#them taking over that one building and naming it hind’s hall and forcing people to learn about hind and start a dialogue? incredible

[deniigi]

Please take this section from a piece about Baby Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon bonding post Bandomeer.

I’m sure that this isn’t how their master-apprentice relationship was formed but I refuse to read so this is it for me 🙃🙂

Title: platelets

Summary: After the smoke clears on Bandomeer, the Agricorps gathers 12yo Obi-Wan into their ranks and prepares to train him to become one of their own. Qui-Gon thinks they should wait a damn minute here. He’s had a change of heart.

---

Obi-Wan was no longer in the med bay. It took Qui-Gon two hours to find him and two years off his life trying to look casual under the irritated gaze of so many suspicious Agricorps members.

The foreman (forewoman) was the first to crack under Qui-Gon’s very charming smile—and she didn’t so much as crack as tell him that his attempts to be subtle disgusted her to the core.

Obi-Wan had been given over to a young lab manager. A friendly man in need of his first supervisee. He was soft at heart and, according to the foreman, very good with kids.

Qui-Gon understood implicitly and rapidly that this was his new competitor.

He asked the foreman what the knights had done to incur the corps’ ire and she told him to search his fucking feelings.

She closed the door behind him, effectively locking him into one of the Agricorps terrarium-lab bubbles.

 --

Qui didn’t like to snoop. He loved to snoop.

Nothing was more satisfying then having a poke through the lines upon lines of glasses and test pockets that covered the tables. He had a sniff around the experimental cuttings taking root in their glasses and then took cover when he heard a voice break out into a laugh.

He peered over the edge of the counter and spotted the familiar green smock-tunic of the corps. Its owner had tan skin and narrow eyes and his back stooped into an arc. Qui-Gon craned his neck and found that the arc came over the tuft-y red hair of his future apprentice (because there was no real question here, regardless of the corps’ agitation; the knights would always get first choice over the initiates).

The lab manager, however, gave no sign of trepidation. He held in front of Obi-Wan a handful of seeds that sprouted and curled under his smile. Obi-Wan watched them with wide eyes. The manager turned his gentle face down towards Obi-Wan and nudged his hands until Obi-Wan was holding the mass as it grew.

“Look, you’re a natural,” the man said.

Obi-Wan sucked in a lip and focused hard. One of the plants’ first adult leaves began to unfurl.

“Well done. Fantastic,” the manager said. “Look at you already. Great job and for that, a reward.”

“A reward?” Obi-Wan asked, handing the tangle of roots off as the manager held out his hands for them.

“A reward,” the manager agreed, plucking one of the fat stems from the bunch and holding it out to Obi-Wan, “A snack.”

Damn. This guy was good.

 --

 The foreman was smug as a dungbeetle in shit when Qui-Gon skulked out of the lab. She asked him how his proposal had gone. He scowled at her and made off back to his quarters.

Normally, he would call someone to lament the traitorous actions of these supposed-allies, but no one was going to be sympathetic right now—not even Tahl. She was going to say what everyone else was going to say which was “Man, you had how many chances to get this right?”

He smashed his face into the pillow of his bunk, then flung it off and flattened his cheek against the mattress.

There had to be some way to turn these tides back in his favor. He wasn’t losing to the Agricorps. Master Dooku would have a heart attack. Qui’s failure in this—more than Xanatos—would kill him and then he’d have to live with that guilt for the rest of his life.

UGH.

Alright, Jinn. Think.

 --

 He had a brilliant plan. It involved a lightsaber. Obi-Wan loved lightsabers. Qui-Gon had witnessed him loving them many a time.

He scrounged up some tools and squeaked past the Agricorps security for a quick bounce off to acquire a crystal. A blue one. Obi-Wan looked like a blue saber sort of kid. It took a while to find one because everyone, everywhere, was conspiring against Qui-Gon on this. Even the Force seemed to be telling him that he was too late.

But for once, he didn’t care. There were only so many times you could fuck up before you started fucking up at least in the right direction.

He got the crystal. He brought it back to the corps headquarters and went on the hunt yet again for his (his damnit) future apprentice.

  This time, Obi-Wan was in the dormitories. Qui-Gon almost gasped in horror to find him outfitted in an over-large green smock-tunic. He flapped the too-long sleeves with a goofy smile while his lab manager reached around him and tightened the belt at his waist as far as it would go.

“You’re so scrawny,” the lab manager told him. “We’ll fix that.”

Obi-Wan beamed up at him and held up his sleeve-covered hands.

“I like green,” he said.

A small piece of Qui-Gon screamed internally.

“I think you’re more of a blue, actually,” the lab manager said. “But this is what we’ve got for now. When you get bigger, we can see if there’s a blue that fits you.”

“There are so many colors,” Obi-Wan said as the manager trapped his arm and started rolling up one of the sleeves. He tried to do the same with the other on his own, which just made the manager’s job harder.

“There are,” the manager said.

“Do you get to pick?”

“You sure do.”

“How do you pick?”

The manager patted Obi-Wan’s head and turned around to hunt down something else from the spare clothing supply.

“It comes to you,” he said, muffled.

There was a long silence. Qui-Gon had just decided to step out of hiding, when Obi-Wan, looking at the rolled edges of his sleeves said,

“I think I want to leave.”

Qui-Gon’s heart stopped. The manager’s rummaging did, too. He pulled himself carefully out of the cupboard.

“Leave?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Obi-Wan said to his sleeves. “I think I want to leave.”

No.

“You’re a little young to leave, aren’t you?” the manager said awkwardly.

“Maybe,” Obi-Wan said. “But I’ll figure it out. If I can survive those people in the mines, then I can figure it out, can’t I? And then I can pick my colors out there. You get to pick, right? Maybe I’ll do blue after all.”

Fuck. No. Qui-Gon was gonna—

“Hey, why don’t we do this?” the manager said, setting aside a set of gaiters to kneel down in front of Obi-Wan. “Let’s give us a trial run, huh? Two months, max. I know we didn’t make the best first impression, but give us two months—eight weeks—and after that, if you don’t like it, we’ll make sure you’ve got somewhere to go when you’re ready to leave. Does that sound okay?”

Qui-Gon held his breath. Obi-Wan studied the knuckles of the hands holding his. He rubbed his split lips together.

“Eight weeks?” he asked.

“That’s all, no more and if you really, really can’t stand it, then even less,” the manager said.

“And you’ll help me? Even if I say I don’t want to stay?”

“Even if you don’t want to stay.”

Maybe Qui was operating on another, less child-friendly level here, but why in kark’s name you’d even give the boy the illusion of choice was beyond him. The answer was, truly, that the second Obi-Wan set foot away from the jedi, he’d be signing his own death sentence.

Xanatos wouldn’t care if he wasn’t Qui-Gon’s true apprentice. He wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions. He’d just seize the opportunity the moment Obi-Wan no longer had someone standing behind him, and when he was through, he’d bring the body to the Temple and lay it out cold and open-eyed on the front steps.

There were no other options for the child now. Qui-Gon was being kind with this process of trust-building. In reality, if he really needed to, he could contact Yoda and acquiesce to his previous wisdom and arguments for Qui-Gon to take the kid on. Yoda would then change the boy’s assignment and orders; he would return to the temple and thereafter again go through the selection process. But this time, Qui-Gon would select him without hesitation.

That wasn’t how Qui-Gon wanted to do this, but if the boy thought that he was going to leave, to step out into the cold of space, then to spare him a cruel, meaningless death, Qui-Gon would.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said quietly to the manager.

“Anytime, hon,” the manager said. “Who knows, anyways. You might even like it here.”

 --

  The trouble with the damn Agricorps was that they were phenomenal talkers. They talked to people about their problems and all these insecurities and they gave them food and drinks and told jokes and laughed and hefted their littlest supervisees up onto their shoulders and all that served to make their members loyal to each other to a fault.

In short, Obi-Wan’s lab manager was winning this battle more every day.

This was not helped at all by the fact that Qui-Gon had discovered through a surprise meeting that Obi-Wan was afraid of him.

They’d bumped into each other in the hallway as Obi-Wan came from the mess hall and Qui-Gon went to drop off some documents, and the kid scrambled away from him and flattened himself against the corridor’s wall.

Some serious meditation (and agitating Mace, great tower of sleep-deprived wisdom) had brought Qui-Gon to the conclusion that yeah, a month in forced labor, being banished to a mine, food deprivation, physical assault, and so on really did a number on a twelve-year-old’s trust in people and their associates.

Further, Mace pointed out that Qui-Gon was approximately ‘half a mile tall and covered in overgrowth.’

He did not appear to be a soothing presence to children. Mace said that if he’d deigned to join him and the other masters in chatting and cuddling the younglings in the crèche, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but alas, Qui, you stuck-up nerfherder. You reap what you sow.

Mace’s hind and foresight was, as per usual, invaluable.

Qui-Gon decided that he was going to be the nice version of himself. He was going to smile at Obi-Wan. That would do it.

 --

 It didn’t do it.

The foreman came to Qui-Gon’s quarters to gleefully tell him not to approach the corps’ young supervisees unprompted. He was giving the children hives.

He explained to her outright that he intended to take Obi-Wan on as his apprentice.

She told him good luck. Obi-Wan, she claimed, was already settling in with the others. He was making friends. And Qui-Gon wasn’t so cruel as to separate such a traumatized boy from such comfort, now was he?

But there, she was mistaken.

He definitely was that cruel.

The foreman told him to die miserable and slammed his door.

 --

 It took another two tries, but eventually, he managed to find Obi-Wan tucked away on one of his breaks from his training in the lab. He appeared to be at a loss for what to do with himself. He’d settled against a window and had splayed both hands on it as he stared out into the cracked soil of Bandomeer.

Qui-Gon watched him for a little while and then cleared his throat.

Obi-Wan jumped. His eyes came up for the briefest second and then his head went down.

“Master,” he greeted.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon replied. “You seem bored.”

Guilt colored the boy’s cheeks in a flush.

“I’m not bored, Master,” he said, fidgeting with his rolled sleeves.

“May I sit?” Qui-Gon asked, gesturing next to where Obi-Wan knelt. He nodded and arranged himself in a more dignified posture. Qui-Gon let him; he sat down next to him, grumbling and creaking and popping.

His bones weren’t what they used to be.

Once he was finally more or less comfortable, he turned to notice Obi-Wan staring at him with eyes like a cat’s.

“What? You never seen an old man sit?” he asked.

“What happened to your hair?” Obi-Wan asked.

Oh.

“It’s in a bun,” Qui-Gon explained, reaching up to release the mane. It tumbled down over his shoulders and cheered for fresh air.

Obi-Wan’s gaze became even more cat-like. Qui-Gon fought off a smirk.

“You want to touch it?” he asked.

The kid looked away abruptly.

“It’s okay. You can touch it,” Qui told him. “It looks better than it feels, I must say. Needs a trim—look at these ends, little one. I ought to be arrested for crimes against decency.”

Aha. Gotcha. Look at that wobble in those lips. Trying not to smile. They’d see how long that worked, now wouldn’t they?

He badgered Obi-Wan until he finally broke and reached up to brush his fingers against the hair Qui-Gon put within his reach. His attention snapped into place.

“It’s soft,” he said, amazed.

His fingers started combing without permission. Qui-Gon let it happen.

“Very useful for cold climates—have you ever felt a snow-yak, Obi-Wan?” he asked.

The boy shook his head. Of course, he hadn’t.

“Do you know what they look like?”

Another shake.

“Well, perhaps one day, you will see them,” Qui-Gon said indulgently. “When I was a boy, my master told me not to try to pet them—he told me at every step of the way, he knew me well. But you know what I did?”

There was that smile now.

“You pet them?” Obi-Wan asked.

“I sure did,” Qui-Gon told him. “And you know that they did?”

“Kicked you?”

“Me? No. I was too small a target. They charged my master—Master Dooku; you may have heard of him.”

Obi-Wan shoved his giggles into his palms.

“I want to pet one,” he said.

“Yes, you do look like the type,” Qui-Gon said. “Tell me, Obi-Wan, what are your feelings on pathetic lifeforms?”

“What’s that?”

“You tell me. What’s a pathetic lifeform to you?”

Obi-Wan settled in and thought about it as he gazed out the window’s thick glass.

“Me,” he decided.

Bless him.

“You?” Qui-Gon said incredulously. “No, no. You saved a jedi master. I said ‘pathetic.’”

“Me,” Obi-Wan insisted again.

Qui-Gon held a finger out between them.

“If you are a pathetic life form, then I am in grave danger,” he said.

The giggle this time wasn’t hidden. It make Qui-Gon’s own grin grow.

“I was thinking a lothcat,” he admitted. “Or a dragon—love a dragon. Of course, the yak—perhaps not pathetic to my master, but to others yes. They’re not smart, Obi-Wan, poor things.”

“You like animals,” Obi-Wan said.

Qui-Gon weighed this statement with his head.

“’Animals’ isn’t quite broad enough, but yes, they fall into the category,” he said. “I’m also a big fan of rescuing the plants that no one can keep alive.”

Obi-Wan brought up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. He settled a soft cheek onto the top of the right one.

“That’s what I’ll be doing here,” he said.

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause. The boy sniffed softly.

“You will be happy here,” Qui-Gon told him gently. “They will take care of you.”

Another sniff. An eye scrubbed with a too-long sleeve.

“I’m sorry I’m not good enough,” Obi-Wan whispered.

Well, this was a conversation Qui-Gon hadn’t wanted to walk into. There were, from his vantage point, a few ways out of it, but at the end of each of those paths was a set of brown eyes framed by intense, wispy green brows.

“You are good enough,” Qui-Gon said. “I am just a foolish master. You deserve someone better than me, Obi-Wan.”

“There is no one else,” Obi-Wan said.

“There will be,” Qui-Gon said.

“No, there won’t. I’m out of time. All that’s left for me is...this,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing to the landscape beyond the window.

Qui-Gon studied it; the cracks in the soil, the piles of broken stones.

“It is a little bleak,” he admitted.

“What is it like for non-jedi people?” Obi-Wan asked. “Do they go to school? How do they find somewhere to sleep?”

“You will not be a non-jedi person,” Qui-Gon said.

There was a long pause.

“What?”

Qui-Gon sucked in a breath and let his shoulders fall.

“Unless you really want to be one,” he added. “Apologies, I spoke without thinking.”

Those blue eyes were the same color as the crystal in Qui-Gon’s pocket. He put his hand inside of it and pulled the carefully wrapped parcel out so that Obi-Wan could see it. He rolled it slowly until only the crystal sat in his palm.

“There is greatness in you, Obi-Wan,” he said. “And I am not a good enough Master, but you are more than a deserving padawan.”

The eyes flicked from the crystal to Qui-Gon’s face once, then twice.

“Do you mean it?” Obi-Wan asked.

“Are you okay with having a silly master?” Qui-Gon asked. “I will not sugar-coat it—one of my students has already fallen. I am the type of person who Master Windu has been dreaming of the unfortunate demise for since we were children.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan asked with eyes only for the crystal.

“Excellent question. I am told that my brain is fundamentally ill-suited for human interaction,” Qui-Gon said with a smile.

Obi-Wan huffed.

“Does Master Windu really dislike you so much?” he asked.

“He speaks to me in such ways only out of love. My other friends say that I am dedicated intensely to the flight of fancy.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Obi-Wan said.

“You know, funny thing,” Qui-Gon told him, reaching over to take his hand and press the crystal into it, “Neither do I.”

[girlpornparadise]

The Caged Bird Moans (pt 1)

Pairing: Diego Jimenez/f!Reader (Power - Starz)

Word Count: ~2600

Warnings:  It's a bit Stockholm syndromey, but that's not a real thing anyway (look it up). Not exactly non-con, but it skirts the idea, so if power disparities aren't your jam, please move along. It just real dirty. SMUT!

Personal ramble: Would anyone actually react like this to the situation I've set forth? No. But just as the pizza guy is never hot and doesn't offer you his extra sausage, this is porn people! So suspend your disbelief and don't hate on me for my bullsh*t.

I also wrote all this nonsense a week ago before I read anything from the lovely @1zashreena1 , @heresathreebee or @nicke0115 so sorry if it looks similar, I swear it's a coincidence.

"Ouch", you think to yourself but instead swallow the pain. Your arm hurts under the firm grasp of the thug dragging you from the elevator into the spacious penthouse.

"Be careful with that." Says a commanding voice from across the room.

The grip loosens, but he's still using your momentum to force you forward. You stumble, unsure of just how much danger you are in.

As you take in your surroundings the owner of the voice turns around and approaches you. He looks you up and down, examining you like a prize he had won.

"We can't afford to damage her." He states plainly, looking at the man still holding you in place.

As he examines you, you examine him right back. Whereas he is doing it in an obvious way, head nodding to rake his eyes over you, you move your eyes only, unable to control your body in this moment. You follow the carefully polished boots up past the fitted black jeans to the black buttoned up shirt with the slight sheen to it, that accentuates his frame. Everything is obviously expensive and very deliberately chosen. As your eyes settle on his face, a recognization dawns on you. Diego Jimenez. One of the heads of the Jiminez cartel. His reputation was well known to you. An unstable, merciless man whose penchant for partying made him a big name in certain circles. You were scared before, but now your body goes rigid with fear and your gaze hits the floor with force.

Though you're no longer looking at him directly you can sense his smugness and satisfaction at knowing you are now showing the appropriate amount of fear for the situation you're in. Maybe it's your hind brain telling you you are in the presence of an apex predator. Maybe it was the clipped snort he let out, tinged with amusement as he nodded with approval.

After what feels like an eternity, but was probably mere seconds, he speaks again.

"Take her to the guest room." He orders the man still firmly gripping your arm. "Lock this little bird in her cage."

Dragging you again, this time down the hall, Diego's orders are followed to completion. You are practically thrown into the room as the door slams shut behind you.

You stumble, catching yourself on the bed. You collapse onto it as tears prick your eyes and subsequently fall down your cheeks. You begin to sob, but muffle it in the covers, assuming someone is standing guard outside and not wanting to seem even weaker in such an intense situation. But the tears flow freely as the shock of what's happened slowly wears off and you begin to process the details of your abduction.

You hadn't grown up in this world, though your ties to it were strong. You were part of the Bennet family, a rival cartel, headed by your grandfather. He insisted you grow up distanced from this world. A world of violence and cruelty. A world of drugs and guns and transactions ending in death. Based on your current reaction, you couldn't help but think maybe it was because you're so weak. Both you and he knew it was true, you were too soft to be a part of the business, too kind to do what would be required of you. So he kept you away, from his city and his dealings and all of the darkness that came with it.

You were in town for a rare family visit when you were taken without warning, snatched from the street at gunpoint. They were able to do it without drawing attention, entirely professional, and you complied with their every demand as a sense of terror ripped through you.

And now here you were, trapped by a barbarous stranger who could end your life at any moment without a second thought.

As you wore yourself out from crying, you began to take in the room, determined to get your bearings. It was sparsely decorated, obviously the work of a man unattached. It was also immaculately clean, obviously the work of his maid. As your breathing slows and your senses sharpen, you become aware that the comforter you are still on top of is plush and expensive, like the kind found at a swanky hotel.

Curiosity returning with your senses, you walk over to the window that stretches from floor to ceiling and take in the impressive view of the city. If the long elevator ride weren't a clear enough indicator, the view tells you that you are in the penthouse of a very upscale building.

Next to the window is a large bathroom and you walk in. You splash cold water on your face and dry it on one of the plush towels. You can't help be momentarily amused by how well stocked the room is with soaps and lotions. There were definitely worse places to be trapped. Was this the definition of a gilded cage?

As you settle down, you take off your shoes and sit back down on the bed. You're exhausted to your core, and you sink into the mattress, wanting to disappear. You want to keep your wits about you, alert and on guard, but instead the stress combined with the late hour forces you to sleep.

You are woken up abruptly the following morning when the door swings open and you are literally dragged out of bed by the same man as yesterday. 

You're a bleary eyed, rumpled mess and the same fear and pain shoot through you as you remember where you are and how you got there. Your breathing is shallow as you try not to panic.

You've been dragged before Diego who is standing imposingly before you, hands clasped in front of him, chin slightly upward so he can look down his nose at you.

He examines you once more and you can tell he's disgusted by what he sees.

"Get our guest something to wear." He barks. "And get her something to eat. We can't bargain if she's broken."

As he turns away from you to resume whatever you interrupted, you catch the flash of the gun in his waistband and the fear settles once again in the pit of your stomach.

You are escorted back to the room forcefully and your mind is racing. You know everyone who comes through the penthouse is armed to the teeth and there's no chance of escape. You're not just weak, you're helpless. You assume you're being held for some kind of ransom, probably territory or resources as opposed to money, and you silently pray that a deal for your release is struck quickly so this nightmare can be over.

Soon after, the door opens and a housekeeper enters carrying a couple of bags of clothes. She doesn't look you in the eye and you wouldn't know what to say to her anyway. 

Once she has left, you rummage through the clothes. There's nothing there you'd pick for yourself, but you settle on a white fitted t-shirt and jeans. You carry them with you into the bathroom along with a handful of drugstore makeup you find in the bottom of the bag.

You look at yourself in the mirror and the reason for Diego's revulsion becomes clear. Your clothes are wrinkled and creased and your mascara is smudged under your eyes. You lock the bathroom door behind you, strip down and take a shower. The running water calms you and once you finish you get dressed and approximate your normal makeup routine with what you have. If you're going to put on a brave front, you need to be as put together as possible.

When you emerge from the bathroom a tray of breakfast is waiting on the nightstand next to the bed. Eggs sunny side up and toast, simple and straightforward. You devour it greedily since you haven't eaten since lunch yesterday.

The day passes with 2 more meals brought to you by the same housekeeper at the appropriate intervals. In the absence of your phone, you distract yourself with mindless TV on the rather large set opposite the bed. You don't take in much as you think about your predicament and then try to force those thoughts of the worst case scenario from your mind.

Your sleep that night is restless.

You are brought before Diego once again in the morning, shortly after you wake. 

This time you are allowed to walk under your own power, though your legs feel wobbly and your feet unsure as you approach him.

You're wearing a cotton t-shirt and shorts,  the closest thing you could find to pajamas. As he looks at you, you become painfully aware that you're not wearing underwear, his eyes seeming to stop at all the places where it should be.

You are at least able to look at him and take in more this time. He's clad in a similar black button up shirt and black jeans as yesterday, a uniform of sorts to convey his status. His hair is neatly cut and accentuates his angles, sharp jaw and well placed cheekbones. His greying facial hair gives him some earned distinction and his expression is hard and deliberate to elicit a specific reaction of fear. Through the careful tailoring of his shirt you can see that his body is sturdy and muscular. His tense posture using his frame to his advantage, making him seem larger than he actually is. You know to fear him, but he may be the most attractive man you've ever seen in real life.

He obviously cultivates an aura of power, and you can't help but be drawn to him as an Alpha Male. As you steel yourself, you dare to look him in the eyes. His eyes are cold but impossibly magnetic and you can't look away. He's looking back at you now, into you. Your heart forgets how to beat in rhythm and you swallow thickly.

He sees your fear and is clearly amused by it.

"Breakfast will be ready soon. You should go take a shower." He says, his lips curling upwards. 

"I, I was going to." you stammer.

"Good girl." It comes out as almost a purr and sends a shiver down your spine.

This time it's Diego, not his associate who accompanies you back to the bedroom. His hand is hovering above the small of your back, ushering you forward while maintaining a small distance. You enter the room and the lock clicks behind you.

You turn to see that he's still in the room and with his gaze set upon you, you begin to back away towards the bathroom,  afraid to turn your back on him. This was clearly his intended effect.

You expect him to leave, but he's doing the opposite. He is stalking forward. Your heart is pounding out of your chest and your uneven breathing becomes gulping for air.

As he closes the gap between your bodies, he repeats his suggestion. "You should go take a shower." It's not a suggestion though, it's a command.

He leans in. "Go on." His lips are close enough to your ear that his breath catches in your hair.

His thick body is now urging you through the bathroom doorway by its approach. You back through it, still transfixed by his gaze. 

You glance side eyed to your left at the shower that takes up the far wall. It's one of those large walk-in showers with a stone floor and a rain showerhead. It suddenly seems less like a shower and feels more like a trap about to spring shut.

"Take off your clothes." He says. He's not asking.

You gulp, your eyes have gone wide at the demand.

"Take. Off. Your. Clothes." He repeats in a tone that is both amused and losing patience. He raises his eyebrows slightly as he says it.

You look away, ashamed, and slowly and nervously acquiesce. You stand before him completely naked and try to avert your gaze. You are drawing your body inward, trying to conceal yourself in any way you can.

"Turn on the water." he says with his wicked smile widening.

You turn on the shower and wait for it to warm. It dawns on you that there's no shower curtain to protect you or glass wall to hide behind. You are fully exposed and will remain so.

You step under the water, unsure of what to do next. You'd obviously showered hundreds of times, but this wasn't a shower. It was a show.

"Wash yourself." His voice is quieter, more of a harsh whisper.

You grab a washcloth and pump the foaming body wash onto it. You rub it on the back of your neck and slowly work your way down to your shoulders. Your nerves have subsided a little as the water washes over your skin.

He's mesmerized by the motion of your hands and you drag the washcloth across your collarbones and down to your breasts, where you languidly rub them with the cloth as well as your free hand.

Your nipples harden at your own touch. He notices and his tongue drags over his bottom lip. You close your eyes in an attempt to momentarily escape.

When you open your eyes you notice him shift his weight and catch a glimpse of the shift in his muscles under his shirt. You get a rush as you feel the power dynamic shift slightly. You are slow to rub the washcloth down your legs and you arch your back slightly as you bend over, purposely sticking out your ass more than you naturally would. 

His eyes are dark with lust and you can feel the warmth radiating from between your own legs.

"Rub your clit." He says, reclaiming his power.

You look at him with shocked eyes and your eyebrows knit.

"You heard me." he says. "I won't ask again." His head tilting slightly.

You put the washcloth aside and tentatively slide your middle finger between your thighs to your bundle of nerves. You notice how wet you already are and using gentle pressure you begin to rubbing in circles.

You close your eyes and swallow as your walls contract and release. Your breathing gets heavier and heavier until you're panting. Panting and touching yourself for this fixated man. 

"Cum for me." He demands. "I need to see you cum." 

You think to fake an orgasm. To end this little game he's playing, but it's too late. Your finger presses harder on your clit and you tremble as the real thing rips through you. You close your eyes and cry out with abandon.

When you regain yourself you look at him. You are raw and exposed and at your most vulnerable. His mouth is in a wide smile and his eyes gleam with satisfaction. 

He reaches out to you, towel in hand. You steady yourself, turn off the water, and take the towel from him. You wrap it around yourself, suddenly panged with shame at how readily you revealed your most intimate self to this menacing stranger. Your posture closes, and reflects your return to shyness.

"Good girl." He says, and you feel the words like honey dripping in your ears.

He turns and leaves, his confident stride drawing your attention to how his jeans hug his perfect behind. 

You dry yourself off and as you get to your inner thighs you're reminded of how wet you are. How wet you are for him. You want to blame the shower, but you know the truth. You're spellbound by this man, and god are you in trouble.

[languishedlaughing]

Project: 047-DEs8i Desai the hedgehog

TLDR:

Created by the GUN just before Eggman broke into the gun base and freed Shadow (SA2). Desai is Chaos-negitive he’s incapable of handling even the smallest amount of chaos energy, which is rather unfortunate because the world he lives in radiates it as natural energy. Other wise he’s pretty normal, got’s some speed to him because all hedgehogs seem to, but he’s got no stamina from living in a room by himself for several years.  Shadow finds out and is like, um this isn’t happening again and helps the GUN scientists figure out a way to get Desai outside. Little happy family. I like fluff.

Story under cut:

The file sat unopened before him. The rage ebbed off him in waves, the limiters burning hot as they did their work in overdrive to contain the chaos energy. Shadow forced himself to breath, push it back and use his own control rather then relying on them. He was still angry, but this was the very reason they'd not told him sooner.

Of course the G.U.N had all the relevant data, all they needed to recreate the ultimate life from project, it only took time before someone got the great idea to try it again. It made his blood boil, not just that someone was, again, trying to make a copy of him, but that someone else was going through what he did. ARK had not been all sunshine and roses, at least not before she was there.

The commander assured him that it had been the previous leadership that had the gal to try playing god again and create another artificial life in Shadow’s image. The one that he himself had usurped. Apparently Dr. Eggman had been using the chaos at the time to break in and awaken Shadow in the first place. Funny how things worked out.

That file with a paperclip slid over the edge, no doubt holding a picture on the other side, the front printed in thick ink; Project: 047-DEs8i. He couldn't bring himself to read the damn thing. Shadow knew it wasn't his file, but the visceral reaction had been the same. His hand shook and his heart leaped up into his chest. He couldn't bring himself to open it, even looking at it was hard. Finally he shoved it aside, tapping his fingers on the desk.

Rouge will just have to do that. She wouldn't say no, and he trusted her enough to tell him what he needed to know. Instead, he got up shoes tapping loudly down the empty halls. The G.U.N. ran deep underground, and at one of the lowest levels...

The room past the large window was white. In the middle of the room, the controller to some game station in his hand, was, well, DEs8i. The project name must have been computer generated, but it miffed Shadow that they didn't bother to give him a decent name. He looked... normal was the word. His coat was a dark color, not quite black but in that range, his arms and legs were white up to about his elbows. His ears and quill tips were also a white-ish color. The way his spines fell downwards passed more for Sonic's style then his own, though they seemed to be shorter then either hedgehogs.

And That was how their first meeting went; through a glass wall. At some point the hedgehog paused his game, maybe feeling eyes on him, and waved at the hedgehog on the other side. Mismatched eyes squinted in a smile; a soft green in one and orange in the other. They were pale in their colors lacking the bright vibrancy he was used to seeing in mobian eyes. Shadow wondered if it was an effect of his chaos-negative status. He lifted a hand, before turning and heading back.

-

“Well, seems the biggest thing is that he can't leave the building.” Rouge waited a beat, thinking Shadow would be appalled by that statement, his eyes flicked in her direction, willing her to get on with it. Close enough, he wanted to know why before getting angry; a step up for Shadow for sure. “He cant handle chaos energy in the slightest. It's probably what killed all his predecessors. It's amazing he's lasted as long as he has.”

Three years. Three years of loneliness, of pain. How the hell did they manage to make someone who was, what did they call it, Chaos-negative? The only thing that had kept him alive this long was the deep bunker and several layers of heavy chaos shielded walls. The doctors and scientists had to do a version of decontamination to even enter the room he was kept in. And even then they could only remain for a short time. “Predecessors?”

“Yeah, about that... I'm thinking this 47 number in front is the attempt totals.” Forty-Six. They hadn't thought to stop even after forty-six had died. Shadow's knuckles were white under his gloves. Rouge reached out to touch him and then paused. Shadow would let her, probably, but  it wasn't what he wanted. Shadow didn't liked to be touched.

“The commander shut down the project.” She reminded him soothingly. “They're keeping him comfortable, as much as they can. You saw.”

Yes, he saw. That was something you said to a terminally ill patient. Keep them comfortable. It was an existence, not a life. He'd never see the sun, or feel the wind on his face, Worst of all, he didn't have anyone around to help ease the solitude. Shadow tapped out his anger on the table thinking as Rouge watched him with concern written on her face. Neither of them liked it; it was easy for her to tell what Shadow was thinking. But, what could they do? The nature of the world was keeping the other hedgehog trapped in that cell.

The nature of the world was what banished Maria to a space station above the planet.

Shadow gritted his teeth, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration.

The glimmer of his limiters caught his eye. He stood suddenly, startling Rouge, passing through the door before Rouge could even finish saying his name.

This time he might be able to change someone's fate.

–

The look on The commander's face when Shadow had put a limiter on his desk had been, in hind-sight, priceless. It had only been one, he'd kept the other on, but it still had the Commander shaking in his boots. Still, they'd been receptive to his idea. The scientists had quickly begun working over time to reverse engineer the limiter and turn it outwards. Why not? If they could make chaos absorbing rings 50 years ago, why couldn't they use the same technology to make chaos repelling rings?

Shadow opened to door to the R&D lab. It bustled in a way that, for a moment, flashed him back to ARK and he shook his head chasing the memory away. Dr. Whitla, the woman in charge of the original project (though from the way she says it, that had only been in name and her bitterness had been palatable), rubbed the bridge of her nose, holding her glasses in one hand. “Having trouble, Doctor?” Shadow asked smoothly.

She didn't jump, too tired after one too many long nights. “Not so much.” She replied. Shadow didn't dislike her. Dr. Whitla, for her part, had jumped at the chance to change her project's lot in life. She might not like how much her hand had been forced before, but it was hard not to feel affection for something you created.

“I can't get over how much they kept from us before. If we had any of this information things would have been so much better. Even just knowing about the chaos sequencing in the-” Shadow stopped listening. There wasn't a scientist in the world that couldn't help but get caught up in their field of expertise or let it get away from them from time to time. From what Shadow had gathered, the old guard had classified far too much and still expected results. Excitement ran through the group around him, as much as the fatigue. They were close, he could tell just by watching them. Willing to put in the time an long hours needed to change things. Shadow wondered if he knew what was being done for him. Maybe it was best he didn't, in case it didn't work out.  

“Well anyway. We're ready to run some tests.” Shadow decided to vacate the lab, he didn't want to find out what would happen if he was exposed to unstable and untested chaos repelling technology.

–

It was three months before they had a working model another two before they could reasonably say they'd worked out all the bugs. Shadow was feeling anxious. He'd gone down to visit the other hedgehog several times, but there had been no way for them to meet face to face. Shadow simply could not decon chaos energy; his body reproduced too much too fast. It complicated things a bit, but the other hedgehog always seemed to be happy to see him.

If Shadow had a choice in a little brother, well....

“It's so bright!” Maybe he should have warned him, but why ruin the surprise? Desai had bounded outside without a second thought stopping when the harsh light assaulted his eyes. “Why's it so bright?”

“It's the sun,” Shadow replied with a roll of his eyes. It was probably a little soon to be taking Desai and the neutralizing rings on such a chaotic test run, but the moment the other hedgehog hand seen outside a window he couldn't be stopped. Shadow had sworn up and down to not let anything happen to him, not that he would have anyway.

“I know what it is! Why?” Shadow shook his head. He didn't remember asking this many questions, but Desai's excitement was infectious. Desai... it was apparently the name he'd chosen for himself. Either he misheard the project name or someone for simplicity had mashed the words together, Shadow didn't know, didn't mind either. It was something to call him, and Desai seemed to like it enough. They weren't meant to go far, but having been locked in a room for years didn't seem to stop him from taking off and leaving shadow behind rather quickly. Apparently he didn't need an answer.  A ball of innocence and excitement.  

Shadow followed along easily enough, watching the curiosity and wonder playing across the young hedgehog's face. Everything was new to him. The people walking down the street, the flicky flying over head, the sounds of cars going by. Desai wanted to see anything and everything as soon as possible. He had so many questions, they spilled out at lightning speed. In every sense Desai was a child. It was... uplifting.

Shadow hadn't the opportunity to wonder. He had been whole focused on the mission placed in his head by the Professor. Then, when finally did remember, when the memories of his desire to see the earth had returned to him it had become common. The magic of the earth had been spent before he'd even realized there was magic to be had. Like so many things it had been stolen from him. Being able to watch Desai experience it for the first time, however, was almost as good.

“Hey! Stop living vicariously through me!” Shadow was snapped from his thoughts by a pointed finger. He pushed the accusing hand out of his face. Desai grinned at him. “Dr. Whitla and I talk a lot more. She told me all about you.” Shadow humphed a reply earning rolling eyes from the other hedgehog. He might be innocent, but he wasn't dumb, it seemed. He also wasn't being showed pity.

Whitla though, she had a big mouth.

“The Doctor visits you now?”

“Oh yeah! Lots of people do now, it's great!” At least he wasn't lonely anymore. That was reassuring.  “Hey, smells so good?”

Desai was already wandering off. Shadow huffed a breath following after the excitable hedgehog. “No food.”

“Aww! Why not?”

“Doctor's orders.”

“But-But- Shadow..! You're such a kill joy.”

“Yeah, Shads, why you gotta be a kill joy?” Oh great. Shadow turned without any real surprise to find Sonic the hedgehog standing behind him. His arms crossed over his chest and a smug smile on his face. “Who's your new friend?”

As much as he didn't want to, there where few people Shadow could trust in the world with Desai's existence. “This is Desai, Desai this-”

“Sonic the Hedegehog?!” The black and white hedgehog's was already bouncing on his feet. “Oh man you're so cool! You're like, the best hero ever! Shadow, why didn't you tell me Sonic was a friend of yours!?”

Shadow raised an eye brow in Desai's direction, who rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Hey, I have internet. I know stuff. Sonic and his friends are like, the coolest ever.”

Sonic of course, had a shit eating grin on his face. Shadow rubbed at his temple feeling a headache coming on. He was never going to hear the end of it. Desai was still gushing Sonic's praise, and Shadow wasn't sure why it bothered him so much.

“..So who's faster?” Shadow blinked, and of course Sonic answered,

“I am, naturally.”

“In your dreams.” Shadow replied without thinking. Damn it, he wasn't here to get into a fight with Sonic, but his pride got in the way of his head.

“Wanna prove it, Faker?” He really hated that nickname.

“Oh guys! Can I watch? I wanna watch!” Desai was bouncing again. Well... At least he was enjoying himself. And before Shadow knew it, they'd found a race track on the edge of town. Desai and Sonic chatting the whole time while Shadow was lost in thought The whole time. He'd never been here before, but then he didn't consider running the recreational sport Sonic did.

“So, who's the kid, exactly?” Sonic was asking as they took their place at the starting line.

“If you want to be technical, he's my little brother.” Now see, if Shadow's heart had been in this race he'd have dropped that little bomb at a better moment and throw Sonic off, but getting half second head start wasn't so bad.

Soon enough Sonic had caught up to him again. “Okay... but don't you already... have one of those?”

“That would require me to think of Eclipse as anything more then an annoyance at best.” Sonic nearly tripped over his feet trying not to laugh. The hedgehog was far too easily distracted.

They tied.

At least Desai was now praising both of them. Though Shadow was wondering why that pleased him so much. Of course now Sonic was insisting on injecting himself in their little outing. Shadow was fine with letting him take the reigns for a little while and Desai was excited to meet another hero. It was better then wondering around randomly.

Tails' workshop was a wonderland to the innocent hedgehog, and Tails was happy enough to show 'Shadow's little brother' (“Don't worry, this one's harmless.” Sonic had said with a grin.) around the lab. Desai was amazed by anything shown to him, and was moderately able to understand it all. Tails seemed to be happy about that too.

“I got the feeling you didn't want to say too much in front of Desai, but you need to spill Shads.” Shadow leaned back against the wall. Watching the exchanges between their respective younger brothers with a protective eye. He did trust Sonic, that much he'd admit if only to himself.

So, Shadow told him.

When he was done Sonic was left a little speechless.

“Well... it explains... a lot.” Sonic mumbled a little wide eyed. Then, a smile. Sonic reached to put a hand on his shoulder, but stopped short. Sonic was the touchy sort, but had learned to respect Shadow's aversion to it. “Hey, don't worry. We're all one big happy dysfunctional family. You bring him around and we'll look after him.”

Shadow snorted at that. Dysfunctional family. He'd have never thought of it that way, but he nodded.

–

It was dark by the time they began heading back to the base. Desai of course was disappointed that he had to go, having made so many new friends in one day. He walked with his hands behind his head staring up at the night sky, spinning on his feet. Several times Shadow thought he was going to fall over. He hummed and hawed. “Sun's gone.”

“We missed the sunset. You can see it next time.”

Desai seemed satisfied with that, but was still walking backwards, eyes pointed up. “Okay. So. Which one is ARK?”

Shadow's lip twitched at the mention. Who'd told him about that? “It's next to the moon, and it hasn't risen yet. You cant see it yet.”

“Aww.” Desai moaned. “Well, your good with stars right? Why aren't they're more?”

Good with stars. Yes... they'd used to map them on ARK. Shadow swallowed the lump in his throat. “It's the light pollination from the city. You wont see many around here.”

“Do they have names?”

“Most. Usually just letters and numbers though.”

“Oh, kinda like me.” Shadow stopped in his tracks, staring at the back of Desai's head as he walked. It took a moment before the other hedgehog noticed he'd paused. “Shadow? You okay?”

“Yeah.” Desai's eyes knitted in concerned, he could see the words ready to form on his lips. But it wasn't Desai's fault. He couldn't know how much the mention speared his soul. “Come with me.”

That was how they'd ended up on a hill outside the city, Shadow going over the constellations and the names of all the stars he could remember. Desai fell asleep on his shoulder and Shadow had to carry him back (there was no chaos control around Desai and his rings), but Shadow thought, it wasn't so bad.

- fin

[philipronans]

for all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me

happy (late) halloween, and happy first day of nano! no one’s gonna care that i have an update for this fic, but i do and here have it i’m tired of looking at it

Necromancy, all things considered, isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, sometimes you get to do the exciting stuff, like talking to the dead, or sitting in musty old basements waiting for the souls of the damned to visit. But most of the time it’s a hell of a lot more boring than that. Stumbling through a graveyard at the ass crack of dawn, looking for one particular headstone, level boring. At least Koutarou didn’t choose a public cemetery, this time. Trying to explain to grieving members of the public that seances are neither illegal, or dangerous is a mistake Tetsurou has sworn to make only once. A glance at his phone tells him they’ve only been here for ten minutes, at most, and that includes the circus that was getting out of Koutarou’s rust bucket of a car, but he already wants to go home. Not that that’s a surprise, necessarily, given that he’d wanted to go back to bed moments after he’d clipped himself into Koutarou’s rust bucket of a car. But Akaashi had levelled him with one of his looks, and any argument he might have had had shrivelled to dust on his tongue.

So now here he is, freezing his ass off as he watches Koutarou prance about ahead of him, his hair virtually glowing in the moonlight as he flits between the headstones. Tetsurou watches him, hands shoved as far as he can physically get them in his jacket pockets in a futile attempt of fighting off the chill. The dead have no need, and therefore no care, for warm clothing though, and he feels the hair on his arms rise as a breeze winds its way between his legs and kicks up dust and leaves off the floor. Akaashi appears beside him, and if Tetsurou didn’t know any better he would strongly suspect magic. But he does know better, that it’s just one of Akaashi’s many talents, and that it scares the shit out of him, like always. He makes a startled sound, sees the pleased smile Akaashi tries to hind behind the scarf he’s tucked his chin into, and Tetsurou shakes his head. The light of his phone makes the circles under Akaashi’s eyes even more prominent, and Tetsurou tries to ignore the stab of guilt. “You think he’d notice if we just… left?” He asks, rolling his head to look at Akaashi properly. “Eventually.” Akaashi says mildly. He bites back a yawn, muffled slightly by the scarf, but his eyes remain amused. “He’d only pester us about it even more.” “Point.” Tetsurou concedes with a shrug. He curls his fingers in the lining of his jacket. “Okay. The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can go home.” Akaashi hums, pats him on the shoulder, and then wanders off. There’s a fork in the path ahead of them, so he branches left as he fishes his phone from his pocket and uses the dim light to read the names. Tetsurou makes a show of bending to look at a few of the graves, although in the dark the names are nothing more than grey blurs. “Oi!” He calls, ignoring the way his knees crack as he stands back up, and grinning at the way Koutarou’s head swivels to look at him. “Remember who we’re looking for, yeah?” “I know.” Koutarou’s voice is nearing on a whine as he stomps off again, pointedly shrugging further into his jacket when Tetsurou laughs at him. The quiet that settles around them would have been eerie as a kid. As it is, Tetsurou’s spent his fair share of time amongst ghosts, and their attempts at unsettling him don’t work. By the way Koutarou keeps glancing over his shoulder, the same cannot be said for him, however. Tetsurou is about to tease him about it, has his mouth open and everything, when Akaashi calls them over. It comes as no real shock that Akaashi is the one to find what they’re looking for, more because he’s actually looking for it, rather than the fact he spends more time hanging out in graveyards than any self-respecting person probably should, present predicament notwithstanding. “This is the one, right?” He asks when Tetsurou is close enough to barely make out the engraving. He runs his fingers over the stone, and nods. “This is him.” “Huh.” Koutarou says, having finally made his way over to them. He hooks his chin over Tetsurou’s shoulder, hair scratching against Tetsurou’s cheek as he shifts his weight. “I don’t think I ever met him.” Tetsurou gives Akaashi a flat look, winking when his lips twitch ever so slightly upwards. “Your family is big enough to populate a small country.” He jostles his shoulders until he’s a little more comfortable. “Not exactly surprising, is it?” Doing the best he can with the angle he’s got, Koutarou elbows him in the back. There’s enough force that it sends them both stumbling forwards, Koutarou’s arms instantly latching around Tetsurou’s waist in an effort to keep them both standing. They share a beat of silence before they both start cackling at each other. Akaashi ducks the lower half of his face inside his scarf again, but Tetsurou sees the grin before he can fully hide it. “Maybe we should go inside?” “An excellent idea.” Tetsurou says, shrugging Koutarou off and jerking his head towards the urn nestled underneath the engraved name. “The honour’s all yours.” “Thanks.” Koutarou says dryly, hands suddenly very gentle as he delicately picks the urn up and tucks it against his chest. “Now, c’mon! Ghost hunting!” “That’s not-” Tetsurou begins, knowing it’s pointless to argue but unable to help himself from trying. Koutarou shows know sign of acknowledging him, humming under his breath as he wanders off, and Tetsurou sighs. Akaashi passes him, offering him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he goes. “Come on.” He says, glancing over his shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.” _____ The Bokuto residence is a large, sprawling plot of land deep in the heart of Tokyo, seemingly at odds with the modern city that surrounds it. Not that that bothers Tetsurou; this place has been home to him for almost as long as he can remember, and there’s an easy familiarity in the way he walks back to the house. The gardens are invariably warmer the closer they get to the main building, the smell of the well-kept flowerbeds helping him relax. They find the back door already open when they reach it, which would worry Tetsurou a lot more if he weren’t aware of the number of wards surrounding the entire building. Being this far away from the bedrooms means they don’t have to worry about being quiet, but they still tread carefully anyway, deftly avoiding any creaky floorboards. Koutarou leads the charge, his movements so light that it almost looks like he’s dancing down the hall. The door he stops in front of is closed, and Tetsurou sees his fingers pause just above the doorknob for the briefest of moments, before his shoulders slump and he steps inside. Tetsurou shuts the back door behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place and kicks his shoes off. He takes a moment to straighten them neatly against the wall, tutting at the way Koutarou’s have been left wherever they landed when he took them off. He glances up to find Akaashi watching him from down the hall, and shrugs. The doorjamb, when he reaches it, is covered in runes; ‘protection’ and ‘containment’ are carved the deepest. The look Koutarou is giving him is sheepish, and Tetsurou grins. “Let’s hope they’re friendly this time, yeah?” He asks, just to watch Koutarou squirm a little. The table Koutarou is sitting at somewhat ruins the effect, but Tetsurou will take what he can get at this point. “How was I meant to know?” Koutarou says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I didn’t ask them to try and possess me.” “They did a little more than ‘try’, Bokuto.” Akaashi points out, voice wry. He fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve so he doesn’t have to meet Koutarou’s eye. “Musta known about all that empty space between your ears.” Tetsurou teases, poking Koutarou in the temple as he moves across the room and settles himself on the floor. He grumbles when Koutarou swats at him in retaliation, reaching out to gently place a hand on the urn in the centre of the table. The ring on his middle finger clinks against the ceramic, and he sees Koutarou pull a face. “This time’ll be different.” Koutarou says confidently, nodding at Tetsurou’s hand. “If you say so.” Tetsurou mutters, shifting his weight and then settling back down. “Now shush, I need to concentrate.” Koutarou pretends to scowl at him, fingers tapping against the table for a moment, before he mimes locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Akaashi, now divested of his scarf, instead hides his smile behind his hand and winks so quickly at Tetsurou, he’s half sure he imagined it. There is no ceremony to what Tetsurou does. Sometimes, when other people are watching him, he wishes there were something… more to this. But as it is, all he actually has to do is leave one hand on the urn, the other falling to rest in his lap. He takes several deep breaths, and then closes his eyes. ____ Tetsurou is in darkness. Fully and totally emerged in it with no obvious way out. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were the nice kind that accompany pleasant dreams, but it’s not. It’s oppressive in its complete blackness, anchoring him here in a way that begins to feel more permanent the longer he’s here. He’s had it drilled into his head for as long as he can remember that this is a place to be respected and feared in equal measure, and to refer to it by its name at all times. Personally, Tetsurou thinks this place sucks, and actively avoids coming here as much as he can. Which usually means he can get away with calling it The Void instead of The Astral Plane. Usually. It’s always a gamble, coming here. He's never met Bokuto Kaito, which isn’t a huge problem by any means, but it will make finding him a little more difficult. Trekking through a plane of existence that by all accounts isn’t even technically real, can be tough even when you do know where you’re going. He’s only been here for two minutes, if that, and he can already feel exhaustion creeping up on him, ready to trap him the moment he lets his guard down. “Here goes.” He mutters, slowing his breathing until he’s barely inhaling at all. He doesn’t really need to breathe at all here, but the last time he’d tried not to, he’d sent himself into a panic attack. It’s better if he keeps up pretences. He feels his fingers brush against the urn in the living world, and waits for what seems like an eternity for the responding tug in this one. It’s a tiny part of conscious that feels it, that knows exactly where he needs to go, and that’s great. It just doesn’t help him actually get there. So, he starts walking. At least, he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not here, and it always leaves his head spinning. He prefers not to think about it. Much like everything else here, time passes strangely. What feels like seconds can be an hour, and vice versa. Tetsurou has long since given up on pointing out how nonsensical this place is. Mostly because you can only shout into an empty void for so long before it starts eating at you. That isn’t to say he stays quiet, though. The one habit he’s never quite been able to break, despite the reprimands and the constant scolding, is talking to himself. Those who come here, at least, the people like him, have an anchor – something to remind them of what is real, and what isn’t. It’s not Tetsurou’s fault if his just so happens to be his own voice. “Uh… Bokuto-san? You here?” Tetsurou calls out into the darkness. His voice is hollow, almost reedy, and it sends a chill up his spine. Move faster. “My name is Kuroo Tetsurou, I’m a friend of the family. I know you don’t know me, but I was wondering if I could maybe talk to you?” Tetsurou frowns at himself. Smooth. He’s never really been good at this part; never quite managed to get over the whole ‘talking to the dead’ thing. “You’re buried at the main house, which means you’re important to Matsuko. She’s basically my grandma, if that helps convince you.” He breaks off with a nervous cough. “Anyway, I promised Koutarou a séance, so you would really be helping me out.” “Talking to yourself again?” A voice murmurs into his ear, and Tetsurou absolutely does not scream. He doesn’t. “Jesus Christ.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and clutches at his chest as he waits for the pounding in his ears to slow down. He doesn’t have a heart here, but that doesn’t actually seem to matter, given the adrenaline hammering through his veins. “Not the name I usually go by.” The voice says again, and although Tetsurou can’t see it, he can hear a smile. “Kenma.” He huffs, cracking an eye open so he can squint at the man in question. Kozume Kenma stands to his right, hands hooked into the back pockets of his jeans as he rocks on his heels. Recently bleached hair, and Tetsurou knows that’s true because he can smell it, swings into his face. He reaches up to tuck what he can behind his ear. “Yo.” He says, glancing over at Tetsurou. His eyebrows are nearing his hairline and he’s still smiling. “‘Yo’?” Tetsurou repeats incredulously. “What the fuck are you doing here?” “Nightly walk.” Kenma says, taking a few slow steps forward to demonstrate. He tilts his head curiously. “You?” “Why do you think?” Tetsurou says, rubbing at his chest as he follows Kenma through the darkness. “Koutarou wanted to go ‘ghost hunting’.” Kenma makes a small noise, pushing at his hair again when it flops back down into his eyes. He’s solid here in a way Tetsurou has never been; almost as if he belongs in this place, instead of just being a visitor. Tetsurou glances down at his own hands, at the way they seem to flicker between realities, and then back up at Kenma. “You don’t want to?” Kenma guesses, spinning on his heel so he can still gage Tetsurou’s reaction even as they continue to walk. “Oh you know me.” Tetsurou says with a tired smile. “Can’t get enough.” Kenma is quiet for a little while. He murmurs to himself a couple of times, but Tetsurou knows that asking is pointless, so he doesn’t bother. He’ll get his answers eventually. The silence that settles around them is almost uncomfortable in how absolute it is, so Tetsurou focuses on putting one flickering foot in front of the other. “I have an idea.” Kenma says eventually, when the quiet is beginning to scratch at Tetsurou’s senses. Tetsurou sees the glint in his eye, the promise of trouble hidden behind the careful indifference, and grins. “We fuck with Koutarou?” The nod Kenma gives him is the best answer he could ever hope to get. _______ “Good evening, gentleman.” Tetsurou says, carefully biting down the smile threatening to ruin this whole thing before it even gets a chance to take off. He watches Akaashi carefully, takes in the way his eyes lift from the book he has open in his lap and shoot straight to his face. He tries to keep his face as neutral as he can, tries to be convincing in his neutrality. It’s not Koutarou he has to worry about ruining things, his excitement will hold the illusion all on its own without Tetsurou’s help. But Akaashi’s role in this whole idea had been long suffering, at best. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. Your friend had some trouble finding me.” “Not long at all!” Koutarou says, leaning forwards across the corner of the table so he’s inches away from Tetsurou, and it takes all of Tetsurou’s control not to involuntarily flinch back. His focus is mostly here, in the living realm, but he is still vaguely aware of Kenma’s presence. Being torn between two planes of existence is… strange. Not unpleasant, exactly. But it’s weird enough to make him feel mildly queasy. “Relax.” Kenma says, voice barely more than a whisper, even though there’s no danger of them hearing him. He slides his hand over Tetsurou’s shoulder, squeezes gently, before reaching up to rest his fingers against the pulse point in Tetsurou’s neck. “Relax.” It’s weird how effective that one word is, how it settles into his bones and makes him feel more at ease. He knows the charade won’t last very long, that either he’ll give himself away, or they’ll catch him out, but it doesn’t seem to matter much. “And you?” Tetsurou asks, switching his attention back to Akaashi. “Did I leave you waiting too long?” “No,” Akaashi says slowly, eyes flitting between Koutarou’s excited grin and Tetsurou’s face. “I’m fine.” “I’m glad.” He knows he’s eventually going to have to speak in actual sentences, but the longer he can put it off, the better. “So, what is it you wish to know?” “How did you die?” Koutarou asks immediately, looking vaguely like the passion behind it surprised even him. Tetsurou frowns deliberately. “We’ve only just met, and that’s what you want to know?” Koutarou looks appropriately chastised, and falls silent for a few seconds. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I’m Koutarou, what’s your name?” “You picked my urn up,” Tetsurou says, tinkling his ring against the urn in question when he wiggles his fingers, “and you don’t even know my name?” “I was just trying to be friendly.” Koutarou grumbles, and Tetsurou has to duck his chin to try and fight the smile. “Um, what did you do for a living, when you were… alive.” He finishes weakly, wincing at his own choice of words. “I was a businessman, down in Osaka.” Tetsurou says, knowing the lie is likely going to be caught by Akaashi at the very least. He sees the moment Akaashi realises what’s going on, and turns his head in the hope Koutarou won’t see him wink. To his relief, Akaashi nods, a small, minute thing that would have been unperceivable had he not been staring at him so intently. Koutarou nods, before he freezes. The beginning of a frown creases his brow. “We don’t have family in Osaka.” “Ah,” Tetsurou says. He hears Kenma snigger in his ear, and tries to swat at him, but with his concentration so fragmented, he isn’t sure it works. “I was kicked outta the family.” “Then why are you buried in the family plot?” Koutarou asks. “And why do you have a Tokyo accent, Kaito-san?” “In my defence,” Tetsurou says, dropping the act, and grinning at Koutarou, “I was trying to find him.” “But?” There’s no trace of anger or annoyance in Koutarou’s voice, and Tetsurou isn’t entirely sure why that surprises him as much as it does. “You get bored on the way?” “I met Kenma.” Tetsurou uses the hand Kenma already has on his neck to pull him into the room. Or rather, he pulls a shadowy imitation of Kenma into the room, almost as if they’re seeing him through a murky window. “Hi.” Kenma says, the sound echoing in Tetsurou’s ears from both versions of his friend.  He disappears mere seconds later, the force of it snapping Tetsurou fully back into his own body, and for once the experience doesn't leave him with a headache, at the very least. “That explains some things.” Akaashi closes the book and places it on the table. There’s something about the way he says it that makes Tetsurou tilt his head. “You knew straight away, didn’t you?” “You did a good job of pretending.” Akaashi says, scratching idly at his chin. “But your voice was different.” “You are… eerily perceptive, you know that?” Akaashi merely smiles in response and pushes himself onto his knees in an effort to stand up. “If we’re finished, I’m hungry.” Koutarou announces, stretching his arms above his head and sighing in satisfaction when numerous bones crack. “You sure you don’t want me to actually find him?” Tetsurou asks, watching Koutarou’s flailing limbs warily. “I can, if you want me to.” “Nah, it’s okay. I kinda want food, anyway.” He gets to his feet, pulling at his jeans until they fall back into place. “And I should start heading home.” Akaashi interjects, stamping his feet on the ground a few times in an effort to get his blood flowing again. “I’ll drop you off, I know you’ve got the early shift.” Koutarou says as he turns to Tetsurou and offers him a hand. His arm goes taut as he takes the weight, and when they’re standing side by side, he slings that arm over Tetsurou’s shoulders. “Food?” “Sure.”

[printedpeterparker]

Intro

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Type: 5 Seconds of Summer Series HERE 

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: None

Summary: The one where being the new kid is kinda hard.

Note: I am very excited to do this series based off of 5 Seconds of Summer’s debut album! This is only an intro before I begin the album! Please add yourself to be tagged here!

November 2

“Honey, are you sure wanna wear that?” your grandma questioned, tugging on the sleeves of your olive hoodie. “It’s your first day at this school; you can make a better--”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, “Grandma, it 45 degrees and I’m going to school. I think this is fine,” you huffed, grabbing your backpack. “I just have to finish up this semester and next semester and then we’re done. I don’t need to have a fashion show every day to do that.”

“Okay, okay, good luck, Y/N. I love you,” she smiled before kissing your cheek.

You said your goodbyes before heading out to your grandma’s black minivan. It was a little beaten up, it reminded you of when you came to invite in the summers. You went on fishing trips and hikes with your family, and this black minivan was always there, giving you a lift, but now being in the car worried you.

You weren’t used to the street of New York or at least the traffic. You weren’t sure if it was you or the other drivers that were doing a terrible job. Your music was soothing you through the traffic but not everyone was doing the same as you.

Your nerves and jitteriness continued to grow as your approached your new school. It was your Senior year. You remember how hard it was to make friends when you moved from Wisconsin to France in the sixth grade. But then again, you were 11. But now you were 18, moving from France to New York. You were petrified.

After you parked, you made your way inside through the courtyard. You felt some people look your way. The school didn’t seem that large; you might as well have been seven feet tall. You quickly made your way into the building searching for the office.

Before you could find it, you were startled by another girl, “Y/N!” she cheered almost too excited. Her blonde hair barely touched her shoulders that were over by her Oxford shirt and black skirt. She almost made you believe that you needed to have a uniform. “Welcome to Midtown School of Science and Technology or MSST. I will be your ambassador for the day. My name is Chelsea Larson!”

“Oh uh hi, I’m Y/N Y/L/N” you smiled, readjusting your bag over your shoulder. You swore you could see all 32 of her teeth with that smile.

“Great, I already have your schedule, locker number, locker combo, lunch pass, seating assignments, and ID for you here in this packet,” she explained, handing you a binder from her purse. “Your first class, AP, that’s advanced placement, Statistics, is with Mr. Hind.” Chelsea walked and talked fast. You couldn’t keep up with what she was saying.

She took you to your locker and quickly explained your combo and promptly scolded you when you got it wrong. Her intensity was like a raging fire. She quickly showed you to your first hour and prepared you as if she was your mom dropping you off at kindergarten.

“...Now don’t worry, I will on my way when that bell rings to escort you to your next class, Y/N. I so much fun!” she smiled, waving you off. You slowly walked into the room with it basically full of students already. You scanned the room for a seat; there were two front seats open. You quickly sat down before the bell rung and continued to look down.

Everyone in the room was still talking so as Mr. Hind tried to calm them down, you were able to get your stuff together in the front.

“Okay, okay, students,” Mr. Hind pronounced, finally settling the talking, “It appears we have a new student today. Would you like to introduce yourself, miss?”

“Uh sure,” you smiled before standing up to face the class. Every eye was literally trained on you. Some appeared to look judgey. Some appeared to be dull. Some appeared to be interested. “My name is Y/N. I came here from Nice, France, but I’m originally from Wisconsin, and I...uh...yeah. Thank you.” You muttered your thanks before sitting down.

“Wow, very impressive Ms. Y/N,” Mr. Hind smiled. “We’re very glad you’re here.”

The day continued like that.

Chelsea would take you to a class, the teacher would ask you to introduce yourself to the class, and occasionally, they would have you elaborate.

By lunch, you were tired. You did talk much to anyone; not because you didn’t want to but it was November. Everyone had time to do their meet and greet with the new kids and their friends in August. They were focused on colleges and final semester project approaching. And you had lost Chelsea before lunch.

When you finally made it to lunch after waiting for her, a lot of the food was gone, making your lunch pass useless. A deep sigh erupted from you as you turned around to find somewhere to sit. You weren’t shocked to see cliches; it was a teen phenomenon, even in France. You didn’t even Chelsea. Some girls gave you a look when walked by their table. Some would even minimize the space between themselves and friends.

You observed a fairly empty table and slowly made your way over. There were only two boys and a girl there. “Come on, Y/N,” you whispered to yourself. “It’s not that hard to make friends.” You walked over, trying to look friendly but not as terrifying as Chelsea. “Hey,” you said, interrupting their conversation. “Do you guys mind if I sit?” you asked.

“Mmm, not sure,” the girl said, completely deadpan.

“She’s totally kidding,” the boy with dark hair apologized. “Have a seat.” You smiled and sat across from the girl adorned with curly hair and sat next to the boy with brown hair in a sweater. “First of all, I’m Ned. That’s MJ--”

“She can call me Michelle,” she quietly muttered, opening a book on the table.

“Duly noted,” you nodded.

“And I’m Peter,” he smiled. He had books and work scattered in front of him. You recognized You recognized it as your the stats project Mr. Hind had even out today. You thought you recognized him “So, you’re from France?”

“Yeah, my dad is all about the work,” you half chuckled, “but now I live with my grandma and my parents are still in France.”

“I bet you don’t even speak French,” Michelle huffed, still looking down into her book.

You smirked before sitting up, “Si je ne pouvais pas parler français, pouvais-je dire ça? If I couldn’t speak French, could I say that?” you said before translating. Ned let out a forceful laugh before Michelle hit him with her book. They began a smaller argument on their side of the table.

“That was pretty impressive,” Peter nodded. “And don’t worry about them either.”

“Okay and thanks. I only lived there for six years so...” you said before it became silent again except Ned and Michelle were still arguing.

Your head tilted in confusion when you looked at Peter’s work on the table. It seemed off to you. You didn’t want to be nosy or intrude; you had only met Peter a couple minutes ago. It was your place, but still…

“I think you’re wrong, Peter,” you told him but only loud enough for him to hear.

He gave you a sour face before shaking his head, “No, I’m pretty sure this is right. Ned and I tested it and the data was linear with strong correlation; with our equation, we can assume tha-”

“Extrapolation,” you stated. He gave you the same face. You sighed before turning the paper around so it was facing you properly, “When I was in France, we learned about extrapolation. Your x values included 1 through 15 rubber bands while your y values were the distance barbie bungeed. Mr. Hind said your project depended on your work and hitting the right distance where barbie didn’t hit the floor or was too far from the ground. And he said the distance was 32 meters and you never got 32 meters as a y value. Therefore, you are guessing beyond your observation range which could lead to meaningless results or extrapolation. And I know we haven’t talked about in class or at least that’s what your face is telling me, but I would reconfigure your number and experiments.”

Peter looked at you and at his work again. There was a bit of silence before the bell rang, dismissing you from lunch.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna go. Sorry…” you professed before quickly getting up and hurrying out of the cafeteria.

You knew it wasn’t your place. You should have trusted your gut and said nothing. Maybe this friend thing was going to be harder to do than you thought.

The end of the day came as fast as you wanted it to do. You had seen Peter in other classes but steered clear of him. You knew you were right, but you didn’t mean to out him in front of his friends. You took it too far.

You also never saw Chelsea after lunch.

You made your way to the library to get some homework done. It was always easier for you to not work at home even in France. The library gave you the silence you needed without interruption. You opened up your English reading packet to begin your homework. You skimmed the reading, highlighting and annotating the reading. You glared up and back down before you realized what you saw.

You looked up again and saw Peter making his way over to your desk. You felt your breath become shallow and your throat became dry as he made his way over to your desk. You didn’t even realize that you were staring at him for so long.

“Hi, Y/N, can we talk?” Peter asked, distributing your homework. You regretfully nodded before moving your stuff off the chair next to you. “Listen, you were right. I went and experimented during my study hall until I received over 32 meters as a y value and you were right; I got a whole different equation and x value.”

You felt your heart flutter a little bit at his comment. You liked being right.

“Oh, thanks, Peter.”

“But I also have some other questions if you don’t mind about the homework,” he explained as he pulled it out of his bag. “The way Mr. Hind explained number 8 on the homework hardly makes sense. I was wondering if you could help possibly.”

You looked at your work and placed it on the other side of the table and pulled out your stats as well, “Uh yeah, if I didn’t know better, I would be a little confused as well.”

For the next 30 minutes, you helped Peter with his statistics homework. You quickly learned the confusion wasn’t because of his own learning. It was the teaching which saddened you. It came to a point where you and Peter worked in silence with words and jokes shared here and there. He did have a way of making you laugh. Even though your focus was a bit off you didn’t mind being off task at sometimes.

“With all this graphing, you’d think Mr. Hind was plotting against us,” Peter joked. A nasally laugh came out of nowhere from you. The librarian was quick to silence you and Peter before returning back into the shelves to return books back to their spots. “Yikes, sorry,” he whispered to you.

“She’s more of English person I guess,” you breathed, trying to stifle your remaining chuckles.

“Maybe but I gotta go actually,” Peter mentioned before packing up his things and stuffing them in his bag. “But if I came here tomorrow, will you be here?” he inquired.

“You can bet on it.”

NEXT: MRS. ALL AMERICAN

Please send requests for blurbs and one-shots here xx

[animehead]

The Evolvement of Jesse McCree

Fandom: Overwatch

Pairing: Eventual McHanzo, maybe others 

Warnings/tags: Slowburn, violence, disability, werewolves, loss of limbs (arm), werewolf!McCree, alternate universe, lazy editing

Characters (in this chapter): McCree, Gabriel, Ana, Hanzo, Genji 

Summary: Jesse McCree has big plans to open a diner, but an attack by a vicious animal leaves him injured, and forces him to pick up where he left off. But Jesse quickly discovers that learning to recover and get on with his life is the least of his problems. 

A/N: Bear with me. I’m rusty, and a bit new to writing Overwatch fic. 

Chapter One

Although the key fits, it takes a bit of elbow grease to get the door open. Jesse McCree shifts his stance, leans forward, and shoves his shoulder against the door. He does this twice. The first time with a curse, the second with a grin as it finally gives way and swings open.

He takes a step inside the building, coughing slightly as he inhales several years’ worth of settled dust.

“Christ,” Gabriel Reyes says next to him, thumb and index finger pinching his own nostrils shut. “What the hell is that smell?”

“Yeah,” Jesse chuckles, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. “Ripe, ain’t it? Got a bit of a kick to it.”

The two of them step further inside the building, fanning at the air, and looking over the place. It was a popular diner at one time, Kept up with the hustle and bustle of the years before him. Built in the 50s, but with an 80s feel to it. If he closes his eyes, Jesse can imagine the diner full of people. Good food, good conversation. Friends and family. All it needed was a bit of organizing, a shitload of cleaning, and it’d be as good as new.

“You sure you want to do this, kid?”

“Relax, pop,” Jesse says. He reaches over to pat his father on the shoulder. Gabriel wasn’t his actual father, but he’d taken care of Jesse as if he were his own. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Gabriel’s signature on that co-signer line, Jesse wouldn’t even be standing in this rundown diner, planning for its grand opening, and his future.

“Running a business is a lot to take on. We could always just sell it.”

“Barely let the ink dry, and you’re already counting me out, huh?”

“It’s not that.” Gabriel walks over to one of the tables, and fiddles with a section of chipped laminate on its surface. “There’s something off about this place. Rubs me the wrong way.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Jesse replies. “Other than it being a shit hole right now. Couple weeks, I’ll get her all fixed up, and you’ll be singing a different tune.”

“You know, most twenty-five year olds would rather be out chasing tail than taking on the restaurant business.”

“Well, I ain’t most twenty-five year olds, am I?”

Gabriel snickers, scratching at the hair along his chin. “Yeah, you damn sure ain’t.” He looks around the diner, dark eyes narrowing at all the work that needs to be done to get the place in order. “Well, then. Where do we start?”

Jesse walks toward the bar, lifting up the part of the counter that will allow him access behind it. It pulls from its hinges, rusty screws sticking out of the lower portion of the countertop like long, stained teeth.

“Hell, I reckon’ anywhere.”

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Jesse thinks as he stares at the mountain of trash scattered around the diner’s dumpster. He thought he was doing a good deed by feeding a couple of stray dogs the rest of his lunch. But they clearly weren’t satisfied with his offerings and went digging around in the garbage, pulling trash bags out with their teeth, and leaving the mess strewed around the back of the restaurant.

“Damn, mutts,” he mutters, crouching down to pick up some of the mess. He supposes it could have been worse. The diner isn’t open yet, which means the dumpster is only filled with the garbage he and Gabriel have dragged out of the diner for the past six weeks. Picking up shards of broken wood, and the occasional Twinkie wrapper was better than having to pick up spoiled food.

It’s probably time for him to head home. The sun went down hours ago. But knowing that he was just a few short weeks away from the diner’s grand opening keeps him there after hours. He still has so much to do. The interior and exterior are mostly done, but there’s still the matter of hiring people. He doesn’t know the first thing about that, but it has to be done. Can’t run a restaurant all by himself.

A spring breeze blows past, cooling sweat slicked skin, and rustling the leaves of the many trees in the wood directly behind the diner. With a handful of shredded plastic, Jesse stands up, tilts his head back and stares upward. It’s a full moon tonight, big and beautiful, like a giant pearl smack dab in the middle of the sky. Clouds sail past, like puffs of cotton. The leaves rustle again, and that’s a bit peculiar.

There’s no breeze.

He tosses the plastic into the bin, and wipes his hands on the thighs of stained jeans. The rustling continues, leaves smacking against one another, pulling his attention away from the remainder of the mess he needs to pick up.

“You mutts get on outta’ here now,” Jesse calls into the woods. “Go on now, get.” He turns, facing the woods, trying to spot one of the dogs.

The rustling stops immediately, leaving an eerie silence behind. Jesse takes off his hat, and scratches at the skin above his right eyebrow. It’s difficult to be sure. Trees and moonlight have the habit of casting shadows, and tricking the eye. But he’s certain he sees one of the dogs next to one of the trees. He narrows his eyes, makes out its form crouched low, head bowed, sniffing at the tree’s trunk.

“Hey.” He slams his hand against the trash bin a few times, strong palm smacking against metal, the sound loud in the quietness of night. “I said scram. Stop sniffing around. I ain’t got nothin’ left for you.”

The dog raises its head, muzzle incredibly long and extended. Maybe it’s the moonlight. It has to be the moonlight. Its eyes seem to glow, a startlingly bright yellow, pupils big and black, centered in the middle of its irises. It opens its mouth, teeth like sharpened porcelain, long and white. It lets out a low growl, deep and guttural. The most threatening, terrifying sound a dog could ever make.

And then it raises up on its hind legs.

And Jesse realizes, eyes wide, staring at the large hunch of a back, and the long hanging arms, that whatever that thing is standing next to the tree, it sure as hell isn’t a dog. It’s not. It just isn’t.

“Aw, hell… Fuck!”

Jesse bolts, boots pounding against the ground, legs carrying him as fast as he can go. He hears the animal racing after him. The thing that definitely is not a dog is closing in on him, moving at speeds no animal should be able to run. He reaches the diner’s back door, throws it open, and rushes inside. But it’s all futile. He’s not quick enough. The animal is right behind him, slams its strong, furry body into the center of his back, causing him to fall forward.

Jesse screams. Claws tear at his shirt, his back, and pierce his flesh. The animal is a weight upon him, sharp teeth digging into his shoulder, breaking skin, and drawing blood. He feels heat where he’s been bitten, so hot he can’t stand it. It paralyzes him, leaves him unable to move, only scream as the animal continues to attack him.

The pain is unbearable.

He doesn’t feel it when the creature forces him onto his injured back, and snatches away his left arm with his teeth, severing it completely from the bone. But he knows it’s happening, can only yell for help, and even that’s  in vain because there’s no one there to hear him. There’s nothing he can do but wait for his inevitable death. To silently apologize and ask for forgiveness from the people he’s hurt in his past. To apologize to Gabriel for not sticking around long enough to make him proud. If he’d known he was going to die tonight from being attacked by a beast in the diner he worked so hard for, maybe he would have done things differently.

“Hindsight,” he whispers, and follows with a depressed chuckle. So this is how it ends, scared and alone, unfeeling, and at someone, something, else’s hand. Well, yeah. That sounds about right for him.

He closes his eyes, and waits for the creature to finish him off. He’s lost so much blood that his vision begins to blur. “At least I won’t see it coming,” he murmurs, the room spinning around him. He blinks at a space on the floor where there’s nothing but blood where his arm should be.

The animal howls, the sound so loud it rattles the new glass windows. Not the windows, he thinks when it howls again. He hopes they don’t shatter. They cost so damn much. So much money for some fucking windows. He can no longer open his eyes. His body lies motionless on the floor, waiting for the creature to deliver the final blow.

“At least I won’t see it,” he says again.

And then… darkness.

He doesn’t come to all at once. Instead it’s in snapshots, Gabriel shouting his name, the blaring alarm of sirens, the hushed murmur of voices. He’s moving, the ground several feet below him. Then darkness. He comes to again. Latex glove covered hands, blood soaked bandages, and a clear, plastic tube resting gently across his face. Darkness. Bright lights now. White halls. People in scrubs rushing up and down the halls. A child crying. Maybe an adult? Someone asks him for his name. He can’t answer.

“Jesse,” he hears Gabriel shouting his name. Must be serious. Gabriel hardly ever calls him by his first name, unless he’s in trouble. Did he do something wrong?

“You can’t come in here, sir,” someone replies.

Gabriel’s shouting now. Arguing and throwing around curses. Jesse hears the word ‘security’ screamed, and the scuffle of a fight.

“Calm down, pop,” he whispers, wishing he could say it louder, but he doesn’t have the energy, or the strength. Darkness again.

Brown eyes flutter open. He’s awake. More importantly, he’s alive. Now it’s just the matter of figuring out where he is. A room. Dimly lit. The diner maybe? Nah, it’s not the diner. Too small. Doesn’t smell like fresh paint. Home? Nope. Doesn’t smell like vanilla candles stunted by the scent of stale cigars. A television. That’s nice. A bit small, though. Chair next to the bed. Looks leather, but it’s probably not. Big ole’ white erase board on the wall inquiring about rates of pain. Ah, well, that clears things up.

A hospital.

He sits up, winces, and lies back down. His back aches, stings. He reaches up to survey the damage, except there’s nothing where his hand should be. Or his arm for that matter. They’re both gone. Vanished. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

He screams, his only other arm gripping at the bandages wrapped around his elbow. Someone runs into his room, holding him, tells him to calm down. She has a nice, soothing voice. Old woman with silver, whitish hair that reminds him of Christmas tree tinsel.

“Calm down. Calm down.” She puts an arm on his chest, pinning him down against the bed. “All right. Easy now. You’re okay.”

“My arm’s gone,” Jesse says, frantic and shock making his words break. “It’s gone.”

“But you’re alive,” she says. “You’re here. Breathing. Do you understand me?” She takes his free hand, careful of the IV needle he has taped into it, and presses it against his chest even through his panicked flailing. “Feel.”

“Nah, nah.” Jesse shakes his head. “This ain’t right. It ain’t right.”

“Life hardly is. But we make do. Now take some deep breaths. In and out.” She waits until Jesse follows her lead, breathing long and slow, chest rising and falling. “Very good. Perfect.”

“You a doctor?” he breathes out, hand tugging at the nasal cannula hooked over his ears.

“Nurse,” she answers. “Leave that alone.”

“What happened to me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that. But your father might.”

“My father?”

“Gabriel Reyes. He gave the doctor’s quite a fuss downstairs. Almost got himself kicked out.”

“He’s here?”

“He is. Sent him downstairs to get some coffee. Poor thing looks exhausted.”

“He alright?”

“Look at you,” she says, a soft chuckle escaping her lips, “wake up in a hospital bed, and the first thing you do is ask about someone else. He’s fine. You worry about healing.” She stands upright, groaning a bit as she stretches her arms above her head.

He watches her, takes notice of the navy blue scrubs and the several ID badges hanging from a lanyard. There’s a name tag above her right breast. The name ‘Ana’ printed in bold, black letters.

“Oh, before I forget. Here.” She reaches into her pant pocket, pulls out a card, and offers it to him.

He reaches for it, first with what’s left of his left arm, and then with his right. “Guess I gotta’ get used to that,” he says, taking the card and reading it over. It’s a business card for a psychiatrist, Fareeha Amari.

“Not much for talkin’ to shrinks.”

“I highly recommend that you reconsider,” Ana replies. “Give her a call when you’re discharged. You have a long road ahead of you, Jesse McCree.”

“Yeah, well,” he scratches at the thin layer of scruff along his cheeks and chin, “I guess you’re right about that, Ms. Ana.”

The door glides open, and Jesse feels relief wash over him the moment Gabriel pokes his shaved head through the door. “Hijo?”

“Hey, pop.”

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Ana says, and leaves out of the same door Gabriel enters.

“How you feeling?” Gabriel asks, settling himself down into the chair next to Jesse’s bed.

“Like I got rundown by a John Deere,” Jesse answers. “What the hell happened to me?”

Gabriel shakes his head. “Don’t know. Was calling you all day. You didn’t pick up. Came to the diner to check on you, and found you half dead in the middle of the floor. You can’t remember what happened?”  

Jesse shakes his head. “I don’t know. I think maybe it was a dog, or something.”

“What the hell kind of dog did you piss off to deserve this?”

“I don’t know, pop.” He runs his fingers through his hair, and then lowers them to his forehead where he rubs at his temples. “I don’t know what I’m gonna’ do about the diner.”

“What you mean, you don’t know? You’re gonna’ heal, and then you’re going to get your ass back in there.”

“What if…” he pauses, thinking back to the attack. Everything’s a blur now, but he still remembers those glowing, yellow eyes, “whatever did this to me comes back?”

“We’ll figure out a way for you to protect yourself. That way if it does, you’ll be ready. But don’t worry about that for right now. You just think about getting better.”

“You’re being awful kind tonight.”

“What kind of dad would I be if I kicked my only son when he’s down?”

“Heh. Probably my old man,” Jesse says.

“Enough.” Gabriel leans forward, and plucks a can of strawberry jello off the portable tray next to Jesse’s bed. He peels the aluminum lid back, and stares down at the contents with a frown.

“Thought you didn’t like jello.”

“I don’t. But you do.” Grabbing a plastic spoon next to a can of cold ginger ale, he raises himself to his feet. “Now stop talking and open your big mouth.”  

“Aw, come on, pop. I don’t need you feedin’ me.”

“Shut up, and open it.”

Jesse groans, eyes closing as Gabriel pops a spoonful of jello into his mouth. “I’ll make sure to return the favor when you’re an old man,” he says between chews.

Gabriel snorts. “Dealing with you, I’m already an old man.”

“Thanks, pop. I’m glad you came looking for me.”

Gabriel offers him a small, tired smile. “Me too, kid. Me too.”

The air is cool and fresh, unlike the taxi they rode to the hospital in. Genji Shimada cradles his arm against his chest, dark eyes scanning the digital marquee board several hundred feet away from the front of the hospital.

“They are giving away free flu shots, brother. Should we get one?”

“Quiet, Genji,” Hanzo Shimada says, after paying the taxi driver with foreign currency that he’s still not quite used to. “Why must you always involve yourself? Raunchy American parties and wheelboards. Now green hair. Ridiculous.”

“Skateboards, brother,” Genji corrects him. “We are only here a short while. We should interact with the locals. They are friendly, and fun.”

“They are idiots. Greedy and loud. And selfish.” He huffs. “Americans. What were you thinking? Look at yourself. You’ll be lucky if you haven’t broken your arm. We’ve been here for five days, and I already have to bring you to the hospital.”

“It’s probably just a sprain. Besides, I’ve received much worse from sparring with you. Or otherwise.”

Hanzo is quiet for a few moments as the two of them move closer to the hospital’s entrance. “I do not like America. I want to go back to Japan.”

“We are only here a few more days.”

Hanzo shakes his head, stepping to the side to allow Genji entrance through the glass, motion sensor doors. “You are so much trouble. What would father think?”

“I assume not much, considering he’s dead.”

“Enough, Genji.”

Genji quietly reads the signs, trying to figure out which direction the two of them must move. “It seems we took the wrong entrance. The emergency room is that way.” He uses his uninjured arm to point down a long hallway.

“Fine,” Hanzo replies with a sigh. “Let us go.”

Jesse surveys the room one last time. He’s only been there five days, but it seems so much longer. He’s still sore, still stressed, and still trying to figure out how he’s going to adjust to only having one arm. But he’s smiled a couple of times, so he’s on a slow track to getting back to his normal self.

Gabriel brought him some clothes to go home in. No more wandering around his room in a hospital gown with his hairy ass hanging out. He pats at his jean pocket, making sure the card Ana gave him is in there. He’s still not sure if he’ll actually see this Dr. Amari, but he supposes a check in or two couldn’t do much harm.

“You got everything?” Gabriel asks him, fingers buttoning up the flannel shirt Jesse’s wearing since he hasn’t quite gotten used to buttoning things with one hand.

“Reckon’ so,” Jesse answers.

“Got the number to the doctor?”

“Which one?”

“Prosthetics.”

“Yeah, got that one, too.” Eventually, he’ll see about getting a prosthetic arm. Something to make him feel a bit more comfortable in his own skin. For now, though, he’s just going to take it easy. One day at a time. Recuperate. He’s got to hurry up and heal. There’s a diner waiting for him with his name on it, and it sure as hell isn’t going to run itself.

“Discharge papers?”

“Got ‘em, pop. Got everything.”

“Then let’s roll out.”

They take the elevator to the first floor. Him riding in a wheelchair being pushed by Ana while Gabriel walks next to them. When they reach the gift shop, he begs Ana to let him walk the rest of the way. A man’s got to have a bit of pride and dignity after having all types of doctors and nurses poking and prodding at him, seeing his unmentionables. She’s probably not supposed to, but Ana concedes, and lets him go about his way without the use of a wheelchair.

“You take care now, Jesse McCree,” she says with a smile. “And give Dr. Amari a call.”

“You can count on me, Ms. Ana,” Jesse replies.

“Look after yourselves.” She waves at Gabriel and Jesse who both wave back.

“Take care,” Gabriel replies.

They begin their journey past the gift shop, then past the emergency room entrance when someone walks right smack into Jesse.

“Oh, pardon me,” Jesse says, and gives a polite bow of his head.

The man who bumped into him says nothing. Long, dark hair tied at the ends with a silk, blue sash. A pattern decorates the fabric, trimmed in glittering gold thread in the design of dragon scales. He stares up at Jesse, intense and unspeaking, dark eyebrows narrowed. His gaze drifts from Jesse’s face to the empty sleeve hanging by his side, and Jesse nearly cringes from the unwanted attention.

There’s a tattoo on the man’s left arm. Jesse can’t quite make it out because it disappears beneath his shirt sleeve. He almost asks if he can see it, but thinks better of it.

“Brother,” Genji says, nudging his older brother with his elbow.

“My apologies,” the man finally says, crosses his arms, side steps and continues on his way, him and the green haired man walking side by side.

“Those two clearly ain’t from around here,” Gabriel says next to Jesse.

“Yeah,” Jesse agrees. “The one with the long hair seemed meaner than a pit bull with a cobra for a leash, didn’t he?”

“Sure as hell did,” Gabriel replies. “Probably don’t know any better.”

“Real pretty though,” Jesse murmurs.

Gabriel raises a brow and shakes his head. “Wanna’ go chase after him?”

“Nah, I’m good. I don’t think love is in the cards for me right now.”

“Who said anything about love?”

“Everything is about love, pop.”

“Everything, huh?”

Jesse grins. “Yessir, everything.”

“Whatever you say, kid. Now let’s get you home.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

After a brief mix up involving where Gabriel parked the car, they find the car and climb inside. Jesse stares out through the window, watching the scenery go by. Just a few days ago he had everything going for him. And he supposes that maybe he still does. Sure, he’s covered in wounds, and is missing and arm, but it could have been worse, right? He could be dead. Gone from the world, snatched away right in the prime of his life.

You ain’t seen nothing yet, Jesse McCree, he thinks, and the thought startles him. What if that thing eventually came back to finish the job? He’d need a weapon, something that would keep him safe. Something that would ensure he had a quiet, peaceful, protected life.

“Hey, pop.” They’re stopped at a red light.

Gabriel unwraps a peppermint and pops it into his mouth. “Hm,” he murmurs around the hard candy.

“What would you say to me getting a gun?”

“You want a gun?” He turns his head toward Jesse. “Thought you said having guns meant someone was overcompensating.”

“Yeah, well. The tune’s different once ya’ manage to survive being killed by something that clearly wants ya’ dead. Anyway, I just want something to keep things smooth. You know, to keep the peace. A peacekeeper.”

“Peacekeeper, huh?”

“That’s right. Peacekeeper.”

Alright then,” Gabriel replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jesse taps his fingers against the arm rest, and closes his eyes. Yeah, a peacekeeper. That’s exactly what he needs.

[heartslogos]

send the morning [14]

“She’s quite in her element, isn’t she? It’s always incredibly relaxing and inspiring to watch someone in their element,” Josephine looks up, surprised as Enchanter Vivienne takes her place next to her, arms folded behind her back as they stand - watching movers bustling up and down the stairs to Skyhold’s main hall.

The work being put into renovating and making things not just livable and defendable but also appropriate for their cause is never ending. Josephine is fond of decorating and such, but this much at all time from all angles coupled with organizing everything else has left her reeling and hoping to never see another pricing list for stone or fabric in her life.

“Yes,” Josephine says, turning back to watch Adaar as she pushes a scout and a soldier apart, arms around each of their shoulders as she forcefully steers them around, genial smile on her face as she talks them down from whatever inevitable fight was about to happen.

Stress is high; and while opportunities and fortunes seem to be turning, there is something to be said for all the things that have been placed upon their people’s shoulders and around their necks.

“There is something beautiful about people doing what comes naturally to them,” Vivienne says, “One cannot be help but drawn to it, attracted to it.”

“Herah is an incredibly capable woman,” Josephine agrees, “She could lead her own squadron, or mercenary band, if she wished. I think many people would follow her quite happily.”

“She is not for you,” Vivienne says and Josephine jolts, turning to look at her. Vivienne continues to look over Skyhold’s courtyards - each section and level slowly being shaped and formed into suggestions of what their futures may be. “I do not say it to be offensive, Ambassador. But you know as well as I that you are not for each other. She has no title, no name, nothing behind her. You have your entire family. You are not equals.”

“Everyone is equal,” Josephine replies even though she knows it isn’t true.

Vivienne laughs, shaking her head, before giving Josephine a briefly soft and sympathetic look, “It would be one thing if she could somehow promote herself to be somewhat near your station. But she is Qunari, darling. She will never reach nobility. Her only chance is title within some army, and unfortunate as it is - the Inquisition, no matter how large it grows, will never reach that kind of weight for its soldiers in our lifetimes. Commander, Ambassador, Spymaster, Inquisitor - respectable titles all of them. But there can only be one. And I don’t see the ever dutiful Commander Cullen - and his entire line of successors - stepping down.”

“I do not know what you are referring to, Madame de Fer,” Josephine says, uncomfortable prickling and embarrassment creeping over the back of her shoulders, made ever more present with the cold of the mountain wind. “Lieutenant Adaar and I are friends.”

“Let her down easily but quickly, Ambassador,” Vivienne says, beginning to descend the stairs, waving her hand at some finely dressed merchants, “She doesn’t deserve to be kept hanging like some drowning fish on your hook.”

-

“Ellana? What are you - “ Mahanon almost drops his daggers when he sees the image of his sister pulling herself over Adamant’s ramparts. And then his stomach drops when he sees her face. “Creators, you promised me.”

Ellana’s lip curls up, and her eyes are not Ellana’s eyes. They are not the eyes of the sister he always loses, the sister he has been trying to hold onto and keep safe with the raw tips of his fingers.

Ellana walks up to him, and he can feel the energy rolling off of her, the threatening snap of what she’s holding back. She reaches up and her hand is blunt, clumsy, uncoordinated as she pushes the heel of her palm against his cheek.

“It’s shallow,” Mahanon says to the unasked question in her spread fingers. The cut has already scabbed, for the most part.

Mahanon quickly turns to throw a dagger at a Warden - it doesn’t land properly, but it’s enough to draw Solas’ attention to cast a wall of ice in front of him. Cole stumbles behind him, unbalanced and distracted.

Cole should not be here. He should leave. But he can’t, and Mahanon and Solas will do what they can to keep him safe until he can recover and find his footing again.

“She is not her, she is not right,” Cole whispers, “But no one here is, everything is wrong and twisting, twisted, twined around each other like so many thorns that scrape as they part even though they are all the same - it always bleeds too late.”

Ellana’s skin seems to shiver - or the flesh underneath it does. She’s close. She’s too close.

Mahanon sheathes his daggers and takes her face in his hands, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You promised me,” Mahanon says. “I can’t lose you here.”

A low groaning rumble starts to push past her lips, he can feel it in his sweat-damp fingertips.

Mahanon closes his eyes because he can feel the wash of Solas’ mana over him - protecting him from the fight. This is not the time. This is not the place.

But Mahanon cannot deny that he needs help. He cannot deny that the Inquisition needs all the help it can get in this fight.

He cannot deny how selfish he is to want her to keep the promises he’s forced from her, knowing that they will be broken.

He knocks his head against hers and she pushes back, hot and hotter - unnaturally hot. She lets out another low rumble that vibrates his bones.

“Do you trust me?” Mahanon whispers and Ellana pushes back again, nuzzling their faces together. “I will bring you back. I will bring you back, Ellana. Go. Do what you must. Be great.”

He lets go and pushes away, moving close to cover Solas - he cannot look. He cannot watch. But he does anyway. He must. It is his duty.

He is her guide. It has always been his duty.

(Privately: his burden.)

Ellana groans, hunching over, the air shimmering with heat around her as she doubles up, body jerking, flesh writhing underneath her skin.

She plants her feet, fingers curling as she snarls, the sound building louder and louder over the sounds of fighting around them - drawing attention, drawing fire.

Ellana roars, and Mahanon’s muscles clench at the wet sound of ripping flesh -

The bear bursts forward, rising - towering - on her hind legs as she bellows into the night.

“Your sister is a keeper of shapes,” Solas says, out of the corner of his eye Mahanon sees the surprised and awe-struck look on the man’s face.

“She is a keeper of many things,” Mahanon says and then calls out, “Solas and I need to bring Cole to safety. Bring us to the Chargers and Dorian.”

The bear slams to four legs, swiping a foreleg out and sending Wardens crashing over the edge of the rampart. Her body fills almost the entire walkway.

“Go,” Mahanon says, grabbing Cole by the back of his shirt and hauling him up. Solas casts another barrier and moves to guard their rear. “Make me a path.”

(And I will become yours.)