#the old generation who suppressed you and silenced you will be gone by act of nature alone

[rusquared]

the news coming from columbia and ucla is driving me insane, what the hell? now i'm thinking of the older folk who had protested (and been villified for it) during the vietnam war, or during the south african apartheid. was it maddening, later, when you were hailed as heroes and institutions got to write pieces in your 'honor'? it feels maddening right now. i think if a decade from now i hear about a memorial being erected on one of these campuses for the Palestinian people or for the student protesters, i'll go insane, i'll lose my mind.

[buckyownsmylife]

v e l o c i t y - chapter v

The one where John’s your true mate, but he doesn’t want you to be his.

In a universe where fate grants you a new mate whenever you lose yours, John has lived quite comfortably for many years with the knowledge that he was alone after Mary. That all comes crumbling down the second that he meets you. How could the universe choose someone so young to be his omega?

for general warnings and author’s notes, please go to the fic’s masterlist. It’s being constantly updated  and if you’d like to be tagged on my following John Winchester stories, just fill out this form.

John’s P.O.V.

I could barely hear over the sound of my heart pumping blood mixed with anger and arousal through my veins. I knew it was irrational - and the rational part of me was urging me to turn around and leave while I still could - but the sight of her with him had awakened a deep, territorial, and possessive feeling I just couldn’t deny anymore.

“Get your hands off of her,” I ordered, eyes narrowed and focused solely on the man who wanted my mate. I didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see the emotions that were certainly dominating her expression. I knew there’d be confusion, and I knew there’d be that fire in her eyes that brightened her personality, making her so damn interesting to everyone that met her.

I just didn’t have the level head I needed to deal with her right now.

“I won’t tell you again.” The guy looked at her for a second before letting her down on the floor but then turned around to look at me with a cynical smile on his face.

“Why do you think you have any say on what happens between me and her, old man?” The question, the nickname had me curling my hands into fists while I still tried to remain as calm as I possibly could, considering how fucking angry I was.

“What sort of fucking question is that? She’s mine!”

“I don’t see a mark on her neck.” The reminder sobered me up somewhat, making me realize exactly what I had said without thinking. He was right. I had no right over her. She wasn’t mine, and I didn’t want her to be.

But I still didn’t want his hands on her. 

“You don’t want to mess with me, boy. I can really hurt you.” He immediately laughed, but when neither I nor Y/N reciprocated the reaction, the Alpha seemed to ponder my words for a second. I watched as he exchanged a look with her, and just that act of intimacy, their ability to communicate without sounds, had me burning on the inside.

“Remember what I said. You know how to get in touch with me if you need it. We can be together now. It’s up to you.” I knew my entire body trembled in the effort to contain myself as I heard his final words to her before his eyes darted in my direction again. 

“Take care of her.”

I wanted to tell him that I would, better than he ever could, but I didn’t want to imply that I believed this to be my responsibility either. So I just narrowed my eyes in his direction, watching cautiously until his form disappeared when he took a turn to get back to the bar.

“What the fuck was that?” My head snapped back to look at her, finally taking in her traits. Her eyes were narrowed at me, her own hands curled into fists and her entire body trembling under the power of her emotions. It seemed like she reciprocated my own emotions perfectly.

“You’re my mate, you shouldn’t be whoring yourself for other alphas.” My words were like a slap to her face if the way her expression fell was any indication, but I felt like I’d hit myself with that one.

I’d just admitted she was my mate for the very first time while accusing her of being a whore for looking in other alphas what I didn’t want to offer. I really was despicable. But I was too far gone in my temper tantrum to allow the self hate to take over me at that moment. And with the next words that fell from her lips, I knew there was absolutely no way I’d be able to deal with this in a calm manner - I was about to explode.

“Really? Am I actually your mate? Because you’ve never acknowledged it until now. You don’t even seem to be affected by me in any way!” My entire body trembled with barely kept anger, and still, I tried to hold on to those scraps of my usually iron-tight control.

“Of course you affect me! You’re my fucking mate, for fuck’s sake. You turn me on all the fucking time, and I’m still not convinced it’s only because of this fucking bond.” Her mouth opened and closed a few times at that like she wasn’t expecting this confession at all - fair enough, I didn’t expect to make it. And the fact that she made me so crazy that I would go against my own intentions only served to worsen my anger.

“You’re such a fucking liar.” She shook her head and crossed her arms, inadvertently making her breasts more visible over the cleavage of her shirt.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” I growled, and she had the nerve to fucking laugh!

“You’re a fucking liar and you’re just trying to keep me around like a plaything because it boosts your ego. You don’t want anything with me, John Winchester, so you should just let me go.” She approached me then, eyes showing fire as I fought to suppress my instincts.

“Shut up.” There was a heavy silence between us, one heavy with the tension that had been growing between us ever since the day we found out about the bond. But then she seemed to make up her mind over what she wanted to do about it.

“Well, you can’t make me.” But I could. I could. And so I did. I picked her up so easily that I think both of us only realized what I’d done when she was already against the brick wall of the bar, my body tightly pressed against hers.

“You’re still gonna tell me you don’t have any sort of effect on me?” She just looked up at me with those big bright eyes that said too much, and I knew what she was asking. I knew that she felt my hard member against her stomach. I knew I had interrupted her orgasm. The smell of her arousal was still swirling in the air around us, intoxicating me, hampering my ability to think straight.

And so I got carried away.

“Spread your fucking legs.” Her arms flew up to my shoulders, clutching at my shirt when my hand slipped under her skirt to find her naked and wet for me. “You’re not even wearing any underwear, huh? What, did you know you’d run into James?”

I knew the tone of mockery that I used to say his name didn’t go unnoticed by her, but she seemed as inebriated by the sounds of my fingers slipping inside of her pussy as I was. “You’re so fucking wet. I bet anyone who leaves the bar can hear the squelching sounds of your whorish behavior, did he get you this wet?” 

Unfortunately, she didn’t answer me, and I wasn’t a man who liked to be ignored, as she was about to find out. “Answer me,” I ordered, gripping her jaw so she’d look me in the eye.

“Oh, fuck,” was everything she could give me, but it made me smirk, so I let her off the hook - this time.

“You wish,” I meanly ridiculed. “You wish I’d fuck you. Believe me, if I did, you wouldn’t live the same way ever again. You wouldn’t even be able to walk after I was done with you. I wouldn’t stop until I was 100% sure you would never open your legs for any other man.”

Her little gasp was swallowed by my mouth when I licked her lips open, digits curling up and tapping against the spot that had her whining against me. “You’re such a goddamn fucking tease,” I continued once I let her gather her breath. “Is this what you wanted, huh? You wanted to cum all over his fingers?”

I felt her tugging on my shirt, still unable to voice her thoughts. I knew I was in for it when we were done, I knew she’d rip me apart for everything I’d said, everything I’d done, but I couldn’t pretend to care at that moment.

“Fucking brat,” I mocked, picking up the pace of my fingers as I felt her approach her high. “Beg me to make you cum. Beg me.”

“P-please.” A satisfied smirk took over my face at hearing just how wrecked she was, her eyes glossed over as she looked up at me. 

“He thinks I don’t know how to touch you, huh? What would he think if he saw you cumming around my fingers right now, like he never even touched you?” I felt her tighten around my digits, announcing her orgasm even before she cried out and gripped my shirt in desperation.

“He can’t satisfy you.” It was more of a realization that hit the both of us at that second when she finally stopped convulsing. “Not the way I can.” We just stared into each other's eyes for a few seconds, the moment heavy with words unspoken that couldn’t be uttered now that the moment was gone.

Her pussy clung to my fingers, like she didn’t want me to leave her empty when I pulled my hand away from the edge of her skirt. “You’re sweet,” I commented, having sucked on the juices there before looking at her, holding herself up by the way, slightly trembling, chest heaving with the effort to breathe.

Something red caught my attention, and I looked down to the floor to find the scraps of what had obviously been her underwear. Chuckling, I knelt to pick it up before stuffing it into my pocket.

“If he didn’t want it…” I shrugged, giving her one last look before turning around and going back to the bar.

[rhodeys]

I wish you would write a fic where tony has accidentally turned into a child and Rhodey has to babysit him Thanks !!

thank you for the prompt! 💞💞

(i may have had too much fun with this) 

The thing is, Rhodey's used to being greeted by an empty penthouse every time he decides to check up on Tony. It's precisely the reason why the rest of the penthouse blend into the background while he makes his way to the private elevator that leads to Tony's workshop – the sectional sofa, the mezzanine, the staircase leading to the mezzanine, the kid, the–

Rhodey does a double take. 

There's a child in the penthouse - staring back at him like a baby deer caught in the headlights. The child blinks, just once, before brown eyes are back to being impossibly wide over the tiny hand perched upon the glass handrail. He's wearing a black t-shirt that's ten sizes too big for him, the edges of it ending at his knees. His feet are on two different stairs, almost like he'd been in the middle of making his way down before Rhodey conveniently barged in. The child doesn't even move a muscle. 

"Uh," is all Rhodey says, eyes flicking around the penthouse in sudden uncertainty before he turns to the boy. "Hey." 

The boy continues to stare at Rhodey for five odd seconds, making the older man feel oddly conscious. And then, finally, a careful: "Hi." 

"Hey," Rhodey says again, softer now. "Are you alone here?" He scans the empty penthouse once more. "Where are your parents?" 

"Why?" The boy is quick to ask, tone changing as his eyes narrow, and Rhodey's never seen a five-six-whatever-year old sound so defensive. "Where are yours?" 

Rhodey's taken aback, if only for a brief second, at the sudden shift in tone. Brown eyes are no longer wide, but slitted with something close to suspicion. "They're not–" Rhodey starts. Stops. "I'm sorry. Just–" He turns his head away, still maintaining wary eye contact with the boy, and calls out in the general direction of Tony's bedroom. "Tony?" 

"Yeah?" The boy asks. 

"No, not– that's my friend," Rhodey elaborates, making a vague motion with his hands to the space around them. "Have you seen anyone else around here?" 

"Is your friend's name Tony, too?" The boy asks, slowly continuing to make his way down the stairs, sharp eyes still fixated on Rhodey. 

"Yeah. He's–" Rhodey starts, and then something the boy had said registers. "Wait. Too? What's your name?" 

The boy finally takes the last step, and it's right then that Rhodey sees the familiar design of Black Sabbath printed across the oversized t-shirt. The sleeves were pulled up and knotted at awkward angles to prevent it from dangling down tiny arms. "Tony," the boy says. 

Rhodey's lips part in growing surprise as he takes in the messy waves of dark hair, matched with a pair of brown eyes that shine too bright, the layer of chub across a familiar bone structure, and the all too familiar expression of suspicion that Rhodey was once subjected to in MIT – one that, over the years, had eventually been hidden behind a perfected mask of cool. "Tony."

"Yeah," the boy says, making a face like Rhodey's being stupid. "S'what I just said."

---

"I mean," Rhodey clarifies, pinching the bridge of his nose after Pepper had calmly pointed out through the call that Tony's always been a child. "He's an actual kid. Physically. He's–" he cuts off as he shifts his attention to Tony, who's scowling from the other end of the sectional with tiny arms crossed over his chest. "Do you know how old you are?" 

"Course I do," Tony huffs out, eyes narrowing in offense. "I'm eight."

"Eight? Kinda short for an eight year old, aren't you?" Rhodey teases, and Tony's eyes narrow even further. The boy looks away just as his cheeks flush pink at the jab aimed at his stature. 

"Wait. Is that Tony?" Pepper's voice filters through the phone. "It doesn't sound like him."

"Gee, I wonder why eight year old Tony doesn't sound like fifty year old Tony."

"How are you even sure it's him? Did you ask Jarvis?" 

"Trust me, I'm sure," Rhodey says, deciding against bringing up when eight year old Tony had unashamedly called out 'who's the broad?' the second Pepper answered the phone, which ended with Rhodey fumbling to put the phone off of speaker. 

"And Jarvis isn't responding. He must have gone down when Tony did– well, whatever he did." Rhodey sneaks a quick glance at his watch. It's been almost an hour since he walked into this debacle. "He should be back up soon." 

"Okay," Pepper says after a heavy sigh. Her calm demeanor doesn't even surprise Rhodey – god knows the pair of them have been through enough and more of Tony's eccentricity. When it comes to Tony, this is just another day for them. "Jim, listen. I'm still in DC, but I'll be there in a few hours." There's distinct shuffling from her side. "Just– stay put. Read him a book. Put him to sleep."

"Put him to–" Rhodey cuts himself off before he can even consider the ridiculousness of the suggestion. "This is Tony."

"And you're his best friend. Which is why I'm sure you'll figure something out." And by thrusting her sheer level of confidence upon Rhodey, Pepper ends the call, leaving him staring helplessly at the phone in his hand. He looks over at Tony, who immediately looks away, defensive hands still folded across his chest in an act of petulance. 

Pepper had a point, Rhodey figures. Smaller Tony can't differ much from the real deal. He just has to make Tony talk; keep him occupied. Maybe play an R-rated movie– 

"Keep staring at me like that, 'm gonna think you're a pedophile."

"Jesus Christ."

---

They're not even ten minutes into watching Eraserhead before Tony decides it's too unrealistic, and therefore not worth his time. 

"What?" Rhodey asks, barely able to suppress the disbelief in his voice. Tony loved this movie – even watched it twice a month, every month, while they were in MIT. Sure, it had Rhodey worried for Tony's sanity at first, but he got around to movie nights soon enough. "You love this movie."

"Nope," Tony says, and that's that.

---

"Aren't you too old to be a babysitter?" Tony asks after spending a whole of five minutes scrutinizing Rhodey with a fairly impressive stink eye.

Rhodey huffs out a breathy laugh. "Tell that to the guy who put me here."

"Maybe I will," Tony says pointedly – sounding like he fully intended to file a formal complaint. "Where is he?"

"You're talking to him," Rhodey says, which shuts Tony up.

---

Rhodey's making a mental checklist of how else he can entertain eight year old Tony who hates Eraserhead – when Jarvis comes online.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rhodes," Jarvis greets, and Rhodey immediately shoots a silent prayer of gratitude to the AI. On the other side of the sectional, Tony's head jerks up in surprise from where he was fiddling with the StarkTab – eyes darting around for the voice. 

"I apologize for my inactivity. My servers may have been affected while Sir was testing the functions of…" Jarvis trails off, and there's a very telling silence that follows – Jarvis apparently having noticed Tony's absence and the kid's presence. Tony's still looking around for the source, and when his attempt turns futile, decides to zero in on Rhodey. 

"Mr. Rhodes," Jarvis starts, his words edging on hesitation. "Is that–" 

"Yep."

---

Tony takes it upon himself to find out the source of the voice. There's ten minutes of Tony opening and closing doors, crouching under tables, checking behind furniture five times his size, and because Tony - no matter the age – is still Tony, returns to where Rhodey's seated, newfound determination plastered across his face. "Who was that?"

"Who was who?" Rhodey asks, raising an innocent brow. 

"The guy who was just talking to you." 

"Don't see any guy here."

"I heard him."

"Heard who?" 

"The guy!" Tony blurts out hotly, throwing his arms out in frustration as his cheeks flush a shade of red. The movement makes the full sleeves of Tony's undershirt break from the knot Tony had made, resulting in them splaying out like loose wires before they end up dangling flimsily at his sides. Tony pays no mind, and Rhodey tries to pay no mind. 

"Which guy?" Rhodey asks, and he can barely contain his grin watching the way Tony puffs his chest, lips parting to make way for whatever childish blabber before they snap shut in annoyance. 

His face turns into a scowl as he brings his arms back across his chest, dangling sleeves and all. "Stop pulling my leg." 

"Whatever you say, kid."

"Not a kid."

"You're, like, five."

Tony looks like he's about to explode from frustration. "Eight!"

"Full fledged adult, then."

---

"You have a lot of grey hair," Tony speaks up all of a sudden, working on the offense this time. 

"You're short," Rhodey answers without missing a beat.

"But I'll grow," Tony says, grinning now, like he'd struck gold. "I'll be taller than you."

"Oh, yeah," Rhodey agrees for the sake of entertaining the kid, deciding against breaking his bubble as much as he'd like to. He adds an enthusiastic "definitely." 

Tony, self-proclaimed genius that he is, catches on to the intent. He looks almost giddy with excitement as he crawls over from his place on the sectional to where Rhodey's sitting. "You're jealous!" Tony exclaims, eyes shining in delight. "Aren't you? You're jealous that I'm gonna be taller than you!" 

"You got me, kid," Rhodey shrugs, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips. "What can I say? Life can be a– biscuit, sometimes."

"A bitch, you mean."

---

They go through the StarkPad together, not that Tony needed much help anyway, seeing as he already figured out most of how it works by himself. Rhodey gets his fair share of questions anyway, from why do people need such a big screen? to I can watch an entire movie in this?

"Ha, this makes you look even older!" is the first thing points out when Rhodey switches it to the front camera. 

"Yeah, yeah," Rhodey says smiling, and in a split second, contorts his face just as a grinning Tony holds up the tablet and takes a selfie of them. 

"This is so cool," Tony exclaims in barely contained excitement as he proceeds to take a dozen more pictures of himself, some of which Rhodey accidentally ends up in the background of. 

"Yeah, remember my friend Tony? He made it."

Tony perks up, suddenly more interested, and Rhodey thinks he's going to ask more about the StarkPad until– "Is he taller than you?" 

Rhodey snorts. "He wishes. Tony used to stuff paper balls into his shoes when we were in MIT. He wears heels now." 

"I know MIT! My dad studied there," Tony says, and Rhodey makes a surprised sound, like that wasn't news to him at all. Tony cocks his head, eyebrows knitting as if something just occurred to him. "Wait, how does he wear heels?" 

"He gets them custom made into his shoes."

A pause. Then: "And he's still shorter than you?" 

"Yep."

"That must suck balls."

"Yep."

---

"You never told me your name," Tony says out of the blue after spending a good few minutes drooling into Rhodey's shoulder while he was dead to the world.

"It's Jim."

Tony shifts, drawing his feet towards himself so he can curl into Rhodey's chest. "That's an old man's name," Tony points out softly. 

"Rhodey, then."

"How many names do you have?"

Honeybear, Platypus, Sourpatch– "A few."

"My name is Anthony," Tony says, voice softening even more, as if he'd pass out any moment now. "But nobody calls me that anymore."

"Thought you didn't like-"

"Because when they do, I kick 'em in the dick," Tony finishes, words coming out in soft mumble before he drifts back to sleep.

---

When Pepper walks into the penthouse an hour later and spots Tony snuggled against Rhodey's side, soaking his polo shirt wet with drool, she flashes him a triumphant smile. I told you so.

[aimeelouart]

The Calamity’s Cursed Child, Part 2 - 1672 words, ASGZC, Cursed to Strife continuity

[Part 1] [Read it on Ao3]

--

It turned out that Cloud had showed up in the middle of nowhere, because Zack’s house just so happened to be in the middle of nowhere. Cloud wasn’t too surprised⁠—whatever the details of his curse, it tended to spit him out in the unluckiest possible position. Such as right on top of Strife’s empty grave.

It really was uncanny.

Zack explained, in their brief hike back to the house, that they all preferred the privacy and security of living in the middle of nowhere. They made trips back to civilization occasionally, to see their AVALANCHE friends or get supplies, but for the most part they were self-sufficient. It sounded...nice. Idyllic, almost. Cloud tried not to dwell on that for too long.

They paused at the front door and Zack looked at him nervously. He raised an eyebrow in response. They’re your boyfriends to wrangle, he conveyed with that eyebrow. Zack deflated a little. “Okay,” he said. “Uh. Just...be ready to dodge if you have to.”

Sephiroth moved from standing at his side to standing in front of him protectively, which was...a little trippy, but he rolled with it.

Zack took a deep breath and promptly slammed the door open, hollering “DON’T FREAK OUT!”

Cloud wasn’t entirely sure how that was supposed to help, but it was such a Zack move that he couldn’t help but grin and stifle a snort. Sephiroth was also suppressing a smile.

“What?” came a call from further in the house, laced with alarm.

“Zack what did you do!” someone else called, footsteps pounding down the stairs from the second floor.

“Nothing, just don’t freak out!” Zack said, stopping a few feet in the entryway. Cloud peered curiously out from behind Sephiroth’s towering frame. That was a mistake, maybe. Two sets of eyes from two alarmed former commanders locked on him as they came rushing into the front room.

“You!” they said, nearly as one.

“Seph, look out!” Angeal cried, pulling a broadsword from a nearby rack and blurring forward as Genesis cast a reflexive spell. 

Cloud sighed. Sephiroth raised a Barrier. Zack quickly got between Angeal and the door, parrying with his own broadsword. “What did I literally just say about freaking out!” he scolded.

“Strife is⁠—!”

“He is not Strife,” Sephiroth said firmly, projecting his voice. He held one arm up in a very clearly protective gesture. “Calm down. I know how this looks, but he is not Strife.”

Cloud stepped out from behind Sephiroth so that the other two could see him, keeping his hands loose at his side. If they got a good look at him, they might calm down quicker. Assuming Strife was anything like Sephiroth, his battered clothing and timeworn face would be a very stark difference. He glanced between them and waited patiently.

Angeal’s hostility eased almost immediately, confusion furrowing between his brows. He lowered his broadsword. Genesis took a few seconds longer, eyes sweeping up and down Cloud several times before they settled on his face. Slowly, he frowned.

“I’m not your Strife,” Cloud said simply.

“Yeah!” Zack agreed, bounding over to sling an arm around his shoulders. “Can’t you tell by the cute face? And, you know, the lack of raging insanity and murderous intent?”

“Zack,” Cloud said reprovingly, elbowing his side. “That’s not helpful.”

Angeal huffed a laugh, then looked startled with himself for it. Zack pumped a fist victoriously. “Yes!” He cheered. “Okay, now that no one is trying to kill anyone else, this is Cloud but he’s from a different dimension and he’s going to sleep on the couch until he leaves.”

Cloud sighed and put his face in his hands. Even four hours of sleep was not enough to deal with Zack when he was like this. “Zack, please stop tormenting your boyfriends.”

“Aww, don’t worry Cloudy. They’re used to it!” He leaned in and added, sotto voce, “they’d be way more alarmed if I wasn’t acting like this.”

“Alright, Zack, you’ve made your point,” Genesis said, eyeing Cloud. “Enough with the theatrics. If he is not Strife, he deserves better hospitality than being left to linger on our doorstep.”

Both Commanders looked cautious but not hostile as Cloud was herded inside and Sephiroth shut the door behind them. Angeal was the first to step forward, after laying his broadsword on the coffee table. “Cloud?” he asked hesitantly, reaching a hand out toward his face but pausing half way.

“It’s fine,” Cloud told him. It was hardly the first time the grieving and the lonely had seen echoes of their lost lover, parent, or child in him. It seemed a theme, to be given what belonged to others⁠—both gentle touches and hateful wounds. “But you should know I never had a romantic relationship with any of your counterparts in my home world.”

“No?” Angeal asked, daring to close the distance and lay his palm along Cloud’s jaw. Like Zack, his thumb swept across the delicate, bruise-dark skin beneath his eye. “Why not?”

“Never met you. Never knew any of you, really, though Zack got the closest.”

The corner of Angeal’s lip twitched upward, just a little. “All things considered, I don’t know if I should be sad or happy for you.”

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Angeal stepped back, drawing his hand away. Everyone looked to Genesis, but the redhead just stood and watched with an unreadable expression. “You’re not our Cloud.”

Cloud couldn’t help but grin tiredly at that. “No, I’m not. I have to admit, it’s very refreshing to hear someone else say that for once”

Genesis looked away, closing his eyes, then huffed. A weary smirk crossed his face. “Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess. You could have fooled me. You talk like he used to. Act like it too.” Only then did he step forward, putting his hands on Cloud’s shoulders. “It’s the eyes that give you away. He never looked quite so…”

“Tired?” Cloud suggested archly.

“Worn. Zack mentioned you borrowing the couch?”

“That was part of the deal, yeah. I’ll be gone in about three and a half hours and I intend to sleep while I can.”

Genesis’s expression softened fully at that. “Of course.” He used the hands on Cloud’s shoulders to steer him over to a chair. Cloud sat willingly enough, after taking Tsurugi off and leaning it against the chair’s arm. “Just wait a moment and you can sleep.”

Like a well-oiled machine, the four men broke off to gather pillows and blankets, dim the lights, and generally make their living room habitable for sleeping. They worked fast. Before Cloud quite knew what was happening, he was laying down⁠—Tsurugi pressed against his side and boots on, as he insisted⁠—swathed in warm blankets and resting on a veritable mountain of pillows. He threw an arm over his eyes, mumbling something that might have been thanks, and dropped right off.

Of course, Cloud had long since developed the habit of sleeping without truly losing touch with his surroundings. How it worked, he didn’t know, but if he hadn’t he would have died quite a bit more often than he already did. So he heard, and retained the gist of, the conversation that the four men had around him.

“He looks half dead.”

“I know. Why do you think I insisted he come back here to sleep? He never said anything outright but I swear he was going to bunk down in a tree as soon as we left.”

“What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. He only said that he’d come from another dimension and that he was going to vanish.”

“He also said that he was not the one who Zack “usually” greeted with hostility. I believe he has been traversing dimensions involuntarily for some time.”

“He certainly looks it, poor boy.”

A hand brushed tentatively through his hair. He murmured nonsensically, shifting for a moment before settling back down. The hand resumed its motions as soon as he’d stilled.

“Is this what he could have been, do you think? Strong and selfless? Patient with us?”

A different hand traced the edge of his jaw. His mind whispered not a threat, and so he stayed asleep.

“He would have been a good man. The best, really. If only we could have…”

“Hush. We made mistakes, but our Cloud made his own decisions. And at the end...he was already dead and gone. We put a shell to rest, nothing more.”

“I know. I know that. But it still⁠—”

“—hurts?”

“Yeah.”

“I know, love.”

“...I wonder if he would have been better off like this. If he’d never met us.”

The conversation died after that. Cloud drifted along in silence until the burning sensation that warned of an impending jump became too intense to ignore. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, then stood and slung Tsurugi across his back.

“What is it?” Zack asked from where he was sitting in an armchair. All four of them were in the living room, pretending they hadn’t just been watching him while he slept. Watching over him, if he was feeling generous, though he understood the impulse either way.

“Two minutes,” he murmured, rubbing at the old scar on his hip. It always burned a little more intensely than the surrounding unscarred flesh. “This is goodbye.”

Zack, of course, got up and hugged him so tight his ribs creaked. “Go get ‘em, tiger,” he joked, but there were tears in his eyes. Angeal’s parting embrace was wordless, as was Genesis’s, though the latter also pressed a chaste kiss against his temple. Sephiroth was the last, as the burning licked up into Cloud’s neck.

“Be safe,” the silver-haired man whispered, releasing him.

Cloud huffed a laugh, though it lacked all but the faintest trace of humor. “Yessir, General,” he drawled, snapping off a perfect salute.

The very last thing he saw was Sephiroth’s small, amused smile, eyes glistening wetly, before the world turned to white static and he vanished.

[leviathanswingman]

Love Is a Losing Game, Chapter 3: The Compromise

As soon as the door to Lucifer's chambers closed behind them Asmo practically jumped his brother.

„Who is it?!“ he exclaimed excitedly as he tilted his head in anticipation like a curious puppy and clung to Lucifer's arm. „Oh- oh oh oh! Wait don't tell me, let me guess, please! This hasn't happened in decades!“

Lucifer plucked Asmo's clinging hands off his arm and leaned against his desk, crossing his arms as he kept his eyes on his giddy brother. He was still feeling slightly nauseous, but the short walk to his room had helped alleviate at least some of it.

There was a playful sparkle to Asmodeus' eyes, yet underlying, one could tell that he had an agenda. In an act of false thoughtfulness Asmodeus tapped his lush lips multiple times with his pointer. “Now who could it be? Who would be sexy enough to make Lucifer, the poster demon of restraint, buckle? Hmmm, I wonder,” Asmo started, apparently having a death wish on his mind. With small steps, he tiptoed around the mahogany desk in a manner so gracefully he almost appeared to be floating.

“A one-night stand, maybe?”

Lucifer tried to suppress a shudder. Bulls eye. Still, his little brother didn't need to know that. So Lucifer simply readjusted his position, his body all sharp edges and steel. His jaw was locked tight as he observed the way Asmodeus flaunted through the room. All of a sudden Asmo stopped next to Lucifer, eyes big with shock.

“It can't be... Barbatos?!” he exclaimed in outrage. “I mean I understand the allure of some good butler and servant play, but don't tell me you fucked- ow ow OW!”

Finally done with Asmodeus' shenanigans, Lucifer had grabbed his brother roughly by the ear. “Stop joking around, Asmodeus. I did not, as you put it ever so crudely, fornicate with Barbatos. Now would you do me a favour and stay out of my private life? I am sure you have more important things to do.” He let go again and Asmodeus complained quietly as he rubbed his earlobe.

“But I wanna know, this never happens! It's not my fault I was born this gorgeous and curious, so come on!”

Lucifer stayed stoic. Hell would have to freeze over several times before he would admit to Asmodeus that he had slept with Diavolo only for their honoured demon prince to sneak out in the morning light as if the night had meant nothing to him. And this was the one thing Lucifer was ever so certain about- the night had meant something, but only to him.

This was why he used to be so keen on keeping things professional between him and Diavolo. He knew that in the end, one of them would end up regretting it. In the end, he had at least been right about that fact.

“Practice some self-restraint,” Lucifer stated. His arms were once again crossed in front of his chest. As he thought back to the previous night, inexplicably his right hand, tucked safely between his side and the back of his upper arm, startled to tremble and almost violently, the feeling of nausea returned.

“Well, it looks like you haven't been doing that either, so why should I?” Asmodeus threw in, followed by an uncomfortable silence that filled the room.

He took Lucifer's lack of response as an unspoken invitation to keep on talking. “So my first guess was clearly wrong, but I don't think you would just go with your everyday bar bunny looking for a quick fling. That isn't your type. Your type would be...” Suddenly, Asmodeus' head snapped up. “Your type is-”

Without any hesitation Lucifer slapped his hand onto Asmo's mouth. He knew Asmodeus knew. Or at least, he was aware of Lucifer's preferences.

Still, Lucifer felt sick to his stomach. He had let his brother ramble on for far too long, but Lucifer had needed the time to calm his body down again. Nausea was running through his every core, green like envy and red like an angry sore.

He just knew he couldn't stand to hear it coming from someone else's mouth, put out into the world without his consent, yanking the reigns from Lucifer's hands.

If someone else were to vocalize that Lucifer loved Diavolo, not in the way a subject should love their lord, but in a way that was reserved for solely the closest of companions , it would make the whole ordeal undeniably real.

Lost in thought, Lucifer had completely forgotten that he was still clutching his little brother's mouth shut. He received a rude awakening as Asmodeus suddenly licked the palm of Lucifer's hand. Surprised, Lucifer let go of Asmo and shook his hand as his eyebrows drew together in disgust. “Asmodeus, this is revolting.”

“You started it!”

Lucifer felt his attention slipping again.

Although he hated to admit it, on their way from the dining hall to his own room he hadn't found an appropriate excuse to get Asmodeus off his tracks. When it was about love, infidelities, one night stands and generally most things lust-related, Asmodeus couldn't be fooled and Lucifer wasn't delusional enough to believe that he could out-smart the avatar of lust when the subjects of conversation were love and lust themselves. After all, Lucifer was sure it wouldn't take Asmodeus all too long to figure out what was going on here.

He had to be tactical with this one so he could keep the upper hand.

Right now, Asmodeus knew something he wasn't supposed to know to begin with, all due to Lucifer's own negligence. Ergo, Asmodeus had insider knowledge that could be good leverage for his own interests. This exactly was something Lucifer couldn't afford right now. The past few weeks, Asmo had been even more unhinged than usual. Lucifer had threatened him with house arrest and cleaning duty already, but neither had worked.

So he had gone and discussed the issue with Barbatos. Together, they had come to the conclusion that a few months away from the big city, just Asmodeus, two elderly demons and an old farm would do him some good.

Suddenly, the wheels started to turn in Lucifer's head.

He had found his solution. Admittedly, it wasn't optimal and Lucifer had to give up a little bit of his privacy and pride as an older brother, but if it were to work out like he knew it had to, he could manage to hit two birds with one stone.

For a moment Lucifer thought it over again. He rounded the mahogany desk, put his hands flat on its surface and leaned forward, staring at Asmodeus.

„Feel free to guess who I've had relations with, but keep in mind, your freedom right now is in my hands,“ Lucifer slowly said after a moment of strange silence. „You have been awfully active these last few weeks now, haven't you?“

Asmodeus threw himself sideways over one of the chairs and side-eyed his brother. He tilted his head back and sighed dramatically. „So we're going straight to business without any foreplay? How boring!“ After another short pause, Asmodeus mustered his brother. „You really don't want to tell me what happened?“ he asked with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

Lucifer leaned forward and ignored his brother's previous question. „I have a deal for you. We both know I won't let you run around as you please anymore.  You are aware that I have been keeping a close eye on your behaviour and you have disappointed me severely. You have a reputation to uphold, yet you refuse to be responsible and instead spend your nights getting acquainted with every club in the city. Originally, Barbatos and I had decided on sending you away for a few months. The farms do need some helping hands this season, don't you think?”

Asmodeus' eyes widened almost unnoticeably, but he didn't interject. He needed his nights out, he needed them like a human needed oxygen. There was no way they would send him away, right?

Asmodeus grabbed Lucifer by his upper arms and looked at him with pleading eyes. “Please, not the ranch! I know my powers are good with animals, but the air over there will be downright toxic for my skin! Just thinking about it makes me break out, Lucifer please-”

Lucifer raised one finger, quieting his little brother in the process. “I have a proposal for you. If you don't want me to send you away, you will listen,” Lucifer growled.

Staring up at his big brother's stony expression, Asmodeus simply nodded as he felt his heart race in his chest. Anxiety was coursing through his body and he was desperate, desperate enough to do anything Lucifer asked of him as long as he didn't have to give up that lavish lifestyle of his. As long as he wouldn't end up isolated somewhere in the wilderness, left to his own devices and even worse, left to his own thoughts.

“I am giving you one week on probation. If you manage to tone down your excessive partying and won't spread any information whatsoever about my supposed sex life, I will show mercy and humour you. I will humour you just once. If the week proves successful, I will grant you one question. You will be allowed to ask me one question which I will have to answer, no matter the subject of the matter. If you refuse to agree things will go as originally planned and a car will be waiting for you tomorrow morning at 8am sharp, ready to accompany you to the farm. Any questions?”

In the split of a second Asmodeus' worried thoughts screeched to a halt.

This was the exact moment he realized that this was so much more than him teasing Lucifer about a hookup. This was so much more than him trying to reason with his big brother so he wouldn't be sent away for his own outrageous behaviour. This was Lucifer doing damage control. If Asmodeus managed to survive this week, he would receive a get out of jail free card; he had a promise that he could ask Lucifer about what was bothering him so much to the point of blackmail, had a promise that he wouldn't be turned down for once.

Asmodeus had the choice between constant misery away from all he loved and cherished and a week of restraining himself to reach the truth. Just like that, he knew what he had to do.

“No questions,” he answered as he softened his grip on Lucifer's arms. “I agree to your terms.” His arms dropped to his sides as he took a deep breath before slathering on a big smile. “Tomorrow I'm going to a mixer, is that alright within our terms, dearest chaperone?” he questioned, his voice drowning with artificial honey and sweetness.

As he raised an eyebrow Lucifer slowly nodded his head. “It is good to see you cooperate, but I fear I will have to accompany you. If you do not feel comfortable with that I will have to send Barbatos to chaperone you.”

Asmo scoffed. “Yeah, no thank you. Barbatos can be a terrible killjoy when he's following orders.”  All of a sudden, Asmodeus threw his hands around Lucifer's neck, hugging him tightly. “I'd rather choose my precious big brother after all!”

Lucifer stiffened and pushed his little brother off of him after a few seconds. Once again, he felt his stomach turn over multiple times. It took him all he had not to falter to his knees right then and there. “That's enough, Asmo,” he forced out. “We are done here, you can leave. Just remember our agreement.”

Before he stepped out, Asmodeus flashed his brother another one of his blinding smiles. “See you tomorrow, Lucifer! I'm looking forward to it!”

The door slammed shut and Lucifer dropped down to his knees, gripping at the fabric of his shirt. Even though everything had gone according to plan, he felt fickle and broken, his knees were trembling for no reason whatever as his gut filled with acid.

Ever since he had awoken in-between cold sheets, Lucifer felt as if his body had aged several millennia. Tired bones met tired eyes.

He gave himself no less than a minute before he forced himself up again. With one hand gripping onto the edge of his desk, Lucifer managed to push himself up again.

This was nothing. He was probably experiencing unnecessary psychosomatic pains from having been rejected by the one demon he respected the most, nothing more than that. It simply couldn't be more than that.

After all, he was Lucifer the Morning Star, a demon far too powerful to be moved by something as simple as affection or as difficult as love. Lucifer didn't care for nor lust after neither. He was above all of that. He had to be above all of that.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 , Chapter 7, Chapter 8,  Chapter 9, Chapter 10

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Whumptober 5: Where Do You Think You’re Going?

On the Run

I finally got around to writing something for my own damn AU, and it’s not even canon! I’m great at this.

Summary: Months after escaping from Prime Empire, Scott finds himself in Paris with none other than Unagami. It doesn’t go well. (This is of course part of the Miraculous crossover that I talk about sometimes on @blursed-ninjago-ideas)

Trigger Warnings: death threats, violence, panic attacks

4517 words

The years of his life Scott had lost to Prime Empire were hard to come to terms with. Every day he had been in there, he was well aware of the passage of time, but it was still the hardest thing he’d ever gone through.

Every day he had convinced himself that he would get out soon.

That first day, he was certain he’d be out by the end of the week. By the end of the week, he thought it couldn’t possibly be longer than a month.

It had gone on for years. Thirty, specifically.

Everyone he had ever known and loved had grieved and moved on. He had missed decades with them. His friends. His family. Everyone.

And it was all Unagami’s fault — right. Unagami was actually just a stupid little child who hadn’t really known what he was doing. He was supposed to be trying to get along with him, because he needed to be a role model or some shit.

Honestly, now that the kid wasn’t actively keeping him trapped inside a game for decades, he wasn’t all that bad. Sure, he could be a bit of a brat at times, but that was a phase that all children went through.

And apparently, he lowkey — that was the word Jay liked to use, right? He was so behind on the current slang — idolized Scott. Yeah, the child who’d been trying to turn him into a lifeless, numb, empty little energy cube for years and years and years, thought he was cool. That was… something, he supposed.

He was mostly doing this because Jay had all but begged him to. Said it made him a good person and he needed to let go of his anger.

Scott didn’t know if he would call it anger. He couldn’t bring himself to hate Unagami, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t a little… well… uncomfortable around him. Yeah, that was definitely the right word.

But that was dumb. That debacle was finally over, and even if the nightmares and trauma didn’t go away, it wasn’t like Unagami acted malicious anymore. He wasn’t trying to kill anyone anymore.

So what if every time Unagami did much of anything, Scott’s grip on whatever it may have been that he was holding tightened enough to break a bone? That wasn’t that concerning. Everybody did that. Probably.

And hey, he could have had worse problems than scratching up his hands when he was nervous or anxious or really freaked out or really scared or flashing back to that cramped dark horrible nothingness when he was just lines of code trapped in a little energy cube with no way to get in or out or anything — and, uh, everyone had a random bad dream once in awhile. Or every night.

But he could put that aside, because he was a mature adult.

So here he was, babysitting an arcade-game-turned-boy, who was surprisingly energetic and very bright-eyed. 

“When are the ninja coming back?” Unagami asked, popping up from behind the couch.

Scott barely suppressed a surprised curse. This kid was way too light on his feet. “I don’t know,” he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

Unagami, unlike most kids would, actually accepted that as an answer and went back to his BorgPad, tapping away at the screen.

The thing was, nobody had seen the ninja in a few weeks, now. Scott was beginning to get concerned. After Lloyd had disappeared — which had been information divulged to Scott privately by Jay, because they didn’t want the general public to know — the next few days had been spent in a raw panic. And then, total radio silence.

He hadn’t heard from the ninja since.

He hoped they were okay. He was a little too familiar with people disappearing only to never be heard from again. Well, not until thirty years after the fact.

He wasn’t bitter, not at all.

“What are you doing, anyway?” Scott asked, trying to get his mind off the subject. He was supposed to be taking care of the kid for the day, he might as well have been trying to make some sort of connection.

“Hacking the Hexagon!” Unagami said, looking up from his screen with a big smile.

Oh, that was nice — wait, what?

“Excuse me?” Scott asked, jumping over the back of the couch and crouching on the floor, where Unagami was sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce. Scott peered over his shoulder at the screen.

“If they didn’t want it hacked they shouldn’t have made it so easy,” Unagami shrugged.

Was it… was it normal for a child to be hacking into government facilities from a BorgPad?

Scott was going to go out on a limb and say no. …It was probably just an AI thing? Yeah, it was probably fine.

He watched for a moment as Unagami’s fingers flew across the screen, lines in a language Scott didn’t understand everywhere. He’d never had the ambition to learn how to code.

But damn, back before Prime Empire, people had hardly even dreamed of tech like this. 

It was kind of crazy.

Scott was going to be honest with himself. The BorgPad was cool. It had tons of features that were all put together onto one little device — texting and pictures and games and social media and more. It had everything.

But at the end of the day, it was just another reminder that Scott had missed out on so much while he’d been trapped inside the game. 

Back in his day, people had been perfectly content with “low quality” arcade games and flip phones. But now… well, people like Cyrus Borg were completely changing the world.

It was cool. But it stung.

“As long as you don’t get like, in trouble with the law or something. I don’t want Dyer buggin’.”

Unagami gave him a weird look, but slowly lowered his gaze back to the screen.

Right. People didn’t say that anymore, did they? His vocabulary was really outdated. He was really outdated.

He sighed, standing up and heading to the kitchen so he could make some tea. Jay had given him some, claiming it was really calming.

Scott could use a little of that right now.

The label was faded enough that it was basically unreadable. Scratch that, it was completely unreadable. Did tea expire…? Nah, Jay wouldn’t have given it to him if it was bad.

As the tea was brewing, Scott leaned against the counter, fiddling with his phone. It had been brand new technology at the time, and had been pretty expensive.

Now, according to Jay, it was “mega-outdated”. 

That hurt more than it should have. He remembered being so excited about this thing, but now it was nothing compared to the technology of today.

“You want some tea?” Scott asked when it was done, going for a mug.

“What does it taste like?” Unagami asked, setting aside his tablet and coming over to observe the tea with interest. 

“Uhh… I dunno, haven’t tried it yet,” he shrugged.

“I think I would like some, please.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Scott went to pour it, but as he was doing so, he found his mind wandering to wondering where the ninja had disappeared to again. It was strange that they had just —

“Is that supposed to be happening?” Unagami asked.

Scott looked down at the tea, concerned to see a bright glow spilling from the kettle. “Uh…” before he could come up with a rational answer, it brightened, all but blinding the two as it took over the room.

When it faded, there was nothing left but a broken mug on the floor.

———

What the fuck?

What had just happened?

The last thing Scott remembered had been sitting in the kitchen making tea, but now… now he was outside, near some giant metal tower, in a place he absolutely did not recognize.

He didn’t recognize the place, but he did recognize the feeling.

He was in a new realm.

The first thing he could feel was the panic.

Not again. Fuck! Not again. He couldn’t go through this another time, he couldn’t lose more of his life to a monster, he couldn’t — he couldn’t — he couldn’t breathe. He gripped the grass he was sitting on, practically hyperventilating.

“Scott? Are you alright?”

Oh first master, Unagami was here too.

“Get away from me!” he yelled, though he made no move to put distance between them. Instead, the little brat only came closer.

“You need to breathe.”

“I said get away—” Scott’s words died in his throat. Something was different. Something was wrong.

“Captain Clockwork,” a voice said, booming throughout his head.

“What’s going on?” Scott demanded.

“I am Hawk Moth. I can feel your distress. The anger, the grief, all of it. You just want things to go back to the way they used to be, don’t you?”

“Yes…” he found himself agreeing, nodding along.

“I can help you with that. I can give you the power to take back your life. All I need in return is for you to retrieve two pieces of jewelry for me, called the Miraculous. Do we have a deal?”

Scott didn’t even have to think twice. “Yes, Hawk Moth.”

——— 

Unagami was concerned.

Scott was freaking out, clearly on the verge of a panic attack, and nothing he was doing seemed to help. And then, out of nowhere, it just stopped.

And then Scott started talking to nobody, and then his body, for the briefest of moments, was enveloped in a purple so dark it may as well have been black.

When it was gone, Scott looked different. He was wearing an outfit that could only be described as old-timey-steampunk. 

It wasn’t that strange, considering that sort of stuff was perfectly normal in Prime Empire. Still, Unagami should probably make sure that Scott was okay.

“Scott?” he asked, stepping a little closer.

Scott glared at him dark enough to kill.

Wide-eyed, Unagami took a small step back. “Scott, what’s wrong? Who were you talking to? Is this a video game, like Prime Empire?”

“You would just love that, wouldn’t you?” Scott yelled. “You would just love to ruin even more people’s lives!”

“What?”

A ball of light burst into existence in Scott’s hand, which was closed tightly in a fist. He threw the light off to the side, launching at a huge television screen on the side of a building. Almost immediately, it turned into a box-style TV.

Scott smiled wickedly. “Oh, would you look at that? The power to downgrade tech. If I can do that to a TV, I wonder what will happen to a stupid. Little. Arcade game.”

Unagami narrowly dodged a blast from Scott following those words. “Scott, stop! You’re — you’re not in your right mind!”

“Oh, I’m in my right mind!” he screamed. “I’m finally free, and what am I met with but a world that moved on without me? You took away my life!”

“Scott, please, you are not thinking clearly!” Unagami said, desperate.

“Save it, you little brat! Now hold still so I can kill you!”

Unagami tripped, falling back into the grass. He scrambled back, doing his best to get to his feet, but regardless, Scott had the upper hand. He was done for.

He squeezed his eyes shut, accepting the inevitable.

Suddenly, he was being lifted, and then he was in the air. What?

He opened his eyes.

“I’ve got you!” a girl dressed in red spandex with black polka dots all over it said.

“What’s going on?” Unagami asked.

The girl looked confused. “Uh…” they came to a stop on a rooftop. It was then that a boy dressed in what looked like a leather catsuit joined them, vaulting up with an infinitely long pole.

“How do you do, M’lady?” he asked, smiling at the girl.

“Not now, Chat. I just saved this kid from the latest akuma, but I don’t think he’s speaking French.”

“Language barrier powers?” Chat asked. “That’s a new one.”

“I don’t know, from what I could tell, the akuma was speaking in the same language as him.”

“What’s going on?” Unagami demanded. “What happened to Scott?”

Chat frowned. “It sounds kind of like Japanese. But like, not quite? It sounds like Japanese on drugs.”

The girl sighed. “Wonderful description, Chat.”

“Thanks! I try.”

“Wait, I’ve heard this before! It sounds like that language the ninja speak!” The girl said.

“Oh yeah! Maybe they’re from the same place?”

Unagami tuned out their rambling, glancing over the edge of the roof to see if he could still see Scott. Luckily, he couldn’t.

Or was that unlucky?

Scott was the only person he knew here, but at the same time, he’d lost his mind out of nowhere. And now he was on some sort of evil… violent rampage… manhunt… chasing after him… well, that was uncomfortably familiar.

 “Okay, well, our miraculous allows him to understand us, I wonder why it doesn’t work the other way?” Chat glanced at Unagami. “You can understand us, right?”

Unagami gave a frustrated nod.

“Okay, well, do you know why that guy got akumatized?”

Unagami had absolutely no idea what that was, but it was clearly in reference to what had happened to Scott.

“I don’t think he does. We have to get back to fighting before this guy destroys half of Paris,” Chat said, tapping his wrist as if there was a watch there.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Scott yelled from the streets below.

“Oh, hey, that was French!” Chat said. “Akuma powers are awesome.”

The girl gave him an unimpressed frown.

Various balls of light were transforming technology into older versions of themselves left and right as Scott rampaged.

“Shit, okay, Chat, can you drop him somewhere away from the akuma?”

“Sure thing Bugaboo!” Chat said with a wide grin. He held out a hand to Unagami. “Hold on tight, kid.”

———

Ladybug landed in front of the akuma gracefully, her yo-yo at her side.

“Ladybug, I presume,” the akuma said.

“That would be right.”

The akuma glared at her. “Look, I don’t particularly want to hurt you. Just hand over the earrings and the kid, and I’ll be on my way.”

“What do you want with him?” Ladybug asked, eyes narrowed. “What could he possibly have done?”

The akuma laughed, and it started low, but it quickly gained a touch of psycho, edging on hysteria. “What didn’t he do?” He yelled, his arms widely gesturing — though his right hand stayed tightly closed. That could be important. “He kept me trapped in a video game for decades. He made me live every day in fear that it would be my last! He ruined my life! He took everything from me!”

Well… fuck.

That was actually a pretty valid reason to be upset with somebody. But how on earth had that happened in the first place? Well, the details didn’t matter. She had an akuma to fight.

Against all reason, Ladybug decided to try getting through to the poor guy. “You don’t have to do this! Hawk Moth is manipulating you!”

“I don’t care!” He screamed. “He made me into Captain Clockwork! He gave me the power to take back my life!”

He threw a blast of energy at Ladybug, which she only barely managed to deflect with her yo-yo. It bounced back to what looked like a brand new car, which immediately turned into a station wagon.

Oh boy.

“Time has moved forward without me. I don’t fit into this world, so I’m gonna make this world fit me!”

She needed to figure out what to break. Whatever he was holding, that could be it.

Unceremoniously, Chat dropped from the sky, landing in a heap next to her.

“I did not get that right…” he muttered, getting to his feet with some difficulty. “What’s the plan, M’lady?”

“I don’t know, but I think the akuma is in whatever he’s holding. We need to get him to drop it.”

“May I offer a distraction in these trying times?”

Ladybug smiled.

“Hey, the future isn’t all that bad!” Chat exclaimed, dramatically vaulting himself to be behind the akuma so that he had to turn around and his attention was off of Ladybug, while she quietly summoned her lucky charm.

“We’ve got video games! And bullet trains, and iPhones, and — ooh, we’ve got anime! It still baffles me that people ever managed to live without anime. A tragedy, really.”

Captain Clockwork glared at him. “We had video games and anime back in my day. It was good enough, it didn’t have to change!”

“That’s sort of the way of life, buddy,” Chat shrugged, batting away a blast with his baton.

“It shouldn’t be! I shouldn’t have gotten left behind!” he screamed, sending blasts of energy one after the other at Chat.

“Left behind?” Chat asked, lowering his guard slightly when the akuma, breathing heavily, stopped firing.

“That boy you stole away just a few minutes ago,” Captain Clockwork said, laughing hysterically. “He kept me trapped inside a video game, for thirty years. Thirty years! It’s not fair! It’s not fair! I’ll kill him!”

“How did a little boy trap you in a video game?” Chat asked, legitimately curious.

“He is the game! He ruled Prime Empire! He ruined my life!” 

Chat was regretting asking, because now the akuma was backing him into a corner, his fist glowing. He wasn’t sure he’d ever battled an akuma so full of pure rage before.

Chat extended his baton, sweeping it under the akuma’s feet and knocking him to the ground.

“This is so cool!” Alya shouted from across the street, filming with her iPhone.

“Alya,” Nino all but begged. “We gotta get to safety!”

“But I’m getting some great footage on this thing!”

Captain Clockwork growled, blasting violently at the pair. Alya’s brand new, expensive phone immediately reverted to a flip phone.

The way Alya screamed would have suggested someone had been murdered. “No!” she shrieked, being dragged away by Nino.

“Phones don’t need to be able to record! Just use a fucking video camera! They didn’t have to change it!” Captain Clockwork yelled, running after Alya.

That got the couple’s attention enough to start running.

Chat put himself between them, crying out when he intercepted a blast.

“Chat!” Ladybug yelled.

Chat grunted, rolling with great difficulty away from the akuma.

His baton immediately grew in length, turning into what looked like a perfectly regular, non-magical, old-fashioned baton.

“Oh fuck.”

“Hand over the ring and I won’t hurt you,” Captain Clockwork demanded.

“Sorry, I’ve got a contract,” Chat replied, using the baton as a sort of cane to help him get to his feet again.

He didn’t manage to dodge the next blast, which turned his magical very technologically advanced leather suit into a hoodie and a cheap pair of sweatpants. 

Panic gripped him, and he quickly went to feel for his mask. Oh, thank god, it was still there.

Captain Clockwork charged up another blast, but before he could use it, Ladybug grabbed Chat and swung her yo-yo, getting them both away and into a back alley.

“Are you okay, Kitty?” she asked, setting him down gently.

“I’m alright,” he affirmed. “I need to detransform, make sure Plagg is alright. Maybe when I retransform it’ll go back to normal?”

Ladybug purposefully turned around.

“Claws in,” he said.

Immediately, Ladybug could hear a low groan from her partner’s kwami.

“Here,” Chat muttered, presumably offering him some food.

“Thanks. God that really hurt…” Plagg muttered.

“It did?” Chat cried, worry seeping into his voice. “Are you okay? How can I help?”

“I’ll be fine, Kitten,” Plagg said, laughing somewhat through the now very obvious pain. “Just defeat this guy and you can buy me some extra nice cheese to make up for it.”

Chat laughed. “Sure thing Plagg. Claws out!”

Ladybug waited a moment, then turned back around. Luckily, Chat had been right, and his suit was back to normal. “Okay, so we’ve got my lucky charm, but I still don’t know how to use it. Did you learn anything about the akuma?”

“Well, apparently the kid he was trying to obliterate trapped him in a game for thirty years,” Chat shrugged. “I dunno if that’s important though.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. He keeps screaming about it every chance he gets. But as long as we free the akuma, he’ll be fine. Did you happen to see what he was holding?”

“It looked kind of like a phone, but like, one of those really old flippy ones. Like the ones they used in High School Musical!”

Ladybug sighed. “Well, that’s something. Actually, my lucky charm is a flip phone.”

“That’s weird… think he’d like that?”

“Wait! I have a plan.”

———

Meanwhile, Unagami was hiding behind a trashcan as Scott got closer and closer to his whereabouts. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears.

“Unagami,” Scott called out, his voice sickly sweet and too high in pitch. “Come out, come out wherever you are…”

Unagami held his breath, praying Scott didn’t find him.

“Isn’t it ironic?” Scott asked, something out of Unagmai’s sight crashing loudly. “The hunter becomes the prey. Bet you never thought you’d get retribution, huh?”

He hadn’t meant to ruin Scott’s life. He’d just been following his father’s instructions. He’d apologized. He thought Scott had forgiven him. He’d acted like he had.

Had he felt like this the whole time?

Angry and hurt and wanting to kill him?

And… was this how Scott had felt while trapped in Prime Empire?

Scared for his life, fearing every second that it could be his last? Keeping himself hidden away for years with the constant terror that he would be found?

The trashcan was thrown, and there was Scott.

“Found you.”

“I’m sorry—” Unagami said.

“Save it! Sorry doesn’t make up for the lost time! Sorry doesn’t make up for the fear I lived in! Sorry doesn’t fix things!”

He charged a blast.

Out of nowhere, a bright blue tornado threw Scott across the street.

It slowed to a stop, revealing none other than the blue ninja. “Unagami?” he said, bewildered. “How are you here?”

“Why are you defending him?” Scott screamed. “He trapped you too! He took all of your friends! He hunted you down like a wild animal! Aren’t you angry?”

“Scott? Jay cried, even more bewildered than before. “What the… wait, but Unagami is just a kid! Sure, he caused a lot of pain, but it wasn’t his fault! And he’s done all he can to make it right!” “That’s not good enough!”

“Ice to see you!” Zane yelled, dropping down from the rooftop.

Scott growled, charging a blast of energy. “Just let me kill the little brat! He’s not human! He’s not a person! What difference does it make?”

Unagami froze.

Scott… didn’t see him as a person? All this time?

He thought they had been bonding. He had thought… well, he hadn’t thought they were friends, exactly, but he had at least thought… 

It was true that he wasn’t human, but Unagami had likened himself to Zane. They weren't human, but they were still people. But that wasn’t how Scott saw it at all. And he had never known.

Zane screamed out as he was hit with a blast. The light encompassed him, and suddenly he was left with rusty copper skin.

Unagami’s eyes widened in horror.

“I — I — I — do not feel — Jay — I cannot — what is happening?” Zane stammered, his voice box glitching heavily.

“I can downgrade tech,” Scott said, laughing darkly. “You’re tech.”

“Scott, this isn’t you!” Jay attempted. “You’re better than this!”

“I don’t want to be better than this!” he yelled. He threw Jay to the side, completely knocking the boy unconscious.

With Zane unable to even move, Unagami was about to die.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.

“Hurt doesn’t care about intention.”

In what was either the best or the worst timing ever, the boy from before — Chat — waltzed over to them casually. “You were right, Captain Clockwork!” he exclaimed loudly. “Old technology is better! I’m just surprised that you didn’t notice I took your phone!” he said, waving around an old flip phone.

“What?” Scott — Captain Clockwork? — gasped, opening his fist. “No you didn’t, it’s right here?”

But then it wasn’t. Ladybug’s yo-yo string wrapped around it, and yanked it hard.

“No!”

Ladybug snapped the phone in half easily. “No more evil-doing for you, little akuma. Time to de-evilize!” she declared, catching the butterfly — Unagami wasn’t even going to ask why a butterfly had come out of Scott’s phone — easily. “Gotcha!” she set the butterfly free, and in a stark contrast to the previous shade of sickly purple it had been, it was now a pure white. “Bye bye, little butterfly.”

Scott fell to the ground, his new avatar — or whatever it was — dropping.

“Miraculous ladybug!” Ladybug shouted, throwing the fake phone into the air. A swarm of butterflies took over, somehow undoing all the damages that Scott had caused.

Honestly, it was far from the strangest thing Unagami had experienced recently.

———

Scott came to on the sidewalk. Hadn’t he just been near some big metal tower thing? And how had he blacked out in the first place? What the hell?

“What… what happened?” he groaned, unable to get to his feet. 

Zane — when had Zane gotten here? — said something in what sounded like another language.

“Everything’s alright now, sir!” a girl dressed as what looked something like a superhero said, smiling gently at him. “You don’t know what an akuma is, do you?”

Again, Zane repeated her question, this time looking at him. Ah, he was the translator.

“No…?”

Her and a boy in a leather catsuit shared a look.

“A bad man called Hawk Moth took advantage of you,” the boy explained, reaching out a hand and helping Scott to his feet. “You were feeling some kind of negative emotion, and he used that to turn you into a supervillain.”

A supervillain? What kind of negative emotion could he have been — 

He spotted Unagami, who was staring at him in nothing short of terror from against the brick wall of a building. Oh yeah.

“What did I do?” 

“Nothing that couldn’t be undone,” the girl assured. “All property damages have been magically repaired, so you don’t have to worry!”

“It’s not the property damages I’m worried about,” Scott muttered, looking at Unagami, guilty all but stabbing him through the heart. The kid looked traumatized.

Before anyone could say anything else, Unagami ran. Jay immediately went after him, but the others stayed behind.

Scott knew that if he went, he would only make things worse. “Please, just… what did I actually do?”

By the end of the recap, Scott had sunk back to the ground. 

There wasn’t really a way to fix this, was there?

[baby-blossoms]

Communication Skills

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, brief Sam Winchester x reader (platonic)

Word Count:  2060

Summary: Dean offends the reader right before a hunt. The reader, having always had a crush on Dean, takes it very personally.

Warnings: Foul language, Small amounts of violence, mentions of de*th, reader has body image insecurities. 

----

      “Remember, don’t go anywhere with him until Dean is in position, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes as Sam called out the reminder from the other side of the bathroom door. You loved him wholeheartedly but sometimes it felt as if he forgot that you had been hunting almost just as long as he had, and unlike him and his brother, you had yet to be killed. 

       “Thanks for the tip Sammy,” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm, “I thought I’d just waltz right out with him and patiently wait for him to turn tonight and eat my heart.” 

Sam did not reply, but you heard a heavy sigh of annoyance. You frowned, turning back to the mirror you were standing in front of. You had gone out and bought a ridiculously overpriced dress, compliments of a creepy old man that got just close enough to you for you to swipe his wallet when he tried to hit on you. It was Y/F/C, the same color every victim in this case so far had been wearing.

       “Sorry Sammy, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

You said as you opened the door. Sam met your gaze, then carefully analyzed your outfit. 

       “You sure you wanna wear that, sweetheart?”

Dean said before Sam even had the chance to open his mouth. His comment was immediately met with a hard glare. 

         “Shut the hell up.” You huffed, quickly slamming the bathroom door once more. Staring at yourself in the mirror, a shot of anxiety and insecurity crept into your mind. You had felt confident in this dress. Sure, it wasn’t your usual style, but it had made you feel beautiful and powerful. Now your mind was filled with doubt. Your body image insecurities had always prevented you from wearing certain clothes, and now you wanted to rip the dress off and slip into your usual hunting gear. 

          “Good job, Dean.”

Sam said, his voice laced with subtle anger. Dean did not reply. 

          Dean Winchester was the bane of your existence, but at the same time, you wanted nothing more than to grab his stupid face and kiss him with everything in you. Currently, you didn’t particularly want to, but he wasn’t usually a blatant dick to you. Most hunters were dicks, though. Occupational hazard. After analyzing yourself for a few more minutes and rebuilding your wounded confidence, you finally left the bathroom. Sam immediately went to speak, but you silenced him with a look. You didn’t feel like talking now, it was time to get drunk and lick your wounds at the nearest bar, and kill a werewolf while you were at it. 

         “I’ll be at the bar.” 

You said, only hesitating when Dean called after you.

        “In that?”

 Opposed to your previous anxiety and insecurity, anger shot through your veins like a fire raging through California in the dry season. You considered screaming for a split second, instead choosing to calmly turn back to him, your anger peaking to the point your eyes started tearing up. You hated how only Dean could truly make you so angry you wanted to cry.

        “If you think I look bad just say so, Dean. You don’t have to make me feel like shit.” 

         You cringed internally as you felt a few hot tears escape your eyes. You rarely cried, and you sure as hell didn’t want to cry in front of the Winchesters, no matter how much you loved them both. Wiping the few tears away roughly, you turned and left without another word. 

-------

         Walking the dark streets of Chicago probably wasn’t your best idea, especially with a pure-blood werewolf running around that had a craving for the hearts of girls who roughly fit your appearance. You had never claimed to be one who planned things through in great detail, impulsivity ran through you and it showed. Your fears turned to reality when you heard someone trying to walk in stride with you silently. Continuing on your path, you mentally prepared yourself for a fight. You had an angel blade hidden cleverly in the strapping of the back of your dress. Your only concern was accessing it quickly and effectively whenever the werewolf finally decided to attack. Perhaps he was just assessing you for the time being. 

         Much to your surprise, you made it safely and quickly to the nearest bar without a hitch. Making your way to the bar, you quickly accessed a shot and downed it. Again, not your wisest choice, but you had fought off a vampire drunk off your ass before. Fighting off a pure-blood wasn’t usually quite as easy, but you had the advantage over him. An angel blade and being fully aware that the moment he took you out of the bar you should be ready for a fight. You sipped at a vodka tonic, glancing at the door as the werewolf entered. Hot. Damn. No wonder it was so easy for him to convince women to follow him home. 

        Turning away from him, you simply waited. 

       “Can I get the next drink?” a soothing raspy voice asked from behind you. You turned to meet his stare, his eyes almost glowed in the low lighting. He had the most symmetrical face you’d ever witnessed, and his smile practically dripped sex appeal. 

        “What exactly do you expect out of it?” 

You replied with a raised eyebrow. His eyes sparkled with intrigue. You could only assume he was used to girls melting at the sight of him, but you knew better. He ate every one of their hearts, and you didn’t plan on getting maimed tonight. On the bright side, you had piqued his interest, and you didn’t intend to ruin days of work by losing it. 

         “My name’s Hunter,” he said, taking a seat next to you at the bar. You had to suppress a laugh at the irony of his name. “I didn’t catch your name.” 

          You finished off your drink, calmly watching as he called for a round of shots.

“I didn’t throw it,” you replied, smirking at your own joke. Hunter chuckled and slid another shot into your open palm. You didn’t hesitate to down it, and he didn’t hesitate to order another round. “my name is Jenny.” 

         “Well Jenny, how about another few shots?” 

You grinned, adjusting in your seat to almost fully face him. 

         “It would be a pleasure, Hunter.” 

--- 

          You found yourself dancing and laughing with Hunter along with a handful of other drunk couples on the dance floor. A laugh died in your throat when you made eye contact with Dean from across the bar. He was sending the most ferocious glare you’d ever witnessed your way. He was probably tired of waiting for you to leave with Hunter. A petty alcohol-induced thought rang through your head. He can wait all night, at least Hunter wants to have fun before he tries to eat me. Your attention was drawn back to Hunter as his hands gently gripped your waist and ran slowly up your torso. You grinned and turned back to him, continuing to dance for a few minutes before he pulled you close and whispered,

          “You wanna go to my place?” 

No, I want to drink and not have to fight off a fleabag.

          “Yes,” you answered with the cutest giggle you could muster while near drunk and knowingly walking into a werewolf’s trap. “Let’s get out of here.”

           Hunter smiled, but unlike his previous charming smiles, this one almost unnerved you. Almost. You might’ve been a little drunker than you should’ve been, but you were still a hunter. This was no sweat. Following him out of the bar, you didn’t bother to make sure Dean saw you were leaving, you could feel his stare. You were always hyper aware of when Dean was watching you. You were always uncomfortably aware of Dean in general. Everything about him drew you closer, but tonight you didn’t even want to look his way.

           Hunter led you toward a questionable alleyway, and you rolled your eyes, stealthily grabbing the angel blade as he walked ahead of you. Hiding it behind your back, you felt adrenaline rush throughout your body, sobering you up. 

          “You live in this alley?” you asked sarcastically. Hunter turned, then advancing toward you. Quickly you shoved the blade into his chest and grinned at the shocked look on his face. 

           “You know,” you sighed, “I really didn’t think killing you would be that easy, but here we are.” 

Retrieving the blade, you turned and headed back to the bar. Maybe I’ll try their martinis. 

            “Y/N! Where is he?” 

Dean asked as you passed him. You practically sneered at him,

          “He’s dead in the alley. I’m going back to the bar.”

----

          Dean followed you back to the bar, and you could almost feel him trying to think of something to say to you. You b-lined back to the chair you had occupied previously.

         “Can I get you a drink?” 

You glanced in surprise to a fairly tall man hovering behind you. With a dazzling smile, you accepted his offer, and after a few drinks, you headed to the dance floor with him. He effortlessly twirled you around and made you genuinely laugh. Your fun was abruptly cut short by a painfully familiar voice saying,

        “That’s enough, buddy.” 

        Dean grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved him effortlessly away from you. The other man looked ready for a fight, but Dean practically dragged you out of the bar before he had the chance to throw a punch.

        “What the fuck is your problem tonight, Dean?” you snarled, shoving him away from you. Dean looked caught off guard for a moment, irritation washing over his features when he replied,

        “I didn’t want to watch that son of a bitch look at you like you’re a god damn prime rib all night.” 

Shaking your head in annoyance, you snapped back,

        “Well, it’s better than making me feel like shit for how I look, Dean!”

        Dean’s face hardened, and he simply walked off toward Baby. You followed, determined to get some form of a much-deserved apology out of him. 

        “Seriously, Dean? You’ve insulted me in so many ways tonight, and you made me feel like horse shit!” He continued to walk to Baby as if you hadn’t been speaking to him, so you continued on, 

         “You could at least act like you care for once.” 

Your voice grew softer with every word, your anger mixing with sadness. Dean whipped around, taking you by surprise. 

          “I do care, Y/N! I care about you too much. I can’t fucking focus when you’re around! You looked- you… fuck!” he yelled, pacing between you and Baby. “I meant that you looked good. No, not good- you look fucking gorgeous in that dress and I…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I didn’t know how to tell you that so instead I made myself sound like a complete dick. You look too good, I didn’t want every guy in the joint trying to pick you up all night. I can’t fucking stand watching them touch you!” 

          Wait, what? You stood staring at him in shock for a moment before Dean continued,

          “It burns me up to see you dancing and laughing with these scumbags, I just…” 

You stared at him, dumbfounded by his statement. 

          “You just what, Dean?”

You whispered. He stopped pacing and finally turned to fully face you. You both gazed at each other for a moment, then Dean had you pressed against Baby faster than you could have imagined. 

          “I just want to kiss you. I want you to be mine, Y/n. That’s all I want.” 

          Slowly, you brought one hand to his cheek, the other pressed softly against his chest, right at his heart. You could feel his heart pumping hard and fast. A smile crept its way across your lips, and you slowly pulled Dean into a kiss. 

         “You know, you could’ve just said I looked pretty.” 

You said. Dean laughed and softly kissed you once more.

          “Yeah, but then we wouldn’t be here.”

It was your turn to laugh as you replied,

           “In that case, I’m glad you have no communication skills.”

[heavymetalover]

Strangers In the Night (Xavier Plympton x fem reader)

Summary: You’re hitchhiking when getting picked up by an unexpected stranger.

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, oral sex, vaginal sex, daddy kink, fluff (omg).

Word count: 6.2k

A/N: im SORRY about the daddy kink AGAIN… i have daddy issues.

this ended up being wholesome, i feel letdown tbh.

~mostly inspired by the beautiful ones by prince~

~~~~

  You chew away on your gum, taking small steps through the gravel going towards your destination. Surrounded by nothing but a narrow road and some woods. As night begins to fall, you become a little more suspicious of each sound rocking in the trees. After all, there’s been a crazy murderer on the loose around LA. Gives you shivers just thinking he could be lurking, watching.

The sound of a car approaches and you follow the routine of turning towards the road and sticking a polished thumb up in hopes you’ll attract a Good Samaritan. The dusty red Nissan slows down to give you an unbearably loud honk and speeds away, you spit into the dust it leaves behind. “Fucker!” you yell out, although certain the road hog wouldn’t hear.

Another driver approaches, quite a large van. You shyly stick out your thumb again and feel a smile inching onto your face; sometimes friendliness can tempt the strangers. You can’t see them from where you stand, but their van pulls to the side of the road for you.

Not wasting a beat, you spit your gum out onto the road and skip over to the van. The window’s rolled down and a dapper man sits in the driver’s seat. Frosted hair hairsprayed to perfection, green tank top exposing his trim arms, and sunglasses tipped slightly over the bridge of his nose, exposing ravishing blue eyes. “Hey honey,” he greets with a smirk, “need a lift?”

You jump onto the step for the passenger’s door and lean into the window, head resting on your arms. “You headed north?” you ask, biting your bottom lip to entice the stranger.

“Sure am,” he replies looking out onto the road. “Just stopping at Oasis, is that far enough for you?”

You shrug your head into a shoulder, peering out onto the road with half a smile. You lean back on the step, gripping onto the window with your fingerless gloves. “Hey, beggars can’t be choosers, right?” you joke, leaning back into the window and turning to look at the handsome man again. He’s taken his sunglasses off completely, biting the tips seductively with his dazzling eyes plastered on you. Your heart sinks in your chest, not even bothering to hold back your nervous smile. You run your tongue between your teeth and his eyes find the floor of his van.

He shakes his head and puts his sunglasses back on. “You better get inside before you get me in trouble, baby,” he says with a slight sigh.

You jump off of the step to swing open the door and eagerly hop into the passenger’s seat, throwing your backpack into the back of his van and slamming the door shut. Digging through your pocket for a pack of cigarettes that you stole from your roommate before fleeing; you hit the box, taking the single stick that jut out, and sticking it between your teeth. “Mind if I…?” you trail off, dangling the cigarette between your lips.

His eyes dart towards you and back onto the road, “Oh no, of course not. Go right ahead,” he blurts, adjusting himself in his seat. “Actually,” he reaches beside him and grabs a small lighter, “I got that for you.”

He hangs over his seat, keeping one hand on the wheel. He sparks the lighter once, twice before it ignites. He holds the flame to your cigarette, his eyes meeting yours only for a moment. You sharply inhale the oaky, bitter taste of tobacco before hastily blowing it into his face. He leans back into his seat, suppressing an obvious smile as he goes back to focusing on the road. “You’re going to get someone killed one day if you wanna act like a gentleman, lighting up my cigarette and being all chivalrous.”

“Pfft,” he jeers. “Can’t kill anybody when there’s no one around.”

He glances at you, cross earring hanging from one of his ears and you feel a drop in the pit of your stomach. “You look so familiar,” you mention before taking another drag.

“I get Simon Le Bon a lot,” he nods.

“No,” you shake your head.

“George Michael?” he guesses with an apathetic shrug.

“No, no, not like that,” you take another drag. “I’ve seen you -your face- before somewhere,” you tap your chin, “somewhere.”

“Oh!” he sounds enthusiastic. “I teach aerobics! Maybe you came by the studio?”

“No, I haven’t,” you reply mindlessly, drawing more thick smoke into your lungs and tapping the tip of the stick to remove excess ash. You’re searching every crevasse of your brain for where you’ve seen this man before, but coming up empty.

He looks nervous with the more time you spend silently pondering. “I’m a pretty serious actor, maybe you’ve seen some of my stuff,” he suggests, trying to break the silence.

Your heart skips a beat and you accidentally fling your cigarette out the window from excitement. “Oh my gosh! Yes! That’s where I’ve seen you! I have seen some of your stuff, ooh baby, I’ve seen all of your stuff,” you exclaim, pointing down to his crotch. “One of my old roommates was gay, had a total hard-on for your VHS.”

The man shakes his head, nervous laughter evading his lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Oh, don’t you dare bullshit me,” your voice cracks into a squeal as you push his arm. He’s still shaking his head as confutation. “No, no, no, don’t even deny it. I saw a skinny guy taking a hard piping from you! I know it was you, how could I mistake that beautiful face? And you even have the earring, c’mon.”

“Look, I don’t know who you think I am, okay?” he snaps in distress. He doesn’t entertain your claims, instead shaking his head weakly. “I’m not…” his voice quivers. “I’m not gay.”

You feel an instant pang of regret for making such a big deal about the tape. “Oh,” you sigh, “well, I never thought you, you were.” You slump back into your seat, positioning yourself to face the road again. The man has gone silent. “I mean, for what it’s worth,” you start, but your mind screams at you to stop. Just let it go, he’s clearly uncomfortable.

You purse your lips together and sigh, suffocating your hands between squished thighs. You fill your cheeks up with air in hopes it’ll get you to stop yapping. The only sound present is the tires going over the gravelly road. “For what it’s worth?” he finally asks.

You hold back a smile, turning back to him. “I was just going to say you looked like you were really good,” you blurt out. “And big,” you bring your voice higher in an attempt to sound more flirtatious, “very, very big.” He exhales a lazy snicker and shakes his head. “What?” you throw up your hands defensively, “It’s true!”

He continues shaking his head. “You’re too much,” he exhales.

“Well apparently you are too,” you quip, raising an eyebrow.

His mouth is agape, no words coming out and too stunted by yours to even attempt a rebuttal. He glances at you, eyes peeping over his glasses to get a better look. “Who are you?” he asks.

You perk up in your seat, offering your hand to him since he’s already proven himself to be a careless driver. “I’m y/n,” you say with a jaunty smile. “And you are?”

He takes your hand limply into his. “Xavier,” he says, leaning down to give a small peck onto your gloved knuckles.

“Classy,” you whisper while retrieving your hand, Xavier returns his focus to the road. Part of you is kicking yourself for even wearing the gloves and missing out on the feel of his soft lips against your skin. Dammit, why did Madonna have to make them so fashionable?

You itch to cross your legs in your seat, but knowing that would expose Xavier to what’s underneath your dress, instead you opt to just sit on them. Would it be so bad to expose myself to him? “Xavier,” you say his name to fill up the conversational lull. “Xavier, Xavier, Xavier,” you singsong. “Why did you stop to pick me up? Pick up a lot of hitchhikers?” you keep your eyes glued on him and lean your head back on the seat to get comfortable. His van does have a very homey feel.

“No, you’re my first,” he responds.

You dramatize a fake gasp, placing a hand on your chest. “Little old me? Why am I so lucky?” you press.

“Well, the sun’s setting, you’re in the middle of the woods and you’re a girl. Not to mention the lunatic Night Stalker going around the area, guess I was feeling a bit generous,” he smiles. You begin nodding your head, satisfied with his answer, when he cuts you short. “Or,” he adds, “maybe I just thought you were one, very foxy chick.” You feel your heart flutter and cheeks burn hot; you want to fan yourself like they do in movies. “Either way, I still picked you up, didn’t I?” He asks, cocking a brow.

“Oh yes sir, indeed,” you smirk with a slight shake to your head.

The woods have disappeared behind you two and in no time, you’ve reached Xavier’s destination on Oasis street. He parks his car on the side of the road and takes the keys out of the ignition, finally turning in his seat to face you like you’ve done during the whole ride. The sexual tension is beginning to become an insufferable elephant in the room. “Where you heading from here?” he asks.

You shrug your shoulders. “Don’t know, maybe crash at one of those twenty-four-hour diners until they kick me out,” you say with a slight chuckle, recalling how many times that’s happened to you before. “Just gotta get out of this place, y’know.”

He tilts his head up. “Running from something?” he speculates.

“Aren’t we all?” you roll your eyes with a slight nod.

He grins, “You can say that again.”

You take one long look at him before letting out a bitter sigh. “Goddamn it, I guess I should bounce,” you say with a frown. You reach into the back of his van to get your backpack, making sure to spend extra long bending over in your short dress. You lean onto his seat, feeling your ass press up against his arm and can only pray he’s getting a good look at it.

You eventually recover your bag from the back and sit down, body twisted towards Xavier. You prolong the inevitable, not wanting to leave his van, not wanting to leave him. There’s something about this stranger that excites you, that makes you thirst for more of him. You can’t explain it, there’s just an overwhelming attraction.

You open the door to leave his van, sliding out when he grabs your wrist. “Wait,” he protests. You stand on the step to the passenger’s seat. “Ehm,” the words get choked at the back of his throat. “I’m not in a rush, you can stay with me for a while and chat,” he suggests. “Only if you want to, obviously. You can leave too if you want, but… I think you’re a pretty cool chick.”

You purse your lips to hide a smile. “Thought I was a foxy chick,” you joke, adjusting the backpack that keeps slipping down your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he lifts his brows, “mighty foxy.” He nods his head, half-lidded eyes ogling you with a wide smile spread across his gorgeous face, you can’t resist him. You climb back into his van and shut the door.

You settle into the chair and he pulls out a box of cassettes from under the driver’s seat, fishing through them to find a keeper. You dig through your backpack and pull out a cherry lollipop, his eyes squinting in confusion as you unravel the plastic. “Don’t give me that look, I feel myself about to crash,” you explain yourself.

“No judgement here,” he replies, fingering through his cassettes.

You nurse your lollipop, peering into his box to find any recognizable artists, but they’re mostly mixtapes. You pluck out a black tape marked ‘Purple Rain’, the newest Prince album. “Didn’t this movie just come out?” you slur your words, lollipop sitting passively against your cheek.

He glances up. “Yes, but the album came out a while ago,” he explains, still pawing through his collection.

“Well, I haven’t heard it yet,” you shrug and shove it into the cassette player. The machine takes a moment to read the tape.

“Songs are a bit wonky and out of order, I recorded it from my friend’s album,” he confesses.

The album starts playing with a funky pop beat. “See, it’s working. Now, put that away,” you order, grabbing the box from him. “Let’s talk.”

You throw his box into the back of his van and spin towards him again. He looks up for a moment, seemingly in thought, then back at you. His enchanting light eyes capturing you from the lightening fast contact. “W-what are you running away from?” he asks with a moment of hesitation.

You take the lollipop out of your mouth. “Wow, already with the hard-hitting questions,” you tease. He stares at you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet the bright blue that sweeps you off your feet. Instead, looking at your hands and cleaning under your nails. “I guess just a bad living situation. Been house-hopping for as long as I can remember, but I basically just live out on the road now,” you meet his eyes for a second, only to embarrassedly look away.

“I get it,” he nods.

You finally look at him, sort of in disbelief. Usually the people who drive you places always lecture you about making better life decisions, finding a job, pursuing school, yatta, yatta, yatta. ‘The whole world is at your fingertips’ spiel. It takes you by surprise that he understands. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he breaks eye contact, his thumb ghosting his full bottom lip. “I was in a tough spot not long ago. We’ve grown up in the prime time of being doped up drug peddlers and I was dumb enough to fall into that bullshit. And I’m talking about the hard stuff, not like M.J. or cocaine.” I don’t do many drugs, maybe a bit of weed here and there, but I thought cocaine was a hard drug. “But,” he breaks your inner monologue, “the strongest people always go through the toughest shit.”

“Cheers to that,” you smile and cheers the air with your lollipop, penetrating the sticky candy between Xavier’s lips.  He accepts the intrusion gracefully, keeping the sweet, ravished ball of cherry between his lips. “Any summer plans?” you ask.

He takes the candy out of his mouth, the crimson orb glossing over his perfectly plump lips. “Nothing much, just teaching more classes. Got this gnarly gig up at some camp in a few weeks, should be fun,” he answers.

“I don’t know of any camps around here. Which one?” you ask, half paying attention and half peering onto the road.

“Camp Redwood.” Your head snaps back to look at him and you instinctively slap his arm in hopes it’ll get rid of the idiot in him. “What?” he shrugs.

“What’s your damage, dude?” you gasp with a facetious smirk. “Are you honestly telling me that they reopened Camp fucking Deadwood and you’re stupid enough to go work there? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Why? What happened there?” he asks, eyebrows knit in confusion.

You sigh, you’ve been on the road for so long and even you’re more up to date on the folklore of Camp Redwood. “There was a huge massacre there. Every single person ended up dead, stabbed to bits, and all of them had one ear missing. It was a psycho killer they called Mr. Jingles because his only giveaway was the sound his keys made,” you pause to imitate the sound of keys jingling, “ching cling cling, right before he slashed them to bits!”

He smiles and squints at you, taking a moment to absorb your story. “Not even! You kind of had me until you oversold it with the keys thing,” he exclaims, waving the lollipop around as he speaks.

“Xavier, I shit you not, that actually happened,” you explain, leaning closer to him. “And the worst part is that Mr. Jingles is still alive today. Probably waiting for the day that that fucking camp reopens to escape the loony bin and do it all over again,” you make your voice low to freak him out.

He scoffs. “So what? I’m not afraid of some drip named Mr. Jingles. If anything, he should be the one scared of me.”

You laugh a little too hysterically at his comment. “Mhm, yeah right,” you mock. “He’d take one look at your George Michael lookin’ ass and run in the opposite direction,” you deliver sardonically. You fetch your lollipop and slump back into your seat, turning the dial up on the radio. A song with a raunchy beat starts up and both you and Xavier exchange a glance. “What song is this?” you ask, puckering your lips against the lollipop.

He clears his throat, “S’called Darling Nikki.”

“Mmm,” you lean back in your seat, but keep your eyes locked on him. “It’s pretty sexy.”

He nods. “It is.”

His eyes meet yours, pink tongue running over his bottom lip. You shove the candy into your mouth, sucking on the sweet taste of artificial cherry. The song puts you in the mood. Not that you weren’t already in the mood, but it offers the perfect opportunity to stop beating around the bush.

You close your eyes and tilt your head back, bobbing on the lollipop in your mouth until the savory ball hits the back of your throat. Gagging, you pull it out of your mouth slowly, opening your eyes and giving Xavier a knowing look.

He slowly exhales watching you, now leaning against his seat and lightly covering the bottom of his face with one large, veined hand. “Holy shit,” you hear him breathe.

The lollipop clings to your lips before bursting out, keeping a connection through a filthy pink string of saliva. It detaches and smacks against your chin. You keep your eyes peeled on Xavier and he studies your mouth. You slap the candy against your sodden tongue and slurp up the mess you made, keeping the lollipop pressed against your lips. “You’re a nasty girl, aren’t you?” he whispers, white teeth tugging slightly at his lip. Fuck.

“You want to see something nasty?” you ask, leaning the passenger’s seat back in preparation. “I’ll show you something nasty.”

You suck on the lollipop one more time, slobbering on it just before it’s completely drenched in your saliva. Leaning back on the seat, you hike up your short dress and expose your favourite skimpy panties. After building up so much tension between the two of you, your pussy is already wet and craving the touch of his big hands.

You rub your clit in circles before pulling the fabric to the side. Xavier’s eyes watch every movement as you trail the drenched lollipop down your body, stopping at your pussy. You run the cherry-flavoured orb down your folds and press it against your tight hole. You apply pressure until it penetrates and let out a soft moan. Recalling how long and fat Xavier’s cock was in his dirty movie, you can’t imagine how it would ever fit inside of you.

You shove the lollipop further into yourself, trying to stretch yourself out a little bit in readiness for Xavier. Wiggling the stick around inside yourself and pushing it to the point of nearly disappearing inside your hole. You shimmy it some more before dragging it out against the resistance of your retentive walls. Reinserting the candy into your mouth and getting a saltier flavour this time.

Xavier shifts around in his seat, erection booming in his tight pants. A palm over his crotch for readjustment, he leans closer to you. You can feel the warmth of his body, it makes you tingle. “I find it rude not to share,” he finally speaks.

You take the lollipop out of your mouth and veer yourself towards Xavier, setting a small kiss on his lips. He puts a hand on your cheek, guiding more of your kisses towards him, while the other hand crawls down your body. His hand stops on your thigh and you feel a thousand goosebumps erupt on that leg, a shiver running through your veins.

His lips don’t part from yours, fusing with your face and sucking ever so gently on your lips. He combs his hand towards your pussy, fingertips grazing your thighs as he inches to the throbbing in your clit. You bring the candy back down to your folds, but he takes it from you, insistent on that whole ‘sharing’ rule.

Xavier leaves your lips for a moment to spit down onto your wet cunt, rubbing the candy against your slit before pushing into your hole. Once again, it demands a meager moan out of you, this time you moan onto Xavier’s lips. “That’s right, moan for me, baby. Moan for daddy.” You summon more moans as he fucks the lollipop into you, playing them up to turn him on even more.

You gnaw on your lip and look at Xavier, light sobs still faintly spilling from the back of your throat. You must seem irresistible to him because he mashes his lips into yours and leaves your pussy to place both hands on your face, pulling you closer to him. You pull out the candy he left inside of you and detach from his kiss to pop it into his mouth.

Xavier grabs both of your wrists and slips into the back of his van, bringing you along with him. He sucks all your juices off of the lollipop before spitting it out onto the floor. As he takes a seat in the back, you sit next to him, resting both of your legs on his thighs as you two join at the lips once again. His hands brush up and down your legs, feeling the rapid growth of goosebumps with each swipe.

The kiss intensifies, tongues colliding and lips smacking. You pull at his tank top as if silently begging him to take it off. A new song begins and he moans against your lips, pulling away eagerly and leaving you lovestruck, leaning in an awkward position and trying to reorient yourself. He slides away from you and pulls his top off over his head, then begins undressing you as well, pulling for your dress to come off. You lay onto your back and shimmy your dress off, still wearing a bra and panties set. In a matter of seconds, you’re skin to skin and Xavier is on top of you, teasing you with soft kisses. His lips pulling away to mouth the lyrics: “Baby, baby, baby. What’s it gonna be? Baby, baby, baby. Is it him or is it me?”

You bring him back, kissing the sweet cherry off of his lips. His hands rough up your body, grabbing a hold of every bit of you like he hasn’t touched anybody in years. One hand squeezing your hip while the other finds your cunt to rub back and forth on your swollen clit. When you push back from his kiss, pardoning a loud groan, he kisses your neck. He savours you, handles you like a prize possession, it makes you feel warm.

You palm the bulge in his briefs, feeling him grow and heat up under your touch. His breath catches and he jerks his waist away from you. You pause your kiss to shoot him a flustered grimace. “I want this to be about you, baby, not me,” he explains, before giving one more kiss on your lips. Then one on your neck, chest, belly, down to your pelvis. You let out a broken breath when he kisses right above the line of your panties. He slides them down your legs and taunts your aching clit with his delicate breath; appointing extra sloppy kisses on your thighs as he works his way to the main dish. He looks up at you, baby blue eyes unabashedly beaming with excitement before diving into your candied cunt.

You throw your head back as he begins licking you up and pushing your legs further apart. The pleasure so built and intense that you feel it hit the moment he lays his tongue flat onto your dripping core. You feel your muscles quivering under his lick, under his touch, and your body burns with desire. One hand lays limp on your leg while the other continues pulsing your clit, his tongue shoves its way down your gaping hole.

You reach down to grab onto him, grab onto something, anything. He holds up his hand and you lace your fingers with his, squeezing at each undeniable moment of pleasure. You scrunch up your feet as he quickens the pacing over your clit, then slowing it down. He plays your pussy like a gifted musician, speeding up and slowing down just when you need him to. “Please fuck me,” you beg, the words pouring out on their own, “Xavier, I want you inside of me.”

He stops gluttonously licking up your cunt to look up at you for confirmation on your words. “Y’sure?” he questions, making sure there are no misconceptions.

You prop yourself on your elbows, raking a hand through his perfectly gelled, thick head of hair. “Unless you’d like to stay down there, daddy,” you say, squeezing him between your thighs slightly on the pet name.

“Baby, I can stay down here forever,” he lays his head on your leg and you sit up, pulling him to meet your lips. His kiss makes the world feel dreamlike, so tantalizing and hypnogogic that you swear you’re tripping on acid when he touches you.

He gives an unexpected slap to your raw cunt and you jump, unable to hold back a short peep hiccupped into Xavier’s mouth. He smiles. “I love making my kitten purr,” he whispers into your lips, slapping you once again and you chirp another calculable yelp.

Xavier climbs on top of you with his lips pressed passionately against yours, fighting for dominance. His long fingers grip the back of your neck while his thumbs massage the curve of your jaw reverently. His big hands soon venturing to other parts of your body, running down your back and promptly unhooking your bra like a burden that could no longer be adjourned. The fabric falls artlessly and Xavier paws at your breasts before he can even see them. Still locked on your lips, he circles a finger around your nipple, motivating them to get hard sooner than you’d expected. Nipping at the tiny buds, he leaves your lips to suckle them; running his tongue against your areola and giving strong sucks. You appreciate the moment so much, watching Xavier suck on your tits like his life depended on it, that you completely forgot you were in his van.

You reach down to his crotch and he lets you this time. Rubbing his long cock in his briefs, feeling how rock-hard he is turns you on even more. A shudder rumbles through your body and you take his dick out. It’s already ready for you, long and thick, harder than ever. He stops worshipping your tits to kiss you again, this time lightly pushing you down so you lay in the backseat of his van.

He stands over you, holding his cock and spitting onto it to lube it up for you. He rubs his saliva onto the head and up and down the shaft before resting it on your hole. You prop yourself up to watch it go in, feeling your heartbeat quicken with each tiny amount of pressure he puts. “Are you ready for it?” he asks, smearing the head into your wet folds.

“Mmm,” you moan, just feeling his cock against you is enough to send you to euphoria. “Yes, daddy.” He slowly starts pushing himself into you, stretching you out so much that all you can do is stifle a moan. Your nails dig into his seats, no doubt leaving some kind of mark or even some polish flakes. “Slow, slow, slow,” you plead through gritted teeth.

He accommodates and moves into you at a snail’s pace, stopping every so often when he thinks he’s hurt you. Once he’s half in, he starts pumping in and out, stuffing you up with his chunky length. “Oh my,” is all you can contrive through deep breaths.

He sees how unravelled you’ve become and leans down so you could rest your head on his shoulder. “Hold onto me,” he requests. You follow orders, grabbing onto his back and guiltily digging your nails into him with every thrust. “Let me know if I’m hurting you,” he whispers into your ear.

The rational part of your brain has already called quits on taking his dick, but you’re too charmed by Xavier to tell him to stop. Of course there’s the pain, but his cock is so deep and so big that it vellicates a sensitive area inside your pussy that you’ve never felt before. Each plunge poking at it slightly and stimulating it just enough to keep you from surrendering to his length. You’ve explored your body enough to find your g-spot, but he tickles an area that’s causing you to completely shatter. He pumps again and you feel yourself loosening up to him, although that doesn’t stop your nails from clawing up his back.

All the pain you’ve felt is absorbed into overwhelming thrill. You sit up even more now and watch his cock pump into you, your pussy accepting more of him with each thrust. He keeps hitting that spot in you and your whole body tenses up with it. You look at him, trying to find his eyes, but he’s too lost in your pussy to meet yours. What kind of witchcraft is he doing to make me feel this way?

His hands, resting on your lower back, scooch you closer to him. He doesn’t even have to move much for the both of you to feel elated, just a slight wiggle is enough for you to feel everything. You sit up on his thighs and grind your hips against him. “Your pussy,” he whispers between breaths, “so fucking good, kitten.”

Your cunt writhes with each little movement, you can feel yourself dripping onto him. “Ugh’m God!” you throw away your integrity and scream. “Jesus Xavier, oh my…” you trail off, rolling your eyes back and feeling him hit that sensitive spot again. Your tendons tightening, teeth grinding, and eyes shutting with every movement.  

You lean your chin on his head, still slightly rocking your hips, but unable to bring yourself to complete the motion from crushing alleviation. His forehead is perched on your shoulder as he tries shimmying around inside your pussy. He’s too far gone to form a sentence, too. He holds onto your back, rests his head on your shoulder and breathes rapidly onto your chest. His eyelashes give your collarbones light butterfly kisses while he blinks himself back into reality.

The song is at its climax when you take the initiative to try to finish, unsure if you can even bring yourself to conclude this little affair. You start grinding harder against him, both of you undoubtedly withholding groans to save face. You rock yourself on him harder and he finally allows himself to make eye contact with you again. A pleading look in his pool-of-blue eyes already tell you everything you need to know without saying a single word.

You fuck him as hard as you can burying your head into the crook of his neck. You take in the smell of his cologne, now mixed with sweat. It smells so good. He contributes by gyrating himself inside of you.

“Fuck!” the word weeps out without your consent. You feel yourself unwinding, again you feel it coming with each thrust, the shattering. “Oh, my fuck! Daddy, your cock is so f-fuck!” you’re crying, jumping on his rock-hard dick.

“Shit,” he seethes under you, grabbing your hips and guiding them into his cock. “You fuck me so good, baby girl,” he groans.

You jump on him, his dick so deep you think it’ll push on your belly. “Son of a- huh,” you breathe, feeling yourself starting to come. You keep beating up that tender spot deep in your cavity, providing it all the love it was once deprived and smacking it with each stimulating bounce on his cock. “Yesyesyesyes,” you don’t take a breath, “ooh there.” You keep pummelling him into you, Xavier is close too. “Right. Fucking. There,” you breathe between each jump.

You can’t get any words out when orgasm engulfs you. You stand up to prudently pull his length out of your clingy lips, giving your clit a rub before soaking his cock in your juices. “Shiiiiit,” you moan, squirting a clear liquid out of your hole and all over him, all over his van.

“Damn, baby,” he utters. You feel a single tear drop escape your eye and swat it away before he can see. Without a word, you insert him back into your, now soaked, hole; not leaving until you’ve made him come as hard as you did. You slide him back inside of you, his length hitting you all at once again. It seems to hit him hard too, because his face knots the deeper you insert him. “Fucking tight,” he sighs.

He pushes you to lay back again and starts hammering himself into you. You moan with his harder thrusts, feeling him fill you up makes you fall apart; your whole body feels weak. He can’t control himself, contorted moans escape from deep in his throat. “Where do you want daddy’s come?” he asks, trying to hold himself together, but fails miserably.

“Right in my dirty mouth,” you reply, licking up your bottom lip.

He rolls his eyes back, “Oh, fuck you,” he says with a slight laugh. His smile immediately dissipating to a twisted expression. You feel him coming to release, his grip on your arm gets tighter and he pounds harder into your pussy. He pulls himself out of you and jerks his long length above your face. You obediently open your mouth and lay your tongue flat for him to use up.

He takes a second, zealously jerking himself over you, until he empties his seed onto your tongue. You feel the warm liquid hit your tongue and immediately swallow it down for him. Pressing your lips to the tip of his cock, giving a suck to clean him up and a small kiss on the tip.

He breaths out an exasperated sigh and limply lays down on top of you. “Get off,” you giggle, “you’re crushing me.” He rolls onto his side beside you and you roll onto yours so you’re facing him. He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers with a small frown. You grab his hand and band your fingers together, he smiles when you accept his invitation. A moment of silence is shared between the two of you, not awkward, just comfortable.

“You know you’re the only one,” he says, a slight crack in his voice. You lift an eyebrow in response. He looks down at the hand you’re holding onto, “Everybody that knows about that tape doesn’t believe me. They think I’m gay or… they just cast me out for even doing it in the first place,” he opens up, caressing your knuckle with his constricted thumb. You stay silent, letting him get it off his chest and studying the woe that washes over his face. “I don’t know,” he gives his head a slight shake.

“Fuck those people,” you shrug, “you don’t need them anyways.” His pillowy lips twist into a smirk. You use your free arm to prop up your head. “Besides,” you continue, “they don’t know what they’re missing. You snooze, you lose, right?”

He smiles. “I like you, y/n,” he sighs. “I’m not letting you slip through the cracks.”

You unbind your hands to move a piece of hair that was stuck to his forehead. “Don’t worry about me leaving, I have no where to go. I’m all yours, baby,” you say with a jokey tone, but you hope he takes you seriously. He’s usually easy to read, like an open book, but when his face turns neutral it’s agonizing to imagine what’s going on in that pretty head.

“So… you want to meet my friends?” he asks, breaking the silence.

You cock your head to the side. “Huh?”

“Come to Camp Redwood with me?”

~~~~

smallest fucking taglist:

@codyswhore @odongreentea @liliesandforgetmenots @avesatanormalpeoplescareme

[secret-engima]

Axis, Shield of Nox Izunia, meets Axis, traitor Kingsglaive. Just, for once, it's not Nox/Noctis tripping across dimensions, it's Axis. But it's an Axis who's barely accepted that he doesn't want his idiot LC to disappear from his life entirely, never even to brush shadows, who's barely ADMITTED he has a LC. And then, meeting his canon counterpart, bitter, traitor. N!Axis: Where's Nox? MUST FIND PERSONAL IDIOT! C!Axis: Nyx is over there, but he's more of Libertus' personal idiot.

Oh.

Oh boy.

Ohhhhhh boy.

Angsttttttt. Prepare for angst and lots of rage and insults coming your way because Axis has a temper and this turned into a ficlet.

So this is non-canon, but would hypothetically take place pre-Axis learning Ardyn is an LC in the Nox verse and just a year or so before the Kingsglaive movie in Canon.

-It’s a very short meeting. No more than a day or so. Of course all the glaives are very weirded out when Axis accidentally cuts himself on a rock and the Solheim ruin they’re passing through glows at the touch of his blood before spitting out a very confused double dressed in Hunter garb rather than glaive garb. But after some shouting and wary staring, both sides conclude the other aren’t demons trying to steal any souls.

-That’s when Tredd notices that the new Axis is not just dressed in Hunter Garb he’s ... younger. Years younger. This Axis looks just on the border between teen and adult. Only a year or so out from the Burning. They ask and N!Axis confirms their suspicions, then looks around in agitation, as if expecting to find someone. They assume he’s looking for his Tredd and Luche. But some searching reveals no one but N!Axis and he ends up going with them through the ruins toward their outpost. Since he had no idea how to get back and they couldn’t just let him wander off and get hurt.

-N!Axis meets C!Axis and feels ... unease. There’s something about his counterpart he doesn’t like, something dark and bitter. And yes, N!Axis knows he’s bitter about a lot of things but this feels different. This feels ... poisonous.

-He notices with dread that C!Tredd and C!Luche feel the same way too.

-That evening in the outpost, the Glaives get to talking over (smuggled) drinks while N!Axis lurks and frets internally (Nox was in those ruins when he got pulled, had Nox come too? Or was he out there all alone, looking for Axis and getting into trouble without him? Did N!Axis really care? (Yes, yes he does, so badly it hurts and he refuses to think why) and then N!Axis tunes back into the chatter when Crowe angrily tells Tredd to “knock it off”. “It” being some astonishingly hateful diatribe against Insomnia and Insomnia nobles. It’s not slander against the royal family, not treason by the letter of the law, but ... the intent is there. The intent is there and N!Axis can see agreement in his counterpart’s eyes, burning and bitter and deadly as a snake and something inside him goes very, very cold.

-Nyx (who is male in this world, weird) tries to defuse the situation, but Tredd is drunk and on a roll now and N!Axis knows only Luche or C!Axis could stop him but they- won’t. They AREN’T. Tredd out and blurts something to the order of how “They” (possibly meaning Insomnia nobility in general but everyone knows he means the royal family) don’t have any clue what it’s like out here, that none of them can fight worth anything, none born of their blood have ever had a hard day in their lives-

-And N!Axis thinks of Nox. Of Nox who has so many scars. Of Nox who can’t remember when to eat or how to take care of himself. Of Nox who watches the world with inhumanly old, broken eyes sometimes that make him seem a hundred thousand years older than he really is. Of Nox who fights, who wades into Imperial Bases, alone save for when Axis finds him and tags along. Of Nox who has already lost so much (a blindspot the shape of a man, his innocence, his ability to care for himself, so many hints Axis tries not to notice but can’t help seeing anyway). Of Nox with a Niflheim Chancellor for an uncle who is just as much of a broken human disaster for all he doesn’t have the magic burning under his skin like his nephew.

-Of Nox who’s magic burns him. Carves him up so that all that’s left some days is a shell working on instinct, staring out at the world like it is a stranger while thunder and wrath and grief as deep as Leviathan’s tides press against mortal skin, trying to shatter him from the inside out and break free into the open air. Axis has seen it, the suffering that comes with magic, and while the Glaives hold only a portion, only enough to use without hurting, Nox is an LC of blood and soul and Axis has seen the toll that takes. The way he looks like some days he’s one step away from burning up and turning to dust in the wind unless he does something to bleed it off and out even when so many spells in a row leave him shaking from pain-.

-N!Axis is in the crowd of glaives, knuckles stained with blood and Tredd gaping at him from the floor before N!Axis is even aware of leaving his corner, “You take that back,” he growls and all the glaive take a collective step back because they have never heard Axis use that tone at a fellow Galahdian, a fellow Glaive. Let alone directed at Tredd. N!Axis breathes and can feel his blood pounding in his veins, a faint ringing in his ears from trying to suppress the red in his vision. Maybe it’s his Amicitia blood acting up, loyalty imprinted into his bones after generations of magic and oaths. Maybe he’s just stressed from being in this parallel world.

-Secretly he knows it’s neither. It’s all him. It’s all Axis Arra, the refugee and Hunter who stumbled across a Lucis Caelum teen outside a ruined Nif base and somehow can’t seem to let go of him not matter how much he tries not to be attached in the first place.

-In the astonished silence that follows his words, N!Axis bares his teeth, voice a near-Coeurl snarl that sends shivers down more than one spine (the wrath of an Arra is a rare thing, the wrath of an Arra given sound is an even rarer, more dangerous one), “You. Take. That. Back.” A breath, a flex of the fist with Tredd’s blood on it (he’s broken Tredd’s nose, he’s broken the nose of one of his oldest friends for Nox and he doesn’t regret it), “How dare you. How dare you pretend to know what it’s like. How dare you wish our fate on anyone, let alone the Chief who took you in. Maybe our conditions could be better, and maybe he doesn’t do enough but at least he tries. You hold his magic in your skin and you think that gives you the right to curse his entire Clan and say none of them ever suffered?”

-Tredd bristles on the floor, but lying there holding his broken nose he seems too afraid to speak up. C!Axis breaks the silence, stepping forward and moving to rest a hand on N!Axis’s shoulder, “All he means is-.”

-N!Axis swats the hand aside, looks into his counterparts eyes and sees the same venom, the same ignorance. And he knows- he knows in a heartbeat that Nox does not exist in this world. That he died before C!Axis could meet him, could know him, could learn because otherwise this counterpart would never agree with the poison coming out of Tredd’s mouth. “I know what he means,” snarls N!Axis, “and I know he’s full of pyre-ash. If you had any idea what it’s like to have been born with their full weight of magic, the full touch of the Draconian’s Blessing rather than the pittance you think makes you impressive-.”

-Tredd sits up, but still doesn’t dare stand, “What and you do?”

-N!Axis growls down at him, wordless and warning and Tredd stills in shock.

-Nyx and Libertus intervene, push their way between and Nyx starts nudging N!Axis away, “Ignore Tredd, he’s just drunk and trying to start something. We all need to take a minute and cool our heads, yeah?” N!Axis lets Nyx nudge him a few steps away, breathes past his rage and tries to let it go-.

-“Someday,” Tredd says as Luche finally helps him up, “someday you’re gonna think just like me. You might think he’s kind and just trying his best now, but give it a few years and you’ll know that he doesn’t care beyond making sure we’re good little soldiers.”

-“Tredd!” several glaives snap in horror, because now he’d definitely gone too far.

-N!Axis looks past Nyx’s arm to lock eyes with Tredd, his rage suddenly going from burning to freezing as something in his mind replaces King Regis for Nox in the “he” of Tredd’s words. He pushes Nyx’s arm very slowly down so that it isn’t in the way, looks Tredd, then Axis, then Luche all straight in their eyes before refocusing on Tredd-

-And spitting on the ground at his feet, “Storm-Father as my witness,” N!Axis intones with far more calm than he actually feels, “I’ll gut myself with my mother’s blades and feed my entrails to the Voretooths before I become a filthy little Pink-Tongue like you.”

-Tredd roars and lunges, because this time it’s N!Axis who has pushed too far, said too much, and while all the glaive freeze in astonished horror that any version of Axis would call his best friend a Pink-Tongue (not referring to the color of the mouth, but the colors of Galahd, of poison and betrayal. Liar, Axis has called him, Poisoner and Betrayer of Clans, because a tongue dyed in poison is a single step away from hands drenched in the colors of Kinslayers), N!Axis lunges to meet Tredd halfway. Tredd is bigger, more experienced, he’s been a glaive for years now. N!Axis can feel his lip split and his cheek get cut open by the force of the hits. But N!Axis has been traveling with Nox for months, fighting Nifs and keeping up with a wayward LC despite having no magic of his own. He fights hard and dirty and doesn’t flinch as he brings his knee up into Tredd’s groin, rides the screeching Glaive down as he falls and begins beating the redhead’s skull against the ground before he’s forced off and winded by Tredd’s brutal kick.

-The Glaives snap out of their shock and fall on the two en masse, pulling them apart, shouting and struggling to stop the two from going at each other’s throats and N!Axis thinks his own voice might be in the clamor, screaming at Tredd and Luche and his own counterpart, calling them Pink-Tongues and White-Wearers. Traitors to their Chief, blind to what they’ve been given and what that gift must cost.

-In the end, N!Axis has to be dragged to the far side of the outpost and kept under guard by Nyx and Libertus for the rest of the night, far away from the three he has just given full grounds to challenge him to a death match.

-He sits and broods the entire night, listening to the daemons scream far past the lights and contemplates his hurts (he refused to take the potion Libertus had stiffly offered, he picked that fight and they were soldiers, they would need it more than he did).

-He contemplates the fact that he just called the counterparts of himself and his two best friends the worst kinds of traitors.

-He ponders over the fact that he doesn’t regret a single word of it.

-The next morning, he’s woken from his doze by an alert going up from the watch. Someone is approaching the Outpost. A civilian kid by the look of it. He hears hubbub and chatter, confusion and disbelief and then suddenly Nox is there, right in front of him in all his tiny, scraggly glory, a gaggle of Glaives following behind and staring in confusion as he smiles at N!Axis, “Hey, Axis,” he says easily, as if they just ran into each other in the wilds like normal and aren’t in another dimension.

-He stares, sighs, stands up and he sees Nox eyes sharpen on his injuries, “What are you even doing here, idiot?” N!Axis grumbles because seriously, how.

-Nox is still staring at his injuries as he answers, “Called in a favor from a friend. We got an hour to get back, so we should start walking.” He pulls a potion out of his pocket and shoves it at N!Axis with a scowl, who would laugh at the hypocrisy of Nox fretting over injuries when he’s the one always halfway dead from fighting things too big for him to handle alone. Instead he takes it and uses it, feels his lip heal about halfway before stopping, it’s been hours since the injury was inflicted after all, potions lose potency the older the injury is. Nox’s eyes glitter red for a fraction of a second and then go back to blue as he starts leading N!Axis out of the base. The Glaives trail behind, whispering over the kid and a few calling out goodbyes to N!Axis even though he’s done the opposite of making friends.

-N!Axis hears angry footsteps behind him and a furious curse that is probably supposed to be his name and starts to turn, braced for a last-minute punch from the counterpart of Tredd.

-Instead Nox is suddenly there and the air is seething with magic, heavy like storm clouds and churning like waves. C!Tredd and all the other Glaives freeze at the sight of a ghostly blue-white armiger, rotating slowly in the air, all blades pointed directly at Tredd’s heart. “Are we going to have a problem?” Nox asks with a false sort of serenity, his voice rumbling with the faintest undertones of Other. Other voices, older voices, cold and cruel ones that Axis has only heard bleed into Nox’s voice once before.

-N!Axis rests a hand on Nox’s arm, “It’s fine. Let’s just go.” Nox accepts the dismissal, lets his armiger fade as he possessively grips N!Axis’s hand and resumes leading the way. A glance over his shoulder and N!Axis meets the eyes of his counterpart and his counterpart’s two best friends one last time.

-Mine, he knows his eyes say, and I will fight to keep it that way.

-Traitor, their eyes say back without words, bootlicker. Naive.

-N!Axis turns his head and resumes looking forward. He tries not to feel the yawning chasm between himself and the counterparts, uncrossable and deadly, that he leaves behind. They’re wrong. Wrong to think that, wrong to say and agree to what was said last night and Axis will not be moved from that stance. Perhaps if he’d never met Nox, their words would have seemed like the truth. Perhaps if he’d never seen Nox and all the things both great and terrible and eerie his magic could do and in turn did to its wielder, he would have believed their poison. But Nox is here, having crossed dimensions to find him and bring him home, Nox is here and ready to fight an entire outpost of Kingsglaive if they threaten Axis.

-And Axis knows he will not regret his own choice. His own opinion. His own loyalty.

-Nox leads them back to the ruins, there’s a flicker of magic like thunder and ozone, and when Axis opens his eyes, they’re back in their world where they belong.

-A few days later, Axis meets up with the others- with his glaives, and doesn’t breathe a word about what he saw and said. He just watches his Tredd and Luche and feels something tight in his chest unwind in relief when he sees no poison in their eyes or on their lips.

-Words echo in his memory, Someday ... someday you’re gonna think just like me. You might think he’s kind and just trying his best now, but give it a few years and you’ll know that he doesn’t care beyond making sure we’re good little soldiers.

-Leaning on the shoulder of his Tredd and listening to them laugh over something that happened in their training, Axis snorts. Maybe when the Rock of Ravatogh freezes over. But until then? He might not like King Regis that much, not when Axis’s father was the King’s Shield, but the way he saw it, Nox had to get his idiotic levels of compassion from somewhere and ... well.

-He hadn’t gotten it from his Izunia blood. That was certain.

[littlestarofthewest]

Title: Quiet Time | Word Count: 1462 | Rating: General

Characters: Arthur Morgan, gender neutral reader

Tags: fluff, mute reader

based on a request by @reddeadprophet Thank you for the lovely idea! :)

Arthur's been tossing and turning on his cot for hours until he finally gives up on sleep. He's just been so restless lately, and the new people who joined the gang don't help the situation. Dutch has brought them in, telling Hosea and Arthur that Micah will be a great addition with good ideas and the will to do what it takes to make them happen. He seems to think that that's a good thing, but Arthur's not so sure about it. He can't quite put his finger on what it is that makes Micah so off-putting, Arthur only knows that he wouldn't miss him if he was gone.

With a sigh, Arthur gets up and grabs his journal, wandering through camp. It's quiet with everybody else already asleep. Making his way over to the watch fire to have some light, Arthur finds that he's not the only one still awake. You sit by the fire, a blanket thrown over your shoulders, staring into the flames. If it was anybody else, Arthur would consider leaving the person alone, but this might be the opportunity he's been waiting for. 

Arthur still can't believe that Micah is your brother. Something about you two doesn't add up, but that's how Micah introduced you, and you didn't dispute it. In fact, you haven't said anything at all. A few of the camp members already talked to Arthur about that. When Miss Grimshaw gives you a task, you do it, and you've been out with Micah and some others on jobs, but nobody has heard a word out of you.

Judging by Micah's way of shitting on everything and everybody, most of the gang members seem to think that you're just as bad, so high strung that you don't even deem any of them worthy of a word. Arthur's not so sure about that. He's known some quiet types in his time, but even they say a thing or two once in a while. Your complete silence can't be a result of simple snootiness. 

Arthur takes a deep breath before walking over to the fire, eager to find out if he's right. He sits down opposite you with a sigh.

"Can't sleep either?" he asks, and you give him a shrug, rolling your eyes. 

Arthur opens his journal, turning the pages until he finds the next blank page. "I like to write when that happens. Might sound stupid, but my head is just too full. I always feel better when I get it all out."

He looks at you for a reaction, but you only watch him as if waiting for more. "What do you do?" he asks.

You lean back, nodding to the fire, your eyes closing a little as if to imply that you're tired. Arthur wonders why you can't just say that. Even with him being the only one who speaks, you're still having a conversation. If you were bothered by his presence, you could just walk away. Why talk to him without talking to him?

"I heard you did well with Bill and Micah today," Arthurs says. "How much did you make?"

You shrug your shoulders as if you don't know, and Arthur feels more and more like smacking you if only to see if you'd make a sound then. 

"You're not much of a talker," he says instead, deciding to face the problem head-on, but all you give him is another headshake. 

Finally, Arthur has an idea that should make it hard for you to dance around the question. "I know this makes me sound like a horrible person, but I forgot your name. What was it again?"

Arthur smiles at you, trying his best to act the fool, and you look at him with big eyes. Your lips are slightly parted, but there's still no sound coming out of your mouth. In the light of the fire, Arthur's eyes catch a little line on your throat. It looks like an old scar, one that had a lot of time to heal, but never entirely goes away. An idea rushes into his head.

"You can't speak, can you?" Arthur asks.

You swallow visibly, closing your mouth. For a moment, your eyes dart away from Arthur, as if you're looking for a way out. Then you lower your head before slightly shaking it.

Arthur's not quite sure what to do next. His first instinct is to drag Micah out of his tent and give him a good beating. The other gang members think of you as a horrible person because he failed to mention this very important detail about you. Then again, seeing your brother as pulp on the floor won't improve your situation.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says instead before touching his own throat. "Have you been hurt?"

You nod and make a stabbing motion. Arthur wishes he could ask you more about it, but it seems impossible to get a full story out of you with only questions and gestures. Looking down at his journal, Arthur has an idea. He switches places to sit down next to you, holding it out to you.

"How about you write down what you want to say?"

You make no attempt to take the pencil, a hurt expression coming onto your face. Arthur suppresses a sigh.

"You can't write?" he asks, getting another headshake. "So, I'm guessing you can't read either?"

With a sad expression on your face, you shrug your shoulders again, disappearing deeper into your blanket. Arthur's eyes venture back to Micah's tent, but then you move beside Arthur with a sudden urgency behind it, pointing at Arthur and then at the other tents.

"Me and the rest of the gang?" Arthur asks and you nod, only to shake your head right after. Then you make bigger gestures as if to include the woods around you. "More people? Everybody?"

You nod, your face now excited because Arthur gets what you're trying to say. You point at your temple, squinting your eyes.

"Everybody thinks?" Arthur asks, getting you to nod again before pointing at yourself. "Everybody thinks something about you?"

At first, you eagerly point at Arthur, indicating that he's right, then you point at yourself. You tilt your head a little, letting an empty expression come to your face before pointing at your forehead. Arthur's heart drops.

"Everybody thinks you're stupid because you can't read, write, or talk."

You nod before letting out a sigh. It doesn't make a sound, but the air is rushing out of you as if you just got rid of an enormous burden. Arthur can't imagine what it must be like to be so trapped in yourself, especially when nobody on the outside cares.

"I don't think you're stupid," Arthur says, getting you to look at him. "You make way more sense than a lot of people I've talked to."

You smile, something that Arthur has never seen on you before. Then, you look down and rub your neck, prompting Arthur's stomach to do a little summersault. He didn't even mean to compliment you, but your reaction is adorable. 

Arthur clears his throat, trying to ignore the heat on his cheeks. "Maybe I could teach you. It probably won't be easy at first, but I think it can be done. Hosea could help."

You stare at Arthur out of big eyes before pointing at yourself and Arthur's notebook, motioning to write.

"Yeah," Arthur says with a smile. "Imagine you could at least tell people what you want. Unless they can't read, but that's only the dumb ones."

You make a gurgling sound that seems to come out of your nose rather than your mouth before quickly holding a hand over your face. Still, your eyes are alight with a spark Arthur hasn't noticed before. He got a laugh out of you, and suddenly he yearns to learn more to see what's hidden inside of you.

Arthur writes down one word in his journal, trying to make it as nice looking as he possibly can before scooting closer to show it to you. You study the word for a moment before looking at him, a clear question on your face.

"It's your name," Arthur says, and when your eyes grow wide, he laughs. "What? You really thought I would just forget your name?"

You poke your elbow into Arthur's side, but a smile crawls onto your face as you keep looking at your name. Arthur watches you instead, warmth creeping into his chest. He knows then that he's in big trouble. He's beginning to like you a lot, after a short one-sided conversation with his awkward questions. There's no telling what you can do to him once you're able to use your own words.

Arthur can't wait to find out.

[mxrcayong]

avatar 01.14

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chapter fourteen: trust

“Trust me this once.”

Johnny’s words seemed to bounce around her mind like a broken pinball machine, the ball to enter the scoring zone. Her heart felt like it was pounding – falling deeper and deeper into the pit of her stomach. The sound of the door shutting behind him resounded in the room, echoing off each wall as they momentarily sat in silence. Despite being momentary, each second seemed to feel like an hour.

But they had no time to dwell on it. Sukiara ensured it, quickly returning back to the initial subject; the plan and their tasks. “We have to assume they will be heavily guarded or equipped to handle benders, or both.” She seemed unfazed as if she was listing their grocery shopping list, even though she was obviously picturing the dangerous task ahead of them.

Jisung furrowed his eyebrows, confused. “What can handle benders? Other than the cuffs, of course.” At the sound of his voice and the panic in Sukiara’s eyes, Tari’s heart dropped further than before. He’s risking his life…he’s only two years younger than me.

Sukiara pointed to Tari, designating her the task of explaining what she had told Sukiara when she had stayed in Bak Mei for a week. “Uhm…” Her eyes still lingered on the door, praying Johnny and Kilari will burst through the door and return to their seats or praying that by some twisted means of fate, someone would come in and exclaim it’s a prank. However, Sukiara snapped her fingers – semi-breaking her out of the trance. “Uhm… when Kilari and Doyoung were attacked in the…” She trailed off, her words getting lost as she continued to pray Johnny and Kilari returned.

“The initial attacks?” Yuta finished for her and Tari smiled at him gratefully. His hand went to her knee, his thumb stroking up and down comfortingly. Hearing his voice successfully broke her out of her hypnosis on the door. She noticed Sonan and Doyoung leaning in, intrigued about what Tari had to say. They didn’t hear anything about this before, even if they were there and they felt guilty to how they didn’t notice her struggle.

“I had a hard time healing them and it felt like the wounds were…” She scrambled through her mind for the right words, “fighting back or needed extra effort to actually heal.” Tari said, still somewhat despondent. Doyoung’s eyes went wide, before his eyes quickly jumped to where Tari had healed him.

Sonan stared at Tari in shock. How did she not notice? She tried to search back in her memories for that moment, but she was a bit drunk by then. The memory was faded with missing pieces. They had drank to forget the aftermath of the attacks, and never has she hated drinking more.  

“It’s safe to assume they’ll be armed with similar materials or similar techniques.” Sukiara took over the room once more. “They might’ve been inspired by Ty Lee’s fighting style.”

At the mention of the familiar name, a flashback to a memory Tari has never personally experienced overtook her senses. This is the first time in a while that a memory from her past life succumbed her involuntarily, taking over her senses as if she was reliving the moment.

Suddenly she was in an emerald room, something she recognized not only from her memories but the textbooks on the old legendary nation of Ba Sing Se. It was dark, the emerald seeming to reflect the shadows around the room. Tari could smell the scent of tea from the throne to the perfume of the Kyoshi Warriors in front of her.

An undeniable rage grumbled in her stomach, but she wasn’t in her own body. She had no control about what she would do about this rage - Avatar Aang was in control, and always the best at suppressing his negative emotions.

She could recognize, using Aang’s hindsight, the three Kyoshi warriors as Ty Lee, Mei, and Azula. Despite the rage seeming to pump through their blood, Tari also felt pity for Azula and a sense of missing Ty Lee and Mei (probably a result of Aang’s later friendship with the two).

The pity for Azula was overwhelming now as she lived through the memory, unable to act. Azula was only fourteen and was taught to be a war machine. She was born in the same life as Zuko, and Zuko was neglected and mentally abused – even physically. In the back of Tari’s mind, another mental image of Azula being dragged away by the mental institution and jail reminded Tari of her fate.

Katara approached, starting to water bend from the small capsule of water she brought with her. But Ty Lee cartwheeled towards Katara and flipped over her. Almost in slow motion, she pressed a point on Katara’s neck – causing Katara to groan in pain before falling to her side and the same water she was bending pooling out of her body.

“A combination of pressure points and acrobatics…” Tari commented. “But do you think the materials have something to do it?”

Instead of responding directly to the question, Sukiara deflected. She let out a sigh that Tari swore was the most disappointed sigh she has heard from her in her life. “I know you don’t like fighting, but I think…” She emphasized the word Tari had used in her questions, “you have to train and be ready to fight.”

Tari’s heart dropped. How about the other benders? Can they get stuck in the crossfire?

Before Tari could object, Sukiara shouted out demands and instructions. “I will finalise the plan by tomorrow night. You have 4 days and 3 nights to prepare. Tari and everyone, please go get dressed in training attire. Yuta and Jisung, fire and earth are Tari’s least mastered elements. Please train her with it. Especially fire, so please start on that today. I will send down our bending moderator to discuss with you Tari’s progress.” She turned to the only non-bender left in the room. “Sonan, feel free to help me strategize or practice with our weapons expert.”

With that, Sukiara marched out of the room with no reaction – as if she was a robot. These were the times Tari remembers that Sukiara wasn’t her parent or her legal caretaker, but a guardian and a manager. Her priority is not her wellbeing, but her ability to do the Avatar’s purpose; to keep balance in the world.  

Tari was still shell-shocked, but she had an idea she believed Sukiara must hear. Jumping to her feet, she ran to the door frame and leaned out. From hanging out the room, she watched Sukiara walking down the empty corridor..

“Can you contact Lin?” Tari shouted down the hall, her words echoing throughout the corridor.

Sukiara turned around briefly, giving her a thumbs up, and disappeared down the hallway.

As soon as she turned around to enter the room once more, Yuta, Jisung, and Doyoung were already heading out. “Let’s train.”

99% of Tari’s childhood and her adolescence was training or doing homeschooling. Homeschooling, however, was a mere 20% as she took accelerated courses of study. She practically finished K-12 by age 12. It helped that the whole entire history being taught in classes was in her memories – she has technically lived them before. She merely had to learn other basic skills, from math to grammar. Despite that, school was always second priority compared to bending training. Consequently, training was a hefty majority of her childhood.

With that in mind, Tari can flawlessly braid her hair out of the way blindfolded. She can navigate the training centers in the island and the temples she trained at (given they haven’t changed) in a complete blackout under a night sky.

It didn’t take long before she was in the training center, biting anxiously at her nails while waiting for her ‘trainers’ Jisung, Yuta, and Doyoung. She didn’t know where to start. Should she stretch? Most likely, but she can’t seem to concentrate. She can’t seem to stop wondering where Johnny and Kilari ran off to, what Sukiara plans, or if her friends will be safe tomorrow.

In all her life of training; of knowing the procedures, of knowing every single stretch that could possibly be known to man – this is the first time in year Tari is standing in the middle of the courtyard, uncertain of what to do. As much as she dreaded training, she just wanted it to happen already so she can stop imagining how it’ll go (which, by the way, in her head – hasn’t gone well).

Within minutes, she sees Yuta, Doyoung, and Jisung walk down the steps with her bending guide. Yes, she had Sukiara as her guardian – but she had Lia Kim as her bending guide. In that sense, Lia Kim has theoretically mastered all the elements – however she’s purely a Water Bender. Resultingly, Lia monitors Tari’s growth with bending – she keeps track of what she has obviously mastered and what she has to continue in mastering.

She has many good memories with Lia. Lia always managed to make training somewhat fun – turning training sessions into obstacle courses, games of hide and seek, challenges, and just general fun. She was the only one of her ‘three main mentors’ who turned things into games; Sukiara was always in charge of acting like a parental figure while Choi Youngjun always had to be strict due to the accelerated course of education she was required to take.

Despite the group of them gracing kind smiles on their faces, Tari was still anxiously predicting any way training could go wrong – from her burning someone to them giving up on her. Tari found that her leg started shaking without her control.

Doyoung took one glance at her and noticed this; noticed her widened eyes, her lips between her teeth, her feet anxiously tapping at the ground. He didn’t know all about her past, but he knew about her now – so well, that they can communicate purely through their eyes. That’s all he needed to know, he decided.

So, he did what he did when Tari seems panicked in public; distract her.

“Honestly, I’m glad you’re practically forced to be training with me.” Doyoung smiled. “Like, if you went to the gym, I’m about 10000% certain you’d choose anyone but me to be your trainer.”

Tari felt a weight off her shoulders at Doyoung’s teasing smirk. She stood to her feet and playfully pushed his shoulder, “Yeah, because obviously you’ll somehow end up making me do something dumb. May I remind you of the fork stabbing incident?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME!”

The sun had set, and everyone was exhausted.

Hours and hours of training only brought them to a point of giving up, but Tari refused. Jisung has distracted himself with Doyoung once more, the two playing around with a small game they created that Tari and Yuta cannot understand at all. All they know is that when Jisung manages to balance on the airball and knock Doyoung off his feet, Jisung screams in celebration while Doyoung falls to his knees – cursing any higher being out there. Vice versa can be said when Jisung is sprawled on the floor.

They saw their work as over. Doyoung, from the very beginning, just had to remind Tari of the offensive and defensive moves of Air Bending rather than the daily tasks. Jisung had a bit more on his plate, but Yuta reminded them of Sukiara’s suggestion to tackle her biggest weakness first; fire. It wasn’t a surprise when everyone agreed.

Tari and Yuta were still in the middle of the courtyard, repeating the last move Tari couldn’t seem to master. Yuta was impressed – she was quick learner. He was surprised she didn’t master it sooner, however, he noticed she was mostly good at theory. She can describe a move perfectly, but when she actually tries to do it? Something goes wrong.

He notices how she hesitates, how her foot moves out of place, how she loses concentration on the actual move as she focuses on how she could mess up.

Her head was hurting. I swear I’m doing this right. She checked everything more than a million times; her foot placement for the millionth time, the positioning of her fingers, the angle of her arms – but all she could let out was a measly fire ball while Yuta seemed to call upon the burning core of the world itself.

Yuta could sense the frustration boiling Tari’s blood and placed his hand on her back. He’s been demonstrating from a distance initially, as requested by Tari to ‘avoid getting hurt’. But he’s been in her position before – and he often feels much more relaxed with the touch of a fellow human being.

A bell chime ran through the island, alerting every one of dinner now ready in the canteen.

“Thank God!” Doyoung praised, “I’m starving!”

Jisung following behind, “I wonder what food they’re serving today.” He commented, as if to himself.  “As long as it’s not fire nation food, I’m good.” Jisung’s face turned into a painful wince as if he just ate into the spicy dish again.

The two stopped in their positions, noticing Tari not following behind. Doyoung sighed, “Tari, you need to eat.” Tari refused to answer, Yuta still hovering over her as he tried to analyse her face. It was stern – focused on the fake target placed in front of her. “Tari-“

“I’ll eat later.” She said coldly, almost as if her words were ice.

Of course, it’s not mandatory to go to dinner at the time. Mealtimes at Bak Mei last for five hours, so often, people go when they please. But Tari even missed lunch.

“Tari,”

“I’LL EAT LATER, DO!” Doyoung jumped at the change of tone. This is the first time she properly ever yelled at him, and that means a lot considering they have been roommates for approximately two years.

Yuta, himself, even flinched. Jisung’s eyes went wide. From his position as the closest to her, Yuta signalled to Doyoung and Jisung to go ahead and eat. “Go ahead.” He insisted, “We’ll catch up.” He winked at them, letting them know he’ll try his best to get her to eat.

“Go ahead, Yuta.” Tari stated, “You don’t have to wait for me, I’ll probably never get it anyway.”

“You can’t fire bend on an empty stomach, though!” He smiled, trying to charm into the canteen. She can’t say it wasn’t working; his smile was so bright, like he was radiating happiness. “Isn’t it fire nation night tonight? The food will definitely help, think of all the spice.” He made tingly-motions with his hands, making Tari’s guard fall down and letting himself chuckle.

Tari dropped her arms from the position. “Fire nation night was last night. It’s air nation food tonight.” Her voice was suddenly small.

“Even better!” Yuta clapped his hands, “My dad used to make the best dumplings. He was born in Air Temple Island actually, he actually was living with Aang.” At the mention of his name, especially while training – her heart hurt.

Was this how Aang was feeling? About fighting the fire lord? Conflicted, loss, unwilling to do it? How did he do it? Why can’t I be more like him?

The half-fire nation and half-air nation citizen smiled sadly, noticing – even under the courtyard’s dim lights – how Tari’s gaze fell to her feet with a darkened glaze. “Okay, how about this. I help you master this move. We go to dinner. And if you really want to, we do another training session after dinner. You don’t have to meditate tonight.” Yuta sighed.

Tari looked up at him; his sparkling brown eyes full of concern, his small smile. How could I say no? When she begrudgingly nodded, his small smile was replaced with a large one that showed all his teeth – his face immediately becoming brighter. She swore she wouldn’t need the courtyard to be lit up when he’s there, smiling. It reminded her of the candle fountain in the earth nation, something Lin snuck her out after curfew to show her. It was a beautiful sight.

“Okay, then, let’s get a move on because we need to get some food in you.” He teased, his hands immediately being put on Tari’s waist. At the skin ship, Tari shivered. She normally never shivers – it’s the beauty of air bending helping adjust to the temperature around her, but his touch seemed to shoot electricity throughout her. She regrets not wearing a longer T-Shirt, but she normally wears crop tops to train, especially when bending fire.

He was strong, but the way he helped Tari fix up her stance was gentle – as if she was a fragile doll. No one treated her as gentle when training as he is now, other than before she found out she was the Avatar. They always pushed her, continuously challenged her. She can’t recall every bad bruise and injury she got from training – it’s probably over a thousand. But he was treating her like she was made of glass. Her heart fluttered.

“You have to remain loose,” He nudged her feet to be wider apart, “you have to be ready to move fast so keep your heels off the ground.”

“But earth bending, your heels have to be down right?” Tari clarified.

“Yeah, but this is fire bending, babes.” Tari swears this man must know how to do lightning bending, because everything that comes out of his mouth sends electricity down her spine. He inched closer, his chest pressed against her back as he fixes her posture. His hot breath brushed behind her ear. “Keep your arms shoulder level.” His hands trailed upwards, tickling her sides, as it went to help her position her arms. “From,” His hand trailed towards her hand which is outstretched in front of her. “Bring this in with your fingers tight together as if they were glued on the sides,” Holding the back of her hand, he guided it close to her chest – as if pointing to her heart. “Turn your palm over as it faces you,” As he instructs her verbally, he’s helping guide her movements with his right hand while his left hand is still holding her hip loosely. “…and then slice the air and shoot it out.”

It all felt intimate; his lips behind her ear, his hot breath hitting it with very word, his hand against her hip. “Now, that’s the hand movements. Do you know what to do with your feet?”

Tari launched her right foot up, keeping the bottom of her foot flat towards the hypothetical opponent. “No, no, you need to point it towards the target. Pointing it makes your kick sharper and helps you move more efficiently.”

She nodded as she amended to his feedback. “Okay, perfect. Now do it without me. Remember, focus on fire. Focus on what you want. Focus on the energy you feel, the electricity within you.” He stepped back to watch her perform the move basically perfect, except for one thing. “You have to stay off your heels.”

“Ugh!” Tari could do this easily with air bending, which also emphasizes getting off your heels. “It’s just like air bending, but why is this harder?”

“Exactly,” Yuta grinned, his eyes looking down at her lips. “It’s harder because air bending is about peace, patience, liberty, and balance. That seems to be like you, from what I’ve seen. Fire?” He started leaning in, “it’s all about passion,” His voice became huskier and more hushed as he leaned even closer. His eyes glanced down to her lips, before back at her eyes.

Tari was surprised; as she found herself leaning in too. Soon, they were millimeters apart. “It’s about performance, but mostly - inner fire.” And his lips pressed onto hers.

It was as if the kiss could help them learn everything about each other, as if their lips were books about their whole lives and they just wanted to know everything. His lips were soft and moist, breathing into her lips gently as they kissed.

Tari pulled away, the heat in her cheeks not going to disappear any time soon. She felt awkward, but immediately wanted to cool the tension. “Passion, huh?” She chuckled, biting her lip and trying to hide her blushing cheeks from the cocky Yuta. “I thought fire bending was also about providing a source of life.”

The master bender chuckled. “Technically, yes. But I wanted an excuse to kiss you.”

She scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. “Uh, yeah, dinner, shall we?”

Let’s just say, Doyoung knew something was up inside the canteen when she refused to mention training and when Yuta’s leg was leaning against Tari’s under the table.

request anything for future parts / penny for your thoughts here

[keatsblue]

Hawks Are Migratory Birds

Hot take: Hawks & other winged BNHA characters migrate annually. It’s a huge deal.

He’d never been one to wonder at his heritage.

From a mother whose drunken delirium he barely remembered to an absentee father whose face he could no longer recall, the disparate snippets that formed his childhood were as sand slipping through a sieve, gone too quickly to be truly perceived. The president, who was like a mother and yet not, told him that was for the best. Older now, and motherless by his own design, Hawks was beginning to agree.

And yet, every day he felt the pull.

He pulled his flight jacket tighter to his form, fingers slipping-numb as he beat up with his wings. They were on fire from exertion, muscles straining even in the cold weather from the ever-so-draining tension of building a career, an agency, a life, building, building, building.

Patrols had been rougher, since some ragtag group of villains had launched that spectacular failure of an attack on Endeavor’s alma mater. Most of those involved had been apprehended, but it seemed it didn’t matter. Villains were getting bolder, slinking out of the shadows and onto city streets, where he was forced to deal with them.

He didn’t even want to begin with this Hero Killer business, but fuck. If the locals didn’t wreck that one’s shit, soon, he imagined he’d be called in on the case, as well.

The low rooftop he’d been perched on grew smaller underfoot, disappeared. Another beat, and the rest of Fukuoka’s darktown went with it.

It was always worse, when it got colder. Like an itch he needed to scratch. Sometimes he would fly out to the edge of town, eyes glued to the horizon, just for some relief.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere , far beyond the city lights (they glimmered below, like tiny, happy fireflies). Lush, green landscapes haunted his dreams in visions of places he’d never been, yet somehow knew.

They’d first come to him when he was of a young age, though not so young that he didn’t already comprehend the phenomenon as something not to be shared with his handlers. It was an abnormality, certainly, yet it was one that could be successfully hidden--unlike fingernails that grew into talons, or feathered crests that necessitated a trip to a quirk cosmetologist every few months.

Abnormalities that could be hidden, it was safe to say, were always preferred.

He’d kept his landscapes, the pretty pictures in his head. He hadn’t told a soul, and when he woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, trembling from equal parts frigid air and longing , Hawks couldn’t help but smile. It was his last bastion, the only part of himself he doubted he could be trained out of.

He was so tired.

The shrill tone of his phone’s ring interrupted his reverie. He dug a hand into a pocket on the inner lining of his flight jacket, goosebumps breaking out across his flesh as a rush of winter wind wormed its way through the opening. “Yo.”

“You really ought to be more professional when answering a call, Hawks.” His handler’s tinny voice cracked over the speaker, and Hawks suppressed a sigh.

It was an effort to affect his usual oblivious veneer. “Ah, can’t hear ya, man. Poor reception when I’m flyin’ this high. Come again?”

“Never mind,” his handler said, though his undertone was telling. “There’s a new mission on your docket. We’ll need you to report in to discuss it further.”

“Another so soon? C’mon, it’s the holidays.” But he’d already adjusted his course, eyes narrowing. What could they want with him now? He’d only been kinda kidding about the Hero Killer thing.

“You act like that has some sort of meaning for you,” came the clipped reply, and damn, they really liked to hit him where it hurt. “I expect your arrival shortly. You wanted to be a hero, didn’t you?”

He barely had time to grumble out a rebellious yes, mom before the man hung up, leaving Hawks with a million questions and a niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t until later, well after he’d planted his bony ass dead center on his handler’s too-firm, stiff-backed office sofa, that he was validated.

Hawks crossed his arms. “No. Absolutely not.”

His handler’s lips thinned. Fingers that had been busy clacking away at their keyboard paused in their work, so dead silence reigned. “You seem to be under the false impression that this is optional.”

“Am I a joke to you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the man said, finally, finally looking away from his monitor. He fixed the hero with a blank look. “Your mission is of the utmost importance-”

“It’s not my mission if I haven’t taken it yet.”

“Hawks.”

“No,” he repeated, with as much vehemence as he could muster. It was still a challenge, even now, not to immediately retract his statement. He wasn’t a little kid, anymore. “I’m not spying on the League of Villains.”

And there it was. The crux of the matter, thrust out into the open like so much dirty laundry. He wasn’t even trained for espionage, didn’t have the skill set for it, much less the desire to dabble. And he wasn’t that pathologic of a liar.

He wasn’t evil.

His handler released a deep breath, one that reverberated from deep within his lungs and rattled on the exhale. “You’re the only one who can do this.”

Hawks would’ve had to have been deaf not to catch the sudden shift in tone, subtle enough that it couldn’t be anything but intentional. He’d seen this song and dance, before. “No one’s gonna believe it. Me, falling to the figurative dark side? I’m the third-ranked hero, for fuck’s sake.”

When he only received another blank look, he raised a brow. “Really?”

“Your lackadaisical attitude lends your public persona a certain… côté méchant,” the man intoned, and Hawks couldn’t actually believe what he was hearing.

“What about Endeavor? Dude’s awesome, but he scares little kids.”

The response was automatic. “Endeavor is an upstanding man, destined to be the next pillar when we inevitably lose All Might. He would never stray to villainy.”

Hawks blinked, and beneath his skin, blood simmered and raged.

Then, he smiled. “Alright.”

Both of his handler’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing into his hairline. “Alright, you’ll do it?”

Hawks stood, and pretended to brush some stray debris from his pant leg.

“No.” He took great pleasure in the way the man’s face crumpled, like he’d just flushed his holiday bonus down the drain. And who knew? Maybe he had. “I meant, alright, I’m done with this conversation.”

He didn’t look back as he dropped from the office balcony, no less than fifteen stories up. Didn’t turn around to answer his handler’s increasingly frantic cries.

No, Hawks kept his eyes on that tantalizing horizon. And this time, when it beckoned, he didn’t have the heart to resist.

He thought of lush landscapes. Of heroes, and villains.

Everyone’s waiting for me to snap.

So goddamnit, I’ll snap. 

***

He flew for hours. Days, perhaps. He’d lost track.

After a kilometer or dozen had passed him by, the near-constant noise from his jacket pocket had begun to grate on his ears. It had been simple, to pull out the offending object and drop it.

His phone. He’d dropped his phone.

He might’ve been flying over ocean at the time.

After that, the only thing filling his ears had been the welcome roar of the high winds, and the occasional monotonous chatter of customers in small-time general stores where he stopped for snacks.

Upon entering one such establishment, the shopkeeper had taken one look at his bedraggled wings, his windswept hair, and offered him a free meat bun. Hawks had wolfed it down before thinking to make conversation, much to the other’s apparent amusement.

That shopkeeper had been an old, portly man, with a patchy mustache to match thinned nails and faded tattoos. He’d regarded the hero with kind eyes, and spoke in warm tones.

You’re a little late this year, aren’tcha?

“Hah?” Hawks had replied, intelligently. In his defense, he’d been speaking around a mouthful of meaty goodness.

The shopkeeper laughed. “It’s okay. I know you winged fellas have your ways. My wife dated somebody, years before she met me, who made the journeys.”

At the time, Hawks had been speechless. Before he could think of a reply, the old man had disappeared behind the counter, calling out from a back room that the hero could also grab himself a cold beverage on the house.  

Hawks had chosen a can of green tea that’d tasted like shit going down, then promptly high-tailed it out of there. Now, though, he wondered if he should’ve stayed.

The skies around him had grown dark, and it wasn’t only due to the late hour. There was a brief flash, then thunder soon followed, rolling in from the distance to confirm his worst suspicions.

“A storm,” he murmured, and he couldn’t tell if he was speaking from inside his head or out of it. Fucking great.

Another boom of thunder threatened to split his eardrums, and Hawks careened to the side, before righting himself. Something wet landed on the crown of his head, trailing ice-cold down the back of his neck.

Fucking-

More raindrops fell in a sudden deluge, and he was instantly soaked to the bone. Maintaining altitude became more difficult, as he wrestled screaming gusts of wind for control of newly-laden wings.

When Hawks risked a glance downward, and saw only the obsidian spearpoints of violent, cresting waves, he knew he was in trouble. His chest heaved, but he couldn’t hear the sound of his own breath, over the static in his ears.

Freezing rain clouded his vision like salty tear tracks, except Hawks couldn’t blink them away. He rubbed at his face, dug his fingers into the crevices between his eyelids, to no avail.

It started to dawn on him, that he was going to die.

He was going to die a hero, but one that everyone suspected would turn villain.

No.

He wanted to live, he wanted-

Lightning cracked just in front of him, searing bright, and close enough Hawks could smell the ozone even through his waterlogged nostrils. His heart leaped in his chest, alive on pure adrenaline.

Were the waves below getting closer? Or was that just-

Another powerful gust sent him spiraling, beaten back and forth by the elements. Sharp pain and the taste of copper erupted in his own mouth--he must’ve bitten his tongue. When Hawks finally managed to stabilize, he’d definitely gotten closer.

Scanning his surroundings with renewed vigor, he knew he had to find land, or he was toast. Fried chicken. It was difficult work, through salt-reddened eyes, as the only thing darker than the squall surrounding him was the deadly water below. And contrary to popular belief, Hawks lacked the pinpoint vision of his namesake. He was forced to wait between deadly illuminations, to make any headway.

Flash.

Flash, and-

There. A hulking shape, an island, standing proud against the storm.

Hawks’ stomach leapt, and then sank.

It was so far away. He would never make it.

He strained toward it, anyway, reaching out a hand with fingers outstretched, as if that would make any difference when seaspray from the crests of waves was already lapping at his feet. His calves.

His back was on fire.

The world went dark once more on the dying breath of yet another spiderweb of lightning, though Hawks hardly noticed. He’d already been forced to shut his eyes against the strong headwind that’d just slammed against his front, pitching him back and into the unforgiving embrace of the sea.

Hawks’ first thought as the wings that’d formerly granted him freedom became sodden deadweights in the vice grip of the ocean’s gyre was damn, this water’s cold. His second was that this was, without a doubt, the worst possible reality. How else could he explain perishing of his own stupidity?

Then, black currents dragged him down, and he didn’t think at all.

***

Something rapped against his forehead, threatening to wake him. He didn’t want to wake. He ached all over, his eyes stung, and that incessant tapping was going to give him a migraine. He groaned, and tried to stretch a hand up, to shoo the tapper away. His arm didn’t quite comply, but it had the intended effect.

The assault halted abruptly, and there was a skittering of voices from above, too low and too fast for Hawks to catch. The sound of footsteps, retreating.

It was too late, though. He’d already been stirred to wakefulness, wings twitching minutely as he attempted to shift into a more comfortable position. He opened his eyes, which proved to be a mistake, as he immediately had to close them again for the brightness that pierced his retinas.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wasn’t supposed to have woken, ever again. He just couldn’t remember why.

“I see you survived,” a voice called, different from the others he’d heard. He forced his eyes open, once more, squinting.

Slowly, the fuzzy shapes surrounding him started to coalesce. He adjusted the level of his gaze, and locked eyes with the one he presumed had spoken.

The newcomer was an older woman, from her appearance. She had grayed-out locks that framed a wizened face, all angles and sun-scars, though that was far from the most striking thing about her.

No, this woman had wings. They loomed large over her shoulders, slightly translucent and veined, like a bat’s. Hawks blinked to clear his vision, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite connect what he was seeing with reality.

It had to be part of her quirk, though he’d never seen someone with wings as large as his, before. They weren’t quite the same, but they looked capable of flight.

At his continued blank stare, the woman tilted her head. She smiled, to reveal pointed canines. “You’ve taken quite the tumble, mister. Didn’t you read the advisory? It’s not safe to fly alone, around these islands.”

Fly alone? Who would he fly with?

His voice croaked as he voiced the question, throat scratched all to hell. The woman only laughed, as if he’d made a particularly funny joke.

Then, of all things, she smirked. “Guess I can’t blame you for wanting to catch up, though. You’re lucky the tide was coming in.”

Catch up? Why did people keep saying that?

Fuck. The general store. The storm.

“I have to get back to Kyushu,” he breathed. He didn’t know what came over him. He’d abandoned his agency, his sidekicks -

Now, it was the woman’s turn to blink in confusion. Her voice was carefully level. Quiet. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Hawks frowned. “Know what?”

The woman only shook her head, like he’d said something incredibly sad. Then, she stretched out a hand, waiting patiently until he took it.

He followed her out of the shade, which he could now see had been formed from a makeshift hut. Bare feet padded on soft grass, and he didn’t know where his boots had gone. Probably lost at sea, if he had to guess.

Despite everything--his aches and pains, the old woman’s strange demeanor--Hawks couldn’t help but be taken in by the greenery all around him. It was lush, vibrant. So unlike the concrete jungle he’d claimed to love all his life.

It seemed… familiar. Pulled straight from his dreams.

They turned a corner, and Hawks gasped.

At first, all he could see were the wings. There were so many different colors, different textures. Plumage, furred, leathery. He could even see some that were scaled, gathered together on the fringes. Horned, like a dragon’s.

Then, he noticed the people. They were also of varying colors, though not as glaringly so. There must have been hundreds, if not a thousand below, from what he could make out from their vantage point.

There were children playing. Adults, sharing foodstuffs between campfires.

Some were flying.

He turned, a million questions on his tongue. They all died when he found the woman already looking at him, her expression solemn.

He let out a nervous chuckle. Reached up to rub the back of his neck. “I’ve been missing something big, haven’t I?”

The woman ignored his question, in favor of asking another. “What is your name, young man?”

“Keigo,” he sputtered, before he could say Hawks. “Takami Keigo.”

His companion nodded, like he’d revealed something of great importance, instead of just stating his name. She stretched out a withered arm, gesturing toward the scene below with sharp, taloned fingers.

He hadn’t even noticed that, when she’d taken his hand.

“Keigo,” she said. “Welcome... to the migration.”

Uncertain of his welcome, he took a cautious step forward. Then, emboldened by the encouraging look the older woman shot him, he took another. Stretched out his own wings, unafraid of frightening passerby, or knocking something over. Maybe, he thought, I can stay. For just a while longer.

He took flight, and it felt like coming home.

Deep within his gut, the pull lessened.

Wavered.

...

Disappeared.

***

côté méchant = villainous, nasty side (via Google translate; I don't actually speak French)

[pandorica0011]

Pretty Blue Eyes

Word Count: 1,570

Notes: This is my gift for @endlesscolddreams for @spring-has-come‘s Secret Santa event! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Endless! I’m so sorry this is so late! I decided to go with your first prompt: Overprotective America and enabling Russia and I added your bonus of top America lol. I really enjoyed working on this. It was something different and I loved the challenge. Now, to anyone else who reads this, this fic is NSFW, but I won’t tag it to reduce the risk of it being taken down. I’m confident it might not though, because according to the guidelines, if it’s writing it’s fine? Idk, it’s weird. Well, if anything does happen, I’ll post it elsewhere and link it instead. Anyway, enjoy!

Alfred was just a bit overprotective. 

Well, just “a bit overprotective” was being generous. He was like a five year old with his favorite toy. Not that Ivan minded much. That was just how Alfred was. He was fiercely loyal, but he could be too much sometimes. 

He had questioned the idea of dating someone as seemingly immature as Alfred was when he first met him. When Alfred had shown interest in him, he had almost turned him down, but he didn’t. He didn’t know why hadn’t just said no and gone on with his life, but after dating Alfred for a few years, and falling madly in love with him, he finally realized why he had said yes. 

It was his eyes.

Alfred had such beautiful, hopeful eyes. Even now they shone brightly and made Ivan fall in love all over again. Of course, those bright eyes lied. Those bright eyes hid a boy that grew up too soon, afraid of loss and loneliness. But, somehow, Ivan couldn’t bring himself to mind. He understood his fears and worries, sympathized with his actions. In Alfred, he had found a kindred spirit. 

“Ivan,” Alfred said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Ivan nodded. “I’m okay, it’s just a nick.”

Alfred gave him a dubious look, but didn’t press the issue; instead, he ran a washcloth under some warm water and held it against the side of Ivan’s heck. “What happened?”

“There was an incident with the glass vase in the bathroom,” Ivan explained. He had always had trouble with that awkwardly-placed vase. There were times when he very nearly missed knocking it over, but not this time. This time the damn thing had fallen over on the sink when Ivan went to dry his hands and a shard had nicked his neck. 

Alfred didn’t say anything, but the grim expression on his face remained. He dabbed the washcloth against the cut and placed a band aid over it. 

“I’m okay, honestly.”

He couldn’t say he blamed Alfred for being so worried. He would be worried as well if he had heard the sound of broken glass and came in to find Alfred bleeding from the side of his neck, no matter how small the cut.  

That seemed to reassure Alfred at least a little bit, but it didn’t stop him from shaking his head and saying,“You reckless idiot.” 

“You’re one to talk.” 

Alfred blew him a raspberry and Ivan laughed. His good-natured humor didn’t last long however; instead, Alfred looked to Ivan with an unreadable expression. 

Ivan sighed. Alfred definitely wouldn’t leave his side now. He’d be too worried that something else would happen to Ivan. 

“Hey, I’m okay. Really,” Ivan reached out and took hold of both of Alfred’s wrists and guided them around his neck, careful not to hurt himself. 

They sat in silence for a while, Alfred never tearing his gaze away. Those striking blue eyes made Ivan weak.

 Alfred leaned in, gripping the back of Ivan’s shirt, and pulled him into a sloppy kiss. Ivan wrapped his arms around Alfred’s waist and pulled him closer, his hand sliding up Alfred’s shirt, into the warmth of his lower back. 

Alfred moaned into the kiss and rolled his hips against Ivan’s, sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine. 

They moved against one another for a while before Alfred pulled away and pulled his own shirt off in one fluid motion. He reached for his pants, but Ivan took hold of Alfred’s hands pulled him over himself once again, and placed them on either side of his head so Alfred’s lips were inches away from his own. Alfred pulled him back into a kiss; this time it was desperate. Alfred slipped his hands into Ivan’s hair and gripped tight.  

Ivan reached for Alfred’s pants, desperate fingers fumbling with the button before pulling them down and slipping his hands down the front of Alfred’s boxers. 

Alfred pulled away to let out a gasping breath and clasped his hand over Ivan’s through his boxers. Ivan couldn’t stop himself from admiring the light blush that dusted Alfred’s cheeks and the dark eyelashes that hooded his pretty blue eyes. 

The rest of their clothes fell away and Alfred went to work admiring Ivan’s body. Ivan couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous under the scrutiny of Alfred’s gaze, especially when he took a good look at Alfred’s bare chest. How did he survive looking at Alfred until now? He licked his dry lips. Alfred had no idea of the effect his body had on Ivan. 

“Alfred,” Ivan gasped, barely able to keep a straight head when Alfred kissed his way down his body, stopping just short of his crotch and running his hands over Ivan’s sides. He dipped his head and traced his lips across the expanse of Ivan’s abdomen, his warm breath teasing as he made his way down to Ivan’s thighs, and squeezed his hips.

“Alfred, please,” Ivan began, but Alfred gave him no time to finish because without warning, he took Ivan into his mouth as he kneaded his thighs and oh god, if Ivan could just hold on to this feeling forever. 

Unfortunately, the feeling didn’t last long, because Alfred pulled away and sat back on his knees. He gazed around the room a bit before looking to Ivan, a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, do you have- erm, it would hurt less if we had something to..” he trailed off. 

Ivan chuckled. Alfred had no shame when it came to acting on his impulsive thoughts, but the moment he needed to ask, he had no idea what to say. 

“It is in the dresser by the door. Last drawer,” Ivan supplied, suppressing his smile when Alfred practically tossed himself off the bed to go get the lube. 

When he came back, he settled between Ivan’s thighs once more, and popped open the bottle. 

Ivan could never get used to the feeling of Alfred’s hand between his legs. 

Before long, Alfred entered him slowly, his hand searching for Ivan’s and intertwining them against the pillow by his head. 

They held each other until Ivan shifted and Alfred pushed the rest of the way in. He leaned down and pressed his body flush against Ivan’s, making them both shudder. 

Ivan wrapped his hands around Alfred’s shoulders and let Alfred slide up against him, the friction and heat radiating off both their bodies was suffocating. 

Alfred was relentless and set a forceful rhythm, making Ivan see stars. He held on as tight as he could. All the while, he couldn’t stop a series of ragged breaths and whines from leaving his lips. “Alfred, A-Alfred…” 

They moved together, Ivan burying his head in Alfred’s chest to muffle his gasps. He tried desperately to meet Alfred’s thrusts, but he shook too much to keep up. 

“Come on, baby. That’s it,” Alfred groaned, gripping the back of Ivan’s knee harder. 

Ivan stopped holding back his moans and gasps, throwing his head back against the pillows. “Oh- A-Alfred. Mm- ah!” 

He could feel the heat rising, the sweat dripping down his forehead. He dug his nails into Alfred’s back, crying out with every thrust. It wasn’t too long before he couldn’t hold on any longer and his body shook harder with the pent up pleasure. 

Alfred reached down and took Ivan in his hand, stroking him in time with his own thrusts. 

“Come on baby, come for me.” 

And Ivan did. He let out a breathless moan of Alfred’s name and came all over his hand and stomach. He let himself fall back into the pillows, his body warm and tingly now. 

Alfred sped up his thrusts, his face flushed and contorted in pleasure. 

After a couple of thrusts, Alfred groaned, his hips stuttering before coming to a halt and spilling himself inside Ivan. He draped himself over Ivan, and buried his head in the crook of his neck, his heaving breaths tickling Ivan. He placed a feather-light kiss to the bandage over the shallow cut on Ivan’s neck. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked. 

“No, I’m okay now.“ 

Alfred nodded, but pulled away so that Ivan was looking into his eyes. He had taken his glasses off, so no matter how alert he seemed, he knew Alfred couldn’t see his face very well. That didn’t stop him from trying, however. He looked straight into his eyes, searching for something. 

He was worried. Ivan could see it that. He placed his hand on Alfred’s cheek and ran his thumb across the soft, flushed skin. "I really am okay, you know." 

Alfred nodded once again, but said nothing. 

"Alfred, it’s okay to be worried, but I’m safe. I’m here with you,” Ivan reassured him, pulling him down into a tight hug. 

Alfred tucked his arms under Ivan’s body and rested their heads together. “I know,” was all he said. “I love you so much." 

Ivan kissed the top of his head. "I love you too." 

A comfortable silence fell over them, and eventually Alfred fell asleep where he rested on Ivan. His dark eyelashes creating shadows over his soft, boyish features. 

Ivan traced a thumb across his cheek and placed another light kiss to his forehead. Everyday, he thanked those pretty blue eyes, temporarily hidden from the world, for introducing him to his wonderfully annoying, childish, and overprotective Alfred. 

[raendown]

The next chapter of my Amends to the Dead series, commissioned by the wonderful @birkastan2018 who has been amazingly supporting of my works and provided so much inspiration. 

Pairing: None Word count: 4239 Chapter: 1/4 Rated: T+ Summary: Months after the village is built Izuna is near his breaking point. Peace is nice, don't get him wrong, but he could do without the pale shadow that follows behind him everywhere he goes. All he wants is to understand. What the hell is Tobirama's obsession with watching him?

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header! 

Chapter 1

Grey clouds and a dreary sky greet him when Izuna leaves the administration tower this afternoon, a dour forecast for the evening’s weather. Determined to keep a positive attitude, he tells himself that at least it is holding off for now, will hopefully keep itself in check until after he finishes his inspection. That massive dream-headed idiot of a Senju wants a wall around their settlement but as much as Izuna freely agrees with the tactical benefits of such a barrier he is glad Madara has managed to talk the man in to waiting rather than just springing something up out of the ground willy-nilly. Although several clans and minor villages have already emigrated to join them there are still others they hope to bring in to the fold as well. If Hashirama grows a wall around them at their current size it will ostracize any new districts built in the future – not to mention that such a short-sighted buffoon will almost definitely forget to leave room for population growth as the years go on.

Hence why Izuna has saddled himself with the boring task of trudging his way around the outskirts to scope out where they can expand, how far, whether some portions of the surrounding terrain should be left available to grow crops, that sort of thing. Trying to keep his thoughts grand scale, the first thing he does is make the long climb up the mountain face overlooking them all. From there he is granted a wonderful view of all they have built so far and all the space they have to build upon in the future. Izuna does his best to sketch what he sees on several different pieces of paper and includes the surrounding terrain as little symbols. Later he can use these sketches to create different proposals for wall construction.

Considering how often he changes his mind he intends to make at least five copies. He only gets halfway through the fourth before his hand freezes in place and his eyes slowly roll to one side, looking around without actually turning his head. It’s a useless endeavor anyway. Even if he turns all the way around and carefully inspects every inch of the space behind him Izuna knows he will see absolutely nothing.

Tobirama is better than that.

Weirder than the fact that his counterpart has been following him around like a lagging shadow for weeks now is the fact that there doesn’t seem to be a reason for it. The man hasn’t even gone to the trouble of suppressing his chakra. Izuna might not be a sensor type like his brother is but he isn’t so chakra-blind that he can’t tell when someone he’s spent years on the other side of a war from is nearby. He might be tempted to think the other man is mocking him somehow if not for the fact that Tobirama never once alludes to his little stalker habit when they are forced to interact in the tower. If anything his habit worsens during work hours. Very few days go by when Izuna does not turn around to find Tobirama hovering over him or staring intently from across the room.

Knowing that his old rival has been up to the same idiocies all day – just as every other day – is not very comforting but it makes his movements a little less awkward as he decides that he’s taken up enough time loitering here at the top of the cliff. It’s odd, the things one can get used to after being exposed for long enough. Having someone follow him around isn’t exactly comfortable but it’s something he learned to live with as soon as he concluded that it isn’t a statement of the Senju’s lack of trust. Not the clan as a whole, at least.

If there were anyone they don’t trust it would be Madara and no one follows him around. Izuna cannot imagine them wasting their best on him while assigning someone lesser to tailing his more dangerous older brother. The Senju have never been a stupid enemy.

Almost worse than the strangeness of knowing that he is being followed is trying to decide how to act. Izuna packs his sketches away and does everything he can to resist the urge to turn around and search for the face he knows is watching, reflecting that he isn’t actually sure what Tobirama will do if he confronts the man. When this first started Izuna hadn’t really known what to think of it, held off on reacting in any way in case he was misinterpreting something, and now that he knows for sure that the other is following him he realizes he’s let it go on for so long that bringing it up now will only be more awkward. They need to talk about it at some point, obviously. Just maybe not right this second.

Using that excuse only gets less and less valid with every day.

With a grand overview of the village fresh in his mind Izuna refocuses himself on the task at hand and begins drafting a few tentative blueprints in his mind while he scales his way back down the cliff. Halfway down he makes a mental note to suggest they install an easier way to get up here somehow. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that any tourists or visitors will be very interested in the view of a village so important to the history of the five great nations, the first of its kind. Then he pushes the thought away in to the corner of his mind for ‘things to deal with later’; he has much more important business at hand. Before they can welcome any tourism they need to be more solid in their defense of the people already here.

Senju Touka stands in the center of the road leading in to their settlement from the north when he arrives. Izuna is quick to hide the grimace that appears as soon as he catches sight of her. Enemies they might not be any longer but Touka is not likely to ever be his favorite person. Too brash, too hard, and too focused on being a warrior without ever allowing herself to still be a woman. Izuna enjoys a tough skin as much as the next shinobi but he needs friends and lovers who allow themselves to unclench at least once in a while. The woman before him carries a look on her face even when making no expression which tells him she probably hasn’t unclenched since the first time she learned to wield her body as a weapon.

“Nothing to report,” Touka’s voice rings out sharp even when she speaks quietly. He nods once to show that he understands.

“Border inspection,” he grunts back.

“Already? With all the paperwork that goes through the Tower I had guessed it would take at least another week for anyone to even think about doing something useful about their own ideas.” She snorts and this time Izuna allows the grimace that slides back over his face.

With a rueful sigh he shakes his head. “I gave myself the job for just that reason. This needs to get done.”

“Lots of things need to get done,” Touka mumbles dryly. Her eyes flick back down the path and her chin dips to signal someone else. “The others can walk the road; if I’m going to guard the wall when it goes up I’d like to hear your thoughts on where it’s to be built.”

Since there is really no polite way to refuse her Izuna shrugs and turns away without waiting to see if she follows. If she can’t keep up that’s her own problem. He isn’t the one who invited her along. Just as he finishes the thought her footsteps come from behind and her severe face returns to his peripherals with the blank expression of someone waiting to form an opinion.

That gives him an idea, actually, speaking of opinions. As the two of them travel in silence he lets his eyes roam around the terrain on all sides, mentally comparing it to the visual he remembers from above even as another part of his mind races trying to find the wording for how to broach a subject that many still consider sensitive.

“If I may, I’d like to ask about the climate in your clan,” he says eventually. Touka gives no physical reaction, betrayed only by the caution in her tone as she replies.

“You may ask your questions.” He notices that she has promised him no answers.

“Tensions were high for a while after we first merged our territories. Obviously it’s going to take a number of years before our people can coexist with true ease but – for my own clan at least – I’ve noticed massive improvements. What I mean to ask is: what of your own clan?”

“What of them?” Touka grunts.

Careful not to show his temper, Izuna keeps his voice low so it will not carry to other ears following along behind them. “Have the tensions eased in your people? Or do they still fear mine like enemies?”

“Fear isn’t exactly how I would describe it,” his unwanted companion muses. “Caution would be more accurate.”

“Do they distrust us so much?” he presses.

To his utter lack of surprise Touka turns to give him a sharp warning look. “Don’t go looking for trouble where there is none, Uchiha. Our people distrust yours no less than yours return in kind. Like you said yourself, it’s going to take years to erase the effects leftover from generations of war. Those of us who lived through it may never recover entirely. But”-from the corner of one eye he watches her move both hands away from her weapons in a deliberate motion-“we recognize and accept that the Uchiha want this peace to work. “

“Ah. Thank you for your input, Touka-san. I had thought that was how things stand but at this stage assumptions aren’t safe to be relied upon. Let’s change the subject. We’re thinking of building out from the current settlement to allow for growth but I don’t think this particular area would be good for that. Doesn’t the ground here turn in to swamp a few miles out?”

While she does allow him to change topics without comment Izuna notes the lingering gaze from the corner of her eyes to the corners of his own. He lets her stare. If they truly are allies then he has nothing to fear from a couple of eyes that don’t even have the advantage of a Sharingan. Rumor says this woman is nearly as good with genjutsu as any Uchiha but it would need to be some kind of skill indeed to trap him in an illusion he can’t escape – and besides that there is really no reason for her to do any such thing unless she wants to start another war.

Instead the two of them trade mild opinions on the surrounding land and discuss construction plans all while pretending they don’t notice the acid undertones or the barbs hidden in their words. Much as he is loathe to admit it, by the time they make a half circuit around the village and Touka declares it time for her to turn back he almost finds himself reluctant to see her go. Almost. Sometimes it’s nice to find someone who can withstand the worst of his vitriol. He is still firm on his belief that Touka will never be one of his favorite people but perhaps they can stand each other a little better than he first imagined.

The rest of his patrol around the perimeter is done in silence with no one to talk to but the thoughts inside his own mind, probably the most intelligent conversation he is likely to have all day. Rather than give that Senju woman any reason to look at him funny again Izuna ends his inspection by ducking in between some of the housing built on the fringes like afterthoughts.

He could have done without some of the man’s habits and opinions but if there is one thing Izuna wishes their brothers had actually listened to Tobirama about it’s the road planning. Caught up in their dream as they had been, Madara hadn’t so much held Hashirama back as he had egged the man on to raise frames and rooves without a single thought for the carefully drawn street maps Tobirama had been trying to present them with. Now everyone else pays the price for it as they wind their way through crisscrossing streets that often follow no logical direction whatsoever, haring off towards wherever Hashirama had raised the next home. Surely it can only be the mercy of the kami that made him finally stop and listen to his sibling before he made a similar mess of the village center.

Finding his way through the busy foot traffic is infinitely easier once he reaching the districts where the streets are wider than his own wingspan, leaving plenty of room for Izuna to duck and weave around the gaggle of children chasing each other, wild laughter ringing over the crowds with no regard for the different clans they each belong to.

This, he has come to understand, is the peace that Madara has been dreaming of since they were young boys clinging to each other with all their strength, the last of their siblings and so desperate not to lose any more. In some ways he wishes he had understood earlier. He also hopes that the idiot following along behind him on a nearby rooftop understands the same.

When he reaches the tower Izuna heads straight for his office and rather pointedly shuts the door behind him, relieved to note Tobirama’s distinctive chakra moving off to hopefully be productive somewhere else. How the man gets anything done when he’s following other people around all day is a mystery but Izuna is just as glad to finally be alone. It’s much easier to concentrate on drawing up a few difference proposals for wall construction when he doesn’t have some part of his concentration occupied with the ever-watching eyes over his shoulder.

Unfortunately for all that he’s always been fast at coming up with plans he is also, given the time, a perfectionist. What should only take him a mere twenty minutes to sketch some rough blueprints turns in to nearly two hours of meticulous lines and painstaking notes along the edges of every paper to list the benefits of each different proposal. Izuna is already rolling his eyes at himself by the time he finally drags his body up out of the chair with a firm mental declaration that any further additions will be a waste of time. Only one of these proposals can be chosen as the final plan and the entire council will be looking over it to add their suggestions. No one expects him to think of everything himself.

Seeing Madara roll his eyes as well when he lets himself in to his brother’s office makes him stick out his tongue, a gesture the man returns without pause. Dignity isn’t exactly a concern when they are alone.

“Took you long enough,” is his greeting. “Didn’t you leave to do that just after noon? It shouldn’t have taken you that long just to walk in a big circle and doodle a couple outlines. What did you do, take a nap in a tree somewhere?” Madara tuts and shakes the handle of a brush at him, then he frowns and looks down at the parchment he’s just splattered with ink.

“Pardon me for doing my job well,” Izuna grumbles.

“Well give them here then. Looks like you have several ideas. That’s good, actually. I know it sounds counterintuitive but the bloody elders actually decide faster if we give them more options.”

The two of them share a tired look and Izuna nods understandingly as he tosses his papers on the desk. “Fewer options always means one person picks a favorite right away and another person takes exception to that. Best to let them talk it all out first, I get it.”

Madara spreads the sketches out and fiddles with the end of one, lifting it only to turn his eyes to another.

“Do you have any you’re particularly attached to before I look them over?” he asks.

“No.”

He should know to watch his tone. It’s only a single word but the moment it leaves his mouth Izuna winces, pinned in place under the sudden scrutiny of dark eyes that know him just a little too well.

“You sound upset by something,” Madara notes. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t say wrong, precisely. I’m being followed around again and I still don’t like it.” It’s gratifying to see the other man scrunch his face up with distaste. At least he isn’t the only one who finds this situation endlessly odd.

“Still not talking to you about it, I suppose?”

“Not a damn word. Any time I bring it up he just stares at me with these…empty eyes. Honestly sometimes I’m tempted to worry that he’s been possessed by some demon with a grudge against me. Somehow that would make more sense!” Izuna shakes his head, stepping around to slump his body in to the single visitor chair available. Then he squirms uncomfortably as a floral scent wafts up his nose. It’s easy to tell who usually sits in this chair.

Fingers twiddling absently at the edges of the papers spread out on his desk, Madara rolls his eyes at such dramatics but makes no comment on them, which Izuna takes to mean that his sibling agrees in his own way. He wishes he could say he is only being silly and dramatic but deep down he truly believes that Tobirama being possessed by a vengeful spirit would make more sense than for the man to follow him around as though suspicious of his intentions. Still ridiculous, of course, but somehow more plausible.

He hadn’t been stupid enough to believe Hashirama's vague words about recovery during the first few meetings of peace between their people. The longer time went on without the Senju second heir appearing the less anyone had been willing to believe such nonsense but it was the look in Hashirama's eyes which stilled their tongues as the months stretched out in to a full year. Not anger or exasperation, no nervousness that they might be taking offense. What earned their silence both then and now had been the worry in his eyes, the fear for another which he tried so desperately not to let them see, the flash of uncertain terror that shadowed his eyes with every mention of his brother. Izuna has seen that look in the eyes of those who worry for their loved ones even when there is no wound to worry over.

“And he’s not…aggressive?” Madara asks.

“No!” Izuna throws his hands in the air and slumps further in his seat. “At least if he was angry or something I would understand that but this silence and following me around, it’s just weird! I don’t know how I’m supposed to react to it.”

“You could, oh I don’t know, ask him to stop?”

With the bitchiest look he can summon Izuna nods exaggeratedly. “Oh of course, why didn’t I think of that? Ah right. Because I did. And all that accomplished was a big fat load of nothing.”

“There’s no need to be so sarcastic,” his brother grumbles. When Madara turns away to pout Izuna rubs at the space between his brows.

“Do you have any idea what his problem is? Serious question, any idea at all? Has your best friend for life not said anything or dropped any hints? I’m at my wits end here.” What small hope he has is dashed by the shaking of the other man’s head.

Madara shrugs as he says, “Not a clue. It’s weird but Hashirama doesn’t actually talk about his brother very much.”

“You mean they don’t like each other?”

“No, not like that. But every time Tobirama comes up in conversation, if it’s not work related Hashirama will get this really weird look on his face and change the subject. Usually in such a way that I don’t think about it till later. You know how he is, all loud and distracting.”

“He’s certainly not as dumb as he pretends to be,” Izuna agrees.

The two of them sit in silence for a minute or two, thinking of the all the unexpected similarities between the Senju siblings and all the ways they’re still so different. For all that they are both unexpectedly intelligent it seems to be only in their own respective fields. Where Tobirama’s intelligence is nearly unparalleled when it comes to science and political machinations he seems to be quite useless when it comes to human interactions and yet that is where Hashirama shines – earnest Hashirama who can only stare with a blank smile whenever his beloved sibling goes off on some in-depth explanation of a new tax code proposal.

Shaking his head to clear it, Izuna takes a deep breath and decides that sitting around moaning about his own confusion isn’t getting much done. There are still other things he needs to do that day and he can’t do anything of them while staring across the desk at Madara.

Leaving the man to his work is as easy as reminding him that he has a lot of it and suddenly Izuna finds there is no more attention on him, the perfect time to slip out the door and wander slowly back to his own office. It is only his perfectionist nature which leads him to hearing what he does then. Were he anyone else he might shrug it off when he notices the wrappings around his left ankle coming loose, something that can certainly wait until he sits down to be fixed, but he stops instead and leans against the wall just before a turn in the corridor to bend down and fiddle with his ankle. Not until he is already busy unwrapping and retucking does he realize he is in the perfect spot to overhear two people just around the corner.

“Tetsuo thinks maybe they’re having an affair of some kind,” the first voice says, full of scorn for their own words.

“Ridiculous. That icicle and Izuna-sama? Not a chance. They were rivals for years, they’re not going to fall in to bed only a few months after peace was made!” The second voice sounds vaguely familiar, probably a member of his own clan though he can’t quite identify them.

“I never said I believed it!” the first objects. “But it’s weird, right? The way Tobirama-sama just…hovers around him. If they weren’t enemies for years I would say he’s acting like a nervous parent or something with how he watches Izuna-sama’s every move and how he glares at anyone who says something bad about the man.”

To Izuna’s annoyance his possible clan member feels the need to waste time defending his honor with a sharp, “Who’s saying bad things about him?”

“Oh for kami’s sake, that’s not the point.”

“Hmph.”

“But you get what I’m saying, yeah? I know Tetsuo think they’re rolling around together but my theory is a blood oath or something. Maybe Hashirama-sama set him this duty as penance. I heard one of them almost died in the final battle between your clans and everyone knows Tobirama-sama is too fast to go down easy.”

Much as it hurts Izuna’s pride a little to have someone believe him the weaker in any battle, he forces himself to remain still and continue listening. It takes a moment for his prideful clansman to get past the spluttering and rage over the same issue but eventually it fades in to senseless grumbling and a solid declaration that Tobirama was in fact been the one injured during their final clash. Clearly this person hadn’t been present or else they might not so casually reference that moment.

Very few had known how to process the sight of an elder version of his rival appearing only to turn and slaughter his own younger self.

As the two strangers continue to speculate Izuna swallows thickly and turns away to take another route back to his office, finding suddenly that listening in on a conversation he isn’t supposed to hear has lost its appeal. More than ever his curiosity has been peaked, however. He needs to figure this situation out.

Why does Tobirama follow him?

That will have to be dealt with on his own time, however. Later he will pass on what he heard to his brother and they can speculate to their hearts’ content over dinner. For now he has work to do. Work that, so long as he remains shut away within his own office, he can trust that he will be able to do in the silence of solitary.

Only when the work is done will he turn his mind to the problems that he has already let go too far. Surely one more day of ignoring it all cannot hurt anything. He’ll deal with it eventually, of course, but until then Izuna supposes he can hope that ignoring his problems might, by some miracle, simply make them go away.

[malereader-inserts]

Birds of Paradise

Fandom: The Vampire Diaries Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Male!Reader Summary: Elijah, in the past, has spoilt his significant other with gifts, flowers and such, but sometimes he wants to be spoilt despite being a thousand years old Word Count: 1,510 Request: “Could I request a fluffy Elijah please?” A/n: Hell yeah, you can

When Elijah opened the door of the family mansion, he's greeted by the sight of several dozen of the most brightly coloured flowers he's ever seen. Behind them was you, looking rather flustered and out of breath, and a full twenty minutes early for your date.

"Strelitzia," You say as if it explained things.

"Bless you," Elijah responds.

"Uh, the flowers. That's what the lady in the shop said they were called. Strelitzia. Or birds of paradise," You paused and presses them into Elijah’s hands, "They're for you."

Elijah peers down at the flowers in his arms. Their name suited them; the flowers really did resemble a brightly coloured bird in flight. The petals were a pleasing colour, a deep saturated yellow at the centre with orange tips, interspersed with cobalt blue stamens.

No one has ever got him flowers.

"Rebekah said to get roses but these seemed - I thought..." you tugged at the sleeve of your shirt awkwardly, shifting weight between your two feet, "They reminded me of you. Because you're- um..."

It appeared you were in that nervous state where you couldn't seem to manage to finish a sentence. Elijah smiles softly, clutching the flowers in hand, watching you struggle, as much as he wanted to watch you act adorable he dryly commented.

"Too fine to describe with mere words?”

Sarcasm, you weren’t familiar with Elijah’s usage of sarcasm. You didn’t know if it was part of Elijah’s vocabulary, you just assumed Elijah would be unable to function in the face of quick-witted comments, turns out he was good to serve them.

"Unexpected. In a good way, I mean.  I went to the shop and I planned to get roses but then I saw them and I didn't know flowers could look like that. And it made me think of you. Because my life never goes the way I planned it especially with you, but unexpected is good sometimes.”

Elijah was lost for words. You assumed the worst.

"You don't like them,” You face falls, your shoulders deflate. "I should have listened to Rebekah." 

"Whilst generally listening to my sister is orthodox advice, on this rare occasion she was quite wrong." He smiles, your eyes brighten, "I love them (Y/n), thank you.”

Elijah looked at you with a smile, who would have thought this mere human could make a thousand-year-old vampire feel butterflies flying up his throat?

He leaves the door open as he wanders into the kitchen, to tend to the flowers first. You wander in, following him. You didn’t say anything, but the silence was comfortable.

“Ready?”

“No doubt.”

Elijah liked kissing you.

You somehow taste like strawberries.

Elijah liked hugging you.

You smell like spring. 

A mixture of fresh wind, ocean and freshly mown grass. 

Elijah was quick to open his window when he sees you hanging on the tree by the house. He wonders how soundproof the mansion was if he and his family barely heard your footstep, let alone your heart beat. 

He feels like a teenager, he understands why Rebekah was in love with the idea of being in love. It was the vertiginous feeling that ran across his muscles, he had to hold down his excitement. It was the butterflies roaming in his stomach and the chills you sent down his spine.

“What are you doing?” He chuckles as he watches you balance your way across the branch, he holds out a hand.

“Visiting you, you big oaf,” You commented, a tease and Elijah could turn red.

You grabbed his hand as he pulls you into his room, in the safety in his arms. He felt you rumble, the quiet hush of your laughter made him smile. You’ve barely been dating, three months stretching to the fourth month. But, when you were friends with him, he never felt like this.

It was the harmless crush, brightening up when he hears your name or standing straight at the sound of your voice.

Then, it was building the courage of asking you out.

Emotion plays a big part, everything was heightened.

“I got you something,” 

Elijah’s heart almost leapt out of his mouth.

You take a silver ivy bracelet, he noticed how it looked expensive and ancient. The design purposely looking Viking treasure. Elijah looks at it, you gently unbuckle it and hed it out, politely asking for one of his wrists.

He held out his right, you put it on him - you struggled with it because jewellery wasn’t your forte. At that moment, Elijah looks up, he doesn’t know what to say or what to feel. He was so used to giving people gifts and making them happy.

He isn’t used to this feeling.

“It’s a protective charm, my grandmother is a witch, and whilst I, unfortunately, cannot tap into my magic, she found me to be smitten with you. She sends her regards, best of wishes, health and protection.”

You’re mumbling but ranting, there was a quirk in his lip. 

He wasn’t used to this feeling.

To be loved.

He says “I love you” first.

You stood there shocked, he was holding birds of paradise in his hands. It was something you managed to find, summer flowers were harder to seek out in the middle of autumn.

The flowers were crushed against both your chest when you kissed him.

You peppered with his kisses, loving kisses. He laughs as you repeat the three precious words.

He didn’t mind that the orange hues of the flowers now stained his white dress shirt.

“I bought you a tie,”

It was simple, nothing much, but it was enough to draw him out of his reading session. You came through barrelling into the Mikaelson Mansion, it was your second home now.

You hated shopping, the only shopping you did was food shopping and even then that required walking. You just preferred to online buy things, required minimum effort and minimum walking.

“Ties, to be specific, plural.”

“Why?” Elijah questioned, he marks his place in the book and shuts it.

You pull out two, one in your left and another on the right, “You need more spice to your suits that cost you almost ten thousand grand. Blue and grey are boring.”

“Yes, but why?” Elijah was confused, no one has thought of him when they’ve gone out to shop.

You furrowed your eyebrows, “Why? Well, why not? You’re my boyfriend and thought you needed more - sorry, they don’t cost 300 dollars but it’s something.”

They cost more, in Elijah’s eyes, they come out the heart of you.

“I like the green one,”

“Thought you would.”

Still, months after dating you, he would get used to the feeling of being loved. Being taken cared of, having a support system he could come to bed with.

Still, he was utterly baffled, when you got him a book.

“It’s a good read,” You mention, unpacking bags into the kitchen.

He was helping you, noticing how you brought all Hope’s and Davina’s favourite snacks. Freya’s important ingredients, but his helping was cut short when you made him awkwardly flip through the pages of the book.

It’s a simple gesture, you’re still going about your everyday routine. You seem to be unaffected yet he forgets that he’s a thousand years old and a big scary vampire that could murder you with a snap of your neck.

“Thank you,”

“It’s nothing, babe.”

He loves how you touch him.

Your fingers running down his skin, they’re soft and gentle almost as if they are barely touching him. But, it wasn’t ticklish, they’re electrifying.

He wonders, what effect he has on you.

But, he’s caught up in your eyes he forgets to ask.

You face him in bed, you’ve been dating for over a year now. Elijah is proud to be your boyfriend, sure, there were some up and downs. But, even now, as he stares at you in bed, it seems like he’s falling in love with you all over again.

You’re not asleep, just resting your eyes, you could sense him staring at you. Admiring how you are structured. Imperfect perfection.

“I’d like birds of paradise at our wedding,” Elijah elucidated, knowing full when you’re awake.

“Oh?” You breathed.

“Yes, I’d like that, it’ll brighten the room and-” Elijah sighs, almost dreamily, “It’ll be perfect.”

“Is this a marriage proposal?” You teased, opening your eyes, “Mr Mikaelson?”

Elijah smiles, genuine happiness expressed on a vampire notoriously famous for being too serious, “No not yet, it’ll be flowers and at one of the stem would have the ring on it.”

“Oh, you sap, Elijah,” You yawned, shutting your eyes, “Marry me soon, will you? I’m getting angsty.”

“Ah, I will do,” he hears you evening out your breathing, you’re in a slumber, he suppresses how quickly you drifted away, “Soon, my love, and you’ll be a Mikaelson too.”

Elijah closes his eyes, he feels safe in the presences of you. He’s happy to be with you.

They really do fly them out the paradise, if paradise is with you.

[southsideserpentkings]

A Child's Trauma, A Father's Care. A Child's Pain, a Father's Devotion.

Relationship: Archie Andrews & Fred Andrews (Familial)

Rating: General / Teen (For reference to abuse in Juvie)

Summary:  “What’s gotten into you lately?” “When I said I fought to survive – I meant it literally.” ~Or~ A moment between Archie and Fred. It occurred to me that no one actually tells Fred that his son was forced into an illegal and violent fighting ring, nor does anyone address the fact that Archie’s outbursts of anger and violence are likely because his coping mechanism had been fighting for his life bare knuckles and bloody, and now he’s expected to cope by just…Readjusting to school life and idle chit-chat??? Yeah, no. My trauma is sooooo mild compared to Archie, and I know that is NOT how that works. So essentially – Archie blows up, again, Fred gets onto him, Archie tells him how he coped, how he can’t cope anymore, and Fred is the most amazing father in Riverdale (I mean he’s Sheriff Stilinski level people).

Tags: Family, Past Child Abuse, Implied Jughead/Archie(/Betty), mild language, an unhealthy coping mechanism, dealing with trauma, Hurt/Comfort, Good Dad Fred Andrews, Angry Archie Andrews, Hurt Archie Andrews, good parenting for once on this show, mid-season 3, after Juvie and Canada.

Ao3 Link: Here

****

Archie wouldn’t say he was proud of the fact that he lost it again, he wouldn’t say he was happy about it either, but then again, he couldn’t say he really had any control over it. He’d never accepted the nonsense excuses offered for Reggie and Chuck and the other teen boys who frequently got into altercations, never believed for a moment that they were incapable of controlling themselves, that anger and violence were to be expected just because they were teenage boys. But he was starting to wonder about Reggie, about his home life and what effect it had on him. The boy was an asshole, no doubt about that, and he wasn’t shy of acting up and boasting loudly, but Archie had a new appreciation, and dislike, for how ugly things inflicted by other people could fester under the surface and bubble up into an uncontrollable eruption. And Reggie, unlike all the others save perhaps Sweet Pea, had more than a few bruises and cutting wounds that suggested some well of poison in their lives.

He hadn’t started swinging this time, that at least he could say, but it didn’t make that much of a difference to the observer, to all those now looking in at the all-American-Golden-Boy that had been Archie Andrews. Some jerk twice his age had thought it was a good idea to step out of the circle of his family and the cushion of the masquerade of suburban life to get in Archie’s face. He thought it was a good idea to stand in the young man’s space and spit degrading filth in his face, to blame him for all the things that went wrong in the last year, to curse at him for ‘attacking and degrading a fine upstanding businessman like Hiram Lodge’, to spit a dozen insults and cutting words from a mouth that had no idea what his last two years had been like. He’d ignored it, tried to at least, turned his back and tried to walk away in silence while his father had attempted to break off the tirade calmly, peacefully.

He’d failed when words about Betty Cooper’s poison influence and Jughead Jones’ inbred filth and Archie’s “perverted obsession” with Hiram Lodge hit his back. He’d felt it turn inside of him, the poison darkness that lay dormant and twisting deep within his core, felt it turn from inky numbing coldness into deep burning anger that reached up to curl around his ribs, filling his chest with the heavy weight of a shifting sea formed from heated venom. He’d felt it reach into his mind, felt it build until it choked off his throat with sickening anger, anger born of pain and survival instincts, sharpened and called on repeatedly and frequently until they couldn’t be shut off, catching him in their stranglehold. He felt it all, the weight of the past years, everything since Geraldine Grundy’s abuses to Veronica’s manipulation to Hiram Lodge’s sick games, felt it fill him until it made him sick, until it left him with nothing but anger, and sickness, and rage, and an instinct to fight, to survive. He felt it build, curl his lips into a snarl, bare his teeth in defiance, turn his body without his conscious thought to face the arrogant ass, sound his voice into a growl behind clenched teeth, raise his arms to shove him backwards. He’d made contact, released primal sounds of aggression, acted in violence before he was able to control the impulse. His father was between them, pushing Archie away from the now blustering and red-faced man, and Archie was backing away, teeth still bared, moving away from them both.

He wasn’t proud of it, hell he hated how easily it happened, hated the constant anger and defensiveness that burrowed in his core, racing through his veins at any altercation. But he had a new appreciation for how other people’s violence could turn from pain into anger, and it made him wonder about Reggie, about Sweet Pea, made him worry for himself, for them both. He wasn’t proud, was truthfully unsettled by the lingering otherness under his skin, at least when he could muster more than numb apathy, but at least he hadn’t started swinging. This time. That was an improvement, even if no one else besides King and Queen could see it, but they weren’t here now. They weren't here to curl around him with unconditional acceptance and care. They weren't here to calm him down in the etherial way only they could. They weren't here to talk sense into him and tell him it would be okay. Their presence wasn't here, and it left Archie feeling ragged and vulnerable. No, now he had only an irate and confused father following him into their home, a few steps behind as they entered their dwelling and started through the kitchen. Archie didn’t know what his destination was, he just wanted to be away from here, away from everything…

“What’s gotten into you, Archie?” He wasn’t used to hearing frustration, much less disappointment, in his father’s tone…he had a sickening feeling he should get used to it. He paused by the kitchen island but didn’t turn around, heard his father come to a stop a few paces behind him, listened with a vacant stare as the questions continued behind him, the elder’s tone pitching closer and closer towards rare anger. “I know the last year hasn’t been easy, I know that, but you can’t keep blowing up at people Son!”

He could feel the itching urge under his skin, nestled into suddenly aching joints, to tap his forefinger and middle finger against the cold marble of the island countertop in a slow, heartbeat-like rhythm. He’d learned long ago, in the dark and cold of iron bars and blood-stained tiles, to quell such ticks, to keep still, to give nothing away. The itch became a painful need, but he stood still, fingers unmoving where they sat, stare beginning to transition from vacant to unfocussed, no longer able to make out the clear lines of the laundry room’s paneled door.

A harsh sigh hissed from between his father’s teeth, and Archie was relatively certain that old and calloused hands were running harshly through thinning red hair, pulling at the roots in frustration. An almost useless attempt at rediverting turbulent emotions away from his son. “Damn it, Archie, I don’t compare people, but I’m at a loss here and I have no clue what else to do. FP got manipulated by a man in power, same as you, got put in a damn jail cell for months, same as you, and he didn’t come out swinging and blowing up into fits of rage! You’ve never been an angry kid- What the hell happened?”

His father rarely cursed, that alone was enough to tell Archie how close to the end of his tether the man was. ‘What happened?’ Surely, he didn’t need him to go through it? FP had gone through a sharp, cut and dry withdrawal from alcoholism, but even then, he’d mostly just sat in a cell. His father couldn’t think that that was the same as… They wouldn’t. Would they? Surely one of them, Jughead, Veronica, FP, Betty, surely at least one of them would have told him. Right? He sighed heavily, the sound suppressed within a still chest and clenched teeth. They would. With all the shit going on, no one had told his father, had they?

“They didn’t tell you, did they? I thought at least one of them would have, at some point.” His voice came out steadily, rough and low like his vocal cords had been redecorated by sandpaper, weary with the weight of too much since the summer that his hometown had turned to hell. He turned towards his father slowly, acutely aware of every ache in his protesting body, the pain of where he was worn down, the phantom pain of injuries that had healed, the jarring pull of all the ones that hadn’t healed correctly, the grating where the pieces no longer fit together properly after one too many traumas. He faced his father and wished to gods he wasn’t sure he believed in anymore that the thousand-yard-stare that he couldn’t shake wasn’t reflecting the weight of everything that had happened, that the closed shutters didn’t reveal the numb apathy, hell-born weariness, and the anger that didn’t have anywhere to go. Wished, for the sake of his father, that all his traumas weren’t revealed in the depths of guarded eyes that no longer shined with childhood joy.

His father wasn’t afraid of him, would never, ever recoil from his son in any form of fear…but recoil he did, uncertainty and wariness clear in the sorrow etched into every line of his face when he met young whiskey eyes turned to rust. His voice, too, was guarded, hesitant and suddenly quiet, as he asked the question he knew he didn’t want the answer to. “Tell me what?”

Archie from two years ago would have moved around, would have changed expression, shifted tone in discomfort and an attempt to either avoid this or lighten the impact. Here and now, he didn’t move, not a muscle shifted in body nor expression. Monotone and rough, he wasn’t sure if his tone failed to reveal his emotions…or if his chest truly was as hollow as it felt. “About Leopold and Loeb. They didn’t tell you.” It wasn’t a question. The confusion tinged in the beginnings of alarm on his father’s face told him the answer. He sighed then, quietly but not softly, and shifted ever so slightly towards his father, resting his weight back on one leg.

“When I told you I fought to survive – I meant it.”

His father’s face contorted into confusion, brow furrowing and lips parting to ask him what he meant, but Archie wasn’t in the mood to play twenty-questions. He didn’t have the wherewithal to make this gentle either, but he didn’t want to draw it out, so straightforward it was.

“Hiram didn’t get me sentenced to his prison, to the warden in his pocket, to gloat from a distance. He did that up close.” He sighed heavily and shifted his weight, the first signs of animation he’d shown since he’d stopped moving “They made us fight.” Well that wasn’t going to cut it, he’d have to say it all now. “In Leopold and Loeb. They backed us into corners to see who defended the others, who fought against the dozen guards given free rein to abuse them, who’d lay down and take it and who’d stand up and defend themselves. Not sure it mattered in the end, they took whomever amused them.”

His father had a queasy look beginning to color his face, and Archie realized all of the sudden how that sentence sounded, what horrors it might lead an uninformed mind to conclude. He almost snorted in laughter when he caught it. That type of shit hadn’t happened since Geraldine Grundy. His words weren’t hurried, each of them slow and steady and marching after the previous ones with unshifting uniformity. All the same, he didn’t have use for dramatic pauses, any more than tonal shifts it seemed.

“Loeb and a handful of other juvie prisons took handfuls of kids and threw us by pairs in an old underground swimming pool, square mat that made no difference tossed over the drain in the center.” His father still looked apprehensive, but it was tinged by confusion rather than disgusted horror now. God, Archie wished he wasn’t about to change that. But he could no more avoid these words than he could bring himself to put any more than cold apathy in his tone.

“They made us fight. Six rounds at least, bare knuckles. Bloody or it didn’t count.” Each word like a bullet, spat out without cushion or coddling. Truth laid bare, chips to fall where they may. Not for lack of care or empathy or sorrow for the pain this would cause his father, but an inability for those things to overrule the apathy that had become his 'normal'. “I always made sure I was the one who bled. Half those guys were put there to be beaten into the tile, and I could take most of them down in a few hits, but that ‘didn’t count’.” He made an aborted half-shrug. “You got knocked down, there was a fair chance you’d be dead when they took you out of the ring. Made losing a bad option. The ‘repercussions’ for ‘disappointing’ the warden that got put on everyone else was a pretty strong motivation too. You won, one of three things happened: You died. You got beaten to a pulp. The others got beaten in your place. I kept winning, I kept getting put in the pit.”

His father was leaning against the wall now, a sick look warring for dominance with shock and horror on his features as he stared at his son like he was just now seeing him for the first time. Two years ago Archie would have moved to him, put a hand on his arm to support him, asked him ‘Dad, are you ok?’ with fluctuating tones that revealed a dozen emotions. Now? He stood broken and still as a crumbling statue, staring ahead with vacant eyes at where his father stood, unable to muster the energy to change his monotone. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just didn’t know how to be anything other than numb, unless he was angry, anymore.

“It was hell. But part of me wishes I was still there.” Fred Andrews blanched, whole body recoiling in shock at those words, and a small twinge of remorse – likely far bigger than he was capable of feeling – lanced through Archie’s chest. He took a deep breath and steadied himself, made a point to shift his weight back enough so at least some of it was resting on the arm still atop the counter. Attempted to look less like the veteran soldier come home from hell. He met his father’s eyes and offered a silent apology as the first tendrils of frustration and anger began to leak into his tone.

“I trained, I bled, I fought, I survived.” He breathed, calm and deep, control his survival had demanded he learn in every muscle movement. “I don’t know how to cope out here.”

Anger began to swirl in his gut, began to rise up and swell in his hollow chest, and he grit his teeth to bite it down. “Silence was familiar, but it’s oppressive now. Music reminds me of other...unpleasant, things. Running doesn’t help. Punching a bag doesn’t help. Swinging a sledgehammer doesn’t help.” His teeth ground together, his jaws straining as they grit together, the anger he’d been biting down beginning to rear its head, tendrils of it reaching up to light fires in his eyes. “I can’t feel a damn thing anymore other than numbness and a rage that’s settled itself in my bones, anger that flares up when I can’t get this damn restlessness out of my body. It hurts so fucking bad, builds and builds in my bones until it aches, until I want to snap my own bones to get rid of it. But it won’t come out, nothing gets it out of me.” He barked a short, humorless laugh. “Hell, boxing with Sheriff Keller doesn’t even help. It’s controlled, slow, gloved, has too many rules, isn't real, and he wants me to start at the beginning – He’s not wrong, but that type of fighting, it’s the wrong fighting.”

He breathed out fire between clenched teeth, felt the weight of this thing under his skin run through him, forcing him to move for the first time since they got home, sending shockwaves through his body that make him tremble.

“I know I keep blowing up, stupid shit and stupid people making me angry – And there’s no excuse for it, I know that, I’m trying, fuck I’m trying, to control it. But I don’t know how to control this, fuck, this thing that’s gotten shoved between my bones. I’m not allowed what I need, fights like those are illegal for a reason, and damn it, I can’t cope out here! ” His voice had taken a higher pitch toward the end, distress and frustration ringing through clearly as he tried not to fall apart, the ugly truth of the patchwork of his psyche and trauma laid bare.

He was actively trembling now, teeth gritted and bared to the cold night air, tears that stubbornly refused to fall blurring his vision.

Fred hadn’t said anything else, the aggression gone from his form, chased away by horror and sickness, sorrow and rage. Those, too, were fading, becoming a muted background in the shifting earth of the elder's eyes. He straightened from where he’d been leaned against the wall, and somewhere in the distant recesses of his mind Archie marveled at how fathers could do that. How they could look like they had borne the weight of the world and broken under a trial that bent even a titan of old, could move like every fiber of their being was shredded, worn away by life and cruelty alike, and yet still appear as if steel was rigged around their bones, as if they could take the weight of the world and all the cosmos as well with ease, by the force of their will alone. Any frustration or ire he'd felt was gone, locked away behind the unfailing determination and love and care of a father.

He stepped up to his son with slow, measured and sure steps, stood before him and reached out to grasp his hands, used them to pull at him gently, not enough to move him but to ground him while his father looked up at him with earthen eyes turned warm with care, underlined by soft steel manifesting a survivor’s will. “Son…” God, he hadn’t heard a tone like that since he’d been small, ten or so, and had needed his recently separated father to reassure the fears that had manifest into nightmares. He wished he was ten again, back when fondness and patience and the never-ending warmth of his father’s voice telling him he was okay was enough, when the strength shifting beneath it, promising to cradle him and protect him from anything, real or fictitious, had been enough to settle any restlessness in his chest. Calloused hands that had long ago given up music in trade for unforgiving work for the sake of taking care of his family released his own, reached up carefully and gently to cup his jaw. Cradled his face between them, grounded him and urged him to meet older eyes that had seen him grow, had seen too much before him, too much now; eyes that promised the same shield of love and safety that had been promised to a ten-year-old with nightmares that paled in comparison to a now-seventeen-year-old’s reality.

“It’s going to be okay, Archie.” Rough thumbs larger than his own, that could more easily wrap around the neck and strings of a guitar, glanced over his cheeks in a reassuring pattern. He settled, teeth still gritted, eyes still tear-filled, and breaths still hissing out in quiet pain and anger. He settled enough to meet his father’s eyes, enough to lean into the offered embrace. Enough to ground himself in his father’s presence and hear the words uttered in quiet conviction in the space between them. “You’re not alone anymore Arch, we’ll get through this, I promise. It’s going to be okay Son.”

He could feel the urge to shake his head, to deny that, but in the end, he was still only a child, no matter how broken or how badly pieced back together. In the end, he pressed his lips closed tightly as they tried to tremble, he gripped onto his father’s wrists too hard in desperation but wasn’t reprimanded for it. In the end, he crumbled forward and pressed his face into the crook of his father’s neck and shoulder, pressed into him as desperately as a child lost in the seas of fear. In the end, his tears finally fell, born of pain and suffering and anger, and too much time surviving, with quietly gasped breaths of burning air fueling lungs burning in the inferno of his emotions, trying to relieve the pressure of the screams he wasn’t letting out. In the end, Fred Andrews wrapped his arms around Archie and held him, offered a place of refuge and safety as only a father devoted to his child could. He held him close, let him fall apart while he held him together, and devoted himself entirely to healing his son while reassurances and comforts fell from his lips to be muffled in red hair brighter than his own. Archie let himself be ten-years-old again and clung to his father, to safety and love and acceptance and the promise that it would all be okay because his father said so, and Fred vowed silently to make it so.