’t want to go I’ll leave.” Genji makes his way to the door, intentionally dragging his feet with each step.

“No! Wait!” You round on him and press your phone to your ear. “Hey Tab.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No- just realizing that you were right. I booked the flight already anyway. Before my nerves could get the best of me.” You lie.

“Ah huh- what hotel you staying at?” Shit. Genji flashes his phone at you showing you a hotel and room already booked and paid for. You recite the address and room number. “Ok. Call me as soon as you step into that room.” She orders. “Make sure to take some pics. Maybe find a cute date? Get your mind off things for me please?”

“Ok.” You said. “Talk to you soon.”

“You can stay at that hotel you know,” Genji said once you were off the phone. “If you feel uncomfortable at all you can leave. I’ll pay for everything.”

“I’ll take that offer until I know this isn’t some elaborate con.” You sigh pocketing your phone and wallet. “If he really is in hospital then let’s leave now. I can buy stuff when I get there.”

“Thank you,” Genji smiles holding the door open for you. With one last look around you push your fear down and follow your surprise guest out the door.

[xzhonglis]

Never Meant to Be

Characters: Angela Ziegler, Reaper/Gabriel Reyes, Genji Shimada, Tracer/Lena Oxton, Widowmaker

Summary: Takes place during a raid of an Overwatch base with Mercy being caught in it. She crosses paths with Reaper and chaos follows. 

Rating: T for mentions of blood

Categories: angst, hurt

The air was thick with smoke, falling debris and ash littering the ground as explosions rocked the normally peaceful atmosphere. Her normally stark white and vibrant orange suit was dimmed by the soot covering her from head to toe, the headpiece of her biotic scanner having been broken by a rock. The attack on their base had been unpredicted but very calculated by Talon making her wonder if there had been an undercover agent in their midst. There was no way someone could have walked in and simply set the bombs off, it made no sense. They were very thorough in their routine security checks… Or so she thought. 

With a grimace, Angela continued on, hand grasping her bloodied shoulder. Honestly, she would have gotten out sooner but being her, she did her best to do a sweep of the crumbling building, digging through rubble or administering aid when possible. It’s just who she was. Nearly tripping over what was left of a pillar, the medic caught herself with a steady hand on the wall. From where she was in the building, she could see the dozens of Overwatch agents fleeing the building, relief immediately flooding her body. Good, they’d made it… It was now time for her to evacuate. Hopefully the team had done the same, but Angela knew they were capable of taking care of themselves--well, most of the time anyway. Righting herself, the blonde doctor continued the descent down to the first floor, her steps lighter than they had been before. She would make it, they all would. Talon may have destroyed their base, but not their spirit. 

Nearing the base of the stairs, Angela heard heavy footsteps causing her to pause momentarily and listen. From the way it sounded, they were very close and she vaguely wondered if they were in trouble or trying to escape the building just as she was. Rounding the corner and entering the room, she froze in her tracks. Blue eyes would widen in shock, hand lifting to cover pale pale lips. It was as if Death himself was standing before her, the bone mask sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Her intrusion did not go unnoticed, the dark hooded figure now giving her his full attention. An inclination of his head caused her to step back, the air suddenly turning cold and tense between them. 

“Reaper,” she whispered, heart pounding in her chest. Was he the one behind the attack? All evidence seemed to point towards him, yet something was off. Why attack a small base? Why not the main building? 

A deep chuckle was her response, the sound reverberating in her bones, “Mercy.” 

This was not good. Angela knew various Overwatch agents were on Talon’s list but she did not expect to be cornered so easily or be so alone, so vulnerable. “What are you doing here?” The answer was obvious, but she decided to tread the waters anyway. Even though her voice was soft, she stood firm, eyes never leaving him.

“You tell me, Doc.” It was more of a rhetorical question but the answer itself seemed to stop time. She hadn’t been called that since… Since…

No.

“What… What did you just call me?” That can’t be right. The only one who called her that is dead, has been for years and yet… His silence only confirmed her suspicions, Death seemingly toying with her. It was almost as if he was amused by the predicament as he stood with his arms crossed beneath his chest. 

“Gabriel…? No, it can’t be,” her voice would trail off then, pale orbs filling with sorrow. A dam that she had desperately trying to build was suddenly burst open, emotions racking her frail frame. He was supposed to be dead, they had a burial for him, they mourned him, her heart was broken over him. “You’re not him,” Angela whispered, her mind frantically trying to put up what defenses it could.

“I’m not? Is it because I’m a monster? A monster you helped create?” Reaper’s voice was dark, a certain rage lying underneath the calm exterior. He took a step forward, nearly towering over her then. 

A shaky hand immediately flew to her pistol, breath hitching in her throat. “Helped create? I’m not sure I understand?” In all honesty, Angela didn’t understand. How could she have created something so dark and unearthly? In his close proximity, she could smell death and decay rolling off of him in waves, the severity of it nearly causing her to gag. 

“You don’t remember? You don’t remember calling out, falling to your hands and knees, digging through countless amounts of rubble until your hands were bleeding and you were exhausted? Don’t remember trying to resurrect a dead man even though there was nothing left of the physical body? I guess there are limits when it comes to playing God.” His words were like venom, stinging her very core, each word causing her to wince. During his verbatim, Reaper had made his way into her space, close enough she could reach out and touch him if she so wished. 

In that moment, all traces of doubt were gone, it was him. No one knew what she had been through that day and to hear it brought up so plainly tore at her, blue eyes misting over with tears. “Gabriel, I’m… I didn’t know how it would affect you but I had to try… I had to try to save you. I needed to save you.” Having lost so much that day, Angela couldn’t bear to lose someone else, especially someone close to her. She gave her all and then some to bring him back, working tirelessly until the point of exhaustion and someone physically pulling her away from the scene. Perhaps she had been selfish in her ideals but at that point during the crisis, she felt as though she needed to prove that she could save someone, to prove herself as worthy in holding the passage of life or death in her hands. The other underlying factor was that while they hadn’t agreed on everything in the organization, Angela respected Gabriel as an officer and as a man. He was a close friend and often lent an ear when she complained about Jack Morrison’s running of Overwatch or just listened to her incessant ramblings of nanobiotics and various subjects. It also didn’t go unnoticed by the young doctor that her heart would flutter in her chest at the very mention of his name. 

“It would have been better for us both if you hadn’t tried,” his raspy voice brought her back to reality, hollow eyes staring into her own. 

The implication of his words hit her like a ton of bricks, her medical instincts taking over. “Are you in pain? Why do you hide behind a mask?” Forgoing any warnings her brain was throwing her, Angela reached up to place a hand on his mask but was promptly stopped, clawed fingers gripping her wrist. 

“Rather bold of you, Doc, when moments ago you were trembling in my presence,” Reaper sounded amused then, a deep rumble vibrating in his chest. While his grip on her wasn’t crushing, it was firm enough to where she couldn’t escape his grasp. 

“I just want to know what’s been done to you, I could maybe reverse it and you wouldn’t have to worry about… About this.” The blonde nodded towards his face, worry etched in her features. If she had caused such damage, it was probable she could fix it, right? Even if it took time, modifications to the nanobiotics, she’d try. 

“The damage is done.” Dropping her wrist, Reaper stepped back, looking off to the side, studying the broken glass of the window. 

Just as she was about to speak, a hand pressed against where his ear would have been, as if he was receiving something across comms. 

Isn’t she a target, Reaper? Either you shoot, or I will. We’ve overstayed our welcome.

Drawing a shotgun, he levelled it at her, no sign of remorse or emotion as he stood there. Time stood still now, the two of them engaged in a stare down. Who would move first? Or, who would break first? 

Pursing her lips, Angela stood tall, eyes glossing over once more. This was their reality now and they were on opposite sides. They’d never be able to regain the time they’ve lost or rekindle what they once had. Those were the thoughts that hurt her the most. Why had it turned out this way? This brought about all new heartache that was so deep, she clutched the front of her Valkyrie suit. 

In a moment’s hesitation, a shot was fired, but not from his own weapon, the sound echoing off the walls around them before a flash of green was in front of her, the sound of metal clashing causing her to flinch. The bullet was deflected into Reaper, causing him to hiss in pain before using his wraith form to escape the room.

“Angela!” The cybernetic ninja landed before her, sword drawn at the ready. “Are you alright?” 

“G-Genji?” Her voice broke then, Angela aware of how exhausted she truly was as she wobbled on unsteady legs. “I’m fine, but we should get out of here, it’s unsafe.”

“Everyone else is out, we were worried when you didn’t make it to evac. Can you make it?” Scanning her for injuries, Genji noted her bloody and now bruising shoulder and broken halo but other than minor scrapes and cuts, she was mostly fine. 

With a nod of her head, Angela gave him a weak smile, “I think so. Thank you, Genji.” 

Hesitating a moment as if he didn’t believe her, Genji responded with a nod of his own, “Very well.”

It only took them a few steps before Genji realized that she, in fact, could not make it on her own. Fatigue had begun to settle in her bones, her gaze hazy and her breathing uneven. Stopping, he crouched before her, causing her to nearly stumble over him due to her lack of attention. “Get on, it’ll take less time to make it out of here.”

“Genji, there’s no need for this, I am perfectly fi--” 

“Angela, you’re not. I can see it and you know it. Now,” motioning once more for her to get on his back, he waited, not saying another word. 

With an apologetic look, she gingerly placed herself on his back, hands around his neck as his hands hooked under her legs. “I’m sorry, Genji…” 

Humming in response, Genji stood, surveying the area for any threats before continuing toward their destination. “You should have been more careful. You could have really gotten hurt or worse--” His words fell on deaf ears having noticed that she was asleep, her breathing evening out against his back. Shifting his hold on her to make her more comfortable, the ninja shook his head, wondering what he was going to do with her. Angela never ceased to amaze him. 

Arriving at the makeshift medbay, he was met with an exuberant Tracer who was throwing too many questions at him before he could even respond to the first one, most of them being about the injured woman on his back. “Tracer, I know just as much as you do at the moment but Ang-- Mercy needs to rest. She was with Reaper when I found her.” 

“Do you think he did this to her? He’s lucky I hadn’t found him first! Poor doc, I hope she pulls through it okay!” Letting his slip up go, Tracer frowned at the sight of her.

“I’m sure she will, she’s one of the strongest people I know.” With the help of the former Cadet, they were able to lay Angela down fairly easily without waking her, stepping aside to let other medics tend to her injuries. While they were both anxious and worried, there was nothing they could do but wait for her to wake and fill them in on what happened. 

Unheard by Tracer, Genji whispered, “Please be okay, Angela…”

[thereluctantinquisitor]

27, 63 or 76 for the kiss meme!

So first of all, I apologise - this got a lot longer than I anticipated! I went with #76 - Top of head kisses, and decided to write a scene between Adiran and Riin. 

This scene takes place after the final round of the Red Fury - a Talveran tournament dedicated to the old god of war, Velos Devo. Adiran, after five years of training with Riin, managed to win his earlier matches and was finally up against the former champion. It goes... not so well.

The world returned to Adiran in flashes - shattered pieces of memory shaken loose inside his head. A roaring crowd. The smell of sweat. His skin, feverish inside his armour, brought to temperature by the blazing sun. It was the final day of the tournament. The final bout. He could remember the pull of his heart, insistent, like a hand tugging on a mother’s skirt. Remembered how he had pressed his own hand to his chest, leather gauntlet creaking, as though to still it through his plate. How many rounds had he fought? Six? Seven? He should know the number. Divider, he should live and breathe the number. But it eluded him, slipping from his grasp like an oiled vase. 

A sound broke through the images - a chair sliding over stone. Adiran dreamed it was a crow, shrieking in the cloudless sky above the arena.

Crosus waited, a mountain at the center of the sands. He was a man whose shadow stood a worthier opponent than any Adiran had already faced. Trained since youth in the barren stones of the Split, he had been named champion two times. Two times. To win once was to be favoured by Velos Devo, the old god whose name was only resurrected once every five years for contest. For glory. To win twice was a miracle - a feat for storybooks and legends. Three times would be utter madness.

Something soft brushed Adiran’s forehead. He flinched from it. In his mind, he shooed a fly from his face as he strode to meet his opponent in the red-lined ring. 

Sweat sticking to his skin, he positioned himself in the giant’s shadow. Brown eyes, shielded by a heavy brow, watched him quietly. He swore he read pity in Crosus’ gaze - a secret between only them, carefully kept from the crowd. Adiran had no time to question it, only to tighten his grip on his sword. A cry from the stands ripped the silence, sharp as an eagle’s talons. 

Begin. 

Adiran’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Rasping, he tried to pull in air, the shape of Crosus freezing, turning brittle, falling apart behind his eyelids. Hands were on him, strong, frantic, levering him up, turning him to the side. Pain lanced through his chest like a thousand tiny knives, stabbing holes in his bruised lungs. The air stuck halfway down his throat. 

Nauseous, dizzy, breathless, the arena returned.

At some point during the fight, he remembered stumbling. Pivoting, his heel digging a deep gouge in the sand. The shape of Crosus’ mace filled his vision, swung with two heavy hands. Muscles bulged, brown eyes blazed, pity forgotten, lost to the Red Fury. Chosen once again. Adiran barely had time to brace, his sword arm too wide, his shield knocked aside, his stance a panicked mess.

He saw the sky - a pale, piercing blue. 

The sun. 

The crowd. 

The sand. 

Adiran’s back exploded in pain as he slammed into the ground, the wind driven from his lungs. Mindlessly, desperately, he chased the lost air, gasping, helmet knocked askew, blinding him, mouth opening and closing in the metallic dark. His chest stuttered, spasmed, tried to rise but was stopped by something impossibly hard. Impossibly tight. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

There was a voice, deep, familiar, vibrating by his ear. Adiran strained, but the words eluded him, too low to decipher. A hand was on his forehead, holding back his sweat-soaked hair as he coughed, retched, clung to whoever kept him steady. His body felt made of hot coals - not blazing like a fire, but burning with a silent, agonising heat. Everything ached. He trembled like he was about to come apart.

Breathe, Adiran. It’s over.

He was in the arena again, lying helpless on the ground. Even in the darkness, white spots burst and swam in his vision. Adiran scrabbled at the sand, unable to turn, get up, do anything to save himself. Mindlessly, he struck his open palm to the ground once, twice, three times. Surrender. But no one came. Nothing changed. He fought to breathe, willing his chest to rise, begging for the hot summer air to pass his throat, panic rising when it would not. Death was not uncommon in the Red Fury. The contest’s very name made a grim promise to the cheering masses in the stands. Death was never the purpose - never the goal. But once the favour of Velos Devo, Lord of the Bloodied Hand, was cast, the rules of mercy and surrender all too often fell aside. As was expected. As was tradition.

Something tugged at his left side, then his right. Adiran’s vision faltered, his heart pounding an erratic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. It echoed in his skull - deafened him to the crowd. To Crosus. To a new voice, shouting, saying... something. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

Just as the world began to sputter and dim, everything was suddenly drowned out by a piercing screech. The sound tore through his skull, jolted him back into his body. If he had air to give, he would have screamed.

He was dying. This had to be dying.

His back arched. His fingers went limp in the sand. Then, with an final, awful shriek, the weight on his chest was suddenly lifted. Air flooded back into Adiran’s newly freed lungs - he heaved it in with a mindless, choking gasp. The helmet was tugged from his head, sunlight flooding in, burning his eyes. Hands cupped his face, smoothed his hair, said his name over and over like a mantra. Like a prayer.

His name...

Adiran’s eyes flew open, wild and panicked until his surroundings finally began to take shape. He was in a room, a place dim and dull and far from the arena sands. He trembled, gasping, cringing against the pain as he pulled in breath after breath, unable to stop - unwilling to stop - even as his vision cleared and the agony of it threatened to turn his stomach. He was sitting up, a woolen sheet pooled at his waist. The bed beneath him was a familiar, simple affair. After a few more seconds of half-sobbed gasps, Adiran finally recognised the physicker’s ward. 

Riin’s arms were around him, holding him up, bracing him as though to protect him from a storm. “Breathe, Adiran. Just breathe.” His voice was low and familiar, but edged with something Adiran had never heard in it before. 

Fear.

“R... Riin...?”

The tall man shifted, pulling away, leaving just enough distance to take Adiran in with those amber-bright eyes. Adiran stared right into them, ragged and fraying at the edges. He was clinging to Riin’s forearm, fingertips digging into the man’s skin as the truth of the situation finally crashed over him. 

He’d nearly died. He’d nearly fucking died.

And for what?

“Adiran, stay with me.” The relief in Riin’s face, near palpable, wavered as he raised a palm to Adiran’s cheek. It was a strange gesture - strangely intimate - but in that moment Adiran simply accepted it. Needed it. He leaned against the palm, bone-tired, eyelids drooping even as Riin urged him to stay awake. The room blurred, sharpened, then blurred again, chased in and out of focus by the line of his lashes. 

“I’m okay.” Adiran’s voice felt raw as it limped from his aching throat, but he forced it out. “I’m alright, Riin.”

Riin made a sound, and if Adiran had any coin to spare, he would place a bet on disbelief. But, despite his companion’s incredulity, it was true. For the most part. He was alright. He could breathe. He was alive. Riin was there. 

Riin was there.

Something sparked at the back of Adiran’s weary mind, stirring him away from the edge of sleep. He forced his eyes open again - found his gaze flicking around the room. Ignoring Riin’s questioning glance, he struggled on; kept looking until he found what he sought, discarded on a nearby table.

His plate. 

The chest-piece, once a gleaming, princely silver, lay like a piece of mangled sheet, discarded by a blacksmith’s apprentice. The sides, fastened by a series of thick clasps, were warped and bent, crushed against each other, broken beyond repair. He remembered now. The mace striking his chest. It had flung him through the air. The blow must have caved in the front of his armour - crushed it against him. When he hit the ground, hard and heavy, it would have only made matters worse, bending and warping the already ruined metal.

But there was something else that caught his eye.

“I... how...?” The words were barely above a whisper. Adiran felt Riin’s grip on him tighten as the man followed his gaze, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The center section of Adiran’s plate, where the mace must have done its worst damage, lay entirely separate to the rest of it. From the neckguard down, a wide strip was missing, the edges jagged and twisted as though it had been torn. To see it defied belief - defied possibility. That was metal. Twice-forged steel. He remembered now, the moment when he had drawn that first breath. That skull-piercing sound - the thud of something heavy being cast aside. The palms pressed to either side of his face as he coughed and choked on air and blood. A pair of blurry amber eyes.

Riin must have leapt from the stands. Rushed the field. He had ripped Adiran’s ruined armour straight from his body. Torn it with his bare hands.

Opening his mouth, Adiran tried to form words, but found them impossible, each one slipping away from him faster than he could catch the next. He must have faltered, because Riin murmured something hastily, catching him and lowering him back down to the bed. How those hands could be so gentle, Adiran didn’t understand. Every time they had sparred - every time Adiran had cursed and struck and charged at him with everything he had - Riin had never hurt him. 

It couldn’t be real. He must be mistaken. Delirious. After all, he’d nearly died. 

Or maybe he had, and this was all just some strange, impossible dream.

The pillow was soft beneath his head. His skull still ached - thrummed with a pain so deep-set Adiran feared me may have it for the rest of his life. He groaned and said as much, and was rewarded by a quiet, relieved chuckle. It was a comfort, to hear him laugh. Even if it was at his expense.

“I can only imagine. Crosus does not hold back.” There was a pause, and both of them knew how much of an understatement that was. Dark eyes, wild at the edges. 

Almost tentatively, Riin spoke again. “My mother had a cure. When I was younger. For a painful head or a wounded mind.”

Adiran squinted his eyes open. Just a crack. Just enough to see Riin watching him, his expression... strange. Fond? Anxious? On another day, Adiran might have spent hours trying to decipher it. But as it was, he was exhausted. There was only so much he had left to give. 

So instead, he just groaned, and pressed his eyes shut once more. “I’ll take just about anything right now.” 

There was a pause. A moment absent movement or sound, save for a set of muffled footsteps passing outside the physicker’s ward. Then, a soft rustle of fabric. A quiet creak from the bed as Riin moved. Leaned. Even with his eyes closed, Adiran could feel Riin hesitate, his breath warm and gentle against his hair.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to the top of Adiran’s head.

On another day, Adiran might have teased the man. Rolled his eyes. In his dreams, he grabbed that beautiful, frustrating idiot by the collar and showed him how to do it properly. But, after so long teetering on the edge of consciousness, Adiran simply sighed, swallowed, and let himself drift away into a much-needed sleep.

[wing-culture]

Beowaulf’s Guide To The Avian Race

Avems

Description: Feathered wings, crest feathers, and tail feathers of varying colors depending on the bird they take after; tufts of feathers on ears; talons on their hands and feet; two eyelids

Abilities: Heightened sight; generally strong fighters and fliers; powerful talons

Classification: Male- Rooster/cockerel; Females- Pullet/hen (but only if she has had children); Non-binary folk- Ave; Children- Chick

Goddess: Abiel

Facts:

Avems are the most common species of avians, making up around almost half of the population. Their genes are very dominant, and any children between an Avem and a different avian tend to have feathered wings.

The certain bird an avian has the wings of is not based on their parents (example: a mallard duck and a cuckoo bird could have a scarlet macaw child). It’s very rare that a child actually takes the wings of their parents.

The rarest kind of wings an Avem can have are as followed: caladrius, roc, phoenix, lightning bird, thunderbird, Quetzalcoatlus, pterodactyl, pteranodon, and any extinct bird species. Quetzalcoatlus, pterodactyl, and pteranodon are actually quite controversial in the avian community, as some Avems don’t see them as one of them and rather Hydras, while others do consider them Avems, despite lacking any feathers.

There used to be a class system among Avem communities, where the prettiest wingers would be treated better than those with more muted colors. Brown was specifically a hated color, despite a good chunk of Avems having brown somewhere in their wings. This class system has since been torn down over the years, but some feathers still consider those with prettier, brighter colors better than others.

Avems are less likely to tap into their instincts, unlike the other species of avians. They retain their humanity much better.

The bird each Avems takes after is highly worshipped between those with those kinds of wings.

No Avem eats any kind of poultry, even those with the wings of a bird of prey. The consumption of eggs usually varies from Avem to Avem.

Nesting season is a certain time of the year where Avems, specifically expecting or generally maternal hens, become ten times more anxious and aware of their surroundings. Nobody really knows why it happens, but it causes them to become supremely protective over their flock and sometimes even aggressive. Mother hens tend to be more affected by this season.

Mother hens do not sit on their chicks, although jokes are made about this anyway. Instead, they fold/hood their wings in front of themselves so their chicks will be covered at their sides. This is for protection, warmth, and comfort.

Avems are big on learning how to fly as soon as possible, as they worship the sky more than the other species of avians. Most chicks learn to fly before the age of ten.

Avems are intensely community based, everyone takes care of each other in a very genuine way, which is why flocks are a thing in the first place.

Even if you can’t fly with them, the appearance of wings is important. Grounded Avems will put extra care into making them clean/pretty to compensate for lack of flight. The Avem community is very caring towards grounded feathers and all usually pitch in to help out whenever they can.

However, the Flightless are seen as disgraces and are usually thrown out of flocks. The lack of an ability to fly and no wings is too much for them.

Baby Avems are born with fluffy down on their wings, and then grow in their flight and adult feathers as they get older.

They are praised for their vocal talents.

Birds of prey have the strongest talons, the most powerful being a harpy eagle Avem. They can grip something so tightly that they can crush certain bones.

Gifting feathers is a common form of courting.

They will also do mating dances to attract a partner. They always make sure to have their wings clean, pristine, and very shiny for the event. Two courting Avems (or one Avem and a different species) will also do a special sky dance to declare their relationship.

A large chunk of Avem culture in general puts a LOT of importance on the ability to fly. The common feather belief is that they were the original and purest avians, and that all the other species flew too low and were changed in some way (Hydras became too infatuated with the wealth and jewels in the earth, making them greedy and cunning; Cimexs flew too low and grew too attached to nature; Vespers flew too long under the moon and became addled by them; Flightless’ simply flew too little and lost their gift of wings completely), while Avems retained their true colors and flying prowess.

Hydras

Description: Scaled wings with vary colors and patterns; webbed frills behind their ears and protruding out of their skull; horns; claws on their hands and feet; scales stretching up their back and on their palms; pointed ears; two eyelids

Abilities: Heightened sense of smell; extended barbs from wingtips; firebreath or frostbreath

Classification: Male- Drake; Female- Dragoness; Non-binary folk- Draco; Children- Wyrm

Goddess: Haniel

Facts:

The color of their wings do not depend on parents, like all other avians.

Horns vary from Hydra to Hydra.

Hydras are the most successful species in preserving their customs and culture. It’s very well documented and taught to wyrms.

Hydras have a love for tapestries, weavings, and other forms of art. They are especially fond of entertainers and theater.

They are also the most dedicated to fashion out of all the species.

The Hydra attitude is very much “protect your own”, which covers immediate neighbors. This leads to Hydras usually being hyper-aware of everyone around them, for better or for worse.

Gift giving is a pretty big part of the Hydra community. Genuinely not accepting a gift is completely unheard of, no matter how unwanted the gift is or any personal feelings between the gift-giver and the recipient.

Pawning your trash off on another avian under the guise of a gift is extremely trashy and rude, and a good way to sink your reputation.

Mother dragons tend to be the most protective out of all species, with mother hens coming in close second. Like hens, they will hood their wyrms with their wings and will flare their frills when intimidated. They are also very prone to attacking if they feel that their young are being threatened and don’t let up until the enemy is dead or far away.

When a Hydra would die, the body would be wrapped up in fine silk and coated in gemstones, favorite personal belongings, and dead prey. They do not bury their dead, but instead go to a very special ceremony site and give the body up on a flat stone as an offering to the gods, signifying that “hey, they’re dead, they’re for you now” and send up their spirits to the afterlife. The prey is to attract the spirits and gods and bring attention. Lavish memorial parties would then be thrown at sunset and can last hours into the early morning.

As the stereotype suggests, scales are very fond of treasure, but they tend to be very picky. Gold and copper are seen as cheap. Silver and quartz are highly valued. Colorful jewels like amethyst, sapphire, emerald, and ruby are commonly used in jewelry.

That’s another thing-- they LOVE jewelry. Horn bands are popular because they don’t get in the way when flying. Wing bands are also sometimes worn, but they can be heavy and make flying difficult. Most Hydras would rather use gemstone laces on their wings.

Getting tattoos and gemstones embedded in wings is quite common, although painful at first. Some scales even dye/bleach their wings, but the result can cause the scales to burn and fall off over time.

The barbs in their wingtips are made of a compound mixed from shedded scales and bone. These barbs are full of blood and marrow and break easily. They take a few days to grow back if broken off.

Hydras will gift a scale as a courting method. They will also actually put the scale of their mate underneath their tongue to let it dissolve in their mouth.

No matter where a child comes from, or even the species, all Hydras watch out for younger avians and make sure they stay safe and protected. Even the Flightless and hybrids.

Cimexes

Description: Insect wings of varying shape, sizes, and color depending on bug type; four arms; antennae; chitin along the back and on palms, but fuzz if the Cimex is a moth; short, curved claws; retractable mandibles in mouths; two eyelids

Abilities: Moth and butterfly Cimexs can spin silk from their wrists; bee, hornet, wasp, and yellowjacket Cimexs can extend stingers from their wrists to inject a nerve toxin into enemies; other Cimexs can deliver painful, itching bites like an ant

Classification: Male- Beckett; Female- Monarch; Non-binary folk- Insecta; Child- Nymphs

Goddess: Cybiel

Facts:

Their blood varies from blue, green, or yellow, but never red. This also means tongues, scabs/wounds, blushes, and insides are either blue, green, or yellow.

Cimexes are the most diverse race when it comes to appearance because of all the varying wing shapes.

The mandibles in their mouth are retractable. They grow from their bottom jaw, behind their teeth, and fold into little glands at the bottom of their mouths when not in use. These mandibles are usually quite spiky and smooth and can dig all the way down to bone.

Mandible bites itch like an ant bite because they secrete an acidic venom into the skin when in contact with it.

Mandibles are also barbed, so they do just as much damage going out as they do going in.

Moth and butterfly Cimexes are born without wings, but have two colorful bumps on their backs. When they become of age, they spin cocoons and stay inside them for seven days. During this process, their organs liquidate themselves and rearrange into a new, stronger system. Because of this, it is dangerous to disturb a cocoon during metamorphosis because it could harm the Cimex inside.

Several butterflies and moths make a living by spinning silk and making things out of it to sell.

Cimex wings are the easiest to damage, but heal within hours.

They are the only avians that can hover (minus moths and butterflies).

Silk glands are located right below the hand on the wrist. They’re thin slices that sort of look like paper cuts.

Butterflies and moths need to spin silk at least once a day to keep their glands from getting clogged up. This could lead to clumping in the silk passage, swelling of the wrists, tenderness, and a lot of pain and discomfort when moving the hands.

Their antennae predict the weather and sense vibrations in the air.

They are able to twist their wings during flight. By doing so, they can preserve and even control the quantity of lift they generate.

Dragonfly Cimexes have selective attention and are able to lock onto something and eliminate everything else around that one thing.

Most wings are waterproof.

Moth and butterfly Cimexs make these bracelets called Infinity Bands with their silk. These bracelets symbolize eternal love between two mates and they’re usually made with beads and small gemstones. They’re like wedding rings of sorts, but there’s also platonic Infinity Bands.

Vespertilios

Description: Bat wings of varying size and color; large bat ears; fangs; opposable fingers on wings called dewclaws; retractable talons in their feet and hands; prehensile tongues; two eyelids

Abilities: Night vision; echolocation; blood and raw meat consumption without getting sick

Classification: Male- Sire; Female- Vixen; Non-binary folk- Fox; Child- Pup

Goddess: Valtiel

Facts:

Upon drinking a creature's blood, a Vesper’s special stomach acid will kill the bacteria, making it safe to digest. The kidney will then turn the blood into a plasma, which is excreted out of the cloaca. Plasma appears as a thick black liquid.

Bloody Marys have actual blood in them. They’re made specifically for Vespers to drink. This, however, does not stop other avians from thinking they can drink it. They usually get sick as a result, as they cannot urinate out the blood plasma like Vespers can.

Pups are born with tiny fangs that grow longer as they get older.

Most pups can’t be breastfed because they would bite their mother’s breast and drink her blood.

Vesper wings are made up entirely of skin with a thin layer of fuzz on certain Vespers. Their bones, membranes, and blood vessels are visible. Because of this, they are the only avian race capable of getting sunburned on their wings.

Bat flies are a problem for Vespers. The bugs like to cling to their wings in swarms and drink their blood. It’s kinda gross to see and it’s very painful for the poor Vesper infested with them.

Vespers enjoy hanging upside down.

Vespers feel most secure when they’re swaddled by things. It’s an instinct that they never grow out of, so it’s not just a pup trait.

They also like to suck on things. Fingers or their own dewclaws are a common thing they will suck on.

There are entire shops dedicated to selling the best bugs for Vespers to eat. They are, of course, Vesper-owned businesses because no other race would want to have such a profession.

Deaf Vespers can still use echolocation and are actually better at it than hearing Vespers because they can focus more intently on the vibrations.

Despite bats being the number one carrier of rabies, Vespers are completely immune to the disease. This, however, does not stop people from saying otherwise and still claiming they will infect others.

Like butterfly and moth Cimexs, dust and pollen tends to stick to the wings of Vespers.

Vespers have more flexibility and control over their wings compared to other avians, letting them turn more smoothly.

Vespers enjoy eating fruits, nectars, and bugs. Bugs are their favorite food. Many Cimexs don’t like them because of this.

Several Vespers wear sunglasses or simply keep their eyes closed when outside because of how sensitive they are to bright lights.

They will “wing” their ears around their face to keep themselves cool.

Vespers will catch the most colorful butterfly in the area and give the wings to their mate as a courting technique, then the two will eat the body together, since butterflies symbolize love in their culture. They may also drink each other’s blood as a marking of sorts.

Vespers have long, thick talons on their feet for hanging upside down. These talons are usually around six to seven inches in size, one and a half inches in width, and are hooked, sort of like a raptor’s claws. The curves of these claws will catch on surfaces, like bars, so they can hang. The muscles in their legs and feet bunch up to help lock themselves in place so their claws won’t instantly rip out from their body weight.

The talons are usually sheathed in the feet and can be retracted outwards when needed. When out, a leather avian becomes digitigrade and walks on their toes. It’s sort of like walking on giant toenails.

When it’s cold, Vesper ears and wings are more susceptible to frostbite because the skin tends to be thinner than the skin on a regular avian’s.

Vespers are the most discriminated pureblooded avian race. Several avians don’t like them because of their ability to drink blood and so they see them as demons.

The Flightless

Description: Tightly curled wingbuds extending from their shoulder blades, which can unfurl outwards

Abilities: N/A

Classification: N/A

Goddess: N/A

Facts:

Wingbuds are tightly curled membranes that extend from the shoulder blades, which vary in size from Flightless to Flightless, but they’re usually the size of a regular book. However, they can unfurl and form a vague wing-like shape.

Sometimes hints of color can be seen under the skin if the complexion is light enough.

They molt every two months, which consists of the top layer of skin on their back peeling off.

Flightless aren’t just wingless avians, but also avians who have one wing, a lame wing, or wings that don’t work at all. “Purebred” Flightless are the ones with the wingbuds, while “half-bloods” are the others. Purebreds do not like half-bloods because “at least they have wings.”

Most Flightless hate when people touch or try to touch their wingbuds, which is quite common, especially in children. The flesh on the wingbuds are extremely sensitive and the sensation of it being touched is like running your nails over the skin of a body part that fell asleep.

Forcefully unfurling a Flightless’ wingbuds is painful and extremely uncomfortable.

Skin infections are common with the Flightless because of how tender the skin on their back is. It isn’t unnatural to see one with long slices and cuts marring their back from the flesh breaking open.

“No-Wings”, “Bareback”, “LameWings”, and “Wingless” are slurs to the Flightless. They don’t even like being called “the Flightless”, they would prefer to actually be called “Smooth Skins” because of their smooth backs. Of course, nobody ever respects these wishes.

They have the highest depression and suicide rate out of all avian species.

Hybrids

Description: Appearances vary depending on parents

Abilities: Abilities vary depending on parents

Classification: N/A

Goddess: Depends on crossbreed

Facts:

Hybrids are as rare Flightless and are about as discriminated against as they are, too, if not more.

Hybrids happen when the genes of two different species mutate into each other instead of one dominating the other, so the resulting child will be a mix of both parents.

Most of them don’t even survive past childhood. They either die because their body is unstable or are killed because they’re viewed as a freak of nature by all species. They’re also very sickly and susceptible to illnesses.

If crossed with a Cimex, a hybrid’s blood will be a different color. Yellow bug blood + normal avian blood = orange blood; Blue bug blood + normal avian blood = purple blood; Green bug blood + normal avian blood = A brown-grey blood.

Normal hybrid blood is usually a darker red than normal blood, almost black when it first comes out.

Avems used to kill hybrids to keep the genes from spreading. This has since been outlawed--or is at least done behind closed doors so nobody will ever know.

A lot of Vesper hybrids usually die from drinking blood because they are unable to urinate out the plasma (because they didn’t get that ability), so the bacteria kills them.

Several butterfly/moth Cimexes die during metamorphosis because their already-grown-in pair of wings don’t stop moving and rip the cocoon open. The result is very messy, as their body will essentially be liquidated.

If they do live, the strain of giant butterfly/moth wings have a chance of ripping their back open.

Some hybrids are born with more than one pair of wings, causing difficulties and back problems as their life progresses.

Hybrids used to be enslaved and used for show. Several nobles would keep hybrids as “pets” of sorts and would show them off at parties.

Hybrids are incredibly infertile and cannot reproduce, as the resulting child would be a tribrid.

Medical issues run rampant in hybrids, such as muscle deterioration, breathing issues, and brittle bones. As stated before, they are also very sickly and get ill very easily. As a result, almost all of them are frail and scrawny.

Some hybrids can’t even fly because of how weak their bodies are. They just aren’t strong enough to get off the ground, so their wings will sometimes just drag behind them.

Hybrids have a hard time molting because of conflicting pelt types. Assistance is most likely needed, but most avians usually don’t want to go near hybrids.

Hybrids aren’t wanted by pureblooded avians OR the Flightless. The purebloods see them as screw ups and monsters and freaks, while the Flightless see them as glorified show pets and consider them lucky to even have wings. As a result, many hybrids spend their lives alone and are discriminated against.

[overwatchworks]

Not Allowed:

Really late for this but it’s loosely based on the first McGenjiweek prompt “I Love What’s Not Allowed”.

He knew love was supposed to hurt sometimes, but it always made up for that in the good times. At least, that was what everyone said. So he did not really understand why he felt like his was muted. He did not hurt that bad and he did not feel all that good.

There was a lot of things love was supposed to do for people that it did not for Jesse.

Jesse McCree thought he knew what love was. Thought a little bit of charm and a splash of infatuation was all it took to have someone love him back. To feel the same way he thought he did about them.

First it was with the boy down the street of his little house in New Mexico, the one that would come over and play with him outside in the summer sun. They would wrestle and run and share candies and a soda from the gas station in town that shut down soon after that. Jesse would smile at him and laugh, thinking that the grin brighter than the sun that he got in return was love.

Then, he told his Mama, and she yelled at him, forbade the boy from coming back over. Jesse had not understood why at first, but as he grew up, he saw his mother’s nerves when he was with other boys and watched her pray that her son would not disgrace the Lord. Bullshit, was his next thought.

There were many throughout the years, they came and went. He loved his Mama dearly, but it took her some time to come to terms with who he thought he loved. Sometimes, Jesse wondered if she ever really did.

It did not matter after she passed and he was left running to Deadlock for a spot to put his delinquent ass, starting up the gang with another person he thought he loved. Ashe was sharp tongued and an even sharper shot, and Jesse thought the admiration and envy he felt was love. She had money, people who respected her, and power at her fingertips. Jesse liked that, liked the way he felt at her side. Mistook that feeling for it being her doing, and got a punch in the jaw for it. She had been red as her eyes, though, Jesse laughing it off and did not try again after that.

His version of love tended to rise quickly and fade even faster after he was turned down or it was discovered to be lust rather than love, a pattern that repeated itself and got his heart broken more than a few times.

The next time he thought he had been in love was something dangerous. Gabriel Reyes was a hard man, but he was giving towards Jesse. Helped him back to his feet and gave him a good path to follow when he had nothing going for him. A puppy crush, was what they called it after Reyes gave him a hard shake of his head and a firm “No”.

Jesse found his interest faded quickly once more after getting a blunt lecture about it and shrugging it off. Would have been a bad idea anyways, in hindsight. Besides, Reyes had his eye on someone else.

He knew love was supposed to hurt sometimes, but it always made up for that in the good times. At least, that was what everyone said. So he did not really understand why he felt like his was muted. He did not hurt that bad and he did not feel all that good. There was a lot of things love was supposed to do for people that it did not for Jesse.

Years passed and Jesse did a lot of growing up in them, the missions in Blackwatch hardening him more than even Deadlock had. He understood why Reyes was so tough after seeing the chaos the world could fall into, when they were tasked with reigning it in and not letting anyone know they were on the brink of global disaster. Sure, the Omnic Crisis was over, but there were still wars waging in its wake and organizations like Talon rising from the ashes.

The inside jobs were the worst, and often left them with less people coming out of them than those that went in. Or, on special occasions, they gained a member. On one occasion.

“Mission Log 3887, Shimada Castle. Time: 02:32. Location: Blackwatch Headquarters, Rome. Commander had me doing scout and recon, the usual since I had been posted in Japan. Then, we got a distress call around 22:58, somethin’ about our inside man needing help. Comms went dead after that, so Reyes sent me in to check it out. Found our man—or what was left of him—in a pool of blood, limbs hangin’ off, lots of him missing. Gruesome stuff I’ll save the gnarly details of for the medical reports on the poor kid.”

Jesse exhaled slowly, rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times. Itching for a cigarillo to chew on or some nicotine to calm his nerves.

“Apparently, it was fratricide. I don’t really know the ins and outs of it, but whatever happened was rough. I’m surprised he’s still alive. Anyways, we got him outta there and back to Angie, er, Dr. Ziegler, and he’s gettin’ put back together at the Swiss Headquarters. He’ll be shipped back to us when he’s ready, already signed the deal and all that. Shimada clan business is still on our radar, but until we get this guy back on our side, it’ll be put on hold. Shimada Genji is his name, I think. And other than him, there were no casualties. It was a quiet mission through and through. End report.”

Jesse sighed as he set down the earpiece he had spoken into, reading through the transcription and muttering darkly over the words it had trouble identifying from his accent. He sent it off to Reyes when he was done, leaning back in his bed and staring up at the ceiling. It had been a quiet mission, but seeing Shimada in all that blood was still giving him nightmares.

He wished he could leave out the gruesome details from his mind as well as the report, but as it was, they stayed burned into his memory. Shimada had still been choking on his own blood, the bottom half of his jaw torn from his face, throat constricting, eyes rolled back. Strange scars covered the one arm he still had and laced over his face, like a burn but darker and in his veins. Legs cut from behind, bone twisted and flesh ruptured.

Jesse rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. It was awful, the smell of iron and ozone still stuck in his nose. With another sigh, he set aside his tablet and tried to get some sleep.

-

The weeks passed and Jesse forgot about Shimada for the most part, too caught up in his own issues and missions keeping him busy to be worried about someone he did not see on a regular basis. But then, he was seen on a regular basis. Genji Shimada showed up to Rome like a shadow, his eyes dark and glowing red. Body an amalgamation of metal and wires and synth skin. Scars where there was flesh, though, he hardly had any of that left. He barely spoke, kept out of sight for the most part, and did his job with ruthless efficiency.

Even with all he did to avoid the people around him, Jesse still managed to find a way to be near him. Sometimes he even impressed himself. Genji was cold towards everyone, and the cowboy was no exception. He did not mind, though. Talking to himself was better conversation than Genji provided, and being in a Talon interrogation chamber had held more welcome than the ninja did. He did not mind that, either.

Having teammates to work around seemed like a chore to Genji, all the mandatory training and mission work something he did alone as best as he could. When he could manage to shake Jesse off his back. The only person who had not been deterred by the rather obvious signs he was putting out.

Jesse knew defense mechanisms when he saw them, and Shimada had been through hell and back before he was shoved down into a new level of it. Anyone would be distrusting and distant after what he had gone through, after signing his life away to an organization that only valued him for his deadly skillsets. Jesse knew the story, he had been there and lived it too. Still did, but at least his chapter was not so binding.

Even with all that Shimada did when he should not have and did not do when he needed to, Jesse still enjoyed hanging around him. He was genuinely interested in learning more about Genji, wanting to gain his trust, if possible.

Training was the easiest way to do that, when the ninja had to show up and pick a partner or work with a team that generally had Jesse in it.

“You’ll be working hand-to-hand today, a lot of you are getting too reliant on having a long-range weapon on you. Partner up with someone in your skillset, and I’ll move you if I see you need to be moved,” Reyes ordered, Jesse looking around to see if Rei was close to him. They were well matched when they sparred occasionally in the gym, and Jesse considered himself one of the more well off of the group of them when it came to hand-to-hand. Training with Shimada forced him to be better at it.

He waved at her when she came into view, and she motioned to a free spot on the sparring mats. And then Shimada was walking up to him, staring up at him with those red eyes expectantly. Jesse paused, glancing at Rei over the ninja’s shoulder.

“Hey, uh...Sorry, partner, but I was already paired up with...” he trailed off, motioning towards Rei, who had her arms crossed over her chest, brows raised. Shimada turned to look at her for a moment, then scoffed, the sound quiet as it was filtered through the metal of his mask, eyes shifting back to Jesse.

“You are better than her and you know it.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t say that.”

“I do. And no one else is a decent match for me,” Genji shrugged one shoulder, the movement striking Jesse as odd since the rest of his body did not quite move with it.

“But I am? C’mon, Genji, you beat my ass into the mats every time.”

“You’ve gotten better.”

“Not good enough, though. You’re outta my league on this one, bud.”

“Do not call me that.”

Jesse raised his hands placidly, smiling a bit.

“Sorry, I forget sometimes. You should train with Reyes, he’ll actually give you a run for your money.”

Shimada’s brows furrowed, Jesse about to reach out to pat his shoulder consolingly before he remembered that it was a very bad idea that had already gotten him into a real fight with the cyborg and a black eye by the end of it.

“We can spar some afterwards if you’re feelin’ up to it, how’s that sound?”

Genji did not answer him, merely sighing and turning on his heel, heading towards the commander. Jesse watched him go, only shaken from it by Rei calling for him.

“Oi! You coming or what? I can’t spar with the air!”

“Yeah, I’m comin’!”

Jesse jogged over and sank into a defensive stance he had learned to relax into from Genji, something with enough distance between him and a metal fist to the gut and room to dance around the ninja’s attacks. Except he was up against Rei, who circled him like Reyes had taught them, light on her feet but firm in her stance. Jesse kept his eyes on her hands, his own held up to his face protectively. Waited for the first move.

Rei struck fast, but Jesse avoided easily. Genji was faster. He ducked beneath the follow up punch, shifting his weight and turning his hips into the hook he caught her side with. Rei stumbled back with a wheeze as Jesse hopped back into his regular stance, still on guard. Pulled back and spun when she overcompensated just slightly on her next punch, landing a kick that pushed her back again. There was a frown on Rei’s face as she finally caught his next strike, shoving it down and away from her shoulder.

“Where’d you learn to kick like that?” She asked between heavy breaths, Jesse shrugging.

“You get hit with them enough, you learn how to do it for yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’m well on my way through that lesson...”

Jesse grinned and motioned for her to come at him again. They went back and forth, trading punches and blocks, Jesse getting wrestled to the ground and managing to twist his way out of a lock. He was back on his feet not a moment later, a blur of red catching his eye over Rei’s shoulder. Shimada sparring with Reyes.

He moved like water, flowing around the commander’s more rigid style with a flurry of attacks that seemed to land every time. Sweat dampening his hair, body folding a bit as he caught the kick Reyes sent his way. Jesse’s eyes followed the way his spine arched, the metal pieces of it moving almost hypnotically. Then, he was punched in the jaw.

“Fuck—!”

“Shit, sorry, Jesse! I thought you were looking at...What were you looking at?” Rei asked as she crouched next to him, glancing over her shoulder. Jesse rubbed his jaw, eyes still not leaving the way Shimada danced around the commander. It truly was like a dance, each step effortless in the way only years of training could make it, his body spinning and twisting around attacks and into his own smoothly. Like he only felt comfortable in his body doing this. Doing what he was made for.

Jesse was caught staring when they took a break in their round, Genji’s eyes flicking over to his. They held his gaze just a beat too long. And then Jesse did what only he did best. Gave a grin and a wink, and probably ruined a whole lot of things.

Genji shook his head and finally looked away, Jesse’s smile growing as Rei made a sound of realization.

“No, don’t do that, Jess. You’re gonna get gutted if you keep that up.”

“Says who?”

“Says the look in his eyes. I wouldn’t go after someone like that. Hell, I wouldn’t go after anyone here at all. It’s not gonna end well.”

“Yeah...You’re probably right.”

“I know I am. Now will you please pay attention so I don’t get my ass roasted by Reyes for punching your face? I’ve already done three hundred push ups today.”

“Fine, fine.”

-

Genji tore himself apart during missions sometimes. Did not quite avoid a bullet here, stayed in the line of fire to deflect just a little too long there. Wires ripped and sparking when he came limping back, the red light in his eyes flickering. Jesse had a feeling that part was not because of a mechanical malfunction. Muttering darkly to himself in Japanese as he swiped a mix of blood and those strange biotics that kept his cybernetic system running in synchrony with the human parts of him from his hands. Black mixed with crimson, those eyes flicking to Jesse when he came over to survey the damage Genji had done. Both to the Talon forces and himself.

“They didn’t stand much of a chance, huh?”

Genji never answered his tries for small talk, not when he was like this. Now was not something special. Jesse holstered Peacekeeper, sighing as he pressed his comm.

“Jefe, we’ve cleared sector five.”

“Good work. Sending in evac, stand by for Fio’s confirmation.”

“Copy that.”

Genji shifted by his side, gaze cast down as he rolled a Talon agent over gracelessly with his foot. Part of their face could be seen from where Jesse had put a bullet through their helmet.

“I wonder if he thought he was doing the right thing, or if it was not really his choice...” he murmured, tone cold and unfeeling. Something about it was distant, as most things he said were, like he was lost in memory. Jesse barely caught it, frowning a bit as he glanced at the cyborg.

“Probably just doin’ what someone told him. Not sure it’s that deep.”

“Just following orders.”

“Yeah...”

“That was the only thing he could do right,” Genji hummed, straightening once more and gazing out at the city lights in the distance, hair moving slightly in the breeze. The cords on the back of his neck swayed lightly, shoulders rising and falling steadily with his breath.

“I wonder if we are any different.”

Jesse took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, raising his brows with a crooked little grin.

“Can’t say if I’m completely sure we ain’t, partner. Though, I’ve never been particularly good at doin’ everything I’m told, I got a different kinda noose around my neck.”

“And what’s that?”

“Lil’ somethin’ called loyalty. To a fault, some might say. That’s where I think we are different than these guys. They’re just hired guns. Us? We’d take a bullet for our team. I’d die for you guys, almost have. Everyone here would. We got connections, teammates, a family where we never had one before. It’s one of the better things about being pulled into this organization, if you ask me.”

The ninja went quiet again, Jesse looking over at him and putting his hat back on. He was surprised to find Genji’s eyes already on him, something curious behind them. Something hidden further back that Jesse could not place.

“You are rather optimistic,” he muttered, Jesse laughing.

“Maybe I am. I’ll end up payin’ for it when it all comes to an end, but while we’re all still here, that keeps me straight.”

There was another long pause, Genji shifting his weight, fingers flexing.

“I suppose it is not a bad thing until it is.”

“Ain’t all things that way, to some extent? I can’t say I agree with everythin’ we’re up to on these missions, but I do know it keeps people safe in the long run. That we’re keepin’ the peace as best we can while we’re at it. Until somethin’ happens to show us it was wrong this whole time, which will probably end up happening, knowing our luck. But until then, we just do our best and stay alive, just like anyone else would.”

“We are not like ‘anyone else’.”

Jesse grinned, chewing on the end of his cigarillo.

“Nah, I guess not. Philosophical conversations ain’t really my forte, I prefer just takin’ each thing as it comes. Reality is hardly ever what we like to imagine it to be, that’s the only truth I’ve found. And I’ll probably be in the ground next to these guys sooner than finding out anythin’ else.”

Genji stared out at the city skyline again, eyes flickering over it as he thought. Always thinking, always pondering, always lost in it. Always so obvious to read, always impossible to read.

“Perhaps you are right.”

“All we can do is find out.”

“You boys ready for a ride home?” Fio announced over the comms, Jesse jumping slightly at the intrusion, cursing softly before clearing his throat and recovering with a grin.

“You betcha, sweetheart. Thanks for rememberin’ us.”

“How could I forget my favourite cowboy?”

“Aww, darlin’, you’re makin’ me blush!”

Genji rolled his eyes, standing a little stiffer and crossing his arms over his chest. Jesse nudged him good-naturedly with his elbow, getting a glare in return but nothing more. Back to his usual aloof demeanor.

“Stand by for pickup, ETA two minutes.”

“Copy that.”

-

“Don’t fucking touch me! Just leave me alone, McCree! I don’t want your fucking hovering!” Genji shouted, Jesse backing away with a glare as his hand was slapped away. Upgrades had left the cyborg stiff and uncoordinated, his shoulders shivering slightly with the whir of his machinery. His eyes flickered and he stumbled again, hitting the wall with a thud.

Jesse watched him. Simply watched. Saw his fingers curl and hands go up to clutch at his arms, leaving indentations in the flesh and synth skin, his eyes going wide as he gasped and fumbled at the faceplate, hands shaking. Saw it clatter to the ground and Genji follow it, knees hitting the linoleum hard.

Saw his face, the scars, the metal of his jaw, the raw line where skin met it, the pieces of his face that were missing covered with a sculpted vision of something that was not quite human. His mouth parted—just what the bone would look like, no synth skin or lips yet, like something dead or burned—a static sounding cough leaving him. Sweat dripping down his brow, hair sticking to it, wires hanging around his face. Jesse knelt, and whether Genji did not have the strength to push him away or not, he allowed the grip on the back of his neck.

“You’re panicking. Just breathe.”

“I-I’m not panicking I’m—I can’t breathe I can’t feel anything but it all burns, it burns, Jesse it hurts so much I—”

“Listen to me. Just listen to my voice. Your systems are probably just gettin’ used to the things they’ve done to you, it’s no different than last time. Just breathe, you’re in control.”

“I can’t see, I can’t see you—” Genji cut off with a choked sound and began rambling in Japanese, his hand whipping up to grab Jesse’s forearm. It hurt, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. Jesse would wear them the next day, and neither would say anything about it.

They had done this before, played the game. And they both lost, every time.

Jesse waited it out with Genji, let him tear at his arm and mutter and stare at the floor, lost somewhere in his head while he murmured softly in return to just breathe, Genji, you’ll be fine, I promise. Until he was fine again, or some weak semblance of it.

Until he had his knees pulled to his chest, hiding his face between them and the arm he laced around them, hand sliding down Jesse’s arm to slowly, slowly take his hand. They did not talk about this part either. The calm after the storm. Some days it was worse than others, and all things considered, this was one of the better episodes.

Jesse squeezed his hand lightly, nothing more than an affirmation that he was in the present, that his reality had not been stolen from him again. That was all Genji needed. That was all Genji allowed.

-

Jesse took a drag off his cigarillo and blew the smoke up into the brilliant blue of the sky in a slow stream. He was sprawled out on the roof behind some crates and watch towers, one arm tucked beneath his head and eyes closed. There were a few empty beer bottles between himself and Genji, the ninja not having any but seeming rather amused at how loose Jesse had gotten in the past hour.

He was not drunk to the point of sloppiness, no where near that, and the beer had been too cheap to do much to him anyways. It was just to take the edge off of what the nicotine could not. To relax for a few hours without that constant nagging train of thought in the back of his mind.

Genji seemed less tense as well, if the way he closed his eyes against the breeze and turned his face up to the sun was any indication. It was nice, seeing him at ease. As if he was forgetting, even just for a few moments, how much things hurt.

Jesse tapped him with his foot, grinning a bit, the alcohol running through his system making his mouth run more than it already did. Genji glanced at him, raised a brow.

“What’cha thinkin’? I know you’re always thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’, and I’m sure it’s interesting.”

Genji tilted his head, then shrugged.

“Not much, at the moment, if I am being honest. Which is a nice change.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You...You make me feel at peace, in a strange way.”

Much quieter this time, Jesse cracking his eyes open and squinting a bit against the light.

“Well that’s awful nice of you to say.”

“It is simply the truth. You do not judge me, even though you have seen more of what I am now than anyone else besides the doctors,” Genji murmured, his fingertips gracing over the cowboy’s stomach. Featherlight touches, barely there. Jesse’s brow furrowed.

“You talk to me still, you train with me. You make me feel like a part of this team. You make that small part of me that still desperately wants to belong somewhere feel at home.”

There was a long stretch of silence between them as Genji’s hand came to rest over his heart, fingers rubbing the fabric of his shirt. And then he leaned over, pressed his faceplate to Jesse’s lips where his own would be, and ruined a whole lot of things. Jesse froze. Stared at Genji when he pulled away, sitting up and fixing his hat.

“Gen, I ain’t that drunk,” he muttered with a shake of his head. And oh, that was not the right thing to say at all. Jesse knew as soon as it left his mouth. Watched the words hit Genji like a physical thing, his eyes widening slightly, darting away. He stood abruptly.

“Forgive me.”

“No, wait, Genji—Don’t just run away from this, if you’re gonna pull a stunt like that, you can’t just leave now—”

“I should not have done that, I’m sorry, I—I did not think...I was not thinking.”

Jesse reached out, taking Genji’s arm, making him stay. He did not fight it, but he did not look at the cowboy either.

“Genji. You can’t be serious.”

“I-I was not.”

“No?”

“It was my mistake, we can just blame it on the alcohol.”

“You didn’t drink anythin’,” Jesse reminded him slowly, Genji shaking his head.

“I will not do it again, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t—I ain’t mad about it, but I also know it’s...I mean, us? Really? The way we are now, the mess of who we are? It ain’t the best idea, trust me. It’s not that I don’t like you or anythin’—”

“Jesse. You do not have to explain. That was uncalled for on my part, and I understand. You do not have to reciprocate what was my mistake,” Genji murmured, his shoulders stiff and eyes narrowed, glaring at the ground. Tone cold and abrupt.

“You ain’t even gonna listen to me now?”

“What more is there to say? You told me no, I should not have done that, now let me go.”

Jesse did let him go, but he did not immediately run off like he had expected.

“So that’s it then? We’re gonna pretend it didn’t happen without even talkin’ it through?” he asked, arms going out to wave uselessly before slapping back against his thighs. Genji did not reply.

“Alright. Alright, you know what? That’s fine. I’ll let it go like I do for everythin’ else you do that I really shouldn’t let you get away with. It’s alright, Genji. We’ll say it never happened and walk away from it like we always do. If that’s what you really want, so be it.”

“It is.”

Jesse shrugged, nodding and giving a halfhearted lopsided grin. Genji’s fists clenched and unclenched, but he still had not left.

“Okay. See you at trainin’ then, partner. But one last thing, before you go,” he raised a gloved hand, eyes hardening as he pointed, lips pressed in a tight line. “If you are actually serious, lemme remind you that I won’t always be around when you decide to tell me the truth. I only gave caution, not a no.”

An offer. Another way out, should the ninja want it. A choice to make, one Genji could allow the both of them. But Genji turned, walking away without a backwards glance. Jesse stared after him, breathing in deep. He spat out his cigarillo and put it out under his boot, hands on his hips as he looked up at the sky. It finally hurt the way people always said it would. And he had not even known he was falling until he hit the ground.

“Damn you, Genji Shimada...”

~~

[souldraggedmuses]

@jikantid​ said: ✂ Good Chisaki kills the evil twin

    It was very common to see the twins fighting.  To bear witness to them attempting to kill one another until they were mutually exhausted and drawn to a stalemate.  The area would be covered in holes, spikes, and walls- the Chisaki siblings would be worn down on either side of the room, panting and exhausted.  Unable to overhaul anything else for continued combat due to pain in their arms.  Afterwards Kaito would shuffle back to his office with Hari’s help, and Kai would return to his room adjacent to Eri’s.  Both seeking to (metaphorically) lick their wounds and recover.

    Today, however, was different.  Today was the day of the Raid at long last.  Kai had generously provided Nighteye with additional information, enough evidence of criminal activity to get his twin locked up for the rest of his life.  And, he'd even promised to assist in the Raid himself.  To take on Kaito directly, letting the others work through the facility to detain the other yakuza and acquire Eri.  All while the medical hero preoccupied the villain.

    A fact that he did not share with Nighteye however, was that he didn't plan to arrest his twin at all.  He expected that one of them wouldn't be coming out of this fight alive.  Either he would arrive on top and put a permanent end to Eri's tormentor, or he would die and hope for Eri to grow up happily at UA.  Either way, this fight would prove to be their last.  Either way, Kai could be happy with his attempt.

    A flurry of spikes shot towards him, only to be blocked by a sturdy wall.  The action was repeated in reverse.  Both knew the other was out for blood.  Both knew to not exhaust themselves quite yet.  Both knew this fight would end in death.

    Kai, having left divots to climb with, rushed to the top of his wall, contacting the ceiling now.  Pillars shot down all around his twin, an attempt to crush him into paste made futile when the other overhauled them into a fine dust.  Vision became compromised for both of them, but Kaito knew where his twin was perched in that moment.  A column of rock pierced the veil of dust, colliding harshly with the hero's chest and knocking him down from his wall.  Down to the ground, where the air was forced from his lungs and he was reduced to a fit of bloody and painful coughing.

    There was definitely something broken.  A few ribs he needed to repair at the very least.  Propping up onto one elbow, he lifted a hand to his own chest and prepared to fix himself quickly.  But before he could make contact-

    "Master Overhaul!"  Dread crept into Chisaki, hearing the voice of one of his twin's puppets and heavy footsteps getting closer.  He figured that this person would attack him, make the already strained fight become even more against him.  Assure him of his apparent upcoming death.  But no, instead the person knelt down in front of him, allowing Chisaki a clear view of the yakuza member; Yu Hojo.  "Master- what's going on?  Who are you fighting?"

    Relief bloomed in Kai's chest in that moment, a slight thankfulness that he and his twin shared the same abysmal sense of style… and in plague masks.  That even as a hero, he resembled the other enough for this confusion to be made possible.  That now?  He had a chance to win.

    Not taking the time to answer Hojo, Chisaki reached up and grabbed his face.  The other hand moved those last few inches to press his own chest.  With not a moment to lose, he overhauled them both; repairing his own injuries and fusing them into the clearest amalgamation he could picture.  He honestly hadn’t made use of this facet of his quirk often, unlike his twin.  But still, he’d done it occasionally to capture villains.  He knew how to do it.  What he needed; something agile, not too large, and defensive enough that his twin could not easily harm him again.

    Light blinked, hidden from Kaito’s view by the wall, as Kai chose the form he’d use to kill the other.

    Something with spikes.  Something with crystalized claws.  A porcupine of crystals encasing his entire back, spilling down his spine until they were stacking on top of one another.  Further and further down, forming a tail that thrashed out behind him and left deep gashes in the nearest wall.  It all weighed heavily on him, forcing him to lean forward to maintain balance.  It hurt, his quirk always hurt, but he knew this would be the boost he needed.  The means by which he     could win and save Eri years of torment.

    His form was completed, and Hojo’s mind was suppressed deep within him.  Though Kai was a hero, he felt no guilt in forcing the other to be an accomplice here.

    As the last wisps of dust began to clear from the destroyed pillars, the hero clawed his way back up the wall.  He perched atop it, silent as death, before plunging headlong into the remaining dust.  Where his twin undoubtedly was hiding and recovering.  He didn’t need to see the other though.  All he needed to do was land, turn, and thrash his newly made crystal tail across the entire dusty area.  To break apart whatever chunks of rubble remained, until he felt it.  Contact with something that made a very unpleasant squish before being flung out of the dust and into a wall.

    Leaning forward, Kai charged in that direction.  He wouldn’t- couldn’t give the other time to heal.  So as soon as he cleared the visual obstruction, as soon as he could see his twin?  Chisaki slammed his tail into the ground, pushing him up and sending him colliding harshly with the other.  They spiralled to the ground, with Kai easily righting himself and locating the other’s sprawled form.  Kaito was lifting his hand, about to hit the ground and create who knows what…

    But Kai didn’t allow it.  He turned, lashing claws and hearing a meaty thud, and a brutal crunch.  Blood dripped from his crystalized talons, as well as from the hand that sat severed a few feet away.  Not letting either of them fully process the situation, Kai plunged all of the claws from his opposite hand into the back of Kaito’s remaining one, tearing into the palm like butter and lifting it up.  Pulling it away from anything that he might be able to overhaul.  His twin screamed as Kai began to steadily move his fingers apart, gradually tearing it apart.

    “You deserve this.”  He hissed, yellow gaze turning from the bloody mess down to his sibling.  His twin.  “You deserve more than this.”  Kai remembered how they were.  Alone on the streets before being taken in by Pops.  Staying at each other’s side constantly.  Never one without the other…

    Until Eri showed up.  Eri whom Kai taught himself to care about.  Eri whom Kaito saw as only a means to an end, a tool.

    Steadily, the jagged crystal tail lifted, swaying a bit until it was lined up perfectly over the other.  “If only you’d listened...then I wouldn’t have to do this to the only blood family I have left.”

    The screams of pain subsided for a moment, eyes full of pain and anger alike turning to look at the crystal covered hero directly.  “Do- Don’t do this… Kai we can talk about this, you won’t ever have to see me again.  Please-”

    Steadily, the Medical Hero’s gaze locked with Kaito’s.  He said nothing to him in response.  Simply closed his eyes, and slammed the spiked tail down on top of his twin.  Over… and over again.  Every time there was a meaty thump, the feeling of something warm and wet covering what skin he had exposed.  Kai could feel his chest tightening, his breathing becoming shallow as he kept it up.  Soon he slipped his claws out of the mangled hand, tail slamming down one more time before slowly sliding away from whatever corpse it had left.  Chisaki felt the bitter warmth of tears rolling down his cheeks and he forced his eyes to open.  To witness what he’d done- what he’d had to do.

    The sight made him want to retch into his own mask.  His twin’s body, nothing more than a bloody mess.  Meaty chunks, shattered pieces of bone, clothing torn to shreds by each impact.  It was no longer his brother.  Barely even a corpse anymore.  The mess would have to be mopped up, not carried off.  There weren’t even enough solid pieces left to put in a shoe box…

    On shaking legs, Chisaki stood.  Forced himself to stand.  The weight of crystals still forced him into a hunched position, and the weight in his chest made the tail too heavy to lift.  He would keep this twisted fusion for the time being.  Just long enough to get him to the police.  Just long enough to explain that he’d had no choice but to end the Yakuza boss.  That it was life or death.

     They would trust him.  He was intimidating, but they would trust him.  Then he could take Eri, and give her a good life.  Get her into school, into a safe home.  Away from this awful place.  He could mourn the loss of his blood relative in silence.  Where nobody but he knew the truth of the fight.

[hamelin-born]

For @elenothar​, who requested ‘Graves and a [redacted for story purposes]’. Which, to be perfectly honest, stewed in my brain for a few days as I tried to link the two together - only to be inspired when I accidentally stumbled into the ‘His Dark Materials’ section of AO3.

Author’s Notes: Officially Not Mine. Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them is Not Mine. His Dark Materials is Not Mine. This is also a fusion between His Dark Materials and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find them - namely, the concept of dæmons. Might be a bit OOC, but - well, it was written in something of a hurry, rather late at night.

Accretion

They found Percival Graves in the cellar.

Seraphina is quite sure that Grindelwald’s choice of the aforementioned location was no accident. The man was meticulous to the extreme - look. He was saying - not to her, but to the man he had captured. Captured and held in his own home, what should have been Percival’s seat of power - it was insult piled on insult, deliberately designed to further denigrate his victim.

Not that he had needed to, by the end.

Seraphina was there when they broke down the cellar door. She knows full well that by the end - by the end, Percival would have been unable to appreciate the subtleties of the insult.

She will remember Percival as he was. That is her promise to herself. She will remember her friend - who laughed with her over arithmancy equations and stood by her at her wedding, who kept her stocked with chocolate and firewhisky through her divorce. She will not allow herself to equate what - what they found in a cellar that stank of piss and shit and rotted flesh with her friend. He’s more then what a sociopathic madman did to him. 

Percival Graves is her friend. 

Seraphina shivers, fingers running down the slick glide of Oraculum’s scales as the brightly colored viper curls around her wrist.

Dindrane was Oraculum’s friend. Once.

She doesn’t know if her friend’s soul wants anything to do with her.

**

Tina’s heard the rumors. She doesn’t need to.

She was there when they carried Director Graves from the cellar, shouting, screaming for a healer, any healer, now! She was there when the mediwitches and mediwizards descended in a rushing horde.

She was there, when they opened the door, and for a long, long moment her brain simply could not comprehend the sight before her eyes.

That can’t be a person. Bones don’t bend like that. That was her response, in the split second before she realized what was in front of her. When she realized she could see bone.

She could see bone. She could see dried blood, and rotting flesh and swollen limbs and burns cuts lashes spellfire maggots no -

Percival Graves is expected to make a full recovery. Physically, at any rate. Mentally, no one knows. Especially with his dæmon’s - condition.

He wouldn’t let go of her. Tina knows that much to be true - Dindrane had been clutched to the Director’s chest with a strength that would have killed a flesh-and-blood entity; the healers had had to do everything short of literally breaking his bones in an attempt to make him loosen his hold. A dead man’s hold - no one had said that, but they’d all thought it.

As bad as Director Graves’ condition had been, Tina knows that it is his dæmon who will haunt her nightmares.

Lupercus nuzzles comfortingly at her side. Tina shivers, resting a hand on the wolfhound’s head.

Lupercus and Dindrane had never been particularly close, but even Tina had admired the eagle that could have been a mirror replica of it’s counterpart in the Great Seal of the United States of America. Dindrane - recruits whispered that the bald eagle could see everything. Especially the clumsy habits of new hires; there were rumors that Dindrane’s unblinking gaze was a particularly effective assist in interrogations.

She had been powerful and beautiful, a badge of honor, and she -

Percival Graves had been found clutching what might have been an eagle. The most that could be said about it was that it was bird-like. Feathers plucked, broken wings so much char, beak shattered, talons ripped from her feet -

And for all the qualities Grindelwald’s nameless wolf-dæmon possessed, opposable fingers were not among them. That amount of damage - that kind of damage - would have had to have been delivered by human hands.

Tina wanted to vomit. Wanted to cry and scream and shout at the taboo of it - there was a word that no one dared share, one that hovered, unsaid, in the air between them. There was a word for those that forced themselves upon others.

And there had been one last thing.

Dindrane‘s proportions hadn’t been anything near to those of an eagle. Not anymore.

**

Re-Settling after a traumatic event wasn’t entirely unknown.

Newt had even seen it before - in the War, and during the aftermath. Strange, what people discovered themselves to be on the battlefield, when they found themselves doing things and being things they’d never thought themselves capable of. Newt had seen monkeys turn to butterflies, and leopards shift to wolves - not often, but he’d seen.

Axolotl huffed behind him, a laugh that held nothing of humor; Newt ignored her as he bent over the prone body of the other man.

Right. The point was that a settled dæmon re-settling into an entirely new form was - not common, but not unheard of. The problem, however, appeared to be that no one could figure out just what had happened to Director Graves’ soul. Or, more precisely, just what shape his dæmon had taken for her own. Harder still to tell when the small crushed form was swathed in bandages and smeared with salves.

Until someone, apparently, had remembered that Newt was, in fact, a licensed magizoologist. With extreme familiarity with - quite a vast array of animals, in various conditions ranging from healthy to - not healthy. The latter far more often then he’d prefer, personally, but - well.

“She’s not an eagle.” Newt murmured softly, eyes tracing the arch of one wing. “The wings are all wrong - “ He frowned slightly. “Too small as well. Too small by far.” There was a shiver to one side as Tina clasped her hands together; Newt shot her a quick, apologetic wince before returning his eyes to the devastatingly still form.

The frown deepened as Newt mentally ran through a list of the more common avians - raven, crow, sparrow, falcon, eagle, bluejay, chicken, pheasant - no, no, no, and no. The size was wrong, proportions didn’t match, the angles were off -

“I’ve seen this kind of bird before.” He had. He had, he knew he had. But - where? Axolotl was a firm, steadying presence at his side, and - his own dæmon. Something tickled the edge of his mind. Axolotl was to him as Percival’s unnamed dæmon (really, no one had bothered to introduce her) was to him. Yes, there was the obvious, but there was something more. Something about the specifics of his and Axolotl’s interrelationship was mirrored in Graves’ own connection to his soul, and -

Oh.

Oh.

Newt stared at the body sleeping in the hospital bed in outright wonder. “Oh.” The words were tiny, seeming to come from a long, long way away.

“Newt?” Tina was at his side. “Do you - what is she, Newt? What - “ and he could hear her swallow. “What’s happened?”

“I - “ Newt plunged a hand in his pocket, searching frantically for paper, for a quill, for - he had to write this down. He had to make notes he had to take so many observations. “It’s incredible.” Axolotl was shimmering forward, her own wings half-raised - Tina shrank back instinctively as his dæmon shoved past her to stare greedily at the prone patient. “I must take notes, I didn’t think this was possible, I -” Newt’s head snapped up, hand stretching out in a futile gesture of warding. “Axolotl, don’t - “

A horned head sank; Newt watched, his mouth dropping, as the Common Welsh Green’s snout brushed, with utmost delicacy, against a small form wreathed in bandages.

Fire exploded into being; the heat hit them like an eruption as the sudden light scalded their eyes - they might as well have tried looking into the sun. Newt was dimly aware of an alarm ringing in the background, the frantic rush of feet and the cries of startled magicians - “Tina, don’t!”

Newt grabbed Tina, jerking her away and curtailing her instinctive lunge towards the hospital bed. “You can’t!”

“Newt, let me go he’s burning let me go!”

“No! You can’t interrupt!”

The flame billowed higher, and for one split-second his own dæmon was outlined in incandescence - dragons had an extremely high heat tolerance, Newt reminded himself. He wasn’t worried. 

He wasn’t - all of his attention was fixed on the shape moving in the heart of the fire. On the song rising through the air - rusty and unfamiliar, but growing in strength and surety with every moment until the melody was a scream of joyous triumph.

The phoenix settled into place, plumage shining the red and gold and glory of a living flame. 

**

Dindrane chirped, head tilting to the side as she stared curiously at the strange dragon.

Percival Graves opened his eyes. 

**

“For a star to be born, there is one thing that must happen: a gaseous nebula must collapse. So collapse. Crumble. This is not your destruction. This is your birth.” - Zoe Skylar.

Newt’s choice of daemon was inspired by prettybirdy979's "What is Essential is Invisible to the Eye".

[queserasera2001]

Jan.12

God I fucking hate the words abuse and trauma. I hate what they do, I hate their talons. Like porcupine needles, with little downward barbs that make it easy going in, and rip on the way out; hooking into the skin and refusing to leave unless it takes something or some part of you with it. Crafted to cause the most possible pain it can. 

It’s still in my body, in my head, behind by throat and in my bones. It’s in my body and it’s very hard to separate myself from it. I like to wallow just as much as the next angsty artist, trust me, but I also think im relatively solution oriented, so I can't help getting frustrated with the idea of FIXING it. I’ve acknowledged it  (as far as I can tell,) and now I’m like, what next? How do I move from here? Do I just wait and gradually continue to learn and maybe one day heal enough to be in a relationship? Or do I put myself through some sort of “exposure” angle and jump into god knows what situations to trigger and desensitize myself? Not feeling like I have many answers about this today. 

WHAT I AM AFRAID OF: 

Afraid of living in fear, in an environment of fear and anxiety. Unpredictability and being scared every time I see him. Walking on eggshells and living in an unstable environment. I am scared of being hurt, not physically but emotionally. I am afraid of being my mother, falling in a deep hole for periods of time and irrevocably hurting those around me. I am afraid of being resented, hated, disgusted once someone knows me long enough or deep enough. I am afraid of having no options, or feeling stuck, of ending up in a cycle like I've seen. I’m afraid I’m destined to get a divorce. 

NOW, in the short term not long term, I am afraid of not being desired. I am afraid that maybe someone may initially think I am “intriguing,” whatever, but my awkwardness will act as a barrier. I am afraid I am incapable of liking anybody that would like me back. I am afraid of finding out that men aren't what I want or need them to be. I am afraid that I wont be able to connect with anyone, that no one will want me. Im afraid that if someone wanted me I wouldn't be able to accept it. Im afraid of being irrevocably damaged, hurt, broken and will become a broken love addict like my parents. Im afraid I wont be able to heal if (when) I get my heart crushed. I’m afraid I will be a horrible kisser and won’t be able to learn or give my partner what they desire. I’m afraid that I wont be able to turn him on, be desirable to him. Im afraid that even if it’s possible that we are physically compatible and attracted to each other, he or I wont be willing or able to wait for sex. I’m afraid that it will be horrible if it did happen. Im afraid I wont find someone capable of waiting. 

#1, ABOVE ALL, IM AFRAID OF MISSING OUT. IM AFRAID I AM GOING TO MISS OUT ON (POSSIBLY) THE MOST MEANINGFUL EXPERIENCE OF THE HUMAN EXISTENCE. 

[scaryastheyseem]

Animorphs October day 15-16: AU + Confessions

Tw for canon-typical body horror + canon-typical discussion of child death and endangerment

It’s weird, the things we don’t know about our parents. My parents have known me since the day I was born. They could tell you the name of every friend I’ve ever had, every food I don’t like, every teacher I’ve had since kindergarten. They know every time I had been sick. They remember every birthday party and every broken bone, every Halloween costume and bad dream.

 On the other hand, I didn’t that my parents had names until I was six years old. They were just ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’, until the day that my aunt called the house and asked for someone named Loren, and I learned that Loren was my mom, and Alan was my dad, and that they’d had entire lives as Loren and Alan, almost thirty years apiece before I came along.

 I still couldn’t tell you what they were like as kids. Or what their hobbies are now, or the names of any of their friends. That’s not because I don’t know. It’s because any information I give you about my parents could be used to find out who they really are.

 I won’t even promise you that my parents’ real names are Loren and Alan. Or tell your our last name. Even that could be enough for the Yeerks to track us down. And I can’t let that happen.

 Usually, it’s parents who have to worry about keeping their kids safe. They make sure they’re eating enough vegetables and aren’t staying out too late or going to parties where there might be drinking. If they’re like my dad, they keep us from watching violent movies and lecture us on the dangers of teen alcoholism like once a week, because my dad takes the very special episodes of Boy Meets World way too seriously.

 My mom says it’s because he worries about us, and that I shouldn’t let it bother me. I act like it does anyway, because that’s what a normal kid would do, and I like to think that I’m still pretty good at pretending to be a normal kid.

 The truth is that it doesn’t bother me. I know that my dad’s right to be afraid. Even if it’s not for the reasons that he thinks.

 See, my parents don’t know everything about me, either.

--

I coast back in through my bedroom window, so tired that it’s a physical ache, like someone’s reached into my body and wrung out my bones. Two years ago, I didn’t know that you could be tired enough that your vision blurred. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to find my open window on instinct, or glide through it on the silent wings of an owl and land on my headboard with no more sound than any other owl would make catching a mouse. Which is to say, no sound. Most people don’t think of owls as scary, because even the biggest ones only weight about three pounds. But they’re some of nature’s most silent and deadly predators. Silent flight. Talons that could crush a human’s hand. Better vision than humans at any time of day, and better hearing, too. Most of their prey die without knowing what hit them.

I hopped down onto my pillow and started the slow shift back into human. Morphing takes a long time, and demorphing takes me longer than it takes the other Animorphs. I’m not bad at it, exactly. It’s just that sometimes, when I’ve been in morph for long enough, I forget what it feels like to have arms instead of wings. Or teeth instead of fangs, or wavy blond hair instead of the curled horns of a bison, my battle morph. None of the others have this problem. I don’t know why I do.

 My toes split and shriveled. Marrow pooled in my bones. The other thing about morphing is that not only does it take a few minutes to go from human to animal and back, but the in-between phase is completely disgusting. I caught sight of myself in the mirror on my closet door. I was back to my full human height, but my face was still mostly screech owl, with huge yellow eyes and a thin beak where my mouth and nose should have been. Tufts of feathers stuck out of body at weird angles, and my fingers were still fused into long, chunky wings. I looked like a rejected design for the baby alien in Alien, or like somebody had skinned Big Bird. In short, totally gross.

 Which of course, was when my dad walked in.

 My already-human ears didn’t hear him coming until he was already opening the door. “Tobias,” he started to say, and then stops, eyes going wide. I froze. There was nowhere to hide, and no way to convince him that he was dreaming, or that this was all a trick of the light. It was a full moon, which had been convenient for our mission, but was now just letting me dad see that I was only maybe three-quarters human. My owl eyes saw every detail of his face as it sagged in shock, the color draining from his skin. I heard his T-shirt wrinkle as he sagged against the doorframe, the wood creaking as he gripped it for support.

 Jake’s going to kill me, was the first thing I thought. Or he’s going to kill my dad. Or Dad’s going to call the cops, and one of the cops will be a Controller, and then we’ll all be dead. I have to stop him before he calls the police.

 “Dad,” I tried to say, but it came out as a squawk. My vocal cords were still mostly bird, my lips hard and grey like a beak. I needed to get human, and say something, anything, that would stop him from screaming long enough for me to—what? Explain that I’d been given the power to turn into any animal I touched by a dying blue alien named Arbron, and that the reason I’d been making so many new friends lately was because we were fighting a guerilla war against mind-controlling alien slugs bent on enslaving humanity by masquerading as a coed youth charity organization? He’d think I was on drugs, or insane. Or worse, he’d tell me that I’d had a bad dream, that the stress of work was getting to him and making him see things. I’d go back to bed, and the next thing I’d wake up to would be Controllers swarming our house and dragging me and my mom and my sister down to the Yeerk Pool to be infested, while the thing in my father’s body looked on in approval.

 See, we’re pretty sure that Jake’s the only one of us with a Controller in his house. Ax keeps watch on our families while we’re at school, and the only one of them who goes to Sharing events—or inexplicably vanishes for hours on end, locked in a cage by the Yeerk pool while the slug controlling them soaks up Kandrona rays—is Tom. But we never really know.

 If my dad’s a Controller, I thought, I might have to kill him myself.

 “Tobias,” my dad said, “Are—are you morphing?”

 --

 We sat on the bed together, my dad in his sweats and old MIT T-shirt, me in the worn-out leotard that was the only clothing I could morph. My scalp itched where my dad was staring at me. I kept lifting my hand to scratch it, thinking that maybe there were still some feathers left in my hair. But it was just my dad staring at me like he always had when he thought I wasn’t looking. Like he thought that Abby or I would vanish into thin air if he took his eyes off of us for a second.

 “Does Mom know?” I asked.

 My dad nodded jerkily. “Loren knew me before I was human.”

 “But—how?”

 “She was abducted, abducted by a Skrit Na ship, along with another human. My fellow aristh and I were tasked with rescuing them and returning to earth.” His lips thin. “The mission became—became complicated.”

 My head spun. My mom had been in space. My mom had been abducted by Skrit Na, the dumpster divers of the galaxy. She’d been brought into space, and then met my dad, because my dad was an alien. An Andalite. An Andalite aristh, which meant he’d been a warrior at some point, or at least a warrior in training. Which was insane in its own way. I love my dad, but I was never one of those kids who walked around on the playground boasting that he could beat up everyone else’s dad. My dad was a California pacifist hippy, the kind of guy who goes to environmental rallies and puts bumper stickers on his Prius that say Give peace a chance, and meant it, and only owned a Prius because he was too uncoordinated to ride a bike. He had a stutter and shook hands like he was participating in an exotic foreign ritual. He cried during E.T. I mean, he didn’t even eat meat. It was impossible to picture him in battle. Impossible to picture him killing anybody, the way that my friends and I had.

 I love my dad. I love my entire family, so much that it scares me, sometimes. It’s why I’ve never been able to get mad at him for being so overprotective, even when it makes sneaking out to do Animorphs things way more complicated than it is for someone like Rachel or Marco, whose parents have probably never seen a very special episode in their lives. I thought I understood what he felt when he looked at us. The deep and terrifying love that comes from knowing just how easily the people you care about could be gone forever. We both felt it, even if it was for different reasons.

 Of course, it turned out that I didn’t understand at all. My dad’s fears came from a place that was a lot closer to mine than I’d thought. I suddenly got the insane urge to laugh, and had to bite down on my tongue to stop myself. All this time, we’ve been wondering when the Andalites will arrive to save us, and there’s been one in my house this whole time, warning me about the dangers of online chatrooms and making sure that I wear a jacket.

 When I was sure that I wouldn’t break into a hysterical giggling fit, or possibly start screaming and never stop, I said, “Does Abby?”

 “No.” He didn’t have to tell me not to tell her. Abby’s ten. She likes Archie comics and science books and learning baseball statistics. There are plenty of things a ten-year-old doesn’t need to know.

 “Are you going to tell Mom that I know?”

 “I already have.” He inclines his head towards the door, and I realize, thoughtspeech. This whole time, Abby and I thought that our parents always won at Catchphrase because they’d been married for so long. Weird that I’m thinking about Catchphrase. My dad is an Andalite. Was an Andalite.

 When I’d brought up my demorphing problem to Marco, thinking that maybe he’d felt the same thing, he’d looked at me like—well, I’d seen how Marco looked at me when I grew a third eye. This was weirder. “It’s two hours, dude”, he’d said. “I think it’d take me a lot longer than two hours to forget what it was like to be human. I mean, setting aside the issue of anyone ever forgetting this handsome face, have you forgotten about opposable thumbs? Buffalo can’t play Nintendo.”

 Of course, at that point Cassie’d had to chime in and tell him that my battle morph was an American bison, and then tell me that there wasn’t anything wrong with me. “Maybe your sense of self isn’t rooted in how you look,” she’d said, which would have been nice if it was true, like most of the things Cassie said. “I mean, you might not be the fastest morpher—“ She refrained mentioning that she was the fastest morpher, which was also very nice “—but you’ve always been the best at controlling new morphs, even ones with really strong instincts. You were the first one to fight off the ant morph, remember? You have an innate sense of Tobias that has nothing to do with the body you inhabit.”

I didn’t tell her that I thought the truth was something different. I thought it was just easier for me to come unmoored from my body. I wondered how long it had taken my dad to forget what it felt like to be an Andalite. I wondered if he was like me, and had forgotten quickly. I wondered if he still remembered.

 Sometimes when he was in human morph, Ax would shift his head like he was trying to use his stalk eyes to look around. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen my dad do that, but there was no way of knowing.

 “She’s making us tea,” my dad said, and it took me a moment to remember who he was talking about. My mom. Who’d known all along that her husband was an alien, and knew that I knew, which meant that were were probably going to have to have a whole other conversation about this.

 My dad reached out, slowly, so that I was prepared when he wrapped his hand around mine. I clutched his bony fingers in my fat ones and held on tight. Maybe some guys would’ve thought it was dorky for their dad to hold their hand, but I figured that I’d been fighting aliens an hour ago, and I could hold my dad’s hand if I wanted to.

 “I’m sorry,” he said.

 “What?”

 “I thought I was saving you,” he said. His voice sounded strained, like he was talking through a chokehold, and I knew that if I looked up at him, there’d be tears running down his face. He sounded exactly like Jake when he was trying not to lose it on a mission. I kept staring at our hands. My dad’s wedding ring, the hot-glue gun scar on his thumb, my total lack of callouses or scars or any sign that anything bad had ever happened to me at all.  Our bodies regenerate from our base DNA after we morph, and your DNA doesn’t store injuries. Even my chewed-up fingernails would come back whole. For all that my dad was a hippy, I’d never heard him cry before, and I knew that I didn’t want to see it. Just hearing it felt like my stomach was hollowing out. It was worse than Jake crying, because for all that Jake’s our general, he’s still technically another kid. My dad’s an adult, and he’s my dad. He might have been a pacifist hippy, but I guess part of me still thought of him as totally unflappable and capable of fixing all my problems, no matter how much I knew that it wasn’t true.

 “You and Abby. War is—war is a terrible thing, a terrible thing.” He was stuttering bad, the way he did when he got cut off in traffic or misplaced a semi-colon in his code. “I thought Earth was safe—safe and peaceful. They had just had a war. Loren said it was terrible, terrible, there wouldn’t be—another. Not this time. So—you would be safe. But instead you’re fighting your own war, you and these other children. Children.” He shook his head. A tear dripped down onto the back of his hand.

 Part of me wanted to scream at him for ever trusting that humanity could change for the better. For thinking that a species that invented the atomic bomb and then kept having wars would suddenly decide to lay down their arms and plant flowers. I suddenly thought of the psalm framed above his dresser. And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, and neither shall they learn war any more. I always thought it was weird that it was on my dad’s side of the bedroom and not my mom’s. She’s the religious one. Ax told me that Andalite culture was mostly based around the military, but that before their long war with the Yeerks, they’d been nomadic grazers who wrote poetry about the beauty of how trees framed rivers.

 Rachel had snorted, and said that she couldn’t imagine any of the Andalites we met writing poetry, which had been my first thought too. But my second thought had been: Oh, that sounds nice. Like after the war was over, I’d like to wander and write poetry too. Maybe my dad had thought the same thing. I could be mad at him for taking that chance. Nothing I could say would unravel time until he took my mom—Loren, the girl he’d met in space—back to his homeworld and let Abby and I be born under a red sky. Or not be born at all. I don’t want that, and I need him to know that I don’t. That my life is violent and painful and worth living; that he gave me a life worth living.

 “It’s not all bad,” I say. “I mean, I get to fly. I’ve been a bird. I’ve seen the whole Santa Ynez mountains from above.” I tighten my grip on his hand. “That’s—that’s worth a lot terrible things.” I don’t’ have the words to tell him about the feeling that flying gives me. Feeling the wind rising under my wings and knowing exactly where I’m going, and how to get there, and that when I do, it’ll be under my own power. It’s like freedom, bottled and purified. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.

 I can’t tell my dad that, but when I look up at his face, it’s lifted towards the window, where a few stars peek through the orange smear of the street lights. I can see tear tracks drying on his face, but he’s not crying anymore. “Yes,” he says. “I had forgotten. There is a certain joy to flying.”

 --

 My parents read a lot of books about how to be better parents. There’s a shelf of them in the basement. The Aware Baby. The New Baby. Siblings Without Rivalry. Raising Boys. Raising Girls. Raising an Emotionally Intelligent Child. Raising Positive Kids in a Negative World.

 I don’t know what any of those books said about what to do after your husband tells your kid that you’re an alien, and your kid tells you and your husband that he turns into animals and fights aliens after school. My mom had made tea, which as a response to family strife seemed like it would cover a lot of bases.

 We sat around the table in the kitchen, which felt overlit and yellow and slightly fuzzy around the edges, the way that kitchens are in the middle of the night. I drank my tea. My mom brought out a bowl of edamame, which no one ate.

 “You have to stop fighting,” she said.

 “We can’t,” I said, dully. “We’re the only ones standing in the way of the Yeerks completely conquering humanity.”

 “You’re children,” my dad protested.

 We were fifteen—mostly, Cassie and Marco hadn’t had their birthdays yet—but I was pretty sure that bringing that up wouldn’t do us any favors. I think that as soon as you turn into an adult, anyone under the age of eighteen might as well be a kindergartener as far as you’re concerned. There was a big difference between somebody my age fighting a war and somebody Abby’s age doing it, but try explaining that to my parents. “The Yeerks don’t know that,” I said instead. “And we’ve been doing a pretty good job so far. We destroyed a Kandrona generator that was supposed to be installed in a homeless shelter tonight, to transform it into a Controller recruitment center. That’s a couple hundred people we saved from being enslaved, easily.”

 My parents both looked shocked. I didn’t know if it was because I was talking so casually about aliens, or because I’d all but admitted that I’d killed somebody two hours ago. A few somebodies. I was pretty sure none of them had been humans, but then, neither was my dad. I imagined that I could taste Hork-Bajir blood in my mouth. I took another drink of tea.

 “What about the Andalite fleet?” It was mom who said it, which surprised me. The world Andalite sounded even weirder coming out of her mouth. “Have you made contact with them? Surely they’ll want to oppose the Yeerks on every front possible.”

 “We’re not an urgent case,” I told her. I could hear how flat my voice was, but the energy it would've taken to make myself sound gentle was so far beyond me that it might as well have been on the other end of the galaxy. “They’ll be here in three years. Maybe two.”

 My dad’s lip curled in anger. “I’ll contact them myself. They’ll listen to me—“

 “Will they, Dad?” I cut him off. “Will they listen to an aristh who abandoned his post? A voluntary nothlit? I’ve met Andalites; they’re not exactly accepting of alternative lifestyle choices. What makes you think that you can say anything that Ax hasn’t already?”

 “Then give me the morphing power.”

 It’s not what I’d been expecting him to say. My mouth fell open in shock, and he steamrolled on, stuttering but staring me down. “If you have the, the morphing power, then you must have an Escafil device. I may be a nothlit, but even a nothlit, even a nothlit can regain their morphing power, and acquire morphs in their new body. I’m an adult, an Andalite. I know the Yeerks, their strategies, their ships.”

 “Me too,” my mom said. She reached out and touched my shoulder. “I might not be an Andalite, but I’m not about to let my son risk his life without at least trying to keep him safe.” She paused. “Also, we can both drive, which I imagine would be helpful.”

 Weirdly, it sounded nice for a moment. I wouldn’t have to lie to my parents anymore about where I was going or what I was doing or why I was staying out so late. And they were right. They were adults. At least theoretically, it was their job to take care of us. To make the hard calls that Jake makes now, when there aren’t any good options. The ugly calls when there are good options, but the bad ones will hurt the Yeerks a little bit more. Or keep us alive for one more day. Or eliminate a threat that needs to be eliminated, no matter what the cost.

 I thought about David.  A bat cracking across my beak. Jake choking on his own blood. The terrible thing that Rachel had to do. I closed my eyes. “I’ll have to talk to Jake,” I said.

 “What does that mean?” my dad said.

 At the same time, my mom said, “Jake?” She said his full name. “That Jake? The sleepy-looking one who roots for the Padres?” My mom’s a Dodgers fan.

 “He’s our leader. Our war-prince,” I added to my dad. Though maybe my mom knew what a war-prince is, too. “If anyone’s making new Animorphs, it’ll be him making the call.”

 “He’s fifteen,” my mom protested.

 “I trust him, Mom. With my life, like once a week.”

 Her face got red and blotchy, which meant that she was about to start crying. My dad made a choking sound. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry we let this happen to you.” I stared at the chip in my mug and thought that I should have feel more awful about making my parents cry, twice. Or at least that I should have feel more awful than I did tired.

 I thought about explaining to my parents that the last time we’d given somebody else the morphing power, he’d snapped and tried to sell us out to the Yeerks before almost murdering half of us and forcing us to trap him in the body of a rat. That just made me feel more tired.

Mostly, I thought, I could have told them, all this time. I’d been lying to my parents for a year and a half. About my slipping grades, about why I was so tired, about what I was doing with the new friends that they were so relieved to see me make. About why I kept waking up screaming in the middle of the night. And all this time, they would have understood. Maybe better than anyone.

 “Dad,” I said, “Dad, I—I killed someone.” I hold out a hand like maybe he can see it, even though I’d used my back to crush the Hork-Bajir’s ribcage with a single blow and send them stumbling into Marco’s outstretched arms. Even though it had been my horns that had ripped someone open, stomach to sternum. Even though I’d demorphed inside the swimming complex at the Y and washed my feet and head off in chlorinated water before remorphing and flying home again, just like I did after every battle.

 I didn’t know how the others washed the blood off. I’d never asked.

 “I killed someone tonight,” I repeat, and my dad closes his eyes but he doesn’t flinch away from me. He wraps his hands around mine, and I think, this is what he will look like when he’s old. Then I think, he’s already old.

 “I love you,” he says, and I think of all the things I could tell my father.

[williamfripp-blog]

The Darkness

The darkness had become, if not a friend to, then at the very least familiar to Maurice De Valle. He had been sent here to this moldering, dank, rat infested cell at the bottom of the Bastille’s bottomless pits to rot, and rot he had done, by his own reckoning, for seven long years, but it could have been longer. He occupied his mind during the first months and years with the injustice done him, with plotting and planning for his revenge, savoring the imagined and oh so slow death of Christophe Laurent. Even now, his fingers clutched spasmodically into clawing talons as he imagined the throat of his enemy beneath his gnarled hands, groveling as he had groveled, begging for his pitiful life as he had begged for his, and then as Laurent’s lips turned blue and his eyes bulged from their sallow sockets he would cackle and laugh and then Laurent would die, die like the cheating, lying swine he was, die for casting him into this Hell on earth. But his vengeance would be denied him, he knew. He would continue to live to spite Christophe in this filthy hole, but vengeance would be denied at the last, for he could no longer stand or walk; his eyes would never see the light of day again. Year after year of the profound, pitch blackness of the pit had stolen his sight and he imagined that if he could once more gaze into a mirror and recognize his own visage, he would see only sunken sockets with eyes that had gone milky white, the eyes of a ghost in the face of a ghoul long dead in mind and spirit, a homunculus animated only by hate and malice and despair. These were his attributes, now. These were his reasons for living. Christophe Laurent had been his rival from childhood. For his entire life De Valle had been jealous of Laurent’s lofty station by way of his birth into the Aristocracy, his infuriating manner, his aloof condescension of De Valle and his family, commoners who had risen from peasantry to find a place in what passed for a middle class in a society where the poor and the rich were as divided as they could possibly be; by birth, by custom and by the basic necessities of life. De Valle’s father had worked himself to death by the age of forty, working the land, growing the finest grapes in the dark, loamy soil of the Parisian countryside, providing for his family and earning Maurice, the only child of four that lived into adulthood, an education and a relatively comfortable position in a world he hated, a place where he was just worthy enough in Laurent’s eyes to be low bred trash. There were other Aristos to hate, that much was sure, plenty of them, perfumed fops dressed in finery expensive enough to provide food for countless families and children, children who were spurned and spat upon by these same so-called gentlemen and women who would rather have them kicked to death than give them the scraps from their gilded tables. De Valle had sworn as a young man never to become one of them, to never allow himself to degenerate into a sneering, fat self-appointed Lord over his fellow man, to never become what he hated with every fiber of his being, to never turn into Christophe Laurent. His aversion to Laurent and to people like him turned De Valle, instead, into a bitter, hateful man whose loathing for his perceived nemesis expressed itself in his bearing, his speech and his language. He goaded Laurent at every opportunity, stalked him from theater to restaurant, to parties and gatherings and even to his home, making himself a visible and vocal irritant at every occasion, intent on making Laurent’s every waking hour impossible to enjoy as befitted an Aristocrat, harrying him, berating him in front of his Aristo friends and colleagues until, at last, Laurent could stand no more and hauled De Valle before the dock. Laurent, for his part, had no real hatred for De Valle, regarded him as merely a ne’re-do-well and a nuisance, and simply wanted a respite from the constant hounding De Valle seemed intent on heaping upon him and his acquaintances. He sued De Valle and had him publicly humiliated, forced into silence through the threat of imprisonment and broken financially. De Valle became insane with hate and using the last of his meager holdings began drinking heavily. His fevered mind was full of spite and he prayed to gods and devils alike to deliver him from the indignity of his sorry state, to restore to him his rightful station and property and to rid the world of Christophe Laurent, indeed, of all the Christophe Laurents and those like him. This became his singular purpose, his only ambition in life; destroy Laurent as Laurent had so easily and utterly destroyed him. His drunken ruminations had led him down the dark back alleys of his imagination; every sort of torture and humiliation occurred to him and in all of them Laurent suffered, oh how he suffered, until at last he cried out and his breath left him and he died. But how to accomplish it? Hire an assassin? Stage an accident? Poison his family well? Eventually, the devils and the wine made the decision for him. One chill winter evening he went and retrieved his rifle and in a blind, fogged rage, began the hunt for Christophe Laurent. Not finding Laurent out, he went to his home, hid in a grove of trees bounding the property and waited for Laurent to show himself. Finally, just when it seemed that De Valle might sober up and go home, he saw the door open, a rectangle of candle light shining like a signal through the gloom, and in that glow was silhouetted the figure of Christophe Laurent. De Valle aimed his flintlock, bleary with wine and fatigue, and squeezed the trigger. The touchhole flared as the powder ignited and the report knocked De Valle backward to fall unceremoniously on his backside, the rifle flung from his grasp. His shot went wide; he heard the sound of glass breaking. From the house he could hear a woman screaming through his drunken buzz and it occurred to him that he had done it! He had killed Laurent! He struggled to wobbly knees then staggered to his feet and half ran, half stumbled in the direction of the screams and upon arriving was thunderstruck to find Laurent not only alive and unharmed, but in fact quite animated, shaking him by the shirt front and screaming at him. De Valle’s bullet had indeed struck a member of the Laurent household. It had struck their house servant, a slave girl, in the temple and killed her instantly. The trial was a short affair. Had De Valle actually killed Laurent or his wife or children, he would have surely faced the guillotine, but since the victim was a slave, he was instead sentenced to imprisonment in the Bastille, where many entered but very few ever returned intact. Laurent, being an influential man, saw to it that De Valle’s living quarters were as mean and base as possible, and so De Valle was dragged howling to the pits, beaten and left to die. That was seven years ago. Seven years of abject solitude, the only human contact being the delivery of what passed for food through a foot wide slot in the bottom of his cell door and always, even when the slot was opened, there was the darkness, the cruel, unrelenting darkness pressing in on him, crushing him as surely as if the ceiling had collapsed and made this cell his eternal resting place. Seven years of the creeping, scuttling denizens of the earth, crawling over and around him, biting and scratching him, until he found that by consuming them in between servings of the thin gruel that was his breakfast, dinner and supper, he could in turn sustain his meager life, keeping alive his hate, hoarding it, saving it for that unimagined day when at last he would be vomited out from the bowels of the prison. So he ate as many of the many legged things as he could catch, not knowing what exactly he put into his toothless maw, simply crushing them with his gums and swallowing. The rats had long ago learned not go too near the wretched figure in the corner, had lost too many of their cousins to it, watched it eat them screaming and raw and so they waited as well, waited for the day when the thing in the dark finally stopped shrieking and lay still so they could, in turn, repay it the favor. And so Maurice De Valle rotted, body and soul, for those seven years in hell and now he choked on the bile in his soul as he realized he would die here, his revenge never realized, only fantasized, and that Christophe Laurent would live on without punishment, would die an old man with his family around him, in luxury and comfort and peace. It ate at his humanity, as the insects ate at his flesh, and he cried aloud, now, in his extremity. “Laurent! Laurent! You who are my bane, my mortal foe! Oh what would I give to see you suffer!” “Ah, but you have nothing left to give, De Valle.” De Valle shrieked at the unexpected voice in the darkness and shrank back into his corner, hugging his knees to his body. He fairly quaked with fear as he strained his ears to catch some sound, some evidence that he was indeed not alone in the darkness, or that finally his last shred of sanity had fled him. “Who…who is there?” he whispered tensely. “The instrument of your release, my friend,” came the reply, the voice low and gravelly, unmistakable in its malevolence. “I…I don’t understand! Who are you?” “You know who I am.” “I do not! I do not know you!” cried De Valle. “WHO ARE YOU?” “All who dwell in this place know me, De Valle, all whose souls are forfeit, all for whom the light is void. I am he whom you call Death.” “Death!” moaned De Valle, “Death! But it is not my time! Not Yet! Not while Laurent yet lives!” “Fear not for Laurent. At the last, his breath will fail him as you have envisaged, as it will with all men and I will come for him, as I come now for you, Maurice De Valle.” De Valle’s flesh crawled on his bones as he heard the unmistakable sound of movement and suddenly into his blinded sight stepped the figure of a man, tall and stooped, covered from head to toe in a shadowy glow somehow blacker than the all-encompassing darkness around them and as it reached for him, his final terrified shrieks were cut short as it’s bony grasp closed on his throat. And so Maurice De Valle died. He was discovered five days later when it was noticed his gruel had gone uneaten, and the story that passed around the fires in the cold Parisian winter told of a prisoner found dead in the pits of the Bastille, his arms in rigor outstretched as if fending off an unseen attacker, his blind eyes open, his face contorted in a rictus of dread that stayed with him even as finally, along with his hate, his body was interred into the frozen earth.

[overwatchworks]

Not Allowed:

Really late for this but it’s loosely based on the first McGenjiweek prompt “I Love What’s Not Allowed”.

You can read it here on Ao3 too.

He knew love was supposed to hurt sometimes, but it always made up for that in the good times. At least, that was what everyone said. So he did not really understand why he felt like his was muted. He did not hurt that bad and he did not feel all that good. 

There was a lot of things love was supposed to do for people that it did not for Jesse.

Jesse McCree thought he knew what love was. Thought a little bit of charm and a splash of infatuation was all it took to have someone love him back. To feel the same way he thought he did about them. 

First it was with the boy down the street of his little house in New Mexico, the one that would come over and play with him outside in the summer sun. They would wrestle and run and share candies and a soda from the gas station in town that shut down soon after that. Jesse would smile at him and laugh, thinking that the grin brighter than the sun that he got in return was love. 

Then, he told his Mama, and she yelled at him, forbade the boy from coming back over. Jesse had not understood why at first, but as he grew up, he saw his mother’s nerves when he was with other boys and watched her pray that her son would not disgrace the Lord. Bullshit, was his next thought. 

There were many throughout the years, they came and went. He loved his Mama dearly, but it took her some time to come to terms with who he thought he loved. Sometimes, Jesse wondered if she ever really did. 

It did not matter after she passed and he was left running to Deadlock for a spot to put his delinquent ass, starting up the gang with another person he thought he loved. Ashe was sharp tongued and an even sharper shot, and Jesse thought the admiration and envy he felt was love. She had money, people who respected her, and power at her fingertips. Jesse liked that, liked the way he felt at her side. Mistook that feeling for it being her doing, and got a punch in the jaw for it. She had been red as her eyes, though, Jesse laughing it off and did not try again after that. 

His version of love tended to rise quickly and fade even faster after he was turned down or it was discovered to be lust rather than love, a pattern that repeated itself and got his heart broken more than a few times. 

The next time he thought he had been in love was something dangerous. Gabriel Reyes was a hard man, but he was giving towards Jesse. Helped him back to his feet and gave him a good path to follow when he had nothing going for him. A puppy crush, was what they called it after Reyes gave him a hard shake of his head and a firm “No”. 

Jesse found his interest faded quickly once more after getting a blunt lecture about it and shrugging it off. Would have been a bad idea anyways, in hindsight. Besides, Reyes had his eye on someone else. 

He knew love was supposed to hurt sometimes, but it always made up for that in the good times. At least, that was what everyone said. So he did not really understand why he felt like his was muted. He did not hurt that bad and he did not feel all that good. There was a lot of things love was supposed to do for people that it did not for Jesse. 

Years passed and Jesse did a lot of growing up in them, the missions in Blackwatch hardening him more than even Deadlock had. He understood why Reyes was so tough after seeing the chaos the world could fall into, when they were tasked with reigning it in and not letting anyone know they were on the brink of global disaster. Sure, the Omnic Crisis was over, but there were still wars waging in its wake and organizations like Talon rising from the ashes. 

The inside jobs were the worst, and often left them with less people coming out of them than those that went in. Or, on special occasions, they gained a member. On one occasion.

“Mission Log 3887, Shimada Castle. Time: 02:32. Location: Blackwatch Headquarters, Rome. Commander had me doing scout and recon, the usual since I had been posted in Japan. Then, we got a distress call around 22:58, somethin’ about our inside man needing help. Comms went dead after that, so Reyes sent me in to check it out. Found our man—or what was left of him—in a pool of blood, limbs hangin’ off, lots of him missing. Gruesome stuff I’ll save the gnarly details of for the medical reports on the poor kid.”

Jesse exhaled slowly, rubbed his eyes and blinked a few times. Itching for a cigarillo to chew on or some nicotine to calm his nerves.

“Apparently, it was fratricide. I don’t really know the ins and outs of it, but whatever happened was rough. I’m surprised he’s still alive. Anyways, we got him outta there and back to Angie, er, Dr. Ziegler, and he’s gettin’ put back together at the Swiss Headquarters. He’ll be shipped back to us when he’s ready, already signed the deal and all that. Shimada clan business is still on our radar, but until we get this guy back on our side, it’ll be put on hold. Shimada Genji is his name, I think. And other than him, there were no casualties. It was a quiet mission through and through. End report.”

Jesse sighed as he set down the earpiece he had spoken into, reading through the transcription and muttering darkly over the words it had trouble identifying from his accent. He sent it off to Reyes when he was done, leaning back in his bed and staring up at the ceiling. It had been a quiet mission, but seeing Shimada in all that blood was still giving him nightmares. 

He wished he could leave out the gruesome details from his mind as well as the report, but as it was, they stayed burned into his memory. Shimada had still been choking on his own blood, the bottom half of his jaw torn from his face, throat constricting, eyes rolled back. Strange scars covered the one arm he still had and laced over his face, like a burn but darker and in his veins. Legs cut from behind, bone twisted and flesh ruptured. 

Jesse rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. It was awful, the smell of iron and ozone still stuck in his nose. With another sigh, he set aside his tablet and tried to get some sleep.

-

The weeks passed and Jesse forgot about Shimada for the most part, too caught up in his own issues and missions keeping him busy to be worried about someone he did not see on a regular basis. But then, he was seen on a regular basis. Genji Shimada showed up to Rome like a shadow, his eyes dark and glowing red. Body an amalgamation of metal and wires and synth skin. Scars where there was flesh, though, he hardly had any of that left. He barely spoke, kept out of sight for the most part, and did his job with ruthless efficiency. 

Even with all he did to avoid the people around him, Jesse still managed to find a way to be near him. Sometimes he even impressed himself. Genji was cold towards everyone, and the cowboy was no exception. He did not mind, though. Talking to himself was better conversation than Genji provided, and being in a Talon interrogation chamber had held more welcome than the ninja did. He did not mind that, either. 

Having teammates to work around seemed like a chore to Genji, all the mandatory training and mission work something he did alone as best as he could. When he could manage to shake Jesse off his back. The only person who had not been deterred by the rather obvious signs he was putting out. 

Jesse knew defense mechanisms when he saw them, and Shimada had been through hell and back before he was shoved down into a new level of it. Anyone would be distrusting and distant after what he had gone through, after signing his life away to an organization that only valued him for his deadly skillsets. Jesse knew the story, he had been there and lived it too. Still did, but at least his chapter was not so binding. 

Even with all that Shimada did when he should not have and did not do when he needed to, Jesse still enjoyed hanging around him. He was genuinely interested in learning more about Genji, wanting to gain his trust, if possible. 

Training was the easiest way to do that, when the ninja had to show up and pick a partner or work with a team that generally had Jesse in it.

“You’ll be working hand-to-hand today, a lot of you are getting too reliant on having a long-range weapon on you. Partner up with someone in your skillset, and I’ll move you if I see you need to be moved,” Reyes ordered, Jesse looking around to see if Rei was close to him. They were well matched when they sparred occasionally in the gym, and Jesse considered himself one of the more well off of the group of them when it came to hand-to-hand. Training with Shimada forced him to be better at it. 

He waved at her when she came into view, and she motioned to a free spot on the sparring mats. And then Shimada was walking up to him, staring up at him with those red eyes expectantly. Jesse paused, glancing at Rei over the ninja’s shoulder.

“Hey, uh...Sorry, partner, but I was already paired up with...” he trailed off, motioning towards Rei, who had her arms crossed over her chest, brows raised. Shimada turned to look at her for a moment, then scoffed, the sound quiet as it was filtered through the metal of his mask, eyes shifting back to Jesse.

“You are better than her and you know it.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t say that.”

“I do. And no one else is a decent match for me,” Genji shrugged one shoulder, the movement striking Jesse as odd since the rest of his body did not quite move with it.

“But I am? C’mon, Genji, you beat my ass into the mats every time.”

“You’ve gotten better.”

“Not good enough, though. You’re outta my league on this one, bud.”

“Do not call me that.”

Jesse raised his hands placidly, smiling a bit.

“Sorry, I forget sometimes. You should train with Reyes, he’ll actually give you a run for your money.”

Shimada’s brows furrowed, Jesse about to reach out to pat his shoulder consolingly before he remembered that it was a very bad idea that had already gotten him into a real fight with the cyborg and a black eye by the end of it.

“We can spar some afterwards if you’re feelin’ up to it, how’s that sound?”

Genji did not answer him, merely sighing and turning on his heel, heading towards the commander. Jesse watched him go, only shaken from it by Rei calling for him.

“Oi! You coming or what? I can’t spar with the air!”

“Yeah, I’m comin’!”

Jesse jogged over and sank into a defensive stance he had learned to relax into from Genji, something with enough distance between him and a metal fist to the gut and room to dance around the ninja’s attacks. Except he was up against Rei, who circled him like Reyes had taught them, light on her feet but firm in her stance. Jesse kept his eyes on her hands, his own held up to his face protectively. Waited for the first move. 

Rei struck fast, but Jesse avoided easily. Genji was faster. He ducked beneath the follow up punch, shifting his weight and turning his hips into the hook he caught her side with. Rei stumbled back with a wheeze as Jesse hopped back into his regular stance, still on guard. Pulled back and spun when she overcompensated just slightly on her next punch, landing a kick that pushed her back again. There was a frown on Rei’s face as she finally caught his next strike, shoving it down and away from her shoulder.

“Where’d you learn to kick like that?” She asked between heavy breaths, Jesse shrugging.

“You get hit with them enough, you learn how to do it for yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I think I’m well on my way through that lesson...”

Jesse grinned and motioned for her to come at him again. They went back and forth, trading punches and blocks, Jesse getting wrestled to the ground and managing to twist his way out of a lock. He was back on his feet not a moment later, a blur of red catching his eye over Rei’s shoulder. Shimada sparring with Reyes. 

He moved like water, flowing around the commander’s more rigid style with a flurry of attacks that seemed to land every time. Sweat dampening his hair, body folding a bit as he caught the kick Reyes sent his way. Jesse’s eyes followed the way his spine arched, the metal pieces of it moving almost hypnotically. Then, he was punched in the jaw.

“Fuck—!”

“Shit, sorry, Jesse! I thought you were looking at...What were you looking at?” Rei asked as she crouched next to him, glancing over her shoulder. Jesse rubbed his jaw, eyes still not leaving the way Shimada danced around the commander. It truly was like a dance, each step effortless in the way only years of training could make it, his body spinning and twisting around attacks and into his own smoothly. Like he only felt comfortable in his body doing this. Doing what he was made for. 

Jesse was caught staring when they took a break in their round, Genji’s eyes flicking over to his. They held his gaze just a beat too long. And then Jesse did what only he did best. Gave a grin and a wink, and probably ruined a whole lot of things. 

Genji shook his head and finally looked away, Jesse’s smile growing as Rei made a sound of realization.

“No, don’t do that, Jess. You’re gonna get gutted if you keep that up.”

“Says who?”

“Says the look in his eyes. I wouldn’t go after someone like that. Hell, I wouldn’t go after anyone here at all. It’s not gonna end well.”

“Yeah...You’re probably right.”

“I know I am. Now will you please pay attention so I don’t get my ass roasted by Reyes for punching your face? I’ve already done three hundred push ups today.”

“Fine, fine.”

-

Genji tore himself apart during missions sometimes. Did not quite avoid a bullet here, stayed in the line of fire to deflect just a little too long there. Wires ripped and sparking when he came limping back, the red light in his eyes flickering. Jesse had a feeling that part was not because of a mechanical malfunction. Muttering darkly to himself in Japanese as he swiped a mix of blood and those strange biotics that kept his cybernetic system running in synchrony with the human parts of him from his hands. Black mixed with crimson, those eyes flicking to Jesse when he came over to survey the damage Genji had done. Both to the Talon forces and himself.

“They didn’t stand much of a chance, huh?”

Genji never answered his tries for small talk, not when he was like this. Now was not something special. Jesse holstered Peacekeeper, sighing as he pressed his comm.

“Jefe, we’ve cleared sector five.”

“Good work. Sending in evac, stand by for Fio’s confirmation.”

“Copy that.”

Genji shifted by his side, gaze cast down as he rolled a Talon agent over gracelessly with his foot. Part of their face could be seen from where Jesse had put a bullet through their helmet.

“I wonder if he thought he was doing the right thing, or if it was not really his choice...” he murmured, tone cold and unfeeling. Something about it was distant, as most things he said were, like he was lost in memory. Jesse barely caught it, frowning a bit as he glanced at the cyborg.

“Probably just doin’ what someone told him. Not sure it’s that deep.”

“Just following orders.”

“Yeah...”

“That was the only thing he could do right,” Genji hummed, straightening once more and gazing out at the city lights in the distance, hair moving slightly in the breeze. The cords on the back of his neck swayed lightly, shoulders rising and falling steadily with his breath.

“I wonder if we are any different.”

Jesse took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, raising his brows with a crooked little grin.

“Can’t say if I’m completely sure we ain’t, partner. Though, I’ve never been particularly good at doin’ everything I’m told, I got a different kinda noose around my neck.”

“And what’s that?”

“Lil’ somethin’ called loyalty. To a fault, some might say. That’s where I think we are different than these guys. They’re just hired guns. Us? We’d take a bullet for our team. I’d die for you guys, almost have. Everyone here would. We got connections, teammates, a family where we never had one before. It’s one of the better things about being pulled into this organization, if you ask me.”

The ninja went quiet again, Jesse looking over at him and putting his hat back on. He was surprised to find Genji’s eyes already on him, something curious behind them. Something hidden further back that Jesse could not place.

“You are rather optimistic,” he muttered, Jesse laughing.

“Maybe I am. I’ll end up payin’ for it when it all comes to an end, but while we’re all still here, that keeps me straight.”

There was another long pause, Genji shifting his weight, fingers flexing.

“I suppose it is not a bad thing until it is.”

“Ain’t all things that way, to some extent? I can’t say I agree with everythin’ we’re up to on these missions, but I do know it keeps people safe in the long run. That we’re keepin’ the peace as best we can while we’re at it. Until somethin’ happens to show us it was wrong this whole time, which will probably end up happening, knowing our luck. But until then, we just do our best and stay alive, just like anyone else would.”

“We are not like ‘anyone else’.”

Jesse grinned, chewing on the end of his cigarillo.

“Nah, I guess not. Philosophical conversations ain’t really my forte, I prefer just takin’ each thing as it comes. Reality is hardly ever what we like to imagine it to be, that’s the only truth I’ve found. And I’ll probably be in the ground next to these guys sooner than finding out anythin’ else.”

Genji stared out at the city skyline again, eyes flickering over it as he thought. Always thinking, always pondering, always lost in it. Always so obvious to read, always impossible to read.

“Perhaps you are right.”

“All we can do is find out.”

“You boys ready for a ride home?” Fio announced over the comms, Jesse jumping slightly at the intrusion, cursing softly before clearing his throat and recovering with a grin.

“You betcha, sweetheart. Thanks for rememberin’ us.”

“How could I forget my favourite cowboy?”

“Aww, darlin’, you’re makin’ me blush!”

Genji rolled his eyes, standing a little stiffer and crossing his arms over his chest. Jesse nudged him good-naturedly with his elbow, getting a glare in return but nothing more. Back to his usual aloof demeanor.

“Stand by for pickup, ETA two minutes.”

“Copy that.”

-

“Don’t fucking touch me! Just leave me alone, McCree! I don’t want your fucking hovering!” Genji shouted, Jesse backing away with a glare as his hand was slapped away. Upgrades had left the cyborg stiff and uncoordinated, his shoulders shivering slightly with the whir of his machinery. His eyes flickered and he stumbled again, hitting the wall with a thud. 

Jesse watched him. Simply watched. Saw his fingers curl and hands go up to clutch at his arms, leaving indentations in the flesh and synth skin, his eyes going wide as he gasped and fumbled at the faceplate, hands shaking. Saw it clatter to the ground and Genji follow it, knees hitting the linoleum hard. 

Saw his face, the scars, the metal of his jaw, the raw line where skin met it, the pieces of his face that were missing covered with a sculpted vision of something that was not quite human. His mouth parted—just what the bone would look like, no synth skin or lips yet, like something dead or burned—a static sounding cough leaving him. Sweat dripping down his brow, hair sticking to it, wires hanging around his face. Jesse knelt, and whether Genji did not have the strength to push him away or not, he allowed the grip on the back of his neck.

“You’re panicking. Just breathe.”

“I-I’m not panicking I’m—I can’t breathe I can’t feel anything but it all burns, it burns, Jesse it hurts so much I—”

“Listen to me. Just listen to my voice. Your systems are probably just gettin’ used to the things they’ve done to you, it’s no different than last time. Just breathe, you’re in control.”

“I can’t see, I can’t see you—” Genji cut off with a choked sound and began rambling in Japanese, his hand whipping up to grab Jesse’s forearm. It hurt, his grip tight enough to leave bruises. Jesse would wear them the next day, and neither would say anything about it. 

They had done this before, played the game. And they both lost, every time. 

Jesse waited it out with Genji, let him tear at his arm and mutter and stare at the floor, lost somewhere in his head while he murmured softly in return to just breathe, Genji, you’ll be fine, I promise. Until he was fine again, or some weak semblance of it. 

Until he had his knees pulled to his chest, hiding his face between them and the arm he laced around them, hand sliding down Jesse’s arm to slowly, slowly take his hand. They did not talk about this part either. The calm after the storm. Some days it was worse than others, and all things considered, this was one of the better episodes. 

Jesse squeezed his hand lightly, nothing more than an affirmation that he was in the present, that his reality had not been stolen from him again. That was all Genji needed. That was all Genji allowed.

-

Jesse took a drag off his cigarillo and blew the smoke up into the brilliant blue of the sky in a slow stream. He was sprawled out on the roof behind some crates and watch towers, one arm tucked beneath his head and eyes closed. There were a few empty beer bottles between himself and Genji, the ninja not having any but seeming rather amused at how loose Jesse had gotten in the past hour. 

He was not drunk to the point of sloppiness, no where near that, and the beer had been too cheap to do much to him anyways. It was just to take the edge off of what the nicotine could not. To relax for a few hours without that constant nagging train of thought in the back of his mind. 

Genji seemed less tense as well, if the way he closed his eyes against the breeze and turned his face up to the sun was any indication. It was nice, seeing him at ease. As if he was forgetting, even just for a few moments, how much things hurt. 

Jesse tapped him with his foot, grinning a bit, the alcohol running through his system making his mouth run more than it already did. Genji glanced at him, raised a brow.

“What’cha thinkin’? I know you’re always thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’, and I’m sure it’s interesting.”

Genji tilted his head, then shrugged.

“Not much, at the moment, if I am being honest. Which is a nice change.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You...You make me feel at peace, in a strange way.”

Much quieter this time, Jesse cracking his eyes open and squinting a bit against the light.

“Well that’s awful nice of you to say.”

“It is simply the truth. You do not judge me, even though you have seen more of what I am now than anyone else besides the doctors,” Genji murmured, his fingertips gracing over the cowboy’s stomach. Featherlight touches, barely there. Jesse’s brow furrowed.

“You talk to me still, you train with me. You make me feel like a part of this team. You make that small part of me that still desperately wants to belong somewhere feel at home.”

There was a long stretch of silence between them as Genji’s hand came to rest over his heart, fingers rubbing the fabric of his shirt. And then he leaned over, pressed his faceplate to Jesse’s lips where his own would be, and ruined a whole lot of things. Jesse froze. Stared at Genji when he pulled away, sitting up and fixing his hat.

“Gen, I ain’t that drunk,” he muttered with a shake of his head. And oh, that was not the right thing to say at all. Jesse knew as soon as it left his mouth. Watched the words hit Genji like a physical thing, his eyes widening slightly, darting away. He stood abruptly.

“Forgive me.”

“No, wait, Genji—Don’t just run away from this, if you’re gonna pull a stunt like that, you can’t just leave now—”

“I should not have done that, I’m sorry, I—I did not think...I was not thinking.”

Jesse reached out, taking Genji’s arm, making him stay. He did not fight it, but he did not look at the cowboy either.

“Genji. You can’t be serious.”

“I-I was not.”

“No?”

“It was my mistake, we can just blame it on the alcohol.”

“You didn’t drink anythin’,” Jesse reminded him slowly, Genji shaking his head.

“I will not do it again, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t—I ain’t mad about it, but I also know it’s...I mean, us? Really? The way we are now, the mess of who we are? It ain’t the best idea, trust me. It’s not that I don’t like you or anythin’—”

“Jesse. You do not have to explain. That was uncalled for on my part, and I understand. You do not have to reciprocate what was my mistake,” Genji murmured, his shoulders stiff and eyes narrowed, glaring at the ground. Tone cold and abrupt.

“You ain’t even gonna listen to me now?”

“What more is there to say? You told me no, I should not have done that, now let me go.”

Jesse did let him go, but he did not immediately run off like he had expected.

“So that’s it then? We’re gonna pretend it didn’t happen without even talkin’ it through?” he asked, arms going out to wave uselessly before slapping back against his thighs. Genji did not reply.

“Alright. Alright, you know what? That’s fine. I’ll let it go like I do for everythin’ else you do that I really shouldn’t let you get away with. It’s alright, Genji. We’ll say it never happened and walk away from it like we always do. If that’s what you really want, so be it.”

“It is.”

Jesse shrugged, nodding and giving a halfhearted lopsided grin. Genji’s fists clenched and unclenched, but he still had not left.

“Okay. See you at trainin’ then, partner. But one last thing, before you go,” he raised a gloved hand, eyes hardening as he pointed, lips pressed in a tight line. “If you are actually serious, lemme remind you that I won’t always be around when you decide to tell me the truth. I only gave caution, not a no.”

An offer. Another way out, should the ninja want it. A choice to make, one Genji could allow the both of them. But Genji turned, walking away without a backwards glance. Jesse stared after him, breathing in deep. He spat out his cigarillo and put it out under his boot, hands on his hips as he looked up at the sky. It finally hurt the way people always said it would. And he had not even known he was falling until he hit the ground.

“Damn you, Genji Shimada...”

~~