#( accidentally stumbling across the Shadow Temple ) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lynnt1ny · 3 months

Text

You're Magic To Me: Ch. 7

Chapter Directory | Prev. Chapter | Next Chapter

Woosan (Multichaptered; Prince!Wooyoung and Servant!San)

Full WC: 91.3k Ch. 7 WC: 10.7k

Fic Blurb:

Wooyoung didn’t know what he did to deserve such a horrible manservant. With the weight of the kingdom over his head and the constant demands of his father, he couldn’t afford to deal with this every day. But why did San have to be so bloody endearing? After a series of coincidences, San found himself stuck at the Prince’s side, day in and day out. Of course he’d accidentally fall in love along the way. San didn’t know what to expect when he moved into the castle, but it certainly wasn’t this. --- Aka, my Merlin-obsessed ass decided to write a Merlin-inspired fic.

The Beginning of the End

Smoke clogged his lungs. It crawled down his throat and built in his chest.

Wooyoung stumbled as he made his way through the flames. The sky was a blazing fire. It was everywhere. Tendrils of flame licked at his feet as he tried to get away, pulling at his clothes and dragging him down.

It didn’t burn, but he could feel the heat. Sweat dripped down his face. It pooled around his temples, and no matter how many times he wiped his brow, it would not go away.

The sound was the worst. Wooyoung’s ears filled with crackling fire, the roar drowning him. It was a monster, howling across the flat land, an overwhelming threat. It cascaded around him in a never-ending loop.

He wasn’t wearing armor—thank god. He’d be cooked alive in the metal, and, frankly, he didn’t know how he was still alive now. Instead, he wore his usual attire, with expensive materials sticking to his skin as he ran to find a breath of fresh air.

Something snagged his foot, and he fell hard, palms crashing down in front of him to break the fall. The ground was covered in vines, shriveled and animated. They fed the flames and kept them alive.

They moved, tangling over Wooyoung’s body and holding him still. Panic climbed up Wooyoung’s throat, mingling with the smoke and fighting against it. His breaths came in sharp gasps, and he fought against the vines keeping him locked in place. He needed to get out of here. He needed air.

How did he get here? How do you get out? It was all the same: smoke swirling in the air, vines snaking across the ground, flames leaping out at him. It was hell.

He tore himself free and stumbled back to his feet. Was he alone? He lurched forward and yelled into the inferno. Sparks and embers flew past his face, yet to burn his actual skin. Was it magic? He could feel soot and ash sticking to him, his face, his clothes. He let out another yell, but the only response was the rumble of fire around him.

Where was the castle? Where did everyone go?

In past executions, they used to burn people, but even Beomseok saw the inhumanity in it. This must have been what it was like.

He had almost given up when he saw it. A mound of land loomed before him, its land green and clear of the blaze. He gasped and stumbled towards it. The flames grew more frantic, the intensity building. It ate away at his clothes, and tears gathered in his eyes as he began to feel the burn. It spread from his lungs, the searing pain that came from inhaling smokey air, and fuck, it hurt. He sunk to his knees before it.

The hill stretched high above him, an immovable obstacle. He clawed at the shrubbery, desperately clutching for a handful of anything to keep him from being dragged down. His soot-streaked hands came away blue, petals sticking to the sweat on his skin. A chill ran down his spine, and he tore his gaze up the stretch of the hill. A figure stood at the top, watching. Their hair was light, reflecting the shine of the fire. In his desperation, Wooyoung couldn’t make out the figure’s face. It was shadowed, darkened by the surrounding chaos. Wooyoung reached a hand out, a cry for help on his lips, but the figure turned away from him, and they left him to writhe at the bottom of the hill.

Wooyoung stood by the entrance of the castle. The courtyard spread out in front of him below a rise of steps, and his father was a statue by his side. Guards surrounded them, eyes cast to the front gates.

It was a bright day. The dregs of snow that still lingered behind sparkled against the cobblestone, and Wooyoung found himself constantly moving his eyes, as looking in one place for too long made them burn.

Despite his warm clothing—a thick, red wool shirt laced in the front—, Wooyoung shivered. The sun was blinding, but it lacked its warmth. He focused on keeping himself still.

This day came faster than Wooyoung expected. A small party was passing through the gates on horseback, the clap of hooves discordant against Wooyoung’s ears. A few servants tread by their sides on foot, weary from the long journey.

The Essetirians had arrived.

Wooyoung met eyes with who could only be Princess Sena. She sat tall astride a white horse, and her pale clothes were untouched by dirt. Long locks of wavy, dark hair fell past her face, which was all sharp lines and plump lips. Her eyes were lined with kohl, and from where Wooyoung stood, he could see a dark cloak draped across her shoulders.

She was beautiful.

To her side, King Sungho sat tall and regal on his steed. He was younger than Beomseok. Gray had yet to touch his hair, and he possessed an air of strength. Wooyoung glanced at his father from the corner of his eye, but he remained impassive, the usual stony mask covering his face.

Wooyoung eyed the Essetirian soldiers surrounding the two as they all dismounted. His knights could take them easily if a skirmish were to break out. At least, he thought they could. His judgement may be skewed from bias and hopeful outcomes, but the soldiers were the stocky, brawny type of men who lacked the speed and quick thinking Wooyoung prided his knights in having.

But he must admit, the soldiers were an intimidating sight at first glance, with their heavy builds and bulky equipment.

With a tilt of his head, Beomseok began walking down the steps, two guards trailing behind, and Wooyoung cautiously followed them. Beomseok greeted King Sungho with a handshake and a formal welcome, but Wooyoung tuned out of their conversation almost immediately.

The Princess stood in front of him now. Up close, she matched his height, and he noticed the clear blue of her eyes. They were unusual, and they only added to her visual.

Wooyoung should be delighted. He should be happy to have a beautiful bride.

These days, happiness was far away, and no matter how fast he ran to catch it, it was always ten feet ahead.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“Likewise.” Her voice was smooth and melodious as she offered a small hand to him. Wooyoung gently took it and brushed his lips over her knuckles. It was a standard greeting between two of the same rank, but knowing what would become of them, it felt oddly personal. Wooyoung wanted to run away.

Their fathers were in deep conversation, and around them, horses were being led to the stables and bags taken from their saddles. The Princess smiled. It was sickeningly sweet, but a small part of his brain thought maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to see it every day.

“Is there a servant to show me to my rooms?” she asked, and Wooyoung’s heart plummeted.

He isn’t here.

Wooyoung tilted his head down, shaking off the voice in his head.

“I thought I’d accompany you myself,” he said.

“Then lead the way.”

Wooyoung nodded and turned to the entrance of the castle.

Her chambers weren’t too far from his own, and its interior was the same, minus the few touches of Wooyoung that only existed in his own. It was a pleasant living space, fit for a princess. Sena seemed satisfied upon walking in. Wooyoung glanced nervously back at the door.

“Shall I leave you to rest?” Wooyoung said. “It must have been a long journey.”

She shook her head, “Actually, I was wondering if you’d stay for lunch. We should get to know each other, Prince Wooyoung.”

“‘Wooyoung’ is fine. No need for formalities,” he said.

“And the same applies to me. You may call me ‘Sena.’”

Wooyoung nodded, and he bit his lip. He very much did not want to have lunch with her today. He had other things to do: People to visit, feast preparations to complete before tomorrow evening. He’d have plenty of time to talk to her after. He could put it off for a bit longer.

“I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to. Perhaps another time?”

Wooyoung couldn’t read the look in her eye. She didn’t seem to take offense, so maybe it was curiosity? When she didn’t reply, Wooyoung took a hesitant step back, and with an awkward bow, he stumbled slightly out the door and sped away from her room. As getaways go, it was far from clean. He didn’t care.

He had somewhere to be.

He heard Hongjoong sigh as he pressed the doors open- the small clink of glass and the scratch of a quill followed. Hongjoong was sitting at a desk, and Wooyoung wondered what had him so deep in thought. Wooyoung’s random visits to the physician’s chambers have been common for the past few days.

San was on his side, facing the doors. No one believed he would make it, but the way he avoided death was a miracle Wooyoung didn’t want to question. San’s own stubbornness must be at fault, and he thanked god for it. Hongjoong had left the quarrel in for the longest time- something about how taking it out would kill him faster than just leaving it in. But eventually, he took the risk of removing it. There was blood everywhere, and Wooyoung could only watch from the corner of the room with bated breath and grit teeth. Hongjoong let him in because they all thought it would be San’s last day. Even Yeosang came in and took Wooyoung’s hand, squeezing his fingers tight.

That was yesterday, and somehow, San was still alive.

“Hi, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said. “How is he?”

“Still breathing. I think. You might want to check for yourself.” Hongjoong returned to his glasses and papers, barely sparing Wooyoung a glance.

Wooyoung knew this nonchalance was Hongjoong’s way of giving them privacy, and he internally thanked him. He made his way over to the cot, eyes catching on the bandages wrapped snug around San’s upper chest, blossoms of red blooming through. Hongjoong would have to change them soon. San’s eyes were closed. They’ve been closed for the past three days.

He knelt down and took San’s hand. His fingertips brushed across San’s wrist, and he closed his own eyes, the fluttering pulse keeping him anchored to the ground.

He didn’t realize how much he loved San’s voice until it was gone. He had been going through his days purposefully avoiding any thought of San. But every once in a while, he expected to hear a sharp quip, or a small chuckle, and he would turn his head and find no one there. It was exhausting. It choked him up, making him drown in air.

“I can’t believe you’re pulling through this,” he muttered, his grip on San’s hand growing tighter. “How are you so strong?” He reached out to touch him—his cheek, the bandages, the bare skin of his stomach, anything—, but he stopped, his hand curling into a fist.

Eyes settled on him, and he looked back over at Hongjoong, who turned his head away so fast he must have gotten whiplash because a wince quickly followed it. His papers lay abandoned on the desk.

Knowing Wooyoung caught him, Hongjoong sighed. “Sorry,” he said. He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s just… I’ve never seen you like this before.”

“Like what?”

Hongjoong gave him a faint smile, and he paused, thinking for a moment before he spoke.

“Afraid.”

Wooyoung almost laughed. “Hongjoong, I don’t think I’ve ever been more afraid in my life.”

With a slight shake of his head, Hongjoong stood, the abrupt movement almost toppling his chair over in a fight against gravity. “I’m going to… run errands,” he said. “Stay as long as you like.”

Wooyoung nodded and returned his attention to his servant. He was so serene in his sleep. Wooyoung wished he would just open his eyes. San was close, but he felt so, so far away. He was untouchable, even as Wooyoung laced their fingers together and held San’s skin against his. Faintly, he could hear Hongjoong puttering around the room, doing his rounds before leaving them alone.

Hongjoong opened the door with a slight exclamation, and Wooyoung froze. From beyond Hongjoong, he caught a glimpse of a stumbling figure with long locks and piercing eyes—Sena was there, behind the door.

Wooyoung slowly leant back, taking his hand away from San and already missing the contact. He gulped. Of course, of all the people it could be, it was her. Fuck, he didn’t feel strong enough for this right now. He wanted to be with San, alone, with no one there to see his vulnerability. His shame.

Sena was going to look at him and know something Wooyoung himself wasn’t ready to accept.

“Ah, apologies. I came to speak with the Prince,” she said. “I’m Princess Sena, from Essetir.”

Hongjoong gawked at her, but he offered his name before stepping to the side. He looked back at Wooyoung before giving him an awkward thumbs up.

Wooyoung couldn’t hold back the wince.

The physician ducked out of the room, and Wooyoung could hear his footsteps clapping against the stone flooring. Soon, it was just the two of them alone, or three, if Wooyoung counted the labored breathing of San behind him.

“I must admit, I followed you,” Sena walked towards him, gliding through air. With a head tilted up, she scanned the room, taking in the organized chaos of Hongjoong’s workplace. Her eyes roamed around before latching on to Wooyoung’s tense shoulders and the body that lay behind him.

She whistled under her breath. “That looks painful.”

Wooyoung pressed his palms flat against the cot and kept his fingers from curling into fists or grabbing San’s hand again. “Yes, I suppose so,” he said, and while his words did not waver, they did nothing to hide the panic that lay building in his chest.

Suddenly, she was next to him, kneeling down and nudging him to the side. Wooyoung startled from her close proximity, from the warmth that radiated from her. He stared as she brushed a thin finger over San’s cheekbone. He held himself back from pushing her away.

“Who is this?” she asked.

He didn’t have an immediate answer. That was the golden question, wasn’t it? Who was San to him? He wasn’t sure, but there was no way he’d let Sena catch on to that.

Ever since he learned of this marriage, he tried not to think about San and his bride… coexisting. Interacting. He wanted her to like him. He wanted her to be San’s friend too. He wanted her to let them stay the way they were now.

Beomseok’s words wouldn’t leave his head, though.

‘She’s cunning. She’s willing to make tough decisions. She fills in the qualities you lack’

Wooyoung didn’t think San would like someone like that. San was all soft edges and small kindnesses.

Sena was still waiting for an answer Wooyoung didn’t want to give, so he offered a half truth.

“He’s my servant.”

If the words surprised her, she didn’t show it on her face.

“You refused to dine with me to instead kneel by your servant’s side?”

Oh god. Wooyoung didn’t have an excuse. Sena caught him red-handed. What was he supposed to say?

His silence was a response in itself, and she shook her head. “In most cases, I would take this as an insult.”

As she probably should.

“You’re lucky he’s pretty,” she mumbled, and Wooyoung’s world froze in place. His jaw threatened to drop to the floor, so he clamped it shut. The words didn’t process correctly in his brain. They went through one ear and out the other, and the only thing it left behind was a resounding ‘what the fuck?’

She brushed a hand against San’s upper arm before trailing to the bandages, and as if Wooyoung hadn’t screwed up enough, he itched to tear her hand away and physically get between them.

“Wh-What are you doing?” Wooyoung stuttered through the question as she teared the bandages, jolting Wooyoung out of his stupor with her sudden movement. San let out a small whimper in his sleep, and Wooyoung caught her wrists. “What are you doing?”

She glanced over at Wooyoung, her blue, doe eyes wide. “He’s going to die,” she said, tilting her head toward San’s body.

“No, he’s not. He’s gotten through the worst of it.”

Sena shook her head. “Listen to the way he breathes,” she said.

Wooyoung had been ignoring it ever since he walked in- the almost inaudible rasp of San’s breath, like each was a harder struggle than the last. “It’s okay. He’ll be fine.”

“So you’re that kind of person? Ignore it and it’ll go away?” She pushed Wooyoung’s hands away. “I know we just met, but you’ll have to trust me.” She returned to San’s bandages, pulling at the cloth and tearing them away from his skin.

He wasn’t… He wasn’t ignoring it. She..

She tore the last piece off, and Wooyoung had to look away. He had seen many injuries. He had given people injuries.

He didn’t like seeing it on San. For the first time in many long years, he was reliving his first execution, that same feeling returning and bile rising in his throat.

Sena made a noise of disgust. “What happened to him?” She pressed a few fingers over the wound, hands lightly placed on his chest.

“Crossbow bolt in the back,” he mumbled, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head.

“In the back?” She rose off the floor and tilted San towards her, eyes scanning the torn skin that mirrored his front. “How is this man still alive?”

Wooyoung didn’t have an answer.

She shook her head with a huff. “Do not break my concentration, or he will die.”

Wooyoung furrowed his brows. What was she trying to do?

She began muttering words under her breath, and Wooyoung didn’t understand what was happening until her eyes glowed gold and San’s breathing eased.

She had magic.

God, she really had magic.

Wooyoung clenched his hands into fists as she spoke, holding his breath. After what seemed like forever, San’s skin knit together like nothing. San whined, the sound burning into Wooyoung's memory, but Sena was… she was healing San right before his eyes.

Sena fell back onto her legs, and Wooyoung caught her against him. Her breaths came heavy, and Wooyoung leant her gently against a table behind them.

“Is he…?”

“He’s fine. He’ll wake up hungry and confused.”

Wooyoung’s head snapped up and looked over at San in wonder. A discolored patch of skin replaced the wound, the only remaining evidence being small traces of dried blood. Wooyoung ran his fingers over San’s chest and found only smooth skin.

“It’s a miracle,” he whispered.

Sena closed her eyes. “It’s magic.” When she opened them again, the gold faded back to blue.

And then Wooyoung wanted to cry because San was okay. He wasn’t going to leave him. Magic wasn’t going to leave his life that quickly, not after he’d just found it. The fear that had been building up, the chasm that grew below his feet over the past few days slowly disappeared. Everything was going to be okay.

Wooyoung stared at San’s face. His features seemed softer. They had been so tense earlier, but now that his breath evened out, San was pouting in his sleep, the curve of his lips taunting him. About what, Wooyoung didn’t know, but they were always taunting him, teasing him.

Behind him, Sena sat up, her own fatigue already dying away. Wooyoung shifted in front of her, closer to San. Now, more than ever, he wished he was alone. Yes, she saved him, but Wooyoung was selfish. He wanted to lie his head on San’s chest. He wanted to brush his fingers in his hair. He wanted his face to be the first thing San saw when he woke. Sena’s presence was a barrier.

“You can wake him now. He’ll be good as new,” Sena said, and Wooyoung gulped. With shaking fingers, he flicked the top of San’s head, and if he used it as an excuse to briefly run a hand over the spot, then Sena didn’t have to know. San grimaced, but he didn’t wake. Wooyoung pushed San over flat on his back and shook his shoulders.

Wooyoung’s throat was dry as the muscles tensed under his hands, and his breathing grew slightly uneven in the anticipation. Behind him, Sena moved, nudging Wooyoung out of the way and settling back at San’s side, breaking their connection. A scream of frustration threatened to escape his lips, but he clamped it down.

San’s eyes fluttered open, and Sena loomed over him, Wooyoung dejected and sitting by his legs. San lifted his head slightly, groggily looking up at Sena above him.

“Uhh,” he slurred, blinking slowly. “Hi.”

Wooyoung sighed inwardly at the sound of San’s voice.

Sena chuckled. “Hello. What’s your name?”

“San.”

Sena smiled, and Wooyoung winced. San looked entranced. Either that, or he was still half asleep. Knowing his servant, it was probably the latter, but the image still burrowed its way into Wooyoung’s head. It hurt, though Wooyoung refused to acknowledge why.

“I’m Princess Sena,” she said, and San’s eyes grew comically wide.

“O-Oh!” San startled. “From Essetir.”

“Yes,” she smiled again. “I didn’t know the servants here were so handsome.”

San blinked, and Wooyoung held his breath. “You should see Seonghwa,” San said.

Sena was obviously preoccupied, so Wooyoung let his fingertips fall against San’s hip. He was needy for attention. San hadn’t even acknowledged him yet. His fingers threatened to clamp down and squeeze.

Did… was San mad at him? The idea struck him at once. He should be. This was all Wooyoung’s fault, after all. He didn’t think he could handle an angry San and keep his composure around the Princess, so he dropped his gaze, staring where his hand brushed against the side of San’s hip.

They were still talking. Words drifted in the air and went right over Wooyoung’s head. He didn’t bother to listen in until he heard his name fall from San’s lips. His head snapped up, and there San was, staring at him and leaning back on an elbow, slightly propped up.

Sena was watching him as well with an eyebrow raised. “I think I will retire to my quarters,” she said. “I’ll see you both at the feast, I presume?”

“Yes, of course,” Wooyoung replied, and he awkwardly cleared his throat. “And thank you. For healing him. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“This... alliance will be sufficient,” she said. She rose to her feet and nodded before walking away.

Finally.

Wooyoung shuffled over and smoothed a hand over San’s chest, his fingers burning where skin met skin. His composure finally broke, and he sighed, a half whine escaping his lips. San wrapped a hand around Wooyoung’s wrist.

“You okay?” San asked.

No. “Yes.”

San blinked. And he smiled. Wooyoung wanted to hide. “She seems like a handful,” he said.

Wooyoung shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. She only arrived today.”

San hummed, and Wooyoung’s fingers curled against it. “She’s really pretty,” San mumbled.

You’re really pretty too. “I suppose so.”

“Your kids will be so beautiful.”

Wooyoung choked.

“Please, never say anything like that again.”

“What? It’s the truth.”

Wooyoung bat a hand against San’s chest, but his stomach dropped immediately after. Was San fully healed? Did he just hurt him? Oh god, oh-

“If you really can’t get out of this marriage, you could at least try to find something positive in it,” San said. “I know it sucks, but she seems decent, and-” he looked down at his chest and laid a hand against Wooyoung’s, brushing over the discolored patch that used to be covered in blood. “She’s magic.”

You are too.

Wooyoung didn’t want to look on the bright side. He wanted everything to stay the same. What happened to the San that told him to marry for love? What happened to the San that egged him to defy his father?

“I don’t want to marry her,” Wooyoung said. “You know that.”

Leaning back down, San closed his eyes, and Wooyoung kept himself from physically pulling his eyelids back open. They had been closed for far too long. Wooyoung wanted to see his eyes, to get lost in them.

Wooyoung wanted so many fucking things he couldn’t have, couldn’t do.

“This would be so much easier for both of us if you did want to marry her,” San mumbled. “As your friend, I mean, watching you go through with this.”

“Yeah.”

He couldn’t believe he was talking to San- a living, breathing, perfectly fine San. He almost pinched himself to break out of this dream, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go back to walking the castle corridors with a piece of himself on a deathbed.

“San?”

“Hmm?”

“Never do that again.” Wooyoung let his head drop onto the cot. His face smushed against the soft material, the top of his head against San’s arm. He left his hand where it was, though, underneath San’s. It was childish, but he didn’t want San to see the tears welling in his eyes. “Never put your life before mine,” he said, his words muffled.

San was quiet, and for a second, Wooyoung thought that was that and everything was settled. But then he spoke up. “You’re the Prince, Woo,” he said. “If it comes to it, I’d gladly do it again.”

And at that, Wooyoung almost let out a sob. San was willing to drag him back through hell, and Wooyoung didn’t want that. He couldn’t.

“San,” he said. “If I dropped dead right now, how would you feel?” Wooyoung lifted his head and watched San’s eyes change, a slight furrow to his brow and a part between his lips. San shook his head slightly, but Wooyoung continued. “That’s what I’ve had to live through for the past few days.”

San’s hand tightened over his own. “Trust me, it’s not the same.”

“Just promise me you won’t do something like that again. That’s all I want.”

“I can’t.”

Wooyoung pressed his lips together in a straight line. “Then I guess no more hunting trips for you.”

San groaned. “Thank god. I can finally get a break from you.”

It was a change of subject, an open invitation to return to their light-hearted banter. But there were so many things swirling in Wooyoung’s head, so many things he wanted to talk about—the magic, the hole San left in his chest, Sena, his father.. So many things.

“Can I go get some clothes? And some food? I’m starving.” San shot up, startling Wooyoung away. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and frowned, stretching as his blood flow returned and the stiffness in his limbs grew apparent. Wooyoung offered a shoulder to lean on, but San ignored it. Wooyoung’s heart ached a little at that, but that was okay.

“Can we scare some people? Pretend I’m the walking dead?” San picked up his old bloodied shirt Hongjoong had left strewn across a chair.

Wooyoung fought the urge to bury his face in his hands and scream in frustration. This man was insufferable.

But on second thought, the look on Yeosang’s face would be priceless.

“Fine.”

It was the day of the feast, and the castle corridors were a jam of bodies, people rushing to finish preparations. Wooyoung usually spent these mornings bored out of his mind. On days of festivities, it was customary for royalty to stay out of public eye until the event begins, which meant Wooyoung was stuck in his room for the entire day.

San was… he was giddy. Throughout the day, the excitement buzzed off his skin as he made his way in and out of Wooyoung’s rooms. It was contagious.

Seeing San up and on his feet had been a shock for everyone. Seonghwa nearly fainted, and Wooyoung never laughed harder in his life. To San, it was like his injury never happened. After a full meal and a night’s rest, he was back in top form- the same, bubbly San. Magic truly was amazing.

When the grueling afternoon blurred into the hours of evening, San opened the door one last time. Wooyoung was half asleep on his bed. He was grateful for the extra rest the day brought, but he thrived off of human interaction and physical activity. He longed to be out training with the knights or just watching as preparations were being made. At least, he’d get his fair share of it at the feast.

So his heart leapt when the door opened, for a few different reasons. Yes, he’d finally get out of this cage, but god, San had just walked in looking fine.

He wore a usual peasant’s shirt—long sleeved and cream colored, laces haphazardly tied to keep its v-neck intact—, but there was something different. San’s hair was usually floppy, untamed and left to the mercy of outside elements. Now, though, he used a paste to gloss it back, a dark swirl casting a shadow over one eye. As San grew closer, Wooyoung could make out dark smudges over his eyelids and a shimmer over his cheekbones, his lips pinker than they ought to be.

He swallowed back a greeting in fear of cracking his voice.

A bundle of clothes was in his arms, and Wooyoung knew it was finally time to get ready for his appearance at the feast.

“That’s new,” Wooyoung gestured to his face. “You know only the women wear cosmetics, right?”

San shrugged, biting a lip and looking away. “Sena insisted it would look good on me.”

Sena?

Sena was going to be bad for his health. “You’ve been… with Sena today?”

“Yeah! I never really thanked her for… the whole magic thing, so I went and our conversation got a little carried away,” San said. “Don’t tell anyone, but I found Hongjoong’s stash of makeup. It’s quality stuff too.”

Great. Just great. He was happy San and Sena were getting along, but he didn’t need this. San was perfectly fine before.

But Sena was right. He did look good.

“I got your outfit fresh from the tailor!” San said. His eyes were sparkling, and there was a bounce in his step. He dumped the material onto the bed and pulled Wooyoung to his feet. “You’re going to love it, but I don’t have that much time to fix you up. I might have to rush through some things.”

Wooyoung gulped as San invaded his space. Too close, too close, too close.

San’s eyes, while always bright, were intense as his fingers fumbled against Wooyoung’s shirt. He sighed. “Can you get this off yourself today? I really don’t have time.”

Wooyoung nodded, breathing again when San pulled away. He didn’t realize he had stopped.

“You’re awfully quiet,” San said.

“And you’re... “ Wooyoung trailed off, words escaping him. “You’re wearing makeup.”

You’re so pretty I want to jump out the window.

San gave him a strange look. “Are you… okay?”

“Half asleep.”

“Fair.”

Wooyoung shuffled out of his shirt and prayed his blush wouldn’t show through his skin. San turned back with a white button down in his hands and threaded Wooyoung’s arms through the sleeves. Wooyoung had millions of these shirts. This was normal. Completely normal.

San worked to button the shirt, fingers brushing lightly against Wooyoung’s stomach, and his touch-starved ass almost leapt out of his own skin. San’s lips glistened with product, and lord have mercy, Wooyoung wasn’t getting out of there alive.

Once Wooyoung was fully dressed, San spun him around and pushed him across the room to show him in the mirror. He brought his arms around Wooyoung’s waist, hooking a chin over his shoulder. “Look at you,” he purred, and Wooyoung clamped his lips together to keep himself from smiling.

Over the button down, he wore a dark blue velvet vest with silver linings and flowers twisting at the hems. A similarly colored cloak draped over him, the same silver petals woven along the edges. It fell in front of him on one side, the other hooked behind his shoulder and bunching underneath San’s chin. It was clasped in the middle with his family’s crest, an iron dragon holding it together.

“The tailor told me you need to wear the circlet,” San said. His chin dug even deeper against Wooyoung’s skin as he spoke. Paired with the heat against his back and the picture they made in the mirror, Wooyoung melted on the spot.

“Of course. I’m the Crown Prince, and this is a formal event,” he said.

“I’ve always wanted to see what you looked like in it,” San said, unaware of what his words were doing to Wooyoung’s heart.

“Go get it then.” It didn’t exactly fit Wooyoung’s attire for the night, but there’s nothing he could do about that.

The circlet had a permanent spot in Wooyoung’s room. It rested in the back of his wardrobe, only taken out in times of importance. In San’s second week as his servant, he had pulled it out unknowingly, and Wooyoung scolded him endlessly about it. It was a delicate thing, all silver swirls and red gemstones. It was ironic, how strong they wanted him to be while his crown was so fragile. They placed this circlet on his head when they named him Crown Prince. It was symbolic, a mark of his title, a taste of what he’d become.

San had it looped through his own arm now. It rested at the crook of his elbow, and he held a brush and a tube of paste in either hand, a goofy smile on his face.

“Your hair is always so messy, Young-ah,” San said, and Wooyoung’s face grew hot.

“Whatever you say.”

San sat the items on the floor by Wooyoung’s feet and dragged a chair over in front of the mirror. As Wooyoung sat, San picked up the brush, twirling it between his fingers. Wooyoung’s eyes were drawn to the movement, and his heart flipped in time with it.

This was normal too. San always fixed his hair. This was nothing new. He was used to San’s fingers in his hair, working through the knots and tangles.

Jung Wooyoung, this was nothing new.

He bit his lip to keep a noise from escaping his lips. He watched in the mirror as San set down the brush, pinching playfully at Wooyoung’s ears.

“Are you excited for the feast?” San asked.

Was he? Wooyoung wasn’t sure. He had been to so many of these throughout his life. It was his first with San, though. San would be a constant presence behind him, available at his beck and call to refill his wine goblet or do his wishes. So yes, he may be a little excited.

“Not as much as you,” he said. “You’re practically bouncing off the walls.”

“You should see the great hall, Wooyoung! It’s amazing.”

Sinsu knew how to throw its feasts, and the decor was always over the top. When he was younger, Wooyoung loved it. He thrived on the ostentatious. That was before his father began cracking down on him: his studies, his duties to the kingdom.. the works.

“I can assure you I’ve seen it all before,” Wooyoung said.

San shook his head. “Not like this.”

Wooyoung furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see,” San said. “They let Sena out of her room.”

“What?”

San shrugged and giggled behind a hand at Wooyoung’s shocked expression. “I can’t wait to see your face.”

Wooyoung would shake his head, but San was setting the last few strands of hair in place. He didn’t do anything particularly special with Wooyoung’s hair, not like the swirl in his own, but Wooyoung was still in awe. Even if he didn’t feel like a prince, San certainly made him look like one.

The last piece was the circlet. His eyes tracked every movement as San picked it up. His hands paused, and for a second, Wooyoung thought San would place it on his own head. Wooyoung wanted him to. He wanted to see San with his colors, his gemstones in his pretty hair. A delirious part of him wanted to shove San into the chair and do it himself, to set the jewelry on his head and tell him-

‘This is what you could look like if you were mine.’

Wooyoung froze. What the fuck? Where had that come from? His heart-rate picked up, his breath suddenly uneven. He-

San sat the circlet on Wooyoung’s head, and his train of thought trailed away. He met San’s eyes in the mirror, something unreadable in his face as a solemn silence took over the room. San’s knuckles were heavy against the back of his neck, and Wooyoung reached back and took San’s hands, placing them flat on his shoulders. He stared at the mirror, and a prince and his servant stared back, nothing more.

Someone knocked on the door, and San drew away, almost tripping over his own feet. “I think that’s our cue to leave!”

Wooyoung kept his eyes on the mirror, the space behind him now empty.

Wooyoung had to admit, the great hall was pretty nice.

Yeosang had always called it ‘the great hell,’ but walking in now, it was the furthest thing from hell. The room was vast, almost cavernous. Wooyoung always tried his best to avoid the great hall due to its proximity to the throne room, but alas, seeing it now, he may go back on that idea.

It was long, with windows running along its sides. The room was lit by a mass of floating white orbs- Sena’s work, he presumed. It cast an eerie, wintery glow around them, their shadows constantly shifting against the stone architecture.

They arrived after the main crowd, so people were settling in by the time they walked in. At the end of the room, three long tables sat on a slightly raised dais, forming an open square. Beomseok and King Sungho were side by side, and further down, Sena sat with an empty chair next to her. Important advisors and court member took up the rest. On the floor, two long tables and benches stretched along the sides of the room for castle residents and the rest of the Essetirian delegation. The center of the hall was packed with people of all types, but would later be emptied for entertainers.

The warm aroma of roast and wine already filled the air, as well as the chatter of guests and the clink of glasses. Everyone wore bright colors and expensive materials, save for the servants. Besides the magic above their heads, it seemed like any other Sinsu feast. Wooyoung mentally prepared himself for a night of sitting up straight and playing the role.

San was enamoured, though. As he walked behind Wooyoung, he stared at everything with wide eyes. He reached up and tried to touch an orb as it hovered over his head, but his fingers passed right through.

Wooyoung sighed and began walking to the dais, smiling politely along the way. The bounce had returned to San’s step, and Wooyoung felt like he was leading a dog on a leash.

He reached the end of the room and bowed quickly to his father before taking the seat to Sena’s side. She wore a lilac dress, her body swathed in silks. Her dark hair was pinned up, and her jawline almost rivaled San’s. She noticed his presence and gave a slight nod before smiling back behind him.

“San! You took my advice!”

San smiled and brushed a hand against the back of his neck, eyes lingering on Wooyoung. “Yeah… I did.”

“It looks good,” she said.

When did they get so cozy with each other? Wooyoung scrunched up his nose. If only they had let him out of his room…

“It’s good to see you again, Sena,” Wooyoung said, trying to take his mind off of it.

“It’s good to see you too.”

San fidgeted behind him and scanned the room, probably looking for Hongjoong or Seonghwa. Yeosang hated these events, and he made it a point to never show up until the last moment. His empty chair was on the other side of the room. Beomseok learned early on that it was never a good idea to keep Wooyoung and Yeosang in close proximity during these kinds of things.

Wooyoung sighed. “San, go get it out of your system. Just keep in mind your break will be shorter.”

San smiled and left the table, quickly mingling into the crowd. Wooyoung imagined he was picking food off plates as he went by, much like he did Wooyoung’s daily meals. That man was a menace.

“He’s something special,” Sena said, and Wooyoung’s head jerked up.

“He’s my servant.”

She turned her head to the side. “Yes… and no. He said you are friends.”

Friends. Yeah, they were friends, but Wooyoung thought there was something more. At least, he felt it. He didn’t understand it, and he couldn’t find the words to describe it. Yeosang was his friend. San was both that and more.

“I guess you could say that,” Wooyoung said. “It’s a bit unorthodox, but yes, we’re friends.”

Sena leaned back and smiled. “A prince and a servant.”

“It’s not my fault. He has that… friendly aura. It’s impossible not to befriend him.”

“I see what you mean,” she said. “It helps that he’s attractive too.”

Wooyoung narrowed his eyes. Her jewelry gleamed at him from the soft glow of the hall, and he struggled to keep his focus on her face. “You… you do know they plan for us to marry?”

Sena shrugged. “You befriend who you want, and I’ll marry who I want. If it happens to be you, then great,” she said. “I’m keeping my options open.”

Wooyoung gaped at her, and she glanced over her shoulder at the Kings. “If it’s just between us…” she began, then stopped, biting her lip.

“No, do tell me what’s on your mind.”

She shook her head. “It’s best you don’t know.”

Wooyoung furrowed his brows. Why… why were the Essetirians here then? In Sinsu? Beomseok thought they were here to marry Sena off, but from the way she spoke, that didn’t seem the case. There was something off about this.

“Well, I’m glad. Although, my father will need to know the change of plans,” he said. “I’m afraid he put me under orders to court you.”

Sena sighed. “That’s what we’re here for- blindly following orders,” she said. “Sungho is under the same impression, so let’s not let it leave the table, okay? We can find a way out of it when it comes to it.”

“O-Oh. Okay then.”

Real eloquent, Wooyoung.

But now, as far as he could tell, he was a free man now! They could find another way to seal the alliance, right? This wasn’t quite over, but he was happy to pretend it was for now.

A horn sounded, and the center of the hall cleared out as people swarmed to the tables. Servants came and served the first course, and Wooyoung wondered where the hell San had gone. His absence would draw unwanted eyes, and Wooyoung wrung his fingers, not yet touching the roasted meat in front of him.

He needed a drink. Or maybe talking to Sena would be a good distraction. Now that he knew they were not getting married, it’d be easier to befriend her. She seemed nice enough; at least, she had healed San knowing he was only a servant. Wooyoung would be in an entirely different mindset now if she hadn’t shown up. He.. He didn’t even want to think about it, so he pushed it to the back on his mind.

“The lights are very beautiful,” he said.

Sena smiled. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“How did you learn magic?” Wooyoung asked.

She thought for a second. “Well.. I think the better question is, how did you make it possible?”

“I didn’t.”

She paused while cutting her food. “You must have done something.”

Wooyoung shook his head. “No, I don’t think I did.”

There was a small loll in the conversation before she spoke again. “Essetir has an archive of preserved magic books. They’re forbidden documents, restricted only to the royal family.” She brought a piece of meat to her lips and chewed. “Once I realized magic was back, I did some studying.”

Magic books? With spells and incantations? She must have used that to heal San.

“Did you bring any to Sinsu?”

She nodded. “But only few people can do magic, Wooyoung. You have to already have it in here.” She tapped her chest.

“I think San does.”

“What about me?” San’s voice piped up, and Wooyoung almost shot out of his chair. He twisted back, and there San was—all dimply and pretty. He was leaning forward, trying to get an ear into their conversation, and Wooyoung overestimated the space between them.

Wooyoung froze, almost knocking their heads together. His breath caught in his throat, and he stared at San’s wide eyes in front of him, their smokey edges carving a spot permanently in Wooyoung’s head.

And then they were back in the clearing, blood spilling between his fingertips. San’s eyes were half lidded and blank, lifeless, and Wooyoung’s world was falling apart.

He gulped and quickly turned away, smoothing his palms against the table. “I was- I was telling Sena about your magic,” Wooyoung said, the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“My magic?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Wooyoung took a sip of wine. Hopefully, a few glasses will take the edge off his nerves. San made him too jittery nowadays.

“San!” Sena suddenly exclaimed, and Wooyoung almost jumped again. “I could teach you!”

San beamed at her, and Wooyoung didn’t know whether to yell in joy or run out of the room. San was already a menace, but with magic? Actual, practiced magic, spells and all? Wooyoung was going to go insane.

In the center of the room, a bard had set up on a stool, and he began playing on a lute, spinning tales of dragons and castles and knights. Wooyoung slouched back and gazed at him, purposefully ignoring the chatter behind him. San and Sena were gushing about magic, and all it did was make Wooyoung think about San with gold, sparkly eyes.

What if San began doing his chores with magic? He could probably snap his fingers and Wooyoung’s chambers would be magically cleaned. That would be nice, but that also meant Wooyoung wouldn’t have an excuse to keep San there anymore. He felt so conflicted.

And Sena. Wooyoung didn’t want to think about them spending too much time together. There was still something… fishy about her that Wooyoung couldn’t put a finger on.

San sat a hand on his shoulder, idly playing with Wooyoung’s cloak as he laughed at something Sena said.

Wooyoung took another sip of wine.

This was going to be a long night.

(。-`ω´-)

San was having the time of his life.

Yes, he almost died, but that paled in comparison to finding out he had magic. At least, he thought it did. His crossbow incident would have affected him more if his memory was intact. All he could remember was the pain. Everything else was a complete blur.

Wooyoung was shaken up. Like, really shaken up. He spaced out a lot, and his eyes kept lingering on San with something like fear. It was like constantly looking at a kicked puppy. San wanted to pull him in to his arms and tell him everything was alright. He didn’t. He had to stop touching Wooyoung so much.

He gave in a lot, though. Sometimes he could help himself. Wooyoung would walk by, and San would automatically poke his side. And in return, Wooyoung would look at him with tense eyes and a slight frown. Kicked puppy all over again.

San kept daydreaming about Balor, too. He kept seeing Wooyoung laughing in the kitchen with his mom (Wooyoung thought he was being so sneaky, but San caught him more than once in there). He kept seeing him playing with the village children and burying his face in San’s neck. He kept seeing him happy.

At least Sena seemed really nice. Wooyoung got really lucky with her. The feast finally ended, and after a quick farewell, San followed a slightly tipsy Wooyoung back to his rooms.

“Had a bit too much to drink, sire?” San laughed as they crossed the threshold of the room, quickly closing the door before Wooyoung made a fool of himself in front of the guards that were still posted outside his rooms.

“Not as much as I should have.” Now alone, Wooyoung slumped against his front, hands latching onto San’s elbows.

San would be lying if he said he didn’t steal a few sips of wine himself. He, too, thought he should have stolen more. The slight fuzziness in his vision disagreed.

San hummed. “I’m sorry, Woo, but I don’t think I can draw a bath tonight. I could bribe Seonghwa to do it if you want.”

“Don’t want Seonghwa to bathe me, want you…” Wooyoung slurred through his words, pulling tighter.

San squeezed his eyes shut. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Wooyoung was drunk. He was a lightweight. Okay. San filed the information away for later. Wooyoung was drunk, and he was spouting nonsense now.

San wrapped an arm around Wooyoung and walked him back to his bed, sitting him down onto the side.

“Okay, Young-ah, I’m going to get you ready for bed, and before you know it, I’ll be back in the morning with a glass of water for you. Is that okay?”

Wooyoung didn’t respond, and San pulled away. Wooyoung had that kicked puppy look again, like he was somewhere far away. He stared at San’s face, eyes wide with unspoken terror. San patted the side of his face, hoping he’d break out of it. “Hey, you’re okay,” he whispered. Wooyoung’s gaze dropped.

San gently unhooked the cloak, letting it drop from Wooyoung’s shoulders. “Woo?”

“Sorry, it’s nothing.”

“Hmm, okay.”

San avoided Wooyoung’s eyes and reached up. His fingers lightly traced over sharp edges before he took the circlet off Wooyoung’s head. It was light, but it felt heavy in his hands, like it really did hold a burden in its silver swirls. He pulled away.

“Put it on.”

San froze in place and gaped. “Huh?”

“Put.. Put it on.” Wooyoung’s head drooped slightly. “I wanna see.”

San narrowed his eyes. “Why? So you can make fun of me?”

“No.”

Wooyoung didn’t say anything else, so San sighed and dropped it on his head, slightly askew. He felt ridiculous, like he was playing pretend. Was this how Wooyoung felt when it was on his head? San doubted it. Wooyoung was… He was regal. San could barely restrain himself from touching him during the feast, from rubbing his back or combing his fingers through his hair. It was torture, but the best kind. This circlet was made for Wooyoung, and him only.

“Happy now?” San asked, and he finally met Wooyoung’s eyes again. He wished he didn’t, though, because the look on Wooyoung’s face sparked that small, infinitesimal hope that Wooyoung could ever love him back.

He had to remember Sena. He had to remember the marriage.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung breathed out, and San moved to take the circlet off before Wooyoung shook his head. “No. I want you to keep it.”

“What?” San furrowed his eyebrows.

“Take it with you.”

Now that was ridiculous. He couldn’t.. take it. It was a fucking crown. And he was a servant.

“Wooyoung, I can’t. The guards-”

“Stuff it down your shirt. I don’t care.” Wooyoung fell back against the sheets with a sigh. “Just take it.”

San couldn’t fathom the amount of trouble he’d get in if the guards found a royal crown stuffed up his shirt. He’d be executed. Damn. And Wooyoung wasn’t thinking straight.

“Okay,” he said. He could slip it back in the wardrobe while putting away Wooyoung’s clothes. He seemed drowsy enough not to notice. This’ll be fine.

He took the circlet off and set it to the side.

Hopefully, Wooyoung wouldn’t find it. He never looked in his wardrobe, anyway.

San was learning magic today!

He could barely contain his excitement as he made his way down to the training grounds. Sena had asked him if there was an open, secluded spot close to the castle, and the field of blue flowers immediately came to mind. He wished the castle had a garden. One would think it would, but Beomseok apparently didn’t think it was important.

It would be nice, though.

Wooyoung was stuck in a meeting with his father and King Sungho. Sena somehow weaseled her way out of attending, not that San was complaining.

Wooyoung definitely was. That was all he could talk about all morning.

‘I can’t believe they let her out of it! She’s a snake!’

They were going to have a few martial problems to work through.

Sena was already waiting for him, sitting at the base of the hill and frowning at the flowers around her. Her hair was in a braid, and she wore a light yellow dress. San wished he had brought a blanket to keep the dirt away from it. In his defense, the prospect of learning magic clouded his thoughts, and he didn’t think ahead to this point.

“Hello!” he chirped, sitting down beside her.

“Hello, San,” she smiled. “Are you ready to learn?” She had two books on her lap, worn from age and falling apart. There wasn’t anything about them that looked particularly magical, but his excitement spiked.

“Yes!”

Sena laughed. “Alright then.”

She opened the book on top and begin talking. “Wooyoung said you’ve done magic before. Do you remember what it felt like?”

San shook his head. He had been too delirious to process what was happening after he got shot.

“That’s okay, I can still work with that,” she started. “When you want to use magic, you have to pull it out of yourself. It’s a well, and all you need to do is tap into it.” She held her pointer finger up, and a small flame lept from her nail. “Magic requires spoken word, or spells. This is the extent of nonverbal magic I can do.” She pulled it back, looking away. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to do more with practice.”

San soaked in every word, eyes brimming with excitement. “That’s amazing!”

He genuinely didn’t believe this was happening. Magic..

“Magic also requires intent,” she said. “You have to know what you want, and you have to really want it. If you have nothing specific in mind, it could go out of control, and who knows what’ll happen.”

“Got it.”

Sena nodded. “Good. Let’s start with something simple, then.” She picked up one of the flowers. “This is a nice, pretty blue, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not anymore. Let’s turn it pink.”

An unrestrained grin broke over San’s face, and he practically glowed. “Okay! Okay, what’s the incantation?”

She pointed to a line in the book, and San leaned over to get a good look. “Read it to get a feel for the words first, and then I’ll try to explain how to get the magic working,” she said. “The language is tricky, and you might feel silly doing it, but familiarizing yourself with the words helps before actually using the magic.”

She was right. The letters were scrambled in an odd phrase, but he tried to make his best with it.

“Ferien er lyserød..?”

Nothing happened, but he didn’t expect it to. He looked up to get confirmation from Sena, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes grew wide and her mouth dropped open, a look of horror on her face.

“Is… Is there something wrong?” San felt his heart racing as he looked around, trying to figure out what spooked her. Was his pronunciation that bad?

“San…” she brought a hand to her mouth and began giggling. “Fuck.”

San gaped at her. His body froze, and he stopped breathing. Oh god. “What’s wrong? Did I… Did I do something?”

“Your hair.” She began laughing in full force, verging on hysterics.

“My hair?!” He pat his head, and thank god it was still there. He sighed in quick relief, but then he saw it from the corner of his vision. He paused and stared. And he remembered the original purpose of the spell.

“OH MY GOD.” He was going to have a heart attack. He did not just turn his hair pink. “That was magic? I didn’t feel a thing!” He frantically ran his hands over his head, hoping it would wipe off. Judging from the expression on Sena’s face, it wasn’t working. “Fix it! Sena, fix it!”

She cackled. “No, I don’t think I will.”

Didn’t she understand?! Wooyoung was going to see this! San would never hear the end of this. He laid back on the grass and groaned.

“Don’t worry, San! You look good! It suits you.” Sena patted his knee, and if she meant for it to be comforting, it wasn’t working.

San stared at her. “I am not walking around like this.”

“Then you’ll have to change it back yourself.”

“And risk walking around bald?”

Sena laughed again. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun.”

(。-`ω´-)

The meeting was boring, but what else was new?

They discussed borders, trade, and taxes today, and they forced Wooyoung to just sit through it.

How fun.

He sat and let his mind wander, falling back to old habits as his foot tapped idly against the floor. His back ached from sitting too stiff for a long period of time, and he considered making San give him a massage.

Great. Now all he could think about was San’s hands on his shoulders, his back. He wanted to grab them and press small kisses to San’s knuckles.

And who could stop him? San didn’t mind Wooyoung’s touch. In fact, he was the one who initiated it most of the time. Would he think it was weird?

His father would chew his head off; a Prince kissing the hand of his servant was unthinkable.

San didn’t look like a servant last night, though. Wooyoung was drunk, but he still remembered everything, blurry edges and all. San had looked so beautiful. Wooyoung wanted to hold him and never let go.

When his headache reached its worst, they adjourned, and Wooyoung stumbled to his feet. Small chatter filled the room as Wooyoung made his escape, ignoring the curious looks he got from the council.

San was with Sena right now, learning magic. At least, he should be. And Wooyoung was not going to spy on them.

He climbed up a few spiral staircases in one of the castle turrets, ignoring the slight burn in his legs and his uneven breath. He reached the window that looked out into the training grounds and peeked through. He could barely make out two figures sitting in the field. Yes! They were there, and it didn’t seem like San was causing any trouble. That’s all he needed to know. He took a few steps back down, but-

He paused, took a slow step back, and looked out the window again.

San’s hair was pink.

He blinked slowly.

Okay, then.

He walked away, only making a few feet before biting into his sleeve and screeching. The muffled noise reverberated around the tower, probably scaring a few pigeons outside.

This wasn’t okay.

When Wooyoung thought the bastard couldn’t get more endearing…

In a daze, he stumbled back down the tower.

Pink.

His feet automatically moved towards the training grounds, and Wooyoung didn’t have the mental capability to convince himself to stay away. He had to see this before they changed San’s hair back.

He made it there at a record speed, surprised by the lack of people in the corridors. That was a good thing—less people to drag him into meaningless conversations.

He jogged over to the field. Voices drifted over to him as he came closer, and he grinned.

Before he knew it, he was standing above them. San was shouting and running his fingers through his hair, and Sena was cackling. Honestly, Wooyoung would be too if he weren’t so shocked himself.

His hair.

Wooyoung cleared his throat. “San.”

San yelped and grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling it over his head. A soft tuft of pink still peeked through, and Wooyoung was going to faint on the spot.

“San,” he said slowly. “Put your shirt down.”

“No,” he squeaked.

Squeaked.

“Choi San.”

He didn’t move. Wooyoung walked over, crouched in front of him, and tapped his hand. “San, I could see it all the way from the castle. Put it down.” His voice was strangely calm considering how fast his heart beat.

“You were spying?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

San tore his head up from the shirt and glared at him. “You can only see this field from the top of the towers, Jung Wooyoung.” And then he froze.

San’s hair was a mess, but it was a pink mess. Wooyoung tentatively reached up and ruffled it.

He had a magic servant- a magic servant with pink hair. A grin began to spread on his face, and San bat his hand away.

“I knew you would laugh,” he groaned.

“I’m not laughing.” Wooyoung cupped the sides of San’s face. “You’re pink!” And it was true. Not only was his hair pink, but San’s face was beginning to match the color too.

San ducked away. “Sena, save me!” He scrambled away, putting her between them. Wooyoung had forgotten she was there. She was staring at them, turning her head between the two with an expression of shock. Ah. This must be the first time she saw them interact freely.

Wooyoung considered reeling it back, pulling his shoulders up and becoming the Prince again, but another look at San, and he quickly chucked the idea out. If San was this comfortable with Sena, then Wooyoung could be too. In hindsight, he probably should have remembered she came from a warring kingdom, but that didn’t matter now.

“Saaaan, come here.” Wooyoung vaulted over Sena’s legs and tackled him into the flowers.

“Are we really doing this again?” San yelled, shoving hard at Wooyoung’s chest.

San’s first day at the training grounds- Wooyoung pushed him down the hill.

Wooyoung’s armor was off. San’s hair was pink. This time was different.

This time, Wooyoung wanted to lean down and slot their lips together, to finally have San in the way he truly wanted.

An invisible barrier forced him up and away, and he shouted, landing on his back. He pulled his head up and gaped and San, who had a demonic grin on his face.

“Sena! Did you see that? I did it!”

Wooyoung knocked his head back and groaned. Of course. He knew the magic would be a nuisance.

But dammit, he wanted to touch San’s fluffy hair. He sprung into a crouch and tackled San again, knocking the breath out of both of them.

“Y-Young-ah,” San gasped, and he froze. Their noses were touching, and Wooyoung couldn’t help but stare.

He knew it then.

He figured it out.

Everyone said he would bring magic back, and then Wooyoung thought it was San, not him.

But no.

He couldn’t ignore it anymore, the denial falling apart at his feet. There was something, something so life changing and terrifying, and it was the only thing that could explain how he triggered the magic. It made Wooyoung’s knees weak and left him in a puddle of goo on the floor. It made him feel so, so small in front of something so big. The answer was staring him in the face, quite literally.

He was in love.

Sena tapped his shoulder and pulled him away. Wooyoung let her.

He knew. He remembered a faint dream, a muzzy memory.

This will end in flames.

#ateez fanfic #ateez #woosan #choi san #jung wooyoung #lyn-fanworks #fanfic #ao3 #kpop

6 notes · View notes

lemuttu · 11 months

Text

@mxldito cont. from here

A deep rumble rolled off the walls of the house, like thunder, shaking the very foundations. A scene of violence. A mess of viscera days old, rancid and decaying, strewn across the carpet in haphazard display, and the uncanny bestial demon amongst it all nestled quietly against the gore. Like a hunter stumbling accidentally into a lion’s den. It was quite the sight to be seen. The stench of rot clung heavy to the Rabisu as it rose to stand. A coating of dark red streaked down a chest of dull gold. Not quite human, not quite any one particular animal. Feet like an eagle, gait like the baboon, and the head like the lion. He was a demon straight off the manuscripts and temple walls. He was real.

“I have nothing. I offer nothing. However, you are a poor liar. And you strayed too far, little hungry one.”

His head hung lowly studying the vampire, its ears pinned back and nose wrinkled in distaste and agitation to the company, although nevertheless curious to the blood drinker's unusual plea to the heavens. It was frightened wasn’t it? That was nothing special. It fed into fear. It fed off of it. Literally, figuratively. He liked when things were afraid. It made things fun, and Menmire loved to play. A ring of five hungry pale eyes burned softly in the dull light, each one slowly turning upward.

“Heaven – ?” A voice heavy and strained resounded deep from within the demon’s throat. A hideous yawn, a choir of animal sounds, followed a lumbering step forward. “Heaven – is not here. No song. No prayer. Heaven does not answer us. It does not answer to the shadows.”

#mxldito #// menmire is actually quite passive #// he actually likes to talk to his food before he eats them #// :)

3 notes · View notes

xb-honeyscales · 2 years

Text

The Origin Of Dragons and Barbarians

This story is like most.

Each tragic story starts with an original sin. This story happens to start with a typical theme. The murder of a sibling.

Lucius And Silas were the sons of Adam & Eve. The two were twins and inseparable. Except once they reached their teenage years. Lucius had started to receive special ‘powers’ from God. He never seemed to be injured even if he fell from the tallest tree. Yet his twin never got the same. Because of this, Adam and Eve started to show more of their attention to Lucius. However, life went on and the twins grew up, with Lucius being the child on the pedestal and Silas in the shadows of that same pedestal. Until one day, the favoured son vanished. He disappeared after going on a trip to the forest with his brother. But now, Silas had figured out what his special thing was too. He couldn’t be poisoned. Adam and Eve didn’t believe Silas that his twin had fell asleep next to him and when he woke, Lucius was nowhere in sight. God shown up again from the sky once again. But instead of gifting Adam and Eve their son back, he instead banished Lucius to walk the Earth for eternity and to no longer be able to have a child.

Time went on. Silas wandered the realm alone and with nowhere to call home. One day, he stumbled upon a temple. Temples were usually used to pray to God or some other higher being a person believed in. However, this temple held paintings and sigils that could equal one higher being.

The Devil.

This was the first glimpse of hope for the banished son. He knew that Satan was once an angel who was banished for going against God. Maybe Satan would help Silas and let me die to spite God. The son begged for a way out of his eternal life. And the Devil responded with an offer.

“My offer is simple. Spread my hellfire across the land and form a home for all those who walk into the fire with you. If you choose to accept, here is what you shall receive. You shall inherit the ability and appearance of a dragon. Although, you can, if you wish, still be able to turn into a human form. Your life will still be long, but no longer eternal. I will also grant you the ability to reproduce in order to carry on your lineage and my request.”

The banished son considered his options and realised the only way out of eternity was to accept. So he did. He was now the first dragon to walk the Earth.

——————————————————————

Silas sits under a blossom tree writing on pieces of paper. Each day he sits there and waits for a girl. Ava. She was from a village only a couple of minutes away. They met one day when Silas was walking through the market, looking for the butchers. He bumped into Ava and knocked the basket out of her hands. He helped her pick up the items and told her he would pay in case he ruined any of her items. She giggled at his reaction and told him it was alright. He asked the way to the butchers and she led him there. From then on, Silas made sure to ‘accidentally’ be at the same place she was.

As each day passes, they start to fall in love with each other. After only knowing each other for 18 months, they decide to get married. They are married in a church, much to Silas’ dismay but he couldn’t refuse Ava. Not when her smile was the only light in his still long life. They lived in a cottage on the outskirts of the coastal village. Ava still continued to follow her mother’s footsteps and become a herbalist for the town while Silas left on his ‘hunting trips’ for days at a time. He would come home smelling of blood but would always have enough meat to last them a year at minimum. However, he was actually busy fulfilling his promise to the devil. To build a home for people like him. And soon, it would be for him, his wife and their children.

One day, Ava stumbles upon a dragon in the clearing where the blossom tree stood. But that dragon was so familiar to her. Almost like she saw it everyday. She noticed the gash on its side and decided she would help the thing heal and maybe it would spare her village. She began to work on it and as she finished, the dragon began to wake. She recognised its eyes. The eyes her husband had. She called out his name to the dragon and its head turned to look at her. It let out a huff of smoke and rubbed its snout into Ava’s body. Ava giggled at the action. She then became worried as the dragon started to fade into mist. At first, she thought she was losing her mind.But as the smoke cleared, she saw her husband standing there with a gash on his chest and a pained expression written all over his face. For the next 2 days, she treated him and helped him back to full health. After that, it was a long conversation between the two. Silas though Ava would run away and tell the town of what he was. But she didn’t. She hugged him and he felt tears well up. He had found love with Ava and now all he needed was them to have a safe home. Life starts to go back to normality to the two but now there’s something else that lingers, a feeling neither can place their finger on. Anxiety? Fear? Sadness?

One day, Silas asks an abrupt question as the silent dinner table. He asks Ava if she’s ever thought about leaving the village. Ava responds that she has but could never bring herself to. Silas informs her what he actually did in his ‘hunting trips’. She agrees after hearing about the wonderful things her new home shall have and they pack up what they need and head to the clearing. Silas shifts back into his dragon form. Ava begins to take in every little detail of him. The tips of his scales were gold, but the base colour was brown like his hair. He had horns at the top of his head and wings that she found magnificent. Silas nudges Ava back into reality and she realises he pushed her, she giggles. He nudges her again and she assumes he’s trying to tell her something. His wings begin to flap slightly and she realises he wants to fly. She makes sure the bag is secure on her back and the one on her arm won’t fly away. She then climbs onto her dragon husband (with the help of his wings) and looks around at where she could grab. She then remembered the two horns on the top of his head. She grabs onto his horns and prepares herself. Silas feels the slight pressure Ava’s hands out on his horns and takes off. At first, Ava shrieks at the sudden take off but once she sees the view of the forest below, she looks amazed. He then flies into the direction of their now home.

After a few hours, they land and she slides off his body. She begins to look at her surroundings and is astounded. The island is full of fertile land. Grass spreads as far as she can see and in the distance, there is a mountain. She feels the gust of wind as her husband begins to walk away from her, still in his dragon form. She follows him and notices he has begun walking to that mountain she saw. Once they reach the base of the mountain, Silas gently picks up Ava in his paw and flies up to the entrance. He sets down Ava and lands. He then shifts back to his human form. Ava, however, is looking out at the island. She notices that there are no clouds in the sky. She mumbles out her thought and Silas tell her why there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Because they are above clouds. She looks at him shocked and he begins to explain why this will be their new home. He explained that, in time, this island will be home to people like him. Dragons. It will also be a home for people like his wife. The forests will contain lots of wildlife and many villages will litter the island. The people like his wife would live in the villages above ground. But underneath, there is a cone shaped mountain that had many pathways and homes for dragons. He wanted to become the King of Dragons and that Ava, his darling wife, became queen of the people above ground. But there was still something that Silas needed to do. He led Ava further into the cave and into their bed chambers. There was a nest filled with blankets of the finest materials and the perimeter framed in many different coloured gems and jewels. Silas then called for the devil to appear once again. He requested to make another term.

“Will you grant my wife the ability to live a long life with me and to be able to wield the fire that burns inside of me. But I do not wish for her to have the ability to turn into a dragon like me. I wish to spare her from the pain of shifting.”

Satan granted Silas’s request and the process to becoming a wielded of fire began. It started with her body temperature randomly rising and falling. She accidentally set things on fire. But soon enough, with the help of her husband, Ava successfully could control hellfire. The two decided on a name for her. Regina barbarorum. Which translates to Queen of the Barbarians.

Silas and Ava decided that they would go and show people in poorer villages that there was a better way of life. Most people in the villages agreed and went through the initiation. Some took the initiation to become a barbarian. Some chose to become a dragon which was a lot more challenging. However, soon enough, the island had many many people roaming about. The new barbarians started to create their villages from the resources on the island and built their communities. Traditions began to form within communities. Such as a feast when a new member joins their village. Or when two people die there is a huge funeral in place to honour the life they lived.

And a one time tradition. The celebration of a royal heir. The queen had given birth to the first princess. Then years later, the royal family consisted of two more boys in their family, 2 years apart from one another. And this is the end of the story. This is how dragons and the L/N royal lineage started out.

#kiribaku #kiribaku x reader #midoriya x reader

9 notes · View notes

duskholland · 4 years

Note

imagine prof!tom picking up drunk reader from a frat party and taking care of her...swoon

i think drunk pickup from a party might be one of my favourite tropes :’) thank u <3

prof!tom fever night

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

The front lawn of the frat house is full of discarded solo cups, and as you sit in the grass, the blades are cool against your legs. You play around with the strands, pulling a few out with blurry fingers as you laugh softly to yourself. Time passes by quickly, interrupted only by a large shadow falling over your figure. You squint as you look up, tilting your head to the side as your tired eyes take in the person.

“Darling.” It’s Professor Holland—Tom, your boyfriend—, drowning in a hoodie. It’s a light lilac colour and he’s paired it with some grey jeans. He’s wearing an amused smile as he raises a hand in greeting. “Why are you sitting out here?”

You accept his hands, glad for his steady grip as you go stumbling to your feet. You’re very drunk. The frat party had been amazing for the first few hours, but as soon as the clock passed 3am, you’d started to flag. Now you’re tired, delirious, and ready for bed.

“Too hot in there,” you reason, winding your arms around your boyfriend’s neck. His features float in front of your eyes, his gaze kind and full of amusement. “It’s cold out here.”

“That’s most definitely true.” Tom reaches up and cups both of your cheeks, frowning when you sigh contentedly and nuzzle into his warm palms. “You’re freezing, Y/N,” he scolds, eyebrows furrowing. “You need to take care of yourself.”

“I did,” you complain, pouting. “You said to call you if I needed anything. So I did.”

Tom coos, then leans forward to softly kiss you. His lips linger there for only a second, but it’s enough to warm you up from the inside out.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. A moment passes then he squeezes your cheeks and steps back, wrapping an arm around your waist and walking with you down the long path. “I’ll take you home.”

“To yours?” you ask, fluttering your lashes despite knowing he’s looking at the path and not at you.

“If you want, darling.”

“Yeah.” You giggle softly and reach up to mess with his curls. You accidentally knock his hood from his head, and Tom rolls his eyes as he quickly pulls it back off. “No,” you whine. “Keep it down, I wanna see your hair.”

He squeezes your waist. “I’m flying under the radar tonight, sweetheart,” he reminds you, voice low. “Wouldn’t exactly be the best look to be seen picking up one of my drunk students from a frat party, would it?”

You giggle as you totter down the street, recognising his car. “But that’s what you’re doing?”

Tom kisses your hand before opening the passenger’s side for you and helping you in. “Yeah,” he agrees. “But you’re not just any student, are you?”

You wait until he’s walked around the car and buckled into the driver’s side to respond. “Aren’t I?”

He rolls his eyes and leans across the console to kiss your forehead. “No,” he stresses, eyes dancing. “I love you. You know that.”

You smirk as you cross your arms over your chest, blearily happily. “Love you too, Tom,” you reply.

Tom takes you back to his. You try to stay on your best behaviour, but you’re still very drunk, and when you’re drunk, you’re annoying. He’s patient with you, but it brings you great amusement to watch his jaw tense from irritation as he sits you up on the bathroom counter and tries to wipe your makeup off, only for you to dodge out of the way each time.

“Stay still,” he mumbles, frowning. Finally, Tom manages to hold your chin, grasping gently as he dabs at your cheeks with a wet cotton pad. “There you go.”

You pout your lips at him. “Kiss?” you ask, smiling widely.

He sighs, then leans closer. “If I kiss you, will you stay still?”

You nod your head immediately. “Yeah,” you reply. “Promise.”

Tom quickly learns that the easiest way to get you ready for bed is by punctuating every movement with a kiss, and once he makes a routine of pressing his warm mouth to yours every few seconds, you’re a lot more compliant. Eventually, he’s convinced you to down a pint of water, change into one of his old oversized hoodies and move over to bed, your lips connected as you pull him down with you.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, easily and effectively pushing you back onto your side of the bed. He rolls over, briefly sitting up as he throws off his t-shirt and struggles from his jeans. “Time to sleep.” As soon as he’s back beside you, he wraps you in his arms and you snuggle into his chest.

Masked by darkness, a sudden, tipsy thought strikes you. “Wait… What were you doing when I called you?”

“Sleeping.”

Your eyes snap up, and you fail to find him in the darkness. Tom reaches up, warm palm cupping the back of your head until you’re soothed.

“Sorry,” you murmur, feeling a little guilty. “This was probably really annoying.”

His lips grace your forehead. “It wasn’t,” he promises. “I’d come out and get you any time of day, darling. I care about you.”

A happy sigh falls past your lips, and your eyes droop shut. “Thanks, Tom,” you murmur. “Love you.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “‘Course, darling. I’m going to the gym at 6, do you want me to wake you up before I go?”

You growl into his chest, only stopping when you hear him laughing. “Do you even love me?” you lament. “What kind of question is that?”

He squeezes your waist. “I love you,” Tom says, voice softer than a lullaby. “Get some sleep.”

Tom tugs you closer, and despite being able to feel the hangover ache building in your temples, you fall asleep with a smile on your face, his arms wrapped around you, and his lips coming over your forehead every few minutes.

#let's pretend my prof!tom is in america for one blurb #tom holland x reader #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland blurb #professor!tom fluff #myblurbs #tomblurbs #tom.sfw #prof!tomfic #prof!tomblurbs #q #geminiparkers

668 notes · View notes

damthosefandoms · 4 years

Text

I Knew You, Once

Read it on AO3!

Summary:

Damian al Ghul is seven years old when he meets Jason Todd. Damian Wayne is ten years old when he meets his older brother. Maybe that's all we need to know.

Damian al Ghul is seven years old when he meets Jason Todd.

It’s not on purpose. It’s late at night and he can’t sleep, so he’s wandering the halls. His mother had been away from their actual home for a while and just recently brought him to live out here, so he figures it’s important to get the lay of the land. He’s doing what he can to try to avoid the glorified babysitters guards his mother has watching his every move, making sure he doesn’t get into trouble—or, more accurately, that he doesn’t stumble upon something he isn’t supposed to see.

It’s a little too late for that. Damian’s young, but he’s been trained well; almost too well, considering not even his own family can seem to notice him when he’s hiding in the shadows. He’s always sneaking around, learning things he isn’t supposed to know; for example, he’s heard his mother and grandfather arguing about her new pet.

Apparently, no one outside the two of them are aware of it yet. But Damian is sneaky and observant; he knows a little bit about what's going on.

Something terrible (Damian isn’t quite sure what) happened to some boy who is clearly of some importance to his mother and grandfather. Everyone who has any inkling of this information outside the two of them (and Damian) is dead, and for a reason. According to Talia, the boy doesn't talk. He's seemingly brain-dead in all but his animal impulses. He’s trained so well that even the greatest mentors Talia could find are practically useless when it comes to teaching him—and he’s so lethal that she’s running out of options.

He’s physically damaged, too. Damian’s overheard his grandfather claim that whatever happened to the boy had injured his head so badly that he’ll never be more than “an unthinking, emotionless shell.”

Damian doesn’t know what exactly is going on, but he doesn’t like it.

He’s walking down a hallway he hasn’t been down before when he hears a crash in a room a few feet away. He walks towards the door. It’s open just a crack, and he looks inside.

There’s a boy there, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. It's dark, so Damian can’t really make out his face, but the candlelight gives him enough light to tell that he’s got messy black hair parted by a nasty-looking scar. The boy is still as a statue, his attention fixed on the remains of what seems to have been a picture frame.

Damian leans forward to try to make out the photo, but accidentally pushes the door open a bit in his attempt. The boy’s head snaps up towards him. Damian freezes for a second. That speed, that stiffness—it’s unnatural. Creepy. Almost...haunted.

Damian knows haunted. He doesn’t question it.

The boy stares at him, but doesn’t show any sign of aggression, so Damian seizes the opportunity. He steps into the room and pulls the door shut behind him, but he doesn’t close it all the way; he’s vulnerable right now and he knows it. Damian’s been trained to know better than to put himself in an enclosed space. The windows are barred, probably to keep the boy from escaping, so the door is the only option for escape if need be.

The boy keeps his eyes on Damian as he walks forward and brushes away the broken glass covering the floor. Damian picks up the photo.

It’s of a man with two teenage boys. The taller boy has darker skin than the shorter one, and neither look exactly like the man, but they all share the same hair and eye color. They’re clearly some sort of family. Damian’s not sure how the picture got here, but he glances between the shorter boy in the photo and the boy standing in front of him. They’re clearly the same person. Dark hair, blue eyes, same faded scar across the temple. But it’s strange. In the picture, the boy looks happy, full of life, not…

Not like the ghost standing in front of him.

For some reason, that’s not what Damian focuses on. He keeps looking at the man in the picture. He’s seen those facial features before, knows that look on the man’s face. If you replaced the eye and skin color, Damian could swear he’s looking at an older version of himself.

“…Bruce.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, but despite himself, Damian jumps. The boy had spoken; Talia said he didn’t do that.

“What?”

The boy just stares at the picture in Damian’s hands, his fists clenched. His eyes are clouded. It’s as if Damian isn’t even there.

“Bruce.”

“Who’s Br—” Damian cuts himself off when he hears voices down the hall. He stuffs the photo into his pocket.

Hopefully this was a one time thing, and the freak won’t spill to his mother that Damian took it. He has a feeling the boy won’t be speaking again—at least, not for a while.

Damian slips back into the hallway, melting back into the shadows around him. He can’t be caught here, not now. If his grandfather gets word that Damian was talking to that boy, then, well...

He takes one final glance back towards the door.

If Damian gets caught now, he might very well end up in a similar state.

A few days later, Damian wakes up from his own nightmares to the sound of screaming.

It’s not like screaming is a rare occurrence, here; the sounds of people being tortured and killed has somehow become almost a lullaby to Damian over the years. But this? This kind of screaming is different. This kind of screaming is something Damian can’t exactly describe, but knows all too well.

Despite himself, he gets out of bed.

He knows he’s not supposed to care about the well-being of others. He tells himself it’s just curiosity, and he’s looking for the source to put it out of its misery, like a dying animal (the thought of which makes him sick, but god forbid his mother or grandfather ever find that out).

Deep down, Damian knows it’s because he really is worried about the person screaming.

He follows the sound to the same room from before. It’s the boy—he’s screaming in his sleep. Damian slips through the doorway.

So the boy gets nightmares, too. Somehow, the thought that Damian’s not alone is comforting.

But he doesn’t know what to do now. He doesn't know how to help. Every bone in his body is screaming for Damian to act, to do something to help this boy be okay again. To make him happy. To help him.

But he hears his mother’s voice echoing in his head, telling him to leave now and let the boy suffer. He hears his grandfather, demanding that Damian put the freak out of his misery and end his life. But Damian can’t bring himself to do that. Something inside him, deep down, stops him; he’s starting to realize for the first time in his life that while he may be rotten, it definitely isn’t to the core.

He looks down the hallway, both ways. He waits and listens for his mother, for guards, for voices, footsteps, breathing, something, anything—but there’s nothing. No one else is coming.

This poor teenage boy is suffering, and no one else cares.

Damian shuts the door. Locks it. He walks up to the bed. The boy had stopped screaming, but his face is scrunched up tight—Damian can tell that whatever this nightmare is about, he’s in a lot of pain. Damian wonders for a second if he looks like that when he’s dreaming.

He grabs an unused pillow from the other side of the bed, and readies himself for a fight. If his grandfather’s words are true—and they usually are—the boy’s fight or flight impulses usually lean towards fight. It’s always better to be prepared.

He swings the pillow straight down onto the older boy’s head.

If Damian hadn’t had such good reflexes, the boy would’ve slit his throat with the knife hidden under his pillow. It's truly unnerving how fast the boy is.

Despite everything, Damian disarms the boy easily—clearly he’s capable of fighting, maybe even better than Damian himself, but there’s something that stops him from attacking again.

Maybe it’s because Damian’s starting to realize this boy isn’t all there. Maybe it’s because in the dark, armed with nothing more than a pillow, Damian looks just like the seven-year-old child he really is. Maybe the boy just doesn’t see him as a threat.

(By all means, he should feel threatened—Damian could kill this boy at least four different ways with just this pillow alone, but he shoves that thought aside.)

The boy just stands there and stares at him. Damian glares back.

The boy flinches at Damian’s glare. It’s so, so familiar to the boy, but he doesn’t know why.

Damian takes a deep breath.

“You were screaming,” He says, taking a step back. His hands are up in front of him, as if he were surrendering, but his feet are apart and he’s fully balanced. Damian's ready to fall right into the fighting stance that comes so naturally for him at a moment’s notice. The boy doesn’t seem to be planning an attack, but… you never know.

“It woke me up. I prefer not to be waken up.”

Damian readies his pillow.

The boy’s eyes are clouded over. It’s like he’s stuck in a memory. Damian’s backing slowly towards the door, ready to run for it, when he hears that same raspy whisper of someone who hasn’t spoken in a long time... and probably shouldn’t be now.

“Woken,” the boy says.

Damian stiffens. “What?”

“Woken. Not, waken, woken, i-it’s proper grammar. Prop—” The boy stops. He shakes his head, pulls at his hair. He looks frustrated. Unfocused.

Damian takes a quick breath. The boy is not all there. He's dangerous. Damian shouldn't be here. This was a bad idea.

Suddenly the boy looks straight at him, clouded blue eyes meeting the supernatural, glowing green ones that every al Ghul has.

“Woken. Woken up, woke up, shouldn’t have—died, dead, buried, alive, living—” Damian moves closer to the door. The boy is pacing, now, and as he speaks he’s letting out some hysterical, humorless, soulless laugh.

Damian’s starting to understand now. He glances around the room. Damian shouldn't have come back here. This boy shouldn't be here at all.

“Woke up in, in the—the grave—buried, deep deep deep down, a goddamn fucking corpse, that’s what I am—dead, I’m dead, I’m dead dead dead—”

The boy collapses to the ground in some terrifying mix of laughing and sobbing, and Damian runs. He’s halfway down the hall, hidden away in the shadows, when he sees his mother running into the room.

But it doesn't matter. Damian knows now.

His family is known for dealing with death, for avoiding it, for embracing it, for coming back from it. For coming back from the edge, as far as anyone on the outside knows, but Damian knows differently.

For some reason, the pit never affected their family—their bloodline—like it did others.

His mother shouldn’t be messing with this. Not with this boy, who isn’t family, who can't handle it like they can. No wonder his grandfather is so angry with his mother. Damian’s heard her talking. He knows what she’s planning, and now he knows the how and the who and maybe he doesn’t fully understand the why, but—

But something deep inside him is telling him he can’t let this boy go through that.

Damian al Ghul is not an average child. He knows what it’s like to feel your life fade away from you, and maybe he never exactly remembers those few minutes of the Between before he wakes up in that glowing green pool, but he can recognize it. He’s been raised—no, trained to know death better than he knows himself.

Damian’s only been here at this new home for a few days, but he knows his mother’s been hiding this boy away for a few months at the very least. He’s overheard countless arguments between his mother and his grandfather about it. They never knew he was listening in. They don’t think he even knows the boy exists.

But Damian does know, and he kind of wishes now that he didn't.

A few days later, Damian sees his mother taking the boy away. He watches from the shadows as she pushes him into the very same Lazarus Pit that Damian’s own soul has been touched by countless times before. The same Lazarus Pit his grandfather is currently using to revive himself, to keep himself immortal.

Damian watches as the boy’s soul is truly returned to him, but it’s not the same now. It’ll never be the same. It’s cursed, just like Damian is and just like everyone else in their family. He watches as the boy’s eyes flash between his normal icy blue and Damian’s own supernatural green—the same color as the waters of the Pit.

Damian follows his mother as she pulls the boy out and runs. He watches her shove the boy off the cliff. He’s too far away to really hear anything she says to the boy, but he’s able to make out one word before the boy is gone forever: “Jason.”

His grandfather isn’t happy, afterwards. He forces Damian and his mother to leave for the time being, to go far away to another home hidden from the world where the League can do their business from.

All thoughts of the boy leave his mind after a few weeks, but Damian never really forgets him.

Years later, his mother brings him to Gotham. Damian meets his father and stares into the same face from that picture he’d seen long ago.

He meets Dick Grayson. The older boy from the photo.

Damian sees the glass case in the Batcave, honoring a lost family member, who isn’t even all that lost.

Damian hides the picture he’s been keeping for so long away in his bedroom at the Manor.

When the Red Hood tries to kill him upon their first meeting, Damian isn’t surprised. He knows that the Pit’s magic always works a little too well.

Damian Wayne is ten years old when he meets Jason Todd.

#julie writes stuff #jason todd #red hood #robin #damian wayne #batman #ra's al ghul #talia al ghul #fanfiction #fanfic #batfamily #batfam #batbros #league of assassins #dc comics #my post

320 notes · View notes

karikarasuno · 3 years

Text

The Sun Doesn’t Shine in Tokyo, Part II

Pairing: Tanaka Ryunosuke x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Angst, Character Death(s), Violence, Graphic Descriptions of Injuries, Mentions of Blood, Grief, Smut, Soft Sex, Vague knowledge of Computer Engineering (once again, please bear with me)

Summary: The end is near. Time is quickly running out. Hope is fleeting, but not entirely gone.

Part I | Part II

Word Count: 9.8k

June 17, 2065

8:24am

It’s morning. The digital clock on his bedside table flashed 8:24am, the angular digits barely seen through the grogginess of your sleepy brain. You shift to go back to sleep, which easily draws you in until there’s a stinging burn on your side. Your wound is itchy and uncomfortable.

“Shh,” fingers are brushing the hair on your forehead from your eyes. “Just gimme a second. This is gonna hurt.”

A wet cloth is pressed to the wound, the stinging sensation returning as you feel the alcohol clean out the dirt and grime from the night before. You squeeze your eyes shut and bite your lip to deal with the temporary pain. “I’m sorry, a little longer then I’ll be done.”

The cloth is removed as you sit up to rest on the headboard, too awake after the cold stinging to go back to bed. A calloused hand comes to stroke your cheek, chapped lips pressing a tender kiss to your temple. “Morning,” you croak, voice rough with sleep.

“G’morning, baby,” you can tell he’s been up for a while, the hoarseness that usually cracks his voice almost entirely gone.

“I should probably shower and then head downstairs. I never actually got the chance to brief everyone on what happened.”

“Don’t worry about it. Yamaguchi already did late last night. So just shower and meet me in the conference room for breakfast,” Tanaka explains before he pushes off his side of the bed, fully dressed as he places clean clothes for you on his dresser. Yachi probably gave them to him this morning and you remember you have to apologize to her today since you most likely sent her into cardiac arrest last night.

Lethargy and anticipation dictate the way you go about your morning, hardly remembering how you ended up sitting between Tanaka and Yamaguchi at the first officer strategy meeting of the day, showered and your gash freshly wrapped. Suga and Daichi are running it, images of the city’s infrastructure holographically displayed above the switchboard. The 3D landscape spinning and flickering as they outline different plans for tonight.

You didn’t realize your leg was bouncing beneath the table until Tanaka’s hand spread out on your thigh to stop it. “You listening?” He questions staring at you intently. Your thoughts have honestly traveled elsewhere, so you shake your head no.

“Do you have the tracking device?” Daichi repeats.

“Oh, no I don’t,” you lean forward and adjust your posture. “I slipped it into Oikawa’s pocket before he lost his shit, but I’m not sure if it survived the crash,” you explain, recalling the exact moment when he was gripping your chin, the distraction of your dagger on his sternum giving you enough time to plant it on him.

“We’ll have to ask Kenma then, maybe he can still locate it. And if that’s the case we’ll be able to see where he is, what he’s up to.”

The meeting continues, your attention drifting in and out trying to formulate a solid plan of your own. Something to ensure that everyone makes it out alive. After your encounter with Iwaizumi you were especially concerned about fighting an army of volunteers. Not that you weren’t confident in the people here, but you managed to plunge your dagger into one of his arteries and he still got up at Oikawa’s demand.

“The tunnels are a no go,” Yamaguchi says at some point when they began deciding on entry routes. “The grenade I threw blocked the only entrance we had into the basement.” You nod in confirmation as you remember the chunks of rubble and debris that were now closing in the stairs.

“The main entrance is our best shot. It’s bold and what they’ll least be expecting. There’s also a chance we could disarm the alarm system if we can break through the firewall. We have the manpower, the only unknown are the volunteers and what they’re fully capable of,” you add on, the floorplan of the estate replacing the flickering city. You stand to describe the various points of entry and what you assume would be the places they are most likely going to have guards stand outside.

“You should have the long range fighters stationed here,” your finger hovers over a patch of tall trees near one of the side doors. “And here,” you shift to point out an area near the front that is also beneath the shadows of the woods.

“Those specialized in hand to hand combat should form the frontlines, while everyone else flanks out in a diamond formation. Yachi in the middle with y/n and Yamaguchi,” Suga suggests while he visually demonstrates the formation on one of the large screens. “Since Yachi doesn’t have much combat experience Tanaka and Terushima will go with them,” he tacks on, giving Tanaka a pointed look.

“And obviously because the two of you are practically useless with your injuries,” Suga teases before he proceeds to assign and explain other roles. The rest of the meeting moves forward without a hitch and everyone agrees on the plan that factored in as many uncertainties as possible. The chairs scrape against the floor as the officers shuffle out to start preparing for tonight.

You stand with Tanaka’s hand in yours and start to make your way through the first floor before you stop in front of one of the only staircases in the building. “I’m actually gonna go visit Kenma,” you explain as Tanaka looks at you silently confused.

“I wanted to ask him a few questions before tonight,” you add as you slip your hand from his and he gives you a solid shrug.

“Alright, I’ll be in the vault, checking the inventory,” he grins, his hands circling your waist to pull you into his sturdy frame. “Maybe I’ll be able to find you a better weapon,” he bends to toy with the dagger on your thigh that you refused to travel without after last night.

“Better?!,” you feign offense. “You don’t think my dagger makes me look sexy?” You grin cheekily at him as his own teasing smile spreads across his face.

“Oh, I always think you look sexy. But you know what would make you look even sexier,” he leans down so that he’s staring directly into your eyes, voice dipping low. “Protection,” his eyes glint with mischief and a knowing smirk settles on his lips.

You shove him lightly and playfully smack the side of his head, his beanie shifting sideways. “Haha so funny,” you roll your eyes as your smile brightens. “Gimme some options and we’ll see.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he responds when you turn around to walk away, his palm smacking your ass as you bound up the steps. “Payback for the beanie,” his hands rise in defense before he winks at you and turns to keep walking down the hall.

You take the steps two at a time like you usually do, except now you have your healing gash as a reminder to slow down. Unlike the other floors in the building the second level is a single large room coined the “Zone” by many of the guys. One half hosts Kuroo’s test lab, usually unkempt with sulfur and boiling chemical concoctions covering the surfaces. The other half belongs to Kenma with his various half built devices stuck between keyboards and multicolored wires.

While Kuroo often ventures out into the other rooms of the hideout to seek socialization, you can always find Kenma sitting exactly where he is now. Headset nestled over his ears, hair pulled back in a messy bun with his controller tight in his hands.

You walk up behind him and pull one of the cuffs from his ear. “Hey loser,” you release the set from your grasp so it snaps back on to his head, this time all lopsided.

“Not a loser,” he responds as he shakes his head so that the headphones fall back around his neck. His screens flashing a bold ‘victory’ to affirm that he is, in fact, not a loser.

“You are the only person I know who can play video games the day our world might end,” you say with a laugh when he shoots you an apathetic stare.

The relationship between you and Kenma developed rather naturally, a sibling connection unfolding before either of you realized. On your many sleepless nights wandering and exploring the compound you often found yourself here. At first, you stumbled upon him accidentally in the middle of the night, while everyone else was either asleep or working on their own projects to prepare for the upcoming conflicts. He awkwardly invited you to sit with him as he played or tinkered with new or semi thought out inventions. You really only watched at first, curiosity overcoming your intentions to not disturb him, but you soon found yourself asking questions. The questions turning into overnighters where he would teach you how to play his favorite games or help him code software he would embed in his tiny devices.

He puts his remote down and swivels in his chair to face you. “I was brainstorming,” the corner of his lips quirk up a little as he gets up and bumps your shoulder with his to step around you.

“Brainstorming what exactly?” You ask, your eyes following his thin frame as he walks to his crafts table and picks up a few things. He tilts his head to signal for you to walk over to him. “I’ll show you.”

You move to stand beside him and he hands off the small devices to you. You inspect them and realize they are watches, complete with a touch screen center and small dials on each side.

“These are reinforcement devices,” he says. “I don’t have enough for everyone but you clasp them around your wrist and twist the dials. A shield will manifest from here,” he points to the watch’s face, and what you incorrectly assumed was a touch screen surface is actually a reflection of the software’s veil.

“This is actually the code you helped me develop a few weeks back.” You smile up at him fondly, remembering the argument you got into after he refused to explain what it was for.

“How many do you have?”

“Six are complete,” he answers. “But I also have this.” He grabs a larger cylindrical device from a shelf attached to the wall.

“This is essentially a bigger version of those. The shield covers way more surface area. You can stick it to a wall or door, enter the pin and the shield will reinforce the structure to protect whatever’s inside,” he finished explaining before he places it back on the shelf.

“When did you have time to do all of this?” His production rate when it comes to his inventions is impressive to say the least.

He takes some of the reinforcement devices from you to organize them beside the others. “You know I hardly sleep,” he shrugs as if his lack of rest doesn’t bother you.

You open your mouth to voice this for the millionth time, but he lifts his finger to shush you. “Don’t. I get it,” he interrupts.

“Fine. But this doesn’t explain why you were brainstorming,” you say instead of nagging him about his awful sleep schedule, not that yours was really any better.

“Right,” he slides you over by your shoulders to switch spots. “This is for you,” he opens the locker in the corner of the room to pull something out. It’s another round device about two inches thick with small legs to hold it up.

“What’s this?” Your intrigue successfully piqued.

“Just watch,” he walks to Kuroo’s lab table and pushes some stuff around to clear a spot.

“I’ve been working on this for a while now,” he grabs his phone from his back pocket and punches in his password and then opens an app. The device begins to illuminate as streaks of ultraviolet waves burst through the top. “It’s a simulation machine that kinda works. I can’t seem to get the graphics right for some reason, hence the gaming,” he explains.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t have been playing regardless,” you say, which earns you an eye roll from him and a chuckle from you.

“Pay attention,” he points to the device, redirecting your attention instead of answering you. There’s a distinct humming noise before the room’s image starts to ripple. A pixelated version of a beach envelopes the room warping and disguising the furniture.

“It’s not perfect, but it’s an illusion that can trick enemies into believing they are somewhere else,” he whispers, looking a bit sheepish. “I’ve only been able to generate this stock photo, but eventually I want it to replicate different rooms or even scenery we haven’t experienced in a while.”

“Kenma,” your voice is wistful as you absorb the sway of the palm trees, the gentle rolling of the waves lapping the shores. “This is amazing. H-how did you do this?”

“I had Yachi’s help. She came up one night freaking about the control center’s algorithm and asked if I could help since you and Yamaguchi were already asleep. We ended up talking about sunsets, mainly her rambling,” he lightly snorts. “So I showed her some games with high resolution graphics that had some pretty cool sunsets and she came up with this. She coded it really quickly while I built it. I just haven’t been able to fix the kinks.”

You were near tears. The words escaped you, but mostly because you could never describe what you were feeling out loud. The snapshot of a panicking Yachi running to Kenma makes you laugh because there is no way he calmed her down without having a silent stroke of his own.

“And this is for me?” You ask for clarification before the tears really start falling.

“Yeah,” he raises his hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Other than computer engineering, you are really the only thing we have in common.”

“Kenma, I-,”

“Woah!” You both turn to what used to be the floor’s entrance, which is now limitless sand. “The beach! This is so cool!” Hinata squeals, his eyes lighting up with wonder and amazement.

“Oh hey, Shoyo,” Kenma fumbles with his phone to turn off the display.

“What’s up?” You’re grateful for his interruption, afraid you were about to become a sobbing mess in front of Kenma, which he would not have appreciated.

“Tanaka asked me to come get you,” his smile is wide and enthusiastic. “Said something about your options being ready.”

“Of course he actually went through with it,” you shake your head not the slightest bit surprised.

“Also said if you don’t hurry he’s not afraid to kick some ass,” Hinata adds on, his smile turning impishly cheeky.

“Of course he did,” you laugh before turning back to Kenma, who’s a subtle shade of red.

“We aren’t done here,” you tell him, knowing how flushed he gets when he’s alone with Hinata and you walk away from him backwards until you’re standing behind your new guest. “Watch him, he’s known to cause trouble,” you whisper to Hinata but it’s still loud enough from him to hear you.

“Oh, I know,” he plays along, only for Kenma’s neck to burn a brilliant red as Hinata steps further into the Zone. You make kissy faces behind his back to tease him as much as possible before you run down the stairs, narrowly missing the object he threw at you.

June 17, 2065

4:57pm

The gun is spinning on the turntable in front of you. The gun you and Tanaka compromised on. It’s a small black pistol, the deep metal drinking in the harsh light from the screens lining the walls as it spins and spins. In the center of the room, Yachi is typing vigorously, the reversal code practically finished, but she tended to be a perfectionist, so you sit beside her waiting for it to be done.

“I can help,” you offer, hoping she will let you this time. She just glances at you, a flick of anxiety flashing in her gaze before she shakes her head no.

“Why not?”

“It’s already done,” she responds, fingers still tapping on the keys. “I just have to double check if everything is in order.”

“Well, what is it?” You’ve been begging for her to share the code with you, trying to convince her that it would be smarter if more than one person had it, especially if she’s not able to reach the control center in time.

“Not telling you,” her hair falls to cover her face as she looks down at her stilled hands. “It has to be me. I just need for you to get me there.”

“Yachi, c’mon, at least tell Yams,” you argue, not understanding why she won’t share the information with anyone.

“S-sorry,” is all she says in response, and you let out an agitated sigh because you won’t win this argument. “What’s with the gun?” She motions towards it with her hand as she leans back in her chair, avoiding the initial topic.

“Tanaka doesn’t believe my dagger is enough protection,” you look back down at the spinning gun and your chest tightens at the mere idea of having to use it. “It was this or a fucking katana.”

She laughs, the abruptness startling you, but she doubles over and wheezes. A blush is blooming on her cheeks at the lack of oxygen going to her lungs, her laugh turning into hiccups and breathless gasps. It’s contagious, your own laugh soon wracking through you.

“I don’t get it,” you say through snorts. “What’s so funny?”

“I cannot imagine you wielding a katana,” tears of laughter are decorating her face. “You’d probably accidentally cut off your own arm before you manage to land it on anyone else.” She’s wiping the tears from her eyes as her breath slowly returns, her cheeks still flushed a pretty pink.

“I take offense to that. I would be such a badass with one,” you rebuttal.

“Sure,” she squeaks out.

“I just might need a little practice first.”

She falls into a fit of giggles again, probably imagining you tripping over the long blade forgetting that she’s the clumsy one. Your cheeks are hurting from smiling, a warmth rooting itself within you, and for the first time in weeks the flower of hope feels like it will bloom soon. The delicate petals unfurling with a promise of prosperity, a promise that things will be okay.

“Hey,” Tanaka bursts through the door, a little out of breath like he ran here. “Kenma was able to track Oikawa. He’s still at the estate, probably never left.”

“You think he’s still alive?” You jump from your seat, Yachi at your side in an instant.

“Definitely. Yamaguchi said you left him in the basement, but Kenma can see his movements and he’s currently on the move.”

“But what if it’s not him? What if someone just found his body and is carrying it around?” You are skeptical, unsure if Oikawa was able to survive two gunshot wounds and a crash.

“First of all, that’s nasty,” he wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Second of all, I don’t think it matters. The person, Oikawa or not, is heading to the control center. We have five hours before the thing is set to explode, so we leave in four.”

“Got it. The reversal code is ready,” Yachi interjects before you can. “I’m ready,” she straightens her shoulders, eyes determined as she meets yours.

You grab the gun that is now still on the table and place it in the holster on your hip. “Me too.”

June 17, 2065

9:22pm

The front of the estate is surrounded by steel poles, roughly 16 feet tall. Weaved between each pole are copper wires that conduct heat and electricity constantly, making it difficult to enter without burns or electric shocks. Fortunately, Kenma was able to hack into the compound's firewall rather easily since it had been abandoned for months and disconnected the alarm system.

The group gathers around the front gate, those who specialize in combat form the first row and once you enter the plan is to split into various smaller groups. You would head straight to the control center with Yachi and Yamaguchi, while Tanaka and Terushima serve as bodyguards. Yamaguchi’s ankle is doing better, his limp gone and the reinforcement device adorning his wrist. You are all wearing bulletproof vests, the material surprisingly thin and breathable as it’s strapped over your tank top. Your cut is safely hidden beneath it.

The gates are set to open at 9:30, the distance fighters successfully hidden in the trees while everyone else fans out on either side of your group. Kuroo managed to hand out flash grenades and smoke bombs to every unit, the sulfur in the lab results of failed bombs that blew up prematurely. You search the crowd counting the bodies, committing the number to memory; twenty-six, hoping that it will be the same when you exit tonight.

Kenma is standing next to Kuroo and you watch as he sends up a mini drone. The device flying into the trees and an image of Hinata and Nishinoya flash on his phone. The boys are settled high up in the trees, Noya’s crossbow strapped to his back, while Hinata is busy tying knots into rope, his knives and shuriken hidden beneath his clothing.

You start to feel the signs of a tension headache strain your neck, the anticipation sucking your soul from the confines of your skin. Tanaka is kneeling in front of you and you stare at the muscles of his back flex and relax through his black sleeveless shirt as he laces up his boots. Once he’s finished he twists on the balls of his feet to face you, hands going to check your laces and tucking the hem of your cargos into them, your ankles thanking him for the extra support.

“It’s almost time,” he whacks your thigh so you look down at him. “You ready?”

You give him a small nod, “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You remember the plan, right? Once we enter those doors you stay behind me. I’ll say when the coast is clear, but if things get too crazy, Yachi is the priority,” he rises from his position. “Get her to the control center, then find me. Don’t do anything irrational,” he finishes.

You give him a nervous laugh, “I’ll try.”

“No, it’s not you’ll t-”

“I’m kidding, Ryu,” you cut him off.

“Not funny, love,” he turns around to settle next to Terushima, whose arm is extending behind him, pinky linking with Yamaguchi’s.You link your arms with Yachi’s as you wait, only five more minutes left.

“Welcome!” Everyone’s attention snaps to the balcony above the double doors of the entrance. Oikawa is standing there, pale and bloody. “I wasn’t expecting to have this many guests come to watch the end with me. This is so heartwarming.”

The gates creak and shudder as they shuffle open. Volunteers begin to reveal themselves from their hiding spots to gather at the front doors, but no one on your side of the gates moves. Your hand wraps around the hilt of your dagger and your stance shifts so that Yachi is partially blocked by you.

He spots you in the crowd and he has the nerve to smirk at you, the once endearing gesture looks pained on his hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. A daunting beauty transforming his features. “Oh, darling, I’ve been expecting you,” he waves with his good hand, his injured arm is supported with a sling.

“I’m sure you’re glad to see me alive, but Iwa didn’t make it,” you can’t tell if he actually is pained by this with the way he sulks and leans on the rails. “So obviously I can’t let you leave here alive,” he giggles, almost drunkenly. “An eye for an eye or whatever they used to say.”

“I’ll kill him,” Tanaka snarls, gun pointing at Oikawa. You grip his arm to yank it down, fully aware that now is not the time.

“What was that about being irrational?” You hiss at him so he lowers his weapon. Oikawa sees this and you watch his entire demeanor change, his taunting gaze igniting into something far more terrifying.

“Who’s this, princess? You brought me a new toy?” His tone is flat, monotone. “Since you killed my last one!” You flinch at the rise in his voice, the rebels frozen in disbelief, a motivating fear beginning to billow through the crowd.

“We need to move,” Daichi’s deep voice diminishes Oikawa’s immediately. “NOW,” he screams and he’s the first on the move, gun firing shot after shot in the volunteers’ direction.

“STOP THEM!” Oikawa’s shrill shriek is hardly heard above the sounds of battle, but the volunteers do not hesitate. Their smell smacking the air from your lungs, no description adequate enough to warn you. Yachi’s hand is now firm in yours as you run close behind Tanaka. Your dagger unsheathed as your biceps tense with untapped energy. You slip through the front doors quickly, most of the fighting designated to those who formed the front lines.

You deduce that the volunteers are abnormally strong as you witness them tear metal like paper, and crack the estate’s concrete in single punches. Luckily, they are incredibly slow, their limbs swing and jerk in unsynchronized movements, as if they are babies taking their first steps. The rebels on the other hand are nimble, even the largest members fight with the agility of trained ballerinas, their movements fluid and graceful.

You yell for Tanaka and Terushima to take the stairs down to the basement. The claustrophobic idea of being stuck in an elevator is enough to stop your heart. Terushima reaches the door first, the force with which he tears it open rips it from its hinges.

You fly down the first flight, your grip on Yachi never loosening. Yamaguchi brings up the end, he’s holding nunchucks that you have no idea where he got them from. He flicks his wrist to swing them at one of the volunteers that followed you, the wood thwacking against her nose, splatters of blood erupt from her skull and dot Yamaguchi’s skin as she crumples to the floor, her body splaying out across the steps. “Don’t stop running!” He yells, hand grabbing Yachi’s elbow pushing you down the final flight to the basement.

The elevator dings at the end of the hallway, a ghastly Oikawa steps through and you catch a glimpse of silver. At first, you thought it had to be his veins visible through his milky skin, but now you can see the thin lines of silver snaking throughout his body. “He did not look like that yesterday,” Yamaguchi skids to a stop behind you.

Tanaka and Terushima have their weapons raised in front of you, a spear twirling in Teru’s hand. “Where’s the control room, Oikawa?” Tanaka calls out, his voice dripping with poison.

“Why would I tell you when they already know?” He quips, his retort losing substance when a wet cough breaks through his chest. “As you can see I can’t put up much of a fight,” he coughs again, dribbles of thinning blood leaks from his lips. “Iwa’s device doesn’t suit me too well,” he leans his neck to the side, a sickening pop coming from it.

“Iwa’s what?” You say it before you mean to, the situation only becoming creepier with every drop of new knowledge.

“You see, when Iwa was crushed, I found his body in the rubble. The implants we use jutting out from the skin between his shoulder blades, so I tore it out,” he staggers towards your group, the leg he was shot in scraping against the floor with each step. “I inserted it into the bullet wound above my knee,” he points to his twisted leg. “That way Iwa and I will always be together.”

“Dude, what the fuck,” Terushima says behind his hand as he gags. The smell of rotting flesh and rusty metal wafting through the hall with each drag of Oikawa’s leg.

You know he’s not down here alone, that he probably has volunteers stationed somewhere near the control center, but that’s down the hall, through another room. The five of you don’t stand a chance alone without knowing exactly how many are here. You also know that Oikawa’s breaths are numbered, his body actively rejecting the implant stealing away his time like he’s stalling yours.

“But if you really want to know,” he draws in a shallow breath and stops a few feet away from your group. “The control center is down this hall through that room,” he points to his right, the door cracked open. “I’ll let you pass, but good luck. I already input the code,” he inches towards the door and dramatically looks at his watch. “Seems like you only have 8 minutes.”

He wags his fingers at you as he leans into the door, his weight pushing it open fully and he disappears in the darkness. Tanaka’s running first, fluidly rushing to the open door, but before he reaches it many of the other ones open. Decaying bodies hauling the burden of their transformation into the corridor. “Ryu, wait!” You call out to him but he’s already surrounded. He unsheathes the sword strapped to his back and swings it out in a swift circular arc to force the volunteers back. You count seven in total, all focused dangerously on your boyfriend.

Terushima bends down in front of the three of you and unzips the pouch clipped around his hips. “Fall back,” he says.

“What’re you gonna do?” Yamaguchi bends at the waist to look over his shoulder. “I’m gonna use one of the stun grenades to distract them. Tanaka’s quick on his feet and he’ll know he only has a split second to escape. But first I need you guys to fall back.”

You’re hesitant at first, but Yachi tugs you away from them while Yamaguchi follows, still a step ahead. “Tanaka, get ready!” Terushima yells before he pulls the clip and tosses it. The grenade rolling to a stop at Tanaka’s feet.

“Get down,” you turn to tackle Yachi in your arms, your body shielding her from any fallout. The flashes and popping noises signaling its detonation. You look up when some of the noise dies down, the door leading to the control center swinging wildly while the volunteers trip over themselves, disoriented and scattered at the end of the hall. You missed the exact moment, but three of the volunteers were now on the ground, their implants sliced out from their shoulder blades. The pincers on the devices opening and closing in search for their host.

“Thanks, Tanaka,” Teru whispers in awe. “Impressive bastard took three of ‘em out on his own and discovered that you disable them by removing those creepy shits,” he laughs.

“Okay, babe, we’ll go in before the ladies,” he stands and helps Yamaguchi to his feet. “You take the small one in the corner. Leave the three big guys to me,” he smirks.

“Now’s not the time to compete, Teru,” Yamaguchi sighs, grabbing a switchblade from his pocket, while clutching the revolver in his other hand.

“A little healthy competition never hurt nobody,” he nudges Yamaguchi with his shoulder, sending him a sly wink. “Trust me.”

The boys bolt forward, weapons in hand as they twirl in combat, the first heavy body thumping to the ground. They clear the path for you and Yachi quickly, the space in front of the door now empty.

You grab Yachi and book it. Your concern for Tanaka’s safety rises exponentially as you rush to the control center, where he and Oikawa surely are.

The room opens up and near the center you see Oikawa and Tanaka arguing loudly, Tanaka’s gun pointing at Oikawa while he grips the sword behind him to keep the volunteers at bay. The control center is blinking, digital numbers floating above the panel counting down ominously. You have five minutes left and the prospects of disabling the system are low. The ring of volunteers lining the perimeter is your main obstacle because at any given moment their motionless blank stares could be activated.

“What do we do?” Yachi whispers hurriedly beside you, no one noticing the two of you enter the room yet.

“We get you to the panel in the next five minutes. How?” You’re trying to think as fast as possible. “I don’t know yet.” Thoughts are racing through your mind, words popping out to form some coherent thought before you rattle out your best plan.

“I’ll distract Oikawa. You run as fast as you can to the panel,” you suggest. “And we pray some of the other rebels show up as back up.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very good plan,” Yachi bites the nail on her thumb.

“Well unless you have something better, I can’t think of anything else,” you respond, eyebrows raised and she shakes her head no.

“So just walk behind Oikawa and hopefully he won’t see you. Once you’re out of his line of sight I’ll say something to get his attention,” you explain.

“Got it,” she nods, releasing your hand as she steps across your body to start moving towards the control center. The boys are still arguing and you get the sense that Tanaka knows you're there. Coincidentally, maneuvering his body to obscure Yachi until she isn’t visible to him.

“Tooru,” your voice echoes in the chamber. “How about we talk this out?”

His voice dies in his throat once he notices you. Somehow surprised that you would chase them down here. “I know I blew up on you in the past but just give me another chance. We can stall all of this,” you wave your hands around at the control center and all the volunteers. “And maybe come to a compromise.”

Four minutes.

“Compromise? As if you even know the meaning of the word, princess,” there’s no endearment in his tone anymore. Just condescension and disgust. “I’ll start by killing your boyfriend and you can watch me. Then I’ll kill all your pathetic friends. Saving my sweet, sweet love for last,” his voice is eerily flat, similar to when he was speaking from the balcony earlier.

Three minutes, twenty-three seconds.

“You son of a bitch, I’d like to see you try,” Tanaka growls, the sword that was pointed at the volunteers now positioned over Oikawa’s chest. “I’ll tear your heart out before you can lay a finger on her.”

“I sense a challenge,” Oikawa chuckles and steps so the tip of the sword is touching his chest. “Let’s test that. You heard him, right guys? Why don’t we see if this knight in shining armor can save his damsel in distress,” he knows he’s going to die here, he’s smiling from ear to ear at Tanaka and he reaches to wrap his hand around the sharp edge of the sword, blood spilling from his palm down his wrist. “Kill them.”

The volunteers bumble forward, their numbers overwhelming the three of you. Tanaka pulls his sword from Oikawa’s hand to go after them. Yachi is almost to the control panel, but a volunteer suddenly blocks her path, lunging to crush her beneath their fists. You sprint for her, she has a knife on her leg but it’s clear she forgot to reach for it. She ducks beneath their arm, she��s surprisingly agile despite her frequent clumsiness. There’s an opening between the monstrosity’s legs as they stupidly move to follow her. You slide on your knees straight between their legs to slice through their achille’s heel, cutting off the function of their lower body. They faceplant by Yachi’s feet as she shrieks from nearly being crushed as you climb the limp body, your fingers locating the implant and stabbing into the tough skin, the implant wiggling in your hands as you tear it out. The device latches on to your pointer finger to dig into your skin. You scream and shake it off immediately and it lands at Yachi’s feet before she stomps on it like a bug, the crunching resembling the sound of a cockroach beneath her boot.

There’s a grunt from Tanaka’s direction and you see he’s pinned Oikawa to the floor between his knees. The tussle looks like it’s in his favor when Oikawa rips the implant from the wound above his knee and attempts to insert it into the smooth skin of Tanaka’s neck. You stare as he screams in pain, the pincers scratching and cutting into him. You’re too far to use your dagger, you won’t make it before the implant is successfully transferred to him, so you reach for the pistol on your hip. You hold it out in front of you preparing your shot but it’s too risky. Tanaka’s back is to you and only with perfect aim will you be able to land a shot on Oikawa from over his shoulder, the trembling of your hands only worsening the situation.

Two minutes, twenty-five seconds.

The time will be out before you shoot your gun, before Yachi will make it to the control center. Despair ruining your disposition and any confidence you would have had taking this shot is snatched from you as Tanaka screams in pain. You position the gun as best you can, praying to any divine being who happens to hear you to bless you with perfect aim. You begin to squeeze the trigger, forcing your eyes to stay open, when an arrow comes whizzing past your cheek, the speed of it burning the soft skin. You stare in astonishment as it lodges itself in Oikawa’s eye, blood spraying everywhere from the impact and his body slumps to the ground, hand still clasping the implant as it fidgets in his fingertips. Tanaka cringes when he gets off of him and turns to Nishinoya, whose crossbow is still aimed at them and the tension in your shoulders ease slightly.

Your relief is short lived as you survey the situation. Nearly all of the rebels are here, but there are simply too many enemies and they don’t have enough energy to continue to fight. You jump from your spot to look for Yachi and she’s still running to the panel, the disaster gathered in the room preventing her from reaching it. You know it’s too late. Your naive dream beginning to wither away before your eyes so you rush to go get her.

“Yachi, stop! It’s over,” You scream over the noise of the chaos around you, bodies strewn across the floor while blood begins to pool and smear everywhere. You are holding her arm, pulling her away from the control center in the middle of the room.

“It’s not over, how could you give up so easily?! I can do this, you have to trust me! I am the only one who can decode the software. It’s my fault any of this is happening anyway. I did this!” Tears are flowing down her face in a violent stream. Her cheeks red with frustration and stress, eyes pleading with you to let her go. “I put all of you in danger! I’m an idiot and I should’ve been able to figure out their plan, but I had to go and try to prove myself to my mom! I-I had to ruin everything because I was so stupidly naive,” her voice was breaking around every syllable, guilt ripping through her.

“But I can’t lose you!” The lump in your throat was making it difficult to speak as the only option dawned on you. The only option she is pleading for you trust her with. Tears are stinging at your eyes, threatening to spill over while you try desperately to hold them back. “Y-you’re my best friend,” you’re exhausted, the words sincere as they slide through the space between you. Yachi steps towards you, hand coming up to rest on your cheek to catch the stray tear slipping down.

“I know and that’s why I need to do this. I need to save you. I need to save Yams. And the others. We can’t lose anymore lives because of something I created,” you let your eyes shut, all the fight you had leaving your body as your grip loosens on her arm. She wraps her arms around you for a final embrace, her body still for once, the trembling gone from her nerves as your arms hold her. “I know I can fix this, but I need for you to get as many people as you can out of here first,” she untangles herself from you.

“There’s a large safe at the end of this hallway. The code is my birthday. Grab anyone left, anyone still alive and shut yourselves in there. I won’t be able to disconnect the devices in this building because I won’t have enough time so there will still be a loud explosion. When you hear that it’s safe to come out,” she takes a step away from you, expression fixed leaving you no room to argue.

“O-okay,” you force the word from your lips because this was far from okay, “j-just know that, um, that I love you. So fucking much,” her figure begins to blur as the tears gather in your eyes.

“I love you too, y/n. Promise me that you will make it out of here. Promise me that you will get to watch the sunset. A real one. For me,” she pleads and you blink to clear your vision, hot tears burning the raw skin of your under eyes. “Yes, I p-promise,” you choke on these last words.

“Thank you. Now go, please” this is the calmest you have ever seen her as she steps away from you, body turning to clumsily run to the control panel. Time is moving in slow motion. The bodies around you moving in vivid detail. Every swing, punch, and kick are stuttering like a stop motion film. You don’t know if you’re breathing anymore, all of your functions glitching in a solitary moment of grief.

“Hey, look at me!” You can hear Tanaka’s voice, see his figure pummeling towards you, but he’s fuzzy, out of focus. You think his hands are on your arms, but it feels distant and cold, a ghost of everything he is. “Hey!” He shakes you aggressively, your brain fighting against the current of sorrow dragging you below the murky surface. “Don’t let the last words you said to her be a lie! Don’t break this promise!”

You cut through the surface and see Tanaka clearly. He’s covered in blood, his neck bleeding from where Oikawa punctured his skin with the implant. “We have to go. You have to go,” he shoves you to the exit, your motor functions working on autopilot. You grab who you can as you run for the safe. Yelling orders and instructions to anyone who can hear you.

One minute, seventeen seconds.

Suga’s at your side holding up Ennoshita while Daichi is calling for people to rush to the safe. You make it there first, and incorrectly punch in the code at first, the small numbers duplicating, but you get it right the second try. The heavy door swinging open with surprising ease as you move out the way to let Suga and Ennoshita in before you. A few of the other guys bolt in soon after and you just stand there waiting for Tanaka, waiting for Yamaguchi, and Kenma, and Yachi.

Yamaguchi cuts the corner first, Terushima on his tail. You feel a flash of relief when you see them, the distance between you closing rapidly. Yamaguchi trips over the step into the safe, but Terushima catches him before he makes contact with the ground, mumbling something to him that you can’t quite make out.

Tanaka’s next and he’s screaming at you but you hardly hear him over the commotion. You hardly register the distance until he’s right in front of you again. “What are you doing just standing here?!” He yells. “Let’s go,” he practically lifts you into the room and holds your back to his chest against one of the metal walls, preventing you from running out again.

You can’t tell who else enters the safe, your panic and grief merging in a merciless waltz. The door slams shut and Daichi is the last to come in, his strong hands holding firm on the handle. Your eyes now begin to scan the bodies in the room, some fine with just a few cuts and bruises, others worse, bleeding dangerously from various points in their body. You count like you did before any of this started.

Twenty-six. Minus one. Twenty-five.

You start from the corner opposite you, whispering number to face to name.

Twenty-one, orange hair, brown eyes: Hinata. Twenty-two, flash of blonde, fixed glare: Nishinoya. Twenty-three, disheveled black hair-

“Where’s Kenma?” Kuroo’s voice breaks your trance. There’s only twenty-four people in the safe.

“Where’s Kenma?” You repeat, fighting Tanaka’s grip to bolt to the door.

“Daichi!” Kuroo screams. “Answer me!”

“He stayed behind,” Daichi’s shoulders fall in defeat. “Said something about this being his final move. That this was game over for him and the prize for winning would be our lives. Then stuck something on the door and told me to tell you that he’s,” he pauses, his usually solid voice wavering. “He said he’s not a loser.”

“And you let him?!” Kuroo runs at him, intent on pulling him away from the door and ripping it open. “He’s an idiot! I have to go get him!” Daichi locks Kuroo’s arms behind his back. “Let me go!” He’s kicking and shoving, but Daichi refuses to stand down. “There’s still time! I HAVE TIME TO SAVE HIM!”

“There is no time, Tetsuro! We are out of time!” At this moment the floor rumbles, the walls vibrate as they shield you from the brunt of the blast. Kuroo’s reaction is visceral, a primal scream blowing out his vocal chords as dust starts to fall from the ceiling. You watch Hinata fall to his knees, the inhibited light dimming in his eyes as his head falls in his hands, body convulsing with sobs.

00:00

You’re drowning, your lungs are full of water, air sticking to the lining of your esophagus, the burning pain of no oxygen clouding your brain. Your head heavy on your neck, the effort of holding up your body wearing away as you let all of your weight fall back on Tanaka. His own body sliding down the wall until you’re both on the floor, you wailing pathetically between his legs and he just holds you to his chest, even when you resist and scream for him to leave you alone, he silently holds you.

No one makes a move to leave. The burden of losing people weighing heavy in the tight, crowded room.

You don’t remember too much after this. The solemn, dreadful walk back to the hideout is syrupy, your body hardly moving through the thickness of desolation. You stumble over bodies and slip on spilled blood, the aftermath of the explosion evident on every surface, making your ascent cumbersome as you climb out. The familiar fog an odd comfort concealing you from intrusive eyes.

The hideout is stale and uneasy. Your heartbeat pulsing irregularly in your chest, grief induced anesthetic numbing your bloodstream. Tanaka’s room is dark and his bed looks unusually comfortable. You lurch towards it, but Tanaka stops you. His arms pulling you into the bathroom, the shower already running with steam creeping over the top of the glass door. He helps you undress and step into the tub, tying your hair up in a messy bun before the water hits you. He steps in behind you and swipes a wet cloth over your body. Blood, dirt, and dust turning the water at your feet a translucent brown as it disappears down the drain.

Tanaka wraps new gauze around your waist, the sting of the alcohol barely noticeable anymore. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts as he tucks you into bed. His body settling in beside you, his strong arms cradling you in his embrace as he whispers gentle words of affirmation into your hair. His soothing voice eventually lulling you into a dreamless slumber.

You wake up unexpectedly, the sounds of your own whimpers breaking the awful silence. “I’m here,” Tanaka pets your hair. “I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here,” he reassures you as his arms press you deeper to his chest. Your fingers clinging to the sheet draped over his bare torso.

He leans down to pepper kisses across your tear stained cheeks. His lips connecting with every inch of skin. You tilt your face to catch his lips in a slow kiss, his movements initially hesitant. You drift your fingers to outline his collarbone, tracing along each line of muscle and ridge of scar tissue, determined to memorize all his imperfections. Determined to cement the entirety of his physique into your memory so he will never fade if he ever leaves you too.

Your fingers stop at the waistband of his underwear, toying with the elastic before you venture further down as you sketch the dip of his hip bone, the sharpness of his pelvis, and the strength of his relaxed thigh behind your closed eyelids. He stops you before you can delve deeper. “We shouldn’t,” is all he says, lips still slotted perfectly between yours.

“I want you, Ryu,” you’re aware of the desperation in your tone, aware of your need for physical touch emitting off of you in heady rays. “Please.”

He screws his eyes shut, his internal dialogue written all over his handsome features. It’s not because he doesn’t want to, the evidence of his quiet arousal mere inches from your fingertips. He’s afraid of hurting you, afraid of pushing you too far even though you’re asking for this, but you want to show him how much you want him. How much you need him.

How much you love him.

You gently pry your wrist from his loose grasp to massage the soft skin of his erection, slowing your motions when he stiffens. “Let me,” you plead beneath your breath.

“Let me feel you, let me know you’re here.”

You feel him nod above you, his body relaxing into your touch, his hips rutting gently into your palm until he’s painfully hard. He shifts to caress the back of your neck, tilting your head to look at him as he places a lingering kiss to your forehead. His lips smoothing over your features before he melts into you again. His kisses are slow and passionate, a welcome distraction to the flurry of disheartening emotions plaguing you.

He rolls the both of you over so he’s resting on his elbows above you and removes your hand from his cock to place it over his heart. The action is cheesy but you can feel the heartbeat beneath his muscle. The steady, rhythmic pulse pumping blood through his veins, a sign that he is alive, that he’s breathing and he’s with you.

You fight the tears begging to spill over, fearing that you might ruin the moment. He strokes your cheek, thumb rubbing soothing circles beneath the skin of your eyes.

“I’m gonna touch you, okay?” His voice is broken from exhaustion and vulnerability, but his hand moves to shift your panties to the side when you nod for him to continue. His fingers slipping between your folds to gather the slick at your entrance, circling your clit lightly. You lift your hips to roll into his fingers, silently asking for more as your pleasure begins to prickle at your nerves.

He begins to move away from you and for a moment you think he’s going to stop, instead he pulls himself from his boxers and strokes whatever slick he gathered over his erection. The tip of his cock a blossoming red as he continues to touch himself. “Ryu, hurry,” you whine, impatience beginning to nag at you, body seeking the delirious sensation of pleasure.

“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry,” his voice is soft, the meaning of his words holding avenues of interpretations as he positions himself at your entrance. His arm shakes with strain beside your face as he pushes his head past your initial ring of muscle, stopping midway to thrust shallowly. Despite your begging for him to hurry up, you’re still tense, your walls clenching tight around him.

“Baby, I need you to relax,” he says through gritted teeth, the efforts of restraining himself lock his muscles into place, but you take a deep breath at his words, allowing your legs to fall open around his hips, crossing your ankles behind the small of his back.

“Move,” your breath catches in your throat as he thrusts a little deeper that time. “I’ll be fine, just move.”

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes searching yours for even a semblance of doubt. When he doesn’t find it, he rests his forehead on yours, eyes closed as he sheathes himself inside you entirely. You feel too full when he doesn’t follow through so you wiggle your hips to press firmly into his, a low groan reverberating through his chest as you grind against him, your arms stationed securely around his neck.

Not too long after he begins to meet the rocking of your hips, his movements deliberate and measured. You keen into his touch as his head falls to rest beside your neck, mouthing the skin to muffle his moans as his pace quickens.

He slips his arms beneath your back, hugging you tightly to his chest. The new angle sends a jolt of electric pleasure through your veins, his thrusts are determined as he searches for your release.

“Not gonna last long,” he groans into your neck, fingers digging into your sides as he tries to stall his own release. You’re closer than he thinks though, your head is swimming with euphoria, brain clouded with the tastes of ecstasy.

“Don’t stop, Ryu. I’m so close,” you beg, your voice dripping with desire. You feel one of his hands move to fist the sheet below you as he breaks his steady pace, the force of his hips jostling you passionately. The pressure building in your abdomen is unbearable, his cock slamming into your sensitive walls fervently.

“Fuck,” you moan into his ear as your senses crash, your body singing with unexpected bliss. His thrusts begin to falter, his own release on the horizon as his grip on you hardens.

“M’gonna come,” he stutters out, voice gravelly with need. “Need you to move, so I, shit,” he’s struggling to get his words out as the hand fisting the sheet moves to wrap around your calf. “So I can pull out,” he groans and pushes on your leg to unlock your ankles.

“No,” you refuse. “Inside, just come inside, please Ryu” he never has, the implications too dangerous for him to ever consider, but right now you need to feel every part of him.

“Baby,” he whines, his voice an octave higher. The desperation in your tone crumbling his resolve and before he can say no he’s spilling inside you. The sporadic contractions of your walls around his cock coupled with the way you whimper his name against the shell of his ear is what ruins him.

He collapses on top of you, his dense weight flattening you into the mattress as he twitches inside you. You don’t mind the heaviness, content with falling asleep just like this but he rolls the both of you on your sides, probably realizing he was crushing you.

His face is still nestled in the groove of your neck when you feel him chuckle against your skin. “Can’t believe you tricked me into doing that?” A small smile stretching his lips on your shoulder.

“Trick? I wouldn’t it call it that,” a matching smile plays on your features.

“It was sneaky and you know it.” You laugh despite everything that happened today.

“I love you,” you never said it back, but you’re certain now as your body flows with appreciation.

“I love you too.”

June 18, 2065

6:38am

It’s too early to wake up, but your mind disregards your obvious fatigue when you find yourself on Tanaka’s balcony. The events of last night looping perpetually in your head as you stare at the city that was supposed to be demolished. There’s no movement, hardly any noise beside the buzzing neon sign flickering four floors down. It’s as if everyone is in mourning. A victory cause for celebration, but the density of grief burdens the atmosphere.

“What’re doing up?” Tanaka appears behind you, arms enclosing around your waist.

“Couldn’t sleep anymore,” you reply dryly. He hums behind you and rests his chin on your head as you two watch the sky change from a deep purple to the dull pink that never cuts through the fog.

“What now?” You ask, not really expecting an answer.

“I’m not sure,” he shrugs, this transition stretching into miles of uncharted area.

“We leave,” he says, finally.

“Where would we even go?” Confusion laces your tone. The two of you have never left Tokyo, partially because it was impossible with the barrier surrounding the city.

“Miyagi,” he says as if he’s familiar with the prefecture.

“I don’t know,” you hesitate. “There was a project I wanted to complete for,” your voice fades into the early morning. The image of the simulation machine popping into your mind as you remember the pixelated beach glitching in the large room. The last moment you had with him.

“Bring it with you,” Tanaka suggests as he turns you in his embrace to look at him.

“What’s in Miyagi?” His adamant stare confusing you further.

“My sister,” he’s never mentioned her before, and you raise your eyebrows in question. “A few of the rebels left here right before you showed up to search for others. She led them,” he explains.

“I hadn’t heard from her until she called me two days ago. I was worried something happened, but she’s fine,” he shakes his head.

“I obviously didn’t get the chance to tell you, but she’s there and they found more than they were expecting.”

“How did they even get past the barrier?”

“Kenma.” His tone softens around his name, but you're not the least bit surprised that he managed to break down the barrier.

“Of course.” You rest your head against his chest.

“The rebellion is stronger there. We may have a chance to save all of Japan. Not just Tokyo,” you process his words, unsure of how to respond.

“And,” he cups your neck so you’re staring into his eyes. “The sun sets in Miyagi.”

#tanaka ryunosuke #Tanaka x reader #tanaka smut #tanaka fanfic #apocalypse #the smut pile collab #hq #cyberpunk

59 notes · View notes

pretchatta · 4 years

Text

I (accidentally) rewatched the entirety of s1 of rebels recently (in my defense it is utterly flawless and possibly the best star wars content out there) anyway, when I was at the part where ezra is in the jedi temple on lothal and sees the inquisitor killing the rest of the crew his family I thought: what if that was kanan? and then this happened. (ao3 link in the source)

rating: teen, warnings for (non-permanent) character death and violence

---

Kanan was running.

Somehow, the Inquisitor had found him on Lothal. The pau’an had ambushed him at the Kothal market during his supply run and Kanan had barely escaped with his life. As market stalls had tumbled to the ground around them, the people of Lothal had screamed and fled in fear. In the panic and confusion he’d lost both the supplies and his lightsaber, so now he ran.

He just had to make it to the Ghost, and then Hera could fly them all away to safety.

He raced across the plains, prey fleeing from a predator, the waist-high grasses whipping his legs and threatening to entangle his ankles. He somehow managed to stay ahead of his pursuer, but he could feel the Inquisitor gaining on him. He tried to increase his speed, but his legs wouldn’t move any faster through the grass.

By the time he reached the ship, he was barely holding onto his lead. Panic was rising in his chest.

“Hera, take off!” he shouted, racing up the ramp. He came past Zeb coming the other way.

“I’ve got your back, Kanan!”

Kanan heard the hum of his bo-rifle activating. “Zeb, no!”

He was too slow to stop him. The clash of the staff against a lightsaber reached his ears from behind, and then his friend’s strangled yell. He turned just in time to see Zeb’s body hit the ground at the base of the ramp.

Kanan stumbled backwards, looking up and into yellow glowing eyes. The Inquisitor’s mouth split into a cruel grin that revealed rows of pointed teeth.

“Hera!” Kanan yelled again desperately. Why wasn’t she starting the engines? Couldn’t she hear him?

His flight instinct took over and he made it to the ladder, scrambling up it. As he passed the nose gun, Sabine ran onto the balcony, blasters out. He opened his mouth to tell her to stop, run, go back, but she was already shooting at the dark figure emerging below. With an almost lazy flick of his saber, the Inquisitor sent the bolts straight back to her. Her body crumpled to the deck, the holes in her bodysuit smoking. Her armour had always been too small for her; she’d left Mandalore too young to have a full-sized suit.

With no way of his own to fight back, Kanan kept going up. At every rung he fought against the pain of knowing his family were sacrificing themselves for him. He made it to the top of the ladder when he heard something that made his heart drop through his feet.

“Stop right there!”

Kanan looked down to see Ezra advancing on the Inquisitor, who had stowed his lightsaber and was about to step onto the first rung of the ladder. The pau’an turned to snarl at Kanan’s apprentice. A black-gloved hand shot out, fingers twisted into a claw, and Ezra was sent flying backwards. He hit the bulkhead with a sickening crunch and hung there, suspended for a moment, before the Inquisitor dropped his hand. Ezra fell to the floor. He didn’t move again.

“No!” Kanan screamed.

The eyes were back on him, and it was like his whole body was being drenched in fire and ice, the terror all-consuming. He fled upwards into the cockpit where, with a rush of relief, he saw Hera was already in the pilot’s seat.

“We have to go, now!”

“What is it, love? What’s happening?” She stood up to meet him in the middle, relaxed and ignorant of the slaughter below.

“It’s the Inquisitor, he found me. We have to take off!”

“But he’s already on the ship.” If she knew that, why was she being so calm? “You should take the Phantom and get yourself to safety.”

He nodded; she was right. “Yeah, okay, let’s do that. Come on, let’s go!” He took her hand and dragged her to the door that led to the rest of the ship, but she resisted.

“I’ll hold him off so you can get away.” She took her blaster out of its holster.

“No, we can fight him together!”

The pale, elongated head was already coming out of the hatch.

“Kanan, we cannot win this battle… You must run.” Her voice sounded different. She pushed him through the door. “Go, I’ll be right behind you.”

Her blaster was raised and her body half turned towards the cockpit, but she was still looking at him. She didn’t see the dark shadow moving behind her, and he was too frozen with fear to warn her.

Her lips parted in a silent cry as the red blade blossomed from the center of her chest. The light faded from her eyes, and Kanan felt agony rip through his entire body as he watched.

“No! Hera! NO!”

The blade retracted and she sank to her knees, still staring sightlessly up at him. Slowly, she tipped sideways, landing on the deck in a sprawl of limbs and lekku. Dead, like the rest of his family.

He hadn’t been strong enough to protect them, any of them. They had given their lives to protect him, and now it was his fault they were gone. He wasn’t even worthy of their sacrifice.

The Inquisitor stepped over her lifeless form, advancing on him. He stumbled backwards, barely staying on his feet, trying to keep the distance between himself and his hunter. His back hit the closed doors at the other end of the corridor.

Was there any point in fighting back, now? What was left to live for?

The lightsaber ignited again, and with a snarl, the Inquisitor lunged forward. As he watched death coming for him, he screamed, for he realised that even after everything he was still a coward. He didn’t want to die.

The lightsaber slashed downwards. Everything went black.

His throat hurt. His muscles ached. Fear – no, terror – permeated every cell in his body. Something sharp was digging into his shoulder. He was screaming, a wordless shout that continued seamlessly from where he’d been a moment before. That was why his throat hurt. He stopped, but it still felt raw. He heaved a gasping breath.

He was in his bunk on the Ghost – no, Hera’s bunk. The sheets were twisted and wrapped around him, and his whole body was covered in sweat. Had he been dreaming? No, it was too real. They were all dead. His family were dead, and it was his fault, and he was dead too–

“Kanan? Kanan, wake up! It’s just a dream, please, love, you’re dreaming, wake up.”

Something was shaking him, and he realised the pain was from fingers gripping his shoulder.

“Hera?” he asked hoarsely, because even though it couldn’t possibly be her, he’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“It’s me, love, I’m here.”

A soft hand cupped his cheek and turned his head to look at–

“Hera!”

He dived at her, wrapping his arms around her blissfully warm body, the forcefulness of his movement nearly taking them both off the bed and onto the floor. He didn’t care. He squeezed her tightly, feeling how alive she was, how real, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“You’re alive,” he whispered, rocking backwards and forwards, not letting her go. Tears streamed down his face, tears of relief and pain and love and fear.

“It’s okay, it was just a nightmare, you’re okay now,” she soothed, stroking his back with one arm – the other was trapped between them and unlikely to escape from his vice-like grip on her. “I’m okay. Everyone’s okay, you’re on the Ghost, we’re all safe, there’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

“It was – s-so real –” he choked between sobs. His whole body was shaking now, but she continued to stroke his back and just let him hold her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head, burying his face in her shoulder. She pressed a kiss to the side of his face and her hand moved to his head to stroke his hair. Everything about her comforted him; the shape of her body, the way it physically pressed against him, the smell of her skin, the smooth glide of her hand over his head, the soft murmuring of her voice in his ear. Hera made him feel safe in a way that no person or place had since he was fourteen.

Eventually, his heart rate slowed to something nearer its normal pace and his breathing evened out. He loosened his grip on Hera and allowed her to find a more comfortable position, but didn’t completely let go of her; he wasn’t ready for that just yet. The fear and grief from the nightmare still lingered, tendrils of darkness lurking in the corners of his mind, but he felt somewhat in control of himself again. The dream may have been all of his worst fears rolled into one, tortuous visual, but it was just that; a dream. It wasn’t real.

He breathed in and opened himself to the Force. Immediately he felt Hera beside him, her presence blazing with love and a fierce protectiveness. Expanding his awareness outwards, he felt each member of his crew; his family. They all slept soundly, their Force signatures calm and muted, dreaming their own dreams. And alive.

Despite everything, they were all miraculously, blissfully alive.

#kanan jarrus #star wars rebels #star wars: rebels #the inquisitor #kanera #hera syndulla #the grand inquisitor #scheduling this for that dead spot in my queue at midnight #fic #space family #pretchwritta

42 notes · View notes

rheyaapostolous · 4 years

Text

Building on this post, if you haven't read that, I reccomend reading it before this as I'm building on that theory!

Judging by how long it has taken to get the shards to the blade of shadow, it is unlikely that we will be seeing the aforementioned blade of light in this book. All of you worrying about not getting a sequel like myself, hopefully this eases your worries.

Everything in the Blades universe comes at price, to maintain balance, and the shards are no different. A shadow cannot exist without light, and therefore there must be a light counterpart to the shards. We are most definitely building the blade of shadow, the final shard is a hilt, not question. However, if you look at the crossguard here and compare it with the shard you will see the likeness.

It may be broken, but the shape is the same, but look at the shadows.

That's where our confirmation is. Back to balance, it's been a huge theme throughout the book, how you must give life to use magic, and how the light demands it. Neither darkness nor light can coexist without each other, meaning there must be light shards as a cousin to the shadow shards out there.

But interestingly, MC is wielding both of them, but if it has a price, wouldn't using them drain our life dramatically especially if your MC is human.

Another theory I stumbled across was that the blade of sol was the blade of light, however when looking closely the differences are striking.

In short, it's likely that we've accidentally done what the shadow court wanted all along, and done their work for them. We also handed the shards over to the Temple of Light which has very clearly been corrupted. It would not be unusual for a blade shrouded by darkness to demand human life to be forged, and the only thing that can stop shadow is light (back to the balance part!)

I would confidently say we are getting a sequel, or even a trilogy because mc is wielding both blades, which we would have to reclaim and likely fight the dreadlord with them, similar to the battle all that time ago.

#blades of light and shadow #choices blades #playchoices

587 notes · View notes

kimnamjoonsrightthigh · 3 years

Text

0.1/Thursday night/KNJ

Series Protector, protected

Part 1/?

Summary On your way home, you encounter someone in need of your help. Giving it earns you six new friends and one new enemy.

Genre Drama, fluff, bit of angst, bit of antagonists to lovers, eventual smut, hurt/comfort.

Pairing Namjoon x Reader.

Warnings (Implied) violence, blood, referenced injury.

Tags Tourist!AU, reader is a clumsy brave idiot, Jungkook is everyone’s baby, possessive!Namjoon, this will be a long one.

Wordcount 1K.

It was so late on Thursday that it had already turned into Friday, your boss expected you on 8 AM sharp, and you should have been in bed hours ago. The person most responsible for your predicament, other than yourself, was your best friend and her uncanny ability to turn a simple evening into a whole night. Her boyfriend merited the occasional bottle of red, though, and you had no problem sacrificing a few hours of sleep to make her feel better. Her troubles had been your troubles since college. You kept texting her, your digital shadow, while you ducked into one of a hundred shortcuts on your way home.

At 2AM, the streets weren’t exactly empty, but you lived far enough off the downtown grid to miss most of the nightlife excitement. You were strolling instead of walking, at ease in the warmth of the night. Summer had faded into September, yet the temperature barely dipped below 70. Your hometown liked to wallow in its humidity and heat, not that you minded. You enjoyed summer, how there were always new friends to be made, how the parks flowered and flourished, how the nights were never cut short by anything other than your own choice.

You turned a corner, eyes on your phone as it lit up with another of Ani’s texts. You heard the scuffle before you saw it, and instinctively slipped into the shade of a doorway before surveying the situation. The street was lit well enough, four or five lamps casting their yellowing glow, but from your vantage point, nothing much was visible. There was the sound of blows landing – a grunt, and two, three voices. A taunt, in English, then a language you didn’t know. It sounded breathless and pleading. The air had turned oppressive as sweat beads rolled down your neck. Your hand fumbled for the pepper spray in the outer pocket of your bag before securing the strap across your chest. Calling the police crossed your mind briefly, but you knew they’d never make it in time. You stepped back into the alley, canister in hand.

“Hey! Leave ‘em alone!” You were yelling, as much as your lungs would give. There were three men total, surrounding a person on the ground. They were sizing you up, barely clearing 5’5’’, pepper spray extended. You couldn’t see any weapons, and at a guess, they were muggers, not killers. “I called the cops,” you said loudly, and at that the culprits turned and fled. You were rooted to the spot until their footsteps had faded. The sound of your heartbeat drowned out almost everything else. That was until the intended victim stirred. You realized now he had been sitting up, head between his knees. He peered around sheepishly until his eyes landed on you, who was still clutching the pepper spray. You attempted a smile and shoved the can back into your bag.

“Are you alright?” you asked. He was very pretty, you noted, almost pretty enough to distract you from the blood trickling down his temple. “Whoa, easy.” He got up and stumbled almost immediately. You managed to get your arm around his shoulders just in time to catch him.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. Before you could ask any of the thousand questions swirling around in your head, or consider your lack of personal space, you heard voices call from further away. The man raised his head in recognition. You strained to hear better but couldn’t make out the words being said. He called out to them, which left a ringing in your ear.

“Your friends?” you asked, hopeful. He nodded, smiling. The voices were closer now and while you were still contemplating your general situation, a group of men rounded the corner. The tallest one broke into a sprint upon seeing you – or more likely the man you were currently holding upright. You felt the urge to flinch and retreat, which was hard, given that you were still wrapped up in your new acquaintance. There was an indignant look directed your way as he was taken from your hands. The rest of the gang caught up with you. There was some rapid-fire exchange as the strangers checked their friend for injuries, so you gladly took a step back. You silently inducted the following minutes into your personal hall of most awkward moments fame while their conversation went on. When your rescue kept gesturing in your general direction, you waved to keep your hand from facepalming repeatedly. They were standing in a semi-circle, still talking and – fighting? Their voices rose and fell with a cadence you recognized as scolding. You counted seven total, all of them tall and handsome and stylish in a way you weren’t used to. Alternative came to mind. B-Boys maybe. Brothers? Besties? They certainly acted like it, fussing over their friend’s hair, face, hands while also chewing him out. After another minute of that, all seven turned towards you. You wanted to wave again, but caught yourself at the last second.

“I’m Namjoon,” said the tall one, and with eerie synchronicity, they all took a little bow, some more enthusiastic than others, “these are my friends, Seokjin, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook.” You introduced yourself and shook Namjoon’s hand. He was so obviously the pack leader you briefly wondered if you had accidentally stumbled into a gang-thing. But then you looked at Hoseok’s bucket hat and Seokjin’s two fanny packs and decided against that hunch. “Thank you for helping Jungkook.”

“Well, if, uh, Jungkook is okay, you should go report this. And, no offense, but, you look like tourists. You should probably get a cab to the police station.” A familiar, warm feeling took hold of you. Protectiveness. You could tell they were shaken, probably even more than you. Maybe you shouldn’t let them traipse off on their own into the night. It hadn’t ended well the first time.

“We will,” Namjoon said.

“I could take you, or at least walk you to the next intersection,” you suggested. He put on a smile at that, one you could tell was fake. You raised your hands in a gesture you hoped was placating, and added: “Or not. Just… don’t lose anyone again.”

You were staring at them. They were staring at you. You cleared your throat, then waved – again – and scooched past them to continue on your way home without another word. The very second the door fell closed behind you, your phone was in your hand, speed-dialing Ani’s number.

#BTS #BTS fic #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #tourist!AU

12 notes · View notes

splendidlyimperfect · 4 years

Link

When Gray wakes up one night with a voice in his head, the last thing he expects is to suddenly be sharing a body with a demon. Natsu is nothing like Gray expected, though. He's surprisingly charming, and more concerned about getting Gray to eat vegetables than he is with taking over the world. Since Gray can't push him away like he does with everyone else, he begrudgingly accepts Natsu's place in his life - for now. But when Natsu ends up needing Gray's help, what started out as an inconvenience turns into a road trip - and a friendship - that changes Gray's life.

written for @fuckyeahgratsu gratsu weekend 2021 event

day 1; prompt: first

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Fairy Tail Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster Characters: Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel, Lyon Vastia, Mard Geer Tartarus Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Humor, Adventure, Demonic Possession, but the good kind, demon Natsu, References to Depression, Depressed Gray, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Sort Of, Road Trips, Falling In Love, Natsu's not an evil demon, he really just wants to take care of Gray, Gray sucks at feelings

-----

“Wake up.”

The words drifted through Gray’s dream, breaking up the strange carnival music that had been playing in the background. He could feel the images dissolving around him and he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to stay asleep.

“Hey! Wake up.”

The edges of the dream blurred and then slipped away entirely, leaving Gray miserably awake with a pounding headache. He sighed, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. The room was still dark, and when he glanced at his phone, he realized it wasn’t even two in the morning.

Continue reading on AO3

“Fucking hell,” he grumbled, pushing himself up and swinging his legs out of bed. He stumbled to the bathroom, grabbing the bottle of aspirin and tossing two back before leaning forward and staring blearily into the mirror. There was a soft meow behind him as the bathroom door opened wider, dragging a bright line of moonlight with it. It cast a strange shadow along the wall and lit up Gray’s reflection with an eerie glow.

“Finally, you’re awake!”

The voice that filled Gray’s head was bright and wild, and for some reason it made Gray think of a matchbook. It curled around his senses, filling him with a strange sense of warmth. He frowned at his reflection. Something wasn’t quite right.

“What the…” Gray leaned in further, running his fingers underneath his left eye. The iris, normally a deep blue-black, was shimmering. Gray blinked a few times, then groaned and rubbed his face. “Lyon, you stupid fuck, what the hell did you put in my drink?”

He stood there for a minute, hand over his eyes, until his hazy brain caught up with the fact that someone else had been talking, and he lived alone.

“Happy?” He frowned at the cat that had padded into the bathroom and was now sitting on the back of the toilet, staring at Gray. “Did you…”

“I’m not gonna lie,” the voice interrupted again. “I’m really, really tempted to let you think that your cat can talk.”

Gray jerked back from Happy and glanced around the bathroom. There was nothing around except the two of them and the moonlight, but he flicked the light on just in case. The only thing that greeted him was his reflection – messy hair, lines on his cheek from the pillowcase, and one glowing eye.

What the fuck?

“I…” He frowned, rubbing his face and blinking a few times. The eye kept glowing. He could feel something behind it – something in his mind, wriggling around like a memory he couldn’t quite find. “What?”

“Are you always this eloquent?”

“It’s two in the fucking morning,” he snapped irritably, then ran both hands over his face. “Am I dreaming?”

“Are you gonna believe me if I say no?” Gray could hear a laugh coloring the voice this time.

“Who are you?” he demanded, looking back out into the bedroom. Nothing greeted him but the empty bed, piles of books, and several cups of cold coffee.

“Look in the mirror.” Gray’s gaze flicked back to his reflection. “Closer,” the voice said, and despite his brain screaming at him that it was a terrible idea, Gray leaned in.

His reflection wobbled for a second – like the surface of a lake after a rock had been thrown. Then the features on the left half of his face started to shift. The glowing eye turned a soft shade of green and changed shape, slanting upward, and a wave of freckles rippled out across his cheek. The piece of hair that hung in his face started to curl and shifted from black to a soft pink. His teeth sharpened into fangs, and his lip quirked up into a smile that Gray definitely wasn’t controlling.

“How high am I?” he murmured, touching his teeth to ensure that they were not, in fact, sharp. “I’m gonna kill Lyon.”

“Is that the kid with the white hair?”

Gray nodded absently.

“He didn’t give you anything. He’s a punk-ass bitch who waters down his liquor.” There was a pause, and then the voice added, “And he’s a fucking terrible warlock.”

“A… what?” Gray was only half paying attention to the words. The rest of his focus was still on the way that his reflection was shifting and changing. The right half of the mirror was still him – messy hair, tattooed chest, pierced ear, black boxers. But the left half was quickly becoming something more… Gray wasn’t sure what word to use for it.

“Warlock,” the voice repeated. Gray’s left eye rolled itself in the reflection. He blinked a few times and shook his head.

“You mean that Ouija board shit?” he asked.

Slowly, the left half of Gray’s reflection separated, shimmering and then coalescing into the form of a young man standing just behind him. Gray looked over his shoulder to the empty washroom, then back at the mirror. The man waved at him and gave him a cheeky grin.

“I’m Natsu.”

Gray blinked a few times, rubbing his temples to try and relieve his throbbing headache. Natsu, who was now almost entirely solid in the reflection, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall. He looked about the same age as Gray, with black tattoos that twisted around his arms and up his neck. His cheeks and temples were smattered with what looked like scales, and his wild pink hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail at the base of his neck.

Fuck, he was hot.

“Do you have a name?” Natsu prompted, giving Gray a grin that showed off his pointy teeth.

“Um.” Gray’s brain blipped and he frowned and blinked at the same time, making what he assumed was an extremely unattractive face. Heat rushed to his cheeks as he ran his hands through his hair and quickly said, “Gray.”

“Hm.” Natsu tipped his head to one side, studying Gray’s reflection. “You’re not a warlock.”

Gray shook his head. “No, it’s just Lyon. Well, he’s into magic stuff. Like tarot cards, and he’s got the Ouija board. I thought it was just… weird college shit.”

“I am not ‘weird college shit,’” Natsu said indignantly, making quotation marks in the air as he raised a pierced eyebrow at Gray. “I’m a demon. From—” Here, he said a series of words in a rough language Gray didn’t understand.

“Is that, um… in Germany?”

Natsu glared at him.

Gray sighed and ran both hands over his face. Happy, who had been watching him with vague disinterest, hopped up onto the sink and rubbed his face against the mirror. Gray felt a tugging sensation in his arm, and before he realized what he was doing, he reached out to pet Happy. His hand felt strange and weightless and it took him a second to realize that he wasn’t controlling it.

“What the hell?” he yelped, jumping back and pulling his hand toward his chest like he’d been burned. “What did you—”

“Not hell,” Natsu reassured him. His reflection was no longer against the wall, and he was instead standing directly behind Gray as he stared down at Happy. “Hells. Plural.”

“No, what did you do with my…” Gray gestured vaguely at his arm. His fingers were still tingling.

“Oh. I just wanted to pet him.” Natsu nodded at Happy. “I haven’t seen a cat in a long time. Not alive, anyway. He’s soft.”

Gray frowned at Natsu in the mirror, then reached out – on his own, this time – and ran his fingers over Happy’s fur again. “He’s kind of an asshole,” Gray warned as Happy purred, then turned and nipped his fingers.

Natsu grinned. “We’ll get along just fine, then.” The weightless sensation appeared in Gray’s hand again as Natsu took over, but this time he let it. Despite Natsu’s fangs and scales, he didn’t seem particularly scary. In fact, the expression on his face as he petted Happy was one of almost child-like excitement.

“Wait,” Gray said as Natsu’s words finally caught up to him. “You’re staying? In me? I mean not—not in me like that, but in…” He trailed off and ran a hand over his burning cheeks. Natsu started to answer but Gray shook his head. “Nope. No. It’s two in the morning and I’m still not convinced this isn’t just a side effect of Lyon accidentally giving me mushrooms again, so I’m going to sleep and deal with all of this—” he gestured vaguely to Natsu’s reflection in the mirror “—once I’m awake and sober.”

Before Natsu could argue Gray flicked off the light, grabbed Happy, and headed back to the bed.

“I’m not a side effect,” Natsu grumbled as Gray burrowed under the blankets and pulled a pillow over his head.

“Shut up,” he said through a yawn. “If you’re still around tomorrow, we can talk.”

“Gray. Graaay. Graaaaaaaay.”

Gray groaned as he blinked slowly awake. His head still throbbed and he felt vaguely sick, and the insistent voice calling out his name wasn’t helping.

“What’you want?” he mumbled. His mouth felt fuzzy.

“Finally! I’ve been trying to wake you up for like half an hour now. Did you know that you snore? Like, a lot. It’s a good thing I don’t need sleep, or I’d be pretty annoyed at you right now.”

The voice was much too chipper for – Gray squinted at his phone – 7:36 a.m. He groaned and flopped back against the pillow, then looked around for the source of the voice. Nobody was there except for Happy, who was curled up on the pillow next to him, fast asleep.

“Who—”

“In your head, remember?”

The events of early morning started to come back to Gray in pieces – the hot guy in the mirror who claimed he was from… somewhere that wasn’t Germany. He frowned and looked over at the bathroom.

“I don’t live in the mirror, idiot.”

“Well how the fuck am I supposed to know that?” Gray glared at the ceiling. “It’s not like I’ve ever done this before.”

“Aw, I’m your first?”

“No,” Gray said sarcastically, rolling his eyes and staring up at the ceiling. “I get possessed by demons all the time. It’s a hobby.”

“Really?” Natsu sounded genuinely surprised.

“Oh my god,” Gray muttered under his breath. “It’s way too early for this.” He sighed, then pushed himself up and ran his hands through his hair.

“Is it breakfast time?” Natsu asked. “’cause I’m starving. Or you are. I’m not sure if I can be hungry when I’m possessing you. Maybe we’re both hungry! What kind of food do you have?”

“I’m not hungry,” Gray interrupted. A low growling from his stomach disagreed with him, but he ignored it.

“Well then I am.” Natsu sounded almost petulant. “Do you have coffee? I haven’t had coffee in forever. I mean, I haven’t had anything in forever – demons don’t really eat. Do you like tacos? I wanna try tacos. They weren’t around the last time I was here.”

“Do you always talk this much?” Gray asked. He stood up and stretched, then rummaged through his drawers until he found a clean shirt to pull on.

“I dunno,” Natsu said. “Maybe? Probably. I haven’t had anyone to talk to in a long time.”

“Aren’t there other… demons? Where you’re from?”

“Yes. They’re boring, though. All they talk about is torturing people.”

A cold thread of fear suddenly crept up the back of Gray’s neck. The word ‘demon’ had obviously registered before, but it wasn’t until now that he realized that being possessed by one probably wasn’t a good thing. Natsu seemed harmless enough, but the mention of torture made Gray’s hairs stand on end.

“Don’t worry,” Natsu reassured him before he could say anything. “I’m not gonna torture you. I mean, I couldn’t, even if I wanted to, ‘cause I don’t have a body. I mean, I can sort control you, so guess I could probably compel you to walk into traffic or something.” He must have felt Gray’s fear surge because he quickly added, “I wouldn’t! I promise.”

Gray didn’t say anything as he pulled out the tin of coffee from the cupboard and started measuring it into the machine. Now that he was awake, a thousand thoughts were racing through his mind. How had this happened? Did Lyon do this on purpose? If it was an accident, how was he going to reverse it? Would an exorcism work?

“It might.” Natsu’s voice shoved its way to the forefront of Gray’s mind.

“You can hear my thoughts?”

“Mhmm.”

“Fuck.” Gray watched as his hand moved on its own and added one more scoop of coffee grounds to the machine. “Stop that.”

“Why?” Natsu’s voice was bright and playful. “It’s fun.”

“’cause it’s my body.” The coffee machine started to hiss and sputter. “And it feels weird.”

Natsu huffed but acquiesced and Gray was relieved when the sensation returned to his arm. He shook his hand out a few times, then slumped down on one of the stools next to the counter.

“Aren’t you gonna make breakfast?” Natsu asked. “Do you have bacon?”

“I’m not hungry,” Gray said again.

“Why are you lying?”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I’m literally inside of you, I can tell you’re hungry. Why don’t you want to eat?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Gray said. “This is weird enough without you bossing me around.” He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen, then swiped to his text conversation with Lyon.

Natsu was quiet for a few minutes while Gray attempted to compose a message. The only sound in the kitchen was the drip of the coffee machine, and Happy’s quiet meow from beside the pantry where he waited to be fed. Gray started and deleted a few messages, then set the phone back down on the counter and dropped his head into his hands, sighing.

“You’re really sad,” Natsu said quietly.

“No,” Gray said, “I’m frustrated.”

“I don’t mean right now,” Natsu said. “I mean just… in general.” Gray felt a strange tugging sensation in the back of his mind. “It’s kind of a mess in here.”

“Stop looking through my brain!” Gray stood up and shook his head as if he could dislodge Natsu from his mind. “I’m fine. I’m just not hungry, is that a fucking crime?”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“None of your goddamn business.” Gray could feel heat rising in his cheeks as he ran his hands through his hair. “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t.”

Gray stared across the room at his reflection in the microwave. The shadow of Natsu stood behind him with his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t look angry, though, just concerned. Gray hated it. The last thing he needed was someone poking around in his brain – even if that someone was unfairly attractive, and, despite being a demon, actually kind of nice.

“How do I get rid of you?”

“I don’t know.” There was a note of hurt in Natsu’s voice as he disappeared from the reflection. Gray could still hear him, though, when he added, “Ask your warlock friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” Gray said, glaring at his phone. “He’s my brother. And he’s a fucking idiot.”

#fairy tail #gratsu #gratsuweekend2021 #gray fullbuster #natsu dragneel #fairy tail fanfiction #ft fanfic #my fic

22 notes · View notes