#but being with the chain has given him a taste of safety he’s never really experienced before

[ddarker-dreams]

Yan Childe, Diluc, Kaeya, Zhongli, Beidou & Ningguang / Courting Darling.

Warnings: Stalking, implied blackmail, kidnapping, and gaslighting. Note: this is a bit of an amalgamation from different asks i’ve gotten, put into one thing bc i thirst for these six characters so hard .

Childe:

“What’s life without a little adventure? You can stand to miss work for a day or two, it’ll still be there waiting for you when we get back. People have even gone so far as to say I’m an absolute joy to be around. You want to know who said that? Sorry, that source is staying a secret.” 

Childe is an erratic whirlwind of highs and lows. You never know what to expect from him, and he likes it that way, always keeping you on your toes. He doesn’t bother with having his friendliness appear genuine. If you want to doubt his goodwill, then so be it, he won’t stop you. It just makes it all the more interesting to keep you around should you be wary of his presence. 

He doesn’t care for the traditional conventions surrounding romance. It isn’t his thing, and he’s used to being considered the odd one out of every crowd, so why stop now? Childe doesn’t tone down any aspects of his bloodthirsty personality in your presence. It’s difficult to tell how serious he’s being since most of it takes the form of jokes or other lighthearted jests. In his mind, the fact he’s even spending so much time with you should make it obvious he’s interested. Whether that’s good or not. 

You’re going to be dragged all over the place. Childe’s stamina is seemingly an infinite well, as he takes you from activity to activity. By the end of the day, you’ll be exhausted. Unfortunately, he doesn’t take no for an answer, weaseling his way into your schedule despite your protests. Childe is particularly fond of getting into situations where a fight is inevitable, purposefully taking you to areas with monsters to show off his combat prowess. 

“Did you get a look at that, [First]? Aha, I haven’t had this much fun in ages! You already want to head back? Hm, I don’t know, the night is still young. Stop dragging your feet or I might just have to carry you. Not that I’m complaining, should that be the outcome. It’s up to you. Oh! Now that’s the spirit! I’ll try not to be hurt by how fast you’re moving now.” 

Diluc: 

“Ah, [First], I take it you’re doing well. I couldn’t help but notice you eyeing this book at the market earlier. I’ve had a copy of it for ages, but with how busy things are, rarely do I have time to read. I’d be appreciative should you accept this and give it a better home.” 

Diluc is self-assured in many areas of his life, romance is not one of them. He knows how to carry himself in the company of businessmen, staying polite and vigilant, but this rigid method doesn’t work in his favor when it comes to wooing you. To soften the blow on his side, Diluc tells himself that it was never about a relationship anyway. That his main priority was and will always be to ensure your safety. He tells himself this, but... isn’t sure if he really believes it. 

He’s a perfect example of pining from afar. Subconsciously, he’ll drift towards areas you tend to linger around, hoping to spot you amidst the bustling crowds. Each time he tells himself that this’ll finally be the time he approaches you. The opportunity is set before him, waiting to be taken advantage of, but he rarely follows through with his desire. 

It frustrates Diluc to no end how easily others flock to you. He’ll stand there, still as a statue, eyes boring into whatever pest currently holds your attention. This would be the push to finally send him your way. It’s a surprise to you both when Mondstadt’s wine tycoon materializes by your side, politely asking to speak in private. Truth be told, he just can’t stand the thought of another person holding your attention that isn’t him. 

“I apologize for my abruptness back there. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about for some time, and well... would you consider having dinner with me tonight? I’d appreciate your company.” 

Kaeya:

“It’s a funny thing, really. How we keep bumping into one another like this. Ah... that suspicious expression, it wounds me deep, sweetheart. When did you start looking at me like that, I wonder?” 

There’s no doubting Kaeya’s interest in you, from the first time he sauntered over to you and started a conversation. The problem you have is deciding how genuine his advances are. While Kaeya might not be the textbook definition of a heart-wrenching playboy, you’re familiar enough with the many rumors surrounding him to be wary. It doesn’t help that he’ll point this out to you when guessing the source of your apprehension. 

His methods are, oddly enough, effective. Kaeya balances the various aspects of seduction with ease. He reveals just enough about himself to draw out your attention, before focusing the conversation back onto you. You’ll never get to stop and realize how little you know about the man sitting in front of you, he makes certain of that.

Kaeya might hide certain aspects of himself, but his dubious morality is never concealed. He has you entirely wrapped around his finger, words validating his actions falling from his lips with the utmost ease; he’s a force to be reckoned with. You’ll start a conversation heated about something you’ve learned, only for it to end wondering why you were ever upset in the first place.

“Now, now, there’s no need to get all riled up over something like this. Don’t you trust me by now? When have I ever given you reason to doubt me? You need to take a look at the bigger picture. Hey, take a seat. I’ll sit here all night explaining to you if it’s necessary.” 

→[More underneath the cut].

Zhongli: 

“There must be something that I can assist you with. It may not look it, but I’m familiar with many fields of work, even obscure ones. Please allow me to lend a hand.” 

Zhongli, despite having been around for many centuries, is somewhat clueless in romantic pursuits. He’s aware of his fondness for you, but doesn’t know what to do with it. This leads him to becoming your shadow for some time. He focuses on what he knows best: observation and processing new information. Your every little movement will be analyzed and tuck into the back of his mind for later usage. 

Zhongli’s soft over the idea of you coming to rely on him for everything. He prides himself on his wealth of knowledge and work ethic, believing it a strong appeal, one that he puts on full display when you’re around. It’s not rare for you to overhear neighbors and friends speak highly about Zhongli. They’ll mention in passing how they were having difficulty with something, only for Zhongli to come around and help without asking for anything in return. 

This is exactly what he’s been hoping and waiting for. Zhongli has patience and sets himself up to be a desirable partner in your eyes, the efforts from his labor coming into fruition. Before you even speak to him for the first time, you’re likely to think highly of him, having heard all the ways he’s helped people close to you. Now that the stage is properly set, he’s ready to make his interest in you more evident. 

“I’ve heard a lot about you, [First]. Oh? You can say the same for me? Well, I hope I can live up to your expectations. I had just been on my way to Yanshang Teahouse, would you care to join me? My treat, of course.” 

Beidou: 

“You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced a voyage with my crew and I. I’ll set up a nice cabin just for you, how does that sound? Hm? Special treatment? Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, lass.”  

Beidou’s attention is overwhelming and oftentimes dangerous. Traditional social conventions are nothing but a waste of time for her, meaning that common courtesy is disregarded in favor of always speaking her mind. Which might not be so bad if she wasn’t so amorous. Even the most oblivious person couldn’t miss Beidou’s overt favor towards you.

This reverent display of affection is only exacerbated when she’s drunk, face flushed and an arm swung tightly around your shoulder. She doesn’t care who sees, who’s judging, or what gossip will be born from her actions. Beidou makes a point of showing everyone in the vicinity that even if you aren’t officially partners yet, a claim has been staked on you. 

Whether it be coercion or some other unsightly method, Beidou is intent on bringing you on her ship at least once. Or that’s how she initially phrased it to you. Imagine your surprise, that when you finally caved so she’d drop the subject, her crew was untying the ropes keeping the boat at port. 

“The fun’s just getting started, you haven’t seen anything yet. Don’t get all teary-eyed yet, sweetheart, I know you’ll come around. This’ll be a story sung by sailors for generations to come.”

Ningguang:

“If I’m being honest, not many are given the opportunity to speak to me outside of business-related ventures. I never thought I’d find it this... pleasant. I hope you’ll continue to entertain me as you do now.” 

Ningguang starts off her wooing in a subtle, almost coquettish manner. She is confident in her charm and brilliance. Not many have been gifted in the art of conversation to the same extent Ningguang has, her silver tongue paired with quick intellect making it difficult for you to escape. She’ll corner you verbally without you even noticing it. 

Ningguang finds amusement in how you stumble over your words, pure of heart and not chained down by special interests. Your forthright but considerate demeanor intoxicates her. She’s used to people cowering in her presence or trying too hard to pursue their goals. You might even earn a rare compliment or two, disguised as politeness, that doesn’t register for hours. 

She is a lady of fine taste. The sky’s the limit when it comes to her wealth, which is unrivaled throughout Tevyat, and you’ll be quick to notice this. Ningguang is most partial to sending you traditional Liyue adornments, believing the rich culture behind each piece suits your beauty. She’s also fond of the fact that when you wear her gifts, everyone in the vicinity will know it’s from her, due to its extraordinarily high cost. 

“Do you like my latest gift, little dove? It was made custom with you in mind, an unrivaled display of craftmanship, if I may add. Wear this and carry me with you... always.” 

[theregoesmylurkerstatus]

Your name is… Well, Tealeaf you can agree on. You feel, bone deep, that Molly is a part of you too. You would be the same — same body, same soul — but. But. You were part of Lucien too. And being part of him changed part of you.

You remember these people, sort of. You woke up and you were scraped raw, a shell with so much of what it held gone, but even then… Even then, there are impressions. Before you recognised yourself, you recognised — friends, definitely. Red hair and magic, green skin and salt water, blue lips and joy and wrapped fists and intrigue, explosions and sharp teeth and — and. Lightning. Dark and light. Comfort and safety and affection.

But more than that slips through your grasp. And things snap back into clarity of thought before the rest of your heart does.

You’re too familiar with things. You know you weren’t — Molly wasn’t — when you were first chipped away from Lucien. You don’t know how you know. You certainly don’t remember it. But alcohol is familiar, though you don’t recall the taste, and it surprises you. You know about the ocean. You know you’ve heard about it. You know these people told you. You just don’t know a thing they said.

It’s not that Molly doesn’t feel right. He might be your soul, and Lucien wasn’t. He’s just not you anymore. You don’t like being given names, even by people you — love? Probably. They would give you more than that name, would give you pieces of deeds and moments shared and advice given before you could ever claim them, if you could ever comfortably claim them at all.

And you can tell, whatever Molly did, you can’t be the same. You feel… quieter. The desire to be the centre of attention — you remember, as if through foggy glass, how Lucien twisted the world around himself, quite literally. The coat — they followed a madman into madness with that coat in tow, and you can’t remember making them care that much.

You feel like a shadow of him. You want a darker coat now. You want it to be clear that you can’t share the same jokes and passion and experiences, exactly.

You don’t want them to look at you and be sure more of what they knew is coming back, so — they should address you differently. Kingsley — that sounds right.

(Molly pretended to be a king more than once. That doesn’t surprise you. You still feel it in your bones.)

And these people — they’re funny, and they love you too fiercely, and the way they move… The impression they give is of being your peer, but the respect the most terrifying people in the land give them tells a story you can’t reconcile with how something in you wants to approach them. Nothing you do really surprises them, but what they do keeps surprising something in you.

You know these people are more dangerous than most others you will meet. They would circle around you and never let anything through again. They dragged you back from oblivion, from someone else, recreated a person that barely existed in the first place, and you know in your soul — because that is what they have their fingers in so deeply — that they will do it all over again.

If you want to regain anything of yourself, anything that isn’t warped by fragile memories, you need to leave.

You still can’t leave entirely, at first. Because you love them too. You don’t know why. They gave you this life and body, yes, but you drew your boundaries sharply, and there is distance as a result. You hardly know… So many of them. You look at the one in the yellow sundress and you keep forgetting her name especially, because if you are familiar but different, she is unrecognisable. The face you see out of the corner of your eye doesn’t match the one that meets your gaze when you turn your head to look.

But still. It takes a few years for you to be able to sever yourself from that company entirely. The one you first remembered as oh so joyful watches you, and you think she’s not surprised that you leave, just as you aren’t surprised she didn’t stop you. She knows you have to go, knows all about being trapped by love. But she could never have left you go unaided to your own dangers without you forcing her hand. This is how you must flee.

And you’re on your own — with a crew, but not… Not your crew. Not Molly’s crew. Being a pirate is different. You know Molly was never on the ocean. It helps distinguish from the cart rides you dream of at night, the horses with the stupid names.

You start to feel like your own person again, instead of someone gifted individuality by those that watched you make the choices years ago. Darktow doesn’t care for the Mighty Nein, and no one here has any idea you were ever part of it. As far as the Plank King is concerned, they were some assholes who messed up the order of things years before. No one here gets any inkling of wariness to people you know more than deserve it.

You can be funny again without being looked at too fondly. You can tell whatever extravagant tales you want, instead of having people know your life story better than you do. Mollymauk is your soul, is your ship, is what carries you forward — but Kingsley is who he’s become.

The dreams don’t stop. You know you didn’t really get these before. Or Molly didn’t. Whatever. There are chains and screams and vicious ego and you — you remember those people, that you died for them, that you reached out just to throw off the pilot as much as you could, and you start to feel like maybe… Maybe the intense love they direct at you isn’t entirely for the other model of you. Maybe you earned it. Maybe these dreams are the metamorphosis between the two. You wouldn’t be the Kingsley who stands back a little more without being the one who held Lucien back in a fight to the death. You wouldn’t have tried so hard to hold back in a fight to the death if you hadn’t been Molly.

It’s confusing. You stop worrying about the distinctions, eventually, as the impressions of light and laughter increasingly press against your eyelids when you sleep. All you know for sure is that you aren’t Lucien, and that’s a lot of peace you don’t think Molly ever quite had, though he tried.

Of course, the Mighty Nein come back for you one day. They have their fingers in too many pies to ever retire properly, and you — you’re number nine. You made them and broke them up for some peace, but when that peace isn’t eternal, you aren’t surprised.

And when Caleb and Fjord and Jester and Beau and Veth (Nott, Nott, Nott) and Yasha reach out for you again, you know — you died for them. You chose to live for them.

Whatever else you are — Molly or Kingsley or both — you don’t think you could be anything but one of nine if you tried.

They love you, and you love them in mind and memories and soul, and that's all your heart ever wanted to know for sure.

Even if they are far too ready to rip apart anyone who looks at you funny.

[katzkinder]

Little Boy Blue

Mahiru is tired.

Kuro can see it, in the way his folding isn’t as neat, in the way the vegetables in their dinner aren’t as uniformly chopped, in the way his head bobs during school lessons, his laughter isn’t as loud, how he doesn’t check half so well before he crosses the street and needs the ever watchful hand of Sakuya to drag him back from the curb, a shout on the subclass’s lips, scolding and fussing about the car that had just whizzed past their little group.

Mahiru is tired, but he refuses to rest.

And it’s driving Kuro mad.

It’s as Mahiru is jerked and prodded, worried and fussed over by his trio of school friends, that Kuro makes a decision.

His Eve will get some sleep, whether he wants to or not.

Thankfully for him, he knows Mahiru wants it. The frustrating part is that his stupid, incredible, wonderful human doesn’t think he’s earned it. Not yet. Not when there was still more to do.

Which meant, joy of joys… He needed some help.

Good thing he had three ready made volunteers right there with him on the curb.

Now to convince them.

***

The easiest part, by far, was getting them to go along with his plan. Slipping into Mahiru’s bag to use the cellphone Tooru had bought him (every time he thought about it, he still couldn’t believe it. His own phone, his own clothes, his own games, his own… Everything, really), he sent a single text to three different numbers.

Mahiru’s exhausted. Help me get him to chill out?

The hard part…

“Hey, Mahiru! It’s been a while since we all last had a sleepover, right?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, it has…”

“Since we’re already going to be walking you home to make sure you don’t wander out into traffic…”

“It was an accident!”

“Party at Mahiru-sama’s place~!”

“Would you stop with that stupid… Fine! But Sakkun is paying for the food!”

… Wasn’t actually that hard? But, well. Leave it to the grungy joker to just… Steamroll his way into Mahiru’s place, invited or not. And become a steamed cabbage in the process.

The power of Mahiru-sama is frightening indeed…

***

The first order of business when the five of them arrive at Mahiru’s apartment is taken care of handily by, once again, Sakuya.

“Pizza time!” he crows, tapping the order into a website Kuro only vaguely recognizes the name of. It’s not a delivery app, but the website’s own page, and while he’s busy with that, Kuro hops out of Mahiru’s bag, ready to go fetch blankets and pillows from the linen closet in order to set them all up.

Except Mahiru’s two human friends beat him to it.

All the better, he thinks, as he hops up onto the couch to watch them spread things out right in front of the TV. The living room is small, the area they’ve chosen to occupy even more so, but it’s what he would have chosen for Mahiru, too, to cram them all together, to surround his Eve with the simple pressure and warmth of his loved ones crowded close.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Kuro is so… Grateful for Mahiru’s friends. Before him, and even after him, they will love Mahiru like a brother, like a family, know him in ways he can’t, the same way Gear knows him in ways Mahiru never will.

And that’s fine. To be known is to be loved, and more than anyone, Mahiru deserves it.

“Mahiru, can you help Ryuu-chan? I’m gonna go make sure Sakuya doesn’t burn your kitchen down trying to make popcorn.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know, I’m always the one who makes the popcorn when Shamrock can’t!”

“And how much of it do you burn?”

“Less than you, so nyeh.”

… Maybe he should go watch them.

“Ah, Kuro, don’t get your fur on the counter!”

“Can’t deal…”

At the least, Mahiru seems to already be feeling better. It’s like magic. The best kind Kuro has ever seen.

***

Kuro spends the night as a cat, nestled in Mahiru’s lap or lying across his back, little paws kneading his Eve’s flesh and purring up a storm, extra sweet and extra soothing, while the other three pile around them. Mahiru is… Quiet. But not a bad quiet, no. A good quiet, letting the presence of the other people in their home wash over him, their bickering and their teasing, not a host but just a friend, just another kid, a kid with greasy fingers and a half drunk bottle of cola and two boxes of extra large pepperoni pizzas with cheesy bread set out before them.

“Where the heck do you find these pizza places I’ve never heard of?” Ryuusei asks after a particularly long cheese stretch has him craning his head back and holding his arms out, making the other three laugh, “This is great.”

“Vampire SNS,” Sakuya tells him proudly, and snickers once more at the tongue click it nets him.

Much to Kuro’s surprise, after building their little nest, the green haired vampire had graciously given up his preferred spot next to Mahiru without a word, instead settling himself shoulder to shoulder with the short one, Ryuusei, while he and Koyuki had pressed themselves up against Mahiru like they were trying to merge with him. It’s a tangle of arms and legs, like cats lying one on top of the other, physical closeness that speaks volumes of the emotional one they’ve cultivated with each other, and which they were slowly, Kuro felt, trying to ease him into.

It was a strange feeling. Being included.

But it wasn’t one he hated by any means.

Ryuusei flops his head against Mahiru’s arm, cheek squishing ridiculously as he squints at the screen. “Who picked this again?”

The crunching from Mahiru’s right stops, and a bowl of half eaten popcorn, buttery and with the perfect amount of salt, is nudged his Eve’s way. Wordlessly, Mahiru grabs up a big handful of it, stuffs it in his mouth with a knowing little smile, a sort of carelessness Kuro can never seem to invoke on his own.

The shuffling of fabric, and Koyuki leans onto Mahiru’s shoulder as well, the barest hint of a pout to his voice. “Does it matter? Even bad movies are fun when we’re together.”

“You’re cheesier than this pizza,” Sakuya teases, and Mahiru grins, laughs, finally says something, the exhaustion all but gone from his voice.

“That means Koyuki definitely picked it.”

“So you’re the one responsible!” Ryuusei shouts, and Koyuki flicks popcorn at him, bounces it right off his head.

“Shut up! You can change it, y’know.”

“Well, we’re already this far in,” Mahiru muses, and Sakuya quietly plucks the floor tainted popcorn up to place on a napkin, “Might as well finish it.”

Kuro is… So glad that Mahiru has friends who can do this for him. To do the things he can’t. This sense of total normalcy, of being just another teenager… It’s not really something he can help with. Not really. He knows he’s the type to overthink, to become discouraged when his efforts don’t get immediate results.

But now Mahiru is laughing again.

It’s everything he could have asked for.

***

Hours upon hours later, the only light in the room is from the flickering TV screen, and the only sounds are the soft breaths of four teenage boys, fast asleep right there on the floor.

Kuro finally rouses himself, gets up, stretches, and carefully picks his way down Mahiru’s back. Only then does he allow himself to transform back into a human, cracking his neck, his back, and sighing heavily at the relief it grants his stiff joints.

It’s time to get to work. All that effort would be meaningless if Mahiru woke to a mess, so clean up crew Kuro shall be.

First go the soda bottles. Back into the fridge, without a label or a care for who had drunk from what, because it’s not like those four cared anyway, but Mahiru hated to waste food. Honestly, Kuro was in agreement on that much, but especially when it came to his favorites. So, twisting each cap tightly back into place, he made sure to set them up in plain sight so that they’d be finished in the morning (and if not by their owners, by him), blocking the light of the fridge with his own body and the tails of his coat so as not to disturb the quartet of friends.

Next were the pizza boxes. Each one was completely empty, but that was no surprise, given that there were two shared between the five of them. Even the little banana peppers included had been devoured. If Kuro had to guess… Mahiru. For some godforsaken reason, his Eve adored things that set his mouth on fire, and no amount of “it’s not that spicy!” would change Kuro’s opinion that Mahiru, sweet faced, stubborn, wonderful Mahiru, just wanted to see what the fires of hell tasted like.

(And maybe he was a bit of a baby when it came to peppers, but clearly that wasn’t his fault)

Onto the counters the pizza boxes went.

Next came the bowl of popcorn, filled with nothing but unpopped kernels, then the plates, then the napkins, then the painstaking process of picking up every infernal piece of popped corn that had been jokingly thrown about between friends with zero thought for who would have to clean it up all up.

Considering how many Sakuya had tossed, he had a feeling the other vampire had known Kuro would take it upon himself to tidy up their garbage, and found himself cracking an annoyed, if fond, smile.

Little brat.

Mess more or less taken care of, Kuro had one last task to complete, and fetching the fluffiest quilt he could find from the closet that hadn’t already been used to pad out the hard tile in front of their TV, he carefully, carefully, spread it out over the pile of sleeping boys. Not a one stirred, not even Mahiru.

His smile turned ever so slightly bitter.

Well, that was fine. That was good, even, because it meant that, more than he’d thought, Mahiru had needed this night, this little slice of being normal, of simplicity.

Looking at each face in turn… He thought that maybe, all of them had.

Himself included.

Tucking himself into the crook of Mahiru’s neck was easy, a warm, furry weight that had his Eve curling up even more, ever so slightly, setting off a chain reaction as each teenager also shifted, one or two murmuring in their sleep, shuffling closer to each other like small birds seeking safety and comfort during a storm.

And that was fine, too. Kuro would watch over their dreams, every one.

Sleep tight, guys. Sweet dreams...

[yanderenightmare]

BNHA HEADCANNONS

INTIMATE ACTIVITIES

goodiebag WARNINGS: yandere, dubcon/noncon, abuse, kidnapping, abduction, Stockholm syndrome, manipulation, mind control

TIP-JAR

YANDERE ! BAKUGO KATSUKI - KACHAN

Katsuki enjoys several other things apart from bedroom activities. All he needs is to feel needed. He loves cooking for his darling, watching movies and snuggling on the couch or in bed, he even wants to dance on some evenings, all in the confines of his home though. Because he just loves those extra intimate interactions with his darling: his house is equipped with pools, a jacuzzi, showers and a sauna. He just wants and needs her in all those semi-naked situations. Needs to satisfy his ownership of her. He will allow her access to every room of their house. He has installed every safety measure he deemed necessary for it to be possible for her to wander about. Having artificial staff to clean instead of actual, interactable, distracting human beings. He loves ensuring his darling that he’s the only thing she’ll ever need. And, because of this, Katsuki’s favorite thing to do in the bedroom is going down on his darling. Whether it be before, in between or after sex, preferably all. He’s a giver, but for selfish reasons obviously. He likes to feel her squirm and squeal beneath him, under his lips and tongue and teeth. He likes to prove how well he knows her body and taste what a mess he’s reduced her to afterwards.

YANDERE ! DABI - TODOROKI TOUYA

Dabi is kinky. Not to an extreme extent, however more so than most. He rarely uses his quirks, but is not above doing so. He will brand his darling with his name and the occasional thumbprint hearts, but nothing more. He enjoys powerplay, as in collars and leashes and handcuffs, but rarely anything more than that, mostly because he isn’t that much of a patientperson. Dabi’s favorite bedroom service is a blowjob, of course. He loves seeing his darling down on her knees making him feel good, sucking him off as though her life depends on it. He loves every part of it, from her lips tightening around his shaft, to the walls of her mouth closing around him, hitting the wall in the back of her throat, even feeling her teeth slightly graze against him. But, nothing beats when she swallows so perfectly and gives him the outmost adorable little thank you afterwards, kissing his cock as if it were some gracious offering. He does enjoy other things apart from sex though. He loves the aftermath. Snuggling. Oh, how he loves snuggling. The soft drum of her heartbeat against him, the smell of her mingling with the smell of him. His darling’s soft skin pressed against the leathery texture of his purple marred flesh. He hopes she doesn’t scathe and annoy by it.

YANDERE ! SHIGARAKI TOMURA

Tomura absolutely worships his darling, he doesn’t take anything she offers for granted. Even if he has to threaten her first. He enjoys playing videogames with her, though… he’s too easily distracted. He’ll want something else, something more, quickly. Whether it be kisses, hugs, or for her to brush her fingertips across his skin. Simply feeling her warmth up against him is enough for Tomura to shiver in ecstasy. However… it’s far from satisfactory. Once he gets a taste, he almost immediately needs more, and he’s not one to hold himself back. He will take if she does not offer, and he does not take lightly to her teasing. During sex: Tomura enjoys the cowgirl position above all else. Seeing his darling kneeling so perfectly in his lap, the both of them cradling one another, her hands wrapped around his neck, his hands being able to touch each and every part of her. Savoring the moment, as she displays in offering to him. He takes time enjoying himself, dragging out every moment until he’s contently satiated. He returns the favor, never leaving his darling unsatisfied, even though she probably would prefer it that way.

YANDERE ! SHINSO HITOSHI

Hitoshi wants to talk. To talk to and observe, dissect, analyze his darling’s every word. He wants her thoughts, her emotions, her everything. Talking is part of why he fell in love with her. Because she seemed to want to talk as much as he did. She wasn’t scared either, the words seemed to pour out like poetry; unrestricted. A social butterfly incapable of staying quiet, incapable of leaving his questions unanswered. She was perfect for him. Even after he took her, she still couldn’t stop herself. He needn’t even use his quirk… most of the time. But… Hitoshi just loves taking advantage of his quirk in the bedroom, as so to have his darling focus on the pleasures he’s giving her instead of how wrong it feels. Hitoshi, quite like Dabi yet even to a more extreme, is a very kinky guy. He loves gifting his darling with trinkets. Loving to dress her up in all straps and lace and chains and stocking and collars and leashes, all branded with his name on them… perhaps even cat ears and a cage and making her call him master while he calls her kitty. He has a lot in store for his darling.

YANDERE ! TAMAKI KEIGO - HAWKS

Keigo wants to find out what a relationship is. He doesn’t have a lot to go on, except for numerous romance movies and series. He isn’t shy though, he’ll get creative and experiment. Cuddling, wrapping his wings around his darling. It proves beneficial, both in being more comfortable for him and in keeping his darling in place. Showering together, shampooing one another’s hair. He’ll trap her mouth in his hand and make her breath in the water if she refuses to oblige his wishes. Cooking together. She’ll wish she just cut the vegetables like he asked. It’s a good thing she can never get a good hit in, despite however many times she tries. Keigo seems unbothered, never dwelling, never holding any grudges. There are too many other activities that needs his attention. Keigo prefers standing during sex. More control that way. With the freedom of his wings, something of which would be hard to maintain were they to be lying in a bed. He loves taking his darling up against the wall, whether she’s standing on her own two feet with her face mushed against the boards, or with him holding her up under her thighs with her legs cradling him. Keigo isn’t picky though, so any position where his wings are free is just fine with him.

YANDERE ! MIDORIYA IZUKU - DEKU

Izuku just wants to be close, that’s really all he needs, they don’t even have to have any sex, they don’t even have to be that naked, or... at least not at first, not before she’s neatly settled in and come to terms with the fact that she is to love him until the end of times and won’t ever be leaving. Any position that allows him to reach and admire every part of his darling is perfect for him, yet he prefers to be able to see her face. He only allows her in the bed, anything else would be too rough for his little darling. The bed is the only safe place for her. So, that’s exactly where she’ll stay, out of harm’s way. He’ll bring her food and activities such as novels, notebooks, sketchbooks, anything she asks of him as long as she stays in the bed. He understands it when she gets restless. He too, would grow feral being suspended to a bed all day. But, he really can’t trust her with herself and risk her being free without his supervision. She’s bound to hurt herself, being as fragile as she is. He’ll insist on carrying her if she wants to go to the bathroom, pouring the right temperature into the bathtub and insisting on getting in with her. He’ll make it clear that he doesn’t mind, that he quite enjoys it. There will come a time where he enjoys it a bit too much, where he’ll insist that his needs and her needs are one of the same. By what time, he’ll have grown so demented, she’d count herself blessed if she’s ever given the time to sleep again.

YANDERE ! CHISAKI KAI - OVERHAUL

Bubble-baths. His darling; surrounded by soap-bubbles. Her skin being smooth and slippery against his own; glowing. He wants her constantly, but if there’s a time where he feels his composure slip, it’s when they’re clean and perfect with only each-other and the soap surrounding them. But, despite being entitled, despite being impatient, despite wanting to have her in the outmost depraved ways… he’ll go about things rather professionally and respectfully, because Kai is, despite everything, a traditional guy. He believes in decorum and customs. So, his favorite position to have during intercourse is obviously missionary, the way it should be. That doesn’t, by any means, mean he is a mediocre guy. He just enjoys the contours and slopes and curves and dips of his darling’s face. How beautifully lit, bright and glossy her eyes get when he rams into her. How plump and juicy her lips are when they absorb the tears running down her cheeks. The soft crinkle between her brows and how her mouth hangs upon, shameful moans spilling past her lips. It’s all too much for him to ever want to face away from her whilst doing something so intimate. He allows himself to remove his gloves when they’re bathing. If only to feel the smooth, clean and warm feel of her throat under his fingers, as he fucks her into oblivion.

YANDERE ! TODOROKI SHOTO

Shoto is quiet. And, it’s strange, because she used to think it was because he was a soft soul. He isn’t. Shoto’s favorite sexual endeavor is spanking, to see how far that spirit of hers actually reaches, he’s never disappointed. Whether she’s bended over his lap, the table, the sofa, any surfaces really, or chained to the ceiling, or on all fours presenting her ass so delectably for him. He loves seeing his handprint branded on her plump flesh. Enjoying what different colors he can bring to the surface by exchanging which quirk he uses. He finds it very efficient as well, given that his darling rarely disobeys him. She often wonders in fear what fresh hell his punishments could possibly be when his awards are already so brutal. He never skips on aftercare though, even though his cooing and affection is unwanted. Never understanding that his affection doesn't make up for the brutality. He’ll hold her tightly to his chest, cool down the swollen flesh, stroke her hair, kissing her forehead almost so softly she nearly forgets what he just did to her moments before. He’ll balance everything out to an obsessive degree. For every slap, she’ll also get a kiss. For every burn, he’ll also cool it down and vice versa. Every time they do something unpleasant, he’ll be sure to have something softer planned the next day. She isn’t sure which she dislikes the most, but… there’ll come a time where she won’t be sure which one she enjoys more.

TIP-JAR

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: Ructare florem tristitiae

Summary: Allen Walker’s feelings bubble up his throat, flower petals spilled on his father’s grave, for the Akuma, who will never get proper burials. Ructare florem tristitiae, Cross Marian diagnoses, grief flowers.

Parasitic type Exorcists never live for long; carries of Hanahaki should die even quicker.

Allen is determined to make the best of it.

Rosa bracteata

His name was Allen, his father was dead, and he’s choking, drowning in his grief, spilling his guts in the graveyard. His shoulders shook and he heaved until he collapsed, fingernails clawing at his skin until they left red scratches. Metal in his mouth as he vomited roses that, under all the blood from thorns tearing up his throat, were white.

“You want me to retrieve Mana Walker?” the grinning clown asked, curiously staring down at him.

Another rose petal fell from Allen’s mouth as he screamed his father’s name.

Ornithogalum umbellatum

Cross was too late.

His mistake couldn’t be any clearer, standing in front of Mana’s grave, holding a casket that was bound to be empty, looking at a child that was meant to disappear. Allen’s face was covered by blood, and thus Cross did not pay any attention to the flowers surrounding him as he picked Nea’s host up and carried him to safety.

The little brat never should have been caught up in this war of theirs and Cross almost wanted to laugh at the irony of a Noah’s host being so deeply connected to Innocence, it took over his body. Laughing, drinking, and sex would certainly be better distractions than screaming in rage and lashing out at a kid that couldn’t be blamed for any of this, but right now, Cross couldn’t afford to do either.

All he had left were the curses he could hiss under his breath as the child screamed himself hoarse from the pain, choking until Allen threw up on him, the remains of lunch and flower petals ruining his shirt.

“Fuck no,” Cross exhaled, fingers twitching for a cigarette. “Since when does the brat have fucking Hanahaki?”

Mother only huffed. “Why are you asking me? Shouldn’t you know since you watched him?”

“Well, he certainly wasn’t spitting up little snowdrops when he was running around with Mana!”

No, when the two clowns had been traveling together, Mana had been the one choking on the same red poppies he’d always cried for his brother. Fucking Nea, this better be worth it. From a scientist to an Exorcist to a nanny for traumatized little Noah hosts, who pissed their bedding.

“Those aren’t snowdrops,” Mother said, picking at the few flowers Cross had cleaned off the blood. “Aren’t you a bad priest that you can’t even recognize these?”

“Why the fuck should I recognize any flowers—”

“Stars of Bethlehem!”

Cross turned to the door where Barba was standing with Allen’s clean sheets, pointing excitedly at the little flowers. “Those are stars of Bethlehem. I’ve always wanted to decorate with them for Christmas because of the name, but they’re pretty sad flowers.”

Sad flowers, huh? “What do they mean?”

“Atonement,” Barba replied. “And reconciliation, guilt, and fear.”

Sighing, Cross leaned back in his chair and grabbed the entire bottle of wine. “Of course, the brat has grief flowers.”

Parasitic Innocence and Hanahaki? Nea better woke up soon, or the boy might die before he had the chance to erase him.

Calendula officinalis

Allen’s new Master was a bastard, so unlike Mana that he wanted to scream and return to his grave, spill more father’s day gifts and stars. But if he returned to Mana without having saved a single soul, he could never forgive himself.

And thus Allen stayed, carried his bags, found a routine with his Master, wondering when he’d finally learn how to use his Innocence against those Akuma.

“Hurry up, stupid apprentice, we’re going to be late.”

“Late where—” Allen froze as his gaze stopped at a lone man in the crowd and his left eye suddenly exploded in pain as his vision changed, shifted, and the man turned into a shadow, a skeleton wrapped in chains and guts, screaming, tearing at their constraints, begging for salvation.

Allen fell to his knees, his father’s screams echoing in his mind as he began coughing, struggling for breath, orange blooms landing on the dirt road.

“Allen— what are you doing!?”

His Master’s voice thundered through the air, commanding and another note he couldn’t identify.

“The man,” he stuttered out, swallowing down the bitter taste, the copper. “The man, Master, he’s like— like Mana!”

Cross’s head whipped up just in time for the man to see them.

And then all hell broke loose.

Tagetes erecta

The marigolds continued to haunt Allen until he learned to swallow down the blooms even as he fought against the Akuma.

No matter the Akuma’s level or origin story, orange petals always begged to leave his mouth. It made their stay in India more taxing than any other, marigold garlands covering the streets at all times. How strange that a flower that had always represented pain and grief to him was celebrated here so. Allen had met quite a few people suffering from the same ailment as him, though the taste of their hurt was a different one; unrequited love, fear, hopelessness – the number of emotions that could evoke Hanahaki seemed to be as varied as the stars above.

Allen had never known which one Mana had suffered from, but his flowers had also never changed, blooming for the same purpose and person.

He stared down at the abandoned bowl, his arm still aching. He had been so careful that any of the marigolds he brought Narain were not stained by those expelled by his body. But now, covered by the Akuma’s blood, it hardly seemed to matter.

They looked just the same.

Mentha arvensis

Allen’s introduction to the Black Order was chaotic. From his meeting with the angry Japanese Exorcist he absolutely did not want to work with ever thank-you-very-much to the confusing words and touch of the guardian Hevelaska. Komui, his superior, seemed like a fun and kind man, one Allen wouldn’t mind working alongside.

This place truly felt like it could become home if one were to believe Lenalee. Allen even had his own room that was his to do with as he liked, given that he didn’t destroy it. That certainly was an entirely new experience.

Allen hadn’t really had a home in a long while, though, when he was just feverish enough, feeling more like a child than an Exorcist, he would consider his Master’s coat on his shoulders shelter his home.

Not that he’d ever admit that to the man out loud.

“Is there anything else we need to know?” Komui asked, looking over Allen’s file, hopefully not cringing too much over Allen’s handwriting. Just because he had gained dexterity didn’t mean that his handwriting was particularly great. “Your personal data isn’t exactly precise.”

Allen tried to keep his smile in place, but he was well aware that his life had gaps. The entire first half of his childhood was one giant black hole, and as much as Allen sometimes wanted to solve that particular mystery, he was sure he hadn’t forgotten for no reason.

Mana’s memories had been full of empty spaces, and that for a good reason too.

Allen still remembered his screams when his nightmares overwhelmed him, begging for his brother to save him, forgive him, stay by his side eternally.

“I’m sorry,” Allen apologized regardless. “I know my background is not that easy.”

Komui only smiled at him. “Don’t worry, Allen. We care more about your own welfare now than anything else.”

His throat tickled and he desperately wanted to believe Komui, perhaps a bit naively too as his childhood self would condemn, but he tasted mint and knew it was for naught. Komui might care, God, the man had given everything so he could be here with his sister, but that didn’t speak for the entire Order.

“There actually is one more thing,” Allen admitted. “I have grief flowers.”

Komui’s eyes widened, fear and pity flashing through them. “How long?”

“Since General Cross took me in,” Allen said, knowing that for most, that would mean he was as close to death as he could be. “But I have it handled. My Innocence keeps me steady and heals my lungs.”

It was probably not as good of a reassurance as the man was hoping for, but it was all Allen could give. As always, he was lacking.

Lathyrus odoratus

Dealing with Innocence always interfered with his sickness. His own shard kept him healthy enough to continue on even if the number of flowers he’d displaced over the years should have long since killed him.

“What the hell, moyashi?” Kanda shouted as Allen doubled over in front of Lala and Guzol, covering the sand with blood, baby’s breath and sweet peas. Baby’s breath was nothing new given the presence of Innocence. Allen had filled Maria’s casket with it multiple times already, but he knew the sweet peas were for Lala, the sentient doll, and her dearly beloved human, her accommodator.

“Let her sing,” Allen begged through the pain, wheezing, still pathetic and weak. “Let her sing, please.”

And they remained as they were.

Gypsophila paniculate

God’s true apostle was a little girl that made Allen freeze. No matter how much he wanted to fight, to protect the world he had learned to love with his father’s smiles and jokes, he couldn’t anymore, his eye destroyed, bleeding.

Time running out and out and out until—

Rewind.

Miranda’s Innocence, baby’s breaths on his tongue, was as cruel as it was kind, giving Allen more time to fight, to understand, to choke down the marigolds as Road ordered the self-destruction of the Akuma and he watched that screaming soul disintegrate.

He knew there would be a price to pay.

The Noah’s door, a checkered form that seemed so familiar, closed and Allen stumbled back to Miranda’s side. Sweet reassurances were all it took to get her settled, to allow time to return to them.

Allen blacked out with a cough so deep, he thought he was crying at Mana’s grave again.

Papaver nudicaule

Lavi was curious by nature. It was the reason Bookman had picked him in the first place. Their kind needed to be curious, interested in the world, but only ever as its silent observers. Bookman Junior could recite his entire lecture on the topic, the ever repeated ‘know your duties’. Junior knew that he wasn’t Bookman’s first apprentice, and given how much Bookman insisted that Lavi stayed impartial, he knew there was a story to discover, history to inherit someday.

But for now, he had to chat up the Destroyer of Time.

“Nice to finally meet you,” Lavi said with a mild smile. “Yu-chan already told me so much about you!”

Kanda had been unusually chatty, complaining about Allen Walker for minutes, which was as good as ranting for an hour for normal people. Lavi had learned a lot about Allen during that time, mainly his sickness being of interest to Junior. The number of people suffering from Hanahaki was low enough that they had yet to find a proper cure or cause.

There were enough speculations, the church was particularly fond of going on about Eve and Lilith, Eden’s curse, but it was as good an explanation as a shrug and a disinterested ‘I don’t know’.

Although, perhaps, remembering the glass of flowers in his coat pocket, a cure had been found, just not one readily available for the masses.

“Here! Miranda collected them for you. It’s tradition in Germany to save them.”

Lavi handed Allen the glass full of yellow poppies before the youth could protest, waiting to see what his reaction would be. He had already gathered that Allen was used to his sickness, had learned how to live with them.

These flowers should not surprise him.

And yet they did, the boy almost dropping the glass when he saw what was inside.

“Poppies,” Allen breathed, his face twisting into shock, the kind of which Lavi had never seen before. “But they’re Mana’s—”

Mana Walker, the father that had been turned into an Akuma.

Lavi had to hold back a grin.

This was bound to be interesting.

Roseanne giganteus carnivorus

Roots took ahold of Allen’s heart and lungs and he reminded himself repeatedly that Mana loved him, that he had friends now and a home, that he was cared for. His father may have cursed him, but only so Allen would have something to live for so that he’d continue and not plant his roots at his father’s grace and let his body decay to feed the soil.

“I never wondered if Akuma could love,” Allen confessed to Lavi while Krory was still knocked out, head resting against the window of the train. “I thought them incapable of forming positive relationships unless they were modified.”

“Modified?” Lavi echoed, keen eyes, fake smile.

Took a liar to find another.

Eliade had felt something for Krory, even if it might just have been possessiveness, staking her claim on her victim and prey, waiting for the Innocence to get strong enough that its destruction would be interesting.

I love you, Mana’s words rang in his ears.

The flowers settled.

Glaucium flavum

The Exorcist cheated them right out of their money, and if Tyki didn’t feel like there was something familiar about the boy, he would have ripped his Innocence and heart out right there. He’d learned restraint, how to curb Joyd’s hunger. It had been insufferable when he’d still been a child, giving in to pleasure much too quickly.

But the three Exorcists right in front of him were taunt and temptation.

And still, Tyki resisted, especially once he got close enough to that white-haired menace to catch his scent. He’d excused himself after one round, saying he needed to freshen up. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth.

“You smell like flowers, menino,” Tyki commented, watching as the boy quickly wiped blood from his mouth, something yellow disappearing down the drain. “Hanahaki?”

Fraude A flinched, looking like he’d been caught in the act. The cheerful if devious demeanor from before had all but faded away, leaving behind an exhausted teenager. The bags under his eyes were heavy, and the Innocence in his hand must be sucking away at his lifespan as well.

What wouldn’t Tyki give to turn that crystal into dust, play savior for this damned child.

“It’s not contagious,” the boy said immediately, probably thinking that Tyki was one of those fools who avoided flower bearers like the plague.

“I know,” Tyki said. “Don’t worry about it, menino. You seem to be doing as well as you can. I want to ask about your sickness if you don’t mind.”

The boy eyed him suspiciously but nodded.

“The child we have with us, Eeez, he has Hanahaki as well. His family threw him out because they could not afford to care for his health.”

Not that Tyki and his friends could afford his treatment either. Whenever Eeez, Momo, and Clark slept, Noah’s third disciple reached far into the lungs of the boy and ripped out the flowers stealing his breath, drenched his fingers in blood to see the child take another pathetic breath.

“Oh.” Understanding flashed over Fraude’s face. “Which kind?”

“Fear,” Tyki replied and there was so much to fear for weak little human boys in a world as cruel as theirs. “And you?”

“Grief,” the boy said, almost apologetic as if he’d trade his variant for a chance to help Eeez. “And I’m sorry, but I can’t offer you any help. My method of coping won’t work for him.”

Flores de tristeza and an Exorcist, the boy was truly detested by fate.

“I understand.” Oh, he did. That parasite leeching on the boy’s lifespan kept him alive, healed him over and over again so he could keep fulfilling its cursed mission. Tyki wondered what his lungs looked like, whether they were entirely scarred over. “Thank you still, menino.”

Aquilegia atrata

Lenalee was excellent at reading people, even if she couldn’t keep up with Lavi. It was a skill she had learned out of necessity during all her attempts at escaping the Order, searching for weaknesses in her guards, moments where their attention slipped just enough for her to throw herself out of the high towers they kept her in.

No matter how much Allen lied and cheated and smiled, Lenalee could see that it wasn’t true.

And that he was putting too much pressure on himself.

Surrounded by all the Akuma, hunting down Allen’s Master, the fall was inevitable.

Lenalee just hoped she would be there to catch him when it was the time as Komui had been there for her.

Dianthus caryophyllus

Innocence was good and holy.

God’s dearly beloved crystal, sent to save humanity.

Allen had known this deep in his heart, had clung to it when the appearance of his arm had still made him insecure because it gave him purpose. He was not so foolish as to think himself special, one of God’s chosen, but he chose to believe that Innocence mattered.

That it was kind and protected.

“I’m sorry,” Suman Dark apologized under tears he could not cry as Allen kept on screaming, begging him to live and go on, no matter how much the Innocence was eating away at him.

This couldn’t be true; it shouldn’t happen. His own Innocence would never do this to him, had it loved and protected him even against his own father. Yet it was failing him when Allen tried to dig through the violet butterflies, the violent pain. His shoulders trembled terribly as he swallowed down the sharp taste of carnations burning him as much as the artificial insects left nothing of Suman behind.

Cercis siliquastrum

“Fraude A?” Tyki exclaimed, surprised, though he knew he shouldn’t be. He had known that the tristeza boy had been an Exorcist, these plagues liked to flaunt it after all, with their shiny expensive uniforms, and he’d known that they’d eventually clash on the battlefield.

He had just, foolishly perhaps, hoped that it would be a fair battle, one where the boy could give it his all despite his failing, scarred lungs.

Allen Walker.

How pitiful that his name was on Tyki’s list.

“Don’t worry,” Tyki told him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

His words weren’t even a lie, and Tyki knew he could very easily put the boy to rest without him feeling a thing, and yet, he couldn’t help explain his work, act it out, because he wanted to leave his mark on his victim, have Allen Walker grieve flowers for him.

So Tyki crushed his hand, his Innocence, destroyed it with Dark Matter, let the Tease bite into his heart, and left the boy in tears.

Taking his dying breaths, unable to spit any flowers for Tyki. With a grin, he reached deep into the boy’s lung, retrieving judas tree blooms and a silver button.

How sad.

Tyki had hoped for poppies.

Bellis perennis

Allen lay on the ground, his Innocence above him as mist as he struggled for breath. It had never been this bad before. He couldn’t remember a single time where his flowers had been coated in so much blood, he couldn’t tell which kind it was right from the bat.

“You can’t overdo it,” Fo told him, rolling back on her feet almost playfully if not for the severity of the situation. “Your Innocence isn’t healing you anymore.”

I know, Allen wanted to reply. I know, I know, and it is all my fault.

He only wanted to continue on, do as he always had, push through the pain, and fulfill his purpose. Why was it so difficult, why did he struggle so much? Did his Innocence think him a betrayer, nothing worth saving anymore?

Please, he begged into the quiet, his flowers for the first time since he’d started blooming posing a  threat to him. I just want to do my duty.

He grabbed his bloodied flowers with his one good hand and thought about springtime and Mana teaching him how to make daisy chains.

Tagetes lucida

Marigolds were comforting, almost. Allen could feel his throat put itself back together, healing as his body still decided to punish him. He wondered whether the other parasitic Exorcists had felt like this as well, torn between being weapon and host, beloved friend and tool.

He wondered what it might have been like for Maria to be the host of Innocence and spit flowers whenever she needed her throat to sing.

He wondered what her Innocence’s name had been once upon a time before it had become nothing more than Grave of Maria.

(Wondered whether his Master loved him enough to turn him into a doll to be used for battle as Allen would want.

Whether Cross Marian loved him too much to do so.)

“Tell me where my friends are,” Allen ordered and the Akuma complied, truth tasting like marigolds and poppies.

Rosa bracteata: Macartney rose – white rose, typically given to fathers

Flower list

Ornithogalum umbellatum: Star of Bethlehem – atonement for crime, reconciliation, guilt and fear

Calendula officinalis: marigold – pain and grief

Tagetes erecta: marigold

Mentha arvensis: mint – suspicion, lack of trust

Lathyrus odoratus: sweet pea – goodbye, departure

Gypsophila paniculate: baby’s breath – innocence, pure at heart

Papaver nudicaule: poppies

Roseanne giganteus carnivorus: Rosanne from canon

Glaucium flavum: poppies

Aquilegia atrata: purple columbine – driven to win

Dianthus caryophyllus: yellow carnation – disdain, disappointment, rejection

Cercis siliquastrum: judas tree – betrayal, unbelief

Bellis perennis: daisy – innocence, purity, new beginnings

Tagetes lucida: marigold

[ancientwastedlores]

Undone by “Darling”

REQUEST (from @november-solarstorms​): Celebrating another year of this earth being braced by Tom Hiddleston's presence! Lol. Might I make a prompt request? I feel as though it would be interesting to read from Loki's POV to explore the dynamics between him and a human female who is just as intelligent as he. She has a sharp wit and even sharper tongue. Her sarcastic and clever nature enable her to out-banter Tony Stark, the king of snark himself (may he rest in peace). But she is also just as flirtatious and salacious. She never blushes, never falters, and is incredibly clever. You can decide the nature of their encounter. Really im just in it for a good game of cat and mouse.

A/N: Okay, I had SO MUCH FUN writing this!! And yeah, this will run a bit longer than my usual fics lol. Also, there IS a Loki POV, just keep reading thaaanks <3

WARNINGS: none. 

WORD COUNT: 1,932

____________________________________________________________________

Undone by “Darling” 

17 hours and 6 white chocolate mochas later, it was finally ready - an upgraded version of Corvus Glaive’s glaive, this one spec-ed out to your fancies and requirements. It was a beast, and definitely not something Nick Fury would ever let you play around with, even if you made it. 

Satisfied with your work, you remove your safety goggles and grin at Stark, who is working on his own weapon he scavenged from the Black Order. 

‘I’m done!’ you say triumphantly, causing him to look up and groan.  ‘How did you finish before me!?’ he lowers his glasses and looks at your weapon.  ‘I’m smarter’ you say.   ‘I went to MIT’  ‘And I didn’t, yet here we are, both in the same lab’. 

He shakes his head, not unlike a petulant child, causing you to laugh. 

‘How far along are you?’ you ask.  ‘Still running diagnostics’.  ‘Still!?’  ‘Have you seen the size of his hammer?’ he gestures to Cull Obsidian’s chain hammer on his work table, but the innuendo doesn’t escape you and you grin at him. He facepalms. ‘Y/n, for god’s sake...’  ‘You’re just tired, or you’d appreciate the joke too’. 

You stretch your weary body and let out a deep breath. You’d test the weapon out tomorrow, but for now, you need a nap. 

‘Take a load off, Stark. Hammer’ll be there tomorrow’.  ‘Oh, you’d like that wouldn’t you...’ he puts his goggles back on and get to work. 

xx

Loki’s POV: 

Humans are surprising, but I always knew that. I never thought them boring, even if my brother says I do. Humans are of so little power but such incredible resilience that it’s frankly astonishing. I am inclined to believe that sometimes resilience is just stupidity... in most cases, I am right. But that’s not to say I haven’t come across some truly brave people. 

Take the Avengers Tower, for example. 

Just in here, you have Y/n, a brave soldier with the mind of an intergalactic scavenger, and I do mean that as a compliment. She’s awfully clever, she can build better than Stark, and has a track record of finishing every mission to perfection and before time. And then you have the Super Soldier Steve Rogers, a big muscled, big hearted idiot who often mistakes challenging our enemies for bravery and morality. 

The two couldn’t be more different, but they get along like siblings. Not siblings like Thor and I... better adjusted, perhaps. 

They sit in front of me, talking about some mission while they play Chess. Her moves are quick but calculated, his take more time because he’s more interested in telling his story than playing the game. 

‘...so there I am, no weapons, no shield, bang in the middle of the Serpent Citadel...’ 

He’s a good storyteller, I’ll give him that. But not as good as Y/n. She paints quite a picture, full of delicious gory details and horribly dark jokes. 

‘Steve, you have to pay attention, you’re losing’ she says.  ‘Yeah, I don’t actually know how to play chess, I just wanted you to listen to my story’. 

She looks up at him, almost offended. ‘STEVE...’  ‘Cool, I’m gonna go wrap Stark into a game of Battleships and tell him about my fight with Copperhead’. 

She laughs as he leaves the room, and she puts the chess pieces away. 

‘We could play?’ I ask her.  ‘Is the God in a mood to lose?’  ‘Over confidence isn’t attractive in anybody’. ‘Oh darling, neither is telling someone what is and isn’t attractive’. 

She’s never called me that before, and in the context it should seem cutting, but it isn’t. ‘Darling?’  ‘Problem?’  ‘It’s quite a term of endearment to set someone straight’. 

She says nothing. 

‘Cat got your tongue?’ I tease her. She only smiles and continues putting the pieces away neatly. Stark’s chess set is gold and black, all individually carved pieces. The pawns are all Iron Man suits, but that’s to be expected. She handles them with the care Stark would. 

‘I mean...’ I continue, ‘honestly, if someone heard, they’d never let you live it down’. 

And she carries on, unbothered. 

‘Y/n!’  ‘Oh dear, look at you come completely undone with just one term of endearment’ she comments, shutting the chess set. ‘Whatever would happen if I held your hand?’ 

The very thought of it seemed to drain my brain of blood. I unwillingly glanced at her hands, working the lock mechanism of the box, her blue veins prominent. 

‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asked. 

I stood up, the human emotion of embarrassment becoming too familiar for me. ‘I’ll have to see you at lunch’.  ‘Sure, darling’. 

Oh, I hate how she’s enjoying this. 

----------

The next day, Y/n booked a training room to test out the Glaive, and Stark had a rusty but working chain hammer. Steve insists on trying it out anyway, and now our breakfast is being spent on discouraging him from doing that. 

‘Guys... if nothing else, I’ll still have my shield. Let me test it out!’  ‘Y/n’s glaive cuts through Vibranium, you know that, right?’ Stark says.  ‘Y/n wouldn’t do that’. ‘Oh yes she would’ Y/n says nonchalantly as she sinks her teeth into a bacon and egg sandwich. 

As she does, the yolk runs down her fingers. She makes a sound at the inconvenience and sets the sandwich down, then grabs a napkin. I’m hardly ever crude, but the energy it took not to take her hand and lick off the yolk myself could burn every star in the galaxy. 

Captain America scrunches his nose at her remark, severely offended. 

‘In any case, that shield barely covers your giant body. It will force Stark to make you a new one’.  ‘What do you care about his giant body’ Stark says.  ‘It’s America’s ass, Tony’ she takes a sip of her iced coffee. Steve blushes, and Tony rolls his eyes. 

----------

The training facility is magic, of course, somewhere between a mirror dimension and Wanda’s reality powers creating a safe cocoon inside the building so no one can be harmed. Y/n hardly trusted anybody to fight with her except Thor, but given the nature of Corvus’ Glaive, she knew magic would be required. 

And so she called me. 

After getting into my battle armour, I stepped into the facility, equipped with my sceptre and the teachings of the witches of Asgard. 

She whistles as I walk in. ‘Trying to distract me from killing you?’  ‘Are you?’ I ask. She’s dressed in a black bodysuit, details of purple in her belt and weapon harnesses.  ‘Why yes, I am. Glad you noticed’. 

The glaive is on the floor, and she stomps her foot on one part of it so it swivels up and neatly places itself in her hand. She smiles. 

‘Try to keep up. I’m not just looking for eye candy in a training partner, darling’ she says, getting into battle stance. 

With nothing left to say for the second time this week, I aim the sceptre at her and the stone at the end glows. 

She charges and I shoot at her, but she spins the glaive and creates a shield which absorbs the energy. 

She continues to charge at me. I shoot again, and again the glaive takes the hit. Not a scratch on her. 

Once she comes closer, she simply places the flat end of the weapon against my chest, sending me hurtling back into a wall. 

She spins the glaive and laughs. 

‘Compliments of Wakanda. It absorbs any hits and charges up with kinetic energy’. 

I get up on my feet. This is far from over. I create multiple illusions to surround her, all of them brandishing knives, Chitauri tech, and sceptres. 

‘Damn, suddenly my whole evening has opened up’ she says, looking around.

Even my clones look around at each other puzzled. 

‘Come on then, who’s up?’ she spins the glaive around. ‘One at a time or all at once, baby’. 

They charge at her, and I expected her to fight them off at once... instead she plants the staff on the ground and ducks, and a semi-circle shell grows from the top of the staff, down to the floor... like a mini fortress, completely impenetrable. It could, no doubt, continue to take hits and build up kinetic energy, so I call off the clones. 

She gets up and retracts the shell. ‘Nanotech’ she grins at me. ‘The whole shell sits in a disk. It can withstand bombs and even a moon’.  ‘Is there any tech you haven’t adopted?’  ‘I’m an intergalactic scavenger, aren’t I?’ 

I stare at her, horrified. Can she read minds? 

‘Maybe I can. Or maybe I heard you tell Stark when he was complaining about me finishing my weapon first’. 

Silence. 

‘Also, darling, you’re awfully predictable in your fighting’. 

She picks up every trick and tech she sees, so beating her is less about weapons and more about cunning. 

No problem. Cunning is my specialty. 

‘Ready now?’ she asks.  ‘Mhm’. 

She takes a deep breath to ready herself, her eyes shutting slightly. Once they open back up, she stares in shock. 

In my Jotun form, I give her my most menacing smile.

She cocks her head to the side, studying my icy blue skin. 

The illusion I cast of myself approaches behind her, dagger in hand. Once it’s close enough and I can almost taste my victory, she raises the glaive and in one swift motion, sticks it into its abdomen. 

The illusion disappears into green light. 

‘Cute’ she remarks. She points the glaive at me. ‘What else you got for me?’  I shift back to my Asgardian form and sigh. ‘You win’. 

Y/n laughs and lowers her weapon. ‘Oh darling, I won the second you walked in wearing all that leather’. She winks at me, then walks out of the facility. I feel a blush creep to my face, much against my will. 

-------------

‘Maybe you should stick to your guns, Tony’ Y/n says, ‘Fancy suits is it for you, chain hammers may be overshooting it’.  ‘Is that what they taught you in the back alley you learnt ironmongery from?’  ‘Yes! Do you want their number, I’m sure they’ll have a spot on the waiting list for you’. 

Ah. Y/n’s relationship with Stark seemed more like mine with Thor. While they banter, Steve and Natasha tear up from laughing. I wouldn’t go so far as to call this domestic, but it certainly is comfortable. 

‘Come on, the glaive can’t be that good, right Loki?’ Stark asks. 

The company looks at me expectantly. ‘To say her weapon isn’t good enough means to insult your own tech, Stark. Everything about it is founded on your theories’. 

‘So technically, it’s my brain that made the glaive so cool’ he tells Y/n.  ‘Yeah, you could say that. The glaive comes from the same mind that manufactured Captain America’s dinner plate’. 

Steve doesn’t find that one funny, but Natasha does, sending her into peals of laughter. 

‘Oh whatever’ Tony huffs. ‘I’m going back to the lab’. 

He stands up and Y/n grabs his arm. ‘Aww Tony, I’m just kidding!’ she pats his hand, ‘Look, you’re a brilliant inventor, we all have our slow days’. 

He sighs and nods, and holds her hand. ‘Thanks... I guess I’m just not in my element, you know?’  ‘Yeah...’ she keeps patting his hand. 

And the feeling of domesticity creeps in. We really are all a family. Y/n smiles encouragingly at Tony, and Tony seems more relaxed. 

‘So, you want me to get you the number of that ironmongery, or...?’  ‘OH FOR...’ he snatches his arm away and storms out of the room, with Steve and Nat losing it all over again. 

___________________________________________________________

Ah this was so fun!!!!!!!! I hope you guys liked it <3 

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ASK BOX OPEN FOR FIC REQUESTS. Find GUIDELINES HERE.

[mulderist]

Wicked Game

Previous chapter || Read on A03 || tagging @today-in-fic

CHAPTER 8

Details were scattered but I remember Skinner ushered me away from the crime scene. I argued that it was my investigation, he said that there was nothing more I needed to do. I stumbled towards the elevator and saw Byers exit, holding his medical satchel. He placed a hand on my shoulder and I saw him mouth the words: you look terrible. The room felt like it was spinning in slow motion, like the sensation you get when you’re falling in a dream. Delirium had set in. Too bad my one vice was alcohol otherwise I’d swallow an upper to get myself back on course; my liver could hate me later. I rode the elevator down and managed to get out to the curb. I hailed a cab since I couldn’t remember if I drove myself. By the grace of God, and an honest cabbie, I made it home alive.

The sleeping pill did a mediocre job; I felt groggy and sore, hungover minus the whiskey. I rolled over and squinted at the alarm clock. About twelve hours had passed since I left two dead bodies in the precinct interrogation rooms. Afternoon sunlight radiated through my window and I knew I had to get the day started. I found a small bit of food in my pantry to calm my angry stomach and some water straight from the tap to rehydrate. My clothes should probably be tossed in the incinerator but then I would be down one dress shirt. I stripped and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. It sputtered at first but soon rushed against my chest. I scrubbed my hair and switched to the soap, finally feeling clean for the first time in two days. A layer of grime swirled down the drain. I stood firmly under the spray and let it beat mercilessly against my upper back and shoulders. Hands braced the shower wall and my eyes closed heavy.

Scalding water and steam tried to purify me. I stayed under until the temperature cooled. A deep exhale and I cut the tap, hearing the ancient pipes shudder. I pushed the curtain aside and grabbed the towel from the hook, drying off then wrapping it tightly around my waist. I wiped away the thin layer of fog on the small medicine cabinet mirror above the sink. My reflection was certainly worse for wear. Bruises were now that off-shade of yellow and dark circles carved unappealing lines under my eyes. The shaving foam canister and my straight razor looked lonely on the shelf. I walked into the bedroom and pulled open the dresser drawer to retrieve a pair of boxer shorts and an undershirt. I tossed the towel onto the bed and as I dressed the phone rang from the bedside table.

“This is Mulder,” I answered, reaching for the discarded towel.

“It’s Frohike,” he cleared his throat, “I was trying to reach you earlier but there was no answer.”

“Sorry about that. These sleeping pills pack a wallop.” My voice sounded ragged, like I had swallowed gravel.

“Remind me to get the brand name,” Frohike said. I maneuvered the phone and dried my hair,

“I hope you’re calling with some good news.”

“Good is a relative term, my friend. Byers and Langley did a fine job on Mr. Lodi’s autopsy and came to the conclusion that cyanide was the poison of choice.”

“A cyanide capsule? He did himself in?”

“The poison was definitely ingested but not from a broken capsule, we didn’t find any residue. He might have had something to eat or drink that was laced with it.”

I thought for a moment.

“The water cup. There was an empty cup on the floor in the room when I walked in.”

“There’s those fine detective skills.” Frohike jabbed.

“Sharp as a tack. Although I sure as hell didn’t suspect a mole in the precinct.”

“An inside job. The plot thickens.” His intrigue was so palpable I could taste it through the phone.

“This all has to tie back to Spender somehow,” I began, “Someone higher up was steamed that we were getting too close to solving this case and took out our suspects. There are more pens in the inkwell than I thought.” I picked up the phone and walked to sit on the bed, “Could you find any prints?”

“The doorknob had a myriad including yours and Captain Skinner’s but nothing we could go on. And the only prints on the paper cup belonged to Lodi. Our culprit must have used gloves.”

“He most likely added the poison while at the water cooler. Essentially slipped him a killer mickey,” I sighed heavily, “Did you get to work on Theo?”

“Getting ready to sharpen my scalpel, though I’m sure to find much of the same as we did on contestant number one. When I’m done I’ll send him and Lodi over to Washington General.”

“Alright. I’ll finish up here then hit the precinct.” I hung up and left the phone on the bed then returned to the bathroom sink. My hand hit the faucet right as a sharp loud knock hit my front door. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. I really wanted to ignore it but they were persistent. Instinct told me to grab my Browning from the bedside table. I checked the safety and cautiously approached the rapping at my door. To my surprise there was a petite figure in a white uniform on the other side of the peephole. I flipped the lock but kept the chain intact.

“What are you doing here?” I asked through the crack in the door.

“Something happened,” Scully said tentatively and leaned closer, “May we talk inside?” I looked down the hall and closed the door to undo the chain then gently ushered her in. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and quickly looked away as I placed my weapon on a nearby table.

“Scully, what happened?” I questioned, trying to think of what possible reason she had to come to my apartment. It felt different seeing her in her nurse’s uniform and not being a patient. The standard crisp white dress with sharp collar, matching nylons, and patent shoes were a polar opposite to the flattering outfit the last time we met. I then felt her eyes search me and I straightened up.

“Mulder, would you mind getting dressed first?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. I glanced down then nodded and went to the bedroom. Personally I never really bothered with modesty.

“You talk, I’ll listen,” I called as I found a pair of trousers. The sound of her heels soon echoed on the hardwood floor and she hovered near the doorway, careful but curious.

“A body came in last night that washed up near one of the marinas on the Washington Channel. The pathologist was short-handed and I was made conveniently available to assist on the autopsy.”

“Is that out of the ordinary?” I asked as I tucked in my shirt and zipped up.

“The body or the task I was given?” she playfully retorted.

I chuckled. This one is razor sharp.

“I only ask because I thought you worked in the emergency room.”

“My training is versatile,” she countered, inching a little more into my bedroom. “Sometimes I’m pulled in other directions if there’s a need. Also it’s a nice opportunity to learn.”

There was an underlying tone in her voice that she wanted to do more than her position allowed. I could picture her taking charge during the war; delegating to fellow nurses, keeping a cool head, spreading herself thin to help whenever and wherever she could. But fate can give with one hand and take with the other. After the men returned home, a lot of good women were forced out of those opportunities. My sister went through something similar after pulling swing shifts at a shipyard in Boston. So I suppose I’m a little biased.

“Anything strange about the stiff?” I asked, getting my train of thought back on the rails.

“From the license in his wallet we found he drove a cab. I’m surprised you didn’t get a call about it.”

“Honey, thanks to some Grade A sleeping pills I didn’t hear that phone ring until about an hour ago.”

Scully shook her head and continued,

“Well, this poor cabbie was stabbed repeatedly.”

“Could have been a robbery gone wrong,” I offered as I pulled on my socks and shoes, “Was there still cash in the wallet?” She considered the question.

“I can’t remember, I was taking notes on the condition of the body. There were about six deep stab wounds from a medium blade. Standard bloating and decomposition from blood loss and being in the water for a few hours. Certainly looked like a murder to me.”

“Do you mind if I shave?” I asked while pointing towards the bathroom. She raised an eyebrow at my strange interjection. Frankly I was trying to lighten the mood a little, keep her at ease while she recounted events.

“Go right ahead,” her head tilted slightly, “you certainly could use it.” Scully tacked that on as she coyly rubbed her upper arm.

I offered a smirk then turned on the faucet and lathered up. She was within eyeshot, watching and waiting to continue..

“Tell me what happened next.”

“The pathologist and I completed the autopsy and as I left the morgue I was confronted by someone. He asked my name but didn’t give me his. I waited for him to show me an ID or badge but he never did.”

Scully paused and I turned my head to see she had boldly entered the room and took a seat on my bed. I could tell from where I was standing her demeanor changed, her brow furrowed. My focus turned for a moment back to the mirror so as not to slice open my upper lip.

“Scully?” I prompted after a precision scrape.

“Yes...sorry. The man asked if I knew you.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked as I finished an area under my chin.

“I played dumb of course.”

“Smart girl.” I said to myself before splashing water on fresh skin.

“Apparently that was the wrong answer because he grabbed me by the arm and pushed me into the first open room.”

I stepped out of the bathroom, suddenly taking great interest in busting this assailant’s kneecaps when I found him.

“I was warned,” Scully continued, lacing her fingers together, “he said to stay away from you, Mulder. He said that if I was stupid enough to talk to you then he and his associates would come after me for what I know.”

“Describe him,” I said harshly as I moved closer, feeling the remaining drops of water prickle against my cheeks. She closed her eyes for a moment. Those baby blues blinked open and she stared through me, developing a picture of him on the wall.

“Fairly young, maybe late twenties. Brown hair I think...he was wearing a hat. Dark eyes, sharp nose, oddly perfect teeth. His smile was broad and gave the impression of being pleasant, though I could tell he was a sleaze.”

My hand went to the back of my neck to damper the bubbling rage. I couldn’t blow my stack yet. What the hell game is he playing? How much did he know? I ran my hand over my face, collecting moisture then drying my palm on my hip. I needed to get her somewhere safe until I got some more answers. Her gaze met mine and I touched her shoulder.

“Did you drive here or take a bus?”

“The bus. I came straight from the hospital, why?”

“I want to make sure you weren’t followed. We’re going to the precinct.”

“Mulder, no.”

“Scully, listen to me.” But she was already on her feet and heading out of the room.

“I don’t need protection.” She stiffened as I followed her.

“Then why did you come here? You could have easily flipped open a telephone book and given me a ring instead.”

“I was frightened,” her voice broke and she tried to hide it, “In a moment of fear you don’t make wholly rational decisions, but I knew I could trust you.

I stepped closer, moving through a cloud of uncertainty and tenderly cupped her cheek. Scully closed her eyes and softened against my touch. A pang of guilt resonated in my chest, her exhale hummed through closed lips.

“Let’s go.” I said softly.

She nodded and I collected my weapon, my grey fedora, and showed her out. Once in the hallway we walked towards the elevator.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I began before pressing the button, “You are going to take the stairs down and head out the back door, through the alley, and over to the next block. Then take a cab to the 3rd District precinct…”

“Mulder…”

“Look, I don’t care if they know where I live. I don’t want them to follow you home.”

Her lips parted as she tried to say something but I kept going,

“Once you arrive at the 3rd, ask for Melvin Frohike and wait with him until I get there. He might have his colleagues in the lab but don’t worry they’re harmless.”

“What are you going to do?” She asked with concern.

“I’m going down the elevator and straight out the front door, hoping to catch a glimpse of this guy.”

I felt her fingers brush against my hand. To my surprise she lifted her heels and quickly planted a soft kiss on my lips. I held the back of her head and returned the favor.

“Be careful,” she said as we separated.

“You too, angel.” I replied and adjusted my hat with a wink.

[clownistyping]

Alucard being scared to let you in because of what happened with Sumi and Taka, but slowly, your relationship culminates to you kissing him and him finally accepting that he has feelings for you and that it's okay to trust people?

This got way longer than expected whoops 🤭

Also minor blood and gore warning but really this is castlevania so. You should be used to it. Just saying

As you the skeleton's jostle from the stakes you can only sigh and remember the first meeting of you and Alucard. 

Blood seeped from your wounds as you limped through the forest, hobbling from tree to tree was painful but you pushed through. You had to find shelter before the night creatures find you again. Getting away was hard and you can't imagine you have much longer you have because now they have your taste and smell. 

The trees started to clear and the moon shined onto you, but was then blocked by the shadow of a giant 

A black castle towered over you, cracking and falling into itself you still headed towards it. 

Even as you saw the corpses on stakes with crows eating them, you still continued up the stained stairs and with a deep breath. You leaned against the giant door frame. 

Sliding down you felt your legs finally giving in, footsteps echoed towards you but you were still. Your breathing was slow, and you didn't even flinch when the boots stood in front you. A sword was drawn and words were being spoken but it didn't matter as you fainted right there. 

When you woke up again your body felt warm, clean even. Cracking open your eyes you were shocked to still be alive and even more shocked to be in a bed. Albeit it was covered in dust, and possibly blood, still a bed nonetheless. 

As you lifted your leg you were shocked to find that it was chained. That's right chained to the bedpost. 

The door opening made you shut your eyes tightly, you heard footsteps and objects shaking. 

"I know you're awake, you're heartbeat elevated." The voice said and you tightened your lips, opening your eyes again you were shocked to see a strikingly handsome young man. The young man was blonde, extremely tall and pale and was holding a tray of food. 

"Why am I-" 

"For my safety." The man said, setting the tray down on the bed he looked at the chains on your leg. 

"I cannot trust you."

"And yet you took me in?" 

The man stayed quiet, 

"I refuse to let a human die on my front yard, not by my hands."

"...what are you?" You asked, sitting up. You hissed in pain, 

"Doesn't matter." The man pulled the covers off of you. 

"I took care of those night creature wounds of yours, so once those are healed you will leave." The man started towards the door. 

"You will leave and tell others to never tread close to this castle, or else they will not be treated as kindly as you are." 

You didn't eat, too afraid that it was poisoned. However you did try to move from the bed, but you quickly learned that your wounds would not let you. 

By the first week's end, you ate the food you were given. Only after the unnamed man scolded you. You asked for his name but he gave no answer. 

You still don't know where you are. 

By two weeks your pain was lessening and the stranger gave you your freedom to roam the castle. Telling you where to never go and what to never do. 

You decided to not try anything, as you saw his sharp teeth. You know what he is. 

Still you don't know who he is. 

That same week, the man gave you his name. 

"Alucard." 

"Hmm?" You hummed, you were in the library. Reading up on recipes for that night. 

"My name is Alucard." He said again, standing from his chair he closed his book and left the library. Leaving you in a confused state of mind. However you were quite shocked to see a mural of the famous Dracula and his beloved family. 

When you asked Alucard of this he simply told you, 

"He's dead." 

By the first month, your wounds have full healed but for some reason. You stayed. 

That night he questioned you over dinner.

"I never asked you, but, why exactly did you come here? Were you not, Afraid?" He asked, setting his fork down. You blinked, 

"Afraid of the night creatures yes-" 

"No, of the castle. Of the rotting corpses on the front yard."

"I was too busy bleeding to really care." 

Alucard hummed, 

"Then why do you stay?" His hand naturally came closer to yours on the table, you did not notice. 

"I am afraid," 

"Of me?" 

You laughed "No." 

"Of what's out there. I saw it once, I wish to not see it again." Your eyes widened when his cold hand touched your warm one. 

Looking up at him your face was hot, 

"Then...then I will teach you..to defend yourself from what's out to harm you."

"Are you one of them?" You asked quietly, Alucard pulled his hand away. 

You never got that answer. 

Eventually you started to notice his un-routinely sleep schedule, many nights you would wake him from his slumber in the library. Or even the kitchen from the floor, his grip loose on the wine bottle. 

He would only nod at you and head to his chambers. Until one night as you awoke him from the library, he pulled you close to him. His grip was tight and you looked up at his sleeping face with a small smile. Decided that maybe one time would be okay. 

That event occurred often. 

"Do you fear me?" Alucard answered as he chopped the vegetables. You shook your head, 

"I only fear for your safety and health, Alucard." Your smile was small and gentle, it warmed Alucard. 

Alucard blinked and set the knife down, you aren't sure what he was thinking at that moment but when he grabbed your waist you still were not afraid. 

"Even if I were to bite your neck open, and end your life right here?" 

"Then I would've had a good life." You patted his chest and went back to the cooking. Alucard stepped back, unsure of this situation he continued the cutting. 

It was one night that Alucard came to you, drenched in sweat and his face filled with fear, you really feel fear, not for your safety but for his. 

Quickly he rushed over to you and you pulled him close. What made him so vulnerable that he came to you for safety? 

He slowly found his way into your arms, hiding his face in your neck. Your fingers twirled his hair as you hummed a small tune for comfort. 

No words were spoken, but you knew that as you held him close to you. As he listened to your beating heart, that even he felt safe for once. 

"Darling, come to bed, staring at that stuff can pnly give you nightmares." Alucard spoke to you and you turned to face the man you love. 

Coming to him you both pulled each other into gentle embraces. 

"I love you, Alucard." Alucard kissed the top of your head, 

"And I love you as well darling." 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

BTHB: Working Through the Cold

I’m not entirely happy with this, but some advice from everyone here has me thinking I will post it anyway! Let me know what you think! (and thanks to @slaintetowhump​, @moose-teeth​, @wildfaewhump​, @robins-whump​, Anons, @that-one-thespian​, and others who were so nice about me being a schmoop yesterday)

TIMELINE: About a year before things get better for Killan

@badthingshappenbingo​ request: Working Through the Cold by Anon

CW: Extremely dehumanized whumpee, noncon touching (nonsexual), wing whump, muzzling, conditioning/training a whumpee, careless/casual/distant whumper, a kind of pet whump, referenced piercings, restraints, display whump

From inside the little shop, located on a busy street close to the central square, passing people might have heard the sounds of chirping birds, chittering small rodents (a southern delicacy, you know, when fed just the right mixture of seeds, nuts, and berries), two long, lean spotted cats built for the hunt and the chase, and one very old dog whose bark was much worse than his bite.

At least, he was missing enough teeth by now to undermine the threat. 

A long-treasured travel companion, the old dog was fed rice cooked in a rich chicken stock with vegetables and chicken shredded so finely it didn’t require chewing. He’d had the dog for so long, now, and perhaps the old boy didn’t move much these days, but the merchant would rather rent a shop to help his dog keep warm over the harsh northern winters than be richer - and lonely without the old boy by his side.

The dog, of course, was not of much interest to his customers. No, they came to look at the rarities - to buy quill pens made from feathers saturated with a brilliant teal, or perhaps take home a pair of lovebirds cooing to each other, beaks just touching. An aristocrat or two with a taste for the meals in the far-off lands they’d traveled to might by the Sunning Hens for the soup pot, along with the packet of heady spices and tikla flour the merchant offered to recreate the spicy, thick stews from the south, where the people fought heat with heat. 

They could come and see, while the weather continued to cool day by day, these reminders that there were lands, far away, who did not grow cold enough to bring out the painted lights in the sky at night, there were places that did not see the Longest Night at all.

They could see these things, for an easy, small price. In the large bay window of the shop, that angles outward and then in again, the people often paused to see something else entirely. No a reminder of the south’s bright colors and warmer clime, but… something new.

The summer’s warm air had been blown away by the oncoming winter chill, and autumn was in full swing. The trees in the small park in the town square were a riot of reds, oranges, and yellows, drifting down to create pools of color against the browning grass. 

This far north, autumn felt like a luxury, a few weeks of middle-chill before the deeper freeze set in. 

The people made the most of the time, and some of those people - when out their walks, or taking their children to and fro - stopped to look at the creature in the rarity-merchant’s window. 

You couldn’t say anyone had ever seen anything like this before. In this part of the world, the fae were a whispered rumor of mountain folk more like birds than men, who swooped down to carry off lambs and calves and children alike. They were known to sour the milk and spoil the harvest using magic no human could quite master. 

Here in this bustling city, the people had never so much as seen a feather that could be proven to be of fae origin - although many large hawk and eagle feathers were sold to excited children as fae feathers, the same way they might bring home a plush centaur or unicorn to line up in their beds. 

No, nearly none of these people would ever see a fae in person, in their lifetime. But when looking at the creature strung up in the merchant’s window, they came as close as ever they would. 

The creature shivered - the window did not hold out the chilly autumn breeze, and even through the slightly scratched glass the people could see the tiny bumps that rose on its skin, the minute tremors, the way its body fought to warm it. 

It wore only a loose pair of pants - scandalous, if it had been a man. It looked a bit like one, of course, except… well. 

Except for all the ways it didn’t.

In the window, they came to stand, one or two at a time - whole families on occasion - to look at the strange half-open blue eyes with tiny slit-pupils that stared back at them above a heavy leather muzzle dotted with little brass circles where it took in air to keep breathing. Wavy brownish-blond hair was chopped roughly, curling over rounded ears and against the nape of its neck, and only drew attention to the inhumanity written in the flatness of its eyes. 

For all the roundness of its ears - and didn’t everyone know the faes’ ears were pointed and moved forward and back like a cat’s - and the gentle rather than pointed curve of its chin, you couldn’t ignore those eyes, or the blunted, pitch-dipped talons that twitched on its right hand. 

A thick chain ran from the buckle at the back of its muzzle, keeping its head pulled slightly back, exposing a wickedly curved scar that ran down its throat from pulse point to collarbone. Affixed to the window at even level with it was a small piece of paper that read TWO VOICES, TWO WORLDS: 10 Marks to Hear a Song! 

Iron cuffs around its wrists were chained to the wall, keeping its arms outstretched, giving an easy view of the other large scar down its left side, traveling down over its ribcage, fading out only just above the hips. Another sign here read FLIGHTS OF FANCY: Could this scar have to do with the power of flight? Come inside to see more!

It knelt - or sat, as the day went on and on - on a small cushion, and the people came each day to drop a coin or two in the box outside the shop and drink in their fill of the visual of the strange creature, neither man nor fae. Afforded the respect given to neither - not terrifying enough to fear like the fae, and so clearly not human.

The old dog by the fireplace was given more dignity than this.

But it wasn’t like the creature understood that, right?

Near its talons, one more sign in the window read: Razor-sharp talons slice a rabbit to shreds in seconds! These are dipped in pitch for your safety. Feel free to inquire inside for a closer look!

Mostly, they stay outside. It was worth a coin, or two, perhaps - to look at the winding, stitched-in threads that adorned its pelvis in a series of constellations that directly echoed the shape of the stars on clear winter nights all the way up to its chest, where a spiral had been sewn directly over its heart. 

Assuming, of course, it had a heart in the same place a human would. No one seemed to know, and there really was only one way to find out for sure. The merchant wasn’t ready to sell the thing off for parts, not yet.

Some of the people, curiosity and the chill air driving them inside, couldn’t resist the pull. They meandered into the little store feigning disinterest. They looked over the areas where the merchant sold the rarities he kept in cages - brightly plumed birds, the little rodents, those two great hunting cats - and pretended to be more interested in those. Maybe they even bought a bird or two.

In the end, though, they gave the merchant more money for a chance at the creature’s wings.

They were huge, to the eyes of humans who had never seen fae - spread to their full wingspan by chains hooked into the joints that ran straight up to the ceiling. The creature’s display took up an entire side of the room, really, the side farthest from the warmth of the fireplace.

The southern-bred birds and rodents needed the heat, after all. The creature in the window seemed largely dulled to the cold.

This close, a paying customer could see the creature’s ankles were chained down, too, to keep it from trying to stand or move away. The occasional man or woman might flick at one of the thin but solid chains hooked to its wings and listen to the creature’s answering whimper as it forced the joints, even for just a second, to stretch farther.

While the creature kept its eyes on the people outside, it was the ones within the store who touched it. Their curious, questing hands ran over its spine, pushing and prodding at the scar tissue there, murmuring with scandalized whispers about the way the ropey, knotted skin seemed unnaturally thick. 

There were more stitched threads, new constellations humans had never thought of and never named, that twined and twirled around its hips at the back and skimmed up the center of its spine. Galaxies were marked, and no one in this city knew what those galaxies might be called, but the fae knew.

And the creature - the boy, who had been named Killan once, and who now was only monster or creature or stop that, it’s not so bad - had been taught each and every name to scream into the spinning void as the magic was sewn in. Not that he told the merchant that.

Even now, abandoned and sold and then bought and sold and bought and sold again, there had to be some things he could hold inside, secret and safe from even the deepest violations. They had taken nearly everything, but they did not - they could not, they didn’t know to - take this.

Everyone thought the galaxies on his back were some fanciful nothingness sewn there. Only the boy - and the fae who had made him, and the other fae who had turned away from the horror of his appearance and had been the first to call him monster - knew the names of the stars on his back.

But the hands never stopped on the galaxies, and when they moved to his shoulder blades, the creature drifted uneasily back into the haze, colored with nothing, that let him exist as an it, day after day after day.

If there was still a spark, it was so hidden that none of the customers could ever, ever find it to take it away from him.

No. That he was still him was his own private secret. To the gaze and the hands and the curiosity and the endless need to know to see to feel to own of the people who came, there was no boy.

Only the creature.

It continued to shiver as the cold air drifted through the imperfect seals on the glass window and ghosted over its front. Even in the haze, the thing would tremble more and more through the day. Stomach hollow and empty, it held as still as it could under the overhot, clammy hands of the paying customers behind it, but still there was a slowly growing coating of grime and dirt and grit from their fingernails scratching at a thread to see if it would pull up, or rubbing at the base of its wings in a violation so complete it pulled an unwilling keen from the creature’s throat.

Every other day or so, the creature at least knew there would be a bucket of water over its head in the stables, a harsh brush meant for cleaning the dust from the horses, its own skin nearly torn open and reddened from how it would clench the wood handle in its hand and desperately try to clean away the memory of their touch…

Well.

The buckets of water were something, at least. And if it could not be interesting enough to be sold, it could be interesting enough to see. 

The merchant was a clever man. He’d begun to understand that no one wanted to pay a good price for the creature, not here, but they wanted to pay a smaller price to see it. Give the people what they want, he always said, and you’ll make your fortune. 

So he gave them what they wanted.

He gave them something new, at an affordable price.

The days passed, and autumn turned to winter, and still the merchant led the quiet, unprotesting creature with dulled blue eyes from the stable where it slept with the horses to the window every day, fastening its chains, stretching its wings to an agonizing width.

At some point, to amuse himself, he began to make up little whistles to train it to respond to. A certain number of notes meant stand, a second meant lift your hands, a third spread your wings. The winters were long, and the nights stretched on and on to a nearly-constant twilit near-dark, and he began to keep the creature in his rooms at the back of his store for longer and longer each evening after its daily meal. 

The creature proved eager and willing to learn, when offered an extra helping of porridge or stew or whatever he fed it that day. 

Enrichment, the merchant thought, quite pleased with himself. Like the small wooden clickers he left in the bird cages, like the tiny wheel he’d fastened together for the smallest rodents. Something to do, to put in the creature’s mind. A way to please him.

Even the old guard dog’s tail thumped, now and then, when he brought the creature in and it stopped to give the dog a scritch behind its ears. 

Funny, how the creature seemed to have quite the way with the animals.

Still, even learning to move by whistle, to answer his unspoken commands, something was… missing, from the eyes of the monster. Listless, unsettled. The monster began to remind the merchant of silt - a swirl of useless dirt covering up the depth of a lake, or  river. Making it look shallow and unsafe to drink, and beneath the silt, in the depths… what?

Empty darkness? Or a raging torrent?

 To make up for the loss of shine and the heavy shadows under the creature’s eyes, he began to paint a bit of kohl and shimmery gold, not quite transparent, over its eyelids. 

He couldn’t completely hide the way its spirit had dulled nearly to dying, but he could disguise it.

The winter passed this way. There were always new customers, and returning visitors, and one by one the birds, the rodents, and the hunting cats sold to interested parties.

Until only a few cages of birds remained… and the creature in the window.

In the winter, the shivers started faster, but the warm hands of the paying customers inside the store were far more welcomed than they had once been. 

The creature stopped pulling away from them, or trying, and began to lean back, pressing its spine into a questing touch, tilting its head back even further to seek out the palm and fingers that had run so kindly through its hair. It would trill and chirp on command for the children who came by, and there was a slight wrinkling of the nose, a hint of a crinkle to the eyes, that made the merchant think absently, on occasion, that the creature might be smiling behind the muzzle at their delight.

From the window came a bitter cold. The merchant rarely ventured to that part of the store, and kept his own fireplace stocked high and crackling, to keep the remaining merchandise and the dog as warm as he could. 

The creature, though… well, fae did not get cold so easily as people did. Its shivering was a show it put on, he thought, to try and make him feel guilt. He was unmoved. He ignored the whines and keens of pain when he finally unhooked it at the end of each day and its wings were finally able to curl back against its back. Instead, he whistled, and watched it drop to its knees on the wooden floor instantly in the back room, eyes closed to soak up the relative warmth compared to its usual proximity to the window. 

After its daily meal, the merchant watched it curl up near the fireplace by the old guard dog, wings tightly wrapped around itself. He had grown a little fond of the thing, and so often allowed it to go without its muzzle for a couple of hours and warm itself before he led it to the stables to be chained down to sleep.

Usually, when he came in the morning to feed the horses and pick it up to lead it to the store window, he found it sleeping curled against one of his horses. And he never stopped feeling the prickling worry that the look in the liquid eyes of his long-time wagon team was not knickering interest any longer, but a simmering hate that grew each time the creature required its pitch to be replaced over the talons, or they saw the muzzle remove and replaced.

Surely that wasn’t possible.

Horses didn’t hate.

The merchant put the thought from his mind.

Through the winter, each day was the same in the little store the merchant rented. Wake the creature at the stable, allow it to stretch and bend its muscles in preparation, allow it to drink its fill of water, and then get it set for the daily display. Each day the winter stretched onward, the creature seemed less present than the day before.

Instead, the creature began to watch the twisting northern lights in the sky that stayed vibrantly visible late in the morning as the days without sun continued on. Instead, the merchant found its eyes were tilted upward, not on the customers, but up at the grayish-purple eternal twilight.

One night, the merchant paused on his way leading the creature to the stables, and caught its eyes turned upwards. He’d left the muzzle off, for a bit, and with so much of its face visible, he saw a very sentient look of awe written across its expression.

Intelligence was in that face, however dulled and deeply repressed. Humanity was in that face. 

“What are you doing, creature?” The merchant asked, to cover his own unease.

It turned to look at him, and for a moment darkness covered the inhuman eyes and concealed its tightly curved wings against its back and he was looking at a young man, nothing more. A young man in chains, and with the red marks of the muzzle pressed so deeply against the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones that starlight left them in plain sight for hours.

The creature had not spoken in so long that its voice came out hoarsely hesitant, struggling to form the words. The monster had a soft, slight accent, as though it had grown up far to the south.

“Listening,” It said. One word only, and even that was reluctant.

The muzzle in the merchant’s hand twitched, suddenly wondering if he should replace it before he let the thing say a single word more. Still, he couldn’t stop himself. “Listening to what?”

The creature, who looked like nothing more than a boy, turned its gaze back upwards. Above their heads, a brilliantly painted blue and green light snakes along the sky like a snake, the trace of some great dragon. 

The boy was silent, for a second, and then clicked deep in his secondary fae throat.

“Stars,” He said, plaintive. Soft and sad. “Wish they could hear me. I hear them. Try to sing back. Don’t think I’m heard.” Reddish tears welled at the corners of its eyes and caught the starlight, and it was that that broke the spell the merchant had been under, transfixed by the sound of its very human voice.

All at once, he remembered.

Fae magic.

The merchant’s jaw set in a shiver of repulsion, and he yanked on the chain that went to the ring around the boy’s - the creature’s - neck. It stumbled forward, and he replaced the muzzle, fastening the buckles with a touch more cruelty than necessary, until the thing whined at the pain. 

The animal sound the creature made soothed the uncertainty that had so briefly flashed inside the merchant’s mind.

It bedded down obediently enough with the horses in the stables. In the morning, it was back in the window, on display for the stragglers who might come by in the crowd.

The merchant did not ask it questions again.

---

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

[mattzerella-sticks]

Acutely (coda to 15x13 ‘Destiny’s Child’, Dean/Cas, 2.5k)

ao3 link

Jack said he's sorry, after getting his soul back.

Jack said he's sorry, and he's looking at Dean. They're all looking at Dean.

Jack said he's sorry, and Dean can't take it. It's too much. Like a frog thrown into a boiling pot he hops out, jumping out from the room towards safety. Doing his best not to succumb to the pain.

He can't hide forever, let the wounds fester. It's too much to deal with on his own, though. Can someone help him through it?

           It’s no secret, where he hides. Where he ran away to after Jack broke down in an apology. Overwhelmed by the sorrow in the younger boy’s voice; his remorse for actions Dean hadn’t mentioned in so long. Dean barely made it before his knees buckled, collapsing on his bed instead of the floor. Face pressed against the pillow Dean counted his breaths while ignoring the heavy lump sitting in his throat.

           He loses track after seventy-five, mumbling ‘one… two… three… four… five…’ over and over until he felt like his feet were farther from the edge than they had been. As he lifts his head, Dean takes stock of himself. Grimaces at how sweat dampens both his shirts, dark fabric clinging annoyingly underneath oppressive denim. And as the knot unwound in his stomach, Dean realizes he hadn’t eaten yet. Hunger gnaws at his awareness, begging for attention. Thinking about food, though, guides his paths towards the kitchen and – ultimately – Jack, again.

           There’s not much of an appetite left after that.

           Instead he blindly throws off his outer layer, then his undershirt. Bends, clawing at his laces and when they unravel, he yanks them and his socks off, too. Discards his jeans by flinging them into some far corner. Red boxer-briefs are all that remain, for the moment. In the next second Dean reaches for a set of pajamas. Picks the set at the top of the pile. Cowboys riding bucking broncos on the pants while lasso script spells out ‘Save a Horse’ on the shirt. As he pulls it overhead, he hears something shift nearby. Turning, Dean finds Cas watching him from the hallway.

           “Crap,” he hisses, tugging the shirt down. Cheeks burning under Cas’s intense gaze, “Ever hear of knocking?” Instincts say he should cover himself, but midway through wrapping arms around his midsection Dean realizes what a ridiculous notion that is. Actions aborted Dean’s fingers twitch before they retake his shirt’s hem. Twisting it as the awkward silence continues. “Cas?”

           This breaks Cas from whatever trance he fell under. Cas steps into his room, “Sorry, Dean, you left your door open.”

           “Right…” If his hands weren’t busy strangling fabric one would be rubbing a hole into the back of his neck. “I – uh, must’ve forgotten.” Dean finally fights back the static drowning his mind, releasing his shirt hem. “What uh… what’re you doing here?”

           “I came to check on you.”

           Sweet, but totally despicable. Cas’s earnest tone easily overpowers his crumbling defenses, making the flush across his skin deepen. Lips pursed, Dean dips his eyes so he won’t fall prey to the deadliest of his angel’s weapons. Angel blades have nothing on those baby blues. “Thanks,” he coughs, shrugging, “but I wasn’t the one having a full breakdown five feet from the cookie cereal…” He sits down once more, at the foot of his bed, squeezing his knees. “How is Jack, by the way?”

           “He’s calmed, somewhat,” Cas tells him, slowly pacing Dean’s room. Picks up Dean’s stray button-down, loosely folding it while he talks. “Sam had a brilliant idea of taking him for a drive.”

           “A drive? Is that allowed?”

           “Well, Billie didn’t appear and tell us no….” He sets the shirt on Dean’s dresser, claiming the nearby chair for his own. “They left awhile ago. Not sure when they’ll be back.”

           “Awhile, huh?” Dean snorts, arching a stern brow. “And you’re only visiting me now?”

           Cas stiffens, “Yes. You see – um…” Stuttering, Cas stalls for time as he thinks up an answer.

           Tension leaks out of Dean’s shoulders watching him, seeing his angel go through human motions. Dragging a hand through his hair and pulling at his tie, both alight a familiar warmth in his heart. He snuffs that flame a second later, knowing how dangerous it would be if he let it keep. “Kidding,” Dean sighs, smiling, “I’m glad you waited. Probably wouldn’t have been this… chatty?”

           “Of course…” Cas says, nodding, “I figured you’d need some time alone… to – to sort through things.”

           He’s being generous. Dean used all his strength to not remember the pain stricken across Jack’s face. The wound is still so fresh, Jack ripping off the scabs with a frenzy caused by his soul’s return. Mary’s death hurting like it happened yesterday. “Maybe you should’ve given me five or ten more minutes, then,” he chuckles, tapping at his temple, “still a mess up here.”

           “Hmm…”

           “Hmm what?”

           “Oh, nothing –“

           “Bullshit, Cas,” Dean leans forward, a more devilish expression on his face, “C’mon. Tell me what’s going on in your mind.”

           “Nothing you probably don’t already know,” Cas says, “I’m… trying to wrap my head around this whole day. Jack getting his soul back… it’s remarkable. But also, troubling. How could that even be possible and – and will it last?”

           “Don’t think about it too much, man,” he says, “what happened with Jack it’s… it’s a gift. Probably one of the few we’ve ever gotten that’s come with no strings attached. A win.”

           “Have we ever gotten a win like that?”

           It’d be so simple. Unfortunately, Dean chomps off the head of his one-word confession. Swallows the three-letters alongside all his other feelings. By the time the corpse of it decomposes in his stomach, Dean realizes it’s been too long since he last spoke. Cas waiting, staring at him. An awkward chuckle bubbles forth, his breath reeking of ashen sincerity. “Bout time we got one, then, don’t you think?”

           He concedes, mouth thinning in a cunning smile. “I suppose we are… but enough about what I think.” Dean’s lips pinch tight. “I think we’ve delayed the inevitable conversation. Don’t you?”

           “No,” he says, “we can delay it some more. Like… what was up with those bootleg versions of us?” Dean scoffs, “I bet that other me doesn’t even know what pie tastes like… too busy cramming caviar down his throat.”

           “You might enjoy caviar. I hear it’s very popular?”

           “Caviar’s only popular because it’s expensive,” Dean tells him, “and all those rich dudes spent too much money on it to hate it, so they lie and convince others it’s good and it’s an awful, self-servicing cycle.”

           “I didn’t know you had such strong opinions on caviar?”

           “I’ve got strong opinions on just about everything…” Dean makes the mistake of glancing up, catching sight of Cas’s judgmental bend of his brow. “But you don’t wanna hear any of those…”

           “Not right now, no…” Cas stands, drifting towards his door. “I guess you were right, you do need more time by yourself. Perhaps in the morning –“

           “Shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” he says, rising, grabbing his elbow. The touch sears even through the jackets and shirt; Dean’s grasp on it firms, savoring it. “Y’know how… how tough this has got to be for me, right?” His throat cracks on the last word, eyes glistening. He feels the tears brimming behind them, pooling, waiting for release.

           Cas sighs, dropping any pretense of exiting. “I do,” he says, hand hovering over Dean’s briefly. Considering if he should. A short argument, as it gently embraces his hand; the one chaining Cas to him. “That’s why I want you to speak. Free yourself of the burden… let me help carry it with you.”

           “You don’t have to, Cas,” Dean says, “You’ve got your own things, worries t’deal with –“

           “That won’t stop me.”

           Stubborn. A double-edged sword that makes up the arsenal of Cas’s traits, all weapons Dean would gladly throw himself on.

           Cas quiets, then, waiting for Dean and his response. Words were unneeded. Dean can decipher all he thinks by looking into his angel’s eyes. Captivating, whether in the harsh fluorescents of his bedroom or the soft moonlight of an abandoned church. They always make his head dizzy, thoughts unspooling like Dean drank half a bottle of whiskey or smoked three joints. The more he stays the course, the worse it gets. He nearly forgot hellhounds were baring down on them, Sam their last defense against the creatures, because Cas’s eyes hold a magic that quells any fear or worry gnawing at Dean’s senses.

           “Dean?”

           “It hurt being around him,” Dean whispers his admittance, inching closer. Chests almost pressed together. Noses dangerously close. His toes practically climbing atop Cas’s dress shoe. “I hate that that’s true but… it is. Because as glad as I was to see the kid still kicking it… I’m just reminded of her.” Cas’s thumb rubs a comforting circle into his knuckles, Dean dropping his gaze there. “Reminded of what he did. How he just didn’t… didn’t get it, y’know. Couldn’t tell that it was bad. He – there was still this… this disconnect. And after he came back I could tell he’d look at me and try to find the words t’apologize but they were never there. And without them, we’d never move past it. He’d still be hurting, and so would I… Which sucks because – because I know you think of him as your son, but y’know… I think of him as mine, too –“

           “I like to think of him as ours, Dean.”

           “Yes, well…” he clears his throat, tongue wetting his lips as he recovers. Dean chooses tactical evasion, ignoring Cas’s comment and moving on. “He’s like… my second chance. He is a second chance. A second coming, really – sorta like Jesus –“ He pauses, gaze darting towards Cas’s face. “That doesn’t matter. I just… I wanted to make things right with Jack, but he didn’t know how – and I sure didn’t know how. So we were circling each other, doing nothing. I could feel things festering. The happiness that came after Jack’s return began fading; instead of relief there’d be dread whenever he walked into a room. Got it into my head that things’d never get any better, and there was no way of fixing this rift between us.”

           “But with his soul, he finally understands,” Cas says, “he’s apologized. That’s what you wanted?”

           “It is. I… yeah,” Dean shudders, neck suddenly weak. It bends, Dean’s chin saved from touching his neck by Cas’s forehead supporting his. There noses are beside one another, lips a breath apart. “I know it’s for the best but… seeing him cry, all I wanted to do was hug him. Let him know it’d be all right. Except I ran I… I couldn’t say anything. He was hurting and that – that made me hurt even worse. And then I felt glad he could feel hurt… it sorta spiraled from there.”

           Cas hums, Dean’s mouth vibrating with the note. “You were overwhelmed,” Cas says, “there’s no reason for you to be ashamed.”

           “Yes, there is.” Dean scowls, “I’m middle-aged, can gank a monster twice my size without blinking, but the second a situation gets too touchy-feely I stomp on the gas and speed through all the red lights.” While Dean talked about Jack, a highlight reel of all his shortcomings playing on a giant screen in his mind. Times where Dean’s emotions short-circuited. Fried his circuits, caused him more pain than necessary. Many of those scenes feature a recurring character, shaped like a man in a trench coat. It flickers out, leaving Dean with a blank slate. That fades, too, and Cas’s face is there.

           “It’s not fear, Dean. Not at all,” he says. Protest swells, but with a sharp look from Cas it wanes. “Trust me, as someone who knows you… knows your soul, you – you are not afraid of feelings. Not at all.” He smiles, Dean leaning back for the full effect. Blessed by heavenly light. “On the contrary,” Cas continues, “You embrace your emotions. Unfortunately… sometimes you feel too much and that – that can be particularly difficult to manage. I remember when I was human, sometimes the smallest of ripples in my heart caused me great pains. Something modest like being cold or hungry… or in pain, were too much for me to express. Your capacity for feelings, your intelligence and understanding it’s… fantastic. But there are limits. We all have them. You feel too much sometimes that you cannot express yourself or even deal with them.”

           Dean’s tears prick at the corners of his eyes, dangling. Still unshed. “It does feel like that,” he says, “Sometimes it’s… like there’s a highway, and it’s rush hour. Traffic on – on all sides. No one’s moving, and I’m behind the wheel and I want to go but I can’t and I… I get so angry that I can’t.” He lets go of Cas, slipping from his loose grip. “S’what I’m feeling right now.”

           Cas accepts Dean’s need for distance, hands retreating into his pockets. “And what I’m here, to tell you, is this. You might be behind the wheel, but you’re hardly alone in that car. Sam’s there. Jack’s there. And I am most certainly there.”

           Dean nods, wiping a hand down his face. “Thank you, Cas. I… needed this.”

           “I’m glad to be of service, then.” Cas’s tone fell, a discordant pluck of the harp that triggered Dean’s worry. Before he could ask about it, his angel floats away. “I should let you get your rest. Today was exhausting…”

           Halfway out the door, Dean stops him. “Cas, wait!”

           “Yes?”

           Standing there, framed by his doorway, waiting for Dean to continue with shining eyes, Dean thinks his angel never looked more gorgeous. And he wants to tell him. Despite how the words stick in his throat, the sweat dripping from his forehead, and how his feelings might be received, he wants to tell him. He wants to tell him everything. Finally.

            That flame from earlier, snuffed out, relights. Burns hotter than Baby’s engine gunning down the highway. Ballooning, spreading through his veins and disorienting him. The room spins, his vision blurs, but Cas stays clear and firm. It’s right there, on the tip of his tongue –

           “Yes, Dean?”

           He’s cold. Doused by an untimely thought that quells any of his passionate desires, leaving him charred, ashen, and helpless.

           Dean notices the frown lines around his mouth. The way his eyes drooped in a way they’ve never done. Shadows stretch across his body, slithering, hiding most of his expression from Dean. But he senses a tiredness there that, on Cas, seems foreign.

           The moment passes. It wouldn’t feel right, anyway.

           “Just…” his face hurts from the tight grin he forces, “I go both ways.” Blushing, he amends his statement. “I mean, I don’t have to give you all my baggage – I can… I can also help you carry some of yours, if you’d like?”

           Cas tilts his head, light revealing a gentle smile. “I’d like that. Night, Dean.”

           “Night Cas…”

           A closing door never felt more ominous.

           Dean stares at it, chewing on his lip. Chest aching, heart beating against it with the force of a storm wreaking havoc. He walks towards the switch, flipping it off. Bathing the room in shadows. Making it easier. “Cas,” he says aloud, looking ahead into the endless darkness. “I love you. After this is all over, and we don’t have any more fights heading our way… I’d like for you to stay. With me. And we can have the life we both deserve. I just… I want you to know what I’m fighting for. It’s not the world. It’s you. It’s us.”

           He slips under the covers. Talking to empty air didn’t make the feelings disappear, or easier in dealing with. But it’s a start.

           Maybe he’ll do better in the morning.

[traincat]

traincat! thoughts on a spideytorch trek au? thanks!

Oh I have a lot of thoughts about this actually! I was working on one a while ago where it was supposed to be part of a bigger series but now I think I’d kind of like to go back in, rip up the foundations a little, and make it its own oneshot. (It involves Johnny and Peter meeting each other for the first time since Starfleet Academy -- where Johnny flunked out -- and crash landing on an alien planet where Johnny gets worshiped as a sun god.) 

So I do think there’s a bunch of directions you could go with Peter in a Trek AU -- I was briefly toying with the idea of him as a Romulan, because Secrets -- but my top pick is as a genetically engineered human. Trek’s genetically engineered humans have the right power set: enhanced speed, strength, and smarts! It gives Peter a reason to keep his abilities hidden! His parents being involved in Section 31 is a no-brainer, given their canonical background as spies! It’s half a ripoff of DS9′s Bashir, but hey, it’s fanfic. I go back and forth on whether he should be involved in Starfleet. On the one hand, I do think he’d be good at it and it’s kind of a given, in a Trek AU, that your main characters are in Starfleet. On the other hand, he’s kind of terrible at cooperation. I think at the end of the day my idea is to have him as a ship’s Science Officer but like, do I think he stays there? Probably not in the long term. (The AU equivalent of when he ditched that really good lab job in Portland!) Whereas originally I was thinking of building the ship out of other hero characters Peter’s worked with, now I think I might go with the Bugle staff -- Captain Jameson, First Officer Robertson, Chief Medical Officer Kate Cushing, Glory Grant as Communications Officer, etc. There’s definitely enough Bugle employees to build a full staff out of, down to Ensign Billy Waters. (Very likely to get killed on an away mission. Sorry, Billy.) Alternatively I could make Norman Osborn the captain and have things go very, very badly. That could be fun too. 

With Johnny, I’ve had my heart set on his being half-Betazoid since I first thought of a Trek AU. Which is like, with most AUs I usually pretty immediately know what I want to do with Johnny, and especially here because I don’t know if I’ve talked about this very much on tumblr but if I could give Johnny one additional power/a different power, it would definitely be empathy. Feelings powers! For a boy who has a lot of them. Is it an excuse to throw around “imzadi” in a fic? Yes, 100%, but it’s an excuse I stand by. I love a made up alien term of endearment. I think it’s pretty easy to duplicate the Fantastic Four’s origin here, with Reed stealing a space ship for an experimental flight he couldn’t getting funding/approval for from Starfleet instead of from the US government, and then wham, horrific accident resulting in strange powers. Which like, obviously I wouldn’t have to stick to in a Trek AU, but I think if it’s right there for the taking, you might as well, and I like the idea of the Four on the fringes of Starfleet but very much their own thing, much like in original canon. Also Johnny Storm, Starfleet Academy dropout, is important to me. 

I did manage to dig up my old WIP doc for the Trek AU, so here’s a snip of something that would probably be very heavily rewritten if I went back to it:

The two moons in the sky were bright crescents and the breeze through the window was soft and sweet. Johnny Storm was stretched out next to him laughing like there was no place in the galaxy he'd rather be. It was enough to make Peter lose all sense, and that was why he leaned over and pressed his lips to Johnny's.

Johnny tasted like wine and alien fruit, and he was warm, warmer than anyone else Peter had ever kissed. The heat of him surprised Peter - he pulled back, but Johnny surged forward.

"Don't you dare," Johnny growled, practically climbing into Peter's lap. He caught Peter's face between his hands and kissed him again, head tilted, the angle just right. Peter's hands flew to his waist to anchor him before they tipped over.

"Johnny," he said, lips sliding across Johnny's mouth, down to his jaw. "I didn't think -"

"Can you shut up for once?" Johnny pulled back enough to demand. His dark eyes sparked, his lips were bruised. He looked imperious and royal, the sun god everyone on this whole backwater planet believed him to be. "Thinking is the whole problem, Pete!"

"I'm sorry some of us can't just turn our brains off!" Peter snapped back, shoving Johnny backwards. His eyes went wide when his back met the wall, and he fisted his hands in Peter's shirt to pull him back against him. Their mouths clashed again, open and messy, the kissing equivalent of every stupid argument back at Starfleet Academy. Peter's blood burned in a whole new way.

"Try it, genius," Johnny said. "Just once. For me."

Johnny's flimsy shirt hung off one shoulder. Peter traced the line of it against his flushed skin, the way the delicate fabric clung to his body, highlighting Johnny's lean waist, his flat stomach.

He grabbed a handful of filmy fabric and tore it off.

Johnny inhaled sharply, and then he started to laugh. He pulled Peter in with one hand fisted in the hair at the back of his head, pressing his smiling mouth to Peter's. "See? I knew you could do it."

"It's just because your stupid's contagious," Peter said. He ripped the fragile golden chains from Johnny next and Johnny laughed, head thrown back, all golden insolence. "You're some kind of intelligence sinkhole. Is that a Betazoid thing?"

That was all he got the chance to do before Johnny shoved him back down onto the bed.

"Insulting my heritage!" he mumbled against Peter's mouth, clever fingers plucking at the hidden clasps of Peter's uniform. "Very sexy.”

(...)

Johnny's hand closed around the back of his neck, thumb stroking the hair at his nape. "I wanted this, at the academy."

It was a soft confession, and maybe that was what startled Peter into admitting, "Me too. I thought about you. All the time. Couldn't get you out of my head."

"I know." Johnny's fingers curled in his hair, tugging Peter's head down so he could kiss him. "I could feel it. I mean," his grin turned flippant, "everyone wanted me. But I always felt you separate from everyone else."

"Is that supposed to make me feel special?" Peter asked, nipping at Johnny's lower lip. "Your ego is so huge I'll have them name a star after it."

"That's sweet. I want two," Johnny said, but the look on his face was soft. He knocked his forehead playfully against Peter's and said, "Do you remember that time at that club? God, what was it called - Orbit. That was it."

It was easy to conjure up the memory in his usual crystal clarity. The flashing lights, the chrome of the bar top, the very annoyed Benezian bartender. Johnny, drunk and absolutely infuriating. Peter, not drunk, but no less annoying for it.

"Oh wow," he said, remembering how hoarse his voice had been. His throat felt scratchy in sympathetic memory. "We screamed at each other for like an hour."

It had been exactly an hour and twelve minutes, plus a spare handful of seconds, but who besides Peter was counting.

"We got kicked out," Johnny snickered, tugging his fingers through Peter's hair until it stood on end.

"You filled my room with Bajoran oatmeal and gagh the next day," Peter said, nose wrinkling. One of the downsides of his brain: he could still remember the smell. "Two feet of it."

"The things I did to that replicator," Johnny said dreamily.

"I tried to figure it out," Peter confessed. His eyelids felt heavy; he let them fall, rolling over so his chest was pressed to Johnny's back and their knees fit together like puzzle pieces. "I could never work out what you did to bypass the safety. I was going to rig a tub of Cardassian fish juice to fall on your head."

"I have the touch," Johnny said. "You're not going back to your room?"

Peter stilled. "I can go -"

"No," Johnny said, fumbling for Peter’s arm. He draped it over his waist. "No. Stay."

[amandlas]

almost gone (in these little moments get your cards out)

tfota | jude x cardan, she doesn’t come back au, no smut, hurtful and punishable tbh (ao3)

entry to jurdan week 2020 by @jurdannet - day 7: wild card! a what-if au had jude tried to make a new life in maine (don’t worry, cardan shows up). heaps of angst. little payout. sorry in advance. trigger warnings: violence, guns, shooting, and death mention.

[canon divergence from twk ending. title from “lay your cards out” by poliça]

*

gone. she’s gone. avulsed from her land, never hers, and her lover, never loved. the mortal world welcomes her with wide arms, arms that are shorter than she remembers, a little less homely, much less magical. after all, how can the ordinariness of television, powder tea, and surround sound compare to the true magic of faerieland?

vivi says it will be well. of course she does. why wouldn’t she, with her strong blood and pointed ears.

jude stares and stares at the tv. at the window. at the door. she’s not so stupid as to believe it will allay her want, but like programming, she follows the routine nonetheless.

*

two months. oak is recalcitrant to her teachings. vivi is buoyant in her obliviousness. they do not see her. she cannot see herself. the closest thing she has to a mirror is miles away, attending a new husband and parading with stars dangling from rounded ears. if taryn were to come, jude thinks she wouldn’t recognize either of them.

*

she is ashamed to watch her pillowcase blotted with tear stains at nightfall.

it’s more embarrassing than waking up the first time to menstrual blood staining her sheets, two stories up in madoc’s estate, knowing not what it meant or what to do.

jude duarte avoids as superfluous emotions as sadness or hopelessness. being a mortal in faerie, those sentiments would wash her out of focus, riddle her with doubt, and with a certainty would so far as kill her.

but, she thinks, i am not in faerie anymore. i am no longer in a place where blood is a better find than tears. where eyes are dry and swords are sated by throats and bellies.

perhaps in her native world it is safer. that’s what jude wanted this whole time, was it not? safety. if she were meant to feel relief, she should feel it now.

survival feels wet against her cheek.

*

he keeps slugging his damn arms. jude tugs oak roughly to her, fixing his stance, and urges him to strike.

“will i still be king someday?”

as per usual, he tries deflection to talk out of a combat lesson. jude is unmoved. “yes.”

“are you sure?”

she shifts her weight to her other leg. “there is no other way.” his form is poor. she identifies his weaker side and rounds slowly to it. “the crown answers to blood. raise your elbow higher. protect your face.”

oak listens for once. his voice is shrill still. “so there is no one else?”

of course there’s someone else. another bearer of the crown, another royal to lead their nation. but jude grits her teeth and resorts to her best asset: lying. “no. no one else.”

her little brother pauses, their lesson half-present in his mind. intrigued, she watches the scrunch of his brows as he formulates a thought. “unless cardan has a child. then there would be another.”

if he sees her freeze, he doesn’t mention it. the scenario turns her thoughts errant, threatens her with a conniption. some sick part of her wishes to linger on the possibility, but with oak before her and posed to fight, she cannot allow herself that masochism.

oak stands expectant, his arm growing weary and slouching. the least she can do is not lie.

“i suppose.”

he remembers none of the stance the next evening.

*

“no word from dad. taryn either.”

jude lifts her face to catch vivi rummaging through envelopes of mail. “what, were you expecting miracles? a shift in the weather?” she scoffs, coming back to her task. counting money. hard-earned cash from late shifts of all services and flavors. espionage, theft, the occasional sparring match. the underground fae crime ring taints the soul, but it pays in fifties.

vivi interrupts her quick fingers. “he liked you best, you know. dad always gave more of himself to you than to me or taryn.” she notices her brother sitting at the couch, leans in to rumple his hair. “or oak.”

jude shoots vivi a cruel look, an exasperated look. “what good that did to me.”

her sister’s eyes are fierce as a growling cat where they pin her in place. “quite some good, your highness.”

jude does a fucking great job at not screaming.

*

she hates to think of the name.

what could his true name be, she wonders? if she commanded it, before the brokering of their epically failed marriage for his release, jude asks herself if he’d given it. if he’d hated her that much more.

her mind swirls with reminders of midnight black eyes, of fingers against her lips and the abstruse feeling of possession by another being.

she won’t think of it. she won’t dream of it. she won’t aerate the two syllables in a whisper of dark sky. she certainly won’t be pelted with the scariest word, the four letters she refused since childhood to allow a place in her. the word that died with a blade on its back as it ran to the kitchen. the word that meant a certain foolishness, a certain danger. she won’t. it’s her new mantra: she won’t, she won’t, she won’t.

falsehoods have always been her strongest asset.

*

“we shouldn’t be watching this shit,” heather sighs between mouthfuls of red licorice.

they’re leaning on the couch, lined up like soldiers catching their breath amidst pilgrimage to battle. the television blares high. jude notices heather has shifted her free hand to cover oak’s eyes.

she inspects the playing show more closely. one second there’s a wide shot of scenery, familiar in its medieval setting, and the next there’s a person. a striking young woman with silver hair like new iron falling in tresses across pale shoulders.

the figure is so intimate it nearly makes jude jump. “a princess,” she murmurs.

heather shakes her head. “no. oh no. well, sorta.” oak squirms in her hand, breaking free of her hold, to which she sighs and acquiesces. “sure, i guess, but more than that. it’s complicated.”

from her place next to oak, jude nods. “royals tend to be.”

her sister’s lover, or ex lover (certainly an ex something), barrels on. she uses hand gestures to further her explaining. “her father was the mad king, but she was only a baby when he got dethroned. she was exiled from her home, far across the sea. then she married a powerful man, leader of a tribe, and sorta grew into herself. after he died, his rivals and his people tried to disbar her. turns out she had more in her arsenal than was believed.” heather wags her eyebrows at the show.

jude couldn’t be more confused until a huge, black winged creature crosses the screen. “are those…”

“yup,” heather confirms. “the mother of beasts. and her husband’s people, they followed her. even though he was gone, and was their real ruler, and it was unacceptable that she rule on the basis of who she was, they still accepted her as leader.”

jude stiffens. “really.”

they made it seem so close, so easy to reach. the princess-who-wasn’t-a-princess straightens her spine, amplifies her voice. when she speaks, people heed.

heather slices her reverie. “because she has magic.” she points to the overflying monsters. “badass.”

ah. because. she. has. magic.

a non-magic girl slouches back in her non-magic couch, watching a non-magic box, consumed by baneful imaginings.

*

unprepossessing. that is what they called her. ugly, if wine or fury loosened their vocabulary. how had i let someone who called me that touch me at the collarbones? kiss my throat? call me his sweet villain? jude has no answer. she replays and loops the plethora of adjectives her dear husband and company had called her. wormfood. unsightly. repellent. direful. unbecoming. synonyms alike to the same derivative, final word.

mortal.

the circle of worms, she and taryn. daughter of dirt.

she wishes she were nobody’s daughter.

*

it takes her three nights after that to realize now she really is nobody’s daughter.

*

her exile hits the half year.

*

bride of faerieland. the mortal queen.

a fugacious dream, she finalizes. no more than a fleeting child’s wish. had she remained at home, no, in faerie , she’d never have been queen. not without the people’s approval and not with her mortality. a hollow crown, a fool’s wreath.

she cements it into her brain, sears it to memory. she never. would. have been. a true. queen.

oh, but what a vision they would’ve been. jude, stiff boned with graying hair, and cardan beside her, youthful as ever and tethered to her with ball and chain. unescapable. a fresh minted prison for him. he’d be gagged to ask for her kisses, much less beg for them. when her skin sagged and time plundered her heart, how quick he’d be to run from her. a bat out of hell.

when it processes that she’s thought of his name, written it to existence in the myriad of her thoughts, she breaks into a cold sweat.

*

she won’t call her exile a blessing. there’s many descriptors for the singular event that redefined the last leg of her fleeting teenage life, and blessing won’t cut it. recently, however, jude has had the chance to add timely to the list.

jude kills a troll. he’d been preying on humans the same time as her abscond to the human realm. this particular troll began his horror streak after developing a taste for the helpless glaze in their eyes at final moments before teeth sunk into shoulders, the way they rolled back or if the occasion came up that the eyelids would fall crookedly. the funny look of a drugged, passed out, mindless loon. except these were dead loons, victims to the desire of a beast. these humans had been lured into the abandoned subway tunnel, but jude had strolled there all on her own.

“that bitch carries the devil,” commented one of the fae. gathered in a ring, stealing glimpses of her over their shoulders.

waiting for her pay, jude kicked the tip of her boot into the solid ground, arms crossed. “that bitch can hear. i may not have fae hearing, but i’d abstain from testing me were i in your shoes.”

the fae she had spoken to was of the sea, and was barefoot. irony not lost on her.

sooner than expected, jude duarte developed a reputation. successful runs, frightening recounts of what she did to earn her money, it swiveled up and circled around her like a tornado. some fae considered testing if the legend was bigger than the person, and some fae had lost the use of a limb. she knew she’d been strong before, but this new world taught her what an unstoppable force she was. had always been.

they give her a nickname. fearful of evoking the name given to her at birth, though being human it had no effect on her. still, shadows shivered at her wake, watching, consuming jude duarte’s trail of defeated foes. in the damp, cold streets of maine, in a world she long since had cut true tethers from, she’s reborn as the wrath.

in her mind, somewhere in the bowels of the elfhame palace, the court of shadows laugh up a storm.

*

oak grows less querulous and more capitulant to his role. jude in turn decides to do the same with her old-but-now-new home amidst mortals.

she watches tv. repaints her bike. buys new clothes. eats toasted waffles with peanut butter and honey.

when heather mentions a museum across town, jude no longer stares at her blankly. she doesn’t fumble or grasp for words. her foot’s planted on the ground, steady and strengthening.

she becomes inclined to music. an old trait, now in a new ambient. vivi glamours money to grant her a gift, a small excuse to cheer her up. the gadget fits most of her hand, sensitive to her tact and bright during the darker hours. heather hauls her laptop once in a while to upload new songs onto it, teaching jude how to sift through the list.

music player in her hand, jude sheepishly assembles a queue of songs that she likes. tunes that have replaced bards in taverns or notes plucked from lutes.

an aggressive song by a vexed wife goes first, the one with words that hit jude harsher than she wants to admit, the title saying not to hurt yourself. another one called once upon a time. a wedding song turned rock, a “strong electric guitar” according to heather, the singer belting about being loved tenderly. paint it, black by the stones that roll. where once her fingers would’ve stumbled over the gadget’s buttons, today she masters with ease.

the stunted child, the wraith of a human girl she once was rears her head in jude’s dreams. she gains color with each passing day.

*

by the time her exile hits eight months, jude begins the transition. she intends it to life, gives it air to breath.

i, jude duarte, will be happy in the mortal world.

she wills herself to change on a molecular level. when the desire of faerieland hightails back, she slams it to the back of her mind. she transforms the pain into power, into will. the scar left behind from her banishment becomes fuel for her new life. for the transformation into who jude could truly be in this wide, marvelous, enormous human world.

they don’t want you. they have not once wanted you.

he doesn’t want you. not like you do him.

he

doesn’t

want

you.

move on, she begs herself. move on. move on. move on. stop chasing after ghosts.

*

the wrath is elbow deep in a goblin’s guts. he swindled bryern a bagful of gold coin. it came down to her to rescue it back, and assure the impediment of a repetition. that’s when she met her.

“hnnnnggg…” moans a figure across the room.

jude ignored the drugged out junkies on her way in, leaving them in the back burner while working through the bulk of her job. but the turncloak goblin is dead, and was that noisy mound moving?

“help…” she hears.

jude rarely considers herself so altruistic. but the meekness of the plea pulls her across the room, tugs her legs to the sprawled person.

human. a girl, dirty blue hair all too reminiscent of nicasia, but not so polished as to pass for a sea princess. no, this girl appeared on the edge of a precipice, thin coat of sweat across her body.

“more,” the girl begs.

like clockwork. jude squats down to get closer. “want me to get you out of here?”

weakly, the girl nods. “she’ll find me.”

“what’s your name?”

the stranger smacks her lips, eyes rolling in her head. “lolli.”

lolli turned out to be an easy haul but a terrible map. jude exasperatedly dragged her through alleys and corners, hearing the laments of her companion through the journey. lolli got sidetracked from her ride-or-dies, see, shot up a bit too much powder - something she called never - and had an urgent need to return to the clan.

jude’s self-preservation rang high when she knocked on the selected door and met a fae two heads taller than she. his red skin shone bright in the doorway, his glamour invisible to jude’s geas.

“thank you for bringing pop back to us. i’m qylin” he says across from jude, having invited her in and given her a once-over. “uh, you mortal?”

she’s declined a drink, but accepted a chair. “as they come.”

qylin moves closer. “and you took out melbor? pop’s supplier?”

“is pop meant to be lolli?”

“her full name’s lollipop.”

“oh. i see.” a red flush runs across her face. “melbor huh? didn’t catch his name. i did catch both his kidneys though.”

qylin whistles.  “damn. a mortal.” he pronounces it with wonder. nothing like she’s used to. it falls with disbelief in her ears.

“that’s quite a might you got in you. here.” in an outstretched hand, jude finds a tiny acorn that no doubt has a message inside it. “if you ever quit meandering for coin and want to run with the real wolves, i’ll answer.”

wolf. she’d been a girl and she’d been a mortal. then she’d been wormfood and after that she’d been a queen. couldn’t say jude once considered herself a wolf, or imagined running with them. then again, she had become so many things far from her imagination.

the ward. the mortal. the queen. the wrath. her list of faces ran endless, each mask pressing heavier and heavier on her fragile composition.

*

in the beginning, vivi congratulated her like a preschooler with a trophy. “look at you, making an effort. i told you home wasn’t so bad.”

months later they’ve turned to “you are too far out” accompanied by the tapping of her foot, a face riddled by concern. “you’re jumping into danger again.”

vivi didn’t know how jude missed being afraid.

*

if she dreams of cardan, the sting pulls her awake and breathless into the chirping crickets of the dark hours.

*

ninth month. her exile is a baby somewhere, born and breathing. a marking reminder of her incipient rule cut short.

jude duarte makes a decision. she steps outside of the girl she used to be, the teenager latched to a world that had not once been hers.

the acorn is light in her hands. she splits it open, unrolling the paper inside, and when she sees the address and phone number it takes her a total of eighteen minutes to pack.

*

saying goodbye without telling them it’s goodbye cracks a new wound in her already shattering heart.

*

oak thinks she’s going to the gym. vivi thinks she’s babysitting oak. heather might’ve had a clue, but she kept silent while jude hugged her, muttering a quick thanks for watching her brother while vivi came from the post office.

it appears, after years, she’d learned to say farewell to all things that were close to her.

*

qylin refrained from asking questions, just as jude liked it. she watched, studied, learned, kept to her rank while scheming for more. the room and cot qylin offers is as home as any she’s had.

*

when she urged cardan to inveigle the princess of the undersea, it led them to a hidden alcove draped with vines, to a couch where she’d bared more of jude duarte than she had in her entire life. the memory is both a memory and the dream that recurs most in her sleep. their tryst, their unculminated tumble, their fumbled connection, whatever people would want to call it. in her sickest hours, jude allowed herself to think of it with a tender gaze, with a pink shiny filter, with the dreaded word she’d been on the run from for years.

that you hate me. tell me that you hate me.

“i hate you,” jude whispers. “i hate you and i married you and i hate you.” the two phrases weren’t mutually exclusive.

*

lollipop has been gone for weeks, but her junkie spirit is alive.

the wrath evaded nevermore like cats did water, but the gradual acclimation to qylin’s ring fills her with misplaced ease. it took them damn near six months, but jude finally surrendered her arm.

it pricks, the needle, like the pinch on her finger when cardan stabbed her for the salt in her blood. for the antidote to faerie fruit.

she’s high. she’s at a revel in new york and she’s vulnerable and she’s high.

it doesn’t take long for jude to cement her decision to never do drugs in her natural life again. but once that’s been engraved in her think tank, the world turns mellow and technicolor. it tells her to enjoy while it lasts.

she’s surrounded by leaves, platter of fruit, dancing pixies and slender fae. painful reminders of the home she direly tries to forget.

in a mirage, she pictures black curls under a golden crown of flowers. cruel lips forming a smile.

as if underwater, ears plugged with chlorine liquid, jude hears a seductive voice to her side. “what a pretty thing.” a woman. tall and thin, fae ears and slit green eyes. eyes that fall down to jude’s chest. “busty.”

not all quite there, jude struggles but succeeds in recognizing the tone coming from her courtier. and before she can respond, to her surprise, a second woman emerges from the back of her new companion.

she’s got beautiful straight teeth and straighter talons. “careful. saphine can bite.”

after being called hideous half a life, this come-on douses jude awake like a bucket of water. she studies the two girls and the raking nature of their eyes. she thinks perhaps if she paid more attention she could’ve recognized that in cardan’s eyes. could’ve told it apart from the hatred, the arrogance and the disgust.

without preemptiveness, without pause to think it over, jude tugs both girls to her. her body busts in sensation.

she remembers cardan in a maze, draped in languor and gold faerie drug and girls. black shark eyes watching her while horned girls had their way with him. one kissed his neck, she remembers, and another his knee.

“here,” she scoffs, pushing down sapphire or whatever’s head to her knees. “above my boot.”

a chuckle. “feisty, huh?” she hears, and she truly doesn’t care.

next, jude unceremoniously pulls the second girl up to her neck, leading them exactly where and how she wants them. she’s a constellation of heat and brief spikes of libido.

does cardan think of her? when he’s in bed or bedding someone new, whichsoever activity he performs at night, does jude cross his mind? does he remember her? sometimes in the ridiculous seclusion of her mind she thought cardan would be faithful to her once upon a time. she could slap her own cheeks for such foolishness.

his face appears stark in her memory. deep hollows on his collarbones, raven black hair and eyes devouring her like fruit. his lips, they’d been so soft.

jude leans her head back and laments her ghosts. she inhales sharply.

after the hot spell passes, after jude feels the trickle of tongue make its way up to her thigh and another down her chest, she pushes them away.

why? she doesn’t know. jude is only sure of the fact that she’s tired and doesn’t want this and instead wants a glass of water then maybe a bed.

saphine tilts her head, rolls her eyes, and waves her off, moving along. jude is thankful, for the first time, at being so easily discarded.

*

a month later makes two years since her infamous exit.

“unless cardan has a child,” oak said. many moons past.

the memory of him brings upon a dream. the opposite to her listless, watered-down dreams she grew used to having.

she sneaks through the palace, it’s name near forgotten to her, crawling against walls or chasing shadows.

he’s there. he’s in many of her dreams and he’s there in this one. hair astray. tilted crown. reclined on a couch, his tail freely swishing left and right.

if he remembers their pact of marriage, he doesn’t bother to show it. no mourning, no sadness, no desperation. unlike the other dreams of him, in this he’s placated. joyful, even, in a way so seldom his character.

jude’s understanding is little.

something squirms in cardan’s arms. when she gets closer it nearly takes her breath away to a fault, threatening to kill her. it’s a baby. older than a newborn but small enough to fit in his arms, to paw at his chin and gargle.

no test could prepare her for this sight.

and cardan. he’s absolutely changed. reinvented in the light of this babe, this creature jude hasn’t seen the face of. because that is his spawn, the tiny tail swishing from its rear indicates as much. that, combined with the black tresses, leaves no doubt that she is looking at a king and his heir.

in the depths of her shriveled dignity, jude duarte senses another break, another disgusting branched crack.

her husband is inconsolable in love. his bright smile slashes wide across his face, softening his sharp cheekbones. he lifts the baby to his face, pressing their noses together, cooing. she hardly recognizes him. but she recognizes the lack of a need for her.

this was a nightmare.

cardan lets the child descend, adjusting them in his lap with heartbreaking gentleness. to her horror, the toddler turns and pierces jude in place with raven black eyes.

she runs cold all over. the child has the look of a girl.

her coloring is unique, darker than cardan’s and any fae’s. it’s closer to… jude’s own. and below the black curls, which she realizes now is actually dark amber brown, there’s ears. rounded, untipped, human ears.

jude is utterly unmoored. the scene melts. she wakes up to hands descending upon her, to frightened questions of why she was screaming and that she’s woken up half of the gang. they cannot get a straight answer from her, and after plowing her with cups of water and aspirins from a quick run to the mini-store, the most they get from jude duarte is a somber face and a fall into her pillow.

*

jude becomes a gallery of girls. she’s judy, and she’s martina, and she’s amelie with the occasional latika. running in qylin’s underworld gang requires her to. police don’t catch her, fae detectives don’t either, and if by chance she needed to run an errand the name she gave was one of a basinful of fake i.d. cards.

“i once had a twin,” she offhandedly told someone.

“what was her name?” they asked.

jude slurped from a tall gas station soda cup. “doesn’t matter.”

*

three years. the earnest smile she’d lost a number of winters ago returns tenuously but surely. as a sliver, as a tiny reminder, as a planted seed showing the very smallest evidence of root.

*

a pixie joins their ranks. young and limber. her cerulean skin reminds jude of a blue court under the sea.

“fand,” she greets the mismatched group. “newborn nomad.”

jude welcomes her by the form of a nod, turning back to the display of headshots splashed on the table, organizing it into a semblance of order.

she feels fand dance around her, suspicious to her presence. she thinks for a hot minute that fand might want to cause trouble. jude focuses her attention to the knife hidden between her breasts.

the pixie stares at her, unabashed, and right as jude thinks to reach to her chest, fand grows the courage to ask. “you. do i know you?”

the question falls flat. “i don’t believe so. there’s little chance our paths crossed.”

fand squints. “well, i’ve just left elfhame. finally broke from that unruly mess.”

lightning forks in jude’s chest, attacking her nervous system. an old phantom possesses her body, causing her to still.

the pixie moves closer, inspecting. “your look, it’s so familiar.”

jude understands in a minute.

taryn. fucking taryn. always, forever, impossible-to-be-rid-of taryn.

summoning years of falsehoods and acting experience, jude breaks eye contact to laugh and feign offense. “all mortals look the same to fae, i’m sure.”

that is not a lie. she learned that from the wickedest prince himself.

*

when fand slips away from the gang two nights later, jude forces herself to block it from memory.

*

she’s almost twenty-one. in faerie she might have died since she was eleven.

here, she’s got a family. a rough knit circle of confidants, people she rarely thinks twice about trusting anymore. her music keeps her company, and her growing arsenal of skills, of wins, it warms the smallest piece of her soul.

how could she have hated such a place?

*

“counterinsurgents. we calculate two dozen below the bridge,” jekka, qylin’s second, explains over a map.

jude’s focus is precise, uninterrupted.

the years, the lack of practice from a simple lack of need to, makes it so that she doesn’t religiously check the perimeter, doesn’t spot a green face. his dark tuft of hair and hooked nose, spying from the window, hidden among leaves and wind.

if she had seen him, she might’ve remembered her old friend. if she’d seen him, she might’ve broken down in tears, or begged for a word, or done none of those things to help jekka figure out their positions for the next day’s raid.

*

“watch for the sniper!” one of her gang yells.

jude ducks, experienced muscles leading her across the space, the shielded street with broken streetlights. abandoned houses repurposed for criminal night creatures sprawl one after the other. they’ve chosen one a stone throw from the river, so close they could taste the salt while counting bloody fae or human scalps.

five, six, seven leaps and she’s out of shot, crammed into a wedge in the building. she took down three counterinsurgents already. the wrath ran rampant today.

another figure jumps out the window, two yards from her, and takes off running through the backside of the house, the one facing the water. swift as the wind, jude pursues in fervor.

bam.

first the noise like thunderclap. then the pain.

oh.

when they screamed sniper, she expected an arrow. she expected a taut bow and a sharp, easily removed tip of metal. not a bullet.

*

in the end, jude has been a galaxy of abridges.

she’s had abridged parents, gone before her eighth birthday. that led to an abridged innocence and an abridged life in their rudimentary home in maine. she’s had an abridged relationship with her sisters. an abridged sense of belonging.

she had an abridged romance with a prince and king. that chapter being severed short was, as they all were, not her fault.

she had an abridged marriage. an abridged kingdom rule.

to be culminated in an abridged life. thin and meager.

she hopes no matter how small her garden has been, that each poison flower and cherry blossoms she’s sowed has done its best to enrich the tiny piece of universe allotted to her.

*

she should’ve known when she saw the river.

in water all began, and in water it ends.

there are no screams. no chaos. the gang has left her, chasing their foes further up the street, looking to corner them. jude? she’s going for a dip. a passage to the next life. she’ll float to it. gargle on the last of life.

“huh,” she whispers.

the ache is pungent in her back, the bullet hitting close to the spine but not quite. deadly, though. deadly for sure.

she wasn’t queen of nothing. she was queen of death, the hierophant of misery. her whole life has been a string of it. well, no longer.

jude duarte reaches the water’s edge, using each fiber of her strength to not fall in quite yet.

*

in the haziness of all that she’d done and all that she’d run from, he comes to her. in dream, in flesh. she’s not yet in the water.

“jude.”

this has to be the mark between. the straddling line of life and death. because somehow, impossibly, she hears him.

“jude!”

or?...

her brows scrunch in confusion, a naked toe in the river already. she wants to turn, but the seeping life at her back won’t allow it.

she doesn’t need to. long arms surround her, someone moving in front of her to read her face, to see what lies there.

it’s him.

jude’s lids droop. her back is on fire, and she burns in the flames. he’s barely changed. matured into his looks, if she had to put it into words. his tar eyes, slender lips, pointed nose and legendary black curls suddenly remind her of being seventeen.

there’s so much in his face she can barely read any of it. “is it you? is it really you?” he demands.

she’s always been jude. who jude became, that was a different question. one she no longer cares to ask.

“i found you. i finally finally found you.” his voice is incredulous.

is he the harbinger of the beyond? was that his role to play this entire time? her thoughts eddy and murk the more time passes with a hole in her back.

it is an arcane thing, in truth, to be held by a creature she’s craved and despised. her body responds on its own by pressing closer, seeking warmth.

he might be crying. could also be the angle of the sun.

“please,” he whispers.

she hasn’t said his name in years.

“cardan.”

his eyes fall closed.

her mouth repeats the motion, recognizing the familiarity of his name. cardan. once her king. her husband. the sight of him brings forth a wave of emotions, cascading through her like a waterfall.

cardan tugs her close to a punishingly tight degree. “i thought you dead.” he speaks into her ear. “we searched for years. i thought you were gone. gone, jude.”

the word pulls her back, creates distance between them. jude lets herself get lost in his eyes, those splendid eyes, bottomless and infinite, a serene look on her face as she responds:

“almost.”

the fractious prince too arrogant to be a ruler does not stand in front of her. this man is similar, but a sense of strength she hadn’t seen is forefront and shining. jude wishes she could appreciate it.

if only this weren’t the last time.

“so it is you.” she says it with wonder, with a detachment that lets her turn away from his arms and face the river.

cardan’s intake of breath indicates he has finally seen her wound. he twists his neck, shouts to someone far back, hidden in the houses. “shes hurt! SHE’S HURT!” his voice is raw and desperate.

jude walks into the water.

a hand at her arm stops her, keeps her in place, but she shrugs it off with newfound confidence and turns around. cardan’s incredulous face sparks memories of faraway lands and kingdoms.

“what are you doing?” he demands.

jude’s lips break into a smile. how she missed his voice. she walks back until water reaches her waist, then her chest, then the crown of her head.

“stop!” she hears.

the layers of the girl she was, who she is, who she could’ve been, they merge. yes, she had missed faerie. yes, she had wanted cardan. yes, she had wept tears of rage at knowing she could not have either of them back. if she cried now, her tears would turn to river water, melding into the beautiful greater whole.

a hand grips her chest. another tugs on her neck, urging her up, up, up.

air. sweet air in her lungs.

jude gasps, her plans interrupted. the bulletwound at her back sears at the salt water, the sensation so intense it actually numbs her and leaves her feeling very little.

cardan presses her flush to his body. he raises her up, and his face is marked with horror and betrayal.

“how could you?” he weeps. his features are anguished, desperate. he’s shaking her by the shoulder. “how could you?”

jude smiles a wet smile. “remember when you pushed me into the rapids? and you forced my twin to abandon me and kiss your cheeks? i can’t remember a time when i’ve been warm since then. the water, it was cold. like a leech.”

“the roach is gathering for a salve. jude, you will be okay. you need to get out now.”

she realizes there’s something wrong. “wait. no. that’s a lie. i am a liar.” she tilts her face to his, eyes meeting. “you were warm. behind the throne room and in your bed. you kept me warm. but you ripped me from my home and i've been cold since.”

cardan does something she didn’t imagine him capable of. he didn’t do so when balekin beat him. he didn’t do so when his family was slaughtered. he did so this moment, with her encircled by his arms. cardan sobs.

maybe this is when he understands he’s been forever her herald. the marker of her death. their destinies, interlinked, but only for this.

as he bares himself open, jude candidly studies his face. there’s freedom in allowing herself to admit she missed him. missed all of it. her kingdom that never was.

“i’ll heal you,” he implores. his hand runs down wet and shakingly down her face. “you’re my queen. we’ll use our magic. we will, jude, if you stay with me. don’t you get it? the exile was fake. i never meant for you to vanish. i’m begging you, please, help me heal you.”

her forehead falls on his. waist-deep in water, she feels his short breaths fall on her cheek. “you held hatred for me once.”

slowly, miserably, cardan shakes his head. the motion makes her pull away but he doesn’t let her, staying together. “love. i held love, jude.”

love

four letters.

years of running. and it caught up to her all the same.

his words hit her worse than the sniper did. she staggers in his embrace.

“hold.” he says the word with intensity. “i hold, jude.” cardan refuses to let her go, won’t let her fall. “you walked away with my heart.”

thoughts swirl in her head. they swim around like the fish crossing in between their legs.

“hold,” she says weakly.

hold love. he loves me.

impossible. and true.

“huh.”

*

“hold me,” she asks him. and he does.

he does.

he appears vacillant to his actions save for holding her.

jude can’t remember a time when she wasn’t running. from her parents’ demise. from madoc’s threats. from the cruel fae. from her sister’s betrayal. from cardan’s torments and, apparently, his ministrations of love. from her own shadow.

they haven’t moved from the water. it’s been a minute. it’s been four years.

jude feels her body slag, the water making up for the new deadweight.

“i wish you’d never left me,” he murmurs.

gratingly, she lifts her hand to trace a finger along the hard, straight line and point of her husband’s ear. “cardan, are you here to ask me for a divorce?”

his face breaks. she’s fully leaning on him, his long arms cradling her to his chest. amidst their soaked clothes, she feels the thudding of his heart against her cheek.

jude’s eyes flutter open and closed. “i want to tell you i will. i want to tell you i’ve waited for it. i - ah…” a jab of pain causes her to pause. “i want to tell you it hasn’t been eating me alive to be apart from you. i want to tell you… so… many… lies.”

through her misty vision, she sees cardan shake his head. “you are not leaving me.” the conviction in his voice draws a laugh from her.

“oh, cardan.” it’s the last good breath in her lungs. in the distance, she feels the ripples of someone entering the river, racing towards them. she sees only pitch black eyes. “i already have. i already have.”

they are esoteric, rendered in numinous light. from their entwined bodies in the water, there grow white flowers at the riverbed, their petals straining for the sun.

[mimiplaysgames]

A Powerful Enough Dream (Ch. 9)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua (eventually) Rating: T Word Count: 4,554

Summary: It is time to rescue Ven. Aqua steps into Castle Oblivion, not knowing what’s waiting inside.

Read on AO3

A/N: I wasn’t planning on publishing this one too soon - it just happened lolol. I do want to say that I’m sorry this chapter is so canon-divergent. I planned it before KH3 came out and I don’t have the time to rewrite everything. I hope you enjoy it anyway!

~*~*~*~*~

Oblivion, pt. 1

Stars shoot past Aqua in a melted blur. The faster she goes, the less she notices. Keyblade wielders should be humble. They should take their time to acknowledge and admire life, promised as students that their Light sturdies under such discipline. But screw it - she’s too excited to bother with the view.

All she has to do is listen. Once her heart connects to that place, her glider leads the rest of the way.

Sora and the others lag behind. Their gummi ship is impressive but it’s basically a tourist’s vessel, locked to the celestial highways that have to be traveled in full, unable to perform any of the warps her glider is capable of. At some point, she disappears from their radar, and she hovers in the middle of space to wait for them.

It shouldn’t take this long to get to Ven. They hold her back.

Aqua breathes heavily into her helmet, watching for signs of Sora’s bright red beast of a ship. The confines of her armor, absurdly enough, take some getting used to. She made it with her own hands, once a proud moment from her road to mastery. Yet it feels like she’s outgrown it. It’s heavy and tight, constricting the rise of her arms and the strides of her legs. It could be that she has gotten used to living without it. It could be that it doesn’t recognize her anymore.

That’s a terrifying thought. Aqua shakes it out of her head. It’s just because it’s been a long time since she’s worn it. That’s all.

Lightning snaps and cracks, and Sora’s gummi ship breaks through a barrier that tears a hole through space. Behind it is a mess of passageways marked by colored stars and dust. By normal standards, a passageway to the Land of Departure means he’d need to discover and unlock his way, but instead Sora has to blast through to catch up to her. There has to be some kind of transgression for it, but they’ve wasted enough time to think about collateral damage right now.

Her engine revs up and she soars, Sora trailing closely. She can’t feel the air through her armor as it darkens, but pressure mounts on her shoulders. Negative space squeezes her waist, her arms, her chest, threatening to collapse. It’s thickening. She’s getting close.

By the time she lands, there aren’t any more stars left to see.

Shedding her armor, Aqua breathes in humid air. Storm clouds smother the sky, but it doesn’t rain. Did it ever in the years she’s been gone? The dirt doesn’t thirst for anything, and the cliffs buckle with every step.

The castle (not home, something else) is ugly. Painted the color of stale excrement, it contorts in ways that can’t have been built by human hands. Towers stick out sideways and upside down, criss-crossed and layered where no staircases could practically fit inside. The castle suspends itself in the air by nothing except someone’s imagination.

There’s supposed to be grass underneath her shoes - or maybe stone tile leading to the terrace. Either of the two. Looking over the cliffside, she’s supposed to see rivers miles below, too far to hear their work. Now it’s just blackness. Morbid curiosity questions how long it would take for her to find new ground if she jumps off.

A couple of yards away was where Ven caught a grasshopper and claimed it as his own pet. He never expected he’d crush it by accident. He never expected he’d bury it in that same spot.

If Aqua remembers correctly, there’s supposed to be a tiny dirt path, right here, that would’ve led her to a clearing in the forest, down a lower altitude by several notches, where she and Terra kept a chest of old toys they couldn’t let go of, and letters they wanted to keep but forgot about. Where they kissed for the first time because she was curious, and Terra shrugged it off like it wasn’t a big deal, and she did the same.

Where there should be that forest is nothing but air now.

But home is home, always a fortress, always there to shelter, just like it does for Ven if only by a new expression.

The thunder of Sora’s engines roar before they quiet, exhaling one last time when he lands. He brings everyone with him - Lea is the first to come out, mouth wide open in a stupefied gasp, his glare demanding an explanation.

“Castle Oblivion?” He gesticulates, letting his hands slap his hips. “Sure, it’s not the easiest place to get to. But you could have done us all the humanly decent thing, and said so.”

“Castle Oblivion?” Aqua repeats. The words sound foul.

“You mean your lot didn’t name it?” He crosses his arms as he steps by her side. He’s too smug, like he finds that fact giddy.

“No, of course not, this…” This is the first time it’s ever happened in our history.

“If it wasn’t you, then it had to have come from our favorite, friendly Nobody.” Still smug. Stars, she’d punch him. “Xemnas.”

Despite the warning in her eyes at the mention of that name, Lea sneers. “It’s quite the comfortable home, if you’re interested in psychopathy.”

“You’ve been inside?” she hushes, tying up an apology behind her lips. What if he doesn’t know?

“Don’t worry.” He waves a hand at her. “I was a Nobody at the time. Not like I was that attached.”

So he knows. “You’re lucky you ever got out,” Aqua mutters.

“That attached to what?” Sora skips over, an innocent smile plastered so hard on his face that the horrible truth still wouldn’t peel it off of him.

“Memories,” Riku answers.

If Riku knows, then surely he’s lost some. Aqua nearly blurts out her concern for him, but he flashes her a gentle smirk and rolls a shoulder like it barely matters.

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Sora asks as Kairi tags along, who is unzipping and zipping Donald’s cap.

“The Organization used it to research memories,” Lea says. “We even went so far as to manipulate them - you know, plant a little bit of this, tweak a little bit of that.”

“And this is important, why?”

“The castle has a defense mechanism,” Aqua says, glancing at Riku, “to protect the delicate balance of this world so we could give all Keyblade trainees a safe refuge. The rooms aren’t truly real anymore. Threats who wander in are… forced to relive certain events in their life.”  

But Riku doesn’t have much of a reaction.

“Anyway,” she continues, “the memories replayed aren’t always exact. They reflect the heart of the person the castle is reading. So yes, it would be the perfect place to experiment with them.”

“I’ve been in this star-forsaken place more than I wished for,” Lea says, giving the castle a lookover. “My most important mission was to find one particular room. I never did.”

Hearing that was comforting. “Because the rooms inside move around,” Aqua says. “The point is to make the intruder confused. Make them obsessed with remembering correctly that they continue to wander. Until they forget why they’re there.”

Sora gapes, his eyes bulging. “You were the one who designed it like that? You’re savage.”

“Gawrsh,” Goofy says, holding a chin to his hand. His vowels ripple. “Ya think it’d be a nifty place to keep Xehanort locked up in.”

Donald frowns and fists his hips. “And you left Ventus in there?”

“Yes, and I’m the only one who can get him out,” she says sternly, choosing not to elaborate on the how. She sucks in a breath. “The castle won’t exactly recognize me, either. But I have the key.”

“How do we stop ourselves from losing memories?” Kairi asks. For a first mission, this one is entirely inappropriate.

“We don’t. I’m going in alone.” Aqua has long accepted the responsibility, thinking about this moment since the day she closed those doors. She chooses to ignore the disappointed look on Kairi’s face - once full of curiosity and hope at finally being allowed to show her worth.

“But you shouldn’t have to do this alone,” Sora says, stepping forward.

Aqua purses her lips. She’s done good not telling him everything.

“I do.”

“What is it with you and Terra and your obsessions with marching a one-man parade?” Sora grins, rubbing his nose. Riku snorts. “You’re going to have to learn to take ‘Nah’ for an answer. I think Ventus would agree with me.”

“Ditto,” Lea says.

“It was your bright idea to leave him and now we have to fix it,” Donald grumbles.

You were the ones who followed me. Aqua bites her lip.

It’s Aqua against six others who disagree with her, who came all the way here like she’s the one needing a chaperone. Ven would have wanted to come too, given the chance. He’s just better at submitting to her demands, even if he hated them, even if he didn’t want to understand they were for his safety.

“But your memories-”

“It really isn’t fair that Sora forgets what it’s like to be in there anyway,” Riku says, arms crossed and flexed.

Sora furrows his brows. “What would we forget?”

“Whatever you’re giving the castle,” Aqua says, starting quiet then raising her voice. “It will snatch something you’re passionate about… Your best defense is to simply look away. Believe in your own integrity, instead of what you see.”

“That…” Kairi picks at her cuticles. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”

That’s only because they’ve never spent years weighing the consequences.

“Consider this: how long would it take you to get to Ventus?” Lea asks.

“Not long at all. I can summon him to the first room,” Aqua says.

“Then we skidaddle in and run the stars out.” He mimics walking movement with his fingers. “You’re too paranoid. We didn’t travel all this way to admire the decorator’s taste. Award-winning, I tell you.”

Aqua takes a moment to study each of them, hoping her eyes spoke of horrors she can’t find the words for. But they smile back with encouragement. She considers tying them up with her chains to see if they enjoy feeling trapped under pressure.

She sighs. “The less amount of time we take, the better.”

The front door protests when she opens it, heavy and dragging across the pale floor. The inside is sterile, so white that the reflected light blinds. Every surface she can see is scrubbed clean of any and all personality. Like a hospital. Like a morgue.

At first glance, it’s just a simple room. A door innocently waits on the other side, the same monocolor as everything else. Their footsteps clank hard on the tile floor.

“Can’t believe I get to see the magic this time,” Lea says, the volume of his voice normal, but too strong for this room.

“You bums are pretty late for the show,” a gravelly voice replies. Aqua catches him leaning casually at the corner of the room, his black helmet a stark stain against the wall. She swears he wasn’t there before. She swears she got rid of him. She wonders if it’s still Ven’s face underneath.

“You again,” Sora barks.

“Took you long enough to get here,” Vanitas says, straightening up. “A really long time. Venty-Wenty needs his mommy to wake him up, but it’s like…” He snorts. “It’s like you forgot you had a kid waiting for you. Some mother you make.”

Donald slaps his webbed foot on the floor, his voice grating. “We’re too busy to deal with you. Now scram!”

“I have more right to be here than you,” he says, a sudden leap downhill trickling through his voice. His posture, however short he is, stays tall and proud. “I got here first. I outperformed the parent.” He jabs a finger in the air. “Don’t believe my sincerity, but I’ve got all the family business to pick with my own brother. It’s inhumane to keep us apart.” Vanitas summons his Keyblade, electrical sparks warping the air before its monstrosity takes form. “It’s been almost thirteen years, Aqua. What do you say? We can make this reunion worth the wait.”

Aqua scoffs through her nose. So he wants to think he’s still that much of a threat, after everything she’s seen. She keeps her nose high. “I don’t think about the gnat I’m stepping on.”

He pauses before he laughs. “You almost bruised me there, Master Aqua. What kind of selfish person would say something like that.” Darkness sputters from his body, ribbons crawling out of the leathery web of his skin. Monsters, Unversed. Red-eyed and twitchy, with more spunk and intelligent thought than the feral mind-numbing of a Heartless. “It suits you.”

This time, Aqua doesn’t hesitate. Her Master’s Defender takes form, and she charges. The sound of Keyblade summons bounce off the walls like bells as the mob of Unversed swarms. She takes out a swath of them in one icy hit, a sudden euphoria taking over her body - it’s good exercise to have. Beating him up should release some of the tension in her shoulders.

Still, she has to be careful about one thing: she can’t let Vanitas follow her.

“Get rid of them!” she yells.

By superficial glance, Vanitas is outnumbered, but the Unversed keep coming. Wave after wave of aggressive emotion. As though humans will never go numb.

Sora takes the enthusiastic lead. Lea stays behind and relies on his pot-shots. Riku hovers near Kairi, who does her best juggling creatures she’s never fought before. Donald sounds like he’s cursing when he really isn’t as he casts thunderous spells, and Goofy builds a strong defense on the front line, right by Sora’s side.

Aqua focuses on Vanitas, who has his arms wide open like a goal post.

But Sora juts in, and Aqua staggers to avoid hitting him.

“He’s nothing but a creep. Leave him,” he says, blocking one of Vanitas’ explosive attacks on her behalf.

“I have to end this,” she spits.

“Then stop talking and end it,” Vanitas growls, his Keyblade brimming with heat as he slams it against Sora’s.

“What about the time we’re spending in the castle? It’s ticking,” Sora asks her, his brows furrowed upside down.

“You’re boring me,” Vanitas says. He ghosts through the space between them, throwing an electrified force like he’s batting a swing. Aqua dodges, using the Defender as a lightning rod, and redirects the intensity until it crumbles into a wall away from everyone else.

“We’re not alone!” Lea calls out, the smoke of his fire spells clouding the room.

Something slithers, weaving through the air with a high-pitched wiggle. The thing is white, bending like it can compute Aqua’s strike before she has the chance to think of it. Its skin is thick yet fluid, reverberating her magic like it’s jelly. All of its movements are calculated - the way it walks is unnatural, as if someone is inputting commands into its mind.

“Nobodies!”

“Finally, some proper entertainment.” Vanitas catches Kairi off-guard, throwing her backward. “You got children in your team. Proud of yourself?”

If Aqua goes ahead and hurries to Ven, none of them would have to sacrifice their memories.

If she leaves them alone, would she betray their need for help?

“Just go,” Sora says. “It’s not a big deal. Look at him.” He waves to Vanitas, who is messing with Lea now. “He’s like an angry chicken.”

That’s the last word she’d use to describe Vanitas, but they’ve wasted so much time already.

“You promise?”

“Promise to trust my word?”

Aqua sighs and grips his shoulder, her fingers digging into his sleeve. His eyes go wide, getting the message. “Don’t underestimate him. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The door handle churns when she grabs it. Pops, whirs, and shouts rally behind her in a thunderous roar, and she stops herself from turning the knob.

“I didn’t say you could see him!” Vanitas yells, coming toward her like she’s the only one whose existence has any value. Riku blocks his way, scruffed up from vanquishing enemies in one intricate attack a moment before.

The lock turns. She wants to see Ven but she doesn’t, not with enemies so close.

Vanitas dodges strings of attacks from all sides, from her friends, from Goofy throwing his body across the room, from Donald screaming incoherent gibberish. “Not without me!”

It almost sounds… painful. If he’s this bothered, then she can only imagine how much hatred and disgust fuel his words.

Poor Ven for having to deal with him.

She shuts the door behind her, suffocating the noise, cutting off Vanitas’ verbal assault, like an eraser swallowing an exclamation mark.

Aqua stands at the entrance hall of what used to be the old castle, gold pillars holding up ivory walls, coated in stained glass light. Down the hall are staircases leading up to the throne room where she had her Mark of Mastery, right where they’re supposed to be.

She should’ve been more careful than let the castle into her mind. Damn it.

“Nothing is real,” she declares. Someone could be upstairs. The Master. With his bushy mustache and ridiculous hairstyle that she’s offered to cut for years. What would he say to her?

Maybe she could apologize. She really wants to.

No. The castle will conjure him only because she’s thinking of him. “I won’t look. I won’t.”

Some part of her jumped at the thought that it could be Terra… She could hear Terra’s voice. It’d be exact, his smile something she’s needed. It could be wonderful. It could be sad.

“I won’t look,” she whispers, taking a peek up at the balcony over the foyer to see if she could at least spot a head of hair. She sees the stained glass mural in the same beautiful shapes she’s mimicked with crayons, hovering right above the thrones. The colors do their best work in the late morning, just like how they glistened prims on Terra’s shoulders when she dueled him.

Aqua inhales sharply. She runs past the stairs and down another hallway to the left, to a door that normally would lead to the kitchen.  

Is she remembering that right? The kitchen?

“It doesn’t matter.” It does. But Ven. She grips a new door handle, so much like the ones back home (the same golden color).

She hisses. “Ven,” she calls, willing the word onto the door.

Aqua enters another empty white room with yet another door at the opposite side, like she smothered white paint all over a filled canvas. Who knows how far she’s moved away from the others by now, or how many rooms have sifted in between.

But the whiteness is exactly what she wants - to get to Ven, she’ll need some peace and quiet, and a bit of time to grieve.

Something is wrong, though. Aqua doesn’t take another step. The rooms should read her, not watch her.

“Who’s there?”

Footsteps lightly tread, weighty but feathery. A man in a black robe gracefully makes his appearance from behind a stone pillar, his face a secret under the hood. A giant of a man, barrel-chest with a thick waist, at least two heads taller than her.

“I had missed the chance to see you before,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, but forceful like the bottom of an ocean. Aqua’s heart hammers at the familiarity. “Now I’ve been granted a tabula rasa...”

Aqua scoffs, Defender at the ready.

“My friend,” Xemnas says.

“You’re not my friend.”

“Even I am not that cruel to be so cold. How can you say that to someone who has longed to see you?”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

Xehanort’s Nobody hums, halfway between a chuckle and solemn breath. “I don’t need the pity.”

“Then I have nothing else for you.”

Aqua is the first to move, casting a barrier around herself for protection, expecting him to conjure up spells of his own. Instead, out of his palms burst two red sabers that throb when she gets close.

He strikes her with both, clutching Defender’s jab and throwing her off balance. He’s too fast for his size - he has to be utilizing the darkness to bend the laws of physics. Showing off his acrobatics and reappearing in places she doesn’t expect, he toys with the space between them, coming close to taunt her into hitting him. Then he goes away in a flash. Aqua scrambles to keep up.

“Enough of this,” she mutters.

Summoning her Master’s chains takes more from her than any other spell, but they’re her rock and wind - as though Eraqus is with her every step of the way, approving her decisions. They are Light incarnate into metal, threads that peel chunks away from her heart to take form. To justify conjuring them, she needs to land a certain blow.

This is Xehanort’s Nobody, after all. Watching him wince will be a welcome sight.

They wrap around his body, locking his sabers against his thighs. He shudders from the pain, his knees losing their strength. Yes, that’s exactly what she wants.

Like finding new resolve, Xemnas stands straight on trembling feet just as she was sure he’d collapse. She must be exhausted from conjuring them, she has to be. They shouldn’t be this weak. Dark energy crackles and whips against the links. His arms manage to flex outward, pushing against the hold.

Maybe that’s the point. To survive this, he can’t be anything close to human. He’s technically Nothing.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe she isn’t sure she wants this.

“An old trick,” Xemnas says, loosening one arm.

This is her only chance. Aqua pinches the gap between them in an instant, her Master’s Defender high in the air to knock him out.

Xemnas grabs her by the wrist, the Defender suspended in air. His hand is so large that his fingers lock together, twisting and squeezing her that she’s worried he’ll break it.

Aqua tries to jerk free but the pain cuts into her circulation.

He watches her squirm. “Like a trapped mouse with not the mind to know there’s nowhere to go. No need to skirmish so much.”

“Let go of me.”

“Why do you hate me so?” He squeezes harder and lifts her, her feet dangling off the floor. She yelps. “You fight me though you know me as faceless. Such harsh disregard for my existence.”

“Spare me,” she breathes, her wrist throbbing, “your stupid pleas.”

“But I do plea.” Xemnas gently lifts the hood off his head. It’s not the shoulder-length silver hair that surprises her, but his face. Yellow eyes, but the same face.

She gasps. “Terra.”

Wrong. Everything about him is wrong - the smile, the malicious glint in his eye, the tightened half-smirk. A callous Terra looking down on her like the gnat under a shoe, needing to be scraped off.

“You’re hurting me,” she whimpers to (Terra’s face), hoping to catch the tiniest reaction in his eyes that he’d feel bad for doing so - just like Terra would. But he doesn’t.

This is supposed to be Xehanort’s body without a heart. But she’s been misleading herself, hasn’t she?

(Terra’s body) wanting to be her friend, wanting to stay close, wanting to reconnect. And she wanted the same. Aqua swallows bile.

This bastard stole from her.

She throws a kick into his face with enough force that he lets her go. Xemnas stumbles backward, holding his chin where her shoe made contact. He winces. Good.

“You’re nothing like him!” Aqua says, flexing her sore, thick grip on the Defender. It twitches and singes.

Xemnas stays where he is, carefully massaging his chin like she isn’t in the room anymore. If he heard her, he doesn’t give notice, staring blankly at the floor. She wonders - for the slightest moment - if what she said actually stung him.

“You can try,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Try it.” He conjures his blades. “Obliterate me. Let’s see if you make peace with doing so after seeing my face.”

Shut up. Aqua lunges at him, ignoring the ache on her wrist. But instead of using his blades against her, a wall of light erects from the floor. She collides into it. It electrocutes her, throwing her back.

An offensive barrier? Terra’s used this. Protecting her in the Realm of Darkness right after finding her. This really is Terra’s body.

A cry echoes against the tile. It came out of her own mouth. She can’t lose it here.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re his body,” she whispers to herself, standing up. She stumbles as Xemnas casually approaches, his footsteps as soft as the adrenaline dissipating from her body. Numbness is quickly replaced by the stinging in her wrist. It’s harder to take calming breaths.

It matters. It matters too much.

Aqua huffs, telling herself to stop thinking about who’s in the room and start thinking about the people depending on her. “You’re wasting my time,” she declares.

She turns on her heel and heads for the door.

A blast explodes near the exit. Over her shoulder, Aqua sees Xemnas holding out his palm, smoke fizzing out of the leather of his glove.

“After all this time?” he asks.

Aqua gives herself a conscious reminder that Nobodies can’t truly feel. Lea is sure to disagree, but there’s little in Xemnas’ voice to tell her there’s anything left of Terra in that mind.

She yells. Such a primitive thing to do, but it tricks her body for a few precious moments into feeling she has the strength to pull off something big and reckless. Chains of light emanate from her body.

The chains pummel in different directions, and Xemnas erects several barriers to counter each one. Neither of them actually target him. It’s not that she’s getting worse at her aim. Or getting brittle. She knows this. It’s everything to do with (him), and she’s ashamed of it.

At least they’re distracting him.

Aqua yanks the door handle with her good hand, a pressure bursting from the other side and swallowing her as she closes it behind her.

Warmth beats on her shoulders. Tall stone towers conquer the space around her, blocking off the horizon. Aqua only sees gently setting sunlight. She’s somewhere on a terrace of a castle, tucked away from the main streets.

Her heart drops when she realizes it’s Radiant Garden.

“No, no, no, no,” she murmurs, palming the brick walls behind her for a door. For the feeling of a doorknob. She can’t have this now. She can’t stand to witness one of her worst memories.

A few feet ahead. There, a gray door that would take her out to an alley - out of this room. It’s just a room.

But the castle knows.

It only takes a second. A tall figure catches her peripheral attention.

Terra, with a scowl on his face. He’s impeccable: thick, effortlessly tousled hair just right, the pensive deepness of his eyes far away and hurt, unsure of her presence there. Something about him is tense, like he’s about to turn over his shoulder and walk away from her all over again.

Aqua has only one wish to ask what she used to call home. Smile. Please, smile.

[fuckinuchihas]

KONOHAMARU X READER

NOT RATED (DID NOT END UP EXPLICIT)

PARTS THREE & FOUR (COMBINING WITH THE EPILOGUE HERE ON TUMBLR)

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNINGS: N/A (unless potential mis-characterization is one)

PART ONE

PART TWO

A rescue team finds the two of you just a couple miles outside of Konoha. Even they acknowledge how little help they turned out to be after you’d made it back all that way on your own but there is a med ninja who sees to your leg immediately and gives you some long awaited relief.

Once you’re able to start trekking back to the village properly again, Konohamaru gently tugs at your sleeve until you step back a little and make space between the two of you and the others.

Immediately you imagine him changing his mind, retracting everything he said about taking you out for a night on the town once you made it back to the village you both call home but instead he just calmly, quietly promises that any information seen or given between the two of you belonged solely to you unless expressly asked for by the Hokage himself. 

It’s a reassurance, an insurance policy maybe? Something...you’re not sure but you don’t want to test it. Why would Naruto ask expressly about the sealing chains? He wouldn’t...so if Kono wasn’t going to tell him, it meant...you could stay in hiding just a little longer maybe. 

It both confuses you and warms your heart at the same time. 

Feeling a little bold you wind your pinky around his and squeeze gently in thanks before rushing ahead to meet up with the other nin. 

You breathe in a deep sigh of satisfaction when you feel the familiarity of Konoha air in your lungs. You’d have never thought it would smell so good, but it does. It feels and smells like home, like a word you’d been promised but now you actually feel it. There’s something that lingers around you when you step inside the village, something like safety, like rest, like not having to watch your own back every single second of every single day. 

“We need to give a report,” you say to Konohamaru, mostly so the other nin will nod and flash away. 

“I can take care of that,” he hedges, but you shake your head.

“No, we’ll go over all the details and let the chips fall where they may,” you promise. “Unless you think there’s something I need to worry about…” 

“No-nope, nothing here…” 

“Alright then, let’s go talk to the Nanadaime. It’s about time I met my cousin….officially.” 

Konohamaru leads the way and you follow silently behind. You try very hard not to give away your nerves but after so long of being in close quarters together, it would be impossible for him not to notice.

You both pause outside the long rounded hallway that you know leads to the Hokage’s office, Konohamaru tugging at your sleeve once again. You turn to him with a questionable look, why is he slowing down? Showing hesitation...it isn’t like him. 

“What’s going on, Konohamaru? Did you not want me to come with you?” you ask, as you start to feel a little hurt, sad maybe. You’re not really sure. None of it makes sense. 

There’s a high blush on his cheeks and he rubs nervously at the back of his neck. 

“I just-I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” he says, and immediately that stone heavy ball of ‘other shoe waiting to drop’ sinks into your gut with a hard slam. 

“And what would the ‘wrong’ idea be exactly?” You ask, because you need to know, even if it hurts. 

He says something that comes out in a blur and before you can stop yourself, your hand is reaching out to nab the scruff of his neck before you slam him back against the wall. “I don’t have time for this Kono, just say whatever it is,” You growl. 

“Naruto might have set this mission up as an um...a-mattch-makking-thing-” 

You blink at him. 

That was not what you’d been expecting. 

“You convinced the...hokage, to put you on a mission with me b-because you thought I was hot-well comfortable…” you say, remembering his preferred word. 

You blink up at him. 

The two of you had nearly died because he wanted some alone time with you? 

He must be trying and failing to chase your mental gymnastics with the way his eyes keep pinging all over the place but in the end all you can do is laugh because breaking down in the hokage building, no matter how fitting, seems well...inappropriate. 

You drag him down the hall quite successfully considering he’s grown fairly tall and you, well you stopped growing taller pretty early on but you get him outside the room where you need to be and you force him through the door with a quiet, “This isn’t over.” 

“Lord Seventh, we’ve come to give report regarding the mission to chart and explore the empty space just beyond the land of fire as for possible expansion,” you say, because that’s exactly what the two of you were supposed to be doing and now, fuck...now it’s- of course you should have seen something coming. Nobody has been expanding since the war really, though you had guessed Konoha and the land of Fire would be first given how much the Allied Nations thought of Naruto. 

“Oh and...should we...expand over that way?” Naruto says, with cheek that is very unbecoming of a Hokage. 

Something like grit settles in your chest as you continue on, Konohamaru deathly silent as if he knows he’s going to say the wrong thing. 

“Well now that the Black Beast Tsunami has been sealed away, I imagine it’s quite safe,” You say, hearing both Naruto and his advisor gasp in surprise. 

“The Black Beast Tsunami? I thought he was a joke!!!” Nartuo said, eyes wide before he looked to Konohamaru as if you weren’t the one just speaking about it. 

“Sealed-?”

“Yes, sealed...with my Adamantine Sealing Chains,” you say, making both men take notice of you once again. 

“Hey I think that’s that’s the same thing mom used on Kuruma, right Shika?” he says, turning to his advisor. 

Shikamaru Nara, the advisor to the Hokage that you’ve only heard about in passing. Rumored to be the smartest nin in Konoha, maybe all the allied nations combined. He turns to Naruto and squeezes the bridge of his nose before he says, “Yeah, something like that...I think she’s trying to tell you something, Naruto.” 

You don’t get another word in edgewise before Naruto is talking to someone-something  else in the room that you genuinely hope no one else can see, and then he’s embracing you in a hug. 

“Uh…” 

“Yeah, he has that effect on people...it’s a drag but you get used to it,” Shikamaru said, taking a long hit off a cigarette that hangs unlit from his lips. 

“Family! I have family!!” 

“Woah there, nobody said anything about-” You start, but Nartuo just squeezes around you further and honestly you don’t really know how to handle it so you stand there dumbly for a while longer. 

“Did I tell you that you have the best taste or what, Konohamaru?! Eh? Cousin to the Hokage, to your big brother Naruto,” he says, somehow hands everywhere to hold you in place while also rubbing the top of a blushing Konohamaru’s head.

“Lord Seventh! If you would please get yourself under control!” You say, making everyone in the room stop, freeze.  

When it doesn’t seem like they’re ready to speak again, you continue. “I appreciate your….readily acceptance of the truth but that doesn’t change anything. You are Hokage and I am just another citizen of the Konoha and I’d very much like to keep it that way.” 

You watch Naruto sink down just a little and you lie to yourself and say it doesn’t make you feel guilty but it does. In your defense though, it’s been a long trip and you really just want to get home and think over everything that’s happened.

“Sure, sure...but all of the Konoha is my family and that isn’t going to change now.” 

You nod because you don’t want to argue any further. Honestly the last scrap of fight you had left in you escaped halfway through that small little sad sigh that Naruto gave. “Then I will take my leave,” you say, bowing your final respect before slowly standing on shaky legs and moving out of the room, closing the door behind you. 

You get three days, which honestly is about two and a half more than expected. Konohamaru is a bit headstrong that way. It comes to your attention that he’s been busy with a couple other things too, so that’s bought you a little reprieve to do some thinking, and healing. Mostly thinking, though. That med nin was pretty quick on the leg stuff and everything else had all but faded. 

You’ve just gathered your laundry off the line outside your modest, but decent apartment when you hear the clink of a small stone on your window. 

“You break it, you buy it,” you say, but he nervously chuckles and cautiously climbs up the overlapping beams to put himself down right smack dab in front of you.

“I was thinking, we’d spend some time together this evening, if you’d be up for that sort of thing…” 

Bless his clueless little heart.

“Well it certainly seems a lot safer than tackling a mission that will take us a stone’s throw away from one of the most deadly assassins ever mentioned…” you snark, because you honestly can’t help yourself and it’s kinda cute to see him all flustered. 

“Haha, that’s cute. No more fake missions, I swear,” he says, crossing his heart in an adorable, somewhat lame gesture only someone who was still at least a little part child could take so seriously. 

“Oh, no more fake missions...then what exactly will this outing entail?” You ask, just to give him a little bit of a hard time. 

“I was actually thinking of taking you on a picnic, if that would be okay. There’s a place overlooking the city and it can be kinda nice after dark,” he says. 

You hmm a bit. “And I’m just supposed to agree to go out after dark with some random-

“Hey! I’m not random!”

“Random ninja because he shows up at my door looking all handsome and flustered?” Just what type of girl do you take me for, Konohamaru?” 

“One who can take care of herself?” he says, only a hint of growling frustration but it’s enough to make you laugh all the same. 

“Fair enough,” You say, “We’re in agreement then,  If you try anything I’ll kick your ass.” 

“Of course,” he says, as if you’d been the last person to think of it that way and it fills you up to know that he really does admire your strength as much as he’s said he did.

“Okay then, I’ll be ready at seven thirty sharp, and don’t forget you have to feed me. None of that salty broth either Kono, real food!” You say, making your way back inside your apartment where you shut the blinds behind you so he can’t watch the little happy dance your feet give without much advisory from your brain. 

“It’s a date…” you say to yourself, and then grin wide and open where no one can see you. 

Somehow you force yourself through the rest of the day. You have taken a much needed break from missions, not that there’s usually too many to go around these days anyway but now all your energy is focused on you and that’s rarely ever a good thing. 

You deep clean the apartment all the while telling yourself and an imaginary Konohamaru that it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just something that’s needed done for a while and now you have the time. That’s all. 

You’re grown, you are allowed to do things grown people do; even your father had come to respect that rule before he passed but still just thinking of letting out all your carnal frustrations on Konohamaru makes you wanna flee back to your cocoon of blankets on the bed and not finish getting ready.

You really don’t wanna scare him off, not that you think you could per say...oh who are you kidding, of course you could. You scare them all away… but Kono is different, he really is…

Right?

Yes, he’s different.

Still, maybe it's better to take things slow sometimes, right? Give them a taste and then have something worth waiting for too maybe? 

You groan in frustration, being inside your own head about this is not helping. 

Unfortunately as you’ve thought many times before, it’s not like you’ve got a whole click of Kunoichi at your beck and call to talk these things out with so you just have to make do with you. 

That’s not appealing in the least. 

There’s still about forty minutes til the ‘date’ is supposed to happen when your doorbell rings. 

You squawk in an undignified manner as you rush to put on some sort of robe after having just stepped out of the shower. 

What is with this guy, does he have some sort of sixth sense for when you’re mostly wet and naked? 

When you peek outside though, your body sags in relief. It’s just a woman, a small dark haired woman with Hyuga eyes...fuck-is did Nartuo send his girlfriend over to ‘help?’ 

“Uh….hi?” You say, because you don’t actually know her name, or your own for a few beats there. 

“Hello, sorry to um, to interrupt but I thought maybe you would like some...help?” 

“You mean Naruto thought I’d like some help,” You say, skeptical that it was all her plan that the two of you ended up here. 

“No, well I mean he mentioned that Konohamaru was um… he said you might like a friend and I may not be-be much but I can be a friend,” she says, and okay, that was cute.

“So because Konohamaru is a mess he was worried about me also being a mess…” You say, but you’re grinning now because Kono being all worked up about a date with you seems positive and you’re not quite as nervous somehow anymore. 

“No you’re not a mess...clearly,” she says, though when her eyes look around the room you feel maybe she can see just far enough into the past to know how much of a lie she just told. 

“Oh sorry, where are my manners?” You say, goofily waving off your state of dress by making somewhat of a proper introduction. 

“You can call me Hinata…” she says, and you feel a vague sense of memory over the name but nothing beyond what you’ve already hammered out. 

“Sorry I just...I’m not usually very good with these things, y’know...with other Kunoichi and like women in general honestly.” You say, “I’ve always been a bit more….rough and tumble I guess.” 

“Oh I don’t think you’d find that would get in the way with some of our female nin but I can understand it’s a bit hard to put yourself out there,” Hinata says, somehow sweeping you into a polite sitting posture without really having done much. 

“I wasn’t very good at it either, at talking to people at all really but I’ve learned a few things from my friends and I’d be more than happy to pass it on, if you’d like of course,” she says, taking a comb out of somewhere as she starts just brushing your hair with it. You glance over at her in these cute little black shorts and some kind of sweater shirt and you’re wondering where the pockets are, but you don’t ask. 

“Uh sure, okay...not like I have much else to be doing right now,” You say nervously, letting her work her comb magic through your usually tangled up mess of hair. 

“I haven’t known Konohamaru all that well for very long but I have watched over Naruto for more years than either of us would like to admit,” she says, chuckling a little which makes you chuckle too. “I see a lot of the same qualities in them; determination, playfulness, and of course that neverending hope.” 

You nod in agreement because as much as you’d love to argue there’s not many differences when it comes to the two you’re talking about, not where it matters anyway. 

“The stories they share in childhood are not kind, not on either boy. Naruto was ignored to the point of abuse and Konohamaru was pampered beyond that same point. Each found their path willingly and guided one another where they needed to go. I truly believe that with everything I have,” Hinata says, doing something that makes one side of your hair a little shorter, tucking it under something, around something? You’re not sure you just want to hear more.

“Naruto gave Konohamaru someone to look up to and Konoahmaru gave Naruto someone to empower, to protect, to champion for even before all the stuff with Sasuke-there was his ‘little brother’ and I think that was just as important,” she says, pulling a mirror out of nowhere and offering it to you. 

“Oh wow...that’s...that actually looks really good how did you do that?” You ask, “Is it forbidden jutsu?” I won’t tell anyone...just show me how.” 

Hinata just shakes her head, giggling at you a little and promises to show you another time before she follows you into your closet like it was your choice and helps you pick out your best outfit. 

“You Kunochi really are something else,” you say, but Hinata just reminds you that you’re one of them too. 

“Not with this stuff though…” You say, finding it a bit hard to realize that you’ve spent almost an hour with another kunoichi and you haven’t wanted to run away. “I’m not good at this stuff.” 

“It’s not a necessity for fighting usually but Ino, Sakura, they’ve taught me it can be a pretty useful skill to have in your bag. I could teach you, they would be happy to teach you some things too if you’d be interested. They are busy kunoichi of course, but they are also women and we like to get together sometimes and just talk and teach one another things,” Hinata says, and then grins wide as she edges her way to the door. “You’re always welcome to join us and not just because of who you’re dating.” 

“Sure,” you find yourself agreeing, and then Hinata is gone and you glance down at your watch and shit, it’s like five minutes til time for Konohamaru to show up. 

You rush to the bathroom only to find everything is as ready as it’s going to be for you to leave. Your hair is done, you’re wearing your best outfit, you actually look somewhat put together and the mess you’d made of your closet has been straightened up quite nicely. 

“Black magic,” you whisper when you think of Hinata’s help but you still can’t help but smile. 

It’s a really nice feeling. 

*DATE EPILOGUE*

You answer the door, one arm carefully tucked behind you. 

Konohamaru looks fucking adorable in a pair of chinos and some sort of half dressed up half dressed down style you weren’t really expecting. 

You’re starting to think maybe you weren’t the only one who had kunoichi intrude through your afternoon. 

“You look beautiful-” 

“My don’t you look handsome-” 

You both chuckle a bit at one another. 

“Thank you,” you say, trying to keep the steady blush out of your cheeks. 

“You too,” he says, artfully rearranging the picnic basket he’s holding so that the arm closest to you is free to offer. 

“Just let me lock up,” you say, hiding your cheeks when you turn away to do just that.

You immediately take his arm when you turn back around, fighting off the hints of embarrassment you feel. It might not have been the best idea, the matchmaking aspects of the mission at least, but being cooped up with one another did make friendly touching come a bit easier you think. 

“So what made you think of a picnic?” you ask, not wanting to lag in conversation output. 

“Well I did want to try to impress you and somehow I don’t think sparring would have gone that well for me,” he answers, with a chuckle. “Not without breaking a real sweat at least.” 

“Oh I don’t know, I kinda like you all sweaty and spent,” you say and then wince and laugh at how it comes out. ���Sorry that was probably a little too far eh?” 

“Don’t worry about those things,’ he says, waving his hand around a bit. “I’m sure you’ve noticed this about me but I’m not great at knowing the right times to say and more importantly, not say certain things. I’d rather you just be you without trying to filter everything in or out and I’ll try my best to just be me.”

“Alright then, I think I can live with that,” you say, chuckling a bit as he guides you up toward the hill that leads to the top of Hokage Mountain. 

You keep up light conversation, nothing too much too heavy and you only tease him slightly about the misguided mission attempt. He takes it all in good fun as it’s intended and eventually puts a blanket down beside you before making a half-hearted attempt to ‘help’ you down. 

It’s precious and adorable, and completely unnecessary but you let him anyway.

He opens the basket and your belly rumbles happily at the smell of barbeque. 

“Wow, you’ve really outdone yourself,” you say, eyeing the selection of meats and veggies that you can see. He brought enough for three, maybe even four people unless one of those happen to be an Akimichi, and you can’t help but chuckle at how proud he is of himself. 

“I uh, I went around asking about your favorites and this was by far your most chosen meal that you eat out in town at least,” he says, like it’s not the most adorable thing that he’s done...recon for your date.

You nod because it is your favorite in town. “I like the way they season the meat. It reminds me a bit more of food from, well Takigakure, than most places here at home.” 

“I see you do that a lot, backtrack. You know, I want you to feel welcome here in Konoha but it’s okay if you feel like you have homes in other places too,” he says, and it’s so sweet and honest and such a Kono thing to say. 

“I used to correct it a lot because people assumed I mean Konoha when I said home, and for the most part I didn’t in the past,” you say, chewing at your lip a little. “But this time, I-I wanted to emphasize what I actually meant when I said home, was here in the village.” 

He hands you over a full box of barbeque and watches as you happily shovel some into your mouth. It’s a little embarrassing but nothing he hasn’t seen before so you try not to let it get to you. 

Eventually he starts to eat too and you watch him stuff himself silly and sigh in relief of that warmth when both of your bellies are full. 

“Kono...can I ask you something?” you say, rubbing your fingers through his hair a bit as he’s stretched out beside you. 

“Sure, anything.” 

“Why did you really want to spend time with me, I mean...sure I can see there aren’t tons of women around who look like me, if that’s your thing, which I’m still not really convinced it is…” you start, “I just I can’t imagine what gets you from...she’s kinda cute to let's spend a week off charting nature so I can get closer to her? Y’know?”

“Okay,” he says, “I can see how you might look at it that way but have you ever tried to talk to you? Cause I’m not trying to be mean here...but you’re intimidating as hell,” he says and well...that’s probably fair. 

“I tried, you know, a couple different times. To say hello, ask after you, but you are a very ‘all business’ type of person until you see a reason to let someone in, or at least that’s been my experience.” 

“Okay I can agree with that, I’m not very sociable….but then why the interest at all? You’re the opposite of that, everyone loves you and from what I’ve seen you make friends easily enough, so why-”

“Because you’re worth it!” he says, this time an eerie sincerity settling over his features as he continues. “Because you were worth getting to know, you were worth the barriers and the boundaries and the effort. I knew you would be, and I was right!” 

That shuts you up, just a little. It shuts up that nagging in your brain asking you why this perfect little cinnamon roll has gone through so much just to get a chance to be with you. It lets you take a breath and just savor and enjoy the feeling that he thought you were worth it, still thinks that by the way, and you are helpless to just fall into him like a puppet whose strings have been cut. 

He wraps his big strong arms around you and for once in your life you just let someone hold you, just let him be there and strong and dependable.

“Thank you,” you say, “for making the effort.” 

“You have always been, will always be worth it…” 

“Wow that’s deep,” you say, teasing while also wiping at the corner of your eye. 

“Well I wasn’t sure when a good time to tell you was but, I might have fallen a little bit in love with you like a long time ago so...y’know, whenever you wanna catch up that could be nice.” 

“You-you-” you sputter, how dare he catch you off guard like this, but your fumbling just makes him laugh louder and harder than before. 

You ignore your embarrassment and roughly push at his shoulders until he’s forcefully down on the ground, blanket beneath him, stars shining in his eyes and that’s when it hits you that maybe you’re not so far behind after all. Your breath rushes out as you take in his smile, his brightness, and everything goes a bit sideways in a good way, in an exciting way. 

“Kono-” you start, but you can’t quite finish.

“Kiss me, if you want,” he says, and suddenly you’ve never wanted anything more. 

It’s a bit of a difficult angle but you manage, just a soft peck of lips at first but when you start to pull away you feel his encouraging hand on the back of your neck and you gasp a little in surprise. 

You lay there for a bit longer, his arms wrapped around you, kissing you for all you’re worth until you finally pull away. 

“You know, I’m not usually this easy,” you say, straightening yourself up a bit as you clear your throat. 

“Maybe, but I think I’ll take that as a compliment to my expressive love confession rather than you exhibiting some sort of loose moral code suddenly,” he grins and you want to hit him in his cute smug face but you’re still ringing a bit from the kisses. 

“Yeah yeah, Romeo… just keep your hands to yourself for the rest of the night,” you say, and then immediately ignore how much it bothers you now that you’ve said it. 

“I will do my best,” he says earnestly but there’s a devilish look in his eye and you kinda hope it means what you think it means. 

It means exactly what you think it does and he manages to get you both in a little more trouble throughout the night but it’s still quite innocent as he packs up to walk you home. 

You hold hands as you stroll through the village streets and even though a few stop to speak to him, they mostly leave you in peace and it’s kind of nice, more than kind of actually, it’s really nice. It’s one of the best nights of your entire life, and you hate the idea of letting it go even for just a little while. 

When you make it back to your door, you linger there. He’s not expecting an invitation in, you know this and you’re not going to give one either, but you do feel some sort of need to make sure he understands how much everything he has done for you has meant. 

‘I might not be there, not quite yet…” you say, though it might be more lie than truth at this point. “But I promise, Sarutobi Konohamaru, that I will give you absolutely everything I can until I catch up, okay?” 

“That’s more than enough for me,” he says, whispering your name before bringing your lips to his one last time. “I only ever needed the chance.”

“Next time we’re sparring,” you say with a wide, evil grin as you shut the door behind you. You can hear the groan outside your door but you know he’s smiling all the same. 

“That’s all I need too, just the chance…”

[homenum-revelio-hq]

DARK MARKS AND FLAME.

The quiet, damp spring morning of Sunday, March 21, 1982 is suddenly shattered by the crack of explosions sounding throughout Diagon Alley! As the smoke clears, it becomes clear that several buildings were caught in the blasts, most prominently Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Shoppe and Maxim Talkalot’s Apothecary. What also becomes clear are the two Dark Marks floating in the sky above the burning rubble.

The fear and confusion engendered by the explosions triples as the sight and the whole Alley erupts in chaos and terror. The DEATH EATERS are here. No one is safe.

Some of the buildings targeted seem like obvious choices; others, less so. Florean Fortescue has been thumbing his nose at blood-supremacy for years, and the gossip about his employee’s tiff with one Lucius Malfoy is still making the rounds four months later; really the Dark Mark floating above his ice cream shoppe was just a matter of time. Maxim Talkalot’s apothecary is another matter; the Talkalots have always been sensible, practical people and while almost no one would be surprised were it be revealed that Fortescue’s clerk Sirius Black were a member of that Phoenix Group just like his deceased school chum, Potter, none of Talkalot’s people have any connection to the Order...but someone must have done something to upset the Death Eaters, because a Dark Mark hangs in the air above the ruins of his shoppe, too.

Most of the members of the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol on duty this morning are in Newcastle-upon-Tyne investigating what turns out to be a false report of Death Eater activity; while the Ministry scrambles to call-in and dispatch available Aurors and other agents, the Death Eaters take the opportunity to sow more chaos and fear - and to fight anyone who doesn’t run screaming at the sight of their silver masks.

CHAOS AT HOME.

The Order of the Phoenix barely has a chance to begin to gather and dispatch a few members to Diagon Alley to assist - because trouble has come to find them, too. Shortly after the explosions begin, the Potter Estate is overrun by Death Eaters. It was their headquarters for over three years until it was recently compromised by the defection of one Ainsley Abbott to the Dark Lord (James having been the Secret Keeper for his home before his untimely death at Ainsley’s hands) and the Order has been waiting ever since for the other shoe to drop...but in the meantime, it seemed a perfect location for Maurice Creevey to host his new recruiting broadcasts. It’s large, available, still has a loyal house-elf on staff, is well-warded, and since its anonymity is already jeopardized it would be no real loss to the Order should the Death Eaters be able to trace the broadcasts back to their source. Not that anyone expected that so quickly...

No, a lazy Sunday morning seemed a perfect time for a trial run of their new spell-augmented program and call-in line (and for Emmeline Vance and Benjy Fenwick to finally clear-out the last of the supplies left behind during their hasty abandonment of their impromptu infirmary) and all was going well...until the Death Eaters arrived.

They were able to Apparate right through the wards, as though someone who knew the spells had told them how - or perhaps they’d simply gathered so much magical power that they overwhelmed the magicks that should have forestalled them. However they did it, they were suddenly there with little to no warning and the handful of Order members found themselves abuptly fighting for their lives.

Everything happened so fast that the first few minutes of battle actually went out live on-air before the broadcast cut-off - making for an extremely tense unintended cliff-hanger for the startled listeners! On the upside, those who don’t think it a cheap gimmick in bad-taste as sure to tune-in next time to find out what happened...provided that enough of the Order survives that there will be a next broadcast...

ASSIGNMENTS.

DIAGON ALLEY:

Caradoc Dearborn & Cordelia Greengrass. If Cora wants to play in the big leagues, she’s going to have to prove herself. Caradoc pulls her along to Diagon Alley when the explosion hits, knowing she needs the experience on the field. If she does well, they can give her a set of Phoenix Tags. If she doesn’t...well, if she doesn’t, she’ll be lucky to survive, so any problems then might be a moot point.

Dedalus Diggle & Fabian Prewett. Dedalus was at work; Fabian was browsing for supplies for his classes. An ordinary, innocent morning - but then the shoppe next to Diggle’s Delight was blasted apart so badly it shattered Dedalus’s windows, and Quality Quidditch Supplies shook so hard all the Bludgers jumped free of their chains. The chaos they found outside was even worse. Dedalus didn’t even recognize Fabian until after he’d Stunned the Death Eater who had a hold of his arm!

Ryland Greengrass & Marlene McKinnon. Ryland knew it was going to be nerve-wracking, braving the streets of Diagon Alley all alone, but he’d summoned his courage and was on his way to meet Dedalus for a morning coffee. He had no idea how much courage this morning was going to require. When Marlene popped into view, it was a relief...until he realized that she’d come here to fight, and had no hesitation in dragging him into battle beside her!

Dorcas Meadowes & Artem Tremblay. A Sunday morning shift at Flourish & Blotts isn’t usually exciting - but then, Diagon Alley isn’t usually on fire. For once, no one batted an eye when Dorcas abandoned her post to run into the street...and into battle. Artem might have approached the situation with more prudence even after their early-for-them late morning breakfast was interrupted by explosions, but when they saw Dorcas trying to duel two Death Eaters at once they couldn’t just sit back and let her...could they?

Isla Selwyn-MacMillan & Lu Travers. Usually Isla is careful about what battles she fights, about how exposed she allows herself to be - but usually, Diagon Alley isn’t on fire with Dark Marks floating in the air above the shoppes that form the jugular vein of England’s magical community. This isn’t a time for care. So when she sees Lu come stumbling out of a shoppe, she doesn’t hesitate: she grabs their arm, tells them to watch her back, and joins the battle. Never mind that nobody asked Lu if they wanted to go to war today...

Branwen Yaxley & Annalise Fawley. When Annalise volunteered to help with the Diagon Alley attack, she thought it would be a good way to earn the Order’s trust. She didn’t expect to be paired with someone as enthusiastic about the fight as Bran! At least most of the other Death Eaters don’t know she’s really on their side, so they won’t be cross with her after for fighting them a little too hard...but on the other hand, most of them don’t know not to try and kill her back. If she wants to survive, she might be forced to help Bran win every duel that comes their way...unless a truly foolproof chance to hex her in the back comes along...

Frank Longbottom & Sirius Black. Frank knew sometimes things would be hard to navigate between being an Auror and working for the Order, but never did he expect to have to try and stay on duty while helping his fellow members during a battle. Nor did he think it would entail having to hold Sirius Black back from jumping into the flames of the young wix’s destroyed workplace.

Edgar Bones & Efa Chittock. It’s important to keep the newer members teamed up with someone who’s been around a bit and no one knows that more than Edgar Bones. While Efa had joined the Order before the new mentorship came into play, that doesn’t mean he still can’t act like one now on the battlefield.

Lily Evans & Lucinda Talkalot. Lily notices the shell-shocked young girl immediately - she’s clearly an employee of the business that just exploded in front of their eyes, probably on her way to work that morning - and she intends to get Lucinda to safety before they both end up dead.

POTTER ESTATE:

Peter Pettigrew & Mary Macdonald. Peter knew that telling the Death Eaters about the Potter Estate meant he’d have to be there fighting alongside the Order when they attacked in order to avoid suspicion. What he didn’t expect, however, was to get stuck dueling Death Eaters back-to-back with Mary, who seems to question everything about this not-so-random attack.

Maurice Creevey & Arabella Figg. Arabella had been a solid choice for Maurice’s broadcast and phone service. While not exactly a Muggle, she often has to live like one. Interviewing her on air about her life might show something to people listening. Too bad they never get to finish what they’re doing before chaos ensues. 

Benjy Fenwick & Emmeline Vance. Benjy and Emmeline are working on getting the remaining supplies from the estate to the House of Bones when the Death Eaters attack. Neither are used to being on the battlefield, which would prove to be a struggle if one were to get hurt...

Regulus Black & Gideon Prewett. Gideon has been tasked with looking into the mysterious necklace that Regulus claims to be a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul. He called Regulus to the Potter Estate prior to the attack to help guide him through the properties of the Horcrux. Little do they know what’s about to interrupt their discussion!

Amelia Bones & Mundungus Fletcher. After her brother gets pulled into an impromptu mission in Diagon Alley, Amelia rushes to the Potter Estate to see how she can help. She thinks she finds Mundungus Fletcher avoiding responsibility, but really, he’s looking at a list of dates. The same list that had been discovered at the Rosier house on Valentine’s Day. The chilling part is - the list has today’s date right at the top. 

Remus Lupin & Severus Snape. Severus is delivering the next batch of healing potions to Emmeline to put away for packing when the attack begins. It’s hard to know what to do, given he fights for both sides, but it’s even harder to realize he hadn’t known this was planned. By the time he runs into Remus Lupin, who’s just enjoying the last days at a fallen friend’s home, it’s understandable why his old classmate might be suspicious of him.

Emma Vanity & Hestia Jones. Hestia was here to observe the broadcast; Emma was planning on helping Benjy pack and move healing supplies. Neither one of them expected to end up in a fight for their lives; neither one of them are really comfortable with the idea of being in a battle - but the battle is happening, and their only chance of getting out of it alive is to fight.

Alice Longbottom & Maddy Warren. Alice wasn’t working - not scheduled for duty today, unlike her husband. While she’s one of the best fighters in the Order, they can’t risk her being exposed by the Aurors called to the scene wondering why she, too, showed up so instead of rushing to Diagon Alley to face the Death Eaters, she’s stuck doing behind-the-scenes gigs with the newest Order member... until the Death Eaters find them. 

THINGS TO CONSIDER.

This is all happening very fast and things are frightening and chaotic - for the Order as well as for the bystanders. No one in Diagon Alley knows if there are more attacks to come; no one at the Potter Estate knows how the Death Eaters got in nor how many there are. No one know who might be hurt, or worse.

This was not a planned mission, so they do not have access to the Map as they had during the last several missions. Those that have their Phoenix Tags will definitely want to use them! Remember, some characters don’t yet have them, while others may have forgotten to keep them handy when they weren’t expecting a fight.

While we definitely want you to spend your primary focus and effort on your assigned paras, you might get to a point where your characters want to split-up or trade-off writing partners or add a third character to the thread etc etc. This is allowed! Things are pure chaos in the Wixen World right now, and we aren’t going to stand in the way of that!

DETAILS.

Some of the pairings above were set by the admins based on events planned in-game. Others were chosen using random dice rolls. As always, admins will keep track of what is happening within threads. At random intervals, players might be asked to dice roll for their group, which will then spur a mini plot drop for their characters.

Remember to tags your posts with the date of event and to tag any open starters with ‘homenumstarter.’ This event does not yet have an end date, as we will vote on that like we have in the past. Threads set prior to March 21st can still be continued and more can still be started, if needed for plots!

[name-me-regret]

If The World Was Ending 2/?

If The World Was Ending Chapter Two: Worlds Apart

Read on AO3.

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“Here we stand Worlds apart, hearts broken in two, two, two Sleepless nights Losing ground, I'm reaching for you, you, you

Feeling that it's gone Can change your mind If we can't go on To survive the tide love divides

Someday, love will find you Break those chains that bind you One night will remind you How we touched and went our separate ways...”

~Separate Ways (Worlds Apart) - Journey

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Where did all the water go?

Buck kicked and flailed desperately, not knowing which way was up or down as he was turned over and over in the water, his lungs burning from lack of air. He might have given up as he felt the darkness creeping in as he felt himself get hit several times by debris, but only one thought kept him fighting to get to the surface, Christopher. Finally, he broke the surface as he took in a desperate gulp of air, hand grabbing at something, anything to anchor himself and luckily managed to get a string of lights that had been strung from one roof of a building to another. That gave him an idea of how deep the water was, and knew it would be too much for a little boy with CP.

“CHRISTOPHER!” There’s a throbbing in his head, likely from being struck by something and his ears were ringing, but he can’t concentrate on that. He has to find Chris. The string of lights holds his weight and he’s eternally grateful since the seawater is pulling at him as it tries to drag him away, looking around frantically for any sign of Chris.

Buck inhales to try and scream the boy’s name again and winds up with a mouthful of water as he chokes, trying to spit it out. “BUCK!” His head whips around, searching for the boy. He almost sobs in relief when he sees him, clinging to a cement post “HELP! BUCK!” It breaks the man’s heart at hearing how scared he sounds.

“CHRIS! HANG ON! STAY THERE!” He let’s go of the string of lights without hesitation, trying to swim and watch where he is going, but it’s hard with the current and all the debris in the water. Mostly, he’s being dragged and he can only try and kick and paddle his legs and arms to get closer to Chris. He reaches out a hand for the boy. “CHRIS! GRAB MY HAND!”

He misses and he tries to stop his progress before he gets pulled away too much. Then his heart stops when he hears Chris scream and he goes under. “NO!” He jumps back into the water, fighting the current with everything he has, and this time does sob as he catches the boy as they both surface. “I got you! I got you!”

Now he had to get them to safety.

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Tony is working on the welding one of the arms of his latest suit, Mark 44. He’d had the idea after the Mandarin Incident when Bruce had come to visit him (more like sleep) after everything had been resolved. Banner always talked about being afraid that he would lose control of the Hulk, so Tony had started the idea of the Hulkbuster Armor, or the Mark 44. He’d run it by Bruce and he’d been all for it, if only so he could be stopped before he hurt someone. That’s what he had been working on for the past month, as well as completing the Mark 43 and finishing testing on it. He’d also repaired some of the armors that had been salvageable after the Battle on the Norco.

He’d planned on initiating the Clean Slate Protocol, so he could show Pepper how serious he was that he wanted to make things better between them. Then he’d remembered what he’d seen on the other side of that worm hole and what might be coming. So, he’d held off on it, and instead sent the suits back to the underground lab in Malibu. The house had been destroyed, and instead of rebuilding the house, he’d just left it as a sort of underground bunker/lab. Regardless, he’d promised her that he would get the Extremis out of her, and try not to obsess too much on his job.

It had been alright for a while, but then it had ended, as Tony knew it would. A break, she’d called it, but Tony knew what that meant. Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t expected it after everything. He was a piping hot mess, and he really hadn’t expected her to stick around. As for the Extremis, it would always be inside of her, but he’d managed to neutralize most of it. Tony knew that if she ever got angry enough it would manifest a bit in her skin, but mostly in her eyes. He was going to make sure to have JARVIS record the next time there was a board meeting. He’d love to see her put the fear of Pepper in those old geezers. It would be a video that’d go into his personal files, along with a video of Steve Rogers trying to navigate a computer.

As he welded the next piece, it was another person that was on his mind; namely Evan Buckley. If there was ever a blast from his past, it was him.

Tony hadn’t spoken to the man in almost a year, and hadn’t seen him in nine years. The last time was that charity event where he’d used his mom’s concealer to cover the black eye that Charles Buckley had given him. Of course Tony had noticed, because he’d been close enough to do so.

They’d dated for about a year, and besides Pepper, it had been one of the healthiest relationships he’d ever had. Especially when you compared it to what he’d gone through with Tiberius Stone and Sunset Bain. Evan had been eighteen and Tony had been twenty-two years old, a year after he’d taken over Stark Industries. Tony wouldn’t say he had been in love, since he was still figuring out what that even meant, but he knew that with Evan, it could be possible. It had ended though, because of Evan’s father.

The man was greedy and had been trying to profit from SI for years, but his homophobia had won out when he’d found out that Tony and Evan we’re dating. He’d forbidden Evan from seeing Tony, but not before he’d beaten his son black and blue. Maddie was eight years older than him and had already married Doug as soon as she’d turned twenty, leaving him all alone, for six years. So, there had been no one to defend Evan from the monster.

Tony had wanted to give the bastard a taste of his own medicine. He’d have even thought of asking Rhodey to help him, and he would have agreed on principle alone. Also, Rhodey really liked Evan, and he had even tried to convince him to join the Air Force when Tony had finally gotten them to meet. The only reason he hadn’t done anything was because Evan had damn near begged Tony to leave it alone. He’d told him that he was going away soon anyways. If it had been anyone else, he’d have done it anyways, but since it was Evan, he’d very reluctantly let it go.

And true to his word, he’d left as soon as he had his high school diploma in hand. Tony knew he’d applied to schools all out of state (and Pennsylvania was right next to New York and the Buckley manor was close to the state line), but he’d never told him which school he had decided on. Evan was just gone one day with only a letter left to him. He’d gotten a phone call from him two months later to tell him that he’d started at UCLA. Tony would have gone to see him then, but Obie had insisted he stay in New York and complete his deadlines. However, one deadline had turned into one more and one more, and then a charity ball, or a fundraiser, and by that point he had surrendered completely to his addictions and hook-ups.

It was almost three years before he looked Evan up, and it was to learn that he was no longer at UCLA. And it would be six more years before he saw him again, and in that time he’d been kidnapped in Afghanistan, gotten shrapnel in his heart and became a goddamn superhero. He’d just revealed himself as Iron Man when he finally saw Evan, on television on a news report of a rollercoaster accident, and damned if Evan Buckley wasn’t the firefighter they were interviewing.

Tony had seen the pain on his friend’s face (even if friend wasn’t the right word to describe their relationship), and knew he had to get in touch with him. That turned out to be two weeks later when he was in California for some SI business. He’d managed to get his cell phone number from his personnel file with the LAFD. Their firewalls had been atrocious, or maybe it was because they were no match for JARVIS. At least he’d gotten him to ‘patch’ up the hole in their defenses, as well as a backdoor someone had left behind. Tony wondered who’d want a backdoor to the LAFD.

He’d called him to catch up and see if their schedule’s coincided so they could meet. The man had been shocked but excited to hear from him, however, he was about to start a 24-hour shift and Tony wasn’t in town for more than a day. So, they had missed each other again. This time they’d kept up a bit more before the demands of their lives had once again left them incommunicado, and that had been almost two years. He’d learned during that time that he was seeing a woman almost twice his age.

Tony hadn’t liked it, since the balance of power in the relationship was not good. He felt like Evan was giving more than she was into the relationship, even if she couldn’t be blamed for having a sick mother. So, he hadn’t said anything, since Evan appeared to be smitten. Besides, Tony already knew how it was bound to play out, and while it was a harsh lesson, it was one that Evan needed to learn on his own. Tony couldn’t shield him, and Evan had always been so independent that he wouldn’t have been able to shield him even if he’d tried.

He was like Tony in that regard due to similar childhoods; growing up with a father that only saw you as a constant disappointment, and a mother that was much too “proper” to stand between her callous, bastard of a husband and their young and innocent child. That was most likely the reason Tony and Evan had clung to one another, and for that year together had been their only support.

For Buck, he’d been alone longer, six years since his sister had left to marry the first man that showed her any interest. As for Tony, Rhodey was in the Air Force, had joined straight out of MIT, but for the past eighteen months had been stationed at Yokohama Air Base in Tokyo. At the time Tony had also taken over SI, which was the only legacy his father had ever been proud of; besides Captain fucking America.

Tony groaned at the memories that resurfaced from talking to Evan, and it was very distracting. Their relationship had been a rather decadent one, and one he wouldn’t mind reliving once again. Which is why he had to stop these thoughts right now. Evan was obviously jonesing on this Eddie person, and he didn’t want to get in the middle of that.

“Sir, need I remind you that you’ve been up for almost 40 hours, and it would be optimal you get some sleep before your 1pm meeting,” JARVIS drawling in his crisp British voice.

The man sighed and waved his hand. “Alright, save it all, J,” He staggered to the couch and collapsed on. “Wake me up in two hours.” Tony yawned before he closed his eyes.

It seemed like he’d only just closed his eyes when the alarm went off through the penthouse. Tony jackknifed up in the couch, looking around to see if there was any danger, and it only took a second more to realize what that alarm meant. He guessed he was missing his 1pm meeting, and hoped Pepper wouldn’t be too angry.

He sprang to his feet, all sleep gone from his face as he pulled up the hallographic screens. “What have you got, J?” Tony was already pulling a t-shirt over his tank top that he deemed was clean enough. He doubted that he’d have enough time to shimmy into his flight suit, which was a shame since it was the most comfortable thing to wear while wearing the armor for long periods of time.

“A tsunami has just hit Southern California, sir.”-