#『 with some unfamiliar resolve i answered the demand to live on. 』 ⟶ ask.

[recre8ed]

@r3loaded asked → " do you wanna do my job? be my guest. " ( src. / accepting. )

The quick response makes Hakkai smile, delighted and broad. It must be a fairly good day if Sanzo is willing to get sarcastic rather than resorting to dismissiveness. Hakkai had almost been worried that he'd gotten too fed up by the earlier recognition to engage with teasing—not that it would have stopped him from engaging, but it's never as satisfying when Sanzo doesn't bite back at him.

He closes the door to their shared room behind him, gently setting the shopping bags down on the small table next to his chosen bed as he carries on the conversation.

"Haha. At the very least, I'd be a more agreeable candidate on the surface."

He doesn't waste too much time with imagining what it would be like. It's pure, joking hypothetical—though Hakkai imagines he is second to Sanzo when it comes to the responsibility needed to do the job of a Sanzo priest, there's ultimately nobody better for it, and Hakkai doesn't envy his position in the first place.

Speaking with devotees is only a secondary duty, anyway. In every respect but that one, Hakkai thinks there's probably no better candidate in the world for Sanzo's position than Sanzo himself. His nontraditional way of life is hardly a factor in that estimation at all.

But Hakkai does like to push Sanzo's buttons from time to time.

"Of course, I think underneath all that I'd be an even more egregious and contradictory priest than you are," Hakkai concedes, tilting his head obligingly to match his speech. "And I don't like the type of busywork your priestly duties tend to subject you to anyway. Sorry to say it, but I'm afraid I'll be leaving you to suffer your annoyances this time."

The sound of arguing picks up from the other room. Hakkai sighs, shaking his head as he actually goes about emptying the bags. If he doesn't pack now, there's no telling what sort of inconveniences could crop up that would turn his inaction into a bigger hassle. 

He glances briefly at the wall that separates their room from the problem children. "It goes without saying that I'm still more than happy to help you with babysitting duties, though."

[caffernnn]

I’ve been having big feelings about Haru being in an isolation of his own design and not knowing how to transition back out of it (and even if he does have some semblance of an idea on how to do it, it’s easier said than done).

His isolation itself is this specific state of limbo born out of an overwhelming mix of emotions. In the moment, he runs in a direction that leaves him alone, but the drive is born out of anything but a desire for loneliness. Hear me out: when Haru is struggling to process big emotions and developments in his life, the ever-changing shapes and angles looking back at him in a mirror become unfathomable, unfamiliar. For someone who wants to live authentically, prides himself on being himself around the people he cares about, it makes sense to be scared of showing up and being present when he doesn’t really know what’s going on with the tangled mess inside of his head. He’s already scared and worn down by the demand to understand himself (plus grapple with whatever he finds once he starts identifying/processing his feelings), so he guards himself in that convoluted way a lot of people do when they’ve been left before: create distance and obscure their view of whatever unpleasant shape you’ve become to keep them from choosing to move on — leave before they can leave first. It’s not meant to be a permanent state of isolation, but a safe guard born out of a fear response, as if to say, “don’t judge me yet, don’t leave yet, okay? I’ll make it back to you when I’m myself again and know what that means.”

The part where this gets interesting with Haru (and what has me thinking about his specific isolation cycles rn) is that even if he hasn’t directly put the dots together, a part of him has figured out that he is better at untangling and shaking hands with his thoughts/emotions when he can have someone he trusts there as a sounding board and gentle guide. He’s inclined towards independence with a lot of things (whether by nature or learned necessity), but there have also been specific presences in his life he’s learned to lean on (cough Makoto cough). Soooo, what happens when he’s a wounded animal hiding alone until he’s better, and a part of him starts to gnaw at his resolve with the sickening urge to drag himself back into the light to ask for help with questions he doesn’t have words for? How does he build up the courage, the audacity, to show back up as this potentially unsightly thing and beg for grace he’s not sure he deserves, to hope this isn’t too much because he can’t survive the reality of a loneliness he didn’t choose?

A lot of what we see in canon are the moments where he runs and the moments someone finds him to pull him back, but that middle bit… it’s a specific despair I want to watch him sit with. Those moments where he has the desire to break his isolation, where he freakin yearns for connection and coming back home to the places he ran from, but doesn’t know how to take that first step back. When he’s not seeing his friends because “how are you” and “what’s your next move” are questions that he can’t afford to answer, but he’d love to be able to watch them thrive up-close again? When he’s lashed out against someone and has felt regret for it from the moment it happened, but doesn’t know how to face them yet? When he realizes more than anything he wants a hand outstretched to pull him out of the darkness, but he doesn’t think he can grab on without digging his nails in??

It’s all a meaty angst spiral I’d love to play around with, especially in a scenario where Haru does find a way to reach out a little earlier than he’s used to, or his friends (cough Makoto cough) don’t wait it out and find him still deep in crisis mode. I want to watch his stubborn fears and earnest heart duke it out and see how he comes out of a scene of true vulnerability.

What if… instead of late night rambling about Haru on twitter… I do it here instead

Hmm. ‼️BRAINROT INCOMING‼️

[seb-owns-these-tatas]

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 3)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 2

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Y/N seem to have woken up with a panic attack and with questions inside her head about on how she would come back to her world. Geralt may have said a solution to it, but it was rather difficult to achieve. Furthermore, it seems as if there was another thing difficult to attain as well which leaves him upset and frustrated with everything. No matter how you were out of place in Geralt's family, you couldn't help but still feel that peculiar warmth you wanted to feel forever.

Warnings: No modern references in this one except for fried chicken. Story title insertion! *wink wink nudge nudge* A lot of Jaskier, Geralt and Ciri banters and a soft but kinda rough Geralt in this one because of certain circumstances. THERE'S TENSION IF Y'ALL BE FEELING IT. AHONHONHON. Mention of Yennefer of Vengerberg in this one. Also explanation of portals and mention of potions used in the game. A lot of talking, less action. You’ll get your action and ANGST on the next chapterSSSSS! 

Words: 6,570+ (LONGGGGGGG AF! I WAS SHOOKTH!)

A/N: Reader is between 5'1 or 5'. You can imagine a 4'11 one if you want to! I JUST REALIZED...HOW...SHE'LL....THEY'LL....ALRIGHT, GET WRECKED, READER! 😅🤣🤣 

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Taglist: @alyxkbrl​ @himarisolace​ @barkingbullfrog​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @hellodevilslittlesister​ @vania-marie​ @spookypeachx​ @grungelovebug​ @fangirl-inthe-us​ @nympeth​ @missjenniferb  (I couldn’t tag you bud! A different blog was popping out of the recommendation and it wasn’t your blog. Though, I’ll try again on the next update! Don’t worry!) @amirahiddleston​ @gabethelobster​ @dreaming-about-starfleet​ @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz​ 

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren't from moi as well. I’ve taken it from the games.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

The sun's rays cascaded on your face. Smell of burned out Oak wood whiffed through the air and filled your senses as faded voices suddenly become apparent for no reason, or probably a reason for you to wake up from your uncomfortable sleeping position.

Was it the TV? You thought to yourself, scrunching your nose from the sun that hit your face and merely from the dust that was flying all over the place. As much as you've remembered, cleaning has been your habit at home and having a dirty apartment was unfamiliar.

The rays of the sun was suddenly hidden from a body who had to lean down to take a good look at your face. You've hardly squinted your eye to blur out the television in the background, shifting your head around and leaning fully on your forehead instead to avoid your cat named Jafar from sniffing your face.

"Princess Cirilla," Geralt deeply groused, his grim seeming to be felt by how brooding he had to put up; inches away from Jaskier and Cirilla who were close to you and around the table, watching you sleep like a baby.

The light blonde princess who had bright ocean blue eyes demanded with a soft kick to the ground, "But, Geralt!" she bellowed with a huff, "I wanna be her friend! You lads aren't fun to be with!"

"She won't stay long, Cirilla. She isn't from our world," Geralt droned and felt the enervation of not having his sleep last night. You were weeping like a toddler all night and his heightened senses weren't helping himself when he could hear those snuffles echoing as he shifted and turned all over on his side of the bed.

It was beyond terrible and utmost irksome.

His initial thought was to help a screaming lady sprinting in the middle of the woods and shoo her off when he's done killing the creature hunting her down. He didn't expect for her to live with them after he did so' just like how Ciri eventually landed on his hands for him to take care of. Amazingly, the adoption he had consist of an explanation, a royal offer from the kingdom of Cintra that involves the Law Of Surprise unlike with you; there was none. Not even a justification as to why you were there with them.

Saving Y/N didn't mean another adoption was up to claim and for him to protect with all his life.

Jaskier sat on the wooden chair in front of you as he deliberated and tried to understand your situation in his own creative wits, "You mean a Teleporter?"

Geralt shook his head, eyes narrowing as he looked at you from the side; assessing your whole ordeal and trying to get a gist of magic in your veins, "No, Jaskier." Howbeit, he'd felt none and it was frustrating the Witcher, "---She doesn't possess magic, I can sense it."

The bard shrugged and disregarded his opinions, giving Geralt a once over before focusing on your hair; momentarily plucking out a small leaf out of your hair which erupted a cock of Geralt's head as he watched Jaskier having no fraught from touching you.

"You know that senses of yours aren't exactly a hundred percent accurate when you've got kicked by a Kikimore and bitten by Ghouls,"

His expression was stoic, glowering before them both and especially from Jaskier's comment. Cirilla had her delicate fingers clasp together and over the side of her face as she admired your sleeping face, "She's so adorable while she sleeps!" she continued to cajole, "---Even a little shorter than me! Maybe she's my age and we can play!"

"She isn't," Geralt ceased her admiration and shook his head, beautiful gold eyes staring at your face that shifted and was now face front as to where he stood from afar, "How certain are you about that? You've only met her last night!"

Jaskier had his fist on his chin, deliberately looking at Geralt with that knowing look.

The Witcher lowly hummed in ponder. Focal point on your sleeping face with a stoic expression, trying to distinguish your length of life from the moment you were born, "Y/N must be in between the age of twenty to twenty-five,"

Cirilla had her eyebrows in a twist as she moved around to take a closer look at you again, a frown from the information that has been said, "But, she looks younger than her age!"

"Not at least in between ninety? or exactly a hundred? Like you, Geralt?" Jaskier added to the dispute. His query making Geralt sigh because he has been repeating the idea like a slow idiot.

"She doesn't possess some sorts of magic nor is she mutated, Bard."

"Maybe she possesses the power of immortality!"

He glared at the bard who gave him a shrug, Jaskier's face still dead beat from how his nap has been ruined prior to the night, but he had more sleep than Geralt did considering he wasn't a Witcher and had senses that not any normal human may possess.

"So her name is Y/N?! Why didn't you wake me up to welcome our visitor?!" The girl in a mint green Kirtle exclaimed, their voices finally coming to your senses and realizing that it wasn't your television nor was it your cat's breath on your face. You whimpered in an attempt to wake yourself up; yawning in the process and languidly bringing your head up for it to be bent at an angle with your arm on the table and fist on your temple.

"You were sleeping," Geralt began, resolving her dismay at the situation at hand, "--and there was a beast, Princess. It was hunting her down,"

"Oh, poor Y/N," Cirilla frowned a tighter one, eyeing you down and peeking from under your arm as she noticed the bruises on your face. She took a second before straightening her back, the braid she'd fixed never turning higgley-piggledy because of how tight and proper it was. A look of interest sent to the Witcher by the princess of Cintra herself and now the future queen ahead, "But, did you kill it, Geralt?"

Their voices seem to be recognizable, the two men of some sort and the kid's voice completely unfamiliar for you. Repetitive blinks full of fatigue before having the energy to sleepily place your chin on your fist, a blurry image of a youthful, lean body and a pretty face of a man sitting in front you coming clearer as you blinked again.

"Isn't it such a sight to wake up to your bruising face early in the morning, small rat."

Your face turned into a tight frown at the image sitting before you. The pillow of your lip jutting out in a pout when you've scanned the whole place and saw Geralt standing with a stern expression on his face, behind a kid who looked taller than you and extremely pretty.

The house even looked more old and primitive in the morning like you're currently living in history which made you groan to yourself because you haven't teleported back to your home as Jaskier said last night.

Great. Just great. You thought in the back of your mind before grumbling, "Can you...stab me with your sword right now?"

The question was sent to the Witcher despite of staring fully on the table. You didn't hear an answer from him as per usual and felt your anxiety rising through your head in agitation like a lighter sparking the gas. It's travelling too fast that you haven't realized the panic shooting wildly.

"I'm still here," you bawled, "I'm still here," and repeated over and over like a dinosaur jumping on rocks whenever google doesn't have internet. The panic was beginning to boil, making your fingers tremble in apprehension as you've struggled to keep in place on your seat, your feet on the ground shaking from the worry. Both hands gripping on your roots as you began to bawl out because you couldn't scream out all your frustrations because that's not how you roll, "I've already slept, I thought I'll be waking up in my apartment already,"

Cirilla took a step back when you've started crying, looking over at Geralt to ask what was happening. Both men together were contemplating as to what was happening as the Bard reluctantly and very slowly stood up as his gaze was fixated on you who kept on mumbling in whispers. He ran behind Geralt like you were a possessed woman and actually thinking you were casting a spell because of how fast you were mumbling your feelings out loud, sounding incomprehensible to the ears of everyone except for Geralt.

Jaskier stood behind Geralt like a kitten shielding behind his mother, "Geralt! I told you! She's a sorceress! One like Yennefer! This is probably why you're fond of her!"

Cirilla examined your state and tried understanding what was happening, her nerves also unsettling about the fact that maybe you were possessed by black magic. Though, she doubt it because you should've attacked everyone already.

Hence, there you were in your own seat. Bawling your eyes out like a toddler who had been left by her parents.

"Geralt? Is she okay?" the pretty child questioned Geralt who stood behind her with a distant look on his face.

His eyes narrowed on you, continuing his perusal. He was trying to fathom what was running inside those mind of yours and when a tear fell and another sniff coming from your side of the cavern, he knew it. A slight turn of his head and his silent thoughts of understanding as he had seen you freaking out and crying like last night; he knew what was happening.

"She's...panicking. Utterly harmless, Jaskier. Just like how humans do unless you aren't actually one," Geralt nonchalantly informed the bard who was hiding behind his towering form. He watched you roughly wipe your tears with the back of your clothed hand; his sweater that was awfully big for you and continued to rant while he narrowed his eyes as your focus was now on the knife set on an empty soiled plate that Jaskier has left.

"I just wanna go home!"

His forehead creased to the extent of trying to figure you out. Shoulders slumping as he breathed out a ragged curse beneath his breath to further his dissatisfaction of your next move.

"Y/N!"

You were fast enough to grab onto the sharpened knife, aiming it to the sensitive portion of your neck. However, not fast enough for the Witcher to even let it happen.

The knife in your hand wasn't even lifted halfway for Geralt to know what you were going to do. He'd seen a lot of bloodshed and known enough people who wanted for their blood to drop out of their hands. It only took two steps for him to construct his onslaught before you've even tried to slit your throat before them.

Your choice of weapon has been sheathed away from you. The tall, brooding, brawny Witcher slightly bending you on the table as he pulled the knife away from your neck with just a grip that didn't even earned him a sweat. It was like taking candy from a baby. Yet, you were pretty much struggling a lot from his strength as you tried wrenching your wrist off his hold with Geralt hunching down before you and never letting go.

Those gold eyes were a charm against the rays of the sun cascading his face. Your faces close from each other and you can see the chagrin and fury swirling in his eyes rather than those plain, apathetic glimmer set in his eyes with a warmth you couldn't express. With that only being seen and stared at, you knew he was furious.

The scary witcher was losing his temper.

"Let me go, Geralt." you firmly stated, voice wavering and sounding small like you were being hunted by a cheetah. Geralt held his scowl better than he had to when he has seen you the first time and it wasn't faltering.

You tried wrenching your wrist away from the Witcher, but he pulled it back with no remorse. Keeping you in place as he seethed; Aurum eyes momentarily taking a glimpse of your dry, chapped lips that were inches apart before settling those peepers on yours again and he wanted to groan out loud for the unsettling emotion he was having, "I would like to see you try, Midget."

Geralt held your wrist tighter around his fingers because you were moving, though; the simple action was enough for you to stop and never even think about doing it again. The strength that he was using was not enough to inflict pain. "I don't need another person's blood on my hands,"

Some of his dirt-ivory colored hair fell on his face as he continued to fume. Expression thoroughly livid as he said those words like it was burnt till dust, a history that should've been left forgotten but was now relived because of your forsaken act.

His warm breath hit your face and you couldn't move at all, like you were powerless and utter putty in his hands. You've heard a grumble vibrated out of his chest before snatching the knife off your fingers and quickly retreating from his position with a frustrated hum, leaving you exhaling out a breath you didn't know you were holding since he has grabbed onto you.

"Wha-what if dying is the only way to bring me back," you've tried to keep yourself in tact despite of the fast beating of your heart and the anomalous heat travelling all over your body. You shook the feeling off with a shake of your head as you continued; looking at Jaskier and Cirilla, avoiding the presence of the man who has been playing with your mind and human heart, "---I've slept, tried everything and still woke up in your house,"

The declaration sounded weak; completely despairing as you've seen Geralt saunter back to where he has been standing before you even tried to slit yourself alive. A tight moue that twisted his features from the act that has happened; filling utter disappointment as the rough crease of his wrinkles wanted to say.

But, he chose to stay silent rather than let out those emotions he was battling with.

You were completely an unorthodox to him. A picture he couldn't see and never wanted to even touch but hoped to imagine.

"I can feel you, I can touch everyone, I can feel sadness, despair, happiness, pain and a lot more," he felt your eyes on him as the first word has been said before reluctantly sharing gazes at the other two who were breathing when you've continued your articulation.

Nevertheless, the act that has happened made Jaskier and Cirilla's breaths hitch because they couldn't believe that it just happened in front of them like it was nothing.

It looked like Geralt has handled the situation well and you were suddenly okay. Just like that. A peculiarity of an event that they couldn't understand.

You've straightened your back and held your hopes high, dubiously taking a trek till you were in front of the people who were nice enough to give you shelter despite of not knowing you from the start; with a goodwill to even save you from an Alghoul that appeared out of nowhere when you should've died already when Geralt wouldn't have jumped into the picture.

But, no. You were still alive and you didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing as the protection came with a fair trade to be living in the world that they were in. A world where you still believed was in earth because of how human they appeared and felt. The only fragment that could keep you in doubt was the monsters that emerges out of nowhere and the magic that these people have been saying. A magic that can't be seen with the naked eye because you haven't seen a supernatural phenomenon yet.

Geralt gave a gravelly hum once you've settled your short self before him, the height differences apparent to the perspective of people. Geralt had his Herculean body in an assertive stance, broad-shoulders poised as you peered up at him with forlorn, the upset frown etched upon your face and he couldn't help but breath through his nose to compose himself.

"I need to go back, I gotta go back. Aren't you a witcher? Can't you cast a spell and help me?"

Jaskier and Cirilla had their forehead creased as they stared at the two. The beautiful child completely unaware of where you originated. She was deep in thought, thinking you came from any of the kingdom or if you were mutated as well just like Geralt because as been said by the witcher, you didn't belong in their world.

The man with glowing Aurum eyes sighed, "Witchers..don't work that way," he claimed with a slant of his head, eyeing you with gall and a slight pacified demeanor after losing his patience a while ago, "---I slaughter beasts, not brew the Fillet of a fenny snake with an eye of a newt nor cast a spell while mixing tons of shit in a cauldron like you thought I was,"

His disclosure was enough to make your heart fail from having faith again. It seems like every darn time he opens those luscious damn lips of him leaves you in a crestfallen shape or he just seems like the type to not give you hope with positive things like this which is why he was failing no matter if he wanted to give comfort.

You've washed your face with your hands in frustration, the fear rising for the second time this day and felt Geralt's heated stare on you, eyes shining in baffling fascination no matter how phlegmatic he wanted to appear. You can just see it in his eyes and it was odd because you've remembered how you couldn't read him like a book the night before, yet here you were; understanding how he tries to interact with you.  

"Then, who can help me? Is there a portal or some sort?"

His eyes looked away for a moment; deeply dwelling a thought inside his head. "Sorcerers create portals of natural phenomena and places that actually exist," the Witcher began roughly, voice utmost in the lowest timbre he could ever do and it almost made your body vibrate from his pitch, "---However, most sorcerers can only link portals to the world they're familiar with and that occurs in having the same witchcraft that a certain world creates," Geralt landed his bright eyes on you as he continued to ponder. An inevitable glower stamping his face as he went on with more information and a tight grimace, "---we aren't exactly certain about your world. But, the contingencies of casting a portal that should've been left untouched can cause upheaval or chaos not just to both worlds, but to the natural habitat and the future as well,"

Your frown was cut short, changing into an ample amount of confusion because of his explanation. Simply to say, the chances of creating a portal will jeopardize not just their world, but also earth as well. If you'll be wanting to cast a portal, there was a great amount of risk ahead.

Geralt continued his vouch, still engrossed at looking you in the eye like he wanted you to melt into a puddle. Your traitor of a heart skipping a beat as you've avoided his eyes and looked elsewhere, "---Which definitely leaves insignificance as to why you're lost in our world when there was no witchery encompassing that earth you call your kingdom,"

"So, there's no hope then?" you pointed out, sapless.

"It takes risks, Midget." Geralt lowly enunciated, the gravel in his voice seeming coherent as he mentioned the nickname he calls you. He looked to the ground, mind wandering off Wonderland as a scowl began to form again, like the next thing he wanted to say should've been kept and not mentioned ever again, "---And a very powerful sorcerer,"

Jaskier's ears perked at that, speculating and trying to involve himself with the topic at hand, his tongue waiting to be moved and for words to be told for reiteration, "Or sorceress," the bard boasted with a tone that made the witcher hiss back at him with contempt.

"Yennefer of Vengerberg could do the job well or some of her associates," the bard jested with a soft push of his elbow to Geralt's ribs, though it didn't even made him flinch. His nose flared back at him, giving him the stink eye before cussing him beneath his breath.

"Fuck off, Bard."

Cirilla ignored their laser eyes and tried to join in the conversation, "Who is Yennefer? I've been asking this since the last two last years!" she pondered, hesitantly raising her hand as if asking the teacher if it was time for her to spit out questions.

"Someone you shouldn't know, Cirilla,"

So, there was really hope. Even only a fourty-five percent of that aspiration you needed for your heart to be filled with faith. You nodded to yourself in understanding, leaving those other questions inside your head and asked straight to the point, "Who is Yennefer?"

Jaskier stepped a foot close, officially involving himself in the conversation with a smug grin on his face. His hands on his hips as he revealed with no shame, "Geralt's long lost love,"

Geralt had to close his eyes to calm himself down from the bard who kept on interjecting in the talk with you.

The princess of Cintra huffed, stomping a foot on the ground as she fixated her gaze at the huge trunk of a man who seemed to be having a moment of meditation, "You didn't tell me you had a lover!"

"Not anymore," Geralt grumbled more so to himself as the crowd asked questions after questions and served their opinions on a buffet plate; open for everyone to hear.

You innocently cast a look to his face. He could also feel your eyes on him and when he'd fluttered them open; it was completely pure for his irksome heart to fall in tranquil, "She's the one of the most powerful sorceress I know," he subtly breathed in your scent, masking himself with it as he tries to remember it in the back of his mind. Becoming familiar to the strong scent that makes his thoughts go in a haywire. A sharp, palpable and fresh scent that he ought and needed to ingurgitate straightaway. Lemon with a hint of peony; definitely different from the scent that Yennefer had, Lilac and Gooseberries. "---Maybe the only one who could create an enigma of a portal," the witcher more so than grumbled, face twisting in a way that made you look up at him in question because he seemed to be in pain, "Then? What are we waiting for? We should find her!"

The mere mention of a person who could help you leave their world quickly placed a warm beam lifting your lips, a sight that Geralt has been struggling to forget since last night. His eyes wandered off elsewhere, missing the catch of your bright filled ones as his nose scrunched from how overwhelming it was to be close to you.

"That's the problem," he gurgled before taking a step back, hissing beneath his breath because of how he was starting to become frustrated again, "---she's nowhere to be found," before turning his back away from you with a grumble.

You watched him walk away from you, embracing all his negativity and feeling your heart plummet because he was acting far from the welcoming man last night. It was like it has never been him that was offering to cover your wounds as he knelt in front of you, all the more; giving you a small smile despite of it not being his forte in doing so.

He was unconventional to you. A book you've definitely wanted to read, yet difficult to understand because the words were such a complex for the naked eye. Geralt was rare and a kind you've never encountered. Literally.

Nonetheless, his presence was intriguing and definitely inveigling.

"I have no hope then," you've thought to yourself, hearing Cirilla and Jaskier banter over something about the sorceress that ignited Geralt's change of heart.

"I'm hungry," Cirilla stressed towards the Bard who was now holding his Lute and plucking with the strings like he was forming another one of his epics inside his head. The bard ignored her and gave Geralt a once over who was on the other end of the cavern, opening wooden cabinets which had all different kinds of concoctions that certainly a normal human cannot take because of how toxic it was and how it was only forbidden and restricted for Witchers.

Cirilla threw a hissy fit, blowing out a breath of agitation and hunger because she was famished. You studied the child and noticed she was a little taller than you no matter how she should've been small. As you've tried to eye-ball her height, she seems to be in between five foot four or five foot three. "What's your name, kid?"

She narrowed her eyes on Jaskier who began to tread to where the Witcher is, "Cirilla," the princess honestly voiced out, palm on her stomach as it grumbled a sound that says she was starving so much.

Cirilla turned her heel to look at you, better than having Geralt stand before you because he was giving you stiff neck from being a tall, brooding man. She eyed you in question and you gave her a sincere smile, waggling your brows at the princess, "I can make food if you want?"

Princess Cirilla jumped on her feet like a child being given candy, clapping her hands in excitement, "Great! A mother figure other than a pair of boys! Geralt and Jaskier make the nastiest food they can ever cook," she jeered with a puff of her breath. Her eyes twinkled in felicity.

She gave you a big wide grin when you've pondered in thought as to what was easy to make in  medieval age; questions numbered inside your head and asking no one in particular if their world had chicken? flour? or bread flour, if they didn't have one? Condiments or any kind of spices for taste. Their time had to have chickens and so, you wanted a modern kind of dish to help yourself as well despite of living like in the past, "I can make you fried chicken, if you want? That is, if you can get me chicken,"

"What is a fried chicken?" she'll definitely love it, you thought because she was a child. Seeing her smile go bright just from hearing it made you heart coo; or it was simply a new image rather than those scowls you have been seeing since the morning has started so the kid had a soft spot in your heart. "An unhealthy dish, but definitely scrumptious,"

You turned your head towards the men who were a little bit far from where you both stood, they were talking in silence and that was completely pristine than the banters you've heard non-stop last night, "---And also a healthy viand for these boys you have,"

Jaskier continued plucking on his Lute, strumming random notes as he hummed inside his head, he gave you and Cirilla a glimpse as the bard watched you both interact with each other like you were both long lost friends, like a natural bond slowly being created, "Maybe this cuckoo of a maiden isn't actually bad to have around," he decreed with a look of sympathy. Turning his head to look at Geralt who seemed to have a furious staring contest with his potions.

"---You should help her, Geralt."

The Witcher languidly blinked, partially shutting the wooden cabinet closed and noting that he was deficient of Cat elixir, a concoction to help him grant sight in total darkness, some Black Blood and Fiend concoction that helps him increases the amount of weight that he can carry without being overburdened. Geralt sighed at Jaskier's confession.

"Do I have a choice?" he gurgled back at the bard.

"Won't a djinn help?"

Geralt gave Jaskier a once over before taking a glimpse of you and Ciri who were now sitting on the table, chatting about certain things that can entertain the princess. Jaskier finally had the tune he wanted, a simple catchy tune but different from his song about Witchers. It just had the same style, "I've already took it down into consideration," the bard hummed, completely intrigued and gave him a look, "We can take risks,"

Jaskier ceased himself from humming, the voices of women giggling in the background coming along in their conversation. The ambiance changing into a lighter tone from the moment you came into their cavern. A thorough spin of the world like it was changing in the different kind of path; it was like seeing a new color for the rainbow that has been added to complete the beauty of it all.

You just had that specific effect that could create allurement to the world wherever you're in. Hence, that was probably your magic.

"But, are you willing to take it, Witcher?"

He was taken aback by the question, a question even asked as a question inside his head. Was he really willing to take the risk in helping this midget? another person on his hand to protect and help? Will it not slip apart due to unfortunate circumstances? Geralt calmly breathed through his nose, his facial features slackening when he'd seen Cirilla's eyes twinkling again despite of what she has been through. "I've been through hell and maybe even deeper than that. Probably already met the devil with it,"

Geralt slanted his head in a way to adore the image right in front of him; though with a face that seemed to be lackadaisical, "---This woman hasn't experienced what I have, not even the slightest and I don't want her to," he suddenly admitted, "---I have no thought as to what curse has this woman been cast upon,"

Jaskier nodded in comprehension and ruth for you; pretty blue eyes admiring the sight before him and Geralt, "Seems quite an unfortunate path,"

"Evil is evil," The Witcher added as a matter of fact, "---Lesser, greater or even stronger," a subtle pause to catch his breath as he eyed you beaming back at what Cirilla has said before he continued, "---She hasn't shielded herself from it, nor does she have an amulet with her; like she was sent here for a reason. She's bound for ill-fate because we're in a world full of animosity and mayhem," Geralt trailed off when you've rummaged for the things in the pocket of your short that was neatly folded on the side of the table.

You've shown Cirilla a small beautiful transparent ball that had rainbow color stars inside. It was a lucky charm for you and it has been given as a gift from your mother back in earth.  

"Do you know Jacks and Stones, Cirilla?"

Cirilla's ears perk at that, a perplexed expression written on her face. "The game doesn't ring a bell, Y/N."

Once Cirilla has seen you grabbed onto the small stones on the space below their window and tried to play on your own, her forehead creasing seemed to relax and a look of elation and familiarity run through her face, "I think I actually know it! Isn't it Knucklebones?"

You've caught the ball and the small stone in one hand with no sweat. She eyed the ball and the stones scattered around the table, her eyes gleaming a lot more than she ever did. "I think so! But, here's the catch! Loser gets a slap on the forehead with a finger and the Winner gets two drumsticks of my special fried chicken,"

"---Oh, you're on, Y/N! I'm great at Knucklebones!" she challenged as she abruptly stood on the table, looking right back at Geralt and Jaskier who were already looking in fascination.

Cirilla demanded in blithe. A big, bright smile shining her face, "Geralt, we need chicken! Catch us one!"

At the mention of that, Geralt couldn't help but repeatedly blink at the wishes from the princess; catching him off-guard. Jaskier couldn't help but send a shit-eating grin to the Witcher who had his brows in another kind of twist, his face wanting to wince but he ceased to.

"I'm a Witcher, not a farmer," he deeply mumbled with a sigh. Cirilla blew a breath, her hands on her hips as she sassed, "Aren't you a butcher of Blaviken? Or do they just call you that?"

The Witcher's forehead creased at the mention of one of his monikers. He didn't want anymore retorts because the princess would drop down more comments for the argument that will last for hours till end just for her demands to be taken into account. Thus, which is why; Geralt was shrewd enough to end her pleading with submission.

"Fine,"

He thought that would be the end of everybody's demand when you've suddenly stood up on your seat and waved a hand to get his attention. Geralt gave you a look of query and with a little bit of tenderness in his eyes that you could undeniably feel no matter how stoic his expressions were. You cleared your throat, grinning back at him like a Cheshire cat.

"Can I come with you? Please?"

"No, midget." He strained, the lackadaisical tone lacing at the end of his tongue. His answer was fast and prudent, entirely against the idea.

You just wanted to be familiar with their world when you'll be staying in it for days, maybe even months or badly for years because of how you didn't know the portal they were saying. All you knew on how to transport was cars, airplanes, boats, bikes and even walking would do the job. But, not with magic and scientific luck.

You pouted back at The Witcher, heart falling from the rejection. Sending him the most pitiful look in your eyes and hoping you weren't looking like a waggling goose before them, "Pleaseee, Geralt? I wanna wander in the woods! Be familiar with the place especially that I've probably going to take time before I go back home," pause. "After Cirilla and I play and know who wins and loses,"

Geralt huffed to himself, an incoherent one as he deeply sighed. Jaskier could hear him from where he stood as he adjusted the leather hoop of his Loot across his shoulder, his witcher of a friend's jaw clenching like he was thinking about it deeply. Before granting permission in the end because of how you were giving him those Hirikka eyes; as said by his inner thoughts out in the back.

"Fine,"

The bard wanted anything but to cough out loud from that submission. Jaskier gave him a double-take. An evident look of surprise in his eyes as he turned his soles to point a finger at the Witcher. Geralt was quick enough to shake his head and slap his finger away with the back of his hand.

"Don't...even start, Bard."

"It's been a day and this small rat already has you wrapped around her finger!" he whisper-yelled at his friend, excitement and jest sparking his nerves which got him grinning like the devil.

Geralt glared at the mischievous bard grinning back at him with the knowing look that they can only both understand, "When will you bloody shut up?"

"When I don't have the voice to poetically sing my wonderful epics," Jaskier scoffed, crossing his arms on top of his Lute with that mocking glint in his eyes. The Witcher smirked back at Jaskier, spitting out a particular jest that could get him back-paddling, "Guess I'll need a travel companion in finding another Djinn,” 

Jaskier blinked in surprise, taking a step back as he shook his head and had a hand on his hip while the other was wiggling in the air to express his negations, "Oh no no no, Witcher! Keep me out of your heroic attempts of gathering some kind of genie! I am done!" the bard ridiculed as he took hesitant steps back, slowly and slyly taking off before Geralt carries him on his shoulders to purposefully tag him along in finding another Djinn, "I figured playing this jacks and stones with Cirilla and Y/N will be much better instead,"

Jaskier halted from his silent, sneaky egress. Giving both women a glimpse who were playing behind him, "A BARD WISHES TO JOIN YOUR WONDERFUL ADVENTURE, LASSIES!"

He snapped his head back at Geralt who simple wore a crooked smile and a look of mockery filling his perfectly chiseled face, "Off you go, Witcher of the night," the rascal waved him off, a gloaty banter being thrown back to the smug witcher, "I have also yet to create another knightly epic for an intriguing love story that is bound to unfold in the far north of Kaedwan,"

Thusly, Geralt's crooked smile was rapid to fall. His face masking in condemnation when Jaskier began to strum his lute and with a tune that would probably haunt his friend as he tried to sleep through the night.

"Doeful eyes like a dear~ Seems like a Witcher who couldn't bear~,"

Jaskier's singing has made history through different places in the continent and he was never wrong with the epics he'd been orally singing out around which is why this new song he was forming to create would either be a complete disaster, a mere tell-tale or a myth that was bound to end up in the vast veracity of the epic told.

IT’S ALL FUN AND HAPPY NOW. BUT, Y’ALL WILL SEE THE WRATH OF ANGST WHEN THE CHAPTER GOES FURTHER!

[moderndayportia]

Currents

A/N: This is based on a drabble prompt request from @bouncyirwin​. Thank you! I’m still warming up my writing after a long, long break, so if you have a prompt, feel free to drop it in my Ask box

Pairing: Kakasaku Rating: None Warning: Major Character Death

Katsuyu appears on his shoulder for the second time that day in a puff of smoke swept away by the acrid ash swirling around him. Kakashi shudders as he ruthlessly wrenches his hand from yet another chest cavity. Around him his Anbu guard are fighting furiously, their usually studied restraint corrupted by a desire for blood.

The village is in ruins.

The strike had been precise and planned. Strategic buildings flattened to charred rubble in a hot, pulsing instant. The Hokage tower is a firey tomb, its charred bones burning hot in the stark afternoon bright.

Kakashi dodges a barrage and ducks behind an Earth-release wall where he finds several Katsuyu lying on Shikamaru’s bleeding head. Relief washes through him.

Sakura had summoned them early on in the attack, layering the village in an instant net of healing.

No deaths, he tells himself as he sends a wave of purple lightning through the rubbled ground beneath his guards’ feet before it bursts out of the Earth with a violent crack, eviscerating the circle of enemies surrounding them.

Sakura is life embodied in the face of the reaper.

High overhead a hawk circles and cries—a message for him.

No time, Kakashi thinks as more enemies rush in close.

“Hatake-sama,” Katsuyu says softly on his shoulder.

“Leave me, I’m fine,” he grunts. Other than waning chakra reserves, he is fine now. She had completely healed his extensive burns earlier.

He is fine, they are fine, he tells to himself as he spins a kunai, dodges, and then jams it into the eye socket of a woman cloaked in all black.

Is he their target? He doesn’t know.

A loud, ear-splitting boom tears from the East, and Kakashi sees Gamabunta towering high into the sky, Naruto perched on his head like a glowing beacon.

They’ll be okay.

“Hatake-sama, I don’t have much time,” Katsuyu insists softly again.

Kakashi stops cold.

His heart beats once, twice, then the sick dread fills him like a roar.

He glances towards Shikamaru and watches the Katsuyu on him linger and then fade.

“Where?” he asks, his tongue like ash in his mouth.

“The school,” Katsuyu answers weakly, before she too disappears.

He is gone in an instant.

 ______________________

Sakura’s world is a flood of pain as she lies twisted and broken in the rubble.

Shizune is hovering over her, saying something, but she can’t hear anything but ringing. Sakura tries to follow the movements of her lips, but everything seems to be moving further away and slower. The pain is swelling in violent waves.

A cloud of choking smoke swirls overhead. Her world tilts and spins.

The school….

The school is burning.

Sakura tries to roll onto her side, but a violent agony tears through her and her mouth tastes of iron.

Are they all out?

Shizune is crying. Her hands shaking. The bright lantern of her chakra paints the ankles of Sakura’s guards, standing around them in a tense circle.

The school….

She closes her eyes and is inundated by the rising tide of pain.

A demanding hand presses gently against her cheek.

Kakashi?

He looks worried. His mask is down.

His lips move. Again and again. He is holding her face.

It hurts. She is confused. Her eyes feel heavy.

Kakashi says something to Shizune who argues with him briefly and then bites her lip and leans forward to press her hands over Sakura’s ears. Her hands are bloody. So bloody.

Sound roars in like a tsunami. The first things she hears is her own gurgling breaths.

It hurts.

“Sakura,” Kakashi says. “Sakura,” again, more forcefully. He is holding her face and leaning so close.

“Ka-“ she tries, but nothing else will come. Sirens are blaring through the air.

The school…..

“Sakura, activate your seal,” Kakashi says, his voice a sharp knife.

Her seal?

“Do it. Activate your seal,” he demands.

Her seal.

It comes back to her then, the world snapping into a bitter focus. The devastation. The fires. The bodies.

Her friends. Her family. Her village.

She had called Katsuyu early. The destruction was so wild and immeasurable. She had drained herself, and then activated her seal and drained herself again.

She was empty. The places left hollow by her chakra were now filled with searing pain.

“Sakura,” Kakashi pleads from above her. “Do it.”

Sakura looks up at him as he traces his fingers across her smoke-dyed cheeks.

She aches to reach up and run her thumb down his scar. One last time.

She shakes her head slightly. Her mouth has filled with blood.

“No,” he says. “No.”

He glances wildly at Shizune who has her bloodied hands pressed over her mouth as she holds in silent howls.

Devastation mars his perfect face when he turns back to her.

She is drowning in it.

The school….

“Sakura, please,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he clutches her face.

She gasps and tries to find words. “H-hurts-”she mangles in her broken mouth.

Kakashi’s head falls forward and his soft silver hair brushes against her cheek. He whispers quaking promises into her neck.

Sakura shutters and her chest strangles in one, two, three breaths before he rises again. His face is resolved.

Strong hands cradle her head. The tomoe of his Sharingan spins steadily as he draws her broken body nearer. She feels the unfamiliar tug of his eye dragging her in to a soft, quiet place.

‘The school….’ is the last thing she thinks as her world sinks into deep, painless black.

 ______________

Sakura awakes slowly in a bed of soft green grass. She sits up and looks in wonder at the world around her.

A river, broad and slow, stretches in front of her, dancing with the brilliant reflection of the sunset on the other side. Behind her, the stars twinkle in a vast expanse of velvet black.

The air is warm and quiet but for the cicada song carried through the lingering dusk.

She does not remember how she got here. Who she is feels like a distant dream. She is here.

She is.

She stands slowly to survey her surroundings. Her body feels weightless and pain free. She is wearing a soft white yukata, tied right over left. Her feet are bare and her hair loose.

She steps lightly through the green grass.

Down by the river is a dock. Next to it a small white rowboat, unmoored, bobs up and down.

Sakura returns to sit on the riverbank and watches the water pass.

She waits for a long while. Time seems different here. The sun never changes its position on the horizon. The river flows, the rowboat bobs, and the cicada sing.

Fireflies dance in and out of the reeds in the river’s shallows, their fragile glow mesmerizing.

Eventually—minutes, hours or days later—she stands and starts walking upstream. A well-trodden path leads her gently through the grass and reeds, past a swaying willow tree, and back to a dock.

Sakura tries again, walking downstream this time, and is returned once again to the dock. Was it the same dock?

She finds a coin in her sleeve and leaves it on the railing before trying again.

It is the same.

This world is a small circle, and every path leads back to the dock.

Sakura feels a deep tiredness wash over her. She walks down the path to the willow tree, lies under its swaying bows and closes her eyes.

She dreams of a man with shocking silver hair. He stands at a graveside and prays. Two solemn little girls scuff their feet beside him, the bigger one holding the younger one’s hand.

When she awakes, the air is heavy with incense.

Her world is a small globe and her consciousness condenses to the ever dusk. In her dreams, she finds more. Small windows open into the world that was. She watches the man and his daughters. Time is passing for them. He grows older and so do they.

She charts the passage of time via the lines on his handsome face.

Often when she wakes there are flowers drifting down the current. She sits on the dock, dips her toes into the water, and watches them go.

Sometimes small plates of food are balanced on the moss-covered rocks. She is not hungry, cannot taste, but she eats them and an energy glows warm from her belly.

She waits. Still and calm. Watches the water flow past. The sun never sets. The night never rises.

She isn’t bored. She just is.

One day she wakes and the man is standing on the other side of the river, silhouetted by the sunset.

His name swells up in her mind, a memory that had been held in the deep for too long.

Kakashi.

Her hand rises to her face and she feels hot, salty tears streaking down.

A damn bursts inside her, and it all comes flooding back in.

Kakashi!

She rushes to the white rowboat and steps inside for the first time. There are no oars, but it lurches and begins to propel itself across the river, pulled by some unknown force.

Her eyes never leave him. The time it takes to reach him aches.

The boat knocks against the sunset shore and Sakura tumbles into his waiting arms.

They sink into the sand and hold each other in a desperate embrace.

She is sobbing, overcome by the emotions that have been anchored to him for so long.

“I kept them safe,” he whispers over and over again as he holds her in his strong arms. “I kept them safe.”

She looks up into his face, young and unmarred by the passage of time, and he wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“I waited,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says and bends to catch her lips in a soft kiss.

They linger for some time—days, weeks or months or years. They make love in the half-night. He tells her the story of life after hers, of their daughters, of their grandchildren. Of the seeds they planted that grew big and spread.

Of a life lived for a promise made.

He holds her in his arms in the soft grass and they rest.

One day Sakura wakes before him. He finds her standing by the dock, watching the river’s constant flow.

She turns back, her green eyes burning brightly in the half-light, and holds out her hand.

He takes it.

It’s time.

The current catches the white rowboat and carries them on.

[bimboamyrose]

Unfamiliar - A Metamy Fanfic (Ch.4 )

First two chapters

Previous (Ch. 3)

Ch. 4: Stubborn

The evening was spent organizing Amy’s closets. She’d tasked Metal with handing her clothes hangers from across the room as she straightened up her wardrobe and later did the same for him as he stacked her tools back up on the high shelf of her storage space. At least his telescopic arm was coming in useful, even if he could do little more than stand still to avoid losing his balance. 

The dreary day gave way to a clear, chilly evening. Amy invited her house guest to sit on the porch with her for her nightly routine of sipping hot chocolate and stargazing. Glistening snow contradicted the beachy atmosphere, thick white blankets draping over palm trees and obscuring sandy ground. It was perfectly tranquil, silent but for the gentle mechanical whirring of Metal’s body.

Amy sat on a lawn chair wrapped tightly in a velvety blanket, knees to her chest. “If Tails isn’t available to fix you tomorrow, maybe we can at least try to repair your foot so you can stand upright.” 

Metal had planted himself on the seat next to hers. The contrast between his disturbing, sharp figure and her endearing and petite frame was as striking as the scenery. He crossed his busted leg over his good one, assessing the damage to his foot. He was not confident a self-repair would be successful, but it was always a possibility. He turned to her and nodded. Amy’s gentle eyes mirrored the starry sky. The calmness in Metal turned to a moderate excitement at the charming sight and it seemed almost to remind him of something.

“So, Metal, do you remember anything? Like, at all?”

He ripped himself out of his enchantment to process her question. Searching through his fragmented memory turned up thousands of inaccessible files. What little was left held mostly primary data with snippets of information. He found pictures and short bios of people he didn’t recognize and the name “EGGMAN” plastered across a repair protocol. Searching for that name just brought up several more corrupt files.

Metal reached for the tablet-sized whiteboard that was sitting on the garden table in front of them. He wrote down “VERY LITTLE” in his neat, mechanical handwriting and showed it to Amy.

She gazed directly into his eyes now, hoping to find some indication of whether Metal Sonic was being truthful in his unchanging eyes. “Do you remember me?”

Amy had asked him earlier if he recognized her and he denied it in his haste. But spending a few hours with the girl teased his memory like a word at the tip of one’s tongue; Metal was sure he knew her somehow. “FAMILIAR,” he wrote finally.

“Familiar, huh?” Amy finished her warm drink, setting the mug down in front of her. Not surprising, all things considered. But what does he really know? She noticed that Metal was quickly erasing his tablet and writing something new. Amy couldn’t keep herself from gasping when she caught sight of it again.

“WHO IS EGGMAN?”

She jerked the other way, hiding her shock. Does he remember that he works for Eggman? It must be part of his programming or something. I need to tell Tails. She decided to bluff. “Let’s, uh, see if we can find out. I think it’s time for bed.” She shot out of her cozy seat and back into the house before the cold could nip her.

Metal Sonic sat unmoving for a moment, perplexed at her sudden gesture. He propped himself up, tablet still in hand, as he drug his feet through the threshold of the backdoor and slid the door closed as gently as he could manage. He watched Amy toss her blanket over the back of the couch, then adjust and smooth it so it looked only partially like it was thrown there haphazardly. A strange maneuver.

“So, uh, you can go into sleep mode I guess?” She didn’t have the slightest idea what robots did at night or if he even needed to recharge. She was met once again with Metal’s unwavering stare; though it didn’t seem so spooky after the day they’d spent together. “Do you sleep?”

Metal simply nodded. He didn’t exactly sleep, but his instinct was to sit idle for a few hours to conserve energy. He was beginning to find that a close-enough answer would be satisfactory.

Amy was surprised but also relieved that she wouldn’t have to worry about him all night. “Oh- Well, is the couch okay?”

He came over and lowered himself onto the sofa, sitting upright and nodding.

“Okay, well- goodni-” Before she could finish, Metal’s eyes had gone dark. I guess that solves that. There was nothing more to do but turn in for the night.

-----------------------------------

The following morning, Amy was startled out of her usual groggy walk into the kitchen when she noticed Metal Sonic’s sharp form sitting at the kitchen table, staring solidly out the back door.  She’d expected to have to wake him up or something but it looked like he had been there for some time. He turned to face her abruptly and her heart jumped once again. 

“Oh, you’re awake- good morning.” Amy chuckled awkwardly.  “Have you… been up long?”

Metal nodded. The morning sunrise activated his sensors. It was closer to 8 AM now and he’d been doing little more than sitting since dawn.

“Sorry, must have been boring.” Amy made her way past him and into the kitchen to make her quick breakfast of toast and coffee. Metal seemed to stare at her the entire time, which made her self-conscious. “I... don’t eat much in the morning,” she explained anxiously . Not sure why he’d care…

Metal Sonic had been analyzing Amy’s every move for the past several minutes. He spent his time awake pondering on the wistful feelings he’d experienced as they sat on the veranda late last night. The exploration of his memory was in vain and he instead tried to force himself to remember, but it was no use. Why was she so familiar? Perhaps observing her would jog his memory.

She took a seat across from him, eating uncomfortably as he looked through her. Amy tried her best to smile. “So, is there anything you’d like to do this morning?”

The robot finally broke his fierce concentration to respond by pointing at his left arm socket.

“Ah…” Amy answered hesitantly. “Tails hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”

He pointed down toward his foot instead.

Amy inhaled deeply, nervous about the prospect of trying to make repairs herself. But she had said they could try, so she agreed dubiously. “Let’s give it a shot.”

Metal turned his attention from her to the glass door where some movement caught his eye. Amy followed his gaze, spotting a small bluebird landing on one of her lawn chairs.

“Wow, it’s rare to see them out in the cold. I guess spring is around the corner.” Amy smiled warmly at the sight. It had been an unusually long winter and the small snowstorm that passed the night before wasn’t exactly indicative of the cold subsiding. Yet the evening frost now began puddling over the otherwise tropical scenery. It was always the coldest just before seasons changed. She turned back to her guest enthusiastically. “Let’s fix that leg of yours!”

Optimism soon turned to frustration, however, as the tangle of wires and bent hinges that held the robot’s foot in place confounded her. The neat little workstation she’d set up on her kitchen table was now a messy array of tools and bolts. She’d managed to worsen the damage in the process, but any time Metal would make a sound or reach toward something Amy would huff and snatch tools out of his hand. Getting annoyed himself, Metal finally resolved to pull his entire leg away to keep her from making it any worse. Amy refused to let go of his foot, however, and the last of the wires that were holding the appendage in place finally snapped, severing his foot off his body completely. 

“Ugh- look what you made me do!”

Metal let out a series of high and low beeps that were meant to offend. She returned that with a sour look.

“I told you to sit still! Ugh!” Amy shoved the severed foot into his grasp and stomped into her bedroom. Metal could hear crashing as she grumbled and pushed things around her storage closet roughly. The girl stormed back into the room with an enormous roll of duct tape and knelt back beside Metal. “Give me your foot, I’m fixing this for good,” she demanded.

Metal emitted a low grumble. He held his foot above his head, out of her reach.

“You think I can’t reach up there?” Amy stared for a moment, challenging Metal. Then she suddenly shot back up and lunged for his hand. “Quit being stubborn and let me fix it!”

He was the stubborn one? Enraged, he extended his arm up towards the ceiling, playing keep away. She tugged fruitlessly on the telescopic cable. 

“You wanna lose another arm?!” 

Before he could make a response, Amy’s communicator rang from the other room. They both turned their attention in the direction of the jingle. Amy let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the roll of duct tape aside to answer the call as Metal watched her disappear wordlessly past the door. While she lingered there for a few minutes, he pulled his arm back and sat silently once more. He looked from his dismembered foot to the shiny duct tape and back again. He supposed it would be better than nothing.

Amy sauntered back into the living room area with her nose up. “That was Tails. Lucky for you, he’s an actual engineer and he can actually fix you.” She crossed her arms defensively.

Metal Sonic rolled his eyes but reluctantly offered his foot back to her.

“Did you just- You’ve been sitting here expressionless for a whole day and the first emotion you show is that?” She snatched his foot out of his grasp. “Unbelievable.” Amy continued muttering under her breath while she taped his leg and foot back together. “There! Not that it matters, Tails is about to fix it anyway,” she scoffed. “At least it won’t fall off on the way there…”

He looked down at his “repaired” foot. It did seem to at least be attached to him, which was marginal improvement. Metal stood up slowly, attempting to disperse his weight evenly. It was a bit shaky and he couldn’t exactly bend his ankle, but he managed to limp around rather than drag his foot behind him. 

“Well?” Amy looked at him inquisitively.

Metal reached for the little whiteboard that he’d left on the kitchen counter. He set it in front of him and scribbled something down quickly, holding it up for Amy to see. He turned away as he did, seemingly embarrassed. “THANK YOU” it read in slightly less neat handwriting than usual.

Amy’s cheeks puffed when she saw it. Her face flushed and she, too, avoided eye contact. “You’re welcome.” She pouted, her cheeks growing ever warmer as she realized what an outburst she’d had. “And, you know… sorry,” she finally added.

Stubborn, Metal Sonic added to his description of Amy Rose in his memory bank. Temperamental. He looked back down at his foot, noticing how neatly she had wrapped the tape around him- smooth, with no folds or creases. Well-meaning, he appended. The fix wasn’t perfect but it was certainly more comfortable than the alternative. Thoughtful.

Amy composed herself, releasing a deep sigh. “Grab your jacket and your arm. Let’s head to Tails’ place so he can get you fixed up for real,” she smirked. She knew her solution was janky, but genuinely hoped it would at least help keep him together. 

Metal Sonic complied with this. He found his arm strewn into the corner of the storeroom and gave Amy a bit of a side eye, knowing she’d knocked it there in her earlier rage. She pretended not to notice this. He was about to head out the front door when Amy stopped him. “You’re not going to wear your jacket? I know you don’t get cold, but…”

He looked to the coat rack where he’d placed it the evening before. It didn’t agree with his telescopic arm when it was extended so he opted to remove it before helping Amy clean up her closet. 

“I’ll help you get it on if you want.”

He nodded back, dropping his other arm momentarily as she slid it over him and zipped the front. Amy smiled at him then with unexpected warmth. 

She was musing silently about his change in character. Overnight, Metal went from a nightmarish enemy to a placid houseguest. Amy thought he could be reprogrammed into becoming her ally, but was now realizing that this robot with all his hinges and bolts was a bona fide person. She’d always thought he was angry by default, encountering him only in battle or other tense situations; but seeing how Metal could become elated and annoyed and show gratitude gave her hope that he wasn’t just an emotionless machine to be modified. Instead, he was a potential new friend.

[ravenwritesstuff]

Wandering Hearts (32/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century. Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna) Rating: M (Very M)

It is dark when she opens her eyes. 

Or did she open her eyes?

She cannot be certain. 

Everything is swimming, everything still hurts, and there is a deja vu to this moment. She is sure she had lived it before. This aching limb, rotting core feeling that eats at her and tries to swallow her.

She chokes on air to try to convince herself she is being foolish. That the rock monsters, moss and crystal, that disfigured woman aren’t real. That Bjarg - 

No. That all had to be fiction. Her mind had invented it. She has always had an extraordinary imagination. It had kept her safe in the palace. It would keep her safe now.

But then why is the world black now when she opens her eyes? Even in the blackest nights in Bjarg’s cabin there had been the faint glow of embers, the hot springs cave there had been the lamp. The palace had always made sure that no night or day was entirely dark. There has never been a time where the world has been this black. There had always been some light by candles, lantern, hearth, fire, sky, or the inexplicable. There had never been a time where light had not kept her in some sort of company but now… 

The world is a void.

Is she alone? There is no confirmation. She cannot know for certain when her eyes betray her to darkness.

She struggles to sit up with a gasping breath. Nothing makes sense. She feels the same as she had before, all the pains and aches, but now sightless as well. If one of those giants - those trolls -  were close then she would have no idea. What if some other wild thing was just waiting for her to stir to see if she was awake and edible? What if she is made to face any of the challenges she has met thus far but without the aid of sight?

At first the idea tightens her chest and steals her oxygen. She could be crushed or beaten or assaulted or worse. Even so she streadies herself. She settles her breathing and stays still. She cannot trust herself just yet, knows what happens when she succumbs to impulse and panic.

The world all feels too strange. Something is out of balance. Something is not right. She squeezes her sightless eyes shut and tries to get her mind to focus.

Surely this is a dream.

There is no other explanation.

But then why does she ache? Why is she so certain she cannot see? Dreaming women do not need sight so why is she asking for it? Why does she demand this right? 

Because she simply knows. For years she had second guessed herself, her instincts, her senses. No more. She is not of the dreaming. She is of the waking, the living, and that does not make things more easy. It would be simpler to pretend, to lay back and give up, but she is beyond that now.

So she blinks, again, again, and again.

Again, faster, again, more quickly, again… 

She blinks until the muscles in her eyelids twitch, flutter and give out.

They have nothing else to give. It is not their fault. They have done all they can, but still the hot tears well. She squeezes them back. There is no time for self pity. She must form a plan, must forge forward despite everything. If she knows anything it is the sitting, waiting, has never done a single thing for her wellbeing.

She focuses past her deficit and attempts to answer other questions.

Where is she?

She reaches out her arms and only finds fistfulls of what she assumes is damp moss. The weight of the air around her says she is in a mystical place of fog and damp green growth, but what if those senses are lying to her too? What if she has finally lost herself to her own mind? What if she had been asleep this entire time and the more diligently she attempts to awaken herself the closer she is to dismissing each instant to vapor?

She inhales a shaky breath.

What has she seen and what has she imagined? What is true? Would she even recognize the truth if it came to her now?

Everything hurts.

Everything tingles.

Her mind is muddled, but she resolves to not let it confuse her. She never knew how much she relied on sight until it was taken from her in a black and merciless blur, but that will define her. There are things she would surely know if only she could see. There were ways she could aid her escape and she knows exactly where she would run if she knew the way.

But just then she is struck with a sharp remembrance. Something that is just now pulling to the surface and wiping everything else away.

If she were able to run she would run until she found Bjarg’s home.

But it is not as simple as that. If she is not dreaming, if what she had seen before held true, then Bjarg had laid so still beneath her bleeding palm as she wept. Bjarg had died. 

A strangled breath escapes her throat at the idea.

She is ready now to doubt herself, to second guess any notion that she is capable of protecting him from herself. She cannot ignore the concept that he is gone, that she has failed him, that she really has nowhere to run.

A second sound comes from her now, a kind of keening wheeze as if her body had no space for her breath. She staggers to her feet. It does not matter where she goes, but she cannot stay here. It does not matter what she can and cannot see. She may have nowhere to run, but she will not sit in this place where he died. 

She stumbles forward a few paces when she hears a shift. 

At first she thinks perhaps she imagined it, created it herself in her steps, and she freezes. It is that same deep grumble the trolls made. The one that shook her and she fights between the need to lay down - play dead or simultaneously to scramble and fight. Before her instinct can make a decision she feels a heavy weight on her shoulder. 

She jerks, scrambling backwards until her back hits a stony wall. Her mind pulls instantly to the giants, the trolls. She lurches forward but between her skirts, blindness, and unfamiliar terrain she falls within instants. Her body braces for impact with the mossy ground but it does not come.

Instead she is caught in two arms. They are strong. They sink with her weight and momentum before they bring her up to stand and hold her tight against a firm wall of heat and strength. Her heart throbs in her chest as she wrestles to remove herself from this strange grip, but no matter how she fights they do not release her. Her arms flail, legs kicking, but nothing lands. She is held too closely, too firmly, for it to be much good. 

Still she struggles and thrashes as much as her aching, injured body will allow until:

“Easy now,” the voice is raspier, lower than it should be, but still she knows it. “Easy, min lille ven.” 

And her entire body goes rigid for one instant before every muscle collapses, legs failing. He falls with her to the supple ground as her hands scour him as if they were her eyes. She finds the soft leather of his kofte, the matted mess of hair, the bristled jaw, the oversized nose - 

“Bjarg,” she gasps, fingers looking for lies. “It cannot - you - you’re dead!”

It feels ridiculous to say as she touches him, is held tightly against the firm line of his body, but she knows what she saw. Or at least she thinks she did. A strange sort of dizziness besets her and her hands grip the thick of his shoulders for balance. 

“Breathe min navnløse. Breathe.” 

He pulls her onto his lap and cradles her against his frame. A large hand cups the side of her head against his heart. It is beating strong and deliberately. That sound, the incessant tattoo of life thrumming against her ear, causes her to suck in a stuttered breath. She realizes then what he meant when he had told her to breathe. Her starved lungs ease at her deep inhalation. The spinning of her mind slows as she absorbs his heat, his smell, the unshakeable certainty of his hold through each inhalation.

“You were dead,” her voice is muffled against his chest. “I saw you. You were dead. You were dead and that - that thing - “ 

She feels him stiffen. She draws back and even though she cannot see she looks up to where she knows he watches her. There is a long pause and she can hear the change in his breathing. It sounds like he has just run a mile. His arms leave her only to have rough hands cup her face. 

“What was shown to you?” There is wreckage in his voice she hasn’t heard before and it sends a shock down her spine. 

She is not entirely sure how to respond.

She has seen so much she couldn’t explain, but still she tries: “Monsters,” her voice is thin and high. “Monsters made of rocks and moss and they spoke and they took me - oh - they took me to - someone - and we went to find you and…”

Her jaw works, but there are no words left.

She has no idea how to continue. 

She has no idea what it means to tell the truth, to speak the suspicions of her heart. All she can think is that he is here, he is alive, he is holding her. She wants to sink into it, but this place is so strange. She does not trust it. She does not trust that this is the Bjarg she has grown to know and follow. How could she?

She stiffens.

Her body pulls away from the hands that cup her face.

She does not stand, but she backs away. She holds her arms out in front of her as if to warn a potential assailant. Her muddied mind has learned better than to just simply trust. Trust had rarely done her a favor. She cannot simply trust this voice, that he is what he says - means what he says.

“What do you know?” His voice is lower than she remembers, raspy, but still she can hear him. The tone of his voice reminds her of that time in the snowy wood just before he had collapsed. There is something so deep and desperate there, but she will not fall into something for the weak minded. 

She clenches her fists: “Nothing. I have been fed only scraps.”

And even in her blindness, her supposed disadvantage, she feels the power of her statement. She feels the depth and width of her accusation. She feels how she leans on walls she cannot see for numerous ways. She feels the courage of someone who has nothing left rise within her as she scurries back a few more inches from the intoxicating heat of whom she hopes is Bjarg. 

And oh does she want to believe that, but she knew what she saw. She knew she had seen him dead and she knows you do not simply return from that. That knowledge gives her the sense of power despite her disabilities. She struggles up to stand.

“This is not my home, my people.” She says as she juggles her jumbled skirts. “This place and its inhabitants are yours. Why should I be the one to explain it?” 

She can practically hear his breath through the mist. She does not know if he stood when she had but she pulls herself up taller regardless. Her hands clench fists at her sides. She has been tricked before, taken advantage of, and she will not allow it now. 

She will no longer stand for the truth to be kept from her reach. 

Life, she realizes, is not waiting for her. Maybe she will stop waiting for it. 

She senses his nearness before she feels him. Her body tenses, neck arching back and hands raising as he cups her elbows. She hears the low, grunting exhale as his fingers tighten to keep her close. Her nostrils flood with a mix of salt and rock and earth as she considers struggling. She will run even if she has no chance of escaping. 

“Logi,” this supposed Bjarg fights against her struggles until he is holding her wrists tight in front of her. Still she pulls as much as she can, fighting herself as much as his hold. When she does not still in his grip instead of bringing her in closer he releases her as suddenly as he held her. She staggers a bit but comes to nothing. The shock of her freedom nails her in place. 

Questions lodge in her throat and she is about to run. 

“What was taken from you?” The question is unexpected, but offered as one might offer an olive branch. 

“I do not know what you mean.” Her response is reflexive, caught off guard by this abrupt change of currency between them. 

“If you were there - if you were part of - well…” he struggles and then stops for several long moments.

Then:

“Logi,” his voice comes from her side and she whirls towards it, arms coming up only to be caught by his again and he gives a low hum as he draws her close to him once more. She stays stiff even as his hold softens all the more until his arms barely touch her, his hand barely touches the side of her head to bring it to his chest. 

His lips graze her hair, beard catching strands, and her body heats and chills at the same time. His head drops low as his voice, the intensity is there even as he holds her like she may break.

 “They took your sight,” he says and she tries to not react, but she knows he feels her waver in the comfort of what she hopes against hope are his arms.

He does not ask. She is not certain how he knew, but she could not deny it. Every step, every motion she did or did not take betrayed her detriment. She eases back from his hold, but does not run. She makes a guess at where his face may be and she is met with a disheartened chuckle.

He takes one of her hands but does not draw her to him. Instead he wraps it in his own calloused grip and tugs. She resists, aching body sore as she leans back, and she can almost feel his hurt at her forbearance. 

Then the tension changes. Instead of pulling, he gives way while still holding her hand. She feels the heat of him again, the unchangeable scent of leather and musk, and even though her mind want to doubt her heart does not. His free hand rakes into the tangled mess of her hand at her ear, thumb stroking her temple. 

“It is me, min lille ven,” he says. “Surely even without your eyes you know me.” 

And she did. 

She had surveyed the landscape of him and found it to be definite, but so much had happened, so many rules had been broken, there were trolls. Her spine goes stiff. She knows him, which is why she knows he is dead. But what if he isn’t? 

 She is as much full of hope as she is dread. This place is so unknown and now she is as helpless as she has ever been. For once she weighs her options instead of acting on impulse and she finds herself agreeing with a nod. 

“I know Bjarg will lead me as I need,” she attempts to keep it distant, but she hears the blatant hope in each syllable.

He is her last hope. She is struck by how long this has been his right without her acknowledging it. She is confronted with just how much she does trust him in this savage place where the very rules of her reality are bent. If it is some trap it will be no worse than what she has already endured. 

She squeezes the hand he holds and she cannot be certain but she thinks she feels his grin.

“Come,” his voice enlivens. “There is much we must make right.”

[ previous ]

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Travelers in the Dark Chapter 4

Chapter Title: Bunker Underneath the Surface

Summary: If Virgil was told a month ago that events that transpired and led him into meeting Logan and the others, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it. Now it scared how quickly he’d grown to care for these humans. Still he has some fears over staying with them, fears that swirl in his mind when Logan asks for a quick chat between the two.

Pairings: platonic lamp

Chapter Word-Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Vampires, Fear, Panic, Implied Non-Graphic Violence, Blood Mention, Fantasy Racial Discrimination

Previous Chapter | Present | Next Chapter      AO3 LINK

*dusts off this fic* It’s been a while, huh? Massive thanks to @theeternalspace for beta’ing this chapter as always!

I don’t think I mentioned this besides the ao3 tags, but the original plan behind this fic was to include villain!Janus later down the road. It won’t happen until the second half of this fic, and honestly, I’m still deciding if I’m still including that or going a different route, I just wanted to mention that it may be occurring.

 If you don’t want to read content featuring him depicted that way, I understand. With the way the first half of this fic is designed, you can easily read the fic up to the point before villain!Janus might make an appearance and still enjoy it, as there’s basically two different story arcs that occur in this fic :)

-

Over the course of the next week, Virgil’s resolve to leave dissipated. It chipped away with Patton’s humming as he mixed together ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies. It splintered as Roman sauntered into the kitchen and swept Patton into an impromptu waltz. It fell apart as Logan tried to maintain a steady gaze on his physics book but the curve of his lips told Virgil he was amused by the others’ antics.

He’d never experienced such a warm, loving environment. He didn’t know they existed outside of fiction. If Virgil was told a month ago of the events that would transpire, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all. Now it scared how quickly he’d grown to care for these humans.

In the stormy bleak world he’d grown up and lived in, it was every person for themselves. His foster parents took care of him simply for the money involved. His teachers could care less if he, a vampire, passed or failed. The one person he’d considered a friend only used him for their own gain in the end.

It’d been better to cease social interactions altogether. What was the point of subjecting himself to it when it always resulted in a negative outcome? After all, the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.

Virgil was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. Or at least, he was smart enough to recognize it wasn’t worth it. Any other person might’ve gone the other extreme. They might’ve done whatever they pleased, regardless of what everyone else thought. They might’ve become what others expected them to be, because there was no other designated role in society for them.

Virgil refused. The last thing he wanted was to prove that the prejudices against vampires were valid. But again, he wasn’t stupid. He was just one person fighting an ocean of bigotry. Everyone knows you can’t fight the ocean because it does whatever its damn well pleases.

That was why he ran away from his foster family, from everything. He disappeared into the park, taking refuge in the trees. It had been safer to just give up than to play society’s game.  He didn’t even finish high school. Every day became about finding his next meal, his next shelter, his next—well he didn’t need water to survive. One of the perks of being a practically immortal vampire.

When he reached eighteen, he stopped aging. Physically. Which sounded just as fun as it felt; being trapped in a perpetual state of puberty for potentially a hundred years or so. It varied from vampire to vampire, when they’d start showing signs again of physically aging. He was twenty-eight now, and still practically an adolescent by vampiric standards.

In fact, vampires at his age required more frequent feedings to put up with their young body’s fast metabolism. It meant that Virgil was hungry all day every day. It had been hard at the beginning. He’d never had to worry about meals while under the care of the state.

Quickly he understood how hard it was to resist the urges wired into his being. Once, he’d gone three weeks without a meal. Hunting down animals hadn’t been as easy as he’d thought. Even when he managed to capture the odd bird or two—it was enough for him to starve off the urges. But never enough to truly satisfy it.

Virgil blacked out at the end of those three weeks. When he regained consciousness, he stood in an unfamiliar alley over an unfamiliar body. Fresh blood dripped from his lips as he recoiled in terror—did he do this? Did he really kill someone? But then---then! The body’s chest rose, and he knew for certain the person was still alive.

Virgil should’ve called an ambulance, he should’ve turned himself in. He should’ve done something. But he didn’t.

He ran—his mind clouded with panic. He ran and ran until he reached the secluded security of the parks’ groves. There he collapsed, his body wracked with sobs.

The kids at his school had been right; they’ve been right all along, and Virgil had refused to see it. He was a monster. Maybe they were also right that he deserved to die. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Virgil secluded himself further in the park—being more mindful than ever to stay away from human contact. It was safer this way. Both for him and for everyone else. He couldn’t trust himself not to act on his impulses again. He became better at hunting wildlife animals. Too good, in fact.

There had started to be a suspicious shortage of squirrels in the park.

For years, his only focus in life had been on survival.  He’d forgotten almost anything that wasn’t vital to that goal. The days all blurred into each other, a continuous cycle of monotony. He’d liked it—routines were comforting. They were predictable, they were safe.

Despite this, even vampires needed social interaction. There was a reason why vampires preferred to live in covens rather than in isolation. He lived ignorant of that need throughout his time in the park. He didn’t realize it existed until this week spent in the apartment with Logan, Patton and Roman.

There had been a void in his heart and those three humans managed to fill it. For the first time in a long, long while Virgil felt…happy. The sensation was alarming and terrifying but also good.

Did that make him selfish if he didn’t want to give that up?

He tried his best to fight against the growing desire to stay. The last thing he wanted was to endanger the only humans who have shown him kindness. The idea of one day waking up standing over their unmoving bodies tormented him. He grew used to constant hunger, yes, but it was different in the woods. At least there he wasn’t constantly around three viable food sources. Not that he wanted to ever think of the humans in that way. They were so much more than a source of food. Vampiric urges be damned.

Several days after the garlic bread debacle with Roman, Logan sat him down.

“I have a few questions to ask you. But before I ask them, I want to let you know that you are not obligated in any way to answer them. Nor does this inquiry have anything to do with my scientific pursuits or anything of that sort.”

If he was a human, his pulse would’ve quickened from the anxiety swelling up inside of him. His thoughts pinballed into a million different directions as he tried to figure out what could possibly be on Logan’s mind. Externally he leaned back on the couch, arms crossed in a casual manner.

“Shoot.”

“Shoot? Why would I shoot—”

“It’s slang. It means ‘ask away.’” Virgil clarified.

It became apparent quickly that Logan was not adept at slang. It was a sore spot for the veterinarian—he took pride in being right. He told Virgil that he only spoke if he was certain of what he was saying was correct. Still, he found discovering new knowledge invigorating. Rather than denounce slang, he tried his best to understand it. He kept a pack of flashcards with him to help remember the correct usage of them.

“Ah! I’ll have to remember to add that later,” He murmured before clearing his throat, “moving on. My first question would be, how often do you actually need to feed?”

Virgil froze, meeting the knowing gaze of the human. He’d been careful to take the bare minimum blood from both Logan and Roman. He hadn’t fed from Patton, and frankly he was trying to avoid that. The bond between a vampire and a donor was a complex, tricky thing.

The more blood he took, the more he risked strengthening such a connection. But both Logan and Roman were stubborn humans that refused to see their vampire guest starve. He’d managed to convince Logan he survived off less than what he actually needed. It was the truth—as long he conserved his energy and slept for longer periods. But it appeared Logan became suspicious—or maybe, had always been suspicious from the start.

“Did Roman put you up to this?” Virgil demanded, his nails digging into the flesh of his arms.

“While he did mention what happened with the garlic, he did not set me up to this. I’m asking out of my own vocation and…concerns,” Logan frowned, adjusting his glasses, “I’ve refrained from asking you questions about vampires’ physiology because the last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable but…I just want to make sure you are getting proper nutrition. Your health is just as important to me as the others.”

Virgil sighed. What did he have to lose? Perhaps upon learning the truth, Logan would realize Virgil wasn’t worth their time and energy. As much as that thought hurt, it was for the best.

“I don’t really know,” Virgil confessed, “I’m always hungry. Squirrels and birds are enough to get by, but they’re…not enough. Maybe once, per day?”

Virgil closed his eyes, unable to force himself to see Logan’s reaction. There a was a few beats of silences before Logan inhaled deeply and said,

“I see. How many liters do you think that is?”

“Liters?” Virgil knitted his eyebrows together as he tried to recall how measurements worked, “I…have no idea.”

“As you know, I do not know much about vampire physiology, but do you think it’s similar to vampire bats?” At Virgil’s vacant stare, he elaborated, “vampire bats consume half their body weight per feeding.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Virgil shook his head, “It’s less, I think? But it depends on the source.”

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, leaning forward in interest.

“Look I don’t know how all the scientific shit works. But like, for some reason human blood is more nutritious? We can sustain on animal blood, but it’s not the same it’s like—it’s like—”

“Eating junk food compared to healthier alternatives?” Logan suggested.

“Yeah, I guess,” Virgil shrugged, slinking further into the couch, “We don’t have to drink as much human blood as we do with animal blood.”

“Fascinating,” Logan muttered, his hands twitching as if he wanted to scribble down these findings in a journal. He instead cusped his face with a hand, frowning. Virgil shifted nervously, waiting to hear the rest of Logan’s thoughts.

“I’m not sure though…if I and the others would be able to donate blood on a daily basis without severe risk to our health.”

“Wh—what?” Virgil said, his eyes widening in surprise. Logan actually sounded regretful of this fact. Whatever Virgil expected to come out of his lips, it wasn’t that.

Logan, however, seemed to take his reaction for something else entirely.

“You see, when humans donate blood for medical purposes, we are only allowed to donate every eight weeks or so to allow time for our red blood cells to replenish. Having a low red blood cell count is dangerous for humans…I am truly sorry about that, Virgil.”

“Wh—you have nothing to apologize for—I mean I wasn’t expecting you guys—” Virgil’s voice cracked, causing him to glance away in embarrassment, “you don’t have to do anything, really.”

“Virgil,” Logan said softly, “do you remember what I said when we began this discussion?”

Virgil’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you mean what you said about how you cared for…my health?” He asked hesitantly.

“Precisely,” Logan said, “I was stating the truth when I meant your health is important to me. After all, you are a friend.”

“You’re serious?”

“Of course,” Logan nodded, “only serious people wear neckties.”

He gestured to his necktie, and Virgil let out a chuckle.

“Y’know, you and the others are really making it hard for me to leave.” He murmured, “but I can’t stay. I—I just can’t. I can’t stay and possibly become a danger to you.”

 “Virgil, you will not be a burden to us. It might be difficult, but I know the others and I would be willing to help figure out a solution for your dietary needs. Let me repay you—”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Then at least let me do this for you as a friend.”

There was again, the f word. It was really devilish of Logan to use it against Virgil. Especially since all he had ever wanted in life was to be loved and accepted by others. It was oh so tempting to just stay and live in the solace of the apartment. Until the day he outlived the others, by his hands or by natural causes. He didn’t know which one was worse.

Virgil swallowed, throat tightening, “Are you sure of this? Are you sure you want me around? I mean, you barely know me.”

“As certain as I am of the sun rise, yes.”

“Well there is one solution.” Virgil said with a slight groan. He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

 Logan perked up, looking at Virgil with childish excitement. “What is it?”

“I’ve never done this and I don’t know like the exact scientific crap behind it. But if a vampire feeds from a, uh, human consistently, um, it’s like we inject something that keeps humans’ blood healthy. So like, I guess it helps reproduce red blood cells faster.”

“Incredible,” Logan murmurs, “I can’t believe—well, unfortunately I can understand why this isn’t common knowledge. But something like this proves vampires and humans as a whole could one day live harmoniously.”

“I mean, I doubt that,” Virgil laughed bitterly, “There is some…side effects. You might become, uh, enthralled for a brief period after a feeding. Like, very agreeable to whatever I suggest. So I get it if that makes any of you uncomfortable.”

He flitted his gaze towards his ratty shoes. A hand rested on his shoulder, soft and tentative. As if fully prepared to draw back if Virgil brushed it off. He looked up at Logan. The human looked back, a determined glint in his eyes.

“Virgil, I trust you. I can’t speak for the others but I’d like to test this arrangement between you and I. If for whatever reason, it does not work—either for you or for myself, then we can always find a different solution. Alright?”

“Okay.” Virgil choked, forcing his vision to remain clear and not blurry with tears.

So, he stayed. Patton’s eyes lit up like a kid receiving a puppy for Christmas. He immediately bombarded Virgil with one of his signature hugs. Roman laughed triumphantly as he clasped Virgil’s shoulder and promised him that he wouldn’t regret this. Logan hung back, but his soft smile told Virgil all he needed to know.

Staying meant that he had to find a job. Virgil had never held a job in his entire life, never mind the fact he didn’t have a high school diploma. Yet Virgil couldn’t live in good conscious as a freeloader in the apartment. He wanted to contribute to the apartment rent. In order to do that, he needed money. He was certain that the two quarters and the one nickel he had floating in his jeans pocket wouldn’t be enough.

He searched for businesses that would hire someone like him. Not only was he dealing with a rather sparse resume, but there was of course prejudice against vampires. The humans flaunted around words like “peace among species” and “equal rights for all” but that rarely was the case. Even with the Helsing Laws in effect. He’d like to say that their prejudice was entirely unwarranted but well…

Most vampires kept to themselves. They either believed staying quiet would bring about peace or they just stewed about it away from human ears. Then there were some vampires that believed they were the superior beings and not the humans. So they really didn’t have qualms about hurting humans to bring about their agenda. Something Virgil knew about too well.

Of course, the businesses couldn’t openly discriminate. The Helsing Laws prevented that. But the laws did nothing to stop the prejudices that still clung heavily to the air.  It took just one smile—one laugh for them to see a flash of pearly white fangs and freeze up. They wouldn’t say it in words. But he could tell by their tone of voice and not so subtle wording that they were afraid.

They were afraid he’d snap and become an endangerment by attacking and drinking the blood of the first human he came into contact with. Honestly, humans were perfectly capable of eating their own kind’s flesh, yet you don’t see them worrying about that possibility.

It made it all the more hard to decipher then, who would hire him and who would cuss out his existence.

“So what makes you interested in working at our establishment?” The lady conducting his seventh interview asked. It was at a local, quirky coffeeshop—the kind that regulars claimed was way better than Starbucks.

Um because I want money? Virgil thought. He didn’t say it out loud, learning from his first interview that was apparently not what they wanted to hear. After that mishap, the others helped coached him through the right things to say. It still didn’t keep his intestines from knotting up out of nervousness.

“It seems like a chill, clean environment.” He shrugged.

“Well, thank you, we like keeping it that way for  our customers,” She laughed, “but we do still expect our employees to work hard and not slack off. We can get busy especially in the weekday mornings and all day on the weekends. Do you think you can handle that?”

No.

“Yes,” Virgil said, lying through his teeth, “I’m pretty good at handling stressful situations.”

“Is there a specific example you can think of?”

Virgil twisted in his seat, doing his best not to fiddle with his fingers.

Here goes.

“Well, as a—a vampire, I’ve had to deal with people who don’t…like that much. So I’m good at making sure I keep my composure. Like if there is an upset customer, I—I think I could be good at staying calm and making sure they walk away happy.”

She pressed her lips together, “I see.” And then, “What would you say are some weaknesses of yours?”

The rest of the interview continued on. She didn’t make any sort of comment about Virgil being a vampire. He didn’t know what to make of that.

“I’ll call you soon on what my decision is.” She told him, although he learned by his second interview not to trust those words.

“How was it?!” Patton asked upon his return back to the apartment. He and Roman were sitting on the couch watching TV. Logan was gone from the apartment, too early for him to be home from work. Virgil said nothing. He took a few steps before crashing into Roman’s side.

“That bad, huh?” Roman chuckled, already drawing his arms around Virgil.

“Tired,” Virgil closed his eyes, “job interviews are fricking exhausting.”

He heard Roman’s voice say something as his senses turned all muddy and muted. Someone laughed. Patton? If he wanted to, he could’ve forced his eyes open to see. He was content, however, to just lie there and steal Roman’s body heat.

It was stupid how easily Virgil taken to be at ease with these humans. Then again, it was also stupid how easily they accepted him. If either party had malicious intent, it would be almost effortless for them. Like taking candy from a baby.

Sleep was a strange thing for vampires. They needed rest, yes, but they never slept as deeply as humans could. Even in his soundest sleep, Virgil had a murky awareness of things. He could feel Roman mess with his hair, carefully untangling it with his fingers. He heard Patton’s and Roman’s heartbeats, steady and strong as ever. There was also a different sound. A buzzing, ringing sound.

“—gil! Hey Virgil! Wake up!”

Virgil jolted, alert and ready. His eyes scanned everywhere but found no threats. He looked at Roman and Patton in confusion, “Huh?”

Patton smiled, holding out his phone, “It’s for you.”

For him? But that could only mean one thing—someone actually called him back after a job interview. With a shaky hand, Virgil took the phone from Patton.

“Hello?”

“Hi Virgil, this is you, right?” The voice on the other line said. It did sound like the lady from the job interview.

“Yes.” Virgil answered, biting his lips and trying not to hiss from the pain that produced.

The voice said more words. Virgil managed to say words back. The conversation lasted scarcely a minute yet seemed like an eternity. He handed the phone back to Patton, eyes glazed over.

“Well?” Patton wiggled his eyebrows, bouncing in his seat like a rambunctious Labrador.

“Well,” Virgil began with a hesitant sliver of a smile, “I got the job.”

[heartbreak-of-a-marauder]

Honour (4)

Title: Life Everlasting

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC

Words: 1,480

Note: Sorry it’s taken me so long to get this next part up, I’ve got a lot on my plate trying to meet university deadlines! Taglist is open on this fic if anyone wants to be added, previous parts are linked down below. Hope you enjoy it & let me know what you think!

 <- 4 ->

~*~*~*~*~

The lush green of English countryside plodded along outside the carriage window. Ivette was bored with staring out of the window. She wanted out of the wooden box to stretch her cramped legs. She cast a jealous glance at her riding companion who had stretched out comfortably, his head tipped back with closed eyes; asleep and completely relaxed.

‘Companion’. A sardonic smile graced her features. For eight years she had been introduced as a family friend or ward. There was nothing intimate about her relationship with the Mikaelsons. Elijah had become her jailer after that night. She was never out of his sight for long. Closing her eyes she pictured the scene that had transpired when she awoke, disappointed.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Ivette’s head swam, she moved her limbs feeling the heaviness that lay on top of her. Cracking open her eyelids she winced at the sunlight pouring in through the window, her blurry surroundings came into focus around her and her wide-eyed fixed on the man stood at the end of the four-poster bed. Horror congealed her blood to ice in her veins.

It hadn’t worked.

Tentatively Ivette raised herself into a sitting position, her eyes trained on Elijah who stared down at her with a predatory gaze. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and painful. It ignited a hunger deep in her stomach, looking past Elijah she saw the small loaf of bread left from last night.

“Your impulsive actions were very reckless Ivette,” Elijah stated bringing her attention back to him.

“My Lord?” Feigning innocence, Ivette quickly thought of how to fool Elijah into believing she hadn’t tried to take her life.

“She is deceitful too.” He smirked.

Her attention was drawn to the hand he kept as his side, something glistened. He twirled the object carefully between his fingers, before hiding it away again by closing his hand around it.  

“What do you want from me, My Lord?” She questioned.

Ignoring her demand, he tossed the object towards her. It landed with a small thump on her blankets. The empty glass bottle weighed heavily on Ivette. He knew. Scooping up the bottle she ran the pad of her thumb across the cursive scripture that read ‘Powdered Belladonna Root’.  

He knew.

“How did I wake?” She kept her head bowed as she spoke.  

“How do you feel?” Elijah countered, disregarding her again. When she did not answer he proceeded. “The sunlight stings the eyes, you feel hungry…” he drawled. “But it is not a normal hunger, no, it is something more. Burning your throat”

Raising her head, Ivette scowled at Elijah, brows knitted together. How could he possibly know what she felt?

“How did I wake.” Ivette didn’t question this time.

“A curious tale for another time Ivette.” Turning on his heel he strode towards the door, leaving as he had always done.

All of the fury Ivette had bottled up over the past few days rushed to the forefront of her mind. No longer able to stand to be a timid prisoner, she threw away the blankets and launched herself from the bed in an unladylike matter. Etiquette be damned. Once across the room Ivette reached around Elijah and slammed the door. He turned to face her with one eyebrow raised.

“Enough! No more of this cloak and dagger secrecy! You will tell me what you know Sir, or by the lord above, I swear I will pry it from you.” Bracing her hands against Elijah's chest, Ivette shoved him against the door.

Elijah looked mildly amused by her aggression, cocking his head to the side he took the little vixen before him. Dark tendrils of hair slipping out her plait. He glanced down at the warm hands splayed against his chest and then back up at her stormy blue eyes framed by delicate brows crinkled in fury. Her chest heaved with deep breaths as she tried to control her rage.  

“Answer me!” Ivette pushed again, Elijah’s smirk stoking the fire in her belly.

“Alright, shall we sit to conduct this in a more civilised manner?” He pushed against her and moved away from the door with ease.

“A civilised manner?” Ivette cried incredulously as he sank leisurely into one of the chairs. “How dare you speak of such things when you behave so barbarically.”  

“My dear, unless you are seated our discussion shall not take place.”  

Ivette clenched and unclenches her fist at his bargain, and begrudgingly took a seat across from Elijah. Fighting the urge to grind her teeth together, she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap.

”Where shall we start?” He asked meeting her venomous stare.

“How did I wake?”  

“I did not lie when I said it was a curious tale, Ivette. You see nearly two centuries ago we were not so different, you and I. We lived at a time of turmoil our village plagued by creatures and when harm fell at our door my mother sought to protect her family. She made us immortal.”

“You promised the truth-“ Elijah raised a hand to silence her.

“We possess certain… gifts. The ability to pass on life to those who consume our blood, strength, speed and eternal life to name a few.” He stated nonchalantly.

Ivette sat back, the muscle in her jaw ticking. The lord Elijah thought her a fool. Surely he did, who else would believe such tall tales. Inhaling sharply through her nose and out through her mouth Ivette sought to calm the storm inside. She had enough of Elijah, his constant evading, the monsters lurking downstairs, the captivity, everything.

“You, Ivette have become the latest to be able to possess the gifts I speak of.”

“So if I were to fling myself from the battlements, I would survive?” Ivette asked curiously.

“No.” He chuckled softly, earning Ivette's’ ire. “You must consume blood first, then you may throw yourself from the battlements to your heart's content, my dear.”

Elijah watched as Ivette's features screwed up in disgust, he smirked slightly remembering having a similar reaction to the proposal two hundred years prior. Ivette opened her mouth to protest to such an idea but was swiftly cut off.

“Should you choose to not drink, you will get your wish.” Ivette's brow quirked at this revelation, perhaps freedom from this nightmare would still be possible.

“Mary…” Elijah hollered over his shoulder. A moment later a blank-faced, young girl walked into the room, not concerned with its current occupants. She came to stand by Elijah’s chair. He held his hand out for her to take, and she quietly obliged. He never broke eye-contact with Ivette as be brought her wrist towards his lips. Ivette watched in morbid curiosity as his face morphed into a darker creature and he bit down into her soft flesh. He didn’t suckle the site, instead, he offered it to Ivette who recoiled back into her seat, face scrunched in disgust.

“What in God’s name-“ she gasped, eyes darting between the crimson liquid and Elijah’s face. “You are quite unwell sir, illness of th-the mind.”

Her eyes were now firmly locked on the wound that was oozing blood, feeling an uncomfortable pull within, Ivette shot up and rounded her seat. Her hands gripped the back of the chair for some stability. She took deep steadying breaths, unable to tear her gaze away from the bite.

“Come now, Ivette.” Elijah grinned as he beckoned her towards him.

“NO!” Shrieking, she moved hastily to the window, arms winding around herself pleading for the strange sensation to disappear.

She could hear shuffling footsteps as Elijah rose and dragged Mary along with him. Elijah brought the wound into her peripheral vision and watched as Ivette held her breath as the metallic scent invaded her nostrils. Closing her eyes and grinding her teeth together Ivette tried to focus on anything else other than the unfamiliar hunger burning in her belly.  

He placed a coaxing hand on the back of her neck, willing her closer to Mary’s wrist. He heard her shuddering intake of breath as her lips brushed against the crimson liquid. Unable to resist her tongue darted out, licking away some of the blood that coated her lips. Her face contorted as a strangled groan left her, something so sinful should not have this effect.

“Just a taste Ivette.” He spoke softly to her when he felt her push back against his hand.

What lingered of Ivette’s resolve broke in an instant as she latched to the young girl's wrist like a babe at its mother's teat. Elijah did not remove his hand from her neck as she fed greedily. Even when Mary collapsed in light-headedness, Ivette did not let go.  

She moaned in euphoria at the sensations inside her but just like how a cold bath could dim lustful thoughts, dread seeped through her as she realised what she had become.

~*~*~*~*~

TAGLIST: @ellamcdermott223

[recre8ed]

@r3loaded asked → " how's the whole 'dead' thing working out for you? " ( src. / accepting. )

That brusque and uncompromising manner of speaking is, Hakkai has come to learn, quite usual for Genjo Sanzo. It's a little nicer than he would have expected to have someone around who treats his current existence so matter-of-factly. Sanzo does not step delicately around the rotten wood in the floor of Hakkai's newly forged heart—he punches through it, unforgiving and half-uncaring, so those weak spots might be replaced.

Hakkai is more than a little infatuated with the way Sanzo lives, though he's not ignorant to the fact that there's clearly something heart-rending behind Sanzo's rotting interior, too.

"It's working out well, as a matter of fact," Hakkai reports. He is both polite and deeply grateful, and the two sentiments seem to battle for presence in his tone of voice. Sanzo probably isn't the sort of person who'd appreciate his sentimentality, and anyway, they hardly know eachother. "Gojyo hasn't complained to me about my continued stay in his house, and I've finally been able to make myself known to the locals."

He doesn't mention the tension that's seeped its way between himself and Gojyo, thick but permeable. Hakkai feels like his every step is under some strange kind of scrutiny—Gojyo never complains, but he rarely engages with Hakkai's gratitude or his care, which in many ways is worse than just complaining. Hakkai sometimes feels invisible there, though the two of them speak to eachother.

He wonders if the only thing keeping him there is the thought that he doesn't want to leave behind the man who had picked him up, half-dead and spilling his intestines on the road, and nursed him back to health. If Gojyo really doesn't need him as much as he'd thought, what else is there that stays his leave?

The close-lipped smile he gives Sanzo is, of course, made to hide those complicated feelings. Above everything else, he's grateful for the life that he's been allowed to live, and no matter how things go with Gojyo, he's determined to spend as long as he needs repaying the debt he owes to Sanzo in the little ways he's capable of; tutoring Goku and spending time at Keiun Temple. 

"Actually, I wanted to thank you for trusting me enough to allow me to go back there." Expertly changing the subject, Hakkai reaches down to the bag he'd packed in preparation for his trip back to the temple. "If you'll excuse the poor presentation—I brought something for you."

Steadily and easily, he removes the bulk of the bag's weight and sets it on the desk that separates him and Sanzo; two medium-sized containers, washed and reused from some cheap restaurant or another that Hakkai doesn't yet know the name of, filled with his own cooking. He pushes the slightly smaller one on his right towards Sanzo; despite the distance he'd travelled, the materials of the container are still warm.

"I don't have much else to busy myself with, as I'm sure you could have guessed. You seemed to enjoy the chazuke I made during my stay here, so I figured it would be a suitable thing to bring over. Although," Hakkai glances at the other, larger container, an amused smile creeping onto his face, "I did realize Goku wouldn't be satisfied with just that, so I brought him some stir fry."

[eyesfixedonthesun22]

Give Me Something

Summary: Bucky’s worried you’re a bit burnt out. When you give him the silent treatment, it sends him into a full blown panic.  Pairing: Established Relationship of Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Warning(s): Swearing. Angst. Mentions of cheating. Mental health issues. Word Count: 2,258 Notes: This is my entry to @bvcks 4.2K writing challenge. My prompt was “I need to know you’re alright, even if you’re not. Give me something.” Thank you so much for hosting this and letting me enter, Chelsea! This is one of my first attempts at something angsty. Thank you to my darling, @supersoldiersruined-me, for giving this a look over to make sure it wasn’t complete trash. I’ve tagged the same people who get tagged in She’s So High. If you have no interest just let me know. :) Gif credit to @a-nakins

Bucky had woken before you, just like always. Before throwing the covers off, he steals a quick kiss to your temple. You shuffle and smoosh your pillow a bit after he leaves but remain sound asleep. His morning shower passes uneventfully. He finds himself grinning when he sees the pinkness of the skin on his chest in the steamed bathroom mirror. You always teased him that he liked his showers just shy from scalding.

Slipping on his training gear, he attempts to open and close the dresser drawers as softly as possible. He steals a final kiss to the top of your head before pouring his coffee and heading out for the day. It wasn’t uncommon for your day to start later than his; but he was surprised that you weren’t at least stirring when the brewing coffee smell permeated your shared apartment.

He knew you’d been working hard with your training. You’d had a couple really difficult missions recently. The past week each time he saw you spacing out and asked if you were okay, he was met with the response. “I’m just tired”.

Bucky makes a mental note to order takeout before coming back for the evening. Maybe it would be a nice stress relief for you. Upon second thought, he also schedules a massage at your favorite parlor for your next day off. Clearly, you were pushing yourself too hard.

**************************************************************************************************

Bucky’s morning run with Steve was pleasant enough. He had a couple hours of paperwork and mission debriefing before a session of hand-to-hand with Sam. Feeling like he’d had a productive morning, he realizes how hungry he is. He rounds the corner to the communal kitchen for lunch but collides with Clint.

“Cool it there, hot stuff.” Clint huffs, mock annoyed.

Natasha can’t help a chuckle at the two of them. They make small talk as they walk through the buffet.

“Where’s Y/N? She wasn’t in our morning survival class.” Nat asks as they settle in to their usual spots at the tables.

“I assumed she just slept in. She’s been really tired lately.” He shrugs and digs into his lunch with gusto.

“Yeah she missed some weapons demos too.” Clint adds.

Bucky pauses the rapid shoveling of food into his mouth; slowly lowering his fork down.

“She had a full morning schedule?” Nat and Clint nod. “What else was on her schedule this morning?”

“Steve had mentioned something about meeting up with her for some leftover paperwork from that mission in Chile.”

Something prickles at the back of his neck. He knows missing a couple training sessions and paperwork isn’t the end of the world.

He pulls out his phone and texts you first. “Hey babe. How's your day going? You feeling okay? Nat and Clint said you missed training.” Following his intuition, he fires off a similar text to Steve asking about your whereabouts.

Everyone goes back to eating. Clint and Natasha exchange hesitant glances, sensing Bucky’s unease with the situation. By the time lunch is finished Bucky is compulsively checking his phone every thirty seconds.

“Why aren’t they responding, guys?” Bucky pleads.

“I’m sure it’s fine, dude. Just give them a call.” Clint suggests.

Before the sentence is completely out of Clint’s mouth, Bucky is already punching the call button from his contact favorites. Your phone rings endlessly before going to voicemail. Steve is next. No response from him. Bucky swears the ring is cut short and deliberately sent to voicemail. He tries you once more, but it yields the same result. The second call to Steve rings twice before it clicks over.

“Steve, where is Y/N? She’s missed training all day and I’m kinda worried.”

“Uhhh hey Buck.” He sounds distracted and muffled.

“Where is she?” he says cutting straight to the point. Normally he’d find the runaround from Steve amusing. He doesn’t often participate in pranks, but you manage to rope him into many tricks at Bucky’s detriment.

This time it doesn’t feel like a prank. Steve is avoiding him. Something had changed in the tone. Bucky had a sick feeling in the pit of his gut. Something was very wrong. After a long pause Steve responds again.

“She’s-”

Silence.

“Steve, I swear to god if you don’t fucking tell me where my girl is, I will beat the ever-living shit out of you.”

“She’s safe.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” His mind races. You didn’t have any missions planned for today. If you hadn’t attended training, then there was no way for you to have gotten injured. Safe from what?

“Tell him.” He hears your voice feebly in the background.

“Tell me what? Y/N?! Why aren’t you answering me?”

“Bucky she’s okay. Come on up to your guy’s apartment.”

**************************************************************************************************

On the elevator up, his mind is racing. An affair? No certainly not with his best friend. Then again, isn’t everyone blindsided by an unfaithful partner. You were pregnant? No. You two were religiously careful, on top of your birth control. You want to break up? Dead family member? Friend in crisis? What could it possibly be and why were you confiding in Steve and not him?

Bucky feels like he’s on autopilot walking up to the door. His feet have carried him, but he has almost no recollection of the steps. He knocks on the door, feeling overly formal considering you both live in the apartment. He hopes that his desperation doesn’t make them sound more like pounding.

No one answers for a minute, so he tries again.

“Y/N/N? Steve?”

His palms are clammy and numb. He reaches for the knob only to find it locked. His heart kicks into overdrive. He’s ready to knock down the door when he has an epiphany. Friday!

“Friday! Status for Miss Y/N?”

“Miss Y/N is currently located in your shared personal living quarters along with Captain Rogers. She is showing normal vital signs. Captain Rogers is the only person to have entered the apartment since your departure this morning. Shall I alert them to your presence?”

Before he can demand Friday to unlock the door, he hears a subtle click. Steve opens the door and slips out into the hallway.

Bucky doesn’t think just moves. In milliseconds, he has Steve pinned against the wall; his metal forearm pressed close to his windpipe.

“Tell me what’s going on. NOW!” He says surprised at the lack of composure and malice in his own voice. This is his best friend and he’s ready to rip him limb from limb.

“She’s okay Bucky!”

“Steve!” he growls pressing further and raising his fist, ready to strike.

Sensing his best friends’ desperation. “I’m trying to respect her privacy, Buck!” Steve says, finally pushing Bucky off him.

Bucky comes to his senses after hearing the tone in Steve’s voice. Steve isn’t a threat but the desire to punch his best friend is still nearly overwhelming.

“What the fuck is going on, Steve!?”

“Buck, I’m sorry. She’s gonna have to tell you herself. I can’t and won’t come between you two. All I’ll say is that she called me earlier this morning for help. I helped. I’m gonna go now.”

The rage Bucky felt for Steve was new and unfamiliar. He knew he was trying to help but it didn’t quell his desire to obliterate something. Watching his best friend leave with no more answers allowed the panic to rise once more.

He pounds on the door without abandon. “Y/N! Please, doll. You’re killing me out here. I need to know you’re alright, even if you’re not. Give me something!”

Though you were the one shut away, he felt like a caged animal. Pacing and standing watch in hopes the door would creak open. Bucky had resolved himself not to leave this door until you come out.

**************************************************************************************************

In the hour that had passed he had gone through the gamut of emotions. He’d gotten into arguments with Friday as she refused to unlock the door; your orders. He’d put three holes in the wall which he was sure Stark would chastise him for. Finally, he had crumbled to the floor in tears. He would sit in front of this door until he knew you were okay.

He’s drafting another text to Stark, asking for a way to work around Friday’s lockout, when a small piece of paper slips from under the door. I don’t want you to see me like this.

Frantically he fishes into one of his numerous pockets searching for a pen. He quickly scribbles back. Y/N, darling. I’m so scared. Please let me help.

He pushes the note back in the sliver of space under the door and once again resumes pacing. Your response doesn’t take long but he feels the waiting is taking years off his life.

Promise you’ll still love me?

The letters on the page swim. Abandoning the paper, he knocks on the door, lighter this time.

“Doll, there isn’t a single thing in this world that could make me stop loving you. Please, I’m begging.”

He hears the door click and then a small sliver of your shared apartment is available to him. He pushes the door open slowly in hopes you don’t change your mind and shut him out once more. Before he was ready to storm the door, but now he feels frozen by fear; unsure of what will greet him.

The apartment is dark. It looks just the same as he left it this morning. No coffee had been drunk since his cup. The remote for the tv still in the same spot he left it after watching the news. Your shoes hadn’t moved from the mat. No signs of struggle, break in, or anything of the sort; not that Friday wouldn’t have alerted him already. He checked the surroundings with meticulous precision as he cautiously approaches your bedroom.

Standing in the doorway, he sees you laying on his side of your shared king bed buried in the duvet. Your eyes are red and puffy, with dark circles below them, staring at the wall blankly.

“Can I come in, Doll?” Though it pains him to be separated from you, he knows he must ask your permission.

Your eyes move from the invisible spot of interest to finally meet his as you give him the smallest nod before he comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky.” You begin to sob as you reach for him. He lays down on the bed beside you. You bury your face in his chest. He can feel his shirt getting saturated from your tears.

“Darling, please. Tell me so I can fix it.” He whispers while stroking small circles into your back. It takes you awhile before the tears subside enough to speak.

“You can’t fix it, Buck. No one can.”

“I will do whatever I need-”

“I’m depressed…” You gauge his face for a response. “I have been for a while but this past week I’m having a really bad episode.”  You’re not sure what to expect. He kisses your forehead gently before stroking your hair behind your ear.

“Why didn’t you tell me, darling. You had me worried sick.” He’s nearly shaking with relief.

“I didn’t want to worry you. You have all your own stuff. You don’t need mine as well.”

His expression hardens. You’re expecting the hammer to fall. He certainly doesn’t deserve to deal with your mental health issues when he is finally starting to feel like his own recovery is successful.

“Sweetheart. You can’t hold all that in. We’re a partnership. What hurts you hurts me.”

“That’s why I didn’t want to-”

“No. Lemme stop you before you even go there. You’ve helped me through all my stuff. Let me support you through yours.”

“You’d do that?”

“Y/N, I’m in this for the long haul. I’m not one to bail when things get tough. I was ready for much much worse. I almost decked Steve.”

“I’m sorry.” You chuckle lightly at the image of the two best friends. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’m sorry I called Steve before you.” He waits for your explanation. “I knew he went with you to some of your therapy appointments. I thought maybe he could help me figure out how to tell you.”

Bucky’s heart sores at the compassion his best friend has shown towards his girlfriend.

“I think I owe him an apology.” You giggle softly again, but he can tell your heart isn’t fully in it. “So… what feels wrong today?” he asks.

“Everything… and nothing.” He looks at you with more understanding than you expected.

“I get that, darling. Want me to set an appointment with the team therapist?”

“Yes, but not for today. Can we just watch a movie and cuddle right now? I’m sure I’ll come out of it in a day or so.”

“Of course we can.” He kisses your forehead again. “Have you eaten today?”

“No” you admit, disappointment clouding your features.

“Hey. I don’t mean that accusatory. Let me put in a frozen pizza. If it looks good you can nibble on it. But you do need to at least drink some water. Can you manage that, darling?”

You nod your head. You know Bucky can’t fix the depression. You know self-care isn’t always going to be this cute and cuddly; but right now, that’s okay. Right now, it’s what you need.

[sosu-morgue]

Hey, I lost an ask I was answering...

The ask was:

Eren discovers he has an older sister who is in the Scout Regiment. When he confronts her she breaks down, having known everything that their father Grisha had planned...

The ask did not specify if the older sister explained what Grisha had done or if this scenario takes place before or after Eren and the others discover what Grisha had done... So I’m setting it before they learn how Eren came to control the Attack Titan.

Here's the answer! :)

!SPOILERS up to SNK/AOT SEASON 3!

How was he supposed to know?

There was a meeting held between a select few cadets and Scout Regiment soldiers. So much had happened, so much death and destruction...

What was this discovery going to be? Eren hoped some light would be shed on their dire situation. He was desperate to speak openly to her, to demand answers, but everyone else; not so much.

Mikasa insisted he remained protected by the elite Scout Regiment soldiers. Armin agreed on the cautious path. No surprises there... just as Eren not listening to then was no surprise either.

Against the plans the cadets and Scout soldiers laid out, Eren marched toward the girl in question.

Before he could take another step he was held back by Armin, Mikasa hot on their heels with a few friends and soldiers they met along the way. Everyone equally concerned for the safety of their comrades and the people they protected.

She stood outside the stables, giving some snacks to the horses resting after a long day's ride. She looked peaceful, almost harmless if he didn't know any better.

Armin held onto Eren tightly, the two boys clearly disagreeing. It wasn’t that Armin and Mikasa didn’t want to find out why this sibling was absent. They simply didn’t want to risk this person being like her... Like Annie.

Grisha was an unknown factor in this new world of human controlled titans. He knew so much and vanished years ago with no explanation. It wasn’t just them that wanted to find Grisha, but the entire Scout Regiment.

The terrifying focus of the Scout Regiment leadership had Grisha as their top person of interest. If he ever showed his face the Scouts were more than prepared to take him into custody. Of course they were also preparing for him to have the same ability as Eren. For this, Levi was armed at all times. Regardless of Eren’s inexperience with his titan, he was still a powerful threat to anyone that took him on at full strength.

Excluding Levi, naturally.

Feeling that usual anger boil inside him, Eren had enough waiting. He had waited for years to hear something, anything from his father. Shiganshina was fading into his past, like a race where the starting point was disappearing in the distance. He didn’t want that, he wanted to go back.

“Hey!” His voice carried through the courtyard, the grit of his tone shocked the girl feeding the horses.

Everyone froze in place, not sure what to anticipate. Jean’s first instinct was to charge first, try to diffuse this situation that -once again- Eren created.

Moblit had a very different reaction. “I’ll go get Hanji and Levi!” He wasted no time preparing for the worst.

What if she was able to manifest a titan too? How ready were they for that?

Or was she in the same boat as Eren; never having known she had that power until their life was under threat.

Armin’s arm fell from Eren, it was too late to stop this now. Everyone’s eyes bore into her, searching for any sign of hostility.

Confused, she looked between the unfamiliar faces. “Uh-”

Eren slipped by Armin, finally standing in front of her. He had no fear, only hurt. While he wouldn’t admit it discovering he had a sister he never knew about left him with conflicting emotions towards his parents... and her.

“You’re _____ Yeager.” He didn’t even ask. “You’re my sister, aren’t you?”

Her eyes darted over him, trying to decipher what was happening. It was all so sudden; these soldiers bursting from the main hall and yelling at her. They all looked so tense, so... afraid?

Once her eyes found Eren’s she could see this fire behind him. This soldier was angry and...

Wait... Did he say ‘sister’?

She gasped, stunned to hear such a simple word. Sister. He knows her name... he knows? He knows-!

“E-Eren?” Her voice fails her, cracking despite her best efforts.

Seeing him was harder than she imagined it would be. And she did think about it often. What it would be like to be with the family again, what it would be like to be a part of the Yeager family like she should’ve been. Before Grisha--

Her face reddened, eyes glossed over as heavy tears formed. He expected information or even a new obstacle in his path; he did not expect crying.

Without his confirmation, she wrapped her arms around him. “It is you!” How she dreamed of seeing him, telling him how much she missed him. “I looked everywhere for you, I searched the refugee camps and all over Wall Rose. Where’ve you been?” Her tears began to fall trailing through the dirt on her face.

Shocked, Eren did not return the embrace. “What are you talking about?” He retreated from her arms, “I never knew you even existed.”

And just like that, her world came crashing down.

“Wh- uh, what?” She stuttered hard, unable to break down what he just said.

“I didn’t know you existed, I just found out and here you are!” Incredulous, Eren continued. “We escaped Shiganshina; me, Armin, and Mikasa. You weren’t there, you weren’t with us back home. Did you runaway when I was little, did something happen? Are you really my sister or is-”

She raised her hand, grasping his shoulder. “No, no! I am your sister, Eren. You don’t remember...?”

His expression softened, “Remember what? You?”

Her grip on his jacket loosened, “You don’t remember me...” She couldn’t lie; this was perhaps the worst pain she had ever experienced. Losing her family was terrible, but knowing that the surviving family had forgotten her? It was crippling.

This whole emotional detour was not why he was here though, he had to stay focused. “Where’s dad?”

She swallowed hard, eyes wide as she stared into his face. “... You don’t remember anything.” Her eyes fell to the dirt below, her mind retreating into this tornado of thoughts questioning everything that happened that night.

She wanted to scream.

“Hi,” A softer voice shocked them both out of their emotional reunion. There stood Armin and Mikasa, both wanting to slow Eren’s roll on this one. “I’m-”

“Armin!” She did the same, throwing her arms around the smaller boy in relief. “You’re alive!” They had all escaped Shiganshina, but that was no promise he was still alive after their first expedition.

“Aak!” Armin hadn’t the experience of a strange girl hugging him like this before. As if she... “You know me?”

Once more, the Yeager sibling pulled back from Armin. “You too, Armin?” Her eyes flicked to Mikasa, the only one she had never met before enlisting. “You must be Mikasa, Eren told me a lot about you.”

“What?” Eren interrupted, “I don’t know you.”

Her mind replayed Grisha’s ominous few words to her. Something vague, but there was a goal there. She only wondered if this is what he meant?

Grisha sacrificed himself to protect Eren, Mikasa, and Armin. Above all else though, as he usually did even back in Marley, he would sacrifice everything to free his people. He always gave up whatever he could if he believed it pushed Eldians to true freedom. 

So he had done it, otherwise she was sure Eren wouldn’t be alive and she would instead be standing by Grisha’s side.

Once more she felt unable to control this sudden rush of sorrow. Grisha, their father, was truly gone. Now Eren stood in his place carrying the weight of all Eldians on his back... and he didn’t even know it.

“I am your sister, Eren... and... I’m sorry, I truly searched everywhere for you. You weren’t registered anywhere, not a single person came to name you. So...” She took a deep breath, trying and failing to calm herself. “... I’m sorry I failed. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help you; to help all of you... I swear to you I tried.”

Armin glanced to Eren. Just hearing the strength in her voice struck a nerve. He was always a good judge of character, but this was hard to pin down. So much he couldn’t have known and was now expected to uncover it all.

Instead of Eren, Armin stepped towards her. “It’s okay, we lived on the streets. No family to register with anymore.”

“Oh, Armin.” She fought back another sob. “I missed you- I missed you all so much. I won’t ever leave your side again, ever.”

She reached out to Eren again, hoping to encase him in a tight hug. While he didn’t really know why, he believed her. Something deep in him was guiding his choices.

When he accepted the hug and returned it, she finally felt like she could let go. So she cried and cried into his jacket. At some point she began to believe they must’ve died, but she was never more glad to be wrong. She would never part from Eren as long as she could.

As Eren let go and everyone watching had calmed down, they went to rejoin the team. She felt this rush of relief, years of worry melted away. Eren, Armin, and Mikasa were still alive and thriving.

Soldiers in the Scout Regiment... the most dangerous place they could be; but still alive.

She kept Grisha’s secret. Now wasn’t the time, he needed to figure things out for himself. Else she risks breaking the resolve and drive of her brother. A situation she was confident would take place had she told him anything about Grisha and Eren’s mother Carla.

And she kept her own secret...

She raised a hand and ran it through her golden locks, pulling it from her face in the wind. Her pale green eyes followed her brother as he rejoined with his friends.

She joined the squad, happy to have others to be around.

[spongeekat]

We Don’t Want to Lose You (Superfamily + Spideypool One Shot)

Read on Ao3

Masterlist Here

Summary: Fanfic Request : "Spideypool (and/or superfamily) where no one realizes how fucked up peter is until someone sees cuts on his arms" AKA Peter has been secretly suffering for years, but is bad at opening up. And then it builds too far.

The first time Peter was caught trying to kill himself, he was 17 years old.

Peter was an adorable kid.

His large, brown eyes lit up whenever his superpowered family returned home from a mission, greeting each of the Avengers with a warm smile, rambling off questions about their adventures one by one. He took care to assess everyone’s wounds, helping Bruce to clean the minor ones. If anyone returned incapacitated, he stayed by their side to assure they wouldn’t wake up alone.

He did well in school despite rough patches in his childhood, and no longer living with his Aunt and Uncle, he took care to bring every A and school project to their house when he went to visit. He kept a careful schedule to assure he would call his Aunt at least once a week to update her on his life, and went out for lunch dates twice as often.

He kept his bedroom somewhat clean when he wasn’t tiring away at science projects, and worked with Tony in the lab while making sure his father didn’t starve himself sick. He helped Steve with the domestic side of the household, and kept the other Avengers entertained in their days off.

He stayed by his Aunt’s side through his Uncle’s death and the 6 month recovery, keeping her on her feet even when he was struggling to stay on his. And when he finally returned to the Stark Tower to live with his adoptive parents once more, he revealed the powers he’d kept hidden the past year. And then he worked with the Avengers, putting his life on the line to make sure others didn’t have to.

He was caring. He was sweet. He was happy.

...He was happy...

Wasn’t he?

Bruce had been the one to find Peter. He’d been passing by the bathroom on coincidence, heading to his lab well past midnight to fiddle with gear when he couldn't sleep. A retching sound from inside had immediately stopped him in his tracks, and he'd tumbled through the door a second later.

When the lights flickered to life, he certainly hadn't expected to find Peter collapsed on the floor, clutching onto his stomach as if it was being ripped out. Empty prescription bottles laid scattered around him, and from the bloody vomit, he could see Peter's body was rejecting the pills faster than they could kill him. An hour of non stop begging, and Bruce had promised not to go wake up his parents while he was treated in the tower. Peter had given his word not to attempt to hurt himself again, and Bruce told Steve and Tony their son had the flu. He’d kept close eyes over him the next year, and when Peter showed no other signs of another suicide attempt, he'd dropped the matter. It was a mistake he regretted immensely.

The signs that anything was off were few and far, to the point they weren't concerning. He’d been diagnosed with anxiety when Tony and Steve had first adopted him, though they took careful care to regulate medication and therapy visits until he had started to feel more level. When Gwen had first died he’d been depressed and inconsolable, and Tony and Steve were the first to encourage him to take time off from being a hero to recover. He was difficult to open up, and he appeared frustratingly optimistic at all times, making it near impossible to tell when he was actually struggling.

So it was quite jarring for the Avengers to find themselves staring at evidence Peter was slowly crumbling under their weight.

The gym was silent. Steve and Bucky had broken their pattern of hooks to freeze with their gloves still in the air, eyes trained on the slim thigh that was bridged between Peter’s hip and Natasha’s arm. Tony had been running on the treadmill, which was now quietly buzzing behind him. Bruce and Wanda had only come down to see the bout between Natasha and Peter, the former’s fingers wrapped tightly around his ankle that she held high. His shorts had ridden up when a flying kick had been stopped by her grip, and he was now crushed under the suffocating tension. Hard eyes stared back at him, and with a sharp tug on his leg, Peter had pulled his foot back into himself and pulled on the hems of his shorts to keep them down.

“What the hell are those?” Natasha repeated with an intimidating fierceness that could make anyone wince. The 20 year old in question stared back at her as if he was about to be hit by a speeding truck, and with the heroes now gaping at him, that was very much possible.

“Scars from a fight.” Peter returned automatically, his hand covering them self consciously beneath the polyester. “It’s nothing. Seriously, Nat. I just got hurt one time and they never healed properly.”

The lines were too straight and thin, filed messily in a patch down his otherwise unmarked thigh.

“Do you think we’re stupid?” Tony’s frown grew to match the others in the room, and while he sounded angry, it was clear worry was overtaking him even more so. “Did you do that? To yourself?”

“Maybe the three of us should discuss this somewhere private.” Steve’s gentle voice suggested, his hand clamping down on Tony’s shoulder to halt his descent on the wide-eyed Peter that looked like he’d been cornered.

“We can talk right here.” Tony challenged, sharp eyes never once leaving the quivering boy. “Have you been cutting yourself?”

“No. This isn’t something we need to talk about.” Peter snapped suddenly, withdrawing from the mat as he backed away towards the exit. “It’s none of your business. Can you guys just drop it?”

“We’re definitely not ignoring that, Peter.” Steve’s voice was harder this time, and even he looked like he wanted to reach out and stop him from leaving. “This isn’t something we can brush off. If there’s something wrong that you’re not telling us about that’s leading you to hurt yourself, you need to let us know. We can’t help unless you want us to.”

Peter’s chest began to constrict from the panic of the confrontation. He never wore shorts, maybe twice he’d donned cargo shorts for a family outing in the past 5 years, and today he had felt a weird bout of security that in the heat of the summer, no one would look twice at his legs. Even more so, he thought the scars had been blending more in his skin, yet apparently that wasn’t enough for superhero eyes not to catch them.

Pressure spread from his chest into his head. He grimaced from the tightness, taking another careful step back. “I said I didn’t need help. Nothing is wrong.” He insisted once more, the fullness of his mind growing heavier. His eyes widened, then his head turned rapidly to Wanda. “And stay out of my head. I didn’t ask for some Avenger’s therapy session, and I don’t want anyone digging around in my thoughts. Please just... I have to head up and do homework before patrol. I gotta go.”

Peter all but swung up the stairs as he scrambled to the glass door and drug it open, his feet moving lightning quick to carry him up into the tower.

There was a stunned silence left behind after Peter had cleared out, the other Avengers staring at the spot left behind as they weren’t entirely sure what to say to alleviate the situation. Bucky took his quiet leave, and Wanda wasn’t far behind, apologizing for scaring Peter off. Tony grabbed his bag to call it a night, though, as he turned around, he was met with the concerned expression of Bruce staring right back at him.

“There’s something I need to tell you. About Peter.” The scientist spoke carefully, keeping his tone level. “I’m sorry to have kept this from you for so long. I had promised I wouldn’t say anything, and he never gave me a reason to.”

“That’s alright.” Steve cut in before Tony could demand an answer from Bruce, pulling on his shirt sleeve as he approached. “You were respecting his privacy. But if we should be worried, it would be nice to know.”

“Yes..uh.” Bruce heaved a small sigh, his fingertips rubbing circles against the bridge of his nose to alleviate the stress. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”

----

Tony wasn’t angry at either Bruce or Peter for not telling him. Hurt, maybe, though that was mainly derived from the fact that his son had been at a low enough point he’d tried to take his own life and he’d never been the wiser. In fact, he wasn’t sure how much attention he had even given Peter that week he was supposedly sick. The fact that he may have blown off caring for him altogether in the way of work was a guilt he couldn’t quite bear.

He sat quietly on the couch beside Steve, a strong hand comfortingly caressing his thigh to keep him calm. Steve seemed just as stoic and lost in thought, neither really having reassuring words for each other at the moment. The prospect of coming dangerously close to losing the light that burned brightly in their life had been enough to scare them both into a mortified resolve.

“I never thought it’d be him.”

Steve looked up at the sound of Tony’s half-audible voice, his eyes softening. His fingers tightened to show he was there, though he could feel the way his husband tensed even under his grip. “Tony... “

“I’m not saying it’s his fault.” Tony sighed thickly, and his fingers danced over the lip of his whiskey glass. “Obviously, this sort of thing isn’t a decision he made one morning. But I still feel like it was my fault. For never getting him help.” He dropped his head back on the sofa, the unfamiliar ceiling staring back at him. He didn’t spend much time in the apartment as of late. The thought made his lips purse. “Did we send him to a therapist? We didn’t, did we? I think, after Gwen, that was on my list of things to do. But work was more important. So I forgot. Or probably just crossed it off because it wasn’t important. But you know what was? Work.”

“So we didn’t put in as much effort as we could have.” Steve’s hand went firm, and demandingly kept Tony’s attention on him. “And that was irresponsible. And I regret it as much as you do. But we also had no idea what he was going through. He doesn’t exactly talk to us, even when we push. And we just got lucky that he wasn’t able to.. That he was able to heal.” He heaved a heavy sigh, and took a decisive drink of Tony’s alcohol that would have no effect on him. As expected, it barely even burned. “But now that we know, we can take the steps to help him. Find ways to make him happy...and Tony, you know the one person he’d be willing to open up to.”

There was a long, heavy pause. And then a firm “no.”

“I don’t like it, either. I don’t trust him. And he’s not a great influence on Peter. But he made him happy.”

“He can’t love away depression.”

“But he can encourage him to get help. And even if he won’t talk to us, he’ll at least still have a support system he’s comfortable with.”

“You think a psychotic man my age is going to make him happier? He has more of a chance of dying with him.” Tony didn’t mind blunt, as much as he knew his words would only hurt Peter further if he were here. But Tony could never really stop himself, and he knew that was probably a reason why Peter was so depressed. “He left him in the first place.”

Steve sighed and picked himself up from the couch. He refused to fight over Peter’s rights to happiness as an adult. “You forced him to. If you really want to make things right, you need to stop interfering.”

It was jarring, but it was true, and it left an awkward guilt in Tony for doing what he felt made him a good parent. Though it was obvious now he didn’t deserve that title.

“I’ll have someone find him.” Tony finally caved, his hand clutching his pounding head to reign in the negative emotions.

“Thank you.” Steve smiled, and Tony sent a silent prayer they were taking the right steps to saving their son’s life.

---

“It’s not a therapist, Peter. Just keep walking.”

Peter threw an anxious and distrusting look back at Natasha, his intimidating Aunt barely an inch away to cover his exit. At least she had been upfront about keeping a hard watch over him these past couple of days. Everyone else acted like they were walking on broken glass around him, and he hated it. “You’re a professional liar, Nat.”

The widow rolled her eyes and gave a firm shove to his shoulder, forcing him to continue down the brightly lit hallway to one of the business rooms in the tower. The summon had been spontaneous, though it seemed the others all knew what was coming. It was pretty eerie.

They got to the doors with a minute to spare, and Natasha didn’t allow any time for him to stand and plan his escape before she was pushing open the doors. Inside, the bright light revealed his fathers standing in the doorway. Further back was Thor, and Bruce sat at the table. Next to him sat a red and black ghost that Peter hadn’t seen in over 2 years. His eyes instantly lit up when the man stood from the table, and they were on each other in a second.

“Petey-Pie, you look as good as I remember you.” Wade enthused as he reached out his arms to catch him. “Can’t believe you’re really here and--!” “...Ow, nice to see you too, sweetie.”

“You lying jerk.” Peter stood over the crumpled Wade with his fist clenched tightly, skin slightly reddened from where he’d planted his hello to Deadpool’s masked cheek. The adults jumped at the sudden violent outlash, but none made to interfere. “You disappear for 2 years without so much as a word, then suddenly come back and expect me to be happy about it?” He breathed, staring him down with intense eyes.

“I know! That was wrong. But I didn’t really wanna leave. I just had to ‘cause the Avengers thought I was a liability and all.” Wade shrugged, trying not to anger Peter any more, because he was damn strong and he had gotten punched in the face by a lot of angry strong people. “So you’re not happy to see me?”

“...Of course I am.” Peter sunk to his knees directly into Wade’s arm, his arms casting over his neck as he held him as tightly as his anger would allow him to. Wade was all too happy to oblige.

Natasha withdrew from the room shortly after, along with Bruce and Thor, when they had assured there was no violent intentions coming from Wade. Steve and Tony kept their overwatching positions, however, the distrust clear in their face and body language.

“Hey, Peter.” Tony finally spoke, moving to sit down at the meeting table behind them. “You know why he’s here. So let’s talk.” He cast an inviting hand to the chairs situated across from him, though Peter chose to ignore it and stand. Fine. He had a right to be upset at having his privacy invaded. But Tony wasn’t going to give up this time.

“He’s here because it was wrong to take him from you. You’re an adult, and as much as I hate that you can’t see he’s a bad influence--”

“Tony.”

Tony threw a look to Steve, relenting his sour mood for Peter’s sake. “You’re an adult, and I shouldn’t have made that kind of decision for you. I won’t stand in the way of you two anymore.”

“Can I start calling you Dad?”

“That’s pushing it, Wade.”

“Got it.”

“Anyways, Peter, there’s another reason why we brought him back.” Tony said as his expression grew a bit more serious, shifting forward in his seat. Peter felt the tension growing heavier in the room, knowing all eyes were trained on him at that point. He was tempted to take a step back, dip out before the conversation reached an uncomfortable level, but he was sure that was why Steve was still by the door in the first place. “You can’t keep whatever is hurting you to yourself. And we know you won’t talk to us. So we want you to have someone you won’t just lie to.”

“So you came back to spy on me?” Peter grimaced over at Wade, who instead shook his head back quickly.

“No, no, never.” Wade insisted as he reached out to grip Peter’s hand. “I’m not gonna tell anyone if you ever decide to open up to me. Not even if I’m tortured. Cross my heart, still won’t die.” He seemed amused by his own joke, but continued to ramble off. “Anyways, baby boy, I just don’t want to see you hurting all alone. I wanna be here for you, even when you don’t want me. I know that isn’t a great deal. I wouldn’t want me around either. But I want to at least try to make you happy.”

“I-It’s not that I’m exactly unhappy with my life and stuff. You guys are fine.” Peter frowned, hating himself for his decision not to cover up. It was a simple fact that could have easily avoided this discomfort and uncomfortable level of attention he wasn’t looking for. He appreciated them wanting to help, but he’d also dealt with heavy emotions alone for years, and he wasn’t about to ask for people to be a part of it. “And I’m glad, Wade, reallyglad to have you back here. But I’m not just sad I’m…”

Peter’s voice trailed off, though no one spoke. They were waiting for an explanation Peter didn’t know how to give.

“I just don’t feel… like I should… be here?” Peter said cautiously, turning his eyes down to the table. He didn’t want to face them, really not wanting to see their reactions to what he saw as dramatic thoughts. “Like, just after everything… I don’t deserve it.”

“Peter, you--”

“I know.” Peter sighed, cutting Steve off, as he closed his eyes and ran a stressed hand through his hair. It was tangled, not really having energy to brush it as of late. He hadn’t been sleeping particularly well, either. “I know that you’re going to tell me you guys love me, and that I’m Spider-Man and all, and I know. It’s not like it’s because of you guys, or anyone. It’s just… feelings I’ve had to deal with for a really long time. And I’ll work through them eventually. But I don’t want anyone forcing anything on me or… sending my ex-boyfriend to counsel or whatever.”

There was a pause for it all to sink in. But they understood, at least as well as they could.

“We’ll back off.” Tony relented, massaging the bridge of his nose. It was a hard promise to make, even harder to keep, but he knew pushing wouldn’t help. “You have to promise not to do anything stupid. Come to us, or that,” He said, jabbing a thumb at Wade. “If you’re having trouble.”

“We don’t want to lose you.” Steve added, sighing lightly.

“I… yeah. Sorry. I’ll try.” Peter mumbled with a hopeful look, though he knew it would take a while before he was ever ready to discuss the fucked up emotions and thoughts he suffered through.

Maybe, though, he’d be able to ignore it long enough everyone forgot about the entire thing.

-----

The second time Peter tried to kill himself, he was 22 years old.

-----

Peter’s plan had succeeded. Tony became busy at work. Steve was forced into multiple Avenger’s missions a week, and replacing the gap that Tony left behind became a difficult task he was completely engrossed in. His family returned exhausted most nights at best; injured and sullen more often. Wade had to disappear at the 5th month mark to meet with some big contact in France that he promised didn’t include ‘un-aliving’ anyone who went down easily. So Peter was left to his own devices for extensive amounts of times. And while he had been doing fine in the eyes of Wade and his family, inwardly, he’d been having a rather tough time.

The nightmare were what troubled him most at first. Repetitive images of Gwen’s lifeless body snapping haunted him most nights. Others, it was Wade screaming in pain that Peter couldn’t prevent. Sometimes it was the image of his Dad chugging whiskey like it was water. Sometimes it was Steve suppressing Bucky through his sleeping fits and the guilt stricken across his face. In the end, they left him a sweaty mess sitting alone on the ledge of the building, trying to calm himself off enough in the cool night air to go back to sleep. Until the day that nothing worked.

He hadn’t felt right all morning. He was irritable and hollow, and it led to him snapping at Bruce when he’d checked in if he was okay. Apparently word went around that Peter wasn’t in the best mood, because no one else came around to bother him the rest of the day. He’d gotten a total of 1 hour of sleep the past 2 nights, and at this point he was downright void of energy or proper thoughts. He’d called Wade, desperate to stave off the anxiety and depression, but he never answered. Steve was asleep. Tony was gone. So Peter had decided to sleep it off.

When he awoke, the tower was empty. His nightmare, this time, was about Eddy and Aunt May. Two people he’d dragged into his mess of mistakes that had suffered for it. The empty hole was festering in his chest, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. He felt numb. Every crater of his body was filled with buzzing negativity. He found himself stumbling up the wall to the one place he had learned to relax, the wind pulsing against his back the higher he climbed. Somewhere along his ascent he stopped. He wondered why he held on. He measured the agony he was feeling now and had been feeling for years to the painlessness of death. And somewhere along the line he had let go. Wind whistled in his ears. His body went into panic mode, and his own breathlessness made him black out. And he waited for the impact of the ground rushing up to meet him.

He woke up with a killer headache, a broken arm, a few broken ribs, and sutures tucked into his lower abdomen. Tony slept on a chair in the corner of the hospital room. Steve was gone. Wade sat directly on the end of his bed, staring at him through his mask so intensely that it almost scared the shit out of him. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was raspy and barely came. Wade shook his head, reaching out to grip his hand as he scooted closer to speak softly as to not wake Tony up.

“I love you.” Wade mumbled as he tugged his mask up to expose his lips. He pressed them gently to the back of Peter’s bruised hand, though the action felt heavy. “And I shoulda known you would do it. I think I did know, but I didn’t think you were doing that bad.”

“Wade-...”

“It’s okay, baby boy. Just listen.”

Peter went quiet, which was better, anyways. It hurt to breathe.

“I’m taking you away.”

“What?”

“Just you and me. And we’re gonna go vacation on an island, and watch girls dance in coconut bras, and fuck in the sand at night so I don’t get those burns on my ass.”

“L-Look, that sounds nice, but school and work--”

“And then you’re going to talk to me. Every day. I don’t care how long we have to stay. But I want to know every horrible thought haunting you. I want to know every part of you. You fought my demons, so I want to fight yours. And then we’re going to come back, and I’m going to help you out of bed every fucking morning until you’re strong enough to do it yourself. I don’t plan on losing you, sweetie, until I’ve found a way to die with you. And I plan on doing everything I can to keep you with me another hundred years.”

Peter was stunned. In disbelief. But he nodded nonetheless, letting Wade indulge in his fantasy. There was a high chance his parents would stop this plan in its tracks, but for now, Peter just wanted to relax into the thought that he might not feel this shitty forever. “Okay?”

“Yeah..that sounds like exactly what I need right now. Thanks.”

[sunshineandfangs]

Klarosummer - Annual Hemingway Days Celebration || Zhè Shì Guàiwù

@klarosummerbingo

I DID IT! I FINISHED THE CARD! WOOOOOOO! Later tonight/tomorrow I’ll put together a compilation of all my drabbles for the event.

Warnings: Darker!Klaus. Mentions of Damon’s abuse of Caroline, slightly graphic. Some vampire related violence. Umm very different tone from my earlier drabble today.

Klaus pursed his lips, absently wiping off the blood of his incompetent, former minion from his hand. Good help was near impossible to find these days. Stepping over the corpse, making a mental note to have one of his witches burn the body later, Klaus peered around.

He needed someone innocuous to fill the newfound vacancy. Preferably a girl this time, one that might have an easier time sussing out the veracity of the  Doppelgänger sightings. Making friends and keeping the chit occupied if the rumors proved true, freeing up his time to track down his missing moonstone.

Perhaps, he would take a trip to Florida. There was bound to be someone he could easily snatch from the plague of party-going college students. Klaus suppressed a grimace as he imagined the shrieks of the masses that swarmed certain locales. Swearing he’d not step foot in a place like Daytona.

Even his Doppelgänger wasn’t worth that headache. Not when he could just as easily find beautiful bait somewhere a bit less popular.

---

Caroline wanted to whine, desperately, but she was better than that. Even when she was girly, little Caroline (who she didn’t want to be anymore, who she wasn’t anymore), she knew how to work hard and achieve her goals.

That being said there was a difference between useful work and busywork. And in her opinion, this was the later. There was nothing unique or challenging about reading through a book list and writing up what amounted to a synopsis. There was no critical thought or analysis, it was simply meant as a measure of dedication. Only those who completed the assignment would be paid to go to Key West.

And alright, she understood why she had to do the work. The school didn’t want to pay for a trip just so students could screw around on someone else’s dime. That being said, just because she understood the reasons, didn’t make the work any less annoying. 

The blonde grumbled quietly and cracked open the last of the list, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and started reading. 

It was grim, Caroline thought a few hours later. Bloody and human and somehow, just a bit hopeful. She stroked the cover thoughtfully. This one she was glad to have read. Its tale only further inflaming her resolve.

See, for the longest time Caroline had wanted to go into broadcast journalism. She thought she had the face and personality to do such a job. Plus, she honestly did love learning more about the world and the things that happened in it. But after the haze of junior year, friends shutting her out, waking from sleep sweat-soaked and shaking from nightmares she didn’t understand, she wanted to do more than just report other’s stories. She wanted to live her own. Really understand different people.

Which was why she switched her focus to international journalism and decided she would head to Asia first, arguably home to the most turmoil. Russia, China, North Korea just to name a few. Decided she would supplement her journalism courses with a dual major in East Asian Studies, and a list of other classes that would hopefully qualify for a minor in Russian and Slavic Studies.

It would be a lot of work. Far more than powering through a reading list, but the things worth doing often were. 

Besides that was the end goal. This upcoming trip to the Annual Hemingway Celebration in Key West was a baby step of her journey, giving her the opportunity to report on a subculture in the safety and familiarity of her own country. It didn’t hurt that Hemingway was a journalist before he was a novelist, having spent time witnessing for himself the horrid and the beautiful parts of humanity.

---

Caroline sighed, stretching out on her beach chair. The main events were done for the day and she had spent all of yesterday socializing. Even extroverts like her needed some time to herself. She let her eyes shut, soaking up some strong Florida rays.

“Hello, love, do you happen to have the time?”

The sudden British voice was quite unexpected and Caroline’s eyes popped open as she looked up. The owner of the voice was attractive - blonde curls, blue eyes, a hint of dimples when his mouth shifted - but it was marred by the fact he was disturbing her relaxation time.

Still, her mother didn’t raise her to be rude and she reached for her phone, wondering why he couldn’t check his own. A quick tap revealed the time to be 4:06 PM.

“4:06,” she read out, quickly flashing her phone in his direction so he could see for himself looking over as she did so, and froze.

There was nothing wrong. Technically. But something about his expression sent the hair on the back of her neck rising. His eyes slid to hers, seeming to sense her alarm as he cocked his head.

“Thorough and precise. Certainly traits I can appreciate.”

He seemed to be speaking more to himself than her, though her was still eyeing her speculatively.

She was wigged out to say the least.

“Right, well if that was all...” Caroline trailed off as she stood, making sure to rise on the other side of the chair from where he was.

“Nothing personal, sweetheart.” She heard from behind her.

There was no time to process the words before a bloody arm was shoved in her mouth. She choked, accidentally swallowing a few gulps of blood.

A sharp crack was the last thing she heard.

---

Klaus looked down at the blonde in his arms, wiped the blood from her lips as he lifted her into a bridal carry. It had been fortunate the girl had chosen a decently isolated spot, and it was easy for him to claim his girlfriend had simply fallen asleep to anyone who asked if she was okay.

She had surprised him, this young girl, barely old enough to be considered a woman by current standards. Her instincts were sharper than he expected and she hadn’t been taken in by his looks or accent.

He continued to walk. Well, she might just survive her time in his service.

---

Caroline’s return to consciousness was sudden and painful. Every part of her ached: her head, her toes, muscles she hadn’t known existed until now. The room seemed painfully bright, red flashes on the back of eyelids, yet when she cracked them open all the shades were drawn.

She groaned, tasting copper on her tongue. Pain quickly turned to panic as she remembered the weird British man doing something to her. Rocketing upright, she took in her unfamiliar surroundings, trying to figure out a plan.

All for naught, as the man suddenly appeared in her room, an apparent vagrant held in his grasp. Before she could demand answers, his hand shot across the side of the man’s neck, a spurt of blood shooting out from the wound.

Caroline’s vision shifted in an instant, sharper but somehow seeming hazy too. And the most delicious scent she had ever smelt was permeating the room.

Thump-thump-thump

Pounded away in her ears. She groaned, feeling her mouth and teeth flare with a sudden sharp tearing pain.

God, but what was that smell?

She was standing before the man before she even realized she moved, her teeth (fangs) digging into the gash.

Gulping, Caroline swallowed. It felt like an orgasm had somehow erupted in her mouth, her brain buzzing on the high.

Thump...thump

No, you are the only stupid thing here. And shallow. And useless.

Icy blue eyes suddenly swam into her mind and she finally grasped what she was doing. That her fangs, fangs, were buried in some poor man’s neck. She flung herself back, spine impacting the wall as she panted, a phantom pain in her own neck.

She cried out, clutching her head as a swarm of memories crashed over her. Memories of painful bites hidden with scarves. Her mind being twisted into knots. Screams that echoed only in her skull as a man rutted into her unresistant body.

Another memory floated to the surface. About how turning required blood and death. That spelled rings would prevent burning in the sun. She felt her heart lurch in her chest, its beat alien and slow.

No. 

No, she wouldn’t be someone else’s nightmare. 

She refused.

---

Klaus watched with sharp eyes as his newest sire fed and completed her transition, pleased with her speed and ferocity.

So, it was a shock when she suddenly ripped herself away before killing the man. And when she cried out he was concerned she wouldn’t be able to handle the transition, disappointed that he had wasted his time.

But then he saw the look in her eyes, the daze of a sudden rush of memories, and realized she had been compelled as a human.

Very interesting. 

And potentially useful.

He continued to observe her as clarity returned to her gaze. And just as he was about to address her, the girl blurred over to the nearest window, ripping the blinds off and instantly beginning to smoke in the sunlight.

Klaus was so stunned, that it took him a moment to blur forward, long enough that the first tongues of true flame scorched her flesh. He tackled her onto the bed, pinning her down and snuffing out the lingering fire.

However, as soon as her back had touched the sheets she fought him furiously, screaming and feral. There was no reason in her eyes anymore and he reached forward to snap her neck with a flick of his wrest, sitting back on his heels as he contemplated the girl.

Given that extreme reaction, he had his suspicions about what might have happened to her. Debated if she was going to be worth the trouble. 

Perhaps, he should kill her? It seemed to be what she wanted a moment ago.

Klaus frowned as her eyed her, shifting from the bed to a chair beside it.

That seemed like an awful waste of potential. 

...And vengeance could be quite the powerful motivator.

Decision made for the moment, he settled back in his chair, waiting for her to awaken again.

---

Author’s Note: The title was the closest I could come to “Here Be Monsters” in Chinese. Yes, I know it really only works because of what I made Caroline’s career goal, but I was running out of languages I could connect somehow. 

Also I’ve pushed the later half of S2 back as Klaus obviously hasn’t broken his curse yet or even knows for a fact Elena exists. S1 happened as normal, but here Caroline went far away to NYU for college. She and the Mystic Falls gang grew distant with all the secrets she wasn’t in on this time around. Timeline wise it’s her second semester making it 2012 and Caroline nineteen.

[infinitum-imaginaerum]

GRAFFITI | JAEHYUN

Badboy Tagger!Jaehyun | Mini-Series Words | 2,400+ Warnings | Language, Mature Themes, Compromising situations

01 | 02

Casual strolls occupied most of your late night consciousness. You friends always protested because it wasn’t like you lived in a particularly safe part of the city and there had always been reports of nefarious activity, especially around the time you preferred to be out. Most times, it was nearing midnight. Other times, it was past midnight. Seldom did you adventure before midnight. You claimed it helped you sleep, but maybe there was some deeper, ulterior motive to you deliberately putting yourself in danger.

Most nights were the same—monotonously uneventful. Part of you was careful. You never wore headphones when you walked, you kept a weapon on you most times, it wasn’t as if you were begging for something bad happened to you, you just… were looking for a little excitement in your life.

The excitement that had decided to entertain you today was not the type you were longing for. This was the exact situation your friends had always warned you about—walking by yourself and getting snagged by some group of dudes looking for trouble that you weren’t particularly anticipating to be a part of.

They snickered as you passed and you tugged down your shorts just a little bit. You were out of ear-shot to pick up the conversation being exchanged, but when one of them kicked off the wall and started in your direction, your mind was suddenly thinking thousands of things. The most important question: were you better off trying to disregard them and hope someone spotted you, or run? The closer the clops of footsteps got to you, the more you started panicking.

Every dog had their day, you were just hopeful today wasn’t yours.

“Hey, pretty lady! Why don’t you turn around and give us a good look at that gorgeous face!” one of them called, an ominous aura waiting to asphyxiate you as they neared, closer and closer, your perimeter of safety disappearing with every ticking second.

“I’m not interested,” you feigned confidence, attempting to send a message that they’d be better off targeting someone else.

“I don’t think that was in the question,” another fired back, his voice pounding in your ear. You shut your eyes tight; this was definitely going to happen. Your feet carried you unwaveringly, somewhere in the pit of your mind having the motor skills to keep going even if the conscious part of your mind had already called it quits.  You wanted to scream, but your voice was constricted by the frightened lump in your throat.

A protective arm looped around your waist, pulling you into an unfamiliar warm body and you literally bounced off his chest, he pulled you in so hard.

“I’ve been looking all over for you! I thought we agreed to meet at the parlor!” His voice, deep and raspy, was as ominous as the aura you were feeling earlier, but for some indefinite reason, you didn’t feel threatened.

Your eyes were still glued shut, optimistic that it was all a bad dream and you were going to wake up any second. With a little more breathing room, your gears began to turn again. The parlor was a few blocks away from your current coordinates, so it didn’t seem too suspicious that this mysterious man would pick there, instead of somewhere in much closer proximity. Finally, you found the resolve to reply.

“I’m sorry. I got a little sidetracked and then I got lost,” you played along, abortive attempts to keep your voice even a little suspicious.

Your savior—which is what you would deem him for now—turned his attention to the men on your tail.

“State your business,” he demanded. If it were possible for his resolve to be more commanding and hostile than it was while he was talking to you, it was definitely on display now. There were no questions of who they were, just simply what they wanted.

In the midst of his metronome heartbeat soothing all of your fear of being alive in the current situation, you could faintly hear the riposte from the men, demeanor dissimilar than before.

“Nothing, man. We don’t have business here. Didn’t know she was yours—”

“And even if she wasn’t. If I catch you pestering again, there will be no need to apologize again. Do I make myself understood?”

His leather jacket smelled of aerosol fumes and gasoline, but deeper, beyond that, his cotton tee smelled of teakwood and citrus. You never got a good look at him but measured about six feet. He was incredibly warm against you, eradicating any shivers you may have had from the nippy night air. Your attention was still bouncing around, but particularly focused on many sets of footsteps fading away and only then did the man release you.

You indistinctly heard him ask if you were alright, struggling to refocus your vision and regain your own footing, no longer being propped up by the tall body before you.

“Thank you,” you answered, eyes gazing at his chest since you weren’t too keen on meeting eyes with him for the moment.

“That’s not what I asked,” he countered, though his soft laughter did seem to calm your snarled nerves about him. He placed his hands on your shoulders, leaning over to make temporarily unwanted eye contact with you. His black hair obscured most of his eyes, his skin was a little pale in the glimmering moonlight but he had a dazzling smile which garnered a majority of your attention from the observational flicks of your gaze here and there.

“Cat got your tongue?” he susurrated to resurrect you from your trance on his mouth, rose pink lips that concealed his pearly whites as he stood back straight.

“I’m sorry, I’m just still a little shaken up,” you finally replied, averting your gaze from him to the city street, empty, not a single sputtering car.

“Understandable,” he reassured, nodding as he followed your gaze. “How about this? I’m Jaehyun and it’s very nice to have saved your life,” he joked, or you took it as a joke, and he offered his hand to you.

A blush stained your cheeks, stare unwavering from the street for a moment until you could finally assemble the courage to reply with your name and face him again. Delicately, you place your hand in his which is turned palm skyward and for a split second you’re questioning why until he dips is head concurrent to lifting your hand to gently kiss the back of it, eyes never faltering from yours with a gaze so enrapturing—it’s almost predatory, the way his multidimensional roasted-coffee-colored eyes watch you—it has your knees begging to buckle.

“I apologize for inconveniencing you, but you didn’t have to step in. My friends have warned me multiple times that I shouldn’t—”

“No inconvenience at all,” he interrupted, somewhat taken aback, “Your friends are right, though. It’s dangerous out here to be by yourself. If you want to walk at night, your boyfriend should walk with you.”

“And what makes you think I have a boyfriend?” you questioned, eyeing him suspiciously as he returned your hand.

He was straight-faced, no shock on confusion remotely detectable. “I noticed you don’t have a ring,” he began, glancing at the hand slacked by your side, “but I also noticed you’re too pretty and too sweet to be single, and then I also wondered why you were out here so late by yourself.”

With a few choice words swirling around in your head, you still failed to amass a suitable response.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but let me walk you home. I don’t like the idea of you heading back by yourself.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of you knowing where I live,” you fired back, crossing your arms over yourself, staving off an inevitable shiver.

“Not a lot of guys would go out of their way to save a girl in distress just to be the cause of her distress,” he reasoned with you and he had a valid point. Entirely focused on his face and his voice, you didn’t notice him shrug off his jacket.

Jaehyun pulled his leather jacket around your shoulders, smothering you in the remnants of his warmth.

“Is this a vain attempt to court me?”

He chuckled, “I really was going to apologize for my jacket smelling like spray paint; but if it’s working…” he suggested, raising his brows at you and then flashing you that dazzling smile. Your nimble fingers curl around the zipper teeth of the left side of his coat, pulling it in to tighten the leather around you, hiding an embarrassed smile as you looked down and away from him.

“Are you feeling courted?”

“Take me home,” you replied, reaching a hand out to shove him with a quiet laugh of your own and turned on your heel to head in the direction of your home.

He jogged up beside you and shoved his hands into his pockets, matching stride to keep pace. The walk to your place was mostly silent—you had just met him, so there wasn’t a lot of material for conversation—and you really just reveled in the feeling of safety. Jaehyun was a large man, menacing to boot; the way he handled those guys from earlier, he was probably the lot you’d want to be throwing in with. It was interesting the way he shifted from hell to heaven, interacting with them and you.

Occasionally you glanced to him, noting more details every time you looked at him like his ears were pierced, his biceps—now unclothed—had to be as big around as your two hands circled, at least, the curve of his cheekbones and jaw, the way he seemed to shrug off the cold while you tugged his jacket around you.

You were coming up on your building hastily, or what felt like hastily since the sooner you made it to your door, the sooner you’d have to say goodbye to Jaehyun. He grew on you, the diminutive time you’d been acquainted. He was twice the gentleman of any man you’d ever met, despite his daunting aura.

“I’ll let you go in from here,” he suggested, drawing you back to earth from the enigmatic thoughts of him swirling like a maelstrom in your brain.

You observed him for a prolonged instant. He wasn’t looking at you; in fact he was looking everywhere except you. It was the first time you’d felt any semblance of nervousness while in his immediate perimeter. Reluctantly, you shrugged his jacket from your shoulders and offered it back to him.

“Thank you, Jaehyun, for everything, and goodbye,” you struggled to speak, the sentiment you were suffering, an unfamiliar one. You turned slowly, trying not to think too much about it—you just met him and it wasn’t like you would probably ever see him again, considering this was your first meeting on many walks—to head up to your place.

“Wait,” he desperately importuned. “What if I want to see you again?”

Your heart all but soared into your throat as you gawked at the glossy chrome finish of the elevator doors. Adrenaline was pumping through you, the robust beating of your heart in your throat adjourning your response.

He was standing close, the heat radiating off of him and onto your back. You were nearly ashamed to be anticipative for some kind of touch as you peered over your shoulder at him. His jacket remained in his large hand, attention undaunted with the garment as he waited for a response.  

“Well, I suppose, I would have to give you a way to contact me,” you offered, still peering at him, now entirely aware of your nervous hands balling into your shirt. Why were you so nervous? Nothing was predominantly threatening about Jaehyun right now—he’d just saved you from portentous fate, offered his jacket to keep you warm and safely walked you home—why the hesitation?

You turned to face him, gaze wandering up his chest to his neck to his face, over his perfect lips and nose to his dark almond eyes. Your right hand rose, palm skyward, gesturing for his phone which he fished out of his pocket, unlocked, and set into your hand. After entering your number and name into the contacts, you sent yourself a text so that you would have his number too and returned his phone.

“Goodnight, Jaehyun, and thank you again.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he answered, fishing for your hand to kiss your knuckles, “Sleep tight.”

The elevator signaled its arrival—he honestly hadn’t seen you press the button—and the doors slid open, empty inside. Your hand slipped from Jaehyun’s loose grasp as you stepped back into the elevator, only breaking gaze with him to select the number for your floor. The chrome doors began their journey closed, time ostensibly decelerated as you watched him stand there, jacket still in his hand.

Only after the elevator doors were completely closed and began its ascension did he slip his jacket back on. His phone felt a little heavier in his pocket, reminding him of its existence as he turned to head out of your apartment building. Once he was adequate distance away from your building, he pulled his phone out of his pocket to take a glimpse of your contact information.

A grin tugged at his rosy lips as he returned from the direction the both of you came. It was a short walk, the trip back always shorter than the trip to an unknown destination, before he came upon his buddies.

“Hey man, you disappeared for a while!”

He clapped hands with his buddy, Taeyong, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Yeah, sorry; I got a little distracted with something.”

“Something? You mean the girl you were supposed to meet at the parlor?” another replied, throwing up air quotes during his retort.

“Fucking creep!” Jaehyun fired back with a laugh, shoving Johnny in the shoulder. “I walked her home. She was being followed by a group of dudes.”

“You’re a good man, Jaehyun,” Taeyong added, tossing Jaehyun a can of spray paint. “Now, put all those feelings to work.”

Jaehyun rolled the can of paint in his hand, looking down at it, really soaking in Taeyong’s words. He laughed, shaking his head, slipping his dust mask on with his free hand and stepped towards the wall.

[raywritesthings]

Can’t Bear To Lose 4/?

My Writing Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor Pairing: Doctor/Donna Summary: The DoctorDonna supposedly thinks of things the Doctor never would. Why not a way to fix the metacrisis? *Update can also be read on my AO3*

They’d been to ten planets already, and so far there was no sign. What if she was back on planet number three and had simply arrived the day after they’d left? What if the rocket had malfunctioned? What if she didn’t know how to fly it properly? She could be adrift out there in space and they might never find her until it was too late.

The Doctor’s mind was beginning to chase itself in circles with these questions. He’d thought everything would be alright once they went back to Messaline, yet now all he felt was a fresh wave of guilt and self-loathing.

He had abandoned his daughter. Yes, he’d thought Jenny was dead, but if he’d been able to bring himself to remain for the funeral he would have been quickly disabused of that notion. His policy of not looking back had cost him dearly this time.

He’d been squinting at the scanner readings for the last two hours, trying to pick out the most logical path Jenny could have taken to not have ended up in any of the places they’d yet to take. His eyes were growing irritated from staring at the screen so long and kept trying to close. Or maybe it was just that they needed a break in general...

A hand landed on his arm and he jerked back upright, eyelids blinking rapidly. “What? What’s happened?”

“Nothing. You just fell asleep standing up.”

One of the downsides to Donna suddenly being immortal. She was starting not to sleep as much as she used to, and she was there to see him fight against his own exhaustion.

“Spaceman, you need to rest.”

“I’ll rest once we’ve found her,” he said, shrugging off the hand Donna had moved up to his shoulder.

She frowned. “We don’t know how long that’s gonna take. And I know you’re running on fumes and out of ideas. The best thing you can do for Jenny right now is to rest up and attack it from a new angle in the morning.”

In the very depths of his mind, the Doctor knew Donna was making perfect sense; she always did. And perhaps he might have listened to her in any other circumstance.

But he shook his head. “And what if overnight the worst happens?”

Donna perches a hand on her hip. “You’re just assuming the worst.”

“I’m not,” he insisted, but he knew that alone wouldn’t be enough. Donna wasn’t the type to let these sorts of things go without explanation. Not that he’d expect her to. “You have to understand. This was exactly what I was afraid of, Donna.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you convinced me to accept Jenny. I didn’t want to because, well, partly my own stubbornness. I know that. But also—” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I was never a good father. Before.”

She was silent.

“I loved them, but I suppose I loved the traveling more. Or I wanted it more because I couldn’t have it and have a family,” he confessed. “I was dissatisfied on Gallifrey. And I left them. All of them — well, all except Susan. But even her I left behind eventually. Just like I left Jenny.”

“But that’s not the same,” she said. “You didn’t mean to leave her. We didn’t know she could come back. Martha thought—”

He looked back at her. “Martha was working with what she knew, but I should’ve known better. I let her convince me it was over because maybe I wanted it to be. So I didn’t have to wait and find out how I’d fail later.”

Donna’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

He fell silent.

“I know you feel you’re destined to repeat past mistakes, but isn’t the point of living to nine-hundred-whatever that you learn from those mistakes and move on? It’s not enough to have regrets, Doctor. You’ve got to act on that change you want to see,” Donna said, her tone gentler by the end. “And that starts with taking care of yourself so you can look for Jenny properly instead of staggering about half-dead on your feet.”

The Doctor’s shoulders slumped. “Alright, Madame, you’ve made your point.”

“Good.” She reached down and took his hand, tugging him towards the corridor.

“Er, where are we going?”

“To bed.”

His eyebrows rose high enough it ought to have hurt. “Er, Donna—”

“Oh, not like that, you prawn. Not yet, anyway,” she muttered, and the back of her neck had gone a bright red. She chanced a look at him over her shoulder. “But I doubt you’ll do it on your own, so that’s the way it’s got to be.”

The Doctor harrumphed to himself. “So sorry to inconvenience you.”

Her lips quirked. “You’re grumpy. Sleep will do you some good.”

She led them into her room and directed him onto the bed where she left him for a while as she changed in the bathroom. He barely got a look at Donna’s nightclothes, for she scurried under the covers and turned the lights off almost immediately after emerging from the en suite.

There was a pause as they both considered what to do now, and it occurred to the Doctor that he’d never shared a bed with Donna before.

“Donna, if this is too — I mean I’d rather you not be uncomfortable for my sake.”

She found him in the dark and wrapped her arms around him in a determined sort of way. “I invited you, Time Boy. Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want you here.”

He hadn’t been paying too much attention to Donna’s wants the last few days, he realized with regret.

“I’m sorry if I’ve put our, um, relationship on hold somewhat.”

He felt her hands rub up and down his back, which was both unfamiliar and nice.

“Nothing to apologize for. I’m worried about her, too.”

He risked ducking down to press a kiss to the top of her head, letting his face linger there in her hair a moment or two.

“I’ll make it up to both of you,” he promised. “Soon as Jenny’s found.”

With that, he allowed himself to relax in Donna’s arms, which turned out to be far easier than he might have believed.

—-

The next day found them at much the same routine as before. They’d stopped on a smaller planet she’d scarcely had time to hear the name of before Spaceman was leading them around asking the locals if they’d seen someone like Jenny.

“She would have come in on a rocket. A kind of ship. Do you know—?”

“No ships have come in. But there was, out in the grove, something came down.”

“A ship?” Asked Donna. “Has anyone arrived in town since?”

That got a shake of the head. “Nothing comes out of there.”

“Well, we will,” the Doctor decided. He turned tail and Donna was left to give a rushed goodbye before hurrying after him.

“Do you think it’s her?”

“I hope so. If not, someone’s out there and probably needs help.”

“Right,” Donna agreed.

They left the town and entered the tougher terrain of the grove. Well, grove was putting it nicely. Sharp looking bushes that rose up to the knees at the shortest stretched out as far as the horizon. She was glad she’d opted for jeans and long sleeves, that was for certain!

“Looks a bit rough,” she remarked as they exchanged a look. “Still.”

Spaceman nodded. “Still.”

With that, they plunged forward. It was just as prickly and unpleasant as she’d been expecting, but Donna resolved to keep her complaints to herself for once. If it was Jenny out there, she could brave a little discomfort.

“You know, it’s good she didn’t change.”

The Doctor glanced back at her. “How do you mean?”

“I mean cos if she’d changed we could walk right past her and never know.”

“Well, she’d know us. Do you really not like the idea of changing?”

“Well, you don’t seem to,” she retorted. “But don’t get all nervous. I’m not about to up and leave you. I’ve already put up with Victorian you.”

“That wasn’t even me.”

“Yeah, well the point is,” Donna huffed as she swung her leg over a particularly high bush. Her hand was caught by the Doctor, who’d reached out to keep her steady as she worked her way across. “You can change fifty times over and I’m not leaving.”

“No, I can’t.”

“What?”

“I’ve only got one more regeneration left,” he stated, perfectly calm.

“What, there’s a limit?” She demanded.

“Twelve times, yeah.”

Donna let go of his hand and stopped walking. “And how long does one usually last?”

“Oh, it varies. Time Lord bodies age much slower than humans, for one thing. And if you avoid accidents — in my first body I nearly made it to five-hundred alone.”

“Yeah, and what about the last body?” She asked, feeling rather sure she wouldn’t like the answer.

“Well...not nearly so long,” he admitted.

“Right.” Donna paused, then started walking again. “And poor Jenny’s already lost one. We ought to find her sooner than later so you can explain all this to her.”

The Doctor hummed an agreement and was on the move again as well. She let him go, not really wanting him to notice her troubled expression.

She’d assumed, this whole immortality bit, that he’d be there. But now he was telling her there was a limit, and a fast-approaching one by the sounds of it. Donna wasn’t prepared to imagine a forever that didn’t have him in it.

She wasn’t sure how long they walked on in silence. The Doctor was keeping just a few steps ahead of her, though he kept slowing and then starting back up again. Donna had to wonder how much good that rest the previous night had done him. She’d rather be curled up and bed with him at the moment regardless.

She was pulled from that more pleasant recollection as the Doctor abruptly shucked his overcoat and dropped it onto a bush before marching onward.

“Oi! This isn’t the TARDIS. You can’t just toss things to the side and expect them to be in your closet the next day.” She waded over to the right and scooped the coat up, careful not to poke herself with the brambles that clung to it.

“Keeps getting caught,” the Doctor called back in explanation. “And it’s too hot besides.”

She could agree with that. Her bangs were sticking to her forehead with sweat, but Donna plowed on ahead to keep up.

It wasn’t so hard as usual. What was unusual was him admitting at all that he was uncomfortable. Did he just feel less pressure to seem invulnerable now that she wasn’t the same, fragile human she once was? Or was something more going on.

Donna jogged a few paces to come up to his side. “Doctor, what do you think they meant back there, that nothing comes out of here?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes were fixed dead ahead. “Nearly there.”

She followed his gaze and saw one end of a familiar looking ship rising up from the branches in the distance. “It’s the rocket. Oh, that’s got to be her!”

Her heart suddenly felt much lighter, and she stomped over the next few thickets, uncaring of the scratches they managed to leave on her hands — but she faltered at the sound of something falling over behind her.

Donna whirled around just as the Doctor landed hard in some bushes, sprawled on his side.

“Doctor!”

“Got to...keep…” he mumbled as his eyes slipped shut. Donna looked about in a panic — had some unseen foe attacked them? — and her eyes caught a flash of green and blonde.

“Jenny!”

The girl they’d been searching for was lying not five feet from her, prone and unconscious like her father. It looked as though she, too, had been trying to make her way through the thick growth covering the landscape.

The plants...had that warning been about them? She turned her hands over, examining the scratches, but couldn’t tell anything about them that might make them more dangerous. Either way, she clearly hadn’t been effected, which meant it was up to her to get them out of this mess.

Donna looked between the two fallen Time Lords. What did she do?

[atlaslain]

@backwaterheroics          /          in response to: x.

          zack fair has grown acclimatised to relying exclusively on himself. the treacherous pits of deepground have wrung the faith from him and assimilated him into their methods of survival: their lifestyle of anticipating the knife in one’s back before an opponent ever decides to place it there. three years of sleeping with one eye open, of waiting on the razor-edge between rage and fear for the next round of experimentation, or drowning in self-hatred whenever they make him fight and he catches sight of the blood crusted under his nails --- three years has taught him pain and solitude like nothing he has ever known. and he has clung to survival anyway, tucking away the decaying glimmer of hope in his chest that this might one day get better. that his friends are still out there.       some of them. not all. not many. angeal, gone. genesis, who knows. sephiroth, gone. cloud, aerith. they’re still somewhere, aren’t they? there is light and life and warmth beyond deepground. he may have forgotten the precise airy smell of the flowers and the exact curve of cloud’s smile but they exist. zack gathers up the tatters of who he is and wraps them tight around that hope, like clinging to an anchor in a storm. 

          salvation comes in the form of weiss the immaculate. indirectly, anyway. his death. he rots under hojo’s influence and together they begin their reign over the world above, lighting the path out of the darkness and tarring it in blood. it is zack’s opportunity. the instant he crawls into the light he turns on his squadron, squashing what flares of guilt twist his stomach as his blade slides between ribs. ( his deepground-issue katana is lighter than the buster sword, not as hefty but far more adept at neatly cleaving skin. it feels strange in his hands, a desolate hunk of metal that isn’t his. ) sustained injuries are disregarded for now, blood wiped briskly from his face as he removes his helmet and tosses it aside. the streets are a mess; gunshots shatter the night and beasts prowl, dragging innocents into the shadows. and then, as fate would have it:                   a man in a ragged red cloak, faintly familiar. and a young woman --- older now, far older than zack remembers her being, an air of confidence and control about her now. yuffie kisaragi and vincent valentine. it is yuffie who stares at zack as if she’s seen a ghost, yuffie who grabs him as the force of his relief has him swaying on his feet. the first friendly face in years and she’s smacking at his arms, chiding him for vanishing, insisting he prove it’s really him and not some phantom deepground’s summoned up. ( zack reminds her of their treasure-hunting adventures and she gentles, and the world slows. ) he tells them all he knows, and then he succumbs to the loss of consciousness with the fragile hope that vincent will take care of it all. zack fair is exhausted and wounded and finally free.       the slow return of reality is painful: he awakens in an unfamiliar bed, in a room he’s never seen before. his heart slams violently against his ribs. throat tight, he casts about for a weapon. he grasps a heavy book from a shelf and decides at least he can brain someone with it if need be. his legs shake beneath him as he ventures to the doorway, pausing to take in the smell of alcohol and food from somewhere below the staircase beyond. a bar?                 seventh heaven, tifa tells him later, after he’s done hyperventilating and lashing out at her. she avoids his initial smack with the book, hands gentle yet firm on his wrists as she encourages him to look at her, to understand she is not here to hurt him. he is in seventh heaven, in edge. deepground is gone. ( vincent took care of it all. ) zack is safe. it takes him a whole week to entertain the idea. in that time, he rapid-fires questions at tifa: what happened, how long has it been, where is cloud. she answers each carefully --- it’s a long story, three years, away on deliveries right now. you can speak to cloud when he gets back.           the dim hope in zack’s chest grows, warily. perhaps this won’t be taken away from him.                 he doesn’t get to see cloud.         he has so much to say, so much it’s whipped up into a frenzy in his head. does cloud not feel the same urgency? he returned, apparently, and left again. “did you... did you tell him i was here?” zack asks tifa, voice cracking.            “yes,” she says, and the look in her eyes speaks volumes. she hands zack a rag, urges him to help her clean down her bar. she’s been giving him little tasks, as if she knows he needs to stay busy. “you have to understand, he... he isn’t the same as you probably remember. a lot has happened to him.”           and so zack resolves to understand. he pushes his own impatience down, and nurtures the hope that cloud will see him in his own time. ( far more difficult to ignore is the hurt. weren’t they good friends? after everything they went through --- after everything. how can cloud not want to see him? )               two months crawl by. zack works in seventh heaven at first, until the guilt of imposing himself on tifa is too much. he falls into mercenary work then, with a sense of resigned amusement. fighting really is all he’ll ever do. he shops for a new sword, and then another new one when that doesn’t feel right. tifa insists he continue living above the bar, citing the children as reasons he should; they like him, she says. they don’t want him to go. he reads them stories at night and patrols the bar’s vicinity into the early hours. during the day, he spends time with yuffie or works on his new bike or undertakes increasingly dangerous jobs. the fractured feeling in his mind never quite goes away, but he thinks it might ease one day.     when cloud returns again, drifting home like a wayward wind, tifa grabs him and makes him see zack. it’s a quick visit. it’s the sensation of something important slipping between one’s fingers: cloud stiff and unresponsive in his arms, eyes dull, as if zack were less than a stranger. like a static shock, it has zack flinching back, numbness tingling at his fingertips. he stands there, as unacknowledged as a specter, while cloud leaves again.               he doesn’t think you’re really here, tifa explains. we all thought you were dead.        oh.            well then.               that explains it. that barbed-wire feeling cinched round his heart. it’s the cold understanding that life has moved on without him and he is no longer a part of it. the zack fair everyone knew and remembered died riddled with bullets. but i’m alive, i never left! he wants to scream. the sense of being left behind is dizzying. cloud had moved on and now here zack is, tearing old wounds open. guilt batters him, sudden and strange.        he goes to aerith’s church. the flowers are there, yellow as sunshine and pearly-white, suffusing the air with sweetness and life. but aerith is not. she has not been for a long time. the buster sword lays at the head of the pews like a memorial and suddenly it’s all too much. he falls to his knees and chokes on sobs. he stays there for days, murmuring to the flowers as if they might carry his apologies to aerith. eventually, little marlene wallace takes his hand and leads him back to seventh heaven. he follows in a daze and doesn’t notice when he’s led to cloud’s room and told to rest. ( he rests, his heart slowing its frenzied pulse. this feels like safety. )                         he is not ready for cloud to return again. he thought he always would be, but the pain of coming to terms with aerith’s death is too fresh and sleep-deprivation has drained him. he is not prepared for more pain; it might shatter him. and yet here cloud is, slipping shadow-quiet into the room and staring with horror-struck eyes.         “cloud, please,” zack finds himself whispering, praying. he is not aware of reaching out, but he registers how brittle cloud feels: like his violent shaking might rip him apart. nausea rises in zack’s throat. he is doing this. he is hurting cloud with every touch, poisoning him. “look at me,” he sobs anyway, selfish and unable to relinquish the certainty of cloud’s place in his life.            in the end, it’s only more hurt. cloud, pale as a wraith, stumbles away and wails. the sound drives nails into zack’s heart. he gets tifa, because who else would they both rely on to fix their broken souls? the storm breaks, cloud sobs, and zack turns to leave. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry,” he is vaguely aware of repeating, frantic. “cloud, i’m so sorry.”             he should have died on that cliff. he should’ve died before deepground could ruin him, before he could walk back into a life that didn’t want him anymore.                 “are you giving up that easily?” tifa demands the next morning, as zack shoulders his bag full of meager belongings and tries to give her a hug goodbye. she stares him dead in the eye as he squirms. “you’ve barely tried yet.”         zack doesn’t mean to raise his voice but it comes out in a burst: “yes! yes, i am. me being here only hurts him, i’m taking up space in your bar, there’s no place here for me!” it tastes like a lie. there has been a place, carved out just for him. the beginnings of home here with these people. but not if he’s only spreading hurt. “i can’t watch him scream and cry every time he sees me, tifa. i won’t. i’ll --- i’ll come visit. okay?”           it’s not okay.     he debates saying his farewells to cloud, but recognises it as an awful plan. he leaves his old shinra phone instead, the one he kept as a soldier. it’s fuzzy and barely in working condition these days, but he squirreled it away all these years just for the old pictures in its memory.            “give that to him when he feels... better. okay? you have my new number if you need me.”     he tells nobody where he’s going because he just doesn’t know anymore. it’s a good thing he’s already accustomed to relying only on himself.