#how many responsibilities he has. the sheer weight on his shoulders. his service is to the many not her

[justaz]

post magic reveal, post magic ban lifted, arthur gets to see merlin in all his glory and somehow falls deeper in love with him than he ever thought possible. merlin who is free and accepted and loved and ecstatic by it all, but there's that thought lingering in the back of his mind that only half of their destiny has been fulfilled. magic has returned to camelot but albion is still fractured in many different kingdoms, many of which are still holding onto the hate that uther spread which is seeping into the very fabric of the earth itself. druids and magic users and even magic creatures are still persecuted all across the realm and yeah camelot opened her arms to them but not everyone trusts it (justifiably).

arthur who is choking on the sheer amount of love he has for merlin and promising himself that he'll tell merlin, he'll confess, even if he feelings aren't reciprocated. merlin will know. merlin who has been chewing on an idea for some time now and is planning on bringing it up to arthur. its night as merlin is dressing arthur for bed and they're both quiet and tense. they break at the same time and end up speaking over one another. arthur allows merlin to go first since his nerves are eating away at him. then merlin speaks of leaving.

arthur feels his nerves rot and decay and fall into a bottomless pit. merlin is rambling about how every magical being in albion is still being targeting by various kingdoms and as the prophesied emrys, magic incarnate, druid king, should he not be doing more to help? he doesn't want to leave arthur's side, but he does want to help his people. he's seen only a fraction of the atrocities committed against them and he wishes to protect them, give them somewhere completely safe, a kingdom of magic so to speak. he promises that he'll only be gone for as long as it takes to establish a kingdom (a year? two? three?) but he promises to write and visit often...as long as arthur gives him permission and allows him to leave his service for the time being.

arthur of course agrees, half unhappy about it but completely understanding. surely, out of everyone, he is the one who can understand the weight of responsibility weighing on merlin's shoulders. he mentions that merlin will need someone with experience wearing the crown to guide him. plus, balance. merlin was always there for arthur, guiding him on how to be a better man, a great king, someone worthy of the praise he constantly spewed. it's only right that arthur gets to return that by helping merlin establish a safe haven and home for his people. and politically, camelot being the first kingdom to recognize merlin's and establish some trade agreement or treaty with them will strengthen merlin's kingdom's status and send a message that camelot stands with magic.

merlin smiles wide and asks what arthur was going to say. the king hesitates before biting his tongue and requesting that merlin bring up the honey cakes that had been prepared earlier that night. two of them. since merlin was no longer in his service, he didn't have to stand by and watch arthur eat - not that he ever did, the idiot loved to steal his food. shamelessly!! he never even tried to hide it. they both sat at the table in his chambers until late in the night, nibbling away at the sweets, chasing it down with wine, and chatting away.

arthur wasn't able to confess, but it did not change his feelings. if anything, merlin's heart and the decision he made only added fuel to the raging inferno of love and devotion within arthur. he knows that merlin will keep in contact and will return to his side one day. he gets through the tough days/nights by rereading merlin's letters and imagining seeing him again in royal garb and donning a crown.

[the-darklings]

in part 7 when dream gives wanderer the pebble, he never really answers “why now?” it’s been ~100 years since he made the promise!! is it just because she once again didn’t call for him when facing the demon?

because he loves her, and seeing how little she's willing to rely on him when she's in clear danger (a demon, who was dragging her to hell, no less) breaks his heart, especially the fact that she's more reliant on one of his creations instead. he envies the fact they're so comfortable and have such deep trust between them. has he truly failed her so badly that he doesn't even cross her mind when being tormented?

[testingcheats0n]

Detroit Become Human AU where:

-> Tommy is an up-and-coming livestreamer of the retro game Minecraft- forming part of a fledgling community of all-human players of the game. His growth is slow but steady and he has a future in a genre that had fallen out of fashion with the rise of the newest and more immersive VR games on the market. People love to see an actual human that could make mistakes and win against another fellow human fairly. The nostalgia it brought to some people is also undeniably at play.

It's worth noting that Tommy is a very lonely kid, with a non-existent social life since he and his family had to move to America after his father struck a lucrative business deal with his brilliant protege.

-> Wilbur, Tommy's older brother and only guardian after their father, Phil, dedicated his life to the creation of androids with his young but brilliant pupil Elijah Kamski, is a simple busker. It's hard to find a job at 24 with no previous experience or further education, he had to take care of Tommy, after all. True, their economic troubles never ended, and he could barely provide for Tommy, but at least they had each other, even if Wilbur was off to the streets of Detroit more often than not. He has no idea of his younger brother's blooming career in the gaming industry and is very worried about his future. The solution? A very suspicious android his best friend Schlatt offers for very cheap.

-> Phil Watson is a household name together with Elijah Kamski's, they created one of humanity's greatest tools, after all. Nothing suspicious here, they're definitely not hiding any potential deviancies from the code! In any case, his family never saw a dime of the frankly insane amount of money piling up in his bank account. He has an old phone he carries in his pocket every day with Wilbur's phone number, but he never dares to call it despite RN800, his assistant's, insistence that he was only making his own life harder. He is going to dial that phone number someday. Surely.

-> TU880 is an android from an old companion/educational line, discontinued after a few notable bugs and glitches in their core programming. Nothing serious, or life-threatening, but many customers have complained about disturbing behavior that falls straight into the uncanny valley- he's too human. Schlatt, his previous owner, refuses to disclose where he got TU880 from, nor does he have any legal documentation to prove he is his owner. Wilbur, desperate to find a solution for Tommy's perceived loneliness pays the fifty bucks his old pal asks for the android without asking any questions. It's weird for an adult to go around with a teen model created to counsel adolescents and help them with their homework. TU880 had problems with reading his grocery list, anyway.

-> Tommy is a bit weirded out, he thrives in an internet community which openly despises anything android, but his good friend Technoblade has plenty of useful advice, from maitenance to behavior. TU880 is odd, which he discards as kinks and bugs of the older models, but they get along nicely once TU880's programming kicks in. He likes to help Tommy edit his videos and speak about the problems of adolescence, he is oddly fond of bees or anything small and defenceless and likes to tell his 'dreams' of scientists in labcoats and other kids like him stuck in experiments. Tommy listens with half an ear, TU880 is his friend, after all. He thinks nothing of it.

-> It all becomes a bit too much when TU880 accidentally appears on camera during one of Tommy's streams. People assume he's Tommy's brother, and insist on getting an introduction. TU880 is ecstatic, but from what Tommy's told him, revealing his artificial status might harm his friend's career so he greets the chat as Toby, Tommy's older brother. The community goes wild and Tommy has to pretend that TU880 is his brother (which isn't that terrible per-se) and not the house assistant who has a complete psychological profile of him.

-> TU880 begins to feel strange, both regarding Tommy and his own place in the household. Calling Tommy hus brother is easy as calculus and makes his thirium pump skip a few beats, but he's not sure if he should be getting this attached. He's sure he is malfunctioning in some way, but Schlatt always assured him that he is fine. He thinks nothing of it and instead continues to watch over Tommy.

-> Minecraft is fun, and he eventually gets his own account on Wilbur's old (read: ancient) laptop despite possessing an internal processor powerful enough to play the game at its maximum capacity in his mind, and probably in a 3D holoprojector. At this point, he's in too deep and the friends he's making would certainly ask questions if he were to disappear. He has the opportunity to talk about anything at all to his growing audience, and the community is very welcoming in general once one integrates into their culture. He still doesn't feel it's fair to participate in the tournaments and all the other official competitions. People find it odd, but they assume he's not very good at PVP so no one tends to comment on it for now. It's okay though, he and his new friend Ranboo act as commentators during the events and everyone thinks they're pretty funny.

-> Ranboo is fun to be around. He just gets TU880- or as the internet knows him as, Tubbo. They click easily, sometimes the other boy seems just as confused about other people's reactions and behavior as Tubbo is (despite his in-depth knowledge of psychology. He's not quite connected to Cyberlife's database anymore and his learning algorithm is outdated at best.) and they like to spend their afternoons with Tommy, watching movies. The game overtakes their lives and they spend a lot of time playing privately with the best strategies Tubbo's advanced algorithms and Ranboo's sheer brilliancy can create. That's how they meet their friend Fundy, who is more than happy to keep their Technical Minecraft server a secret, as long as he gets to do his own thing with coding and they test it.

-> Tommy is just happy that he can use the cool farms for his own grinding.

-> Technoblade is Tommy's mysterious internet friend and fellow growing streamer. Everyone is sure that he's an android infiltrating the budding community, but after several years of isolated incidents, investigations, and online scandals no one was able to prove anything. Technoblade just never dies. (Tommy is 50% sure his friend is really an android, the older man simply refuses to comment). It is possible to spend months farming digital potatoes, people are just mean and want drama. Technoblade is just vibing. Incidentally, he's also the first one to figure out that Ranboo and Tubbo are androids. He is also the first one to figure out they're deviants. He doesn't mention it until much later though.

-> Jack and Niki Manifold have successfully founded their own mechanic business for android repairs. Cyberlife mumbled and grumbled at the siblings' repair shop, but in the end it was good for PR so they let them be. Tommy and Wilbur become their friends as TU880's frequent malfunctions inevitably bring the pair to the cheapest android repair service in the city. TU880 can't complain, Niki is sweet to him and understands what is wrong with him just by his description, since his diagnostics aren't working entirely and each an every single one of Jack's repairs last loner than every other mechanic he's been to.

-> Gradually, Tommy's fame becomes apparent, and Wilbur has the time to actually rest and spend time with his brother. He's just happy that they can be together. A weight is lifted off his shoulders and for the first time ever he feels like his little family has a future. Not even once does it pass through his mind that TU880 isn't acting like a typical android- he avoided the things on principle. Once, TU880 calls him his brother and he cries.

-> Sam is Cyberlife's very own private investigator. He is in charge of researching and turning in possible deviants that might help the company with developing a solution for the rising problem. In particular, he's been after the trail of a specific line of androids, the first one released by Kamski and Watson dubbed as TU. According to his investigations the line might have contained the code responsible for deviancy. Further research indicated that Kamski's code was based on a group project from the Dutch university for cibernetics.

-> Fundy is just a 21 y/o with a Twitch account and a passing interest in coding. Nothing serious, nothing suspicious. He absolutely wasn't part of the early AI coding trials that Kamski would later on use as the basis for his own code. If someone asks, he has no idea what ra9 means. He is almost sure that his friends are androids, the thought makes him very happy.

-> Puffy is Phil's new psychologist. Need I say more? Eventual Hurt/comfort baby!!!

[lizzieraindrops]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Destiny (Video Games) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Osiris/Saint-14 (Destiny) Characters: Saint-14 (Destiny), Osiris (Destiny) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Touch-Starved, Grief/Mourning, First Kiss, Self-Destructive Tendencies, Caretaking, Trauma, Comfort, Trauma Recovery, Loss, slow-developing relationship, not in the fic but like in universe, Sometimes New Trauma Reignites Old Trauma!! Summary:

Sometimes you need to be with the only person you'd feel safe to break down around, even if you never have. In the immediate wake of Sagira's death, Osiris comes to find Saint in the City. POV Saint-14.

wrote this because i made a fic-writing pact with @hencegoodfortune

i have never destined a knee in my life but i am care about sad bird boys

read here or on AO3

Saint had never thought the sight of Osiris would strike dread into his heart. But there was something completely wrong with the sharp-soft-fluid outline of his gleaming helm, his cowl’s feathery tresses and the flowing robes. His posture remained as impeccable as always as he strode through the echoing Tower hangar. Yet something troubled the lines of him. It was as if each exposed surface were on the verge of collapsing inward on a vacuum, and the only thing preventing it was the sheer force of his considerable will. Saint had never seen him like this. A cold feeling ran through his body as if injected directly into the ducts of his circulatory ichor.

“Osiris,” he whispered, even though they were not yet within earshot. Saint trotted out on restless feet from the shadow of the Gray Pigeon to meet him. They drew together at the end of the long sun-emblazoned rug that sprawled before his ship. Saint could not help but begin to reach for Osiris, but he stopped when he saw the man’s unresponsive stiffness.

“Hello, Saint,” he said shortly. He crossed his arms. Only a stripe of his upper face showed between his helm and his mask. The lines around his eyes had gone flat and the ones between his brows had deepened.

“What is wrong?”

“Take your pick. This time? The Hive.”

“No. What is wrong?”

Osiris just gave him a pained look. “We should speak inside.”

Saint nodded acquiescence. He turned his feet back onto the path of the rug, slightly crooked: a rumpled casualty of Guardians playing soccer in the hangar. After only a moment’s hesitation, he offered his arm to Osiris, looking at him in askance.

Osiris blinked, surprised. Then it was Saint’s turn to be surprised when Osiris tucked one hand into the bend of his elbow and placed the other hand atop it, gently squeezing and encircling his armored forearm. They fell in step together and walked all the way back to the ship that way. If Saint hadn’t been so worried, the rare tenderness would have left him radiating contentment.

Saint took them to the Gray Pigeon’s close yet comfortable living quarters. It was just a simple serviceable room with a few little tables and a bunk, and probably more cushioned seats than the space warranted. Saint took a seat in one of them and removed his helmet so he could take a proper look at Osiris, who was doing the same. His skin looked weathered, as always, but darker than usual below the eyes. They both sat their helms down on the table between them, trying not to knock over the abandoned teacups there.

Osiris’ lip quirked at the sight of their tea-stained insides. “Ikora has been here, I see.”

“Indeed,” Saint chuckled. “A woman of fine taste. She believes the tea grown in the City these days tastes different than it did a few centuries ago. Less… what was it? Astringent? Smoother now, she said, more mellow. She wanted the opinion of someone who has not been drinking it throughout the entire transition as she has.”

“Of course she did.”

“Yes.” Saint eyed the way Osiris’ hands molded themselves to the armrest of the chair and went still. Likewise, his feet remained flat on the floor. His usual energetic presence, like an overflowing cup, was now subdued, stilled as if frozen. Saint waited for him to melt and kept talking.

“You would think I am the perfect test subject. I had not tasted tea for many, many years since I left the City. And I certainly had tea with Ikora many times before that, when your studies distracted you from visitors. She and I had many fine conversations. After my return, I ought to be perfectly poised in time to tell the difference.

“Ah, but I think my answers disappoint her. I do not know, because for me, everything has become new again. Not only the tea and the cookies - there are the new faces of all the new Lights and of the Traveler itself, and the City has grown, of course. But even that which remains the same still feels different now, yes? New eyes,” he said, watching Osiris’ softly closed ones.

“It is sometimes hard to tell the changes in others from the changes in myself. So yes, Ikora’s tea remains a mystery. I shall be surprised if she does not recruit you for her research, as well. If you stay in the City for more than a few hours, that is.”

“Hmm.” Osiris’ rigid demeanor had softened, but he had crossed his arms, head bowed. His eyes were still closed.

“I did not even know you were in the City,” Saint said, softer. “I believed you to be still roaming the Shore for answers. Geppetto has heard nothing from Sagira, not even a hail when you arrived.”

Osiris flinched.

The cold that had flooded Saint earlier crystallized into pure ice.

“Osiris. Is she -“

“Like I said. The Hive,” Osiris said shortly, unmoving.

“Oh, my dear,” Saint breathed. He stood up only to kneel before Osiris in his chair, reaching for his hand. Osiris let him take it. Even in its glowing gauntlet, his hand was so small. No wonder it was so tense yet listless, without that brilliant presence shining beside him like a second sun to his own fiery brightness.

The initial rush of grief made the pistons in Saint’s chest hurt, aching from his core to his broad plated shoulders to the twisted cables of his neck. But he set it aside for now: Osiris needed him.

But Osiris had other ideas. He withdrew his hand from Saint’s caress.

“The Hive are going to pay.”

“Undoubtedly they will. That does not mean you cannot take the time to grieve.”

“I do not have time for this. Time is critical. Xivu Arath is fast approaching, and growing more powerful each day. The intelligence I have gleaned regarding her methods and movements is invaluable, and I must -“

“You do not need to do this alone, Osiris.” Saint rose to his feet.

Looking wounded, Osiris stood as well. “I am well aware that I cannot, now, Saint. But I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything necessary to avenge Sagira. To that end, I’ve enlisted the Young Wolf’s assistance.”

“Yet you are still acting as you always do. As if you must do everything yourself.”

“I cannot simply stand by! Without her, there is even more I must do, all that she would normally do for me.” Osiris broke his fierce stare and cast his eyes downward. “It is the very least I can do when I am the reason she is gone.”

If Saint could have cried, he would have then. How strange it was, to be separated by fourteen lives and untold centuries from the last tear he could possibly have shed, and yet still long for a release he could not even remember.

“Osiris,” he said, voice low. He slipped off the shining metal of one of his gauntlets, so that he could lift Osiris’ face with the most delicate touch of two brushed-alloy fingers on his dear, scruffy chin. “It is not your fault.”

Osiris’ eyes followed his fingers, traced his face. “It is,” he said hoarsely. “She even told me not to pursue the Celebrant on the Moon alone. I was rash.”

“Be that as it may, I know you would never willingly harm her. You have already told me this was the doing of the Hive.”

“Saint, please don’t…”

“Then why did you come to me?” Saint set his other gauntlet aside and cupped Osiris’ face in his bare hands. “Surely you knew I would not let you be cruel to yourself.”

Glistening golden-brown eyes rested between gleaming silver fingers. “I needed to know you were still here.”

“I am here. Because of you.”

Osiris looked away and laid his hands on Saint’s wrists, pulling himself free.

“You would not have been lost in the first place had I not betrayed you, as well. I will not make the same mistake a third time. I will learn to take responsibility for my actions, and do what it takes to contain the fallout.”

“You are not taking responsibility, you are punishing yourself.”

“Two birds, one stone,” Osiris sighed. He drew away from Saint while he was stricken into stillness by the statement’s casual cruelty. The negative space between them wrenched at the pins of Saint’s every joint like it was a magnetic field, and he made of nothing but so much iron filings.

Saint fell an unsteady step forward, but Osiris was already picking up his helm and angling himself toward the door. Saint did not need to simulate the future to know that if Osiris left in a state like this, he would likely not return.

“Osiris. Just - stop.”

Osiris stopped. The feathers of his cowl floated idly, suspended and directionless in the close air of the small room.

“Do not do this. If you will not hear your own pain, hear mine. Do not do to me what I did to you.”

Beneath the morbid weight of his resignation, Osiris went rigid. He turned to look at Saint, really look at him. Yes, he’d faced Saint before, many times, with exasperation in his brows or fondness around his eyes. Saint had been thinking about how he’s seen more and more of the latter lately.

But this gaze was something piercing and haunted. In it, Saint could hear the echoes of a keening that had never fallen on his ears, could see the marks left by an invisible memory wrapped around the man before him like grappling vines of poison ivy. He watched Saint, wordless and wounded.

“If you continue like this, you will hurt yourself, not to mention those who care for you. Sagira would not have wanted -“ Saint broke off, looking down at his fist. Its faint tremor faded as he sank deep into himself as if into the Void, calling stillness into his shaking.

“I am afraid, Osiris. For you and for myself. I do not want to lose you. I do not think I can bear that. I have seen the way you still look at me. Like...”

“Like?”

“Like you are... like I am still lost to you. I have seen how that loss haunts you, even though you have flown in the face of everything to undo it and succeeded. Even when you are finally here, your mind slips away like you cannot bear to be here. Are you still searching?”

“Of course not.” Osiris’ eyes did not meet his.

“Then what is it?”

Silence. “You died, Saint.”

“I am sorry.”

Osiris blinked, looked at him again. “You are apologizing for dying?” he said, skeptical.

“For causing you such hurt that it did this to you. Even in the best of all timelines that brought us both here: I hurt you.”

“Saint,” he said, reaching out for his hands and seeming unaware that he did so. Saint held them oh so gently, afraid they’d fly away.

“You cannot - Saint, you died,” he repeated. “This isn’t your fault. I’m the one who should be -“

“Oh, it is always about you, is it,” Saint chuckled.

Osiris scoffed. He made as if to pull his hands away. But when Saint made no move to stop him, he stopped himself.

“Truly, my dearest. If our places had been reversed, I have no doubt that the endless loss would come to outweigh the pain of the long but finite fall, in the end.” Saint closed his eyes. “Please, do not reverse our places. Losing each other once was enough. I have no brilliant schemes, no Sundial to bring you back, nothing but the strength of my arms and of my heart. And we have already proven that those are not enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It is true. I died before I could find you.”

Saint’s fingers were seized in a sudden vise grip. “Don’t. Do not speak that way. You are enough. You have always been so much more than enough. To me, you are - you are.”

“You know I feel the same.” They were standing so close, it was simplicity itself to bow his forehead to touch Osiris’.

“I know.”

“Then why? Why cannot you allow yourself to rest, here with me, even now? Especially now? Let me care for you.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I don’t know how,” came the whisper, barely loud enough to carry the short distance. “You should not bother with me.”

“Oh, my dove,” Saint sighed, and pulled Osiris to his chest and wrapped his arms around him. There, in Saint’s arms, Osiris finally crumpled against him like an empty spinfoil can as the absence inside him yawned wide, swallowing any resistance left in him. “Hush. I will always bother with you. I am here.”

Since arriving in this strange, strange future, touch, like everything else for Saint, had been different. Titan to his roots, bracing claps on the back and casual embraces had always been his native language of both camaraderie and comfort. With the long familiarity between him and Osiris, it had been easy enough to believe that an arm slung around the warlock’s shoulders or their hands long clasped in victory were merely an extension of the same. Though Osiris had often complained in mock protest, he had rarely refused the contact. Neither of them had admitted that it meant more until it was too late.

Now, though, in this City brighter than either of them remembered, every moment of this second chance was overwhelming. It was one thing to spend endless years isolated, touch-starved and battle-weary only to arrive in the new Tower, where homemade pastries were handed to him by scores of soft-handed civilians and eager-eyed Kinderguardians crowding close enough to brush shoulders with a legend. Though at first it jolted him like sparking Arc, each casual touch brought him a little more back to life.

It had been something else entirely to find the person he spent centuries searching for finally standing before him, close enough to touch. The idea of contact was a little too much for both of them, at first. They’d had to start sparingly: a palm on a shoulder, none too rough; knees or elbows brushing together when they could be avoided, but weren’t. It wasn’t the same as before they were separated by so much space and time and suffering, and they both knew it. The shape of Osiris was so familiar to him, but the illumination of that mutual knowledge made the lean old frame as new to Saint as those endless lost years did, if in another wholly different way. Together, such perspectives made a simple caress pierce him like a shout of devotion. They made a hand on a hand, on a heart, a home.

Although Saint was learning how to let the immensity of such small closenesses become mundane, he was near engulfed by the reality of Osiris, now yielding the entire weight of his body to Saint’s protective embrace while he shook and shuddered and clung like a desperate and heartbroken thing. It was so much, but the only thing Saint could do was hold him, hold his shattering self close and dear.

Saint had never seen him break like this. When the pressure of the lives laid at his feet as Vanguard Commander had become too much, he had always been more given to bouts of brooding and intensive study for sleepless days on end. But through all of that, Osiris had always had Sagira, who knew when to jolt him out of his melancholy with a sharp word, to soothe his weariness with a wash of Light, or to nag him into a semblance of eating and resting. No more. Though Saint could not weep, Osiris’ tears traced a shining abstract filigree upon his silvered breastplate. He ran soothing fingers along his spine with touch-aching hands, needing to offer any comfort he possibly could. Saint held him and waited for the storm of grief to subside.

Saint ended up seated on the rug on the floor, leaning against the side of one of the chairs with Osiris draped across his lap and curled against his chest.

“I do not know…” Osiris murmured. His head was tucked under Saint’s chin, one arm upraised to blindly trace the deep-violet ridge of Saint’s plated cheek with the pads of his fingers.

“What do you not know?” Saint asked just as softly.

“How to do this. Without her. Without the Light.”

“Mmmm,” Saint mused. He adjusted his grip around Osiris’ waist, making sure he was secure. The weight of him was comforting. “You will grieve. And you will learn. You are the strongest person I know. And that has nothing to do with your Light, your prowess in battle, or even your Ghost, may her Light be a bright and blessed memory. It has everything to do with just you. Just the strength of your heart, your determination, your tenacity. You, my dear.”

Osiris scoffed half-heartedly. “She was always the better of the two of us.”

Saint chuckled deep in his voicebox, his jawlights flickering gold. “She would agree. But of all the people in all of history she could have chosen to raise, she chose you for a reason. If you cannot trust my judgement, perhaps you can trust hers.”

Osiris uncurled and sat up to look at him, face to face. “Well, you can hardly claim not to be biased in my favor.”

Saint barked a laugh. “Take the compliment, you terrible man.”

“Hm, I suppose I am terrible. But you like it.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“Hmm,” Osiris said again. He brushed a light kiss against Saint’s sharp lips, making his purple optics go bright with surprise. What a sheer paradoxical kind of beauty, that this unfamiliar and unprecedented form of touch between them should feel the most natural of all.

Osiris studied his face, tracing every detail, his eyes soft yet alert like the morning sun. “Thank you, my love,” he said.

Saint hugged him, hard. “Welcome home, my bird.”

[lelenoir]

pairing: best friend!xiao dejun x reader

contents: angst, fluff if u squint, time travelling, character deaths, deal with the devil, highschool au, demon!hendery

word count: 3.1k

prompt:

"magkahawak ang ating kamay,

at walang kamalay malay,

na tinuruan mo ang puso ko,

na umibig ng tunay"

note: thank you to @jenoir for reading the first horrible draft of this fic 💕

last installment of anthology: the series

It was during prom when Xiaojun gathered up enough courage to tell you about how he felt. He could still remember that day oh so vividly, he could almost feel the weight and warmth of your arms perched on his shoulders and wrapped around his neck. He could smell the scent of your hair just by his chin as you lay your head on his chest, bodies swaying to the beat of an unfamiliar love song. It was moments like these where he couldn't believe he had outlived such a phenomenon. He felt his heart pound in his chest, a rapid pace at such a loud volume. He wondered how you didn't hear it. If you did, then he was glad you never told him.

His arms laid comfortably around your waist, the contact burning his skin. In fact, he felt his whole body burn. Right there, under the dim lights of your school's gymnasium with the majority of the student population surrounding you. It almost felt surreal. The way your bodies stood close and just the sensation of having you with him. It was an insatiable feeling. A thirst that only you could quench.

"Y/n?" He spoke up. The call snapping you back to reality as you looked up at him, a hum ringing out of your throat as a response. He could feel his breath get snatched away at the sight of you. His eyes---an already dead giveaway on what he was about to do---looked at you with so much love. You didn't think you deserve them. "I---"

You pressed your palm abruptly on his lips, cutting him off. "Let's just dance, okay?" You see him nod his head as you retrieved your hand and put them on his waist, holding him even closer than before as your face returns to rest on his chest. His breath hitching a bit at the proximity but not having the intention of pulling away.

That was the moment Xiaojun knew what love was. It was the feeling of your arms around him, pulling him closer until he was only a breath away. It was the sound of your soft voice, humming along the unfamiliar song as if it was yours. It was the addictive smell of your vanilla scented hair that wafted through the air. And lastly, it was the way his arms fit perfectly around you like a puzzle piece. Perfectly cut to match his edges. At that moment, he knew where he belonged; by your side.

He felt content just at the thought that you weren't going anywhere. He lived knowing he was breathing the same air as you and seeing the same set of stars in the night sky. If you'd ask for the moon then he'd gladly give it to you no matter what. If you told him to count the stars then he'll stay up every night just to conquer the impossible feat. You could ask him the most difficult and strenuous of tasks and he'd gladly do them. All for you.

That night he drove you home, a mellow song in a different language played in the background as he maneuvered the car to your familiar subdivision. His hand lay loose on the clutch while the other held the steering wheel firmly, spinning it easily as his eyes remained fixed on the road and nothing else. All his courage seemed to dwindle away from him now as a comforting yet awkward silence filled the space.

It was in the instance he passed by the old park you used to go to when he felt your warm hand on his. He turned his attention to you for a moment, only to see you looking out the window and avoiding his gaze. He shifted his eyes back to the front as he clenched on the steering wheel a bit. A few seconds passed when he decided to gulp down his doubts and move his hands to intertwine with yours. He felt his breath get stuck in his throat as you returned the action, clutching on him like he does with you.

"Magkahawak ang ating kamay,

At walang kamalay-malay,"

A luxurious comfort he could never seem to get used to. The sudden boom of electrifying feelings sparking around him at your touch. Another turn and he realised you were so close to going home. The surge of euphoria leaving him before he could even dwell on it.

By the time he stopped infront of your front porch---his car jerked slightly as he turned the engine off, cutting the music midway---he felt a wave of small regret. The both of you now sitting in pure quietness. Your hands still held on to one another as if none of you wanted to let go. He didn't want to let you go. But the night was slowly fading away and you were running out of time.

The sigh that rang from your lips felt like it was echoing around the car as you finally turned to look at him. Eyes wide and filled with stars, Xiaojun wouldn't mind getting lost in them.

The small sad smile in your face confused him a bit but the feeling of your thumb drawing circles on his skin distracted him from ever questioning it. He let himself drown in the feeling. As long as it's you.

"Goodnight, Jun." You whispered.

"I-I'll see you tomorrow?"

You never answered his question, only smiling and planting a small kiss on his cheek before getting out of the car. Dazed, Xiaojun could only watch as you ran back to your house.

Your figure stopped as you reached the door and looked back to him. A small wave from both of you and you were gone. Swallowed by the red door of your family home.

He snapped himself back to reality, turning the key to let the car roar. He felt his cheeks grow flush as he noticed one house turn their light on at the loud sound but it was mostly because of what just happened. He turned the radio on, humming along the tune as he sped away. A hopeful glint present in his sharp eyes. The sheer feeling of happiness he was experiencing remaining to be uncontainable.

"La la la la, la la, la la, la la la…"

The next day, you were gone. The house he took you to the night before was now stripped out of every piece of furniture he was accustomed to. Not a single sign of being inhabited left as he peered through the window. When he asked a woman passing by, he was greeted with dreaded news.

"Oh them? They moved out last night."

That night, the news spoke of a fatal car crash. A drunk driver skidded across the road, pummeling towards a car occupied by a family of three. The anchorman told them only one casualty was resulted from this accident while the others involved only caught minor injuries. Your name was sprawled across the screen as the unlucky victim. Which, in turn, made Xiaojun's heart drop.

His eyes went wide in disbelief as his mother attempted to walk towards him to comfort him. The moment he felt her touch on his shoulders made him jolt up from his seat. Tears brimmed the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill as he shook his head in denial.

"Jun…" his mother started. But he couldn't take it. Couldn't take another moment in that house. That room where you used to snuggle up to him during your countless movie nights. Where you'd cry your eyes out to him. Or laugh your head off at some cheesy joke he said. That room where so many moments with you were made. Even the sweater he wore reminded him of you and how you used to steal it from him back then.

He couldn't take it. The idea of you never coming back. The thought of never seeing you again only filled his mind with remorse and pure regret. In response, His legs bolted himself away, far away from that dreadful house. He couldn't stand the sight of its walls when every time he does, he sees you.

The air felt colder than usual that night. He could remember it as if he was watching a movie. His legs gave out once he reached an unfamiliar clearing. His increasing heart beat distracted him from the pain for a moment as he panted for air. It wasn't long for the tears to come back. He could feel it brimming the sides of his temples. A few drops of sweat stinging his eyes a bit as he defeatedly knelt down on the dewy grass.

The sound of someone clearing their throat made him snap up. A man in a black suit stood in the middle of the forest. His eyes glowed gold and his skin was as pale as snow. Black veins stemmed down his neck to the exposed skin of his hands. The fingers sharpened and black as well.

"Xiao Dejun," the stranger called out. His voice was as smooth as honey, a huge contrast to his unusual and frightening appearance. "I am here to offer you a deal."

Xiaojun sniffed, pulling the sleeve of his clothes to wipe up the last of his tears. "W-what?"

"I am here to offer you a deal." The man repeated more firmly this time, stepping closer and granting Xiaojun the chance to see him fully. "A once in a lifetime opportunity, to bring back---" the stranger lifted his hand up as gold glowing dots appeared from his nails and, like magic, an outline of your face appeared. Xiaojun couldn't help but stare at the image, making the man smirk. "---what you've lost." With a wave of his hand, you were gone.

"What are you?"

"Just a friend who wants to help you. A simple wanderer of this world, just like you. Except, blessed with immeasurable power which I used to help hopeless mortals like you." He answered coolly, stepping closer to Xiaojun until he was merely circling him. "Of course, my kind has been known as many names: fallen angels, monsters, ghosts… demons."

Xiaojun felt his breath hitch. This didn't go unnoticed by the other.

"Although I prefer it if you called me Hendery, it has a nice ring to it. Still, don't misunderstand. Us demons aren't as bad as the movies portray. Don't get me wrong, we do provide our services to you mortals in exchange for something valuable of yours but---and this is one hard but---we only give it to the most desperate of souls. Kind of like yourself, Mr. Xiao." A dark and mischievous glint was present in his eyes as he stared down Xiaojun.

"Does this mean I can have her back?" He asked, voice timid but full of determination.

"Who? The dead girl? I'm afraid that settles a very big price to pay." Hendery answered, examining his nails as if to seem indifferent to the boy.

"I-I'll give you anything." He stuttered. A devilish smirk formed on Hendery's features as he lifted his gaze to the boy.

"You see, Mr. Xiao, a mortal soul is one of the G-man's many divine gifts. Most celestial beings even see it as the most precious. It's simply irreplaceable." He explained.

"So?"

"So?" He repeated it like it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. He exhaled in exaggeration, looking at Xiaojun like he was the dumbest creature he'd ever come across with. "The only thing that can replace a mortal soul is another mortal soul, you stupid fuck." Xiaojun rolled his eyes at his words. "Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for one girl?"

Xiaojun gulped. Is he? He thought back to all the times you've helped him. He remembered the day you first met. By the swings, in your old preschool's playground. He remembered the time he fractured his leg and you were the only one outside his family that came to visit. You drew flowers on his cast and he couldn't help but admire how pretty they were. That time you lost your dog and he was the first one you came to. That was the first time he saw you cry so much. His heart sunk inside his chest. He realised that day that he didn't like seeing you cry. At first he tried to convince himself that it was because of the unpleasant feeling in his chest of seeing someone cry but thinking about it now, it hurt him to see you get hurt. And lastly, that night. The warmth. The feeling. And just the sensation of being around you. He missed holding your hand. The moment felt like it happened years ago but the imprint, the ghost of your skin on his, felt so new and impressionable. He could still feel your lips on his cheek.

"Yes." He answered with conviction. "I am."

Impossibly, Hendery's smirk grew wider, eyes glowing brighter with it. "Then I guess we have a deal to settle. Tell me, Mr. Xiao, what is your wish?" He lifted his hand out to shake.

Xiaojun gulped, taking his cold hand with his. Hissing as he felt the demon's sharp nails digging into his skin, drawing a small trail of blood. "I want to save y/n from dying."

"And in exchange?"

Xiaojun took a deep breath, helping himself go through the wicked pain. "I give you my soul."

Hendery knelt down on the ground, his free hand drawing symbols on the dirt. Once he was finished, the grip he held on Xiaojun's hand loosened, allowing the blood to drop on what he drew.

Xiaojun watched as the symbols came alive right in front of his eyes. The stars and unfamiliar font swirling around him as both him and the demon were engulfed in a tornado of red flame.

The heat suffocating and the surroundings hurting his eyes the more he looked. A deafening screech was heard around him, followed by the sounds of car honks and a girl screaming. He heard the song playing again as a mixture of sounds invaded his brain.

"Sana noon pa man ay sinabi na sa iyo,

Kahit hindi na uso ay ito lang ang alam ko"

The singer's voice never faded from his head as he now heard the sound of his own.

"I-I'll see you tomorrow?" He opened his eyes to see you right in front of him. Your eyes glowed under the dim light of his car. Like the last time, you never answered him. Smiling once again before planting a kiss on his cheek. Only this time, he wasn't going to let the moment pass him by. His hand reached your wrist before you could even turn around. His breaths came in pants as he savored your presence. He could feel the tears gloss his eyes as he looked at you.

"Jun, are you okay?" God, how he missed the sound of his name on your lips. He snapped himself back to the present.

"I-I'm fine… I just missed you." He said, nodding along as the tears fell freely across his cheek.

You chuckled, "I haven't even left yet."

His hand went back to yours, intertwining them like how it once was. "Then stay."

"I can't." You replied, holding back the dam of emotions you've been carrying. The sigh you let out became shaky as he continued to stare. "I c-can't."

His eyes pleaded---begged you to stay just a little longer. "I love you."

That was all it took to make you break down your walls. The waters seeping through your well built barrier.

"Please." His voice was desperate. Both hands now grabbing on yours, pulling them to his chest. "Just for a little while."

You couldn't say no to him. You could never. But you had to. You had to and you know it. The clock was ticking and before you could say anything the car started.

"Jun?" You called out, watching helplessly as the car roared to life. The hand he held on you shifted the clutch to drive. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping you safe." He answered.

"No Jun, you don't understand---"

"No y/n! Don't go. Don't move away." He turned his body to face you, his hand maneuvering the wheel. "Stay."

You held his gaze longer than you intended to and you regretted it deeply as a truck suddenly hit Xiaojun's side of the car. The impact caused the car to spin around the air before crashing to the ground.

You coughed once the vehicle settled, your focus turning to Xiaojun who was groaning loudly in pain. You quickly crawled out of the car and to the side of your best friend. The window glass was already non-existent as you pulled him out of his seat. His hair stuck to the side of his bloody face while his eyes fought to stay awake.

"H-hey stay with me, Jun." You pleaded, cradling his head on your arms as you desperately kept him conscious. "I'm right here, okay? I-I'm not going anywhere anymore. Please just---just stay awake for me."

Even with dying he could still bring himself to smile softly at you. "A-as long as you're okay." He whispered. Voice already strained with death as he reached up to caress your cheek. "I love you."

You sobbed harder at his repeated confession. Your hand held on to the one he had on your cheek. "I love you too. So much."

He chuckled, the action making him wince. So this was it? He thought to himself, vision already blurry as he watched you cry. His breathing became erratic. He found it more difficult to breathe now as he tried to stay a bit longer until finally it was all too much.

Dying, for Xiaojun, wasn't like what he expected. He didn't see a big bright light. Nor did he have an out of body experience of his soul being pushed out of his being. His life didn't flash before his eyes. The last thing he ever saw was you but after that didn't see a thing. Instead, everything was dark. Really, really dark.

His hand fell from your cheek, laying limp beside him as his eyes slowly screwed shut. And that was the end for Xiao Dejun. It was always supposed to be.

"I told you to save him." You said against the cold wind. Out of thin air, Hendery appeared next to you.

"The boy made a more interesting offer. You shouldn't have stayed in the car with him." He replied, nonchalantly taking a cigarette off the pack in his pants and lighting them with his finger. He took a whiff of the stick before blowing it out. "Sorry, kid. A deal's a deal." He gripped your shoulders at what he assumed to be comforting before walking away.

The sound of the radio distorted but still recognizable as you held Xiaojun close, crying against him like you did the first time.

"La la la la, la la, la la, la la la…"

our hands held each other

without any of us realizing

that you've taught my heart

how to truly love

replay album?

[imagine-loki]

Atlas: Space, Saturn

TITLE: Atlas: Space

CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: 8/12

AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine narrating episodes of Loki’s life with the Avengers based on the songs from Sleeping At Last’s “Atlas: Space” album. 

RATING: T-M

NOTES/WARNINGS: Welcome to my Sleeping At Last’s Atlas: Space challenge, aka Another writing project I do not have time for, but my brain insisted on doing.

This series will be less like a multichapter fic and more of a one-shot compendium, but that they all interconnect in one way or another. It will revolve around Loki and Becca’s relationship (Taking Turns, Glow, Helmet Heists–don’t worry, more Loki-Charlie stuff will be along) and I will use those one-shots as reference to the timeline. Each chapter will be one song, used as inspiration for the story.

Chapter 8: Saturn

Summary: Loki chooses a terrible time to develop a conscience, thinking he’ll have time to sort himself out and win her back. He doesn’t. (Post Taking Turns.)

Warnings include: Language, character death, and just… so much angst. 

=

The mild autumnal breeze did little to soothe Loki’s fevered thoughts. He had put this moment off for so long that he nearly convinced himself that it was unnecessary, or that he could be selfish just a little longer. With every battle they saw together, with every bruise and bloody lip that they shared, mostly at the other’s expense, he knew he couldn’t hold off any longer. Loki sensed trouble brewing in the Universe, trouble that was coming for him. And he thought–no, he knew–that she would put herself in the middle for him without a moment’s hesitation.

He needed to stop this cursed experiment in feelings.

“I have to tell you something.” Loki’s voice was low and hesitant. Becca straightened up, fidgeting and shifting her weight from leg to leg as she watched him almost statuesque against the oak tree.

“I do, too,” she whispered, ducking her head down to hide her burning cheeks. He nodded her ahead and she took a deep breath, her warm brown eyes glancing up at him through long lashes. She looked so sweet and innocent and his heart panged. “I love you, Loki.”

He should’ve definitely gone first.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Becca.” His words strained to even leave his mouth. All of this felt wrong and raw and he didn’t want to live with the image of her now disappointed face lingering in his mind for as long as she lived. “I’m going with Thor, off to explore. Mother’s… mother is dead and I have a responsibility to help him–”

Her brow furrowed into a deep frown. “A responsibility? You’re kidding me. Thor has actively avoided speaking to you for weeks over this mess with Jane! The only thing you owe Thor is a well-aimed kick for the way he treats you, sometimes.”

“You don’t understand–”

“You’re damn right, I don’t!”

There were tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over. He was expecting her to take it hard, but he could never have imagined it would make her this visibly upset. It almost made him want to reconsider his plans. Almost.

“I tell you that I love you, after months of us tiptoeing around each other and basically living together and you tell me–”

Loki’s face hardened. “I don’t expect a mortal to comprehend these issues.” He knew it was a low blow, but it was necessary. “Thor and I will be around each other for centuries more. It’s easy to forgive a slight with that kind of time.”

“Is it possible for you not to sabotage yourself for once in your fucking life?” Her teeth were clenched, but that did not detract from the jab her words delivered. She was so good at reading him, and from the way he tensed and his breath hitched, she knew it, too.

“I don’t love you.” His words came out slow and even, despite the bitter taste they left behind.

Stark had once told him that just letting her go would not keep her safe. He said to embrace the pain and make sure he would never feel that same terror he did when she was shot, again. Stark hadn’t considered the vast reputation a thousand years of being God of Mischief would build, or the enemies it brought with it. Even then, Loki was worried about his brother’s enemies rather than his own, at the moment. She didn’t need to know about the dark elves, or chaos in the realms–it would only make her volunteer for service.

“I don’t love you,” he repeated, barely a breath, whether to convince her or himself, he was unsure.

“Sure.” Becca laughed mirthlessly, nodding her head. “Pretend whatever you want. I’m not going to beg. Fuck off, Loki. See you when I see you.” Her shoulder brushed his as she walked back towards her apartment, arms wrapped around herself.

He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets to keep from reaching out for her. “You won’t.”

You taught me the courage of stars before you left How might carries on endlessly even after death With shortness of breath you explained the infinite How rare and beautiful it is to even exist

Becca stood at the rooftop of the Avengers complex, staring at the stars above. In upstate New York, it was easier to see the stars. A corner of her lips tugged upwards as she stared at the burning balls of gas, millions of miles away, recalling each one’s name and story. Loki always had a way of explaining the stars and making their history become permanently engrained in her mind. It was one of the few memories she had with him that didn’t sting like all hell; one of the few moments when she didn’t mind thinking about him.

She had seen him since that day in the park, flashes of him in the complex, but never very long and never alone. Becca had to give it to him–he was stubbornly true to his word. Becca couldn’t conjure a single image of him that wasn’t a blur from the last few years. Thor, sweet as he was, tried not to bring him up, except once to say he had died but that had turned out to be a ruse. She still, stupidly–or sentimentally, whichever was most accurate–, provided both brothers with gear.

I couldn’t help but ask For you to say it all again I tried to write it down But I could never find a pen I’d give everything to hear You say it one more time That the universe was made Just to be seen by my eyes

“Lady Becca.” She sighed, letting her shoulders slump forward. To this day, she had not really forgiven Thor for his part in his brother’s hare-brained plot. He can convince Loki of so damn much, but he could not take five minutes to tell him to reassess what he had done; what he had said. Loki would–and had–risked everything for Thor and his love, but apparently the dedication was one-sided. “Becca.”

“What is it, Thor? Oh–what happened to your eye?” She had turned around, pulling the hoodie, that may or may not have belonged to Loki, tighter around her form. Thor looked worse for wear and there was some emotion in his face that she couldn’t quite place.

“I must speak with you. It’s about Loki.”

Becca scoffed, rolling her eyes. “What is it now? Did he break his AI? Another heat stroke? What?”

“He’s dead.” The words echoed in her head far longer than they should have.

She tried in vain to scramble for her control. “How many times does that make? Two? Three? Loki doesn’t just die, Thor.”

Thor was silent for a very long moment. She expected him to nod and chuckle, tell her she was right and that they should all wait for the frost giant to pop back up. Instead she got a lip quiver and tears streaming down his one good eye. “He loved you so much. He was going to come back for you. I am truly sorry.”

A stone the size of a boulder dropped in her stomach, at once. Her chest was constricting in sheer horror. “No. Thor, you’re wrong. He can't… You’re lying!”

“I’m so sorry.” The floor shook as Thor dropped Stormbreaker and rushed to tighten his arms around Becca.

With shortness of breath, I’ll explain the infinite How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist

There were so many questions left inside of her head. As much as she wanted to ask Thor the who, what, when, where, and why, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not when he was sobbing so hard and so loudly that she could almost hear his heart cracking beneath his armor. Thor had never been the best brother to Loki, and she knew that, but there was a genuine affection that he had for his little brother that was twisting at his insides. Whatever promises he had made to support Loki or to make amends for his actions were now gone and those regrets hurt more than his death.

Becca reached the point that she had cried so hard and so desperately that she had to go to the MedBay to pick up a rescue inhaler. She had not needed one in over two decades, but this was the night it was going to get a hell of a lot of use. She sat on the floor of what used to be Loki’s room, staring at the stars out of his window, retelling herself the stories of each of the constellations. The tales of how each orb had been hung in the sky; of the warriors of old that went to Valhalla and populated the night sky; the endless patch of dark that was the Universe and how infinitesimal the probability of their existence was in the grand scheme of things. She tried not to think of his soothing voice, calculating odds of how likely it was that a girl from Midgard would meet a god from Asgard and how they’d won the lottery. How he had won the lottery every second he had her.

Most of all, she tried not to hate the fact that he had left her and turned her back into a statistic, never to feel irrationally lucky ever again. The Universe embraced this new reality.

[whoareurl]

birthday fic for softersteve <3

i’ve been gone for ages soz but i had to pop by and give @softersteve some birthday love because i still read their blog religiously for all the soft steve content so here’s some shrinkyclinks of my own. it’s a bit light on snez but there’s plenty of whump! and i might have an idea for a part 2 but we’ll see

-

By the time spring break rolls around, Steve is practically dead on his feet. Midterms floored him and he’d spent so much time in the art building over the past two weeks that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s developed a conditioned rage response to the hideous 80s wallpaper in his favourite workroom. So, when it comes time to pack for their week-long trip home, Bucky is the one who does most of the hard work. The lucky bastards in engineering don’t have midterms in the spring semester and the bright-eyed innocence in Bucky’s eyes kinda makes Steve want to stab him in the hand with a fork. 

“Got everything?” Bucky asks as Steve slips into the passenger seat, dosed up on Ambien and fully prepared to fall asleep as soon as they hit the interstate. It’s only a two hour drive, much shorter than what many students have to endure, but it’s still more than Steve’s stomach can handle, especially with all the stress he’s been under lately. Besides, his joints have been aching all day and the beginning of spring allergy season is making him congested so he’s happy for the option of a little time out. “All your meds?”

Steve rolls his eyes fondly, already feeling heavy-lidded. “Yes, ma.”

Bucky grins and, like the dickhead he is, plays up his role. “Are you sure you don’t need the bathroom before we leave?”

Steve slaps him and buckles himself in. “Jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky shoots back and starts the engine. “I’m putting on my country playlist so you’re just gonna have to deal until the meds knock you out.”

Steve groans but it’s a playful groan. Despite his protests, Steve doesn’t actually hate the country songs Bucky adores. Well, not all of them. And he’s gonna be out cold in about twenty minutes so he figures it’s only fair to indulge Bucky’s garbage music taste.

“You’re the boss,” he says, firing off a mocking salute before tucking his school sweatshirt up between his neck and his shoulder and settling in for the ride.

He expects to be woken by Bucky telling him they’ve arrived so it’s with some surprise and confusion that Steve finds himself awake barely an hour later with an absolute cacophony of bells ringing in his head and a thin sheen of sweat all over his skin. He lets out a little groan and makes an aborted move to get Bucky’s attention before he remembers that he’s driving. 

“B-Buck,” he croaks out without ever really deciding to speak. 

Bucky hums gently and, when he looks over at Steve, he pales quite significantly. “Stevie? What’s wrong? You gonna be sick?”

As he’s speaking, Bucky is already turning the music off and reaching blindly behind him for a plastic bag which he thrusts into Steve’s lap as a makeshift sickbag. Steve coughs and then he can’t stop coughing. And then he thinks back to the midterms and the stress and the all-nighters and he feels a weight settle heavily on his shoulders. So, it wasn’t allergies. He’s not sure if the timing is excellent or awful since now he’s not going to be enjoying his time off but at least he won’t be missing class. Either way, this is already shaping up to be one hell of a spring cold.

“You’re running a fever,” Bucky worries as he briefly touches Steve’s forehead, glancing between Steve and the road.

“I know!” Steve snaps and feels immediately guilty. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky returns and he doesn’t even sound fazed. Ambien-fuelled Steve isn’t exactly known for being a barrel of laughs. And right now, he feels like garbage. “We’re about 45 minutes out. You gonna be okay?”

Steve sighs and is about to make a half-hearted quip about not having much choice when he’s suddenly overtaken by a desperate need to sneeze.

“Heh’NGXshoo!” Steve is thrown forward with the unexpected force of it and stays there when he can feel another one building. “EhYISHHew! NXGH’huh!”

“Don’t stifle,” Bucky mumbles. Steve feels Bucky’s hand land on his back and rub along the bumps of his spine. 

Without tissues, the best Steve can do is wipe his nose on the cuff of his hoodie and sniffle the rest back. It’s, fundamentally, super fucking gross. God, he’s so cold and he cannot stop shivering. The fact that his t-shirt is soaked with cold sweat certainly isn’t helping but he’s sure as hell not going to take it off. Because that would mean having to take his hoodie off and the thought makes him want to cry. Instead, he kicks off his shoes and brings his knees up to his chest, grateful, for once in his life, that he’s small enough to curl up in Bucky’s passenger seat. 

“Services coming up,” Bucky says. Without opening his eyes, Steve knows exactly the worried expression Bucky is wearing by the tone of his voice. “I can pick up some tissues?”

Steve sniffles, feeling somewhat pitiful. Tissues would certainly be good. But they’ll get there faster if they don’t stop. It’s a dilemma but, in the end, when another violent shiver wracks through him, Bucky makes the decision for him.

“Alright. Tissues and a blanket,” he says, cranking up the heat and angling the blowers so they’re all pointed at Steve. 

When they’re parked in the service station, Bucky reaches over to push Steve’s sweaty hair off his forehead. “You don’t do anything by halves, huh, Stevie?” He says gently, leaning in to kiss Steve’s forehead. “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid?”

“Can’t. You’re taking all the stupid,” Steve mumbles, forcing a weak smile. This seems so appease Bucky somewhat and he smiles back. 

“Five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone. 

Steve feels awful, there’s no denying it. The joint pain he’d been feeling earlier has progressed from a dull ache to something a bit more aggressive, particularly in his hips, and the congestion in his sinuses has spread down into his upper chest. He feels the tightness pulling just below his collarbones and resigns himself to the fact that this is going to be a nightmare of a week.

True to his word, Bucky returns quickly and throws a fleece blanket over Steve’s shivering body. “Sorry, pal, all they had were Yankees blankets.”

Steve makes a face. “I better not have Gerrit Cole’s face on me right now,” he grumbles, cracking one eye open to look at Bucky.

Bucky laughs, ripping open a fresh box of tissues and settling it near the gear shift. “You gonna take it off if he’s on there?”

“Fuck off,” Steve grumbles, opting not to look and live in warm, comfortable denial. 

His next breath catches deep in his chest and he curls in on himself with another rattling cough. Thankfully, he gets it under control before Bucky starts rummaging through the glove box for his inhaler. He’s actually gone one in his pocket thank you very much. Not that anybody ever bothers checking anymore. No, his reputation for leaving it at home - either out of forgetfulness or, for one memorable year in middle school, sheer stubbornness - has pretty much put an end to anybody bothering to check if he’s carrying one before they hand him another. He supposes he should be touched and, on a good day, he is. But today is not a good day. Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and Steve just wants to be asleep.

“Not long now, Stevie,” Bucky says soothingly. Steve wants to be annoyed because he’s not a child but he can’t find it in himself because, damnit, Bucky’s voice is actually soothing when he talks like that. 

Fuck, he’s so in love.

~ 

By the time they’re pulling up outside Sarah Rogers’s house, Steve feels truly miserable. He’d started feeling nauseous about ten minutes ago and had opened the window for some air which only brought back his earlier shivers with a vengeance. And, to top it all off, he saw the Yankees logo on the damn blanket. Today sucked. 

“Come on, babydoll,” Bucky says as he helps Steve out of the car. 

Somewhat reluctantly, Steve abandons the traitorous blanket in the car but snags the box of tissues and lets Bucky sling his arm around his shoulders as they head up to the door. As usual, Bucky rings the doorbell to let Sarah know they’re there and then heads inside. Steve shivers involuntarily at the warmth of the house and catches a few, itchy sneezes into a fresh handful of tissues. 

His nose hasn’t stopped running since it started nearly an hour ago and all he wants is a change of clothes and a nap.

“My boys!” Sarah exclaims as she comes out of the living room to greet them, expression softening when she sees the state of her son. 

That expression is just too much for Steve who detaches himself from Bucky and wraps his mother up in a hug. He can’t smell anything through his stuffy nose but he can imagine the homely way she always smells and has to blink back tears. God, he’s a mess. He blames the Ambien more than anything. Everybody knows they fuck with you if you don’t sleep long enough.

“Aw, honey,” Sarah mutters into Steve’s hair, running a hand up and down his back. “You shouldn’t have come all this way if you weren’t feeling well. I’ll still be here in the summer.”

“Didn’t feel bad until we left,” Steve admits, somehow completely forgetting how much worse that makes his cold sound. 

Sarah frowns and holds him at arms length, looking him up and down. “That came on fast. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, Ma,” Steve starts but Bucky interrupts before he can offer any platitudes. 

“Like hell you are,” Bucky grumbles, slipping his arm around Steve’s waist. “Bed. Let’s go.”

Steve huffs, his indignation giving him the strength to stand his ground. “I’m fine.”

Bucky yawns. “Who said it was for you? I drove all the way here. I need a nap.”

“Well, you can go without me,” Steve says, unsure why exactly he’s continuing this argument. He wants to go to bed. But he’s not going because he’s told to, even if it is Bucky and Ma.

Bucky pouts. “But I sleep better with you there.”

That bastard. Steve knows what he’s doing. He’s used this tactic time and again and the worst part is that it always works. It’s working now. Steve knows he’s going to agree even before his Ma presses a kiss to his cheek and says, “Take the guest bed, boys. You’ll have more space.”

So Steve lets Bucky drag him upstairs, lets Bucky dig out a sleep shirt for him while he gets undressed, lets Bucky pull him tight against his side and tuck a hot water bottle against his back. He gives in. He cuddles up close and drifts off tracing the curve of Bucky’s hip bone with his fingers. 

Bucky’s so beautiful. Steve doesn’t know how he got so lucky. 

“Marry me,” he whispers as he finally drops off the edge of the cliff into sleep.

part two

[voltage-vixen]

A Fornicating Faction (NSFW-Request)

(This is featuring the trio from MK.) *Warning: This fic contains group sex, and some s&m references.

“Oh, that’s tight Kei,” MC grunted in response to the erotic Englishman’s bondage job on her wrists and ankles.

Kei’s erection strained tightly against the constricting fabric of his pants, while he watched the vulnerable agent struggle helplessly, as she attempted to free herself from the leather bondage restraints that were keeping MC compliant to his every fantasy. Ignoring the throbbing feeling coming from below his waist, Kei straddled her naked body, and slowly crawled up towards her face. His long fingers wrapped the fleece lined blindfold over her smoky eyes, robbing MC of her most subservient assets. The blond Englishman chuckled in approval, and deliberately brushed his covered cock in her face, before leaving her abandoned on the bed.

“I never thought the day would come that we would see our MC be so submissive,” Kazuomi’s voice boomed throughout Kei’s bedroom. He confidently strutted into the private chambers, while Yuzuru quietly trailed behind him. “Sorry, Yuzu and I are running a bit behind schedule. Thanks for preparing our little lamb for tonight’s slaughter Kei.”

MC’s coils tightened in anticipation at Kazuomi’s dominating words, and her lips curled into a small smirk. A few nights ago, after having one too many drinks, MC enrolled into a wager with the trio formerly known as 3S. If she lost to the men in a game of poker, MC was to surrender her body to their wildest sensual desires. Although casual sex was not something MC normally engaged in, she had grown close to these attractive guys, and the prospect of them dominating her was something that sounded extremely arousing.

“We had a bet, and I’m a woman of my word,” she purred in response to the lone finger that was now trailing down her body.

“Hot already? I’ve barely touched you MC,” Kazuomi crooned into her ear, “Although, I guess that seems about right considering I can bring any woman down to her knees.”

MC wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, she knew that he was wearing in true Kazuomi fashion, but his simple touch was already making her melt. Tonight-and just for tonight-she would obediently allow them to execute their whims, while MC passively adhered to each and every command.

“Stop trying to take her for yourself Kazuomi,” Kei huffed, “Even back in school, you never were any good at sharing.” Kei disrobed his clothing and sighed in relief when his thick cock was finally sprung free from its confinement.

Yuzuru, who up until this point had been silently observing, removed the clothing from his lower half. Taking his long length into his cold hand, Yuzuru slowly started to stroke up and down, while he curiously watched his two friends caress the brass woman.

Kazuomi’s tongue was presently worshiping her swollen breasts, and Kei’s fingers were working their magic to gratify MC’s dripping cunt. Her nipples were erect, and Kazuomi gently kneaded them with his teeth. Kei’s withdrew himself from her and MC let out a growl of displeasure.

“Patience MC,” Kei ordered the withering spy. Kei licked his fingers, and sucked hard, ensuring that he lapped up every last drop of her bliss. “I’m going to get a toy, that I know a bad girl like you would enjoy.”

“Damn it! You guys are all talk, but let’s see how you are in action!” MC proclaimed out in aggravation. Her body was ready, and MC needed a lot less foreplay, and a whole lot more fucking in order to really savor every second of this crazy night.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea what you just initiated,” Kazuomi groaned, as he pulled away from the bed. He started to strip his clothing, while Yuzuru haltingly strode over to the bed, gazing at MC in a similar way a lion surveys its prey.

MC’s body was glistening with sweat. The satin sheets on the bed were sticking to her back, and MC’s hair was a disheveled curly mess. God, she needed to touch them. Any of them would do just fine, but MC NEEDED to feel them. Throwing her pride out the window, MC wriggled in sheer desperation, and tried to arch her pelvis up from the bed.

“Please. PLEASE, I need one of you fine gentleman inside of me,” she begged with no shame, “I can’t take this any longer. Not without someone fucking me.”

Firm hands suddenly clutched her hips, and MC could tell by the faint scent of the natural cologne, that her assailant was Yuzuru. His nails dug into her rosy colored skin, and he teased MC by pressing the head of his member against her entrance.

“You might regret saying that,” Yuzuru whispered, “Especially when I end up breaking you.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she retorted, while biting the inside of her cheek. That bastard knew what he was doing felt good, yet he continued to draw out his torture session.

Fortunately for MC, she didn’t have to wait much longer, because she felt Yuzuru’s hands grab onto her firm breasts and give them a few hard squeezes.

“Don’t forget you said that then,” Yuzuru remarked, before taking the deep plunge into her awaiting core.

“Ahh! Yes! God, yes!” MC panted in rhythm to his powerful thrusts.

“Not God. Yuzuru. It would be in your best interest if you remembered that,” he muttered in response to her incoherent babbling.

“You must be quite the special woman MC,” Kazuomi called out, “Yuzuru’s animalistic side has been fully awakened.”

He watched while her breasts bounced and smacked around, and pumped his cock a few times, before pushing his cock between her pouted lips. She readily accepted his erection and ran her tongue down the thick penis that was fully occupying her mouth.

“That’s it. Can you feel Yuzuru and I stretching out the different areas of your body?” Kazuomi cooed. MC tried to nod but gagged when Kazuomi’s erection pressed further into her mouth.

Meanwhile, Kei had finally returned from his closet and took a moment to appreciate the sight that was taking place before him.

“Beautiful,” he admired, “All three of you are absolutely beautiful.” Kei approached the threesome, and revealed to his friends the anal beads he planned to use on their unsuspecting MC.

Making his way around his two friends, Kei sucked on his finger, and tested the waters by sliding it into her tight asshole. He felt her initially clench her muscles, but soon relaxed when Kei softly massaged his thumb along her sensitive hole.

“Let yourself unwind,” Kei smoothly guided. Pushing the beads into her, MC roughly grasped the bounds containing her wrists, and started to violently thrash around.

“Oh, yes! I’m ready to cum! L-Let me cum,” MC whimpered in hopes they would show mercy on her desperate soul.

Kazuomi soon shot his load into her mouth, and MC swallowed the hot seed, while he removed his limp penis from her. He shared a private glance with both Yuzuru and Kei, and the three longtime friends all exchanged a nod.

“Only if you declare us the winners of tonight’s love fest,” Kazuomi proposed, “Acknowledge your role as the mouse in our game, and we’ll have you screaming to the heavens in no time.”

MC openly scowled, knowing very well that the men were probably all grinning at each other, relishing the fact that she was at their mercy. Normally she was never one to let a man tell her what to do in bed, yet tonight was an exception. Her orgasm was within reach with the help of these tricksters. If they were going to use her, MC was going to take a page from their rulebook and use them right back to find her release.

“Fine, but only if you release my ankles from these shackles,” she negotiated, “I want to change positions to ensure that I’m guaranteed to fully receive your “happy ending” services.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but we’ll allow it,” Kazuomi neutrally responded.

Soon her ankles were free, and MC took a moment to stretch them out. Once she was comfortable, she lifted them up into the air, and Yuzuru helped situate her onto his shoulders. This angle allowed him to penetrate MC even deeper, and Yuzuru’s penis was once against surrounded by her sweltering dampness in between her soft thighs.

Yuzuru rammed into her, and MC let out sharp cries of bliss. Kei’s fingers were toying with the anal beads, yet he made sure his tongue was focusing on her hypersensitive clit. Kazuomi also joined back in and was groping the fleshy mounds of her chest. Every caress, squeeze, fondle, and pet the guys were unleashing on MC, was enough to send vibrations pulsating throughout her boiling frame. She let herself go, and her walls came crashing down around Yuzuru. “Hmm,” Yuzuru and MC moaned in unison, and MC howled, as they rode the waves of their climax together. Yuzuru’s hips resumed their gyrating, until both had finally reached the end their euphoria.

MC yelped when she felt Kei withdraw the anal beads, and gasped when Kazuomi freed her wrists. She quickly tore off the blindfold and was now facing the three winners of the bet. Swinging her legs to the edge of the bed, MC tried to stand up, but collapsed when her wobbling knees refused to support her weight. Opening her mouth, MC went to speak, yet was unable to since her throat was scratchy and hoarse.

“There’s no need to push yourself,” Kazuomi reassured. He pressed himself against her back, and Kei went to fetch a glass of water. MC nodded her head in thanks, and gently rubbed her slightly sore wrists.

Yuzuru broke the silence by offering a suggestion that had caught everyone off guard. “Since we’re the ones that made you feel this way, I think it’s only fair if you allow us to pamper you. I’ll go run a bath.”

Without waiting for a response, Yuzuru lifted MC’s petite frame, and started to carry her towards the bath.

“Oh, I can’t wait to see her reactions when we pound her this time,” Kei cheerfully admitted to Kazuomi.

They entered the bathroom, and Yuzuru began to run some hot water. Kei poured in some foamy bath salts, and Kazuomi initiated a foot massage. She uttered a content sigh, which only urged the impatient men to commence their explorations of her body. MC knew she was in for a never-ending night of intense lovemaking, nevertheless, her core was ready to be filled with the toe-curling gratification she was sure only this trio could deliver.

Throwing her head back, MC felt hands run along the side of her neck, and all the way down to her defined curves. Kazuomi tugged her hair and bit her responsive earlobe.

“Let us be your fuck boys for the evening. After all, our guests’ satisfaction, is our number one priority here at the Raven Hills.”

Succumbing to her own lusts, MC omitted a small cry of consent, before submerging into the next round of their thrilling game. This game was rare in the fact that even losers were winners.

“O-Oh,” she murmured at the feel of licks and bites marking her skin. Just for the remainder of their evening together, MC would submit, and allowed their claiming marks on her body.

Feel free to check out my Masterlist!

@agustd54, @joanneshiba

[haloud]

all the works and days of hands

pre-season 2 fics

Alex bounces on the ball of one foot, shifts his weight to test the suspension of the other. He’d debated which to wear for this; in an actual fight it’s more likely he’ll be wearing his everyday leg, but the blade is a shiny new toy, and it’s something he’s trying to let himself be excited about. His heart starts to trip with anticipation as he tests the solid spring it gives him. How long has it been since he did this? Hand to hand used to be his forte, but somehow it didn’t end up being a featured event in his PT.

On the other side of the mat, Michael stretches, curling his hands and flexing his wrists, pulling his arms up to the ceiling and exposing the line of hair leading down past the waistline of his pants, cinched tight. He’s lost weight. Somewhere else, at some other time, Alex would walk over to him and lock his arms around his waist and make Michael wrestle him to get free and he’d be warm and solid and brimming with warmth in his grasp. But right here and right now, Alex bounces on his feet again, flexes his palms, and just can’t wait to get his hands on him again.

“Do I get a safe word?” Michael drawls. His hair is getting long again, mostly from neglect, but whatever the case it’s long enough now for him to gather it up in a little bun at the top of his head. He’s missed one flyaway curl sticking out from under the hairband in a perfect spiral. It’s either an accident or him playing dirty.

“No need. I plan to go easy on you.”

He leaves the response practically served on a platter. But I like it when you go hard. He can hear the way Michael’s throaty voice would shape the words. But Michael doesn’t take the bait. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a little smile, but that’s all.

“You sure you want to do this? Maybe I didn’t have the same plan.”

For me or for you? He wants to ask. He knew going into this there was a chance Michael was just looking to get his ass kicked, and that’s not a service Alex is looking to provide. Not for Michael. Not now, and not ever.

But if it’s a fight he needs to make his head go quiet for a while, Alex can give him that. There was a time he had to look for music in new and violent places, too.

“I think I can handle whatever you’ve got in mind,” Alex replies, and whatever it is Michael hears, it makes him duck his head off to the side, hiding away his shuttered golden eyes.

Michael steps onto the mat first. He rolls his shoulders and takes his stance—there’s nothing polished about it; he’s all coiling, all readiness for hurt and to hurt, lacking the balance and potential energy. Alex steps up after him. Michael probably wouldn’t appreciate a correction, but Alex is more than happy to provide an object lesson. He might stay on his feet through sheer tenacity, but that doesn’t make him a match for someone with training.

Alex tests the give of the mat beneath his blade. He’s got decent traction, but the distribution of weight might take some getting used to before he figures himself ready for serious combat.

Michael throws the first punch. No power behind it, it curves just to glance off Alex’s chest, and he sidesteps it easily, catches Michael’s arm as he goes past, and ratchets it cruelly up his back, putting sharp pressure on his shoulder as he gasps.

Too easy.

Alex lets him go and nearly skips back into position. “Again,” he says, raising his fists.

Michael rolls his shoulder back with a grimace, tosses his head back like he’s forgotten his hair is up. He rolls his shoulder again, and it must hurt, because his grin is wide and feral under his sleepy eyes.

Alex sees the moment so, eh, why not? He smiles too and reaches out to beckon with two fingers like they’re in a movie. It’s worth the little flush of embarrassment to see the way Michael responds, coils to pounce, and flings himself in for the tackle. Alex turns into the momentum, plants his foot between Michael’s, and sends him sprawling over his shoulder. He hits the mat with a whump, and all his breath leaves him in laughter, all his long limbs flung out all around him, his shirt ridden up to his ribcage.

“It’s like you’re not even trying,” Alex says, reaching down to help him up. Michael’s palm is broad and hot, their fingers sliding together, filling up each other’s spaces.

Michael bounces on his toes when he springs back up. “Maybe you’re just a class above my normal partners,” he says, cracking his knuckles before taking his stance again.

“Well, I won’t argue against myself. But you’re not exactly doing credit to the drunk population of Roswell right now, if you’ve been able to beat so many of them like this.”

“Nah, that’s just you selling yourself short again, Private.” He licks his lips. He must have bitten the inside of his mouth when he fell, because the point of his tongue is scarlet red with blood when it darts out to touch his lower lip. “You wanna go again?”

“Always.”

The word jumps out of his mouth without warning, and he means it, glad to have trusted his instincts. God it feels good, his muscles flexing, his heart pumping, putting Michael on the ground again and again every time he pops back up again, feeling him squirming into every hold Alex puts him in, gorging himself on every breath and grunt of exertion that falls out of Michael’s chapped pink mouth. There’s no words between them, just the sound of skin on skin and Michael’s sweat on Alex’s skin and the simple joy of exertion and desire and action; Alex’s favorite cocktail; and Michael goes on his back over and over again, and Alex has never been so drunk.

Sometime near when their time in the gym is coming up Michael lifts himself from his hips as Alex stands over him with his chest heaving and Alex’s blood burns. It’s dangerous, this, and not because of the bruises they’re putting on each other’s bodies, but because at any moment Alex could wrap his hand around that long throat, at any second he could be digging his thumbs into the delicate machinery behind those bent knees. Again and again Michael tries to strike first, throwing himself on the mercy of Alex’s most savage instincts. They only had an hour but Alex did a lifetime of learning.

He doesn’t reach down to help Michael up this time, and Michael makes no move to stand. Alex is going to savor for a few more moments the delicious power that’s in having Michael at his feet; the feeling that he might be strong enough to protect him, as long as they’re together.

Because Michael doesn’t actually know how to fight. He knows how to duck and weave. He knows how to provoke. He knows how to take a fall. But the second Alex’s body goes still, muscles burning in the aftermath, all he can see are the ways Michael would be dead if he was fighting anyone else. And on the heels of that realization comes this awful hollowness, this—what is it like, to look at the man you love and see how easy it is to destroy him? Two days from now, past the lactic high, past the lingering soreness, Michael will be out on the streets all gray and straining and looking for something to fight against and someone will take him up on it. And the second he comes across someone with more skill and less morality, he could be—

“You’ve got a lot to learn,” Alex says, and he knows it comes out cold, but he has no other way to say it.

Michael laughs like Alex could possibly tell a joke, and Alex raises an eyebrow.

“You have enemies and no access to health care beyond what Kyle can provide in the field.”

And no Max to make it all better, he doesn’t say, but the words flash through his mind and hit the back of his throat like a shot, hot and angry, that Max was stupid enough to go off half-cocked and abandon his siblings to a life without any kind of healing.

Alex continues, “Additionally, those enemies have ways of rendering you without your extra abilities. Stop me when I’ve hit upon the part of this you think is funny.”

Michael shakes his head. A few more curls, dark with sweat, have come free of his bun, and they bounce against the mat with his momentum.

“If this is the best you can do, someone’s going to have to teach you to do better. You’re going to meet me here at the same time next week. And if you don’t show, I’m coming to you.”

A shudder runs through Michael, starting at his shoulders, ending at his bare feet, toes curling. There’s a startling vulnerability in that strange familiar face, and. Alex is going to protect it. He has to. He will.

“Promise?” Michael purrs. It sounds sexual, like you wanna go for a ride, like how all of Michael’s questions have always sounded sexual, like Alex might tell him no if it was for any other reason. Like that’s all he’s good for and all he’s after.

But Michael doesn’t know how to fight, and Alex does, so Alex is going to win.

“I promise,” he says, and he does.

[unquietwordssettledthoughts]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Naruto Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Uchiha Izuna/Uchiha Madara Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Smut, Royalty Summary:

Smut written out of sheer spite for anti-shippers.

There were full days where Madara loathed his position, despite the many advantages and privileges that came with it. When his advisers droned on about situations outside of his control, small details so far from interesting it took all of his self-control not to fidget or groan on his throne. It had been one of those days already, though one would be hard pressed to even call it afternoon yet, and the fact that it had followed the worst night of sleep possibly in his life only made it worse.

Why they thought he needed to know about every speck of dust on their parchments was beyond him. He had to focus on a point above their head, staring at the doors to the throne room, just to keep up the appearance that he cared at all. Yes, the agricultural department had its uses, and yes they were very important uses, but he had named this damned idiot the head of that department for a reason. Crops and plants were a mystery to him, and with the whole kingdom placed on his shoulders he hardly had time to pick up another subject to study.

He was busy keeping himself in check by inwardly reciting all the stuffy, pretentious poetry he’d had to memorize as a child when the throne room doors were thrown open, his right hand storming into the room and giving a sweeping bow once he’d approached the dias.

“Forgive me, my liege, but I have urgent news.” Izuna stood straight once more, not paying any mind to the man he’d interrupted, who was now glancing nervously between Madara and his brother.

‘Urgent news.’ That at least helped Madara stay focused, giving a miniscule frown in thought as he flicked his wrist in gesture for his brother to continue. Either he actually had business with him, or his day might actually get interesting…

“A missive has arrived from a relative. It would be best discussed in private.”

Madara forced himself to sit still for a few moments, to appear unrushed while he considered the suggestion. No matter that he wanted to sag in relief and shudder in delight at the offer, knowing now exactly why his brother was here. They’d done this song and dance enough times for him to know there was no missive, and he would gladly accept such a delicious distraction.

“Leave us.” It was a flippant command, Madara not even bothering to look at anyone in the room. His agricultural advisor would simply have to wait to continue his unnecessary and dull speech, and everyone else waiting to speak with him would have to get over themselves for a good hour or so. The only two he had to say any more than that to were the guards stationed at the side ends of his dias, catching their attention with a tap of one finger against the hard throne arm, jerking his head to tell them to leave as well.

If it had been anyone else requesting to speak with him alone, his guards would have stayed. That’s the only reason he gave them leeway in their hesitance. Soon enough, the final door was shut, the sound echoing off the walls in the quiet around them.

Usually, this would have been when Madara’s mask would break. It might have been many years since Izuna technically had the right to call him brother, having lost the political status that allowed him to be familiar with the king when he’d renounced his own title as a prince. That said, in the few hours they could steal in private, Madara was all too thankful to slip back into the role of being an older brother - someone who could tease and harass with little care, without the weight of thousands of people resting in every word and command he spoke.

It’s the recent revelation of exactly why Izuna was so keen to ‘call upon him’ in such a setting that kept him from doing so then. Gasped pleas in the heat of the moment, unwitting confessions on how his brother loved to serve him - being forced to play the stoic, aloof king might be taxing when it’s demanding of him every second of his life, but Madara’s more than willing to play a little longer if it meant pleasing his little brother.

He let the silence drag on for a minute between them, bored eyes trained on the man standing at attention before him belied by the way his blood rushed hot through his veins. Only when he saw his brother’s eye twitch, a small movement of discomfort or impatience he couldn’t quite tell, did he finally speak, his tone wry and bored and not at all giving away how he was already imagining all the ways his brother could serve him.

“State your business.” He watched the way Izuna shifted his weight at the command, how his shoulders tensed as if he was holding himself back.

“My business is, as always, to serve my king - and, by extension, his kingdom.” Madara raised an expectant eyebrow in lieu of a verbal response, making it understood that his brother should continue. He did so after a short pause, doing exactly what a good subordinate shouldn’t do and looking his king in the eyes as he spoke. “If it would please your highness, I would prove my loyalty to the throne by servicing him.”

Madara leaned back in his seat, acting as if to mull the idea over in his head. They both knew at this point he wouldn’t turn Izuna away, not after clearing the room, not after allowing the offer to stand between them. If he wasn’t in the mood he would’ve shooed him off at the start, would have told him the ‘missive’ could wait until later.

It didn’t matter what they both knew or not. What mattered was the way Izuna’s pupils dilated with interest, how he was clearly struggling not to fidget, and how he loved every reminder that Madara was in control.

He wanted to service his king. Not his brother, not then anyway, and Madara might not have been the best at playing up his position in their intimate encounters but he was all too willing to give it his all. And what better way than to make the impatient brat wait like the good little peon he should be?

“Approach.” He could see how Izuna had to hold himself back at the command, his brother stepping up onto the dias as calmly as one could when they wanted to lurch forward. Madara had to hide a smirk behind his hand, pulling off the motion as he leaned to one side and resting his chin in his palm. When his brother stood but a foot in front of him he drug his gaze unhurriedly down his body, examining him, determining his worth.

Of course, Izuna was more than worthy. Brat he might have been but he was Madara’s brat, and no matter that it went against everything he’d ever been taught Madara would have given the kingdom and more for his little brother.

Flicking his gaze to the floor was all the approval he gave Izuna, expecting him to kneel. When his brother did so with no further instruction it caused an unexpected thrill of power to shudder through him, made erotic by the sight of the man on his knees just for him.

“Do I have permission to touch the king?” Izuna’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, peering up through his eyelashes. All Madara did was give a curt nod in response, forcing himself not to move when his brother did so, not to twitch as those clever hands ran up his inner thighs, nudging them apart to allow Izuna room between them.

He had to swallow when one hand palmed the already growing bulge in his pants, fighting back the impatient noise, the instinct to snap at Izuna to get on with it. Patience was a foreign concept to the both of them when it came to sexual acts, born out of the fear of discovery and Madara’s personal habit of burning too hot too fast no matter what emotion took over him.

But a king is patient if only because he knows those beneath him will follow his command, and Madara knew from years of experience that Izuna would serve him well.

The brat was certainly taking his time, though. Working his belt loose with one hand while the other massaged at his thigh, face so close he could almost feel hot breath on his cock despite the layers between them. Madara’s own hand itched to pull him closer, to tangle itself in hair so like his own and shove him closer to find some relief.

Gods, he was already getting worked up, and his pants hadn’t even been untied yet.

With the ties of his pants loosened, Izuna scooted closer, taking a moment to nuzzle at his still-clothed cock, eyes fluttering closed as he ghosted his lips across the material. Pushing his luck, testing Madara’s patience, whatever one would call such clear teasing it was wearing Madara’s already limited patience even thinner. Imagining those lips currently leaving open-mouthed kisses on his cock stretched around it instead, knowing how good that wet heat felt taking him to the hilt, swallowing around him-

Izuna licked a strip up his shaft, and it was just that side of not enough to make Madara nearly crack.

He only just caught himself in time. Managed to cover the frustrated groan of his brother’s name by tightening his jaw, catching Izuna’s eyes when they peered up at him curiously.

“My patience wears thin, Izuna. Either do your duty and serve your king, or leave.” He sent a silent prayer to whatever gods would listen that his brother didn’t try to leave - knowing the brat, he’d at least be tempted to do so, if only to see what Madara would do.

It sent an all new rush of arousal down his spine when all Izuna did was nod, licking his lips again as he gave the cloth one final kiss as he shifted the material down and freed him at last. Cold air hit his length but he barely had time to register it before Izuna was on him, a firm grip making him jerk forward while he ran parted lips up the underside of his shaft, drawing a curse out under Madara’s breath.

The way Izuna worshiped was downright sinful. How he held him in place and mouthed at the side of his shaft, letting just the tip of his tongue flick at the skin there. Took his time working his way up, pausing to lap at the head as if eager to taste him.

For someone seemingly eager to please his king, Izuna seemed to be doing everything in his power to break Madara’s control. Touching him just enough to tease but never enough, onyx eyes, mirrors of his own, studying his every twitching movement and drinking his every hitched breath in.

His lips felt like heaven when they finally took part of him in, and Madara had to bit his own fist to keep quiet when his brother suckled on the tip. Before he could catch himself his free hand found the back of Izuna’s head. There was no masking the movement as anything beyond being caught up in the moment, the smirk pulling at the mouth around him showing he’d been caught. Instead of jerking his hand back and losing face further Madara rested in there, tangling a few small locks in his fingers and leaning back in his throne to better watch that wicked mouth take him in.

And what an excellent show it was for his gaze alone. Watching as his brother sank lower, taking him in until his nose sat in dark curls. How lewd he looked with his mouth stretched open, lips pink and wet with saliva, heady lust glazing his eyes over. Curiosity had Madara shifting in his spot, reaching with his foot until he was nudging against the undeniable evidence of just how aroused Izuna was to be serving him in such a fashion.

“Serve me well, take what your king gives you,” Madara loosened his hand from Izuna’s hair, brushing his fingertips thoughtfully down his brother’s cheek before leaving it to rest on his thigh, “and he might be gracious enough to allow you to relieve yourself.”

That promise, if one could call it that, was all it took for Izuna to take his duty seriously. No longer willing to take his sweet time, Izuna pressed his tongue flat against him as he bobbed his head, swallowing around him and dragging an unwitted curse out of Madara’s throat.

Madara would be the first to admit he’d been rather promiscuous in his earlier years. There had been little end to the number of people willing and eager to be with royalty, whether for the thrill or to gain favor it mattered little to him at the time. Yet out of all the dozens of partners he’d had over the years not a one of them came close to driving him wild like Izuna could with just his mouth. How he would moan with unabashed and legitimate pleasure, the sound and vibrations sending shudders through him. The way he’d pull back and lavish the head with attention right before swallowing him whole once more, choking a moan out past his kingly facade. Madara’s knuckles were white where they gripped the arm of his throne, desperately clinging to the mask of aloofness and rapidly finding it a vain effort when every inch of his being cried out for him to take hold of his brother’s head once more, to thrust into that blissful wet-heat and find his release.

As Izuna persistently chipped away at his self-control, more and more soft gasps and words escaped him, Madara biting his lower lip raw in an attempt to keep them at bay. Both sitting still and remaining silent was no longer possible, muscles twitching and hips gently rocking while he remained only vaguely aware he was even doing so.

He had come dangerously close to the edge by the time he broke, head hitting the back of his seat hard as he blindly reached for his brother, cursing as he moaned. “Fuck, Izuna, just a little more. Faster, gods like that.”

One hand working the base of his cock, that knowing, smug glint in his brother’s eyes while he sucked and swallowed around him, and Madara was shaking apart only moments later, panting as his orgasm ripped through him and left him breathless.

High off of the ecstacy thrumming through him, Madara paid little mind to the weight crawling into his lap, accepting his little brother with open arms and letting his head lull to the side and rest atop the one pillowed against his shoulder. It was low cursing and the rustle of fabric that keyed him in, eyes cracking open to watch as Izuna desperately worked himself off in his pants, unashamed to take his own pleasure and far too close to the edge to care anyway.

When Izuna’s movements stilled as well, a jaw-slacked moan spelling his end, Madara wrapped his arm tighter around his brother’s waist to pull him closer. Neither of them spoke while they came down, taking a few minutes to nuzzle into each other, to enjoy the quiet after-bliss embrace of lovers discovering nirvana together.

It was moments like these, stolen between dry meetings with even dryer elders, that made Madara grateful for his place in the kingdom. Knowing that he was above any social demands for ‘decency’ with a more ‘acceptable’ partner, that he could protect Izuna from any fall out with a simple flick of his wrist to dismiss any punishment or claims against his brother’s person. That not a single person within his realm could force his love out of his arms, or would dare to interrupt his privacy even within his throne room.

Knowing that Izuna had a kink for serving his king only made it all the better, and as Madara tucked his most precious person up under his chin all he could think of was how great this day had turned out for him.

[sanctumslider]

Glass Houses, Interlude 6

Summary: In an alternate universe where all humans are empaths, Kurt Hummel is the odd one out. Registering at a mere 0.5 on the Hawkins Scale of Empathic Sensitivity, Kurt has resigned himself to a lonely life, empty of touch or true love. That is, until the mysterious Blaine Anderson transfers to McKinley, and everything Kurt thought he knew was changed. But finding love is never easy, even in a world where everyone’s emotions are shared. This is the story of the boy who could not feel, and the boy who felt too much.

[Go to Chapter 1]

[FF.net] [S&C] [AO3]

“Morning Tom,” Fiona yawned, leaning against the reception desk, picking up her stack of files for the day. “You got anything interesting for me?”

The duty nurse looked up from his computer, and there was something in the way she felt him measuring his words before he answered her. There was a weight there. She set down her coffee and looked up. Tom reached over to her pile of folders and selected one with a green tab, placing it on top. “You’ve got a handover from Dr Gregory, tested last week.”

Fiona blinked. “Okay,” she drew out the word, not sure she was quite getting it. She was relatively new to work at the Columbus Sense Clinic, only recently moved from Chicago to take up a permanent position, following years of gruelling but rewarding sense training. “Why is Gregory passing the case to me? I’m on the initial test run, if the kid’s been tested already…”

“He’s over 4 on the scale,” Tom said soberly. “And Gregory’s six years from retirement.”

Understanding dawned, and Fiona glanced down at the neat little file, a name printed carefully on the front.

 BLAINE DEVON ANDERSON.

Blaine. The name of the child she would solely be responsible for, until her services were no longer required. A polite way of saying until the child died.

National law required any child diagnosed over 4 on the Hawkins Scale to be assigned a sense doctor for the course of their lives. And Blaine would be her first child in that range.

She took a steadying breath, and opened the file to read one little number.

Her stomach plummeted.

00000

Anger crashed, rebounding, fuming and hurt. Fiona kept her hands still in her lap as she sat in the middle of the floor, letting herself bend but not break against the howl of chaos.

“I hate you! I hate you I hate you I hate you!” The little whirlwind of a seven year old overturned a crate of coloured bricks, a horrible cauldron of confusion-fear-anger spilling over into the room. Fiona glanced over at Emily Anderson, who was desperately struggling to remain impassive and contained as her son raged on.

It had been the older brother who had triggered Blaine this time. The storm had been building for weeks, and Fiona had warned the parents to expect an incident. And by a small mercy, the tipping point had occurred in their weekly session.

Cooper was a sweet kid, but he was also a teenager, and naturally prone to misplaced and out of proportion bursts of self-centeredness. Unfortunately in this case, his projected emotions regarding his baby brother had actually mirrored Blaine’s.

Always getting Mom and Dad’s attention, they never even look at me anymore, why is Blaine so special?

 Mom and Dad will never love me like they do Cooper, Cooper’s so normal, Cooper’s not a freak, Cooper’s the son they wanted.

And now they were dealing with the fallout as it sent the little boy into a confused spiral where he couldn’t tell where his surliness ended and his brother’s began.

Finally deciding she had let Blaine continue for long enough, Fiona asked, “Where is the hate, Blaine? Is it outside or inside?”

The question confused Blaine enough to make him pause, angrily swiping over-spilling tears from his cheeks as he glared at his doctor. He sniffled, “Everywhere.”

Fiona tentatively reached her senses out to Blaine. By now, she was intimately familiar with how Blaine’s emotional print should feel. And right now?

 Scared, out of control, full of something not quite right.

She projected a tendril of warm calm and safety, designed to stabilise. “What did we say to do, when you weren’t sure whether something was inside or outside?”

Blaine scowled, the effect of his sullenness ruined slightly by a hiccup as he started to run out of steam. “Draw a picture in my head.”

“And?” Fiona prompted.

She felt Blaine faltering, coming down from the waves of scared anger. He bit his lip and shook his head, a swamp of confused guilt starting to squirm as he wrapped his arms around himself.

Fiona nodded to Emily to break her vigil, watching in buried relief as the harried mother crossed the room in an instant, kneeling in front of Blaine as the little boy reached up and wrapped his arms around her neck, saying quietly, “I’m sorry Mommy, I don’t hate you, not really.”

Emily enfolded Blaine in her arms, glancing at Fiona over Blaine’s head, her relief plain as she replied, “I know you don’t baby, I know. It’ll be okay.”

“You did really well today Blaine,” Fiona praised, her voice exuding confidence.

She made it to the break room before she fell apart. Nothing in her training had prepared herself for how hard this was going to be.

00000

She had been finishing off some late night paperwork when Tom burst into her office, “Fi, you need to come, now!” Her normally controlled and jubilant friend was spilling urgency and worry, “Blaine Anderson just got brought into the emergency room with a grade four E-E!”

Fiona was on her feet and out the door in an instant, hot on Tom’s heels as he frantically swiped his keycard and dived through the doors that led into the staff corridor connecting the day clinic, test centre and ER within the Sense Clinic.

They burst through a second set of doors into chaos.

Entering the Sense ER on a good day required doctors to brace themselves against an onslaught of sloppy sense control and projection. A detached part of Fiona was glad there didn’t seem to be too many other patients that evening, because those few who were present were already being tipped over the edge by the sheer hurricane of poisonous emotion that was flowing out of Blaine right now, and there were only so many staff on call this time of night.

“The EMT tried to give him a sedative in the ambulance but he kicked him in the face…” Tom filled Fiona in, gesturing helplessly at the scene unfolding before them.

Cooper Anderson looked completely out of place in dress pants and a shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he fought to keep hold of Blaine, who was kicking, screaming, biting, clawing, bucking against the arms fastened steadfastly around his waist.

Blaine’s tux had seen better days – jacket, tie and shoes long gone, shirt torn – and Fiona remembered with a sinking heart how excited Blaine had been. Only last week he’d been telling her how he and Amy were patching things up and would be going to their school’s Sadie Hawkins dance together.

What the hell had happened?

Fiona ran forward, “Everyone back up, give them space. And someone get these other patients out of here unless you want a full scale sense incident on our hands! Move, now!”

Her colleagues scrambled to her commands, grateful for someone to take control of the situation.

“Tell me what to do!” Cooper yelled at her over Blaine’s struggled screams, voice cracking. Tears were tracking their way silently down the young man’s face, but his jaw was set and determined.

Fiona took a step forward, only to have Blaine kick out, pressing his back into Cooper’s chest, his head thudding against Cooper’s shoulder as he recoiled. It was then Fiona realised that Blaine wasn’t struggling to get away from his brother, but rather was pressing himself as close as possible, struggling away from anyone else who came near. Cooper was just trying to keep Blaine contained.

That explained the bare arms. The older brother had done the only thing he could think of, offering skin to skin contact to try and anchor Blaine.

Fiona quickly changed tact. Here would have to do.

“Can you get him on the floor? Someone get me some gloves and 10mg of diazepam!”

Cooper gritted his teeth and pulled Blaine closer to him as he attempted to kneel, mostly just falling backwards as Blaine’s struggles unbalanced him. His grip dislodged for a moment and Blaine’s hands immediately went to his head, violently clawing at his scalp with bloody torn nails, until Cooper managed to wrench them away and pin Blaine’s arms again.

Cooper bent forward, desperately pressing his cheek to the top of Blaine’s head, “Come on Blaine, it’s okay, you’re safe, I’m here, it’s okay, it’ll be okay, I promise. Come back to us Blaine…”

“Hold him as still as you can, Cooper.” Fiona instructed, moving behind the brothers to avoid Blaine’s kicking, pulling on the heavy-duty gloves that would allow her to touch Blaine without causing an immediate reaction.

A sudden wave of terror flooded her senses for a second before she could get her walls up tight enough. Cooper choked brokenly, the full force of it drowning him. He still didn’t let go.

Fiona knelt quickly, reaching around Cooper to unemotionally tear the sleeve off Blaine’s shirt. A wretched scream shredded Blaine’s throat as he tried to pull away from her, but Cooper held firm, still repeating a mantra of useless placations and pleas.

Pull off the cap, jab the needle into muscle, press the plunger…

And finally Blaine began to quieten, his head lolling to the side after barely a minute, slumping bonelessly into Cooper’s body, screams finally dying to a horrible, echoing hush.

Cooper took a shuddering breath, and without Blaine’s projected storm, Fiona registered just how close to completely falling apart the young man was.

“Get a gurney out here. We’re going to need to keep him under until we know what we’re dealing with.” Fiona gestured at one of the ER resident doctors, “Harris, I want a full blood and Blaine booked in for an MRI. I need to know what’s going on in his brain. Dr Singh, can I trust you take point on this until I’ve got background from Mr Anderson? I’ll join you as soon as I can. Tom, can you call Blaine’s parents for me please? Let them know Cooper is here as well?”

A chorus of ‘right away doctor’, ‘of course Dr Monroe’ and ‘sure Fiona’ rang through the ER as Blaine was carefully lifted onto the gurney and wheeled away.

Gently, Fiona led Cooper to one of the exam rooms. Not only to afford him some privacy, but also because she was seriously considering calling a second gurney for this Anderson. He sat down heavily on the chair, silently accepting the paper cup of water Fiona offered him as she sat next to him.

One beat, two. Breathe in, breathe out.

The cup fell to the floor innocuously. And Cooper fell to pieces, sobs shaking him as he finally let his emotions spill out.

Fiona didn’t tell him it would be okay.

00000

Flicking through the chart, Fiona felt ill. She nearly hadn’t come, she could have emailed the document, but she knew she owed it to Blaine. Technically as Blaine’s registered sense doctor, she remained on the books as Dalton as a consultant, but his day to day care decisions were out of her hands.

How had it come to this?

Blaine had barely recognised her, his emotions sluggishly drifting in a sickly way so unlike the brightly sparking sense patterns she was used to feeling from him. The cocktail of drugs the doctors had him on was bordering on the extreme to say the least, but from what Dr Hargreaves had explained to her, they had been a necessary evil.

Sometimes, in her darker moments, Fiona wondered if she was too close to Blaine to be objective. Because as soon as she had seen Blaine in that room, she had wanted to yell, she had wanted to scream, she had wanted to pick Blaine up and take him out of there.

Everything her training taught her said that Blaine was getting the absolute best care. She knew the doctors and teachers at Dalton had made all the right calls, had done everything by the book…

So why did this feel so wrong?

“Blaine’s sense buddy, Wesley? What do you plan to do with him?” Fiona asked Dalton’s headmistress, Dr Miranda Hargreaves, leaning forwards to place the chart back on the desk between them.

Miranda sighed, “As yet to be determined. If Rosen had her way, Wesley would be out on his ear already, but really… the boy’s heart was in the right place. He was just incredibly misguided, and that cat was the final straw. Blaine has suffered for it, but that’s for Dalton to account for, not a young student like Mr Montgomery.”

Fiona hummed, non-committal. It started as a niggling thought, but quickly grew until she knew she couldn’t leave until she asked, “Would you mind if I spoke with him?”

There was a drift of bland surprise underneath the projection of too-quiet the headmistress maintained. “I have no objection,” she said. “You can use my office, I need to do the rounds anyway. I’ll send him over.”

The headmistress departed, and Fiona leaned her elbows on her knees, fingertips massaging her temples. Tomorrow would be the end of it all. Tomorrow, she would sign the paperwork, a messy scrawl, right next to the one belonging to Dr Hargreaves, and the pair from John and Emily Anderson.

Tomorrow, she would sign Blaine away to end of life care, and her responsibilities would be ended.

It wasn’t as if Blaine was her only kid over 4 on the scale anymore. She now had five in total of varying ages and intensities. She shouldn’t be this invested.

But Blaine was Blaine. Blaine was her first high-ES child. She had learnt with Blaine, she had put her heart into that family, had given them over a decade of dedication and love. And now it was broken, and she couldn’t help feel like all she had gotten out of it was a sucking sense of abject failure.

How many times had she told Emily to be aware of the risks, how many times had she reminded John that any time with Blaine was a gift, because they didn’t know how long they would have?

Turns out she hadn’t taken her own advice.

“Hello..?”

Fiona shook herself and turned to see a tall Asian boy standing in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing the typical uniform of a Dalton sense buddy, a silent marker of his suspension. Considering he couldn’t be older than eighteen, Fiona was impressed at the boy’s sense control. He was a little wary, but very self-contained.

“Hello, you must be Wesley. I’m Dr Monroe, please…” She gestured to the empty seat next to her.

Wes paused for a beat longer before taking the invitation. “You’re Blaine’s sense doctor,” he stated.

“I am,” Fiona confirmed, waiting to see if the boy had anything else to add.

“I won’t apologise,” Wesley stated calmly, a righteous fire burning within the teenager as he folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t care what Rosen crows on about, Molly was the only thing keeping Blaine together this past week. If we hadn’t smuggled her in, Blaine would have crashed and burned weeks ago. I don’t care if this costs me my place in the program, I’ll never regret helping Blaine the way I did.”

“Dr Hargreaves seems to think Molly’s presence was causing Blaine to withdraw from the school more and more. She theorises Blaine became so reliant on the cat that it made his time with the rest of the student body even more difficult.”

Wes laughed hollowly, “That’s a load of crap. Anyone who spent two minutes watching Blaine with Molly would tell you that.” He glared at her challengingly.

Fiona smiled sadly as she finally voiced her opinion, “I couldn’t agree more.”

A thrum of tilting confusion slipped through the teenager’s tight controls as her answer completely wrong-footed him. He quickly recovered, “Well then why haven’t you told them that? Make them give Molly back! The teachers just freaked and pulled out the drugs, but Blaine doesn’t need that, he doesn’t! We just need Ku-” Wesley abruptly cut himself off, but Fiona had got the gist.

Frowning, she asked, “Kurt? The low ES boy who went to Blaine’s old school?”

“Blaine’s boyfriend,” Wesley admitted quietly. “It’s complicated.”

Fiona recalled a long conversion with Emily Anderson in the hospital not too long ago, following Blaine’s panic attack scare. It had all come spilling out. Kurt, Blaine, a spiral into the unknown.

“I’ve got that impression,” Fiona sighed.

A burst of anger, and then the boy snapped coldly, “Why is everyone so quick to assume what’s wrong is wrong, and what’s right is right? Molly helps Blaine stay grounded, she helps him stay him, but the teachers say, nope, that’s not proven, that’s not right, and they take her away! Kurt loves Blaine, and Blaine loves Kurt, but sorry, Kurt’s low and Blaine’s high so they can’t possibly be good for each other? Isn’t it a good job we’ve hidden poor Blaine away from the nasty little empty kid?”

Fiona’s heart wrenched in her chest as she watched the carefully contained tempest of a boy in front of her. Sadly, she reached over and squeezed Wesley’s shoulder. “And there’s the biggest lesson you’ll learn in your career, probably the only one you’ll take away from your time at Dalton. Sometimes the rules are wrong, but there’s nothing you can do about it.” She swallowed tightly, “Thank you, for everything you were able to do for Blaine.”

Except that wasn’t it. Tomorrow never came. Blaine disappeared, and it quickly transpired that Kurt had been involved.

Was it wrong to be grateful, when everything her training had taught her was that this could only end in tragedy?

00000

When she hung up the phone, she cried for a good few minutes. A whole week of pent up not-knowing simply burst out in disbelief and hope.

Gathering herself, she quickly checked in with the Sense ER night shift staff to make sure she’d have the test centre to herself. Mutterings and rumours were immediately rife – even those staff members who hadn’t got to know Blaine over the years had caught up by following the recent news coverage.

“Talk about an assault on the senses…” A clear and confident voice sniped, and Fiona exited the back office to meet the new arrivals, taking everything in with one glance.

The man and woman with an irritatingly perfect projection of professionalism would be the agents from the Sense Protection and Incident unit. There were John, Emily and Cooper, looking tired and drawn, but shining with the kind of energy that could only come with the sort of news the Andersons had received tonight.

And there was Blaine. He looked far from healthy, but no thinner or gaunt than when she had last seen him at Dalton a week ago. And this time, his eyes were bright and clear, and his emotions although threaded with apprehension and edged with rawness, were contained. And next to him, keeping a tight hold of Blaine’s hand, a small cut blooming into a bruise standing out on one pale cheek, was the one who had criticised the décor.

Kurt.

“I guess they didn’t think of runaway teenage boys when they decorated,” Fiona said, catching everyone’s attention.

Kurt Hummel was nothing like Fiona had expected. She had seen pictures on the news of course, and as a sense doctor she knew what to expect when faced with someone sub-1 on the scale. But none of that captured the determination, stubbornness, love and strength that practically exuded from the taller boy as he stood at Blaine’s side. Fiona didn’t need any kind of sense-ability to see that.

Carefully keeping one sense on Blaine’s ebbing and flowing emotional state, Fiona introduced herself to the agents, greeted the Andersons, and shook the hand of Burt Hummel, Kurt’s father, as he joined them.

A sweep of panic, and Fiona began to feel Blaine unspool on the edges of her senses. She was prepared to step in any second. Despite her private hopes, if Kurt turned out to be in any way damaging to Blaine, she would remove him immediately.

The ribbons of fear spiralled outwards, but they were tempered by a quiet, certain love. Fiona was just listening to Agent Miller explaining the details of Blaine’ apparent episode, when-

Blaine was gone.

Fiona whipped her head round to look at the boys, mouth ajar.

Her eyes could see Blaine, her eyes could see Kurt. There they stood, arms wrapped around each other, Blaine leaning back into Kurt as the taller boy rested his forehead against Blaine’s temple. The picture of harmony.

In all her years knowing Blaine, she had never known his emotional print to be quiet.

For him to be silent…

“Boys,” Agent Miller said exasperatedly. It sounded like this wasn’t the first time she had tried to get them to separate.

Fiona’s brain couldn’t process her thoughts fast enough, watching with fascination as Blaine slowly came back to himself, his emotions flowing calmly around him. Their eyes met, and the Blaine she saw there was someone she thought had been lost long ago.

Sometimes the rules are wrong, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

But that’s not an excuse. And Fiona was done pretending it was.

Chapter 32

[setoangel01-fanfiction]

Farewell

Hurt - Chapter 30 (Previous Chapters)

Rated: T

Chapter Summary: The group leaves Northampton.

Fanfiction.net

A03

It was the next morning when Splinter finally drummed up the courage to approach them.

The four sat upon the various couches; April and Donnie with cups of coffee, Leo with a small half-eaten bowl of oatmeal, and Mikey with a plate of jellied toast of which he had barely nibbled on.

The sight was a welcomed one; them somewhat eating and being together was better than their previous aloofness and separation as of late. For a split second, he was uncertain if he wanted to break up this moment but something in his chest knew seeing them all in one room together was one that didn't happen too often…and there truly was no time like the present…

"Fa-amily..." Splinter spoke, cringing how his voice cracked for a moment.

All eyes went from the muted glow of the television to Splinter.

"Good Morning, Sensei." Leo spoke respectfully.

Donnie gave him a polite nod and smile and Mikey looked up to him as he approached.

"D-Did you need anything to drink or eat, Splinter?" April asked and while her demeanor seemed pleasant, there was an underlying cloud of despair that seemed to always be over her. She hid her pain well but the veil was quickly wearing thin. He worried deeply for her.

"No thank you, Miss April." The ninjitsu master's hands were shaking as he took a seat by the chair; reaching over to turn the television off before speaking words none of them fully expected.

"I-I think it's best that we leave soon."

The look plastered on everyone's face was of shock and awe, but there was an underlying question that reigned on most of their faces - Why?

It was so great Splinter felt compelled to answer it.

"After much meditation and reflection, I came to the conclusion that three months is enough. R-Raphael was never one to just lie down and give up. He would have strove on and continued fighting even in the worst of pain" Splinter's voice broke for a second as he said it, "…So we should do the same. I-I think it's about time that we went back to the city."

The only response Splinter got was a room filled with silence.

Donnie's head slightly lowered in acceptance.

There were so many things he wanted to say. Logical reasoning as to why that wasn't a good idea flooded his subconscious. They were out of shape for one. Going back to resume their normal life of patrol and ninjitsu training wasn't going to be easy or possible in their sad state. They'd lost weight, their diet not up to their normal healthy standards, and the sheer grief they were still dealing with was an almost astronomical hurtle to jump over… Donnie was unsure if it could even be done, yet his mouth stayed shut.

"Dad, I-I don't think we can. I don't know if that's a good idea!" Leo suddenly spoke; voice vibrating slightly as it came out. "We haven't trained in months. How are we going to continue our patrols and training after this? I - we…how?" Leonardo stammered, a nervous hand itching at his mask.

"We won't right away. I'm not asking that of you, I-I just think we need to go home and try to resume a normal life." Splinter explained, hands up in a placating motion."That's all I ask, but I will honor your suggestions as well."

April sat quietly, pinching frantically at the flesh of her thighs in an attempt to quell the rise of tears burning the back of her eyes. The news was not any she was expecting and truthfully, couldn't accept at this point. Being here, staying busy was the only way she was able to function and now going back? Having to resume school and life like nothing happened? She wasn't sure if that was even possible…

"Do you…really think that's best, Sensei?" Leonardo asked.

"...Yes." Splinter replied with shaky assurance, "I-I think it's time we started moving forward instead of remaining stagnant."

Leonardo took a deep breath; hating how his heart began palpitating painfully in his chest. Going back meant going home. Home meant way too memories of Raphael. All his belongings gathering dust; room empty and unused. It would hit home that Raph was really gone and never coming back. Left with tattered remains of a life taken far too soon.

"Is this because of the crime wave happening back in the city, Sensei?" Donatello spoke for the first time; careful to notice how Mikey leaned closer to him as if seeking comfort or reassurance. He placed his arm over the youngest brother's shoulders in hopes that would be enough for now.

"Partly, yes. Crime has run rampant but that's not the only reason. We need to regroup, retrain, and move on all in time. I think going back home would be the first step. We'll still take it slow but I think we've been here long enough." Splinter answered calmly, stretching a paw out to caress Mikey's shaking shoulder.

The youngest was more or less in a daze; vision locked onto his lap as he listened to the conversation going around him. There were no thoughts, only pain that echoed into every fiber in his body. Leaving this beautiful place and all its distractions would be next to impossible; especially leaving behind Raph. Mikey suddenly began shaking and Donnie suddenly wrapped his arms around him as hot tears began leaking down the youngest turtle's face.

"Mikey…" April gasped slightly as the youngest began sobbing into his genius brother's chest.

"I'm sorry, my son, but I think it's for the best…" Splinter tried desperately to comfort him; getting off the chair and kneeling down next to him. Paws quivering slightly as they enveloped Michelangelo in a warm hug. "I believe it is what Raphael wants…I wouldn't be doing this if I did not believe it was the right thing to do, my son. I promise…"

"I-I-I know, dad…I just…" Mikey whimpered into Splinter's throat, "It's just gonna be hard to leave."

The room grew quiet except the sounds of Mikey's shuttering breath. It was a sober realization and acceptance of change none of which were completely willing to accept but knew it had to be done. A silence in which each of the occupants knew life from this moment wouldn't be the same; hadn't since Raphael's passing, and it was yet to change again.

A shift, a move in which signified with certainty the horrible reality that they lost a loved one and they had to go on without him. It was time to move on whether they wanted to or not. While their world had stopped three months ago, it didn't change the fact the world was still spinning, sun rising and setting, time ticking by with the hands of the clock. The calender days were indeed being checked off and seasons were changing - life went on regardless of the hell they were reluctantly thrust into.

Time didn't get to stop for those who grieve; it only made the passage of the time all the more painful.

As easy as it would be to give up; to live the remainder of their lives here in peaceful tranquility, it was not meant to be. There was a city that still required their services; needed their protection more than ever. Yes, indeed they would need to go on without a vital member to their team. Learn to fight without a fourth party there to count on; deal without their strong brother who was never afraid to run into a burning building; hold up the front, set off traps and always being the last one out. The one who watched their backs; muscled their way through all too many seemingly impassable obstacles.

None would lie - it would never be the same.

Raphael left this hole that would never be filled. An unmistakably viable asset they would realize its absence almost constantly. They would never be a complete team anymore; forcing them to learn to fight with only three instead of an even four. Tactics changing and shifting like grains of sand on a beach, learning to fill in Raphael's spot the best they could to account for the loss but it seemed impossible at this time to even fathom having to fight without him…

It was painful, horrible, but necessary at this point.

As soon as Mikey's cries ebbed away, Splinter relinquished his hold; moving his paw to lovingly wipe away the tears that still stained his youngest son's cheeks. The pain was visceral in the room. They were all hurting in ways they never expected to and to be honest, he knew it would never be easy.

"It will be difficult to leave, but we must."

"...I know, dad," Mikey sniffled, burying his face into his father's robes if only to hide his face for a moment. "It's what Raphie would want…"

Although true, it didn't make the accompanying pain any easier to take…

It was three days later when they finally finished packing.

Cleaning and preparing the house for future visits and making sure all their necessities were taken care of before they began packing up the Shellraiser. A few bags and boxes were pushed into the back; the squawk of the chicken's absence noted as they walked back and forth to and from the cabin. (April had reluctantly sold them to a distant neighbor when they knew the sewer nor her apartment were optimum places for the feathered creatures.)

It was particularly somber as Donatello assisted April in shutting off the water and generators. The genius packing up the remains of the chamber and gurney that housed Raphael's body for a time. Particularly hard to burn the sheet that covered him even if it had to be done.

"Is that everything?" April suddenly asked, breaking Donnie out of his painful memories.

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure. I'll walk around the cabin once more to make sure but I think that's about it." Donnie answered lowly as he closed the Shellraiser's backdoor and turned to look at the redhead behind him.

"Okay." she replied with a shrug before moving to the front to climb in the van.

Splinter and Leo were carrying a few blankets and pillows out as Donnie re-entered the cabin for the last time. Upon entering, he saw Mikey standing in the cusp of the living room; staring out at the interior of the cabin. At first, he ignored him in favor of making sure everything was in order but once he was done, Mikey had only moved toward the front door, looking out through the tattered screen.

"Mike?" Donnie asked, "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah…" the youngest muttered back.

"I-I need to lock up, Mike." Donatello replied, placing what he hoped was a comforting hand on his thinning shoulder.

"Oh. Okay." Mikey replied easily, slowly moving through the door and to the porch as Donatello pulled out the keys from a pouch to close up behind them.

Michelangelo silently continued down the stairs, his eyes drifting toward the large oak tree; the familiar plaque and mound of dirt underneath. A sight that he would never quite get used to. A place he spent so much time these last three months; a place that held so much pain and comfort at the same time… Bringing home the uncomfortable realization that his big brother was gone. Raphael. A brother he considered himself to be closest to was really never coming back…

Donnie had reluctantly passed Mikey and moved to the van. Hoping the youngest just needed a few more minutes and it appeared as if he was right when Mikey began to move toward the Shellraiser but as soon as he got to the side door, he stopped.

The youngest turtle stood there at the door for a long drawn out moment as he looked back upon the cabin, trees, lake, and again toward plaque and grave underneath the large oak tree. Everything inside of him didn't want to leave; downright refused to leave his big brother all alone here.

Yet another side could almost hear Raph telling him to go. To keep their promise to protect the citizens of New York; to go home and fulfill their childhood promises.

The group remained silent as Mikey suddenly moved; walking toward Raph's grave and no one dared utter a word or attempted to stop him.

Michelangelo fell to his knees in front of the stone; the smooth plaque etched with Raphael's name and the dates of his birth and death. A strange sight he still could hardly fathom. There was so much that felt unreal; a nightmare in which he hoped he'd soon wake up from...but a part of him accepted that it simply would never happen.

A shaking hand went to run a hand over the words and dates.

This was reality…and Raphael was really gone...

Without his permission, so many memories flooded in. Like a movie or picture book; these glimpses of happier moments. Four brothers growing up, being kids, and all the adventures it entailed. A beautiful time. Relative ease to spend their days running around, playing tag, swimming in the clean cisterns under Splinter's careful watch. Becoming ninjas; training, learning their weapons, and ultimately, how to fight as a team. Scattered flashes and pictures in his minds eye of times long since passed and never to truly be regained.

Mikey silently remembered Raphael.

A brother who would become his best friend; their various interactions ranging from full on brawl to being comforted and held by the red-banded terrapin when nightmares plagued his sleep. Arms open and understanding; never judging him as he curled up next to him in bed even in their later years. Raphael was always there. Mikey was still trying to accept the fact that he wouldn't be anymore. He'd gotten used and took for granted all those moments as well as their friendship that went beyond their brotherly one.

They had a bond few understood.

Raphael was the brother he could tell anything to without fear of being judged. Raph would happily take a punishment when they got caught goofing off or doing something particularly dangerous or even illegal in some cases. Of course, there were arguments and disagreements but at the end of the day, they were still brothers and best friends. Still as close as can be even if Raphael had a hard time saying it.

"I love you" was never much in Raphael's vocabulary. Neither was "Please" or "Thank You" but that's beside the point.

Mikey could count on one hand how many times he'd heard Raph say those three words at once and it was understandable the more you got to know him; wasn't much for words or long drawn out conversations at all. What Raphael flourished with though was his actions which always spoke louder than words. Raph didn't have to say he loved you because he showed it often in ways few understood.

Raph was the first one in, last one out.

Always watching your back and protecting you without you ever knowing it. He may say rude things to your face and his endless supply of sarcasm was only a defense against you seeing how much he truly cared. There was never a doubt that Raphael loved his brothers more than anything; than anyone…

…and now…it hurt like hell that now…he was gone forever.

That strong brother he relied on for most of his life was brutally ripped away; faded and disappeared like sand through the large gaps in his fingers. Lost adrift amongst these tsunami waves of grief and pain that seemed to multiply by the day. It was hard not to just allow it to suffocate him and drag him under its depths but the one thing that kept him adrift was Raphael.

Words spoken, friendship and love so visceral that allowing his grief to swallow him wasn't an option…because it was the last thing Raphael would want. Raph would want him to move on, to push forward without him. Wallowing in sorrow would not be approved and Mikey could even hear his brother's admonishing voice now.

"You'll be fine, Mike. Now stop yer cryin'!" were some of Raph's favorites and they seemed somehow fitting here.

Yes, it hurt.

It would always hurt.

There wasn't anything or anyone that could ever fill the spot Raphael left in their hearts and lives. Why would he even try? Yet, as much as his chest and mind ached with the reality his brother was dead; there was also a comfort in his memories. Knew that somewhere, Raph was still around; watching and protecting them from afar.

Mikey was certain of it.

Sure, he still wasn't exactly sure how he was going to move on; how any of them could fathom pushing throughout all of it in one piece but he knew they had to try.

It's what Raphael would want and he dared not let him down…

"I love you, Raphie." Mikey stated firmly, his voice refusing to crack as he brushed off a few specks of dirt that littered his brother's gravestone. There was more he wanted to say but found himself unable to say any more. He wanted to be strong; to make Raphael proud and for some reason, he knew Raph already was.

A final brush of his hand over the cool stone before Mikey stood to his feet. Staring silently at the spot his brother lay before gravitating toward the surrounding area. So lush and beautiful; serene and peaceful. Raph was lucky to be in such a place and Mikey hoped that whoever was in charge of his burial however long from now, would place him by Raph's side.

Michelangelo swallowed a thick lump; refusing to allow tears to fall right now. His lips wanted to say goodbye but it was just too final; too painful.

"See you later, bro." he said instead.

Without another glance back, Mikey swiftly walked to the Shellraiser and jumped in the back with his father and Donnie. Careful to avoid their eyes as he awaited the movement of the vehicle.

Once Mikey was in and everyone settled, Leo put the keys into the ignition and the vehicle came to life with a turn of the keys. The leader checked the mirror's position and put on his seat-belt. Then they were off.

April was silent as she fastened her seat-belt from her spot in the front passenger seat next to Leo. Desperate to hide her internal grief, the redhead pulled her hood over her head and turned to face toward the window where she could see her reflection. Looking beyond it, she was faced with the rear-view window; Northampton growing farther and father in the distance. Emotions rising in her throat, she buried her face in her sleeve and quietly sobbed. Silent tears streaming down her face as Northampton disappeared and if it was at all possible for her heart could break anymore - it did…