#Sometimes when things get better it can taste so... metallic. Bitter. It makes you wonder | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lesdemonium · 3 years

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Error Pining

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 2750 Summary: When his djinn wish goes wrong, Jaskier finds himself unable to speak without excruciating pain. Geralt tries to fill the space himself. AN: a gift exchange fic written for @smuggsy for @thewitchersecretsanta. thanks so much for giving me an excuse to write physical whump for jaskier!

read on ao3 Before their argument, Geralt had been hazy, unfocused, and in dire need of sleep. He was still in dire need of rest, but now every sense was on high alert. The smell of blood and pain was so sharp, so strong, it left a metallic taste in his mouth and he just barely resisted the urge to try to clear his tongue of it. His eyes went wide, wild, as he tried to find the source of the blood. In a distant sort of way, he registered that he had been cut in their scuffle, but it wasn’t his blood he smelled. It was Jaskier’s.

Jaskier was doubled over, clutching at his neck, the djinn bottle long forgotten on the ground. His eyes met Geralt’s and he opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out before he was blinking away tears and dry heaving onto the ground. The hand around his throat was so tight Geralt wondered at how he could breathe, had a wild thought that maybe it was Jaskier’s own hand that was causing his scent to spike in pain and fear.

“Jaskier, what’s happened?” Geralt asked, bending over and hauling Jaskier back up by the collar of his doublet. Jaskier went, and when he tried to speak again, only a weak whimper came out before his face contorted in pain. His hands scrabbled at his throat and his eyes were so wide Geralt felt like all he could see was white, white, white.

“We’ll fix this, whatever it is,” Geralt promised him. Jaskier nodded weakly back.

They made it to the elf, Chireadan, who was less help than Geralt was hoping for. He asked Jaskier questions, and every time Jaskier attempted to answer, the same bitter taste of blood and pain and fear settled heavily within Geralt. The third time it happened, Geralt nearly punched Chireadan. Couldn’t he see this was hurting Jaskier?

“He can’t talk,” Chireadan finally settled on, and the look Geralt gave him must have been murderous, because he took a step back when their eyes met. “I can’t tell you more than that. Its origin is magical, and I have nothing that can reverse it. Something is ripping apart his throat whenever he talks.”

Jaskier let out a muffled hum, a desperate sound, that soon choked out and was replaced with the heavy scent of blood.

“Sounds like not only when he talks,” Geralt said, and Chireadan’s grimace seemed to agree.

They were sent to a witch, Yennefer, but she wasn’t much help, either. She tried through the night, with Jaskier in a deep sleep, but when he awoke, nothing had changed.

“I can’t do anything until you open your mouth to speak, bard,” Yennefer told them, and to her credit, she did look at least a bit remorseful. Or perhaps simply annoyed her magic couldn’t solve it. “Since I highly doubt you want to be singing as I fix you, there’s not much I can do for you.”

“Then how do we fix this?” Geralt asked, his voice tight.

Yennefer smiled and patted Jaskier’s hand condescendingly. “Have you considered a vocational change?”

They left, Jaskier silent and mourning beside Geralt. Yennefer’s advice was to track down another djinn, as Jaskier was unable to make the wish himself. Geralt thought this was a fool’s errand, and that Vesemir would be more help.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt said as they laid down to sleep that night.

Jaskier’s response was to turn over and go to sleep.

Traveling with a silent Jaskier was difficult for both of them. Every time Geralt looked at Jaskier, he seemed dimmer. At first, he still played his lute, but as they continued to travel and Jaskier’s throat continued to rip itself apart whenever he made even the softest hum, even that seemed to lose appeal to the bard. In taverns, Jaskier stared down at his mug, surviving the evening until he could turn in.

Geralt found he missed the sound. The silence beside him was uncomfortable, and made Geralt feel hollow. This felt as if it was his fault, as if he was the one hurting Jaskier whenever he made a sound. If he hadn’t been looking for the Djinn in the first place, Jaskier’s wish wouldn’t have backfired, and now Geralt wouldn’t have become acquainted with Jaskier’s forlorn face.

It took three days for Geralt to start talking, instead.

“Did I ever tell you about the griffin I fought outside Carrera?” Geralt said, offhand, as they traveled one day.

He chanced a glance at Jaskier, only to find the bard staring back at him, a curious expression on Jaskier’s face. Jaskier’s lips were pressed tightly together, as if he was trying to remind himself not to speak up, and he squinted at Geralt. He looked almost suspicious. Geralt didn’t blame him. It wasn’t often that Geralt offered up his stories without a request, but Jaskier deserved something, and Geralt couldn't take the silence anymore.

So he told the tale, sparing no detail. At some point, Jaskier took out a notebook, and furiously scribbled the tale down. Often, Geralt had to stop, think about what sort of questions Jaskier would normally ask him, and try to answer them on his own. By the end of his tale, Jaskier was smiling. Despite his discomfort, Geralt smiled back. The remainder of the day was easier to bear.

As they traveled, Geralt told Jaskier of his contracts, as many as he could think of that Jaskier hadn’t already been there for. When he couldn’t think of a new story, he explained to Jaskier the difference between the vampire types, or the exact effects Swallow had on him. He felt silly, like he was play-acting as a professor, but it made the time go by faster. It also made Jaskier lighter, brighter, and eased something inside Geralt.

At night, when they were safely at camp, Jaskier began to play his lute again. Initially, they were the same songs Geralt had heard before. Jaskier’s songs, famous ballads written by other bards, lively drinking songs. As their travel wore on, though, Geralt began to hear songs he had never heard before. Soft, mournful things. Jaskier never met Geralt’s eye when he played these songs, but he did sit close to Geralt, so close that sometimes their arms would brush as Jaskier shifted up and down his lute. Geralt liked these songs best. He hoped, one day, he would get to hear Jaskier sing them.

These nights made Geralt brave.

“I ran into Eskel here, once,” he said. Jaskier didn’t stop playing, but he did look up, his eyes wide, his face open. “I don’t cross paths with the other witchers as much as I would like. You would like Eskel. He plays nice far better than I could. Doesn’t need a bard around to keep him in line around nobles.”

Jaskier bumped Geralt’s shoulder and they shared a grin. Geralt turned his gaze back to the fire and took a deep breath, but a moment later Jaskier nudged him again, this time with his knee.

“Yes, okay,” Geralt said, nodding. “I’ll go on. We were in the trials together. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to family.” Until now, his mind helpfully supplied. Geralt cleared his throat, as if to smother the thought. “You really would like him. He’s… thoughtful. Polite. Keeps his temper better. A better witcher, too. He’d make a better subject for your songs.”

Jaskier stopped playing abruptly. He placed his lute gingerly back in its case, then leaned into Geralt’s side. His arm snaked around Geralt’s, intertwining them before he fit their fingers together. Like they belonged there. Like their hands had always been meant to hold each other.

When Geralt looked up, his mouth felt dry. Jaskier’s eyes were so big, so beautiful, and he felt like he could see everything Jaskier couldn’t say in them. Geralt swallowed, heavily, and tried to speak for them himself.

“I’m.” He paused, wet his lips, tried again. “I’m glad you’re here. You make it easier. I feel less… alone.”

Geralt looked away, now. Back at the fire. Jaskier didn’t nudge him back this time, and didn't try to get his attention. Instead, he hesitated only a second--Geralt could feel the way he started, then stopped, then started again--and rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. They stayed like that until Jaskier’s yawns could no longer be ignored, and they had to turn in for the night.

Geralt missed Jaskier’s voice most in the morning.

It was no secret that Jaskier was terrible when he first woke up. Grouchy, whiny, wheedling every which way. He hated mornings and he hated getting up early and would always be dead to the world for the first hour or so that he was awake.

Despite this, he always wished Geralt a good morning, even if it was gruff and his smile was more of a grimace. As he started to wake up, he’d often tell Geralt about his more ridiculous dreams. Often, Geralt was sure he had fabricated them entirely, just to make Geralt roll his eyes.

Now, Jaskier always woke up in pain. He’d groan first thing in the morning, or whine, or make some other sort of noise, and immediately his entire body would seize up in pain. Geralt had gotten softer in his approach to waking Jaskier up, trying to ease him into consciousness, to avoid the pain. It worked sometimes, but Jaskier was still too hazy upon first waking to remember why he couldn’t make noise. Then his eyes would fill with unshed tears as he desperately held out his hand for the waterskin. It didn’t seem to help, but at least it was an action Jaskier could take.

They survived. Hearing Jaskier’s silence never got easier, still left Geralt feeling hollow, but it became easier to fill the silences himself. Jaskier got better at expressing himself through the way he touched Geralt. Geralt had a feeling that had never been a skill Jaskier lacked, per se, but that he had only recently been allowed to touch Geralt. Now, he was taking his fill.

Geralt wondered how much time he had lost without Jaskier’s easy affection.

To get Geralt’s attention, Jaskier would grab his knee as Geralt road Roach, or press a hand between Geralt’s shoulder blades. He fingered Geralt’s sleeve nervously when they were in taverns and he had nothing to do with his hands. He would take Geralt’s hand as they walked through a crowd so they didn’t lose each other.

Geralt’s favorite touches, though, were still in front of their campfire. The trees around them, the stars in the night sky, the light of the fire and the way it crackled, all of it was beautiful, but it was nothing compared to the way Jaskier leaned against Geralt. Jaskier pressed himself into Geralt’s side, often allowing Geralt to wrap his arm around Jaskier’s shoulder or waist. Jaskier would play his lute, would play his soft, lovely songs, that had grown more hopeful as time went on. Geralt would tell Jaskier stories about growing up, about trouble he, Lambert, Eskel, the other wolves, had gotten into. He told Jaskier about the trials and let Jaskier comb his fingers through Geralt’s hair to comfort him, though Geralt insisted he didn’t need comforting. He told Jaskier about Renfri, about Blaviken, about his mother. Geralt told Jaskier everything.

Everything except about the way his heart hammered in his chest as Jaskier looked at him. Everything except how he sometimes dreamed of Jaskier’s voice, and woke up with a longing he couldn’t put to words. Everything except how he wanted, more than anything, to kiss Jaskier, but couldn’t be sure what Jaskier wanted.

“Can I… be honest with you?” Geralt asked one night.

Jaskier turned to him just enough to roll his eyes at Geralt. As if Jaskier could stop him, the look seemed to say. Jaskier turned back to his lute, but his playing got softer, as if he was trying to give Geralt the space to speak.

“Right,” Geralt said. He paused, took a deep breath, rubbed the hem of Jaskier’s shirt between his fingers. “I don’t. I don’t know if Vesemir can help.”

Jaskier stopped playing and stiffened somewhat. But he didn’t turn around, didn’t put his lute down. Only stopped and waited.

Geralt swallowed thickly. “I hope he can. I think he’s our best bet. But, short of finding another djinn for me to make a wish… I don’t know how fixable this is. Unless we went back to Yennefer and had her heal you while you sing--” Jaskier let out a shiver and the stench of fear overwhelmed Geralt. “I know. It’s not good. But I don’t know how else to fix you if Vesemir has no ideas.”

Jaskier took a deep breath. He remained stiff against Geralt, but now he started playing again. His song was sad, mournful again, and Geralt’s heart ached with it. He wished, more than anything, that he could fix this.

“I’m not giving up,” Geralt whispered, some time later. “We’ll find something else to try. We’ll fix this eventually.”

The sound Jaskier made wasn’t quite a scoff. It was more a sharp exhalation, dismissive and--maybe Geralt was reaching here--a bit wounded. Geralt lifted his hand, hesitated a moment, then ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier leaned back into the motion, until his head fell back on Geralt’s shoulder.

“I mean it, Jask,” he said. His mouth felt dry again. “I miss your voice. I miss the lyrics that would go with your songs, even the ridiculous ones. I miss your jokes, your incessant complaining, the way you flirt with everyone and sometimes wink at me as you do it.”

Jaskier pulled away, and Geralt froze. Apparently, he had overstepped somewhere. He forced himself to look at Jaskier, but instead of discomfort or disgust, he found shock. Awe. Jaskier put his lute away, his fingers lingering on the clasps of his case, then he returned to Geralt’s side. After another moment of hesitation, Jaskier shifted, climbing over Geralt’s lap. Jaskier cradled Geralt’s face with feather-light touches as he leaned in, pressed their foreheads together.

“Jaskier, I--” Geralt started.

Geralt trailed off, then wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist. He didn’t know how to accept this from Jaskier verbally, he didn’t know what to say, but he could hold him. Jaskier let out a relieved breath, and Geralt felt the gust of air against his lips. Geralt touched his fingers to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier pressed a hand to Geralt’s heart.

“You’re so much better at words than I am. I wish--” He trailed off again, thumbed along Jaskier’s cheekbone, held the back of his head. “You can’t tell me what you want.”

Jaskier’s breath sounded almost like a laugh, just before he leaned in to touch their lips together. The kiss was short, simply a way to test the waters. Jaskier pulled away, only for Geralt to drag him back in for more. Jaskier sighed into Geralt’s mouth and Geralt swallowed the sound, wished desperately he could hear more, wanted to see what all he could pull from Jaskier’s throat.

It was this thought that had Geralt pulling away. Jaskier’s eyes looked hazy, his smile dopey and big, as he stroked the side of Geralt’s face and his hair. He looked the happiest Geralt had seen him in months, since before the djinn had taken away his voice. Geralt kissed him again. And again. And again. Jaskier accepted every time.

“I wish you could talk. I want to hear your voice,” Geralt whispered into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier whined a little, then reared back, just as Geralt flinched away, his arm suddenly burning. Jaskier’s hands flew to his throat and Geralt ripped back his sleeve to see a second mark, just beside the long-forgotten injury he had gotten when they squabbled over the amphora. Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed as he considered the mark, wondered after what in the world caused it, only for his focus to be dragged away by Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and his face broke out into the most brilliant grin. “What--I can talk again. It doesn’t hurt at all!”

Jaskier was still laughing as he dragged Geralt in for another kiss, which Geralt readily accepted. This time, he didn’t hold back any of his sounds. Each one was more beautiful than the last.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geraskier fanfic #geraskier fanfiction #my writing #not me taking lyrics from my favorite christmas song #despite this not at all being a christmas fic #no sir #anyway i gotta tell you sitting on a fic for a month was WILD #hope you enjoy it!!!

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Chapter 32)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: The usual. Soft Ivar, again, hope you don’t mind

A/N: I have nothing to say lol. Idk how I feel about this chapter, but I hope you like it! And thank you for reading!

Ivar’s fingers move up and down the skin your backless dress leaves exposed, trailing over the invisible lines each night and each morning he barely grazes when he helps with the laces of your dress. You noticed, a few dozen repetitions of that simple caress ago, that Ivar lingers for a few fractions of a breath on the burn scars that peek over the right side of your back.

You’re nestled close to his chest, holding onto the amulet of Thor that hangs from his neck, tracing the small details on the metal Mjolnir. It is as easy as breathing, to lay here and bask and forget there’s a world past this.

It doesn’t surprise you, really, that it is so easy to sink into comfortable familiarity, into easy intimacy. It always was.

You found early on strings that tie you together, that make you move seamlessly against one another, both when his temper rises and yours to meet it, and when his walls crumble and you stop pretending yours ever existed.

“Tell me a secret.” Ivar prompts you, and when you lift your eyes you find him already focused on you.

“A secret?”

“I want to know something about you that no one else does.” He states simply, to which you frown.

“You know many things about me no one else knows.”

“One more, then.”

You look into his eyes, pale blue eyes you know by heart by now, and after swallowing past the knot in your throat, you offer,

“Sometimes…sometimes I wish I never returned to Eleusis. I wish I could have come here with my mother, accepted my Fate, lived another life,” You smile, “I wish I could have found you earlier.”

“Do you believe we would have met?”

This time you don’t resist the urge to lean in, to kiss him and delight yourself in the soft sound Ivar breathes over your lips, in the way his eyes always seem to hesitate to open after you kiss him.

Against his lips, with your eyes firmly set on his, you offer another truth you haven’t dared tell a soul,

“Now or then, it wouldn’t make a difference,” You shake your head softly, pressing your brow against his. The weight of how long it has been, how much has changed, since you first heard these very words from him settles in your chest, right before you whisper them, “I believe the Gods sent you to me.”

There are words you cannot utter at the tip of your tongue, and your foolish heart makes you think you see those same words written in Ivar’s eyes.

But the words that would become chains if uttered remain trapped within you, for Ivar steals your breath and your words with a bruising kiss.

He demands entrance to your mouth, which you freely give, and with a whimper you muffle against his lips, he makes you surrender to his kiss. To the heady feeling of his mouth moving over yours, of his tongue dancing with your own; to the electrifying feeling of his hand at the back of your head, of his fingers tightening over your loose hair.

You once told him if we name things, we make them real. You told him real things are dangerous things.

Real things can be broken, real things can be taken from you.

And you think even then he listened, even then he took your words to heart. Because in the urgency of his kiss you feel the edge of desperation you’ve felt for so long.

The need for more time.

____

Later that night, when your heart has been allowed reprieve and it settles back to a normal pace, you lay in the darkened room on your back, Ivar’s head resting on your chest, his arm solid and warm around you, his breaths making a thrill run down your spine every time they caress the top of your breasts.

You’ve known for a long time you want him, you’ve known for almost as long that Ivar wants you too.

Yet, because of what life and what its cruelty made out of him, because of what he made out of himself by building those walls; he stops himself, he stops you.

There’s no end to your desire to kiss him, to touch him, to draw each and every sound you can from his lips. And it seems Ivar shares the sentiment.

But there’s something to be said about the intimacy that grows when you share your life with someone for months before even daring to give yourself to them, and to your doom or your salvation, Ivar and you are capable of reading each other very well.

And so you notice when the quickened breaths no longer mean desire, but fear, but apprehension, but the desire to step back. And so you notice when his need for breath is not one he can satiate while you press kisses down the column of his throat, but one he needs to fulfill by holding you at bay, by grasping your hands and keeping them from exploring.

And you understand, you truly do. And you do not wish to push him, you do not wish to be yet another experience he will years later still feel the burn of humiliation from. But you do have the feeling it is Ivar’s mind, and his insecurities, and his past; what’s stopping him, and not his body.

Because you may not be the most experienced of women, but you are quite sure you can distinguish a man’s arousal when it presses against you as you straddle him.

Still, you stop when he tells you to, you step back when he needs you to.

And as he steals your breath with hungry and demanding kisses, or with the softest touch of his mouth on yours, you try to ignore the pool of want low on your stomach that burns you from the inside; and as you hear him make a soft sound of pleasure against your lips, or whimpers your name in a shaky breath, you try to stop yourself from making him do it again and again and again.

Because for as many times he makes you stop and step back, he brings you back to him, tugs you closer and claims your mouth, drags hungry lips down your neck, lets curious hands wander and touch and grasp.

And you might lose your mind soon.

Still, much like what life has been for you since Fate took you to Ivar’s side, in between whirlwinds of chaos that steal your breath, there’s times of calm where you can forget there’s a world past him.

“What do you think could have been?” He starts, and you don’t think you’ll ever cease to be marveled at this new softness in his voice, this tranquility born out of feeling safe and…and loved. Gods, you can’t say it, but you hope he knows. “If you had come here instead of Greece.”

You whisper how you don’t know who you’d be if you didn’t have two strings of Fate tugging you each on a different direction, and Ivar gives you the answer as if it were simple.

“I could have been happy.” You reply without hesitation.

Ivar’s answering smile is tired, but strangely bitter.

“You know, one of the last things my father told me was that happiness was nothing.”

You frown, “Do you agree with him?”

“I don’t know,” He confesses, settling better in his place, almost nuzzled against the column of your throat. “I don’t know what…what happiness feels like. If it feels like…this, it is…

His words die, and you stay silent, feeling him take a deep breath. Ivar moves the arm that was a familiar weight over your waist, and extends his hand to grasp for your own, intertwining your fingers. You notice his gaze focused on the contrast of his hand against your own, before he speaks again, voice hushed,

“It is terrifying.”

This is the first time you’ve ever heard him admit to being afraid of something. You dare think it is the first time anyone has heard him admit to the existence of something that can terrify him.

It breaks at something within you that that something is something as simple, something as natural and as vital as happiness.

“It doesn’t have to be.” You whisper hoarsely, and you let your hand caress his hair, his shoulders, his back, wherever you can reach.

Much like earlier tonight, only this time you trace over the muscles of his shoulders not to delight yourself in the way you can make him tense and tremble under your touch, but instead hoping for the release of tension and the return of peace; you press firmly on his skin not so that you reassure yourself of what is yours, but so that he can be reassured you are there.

Ivar only hums in response, but doesn’t answer.

You close your eyes, leaning your cheek against the top of his head, for a few moments of weakness lingering in the world that could have been.

____

The dawn breaks before you’re ready for it to, finds you straddling Ivar’s hips and your hands moving with your words as you tell him of Constantinople and the wonders within it.

“They’d look at us strangely. What a pair, I suppose, the Varangian shieldmaiden and the Attic healer,” You chuckle at your own memories, “We’d speak in your language just to make them fearful.”

“You spoke in a language the Saxons understood and they still feared you.”

“Feared me?”

“Stithulf didn’t surrender you to me out of the kindness of his heart.” Ivar reminds you, bringing a softer smile to your lips.

“What a pair we make, then. The Viking King and the Greek witch.”

Ivar’s lips curve into a smile as well. A little bloodthirsty, but they always are.

And because you can, because in the few breaths that go by with his eyes on yours you find your heart quickening, because in the way his hands trail from your thighs up you know he feels the same; you lean down and capture his lips on yours.

When you pull back, you meet Ivar’s eyes and allow yourself to get lost in his smile. You don’t think in all the time you’ve been here you’ve seen him smile like this. Free, open, vulnerable.

Your hands find support on his chest, but you only have eyes for that smile. Not the Gods themselves could stop you from draping yourself over his body, capturing his mouth and tasting that smile on your tongue, feeling it pressed against your lips, hear it the soft little sound Ivar muffles against your kiss.

You pull back again, because you have to. Your hands on either side of his head, his strong body pliant and trusting underneath yours, his hair wild and mussed by your fingers, his lips still bearing the mark of your kiss, his eyes dark and hungry, his skin bearing the reddish tint of your effect on him.

Your breath stutters past your lips, and Gods, your heart will never settle to a normal pace after this. You aren’t going to be able to return to life as it was before this. Before him.

Whatever it is you are to say is quietened by the knock on the door. You move to get off your husband, but Ivar’s hands are firm on your legs, keeping you astride him.

He cranes his head back, and yells, “What!?”

“Ivar!” You hiss, looking at the door with wide eyes.

He dismisses your concerns with a soft squeeze of his hand on your thigh, “They won’t come in.”

They came in.

“You’re keeping y-…” Hvitserk stops, and his smile turns devious, “Well, good morning.”

“What do you want?” Ivar presses, but still keeps his hands on your legs, keeping you in your place. You could swear they even creep higher, settling on the curve of your ass.

Hvitserk keeps his eyes carefully trained on his brother, “Whitehair told me he isn’t going with you.”

“He isn’t. He and some of his men will stay here.”

In the moment Ivar and Hvitserk’s eyes meet, you have a feeling there’s a silent message relayed that you have no way if deciphering.

You frown down at Ivar, forgetting for a moment you’re supposed to want to move.

“Surely you don’t think I’m planning on leaving Kattegat.”

Ivar works his jaw, but ultimately shakes his head, “No, but there might be a few fools out there planning on making you leave this world.”

“What?”

“He’s right,” Hvitserk quips, and when you frown his way, you find him looking down at the floor, focused on pointedly not looking at you. “You need someone watching your back. They wouldn’t be bold enough to try something while Ivar and the army is here, but…”

“I’m safe here, you’re with me,” You insist, eyes on Hvitserk even if he doesn’t look at you. Looking back at Ivar, you whisper, “I don’t need your guards.”

Ivar turns his eyes to you, and narrows his eyes, “Don’t argue.”

“When has telling me that ever worked?” You ask him, incredulous.

Hvitserk clears his throat, and insists, “We need to know who will go in Whitehair’s stead.”

“You choose them, brother,” Ivar states simply, motioning with his head, “This is your plan, I trust you to know the right men for it.”

It surprises you a bit, and you have no doubt it surprises Hvitserk, but he doesn’t dwell on it, murmuring a few words and taking his leave.

“You can’t seriously intend to keep your best warriors with me, Ivar.” You start as soon as the door closes behind the Prince.

Ivar grits his teeth, and lets his head fall back against the pillows.

“It is done. Now get off me, we have a day to get on with.”

“Don’t dismiss me,” You accuse, affronted. Ivar gives you a look that tells you this is your last opportunity to back down, and you almost want to ask him when that glare actually worked on you. “I will not be-…ah!”

Ivar’s hands tighten on your waist, and he lifts you with ease, throwing you off him and leaving you to land on your side of the bed with a huff.

You look at him with wide eyes, with quickened breaths that have nothing to do with the surprise. You’ve felt under your own hands the strength of his shoulders, of his arms, of his back; ever since you arrived here you’ve let your eyes wander and your thoughts get away from you, but…Gods, it is something else entirely to see his strength in full display, to have him lift you like you weigh nothing, to feel the muscles of his arms and chest working.

“Ivar!” You complain, but he ignores you. He sits up, broad back turned to you, not sparing a second thought to the absolutely impure thoughts that are running through your mind at the display of strength.

Your traitorous eyes follow his arm, his shoulder blades, as he grips the chains dangling over the bed and moves his body out of the bed. As you watch him, you can’t help but despise the shirt he still wears.

You realize, almost affronted, almost offended, that you’ve never seen his bare chest. You wonder if he has ink traces, you wonder…

Gods, you’re hopeless.

Your head falls back against the pillows, and you close your eyes with a shaky sigh.

____

The feast to send off the warriors that will go raid Strepshire starts earlier in the day than previous ones. Once, you would have been naïve enough to believe that meant it would end earlier too.

You stand at his side when he raises his voice, addresses your people about the upcoming battle and what they are to ask the Gods to grant them, both across the sea and once they return, once the bitter winter settles upon Kattegat. You raise your cup alongside his, thank the people before you with a bow of your head and a smile; and take a seat on a throne that has never felt as welcoming.

Eventually, night progresses and you mingle amongst the people you know and those you don’t, and you find yourself in a small moment of seclusion, looking over the feast with a tranquil smile on your lips.

Your husband’s voice draws your attention to where he sits surrounded by his warriors and shieldmaidens, hand on Hviterk’s shoulder as they talk and laugh.

You cannot keep your eyes off him, watching with a smile on your lips as he addresses his men. You truly cannot believe he sometimes doesn’t see the way he inspires them, the way they admire him, the way his words light fires in the hearts of his warriors and his shieldmaidens.

Ivar is finishing strong words to his people when his eyes meet yours across the room. With the word these Norsemen have for a toast on their lips, the people around him honor him with raised cups. He answers their toast with his own, but his eyes remain on yours.

Smile widening in pride and something far more foolish, you raise your own cup, quietly, just for him, and drink as well.

“You’re drooling, witch.” Valdis’ voice startles you, and you turn your eyes away from the King and towards her. She laughs, heavy hand on your shoulder, and you answer only with a roll of your eyes even as a small chuckle leaves your lips.

She holds you to her side and walks you to the women of the apothecary, who greet you with smiles that you return and a few knowing glances that you pretend to ignore.

When the ruckus dies down you once again find your way back to Ivar, sitting by his side with your head on his shoulder and your eyes on the dancing flames a few feet away.

You could close your eyes and surrender to sleep like this, you realize. After almost not sleeping the previous night, the familiar hum of Ivar’s voice as he talks with Hvitserk lulls you into safety.

Still, you stay awake, masking a yawn with a kiss to his shoulder and wondering when it became as easy as breathing to move with him, around him, as if you were tied by the same string. When it became as familiar as the feeling of safety and peace in your chest and yet remained as thrilling and electrifying as running to cross over that stream in Eleusis.

After a while you find yourself thinking once again about what’s to come tomorrow, and all those days after.

Your fingers skim over his forearm silently until Ivar turns his hand around, and lets you intertwine his fingers with your own.

“About your guards…” You start, but the Viking sighs, interrupting you.

“Not this again.”

“I am not the one going to war, Ivar. I don’t need guards.”

He settles better in his seat, turning most of his body towards you and regarding you with stubborn exasperation.

“You’re grown too used to getting your way,” He states, to which you only answer with an incredulous look. Still, he pushes on, “But this isn’t something you’ll make me change my mind on.”

“Have I made you change your mind before?” You taunt with a smirk, stupidly delighted in the way he rolls your eyes at you. After a breath, you lean even closer and insist, “Love, listen to me, I-…”

You realize what you’ve said, and choke on your own words. Your eyes are wide when they meet his, and for a second you dare hope he hasn’t noticed.

But, of course, he has. Ivar stares at you in stunned silence for a few breaths, but he shakes it off before you do.

He leans closer, presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth,

“I’m listening, but I’m not changing my mind…love.” His smile is devious, and mocking, and irresistible, and Gods, you’re going to learn to regret ever giving in, aren’t you?

Forcing your eyes to stop giving in to the allure of his mouth, you return your gaze to him.

“Why is now any different than when you went to defend Dublin?”

“Because I knew I was going to return quickly when we went to Dublin.”

“You won’t spend winter away from Kattegat.” You state, stubborn.

Ivar leans closer again, kisses you before insisting against your lips, “It is smart to consider all possibilities, you know that.”

“You still d-…” Your words are muffled against his lips when he kisses you again, and when he leans back you say, “You can’t shut me up by doing that.”

“I can try.”

He kisses you again, and again, and again, each time more passionately than the last. Ivar’s teeth close teasingly over your bottom lip, and he soothes the sting with a flick of his tongue. It draws from you a soft little sound that is muffled against his mouth, he seals a pleased smile against your lips.

You pull back with quickened breaths and hold the advancing Viking back with a hand on his throat.

Your husband only smiles, eyes dark in a way that makes a thrill run down your spine, and leans closer still, forcing your hand to press tighter against his throat, daring you.

“Behave.” You warn him, only half-serious, the words quiet even if your wide and stupid smile bares every truth.

But there’s a glint in his eye, an openness in his smile, that makes you give in, that makes you use that hand you still have holding onto his throat to cup his jaw and bring his lips to yours.

Because he looks happy.

Because you close your eyes, and you still feel the weight of his body and of his pain against you, you can still hear the almost fragile whisper of I don’t know what…what happiness feels like. If it feels like this…

And you understand what it was that made Lord Hades tear the earth in two.

____ ____ ____

We’ll get back to regular programming soon, they’ll put their feet back on the ground and realize there’s still Christians to kill and choices to make soon; just let me write a soft and happy Ivar for a bit okay?

And a lil bit of a change: I have been uploading every tuesday and every saturday lately, but I’m going to go back to one update a week on saturdays from now on. Extra chapters, alternate PoV’s, that sort of stuff, it will come out on tuesdays, but not every week. I have other stuff to work on (and post) and a new project I might start posting on tuesdays very soon. Hope you don’t mind!

Thank you for reading, I would love to know what you think! Love you all!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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archetypal-archivist · 3 years

Text

Xisuma and Evil X- A Hero By Any Other Name

So. This happened. You ever get the urge to write 9000 words of Evil X and Xisuma as brothers that in a Super Hero AU where the government is corrupt and runs all the heroes into the ground in the name of “protecting the most people possible”? With lots of Evil X making poor choices to help out his exhausted hero of a brother? And then have that story end up taking over your life for about a week until you can get it all out? Yeah. Yeah, glad I finally finished this but gosh darn am I double glad that I can move on to other projects.

Also on AO3.

__________

A story in which there are two little boys, a pair of twins by the names of Evil X and Xisuma. Xisuma is good and kind and responsible, everything that his mother ever wanted and more. Evil X was the mistake, the additional child their parents didn't want nor could afford to have. Their parents had run the math, knew the risks, knew that if they penny-pinched enough, they could afford to have the child they always dreamed of. Evil X threw their maths into chaos, and if they wanted one son, they had to take both.

Evil X and Xisuma knew that Evil X was a mistake, that his presence was why their family could never afford to go to the movies, why they couldn't buy school lunches like all the other kids, why their parents were so stressed and tired and cruel. Still, Xisuma was glad that his brother existed, even if it made his parents' lives harder. He wondered if that made him a bad son.

In time, Evil X and Xisuma were left alone by everyone in their lives and until all they had are each other and the void that their parents left them with when they had to look them in the eye and tell them that they couldn't take care of them anymore. Even now Xisuma thinks that the void raised them better than their parents ever did, teaching him and his brother to lie through their teeth, be sneaky, be cruel.

In the orphanage and the many foster homes that followed, Evil X did his best to take care of his twin as a sort of penance for screwing up the life Xisuma could have led. In return, Xisuma lied and lied and lied to the matrons and the well-meaning children about anything and everything he needed to. They don't need anyone but each other. (Truth.) They are happy. He is everything that Evil X needs, Evil X doesn't want a family. Xisuma is enough. (Lie.)

(Gods, don't take his brother away.)

Xisuma grew up with lies on his tongue and smiles in his eyes, warping himself into the golden child, larger than life. Evil X grew up in the shadows with bruised knuckles, a bruised heart, and eventually, scars across his face from a fight gone bloody and wrong. He was protecting Xisuma, the scars were worth it- his brother accepts them with an odd little smile on his face and a shattering in his eyes. It is a moment that stays with them long after.

---

Eventually, foster homes turn into streets and dumpsters, and long nights spent under the covers together are turned into nights spent up in the branches of trees in the park. Xisuma makes friends with the pigeons while Evil X pretends not to like their feathered neighbors. They curl up the same though, bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces high in their bower. Made for each other, quietly shaping themselves around their twin so as to better protect them and shield them from the cold.

Evil X comes home to their tree with stolen sweaters and wilted flowers and popcorn kernels from behind the movie theater so that the birds don't starve. Xisuma meets him with tears of wonder in his eyes and fire dancing on his fingertips.

Xisuma has magic. Evil X tries not to be jealous. As it turns out, he has very little to be jealous of when it's revealed that there are many other people who have magic throughout the city- or rather, "superpowers." It's like something straight out of a comic book, if that comic book resembled something like Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" or the Transformers IDW continuity.

People start dying. A lot of people. Those with powers that make them look monstrous are feared, hated, and eventually outcast. Those with powers that are useful are drafted to fight wars and heal people for hours and hours with no rest in the hospitals. Xisuma sells himself to the city officials behind Evil X's back and in return, he and his brother get a cold glass and steel apartment and food enough that they will never starve again.

Evil X begins to build up muscle, fleshing out and growing tall and strong. He hates it, hates his body, because Xisuma never becomes more than whipcord strength and whispered words- down-turned eyes, up-turned lips. Reassurances that he's happy, really, truly. So obedient, his brother, the ideal filial son to the system that Evil X could never bring himself to be. They train the civilian out of his twin and mold him into a leader, a real proper superhero.

They don't give his brother lunch breaks. They need his power too badly, they say. There are people dying and they need his strength.

Gods, it makes him sick.

Xisuma's slight figure hides in his brother's shadow when they are at home, and Evil X does his best to wrap around him until the "monsters" of the world can't get him. Evil X lets Xisuma's flames dance across his fingertips and tickle his face, their gentle warmth driving out some of the chill in their big empty apartment. On truly special days, they go to the park to feed the birds. The higher ups don't like that, of course, insisting that Xisuma under Evil X's care is like using his spark for a kerosene lamp, contained, stifled, unable to help anyone in any way that matters.

The city wants a bonfire. Evil X growls and tells them no, but Xisuma just smiles and his eyes shatter a little more as he goes with them willingly, offering himself up as kindling. His superhero name is Matchstick of all things, and Evil X knows his brother well enough to know that he picked it out himself.

A nod to the fact that he is destroying himself? An inside joke and an apology in one, maybe. It breaks his heart too much to think on it.

---

With time, the rules and roles become a little clearer and the war begins to solidify. Basic rights for those with powers is still in the works, but Xisuma is able to start eating a little more. Evil X makes him protein shakes to take with him to work anyway.

The heroes are this: Matchstick, Reaper, Ivy-Over, Xenon, Spatter, Shank, Krypton, and Trigometric. Xisuma, Cleo, Gemini, Tango, Vintage Beef, Iskall, Impulse, Cubfan.

The villains are this: Armistice, Zyon, Ooze, Clockwork, Poultryman, Valkerie, and Lumesce. (Welsknight, Etho, Jevin, Mumbo, Grian, Stress, Pearl- but our hero doesn't know this yet.)

Evil X sits on their shared bed and holds his twin in his arms, listening to him talk about work with troubled eyes.

Reaper. Cruel, with a tongue like a knife and teeth even sharper. She eats her enemies whole and seems to enjoy the taste of blood. Somewhere in the dark of the building is a man named Joe who whispers comebacks and threats to her for her to use in her next fight. She has not seen him free or unshackled in three years. Around his neck is a metal collar, an irony too bitter for her to speak of often. Xisuma hopes they treat him well.

Ivy-Over, blinded by the glitter and shine of heroism, still firmly thinking the best of her political overlords. Naive. Carefully herded off the battlefields as soon as her fights are over so that she never sees the casualties her massive vines leave in their wake. Xisuma worries that one day the illusion will be broken and with it her mind. She seems like the kind of person who could regress to using entrails as a skipping rope if pushed far enough. Evil X does his best to reassure him, but the lies turn to mulch in his mouth.

Xenon and Krypton, a duo that never let the higher ups split them up or force them to fight alone. Together they share a record for the fewest recorded injuries, as well as a certain fierceness in their eyes as they volley explosive balls of shadow and light between them, bouncing them back and forth to build up velocity before letting them loose on their enemies. Still, the people whisper about how much more help they could do if they were simply separated, able to cover more places at once. At night, Xisuma hears them crying, bundled tight in each other's arms and mourning their missing third.

Shank, their sniper. Supreme accuracy, a consequence of his self-built bionic eye and his special laser rifle. The higher ups are murmuring about what he could do if more of him was bionic. What improvements could be made to his body? How many more lives could be saved? (How many more "monsters" could be put behind bars?)

Splatter, their brawler. A sip of blood and he hulks out, his strength becoming all the greater the more he drinks, so the higher ups give him all the blood he could stomach and more. They never tell him where it comes from, and he's too afraid to ask. (He was a butcher before this whole hero thing, he had explained to Xisuma once. He knows what animal blood tastes like. What they give him is definitely not animal blood- and sometimes, it makes him feel sick. He always was allergic to steroids.)

Trigometric, who bent reality into fractals, who seemed just a bit more broken than the rest. He actually liked his job, and that perhaps made him less of a hero and more of a monster. (Mr. Goodtimes was a head of government of some renown, famous for his power plays and his campaign that favored brutal action against those that the city condemned. Trigometric called him "Scar" with affection on his lips and that was perhaps scariest of all.)

It's terrifying hearing about his twin's coworkers and their varying flavors of unfortunate and unstable, even worse when he has to stay at home and watch the news to see if his brother has survived to see another day against the violent protests and the drug rings and mobs and super villains.

Because there are super villains. He even meets one.

---

The pigeons need feeding. Life or death, whether Xisuma is around to remind him or no, the pigeons need feeding so every Tuesday and Saturday Evil X goes to the park with a bag of bird seed. It just so happens that one sunshine-filled summer day there is someone there before him. Crouched close to a few pigeons, at first he thinks the figure is just dressed in a purple cloak, but when the figure stands up and stretches, the cloak separates to reveal a pair of brilliant purple wings. Poultryman.

Evil X has seen his brother come back from fights and he knows that while Poultryman is a figure of some renown, his battles rarely cause collateral damage- that's more the hallmark of his partner Clockwork. So when Poultryman turns to face him, trademark white mask over his eyes and an odd expression on his face, Evil X just glares and walks up to him to dump the bag of bird seed on the super villain's feet.

"For the birds," he says tersely before spinning on his heel, preparing to walk away. The sound of bright, cheerful laughter has him pausing and the sound of wings meeting the dirt has him turning around. Poultryman is on the ground, rolling around in the bird seed and laughing his head off, clutching his stomach and flapping his wings wildly, which only makes even more of a mess.

"Pffftt- hahaHAhAHaH! Oh gods, your face! If I couldn't tell you were so pissed off to see me I wouldv'e thought this was the greatest prank ever!" Oookay? Evil X crosses his arms, unimpressed and left with a sneaking suspicion he is being made fun of.

"And?" Poultryman lets out a last few wheezing gasps before smoothly rolling to his feet, mask askew and utterly covered in dirt, grass, and bird seed. The local pigeons have, surprisingly enough, not scattered just yet.

"And that was brilliant! Tell me, are you the one who's been feeding the birds around here? The pigeons have been dying to introduce me to their 'friend' and I've been eager to meet them ever since. Well, the word translates more to family but there's some non-pigeon implications mixed in there, so friend works a little better. I don't think my feathered friends have quite yet figured out how to buy their own bird seed. You don't look like a pigeon anyway."

"No. I am not a pigeon," Evil X sighs, shifting his feet but keeping his posture defensive. If he remembers right, Poultryman never did any real damage but he apparently came off to Xisuma as a little unhinged and he'd rather not test the super villain's good mood. "And yes, I feed the birds around here. Can I go?"

Poultryman tilts his head to the side, going abruptly silent and still, all emotion wiped from his body language, expression, and voice. "That depends. Would you like to make Matchstick's life a little easier? I have a deal for you."

---

It goes a little something like this.

Clockwork and Poultryman schedule a raid on a local food processing plant, hoping to take their newest shipment of tin. Matchstick and Splatter are in the area and are called in to help. It's a poor match up to begin with, with Splatter's strength not doing much against Clockwork's robotika and Matchstick- while able to keep up with Poultryman in the air, barely- can't seem to land a solid hit on the villain. It doesn't help that he seems to be limited in how hard he hits, too conscious of what his flames might do to Poultryman's vulnerable feathers and of just how high they are in the air. Clockwork, meanwhile, is free to pilfer what he and his partner please from the plant.

However, despite the lack of damage the super heroes are able to do, the villains do even less. To Evil X, that is all that matters.

In another part of the city, a group of civilians meet in an abandoned railway car, dry docked in a train yard with its rusted frame resting on several heavy blocks of wood. The door is chained shut, but that means little when the underneath has a hole cut into it and if one is determined enough, crawling inside is easy. There, they exchange moth-eaten blankets, half-broken appliances, tattered clothes, and the tools to fix them. Money. Documents.

Evil X brings food. The government promised food unending to him and his brother, he may as well take advantage of it.

A deceptively normal-looking man with glasses and a deactivated metal collar around his neck brings a stack of books in, most of them picture books for the children. Another man, this one with green skin and robotik prosthetics, brings a stack of battered but newly repaired mobile phones, gaze shifting around nervously, as if scared to be caught there. Evil X makes a quiet note of the men but moves on. Theirs is not a story he feels like tampering with today.

When Xisuma comes home to find Evil X laying face-down in bed, fast asleep, he just smiles and tucks himself in beside his twin. Today is the first day in a long time he had come out from a fight unscathed, and tomorrow he will share the good news with his brother. For now, he sleeps.

---

In time, Evil X becomes a staple of the Homeless Enforcing Principles, which quickly gets abbreviated to the rather unimaginative "HEP." He wonders in the back of his mind if a certain man in glasses had something to do with the name, but decides not to bother with that quickly enough. He has enough on his plate as is with his newly adopted duties.

You see, when you get a diverse enough body of people together from all echelons in the city, and then put them into a rather small space, they begin to do what every group of friendly strangers like to do on the train- start complaining. Sometimes it's about the new "neighborhood watch" starting trouble on the corner of 6th and Fruit, sometimes it's about the new increase in taxes their boss wants to implement, sometimes it's about the stock that slips through the gaps when the trucks come to restock the supermarket.

Between him and his twin, Evil X never really was the one for idle chit-chat, but he knew lies just as well as his brother did and public speaking was just lying with a pretty bow on top. Stock begins to get left off of inventory sheets and put into the hands of the needy. The "neighborhood watch" get pointed towards the parts of the city that actually need their help (conveniently drawing the attention of the local law enforcement, who can actually do something about the problem).

He begins to donate more and more food to the cause, waistline thinning in the process. He thinks he likes his figure better that way.

As Evil X puts more time into his new project, crime rates don't exactly go down, but the number of people arrested for stupid reasons certainly does. The other members of HEP begin to bring in their friends and family and the pool of resources and talents grows, expanding outside the walls of their train car and out into people's basements, gas station parking lots, metal trash bin bonfires in the park. Little pools of community, and for Evil X, wellsprings of information.

Clockwork and Poultryman are some of the first actual super villains to come to the meetings, this time under the names of Mumbo Jumbo and Grian, but they are not the last.

---

Armistice arrives hanging off of Lumesce's shoulder one night, his metal body forcing her to drag him along on the ground, shredded legs unable to hold his own weight. She cries steady tears of light, seemingly near-physically pained at being unable to further help him. Evil X watches quietly from the background as Grian looks up and over the bonfire from where he is tending the jagged gash in the unconscious Mumbo's leg.

"Wels. Pearl. Got you too, huh?" The carefully kept-up cheer is gone from the man's face as the duo settle down by the fire, sprawling out in a rough heap.

The woman, Pearl, nods wearily, pulling off her hood and wiping at her face, glowing tears staining her black jacket. "Yeah. Trigometric decided he wanted to come and 'play' for a bit, seems he finally caught on to the illegal clinic I was running down in Mr. TFC's basement. I was lucky enough to get an anonymous tip that he was coming, but Wels got caught in the crossfire for defending me." Grian nods back, eyes distant.

"Give Mumbo a hand with his leg, I'll go grab the last of our tin for Wels to eat so he can patch himself up. E-X?" Evil X straightens up at the winged man's attention. "Call up Keralis and see if you can't get some hew housing sorted for Mr. TFC. I doubt his house survived in the crossfire and you might as well fix it for him with my permission and funds rather than just sort it out behind my back and try to sell it to me as an 'investment' later." With that parting remark Grian stands up stiffly and flies away, leaving Pearl to make her way over to his partner, healing tears already streaming down her face so that she can start to fix the wound.

On the other side of the fire, Wels reaches down and rubs at the sharp and twisted metal of the remnants of his left leg, expression lost and weary. "Things can't keep going like this, so many of us are running on fumes by this point. Something has to change." Expressionless, Evil X just turns away, pulls out his cellphone, and begins to make a few calls.

He carefully ignores the twisting of his heart in his chest.

The next day, Mr. TFC has a room in a decent hotel and Evil X sits on his perfectly white couch staring at his overly large TV, watching the news. Armistice and Poultryman are fighting against Matchstick and Ivy-Over, dashing in and landing a few hits before retreating to the shadows, then running up to repeat the process again. The fight ends with both sides retreating, the heroes to the hospital, the villains to skies with Poultryman straining to bear both Armistice's weight and the load of cash stolen cash in his arms.

Grian's going to pull a wing muscle again, Evil X just knows it.

Xisuma leaves the fight unscathed. Gemini isn't nearly so lucky.

---

The next super villain he meets is mostly on accident, a random encounter more than anything. Tired of lounging about all day, if you call making connections and surfing the internet doing fuck all, Evil X decides he hates himself a bit more than he usually does and decides to go job hunting. A quick internet search later and he finds himself standing outside an abandoned warehouse on the North docks. He and his brother never had much more than their birth certificates and social security numbers to their name, so shady suited him perfectly fine.

A man steps out from behind a corner dressed in a hospital mask, black pea-coat, and a sailor's breton cap as white as his hair. Evil X freezes, eyes going wide as the familiar-looking stranger goes bug-eyed to see him right back. Then the man shifts his weight to his back foot, crossing his arms and wincing playfully, very real trepidation lurking in his posture.

"Uh, you wouldn't happen to by Matchstick's brother, would you?" Evil X takes a careful step away from the man, who he now recognizes as Zyon from watching the news, one of Xisuma's more common foes. His own research proved that the fellow had ice powers to put an iceberg to shame, which was ironic considering that he was secretly the business mogul Etho, who ran a shipping company helpfully named "Titanic Inc." It was doubly ironic since "Zyon" was notorious for causing problems for "Etho," who then claimed the insurance payouts when the boats eventually sank.

That the boats that sank frequently carried weapons, junk food made with GMO ingredients, and weirdly enough, socks, was of little consequence to him, but he kept that amusing tidbit in his back pocket for later. (The sailors on board were... collateral. And a nonissue. Anyone who signed up on a ship run by "Titanic Inc." deserved what they got.)

(Their deaths were not his concern.)

"Yeah, that's me. And you're Zyon- or rather, Etho." Zyon chuckles nervously.

"Yep yep, that's me. And you're very firmly on the 'no touchie' list around here, so I'm just gonna gooo...." Zyon flinches as Evil X suddenly attaches himself to his wrist, expression steely.

"List?" It's more statement than question, but it has Zyon gulping back a frantic giggle anyway.

"Oh no, I'm not messing with that one. Let's just say you should take that up with your brother and leave it at that. Get too deep into that mess and someone's gonna end up regretting it- and I'm not that dumb, that's for sure!" With that parting remark, Evil X finds his feet frozen to the ground and Zyon running off, dropping the black pea-coat of Etho to reveal the icy blue Kevlar ninja suit of the super villain underneath.

Bemusedly Evil X watches Zyon vault up a stack of pipes onto a nearby roof, then off towards the city where he could better better disappear.

Hmm. Seems like he needs to step up his game.

---

He runs into Ooze at the supermarket. Apparently they both prefer the green grapes to the purple ones. The more you know.

---

It's his encounter with Valkerie that really sets things off.

Xisuma comes home one day, tears streaming down his face and his gloves covered in blood and dust. He crumples in a heap at Evil X's feet where he sits on the couch and drops his face into his twin's lap, trembling. His arms dangle at his sides, blood dripping from his fingers onto the sterile white carpeting.

"Four dead found in a park near here. All teenagers, just having fun. Just. Just fucking kids! She ruptured their ear drums and they bled out because they couldn't move to get to safety. Gods E-X, their eyes... They looked so scared..." Evil X stays quiet and runs his fingers through his brother's hair, heedless of the muck clinging to the ends. Xisuma shakes himself to bits in his hands. "They were just kids. We couldn't do even do anything but clean up the mess afterwards."

Xisuma pauses, hesitant, before choking out- "That could have been us. Had we still been on our own, that could have been us." Ah. So that's it.

"We're safe, you know. Whoever Valkerie is, she won't get us here."

"But we don't know that! What if you're out shopping and she's at the market, or if she gets on the news and her scream works through the TV? What then?! I can't-" The words die in his twin's throat and Evil X gulps back his own.

I can't lose you. It's a phrase that's crossed his own mind more than once.

"Okay. Okay. I'll stay home until she's caught, okay? Get delivery or something, I don't know. And I'll keep the TV off, the radio too. Shhh. Shhhhh. I'll be okay." Xisuma struggles closer, shoving his face into his brother's stomach and getting snot and tears all over the both of them. Evil X doesn't complain. It's a lie and they both know it, but they've lived lies before, are used to it. What's one more, in the face of that?

To be fair, Evil X gives it a few weeks before he makes his move, and he knows he'll be fine so really it's only half a lie anyway.

---

Feet crunch against gravel as Evil X approaches the woman kneeling in the center of the abandoned construction site, hands over her mouth, eyes scrunched, biting the flesh of her thumb to keep her sobs held in.

"Hello Ms. Valkerie. Grian's told me about you."

The woman whips around, eyes wide and bloodshot at his sudden appearance, before she shakily lowers her hands from her mouth to clutch at the fabric of her pink cardigan. "I'm- I'm not some monster, got it? I'm just Stress, j-just- I'm just me! I don't want to hurt anyone!" Her voice goes shrill and thin towards the end and Evil X hides his wince, although apparently not well enough because she immediately slaps a hand over her mouth again, eyes watering anew.

"Okay. It's okay, Stress. I'm here to help," he placates, lowering himself down to sit next to her in the dirt. Around them, rusted I-beams and concrete pillars rise, giving them some semblance of privacy. The full moon lurks overhead, casting them both in a silver glow. "You're life must be very hard, hm?"

Stress nods, expression wary.

"And retail is very- ha- stressful too, I imagine?" Here a little grin leaks out from behind her hand. "All those customers whining on and on about discounts. 'Oh, I have a gift receipt why can't I return this?' Like, lady, you opened this box. 'I'm gonna talk to your manager!' Lady, he's just gonna say the exact same thing."

A stifled giggle and a whispered "Worse! I work in the women's clothing department." Evil X gives a mock gasp, face going wide and shocked.

"So you don't just have to deal with fussy customers- you deal with fussy suburban soccer moms!" Stress tips forward with the force of her muffled laughter, tucking her damp face into the curve of his neck and putting her full weight on him. Hesitantly she clutches the tail of his shirt with her freehand, then a little tighter when he makes no move to shove her off. Evil X just wraps a gentle arm around her shoulders.

"Some of those customers must make you want to go home and just scream, huh." Her laughter tapers off, but she nods, quiet. "So you go somewhere empty and abandoned and scream your heart out so you don't kill someone." Another nod, a little hitch in Stress' breathing. "And you scream and scream, so glad to release some of your pent-up feelings, but oops. It turns out there are people there anyway. And your screaming just killed them. You've become a murderer and the police brands you accordingly."

The hand in his shirt tightens, tugging. "I- I didn't want to hurt them! I didn't want to hurt anyone! But- but it just happened and then I was running, and no one saw me so I had to just go to work the next day, a-and. And-"

"And now you're the wanted super villain Valkerie." His hand smoothes up and down her back as her breath hitches again, once, twice, and then wetness against his neck.

"Valkerie is such a stupid name, anyway. I'm not escorting anyone anywhere, let alone to Valhalla. I just scream and. And they're dead."

Evil X hums quietly. "You must be very tired."

"...Yes. Yes." The moon slips through the sky for a while and they drift with it, lost in thought. Evil X stares up at it, squinting against its light to try and figure out what time it is, if Xisuma is likely to be home yet. The gravel is harsh against his knees.

Then. "Things can't keep going like this. I'm so tired, all the time these days. It's just work, day in and day out, and all this stress." She pulls away then and Evil X watches as Stress scrubs at her face, expression going cold and determined. She stares him straight in the eyes, but something about her still seems lost, like she's gazing through him. "Something has to change or else someone is going to get themselves killed."

He tilts his eyes head, considering, thoughtful, with a well-hidden edge to his voice.

"I think I could help with that."

---

The morning news. Four calls placed, a frantic brother reassured, Stress is sitting a cafe on the corner of Elm and 5th. Her gut flutters with nerves but Evil X can see her expression is calm from her position in the background of the shot. The news anchor is a pretty blond-haired, blue-eyed young woman blathering on about how the cafe apparently is the oldest one in the city and some other historical nonsense. Out of shot of the camera, a desperate, dog-eared petty thief is running for his life down 6th street, the hulking figure of Spatter hot on his heels.

They round a corner, onto 5th. Past the cafe, the startled reporter, the public shrieking as their morning is disrupted. Stress nearly throws up as her heart launches itself into her throat but she's... There's a plan and she's going to stick to it.

So she stands up, small and in the background of the shot, but her bright pink jacket makes her stand out. She opens her mouth, expression going scared like a civilian's, and screams just as she had been told to. It's not for long, barely a second or two all told, but it's enough to have the people near her cringing away, blood trickling from their eyes and from where their fingernails dig into their skin in trying to cover their ears.

Spatter freezes in his tracks, pupils mere pinpricks as the sudden outpouring of blood triggers something deep and wild in him. The camera shakes, the frightened camera man ducking down to avoid notice but carefully recording what's about to happen, as if sensing that whatever happens next is about to be important.

The hero turns towards Stress, eyes wild, and although she's scared out of her mind, she stands her ground. Her voice barely even shakes as she speaks.

"S-stop. Stop running, can't you see you're scaring people? You nearly ran me over!" In the eyes of the camera Stress looks like a frightened civilian gone civil defender in pink, the morning light casting her in gold and the cafe's shadow creeping over Spatter's massive, muscled-out form to cast him in darkness and grey. The lack of harsh lighting makes it even more obvious when he starts sniffing the air, darting eyes pausing on all the bloodied hands and finally resting on the woman who caused the damage.

The world has insisted, long and loud, that he is a hero and with that comes certain ingrained responsibilities. Stress is Valkerie. Splatter fixes his gaze on her and with a snarl, he moves.

The camera catches it in perfect, awful clarity when his arm goes through her stomach and her blood starts pooling on the floor. Her expression is so betrayed.

From his place on his clean, white couch at home, Evil X turns the TV off.

---

Stress is buried with honors and all media depictions of Valkerie as a monster cease as the streets are made "safe" from the super villain. Instead, news programs and talk shows take up a new crusade, this one against the "heroes" that protected the city and the governing bodies that controlled their movements. Mr. Goodtimes has his name dragged through the mud, and each day his brother comes home with stories about how frazzled Trigometric is, Evil X has to hide his smile.

Seeming to pick up on the way things are turning, Clockwork disappears from the public eye while Poultryman steps up the showmanship, making more appearances in public spaces to egg government buildings and steal petty amounts of scrap metal from junk yards and factory scrap heaps. The heroes that give chase, usually Xenon and Krypton, end up causing more damage than they actually prevent.

Ivy-Over- shocked at the public outrage about the apartments left in shambles after her particularly brutal battle against Zyon- rather predictably ends up snapping, although not in any way Evil X expected.

She ends up going to the news and telling them everything. Public outrage rises anew.

There's a riot in town square and Matchstick and Reaper are sent in to stop it. Thirteen people die, kindly Mr. TFC one of them. Xisuma comes home, collapses into Evil X's arms, and cries.

Things have to change. And so they do.

---

Midnight and two figures meet on a roof top somewhere overlooking the domed silhouette of city hall. The first wears a set of armor shaded in green and grey, a purple visor over his eyes and an oxygen-filter over the lower half of his face. The second figure has wings, stretched wide to block out the light of the crescent moon above.

Matchstick. Poultryman.

Xisuma. Grian.

Matchstick tilts his head to the side, drawing himself up to his full height to loom over the far shorter villain. "The status quo is falling apart, Poultryman. Does the deal still hold?"

Poultryman rolls his head to make it clear he had just rolled his eyes, the purple insignia on his mask flashing to display his annoyance. "Yeah yeah, I've spread the word to the others and they're not as crazy as the news likes to make 'em out to be. No one has hurt your precious 'E-X,' nor do they have any plans to. Too much trouble to mess with beyond trying to keep him out of whatever crime scene we'll be making, and that's hard enough as is. Your brother has a habit of making himself hard to track and it's getting... troubling."

The hero's posture suddenly goes as stiff as his namesake, smoke starting to hiss from the vents carefully built into his suit. "Troubling?"

Violet wings flap once, twice, before pulling tight against Poultryman's back and not for the first time, Matchstick curses himself for never bothering to learn what his various wing positions mean. The villain in question just rolls his shoulders back and settles into a careful parade rest that gives nothing away, expression pensive.

"Xisuma..." Matchstick flinches back, the careful line between them wavering at the name. "What exactly do you about your brother?"

A hesitant head tilt and he taps his fingers along his leg, thinking back to when he had last spent more than a few fleeting hours with his twin at a time.

"He likes sweet foods, even if he pretends he doesn't. Has more money invested in Derp Coin than he probably should. Likes red and black but gets fussy if anyone calls him a goth. Never seems to sleep, or eat regular meals, but he never seems to forget anything either. Best brother I could ever ask for- he loves me, I know that for sure. All the important stuff. Why?"

A wisp of cloud drifts overhead, casting a brief shadow over the pair, and in the sudden darkness Matchstick could swear that Poultryman had pulled a frown. Then the moment passes and the villain is back to his usual inscrutable self, the only emotion in his body language being what he had put there intentionally. His wings remain tight to his back.

"Then I think you might be in for a bit of a surprise one day, Matchstick. Here's to hoping you can roll with the coming storm."

---

Evil X is beloved by the HEP network. Regardless of Grian's intention in putting him in contact with them- or even why the villain knew of the group to start with- his repeated contributions to their food stocks made him an opening among them and his ability to make and exploit connections made him their hero. If you were desperate, hungry, in need? Evil X could get you whatever you needed at the cost of a simple favor.

When it came to the price of a life, a favor is a small thing to ask indeed. Is it any wonder that they became so loyal to him? So when Evil X began asking questions about some of the city's more sensitive secrets and its shadier underbelly, it was only natural that they told him.

From the tall man with green skin, he learned the best places to dump things so that they disappeared. From a sleepy-looking fellow with a bandana, he learned the locations of the best drug dealers, and from those dealers he learned of their suppliers, their manufacturers, the places where heroes never walked. From the man with glasses, he learned about the back doors and hidden routes through the biggest, most important buildings, the places where they held people until they could make them disappear.

And with this information, Evil X's services expanded even further. Drugs for the addicts, as contaminant-free and trust-worthy as he could find them. Ways to make people appear and disappear in the eyes of the law (and the occasional abusive spouse). Alcohol, cigarettes- and most importantly, information.

Or rather, black mail. If you wanted to know something on someone, Evil X became the person to go to. Months of careful manipulation had spread his name and his reach through all levels of the city and people from all walks of life took advantage of her services, although usually all meetings were held over the phone and through a voice changer fashioned to look just like his twin's mask. The secrecy only increased his popularity, as people just love a good mystery and a grey-shaded crime boss made a lovely story indeed.

And soon, this caught the intention of another of the city's fabled figures- the mad scientist who lived deep in the underbelly of the city, a place where no light shone. The man, the myth, the legend... Void.

But then, myths never were all that accurate, especially with things like names.

---

Curly blond hair, brown cardigan, a ripped white lab coat. Calculating purple eyes and a wide, wide eerily white grin. Short and stocky with a complexion like a ripe peach, the blue light coming off the lights overhead casting hazy shadows over his form, everything about the good doctor is simultaneously creepy and a soft sort of handsome- he has to say, he's impressed. The mythical Zedaph lives up to the city's dark rumors of him and he says as much, which prompts that grin to grow all the wider.

"Ah, hello Weaver! Y'know, I kind of thought you'd be shorter. And down here a lot sooner, I almost could say I missed you~!" Evil X balks as the scientist steps forward and grips his chin to tilt his head down, purple eyes wandering over his scarred features.

"It's not like you make yourself easy to find- and that's not my name." Zedaph shakes his head, leaning his face up with just scant inches between them.

"Little spider, you might be pretty good at hearing things but you're awful at listening. If you have large enough ears, you'd find you're just about the most talked about thing in the underground these days-"

"Do spiders have ears...?"

"-so like it or not, your web is big enough that people have been spotting it in odd places, which means your twin will probably catch on soon. Which means..." Here Zedpah spins away to walk to the opposite wall, pressing a few buttons on his tablet which make the underground laboratory brighten considerably. Evil X tries not to feel bereft at the sudden loss of contact. "Your plans are gonna have to hit double time. And I love me a good speed potion!"

Speechless, Evil X just nods as the scientist opens a previously hidden door and pulls out a laptop case from inside, turning to present it to him with a fiercely proud expression on his face.

"Knock 'em dead darling. I can't wait to see you rock their world~!"

---

What does the end of an era look like? It's not a sudden collapse of civilization, people screaming and running through the streets. It's not the violent murder of the governmental leaders or riots against the past order. It's not as clear cut as all that. Nor is it so subtle that people look around one day and go huh, as the world around them had shifted beneath their feet without their notice. Indeed, there are many who saw the tide rising and were all too happy to watch the waters sweep in and away.

It goes like this.

The super villains go missing. First one week goes by with no wild scheme or dangerous incident, then two, then three. The higher ups are frantic with worry, running constant meetings and keeping the super heroes out on the streets for as long as they could without the heroes themselves rioting. It keeps Matchstick out of the way of Weaver, and at the moment, that's all the thought he can afford to spare his twin. It's for the best, really. The next step is important.

Across every government-issued computer in the city, an email is issued out. Personalized, first middle last name, parents' names, chidlrens' names. An alphabetical list of every law the person in question had broken in the last ten years, the number of witnesses who saw them do it, sometimes video footage or photo-copied documents if the crime was serious enough to warrant more concrete proof. What the punishments for those crimes would be. What could be done, if those punishments were waived for money or fame.

Nearly a thousand people get an email in the span of 24 hours. (Evil X never wants to write another email ever-fucking-again. None. Ever.) The heroes also receive an email detailing what laws were broken by denying them rights, food, decent living conditions and overtime pay, as well as the names of several lawyers who would work for them for free if the email was shown to them within three days time.

Every email is emblazoned with a web-like logo with a bright red "X" sitting in the middle like a bloody spider. Though some plucky tech people attempt to track the emails back to the sender, their every attempt is rebuffed by the impossible firewalls built into the computer the messages were sent from. As imagined, chaos in its most understated form ensues.

The city officials scramble to keep their sinking ship from falling apart and the little people kept cooped up in square offices and cell blocks come crawling out of the woodwork to jump ship. Some of the heroes, such as Xenon, Matchstick, and Shank try desperately to hold things together, but others like Reaper head for the nearest legal office and hole up with a team of vicious prosecutor attorneys. Meanwhile, the civilians go about their business, unaware of what is going on in the ivory towers far above their notice.

Xisuma comes home to fin their apartment empty, and although betrayal sits like a rock in his gut, his guts still squirm with desperate, aching fear. (No... please, no.)

The super villains make their reappearance with flair, setting the stage for the next act. Each one takes to a corner of the city, working in pairs to capture civilians and hold them hostage en mass, their efforts to wide spread for the remaining heroes to deal with in one go. From here, walking along a quiet street and watched by hundreds of frightened eyes- a captive audience- Weaver makes his debut as he makes his way to the city capital.

Tall, whip-thin enough to make his proportions lean more towards slenderman than super model, and dressed in red and black armor with a matching helmet and visor, Weaver cuts an imposing figure as he makes his way up the white marble steps of the capital building to where a nervous-looking reporter stands. She straightens up at his approach though and with a nod to her camera crew, she starts asking questions just in time for Poultryman to swoop in and land beside the newest super villain, expression stern but a clear presence of support.

In his hands a laptop is clutched.

---

The demands are simple in theory, but Xisuma feels his heart thunder in his throat at every point on the list.

The week would be split into three types of days. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays would proceed as normal and the heroes and villains could go at each other as they pleased. Fridays would be reserved for the villains to do as necessary without hero interference under the caveat that no blood would be spilled, and Sundays heroes could have the same. Tuesdays and Saturdays, no one would fight, a proper break for everyone.

The villains would keep to their side of the bargain, Weaver says darkly as he stares directly into camera, just so long as the heroes kept to theirs. And measures would be taken for anyone who chose not to comply. Xisuma's brain goes fuzzy with static as the super villain makes a few other demands, something about fair wages and from when to when each group could operate, but his gaze remains locked to where he can just barely make out his twin's face through his visor. The words filter through him, dismissed into a soft numbing blur.

The air suddenly feels chilled on his skin, fingers twitching in his lap, a rough, twisting feeling in his gut like the bottom of his stomach just dropped away. He feels trapped, unable to move from the couch, from the wrong side of the screen. Oh, he thinks hazily to himself, he's about to be sick. Hmm, ought to do- something. About all of- of this.

Gods... What did his brother do?

---

An era ends like this- Poultryman sweeps Weaver away in his arms and in his place, Evil X comes home. Xisuma watches his brother come through the door, eyes glued to his brother's face even as Evil X places his keys on the table by the door and takes off his shoes. There's a gentle realization bubbling up that this is the first time he's seen his brother's bare face with his own eyes, without the tint of a visor between them, in far too long. His twin's got paler as of late, making the eye bags and scars stand out all the more.

"You're home." The words hang in the air and Evil X sags at their weight, leaning against the door as if to prop himself up for the conversation to come. His arms hang behind his back, a laptop case dangling in his grip.

"You know this isn't home any more than the tree was."

"We- we were supposed to be safe here. This was where we were going to stay!" Xisuma is going red now, rising up from the couch in his anger, and Evil X watches him with the dredged-up calm of a man resigned to drowning. Good, anger he could handle.

"You thought this was where we would stay, got us a nice, normal apartment that looks like it's out of a fashion plate without asking me. You think I like staying in this pretty white bird cage that you bought by selling yourself to the most corrupt people around? This place isn't any safer for us than the tree was, and at least in the park we had company!"

"Says the one who fell into bed with the literal bad guy! At least here you weren't getting into fights every other week."

"No, now you're the one doing that!" They're shouting at each other. They never do that. An acrid taste fills Evil X's mouth and he gulps it back, along with a few words he just knows he would regret if he said them. A deep breath, a slow in and out. "Look, just. Don't be a hypocrite, okay?"

Xisuma pauses in his wind up for a proper tirade, eyes wary and wet. "What?"

"You aren't the only self sacrificing moron here."

"...Oh." Yeah. Oh.

Here Evil X takes another breath, resisting the urge to hold it, then extends his arm to show his twin the laptop case. "Hey."

Xisuma folds his arms behind his back, looking at his feet and then up again, shuffling back a step. "Yeah?"

"Got you a present. You always were the best of us, so. Here. It was the last part of the deal I kinda set up, a kind of fail-safe slash card to add to your deck. This laptop has evidence of my entire operation, every backroom deal, every piece of black mail, every person I've had killed or vanished or what have you. Everything I've been up to for the last however long. And... it's for you to read. It's not gonna be fun, but like, I trust you so it's okay. If you read this and really, honestly think I've crossed a line you can't forgive me for, you can turn this into the police and... I'll deal with whatever you choose to do with me. No loop holes, no take-backs."

Here Evil X leans his full weight against the door and lets his arm swing back down to his side, gaze sliding off to the side and a melancholy smile curling at his lips and pulling at his scars. "I trust you. I trust you. It... It'll be okay, yeah? Just make whatever choice you need to. Don't hesitate." He doesn't promise anything, keeps the words 'I'll be okay' from spilling into the air between them, but instead allows a careful submission to enter his posture, head bowed and figure loose and hanging.

It... might not be alright, but it will be right and that will have to be good enough. (It has to be.)

Xisuma chokes, a sob rising in his throat as his brave, strong brother gives up before his eyes. The air in his lungs freezes solid at the thought of having to choose whether or not his twin lives or dies, because that's what this is, he can't pretend that the city wouldn't execute him at the slightest chance, agreements be damned. His gaze tracks wildly from the laptop case to the top of his brother's head to the window, as if trying to see if anyone could be watching, could make the choice for him.

It's not fair. It's not fair, why him, why? He was so good, tried so hard- his heart is loud in his ears, breath rattling in and out in wheezing gasps- sobbing now, utterly sobbing. Evil X doesn't look up, doesn't try to comfort him. Won't even move, gods.

Fuck it.

Evil X startles, back banging against the door as Xisuma rushes forward and rips the case from his hands, only to chuck it into the far corner before throwing himself into his arms. On instinct Evil X catches him and holds him close just in time for Xisuma to bury his face in the crook of his neck and burst into messy, tearful sobs. They shake together and Evil X lets his head thump back gently against the door, eyes hazily gazing up at the ceiling.

"It's not- *hic*- it's not fair! I didn't want this!"

"I know. I know." He runs his hand over his twin's back, his taller form bowing forward to shelter his brother's smaller one. Somehow, even now it feels like Xisuma is the larger one between them, solid and warm in his arms.

"Why do I have to choose? I never wanted this! Why?! Why would you do this for me?"

"You're my brother. I love you." A gasping, wet sob against his neck and his twin lets out a moan like a dying cow, low and agonized. Evil X focuses on a soot mark on the white ceiling, tears stinging his eyes and running down his face to plop softly into his brother's hair.

"But why?!" Screaming. Gods, he can't-

"I love you. I love you." Rocking now, back and forth, gentle, just as he had when he had come home from beating up the men who had tried to lay stomp out his brother's heart, scarred and beaten and bloody. I love you, he had said then, and he repeats it now.

Later, much later, Xisuma will have to boot up the laptop and read through its contents. He will try to burn it, first, but Zedaph's work is more durable than most and Evil X will watch as his twin will dump his emotions into his flames, desperately trying to stoke them hotter and brighter. Later, a choice will have to be made.

But for now, Evil X will hold his brother, warm and safe, and let him cry.

#minecraft #my writing #fanfiction #hermitcraft #xisuma #evil xisuma #evil x #pretty much all the hermits actually

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sandwichfox · 4 years

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AHH LISTEN! You write such beautiful headcannons, I feel like I'm literally there. 6x the joy of getting married and having gorgeous competent spouses to help with our gorgeous grumpy children! Thank you so much for this gift! Would you be down to write for the main 6 a lil oblivious, mutual pining and what causes them/the MC to finally snap? (And if you wanna get racy, what happens next? ;) )

Listen, listen, you came for my entire heart with this ask, the compliments definitely punched me in the face but the mutual pining was what KO’d me, my forking jam. (Also, we are always happy to get racy here in la mía casa)

Asra

★ He already really, really loves you, so it just kind of evolves naturally for him. There’s no internal conflict on his part, because of course he would fall for you, it’s only right.

★ However, he does want to be absolutely sure you’re ready before taking any next steps, he doesn’t want to set you back in your recovery.

★ Except for Asra, that translates into never initiating anything, ever.

★ He hugs you and touches your shoulder and all, but that’s just Asra with anybody he trusts. He does stare at you an awful lot though. If he catches you staring, this fluffy idiot will think nothing of it.

★ Physical contact is already so natural between the two of you. That one day you just.. kiss him? Oops.

☆(NSFW)☆

★ “wait was that-?” “…oh! Sorry I-“ “No it’s- can I kiss you again?” The answer is yes, he kisses you with purpose this time, soft and warm. Then immediately dissolves into giggles. He kisses you again, still giggling. “I love you” he says, voice stuck between a laugh and a sigh (and a kiss).

★ It was meant to be a brief kiss, but now he can’t seem to stop. (He’s lost count of how many times he’s kissed you now), but his hands -they’re shaking- skim tentatively up your arm, into your hair, hold you by the nape of your neck. And when you sigh he can’t help but brush a finger against your collarbone, then kiss that same spot.

★ He feels drunk (he probably knocks against the shop’s counter, almost drops a jar of some herb or another), but now he’s got you pressed against it and he’s not laughing anymore, his brow is furrowed with want. He pants your name and you’re both gone.

Nadia

♠ Doesn’t want to come on too strong but she is starting to suspect she fell for an entire dumbass.

♠︎ Maybe you just don’t want her? It’s entirely possible, but then what about all the times you seem to be flirting with her?

♠︎ She’s tried everything, lavishing you with gifts, turning on the charm, even showing you off at parties and to dinner guests.

♠ Problem is, she’s the countess, and why would she be interested in you? That’s ridiculous. All this must be because she has all this money, and you’re a special guest, and she’s just amazing like that.

♠︎ But one day you can’t take it anymore, and ask her outright what her intentions are. (Literally “are you flirting with me?” “I have been for a year now, thank you for noticing”)

♤(NSFW)♤

♠︎ Oh boy, she has to make up for lost time, now doesn’t she? She asks you (up front this time) if you’d like to come up to her room at the palace. “Don’t worry, nothing nefarious” her gaze says otherwise. Goodness, she’ll eat you alive.

♠︎ You get to her chambers and, unexpectedly, she asks you to try something on for her. A necklace, she says, that has been sent to her. She’s not sure about it yet, and would like to see it on you before deciding if she likes it. You’re a bit taken aback, but agree.

♠︎ She’s wicked, dragging the cold metal chain slowly across the skin of your shoulders, breathing against your neck as she fastens the clasp, she takes you (legs shaking) to stand in front of the mirror. She places a kiss against a soft spot on your neck and then presses her teeth against it, her hand travels up to your throat. “Darling, you look ravishing” but you barely hear her, your ears are ringing.

Julian

♦︎ Oh boy.

♦︎ This dude right here invented pining. He thinks you’re absolutely gorgeous the moment he sees you, but then you two get to talk and it’s over, my man is gone.

♦︎ Alternates between the smoothest man alive and a literal mess. Also, he wants to date you so bad, but he thinks he’ll be bad for you. Can’t decide between being selfish and a self-sacrificing idiot.

♦︎ You like him so much, but he keeps sending these mixed messages, you wonder if it’s better to just maybe just steal longing glances at him for the rest of your life.

♦︎ One day, when he’s feeling particularly angsty, you ask him what’s wrong and he tells you in many, many scrambled words that he likes you. You had thought you had mistaken his usual Julian-ness for flirting, but this new revelation changes everything.

♢(NSFW)♢

♦︎ “You like me” you breathe. He looks up miserably from his pint and nods. You already had a hand on his shoulder from where you were comforting him, but the surprise makes you tighten your hold, dig your nails in. And he- did he-? You snap your gaze to his and yep, he’s red to the very tips of his ears, lip caught between his teeth. “Oh?” You smirk. He lets out another tiny, miserable whine.

♦︎ You can’t remember ever feeling this giddy, your heart is pounding and your hands feel clumsy, it’s nearly impossible to get the buttons of his coat to come undone. And you’re hiding in an alley, goodness. Julian’s lips still taste of salty bitters, and he’s clutching at you like he wants to climb inside you.

♦︎ “You’re drunk” you say “on you” he retorts, though muffled, he didn’t even miss a beat. You bite his lip playfully in response and he, mmmelts (seriously, you have to catch him a little). “Okay” you say, hot all over, “okay” and you kiss him some more.

Muriel

♣︎ Hates it. Hates that he’s pining for you so hard. He tries the whole avoiding you thing and everything but it doesn’t work.

♣︎ It never even crosses his mind that you might want him back. Sometimes he catches you looking at him and his immediate reaction is to be absolutely mortified (has he had something on his face this whole time?!)

♣︎ Doesn’t know what to do with himself, basically. He wants to talk to you but he only goes so far as to following you around at a distance. He wants to touch you but doesn’t want to ask for contact. He brushes against you once in passing and immediately goes beet red.

♣︎ Thing is, you’re so good. So good, soft, like he doesn’t deserve. You treat him like he’s… Sometimes you bring by some of your cooking, or a shiny rock that you thought was pretty, or you take him out for some smoked eel (and keep him company while he eats it, sat in the shadows). You constantly check that he’s alright “is it okay if I put my hand on your shoulder?” “Are you alright?” “Can I touch you?” “Can I help you?” “Can I hug you?”…

♣︎ “Can I kiss you?” You whisper, he can only nod.

♧(NSFW)♧

♣ Muriel is so sensitive to touch, starved for it, though he’d never admit it. So when you start kissing him there’s an immediate churning heat in his belly. He’s lightheaded, feels like he’s about to boil over, he doesn’t know where to put his hands.

♣︎ Somehow you’ve ended up in his lap, though he can’t say exactly when that happened (time is strange, when he’s kissing you), his hands have traveled to your sides and something about having you there, holding you to him, he’s going to go mad.

♣︎ He doesn’t want to ask for more than you’re willing to give him. But you give so easily, each tentative press of his lips is met with wet, purposeful pressure from yours. When his hands first brush your skin you shiver and come closer. He kind of never wants to stop.

Portia

♥︎ Is a whole mess.

♥︎ Listen, she gets lost in your eyes sometimes, alright? That doesn’t mean she’s in love with you. Or maybe it does, but you don’t have to know that.

♥︎ Maybe you’re an oblivious fool (u are) because that’s the only way that you wouldn’t have noticed her pining. Literally goes ‘eep!’ every time you catch her staring.

♥︎ Portia is the kind of person that talks about their crush all the time, (‘the other day I was with MC and-‘ ‘and then MC said- insert mildly funny thing- and haha- wait- hahaha- they said- hahsghdgsh’) so literally everyone knows she’s crushing but you.

♥︎ She’s naturally flirty with everyone, but one day she says something that you read as actually flirty, so then you’re like wait, really? And Portia’s all ‘oh! Sdgdhhdj I was just, I didn’t mean- I was just, uhm- KIDDING! Just kidd- unless..’ (anyway spoilers you both like each other and then make out lol)

♡(NSFW)♡

♥︎ She spent so long having a crush on you and daydreaming about being with you and now she can actually have you. She has to hide away with you for a little while ASAP. You notice her acting giddy one day in the gardens and ask her what’s wrong “nothing!” She says immediately, then a pause “actually, do you want to stop by the cottage?” A perfectly innocent question, but she’s gone all red. Oh.

♥︎ You stop by her cottage. As soon as you’re in through the door she turns up the flirty-ness tenfold (you’re gonna pass out), until she finally takes your hand and walks you backward against a wall. “Wanna make out?” She whispers. You do, actually. She’s surprisingly bitey, and very responsive.

♥︎ After a few moments her hands start wandering, “you’re so cute” she sighs “beautiful, wow”. She’s letting out these breathy little sighs, pressing closer until there’s no space between you. She has one leg slotted between your own, her back arched to press the length of her against your body, one hand on your back at your waist, the other clutching at her shoulder, and she’s moving in a slow, waving motion, kissing your jaw and lips and ear and scraping teeth against your neck (you’re going to die).

Lucio

▲ Oh he hATES it. (Feelings?! No thanks, yuck). It’s probably the whole ‘feelings make you weak’ mentality he grew up around, because he’s not above indulging in company, if ya know what I mean.

▲ But he doesn’t just want that from you, and it throws him on a loop. He keeps bouncing back and forth between sending for you about the most ridiculous things just to see you, and sending you away in a huff when he realizes that no, bad Lucio.

▲ It can’t be helped though, and soon he’s head over heels. He gets ridiculous, honestly. ‘Subtly’ asking about you and giving you increasingly odd, expensive gifts and trying to get your attention.

▲ As soon as he gives in and admits to himself that he actually likes you his first thought is to go out and demand that you be with him. But he’s actually nervous, and not exactly sure that you would like that at all. So he starts testing the waters.

▲You think it’s just Lucio being Lucio but you’ve liked him for some time and it kinda? hurts? when he suddenly starts complimenting you and making jokes about being with you for real, saying it so casually like there’s no way in hell and it hurts. So one day you tell him to stop.

△(NSFW)△

▲ “Wha- huh?” He says, and you’re embarrassed, maybe you shouldn’t have said anything, but Lucio’s already seen your face, and now he knows what’s going on. “Oh, sweetheart” he says in a drawl “I’m being perfectly sincere, I love your pretty face” he takes a step closer “that amazing body” his voice is softer, you blush, he takes another step “your powerful magic” another still “your sharp mind” he’s right in front of you know, reaching out with a clawed finger to tilt your chin up “I’d like to be with you, if you’d let me.”

▲ “I’d like to do so many things to you, magician.” His golden hand trails from your chin to your bottom lip, tugging down before letting go and traveling up your cheek to the side of your head. He’s holding himself up against the wall with his other hand, bracketing you in against him, all in your space. “Perhaps I’ll call you to my room, feed you whine and fruit and sweets, drape you in fine silk” he leans in close to your ear “I’ll keep you to myself all day, kiss every inch of you, maybe keep you all night as well.”

▲ “Lucio” you gasp, he grins devilishly and surges in to kiss you. He kisses you long and hard right there in the hallway, pulling back a few inches just to hover near your lips, you lean into him and he pulls back a little more, teasing. “Please” you pout. “Oh no, beautiful, you’re much too pretty to be begging a man like me for kisses. I should be the one doing the begging, getting on my knees and showering you in gold.” He’s grinning, but he’s glowing red with enthusiasm at the thought. “Kiss me then” you say, pulling him to you, he shivers like he’s weak at the knees and does just that.

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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Azirafeast - The Feast of Aziraphale

Yo I heard there was a thing and I wrote you all a fic...and then it kind of got out of hand...The first bit was the story I meant to tell, but for once I succumbed to the urge for a soft epilogue or two. Enjoy!

30 Days after Creation

Angels did not get time off, certainly not angels whose sole purpose on Earth was to guard the Gate to the Garden at the Heart of Creation.

Even if the Gate, strictly speaking, didn’t exist.

Keeping the flaming sword well back from anything that might burn, the Guardian pushed his free hand through the vines and ran it across the rough stone wall for what felt like the thousandth time. Still solid.

The Archangel had explained that it would remain so, that the Eastern Gate would only appear should something go wrong.

“What could go wrong?” the Guardian had asked, worried.

“Many things,” The Archangel had responded with an impressive wave of one of his wings. “But so long as our Guardian stays vigilant, Evil will never enter the Garden.”

“Right.” The Guardian had swelled with pride, clutching his sword. “Ah. Sorry. Is Evil entering the Garden one of the things that could go wrong, or would that be the cause of the things going wrong?”

“Well…”

“And if it’s the cause, doesn’t that mean evil doesn’t enter through the Gate, since it won’t be there yet?”

“I suppose…”

“But then, if Evil in the Garden is what creates the Gate, wouldn’t it be better for me to be, well, proactive? Patrol the Garden, see that nothing is out of place, that sort of thing? Certainly would be a better use of this sword, to hunt down Evil before it could cause trouble!” He had waved it a little in his excitement.

“That’s not—”

“Then again, is Evil a being or is it an action? In which case, the better thing to do would be to stay close to the humans and make sure they stayed out of trouble, wouldn’t it?”

The Archangel had pressed his lips together and narrowed a large number of violet eyes, looking far from happy. “That seems to be quite a lot of questions.”

“Ah.”

And so, The Guardian stood protecting a gate that didn’t exist to prevent Evil which may or may not be a physical presence from entering a Garden he couldn’t see much of.

But he was an angel. He was devoted to his task. He had no need for time off to explore the forest (even though there were no forests in Heaven), or to investigate the exciting smells that came from the flowers nearby (certainly no flowers in Heaven).

There was also, apparently, no need for him to become better acquainted with the humans, to find out what they spoke of and why they laughed so much. (Technically there was laughter in Heaven, but the human version sounded much nicer.)

And so, day by day, he stood, watching the few trees and bushes in his field of vision, checking to make sure the wall was still solid. Birds flew past, the occasional four-legged creature trotted by, some with more fur than others. They took no notice of him.

And the humans. They were always together, and often accompanied by other animals, birds sitting on their shoulders, wolves following at their heels. More than once he saw the Woman walk past with a large rabbit in her arms, running her fingers through its fur. Other times they carried fruits, nuts, sometimes tubers, eating as they walked.

The humans did notice him, nodding as they passed, but never spoke to him, any more than they would speak to a tree or to the wall itself. He was simply part of the Garden to them. They never questioned his presence. They never questioned anything.

Then, on the thirtieth day, something changed.

The Guardian had just shifted the sword to his left hand for a bit, to give the right a break, when he heard something shift in the bushes. He spun towards it, raising his weapon to strike the Evil creature – but it was only the Woman. She stood half behind a bush, hidden up to nearly her shoulders. No, hiding wasn’t quite the right word – her face was plainly visible – yet she didn’t step past it.

There was something different about her eyes that day. They seemed more focused, intent. She looked at him directly. “Why do you stand there?” she asked, head tilted to the side.

“I…” Was he supposed to answer? Was it allowed? “It is my duty. I’m the Guardian. I guard the Gate.”

“What’s a gate?”

“Well, it’s, ah…it’s an opening in a wall, that things can come through. Large and impressive usually,” he added. The Gates in Heaven were very nice indeed.

“Can I see it?” She stepped a little closer, eyes shining, then shrank back behind the bush again.

“Ah. Well. Now that you…” The Guardian glanced over his shoulder again. “It doesn’t actually…exist. It’s more…ah…metaphysical?”

“I see,” though she clearly did not.

He assumed that was it. She’d either wander off, knowing there was nothing to see, or she’d ask what metaphysical meant, and then she’d wander off while he inevitably failed to explain it to anyone’s satisfaction.

Except she didn’t. The Woman stood there for a while, tugging on the leaves that crossed in front of her. “What…what’s on the other side of the Wall?”

Not that this question was any easier. “I…the world, I suppose. Earth.”

“What’s it like?”

“It…” Another difficult one. “It’s like the Garden, only…more real.” He’d explored a little, while it was still under construction. “Not as nice, really. More dangerous. Not as much food. All the important things are in here.”

“Then why is it there?”

“That…” The Guardian shook his head. “That seems to be quite a lot of questions.”

“Are questions bad?”

He thought about that one a long time, rolling it around in his mind. “I don’t know.”

While he stood there thinking, the Man appeared, standing behind the Woman. His eyes were different, too.

“Why do you stand there?” the Man asked.

“He guards a gate that doesn’t exist and leads to the world, which isn’t as good as the Garden.”

“I see.” The Man nodded. “If it doesn’t exist, why do you need to guard it?”

“Well, I…”

“Obviously,” the Woman put in, “if he’s a Guardian, he must guard. It’s in his name.”

“That isn’t actually my name,” the Guardian finally managed, then went a little red as the two humans turned back to him. Something about their combined gaze made him uncomfortable. He moved the sword closer to his face, so he could pretend it was a result of the heat.

“Do you have a name?” the Man asked. “I was supposed to name all the creatures and plants in the Garden, but I didn’t think that included you.”

“No, I have a name,” the Guardian assured him. “It’s—”

The next sound he made couldn’t really be replicated by a human tongue, nor transcribed into any system of writing that would ever exist. It was more than a sound, it was a swirl of colors and emotions and scents that had to be experienced. Simply uttering it seemed to make the Garden a little brighter.

“I see,” the Man said. His eyes slid across to the flaming sword. “Why do you carry that?”

“Oh.” The Guardian had expected more of a reaction, really. “Well. God gave this to me. To, ah, to help with the guarding.”

“How does it help?” the Woman asked, one hand reaching partially over the bush towards it, though she still seemed unwilling to walk closer.

“It, ah…” Aziraphale studied the flames licking up the orichalcum blade. “So far, it really hasn’t. I accidentally set fire to the vines a few times,” he admitted, “but that is certainly not its purpose.”

“Is it hot?” the Man asked, at the same time that the Woman, eying the edge, asked, “Is it sharp?”

“Yes to both, actually.”

The Man and the Woman looked at each other.

“Could you…” the Woman smiled uncertainly. “Do you think you could help us with something?”

The three of the crouched in the grass, staring at the sword. The Guardian had needed to experiment a great deal until he worked out how to diffuse the flame so that the metal was hot, but not too hot. A handful of large brown nuts sat along the center of the blade.

“There!” The Woman pointed eagerly. “They’re splitting open! Quickly!”

“Right!” The Guardian plucked the nuts up, juggling them from one hand to the other. “Oh, are you sure? These are quite—”

“Yes! Quickly! Remember last time?”

“Yes, yes.” Before they could cool too much, The Guardian began peeling off the shells and the bitter inner skin, rubbing at the softened meat inside with his robe to remove any lingering sharp bits of shell. “Finished!” He held out his hand, four light brown chestnuts filling the air with an enticing smell.

The Woman took one, popped it into her mouth, chewing carefully. “Yes, we did it! It worked!”

Next the Man took one, clearly savoring the taste as he ate it. “You were right. They’re wonderful now, one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.”

“I knew there had to be something good under all that bitterness.” She picked up another chestnut, waving it around without eating it.

“Do you think heat makes all the foods taste better?”

“It might! The only way to find out is to try.”

“What do we try next?” He was already climbing to his feet. “The grapes? The oranges?”

“Potatoes!” The Woman stood up, tapping her finger against the Man’s chest. “Just like these, good smell, but you can’t quite eat it. They probably just need heat, too.”

“Ah…” The Guardian still knelt in the grass, the last chestnut resting on his palm. He’d been waiting for the Man to take it. “I was quite happy to help you with this but…” They turned back to him, white teeth flashing in broad smiles. “…but perhaps in another day or two? I shouldn’t be away from my Gate too much.”

“Of course!” The Man helped him to his feet, and the Woman brushed down the back of his robe.

“Why do you wear this?” she wondered, once again moving to where he couldn’t quite see her.

“Ah…” the Guardian shrugged. “Well, in Heaven, angels usually wrap ourselves in our wings. I…suppose it’s just an earthly equivalent? Since I don’t have wings in this form.”

“This – this is what we need,” the Woman said abruptly. “We should make ourselves coverings!”

“Oh, no!” The Guardian held up his hands. “Please, don’t – it’s an angelic custom, not a human one! You have no need—”

“I think we do,” she said softly. “I’ve felt all day that…something was missing.” She shifted her arms a little, as if to hide behind them. “I don’t like it. Perhaps I’ll feel better?”

“I felt the same,” the Man said, stepping close behind her again, resting a hand on her shoulder. “It is…unpleasant. But we were able to forget it a little while just now, thanks to you.”

“Oh. Well. Um.” The Guardian picked up his sword. “Glad to help. Ah.” He held out the last chestnut, growing cool in his hand. “I suppose you should take this?”

But the Man held out his hand. “No, that one is for you, Aziraphale.”

“I…that’s not actually…”

It was almost his name. If you removed everything but the sound, if you simplified it for human tongue, it was almost how it should sound.

“Aziraphale…” the angel murmured to himself. It made him feel warm, this simplified version of his name. It made him feel…welcome. “You know…I think I rather like it.”

“Good!” The Man patted him on the shoulder with another smile. “Now, return to your Gate that isn’t a gate, and we shall see you in a few days with more foods to make hot!” He laughed, as did the Woman.

And, though he wasn’t quite sure why, Aziraphale joined in.

After the angel had left, the Man and the Woman walked back through the trees, searching for one of their customary sleeping spaces. The Woman paused, glancing into a darker part of the shadows.

“You could have joined us,” she said to a formless black presence. It hissed back. “I don’t see why not,” she insisted. Crouching down, she left the last chestnut on a stone. “That one’s for you.”

A blunt nose emerged from the pitch blackness beneath the trees, another shadow more solid than the rest, and nudged the tan nut. “Ssssserpentsss don’t eat thessssse.”

“Oh.” She glanced at the Man who shrugged. “What do you eat, then?”

Another hiss, but no other response.

“We’ll find something you do like,” she said, taking the Man’s hand and walking deeper into the trees.

Long after they’d left, the shadow shifted.

A pale hand with long, thin fingers snatched up the chestnut.

“Hmmm,” a grudging voice admitted. “This isn’t bad.”

Ante diem XI Kalendas Decembribus, DCCXCIII Ab Urbe Condita

(Eleven Days before the Kalends of December, 793rd Year After the Founding of the City)

“Where exactly is this restaurant?” Crowley demanded, wandering behind Aziraphale in that strange, swaying way of his.

“Well, I’m certain it’s…it’s certainly around here somewhere!” The Angel peered down yet another street. “No, that’s…Perhaps the other way?”

“Are you lost?”

“No! Angels don’t get lost.” He frowned, turning in a circle right in the center of the little crossroads. “It must be the restaurant that’s lost!”

“Because that makes sense.”

Aziraphale sighed, running his hands down the front of his toga. He was rapidly losing to Crowley’s bad mood, he could tell. Any moment, the demon would wander off to another tavern and lose himself in another bottle of foul-smelling alcohol.

He wasn’t certain why that bothered him, but it certainly did.

“Now there’s no need for either of us to panic.”

“No one’s panicking, Angel.” Crowley plucked the silver laurel wreath off his head, stared at it as if he’d never seen it before, and tossed it down one of the side streets like a discus. “Look, never mind all this, why don’t we—”

“Oh my word!” Aziraphale turned his head. “Do you smell that?” A rich, thick, slightly spicy aroma that seemed to bypass all his senses and strike him directly in the stomach. His eyes scanned across the shops lining the street. Three were food vendors of some description, and one of those had just pulled a hot pan out of the fire and was now filling a deep bowl set into the counter of his shop with freshly roasted chestnuts.

“What are you—”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the hand and dragged him up the street. “Quickly, my dear fellow! You simply must have them while they’re still hot!”

“I have eaten a chestnut before.”

“Have you?” Aziraphale waved to the proprietor and placed several coins on the counter, helping himself to a bowl full of steaming chestnuts. “I always seem to crave them this time of year. Not really sure why, but oh, these smell simply delightful!”

In a way, they would never be as good as that first one he’d eaten, walking back to his Gate, filled with the warmth of…of everything that had happened that night. Turning over the new name in his mind as he turned the new flavor over on his tongue. Nothing would ever compare to the way foods tasted in the Garden, so simple and pure.

Certainly, nothing had felt the same after he reached the Gate, horrified to see the large opening in the Wall, vines and trees parting to give a clear view through the stones to the desert beyond.

There had been much to worry about in those days. Was it somehow his fault, for abandoning his post for nearly half a day? Had giving the humans his sword been the right choice? Would the foods in the real world even be edible?

And yet, the humans had not only survived, they’d thrived. They’d found ways to combine different foods to create an art that no angel had ever imagined. The wonderful, buttery, spicy crunch in his mouth now was proof of that.

His eyes fluttered open to find Crowley was staring at him, jaw tight. “Oh, I’m being rude,” Aziraphale said, holding out the bowl. “Please, have some.”

Crowley’s hand reached towards the bowl slowly.

Somewhere down the street, a woman’s voice screamed. A man emerged from a side street, clutching a small basket, running directly towards them. The woman emerged behind him, clutching her arm painfully. “He stole my—”

Suddenly, the man’s feet shot out from under him, and he fell hard on his behind, rolling across a street suddenly filled with hard round chestnuts. When he pushed himself up at the mouth of another side street, something long, thin and silvery slithered out, wrapping around his arm. The man shouted and tried to pull away from the strange leaf-covered vine, but it held him, pulling him to lie flat.

The woman picked her way quickly across the chestnut-strewn ground to retrieve her lost property, giving the man a firm kick just to be sure.

Though it was all over in a few seconds, the commotion drew Crowley’s attention, and he started to turn away.

“Ah-ah.” Aziraphale caught Crowley’s chin with his finger, turning it back to face him. “Really, my dear, you must learn to focus your attention.”

��Yeah but – didn’t you hear…?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” A quick glance assured the angel that no other troublemakers would be wandering in their direction. “Here, try this one.” He selected one of the larger chestnuts and held it out to Crowley with a smile.

19 November, 2019

“And then I said to him, ‘This is a genuine first edition with the original author’s signature, marginalia, and tea stains, and if you think I would let it go for anything as petty as money—‘”

“Hold that thought.” They’d been wandering up and down the streets of London for hours, as they often did on weekends, holidays or, in this case, random Tuesdays. But Crowley had just spotted a little cart parked halfway along Westminster Bridge.

He walked a little faster, leaving Aziraphale to tut and huff behind him. Fortunately, they didn’t have far to go, and there was no line, as all the humans crowded around the cart suddenly remembered urgent appointments elsewhere.

Crowley handed over some coins, and by the time Aziraphale caught up he was met by a demon grinning broadly over a richly scented paper bag.

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Chestnuts! You know, I was just thinking the other day, I really should get some.”

“Course you were.” Crowley took a few for himself and gave the rest of the bag to Aziraphale. “How else would you celebrate?”

“Oh? And what are we celebrating now?”

“S’a holiday.” Crowley nudged him with his elbow as they ambled across the Thames. “Most important holiday of the year.”

Aziraphale’s forehead furrowed. “World Toilet Day?”

“What? Is it?” He shook his head. “Humans really do have to go and make everything weird.”

“My dear fellow, the lack of proper sanitation in some parts of the world is no joking matter—”

“No, it’s not about—” Was there one day in the year the humans hadn’t made about them? “I’m declaring it my own holiday. The Feast of Aziraphale.”

“Oh.” The angel blinked, one chestnut halfway to his mouth. “Oh. But – you can’t just—”

“Course I can. And it’s really about time, too. Everything you do for the humans, you deserve your own Feast day. Lazy bastards shoulda taken care of it themselves ages ago, but here I am, cleaning up their mess as usual.”

“Actually, it’s more usual for them to—”

“And that’s why today, Nineteenth of November, is now the Feast of Aziraphale! I’ll make sure they start marking it on all the calendars.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, before the soft voice started exactly as Crowley had expected: “Now, really, my dear, it’s…it’s a nice sentiment, but I don’t deserve—”

“Yes.” Crowley slung his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and pulled him closer as they walked. “You do.”

He didn’t need to see Aziraphale’s face to know how he smiled, how he blinked his eyes, overwhelmed with emotion. Crowley certainly didn’t look. He already had the angel’s every expression committed to memory, and anyway, he deserved a little privacy.

“So, ah…” Aziraphale cleared his throat and stepped a little away, trying to fix his waistcoat one-handed. “How, precisely, does one celebrate this feast?”

“Well, traditionally, there’s the roasted chestnuts,” Crowley said, reaching into the bag for a few more. “Enjoyed with one’s closest friends.”

This time he did catch that smile, a little fleeting one of pure joy. “Already there. Anything else?”

“I thought, perhaps…” A toss of his head as Crowley made his voice casual. “Dinner at the Savoy? Followed by a couple bottles of wine?”

“That all sounds rather cozy,” Aziraphale admitted, now looking directly ahead. “But I should think there should be something a little more dramatic, to mark the occasion.”

“Such as?”

Aziraphale handed him back the bag of chestnuts, which Crowley took without thinking.

Then the angel grabbed him by the lapels, propelled him back against the bridge railing, and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Crowley gasped, and Aziraphale took that opening to drink even deeper, pressing Crowley back until he needed to grip the green metal with his free hand.

It was only the third time they’d kissed, as they found their way towards a new normal. It was something Crowley could get used to, but at the same time hoped he never did.

Aziraphale finally stepped back, allowing him to catch his breath. “Yeah that…we can include…s’there more where that came from?”

“Hmmm. Dinner first.” Aziraphale paused, leaning over the railing to consider the city beyond. “And, I think, a toast.” He handed Crowley a flute of champagne, the second materializing in his hand right after.

“Does this pair with street vendor chestnuts?”

“Shut up, my dear.”

They raised their glasses. “What do we drink to? You, I assume.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “To us. To them.” He gestured to the mass of humanity, moving about their daily lives. “To a night spent with those we care about most. And, as always…”

Crowley brought the rim of his glass to meet Aziraphale’s. “To the world.”

A/N: Yes, 19 November is World Toilet Day, as well as International Men’s Day. I didn’t pick the date, but suspected the humans had rudely made it about themselves.

#good omens fanfiction #azirafeast #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #Garden Of Eden #ancient rome #post nopocalypse #falling in love #friendship #roasted chestnuts #i made myself real hungry on this one #adam and eve #aziraphale and crowley #aziraphale/crowley #asexual ineffable husbands #anniversary #the feast of aziraphale #my writing

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tenthgrove · 3 years

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L’inizio- A La Squadra Backstory Collection

Chapter 1: La Serenità (Risotto Nero)

Word count: ~6000

Warnings: Like most La Squadra backstories, this fic is going to get quite dark in places so I’m going to include content warnings chapter by chapter. For this chapter, warnings are in place for grief, self-harm (implicit), violence, murder and general mental ill-health

Needles of rain batter the old road as the taxi pulls into a quiet town. The driver, who eyes his unfamiliar passenger quickly and often as he slumps broodingly in the back seat, prays his headlights don’t give up on him now.

“I know my way from here,” the passenger speaks. Though doubtful of his judgement, the driver takes his cue to pull to a stop on the unlevel curb. The passenger undoes his seatbelt and slings his heavy bag over-shoulder. He spares the taxi driver a rare moment of eye contact. “If you try and find the church yourself in this weather we’ll be here all night,” he huffs.

“Are you sure?” the driver asks waveringly, “the downpour is quite severe after all.”

“I’ve had worse. Now here, your money,” the strange man maintains, shoving a fist of cash towards him. The driver counts it eagerly.

“130,000 lire? That’s far more-”

“The first half is for the journey, the rest says you never saw me,” he elaborates impatiently. Reaching for the door, he steps out detachedly into the rain and begins his long strides forward. After a moment he stops, and looks back. For the first time all journey, his bitter face is lit up by the glare of the headlights. For all he has said and done, the driver cannot bring himself to feel shock at the sight of the black and red eyes the stranger looks at him with.

“And really,” the young man repeats. “Ensure you speak nothing of me. If you do, I have contacts who will ensure you regret it,” he snarls, turning his back ardently on the car and pacing away down the street. The driver wastes no time in leaving him be.

Risotto Nero wipes rain from his brow as he climbs the hill towards his destination. Somewhere, deep within his mind he acknowledges the unjust callousness with which he regards his childhood town around him. Perhaps, it is easier on his soul not to do otherwise.

Even as the darkness affords him no aid, Risotto guides himself by muscle memory towards the old tower of the village church. He knows by memory too, the way through the ancient graveyard to the place he came to visit. Reaching the far corner, he stumbles on the dirt and feels his hands for the stone. Icy hands trace its name, pangs of both relief and guilt when the familiar lettering is felt by him.

“Domenico,” Risotto half-gasps. He lets his knees give way as he sinks down onto the dirt of the grave. “I came back, as I promised you. I have to go again soon but…” he reaches into the pockets of his coat and pulls out a metal box the size of his palm. It’s starting to reek, a miracle the driver of the taxi didn’t notice, but it’s here now. “I did it Domenico. I killed him. For you,” Risotto speaks. He wrenches off the lid and the foul stench of rotting blood ebbs out. He hold it shakily over the grave, and tips it onto the dirt.

“I wanted to make him suffer more. Show him just what he did to Nonna and I by taking you. I couldn’t do that, there wasn’t enough time. But… I hope this is enough for you, Amico. I hope you can be at peace now.”

Risotto kisses his palm and presses it to the gravestone.

“Goodbye, Domenico.”

Risotto stand to his feet and turns away from the grave. A clap of lightning brings a brief moment of light to the rugged graveyard. There at the other end, Risotto sees a figure familiar to him, looking out over the sea of graves.

Damn it, Risotto thinks to himself. How in God’s name did she find him here?

Risotto crosses his palms and stands sheepishly as the figure of his grandmother approaches him. Vittoria stops when she’s close enough for the faint light of the night to force them to see eye to eye. Risotto knows he could not look away from her if he tried.

“I saw a vehicle coming into town,” Vittoria speaks. “Somehow, I knew in my heart it would be you.” The aging woman reaches a hand for her grandson’s arm. He flinches, but does not shake her off. “What have you done, Risotto?”

Risotto breathes deeply. He gives her the firmest look he dares.

“Exactly what I said I would.”

“It’s all over the news,” Vittoria laments. “The theories are ceaseless. I can only thank god you haven’t been named as a suspect yet, but with all that’s happened it’s only a matter of time.”

“They aren’t going to name me,” he promises. “I sought protection as I said I would. No police force in Italy will dare put blame on me, and they will not harass you either.” Risotto assures her. Vittoria’s eyes go wide as panic flashes across her face. She opens her mouth fearfully.

“Who?”

“Passione,” Risotto answers.

“Then you really have doomed yourself Risotto.”

Risotto takes a step back.

“I’ve sworn to report to Naples by 4pm tomorrow. I have to go, Nonna,” he excuses himself.

“Stay, just a few hours, I beg of you,” Vittoria pleads. As he marches to the edge of the graveyard, she follows him desperately. “If you must go, I can take you myself in the morning. Don’t you want to bring more of your things? At very least- give a passing goodbye to your home?” she vies. Risotto shakes his head without looking back at her. “Risotto, please,” Vittoria begs, grabbing him by the wrist. “You’re all I’ve got left. You don’t have to go to them. I can hide you. I can take care of you.”

“I’m not going to be so dishonourable as to break an oath. Even if you could find a place for me out of Passione’s reach, my conscience would not allow it,” Risotto insists. “Surely you can understand that.”

Vittoria nods shakily.

“Unfortunately, I can. Very well, Risotto, I see your mind is made up. But won’t you at least come home for tonight?”

“No. It’s easier if I just go,” Risotto denies her. “Thank you for everything, Nonna.”

::::::::::::

A car horn sounds outside and Risotto snaps his eyes open. Sweat clings the sheets to his skin in spite of the cold weather. His head hurts and the light of his desk lamp stings his eyes as he switches it on. He doesn’t want to leave the bed. He wants to curl up and throw the sheets over his face but he knows he can’t do that.

It’s 11pm. No doubt his superiors will have tasks for him overnight and glancing over at the other bed, his roommate is already up. Risotto forces himself from bed. He notices the wrinkled photograph of his Nonna and cousin out on the nightstand- he must have left it there before he fell asleep. He tucks it quickly into the drawer. The idea of his roommates seeing it always leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Dressing in the first thing he can find, Risotto stumbles into the squalid little bathroom. Sometimes he has to remind himself he’s only 20, a gaunt, ghoulish figure whose eyes never focus and mouth never smiles. He used to think himself lonely as a child. Now he longs for a life that loved.

Risotto turns the tap and splashes his face with a little water. It hardly helps him look much better but it helps a little with the headache. He dries his face with a wipe and casts it into the bin. Often, he wonders whether his roommates haven’t noticed all the bloody tissues that keep piling up in there or if they’re just keeping quiet, but either way he’s glad for their silence. Wiping his hands on the towel, Risotto leaves for the kitchen.

“You look like shit,” Marco remarks. By the time Risotto looks at him back he’s already lost interest, eyes focused on the book he rests against the edge of the kitchen table.

“Thanks,” Risotto responds. He turns the dial on the light a little brighter. “Where are the others?”

“Fucked if I know. Nowhere good, I reckon,” Marco answers him. He pushes his glasses back into place, before scooting back in his chair to look up at Risotto. “But it works well for us. We’ve got an errand ‘needs doing. Whole massive sack of cash needs running to the warehouse. You know I can’t trust the others with that sort of thing, so I’m giving it to you. Fair?”

“Fair. I could use the walk,” Risotto shrugs. He reaches for his coat.

“Woah woah woah,” Marco stops him. “Please tell me you’re at least going to eat something before you head out. You look like you legitimately might fall over.”

“I’ll be fine, Marco, I just- don’t feel up to it,” Risotto excuses himself, slinging his arms into the coat sleeves.

“I am not letting you do such an important job for me in a state like that. Sit. I’ll get you something. As captain of this house, I’m ordering you,” Marco insists.

“If you’re so powerful how about you get Niccolo to stop barging in drunk every morning at 4am?” Risotto grumbles. He sits down anyway.

“I’m house captain, not a damn miracle worker,” Marco half-chuckles. Risotto gives a tut and forces his tense body to relax.

He heads out right after he’s eaten, not particularly wanting to converse with his roommate much longer. Risotto likes walking, especially at night. The cool air helps with the constant feeling of sickness and the quiet clears his head. He knows the place he’s going- an old warehouse a few blocks away where a lot of the money and drugs Passione seizes are taken as a first port of call. It’s not far, but Risotto thinks he’ll take the long route back. He’s enjoying this.

Risotto spies the run-down silhouette of the warehouse towering over the end of the street. The front entrance is right ahead, but Risotto knows he’s not supposed to use it for this sort of work. He heads left, down into the brick alleyway that takes him to the back door. A man is leaning against the wall. His face, scarred and stubbled, is made visible by the lighter he uses to light his bent cigarette. He spares a glance to Risotto, and Risotto feels the sudden urge to give him a wide birth.

“You got a watch on you?” the stranger asks.

Risotto isn’t falling for that one. He looks dead ahead and keeps walking, clutching the bag between himself and the wall. Pain assails the back of his shin and he falls, string-tied money falling out on the floor.

“We’ve been expecting you,” says the stranger. Face against the mud, Risotto hears the click of a gun and his instincts take over. He flings to the right, just as the deafening sound of a gunshot fires right by his ear. He rolls onto his back and grabs the stranger by his wrist, twisting the gun away before it can fire again. There’s a noise in the alleyway and Risotto wonders if it’s help. Two silhouettes come around the corner and point their guns, but it isn’t at the stranger. It’s at him.

Risotto twists his attacker’s wrist further until he hears something pop. The man yelps in pain and lets go of the gun. Grabbing it, Risotto aims at the two newcomers and fires rapidly. The angle is hardly idle but Risotto is fervent. There’s a scream and one of them falls, distracting their companion long enough for Risotto to take care of his other problem. Gripping his arms with both hands and summoning all his strength, Risotto flips the first attacker over his head, the injured man landing with a thud behind him.

Risotto scrambles to his feet. The man tries to do the same but he isn’t fast enough. Risotto straddles him and draws his knife. He stabs him again and again, blood spurting from his neck and chest as his struggling slowly stops. He stills. Risotto pulls the knife from the dead flesh and sighs.

A blinding brightness shoots down from above and Risotto reels in pain. Falling to the ground beside the body, he tries to blink his eyes open only to be met with more agony. It’s like a million needles of light are stabbing him from the sky.

The stars. Something is up with the stars.

“Bet they didn’t even give you a stand, did they? Worthless nobody.”

Steps approach Risotto from behind and the third attacker stops beside him. “Obviously not, otherwise you would have noticed it earlier,” the man scowls. Risotto tries to look up and catches a brief, blurry image of his face with no detail. It’s isn’t good to confirm much other than the man is there.

“What have you done to me?” Risotto demands. He tries to press his hands to his eyes but it still hurts. The light gets brighter still.

“I’ve used my stand on you. It’s only your perception of the stars that has been changed and not the whole planet, so don’t feel too mind blown. Believe me, if I could do that, I wouldn’t be stealing from Passione to subsidise what they pay me.”

Risotto’s eyes blink open again and in their brief moment of vision Risotto sees something that stills his blood. The stranger holds Risotto’s own knife, raised high above his head. Risotto lashes out.

Relying on instinct alone he lurches up to tackle his assailant to the ground. The stranger chuckles and throws him off of him. Risotto may be strong, but he isn’t used to fighting without his sight. It puts him at a severe disadvantage.

Risotto feels a harsh punch to his spine. He stumbles back to the ground, stopped from landing face first only by his scratched hands. He knows he would have heard it if another individual had approached it. That can only mean one thing- his attacker’s stand.

Risotto despairs. He knows stands are immune from all damage by things of this world, so without a stand of his own Risotto is defenceless against it. He has only one hope: kill the user first. Risotto lunges forwards, grabbing onto his attacker and pushing him to the ground through sheer force. He sinks his hands around the man’s neck and pushes down with all his force. The man brings up the knife and stabs it into Risotto’s chest. The pain is blinding, but Risotto knows it’s nowhere fatal. He is not deterred. The knife is brought up again and strikes him again between the ribs, but it is not deep enough to make Risotto give up his grip.

The stranger’s arm falls and the knife clatters out of reach, but Risotto is not safe yet. The unseeable stand unleashes a barrage of blows to his body, but Risotto forces himself not to give up. He stays there for what feels like an eternity, eyes clamped shut and body in agony, until the light starts to get weaker. The stand’s punches lose their strength.

Risotto can see clearly again, though the pain isn’t entirely gone. He looks down unfeelingly at the dying man below him, retching, wheezing for air as he grips Risotto’s wrist pleadingly. Risotto feels nothing as the man’s eyes glaze over and his body goes still. He holds his grip for another minute, making absolute certain the assailant is dead and not unconscious. Then he collapses.

Risotto stares up at the sky. Blood clings to his chest and oozes around his clothes. He notices how acutely aware he is of his heart, beating erratically as it pumps the blood out his skin. His limbs are heavy, the feeling in his hands already gone. He can feel himself fading second-by-second. He comes to realise just how long he’s wanted this.

Risotto thinks of Domenico and his Nonna, and patiently waits for the beating in his heart to stop.

::::::::::::

The next thing that Risotto is aware of is the heart monitor, beeping rhythmically as the white of the hospital surrounds him. He moves about in the sheets, noting the feeling of his chest constrained by bandages. A nurse rushes over to him and his awareness dissociates. It doesn’t come back until she’s leaving.

“There was a man here to see you earlier,” she mentions.

“Not some twerp with glasses, was it?” Risotto asks. He hates how weak and strained his voice sounds.

“No, some classy guy. His name was… Prosciutto Crepuscolo? I’ll have to check the book, but it’s something like that anyway. He seemed pretty ardent about seeing you so I’ll expect he’ll be back soon.”

“Alright,” Risotto sighs. “Thanks for the warning.”

Great. This is probably some stuck-up management asshole here to interrogate him about what happened. Risotto can only hope they know what the attackers were up to and don’t think he just decided to murder three soldatos on the fly. Otherwise, Risotto’s troubles may be just be beginning.

Risotto waits. The clock strikes 6am, but there’s no way to know how many times it’s done that since they took him here. He’s half-tempted to get up and find out but then he remembers the tube in his arm. He can’t really be bothered, anyway. At very least, they gave him a private room. It’s clear they know who he is, so it must have either been his roommates or the operatives of the warehouse who took him here. Someone who knows where the doctors on Passione’s payroll work.

The clock strikes 9. That nurse came back to check on him at some point but Risotto barely even noticed. He wants to go back to sleep but the pain is too bad for that. He can’t do anything but think, and even that is hard for him in so much pain.

The door clicks and an unfamiliar man enters. He appears disdained by the rain on his fine jacket as he takes it off quickly, brushing strands of blond hair from his eyes. He is a young man, though seemingly a fair bit older than Risotto if the way he carries himself is anything to go by.

“Nero?” the man asks. He regards Risotto critically as he steps forward.

“Yes, you’re Crepuscolo, correct?” Risotto replies.

“Call me Prosciutto. I can’t stand when people use that surname,” the man answers. He places his blazer on the back of the visitor’s chair and sits down, folding his hands.

“You’re from Passione, aren’t you?”

“That obvious? I suppose it must be,” Prosciutto shrugs. “I’m less special than you probably think. I handle logistics, usually more to do with murder than drugs and gambling, but I report to Polpo just like you do,” he explains.

“Are you currently sorting the logistics of having me shot, Prosciutto?” Risotto asks dryly. Prosciutto rolls his eyes.

“No, no. The operatives at the warehouse recognised one of your attackers as having tried to rob them before, and your team was quick to vouch for your character. Everyone accepts you acted in self-defence and there’s no suspicion otherwise,” Prosciutto reassures him. “In fact, I’m here on a personal whim.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been tasked with the elimination of an important politician residing in Naples. I don’t usually carry out such orders myself, but when the stakes are high it’s usually best that I, as a stand user, step in personally. Even still, it’s best to have backup and frankly, all my usual contacts are either out of town or hapless fools I wouldn’t trust to water a houseplant,” Prosciutto explains.

“And you’re looking for new options, I presume,” Risotto deduces.

“Precisely,” Prosciutto nods. “Winning a three-on-one fight with one stand user is certainly an impressive feat. I was hoping to find you in better shape than this but I can afford to wait a month or two, so I won’t strike you off my options yet. I must say, Risotto, you look like you belong in this place even without the multitude of chest wounds, but I haven’t figured out if that makes me more or less appealed to you.”

“Charmed,” Risotto sighs. “What’s in it for me?”

“Well, they’re giving me 30 million lire for the job and it would only be fair for me to give you a cut. How does 5% sound?”

“10, at least,” Risotto contends. Prosciutto smirks and makes a little huff.

“You’re an eager bastard aren’t you. Done,” he concedes.

“What do you need from me?”

“I live across from the promenade. Number 23. If you’re in shape by the 3rd of December, come to me in the afternoon. I do my hits at night but there’ll be plenty to discuss, so make sure you’re there by 4 at the latest. I can give you the pay there and then but you’ll have to keep it on you until we’re done so you don’t try to leg it.”

“And is there anything in particular I should train myself for?” Risotto asks.

“Nothing in particular. You’re only there for backup so you might not even need to lift a finger. Really I’m giving you money for nothing,” Prosciutto remarks, standing up dignifiedly from his chair. “But making new connections can only help us both, don’t you agree?”

With a small parting smile, Prosciutto departs without awaiting his answer. Risotto is left alone with the beat of his heart monitor. He doesn’t know what to think of his new acquaintance yet, but an allegiance with a stand user could change everything. If Risotto were to gain status within Passione, would it finally fill the hole in his heart left by Domenico? He honestly doesn’t know.

::::::::::::

It’s the third of December, 1992, and Risotto is in good spirits. He worked hard to restore his health after his injuries, making a point of taking better care of himself and spending many hours working on his mobility. What Prosciutto has given him is a goal, and that’s something he hasn’t had since hunting Domenico’s killer. Now, when Risotto looks in the mirror, he sees resolution. He’s going to impress his new acquaintance if it kills him.

Risotto walks along the promenade counting the houses for number 23. It’s a fancy looking place, as he expected, made of sandstone with a twisted copper fence surrounding the upstairs balcony. He passes a grove of palm trees and knocks on the door. The answer is immediate.

“One moment, one moment,” Prosciutto calls impatiently. The smaller man opens the door and Risotto is struck by the smell of expensive cigarettes. “Sorry, do you mind?” Prosciutto asks, gesturing to the cigarette in his hand.

“Not at all,” Risotto assures him. “May I come in?”

Prosciutto walks wordlessly into the living room and Risotto gets the hint to follow. The pair sit down on a lavish settee. Risotto finds himself anxious in such an alien place to him.

“You live on Firenze street, close to the cinema, yes?” Prosciutto enquires.

“Yes. Piece of shit dump.”

“Tell me about it. I used to live just on the next road when I started out with my first squad,” Prosciutto reminisces. Risotto leans forward in surprise.

“You’re self-made?”

“More like… earned back,” Prosciutto clarifies. “Though for the record you’ll find most of my possessions here are cheaper than they look. I’m not nearly as rich as I was as a young man. Perhaps someday,” he hopes.

“When did you join Passione?” Risotto asks curiously.

“Three years ago. If you’d started just a few months earlier, we would have been neighbours,” he muses.

“And your stand?”

“Now that’s newer. I’ve had it for the best part of a year.”

Risotto taps his leg nervously.

“How did you do it? Move up the ranks so quickly?”

Prosciutto tuts.

“Wondering how you’re still stuck as Polpo’s postboy at the same point in your career I was lined up for a stand?” he asks cuttingly. Risotto chokes out a half-formed rebuttal, then looks down in shame. “A bit of luck, a bit of knowing the right people, and a lot of speaking bullshit,” Prosciutto answers. “It also doesn’t help that… you know…”

“You can say it. Everyone knows I’m an utter state and sometimes I legitimately impress people by waking up alive in the morning,” Risotto grumbles.

“Well, that’s one way to put it. If it’s any consolation you’re no worse than most at your level of the organisation. The problem comes when you want to move up,” Prosciutto takes another drag of the cigarette and leans back into the cushions. “You’re hardly a rare case. You thought Passione would be something it wasn’t for you and now you aren’t sure what you’re living for.”

“Did you… look into me?” Risotto asks defensively. Prosciutto shakes his head.

“Like I said, it’s a common story. I don’t really need to look into you to know.”

“It’s not entirely true,” Risotto protests. “I never really expected anything out of Passione. I just didn’t think I’d care what happened to me anymore. Sometimes I don’t, but it still hurts.”

“Shit parents?”

“No! Well, yes. But they weren’t the ones who raised me so it doesn’t matter. Someone… died, someone very close to me, and in avenging him I asked Passione to protect me. I had to join them of course, in exchange, but I didn’t mind. I thought I’d be at peace once I had my vengeance. I was wrong,” he says quietly. Prosciutto is quiet for a moment.

“Come on, let’s get ready to go.”

::::::::::::

It’s a cold night. Risotto is starting to regret volunteering to wait outside. His task is simple, watch the front door and shoot if the target tries to leave. He lives alone and the two guards have already been disposed of, so the job couldn’t be simpler. Risotto hopes the target really does try to run. It will make him feel like he had an actual purpose being here.

Even out here, Risotto can hear the scuffle inside. It’s a good thing they’re far from the city and there aren’t any neighbours nearby, but then again, does anyone living in Passione’s territory really still trust the police enough to call them?

After what feels like ages, the door falls open. Risotto aims his gun and prepares to seize his moment, only to find the stumbling target looks half-dead already as he collapses onto the porch. He fires a couple of shots anyway, just for good measure.

Prosciutto steps out. He kicks the body. Risotto starts to walk forward.

“No!” Prosciutto shouts. Risotto stops in his tracks. “Alright, you can come now,” Prosciutto permits him. Risotto steps forward uncertainly. “Apologies, my stand is indiscriminate so I can’t have you going near it. It’s gone now, so you’re safe. Come, come over here,” Prosciutto urges.

Risotto eyes the dead body in front of him. He is struck immediately by how old and shrivelled it seems- he could have sworn the politician was only in his early 60s.

“Is your stand… aging?” he asks.

“Well-guessed. It’s morbid, I know, but it does the job,” Prosciutto confirms. “You’re welcome to leave now. Cleaning up is a delicate process and it’s best I do it myself.”

“So this is it, I just go now?” Risotto says, a little disappointed.

“You have your money, don’t you? Now go, before someone drives by!” Prosciutto urges him. Risotto sulks away down the front path. “And Risotto?” he calls back. Risotto turns to listen to him. “I’ll be sure to give you a call if I ever need you again. You’ve impressed me, Risotto.”

The young man smiles. He nods in acknowledgement.

“Thank you, Prosciutto. I hope we can work again together soon.”

::::::::::::

It’s May, and Risotto is freshly 21. He finishes sweeping the floor of the kitchen and sits at the table, taking a sip of his coffee as he watches out the window. There’s a knock on the door.

“Hello?” Risotto says, opening it. The sight that greets him is a surprise- the familiar figure of Prosciutto Crepuscolo standing at his doorway.

“Apologies for the delay, I finally had an excuse to meet with you,” Prosciutto greets him. “May I come in?”

“By all means,” Risotto smiles. The two enter the apartment.

“You’re looking… better, Risotto,” Prosciutto notices. Risotto brushes his fingers through his hair.

“I wouldn’t say I’m doing well, but it’s a start,” he agrees. “So, what finally dragged you out here?”

“It’s possible I might have a position for you,” Prosciutto announces. Risotto perks up eagerly.

“Under you?”

“Over me,” Prosciutto corrects him.

“Now I’m intrigued.”

Prosciutto steeples his fingers and starts to explain.

“Passione is forming a new squad. Assassination, at long last. No more running around Naples for volunteers last minute. I’ve been chosen, no surprise, but I’ve made it very clear I refuse to be team leader. I have personal commitments. It wouldn’t be ideal. I’ve already got two others on the team with me, good men I’ve known for a while, but I’ve been told in no uncertain terms not to let either of them anywhere near positions of power. You on the other hand, my superiors are willing to consider.”

“I’m hardly qualified.”

“You’d be surprised how good an option you are. Being able to kill without a second thought is rare enough in itself, and on each of the few occasions your combat prowess has come into play, you’ve performed exceptionally. While it’s true you don’t have much experience as a leader, you’ve got all the hallmarks of someone who could be taught to be one. And you will be taught. I’ll be there to teach you.” Prosciutto assures him. He leans back in his seat. “There’s only one issue. We need to get you a stand.”

“I see. Can you get me put through for one?” Risotto asks.

“With your consent I can get you put through tomorrow. But I need you to be certain, Risotto, I need you to agree to lead us.”

Risotto takes a moment to think. He breathes deeply.

“I agree Prosciutto. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. It’s time we got you out of this dump.”

Risotto wakes the next morning to knocking on the door of his new bedroom. He sits up and takes a moment to regard the room around him, his mind planning already how he’s going to make it look once it’s concretely his. Really though, he’s just glad to have a space to himself now.

“Risotto it’s time to get up,” Prosciutto calls impatiently.

“I’m awake,” Risotto answers him. “Give me one minute and I’ll be dressed.”

Risotto hurries into his clothes and exits the room. Prosciutto is waiting for him, leaned against the wall. He regards Risotto with a nod.

“We aren’t expected at any particular time, but I’d rather we go sooner than later. Best to get it out of the way.”

“I’d prefer that too,” Risotto agrees. “Let me finish getting ready and we’ll head out.”

Prosciutto follows Risotto downstairs into the large front room. Risotto can tell Passione intends to grow this team beyond its current meagre size, else they wouldn’t get a house this big. At least he can enjoy the privacy while it lasts.

Down in the sitting room, two men look up from their sofa. They are entangled in each other, arms splayed lovingly over each other’s shoulders with little care who sees them. The smaller blond shuffles from his partner’s lap. He crosses his legs and looks at Risotto with wicked eyes.

“And who might this be, Pros? Our first victim?” he asks. The dark-haired man beside him presses his knuckles to his lips in a poor attempt to hide his malicious smile.

“This is Risotto Nero,” Prosciutto corrects him. “Should all go to plan, our leader.”

“What a young face,” the dark-haired man remarks.

“And so… uniquely dressed,” his partner adds. They pass a wicked glint between them.

“Risotto, this is Sorbet, and his husband Gelato,” Prosciutto introduces them, pointing to each. “The two recruits I mentioned earlier.”

“Recruits?” Sorbet asks, a hint of offense in his voice.

“We’ve been in the game far longer than you have, Prosci,” Gelato agrees.

“You both know what I mean,” Prosciutto sighs. He leads Risotto to the door and the pair get up after them. “Where on earth are you going?” he asks.

“We thought we might go with you, to… see our new friend off,” Sorbet explains.

“Very well, but no dawdling,” Prosciutto agrees.

The four pile into Prosciutto’s spotless Ford, the man himself taken the driver’s seat as Risotto sits behind him. Sorbet and Gelato jump eagerly into the back, gripping the seats in front of them and holding their faces way too close to Risotto for comfort.

“Now, you remember what to do?” Prosciutto checks.

“Yes,” Risotto assures him.

“My advice would be to find a street with no wind and stay there. Occupy yourself mentally, but don’t walk around or you’ll be asking for trouble,” Prosciutto advises.

“Thank you, Prosciutto, I’ll remember that. Any hope of you telling me how I’ll actually get the stand?” Risotto vies.

“Sorry, no chance. Just believe me when I say I have faith in you.”

“Very well,” Risotto accepts. He chuckles quietly.

Prosciutto drives just a few more minutes before stopping at the gates of a prison. He regards Risotto’s surprise with a reassuring pat to the shoulder.

“The guards will let you in, don’t worry. Go now, we have faith.”

Risotto thanks him with a smile and steps from the vehicle. A hand tugs his wrist. He turns to see Gelato holding onto him.

“Prosciutto’s going to tell me off for saying this, but drop the lighter. It’s what you’re actually meant to do.”

Unsure of what to say, Risotto shakes him off and carries on towards the gates. He hears the conversation behind him.

“Gelato, what on earth are you doing?!” Prosciutto chides.

“Giving him a faster death.”

::::::::::::

Risotto pushes against the arrow with all his might as it digs into his chest. He lets out a grunt of exasperation as he battles for his life, adamant in the resolution that he refuses to die today. He begins to hear screaming, passive at first and then steadily louder. It isn’t him, but it’s coming from within him. The iron grate by his side begins to twist and contort.

::::::::::::

“So, do you think he’s dead yet?” Sorbet says humourlessly. He checks his nails while caressing Gelato’s head in his lap.

“He’s going to be fine. I really don’t know why you have so little faith in him,” Prosciutto admonishes him. The pair chuckle.

“He’s just another dumb fuck dragged in from the gutter. There’s no way he could possibly survive obtaining a stand,” Gelato maintains.

“I’d like to see you say that to his face when he gets home alive,” Prosciutto tuts.

The front door clicks, the lock giving way on its own accord. The door swings open and Risotto Nero steps through, a cascading wave of metal swirling around his torso at his command. He reaches his hand into the iron dust and a shining blade is molded from the air. He presents it to Prosciutto proudly.

“Will this be adequate, Prosciutto?”

The older man stifles a laugh and looks over to the stunned lovers on the opposite sofa.

“My friends, I think it’s time you gave your new leader the greeting he deserves.”

#la squadra #la squadra di esecuzione #risotto nero #l'inizio

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nightwingshero · 4 years

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Judgement ⚖️

I had the amazing opportunity to commission the wonderful and talented @oliviawildesjawline to do Wren Blake as Nemesis personified in the role of Judge. And OMG!!!! IT’S AMAZING!!! You’ve completely blown me away with this piece! This is just...this is way better than I imagined it, and the colors?! You never fail to amaze me. Thank you so much for making this a reality!!! It’s absolutely perfect and I CAN’T STOP STARING AT IT!!!

Joseph always told John that his sin would come around in another form. But the cycle never broke, and Wren’s sin comes around in the form of one she thought as a friend. Wren faces her first Judgement as Herald of Eden’s Gate, and the scales aren’t tipping in Jess Black’s favor. .

It’s hard to breathe sometimes, I found. Wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular, but I could feel the weight of something in my chest. And whether it's my own sin curling its hand around my lungs or the guilty that refuse to answer for what they had done, one couldn’t say. It was just so heavy.

Facing your demons was something people preached about, insisted on, despite how utterly terrifying it could be. Confront those feelings, the dark and long-legged spiders that formed cobwebs in the back of your mind to whisper the poisonous thoughts you believed to be your subconscious. They’re traitorous things, always sticky and malicious, knocking the angel off your shoulder with utter disdain. Crooked smiles taunting as you fall down and down until you can’t even tell that you’ve fallen into the pit of Tartarus itself. But yes, face your demons, darling.

And I’m face to face with her now.

Die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain. Forgive and love or watch as your sin comes around in a new form. The words were meant for both me and the man I spend my nights with, both of us on the different sides of the same coin. It makes me contemplate, hearing a clock tick, but there is no clock here. No, not down here.

I tilt my head, careful not to allow my own wrath to consume my very being, igniting something that would burn out of control. My own test. And I realize the ticking is coming from my jaw, the words finding refuge there to avoid the sharp tip of my silver tongue. My words are like bullets, and I always preferred the personal touch of a blade over the gracelessness of a gun. Guns didn’t teach lessons.

I guess you could say they never got the point across.

My burgundy lips are twisting, a dark sneer that I had learned from the best of the best. And I feel as if it is his hand that’s guiding my actions, his tattooed digits tracing the coolness of my skin as if I was a marionette, but I am so much more. I am my own being, my own actions, my own existence.

I am my own Herald.

I wonder if that makes her heart beat faster, knowing that no other will interfere, she’s in my domain. Joseph wouldn’t even dare to put his hand upon the scales, refusing to taint the will of God because Judgement is sacred. A ritual that must be done right or else we pay the price. A soft hand or the steel of my knife, each calculation is accurate and precise, one wrong call and it unravels the bonds we weave for ourselves.

Rolling my neck, I can feel the tightening of an imaginary snake around my neck, it's comforting hissing and flicking tongue in my ear, and I swear I can feel just the slightest scratch of his beard. He’s not here, but I feel him.

You must always face your demons.

There’s hesitation within me when I swore that there would be none, a slight sliver of doubt piercing the insides of me, because I’m not sure if I can do this clearly. Fairly. A delicate line between revenge and vengeance and it has woven itself around my fingers, arms, entangling all the way down my spine. There should be metal there, but I fear that it’s only the thread keeping me standing straight.

I am alone.

Doing this on my own is an important feat. A necessary one that I take seriously. Perhaps a rite of passage, but I feel like I’m on the precipice of falling, or diving, and it steels my resolve. My dark heels click against the concrete floor, echoing against the harsh walls that match the harsh glow of light. I remembered my first time in this room, my shirt ripping apart as if it were nothing, fear pumping into my veins with just enough adrenaline. A toxic cocktail of endorphins, but I can practically taste the bitterness of her anger as she glares from her chair.

It’s exciting, almost. Oh god, the absolute thrill and I return her glare, because I am alone. Nobody is coming to save her, and I am the only way out for her. It doesn’t sway her actions, her feelings, for she is still so encompassed with loathing. She can’t see what is in front of her. What her pride has done to those around her, and I’m suddenly ready to pass my Judgement by just the slight reminder of her horrid actions. I still feel the warm blood on my hands and the tears that flowed that night. I want her blood in return, eye for an eye.

I swallow and shove what I can to the side, keeping what remanence of the control I had left. I rub my hands against the tight black pants, a wishful thought of them helping to hold me in place as I take another step forward. Her eyes follow, and I’m sure she means to be threatening with the look in her eyes, but I feel like laughing at her. The poor thing is tied and gagged, what threat was she? I fight the urge to rip the tape from her mouth just for the satisfaction of causing some sort of pain.

Reaching her, I rest my knee on her chair next to her leg and she jerks away. I have to fight the laugh because she’s ridiculous. Always acting like a child, always so damn selfish. I click my tongue, the organ finally rising to the occasion because I am done being silent. The words are screaming, clawing at the insides and I’m shocked that I have yet to spit blood upon her face out of spite.

I grab her face instead, and god, the relief I feel for it. The black nails pressing against her flesh, indents around my fingers. I feel the sweat, and I’m not shocked. This room was always a bit hot, and I was ready to remove the black button up to cool the hot skin underneath, but I thought better of it. It was almost a relief to feel the sponge against my chest so long ago, John showing me he was willing to give, but I won’t give her the blessing of reprieve. I am not merciful; I am not here to love her.

“I heard you refuse to Confess.”

My words, finally freed, are low and oh so soft. Had it been anyone else, my voice would have been a caress, comforting enough for them to come closer. But she knows better, and I can tell that from the way she’s looking at me, that I am nothing but a demon to her. A traitor who hid her horns so well that it was her sins that had to reveal them. And that’s fine. I’ll be whatever she wanted me to be.

I’ll be what I had to be.

A demon for her, a righteous Judge for them.

A whore of Babylon or The Baptist’s wife.

Nemesis.

So many crowns, thrones even, and no matter how heavy, I stood tall with my head held high as they all fell to my feet with praise or with blood in their mouths. I would protect my flock from the poison of those who slither in the shadows, spouting lies upon lies and destroying whatever was in their path. I almost pitied them.

Almost.

“You know that my Judgement comes after the Confession, don’t you dear?”

I’m taunting her and her eyes burn brighter. It’s answered with my nails piercing through her skin, blood pooling just a bit, and I hear her grunt of pain. She’s underestimating my rage, her betrayal. Her actions have spoken more than her lips ever could, so it’s fine. But the urge to make her feel something, to show just how scared she should be, is getting the better of me. Perhaps my wrath wasn’t contained, and I find it hard to feel regret for it. But I just smile, baring my teeth.

The scales have tipped, even if they were just a bit crooked to begin with.

Lowering myself, my lips find her ear. If I listen closely, perhaps I could hear the ghost of her beating heart pumping in her empty void of a chest. A falsity to make her seem more human than puppet, but we both know that it's wood underneath this skin. She was nothing but a mere tool at his disposal, and I had every intention of breaking it.

“That’s alright. Your silence is enough for me to pass Judgement, and oh dear, the sins you’ve committed…you should start praying to your God for forgiveness, honey. You won’t find any here.”

#I'm in love with this #my heart 😭😭😭😭#look at HOW GORGEOUS SHE IS #red and blue #deputy wren blake #wren seed #the judge of edens gate #nemesis #greek mythology #john seed #jess black #wrath is a sin #oliviawildesjawline #Far Cry 5 #far cry oc #far cry 5 art

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astral-anachronism · 3 years

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What are you trying to say, Lux?

[SENTIENCE CHECK: FAILURE]

Listen. This is how magic works: you call, and the world responds. Once upon a time, mages like you sang stars from the sky, and that was the first funerary hymn of the world. There's nuance in the language, shades of expression in the instrument used to convey aether. In conjury, you have to wait for an opening between the measures of Hydaelyn's pulse. In thaumaturgy, you're allowed to scream to be heard. Either way, it's just like a conversation: sometimes you won't like the answer. (Sometimes, Kharn taught you, silence is the answer.)

So when the construct asked you its riddle -- what is the beginning of everything, the end of everywhere? -- the correct answer was actually your returning volley in spellsung umbral, not whatever inexpertly shaped thing fell out of your mouth. Death is the same in any language.

(cw: blood, death)

When it comes time to talk to Lucas through casting for the first time - you don’t think you can. When you're opening that channel and finding the right aetherial frequency - how do you translate that? What do you tell him to pray for? What are you saying? The Woods only taught you to mimic, but you never kept any of your promises in the Twelveswood. So what do you want?

This is how your first circle in the Order of Nald'thal taught you to cast, the art of negotiating with yourself. It's in two parts, you have to answer -

‘what do you want?’ and -

‘what are you going to give up in exchange?’

You think you know your limits. So what do you want?

...You don't know this yet, but you were mute as a child. You spoke your first words at ten. You instantly remember them by their taste when you turned to look at Lucas -- out of startled reflex, as if you just heard him speak for the very first time when his frequency falls into umbral as natural as exhaling, thinking he might just be about to tell you the truth about where the moon goes when it wanes -- and felt the blood pour down over your mouth as your response. Something has just gone very wrong. You had the stomach-turning honor of feeling your bones go cold beneath the suddenly too-warm layer of your skin. And in there, between your ribs, your magic was saying, in the small, feral voice you were forced to learn to use, let me out. Let me out letmeoutletmeoutLETMEOUT--

Only Thal knows that's not what you really mean to say. You couldn't have been screaming this any louder than your dearest sister of the skies or your wood-wraith warden. Thal will wait just as long as it takes for you to find the words, but time is a luxury Nald cannot afford you.

So - you try again. You already know what you've given - the crimson tithe, as Caelrin likes to say. You're scraping the bottom of your wellspring already because you panicked, and punctured it, and sank. But seeing Her in the depths is comforting, because Death is the same in any language. So in the silence that Lucas' constant umbral frequency affords you, you reach, inhale your aether into your lungs, thread your breath through your staff, and find your voice. You shift onto an astral frequency, you feel Lucas’ heartbeat on the leyline stretched taut between you, and on it you say, to Them --

__________________________________________

...This door leads out, but not the right way. It's not that you want to die here, this time you're wasting looking for another door, but -- you need to get to them, you've promises to keep. You storm after the others; your nose won't stop bleeding, but you don't reach to wipe it up because - you've seen the cracks in Nathaniel's aether - you almost don't expect to survive either. You know this is going to end in fire one way or the other. Look what it's spelling out, all this payment in advance.

The crimson fucking tithe. You've hated blood magic, hated the entirety of Mumuepo's tenure, relished the overturned syllabus. The only time you have ever done blood magic was to strip another's ability to do the same. It's profane, this form of exchange: the earth will simply take your blood and nothing grows from all that salt in it. You won't get back enough. You deserve more, you need to be - better, like Nathaniel is always telling you —

(What a fucking joke. Izar and Defiant deserve the Twelvesdamned Alliance to step up and come in and save their citizens. The Order should have supported Nathaniel. His brothers and sisters of the cloth should be here, helping him. You are only very good at being better than nothing.)

The Crimson Tithe. You hate it so much you think you’re going to name your personal flyer after it. You know the script, have it carved into the back of your hand with the black ink of the Order's Condemnation Order: this is what I'd pay to get even. And red doesn’t make you think of your own blood, it makes you think of the Rose and the fact that you think you could could never fucking make Kharn hear you, and you never got the chance to say to him that--

__________________________________________

...Transposed back to umbral, again. Your head hurts. You've been losing moments, sometimes, ever since you were gifted with a secret you have hidden beneath the layers of your fabricated wards on a chain around your neck. The looseness in your head feels like something you can't find words for.

There's eight fulms of steel between you and the Red Rose. Its aethercrystal sings the song of the Black Cats: of freedom, and blue, blue skies. It sounds like Vyse.

Eight fulms is nothing if you teleport. You could leave them all behind to die, you know. You could be the sole survivor again if you wanted to. You know this spell by heart. You’ve been spending the last eight months embroidering it onto a ribbon, for Sui. Home, you’d say.

But you know what you must offer in exchange: the certainty that Izar and Fi are safe. They're already laid out on an altar, in a way, the living proof of your devotion.

--Cost isn't the right word. That's not what they are to you. They're not yours to give - but you have them anyway. Or - you don't gain anything by giving them away? You need them.

Nothing's coming out right, because you're dying.

But in the tattered shroud of your aether, there are no gray shades of bitterness for being so close to the Rose. Your gratitude comes like gilshine. The universe is simply saying, without your casting for answers, just a little further.

You pull away, yank grimly on the parched, desiccated currents of your aether with a practiced ease. You feed your fragility and rigidity into the metal, and you stop when it starts to be too much.

Above the hum of the aethercrystal, you hear yourself call to Kana, instead. He's made of magic in his own way.

__________________________________________

You wonder if it's him you're hearing on the currents now, the way you heard him in the battle to retrieve Voldo, throwing himself bodily at his limits and cracking where he makes contact. He's turning himself into his own language.

Father Salem - Nathaniel. You wouldn't struggle against the bonds of his ire if you didn't know what he was trying to say to you. He's the lens that makes your magic come into focus, the constant, lonely shadow against which you see the shape of your own fire. Later, when you see the facility go up in the burning inferno of his magic, you think you understand it perfectly.

You, too, don't know how to say it any other way.

__________________________________________

Izar comes to find you, and there is little more to their wellspring than a candle flame, though it burns fierce in a deluge. You hear it. You think you say something to them, but it doesn't matter what comes out, really; you're so tired but the sight of them makes you astral warm, the way they promised they'd drag you back from the umbral depths of Thal's threshold.

You finally hear it echoed back, as if in a dream, in their whisper-low voice. You hear yourself say it, as a footnote, as something you've never expected a response to, but this is how magic works, right?

They say: “I love you, too.”

#FFXIV Heartless #feat: too many people to tag individually #this was written in response to an event where everybody was sealed into an allagan facility that was set to self-destruct in a set amount #and Lux was given the option to escape alone #the original had some color formatting with the text that I cannot replicate on tumblr

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starkeristheendgame · 4 years

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middle of it the avengers alarm goes off. The argument spills over during the battle (and of course everyone can hear them and is trying to ignore it) and it ends with one of them saying they should just break up. Then something happens and they make up lmao

So there seems to be a part missing to your ask, but I pretty much got the gist! I hope this is okay, and that you enjoy! Ages are ambiguous so let your imagination run free. Its mostly angst but at the end there’s hopefulness for a brighter future. Tony is kind of portrayed as a bit of an ass in this, but we all know he just struggles with relationships and emotions so I hope you won’t judge him too harshly.

TW: Angst | Fighting | Temporary break up | Very brief note of minor injury.

Tony’s words still ring like Church bells through his head, even hours after they’d been spoken. That harsh spitfire tone, the broken fury in his eyes as he spat the words in the midst of battle, launching that anger against their enemies. Tony’s eyes, normally rich brandy that made him think of warm nights in front of a fire, had been been inferno and rage all day.

“We’re better off without each other”.

He flinched at the echo memory, staring dully off into space as he held the pack of cooling gel against his bruised side, the taste of copper drying on his tongue. His bruised sides were his own fault; his blind rage and anguish at their fighting had transgressed into the battle. His hits had been sloppy, unkempt, and it had fallen to the rest of the team to try and hold together their splintered edges.

Even now, the rest of the team are as sullen and awkwardly tense as the seething, newly un-coupled pair. Even Steve, normally so brazen and uncowed, sits grim in the pilot seat, jaw set and gaze on the miles of clouds before them. Clint, nursing a leg and his checked pride, is a comforting but ever silent presence at his side. No warm jokes, no lopsided smiles.

Tony is the worst. Cold and impassive at the rear of the jet, working on his Gauntlet with silent fury. Peter wondered what would happen when they got back; he’d more or less moved into the penthouse with Tony by this point, their lives entangled. Peter had no idea about post-breakup protocol. Tony had been his first real relationship, the first one to have any true weight and meaning.

The aching tiredness of war had settled in. His body felt leaden and tender, and on any other day he would have curled up against Tony’s side and napped the journey home away. Now, he leaned back on the bench and closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his breathing measured and even. The battle he’d just fought seemed nothing in comparison to the fight that had began this morning and had broken like a storm on the battlefield.

“You’re unseasoned! You’re a child. Our worlds have been nothing alike and neither are we!”

“You’re half a lifetime behind me, Peter. Sometimes, I think that’s how it should be. Apart.”

“If you hadn’t been bitten by that spider, me and you? We wouldn’t ever be in the same circle”.

When he opened his eyes again they were wet and they stung, and they were home.

No. Not home. Not for him, anymore. Peter accepted the hand that Steve offered him, and followed the rest out in stony silence. He wondered if this would be the end of it; the legacy of his time as an Avenger. His entire relationship put on blast over the comms, his friends and childhood heroes unable to look him in the eye.

Medical cleared him with two cracked ribs and his own teeth imprints on his tongue. Two painkillers and a glass of water later, and he itched to be out of the suit, to be clean and to curl up in a soft bed. His only clothes were in the penthouse, however, and he reluctantly shuffled to the elevator, head low and arms wrapped around himself for comfort more than to relieve the pain.

He crept cautiously into the open space, ears perked and eyes alert. He couldn’t see Tony anywhere, though, and by the time he reached the small staircase that led up to the balcony-style second floor, he was relaxed.

A fool’s act. No sooner had he rounded the corner, light-footed on the plush carpet, he stopped. Perched on the edge of the bed, with one smartly dressed Pepper Potts between his splayed thighs, was Tony. He had his head tucked down against her stomach, arms loose around her waist, and though he could see only her back, he could tell she was running her fingers through his hair.

Heart clenching, Peter turned away and fled before they could notice him, taking the elevator down to the foyer. It was easy enough to ask for a car to drive him home, the wide eyed receptionist sympathetic and astounded by his presence. The driver who pulled up was not Happy, but he was soft and cheerful, and roused Peter gently from where he’d fallen asleep against the window on the ride home.

His bed was cold and empty, a sore trade-off from where he would normally be. But the shower was warm and a balm to his aching muscles where the painkillers had stemmed the pain but not cut it off completely. When he was dressed and beneath the sheets he turned his cheek to his pillow, and let his mind wander.

“I’m - Not - Helpless!” He snarled, kicking furiously at the robotic figure that tried to swing for his jaw. He obliterated it, pieces flying in all directions as he waded through the outburst and onto the next, his partner’s bitter tone a soundtrack to the splintering of metal before him. He lashed out again, ducked, used a web to throw the sentient steel away from him.

“You’re untrained! You’re green! You’re a fucking colt amongst stallions and I won't stand by and watch you get hurt!” Tony’s eyes were wildfire like his voice, and any other moment his appetite for war would have made Peter’s thighs squeeze together and his teeth catch his tongue. Then, it terrified him, enraged him, and saddened him. They spat fire at each other and used it to fuel their defence, and they both steadfastly ignored the pleading protests of their colleagues over the comms, tuned in to their every word. The shame had only made Peter angrier.

He awoke with it burning inside him, smothered quickly by the sight of the bare pillow before him. No sleep-warm brown eyes looking back at him, just the residual stiffness from his injuries and the bitter taste of loneliness. Peter shifted and pushed himself to his feet, forcing his morning routine. He dreaded the text that would ask him to pick up his things, or the call that would tell him Happy was on his way with his stuff.

It never came. But neither did any other call. His phone was silent from any Avenger, none of the usual post-mission calls to fill in paperwork or check-ins from the others. No Steve asking if he wanted to jog together on Wednesday, no Tony asking him to come to the lab with sexual emojis.

Only Ned, MJ, Aunt May, even Flash. Though the latter was just another request for Tony's attention. No matter how many times Peter secretly prayed each time he picked up his phone, it was never the name he wanted. By the 6th day, he'd well and truly come to realise that was it.

It was over.

They were over.

He sniffled into his ice cream. The past six days had melted into scrolling through his old messages, bawling, and watching Elle Woods get her happily ever after. He'd taken her example in the first film and had stomped silently to the grocery market to buy several litre tubs of ice cream in varying flavours. He'd put the Spidersuit under his bed and hadn't looked at it since.

Except by the next Saturday he'd run out of emotions to cycle through and messages to cry over and the itch to be out in the nightlife, sailing between the stars took over.

Putting on the suit felt like a punch to the gut and a glass of cold water at the end of a desert.

He stood on the roof of the apartment complex, swept his gaze slowly over the cityscape, then stepped off the ledge. The drop made his heart skip a beat and the adrenaline crash through his veins, and flicking his wrist with a web at the next building felt like salvation. He dropped, swung, pulled and sailed until he was panting behind the mask, arms quivering as he roamed steadily from the lower city level to the skyscrapers and business buildings, towering above the rest like sentinels and watchmen.

He ignored the nagging memories of doing this with Tony. The two of them laughing through the comms, of clinging to each other above the clouds where nobody could see them. He focused on the ache of his muscles as he climbed higher, higher. The Stark Tower was the tallest building in New York, but the Reach Building was a close second, and empty at this hour.

He threw a web and let the momentum take him, swinging a steep arc and letting go so that it tossed him high into the empty darkness, the cool breeze buffering him as he raced in the sky, baring his stomach to the stars above, arms spread and head tipped back on a delighted, breathless sigh.

One moment, he was gazing at stars, twinkling and careless above him. The next he was rolling backwards, over, and what should have been cityscape became two slats of neon blue, surrounded by peony red and rich gold. He startled, jerked, and they fell in graceful tandem. Peter's heart thumped behind the bars of his chest, and he was left breathless as he stared, the fall ignored for the jarring reality that Tony was here.

The cityscape rushed up towards them and solid arms slid around his waist, driving the breath from his lungs. The firm press of metal was something Peter had resigned himself to feel only in his memories and dreams, and he couldn't remember how to breathe in at the feel of plated fingertips digging into his hips.

They free-fell down, plummeting fast. A shift of Tony's leg and they tipped, rolling gracefully until they were upright and then Peter's entire body tingled as he heard the thrusters of the suit engage. Falling became flying upwards, held safely against warm, solid metal, though he didn't dare to lay his cheek against Tony's chest as he might've before.

He did turn his head away and close his eyes though, relishing in the feel of their bodies together last he suddenly wake up and realise, not for the first time, that it had all been a dream. It was only a cluster of seconds, but it felt like an eternity before he was being set down as gently as if he were glass, held tight by an arm around his waist as Tony's reached up, tugging off the mask as his own faceplate flipped up.

"I can't ". Tony's voice broke over the word, breathless and agonised as he clung to Peter, holding him tight. Shock rendered him speechless and he simply stood lax in Tony's grip, on his tip-toes and leaning back into the solid arm around him. Tony's eyes were dark and red, glossy like he'd been crying mere moments before they landed. He looked sleepless, exhausted.

"I can't do it" he repeated, slower, weaker. "I can't be without you. I hate myself for it, because you deserve better. Because being with you automatically means risking losing you. But I can't lose you like that". He slumped at the end of it, defeated, and Peter finally managed to swallow the knife that had lodged itself in his throat, robbing him of his words and leaving tight pain in its wake.

“You don’t get to dictate what I am and aren’t capable of doing anymore. You don’t get to keep comparing me as weak or useless against the rest of you” he breathed, tears stinging at his eyes and turning Tony into a large, red blob. A red blob that hesitated, before nodding. “And you don’t get to break up with me because you’re being a selfish ass” he added after a pause wherein both of them were too afraid to say or do anything else.

“I can’t promise I’ll be perfect. I’m undoubtedly gonna fuck up again at some point. But... Fuck, I want us to be able to fight about it, and stay together. I want you to tell me I’m wrong and I want to fall asleep next to you in the same night, because I haven’t slept since you left. And-”

Peter sucked in a breath on a sound between a laugh and a sob, wiping heavily at his eyes before he reached up and pressed his palm over Tony’s mouth, muffling whatever tangent he was about to spiel off into. The prickle of Tony’s signature stubble against his palm was a sensation he wouldn’t trade for the world in that moment.

Tony stopped, breathed in a puff of warm air, and watched him with docile hope as he leaned forwards, slowly and carefully, ducking his head out of the way of the faceplate. Tony’s eyes shone with broken adoration as he removed his palm and tipped his head, pressing a brief, weak kiss against Tony’s mouth. His legs felt weak for it and he moved his hands to Tony’s shoulders, clinging to the burnished metal.

“Come home” Tony whispered against his mouth, fingers flexing into Peter’s sides, and he nodded immediately, ducked his head down to Tony’s chest as the faceplate snicked shut and they soared towards the stars.

It wouldn’t be perfect. But that was okay, because they’d work through it and keep loving each other anyway.

#fanfic #starker #starker fanfiction #starker cu #starker cc #ironspider #ironspider fanfiction #ironspider fanfic #starker fanfic #starker angst #ironspider angst #tony stark/peter parker #peter parker/tony stark #sie fics

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lunapaper · 3 years

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Album Review: 'Screen Violence' - CHVRCHES

I’ve said it a lot over the years, but it bears repeating: I thought Love is Dead was awful. Most people did, in fact.

Working with super-producer Greg Kurstin, CHVRCHES’ 2018 album saw them go from sinister wordplay and cinematic soundscapes to repetitive hooks, vague platitudes and bland, Imagine Dragons-style EDM pop.

Needless to say, it didn’t go down well. In their attempt to appeal to mainstream audiences and Spotify algorithms, the Scottish trio had managed to disappoint critics and alienate longtime fans. Accusations of ‘selling out’ get thrown around all too often, but it really did feel like a betrayal of sorts.

And it only got worse from there, with the band collaborating with pop’s Kiss of Death, Marshmello, on the tepid ‘Here With Me’ (a decision they later came to regret).

Lauren Mayberry didn’t take kindly to the criticism, even accusing Stereogum’s Chris DeVille of supposedly using the record as a ‘symbol or scapegoat for something.’ What the frontwoman had a problem with is not entirely clear, though she seemed to chalk it up to politics, writing in a series of now-deleted tweets:

‘You can write a crappy album review and feel smart and what do I give a shit. But don’t minimise the ‘resistance’ as a comical joke/a stupid thing that you think is funny or smart because you are privileged enough to not actually have to think about it in real terms. It actually matters to people who live outside of you moment/life/world view, so shame on you. Maybe I live in my ‘inter personal comfort zone’ but at least I give a fucking shit. What can you say in exchange?’

DeVille’s take was, in my opinion, quite fair, even if he does admit that Love is Dead is ‘not a faceplant, but it’s definitely a stumble.’

Mayberry’s knee-jerk reaction, unfortunately, left a bitter taste in my mouth, impacting my already low opinion of Love is Dead. As I’ve also stated time and time again: What’s the point of responding to a negative review without looking petty as fuck? If you don’t want your art judge by the masses, then being an artist is probably not for you.

It’s also pretty rich of the band to try and make excuses for why everyone hated Love is Dead. No one made you produce a generic pop album. No one made you write and record a ‘tacky pop song’ with Marshmello. How could you not know that he’s a sleazy EDM bro, the rest of us did! Don’t take your shitty creative decisions out on everyone else – that's on you.

So, have CHVRCHES been able to rectify the damage on Album No.4? For the most part, yes.

Keeping production duties in-house this time around, Screen Violence combines the dystopian feel of their 2013 debut with the sleek gloss of later releases.

Written and produced through screens between LA and Glasgow in the early stages of the pandemic, the record explores the horrors that play out on screens via social media and how they translate into real-world feelings of fear, isolation and hopelessness.

On the ‘depressing but hopeful’ Asking for a Friend,’ Mayberry admits ‘'Cause I sunk some ships with selfish lips/And it all came back to me/I was terrified//I never told them why,’ riddled with self-loathing and regret. On ‘He Said She Said,’ she reckons with industry sexism and social contradictions, the track recalling the heady euphoria of the trio’s earlier singles.

‘Killing your idols is a chore/And it's such a fucking bore/'Cause I don't need them anymore,’ she asserts on the glistening ‘Good Girls,’ obliterating the pedestal that some male artists sit upon. Insecurity, however, gets the better of her on ‘Final Girl,’ wondering if she should just ‘quit, maybe go get married’ before she becomes yet another victim of the Hollywood machine.

Repetition is also employed a hell of a lot better than it was on Love is Dead. When Mayberry tells you she feels like she’s losing her mind on ‘He Said She Said, it’s like she’s in the grips of madness while trapped in a cybernetic void. Fear grips her by the throat on standout track ‘Violent Delights’ as she begs ‘I don't want to see it’ over and over again.

Screen Violence also lives up to its name music-wise, proving a lot darker and more foreboding than 2015’s Every Open Eye and even The Bones of What You Believe.

There’s jangling indie rock on ‘Violent Delights’ that give the track a foggy sense of nostalgia. On the menacing ‘Final Girl,’ they drive Mayberry’s sense of panic as she stares back in disbelief at a flickering screen, while the thumping New Wave angst of ‘Lullabies’ sees her vocals soar. Final track, ‘Better If You Don’t’ is almost straight-up grunge, evoking the feel of a rainy Glasgow morning.

And apparently ‘Nightmares’ was ‘too metal for German radio,’ suitably chilling as Mayberry asks: ‘What is it like to be the apple of your own eye?’ It could almost be mistaken for a Poppy track. Darkest, though, is ‘How Not to Drown’ with The Cure’s Robert Smith, their dissonant tones rising from the murky deep like a haunting spectre.

Screen Violence doesn't reinvent CHVRCHES, but it does help to reinvigorate them, even if the record feels a little samey at times. Some mediocre lyrics also manage to slip through the cracks, yet Mayberry’s commentary is overall cutting, brutal and sometimes tragic.

From trying to seem perfect on Love is Dead to realising things aren’t so fucking perfect after all, the trio discover that there’s ‘freedom in failure.’ Though they might never reach the dizzying heights of The Bones of What You Believe or even Every Open Eye again, CHVRCHES have found a groove that works for now just as the world finds itself in the grips of an ongoing nightmare.

Hopefully they’ll be able to sustain this momentum in the long run...

- Bianca B.

#music #chvrches #screen violence #new #reviews #albums #Bianca B

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the-darklings · 4 years

Note

That vampire au is just 😔👌

𝙑𝘼𝙈𝙋𝙄𝙍𝙀!𝘼𝙐:【01】| 【02】| 【2.5】|

John sits in a tub of water, his hands covered in blood.

You approach him unhurriedly, your eyes dragging over the powerful set of his shoulders.

The Holy Text across his back appears even more brutal in low light and glistening water.

“Is that what your church does? Carves up little children so they have a slight chance of opposing my kind?“

The vampire prince and his clever words. There’s been such rage in his eyes. Like he could taste the agony you were put through in your Making.

You and Jardani were just kids. Plucked out and deemed fit for a higher purpose. No ever stopped to ask you what you had wanted though.

Tools indeed.

Maybe that’s why it felt so good to see the vampire prince so furious on your behalf.

“You’re late.”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

His dark halo of hair turns in your direction and you watch him lower his shaking fingers into the piping hot water, hissing lightly.

As always, his dark stare is quiet and intent as he watches you.

Your dark shadow.

“You’re making a mess,” you complain quietly and tug off your thick coat, dropping it on an empty chair before you approach the tub, sitting down against the iron edge. “What happened?”

Your fingers sink underwater and you grab his hand, tugging it up from the burning water as you wet a cloth with your other hand.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Your eyes lift to his for a moment. “Then stop looking at me like you want me closer, Jardani,” you chide softly and drag the wet cloth over his bruised knuckles. “Now tell me what happened.”

“Aurelio.”

Your mouth twitches downwards. “Hm. Werewolves are getting bolder. They believe their new treaty with Camorra saves them. Is he still alive?”

Jardani doesn’t answer immediately. You can feel that intense stare focus on your face, lips, your interlaces fingers. The droplets of blood between you.

“For now,” he says eventually, a hint of coldness there that says that it was not his decision to grant such mercy. The church sometimes passes judgments that make you both wonder what, exactly, your mission is. If you hunt everything that could harm humanity as a way to keep them safe. Or if you exist for the sole purpose of removing those that no longer play the little power game well enough. “They fell in line eventually.”

You hum under your breath, focusing on your task and watch as the pale cloth stains with blood.

None of it is his.

“The vampire prince?”

Your eyes jump to him again. He didn’t want you to go—not alone at least. He had protested but the High Priest had shut down his complaining with a single cold remark.

You are of service, my son, and you will be of service. Do not forget your place.

“Still alive,” you reveal and meet his inquisitive stare calmly. “They did not want him dead though.”

Jardani frowns; it pinches his eyebrows and tightens his mouth into something colder than he actually is.

It doesn’t take him long to realise what your last statement means.

He’s a dangerous, wicked thing. There is a reason why monsters fear him.

“They wanted you to seduce him?” he whispers, his voice a low growl. His fingers tighten around yours, gripping them tight and his warm eyes have transformed into pits; dark and merciless.

“They wanted to see if he can be swayed,” you mock, your tone dripping with displeasure at the last word. The Adjudicator’s words. Pointed and direct. Swayed might as well had meant “spread your legs and see if he bites” except literally in this instance. “They wanted to know if he can be used to get a foothold in Camorra. What’s the point of my gifts if they do not help the church. It is my divine purpose.”

Every word is as brittle as the last. They come out hollow and bitter, distant—a truth you’ve had to convince yourself for years.

Jardani looms like a colossal, terrible thing as he listens and you can’t quite help your slight grin. You lift his now clean fingers, grazing your lips over the warm skin and his eyes latch onto the contact.

“Do not fret, Jardani,” you reassure him knowingly, lightly, and press another kiss against his skin. A tease, an offer, and this time his eyes darken for a different reason, you know. “The prince was intriguing but you have no reason to be jealous.”

“You like him,” he points out lowly, noting your slightly pause, your thoughtful frown. “Or he won’t be alive. What happened?”

You have no rebuke for that. Santino D'Antonio had proven to be far more exciting than you ever could have imagined but that doesn’t change much.

You are still a Hunter and he a vampire prince.

One day, you will inevitably destroy each other. Or maybe Jardani will.

“You do not have a bearing of a woman who settles for scraps when she can have the world.”

Frowning, you release his hand and rise to your feet, walking further into the room. You’re restless, so your fingers busy themselves with removing your holy blades. The runes cut deep into the metal glimmer when you rotate the blade in your hand with expert ease.

Jardani’s heavy stare rests on your back as you move, expectant, and it makes you shift, feeling a tingle of your own words beneath your clothes.

One by one you place the blades on the table.

“He offered me eternity.“

There is no answer. Not for a while.

Then, you hear him rise from the tub. The distant sound of water running down his body and back into the metal tank is the only sound in the otherwise silent room for several seconds.

“He what?”

Your smile is grim. “Do not worry. I have no intention of being dessert to some princeling.”

“If he offered you immortality, then he wants you for more than just your blood."

Astute as always.

His voice is displeased and right behind you. You feel the distant warmth of him in the chill of the room.

You turn to face him and reach for him, brushing your fingers through those midnight strands and over the scruff of his cheek. Jardani’s eyes close for a brief second, his soundless wrath receding at your delicate touch.

He’s still nude from his bath and you tug him to you by the neck, your lips meeting in a hungry, lingering kiss.

"We can’t,” he breathes against your mouth when he pulls back for breath, no more than a few centimetres apart. His mouth might be saying that but his arms are around you, touching, lingering, as desperate as you are. “It is forbidden.”

You kiss him again, biting his bottom lip and he groans, dragging you to him till you’re flush against him.

“Make love to me, Jardani,” you whisper against his mouth and his grip on you constricts, his breathing laboured. “Make me forget.”

“Make you forget what?”

“Everything that isn’t you.”

Jardani obeys because he is yours as you are his and as always, he starts with the harsh, twisted carvings of the Holy Text on your back. His breath wet and hot on your skin. Gentle.

With him, the pain and the uncertainty all fade away.

For a while, at least.

But not forever.

And it scares you that forever might be exactly what you want deep down.

Your head slants and something cold brushes against your cheek.

A careful, light touch—an experiment almost.

Your face scrunches up at the tickly sensation and you snuggle deeper into the—

The blood in your veins rages.

A warning knell.

Your fingers snap to your thigh but no blade lays there. All you can touch is silk and bare skin.

Your hands wrap around a slender column of a throat harshly, your thighs locking around your target and you glare down at the figure beneath you.

Santino D'Antonio grins; a pleased, lazy thing. His eyes spark and he tilts his head slightly as if to get into a more comfortable position.

“This is a sight I could get used to, bella."

"What the hell did you do?” you snarl, tightening your grip on his throat—a useless effort now that you know it’s him but some semblance of control is better than nothing. “Where am I?”

Because nothing about this place or this bed of burgundy silken sheets is familiar to you.

The vampire beneath you hums and watches you with parted lips and hooded eyes. “You’re in my room and you’re dreaming.”

Dream walking.

A powerful and rare vampire gift.

It should not surprise you to learn that he has it.

His father is the most powerful Dream Walker in the land, if not the world. You’ve heard tales of how he tortured Hunters in their dreams for sport till they were driven mad. Some say it was all for fun but others tell tales of how the Hunters—the Holy Church itself—has taken something from the vampire king and this war is a punishment. How humans everywhere have to pay for the mistakes made.

D'Antonio’s nostrils flare suddenly, scenting the air—you—and his eyes narrow. His jaw ticks, clenching, his previous hunger fading a touch. “You reek of him,” he informs you bluntly and his mouth curves into a dismayed line, irked. “I suppose that answers my previous question about the nature of your relationship with the Boogeyman.”

You pull away from him, scrambling across his huge bed and stagger to your feet, not letting him leave your sight.

Even if this is a dream—

You have no weapons, no way to defend yourself, not really.

You could invoke the Holy Text on your back but that will cost you. The High Priest has warned you against calling upon it many times, stating that you were not ready.

The vampire prince only grins at your retreat, seemingly amused. He sits up slowly, as if not to spook you, and leans against the gleaming dark wood of the headboard. You glare at him harder when you realise that he's naked. The silk barely covers him and the prominent dip of his hip catches your eye. The silky smooth skin there.

“You can come closer. I don’t bite,” he purrs softly, his eyes a shade darker, hungrier under your scrutiny. He enjoys being admired. “Oh, my. My apologies I just realised that I do, in fact, bite, amore. My bad.”

“How am I here?”

He clicks his tongue, bored, his eyes flickering up towards the ceiling. Apart from his bed of rich, red silk the rest of the room is surprisingly open. Bright.

“I have your scent. Once a vampire like me has that, I can find you anywhere in the dream world,” he divulges, his words a touch dull and he leans against his palm, a slight grin twitching that sensuous mouth. “How could I resist such temptation, hm?”

The hunger in those words is stifling.

Even though you’re wearing a nightgown, you might as well be naked under that otherworldly gaze. His eyes drag over every inch of you. From the swell of your hips, to the curve of your breasts and the crook of your neck.

“Get out.”

He chuckles; a low, sinful sound, his head slanting and baring the graceful arch of his neck to you. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, bella. I need you to ask nicely. Preferably while you’re moaning my name."

His goddamn voice—

He might as well be fucking you with his words alone. Every syllable rolling off his tongue like a seductive, loving purr.

All vampires are like this. Wicked and ready to corrupt all for the sake of their own pleasure.

Gritting your teeth, you tug on the heat in your blood. That poison, that nectar of holy power, and leash it around yourself.

"I said get out."

The room creeks.

D'Antonio shifts, his eyes tracking over the walls where stone cracks. The air becoming thicker with a mix of more than just him. The Holy Text carved into your back burns and you hone in on that heat as his eyes snap to you. Wide, delighted.

"Oh, look at you,” he speaks, his words warped with wonder, and sits up, not taking his eyes off you. “You are so much more powerful than I thought. You're magnifica."

"I said get out.”

Stone crumbles to the floor but the vampire before you doesn’t seem to mind or care. He has eyes only for you.

His room continues falling apart but Santino D'Antonio only bestows you with a slow, dangerous smile; a peak of his fangs appearing.

“You had my curiosity before, Vipress,” he says, his accented words rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “But now you have my attention.”

Everything goes dark.

#john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick #vampire au #supernatural au #OH MY GOSH WHAT IS IT ABOUT THIS DAMN AU SDJKFHSDJKFH #anyway i hope i'm not the only clown for this au lmao #s: i can wait #s: no one could be him

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

Distraction.

David (the Lost Boys) x reader (kind of - mostly all of them x reader, but specifically David.)

Warnings: blood imagery, depressive themes, death, alcohol and drug use (some)

Context: This is set in the same storyline as my previous Lost Boys oneshot, but takes place prior to that one. (Y/n) finds herself in need of a distraction after a hunt goes wrong, and the boys are only too happy to provide one.

I barely feel the cool ocean breeze around me as it blows past, my mind too preoccupied to care about the chills running up and down my arms, the shivering in my muscles going completely unnoticed beneath the confines of my thin leather jacket. In my ears, the low crashing of the waves against the sandy shore lulls me into a trance of sorts, my eyes not registering anything in front of me, instead replaying the images of the past couple of hours at a torturing frequency. A sour taste lingers in my throat and mouth, the metallic undertones only reminding me of the gore coating my arms and chest, the odours floating up from the clothes sticking to my body making me feel nauseous, even if I have smelt them many times before.

An uncomfortable stiffness encompasses my fingers and arms, the dried blood cracking as I finally move, even if it’s only a little, my body screaming at me to get up and pace around as I usually do; I unconsciously push these urges down as I subject myself to yet another barrage of disturbing images. Flashes of a tall figure bearing down on a cowering, whimpering child, agonized screams and gushing blood rush, uninvited, into my head, vivid images of my hand driving a stake through the cruel vampire's heart after it tries to tear my arm from my body swiftly following, the horrifying sensation of the limp, lifeless child's body in my arms accompanying the bitter grief in my mind. In despair, I drop my head to my chest, holding my knees tighter to my body as I fight the urge to cry, imagining the pure grief and sorrow the helpless mother of the victim will feel when she finds her son lying prone in an alleyway, his five-year old body mangled and stone cold. Shame wells up in me at my own cowardice, my heart-wrenching shock at my inability to save a life taking away the confidence in me to move him to a safer, more appropriate space.

Somewhere behind me, I hear the familiar roar of motorcycle engines on the boardwalk, a few cries of protest following them, though I know the drivers couldn’t care less. Their presence on the Boardwalk only serves to increase the weight on my heart, knowing that they’d be keen to know how my hunt turned out. It takes them a little while to figure out where I am, probably finding my abandoned motorbike against the railing near the steps first, only to then wonder where the hell I am in correlation to this. I start to count in my head, trying to calm myself a little before they inevitably find me, still struggling to concentrate on the numbers forming in my mind.

I get to eighty seven before a shout behind me snaps me from my thoughts, but I don’t turn, recognising the voice as Marko's, the younger vampire's voice laced with confusion. Four sets of heavy footsteps approach me, stopping a couple of metres away as I finally acknowledge them by lifting my head from my chest, waiting for them to start the exchange.

“(Y/n)?” Paul's usually cheerful voice is edged with the most worry I’ve ever heard before, the vampire probably itching to move forwards and talk to me face to face.

“The vampire is dead.” I report to them, monotonously, my own voice sounding strange to my ears.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Marko questions after a couple of minutes of silence, the news having sunk into them. Dwayne and David remain silent, the two of them more perceptive than the others, realising something went wrong in the process.

“Sure.” I respond, tightening my grip around my legs once more.

More silence follows, until I hear the sound of them coming closer, my body instinctively tensing when I realise they’ve sat in a line either side of me, David and Paul to my left, Dwayne and Marko to my right. None of them say anything for a moment, staying sat in surprisingly comfortable quiet whilst I try and get used to their proximity, confused as to their response – normally, the vampires couldn’t care less about me as long as I do my job, though they have shown more interest in my personal life as of late, sometimes even trying to hang out with me for an hour or two before I leave the Boardwalk. To say this weirded me out would be an understatement.

"Who's blood is that, (Y/n)? What happened to the kid?" David eventually asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft and quiet.

I turn to look at him in faint surprise at his words, unable to make out his expression in the dark, though I can tell from his tone that he is sincere.

Sighing, I reply;

"He was preying on the kid, a little five year old boy. I couldn't get there in time." My jaw clenches at the confession, still disgusted by my own inability, "How'd you know it was a kid?"

"Years of practice in telling the difference between adults and kids." Dwayne chips in, the rest agreeing with him quietly, choosing to remain silent, until David speaks again.

"And where are you injured?"

His question surprises me, being unaware of a wound myself, though his words do return my attention to the brief battle with the enemy vampire: he'd tried to attack me, only to latch onto my shoulder instead of my neck when I fail to get my arm up in time, still shocked from before. It was then that I'd shoved the stake as far into his black heart as possible.

At the memory, I become aware of the pain coursing through my shoulder, a wince escaping me, despite my better judgement, as I reach up to poke at it, feeling the torn hole in my clothes with trepidation.

"My shoulder." I finally reply, pulling my hand away from it so that I can find something to patch the injury up with. Noticing, the boys swiftly rummage in their pockets, Marko beating them to it as he hands me a strip of cloth - presumably a scarf from a previous victim.

"Here."

"Thanks." I say to him, giving him a brief, tense smile in the dark, knowing he'll see it, pulling my jacket off of my arm to reveal the injury. Awkwardly, I try to bandage it up, only to curse when I struggle to do so one handed, a surprised gasp leaving me when Dwayne wordlessly leans forwards and takes the scarf from me, wrapping it deftly around the inflicted area.

"Thank you." I repeat, softly, slightly embarrassed at my predicament. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the vampire sniff at the blood that has come off on his hands, wiping it on his jeans with some hesitation when he notices me watching.

For a little while longer, we stay silent, relishing in each other's company as we sit and look out at the darkened horizon, the five of us somehow enjoying the moment of tranquillity between us. Paul is the first to start moving, the vampire fidgeting and shifting as he starts to get uncomfortable sitting in the sand, followed by Marko, then Dwayne, and finally David, who is the first to break the silence once more.

"Wanna come back with us for a bit?"

His offer catches me off guard, my head snapping around sceptically to look at him, though I still can't see him.

"Why?" I try to keep my voice from sounding too suspicious, but it is obvious in the undertones of the question.

"Might prove a decent distraction for the night." He responds, shrugging visibly for me to see, "We won't try anything, you have my word."

Normally, I'd turn him down in an instant, but after today, the sound of being with other people, even if they are technically my enemies, makes the decision for me, a sound of agreement leaving my lips before I can stop it.

Almost in unison, the vampires stand, David turning to me and offering me his leather-clad hand with an unfamiliar politeness, wriggling his fingers when I hesitate to take it, a low chuckle resonating in my ears from him at my reaction. Cautiously, I place my hand in his, barely feeling the sensation of the cool leather beneath my fingers and palm under all the dried gore already coating them, grunting slightly when the vampire swiftly pulls me upright, my free hand instinctively coming to rest against his chest as our resulting position is slightly too close for comfort, though, surprisingly, I feel a few butterflies flutter in my stomach at the proximity. Hastily, I remove myself from him, trying to ignore the blush creeping into my cheeks, looking away from him so he won't see it

"To the motorbikes!" Paul cheers, his characteristically cheerful persona returning as we make our way to the Boardwalk, his loud voice making me smile, almost out of affection. A jokingly exasperated noise floats up from the others, Marko moving around to give his friend a shove, giggling when Paul nearly faceplants the sandy beach beneath his feet. Immediately, the latter growls and moves to grab hold of the smaller vampire,the former shrieking in mock fear before running off, a chase ensuing as they race towards the emptying Boardwalk. A glance at my watch reveals the time to be close to half twelve, though it feels later oddly enough, my mind lethargic and tired even though I'm normally up much longer than I have been today - a "perk" of the job.

Upon reaching the concrete surface of the popular attraction, the three of us that are left head over to the motorbikes parked along the railing, mine a little way away from theirs - though I quickly bring the Triumph motorcycle in line with theirs - in order to wait for the less mature members of the group to catch up with us. Idly, I trace along the line of the handlebars, ignoring the odd looks from those passing by, my bloodied appearance probably quite disturbing to those who don't know me as a regular, my choice of company for the night even stranger to those who do.

"Finally." Dwayne murmurs suddenly, his sharper hearing picking out the approaching vampires amongst the thinning crowd, my eyes finding them a few seconds later, Paul's hair being hard to miss. Grinning, the two of them sidle up to their motorcycles, mounting them with almost sheepish smirks when they notice David and Dwayne's pointed stares, shooting me an apologetic look in response.

"Ready?" David inquires, raising an eyebrow at me when I kick the bike into gear, the engine roaring as a small smile creeps onto my face.

"Born ready."

Smirking at my response, David switches his own on, revving the engine before speeding off towards the steps, Dwayne, Paul and Marko following suit, maniacal laughs erupting from them as they nearly knock pedestrians off their feet. Taking a deep breath, I push up the accelerator, pursuing them at speed as we careen off of the Boardwalk and onto the beach, my tyres only just gripping the sand, the impact jolting me forwards a little, causing a spear of pain to lance through my shoulder. Ignoring it, I accelerate faster, a cry of exhilaration bursting from me at the sensation of the wind in my hair and on my bare skin, my troubles momentarily forgotten as I focus on keeping up with the gang's motorbikes - though I know mine can easily outrun their's on solid land, it's a different story on sand.

Calls of encouragement and ecstasy at the thrill mingle with the guttural growling of our engines as we hurtle across the beach, our headlights throwing odd shadows on the ground around us as we pass it, the vehicle beneath me fighting to break out of my grip, the vibrations throwing me around, somewhat violently, though this only adds to the adrenaline in my veins. Another shriek of joy leaves me, my inhibitions about the group forgotten as I receive a few equally proud replies, their voices giving me the confidence to stand in the saddle, enjoying the new position as I keep in line with the boys, Paul and Marko joining me as I pass them. Whooping, we continue on like that until we reach the end of the sand, returning to our seats as we enter the labyrinth-like underside of what I assume to be a decrepit pier.

Biting my lip, I focus on navigating the dark, misty space whilst still enjoying the thrill that accompanies it, keeping what I believe are David's tail lights in view as much as possible, squinting a little as the wind stings my eyes. As always, my motorbike does not disappoint me, managing to take the twists and turns well enough, even if it is with a little complaint, prompting a brief shout of "Nice one!" from somewhere to my left, a grin splitting my face at the compliment, even if it isn't aimed at me.

Eventually, the pier runs out, the boys leading me straight into a small strip of forest, their bikes popping off of a ridge ahead with ease, mine struggling slightly until I up the speed once more, cheering as I clear the ground by some metres. The impact nearly winds me; but I battle through it, concentrating on trying not to crash instead, following the roaring of the other's engines as they navigate the dark area, my headlights doing little to help. In seconds, we have cleared the forest and are thundering towards what I know to be Hudson's Bluff, the lighthouse beam just visible over the lip of the cliff. As it comes into view, the vampires slow down, braking at the very edge with abrupt skids, laughing when I manage to do the same without tossing myself over and into the black sea.

"We've arrived." David announces, his face half-cast in white light from the lighthouse, his features sharper and more defined than usual, his blonde hair dishevelled from the ride.

Cutting the engines, we wheel our bikes into the underbrush before returning to the cliff, the howling wind now registering on my skin as goosebumps start to form on my chilled flesh. Shivering, I pull my jacket tighter around me as I follow the others onto a treacherous path leading down the side of the cliff, the rock slippery and insecure underfoot, my boots slipping a little from my weight. As we emerge into what is their home, a low whistle escapes my lips at the sight, the now-lit braziers around the edge giving the rundown room a sinister appearance.

"Is this what happened to that old hotel? I did always wonder." I comment, taking in the messy yet quaint interior with some awe, the fountain in the centre drawing my attention first.

"It is. The world forgot it, so now it's ours." David replies, sounding somewhat surprised at my knowledge, the vampire joining me as I go to the structure in the middle. I trail a finger over the stonework, giving him an appreciative look as I do so.

"Fair enough, I'd do the same."

A pleased smile crosses his face briefly, before he turns to the others, barking out a few orders at them.

"Paul, get us some joints, Marko, find some food somewhere, and some new clothes for (Y/n) to wear. Dwayne, do we have any alcohol? Hard alcohol, that is."

"I think so." The tall, dark haired vampire replies, quickly disappearing with the others to get what is needed. Meanwhile, David goes to a table in the corner, the surface littered with trinkets, most likely the possessions of their victims, rooting around for something. Upon finding it, he returns to me, revealing a pack of painkillers to me with a joking flourish, handing them to me with a small wink, which my body inadvertently reacts to. I smile gratefully at him, popping a couple out of their blister packaging and throwing them into my mouth, swallowing them down dry, as I'm used to doing when in bad situations.

"We've got alcohol!" Dwayne announces, a grin on his face as he holds up four bottles of whiskey, triumphantly, the amber liquid sloshing around in the glasscontainers. Coming over, he hands one to me, allowing me to open it and take a deep drink before showing me the potency of the liquid. As the fiery drink pours down my throat, a groan of satisfaction escapes me, the sound drawing smirks onto the vampires' faces.

A loud crash snaps our attention to the corner of the from, where Paul is currently juggling a stereo and five joints of what is probably the strongest cannabis he can find, the former item having fallen to the floor when he tripped over a stone on the floor. In seconds, he is back on his feet, approaching us and offering us all a joint, which we all accept, even if mine is with a little hesitation, the potent odour of the weed already strong in my nostrils. Lifting it to my lips, I take a drag, holding my breath for a few seconds, ignoring the slight burn in my lungs, before releasing it again in a cloud of heady smoke, following it up with another swig of whiskey.

"Easy there, (Y/n), you'll be off the walls in no time at that rate!" Marko calls from the other end of the room, holding what looks to be a deep box of sweets and chocolates, it being too late to get takeaway at this hour.

"Hey, I'm no lightweight!" I protest, though the buzz has, in fact, nearly set in already.

"We'll see." David murmurs to me, going to a wheelchair, where he sits and puts his leg over the side, giving off an indisputable air of confidence and dominance, smoking and drinking along with the rest of us.

The next few hours are a blur of fun and excitement, my time with the boys really helping me to forget what happened earlier in the night, my mind completely fogged over by the alcohol and drugs and sugar, the supply seemingly endless as we drink and smoke and eat the night away, none of them making an effort to stay sober, except David, who keeps an eye on all of us. I change into some different clothes as soon as possible, trying not to think about their origin as I do so, just happy to wear soemthing comfortable. At some point, the five of us dance together, at which time David finally leaves the wheelchair and moves with us, the older vampire spinning me around the room as easily as a professional might, his face completely lit up the entire time. As we finish, he throws me to Paul, who is waiting to catch me with open arms, all of us laughing uncontrollably when the two of us crash to the floor, the pain unnoticed by either of us.

As the alcohol starts to run out, we become slightly less active, our frantic movements and activities stopping as we go to rest, David in his chair, Dwayne, Paul, Marko and I lying on the edge of the fountain, basking in each other's company, though it is obvious that only two of us are still awake.

"Feel better now? Distracted enough?" David questions softly, voice hoarse from use, eyes finding mine with an odd amount of care in them.

"Much, thank you." I thank him, smiling at him as much as I can, though I am struggling to see him through the haze in my vision. The blonde vampire seems to return the gesture, his blue eyes focused entirely on me, clearly a lot more sober than the rest of us.

A yawn draws my attention to my fatigue, my energy dwindling as I fight to keep my eyelids open, rolling myself off of the stone ledge. Staggering, I try to stand, only to fall onto my ass when the blood rushes to my head, the room spinning slightly until I feel a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

"Easy, you won't be able to go far like this." David's soft voice enters my ears, his concern palpable even in my inebriated state.

"I need to get home, my sister will worry..." My voice trails off as I try to push myself up again, falling into David's chest, awkwardly.

"You're in no fit state to drive, (Y/n)." The blonde vampire points out, "I'll take you."

"No...you'll never get back in time to avoid the sun..." I try to argue, a faint feeling of surprise rising in me at my own concern.

"I'll be fine." David reassures me, scooping me into his arms with ease, cradling my heated body against his frigid chest, the fabric of his jacket providing a comfortable headrest for me when I finally give in to my instincts. Looping my arms around his neck, I play around with the hair at the base of his head, relishing the feeling of the soft strands under my skin.

Carrying me outside, David swiftly finds my motorbike, somehow managing to get me onto it safely, my arms quickly finding themselves around his waist when he takes his place in front of me. In moments, he's figured out how to work the Triumph, speeding off along the road in the direction of my house at the highest it will go, making sure I'm not drifting off behind him as I try to focus on the pleasant smell of his jacket: motor oil, cologne, dust and blood.

Thankfully, we arrive home very quickly. David helps me up into my room, amused to find the front door unlocked when he tries it for the first time, mumbling something about security in the Murder Capital of the World. Removing my jacket and boots, the vampire manages to get me into bed, checking the wound on my shoulder quickly before he tucks me in. All the time, I am confused as to what is going on, completely unused to this softer side of the usually ruthless vampire, but not entirely sober enough to register the sincerity in the acts.

When he finally has me settled into bed, he remains seated beside me for a few minutes, making sure I'm ok, though he is surprised when I suddenly ask him a question.

"You ever killed a kid?" My voice is quiet, but I know he'll hear it.

"No, and I don't intend to." He confirms, unconsciously lifting a hand to brush hair out of my face, his icy touch making me shiver slightly as butterflies start in my stomach, the hypnotic traces lulling me to sleep. In minutes, I've fallen into a deep sleep, trusting David to refrain from trying to kill me in my most vulnerable time.

It is then that I realise something; I've learnt to trust them.

I've learnt to trust the Lost Boys, and something about that seems pretty ironic.

#the lost boys #fiction #my writing #david(thelostboys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#paul(the lost boys)#marko(the lost boys)#joel schumacher #vampire

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miss-tc-nova · 4 years

Text

Missed You - Young Xehanort x Fem!Reader

Last of the All Flustered series.

ALRIGHT ANON! I’M NOT POSTING OUR CONVERSATION BUT HERE YOU GO! I DID IT! I CRIED BUT I FREAKING DID IT!

P.S. Thank you for your requests. This was so much fun to write.

Music Inspiration: Dear God by Avenged Sevenfold

~~~~~

Sparks spray across my face as the metal collides. I push my attack through and charge again but he vanishes. I barely have a chance to get away before the blade comes swinging in from my right. I swipe in retaliation, barely grazing his black coat. He slams his weapon into the guard of mine, forcing it from my grasp. Raising a hand, I just have time to cast that Thundara spell that saves me from his next attack. His body sparks with the paralysis and this is my chance. My keyblade flashes back into my hand, drawn.

The flash of a true smile flickers and I hesitate. That’s my mistake. I catch the gleam of gold before he swings his weapon, slamming into my jaw and sending me rolling backwards. My head is spinning and my chest is heaving with my heart running on overtime. Fighting through it all, I stagger back to my feet, the blood pattering to the dirt.

“Are you done yet?” he asks, voice full of disdain.

I reset my stance, trying to keep my insides from spilling out; I can’t collapse here and I can’t let my heart get in the way of my obligation. “Not even close.”

“Walk away. You don’t need to get involved in this.”

“You’re trying to summon Kingdom Hearts!” I shout. “It’s our job to keep the balance of the worlds and you’re trying to destroy that! How can I not get involved?!”

“Just walk away,” he orders again.

“YOU KNOW DAMN WELL I CAN’T DO THAT!” I scream back. “You brought us to this! If anyone needs to walk away, it’s you!”

Frustration crosses his expression. “You don’t understand.”

“Maybe I would if you just told me! But you shut me out and started looking for ways to destroy all the worlds! So how do you think that looks to me?!” He glances away and I let my guard down. “Xehanort, please. Talk to me.” A couple tears roll down my face. “I miss you. I don’t want to fight. I just…I just want the person I love back.”

His grip on his keyblade tightens and his lip curls back in pain. My heart sinks when he raises the blade. “This is your last warning: walk away.”

I’m shocked and furious, but beyond all that, I’m heartbroken. It all swells into a storm inside. I want to run away. It’s not fair that I lost not just my friends but also him; and now I have to fight him too. I want to take his warning and leave, but I can’t. Worlds are depending on me to stop him. I hate myself but I prepare to take him on.

Having taken a serious blow to the head, I’m actually holding out pretty well. I can keep up with him well enough but if I don’t finish this soon, he’ll win by simply outlasting me.

I see him preparing an attack I’ve faced off against before. It’s one of his stronger moves and I helped him master it. There’s no dodging it once the first hit lands, but with some timing, I can escape with minimal damage and a chance to end this.

The first strike collides with my keyblade. I’m pushing myself pretty hard to keep up but I make it through to the very last one. One perfectly timed parry and he’ll go down. Everything seems to slow down; Xehanort is coming for me and my body sets into motion the checkmate.

My mind suddenly flies away to a distant, much brighter place. Silver eyes sparkle as they gaze at me, complimenting the happiest smile while his laugh echoes in my ears.

That all comes to a jarring end when a violent force pierces my chest. Xehanort’s golden eyes stare wide, surprised just as much as I am. My keyblade clatters to the ground as my hands begin to tremble. There’s a light gathering where his weapon struck me—this is the end. Before it can consume me, I catch sight of the water dripping from my enemy’s face.

~~~~~

My eyes flutter open, blinded by the sunlight streaming through the window. There’s a burn in my eyes as if I hadn’t slept at all and when I try to apply pressure to ease it, I feel the tears.

I guess even the dead weep over the past.

Pushing it all away, I get dressed and amble up to the highest point in the castle. The wind flutters past, bringing along with it the salty air. The sun shines down upon the white buildings, making this place all the brighter. It’s peaceful and calm and everything I remembered. But this is not my home. Or rather, this is not the place I was born I should say, because I will never leave this place again. I don’t exactly mind. My mortal life had been full of darkness and heartbreak and tragedies; only the memories of my beginning, of my life before we were thrown to the mercy of our obligations, held light for me. My friends had been torn away from me a short time before I was left behind. It only got worse from there. The pain of the memory still rattles my heart, but there are still reasons to be happy. My friends are here, I’m home in a happier time. There are only a couple things missing.

“Figures you’d be here.”

Pulling my gaze from the city below, I find my friends stepping onto the rooftop of the castle to join me.

I smile, leaning against the wall to greet them. “Of course. It’s got the best view of the city.”

Bragi rests his elbow on the wall, eyes scanning the quiet place below. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s crazy to think we ever wanted anything other than this.”

I used to pity the four of them; they only got a taste of what was beyond the boundaries of this world. Of course, they reassured me that they’re happy and I hate myself for thinking they escaped at a better time.

“There’s an obvious reason this is where we all ended up,” Urd hums, joining us. We glance to her and she returns a smile. “This is where we were happiest.”

I reply happily, “I’m glad you guys agree. I’ve never been happier than with you.” The glances among themselves don’t go unnoticed.

“Come on,” Hermod announces, butting in. “Let’s go check out the festival.”

Today is the day of the Founding Festival. Even among the dead, it’s a holiday here—this is where the lanterns came. When I first arrived, lanterns came up yearly from a few keyblade wielders upholding tradition. As the newer ‘ancestors’ to arrive, we took on responsibility of the lanterns and we did what we could to guide them. But then they just stopped. Years passed without the lanterns coming to us and I just assumed the tradition died. Still, we celebrate it every year.

I always feel a bit bitter about the festival; I do my best not to let it show. I have my friends after all and they always make things better. There are still sad memories that keep bubbling to the surface though and sometimes I have to excuse myself for a bit.

Our fun ends as night falls. Nobody is expecting any lanterns but the five of us trail along the water’s edge anyway for the sake of tradition.

“We should totally convince them to do fireworks or something next year,” Bragi says, leading us along.

Hermod agrees, “That could be fun, so long as they don’t leave you in charge of them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you blew up Master Odin’s spell book that one time, remember?”

All of us, even Bragi, laugh at the memory. Urd manages to get out, “Oh I remember that. The Master was not pleased trying to find a replacement for that.”

“And then Bragi tried to pay off Eraqus and Xehanort to sneak him out of detention,” Hermod chuckles. That’s a bit of a strike on me today. I still laugh though, surely noticing Vor, Bragi, and Urd glance at me subtly.

“Hey look!” Vor points out to the water where a handful of lights can be seen rising to the surface.

A surprised smile comes up and I race to the docks. “No way!”

We all kneel beside the water, watching the glow get closer and closer until finally, a lantern breaks the surface.

Hermod reaches out to pull a one in. He closes his eyes to understand the hope that brought the lantern to us. “His name’s Lea. He wants to keep his friends close, to never be separated from them again, and is asking for guidance in search of someone he’d almost forgotten.”

Urd picks up another. “Riku is desperately looking for his friend but doesn’t want to forget the ones with him now.”

“These people are all new,” Bragi says, looking over another.

“Not this one,” Vor announces. “This is Aqua. She was one of Eraqus’s students. One of her wishes is that he’s happy.”

I remember the trio that Eraqus taught. They were the ones sending lanterns before they stopped coming. I always wondered what happened to them.

“I got Ven here,” Hermod announces.

Scooping up another, I recognize the name. “Hey, here’s the third one: Terra.” I get a vision of the young man’s face, standing on a beach from where he sent the lantern. “He wants forgiveness and to be able to overcome his darkness. He’s also hoping Master Eraqus is happy and…” There’s a vision of an older Eraqus with another man. There’s a grip in my chest. “And that Master Xehanort finds peace…”

“Hey guys.”

Everyone whirls around. The first we see is the boy in white with a big grin as he waves. Behind him is the boy in black, looking far more uncomfortable than his best friend.

Our friends break out in excitement and rush them, leaving me to stand alone among the hovering dreams. Of course I missed them, they were what was missing in my perfect world, but after what happened, I don’t know if I can bring myself to face Xehanort.

A pair of boots stops in front of me. “Are you okay?” I look up at my friend. Eraqus smiles softly, lifting his arms to ask for a hug. Tears begin to drip from my face as I hug the only person who’d been able to console me in my final years.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, fists clutching at his haori. “I shouldn’t have left without telling you. I shouldn’t have gone at all. I just wanted him back.”

“It’s okay,” he soothes, holding me tightly. “You were the only one of us brave enough to try.” He tilts my face towards his, making me see that he’s not upset. “Besides, it’s all over now. We’re all together again.” Releasing me, Eraqus takes my hand. “Now come on. There are some things that need to be said.”

I don’t really have it in me to resist Eraqus but I really wish he didn’t pull me back towards the boy who arrived with him. With everyone staring, he gives me a final push towards Xehanort who looks almost as awkward as I feel. I let my head fall forward, watching the droplets stain the stone beneath my feet.

My whole life, I could handle adversity. I struggled to become a keyblade wielder, to pull my weight and be the support my classmates needed, to persevere through the tragedy, to make my last stand against my beloved. Facing difficult times has never been a foreign concept to me, but here, in front of my murderer, the person I still loved, I’m falling to pieces.

“No, don’t cry.” Warm hands I could never forget cup my face, forcing me to look up. The silver eyes I’d fallen in love with, that always made me think of promises and hope, fill with tears to match mine. In a broken whisper he begs me, “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry.” As if I might suddenly disappear, he clings to me, quivering. “I’m a miserable, terrible person and everything I did was wrong. And I’m so sorry but please don’t cry.”

I can barely squeak past his jacket. “You left.”

“I know. I thought I was doing the right thing but I should’ve listened to you. I thought I could fix everything.” He’s as much of a mess as I am right now. “I thought we could all be together again but I just made everything worse. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I can’t help that my hands clutch at the back of his haori while I continue to sob. “And you have every right to be mad at me. I won’t blame you if you never forgive me just please, don’t cry. I can’t take it when you cry.”

I want to scream and hit him and to keep crying. I suffered so much because of what he did. He left me in agony not long after we lost our friends and then forced me to fight him. He’s right: I deserve to be angry. I’m not though. The strongest feeling in my chest, overcoming the pain and remorse, is relief.

Somehow, I manage to pull my words together. “You’re not allowed to leave ever again,” I say through sniffles and hiccups.

His grip tightens. “Of course.”

Pulling my face from his soaked jacket, I peer up at him. He means it, every word of it. Xehanort was always good at deceiving and hiding things from people; however, I would catch glimpses of his honesty and this is one of those times—he regrets everything. Like Eraqus said, it’s all over now.

I stretch up on my toes, connecting our lips. It’s a short, soft kiss but all the mercy I want to convey goes into it. He feels insecure, unsure of my action and, when it’s over, he watches me with confusion on his weary face.

“I missed you.”

He looks like he’s about to breakdown worse than I did; mouth quivering and fresh tears breaking through. Dragging an arm across his face, he manages to hold himself together. “I missed you too.”

#ymx #young xehanort #xehanort #young master xehanort #xehanort x reader #young xehanort x reader #khdr #kingdom hearts dark road #khdr xehanort #kh xehanort #xeha-non #novas requests #fem!reader

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