#i have poked and prodded at this chapter so much over the past almost two years

[whydoeseveryonewanttobangchan]

🪢 You’re nothing more than our little plaything now, got it? 🪢

✎ Pairing: sexy ass!Bang Chan x intense!Lee Know x cocky!Han Jisung x fem!reader

✎ Genre: Smut (maybe fic?)

✎ Summary: Three mysterious men want to use you as a human pocket pussy for the night. Why the hell not?

✎ CW: ❗️Consensual nonconsent, a little blood❗️foursome, drinking, degradation, hand job, blow job, rough sex, face fucking, fingering, public fingering, general crassness

✎ Word count: 4,930

✩ A/N: I maaayyyy keep this one going as a chaptered fic?? Idk though. Lmk what you think! ✩

❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥ ❥

Click

One handcuff latches around the bedpost. Its closely-linked twin is already snug around your right wrist.

Click, click

The man on your left encloses the bedpost first, then your wrist. You watch his skilled fingers work with bated breath.

“Comfortable?” the cocky blonde with the cute cheeks asks before shooting you a sly smile.

The dark-haired one scoffs.

“Like it matters,” he answers for you. “This isn’t about her comfort, is it now?”

“Quit bickering, you two,” says the third man — the amber-eyed, honey-tongued one. “We’re on the same team, here, yeah?”

The other two nod.

“Good. Now, grab her legs.”

They do as they’re told, pushing your ankles down into the bed. The leader unzips his jeans, pulls down his boxers, and slowly strokes his cock.

He hungrily examines your naked body, mapping out a course of action. You take the opportunity to study him, too, and deduce two things almost immediately:

1. His dick is probably the biggest you’ve ever seen, let alone taken.

2. That devilish grin on his face makes you nervous.

In one swift motion, he maneuvers the garments around his muscular legs and drops them to the ground. He crawls onto the bed, barking out one more order to his friends.

“Don’t let her go… even if she screams for help.”

Fuck, what did you get yourself into?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It didn’t take much to convince you at the time. Hot stranger approaches at the bar, buys you a drink. You chat, you flirt, you dance, you kiss. He asks if you wanna get out of here, of course you say yes. It was a typical pickup story — until it wasn’t.

You were already under his spell by the time he shared information about his friends: the brooder and the showboat. He pointed to a dimly lit corner where the two men watched you intently from afar, but you recognized those faces.

They had been hovering before. A hand on the small of your back as one walked past, eye contact held for just a second too long over your suitor’s shoulder. The three of them circled you like sharks, and you didn’t even notice.

But they were good dudes, he guaranteed it. Just some friends as close as brothers who wanted to try something, someone. Together.

You’d had a threesome before, so what’s one more? But not like that exactly, he clarified. Yes, four people, but more like 3 vs. 1. As in they can freely pinch and poke and prod, while you’re pinched and poked and prodded.

It could have been the alcohol or how his lips moved when he spoke in that Australian accent or the way the flecks of gold and copper and bronze swirled around his pupils, but you said yes.

Were you 100% sure? No, but why not? He said they’d give you a safe word and had absolutely no intention of hurting you (unless you wanted them to), but it could — and likely would — get rough. Fuck it, sure.

The first time you spoke to the other two was outside, and it was nothing more than simple hellos. Not even names. That was another part of the deal: anonymity. No personal details, no phone numbers, no emotional mess to deal with in the morning.

You stood on the sidewalk with the two strangers while the one who convinced you to do this tried to hail a cab. Eyes shamelessly traveled up and down each others’ bodies while you waited.

The blonde with the cute face and deep brown eyes stood — chest puffed out — next to the dark brown-haired one. His irises were darker than the blonde’s, and his energy much more intense. Arms crossed tightly across his chest, he squinted at you from the moment you said hello until the yellow car finally pulled up. Welp, here goes nothing.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The cheeky blonde slides in first, and the quiet one gestures for you to go next. Whether he was being chivalrous or just wanted a sneak peek under your skirt as you maneuvered into the car wasn’t clear. Either way, he got his wish.

Blondie waited only for the inside lights to dim before placing a hand on your knee. He slowly drags his fingertips up your thigh, zigging and zagging more toward the inside, then the outside. He pauses when he touches the hem of your skirt, then retraces his steps back down to your knee. His motions repeat, but his path inches closer and closer to your inner thigh each time.

The mysterious one on your right hungrily stares down at your legs and cracks his knuckles, and the Aussie glances in the rear-view mirror every now and then to monitor their actions and gauge your reaction. He keeps smirking — showing off those dreamy dimples that hooked you in the first place — and shaking his head at the eagerness of his friend.

Eventually, there’s no more accessible flesh for the bold one to traverse. His path has led him to the line where your thighs meet, and they’re pressed together firmly. You see this scenario playing out in one of two ways, but the man you can’t quite pin down surprises you with option number 3.

His hand lands on your leg with a loud clap, and he forces his way between your thighs. The two of them pry your legs apart and run their digits up and down the sensitive skin, putting your panties on full display for the driver.

Tingles immediately shoot up your spine. They inch closer and closer to your crotch, but never actually reach it. Fingertips always stop right at the edge of your panties before traveling back toward your knees, but you can’t help but hope that each time would be different… and they’d finally…

“We’re here.”

Your eyes shoot back open; you hadn’t even realized they closed. The cabbie is paid in cash, and the men open and exit through their respective doors. They gather on the sidewalk, holding out hands to help you to your feet.

You mumble a thanks and stride behind them to the entrance. They open double doors for you and lead the way to the elevators. The blonde presses the button and stands watch, glancing back and forth between the two numbers to guess like he’s trying to guess which would arrive first.

The other two stand at your sides. The quiet one extends his arm to brush knuckles against your hip, and the Aussie places an open palm on your lower back and quietly hums a tune you haven’t heard before.

Ding

“Ha! I called it!” the blonde exclaims, clenching his fist in a tiny celebration of winning whatever game he played in his head.

The left elevator’s doors open, and you file in, the hand on your back guiding you to the rear of the car. Once you turn to face the front, his long fingers curl around your waist and pull you into his body. In another context, this may have been comforting. But the quiet one surprises you again and slips a hand under your skirt — heading right for your crotch this time.

He applies pressure to get a feel for you over your underwear. Then his middle finger curls up, pushing in just enough to make you squirm before returning to its initial position. Your breath quickens right when the elevator stops and the doors slide open once again.

An older couple walks in, exchanging smiles with your group. The hand at your waist squeezes tightly, and you smile, too. But the hand on your pussy doesn’t leave. If anything, he pushes into you deeper. You try to angle your hips away from him, but his lips go to your ear.

“Stay still,” he breathes. “You’re nothing more than our little plaything now, got it?”

Your toes curl into the soles of your shoes. It’s the only thing you can think to do that won’t make what’s happening so incredibly obvious. And everyone’s still smiling, but are they just being polite? You don’t know and you don’t care. You just want him to stop teasing and push through the silk entirely.

The elevator finally comes to a stop, and the couple steps off. Before the doors meet again, the one who started it all spins into you, his arm still tightly wrapped around your waist.

You’re chest to chest for the second time tonight. Without sweat and alcohol overwhelming your nose, you can finally inhale the vanilla and citrus of his cologne. His pull is just as intoxicating as it was at the bar, and you think you may be about to kiss him when he slams his free hand into the wall next to your head and leers down at you.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, yeah?” he growls. “We make the rules. We tell you to shut up? You shut up. We tell you to spread your legs? You spread ‘em. We tell you to come? You come. Got it?”

You nod.

“Good. Safe word is… uh…”

“Onion!” the blonde blurts out.

Dimples furrows his brow and shoots his friend a confused glance before turning his attention back to you.

“Sure, whatever, onion. You good with that?” he asks in that sexy accent.

“She better be,” the quiet one says from the corner while staring intently at your thighs.

Dimples and the blonde exchange smirks just as you reach the top floor and the doors open again. The Aussie keeps one arm tight around your waist and guides you down the hall.

The other two skip ahead, giggling about something unspoken. It’s like the dark-haired one is two different people. His emotionless eyes glare at you one second, and he’s beaming at the blonde in the next. They reach the room first, and he quickly snaps back into intimidation mode the second his eyes meet yours.

“Welcome to our playground…” the blonde says after you pass through the doorway.

It’s a typical hotel room: bathroom by the door, dresser below the tv, desk by the window, couch in the corner. But the bed sandwiched between nightstands sticks out the most. There’s only one, and four of you.

“Interesting…” you muse, slowly making your way to the couch.

“What’s that?” the dark-haired one asks.

“Yeah, what’s interesting?” blondie jumps in.

“Just… one bed,” you explain. “Guess we won’t be spending the night?”

“What makes you think that?” the Aussie challenges from across the room. He just finished moving the do not disturb sign to the other side of the door and attaching the chain. Now, he’s leaning against the wall, thick arms crossed over his chest.

Something about him keeps rendering you speechless. Whatever witty comment that was brewing in your mind is long gone, so you just plop down on the couch and stare at the bed.

“I think you broke her, hyung,” the blonde giggles and throws his body on the mattress. He’s enjoying the puzzled look on your face a little too much.

“So, who gets first go?” the quiet one asks from his position in the far corner.

Blondie is the first to offer his thoughts.

“He did most of the work so far, so I vote Ch-”

“SHHHHHH!” “Shut the fuck up!”

The other two cut him off almost in unison, but it’s a little too late. Ch-something. Noted.

“You’re a fucking idiot, but I agree,” Ch-something says, pushing off the wall and striding across the room toward you. He moves quickly, and he’s staring down at you again in mere seconds. “Stand up.”

You do as he asks, maintaining eye contact while you push up off the couch. Those beautiful eyes are a little cloudier now, and the sweet swirl from earlier looks more like a brewing thunderstorm.

He runs his fingers along the line where your top meets your skin. He drags his hands down your torso, feeling the lace on the bustier.

“Spin.”

You do as you’re told, and his hands get to work undoing the hooks along your spine.

“The second I saw you in this, I pictured what it would be like to take it off,” he admits. “Of course, there was a lot more ripping involved in my imagination.”

Your walls clench at the thought of someone like him wanting to rip your clothes off at first sight.

“But this is such a pretty top…” Ch-something continues. “And it would be a shame if we sent you home fucked and bruised and topless, too.”

One hand traces the exposed section of your spine before meeting the other and resuming their task.

“We’re nice boys, yeah? Just want you well-loved,” he says and presses his torso to your back, his silky lips to your ear. “And well-laid.”

The top releases its hold on your lower back and awkwardly hangs on your body. His big hands slide under the lace, around your waist, and up to your breasts. After a few squeezes, he slides the straps off your shoulders, and the top falls to the floor.

“I get first go, yeah?” he calls out to the others.

They echo in agreement from across the room. The Aussie circles your body before plopping down on the couch in front of you. He spreads his legs slightly and reaches for your hips.

“Come ’ere,” he commands, pulling you into his lap.

You straddle him and slide down onto his thighs, but not close enough, apparently. His hands firmly grip your ass and pull you into him. You can feel his hard cock press into your crotch while he wraps those big lips around one nipple.

He licks and nips and sucks at you, and you start to roll your hips into his lap. He gently guides you with palms on your ass, and for a minute you forget you’re not the only ones in the room. He has this way of making you dizzy with the warmth of his mouth and his hands and his chest and his...

“Ay, that’s enough,” one of the others says from behind you. “You’ll have plenty of time to mark her up later.”

Someone grabs your hair from behind and snaps your head back. Before you can register who it is, their lips are on yours and their nose presses into your chin. Hands go to your neck, alternating between caressing the skin and squeezing. Someone else is fiddling with your nipples, and Ch-whatever’s hands are still gripping your ass.

Whoever’s tongue it is forces its way into your mouth and flicks at your tongue, and both nipples are engulfed in wet warmth. A hand reaches under your skirt and pushes your silk panties to the side to stick a finger inside you. Then two. Then three.

The man above you squeezes your neck harder, and someone else rubs your lower stomach. There are arms and hands and mouths everywhere like some sick game of Twister.

One mouth leaves, then another, then the last. You can finally open your eyes and see thick eyelashes and dark hair above you. The quiet one is smiling down at you and stroking your cheek, making this the first time he looks at you endearingly. And, of course, it’s when he’s gripping your neck.

“Quit being soft, man,” the blonde says. He stands and grips your bicep to pull you up, too. Then his hand moves to your shoulder and pushes down.

“On your knees.”

You drop to the floor and stare up at him with wide eyes. From this angle, his tiny waist seems so small compared to his broad shoulders. His cock twitches in his pants, and you reach up to free it, but he smacks your hand away.

“I didn’t say you could touch me, slut,” he barks. “Keep your hands at your sides and open your fucking mouth.”

Your jaw drops and your tongue slides out over your bottom lip. The lean blonde unzips his pants, pulls out his thick cock and strokes it inches away from your face.

“You want this?” he asks, running its head back and forth over the tip of your tongue. “Want me to fuck your pretty mouth?”

You just stare up at him. He’s made it clear that it doesn’t matter what you think, so maybe not acknowledging his questions is what will really get him going.

And it works. His lips turn down in a scowl, and he roughly grips your hair and thrusts in hard, hitting the back of your throat right when his balls slap into your chin.

“Oh, that’s it,” he moans, picking up the pace. “Attagirl.”

You can’t see the other two, but you hear another zipper. Then your arm is lifted, and your hand is placed on another big, veiny cock. A quick glance to your right confirms it’s the dark-haired one, and his eyes tell you to stroke.

The way your head is bobbing back and forth makes it hard to concentrate on the movements of your hand, but you do your best. You keep waiting for Ch-something to join, but he just watches.

“I want her mouth now,” the dark-haired one says. “Why don’t you do the honors and get those panties off?”

Ch-something speaks up from the couch.

“Naur, her cunt is mine. Fuck her tits, they’re amazing.”

“Oh, shit, yeah. Good call,” the blonde replies between deep breaths. “Let’s get her on the bed.”

They pull out of your grip and easily lift you, a pair of hands under your arms and another under your knees. They drop you on the bed on your back, and the quiet one straddles your head with his thick thighs. He positions himself to enter your mouth and checks behind him to see if his friend has enough room to work.

“I’m good,” the blonde assures, straddling your waist and squeezing your breasts together. He slides his dick between them just as the other presses into your mouth.

The quiet one stares at the wall as he thrusts, and you’re kind of grateful. Other than that one sweet moment, his gaze has been severe. You’re not sure how you’d react if he looks at you like that again, but part of you wants to find out.

You reach for his hips and grip gently, seeing if that can initiate eye contact. Nope, his head just falls back instead, and the blonde takes a second to ruffle his hair.

“I know, her mouth is fantastic,” he says before sharing a warning. “Save yourself, though, it’s gonna be a long night.”

“Yeah… I know…” he pants in reply, squeezing your head between his strong legs. “This is just… so… good…”

“You know…” Ch-something speaks up again, “I have an idea.”

“What’s that, hyung?” the blonde asks, still sliding his hips forward and back on your chest.

A bag is tossed onto the bed, and something metallic clangs inside. But you’re distracted by the man opening the duffel and the way his T-shirt hugs his biceps while he rummages through it. You can’t wait for him to use you like his friends are.

“These…” he says, holding up something he pulled from the bag, “should be fun.”

You can’t see what’s in his hand, but the way the other two are giggling probably means it’s something exciting — for them at least.

“Fuck yeah, Chan, good looking out,” the blonde cheers, and the other two freeze.

“Dude, really??”

The nameless ones climb off of you and meet Chan at the foot of the bed. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch as they talk amongst themselves. Chan hands something to each of them, then places his hands on the bed when they go their separate ways.

“So, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Chan announces. “They’re gonna tie you up, and I’m gonna have my way with you.”

He reaches for your skirt and pulls at the zipper, loosening the waistband enough to slide it over your ass and down your legs. He presses his hand flat on the front of your panties, curling his fingers up and over the elastic at the top. He pushes his palm down into your folds, but he leaves the silk be. For now.

“Your body is mine,” he whispers into the skin just above your panty line.

The others have reached the top of the bed at this point, and Chan releases his hold on you. You’re pulled further up the bed and your arms extended so they can handcuff you to the bed posts.

The blonde checks to see if you’re comfortable, the dark-haired one doesn’t care, and Chan is annoyed by them both. The three men meet again at the foot of the bed, hungrily staring down at you.

Chan instructs them to hold your legs while he takes off his boxers and jeans. His large, throbbing cock scares the hell of out of you, but truly in the best possible way.

He crawls onto the bed and kneels between your spread-out legs. His fingertips tease the skin on your inner thighs, then your stomach, then your chest. He positions his hands on either side of your head and hovers above you.

“Don’t let her go… even if she screams for help,” he commands his friends before leaning down to press his lips to your neck. He speaks again, but his next words are for you alone.

“At least you know what name to scream now.”

He parts your lips with his tongue and dips in to explore the familiar landscape of your mouth. You probably spent more time kissing than speaking at the bar, now that you think of it, and that certainly worked in his favor when it came time to convince you to leave with them. He knows exactly what he’s doing with those plump lips.

His mouth goes to your neck next, and he sucks and bites your skin with every intention of leaving marks. He does the same on your chest, then your breasts, then your stomach — quick, painful bites followed by wet suction.

Forgetting your hands are useless to you now, you lightly pull at the headboard. The chain links jingle as you fight against them, but it’s pointless. You can’t push him away or pull him closer. You can only lie there and watch.

He glances up at you with those lustful eyes and a twisted grin, like he loves watching you squirm. He lowers himself to your crotch and runs the silk of your underwear between his fingers.

“These are cute, huh boys?” he calls out, and the others agree. “I wonder how they’ll look in pieces.”

“No-” you start, but Chan interrupts.

“No? I’m sorry, did you say no?” he thunders. “Shut her mouth.”

The blonde releases his hold on your leg and walks to the head of the bed. He closes his big hand over your lips, pushing your head down into the pillow and smugly staring at you with dark eyes.

“Better,” Chan says. “Now, where was I?”

He grips the top of your panties with both hands and pulls… but nothing happens. You giggle into the palm over your mouth. But he pulls harder and glares up at you, holding your gaze as the silk rips almost all the way down the front.

“Not so funny now, eh?” he quips, and the others smirk.

He adjusts his hold on the material and pulls again, tearing it the rest of the way. Four fingers roughly cram into you and curl up and down rapidly.

Your one free leg pulls up toward your chest, and Chan catches it with his idle hand and lifts it over his shoulder. He reaches back for the other and pinches your thigh as he hoists that one up, too.

He pulls his soaked fingers out and slides them in his mouth to taste you. Staring into your eyes, he spits on his hand, rubs it on his cock, and forces himself inside your cunt.

As expected, he’s too big. Your walls stretch around him, barely able to endure his width, and he fills you to the brim length-wise with inches to spare. Regardless of the strain he certainly feels, he doesn’t give you time to adjust. He closes his strong arms over your legs, pressing your skin to his as he pounds his cock into you over and over. You’re afraid something will rip with every thrust.

Your chest rises and falls quickly, and the other two can’t look away from your bouncing breasts. The blonde bites the inside of his cheek as he flicks one nipple and calls his friend over to join. They’re twisting and tweaking the sensitive nubs and there’s nothing you can do. Except…

“Ow! You bitch!”

The blonde lifts his hand from your mouth and slaps you across your cheek.

“She fucking bit me!” he yells.

Chan doesn’t seem to care; he keeps driving in and out of you at the same unrelenting pace. But the other two have rage in their eyes.

“You wanna play rough? We can play rough, sweetheart,” the formerly quiet one says.

He lowers his head to your chest and bites down hard — almost cruelly — on the skin of your breast. He pulls back to examine his work and appears unsatisfied. He goes in for another, and this time, he draws blood.

“Fuck you! What the fuck!” you cry out.

“Dude…” the blonde whispers.

“What?! She doesn’t get to bite you and…” the dark-haired one argues.

“No, I mean… that’s so hot,” his friend clarifies.

It’s the blonde’s turn, and he goes straight for your nipple. He closes his teeth roughly, though not as hard as the bite before, and you whine in pain again.

“Pieces of shit!” you yell. “Get the fuck off of me!”

“Yeah, get off her,” Chan pants. “I have more work to do here if you’re making her scream before I do.”

He releases his hold on your legs and grabs your hips, inclining your lower body up and off the bed. His first thrust at this new angle makes you shudder, and he knows he’s got you now.

He sinks into you again, and you can’t hold back the loud, breathy moan that escapes your lips. Your wrists are starting to feel raw from the handcuffs, and your chest is sore and bruised from all three of them.

You’re in so much pain, but drowning in pleasure, too. The hot tears on your cheeks could be from either or neither or both. Who fucking knows.

“That’s it, baby,” Chan moans. “Cry for me, scream my name.”

“Fuck… Chan,” you whine, getting closer and closer to your climax.

A triumphant smile on his face, Chan nods at the others to return to their positions. They each take a nipple in their mouths, sucking more gently this time — though their gentle is still enough to slurp up a whole drink in one go.

Chan’s thrusts are growing weaker and weaker now, his power draining. He presses a thumb down into your clit hoping it will finish the job.

“Oh my FUCKING… fuck… Chan… CHAN… I… aahh-”

You’re coming on his cock with a force that makes his head spin, and he can’t help but finish deep inside you, too.

There are moans all around — two in ecstasy, two in disappointment. The onlookers detach their lips from your chest and sit on the sides of the bed while the two of you ride out your orgasms.

“Are you fucking serious, Chan?” the blonde asks incredulously and throws his hands up. “You said we were gonna all get a turn before she was spent.”

The dark-haired one keeps his mouth shut, opting to cross his arms over his chest and brood silently once again instead.

Chan pulls out and topples down next to you on the bed. He’s turned to face you, but your eyes are trained on the light fixture above the bed, watching the way the bulb flickers and sparkles. Or is that just in your head?

“Don’t worry boys,” Chan speaks up. “We have all night, and she’s tight as fuck.”

“Yeah, but now you two are gonna nap and we’re still hard,” the blonde whimpers. His face looks so cute when he pouts.

“Then take a nap with us, or suck each other off, whatever,” Chan lazily replies.

The two glance at each other with raised brows, and there’s some other undertone there too. But you’re too lightheaded to care.

Their voices blur together as the room darkens, but you can feel a firm thigh and thick arm lay across your body. Whether you’re being cuddled or trapped isn’t important right now, and you let yourself drift off.

[violet27writes]

Dawn's Shining Light

Beta'd by @oneweirdbookaddict

Part 1, Part 2 (here) of (?), Ao3 link

-Chapter 2: I'll Never Leave You All Alone-

Hyrule woke slowly, his body sore from both overextending his magic, and from having dropped onto the dirt next to Sky as soon as they had reached the camp. The ground wasn’t the problem, it was the ‘falling asleep without care of the morning’ that was the problem. He pushed himself into a sitting position anyway, rubbing at tired eyes.

It was late morning now, meaning that Hyrule had slept through the entire evening and almost through the morning. His magic reserves were still rebuilding, maybe around half of what he was used to. The rest of the camp was sitting quietly around the fire, only excluding himself, Sky and Wild, the latter of whom normally being their earliest of risers was most likely still sleeping off a good hit to the head from the previous day. Hyrule would have to look the Champion over once he was finished with Sky…

His eyes dropped down to the form beside his.

The Skyloftian lay still, breathing almost too light but not quite shallow, pale in the sun in contrast to the darkness of the cave they’d found him in. Although the worst was past, his brows were still furrowed even in sleep. 

He heard someone walking up to them, but opted to ignore whoever it was in favor of giving Sky an entire visual exam. Crimson red caught his eye quickly, the white bandages wrapped around his torso were dusted with splotches, small and faint.

It was Warriors who sat down beside him as Hyrule began to run a light finger over them. The Captain’s left cheek was painted with a nasty bruise, centered mostly on his cheekbone. Hyrule questioned him with a glance.

“He started to tear that one wound back open last night, after you dropped out.” Warriors began, “Was thrashing like something wild and got a good hit before he passed out again. Had to stitch him up.”

Ah, so that explained it. He’d have to change the bandages soon, check on the stitches- His trail of thought vanished as something was dropped into his lap. He grabbed for the ceramic bowl before it could tip over and was immediately enticed with its contents by the cool chill of the colorful dish. It was a fruit salad, shiny and also filled with clear… soup? Another glance was sent at Warriors.

“It’s a chilled fruit salad Twi pulled from Wild’s slate. Breakfast.”

Hyrule glanced back down at the dish. “But I have to check on Sky and Wild.”

“No, you have to eat. Don’t worry, Traveler, all the rest of us have been doing is keeping an eye on those two. They’ll be fine for a few more minutes while you eat.”

“But-”

Warriors raised an eyebrow, “Eat. Or I’ll drag Legend over here to make you.”

Ducking his head, Hyrule obeyed, eating quick, but also taking long enough to taste the different fruits that made up the dish. The odd cooling effect seemed to wash over him, letting him have a moment of bliss before he offered his empty bowl back to Warriors. The other made no comment as he rose to wash the bowl, turning away with his lips tugged in a smile. Hyrule paused for a moment before getting to work.

Within half an hour, he had changed Sky’s bandages (they’d have to restock soon), checked his broken arm (it would take another two or three weeks to fully heal, even with magic), double-checked the Captain’s stitches (Clean and straight), touched up his smaller wounds (there were plenty), and use his last bit of willpower not to try and heal him. He would have to wait until his magic fully replenished itself before trying again. Otherwise, it wouldn't be as potent, and he wouldn’t have as much to expend while doing so.

Hyrule returned to his sitting position at Sky’s side, wanting something else to do for him. Through all the prodding and shifting, the Skyloftian hadn’t moved a muscle in response. He hadn’t even twitched when Hyrule literally poked at his bigger wounds. It was good in the sense that he was finally resting, but worrisome in that he was so out of it. So defenseless. Well, if Hyrule had anything to do about it, then he wouldn’t be that way for long. 

With one more sigh for good measure, Hyrule pushed himself off the ground to go check on Wild. He made it one step back when a hand grabbed his ankle and forced him onto a knee. He looked back to see… Sky?

His brother’s eyes stared up at his namesake, though it didn’t look like they really saw anything. Everything was still. Sky’s unbroken hand was still wrapped around his ankle, surprisingly tight.

“Sky?” Hyrule gently tried to tug his leg from the other’s grip, to no avail. “Can you let go?”

There was no response.

The Traveler kneeled down and started to pry away his fingers, but the moment he touched Sky’s hand-

“No!” With a harsh shriek, Sky recoiled back and tried scrambling to his feet. He held his arm against his torso with a flash of pain, indicating that the bigger wound was far from healed. His expression morphed into one of terror as his eyes were half glazed over.

Hyrule wasn’t sure exactly what to do. It was possible that his brother was just reacting in a ‘fight or flight’ response, since he had no signs of being sick or feverish. Maybe his mind was just so muddled by the pain? “Sky, it’s okay, it’s just me,” He started, hands up and palms out as a display of safety, staying crouched down to make himself small.

A handful of footsteps sounded behind him, slowing down and stopping before they got too close. Hyrule glanced over to see Warriors, Legend, and Wind, worry and concern flickering on their features.

Though the fresh bandages around his torso were quickly staining with crimson blood, Sky didn’t seem to notice, instead trying to stay on shaky feet. His breath was now coming in quick, short bursts, and his still pain-filled eyes were flickering back and forth between Hyrule and the heroes behind him. “Please,” He gasped out, pleadful, “Please don't.”

Hyrule definitely didn’t know what to do now.

He lowered his hands slowly, stepping forward in a half-crawl. “It’s alright, it’s me, the Traveler. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Slowly he closed the distance, softly talking to Sky as exhaustion forced the knight onto his knees. Then, as Hyrule took another step, Sky’s head suddenly shot toward the Traveler, eyes focused behind him. Darn it, someone behind must’ve moved too sharply.

“Sky?” Wind started, trying to soothe like Hyrule had, but he stepped forward too fast and even shoved past Warriors. Too many fast and loud actions all at once-

The Chosen hero finally fell to the ground, nearly self-destructive in the way he scrambled away from them. A look of absolute terror was in his eyes. 

At this rate, he was going to hurt himself even more. Hyrule was quick to stand, having to push past the instinct to not move and dash forward. Warriors and Legend also bounded forward, having similar thought processes. They didn’t want to scare him, but worse would be to let him further injure himself.

When Sky saw them start moving, he stopped his advance and curled up on the ground. Tears ran down his face and he threw his arms over his head to protect himself. From them.

That’s when it really hit Hyrule: Sky was scared of them.

It took an extra moment to really sink in. They were actively scaring him.

Hyrule nearly tripped over the dirt as he spun around, holding out his arms to stop Warriors and Legend. They both came to a quick and rough stop. Even Wind, who had started to step toward them, halted his advance. 

From his spot on the ground, shy shook in fear, whispering frantically between gasps- “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please,” he repeated over and over. Not noticing that they had stopped.

Understanding dawned on the faces of the others, and Hyrule let his hands fall back to his sides. He had no idea what to do. Not when his very presence struck fear into his brother.

[portaltothevoid]

For Whom the Bell Tolls - Chapter One - Lullaby

Pairing: Eddie Munson x OFC (Kat Ramsay), sequel to Foolin’ 

Summary: Kat and Eddie have a moment listening to Metallica, but afterwards Kat has a horrible nightmare.

Warnings: established relationship, a sprinkling of dom!kat and sub!eddie (this is as smutty as i’m ever gonna get), use of princess, queen, good boy, sweetheart, and babe, horror elements

Word count: 2.6k

Chapter song: Lullaby by The Cure

Tag list: @madaboutmunson @munchabunch (thank you my darling beta readers!) @michele131 @riffcrusader @idiot-parade​ @prettyboyeddiemunson

“She’ll be home any minute now,” Linda said reassuringly.

“How do you think she’ll handle this?”

“It depends… She won’t go to Nevada. I know that for a fact. But maybe–” Linda was cut off by the sound of the front door opening. 

“Hey, Aunt Linda!” Kat’s voice ran out cheerily. She was in a seemingly good mood this afternoon as she trotted over to the kitchen, dropping her backpack on the couch as she went by. When she became fully aware there was a difference in the usual routine, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Uncle Hank… uh, hi?” she spoke hesitantly. 

“Hey, Kat. Nice to finally see you,” he smiled warmly at her. His face was kind, but that did nothing to soothe the anxiety that was starting to bubble inside Kat.

“Wh-what are you doing here? I mean…I thought with work, you weren’t…” Kat stammered, failing to hide her shock. Linda had been incessantly trying to get her to talk to her uncle. Always leaving out why it was so urgent, Kat started to connect the dots on her own. This was about her power.

“Kat, I know this is sudden, but we really need to talk. We need to talk about you… about your abilities,” he began cautiously. “What do you remember from when you lived here before?”

“No. I’m not talking about this,” she said sternly.

“I’m sorry, kid, but you’re gonna have to. Look, I don’t want to do this as much as you don’t want to; however, you were born with incredible abilities that we need to get a handle on. At the very least, we need to know where you’re at.”

“Why?!” interrupted Kat. “So you can use me as some top secret agent to fight your battles for you? To poke and prod me some more like I’m a lab rat? I’m not fighting in some made up war–”

“No,” Hank cut off Kat’s rant, his voice forceful. “This has nothing to do with the Russians. This threat is very real and right here, in Hawkins. We know things are only going to get worse and we need to be prepared. You need to be prepared. Hawkins will be at the epicenter of what's to come.”

“Epicenter of what? If you ever want me to agree to anything, quit bullshitting me.”

“Kat! Don’t speak to him that way!” Linda interjected, which only earned an eye roll from Kat.

“It’s fine, Linda. I’m sorry for the ambiguity. In order for me to fully explain, I need to know how much you remember from the lab.”

– – – – – – – – – – 

Kat thumbed through the albums behind the placard marked with an ‘M.’ She paused when she finally found the one she was searching for. Smiling to herself, she took a moment to bask in pride for what her friends had accomplished. The day was finally here.

“Did you find it!?” Eddie asked, buzzing with excitement. He almost crashed into her when his body kept going forward past his scurrying feet. 

Kat grabbed two copies of the record to show him its artwork. She was beaming. “Look at this fucking cover!” she exclaimed, holding out the record for both of them to admire. “Did you find two cassettes?” He responded by shaking a cassette in each hand. His face was lit up like a small child’s on Christmas morning. To them, this was Christmas.

Once they purchased their new music, the pair practically ran to Kat’s car. “Okay, so should we–” she began to ask.

“Don’t even bother asking. I’ve waited three months for this record to come out and I’m gonna wait any longer,” he cut off Kat as he began unwrapping the plastic from the brand new cassette. “We’ll start from the top when we get back to yours.” As Kat threw her car in reverse out of the parking spot, Eddie popped in Metallica’s new album, Master of Puppets.

When the road was clear, Kat punched the gas of her Mustang and took off towards her house with the melodic, acoustic intro of “Battery” filling her car. As the electric guitars and full band kicked in, she slowly turned to look at Eddie, her face alight with awe. He was biting his lower lip and slapping his ringed hand on his leg.

“Yes! Yes! Fuck yeah!” he shouted before proceeding to shake his head to the beat, his curls flying around his face in a blur.

Kat pressed down on the gas, letting the car’s speed match the tempo of the music. She turned the steering wheel into some makeshift guitar/drum hybrid instrument. Although this ride to the record store wasn’t a particularly long drive from her home, she was determined to shave off as much time as humanly possible.

When the first track ended, the title track of the album came in with punching riffs. The couple whooped and hollered. Kat ferociously hit her steering wheel. “Ugh, finally high quality!” she proclaimed. In the middle of the guitar solo, Kat pulled into her driveway, slamming her car into park. 

She ejected herself from the car and ran up the steps to her front door, waving her hand in front of her to unlock it. “Holy shit, how fast were you driving?!” Eddie asked, shocked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Kat giggled as they ran up the stairs to her room. He just laughed, shaking his head as he followed behind her.

Eddie made a beeline right to her record player and carefully removed the vinyl from its case, delicately placing it on the turntable. When he placed the needle on the spinning record, he cranked the volume.

Together they had their own short lived concert thrashing around Kat’s bedroom. She took brief breaks to read the lyrics, while Eddie took one to light up a joint from them to share (which was nothing but a roach by the end of “Master of Puppets” second verse). 

They ended up facing each other and sang the second chorus in each other's faces. Kat gravitated closer and closer to Eddie, looking him dead in the eyes as “master, master, master…” was repeated just before the instrumental bridge. He closed any remaining distance between the two of them, gripping her by her waist, spinning them into some sort of waltz-esque dance. Being somehow perfectly in sync, Kat followed his lead as they danced around the open space of her room.

With the resuming of the heavy riffs, Kat pulled Eddie to her, their bodies crashing into each other in time with the crashing of the cymbals. She created this push and pull between them while still moving him backward until his legs met her bed, causing him to fall backwards onto it. 

She was on top of him in seconds. Her hands pressing into her mattress on either side of his head. Looking deep into his chocolate eyes that were alight with lustful desire as she hovered over him. She sang the lyrics to him, inching closer and closer to him with every line.

“Master, Master Where’s the dreams that I’ve been after?  Master, Master Promised only lies. Laughter, laughter All I hear or see is laughter. Laughter, laughter Laughing at my cries…”

She slowly brought herself upright, so she could look down at him, until suddenly she put her mouth right next to his ear. In the most sultry voice she could manage, she whispered “fix me…” before she gave him a little nibble.

Eddie couldn’t take it anymore. He firmly grasped her hips and flipped her over. Now that she was the one on her back, he looked down at her and said in an almost chastising tone, “You keep singing ‘master’ at me like that, I just might have to act like one.” He smirked as he sank his weight down, holding her in place. His hands anchored her shoulders, adding more pressure as he leaned down. He moved one hand up, tracing the side of her neck, until he was holding her face. “Let go of control, princess.”

Her breath hitched for a split second before she caught it. A smirk clouded her features. She moved his arms away from her, taking them in an iron hold, and flipped him over once again. Having moved so suddenly, he didn’t even have a chance to react. She slid his arms up so they were extended over his head. Even though she moved her hands, pressure remained, locking him in place. One of her hands wrapped around his neck as she applied enough pressure to make his eyes grow wide. Her smirk turned into a devilish grin as she moved her hand up to close her thumb and index fingers tightly on his cheeks, pushing his head to the side and into the bed. She leaned over him again, speaking through gritted teeth that nearly grazed over his ear as she spoke. “I’m not your princess. I’m your Queen,” she said before snapping his head back so they were face to face again.

Returning her other hand back to his neck, she kissed him depravedly. All the while she never lost control over the energetic coils that bound his wrists above his head that kept him still. Her tongue brushed his lower lip before she broke contact. He let out a whimper, his eyes pleading for more. With her wicked grin, she gently brushed his cheek. Turning his head to her hand, he leaned into her touch. She went from gentle to firm in an instant as she revisited her tight grip on his face as she placed her forehead on his. “Be a good boy and let your Queen take care of you, hmm?” she asked as she slid her body down his, her hands drifting underneath his shirt to remove it.

It would be awhile before they both could really give this album a full and proper listen.

– – – – – – – – – 

She looked around and saw all her friends laughing, enjoying themselves. Eddie was by her side, leaning into her as he chuckled at something that was most likely at her expense. She playfully rolled her eyes. A loving warmth surrounded the moment. All of Hellfire are scattered around the room. Steve, Robin, Nancy, and even Chrissy were there. They all joined in the laughter. A gleeful camaraderie blossomed before everyone.

She scanned the room, basking in what seemed to be a perfect moment of harmony amongst friends. Amongst the only steadfast group she’s ever been a part of. Her eyes land on a figure dressed all in white, leaning against the wall. He was watching them, watching her. It’s someone close to her age. They’re so familiar, yet she had no memory of why or how. Had she ever seen this person before? 

It was then that the moment turned to ice. Happiness was drained from the room as if a full sink had been unplugged.

Everyone froze, their expressions barren and stoic. The light was being siphoned from their eyes.

She locked eyes with the man in white. Standing upright, he tapped his steepled fingers against one another. A devilish, or perhaps just evil, grin grew on his face as he clasped his hands in front of him. Goosebumps creeped up her skin. Her breathing increased in pace. Anxiety. Danger. These feelings consumed her.

“Somehow I knew we would be reunited again. Do you remember my offer, dear Katrina? Do you remember me?” His voice was calm. Too calm. It was like calm before the storm. It was the embodiment of walking on eggshells.

“W-who are you? What is this p-place?” she stammered.

“Who I am is not as important as who… As what I’ve become. Don’t you remember? Surely you could not have forgotten what you and your friend did to me?” His voice deepened as he walked towards her, his features evaporating. Or maybe they were being burned off? She watched his humanity become stripped away in real time. There seemed to be nothing left, save for a muscular structure and veins. This figure was beyond horrifying. “Remember, Katrina. Remember!” he bellowed, shaking her to her core.

The figure looked as if it was glitching between its former human self and the monster it had become. Then memories of her pre-teen years that had been long buried started coming to the surface. Her breath caught in her throat. “One,” she managed to somehow whisper.

“This world can be rid of pain, of suffering. We have the power to do that. Together. You have the power to do that. Join me, Katrina.”

“No. No. There is more than that. There’s so much more. I’ve seen it, felt it.”

“Do you think these humans are equal to you? Do you think they will always be here for you? Do you think they will not abandon you? Do you believe that you matter to them? Do you think you belong here? You don’t. You cannot defeat me, Katrina. Join me. Create something better than this. With me. With us.” She was frozen in fear. She could barely formulate a thought, never mind a response. “I’ve found you here. I will find you, both of you, in the waking world. Our worlds will bleed and then become one. Soon.” 

The figure vaporized into a mist, fading into nothing. In its place, emerged a grandfather clock protruding out of the wall. 

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

It chimed, the sound reverberated through the walls, distorted.

Her friends that still surrounded her now stared at her. The color of their eyes faded to white.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Chime.

Their mouths slowly opened, wider and wider. As their jaws began to dislocate, hundreds of black widow spiders emerged from their mouths. She tried to get away, she tried to scream.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Chime.

Slowly she turned to face Eddie, trying desperately to call out his name. Slowly he turned to look back at her. His mouth opened, wider. Wider still. A waterfall of spiders spilled out, crawling their way towards her. She tried to get away, she tried to scream.

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Chime.

– – – – – – – – – – 

“Kat! Kat! Wake up! Kat, it’s okay, I’m here! It’s just a nightmare! Wake up!” 

Eddie suddenly woke to the sound of Kat whimpering in her sleep. He rolled over to wrap his arm around her, tried to pull her close to him, in hopes that would comfort her. She started shaking her head. She thrashed her way out of his grasp. And then she started to scream.

Immediately, Eddie was kneeling over her, gripping her shoulders to shake her awake. “Kat!” he shouted at her once more, before her eyes flung open and she gasped like she had just risen from the dead.

She flung herself upright. “Eddie? Eddie!?” she croaked. Her arms frantically searched for him. He wanted to be brave for her, but he was terrified. This had never happened. Kat never gets spooked by anything. Selfishly, for the briefest second, he was thankful she would never see the look of sheer fright that was on his face.

The instant she made contact with his body, she burst into tears. She clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring her to her sanity. Fear racked her mind like the sobs racked her body. If she let go of him, would his eyes turn white? Would a flood of spiders escape from him?

“Shhh, babe, it’s gonna be okay. I’m here, I’m right here,” he said softly, desperately trying to hold himself together, to keep his own fear from possessing his voice. “Breathe. Sweetheart, just breathe. It was a dream. Just a bad nightmare. It wasn’t real.”

When her breathing returned to normal, she moved back to look at him. She shook her head. “No, no. It’s not. It’s not gonna be okay. It– It…” her voice cracked. Her lip quivered as she tried not to sob again. “None of us are going to be okay.”

Tick. Tock. Chime. The sounds of that clock etched themselves into her mind, haunting her.

next chapter

[asexual-hugger]

Fallen Embers

Chapter 1: Test Subject No. 20

IWWA RESEARCH FACILITY

ST. LUCIA

8:03 PM

Long halls. Bright lights. You move through the never-ending maze. Everywhere you turn, it all looks the same. Your feet barely make a sound on the smooth, tiled floors. You have to be fast, but discreet. There are security guards at every station. If any one of them caught you, you would be placed back in your room to wait for the next round of experimentation. You must escape this prison now. You have been in here since you were six years old, placed under the watchful gaze of a group of scientists and poked and prodded at like a fly under a microscope. You have not seen the sun in over a decade.

First off, what body type does this experiment have?

*Body Type 1 (female)

*Body Type 2 (male)

Now, what do they look like?

*Face 1

*Face 2

*Face 3

*Face 4

What is this subject’s identity?

Choose first name (Default is “Ronan”)

Choose last name (Default is “Wellesley”)

We are putting you in the hospital gown for now. You will have the option to change outfits later on in the story.

Welcome to your lab room, Test Subject No. 20. What do you think?

*Identity confirmed!

*Cancel operation. This is wrong!

Your heart pounds. You know the exit is near. You can’t explain it, but there is just that knowledge, that feeling...that you are headed in the right direction. Despite the facility’s complicated floor plan, you know it like the back of your hand. What is odd is that there don't seem to be any guards...

YOU: (I have to make it! I just HAVE to!)

Further...further... Your body forces itself to run.

YOU: (Quietly... I must take it quietly! Steady now...steady...)

The door is up ahead. You turn a corner. Two guards round from the right.

YOU: Oh, no...

This is a timed choice.

*Duck into an alcove! ⬅️ Correct

*Freeze!

If you freeze, the guards catch you and haul you back to your room

If the timer runs out, you freeze and the guards attack you

If you duck into the alcove, they ignore you and walk past

You wait in the shadows, not moving, until their footsteps fade.

YOU: Too close. Much too close.

You creep out of the shadows, making sure there are no other guards. The door has never looked closer.

YOU: Almost there! Just a few more steps and I'm free.

The door clicks and swings open. A night sky appears beyond. You push forward...and fly out into a pouring rain storm. You look back, and the door closes behind you. The rain is heavy, pelting over your skin and soaking your hospital gown, but you don't care. Never in your life have you felt so relieved, so freeing. All those years of being locked inside that facility, all those years of being one of the IWWA’s lab rats... Not anymore. Finally, Number Twenty of the IWWA Research Experiment is free. You run away from the horrors, away from the lab, and you keep on running, only looking forward.

You run for what feels like hours. The rain continues to fall. By this point, you are completely drenched. You start to shiver from the cold night air. That’s when you realize: you have no idea where you are.

YOU: Now what? I don't recognize any part of this place. Am I even still on the island?

The environment has changed. You glance back, but the facility is nowhere to be found. Only darkness surrounds you.

YOU: Well, if I'm to escape the most horrifying government research lab, the only way to go is forward. I can't stop what I've started. I escaped to get away, and that's what I'm going to do. Consequences be damned, that is what I'm going to do!

You press on, ignoring the sinking feeling inside you. You have no idea where you’re headed, but anywhere away from your prison is better than staying cooped up in your room waiting to be studied for a fiftieth time. You are free, and you intend to take advantage of that. Soon, something shows up in the distance.

YOU: Is that...light?

A new strength surges through you as your legs kick into high gear, propelling you towards the welcoming glow. Eventually, you find yourself facing an outdoor patio, a small white fence surrounding it and tables set up, waiting for invited guests. The light you saw belongs to one of the lamps surrounding the patio. You stare around in wonder, your memories of the outside world slowly returning and almost overwhelming you.

YOU: Is this...a restaurant?

The last time you went to a restaurant was when you were five, a year before the men came and took you away. Took you from your mother, who had tried so desperately to get you back. She’d fought, and lost. You have no idea where she is now, or even if she is still alive. Your memories of her are fuzzy. Your whole head is fuzzy from the numerous experiments that had been performed on you. The drugs you were placed under to keep you from thrashing. The procedures the men did to you to keep you from calling out to your mother. They did what they could to keep you quiet. No one was supposed to know about the IWWA Research Facility on St. Lucia. For decades, they had been performing top-secret experiments on children and young people, turning them into deadly weapons in order to fight their enemies. IWWA stood for International Weapons and Warfare Association. You were the twentieth test subject they had recruited.

Your thoughts are interrupted at the sound of a door slamming. Someone is out here. You spot a figure cloaked in a thick jacket, moving towards the tables. Curious, you step closer, now fully illuminated by the overhead lamp. The figure stops in the middle of the patio, arms folded, eyes scanning the area before they settle on you.

Who’s the stranger?

*A man

*A woman

Choose their face:

*Face 1

*Face 2

*Face 3

*Show male/female options instead

Whether it’s the fact that you are standing under a lamp in the pouring rain wearing nothing but a hospital gown, or under some strange coincidence that his/her eyes fell on you at that second, the stranger stares at you in shock, his/her mouth slightly open. You stare back, not wanting, not daring, to look away. Neither of you move or speak. It’s as if you’re caught in a silent match, each one daring the other to look elsewhere. The stranger is the first one to speak.

STRANGER: Hi. Are you lost? Are you okay? Do you need me to call someone?

You are at a loss for words. You simply shake your head.

STRANGER: There’s a phone inside the restaurant if you need to use one. Are you hurt? You’re wearing a hospital gown. Are you all right?

You nod.

STRANGER: What happened? Where did you come from?

You silently point back towards the direction you came.

STRANGER: What, back towards the woods? What were you doing out there? And why are you dressed like that? You're soaked!

You look up at the sky, letting the rain fall on your face.

STRANGER: Why don't you come inside? You shouldn't be out here in the pouring rain. I can get you some dry clothes. Would you like that?

It takes a while before you respond. You slowly lower your head and look into his/her eyes. You nod your head.

STRANGER: Come on. Here. Take my jacket.

He/She wraps the jacket around your shoulders and opens the door to the building. Light floods the doorway and you are instantly greeted with warmth all around.

STRANGER: I’m Everett/Yvette Flynt, by the way. My family owns this restaurant. They're not here right now, but they'll be back in the morning. Are you hungry? I'm a chef. I'm told I'm very good at cooking, but you've probably already seen that.

You give him/her a blank look.

FLYNT: My TV show? Taste of the World? It's all over every cooking network.

You continue to give the blank look. He/She is clearly not registering with you.

FLYNT: Oh, well, that’s fine. I guess cooking shows aren't for everyone. Anyway, what do you like? I can make pretty much anything. I've got ingredients for soup, hamburgers, macaroni and cheese...whichever you’re in the mood for.

He/She starts rifling through the cabinets, taking down different ingredients. His/Her attention is solely focused on you.

FLYNT: So what were you doing out there in the pouring rain? Did something happen?

You nod. You steal glances out the kitchen window every so often, as if looking for something. You want so badly to tell him/her about your experience, IWWA, everything, but the words don't come. If anyone on the outside ever found out about the facility, it wouldn't end well. Still, you feel you can trust this man/woman standing before you. You don't even know him/her, but there is something there, something different. Not at all like the men at the facility.

FLYNT: What’s your name?

You hold out your right arm. There, tattooed into the skin of your wrist, is a number.

020

YOUR BRAND

*Show

FLYNT: Twenty?

You nod.

He/She looks genuinely confused, but the expression quickly disappears.

FLYNT: Your name is Twenty?

You lower your arm.

FLYNT: Huh. Okay. That’s strange, but no matter. If your name is Twenty, then that’s your name. Although I'm not sure if that'll fare well in the public eye. How about if I call you T? Like, a nickname for Twenty.

You nod again.

FLYNT: You don't have any other name? Seems odd that you’d have a number as a name. What happened to you?

You give him/her a motion with your hands like you’re writing something down, and luckily, he/she gets it. You take the pad and pencil that he/she gives you and write down the following words:

Experiment #20

FLYNT: ‘Experiment Number 20?’ You mean someone did experiments on you?

You nod.

FLYNT: What happened to you?

And deep inside you, a question stirs. This stranger, this person, supposedly a famous television chef but someone you’ve never gotten the chance to know, has just asked you the one question that you swore to never answer. If you told him/her everything, it would jeopardize everything the science team worked for. You would have to explain where you came from and how you escaped.

YOU: (But he/she has been so nice to me. I don't know what it is yet, but I feel something for this man/woman. I want so much to tell him/her, but if I do, what if IWWA finds out and I'm taken away again? I can't go back there. Not when I've just escaped. How do I tell him/her without revealing any details? He/She basically rescued me. I owe him/her an explanation.)

FLYNT: T? If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I know I sprung it on you. We barely know each other. I'm just curious as to why you have the number 20 tattooed into your wrist and why you’re only identified by a number and not by a name. Is that real?

You nod.

And that is when you make up your mind.

[greyias]

FIC: By the Guidance of Stars - Chapter 8

Title: By the Guidance of Stars Fandom: SWTOR Pairing: Theron Shan/f!Jedi Knight Rating: T (this chapter) Genre: Angst, H/C, Romance, Humor Synopsis: The Coalition tries to heal in the aftermath of the Battle of Yavin 4, but not every wound is physical. A series of missing scenes set during the end of Shadow of Revan. Warnings: See Chapter 1. Author’s Note: Last of the previously posted chapters, although this version has been revised to adjust for canon and some other things that bugged me.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Crossposted to AO3

As twilight gave way to night, the oppressive humidity eased into a slightly uncomfortable mugginess, but the breeze atop the crumbling platform chased through the open crevices in Theron’s jacket, making him almost cold. It was absolutely wonderful, and he didn’t know why anyone ever came down from this place if this was the alternative to drowning in their own sweat in the main camp. Of course, his reasons for extending his stay up on the high vantage point might have been more than just escaping the uncomfortable jungle swelter. Everyone would be departing Yavin tomorrow and going their separate ways. The moment his head hit the pillow, tomorrow would come, and with it, farewells.

Until then, he had the night.

Theron had no idea what was going on with him. His chest felt light, like it might float away and take the rest of his body with it at any moment. It was almost like being drunk, without having to take shots from any of the flasks traveling around camp. He would have suspected someone had snuck something in the evening meal, except none of it had started until he had gotten up onto the platform. Part of him wanted to run far, far away until this temporary madness passed, and the other part of him just wanted to sweep his companion off her feet and just disappear into her embrace until the stars went cold, any onlookers be damned. Neither of those options made any logical sense, so instead he flopped down at the edge of the platform and let his legs dangle over the precipice. The feeling of nothingness meeting his feet and staring at the several hundred foot drop into the jungle below set his heart pumping and he leaned forward to try and find the bottom.

Apparently that was one step too far, because the action gained a startled shout. “What are you doing?”

He tossed a look back at the fretting Jedi. “Sitting. It’s fun.”

“What if you fall?”

He shot her a boyish grin. “Then you’ll catch me.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. “With what? The Force?”

“I’ll let you figure out the details if it comes to that.”

“You have an awful lot of faith in my abilities to prevent you from doing something stupid.”

“You haven’t let me down yet.”

The sigh she let out was exasperated, but even in the darkness he could make out the corners of her lips twitching as she tried to repress a smile. “Why do you make a habit of being so reckless?”

“Because it’s fun.” He pat the open space next to him in invitation. “It’s a nice view. Why don’t you come over here and see?” 

She crossed her arms, canting her hip at an angle. “And what if I fall?”

He met her stubborn irritation with a warm smile. “Then I’ll catch you.”

Grey shuffled forward a few steps, possibly without thinking about it, because she stopped with a sudden jerk and stared at him suspiciously. “And what if we both fall?”

“Well, then,” he leaned back on one palm, craning his neck so he could watch her every reaction in the starlight, “at least we’d be falling together. I’m sure between the two of us we’d figure something out.”

“You are impossible,” she muttered, but slid in next to him. 

Gingerly she extended one leg off the edge, fist curled into what was probably a white knuckled grip under those gloves. He took pity on her, and extended his hand. She eyed it for a moment, before grasping it firmly and flinging the other leg off the edge dramatically. Her nod to him was defiant, even as her fingers formed a vice around his hand.

“See? Isn’t this nice?” he asked.

“It would be nicer with a railing.”

“That’d take out half the fun.” He lightly kicked her foot with his, earning a glare. “You don’t get an adrenaline rush if you know you can’t fall.”

“You don’t get enough of those while on the clock?”

“Do you?” he challenged.

In his mind’s eye, Theron could still see her blades twirling in a blur on on Tython. Could still feel the adrenaline pumping through his own veins as she risked her own life again and again with no hesitation. On Manaan. Rakata. Rishi. As innocent and proper an exterior she liked to present to the world, there was something wild and dangerous and irresistible lurking underneath that sweet facade. Someone a lot like himself. Just waiting for the right moment to burst forth.

“A Jedi doesn’t seek—“

He put a finger to her lips to stop the expected tirade, and leaned in a little closer. “I didn’t ask about a Jedi—I asked about you.” 

She frowned, leaning back just enough so his finger slipped down from her lips to rest against her chin. “Do you really think there’s a difference?”

Theron didn’t break her gaze, and just nodded ever so slightly with a soft hum of agreement. There was much more to her than the perfect little Jedi she kept trying to pretend to be. Too many layers and mysteries underneath the surface, and he wanted to peel back each one until she was laid bare before him. In every sense and meaning of the phrase.

Her fingers were still wrapped around his one hand like an anchor, and she let out a small huff as she glanced away. “We were talking about you, not me.”

“If you say so,” he said softly, and slowly leaned back into his own space.

The uncertain expression that flashed across her face was just as confusing as the strange fever that had overtaken him since he’d climbed up onto this platform. If he looked too deeply into any of this he’d probably descend into madness, or whatever the next step was after his current stage of mania. Her fingers loosened their death grip, and he let his hand drop back to the ground. She stared at it, lips pursed together as if she was trying to puzzle something out.

“I don’t always understand you,” she said after a moment. “You say one thing, but do another. Yet I don’t ever get the sense that you’re being dishonest with either.”

“Are you talking about anything in particular, or just in general?”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I’m not making sense.”

“I haven’t really felt like I’ve been making much sense either,” he admitted quietly.

“Like dangling off the edge of a two-hundred foot drop for no reason?”

“I told you the reason,” he said lightly, “that it’s fun.”

“You probably find explosions fun too,” she said sourly.

“It depends on how close I am to the explosion.”

“What frightens me is I don’t think you’re joking.”

“As I said,” he sat up, leaning ever so slightly to peek over the edge, pretending to teeter a little just because he was kind of an ass, “a little danger never hurt anyone.”

“And a little caution doesn’t hurt anything either.” Her hand immediately grabbed onto his arm, pulling him back. A thrill shot through him both at the renewed contact and the protective gesture.

“I suppose we could meet somewhere in the middle.” He inched back from the edge a few inches and some of the tension relaxed out of her frame. “If you’d like.”

“Perhaps.” She edged closer to him and the precipice, hand anchored around his arm as she pressed against him. “But I draw the line at explosions.”

“Oh, come on,” his breath puffed across her skin as he leaned in closer, “you love explosions, and you know it.”

He couldn’t see her roll her eyes, but he heard the exasperated breath she let out before her lips brushed chastely against his for the first time since Rishi. Her hand was still clamped down tight on his arm, as if holding on for dear life. He felt her tongue flick between his lips, a delicate tease that he obliged as he deepened the kiss. A wave of heat crashed over him, and if he wasn’t careful he could easily drown. 

It was just a small taste, but enough to light a deep, yearning hunger inside of Theron. Just like on Rishi, it reminded him of the exhilarating jolt coursing through his veins when space diving on Ruuria. Volcano boarding on Mima II. Base jumping off the Bubble Cliffs on Qiaxx. It was just as or even more intoxicating than every thrill he’d ever chased, and he wondered if every inch of her was just as much of a rush as this.

He eventually had to come up for air and broke away, her tiny moan of disappointment doing wonders for his ego. He leaned his forehead against hers, relishing in both the warmth of her skin and the soft tickle of her bangs. A soft tendril of breeze wrapped around them both, and he let his eyes drift shut as he tried to lean into this moment just as he had when they’d been watching the stars above. Wanting to make it last as long as humanly possible.

“I wanted to do that since you first stepped foot on Yavin,” he admitted quietly after several long moments.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, we were a little busy,” he said. “And we weren’t exactly alone.”

“This isn’t exactly a private space,” she pointed out.

“I know,” he breathed. “I just… wanted to do that one more time.”

“Only once?”

He opened his eyes to see hers meeting his. They sparkled with a mischievous glint that he was pretty sure would have earned her quite the lecture back in her Padawan days.

“More than once.” And more than just that, but the five million warnings from all of her nosy crewmates were echoing in his ears, and despite his better judgement, he heeded them. No one could ever accuse him of not listening after this, because damn if he didn’t want to pursue whatever this thing was to the very end. “Way more.”

“How many?” Her eyes crinkled as a bright smile lit up her face.

More than the number of stars in the sky, was the truth, but aloud he said, “I don’t know if you can count that high.”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve learned a lot of numbers.” She caught his laugh in another kiss, and when she broke away, her eyes were still glittering. “See, that’s two.”

“And here I just thought you were just a pretty face that knew a thing or two about swinging around a lightsaber.”

“Nope. I’m very talented.”

“At just about everything that I can see.” And because he could, Theron brushed his lips against hers once more.

“And that’s three,” she murmured, “although I’m tempted to not count it.”

“I have to switch things up every now and then, otherwise you’ll get bored.”

“If there’s one thing I haven’t been since I met you, it’s bored.”

“I must be doing something right then.”

“You are.”

She grabbed the collar of his jacket and yanked him to her, pulling him in for another kiss. She sucked in his bottom lip and ran her tongue over the indentation of his recently healed skin. It had been swollen, split, and sore their first kiss, and her enthusiasm then had been dampened by his injured state. Now she was like an explorer slowly mapping out a new star system, almost as if she was trying to commit everything to memory.

That prompted a too deep thought about the next day’s impending departure, so he surged forward and deepened the kiss—turning it into something so Theron surged forward, deepening the kiss into something so breathless and wild he didn’t have time to think about anything else.

“Has anyone ever told you,” her words were quiet as she broke away, hardly a whisper on the air, “that you can be very distracting?”

“A time or two,” he said quietly. “What am I distracting you from?”

“Everything.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

She shook her head ever so slightly, possibly without even realizing it. “I know what I’m supposed to say…”

“I’ve never been big on rules.” He brushed away the bangs that fell into her face, obscuring the stormy emotion beginning to brew in her eyes. “I find them too constricting.”

“I used to find the rules comforting. Everything in its place, and if you just followed them well enough, everything would turn out okay.”

“Used to?”

Her eyes dropped down to the ground then, expression falling as she shook her head. “I don’t believe that anymore.”

A hard lump settled in Theron’s throat as he looked at the dim expression, making it hard to swallow. All the sparkle and mischief had faded from her eyes, leaving a cold empty expanse as she stared unseeing down at the ground.  Something in his chest tightened and he found himself picking up her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze, unsure of what else to do. She blinked, as if summoned back to the here and now from wherever she had gone.

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head lightly, as if trying to chase something away. “I think I broke the mood.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said gently, giving her hand another squeeze. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“We were having a good time, I… I let my mind wander.”

“No, I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying.”

“How are you supposed to know?” She laughed, but it was the choked desperate laughter of someone trying to hold on to their control.

“I feel like I should, or at least, not keep doing this to you.”

“It’s not just you. This just keeps happening. With everyone,” she whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I should be better than this.”

“Do you want me to go?”

She shook her head quickly, giving the hand holding hers a tight, almost bone-breaking squeeze.

“I thought I was done with this. After Rishi… Master Orgus said he healed these scars left by… that should have fixed it. Shouldn’t it?” 

From the quiet desperation in Grey’s voice, he had a feeling the question was more rhetorical than something he could really answer. Not that the jumble of words made a lot of sense to him. Wasn’t… Orgus Din her final master before her knighting? Hadn’t he been killed near the beginning of her career as a Jedi? To Theron’s knowledge she had never even visited Rishi before being lured there by him and Lana. And he hadn’t a clue what scars her former Master was supposed to have healed.

“I thought,” he said carefully, “that he had passed away a long time ago.”

“He… visited me while we were on Rishi.”

 Theron almost asked about how exactly a dead man could just drop in for a chat and quick spiritual healing session, but if their encounters with Revan had taught him anything, it was that the Force was… weird. And complicated. And probably something he really didn’t want to think on too deeply because things like this just hurt his brain. Apparently even the boundaries of life and death were just mere technicalities to the Jedi like the one sitting next to him. Except Grey didn’t exactly look like the strong confident Jedi at the moment, more like a lost child looking for her parents. He could tolerate a few minutes of bizarre Force talk, if it helped ease that somehow.

“I’m sorry, I know this is strange.”

“No stranger than a half-zombie, half-ghost ancestor.”

The breath she exhaled was almost a wry laugh, but not quite. “That was a new one for me too.”

“At least we’re forging new territory together, eh?” He gave her hand a brief squeeze.

The corner of her mouth twitched up, nearly into a sad smile. “I suppose so.”

“So, was that the personal business you went to take care of before you headed to Torch’s Island?”

She nodded, giving him a sad smile. “He came to visit me one last time. I think he knew we weren’t going to succeed here on Yavin, and he wanted to try and help me one last time.”

“Masters are like that,” he agreed, his own thoughts briefly centering on Ngani Zho. “They just want what’s best for their Padawans.”

“He still called me that,” her eyes glittered with tears, “even as a ghost I was still his Padawan.”

“So is this whole Force ghost thing… common?” he asked uncertainly. 

She shook her head. “When a Jedi passes, they’re supposed to become one with the Force. Usually they don’t stick around for long conversations.”

“I guess Master Orgus felt the need to make an exception,” Theron said carefully.

“You could say that,” she smiled shakily. “He always did have to do things his own way. Even death.”

He nodded mutely, unsure of what he could say exactly. The only thing that came to mind were questions that he had promised not to ask, and even if it was a stupid promise, he still wanted to keep it. It was so easy to break things, but he wanted to try and keep his word to her intact. The reason why that was important was still vague and distant, but his gut said it was, and Theron always listened to his gut.

“You surprise me,” she said quietly, “you ask questions, but never the big one.”

“I promised you I wasn’t going to pry,” he reminded her. “I don’t want to be someone who breaks promises to you.”

“I don’t know what I’ve done to earn that.” He felt her other hand fold over his, enveloping it in a cocoon of gloved warmth. It was at that moment, he realized that he had never actually touched her with his bare fingers, that there had always been some sort of barrier between them. “It’s more than I deserve, but I’m grateful for it nonetheless.”

He didn’t have the proper elocution to properly unpack that statement and address it fully, but he felt the need to try, as inadequate as his own words were. “On Rishi. You came for me.”

Her lost expression softened as she met his eyes, but he was crap at decoding his own emotions, much less those of others. “Of course I did.”

“You didn’t have to.” His chest felt like someone was cleaving it in two, but he didn’t break his gaze, determined to try and at least attempt to finish his poor explanation. “I’m not used to that.”

“I will never leave you behind.”

The statement was uttered quietly, but so fiercely determined there was no doubt that she meant it. He swallowed, that lump still firmly lodged in his throat. The whole faith in others thing wasn’t usually in his repertoire, as it was a lot easier to glide on the default mode of skepticism. Everyone eventually moved on their own way, and logic said that nothing would be different this time. The determined look in her eye said exactly where logic could go, and Theron decided to side with the clear winner in this fight.

“I think I believe you,” he finally said, “which is kind of a first for me.”

“It won’t be the last,” she promised, wrapping her fingers around his tightly. “So get used to it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he said quietly, prompting a tiny sad smile.

“I wish I could be a brighter, stronger person for you. For everyone really, but you… make me want to be more.”

“I’m good with the person sitting with me right now,” he said. “You don’t need to be anything more than that.”

“You don’t need a fearless monster slayer? Someone who can look into the void and laugh?”

He shook his head. “That person doesn’t sound very fun.”

“She could be, if I tried.” Grey glanced down. “Maybe if I tried harder, I’d get there. And then hearing his voice again last night after all these years… it would have been fine.”

Theron pursed his lips together, feeling that hole in his chest starting to open up again. Here was the person in the rain last night, trying desperately to hide under armored plating and lightsabers. Not wanting to scare her off back under the thin Jedi veneer, he just ran his thumb along one of the elaborate pieces of metalwork on her glove, wishing that he could feel every groove in it directly instead of through the leather of his own gloves.

“You can ask,” she said brokenly, “if you want.”

Of course he wanted to — but this wasn’t about him. Not really. He just wanted to do the right thing here. Whatever that was. 

When he finally looked up, he saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and felt that small, infinitesimal hole in his chest begin to widen into a gaping wound. “Do you want me to ask?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I just don’t want to feel this way any more.”

“How do you feel?” he asked instead.

“Lost.” She bit her lip, looking away. “Like I’m back there again, even though I’m here. Like if I sleep too deeply, I won’t wake up as me.”

The nausea Theron had felt earlier after overhearing Scourge and Kira bubbled back up, filling the gaping hole with bile and a white, hot bubbling rage.

“I can’t wake up like that again,” she said so quietly he almost couldn’t hear. “Watching myself from afar, my body not my own. Screaming so loud but still unable to stop my hand. Have you ever been trapped in your own mind?”

“No,” he said hoarsely, trying to push the urge to vomit far back down. “I can’t even imagine… it sounds terrible.”

“I was so naive. I believed that anyone could be redeemed. Even him.”

There was such venom spat out in that single word, it only could have been reserved for something as unnatural as the ancient being that had been awakened the night before.

“I thought that there was always some small speck of light that could be brought out from even the darkest corner. I just had to trust in the Force, and it would guide me as it always does. It guided me… into darkness.” She swallowed, throat bobbing with the motion as she stared out at the shadowed landscape beyond. Almost as if she was expecting Vitiate to materialize from the darkness. “Just following the rules doesn’t work when someone ignores that they ever existed. It can’t protect anyone from that kind of evil.”

Theron thought of the fallen Jedi that she had chased after the six month gap in her file, and the dark ops leading up to that gap. Had they… stormed the Emperor’s Fortress, determined to capture him and bring him back to the light? How the hell did the Council think that would ever work? Capturing a supposedly immortal dark being and just force him to accept everything good and pure? That hot bubbling rage threatened to take him over.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-two.”

He barely suppressed a curse. Sending a Knight, just barely two years into her career, to face down the almost literal embodiment of the Dark Side was just too much. Even with an entire team of dark ops Jedi. Even if they had sent her with the entire damn Republic army at her back it was too much. It would have been too much to ask even a wise and experienced Jedi Master like Ngani Zho and Orgus Din had been.

“They should never have asked you to do that.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “I volunteered.”

Of course she did. The moment he had brought his suspicions up with her regarding Darok, she had jumped on the chance to help him out. It was like she was incapable of just standing by if something bad was happening and had to try and fix it herself. That wasn’t the trait of a dedicated Jedi — it was the trait of someone with way too much to prove. He would know.

“I was never supposed to have innocent blood on my hands,” she whispered, “my lightsabers were never meant to be used for murder. No matter how much I wanted to stop, my hands wouldn’t listen to me. All I could hear was his laughter, his voice, telling me to give in. That he would make it all go away if I just gave over that last piece to him. Do you know what I did?”

Theron shook his head mutely.

“I hid. In the deepest corner of my mind, I hid. From him. From what he was making me do. I hid from everything. I was a coward.”

Theron wanted to pull her to him, tell her that she wasn’t, but he felt rooted to the spot. Somehow in defeating the demon from his past, they’d awakened hers. Pulling her back into what sounded like a living, waking nightmare. All he could do was squeeze his fingers around hers.

“In the end, I couldn’t even save myself.” Her voice was quiet, defeated. “Master Orgus’s spirit came from the Force and he found me, he was the one who broke the Emperor’s control over me. Everyone acts like I did something heroic and should be celebrated for breaking his control, when it was never even me to begin with.”

Here was the real truth, the real person he’d been seeking out that hid under that mask of the prefect Jedi. In her own way, the brave hero that everyone kept pinning their hopes on was just as broken as him. Struggling to live up to impossible standards and expectations. And just as lost and flawed and alone.

It took Theron a little while to find his voice, and when he spoke, it was rougher than he would have liked. “You still faced him down later, after all that?”

“Someone had to,” she said quietly, “and they all believed that I could. He was going to consume everything, all life. He was going to consume the Force. It was crying out. And even if it had abandoned me, I… couldn’t abandon it. Or everyone else. I couldn’t wait for the end to come without doing something. And no one else thought they could do it.”

“You didn’t either,” he pointed out softly.

She shook her head, like the fact that charging in to the demon’s lair was nothing noteworthy. Not too mention that she had done so after the kind of violation she’d been subjected to, and risked it happening again without any assurance. That would have been nearly impossible for anyone, and Theron had his doubts he would have been able to do it, even with literally the lives of every living thing in the galaxy on the line.

“When I was a child,” she said quietly, “I would pick up sticks in the forest and pretend they were my lightsabers. I only ever dreamed of being a Jedi, ever since my mother told me about her days as a Knight. I just wanted to be like her.”

That hadn’t been in her file. Actually, there hadn’t been much in it other than basic liner notes prior to her arrival on Tython. But she’d had a family once it seemed—and apparently a mother that she loved very much. There was a distant twang of jealousy, but it was swiftly carried away as he saw the wet tracks streaking down her face.

“I think she would be proud,” he said.

“She’s never visited me,” the confession came out broken, “not like Master Orgus. I wonder if… she wished I could have been stronger. More like her. She never had to throw away a bloodstained lightsaber. After Vitiate made me…” Her voice cracked and she had to swallow back the emotion that nearly dragged her under. “After I escaped, all I could see on mine was the blood, no matter how much I cleaned them.”

He knew absolutely nothing about Force ghosts or the woman in question, but from the reverent way Grey spoke of her, she had left quite an impression on her daughter. He wondered if that heavy, duty-filled legacy was one that had ever been truly intended to be passed on. He was far from an expert when it came to maternal figures and their intentions, but something in his gut told him that was probably not the case. 

“Master Satele, I think she knew,” Grey continued, filling in the silence, “when she gave me the new hilts. She told me that a Jedi needed to have faith in the weapons she wielded, faith in the Force. She helped me construct the new blades before I left Tython.”

Theron let his gaze drop, eyes tracing the path he was making as he marked each divot and design in the gauntlets on her gloves. For everything he still held against his mother, apparently he still had a few things to learn about her. Satele had reached out to a scared, vulnerable Knight, and helped her find confidence again instead of delivering any sort of platitude or lecture. He thought back to their argument earlier that day, trying to fit this new piece of the puzzle into his previous assumptions. It didn’t quite match up, like the sharp edges of his preconceptions needed to be shaved down.

“I made a vow that I would never let these be turned to serve darkness. I couldn’t let something of Master Satele’s become tainted like I had let mine.” Grey’s free hand traced some of the patterns in the hilts clipped to her belt. “I let her keep my old ones. She promised she’d make sure they were never used like that again.”

“I didn’t know about that, earlier,” he said, struggling to swallow past that ever present lump. “I would never have even mentioned it…”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” She finally looked up from her lightsabers, pulling his gaze up from the patterns he was tracing as well. “You’ve done me no harm.”

Seeing her trying to console him, with the wet tracks still glistening on her cheeks was too much for him to take. Heedless of whoever might be able to see, he reached out and grabbed her, crushing her against his chest as if that could somehow fix anything. Her arms stilled for a moment as if this was something that hadn’t ever occurred before and she had no idea what to do, before suddenly curling around him, fingers digging deep trenches into the leather of his jacket like drowning victim clutching to a lifeline.

“Master Orgus said he couldn’t come back anymore.” Her face was buried in his jacket, voice muffled by the leather. “He was the only thing that brought me back last time. I… I can’t be trapped like that again. I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” Theron murmured, tightening his arms around her small shivering frame. “He’s left. He’s not here.”

“No one’s saying anything, but they’re all terrified. Even Scourge. I didn’t finish the job last time, and now he’s back.” The shivering intensified to an actual tremble, and it felt like someone was shoving a vibroblade right through Theron’s chest. “I have to kill him, but he’s already dead. But he’s not alive either.”

 The enormity of the task that had been assigned to her, by fate, or the Force, or whatever seemed to loom just off into the shadows of the night. The blame for Vitiate’s return at this moment in time, if not the assault and chaos on the Republic all the way three hundred years ago, lay squarely at Revan’s feet. It was the baggage of Theron’s own family, not hers. In a way, the responsibility for all of this should have laid at his feet. Perhaps if fate had twisted differently—if their places had been switched and he’d been born with all the powers of the Force that she wielded—it would have. Would he have been able to break away like her, or would he have wound up as twisted and broken as the rest of the members of her strike team?

Because Revan, for all his power and gifts in the Force, had cracked under the constant torture he’d been subjected to over the course of three hundred years. His psyche torn in two; one half twisted into something dark, monstrous, and almost unrecognizable from the Jedi he’d once been. Someone willing to commit mass genocide. Willing to upend everything if it meant he could get revenge against the one who had taken everything from him. Even Revan’s attempts to connect with what remained of his family had been tainted into something sick and twisted.

Theron couldn’t help but wonder if those same weaknesses ran through his blood in the way that the Force never had. It probably would never not sting, not grate on him a little when the Force peeked its head around to meddle in his life after the way it had abandoned him when he was young — but as he looked at the connections he shared with Grey, it was hard to completely deny that maybe it had somehow set something in motion.

Maybe they were both just meant to finish what Revan had started nearly three hundred years ago. Or maybe it was even more than that.

He had no idea how he was supposed to deal with any of this, Force-blind Jedi washout that he was. The task that lay before her was beyond his capabilities, but if they failed at stopping Vitiate, nothing would ultimately matter anyway. Even if Theron hadn’t been assigned as the task force’s liaison for the SIS, he would have busted down Marcus Trant’s door and camped out in his office until he’d gotten it. Whatever had happened prior to now was out of his hands, he couldn’t change any of their yesterdays, no matter how much he wanted to at the moment. But tomorrow wasn’t set yet, and he could still do something about that.

She had answered every one of his calls, even when he made her go through ridiculous lengths to find out it was him. The woman had stormed an entire fortress just for him. She was more than just his partner on this one job, she was his friend. Possibly the best one he had ever had. Maybe if he was really careful, did enough research, and did his job well enough, she’d never have to hear the voice of her tormentor ever again.

“What if I fall?” she asked brokenly, clinging to him tightly as they teetered on the edge of the platform with nothing but the inky night below.

“You won’t.” He tightened his grip around her quaking shoulders, as if he could shield her from the night. “You’re not going to fall.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m going to catch you.” He pressed a kiss onto the top of her head, before glaring off into the night as if in challenge to the darkness just beyond them.

[amerrierworld]

Little Songbird (pt 3)

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu becomes addicted to your voice and wants to hear you... sing some more.

Characters: Alcina Dimitrescu x fem!reader

Word Count: 3,087

Warnings: The extra Smut Chapter ;)

The next day, you were a bit exhausted from the previous night’s... activities. But you set about work the same way as usual, though buzzing with an unusual excitement about the evening to come. 

You were working on repairing a rip in one of your old dresses. You really wanted to impress the Lady and look as good as possible, now that she had taken a liking to you. As you worked, the head maid asked you about your previous night’s duties while preparing lunch.

“It wasn’t all bad.” You kept your gaze on the hole in the dress you were mending as she prepped ingredients. “The Lady seemed very preoccupied. I don’t think I was much of a bother.”

“That’s very rare,” another maid cackled while peeling potatoes next to you. “She always looks at us like we’re the dirt on the bottom of her shoes. But I suppose the pay is good.”

“Not freezing out in the cold is very good pay, I agree,” the head house maid said dryly. “I suggest you try to keep it that way.”

The maid looked flustered at the comment and scampered off, intimidated by her gaze and muttering something about more things to be done. You bit your lip to stop from smiling.

“How was it really, my dear?” The head maid turned to you, a much kinder look in her eyes now. “The Lady can be a touch.. harsh.”

“It was fine, really. I didn’t know she had a piano until now.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve never heard her play myself, but I’ve heard stories she used to perform. Especially around holidays or important events.”

“Really?” Your mouth gaped a little as she explained. “I didn’t know she was that good at piano.”

“Oh, no, dear. Not piano. She would sing. It’s a bit sad we haven’t heard her sing at all in our time at the castle. I suspect it would make her a little more approachable. But that may not be what she wants. I’ve heard she was quite a talented singer though...”

As she kept talking, the needle had stilled in your hands, your body freezing at the sudden revelation. Lady Dimitrescu, a singer? Surely not. 

“..Are you alright?”

You snapped out of your thoughts, thinking of how she would sound, what she would sing, and if you would ever get to hear her sing. 

“Yes, yes I’m fine.” You kept pushing the needle through the fabric, trying to remain calm. You felt your body tingle as you remembered the way she wanted to hear you sing. “I have to say, it is quite surprising.”

“Our Lady is definitely full of surprises.” She patted your shoulder before leaving you to your thoughts and your half-stitched handiwork. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to focus on any tasks for the rest of the day now.

Later that night, you hurried to sneak through the hallways on your way to your Lady’s bedchambers. You really didn’t want anyone to see you on the way, since you had no supplies to have an excuse of a chore to be done this time. There was one maid who caught your eye, and she gave you a curious once-over as you walked by in your nicest dress, looking like you were going out rather than going to bed. 

When you got to the door of the room, your heart was thundering in your chest. Your hands had gotten sweaty, and you didn’t understand what was so stressing for you. She had seen every inch of you already, had stripped you on top of the piano, and made you come like you never had before.

You delicately rapped your knuckles on the door, and waited for long, agonizing moments for a response. When none came, you became curious. You turned the door handle and pushed. It opened with no resistance, and there seemed to be no noise coming from inside the room.

You poked your head inside, and was once again astounded by the sheer size of the room. Against your better judgment, you slipped inside and shut the door behind you. Being early was always a good thing, you decided.

Since Lady Dimitrescu wasn’t there yet, you had time to take it in. You were drawn to the massive bed, and the dark red sheets that adorned it. Probably the best colour choice, you figured, considering the high risks of blood stains on any surface in the entire castle. 

You approached and ran a hand over the edge of the fabric, marvelling at its silkiness and expensive textures. It reminded you of everything Lady Dimitrescu liked to wear; expensive, silky, smooth...

The door slammed open, ripping the quiet thought out of your brain, and there stood Lady Dimitrescu. Her expression was fuming, angry, but it didn’t seem to be directed at you, because the minute she saw you standing in the room, it softened in confusion. Like she had forgotten you’d be coming.

You let go of the sheets and clasped your hands behind your back, curtsying quickly in fear of her anger and not wanting to step out of line. She nearly scoffed at you, and took a few long strides to the vanity, sitting down heavily on the bench.

“Help me with my dress.” Her tone was curt, demanding. You paled a little, thinking this night wasn’t gonna go how you expected it to, but still doing as she said. You were a maid, after all.

With her seated, it was easier to reach the buttons along her back, and you made quick work of them. But when you stepped back and she didn’t make any move to get out of her seat, you realized she wanted you to get the entire garment off her.

Her pointed gaze at you in the mirror disappeared from view as you approached the open back and pushed the two halves of the dress aside like peeling delicate fruit. You couldn’t help it; you ran your hands along the thick skin of her back as the dress fell off her shoulders, revealing a tantalizing bra clasp right at eye level that you could have undone quickly if you wanted to.

“You’re being quite bold, little one,” Lady Dimitrescu finally spoke, her voice deep, sultry, but not gentle like it had been last night. There was an iciness to it that stung. Your hands had been lingering a little too long on her skin.

“Forgive me, my lady,” you said, stepping away as she got up to her full height and let the dress pool at her feet. You saw heels in your view and stockings raking up long legs, but you didn’t dare look any higher. 

“Oh, pet. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” She ran a hand over your head and walked past you. Your instincts kicked in and you picked up the dress to fold tidily on the vanity’s bench. The slightest touch from her fingers made you shiver, and a blush crept up the back of your neck.

“Look at me, sweetling.”

You turned around to face the bed, where she was sitting, one leg swung over the other, hands perched behind her on the mattress. Yellow eyes looked at you and you gulped for air at the sight of her.

“You’re allowed to look, darling. It would be a bit inconvenient if you weren’t.”

Your cheeks were burning now, but you finally let your eyes wander down her frame. Her lingerie was the epitome of femininity, yet dark and sultry, just like her. The black lace hugged her curves. Her stockings were held up by a garter belt, and she kicked off her heels with one smooth jerk of her legs. 

Her tummy folded in when she was seated, and her thighs, though muscular and lean, were thick and looked strong enough to crush your entire body if she wanted to.

“Come here.” That familiar voice zapped through you and you approached the bed, briefly wondering if what you had heard about her singing talents were true. You supposed it wouldn’t surprise you. As a lady of her standard, learning an instrument or musical skill must’ve been a required lesson for her etiquette. 

She picked you up to sit in her lap, and you squeaked in surprise as she lifted you once again. A chuckle rang throughout the room and you looked up at her, relieved to see the earlier anger had dissipated from her gaze when she looked at you.

“I’m glad you’re here. I had almost forgotten you were coming,” she said, running hands soothingly over your thighs as you straddled her. “I apologize if I was a bit of a sight when I arrived. The staff in this castle is somewhat... incompetent at times.”

So it was the staff that had made her angry. Did another maid try to escape? Enter the cellar? Was there an errand boy that couldn’t keep his hands off of one of the new deliveries? 

Her head lowered to breathe in your scent, lingering right by your ear. You let out a heavy sigh at the feeling of her so close to her, and you reached out to grip her upper arms that framed your body. You ran your fingers along her skin, and she recoiled for a moment, pulling away.

You froze. Did you do something wrong? Fear etched in your eyes, you looked up at the Countess, wondering if you stepped out of line for touching her. Then her gaze focused in on you and she seemed to relax a little.

“Don’t stop.”

Was it a request? An order? You didn’t mind either way, because now your hungry hands ran over her, feeling the dimples and ridges of scars and stretched skin all over. You explored with your hands as much as you did with your eyes, gazing at her cleavage, the curve of her neck, the muscles in her shoulders. 

You ran a hand over her tummy, feeling softness and subconsciously prodding it a little with your fingertip. She giggled at the feeling. Giggled. Her body jostled a bit, moving you about. You liked the feeling and the softness, so kept your hands there.

“I can see a question in your eyes, little one,” Lady Dimitrescu purred, combing a hand through your hair. You cast your gaze downward, running a hand over her skin repeatedly, familiarizing yourself with the patterns of the stretch marks.

“Just.. something I heard today.”

“And what was that?”

You squirmed uncomfortably. “I’m not sure if you want to hear.”

A finger tipped your chin up to her piercing eyes, “I doubt it’ll go unnoticed by me, sweetling. Even if you don’t tell me now, I will hear about it.”

Your mouth went a little dry at that. She was right, nothing happened in this castle without her knowing about it, but goodness... the power behind those words made you weak in the knees. Thank heavens you were sitting. 

“I was told you used to be a singer.”

An amused look crossed her face. “Is that it? I was expecting you to announce a mutiny at hand.”

You shrugged slightly, delighted in the way her hand reached to cup the back of your neck, a thumb running over your throat. “I was hardly a singer, darling. But yes, I used to.. dabble in performance. Long ago.”

“Is that why you were so interested in my singing?” 

She grinned, teeth gleaming. “I was interested in your singing because I was interested in you, little songbird.”

She tugged you impossibly closer, leaning down and running her wicked tongue over where her hand had just been on your neck. 

“W-will I ever get to hear you?” you managed to huff out, because now her firm hands were holding your middle, exploring your body the way you had been exploring hers.

“Is that what you want? To hear me sing?”

You nodded, because the low timbre of her voice was reverberating throughout your whole body, and you suddenly needed to hear it singing a tune.

“Perhaps... if you indulge me like I had indulged your last night, you may get to hear me sing too.”

You felt the tips of your ears nearly burst into flames, but you were so desperate... so eager to please. You nearly dropped down to the floor to get on your knees. 

She chuckled, “not so fast. I have a better idea.”

Lady Dimitrescu shuffled back on the bed until she was up against the pillows. Shoving a pillow under her lower back, she crooked a finger to beckon you closer, spreading her legs. The sight of her, half in candle light, spread out for you this time, but still in charge, made you swoon.

You crawled towards her and pressed your lips against the inside of her knee. She rocked her hips a little at the feeling of your warm, small mouth on her body, and fisted a hand in your hair.

“I really won’t need any foreplay, dear,” she said in a hushed tone. “Give me your mouth.”

You raced to tug the black lace panties off of her long legs, and were met with the sight of slick, swollen flesh. A carnal desire overtook you, and you surged forwards to press your mouth against her, desperate to taste.

A soft ‘oh’ escaped the giantess at your eagerness and your soft tongue tasting her arousal without hesitation. She enjoyed teasing you, yes, making you beg and dance around the sexual gratification she could give you. But this, your hunger and desire to please, made her warm all over.

“Good girl,” she said softly as your tongue began flicking over her swollen clit, lightly and experimentally. Your hands gripped the inside of her thighs, keeping them steady and spread. She was able to look down at you, and realized her rough gripping had made your hair come undone, causing curls and locks to drop down, loose and wild. Your eyes met hers, pupils dilated, and then you sucked. 

The high-pitched cry that escaped her was broken and sudden, and it made your body flood with arousal. Your legs trembled a little, the space between your legs begging for attention.

“Oh, who would have thought you’d be so good with your tongue, sweetling?” Lady Dimitrescu moaned, “I knew you were talented.. but that mouth...”

Her sentence was left unfinished, and she bit her lip, groaning softly in the back of her throat as you kept going. Your fingers rubbed her folds, teased her entrance, kissing and sucking until you could find a rhythm that made her squeak.

A nip at the hood of her clit made her gasp delightfully, so you did it again. The hand in your hair pressed down to bury your face in her cunt.

“Wicked girl,” she growled, and you moaned against her, your face wet. “Don’t you dare stop now.”

You pressed harder, one hand pushing three fingers at her entrance without any resistance as they slid inside. Your brain wasn’t working enough to keep up the pace of both, so you curled them and pressed against that soft, swollen frontal wall, scratching with the pads of your fingertips.

She nearly howled, a string of soft curses and... were those pleads? Her eyes were screwed shut, and you looked up at her strong, soft body. You couldn’t help but reach down and rub yourself through the fabrics of your clothes with your other hand. 

Eventually she noticed when she opened her eyes again, and she chuckled, making a point of slowly rolling her pelvis into your face. 

“Couldn’t keep your own hands off of yourself?” she said, her voice slurred with arousal. You made a whiny sound, restrained by your tongue and mouth against her cunt.

“I want you to come with me,” she gasped, her thick thighs beginning to shake from approaching her orgasm. You rubbed yourself even harder, eager to do as she said. 

Her usually-reserved voice came out in whimpers and low growls, and you sucked hard at her clit again, pressing your fingers deep inside, and her whole body instantly convulsed. 

Her cries of pleasure and incoherent words of praise made you topple over the edge shortly after. Her well-kept hair was undone, her mascara a little smeared, and her hands were digging painfully into your scalp. She let go once the last tremors left her body, and you relaxed against her thigh, breathing in her smell and kissing her everywhere you could reach.

“Well done, little songbird,” she cooed, eventually managing to open her eyes again and look at you. “You really are too precious for words.”

You blushed. You extracted your hand from between your legs, grimacing a little at the stickiness of your clothes.

“Let’s get you out of those,” Lady Dimitrescu whispered softly. You let her hands lift you up like you weighed nothing, and strip you.

“But- work...” you made a feeble attempt to get up, but she tutted, holding you closely to her chest, your head resting on her breasts. 

“Nonsense. You will stay the night here. You’re in no state to return to your duties yet.” She spoke curtly again, meaning there was no room for argument, but the soft throb between your legs and the haziness of your sated mind already left you limp and jelly-like. You wouldn’t have made it out the door without collapsing even if you did try to leave.

And so, you were bundled up in her arms, the blankets pulled up around your trembling form. She had pulled out a book from her nightstand and let you relax against her body as she flicked through the pages, a quiet peace filling the atmosphere around you. And then you heard it.

With your head pressed against her chest, you heard the rumble of her voice under your ear, and then her soft humming filled the room. You held your breath as you listened to the low, baritone-like notes, and the occasional page flipping of her book. 

You didn’t know the song, didn't know if it came with words, or if she had come up with it right now, but it made your heart flutter. Did she know you were still awake? 

Eventually, a hand came off of the book and pressed on your head, helping you settle against her warmed skin a little more, and then she spoke,

“Sleep, little songbird. There’ll be plenty of times for you to hear me later.”

A/N: It really doesn’t take much to convince me to write more of a series when I love them as much as this one ;) I hope you have ~enjoyed~

[helliontherapscallion]

Memory Lane is a Desolate Place (The Ashes of Yourself Part 4)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: generational trauma, abandonment, neglect, mentions of the following: death, war, plague, famine, genocide

Word count: 2,536

(A/N): Wowza, a Philza-centric chapter! Ik this is a lot shorter than what I usually write for this series, but I’m just trying to ease myself back into this story. I have a lot planned for this, so stay tuned : )

Philza walked through the tundra towards his old household. For the past few weeks, he had slowly been cleaning up the outside area and the interior for the upcoming family reunion. The house, due to nobody living in it, had slowly become overgrown with various weeds and wildlife. He had previously been looking forward to the reunion, ecstatic to see his entire family in one place again, but now he wasn’t so certain that his previous excitement was still there.

Over his many centuries of life on this world, he had seen some truly disturbing things; including genocides that left many children without families, wars that ended in mutually assured destruction, famine that reduced many to skin and bones, great nations once prosperous and grand becoming mere ashes beneath his feet in the matter of days, and plague that ravaged entire populations. 

He had learned to ignore them as they passed, as they never affected him. Hardship was always present; time was akin to an arrow slicing through the air at mach speed, never stopping for anybody. To him, it was better to ignore than to be roped into something you couldn’t fix even if you tried. Those memories were shoved into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind only resurfacing against his will in the form of horrific, detailed nightmares. 

However, those memories were different. Those were never personal. 

The entire time he was walking, the sight of his youngest child’s charred body sinking into the deepest depths of the ocean plagued his mind. The memory was rooted into his mind, being seen in every waking second against his will. His feet led him inside on their own, his mind blank and his body feeling numb; it felt like he was dreaming with how much his subconscious was taking over. 

By the time he fully came to his senses, he was standing in front of (y/n)’s closed door. Just like his children’s other doors, their door was labeled with ‘(y/n)’ written in a child’s sloppy handwriting and splotched with random colors of paint. He could remember sitting with them when he first brought them home and telling them to choose their room and holding them up so that they could reach the door. 

“Alright, you get to choose your own room!” 

The young blaze hybrid paused for a moment in concentration, trying to decipher what he had told them. They hadn’t spoken much English at the time, blaze being the only language they could speak. Luckily, Philza had experience with children not knowing much English; Technoblade had been the same way. After some simpler phrases and a small game of charades, they finally understood what he was telling them. Their eyes lit up and they bounced on the balls of their feet excitedly, making him chuckle. 

In an instant, they zoomed down the hallway looking at the decorated doors as they passed. The names on the doors were indecipherable to them, merely chicken scratch compared to the calligraphy that they were used to seeing etched into nether brick. Not that they could read that either, the language was far too complex for a seven year old to understand. 

Finally, after Philza caught up to them and showed them the rooms that were open, they had chosen an empty room without a second thought.

“Good choice, kiddo,” Philza beamed, his hand going to ruffle their hair. He hesitated, feeling the unnatural heat resonating from their flaming head before slowly coming to a rest on top of their head. Surprisingly, the flames merely tickled his hand as they flickered about. The heat was pleasantly comfortable, warming up his cold hand in an instant. A strange, weak magical energy made his entire arm tingle almost to an uncomfortable amount. It felt as if he had just touched something packed with static electricity. 

They looked up at him with innocent eyes, silently pointing to another door in question. Philza followed their finger and saw that the door belonged to Wilbur, his name being painted in slightly messy spaced out lettering with small music notes surrounding it. Philza’s eyes furrowed before he came to the realization that they wanted to paint their door as well. 

His mouth formed an ‘o’ shape before he leaned down to grab their hand and lead them to the kitchen where he had written out the name ‘(y/n)’. It was the name that was shakily etched onto a slightly burnt paper and given to him by the kid themselves when he was walking through a nether fortress earlier that day. Strangely, they were the only inhabitant of the fortress, not even a wither skeleton roamed the twisting halls. The anonymous note, albeit a little difficult to understand (as if the writer themselves hardly spoke any English), begged whomever came across the child to take them in. So Philza, being the type to never leave a child in need, took them in. 

He sat next to them at the table and handed them a pencil. On his own piece of paper, he wrote out his own name, said it aloud, and pointed to himself multiple times. The child understood and shakily wrote out their name slowly, mimicking what Philza had written on their paper. This slightly shocked the winged man, he wasn’t expecting them to catch on this quickly. Not even Technoblade had caught on that quickly. 

“You’re… a really fast learner, kiddo.” He breathed out with a proud smile on his face. The child, not understanding exactly what he had said, saw his smile and matched it with their own bright one, their face lighting up in a brilliant orange. He felt his heart melt at the sight. 

He gathered some paint and paint brushes and led them back up to their chosen room. (Y/n) trailed after him closely, almost bumping into him when he suddenly stopped in front of their room. He lifted them up with one hand and held the palette with the other. The small child in his arm grabbed a paint brush and looked up at him hesitantly. 

He gave them an encouraging smile and nodded at the door, telling them to write their name and demonstrating by stroking a clean brush against the door. They understood, gently swiping their brush against the wood with their tongue poked out of the corner of their mouth and their brows furrowed in deep concentration. Soon enough, their name was sprawled out in dripping, brightly colored paint. They looked up at Philza for approval, and upon seeing his large smile and warm eyes, they looked back at their creation with pride. Their eyes flicked between Wilbur’s door and theirs, something was missing. 

Their eyes lit up in realization before they suddenly stuck their hand into the paints on the palette. A startled gasp left Philza’s mouth as his grip tightened on both the child and the paints. Before he could stop them, they had smacked their paint covered hand onto the door underneath their name. Paint splattered everywhere, splashing onto their body and his arms and face. He felt them jolt in surprise and felt the slight vibration of a blaze-like grunt rumble their chest. 

Despite the mess that it left and the fact that he’d have to clean it up, small chuckles left him before he broke out into full blown laughter. This had been the hardest he had laughed in years, the feeling being almost foreign to him. (Y/n) joined him in his laughter, the sound of their joyed, high pitched giggles being music to his ears. 

The two spent the rest of the afternoon decorating the door with small splatters and handprints. By the time they had stopped, Philza had drying paint splotches on almost every part of his exposed skin, hair, and feathers and (y/n)’s small hands were layered with colors and paint was similarly splattered on their body. 

Philza pressed his hand against the much smaller handprint on the door and sighed at the memory, his face stretched into a small smile. They had been so innocent back then, their eyes full of hope and naivety, their face not having a single mark on it. 

His hand dropped and the smile was wiped clean from his face as he remembered why his clothes were wet and his skin reddened with the unforgiving temperature of the tundra. He shook his head from side to side and squeezed his eyes shut, trying and failing to block out the memory of (y/n) laying scorched on the sandy beach struggling to gasp for the oxygen they were deprived of. 

He opened his eyes and forced himself away from the door, instead walking towards the bathroom and running hot water to warm up his shivering body. 

The shower was usually a place where he could sort out his thoughts and fully relax, however he was tense the entire time and his thoughts stung him like he was haphazardly tossed into a nettle bush. Once clean and warmed up, he stepped out and put on a dry set of clothes. To get his mind off from things, he quickly busied himself with housework. 

That, however, did nothing to distract him from today’s events and the scalding argument that he and (y/n) had. Their words had initially angered him, had he not given them everything they needed to survive? Why couldn’t they understand that he had a constant craving for freedom and adventure that was impossible to ignore? 

A mix of emotions poked and prodded at his brain as he contemplated the end of their argument. Their angry voice echoed in his head:

“You don’t know jackshit about me.” 

His mind flashed back to the shock and panic he had felt when they nonchalantly stuck their hand into the crackling fire. He had forgotten that they could heal themselves with fire; hell, he had forgotten that they were basically fireproof. He quickly came to the realization that he couldn’t remember a lot of things about them. 

“Do you have any idea how much you were gone from my life when I needed you the most?”

He wasn’t stupid, he knew he had missed a lot of their life. Every time he had gotten back from a journey, something about each of his children had always changed and significant milestones had long since passed. He had missed a lot of each of their lives, there was a lot that he didn’t know about them. “I’ll be there next time,” he had wove off a peeved Wilbur when the boy had confronted him about missing Tommy’s second birthday with the family. It wasn’t like he was lying to the older boy, no he fully intended to be there for each and every single milestone his children experienced. However, something always came up and he missed each and every single one. It was easy to make promises, yet it was increasingly difficult to uphold them.

“Wilbur was the one that raised Tommy and I while you were so focused on Techno and your stupid fucking adventures.”

Oh, Wilbur. His only biological child. The boy that had looked at both Tommy and (y/n) with such awe when they first were adopted. The boy that would defend and protect his family with his life. The boy that had once idolized him. The boy that he had left alone with his two youngest. The boy that dreamt of his own nation ambitiously. The boy that begged to die at the hands of his own father. The boy that he had plunged his sword through. 

He had never thanked him or even recognized him for the hard work that came with raising two preteens on his own starting at the ripe age of sixteen. His stomach lurched at the memory of his son falling limp in his arms. 

Technoblade had been his first son. Adopted or not, he loved him as if he were his own. The second he had allowed the piglin hybrid into his lonely household, it was like the curtains had been ripped open and light immediately spilled into the darkness that had shrouded his heart and mind. Once he was old enough, he had made an excellent sparring and adventuring partner. 

He supposed that Technoblade had been placed on a pedestal, but in his opinion, he deserved all the praise he had been given. He had learned to ignore the multitude of voices that danced around his mind deafeningly. He had learned and became completely fluent in another language within the span of two years. 

Philza paused as he realized just what he was thinking. Maybe (y/n) was right, maybe he did focus a little too much on Technoblade while they were growing up. 

But on the other hand, Technoblade was a gifted child in the art of battle. 

However, his other children were important as well. 

His thoughts constantly contradict themselves and come full circle repeatedly, being swirled around and bouncing off the sides of his skull. Oh, he despised how much of a whirlpool his thoughts were. 

“You were a shitty father.” 

Was he a shitty father? His mind strained back hundreds of years to his own father and the last words he had left him with. The memories of his parents were incredibly fuzzy, he couldn’t even remember their faces or voices even if he tried with all his might. He could only remember specific details about them. His father was always absent and exploring the globe while his mother stayed at home raising him. 

He could remember how terrified he was when everyone around him aged and he stayed the same. His mother (bless her soul) had passed leaving him home alone distraught on what he should do and angry at the fact that his father wasn’t there. Months had passed since her funeral and Philza hadn’t even heard from him, filling the immortal with blinding rage. When his father had finally come home with the strong scent of sweat and body odor, he had finally let loose what had been brewing in his mind. 

“You’re a shitty fucking father and an even shittier husband,” he remembered saying, “she died and you weren’t fucking there.” 

It was after that he had left the old man and his childhood home behind in favor of exploring the world. He wanted to see what was so alluring that his father was compelled to miss a majority of his life. After a while of aimlessly wandering and uncovering many treasures, mysteries, and friendships, he had quickly become hooked. It had become a coping mechanism of sorts; a distraction from the death’s shadow following his friends but never him. 

He felt as if he plunged through ice and into the freezing inky abyss below as he came to a horrifying realization: he was the person that he hated the most, the person he swore he’d never become when he first laid eyes upon Technoblade. He was exactly like his father.

Memory lane is a desolate place that he’s neglected for good reason, and now it was overgrown with unpleasant memories that forced him to realize who he’s become.

General taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@crybabyjabby  @izzybobizzy13  @goldenstarofthunderclan  @bunnyz-pxstel  @averytiredfanfictionwriter  @dcml04  @sparkling-gayyyy  @bbigbbrainn  @thaticecreambish  @kiinokochii  @satansphatass  @bxkubitch  @bxmentchildxx  @roxy3457  @montygator17  @feverish-dove  @the-fictionwriters-hairdo  @jichuuchaeng  @404rynnotfound  @luluwinchester  @laura--444  @the-cult-classic-bitch  @youngstarfishdinosaur  @nottheotheruser  @ohworm-writes  @localwolfanon  @realitycanbeajerk  @v10dw4lk3r  @esylwen  @seraphsema  @boiled-onionrings  @smolgreenybeany  @louistommosnesquickmilk  @galaxios  @ryxjxnnx  @autumnpleaves  @ravennightingaleandavatempus  @0ton1n  @self-righteous-dumbass  @a-simp-for-block-people  @fortunatelylazystranger  @m1lkmandan  @mirios-sunflower  @ahmya-4  @shinipii  @noyasblush  @auroraskyfall  @cryptocry  @hee-hee-haw

Gender neutral reader taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@totem-awooga  @parkeepingparker  @whatislifebutlemons

SBI taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@afifaj

Series taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@appetiteofapeoplepleaser  @misfortunatem00n  @hee-hee-haw  @bi-narystars  @akikko-yataro  @snapple311  @jo171718  @alex--awesome--22  @cinnamonmochi  @waterstrawberry  @jefferyepsteindidntkillhimself  @imamusicalnerd  @fo-love  @sylum  @theshitinmytrunk  @rinzyx05  @wasteofspacze  @bands-are-amazingly-addicting  @im-a-depressed-gay  @charlotte-is-missing  @s-n1428  @lifestylesleep  @dame-sunflowers  @bongwaterflavoredgatorade  @aestheticpkmntrainer  @emma-the-duck17  @pek0ra  @wreny24  @willow404  @shiningsunrises  @vanhakirja  @dont-hug-me-im-a-fander  @soulless42  @giavanna  @ijustshatbricks  @depressed-focker  @a-mistake-tbh  @jaciahbabes  @s0urbear  @exorcisms-with-elmo  @perseus-666  @aikochan4859  @cutiebear45  @softie7563  @whatislifebutlemons  @nagitokinnieissad  @angelicaschuyler-church  @poggers-froggers  @kiritokunuwu  @ayuoudro  @rubberduckyqueen  @demure--daisy  @mythicalamphitrite  @spiralingtoinsanity  @ugabuugaa  @bananaaddictmilkshake  @supahumbreon  @starstruckeds  @kakamiissad  @trix-cake  @beginnerwitchgrimoire  @theseventhreincarnation  @ilyimagines  @jax-cote  @binas-idea-vault  @marceline1212  @bloodgoddessoftherealm  @plaguedoctorsnake  @akaza-ryu  @vizi0n  @asterlie  @imapotatoandimconfused  @none-the-wiser  @yoongi-holland  @keiarma  @humm1ngj  @marvelous-maximofffs  @imasimpfortechno  @kusuinko  @queenthorin1  @artichoke-me-please  @queenthorin1

[favoniuscodex]

the art of modernity [ prologue ]

prologue - jueyun karst

pairing: xiao x gn!reader warnings: canon-typical violence mention words: ~1.8k words fic masterlist [ prev ] - [ next ]

chapter summary: you drag four of your closest friends to jueyun karst to chase after possible traces of the adepti. none of them expect for you to actually find any, but hey, anything is possible, right?

a/n: can't believe 'making xiao eat a chicken nugget and french fries' is becoming an actual fic but here we are. enjoy !! :D

when you had asked yanfei the legal repercussions of disrupting jueyun karst, the entire brunch table had looked at you as if you had grown a third eye. kaeya had sat down the third mimosa he had been nursing, while childe had actually stopped speaking for once. yanfei giggled with intrigue and keqing had stared at you with an expression that screamed are you serious right now?

yet somehow, you had ended up in keqing's overcrowded car and made a road trip to fuel your farfetched dreams. sure, like any kid growing up, you had read percy jackson and the archons, but, unlike most kids, you had taken the myths of the archons seriously. shrines and ruins still sung praises of their names, but most liyuean mythology was treated as having no greater value than old folk tales. the world had moved on past the need of teyvat's expansive pantheon of the elemental archons, visions, and celestia, yet some scholars sought to prove the existence of the old gods. most of the time, their efforts were fruitless.

you, of course, were no scholar. you were simply a dumbass who graduated college and decided in their post-college/pre-settled life panic to go traverse the treacherous lands of jueyun karst. as prosperous as liyue was, jueyun karst still remained heavily untouched as there were areas that even rich moguls were scared to get their grubby hands on. why turn the beautiful mountains and swirling lakes into sprawling shopping centers if the entire area was rumored to be cursed anyways? so, the country had turned jueyun karst into a protected area in the form of a national park.

but now, with your car full of three and a half dumbasses (keqing certainly doesn't count and yanfei is only halfway to idiocy), you had decided to certainly ignore the title of protected area. you had full intentions of disrupting whatever you could get your grimy hands on. you wanted to see the adepti in action and, if others called you crazy for it, then so be it.

"gods, where even are we?" kaeya asks. his tone lacks the annoyance you would expect from childe nor the worried-yet-still-composed nature you would expect from keqing's words. so, you shrug him off with a simple wave of your hand.

"not really sure, but there's enough of us out here that we won't die, right?" you ask and kaeya stares at you blankly before turning to look behind the two of you at the three stragglers.

"keqing!" he calls, realizing that you are of no help. "where are we?"

keqing huffs as she approaches the two of you while yanfei and childe stagger behind her, both acting tired despite being some of the most athletic people you know. in typical keqing fashion, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a compass. kaeya stares as the compass needle spins around aimlessly in her hand, its connection clearly disrupted by some force in the area.

"oh gods, what does that mean? we're going to die. we're going to die out here," childe deadpans, panic creeping into his voice. yanfei swats him playfully on the arm before he can begin his usual theatrics, knowing full and well how childe loves living in the spotlight.

"dying in a protected national park is illegal," yanfei adds and kaeya stares at her with a baffled expression.

"what? are the police going to arrest a corpse?" kaeya asks incredulously and yanfei folds her arms over her chest, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

"didn't you want to be a cop at one point? shouldn't you be aware as to how arresting procedures work?" yanfei asks and kaeya recoils at her question.

"no, i was considering going into military like my dad. i don't wanna be a cop," kaeya shoots back and childe jokingly gags once he hears the word 'military'.

"military? yuck," childe says and becomes the next recipient to receive childe's incredulous gaze.

"didn't you literally join the fatui for two years?" kaeya asks but childe shakes his head.

"not like you have any proof," the ginger-haired man shoots back.

"i can easily acquire proof?" kaeya says, but keqing clears her throat loudly before the two men can engage in a full showdown of words.

"c'mon, guys, we have bigger problems to solve than childe's blatant lies," keqing redirects the conversation with ease but not before kaeya lets out a triumphant hmph at keqing's words. "like figuring out why this compass isn't working and figuring out how to get back because it doesn't work."

"ooh, maybe it's not working because there are ghosts nearby," childe says, but before yanfei and kaeya can engage with his dumbassery once more, you interject.

"it's likely just elemental energy or adeptal energy. i know you guys probably don't believe in them, but this is said to be the former realm of the adepti. wouldn't be surprised if there are traces of them left!" you say, voice far too cheery for the implication of your words. kaeya only shrugs at the suggestion that gods are watching over you as you travel through the park, yanfei only looks intrigued in a nearly-dangerous way, keqing looks nonplussed due to her strong belief that the gods no longer exist, and childe looks absolutely terrified yet is trying to act like he isn't.

"anyways," you continue. "maybe there's a domain!"

"ancient liyuean law forbids unauthorized entrance into domains without proper licensure from the adventurer's guild," yanfei says, as if knowing ancient law is a completely normal activity for a twenty-something-year-old.

"what is a domain?" keqing and kaeya ask at the same time before glancing at each other.

"i'm... not sure. pretty sure they have like... ancient monsters and stuff," you confess and, for the first time today, childe perks up excitedly, eagerly taking a step closer to you.

"monsters? like those uh... hollychirls? whatever they're called? how big do you think they are?" childe asks with an excited glimmer in his eyes.

"weren't you just worried about dying?" keqing asks, but childe ignores her question.

"so like... we're trying to find this domain, right?" childe asks, confused. "what are we looking for?"

"i don't really see why a domain would have adepti traces so we're probably better off looking for something else," you say and yanfei perks up.

"like that?" she asks, pointing off at something glowing faintly orange in the distance. you squint slightly in an attempt to better look at it, but you're unable to distinguish what exactly yanfei as pointing at.

"we might as well go see what that is," keqing says and you're slightly surprised for the purple-haired girl to suggest such a thing, but you figure she's just trying to find a place where her compass actually works. the spinning dial isn't too much of a concern for you since you're in no rush to leave, but the friends you've brought along aren't quite as keen on discovering the secrets of the adepti as you are, so you follow the herd as they begin to move over to the glowing orange light.

the five of you climb down, approaching what soon reveals itself as a stone pillar with a glowing chunk of cor lapis on top. it's certainly nothing new and is probably a protected relic, yet no guards are stationed in front of it. it's almost certainly been discovered before, so why isn't it..?

"oh, isn't this area usually flooded?" yanfei asks and everyone turns to stare at her.

"you've been here before?" keqing asks and you wonder to yourself when these people will stop asking questions and instead keep looking for hints.

"you guys haven't traveled to jueyun karst before?" yanfei asks, confused. "yeah, this area's usually flooded with water. i've never seen that thing before."

if it's usually flooded, then it was likely discovered before, but not relocated, you think to yourself and immediately break out in a sprint towards the cor lapis tower. sure, it was about the height of you, with the cubic chunk on top reaching the height of your head, yet you were more than satisfied with looking at the carvings on the side. childe is the first to catch up with you, using his long legs to match your pace. he sighs as you finally stop and watches as you frantically begin poking and prodding at the pillar.

"are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks, nervously. "what if it's a mechanism or something?"

"what's the worst that could happen?" you ask and childe sputters over his words.

"a lot of things!" childe insists, yet kaeya, keqing, and yanfei's joined arrival interrupts him from making an even bigger fuss.

"try putting your palm flat on the diamond," yanfei suggests and you take a step back. with a steady hand, you lays her palm flat against the side of the pillar, in which a diamond has been engraved onto its surface. around the group of you, the remnants of water begin to glow orange as the pillar emits an even stronger, unnatural glow of energy. the pillar begins to vibrate rapidly and yanfei lets out a small, knowing laugh while the rest of you watch, wide-eyed and confused by the moving pillar.

yet, all that happens is that the cor lapis situated on the top of the pillar falls off, landing on the side of the pillar with a resounding crack. the four of your friends immediately move over to look at the now shattered chunk of cor lapis on the ground, yet you gravitate towards the stone pillar. on the spot where the cor lapis fell, a single name is etched into the stone, as if this pillar is supposed to mark a specific area.

"'xiao'?" you breathe, reading off the word on the pillar.

"what's xi-" kaeya begins, glancing over at you, but before he can finish, a flash of green appears on the opposite side of your friends. your lips part in shock as you watch the deity appear before you. a mask rests on his face and a polearm rests in his hand, yet despite his disguised face, you can sense the anger rolling off his form in waves. his green hair ruffles in the wind as his free hand reaches up to lower his mask. infuriated amber eyes pierce into yours, but the adeptus speaks before you can.

"i am adeptus xiao. how dare you mortals infringe upon jueyun karst and disrupt my land?" xiao seethes and, for once, all five of you are silent as the yaksha points his polearm at you.

taglist:

@somemothgoingferal @miicachii @hq149 @albedostar @the-astrumnauta @falconcoast @dilucsz @transactionalrelationship @koko-cherry @dumpling-gif @shulkerdotjar @popdrop @seokflwr @solarpearl @tsubaki3192 @marifujioka @astronomeh @daichiri @cryspyjk @svnflowery @anseoo @rintaoreo @fuhuashandholder @squashbee

please send in an ask (not submission or dm!) to be placed on the taglist! if your name is in italics that means i am unable to tag you!

[spencersawkward]

top shelf//MGG - part 1

summary: broke and having a bad day, Reader runs into Matthew outside a café. after a couple encounters, his financial support and friendship become something more.

word count: 3k

content warnings: swearing but nothing else!

pairing: Fem!Reader/Matthew

A/N: hi! welcome to my new series. i don’t think this will be super long in terms of parts, but i’ll try to update as frequently as possible for you all. this chapter is pretty expositional, so i’m sorry in advance lol. also i know i made it short but lmk if you want them to be longer. also shoutout my sweet sweet angels @reidsconverse and @voidsfilm bc i would literally cry without both of you. also THANK YOU to @dr-spencerr-reidd for this concept bc i probably wouldn't have written it without your ask!! sending hugs :)

you throw your phone down on the passenger seat with a frustrated groan. after everything that's happened today, you're now stuck on a congested street with your car barely inside the parking spot alongside the sidewalk.

your screen sits there beside you, blank and unresponsive, and you know you're going to have to go inside the coffee shop to ask to use their phone and call Triple A. of course it's not working because nothing is working today. you might as well just sit in your car and cry.

but you can't, because you have a huge project for work that you need to get done by next week, and you've already procrastinated enough. a red glow from the headlights of other cars on the street shine through your windows like melted wax, distorted by the rain. it's been pouring all day.

bracing yourself for the onslaught, you grab the old umbrella from the foot well of the passenger seat and open the door of your car. the torrents hit your body like a wall of ice, soaking you as you try to get to the safety of the café. the umbrella helps a little, but then you get to the overhang and have to actually close it before you head inside.

your fingertips slip around the metal, trying to shove the thing closed while water drips off the bridge of your nose. it's frustrating. your footsteps are still determined as they move towards the entrance, but you're distracted by the stubborn nature of the object, so you don't see the man walking out.

it's not even a bodily collision, really. it's so much worse: the sopping material of the umbrella pokes him in the stomach, knocking the hot cup of coffee all over his sweater.

your eyes widen.

"oh my fucking god, I'm so sorry--" you stutter over your words, completely at a loss. his face is twisted up in an expression of concealed pain. it can't feel good to have hot coffee seeping through your clothes after being prodded by a piece of metal. you move your wet hair out of your face in order to look at him full-on.

"it's fine, really." he gives you what's supposed to be a friendly smile, but looks more like a grimace. your stomach twists; he's hot. like, if you saw him at the bar you would stare at him all night kind of hot.

"no, it's not," your face heats up, despite the cold, damp air. "let me buy you another coffee."

"I--" he glances down at his sweater, which is knitted with cute foxes on the front, then back at you. he pauses a moment and you have to bite down on your tongue to keep from collapsing. he's considerably older than you, but he doesn't dress or act that way. maybe late thirties, if you had to guess. "sure. thanks."

a flowering relief in your chest, partly because he doesn't seem angry and partly because you'd like to look at his face just a bit longer. your eyes stay on his until someone walks through the door of the café and reminds you of where you are.

without a word, you brush past and go into the building, him trailing behind.

Matthew watches as you walk ahead, your clothes spattered with rainwater and your hair somewhat messed up, too. he smiles to himself at the way you almost bump into the corner of a table, nervousness evident in nearly every movement.

you head to the counter, setting your hands on the granite while the barista checks out your unkempt appearance.

"hi," you smile at her before realizing you have no idea what this guy wants. you turn around and see him standing slightly behind you, suppressing a smile. he can tell how flustered you are, and now you look like a fool. "what coffee do you drink?"

"can I have a medium Americano, please?" he asks the barista with a friendly smile. he's got straight teeth, dimples... holy shit. you wish he had been unappealing so that this whole situation would be less humiliating.

you pay for his drink before getting out of the way, both of you slowly walking to the pickup counter.

"again, I'm really sorry. that stupid umbrella." you shake the thing at your side, raindrops falling to the floor. you run a hand through your wet hair.

"it's okay. I appreciate you getting me another cup." he flashes that smile again and you remember that his sweater is all stained. before you can think to do anything else, you pluck a handful of napkins from the self-serve station and start to dab at the material.

he looks down at you for a second, surprised by the way you grab his clothes. Matthew feels your hand pressing into his stomach innocently, and he feels himself blush a little. it's only when you pull away that he's able to regain his head.

"it's still bad," you throw away the napkins and re-evaluate the garment. "jesus christ, it's a nice sweater, too."

"hey, it's totally fine. I can just wash it out." he lets out a slight chuckle, and the sound makes your heart flutter. he's got a dad laugh. deep in his chest.

"baking soda and water." you say abruptly. he frowns.

"what?"

"to get the stain out? I use baking soda and water for coffee stains and it usually works." you explain gently, your eyes meeting again. his irises are a brownish hazel color, warm. the laugh lines by them are charming.

"oh," he grins. "do you get coffee stains often?"

you twist your mouth to the side and glance at the windows of the coffee shop. he's teasing you and you'd be remiss if you said you don't want to play along. "more than I'd like to admit."

you can feel him looking at you with that stupidly brilliant smile and it's really setting you off-kilter. someone shouldn't be that attractive; it's not fair. and yet you want desperately to stare, if purely for the sake of aesthetic enjoyment.

"I'm Matthew." he extends his hand, which is decorated with a series of rings. you realize that you don't even know his name.

"Y/N." you shake. his fingers are softer than you expected.

"nice to meet you, Y/N."

"and under such fortuitous circumstances." the corners of your mouth turn up as you relax a little.

he laughs at your words, the delightful ring of it interrupted by a new Americano showing up on the counter. he glances at the to-go cup, then at you, then goes to get his drink. you wish you knew what he was thinking, but he's not displaying anything past friendliness.

"well, um." something like disappointment settles in your stomach as you recognize this will be the last of your interaction. there's no reason for him to stick around, and you need to get back home to work, anyway.

"I'll let you get back to your day." Matthew doesn't seem nervous, just unsure as he grips the coffee in his hand. you open and close your mouth like something impressive enough to keep him here will come out. you know it won't.

and then you remember the state of affairs, the existence of your useless car and the useless phone in the front seat, how you're going to have to call Triple A and then your roommate to come get you.

Matthew realizes that you aren't going to say anything and he gives you one last smile and an awkward wave before turning to go. you watch in silence as he crosses the room to the door. two more seconds until he's out of your life forever. so of course you choose this exact moment to speak.

"wait."

his head jerks suddenly to look at you. this is embarrassing, but you have nothing to lose.

"can I... borrow your phone?"

Matthew tilts his head to the side slightly, frowning as though deeply confused. and you suppose it is a strange thing to ask, especially given that you're a younger person and most people your age carry their phones everywhere. "sure." he walks back over to you, pulling his cell out of his pocket.

"I just--" you fumble with the device while you decide how to phrase it without sounding like a pathetic mess. "my car keeps breaking down and my phone battery is, like, totally fucked, so it just turns off and on constantly and it’s still in my car but it’s raining and I just wanna see if it’s back on so I can call my roommate." you immediately cringe at yourself. the rambling isn’t cute.

he’s not too bothered by your panicking, though, his mouth only forming an O shape. "it’s no problem."

you dial your number, fingers trembling while he waits. he's turned his eyes to the rest of the coffee shop, but it still makes you nervous that he's standing right there. you put the cell to your ear and pray that it rings out.

you’re greeted by the sound of your own voice telling you to leave a message. great. with a frustrated sigh, you hang up and Matthew gives you an inquisitive expression.

“it’s still off,” you explain. “I’m gonna call my roommate.”

he nods and shoves his hands into his pockets while you punch in the other number. for a split second, you peek his way and admire his side profile. he really is something to behold; a model, maybe.

"hello?" good thing Cecilia has no problem answering unknown numbers. you bite your lip.

"hey, it's me."

"Y/N? whose phone are you using?"

"uh, someone I just met--" you frown as you try to find a way to describe him without something as insulting as a random guy. "anyway, my car broke down so I was wondering if you could pick me up."

there's a pause on the other end of the line, like the movement of sheets and the slightly disappointed groan of another person. she probably has her boyfriend over again. "sure, of course. where are you?"

you give her the address and hang up before dialing the car repair company. Matthew gestures to a table off to the side so that you two don't need to stand, and then you sit down across from him. you're so distracted by the person on the other end of the line that you don't even think about it.

Matthew twists his rings on his fingers. he's fidgety and it's sort of cute. you try not to stare at his hands, at the black spot of ink on the outside of his pinky. either he writes a lot or he's an artist. you have to focus on the table in order to keep from blushing.

finally, you finish up with the phone and hand it back to him. "you're a life saver."

"do you want me to wait with you until your friend gets here?" he gestures out the window. your immediate reaction is to say yes. it'll be awkward to sit here alone without your phone, without coffee. but you don't want to keep him any longer than you already have.

"it's okay, I'm sure you have places to be." you smile accommodatingly. he chooses his next words carefully, it seems.

"I don't, really. but I'll leave you alone if that's what you want, too." the way he speaks, offering his company without trying to impose... something about it makes your heart melt a bit. you appreciate his thoughtfulness. it makes you want to know more.

"okay," you nod as you make your decision. "if you wanna stay. it shouldn't be too long."

"great," he settles back into his chair, the light from the café lights above you reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. "why does your car keep breaking down?"

you exhale sharply at the thought. "that's a really good question, because I don't know the answer. it's super old and I'm too broke to afford a new one."

he nods.

Matthew's mind turns to different avenues at this knowledge. he knows you're young and that usually means that there isn't a lot of spare income. and he doesn't know if you have a job. but what he does know is that you've got an energy about you-- a sweet, well-intentioned manner that draws him in. every once in a while throughout the conversation, you throw out certain phrases that hint at a quick-witted intelligence.

you're funny, but not boldly so. and when you two get on the topic of how you ended up rain-soaked, shoving your way into a Los Angeles café, you tell him about your day.

"--and I have this shitty job right now working for one of my old professor's friends, so it's not like I can afford to constantly repair the damages. all my money is going towards my savings so I can pay for grad school, anyway." you sigh. he listens intently to your words, and he never shies away from eye contact. every time he nods along, you practically feel your heart leap.

"what do you do?" he asks.

"I write for a wellness magazine, but I'm sort of a fraud." you joke.

he laughs. "why's that?"

"I don't know, a lot of it is about different yoga methods and meditation, stuff like that-- but I don't do any of that in my daily life." you admit. it should be embarrassing, but you don't feel ashamed of the fact. he seems to find it funny.

"working your way toward a different kind of job, then?"

"I'm hoping for a more editorial role, honestly, but..." you lift your eyes to his. they're bright, he notices; full of a deep-rooted hope. "gotta start somewhere, right?"

"very true." Matthew wants to tell you just how much he understands, about the roles as an actor he's taken and the hours he spent making films in college, just hoping that one day he'd be able to make things on his own, but he doesn't want to scare you away or sound like he's bragging. it's not your fault you don't know who he is.

"sorry," you speak through a silence he doesn't realize he's left between you two. "I've talked your ear off and you don't even really know me. what do you do?"

"oh--" Matthew actually blushes this time. you see the pink creeping up his neck. "I'm an actor."

in the same way they did when you ran into him, your eyes widen. "an actor?"

"yeah," he smiles at the expression on your face. "you know that show, Criminal Minds?"

the name is familiar, but you've never seen an episode. "yeah, of course."

"I'm in that."

you don't know a lot about the program, but you've heard it talked about and you know that it's a popular show. so this guy is an actual actor, not just some LA wannabe. that makes him about five times more intimidating. you feel even more idiotic for not seeing it before.

"oh, shit," the words tumble out. Matthew grins at the bluntness of your reaction, and you scramble to recover. "sorry I didn't know who you are."

"no worries!" he laughs it off. "it's not a big deal."

"do you like it?" you ask. "being famous, I mean."

he shifts in his seat for a second as he makes a face like he doesn't know how to answer. you wonder if there's something deeper to him that you just haven't seen, yet. secret feelings about the subject. "I'm really not very famous, but I love the work."

genuinely humble. you can see it in his face, the sparkle in his eyes. and maybe he's just charming and you're just a girl blinded by his attractiveness, but your gut tells you that he's being real.

this time, you're the one who falls silent. admittedly, you get a little in your head sometimes. and it makes sense, now, the smoothness of his behavior and the sheer beauty of his face. this is a show business city-- of course he's famous.

Matthew's phone rings and he jumps, as if jolted from a dream. your attention moves immediately to the screen and you recognize Cecilia's number. he pushes the device over to you.

"hello?" your voice sounds far away.

"hey, I'm here. where are you?" she says.

"I'm just inside the café."

"oh, okay, I'll park and come in--" you hear the click of a seatbelt and start to panic. she can't see you in here with him.

"no!" you say too loudly. Matthew's head jerks up to frown at you.

"why not?" Cecilia asks, confused.

"no reason," god, you're a bad liar. "I'll come out and we can wait for the Triple A person in your car." you and Matthew make eye contact again. he gives you an understanding smile. your stomach flips.

"sounds good." she hangs up and you grab your umbrella. time to go.

"thanks for letting me use your phone." you stand, not really wanting to say goodbye but also lacking a reason to stay. he remains in his spot, seemingly now settled into this little corner of the café. it sort of suits him, this place. all cozy and slightly strange.

“happy to help.” you notice the tip of his tongue dart out over his bottom lip as if deliberating whether or not to say anything further. but he doesn’t and you feel awkward just standing there by the table.

“I’ll, uh…” you could ask for his number. but that would be weird, right? he doesn’t really seem to have an interest, anyway. “I’ll see you around, then.”

“yeah. it was nice to meet you, Y/N.” he gives one more of those killer smiles and you turn around, almost bumping into a display of coffee beans before correcting yourself and heading back outside.

taglist (lmk if you want to be added or removed!): @la-vie-en-amour1 @reidsconverse @voidsfilm

[keilemlucent]

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i   ||   part ii   ||   part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos​ (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills. 

You’re his only solace. 

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often. 

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns. 

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks. 

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves. 

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings. 

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing. 

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent. 

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight. 

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex.  It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows. 

It’s grim in its predictability. 

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone. 

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.” 

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.) 

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen. 

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them— 

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand. 

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was. 

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future. 

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.) 

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted. 

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze. 

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings. 

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming. 

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.” 

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest. 

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face. 

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?” 

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. 

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa. 

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least. 

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind. 

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively. 

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap. 

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?” 

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do. 

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you. 

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible. 

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words. 

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy— 

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none. 

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments. 

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could. 

“Do you see now?” 

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch. 

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky. 

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning— 

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.” 

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side. 

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness. 

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.” 

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do. 

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan. 

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see. 

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection. 

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep.  The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue. 

It bothers him— 

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror. 

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while. 

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can. 

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant. 

All the same, the trim feels good. 

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back— 

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!” 

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!” 

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him. 

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.) 

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity. 

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning. 

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much.  The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering. 

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with. 

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach. 

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it. 

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree. 

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was. 

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh. 

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.” 

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet. 

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress. 

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely. 

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone. 

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

 Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes. 

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile. 

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up— 

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart. 

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later. 

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard. 

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead. 

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too— 

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement. 

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try. 

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered. 

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks. 

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.) 

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business. 

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat. 

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders. 

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—” 

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough. 

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands. 

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night. 

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?) 

But you’re not in the common room. 

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath. 

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten. 

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard. 

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him. 

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more. 

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone— 

...

Keigo leaves the next morning. 

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn. 

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse. 

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died. 

All disgusting reminders. 

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had. 

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he. 

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time. 

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave. 

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes. 

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.  

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter. 

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it. 

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears— 

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some. 

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought. 

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?” 

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe. 

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self. 

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

[cheekygreenty]

Little Witch - Part 13

The Darkling x Reader

This is more of a filler chapter, I wanted to write something where reader is in action🤭

As much as you loved to keep your personal and work life separate, the life at the Little Palace rarely allowed for such things. Rumors spread and tensions rose and much to your dismay the privacy of Aleksander's chambers only reached so far. Everywhere you went eyes followed you with a sense of interest, poking and prodding for the details of why the Deputy General had stayed in the Darkling's quarters, but more importantly why you raced out of there in the dead of the night, slamming every door possible with loud echoing thuds.

You ignored it all, you had work to do. Currently, you stood waiting in the courtyard for your horses, your recruited Grisha in tow. You had asked Fedyor for the best soldiers, ones who could be ruthless and loyal. Two Heartrenderers, an Inferni and the Squaller you now knew as Zoya waited behind you, shivering from a sudden gust of freezing wind.

The weather had gotten brutal over the past few days but this mission couldn't wait. You had gotten intel that somehow a Kerch merchant kidnapped Grisha while they traveled between camps and was keeping them in a home not far from the Palace, waiting to transport them across the Fold and use them as indentures. This angered you beyond means of explanation.

Your stableboy brought out your beautiful chestnut brown Arabian, and you quickly hoisted yourself up. You would all be going on horseback despite the weather, for a carriage would slow you down significantly.

'Zoya, I'll need you upfront with me, if it starts to snow heavily we'll clear the way.' You addressed the Squaller, patiently waiting as she got up on her horse and came to rest beside you, giving you a curt nod.

'Ready?'

You brought your horse into a quick gallop, cringing as the cold whipped past you.

******

Riding a horse was only comfortable for so long before your tailbone began to ache. It had been around an hour, but you were almost there as a small village came into view over the hill. You stopped your horse and put up your hand signaling the rest to stop too.

'We leave our horses just there, where the forest fades-' You pointed over to a place just to your right, where tree coverage would protect your horses from the cold. '-we walk the rest of the way. All intel pointed to the house being secluded, most likely right before the village grows more populated.'

The thing with these missions was there was never an exact location, which frustrated you and from the loud sigh Zoya gave, it frustrated everyone else too. You all slid off your horses and walked them to the forest, tying them securely to trees and beginning the walk, making sure to stay hidden behind the trees.

'What's the plan?' Asked the Inferni.

'I go in first, neutralize any threats I can see. Fedyor, keep to my side but be behind me. The rest of you, your main priority is to look for the Grisha. Don't kill anybody unless I tell you to.' You could see the surprised look on their faces and you knew why.

Even though Aleksander was extremely powerful and immortal, he never walked into a fight first, he was always the one to walk into a clear path, never cleared it himself. You did things differently, liked to be in complete control.

'What did the General say about this?' He spoke again.

You stopped and turned to him.

'If you have any issues with how your superior is commanding the missions, I suggest you turn around and learn how to be a soldier.' You snapped. Aleksander had these people wrapped around his finger. He stared at you with wide eyes and almost immediately his composure dropped, succumbing to your intimidation.

'I don't have time for this nonsense.' You scoffed and walked ahead to where Zoya was searching for the hideout.

'Is it that one?' She pointed to a cabin about with a man guarding the front door. Bingo.

'He's too far, I need to get closer.' Fedyor's raised hands dropped down to his sides. The other Corporalnik nodded in agreement.

You turned away from the group and concentrated on the man, feeling for his pulse and once you gathered the understanding, gently stopped The flow of blood, watching as he fell to the snow-covered ground with a thud.

'Don't take offense, I'm much older' You patted the Heartrenders on the shoulders and ran to the cabin. You saw Zoya let out a strong gust of wind to open the door, almost knocking it off its hinges.

Shouts erupted all around and shots were fired. You bled shadows into the hallway, rendering the Kerch men blind, hoping they wouldn't shoot in the dark. Simultaneously, you slowed the heartbeats you could make out, hoping the shouts died down. With luck on your side, the cabin turned silent and you retreated your shadows.

Three men dressed in fine vests lay slumped on the floor, a pistol or rifle in each hand. Fedyor automatically bent down to take the guns out of their hands and looked around for something to detain them with. You could hear the rest of your crew search the cabin, the loud squeak of the cellar latch opening. You too went to look around, opening all the doors that could open and listening for the beating of one's heart. Nothing.

You grew angry at the possibility of the intel being incorrect. You came to the last door on the far end of the home which was slightly ajar. You could feel a faint pulse and as you opened the door, ready to protect yourself when your eyes caught sight of a purple kefta. A Fabrikator? The figure didn't move from where they were standing. Their hands weren't bound and neither were their legs.

'Are you here with the Second-Army?' Her voice was quiet but steady.

'Yes. Come with me' You moved away from the doorframe and into the hallway once again to let the Grisha through.

'Who are you?'

'Deputy General, now come on we must get going' You heard Zoya indicate from the cellar that they had found the Healer.

She moved away from the wall and walked to you with her head down, showing no indication of being thankful for being saved. Doubt pooled in your stomach but you let it go. You returned to the main room and stared at the three men tied up in the chairs but quickly averted your eyes to Zoya who appeared perplexed and for once, you shared her thoughts. The Inferni walked out with the Healer behind him and what looked like a Squaller to his right but nobody said anything. What is going on?

'Is anybody injured?' You spoke first amongst the crippling silence. Nobody responded. Suddenly out of the corner of your eye you saw the Fabrikator take one of the disposed pistols and point it at you, not hesitating to take shots. You deflected as best you could, protecting the others from the bullets but quickly realized the girl was a Durast and wherever she wanted to shoot, she could definitely make the shot.

You looked around and to your surprise, your Inferni was lying on the ground as the Healer battled Zoya. Fedyor was seemingly pushed up against the wall by the Squaller. What in Saint's name is going on. These are not my Grisha. Your falter caused your shadow shield to break and you felt a cold bullet lodge itself in your thigh where your kefta peeked open.

The pain was too strong, clouding your mind and momentarily prohibiting you from accessing your powers. Saints this hurts.

You reclaimed your mind, letting the merciless Cut wander out to her. The Durast screamed in horror as her hand dropped to the ground. You ignored it, letting your eyes wander to the Squaller and knocking her out with a wind so strong it rattled the cabin. Zoya managed to subdue the Healer, tacking to the ground and holding her hands above her head. You shot out a tendril of onyx shadow and restrained her, relieving Zoya of the uncomfortable position.

You were beyond angry, you were fuming. You harshly grabbed at the Durast, slamming her against the wall by the lapel of her kefta, your thigh screaming in pain. You could feel blood pooling in your riding boots.

'What is this?!' You hissed

'You're not taking us back. You will not force us to be part of that army'

'You would give up the Little Palace for the dirty streets of Ketterdam' The venom rolling off your tongue was almost paralyzing.

'If I am to serve your kind then of course. You're probably stealing my power as we speak' The room stilled and your pain was forgotten. Zoya held her breath, even the Healer's stomach dropped.

Something in you snapped, and with nothing more than a flex of your fingers, the girl's neck snapped, her lifeless body tumbling to the ground. You didn't say another word. Zoya took that as a sign to tell the rogue Grisha they will be tried as traitors, and restrained them both, taking over from you.

Your previous words came back into your mind, Don't kill anybody. You shame Aleksander for merciless killing yet you just did the same. You broke your own rule because somebody offended you. You fool.

You wordlessly limped out of the cabin, completely forgetting the bullet wound on your thigh.

***

The ride back to the Little Palace was torturous. The two traitors had been subdued and riding with the heartrenderes. Your thigh was in excruciating pain and upon entering the gates, you had felt completely numb. As far as you knew, nobody knew you were shot. You had left them to deal with the mess in the cabin, too blinded by anger and arrogance to help and act as the leader. But now, the only thing blinding you was tiredness which you knew wasn't good.

Your horse diligently walked to the courtyard doors but you didn't get off, you couldn't. Your eyes had shut on their own accord. The tiredness washed over you again and your head spun.

You could faintly make out the sound of your name being called by Fedyor asking about the traitors, but you paid him no mind, focusing all your attention on trying not to fall off your horse. Your head bopped, but you fought to stay awake and pass the wave of tiredness so you could walk to the healers unit, but it was relentless.

You felt somebody pull the reigns of your horse and lift the cloak covering your leg, you didn't argue. Then the shouts started. You couldn't hear what they said as your head bopped again, once, twice, then you let go.

****

The immense itching sensation on your thigh was overwhelming. If that wasn't the reason for you waking up, it was the loud argument taking place at the foot of the bed.

You managed to open your eyes to see a Healer working on your leg, looking very focused. She spared you a sweet smile then went right back to work. Oh Saint's this is so itchy. It took everything in you not to itch the bloody wound. Thankfully, the raised voices dragged your attention away.

'We didn't know, she just left!' Fedyor.

'If you'd have gotten here 10 minutes later she would have been dead' Aleksander.

'We thought she wa-'

'I don't care. Leave before I do something I regret' The door opened and shut. You suspected the only people left in the room were you, the Healer and a fuming Aleksander. If he knew you were awake, he showed no indication of it. You didn't need to look at him to know he was brooding. Was he mad that I'm injured or that the mission went sideways?

Your hands clenched as the itching sensation got worse. You hated being healed, it was even worse than being injured.

'If you clench that fist any harder you'll break your knuckles' His voice carried no anger anymore, it was soft but had an edge of plea in it.

You didn't respond. You didn't know what to say. You hadn't seen him since the other night when you confronted him about Alina, and he made no moves to approach you since then.

'I'll give you a written report mission once I'm done here.'

'No need. Zoya took care of it already' As much as you had tried to convince yourself you disliked the beautiful Squaller, she had really come in clutch today. You were thankful.

'Alright, that's all I can do for now. You did lose a lot of blood, so take it easy for the next couple of days.' The young girl got up and left after you muttered a quick thank you.

'Are you ok?'

'We just got ambushed by rogue Grisha who had personal vendettas against me, what do you think' You sat up and rested your head against the headboard, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.

'I should've cross-examined the intel. If I knew what they were I would've given you more reinforcements.' He leaned against the wall next to the door, sensing your hostility and keeping his distance

'I didn't need reinforcements. I was just caught off guard is all'

'You killed a-'

'Please, don't say it. , it wasn't my proudest moment.'

'Zoya kept it out of the report. Said she got caught in the cross-fire.'

I love you Zoya.

'Do you want me to leave?' His question made you freeze. On one hand, you were still angry about the other night and the comment he made, but on the other Aleksander always made you feel safe and his presence brought you peace.

'You probably have work to do. I do too anyway' You got up to leave the bed, but he quickly walked over to you, pushing you back down. You grabbed his hands out of reflex.

'Take it easy for the next couple of days. Is that not the advice you got?' He cocked a smile and traced a small pattern on your hand. You stared into his eyes and tried to find a reason to not fold into his embrace, you badly needed a hug, and he gives the best ones.

'Alright, but you can leave' Your answer surprised him, it surprised you too. Apparently subconsciously you still held a grudge against him.

'Y/N, Next time you get hit, please tell someone.' He whispered as he swooped down to kiss the top of your head lovingly, letting his lips linger for a moment. Just as you were about to give in and wrap your arms around him, his warmth left you.

'It won't kill you to take a day off.' He teased as he walked out the door.

I never got that hug.

Part 14

Taglist (tell me if u want to be added to the Little Witch taglist !!)

@theonelittleone @searching-for-gallifrey @0-artemis @lostysworld @xceafh @fire-in-her-veinz @patdsinner33 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @wizardwheezes @aleksanderwh0r3 @tomhollandisabae @hotleaf-juice @justmesadgirl @exo-1204 @houseofdupree @oberonpascal @eireduchess

Here’s a masterlist where u can find previous parts of Little Witch 🖤

[scribbling-dragon]

Shifting Perspective

Chapter 17

Summary:

A brief interlude

(AO3 Link)

(Masterpost)

(2,984 words)

Jimmy weighs heavily on his arms, pulling at muscles he didn't know he had before today and yanking on wounds that have only just been inflicted. The pain within each of them is near agonizing, and it twinges with each and every step he takes, one after the other.

The winding staircase isn't helping matters very much, either, and his wings seem to scrape against every available surface as he turns and turns and turns. His feathers scrape against the walls. The ends of his feathers trail over the base of each and every step, until he is almost intimately familiar with the exact angle of each one.

He continues upwards, steadfastly ignoring how Lizzie hovers at his back, ghosting her hands over his wings in a way that makes him grit his teeth and shudder away. She peers too, at Jimmy, watching him with large anxious eyes, as though he would disappear if she took her eyes off of him for more than a few seconds.

He isn't asleep, not quite at least, he can feel him blinking against his neck. The warmth of his breath so close to him is a comfort, one that he doesn't consider too much. Instead, he nestles that worrying thought away in a small nook in his mind.

Usually, he would consider such an idea further, but the idea of complex thought makes his head ache and his eyes blur with exhaustion. He almost stumbles on the last step, a soft curling of wind around his face being the only thing to snap him awake again. Jimmy’s hands clutch at his cloak a little, fingers curling into his shoulders as he’s almost sent to the floor, sprawling over the tiles.

He murmurs a near-silent apology to him, making sure to lift his feet properly as he steps up into the main entrance. The tiles beneath his feet are cleaner than the ones below, newer. They don't crumble and shift as he steps forward, just ahead of the staircase as he pauses, staring towards the open door ahead.

He closes his eyes, allowing the wind to ghost gentle hands over his skin, tugging slightly at his hair as it ghosts past. He relishes in the cold air sweeping over him, feeling as though he’s been welcomed home, the careful brushes of his skin reminiscent of gentle flights at midnight, swooping low over rooftops and skimming his hand through the new-

Lizzie shoves past him, seemingly uncaring as he stumbles, having to hold her brother tighter to avoid dropping Jimmy onto the floor. His wings ruffle a little as he turns to face her, expression set into a glare. She doesn't seem to care, already turning away again and slipping out the doors, disappearing into the shadows of the night.

He steps forward, taking a healthy dose of caution as he approaches the door. Lizzie may be in good condition to fight, her trident gripped close to her chest throughout all of their interactions, but him and Jimmy couldn't be any less ready.

He peers out beyond the doors, eyes sweeping the grounds ahead of him. Something - someone - crashes into his sides, arms wrapping around his side in a way that makes him choke on his next inhale, arms tightening around Jimmy as the man scrambles to wrap an arm around his neck, slowly slipping from his grip.

Pixl pulls back from the semi-hug, pushing him back to an arm’s length to look him up and down, face set into a glare. “You worried me.” He prods at him. “I send you back to Rivendell and when I come looking for you, I get a weird letter from your brother.”

“Sorry, I’ll tell them to tone it down next time.” He deadpans. “Did you expect me to stay in Rivendell the whole time? Getting kidnapped is honestly kind of fun at this point.”

Pixl gapes at him, and even Jimmy pokes him in the ribs a little, causing him to squirm. “There’s something wrong with you.” Pixl states, turning away from him. He follows his gaze, finding Lizzie exchanging a hushed conversation with Joel, the two of them sending glances his way every few seconds. “And Jimmy?” Pixl turns back. “Is he okay?”

“I can hear you.” Jimmy mutters in response, and Pixl has the decency to at least look a little sorry.

“Sorry, I didn't realise you were awake.”

“I've twisted my ankle, not suffered a head injury.” He doesn't lift his head from where it’s resting against his shoulder, and his eyes remain closed, as though he’s trying to fall asleep. “I just can't walk, I'm perfectly capable of remaining awake.”

“You really look it.” He snorts, craning his head back to look at him properly. Jimmy swats a hand in the direction of his head, and he takes the small smack against his ear. It’s hardly painful, more like being swatted by a slightly disgruntled cat.

“I can take him from here onwards.” Pixl offers, holding his arms out. “It’s a long flight to Mezalea.”

“It’s a good thing we’re not going to Mezalea then.” He sniffs, angling his body away from Pixl, holding Jimmy closer to his chest. “Rivendell is a shorter flight from here, and I have a spare room.”

Pixl blinks at him for a few seconds. “And you want to house us in your home.”

He scoffs. “It might not be as big and grand as the Matral Palace, or the Rivendell Palace, but it’s big enough for a few people.”

“Scott,” he looks at Pixl, “Most of these people hated you a few days ago and you want them in your house.”

“Opinions can change, I find they're rather easily swayed, in all honesty.”

“And you're aware these two are coming with us, right.” He gestures at Lizzie and Joel as they approach.

“Yes, I'm aware.” He rolls his eyes. His arms are beginning to grow tired, and they could already be halfway to Rivendell if it wasn't for this conversation. “It’s an incredibly short flight, and it’s an even shorter flight off my porch if I decide I hate them again.”

Joel makes an offended face at that. He ignores him, continuing to focus on Pixl, slowly spreading his wings behind him. A few joints pop and crack, and he sees Lizzie grimace at the sound. One wing shudders, threatening to snap closed again as a twinge of pain shivers down the bone. It seems to twist in its socket, shifting into another limb, yet remaining the same.

“I will be locking my door ten minutes after I arrive. Argue amongst yourselves.” He does a little jump, one that he’s been told looks rather odd, but it gets him off the ground anyway, several feet above their heads in a few seconds.

His wings and arms shake with the extra weight on them, and he gives Jimmy a few seconds to readjust himself, wrapping both of his arms around his neck for a better grip. It drags on him a little, but he grits his teeth and allows it to happen.

He glides at a slow pace, aware of the twisting spires below him that could potentially skewer the both of them, and that would just be more embarrassing than anything, really.

“Are you really gonna lock the door on them?” Jimmy asks, barely audible over the whistling of the wind around his ears.

“Nah. They’ll be there in time.” As if on cue, he hears a rocket fire below them, the sound of displaced air reaching his ears. He takes that as a signal to speed up, switching from gliding to actually flying, rising a few hundred feet higher into the air. “Tell me if it gets hard to breathe at any point.” He instructs. “I'm better used to high altitudes than you.”

Jimmy simply nods, his breath likely stolen away by the wind as he presses his face into his chest. He takes less liberties with flying than he normally would, opting for basic swooping rather than the elaborate, twisting spirals he enjoys. Mainly because he doubts his wings would continue to support him after such an action and also because he has a passenger that would probably throw up if he did that.

He truly wasn't lying when he said Rivendell was a ten minute flight, and he touches down on his porch exactly ten minutes after he began his flight.

The snow around his ankles is deep, the chill of it quickly crawling up his legs. He shivers a little, wading forward through the snow. He doesn't miss the footprints in front of his door, nor the way it has been clumsily closed behind someone, half-open and allowing snow to spill onto his carpet.

He’s rather certain he has Pixl to thank for that.

He sighs, half-heartedly kicking it aside, away from his rug and onto the hardwood floors instead. He shuts the door behind him, properly this time, even as his arms tremble with the motion. Jimmy’s weight in his arms is quickly becoming too heavy for him to bear, and he almost stumbles on his way to deposit him on the sofa.

“Just, ah, prop your leg up until Pixl gets here?” He offers, offering one of the smaller cushions to him. “I can't say I know much so we’ll have to wait until they arrive to do anything.”

“They’ll be here in a few minutes.” Jimmy waves his concern off, lifting his ankle gingerly from where it was laid, before placing a cushion beneath it, elevating it slightly. He’s pretty sure that’s what you're meant to do, Ophelia’s made him do it a thousand times by now.

“You can sit down too, you know.” Jimmy’s eyes glance up at him, before flicking away again. “It’s a little unnerving with you hovering like that, and I know for a fact that there’s something wrong with you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.” He scoffs, sitting down anyway and trying to pretend his legs didn't give out halfway down. Jimmy leans his back against his shoulder, tipping his head back slightly to look at him.

“Keep telling yourself that. It might wear off in the meantime.”

“You're horrible to me.” He crosses his arms, successfully dislodging Jimmy’s head from its perch on his shoulder. His noise of protest is muffled by the thudding sounds echoing from his porch. One on its own, then two following, in quick succession.

Someone knocks on the door, before pushing it open, which completely destroys the point of knocking in the first place. Pixl pokes his head around the corner, eyes glancing around his front room, before landing on him and Jimmy.

He stumbles, and Lizzie shoves her way in, hands gripping her bare arms, shivering slightly as she bustles in, Joel on her heels. “Casmira below, Scott, it’s below freezing in here.” She complains. “Couldn't you have a fire going or something?”

“Can't, sorry, only just got back from being kidnapped, give me a few days.” He leans a bit further back into his sofa, pressing into the cushions there. Jimmy makes himself similarly cosy, leaning heavily on his shoulder.

He doesn't miss the odd look Lizzie sends her brother. He also doesn't miss the glare she directs at him while she stalks past, poking around his hearth, looking for logs to, presumably, start a fire with.

A muscle in his arm seizes as he leans back a little further, but it seems to be reducing in ferocity, only a small shudder following the motion. That probably means the potion’s wearing off. Hopefully. “You could also close the door.” He suggests. “It might make it a bit warmer in here.”

Pixl gives him a guilty look at that, furthering his own attempts at nudging to snow aside by sending it scattering across his floorboards. He sends the man an unimpressed look as he attempts to pretend nothing happened.

“Anything I can get you?” Pixl asks, attempting to casually wander away from the scene of his crime, eyes carefully averted. “A drink, or something to eat? I doubt you were provided with anything there.”

“We weren't.” He pauses. “I should have a small thing of milk in there, can you grab it for me?”

“Lose the ability to walk on your way over here?” Joel snorts, watching Lizzie as she attempts to start a fire with damp wood. He’s already accepted the fact that his home is going to stink of smoke for the next few days.

“No.” He manoeuvres a wing up and around, until it’s settled over Jimmy, blanketing him almost completely. Pixl doesn't complain, simply nodding as Jimmy requests a glass of water, before attempting to disappear in the direction of his room.

“It’s the other way.” He calls out, and he does a completely three-sixty, turning on his heel so fast it almost makes him dizzy, before heading in the correct direction to his kitchen. He turns his head slightly, keeping an eye on the two beside the fire.

He can't quite hear what they're saying, but the small glances they send him and Jimmy occasionally, and the small snatches he does manage to catch are rather incriminating. Especially when Joel flushes as he catches his eyes, simply raising a single eyebrow as he looks away again, focusing a little too intently on getting the fire started - which really seems to be requiring more effort than is probably strictly necessary.

Pixl returns a few seconds later, a hand appearing in his current field of vision and making him startle a little, Jimmy jolting with the motion as he sits up a little straighter. He accepts the small vial of milk he keeps for these exact situations. He’s glad of the foresight to seal it with wax, the seal still unbroken when he takes it, cold from its time in the fridge.

He cracks the seal himself, downing it quickly, the feeling of the liquid leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He’s never really been able to enjoy it, always grimacing a little at the taste.

Yet, it does as promised, and a tension he hadn't noticed before dissipates, leaving him feel oddly drained as he tips his head back, setting the vial aside. “You good there?” Pixl leans over him, worried face appearing in his eyeline.

“I'm fine. Just washing a potion out of my system.” He sighs, tipping his head back upright. “Didn't realise how tense I was.”

“What kind of potion?” Lizzie pops out of nowhere, settling herself on the arm to his left. She makes herself comfortable, seemingly content with perching on the arm of his sofa. “Was it a harmful one? Or a poison of some kind?”

“Both of those are harmful.”

“Yeah, but a few of them are more harmful than others. And I'm curious.”

“They didn't tell me what kind it was, only that Gem made it, under some kind of pressure. And it wasn't a poison or harmful potion.” He turns his head just in time to catch Lizzie’s frown, her interest evaporating as quickly as it came.

“What did it do then?” It quickly sparks to life again, and she leans forward, arms pressing to his own and leaving his skin prickling. He leans back, pushing himself away from her.

“Nothing much.” He lies, gritting his teeth a little as he looks away. “It’s sorted now, just…just focus on Jimmy, he’s twisted his ankle rather badly from what I can see.” It seems to do the trick, pulling Lizzie’s attention away from him rather quickly as she slips from her perch and darts around to Jimmy’s side, her and Pixl looking over his ankle with concerned expressions.

Joel lingers for a few moments after his wife, eyeing him through narrowed eyes. He makes a face at him, and he turns away, walking through to his kitchen. He doubts he has much in there for Joel to steal, but he can take it if he wants - he’s sure wholemeal bread is incredibly rare in Mezalea.

“You’ll need to keep weight off it for a while.” Pixl says, and he looks around to him. He prods at Jimmy’s ankle, and the man hisses and recoils, even as Pixl apologises. “There’s not much a healing potion could do either, it wouldn't be used up on the wound. All it would really do is overload your system, and that’s not really something we want to do right now.”

“So what? I'm stuck hobbling around here?”

“For now.” Pixl leans back on his heels. “Yes. But you won't be hobbling anywhere, if I see you on that leg at any point during the next week, I won't ask Lizzie to bring Norman here.”

Jimmy sits up properly, fully leaning his weight off of him, allowing him to breathe in deeply for a few seconds. “You wouldn't dare.”

“I would.” Pixl gives Jimmy a short, rather deadpan stare. “Do you want to test me?”

Jimmy looks as though he’s going to argue for a few moments, gills flaring a little as he stares Pixl down, before slowly shaking his head and leaning against him again. His skin prickles at the contact, almost buzzing with electricity as they lean against each other. He can’t bring himself to complain, though, the comfort the actions bring is enough to him.

In all honesty, he’d love to pull him closer, to wrap his arms around him and blanket the two of them in his wings until it’s only the two of them within the enclosed space. Silences can be comfortable, and he’s sure with the two of them it would be. And he could be close to Jimmy, feel the warmth he seems to constantly exude against his side, and he could hold it close to his chest. Like bringing the sun to his heart.

Oh.

Oh no.

[sidespart]

The Fall of King Romulus Part 3

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him…

Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

Pairings: Mostly Platonic LAMP and all the found family feels. Could be read as pre-slash.

Feedback appreciated. 

NOW ON AO3 :D

Prologue     Chapter 1   Chapter 2  

Remus. Remus, Remus, Remus.

The mad Prince of Notaleveale.

Remus was coming here. Remus was coming to Steveange and if Romulus saw him-

Roman had to leave.

Which was easier said than done; when the streets were crowded with hoards of shoppers and revellers all pressing against him, blocking his path, stealing the air out of his lungs-

“Roman!”

He needed to go. He need to find Virgil and Patton in whatever rooms they’d managed to find, collect his belongings and-

No. That would take too long – he could replace the clothes and books, he already had his sword-

“Roman, what’re you-”

- but he needed his lute. To make any kind of living he had to be able to perform. It was the only thing he was good at and once he’d got away he’d be -

He could do it. He’d run away before. He survived alone, without anyone, he could do it again and-

“Roman! Stop!”

He stopped.

Logan. Heading towards him. But he hadn’t given a time frame and if Roman grit his teeth and pushed past the spike of pain he could start to move again in just a second-

“Wait!”

Dammit.

Roman waited. Fists clenched by his side, until Logan was next to him.

“Roman.”

His chest was tight. His brain wasn’t -wasn’t working right and Logan looked so odd, with his glasses askew and his face flushed – had he been running?

“I thought I saw Patton.” Roman blurted.

It was the first excuse that popped into his head and it was clearly not – not good enough. Logan was frowning at him, a pinched expression, studying him like an experiment and-

Roman hated him, suddenly.

Logan was an upstart swot with ideas above his station and a chip on his shoulder. He poked and prodded and lost them jobs with his terse words and his better than you attitude. He reminded Roman of the tutors who snap at him for his lack of understanding and bark orders for him to recite, repeat, remember, to be better, smarter, stronger: someone worthy of his title.

He reminded him most of all of Julius. His fathers closest advisor, who had been charged with unravelling the Princes’ curses. He was the one who had helped Romulus learn how to push against his curse. He would give him orders that were almost impossible to follow and watch with cold eyes as Romulus struggled to disobey. Together they’d categorised how much pain he could withstand, what orders could be navigated and misinterpreted and which ones he was truly helpless against.

Once, he’d bid Romulus to stand on one leg. And left him there until his muscles started to cramp and shake, waiting to see if gravity or the curse was stronger. Romulus had been in tears by the end. Had even wondered, briefly, about complaining to his parents. But is was such a silly, innocuous order compared to other experiments. What had truly upset him was how Julian had just stood there, not speaking, his eyes distant and cold and calculating as he noted down every twitch and whimper from the boy. Even when he circled him, Romulus could feel those eyes boring into the back of his neck like a-

“Princey.”

Roman blinked. Julius’ practice room disappeared, replaced with the sights and sound of the Steveange street. Logan was in front of him and his eyes were far from cold. When he spoke it was with the same gentle tone that Roman had heard him use when Virgil’s worries overwhelmed him or when Patton woke from a nightmare and didn’t know where he was.

“Did the cro- the woman. Did she say something to you?” Logan was holding his hand. Gently but firmly, he tugged at Romans tightly clenched fingers, encouraging them to unfurl. Roman stared uncomprehendingly at the deep crescent marks he’d made in his palm.

Slowly, Logan released his right hand and reached for his left, repeating the process.

Roman felt shame ripple through him.

Logan wasn’t Julius. Logan would never push him so far he broke.

Logan was his friend and Roman has made him worry with his silly behaviour and his slapdash lie. But he could fix it.

He forced a smiled. Flexed his fingers and straightened up his full height. Made a show of looking around him.

“I swear I saw him. Big man, big sword, big smile – he’s hard to mistake!”

Hesitantly, Logan glanced around too before quickly refocusing on Roman.

“Are you sure you –“

“Ah well, the mind plays trick I suppose – must be hunger getting to me, speaking of which…”

Roman reached forward and deftly snatched the bag from Logan's grasp, reaching in blindly and shoving the first pastry he found into his mouth.

“Mmmm so good!” He beamed at Logan with berry stained teeth, flakes of pastry flying through the air. “Aren’t you going to have one?”

Logan stared at him. Roman kept his smile sweet and his eyes clear. He held up the bag and wiggled it enticingly.

Hesitantly, Logan took the bag and selected a tart. Keeping his eyes on the bard the entire time, he ate his treat with much more refinement then Roman had shown. “Holding back?” Roman asked, teasing, “I’ve seen you eat jam before, there’s no point pretending to have table manners now.”

Logan just hmphed but his shoulders relaxed slightly and Roman decided to take that as a victory. “We should get going” Roman said and started walking, Logan easily falling into step beside him.

The streets were crowded enough that none of the sellers seemed to feel the need to call to Roman specifically, and so this time he was free to investigate the stalls he was actually interested in.

But instead he stayed by Logan's side

Logan was a good friend. For all he claimed to lack an understating of emotional nuances he was letting Roman have his space. He’d even distracted him earlier, when his biggest concern had been the a spike of homesickness after meeting their northern customer.

He was nothing like Julius.

Roman was going to miss him so much.

***

Roman kept up his performance of normality all the way back to the main square, where they had agreed to meet the others once their mission was done. The sky was beginning to turn dark by the time they got there, though it was easy enough to navigate from the sheer number of stalls still in operation, each one boasting its own selection of colourful lanterns.

“This is fantastic!” Roman gasped theoretically, spinning on one foot to take in the whole spectacle.

“It’s a fire hazard.” Logan muttered with a frown.

They found Virgil waiting for them by the central fountain. He had manged to find a seat on the fountains edge but was wedged between two young couples who had clearly taken the romantic festival atmosphere to heart. The healer’s shoulders were up by his ears and his cloak was wrapped so tightly around himself it looked constricting. When he saw them he sprang to his feet so quickly he almost knocked one of the young ladies into the water.

“Took you two long enough.”

Roman and Logan glanced at each other.

“Logan got lost-”

“Roman kept wandering off.”

“-We brought you baked goods!”

Virgil took one of the two remaining pastries with minimal grumbling and led them out of the square. They took the north east road, a path that curved its wary upwards into the higher levels of the city. Here the buildings were all built of a blush-pink marble that sparkled in the evening twilight. The streets were wide, with neatly arranged flowerbeds and street lights which had the steady glow of Arkazeii glow lamps rather than the flicker of oil. There were certainly no traders spread out on blankets. Logan looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Was this inn you found an…economical choice?”

“It was a ‘the whole town’s rammed and this was the only place with a room left’ choice.” Virgil snarked “and don’t worry – its one room for all four of us with no breakfast included, if you were worried about getting too… bourgeoisie…or whatever."

Logan raised his hands for peace.

“I’m sure you did the best you could.”

“Well …we were lucky.” Virgil told him, and then glanced over at Roman, his lip twitching.

“Apparently they give discounts to performers.”

***

The inn was certainly a cut above their normal haunts. With brightly painted walls almost obscured by well pruned climbing plants, outdoor seating, and a wrought iron gate leading to spacious stables behind the building.  Even the doors were of better quality then your typical village tavern – made of wood heavy enough to make a satisfying crash when Roman stormed in.

The room was crowded, but Patton really was hard to miss. Roman shoved his way through to the back table where the big man sat waiting. Leaving other customers cursing in his wake.

‘Hey kiddo!’ Patton greeted him with a wide smile “Did you-“

“Key.” Roman snarled.

Patron blinked and him, shock writ large on his face. “Sorry?”

“The key. To my room.  Give it.” Roman snapped. “It is mine right? Since you seem happy to pimp me out in exchange for-“

“Hey!” That would be Virgil. Roman half thought he had left both men behind in his rage after Virgil’s little announcement, but the elf at least seemed to have kept up. He’d reached the table just in time to hear the start of Roman’s rant. “What the hell is your problem Princey?”

“My problem? Oh I’m sorry, I’M not the one signing other people up to sing for their supper without permission Virgil.”

“You like singing for your – we thought you’d want to!”

“Well it would have been nice to have a choice!”

“Virgil. Roman.” That was Logan, it had taken longer for the shorter man to force his way through the crowd but he wasted no time now in inserting himself into Romans business. “whatever this is… it’s not about putting on a show.”

He turned to the other two. Virgil scowling, Patton wide eyed.

“He had an…episode in the market.”

“Excuse me?” Roman shouted.

“Roman, whatever disturbed you, you practically ran away.”

“Well perhaps I had simple grown tired of looking at your face? Had you considered that?”

He turned his back to Logan, rounding on Patton again: “Now, give me the-“

Patton already had his hand out, wrought iron key resting loosely in his palm.

“We’re on the fourth floor.” he said calmly as Roman snatched it from him. “First door once you get up the stairs.” Roman spun on his heel only to find Virgil blocking his path.

“Move.” Roman hissed.

“What is wrong with you?” Roman narrowed his eyes. Virgil looked angry. Looked one second away from telling him to sit down, shut up, stop causing a fuss. He wondered if he could get past him without using his sword.

“I’ll bring you up some food in a bit,” Roman blinked glancing back at Patton, startled. The warrior still hadn’t moved from the table - admittedly no easy task in the cramped corner- and was looking at him calmly.

“I don’t want anything” Roman muttered, sullen.

“But you might later.” Patton smiled at him. Not knowing how to respond Roman turned back to Virgil. The elf glanced between the two, chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, before sighing and stepping to the side. Not fast enough to prevent Roman from knocking his shoulder with his own as he pushed past however.

It wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped.

**

At a guess, the room was normally meant for storage not guests. Two rickety looking beds had been shoved in, so close together they might as well have been one. There was one small table forced between the end of one bed and the wall, with a basin of water perched on top. Someone,  presumably Patton, had organised their bags neatly at the end of the beds. Roman’s was at the far end, closest to the window. Then Patton, then Virgil with Logan closest to the door, next to the only built in shelf where a candle had been left for the night. Roman would be able to wake with the dawn, as he liked to do, and Logan would have light for the longest to stay up and read.

Romans lute was not on the floor with his pack.  Instead he found in had been placed on the bed itself, propped up on his pillow, away from any potential harm.

Whatever righteous anger he had been able to hang on too as he stomped upstairs dropped out of him now like a stone from a cliff. Without it, the despair he had felt in the market came rushing back. He sank down right there by the door, bringing his knees up to his chest as he’d done in the forest. As he used to do in Julius’ room.

He almost wished Julius was here – at least he would tell him not to cry.

The through was so absurd he let out a weak snotty laugh and buried his head in his arms.

He needed to leave Steveange.

He didn’t want to leave them.

But they had planned to stay for a week at least, hopefully longer.

Convince them to leave early? Except he couldn’t explain why. Find them a job out of the city? How? When the coronation and accompanying celebrations were over it would be easy enough to find a traveling group in need of a little extra protection, but for now no one was leaving.

They’d been excited to come. Virgil want to try the city baths, famed for their heated pools and soothing water. Logan had been talking about the library for half the trip. Patton was just excited to explore the city itself, meet the people and try the food. He loved when they stopped in busier towns but it was a rarity.

There was no way Roman would be able to convince them to leave just because he wanted to.

Roman did what other people wanted. It was all he knew how to do.

And even if he had a convincing reason…well, they probably didn’t want him around anymore anyway.

He scrambled up, grabbed the first pillow he could reach and buried his face in it to muffle a scream of frustration which turned into more sobs.

He was so pathetic.

Since he’d left home, he’d kept his memories, kept Romulus, buried as deep as he could. But now it was like Romulus was just under his skin. Ready to jump out If he let himself slip. With all his anger and hurt and fear.

Romulus was a liability.

Romulus was a murder. Or would be. If Roman couldn’t think.

He stepped over to his pack, still hugging the pillow to him like a teddy bear, and started to review the contents. He didn’t need to take all of this with him, surely? Half of it wasn’t even his, their belongings having become more and more intertwined the longer they travelled.

The healing salve was rightfully Virgil’s, the soft shirt he wrapped himself in during cold nights was actually Patton’s, at least one of the notebooks belonged to Logan.

He opened the nearest book to check, but instead of Logan's neat lists his own sloppy scrawl stared back at him. Song lyrics and passing thoughts and, on the next page, an unfinished sketch. It was of Virgil, hand covering his mouth but eyes betraying his laughter. The other pages, he knew contained scribbles of all three of them. He flicked back and found his favourite, the page marked with a yellowed leaf he couldn’t remember picking up.

It showed all three in one sketch. Logan, sleeping and so looking years younger, head pillowed on Virgil’s thigh. Virgil was turned towards Patton, rolling his eyes as if to say ‘can you believe this?’ but making no move to actually shift scholar off him. Patton was laughing, he was the most well rendered of the three figures, you could almost see his shoulders shaking.

Roman looked at it for a moment. Then slowly replaced the book mark and closed it. This would have to come with him.

A knock at the door startled him so badly he dropped the book, which bounced under the bed.

“Kiddo? Can I come it?”

Fuck.

Patton. He had -he had been so, so unbelievably rude to Patton.

His first instinct, which was admittedly not a good one, was to jump out of the window.

Roman took a deep breath. Focusing on the mundane task of sorting items had cleared his head somewhat. He was still a little shaky but his eyes were dry. He knew what would be expected of him now - Romulus had spent most of his life apologising.

“Come in.” he croaked and stood, squaring his shoulders.

Patton entered alone, two bowls of something that smelled delicious cradled in his arms.

Roman ignored the sudden spike of hunger – the fruit tart seemed a long time ago now- and bowed from the waist. He kept his back ramrod straight and bent low enough that it quickly became uncomfortable. It was the kind of bow Romulus would only have given his father or elder brother.

“Patton, I owe you my most humble apology I-“

“Roman I am so sorry.”

“The way I spoke to you was the height of disrespect and unprin- ungentlemanly behaviour I – wait, what?”

He straightened up and looked at Patton, confused. “Why are you sorry?”

“Roman, I – wait hold on.” Patton handed him one of the bowls and turned to close the door. “Do you mind if we sit?” he asked and Roman nodded, smiling despite himself. Patton was the politest person he had ever met.

Once they were both seated, Patton’s bad leg stretched out in front of him, Patton looked at him seriously.

“Roman you were right downstairs. We should never have promised you’d perform without asking you first - no it's true!”

But Roman was already shaking his head. “Patton you were fine, you know I love singing! I was the one acting like, like some sort of beast I-“

“I know you love singing but that doesn’t mean we get to pick and choose when-“

“But I wanted to perform as much as possible whilst we were here- I’d told you that!”

“-especially after travelling all week. We were, er, presumptuous.”

Roman stared at him.

“Unlike this soup, which is pre – scrumptious.”

Patton beamed at him. Roman groaned.

“Anyway I’m sorry for letting you stew-“ he held up the bowl again waggling his eyebrows “- up here for so long, but we needed to make things right with the landlord.”

Roman, who had been starting to relax under the force of two puns in a row, tensed again. “What things?”

Patton smiled. “We paid the difference – you don’t have to perform! Uhh unless you want to of course, but it’s your choice.” He nodded decisively whilst Roman gaped.

“b-but isn’t it expensive?”

Patton just shrugged, “Well, the last job paid well didn’t it?”

“Not that well!”

“Aw c’mon kiddo, what’s the point of having money if we don’t spend it? Right?”

Not knowing what to say. Roman shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth without tasting it. Guilt turning the meal to ash.

“Patton…how many days did you pay for?”

“The rest of the week! And there’s still enough to have some fun at the markets, don’t worry, we can all have a – hey!” Patton put his bowl down, shuffling closer to put one warm hand on Roman’s knee.” Roman, hey kiddo, buddy what’s wrong?”

Roman found, quite to his surprise, that he was trembling. He followed Patton's example and put the bowl carefully on the floor before digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I…can’t Pat. I can’t stay here. I have to go.”

“Go?” Patton looked at him with confusion clear in his big brown eyes, “But why kiddo? You don’t like the inn?”

Roman groaned shaking his head “not the inn. The city. I’m not – I can’t – if ‘m here it- “ he let out a whine of frustration, hating his curse heavy tongue.

Never tell anyone about our conversation.

“I just-“ My brother is coming and if I see him I-

“If – “ my brother is coming and he won’t be alone. There are people who know who I really am and I –

“Okay.”

Romans head snapped up.

Patton still had a frown on his face but when he looked at Roman his eyes were as serious as Roman had ever seen them. “If you can’t tell me the details it’s fine but-“ he lent forward, “Roman, are you safe here?”

Without breathing, Roman shook his head. No.

Patton nodded and squeezed his knee. “Well then of course we’re not staying.” Hesitantly, he lifted his arm and rested one large hand on the back of Romans neck. Forcing their eyes to meet. “Whatever it is – we will help you. You know that don’t you?”

Embarrassingly, Roman felt his eyes filling with tears.

“We’ll leave in the morning.” Patton told him. Patton stood up, taking Romans congealing stew and his own empty bowl and headed to the door. He paused, one hand on the door handle. “Everything’s going to be okay kiddo.” he smiled, “We love you.”

And he was gone.

For a long moment Roman sat frozen, staring at the closed door.

“Yeah.” He agreed, eventually. “Right.”

Except. They didn’t. Not really.

They loved Roman.

Roman had screamed and insulted them and instead of kicking him out of their group like they had every right to do, they had given up what little money they had just to make Roman feel better.

And Roman was a lie.

Roman was Romulus with a bad haircut. And Romulus was everything they weren’t’ – a stupid, pampered, prince with no power or pride.

Patton might be willing to upheaval their lives just on Roman's say so, But Logan and Virgil were more practically minded. They would want explanations. Might even demand them.

Never tell anyone about your curse. Remove yourself from anyone who might ask you about it and put as much distance between you as you can.

Romulus was a liability.

One they shouldn’t have to deal with.

He strapped his lute to his back and secured his dagger in a hidden pocket that Virgil had taught him how to sow.  Everything else he left, including, after a moments hesitation, his sword. He had been training Logan to use it, on and off, and whilst the scholar was no solider he was improving. At the very least, it would be some source of protection until they could hire another swordhand for their travels.

The climbing plants he had noticed on the way in made getting down from the window much easier than he had originally anticipated. Dusting off his hands he skirted the building, taking care to avoid the large windows of the main hall, until he found the entrance to the the stables.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he had stolen before when he first left home. He would have to again now in order to put some distance between the city and himself.

It wasn’t his worst plan.

And it might even have worked, had they not already been waiting for him.

When Romulus was eleven, and had taken to following the young Marquis de Orenlla around like a love sick puppy. Even now, under the weak light of a covered lantern and with almost fifteen years distance from the memories, he still recognised him instantly.

“Good evening, your highness.” The Marquis smile was as dazzling as he remembered, although his eyes were colder.

He had no army with him, and no weapon that Roman could see. But then, why would he need one?

“Come with me.”

Roman went.

part 4

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

scopaesthesia 👁️ chapter 2

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, death, murder, violence, stalking, paranoia, blood, gore, and other warnings to be added

This is dark!Bucky Barnes with a likelihood off dark!Steve Rogers as well and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your stalker gets closer.

Note: Alright, things are ramping up. As always, mind the warnings and take care of yourselves.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You didn't sleep much. Shallow spurts laced with fear. Your dreams when they came were vague but horrifying. A shadow, a voice, the feeling of being watched. Always.

You were roused by a creak. You'd left your door half-open last night. 

You sat up, the curtains drawn, and looked around. You rubbed your temple and pushed the covers away from you. You pulled down the hem of your tee and dragged your feet across the room. You elbowed the door open and stepped into the hall.

You looked around the corner into the living room. Bucky sat on the couch where you’d left him the night before. He cradled the tablet on his thigh as he yawned and flicked the screen. 

“Did you sleep at all?” You asked, your throat dry and scratchy. 

“You?” He asked as he looked up. “I just sent the audio into forensics for review. We might be able to run analysis on his voice and they’re working on tracing the call.”

“And what do I do?” You crossed your arms.

“What you’ve been doing,” he set the tablet on the coffee table and stood. He stretched his arms above him, the metal plates of his left contracting as he lowered it. “As far as we know, he has no idea about us. I came in the back and to be honest, as a civilian, you react before you think. He called you to make sure you were still here. To reassure himself that not all was lost.”

“How do you know this? Do you deal with this often?”

“Well, no, I deal with assassins and spies more often but… well, I can’t divulge the extent of our intelligence. I can only say that what we found sets him on par with my usual work.”

“Wouldn’t it be safer if I actually knew what was going on?” You prodded.

“No, trust me. You know what you need to.” He said staunchly.

You poked the inside of your cheek with your tongue and shrugged. “You want a coffee?”

“If you’re making some,” he rubbed his nose as he watched you cross the room, “I’ll leave before you but… I’ll be around.”

“Like last night?” You challenged.

“That’s on me. I shouldn’t have been so careless but the next time he calls, you won’t be alone.”

“Apparently I haven’t been for a while,” you said. “If he has my number, what else does he have?”

“Think about what you have. You have me and the whole of S.H.I.E.L.D. behind you,” he reproached. “And let me tell you, when I’m given a mission, I complete it.”

“I want to believe you,” you said as you took out the canister of coffee, “I really do.”

👁️

You were distracted on your way to work. The voice lingered in your head, the words. The necklace bouncing over the collar of your coat was barely a comfort. What would Bucky do if the killer appeared right then? Could he get to your fast enough? He said he’d be close, watching, but was he closer than your stalker?

You picked a ball of lint from your glove as you ran up the station steps and onto the street. Once you were at work you could forget. You’d be surrounded by people; co-workers, clients, and the occasional messenger. For once, the ringing phone welcomed you. You knew what awaited you on the other end; an appointment to be made or a transfer to another part of the office. Simple.

Your boss, Mr. Drousseau, was often first to the office. He was unlocking the door as you rounded the corner. He cradled a vase of flowers against him, his briefcase clutched in his hand, as he twisted the key and tried to open the door with his other arm. You rushed forward as the door threatened to fall shut again.

“Here,” you grabbed the door and he blinked at you in surprise. “I got it.”

He grunted and wrenched his key out before stepping inside. You followed as he crossed to your desk and plunked the vase down. He flicked a petal from his shoulder as he turned back to you.

“What are those?” You looked at the long-stemmed tulips; out of season and no doubt expensive. “Is your wife--?”

“Some carrier just handed them off,” He set his briefcase on a chair in the waiting area and took off his long jacket. “They’ve got your name on them?”

“What?” You neared the desk and took the card. Your name was scrawled in slanted letters on the front. You placed your bag beside the vase and carefully opened the card. “I don’t know who--”

You almost dropped the cardstock but instead closed it again. Your cheek twitched as you looked up at Drousseau and tapped the card with your fingernail. 

“A surprise from my father,” you lied. “He lives so far away…”

“Mmm,” Drousseau nodded as he hung his jacket. “Well, next time, tell him to have them sent to you directly.”

“Sure. Yeah, sorry,” you kept the card between two fingers as you unzipped your coat. “I’ll send you a copy of today’s roster.”

He grumbled as he grabbed his briefcase and jingled his keys as he went to his office door. He paused as he unlocked the door. “Coffee.” He said. “Espresso if you’re feeling particularly generous.”

You smiled at his back and let out a sigh only when his door closed behind him. He saw you as a glorified barista and didn’t seem to realise that you organised the chaos of his own success. Without you, he wouldn’t know which way was up. Well, he might learn that soon enough.

You slipped out of your coat and hung it. You pinched the card and shuddered as you carefully opened it again. There were no words on the inside. Only a stark, red splotch. You ran your thumb over it and the edge flaked away. It couldn’t be… blood. 

But what else would it be? Who else would send them?

You closed the card and crumpled it in your hand. Panic squeezed your heart and you raced to the paper shredder hidden behind the copier. You flicked the switch and fed the card into the machine. The grind of the blade echoed your stomach. You hadn’t eaten that morning; you couldn’t.

You looked down at the flower dangling from your neck. You spoke to it quietly. “He sent flowers,” you felt crazy, like you were talking to yourself, “What does that mean?”

Your phone vibe in your bag on the desk and you stepped past your chair. You fished around for your cell and pulled it out.

‘It means he’s trying to scare you,’ Bucky’s text flashed across the screen, quickly followed by another. ‘Don’t let him. I’m here.’

You shook your hand and didn’t reply. You put your phone face down on your desk and touched your temples. You weren’t sure that anyone, even Bucky, could keep you safe.

👁️

It was only the flowers that day. You spent much of your working hours watching the door. You watched over your shoulder on your way home, convinced that every fellow pedestrian and passenger was a monster. When you got to your apartment, you locked the door and checked every inch of your apartment. 

As you paced, your phone shook. You stared at it until it stilled and then it began again. You answered it shakily and let out a long breath as Bucky’s voice rose from the speaker.

“You’re not responding to me. You can’t do that. I need to make certain you’re safe at all times. That’s my job. You understand?” He chided.

“You have the bug, don’t you? You can hear everything.” You sat and fidgeted on the couch. “And you’re close. You’d know if anyone… if anyone…”

“Yes, but you’re cooperation only helps, alright?” He said. “I know you’re scared but right now he’s just playing games. He’s trying to make you do something stupid so don’t do that. You’re doing exactly what he wants; you’re panicking.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you hissed, “That’s the point.”

“Go to your window. The one away from the street in your bedroom.” He said.

“What?”

“Just do it and look up a few floors.”

You sniffed and stood up. You went to your room and rounded the bed. You pulled aside the curtain and searched the brick building just across the alley. A small glint came through a window only three floors up. You heard a tap on the other end; the sound of metal on glass.

“See. I’m close. You’re safe. He won’t get any closer than me. I promise.” He said.

“Oh, uh,” you stepped back from the window. “Okay. I… thank you.”

“It’s my job,” he said, “And yours is to get some rest. You’re no good exhausted. That’s what he wants.”

“Okay,” you mumbled.

The line clicked and you sat on the foot of your bed. You dropped your phone to the mattress and took a breath. You got up slowly and went to the bathroom. You closed the door and looked at yourself in the mirror. You unclasped the necklace and hung it from the cabinet handle to keep from losing it. You undressed blindly and let your clothes heap on the floor.

The rings of the shower curtain chimed as you pulled it open and placed the stopper in the drain. You turned the faucet until it steam and stepped into the rising flood. You stretched before you lowered yourself down into the tub. Your stiff muscles loosened and you felt the day float away.

Just a moment of peace before it would all come back. Just a moment to yourself.

👁️

The next morning was unusually sunny though the night had been little different. Despite your fatigue, sleep was still elusive. Even when you did manage to dose, it was shallow and unsatisfying. You woke with a weight in the back of your head and finished two cups of coffee before you readied for your last day of work before the weekend.

The tulips remained on your desk. You’d forgotten about them even with the stream of compliments on the bouquet. You’d offered it to several coworkers but had met only with polite refusal. You sat and set yourself up as Drousseau shuffled around in his office. 

Your first call of the day was easy enough. One of Drousseau’s oldest clients needed to be patched through. You hit transfer but before you could put the phone down, it rang again. You hit answer and gave your usual greeting.

“You like the flowers?” The same, eerie voice as two nights before. “They made me think of you.”

“What?” You breathed as you pushed yourself away from the desk and your chair rolled back until the spiral cord was taut. “What do you--”

“You’re not the rose type. You’re so sweet. So pure, baby girl.” He continued as your stomach plummeted. You looked around at the flurry of activity around you; the whir of the copier, the clacking of keys, the quiet chatter of employees. It was surreal. “Someone like you in a world like this is made to be used.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. I’m at work. You can’t call here--” Your cell vibed beside your keyboard as you tried to keep your voice down.

“I can do whatever I want, baby girl. I have done everything I want when I want… except you… no, you need to wait. It has to be the right way.” He snarled. “Yes, soon. You will be ready soon.”

“Please--”

The line went dead as your cell began to buzz incessantly. You slammed down the receiver and grabbed your mobile as it shook. You stood and looked around. No one seemed to notice your distress. You stormed off to the restroom and closed yourself in. You slid your finger across the screen and held it to your ear.

“Bucky?” You croaked.

“It’s me.” He confirmed. “You alright? That him?”

“Y-yes,” you trembled as you braced the sink. “He said… he said soon. Bucky, he’s going to kill me. I know it.”

“Shhhh, please, take a breath.” He coaxed. “And count, like I showed you.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” you whined. “Please, I can’t do this.”

“Breathe,” he ordered, “One…” He began to count as you stared in the mirror. You nodded in time until your breaths evened out and you huffed into the phone. “Good, good. Now, you have to act like everything is alright. Stay at work. You’re safe there.”

“And… after?”

“You know I’ll be there. I already am, alright? I know everyone who walks through that door, honey. You trust me?”

Your lashes fluttered and you let go of the sink. ‘Honey.’ Your mind lingered on that word but you quickly shrugged it off.

“I do,” you said, “You’ll protect me.”

“I will,” he assured you. “This creep is no match for me.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, “Okay. I’m alright. I gotta go back.”

“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll be here.”

👁️

When work was done, you didn’t go directly to the subway. You needed to sleep and you needed to forget. There was one way to do both; alcohol. Just down the block was a liquor store. You’d grab a bottle of wine and be on your way. A brief detour before you could hide once more in your boxlike apartment.

You crossed the street and a figure caught in the corner of your eye. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone as you turned down the sidewalk. You held up the cell and angled it so you could see the reflection over your shoulder. There was a man a few feet behind; he was tall but walking slowly with his head down, a hood casting shadows over his face. You slowly lowered your phone and squeezed until you thought it would break.

You neared the door of the shop. You knew he was still there. You dipped through the door and the chirp of the sensor made your flinch. You quickly flitted to the back aisle of scotch and whiskey and peered back to the front. The man in the hoodie passed the window but peered back at you as he did.

“A man,” you pulled out the necklace from beneath your jacket, “There’s a man following me. I saw him.”

Your phone quaked and you dropped the necklace. You fumbled with your cell and pretended to browse the aged malts. 

“I see him but I can’t see his face.” Bucky said. 

“I didn’t either. What do I do?”

“Stay calm. What are you even doing?”

“I was… gonna get some wine.” You went to the aisle of imports and scanned the shelves. “That’s all.”

“Well, get whatever and go home. Don’t worry about this creep. I’ll deal with him.” Bucky said. “He’s probably not even our guy, just another dirtbag.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just buy your wine and get to the train.” He hung up bluntly and you sighed.

You grabbed a cabernet and went to the counter. You paid and hid the bottle in your bucket bag. You reluctantly pushed through the door and swiftly turned down the street. The man was behind you. You checked again with your phone, this time with your camera on. You snapped a pic over your shoulder and quickly tucked it into your sleeve.

You looked up and saw another hooded man heading towards you. You almost tripped as he passed you and recognized Bucky’s short stubble poking out. You didn’t stop as a commotion rose behind you.

“Watch it,” Bucky growled. No response and you ran across the street. 

You hurried on and stopped at the corner to look back. Bucky stood with arms crossed against the front of a convenience store and the other man was gone. He nodded and pushed himself away from the chipped brick. You turned back and raced to the subway.

Home, home, home. Just get home.

👁️

Your apartment was already dark when you got home. The days grew shorter and shorter as the winter threatened to storm down on the city. You plopped your bottle of wine on the counter and kicked off your shoes. You hung your bag and coat from the rack and checked your phone.

‘Text when home.’ Bucky’s message seared into your vision.

You sent your response and uncorked the bottle. You poured yourself a glass and carried it to the living room with your cell. You left them on the coffee table as you went to change. You dumped your blouse, skirt, and thick stockings into the hamper along with your bra and panties. You took the necklace off and set it on your night table.

You pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and an old tee. You scooped up the necklace and took it with you into the front room. You hung it from the lamp beside the couch and took a gulp of wine as you searched for something to watch. The alcohol burned your hungry stomach.

A knock came at the door and you nearly choked as you set your glass down. You peered through the hole. It was Bucky. You unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“What are you doing here?”

“That was pretty creepy,” he said as he stepped past you without welcome. “Wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ve cased the entire building. Didn’t see him around.”

“You think he would’ve followed me here? You said it was likely not him.”

“Maybe not but the guy was leery enough to follow you to the store,” Bucky went to the window and looked out. “You need to tell me when you change your plans.”

“Sorry, I-- It wasn’t far so I thought--”

“If you’re as scared as you’re acting, you’ll get your shit together and listen to me.” He closed the blinds. “You take a detour like that and that’s trouble for both of us.”

He rounded the armchair and neared the coffee table. He ran a metal finger around the rim of your glass. “Hope it was worth it.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again, “I didn’t mean to--”

“You need something, you tell me. I’ll take care of it.” He interrupted. “You go anywhere, you clear it with me. We’re not fucking around anymore.”

“Bucky, I…” you pouted. “I didn’t--”

“Look, I’m not mad but I have to be strict. We don’t have room for mistakes.” He neared you and his face softened. “It’s for your own good, honey.”

You stared at him and reached to the collar of his jacket. He unzipped it and backed away to hang it over your own. You frowned.

“I already sent in an incident report. The Director said I should keep close watch tonight. Just in case.”

“Oh,” you watched him unlace his boots. “I… Okay?”

“I don’t mean to crowd you but better safe than sorry.” He stood.

“Right,” you sidled past him, “You want any wine?”

“Nah,” he waved you off, “Stuff doesn’t really do anything for me.”

You nodded and went back to the couch. You sat and hit continue watching. You picked at your fingernail anxiously. Bucky sat on the other side of the couch and groaned. He stretched his fingers and they cracked loudly.

“You hungry? I can order something? I don’t feel much like cooking.” You offered.

“If you’re hungry,” he shrugged. “You must be.”

You played with your phone and set it down to take another drink. “You like Chinese?”

“Sure,” he said, “Whatever you want, honey.”

You grabbed your phone and tried to hide your discomfort. Were you just rattled from the hooded creep? Paranoid because your life had turned into a murder mystery? Or was this man crossing a line?

You opened up the app and scrolled to the meal for two. You confirmed the order and put your phone on the arm of the couch. “About half an hour,” you said.

You looked over as Bucky reached up to the lamp and played with the necklace. He slowly retracted his hand and chuckled.

“You know, you talk in your sleep,” he chuckled. “Necklace picks it up sometimes.”

“I do?” You wondered.

“Nothing really. Doesn’t really make sense.” He smirked. “But… it’s kinda funny.”

“Oh,” you sat back. You wanted another mouthful of wine but you were already almost done your first glass. “Weird.”

You crossed your arms and looked at the television. Everything was weird. The murders, your stalker, and even this man they sent to protect you. It was all just a little off and that scared you even more.

👁️

When the food arrived, Bucky got up to answer the door. You ate at the coffee table and finished your second glass of wine. The alcohol helped your appetite and for the first time in days, you managed to eat more than a few bites. Bucky didn’t need any help as he threw back fried rice and back ribs.

You cleaned up after and tossed the containers in the trash. You were a little tipsy as you flopped onto the couch and rated your meal on the app. Bucky filled your glass for you and returned the bottle to the kitchen before taking his place once more. You thanked him and took a sip.

“Thought you weren’t exactly happy about this,” you raised the glass.

“I can’t blame you. Hell, if I could get anything out of it, I’d have a glass of my own.” He mused. “So, the phone call, we need to go over what he said to you. Obviously, I couldn’t hear it.”

“Right now?” You set your glass down.

“Before I forget,” he reached into his pocket and took out his own phone. He opened up the notepad. “Doesn’t have to be exact.”

“He didn’t say… much…” You began and you regretted the two glasses of wine. “He said I… I was pure… and that…” Your cheeks burned and you felt the flutter of nerves, “He wants to use me and…” You swallowed as your lips quivered, “He said soon. That he would do something soon.”

You grabbed your wine and drank deeply. 

“That’s all. That’s all he said.” You put the glass down and held your head. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re doing all you can,” his hand settled gently on your back and you winced. He rubbed lightly as he shifted closer and placed his phone on the table. “And you got me.”

“Yeah, but I-- I don’t know if you can stop him.” You looked at him as tears blurred your vision. “And I don’t know what I did to make him do all this. He’s killed others because of me and… And how am I supposed to live with that?”

“He did that, not you,” Bucky insisted, “It’s not your fault--”

Your phone slipped from the arm of the couch suddenly as it vibrated. Bucky’s hand dropped away as you took your cell. You held up the flashing screen. There was no number, not even ‘Private’ or ‘Unknown’. Just the two icons; answer or ignore.

You hovered your thumb over the latter and Bucky stopped you. He shook his head as you looked at him. “Answer it.”

You grimaced and he let you go. He moved away from you and you hesitated. You hit answer and the screen lit up. It was a video call. You saw a white ceiling and heard the muffled sobbing of a woman. Goosebumps rose on your skin as the camera moved erratically and the colours blurred together and cleared to form the image of a woman’s face.

She had a gag in her mouth, tied in place by a black piece of fabric. Tears stained her cheeks as she squirmed. 

“Baby girl,” the voice spoke from offscreen as a gloved hand appeared holding a knife. It dragged the edge down the woman’s cheek as she squealed. “She’s nothing. Nothing compared to you.”

You were frozen, weighed down with dread and fear as you sat gaping at the screen.

“I’ll show you…” He turned the knife. “Show you that she can never be you. That there is only you.”

The hand moved so fast and drew a sudden line of red across the woman’s throat. The cut gushed as the woman choked on the gag and her own blood. The sickening noise of her death filled your ears and the man moaned your name. The screen went black and you dropped your phone.

“Oh my god,” you gasped as you shook violently and the alcohol bubbled in your stomach, “Oh my god, oh my god.” 

You stood dizzily and fell back on the couch. Bucky touched your arm and you pulled away as you bent over the side of the couch at the sudden revolt inside of you. You wretched onto the hardwood as tears spilled from your eyes. Your body contracted as you were overwhelmed in fear and revulsion.

“Oh my god,” you cried, “Oh my god…” 

Bucky pulled you back to him and stretched his arm over your shoulders. He hushed you as he hugged you to him and rocked you back and forth.

“You’re okay, honey. There was nothing you could do,” he said, “Shh, calm down. Breathe…” He caressed your head as he held you, “Just breathe. I’m here.”

[thefloorisbalaclava]

Pero Tovar Pirate AU

Chapter 4: Fish in the Sea

Pairing: Pero Tovar x Black F!Reader

Warnings: Sailing through a storm, injury, hurt/comfort (sorta?)

A/N: You catch yourself being stubborn again and this time it ends badly for you but Pero refuses to give up on you.

[one][two][three][pero masterlist]

“A storm is coming,” Pero warned as he ate breakfast with the crew. You quietly walked up behind him and a few of the men saw you coming. Some scattered, some glared.

“A storm's comin' all right,” one said, nodding at you and Pero turned around. He smiled and your heart beat faster until you looked away.

“What’s this about a storm?” you asked.

“We should prepare for a storm. I can feel one on the horizon,” he said.

“A bad one?” You looked past him out to the sea.

“Could be. No reason to be afraid, I will protect you,” he said proudly.

“Oh, that’s reassuring.” You rolled your eyes. “I ain’t afraid though and I don’t need protecting.” You looked at him again. “Why are you staring at me?”

“What does your hair look like without the scarf around it?” He eyed your hair as if he were trying to picture it himself.

“It’s…hair…” you told him, touching at the hair that peeked from beneath the wrap.

“I know that and I can see the color but I want to know what it is like—is it long, short? Is it soft?” He almost reached out to touch the hair that was exposed but thought better of it.

“Why this sudden interest in my hair? Is it because you have never been…around women like me?”

“I have been around plenty of women,” he chuckled but then cleared his throat. “If you won’t answer that then answer this. Why do you do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Get defensive whenever I ask you anything that may teach me more about you?” He tilted his head.

“I…why do you…” You looked at everything but him. “We should prepare for this storm.” You walked around him and he shook his head as you walked away.

It was none of his damn business. Why should you tell him anything about you? The wind blew and the spray from the sea sprinkled onto your face. You closed your eyes and smiled. It was one of your favorite things.

“Can you smell the rain?” Pero asked behind you, making you jump.

“I smell the salt from the sea,” you said without turning.

“Look, I came to ask you something,” he said and you turned to him. He looked somewhat handsome in this light. You looked away.

“What?”

“You must promise not to take offense,” he began.

“I’m not promising you a thing,” you snapped. “What is it?”

“I believe the storm will be bad so…you should stay inside.” He said it quickly as if that would make you less angry.

“Stay inside? You think some storm frightens me why? Because I am a woman?” You crossed your arms over your breasts and waited for his response.

“That is not why,” he mumbled. “It is because…” He stopped talking.

“Because what? Speak, man! You’ve never had a problem doing it before!” Suddenly, he moved in close to you and grabbed your arms.

“If you would ever give me the chance to speak I would!” he whispered angrily. You looked down at his hands on your arms then back up into his brown eyes. There was no malice in them.

“Well?” Your voice sounded small.

“I want you to stay inside because I do not want anything to happen to you. I will be busy trying to make sure the ship stays afloat. I cannot keep my eye on you as well.” He loosened his grip on your arms and sighed. “I know you will not listen, but I thought I’d try.”

“I am not afraid of a storm, Tovar. I will be out here on deck when it is happening just like the rest of you. I must protect my ship.” You backed away from him then turned and walked away. This time, he didn’t follow.

You sat alone in the captain’s quarters as you usually did while you ate and drank, listening to the men talk and laugh on deck. There was a small mirror sitting on the table so you picked it up and looked at yourself. You eyed the door then looked at the mirror again before reaching up and untying the scarf from your head.

Your hair was thick and untamed but beautiful. You loved everything about it. No, it did not flow down your back the way you used to wish it had, but it had become something you loved about yourself even if others hadn’t. You certainly knew that Pero preferred the women with the flowing hair.

“Stop thinking of him!” you said to yourself, slamming the mirror down. Someone knocked on the door and you rushed to get the scarf back on your head.

“It’s me,” Pero announced.

“Uh…give me a minute!” You quickly wrapped your hair again but didn’t double check. “Come,” you told him and he walked in. “Surprised you waited. Usually you just barge right in.”

“These are my quarters as well as yours, señora.” He walked over to where you were then froze, staring at something on your forehead.

“What are you staring at? Is there something on me?” You looked up towards your forehead. He reached out and you flinched at first but all he did was tuck a loose strand of hair under your scarf. “Oh…thank you. Is that all you came to do?”

“Uh…no…I…the storm…” he stammered.

“You’ve told me, Tovar.”

“What I mean to say is that it’s picking up. The wind especially. Will you please stay inside?” he pleaded.

“No.” You walked to the doors and opened them to pouring rain and the men scrambling about the deck. “Time to batten down the hatches, boys!” you yelled over the rain and walked onto the deck to help where you could as Pero groaned angrily behind you.

“You call this a storm?!” you shouted to Pero who seemed to have all his attention on you though he had said he wouldn’t be able to.

The wind blew harder and the rain stung your skin but you stayed strong. The ship rocked with each hug wave and you found yourself stumbling. You held on as you looked out over the stormy seas. These waves were bigger than any you had ever seen. Maybe Pero was right.

No sooner had you thought that then you heard a loud crack and the men shouting.

“We lost the-" Was the last thing you heard before something hit you square in the chest and overboard. You hit the water hard and sank quickly and were already winded by whatever had hit you so you tried swimming up to the surface.

Air, air, air was all you could think. You made it to the surface, gasping for air but soon you were back under again, feeling as though you were being dragged down by something. The worst thing you could do was panic but you may not be able to control yourself in a moment. Your vision started to go blurry and you felt a strange sense of relaxation.

You were born to the sea and now you return, you thought. You weren’t afraid to die. Hell, you didn’t have much to live for, but so soon? It wasn’t fair.

You gave into the sea, for you could not fight it. It was where you belonged anyway. You sank and sank and sank and your world went black.

“Why has she not woken up yet?” Pero asked the doctor once again. Well, the closest thing the crew had to a doctor. They had taken him on from a British man-o-war.

“She has taken on a lot of water, sir, and I think a few of her ribs are broken which could have easily punctured her lungs. She could even be bleeding internally from being hit so hard and hitting the water at the force she did,” the man said nervously.

“Well, fix it! Is that not what you are here for?!” Pero shouted. He looked down at you just lying there—unmoving, barely breathing, eyes closed. In all honesty, he would prefer you yelling at him right now. He would do anything to hear you say something.

The doctor began to pull your shirt up and Pero grabbed him by his shirt and threw him to the ground. The man whimpered and held his hands up defensively.

“What are you doing to her?” Pero asked, standing over the man.

“I must look under her shirt…” the man said and Pero moved in on him, making him flinch. “To see what damage has been done!” he added, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh…well…” He helped the man to his feet. “Everyone out!”

“I will keep her...covered as best as I can if you help me,” the doctor said and Pero was at the bedside in a flash.

“What do you need me to do?”

“When the time comes, you may need to help me sit her up so I can bandage her properly. Right now, I am only lifting her shirt to feel for any broken ribs. Just hold her in case she wakes and starts thrashing…”

“Thrashing? You’re going to hurt her?” Pero asked, getting angry again.

“Not on purpose. I swear.”

“Fine.” Pero sat on the bed carefully and held you down firmly but not enough to hurt. You were already in pain even if you couldn’t feel it yet. The doctor began pulling up your shirt and Pero looked away, deciding to concentrate on your face instead. The doctor poked and prodded, but you hadn’t woken up. Then he leaned in close to your mouth to listen. Then moved down to your chest.

“Hey…” Pero started.

“Just listening. She certainly has fluid in there but it’s not too bad. I would say at least two of her ribs are broken but there is no internal bleeding. She should be okay if-"

“Should? What does that mean?” Pero had only just realized he was still holding onto you.

“With the fluid in her lungs it is possible she could get an infection but as long as we watch her closely, she should get through it. She will get through it,” the doctor assured him.

“She better or I will throw you overboard and find a new doctor for my ship…” He looked at you. “For our ship.”

“Yes, sir.” The doctor stood and grabbed the bandages the men had prepared for him. “Um…does she have clean and dry clothes somewhere?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“She cannot stay in these wet things. She will most certainly get sick then.”

“Well, I don’t know where her clothes are. She can...she can have some of mine,” Pero offered. He stood and ran over to where he kept his clothes and grabbed a shirt, and a pair of britches then ran back and just stood there staring down at you. “Do we have to take...” He swallowed hard.

“Shirt first so I can wrap bandage. Help me sit her up.”

Pero sat on the bed nervously and helped the doctor pull you into a sitting position. He cut the wet shirt away and Pero looked away. Luckily, the bandages covered the things he should be seeing. He quickly put the shirt on you and laid you back down carefully.

“Now the britches,” the doctor said, and Pero hesitated.

“Now?” He held onto the pants nervously as the doctor cut and tore the wet skirt you were wearing away. His hands shook as he slipped the britches on, tying the strings with nervous fingers. “Okay.” He threw the blankets over you and finally took a breath after holding it for so long. “What now?”

“We wait. I can stay with her or-”

“I will stay,” Pero offered. “This is where I stay anyway. I don’t need the sleep.”

Pero watched you nervously, sometimes sitting, sometimes pacing. “Stubborn even when you aren’t conscious,” he joked to make himself feel better. “It has been hours since anyone has yelled at me so...I think it’s about time you change that. Wake up,” he commanded, sitting down again. You laid there, unmoving, unresponsive. “I said wake up. I know you don’t like when I tell you what to do but I simply demand you to wake.”

Nothing.

He looked at you and reached out slowly to touch your hair, which he could finally see fully. It was still damp. “So...this is what it looks like, huh? I know I asked you to show me, but this is not what I had in mind,” he joked. “For the love of God, please wake up! Yell at me! Glare at me! Something!”

Then you moved, groaning painfully. You coughed a few times and Pero leaned in closer. “Pero...” you croaked.

His eyes widened and he smiled. “Dios mío,” he exclaimed. “The one time you choose to listen to me...”

“What happened?” you asked weakly.

The smile fell from Pero’s face. “You did not listen to me, that’s what happened,” he said angrily. “You were knocked into the water and someone had to jump in to save you.”

“Who?”

He leaned in close to you again. “Me,” he said through his teeth. “You could have died all because you are so stubborn.”

Suddenly you touched his arm and he looked down at it. “I’m sorry, Pero...and thank you.”

“I guess this will quite the story to tell, hm? You survived a maelstrom.”

“Because of you.”

“I like it, by the way,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Your hair.” He looked at it and smiled. When he saw you try to reach up and touch it, he stopped you. “Don’t move too much. Get some rest. You’re going to be lying there for the next few weeks.”

“Weeks?” you whined.

“Weeks. And this time you will listen to me and stay there. Now...sleep.” He pointed at you for emphasis but you both ended up smiling.

“Yes, capitán.” You tried to laugh but it only made the pain worse. “Ow.”

“You scared me,” he confessed. “I don’t like that.”

“I said sorry.”

“I know but...forget it. I will let you sleep. If you need anything, I’ll be right here.” He sat in the chair beside your bed.

“Fine. Goodnight, Pero.” You closed your eyes and he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “And thank you,” you whispered.

When he was sure you were asleep, he prayed over you and thanked whoever was up there for letting him save you. It was then he realized that he would do it all over again if he had to.​

[herpronuonsarefemslash]

The Boxing Day Disaster - Teaser

Tidied up, edited, and expanded on the AO3 version before adding some new chapters

Find the rest at https://www.patreon.com/posts/62196348

-----

“I don’t see why we have to host...” Vernon huffs.

“It’s Christmas, dear.”

By sacred tradition, every year, someone hosts Dursleys for Christmas. Her family was no different, so they just combined the lists. With only themselves, Marge, and three first cousins on her side whom they don’t get on with at all, the rotation always comes round quicker than she’d like.

And Harry, for some godforsaken reason, keeps trying to mend fences. Something about his therapist’s advice and forgiving being easier. Petunia isn’t so sure she deserves it. Harry could have left her to die three or four times. He could have left her, Vernon and Dudley to death, to torture, or the teeth of some creature that even wizards have nightmares about. Not only did he not take revenge–Harry didn’t abandon them, even though she spent sixteen years giving him reasons to do just that.

Six-year rotations.

When Dudley set up with Hailey, that bought them time. Theoretically, it was Lily’s turn to host, meaning Harry offered. Of course she’d rather go to see Dudley, she’d told Harry in her letter. When Harry married Gabrielle several years later, it solidified his spot in the rotation. The Evanses couldn’t get enough of Gabby and Harry, and his second cousins climbed all over themselves to babysit those strange little girls of his. Between Gabby and her sister (who Petunia’d heard married another of Harry’s school friends) there are seven children and not a son in the bunch except Dudley’s little Archie.

Three summers ago, her dentist told her to see an oral surgeon. Something about a lump. Tests, biopsies, crying herself weak while Vernon hovered nearby. Never a deft hand with women, her Vernon. Women or feelings in general.

Cancer.

Cancer in a lump not much larger than a pea and at the time, fully contained in a knob on her jaw just barely past the point where the jaw hooks into the skull. Two centimeters from her brain. Treatable, they said. It wasn’t one of the hopeless sorts of cancer, but it wasn’t one of the sorts they snip out quick as you please either.

She pulled some strings with someone at the hospital to get the best they had.

Petunia found herself on an exam table while a Dr. Granger poked and prodded at the lump, fixed her dark eyes on the X-Rays so hard Petunia thought they might burn through, and then announced that a just cleared three- hour radiation treatment was the best bet. The treatment had better odds of cleanly killing it and was something you only did once, followed by a brief chemotherapy regimen.

She talked it over with Vernon and scheduled the appointment. The name Granger kept smacking around in her head and making her jumpy, but she wasn’t sure why.

Harry called up not that long after. Told him that he’d heard from Hermione (which explains the Granger) and Cho (apparently, the hospital administrator and wife of the oncologist) that she was sick. That’s all he’d been told. Sick. More than they should have told him. But nothing that anyone walking past her on the street wouldn’t have sussed out from her thinness and the hat she wore when almost all her hair fell out.

She told Harry. He said he would have wanted to have been there for her. On his mother’s behalf, at the very least. Mentioned that he and Dudley are getting on much better now that they’re both dads.

Dudley was the only one besides Harry to grow up, she sometimes thinks.

-----

Hermione’s fingers tiptoe through the fold-out maps as the clerk tortures an already badly-creased copy of the newspaper. He’s a round man of sixty-something, with a neatly trimmed mustache and madcap, bushy eyebrows. The owner of the place, she suspects, going by the fact it’s not a chain as well as the shabbiness of the cardboard stands for the snacks and knick-knacks.

They needed a ladies’ room, and for some unknowable reason, Fleur wanted to stop at a petrol station. Hermione is faced with picking out snacks that will appeal to a literal faerie princess while staring at a rack of the sort of sugary lunacy her mum and dad had taught her to fear as a little girl.

They really have no business being here.

Fleur’s ridiculous car doesn’t seem to run out of anything, or get foggy windows, or lose one iota of traction in sleet.

Her feathers have stayed out the entire drive her pupils reflect in the rearview. The reaction time and eyesight that’s brought them from the Highlands to lower England in four hours rather than six is that of an eagle.

Hermione’s got a hunch that the comforting charm on the seat leather would represent a breakthrough in ergonomic research, if a Muggle orthopedic surgeon could replicate it. She can climb in with aching shoulders and climb out feeling like she went to a spa.

Simone is staying at Hogwarts with some new friends, at least through Christmas morning. Much to Fleur’s horror, and Hermione’s delight, their youngest was sorted into the newly minted House Weasley. None of the houses are exactly what they were before. That’s the entire point.

Yet House Weasley is the descendant of House Gryffindor, and Ginny Weasley had calibrated Fleur’s fear of thirteen-year-old Gryffindors.

-----

Gabrielle is the best thing that ever happened to him. She’s whole in the places that he’s cracked, which makes them perfect together.

She’s a veela, though, and veela enjoy being mothers but most of the time, one or two children is all they can get from a human father, especially a pure or half-blood wizard. So when their oldest was followed up by identical triplets, Harry noticed a distinct and frightening gleam in Gabrielle’s eyes. Word must have spread, because when they visited the enclave the next winter, he could feel dozens of blue eyes following him everywhere, and Gabby’s hand gripped his so tight he’s still surprised he didn’t need any Skele-Gro potions.

If he doesn’t watch it, he’ll be tied to the bed and they’ll have a quidditch team to raise by the time Lily’s out of school.

He’s stood here a long time now, staring at a powder-purple BMW panel van with tinted windows. They got it off a delivery service. Gabby insisted that some particular thing about the way the car’s frame works was important ‘for safety’ and he got the sense this was something she learned in her Beauxbatons classes about survival. If driving what amounts to a brick standing on end keeps them or their daughters safe, then that’s what they need to do.

The Chosen One not only drives a minivan, he drives a minivan that his wife retrofitted from a company car and gave him as a birthday present. If only Sybil Trelawney knew how loopy her prophecy would get at the other end.

-----

Hailey calls out, her voice ringing up and down the hall. Excalibur isn’t in his doggy bed, but it’s clean and fur- free. So Dudley came home a while ago, if he had time to wash it.

She lets her bag drop to the basket by the door as she passes. It’s stuffed with student papers from her upperclassmen and needs to be graded by New Year. She’d rather not look at it. One of them wouldn’t know a boson from his own bollocks and worse, she’s pretty sure he thinks he can ‘boost’ his grade by getting in her pants.

“Duds? Prim? Archie?”

“Mummy!” Archie hollers from somewhere upstairs. “Come quick!”

She scrambles up the stairs and finds Archie standing in the doorway to his sister’s bedroom, pulling back on Excalibur’s harness with all his might as the sheepdog-ish mutt barks and snaps at something in Prim’s room.

Before she can reach the door, her little girl shrieks and something throws Hailey against the wall.

-----

Lily snorts from her hiding space in the farthest, hardest-to-see seat in the back.

“Should I have brought my fighting-dark-wizards shoes?”

Gabi slips one of her heels off and dangles it on a finger.

“You are veela, little ones. Fight evil in style.”

Lily folds her freckled arms and flicks lint off her favorite shirt: A silk shirt in a decadent shade of plum that her mother picked out, but worn thin at the collar and cuffs because she is her father’s daughter. She stares right back.

“I’ll stick with my jeans and trainers, thanks. Easier to run away in.”

Harry smirks into the rearview.

“That’s my girl.”

-----

Hailey tucks her ears between her knees and forces herself to breathe.

It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad. The episode third year at uni was worse. I have Dudley to help now. Just because I’m seeing things now doesn’t mean it’s gotten that much worse. Right?

“Right.”

She looks up and finds herself face to face with a man with garish glasses right out of the least fashionable parts of the 1970s, a tangle of black hair, and the greenest eyes she’s ever seen. He’s wearing a tweed jacket over flannel and he’s got a knobby stick tucked behind one ear. He holds a small bottle of something, a small, gilded, stained glass bottle of something under her nose. Does he just rob thrift stores for a living?

“Take whatever you want,” she croaks. “Take me if you want. Just don’t hurt my kids.” He squeezes his eyes shut and flops down against the opposite wall, puffing at his hair.

“Merlin, Hailey. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help Primrose. And you. Dudley never mentioned having a cousin?”

“You’re Harry?”

“I’m not what you were expecting?”

“I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?”

Harry huffs.

“If you’re losing it, then I never had it and I’d rather that weren’t the case. Grab a blanket, yeah? I’ll bring Prim to you.”

“Prim’s not ho-SHIT!”

That would explain how a weasel ended up wearing her clothes.

“Yeah. Transforming into her beast as a first bit of accidental magic...she’ll be a cracking witch. But it’s scarier for mum.”