#*spoken with clenched fists and gritted teeth* there is still so much to discover and delight in in this life

[in-tua-deep]

au where five found out about vanya's powers in the apocalypse? Like maybe he found Reggie's book or he saw the eyes of vanya's corpse?

oh man like. that would be interesting to be sure, if Five managed to find Reginald’s book in the apocalypse

(He doesn’t read it at first, not for a few months after he finds it. He opened to the page that detailed Reginald’s experiments with how long Deigo could hold his breath in clinical unfeeling words and has to put it away while he breathed - not too deeply though, he didn’t want to breathe in more ash than necessary)

But he eventually does. He sits Dolores up and rages and vents to her, cursing Reginald’s name with every new sordid detail, every new terrible sin he now knows to hurl at Reginald’s feet. He reads no great loss under his section and he’s too dehydrated to weep but something breaks inside his chest nevertheless

(He’d never thought that dad loved them, not really. He might have hoped, back when he was little but he knew better now. He was thirteen, old enough to know better. But he’d at least thought that dad found them useful. 

Five had tried to hard, trained so much, been so adaptable. Even then he was no great loss.)

Five finds out from Reginald’s book about Ben’s death. Cold words that describe the way his brother died. Reginald seemed to care more about Ben’s death than Five’s presumed death, but that could be becuase Ben’s power was always bigger than Five’s. More violent. More efficient. Of course Ben was a greater loss, Five’s power wasn’t even inherently useful for fighting.

(Klaus’s power wasn’t useful for fighting either. Reading Dad’s dismissive words calling Klaus a failure makes him bristle. Reading about Reginald locking Klaus away in the mausoleum for days make Five want to hurl the book against the wall.)

Finding out about Vanya is - it’s weird. Vanya was always so ordinary. He loved her of course, for fucks sake he was the only one who cared to interact with her half the time. He loves all of his siblings but he has no illusions about how casually cruel they could be to one another.

But he reads about her powers and clenches his fists and wonders what Reginald would have done if Five had stayed, if Five had kept on his path of rebellion. Would Reginald have drugged him, too?

(Reginald had the power to take their powers away. Five wonders what Klaus thought when he found out, if he had cursed and sworn and raged at the man who watched his son suffer and turn to drugs to deal with seeing things no child should ever see. Reginald had the power to help, and he tortured Klaus instead.)

Because - of course Five assumes that they know. He reads Vanya’s books as well when he comes across it, tucking it into his wagon. He wonders when the truth came out, because the rage that drips from those pages is very real. Vanya doesn’t mention her powers in the book of course, but she would have been what, in her 20s when she wrote it? 

Vanya said in her book that she left home at 18, which means she’s had years to get the drugs out of her system and discover what their father had taken from her. Did she think that they knew? That they had kept it from her? Is that why the pages of her book drip with bone deep hurt, making Five’s fingers shake with the ache of them

(Or it could be the hunger, a now constant companion)

Five keeps both books close, even though he wants to vandilize Reginald’s book half the time. It’s strange to see the insight on them and their powers from the perspective of a scientist, odd to see the written results of the torture they went though

(He almost rips the page on the effects of electricity on his warping powers out on principle, but he just ends up curled around Dolores as he trembles involuntarily at the memories)

Five has so few belongings when he is recruited to the Commission, or at least has very few personal ones. He leaves Dolores behind in the apocalypse with a heavy heart but she’s too big to take with him. Too big to hide.

(Five always learned to only take what you can hide, because what you can’t hide will always be used against you.)

He tucks Reginald’s notebook in the waistband on his pants, the hard edges against his back a constant almost reassuring pressure. Vanya’s book gets pushed into one of his deep pockets. The glass eye gets shoved into his sock the same way he used to hide scavenged bills and quarters he would then place beneath the floorboards of his room

(He wonders absently if his money stash was ever found, but it doesn’t really matter now does it?)

He goes through the Commission with the knowledge that he has a bomb hidden away. As much as he keeps the notebook around out of a sense of sentiment he knows he doesn’t want it to fall into the hands of the commission, doesn’t want them to have this dissection of his powers on hand

(he has so little of his siblings left, just the bitter words of Reginald and Vanya both - the irony is that no matter how much Vanya extolled being excluded she had constantly been by Reginald’s side to write down observations, listening to his words, by his side more than any of them. sometimes he reads Vanya’s vicious words and hears the echo of their father in them. It makes sense. He still hates it, just a little bit)

He writes his equations into Vanya’s book instead of Reginald’s. He doesn’t like to read the red book, only opens it to look at the photos included so that he won’t forget what his siblings look like, tries to ignore the words that detail exactly how much force it takes to pop Luther’s bones out of his oh-so-durable joints

He solves them one day, or at least comes close. Closer than he ever had before, and he figures why not? Time for another little experiment. Who knows? Maybe he’ll add this one to dad’s book.

He pushes, and pushes, and then he falls and he’s in a courtyard he hasn’t seen in decades staring at people he hasn’t spoken to in just as long. He looks at them all with wide eyes

(He looks at Allison and hears his father’s clipped tone stating how Allison in improving at overriding survival instincts, he looks at Luther and hears Vanya’s childish voice accusing him of caring more about being a hero than anything else in his life, including his family, he looks at Klaus and sees a face covered in ash and blood with unseeing eyes)

He looks down at himself and sees smaller hands with smoother skin, absent of the burn marks from the variety of fires he’d set in the apocalypse, absent of the crooked knuckles from when he’d crushed two fingers in some rubble trying to get to a can of food, absent of the cracked and brittle nails from malnutrition and food issues

“Shit.” He says, with feeling.

He can feels the press of the glass eye against his leg, the solid weight of Vanya’s book in his pocket, the edges of Reginald’s notebook digging into his skin as he hauls himself off the ground and into a standing position.

They have a family meeting in the kitchen.

Sort of. Five flits about, snagging bread and peanut butter and marshmallow fluff from the cupboard to make himself a sandwich, trying to avoid looking too desperately eager. He hasn’t had his favorite food in so long that the anticipation is actually insane.

“What’s the date?” Five asks, and learns that he doesn’t actually have all that long until the end of the world. But hey, it’s doable. Probably. Unless the reason the world ended was like, political nuclear war or something? But there would probably be survivors of that somewhere, so it was more likely something bigger scale.

(It has to be something he can stop, or this was all for nothing. He refuses to believe he doesn’t have a chance.)

“Cool, so like, the world is ending.” Five says, because why the fuck not? He has all his siblings in one room (except Ben, he has failed Ben, will always have failed Ben because he’s a coward who couldn’t return to a time when Reginald Hargreeves was alive) and he has Reginald and Vanya’s words pressed into his brain, “We have eight-ish days to fix that.”

“Five, what the hell are you talking about?” Luther demands.

Five waves his hand, “Dad sucked, I time-travelled, the end is nigh. I figured even you could grasp that.”

(His eyes ghost over Luther, skittering about the room. He can’t look at Luther’s body without remembering the cruel diagrams pain stakingly inked into the book as Reginald grumbled about failed experiments.)

“You went to the future?” Diego says, voice full of doubt that make his voice harsh. It’s so much deeper than when Five left, no more of the cracks of puberty.

“No shit.” Five says, and he’s so tired. “I was in that hellscape for forty-five years.”

“Forty-five years?” Diego squawks, as though he’s personally offended.

“That would make you... fifty-eight?” Luther’s voice also has doubt in it, and Five can’t really blame him looking at his squishy little barely teenage body.

“Dad was right,” Five manages to get out without gritting his teeth, “Time travel is a crapshoot and sometimes your body does fun and wacky things on you, blah blah blah trees and acorns.”

“Prove you’re from the future!” Klaus demands, eyes bright as he leans across the table, “What’re the lotto numbers, baby brother?”

“I think they’re ‘fuck you the world had already ended by the time I ended up stuck there,’ Klaus.” Five says, mock thoughtfully before tearing off a chunk of his sandwich.

It tastes like ash and peanut butter. Only Five’s genuine trauma regarding food waste and the fact that most things tasted like ash in the apocalypse have him still chewing his food and swallowing.

“Rude.” Klaus says, making a ‘blat’ noise in disappointment.

“Dad’s rich as fuck, wasn’t him kicking the bucket essentially like winning the lottery?” Five points out, and this time it is Luther squawking at him in disapproval.

“Don’t talk about Dad like that!” He demands, and Five has some more uncharitable thoughts about the way Luther’s arms flex just a little unnaturally underneath that big trenchcoat.

“I like this version of Five better.” Klaus declares, looking like Christmas has come early.

“Dad was murdered and you guys don’t even care.” Luther spits out, looking very offended.

“You were murdered and I care very much about that.” Five retaliates, and the entire kitchen goes quiet.

“Can you elaborate a little, Five?” Allison says, ever the diplomat.

(That’s a lie. Allison started more fights than Diego, probably. She just got caught way less often.)

“Well. I mean, I dunno if murdered is the right word considering everyone was dead. You might have just been collateral damage, who knows? Does murder imply intent?”

“Everyone was dead?” Vanya says, voice very quiet.

Five shrugs, then nods, then shrugs again. He doesn’t like thinking about it. “Yeah, but that’s not going to happen this time.”

“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” Luther mutters, and Five valiantly tries to ignore him. 

“Five, are you - are you sure you’re alright?” Vanya’s voice wobbles and she looks like she wants to reach out and hold him or something ridiculous like that. She looks at him with big sad brown eyes, “Dad did say that time travel could... mess with you a little.”

Allison nods and oh, Five does not have time for this bullshit. 

“I have proof.” He says, and he reaches back and pulls out Reginald’s red notebook and slams it onto the table.

“Is that Dad’s - ” Luther cuts himself off, looking at the notebook with wide eyes.

It is very clearly beaten up to hell and back. Ash has stained the edges of the pages grey and there may or may not be a gouge across the front from a near miss with a bullet while working at the commission. It is a book that has clearly been through hell.

Five also dig’s Vanya’s equally beaten up book from his pocket to dump on the table as well, equally stained with ash and barely held together after being read over and over again for decades, including being used as a notebook in the final years.

(Vanya lets out a little gasp, hand flying up to her mouth with the knowledge that at least one of her siblings read her book. Certainly not the one she thought it would be.)

Five reaches into his sock to pull out the glass eye triumphantly, setting it down on his small stack of treasures.

“What the fuck?” Diego is the one to ask.

“If I time travelled from that day in 2002 to right now, how the fuck would I have Vanya’s book?” Five says triumphantly, “It came out in 2015.”

“Why do you have an eye?” Allison sounds slightly horrified.

“It’s the key to figuring out who caused the apocalypse.” Five says, turning it over in his hands, “It’s gotta have something to do with it at least.”

“Why does he have Dad’s notebook?�� Luther demands, sounding equally outraged.

“Found it.” Five shrugs, like the little scavenger he is.

(Emphasis on little. His suit still almost fits, and reading the numbers in Reginald’s notebook versus seeing how fucking tall all his siblings got in person is frankly unfair.)

“Oh my god, okay.” Allison says, throwing her hands up in the air like they’re all nuisances. It’s a familiar Allison look, and Five actually feels a little soothed by the memory. “So the world is ending, Five is back from the dead, and our only clue is a goddamn eye?”

“I was never dead.” Five points out, “But basically, yeah.”

“I don’t have time for this, I have to get back to my daughter.” Allison says, shaking her head.

“I mean if you want Claire to live I would think stopping the apocalypse would kind of be a priority.” 

This draw Allison to a halt from where she’d been gathering herself to leave, “You... know her name?”

Five makes the executive decision to not mention the torn out magazine cover featuring his sister and niece that is pressed between some of the pages in Reginald’s journal. “I’d like to meet her one day.”

Just like that, Allison has been won over.

“Do you think it has something to do with whoever murdered Dad?” Luther asks seriously, even if the question makes Diego groan like this is an argument they have had before.

“Who knows?” Five shrugs, “But if we’re splitting into investigation teams, I call Vanya.”

Vanya startles from where she has been sitting quietly, “Me?” She asks, eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Five nods, “I mean, with Ben gone you’re probably the team’s heaviest hitter.”

“What?” Several voices ring out in confusion.

Five blinks, a little confused himself. Unless - “Wait, did you never train your powers?”

“Five,” Vanya says slowly, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dim child, “I don’t have powers.”

This was - this was unexpected. Why did he not think of this explanation? It’s just - he has now known about Vanya’s powers for like way longer than he hasn’t. It’s almost second nature to think of Vanya as having powers by now. And she doesn’t know.

“Oh boy.” He says, picking up Reginald’s notebook, “This debriefing may take a bit longer than I first thought. Oh, and at some point we should probably cut the tracker out of my arm as well.”

“The what out of your what?”

Yeah the day doesn’t really get much better from there.

[nhlandotherimagines]

Same Mistakes- Nolan Patrick

Masterlist

@natbarzal @anastasiyaigorevnadobrodevskaya @jonnytoews19 

Authors note: This took WAY too long my apologies, I’ve been focusing on the Family isn’t Always Blood series and this took a back seat! However it’s finally here! Part 11 of the Up All Night series!!

Word Count: ~1.2k

Warnings: ANGST!!!! Toxic relationship, swearing/strong language, Nolan Patrick (obviously but just in case you aren’t cool with that), and just straight sadness tbh. Let me know if I should add anything ❤️

Circles, we're going in circles, dizzy's all it makes us. We know where it takes us, we've been before.

“Are you kidding me right now?” You’ve been sitting on the couch for the last 3 hours waiting for Nolan to get home. You expected him home about an hour and a half after the end of the game, so when he didn’t show up, and wasn’t answering his phone you became worried. Then your worry turned into anger. Nolan was beginning to make a habit of never being around, and you’ve had enough.

“What now?” Nolan grumbles, throwing his bag to the floor, tugging at his tie.

“Oh okay. Seriously Nolan? Do you not understand that I’ve been waiting for you to come home for 3 hours? You could’ve been dead, and would I know? Nope, because you wouldn’t even answer your phone.” You’re yelling now, and Nolan is rolling his eyes at your dramatics.

“Yes, because you were so excited for me to get home so you could bitch about something else right?” He shoots back. He has made his way closer to you, his stare challenging you.

“Fuck you Nolan. Have a nice night on the couch.” You throw back at him, stomping away and slamming your bedroom door for added dramatics.

This fight was becoming common theme between you and Nolan. At least once a month, Nolan would need a break from the constant bickering, would shut off his phone and go out with the boys. You’d get upset, and storm off, but he’d always follow you. Wrap you up in his arms, and kiss you until you forgot.

Not tonight though. Tonight he stayed on the couch.

Closer, maybe looking closer there's more to discover. Find out what went wrong without blaming each other

“We really should talk this out Nols. I miss you.” He’s sitting across from you eating his breakfast while you drink your coffee. Neither of you have spoken a word to each other since your fight the night before.

“I just don’t really know what to say. I needed a break.” He mumbles back, not even lifting his eyes from his plate.

“Okay, well couldn’t you have just said that you were going out, and needed some space for the night?” You try to keep your voice light, but the annoyance you’re holding in causes your voice to shake slightly. Nolan laughs humorlessly, and rolls his eyes.

“Right, because a text saying ‘I’m going out with the boys, leave me alone’ would have gone over so well!” His voice is heavily laced in sarcasm, and it has you clenching your jaw.

“Well you don’t have to be a dick about it.” You hiss through gritted teeth. Your mind is reeling, and the tension between you both seems to grow exponentially by the second.

Think that we got more time, when we're falling behind, gotta make up our minds

“He’s being an asshole Meg.” You groan, laying back on your friend's bed. You’ve just finished explaining the whole situation to her as if she were your therapist.

She sends you a pointed look. “And you’re being a total bitch y/n.”

“What did I do!?” You throw back, offended she’s attempting to throw the blame back on you.

“You come over here once a month and all you do is complain about him. If he’s truly as horrible as you make him out to be, and you’re as innocent as you believe you are, why are you still with him?” Her question leaves you speechless. The two of you sitting in silence. You aren’t sure if it was a rhetorical question or not, but you don’t have an answer even if you were meant to give one. “Maybe it’s time to walk away?” Her voice is gentler now. Though the suggestion still hurts.

“I- I love him Meg.” Tears spring to your eyes, as you feel your heart crumbling under the weight of the situation.

“Do you love him, or the idea of him?” Her arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you into her chest.

Once again, you don’t have an answer. Instead you cry into her chest, her hand rubbing soothing circles across your back.

Maybe she had a point. Do you love him? Was this even worth it anymore? You’re both being childish, placing blame and waiting for the other to change. Running in circles with no end in sight. What are you even holding on for?

Or else we'll play all the same old games, and we wait for the end to change, and we take it for granted that we'll be the same. But we're making all the same mistakes

“We need to talk.” Nolan is sitting on the kitchen island as you walk through the door. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks, as he runs a hand through his hair. His eyes don’t leave your body as you lean against the counter across from him, keeping as much distance between you both as possible.

There is an awkward silence for a moment, both of you unsure of who should break it. You have both had enough of the deafening silence, speaking overtop of one another to finally fill the air.

“I’m sorry-“

“I think we should break up.” The sentence is out of your mouth before you can even register what Nolan said.

His face falls, and you’re sure yours looks just as sad. “You’re giving up?” His voice isn’t as angry as you had anticipated, and honestly you might have preferred angry Nolan.

“We both gave up long ago Nolan, and you know it. We can’t keep on pretending to be happy and in love forever.” Your hands shake as you grasp the edge of the counter to steady yourself.

“I’m not pretending!” He’s frustrated now. “I love you.” His voice is raised, but it’s not threatening. Instead his voice is desperate, whiny almost.

“You love the thought of me Nolan. What we could have been, not what we are.” You correct him and he scoffs pushing himself off the island and moving to create more distance between you both.

“So that’s it then?” His eyes are watering, and you quickly drop your gaze from his.

You nod in response, and Nolan lets out a shaky sigh. “I’ll leave, you can keep the apartment.” With that, you walk down the hall to your shared room, tears finally falling across your cheeks.

“FUCK!” Nolan yells, slamming his fist into something. The wall maybe? The counter? You don’t dare turn to find out. Instead just begin packing your things.

Maybe this is the best option, but when you see Nolan sitting at the kitchen table, face in his hands body shaking slightly; it doesn’t feel like it. Walking away felt wrong, your whole body screaming at you to stop. Your heart pleading with your mind to just turn around and give in, but to no avail. Your feet lead you out the front door without another word, or even so much as a glance at Nolan.

Things change. People change. You both continued making the same mistakes over and over, and you changed. Ironic isn’t it? How two people can do the same wrong things over and over until they become two very different individuals. It’s unfair really, but the cycle has to stop somewhere right? That somewhere just happens to be right here, right now, and with you.

[todoscript]

Syndicate —  [ 3 ]

parts: one | two | three

SUMMARY: The four of you arrive at Hatsume’s workshop, hoping to find some leads about the mysterious bullet you discovered in the aftermath of the scuffle against the Shie Hassaikai yakuza group.

genre: mafia au. pairing(s): mafiabosses!todobakudeku x fem!reader word count: 2.1k+ warnings: mature themes. mafia talk. crude language/cursing. future adult and violent scenes. polyamorous relationship. characters are aged-up. taglist: in reblogs. please ask if you would like to be included in the taglist for updates on future parts.

author’s note: oh my god, i am so sorry for the very long wait everyone! trying to crank this part out was a bit of a struggle with everything going on, but i’m glad it’s finally done! i initially planned to make this chapter a bit longer and continue on with some of the next section, but it made more sense to end it off here so the next part could be flushed out more on its own

Nothing but the grating sound of machinery sparking against each other fills the room the moment you walk into Hatsume’s workshop, located in the more uneventful parts of Tokyo, and away from the seeing eyes of the public. Your ears recoil at the noise; however, it is a cacophony of sounds you are used to, considering this is far from your first time here. Thus, it’s not so much a surprise, being greeted this way, though still jarring nonetheless.

Mei Hatsume is a woman who usually busies herself with work. Whenever she wasn’t occupied filling out a client’s order, such as creating the gadgets they requested necessary for certain heists, she was always active in coming up with new inventions—other gizmos to win people over. In turn, she managed to catch the three pairs of eyes that are responsible for overseeing the infamous Yuuei mafia. Before long, the syndicate had become one of her most frequent and loyal clients due to her high-quality skills and work ethic. 

Your three men are in tow behind you when you enter, following in not only your steps but your strained expression over the racket.

“Hatsume!” you shout out to try and capture the girl’s attention, being that her eyes are covered in her dense, protective goggles to even see the four of you coming.

Far too engrossed in her work, her nonchalant hums in between her buzzing equipment indicate that she isn’t going to notice you anytime soon. Knowing this, Bakugou grits his teeth out of annoyance and marches past you.

“Hey Goggle-Head!!”

Unsurprisingly, his yell is garishly loud and is enough to cut through the jarring grinding of the machines and reach Hatsume’s ear. Bakugou does prefer to take a strident approach to things after all. And today especially, he isn’t in the mood to wait around.

“Bakugou. That was unnecessary,” Todoroki says, side-eyeing his partner for his boisterous attitude.

“It was totally necessary, Icy-Hot,” the blonde retorts.

Hatsume soon stops what she’s doing and finally brings the noise to a halt. Lifting her bulky steampunk goggles from her eyes, she properly greets her guests.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite clients!” Her tone is welcoming and chipper, despite the somewhat rude awakening courtesy of the blonde. “What can I help the four of you with today? Perhaps in need of some more firepower for your men? Hmm?” Hatsume wiggles her brows—a crafty gesture she usually gives to entice her customers while flaunting some incredibly elaborate contraption of hers in her arms. Midoriya declines with a shake of his head, waving a hand out.

“No, we’re fine with all the equipment you’ve provided our group with so far, Hatsume. They’ve been working wonders for us,” he says kindly.

“Especially that earring from the other night.” You join in the praises, and Hatsume readily eats them up as her yellow eyes begin to sparkle.

“Ah, the teardrop earring, I presume? As expected, I knew that particular item would perform excellently, what with its compact size and design to elude suspicion, along with its vast set of features—”

“Come on, quit yapping already! We’re here for business, not to give our fucking reviews,” Bakugou dispels the girl’s incessant ramblings with his ill-tempered tone.

Todoroki steps forward, following in the blonde’s approach. “He’s right. Excuse us, Hatsume, but we wanted to ask you about something we encountered last night,” he explains, hand digging into his coat pocket to procure the ziploc bag containing their item of inquiry—the bullet.

Your hands glow magenta; your quirk lifts the bullet from the plastic and into the air to prevent Hatsume from needing to touch it directly for examination. As it hovers in front of her, Hatsume’s eyes start to gleam a brighter amber yellow inactivation of her quirk, allowing her to scrupulously inspect every detail down to even smidgen of a scratch.

A few hums leave her lips the more she tilts her head at the object, index finger steady beneath her chin.

“Well?” you ask, a tad impatient for answers as are the other three. Hatsume gives the bullet one last look before turning to you, a somewhat uncertain look on her face.

“Just who did you retrieve this bullet from?”

“A henchman from the Shie Hassaikai yakuza fired this at us last night while we were in a scuffle with them,” Todoroki answers with Midoriya continuing.

“We managed to avoid getting hit by it thanks to a comrade of ours.”

“Hah, as if those jokers could pose even a threat to us with flimsy weapons like these.” Bakugou punctuates with his arrogant poise, and you playfully roll your eyes at his comment before returning to the situation at hand.

“Still, for us to not recognize something as ordinary as a bullet like this is concerning, adding onto the fact they were willing to use this instead of facing them head-on with their quirks,” you add. There’s a silence lingering in the air at your words, but it eventually isn’t long until Hatsume says her piece. 

“Well, after seeing this, I suppose the talk going around the crime groups is true after all.”

The four of you exchange peculiar looks, inquisitive at the mention of such “talks”.

“What ‘talk’?” Midoriya asks, voice dipping low for his standards.

Taking a seat at her workbench while facing her four guests, Hatsume’s expression grows unusually serious.

“Some of my clients have spoken about some shady business going on in the underground recently.”

“Shady business?” Bakugou repeats vehemently, eyebrow quirked.

“This is the first I’ve heard of this,” Todoroki comments, growing wary at the shift in the situation.

“We practically have total control of the black market on the east side of Japan. What shit could be going on under our fucking radar?” The blonde’s eyes flare a menacing red over the news.

“To begin,” Hatsume continues, “my clients have spoken about a new weapon being spread around amongst many criminal gangs. It’s no surprise you haven’t heard of it actually. The ones producing them have made sure to evade the gaze of your mafia group by offering them to those in the west, and have only recently moved to the east.”

“They didn’t want us to intervene and mess with their steady business on the black market, I’m assuming,” you add, and Hatsume nods at your conjecture.

“Likely. Anyways, this weapon didn’t seem like a big deal at first. Just some talk about a bullet similar to the one here.” Hatsume gestures to the transparent bag. “But a bit of prodding later, I learned that the contents inside the bullet actually contain a drug created by a scientist, which was forcibly taken by the Shie Hassaikai yakuza.”

Midoriya, Bakugou, and Todoroki are immediately attentive at the name, their expressions soon altering into revulsion as if a vile stench had suddenly wafted into the air, turning the atmosphere sour.

“So the yakuza made out with some stolen research and are mass producing these bullets onto the black market behind our backs, correct?” Todoroki relays the info with malice prevalent in his timbre.

“Those fuckers. Thinking they can do whatever the fuck they want, huh?” Bakugou’s teeth grit at every word uttered under his breath, fists clenching together. “They’re asking for it now.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Kacchan. We’ll make sure each and every one of them is delivered the punishment they deserve.” Midoriya joins his fellow mafia bosses in the menacing pressure exuding from them. His smile is far from genuine—two-faced with intense animosity emanating from just a simple glance.

Having been by their side through situations similar to this level of tension, you’re very much used to witnessing these expressions painted on each of their faces—such as a time when their shipment of goods came far delayed due to a few lackeys’ miscalculations. In turn, Yuuei had lost a bit of time in their well thought out schedule, which was something Deku, Ground Zero, and Mercury were not at all happy about as they thrived on pure efficiency. To make the story short, those henchmen had received a rather brutal ending for their errors when the three were done with them.

Since then, the trio have let it become a lesson learned not to rely on a bunch of simpletons to carry out such important tasks. As a result, the mafia group had become more efficient from then on out, now centering around your smaller group of elites in the aftermath of the events.

You have to admit, seeing the three so riled up is quite attractive in your eyes. They were already charismatic on their own—being in their presence gave you a very tasteful glance of their domineering aura. But in action, that charisma somehow manifested many times stronger, and when in pursuit with such determination in hand, it felt like they could do just about anything they set their minds to.

However, there are times when you knew you needed to step forward and become their sense of reasoning, lest they walk through fog with no sense of direction. Now is one of those times.

“Well, to start, we need some leads.” You join in, and the three turn to you, ready for what their right-hand woman has to say. “Hatsume, do you know what the drug does?”

The girl shakes her head, much to your dismay, but offers a hunch. “I can only assume it must disrupt the body in some way on contact.”

“It’s a good thing Kacchan didn’t get hit by it then,” Midoriya comments.

“Shut up, Deku.” Bakugou harshly jabs his elbow into the young man’s sides, annoyed.

“Now’s not the fucking time.”

“Right, right… My apologies…” Midoriya replies, holding no ill will at his partner, despite his rough demeanor. The trivial exchange between the two quickly ceases. You decide to resume your questions directed at the craftswoman.

“Alright then… How about the scientist that created the drug? Do you have any info on them?”

Musing in thought, Hatsume’s eyes draw to the ceiling as she rummages through her head to recollect her memories.

“Hmm… What I have heard is that the yakuza had infiltrated a place located in the corner of Kamino Ward in Yokohama to obtain the drug.”

“So that must be where this scientist’s laboratory or base of operations must be then. Kamino Ward.” Todoroki guesses and the girl gives him a brief nod.

“Then that’s where we’re going next. We’re gonna find this scientist and get the info we need, even if we need to beat it out of them!” Bakugou exclaims, voice thundering throughout the workshop as his palm emits a small, concentrated burst of fire while coming in contact with his fist. “Not a single one of those half-rate yakuza asswipes are getting away, pulling this shit on us.”

“Though I have to warn you,” Hatsume interrupts forebodingly as a shadow casts over her features, “there have been rumors of people disappearing around those parts.”

You lift a brow, suspicious at the meaning behind those claims.

“Disappearing?”

“That’s right. Anyone that so much as approaches that area ends up poofing out of existence.” She emphasizes this notion by springing her arms outward. 

“Oh? Sounds a bit… far-fetched.” you reason, adamant on the idea that no such thing could happen without natural causes. After all, quirks are biological phenomena. Nothing as supernatural as disappearing from existence should be occurring, right?

“No, Angel Face, it sounds more than just far-fetched. It’s more like a load of bullshit to me,” Bakugou chimes in, bolstering your doubt against it.

“Probably something stirred up to keep people off this scientist’s back,” Midoriya speculates. “He’s already had his research stolen from him. I’m sure he wouldn’t want a repeat of that.”

As he appears behind you, Todoroki lays a hand on your shoulder reassuringly. “Even if something like that is true, I doubt it could truly pose a threat against us, considering who we are.” His hand dips down to find yours before lifting it above your shoulder to lay a quick kiss on your fingertips. You smile at both his words and his touching gestures.

Ignoring the affectionate display, the girl only shrugs. “That’s what I’ve been hearing is all, but I suppose you could take it with a grain of salt.”

Despite the ominous admonition, Midoriya gives Hatsume a grin before reaching into the pocket of his coat. “Thank you for the warning, Hatsume,” he sets a wad of cash down on the workbench in front of her, “along with the valuable set of information. We’ll be sure to put everything you told us to good use.”

She returns the smile, fingers curling around the stack furtively. “Well, a pleasure doing business with you, Yuuei. And remember, my services will always be available to you when you need it.”

“Dutifully noted.”

[whump-a-la-mode]

mangata (n); the reflection of moon on water

Okay so I may or may not just have talked about my OCs here for far too long and I apologize.

This is part of my Villainsicle series. I’m unsure of how comprehensible it is without background knowledge of the series. In general, in this context, Villain is Whumpee, Henchman is Caretaker, and Trainer is Whumper. The rest of the series is linked on my pinned post.

This really is just self indulgent nonsense. Even the linguist came out in this one. But, regardless, I hope you guys enjoy!

CW//Trauma, difficulty speaking, muzzles, leashes, whumpee caring about whumper

As the two walked along the beach, moving at a plodding pace along the sand, Henchman couldn’t help but consider just how odd they must have looked.

On the surface, sure, it wasn’t odd at all. The oppressive summer heat that beat down throughout the day had ceased its sweltering, giving way to a mild warmth that made the ocean waters look horribly inviting. Behind the water’s horizon, the full moon dangled on a thread, filling the sky and creating a great mangata upon the ocean’s water.

None of that, of course, was odd. There was nothing especially strange about two people taking a late night walk along the abandoned shoreline.

The fact that both of them were fugitives from a secret Organization was perhaps a little more unusual, though, luckily, nothing about their appearances suggested that.

That wasn’t to say that the two of them looked entirely normal. Perhaps Henchman did, but Villain had never had the most normal sense of dress.

Henchman wasn’t one to judge the fashion sense of someone who had showed up on their doorstep wearing rags that had, perhaps, once been a hospital gown, at least not generally. But they couldn’t help but wish that their fellow fugitive would agree to stop wearing bulky mittens and a thick scarf wherever they went, regardless of the heat. They must have been burning up in that dress, but they didn’t seem bothered by it.

Then again, they didn’t ever seem bothered by much. At least, if they were, their facial expression hardly reflected it. Instead, they had an odd habit of tightly gritting their teeth, regardless of the situation, to the point that they feared one of them might crack at any moment.

“It’s pretty beautiful at this time of night, isn’t it?” Henchman spoke, putting on their best smile as they looked out over the shoreline as they continued to walk.

Villain nodded.

“Very pretty.”

They had been rather talkative all night. Not in an objective sense, really. To anyone else, they would seem awfully shy, speaking almost entirely in short phrases, never exceeding four or five words in length.

That alone was an amazing improvement, in and of itself. When Henchman had first met them, Villain didn’t speak for at least a month. Not a single word. They could communicate in other ways, pointing and writing and nodding or shaking their head, but they hadn’t spoken.

Ever since they’d finally opened their mouth, they’d had a very... odd way of speaking. Everything about their speech was abnormal, in one way or another. If they were a non-native English speaker, which was entirely possible, they had no accent to show for it. Instead, their voice was rather hard to describe. Every time they spoke a word, it seemed as though they were reading it for the first time, struggling with syllables and sounds. Their grammar was slightly better, though they had a tendency to forget words, leading them to furrow their brow and hum until they found a way to get their point across.

Still, every time they remembered a word they had formerly not known, Henchman couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride swell up in their chest. Slowly but surely, this practical stranger was recovering, and, in a small way, they were helping.

That was why they were taking this walk, in the first place. Henchman had discovered pretty quickly that public spaces were far too much for Villain. Even the peace of sparsely populated parks would quickly be shattered as soon as a stray dogwalker appeared on an adjacent side street.

So far, they’d had incredible luck with this specific stretch of beach. After a certain time, it got too cold to be any good for swimming or sunbathing, leaving the great expanse of sand free of the public.

On the surface, their little walks didn’t seem to do much of anything. Still, somewhere deeper, Henchman couldn’t help but feel that they helped. Even if just the slightest bit.

They looked out over the sand, seeing the dunes curl far off in the distance. At their side, the low tide lapped.

“Have you ever been to the ocean before?” Henchman asked, still keeping that warm tone, making sure they moved slow enough so that Villain could easily keep up.

“Um... Kind of.”

“Kind of?” They hummed inquisitively. “Did you live on the coast?”

“Boat.”

“A boat?”

“A boat.” Villain corrected themself.

“Like... a houseboat?”

“Um... No. Big, big boat. Really big.” Their brow furrowed, and they began to hum as they struggled to find a word. “Boat for planes.”

“An aircraft carrier?”

“Yes! Yes. An aircraft carrier.”

That brought up perhaps more questions than answers, but now wasn’t the time to quiz Villain about their past.

“You must have seen a lot of the ocean then... the moon is always so pretty, when it’s like this.”

Villain nodded, attention seeming to turn somewhere else as they looked out at the water.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Licks of water lapped up against the edge of the ship’s hull, rocking it ever so slightly that those leaning over its railing could not so much as pretend to feel the movement. The sprawling metal beast was simply too large to be swayed by the forces of the tides.

Trainer slipped the end of Villain’s leash off of their wrist, letting the leather strap dangle loosely from their muzzle. With the newfound freedom to lift their head, they did so, staring out over the expanse of black water, contrasted by the stark reflection of the moon upon its surface.

Villain couldn’t say that they understood, entirely, why they were here. They had returned from their last mission almost half an hour ago. By all accounts, Trainer should have followed their usual procedure; removing Villain’s mission gear, bringing them back to their kennel, and perhaps giving them something to eat if they were feeling particularly generous.

Tonight, however, none of that had happened. Instead, they had stayed on the ship’s deck for quite some time, with Trainer speaking to teammates and colleagues until all of them had retired to their quarters in the ship’s depths. Villain would have been lying if they said they hadn’t been getting antsy around that point, eager to get back to their own resting place for the night.

But that hadn’t happened. Trainer hadn’t followed their teammates to the lower decks. Instead, they had drifted over to the railing, looking over it as if there was something stunning beyond it.

Villain understood, somewhat.

What they didn’t understand was the fact that Trainer was still talking. The deck was deserted, and yet, still, they were talking.

As if they were talking to their own Asset.

Their voice had a wistful quality to it, carrying on a thoughtful conversation to nobody.

Of course, Villain had no idea what words were being spoken. Even after so many months, the tongue remained completely foreign to them. That didn’t eliminate, however, the whimsical tone of the noises.

An odd feeling swelled in their chest. It had been there, brewing, ever since they’d walked over here. It was... pleasant.

They were happy. They thought so, at least.

Even if they didn’t understand why Trainer was speaking to them as though they were anything but an Asset, they were happy.

It was hard to make much in the way of noise, with the muzzle forcing their teeth together, but in their throat, they did their best to approximate speech. It came out more as a soft humming. Almost a singing noise.

Trainer smiled, ruffling Villain’s hair with such affection that the latter choked back tears. They leaned into the touch, relishing it, even with how brief it was.

The next words spoken in that foreign tongue sounded almost like a question. Not a serious one, of course. No real answer was being prompted. Instead, it sounded hypothetical. Philosophical. Dreamlike.

They responded with another singing hum. They, too, smiled, looking out onto the endless water and the mangata upon it.

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Villain stopped walking.

Henchman stopped in turn, immediately more concerned about their friend than about the walk. They turned to them, not saying anything for a moment. Giving them time to think.

“We used to look at the moon sometimes.”

The surprise was nearly enough to make their jaw drop. That must have been the longest sentence Villain had ever strung together, even since Henchman had met them. And all of it, pronounced perfectly. With an overtone of sorrow, sure, but perfectly.

They tried not to smile, feeling that it wasn’t quite appropriate for the moment.

“We?” Henchman questioned as softly as they could manage. “Who did you look at it with?”

“Um...” They clenched and unclenched their fists. “They, um, person from Organization.”

“Oh. Were they your friend?”

“I... Um... I don’t know. They... um...”

Henchman waited, allowing Villain to collect their thoughts for as long as they needed.

“Trained me. Um.. thing on my face.” They gestured along with their words, tracing a line from the corner of their lips to just above their ear. “Mean sometimes. But, friend, um, yes. Friend. I think so. Sometimes.”

Henchman frowned. They didn’t know what to say to that. Of course, they knew that Villain had been from Organization, just as they themself had been. Whatever they were describing, it didn’t sound much like friendship, but they hated to debate them when they were trying to think.

“They were your friend sometimes?”

“Nice sometimes. Mean sometimes. Friend sometimes. Trainer always.”

“Oh. Do you... Villain, do you miss them?”

Henchman couldn’t help but think of the way their friend always held themself, teeth pressed so tightly together. As if held in place by something. ‘Thing on face.’

And the way they acted...

“Miss them...”

Villain raised their head, turning, and staring out over the water. Staring at the moon.

“Yes. I think so. Yes. I miss them.”

[boxofbadaddiction]

A Likely Story

Fred Weasley x Reader

Warnings: Swearing.

This story is inspired from a request of my F.R.I.E.N.D.S Themed Prompt List.

Prompts: 9, 16 & 18

"They don't know that we know they know"

"DANGER!"

"What a small world./Yet I never run into Beyoncè"

"What'd you tell George?"

"Told him I had detention with Snape for setting off Dungbombs in his Second Years class."

"Hmm, very believable."

"That's because it's true."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"What'd you tell your mates?"

"Just said I was going for a walk."

"Guess that'll do. Remind me to give you some pointers on how to lie when we get back."

"Very funny."

Every word spoken echoed off the damp walls of the One Eyed Witch Passage as Fred and Y/n made their way through the dark tunnel. The only source of light being the soft glow emitting from the tips of their wands, allowing only enough visibility to see just infront of them as they walked.

The pair were currently sneaking from the Castle on a day which were not allocated for any Hogsmead Visitations. It were a school day. However, rather than sitting about the Castle grounds for the two free periods in their schedules, Fred had the brilliant idea of escaping the unbearable reign of Umbridge - even if only for a few hours, by taking a trip into town.

"You know they know, right?"

"Ahh, but they don't know that we know they know. Now do they?" Fred grinned as he shoved y/ns shoulder with his own playfully, before intertwining their cold fingers. "I fail to see how that matters" "makes it all the more fun." "Whatever makes you happy, Big Guy." "You mean, aside from you?"

Y/n rolled her eyes at his cheesiness, but smiled nonetheless. Stopping abruptly from a harsh tug at her hand, one that had her being pulled flush against Fred - chest to chest.

Threading his wand between his fingers, he brought his other hand to the back of y/ns neck and kissed her deeply.

The kiss left her flushed, biting her lip to suppress a giddy smile which naturally only caused a smug grin to appear on the face of her partner.

Sensing how inflated his ego was becoming y/n stepped back, shoving his chest, "Hurry up and get me out of here, loverboy, I'm freezing."

This wasn't the first time the two had been in a situation such as this. They had been in a relationship for quite a few months now but were keeping it secret - for the most part anyway, but they knew the others were suspicious.

There were several reasons why they felt their relationship needed to remain secret. One being for the fact Y/n were a Slytherin. Whom for as long as anyone could remember had despised the Weasleys, and vice versa. The second, and most crucial reason was due to y/ns family. She was a Y/l/n. A family who, like the Malfoys and LeStrange, were blood purists and for that matter hated Muggles, Muggleborns and Blood Traitors alike. A trait not inherited by that of the y/l/ns only daughter. Y/n.

After overcoming the years of conditioning by her parents; painting the Weasleys, anyone alike and Muggleborns as the enemy or lessers, she'd surrounded herself with friends of all houses and blood-status.

She even discovered there to be a remarkable amount of similarities between herself and that of the Redheaded family. Soon enough finding herself regularly in comfortable conversation with the Twins during their shared classes, after years of the ridiculous feud between them buried itself in the past. It then naturally didn't take long for her to start falling for the older, louder, Twin.

Though people acknowledged she were different to her family the pair were still hesitant about the reaction they'd receive being together in public, so they thought it best to keep to themselves. Which lead to a lot of sneaking around. Hence todays secret date in Hogsmead.

A few moments later Fred and Y/n reached the trap door of Honeydukes Cellar. Fred was the one to check the coast were clear. Smiling as he watched the owners feet retreating up the basements staircase to the store above. Piece of Cauldron Cake he thought. They silently slipped through the shop, completely unnoticed.

Glad to finally have the freedom to be with one another openly the two let out relieved breaths upon being met with the chilly fresh air of Hogsmead.

They happily strolled throughout the streets hand-in-hand going about their usual routine. A quick stop to The Three Broomsticks for a couple Butterbeers then off to what they'd deemed as "their spot", a clearing by the forest over looking the Shrieking Shack where they regularly met of a weekend for lunch and much needed time together.

Fred was spinning his girlfriend as if dancing as they walked, smiling, laughing and unashamedly flirting loudly as they did so.

The two were in a world of their own as they rough housed in the soft snow, throwing handfuls at one another. Unfortunately, blissfully unaware of the approaching complication in their secret rendezvous.

"Well, well, well." Came a cold voice from behind them, one which sent chills down y/ns spine - she would know that voice anywhere. Lucius Malfoy.

The teenagers turned with identical deadpan expressions to the man before them. "What a small world." "And yet I never run into Beyoncè" y/n countered sarcastically, her tone bitter and harsh.

"Whatever would one make of this, Hmm? A y/l/n fraternising with a Weasley..." Luicus eyed Fred with distaste, as if it were unsettling to simply be in his presence.

Fred stood tall and firm in place; a murderous glare thrown towards the arrogant man as he grit his teeth.

"One?" Y/ns brow raised in question, her voice drawing Malfoys attention back to her. He simply nodded in response, causing the girl to scoff as realisation struck. An exasperated smile tugging at her lips whilst she spoke, "Right. Going to rat me out to Daddy for having a friend, Lucius?" "But of course not." He took a step closer to the couple, "for being outside the grounds of Hogwarts, accompanied by an irresponsible and perpetually reckless boy however..." y/n swallowed harshly, a wave of fear coursing through her veins as her confidence faltered.

"Well, one might say it were my responsibility to report your little...adventure today. My, I can't begin to imagine the misfortune one might be subjected to less the High Inquisitor learn of such a blatant disregard for school protocols. Those for the offenders...or the Headmaster for that matter."

Y/n was silently panicking at these words. Dumbledore has already been on thin ice with the Ministry recently. If anyone finds out, well...that'd be the end of him.

"Of course however, y/n, you would be forgiven on account of your-" "Father." "-innocence, clearly under the manipulation of this one, whom would naturally be expelled." Lucius lazily waved his hand towards Fred. "You don't even know which Weasley 'this one' is." Y/n snapped. "Unimportant. I imagine Delores will be thrilled at the opportunity of finally ridding both from the school. And as for Dumbledore-"

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Malfoy." Fred finally spoke. Stepping forward to stand slightly infront of y/n protectively. His jaw and fists were clenched in rage, knuckles turning ghostly white under the strain in his grip. "Am I?" "Yes. To snitch on us you'd first need proof we were here in the first place." "You Weasleys truly are daft. I believe I have all the 'proof' I'll be needing. Given the fact you are stood right here before me, far from the saftey of the school grounds." "Are we?" Fred subtly reached for y/ns hand as he spoke, holding her palm tight behind his back, eyes staring directly into Malfoys challenging his dominance.

"Because I'm sure if you were to go to the Castle right now; I could be found with my brother and y/n here...undoubtedly studying in the Library." "Is that so?" Lucius had a rather done and ugly expression on his face at Freds antics, whom began smiling wickedly. Uttering a simple "yep." In response.

Their stare-off was broken as Fred glanced over Malfoys shoulder, raising his free arm to wave he greeted loudly, "Hello, Hagrid!" This causing the blonde man to turn in his direction. That was Fred's cue. Taking advantage of the moment and apparating the pair to the passage of the Shrieking Shack.

They took off running, hand-in-hand as they manoeuvred the winding tunnel to the school. Sprinting so quickly that even the Whomping Willow were too slow to react to their sudden appearance as they breached the grounds.

As they reached the, thankfully empty, courtyard they finally allowed themselves the opportunity to breathe and dropped the hold of one anothers hand. Fred swallowed thickly to ease the burning in his throat, "you have to-" "yeah. And you need to-" "yeah."

Exhausted and amused chuckles fell from their lips at the understanding shared between them. Placing one final, frantic, kiss to one anothers lips as goodbye they held each other close not wanting to let go. One of y/ns hands gripped Freds hair tightly whilst the other bunched in the fabric of his shirts collar. Both his hands placed securely on her waist. Y/n whines, knowing he won't be able to break the kiss himself, focusing all her strength she pushed from his chest, "Go" she whispered. Sighing frustratedly from the loss of his lips on hers he nods in agreement before both begin running in opposite directions.

Now thankful he had such a large family Fred was quickly successful in finding a family member to cling himself to. Barrelling down the corridor to where Ron and Harry were walking and conversing over whatever, with their backs to him. Overestimating the force of his current momentum he collided forcefully with the boys shoulders in attempt to steady himself, nearly toppling all three.

"What's your problem!?" Ron snapped angrily. "DANGER!" Fred whisper yelled, very out of breath. The scene brought a rather wide smile to Harrys face, watching as the Twin clutched his side painfully and tried to speak. "If-If anyone asks. I've been here the whole-WHOLE time. Okay!?" He was gesturing wildly between the three of them as he spoke, appearing desperate.

"Oh yeah? And what's in it for us?" Ron asked cockily. "For you, little Brother..." "anything?" He smiled smugly, earning a clap on the shoulder from his flustered older brother. "Not quite, Ronniekins."

Fred's eyes turned dark as he straightened himself, grip tightening on Rons shoulder like a vice. "Cover for me this time and you get to live another day." Ron was wincing at the pain being inflicted by the hold on his shoulder, "You-you can't do anything to me." Harry looked sceptical at this, it was Fred Weasley afterall.

"Can't I? It's a big Castle, Ronnie. Accidents happen." Fred's stare hadn't left Ron's eyes the whole time he spoke. A smirk forming on his face as if taking joy in the countless possibilities he had playing on his mind.

Noticing the poorly restrained fear spreading through his brother as Ron gulped thickly he lightened his grip knowing he's won.

"F-fine. Doesn't bother me anyway. Not like it's a huge inconvenience is it, Harry?" Ron tried to play the moment off cooly, though the panic was evident on his voice. "Not at all" Harry laughed but suddenly his expression soured. Looking forward to the entrance of the hall.

"Is that...Lucius?" The Weasleys heads turned to see the pale face of Malfoy striding towards them accompanied by Delores and...oh God. Freds blood ran cold.

"It is, and Titus Y/l/n! What are they doing here?" Ron growled.

"Danger. Danger. Danger." Fred mumbled from the side of his mouth, avoiding eye contact and looking quite nervous, though he played it off much better than his brother had. The boys looked up to him "You didn't..." they spat. Fred cleared his throat as a warning, and it worked just as well as a confession in Harry and Rons opinion, as the three adults approached.

"Potter." "Malfoy."

"Weasley." "Y/l/n."

"Eh-hem" the teens rolled their eyes. "Professor?"

"Tell me, Mr Weasley" she began, looking straight to Fred, "can you account for your whereabouts this afternoon?" "With these two."

"Where's your Twin?" Lucius rudely interrupted. "Haven't the foggiest. Since, ya know...I'm not with him." "It is strange" Umbridge began, "that you are without your Twin, seeing as how you are rarely to find one without the other." She giggled sickly. "Yeah, rarely. But not never."

At his words Lucius' expression became proud and more confident, turning to Delores now to speak. "He's the one. I'm sure of it." "The one what?"

"Enough of this. My daughter, where is she?" Titus interjects. "What...y/n? Stuffed if I know. Don't fancy myself much a snake charmer. What's with the interrogation?"

"Well it would seem, Mr Malfoy here has a rather interesting story to share on the topic of two seventh years strolling about Hogsmead not even an hour ago. A Weasley and-"

"My daughter. Where is she!?"

"I've already told you. I don't know!" Titus began advancing on Fred, rage burning clear in his eyes, "I'm warning you, Weasley. If you've in anyway involved yourself with y/n I will-"

"Dad?" A soft voice called from the end of the corridor. "Y/n." The girl looked around at the gathered group confusedly before stepping between Fred, Harry and Ron to embrace her Father in a quick greeting. "What are you doing here?" "Where have you been?" "Where-what? I've been-" "the Library perhaps?" Lucius raised a mocking brow. "What? No I-I was taking a walk by the Lake." "A likely story."

"Lucius here, tells me you were in Hogsmead with this boy." Titus gestures to Fred a venom held behind his voice.

Y/n looks over Fred with visible disgust, whilst he smiles coldly back. "Why on Earth would I ever surround myself with the likes of them?" She spits. Looking back to her Father as if highly insulted by his accusation.

Titus observes the interaction carefully as if watching for any weakness in their story. But he finds none. His expression softens as he turns back to his daughter completely. "I apologise, y/n/n. Lucius was obviously mistaken." He glares back over his shoulder to the blonde man who scoffs in response. "I would nev-" "Save it, Lucius." Titus growls. "But, Titus if I may, why would Mr Malfoy report this if it were not-" "you may not." The girls father puts an end to Umbridges interruption as she'd attempted to defend the other man. "I trust my daughter to know of the correct company to keep. Lucius was obviously mistaken and has by extension wasted my time."

Thankfully the adults were too busy bickering for anyone to notice the small smiles that threaten to break onto the faces of the gathered teenagers.

"I'm sorry, dear. I must be leaving now and I hope your studies are going well." "They are Dad, I'll write you and Mum tonight to fill you in on everything. Just as I always do." Y/n smiled. Titus pulled his daughter in for a final hug, placing a soft kiss to her forehead before turning to leave, with a last menacing glare to Delores and Lucius he walked away.

"Well. That will be all, the four of you off to your Common rooms immediately to prepare for dinner. Mr Malfoy if you'd follow me I'll escort you from the Castle." Umbridge spoke.

Harry and Ron couldn't contain their giggles at the insulted reaction shown by Malfoy as he turned to leave.

Lucius took one final look over his shoulder to the teens, who had not moved, being met with the taunting smile and small wave of y/n with Fred now standing confidently beside her.

Once finally out of sight the couple fell into hysterics, Fred wrapping an arm around y/ns shoulder as they laughed.

"What the bloody hell did you two do!?" Ron asked through a wide grin. "Just took a quick trip into town that's all..." "Safe to say our secrets out, Freddie." Y/n whispered to him as she noted all the students watching the group, paying particular attention to Freds arm around her. "Secret? You kidding! You two are the most obvious people on the planet!" Harry quipped. "George has been taking bets on how long it'll take for you two to just come out and admit it." "I know." Spoke Fred, "I had Colin Creevey place 7 Sickles on it for me." "You bet on us!?" "The odds were on my side! But thanks to Malfoy date-crashing I'm out of it now."

"About that, how did you two get back here so fast?" Ron questions.

"We apparated to The Shack then hauled ass." Y/n answered. "The pros of being 17" Fred winked, pulling y/n back into his chest, resting his chin atop her head. As his arms wrapped around her she nestled herself comfortably within his embrace with a lovestruck smile.

"Right well, as amusing as that was, this-" Ron guestured to the couple, "is gonna turn my stomach. And I'm starving so, Harry, coming to get ready for dinner?" the bluntness causing his best friend to roll his eyes with a chuckle. "Yeah alright. And I'll be sure to tell George all about this if we run into him along the way." Harry joked, waving to the couple as they walked towards the Gryffindor common room.

They stood there for a moment, contently basking in each others warmth before y/n turned in place to face her boyfriend with a cheekily grin. "So, still think I need tips on how to lie?" Fred clicks his jaw as he pretends to be deep in thought. Nodding slowly as he answers, "yeah, yep. Absolutely." "I just successfully dooped not only my Father but Delores fucking Umbridge! Okay? I deserve a frickin' gold star."

Fred can't help but laugh at her comment. "Alright, first of all. 'Dooped'? That is the least cool thing you've ever said. Secondly, you're so cute when you get all sassy. And unfortunately for you, I'm fresh out of gold stars...but I'll happily reward you for that semi-decent performance." Y/ns mouth falls open at the last words, "semi-decent!?" Fred nods innocently, "You sir, are a twat!" She states firmly as she pushes out of his arms making the redhead laugh loudly.

Taking a strong grip to her wrist as she begins to walk away he pulls her back to him, wrapping an arm around her waist as the other fists the hair at the nape of her neck pulling her lips into his.

The kiss is hard and passionate, as if he's trying to make up for their spoiled date in this one moment. And it's working, fireworks erupt within y/ns chest as goosebumps spread over her skin and she can't help the soft moans that sound from her throat. It's perfect.

Fred smiles as he rests his forehead against hers, feeling like he's drunk an entire Cauldron of love potion. "You were brilliant today, love." He whispers. "Fred, that kiss was...wow." he hums in response. "I still want the star though." she goads making him roll his eyes and throw his head back in exasperation. She can feel the silent laughter radiate through his body as she holds him close bringing her head to rest against his chest.

Freds arms hold y/n tighter as he lets out a comfortable sigh, placing his head atop of hers. Eyes softly closing in complete bliss. As fun as all the sneaking around was he could get used to this. Holding her when, where and for as long as he wants? To Fred, that sounds exactly like Heaven.

[thetomorrowshow]

unless you take your army back ch. 3

First  -  Previous  -  Read on AO3!

When I tell you I have never been more mad at one of my characters

cw: blood, violence, injuries

~

As the week cycled past, Jack fell into a kind of routine. He hated to leave Crutchie alone for any amount of time, but he had things to do. He made the decision to accept the cartoonist job, so that he could get away with selling less papers and still afford rent and food for both him and Crutchie.

Same as every other morning, Jack climbed down from the roof and got the boys up and getting ready with as little noise as possible--he didn’t want to wake Crutchie prematurely, especially if the kid had been having nightmares like he suspected. A quick trip to the convent and back, leaving Specs to get the troupe to the Delanceys’, which he handled easily. This morning, Jack took the coffee and apple that the nuns had given him and set them on the chair beside Crutchie, who was just beginning to stir. Jack felt immense relief--he couldn’t stay, he really couldn’t, but waking alone had sent Crutchie spiraling into a panic attack more than once in the past few days.

“Hey Crutch, breakfast,” Jack announced, cringing inwardly as he saw Crutchie flinch. The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes with his good hand--most of the bandages on that hand had been removed, excepting two fingers that were wrapped together to make them heal straight. Crutchie had had to let Katherine do that, even though he’d been changing his own bandages for the past three days. Katherine wasn’t too happy with this arrangement, but Jack knew that Crutchie was uncomfortable with letting someone--especially a girl--patch him up. When the two had approached him for a tie-breaker to this argument, he had easily sided with Crutchie. The look of gratitude and relief on Crutchie’s face had been worth Katherine’s disapproval.

Crutchie took the apple and frowned, then put it back down in favor of the coffee. Jack raised a brow at that as he hopped from one foot to the other, trying to stall his departure. “Somethin’ wrong with it?” he asked. Crutchie shrugged.

His silence wasn’t strange, really. For Crutchie it was far from the norm--sure, he usually hid pain from everyone, but he liked to talk. It was part of who he was. Crutchie had barely spoken a sentence strung together in the past week. Kids who came from the Refuge were always quiet, though. Jack himself had never really talked about his time there, just bottled it up until it exploded onto the paper. He’d gotten better, it had just taken some time. Same for any of the others who had been in there. Crutchie would be better in no time.

“D’ya need anything else?”

Crutchie took another sip of coffee. He glanced around, eyes wide and sad. For a moment, Jack saw not his fifteen year old brother, but a child. Eight years old, like he was when they found him. Shivering from the cold, face all bruised up, hiding in a back alley as snow swirled around and attempted to bury him.

Then Jack blinked, and Crutchie looked--well, not fifteen (he’d always passed for younger, useful on the streets), but like himself. Sort of. He was bruised up, of course--his entire face was a mottled green and purple as it began to heal--and hadn’t really done much smiling lately. It was still Crutchie, though. As tired as he looked now, Jack knew it wouldn’t be long before he was raring to go, grinning that bright grin of his, his eyes sparkling as he ribbed good-naturedly with the other boys.

“Open the window?” Crutchie whispered, and Jack nearly ran to do so. There were a few windows in the room, but Crutchie hadn’t specified which one, so he threw open each of them. As he was getting the one next to Crutchie, the boy looked up at him. “Don’t ya have work?” he asked, a bit louder.

“Ye-es?”

Crutchie rolled his eyes, and Jack mentally celebrated. Every time Crutchie rolled his eyes or quirked a brow, Jack gained more hope that his recovery was going well. “Get outta here, Jack.”

Jack lingered a few moments longer, but only long enough for Crutchie to glare at him. “All right, all right, I’m headin’ out,” he said, hands in the air. “I’ll be back in a few hours. That apple better be ate by the time I’m back.”

With the windows open, he could hear the first calls of the street vendors. He really did need to leg it. Jack adjusted his hat and made off, the door swinging shut behind him.

Crutchie winced, then watched it for a few moments. Apparently assured that Jack was not going to return, he traded the cup for the apple and chucked the fruit out the window beside him.

-

Too much time that Crutchie didn’t have had passed. A whole week of being laid up in someone else’s bed, letting them pay his rent and bring him food. He had to get back out there, and soon.

Crutchie wasn’t stupid. He knew how he looked--he’d know even if Albert didn’t insist on telling him every day “Get healed, Crutchie, ‘cuz nobody’s hankerin’ ta buy papes from that ugly mug”. He also knew that he had been perhaps hours away from death when Katherine rescued him, and that took time to get over.

But Crutchie wasn’t a normal kid. He didn’t have a pa with a job, or a mother who was supposed to take care of him, or money just lying around. He had a job, and he took care of himself, and his money went toward survival. Recovery just wasn’t an option for a kid who had to work every day of the year.

He supposed that, in some respect, that was what the union had been formed for. Davey’s dad had been laid off because he got hurt on the job, and unions were supposed to stop that from happening. The newsies weren’t officially hired, though, were they? Were they going to have to be listed as part of the company now? Would there be contracts to sign for everyone? But newsies came and went, it had to be more cumbersome to keep track of everyone involved. The whole affair made his head hurt.

Union benefits or not, Crutchie didn’t have the money to spend many more days in bed, and he wasn’t about to let Jack waste his savings on him when he was capable of making money. Jack was going to be tough to get through to on this issue, but Crutchie was pretty sure he had Racetrack on his side. Race was popular enough that others would back him, and he would stand up to Jack. As long as Crutchie could prove that he could go back to selling, Jack would be forced to let him.

So. Now he had to work on actually being capable.

Crutchie hadn’t walked anywhere himself in the past days--there was always an abundance of newsies to help him to the washroom, practically carrying him there and definitely carrying him back to bed. It was honestly getting to be pretty annoying--maybe he could start by making it to the washroom by himself.

Standing up would’ve been easier had he eaten that apple, but Crutchie was fairly certain that he had a tooth or two loose and wasn’t in a big hurry to have them drop out. That was the only reason, he told himself. He was fine, just needed to see if those teeth would settle back into place. He didn’t have a problem with food.

His crutch had been propped up against the wall beside the bed for days, cleaned as best as possible but still with a small crack near the end of it. The cushioning had been mostly replaced, the old cloth having come apart completely. Crutchie wasn’t sure who had fixed and cleaned it, and he didn’t much feel like asking. It was selfish, but he didn’t want another person to be indebted to.

Crutchie slid the crutch over to himself and used it to pull himself up, which he soon discovered was exactly what it sounded like: a bad decision. His knees buckled instantly and he couldn’t catch himself before he was lying on the floor, hip and side smarting from the impact.

He took a moment to breathe, clenching and unclenching his fists despite the ache in his fingers. He could do this. He had to do this. Crutchie steeled himself, then used his crutch one-handedly to bring himself to his knees, pushing himself from there up onto a wobbly foot.

His leg was sore from disuse (and probably from that dislocation and various other beatings), but it wasn’t nearly as bad as his chest and back. In fact, now that he was standing even his head felt worse. There was a pounding behind his eyes that made him want to vomit, but he didn’t back down. He couldn’t.

Crutchie propped the crutch under his left arm, biting his lip to stop a noise from escaping as it rubbed against a cut (and so many bruises) on his ribcage. He could do this. If the Refuge hadn’t been shut down, he would still be there, right? He would still be working right now, digging holes or polishing stairs or something equally as gruelling. If he would be doing it in that situation, he should be able to do it here.

Moving the crutch forward made the pain worse, and his side began to sting--it might have split open that cut. Still, Crutchie let it swing forward, then put as much of his weight as he dared on it and hopped.

Sure, it hurt--the padded underarm rest of the crutch dug into the cut and now Crutchie was certain it was bleeding--but he hadn’t fallen. He’d taken a full step with his crutch, all by himself.

Crutchie couldn’t find it within himself to be proud.

Slower than the first, Crutchie took another step, then another. By this point his chest was screaming for proper air, head pounding with each shuffle forward. It was time to turn back, before his brain decided that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen to stand upright. It really did hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. Everything hurt, so very very much.

Three more hops and he was back by the bed. He wanted to just collapse into it, fall face-first onto the blankets, but he knew that would be more pain than it was worth.

Never mind, he was just too tired. Crutchie faceplanted into the bed, screaming through gritted teeth as it jostled his various injuries. He lay there for a few moments, knowing he needed to turn over in order to feel less pressure on his lungs and breathe properly, but not yet wanting to lie on his twinging back.

He’d made six steps, he added up as he situated himself. Six measly steps. It had been about a week since he left the Refuge. A whole week of rest and he could still barely stand, let alone walk. He had to get back out there, pay his way, provide for himself. He hadn’t asked who was paying for his rent and food, but he had a strong notion it was coming from someone whose name sounded a lot like Kack Jelly. 

Jack wasn’t selling near as many papes as he used to, not with the amount of time he was spending back here. According to Katherine, he was getting a job with Pulitzer as an artist of some kind? Crutchie wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was--he’d been pretty feverish at the time--but it probably didn’t pay much, and Jack hadn’t even started the job yet.

Whatever Jack couldn’t come up with, the others would be pooling to make up for. Elmer was probably budgeting it, Crutchie thought absently as he fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist. Elmer was one of the younger kids, but surprisingly good with numbers and calculations and things like that. Elmer working out the money, Race encouraging the others to contribute, Specs and Mush talking Jack into letting them help--Crutchie could see the whole ordeal playing out in his mind’s eye. Jack wouldn’t have been happy, but he also probably was getting low on spare change. They’d all lost a decent bit just by not selling for the few days (or day singular, in Crutchie’s case) that the strike had lasted. If he could get back to work soon, he could stop taking their hard-earned money.

Tomorrow morning, he decided. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t walk today, he would have to tomorrow. He would get up early and make it out of the room before Jack even came down through the window to check on him. That would prove it to everyone that he could at least sell five papers. He was even willing to let Jack go pick them up for him, as long as he could sell.

Before any of that happened, though, Crutchie needed to check up on his bandages. Katherine would kill him if he had bled through them while trying to walk alone. Maybe not yet, though. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a second.

-

Something was . . . off.

Jack hadn’t made it in time to see the headline since before the strike, and in the past week, he’d ran up to Wiesel’s only for Specs to hand him his papers. The nervous looks the boys had shot him each morning should have been enough to tip him off that something wasn't right.

He’d ignored them though, assumed they had to do with his tardiness or the headlines. Now that he knew better, now that he knew something was up, Jack was torn between wishing he’d been on time every other morning and wishing that he’d been late this morning. Despite stopping back at the lodging house to bring Crutchie breakfast, though, he had somehow made it back before Wiesel even started selling.

Today the looks he was getting were downright panicked as the newsies lined up, watching him carefully. The air felt tense, even heavier than normal. Jack got in line with the rest of them, not pushing his way to the front like he normally did. Something was off.

“Jojo,” he said slowly, turning to the kid behind him, “what’s goin’ on?”

“Whaddya mean, Jack?” Jojo replied, false cheer coloring his voice. Jack narrowed his eyes at him. Jojo didn’t waver. Good for him.

Jack looked back to the front, trying to not fidget. He was supposed to be meeting with Pulitzer today, right about the time that he usually checked on Crutchie. Maybe if he bought fewer papes, he could skip over to the lodging house before hiking to Pulitzer’s office? He was supposed to be bringing some examples of his art, so he’d have to stop by the lodging house anyway. He also was supposed to meet with Spot Conlon even later, who was currently handling union business over at The Journal. The eventual hope was that Jack, Davey, and Spot would become a team, three appendages of the same purpose, who could all visit any one of the newspapers and discuss rights and the like. Right now, though, he wasn’t entirely sure what Spot had been telling The Journal. Their meeting this evening would hopefully remedy that.

“Hey, Jack! You’re here early!”

Jack looked up from his thoughts to see Davey grinning as he joined the line, followed by a waving Les. Jack nodded back to them.

“Thought I’d see how badly Race is swindlin’ Snyder,” he said, and a couple of the boys gave forced chuckles. Okay. That was odd.

“Papes for the newsies! Come on, I ain’t got all day!”

Jack began to step forward in line, only for Mush to come out of nowhere and grab him by the arm.

“Hey, whatever happens, I gotcha back,” Mush said. Jack frowned. What was he talking about? “Jus’-- jus’ don’ fight if you can help it.”

Fight?

Jack was beginning to feel like he wasn’t going to like this at all.

As always, his intuition was correct. It wasn’t hard to laugh off Weasel’s snide comments about where he had been and their union, but then Morris Delancey opened his stupid mouth as he was handing Jack his papers.

“Where’s the crip, huh? We was hoping we killed him when Snyder let us at him. You been out mournin’ him?”

All background chatter faltered. At first Jack thought it was just his senses tuning in to Morris and Morris alone, but he realized vaguely that everyone was watching this interaction. The smile slipped from his face as for once, he was speechless. His teeth grounded together as the image of Crutchie screaming, crying for help while the Delanceys beat him into the ground was forced into his head.

Morris noticed, as did Oscar, who stepped forward with a grin. “What?” Oscar asked. “Tough Jack Kelly, gonna cry because the mean Delanceys bashed a poor cripple’s head in?”

Those were fighting words. Oscar knew it, and Jack knew it, and Oscar knew Jack knew it, and Jack knew Oscar knew Jack knew it. Jack couldn’t find it in him to care that he was being goaded--he was seething. Crutchie had come back to the lodging house unconscious and nearly dead, almost unrecognizable and the Delancey brothers had been a part of that. They might have been the ones who made it so painful for Crutchie to breathe, or the ones who hit his head so hard he couldn’t see straight, or the ones who broke his arm, or the ones who left the handprint-shaped bruise on his throat that still hadn’t faded completely--

They were laughing now, saying more vile things that reached Jack’s ears muffled, as if he was underwater. Someone else said something, gripping his arm, but Jack wrenched away from them. He grabbed Morris’s collar, drawing him close.

“You two wanna take that back?” he growled. Morris bared his teeth in a dumb grin.

“Maybe we oughtta go find him, in whatever corner the rat’s crept to ta lick his wounds. Bet he’d squeal just at the sight o’ us. Bet he’d try ta drag himself away. Bet he--”

Jack socked him square in the jaw. There was noise, lots of it, but all he could focus on was pummeling Morris until his now-shocked face was covered in blood. Hands pulled at him, but Jack dove over the counter, papers flying, to land on top of Morris, slamming fist after fist into him. Oscar kicked him hard in the side and Jack took that opportunity to latch onto his leg, pulling him down too. Before he could do any real damage, though, two strong sets of arms were prying him away and pulling him through the mess of newspapers.

“Jackie, Jack, please, let’s just go--”

Jack shoved Davey off of him, trying to shake the others off his back.

“You scared, Morris?” he shouted, voice cracking, struggling with the increasing amount of arms holding him back. “Only brave ‘nough to pick on thems as can’t fight back, huh? Huh!?”

Oscar was helping Morris up, the latter holding a hand to his own nose as it spurted blood. Everyone was yelling, screaming, shoving one another, and Jack found himself being dragged away, even though he was still trying to throw punches and kick out. “Let me go!” he gasped, face burning as red as his sight. “Let me at ‘im--he can’t--he said--!”

Mush and Tommy Boy ignored him, not letting him go until they had gotten him into an alley, surrounded by what seemed like every Manhattan newsie. There they loosened their hold, and Jack jerked away, dragging a hand under his nose as he glared at them all. Some of them had the decency to look ashamed, but most looked completely unrepentant, a few glaring right back.

“Lemme guess, you all’s known about this?” Jack said loudly, glancing from Specs to Race, from Buttons to Elmer. Les looked away.

“Don’t feel bad, Jack,” Jojo pleaded. Jack didn’t even look at him. “Albert tried ta do the same the other day.”

“I ain’t feelin’ bad,” Jack practically bellowed. He kicked the wall of the alley angrily. Still no one looked away. What was wrong with them? Why were they staring at him, some with pity, some with defiance? Why couldn’t they just go about their business and leave him to his?

“Look, Jack--”

“No! No, Racer!” Jack fell to his knees, tearing at his hair. He choked on a lump in his throat and realized there were hot tears rolling down his face. “It ain’t--he--” he took a shuddering breath, his voice cracking-- “why do they gotta hate him so much?”

No one answered. Jack stayed like that for a while, his knees digging into the dirt of the alley, frequently sniffing and rubbing at his face. How could someone be so terrible, that all they lived for was hurting kids who already had it hard enough? They had literally threatened to kill Crutchie, had faked remorse at not finishing him off the first time--

Jack was going to be sick. His stomach flip-flopped, reminding him of how he hadn’t eaten since midday yesterday. How could the others just stand there, while the Delanceys made vile threats toward one of their own, toward Crutchie? They had even known already--why hadn’t they told Jack?

Jack’s stomach twisted again, but before he could toss anything up, there was someone kneeling before him.

Davey wrapped his arms around Jack, pulling him into an awkward, stilted hug. Jack collapsed into the contact, shaking uncontrollably. He just wished everyone else would go. He just wanted everyone to stop staring at him. Davey ran gentle fingers through his hair, hushing him with little “Sh, sh,” noises.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Davey murmured. “Crutchie’s gonna be okay, Jackie. We’re gonna get through this.”

Jack almost choked out a laugh. David’s naivety couldn’t be helped--Crutchie had spent time in the Refuge, days where he was without help or support, growing weaker and weaker with every beating. It had been a good three years since Jack had been in there, and he wasn’t recovered. He wasn’t ever going to recover. How could David say with such certainty that Crutchie would be okay?

“I hope you’re right, Dave,” Jack said instead, voice thick with emotion. He curled his fingers into the stiff fabric of Davey’s vest, swallowing back another round of tears. “I hope you’re right.”

[kilyra]

hi!! can i get a headcanon on how frank, matt and the others would react by someone putting you in danger? (for example matt - foggy is the one who puts you in danger, etc) i'm a bitch for angst

Oooohhhh, I love this idea. I'm all about the angst! I had to write these with a reader that had a part to play in putting themselves in danger too – like running with a half-cocked plan – because I can't see Foggy willingly doing anything to get someone hurt.

(If you want to be tagged on the headcanons, lemmie know)

Matt Murdock: Matt would be beside himself and if it had been anyone other than Foggy, they may have walked away with at least a busted lip. But, keeping his tightly balled fists as his side, Matt spat out his questions through grit teeth. Foggy explained over and over that it was your idea and everyone knows how stubborn you are. Deep down, Matt knows the truth, but Foggy's arguments and assurances just make him see red. After getting what information he needs, he storms off, not giving Foggy a chance to help. Even once you're safe (whether he ended up having to step in with the devil or not) their friendship hits a rough patch as Matt puts some distance between them. It takes you stepping in and forcing Matt to see reason before they work things out.  

Frank Castle: When Frank hears that you and Micro dove headfirst into a plan that has put you in danger, he goes quiet. Dangerously quiet. His entire face grows stony as the muscles along his cheek pop from how tightly his jaw is clenched. Micro tries to walk back everything he just laid out, but Frank shoves past him as he stomps out of the room. If he tries too hard to hard to stop Frank from leaving, he will get laid out. Meanwhile, your covert information-gathering operation gets turned into a grim extraction mission as Frank makes his way to you. After he gets you to safety, he doesn't talk to you for a day, after giving you a shouting lecture on the drive to the home base. If it hadn't been for the current objective, he might never have spoken to Micro again...

Eric Northman: Although Eric isn't well known for self-control, he summons enough to stop short of attacking Pam when he finds out she put you in danger. Even after he knows you're safe, it's still only his love for Pam that stops him from trying to go after her. You try to explain it was your plan, but it falls on deaf ears and you know better than to try and interfere with their business. But your stomach is lead as they fight. Pam doesn't take his anger lying down since his love for a human is causing so many issues. Ultimately, she backs down and although things stay tense for a while, Eric forgives her.

Helena Bertinelli: Even though you're already safely back by the time she finds out you were ever in danger, Helena blows up. Renee and Dinah decided to leave Helena out of the plans with you because they suspected she would be upset. All of you underestimated just how upset she would be. Although nothing is thrown directly at anyone, after she shoves you to sit on the couch behind her, things go flying. Vases, dishes, glasses...whatever happens to be in the dining room that she can get her hands on, all while she ranted. Grabbing her arm, you tried to get her to see reason. Eventually, she calmed enough to hear you, but once she stops shouting at her partners, she goes quiet. For days. She'll go along with the next stage of plans, offering little more than grunts of agreement. Her trust has been severely damaged.

Diego Hargreeves: When Diego discovers that Klaus and you put a plan in motion that is putting you in danger, his stutter would come back, stopping him from shouting. Taking advantage, Klaus would explain it was your idea – and it was a damn good one too. Needless to say, Diego wouldn't care. Things wouldn't come to blows, but Diego would be out the door. Yelling at Klaus was much less important than getting to you. He arrives just as you're leaving the building, which is the only reason your cover isn't blown, as you quietly go with him to the car. While it takes days of aggressive cold shoulder before he'll listen or talk to Klaus again, you are subject to hours of lectures along with your cold shoulder.

Jim Hopper: Hopper can’t even think straight when he finds out that you and Elle are carrying out a plan that puts you in danger. The fact that you were only sneaking in with a cover story to gather information doesn't stop his angry yelling at Elle as he storms around the house, throwing on his jacket. Trying to find his keys is the only reason he wasn’t out the door, but he continues to search as he shouts, growing for frantic with each passing minute. His face grows red, missing the fact that Elle is nearly in tears as he tosses things around during the hunt. Coming home just then, you walk into a disaster – the house torn to shreds, Elle a mess in the doorway to her room, and a crazed looking Hopper who turns his anger in your direction immediately. Before you can even say anything, Elle runs over and tucks herself under your arm as the two of you face the furious..albeit relieved...wrath of the man you love.

Taglist: @foreverfaeries  @flower-two  @getlostinyourparadise   @selfishkiddo  @angelicshinigami  @parkersbabey  @natsukitakama  @bisexual-space-slut   @soul-of-a-traveller

[foxcantswim]

Timeless Jealousy

13th Doctor x Reader https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981072

A/N: Apologies if this idea has already been done! I also understand that this episode is set in the 1800s... So I can't promise that everything fits in with this time period.

Reader gets jealous after seeing Byron flirt with the Doctor...

-x-

You knew what Byron was playing at. And you didn't like it. Not. One. Bit.

You refused to dance, watching the Doctor and Byron getting just a little bit too close. You gritted your teeth, fists clenching.

"So... that was marvelous. Is anyone up for, I don't know, I'm spit-balling here, how about writing the most gruesome, spine-chilling ghost story of all time?" the Doctor quickly stopped the dancing, wanting to get straight down to business.

Yaz had come over to make sure you were okay, you nodded and assured her that you were fine. You both headed over to the Doctor. The Doctor began to speak, but your thoughts managed to drown out the Time Lord's words. You were focused on Byron who was on the other side of the room.

"Excuse me, Doctor. You broke a rule. Next, you'll be snogging Byron," Yaz stated. That made you flinch slightly. Just the thought made your blood boil.

"I was trying to get them back on track. Something's wrong here. This night, Byron challenges Mary, Polidori and Percy Shelley to come up with a ghost story-" the Doctor spoke. You caught onto Byron, he had been glancing at the Doctor every now and then.

Yaz nudged you to break you away from your stare, "Keep an eye on 'em," she said to you as the Doctor made her way over to Byron, "You and I both know how Byron can get."

She knew about your little crush on the Doctor. Well... 'Little' is an understatement. You decided to deny your crush again, "I don't need to keep an eye on them. The Doc can do what she want-"

"Shut up, (Y/N)," she rolled her eyes, "No matter how much you deny it, anyone can see it."

Well, the Doctor can't see it. Always so oblivious.

Yaz's eyes drifted towards the door, "Don't worry. You two will be fine," she assured before giving you a comforting pat on your shoulder, she then went to leave the room.

-x-

You tried to focus on the sound of the sonic screwdriver, anything to divert your attention away from Byron.

"She walks in beauty, like the night," Byron muttered.

The Doctor continued, "Of cloudless climes and starry skies."

"I'm intensely flattered you're familiar with my work, Mrs Doctor..." Byron grinned. You glared.

"Just Doctor is fine. I'm quite into Shelley's stuff too. He about?" she replied. The tension in the room was thick, and you were the cause of it. You were giving off a slight threatening energy which Byron had clocked onto. He knew that he infuriated you. And he decided to continue.

"(Y/N)?" the Doctor questioned.

Your attention quickly moved from Byron to her, "Y-Yeah?"

She stepped closer, a look of concern clearly present within her eyes, "You haven't spoken much today. Everything all right?"

You nodded, "I'm fine. Well... As fine as I can be in a place like this," you stated as a shiver ran up your spine.

"You sure?" she said, clearly not convinced.

Nodding again, "Cross my heart."

She shook her head, not accepting that answer. Stepping forward, she caught you off guard and grabbed your hand, "Give us a minute," she looked at Byron.

He gave a questionable look before standing aside. The Doctor dragged you out the room and into the hallway. She quickly released your hand before retrieving her sonic screwdriver. She stood close and began to scan you, practically backing you into a wall, "You've been off since we arrived..." she said as a red tint graced your cheeks. The Doctor then shone the sonic into your eyes, trying to get any sort of reading.

"Tryin' to blind me there, Doc?" you squinted, trying to tilt your head away.

She still had a look of concern on her face as she put the sonic away, "Something's bothering you," she decided, "Don't try to lie your way out of this one. I need you to be one hundred percent whilst we're here. Can't have you faltering."

You sighed, "It's noth-"

"(Y/N)," the Doctor glared, "Something is bothering you. You are never this quiet."

"Okay, okay," you said, trying to ignore the little space between you two, "I just... I don't like the way he's looking at you."

"Who?" she said, completely oblivious.

"Byron," you said with venom.

She sighed, before a playful grin replaced the frown, "Ah... I see. Don't worry about that," she stepped back, "We promised not to mess with history, and that's what we're doing."

That wasn't exactly the answer you were hoping for... If this didn't mess with history... Would she be interested in Byron. You shook your head, trying to get rid of the thoughts.

The Doctor's smile remained on her face as she reached for you hand again, "I'm not interested in him, okay?" she assured before dragging you back into the room.

-x-

You stayed behind the Doctor as you ran towards the drawing room, Byron was on your heels. You all arrived to see a... hand? Everyone managed to get the hand away from Ryan, Fletcher dished out the final blow. Dust now covered the carpet where the hand used to be.

"Great shot!" the Doctor announced before she made her way over to the remains. You and the rest of the 'fam' knew what was coming next. The Doctor leaned down to take a sample and lick it, "Hmm. 14th. No... 15th century-" the Doctor trailed off.

A smile spread across your face, finding all of the Doctor's little weird quirks fascinating.

"She licked it!" Claire exclaimed.

The smile on your face didn't last long at all, "She is the most baffling creature I've ever been acquainted with," Byron breathed out with a smirk. You glared once more... If looks could kill.

-x-

"If you ask me..." Yaz began as you all made your way towards Byron's chambers. The Doctor was up front with Byron, leading the way. You had stuck at the back with Yaz, "You should just tell her."

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed, "Imagine that. Me with an all mighty Time Lord. Never gonna happen," you were surprised that Yaz could hear you over the loud crash of lightning.

"Yaz is right," Ryan said, almost appearing out of nowhere.

Yaz smiled, "Never hurts to try."

You suppressed a groan, really not wanting to be a part of this conversation.

Everyone rounded a corner and soon they arrived. Walking into Byron's chambers made your skin crawl... Anything that related to him was bad in your books.

"It's a collection," Byron explained as people gathered in the room.

"Of what? Dead stuff?" Ryan questioned.

"Relics of war."

The Doctor began to wave the sonic screwdriver around the room, scanning for any abnormalities.

"From my travels..." Byron continued, "Reminders that we tread on the dust of empires. Crops now grow where blood was split. An innocent fascination, I assure you."

Anything he said really seemed to tick you off... You weren't jealous. Definitely not. No. Never.

You noticed the Doctor's face light up, she put on some headgear she had discovered, "What do you think?" she said, practically showing off her new helmet.

"Suits you," you offered her a warm smile, she smiled back in return - seemingly glad that you liked it.

-x-

"Well, he just turned sort of zombie and went into one," Graham said with concern.

"What do you speak of? What is a zombie?" Byron questioned.

The Doctor explained, "Kind of a dead person walking, but it won't be that."

"Hey, Doc?" you said, trying to get the woman's attention as she spoke to Graham via the fireplace chimney.

"How do you know?" Byron wondered.

She replied, "Because Polidori isn't dead, for a kick-off."

"D-Doctor?!" you said, your voice starting to tremble more as you noticed Polidori's figure walking in through the wall.

"Mrs Doctor!" Claire tried to get her attention too.

"Really, just Doctor is fine..."

"Doc, Polidori!" you said, now that she was listening. The blonde turned quickly to see him looking like a ghost.

Byron had decided to hide behind Claire, "Begone, demon!" he exclaimed. You glared at him in disgust before looking back at the Doctor once more.

The Doctor took a cautious step towards Polidori, "Doc-"

She cut you off, looking towards you, "It's okay," she assured before looking back at Polidori. The Doctor then raised a hand to check for a pulse, "Pulse? Check. Breathing? Check."

Byron's voice filled the room, "May I just say..." he started, "You are quite lovely in a crisis."

"No-" both you and the Doctor said. The Doctor looked at you in shock, you did your best to avoid eye contact. Byron and Claire looked between both you and the Doctor, unsure of what to say. Byron ended up smirking, understanding the situation quite clearly.

Claire decided to break the silence, clearing her throat, "So... He could just be- be asleep, correct? He walks in his sleep!"

Byron scoffed, "One does not sleepwalk through walls."

The Doctor quickly diverted her gaze away from you, "H-He doesn't just go through walls. He was downstairs a second ago," she looked at Byron, "What you said before..."

"About being lovely?" he smiled, glancing over towards. You bit your tongue.

The Doctor was growing annoyed, "Back a bit."

"Way way back," you added, glaring daggers.

Byron chuckled, "What a feisty one you have here, Doctor," he said, pacing the room.

"Byron-" Claire began to warn before he hushed her.

"We haven't got time for this," the Doctor groaned, "By-"

"Don't you see, Doctor?!" he said, "I can't think in these conditions. What with your pet staring at me all the time."

"You little sh-" you muttered before the Doctor cut you off.

"I would really appreciate it if you didn't talk to my friends like that," she said, clear anger lacing her voice, "We're trying to help."

"Help?!" Byron said, "All she's done is look at me as if she wants to kill me!"

The Doctor looked at you before you could stop yourself from glaring at Byron once again, "(Y/N)?" she asked, "He's clearly done something to upset you," she stepped closer, "What is it?" The Doctor wasn't too fond with having Polidori in his current state just standing there but she had to get to the bottom of this. Claire kept her eye on the unresponsive man.

"Nothing!" you exclaimed. The Doctor clocked onto your annoyance... "Absolutely nothing!" She also clocked onto the light sadness that glazed over your words.

"Come on, Doctor," Byron said, "We can solve this... Alone."

That was it. Byron was getting way too close to the Doctor. Thinking back on Yaz's words... You reached forward to grab the Doctor's coat, effectively pulling her closer. Your lips crashed onto hers just before she could protest her confusion. The lack of movement on the Doctor's end had you worried.

You could hear Byron's scoff of disgust and shock.

You were about to pull away, happy with your action - clearly showing Byron to back off. But, you were quickly pulled back by the Doctor who was now responding with eagerness - her arms had secured themselves around you.

"Erm..." Claire gulped, "D-Doctor, I-I don't want to... cut you short or anything. But shouldn't we be worried about Polidori."

The Doctor's face retreated from yours quickly, "Of course!" she exclaimed in triumph, her arms were removed from around you, "Why didn't I think of that!"

"Wh-What?" you stuttered, breathless.

"Have you figured all this out Doctor?" Claire wondered.

"Yes!" she said, excited.

Byron was now glaring at you this time as he spoke to the Doctor, "Well don't leave us in the dark. Enlighten us."

"Jealousy!" she shouted.

"J-Jealousy, Doctor?" Claire questioned in complete confusion.

You felt your cheeks heat up as a nervous laughter escaped, "N-Now... Come on, Doc... No time for joking around-"

The Doctor's brain finally caught up with all the recent events, her smile turning into a look of complete shock, "Ohhh... That's why you were acting like this."

"Doc-"

She cut you off again, "You don't need to be jealous. Especially not because of him," she glanced at Byron.

"Can you two focus on the task at hand?!" Byron exclaimed, annoyed.

"I agree," Claire said, "Polidori is still... Not himself."

-x-

Everybody had regrouped in the drawing room after the Doctor had gotten everybody out of their endless loops, most were admiring the skull and hand under the glass that had been recently been captured.

Byron's eyes focused on the Doctor as she made her way over to you.

"Erm... Doc..." you started, leaning against a desk, "I wanted to apologise for my actions earlier. I just wanted Byron to stop interrupting the investi-"

"You have nothing to apologise for," she assured before a curious look appeared on her face, "Is that the only reason you did that? You weren't jealous were you?"

"Pfft, jealous? Me? Never."

"Terrible liar," the Doctor said with a soft smile. Her hand moved to gently cup your cheek as she kissed your forehead. Your heartbeat quickened in response, "Now once all the rubbish is over... and when we get back to the TARDIS we can talk about this."

"O-Okay," you nodded in agreement.

Just when you thought she was going to step away, she did the opposite. She managed to step closer and you soon felt her lips crash against yours, you felt relief wash over you as she portrayed urgency. Both of you knew that you had to deal with the problem at hand, which caused the Doctor to pull away. You missed the contact, but hopefully there would be time for this later.

Both you and the Doctor noticed Byron's glare, "I think it's Byron's turn to be jealous," the Doctor decided as she stood next to you and put an arm around your shoulders, you began to make your way over towards Byron and the others.

You were just itching to just get this over with. You were excited for what the future holds.

-x-

A/N: The sequel would just be Reader getting killed by Cybermen or something like that cuz I really like angst.

[29-pieces]

Whumptober day 14 - The Musketeers

Day 14: Branding Fandom/setting: The Musketeers (BBC), alternate version of S2E10 Trial and Punishment note: in this version, BBC!Milady has the brand that book!Milady was punished with - in the book, that's what Athos discovered to convince him she really was a criminal.  Torture TW

Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

Aramis tensed as he heard the door creak open behind him. His hands clenched into fists, subtly straining at the long chains securing his wrists to the wall—as though maybe this time they would give out.

They didn't.

"So," Rochefort's sickly smooth voice spoke up from the doorway, followed by multiple pairs of footsteps. "You have been convicted of high treason. You are a traitor, Aramis. And eventually, you will die like one."

"Eventually?" he couldn't help but ask through gritted teeth. Aramis had expected this. Why kill him quickly when Rochefort held all the cards? Aramis had dared to touch, to love, the object of Rochefort's obsession. A swift, merciful death had never been on the table. Slowly, Aramis turned on the spot with his chin raised high.

Rochefort was smiling, watching Aramis with that intense, chilling stare. It unnerved the musketeer, though not as much as the long metal rod in his hands, topped with a broad, flat symbol that glowed fire-white.

Aramis felt his eyes widen despite his intention to not react to whatever tortures were in store for him, and he took an involuntary step back. This seemed to be the cue the other soldiers had been waiting for, the four that had accompanied Rochefort in. They surged in towards him. Fighting back was an instinct driven in too fully for Aramis to resist, throwing a rattling punch to one and a kick to another. Without weapons, chained in place, and outnumbered, Aramis could do no more as they flung him against the wall then dragged him to the ground.

"Hold him there," Rochefort said, calm and content, slowly stepping closer.

"You're nothing but a snake, Rochefort," Aramis snapped, twisting against the hands that held him. The chains at his wrists weren't quite long enough to reach the floor, leaving them crossed over his head when they kicked him flat onto his back. Again, Aramis tried to kick his way back up, but with four guards, it was easy for them to hold him down, one on each limb. One of the soldiers jerked his doublet open, ripping it and Aramis's shirt down off of his shoulder.

"The king will see it in the end!" Aramis bit out, desperately trying to break their hold on him to no avail. His breaths came in fast, panicked gasps as he watched the brand coming closer and closer to his skin. "And the queen?" He laughed harshly, knowing what would hurt his captor the most. "She'll never love you."

Rochefort smiled down at him but there was rage and insanity in his gaze. "Hold him down," he instructed the guards again.

Aramis struggled as the grips on his arms and legs tightened, until he saw Rochefort's smile widen. He was enjoying this, smug bastard, he wanted the show, the helplessness, the useless struggle. Aramis would not give him that. He fell still against the freezing stone floor, looking up at the brand that would mark him a criminal. The musketeer swallowed back defeat. It wouldn't matter... he wouldn't live long enough for anyone else to see it. As well as he was able, Aramis lifted his chin again, meeting Rochefort's amused eyes.

The Comte's smile slid somewhat at the show of defiance. Without a word, he thrust the brand down into the musketeer's skin, searing the mark into Aramis's chest below his collarbone.

Aramis had wanted to remain stoically silent but the scream was ripped from his throat regardless. He thrashed and bucked against his captors, seeing and feeling and smelling the flesh blister and burn. His stomach turned and he thought he would pass out from the pain of it and oh god surely it had to stop soon, but Rochefort didn't remove the brand. He only pushed it more fiercely down, leaning his weight into it until Aramis was blinded by tears and agony and his whole body felt like it was on fire.

After an eternity, the pressure was removed, but the heat remained. Aramis choked on more frantic breaths, looking down at his chest to be met with the sight of the mangled, blistered form of the fleur-de-lis. Not as the proud mark of a musketeer, but as the shameful brand of a traitor.

"Hmm," Rochefort murmured from somewhere above him, and Aramis knew he was being shrewdly studied. "You know... I don't believe the Queen will think much of this look on you."

The men holding him down released his arms and legs but Aramis didn't try to move other than to curl in himself. Even that didn't work, the chains at his hands too short to give him enough leeway. The stench of burned skin filled his nostrils, choking the musketeer until he released a strangled sob. It echoed along with the slamming of the door and the cold promise that Rochefort would be back before too long. Aramis closed his eyes, praying only to be released—one way or another.

.o.O.o.

As it turned out, the way he was released was not by death, but by Milady. Aramis remembered little of the actual escape, beyond his terror at hearing the door open again, the shock at seeing her there instead of Rochefort come to torture him some more. Milady had paused for a moment, eyebrow arching gracefully up at the sight of his burn.

"It seems we're a matched set, then," she said with only the smallest of sneers, no true vitriol in her voice but also no pity.

Aramis only glowered at her, not bothering to protest that they were nothing alike, that unlike him, her crimes had been real. But he said nothing, because was it even true? He had endangered the queen, his brothers, Constance, so much blood on his hands because he had loved a woman he was not permitted to love. Despite how fiercely the fabric of his shirt hurt the fresh burn, he fastened his doublet tightly to hide the mark.

They didn't speak again after that, and Aramis was relieved to finally find himself back among his brothers. Even the normally stoic Athos immediately pulled him closer, a relieved kiss on his cheek speaking to just how close they had all come to losing everything, and still could.

"Come here," Porthos beamed, his own face an open book of delight compared to Athos's measured solemnity.

Aramis smiled wanly and leaned in to his friend but immediately gasped when the hug was too enthusiastic for his abused chest to handle. Porthos froze, then carefully backed up a bit, though he didn't let go of Aramis.

"You're hurt," he seethed. "Aramis? What did he do? What is it?"

"I wouldn't show them, if I were you," Milady spoke up, perching herself smugly on a nearby chair. "Athos might take it into his mind to have you hanged."

Aramis shot a glare in her direction, as did Porthos and d'Artagnan, but Athos turned pale and was immediately at Aramis's side—of course he would now know exactly what had happened.

"Let me see it," he murmured, voice both tremulous and gentle, as he gingerly peeled Aramis's shirt away to reveal the ugly burn. The room fell silent.

Aramis swallowed and looked away. "He..." Trailing off helplessly, Aramis shook his head. What words could be spoken to describe his horror, his shame? "If we make it out of this, don't tell An- the Queen," he whispered. "She would..."

"She would know how brave you are," Constance spoke up, guiding Athos aside so she could stand in front of Aramis instead, looking up at him in that earnest way of hers. "She would be outraged at what was done to you, yes, but she would never see you differently for it, Aramis. None of us could."

"Constance is right," Treville said from his position by the door. Only the slightest tightening of his jaw revealed his own fury. "Rochefort is the traitor, not you, and we'll see to it that everyone knows that."

Aramis closed his eyes, grateful for their support, but painfully cognizant that their opinions of him might not be the ones that determined his fate. "It's a brand," he said hollowly. "This won't- I can't wash it off, I can't- I'll carry it forever. Even if the King were to grant a pardon, the mark will still be there. How can I be a musketeer if-"

"Aramis," Treville cut him off. "As long as I am your captain, you have a place in our regiment. You know that. And anyone who takes my place one day will know the same." His eyes flicked to Athos, who nodded solemnly.

"You will get that pardon," the swordsman intoned. "And your friends will stand by you. You have our word."

"And I'll see Rochefort dead," Porthos spat out, clenching his fist.

"And I'll get your med kit," d'Artagnan offered as he eyed the burned skin. "You'll need to treat that. Wait here, I know where it is."

Aramis swallowed against the lump in his throat as his friends rallied around him. They would be lucky indeed to survive this intact, but he would be luckier still to count these men (and Constance) as his family.

As long as he had that, well... the rest would fall into place.

[spicedrobot]

Just a Taste

Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Blackwatch!Genji/Android!Zenyatta Warnings: DBH!AU, blowjobs, closet sex, mild blood/fluids Notes: uuuuuHHHH literally this is only because androids test samples with their mouths and that’s fucky honestly?? sorry for this

Also on ao3! Link in my blog description :)

- 

It should be the last thing on Genji’s mind. He’s on the clock. It’s a crime scene. There are people around, other agents, ones he could never look in the eye again if they knew why he’s glued to the spot. The feature isn’t even unique, comes standard with all omnics, but he’s never seen Zenyatta use it until now.

It’s not even that he does it suggestively: one second the victim’s blood is an undisturbed pool on the floor, the next Zenyatta lifts coated fingers to his mouth. The blue gleams on his tongue, framed by full, soft lips, thin eyes narrowed, his teal LED flickering. They make them so pretty; humans love attractive people, attractive omnics too, even older models like Zenyatta, scuffed and scarred, slivers of metal beneath his skin mesh shining when he turns in a certain light.

Zenyatta processes the sample with mouth slightly parted, fingers leaving an azure smear beneath his lower lip, and the cyborg is much too hot, his augmented brain replaying the last seconds with blinding accuracy. The intensity of Zenyatta’s gaze, the complete lack of awareness, the indentation of his fingers pressed against his tongue—

“Oh. Curious indeed,” Zenyatta murmurs.

Genji doesn’t often feel thankful for his cybernetics, but they do conceal his lower body. He shakes his head while his heart slams stubbornly in his chest.

“What did you find?”

“The blood is approximately sixteen hours old and contains a specific chemical compound only found in omnics commissioned by Vishkar Corporation. I suggest we continue our investigation there.”

“It’ll be a pain securing a search warrant,” Genji says as Zenyatta notices the mess on his chin.

The cyborg swallows hard, mesh and metal at once too tight. Zenyatta isn’t looking at him when he licks at the stray blood. Small favors. Genji closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.

“Agent McCree, can you complete the investigation here?” Zenyatta asks.

“Sure thing, but you owe me,” McCree drawls from across the room.

“My thanks,” the omnic says, then cants his head towards Genji. “Let us return.”

Genji nods, and if his master notices his stiff gait, he does not comment on it.

Not until they’re a few hundred feet away and tucked into an old storage room.

“Zenyatta, what’re you—”

The omnic drops to his knees, and Genji bumps the shelves at his back with a grunt, eyes shooting between the door and Zenyatta unhurriedly unbuckling his belt.

“H-here?”

“It is not a prudent use of our time to relocate to your apartment,” Zenyatta says. He presses his cheek against Genji’s thigh, the warmth of him bleeding through fabric and armor mesh.

“This can...wait…” Genji breathes, hands grasping Zenyatta’s shoulders, a pre-emptive groan escaping, knowing what Zenyatta will discover when he—

“Can it? Dilated pupils, elevated heart rate…”

Zenyatta’s fingers tap the final key in the sequence, and Genji’s panel recedes up and away. His cock slides out into the cool air a scant inch from Zenyatta’s lips, reddened and gleaming with pre, twitching when the omnic’s breath ghosts over it.

“Fuck…”

“Do you still wish to wait?” Zenyatta says, quiet as a whisper.

The omnic presses his finger against the tip of his cock, watches it jerk back into the air as he pulls away, his laugh trailing Genji’s breathless swear. Zenyatta exhales, lips just catching its tip, the scantest kiss, his dark eyes flickering vibrant blue as he looks up.

Daring him to say no.

Genji’s lips flatten into a thin line. He should hate how much sway Zenyatta has over him, how an innocuous look or action strikes him stupid, how everyone thought Zenyatta the responsible one, a kind, soft-spoken medic that would never lead his student away from a crime scene just to see him at his most embarrassing, to encourage it, revel in it.

Zenyatta’s tongue darts out, mottled blue, sample stained, lashing once beneath his cockhead; Genji’s hips stutter, stomach flexing, a spot of pre dripping onto that damned tongue.

“T-teasing me doesn’t save an—”

Genji knocks the back of his head against the shelving as Zenyatta sucks him down mid word. For a terrifying second he almost comes there and then, with Zenyatta’s nose buried against his stomach, his throat massaging his cock, the omnic’s eyes half-mast and flickering, reading him, his taste, his smell. Then Genji gets a hold of himself, hand settling on Zenyatta’s head, the shaved texture grounding him, focus jumping to the door, the stale air, anything but the molten synthetics clutching his cock, the sounds of Zenyatta drawing back, suctioned and wet, the sounds of the omnic himself as he slides Genji back inside his mouth, weak, muffled and rumbling.

Zenyatta enjoys this. Even with his own panel sealed and prim between his spread thighs, intent focused completely on Genji. Perhaps it’s the location, out of the way but not hidden. Maybe the position, Genji gripping him helplessly, trying so hard to even his breathing and not moan like a camboy—

He cannot spare another thought, not when Zenyatta’s hands plant atop Genji’s thighs and his cheeks hollow, no need to breathe, just an endless suckling drag that has Genji’s every nerve and sensor onlined and aching. He can’t watch, doesn’t dare look at Zenyatta while he sinks onto him, grits his teeth as his fingers flex against the omnic’s skull, his other hand clutching desperately at the shelving behind him. Entirely too wound up way too fucking soon, but Zenyatta learned every part of him, his reactions, how to suck and kiss and tease, when to bob shallowly and lash his tongue beneath his glans—

“God...Zen...I...I’m gonna…”

Zenyatta groans, the sound shivering against his cock, his fingers digging into the armor at Genji’s thighs, his other hand slipping into the paneling at his hip, brushing hidden, aching ports. A burst of sensation, hunger-need-desire and a quieter, more desperate pull, rips a growl from Genji’s chest, Zenyatta’s consciousness stroking his like a physical thing. They aren’t meant to interface, incompatible, most of Genji is human, but not all, and Zenyatta slithers into the rest and holds tight like a lifeline, a ghost of what two interfaced machines could feel, flashes of pain-tinted pleasure that steals Genji’s breath. His gaze snaps downward, legs nearly giving out, taking in the omnic’s mouth buried flush against his body, eyes thinned and vibrant and pleased, flecks of blood smeared across his chin and lips, glossy with spit and pre. It should be disgusting, but Genji steams, desperately shoving at Zenyatta to stave it off, but Zenyatta reads him, knows, holds and swallows hard, not giving an inch.

Genji bites his fist, yell muffled but barely, body pulsing and trembling as he begins to come, hot, rippling bursts that have him rolling onto the balls of his feet, curling over Zenyatta, hips jostling, forcing himself deeper, chasing instinct while he embarrasses himself with the sounds he’s making, harsh, jagged wheezes as Zenyatta clenches and milks and ruins him.

Only when he trembles and whines, orgasm settling into his body and painfully sensitive, does Zenyatta withdraw with a final pop. The blue flush at his cheeks, the way Zenyatta licks his lips and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand punching out a final whimper.

“So quickly. Would you like a summary of my analysis?” the omnic says, gravel rough and breathless and grinning.

“You’re a demon,” Genji sighs, hissing when Zenyatta continues to kiss his softening cock. “I’ll get you back for this…”

“How frightening,” the omnic hums.

Zenyatta seals Genji up and stands, worse for wear only for his wrinkled slacks and the stubborn blue flush across his cheeks.

“Shall we?”

Genji nods, gears himself up for hours of paperwork and most decidedly not scheming ways to get back at his partner before the night is through.

[zenonaa]

Read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18318629/chapters/43362350

Comments: Day 1 for TogaFuka Week! The prompt is ‘Beginnings’

***

If anyone thought that somebody stacked a dozen books on a desk in Hope’s Peak’s library and abandoned them there, they would be wrong but the mistake would be understandable. Behind the barricade of books lay Touko Fukawa, her shoulders hunched as she scribbled in a small purple notebook. Her pen nib scratched against paper, paving a story word by word. The world around her faded away within the first few sentences, and all that mattered now was the fictional girl made of thoughts, paper and ink who recently transferred to a new school.

Much like Touko, herself.

While she had her own dorm here, where she could work and exist as she pleased, for her current project, she wanted to draw from her surroundings. For example, as she left her dorm, her eyes darted about the narrow corridors, where the cream flooring was polished so much that she could see her blurred reflection in it, and she noted the slight resistance from the wooden stair rail as she descended to the ground floor. Once outside, Touko listened to the hum of school life under a sky with clouds boasting grey stomachs, and she remembered the lazy tumble of an empty packet of crisps as she crossed a courtyard.

The library emitted a rich, booky smell, a blend of glue and aged must, with old books intermingling with newer ones, an aroma that Touko’s dorm hadn’t yet acquired since she moved in two weeks prior. In her pursusal of the library, she found books long out-of-print. When taking into account that the academy had been established hundreds of years old, that was to be expected. On opening a few books, just curious about their age, she discovered yellowing checkout cards, and she suspected several stamps had been pressed into them for people no longer alive, rotting in the ground somewhere.

Yes, Touko had been called morbid. A lot. One nickname of hers was ‘zombie’, and then there were others like ‘ugly’, ‘weird girl’, ‘four eyes’ and ‘Wednesday Addams’. However, at that moment, Touko existed only as a vessel for the character in her current work in progress. The girl was drinking in the sight of the old school building, gripping the handle of a secondhand suitcase that had a wheel that kept sticking, and her mouth hung open, tinged with the bitter tang of fear.

She was about to take the plunge and go inside when she exploded in a cloud of dust, blown away by a single spoken word.

“You.”

That wasn’t said by the girl, or anyone in the book, or even Touko. She jerked her head up at the blunt voice that shoved her out of her zone and placed her back in a dim, musky library.

A male student stared down at her, his lips twisted with disgust, an emotion that Touko was well acquainted with. Narrowed blue eyes watched her from behind a pair of white framed glasses. His hand rested on top of one of the piles of books that she amassed. Even though she wrote fiction, it had to have some basis in reality. She acquired them for research purposes, though one stack consisted of paper folders with notes and plans for this particular story.

Touko tried to swallow as quietly as possible.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” she asked tightly.

“You’re certainly doing something,” he said. He craned his neck, trying to see into her notebook, and wrinkled his nose. “Are you writing one of your romances?”

She wrenched her notebook toward herself and hugged it against her chest.

“W-What’s it to you? Why do you need to know? Do I need a permit to write here?” she snapped.

He clucked his tongue.

“That sure is a persecution complex you’ve got there. You’re giving yourself too much credit. You enrolled as a high school literary girl, and as an avid reader, and because you happen to be here, I thought I would investigate,” he said.

“Investigate?” She raised in pitch. “What are you, a detective?”

“That’s a side hobby for me. I’ve even solved a few cold cases,” he told her. Touko eyed him, trying to place where she had seen him before, because she was fairly sure she had somewhere. He turned his head to one side but kept his gaze on her.

A few seconds passed, then it clicked.

“You sit in front of me in class,” she announced. Yes. She recognised his blond hair from the one day she went to class. They weren’t compulsory, and she was a genius, so she preferred to spend that time writing instead.

If she could help it, she kept her eyes down in class, but she had to look up occasionally, and with him right there, glimpsing him was inevitable, though she usually only saw the back of his head. And, of course, she saw his face while researching her classmates prior to starting at the academy, but after reading his title, Super High School Level Heir, she hadn’t lingered on him for much longer.

“The answer to a question I didn’t ask,” he remarked coldly. Up to this point, he hadn’t taken his hand off the pile of books, but he did now, pushing up his glasses that hadn’t slipped at all far down his slender nose.

He folded his arms over his chest and regarded her again.

“As I’m sure you have as well, I researched my classmates before coming here,” said Byakuya, and she shoved her thumb against her gritted teeth.

She just thought about that - she needed to make her face harder to read, but she couldn’t stop clenching her jaw and scowling.

“When I saw your title, I was interested to see what sort of things you wrote,” he continued. “For you to have been handpicked by Hope’s Peak, you must have talent at it. Imagine my disappointment when I saw your bibliography comprised of romance novels...”

Heat rose to her face and she balled her hands into fists.

“What, do you think an ugly fatty like me can’t write about romance?” she snarled. He didn’t even flinch.

“That’s irrelevant. Romance in real life is repulsive, and I can’t see why anyone would want to read about it,” he said.

Touko bristled. The nerve of this guy! She was ugly, smelly and a bunch of derogatory terms, but to dismiss her livelihood... she wouldn’t stand for it. For a while, she couldn’t even muster up any words, and she could only see white hot anger.

Finally, she looked up and said, “How-?”

He was gone. Touko choked on her saliva and tried to return to her writing, but her narrative came out stilted, repetitive. She gripped her pen tighter and screamed in her head, not with words but filling herself with an internal prolonged, frustrated wail. Even when she stopped attempting to think what to write next, a fizzling sound still ate away at her.

A stubbornly long time later, she slammed down her pen. The nerve! Touko left the library books where they were - she knew librarians preferred putting books away than having visitors try to. She collected her folders and stormed out of the library, her skirt swishing wildly.

Despite the fluorescent lighting in the corridors, night fell some time ago, but she didn’t have a curfew or anything to obey. If she wanted to be out past ten o’clock, then so be it. As she blitzed through various corridors, tinted various colours by the lighting depending on the area of the school, the few people straying around her had sense to avoid her.

When she entered her dorm, she let the door swing shut with a bang, and she tossed her folders onto a small round table. She stood still, gripping her hair, and her ragged breathing eventually tired her out. The room speckled in her exhaustion, and her limbs weighed down as she sauntered to her bed. Not bothering to take her uniform off, she flopped forward onto her mattress and whined into her pillow.

What a pomposh, self-important fool! He must have felt so smug, leering at her and taunting her about what she wrote. Just because he was rich and handsome, he thought that made him better than everyone else, but he couldn’t fool her. Touko had met too many handsome men and they all turned out to be vile. They pinned love confessions onto noticeboards, asked her out on dates on dares or told her that she was more mature than her classmates, after class when everyone else had gone home.

Yes, they were the same as each other, and in her experience, ended up dead.

Touko fell asleep, thinking of comebacks and retorts that she should have said at the time. In the morning, she woke up early for once. Rather than sleep in, she heaved herself out of bed, sprayed herself in cheap body spray instead of taking a shower, and she gathered her things for the day. As soon as she saw Byakuya, she would slice him to pieces with her tongue, brandishing her arguments and superior intelligence. After all, she was intelligent, and him? He was just an heir, which required no work, no extra effort. Just rich parents.

Yes, as soon as she got her notebook containing her novel, she would...

... she sorted through her folders...

... as soon...

She stopped.

Then wailed.

It wasn’t here. Her notebook wasn’t here. Touko must have left it at the library the previous night, and it was all Byakuya’s fault because he flustered her so much. She ran out of her dorm, her school bag thrashing against her as she sped over to the library, ignoring the concerned looks aimed her way.

When she arrived, she could barely breathe, not just because she was so unfit, not just because she was so out of breath, but because that notebook held her precious story. Panting loudly, she checked where she had been stationed the previous night. The books had been reshelved, but her own notebook was nowhere to be seen.

“Did you see a notebook here last night?” Touko asked the librarian, who had cautiously drawn closer upon seeing Touko burst in.

“No, sorry. Everything I put away belonged to the library,” said the woman. She tilted her head to one side, looking upward in thought. “The only person who has been here since after you left and before I tidied up was that Togami boy who comes here a lot. He left after you yesterday.”

Him! Touko growled and without bothering to say her thanks, she left the library, heading toward their homeroom. As usual, she had skipped breakfast, but her stomach had hardened rock solid so she didn’t feel hungry.

She opened the door forcefully and looked inside. No one else was here yet, not even the student attending for being an elite public morals committee member. Classes weren’t compulsory, but Touko didn’t know the location of Byakuya’s dorm, and in this sort of mood, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on her writing anyway, so she stomped over to her desk in the back corner of the room and flumped down on her chair.

Five minutes later, Kiyotaka arrived, his shirt tucked in, tidy as an esteemed committee member should be. He took a few steps before noticing Touko and hesitated, then raised a hand.

“Good morning, Fukawa-kun!” he called out.

She glanced at him. To her dismay, he stared, expecting a greeting back. How bothersome.

“It’s nice that you’ve decided to attend today,” he added, breaking into a wide grin.

“I can’t say the same back,” she said. His face fell, and he left her alone now.

A few more students spilled into the classroom soon after, such as a girl who wore a paperclip in her hair and seemed to bounce as she walked. She approached Touko with a donut bundled in kitchen tissue, and she had the audacity to put it on Touko’s desk.

“What is this?” asked Touko, turning up her nose at it.

“I’m Aoi Asahina,” chirped the girl, and she cupped the back of her neck. “I, um, thought... you might get hungry, so...”

Touko cringed. “I don’t want... your bribery!”

“What? It’s not bribery,” said Aoi, adopting a frown. “I noticed you never come to the cafeteria in the morning, so thought I’d get you something. I was wondering if we could be friends.”

Exactly. Bribery.

“You can’t fool me. Leave me alone!” Touko sneered. “You probably hid razor blades in it.”

Like those girls in her middle school had done with a cake.

“That’s horrible!” Aoi said, widening her eyes. “I would never...”

But Touko had learned otherwise.

“You... You big-boobed piece of beef jerky!” Touko twisted her body away from Aoi. “Go away. Moo-ve away from me!”

Aoi gasped and then stalked off to her desk with a huff, as Touko intended, leaving the donut behind, not so much intended. More people arrived after. A girl with long blue hair and skin as smooth as a doll’s, walking in with a boy with brown messy hair. A girl with violet hair and a small braid on her left side, the headmaster’s daughter. Every time the door opened, Touko peeked up, and upon seeing that they weren’t Byakuya, she would lower her gaze again.

With five minutes to spare, the door opened, and this time, when Touko perked up her head, the sight of Byakuya greeted her. She tracked him as he strode over to his desk, wearing a dark brown shoulder bag that cost more than it should, and as soon as he slid onto his chair, she spoke up.

“You. Togami,” she said.

He gave a hum, and she thought for a moment that he wouldn’t even bother looking at her, but then he turned around and held out a small purple notebook.

Her notebook.

“You thief!” Touko hissed as she snatched it back.

Byakuya blinked calmly and made no attempt to stop her or steal it back.

“You left it behind in your haste last night. That’s your fault,” he said.

She glared at him. He retracted his hand and pushed up his glasses.

“I planned to return it to you after classes today, but you saved me the effort of chasing you down by coming here,” he added. “Which I thank you for, because I have better things to do. A lot of them.”

“L-Like what?” she jeered. “Smelling your own farts? Getting everything handed to you?”

For the first time, emotion flickered in his eyes. An ignition, a spark, a flame within a case of ice. His nostrils flared.

“Is that what you think of me?” he asked sharply. “That I am someone who has not had to work to get to where I am?”

Her heart beated faster, but she didn’t pay heed to its warning, to its plea that she back down against someone raising their voice, even slightly.

“An heir is born,” she said, digging her nails into her palms. She could feel herself shaking.

“Usually, but not in my case,” he said, trying to keep his tone even, but annoyance made the baseline crumble a bit. Still, he lowered his voice, so Touko could breathe easier. “I had to compete against my siblings to become the sole heir. I, the youngest child, battling against people who in cases were decades older than me, had to prove myself... to everyone. They thought I would lose, but my hard work, intelligence and cunning made me victorious.”

The way he talked about it made it sound like some kind of competition. She bit her lip, not knowing what to say. What to think.

He saved her the trouble.

“By the way, I read what you wrote in there,” he said casually, pointing at her notebook.

Touko twitched. “You what?” she squawked.

She could have bitten his head off. Reading one of her works in progress...! Without permission...! He may as well have read her thoughts, or peeped in on her while she showered or got undressed.

“I have said that I abhor romance, as a genre and I object to it in life too, but you have a reputation,” he told her. “One of your books made fishermen popular with young women, and another with butlers. Pennyworth couldn’t leave the house with me without being inundated with admirers for months.”

He inclined his head, very slightly, not breaking eye contact.

“I admit I have read some of your works prior to enrolling, and this story here... You have not just talent, but an almost magical way with words. A gift. You could accomplish great things if you didn’t waste your time on a subject like romance. I don’t know why you’re throwing away your talent on something like that.”

Touko processed what he said and jolted with a spike of anger. She opened her mouth to retort but at this point, an older adult came in who Touko didn’t recognise as their homeroom teacher. For starters, she remembered their homeroom teacher to be a man.

This woman carried a comically large net over her shoulder that seemed to be holding an actual human being, and she straightened as she spotted Touko.

“Ah, you must be Fukawa-kun!” the teacher said with a smile, like she hadn’t just been caught kidnapping someone. “You saved me the effort of having to go find you.”

Touko ignored her. The teacher didn’t pursue the conversation further and walked over to a desk. She emptied her net there. Indeed, a human being had been in it, a tubby boy clutching a manga with a chibi girl on it that Touko suspected had been used as bait.

After he sat down, the teacher left the room, and conversations popped up again. No one paid attention to the two in the corner. Byakuya stared at her. Touko breathed in, aware that her heart was racing, that her face had grown hot.

He complimented her writing. Yes, he was unkind and a massive jerk, but she knew that he didn’t say that to try to win her over. His only intention was to say the truth. She trusted him... at least for this.

It had been ages since she received a compliment she felt was genuine.

“I’m... I’m not wasting my time,” she said. Her tongue struggled to cooperate, and she didn’t know what had come over her. Words turned into a mass of feathers in her mouth, clumped together by saliva. “Happy people write shallow novels, but the downtrodden, like me, see the world in its full spectrum and can vividly imagine an ideal world, envisioned in true beauty. Romance... is pure. It’s a source of hope and power.”

He grimaced.

“It’s a weakness,” he said. “A weakness to be exploited by others. People betray. Other people can’t be trusted. It infects you, taints your judgment. It’s idiocy.”

Her skin tingled, like grazed by fire. His honesty... burned hot.

“Love... gives you hope,” she said, tensing her shoulders. “It gives you purpose. In a book, even people who are ugly, smelly and stupid can experience it.”

But what he said about it... wasn’t wrong.

“That sounds delusional.” His expression didn’t change, and her heart sank.

They both continued to face each other. Byakuya’s gaze made her skin itch. She fidgeted, and noticing the donut that Aoi left behind, she picked it up and held it out.

“Here. Take this,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “You returned my book... and now we’re even.”

He scoffed.

“I don’t want that thing,” he said. “You could have poisoned it.”

She nearly dropped the donut and ogled him. “I...”

“I’ve survived assassination attempts from people more dangerous than you. I’m not an idiot,” he said. “Don’t think I trust you. I’m constantly on guard, analysing others’ tones of voice, lines of sight, minute changes in expression, posture... No one can be trusted. Not my former siblings, not my father and mother, and certainly not any of you.”

Touko couldn’t take her eyes off him. Earlier, she had seen him as a guy born into this position, with a silver spoon in his mouth and everything and anything given to him. Now, however, she didn’t see a spoiled brat who knew nothing of hardships, but someone who could see the world as she did, who must have seen things, been through things that people their age shouldn’t, that no one should. A coldness existed in his eyes, as cold as the surface of a mirror, as the shiver down her spine when she heard her door back at home creak open in the middle of the night.

But she wasn’t scared, no matter how much she trembled. He didn’t hide behind darkness, not like him. He didn’t hide behind lies, not like them.

Too soon, he faced forward, and something in her chest shifted. She put the donut down. At the front of the class, the teacher from before clapped her hands, having returned without Touko realising.

“We’re all here! Awesome. Right, I’ll be replacing your old homeroom teacher,” she said warmly. “Kizakura-san sends his warmest regards.”

She was replacing a teacher who they could only have had for a few weeks. This teacher wore a white apron over her blue dress. Her orange hair was styled in a ponytail with white ribbon, and her green eyes shone with determination, bright and young - she couldn’t have been that much older than them.

“Alright, so my name is Chisa Yukizome, and I hope to get close to all of you. Now, let’s do roll call,” said their new homeroom teacher, Chisa Yukizome, clasping her hands together.

As she called out names, Touko studied the back of Byakuya’s head. With a small smile and a wringing knot in her chest, she decided she might start attending classes more regularly.

[shikastemari]

control - b&s.

pairing: boruto uzumaki x sarada uchiha

request:

word count: 1,918

when it happens: a few months after kawaki apparition

warnings: mentions of blood

a/n: not sure if that was what you were looking for when you requested it, but i kinda liked how it turned out. i just didn’t think about any good roast phrases, and that kinda turned me down, hope you like it though.

MASTERLIST

"Do you think Nanadaime will be mad if I kill them both?" Sarada whispered to Boruto.

A small smile played on his lips, as he arched his brows as if asking her 'so now it is not funny anymore'. The way Sarada rolled her eyes made pretty clear she got the message, which cause his smile to grow bigger. Kawaki and Sumire had been talking shit about them since the minute they left the farm outside the Village they had just helped. Apparently, his father trusted him enough - along with Sarada - to keep an eye on the new guy, and earning his trust.

However, Boruto hadn't done such thing so far. Kawaki was incredibly hard to be friends with. Not that he actually tried that hard to make something happen, he just couldn't stand the freeloader inside his house, getting his dad attention. Boruto fought so hard to finally be recognized by Naruto, so one guy out of nowhere, with a power similar to his, could steal the Hokage's focus all over again.

Sumire went along, because according to his old man, she had been down this road before - and by this road, he meant she tried to tear Konoha apart -, so she could help him to finally see things ahead, like an example. Deep down, Boruto was feeling like he and Sarada were kind of a rehabilitation center for kids who had cracks of wickedness on their past. 

It wasn't a shock, neither for Sarada or Boruto, that Sumire and Kawaki got along right away. Their abilities fit together quite well, and their team work was incredible, especially for Kawaki. Boruto hadn't seen the guy being so useful until that particular moment. The thought of Sumire maybe summoning Kawaki crossed his mind, but he didn't verbalize it. Even when Kawaki and Sumire discovered that they could bond over talking shit about Boruto. He did think it was a bit outrageous Sumire had so much to speak about him, particularly because it was mostly bad things he had done during all the years studying together. In the beginning, even Sarada was on board on roasting him, apparently, but once Sumire brought her name to the road, the raven girl stopped enjoying it.

The current topic was his family, the looks one already dead-beat. The most fun part was how mad Kawaki would get when Boruto didn't even glare at his direction, completely ignoring every word he would say. Sumire's words apparently had no effect on the blond guy either, but Sarada had a behavior completely different from his. Everytime the purple haired girl said something about her or her family, Sarada would snap and Boruto had to keep her from ripping someone's head.

"It's only more thirty minutes, and we will finally arrive in Konoha," Boruto muttered the last time she almost used her kunai to rip one of Sumire's eyes. "Hang in there."

His voice was soft and calm, not mirroring at all Sarada's feelings at that particular moment. Sumire had just spoken something about her father, and she could still feel her blood boiling inside her veins, her sharingan ready to be used. The only thing that was keeping her on her place was Boruto's gentle glances and supportive smiles.

"Do you realize they are bonding over bitching about us?" Sarada questioned, amazed by his posture. "How can you not punch them for the things they are saying about your dad? Your mom?"

Boruto glanced over his shoulder, where Kawaki was telling Sumire how he didn't understand how Boruto could be Naruto's son, since he was such a loser and the Hokage was so strong, the girl was covering her mouth to repress a laugh. Boruto just shook his head, tired. 

"Easy." His eyes darted from the couple walking behind them to Sarada's face. "I don't get mad because I know it is not true. My mom is strong, my dad, along with yours, is one of the best shinobi alive. The guy is a legend, so as master Sasuke and they are not here, so their words can't hurt any of them. I would act different for sure if he was saying that to my mother's face, but honestly, I don't understand how their non sense talk can crawl under your skin like it had been doing so far," Boruto smiled, as he noticed a pink hue appearing on her cheeks. "I thought after living with me for that long, you would be almost immune to bullshit."

Sarada bit the inside corner of her cheek, as acknowledging his words. He was right. The things those two were saying shouldn't affect her that much, especially because she was completely aware of her parents strength. All memories of her pinkette mom and her dark father protecting her came to her mind, and she was filled with a feeling that she knew way too well. She was proud.

Satisfied, Sarada pushed Boruto lightly with her shoulder, as they continued their path to their homes. A grin lit up his face, as he felt her more at ease.

"I miss Mitsuki," she blurted out. "Somehow I think he would make the whole situation easier to bear."

"Konohamaru-nii-san too," Boruto completed, knowing exactly what she was talking about.

The sun had passed overhead and was descending behind the tall trees to the west. The air sweated with August heat, but an occasional warm breeze was funneled between the bushes, picking up whirlwinds with mixed flowers scent. 

"Oi, Boruto," Kawaki shouted from the back after a while. Boruto just kept walking besides Sarada. As tempted as she was to play the mature one in this convo, she couldn't avoid turning her head to stare at the guy behind her. Sadly, Boruto's lack of interested of whatever Kawaki had to say wasn't enough to keep him from actually saying it. "I bet your little sister is stronger than you, if she had inherited your dad's strength, because if it she got from your mother..."

His phrases died once he realized Boruto had stopped, so as Sarada. The girl scanned her teammate. Boruto's fingers curled tightly, pressed against the rough flesh on his hands. Boruto could to see clearly Kawaki's neck snapping in his mind and it felt good. He could feel his fist smashing into his nose, splattering red blood on the trees. What an improvement that would be. Instead, he just replied as if his jaw were wired shut, forcing a sardonic smile.

"Don't worry about that, Kawaki," Boruto winked at him. "I am pretty sure my sister is the only person alive who could beat the crap out of your precious and strong Hokage. She is stronger than me, and believe me, she is way better than you, freeloader," Boruto shrugged and kept his pace.

Sarada bit her lower lip, to contain the huge smile which was desperately to spread across her face after seeing Kawaki's shocked face. The girl took the opportunity to glance daggers at Sumire, but she wasn't staring back at her. Her eyes were locked on Boruto's back, with such admiration, making it hard to Sarada swallow. Sumire liked Boruto as much as Sarada did, and she hated it.

"Well, Sarada," Kawaki continued talking until he finally reached her. "Now I think you are the one stupid here, I don't understand how you can stand that brat-"

That was the exactly moment Kawaki flew meters away from where he was originally standing.

Boruto's arm was stretched out, white knucles from clenching his fingers too hard and gritted teeth from effort to remain in silent, a drop of Kawaki's blood painting his fingers. His rage came out faster than magma and just as destructive. It consumed him, but he couldn't stop himself. Not after seeing the hurt on Sarada's face. Not after seeing the girl he loved being hurt by some jackass who wanted to hurt him.

Kawaki was on the ground, his right hand holding his jaw, as his eyes widened.

"I will endure you talking about my looks, about my father, my mother." Every word stung only fueling the fire that burned inside of him. Every violated phrase was like gasoline to it, his fists began to clench again and his jaw rooted. "I will even take a deep breath when my sister's name come out of your filthy mouth, because she is way better than this whole situation." Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of wanted violence. "But don't you dare, Kawaki, say anything about Sarada in front of me, because if you do, the next time I won't break your jaw. I will break every fucking bone in your body. Did you understand?"

Words left Sarada. She stared into those bright blue eyes burning with anger and her heart fell silent. The moment Kawaki slightly nodded, Boruto turned his back on him, returning to follow his path. Her feet, as they had life on their own, followed him. She felt like she had to say something, but she couldn't will her lips to move. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as Boruto muttered an apologize for her.

"What?" She found her voice, looking over her shoulder to see Sumire helping Kawaki to get back on his feet again. "Why are you apologizing?"

"Because I don't want you to think that I don't trust you. I don't believe you need anyone defending you, you are more than capable of doing it yourself. It was just..." He passed his hand through his face, trying to calm down. 

"It's okay, Boruto," Sarada got closer to him, darting him a grin once he turned his eyes to face her. "At least, you didn't kill him."

"It did take all my strength not to." He responded, honestly, making her heart flutter. "When the stupid word reached my ears, I felt like I lost all control I had left."

"I thought you were good at this control thing." Sarada teased him, but before he could give her a smart comeback, she grabbed his hand and pressed it tightly. "Thank you, Boruto."

His cheeks burned red from her touch, and he looked away. "Yeah, whatever, that is what friends are for."

Sarada nodded but didn't let go of his hand. His burning flesh was a good contrast against her cold skin. Boruto didn't drop it either. They just kept roaming, their fingers intertwined.

From behind, Kawaki and Sumire watched the scene with a crescent curiosity. It was painful for her to see how fondly of Sarada the blond were, he even threatened someone his dad was trying to protect because of her. She couldn't compete with that. Every cell on his body belonged to her, and so as hers. They just didn't notice it yet.

But Kawaki, he was curious about their feelings. Never in his life he had someone that cared so much about him to the point to actually give someone a death sentence. Kawaki couldn't stop himself from wondering how that must feel. The overwhelming love, unbreakable trust and intense admiration. Realizing he may never have anything like it was way more painful than any punch Boruto could throw at his direction, and roasting the blond guy to the point his rage would blow up in his face wouldn't make him feel better.

Well, apparently Boruto's inner psycho threw the last punch. One much worse than the physical one.

[feast-on-my-pussillanimous]

ok so i re-discovered a super edgy fic i wrote just after tlj when the 13 y/o in me took over do you wanna read it :

star wars // between dark and light 

She hadn’t seen him since that day she’d shut the door of the Millennium Falcon on him. The day he’d slain the Supreme Leader, when they’d fought side by side, when she’d felt his breath syncing with hers, felt the heat of his body and the burn of their sabers snapping between them… She hadn’t seen him since he’d extended his hand to hers, asking her to join him down paths she couldn’t, wouldn’t, follow him.

She’d seen light in him, she’d reached out to save him, and it had been for nothing. He’d taken on the mantle of Supreme Leader, she’d heard later that day from Finn, mere hours after she’d seen Ben Solo in the burning-red lights of the dead Supreme Leader’s throne room.

Had it only been hours between their battle and the clang of the door closing? She remembered the expression in his dark eyes —eyes of a monster, she’d once thought—; the rippling anger that had receded as he’d stared up at her through their connection.

There’d been none of that since that day, either. Rey wondered if perhaps she’d shut him out on purpose. She decided that either way, she didn’t care.

Caring hadn’t worked before, and it sure as hell wouldn’t help her now.

In the month since that day, she’d been restless. Looking for a distraction, she’d poured herself relentlessly into work; fixing the Falcon with Chewie, helping to set up the Resistance’s new base, carrying heavy machinery, tinkering with light machinery, running checks on BB8, tailing Poe until he gave her work to do, quietly fetching Finn food and drink when he refused to leave Rose’s side… 

Poe had told her vaguely of what had happened between Finn and the small woman, and she didn’t know if Poe just didn’t see it, or refused to, but Finn was… different. Changed, somehow. Still the kind, selfless man she’d befriended not so long ago, but he seemed… lost, somehow. As though he struggled with some sort of inner conflict as he gazed down on Rose’s unconscious features.

Having had enough of dealing with other people’s inner conflict, Rey hadn’t bothered to get him to talk to her. He’d work it out in his own time, coming to her if he needed to. Meanwhile, she would hover in the background and make sure he ate something.

She’d missed them all so much.

And Leia… She’d spoken to the woman once since her return. She’d explained, briefly, choking back tears, what had happened in the throne room.

Leia’s eyes had lined with silver at the mention of her son, but she’d stayed silent until Rey had finished.

She wasn’t sure what the Resistance leader thought of it all. Rey hardly knew what she thought of it all.

She hadn’t touched the lightsaber, though it remained a comforting weight at her hip, couldn’t bear training with it; if she looked at it for too long, she began to see skeletal trees, a red-lit room and dark eyes that stared up at her through a salt-rock blizzard.

Rey clutched her staff, a familiar, friend-like weight in her hands, as she headed out of the base to train. She’d approached Poe for more jobs to do, but he’d thrown his hands up at her in exasperation,

“There’s nothing you can do, Rey. Get off my back for a while, will you?”

Smiling a little at his frustration, she’d walked off, grabbing her staff as she went, determined to keep herself occupied, trying not to let Poe’s throwaway words resonate too much.

There’s nothing you can do, Rey. How true, she thought bitterly.

She smiled stiffly at anyone she passed on her way to the surface, to the quiet clearing she’d discovered a week ago.

Rey had just expelled a long breath, shoulders loosening as the calm quiet of the clearing settled around her, when the world muted itself around her, like a stone thrown into a still lake.

And as that first ripple spread through her, Rey’s chest tightened.

As stillness sucked back in, she turned around.

Ben Solo —no, Kylo Ren, stared back. 

For a heartbeat, he didn’t speak, then he asked, “Where have you been?”

Rey lifted her chin. “Nowhere.”

The scar on the right side of his face shifted as he frowned. “I haven’t heard from you in a month.”

“I didn’t realise I was supposed to be giving updates to the Supreme Leader.” She snarled.

His face slackened. A frustrating lack of emotion settled over his features. “You heard.”

“Of course I heard, Ben.” She snapped with as much fury as she could channel into her words. 

He nodded to himself, hands clenched behind him, like the first time their connection had made itself known. All that progress, all the talking they’d done, the weakness and strength they’d shown each other, and they were back to this. 

“What happened, Ben?” She asked, tears gathering at her eyes. 

His eyes narrowed, lips thinning almost imperceptibly.

She continued, anger fuelling her, “We fought together, side by side, you killed the Supreme Leader —not because you wanted his throne, but because you knew it was the right thing to do!” Those dark eyes never left hers as heat poured into her face, tears slipping down her cheeks. “What are you even fighting for, Ben? Are you fighting for yourself? For the Empire? For power?” She shook her head, not sure how to express the tempest of emotion crashing through her. “I thought you were better than that.”

He swallowed, eyes widening a fraction. He paused, as though making sure she’d finished. Then he stepped forward, slowly, cautiously, even.

“I was fighting for you, Rey.” He said quietly. 

Her breath hitched, but she shook her head at him. “I won’t rule the galaxy with you, Ben, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

He mirrored her gesture, head shaking as his eyes searched her face. “That’s not what I meant. I…” His brows flickered. “That day, when I killed Snoke…” He frowned. “I was fighting for you. You’re the only person…” He paused, struggling for words. “My parents, Luke Skywalker…” His features shifted, as though attempting to wipe any emotion from his face. “they all tried to save me. They saw the darkness in me and they feared it, but you…” He paused, going still, eyes narrowing as he met her gaze. “You saw the darkness and reached out to it.” The last words were a whisper.

Rey blinked. Of course she’d reached out. She had understood that darkness, had recognised it, that dark, cloying fear of not belonging, of not knowing who you were. “What are you saying.”

His brows narrowed, lips pressing together, before he took another couple of steps forward, Rey stiffening as he came to stand mere inches away. He towered over her. She lifted her chin, jaw tightening.

“This past month…” His words were a breath. “I tried not to think about you, the last time I saw you when you shut me out.” She wanted to protest, but she had done just that. She’d shut everyone out this past month. “But I found myself reaching out to you, to this…” His eyes darkened. “Connection we have, you and I. But you weren’t there.” His voice grew hoarse. She stared up at him, hardly breathing. “And it didn’t seem… worth it. The title, the armies, the Empire. None of it. I didn’t know why.”

Rey gritted her teeth. “What. Are. You. Saying.”

He blinked, hesitating. 

Then he kneeled. His robes spilling around him on the ground, he stared up at her, dark eyes never leaving hers as he said, “I’m sorry.”

Hope ignited in her ribs, but she bit down on it, images of his outstretched hand, offering the galaxy on a throne beside him, flashing through her mind. Her jaw tightened. “For what?”

“Everything.” He said, the words heavy and low, his eyes unblinking.

Rey’s chest felt suddenly light, even as it squeezed. She scoffed, “The great Supreme Leader is bowing before nobody-scavengers, now, is he?”

“No,” he said softly. “Just a man on his knees before the woman he loves.”

She blinked, startled, eyes wide as she regarded the man before her: Ben Solo —not the creature in a mask, not the newly-anointed Supreme Leader of the Dark Side—, just a young man, fear and love swimming in his dark eyes.

She opened her mouth—

“Rey!”

Whirling round, she saw Finn standing at the mouth of the clearing. The world flooded back and she stumbled, her friend rushing forward, concern on his face. He gently supported her arms as she regained her balance, turning to the spot where Ben had knelt a heartbeat ago.

He was gone.

———

Kylo Ren braced a hand against the floor as the world flooded back, sound and pressure crashing through his head.

His breathing was ragged, his ebony hair falling in his eyes.

A month of torment, of reaching for her, of waiting and hoping and dreading… And she’d been pulled away before he’d heard her reply.

Loneliness pierced through him like a burning blade, a searing ache that was more painful than the scar Rey had cut into his face in the forest.

He wondered if that had been the moment he’d started to love her, or if it had been sooner.

Frustrated, he pushed himself to his feet. His eyes scanned the sleek, black walls of his sleeping quarters, searching desperately for a distraction.

“Supreme Leader,” a voice burbled through the comm outside his quarters. Kylo’s hands curled into fists.

He strode over to the comm. “What is it?”

“General Hux wishes to speak with you in the control room. We’ve located the island.”

Rey’s face, tear-stained, indignant, furious, flashed before his eyes. His jaw clenched. “Good.” 

As he lifted a hand to the button beside his doors, his gaze turned back to the centre of his sleeping quarters, where Rey had stood only a heartbeat ago, him knelt before her, pleading, not caring about anything beyond her in that moment.

The floor was a shiny, depthless black. Empty.

Kylo swallowed, brows narrowing, waiting for his features to harden into a mask of cold command. Then he hit the button, the doors hissing open, and stormed to the control room.

He’d take his anger out on that sycophantic so-called general, but Kylo doubted if even that would erase the burning hole of agonising loneliness that struck him as he turned away from the empty space at his back.

[onewhoturns]

3-2

The continuation of the faeU! In which we meet Delilah. Previously: Prelude, 1-1, 1-2, 1-3, 2-1, 2-2, 2-3, 2-4, 3-1. Elsewhere: my AO3, FFnet, ko-fi preview for 3-3. 

Emily felt her head pounding and breath shallow even as she held her head high, irritated but not altogether ungrateful for the unyielding holds of the women who guided her back to the royal palace. Her legs were trembling. Had she been asked to walk on her own, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay as composed.

At first the shifting of the fae woman had made her dizzy, but Emily found that if the adjusted the way she saw - or maybe the way she thought - she could stop the constant change, instead leaving a slight blue cast around the woman in her human guise. If only she could acquire the other promised abilities as quickly as she grasped the True Sight.

The fae woman made a soft tutting noise, running a light touch over the raw skin of Emily’s cheek and making her flinch. “Poor girl.”

Her cooed pity was unsettling. “Would you like me to fix it for you?”

Emily didn’t respond. She’d made enough faerie bargains for the day. She was still bitter at being left to fend for herself, nauseated and weak, when she was supposed to have been gifted with power. Worse, the woman gave off an aura that drew Emily to her even as she felt repulsed. It was best to hold her tongue. ...And, apparently, her consent didn’t matter, as she felt a soft tickle as flesh wove together again, her cheek left reddened but healed.

Exiting the maze, she found a few newcomers loitering on the terrace, most occupied among themselves drinking and laughing and staring, their eyes glowing in the hellish light of the bonfire. She tensed at the snapping bark of a hound from across the open space. Nothing implied it was anything more than a particularly vicious dog - not the barghest the women had spoken of - but its rumbling growl didn’t reassure her. Neither did the smirk on the face of the woman sinking a hand into the dog’s fur.

They were all women - young women - at least, all she’d seen thus far. They reminded her too much of her imprisonment during the plague. And nearly all of them had some touch of light on them. Enchanted? Were they being controlled somehow? If Emily could break whatever magic held them, perhaps she could weaken their ranks and escape.

Almost at the entrance back into the great hall she spotted a woman lounging, tipped back in a chair that leaned perilously against a stone column. As she watched, the woman lifted a hand thoughtlessly, and a vine that had wrapped the column curled down to her, blooming in the course of seconds. And it was done so carelessly, so casually…

Witches.

Making a decision, she jerked as though she might break from her captors’ hold, and was unsurprised when they tightened their grip. But she’d done what she intended. And as they crossed the threshold into the hall, she threw her shoulder into the human on her right, knocking all three of them into a jumble, and her newly positioned hand was in just the right spot to lift the blade from the woman’s belt. She shouldn’t use it here - not while she was surrounded - but if they ever had her somewhere more secluded she’d at least have a weapon. In the confusion she tucked the knife into her pocket and winced as the tip poked through the slightest bit, nicking her leg, and spilling a tiny stream of salt as well.

Once they’d forced her into their hold again - head once more held high - she finally glanced around the room. Much of the food from the feast had survived, it seemed, strewn over tables where witches propped their feet, played cards - something was on fire on one table. Vines that hadn’t been there earlier in the day had begun a slow creep through windows and doorways. Emily spotted a couple more fae in the room, though every single person had some touch of magic on them. At the dais - in her seat, the throne made for her to sit in - was an unfamiliar woman. A face cut like stone, all sharp angles and facets, she draped herself across the arms of the throne lazily, one hand buried in the black fur of a dog the size of a bear, the other dangling one of Emily’s crowns from a finger.

Emily kept her expression carefully cool, not glaring even as every inch of her seared with rage at the destruction and disrespect shown to her castle - to her kingdom. Her stare was level, almost aloof, chin raised as the witches brought her before the sharp-faced woman, each of them giving the smallest of bows, the fae grinning as she did so. Only once did her gaze dart to the creature beside the throne -- to its red eyes and eerily calm demeanor. No growling, no sniffing - just a steady stare and a thin line of saliva trailing from its unmoving muzzle.

“My darling niece.” The woman spoke with a lofty air, though acid wove through her words, cocking her head at Emily as her lips curled in a sneer. “You finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

Emily refused to react. Niece? She had no aunts or uncles -- her father’s sister had died years ago in another kingdom, and her mother was an only child.

The lack of response had the intended effect - the woman shifted from her position, looking irked as she sat up in the throne. “You’ve been demoted, I’m afraid.” Emily could sense how she overcompensated with even more arrogance. Good. She wanted this witch unsettled. “But if you’re very good I might let you stay in the palace.”

Emily’s eyes locked with the witch. “I’d rather not.”

A hand clenched into a fist and the high table cracked down the center, ripping apart to leave a clear path to the throne. Emily’s knees locked, even as the sound made her stomach jolt. The woman - the usurper - stood with a forced calm, stepping to the edge of the short steps leading to the dais. Now that the way was clear, Emily could see a small pile of her tiaras beside the throne, most somehow warped or broken. “You do not show the proper respect for your queen.”

“You aren’t a proper queen.”

She spotted the twitch of muscle in the witch’s jaw. “I am Delilah Kaldwin. My father was Euhorn Jacob Kaldwin and I have more right to reign that you ever did.” That sneer returned. “Now bow.”

Was it true? Emily had difficulty believing it. She kept her stare cold and clear and ever steady.

“I said bow.”

One of her captors dug a hand into Emily’s hair, scratching at her skull and trying to push her head down for her, but Emily grit her teeth, adamantly pushing back, refusing. A swift kick, though, and she was brought to her knees. Her head spun, the sickness she’d been trying to push back making her hands tremble as she stopped herself from sprawling flat on the ground.

She heard a crack and shift, and the stone by her sides hummed, jagged lines spiderwebbing across them until roots wormed their way through. Emily watched them uneasily, wondering if now was the time to pull out the knife, sitting up onto her thighs to draw herself away from the creeping plants.

Delilah had stepped forward, off the dais. As she placed a hand on Emily’s head Emily realized she wore some kind of sharpened rings. Two iron claws that lengthened her middle and pointer fingers to fine tips that now dug into the back of Emily’s skull as Delilah cocked her head appraisingly at the former-queen’s quickly heating glare.

“Good choice, sister,” she praised the woman who had kicked Emily down. “I think I like her better like this.”

It was getting harder for Emily to contain her anger. Never had she been manhandled in such a manner. At least not for the past ten years. Unable to let the indignity continue, she swatted the woman’s hand away. “You’ll like me best when my blade’s in your-”

Another kick to the back sent her down again, and her vision swam for a moment. The roots that had seeped through the cracks went for her wrists, catching one as she just barely pulled the other free, tucking it back behind her to avoid the grasping plant only to have her arm lifted and levered forward painfully by the witch beside her. She lifted her face to glare at Delilah, refusing to keep her eyes on the ground, even though the position made her neck ache. She wanted to curse, to threaten, to antagonize the witch, but that could only make things worse.

Delilah watched her for a long moment, her anger fading into a chilly calm. A grim and vicious smile came to her lips. “Such time spent on introductions. I very nearly neglected your birthday gift.” She raised a hand, and Emily spotted motion out of the corner of her eye. “I want her on her feet for this,” the witch commanded, and the root loosened as the fae woman pulled her other arm back, hauling Emily to her feet again.

The witch was taller than her, and for some reason that fact alone irritated Emily to no end. Her shoulders were growing sore. “Release me,” she snapped the demand to her captors.

They, of course, ignored her. But Delilah smiled disparagingly. As one root curled around Emily’s ankle, the usurper nodded and Emily’s arms were freed.

She rubbed her aching joints, glaring at her supposed aunt as another woman - shifting like a fae in a manner that forced Emily to immediately adjust her sight - walked forward with a small silver platter. Emily raised her chin as Delilah took hold of the thing.

Six perfectly identical slices of fruit lay evenly arranged on the platter. They looked much like the gilded apples from the earlier feast, but their flesh was a warmer, brassier golden color, reflective in the light of the hall. Just their smell made her mouth water.

“I was gone from this kingdom for many years. I traveled to many lands. I discovered many things.” The woman waved the platter toward Emily, and Emily pulled away. “It’s rude to turn down a gift, Emily.”

She hated the way her name sounded on the witch’s lips. Even more, she hated how tempted she was. She wasn’t stupid - she knew faerie fruit when she saw it, she’d heard enough warnings - but in person it was impossible to ignore a scent that had her licking her lips unconsciously. Her nausea dissipated at the thought of golden juice spilling down her throat.

“Take a bite.��

Her hand was halfway to the fruit before she realized what she was doing. She hesitated, watching the offending limb, commanding it to stop its movement. Eyes flicked to Delilah-- to the satisfied smirk that twisted her lips--

And she’d overturned the platter, listening to the metal ring against the stone floor, the fruit scattered on the ground. Shimmering liquid seeped from each slice, soaking into the stone.

Somehow Delilah’s look became crueler, even as Emily’s hands were once more wrestled to her sides. The witch stood silently for a moment, then spoke in a low breath, “I almost hoped you’d do that.” Emily watched warily as, with a flick of her hand, Delilah stepped back.

The woman - the fae - who’d brought the fruit forward to begin with, returned. She was smiling-- so sweetly, too, with an almost affectionate warmth. Bending gracefully, she picked up a slice of the faerie fruit from the ground.

Shit. Shit. Emily had salt in her pockets, if she’d just spilled some of it on the platter she could have nullified the magic of the fruit. Her arms had been free, why hadn’t she just--

The smiling fae brought the fruit to Emily’s face. She jerked away, wrenching at the hold on her arms, and clenched her jaw closed.

The fingers holding the delicacy dripped gold, more juice bleeding from it than seemed physically possible.

“Shhhh-” A hand tried to stroke Emily’s hair, tried to calm her, but she kicked out-- only to have her other foot pinned to the ground. Still, she struggled. Even with a hand on the back of her head, she wouldn’t open her lips until her nose was held shut, and then her teeth stayed bared as the woman pressed the slice against her mouth, metallic juice spilling down her chin and between her teeth until she snatched at the slice just to spit it back to the floor.

She spat and spat, trying to cleanse the poisonous thing from her tongue, though she felt the honey-sweet nectar coating it. It was delicious. The most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. It made her tongue tingle and her chest warm pleasantly, and she’d barely tasted it at all.

It took three people and two roots to hold her still. One of the witches had her arms, another had one hand woven through her hair to hold her head still as the other dug into the hinges of her jaw hard enough to leave bruises. And then there was the fae. Beautiful, peaceful, even as she held Emily’s nose shut and hooked that same piece of faerie fruit - because why not, who cared if a queen ate from the floor - into her mouth, two fingers pushing the pulpy mess very nearly down her throat. She tried to snap her teeth closed, or to spit the thing out again - she wanted to gag - but the witches were relentless. She pushed pulp back out of her mouth, hitting the fae’s hand and dribbling gold down her chin, but it wasn’t enough. She had to breathe, so she had to swallow. Even once she had swallowed they held her mouth closed an extra few seconds.

But those seconds didn’t feel nearly as awful.

keep reading

[issyaboimoony]

Chiccolo Week Day 3; Species Swap

I cheated a bit and didn’t actually do human Piccolo but - alas. I also wrote this like... well over a month ago I believe and have no memory of it so?

Piccolo had never stepped foot in a place that seemed to hate nature as much as this one. The entire place shouted “bleak! and incredibly sad!” at the top of its metaphorical lungs. The cave loomed up above him, with sharp black rocks that jutted from every possible angle. They coalesced into one mass, that shimmered with the frothing gray waves that crashed upon them. Erosion seemed to have formed irregular lumps at every angle, and one particular one happened to be digging into his shoe in a rather unfortunate way.

Even the sand that littered the ground - all trailed up from the beach a hundred feet back, looked particularly soggy and dark when scattered across the rock bridge he’d had to climb just to get here. He glowered at the entrance, resisted the urge to swear, and stared down the unseeable.

“I know you’re in there,” Piccolo snarled. He knew how he must look - a large, green man amidst Mother Earth’s own abortion. It was clear whoever had crafted the Earth had come to a screeching halt exactly at this cave, decided “eh”, and quickly left it untouched. And now Piccolo stood here - almost worried that someone would see him, but knowing that there was no one who would ever venture to this godforsaken pile of dreck.

The cave didn’t answer him - which didn’t come as a surprise. Piccolo had come knowing that this could be for the long haul. He wished now that he’d worn more sensible shoes - Converse were apparently not what you wanted when trekking through relentless waves and jagged points that were desperate to take something down with them. He hadn’t had proper warning, though, so he merely sucked his lip through his teeth and tried not to think about it.

Across the sky, the sun was already beginning to set, and bringing on a heavy chill - along with a rather dense fog that was beginning to curl along his bicep, hugging every single part of him like a friend he’d never had. His fingers tightened against his rigid arm, where he attempted to brace himself - as if he could punch the cold away with his muscles.

“There’s no use in hiding.” Piccolo’s voice was in stark contrast to this place - where nothing could live. Nothing should live. He squatted down, attempting to hunker away from the growing cold. He didn’t know what the temperature would hit tonight, but he didn’t want to discover it before he could make his discovery. He gritted his teeth together, and shook his head, his antennae wagging against his forehead. “I already saw you - remember?”

Something sloshed in the water from inside the cave. For a moment, Piccolo felt a sense of apprehension, before settling himself back down again. Whatever it was he’d seen - it hadn’t been big enough to worry him, and the fact that he’d been able to pursue it all the way back to its cave meant that it wasn’t the most vigilant in general.

“Look - you understand me, don’t you? I saw you reading.”

That was how Piccolo had seen… the thing. He still wasn’t certain what it was. In his mind he saw flashes - amalgamations of many fragmented ideas that he couldn’t quite pull into one cohesive idea. Whatever it had been, it certainly wasn’t human. The silhouette had told him that immediately, along with the sucking noises it made whenever Piccolo had shined a flashlight on it. He’d simply gone out to throw his trash in the dump when he’d caught the thing gripping tight to a magazine that one of his neighbors had gotten rid of. He’d immediately chased it.

This time from inside the cave, he heard a tentative gurgle.

Piccolo sighed, and rubbed at his brow. “Listen - I don’t know what the hell you are, but I’m here out of curiosity. I’m…” he jutted out his arm and his jaw, “I’m an alien, too, you see? Do you get it now?” He’d discarded his disguise in favor of actually appealing to the thing in the cave. His wrist watch that normally kept him from revealing his true colors was switched off. In this desolate land, he could easily abandon the disguise in favor of how he truly looked.

“I… green…”

The creature had spoken. Piccolo wasn’t quite certain of many of the words, but he could pick up small syllables. He furrowed his brow, and he could feel his mouth settling into a harsh line. He wondered why the hell he’d bothered in the first place chasing this thing out here. It wasn’t like it was the first alien he’d seen since relocating to Earth - hell, wasn’t even the first since he’d inhabited his apartment complex. But this was the smallest, most obviously non-humanoid that he’d seen…

Normally, the aliens he came across were all like him. Most the time, when he saw them, it was because their watches had malfunctioned. He typically saw them running past, scared humans fast in pursuit. He always made sure to never make eye contact with them, and to pretend like he himself was an alien, not Like Them. His head would be down, his jaw would be set, and he’d make sure that his clenched fist remained set tight in his jacket pocket. Seeing so many watch malfunctions had made Piccolo resort to wearing two at all times - just so he didn’t have to be like those unlucky bastards.

But this thing… it didn’t have a chance in hell. During the night it had even been recognizable. If he could follow it, that meant anyone could. And, for once, Piccolo didn’t want to push his face away from the problem. He’d followed this thing as if it could make up for all the aliens he’d turned his back on prior to.

“You… what… want…?”

The thing had spoken up once more, and Piccolo shuffled forward, still deep in his squat.

“What do I want, you ask?” He heard an affirmative burble. He sat, in silence for a moment. He could hear the creature growing anxious, splashing around in the water. He wished, again, that he’d gotten a better look at the thing. He still had his flashlight stuffed in his back pocket, but he could already assume that exposure to salt water had ruined the thing.

“Like I said,” Piccolo finally spoke again, “curiosity. The hell were you digging in my trash for?”

“For… paper… like… human… look…”

Piccolo gritted his teeth. Conversation with this thing was hell on his head. He didn’t care this much, yet here he was, staring into the blackened maw of some unknown depth. He squinted his eyes up, and rubbed underneath his nose. He felt the crust of salt fall away, and grimaced at the sting it left on his lips.

“It’s too dangerous for you to do that,” Piccolo said. “Not that I give a damn, but you’re going to get yourself killed. I followed you no problem - are you a fucking moron?”

He was startled as a tentacle raised itself out of the water, and wrapped tight around his ankle. He tried to rise, but suctions stuck tight to his skin. He shouted, just as he was jerked upwards, into the air and dangerously close to the black, jagged rocks that - now that he thought about it - looked like a mouth. Laughing at his stupidity for coming out here. Laughing at him for being so stupid as to somehow think that he was going to make a goddamn different to this Eldritch nightmare that was willing to impale him over nothing.

Piccolo wasn’t impaled, though. Just shaken rather roughly until he barked out a, “knock it off!” The creature then plopped him down on his back, and he winced at the scrapes and subsequent salt that rubbed into his wounds. He glowered at the damn thing that he still couldn’t see through the murkiness - and the fog rolling in certainly didn’t help things. Smoky white tendrils that somehow darkened the atmosphere even further.

“Not… moron…”

It was the most cohesive thing Piccolo had heard it say, and he decided that perhaps that was progress. He rubbed at his ankle, and even through the gloom he could see a few purple pucker marks raised up on the skin.

“Fine… what would you classify yourself as?” If Piccolo sounded rude it was - well, it was because he was. Right now and in general.

“Curious… lonely…” The creature’s voice gurgled - and Piccolo could see several tentacles drifting close to the surface. He had to squint to make them out from the inky water, but every once in awhile they would drift and kick up a little current in their wake.

“How long have you been on Earth?”

“Long… been sleep… long time… spaceship crash… right here…” The creature’s voice had definitely gained strength and definition. It was wet and sucking now as the thing tried to talk faster. Water must have been pouring into whatever it called a mouth as it continued to talk. It seemed that with someone to finally hear it, the creature was gaining momentum, desperate for contact.

Piccolo couldn’t remember his history lessons for when the first spaceship had crashed to Earth, but he could judge the fossilization process of what this creature called its ship. The jagged stones must have come from its own planet, as they were entirely unnatural to Earth. This cave must have been untouched for longer than Piccolo could even guess. He wondered if there was even still an operational control panel.

Not that it mattered. If Piccolo even managed to defy fate and get the damn thing off the ground, the army would have him, the ship, and anything in a ten mile radius eradicated. His shoulders slumped forward at even the thought of it. The reminder of human capabilities made him scoot closer to the creature’s cave, despite his parallel fear of being dragged out by those tentacles once more.

“Humans… interesting… Like them… want them…” The tentacles rose up this time, and out of the water. They waved merrily about, and Piccolo grimaced at the sight of them.

“Yeah - well humans don’t like us.” His voice was gruff and bitter. He didn’t hang his head this time, but held it straight up, glaring at where he believed the creature to be. Its tentacles stilled, and Piccolo let out a shuddered breath. “If you show yourself like you are - they’ll kill you.” This wasn’t about hypotheticals and conjectures here. It was a certainty. If they couldn’t even stand creatures like Piccolo, who almost looked like them, there was no telling what they’d do to the creature in this cave. There was no telling what atrocities they’d do to it. Would they kill it, torture it, experiment on it? There was no way of telling. After all, it didn’t matter that they had legal access to Earth - all that mattered was that they were different.

“No like…?”

“No like,” Piccolo assured. His tone was acidic. He’d chased this creature down because of his own guilt, but now he found himself agitated at what little progress he’d made. He also found himself growing more and more frustrated with the creature’s naivety.

“You look like…” the thing seemed to grow frustrated, and Piccolo sighed.

“I looked like a human when you first saw me, yeah.” He lifted his arm, and pointed sharply at the watch that sat on his arm. It weighed like a lead stone that would drag him all the way to the bottom of this watery hellhole. “This watch makes me appear human.” He flipped the switch, and he knew now that his green skin was gone. He was human once more - or, at least, a sad facade for it.

The creature seemed more interested in him now, as its tentacles tightened into little curlicues of curiosity. He heard a break in the water as the thing’s body crested the waves. The white froth had since died down, replaced instead by the heavy fog and chill which cloaked the creature as it rose. Piccolo shot to his feet, ready to run as he heard the first wet slap of a tentacle clambering up onto the rock bridge beside him.

“Let… see human… close…”

A slice of moonlight cut through the fog, and Piccolo stared into the thing’s face.

When Piccolo had said it wasn’t humanoid, he hadn’t been entirely wrong.

At least ten tentacles sprayed out from the bottom side of the creature, each moving harmoniously in their efforts to approach Piccolo. They met and formed a webbed chunk of flesh, which flared upwards into what looked like segmented abdomen. Small feelers crept out from either side of the shell, wiggling about in the air, dragging fog all around the creature. From the abdomen came a pair of shoulders, and Piccolo saw webbed arms that were connected closely to the body. There were no fingers - just a hand shaped chunk of flesh. From the neck sprouted a head, shaped like a human’s, but with rounded lips like a fish, and sharp teeth just beyond it. But Piccolo was staring at the eyes, almond shaped and black, with a third eyelid that slid in and out of place.

The look in the eyes made him hold his position, as all he saw was curiosity. The creature peered at him, the fin crest on top of its bald head shook every time it moved, quivering with anticipation as it ducked closer to him… as she ducked closer to him.

“No green…” She was still smaller than him, and had to crane up to see him. She would occasionally dip her head rather fast, and the head crest would tickle his nose. Piccolo remained still, unsure of how she’d react to sudden movements on his part.

“I use this to hide from the humans,” Piccolo said. He hit the watch once more, and reverted to his natural state. He saw the creature retract, interest sparking in her eyes as she rested back on her tentacles. The tips of them squirmed, and Piccolo heard something wet froth at the back of her throat. “Most of us aliens do. Because humans are bad.”

The creature made a shooing motion with her tentacles, but kept her gaze focused on him.

“Humans is… bad… they hurt…?”

“Yes,” Piccolo insisted. His feet were really beginning to hurt. He needed to leave. “You need to stay in this cave.”

She made a noise of distress. “Need… book for…” Her words broke off even worse than before as she grew agitated, and she began to make a series of all new syllables and vocalizations in distress. Piccolo gritted his teeth, and grew aggravated by this new development.

“How about I bring you magazines, okay?” He hated that he said it, as he figured it might be a lie. He didn’t know if he’d return to actually follow through with his promise. What if someone followed him? What if someone saw him revert to his natural state? Sure, it was completely deserted out here, but who was to say he was the first to find this creature?

“I like… bring, please…”

Those eyes looked at him, and he went home, and eventually to sleep, with their dark shape still burned into his memory. He found he had little choice when he woke in the morning but to do exactly as he promised. He bought magazines at a little shop and made his way to back to Hell’s Gate - that craggy cave that looked no less ominous during the day time. The walk across the beach, and subsequent rock bridge were just as empty as the first time he’d made it.

And the same the tenth time, and the same every time after that when he lost track of the passage of time. It was far too late into their meetings when he finally asked if she had a name.

“China’fha lo Chi’kaghafa,” she’d gurgled - much better now at speaking than when he’d first met her. Piccolo had found that completely incomprehensible, and had decided to call her Chi Chi. She couldn’t tell him what planet she was from, or why’d she come to Earth so long ago. He didn’t know much about her “sleep” that she burbled about, but judging by her own reminiscences of Earth, he guessed that she’d actually landed prior to humans. Piccolo had gleaned, however, that she had sporadically woken up at different points in her life - and she was always ecstatic to see how the humans had changed.

“I don’t pay much attention to that shit,” Piccolo had muttered, when she’d begun pressing him for details that she couldn’t glean from his magazines. “They’d rather I be nuked than exist, so I say fuck ‘em.”

Chi Chi never liked that kind of talk, and she would always flex her tentacles threateningly in his direction. Instead of apologize, Piccolo would give an abrupt snort, and turn sharply from her. If he’d learned anything, it was that - now that Chi Chi was comfortable, she far more stubborn that Piccolo had ever dreamed of being. Whenever he would say something disagreeable, he could often expect a tentacle around his ankle to send him flying. She was also incredibly gentle, though, and would often make sure she cradled his neck when she would launch him during her tantrums. She also learned early on that standing on the rocks made Piccolo uncomfortable, and had since begun scooping him up, allowing him to sit on her most dry tentacle during their talks.

Piccolo found himself actually surprised at her ability to carry a conversation. Sometimes he could grow irritated with the pace and stunts in her language, but she had grown exponentially since he’d first uncovered her.

“Why do you care so much about the humans?” he’d asked her.

“Because… they have been around… long time like me… love to see evolution… important to me…” Chi Chi couldn’t really smile - not really - but there was a particular way that she flapped her lips that lead Piccolo to believe it was her version of it.

He found himself talking to her of things she couldn’t understand. The stress of keeping his job - while also maintaining his alien secret. It was illegal for employers to ask if someone was an alien, but there was no actual enforcement of this law. He’d happened to get lucky and work for a woman who didn’t seem too keen on randomly testing people, but he still never felt quite at ease.

He talked to her of things that he couldn’t talk to anybody about - like fond recollections of his home planet. Of that sincere yearn to be where he was from, and away from the vilification he faced on this planet. One night Chi Chi tilted her head back, lifted a tentacle that wasn’t holding Piccolo, and traced a strange line through the night sky for him.

“Namek there… I travel before…” When her eyes slid to his, Piccolo felt as if they were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, with the stars lighting up her dewy eyes. She gurgled wetly at the back of her throat, and Piccolo almost let himself smile in front of her. He almost smiled a lot around her. It was the only place he could let his disguise slip, and be with someone else who didn’t consider him a freak. It felt like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders to sit here night after night with Chi Chi, and to completely melt the stress of his home life away.

One night, Chi Chi held her tentacle out to him, and asked him a very perturbing question.

“How long can hold breath for?” She seemed giddy and excited, her bisected abdomen rolled as her tentacle reached out for him. He patted it in greeting, replied that his species could go for roughly twenty minutes. He was then plunged headfirst into icy cold water with no warning. He saw bubbles of air burst from his mouth as he was pulled down into Hell’s Gate, his body growing numb.

He didn’t even bother to try and swim, as Chi Chi’s tentacles propelled her forward with no problem - even with one wrapped around Piccolo’s waist. They didn’t go too far, as Chi Chi finally drew abruptly to a stop, and motioned with her head at a beeping computer.

“Look,” she’d said, and Piccolo was struck by how clear her voice was in the water. It sounded brash and sharp, with a tough edge that tapered out into sweet affection. It was the kind of voice that could scream at you, and then immediately comfort you about all of your worries. Piccolo found himself enraptured with the sound of it, and thought of how unfair it was that  the only place he’d ever get to hear it at was underneath this frigid, frothing tomb.

He couldn’t talk, and instead squinted up at the figures that winked at him.

“My next sleep-cycle is scheduled to come soon,” she said, her fish lips flapping in that happy way, “I’ll be able to wait until the humans have grown again! Maybe then I’ll get to leave my cave!”

Piccolo realized his stomach was filled with something far more icy than the water. Chi Chi was used to his stoic responses, though, and merely whirled happily about.

“I keep waiting for humans to learn some tolerance,” she confided, and Piccolo lamented that voice. That voice that seconds ago he was praising, because he was about to lose the only friend he’d managed to make - and he’d lose those beautiful almond eyes, and those feelers that skittered over his hand whenever he got too close. “One of these days,” Chi Chi sounded so confident, “I’ll get to walk among them.”

It took two more visits before Piccolo thought to offer his second watch to her.

“I don’t think… good idea… not the same as acceptance.” Chi Chi had tried to sound polite, but all Piccolo could think of was dunking his head into the water to hear her say it with her real voice. She’d tightened the tentacle around Piccolo’s waist and drawn him nearer to her. Her lips flapped, and she butted her head lightly against his, and his antennae wiggled against her forehead.

It took two more visits before Piccolo thought to ask her when exactly she’d go to sleep.

“Not sure,” Chi Chi had grumbled. “Soon. Know that. Numbers bit off. Machine old and under Earth sea. Salty.”

“You could still take this second watch.” Piccolo said it as a statement. He didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to be pathetic. He watched as Chi Chi seemed to consider it, her eyes almost crossing in the middle every time she was in heavy thought.

“No… not same.” She said it decisively, and gave Piccolo a pointed look. It seemed to warn him not to try asking again.

Piccolo didn’t.

It took two more visits for Chi Chi not to be there anymore, and for Piccolo to be left staring at the inky black sea sending white, foamy crests spewing over his boots. He crouched down, and thought briefly of diving into the water and checking up on her. He knew he didn’t have the swimming power to make it, though, and so he stared dismally at the sea.

He stood, unlatched his second watch, and dropped it.

Then he went home.

**

Alternate Ending:

Piccolo awoke to a pounding on his door. He groaned, and cracked his eye open. He’d hardly slept at all as almond eyes haunted his every dream. He shuffled to his living room, and glanced through the peephole. All he could see was a mess of dark hair.

He swung the door open, and stuttered to a halt as he stared a the naked woman in front of him.

She appeared to be a chubby, thirty year old asian woman, who was so soaking wet she had a puddle forming beneath her on Piccolo’s doorstep. But when she lifted her eyes, Piccolo saw the perfect almond shape, and a familiar watch glinting at him from her wrist.

“You dropped this,” she said, and it sounded like she had underneath the water. No strain - like her true self. Piccolo almost let himself smile, but instead he opened his door wide, and let Chi Chi leave a trail of water as she came in after him.

[lenin-it-to-win-it]

“Aftermath: Part One”

Chuuya has managed to defeat Fyodor and find the chamber where Dazai has been held captive for several weeks. Dazai has survived- and there ends the good news. 

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(Note: there’s a lot of blood and mutilation in this one, implied torture, that sort of thing. Also thanks to @noticemedazai and her beautiful drawing of limbless Dazai (except I guess he was kneeling not legless lol rip me) for inspiring me to write this fic! Part Two coming soon, possibly this week but more likely next because I start school again tomorrow and will probably be pretty busy.)

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Drip. Drip. Drip.

Chuuya could hear the distinct sound of water droplets shattering against the floor with eerie regularity, each drop striking the ground with a predetermined pattern that reeked of the inevitable. The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, somehow both amplified and stifled by the oppresive darkness that pervaded the chamber. With every passing moment, Chuuya could feel his lungs growing heavier, as if the blackness was a tangible force infecting his body.

Sickly white light from the outer corridor trickled in like a stream of pus oozing from a half-healed sore, retreating as the door began to close. Chuuya cocked his fist and struck the door at full force. The decaying wood splintered with a resounding crack. Even the doorframe groaned and threatened to collapse in on itself, but the stone walls surrounding it on all sides remained intact. Light flooded through the now-open doorway, and Chuuya had to close his eyes for a moment to adjust to the glare.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound, Chuuya had discovered, was coming from one of many exposed pipes rusting on the ceiling. Chuuya stared at the pipe, then at the grayish water bleeding out of it, the water falling not in an uninterrupted stream but in numerous fragmented drops. It was easier to focus on the pipes, to trace the downward path of the water droplets than to look anywhere else.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

If he tore his gaze from the pipes for even a second, Chuuya would have been forced to confront the metal table that had been wheeled in and set against a particularly bloody portion of the wall, taking note of the constrast of the sharply glistening steel and the dark, damp stone walls, the congealing coat of blood the only similarity between the two. Of course, had Chuuya been paying attention to anything but the solitary staccato striking of water droplets against ground, he might have found subtle distinctions between the way blood clings to stone, so tenderly, almost lovingly, sinking deep into every shadowed crevice, while blood abhors the sleekness of steel, deigning to form nothing more than shallow pools on the table’s mirror-slick surface.

Drip. Drip.

The smoothness of the table was interrupted only by a motley collection of bloodied blades in all sizes, from daggers to scalpels to a serrated something that bore a suspicious resemblence to a hacksaw, as well as a few instruments of torture Chuuya would not have recognized, even if he had shifted his attention from the rusting pipe. Much more easily identifiable were the ragged chunks of dark brown hair, torn, bloodstained bandages, and bits of flesh that littered the table.

Drip.

The monotonous music of water droplets had ceased to leave any impact on Chuuya’s mind, forcing his ears to reconcile themselves the only other sound in the chamber. The prisoner’s breathing, barely audible when Chuuya had first entered the room, rose in a ragged crescendo, every sharp, uneven breath piercing Chuuya’s heart.

Dazai.

Even in his state of not-noticing, Chuuya had not been able to avoid the simple wooden chair placed almost perfectly in the center of the room or the familiar figure tied to it. At least, Chuuya assumed Dazai was tied up- he had made no motion to escape- but all he could see of his partner was the back of his head and a fraction of his neck that rose over the solid back of the chair.

Though Chuuya should have been able to see Dazai’s arms on the side of the chair, he couldn’t. After a moment of blank panic, Chuuya realized his hands were probably bound behind him or maybe in his lap. That was it. That had to be it. Choking back what could have been bile or a scream, Chuuya pushed forward, slowly making his way to the center of the room.

The bandages around Dazai’s neck had come unwound at some point, revealing a wide gash near his hairline as well as several smaller, paler scars closer to the base of his neck. The few tattered strands of fabric that remained had been soaked so thoroughly in blood that they were dyed black at the edges.

Dazai’s thick chestnut curls had been torn off in uneven chunks, exposing a bare scalp riddled with welts. Chuuya’s fingers curled up in phantom memory of all the times he had ran his hands through that hair. The beginnings of a sob started to rise in Chuuya’s throat, but he beat it back down, clenching his hands into fists. So Dazai had lost some hair. Was that the worst that Russian bastard could do? Surely Dazai Foremost-Torture-Expert-in-the-Port-Mafia Osamu could handle worse. The thought rang false the moment it crossed Chuuya’s mind. Uneasily, he flashed back to an altercation that had occured a few years ago: the whipping incident.

Dazai had been against using the whip from the start, but Chuuya had pushed and goaded until his partner finally relented. Chuuya had relished it at first, the rush of power, the sense of total control, the smack of leather against flesh, Dazai’s oh-so-self-assured voice deteriorating into desperate cries of pain, then Dazai had turned over, revealing the tears staining his cheeks. Regret flooded through Chuuya instantly, and he reached for his partner’s face, planning to wipe away his tears, but Dazai had slapped Chuuya’s wrist aside, anger burning in his dark eyes.

Dazai said something bitter, Chuuya retaliated with something defensive, and then Dazai replied with the only words Chuuya recalled from the argument:

“I don’t like pain.”

Spoken through tight lips and gritted teeth, tears still shimmering in his eyes, those words shook Chuuya to his core. “Dazai,” he said as softly as he could manage. “I’m sor-” Dazai stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Chuuya felt his apology shrivel up and die on his lips. “Sorry you’re such a fucking bitch!” he screamed at the closed door, savagely swiping at the tears pricking his eyes. “Good luck if you ever have to deal with real pain, asshole!”

Now, as his harsh words came rushing back to him, Chuuya couldn’t ignore the bitter taste of guilt in his mouth, hot and acidic as blood. “Dazai!” he cried out in a voice on the verge of breaking, reaching for his partner’s shoulder with a trembling hand. Chuuya had long since lost his gloves in the battle to reach the chamber, so his hands were bare. The instant his hand made contact, Dazai howled with pain. It was not a human sound but a wretched, bestial cry of agony that made Chuuya’s blood run cold.

Chuuya snatched his hand away immediately, but his fingers came back damp with blood. “Damn it, Dazai,” he whispered, staring down at the stream of blood as it wound a serpentine path down his wrist. His partner’s only reply was a slight hitch in his shallow, feeble gasps for air.

Suddenly, Chuuya realized he still hadn’t seen Dazai’s face. He closed his eyes for a moment, giving himself a moment to gather his strength before facing the extent of the damage. “I’m Port Mafia, after all,” he thought to himself in the darkness behind his eyelids. “I’ve seen it all before. I can handle this.” He walked around the chair, his footsteps echoing like gunshots in the small room. “I have to.” A shiver ran down his spine. “Dazai needs me.” Chuuya sucked in a deep breath and opened his eyes.

Dazai’s head hung limply against his chest, as if his neck was broken, and even his breathing seemed to have faded into nothing. What remained of his dark hair obscured his face. On instinct, Chuuya reached out and grabbed Dazai’s chin, forcing his face upward so he could meet his partner’s eyes. Dazai did not scream but whimper, a small, pitiful little sound that forced a gasp out of Chuuya. Biting his lip to keep from crying out again, Chuuya kept his hold on Dazai’s face.

Dazai’s face was thinner and paler than Chuuya had ever seen it, his skin not white but rather translucent, entirely devoid of color beneath a mask of dull blue, violet, and greenish-yellow bruises. There was a burn on his cheek that had eaten away so many layers of skin that Chuuya half-expected to be able to see the inside of Dazai’s mouth. Gashes and half-healed scars fractured his face. One eye was filmed over in red, the other swollen shut entirely. Chuuya wondered if Dazai could see at all. His face was empty of any recognition.

Chuuya struggled to find his voice. “Dazai, it’s me,” he choked out, every word grating against his throat. “Chuuya.”

Dazai’s lips worked soundlessly to form Chuuya’s name. His bottom lip had been sliced open too recently for scabs to coalesce. He could not speak, but his eyes seemed to focus on Chuuya’s face for a moment. “Uuu?” he whimpered. His mouth fell open, and Chuuya noticed that several teeth had been chipped and shattered, the rest torn out entirely, and all that remained of his tongue was a quivering mass of bloody flesh. “Uuu?”

Chuuya’s eyes burned with tears. “Yeah, that’s right, Chuuya’s here,” he whispered, stroking Dazai’s ruined cheek with one finger. “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?”

Just as the leaking pipes once had Chuuya transfixed, Dazai’s face now held his undivided attention. Chuuya had been so focused on Dazai’s face, the face of the man he had loved and hated for so long, that the thought of looking away didn’t so much as cross his mind. He might have stared at Dazai’s face for minutes or hours longer if a sudden lapse in Dazai’s breathing didn’t give Chuuya the idea to check his pulse. Chuuya reached for Dazai’s wrist only for his fingers to close upon empty air. Slowly, he raised his eyes to where Dazai’s arm should have been.

His arms were not tied behind his back; they were truncated at the elbows. A cursory glance downward revealed that his legs had received similar treatment.

In all the time Chuuya had known him, Dazai had been covered in bandages, but there were no bandages concealing the mangled lumps of flesh and bone protruding from where his arms used to be. The cruel irony was not lost on Chuuya. Against his will, a crooked smile contorted his face and he began to laugh, quietly at first and then so loudly his echoed shouts of laughter resounded like rolling thunder in the confines of the chamber. Hot tears coursed down Chuuya’s cheeks as he stumbled back from Dazai, the same rictus smile carved upon his face.

“You’re probably even shorter than I am now,” Chuuya said through a hysterical giggle. “But it’s okay, you’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, Dazai, I’ll take good care of you. . .” Chuuya slid his knife out of his pocket lifted it to Dazai’s neck.

Dazai was trembling. It wasn’t a shiver of fear but rather a bone-deep shuddering, as if something solid had broken apart at his core until at last he shook so violently even his pupils seemed to convulse within his irises, like he was already dissolving, already becoming something less concrete than flesh, something less than human. His shuddering dark eyes met Chuuya’s cold blue stare. Once more, his lips struggled to fit themselves around the syllables of  his partner’s name.

Chuuya pressed the flat edge of his knife against Dazai’s lips. “Be quiet!” he snarled, dragging the back of his hand against his eyes to beat back tears. “Just-” A tear slid off Chuuya’s face and shattered on the bloodstained ground as water fell from the rusty pipes above.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Just- just let me-” With shaking hands, Chuuya brought the knife to Dazai’s neck, gripping the handle with both hands.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Dazai closed his eyes, arching his neck forward to meet the blade.

Drip. Drip. Dri-

Chuuya tossed his knife to the ground and threw his arms around Dazai’s quivering shoulders. His tears mixed with blood on Dazai’s cheeks. “I can’t do it,” he whispered, gripping Dazai’s shoulders so hard his knuckles paled. Chuuya lifted his tearstained face and gave Dazai a shattered smile. “If you want to die, you’re gonna have to do it the hard way, mackerel. I’m too damn selfish to let you go.” Chuuya slipped an arm around Dazai’s back and wound his other arm beneath the remains of his knees. “Come on, then,” he breathed, his words hot in Dazai’s ear. “Let’s get you home.”