#just how far will prime shadow notice his guts (feelings)

[lhislucas]

B! Sh: "What are you staring at? Jealous now, are we, little Faker?" (1/2)

P!Sh : "Tch." (2/2)

[catiecat1320]

New Random Oneshot! I only edited through this once, so the quality may be poorer than I usually do.

(At the time of writing, I haven’t watched S3 yet, but still: Sonic Prime Spoilers!!)

Synopsis: After saving Sonic from the throes of death, Shadow wakes up back home. Within the next few minutes, he finds that their victory together may have come with unintended consequences (aka feelings). Read Below ⬇️

As blinding white light dissipated, Shadow the Hedgehog promptly fell flat on his face. His mind raced too fast, contrasting his body which had come to a complete and painful halt.

The first thing he noticed was the taste of grass. 

Not rock or whatever the hell those shards in the void were— grass, green grass. The kind that belonged to home. He rolled over and barked out a laugh.

He’d never been more happy to eat dirt. 

Man, if Sonic had heard him say that…

Oh, shit, Sonic—

Popping to his feet so fast he nearly fell back on his face— which was most definitely counterproductive— Shadow staggered, shaking off the static black and nausea of vertigo before looking around frantically for the blue hedgehog. The events moments prior flashed back through his head like a sick movie.

No no no, that idiot couldn’t have died right? He’s too stubborn to just disappear like that, this wasn’t happening, where—

Up in the distance, he heard the faint sound of yelling, barely audible against his rapid heart beat. 

“Sonic, NO!”

Shadow immediately ran toward the sound, up the mountain. Instinctively, he reached into his quills, gloved fingers making purchase on a smooth gem— when had it come back?

No matter. It would get him where he needed to be, and that was all he cared about.

“Chaos control!”

………………………………

Shadow reappeared at the cavern entrance, immediately faced with the inexplicably idiocratic scene of Sonic hugging Eggman.

Of course, the villain didn’t take very kindly to Sonic’s sudden affection, promptly opening the cockpit of his mech and driving a fist into the hedgehog’s gut, eliciting an inappropriately surprised grunt. Shadow repressed the urge to facepalm. Really?

Sighing, he leapt Sonic’s rescue for the millionth time since that dumbass shattered reality. 

Within seconds, Eggman’s mech sat mangled, kicked to the side of the cave and far away from the prism. The doctor let out a strangled squeak in fear. 

Shadow didn’t pay him any more attention. The sound of metal crunching was one he had wished not to hear again for a long, long time. Stupid faker.

Speaking of his counterpart— “Hey Shadow! Nice timing!” Sonic grinned, peeling himself off the ground and, oblivious to his friends’ shocked looks behind him, hopped over to Shadow with an outstretched hand. “Up top!”

Shadow just huffed at the gesture, grabbing Sonic’s wrist and pulling the hand close to his face. 

No transparency. 

A sort of delayed relief flooded through him at that, and part of Shadow realized just how scared he’d been. That was a first for the ultimate lifeform. 

“You’re okay.” He stated.

“Um. Yeah?”

“Well, that’s great,” Rouge remarked, flying over to where they stood. Her smile widened dramatically and she stared at the Paradox Prism with a bit of crazed fervor in her eyes. “I’ll be taking this beauty—”

She might as well have said she was going to kill someone, because both hedgehogs reacted with a violent jerk, lunging for the rock in unison.

“Wait no!” 

“Chaos control!”

A flash of light left four friends wondering what in hell they just witnessed (and one evil genius quietly making a getaway).

………………………………

“Ugh.” Shadow spat, steadying the prism. “So what do we do with this thing?”

Sonic didn’t respond, which was surprising given that he never shut up (not even on the brink of death). The black hedgehog rolled his eyes and glared at him. “Well?”

Sonic stared at the ground, then up at Shadow, and cleared his throat quietly. “Uh. You can let go now?”

It was then that Shadow realized he still had a death grip on Sonic’s slender wrist. 

Oh, he wished he could’ve disappeared right then, and he meant it with every fiber of his being.

Shadow didn’t know what was worse, the fact that his face was most definitely burning a cherry red, unable to give a proper explanation for this act, or the fact that part of him didn’t want to let go. 

He settled on awkwardly retracting his hand and letting out a choked “Sorry.”

Sonic coughed and peeled his eyes away from Shadow’s face, for which he was grateful for. “I was thinking… maybe we could leave it in Tails’ Lab.”

“So you or your friends can break it again? Definitely not.” Shadow rebuked. “We should take it somewhere no one could chance upon by accident.”

“So why’d you even ask me?” Sonic pouted, tapping his foot impatiently. “If you got it figured out already then go ahead. I certainly don’t know any secretive places.”

Shadow paused at his statement. 

Why had he brought Sonic along? Since when did he get that instinct?

…to keep him close?

“Shadow? Hellooooo—” Sonic waved his hand in front of a dazed face, effectively breaking Shadow’s trance. Emerald eyes peered worriedly into his own crimson. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He grumbled, turning away. But of course that didn’t work, because Mr. Annoying just stepped back into his line of view.

“Aw come on, don’t give me that,” Sonic said, circling him to keep eye contact. “You never act like this. Hmm…” Shadow could practically hear gears turning inside that peanut brain of his, and unfortunately, this time they worked. “...is it… wait. Don’t tell me you’re worried? About lil ol’ me?”

“Shut. Up.” 

“Okay. Sorry, sorry.” Sonic gestured defensively at Shadow’s death glare. “But I’m fine, you don’t gotta worry.”

“It’s not that.” He snarled in response. Sonic just gave him the most unamused look. 

“Well, what is it then? What’s the saying… penny for your thoughts?”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Shut up.”

“No.”

Shadow growled and imposed his fiercest glare on Sonic, hoping to scare him off, but his rival (Rival? Friend? Ally?) just stared back with equal intensity. “You don’t scare me, Shadow.”

“Well— you scared me!” Shadow admits, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could catch them. He dipped his head to focus on the ground instead, hoping futilely that it would swallow him whole. “I… I thought that… you… I thought that you were going to… that you would—”

“Die?” Sonic put a hand to Shadow’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his eyes. Shadow scowled but didn’t deny it.

There was silence for a few seconds, neither hedgehog knowing what to say. 

What kind of words could fix seeing someone nearly slip from reality? …in your very arms?

Maybe there was some magic phrase that would sooth that pain, but none of them knew it. They weren’t exactly the best at communication, after all, seeing as they fought things out most of the time. 

Sonic eventually pulled away and broke the stillness with a sigh. “Shadow. I… I don’t know what you want to hear. It’s probably not that I don’t regret my… decision. But that’s the truth— Gosh, this is awkward. Amy was always better at this… I’m getting side tracked, aren’t I?” He rambled, glancing up at Shadow to see if he was still listening. Shadow gestured for him to continue. There was no harm, right?

“Look. I… it was risky, but it was better than the alternative, right? And it worked! I lived, even! You guys saved me. It’s okay.”

“You expected to die?”

Sonic winced. “Uhh— I… yeah. That’s not the point, though—”

“What do you mean, that’s not the point?!” Shadow exploded, causing Sonic to back up. “That’s not okay, idiot! Do you think I could’ve lived knowing you sacrificed your life to save mine?!”

“And the others,” Sonic piped, then cringed at the face Shadow made. “Wrong answer, wrong answer. I—”

He was interrupted by Shadow pulling him into a tight hug. “You selfless moron. The answer is no.”

For a few seconds, Sonic was too stunned to speak or reciprocate the gesture. Then he hugged Shadow back, squeezing him tighter than the other had gripped him moments away from entering the gateway. “I-It’s okay, Shads. I’m fine now.”

“Tell me you won’t try something like that again.”

“...no promises. But I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Sonic.” Shadow tangled himself and held the hero at arm's length. He just let out a laugh, and Shadow found that he couldn’t be angry at those sparkling emerald eyes. “Just… try. Please?” 

“Mhm. You should know by now, Shads,” Sonic grinned, “I kinda suck at dying.”

Shadow couldn’t help the smile that formed on his face, which he tried in vain to hide. 

“You smiled! I saw it!”

“Did not.”

“Did to!”

“Just admit it, Shadow, you’re not as grumpy as you seem.”

Shadow rolled his eyes but didn’t deny his statement. Sonic took his silence as agreement and cheered. “I knew you were soft on the inside! Just couldn’t resist my charm, could you?”

He looked so happy as he picked up the prism that Shadow swallowed the quip he was going to make. In the scattered rainbow light, Sonic was… was pretty.

Ugh, stupid skittles rock. Messing with his thoughts. 

He hoped Sonic couldn’t see the blush that tinted his cheeks as he hooked arms and teleported them away.

[sulevinen]

i have been thinking about this for far too long and now i just need to write it down, this started as a simple analysis but turned into a fic of sorts, so i put that under the cut :))

The 190th don’t work closely with either 212th or 501st, but when they do, they manage to get the most dangerous missions, which is highly due to their reputation as a ”lucky” battallion. The 501st are usually in the middle of action, where the losses are huge and overshadowed by their victories.

Merell and Skywalker do not get along well.

Merell cares for their men, Skywalker doesn’t. He cares about victory, and glory, and getting to be the hero. The hero with no fear, I might add. Skywalker is fearless, but his men aren’t. They are very much fearful of losing their brothers, losing their limbs, losing themselves, in the mindlessness of the gruesome battles that their general leaves without a scratch, leaving their dying brothers behind without looking back.

Merell thinks that fearlessness is just another form of insanity. And the young Jedi is a prime example.

Merell thinks highly of his men, though. Captain Rex is almost more capable than Ceres, but the two fine young men are both outstanding in battle and quick on their feet so trying to compare them is unnecassary. Merell is glad that Ceres gets along well with Rex, and they’re happy to see the legion and the battallion work seamlessly as a team, as if they’re two pieces of a broken pot and complete each other in areas the other needs help in.

So sometimes, when the battle needs more manpower, Merell is more than glad to join the duty beside the 501st.

Umbara was rough. Ruthless. Mindless, as any other battle. Merell and the 190th were stationed on the other side of the planet, closer to the capital to aid the 212th, but after hearing of the first major loss, Merell sent a platoon to help. Skylight. And along went the Crimson squad, and their greatest asset: Kino.

Kino can control shadows, through her emotions that ignite her umbrakinesis. On Umbara, it was more than useful, and for the first time ever she could treat her ability as a gift rather than a curse. She’d fend off shadows to expose where the enemy was hiding, or hide herself and her squad in the darkness to avoid being detected. She could twist and twirl them to her will, almost losing herself to the darkness: but was always pulled out before she’d completely lose the control she illusioned to have.

So, they join Krell’s forces. Right off the bat, they all notice that something is off. Kino, naturally notices the strangeness of the Force first, but puts it on the planet’s dark athmosphere and her own paranoia and adrenalin. Pearl however, trusts her gut and challenges the General constantly. Rex tries to stop her, but she keeps insisting, keeps critiquing his battle tactics and demands better treatment of the men. She tries to suggests other ways, gives more options, but is shot down every time. Once she gets the lightsaber nearly slicing through her neck, she backs down.

And it lights the fire in Kino’s chest. That is her friend, her trusted Lieutenant, and she got a lightsaber on her throat. By a Jedi, nonetheless. Both fear and anger, hatred and other vile feelings she’s tried to push down, bubble back up; and the air darkens.

How dare you?

Summary: If Kino had been on Umbara, Krell wouldn’t have lived past the first time he got half the troops killed on that road. Luckily Pearl is there.

The unit stopped walking. The air felt still, and silent, and an awfully cold dreading sense filled their lungs with anxiety and anticipation. Everyone could feel it, but none could tell where it was coming from. That suffocating and strange feeling prickling the back of their necks and making their skin crawl urged them to raise their blasters, aiming for the woods, all expecting to see a threat: but the ground quaked, and the leaves shook, and the air kept getting still until it froze completely.

And suddenly the Besalisk coughed, and clasped his fat neck, falling down on his knees. The clones all turned to look, horrified and surprised, as dark, thick tendrils wrapped around his neck, pitch black like ink and somehow oddly transparent, like a thin veil.

Pearl realized it first, and turned to look behind them, where the young Padawan was keeping watch of the rear. Her eyes were darkened, hand raised in a tight fist, darkness oozing from inside of it, slithering on the ground all the way to the Besalisk, who was being covered in more and more of the thin veil, slowly turning pale from the lack of oxygen.

”Kino”, Pearl said cautiously, and approached the Jedi with light steps. ”Let him go.”

”No”, Kino managed to get out, and breathed. ”No. He hurt you.”

”Let go, Kino.”

”I can’t. Not with this.”

”What is happening?”, Rex walked next to Pearl, glancing between Kino and the General.

”Kino is- reaching her melting point”, Pearl tried to explain quietly, tapping her comm to reach Merell, or Ceres, or anyone who could better understand or help her.

”She needs to stop doing that”, Rex said, sounding more annoyed than worried. Pearl turned to look at Krell, who was gasping for more air, as the ground beneath him kept staining with more black.

”I know that, Captain. And she will. I just- need to get hold of Merell or Ceres.”

”The comms are down”, Bones chimed in, grimly looking up from her datapad. ”I’ll try to fix it.”

”Fix it fast, and get Merell on the line”, Pearl snapped, and walked closer to Kino.

”Kino, I know you’re upset, but you need to let go. Now is not the time. Not now. Not in the enemy area. We’re out in the open, and we’re sitting ducks right now. Not to mention the court martial you’ll get after this: you’re attempting to murder your CO. And while at it, you’re endangering others. Let him go.”

Kino’s face started turning dangerously purple by the edges, thin veins traveled from her neck as if the shadows had infiltrated her skin. Pearl tried breathing slowly, calmly, and prompted Kino to do the same.

”He’s not going to hurt me, or any of us. But you will, if you won’t let go. Let go. Kino. Listen to me.”

Kino took a sharp breath and twisted her wrist, and Krell slumped on the ground, gasping and spitting and coughing. Both Kix and Twinkle rushed to help him, but he pushed their hands away and got up.

The look on his face made both Pearl and Rex instincively take steps forward to shield Kino, and faced his rage with their chins up.

”What was that?”, he roared, and stomped in front of them, attempting to push them aside, but neither wavered from their ground and pushed back.

”Kino was just upset, that is all”, Pearl said sternly, and signed the three ARC’s to get Kino away. ”Once the comms are back on, we’ll comm her master and get her back to the ship.”

”She almost killed me!”, Krell spat on their faces, and Pearl wiped some spit from her visor as she kept calmly explaining the situation until the ARC’s could get Kino far enough from his blade.

”I know that, sir. And she is sorry for that. And her master will see what is the best possible punishment. But we really need to keep moving, because we are in a compromised position right now.”

”Stop ordering me around, clone! You’re even more below me in rank than the Captain, and you dare to speak to me like that? Move aside!”, he screamed, and shoved them both on the ground. Pearl scrambled on her feet and reached for her blaster, watching intently as the Besalisk stomped over to the three ARC’s who put their arms and bodies protectively in front of Kino, but got shoved down as easily as Pearl and Rex.

Pearl felt a twinge in her heart at the sight of the shivering Padawan on the ground, shielding her face and body with her arms. Krell grabbed her by the neckline of her shirt and picked her up to face him at eyelevel.

”How dare you do that?”, his scream was so loud Pearl could see Kino quiver in fear. ”How dare you try to strangle me? How dare you try to kill your CO? How dare you? How?!”

Kino let out a pathetic wail that only fueled Krell’s anger. Pearl saw in a fraction of a second the slight tension of his shoulder, and grabbed her blaster before he managed to even brush his saber with his dirty hands.

”That’s enough”, she ordered, without getting any acknowledgement from him with her words. She heard the troops behind her make some noises of protest and disbelief, but was far more concerned with what was in front of her.

”I told you, stop telling me what to-”, Krell turned his head towards her, and stopped talking at the sight of the raised blaster. His face screwed in fury, if that was even possible anymore, and let go of Kino, dropping her on the dirt. Lucid and Target went to help her up, Ardor got his hands on his own blasters. Pearl smirked a little at that.

”You dare to raise your blaster at a Jedi?”, Krell’s voice was gravelly, all the anger gone, mere threat of slaughter left in his tone.

”I dare to kill one too”, Pearl said, and clicked the safety off. ”Stay away from her”, she ordered with a slight motion of her blaster, and the Besalisk looked like he was about to burst out of anger.

”You both! All of you! Your whole platoon! Full of disobedient imbeciles and unprofessional fools! I’ll have you all court martialed!”

”Just because you are a Jedi doesn’t mean you’re above the law”, Pearl kept her tone calm, admittedly sounding a bit bored at this point of the feud. She tried to keep her breath steady, but the beat of her heart and the waver of her hands holding the blaster gave her stoic mannerism a tough hit. ”We’ve all witnessed you put your men in unnecessary danger, threaten a Padawan, a child nonetheless. That’s more than enough for court martial. There are enough witnesses. A hundred voices over yours. So back down. Or I swear to God, by all the forces of the universe, I will shoot you, and trust me, it’ll be seen as more than justified. You’re a threat to the whole group right now. And I will remove all and any threats to keep my family safe.”

Silence rang in her ears, and the Jedi in her vision started blurring. They were all expecting the Jedi to say something, to speak out more atrocities, to scream, to do something, but he kept standing still. Pearl adjusted her stand, letting her other hand down on her hip ready to grab the other blaster in case he decided to slay her down right then and there.

After a while Pearl came to the conclusion that the Besalisk wasn’t going to speak, he seemed unable to, so she tilted her head a little to Bones’ direction to ask about the comms.

”Almost up”, Bones breathed, tapping away on her datapad. ”I’ll send the transmission to Merell now.”

”Great”, Pearl said, and tilted her head back to face Krell. He was still standing like a statue, but Pearl didn’t fall for the false sense of security. The tension and the anxiety was still high, and she wasn’t about to risk anyone’s safety in case the crazy Jedi attempted something anyway. ”Kino, you go with Lucid and Target back to the 190th. We’ll let your master know you’re coming.”

”Oh, you’re all going”, Krell finally opened his mouth, and stomped to stand right on Pearl’s face. ”You’ve done your job here, clone. And be known, that I will tell the whole command about this. It’ll be the end of you, clone.”

”We’ll see about that”, Pearl snarled, and put her blasters back into their holsters. ”Tensions among the team aren’t good for the effort, so we’ll leave for our safety. But I will make sure that all of this goes on the rapport, because I sure as hell haven’t done anything wrong. You’re the one taking every wrong route and turn ever since you’ve landed on this planet, and I know the casualty numbers from now and before. I don’t want to end up on one of those lists: but I will if that means getting my family away from you. You’ll hear from me again, General.”

Pearl signaled her platoon to follow and without a word they picked up the pace and scrambled to follow her. Pearl circled around the General and went to the ARC’s who were still shielding Kino. Pearl scooped her up on her back, and led her troops back the way they came from.

[wendy130]

That’s not a fish (Part 1)

//Title to story may be subject to change.

// I will be using he/him pronouns for Eret thorough the entirety of this writing. I am aware that he uses all pronouns; this is to make the writing less confusing with other characters.

// Based on an rp I did with a friend. This isn’t an au. There may be a part two for this, but do not ask for one.

// Warnings: description of drowning (no one dies), the ocean

----

"It was a dark and stormy night."

That's how they always started in the stories.

Eret grunted as he marched through people's scurrying forms, all of them busy with throwing the pools of water that threatened to pull the ship down off of the deck.

Damn those stories to hell. He ducked under a few sailors, his eyes darting around, trying to find someone. Why was it always so hard to find the one person you needed?

Normally, he'd be one of the many bailing the water out, but he had other matters to attend to first. From behind his glasses, his eyes locked onto a figure afar.

"Puffy!" he shouted, striding closer to the woman. She turned to face him, wiping water off of her face as she stared at him with a tense form, "what's-"

"Just a normal storm," she interrupted him, shouting loudly. The crashing waves made it hard to speak normally, "be careful around the edges, Eret."

He slowly nodded, a grimace on his face as he ran a hand through his soaking wet hair. He opened his mouth to say something more, but she threw a bucket at him. He caught it with fumbling hands.

"I- Puffy," he tried yelling back to the captain but shouted in surprise as he felt a bigger than usual wave crash into the side of the ship. Both Puffy and him stumbled back, leaning against the railing and tightly holding onto the tiny, wooden beams for support.

The two exchanged alarmed looks before tilting their heads towards the dark waters.

"That seemed... like it was caused by something else," Eret yelled, forgetting his past worries.

Puffy searched the seas with a hidden intent as if she was looking for something. For someone. She frowned deeply and turned towards him,

"Stay away from the edges," she warily shouted, making no comment on his worries.

"What did you see?" Eret inquired, trying to search the waters like the captain had too. She only pulled him back from the shoulder, giving him a stern look.

That look meant that she was done talking.

Eret frowned, sending one last glance back at the churning waters before heading off to help the crew. He bit back a yelp as he felt another wave crash onto the side of the ship.

As he steadied his swaying figure, he glanced around at the abled men, women, and people who barely seemed affected by the harsh conditions.

He supposed it was only normal for them to be so resilient. It was fairly charming to see them all work together.

He also supposed that he'd have to get used to this, both to his dismay and excitement.

Eret pushed himself to help with whatever he could, passing buckets full of sloshing water back and forth between people and helping out with the masts. After only an hour, he was bone-tired, wheezing in exhaustion.

He really did need to step up his game.

Compared to his homeland, it seemed as if the sea's world needed more force than any battle he had fought before.

Eret yelped as a force from behind him pushed him closer to the edge of the boat. He barely had any time to fall back before a heavy bucket was thrown into his hands. He hesitated for a moment before hurling the water out of the bucket and tossing it to the nearest person who beckoned for the container.

He continued on like this for a while, falling into a steady rhythmic pattern before his arms also grew weak with weariness. He recoiled back as his felt his hands slip on the bucket. He fumbled around, barely catching the pail.

Many hands grasped onto him, pulling him back and pulling the bucket out of his hands. He stumbled back to the middle of the ship, one of the crew members giving him a stiff nod.

He staggered back, his reaction timing slow compared to everyone else on the ship. He was barely able to dodge the people barreling around the deck, and he found himself back at the edge of the ship again.

He was about to push himself back to the middle of the deck so he'd be able to take cover under the deck, but a spark of curiosity burned at the back of his mind. With a single shake of his head, he turned to face the waters, looking for any sign of what Puffy may have been looking for.

He gasped as he felt a lurching sensation alongside a scraping pain on his arms. He was hit with a heavy sense of vertigo as he tumbled downwards- why was he tumbling downwards?

His question was quickly answered as he felt a frigid splash of liquid hit him with full force.

The air in his lungs was knocked out as water consumed his weakened state. His throat and nose burned as water forced its way up into them, and he violently coughed, shoving his way back to the surface.

He was only able to take a short breath before a harsh wave crashed into him, sending him back under the water. He forced his way back up, taking another breath before he was pushed under again. His lungs burned from the lack of oxygen, and his eyes stung from the salty water surrounding it.

Eret wildly glanced around the water, seeing only black inkiness underneath him. He breached the surface of the water again, helplessly looking for the ship he rode on. He cried out as he saw it already far from him,

"No!" he dazedly gasped, "wai- come back," he fruitlessly called out, flailing his arms around, trying to paddle his way to the ship.

It was pointless. He was in dead waters now.

Eret desperately tried anyways, though, clinging onto the diminishing hope that they'd turn around to find him.

A pit of despair grew in his stomach as he saw the ship grow smaller.

Surely they’d notice, right?

He wouldn’t be stuck and left for dead... right?

He almost choked on another wave that tugged him under the water before he surfaced, coughing.

He had gotten him screwed just because he was curious enough to look for something that didn't exist, hadn’t he?

His mouth dried as he felt the waters around him shift and move unnaturally.

...It didn’t exist..... right?

He shakily glanced down at the murky waters, half expecting to see a giant tentacle shoot out and drag him into the depths of the waters like in the stories.

He saw nothing for a moment, unable to discern anything from the foamy, angry waters, but.... as he stared for longer, he saw a giant dark figure circling him.

The outline vaguely reminded him of a shark tail with extra fins, but it had a different front- as if there was another part attached to the shark.

He shook his head, clearing his mind of any possible imaginary projections of his fears before looking back.

Nothing...

He almost sighed in relief, but, instead, a screech ripped from his throat as another wave crashed down on him. He was forced back under the water, given barely any time to gasp for new air. Thrashing wildly, he burst back up, practically coughing his lungs up as he gasped for air.

The waves had picked up in strength again, making him repeat a tiring process of trying to stay above the water. It was a loosing battle, though. Every time he came up for air, he was pushed under.

His muscles burned from use and lack of air, but he pushed on, clinging onto the threads of life.

 As he was pushed back down again, he kept his eyes open, looking around him for anything. His eyes burned from the salty waters, but he kept them open anyways.

He barely suppressed a gasp of shock as he saw a large shadow from afar.

This wasn’t a projection of his mind, was it?

He surged back to the surface with a newfound fear.

If he didn't die of hypothermia or drowning, he was most definitely going to be the victim of this creature.

That of, he was certain.

He desperately tried keeping an eye on the massive shadow, but it easily blended in with the stormy water, and he lost focus on it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he trembled, weakly paddling around to keep his head above the liquid around him. 

A sinking feeling grew in his gut as he searched around himself for the creature.

He couldn’t find them from around him, so that meant....

Look down, look down, LOOK DOWN-

His eyes shot to underneath him, only to meet the gaze of two glowing green ones.

By Primes, he was so dead, wasn't he?

[angelanimedesaray]

Wings in the Dark Chapter 7:  Subversion

AN:  I’m gonna admit, I was half asleep writing the first half of this cause the fatigue hit me HARD once I got home.

Also, I forgot to put this up a few chapters ago, but this story IS on AO3.  The link is on the AOT Vampire Masterlist, but also right HERE.

I felt like I was missing something, but no matter how many times I looked at it, I couldn’t think of what it was...If it occurs to me, I’ll probably just find a way to work it into the next chapter, lol

Also if you want a good soundtrack for this series, honestly, all you gotta do is listen to the Forgotten Odes album by Eternal Eclipse, I always pull it up when I’m writing these XD

Characters:  Levi, Fem!Vampire!Reader, Erwin

Pairing:  (Eventual)  Levi x Fem!Vampire!Reader

Warnings:  Language, Blood, Death, Dead Bodies, ummm...idk, Vampire Legends?  Is that a Warning?

Word Count:  5391

<----Previous Chapter    Masterlist    Next Chapter---->

*Levi’s POV*

"I've been trying to catch her sneaking out for weeks, now, Erwin, but it's like she knows when I'm awake and watching for her.  I can never catch her when she's leaving, it's always when she comes back."

Levi paced slightly in front of Erwin’s desk out of agitation as he stressed why, after all this time, he still hadn't managed to follow her into the Underground and see what she was doing.

"Do you at least know when she usually sneaks out?  The time, or the days?" Erwin asked calmly.

"It's always when everyone's asleep...and it is fairly regular.  Every week, I think, though the exact day varies."

"If you can't follow her, then you'll need to get ahead of her. Get down there before her. You know the window of time when she'll be down there, and you know the Underground."

"But I have no idea what she's doing down there. It could be anything--and the Underground isn't a small place where I can wander around and /hope/ I run into her."

"Then narrow down your search based off your theories.  We considered she might have family down there, so you would be looking at residences, or asking around about a woman of her description.  And your theory of the worst she could be up to--"

"Murder or treason.  I know the places you'd go for that--more so than normal, anyway," Levi murmured, mind already conjuring the worst areas in the underground, the places where the Underground's worst elements like to stalk the streets, the areas of the highest risk, the worst gangs, the shadiest deals.

The residence search could take months--no one was going to want to talk to a soldier, a surfacer, even someone who had once been a part of the Underground.  Not to mention, they had no idea what Y/N Frazier looked like, or what name she was going under while she was hiding in the Underground--if she was, in fact, hiding in the Underground.

Besides, shouldn't he rule out the worst, first?

"I know where to start," Levi said decisively.  "It's still going to take some time, though, because she's still aware I'm watching her, and she's good at shaking tales and evasion.  Not to mention part of it is going to be based on luck--that I manage to go to the right place at the right time without knowing where she'll be."

"You're good at what you do, Levi.  You'll find a way."

So began the unpleasant ritual of Levi going down into the Underground every night of every other week, all in the name of hopefully, eventually, managing to find L/N.  All it would take was one glimpse, one time seeing her, and he could follow her, learning from the mistakes of last time to make sure that he didn’t lose her this time.

And he could finally find out what was happening below ground--what had been happening for years since she’d suddenly appeared on the surface.

While Levi had made a name for himself Underground, enough so that it became general knowledge not to test him, he hadn't gone around looking for the kind of trouble that would have brought him to the places he found himself in, now.  He’d always been aware of these dark holes in the Underground, and on a few unpleasant occasions had to make a trip to one of them.  The worst elements of the Underground were found in these holes--she shadiest deals, the scum of the earth, the darkest corners with the most blood and carnage seeped into and tainting the earth around them.

Levi’s every step in these places was careful and quiet, his guard always up, his hood always drawn to hide his face.

Even with the name he'd made down here, he was cautious to use it as a warning sign to keep danger at bay.  Not only did he want to avoid sticking out and alerting L/N to his presence if she was down here, but there were always going to be the idiots who wanted to challenge someone who'd made a notorious name for themselves like he had.  There might be more than normal who wanted to test him if they knew who he was, people who thought that he was a prime target because his name still stood, but his time above ground might have made him soft.

A terrible, foolish notion, really, since his time above ground and part of the Scouts had only made him more dangerous.

He'd been coming down here regularly since his talk with Erwin, scouting the area and looking for any signs of L/N, whatever they may be.  Not many people down here were the talking type, and those who were couldn't give him anything about any surfacer woman prowling the streets.  The only thing they could tell him was to not wander these more dangerous parts of the Underground alone because people who did tended to turn up dead or go missing.

That wasn't news to him. He was already well aware of the dangers of these parts of the Underground that had spawned chilling legends even for the people who saw the darkness of the Underground daily.  He knew what he was doing was dangerous, which made L/N's presence here all the more questionable if he did manage to see her.

Levi glared fiercely at a man who'd been giving him the target sizing look after glimpsed his clean surfacer clothes.  The man slunk back into the shadows and Levi's skin prickled, his senses on high alert for any kind of ambush someone might be tempted to spring on the man leaning against the wall at a four way intersection.  He was keeping his head down to keep his face well shielded, but his eyes were constantly flickering around to take in his surroundings, to watch every figure that passed or came down one of the alleys, tense and ready for a fight every time someone came close to him.

This search was slow work, but with no hint to L/N’s motivations for being down here besides the scent of blood on her cloak, it was the best option he had.

A familiar, dark robed figure flashed by the opposite end of the alley on his right, and Levi straightened, disbelief flashing through him.  Surely that hadn’t been…

Before he lost her in his disbelief, Levi moved quickly through the alley to at least get her within his sights, being mindful not to get too close, even though he needed to at least be able to confirm that it was her.

Sticking to the shadows, Levi peered around the corner of the alley, just enough so he could see the cloaked figure and watch them as they continued down the path at a fairly leisurely pace, as if they were strolling along the lakeside instead of through one of the most dangerous parts of the Underground.

He was fairly certain that was her cloak.  It was the right color, and a quick glance down revealed that yes, it was long enough to drag along the ground like hers did, but at the moment it was gathered and tucked into the waist to keep it from dragging through the filth, keeping it just above the ankles instead.

And those boots were dark brown, leather, suspiciously similar to the Scout’s uniform--even though he couldn’t see the rest from this angle, he was willing to bet they went up to the knee.  The height was right, the posture seemed militaristic--it was a hard thing to shake, especially when still in active duty and so soon after graduating from the cadets, to boot.  Levi held his breath, watching intently and hoping for something a bit more defining that could give him one more bit of evidence to convince him it was her, besides this gut feeling of his.

She took a turn, and while she kept her head down, hood hiding her face, he saw a flash of hair, and glimpsed the civilian clothes underneath--

Civilian clothes he knew were hers because of the day he’d gone through her stuff and saw what she had.  She didn’t have much, so it was easy to tell this was one of the four pairs she owned.

Not wanting to lose her like he had that first night, Levi hurried forward, keeping his steps as quiet as possible.  He had to give her more space then he was used to giving someone that he tailed--he hadn’t forgotten how during the expedition, she seemed to have immensely attuned senses, with how quickly and easily she could pick up on what no one else could see.  He still didn’t want to lose her because he fell too far behind, but he had to be careful--something kept tipping her off to his presence, and while he didn’t know what, he had to control everything he could and make it harder for her to notice his presence.  Distance was his friend, right now.

It was hard, trying to trail someone while having to put so much distance between them that she frequently turned out of sight, but he kept it up, heart pounding in anticipation as his mental map of the area tried to come up with where she was heading.  Right now, it just felt like she was aimlessly wandering, like there was no real direction to where she was going.  What the hell was she doing?

After several minutes of following her around like this, Levi started to grow impatient, wondering if she was aware he was following her and was just walking random places until he got bored and left.  If anything, it was more likely to make him confront her.

Except he needed to see what she was really doing down here, and if she was aware he was following her, that wasn’t going to happen.

Another shadowy figure entered their line, in front of Levi but behind L/N.  It was a man, staying far enough back that he clearly wasn’t walking with her--another tail.  Someone with more sinister intentions, too, Levi would guess, by the way he seemed to be stalking her.  With how far back Levi was, he hadn’t been noticed by this new party, but he was close enough that Levi was certain L/N had noticed them.

Except...she wasn’t trying to shake them.  She should have been able to do it with ease after she had lost Levi so easily that first night, but she didn’t do anything differently.  Her pace remained the same, unhurried and with no real direction, even as the intruder got gradually closer.

What the hell?

Was he wrong?  Was it someone she knew that she was meeting up with?  No, that looked like something else, Levi knew exactly what this was, he’d seen it enough times to recognize when someone was about to get jumped.

On the other hand...this was perfect for him.  Horrible as the initial thought might have been, if he tailed her tail, it put plenty of distance between himself and L/N, and as long as her tail didn’t lose her, even with her completely out of sight he wouldn’t lose track of her.  And if something went wrong, well, he was right here.

Levi shifted his cloak aside at the waist, turning slightly and waiting a few moments before he fired the cables into the nearest building, using it to get onto the roofs and nothing more.  The rest could be on foot, no more use of the gear.  ODM had a very distinct sound any soldier who had been around them as long as L/N had would recognize instantly, so he didn’t dare use it any more times until he’d found what he was looking for.  He didn’t know how keen those remarkable senses of hers were, if it was her hearing or her sight or hell, even her nose like Miche, that had allowed her to spot those Titans.  Because he didn’t know how, he couldn’t risk it.

Now with the advantage of a higher vantage point, Levi followed L/N’s tail from quite a distance, able to see him further and more comfortably from so high up, his footsteps still light and silent even though he was alone on these rooftops.

Being up here reminded him of several things he hadn’t fully realized when he’d lived down here, or that he’d learned to ignore or had forgotten in his time above ground.  How there was no wind down here, which was disconcerting after so long above ground with fresh air and cool breezes.  How dark it really was, even with the orange glow of firelight from homes, impacting his visibility and making it hard to pick out details from a distance.  And the stench--he’d been blocking it out, something he’d trained himself to do down here when he wasn’t in his own space that he could keep clean, but now that he was higher up and not in the thick of the shit, the air wasn’t quite as thick with it.

Slightly.  Just barely.

The man he was following sped up and took a sudden turn into a narrow alley, causing Levi to speed up his step as well, keeping an eye on the opposite end of the alley in case he exited the alley before Levi could reach it.  Crouched low so that he wouldn’t be spotted if someone happened to look up, Levi reached the edge of the building before the alley, his hand placed lightly on the dirt-covered edge as he peered over with care, trying to lean far enough he could see but where he couldn’t be seen, or at least would hardly be seen.  L/N’s tail hadn’t left the alley, so they should be--

Before the alley became visible, Levi realized there were no sounds coming from the alley--no sounds of a fight, no drip of blood, no talking, nothing.  If her tail had caught up to her, there should have been /something/ coming from the alley below.

A few seconds more, and he had visual confirmation that the alley was empty, even though he hadn’t seen anyone leave it from either end.

Levi kept himself calm, not allowing himself to even worry about losing sight of them--he didn’t have the time for that.  Clearly he’d been far enough behind that he’d missed something that had happened.  Maybe they had cut through the building opposite the one he was standing on.  There were no sounds coming from there, either--it was silent as the grave in this part of the city, unsettlingly enough.  But it let him know they weren’t simply hiding in one of the buildings beneath him.

He knew this area--he knew the Underground, had grown up here, walked these streets or at least mapped out in his mind the best and worst places for all kinds of situations.  He could figure out what had happened.  Whether she got the drop on her tail or her tail had successfully jumped her, if they weren’t here they would have gone somewhere discreet, somewhere private that was also nearby.  Not a residence, and anything that was dilapidated beyond even entry wouldn’t work.  What was the best spot for that criteria that was also nearby, close enough it could be quickly ducked into without anyone noticing?

Levi jumped over the edge of the building and dropped back down into the mud, knees bent to absorb the impact before he quickly shifted, navigating the streets quickly and with a purpose as he closed in on the building that came to mind.  He was still careful to be quiet and stealthy lest he spook L/N and lose his chance, but he was now running out of time--the longer they were out of sight, the greater the chance he would fail to see what was happening.  And he’d come so close, he couldn’t let the opportunity slip past him again.

Her being in trouble didn’t even cross his mind--he knew she could have shaken that tail if she wanted to, and she had beaten him in a sparring match.  Even if that tail jumped her, he doubted she would be the one in trouble.

*Reader’s POV*

The one thing you hated the most about coming to the Underground to hunt was the smell.  With how sensitive your senses were, it was absolutely horrid for you.  It had taken all of your focus and much of your time when you’d first come down here to learn how to block that foul smell out, though usually it involved handicapping your sense of smell altogether--except for with blood.  Blood always pierced through any mental block you’d constructed for yourself.

Still, you were down one sense when you came down here to hunt, refusing to breathe through your nose so you wouldn’t become nauseous, sickened by the stench in the air.

The only time that changed down here was when you fed--when the scent of blood filled your every breath with your teeth latched into your most recent kill, warm at first but growing gradually colder as you drained the life from them, a hand over their mouth to muffle any sound or screams until they could make them no more.

Of course you had known about the shady individual tailing you--you had wandered aimlessly in one of the worst parts of the Underground specifically so you could draw someone out, could lure in one of the many victimizers that lurked in these dark corners and turn the tables on them, making their chosen path of victimizing and terror a fatal one.  As soon as he entered the dark, isolated alley that you had turned into, you had grabbed him and dashed away with that inhuman speed of yours, pulling him into the nearest abandoned, unowned building where you immediately sank your teeth into him to satiate the hunger that had started to claw at you once again.

Hidden in the darkest corner of the abandoned building, the man had stopped moving beneath you, body turning cold, though from experience you knew he still had more blood to give.  You were going to take it all, so it would last you just a little while longer before you had to delve back into the Underground’s cesspool for a fresh kill to satiate the hunger again after it returned.

By now, this was normal for you.  You had been doing it for decades, and had long worked out your feelings over the moral implications of it all.  This was just your way of life, how you survived.  And it would continue to be for years and years to come.

One thing about scents down here--there was no wind to carry them away or towards you.  So when you picked up on someone’s scent, it usually meant they were close...very close.  Especially since you went out of your way to block scents down here unless you were in the middle of a feed, like right now.

As such, you stiffened when you caught the beginning traces of a familiar scent, one that was usually carried towards you on a breeze and let you know you were being watched.  Tea leaves, cleanliness or cleaning products, hints of mint that might have just been a figment of your own imagination because it was something you associated with a clean smell.

Levi.  And if you were catching his scent strongly enough for it to pierce through the blood you were feeding off, then he was dangerously close.

Immediately, you tried to gulp down every last drop you could, wanting to still finish so you wouldn’t have to come back down here so soon, even though your instincts were yelling at you to get out of here before he found you.  As a result of your suddenly rushed attempts to finish your meal, you made a bit more of a mess than you usually did.  Blood smeared across your face and dribbled down onto your shirt, some unfortunately falling to the ground below as your teeth tore into the man’s neck in an attempt to get this last bit to gush out.

You could hear him, he was just outside the building, you couldn’t wait any longer, you’d already waited too long.

How much had he seen?  How long had he been onto you?  How had he found you?

You could worry about that when you were safely back at the Scout’s headquarters and in the process of cleaning up any evidence you’d ever been to the Underground, right now, you had to leave.

Now you didn’t even have time to try and hide the body.

Teeth unlatching from the man’s neck, hood pulled low over your head to hide all of your features, you finally bolted, heading for the opposite side as you heard the door open, worried that you still had been too late, that he might have seen your hasty exit, or at least a flash of your cloak disappearing around the corner of the open doorway.

There was no chance to take it back now.  The best you could do was damage control and dig in your heels.  He might have seen your cloak, maybe, but as far as you knew, he had no way of knowing it was you.  No definitive way, anyway.  He hadn’t seen your face, hadn’t seen any defining features.  As far as you were aware, he’d only seen your cloak.  You still had a chance.  Especially if you cleaned your clothes fast enough and thoroughly enough there wasn’t a trace of blood or the Underground on them.

Heart pounding as you attempted to keep yourself calm so you could act rationally and not tip your hand and give yourself away by panicking, you raced back to the surface to start disposing of evidence in the safety of your quarters.

*Levi’s POV*

Levi tried to be quick when he opened the door, intending to catch L/N in the middle of whatever was happening in here and then act accordingly.  As far as he was aware, he’d acted fast enough and quietly enough he should have gotten the drop on her, even with that apparent sixth sense of hers that had allowed her to avoid him thus far.  The door swung open, and he saw a blur of motion--a blur he tried to write off as simply his eyes still adjusting to the scene at first--and the flash of a dark cloak disappearing around the corner.

Levi’s eyes widened at the realization that blur or at least the cloak was L/N fleeing from the scene, a ‘Tch!’ escaping him as he dashed across the abandoned building to try and make it out the other side before she could disappear again, hand on the edge of the doorway as he slid out into the alley on the other side.

Nothing.

He rushed to the mouth, hoping that maybe she had just turned out of sight, that he wasn’t about to lose her again like he had the first time he’d followed her.

Again, nothing.  Not even the sound of retreating footsteps.  She was just...gone, like the first time.

“Shit!”

Swearing loudly to himself, with the sound surprisingly disconcerting when it was thrown out into the silent streets, Levi turned back to the abandoned building, the only thing he had now that L/N had fled.

She had fled, which meant that this time she might have left something behind for him to find in her haste to leave.  People got sloppy when they were in a rush, and he was going to take full advantage of it.

Giving one last frustrated look down the deserted street, Levi doubled back to the abandoned building she had been inside, standing in the middle of the room as his eyes did a quick roam over his surroundings, looking for anything out of place, anything out of the ordinary.

Over in a dark corner, there was a mass, some kind of shape that looked distorted and unlike any kind of furniture or item found in an abandoned building like this.  It wasn't moving, but Levi still approached with caution, the dark shape slowly taking form as Levi approached, gradually becoming clearer as Levi silently came closer.

It was a body.  The tail he'd been following, from the looks of it, though Levi still didn't have a cause of death.  The body was distorted and lying unnaturally, head bent at an odd angle--not broken, just left in an odd position--and it was lying face down, as if it had been dropped in a rush.

He had interrupted something.  The question now was what had he interrupted.  His gaze had already darkened with the realization she'd left a body behind, but whether this had been intentional or self-defense remained to be seen.  The motive, her intentions, were largely going to affect how he reacted.

Levi turned the body over with his foot and froze, staring at the man’s throat.  It was ripped out, like an animal had sunk its teeth all the way in but had been startled into tearing away before it was ready, bringing half the man’s throat with it.  Yet, despite the gruesome sight, there were only a few drops of blood on the ground beneath the body, a couple light smears around the wound itself.  When Levi crouched down to touch the body, it was ice cold against his fingers.  Algor mortis shouldn’t have even started yet, the man had hardly been dead for a few moments, but there was next to no blood despite his manner of death, the body lacked all warmth--the warmth shouldn’t have drained from him for at least a half hour.

There should have been blood all over this place--should have still been some blood in him draining to the parts of his body lying on the ground.  And yet…

A memory was making its way unbidden to the front of his mind, whispering sinister, impossible, dark thoughts into his mind as Levi stared at the dead man's throat.  A memory of a legend Kenny once tried to scare him with, one he had dismissed as nonsense and scoffed at the impossible tale.

A tale about an immortal creature that plagued the Underground as long as there had been an Underground, choosing the miserable place because of its darkness and isolation from the sun, and its plethora of people that no one would even care if someone went missing every now and then.  An undead demon with glowing red eyes, the last thing a man saw before it feasted on his blood and drained the life out of him, leaving his empty body lying in the street with his throat ripped open.

Kenny had told it to him once to scare him, to keep him from getting too cocky and thinking he was untouchable.  And Levi had called him out on it, called it the bullshit he'd been so sure that it was.  There was no such thing as demons or bloodsucking monsters.  There were real monsters in the world, but not of this dark, fantastical variety.

And Kenny had taught him the lesson that had led him here.  And made him a bit more wary of the darker corners of the world.

"Maybe not demons...or maybe there are. There's Titans above ground, right?  Why wouldn't we have our own brand of monster down here?"

Kenny scratched his chin.  "Whether you believe in the demon part or not, there's always a little truth to every legend.  At the least, there's probably a killer somewhere down here with a signature like that who caused the stories."

Levi looked dubiously at Kenny. "Yeah?  How do I know they're not just legends about your murders."

"Because, Runt.  I slit throats, I don't rip 'em out."

Levi felt his blood run cold, chilling him to the core.

What he’d witnessed...she had not been a target, she had never been someone’s prey; she had been the hunter luring in an unsuspecting victim.

How long had she been doing this?  A couple years at least, going off how long she'd been sneaking out to the Underground, but it probably went on before that, before she joined the military, before she even showed up on the surface.  When he'd caught the smell of blood on her cloak he hadn't expected this to be the source.

“I...conduct blood rituals to achieve perfection.”

That deadpan delivery at the table in the mess hall--had she been secretly mocking them?  Or, more accurately, secretly mocking him, the one trying to figure out what she was hiding?

Was she...even human?

It was insane, but so was the thought of the empty grave before he’d opened that coffin.  It was madness, but it fit, it made things that had seemed alien suddenly belong in this greater picture.  Where else would all this blood have gone, especially with how quickly she had to leave because of his interruption?  How else would she have these senses that told her when Levi was near--that allowed her to know when she was being followed when it should have been impossible, that allowed her to see him in detail in the shadows from a distance yet still draw a perfect portrait, and had made her aware of the Titans before anyone else?  That strength and ease in all of her physical requirements as a soldier had to have come from somewhere, like Levi’s, but this hadn’t been what he was thinking.

And then there was the undead thing, the immortal thing, from the story he’d heard as a child.

No, no that was pushing it too far.  That she might not be human was a hard enough pill to swallow, even when he had his own superhuman abilities and lived in a world of Titans.  He was not a superstitious person, and this was a hard thought to even entertain, let alone to take seriously.  Even when he was staring at a corpse that strongly suggested the truth of the tale.

Even if it would explain how Y/N Frazier crawled out of her grave when it was supposed to be humanly impossible.  Even though it smoothed away the question of how Y/N Frazier and Y/N L/N were connected by suggesting they were the same person.

No matter what the full truth was, he was at a point where he had to confront her either way, for everyone’s safety.  He might be the only one who could match her, physically, and even then he’d have to be extra careful about his approach, because she could still overpower him if he wasn’t careful.  At the very least, she was a murderer, a serial killer who hadn’t stopped even after joining the Scouts and was still regularly killing, and somewhere he used to live, no less.  He had hated living down here, but part of him still took that personally.

At the worst, though, she was a monster of shadowy legend.  One that preyed on humankind, like the Titans.  A true enemy of mankind that it seemed almost no one was aware of.  Now he knew, and he had to do something about it.

But first, the confrontation.  And he better make sure he had her cornered and that he was ready for a fight.  It was likely she would lash out, and he needed to be prepared for a fight for survival.  He needed to be ready to handle the situation as soon as he had the truth, because whether she was a murderer or monster only affected how the fight would go and the severity of the stakes.  If she was a legitimate monster as well as a murderer did not affect the fact that a fight was inevitable--it just decided how deadly it would actually be.

And he needed a contingency in case the worst happened, so the truth wouldn’t die with him.

The Scouts needed to know what lurked within their ranks.  Erwin needed to know.  It was all a front--something deadly was masquerading as one of them, and it needed to be stopped before it could do irreversible damage.

Next Chapter---->

Levi Tags:  @clary-quinn @humanitys-hottestsoldier@whalerus @sunny-flo @thirstyforsometea​

Wings in the Dark Tags:  @regalillegal @animeluver23 @theshylittleelfgirl @queenthorin1 @dilucs-thighs @sociallyanxiousmouse

[princessofgayskull]

our secret moments in your crowded room // pt. 2

a catradora drabble (companion piece to this) featuring Melog

summary: Catra doesn’t want to go back to sleeping alone, and her new room in the Bright Moon Castle is too big not to be lonely

The first night Catra sleeps alone, she doesn’t sleep at all.

She doesn’t understand how anyone expects her to, either. The night that followed Horde Prime’s defeat, the first time the moons rise on a planet that finally peace, is total and complete chaos. It’s the feel of magic settling in the air, it’s clones who don’t know who they are or what to do expect stand around everywhere, it’s the victory cry of Etherians echoing across the horizon, Catra’s voice joining them for the first time. 

It was also too unfeasible to go all the way back to Bright Moon and make it there in time for anyone to get any actual sleep. Not that anyone gets much rest back at camp either, but at least those shelters were already made. The night was equal parts celebration and retribution. For the first time in years, Catra falls asleep on Adora’s shoulder with Melog sprawled over both their laps. For the first time in years, Catra wakes to find Adora still there with.

But going to Bright Moon is unavoidable. It’s unavoidable because it’s Etheria’s center, it’s where the diplomacy flows out and into the rest of the system, it’s where the new beginning actually begins and Glimmer has this idea in her head that Catra should be there and should be a part of it. What, like she’s gonna go back to the Fright Zone? There was nothing left for her there. 

Everything important in Catra’s life is heading towards Bright Moon for the next phase, and they want Catra to come with them. Adora wants Catra to come with them. And when Adora tells her that when they’re breaking down camp, her hands on Catra’s shoulders and that soft look in her eyes, that instinctual urge to run away disintegrates into nothing.

She just doesn’t expect her first night in Bright Moon to be spent staring up at a ceiling so far up in a room enveloped in the night’s darkness and the paralyzing sound of her own loneliness. Melog sleeps across her chest, a white noise machine of warmth, keeping her grounded in this reality of this room that has its own gravity. Catra can’t find it in her to close her eyes as she lays across what’s more of a pillow plush than an actual bed.

The only reason Catra’s in here is because Glimmer gifted her the room out of legitimate kindness. As it turns out, Adora got one of her own when she left Catra- sorry, defected from the Horde- because people here were actually treated like people and regardless of what Catra had done in the past, she fell into that category now. She was one of them now. It didn’t make her a princess or queen by the longest shot, but around here that counted for something.

“Pretty sweet accommodations, huh?” Glimmer had thrown her words from Horde’s Prime back at her, holding back no amusement when she had shown Catra around the room, teleporting in a craze from one piece of fancy furniture to the next.

All of the moments that Catra had spent overwhelmed and so, so out of her depth since walking into Glimmer’s palace were coming crashing down on her now and she could barely breathe under the weight of it all. Figuring all her snarky commentary about the way Royals lived was enough, Catra didn’t bother voicing her discomfort. Deep down, she hoped that the way Melog wrapped themselves between her legs and curled their tail up her thigh clued Adora- or anyone really- into how much she wanted to be whisked away from this.  

Why hadn’t Adora just asked Catra to stay in her room? Catra would’ve been more than okay with that. 

Running her claws down her face, Catra groaned. It had been stupid to think that those sleepovers Glimmer gushed about when it was just the two of them on Horde Prime’s ship would last forever now that she was a part of the gang. Not as stupid as thinking Adora would be up for some sort of cohabitating, shared sleeping arrangements with her when they’d been sworn enemies less than a month ago.

“I need to give Adora space. She’s her own person, she can make her own decisions.” Catra tells herself, trying to take a deep breath like Perfuma had taught her. “And I’ll fall asleep eventually. I don’t need her around to do that.”

This statement prompts Melog to lift their head, ethereal blue eyes wide and shining with packed judgement.

“Don’t look at me like that!” Catra hisses at her animal/alien companion. The dissonant purr of Melog’s reply fills the empty space around them.

“You didn’t ask Adora if she wanted to sleep alone. You can ask her if she wants to sleep together, and if she says she wants space, then you know,” Melog’s purr ends and Catra rolls her eyes before throwing her head back on her pillow.

“How does that help me now? Adora’s probably asleep already. Last thing I wanna do is wake her up and get punched in the nose. Again.”

Melog, keeping their eyes on Catra, withholds their reply. Not backing down form the staring contest the alien cat has incited, she glares at her companion. Which is useless knowing how she’s practically see through to this creature- wait, she stops herself, blinking. See through.

Catra has the beginnings of an idea. A creepy idea, so she doesn’t bother trying to think it through, rather pushes Melog of her legs and trips off the giant pink pillow puff that’s her bed so she can act before she uses her bravery. 

A purr makes Catra’s ear perk up, “Really? Are you sure this is a good idea?

“Hey!” Catra sent a flat look in Melog’s direction. They’re shielding her legs and making her think twice. “Laying next to that cot Adora has cloaked isn’t great but it’s better than being in here alone!” Alone with the images that haunt her, the images she’s sees when she lets her eyes close: Shadow Weaver taking her mask off before ceasing to exist, the violent green waters of Prime’s baptismal font, Adora unconscious in her arms as the world ends around them. With shaking hands she asks, “Are you gonna help me or not?”

Melog runs through her legs, rubbing her calf with their phasing mane. Catra’s companion heads for the door.

 _

Sneaking past the Queen’s Guard is child’s play. Melog has her back, keeping the both of them cloaked, as Catra sneaks around in her Horde issued bra and sleeping shorts. Maybe one day she and Adora will get around to finding clothing that can withstand the strain of battle that doesn’t carry the Horde’s symbol, but Catra doubts a shopping list is high on anyone’s priority list right now.

It’s not like any of the guards that stand at fourteen feet intervals- Catra notices- are on high alert, or would rat her out for being out past curfew. Because there’s no curfew here and that’s not their job. But Catra breathes a little easier knowing she can’t be seen. Maybe it’s because they can’t ask questions if they can’t see her, can’t make her rethink her strange stalker like actions. Maybe it’s because wearing their clothes, Catra hasn’t exactly shaken off the rust of growing up in the Fright Zone.

Melog keeps her out of sight as they walk past Bow’s room, sending her a look when they hear his snores seeping out from under the door frame. Catra shrugs. 

With no guards around, Melog starts up again, “Why did they put Adora’s room so far from yours?” which Catra knows is probably code for, “how much longer do I have to keep this up?”

“You big baby,” Catra runs her hand over Melog’s tail, “And I dunno, how I am supposed to know the inner workings of Sparkles’ mind? I’m like, the first person new here that hasn’t been a prisoner.”

Her claws trail the wall and she keeps up with Melog’s steps. 

The fact that the room Glimmer put her in was where they’d been “keeping” Scorpia didn’t go over Catra’s head. Yeah, she and Scorpia are on better terms these days, but remembering how Scorpia left her for the Rebellion still brings a sting to Catra’s throat. Remembering that it was her own fault is like the punch in the gut she didn’t ask for, but probably deserv- WHACK!

“Ow!” Beyond the pain resonating in Catra’s forehead, she can hear Adora cry out. 

“Adora?!” Melog’s cloaking falls and Catra is standing in front of her, well, sort of girlfriend, wincing and holding her forehead there in her gray tank top and shorts.

“Catra?!” Adora yells with the same tone when she realizes what the invisible force she butted heads with actually is. “What are you doing out of bed?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” replies Catra.

Adora takes a guarded stance and Melog looks between the two of them before her shoulders fall, “I- I couldn’t sleep. I thought, um, that I could come see you? I mean, I did think you were going to be asleep and I thought I could just stay there with you-” as she speaks, a sort of softness overcomes Catra. How had she managed to survive on the other edge of Adora’s sword? No wonder her destiny as a Force Captain was doomed from the start, that her anger sputtered and left her burned out. Catra had so much love for this woman. It was always going to win out at the end of the day. “-is that creepy? I know, it’s creepy but I just really wanted to see you-”

Catra grabs Adora’s hand and looks her in the eye. “Do you wanna come lay down? With- with me?” 

“Mmhmm,” nods Adora. She intertwines their fingers together, and when Catra starts to pull her back up the hallway, she follows without hesitation.

Since they’re going back the way they came, past Bow and Glimmer’s rooms, Catra’s hand finds Melog’s forehead and the cloaking flows through their bodies. Catra and Adora don’t make any noise, don’t make any stops, beyond the looks Catra throws her over her shoulder. Right before they reach the door to Catra’s room, Adora squeezes Catra’s hand. 

“Hey,” her voice is barely above a whisper, “why were you out of bed?”

“No reason.” Catra turn her face away, hoping that the cover of the dark will hide her growing blush. She curls her tail around her waist and keeps it there to keep it from betraying her.

“Oh my gosh, Catra- were you coming to see me?” Adora throws her hands onto Catra’s shoulders, a playful instinct that Catra can’t fight the subconscious need to return.

Melog’s cloaking falls.

Grabbing Adora’s fingers, Catra pulls her sort of girlfriend to her front before grabbing her wrists and pinning her to the wall. Their noses touching, Catra lets herself smile, “Okay, maybe I was. You’re not the only person who doesn’t want to sleep alone.”

“Is it also cause you like me?” teases Adora. 

Even in the dark Adora’s the most beautiful thing Catra’s ever seen; blonde hair unrestrained and kissing her defined shoulder, standing up against the wall in her pajamas, she’s all Catra’s ever wanted.  

“You idiot,” Catra kisses her lips, “it’s actually because I love you.”

_

Catra wakes to a warmth against her back. A chest rising and falling, a hand lain across the crook of her elbow. Opening her eyes, she sees that it’s not only light out, but that the dawn has come and gone, turned in midmorning without their permission. There’s no way she and Adora haven’t slept in way past the time the promised to be up and ready to take on the challenges that awaited them in peacetime.

“Adora,” she mutters, rolling over and buries her face in the space between Adora’s shoulder and head, “you’re hogging the blanket.”

Adora doesn’t open her eyes as her grip on Catra’s waist tightens, “‘S’not fair. You have Melog.”

Running her hand down the side of her animal companion, Catra lets out of a breath. She’s sandwiched in between Melog and Adora’s warmth, the little spoon wrapped in Adora’s calm embrace. There’s nothing Catra would change about this. This is the way she’d keep things forever if it were up to her.

“We have to get up soon,” Catra tries, yawning and stretching her arms out.

Her girlfriend’s hands come down over hers, “Don’t want to.”

“Adora-”

“I want to stay with you, Catra,” her sleepy voice reverberates over Catra’s ears and they flatten under her chin. Tail winding around Adora’s waist, she pulls her closer and sighs.

“What if Rainbow and Sparkles come looking for us?” 

Adora, eyes still closed, lets out a happy sigh. “Let them.”

It goes without saying that Catra never has to sleep alone again.

reblogs > likes!

[frosteee]

Leuvis's Hunting [Fanfic]

The day Sonju was taken hunting in Goldy Pond was the day he finally understood his brother.

"Are you sure he'll be alright?"

Lord Bayon underestimated Sonju's hearing. The young Prince listened as the aristocrat whispered to Leuvis, his brother.

"I wouldn't have brought him here if I didn't think so, Bayon," said Leuvis, slightly irritated. Palvus the monkey-demon chittered on his shoulder.

"Well…"

Lord Bayon was nervous about more than just that. His eyes lingered on the young outsider. Sonju was a prince, third in line to the throne and Leuvis’s younger brother, and Bayon knew him well enough to know his loyalties, but the change to his centuries-long hunting party unsettled him.

Sonju understood. They hunted live humans, bought and shipped to Bayon’s doorstep, and ate them together with the finest wines the lord could provide. They stole the rightful property of premium farms for their own pleasure; had done for centuries. If his sister, the Queen, found out, her fury alone would kill them all.

The young prince grinned. Bayon had nothing to fear. Legravalima disapproved of many things, including Sonju himself. An opportunity to defy her was the most delectable meat of all.

He recalled the night he left the palace. There Leuvis stood, shrouded in the darkness of the doorway, the glow of his lamp flickering in his black eyes.

“Come,” he said. “Tomorrow you hunt with me.”

These words echoed in Sonju’s mind as the hunters ventured underground: Leuvis, Bayon, Bayon’s servants, Luce, Luce’s servants, Nous, Nouma and himself. The party left Bayon’s estate far behind, their eyes trained on the paradise below.

A forest awaited them up ahead, deep and dark. The artificial sun had only just risen, glimmering red between the trees. It got Sonju’s blood pumping.

“So, when the music starts, the hunt begins?” he asked, drawing his brother’s attention.

Bayon was looking at him again. He could feel his eyes on the back of his neck.

“Exactly,” Leuvis replied, idly scratching Palvus behind the ears. “And when it ends, so does the hunt.”

“I can’t wait!” hissed Luce, slavering uncontrollably. “I can’t wait - hurry! It’s starting soon, hurry!” He was a runtish, yapping demon with a rabble of underlings clambering at his heels. Sonju looked down at him and questioned Bayon’s wisdom.

“I want a juicy fat one!” cried Nous, licking his thin, black lips.

“A young one!” said Nouma.

“What about you, your Highness?” Bayon asked.

"Uh…"

Sonju hadn’t been particular about his targets before. It was arrogant, it was wrong.

“Whatever Brother decides,” he replied finally. This seemed fair - Leuvis was the one who had brought him here, after all.

Leuvis chuckled. “A good answer, indeed.”

“He shall teach you much,” said Bayon, nodding appreciatively. “I daresay you could not find a better teacher.”

“Please, Bayon, no flattery,” Leuvis sighed. “I hear enough of it at court.”

"I mean it."

At that moment, a high, jangling tune pierced the air. It was faint and distant, but unmistakable to their sensitive ears. Luce let out a rebel yell and bounded away with his gang.

Nous and Nouma split away too, their wiry black forms melting into the darkness.

Bayon and Leuvis stood very still, listening.

“There shall be several out at this hour, gathering food,” Bayon mused. “With any luck, there will be prime cuts amongst the offal.”

“One can hope,” said Leuvis. “Good hunting, Bayon.”

Bayon nodded and took a right. “Good hunting, Leuvis, Prince Sonju."

He disappeared into the forest.

Sonju felt Leuvis’s bony hand on his shoulder.

“Come, little brother. Our time is limited.”

"Yes, sir."

Leuvis strode purposefully forward. Sonju followed, eager to keep pace with him. The young prince had been excited with many a tale of Leuvis’s part in the war, long ago. The Grand Duke could not replace the teacher Sonju lost, but no hunter alive was his equal.

Screams echoed from the direction Luce had gone, tangled with the lord's ugly laugh.

"He's fast," said Sonju.

"The fool would dine on blind newborns if he found them," Leuvis muttered.

The young prince wasn't surprised.

“Almost all the humans that live here are rabbits, Sonju,” his brother went on. “Weak, frightened things, unable to do anything but run on feeble little legs. What passion can a hunter find in that?”

They walked further through the forest. A screaming female child shot across their path without even noticing them. Sonju started forward, but Leuvis pulled him back. Seconds later, Luce and his band came shrieking after her.

"Get her! Get her, boys!"

Leuvis sighed and let go. “For heavens’ sake. Come, Sonju.”

The brothers continued on for a few minutes in silence before Leuvis slowed to a stop. He lifted the brim of his hat as he cast his eyes to the dark canopy above.

“How many do you sense, little brother?”

Sonju concentrated. Four. No, five humans. Their presences were mildly sensitive to the demons’ sensation, coming stronger from the left. They were perfectly immobile, each spread a certain distance apart from one another - except for one.

“Five, Brother,” said Sonju. “Waiting.”

A grin creaked between the plates of Leuvis’s mask. “Not hiding?”

“Unlikely,” said Sonju, frowning. “They're too evenly spread out - almost a perfect circle. There's one I'm not sure about - it's further away.”

Leuvis pressed his shoulder, showing all his teeth in a fierce grin. “Wonderful. We may hunt tigers yet!”

He nudged the prince in the direction of their targets.

“Surprise them, little brother."

“What about you?”

“I’ll be along,” Leuvis replied. “Good hunting.”

Sonju beamed. “Good hunting, Brother.”

Slipping into the undergrowth, spear in hand, the young prince trained his senses on his yet-unseen targets. None of them had budged an inch from their positions, and he was convinced that they lay in ambush.

He took a deep, slow breath. He had to treat this like any other hunt. Forget what his brother was doing, what the others were doing.

They were close now. Strangely, one human remained much farther than the others.

Sonju frowned. If this was an ambush, why would one detach themselves from the group? Was it just a hiding child, unrelated to the others? No. Sonju stopped and focused. No, this human was still in the immediate area. Yet its presence was faint.

He twitched. No. It wasn’t distance that made it faint - it was height. A lookout, perhaps, or a sniper.

Anticipation bubbling in his gut, Sonju crept forward. If he got this one first, their plan would suffer a heavy blow. Maybe even collapse.

A bony hand pressed his shoulder. Sonju turned slightly to see the Grand Duke crouched by his side, keeping to the shadows of the trees.

“What’re you waiting for, little brother?” he whispered.

Sonju lifted his head and pointed. “There’s one up high, right there. If I go any closer, it’ll spot me.”

“Very good,” said Leuvis. “Now what will you do?”

“I’m going to bring it down.”

“Oh?” Sonju could hear the amusement in his brother’s voice. “From this distance?”

“Yeah. I can do it.”

He reached behind to take his bow, but stopped. Under his brother's watchful eyes, he lifted his spear.

"I'll use this."

“You will be giving your prey a weapon with which to hunt you, little brother,” Leuvis warned, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

He was right. Not only that, but an arrow would more surely and easily find its mark.

Sonju smiled. His brother's excitement was infectious. “Well, that’ll make things more interesting, won’t it?”

Leuvis stared for a good few seconds before stifling a laugh. “I like it. Go!”

The prince shifted his position, shuffling left and right as he peered through the thick foliage for his target.

Finally, he saw her. A female - young, no more than ten years of age - perched on a high branch up ahead. She held a rifle in her hands, poised and ready.

Sonju took aim.

The girl never knew what hit her. The spearhead sliced through the trees and cut straight through her neck, severing the head. Screams filled the air as her body tipped and fell.

Sonju dashed forward, the thrill of success pumping through his body. He heard the girl’s body hit the ground and the panicked scattering of feet.

She was key to their plan. Now they have nothing.

He reached a clearing, where the girl’s body lay headless and bleeding. The surviving children were spreading out in all directions. No matter - Sonju would find them all.

Charging forward, he heard a snap. In the seconds it took to react, his leg was snatched out from under him and his world flipped upside down and he was yanked into the air.

Sonju forced his head up, dizzy from the shock.

“What the--?”

His leg was tied by a long piece of rope, fastened onto a spry tree branch bending overhead.

He was snared like a rabbit.

There was a terrible howl, and Sonju looked to see a dark-skinned boy running full pelt towards him with Sonju’s spear in his hands. The hate in his eyes shocked Sonju into action.

Using all his weight, Sonju swung himself as hard as he could. When he was high enough, he threw out his arms and slashed the rope with his nails. He dropped and landed hard on his side, coughing as dust flew up. With the boy steps away, the prince kicked up dirt and used the seconds it spared to rise and lunge.

The boy screamed, but not from fear. Hatred, anguish, the cry of victory lost. He knew it was over.

The battle, if it could be called that, was over. The boy lay dead at Sonju's feet.

The prince inspected his prey curiously. He could be no older than the female he killed. His hands were bloody, and the blood stained the shaft of Sonju’s spear.

Leuvis came out from the trees, chuckling. “That was quite the spectacle."

“I was careless,” Sonju muttered, his face reddening.

“Indeed," said the elder. "But you’ve hunted nothing but rabbits since you could throw a spear. It’s no wonder.”

Sonju knelt and rummaged in his pouch.

“The others are getting away,” said Leuvis, merely pointing out a fact rather than urging his brother on.

“It’ll only take a minute.”

Sonju picked out a Vida flower, its petals closed and pale. He looked at the boy and remembered the murderous look on his face. He had aimed to kill. Abandoned by his friends, he alone stood to fight.

The stem pierced his heart, and the flowers opened, flushing red with the life the gods had created.

In the quiet, he remembered his teacher’s words: “Never forget what it means to hunt life.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone do that,” Leuvis remarked. “How nostalgic.”

“I’m returning what I borrowed,” said Sonju, standing.

His brother came closer, circling the body. Sonju could see the pure, animal glee in his face. “You saw his eyes too, yes? That was a tiger you killed.”

Leuvis bent down and put a hand on the boy’s still chest. “It was short-lived, and foolish, but you showed my brother human spirit. My thanks.”

Sonju, who had never seen this brother thank anyone sincerely before, could only stare.

“Come,” said Leuvis. “Your prey is escaping.”

The prince resumed the hunt, but as he picked each child off, one by one, his suspicions were confirmed. Without their leaders, the sniper girl and the boy, their camaraderie disintegrated. They sabotaged one another, screamed and cried, and ran as fast as their legs could take them. It was so easy, Sonju had time to plant a Vida flower in each body before the music stopped.

Leuvis followed Sonju without a word. He didn’t bother to do more than hang back, in perfect view of the fleeing prey. He didn’t care that the children soiled themselves at the sight of him and ran half-mad into the arms of death. He didn't care for their screams, or their desperate acts of self-preservation. They didn’t even reflect in his eyes.

The last boy dropped to the ground and buried his face in his hands, unable or unwilling to move. Sonju stepped forward. Leuvis, who was reclining against a nearby tree, turned his face away.

“Watch me, Brother,” said Sonju, annoyed.

“My own blood, putting down a half-dead rabbit? Spare me the sight.”

Sonju raised his spear and struck. The boy never moved again.

As he prepared the Vida flower, Leuvis spoke. The weariness in his voice made Sonju pause and listen.

“See what we’ve been reduced to, little brother,” he said. “Hunting mewling infants. In my youth I battled warriors. I was feared and hated, but my foes fought me for everything they had and everything I took from them. I responded in kind, and my very blood sang with joy. I am feared and hated still, but if my infamy cannot return the thrill of those days - what good is it? Damnit boy, put that away!”

In a rush of wind, Leuvis closed in, snatched the flower from Sonju's fingers and crushed it under his foot.

“Stop!” Sonju screamed. “Brother, stop!”

Palvus hissed. Its master was unrepentant. “How can you have pride, bestowing such a thing on lives so pitiful?”

“It’s not about pride!” Sonju shouted. “It’s about humility!”

“You feel no shame? That one you killed wasn’t even a rabbit. It was fodder.”

“It was a life!” cried Sonju. “All life has value - and deserves respect!”

Leuvis laughed a short, bitter laugh, and Sonju realised how angry he was. “Oh, dear, pious brother of mine, how I disagree!”

“Remove your foot now!”

“I suppose your teacher taught you these things,” said Leuvis. “The old ways. That’s why he died.”

Sonju’s hands shook. “He was murdered.”

“He was a fool,” said Leuvis quietly. “Now you practise a dead religion in the stead of a dead man, on unworthy fodder, in a world that rewards faith with death! Do you not see how pointless it is?”

That’s when Sonju struck. Howling, he lunged, spear-point for his brother’s eyes. Leuvis sprang back laughing out of Sonju’s range. He stood like the shadow of death itself in the red sunlight, smirking.

He had the Vida flower in his fingers.

“Take it back!” Sonju panted.

“Hum?”

“Take back what you said about him!”

“What’s this? A brother’s quarrel?”

It was Bayon. The lord approached from the trees between the two brothers, casting curious glances at their faces.

“'Tis indeed,” said Leuvis. “Stay back, Bayon. My little brother is quite angry.”

He turned his attention to Sonju, slowly twisting the Vida’s stem between his fingertips. He then pierced the stem through his cloak until only the flowers were visible.

“How about this? If you manage to take this flower from my person, I will retract my words.”

Sonju set his jaw and readied his spear. “Fine. And what do I give you?”

His brother’s eyes gleamed. “A fight.”

[aescapisms]

everything is blue [b.barnes]

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader word count: 6k ??? warnings: violence, death, the usual prompt: Gang leader White Wolf had his shipments stolen from him, and you were the prime suspect. You did steal something, yes that’s true, but it definitely wasn’t the shipments.

happy birthday hoe @bluerorjhan​ 

“Bullshit Barton.” Bucky’s voice echoed around the room, papers were flying everywhere. He was pissed and nothing was safe from his anger. Clint let out an exasperated sigh, he had explained it to him five times now and Bucky still hasn’t accepted it. “How the fuck does our shipment just fucking disappear like that? Do you know how much we have riding on this?” 

Clint wanted to answer him that he knows, how could he not when Bucky had already told him about it six times in the last 30 minutes. Clint knew better though, he knew not to further agitate the boss. 

“Bring in Parker.” Bucky said to Barton after a few minutes of silence. This cannot be happening right now. How could Barton be fucking careless? Bucky already told them how important this shipment was and how people would be gunning for it but they still messed up the security. There aren’t enough papers to throw across the room that would appease his anger. He needed to punch someone, he’ll probably do that later but right now he needs to handle the missing shipments. 

“Mr. White Wolf, Sir?” The kid, Parker, quietly said as he entered the room. “Y-You called for me?” Bucky nodded and asked him to sit down. Peter Parker, the young hacker was recruited in the gang at the age 15 after Rogers found him beaten up in an alleyway somewhere in his neighborhood. “I need you to pull up all of the CCTV footage from the night three days ago.” 

“Is this because of the robbery, Mr. White Wolf sir?” Bucky nodded, “I want all of the CCTV footage from the moment the truck left the building until it reached T’Challa’s place. That truck left here full of guns and ammos and arrived in the warehouse empty. Figure out what happened in between.” Parker nodded and left to work on his new found assignment. 

This is the first time that this has happened. He founded this gang nine years ago and began the business of supplying people weapons, ammunition and services. Everything can be taken care of for a price. They were the best in the business, that was until this. And in this world, one mishap can cause you your credibility. Luckily, T’Challa has always been a friend and was willing to keep the issue quiet on the condition that it had to be resolved by the end of the week. 

“Hey, you want some beer?” Rogers asked as he handed Bucky a can then sat down on the couch. “Parker is already working on it, we’ll find out what happened and resolve this matter quickly.” His words of encouragement didn’t really do Bucky any good. He still felt miserable and hopeless and angry. Bucky grabbed the beer and sat on the chair opposite Steve. Silence enveloped the room until Sam appeared holding four more beers and a shit-eating grin. 

The three of them sat there in silence drinking until Sam finally asked, “Do you have any idea who took the shipment?” 

“A lot came to mind.” Bucky replied, crushing the now empty beer on his left arm before grabbing a new one. “But I have a feeling that it was the other gang. Hers.” That last word escaped Bucky’s mouth with such poison that it sent shivers up Sam and Steve’s spines. 

“If it was any other gang, they wouldn’t be able to one up Barton like that. But if it’s her. It may be possible.” 

No one inside or outside of the gang has ever heard Bucky call you by your name. He always referred to you as ‘her’ or ‘that person’. No one ever really figured out why. 

Your gang, or as other people unofficially  call it ‘Shadows’ was only established three years ago but you have swept every other gang on the map. Winning fights, races, gambling, and even escaping the police were just child’s play to you. You quickly earned your place as the gang to be feared and not be messed with. 

Bucky had met you twice, first was in a fight two years ago. A subordinate of yours stepped into Bucky’s territory and caused trouble for quite a few of his people. Every gang has a different territory. And crossing territories is an offense in your world, causing trouble while you’re at it is worse. Loki did both. 

Loki was sort of unhinged yes, but he was a valuable asset to you and so you personally came to collect him from Bucky. 

“I heard you have one of my people.” were the first words you ever said to him. “I’m here to take him back.” 

Bucky heard a few things about you. People called you names, one prominent one was that you were an insufferable bastard. “So you’re the one causing trouble back there huh.” You smiled at him and bowed “I’m surprised that the infamous Wolf is keeping tabs on me. Consider me flattered.” There was something wrong with your voice, you were smiling at him but your voice was completely cold and monotonous. Lifeless. 

“Your subordinate crossed my territory. What should we do about that?” Bucky asked, dismissing your previous statement. You looked at Loki who was bound on a pillar with ropes. “I would like to offer my sincere apologies, he still hasn’t learned the customs of this world and he is also, frankly, very stupid. I will pay for the damages and teach him a lesson myself.” You sent Loki a glare which got him to stop making faces at Steve. 

“Why should I accept your apology?” 

You smiled “Isn’t it customary for gang leaders to give each other a gift?” Bucky raised his eyebrow “Yeah, if you’re the gang leader of your territory which I believe that you are not.” 

“Yet.” 

“Huh?” Bucky asked.

“Not yet. Give us six months, and once we become the gang leader we’ll consider you letting this matter go as your gift to us.” 

Bucky hated arrogance, but he hated hollow arrogance even more. “You’re nothing but a small gang and you really think you can take over that place? Don’t make me laugh.” 

“I’m not trying to make you laugh. If I was I would’ve brought you to the fucking circus.” Ah there it was, Bucky thought. That’s why they called you a cold heartless insufferable bastard. “If you believe that we can’t do it’s fine. It’s your  right to be wrong. But if we do become the gang leader, it would be very awkward for you.” 

Bucky has had enough and pulled a gun on you. “What’s stopping me from putting a bullet into your brain?” 

“Nothing really,” you smiled as if taunting him to pull the trigger “but I can just hear the whispers now. Oh you know that Wolf? Yeah, he killed Y/N because he was afraid of what she’s capable of. What a fucking pussy really.” 

Bucky’s finger slowly moved away from the trigger, and you smirked. “C’mon Loki. Let’s go. I know you’ve already released yourself from those ropes hours ago.” 

Everyone looked at Loki who smiled as he let the ropes fall to the ground. Before the two of you left, you looked at Bucky who still had his gun pointed towards you and gave him one last smile and before disappearing into the night. 

The next time he saw you was at the gang leaders’ meeting. He was surprised to see you there, although to be fair, everyone was. A clan meeting was held every six months. He wasn’t expecting you here. You said you would take over the territory in six months, but you managed to do it in three. 

Bucky noticed the change in you though, you were quieter and if it was even possible, even colder than you were before. He wondered what were the things that you went through in those three months for you to change drastically. How was it possible for your little gang to take out Erik Killmonger, a notorious killer with a thirst for blood and wipe his gang clean. 

“Do you really think that it’s her?” Sam asked pulling Bucky back to reality. Bucky shrugged, he had a gut feeling but that was all there was. A gut feeling. Movies and TV shows portrayed gangs as chaotic with no regard for the law but they’re wrong. Gangs are lawful, only they follow their own. And one thing that you cannot do is accuse someone without any evidence. You do that, and you will die before you can even say the words I’m sorry. 

Bucky stood up and went to where Parker was to try and see what he had dug up so far. “What do you have?” 

“Nothing yet Mr White Wolf Sir. All the CCTV footage was deleted and I’m still trying to get the files back but it’s going to take a while. But I feel like I know this work…” 

“Evidence?” 

“Well, you know how hackers like to leave their own tag?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky answered, “To let people know that it’s them. It’s common in gangs and in hacking. You found something?” 

“Yes Mr. White Wolf, Sir. I found this.” Peter Parker blew up the screen with a single word. Death. “Now, I checked if there are gangs out there called Death or even a gang member with that codename but I came up empty. That;s when I realized that this wasn’t a part of the code. It’s an image, so I checked it in photoshop and brightened the image and there it is.” 

Bucky’s suspicions were confirmed, because the image showed a shadow behind the word Death. You did this, and you were going to pay. 

“Rogers, gather up everyone. We leave in 5 minutes.” Bucky was pissed. He never thought that you would do such a thing. Was this payback? Maybe, he just hasn’t figured out what for. Or maybe it wasn’t payback. Maybe you just really like fucking with people. 

“Should I inform them that we would be coming?” 

“No. We’ll pay them a surprise visit.” 

It was a Thursday night, which meant it was a gang game night, and gang game nights are easily the highlight of your week. 

“No we are not playing that magic trick game again, Scott. You always win.” Wanda complained as she pushed Scott from his chair. 

“That’s why I always suggest that we do it.” Everyone grabbed their empty beer cans and chucked them all at Scott. “Oh come on, just because you all don’t know how to do magic doesn’t mean it’s not fun for me!” Scott took a five second pause to understand the words that just came out of his mouth. “Oh shit that really sounded bad”

Everyone laughed, “It really sounded bad you dumbass. Everyone get up and go to the firing range. We’ll do archery, since you guys suck at archery. Lowest score becomes the designated driver for two months.” 

Everyone rushed to the firing range and grabbed a bow and arrow. “Are you not going to join?” Scott asked, and you just laughed. “Please note that I said, ‘you guys’ suck at archery.” Which wasn’t true. You might have an advantage, but you still very much suck at archery. 

Once you said go, arrows started flying out and they mostly hit the target, if the target was the wall. God they are hopeless, you thought. They were on their 7th arrow when the door suddenly opened wide and all you guys saw were guns pointing at you. It was Bucky Barnes and he looked like hell. 

Questions started forming inside your head. Why was he here? Why is he handsome as hell? What does he want? And more importantly, why are your friends pointing arrows at them as if those arrows will go right at their intended target?

This is the third time that Bucky met you. “Everyone put your arrows down. It’s not like you’ll be able to hit them accurately, you’ll just ruin the walls.” Your voice was playful, but commanding. Bucky saw everyone lower their bow but grabbed on to the arrow to just chunk them at people. 

You walked towards him with your arms wide and welcoming. “You know, if I had a dollar for all the times that you pointed a gun at me I would have 2 dollars. Which isn’t a lot but it’s really weird that it happened twice.” You grabbed the barrel of the gun and put it down.

“I highly advise that you guys put your guns down. It’s very rude.” Everyone almost instantaneously put their guns down just by the sound of your voice. They all looked at Bucky and he just nodded. “Take a seat, and speak. You’re interrupting our game night. Everyone get out. Mr. Wolf, you stay.” 

“But--” Loki wanted to speak but you just interrupted him. “I know. We’ll continue game night after I talk to him. Just go prepare for the beer pong.” 

“I will be civil about this--”

“Civil? Mr. Wolf, there was nothing civil about you crossing our territories without informing me. And then just showing up and pointing guns on our faces. Plus you interrupted our game night.” 

“Game night? Why do you even have game nights?” Bucky asked, a question he’s been meaning to ask since he walked inside the building. 

“Well, someone’s jealous.” Bucky rolled his eyes “Anyways, tell me. Barnes why should I not put a bullet between your eyes right now.” 

Bucky felt something that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Excitement. No one has openly refused and dared to talk down on him before. Or even had the courage to use his real name on him. He wasn’t at all confused as to how you knew his name. He knew that you had the means to get all the information about him. 

“I have been informed that my shipment from three days ago came upon its destination empty.”  

You just looked at him, uninterested “Rip to your shipments but what does that have to do with me? Why does my game night have to suffer just because you guys were careless in handling your packages?” And then it dawned on you, “Unless you think I did that?” 

“I know you did.” Bucky said confidently, “Your hacker is careless, and arrogant. He left a signature when he deleted the security tapes and we were able to track it down to Shadows. You should really get rid of your hacker, he’s useless.” 

“You’re wrong.” You answered and leaned back on the couch. 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re wrong. We didn’t do that. Our hacker didn’t do that. We don’t give a shit about your fucking shipments. So unless you have a solid proof that really ties this incident to us. Leave my building because you’re totally bumming out my mood. Unless you want to join a virtual Cards against Humanity with us later.” “I just handed you the evidence. Your guy slipped up and was too arrogant---”

“I’m the only hacker in Shadows and I won’t be that fucking dumb to leave a fucking signature that could be traced to me.Do you even use your fucking head? Jesus christ, you’re lucky you’re handsome.” 

That did it for Bucky, he quickly stood up from the couch and leaped towards you grabbing your shirt and pulling you close to him. “Don’t fucking mess with me. Give me back my shipments or I will burn your place to the fucking ground.” 

“Not gonna lie,” you said as you looked up at his blue eyes “this is kinda hot.” 

“Give me back my shipments.” 

“I’m sure that you have already searched through my place.Did you see any shipments, dumbfuck? Just because you messed up doesn’t mean you can use me as your fucking scapegoat.” This was the first time that Bucky saw you get mad. You grabbed his hand that was still holding your shirt and then pushed him away, “Now, I didn’t do anything when you barged in my territory without telling me. Didn’t do anything when you pointed your guns at my people. And didn’t do anything when you accused me of this bullshit without any hard evidence.”

You were right. All three of those warrants an instant death, it doesn’t matter if you’re the gang leader or not. Tarnishing the reputation of someone else for the sake of doing so warrants death. Because that indicates that you don’t respect them. Respect is important in keeping the harmony between the gangs, and Bucky just violated that. 

“I suggest that you leave now, before I lose all respect for you. You have disrespected my gang, my family. You’ve been in this business far longer than I have, and I know the rules better than you. Get out of my sight, because I will not be merciful the next time.”

“Okay so game night still back on?” Loki asked as soon as he entered the room. 

You smiled “Yes, new game though. It’s called find the culprit. It’s anyone’s game and whoever wins will get to choose the next job.” Everyone immediately went to work, after explaining to them what happened everyone just got fired up and did every†hing humanly possible to track down the bastard that wants to implicate you.

You lied when you said that you were the only hacker in the gang. Everyone in here has a background in hacking but no one would be that stupid as to steal from Bucky Barnes. Not when they know that he's the person you're hopelessly in love with. 

"Boss! Something just arrived, it's a box and it has a drawing of a wolf on it" Sam announced as he entered the room, clutching the said box. “Don’t worry, we already scanned it for bombs, it has nothing. We just didn’t want to open it because we thought that it was addressed to you.” And Bucky Barnes hates when people touch the things that are his.

Bucky grabbed the knife that he carried with him at all times, and opened the box. Inside the box there was a note, with a single drop of blood. “Take this to the lab. Check whose DNA it is. We’ll go to the address, just message me if you figure out who it is.”

In the car, Steve finally asked “Do you know who sent the note?” 

He knew of course. It was the same writing as the one on the blackboard from the building that they went to three days ago. The building that they rudely barged in, and interrupted the game night, and spoiled the mood for everyone. 

The address brought them to a warehouse on the far side of the town. And when they got in, his missing shipments were there along with tied up people from the gang from this town. And on top of his shipments there was another person there, one he recognized. “Rumlow, you betrayed me?” 

So that’s why it was so easy for this gang to be able to intercept their shipment and how they were able to delete all the records. They had a man inside. Bucky told them to take the shipments straight to T’challa and took Rumlow back with them. 

Rumlow already looked like he was beaten the shit out of. Blood splattered across his shirt and he just smiled. “Wondering why I did it?” He asked Bucky. 

Bucky didn’t really care, he always knew that Rumlow was up to something and he was also at fault for being too careless. “Don’t try to act high and mighty, Rumlow. You’re already done for. Blood is splattered across your face and your face. You don’t have the upper hand.” 

“This isn’t my blood.” Rumlow replied, “It was from that fool who thought that she could take me down by herself.” There was a deafening silence that enveloped the room. “You know, that girl that you like? Yeah, this is her blood.” 

Bucky took out his gun and in an instant, Rumlow was lying dead in the middle of the room. 

“Clean this up. I have to go.” 

Rumlow got you good and you know it. That fucking bitch didn’t play fair, and even dared to use a knife on you. You were surprised to figure out that there was an actual rat inside Wolf’s gang, and you couldn’t help but think about your own people. Your family. It  was obvious that Bucky treated his subordinates well, but if he could treat his subordinates like that and still have those people turn against him. You began to wonder what that could possibly mean for you. It’s not that you won’t be able to take them down, it’s just going to be hard to punish the person you considered your family for the past few years. 

“Look at you.” A voice suddenly spoke behind you, “You’re wounded.” 

It was him, and suddenly you  felt calm. Too calm. 

You fainted in Bucky’s arms. 

It was a good thing that he was able to find you when he did because you would’ve been devoured by the people lurking in the dark. Everyone who was lurking knew who you were, and every gang leader has a price on their heads. Yours was the highest, but Bucky had an inkling that if you found out how much you were worth you would be furious and demand that you’re worth more than that. 

And in a way you were. Maybe that’s why Bucky has always been different when it came to you. Maybe that’s why he always made sure to keep tabs on the things that you were doing so that if something were to happen, which thankfully it didn’t, he could lend a hand and help.

He didn’t know how to form friendships. All he ever had was the gang and being the leader all that they gave him was the respect as a leader. Yeah, Sam and Steve were there and they try their best to make it seem like they’re friends and they are but there’s still that wall separating them  and Bucky. 

Everyone treated him differently. Except you, you quickly made an impression on him as someone who doesn’t give a shit about other people than her own.  You made the other gangs mad, but you made Bucky curious. Curious if you had any idea what this world is truly made of. This world is full of monsters and demons and your idealism and unorthodox ways would not be tolerated here. He was curious about what this world is going to do to you. 

“Go get a doctor, quickly.” Bucky ordered as soon as the car stopped in front of  the warehouse. He carried you up and took you straight to his room. “Your wound isn’t that deep, but you bled a lot.” There was still no response from you. 

“I know you’re awake. You can stop pretending.” Then he hears it, your laugh. It was  something that he  wasn’t expecting to hear  but he was glad that he did. 

“You were carrying and  cuddling me from the car to this room. How  could I not take advantage? It’s not everyday  you get to be wrapped up around the arms of the White Wolf himself.” You said and tried to sit up and leaned against the headboard. “Is this your room? Kinda plain isn’t it?” You said and looked around. Bucky was about to say  something along the lines of ‘Can you just worry about your wound first.’ Until he realized that you were trying to distract yourself from the pain stemming from the wound on your side. 

“Why? What’s wrong with my room?” Bucky asked, indulging your statement. Might as well help you forget about the pain, even if it's just for a little while. 

“I think it lacks soul. It’s lonely.” 

“Rooms don't need to have souls. They just need to have a bed to sleep in.” 

“Ah, it really is true what they say. Someone’s room can tell so much about the person sleeping in it.”  

Bucky was about to ask what kind of room you had but a frightened doctor came into  the  door.  “S-Sir?” Bucky  pointed at you and he got the  hint. 

“Who is  this guy?” 

“Sorry  sir, Thor is currently dealing with a surgery and he can’t come. So we had to take the nearest doctor that we could find.” 

“Sam, what did I say about kidnapping people.” Bucky asked as he pinched the bridge of his nose.  He just looked at him and shrugged “That it’s okay if it’s for love?” 

That moment Steve knew better and just dragged Sam out of the room without giving Bucky the time to punch him in the face. 

The doctor cleaned up your wound and bandaged it up, then left after prescribing some antibiotics and some medication for the pain. 

“I’ll get someone to get you some of these meds.” Bucky said as he grabbed the note that the doctor left on his bedside table. 

“What you’re in a gang related business and you don’t have any pain medication. What kind of sorcery is this?” You asked laughing, Bucky just rolled his eyes. “Are you going to leave me? Can you not leave me. I may not look like it but I’m actually really afraid of being alone.” 

Bucky’s heart did something, but he didn’t know what. So he just shouted for one of his subordinates and asked them to buy the medication as he stayed inside your room. “Why are you being so nice to me?” 

“Take it as an apology. I was wrong for accusing you like that, and for ruining your game night.” He confessed, which was another first thing for him. 

“Aww, can’t believe that you’re a big softie, like a teddy bear. Yuck. Disgusting, get out of my room. I want to rest.”

“This is my room.” Bucky reminded you, “And you said that you hated being alone.” 

“And you’re the dummy who fell for it. Just leave, send a message to Shadows tell them no need to panic and that I’m going to be sleeping over.” 

“If you’re going to sleep here, where am I supposed to sleep?” 

“Aww, does the big softie want to sleep beside me? Maybe get some cuddles as well?” Bucky just smiled and walked towards the door. “Didn’t think so. Such a shame, I’m a very good cuddler. Good night boobear.” 

Something inside Bucky snapped, he shouldn’t do it but he did. He looked the door and climbed on the bed which prompted you to shout “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“You were right. I wanted some cuddles.” 

Never in your life did you imagine that Bucky, the White Wolf, the most feared gang leader in your area, would say something as corny and as cheesy as that. To be fair, Bucky didn’t think it would be possible as well but here you guys were. 

Bucky only wanted to tease you, that was all. But the moment you wrapped your arms around him he felt so giddy and so happy that he felt as if he would burst. 

That was the first night that Bucky slept peacefully. 

And the night that he fell in love with you without him knowing it. 

Something changed between the two gangs after that night. 

There was an unspoken rule that people from your gang aren’t to be messed with and would be given priority access each time you cross. The gang community quickly took notice and followed. Few weeks later they realized that they couldn’t afford to offend either one of you. 

The Wolves made a good example to one gang that decided to cross Shadows. It wasn’t the fact that Shadows couldn’t handle it, it was more on showing them that they had their backs. That Bucky has your back. 

It was almost as if the Shadows and Wolves decided to merge into a bigger gang. And that would be the most terrifying thing to ever happen on the goddamn planet. 

“So you’re telling me, you’re not going to attend game night?” You asked Bucky who is currently on the phone with you. 

“Yeah, I have some things to take care of.” 

“Okay, but you’re missing game night. Game. Night.” Bucky rolled his eyes. And gestured for Sam to drag the guy away from his sight. 

“I know. Sorry.” 

“You can shove that sorry up your ass. Don’t talk to me. We’re cancelling the pizza we ordered for you guys. Bye.” 

“I told you---” 

But you ended the call before Bucky could say anything. 

“Lover’s quarrel?” Steve asked, “You can go. We can take care of this motherfucker.”

“You really think that, that would solve it? Game night means you all should be there as well, she’s going to kill me if I just show up there alone.” 

Bucky had planned to go. How could he not? At first he thought that game nights were useless but seeing the look on your face and the laughter that echoed around the room. It felt like home. It didn’t feel like they were in the world full of guns and blood, but instead it felt like they were normal people just enjoying each other’s company. 

Bucky laughed at the thought of you. You were probably cursing him right now, wondering why you ever invited him to join your game nights if he was just going to ruin it. 

But this was something that he needed to take care of. Because this man, Pierce, was the one behind Rumlow’s betrayal. The reason why you were hurt. 

And Bucky couldn’t forgive him for that. 

You ignored Bucky after that. Didn’t bother returning his phone calls, so instead he just leaves you a voice message every night without fail. 

It made you happy of course. Made you think that perhaps it wasn’t a one-sided love affair after all. That maybe there could be a love story between the two of you despite your past, despite the present and despite the future that the two of you have so little of. 

You were worried about the meeting today because Bucky would be there. You wonder if you would still be able to keep this act up and continue to pretend to ignore him when he’s standing right beside you looking like a god sent by the heavens. 

“Pierce was found dead.” 

“WHAT?” You shout in disbelief, “What the fuck? Who did this? Pierce--” 

“I did it.” Bucky confessed after you calmed down, which prompted you to shout again. “Pierce was the one behind Rumlow and he was scheming against every single one of us. Including you. When I found out I had to take him out. In this folder, you can see all of the evidence that I have gathered the past few months. I’ll see myself out.” Bucky stood up and tossed the folder that he was clutching so tightly that you wanted to ask him earlier what that folder did wrong. 

Turns out the answer was a lot. After skimming through the contents it all made sense. 

While Pierce was indeed a scheming son of a bitch, it still didn’t change the fact that he was the one who helped you, and treated you like his own daughter. 

“I guess i just didn’t want to believe that he would do that to me.” Your sad eyes made Bucky’s heart hurt. Betrayal isn’t something that you were used to. “Did you ever figure out how he was able to control Rumlow?” 

Bucky knew, he had the matter investigated a week after they knew about Rumlow’s betrayal. “There was a girl.” Bucky didn’t need to say any more. You figured it out. How pathetic, how could you almost forget the situation that you are in? 

You’re not some teenager who’s free to love whoever they want. You were a gang leader who had duties and responsibilities. What this incident taught you was a cruel lesson, but one that you should be taught early on. 

“Love really is a disadvantage huh.” You muttered, “I never want to be in that kind of place.” 

“At a disadvantage?” Bucky asked. 

“Yeah.  Love is cruel and messy. And it would ruin everything that I have worked for.” 

“So, you don’t want to fall in love?” 

Bucky asked, and he waited for an answer that never came. Oh well, maybe that was an answer too. 

A visible strain in your relationship intrigued everyone but they decided to stay quiet and not meddle in your affairs. After all, the two of you were the highest ranking members and should not be messed with. But one particular afternoon things got heated after a job that the two gangs took. “I just don’t fucking get it. I had the shot.” You huffed as you threw your jacket on the couch. “Yeah. A shot to his leg, he has a clear shot of your head. You were going to die.” 

Bucky decided to jump at you earlier, effectively throwing the both of you on the ground and wasting a precious bullet meant for someone else. 

“It’s none of your fucking business. I could do it.” 

“You would’ve died.” 

“What is it to you?!” 

Ah, there it was. The question that Bucky hoped you never would ask. To be honest you didn’t think that it was a question that would escape your lips as well. But you were just so pissed off that you lost all of your rational thoughts and were left with these stupid ones. You never wanted to ask that because you were afraid of what his answer would be. 

No, you weren’t afraid that he would say that you didn’t mean anything to him. That would be a relief. You were scared that he would say that you meant a great deal to him and you don’t know if you can handle that. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. And you would not hesitate to move the mountains and part the seas if Bucky asked you to do so. 

You were scared because you loved him so much. 

And Bucky just sat there wanting to tell you the truth. To tell you how much you meant to him. How much he loves you and how far he is willing to go for you. How he could kill anyone who looks at you wrongly with his bare hands. 

And instead of being honest to each other, the two of you sat there. The truth stayed inside of your hearts, desperately trying to claw their way out. 

But the truth will prevail. One way or another. And if the two of you knew that this is what’s going to happen. You would’ve confessed when you had the chance. 

You wouldn't have cared. Because right now, Bucky is bleeding in your arms and you couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your face. “Bucky, stay with me. Okay? Stay with me. Please.” 

There had been an attack in the warehouse that you owned and Bucky went to help, but no matter how strong you guys were you were still outnumbered. It wasn’t like how it was in the movies where everyone just miraculously survives no matter how many opponents they were faced with. And so Bucky was shot trying to protect you. 

“You fucking idiot. Don’t fucking close your eyes.” Bucky smiled because despite all of the curses that you were saying, your voice still sounded sweet. It was a good thing that the sense of hearing is the last to go before a person dies. 

‘This is alright,’ Bucky thought, ‘I was never meant for a long life anyway. And what better place to die than in the arms of your loved one.’

Bucky tried to open his eyes, to remain conscious. But his strength is leaving him, he tried to lift his arm up to wipe the tears from your eyes but he couldn’t. He could only listen to your sobs, until he couldn’t hear anything at all. 

There were so many things that you weren’t able to say to Bucky. 

So many things that you wanted to tell him, so many things that you wanted to do with him. But you weren’t able to do so because you were scared. “Bucky, please wake up.” You cried as you grabbed his hand. He still hasn’t woken up ever since his surgery and Thor said to not get your hopes up but you can’t just give up on him without him knowing how you truly feel. “Please don’t leave me alone. I promise you I won’t let you go. So come back to me okay?” 

Twelve days have since passed, and there were still no signs of him waking up. Thor was already talking about preparing for the worst, and so you punched him in the face. 

You grabbed some blankets from the other room and went back to your room where Bucky was, “You were right. You can tell alot from a person by their room.” 

You dropped the blankets that you were holding and just ran up to hug him. “I was so scared that you were dead.” 

“I’m sorry. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Bucky I--” But he just smiled and said ‘I know.’

He knows. 

But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to let him know. You had to let him hear it. And there was only one way to convey these feelings properly. 

“James Buchannan Barnes. Marry me.” 

[wingsofkpop]

Hiraeth - I.V: Rise of the Primes

pairing(s):  Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre:  Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, heavy Angst, eventual Smut

warnings: Mature language, mentions of death and murder, violence, blood and gore, very brief depiction of magical torture, mentions of child abuse and other traumatic experiences, etc. 

word count: 8,1k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?…

chapter directory

Mark remembers a time when he was much younger, much, much more naive, and completely oblivious to his magical roots.  

And while he’s not usually one to look back into his past, nowadays, he can’t help but wonder about those clueless years where his sole care was passing dreaded calculus class and keeping his pot stash hidden from his mom. Sometimes Mark even misses those days—misses his mom.

Mark often wonders what would have happened if his mom wasn’t killed that night. He was only just beginning to learn the basics of witchcraft back then, barely able to keep his emotions in check without blasting a window to pieces. If his mom were still around, would he have done the stupid things he knew better than to do? Would he have sought for such ambitions he knew he could never achieve? Would he have been a better leader, witch, man…?

Yes. Mark knows that. He would be better. 

It’s been years since Mark tried to talk to his mother, having given up trying to summon her spirit when he received a personal message from her telling him to stop—to let her go. Even so, he wishes that he can just have one minute. One short minute to see her face, to look into her eyes, and to ask her the same question that has been haunting his mind since he found her body in a pool of her own blood in their home: 

‘What the fuck am I supposed to do now?’

As much as he plays the leader-card, and as much as he acts like he’s all-knowing—Mark has no clue what he’s doing. It’s as if he’s been inside a maze these past nine years, unable to find the right path that leads him to glory. Maybe if she was still here, holding his face in her wrinkled hands and speaking his name in her sweet voice, Mark would know what to do. He’d know how to get rid of the huntress and the witch without taking their lives. He’d know how to protect his people, and the rest of the town. 

He’d know how to be better—to do better. 

Mark shakes his mother’s face from his mind, attempting to focus on the passing scenery of the forest. He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel before reaching forward to turn his air conditioning on full blast, then adjusting his grip again.

It’s been months since he last traveled this way, yet all the sights are the same. The trees are the same trees. The shrubbery, the same shrubbery. Even the rocks haven’t changed save for a new crack or two. That thought actually spills anger through his veins. It’s as if the forest doesn’t realize something is missing—someone is missing.      

‘And it’s your fault.’ 

Mark shakes the intrusive thought away, peering at his companion through the corner of his eye. Jinyoung, like Mark, is merely staring at their surroundings, dark eyes flitting around in every direction. Before everything happened, Mark would have never predicted that one of the Primes would be riding in his passenger’s seat with no care in the world. To be honest, he’s still having a hard time believing him and Jinyoung are on decent terms at all. 

“My sisters and I used to play in these woods.” Mark is taken aback by the sudden, albeit casual comment from the vampire, nearly losing his footing on the gas pedal. He looks to the side once again, discovering Jinyoung’s gaze still fixated outside the window.

Mark clears his throat. “I… didn’t know you had siblings.” 

“It was a long, long time ago.” Jinyoung shrugs, “Besides, we weren’t close anyway.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

His question is answered with silence, and when he turns to the passenger, Jinyoung’s expression is blank, almost cold. Mark decides not to press and focuses back on the road. 

The cabin has not changed either, Mark notices as the structure comes into sight. A heaviness begins to settle within his chest as he parks in the gravel driveway, one that has his heart beating twice its normal speed and palms beginning to sweat. Trying not to dwell on it too much, Mark cuts out the engine and wipes his hands against his jeans. He’s prepared to exit the vehicle when a sudden realization enters his brain. 

Mark turns to Jinyoung and sighs, “I think it might be best for you to stay in the car.” 

“I was thinking the same thing.” Jinyoung agrees, granting the witch a rigid nod.

“Just don’t steal my truck, okay?” 

“This piece of junk?” Jinyoung chortles, “It’s practically falling apart.” 

“Don’t piss her off. She still has to get us home.” Mark finds his chest a little lighter as a result of their banter, something he would never admit aloud to the vampire. With a silent farewell, Mark shoves open his door and steps into the bright sunlight, cursing himself for forgetting his sunglasses back at the mausoleum. 

The log cabin casts a drowning shadow over Mark as he makes his way toward the figure waiting on the steps that lead up to a redwood porch. Overgrown vines and moss seem to inhabit every available spot of the cabin, winding around wooden supports and spilling down each roof tile. If it hadn’t been for the catch of the sunlight, Mark wouldn’t have been able to notice one of the grimey windows on the second floor had been cracked. 

“Long time no see, hyung.” Mark finds his chest tightening at the tired tone of the figure’s voice. 

He paints what he hopes to be a smile across his lips and nods. “It’s nice to see you, Gyeom.” 

Like the cabin, it has also been months since Mark has seen his younger friend. Yugyeom has always been a giant, towering over him and basically everyone else in town since he hit puberty, but if Mark didn’t know any better, he’d say the wolf had grown even more. His shoulders are broader, dark hair longer, hands calloused and slightly marred with the throes of hard work. He must still be working for the town’s lumber service. 

Yet another something that hasn’t changed. 

“How… How are things?” 

Yugyeom shrugs. “You know how it is out here. Not much excitement.” 

“Right.” The silence between them grows heavier and heavier with each passing second. Mark searches his brain for something to expel the awkwardness, but can’t seem to see past the guilt and suffocating self-loathing swirling through his gut. 

He thanks the universe when Yugyeom breaks the quiet himself. 

“I know you didn’t come just to check in, hyung.” His gut sinks at the younger’s painfully true observation. “What’s going on? And why can I smell a Prime in your passenger seat?” 

“I don’t if you’ve heard, but Nayeon was killed last week.” 

Yugyeom’s eyes soften. “I saw it on TV. I’m really sorry, hyung,” 

“The people who killed her—a witch and supernatural huntress—they’re after the rest of the coven.” Mark ignores Yugyeom’s sympathy, fiddling with a loose thread inside the pocket of his jeans. “Jinyoung has been helping us track them down. He’s gonna help us fight but…” 

“But you’re not sure if it will be enough.” 

“I know I have no right to show up here and ask for your help, Gyeom.” With a gulp, Mark dares to step closer to the small staircase. Even as far as scaling the first two steps to move closer to his younger companion. Mark shakes his head, “But—I’m desperate. My people are in danger and… and I don’t want anyone else to die.”  

Another moment of silence passes, save for the violent beating of Mark’s pulse. Yugyeom stares at Mark, his gaze a cross between pained and hopeful. Just when the latter feels like his lungs are going to explode, Yugyeom releases a helpless sigh and shakes his head. 

“I want to help you, hyung. I really do… but I can’t risk anyone in the pack. Especially against a hunter.” 

Mark’s heart drops to his stomach. 

Yugyeom sends him a sad expression. “I’m sorry. I really am.” 

“It’s okay. I get it.” Mark nods, taking a rather clumsy step backward off the porch steps. He manages to save himself from the embarrassment of collapsing into the gravel before offering Yugyeom a weak smile. “I… I would do the same thing. If it were my people.” 

“Hyung—” Yugyeom moves to follow Mark, descending a single stair just as the front door swings open. The embers of Mark’s self-loathing grow to flames at the sight of various familiar faces crowded in the doorway, and he wishes nothing more than to cast a spell that makes him completely disappear. 

“What’s going on?... Mark?” Chan emerges behind Yugyeom, his features a mixture of confusion and surprise. Another few bodies join the younger man, each set of eyes reopening a mess of old scars in Mark’s soul. 

“Mark-oppa!” He barely has time to prepare when a smaller figure dashes down the staircase and collides with his body. His arms catch the figure’s waist before her form falls to the ground, supporting her weight against his own form. 

He releases a heavy, yet silent breath. “Dahyun.” 

“Where the hell have you been!?” Dahyun pulls from the embrace with a fierce, yet playful spark within her dark eyes. “It’s been months, Mark! Months!” 

“I know… It’s just been kind of… weird lately.” 

“We’ve missed you… I’ve missed you.” 

He winces. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“What the hell is he doing here?” Mark recognizes the familiar gritty tone, turning his eyes from Dahyun to a seething Changbin. The animosity in his glare deepens Mark’s wounds. 

“Changbin. Don’t.” 

“He has no fucking right to be here.” Changbin ignores Chan’s warning, narrowing his eyes to poisonous slits. 

“Changbin! You asshole—”  

“It’s okay. I was… just leaving.” Mark interrupts Dahyun’s scold, peeling himself away from her arm like a bloodied bandage. He spares a glance and a nod to a pained Yugyeom, “Thanks, Gyeom. I’ll see you around, okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

Dahyun reaches for Mark again. “But you just got here. You can’t just—”  

“Dubu…” Dahyun turns at Yugyeom’s call, watching the sad shake of his head with glittering eyes. “Let him go…” 

Mark’s heart practically cries out at the pure devastation written across the younger woman’s face as she helplessly drops her arms to her sides. He chooses not to linger on her expression, nor Chan’s, nor Yugyeom’s, and with a final nod of his head, makes a break back to his beat-up, rusted truck. 

In mere seconds, Mark is driving away from the cabin—driving away from the pain. It’s not until the cabin is completely gone from his rear-view mirror is he able to inhale a full breath without his lungs screaming out. 

“No one else is going to die.”  

Jinyoung hadn’t said anything at his frantic entrance, nor that he hadn’t paused to throw on his seatbelt. In fact, Mark had almost forgotten the vampire was in the vehicle at all. He turns to find Jinyoung staring out the window, just as before. And if he hadn’t spoken again, Mark would have thought he imagined the voice himself. 

Jinyoung turns, sending chills down Mark’s spine at the intensity of his gaze. 

“You have my word.” 

Mark can’t find it in himself to respond, stuck between unwanted memories and the nostalgia of uncured heartbreak. He instead swallows the bile at the back of his throat, carefully throws on his seatbelt, and turns up the radio. 

The music does nothing to drown out the cruel thoughts raging through his mind. 

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

The scenery outside the car window passes by in verdant blurs, settling a slight wave of nausea in your gut. Not desiring to vomit up the Chinese you ate beforehand, you turn your attention to the young driver instead, meeting her starry-eyed gaze in the rearview mirror. 

“How much longer?” 

“The estate is just up this hill, miss.” The driver assures. “It should be no more than a couple minutes.” 

You nod your thanks, peering out the window before remembering your sickness in the first place. With a silent sigh, you abandon the prospect of any sight at all and close your eyes, leaning into the comfort of the headrest. The slight pressure actually somewhat relieves the throb in the back of your brain. The headache that has been present ever since you stormed out on Mark and Jinyoung. 

It’s been almost three days since you learned the truth about Moon Dye Bay and all its supernatural offerings. You’d think by now you’d be able to process the fact that your best friend is a witch, and the charming man that saved you from likely death is a vampire—one of the oldest vampires in existence at that. But alas, you’re still having a hard time believing any of this is possible. Even with all the evidence, and proof, and general rules of logic. 

Then again, vampires and witches and werewolves and hunters and whatever other creatures aren’t exactly logical… considering they go against everything that is the basis of nature. 

Anywho, neither Mark nor Jinyoung has even tried to reach out since that afternoon. In fact, Mark hasn’t returned any of your calls or texts. Though you’re not exactly surprised as both he and Jinyoung made it very clear of your position on the sidelines. 

Too bad you’ve never been much of a player who likes to miss the action. 

“We’ve arrived, miss.” Your eyelids snap open at the sound of the driver’s lilted voice, jaw almost dropping at the sight that awaits. You shimmy forward, greedily taking in the expanse outside the car window as the driver maneuvers the vehicle up the cobblestone-paved driveway. 

If you had to use one word to describe The Project Estate, it would be massive. Completely fucking massive.  With a single glance, you can only imagine how many acres of land make up the entire lot. The mansion itself is bigger than any building you’ve set foot inside, resembling that of a miniature castle without the turrets, walls and moat. You’re pretty sure it’s at least four times the size of your apartment building. 

“Beautiful place, isn’t it?” The driver marvels, craning her own head over the steering wheel to take in the view. “The Project Brothers are crazy loaded to be able to afford anything like this… What do you think they do?” 

Rob banks with their vampire super strength? Steal artifacts and masterpieces with their vampire super speed? Accumulate millions and millions of dollars in wealth after being alive for centuries?  

You shrug. “They probably own real estate or something.” 

Once the driver stops in front of what you hope to be the front door, you quickly bid her farewell with a generous tip and exit out onto the stone pathway. The purr of the engine grows fainter and fainter as the vehicle turns back the way you came in, leaving you stranded in the shadow of the towering mansion. You can only hope Jinyoung is home. 

An old fashioned, golden door knocker rests on the door, fashioned into the shape of a growling lion. You ignore the goosebumps forming across the skin underneath your jacket and pick up the knocker. It’s heavy in your palm, striking the door with such powerful strikes, it must be impossible for anyone inside not to hear. 

You visited the cemetery earlier, prepared to convince Mark of your resourceful and beneficial addition to whatever little team he’s gathering, but you only found an empty mausoleum, and an even emptier feeling inside your gut. So you figured you would pay Park Jinyoung a visit at his personal place of residence instead—the same residence him and his brother have resided since 1770.  

Your mind races as you wait, thinking over the long speech you prepared to argue your competence and readiness. You don’t know how long it will take, but you do know that you are not leaving until Jinyoung accepts your help, or at the very least, acknowledges your newfound importance in the situation. 

The killers are your roommate’s friends after all. 

After what seems like minutes, but is probably only a couple seconds, the large, mahogany door swings open. Although, the face that appears in the doorway is not the one you were hoping to see.

A young woman appears behind the door, her babyish features practically exuding the forefronts of her age. She couldn’t be older than twenty, you find, at least, definitely not with a face like that. Her eyes are rather bleary when they meet your own, borderline crimson red. You wonder if she just woke up from a deep sleep after a long night of drinking… 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Jinyoung?” 

“Jinyoung is not home right now.” The woman’s voice is blank, monotone like your boss whenever he’s giving out a lecture. It deepens your concern. You’ve seen your fair share of hangovers between Jihyo and Sana’s party-animal habits, but never one that renders your body so… zombie-like. 

“Do you know where he went? Or maybe when he’ll be home?” 

The woman doesn’t blink. “No.”

“Okay, um…” You gnaw at your bottom lip, carefully thinking over the next plan of action. Due to the woman’s state, it’s pretty obvious you are not going to be able to get much out of her. Maybe you can try Youngjae’s cell, and eventually badger an answer out of him—

“What’s taking so long? Who’s at the door?” The woman steps aside to reveal a familiar face—one that sends gooseflesh budding across your skin.    

 Jaebeom’s eyes widen in surprise. “You…? What are you doing here…? ” His expression reminds you of your previous encounter outside the town hall, where he confirmed his and his brother’s vampiric nature. Beneath the surprise in his gaze, you can still make out what seems to be apprehension… almost fear. 

“Is Jinyoung here? I need to talk to him.” 

“He’s not here.” Jaebeom crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorway. “He went on some field trip with that Tuan kid. I have no clue where they went.” 

“Well… do you at least know when he’ll be back?” 

He narrows his eyes. “Why do you need to see my brother anyway?” 

“I told you. I need to speak with him.” 

“Are you sure he even wants to talk to you?” 

The agitation spreading through your veins grows at Jaebeom’s obvious indifference. You swallow down the frustration before sparing a glance back toward the silent woman. She’s staring in your direction, but her eyes don’t seem to be looking at you. Instead, they seem to be looking through you.  

“Is she… okay?” You ask softly, earning another wave of surprise from the Prime. 

Jaebeom leans down to murmur something into the woman’s ear, before she turns on her heel and disappears back inside the house. It might have only been a trick of your mind, but hidden beneath the collar of her shirt may be a wound—a wound that looks strangely like a bite mark. 

Your stomach violently turns as you’re reminded of the other night. Jaebeom was going to feed on you, possibly kill you… but he didn’t. 

You murmur aloud before you can think, “Why?...” 

“What?” 

“Why did you stop?” Jaebeom’s face pales at your questions, indicating he knows exactly what you’re talking about. His throat visibly gulps before he uncrosses his arms and steadies himself back on his own feet. 

“So you know…”

“Know you almost killed me?... Yeah. Kind of hard to forget something like that.” 

Jaebeom shrugs. “You’d be surprised what people can forget under mind compulsion.”   

“Mind compulsion?” Your eyebrows furrow as your head tilts in curiosity. “Don't tell me vampires can control minds?” 

Jaebeom raises his eyebrows, his surrounding features contorting to a mixture of shock and amazement. His eyes shine, lingering over the planes of your face. As if you activated a switch, a sly smirk pulls across his lips. Perfectly complimenting the dangerous mischief swirling inside his dark brown irises. 

“So you know what I am then…” Jaebeom chuckles. You don’t like the way his eyes seem to deviously flicker in the sunlight. “Your witch boyfriend must have you on vervain. That explains why my compulsion didn’t work.” 

You ignore his mention of Mark. “Vervain? What’s that?” 

“An herb. It’s poisonous to vampires.” He explains so casually. “It dulls our abilities, makes humans immune to compulsion, and burns like a fucking bitch.” 

“How do you stand in the sun? Shouldn’t you erupt into flames or something?” 

Jaebeom’s smirk seems to widen. “You ask a lot of questions, little dove. That can get you in trouble.” 

“You won’t hurt me.”

“And what makes you think that?” In a flash, Jaebeom is standing right in front of you, his hands threateningly cradling the sides of your head. His eyes bleed pure sadism and malice as he speaks, “I could break your sweet, fragile neck right here, and no one would even know…” 

Any other person would be scared to death. But you know better. 

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have in the alley.” You shake your head, reaching up to grab his wrists and tug his hands from your face. Prowess spills into your chest as his gaze grows surprised once again. 

You nod. “Now, since Jinyoung isn’t here and I really don’t want to pay another hundred dollars to haul my ass back to town, you’re gonna help me understand how this whole vampire thing works.” 

“I’m going to… what now?” 

“You heard me.” You step past Jaebeom and enter the mansion, following the same pathway the previous woman took. You’re barely able to hold back a gasp at the regal interior that greets your entrance. Swallowing your awe, you peer over your shoulder at a rather confused Im Jaebeom and hum delicately, “You don’t happen to drink coffee? Do you?” 

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“I finished the boundary spell, Mark-hyung. No one can get step foot into the cemetery without us knowing.” Jinyoung watches Jisung step outside of his ritual circle, crafted from salt and the burning essence of various herbs. From across the way, Mark provides the younger witch a nod of encouragement before turning to face the Choi duo. 

“You stocked up on enough energy, Youngjae?” 

Youngjae disentangles his hand from Lia’s grasp, his skin ceasing the magical glow Jinyoung has seen many times in siphoners long before anyone in this particular coven was born. The witch hums, “Yes, hyung. I should have plenty to last.” 

“Don’t count on it.” Mark shakes his head, tossing another smoldering herb into the center of the salt boundary. “We have no idea what we’re up against. Everyone needs to keep on their toes, and stay together.”

“Have you… fought something like this before?...” It takes a whole moment of silence for Jinyoung to realize Jisung had directed the question at him. Peering at the youngest witch with his usual blank expression, Jinyoung inhales a deep breath, attempting to push away the whiplash of memories that rage through his head. 

Jinyoung answers, “I have faced many hunters and witches… but never as a pair.” 

“So you’ve fought dark witches?...” 

The inquiry surprises Jinyoung, but for what reason—he doesn’t know.   

“It is not the witches who are dark—it is the magic.” He finally sighs after a long period of silence. “Dark magic plagues the mind like a parasite, laying its eggs in the user’s morals and logicalities until it builds into an infestation, and completely takes over the witch’s sanity.”

Jisung’s face visibly pales. “Does it… kill the witch?” 

“In more ways than one.” Jinyoung catches Mark’s eyes. Inside them is an emotion he knows too well—guilt. 

“Don’t worry, Sung.” Lia sidles beside the youngest witch, weaving her fingers with his own to provide a comforting squeeze. “Everything’s gonna be fine… right, Mark?” 

Everyone’s eyes immediately trail to the head witch, and though he doubts anyone else could see, Jinyoung notices the aura of fear and apprehension oozing from Mark’s tense body. He can only imagine how Mark feels—terrified for the lives and wellbeing of the people he calls his family… Jinyoung hasn’t felt that pain in centuries, but it’s impossible to forget. 

Especially when it comes to those you love. 

With eyes of pure, determined fire, Mark nods.

“We do this for Nayeon.” He gathers the witches close, reaching across to take Lia and Jisung’s joint limbs in one hand while the other goes for Youngjae. Something inside Jinyoung’s chest seizes at the heartwarming sight… A memory of both him and Jaebeom suddenly rushes into his thoughts where their hands are tightly clasped between their bodies. Where they stand as brother’s united against the world. 

Where did those times go…? 

“—For Nayeon!” Jinyoung returns just in time to see the group disband from their minimal embrace. Lia and Jisung head back toward the mausoleum, probably to fetch more supplies for the battle just waiting over the horizon, while the remaining two witches approach Jinyoung. Each with a sullen expression along their features. 

Jinyoung clears his throat. “You’re certain they’ll attack tonight?” 

“It’s a new moon. Mina’s power will be it’s strongest.” Mark says, providing Jinyoung a grim frown. “Which is why all of us need to be careful. Like I said, we have no clue what to expect.” 

The corners of Jinyoung’s lips slightly turn. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were actually concerned for me.” 

Mark shakes his head, completely ignoring Jinyoung’s attempt at humor before shifting his focus to Youngjae. “Anything from Minho?” 

“No, hyung. But Jisung left him a message to tell him to stay far away from the cemetery tonight.” 

Mark releases a heavy breath and drags a hand down his face. “That douchebag is gonna get himself killed, goddamn it…” 

“They will be looking for the entire coven, not a lone witch.” Jinyoung assures, feeling the need to expel the head witch’s anxiety. “Minho will be safe. Wherever he is.” 

Mark meets Jinyoung’s gaze. “I hope you’re right.” 

“We should go over the plan of action again.” Abandoning the intensity of Mark’s stare, Jinyoung turns at Youngjae’s offer, discovering the siphoner to already be looking in his direction. 

There’s a subtle waver in Youngjae’s tone as he asks, “You remember what you have to do?” 

Jinyoung nods cooly. “Once you immobilize the witch, I go for the huntress.” 

“And you’re sure you can take her by yourself?” 

“I’ve encountered and destroyed dozens of supernatural hunters over the years.” Jinyoung replies to Youngjae, earning a silent, but visible eye roll from the other witch. He ignores Mark’s annoyance, nodding again at the younger siphoner. “I’m strong enough.” 

Jinyoung only hopes that will be true. 

“Good.” Youngjae turns to Mark. “Once Mina steps foot onto our grounds, the spell will immediately take effect… She’ll be in pain. Immense, torturous pain.” 

Jinyoung notices how Mark’s shoulders shiver at the description. 

He gulps. “This will work. It has to.” 

“It will.” Jinyoung offers again, placing a gentle hand against Mark’s elbow. The latter grows surprised for a moment, before a weak upturn of his lips signifies his gratitude. 

Jinyoung immediately pulls away from Mark as a loud shriek erupts through the graveyard. The first to wake out of the alarmed stupor is Mark, who immediately shifts on his heel and dashes for the entrance of the cemetery, where the noise had previously erupted. Youngjae runs after him, followed closely behind by Jinyoung. 

“Mark-hyung! Wait, don’t—” 

“There’s someone here! Get Lia and Jisung out here!” Jinyoung provides Youngjae a nod, assuring the witch to follow his leader’s demand. The siphoner makes a break for the mausoleum while Jinyoung scales the rest of the distance toward the head witch, who’s standing mere feet from the iron gate that acts as the only access point into Eclipse Cemetery—where a shadowy figure is helplessly squirming on the graveled-earth. 

Jinyoung grabs Mark’s wrist before he can lunge at the figure, frantically shaking his head. “Are you trying to get yourself killed!?” 

“That son of a bitch murdered my friend—” Mark hisses, wrenching his limb away from Jinyoung’s grasp and pushing his body away with a hefty shove. “You don’t want to test the reliability of my self-control right now… so I suggest you back off and do your own damn job!”

“Wait for the others, at least!” Jinyoung urges, “Be smart about this, Mark! Trust me—!” 

“Don’t tell me what to fucking—” 

“Mark-hyung!” Surprise mirrors itself along both Jinyoung and Mark’s features. The head witch quickly leaves Jinyoung to kneel beside the figure hidden beneath the darkness of the moonless night. Jinyoung hurries to Mark’s side, his eyes widening to saucers at the familiar features he can barely make out in the obscurity. 

Mark gapes. “Minho…?” 

“Wh-What is—ha!.. Hap-happening?...” Minho manages to spill through gritted teeth with much struggle. Jinyoung recognizes the writhing and twitching of his limbs, as well as the wild nature of his gaze—Youngjae wasn’t lying about the pain. 

“Shit, Minho—” Mark hurriedly mutters a counter-incantation beneath his breath, pulling the younger witch to lean against his chest. Even with the spell lifted, Minho continues to spasm and moan at the phantom waves that send pain through his form. 

Mark shakes his head. “What in the actual hell are you doing here!?” 

“What… What the fuck are you talking about?” Minho gasps, clutching onto the sleeves of Mark’s shirt as another wave passes through his veins. “You… called me, asshole!” 

“What the fu—? I never called you! Jisung told you to stay home!” 

“I-I… talked to you earlier.” Minho inhales something close to a wheeze before lightly poking Mark’s chest. “You told me to… to come to the ‘maus’ at mid-midnight…”  

Jinyoung feels his blood run cold, but his tone is even colder: 

“They knew it was a trap…” 

Mark’s eyes are wild with desperation and fright as he meets Jinyoung’s gaze. “The others—” A loud, high-pitched wail cuts off Mark’s speech. Neither him nor Jinyoung waste any time and make a mad dash for the mausoleum, Jinyoung’s heart racing in his throat. The first thing he notices is the door of the structure—wide open and practically torn off its hinges. 

“Youngjae! Lia! Jisung!” Mark screams, sprinting inside the mausoleum with no hesitation. Jinyoung pauses in the doorway, watching as the head witch frantically surveys the place, only to find it completely empty save for himself. Tears are glistening in his eyes as he shakes his head, “Where the fuck are they!? Oh my fucking god—”  

“If the boundary spell caught Minho, then they could have gotten in anywhere!” Jinyoung steps aside just in time for Mark to race outside again. “We need to be careful! Especially if they have—!” 

“Mark-hyung!” Youngjae’s call carries through the nightly breeze, brewing even more uncontrolled fear in Jinyoung’s chest. 

“Youngjae!” Jinyoung can barely keep up with Mark’s frantic pace as he tears deeper into the graveyard, skipping over headstones and rounding tall statues with the skill of a professional athlete. He somehow manages to keep up. Just in arms reach of the head witch. 

“Youngjae!? Youngjae!?” Mark sobs, pausing to peer through the continuous hills of graves and monuments for the forgotten. “Jisung!? Lia!? Where are you!?” 

Through the very corner of his eye, Jinyoung notices a speck of movement emerge from behind a nearby tree. Time seems to slow as he focuses closer on that tree, immediately noticing a human-like shadow holding something between stoic hands—holding a loaded crossbow pointed directly at Mark. 

Using every bout of vampiric strength in his possession, Jinyoung sprints toward the head witch just as the bolt leaves the barrel of the crossbow. 

“Mark! Get down!” 

“Jinyoung—!?” 

Jinyoung can hear nothing but screams and the ringing of his own ears as he shields Mark’s body with his own. Somewhere deep inside, as the crossbow bolt pierces his flesh, he can hear something that fills his soul with immense warmth… 

It’s your voice—telling him to go to hell, as he immediately succumbs to a violent wave of darkness. 

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

“So you’re… a werewolf and a vampire?” Jaebeom watches your eyebrows raise to the heavens over the rim of his glass, swallowing the sweeter-than-sweet liquid before licking the remnants from his lips. He can’t remember the last time he sat down and had a cup of coffee, much less drank something that wasn’t straight from the vein. 

To be honest, he’d much rather be feeding from the blonde woman waiting in his bedroom. But something about being with you is too addicting to pass up… and that scares him. 

You shake your head. “Isn’t that like… ironic? Considering vampires and werewolves are sworn enemies?” 

An amused chuckle spills from his lips as you fumble with your own teacup, barely managing to save its matching saucer before it clatters to the floor. Your annoyed glare pulls more laughter out of him, and it takes a good portion of his self-control not to smile. 

After taking another sip of his coffee, Jaebeom shrugs. “I was born a werewolf, and it carried over when Jinyoung and I became vampires.” 

“How did that happen anyway?” You lean back in your seat, crossing your legs at the ankle with a tilt of your head. “I mean, did you and Jinyoung choose to become…what you are?” 

“Yes and no,” He hums. 

“So you chose to become monsters?” 

“You consider my brother and I monsters…?” 

Jaebeom doesn’t like the serious expression that pulls across your features. “I know you’ve killed a lot of people… and have done some pretty fucked up things.” 

“A millennium is a long time to be alive, little dove.” Your obvious distaste at the nickname fills his chest with comedic pleasure. He smirks, “You get a little bored after a while.” 

“Normal people read books when they’re bored, or find a new hobby.” 

“Killing isn’t a hobby then…?” 

Your response is a look of pure disgust. 

Jaebeom howls in laughter before inhaling the remainder of his coffee in one gulp. He heaves a sigh, peering out the large, stained-glass window. Partly to recollect his thoughts. Partly to allow the obvious tension to dissipate between his and your forms. 

Now inside his own head, Jaebeom wonders whether or not he should have said such a barbaric statement in the first place. If it were anyone else, Jaebeom would care less about protecting his image—but it’s you. And something inside him warns him to be careful around you… Very, very careful. 

“Jinyoung and I were children when we found each other.” Jaebeom sighs, feeling the weight of your surprised gaze on the side of his face. “After my own caregivers abandoned me, he convinced his parents to take me in… It wasn’t until I lived inside their home did I realize how cruel they were.” 

“Cruel…?” 

“Jinyoung was a bastard child.” He explains, “His mother had an affair with a village merchant. After his father found out, he murdered his wife’s lover and made Jinyoung’s life a living hell.” 

Jaebeom rises from his armchair and grabs his empty cup before heading for the liquor tray in front of the same window he was previously staring out. While pouring himself a drink, Jaebeom makes sure to raise his voice so you can still hear: 

“For years, I watched that asshole beat the shit out of Jinyoung while his mother and sisters sat back and didn’t do a goddamn thing.” He downs the brandy in one sweet gulp before selecting a stronger bottle of scotch. Not bothering with his cup, Jaebeom unscrews the cap and takes a long, drawn-out swig from the container. Fire erupts through his belly, sending the beginning of a pleasurable buzz through his veins. 

“One day I got fed up with it all, and when the fucker tried to lash Jinyoung for refusing to shoot a fawn, I took that belt right out of his hands, wrapped it around his neck, and squeezed and squeezed until the light left his eyes…” 

Through the corner of his eye, Jaebeom notices how your body grows tense at his confession. 

He whirls around to meet your gaze, pushing away the pestering emotions without so much as a blink before continuing, “We were banished by his family and the other villagers, but we didn’t care—we had each other, and we needed no one else.

“We encountered a witch one day, as we were walking through the forest.” Jaebeom says after another sip, “She told us she could give us a gift like no other: Eternal life. We only had to take part in a ritual, and death would never come for us.” 

You shake your head. “Why? Why would you want to live forever?” 

“If you were given the chance to be invincible against everything, even time, wouldn’t a small part of you be somewhat interested?” 

He allows you a moment to ponder his question. After maybe a minute or so, you release a silent huff and gesture for him to continue. 

“The witch tricked us though, and in trade for immortality, we were forced to sacrifice our humanity.” 

Your eyes widen. “So you didn’t… choose to become vampires?” 

“No.” Jaebeom sets down his bottle with one hand while carding his fingers through his hair with the other. “Anyway, Jinyoung and I spent decades learning how to manage our newfound abilities, and even longer on how to handle the lifestyle.” 

“If you and Jinyoung were the first—the Prime Two—did you create more vampires?” 

He chuckles with a sigh, “Yes. Though it was by accident how we found out.

“Fledgling vampires branched off from our bloodline are different. They’re not as fast, nor as strong, nor as powerful as us.” Jaebeom explains, “Jinyoung and I can compel humans and other vampires, but vampires can only compel humans.” 

“Are fledglings immortal too?” 

“To some extent.” Crossing back across the room, Jaebeom lowers into the armchair beside your own. Now close enough to see the curious spark of wonder in your irises. “It is possible for a fledgling to live forever, but unlike Jinyoung and I, fledglings can be killed with a wooden stake through the heart.” 

“Nice to know that much is true.” Jaebeom relishes the borderline amused chuckle that leaves your lips, playing the odd elation off as the effects of the alcohol. “Is it also true that a bite from a vampire turns you into a vampire?” 

He snorts, “Let me guess… Got that from Twilight?

“Just answer the question.” 

“The only way to become a vampire is if you die with vampire blood in your system.” He hums, “After you die, you’ll wake up in transition, and will need to drink human blood to complete the transformation.” 

“And if you choose not to complete it?” 

“Then you die for real.” 

You shift at his answer, finding interest in the chipped edge of your cup. Jaebeom wonders whether he should change the topic of interest, but before he can think up some possible options, you steer the conversation yourself: 

“You never told me why.” 

His eyebrows raise in confusion. “What?” 

“Why you left me in that alleyway.” 

For the first time, Jaebeom feels vulnerable underneath the scrutiny of your eyes. He fidgets uncomfortably, and like you, searches the room for another object to hold his attention. However, whether it’s because of the whiskey, or something else, his gaze returns to and remains rooted on your own. 

What is it about you? The thought spirals through his thoughts like a 2-seater plane with broken wings. Maybe he should have listened to Jinyoung, and stayed away from you in the first place. Because whatever game you’re playing, whatever spell you have him under… it’s messing with his head.  

And he doesn’t like to be fucked around with. 

Finally, after what seems like hours, Jaebeom shakes his head. “I don’t kn—” 

A sudden crash emerges from the foyer, effectively interrupting his explanation. Jaebeom leaps from his seat and speeds in front of where you’re sitting, shielding your form from the entryway where the noise sounded. His protective stance vanishes, however, at the figure that appears in the doorway. 

Jaebeom tsks. “Oh. Look who finally decided to show up.” 

“Jinyoung…?” Jaebeom steps aside to allow you to step forward, rolling his eyes in annoyance. He moves to fetch himself another drink when your exclaim stops him, “Holy shit! What the hell happened to you!?” 

Upon taking care to really look at his brother, Jaebeom understands the reason for your concern. Jinyoung’s usual clean-cut and formal appearance is nonexistent. From head to toe, he’s covered in dirt, and his dark hair is far past disheveled. His clothes are badly torn and wrinkled, and practically soaked in fresh blood. Jaebeom quickly realizes the blood does belong to Jinyoung, noticing the large, thick bolt protruding from his chest. 

Jinyoung winces, “It’s a long story… but if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit down first.” 

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

The gleam of the awakening sun rising over the horizon sears Yugyeom’s eyes, but he keeps his gaze fixated on the entryway of the cemetery. No matter how much the newfound sunlight burns his eyes, he continues to watch the shadows of the night disperse in fear of the approaching morning. He knows pain all too well. 

“Gyeom?” 

Yugyeom greets Chan silently, with a curt nod. His stare remains frozen on the gate. 

Chan sidles up beside him until they are shoulder to shoulder. His own gaze glances at Yugyeom’s point of interest for a moment before he turns to look at his companion in the early morning glow. Through his peripheral vision, Yugyeom can spot Chan’s grim expression. 

 “How’s the coven?” Yugyeom asks after a long bout of silence.

Chan shrugs, “Minho, Jisung and Lia were all sleeping when I left. And Youngjae, he’s…” When his voice trails off, Yugyeom doesn’t urge Chan to finish his sentence. He knows exactly how Youngjae is right now. 

Terrified. 

“What should we do with the body?” 

Yugyeom barely blinks. “Probably best to burn it. Can’t leave anything up to chance.” 

Chan hums in agreement, seemingly ready to return to the mausoleum, but to Yugyeom’s surprise, Chan remains in place. Another long, tense round of silence carries between them, filling Yugyeom’s head with even more heart wrenching memories. After another mind-spiralling hurricane or two, Chan breaks the silence again:

“We made the right decision. If we got here any later, that huntress would have killed everyone.”  

Yugyeom shakes his head, “The huntress was working with a witch, and we only found the one… We should have gotten here sooner.” 

“Youngjae thinks the huntress was working alone tonight.” Chan says, lifting his palm to shield his eyes from the blinding sunrise. “There were no traces of unfamiliar magic… nor did we catch anyone else’s scent in the cemetery.” 

“Then where is the witch?” Yugyeom moves his attention away from the graveyard entrance, and with aching eyes, turns to meet his Alpha’s downcast gaze, “And more importantly, where the hell is Mark-hyung…?”  

 ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

You hold back a wince as Jaebeom literally tears the bolt from Jinyoung’s chest, earning a pained grunt from said victim. Dark blood splatters from the now open wound, painting across Jaebeom’s skin and adding even more stains to Jinyoung’s unsalvageable shirt. Disgust fills your gut as Jaebeom offers Jinyoung what seems to be a glass of blood—probably from that blonde woman you encountered at the door. 

Jinyoung shakes his head and pushes the drink away. “No. I’m alright.” 

“You would have healed by now if you were.” Jaebeom tries again, “Just take a sip.” 

“No.” 

“Suit yourself.” Your eyes widen in both surprise and revulsion, watching Jaebeom knock back the glass and down the blood in one large gulp. Fighting back a wave of nausea, you carefully approach the wounded vampire, holding forth a clean towel. 

Jinyoung takes the garment and sends a grateful smile in return. “Thank you, (Y/N).” 

You nod, “Sure.” 

Jinyoung presses the bunched fabric to his gaping wound, hissing through gritted teeth at the sudden pressure. You wonder whether or not you should grab the emergency Tylenol from your bag… Does pain medication even work on vampires? Aren’t they technically dead?

“We were ambushed at the cemetery.” Jinyoung explains, pulling you from your foolish thoughts. “After the huntress shot me, I must have hit my head and knocked myself out.”

“Sounds like a pretty unfortunate story.” 

Jinyoung chuckles at your joke before continuing, “When I came to, the wolf pack had killed her and Mark was gone.” 

Panic immediately spreads through your veins like flames to dry wood. “Mark? What do you mean he’s gone?” 

“I’m not sure. We searched the entire graveyard, but there was no sign of him.” 

You open your mouth to inquire further, but Jaebeom’s loud exhale cuts you off. Both you and Jinyoung turn to peer at the hybrid, finding him staring out the large window while drumming his fingertips against the red- and blue-stained glass. After a quiet moment filled with the rhythm of his fingers and Jinyoung’s marred breathing, Jaebeom peers over his shoulder—his eyes glaring daggers straight at his brother. 

Jinyoung shakes his head. “Hyung—” 

“I told you not to get involved with Tuan.” The dark, bitter tone that leaves Jaebeom’s lips sends a harsh shiver down your spine, more so since the comment included mention of your best friend.

“And I told you I’m taking care of it.” 

“Can you not just do what you’re fucking told just once? Just one goddamn time—?” 

To both your and Jaebeom’s surprise, Jinyoung suddenly leans forward in his seat and retches violently. You rush forward, splaying your hands across his back while asking about his condition. Your response is another retching noise, and in just the nick of time, you manage to step out of the way before Jinyoung vomits red across the carpet. 

“Fucking god, Jinyoung! What the hell is wrong with him!?” You call out to Jaebeom, squeezing Jinyoung’s shoulders as he heaves again. After another gag or two, you help Jinyoung to lean back into the armchair, wiping the bloody remnants from his lip with a towelette. Your knuckles brush the arch of his cheekbone—his skin is hot to the touch. 

“He’s burning up! What do we do!?” 

“It’s… werewolf venom.” Jinyoung gasps, weakly pulling your wrist away from his face.  

You shake your head, “W-Werewolf venom?” 

“A werewolf’s bite is deadly to vampires.” Jaebeom explains, barely batting an eyelash as Jinyoung lurches forward with another gag. 

“But he wasn’t bitten? How the hell—?” 

“The crossbow bolts must have been poisoned.” Your anxiety skyrockets, worriedly staring as Jinyoung begins to choke on his own blood. Jaebeom glances outside the window again, murmuring, “He won’t die… The effects will pass in a day or so.” 

“But can’t you heal him!?” You jump to your feet, narrowly avoiding a puddle of dark blood before dashing over to Jaebeom. Your fingers desperately latch onto the lapels of his leather jackets, tugging him down to meet your eyes. “You’re a hybrid, so your blood should technically flush the venom out of his system? Right?” 

Jaebeom’s lips twitch. “You’re smart, little dove. I’ll give you that.” 

“So you’ll heal him?” 

You wait in utter agony as the hybrid considers your request, staring blankly at the features of your face. You can only imagine how much you resemble a crazed, mad woman, but you can care less. Right now, your sole focus is on Jinyoung and ending whatever horrible fate awaits. Jaebeom wouldn’t let his best friend—the man he calls his brother—suffer in absolute anguish… 

Not when he killed Jinyoung’s own father to protect him. 

After a miserable moment of silence, Jaebeom releases a heavy exhale through his nose before meeting your gaze. The bubble of hope expands inside your chest when the hybrid offers a weak smile, lifting a hand to brush a stray hair from your forehead. You shiver as that same hand lightly grasps your chin, guiding your face closer until you can taste the alcohol on Jaebeom’s breath. 

All in a matter of seconds, that bubble of hope pops at Jaebeom’s curt answer: 

“No.” 

You watch in horror as Jaebeom releases your chin, turns on his heel, and leaves you by your lonesome with a wounded Jinyoung, and even more wounded soul.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Tumblr tag || Also on AO3.

Chapter 35: Sasha

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Jon asks anxiously.

“I’m fine, Jon,” Sasha says for what feels like the tenth time in the last three minutes. “Phone’s fully charged, so is my laptop. The trapdoor is unlocked and I can get there from my desk in fifteen seconds flat, I’ve timed it. And if all else fails”—she waves her tape recorder at him—“I’ve got this, so there will at least be a record of whatever happens to me.”

Jon frowns. “That’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Sasha sighs.

It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate that her boss has her best interests at heart. She does. And they’re all friends, and that helps too. But Jon’s paranoia has been back in full force since his encounter with Nikola Orsinov. Tim and Martin are fairly good at tempering it, from what she’s noticed, but he still jumps at small noises and insists they stay together in pairs whenever possible. She doesn’t blame him, especially after they tell the Primes what happened and Jon Prime nearly has a panic attack before he manages to pull himself together. The situation feels like it’s balanced on the edge of a razor blade separating a lake of fire on one side and a bottomless pit on the other—like their choices are to maintain the balance and risk bleeding out before they can get to the other side, or fall to one side or the other and trust in a rescue.

Sasha can admit, if only to herself, that she’s curious about what a lake of fire might feel like to swim in, or if a bottomless hole is truly bottomless, but she’s not going to doom the whole world just to see what happens if she does.

“Jon. It’s okay,” she repeats. “It’s ten in the morning. The building is full of people. I’ll be as safe as I can be. Besides, someone’s got to be here in case someone wants to see what we do in the basement or Elias decides to stop lurking in the shadows and come down to cause havoc. You three have had this planned for weeks.” Raising her voice a little, she adds, “And someone’s got to stop Tim from attempting to fistfight the waxworks because he thinks they’re going to attack.”

“Shut up, Sasha,” Tim calls from the other side of the Archives, where he’s reshelving his files.

Jon smiles, if a bit reluctantly. “And we do both need to be there, if he’s serious about…all right. Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“Cross my heart.” Sasha returns the smile. “You three be careful, too. If I hear about any of you on the twelve o’clock news, I’ll—”

“Disavow any knowledge of us and refuse our phone calls from jail?” Martin supplies as he returns from wherever he’s been and picks up his jacket.

Sasha snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m going to milk my association with you for all it’s worth. Can you imagine how much the media would pay for an exclusive interview with a close friend of the Waxwork Assassins?”

Jon’s laugh sounds a little unwilling, but from the slight easing in the tension in his shoulders, Sasha guesses she hit the right note. She can’t make him smile as easily as Martin or Tim can, but every once in a while she manages it.

“Don’t work too hard,” Tim says, clapping her on the shoulder as he passes.

“I intend to break out the champagne as soon as you leave,” Sasha shoots back. “Go. Have fun. Try not to punch anything.”

“See you tomorrow, Sasha,” Martin says.

Sasha walks them to the door of the Archives and waves as they set off, Tim on one side and Martin on the other. It’s one of those arbitrary Saturdays Elias has once a quarter where he declares the Institute open to anyone, not just academics, which means they’re all supposed to be in until noon. He always declares them less than a week in advance, though, and Sasha’s fellow team members have already made plans to spend a few hours at Madame Tussauds; partly it’s that they want to see if they can figure out what the Not-Sasha was doing there in the Primes’ time, partly it’s that none of them ever really go off and do anything fun outside their house and they frankly deserve it. Sasha also knows that Tim is going to practice what he’s been learning, about targeting his vision. She’s not sure if that’s knowledge granted to her by the Eye or if she just knows Tim well enough to have figured it out; either way, she wonders if Jon and Martin are aware of it and if she should have warned them. Then she recalls Jon’s half-finished sentence and mentally kicks herself. Of course Jon and Martin are aware of what Tim’s planning. He’s trying to be better about communicating—they all are—so of course he would have told them, probably when he booked their tickets for today. He probably just forgot she hadn’t been part of the conversation.

She heads back to her desk and tells herself not to worry. They’ll be fine.

Settling in at her computer, she goes back to the research she’s doing on this current statement. Martin’s new cross-indexing system pulled up several potential matches, and she’s digging to see if any of it pans out. (Although, considering the nature of the statement, maybe she shouldn’t use phrases like that.) It’s definitely a Flesh statement; unlike the others, which can be more subtle, the Flesh is blatantly obvious when it turns up.

After a few minutes, though, she gives up. She does not have the stomach for this, not today. Instead, she clicks through a few layers of security until she’s in her private, hidden part of her laptop and her private research project. She’s got a few notes to dictate, and she doesn’t like taking work home with her, so she scoops up her laptop and the new tape recorder that matches her nails and retreats to the depths of Document Storage. They prefer doing their unofficial tapes…not on the main floor. It makes them feel a little better, she supposes.

It’s Martin who carved out the space in the boxes, carefully shuffling them around until there’s a little niche just wide enough for a comfortable chair, with an extra box missing from the layer so there’s somewhere to set drinks or notes as the case may be. It’s Tim who found the worn but sturdy armchair at a charity shop, and, surprisingly, it’s Jon who bought what is possibly the world’s tackiest slipcover, what Sasha can only class as “electric paisley”. Tim claims it looks exactly like what he sees when he looks at the shelves in the Archives, but only to Sasha and Martin; he doesn’t even joke about it in front of Jon. Sasha can’t decide if it’s sweet or something she should be concerned about.

She settles into the armchair, legs folded into the lotus position beneath her, and sets her laptop on the note box, then clicks on her tape recorder.

“Research of Sasha James, Archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, regarding the heads of the Institute, past and present,” she says. “Recorded eleventh February, 2017. Notes on Director Thomas Fitzwalter, fourth Head of the Institute, tenure 1940 to 1941.”

At least she doesn’t have a lot of people to look into. In some ways, her self-appointed task is easier than Tim’s or Martin’s, just because the scope is so much tighter. In other ways, of course, it’s harder. Tim only needs to work with himself, and Martin’s index is entirely self-contained within the Archives and their ongoing research. Sasha may only have a total of seven people to actually look into, but they’re hard to pin down. Partly it’s their age; records that predate digital record-keeping are trickier to search, as she has to hope they’ve been indexed online or find a library that might have the resources she needs. Partly it’s the fact that, well, they’re men who were only nominally themselves and were actually Jonah Magnus. Naturally he wouldn’t want people looking too closely at them.

But she’s struck, as she describes the details she’s been able to pull up about the man who had the shortest tenure as Institute Head due to what was either a poorly-timed or well-timed German bomb, by just how unremarkable all of the people she’s looked into were. None of them were standouts in their field, students from prestigious universities, or the scions of powerful families—which has to be a first in academia. She’s working her way backwards, so maybe she’ll find something different with the two men between Jonah Magnus and Thomas Fitzwalter, but so far, not a single one of them has been remotely distinguished, and in any other institute it would be a shock for them to ascend to head it up. Especially so quickly.

“I’m kind of curious as to why the Eye didn’t warn Fitzwalter about the attack in time to get under cover,” she muses. “I’m still doing research into him, so it’s possible he just wasn’t very likable or intelligent, but—”

“Hello?”

“Shit,” Sasha hisses. It’s not one of her boys—or Elias, which is a plus—but that means it’s someone she needs to deal with. “End recording.”

She snaps off the tape, pockets the recorder, closes her laptop, and hastens out to the main Archives with a smile plastered on her face. It falters when she sees who’s standing there—none other than P.C. Basira Hussain, arms folded tightly across her chest. Sasha is ready to get defensive, but then she takes a closer look at her face. She looks…grim is one word for it. Haunted is another. Gutted might come closest.

“Officer Hussain?” she says cautiously.

Basira makes a good effort at glaring at her, but it’s not particularly intimidating. “Was looking for J—Sims.”

“He’s out today,” Sasha answers. “It’s just me, I’m afraid. Can I help you?”

Basira makes a noncommittal noise. “That happen often? Them leaving you to hold down the fort on your own?”

“No, usually there are at least two of us around at all times, especially these days. But we’re also not usually here on Saturdays,” Sasha says. “Open house. Director Bouchard”—she says his name in the clipped, precise, tight-lipped manner of a woman in a male-dominated industry speaking of a superior who would like to keep it that way—“scheduled it somewhat last-minute, and the others already had plans for the afternoon.”

“And they made you stay, did they? Typical men.”

“Actually, I offered. I’ve taken more days off in the last year than all three of them put together, not counting when Martin was out on medical leave after his stint as a colander.”

Basira almost smiles. Sasha sets her laptop on her desk and comes closer. “Okay, I’ve got to ask—is this a professional visit or a personal one? Not like that,” she adds quickly when Basira stiffens. “I know you’re not—Jon doesn’t seem like your type. I just meant—are you here as a cop or…?”

“No, it’s…” Basira sighs heavily. “Just needed to talk to him, I guess. I called yesterday and—”

Sasha remembers now. Jon came out of his office and had Martin pull up all the cases they’ve come across involving the name Maxwell Rayner. “Yeah, I—he mentioned that.”

“He did,” Basira says flatly.

Shit, they’re not supposed to know Basira is feeding him those tapes…but then Sasha thinks, to hell with it. “Yeah. It’s hard to keep secrets around here, you know? Turns out we’re all developing spooky supernatural powers, and mine is that sometimes I know things without knowing how I know them. I mean, sometimes I can Know things on purpose, but mostly it’s just passing by someone and accidentally plucking a secret out of their brain without meaning to. Let me tell you, I did not need to know that the man behind the counter at my favorite coffee shop has a foot fetish.”

“I dunno, that might be useful in the summer if you’re the type to wear sandals.” Basira relaxes, just a fraction, which surprises Sasha more than a little. “What did he say?”

“Just that you’d called and asked about Maxwell Rayner. Look, have a seat, you look like you’re about to fall over. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? There’s some peppermint hot cocoa, too, if that strikes your fancy.” Sasha means it—Basira does look like she needs some fortification, and maybe to talk and get something off her chest—but if she’s being honest, she’s also burning with curiosity about what happened. She’s got to be careful about bringing that up, though. “Sorry we don’t have anything stronger, but, you know, we’re pretending to be professional.”

“Actually, that cocoa doesn’t sound too bad,” Basira mutters. She drops into Tim’s chair and leans her folded arms on his desk, staring at the surface like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Sasha hurries over to their tea station and pulls out one of the spare mugs they rarely use, along with the mug that long ago became hers. Cocoa sounds good, actually. It was grey and overcast when she came in, and she Knows without meaning to that it’s just barely warm enough that it’s raining instead of snowing, so it’s a good day for cocoa. She gives a fleeting thought to wondering if the Primes are warm enough in the stone tunnels, then goes back to making the cocoa.

“Here,” she says, handing the guest mug to Basira. “Made with water, not milk, but I mix a little bit of creamer into it. Works a treat.”

“Thanks,” Basira mutters.

As Sasha takes her seat, she notices her tape recorder sitting on her desk. It was definitely in her pocket a minute ago, and she definitely didn’t take it out, but there it is, innocuously resting next to her laptop. And, she notices, it’s running.

It’s not really a surprise, in some ways. Obviously Basira has a statement, and obviously it’s the real McCoy. It just startles Sasha that the tape recorder turned itself on…and for her. She sort of figured that only happens for Jon. It’s honestly a bit of a thrill, knowing that whatever is behind these tapes recognizes her.

She collects herself. “I take it that…whatever you were asking about Rayner for didn’t go well?”

Basira takes a long drink of her cocoa. “We lost Altman. Just…wasn’t paying attention. Don’t know what they’re going to tell his family. Guess it could have been worse, though, if I hadn’t talked to your boss first, so…tell him I said thanks.”

Sasha reaches over and squeezes Basira’s free hand as comfortingly as she can. Surprisingly, Basira grips it back. “Do you want to talk about it? I mean…I know you’re probably bound by all kinds of confidential agreements and all that, but you can ask any of the others, I’m really good at keeping secrets. We’re trying not to keep secrets from each other, but if you tell me not to say anything to them, I won’t. Just between you and me and whatever’s at the other end of the tape recorder that I absolutely did not turn on myself, by the way. Did you?”

Basira stares at it. “Fuck. Didn’t even notice it was on.” She takes a deep breath. “You know, I—I think I do want to talk about it. Don’t even care if you tell the others, or play them the tape or whatever, just…I need to talk to someone, I think. And with all those Section Thirty-One forms, this is probably the only place I can talk about it. Sure the only place I can talk about it and not feel crazy.”

Sasha nods. “Be glad you didn’t come in a year, year and a half ago. Jon’s skeptic act was legendary.”

“I’ll bet. He looks like a skeptic who got thrown in the deep end.” Basira makes an attempt at a smile. “Where do you want me to start?”

“As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, ‘Begin at the beginning, and go on until you reach the end: then stop.’”

“Alice in Wonderland. Fitting. That’s about what it felt like.” Basira sets down the mug on the table. “Well then. I guess the beginning is with the disappearance of Callum Brodie.”

Sasha keeps her eyes on Basira’s face as she describes the events at the Outer Bay Shipping industrial complex in Harringay. There’s just a little bit of static in her ears as she listens, but mostly it’s just Basira’s voice and the story she’s telling. It is…objectively terrifying, to be honest. Sasha’s always been just a little bit afraid of the dark, or at least of what might be hiding in the dark, and although she never says anything to the others, the Dark statements get to her. She’s never heard one live, though. Never sat with someone and felt their terror coursing through the loop of the shared space between them as they describe coming face to face with one of the two entities Sasha is willing to admit she genuinely fears (the other, obviously, being the Stranger, and she’s still not sure if that’s because of what it did to her Prime counterpart or because of what it did to Tim or just because it’s the natural enemy of the entity she’s bound to). It’s compelling, and the air seems charged with something, but she can’t say what.

“I think they were connected to that cult group from way back, the Church of the Divine whatever,” Basira says at last. She sounds drained.

“The People’s Church of the Divine Host,” Sasha supplies. “Rayner was their leader back in the nineties. We’ve had—God, how many statements about them? I can probably pull them for you if you want.”

“I don’t,” Basira says firmly. “Not even a little. I’ve been thinking a lot over the last few days, and…I’m done. With the police, with Section Thirty-One, all of it. Was going to tell Jon in person, but if he’s not here, this is the best I can do. Anyway, you all have my statement. I felt like I owed it to you.”

Sasha tilts her head to one side. “You’re really quitting?”

“Yeah. And you should, too. All of you. This place…it’s not right.”

Sasha can’t help the soft snort of laughter. “No kidding. I can’t, though.”

Basira raises an eyebrow. “Have to see it through? Or is it loyalty to your coworkers?”

She sounds bitter—like she’s talking from personal experience. Sasha wants to probe at that, but throttles it back. First of all, Basira is a lot pricklier than the rest of Team Archives, she won’t respond to her the same way. And second of all, she is actively trying to be less of an arse about that sort of thing. Instead, she decides for complete honesty. “No, it’s the sort of thing you’re done with. I’m being literal when I say I can’t quit. We’re bound to the Institute—to the Archives. If any of us try to leave, we’ll die.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get offered a job here,” Basira says dryly. She squeezes Sasha’s hand—it’s only then Sasha realizes they’ve maintained that physical contact throughout the entirety of her statement—then stands up. “Tell Jon I said to stay safe.”

Sasha stands, too, and watches her head to the door. Before she gets there, though, she calls out, “Basira.”

Basira stops and looks back over her shoulder. “What?”

Sasha should ask about the tapes—Jon’s going to want to know, they all want to know, and if Basira quits the force they might have to ask Daisy to bring them and nobody wants that—but what comes out of her mouth is, “Keep a light on for a while. It—I don’t want it to come after you, too.”

Basira studies her for a moment, then gives a small half-smile. “I will. Thanks, Sasha.” With that, she leaves the Archives.

Click! The tape recorder shuts itself off. Sasha stares at it for a moment, then swears. Unlike the others, she didn’t grow up functionally bilingual, so her profanity is limited to English and the smattering of dirty words she and her classmates looked up in French class, but she makes good use of them. She hits the button to rewind the tape with one hand and fishes out her phone with the other. Calling up the obnoxiously-named group chat, she hastily thumbs a message: [Let me know when you’re done.]

That done, she opens her laptop again and sets into some serious research.

Nobody ever visits the Archives on Open House days; the only people who ever come down here anyway are students doing dissertations who need firsthand accounts, especially older ones, and no self-respecting student works on a Saturday morning. So there’s no one to interrupt her as she clicks through Martin’s index, then switches her focus to the onerous task of following the twists and threads of corporate ownership. They haven’t done much research into Maxwell Rayner, either, or at least not as much as they should, so Sasha broadens her search for the name. What she comes up with nearly steals the breath from her lungs. It’s a coincidence, it has to be…

“Sasha?”

Sasha jumps, nearly flipping her laptop across the desk, and whips her head around to see Jon, Martin, and Tim coming towards her, looking worried. “Jesus, you three scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t answering. We got worried,” Martin says, pointing at her phone.

Sasha looks and sees that she’s missed fifteen texts in the group chat, starting with [We’re done. What’s up?] and devolving from there into mild panic. She flushes. “Sorry. I guess I got a bit wrapped up in my research…didn’t expect you to be done so quickly. Um, how did it go?”

“Fine. Stranger-free,” Tim answers. “One of the staff members has something, though. Jon smelled the statement on her—”

“That makes it sound worse, somehow,” Jon mutters.

“—and I’m pretty sure it’s a Desolation,” Tim continues. “Hopefully she stops by at some point so we can confirm that. What are you still doing here?”

Martin looks over her shoulder at the page called up on her screen. “Max—? Basira. She called back?”

“She was here,” Sasha tells him. She points at her recorder. “The operation she was on went sideways. It’s all on there, but if you’re going to listen, I need to be somewhere else.”

“No, it’s—some other time, maybe.” Jon rubs his forehead. “Summarize for us?”

“Rayner and his…cult, or what’s left of it, kidnapped a boy named Callum Brodie about three weeks ago,” Sasha answers. “The police apparently got a tip-off as to where they’d taken him—a place up in Harringay registered to Outer Bay Shipping. They had a raid yesterday and it was pretty much entirely sectioned officers. Basira called you as soon as she realized that, and by the way, she says thank you for the tip about the lights, because it’s probably the only reason they didn’t all end up dead.” She pauses, wondering how to wrap it all into a neat package, then finally says, “Details are on the tape, but the long and the short of it is that some…really dark stuff came pouring out of Rayner’s mouth and tried to go into Callum Brodie. The officer who shot him probably stopped that from happening, and from the sound of it, the kid’s going to be okay. Rayner is dead. So are three other cult members and one officer. And Basira’s quitting the force. I get the feeling this was kind of the straw that broke the camel’s back for her.”

Jon exhales, hard. “Christ.”

Martin is still studying the screen over her shoulder. “Sasha, this is—does that say what I think it does?”

“Yep. It doesn’t look like Mr. Rayner was particularly subtle.” Sasha looks up at Martin and can see in his eyes that he’s reached the same conclusion she has. Turning to Jon and Tim, who both look confused, she elaborates, “Maxwell Rayner, and the People’s Church of the Divine Host, are associated with the Dark, right? And darkness was flowing out of him into Callum Brodie.”

Jon’s face goes ashen. “Are you saying they were trying to initiate him into their cult? To—to mark him? Christ, how old is he?”

“Twelve, but…no, not exactly. Worse.” Sasha taps one fingernail on the edge of her laptop. “I widened my search for Rayner to before the nineties, especially in conjunction with…weird stuff, and I found this buried in a site about Edmund Halley. The description tallies pretty damn closely with the description of the man in the nineties, so either it’s a family line that doesn’t use suffixes—”

“Or,” Tim says, his eyes going wide with horror, “Maxwell Rayner has been extending his life by taking over new bodies as he ages out of the old one.”

“Or,” Martin adds softly, “stealing the life force of other people. Christ, I’d think that’d be more a Terminus power, but…I guess it’s possible?”

“Darkness. Like—” Jon breaks off the rest of the sentence, but he doesn’t need to say it. They all know what he’s thinking of. Sasha just hopes Elias isn’t paying attention to them right now. “I suppose that’s something we’ll have to…run down.”

“Good idea.” Sasha closes her laptop and stands up, palming the recorder. “Let’s go do that right now.”

[glimmerglanger]

your mirror au and i am such a fan! wondering if you would be down to write further about when mirror obi-wan and anakin first got together! it would interesting to see the similarities and differences from the prime obiwan and anakin!

Anonymous said:

Your morrorverse au is wonderful and amazing!! Seriously, I love it so much, the idea, your beautiful writing, the characterisation, delicious! I gotta ask though, becquse I love spicy details, how did mirror!boys' first time go? Was it gentle? Rough? How old was Anakin? Did Obi-Wan have bad flashbacks? How long did it take for them to learn each other preferences? 👀

Anonymous said:

Absolutely LOVE Mirror AU!! But I'm also so curious Bout how Shadow and His Obi got together? Bc from the bits of Obi'd past and how little he thought Anakin truly cared for him, I'm curious about how they started. And if they ever actually address Obi's insecurities regarding how he views himself through others eyes, versus how Anakin actually views him.

A subject that must be explored further :D Generalized warnings for everyone being Darksiders, mentions of Obi-Wan’s screwed up past, Emperor Palpatine being just a HUGE and inappropriate creeper, especially with young Anakin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The very first time Anakin thought he might get to experience some of things he imagined - more and more often, as he got older - was in a dark club in Coruscant’s lower levels. He’d slipped away from Obi-Wan, managed to snag the attention of a slim figure with a sharp little smile and wandering hands, and had gotten as far as kissing them when suddenly he was pulled back and shoved a step to the side.

It had been startling, for a number of reasons, to look over at Obi-Wan’s scowling face, to listen to Obi-Wan snapping at Anakin’s companion to move away, immediately, his voice laced with the Force.

Anakin knew he ought to be upset, really. But the thing was… the kiss hadn’t really been as satisfying as he thought it would be, anyway. He’d been - been dissatisfied, been thinking about Obi-Wan, and it seemed like, in a way, Anakin had simply summoned him there with a thought.

Besides, Obi-Wan’s hand was still on his shoulder, and he thought, maybe--

“Are you alright?” Obi-Wan asked, turning to frown over at him as Anakin’s companion slipped away without another word. He was not radiating jealousy or want, Anakin noticed, with a little kick of disappointment. Instead, it seemed Obi-Wan was worried.

Anakin frowned, straightening to his full height - only just taller than Obi-Wan, now - and said, “Yes, I’m fine, why’d you do that?”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes, but he felt strange, inside, his emotions all a jumble. “It’s my responsibility to look after you,” he said, turning, as though he intended to go back out into the bar, as though the discussion were over.

“Look after--I wanted to,” Anakin said, following behind.

Obi-Wan snorted, shaking his head, and said, “You’re too young to know what you want.” And Anakin wanted to protest; he was fourteen, and - and he’d had a pretty good idea of exactly what he wanted for months, and--

A comm from the Council, new orders relayed from the Emperor, cut Anakin’s protests off, leaving him to simmer over them.

#

Anakin kept his further explorations of the things he desired well away from Obi-Wan’s attention. It wasn’t that difficult, really. The Emperor was happy to help Anakin slip away for a few hours, here and there. Sometimes he even introduced Anakin to people, who were more than happy to… help out.

And after each time, if the Emperor asked what he had thought, if he’d like to see this person or that person again…

Well, Anakin’s answer was always the same. He was learning all kinds of things, many of them about what he wanted. Who he wanted. 

It was strange, how he thought he’d known all along.

#

The problem, as Anakin saw it, was that he wanted Obi-Wan, but he got the distinct impression he was not desired in return. He learned how to tell the difference, in his forays in darkened rooms and tangled sheets. Not all of the partners he spent time with wanted him, some just… went through the motions, while others lit up on the inside with desire.

He turned away those without want after the first time or two, because the entire experience left him feeling… off. It made him remember what he’d been told about Obi-Wan, brought back the memories of his nightmares, and--

And Anakin knew he could have them, but he found he didn’t want them, not like that. He didn’t want to be someone Obi-Wan had nightmares about.

#

It was years before Anakin caught a flash of anything resembling desire from Obi-Wan. They were on some terrible planet - Geonosis - where they’d been forced into a gladiatorial arena. Understanding that everyone involved was going to pay with their lives did little to dampen Anakin’s anger at being tossed - without a weapon - across the sands to fight the huge creatures in the arena.

His anger only burned hotter because they’d dragged Obi-Wan out before him and chained him up, put him on display in the center of the space, as the stands above hurled abuse and rocks down. Most of the stones did not manage to come close to the center of the arena, to Obi-Wan’s arms or bare chest, but--

But Anakin was seeing red by the time he was shoved from the chariot delivering him into the arena. He rolled across the sand, coming to his feet, listening to the wall of sound coming from the crowd and sneering up at all of them.

They seemed to think that he would be helpless with his hands bound. They seemed to think they’d won. They seemed to think many things, and Anakin was happy to show them how wrong they were.

The fight that followed took his concentration, left him panting hard with his hands bloody and his chest heaving. He looked over at Obi-Wan, standing there under the sun, free from the pillar, battered but alive and--

And found Obi-Wan looking at him, already, expression surprised and eyes wide. And Anakin felt the flare of want, of desire, recognized it with an answering jolt, and would have charged forward to pursue it, right there and right then, had not the rebel Dooku shown up at that moment.

#

Anakin lost his hand on Geonosis, spent too much time in a bacta tank, and only found out that Obi-Wan had been punished for failing to look after him after he was released. He found out only that he was to take the Brand, to be considered fully trained, after the healers let him go.

It burned, the blazing metal, when it was pressed against the back of his neck, but Anakin had suffered worse hurts. He complained not about it, especially because the Emperor had left marks on Obi-Wan that had yet to fade. A single burn hardly compared.

Anakin was given his own quarters - far finer than he’d expected - and he stayed within them for perhaps thirty seconds before he turned and left, seeking out Obi-Wan. The burn on the back of his neck still ached. He could only barely operate the prosthetic attached to his arm, but--

But none of that mattered, really. Obi-Wan wanted him - had wanted him, for at least a few heartbeats - and Anakin had been waiting for such desire for so long… 

Obi-Wan had the door open before Anakin even knocked. Anakin slipped inside the familiar space, drawn to where he sensed Obi-Wan, in the little kitchen. He held a cup of tea, glancing over as Anakin lingered in the doorway, just… looking at him.

There was a bruise, fading on Obi-Wan’s cheek. His hair only partially covered it, falling forward over his shoulder. He was wearing soft tunics, his feet bare, and--

And Anakin crossed to him, drawn forward by years of aching wants. Obi-Wan said, “Are you feeling--”

Anakin slid a hand across his jaw, feeling him go still, and leaned down, kissing the question off of his mouth. Obi-Wan startled, would - perhaps - have spilled tea on both of them, if Anakin hadn’t closed his fingers around the cup and taken it away, using the Force to place it on the counter.

He pulled back, after only a second, to find Obi-Wan staring at him, wide-eyed. “Anakin,” he said, his voice calm and still, “what are you doing?”

“What I’ve always wanted to do,” Anakin told him, stroking a thumb across the line of his cheek, sliding his other arm around Obi-Wan’s back. He brushed a kiss across Obi-Wan’s mouth and then another, and felt a hot spark of want that settled in his gut like the taste of victory. His mouth curved into a smile, and he added, “What you want me to do.”

Obi-Wan’s breath punched out, and he said, “Surely you don’t--”

Anakin kissed him, because it seemed the best way to prove that he very much did. He pushed at their connection at the same time, all the warm, tangled feelings he had for Obi-Wan, built and nurtured over so many years, all the wants, all the desires, all the needs.

Anakin had been strong enough to take what he wanted for years. He’d known it, the first time he managed to pin Obi-Wan during a sparring match. The Emperor had even told him as much, told him he had the power to take whatever he liked, while looking pointedly at Obi-Wan, and - as it turned out - what Anakin liked was Obi-Wan, reaching out to clench him closer, responding to all Anakin showed him.

It was a stunning delight to feel the other side of their connection open, to have warmth and want curl back out to him, and, oh, he’d been right to wait. It had been worth it, for the way Obi-Wan gripped at him, the way he groaned and panted and pulled Anakin closer, all while Anakin got everything he’d wanted.

[miss-choco-chips]

Teaching you, teaching me

Four times mother and son learned from and about each other, and one time Tim used his knowledge for evil good.

(Warning: Tim is older in some and younger in others, without order)

(For my babes @the-quiet-carrotcake and @animemangasoul who cheered me up when I was feeling bad, hope this makes you happy as well! 

Also, hon tagged me on a ‘five word prompt generator’ thing and I lost the post, so this is my contribution, five words that inspired each part)

Animal

When Jack died, it was sad but they were prepared. He’d been in a coma for two months by then, and Janet had practically been readying both herself and her son for the outcome. Tim had been sad, but it was more because of a possible future lost (he’d never given up the hope of his father changing one day, of Jack wanting to stay and being more present in his life), than genuine sorrow. Or so had the therapist told her.

Janet hadn’t felt bad, not really. Her relationship with her late husband had been cold long before his death, ruined by years of neglecting their son and being absent of their lives, but she suffered for her son, with his too big heart, who didn’t hesitate on wasting his tears on a father that never deserved them, the second she told him the news. 

Still, she held his hand through the entire funeral, surprised by the way he held his head on high. When he threw an arm over her shoulders to guide her away, after the service was over, she realized he was trying to be strong for her. The thirteen year old, heart breaking inside his small chest, was puffing it out to make himself seem bigger, more reliable, to comfort a mother that didn’t really need it.

Her beautiful, kind son.

Max’s death, a short two months after, was nothing like that.

The dog had been part of their household for nine, almost ten years now. Bought shortly after the circus tragedy, in a desperate attempt at soothing her son’s nightmares with the company of something fluffy and loveable, Max had grown up next to Tim, been there for any sad or happy moment, comforting him or sharing his joy by turns. The golden retriever had seem made specifically of love, giving all of it to the kid he’d been gifted to, and for that alone Janet had gone all out on his medical treatments, desperate to make him live as long as possible for a dog. 

Still, he was gone too soon, taking with him Tim’s smile and leaving ample space for tears. Tim had stayed by his side from the moment the veterinarian informed them of his chronic condition, to the tragic end of it, petting him softly and speaking in low, comforting tones.

Max’s last act before dying had been to lick Tim’s hand, the only thing he could reach from where he was lying on the dog bed, and wag his tail once. Even at death’s door, he’d showed Tim more love than his father ever had. Just for that, Janet would Max more than she did Jack.

It also baffled her, when Tim rejected her offer to bring home another dog a week after the small funeral they held in the backyard, softly closing the book on his lap to give her his full attention.

-You love getting new pets -she felt compelled to point out, because it felt like the obvious course of action.

-I do, but I also know why you are suggesting it now, and it won’t work. You can’t make me forget my sadness over losing Max by getting me a puppy, mom. 

-It’ll fill the void -she insists. Almost desperately. 

(She can’t stand to hear her child cry by himself at night, his despair breaking her heart worse than anything else ever could)

-It won’t -he says, shifting in the window seat he always choose when deep in thought or in a contemplative mood-. I loved Max, not because he was a dog, but because he was Max. Even if you buy me a hundred puppies, I’ll love them because they’d be them. It won’t make me forget my pain over Max’s death. 

She wanted to fight him on it, offer more, whatever it took to wipe the dim and far away look from his eyes, but he glanced up at her, so softly and fond, and she felt her tongue glueing itself to the top of her mouth. 

She thought, weirdly enough, of Wayne. Of how, when his first son went away, how he took another boy in. Despite loving Jason, he never stopped missing Dick. She thinks she understands, a little, where Tim was coming from.

(Tim would throw his book at her, if he knew she was comparing the Waynes to dogs, but, if the shoe fits…)

Demonstration

They say watching was the best form of learning, and Tim took it to heart. He analyzed people, going to work, hanging out with friends, buying groceries, fighting, laughing, crying… he saw, and he learned.

The one he watched the most was his mother, though.

How she smiled oh-so-politely at parties, how she ruthlessly destroyed the person speaking to her with short, well informed facts and dirty laundry. How she did both at the same time.

He went with her to DI, and took notice of the way her hips swayed with each step whenever she needed the room’s attention on her, or made her heels click extra hard against the porcelain floor when she wanted averted eyes.

She waved sweetly to her secretary, and frostily glared at the board member sitting three seats away from her.

She clenched her teeth during a phone call with someone she hated, but kept her voice perfectly smooth, warm even, as if speaking to an old friend.

He knew he would inherit the company one day. And, small as DI had been in the past, it had flourished under Janet Drake’s tender and constant care, blooming into the powerhouse it was today, on par with Wayne Enterprises. It was intimidating, to imagine all that power, all that responsibility, on his shoulders. 

Mother, Aunt Nicole, Uncle Lex, Uncle Bruce, Dick, Jay… they all said it, that Tim was too kind, too soft. He would give his hand to someone down without a thought, rather than see if they had a weapon first. Sweet, they called him, and made him blush, because he liked it. Liked that, to all that ruthless, sharp, for moments cruel people, he was a warm presence. A safe, comfortable place to lay worries to rest and smile. He liked being their sweet Timmy.

But he also despised it, because he was a gothamite, and this city ate sweet people whole for dessert, just after finishing with the foolish and naive ones that made for it’s lunch. There was no place for tender people, because that was the best kind to sink teeth into, and Gotham feeds on them. And he can’t die, because who is going to make sure mom and Nicole don’t go off the deep end? Who’s going to help Lex understand and bond with his son, with Conner? Who’s going to make sure the Waynes are getting along, when Alfred himself decides to leave them to their terrible life choices?

So he watches his mom, because she’s a prime example of someone not to be fucked with. Someone who is going to survive this wreck of a city until her drawn out, bitter end, and when that comes, she’ll go kicking and screaming and suing people to the ends of the earth. She doesn’t fear Gotham, and while sure as fuck Gotham doesn’t fear her either, it at least respects her. 

So he watches, and memorizes, and adapts behaviours and gestures into his own, tries to mimic the look in her eyes that send people flinching back and laughing nervously.

And, since he’s watching, he notices that she knows. How she’d look over her shoulder, straight into his eyes, as if saying ‘pay attention, I’m only showing you this once’ before she does something particularly tricky. Demonstrates her way of surviving, and lets him learn from it to make his own.

Tim, eleven years old, so tender and soft he’s like a warm, eatable bunny in everyone’s opinion, closes his eyes and breathes in, deeply. When he opens them, the icy blue of his gaze is enough to send the closest board member stumbling back and mumbling an apology (for what, who knows) before scurrying out of the room. 

Mom looks back to the rest of the board, but Tim knows (because he watches her all the time, he’s learned her to the smallest detail) that she’s smiling. 

She’s proud.

Galaxy

It’s late, and she feels sick and wants nothing more than to go to sleep. She’d basically lived at the office this last week, because of some stupid mistake Jack had made with the one piece of paperwork she needed him to sign (how he manages to screw up from all the way across the world, she can’t quite understand; it surely requires talent), and feels about ready to collapse on her bed.

But, because it’s been a while since she saw him, something in her gut tells her to go look for her son. Tim’s probably asleep right now, it’s almost four a.m, but if she’s silent enough, she could sneak a quick peek through the door, make sure he’s fine, and then go to bed completely unburdened.

Except, when she gets there, she’s treated to the sight of her son, her eight year old son, getting back into his room from God knows where by climbing through his window. Which, by the way, was located on the third floor.

Janet pressed a hand to her chest, as if to make sure her heart was still beating. It was, but the speed couldn't be normal.

Was this a heart attack? 

Hidden by the shadows on the hallway, she noticed how he removed his tiny sneakers, that she had completely forgot he even owned, and thrusted them under the bed. They were worn out, full of grim, obviously used often for activities like sneaking out at night and climbing the house. 

Yes, she was having a heart attack. And an aneurysm. Simultaneously.

The camera around his neck, she did remember. The one gift he had asked for his last birthday, the only thing he ever begged her for. She hadn’t understand his passion for owning one, but since he never had looked so earnest (and wanting to make up for Jack missing the day) she conceded.

Was it a mistake? Watching the little boy making himself comfortable in his bed, going through the photos in the camera with the most delighted expression ever, she felt like ‘fuck yes’ wasn’t a strong enough answer.

Her first impulse, to jump inside the room and demand answers, was squashed down almost as soon as it hitted her. If she did, Tim would clam up and deny everything. Instead, she breathed in deeply and tapped her knuckles against the doorframe.

Tim almost jumped straight out of his skin, looking at her like a thief caught red handed. It’d be almost funny, if her heartbeat wasn’t still off the charts.

-Timothy, it’s quite late. Why are you awake at this hour? And with your camera? -she made a show of scanning his clothing, as if she wasn’t aware of the jeans and hoodie- Why aren’t you on your pajamas?

She could almost hear him thinking, brilliant mind kicking into overdrive as her prodigious son searched for an answer that would satisfy his mother and keep him out of trouble. Shame no such answer existed.

-I… was outside, mama -he mumbled; calling her like that, amping up the cuteness, was almost overdoing it, but she supposed the situation called for big guns- Taking pictures of the sky. I-I know it’s dark, and polluted, but I heard today was going to be extra-starry, and I thought maybe I could photograph the stars for you?

He was good, she ought to give him that. But years too young to even try to lie to her.

-I see -she answers, calmly walking closer to him. Her face betrayed nothing, and she could see how that was getting into him by the way he was fondling with the camera, almost carelessly compared to his earlier reverent touch.

He flinched when she sat by his side.

-M-mom?

-Well? -an arched eyebrow- Aren’t you going to show me? You did something incredibly dangerous, climbing down your window- no, don’t even try to lie, I saw you climbing back in. Don’t think we won’t be talking about that in the morning. But you did something truly reckless, for those pictures for me. The least I can do is see them.

Quick, trembling hands fumbled a bit with the buttons. Janet was honestly surprised when he turned the camera around, showing actual sky pictures to her. She believed it a bluff. Maybe preventive measures, in case he got caught? She was sure he was lying, because even if they were sky pictures, it wasn’t a particularly nice view, all foggy and polluted Gotham landscape.

She also noticed (though pretended not to) how those angles weren't ones he could achieve from their backyard, which upped her panic levels a few notches. Her baby had been alone, at night, away from home, in this shithole of a city.

-What a pity -she says, instead, giving back the camera, despite her burning desire to search for older pictures to get an idea of her son’s true activities-, those look like the usual sky. I would have loved to see the stars. Well, not your fault, this place is just ugly. Maybe we should move to Metropolis, I’m sure there are stars there.

-Mom…!

-Hush, now, go to sleep. We are talking about sneaking out and bedtimes tomorrow, I’m too tired right now.

She could see his anxiety (at moving away? Why did he love this place so much?), but he must have realized he’d push his luck too far if he insisted, so he kissed her cheek and let her tuck him in. 

Despite her bone-deep tiredness, Janet couldn't get a single second of shut eye at all. By six a.m and truly out of ideas, she picked up the phone. Too respectful of Nicole’s boundaries to bother her at that hour (or at least, not desperate enough; had the situation been a little more urgent, she wouldn’t have hesitated to drag her to the manor kicking and screaming), she called Lex.

At the fifth ring, her old friend's voice answered- I have a conference with the president in a few hours and need rest, this better be important.

-Please, your sleep schedule is even worse than mine. I need an opinion.

-And is Al Ghul unavailable? Why are you bothering me, when you two usually ignore my advice and go to each other?

-Don’t be jealous, green isn’t your color. Lavender isn’t either, but well, I guess you can’t win all your battles…

-Bold words for someone asking for help.

-Who said anything about help? I just need a new perspective. And I’m already regretting going to you for it.

-Well, I’m awake now, so might as well. Mercy -Luthor’s voice sounded a little muffled, probably covering the receiver while he addressed his bodyguard slash buttler- I’ll be in the study, bring me coffee.

She gave him a few minutes, twirling one of her dark locks in her pointer finger. Laying in bed, unmade by all the tossing and turning she did for the last hours, she looked the picture of unrest. Luthor would laugh himself sick if he saw her now.

-Alright, I have coffee now. What happened?

-I caught Tim coming back home  after sneaking out last night. It looked like he did it before, multiple times; he had specific shoes for it that he hid, and even got some backup-plan photographs to make it look like he was just in the backyard photograpying the sky.

She heard the squeaking sound his chair made as he sat straighter, floored by her confession. 

-You should oil that chair. Is unbecoming for your image if it makes that kind of sounds everytime you move on it.

-Sorry, I can’t answer properly to the last part because I’m still reeling for the opening bit.

-Weak.

He ignored her (rude), muttering under his breath- Tim what? No, he wouldn’t… well, he does have Janet’s genes, so maybe…

-So -she cut him off, because if he kept that line of thinking, she would hang up and he still hadn’t given her any advice-, your thoughts?

-Get a bodyguard on him 24-7 who’ll keep him from going out at night -he answered quick as a wip, not even needing to think it through. She huffed.

-If it were that easy, I wouldn't need your opinion, you fool. This is my son we are talking about. Guilt and duty might keep him from going out, if I appeal to those, but brute force and shackles? He’s smart, smarter than you, maybe even than me. If he really wants to go, and finds no moral obstacles, he’ll find a way. 

-So, do what you said, attack his conscience. 

-I want to keep him safe, not emotionally destroy him.

-Forbid him from going? Like you said, he’s a dutiful son, and very well behaved.

-Which means he’ll make sure I think he’s obeying, but no guarantees he’ll actually do it. Think harder.

A few minutes went by, before the man sighed.

-You said it yourself, if he really wants to go, there’s little you can do, short of locking him up like a prince in a tower. Maybe speak to him, tell him your reasons to worry… and get him some martial arts teacher, to give him a fighting chance if he ends up disobeying anyway.

----.----

After speaking to Luthor and a quick call to Nicole for a favor (namely, get Lady Shiva to accept a work as a sensei for Tim), Janet slept for a solid nine hours. Eating, overseeing some papers and phoning her secretary to clean her schedule for the rest of the week, and she was ready to face her son after having dinner together. 

They sat on Tim’s bed, and she held his hand as she spoke to him. About how cold it was, how easy it was, before he was born. How life was do this, think about that, conquer here, throw something away there. Act, consequence, simple as that. Clinical as that.

It was different, she said, when he came to her life, to her arms. Because it was warm, and difficult, and so, so scary. She’d never been so afraid of the butterfly effect before. Now, consequences of a misstep could come to bite her in twenty years, a simple act  now could make Tim despise her in the future.

“I’ve never been so afraid in my life”, she told him, baring her soul for the first time in her life. “But I’ve also never been happier, and it’s all because of you.”

“I love you”, she told him, giving her heart away for the first time in her life. “And I can’t lose you.”

Those words were the hardest for her to say. She did it, anyway. Because he needed to hear them, and because they might be enough to keep him from pulling last night’s stunt again.

By the time she was done, Tim’s face was a mess of tears and snot. He hadn’t uttered a single word, holding onto her hand like a lifeline, but his smile was the brightest, prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

-I’ll be careful, Mom -he promised, between wrecked sobs. It had truly affected him, to hear her heart thoughts so bluntly. She ought to do this more often, if he treasured it so much- I.. I won’t go out at night alone, not until I’m someone not even the Rogues can mess with. I promise -he looks at his bedside table, where the camera sits, and looks regretful but determined at the same time. She knows he means it. Whatever feeling he got from sneaking out to take pictures, it evidently wasn’t as strong as what he felt now, holding his mom’s hand and shaking from such strong emotions.

-Thank you -she breathed in deeply, relaxing for the first time since the night before, letting go of his hand to hug his shoulders, pressing him into her side.

After a few seconds of silence, he weaseled out of her hold, raising a hand to halt her when she tried to follow his example and get up- Stay there a minute, Mom, I have something to show you.

With that, he sprinted to the light switch, and turned them off. But a slight, greenish glow remained in the room, and then she noticed the glow in the dark stars sticking to the ceiling.

There were… a lot of them.

Tim came back and sat once again next to her, hand quickly snatching hers.

-You said… you said you wanted to see the stars, so I made you a little galaxy. Whenever you want to see them, you can come here… You’ll also know, that way, that I’m here and not sneaking out.

Thanking people wasn’t something Janet did often. But she had said ‘I love you’ today, and that one was a first, so this wasn’t too far fetched for her.

-Thank you, Tim.

Feedback

A week after showing his mother his multiple closets full of disguises and aliases’ clothing, he was called into her office. 

He had expected some questions, maybe even feedback or advice in how to perfect his portrayal of other people.

He hadn’t expected this.

-..and I know I’m not as… adapted to the ever changing times as younger people like you. Me, Lex, sometimes Nicole, we are too set on our ways, but. 

She cleared her throat. Tim still wasn’t sure he wasn’t having some kind of fever dream.

-But. It’s important for you to know that I… I won’t ever judge you for something you are. I might judge your actions, like when you accept Todd’s offers for a ride downtown, or Grayson’s requests for a dance, or when you are too dumb/ kind, too kind, towards other people… But I’ll never judge you for something you didn’t choose. Like this.

In the midst of this confusing speech, Tim still couldn't quiet comprehend why mom was gesturing towards the shoes on the desk. They were simple, red heels, not even that high, belongings of Caroline Hill, one of his more successful aliases. It was a wonder how people on the Alley’s clinic hadn’t catched on that their favorite voluntary nurse slash doctor in training was a fifteen year old kid instead of the nineteen year old shy girl they thought, but it was an ego boost when they called him Miss Hill, and a boost to his medical skills when they taught him something new.

-I understand this is an… -a quick glance to the papers in her desk. Had mom… wrote this down beforehand? What…?- age of changes, yes, an age of changes for you. And you are… discovering- no, learning yourself. And I’m honored that you trusted me enough to show me that, and came to me in this… confusing times.

Tim opened his mouth to speak. Mom seemed to panic, as much as mom ever did anyways, quickly sorting through her sheets of… Information? Pointers?

-Not that I think you are confused! I trust that you know yourself the best, and I trust whatever you say to me are your honest feelings on the matter. 

-I… I am confused -he managed to blurt out. 

Mom winced, and searched among her papers some more. When she seemed to find whatever it was, she pulled it above the others, gave them a quick glance, and kept going- It’s okay if you don’t know it yet, too. There’s more than just… male or female. According to my research, there’s a ‘neither’, ‘both’ and ‘sometimes one, sometimes the other’ option.

Janet seemed lost at her own words. Tim could relate. He wasn’t even sure they were talking about his aliases anymore.

-What I mean to say is -she breathed in deeply, letting the papers fall to the desk and meeting his eyes head on-, I love you. You are my son, daughter, neither, both, whatever you feel, but still mine. My child, and nothing you do about your… identity or sexuality can change that. I’ll always accept you, as you are. And if anyone ever gives you trouble about it, you can always come to me and I’ll set their minds straight, or remove them from the picture.

Tim felt fondness surging in his chest, even as his mind came to an abrupt halt when he finally understood what this was all about.

-You might have to be patient with me, or explain some concepts, as I learn about this, because its all new information to me. But I promise you I’ll always love you no matter what, and I’m willing and ready to do my best to/

-Mom -he finally choked up, torn between embarrassment and profound love- I’m not… I’m a boy. I really, really appreciate all this, but you don’t need to… I mean, the shoes and clothes? It’s because I’m making aliases, so I can learn different things and meet people without it being traced back to me. Like, tools. Caroline Hill, the shoes owner, for example, is a tool to learn about medicine, and practice the way of women in case I ever need to disguise myself as one. Not… not actual representations of Tim Drake.

There was a minute of silence.

-Well, this is… unexpected.

-But -he continued, cheeks warm but hurting from smiling so hard- you are the best mom ever, and this learning you are doing? It’s great, even if not applicable to me, because it… it’s good, for people to understand and accept other people like that. It makes you a better person, and I’m really proud of you.

He got up from his seat and walked around the desk, sitting in the floor by his mom’s chair like he did when he was a toddler, and rested his head in her lap, hugging her legs, eyes going to hers with wonder and happiness. She seemed utterly relieved, both at not having fucked up their chat, and at him not being mad at the misunderstanding.

-Aliases, huh. I can help with that. We can talk about it over dinner, and I’ll give you some suggestions.

-Thanks, mom. And, hum, since you brought up the whole gender and sexuality stuff… this might be a good moment to let you know I’m bi.

Long, sharp nails scratched his scalp softly, his eyes closing almost on instinct. Her laugh ringed in his ears.

-It doesn’t matter to me, Timothy. Boy, girl… whoever you bring home, I’ll…

He smiled, expectant.

-... never accept them. No one, no matter their genders, is good enough for my son.

Ah, there she was, the mother he knew and loved.

Movie

Tim, sitting in his study, didn’t even raise his eyes from the paperwork mom had assigned him (to help make him accustomed to dealing with it for when he’ll have a more central role in DI)  when the door opened and closed with a bang. He continued signing contracts with one hand, while the other patted his desk for his phone, shooting a quick text to the butler without looking.

-Can you believe it? -his intruder clamored, walking back and forth in front of Tim’s desk, hands messing through long locks of black hair.

-No -he replied, eyes still not leaving his work- It's amazing, how the stock market dropped on Wayne Enterprises. What is Bruce thinking, with the neon knights? He can’t do that and then go gallivanting around the world alone again, the stockholders won’t stand for such a big inversion without the logical follow up. I need to phone Damian about this, maybe he can ask his brothers to pose as Bruce and/

-I’m not talking about your precious Waynes!

-I know -he replied, hand finishing the last stroke of his signature, raising his eyes to his godmother just as the door opened and the butler brought a tea (and coffee) set, placing it by the little table in the corner of the study-, but I needed a few minutes to finish this before paying attention to you, Aunt. Now, a cup of tea? I’ll be having coffee, but it might not be the best for your frayed nerves.

-My nerves aren’t frayed, you little brat. Show some respect. Where is my cute little angel of a godson? -she complained, sitting as elegantly as ever in the plus couch by the little table. Tim sat opposite her.

-He hasn't slept in three days -and is being asked to meddle into adult’s problems, but he didn’t voice that part, merely mixing ingredients in the steaming cup-, It’s natural to be bitter. Now, tea?

She didn’t answer, but accepted the offered drink, already prepared to her tastes perfectly. Despite her anger, she smiled. Two sugars, no milk, a little lemon, the smallest hint of vodka. Her godson knew her so well.

A few seconds went by as Tim readied his own coffee and downed half. The butler topped the cup for him, and then left just as quietly as he had came.

-Now, want to tell me what has you so mad?

He already knew, but playing innocent was one of his strengths. Bruce still blamed Dick for the incident on the music room of the manor, despite the fact that Tim had been there at the moment and his eldest far away on a secret mission civilian Tim wasn't supposed to know about. That was the true power of a goodie two shoes.

-Your mother, she… You know we were planning on going to the movies today, and she…!

-Ah -he nodded, as if only catching up then- She went with Dana, right?

Nicole gritted her teeth, downing her cup in one long glup to calm herself. Tim merely took the teapot and filled it again.

-Janet doesn’t even like the movies! She hates being around other people. The only reason she goes is to humor me, and now… That woman…

-Dana is a good person -he intervened, because he genuinely liked her. Dana Winters had been in charge of taking care of his comatose dad until his death, and they had spent some time together during his visits to Jack. A lot of his alias Caroline Hill had been based on her. And right now, she...

-Too good -Nicole muttered, which Tim suspects, was the root of the problem.

-Shouldn't you be glad? -he asked, head tilted in his best show of naivety- That mom is trying to get someone kind to be by her side? Dad wasn’t… dad wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t as nice to mom as he could have been. I, for one, want her to be happy.

-Janet doesn’t do nice.

It took everything in him to not answer ‘well, she might tonight’, because that would ruin his innocent image, and he was afraid Nicole might actually stab Dana. Really, refraining himself like that was almost painful. Mom better appreciate his sacrifice.

-The nicest thing she could ever stand was you -she continued, ignorant to her godson’s internal struggle-, and you are her baby.

-I’m fifteen -he felt compelled to inform her, but was promptly shushed.

-To us, you never grew past your chubby stage.

-I didn’t have a chubby stage, and you can’t prove otherwise -he’d know. He was the one who got rid of the evidence.

-Back to the point… Dana is no good fit for your mom. She’d end up tearing off her own hair in frustration in less than a month after countless discussions of morality and ‘doing the right thing’. She can barely resist when it’s you doing the nagging and, again, you are the exception to all of Janet’s rules.

Tim hummed, thinking distractedly how someone as smart as Nicole couldn’t see that Dana’s good heart wasn’t the problem here. Oh well, he needed to be a little more direct.

-And who do you think would be a good match for mom? Someone distant, like dad? Or easily manipulated?

A growling almost came out of Nicole’s mouth. Tim refilled his coffee cup again.

-Neither… those make for good tools, but not partners. Janet needs someone who understands her, who couldn’t judge, who likes her as rotten and twisted as she is.

Should he protest? This was his mother they were talking about. Not that she was wrong, but… still.

Deciding against it, because he needed to get back to work and this conversation was already exhausting, he nodded- Mm, but plenty of people in high society adore her... 

-Those fools either don’t know of her true nature, or are too scared of it. None would make for a good life companion.

-So, someone who isn’t scared of her, knows her inside out, isn’t morally upright…

-They should also have similar objectives in life -Nicole interjected, empty cup clattering against the plater when she placed it there-, otherwise Janet might feel the need to remove them to keep them off her way.

-Objectives, like…?

-Staying on top of the food chain of the corporate world, for example. And keeping loved ones safe. Like you, for her.

“And Damian, for you”, he didn’t say. Finally, they seemed to be reaching the end of the discussion. Just a few more lines...

-And they should be strong -she kept on, digging her own grave for Tim’s convenience-, because Janet is, too, which means her enemies are as well, and she needs someone to have her back if she ever needs it.

-I don’t think -he wondered, finger tapping his chin in childlike confusion- that such a person exists. Someone as morally compromised as mom, strong enough to help her achieve her objectives, who knows her and loves her. I never met someone like that… I mean, besides you.

Time seemed to stop for Nicole, who dropped the scon she had halfway through her mouth. Tim knew what having a romantic realization felt like, so he let her deal with it while he finished his coffee. After a few minutes letting her stew, he force a look of curiosity and concern on his face- Aunt Nicole? Are you alright? You went really quiet…

Nicole wasn’t sitting in front of him any longer. Okay, he’ll forgive the rudeness, in the spirit of love and all that. Picking up his phone, he sent Dana a quick text, warning her to make herself scarce.

“Everything going according to plan on my end”

“Ah, okay. I’ll thank Janet for accompanying me, and ask her to just be friends. Then I’ll catch a taxi :) “

“Yeah, let me know once you are back on your house, it’s getting pretty late”

“Aw, you’re such a gentleman. Me and your mom spent all afternoon talking about you, you know. And Nicole”

“You buttered her up to the idea?”

“She seemed to be considering ending this ‘date’ early as well to go looking for her, so I’m guessing I did ;) “

“Thank you again, Dana “

“Make sure they invite me to the wedding, and we’re even!”

“If they don’t elope, that’s it”

“They won’t. That would mean missing the chance to make Uncle Lex miserable by asking him to plan the whole ceremony”

Smiling despite himself, he put his coffee cup down and went back to his desk. Better to get work out of the way before Mom and Nicole came back and informed him of the good news. 

Shocked face number three might do.

[flowersandskeletons526]

“Aftermath” - Glitra Fanfic Part 1

Hey everyone! This is my first time writing a fic and since season 4 was agonizing, I’m coping! This is part one of the fic, set after Glimmer and Catra are rescued from Horde Prime and the war ends. Sorta canon divergent. Hopefully on ao3 soon. Enjoy!

--------

It never occurred to Catra that it would storm in Brightmoon. 

The lightning flashes pale blue through the rain, nothing like the savage red of the black garnet the first time she tried to destroy the world. The memory makes her twist inside, dragged back to all every mistake she made during the war. It’s over now, and she reminds herself of that every day. The Horde is disbanded, Horde Prime is dead, and Etheria is safe. It brings her small comfort, but now she is in unfamiliar territory, living in the castle of Brightmoon and sitting by the queen while she changes her bandages. 

Glimmer’s hands still have the slightest tremble from their time as Horde Prime’s prisoners. Everyone has noticed, Catra is sure of that, just as everyone noticed the way her claws never retracted, but no one mentions anything. No one but the two of them, sitting in silence across from each other in their suddenly overabundant spare time. It’s the only time either of them get anything reminiscent of normalcy. Ever since the princesses rescued them from that ship, everyone has been tiptoeing through the tension to avoid upsetting their precious queen. Meanwhile, Catra has been busy tiptoeing around everyone else. 

Flexing her hand, Catra tries to control her breathing as her ear twitches. Glimmer keeps her eyes down as she dabs a wet rag across the stitched gashes on Catra’s arm. Her crown is set aside with Catra’s mask. She is covered with scuffs and scrapes, bandaged and bruised but still standing, for the most part. One eye is surrounded by a healing bruise from when she mouthed off to Horde Prime during their imprisonment. Facing the memory makes Catra’s hair stand on end. 

A sharp pain pulses through her arm. She bares her teeth and hisses, yanking away from Glimmer. The queen holds her hands up. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Is it still that bad?” 

“It is when you press on it like that!” Catra snaps. 

“Well then stop moving your arm!” Glimmer shoots back. She takes a deep breath and grinds her teeth. “I won’t do it again. Just come back here already.” 

Catra purses her lips as Glimmer swipes the cloth across the healing wound again. She finds herself leaning into the silence of the moment, trying to ignore the gnawing in her guts as she watches the queen. She tilts her head.

“Why?” she bursts out. 

“Why what?” Glimmer asks without looking up. 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Because this needs to be cleaned and you won’t let anyone else touch you.” Glimmer shakes her head. “I still can’t believe you bit the medic.” 

“Glimmer.” 

The queen whips her head up. She could count the times Catra has used her real name on one hand. The last time she did…  

Catra’s eyes are dull and heavy as she meets Glimmer’s stare. “Why are you helping me?” 

Glimmer grimaced and lowered her head. “You know why,” she whispered. She reached out to touch the edge of a cut showing from beneath the bandages on Catra’s face. “You nearly died getting us out of there. I’m just repaying that.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“What do you want me to say, Catra?” 

Catra lowers her head. “I don’t know.” 

They fall into silence as Glimmer wraps bandages around her arm. One side of her face is cast in shadow by the fire in the hearth. She has a fireplace in her room? Catra thought the first time Glimmer invited her in. After sharing a room with a dozen other cadets, even her officer’s quarters seemed massive, but the castle was ridiculous. 

Glimmer ties the bandages and lets go of Catra’s arm. “There. You’re going to have to let someone else come near you to take the stitches out.”

“I don’t like them,” Catra grumbles. 

“Why not?” 

“They treat me like I’m gonna break if they touch me.” 

“That’s called being gentle, Catra. They’re medics, it’s their job. What did medics do in the Horde, beat you more?”

“They bandaged you up, gave you a pill, and sent you back to training.” 

Glimmer frowns and stands, turning away. “Well, here you’ll actually have time to recover.” 

“Yay.” 

“Do you remember where your room is or do you want me to walk you back?” 

“Aw, done with me already, Sparkles?” 

Glimmer hesitates. “Do you want to stay?” 

Catra straightens. She hoped for a push back, a snap, something sharp like their relationship before everything happened, but now Glimmer’s just… trying. 

Trying to fix things. She tries to fix things with Adora, she tries to fix the damage the war left behind, and she tries to at least foster the odd bond they now share. She doesn’t try to fix Catra, though. Catra wonders where she would even begin if she could. 

She grits her teeth. “I remember where the room is. I can find it on my own.” 

“Okay. Goodnight.” 

“Night.” 

It’s too cold alone in her room. She curls in on herself on the hard mattress - Adora suggested it when she couldn’t stand the mass of pillows and feathers the room came with - and buries herself in blankets. Staring out the window, she watches the storm rage. It started raining when they returned home, and it seemed like the clouds never left. 

She found Glimmer standing on a balcony one day while exploring the castle. It was sprinkling, and the wind bit through Catra’s clothes. The rain clung to Glimmer’s hair like little crystals and dripped over her skin, her simple tunic fluttering around her. It was the first time since she became queen that Catra had seen her without the cape and crown to mark her status, just the piercings in her ears and the shadows under her eyes. It startled her how young she looked with it. 

“You’re gonna catch something standing out there, Sparkles,” Catra called, shivering on the edge of the balcony. 

“I thought cats don't like water,” Glimmer replied without turning. 

“What are you even doing out there?” 

“Thinking.” 

“Think inside.” 

“Leave me alone, Catra.” 

“No.” 

It made Glimmer turn and relent, and they sat together in Glimmer’s room by the fire in silence until Adora came to get the queen. The warrior gave Catra an odd look. Catra simply turned away. 

And now she lies alone, watching the rain. 

She is too exhausted to fight sleep. It settles in her bones and drags her into twisted dreams that she can’t escape from. She sees blood and fire, Horde Prime’s wild green eyes as he claws his way towards her in the wreckage of his ship, dead clones littering the scene. Most of all, she sees Glimmer. She sees her covered in blood and bruises. She hears Glimmer screaming her name. 

On the worst nights, Glimmer’s blood is on Horde Prime’s talons and Catra is powerless to do anything. 

Shooting upright, she screams in terror, covered in a cold sweat. Her wounds ache as pain pulses through her body, and it takes her a few minutes before she is able to pry her claws out of the edge of the mattress. 

Someone knocks on her door. She jumps, her claws extending again before she calmed down. 

“What?” she snaps. 

“It’s me,” Glimmer calls through the door. Catra doesn’t respond. “Can I come in?” 

“Do what you want.” 

Glimmer closes the door behind her and leans her back against it. “You couldn’t sleep either?” 

“What does it look like?” 

Glimmer rolls her eyes, sitting beside Catra as she scoots to make room on the edge of the bed. She wanted to reach out and grab Glimmer, check her for new wounds in case not everything was in her imagination, but all she saw was blood when she looked at the queen. Instead, she stares at her feet and they sit in silence. 

Glimmer sighs and lifts her head. “I can’t sleep alone anymore,” she admits. 

“Is that why you look like that?” Catra teases, trying to force the lingering images from her mind. 

Mustering a smile, she nudges Catra with her shoulder. Catra pushes back. 

After a moment of hesitation, Glimmer corrects herself. “I can’t sleep without you there anymore.” 

The admission yanks Catra back to the ship. 

----

“If you touch me, you’re going straight to the floor,” Catra snapped, snarling at Glimmer over her shoulder. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Glimmer shot back. She and Catra lied on the thin bunk in their cell back to back, and Glimmer shifted as far away from the other girl without falling to the ground. “I can’t believe that of all people on Etheria, I’m stuck in this tiny little hellhole with you.” 

“You’re the one that got us here, Sparkles.” 

“And you sent the first message to Horde Prime.” 

Catra growled and pressed herself to the wall. “Just shut up and sleep,” she grumbled. Glimmer kicked her leg. “Sparkles, I swear, you will be on the floor!” 

Glimmer sneered. “Whoops.” 

Catra woke up first the next morning. She shoved Glimmer off the bunk when she realized she had curled up against the queen in her sleep. 

----

“Catra?” Glimmer asks. 

She looks up. “What?” 

“Are you alright? I’ve been trying to get your attention and you were just staring into space.” 

“Oh. Yeah, I’m fine, I was just thinking.” She clenched her fist. “Do you… do you want to sleep in here tonight? Just back to back like on the ship. It might help.” 

Glimmer nods. Catra lies down on one side while Glimmer stretches out on the other, both seeking the warmth of the other pressed against them. The contact is calming, not that either would admit it. Catra grinds her teeth and screws her eyes shut. Even safe in her castle, Glimmer still shakes. Reaching behind her, she grabs Glimmer’s hand. It does little to quell the tremors, but it is something, at the very least. 

“I keep dreaming of you,” Catra says into the darkness. Glimmer squeezes her hand. “I think that Horde Prime got to you before I could after the ship went down.” 

“I’m still here,” Glimmer says.

“I know that.” 

Glimmer shifts, turning so she can see Catra out of the corner of her eye. “Have you talked to Adora? She learned how to deal with nightmares after she first got here.” 

“We tried talking. It’s not working.” 

She doesn’t say how their “talk” ended up as a screaming match, each blaming the other for everything that happened. She doesn’t tell her how Adora grabbed her arm and she nearly threw the warrior halfway across the room in sheer panic. Adora gathered her composure, sticking around just long enough to hear Catra’s apology before they parted ways. She shredded the curtains in her room and screamed and cried in frustration all night. 

The wounds are still too raw. It wasn’t like making up with Glimmer, where there wasn’t so much history behind it and they had no choice but to figure it out, isolated together as they were. 

“Scorpia and I are going to talk tomorrow,” she says. “I already talked to Entrapta. As far as I can tell, we’re okay enough, but it’s also Entrapta. She doesn’t hate me, I know that. I just have to get over my own thoughts about it.” 

“That’s good,” Glimmer replies. 

“Did you talk to Adora?” 

“Not yet. I talked to Bow, but I did more damage with Adora than I did with him.” 

“We’ve got that in common.”

“Pretty shit thing to have in common.” 

“No kidding.” 

They turn to face each other at the same time, lying on their backs with only a few inches between their faces, hands clasped. The heat coming off Glimmer cuts through the chill that froze over Catra when she found herself on Horde Prime’s ship. 

Although she wants to believe otherwise, Catra can’t shake the feeling that this will disappear once everything is back to normal. On Prime’s ship they were alone. Here, they might as well be. With all of their bridges burned, they find themselves stuck on an island with only their own mistakes and each other to lean on. Catra knows that eventually Glimmer will stop coming to her when she can’t sleep, and she will stop finding herself sitting in silence in the queen’s quarters. 

She won’t need a crutch forever, Catra thinks. 

“What are you thinking about?” Glimmer asks. 

Catra lets go of her hand and rolls over. “Nothing. Night, Sparkles.” 

“Goodnight, Catra.” 

[thefieryeclipse]

“The Wall” Petlar - Pride Month

In honour of Pride, I’m reposting a segment from my post-series Heroes WIP as a short story here on Tumblr. You can consider it a standalone if you like, or if you want to read more you can find the full fic here ^.^

I hope you enjoy this dive into the memories of Petlary goodness behind “The Wall”!

(M, slash, m/m, angst, blood, tears, fluff, feels)

(This gorgeous gif, my favourite one ever, doesn’t belong to me. All credit to the original creator, but sadly I still don’t know who that is!)

SPOILERS BELOW FOR “TONGUES OF FIRE” - Chapter 38

Peter awoke on the ground, but he couldn't remember getting there.

Everything was silent. A pressing white noise so vacant it was deafening, and nothing at all stirred but the slow rise and fall of his chest. Lying on his back, he opened his eyes to the velvet blanket of a vast, cloudless sky high above.

A sky that was... flashing?

Confused, Peter frowned up at the moon chasing the sun between elongated skyscrapers, shadows washing over him where he lay while days and nights passed before his eyes like the swinging beat of a pendulum.

Feeling oddly weightless, he picked himself up from the middle of an abandoned city street, lined on both sides by a row of neat trees. And suddenly the niggling thought that he was forgetting something important didn't seem to matter anymore, that he was supposed to be somewhere else.

He didn't understand. It should have been New York City. The streets Peter had grown up in, the island on which he'd spent nearly every day of his life, but he didn't know this place. It was an amalgamation, a hybrid, a new face whose features merely resembled those of his hometown. The city was deserted: empty streets and empty buildings lined with a million windows gaping at him like hollowed eye sockets, watching him struggle to find his bearings. There were no signs of life. Not even a car had been abandoned by the sidewalk, not one old newspaper fluttered through the windless air. Peter shivered, although there was no temperature. His faint breath shuddered, although there was no sound.

And then the echo of raised voices behind him made his heart thump loudly in his chest.

Peter span just as the sun froze in the sky, high on the crest of a bright and clear morning. He recognised the voices rebounding off vacant husks of buildings around him, just before two men turned a corner and appeared into view, one storming ahead while the other tagged along angrily at his heels. Peter couldn't have hid even if he wasn't exposed out in a wide open road, his feet rooting him to the spot as his blood instantly ran cold.

“...like it or not, Peter, you're stuck here forever, with me, and I am trying here! Are you? 'Cause it sure as hell doesn't feel like it!”

“Am I supposed to feel guilty? You murdered my brother, I don't owe you anything!”

“Yes, I did. I murdered him.” Sylar snarled, and although he wasn't shouting this time his words reverberated further, more clearly, than the others before. “I slit his throat and watched him bleed out and I didn't even care. He died alone, Peter. Scared. Defeated -”

“Stop it!”

Heart racing faster, Peter saw himself turn on his enemy, hands balled into fists at his side. Sylar stopped walking in response, head held high. And all the while Peter was outside it all, unharmed, invisible on the outskirts as he just stood there gazing at the surreal sight unfolding before him. Holy shit.

“- And I've said it a thousand times before, and even if you don't believe me that doesn't change the fact that I'm -”

“Don't!”

“- Sorry.”

The word ricocheted around the barren city. It lodged itself in Peter's gut like a bullet shard, sympathy pains felt from the shaking young empath standing before him in the distance. “Stop saying that. You don't mean it. If you were sorry you wouldn't have killed him. If you were sorry you wouldn't have killed any of them.”

Sylar scowled after the smaller man as he continued storming along the street, drawing closer to where his dream-like counterpart stood. Neither of them noticed him at all.

“Oh I get it,” The killer tagged along again, more infused with a fiery emotion than Peter had ever known him. “You've never made a mistake. You've never looked back and wished for a do-over. That you could change, that you'd made different choices, that you knew then what you know now, because your life has been nothing but a series of winning decisions, is that what you're saying?!” Sylar grabbed after his accuser, wrenching him back around by the arm. “'Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like they only served to land you in the exact same shithole as mine.”

Peter tugged himself free. “At least I never killed everyone who ever tried to love me!”

The following silence rang out loudly. Now close enough to the pair to make out the nuances in both men's faces, Peter watched with a weight constricting his chest as Sylar reeled, deeply wounded. Regret shone plainly on his own self's face, for just a heartbeat too long before it was forcibly concealed behind a mask of defiance.

Sylar's reply was quiet, but not gentle. “Loved ones. Mothers. Friends. Tell me, where are yours, Peter?”

The counter attack winded Peter Petrelli. Both the haunted man currently backing away from his enemy's space, and the spectre set adrift in the strange city that didn't belong to him. Peter and Sylar glared at one another, two lost souls forced together among nothingness, concrete, brick and stone, the double-bladed burn of rage rising between them like smoke in the air.

Sylar tipped his head slightly in a manner anyone else could construe as sympathetic. “I wonder what's worse? The thought that everyone else out there is dead; or that none of your precious heroes have bothered to look for you all this time?” He twitched one heavy eyebrow to hammer the point home. “Do you think anyone's even noticed you're missing? Or do they just not care?”

For a moment, the looming promise of an echoing crack of a punch rang throughout the city. But none came. Peter didn't attack, and he didn't make a sound beyond the pained catching of his breath. Then he tightened his fists and turned his back on Sylar one last time, picking up the pace as he left the killer behind.

“Like it or not, Petrelli, I'm all you've got!” Sylar called after him, teeth bared. “And neither of us are going anywhere for a long, long time!”

Peter's heart lurched when his other self faltered a step, almost level with where he hid, veiled out of time. He fought the urge to reach out and bridge the impassable distance with a touch, as the same vulnerability and fear that itched within his ribcage flickered over the other man's face, pooling in his eyes. But then his dream counterpart pushed on, leaving a full, unobstructed view of Sylar's dampening temper in his wake.

Slowly, the killer's scowl eased. He hunched in on himself, watching every step as his only means of company walked away.

It might have been the first time Peter had ever witnessed something close to shame from the guy. Something close to regret. It was a painful pill to swallow, like it went down the wrong way. And when Sylar finally dropped his eyeline to the ground and turned his back, Peter hurried to follow his own footsteps deeper into the city without pausing to witness one more second of the killer.

But as soon as he took his first step the sky fast-forwarded again and he was alone.

Morning became noon became night as Peter found himself lost among vacant streets and stretching shadows that snatched at his heels like fingers. Guided by an invisible cord looped around his waist, he searched with no direction, intention or idea where he was going, just a ghost adrift in an endless maze that re-arranged itself in his peripheral vision.

He lost track of how many times the sun rolled across the sky before it stalled once again, a red glimmer hanging low between the towering spires of skyscrapers. Peter stopped running, somehow not even out of breath, once he was framed in the open mouth of a back alley, the sunset staining a towering brick wall blocking the far end crimson.

The hairs on the back of his neck tickled as he caught sight of himself once again, unmistakable in his fury, stalking the length of the alley ahead.

At the far end, Sylar climbed to his feet at the base of the wall to accommodate the approach. And even from this far away, with merely one glimpse of him, he certainly didn't look like the same, smug serial killer Peter's nightmares had been plagued by for years.

Again locked in place, he watched himself stomp towards the murderer without easing or slowing down; watched Sylar ball his hands into fists but not lift them; watched himself raise his arms and tackle Sylar around the neck, winding him, knocking the breath from them both – 

But it wasn't a fight. Instead, they both swayed with the momentum of something so unexpected, something so harmless, as a hug.

Alone on the outskirts of this secret, Peter's throat tightly constricted. He couldn't breathe. He didn't need to. He was only a ghost, anyway.

Floating closer to the exchange, he couldn't seem to make sense of the bewilderment shining plainly across Sylar's face. Or his own arms holding the guy close, or the sound of his soft, strangled voice muffled in the depths of Sylar's shoulder.

As if he hadn't ever been a mortal enemy. As if he wasn't a ruthless serial killer. As if he'd never heartlessly cut down Nathan Petrelli in his prime.

“You were right.” Realistically, the words shouldn't have rebounded down the alley, but Peter heard them anyway. “No one's out there looking for us. No one's coming to save us. It's just you and me, Sylar, and I just can't... I can't fight with you anymore.”

Peter's arms tightened around the taller man. And only then did Sylar let his eyes flutter closed and tentatively place his hands on Peter's back. He bent down into the hug, returning it, indulging in the feel of it as if it were the first of his life.

“It's down to us. Alright?” Peter continued huskily. “It's you and me, and I don't wanna live this way forever. I can't carry this... this hate much longer. I can't.” He paused to chase a breath, and when he continued his voice was dangerously close to cracking. “We can't keep going like this if we're gonna survive, here. We've gotta do better, Sylar. We've gotta make it work. Okay?”

For a long time the men simply stood there entwined, rocking slightly on the spot, where no one could see them and no one would ever know. And in that reprieve it didn't matter that they'd shattered one another in the past, or that they shouldn't want to hold each other close, because for a moment it was as if the fights had never happened and the miles of blood stained history belonged to someone else.

Watching, Peter struggled to swallow when Sylar slowly nodded his head in agreement. When he then pried the smaller man away with gentle hands and an unfamiliar softness to his eyes, and just held him there close, looking down into his face as the whisper floated down the alley and imprinted into the witness's skin.

“I want to make it work, Peter...”

Time sped up again before he could see what happened next, before he was ready, erasing the men, the wall and the words from the slate like they'd never existed at all.

Day and night pulsed around Peter once more as he struggled to keep up, resuming the endless path to nowhere with less blind trust than before. As he searched vacant streets he shivered, and as he walked broken roads he worried, plagued with the strangest sense that this time he'd left more than just the alley behind.

The city warped around him. Buildings moved when he wasn't looking. Brief flashes of sunlight revealed new sights that hadn't been there the moment before. And then night fell steady and constant upon the world and Peter was somehow high atop a rusting fire escape, outside the only window in the sprawling city that housed the warm glow of light. Of life.

Helpless to resist, he numbly phased through the window as if he were a phantom, heart pounding heavier than ever in his chest.

Inside, the apartment was dark, cluttered, unfamiliar. Floating shelves lined the walls, packed to the brim with canned food while their previous occupants scattered the floor in precarious piles of books. A workbench stood near the back wall, buried beneath some sort of mechanical scraps Peter couldn't make out from here. But he wasn't really looking. Because that glow of a light didn't come from within these rooms, he now realised, but from between them.

A hidden hatch stood open in one wall. A two-way mirror that revealed a winding, shadowy corridor beyond. And the swinging light bulb within lured Peter in deeper as if he didn't have a choice but to obey.

Just as before, the two living souls in this place didn't look up as he approached them in the dark. They didn't even acknowledge him. And just as before, Peter couldn't name the mass of emotions that ached within his chest at the very sight of himself and Sylar, sitting silently side by side on the floor, their backs against the dusty inside of a wall.

The taste of horror seemed familiar on his tongue. But if this was due to the tears currently drying on Sylar's flushed face, or the desperate screams scrawled by bloody fingertips on the walls, he couldn't decide.

“It's from... before. Way before, when my ability first...” Sylar tried then faded off, as if he didn't even know the words. Meanwhile, sitting beside him, Peter nodded and took a steadying breath, caught between giving his split attention to the crying man or the ghastly bloodied 'forgive me's towering above.

“S'okay.”

“No, Peter. It's not.”

Still sniffling slightly, the killer turned to Peter, exhausted and unguarded and unashamed of his vulnerability in a way that sent more spasms tightly clenching through the empath's heart. Because this wasn't an act and it wasn't a pity plea, and as much as he hated it, and as much as the sight made his stomach cramp as if he were about to throw up, Peter couldn't tear his gaze away from the blatantly human sight of the man visible in fractures behind his shattered facade.

Sylar's voice was soft when he elaborated, thick with a recent burst of emotion that had yet to fade. “None of it is okay. No matter what I do or how many times I start, I can never get past... this.” He blinked rapidly, not quite looking at a hundred broken attempts at redemption pressing in on him from all sides. “I've tried. I really tried, so many times, and I wanted to be better. But after all these years... I just don't think I'm strong enough on my own. And no one has ever stayed long enough to...” He stopped himself again, scowling at his own self-pity.

The Peter on the ground tore his focus from the sorry sight of Sylar, looking up again upon the defaced walls. A timeline. A mural of blood, sweat and tears, a memorial of the killer's endless battle with his demons. And Peter drank in each word despite the burn.

Please forgive me... Help me... I'm sorry... Forgive me... Please...

He closed his eyes just briefly, biting his lip. “I will.”

“What?”

“I'll stay.” Peter clarified, sighing out all the tension in his frame. Sylar stared at him. “I won't leave you. I won't run out on you. I won't lie, or betray you, or manipulate you like my mother did.” Now Sylar looked so affronted that a sudden telekinetic choke hold wouldn't be a surprise. But instead he just gaped at Peter, lips twitching soundlessly as he struggled to untangle his thoughts into something resembling words. “If you're serious about wanting to be better, Sylar... I'll help you.” Peter finished, a soft exhale. Only then did he meet the killer's eyes, and there was no room for doubt in that tiny corridor that he knew exactly what he was signing himself up for. That they all did.

Silence stretched for a long time. Until the older man recovered some semblance of his vocal chords. “Wh-why would you want to do that?” The question was laced with hope and suspicion, two compounds at war with each other.

But Peter just looked at him, and the honesty on his face was clear for all to see. “'Cause the guy who wrote this?” He glanced back at the blood-scrawled walls as if pained. “He never had that chance. And maybe if someone had just listened to him back then... none of this would've happened.” He offered Sylar a sad little curve of his lips. “Maybe all you needed was a friend.”

The killer's heavy brows eased from their furrow. Fresh tears streamed from his disbelieving eyes. Too late, he seemed to notice what was happening and averted his face, tremors consuming his hunched form.

And rather than leave, Peter leaned into him, a comforting warmth. And rather than recoil, the empath reached for Sylar's hand and held it gently, surely, and just sat with the man in silence while he cried.

And then time shifted forward again.

Left reeling on the spot, Peter the spectator, the ghost, tried to blink away the blurriness stinging at his own eyes. When it subsided he saw he was no longer crowded by bloody prayers or that lone, swinging light bulb: he was back outside on the fire escape. And that same old cord, his guide, was pulling him on again, but he didn't want to answer the call this time.

The tangled mass of feeling expanded further inside with every step he ascended the rusty staircase. More years flew past within moments. And the whispering breath of wind grew louder the higher he climbed.

On the final step, darkness blanketed the city for the last time. The sky was vast and starless high above, the rooftop captured in the cool tones and hues of the illusive moment between evening and night. Shaking slightly, it took Peter a moment to realise that the whispering breaths didn't belong to the wind, after all. And through shadow he discerned the shapes of two bodies on the ground, naked and writhing beneath a bundle of discarded clothing.

He meant to jump back from the scene but the steel cord wouldn't let him. So Peter was forced to hide here in the dark, unable to feel his limbs at the sight of his own self kissing the lips of his enemy. The pair broke apart with deep, shuddering breaths, and Peter watched himself lie back and smile sleepily at the man in his arms.

Then a murmur punctured the night, sending goosebumps rolling down his spine.

“Do you trust me, Peter?”

“Why, you think I'd do that with just anyone?” The empath chuckled and pressed a kiss to Sylar's shoulder. But when the man didn't laugh Peter propped himself up on an elbow to better look down upon him. “What's up, buddy?” He prompted with another small smile, trailing a hand over the killer's bare chest and stirring the hair there.

The gesture was so natural and yet so obscene, that in the rational corner of his mind Peter wanted to yell and run – no fly – away before he saw something else he'd never be able to shake. But he was still chained in place by something heavier than shock, and the warden of fate wouldn't let him move or even make a sound. Instead, he bore witness to the exchange of intimate touches, adoration, a familiarity that he'd never been able to keep with anyone in reality.

“I was just thinking about Elle.” Sylar confessed, looking up into the darkening sky.

Peter's caresses slowed. “Oh.” The spectre watched his own face fall slightly, far too familiar with that feeling not to experience second hand rejection gnawing at him now.

“Not like that.” Sylar appeased Peter slightly by prying the man's hand from his chest to absently entwine their fingers, but still didn't drop his gaze from the heavens. “I was thinking about how... how I didn't kill her for her ability. I killed her because she betrayed me.”

Peter frowned, the ease from earlier fading. “Is that supposed to make it okay?”

“No. But it makes it different. She lied to me. It was... personal, the others weren't.” Peter's sigh finally earned Sylar's full attention, and when the smaller man untangled himself from the killer as if to get up, Sylar held onto his wrist, keeping him there. “I could have loved her, Peter.”

On the far side of the rooftop, Peter felt that word impact like a sledgehammer to the gut. Love. But on the ground, he didn't look surprised by this information at all, reluctantly indulging the other man with a scowl still dirtying his brow.

“I trusted her. I let her in. But she...” Sylar's expression grew distant then, cast back through time. “...Recoiled. And I reacted. It was... fragile.”

The empath huffed impatiently through his nose, biting his lip. “What're you trying to tell me, Sylar?”

Sylar fell quiet, his face unmasked in a way that was entirely unfamiliar to his enemy. And more than he had when intruding upon the secret closet of bloody remorse, or catching the pair naked and breathless with sweat still drying on their skin, Peter felt wrong, voyeuristic, to be spying on such an intimate sight from the shadows as that expression.

Sylar reached up to trail Peter's long, tousled hair from obscuring his eye, a painfully sweet gesture. And when he took a breath it shook slightly. “This place? You and me? Whatever the hell we've gotten ourselves into... It's fragile, too. It's special.” He gave up on the stubborn lock when it refused to stay put, dropping his hands to fold across his stomach. A shadow of affliction passed over his face. “And if people knew they'd try to take it from us.”

Peter relaxed back down over his companion, lips quirking up on the working side. “Then we won't let them.”

Sylar tried to smile in response to the gentle nuzzling of his nose. A weak, short-lived thing. “You're too trusting, Peter, and I'm too destructive and it would be easy, too easy, to ruin this if they wanted, which they will. And if we ever do wake up and all this feels like a dream, I don't want there to be any doubts between us. Nothing they can use.”

Concern ghosted across Peter's features. He climbed free of his companion to fall flat on his back beside him, looking unseeingly into the ebony void far above. “Why are you saying these things?” He hugged his arms around his own torso, suddenly feeling the cold he hadn't a moment before.

And the spectre on the sidelines only drew closer to the scene, ever helpless, defenseless to resist.

Sylar turned his head to survey Peter, shadows emphasising the heavy angles of his face while his messy hair splayed out around him, thick and dark on the ground. He should have looked dangerous lying there so close, heart rate still elevated, skin still heated. He shouldn't have looked handsome, striking in his vulnerability. But he did. And only more so when amusement brightened the serial killer's features through the slight pursing of his lips. “Do you remember I told you about Lydia from the carnival?”

Still refusing to look at him, Peter just nodded, only more confused. An affectionate smirk twinkled at the corners of Sylar's eyes. And he was even less recognisable as the brutal murderer that had ripped reality to shreds in his wake.

“I've been thinking for a while, now. And if we ever get outta here... I want you to use her ability on me.”

At first, Peter just met the man's eyes, blinking quickly at him while he processed. Then he pushed himself into a sitting position, squinting down at Sylar as if the statement would be clearer from that angle. His hand shook while he ran it through his disheveled hair, and only upon close inspection was it evident that Sylar was holding his breath.

Stunned, Peter could barely muster his voice. “You'd trust me to read your soul?” He looked unsure, as if at any moment he expected his companion to reveal it as some sort of joke. But Sylar only nodded, that knowing, affectionate smirk washing across the rest of his features. And sudden tears welled up in the empath's eyes, refusing to fall, in the moment the truth finally hit home. “Really?” He breathed, a sound so small it couldn't carry the short distance across the rooftop.

But from above, his ethereal counterpart heard it anyway. And he saw Sylar laugh a little in response to Peter's disbelief, the deep, pleasant sound catching in his chest.

Equal parts horrified and entranced, Peter struggled to believe what he was witnessing from this man and that voice and those lips: the fearsome lone wolf who'd always killed before letting someone get too close, close enough to hurt him.

Yet, he saw his other self's eyes roam between Sylar's, so close below his own. And looking at the men now, having already obliterated so many boundaries to have gotten this far, sharing in the midst of the rubble they'd created, Peter could see every scar that had transpired between them, scrawling signatures embedded below one another's skin. They'd never be free of the other. They were already imprinted, marked forever like tattoos.

And for the very first time, it looked something close to beautiful.

On the ground, eyes wide and glistening, Peter hesitated slightly before skimming his knuckles across Sylar's cheekbone. The murderer caught his hand, cradling it between both his larger, stronger ones, the hands that had spilled an ocean of innocent blood long ago. “Only if you want it,” he smirked, “otherwise I was joking.”

Peter's answering grin illuminated his entire face, an emotion so potent that his unseen counterpart hungered for it, ached for it, even just to know what it felt like.

Because he was pretty sure he'd never smiled like that in his life. And he'd never known such a certainty as he was witnessing unfold before him now. As far back as he could remember, nobody had ever trusted him that much. He'd never found that someone who thought him special enough to want to hold, to want to keep, to want to let so close that it was literally, humanly impossible.

And now his heart broke when he saw himself lie back down against the rooftop, and his last reservations fell and pooled around his ankles as his other self leaned in and murmured against Sylar's lips.

“Alright.” He promised.

The kiss was gentle, intimate, achingly tender even from the outside. Soft lips against lips, hands cradling bare skin, smiles curving against one another while Sylar rolled atop Peter, pinning him to the cold ground. Night was entirely upon them now, and the whisper of deepening, breathless kisses leaked into the air, meanwhile on the outskirts Peter felt like he was falling. Like his core was being hauled up into the air by that same old invisible thread, leaving a vital part of himself behind.

The city was evaporating around him. The horizon floating away like ash, the walls closing in upon where he stood, trembling and weak, longing for a breeze to soothe the burning promise of tears gathered in his own eyes.

He'd seen too much. He hadn't seen enough. He didn't understand, yet it made all kinds of sense. That wrong was right and people could change, could forgive, and that try as he might Peter couldn't find the will in himself to deny what he knew had been real, once.

And suddenly he was enveloped by the heat of another man's arms around him, strong and sincere and reliable. He felt the living softness of someone else's skin touching his, although still he stood alone, his lips tingled beneath the sensation he'd almost forgotten was that of another pair against them, it had been so long. And he could sense every part of that body, he could breathe the familiar, comforting scent of his hair, and somehow he tasted the gentle press of Sylar's tongue in his mouth, and he felt safe. Trusted. He felt wanted more than he'd ever been wanted before. And it invaded his senses all at once, unrelenting, overstimulating, until he couldn't discern between fear and arousal and he no longer knew where the Peter on the ground and the Peter on the outskirts collided.

Only then, the shackles keeping him frozen in place broke free. Feeling returned to his limbs and he stumbled away from the illicit lovers as fast as shooting pins and needles would let him.

But he wasn't steady enough. And with that cord now severed, he fell.

[cordonia-continued]

In The Shadows

Book: The Royal Romance 1 & 2. Bastien’s story.

Pairings: Bastien. Liam x MC (Riley Taylor)

Warnings: slight swearing, slight angst

A/N: I thought it would be nice to see things from Bastien’s POV. Any similarities to anything else out there is unintentional and is purely coincidental. I fell in love with the TRR series late and have only just got into it. I felt that some of the chapters just needed a bit more - it goes along with my previous fanfic where Riley went back to New York briefly after the coronation ball.

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Apologies in advance for any typos, grammar or spelling errors.

Chapter 3

The night of the Coronation Ball dawned and Bastien was once again in the shadows watching the festivities around him when he saw Liam lead Lady Riley into the maze. His heart constricted at the sight, he had been around Liam enough to know what his plans were for this evening, he had watched the young prince’s love for Lady Riley grow. Against his better judgement he had arranged the secret meetings they shared, made sure they weren’t disturbed.

He watched from afar as they emerged, laughing, kissing, straightening their clothes as they went back into the ballroom casting shy glances at each other. He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, Bastien knew that even if The King had known that his son had just declared his love for Riley he wouldn’t have cared. He was set on destroying the young prince’s life before it had properly begun.

And then it happened, just as Liam was about to choose her, the timing couldn’t have been any worse for her or any better for Constantine. Bastien closed his eyes, unable to face what he’d done as the beeps and buzzes of the phones rang out around the ballroom. Shame crept over him as he led Riley out of the room, his face flushed crimson and he cringed at the scene playing out in front of him. She pulled back from his grip and screamed for Drake; he had to be honest with himself hadn’t expected that, they must have got closer than he realised. He led her to the security office, apologising as he did so, none of this was her fault. He knew he had to act fast, the King was keeping Liam occupied until Bastien could get her out of the palace and away to the airport. He had arranged it so her bags were packed by the time she was allowed back to her room to change. The palace guards had taken her passport from her, but little did she know that flights had been booked long ago, a plane was strategically scheduled to take off after the news had broken.

He bundled her and her belongings into a waiting unmarked car, and that was it. She was gone. Bastien left the palace, he couldn’t handle the questions, the accusations flying around. He found a bar on the outskirts of the city and ordered a neat whiskey. He felt he deserved a night off for a change, he’s given his life up for that family, been constantly at their beck and call. He knew that Liam didn’t believe a word of the Tariq scandal, he could see it in his eyes. No doubt Drake had already told him about what happened that night. It was obvious to everyone that Riley would never cheat on Liam, well not with Tariq anyway. Now Drake, that was something that Bastien kept turning over in his mind, the way she called his name when she was being led out, the way Drake was there to save her that night from Tariq. It was clear to him from the coy looks that Drake was also in love with the American, that much was evident, but had he missed something between the two of them? Did she feel the same way about Drake? Bastien shook his head, no, he’d seen the way she looked at Liam surely she wasn’t leading Drake on as well...would she?

His phone lights up with yet another message, he ignores it like all the others he’s received tonight. After a few minutes it starts vibrating on the bar in front of him, he picks it up and looks at the caller ID. Drake. He hits the decline button and puts it back face down on the bar. He would love to switch it off but he daren’t, even on his night off he’s never truly off the clock. It buzzes again. He picks it up. Drake. Oh for fucks sake give up he thinks as once again he hits decline. It buzzes for a third time and this time he gives in and answers it.

‘What?’ He’s not in the mood for pleasantries.

‘What the fuck was all that about Bas?’ Drakes voice is loud and shrill. Bastien takes another sip of his whiskey. ‘I think it was quite evident what all that was about Drake.’

‘Where are you Bas? I’m at your office but you’re not here, you need to help us sort this out.’

‘I don’t take orders from you Drake.’ Bastien’s mood is making him cranky with his young friend.

‘What? Bastien what’s the matter with you? And where are you? Are you with her? Let me speak to her.’

‘No.’

‘Bastien, please.’ Drake begs.

‘Drake listen to me, you need to step away from this. Whatever it is that you’re thinking of doing. Don’t.’ Bastien’s tone was firm.

‘What the fuck Bas? You can’t seriously believe she’s done anything? I told you what happened that night, I was there. You said you’d step up security, check the room locks. Remember?’

‘Drake, it doesn’t matter what I believe. What’s done is done. I can’t do anything to change it. Go home, you can’t do anything either.’

‘I’m sure as hell gonna try Bas. I’m gonna go after her. Where is she? Was she sent back to the US? Back to New York? What flight is she on?’

Bastien remains silent, he rubs his forehead with his hand.

‘Bastien?’

‘Drake, please I’m asking you as a friend, go home, leave her. It’s for the best. This is bigger than you can know.’

‘How can it be for the best? She didn’t do anything. Liam knows that, so do I, and so will everyone else when she makes a statement, I can vouch for her.’

Bastien lets out a long sigh. ‘And who are they going to believe? Two commoners or a court full of nobles?’ He knows his words will sting Drake, he’s always had a chip on his shoulder about not being a noble. ‘They’ll think you’re just siding with her, without proof they won’t believe you.’

‘Nah fuck that shit, I’m going to go get her, she’s been sent back to New York hasn’t she?’ He can tell by Drakes voice that he’s angry and knowing him as he does he knows Drake’s prone to acting rashly when he’s angry.

‘Drake, please’

‘Bastien just tell me!’ Drake shouts

‘Yes’ Bastien feels like a brick has been dropped in his stomach, he knew this was going to end badly. He expected that it would be her fighting against being deported, demanding to speak to The King, causing hell until they let her go. But word from the men at the airport was that she went willingly in the end, resigned to her fate. They told Bastien that she sat sobbing, that even the Beaumont’s couldn’t convince her to stay. He can’t imagine Riley Taylor crying, Liam choosing Madeleine must have broken her heart. He knows there’s no stopping Drake when he’s set his mind to something, the lad would row a boat to the States if he had to.

‘Do not, I repeat, DO NOT let Liam get on that plane. Do you hear me Drake? He can’t leave, he CANNOT be seen to be going after her. Is that clear?’ Bastien demands.

‘Crystal’ with that Drake hangs up. Bastien rubs a hand over his face and downs his drink, ordering another one.

She came back with Drake. She’s got guts he’ll give her that. She’s been staying back at the Beaumont’s estate again. Constantine was pissed when he found out. He told Bastien that maybe he should have got rid of her after all.

Maybe it’s just to ease his conscience but Bastien is glad she’s back, she deserves a chance to clear her name, he hopes she’ll manage it, he’s only sorry he can’t help her. Even though he now serves King Liam, Bastien can’t disclose his previous duties to King Constantine. He assumes Drake has told Liam she’s back, but if he has then Liam hasn’t mentioned it. The poor King looks so dejected all the time, he puts on a front for the staff, the politicians and press, but Bastien sees behind the mask. Since the coronation Bastien has been reassigned to Liam’s personal protection, he’s tried to keep a distance so far, he can’t look the new king in the eye, he swears his betrayal is written all over his face. He’s not keen on Liam’s new fiancé either, she’s demanding and rude to the staff, considering all the schooling some of these nobles have had they haven’t been taught manners. Luckily she’s not at the palace often, however the engagement tour is going to test Bastien’s patience he can tell.

As the night of the engagement party draws closer Bastien has heard from his sources that Riley will be there. He’s still yet to figure out if Liam knows, from the way The King has been acting he doesn’t think he’s aware, it wouldn’t surprise him if that stupid Beaumont boy is planning some kind of surprise reunion, risky he thinks to himself making a mental note to keep an eye out for any confrontations and to make sure he diffuses them before they happen.

Bastien watches from the door as Lady Riley and Lord Beaumont greet Countess Madeleine, her smile is sly and snide, even though he can’t hear what she says from his position he’s sure it’s condescending. He tenses as he sees The King walk over to the the trio, he’s primed ready to step in if Riley so much as raises her voice to The King. It’s then that he’s convinced that Liam didn’t know Riley would be here tonight, it’s the first time he’s seen a genuine smile on his face since his coronation, however brief it was.

Thankfully the party goes smoothly, that is until Liam foolishly orders two dozen roses to be sent to the American’s room. He needs to let it go Bastien thinks, The King Father will be furious if he finds out, even though it’s not his problem anymore he’s sure Constantine will make it his problem.

Bastien doesn’t know how he did it but somehow Liam has arranged for her to meet him on his balcony, he knows it wasn’t via phone call or text that’s for sure. He pretends he doesn’t notice her scurrying around the grounds after the party, puts a call out on his radio for his men to hold off, reassigns them to the front of the house, tells them he’ll deal with it. Liam doesn’t need an audience for this. He can’t help but smile to himself as he watches her scramble over the railings of the Kings balcony, barefoot and shivering in her little blue dress. Liam’s not a fool, he must have known there would be security watching his room, he must have had faith that Bastien wouldn’t intervene. He hopes that Liam will end it here tonight and tell her to leave, but he knows the young king too well, no way is he letting her go without a fight. This whole situation is becoming way too complicated, he should have known she would come back. Bastien radios the guard assigned to Madeleine’s room, tells him to make sure he reports any activity directly to him, the last thing he needs is for her to show up and cause a scene.

He keeps a distance as the couple argue, she’s very clearly upset but she’s not crying. Bastien’s got to admire her strength, not too many girls would be able to keep control in a situation like this. His heart sinks as they kiss, even though she eventually pushes Liam away. He knew this would happen, they’re like a fucking real life Romeo and Juliette now he thinks, and he remembers how that ended for the star crossed lovers.

Liam comes to Bastien’s office a few days later, he enters the small room closing the door behind him.

‘Your Majesty.’ Bastien rises from his desk bowing to The King ‘I would have come to your office if I had known you wanted a meeting.’

‘It’s quite alright Bastien, I need your help on the Tariq situation and I thought it a discussion better placed here.’ Bastien’s stomach drops, he had been dreading this day.

‘My help Your Majesty?’ Bastien plays dumb. ‘Yes Bastien, please use your contacts to track down Tariq so we can confront him about what happened that night, find out why he was in Lady Riley’s room, I need to help her with this, it’s because of me she’s in this situation.’

‘Are you sure Your Majesty?’ Bastien questions, this is not something he wants to be doing.

The King looks at Bastien in confusion ‘Of course I’m sure, why would I not be sure?’

Bastien weighs up his options here, he was told by Constantine to get rid of Riley but he no longer serves Constantine. He could pretend to look into Tariqs whereabouts, or maybe just delay looking into it until after The Kings wedding to Countess Madeleine to keep The King Father happy.

‘It’s just...excuse me if I am speaking out of turn Your Majesty, but you are engaged to another woman. I’m not sure that getting involved in a scandal concerning a past suitor will give the right impression.’

Liam creases his brow at his security guard ‘Bastien Lady Riley deserves the chance to clear her name. Finding Tariq will provide that opportunity. We must do all we can to help her. But alas you are right, Countess Madeleine must not know of this. Please avoid discussing the matter in her vicinity.’

Bastien hesitates for a moment then walks over to his locked filing cabinet, pulling the key out of his pocket he takes the file marked Riley Taylor from the draw and hesitantly hands it to Liam.

‘What’s this?’ Noticing the name on the front of the file Liam swallows. ‘Why are you giving me this?’

‘Just read it Your Majesty and then come and see me tomorrow If you still want me to find Tariq.’

The Kings face turns crimson, the lines of his forehead crease once again. He grabs the file from Bastien’s outstretched hand.

The Kings voice raises in indignation ‘If you think anything in this file will change my mind Bastien then you don’t know me very well, I want Lady Riley to clear her name regardless of what her background is, I don’t care where she’s come from, I’m not interested in her past! Do what you can to find that man.’

The King turns on his heel and marches out of the office and down the hallway. However passionate his protests were Bastien notices that he took the file on Riley Taylor with him.

[angst-fairygodmother]

Sing Once Again With Me: Stranger Than You Dreamt It/Notes (The Witcher; A Phantom of the Opera AU)

A/N: The longest chapter so far. An amalgam of three songs really, though I only titled it with two because Prima Donna is happening in the background basically. I don’t like it put together as one long chapter. I hate it split apart as two. This is the struggle with writing a fic based on something that is contiguous. Word Count: 3129 Content Warning: None Taglist: @hermeowyn @joz-stankovich @sennextheassasinkingoflight Previous Chapter: The Music of the Night Cross-posted to AO3: here

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

Jaskier woke with a groan, head pounding as if with the worst hangover of his life (and he had plenty to be familiar with the feeling). But he didn’t remember drinking the night before, so why did he feel this way? The night felt blurry, and as he sat up, clutching his head, palms pressed to his eye sockets, he tried to piece it all together.

The showcase.

The standing ovation.

Geralt.

The stranger in the shadows who wasn’t a stranger.

It all came to him in flashes. How much of it was real? He struggled to his feet, vision full of fog which turned out to be real rather than a side-effect of whatever mental effect he was under. He looked around shakily at the decadent bed he had been asleep in, which he definitely didn’t remember laying down on, and the rich velvet curtains draped over the walls of the room and the lace one over the doorway. None of this was sparking a memory and that fact made his heart beat in his throat like a trapped bird, wings fluttering desperately.

The soft notes of a piano melody that reminded him of a lullaby floated through the heavy fabric and drew him in. Gently parting the cloth, he wandered toward the source of the sound, mouth unconsciously falling open in awe of the player’s talent.

As he rounded the corner, sitting at the piano was the man in the mask, fingers caressing the ivory keys like a lover. Cautiously, Jaskier approached.

He remembered that the Angel had played what he had come to understand as their song. Many years ago, when he was little more than a foolish child, he had fallen in love with a fellow musician student at Oxenfurt. The two had bickered and battled, refusing to acknowledge the truth behind their feelings for much of their time together, converging violently and passionately for a time whenever they finally came together, only to push away again. But through it all, there was a confession in their music, a melody than ran through every composition that only the two of them knew, that spoke the truth when they wouldn’t or couldn’t out loud. But how could it be that this spirit, this creature knew it? Why had his muse become a phantom of a time so long past?

He felt his hand shake as he reached up to caress the man’s face. He needed to see.

The man leaned into his touch with a soft sigh, eyes closed and face slack with trust. He felt his gut twist with guilt as he laid his fingers along the edge of the mask. Was he taking advantage of the other man? It didn’t matter. He needed to see. His nails caught the edge of the smooth white porcelain and he lifted, as slow and steady as he could in the hopes that it would be unnoticed.

Instead, the Phantom’s eyes shot open, and his hand shot out, as if at first to strike Jaskier, before quickly redirecting to cover his face where the mask had been.

“Damn you!” the Phantom roared, shoving away from the piano, startling Jaskier into a stumble.

Jaskier watched him, curled small with fear on the floor.

He ripped a cloth off the wall, revealing a mirror and the reflection of his twisted visage. “You little viper!”

Jaskier’s mind fought against what was before him: this thing that was Valdo Marx and yet somehow not. It was not just the curls which had been pulled back instead of falling, frustratingly artfully around into his face. It was not just because he was practically gaunt in the face, already sharp features exaggerated into something little more than skin stretched over skeleton, an odd contrast to the rest of his figure which was, if anything, more muscular and defined than ever. Even the vicious blackened scarring across the side of his face which Jaskier had revealed, much to his own shock and Valdo’s rage, when he pulled off that frustrating white mask, would not have been enough to stop him from being the man Jaskier once knew.

But his eyes, Jaskier might have once quite poetically compared to a sunny forest clearing on a summer afternoon. And now they were just cold. An icy hatred burned behind them, more vile than any of the (many, many) monsters Jaskier had ever met, more cruel than the scowl which twisted Valdo’s face.

“Curse you!” Valdo hissed, clutching at his face, trying to cover the way his face had been marked as if it was not written across his whole being. He flew about the room in a tirade, throwing and kicking at things, the scene an obvious attempt to terrify and distract his fellow bard from his face. Finally he came to a panting halt before the silvered glass once more.

“Is this what you wanted to see?! Go on! Gaze upon my wretched face and laugh! That’s what you wanted after all! I know what I am now, but do you? This path you’ve set us on now, you will never be free of!” He delivered the speech to the mirror, but his eyes remained locked on Jaskier’s through the reflection, teeth clenched and nostrils flared, breath panting.

He turned away again and his voice broke.

“Fear can turn to love,” he said softly, “you’ll come to see in time. You’ll have no choice unless you’d like to suffer forever. Oh Jaskier, I don’t want to make you suffer. Please don’t make me.”

Silently, trembling with unshed tears, Jaskier offered back the mask, his heart breaking.

Valdo took it, hesitating as if he thought Jaskier would whip it away at any moment. Jaskier tried to pretend he didn’t notice how the hands that reaffixed it over the scaring shook.

“Come,” Valdo said, seizing Jaskier’s still outstretched hand to pull him roughly to his feet. “They’ll be looking for you soon.”

~

Geralt had considered breaking down the door of Jaskier’s room but thought that might upset him, not the best start to making amends. But there had been a voice in there with Jaskier, and it set Geralt’s nerves on edge. Growling as he rattled the door again and received no answer to calling out the bard’s name, he stormed off in search of Yennefer once more.

Unfortunately, she had already gone home with her wife and he didn’t know where they lived, nor would anyone help him. Greeted with glares and rude gestures, and several people spitting, he got the distinct impression he was unwelcome and it wasn’t only because he was a witcher. Finally, he stumbled upon the two bumbling managers. Before he could ask any questions they threatened to call the guard and have him arrested if he didn’t leave immediately. With a surrendering sigh, he had left and found a room at a relatively cheap inn nearby.

The following morning, he woke before dawn had fully broken and when he spoke to the innkeeper to return the key, he was given a note that had been left for him in the night. The heavy, folded parchment was closed with a raised skull in deep green wax.

A brief jolt of fear raised the hairs on his scalp as he cracked the seal, and read the short note within.

Do not fret for dear Jaskier. The Angel of Music has taken him under wing. Leave here and do not try to take him with you. ~Opera Ghost

No one could tell him where it came from. Growling, he threw a few coins at the innkeeper and stalked off back to the music hall, determined to see Jaskier even if he had to tear through every actor and musician within to do it.

“Where is Jaskier?” he demanded through clenched teeth when he saw the managers arguing in the foyer.

“How should we know?” the shorter of the two, Andre he thought uncertainly, said incredulously.

“He’s not here? This note isn’t from you?”

“What note?” the taller one, Firman then, snapped.

He thrust the paper out toward them. One of them took it, reading it aloud with confusion. They both frowned and swore under their breath.

“We had thought, hoped even, that he would be with you. You were the last person to see him. And we received these notes this morning.”

They each held up a small, folded parchment with a raised green wax skull.

Dear Firman,

I expect certain conditions be met and have been lenient so far though you have failed to do so. My salary should be paid, and box five be left open for all performances from here forward. Mind yourselves and keep to an office where you belong instead of on my stage.

~Opera Ghost

Geralt frowned. It wasn’t a ransom. In fact, it hadn’t mentioned Jaskier at all.

Dear Andre,

What a lovely showcase. Jaskier truly shined. So much so no one will miss “the Countess.” You have a true star in your midst; must you continue to employ a failure when she is well past her prime and not worth her diva attitude?

~Opera Ghost

This one had a bit more promise, but still wasn’t really anything to go on. There was definitely something strange going on in this place, he decided. And perhaps that, rather than the bard, was what had drawn him here. The thought made him strangely sad, and he shoved it aside. Emotions were best dealt with when alone, and only when they had become too much to keep ignoring.

Suddenly, a woman burst in, dressed in a positively eye-scorching pink dress with what Geralt suspected was more decoration than fabric. She was followed by an entourage as she bore down on them like a galleon at full sail, face pinched with rage.

“How dare you?” she snapped. “Who do you think you are? To send me this note. To try to pretend your little bard is better than me. Me! What would you know? Rabid dogs don’t know music.”

It took Geralt a moment to realize that she was talking to him and he reeled back slightly in surprise.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he growled back.

“Oh now you play dumb? I could have you thrown in jail and tortured for this you know. Do you know who I am?”

“No. Should I?”

She scoffed, face turning nearly the shade of her impractical attire. And then Geralt’s eyes narrowed in on the paper fluttering about in her gesticulating hand.

“Give me that.”

“Oh you want the evidence back now? Regret what you’ve done?”

“Countess,” Andre interrupted with a cajoling purr. “We did so miss you last night. And of course if this witcher has offended you in some way, we will deal with it with swift and sure justice.”

“May I see the letter? Please?” Firman asked.

She handed it over to him, simpering and he began to read aloud.

Your performing days are numbered. Jaskier will take your place. Be prepared for a great misfortune should you attempt to interfere. ~Opera Ghost

Every few words, the Countess would make some confirming gesture or echo the words, in particular Jaskier’s name.

Geralt frowned. He had never heard of a ghost that communicated in letters. And what did all of this have to do with Jaskier’s disappearance? Nothing made sense. And why the hell did his chest suddenly feel so tight? It was like he was listening to the bickering humans through layers of wool.

Suddenly, the staccato of heels on the polished marble floor cut through his disorienting haze. Yennefer, dressed resplendently in blue (he had never seen her in a real color before Y/N came along, he realized), strode into the room, commanding all attention.

“Jaskier has returned,” she stated plainly.

“No worse for wear I trust?” Firman asked, more concerned with whether the instantly popular young man could perform again at the night’s show than in his well-being.

“Where precisely is he?” Andre asked, curious and wanting to ask questions of where he’d gone.

“I thought it best he be alone.” Yennefer’s voice made it clear that this was an order as a sorceress.

“He needed to rest,” Y/N chimed in, stepping forward to defend her wife and or her best friend if need be. Geralt jumped guiltily. He had somehow completely missed her presence until that moment.

“May I see him?” he asked softly, pleading to Yennefer with his eyes and banking on whatever affection she may have left for him.

“No,” she shook her head a little sadly. “He said he’ll see no one.”

“But will he perform? Does he expect to take my place again?” the Countess snapped bitterly.

“Here,” Yennefer said, holding up a folded paper and Geralt cursed under his breath, very quickly becoming sick of the sight of such things.

“I have a note.” She handed it off to Firman, folding her arms over her chest in a defensive challenge as he began to read.

Gentlemen,

You should now have received several letters. In them I have detailed how things are to be done. I do not like to be cruel, but I also will not broker fools. You have one chance to do as you are told.

Jaskier has returned to you. I intend his career to progress. You will give him the starring role in your newest production and if the Countess must be on stage, it will be in a silent capacity.

I shall be watching the performance. Do not disappoint.

Should these commands be ignored, you will bring a disaster down on yourselves with no one else to blame.

I remain,

Your humble and obedient servant

~Opera Ghost

The letter, like the others, was written in flowing but unfamiliar script. As soon as the manager finished reading it, the Countess flew into a rage, and the managers practically bowed over backwards in attempt to calm her. They insisted that clearly it was some fool in love with Jaskier, perhaps ‘his witcher friend’ even who had sent the note in an attempt to flatter and appease him, charm him into their bed. They would not comply and the only one their production would star was the Countess, that Jaskier was nothing beside her talents.

“You’re fools to scorn his word. The Angel sees, and knows, and he won’t take it kindly,” Yennefer snapped before sweeping off to her office. Y/N watched, eyes dark with concern and bit her tongue.

~

“Y/N,” Geralt said softly, catching her wrist lightly when the crowd had begun to disperse. “Can I speak to you a moment?”

Her eyes flitted briefly to where Yennefer had retreated to and the hall to the dormitories before turning back to meet his golden ones. “Fine.”

Stepping to the side, she faced him, eyes just barely narrowed enough to be noticeable, one hip cocked and hand planted firmly on it.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“You’re Jaskier’s friend, right?” he asked almost hesitantly.

“His best friend.”

“Then can I…” he sighed through his nose. “Is he alright?”

She thought of the morning’s events. Yennefer catching Jaskier as he stumbled out of seemingly nowhere backstage. How pale and glassy eyed he’d been. The way he was practically limp as he draped over the two of them and they took him to the dormitories. The tremble in his hand when she’d patted it comfortingly after putting him to bed. His incoherent mumbling about fog and a mask and a melody.

And then she remembered the fear from the night before. He’d seemed convinced that if either of them spoke ill of the “Angel of Music” that it would separate them, permanently. She clamped her jaw shut, not wanting to risk losing him. Geralt seemed to pick up on her tension and frowned.

“Please, I just…I want to help him if I can.”

The softness in his voice shocked her and she made a decision.

“You know, this used to be more of a theater,” she said gesturing to the building around them. “For plays and things, operas even from time to time. The cutting edge of entertainment. And then it was nearly destroyed, and when it built back up it became a mediocre music hall. The new managers, Andre and Firman, they say they want to restore it to its glory days.”

“What does this have to do with Jaskier?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get your super tight leather pants in a bunch, I’m getting there.”

He huffed.

“As I was saying, restore it to its glory days. But those glory days come with a darker side. They say this place is haunted by some phantom who, every once and a while, will begin to terrorize the theater. Accidents, fires, murder, the whole deal. The spirit can only be appeased by following its demands. Every story ends with the ingénue dying or disappearing.” She shrugged. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, studying you in your excessive casualness. “Do you?”

She scoffed. “What I believe doesn’t matter.”

“Then what does? Why tell me this?”

“Let’s get one thing straight first. When Jaskier came here, it took months for him to really be a person again instead of the broken down wreck you left him. And its damn miracle I ever broke through the walls Yennefer built on your account. I don’t like you. But for some reason, they both still trust you. So for their sake, I will to. But if you ever hurt either of them again, I will gut you like a fish, witcher powers or not.”

He nodded, something like respect in the glint of his eye.

She took a deep breath, glad they both knew where they stood before she did the hardest part.

“One of the things that helped Jaskier through was the…lessons I guess…he was taking with some mystery person. He said it was his ‘muse.’ But not in a regular romanticized ‘the thing that inspires my songs’ way. The way he talked about the ‘Angel of Music’ like it was an inhuman spirit of some kind…I don’t know…”

A bell chimed and she jumped, not realizing how late it had gotten.

“Damn. I have to go to rehearsal. Yenna will kill me if I’m late again. Try asking around. This place has a lot of…history. Maybe ask Yennefer if you can get her. I think she stayed here a while, the city at least, somewhere between the Brotherhood and…you.”

She walked away before he could get another word in, only to turn back when she were about half way across the room.

“Just remember,” she called, making an exaggerated ‘I’m watching you’ gesture. “You’re carp.”