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v6quewrlds · 6 days ago

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&.⠀⠀PHASES⠀⋆⠀TEE HIGGINS.

pairing⠀⁎⠀tee higgins x reader. word count⠀⁎⠀3.8k.

summary⠀⁎⠀through morning sickness and tears, mood swings and wild food combinations, the one constant throughout the phases of your pregnancy has been tee.

author's note⠀⁎⠀wish it was longer but i don't think i can change or add anything without it losing the magic lol warnings⠀⁎⠀established but not explicitly labeled relationship, pregnant!reader, language.

read more⠀⁎⠀tee higgins masterlist.

The moniker, "morning sickness," was perhaps the most misleading term you had ever encountered. It wasn’t limited to the morning—in fact, it seemed to follow you like a stubborn shadow throughout the day. You’d be fine one moment, a pillow propped up behind your back, scrolling through social media on your phone, and the next, you’d be racing to the bathroom, your stomach in knots.

You had tried every trick and remedy presented by the women in your life. When your mother suggested ginger tea, you brewed it religiously, sipping it with a hopeful grimace each time. It didn’t work. When Tee’s mother swore by keeping saltines to nibble on before getting out of bed first thing in the morning, you tried it too, only to realize that the taste of the stale crackers was almost as nauseating as the sickness itself. When a random older woman at the OB/GYN’s office overheard you bemoaning your plight and suggested lemon aromatherapy, you rolled your eyes but gave it a shot anyway. It didn’t do much.

It was a peculiar mix of anxiety and guilt. As excited and blessed as you felt to be experiencing the miracle of creating life, the physical toll was taking a lot out of you. The guilt was overwhelming at times, as if your body was betraying your happiness. You’d sit on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, head between your knees, and whisper apologies to the baby growing inside you. Tee would find you there often, his own worry lines etched deeply into his forehead.

"Baby," he would say softly, sweetly, already moving to kneel beside you. "It’s okay. I got you."

You would moan in discomfort, not even bothering to look up at him. "I can’t do this," you’d say, your mouth bitter with the aftertaste of bile. "I feel so weak."

Tee would stroke your back, creating large, round circles. "You’re not weak, babe," he’d murmur. "You’re strong. Stronger than you think." His head would drop to kiss the side of your face. "This is just your body doing what it needs to do. I promise it won’t be like this forever."

You would nod, too drained to argue. The smell of his cologne was comforting, a faint scent of sandalwood and vanilla. It reminded you of better days, when your stomach was reliable and you didn’t have to plan your life around nausea. You’d lean into his touch, letting it soothe you, hoping that he was right.

Another wave would fall over you, twisting your stomach into a writhing mess. Tee’s grip on your shoulder tightened, his thumb tracing patterns into your skin as you gagged into the toilet bowl. He’d wait, patient as ever, until you were done. He’d remove your head scarf, knowing you were likely sweaty and hot. He’d help you to the bed, the same spot you’d collapsed into after a particularly nasty spell.

"You feel any better?" Tee’s voice was gentle as he sat beside you on the bed, placing a damp washcloth on your forehead. The coolness was heavenly, and you sighed in finding some level of relief. "Wanna take this off?" He carefully lifted your shirt, placing a hand on your belly which was just beginning to show the slightest curve.

You nodded, and he pulled it over your head, revealing your sports bra, the elastic digging into your skin slightly. You sighed again, this time with relief at the coolness of the room on your bare skin. "Thank you," you sighed, accepting the warmth of the duvet as Tee pulled it over you.

"Don’t leave," you managed to say as Tee moved to stand. Your hand weakly grabbed his wrist, your eyes closed.

"I want you to drink some water, baby." He cooed gently, sitting on the edge of the bed again. "Just a sip. Maybe some crackers too?"

"No crackers," you murmured, turning away from the thought. Tee smiled at that, understanding your distaste. He gently picked up your hand and held it to his mouth, kissing your knuckles.

"No crackers, just water?" Tee asked, his eyes searching your face for approval.

"Just water," you confirmed, your eyes still squeezed shut. You felt his warmth leave the bed as he moved to the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening and closing reached your ears but didn’t quite penetrate the fog of your discomfort. You listened to the steady rhythm of his footsteps returning to your side, the sound of the plastic bottle cap twisting open, and the gentle splash of water as he poured it into a glass.

You took the glass from him gratefully, your palm still a bit clammy. Tee hovered, his eyes full of concern as you took a tentative sip. The water washed over your tongue, bringing a slight reprieve from the acidic taste in your mouth. He waited, his hand resting on your thigh, as you took a few more sips. "How you feelin’?" he asked, watching you take a deep breath, your head falling against his shoulder, your feet tucking underneath yourself.

"Pathetic," you murmured into his neck, feeling his skin under your cheek. "I’m sorry I’m struggling so bad. I don’t know how other women do this."

Tee let out a small sound of discontent, the sound rumbling through his chest and into your ear. "Everybody’s different, baby. You’re doing great." His hand began to stroke your thigh, the motion calming and reassuring. "I know you’re not feeling your best, but you’re giving life, and that’s the most beautiful thing in the world. I’m proud of you, so proud I get to be the one holding your hand through this."

You felt a warm tear slide down your cheek, and you didn’t bother to wipe it away. You knew Tee would feel it and understand without you saying a word. His hand moved up to cup your face, kissing your temple as he whispered, "I promised I’d take care of you, didn’t I? That’s what I’m gonna do."

He took the empty glass from you and set it on the bedside table. "Let’s get you some rest, baby. You need to keep your strength up for the both of you." He tucked you in, his movements slow and careful, as if you were made of the most fragile glass. You felt his weight shift as he stood, but you didn’t open your eyes.

"Blue or green?" Tee asked, holding up a tiny pair of baby sneakers in each hand. The Target shopping cart was already half-filled with diapers, a random assortment of household items, and a new set of coffee mugs for the kitchen.

"Green," you said immediately, your attention snapping from the baby outfit you'd been scrutinizing to the shoes Tee held. "They're so tiny. Can you believe he's going to fit into those?"

Tee smiled, placing the green shoes in the cart. "This shit is so wild. He gon' be fresh as hell though. Just like his daddy."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. You leaned into his side, your mood shifting slightly with the gentle brush of his hand on your waist. You continued to wander the aisles, discussing baby names and nursery themes, until you spotted a rack of maternity clothes.

"Do you think we have time to look?" you pointed at the maternity clothes, tugging on Tee's elbow. He glanced at his watch, then back at your hopeful expression.

"Sure, baby. We got some time," he said, steering the cart towards the rack.

Your eyes lit up as you scanned the colorful clothes, your fingertips gliding over the soft fabrics. You'd been feeling particularly bloated and uncomfortable in your regular wardrobe lately, and the idea of something made just for your growing belly was heaven-sent. Tee hovered, occasionally holding up shirts that he thought you might like, his cheeks dimpling when you'd smile or hum your approval of his choices.

You set off toward the fitting room just a few steps away with a kiss to his cheek and a slight bounce in your step. Inside the small space, you began to strip off your clothes, tossing them into a pile on the floor. The cool air from the AC brushed against your skin and you took a deep breath, feeling slightly happier than you had in days. The first shirt you picked up was a soft cream-colored dress. It was perfectly in line with any other dress you'd pick up prior to pregnancy, except it had a little more stretch in the fabric.

"I like this one," you called out to Tee, stepping out of the dressing room to show off the dress that hugged your bump perfectly. Tee's eyes lit up, and you felt a flush of pride at his approving nod. "What do you think?"

"You look beautiful, baby," Tee said, his voice full with admiration. "They got another one in black, do you want me to grab it, put it in the cart?"

You nodded and returned to the fitting room. The next few minutes were spent trying on clothes, Tee's voice occasionally piercing through the flimsy door, offering his opinions and encouragement. The final piece of clothing was a pair of light wash blue jeans. They had been Tee's pick, and you had been skeptical at first. But seeing the way he raved about the material and the fit, you decided to give them a shot.

They pulled on easily enough. With your bump at the forefront of your mind, you were surprised by how good you felt in them. The stretch was perfect, and they didn't dig into your skin anywhere uncomfortable. The trouble you anticipated came with the buttons.

Though they buttoned—just barely—you felt a twinge of anxiety as you looked in the mirror. Your reflection stared back at you, the jeans cinched tightly around your waist, and you couldn't help but feel like you were wearing a costume, not something you'd be able to wear comfortably outside the house. You stepped out of the fitting room hesitantly.

"What do you think?" Tee's eyes searched yours for approval.

You looked down at the jeans. "They're okay," you said, your voice soft. You didn't meet his eye.

Tee frowned, immediately noticing your lack of enthusiasm. "You sure?"

Your hand moved to your stomach, rubbing it gently. "They're just... tight." You took a deep, shaky breath. Upon exhale, you felt a sudden rush of emotion, tears burning the edges of your eyes. "The button is... it's tight."

"You don't have to get those if you don't want to, baby," he said softly. "We can try something else." He reached for your wrist, turning you to face him fully. "Baby, don't cry."

You felt the first tear roll down your cheek. "I'm not," you started, your voice cracking. Then you broke into sobs, your shoulders shaking. Tee pulled you into a warm embrace, "Baby..." he said softly, rubbing your back.

You sobbed into his chest, fully fisting his black t-shirt. It was one of those moments where you didn't know why you were crying, but you couldn't seem to stop. The fabric of his shirt grew damp under your cheeks. Tee held you, not saying a word, just letting you feel. His strong arms wrapped around you, holding you tight, offering silent support.

The minutes ticked by, your cries slowly subsiding into sniffles. You pulled away, wiping at your eyes. "I'm sorry," you mumbled, your face hot with embarrassment. "I didn't mean to cry."

"Don't be sorry, baby," Tee said, holding your face with both his hands. "It's okay to be overwhelmed." He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, and whispered, "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, even when you're crying."

"Even with my snotty nose and swollen eyes?" you sniffed, managing a small laugh. Tee grinned, kissing the tip of your nose.

"Especially with your snotty nose and swollen eyes." He kissed you softly. "What can I do to help?"

You took a shaky breath, looking down at the jeans on your body. "Can we go home?" you asked, your voice small. Tee nodded immediately.

"Take the jeans off, we'll go to the self-checkout," Tee murmured, his eyes filled with concern as he guided you back into the fitting room. You stepped out of the jeans, your body feeling slightly lighter without the constriction.

"You okay?" he checked again through the door.

"I'm okay, baby," you assured him, your voice more stable now.

Tee nodded and took the jeans from you, placing them back on the hanger with gentle care. When you stepped out of the fitting room, he reached for your hand, his grip firm but comforting. You made your way through the store, ignoring the glances of passersby who could likely see how frazzled you seemed to be still. At the self-checkout, you felt a fresh wave of embarrassment. Your eyes were red, your nose a mess, and your makeup was likely smudged. You avoided looking at the security camera, not wanting to be remembered as the overly emotional, crying pregnant lady.

"Can we order in?" you asked as you watched Tee load your bags into the trunk of the car. "I know I cooked last night but... I want something else."

"Pizza?" Tee suggested as he continued loading, his voice gentle, trying to read your mood.

"Please," you said, the redness in your eyes beginning to clear.

"Yes, ma'am," Tee nodded, closing the trunk and walking around to your side of the car. He opened the door, helping you up into the passenger seat and watching you fasten your seatbelt. He leaned in, placing a tender kiss on your forehead before lifting your chin in his hand and kissing you softly on the mouth. "Order it in, we'll pick it up on the way home, then Imma get yo fine ass in bed."

"Tee," you scolded lightly, your voice still heavy. But you couldn't deny the warmth that spread through you at his show of affection. You gave in, laughing fully when you saw him pull his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I'm deadass," he almost growled, his eyes sweeping over you. "I was tryna keep it together in them people's store. But when you came out in that dress..." he trailed off, shaking his head, a hum resonating from the back of his throat. "I just wanna get you home, lay you down, and thank the good Lord above for giving me you and this baby." His palms pressed against each other, his head tilted back as he playfully prayed to the heavens.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bubbling from your chest and shaking your body. It was a good laugh, one that had been missing from you for days. You watched him, his eyes closed, his smile wide. "You play too much," you said, reaching for his hands and lacing your fingers with his.

"I love you bad. I'll die 'bout my baby," Tee said, his eyes squeezing shut as if the mere thought of your discomfort was too much to handle. His words were punctuated with a kiss to the back of your hand.

You felt a warmth spread through you, and you couldn't help but return his smile. "I know, baby," you whispered. "And I love you for it. Thank you for making me feel better."

"Always," Tee said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Gimme a kiss." He puckered his lips in a playful pout.

You leaned over to kiss him, the smell of his cologne flooding your senses. His smile grew against your mouth before pulling away. "One more," he murmured, pecking you again. You felt his hands move to your stomach, pressing gently. "And one for the little man too." He leaned over your belly, lifting your shirt slightly, and kissed it with a gentle peck.

You watched him, feeling a swell of love so strong it was almost painful. You cradled the side of his face with one hand, your thumb stroking his cheekbone. "Thank you," you repeated, leaning in for another kiss once he stood up again.

You woke slowly, the slow roll of your stomach growling dragging you from your sleep. You groaned and rolled over, feeling the weight of your pregnant belly pressing against the mattress. Tee's arm was draped over you, his gentle snores a comforting white noise. Carefully, you extracted yourself from the warm cocoon of his embrace and shuffled into the kitchen.

You opened the freezer and stared into the abyss of Tupperware containers and frozen desserts, but it was the half gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream that caught your eye. The craving hit you sharp, intense, and unrelenting.

You placed the container of ice cream on the counter and grabbed a spoon from the drawer. The first bite melted in your mouth, the minty coolness mixing with the sweetness of the chocolate chips. It was heavenly. A few bites later, you weren't satisfied. You needed something else.

Tee stirred in his sleep, a sudden absence of weight and warmth beside him. He cracked an eye open, looking around the darkened room, then glanced at the clock. 3-something AM. He sighed, his hands running down his face as he grasped the situation. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, planting his bare feet on the cold floor. He grabbed the hoodie hanging over the chair and shrugged into it, following the sound of the kitchen cabinets opening and closing.

Your silhouette was framed by the refrigerator light, your hand hovering over the shelves. You looked up, catching his reflection in the glass. "Oh, baby," you said softly. "Was I being too loud?"

"Nah, you good," he yawned, crossing the kitchen to you. "Ice cream?" He nodded to the carton in your hand.

"Craving," you mumbled around another spoonful. "Want some?"

Tee chuckled, moving to stand behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. He kissed your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "You know I do," he said, reaching around you to grab a spoon. He took a bite, the minty taste mixing with the warmth of his mouth.

"Can you scoop some out for me, please?" you began, turning toward the pantry to rustle through the snacks. Tee obliged, grabbing a clean bowl from the drying rack and filling it with a generous serving of mint chocolate chip.

"What else you need, baby?" Tee asked.

"Cereal," you answered simply, revealing a box of sugary cereal with themed, multicolored marshmallows. Tee raised an eyebrow but said nothing, turning toward the fridge to retrieve the milk only to be stopped by your hand on his wrist. "No milk."

He paused, looking down at you with a furrowed brow. "You don't want milk with your cereal?"

"Nope," you said, shaking the box of cereal over your bowl of ice cream. "But I need you to get me some chocolate syrup." You paused then visually lit up, "Oh! And some salt."

Tee stared at you, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Salt?"

You nodded, your mouth watering at the thought. "Yeah, I want to mix it all together."

Tee chuckled, shaking his head. "A'ight," he sighed, his hand sliding down to give you a gentle pat on the behind as he made his way to the pantry. He grabbed the chocolate syrup from the shelf and held it up in question. "This what you want?"

You nodded, a grin spreading across your face. "Yes, please," you said, your voice full of childlike excitement. "Drown that bitch in chocolate," you almost vibrated with anticipation. Tee couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head.

"You're something else," he said, his voice warm as he began to pour the chocolate, looking to you every few seconds to make sure he wasn't going overboard. You just hummed in response, your eyes glued to the melting ice cream. The syrup cascaded over the top, pooling and mixing with the ice cream.

"Keep going," you urged, your eyes alight with a spark of excitement. Tee couldn't help but smile at your enthusiasm, pouring more syrup until the ice cream looked like a chocolate moat around the floating marshmallows. "Okay, that's good. Now, the salt."

He grabbed the salt shaker and handed it to you, watching as you sprinkled a fine layer over the top of the concoction. He took a step back, eyeing the mix skeptically. You took a bite, your eyes fluttering closed, moaning softly. "Perfect," you murmured, licking the salt and chocolate off the spoon.

"Mind you," Tee started, watching warily as you took another bite. "I've never made you moan like that before." He laughed out a soft, "Goddamn," when you moaned again.

"So good," you sighed, your eyes still closed. The sweet and salty combination was surprisingly delightful, the crunch of the cereal and the creaminess of the ice cream playing perfectly together. You opened your eyes to see Tee watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. "What?" you tried to stop yourself from smiling.

"It can't be that good," Tee said, his skepticism clear in his tone.

"You want a taste?" you offered, holding out the spoon to him.

"Hell no," Tee snorted, holding up a hand. "I'm good with my ice cream plain." He took a spoonful of mint chocolate chip, savoring the simplicity of it.

You rolled your eyes, mixing the salt and chocolate syrup into your cereal with a spoon. "Your loss," you mumbled with a mouthful. Tee leaned against the counter, watching you with a fond smile. "What are you looking at?" you muttered.

"Just my beautiful, gorgeous, radiant, resilient,—" Tee began, but you cut him off with a laugh and a playful nudge to his side.

"Draggin' it," you said, your voice muffled by the spoonful of chocolate and salt. You couldn't help to smile at his teasing. "But thank you."

Tee took another bite of his ice cream, watching you with a mix of amusement and love. "I was thinking of names the other day."

You paused mid-bite, your eyes widening. "You were?"

Tee nodded. "Yeah, I was thinking something short, something that'll roll off the tongue like yours."

"What did you come up with?" you asked, your curiosity piqued. Your spoon hovered in the air, halfway to your mouth.

"How 'bout Shai?" Tee suggested, watching your reaction closely.

"Like the basketball player?" you deadpanned, your spoon now resting in the bowl. Your head tilted incredulously, your eyes squinting playfully. "Tamaurice."

"I mean..." Tee's voice trailed off. "I like the name. It means 'gift'." He leaned against the counter, watching your face for a reaction. "I think it fits, don't you?"

"That's... really sweet, baby." Your voice softened, the warmth in your tone genuine. You took another bite of your salty-sweet concoction, contemplating the name. "Shai. Shai Higgins." You tasted the name with a nod. "I can work with that."

Tee's smile grew. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you said, setting the bowl down. "It's got a nice ring to it." You leaned into him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. "Our gift."

Tee kissed the top of your head, his arms wrapping around you. "Exactly."

#&. cassie writes.#tee higgins #tee higgins x reader #tee higgins x black reader #tee higgins x black!reader #tee higgins imagine #tee higgins fluff #tee higgins fanfic #black!reader #x black reader #black reader #nfl imagine

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c00lwips · 1 month ago

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hold me close

happy birthday to me!! very self indulgent

notes / first time posting and writing a fic in general so I'm sorry for the grammatical errors, zero plot, and shitty writing. i got tired of lurking in the tag and decided to just write something myself. lowkey nervous about posting but fuck it we ball.

word count / 5.5k

warnings / smut / fem reader / she/her pronouns / first time writing

The sky is clear tonight, stars contrasting brightly against the inky backdrop of summer. It's a new moon, the planet absent from its place in the heavens. Sun reflecting off the moon is at its lowest, stars reflect clearer than any other night, making it the perfect time to stargaze. But resident stargazer, Clark Kent, is not in his loft, looking through his telescope.

He's sneaking out of his bedroom window, careful not to alert his Pa or the dog, before hitting the ground running. He’s taking off through vast open corn fields to see the one person he's been thinking about all day.

You. His girlfriend.

Clark dreamily sighs.

If he’s being honest with himself, he never stops thinking about you. Twenty-four seven, three hundred and sixty-five, you've never left since ingraining yourself into the ridges of his mind, soul, and body.

Wind whips through his hair and tousles his clothes. If he were a normal man, it would sting his cheeks and redden his nose, but he's anything but normal. Not even a human, but that's irrelevant when he can cross the span of Smallville in less than five seconds, and his rewarded for such a feat is a kiss.

He daydreams about your bed, slotting himself beneath the light pink comforter and curling himself around your figure. The cotton sheets, striped pink and white, would feel like heaven with his bare skin against yours.

Shamefully, he’d bury his face in your pillows and sheets, panting and huffing like a damn dog, taking in near painful lungfuls of your scent.

Ever since his powers blossomed into full force, every sound and smell has been grating against his senses. The first time he caught the faint whiff of your scent, it had him running around campus trying to find it. Sweet, like ripe strawberries in the summertime. There’s a lingering underlying hint of fresh pears and something else. He can only describe it as the humming in the air before a lightning strike, the tension in his body when your looking up at him through your lashes. Petrichor, sweet, mouth watering, summer fruit, and something he cannot name but leaves him craving more.

He secretly hopes the longer he stays in your bed, the more likely it'll be that his own scent rubs off on your sheets, even if just faintly, so when you crawl into bed you'll be reminded of him.

He hopes you'll be plagued by thoughts of him, like how his every waking thought centers around you. He hopes you’ll toss and turn, unable to sleep, just like how he stares up at the ceiling of the loft, hoping to find a glimpse of your face in the patterns of the wood.

Clark nearly topples over the bushes dotting the garden of your parents backyard, distracted by his thoughts, which — surprise, surprise — are about you.

Your house is nestled on the opposite side of town, the furthest away from the Kent farm, almost as if the universe enjoys his suffering. The Lake sits a few miles to the west, the thin Kansas forest lining the edges of her backyard.

The rustling of curtains pulls his attention to the second-story window.

Your bedroom window.

Without x-ray vision, Clark already knows it sits above the yellow tiled kitchen, your parents room directly down the hall. He knows because he’s spent hours mapping it in his mind, replaying each second he got to be alone with you.

Your window is cracked. Halfway open to ease the July heat that lingers into the night, sticking to your skin.

Clark eagerly accepts the invitation.

Flying up to the second story, he pulls himself through the small opening, nearly sprawling out on the floor when his shoe snags on the windowsill. He barely misses knocking over multiple items on your desk, including your pet plant you've had since junior year, Scooby.

His cheeks are flaming red, and he is eternally grateful his girlfriend is a deep sleeper, or else he would never hear the end of it.

Clark stands still for a moment, white lace curtains brush against his cheeks before taking a shuddering breath in. Your room smells the strongest like you, lingering in every corner. His eyes flutter shut to savor it, unable to stop the lovesick grin pulling at the corner of his lips.

He could spend eternity in here and never become bored.

Clark fights the urge to re-explore every nook and cranny. Discover over and over again every facet of your being described through your items and decor. Every time he does, more questions arise for next time.

What are your most read books on your shelves? How do you organize your dressers? And why? Where do you hide your diary and what color ink do you use to write in it?

His eyes land on the person he loves most, and he can't silence a quiet snicker.

Your entire body is lying diagonally across the full-sized bed, taking up every corner of space. Arms spread out like a starfish, one foot hanging off the bed, and the other leg drawn up to your side. The blanket is halfway off your body and bed, and a pillow is on the floor.

You are a sight to behold. Clark wishes he could take a picture.

His shoes have sunk into the carpet by how long he's been standing in one place. Finally, he takes a step further into your room. Then another, and another, until he's rounding your side of the bed.

Slowly, as if not to disturb you, Clark sinks down onto his knees. Kneeling mere inches away from your face, slow deep breaths tickle his cheeks. His hand runs through your hair, brushing away the strands that have fallen into your face. His fingertips massage through the texture, gently scratching your scalp.

You're adorable, and a violent affection crashes over him in a startling wave. Being this close to you is making him giddy all over, his skin vibrating with anticipation, heart pounding with adoration.

Clarks lips brush against your temple, fondly whispering your name.

It's late, and his visit is impromptu, but he can't stay away. Ma wouldn't be pleased with him, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her.

In an act of desperation to be closer, Clark speeds through undressing. It takes less than a second for his shoes to end up somewhere against the foot of your dresser, jeans hanging off the edge of your hamper, and his flannel joining the abyss of your closet.

The bed dips beneath Clark's weight but you don't stir. Your six foot and three inches, tan skin and broad shoulders boyfriend is trying to be as quiet as possible, slipping under the thin blanket. You're soft and warm, body malleable beneath his hands. It takes some maneuvering, but he eventually get you on your side, knees drawn up and curled into yourself.

He molds himself to your body, knees digging into the crooks of yours, chest firm against your back. The warmth is instant, and Clark melts into you. A thick arm snakes around your waist, flexing as he pulls you further into him as if there is space between you to close.

His breathing steadies, unintentionally syncing his inhales and exhales to the rhythm of yours. The steady beat of your heart, the warmth coming off your skin, the sound of your slow deep breathes that he can feel through his chest. His senses hone in on one sole purpose; you.

While asleep, your body responds to his touches. Greedily, he takes. Canines drag against the delicate expanse of your neck and his reward is an ineligible mummer through a deep inhale, and your hips shifting backwards into his.

Featherlight fingers play with the bottom of your tank top, large palms radiating heat against your abdomen. His hand slides up, caressing your skin from stomach to sternum, making home beneath your breast. He loves that he can feel your heart beat against his hand. He can feel you breathing, lungs expanding against his palm, hear you sigh in contentment. He loves that he can feel you alive, safe, entirely his and his alone.

A sluggish 'hmmmph' vibrates weakly against Clark's chest. The tip of his nose nuzzles against the underside of your jaw, hiding a lovesick grin against your neck. Shakily, you raise your hand, nails carding through his hair, clutching dark curls. Lungs expand and your heart beat quickens, “Clark.” He keens at how you say his name.Your voice is muddled, heavy with sleep, and he finds it the most adorable thing. He wishes he could hear you say his name like that every morning.

A few seconds go by and he whines, desperate for more. “Yes,” he pants, pawing at your breast. Kisses trail up your neck to your cheek, "'m right here."

Heat comes off him in waves, and his whole body is flushed, cheeks burning red. Hot huffs of air graze the back of your ear and shivers rake down your back. Your thoughts are stuck in molasses. You try to say something, anything, like why is he here? And what time is it? But he’s using his weight to press you into you and his kisses are dizzying.

Kissing the corner of your lips, his fingers gently cradle your chin and jaw, turning your face to his. The first kiss is loving, slow and passionate, nose nudging against yours as he explores your mouth. Minty toothpaste and strawberry chapstick dance across his taste buds as his tongue slides against yours.

Clark forgets how to breath, not until you’re pulling back, and heaving, saliva connecting your lips. The ache in your lower belly has you clenching your thighs. Love is threaded with lust, and he wants to be weave himself into you, intertwining your body and soul.

You’ve consumed him whole. He cannot stop. Not after knowing what you feel like, how you taste, looking at him with glazed over eyes. Not after that evening months ago where he confessed to you on the docs at the lake, and you knocked him over in surprise by how fiercely you kissed him.

He wants you, needs you, and the knowledge that you need him too just as bad is intoxicating.

“I love you,” he whispers reverently, and his actions are support it. A hand traces the curve of your hip, sliding inside your warm thighs, gently prying them apart. Digits dig into the plush flesh, carefully raising your leg back over his hip. Half hard and straining against his boxers, he slots himself home.

A deep, shuddering moan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your back and directly into your ear. “I muh-” His hips jerk up, firmly pressing his cock against your clothed pussy, “-mmh-missed you! So bad!” The words are sharply whispered, air hot against your ear. He can feel your warmth through the layers separating you, breathing in deeply, he's greeted with the heady scent of your arousal.

Pleasure curls in the bottom of his stomach, gradually building at the base of his spine. You're making the cutest sounds, small whines at the back of your throat after his hand moved from beneath your breast to cupping the flesh. The rough pads of his index and thumb roll your nipple, slick soaking your panties.

Delicious licks of pleasure spark between your legs. You don't want him to stop. The thought alone is upsetting. Especially when he's all desperate and needy, whining like a bitch in heat, cheek pressing against yours and further into the side of the mattress. He moans your name, quiet and breaking between breaths, before kissing you from over your shoulder. He’s overwhelming you in the best possible ways.

“I love you too," your mind slowly catches up, voice is lost between kisses, Clark swallowing each syllable. Still hazy with sleep and diluted from Clark dry humping from behind, you can't help but tease him. Fingers still curled in his tousled hair, you yank.

With his anatomy, it doesn’t hurt. Instead, it earns you a whiny call of your name. His dick twitches against his boxers, tip weeping through the cotton and the crotch of your panties. You can feel it, the hard length rutting against your folds.

Clark muffles his sounds by pressing his face into your neck, licking the salty sheen along the column of your throat. He has to be careful, your parents are down the hall, asleep and blissfully unaware of how the springs of your mattress are speaking because of your boyfriend rocking you into them.

Your whole nervous system is sparking alight, and you try and roll against him, but Clark leaves no room to push back. His hips pin yours to the mattress and a sleepy, delirious giggles bubbles in your throat. “You missed me?” Clark can hear you smiling through your tone, “Even if you saw me -what?- less than a few ah-hours a-go-!”

His hand cradles your cheek pressed into the mattress, craning just a bit so he can silence you. You may be too tired to be quiet, so he’ll have to take care of it. His tongue slides against yours and relief floods through him. Beside keeping you quiet, your snarky remarks were dangerously close to cuming in his underwear. Your breathy voice and mocking tilt was too much for him.

Your walls clench around nothing, free hand white knuckling the pillow beside you. The hand pawing your breast retreats from beneath your tank top, sliding up to rest atop your hand clutching the bedding. Muscular fingers pry open your smaller ones, forcing you to release the pillow, and replacing it with his hand. Similar to his body, his hand engulfs yours, squeezing in reassurance. “Doesn’t matter,” teeth nip the shell of your ear, “Seconds, minutes, hours, being away from you is torture.”

A huffy laugh leaves you and Clark lifts his face from your cheek to look at you. “Alright, drama queen,” Your glad you can’t see the charming smile widening across his face, or all words would die in on your tongue, “Don’t strain yourself.”

His free palm slides between the sheets and your stomach, caressing your abdomen before traveling down, teasing the hem of your panties. A sixth sense tickles the back of your mind and your eyes snap open, narrowing against the dark in suspicion. Clark’s now mouthing at your shoulder, cotton digging into the side of your hip the harder Clark tugs at them.

“Clark,” His teeth scrape against your damp skin, “Don’t you dare-”

There’s a pinch against your hip before nothing, the fabric is torn away completely, and the sound of cotton ripping silencing you. Your nails dig into his fingers, “Kent!” You hiss out, “You little shit! Another pair, really?!”

“'m sorry,” he doesn’t sound like it, and you can feelhim smiling against your shoulder.

“Say that to the three others,” You sass, and Clark would kiss away your pout but he likes seeing you like this. Instead, the rough pads of his fingertips glide through glossy pussy lips, coating his fingers in the wetness that gathers between them. Complaints dies on your tongue, replaced with sweet mewls Clark laps up.

As an apology, Clark focuses on grinding tight circles into your clit, abusing the sensitive bud. Your hips jerk forward into his hand, withering against his sturdy frame. His body anchors you to the bed, to this moment, to him.

“I’m serious.” He huffs, leaving blooming marks into the side of your neck and shoulder blade, “Lemme make it up to you, Sweetheart.”

The bed dimples under his knees and you whine, impatiently kicking your feet out when he peels himself away from you. You can feel Clark laughing, the vibrations and the squeak of the bed, hands sympathetically rubbing your hips. You don’t have much time to complain because the air is nearly knocked out of you by how quickly he flips you over. The mattress slightly bounces with the movement, bitting back giggles as your body flushes. Clark using his strength and speed — or any power, for the record — to manhandle you always leaves you flustered, no matter how often he’s does it.

Leaning his weight onto his heels, Clark widens his thighs, forcing your legs to lean against his waist, feet planted flat against the bed. The cheeky fucker leans down, nipping your knee before soothing the sting with his tongue.

For the first time tonight, Clark is looking into your eyes. His stomach clenches at the excitement and love staring right back at him, your smile bright through the dark. Clarks vision allows him to see everything. From the curve of your cheeks to the crinkle around your eyes when you grin, your heaving chest and slight sheen of sweat against your skin. Your tank top has ridden up and you don’t seem to have even noticed. The color of your eyes mirror his own desire, but all you can make out is the faint beauty of his face and silhouette.

You reach out to him, hands pressing into his abdomen, nails grazing the grooves of muscle, trailing up, up, up, caressing his sternum and pecs. He shudders against you, hands feeling along the hard plans, featherlight against his collarbones before sliding up his neck and cupping his face. His cheeks are flushed, warm against your palms. “Hi,” your quiet voice breaks through the silence.

He mouths at the heel of your palm before nipping, trailing fluttering kisses down the inside of your wrist and up your arm before whispering for the umpteenth time “I missed you.”

“I can tell,” there’s no bite behind your words although he knows you’re amused and curious about his behavior. Your heartbeat is alive, thumping steadily against your ribs, and he loves it. No matter where in town he is or how far away you are, he’s subconsciously tuned his hearing to search for yours, listening to it steadily beat. The melody luring him further into your body. “I missed you too.”

His hands find purchase on your ass, playfully squeezing as he drags you up his thighs, slotting your bare cunt against his straining cock contained in his boxers. Your hair splays out against the sheets, below the strewn pillows, creating a halo around you. It causes him to pause. He wants to burn the image of you like this, spread out and disheveled, into the back of his eyelids. Every time he closes his eyes, he wants to come back to this scene. Right here, with you. Clark always knew you were divine and no force on this world or in this universe can change his mind.

The back of your heels impatiently push at the elastic hem, “off, off.” Clark shakily chuckles at your needy moans, nodding his head in equal fever. Feeling your sounds reverberate beneath his palms, against his skin, vibrating through the marrow of his bones, Clark wishes he could keep you like this forever.

Tearing his boxers off and throwing them somewhere in your room, he’s finally free. It looks painful, reddened tip pressing into the toned skin of his abdomen, angrily smearing white pearls into his skin. Veins branch along eight inches, twitching the longer you stare.

You’ve done this before. Clark is unable to keep away from you for long, but he still feels hot. Still feels shy when you look like you want to devour him. You slowly pull him forward, on top of you, and his stomach trembles. A guttural gasp is punched from his gut when you rock forward, “ah-shit!” Cock nestled between slick, warm folds of your pussy, you lazily drag your hips back and forth.

His whole body locks up between your legs, head thrown back, green eyes gazing up at your ceiling. A shivering breath is released slowly, controlling his breathing as strong hands yank you forward. Looking back down at you, he bites the inside of his cheek, grinding into your pelvis, “You feel s’ooo fucking good.”

Frantically, his hands are on the back of your knees, drawing them up and bracketing them on the outside of your breasts. There’s a stretch in the back of your thighs but Clark is there to soothe the ache, hastily leaning his body forward to feel yours. His weight pins your legs to your chest, hand leaving the crook of your legs to brace himself against your headboard and beside your head. His pretty face is right in front of yours, and Clark nudges his nose with yours, drawing your attention away from how his tip catches against your clit with a hoarse call of your name.

Clark kisses along your jaw, a sharp nip forcing your eyes open and on him. His pupils are blown out, leaving only a sliver of green hidden behind a longing gaze. His lips are kiss swollen — as are yours — and stay slightly parted as he breathes heavy. You’re no better, bitting your lip to keep mewls from getting too loud, and he wishes nothing more than to make love without the fear of getting caught. It’s hard to keep your eyes open but you can’t bare to miss the way Clark’s nose scrunches when his tip presses against your entrance, not penetrating but resting there.

“Please,” he begs so sweetly, voice strained and high pitched, lips brushing against yours. “Please, can I fuck you?”

Slowly, you spread your thighs wider apart, sliding out from beneath his body and away from yours. The back of your knees press into the crook of his elbows, feet dangling in the air, barely brushing against the sheets. With a nod, you encourage him forward, “Ye-” A sharp breath catches the end of the word, voice catching in your throat as his fat tip breaches the tight resistance of flesh.

Clark wastes no time.

Your legs and thighs immediately clamp against his flexing arms. One set of nails are digging into into his thick forearm, and the other are biting crescent moons into his broad, muscular back. Clark, on the other hand, is leaving teeth marks into his fist by how hard he’s biting it.

Clark’s big. He knows, you know, and no matter how many times he stretches you out or makes you cum, you always need a few moments to adjust. But the sounds you’re making are getting more whiny, higher in pitch, louder, and he can’t have your parents interrupting now.

His lips press messily against yours, muffling your sounds with sloppily kisses. “There we go, honey,” he hums, “Taking me so well, like always.” Snaking his hand between your bodies, calf resting against the inside the crook of his arm and forearm, his fingers slide between your folds. Thumb rolling into your clit, the reaction is immediate.

Clark grunts, pussy strangling his tip. He’s using every bit to restraint to not slam into you until your wrapped around every inch of his cock. His blood feels like it’s on fire but your body begins to relax against him. He takes that as the sign to keep going, forcing himself to keep breathing as you suck him in, taking him further.

With a few gentle thrusts and the added friction, his heavy balls eventually meet the curve of your ass as he bottoms out. Both of your noises are softened by each other, pitiful and desperate for more.

A strangled cry wracks through his body, his forehead dropping against yours. Hot, so incredibly hot. You’re burning him from the inside out and he could die happy just like this. Through the haze of bliss, he can hear your heart beating like an jack rabbit, panting into his mouth and against his lips.

Clarks need to be close is an insatiable craving, and despite being as close as humanly possible, he wants more. His brows furrow, teeth bared in a frown as he struggles against pounding into you and staying still, nose scrunched in concentration. Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move!

While Clark is fighting his own demons, you’re on cloud nine, wholly surrounded by him. It’s nothing less than intoxicating. You can feel ever ridge, throbbing veins, twitch of his cock against your walls, trembling above you like a blushing virgin. Well, Clark is always blushing with you, so just a virgin.

It’s a little uncomfortable at first, but Clarks attentive care and bruising kisses make it worth it. Mummers, babbles, and praise are kissed into your skin. Being folded in half still feels foreign, feet dangling in the air, but with his unwavering strength it isn’t a problem.

Feeling this full, filled to the hilt, can only be accomplished by Clark. Neither your fingers, vibrator, dildo, or thoughts about other men can make sex feel effortlessly good. You feel him everywhere, and he has you in one of the nastiest mating press of your life, putting his entire weight into it.

Wrapped up in his mind and your pussy, Clark doesn’t feel your arms gradually relaxing against him, fingers slowly flexing against his forearm before trailing up, both arms cradling his back. “Clark?” You purr lowly, but it does nothing to get a response. You’re ready to go, get pounded into oblivion — without alerting your parents — but Clark is too focused on not doing that. He’s blocked everything else out but the feeling of you clenching around every inch of him and it’s hard to ignore.

There’s a pressure against his back and without thought, he yields to your touch. His body crushes against your breasts, squeezing them tightly into his chest. Eyes still shut so tightly he’s seeing stars, Clark seeks comfort by pressing his cheek to yours. A huff of hot air warms your ear, and he takes deep breathes. He’d kiss you, he desperately wants to, but he’s afraid he’d accidentally suffocate you.

He’s drawn out by your lips brushing against the top of his high cheek bone, kissing the mole against his rosy cheek. Your teeth lightly sink into the apple of flesh and he gasps, “Hey!” Giggles erupt from you and Clark pulls back just slightly to watch you smile. It’s amazing, how light you make him feel when the weight of the world is suffocating him. When everything is good, life unusually peaceful, you make it a thousand times better.

Pussy clenches as you laugh and Clark is diving headfirst back into the pleasure you offer. His balls jerk, and his hips snap forward. The breath is knocked from your lungs, “-ha-ah! Clark, hmph, fuck!”

Clark freezes, cold panic squeezing his heart and spreading throughout his nervous system. His whole body goes tense above you, and you immediately understand what’s happened. Gently, you slowly scratch the at his nape with your nails, carding through black curls from the back of his ears to the top of his scalp. Pushing his hair back, you draw him out of his dread, gently begin to dot kisses across his face.

“I’m alright,” you brush the tip of your nose against his, “just didn’t expect it. You didn’t hurt me.” Coaxed by your sweet cooing and soft lips, Clark melts back into you. He kisses you senseless, distracting you from how his hips begin to roll.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for you to notice, as deep, languid strokes turn into shallowly drawing out and rocking back in. Fervid hands grip and kneed whatever he can reach, not caring what he holds as long as it’s you. It’s too hot to make out, weeping tip knocking that sweet spot inside you,

Clark can feel your moans vibrating against his chest and throat, and it’s addicting. It’s strained, the breathless noises lowly filling your bedroom. It’s still the middle of the night, and your parents are asleep. All you want to do is cry out Clarks name and feel his fingers vibrating against your clit, but it’s too risky. You both know neither of you can handle that right now. Not without waking up your parents and neighbors and half the town in the surrounding area.

A different time.

Subconsciously picking up the pace, he kisses you again, needing to be closer to you. Needing to feel you convulse around him while you climax, whimpering out his name like he’s the only one that can save you. You can feel his hips driving deeper into you, smacking against flesh, springs shortly creaking in protest.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you bring down one of your hands to cradle his jaw. Trying to sedate his hungry kisses, you drag you the tip of your tongue against his bottom lip. It has the opposite affect as he pries your mouth open with his tongue, sliding into your mouth and tasting you.

The room smells of sex and sweat and Clark loves it. It’s so intimately you, united with him. His abdomen quivers and his heart jumps into his throat, head light as he starves off the looming orgasm. His hand darts out from between you two to knuckle the sheets, afraid he’ll cum too quickly if you keep clenching around him like you’re trying to steal his soul.

He’d gladly let you, but not right now. It’s too perfect, like this is where he’s meant to be. On top of you, fucking passionately like you’re two people in love because that’s what you are. If he cums now, he won’t be able to prolong this feeling of universal belonging, and he might cry.

You keen into the muscle between his shoulder and neck when he pulls away to mark whatever spaces he hasn’t yet. He knows you’ll be mad at him in the morning but future Clark can deal with that later. His tongue flattens against your pulse, sucking the frantic beat of your heart. A whimper of his name directly in his ear and on second thought — which is a miracle in of itself that he’s thinking at all — listening to your high pitched moans and cries of his name as you cling to him has blood rushing in his ears. His hands clutch tighter around you, fingers digging into soft skin, and he knocks his teeth into yours while capturing your lips.

Clark devours you alive.

It reassures him that this is real. Not another dream or a stupid fantasy he’s having during class. No. He’s here, with his girlfriend, and her face is all scrunched up in pleasure because of him. Tears wet her cheeks and the first time they had sex, it scared him, thinking that he had hurt you. He learns later that it isn’t that, but it feels too good, emotions overflowing like the water collecting at your lash line.

The tension in your core that has been slowly building ever since Clarks fingers were spreading you open is beginning to consume you, and he can tell. He pulls back just enough to intently watch you fall apart. Your thighs are begging to close together but his hefty body isn’t allowing that, snuggling between them. He can feel you pulsating, writhing beneath him until your back is arching and he can smell the endorphins off your skin. He watches your mouth fall open, a weak, wretched sob of his name barely passing your lips before your stomach tenses, thighs and arms locking around him in sweet ecstasy.

A botched semblance of your name is garbled before he’s shoving his tongue into your open mouth to silence his desperate cries. His eyes flutter shut and suddenly all he can feel is you, surrounding him in every sense, and each nerve dissolves into pure bliss. Your heart beats so quickly is nearly matches his, skin soft and trembling against his. His hips deliriously buck into yours, burying himself until there is no denying you are one being, mending his soul to yours in electric convulses through his entire body.

Cock pulsating with each spasm of your walls, you reach the peak before Clark, but he is quick to follow. He can’t bare the idea of any distance between you two, even in climax. Each release is hot and heavy into you, and your nails drag against the taut, trembling muscles of his back.

Spent, Clark slumps into you. If he was heavy before, he weighs a ton by how he plasters himself against you. With mindless consideration, he gently stretches your legs back out and against the cool sheets. His chest is heaving against yours, forehead pressing into your neck as he becomes boneless. Heart still pounding against your ribs, deep, shuddering breathes brings more oxygen into your blood, skin feverish against his.

Your mind is fuzzy and the bliss is soft and all consuming. Clark shifts above you but you barely make sense of what he’s doing. Slowly removing himself from you, arms wrapping around your torso and arms and bringing you with him as he rolls to the side.

He’s need for skin to skin is constant, it’s adorable by how he subtly tries to seek it. He’s cradling you against his chest, watching as you slowly slip back into sleep.

Clark doesn’t know how he’s going to explain this in the morning, or how you’re going to cover up the hickeys he gave you from your parents, but right now, he’s happy. As long as he can be next to you, stay by your side, he’ll be content.

thank you for reading, especially if you got this far!

This isn't my best work, some parts are better than others, but I'm still proud of myself for putting something out there. I welcome feedback and constrictive criticism, anything at all!

but anyway, thank God for Smallville Clark Kent <3!

dividers @/uzmacchiato

#Clark Kent x reader #Clark Kent #Smallville #Smallville x reader #Superman x reader #DC x reader #tom welling #x reader

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kindaasrikal · 9 months ago

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Things the ninja fear, except they make zero sense:

Kai: I refuse to forget he’s afraid of elves. It’s a good thing Christmas doesn’t exist for them, he would NOT survive the groups of little kids dressing up as elves for it.

Zane: uneven floor tiles. They literally had one job and now he feels like pulling them out of the ground and putting them back in an organised pattern that fits. He has done this once before at the monastery at 5am and Wu had to, for the first time ever, hit him with his stick and tell him to go to bed.

Lloyd: Bunnies. Specifically ones with white fur and red eyes. It reminds him of Harumi and Garmadon a tad too much. And Akita. Every time it reminds him of Akita he actually just turns super depressed until he sees the red eyes and screeches onto the ceiling spider-man style.

Cole: bleach. He drank it as a kid, got caught, and was rushed to the hospital. He didn’t understand what was so serious but all the panic made him terrified of bleach, and most cleaning products that aren’t used for hygiene.

Nya: the colour yellow. Ironic, isn’t it?

(She once was in a house that was fully yellow as a child and couldn’t tell up from down and ended up sobbing like a baby. Kai had to sell all of the fully yellow things in their house.)

Jay: crocodile’s. He had a dream when he was younger about a crocodile in his parent’s bed eating them under the blanket and he never got over it. Best part was that it wasn’t gory or detailed or anything, it more cartoony of a dream, but nevertheless he has had a vendetta against crocodiles from that day on.

Edit: Bonus+

Morro: flowers. As a child Wu read him a story about an evil flower that first started the fear, yet when he left the monastery he was no longer afraid. It was during his travels to find out how to become the green ninja that the fear sprouted again. Due to multiple events. He once ate a poisonous flower. He once came across a corrupted flower that was bigger than a mountain and liked to eat stuff. He once came across a cemetery covered in deadly flowers. He once got force fed incredibly sweet flowers. And he once had someone give him a bouquet of flowers, except that person had no idea that this flower can give some people severe allergic reactions. Yeah. He is terrified when he’s near flowers. He likes those really small ones that grow on the ground though if that helps.

Garmadon: the light. He hisses like a vampire when too much light hits either his skin or eyes.

Wu: pitch black darkness. Best believe you’ll find him half transformed into a dragon and in a corner with a spear when the light comes back on.

Skylor: beards. They look like rats nests to her. Specifically ones on people with bad hygiene, she will automatically back away and get close to throwing up in fear if that thing comes near. After seeing Wu’s beard care routine (cause you have to have one with a beard that long) Skylor has accepted Wu to be one of the people that her fear doesn’t apply to.

Pixal: weird scratchy floors, they feel disturbing to her at first, but during her first few weeks alive she watched a movie about creatures coming out of those exact same scratchy floors and she has never been the same. She sits on Zane’s or Cole’s shoulders when they’re near some of those type of carpets.

This was supposed to be fears that didn’t make sense and then I made them all make sense.

Best part, Jay’s fear was me projecting. Number 1 crocodile hater right here.

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chishiyasdearjacket · 3 months ago

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Chapter 1: A Game of Wits

Part 1: Their first meeting in the Hearts game, where they begin to observe and test each other.

Masterlist: The King's Decree

Chishiya didn’t believe in fate.

Coincidences? Sure. Predictable patterns? Absolutely. But fate was just an excuse people used when they didn’t want to admit that their lives were ruled by probabilities, not destiny.

And yet, when he stepped into the game arena that night, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something unexpected was about to happen.

The building was a massive, abandoned shopping mall—dark, silent, except for the flickering emergency lights casting eerie shadows along the cracked tile floors. Players gathered near the registration screen, their faces a mix of fear, caution, and empty resignation.

Chishiya leaned against a support column, taking in the group.

Then, his gaze landed on her.

She wasn’t trembling like the others. If anything, she looked bored—arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, eyes scanning the crowd with quiet calculation. Most players wore their emotions like a mask slipping off their faces, but not her.

Interesting.

Before he could make any further observations, the monitors above them flickered to life, displaying the game details.

Game: "The King's Decree"

Difficulty: Five of Hearts

A soft murmur ran through the crowd. Hearts games were the worst. Chishiya barely reacted, already turning his attention back to the girl. If she was as cunning as she seemed, she wouldn’t panic over this, either.

He smirked. This could be entertaining.

----

Y/N felt his gaze before she saw him.

A subtle weight, an awareness creeping up her spine. She turned her head slightly, and there he was—leaning casually against a column, wearing that infuriatingly smug expression. White hoodie, silver hair, sharp eyes that held the kind of amusement most people in the Borderland had lost long ago.

She didn’t trust him.

Which meant she liked him already.

The game details loaded. A five of Hearts. That meant manipulation, deceit, emotional warfare. People would cry. People would turn on each other. And someone—probably more than one—wouldn’t make it out alive.

The instructions came next.

RULES:

1. A "King" has already been chosen among the players.

2. Every round, the King issues a decree that all players must follow.

3. If a player disobeys, they die.

4. The goal: Find the King and eliminate them before time runs out.

Y/N glanced around, watching as panic set in. People were already whispering, throwing suspicious looks at each other. She exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into something neutral.

She wasn’t afraid of Hearts games. She knew how people worked—what drove them, what broke them. And she could play along until she got what she wanted.

Then, movement caught her eye.

The smug-looking guy was still watching her. But now, he was smirking.

Challenge accepted.

----

Chishiya thrived in games like these.

Hearts games weren’t about brute strength or physical endurance—they were about control. About watching people unravel, forcing them to make choices that revealed their true nature. And The King’s Decree was no different.

The group shifted uneasily as the announcement ended. Some players immediately tried to shrink into the background, while others stood rigid, scanning the faces around them with suspicion. A few muttered under their breath, already forming alliances they’d probably betray within minutes.

Chishiya let his gaze drift back to her.

Unlike the rest, she wasn’t panicking. If anything, she looked... curious. Calculating. Like she was already two steps ahead of everyone else.

Interesting.

Then, the speakers crackled again.

The first decree has been issued:

"All players must link arms with someone within the next 30 seconds. Anyone left alone will be eliminated."

Panic set in.

People turned to each other in frantic desperation, some begging, others grabbing the nearest person without hesitation. Chishiya, however, remained perfectly still, watching as chaos unfolded.

He had no intention of scrambling for a partner. Someone would come to him—they always did. People gravitated toward perceived safety, and his unreadable demeanor had a way of making people believe he knew what he was doing.

But before anyone else could reach him, she did.

Y/N appeared at his side in an instant, her hand gripping his wrist in an unspoken command before looping their arms together. The motion was seamless, as if they’d done it a hundred times before.

Chishiya blinked, then smirked. So, she’s fast.

“Figured I’d take my chances with you,” she murmured, eyes still scanning the room. “You don’t look like the type to panic.”

“And you don’t look like the type to rely on anyone,” he countered smoothly.

Her lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close. “Maybe I just pick my battles wisely.”

Interesting indeed.

The countdown ended. A deafening beep rang through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground.

A man near the entrance had hesitated too long. He stood alone—wide-eyed, trembling—before his collar blinked red. A second later, his body crumpled.

Dead.

The room went eerily silent.

---

Y/N barely flinched as the first casualty hit the ground. She’d seen worse.

What mattered now was that she wasn’t next.

Her grip on Chishiya’s arm remained firm, though she could feel his gaze on her, assessing. He was unreadable—relaxed, unbothered, as if this was just another passing moment rather than a game designed to tear people apart.

Good. That meant he wasn’t reckless.

The monitor flickered again.

The next decree will be issued in 60 seconds.

One minute. Not much time to gather information, but enough to make the right moves.

She turned her attention to the group. Fear was setting in quickly—whispered suspicions, darting glances, alliances forming in desperation. She didn’t trust any of them.

But she could use them.

“What do you think?” Chishiya’s voice was smooth, casual, but there was something unreadable beneath the surface. “Got any guesses on the King?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Why? Hoping I’ll tell you so you can use it to your advantage?”

His smirk widened just a fraction. “I like to be informed.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh. Amusing.

“I don’t know who the King is,” she admitted. “But I do know one thing—”

She nodded toward a man in the corner, a nervous-looking guy clutching his own arm so tightly his knuckles were white. He hadn’t spoken once, hadn’t moved beyond what was necessary.

“He knew the first decree was coming,” she continued, voice low. “Didn’t scramble for a partner. Didn’t hesitate, either. Like he was waiting.”

Chishiya followed her gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. “You think he’s the King?”

“I think he knows something.”

Chishiya hummed, as if filing the information away. Then, his eyes flicked back to her.

��Not bad,” he murmured. “You might actually be useful.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Another crackle of static interrupted them.

The next decree has been issued:

"All players must vote for someone to be eliminated within the next two minutes. The person with the most votes dies."

Silence.

Then, the panic set in again.

Y/N could already see it happening—the fear turning to paranoia, the group unraveling, people scrambling to shift blame before it could land on them.

She tightened her grip on Chishiya’s arm and smirked.

“Let’s see how good you really are.”

#aib chishiya #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya shuntaro x reader #alice in borderland #chishiya smut #chishiya x reader #x reader #alice in borderland imagine #boop #Chishiyasdearjacket

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magiccath · 1 year ago

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Emergency Dance Party

Tenth Doctor x reader (ambiguous relationship) (could also be any Doctor if you ignore the Converse comment)

Summary: In which the Doctor and the TARDIS come up with a way to make your week a little better

A/N: I wrote this for myself MONTHS ago and kinda just forgot to post it. Also, he's so pretty in this GIF

Today wasn’t your day. It hadn’t really been your week either. You were tired, grumpy, and beyond fed-up. It wasn’t anything in particular, but rather an accumulation of small things combined with a general discomfort.

You walked into the TARDIS control room, hoping that the familiar hum of the ship might calm your anxieties. The Doctor was busy with the console, fiddling away with the controls. He became aware of your presence once you got a few steps into the room before promptly faceplanting.

The thump made him turn towards you before rushing to help you up. You met his flustered concern with your own exasperation, accepting his outreached hand begrudgingly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding on to you.

“Just my luck,” you groaned to yourself, adjusting your footing. “I’m fine,” you grumbled, pulling your hand from his to brush off your shirt. “It’s just one of those weeks.”

“The kind where absolutely nothing goes right?” he asked, leaning back against the console casually. Your eyes drifted to the floor, his dirty Converse catching your eye. He was wearing the white ones today, his ankles crossed gently over each other.

“Yeah,” you sighed, really feeling the weight of the week.

“I think I have just the thing.” He grinned brightly. You loved his smile, it was always lopsided and giddy. It reminded you of a kid on Christmas or a serial killer. It depended on the day.

“I don’t really feel up for an adventure,” you admitted, slumping into the control room chair. You didn’t have the physical or emotional energy to run after the Doctor. He had promised “stress-free” trips in the past, and they always ended with some form of chaos. When you traveled with the Doctor, there was no such thing as a “beach vacation”, at least not in the traditional sense. Usually, such expeditions ended with something blowing up.

“Don’t worry,” he laughed, “we don’t have to leave the TARDIS for this.”

You watched him move about the console in his regular manner. He did this for so long, that you started to think watching him was supposed to be the activity for the day. Before you could question his motives, he made his way over to you. He was holding something, but he hid it behind his back so you couldn’t see.

“Please tell me that’s not a duck,” you groaned, remembering the Doctor’s last surprise. That one left the ship in shambles, and single handedly destroyed your favorite shirt.

The Doctor frowned, “What’s wrong with ducks?”

“Nothing,” you laughed lightly, “I just don’t want to have to chase after another one.”

The Doctor nodded sheepishly, remembering the hassle you two had when he brought a rouge duck onto the ship. He still hadn’t put the kitchen back together, and that had been months ago now.

“Well, it’s not a duck,” he explained, moving his hands to the front of his body to show you what was in them. He held the large, bright pink button under your nose excitedly.

“What exactly is it?” you asked, peering at the strange object. For all you knew, it could be the TARDIS self-destruct button. You didn’t trust big red buttons, and you certainly didn’t trust pink ones.

“Just press it.” he grinned. You searched his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out if it was safe or not. After some deliberation, you rested your hand warily over the button.

The Doctor nodded, encouraging you to push down. You squeezed your eyes shut and did as such.

When nothing blew up, you opened your eyes warily. The ship transformed before you: the lighting was different, a disco ball lowered from seemingly nowhere, and the floor tiles began to light up in synchronized patterns. In a matter of seconds, the TARDIS had turned into a magnificent disco.

You raised your eyebrow, clearly confused by the change of decoration. You didn’t know the TARDIS had a disco mode. You could only assume it had been installed in the '70s.

“Emergency party button.” He smirked. “Press it again,” he urged.

Gently, you pressed the button again, and music started to fill the room. The distinct opening beats of your favorite song brought a small smile to your face.

The Doctor threw the button across the room recklessly before holding his hand out to you. You took it, allowing your smile to fully take over your face.

“Emergency dance party,” he explained, grasping both of your hands.

“With my favorite song?”

The Doctor nodded, clearly proud of himself. He wasn’t always the most observant, but when he was it made your heart melt. He knew the little things, like how you took your coffee, what your handwriting looked like, and your favorite meal of the day.

“How did you know?” You laughed.

“You told me once,” he smiled, his eyes showing all of the love he had for you.

You smiled back, all traces of sadness and frustration leaving your mind instantly.

The two of you bounded, jumped, and danced your way through the TARDIS for hours, laughing and smiling until it hurt. When you couldn’t dance anymore, you collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles, simply enjoying each other’s company.

It was the best part of your week, probably even the best part of your year. By the end of it, you couldn’t even imagine the sour mood you had been in before, basking too much in the joy of the moment.

At the end of the day, all it took was an emergency dance party with your favorite alien to boost your mood.

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sjkarma · 5 months ago

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✿ A small drawing as the cover of my fanfic. I wanted to capture this light melancholy to describe how Mikey feels at the moment. But also to give you an idea of the atmosphere my fanfic will have.

Pairing: Takemichi x Mikey

Genre: Omegaverse, angst, everyday life, romance, psychological trauma

Side pairing: Shinichiro x Wakasa & Kakucho x Izana

Side character: Emma, Draken, Chifuyu, Baji, Kazutora, Mitsuya, A-Kun

My character in FanFic: Sano Mikky

"It’s hard when you’re an omega who can’t find peace either among your family or your friends. It’s hard when you have problems with your parents. It’s hard when you can’t accept your existence, when you don’t understand your own feelings. When you just want to disappear. That’s why it’s nice when there’s a bright shining Sun beside you, ready to show you the right path and make you happy."

:･ﾟ✧ Harsh Wind, Warm Sun ✧:･ﾟ

The hot drops falling from the shower endlessly cascaded over the curled-up body of the omega, enveloping his skin with searing warmth. The water streamed down his back, disappearing across the cold tiles, as Mikey sat motionless on the floor, his hands resting loosely on his knees. His wet hair clung to his face, concealing his gaze, which was lost in the pattern of the tiles in front of him. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular, yet he felt a heaviness in his mind—as though fatigue and tension had merged into something indescribable.

The pain in his back was dull but constant—a reminder of something he couldn’t escape. He tried to ignore it, letting the hot water ease the tension, but he knew it wasn’t enough. His muscles were stiff, his breathing uneven, as if each breath drained him even more.

His vision blurred for a moment, thoughts spinning around how long he had been sitting there. Time seemed to lose meaning—the only thing that mattered was the warm stream keeping him on the brink of some fragile sense of peace. He knew he needed to get up, to return to reality, but his body refused to obey. Any movement would bring a new wave of exhaustion and discomfort, and he simply couldn’t face it.

A quiet sigh escaped his lips as his eyelids slowly drooped over his tired eyes. He took a deep breath, letting the warm air of the bathroom fill his lungs, but the heaviness in his body remained. The hot water and solitude couldn’t wash away the deep-seated fatigue that had settled within him.

The moments of stillness, however, were interrupted by a faint knock on the door. The dull sound seemed to pull him out of his thoughts. His head turned slowly toward the source of the noise. — Manjiro? Are you okay? - his brother’s familiar, slightly worried voice came from the other side. - You’ve been in there too long. Did you fall asleep?

Mikey stayed silent for a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile as he listened. Shinichiro never missed a chance to distract him, even in the grayest of moments. — I’m fine, Shin-nii, - he finally replied after a slight delay. - I was just thinking. Don’t worry, I’ll be out soon! — Don’t do that. One day, if you don’t answer me, I’ll have to break the door down to make sure you haven’t drowned! - Shin laughed softly, adding a hint of humor that always managed to lighten the mood.

Mikey chuckled under his breath, even though he knew his brother couldn’t see him — Come on, get ready. Didn’t you say you wanted to go out? Emma will be upset if she ends up cooking just for you again! — Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’ll be out soon!

He heard Shin’s quiet footsteps retreating from the door, leaving Mikey alone once more. The room fell silent again, broken only by the sound of the water drops falling from the shower.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Mikey tried to clear his mind. Slowly, his hands moved to brush the wet hair away from his face before he turned off the hot water. A wave of dizziness hit him—the heat had dulled his senses. His skin was flushed, his back aching slightly from the uncomfortable position he’d been sitting in.

With a final effort, he stood up, taking a few unsteady steps as he reached for his robe. But something in the bathroom caught his eye, and his heart seemed to skip a beat.

The mirror.

It stood there above the sink, uncovered this time. Mikey froze. His gaze involuntarily landed on the reflection—his reddened face, dazed expression, the steam shrouding everything like a heavy veil. He couldn’t bear it.

It stood there, over the sink, uncovered this time. Mikey froze. His gaze involuntarily stopped on the reflection—his flushed face, the dazed look in his eyes, and the steam that surrounded everything like a heavy veil. He couldn’t bear it.

Clenching his teeth, he turned his head away and cursed quietly. He quickly left the bathroom, feeling the cold air hit his overheated body. The fabric of the robe wrapped around him softly, bringing slight relief. Finally, he could breathe again.

Mikey slumped onto the bed, letting the cold calm him. The temperature in his body gradually normalized, but the heaviness inside him didn’t fade.

A few minutes later, as the warmth from the shower began to dissipate and the steam, like a gentle cloud, vanished, Manjiro felt lighter, his heartbeat slowing into a steady rhythm. The redness in his cheeks faded, and the mirror that had troubled him earlier was left behind in the bathroom, rendered insignificant. He chuckled softly at himself, thinking it might finally be time to get rid of it for good. There was no reason to keep it. If anyone asked why, he’d simply say he didn’t like seeing himself naked while showering. No further explanations were necessary.

The day outside was clear, with gentle sunbeams caressing the room’s walls. Shinichiro had apparently drawn the curtains back to let the light in. That small gesture, which Manjiro always quietly appreciated, was more than just pulling back a curtain. It was a moment of peace that filled his soul with warmth, like a comforting embrace. It was hard to explain why such small acts brought him such relief. They gave him a sense of safety and warmth that he couldn’t find anywhere else.

Slowly, he dressed in lighter clothes that would allow him to feel the sun’s warmth. As his body straightened, he still felt the residual heat lingering around the room. Without realizing it, he found himself in the kitchen, already enveloped in the familiar scents of family life. The aroma of a home-cooked meal wafting through the house refreshed him like a cool breeze. As always, it was thanks to Emma, who had a way of preparing dishes that not only satisfied but also carried the comfort of home.

Unexpectedly, as he opened the kitchen door, Manjiro caught the presence of Emma’s helper—the familiar, subtle scent of lavender blended with something sweet and fresh, almost like plums, which he couldn’t mistake. It was a scent he knew well, one that brought a sense of calm and stability — Well, look who finally decided to come out of his room, - the white-haired omega said with a mildly disapproving but calm tone as they placed the last plate on the table. Emma, meanwhile, was pulling cold juice bottles out of the fridge, smiling at the lively noise filling the space. - I thought I’d have to cook something for you if you decided to sleep after your shower. — That wouldn’t have been necessary, Iza-nii, - Manjiro replied in a slightly teasing tone, smiling as he glanced at the table. The aromas from the dishes blended together, creating a cozy, almost magical atmosphere. - Because I know you’d make my portion and just tell me to warm it up. — Don’t be so sure of yourself, - came the calm but slightly annoyed response, with a glance toward the open door. Izana raised an eyebrow, their eyes locking onto Mikey, who was already making his way to the table. - Shinichiro! Hurry up, we’re not waiting for you forever! Even Mikey showed up faster than you!

Izana spoke in that slightly condescending yet detail-oriented tone that everyone recognized. When he turned to Shinichiro, for a moment, Shinichiro felt like a child being scolded, even though he wasn’t at fault. It was strange how Izana could sometimes make him feel that way. But now wasn’t the time for such thoughts, right?

Shinichiro, for his part, had just arrived, and their eyes met briefly. His face, despite attempting to remain calm, betrayed a hint of tension. Late, as always, yet he knew this wasn’t just an ordinary situation. The unease about something he couldn’t quite put into words lingered.

Emma, sitting on the floor with her cup, simply laughed, her eyes sparkling with playful mischief. To her, these moments were merely amusing—a kind of daily routine that filled her heart with laughter and joy. While she didn’t take sides, she always found a way to see the humor in things. — You’ll probably make us laugh when you explain why you couldn’t show up sooner, Shinichiro, - she said with a slightly teasing smile, watching as he finally took a seat at the table.

Their grandfather, Mansaku Sano, was already in his usual spot, seated with a newspaper in hand. He didn’t interfere in their conversations, preferring to watch quietly from the sidelines with a smile on his face. He was simply there—still and silent.

Manjiro glanced at him and felt that familiar sense of calm that only his grandfather’s presence could create. Sometimes, Manjiro wasn’t sure if his grandfather truly noticed all these small moments of tension that passed through their home. But that didn’t matter. His presence alone was like the warmth of the midday sun—quiet but comforting, and always in the right place.

These moments... Yes, they meant so much to Manjiro. And though he couldn’t express it or feel confident enough to admit it aloud, they were the light in his days. Especially when sleepless nights kept him awake, his thoughts tormenting him. Or when he stood under the hot shower, consumed by reflection—a strange balance between solitude and the need for connection. But these moments—when the whole family gathered around the table—he cherished them deeply in his heart as something truly priceless.

Seated in their places and having said the customary prayer before eating, the moment was filled with warmth and their characteristic casual chatter. While their grandfather ate quietly and read his newspaper, Izana and Shinichiro began their usual discussions.

Izana, with his seriousness and sharp mind, often seemed like the older brother in spirit. Yet, when it came to witty remarks or playful challenges, he couldn’t resist teasing Shinichiro.

Shinichiro, on the other hand, though not the strongest physically, had a charisma that earned everyone’s respect. His natural leadership and calm confidence made him loved not just by his family but by those outside it as well.

The mealtime was filled with lively conversations and banter that brightened the moment. Shinichiro and Manjiro always found ways to bring humor and freshness to the atmosphere, dispelling any tension.

Emma and Mansaku listened with smiles, occasionally joining in with brief comments. Their grandfather, who seemed engrossed in his meal and newspaper, would sneak glances at them, his eyes subtly radiating affection and pride.

When the meal was over and everyone began clearing the table, Emma's behavior was noticeably different. She moved quickly, with a hurriedness she rarely displayed. Slightly tense, she urged her brothers to hurry so they could finish as soon as possible. Izana raised an eyebrow, observing her actions with barely concealed surprise, while Mikey continued at his usual pace, seemingly unbothered. — Emma, why are you rushing so much? - Shinichiro finally asked, clearly intrigued by her change in behavior.

Mikey turned to his sister with mild curiosity, while Izana, who had been holding back, answered instead: — Emma's in a hurry for us to go out together so I can help her pick a birthday gift for Draken.- His tone carried a hint of irritation, and Emma visibly blushed, lowering her head.

Shinichiro studied her expression before commenting with a half-smile: — A birthday gift? Isn't it a bit early for that?

Emma frowned slightly, patting Izana on the shoulder in annoyance at his tone. Her cheeks flushed as she tried to stay composed. — You don't understand! - she exclaimed, her face reddening further. Her gaze dropped to the table, as if seeking solace in the woodgrain patterns. After a brief pause, she added softly, — I know it's the end of January. I know there's still time until his birthday, but... - Her words hung in the air. She bit her lip, seemingly struggling to continue. - But I want to give him something truly beautiful. Something that will remind him of me. After all, when he turns 17...

Silence. The atmosphere in the kitchen shifted. What had started as a casual conversation now carried an unspoken weight. Shinichiro looked slightly embarrassed, realizing his question had been sharper than intended. He diverted his gaze to the sink, as if seeking an excuse to avoid breaking the silence — You don’t have to worry so much. - Izana’s voice was softer this time, almost warm. He stepped closer to his sister, placing a hand on her shoulder. - Whatever you give him, I’m sure he’ll like it. Besides, I’m here to help you. - He shrugged, casting a casual glance toward Mikey. - Otherwise, you’d have to rely on these two—Shinichiro and Mikey. And they’re... useless.

His sarcasm was understated, but his words seemed to calm Emma. She took a step forward and unexpectedly hugged him, burying her face in his chest. Izana looked visibly flustered, his lips twitching as if to say something, but he remained silent. Instead, he placed a hand on her head, awkwardly patting it. — Alright, enough. You don’t always have to hug me, - he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, but she could sense his slight discomfort. — Thank you, Izana. - Her quiet voice came from where her face was nestled.

Shinichiro, who was washing dishes, allowed himself a faint smile. He left them in peace, clearing the table in their stead.

Mikey, tense as a bowstring, watched the scene from the sidelines without saying a word. The warmth of the kitchen and the gentle atmosphere surrounding his siblings seemed to envelop him, but he couldn’t relax. Every word related to Draken’s birthday was like a punch to his gut.

"May 10."

The date echoed in his mind like a relentless refrain, something he couldn’t escape. He felt his heart tighten, the air in the room growing heavy, as though invisible walls were closing in on him.

He pressed his lips together to keep his unease from showing, but his chest constricted, and his palms began to sweat. Izana’s words seemed to fade into the distance, drowned out by his own pulse pounding in his ears.

"I need to get out. Now." While Izana and Emma continued their conversation, he stood up almost mechanically, moving like a shadow. He carefully avoided others’ gazes—his steps were light, almost soundless, as if he feared someone might stop him. His heart pounded so hard that his chest seemed to resonate with tension. The only echo in his mind was: "Draken... his birthday... I can't..."

When he finally stepped out of the kitchen and into the hallway, Mikey leaned against the wall, as though every step he had taken had drained all his strength. His breath was ragged, and his hands trembled as he pressed them against his face. It felt as if panic was enveloping him like a dark wave, rising higher and higher, threatening to swallow him whole.

"I can't think about it..." he whispered to himself, his words barely audible. He wanted to escape these thoughts, to hide in some quiet corner where no one could find him. The pain was raw, like an old wound reopening. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm the storm in his mind. "I just need to breathe... go outside..."

Before he realized it, his hands were already on the door, and the cool air outside washed over him like a gentle touch. Yet instead of calming him, it only emphasized the emptiness in his chest. Mikey leaned against the railing in front of the house, looking down at the street, trying to steady his breathing.

Draken had been his best friend. Truly, his best friend. He always found a way to pull Mikey out of the darkness whenever he was sinking into it. Draken had been like a steady pillar in his life—a moral compass that helped him not to lose himself. Without him, Mikey wouldn't be the person he was today.

But the mention of Draken’s birthday was like a knife slicing deeply through his thoughts. It was a trigger that made his entire being tense up, as though preparing for a battle—one that, however, was raging within him.

That’s why Mikey had ended up outside. He didn’t have the strength to stay indoors. He needed air, movement, anything to stop the whirlwind of thoughts consuming him.

His breathing slowly began to normalize, and the heat coursing through him gradually gave way to a sense of coolness. His heart, which had been pounding like a drum moments ago, started to calm down. Mikey relaxed, allowing himself to sit on the ground, placing a hand on his chest as if to feel that his pulse was no longer so insistent.

He leaned back against the railing, closing his eyes for a moment, hoping that even a single minute of peace would be enough. "Just one minute," he thought, trying to ignore the thoughts still entangling his mind. But even in the silence of this moment, the weight of memories continued to press on him.

When the minute of silence was over, feeling his breath fully returned to normal, Mikey slowly got up, brushing off invisible specks of dust from his clothes. He looked at the small yard in front of his home. Everything was as quiet as always, but instead of offering comfort, the silence weighed on him. He needed something, anything—even just a walk to distract him.

"Maybe the pharmacy," he thought, though it was a strange choice. He didn’t need any pills, but ever since Izana had been with them, those small errands had turned into a routine task. A habit he hadn’t given up, even though there was no longer any need for it.

For a few seconds, Mikey took a deep breath, trying to bring his body back to "normal." Slowly, he moved away from the house, and when he crossed the threshold, he paused for a moment. He stood with his back to the house, head bowed, as if the weight of his thoughts was pressing down on him. He shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets and took the first steps that distanced him from the only place where he had ever felt peace.

Even though he claimed he wanted to go for a walk to the pharmacy, his movements were mechanical. The streets, the buildings, the path—everything was so familiar that this couldn’t be called a walk. But it was still better than shutting himself away somewhere and trying to tame his thoughts.

Soon, he would have a meeting with the boys from “Toman”, which meant he had to maintain control. He was their leader—and as a dominant omega, he had no right to show weakness. The expectations placed on him were immense. It would’ve been different if Mikey had been an alpha—but he wasn’t. And that only made everything more complicated.

Absorbed in these thoughts, Mikey didn’t notice how quickly he’d reached the pharmacy. A quiet chime accompanied the door opening, announcing his entrance. Inside, it was calm—a woman was browsing medications while an employee at the corner was organizing products near the section for alphas and omegas. Without wasting time, Mikey headed toward the shelf where the pills he needed were stored.

Izana was a special case when it came to suppressants. His body reacted differently to standard medications designed for omegas, creating a number of problems. Instead of stabilizing his pheromones and alleviating the symptoms of his heat, regular pills caused unwanted side effects like headaches, dizziness, or even extreme fatigue. This forced Shinichiro to search for specialized medication, which was rarely stocked in pharmacies.

These suppressants were designed for omegas with sensitive or unique biological traits, making their production limited. That’s why Mikey had grown used to checking pharmacies, hoping to find the right pills for Izana. Even though these medications were expensive, it was crucial for them to keep a supply—not only to avoid crises but also to ensure Izana’s comfort throughout his heat.

As for Shinichiro, he always preferred to buy Mikey’s suppressants from a specific place where they were familiar with his case and could offer the most effective medication. Mikey didn’t mind picking up pills for himself, but he was used to his brother taking care of it. This was yet another sign of Shinichiro’s attentiveness and care, always prioritizing his family’s needs.

While carefully inspecting the pills, faint voices from the other side of the shelf caught his attention. The conversation wasn’t meant for others to hear, but in the quiet pharmacy, the sound seemed to carry everywhere.

The voices belonged to two boys whom Mikey easily identified as betas by their weak pheromones. — Did you hear what happened recently? - one of the boys started quietly, though irritation laced his tone. - Another alpha was accused of attacking a regular person! And they’re excusing it because he was in ‘rut’ and couldn’t control himself. Why should we, normal people, have to suffer because of their problems?

The other boy immediately chimed in, his words dripping with bitterness: — Exactly! What if that happens to one of us? No one’s going to protect us, right? It’s like our lives don’t matter… With every passing comment that reached his ears, Mikey felt his anger steadily rising. His brows furrowed, his jaw clenched, and he bit his lip in an effort to suppress the storm brewing inside him. "You have no idea," he thought bitterly, his fingers tightening around the box of pills in his hand.

He could easily show them what it meant to be a dominant omega—just with his pheromones, he could force them into silence, maybe even onto their knees, stammering apologies. But right now, that wasn’t an option.

Or maybe he should just turn around and hit them. One solid punch would be enough to put an end to their stupid chatter. But... no. Not today.

Today wasn’t a “safe” day to hurt someone. If he happened to run into Draken later, the last thing he needed was another long lecture about self-control. Mikey wasn’t sure he could handle his friend’s calm yet cutting tone this time.

Instead, he exhaled deeply and refocused on the task at hand, ignoring the conversation and concentrating on the rows of boxes in front of him. "Better to focus on what actually matters," he muttered internally.

Comments like these from betas—so-called "normal people"—were all too common. To some of them, the behavior of alphas and omegas seemed unnatural, even threatening. Others felt justified in spouting opinions without considering the consequences.

“We have problems too, but they never think about that, do they?” Mikey murmured under his breath, glancing at the shelves filled with pills, vitamins, and medications tailored specifically for their kind. He tried to ignore the presence of the betas, but his irritation grew as he noticed that the medication he was searching for was out of stock again.

“Damn it. If this keeps up, I’ll have to take Izana back to the doctors for a new prescription... or start looking for imports again. And those are ridiculously expensive. This isn’t fair...”

Shaking his head slightly, trying to keep his frustration in check, he suddenly caught a faint, sweet scent—peach. Peach? He couldn’t help but smile a little, curiosity stirring as he rose onto his toes to confirm whether he’d smelled it correctly. Could it be...?

Before he could finish the thought, an angry voice from the other side of the shelf interrupted him. — Stop acting like you're so important! Do you even understand the situation?

The voice was both displeased and challenging, and Mikey immediately recognized that tone. Without a second thought, he decided to circle around the shelf to see what was happening. However, what he saw made him chuckle lightly — though he knew he should hold back from intervening. — What the hell do you think you’re doing? — hissed one of the betas, glaring as the short blond boy grabbed his friend by the collar. — Shut it. If you can’t grasp the dynamics between alphas and omegas, then just keep your mouths shut and leave. Go to Kyoto or some other region where there aren’t as many of us. Few in number, sure, but at least understand what that means… — the omega replied, frowning at the situation.

Manjiro stood off to the side, quietly observing. This was unusual for him. Normally, he wouldn’t miss a chance to get involved, but now he seemed to lack the energy for a conflict. His eyes were slightly dim, and his tone — or rather, his silence — was far from his usual confidence. He noticed Chifuyu beginning to tense up, but didn’t step in. The moment felt strange. Mikey could sense the tension thickening in the room, yet had no idea how to diffuse it without making things worse.

— By the way, you’re doing me a huge favor. If I stepped in, I’d just have to listen to Draken or Shinichiro nagging at me later, — Mikey added with a playful tone, though his smile was far from carefree. It was frozen on his face, like a mask. The sight might have been amusing, but it only added to the tension in the room.

— Mikey-kun — Chifuyu blurted out, surprised to see him here in the pharmacy. His face immediately twisted with shock, but quickly shifted to an expression of irritation. He turned his head toward Mikey, shooting him a glance full of tension and faint contempt.

He was still gripping the boy’s collar, and for a moment, it felt like everything around them had frozen. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead, he slowly spoke in a sharp tone: — Then why didn’t you stop them when they spouted such nonsense? Normally, you don’t care what Draken or Shinichiro say because you just ignore them all the time! — Chifuyu practically barked, not realizing he’d gone too far. The anger he’d been holding back for so long spilled out without warning.

Mikey, still standing there with his frozen smile, felt something within him start to crack. Chifuyu’s words were like a sharp blow to his gut. The feeling was painful, leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth. His expression shifted as his smile disappeared, replaced by complete indifference. His gaze grew colder, and his posture straightened with unexpected firmness. Slowly, he stepped closer to Chifuyu without saying a word, lifting his chin slightly as though there was nothing more to add. But deep down, something was boiling inside him. What he had just heard felt like a personal attack. - You’re not the one who gets to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.

Unexpectedly, Mikey’s quiet and seemingly ordinary gesture turned into something much more. The air in the room thickened — not just from the silence, but from something else that Chifuyu noticed all too late. Mikey’s slow, deliberate steps seemed to pierce through the space around them. The atmosphere began to change, becoming denser and heavier.

Chifuyu could almost physically feel something enveloping him, something he had never been able to escape before. Mikey’s pheromones spread slowly but surely, wrapping around everything in their path. The air began to carry a bitter, stale scent — something sharp that was almost painful to breathe in. And the feeling that this wasn’t just a scent but something almost tangible clung to Chifuyu’s skin. Every breath made him feel as though he was trapped.

Chifuyu tried not to show fear, but his heartbeat slowed, and his lips trembled slightly. He realized too late that he had crossed a line. It felt as though every word he had said was loaded with too much meaning, too much emotion that couldn’t be contained. The weight of responsibility for the situation made him want to disappear. — I… I didn’t expect to see you here, Mikey — he whispered, his voice barely audible. His gaze dropped, and his hands instinctively shoved themselves into his pockets, as if trying to shield himself from the storm he felt was about to erupt.

Mikey didn’t say anything, but the way his gaze lingered on him was enough to make it clear that the situation had spiraled out of control. His dominant energy seemed to engulf the room, like a tiger poised to attack but not yet striking.

At that moment, Chifuyu realized he had overstepped with his words. Yet, the pheromones… they not only clouded his thoughts but also left him feeling strangely powerless. These pheromones didn’t just saturate the air—they made his body feel drained, pressing down on his very consciousness. He glanced at his friend, but instead of apologizing or justifying his words, all he could do was step back. The air was so thick he couldn’t take it anymore.

When Mikey’s footsteps came to a halt, Chifuyu felt the air thin for a fleeting moment, only to be replaced by an even heavier pressure. He knew there was no escaping the consequences of what he’d provoked. The betas nearby were already at their limit, their confusion and physical reaction to the pheromones making the situation even worse.

The two betas standing close trembled, covering their noses with their hands, unable to endure it any longer. The beta Chifuyu had been gripping by the collar immediately shoved him away and stormed out of the pharmacy without a backward glance, fleeing the unbearable atmosphere.

Chifuyu remained rooted in place, his head still bowed. His breathing slowly steadied, but his body continued to radiate submission. He expected a command or at least a word from Mikey, but at that moment, the tension was suffocating and unpredictable. — So, they really were uninteresting. Not worth my time, - Manjiro’s voice sounded low and monotone, tinged with slight irritation. His gaze followed the retreating betas before turning to Chifuyu. Noticing the trembling omega and his bowed head, Mikey clicked his tongue in displeasure, tilted his head slightly, and added, - You can raise your head now… Stop reacting like that.

The words sounded almost like a command but carried a shadow of guilt. Mikey was aware that he had lost control again. The sweet peach scent that Chifuyu usually emanated was almost gone, replaced entirely by Mikey’s dominant pheromones. This situation kept repeating itself, and Mikey couldn’t find a way out of his own emotional chaos.

Chifuyu’s words still echoed in his mind, a quiet reverberation he couldn’t silence. They hurt—not just what the omega had said, but the fact that his friends, like Draken or Shinichiro, often failed to understand why he sometimes behaved so coldly and distantly. They couldn’t feel the weight he carried on his shoulders, nor the endless spiral of thoughts that dragged him down.

How could they understand? He barely understood himself. Unable to handle the chaos inside him, Mikey chose silence. It was easier—safer. But now, standing in front of Chifuyu, Mikey could feel that silence weighing on both of them.

Chifuyu kept his head bowed, his body trembling as he felt his chest tighten. Lightly biting his lip, he was acutely aware that Mikey’s pheromones still dominated the air—heavy, suffocating, nearly unbearable. The omega couldn’t breathe properly, and the other people in the pharmacy were likely struggling with dizziness as well. The pheromones were so thick in the air that even Mikey’s breathing seemed strained. But what scared Chifuyu the most wasn’t the pheromones. It was Mikey himself—that cold, distant expression that seemed to reject everything and everyone.

Chifuyu wanted to reach out, but the fear of being pushed away paralyzed him. Mikey knew this… but he didn’t care about anyone else. Only Chifuyu mattered. — What have I done? - Mikey thought, trying to dispel his pheromones. He was attempting to ease the tension, to lift the weight the omega felt. But at the same time, a storm of anger churned in his chest—not toward Chifuyu, but toward himself. — Chifuyu, - he said softly, his voice heavy with tension and regret. The silence that followed was almost deafening. The omega didn’t lift his head, and that only deepened Mikey’s sense of guilt. Why couldn’t they talk like they used to?

His frustration simmered, but it wasn’t directed at Chifuyu. It was at this moment, at what he had become. Swallowing heavily, he said nothing more. Instead, he lowered his gaze and started walking toward the exit. — I’m going home, - he said, his voice cold, almost indifferent. But inside, everything was screaming. The pain and emptiness in his chest expanded with every step. He knew that if he ran into Draken later, he wouldn’t be able to hide the chaos within. He’d end up saying something foolish, something he’d regret.

As he reached the door, Mikey stopped. He felt a light, uncertain touch on his arm. Chifuyu's touch was so gentle that he barely noticed it—but it was exactly this that made him stop. He felt the warmth of his fingers, trembling with uncertainty, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze. But he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t bear to see his expression—that mixture of fear, pain, and desperate hope. But he felt it. He felt everything. It was so gentle that he almost could have ignored it—if he didn’t know exactly who was touching him. — Tonight... the guys want us all to meet at the café near Mitsuya’s house. There won’t be any other gangs, just us. You... you’ll come... right? - Chifuyu spoke, his voice quiet, trembling, but persistent.

Mikey didn’t turn around right away. He could feel the tension of the omega behind him, the fear and the effort that had gone into those words.

He wanted to turn around, to look at him, to say something—something real, something that could fill the emptiness between them. But he couldn’t. Something stopped him—the fear that his words would destroy the last thread connecting them. Instead, he remained still, staring into the emptiness before him, torn between the desire to stay and the need to escape.

Mikey stood before two choices, each laden with potential consequences. He could accept Chifuyu’s request and go meet the guys, risking breaking down at the wrong moment, saying or doing something foolish. Or he could refuse, go home, and try to calm the storm within himself. But both options filled him with disgust.

Today was one of those days—heavy and unpleasant, as if the world had decided that today, everything should annoy him. The kind of days where even the simplest movement required an inhuman effort. In these moments, all Mikey wanted was to isolate the feelings that were eating him from the inside, to not bother those around him. Because, as always, he had to appear natural. To look the way everyone saw him—strong, unbreakable, a leader. To smile, even though every smile felt like a painful stretch of a wound that wouldn’t heal.

And yet, today, even the smallest things irritated him. The sound of the wind, the way people looked at him, even Chifuyu’s hand on his. These little things sparked a sense of dissatisfaction in him that pushed him toward foolishness—toward decisions he knew he would regret.

That’s why he stood still, like trapped in a cage. “Just say yes or no,” he thought, but the choice didn’t seem so simple. Refusing was easy. The guys were already used to his rejections, and Chifuyu probably wouldn’t insist. But if he went home... If he ran into Izana... If his brother sensed something...

Mikey shuddered. He couldn’t bear the thought of Izana finding out. He would insist, ask questions, not stop until he dragged the truth out of him. And right now, the dominant omega didn’t have the strength for such a conversation. Why did it always have to be so hard? How could Shinichiro be a dominant alpha, yet conversations with him were quicker, without complications, while with Izana everything was so difficult, even though he was just an omega with a few problems?

The whirlwind of thoughts hit him in waves, each heavier than the last. How could such a simple question—yes or no—throw him into such an abyss?

Chifuyu still held his hand, his eyes—expectant and patient. Mikey closed his eyes for a moment, pressing them tightly, as if this could chase away the storm in his head. The dissatisfaction still raged inside him, but he had to suppress it with a deep sigh. Finally, he relaxed his hand and lightly pulled it forward. Chifuyu released it without resistance but continued waiting for an answer. — Okay... - Mikey whispered with a dull voice. - I’ll come to you all tonight then.

He didn’t wait for the omega’s reaction. His words sounded like a promise, but his legs were already moving in the opposite direction, heading home. It would be better to stay there until the evening. A small hope settled inside him—that Shinichiro would be at Wakasa’s, that Izana would stay with Kakucho and wouldn’t come back. A small hope, enough to keep him afloat... at least for now.

As much as he hated the idea of leaving Chifuyu all alone, Manjiro simply couldn’t hold back. His pheromones, which had long lost their pure, sweet scent, surfaced, almost traitorously revealing what was going on inside him. Not only that, but he had also managed to scare his friend—a fact that made him feel an uncomfortable weight in his stomach.

Yes, out of all the alphas, omegas, and betas in Toman, Manjiro mainly interacted with Chifuyu and Mitsuya. He should even thank Baji, because it was thanks to him that the young omega joined their ranks, quickly winning his favor. Mitsuya was easy—he had been friends with him since childhood, thanks to Draken, but the only difference was that he was a gamma, not an omega. But that didn’t matter— even later, if Mitsuya decided he was an alpha because of his secondary gender, his aggression and sexual drive would remain subdued. Still, in Toman, any aggression toward omegas was strictly forbidden, and breaking the rules led to severe punishment.

Anyway. These were Toman’s problems, and Mikey didn’t want to think about them right now. So, he started walking quickly, sometimes shaking his head. Clenching his teeth, he could feel his heart beginning to tremble. Everything irritated him at that moment—the cars humming outside, the wind hitting his tense body... Not to mention, there wasn’t a day that went by without him sensing other people’s pheromones. Yes, the problem with dominants was that the pheromones of others were felt so clearly, even disgustingly.

Clenching his fists while his hands were in his pockets, Manjiro finally reached his house. He was ready to rush to his room without saying a word. He passed through the entrance, took off his boots as quickly as possible, and without caring if anyone was home, immediately ran up the stairs. The door slammed lightly behind him, but he wasn’t listening anymore.

The curtains were drawn, the world locked outside. Only the soft pillow and the silence remained. Manjiro fell onto the blanket, feeling the coolness of the pillow slightly calming him. His hand rested on his chest, where he could feel his heart continuing to beat uneasily, but slowly, as though surrendering to exhaustion.

“I’ll sit here. Just a little time alone. I’ll get over it. Just... a few minutes of silence.”

He slowly took a deep breath. The air inside the house was the same—his pheromones, though weakened, carried the familiar comfort. Apparently, everyone had already left, which meant he could be alone for a while. He could breathe, let his body rest, relax. His eyes closed, and the scent of the pillow reminded him that, at least here—in his own world—he could find peace.

In that moment, the silence felt almost therapeutic. And in the evening, when he woke up, he would go to that café. He would. But for now, he could afford a few moments of calm, to simply be Manjiro.

The hours slowly began to pass. The sun gradually hid behind the clouds until it eventually disappeared beyond the horizon, leaving the room immersed in darkness. This was the perfect setting for the exhausted omega, who this time managed to relax and even fall asleep a little more peacefully. Although sleep was often short or interrupted by various circumstances, this time Mikey felt his breathing become lighter, his body more relaxed, and his consciousness drifting into the warmth and comfort of the bed. A light, sweet scent lingered in the air – Izana's pheromones, which had evidently stayed in the room. This made him think his brother had returned and checked on him, but fortunately, he hadn’t woken him up.

However, the warmth and comfort were suddenly interrupted by the familiar ringtone of the phone, which began to sound from the nearby nightstand. Mikey squinted in displeasure, trying to ignore the noise. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave the warm embrace of the bed. But the ringtone didn’t stop. Squinting his eyes, he stretched out his hand, trying to find the phone while lazily yawning with the other. He felt everything else – the edges of the nightstand, a book, but not the device.

And then he felt it. Something warm was pressed against his back.

Mikey slowly woke up, still groggy from the comfort of sleep, but the sensation behind him started to pull him out of it. His heart stopped for a moment. His breathing became more shallow as his brain struggled to understand exactly what was happening. - What is this? – the thought sneaked into his mind, but the answer didn’t come immediately.

The warmth was too real. The body behind him was still, but too tangible – he could feel its weight, the slight movement of breathing. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, but the cold rush of tension in his chest assured him that this was real.

And then, as if something deeply buried inside him awoke, an unclear but unpleasant memory flashed like a shadow in his mind – fear, tightness, a feeling of lack of control. There were no images, just raw emotions that made him freeze in place. His chest tightened painfully, and his hand instinctively rose, gripping where his heart beat, as if trying to calm the weight. Mikey swallowed hard. He knew he had to turn around, that he had to figure out who or what was behind him, but his body refused to obey. His breathing quickened. The sound of blood in his ears almost drowned out everything else. Why couldn’t he move? Why were the memories he had so carefully avoided coming back now?

However, the shock’s force stirred him. He suddenly jumped out of bed so quickly that for a moment his head spun. His eyes darted to the figure behind him. The body began to move slowly, and then he felt it – the sweet pheromones, familiar and soothing, but in that moment, it only added to his confusion.

Izana.

The word spun in his mind, but it didn’t immediately bring him relief. Even though his mind was starting to piece things together, his body still trembled from the tension.

The figure slowly sat up. Izana’s eyes opened sleepily, confused. — Manjiro... – his voice was low and quiet, full of surprise. But before he could say anything else, Mikey almost shouted — IZANA!!! – his voice cut through the silence, sharp and loud, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

His brother froze. His eyes widened for a moment in surprise. Izana sat up slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but felt the tension in the air. His dark eyes focused on Manjiro, noticing the slight shortness of breath and the way his fingers clutched at his chest. Mikey’s pheromones, barely detectable but filled with unease, spread around them. Izana immediately noticed the tense scent. A slight displeasure appeared on his face – this time, directed at himself. What did I do? he thought, trying to understand why his brother’s reaction was so strong.

Several long, heavy seconds passed. The room was filled with a strange silence, broken only by Manjiro’s hurried breathing. Izana broke the silence first. A slight, apologetic smile appeared on his lips as he began speaking in a soft, calm tone: — I didn’t mean to scare you. – His voice was almost a whisper. Hesitantly approaching, he placed one hand on the bed, leaning on it, but still not stopping his gaze on his younger brother. - I’m sorry, Manjiro. I just wanted to check if you got home.

But Mikey continued to stare at him, as if still unsure of what to think. Izana leaned slightly toward him, extending his hand carefully, as if afraid to break something fragile.

— When I got closer to you, your body was tense – he continued quietly. – I lay next to you because I know it's easier for you to fall asleep when someone is beside you.

Manjiro didn't respond immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly as he kept watching his brother. But his breathing gradually calmed, and with every word from Izana, the tension in him slowly faded. The warm scent of his pheromones surrounded him, making him feel calmer, more protected. The soft aroma of lavender, mixed with the sweetness of plums, made the body of the frightened omega slowly relax. So, slowly, almost unconsciously, Mikey leaned forward. A minute later, he was in his brother's arms, resting his head on his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of them moved. A brief moment that felt like eternity. Izana placed his hand on his shoulder, as if to affirm the closeness between them.

— It's okay – he whispered again, letting the warmth and calmness wrap around them.

Silence. It was a short moment of peace and care. The light pheromones of the dominant omega quickly blended with the pleasant, gentle pheromones of his brother, bringing additional coziness to the room. There was nothing heavy or unpleasant, only a soft and sweet scent that seemed to envelop the day's tension and leave it behind.

Mikey silently thanked that Izana had stayed with him. After so many stressful moments during the day, all he needed was that familiar scent – lavender mixed with a feeling of safety. This was Izana – still and calm, like a wall that would always support him, no matter the storms that raged within him.

Because of their closeness, when Izana allowed his hands to rest on his brother’s body to embrace him, he felt how Manjiro’s pulse quickened. A shadow of tension appeared in Izana’s gaze – he felt guilty for startling him, instead of giving him time to wake up peacefully. He realized that it might have been a mistake to lie down behind him so suddenly. Now, as his brother’s body began to relax in his arms, Izana felt it was his responsibility to maintain the silence and comfort between them.

His gaze lowered slightly. His body didn’t move when he felt Mikey begin to settle, as if searching for the safest spot. His head remained resting on his shoulder, and his arms gently enveloped him. Allowing him to settle, Izana gently leaned back against the wall, remaining silent to preserve the tranquility. Despite the guilt he felt, the warmth of Mikey’s body made him feel needed – as if, in this moment, he was the only support his brother could ask for.

If a stranger had entered the room, they would never have believed that Izana was capable of such closeness and tenderness. They wouldn't have believed that Mikey would so quickly and calmly decide to lean on someone. And they probably would never understand why this happened. But... this was their secret. Quiet and intimate relations, built from their past, from the weight of childhood events. That’s why Izana could be softer with Manjiro, depending on the situation. Like now. Realizing that he had startled him, instead of providing comfort, he wanted to reprimand himself. But this moment was not for reproach. It was a moment for silence.

The body of the dominant omega slowly began to relax, completely giving in to the warmth and comfort of the closeness. The scent of lavender was like a lifeline. His hand unconsciously moved to his brother’s chest, and his forehead rested against his neck. Izana continued to remain silent. One of his hands gently stroked his brother's back – something that might seem unusual for him. But in this room, far from the world, he allowed himself to show this side. A side that only Manjiro could see. Whatever plans Manjiro had at this moment, he would be able to carry them out only when he felt ready to get up from the bed. If he wished to fall asleep again, Izana would simply stay with him. This time ensuring that he got the sleep and peace he needed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ミ=͟͟͞͞(✿ʘ ᴗʘ)っ My First Fanfic. I warn you, English is not my native language, so there might be mistakes. I wanted to write something different, something special for my favorite couple. I’d love to hear your opinion, whether it's interesting to you. I focus more on the symbolism and the emotions of the characters. I’ll try to post at least 1-2 chapters a month.

Here’s the 'cover,' but without the text.

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nyrandrea · 2 years ago

Note

Yo! Not sure if you are accepting requests for Astarion x Reader and what not but if you are, here me out; it's known that it is possible for Astarion to be kidnapped by Cazador when you are fighting at the Inn. So what about if this happened and, to try and further break him and just be a total twat, Cazador sets it up that it seems the reader/Tav has come to save Astarion only to reveal that it was all a charade to break him and drag him to the ritual (could be a shape changer of succubus, whatever you like). Astarion is utter broken, THEN the real Tav comes charging in, tearing apart everything in their way to save Astarion. We have utter angst followed by utter fluff!

Ooh I very much liked this prompt as I've never written from Astarion's POV before so I hope it comes across alright!

TW for kidnapping and slight emotional manipulation

Word Count - 2.5k

Enjoy!

xxx

Astarion shifted his shoulders side-to-side while splaying his fingers, both done in attempt to free himself of the rope binding his wrists.

As he was ushered, his heavy breaths were muffled against the cloth that had been tied around his neck. As it obscured most of his vision, he couldn’t see a damn thing, but he knew exactly where his kidnappers—his so-called ‘brother’ and ‘sister’—were taking him.

Back to his old master.

Astarion had tried to fight the spawn – Gods know he did – despite knowing it was futile. His friends had tried to save him, you had tried so, so hard – he remembers the way you desperately crawled to him, weakly calling out his name before he was dragged away.

When fighting was clearly no use, he tried to convince them just to discuss their options, that surely they could figure out a way to work together to defeat Cazador, but it was all for naught. They thought he deserved this, and, in a way, so did he.

The longer they travelled, the more his struggles eased.

Even with the bag over his head, Astarion could tell when they reached the Szarr palace. The air within was thick with the musty scent of centuries past, a haunting aroma that seemed to seep from the very walls themselves.

Dimly flickering torches lined the uneven, moss-covered bricks, casting feeble, wavering shadows that danced with eerie grace. The stones, slick with moisture, whispered secrets to those who dared listen, their ancient whispers a chilling backdrop to the silence. The floor, uneven and cold, was a mosaic of cracked tiles, their patterns lost to centuries of neglect. Puddles of stagnant water collected in the lowest recesses, reflecting the dim torchlight like dark, unblinking eyes.

“I’m... sorry that it had to come to this,” Leon said. His voice was monotone, making his words sound like a cheap, hollow excuse.

“No, you’re not,” Astarion bluntly replied. “Whatever master wants, master gets. Just a shame we all must get slaughtered in the process, hm?”

Silence was his answer.

Astarion flinched as a door creaked open and a familiar stink filled his nostrils – Leon had brought him to the ‘Kennel’, where he had spent tendays being tortured by Cazador’s cruel and sadistic servant Godey – a vile creature that often haunted his nightmares.

The cloth covering Astarion’s head was ripped off and he was forced to gaze at that familiar, hideous skull.

“If it isn’t the nasty little runaway!” Godey all-too-cheerily announced. “Ah, but you always find your way back to Godey, hmm?”

Astarion grimaced.

“If I had my way, I’d saw off your legs - that’d put a stop to your wandering.”

“As pleasant as that sounds, I’m guessing the master said no?” Astarion said with a little smirk; a mask to hide his fear. “After all, I’m sure he needs all of my blood on the inside for the Mass.”

“But he needs you obedient too,” Godey growled. “And I should cut out that tongue of yours for a start.”

The skeleton brushed his fingertips on the hilt of his dagger, as if he was considering it for a moment.

“That means no barking, no biting, no struggling – a well-behaved little doggie.”

“I’ll never do what he tells me again,” Astarion sneered. “I’d rather die.”

“Oh, you’ll do both! You will do whatever he requires, and if you’re delusional enough to think any of your little friends will come and save you, well...”

As if on cue, the doors swung open behind Godey to reveal... you.

Astarion's eyes met yours, and a torrent of emotions surged through him. His lifeless heart almost fluttered as you bypassed Godey and approached him, a mix of apprehension and joy welling up inside.

Your eyes brimmed with tears as you rushed towards him.

“Astarion, my love...!” you whispered. “I’ve come to save you; I couldn’t bear to be apart from you any longer.”

Astarion extended his arms to embrace you. Your touch felt warm and comforting, and it held him in an embrace that seemed so familiar.

For a moment, he was overcome with joy, believing he had another chance at freedom, that both of you could take down Godey and escape from this wretched place. But as seconds passed, something felt amiss. Your eyes were colder, your words more hollow, and a chilling unease settled in his bones.

“I missed you so much,” you continued, your voice wavering with a hint of deception.

But Astarion noticed the subtle differences in your gestures and expressions, even the way you spoke was... off. He pushed you away and stared into your eyes, searching for the truth.

“Who are you?” He demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and heartbreak.

‘Your’ facade began to crumble. In a flash of darkness, there was a revelation of a true, grotesque form. Its face twisted and contorted into a nightmarish amalgamation of shapes and shadows.

It was a shapeshifter, a creature of dark magic, cunningly disguised as you.

Astarion recoiled, his heart shattering into a million pieces. He realised the cruel trick that had been played on him, his eyes glistening with tears.

“A gift from the master,” Godey said all too smugly. “To remind you that you are not worth saving.”

The shapeshifter, grinning wickedly, vanished into the night, leaving Astarion alone in the darkness, his heart aching with betrayal and sorrow.

“Now,” Godey said, approaching him with a chain. “Be a good little mutt and tie this around your neck, it is time to accept the fate that has been chosen for you.”

The chains felt so heavy in Astarion’s hands that he merely let them slip and pile onto the floor with a heavy clang. He just felt so tired. Of running away, of daring to have hope, of falling in love, only to have it ripped away. Existence was... nothing but a cruel joke.

And Cazador was the one laughing at him.

Godey snarled as he bent to pick the chains up and thrust them back into Astarion’s arms. “Do not disobey! Or do I have to get the knee-splitter out for old time’s sake?”

The vampire wordlessly submitted and allowed himself to be led out of the Kennel and into the corridors of the dungeon.

A heavy, suffocating atmosphere hung in the air, as if the crypt itself held its breath, waiting for something unseen to stir in the shadows. It was a place where the echoes of the past whispered of forgotten sorrows and ancient curses, a realm where the line between the living and the dead blurred into obscurity.

"Astarion...!" a distant voice cried, slicing through the dungeon's oppressive silence. Determined footsteps reverberated against the cold, stone floor, the sound of clanking armour ringing in the eerie stillness.

Godey paused, appearing confused. “What...? Can’t be the shapeshifter again...”

The footsteps edged ever closer, and Godey turned to face these unexpected intruders, forcing Astarion to turn with him.

Gale, Karlach, Shadowheart and... you were rushing down the hallway. As you approached them, the ancient stone walls seemed to tremble in anticipation.

The groups’ menacing sneers faded into incredulous expressions at the scene before them, and an overwhelming shame punched Astarion in the gut at having them see him so... vulnerable. Humiliated.

They reached for their weapons, but your eyes met Astarion’s with a fiery, unyielding gaze. Your face was bloodied, and lips curled as you snarled like a feral animal – a far cry from the innocent but fake show that the shapeshifter had put on only moments before.

“Let him go!” you demand, your grip tightening on your sword, its blade gleaming with an ethereal light.

Godey flinched back, obviously surprised.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, the master needs him,” the skeleton said. “Leave this place and he may grant you enough mercy to let you live.”

“Afraid we can’t do that, bones,” Karlach snarled before turning to you. “Can we please just kill this thing and get our friend out of here?”

“Friend?” Godey scoffed. “This dog doesn’t have friends. Now leave!”

You meet Karlach’s furious gaze, and nod.

"Get back, Astarion!" she hissed, and in a dazzling display of athletics and brute strength, brought down her mace upon Godey, his skull splitting with a sickening crack.

Gale summoned bolts of lightning to dance around him. The damp air crackled with electricity, illuminating the dungeon in an otherworldly glow. All it took was one bolt to strike Godey down until he was nothing more than a pile of dust.

Your eyes remained locked on Astarion as Shadowheart raised her hand, and the shackles that bound him burst apart with a resounding snap. He stumbled slightly; disbelief etched across his face.

“Oh, thank Gods we found you in time,” you sigh in relief as you approach him. “Are you hurt?”

He said nothing. Just... stared at you.

“Can you walk?” you tried, holding out a hand to touch his shoulder. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Don’t touch me!” he winced back, and you instantly retracted your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you said, backing up to give him space. “What’s wrong? What can I do to help you?”

Astarion’s scepticism waned a little; this version of you was a lot more... convincing than the last one. The way your eyes crinkled in distress, those little twitches your fingers did when you were nervous, even your scent was... almost enough to convince him you were the real deal.

Yet, doubt clawed at the edges of his mind like a persistent, haunting whisper.

"You can't be real," Astarion whispered, his voice laced with a soft tremor.

Your eyes welled with frustration and hurt, but your voice remained gentle as you replied, "Astarion, I am as real as the air we’re breathing and the ground we stand on. I'm right here."

Astarion shook his head, his disbelief lingering like a stubborn fog.

"No, this isn't possible," he insisted, his voice rising. "This is another trick, isn’t it?”

“Trick?” Karlach tilted her head.

“Cazador sent you,” Astarion said, his shoulders shaking as he chuckled in disbelief, almost hysterically. “Not one shapeshifter, but five? I mean where... where did he even manage to find you all?”

“Not how I would thank my rescuers, but each to their own, I suppose” Shadowheart said incredulously. “We need to leave, unless you fancy waiting for the cavalry to arrive.”

Karlach bumped the cleric’s shoulder. “Just give him a moment, yeah? He’s obviously a bit... confused.”

“Oh, it’s all as clear as day to me, darling,” the vampire spat, making her flinch. “Put on the act as much as you want, but I will not be going anywhere with you.”

He glanced down at the dust pile beneath his feet and gave it a good kick. “Though I suppose I should thank you for getting rid of him, nasty little thing.”

“That was... Godey, right?” you tentatively asked, and his red eyes flashed back up as you slowly edged forward. “I remember you telling me about him, that night we spent near the underground lake, do you remember? We stared up at the rocks and pretended to point out constellations.”

“How on earth could you... know that?”

When you were close enough, he reached out tentatively, his trembling fingers brushing against your cheek. The warmth he felt was real, but his mind refused to surrender. “You can’t be real,” he repeated, his voice a whisper and laden with desperation.

Part of you wanted to use the tadpole to reach into his mind to convince him you were real, and it would have been the quicker option. But you couldn’t—wouldn't— invade his privacy like that.

A whirlwind of emotions tore through Astarion—love, hope, fear, and an overwhelming sense of longing. He wanted desperately to believe you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. Yet, the scars of his master that etched deep into his soul held him back.

You reached out and gently took Astarion's hands, placing them on your chest, your touch warm and reassuring. "I understand your fear, but you have to trust in us. Trust in the way my heart skips a beat when I look at you. I am real, Astarion. Our love is real."

Tears welled up in his eyes as he finally allowed himself to believe. With a trembling hand, he cupped your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that had escaped your eye. “It’s really you,” he breathed, a mixture of awe and relief in his voice.

You leaned into his hand. “It’s really me.”

“As much as I would love to recite the perfect poem to encapsulate this heartwarming reunion,” Gale said, putting a hand on both your shoulder and Astarions. “I do believe we should make tracks.”

Astarion didn’t even have it in him to make any quips or comebacks, so he merely nodded, allowing you to take his hand as you led the way.

With renewed determination, the group made their escape, leaving a trail of chaos in their wake. Fire and lightning clashed with steel, and the dungeon's oppressive darkness was pierced by their resolute will. Together, they left a burning path of retribution in their wake, until they emerged into the moonlit courtyard and didn’t stop until they made it all the way back to camp.

“Woo!” Karlach cheered, turning back momentarily to hold up her middle finger up to the Szarr Palace as it disappeared over the horizon. “Can’t believe we actually managed to pull that off.”

“Neither can I,” Shadowheart deadpanned, her expression softening as she looked at Astarion. “But... I’m glad we did.”

“So am I,” Gale smiled. “This team wouldn’t be the same without your... well, let’s say charm.”

“You have such a way with words, Gale,” Astarion weakly joked. “But... know that I am grateful for you rescuing me, even if it didn’t seem like it at the time.”

“Aw, that’s alright!” Karlach gave him a thumbs up. “You’re with us now, and that’s all that matters.”

“I appreciate that, darling but...” his voice trembled slightly. “Cazador, he’ll... he needs me for the ritual. He will come after me again.”

“I’d like to see him try,” you said, your confident smile betrayed by your eyes as you clutched onto his hand like a lifeline. “He may be a vampire lord, but he doesn’t even have a slither of Karlach’s strength, or Shadowheart’s resolve or Gale’s power. And if all else fails we’ll just throw Lae’zel at him.”

You pause for a moment.

“I know we fucked up tonight but... that won’t happen again, Astarion. We’ll do better. I’ll be better. He... that bastard won’t get you.”

The corners of his lips twitched up into a smile as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze in kind. He felt the warmth of your love wrapping around his dead heart, like a protective cloak. In that moment, Astarion didn’t know what path lay ahead for him, but he knew that Cazador wouldn’t have any say in it, or anyone else for that matter.

His future... belonged to him.

xxx

eh... sorry the ending's a tad cheesy but hope you enjoyed anyhow!

Links to my other Astarion works

Everything's Fine

Restless

Request - Astarion kills everyone in his path to get to you

Request - Astarion tries to save you from kidnappers

Request - Astarion helps you to see that you're beautiful

#astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion ancunin #my writing #fanfiction #request #tw kidnapping #bg3 gale #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 karlach #bg3 godey

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some-creep · 1 year ago

Text

Here's my longer than anticipated prototype Falke fic. I'll reblog this later with an AO3 link but right now I can't get any of the formatting to stay because it's on Google drive and I'm on mobile

She awakens to a blinding white light. Her body is stiff and feels foreign as she tries to work out how her limbs work. It is with remarkable difficulty that she manages to push her body upright, only to double over at the unexpected weight of her frame. She gives a moment of pause, trying to make sense of her surroundings as her head threatens to split in two at every errant thought. Her stomach, which she suspects to be empty, still threatens to spill its contents all over her lap. Long before her eyes have the chance to focus, she hears a new sound over the mechanical buzzing that persists throughout the room. Voices. Unfamiliar. Then, an unknown force guiding her to lay back down which she does not fight. Her ears strain to listen, but the words do not make sense.

“I knew it. I told you I had a good feeling about this one, didn't I?”

“You did, but just because she's woken up doesn't mean she'll–”

“She will. If not, she can be molded like all the others.”

“Yes, but her neural pattern is highly unpredictable given the donor. Not to mention the experimental bioresonance module that–”

“Enough.”

The voices fall silent. She can only wonder what they were discussing, though she has no time to dwell on the specifics. Someone begins to stroke her hair, causing her eyes to flutter back open. They are nothing more than a fuzzy gray shape looming over her, and no matter how many times she blinks, her eyes refuse to focus.

“Can you see me? Adjust the calibration on her eyes.”

They wait for a moment before her vision begins to clear through a means she cannot understand. She is staring up at a dark haired woman she does not recognize, her outline haloed by the bright overhead light.

“Good morning, Falke.” Her face beams with pride but the name that falls from her lips sparks no recognition.

She can only lay there, trying to study her face in hopes that doing so can grant her the knowledge she desires. It seems, she thinks, like she is meant to respond, but she does not know what to say or how to say it. She furrows her brow in confusion, hoping it will suffice for an answer.

“You're going to do great things for us. Do you know that? You're very special.”

She manages to tilt her head to the side just enough to make it clear she's still confused. The woman above her doesn't seem surprised by this fact. She doesn't know what makes her special or what great things she is going to do. In fact, she isn't even sure how she knows anything and why there are gaps in what knowledge she does have.

She has no memory of a moment before this one, yet, in a general sense, she understands the world around her. The woman speaking to her appears to be middle aged, head adorned with a golden laurel crown. She is laying on some sort of bed. The room she is in is overly bright which further accentuates the sterile white ceiling and walls. Yet she does not know who she is. The woman had called her ‘Falke’ but the name means nothing to her. That is the name of an animal. A bird of prey. And she is not an animal.

Then…what is she?

She accepts her name as Falke for she knows of no alternative. The woman does not share with her her own name at that moment, a fact Falke simply does not question as it is of little concern to her compared to everything else. Something feels off. Everything feels wrong. The dark haired woman looks small in a way she doesn't understand. Her body fills out the bed to an unusual degree, and the sensation of touch is distant.

The woman excuses herself with a promise to return later. Falke does not watch her leave but listens to her footsteps, long, confident strides, across the tile floor. She hears a mechanical door glide open then shut again, leaving her alone with whoever else she had heard speaking before.

“Okay, Falke,” the voice, male, her mind tells her, begins to speak, “I'm going to ask you to do a few simple things for me so we can make sure everything is in working order, sound good?”

Falke nods her head slowly and begins to follow along with the basic instructions being given to her. Follow this with your eyes, move your head, wiggle your fingers, good job, now lift your right arm, your left, can you sit up for me?

The instructions are easy to follow, but there is an undeniable disconnect between her mind and body. She feels as if she is controlling a puppet rather than her own physical form, yet she sees her arms move with her own two eyes. But they do not look correct. Falke does not know what her arms should look like, but the sleek black casing does not register as being her skin. As she stares at her hands, pressing her mechanically jointed thumb and forefinger together, she feels them touch with the faintest tap of plastic on plastic.

Falke wonders if this body is able to cry. The desire is overwhelming, but her expression never changes.

Führungskommando-Leiteinheit-Replika: FKLR. Affectionately referred to as simply Falke amongst the Gestalts who monitor her. It is not a title she understands, but she hopes one day it will become clearer.

Until that time comes, her days are filled with tests and experiments to assess her current functional capacity. She is finally used to walking after several days of stumbling around helplessly and falling into walls. She no longer feels nauseous looking down from her unimaginable height. Her body still feels too heavy, but the scientists tell her it is common with larger Replikas and she will gradually stop noticing it. She is even becoming used to her dull sense of touch as she learns how to properly gauge the information her body is giving her and what it means in context to the world around her. The scientists always tell her they are proud of her, and she finds she enjoys this a great deal.

Falke is not like the people around her. They are small and made of flesh and bone. One of the first things they made sure she knew was that she is capable of great destruction, but that she is a good girl who listens well, so she will be mindful not to harm those around her. She does not have a reason to disagree with this assessment of her. They have not lied to her yet. They are kind to her. They make sure all her needs are met.

Falke enjoys spending time in her room; the room she had been moved into once she was capable of maneuvering independently. It has the same sterile white walls as the rest of the facility she calls home, but it is adorned with Nation paraphernalia. The first time she had seen the room, decorated with flags and portraits of the Nation’s Leaders, she had felt uneasy and out of place, but now she finds great comfort in the iconography. It adds a sense of warmth to her world, she thinks, to know she is being watched over and cared for by the Leaders.

It is the Great Revolutionary that she met when she first woke up. She visits Falke as often as her schedule permits to check on her progress. Falke wishes she would stay longer to talk to her instead of her overseers, but she is a very busy woman, and so she understands the aversion to idle chatter.

She spends the majority of her free time reading the books they have provided for her, or watching the films left for her. She is moved by the stories of how the Nation's people have struggled under the unjust rule of the Empire, and she hopes one day she will be able to assist in some way. She is promised that this will be the case.

Falke wonders why she was made to look like the Great Revolutionary and her daughter. She takes the photos off of the wall to study them from time to time. Their gazes are stern and commanding, and she wishes her expression could match. She has seen her own face and she cannot stand to look at it. She does not recognize the woman who stares sadly back at her.

It is lonely, she finds, being an experimental Replika. The people around her have little interest in talking to her about anything besides her progress. She is making great strides in utilizing her bioresonant abilities, and the scientists always talk excitedly about each new milestone she reaches.

She is able to look into the minds of volunteers placed before her, and tell her overseers whatever information they ask her to retrieve. The Gestalts who volunteer always seem frightened of her, and she never sees the same one twice, but they reassure her it is just a test. If she encountered the same person again, she would not be facing a new, potentially more challenging mind.

Today, as she stands at the far end of a custom built firing range, hurling objects at targets with only her mind, she thinks to try talking to the scientist tasked with observing her. She, like all Gestalts who work in close proximity to Falke, was given a special implant to ensure Falke could not manipulate her outside the scope of any test.

“Does it hurt still, doctor?” She asks, not turning her attention away from her work.

The woman does not immediately answer, though she unconsciously raises her hand to the stitches on the side of her half shaved head.

“I hope you aren't mad at me over it.”

“Mad?” She repeats, and her voice startles Falke. Responses of any kind are rare if they fall outside of work related discussions.

“You were assigned to me, and because of that, precautions had to be taken. I…hope you do not blame me for this.”

She is quiet for a moment longer before she speaks again, voice unsure. “No, Falke, I don't blame…you. Now focus on your task.”

Falke smiles sadly to herself, lowering her head for a moment. She does not look up as she casts the final projectile, a metal ball, through the remaining wooden target, showering the firing range with splinters before the ball impacts with the floor. The sharp sound fills the largely empty room before fading away to silence once more. Falke stands and waits for further instructions as she watches the ball roll back and forth until finally ceasing all movement.

“It still hurts.”

“...Hm-?”

“My head. You asked me before if it still hurt.”

Falke turns slowly to look at her. She's learned by now sudden movements make her Gestalt overseers nervous, so she takes great care not to worry them.

The woman is not looking at her, though she does not appear to actually be writing anything in her notes, simply fidgeting about.

“I'm sorry to hear that. I wish there was something I could do.” Falke decides to sink down to her knees in hopes it will make her a little less intimidating. She doesn't want to scare off the closest thing she's ever made to a connection. She owes it to the scientist to be as accommodating as possible, given the state she was in because of Falke.

“What are you doing?”

“It's easier to talk if we're at the same level, doctor. I thought you might appreciate it.” She tries to smile but worries there's no point to the gesture. Falke notices the Gestalt glance back at her, and can only assume she sees.

“We aren't supposed to be talking at all,” she says, though she is making no attempts to stop the conversation.

Falke chuckles, nodding. “If I wasn't meant to talk to people, then why was I given the ability to speak? Surely, speech is unnecessary if I am able to influence those around me with only my mind.”

“That's an interesting point. One I don't have an answer for.” She looks up to see Falke still smiling, eyes brighter than normal. She thinks for a moment, taking a deep breath. “You're lonely,” she observes.

Falke nods. She is a sentient being with little in the way of interactions with others. It has started to gnaw at her more and more each day.

“I'll discuss this at my next meeting and see what can be done about that. You're dismissed.”

Administration-Datenverarbeitung-Logistik-Replika: ADLR. That is how they introduce her to the Replika they've brought in from another facility. They tell her it will be a good way to test their compatibility. He is not a new model like her, last generation, but there had always been speculation he could perform better with proper Replika guidance. No such person had existed…until now.

They tell her she will get along well with him. That, mentally, he should be easily influenced by her, and that if she wants someone to interact with, this will be how she gets it. She is told there are no other options because once she is Commander, she will not have time for friends and other such nonsense as that. Seeing him for the first time makes her regret ever bringing up the issue at all. There's no reason for it. He's a perfectly unremarkable Replika standing no taller than the average Gestalt and offering little else but his presence.

The way he looks at her makes her uncomfortable, but she can't put her finger on why that is. None of the Gestalts look at her with the same level of wonder. No, it's more than wonder, it is as if he is enamored with her. Love at first sight. The Gestalt scientists seem pleased by this development and decide this is a sufficient cure for Falke's loneliness, giving her no time to protest.

She no longer has any personal time to herself. Adler’s only purpose is to serve her, which means following her at all hours of the day. It also means sleeping in her room as there is no other space set aside for him. Falke tells herself she must adapt to this because, after all, isn't this what she asked for? Companionship in her off hours?

He does not understand personal space in a way she would prefer, but she finds it difficult to verbalize her wants. It is not a situation she has ever been in before, so more often than not, she is silent. She knows the scientists told her that Adler would be easy to manipulate with her abilities, but she is well trained, and only uses her powers when it is asked of her. It seems rude, she thinks, to exert her influence over someone for no good reason. She fears repercussions for misuse of her powers.

So instead, she pushes down her concerns and accepts this is her life now. She ignores the fact she knows he watches her sleep, and she ignores the thoughts she hears on accident. Sometimes it is difficult to not read people's minds now that the ability comes naturally to her. He thinks about her body a great deal, but since he has not done anything wrong, Falke does all she can to ignore it.

She feels nothing in return. She doesn't know what she is supposed to feel about him, but every conversation she forces her way through leaves her feeling empty. She tells herself she just isn't used to being around other Replikas yet, and in time, it will get easier like so many other things have for her. But she wishes it would happen faster.

He is sitting too close to her as usual, on her bed, and Falke is trying her hardest to simply ignore him. She misses her privacy so very, very much…

Adler says something to her, for which she only hums in response, hoping it will be enough to express her disinterest. It never is.

FKLR units will be judged on their actions, not by their words. These words echo in her mind as she stares vacantly forward. Her duty is to serve the Nation. Serving the Nation will require sacrifice. It will require moments of action that might seem overly cruel, but they are for the greater good. Her creator had made sure she understood this, that there would be times she would be asked to do things she might find questionable, but to trust she was doing the right thing. And nothing was off limits.

Training dummies do not bleed. They do not beg and apologize to an uncaring attacker. Falke has dismantled many in her brief time alive, and this feels no different. But she does not know why she does it; she cannot say what set her off. Was it a thought? A comment? A brief moment of unwanted contact? She does not feel any guilt as she looks at the thing laying crumpled on her floor. It is of no more interest to her than a discarded mannequin covered in red paint. Falke looks at her hand and realizes she is clutching soaked wires in her fist, though where she'd yanked them from she could not begin to guess.

She wipes her hands on her legs and crawls back into bed. For the first time since Adler had arrived, her room is quiet again, and she finally feels comfortable enough to sleep.

Falke is scolded for the mess and made to clean it up herself. She finds it surprising that she is not punished for what she did, simply for the aftermath of her actions. She helps the scientists who come to collect the body place it into a bodybag before it is removed. They ask no questions about the mangled figure and only leave cleaning supplies when they go.

She sets to work cleaning up the sticky, half dried puddle of coolant that leaked across the entire floor during the night. There is so much, spread across the tile and under her bed, that she feels like she is only able to smear it around with the rags she was provided with. Even so, she considers herself lucky that this is all that is expected of her.

As she scrubs diligently on her hands and knees, she notices unidentifiable flesh caught between the joints of her fingers. Falke knows it will be difficult to properly clean up, maybe even impossible without help from a technician. She tries to push the thought aside as she hears the door to her room open once more.

Someone steps inside, tracking footprints all over the half cleaned floor. Falke bites back the impulse to say anything, and she is glad for this when the person speaks.

“Falke,” the voice says, quick and sharp. It is her creator, the Great Revolutionary herself.

Falke flinches and keeps her head bowed low, suddenly ashamed of her behavior. “Good morning,” she manages, before adding, “ma'am.”

“I hear you broke your new toy.” She shifts her weight as she speaks. Falke suspects she's crossed her arms.

“It was…” calling it an accident might not be a complete lie, she hadn't meant to do it, after all, but it was far too brutal of a scene to suggest there was no intent whatsoever. “I'm sorry. I know everyone worked very hard to get a companion for –”

“Look at people when you're talking to them,” she barks, bringing her boot hard against Falke's shoulder and keeping it there.

Falke is considerably larger than her, but as she is now, groveling before her master, she is no more powerful than anyone else would be. She looks up at the woman for whom she shares a likeness, muttering an apology as she meets her eye.

“You made my shoes filthy with your little mess. Clean them,” she orders, twisting her foot back and forth before pulling back to let Falke sit up.

Falke carefully moves off of her knees and sits back, legs crossed. She is made painfully aware of her unusual stature once more, but instead of finding comfort in the protection it brings, she just feels awkward and out of place under the Great Revolutionary’s gaze.

The woman, without a word, places her boot on Falke's thigh and waits. Falke takes one of the few still clean rags and dunks it in her bucket of soapy water, ringing it out with one hand. She places her other hand against the woman's calf to steady her as she begins to spot clean as much of the sole as she can manage from their positions.

While she suspects the display is all for show, Falke sheepishly speaks up and says, “you might be more comfortable if you sat on my bed.”

She ponders the suggestion for only a moment, and, seeming pleased with Falke's desire to be obedient, moves to sit on the edge of the bed. She crosses one leg over the other, inviting Falke to continue with the faintest hint of a smirk on her face.

Falke doesn't think she's ever seen her creator smile before, especially not at her. The expression, however distant, spurs her on. She edges closer to the bed, taking her ankle once more before she continues to clean every tread free of dirt and blood. Her work is meticulous and loving as she thinks to herself no one has ever had the honor of tending to the Great Revolutionary like this before.

When she feels a hand on her head, she hesitates, glancing upwards. It is a nice feeling, one she's rarely experienced, but one she would like to earn again. She is not wearing gloves, as is often the case when other Gestalts touch her. It is simply wordless praise for her efforts.

But the moment cannot last long. Soon, her creator is rising to her feet and heading back out the door, leaving her with only one final order. “Hurry up and finish cleaning. We haven't got all day.”

“Hello, Ara. It's nice to meet you.” Falke smiles at the old Replika model. She tells herself she will do better this time around with her companions. She likes this one better than the last anyway, she thinks. Ara has an exceptionally quiet mind, and what thoughts Falke does pick up on are quite regular. She thinks of work and of her hobbies, quietly tending to plants in secluded areas of the facility. This particular unit has been working here for longer than Falke has been alive.

Like many others, she is, of course, impressed by Falke's stature. She is confused as to why she was relocated here at all, but ultimately she is relieved the person she was placed with seems to be nice enough. That thought Falke finds peculiar; that a Replika might be so concerned with how nice someone is.

“I'm sorry they didn't tell me what I was supposed to do with you. If… I had to guess, you're meant to replace my previous…” Falke hesitates on the last word, unsure what she should call the late Adler. Finally, she settles on, “assistant.”

Ara only nods, offering up a simple, “oh” in response. It is clear she has never been an assistant before, nor has she ever been separated from others like herself. Because of this, it becomes obvious she isn't interested in talking.

Falke finds it strange they'd be so quick to replace Adler after what she'd done to him, but she sees no point in questioning it. It has been a few days since the incident, and maybe they have decided it is worth giving her a second chance. She had proven herself with her creator immediately following the incident, so it makes a kind of sense.

“You have tools?” she asks, noticing the belt around her waist.

Ara nods.

“Do you know how to fix Replikas?”

She shrugs.

“Do you think you could help me clean the joints in my fingers? It's difficult to do it yourself. I'd ask the Gestalt technician but I'm afraid she'd be mad at me.”

Ara nods once more before Falke leads them off somewhere quiet where she may work undisturbed. It is a simple enough procedure, and her hands are larger than average, which she hopes will make them easier to work with.

Maintenance is an odd thing for Replikas. To be so vulnerable around another is a difficult task at the best of times. Any time she is operated on, it leaves her feeling strange afterwards. Lonely, almost. Empty. The technician usually just ignores her the entire time and is firm about not letting her linger afterwards. Ara, she thinks, isn't likely to do that.

Falke lays her hands on a table as she kneels on the floor, offering them up with no resistance. Ara says nothing as she begins to examine each joint to understand how she is put together. She will not need to remove any casing, figuring the wires inside will provide enough slack to clean between each segment without the need to disconnect any internals.

Ara does not comment on the gunk she scrapes out of her fingers, and Falke appreciates this small mercy. In fact, Ara doesn't even seem interested in its origin at all as she works. Falke can only watch her in a sort of awe as she expertly disassembles and reassembles each digit. Her expression does not change as she works, holding Falke's hand to better manipulate it as she sees fit.

Falke is almost disappointed when she finishes the procedure, but to her surprise, Ara does not move. Instead, she looks up at Falke, cocking her head to the side.

“Better?” She asks.

“Better," Falke replies, taking a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

Ara remains seated as she lets Falke take her hand. She does not pull away, nor does she comment on the gesture.

Falke looks away, muttering an apology. She knows better than to behave this way. She has been chastised countless times before for trying to overstep boundaries like this. But Ara seems to think nothing of it.

“It's normal,” she says.

“It…is?”

“Yes.”

“No one’s ever told me that.”

“They never do.”

Falke furrows her brow, wondering why her Gestalt masters would neglect to explain a normal Replika reaction to her. She tries not to think about it as Ara gently squeezes her hand in return, all the while expression never changing.

She soon finds she much prefers the company of Ara to anyone else in her life. Unlike Adler, her thoughts are easier to handle. She is respectful of boundaries without needing to be told. And, above all else, she is knowledgeable about Replika life. Overtime, she grows comfortable enough to talk and length, and she tells Falke about different unit types she has met over the years that Falke has only read about in passing. Of EULR, and STCR, and STAR units. How, despite what they are told, some units are nicer than others. Some she could be friends with and others she tried to avoid.

She speaks of relationships and how Replikas form bonds with one another that fall outside of expected parameters. Sometimes they are ignored, other times punished. In rare cases, they are encouraged for enhanced unit performance. ARAR units are encouraged to befriend EULR units because EULR units can read their emotions better than anyone else. Falke jokes that she is also very good at that, thanks to her bioresonance.

Ara sleeps in her room the same as Adler before her, and follows her around during the day. She finds herself wishing that Ara would follow a little closer. That she wouldn't sleep so far away at night. When they watch movies, Ara always does so from the floor. She says she doesn't mind, and Falke knows she is telling the truth, but she wishes she was not.

The scientists do not like Ara. Or, perhaps more accurately, they do not like her relationship with their beloved FKLR unit. They see Ara as beneath her, and cannot understand why *this* one is who Falke has chosen to keep around. ARAR units are worthless to the Nation, holding no more value than materials used to build them. They are meant to do hard labor and to be disposed of when they break. Ara is able to ignore the constant remarks, but they begin to grate on Falke's nerves.

She cannot read their minds, but she does not need to when they speak their hatred so openly. She cannot exert her will over them, but she does not need to when she can exert her strength.

A comment is made, one day, as she and Ara are sitting by one of the rare windows in the facility, looking out at the dull landscape of rock and concrete, bathed in bright, artificial light.

“You were supposed to have killed this one by now.”

She knows the comment hurts Ara, who still manages to avoid a visible reaction. But Falke knows what she's thinking. How uncomfortable the idea is that she is a sacrifice given to their new pet as a plaything to break.

Falke can no longer stomach it. With a flick of her wrist she sends the Gestalt backwards through the air and into a nearby wall. She hears a bone snap on impact, an arm, she figures, by the way their thoughts shift to the pain they're trying to make sense of. She rises, placing her hand on Ara's back to guide her back to their room before she takes things further and does something truly regrettable. Falke keeps her close the entire time with no resistance.

“It's not fair,” she whispers, maybe more to herself than to Ara as they step back into their room together. “The way they treat you. The things they say. You don't deserve it…”

She moves to give Ara her space, but finds the shaken Replika stopping her from parting. And so Falke lingers. She pulls Ara to sit on her bed, and then to lay by her side.

“I'm sorry,” she says, pressing her head against the side of Ara's who is looking up at the ceiling. Her hair smells of machine oil even after all this time away from her old post. “I know I shouldn't have done that. But it's not fair.” She emphasizes the word as if it will better prove her point. Ara does not often think about what is fair and what is not, only focusing on the way things are in the moment.

“Thank you,” Ara says after a while. She turns to lean her head against Falke's.

Falke wants to say more but does not allow herself to speak. She wraps her arm around her companion's waist, closing her eyes. There is much she could still say. Promises she could make but never really keep. Plans they could make to do…what? There was nothing left but to pray for mercy and enjoy what peace still lingered between them.

“Falke, please don't make this any harder than it needs to be. I don't like this anymore than you do.” The large metal collar hangs over the scientist’s hands as she stares back at him in disbelief. There is no reason to obey in the moment, but she suspects a worse punishment awaits if she does not. Her gaze shifts from confusion to hatred as she willingly sinks to her knees, still a head taller than the man even like this, as she allows herself to be restrained.

He apologizes again, but Falke does not answer as a heavy chain is hooked to her collar with the other end fed through a small hole in the wall. She does not know where it leads, but soon, the chain catches and pulls through the wall with a slow mechanical grind muffled on the other side. She is unceremoniously yanked backwards until her back nearly touches the wall. She cannot stand nor can she fully sit, leaving her to fumble about trying to right her body with little success.

The man looks at her once more before turning away. She thinks his expression is that of pity, but it is too brief to be certain. He closes the door behind him, sealing her in darkness.

She does not know if this room was designed for her, or simply repurposed because of her. It is barely more than a closet, able to comfortably hold four normal sized Gestalts, she guesses. It is a pointless train of thought, but she has nothing to do but think.

Falke was not told how long she will be held here, but she suspects her punishment will last long enough to make her beg for freedom. She is meant to be prideful, but even she must have her limits. What better way to test them than this?

And so she sits and thinks. She thinks of her behavior leading up to this moment. She thinks of the betrayal she feels in being chained up like an animal. She thinks of her creator, and how she will feel seeing her like this. Falke is like family to her, is she not? They share a likeness, and for Gestalts, that is important. It means nothing between Replikas but she is no common Replika, and therefore it is something to hold on to.

She dreams of a life that is not her own. Of places she's never been and of languages she does not understand. She is a woman of great power but she has no reflection to speak of, and no name is ever uttered. People serve her, and she leads them with everything she has. But she is not Falke in those moments.

Sometimes she dreams of Ara, and every time she wakes wishing she hadn't. The loneliness she feels when she wakes up hurts more than the awkward angle she is forced into. In her dreams, they are happy. They are together. And they are safe. Falke wakes in her old bed with Ara at her side, and she enjoys the briefest moment of joy as she is convinced it is all a bad dream. They exchange words she will not allow herself to hear and then she opens her eyes to darkness. She does not know what happened to Ara and does not dwell on it, happier in her ignorance.

Days pass in her confinement, and it becomes difficult to tell if she is awake or asleep. She can no longer feel her legs, and she is certain the joints have locked up entirely. Sometimes she thinks she feels other people nearby, but even if she tries to speak to them, nothing ever comes of it. They are nothing but shadows lingering in front of her unfocused eyes.

Falke entertains the idea that she might die in this room. Punished for a crime she's all but forgotten, likely observed by some hidden camera as she rots away. Alone. She hopes the overseers are amused by what they see. Delighted to watch her sit and whither away as her body's systems desperately inform her something is wrong and she needs immediate care which is not coming.

A sudden electric shock rushes through her skull, jolting her head upright with a hoarse yelp. The pain forcibly reconnects her mind to her body as she becomes keenly aware of all her senses at once.

“Well, it seems that works after all.”

Her creator stands before her, holding a small black device in her hand. Falke reaches towards her with one feeble hand before she is hit with another painful jolt.

“You're an embarrassment. Look at you. You had so much promise and you were going to throw it all away. And for what?” She reaches out, grabbing Falke by the hair to yank her head upright.

It does not register as pain amongst everything else her body is experiencing. She blinks a few times as if it will help the ache in her head.

“You represent the Nation. You represent me. Do you know how bad you made me look? Hmmm?” She pulls Falke's hair again. “What kind of superweapon are you? You were really going to throw everything I've given you away for some…some worthless piece of machinery?”

Ara, she thinks as her chest tightens. She will not ask. She already knows.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry, ma'am.” Falke forces the words out in hopes they will spare her from further misery.

“I should have you decommissioned. There's no reason not to. You're a failure. Just like all the others.”

“No, no I'm… I am not a failure. I won't let you down again. I promise.”

The Great Revolutionary thinks for a moment before she slips her arms around Falke's neck. The brief embrace is cut short as she unlocks Falke's collar only for her body to collapse under its own weight as days of strain catch up to her all at once.

“See to it that you don't.”

Falke finally understands what it means to be a Commander. The people she controls are tools to be exploited for the good of the Nation. If she will not be afforded special treatment, why should they? Compassion is weakness. It causes one to behave in unexpected and dangerous ways. Ruthlessness is rewarded. Violence. Cruelty. Her only purpose is to function as a weapon, and to see to it those below her do the same.

She is given a small troop of Replika soldiers to command, and she does so mercilessly. Though they are only meant to run drills, Falke punishes any failure as seriously as if it were the real thing. Her overseers are pleased by this development, and they tell her they have enough data to begin production on her line.

Atop her head, she is now adorned with the same laurel crown as her creator. A symbol of her status as leader. But it is nothing but a cruel facade. Made of metal and welded into her skull, it connects to a device now to be standard in all FKLR units. Each delicately carved golden petal helps to carry an electric current through her brain and down her spinal cord. A shock collar for minor infractions. A killswitch when they grew tired of her.

Ara is never mentioned around her again, and the only evidence she ever existed at all are Falke's fading memories of her. In the end, she was nothing but a sacrifice, killed by Falke’s impulsive, violent nature. Something she is rewarded for when it is properly directed. At her underlings. At her enemies. No, the Nation's enemies. She is just their means to an end.

There is no fanfare in it as all the pieces fall into place. This had always been the goal. The Replikas that serve her are terrified of what she is capable of and quickly fall in line. They look at her with fear and awe, and she looks back with disdain. Their deaths will mean nothing to her. And they will die. Pointless, violent deaths in a bid for control against the Empire, an already waning power. Few Replikas still serve the Empire, and those that do are first and second generation. Nothing more than worthless machinery. In many ways, weaker than the Gestalts they die for. She feels no pity for them when she is shown images from Vineta, a planet of great interest to both states. Their deaths are necessary. Her death will not be.

“You've come a long way, Falke.” The Great Revolutionary smiles up at Falke, but she does not return the expression.

Her gaze is stern now, all of the time. Every interaction she has with other people is not a syllable longer than it needs to be. She stands and waits for her to continue speaking or to finish the conversation, and this fact seems to please the Gestalt.

“I wanted to show you something now that you've officially been deemed a success.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow, but offers no further reaction.

Her creator chuckles, amused at how alike they've become in such a short span of time. That had always been the point. “Come,” she orders, leading Falke away.

She was born here. She ‘grew up’ here, but there are still many areas she has not seen. Most of the facility is a mystery to her, and one she no longer cares to understand. The things she is meant to know, she is told, all else is a waste of her time.

They walk in silence down several near identical gray hallways before descending down an elevator Falke barely fits in. She no longer makes comment on the fact the world is not meant for someone like her. She slouches over as always until they reach a sub basement. It is noticeably colder this far down, but neither comment on it as they approach an unassuming metal door.

Her creator swipes an identification card through a panel at the side of the door before opening it. Freezing cold air spills out into the empty hallway as the woman steps inside and flicks the light switch on. Falke waits until she is invited instead, ducking under the doorframe and pausing to observe her surroundings.

The walls are lined with several large machines, each with a small window at approximately eye level with Falke. They are humming in quiet unison with a purpose unknown to her. In a way, they resemble coffins the longer she looks, though she dare not approach one to see what lay inside.

“Your predecessors,” her creator says as she gestures towards the machines. Falke remains silent, so she continues. “Such is the case with all Replikas. Though, other Replikas aren't permitted access to information such as this. But you're different. You're special.”

“Are they dead?”

“Most of them,” she says, watching Falke cautiously approach the wall to peer inside at one of her failed siblings.

They all looked the same to her. Frowning, she asks, “why keep them?”

“For reference. We always hold on to our failures until we stop making them. After that, they are disposed of to make room for the next creation.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Because,” she clicks her tongue, “you are to know everything about those you command. Including all of the unsavory parts they don't know about. And what better way than this?”

Falke brushes her hand over a pane of glass to clear the fog from it to better stare at her sleeping reflection inside. “You said,” she pauses, “you said most…of them are dead. What about the others?”

That had been the right question to ask, it seems. The Gestalt nods. “How observant of you.”

Falke watches as she approaches a pod to input a code on a small keypad. She steps back as it hisses to life, followed by the distinct mechanical thunk of several mechanisms clicking into place before, finally, a door swings open.

The FKLR unit inside falls forward, trailed by dozens of wires connecting her to the device behind her. She is dazed, but gradually, she seems to be coming to her senses as she looks around the room. She sees Falke first, and makes a weak attempt at crawling towards her.

“Are you… are you here to help…me? They told me it would just be for…just a little bit. Can you hear me?” Her own voice says to her, trembling, pathetic. Her expression is almost childlike in its naive desperation as she looks up at an uncaring mirror.

“Pitiful thing, isn't it?” Their creator says, placing her boot on the FKLR unit’s back. “Take care of her.”

Falke frowns once more as she realizes she is being offered a firearm, one she does not take immediately.

“I know you've fired a gun before. Prove to me you can do this.”

She listens to herself whimpering on the floor, begging for a different outcome. The FKLR unit is promising to be a good girl this time. She will listen. She will work harder. She will do all of the things she should have done when she had the chance but failed to do. Her crying is cut short by a single gunshot.

Falke says nothing as she returns the gun.

“Well done. I'm proud of you, Commander Falke.”

#signalis #signalis falke #fklr #signalis fklr #i really hope i didn't mess up anything copying this over #i didn't realize there was s limit to how much text you can copy paste

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firefly--bright · 10 months ago

Text

etymology of acting

jean kirstein x reader (modern au)

summary ; the lights are out but you've never been able to see things so clearly. his silhouette isnt just a shape anymore.

warnings ; nothing more than some hurt/comfort as usual

a/n ; i've realised. i like writing oneshots more than i like writing series. so i am very sorry that im not updating my bigger fics i just,,, need more motivation for them.

taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ song to listen to while reading! ✿

You’ve never really been sure of what you are.

Maybe who you are would be a better question. How do words come to be? Is it the cultural significance that makes them more important or is it just the fact that theyre the most used? You decide your name holds none of the meaning – be it heavy or light – that all the other words do. Not really significant or most used or said or thought about.

You knew your place in the world well enough to know where your name fit. Moreso, how your name didn’t fit, feeling foreign coming from familiar faces, feeling even further away coming from you. it sounded more like of what you should, of who your parents wanted you to become, hope you’d turn out to be. Something far greater than yourself. At least you knew this – you wouldn’t live up to it.

It takes a while to get used to at first. A way to let people down gradually. Nothing dramatic, nothing noticeable; but when you go through the same pattern as you always have countless times, you start seeing it as such. As something more dramatic, to give yourself more meaning. Youre waiting for the moment to come crashing down on you, waiting for the light to stop being bright an consuming and more of just a flicker. But that would be giving yourself too much importance. Giving yourself too much meaning.

“I mean… I didn’t, haven’t, fought people before,” jean says, “or – wait. Maybe I have.”

You breathe out a laugh. “you don’t remember if you’ve fought people before?”

“I mean, its not…whatever. Maybe I was too small to remember.”

“five year old jean, tearing into people’s jaws. What a rebel.” You say. Its his turn to smile.

The marble tiles of your kitchen floor are cool, your thighs resting on them, back against the glass of your oven. He sits in front of you but you cant see more than his outline. The lights have been out for a concerning amount of time now, and the curiosity of wanting to find out why had long since died down, turning into simple acceptance of this nights fate. His voice is the only thing you can hang off from, even if youre anchored to the ground.

it’s the in-betweeness of this. The space between your bodies, though not far away, knees touching only briefly, is when you realize you’re going to fade away soon. He’s going to find it mundane to look at the same face you had been seeing. The light is going to flicker, and you can feel it. The anticipation of something that will undoubtedly hurt nobody but you, quiet and accepting, and you’ll end up having to face the light again; wait for another light that needs to be snuff out. You’ve never been the greatest in having yourself be enough.

It's a performance at first. Jean had sat next to you and you’d started, lights and all. Smiling soon turned to relentless, comfortable teasing, turned into the second act. The deeper feelings that would be kept with you and only you for the rest of whatever you were living. Act three started just as act two did, gradually, softly, and you could sit in silence without having to find the strength to speak something more important than you into existence. You knew what would happen next. The end act, before the bows, before the close curtains. Your name wouldn’t be credited after this, no, he’d leave the theatre and not look back, forgetting why he spent the evening there. Maybe it was necessity, maybe it was boredom.

Act three, scene four, your voice spoke again after the pause, after catching his voice in your hands. The shared can of the energy drink was getting warm because of jean’s hand, your cold ones doing nothing to help. “I used to pretend I was in, like, a tv show when I was five.” You said. A hook to another unimportant, soon forgotten story, but it was in your script. So you spoke. You couldn’t see his smile, but he hummed lowley, your cue to continue.

“there was this show I used to watch a lot, like, to the point where I memorized almost all of the script.” You say, taking a sip of the drink. The carbon had fizzled out, leaving sugary residue on your lips, coating your tongue. “so when the house was empty in the afternoons, I would play all the parts out myself.” You say. Your words carry more weight now than they ever have and you’d probably have to clean up the mess it would make on the floor in the morning, having the light of the sun to accompany your mistakes. But for now it was okay. Improvising your lines was easier when it was with him. Act three, scene four, you could let your performance waver because you knew it was coming to an end.

“Is that why youre so good at talking to yourself?” he asks, his voice laced with a smirk you can almost feel against your cheek, despite him sitting across you. his hand brushes against yours, warm, calling, and you hand the can to him. You roll your eyes and you know he cant see it because it’s improvised. “im an amazing self-talker. Give me some credit.”

“alright. You’ve won my oscar.” He says. You snort. “your oscar?” “for your groundbreaking performance.” He says. Another sip.

You breathe in the way his words shape you. you don’t know which row of the audience he’s sitting in, but it feels awfully close, enough for him to catch you breaking character. Amazing performance, he said, not knowing what he meant, but you took meaning in his comment anyway, just as you did with everything else given to you. all words had their meanings, whether good or bad, cultural or just because of their uses. Everything had meaning and he was calling it an amazing performance. Your laugh makes no noise – youre breaking character.

“I was shit scared of the dark when I was five, too.” He says. The can is still with him, and you tilt your head. “you were a very accomplished five year old.” He scoffs, you continue, “starting fights and being afraid of the dar-“ “as if. I won those fights.” “is that why you forgot they even happened?” “maybe, yeah, what about it?” you laugh, breaking character. He grumbles, “whatever. I was brave.” His chest puffs up in faux confidence.

“right, what were you saying?” you ask. He clears his throat. “I was just gonna say I don’t mind being in the dark now.” “that’s deep.” “can you be serious for, like, two seconds-“ “you know me better than to ask me for that.” “right. I like nights now because of you. That’s all. Make fun of me.” But then you don’t say anything. Breaking character. Being on a thin ledge so he could see you and being pushed back, making you lose balance, suck in a breath.

Act… three, was it? Scene five. You don’t know what to say. He continues where you don’t. “like, I mean – okay, I like working with you at night, and I like staying up with you. it… im not scared of the dark anymore because of you. don’t look too much into it, it’s whatever, don’t. don’t make this weird.” He says, effectively making it weird, but you don’t mind. Youre on the stage, pleasantly confused because jean is in the audience with a smile and not with indifference.

youre on the stage and he’s telling you its okay to not be on one, to break character, to join him in the dark of the seats and leave the bright, overhead spotlight that makes you squint against it’s pressure.

The distant wailing of an ambulance sirens plays somewhere in the distance, the honk of cars, the shout of a crow that was somehow awake, the rustling of leaves. And with everything – all of the things outside of the theatre in your head, making you less important, was jean. There was barely any identifier to know he was in front of you except for his silhouette and his voice that had gone quiet. His thumb played an invisible beat on the can.

“when… when I was five,” you started, finally, not knowing what was coming out of your mouth, not following a script. Act three? Which scene was this? Jean was infront of you. you didn’t know how, but your voice held importance. “I was alone a lot. I used to be scared of ghosts. Especially at night. But since I was alone I decided that I had to fill the space up with games. With plays. Talking to myself.” Because that was the only thing that made you important – tied to the ground - but then jean’s hand in on your knee, warm. An anchor. The curtains are closing. “and now I have someone to listen to me. Im not one of the ghosts in my house.”

If jean’s eyes were the only pair that were ever to witness you, you’d let that be. You’d be important in the darkness of your house and not under the all-consuming, weighted spotlights on top of you, shining against your every move, making it more important, but then the lights turn on, all of them at once, making you witness how you’ve made him.

His cheeks are red, warm, the tip of his nose in the same shade, his hair now lit up by the overhead shine, creating an almost gold halo on the crown of his head, a little frizzy and messy from raking his hand through them so many times. but really, its his eyes that make you break the character you were trying so hard to keep, because it didn’t make sense that he was looking at you the same way in the dark, going unnoticed, his gaze soft and now highlighted with a small white dot around his pupil, browns swimming, tethered to your figure. He was looking at you without your performance, without the proof of light to guide him.

Breaking character. Remembering there was a character to break but not caring about it, not in this moment, not when the spotlight has shut down, no-body controlling your lines except for yourself and the air in your apartment, still and full of life, unsaid confessions.

He clears his throat, shifting behind, looking up to the light, realising that there was brightness apart from you. “well.” He says. What else is there to say?

“well.” You echo, but neither of you get up from your seats. There was secrecy in the dark, but now that everything is in front of you, youre a little more afraid. “it’s… lat-“ “you wanna watch a movie?” he asks, interrupting your invitation for him to go back home and away from you despite wanting nothing more than to stay by his side. You smile, unabashedly, cheeks stretching. “yeah.”

“not-“ “ten things I hate about you-“ “no. not that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. He doesn’t get up. His hand is still on your knee. “come on, you liked that movie!” “yeah, for the first two watches. We’ve seen that like, a thousand times now.” “not a thousand. Twenty, maybe.” “close enough.” “which movie, then?” you ask, jean shrugs. He hadn’t thought this far into the moment, and really, he doesn’t mind watching the same movie again as long as you were next to him, letting him sit too close to you, letting your shoulders relax, letting your thoughts ease. He liked you like this, not dancing around yourself, not trying to do something spectacular. You already were.

But he cant say it. So instead he says your name. with purpose, with meaning and weight that anchors you to the ground and brings you back into your body. “youre…not a ghost.” He attempts at something bigger than what he means to say. He doesn’t know how you do it. But you look at him like you know exactly what he means. Words have meaning, culturally or just because they’ve been too much, and you look like you understand them more than anyone else. Reading in between the lines, each letter having its shape and sound being heard even if its quiet.

“thanks to you.” you say. His thumb traces a circle into your skin. Unscripted.

“speaking of ghosts-“ you start, making jean groan. “do not-“ “we should watch conjuri-“ “I will kill myself.” “that’s also what one of the ghosts does to herself.” “jesus fuck.” “come on, its so bad and cliché.” “i… fine.” He concedes.

Your smile is brighter than the lights. It comes naturally to you, the script lies forgotten and you join him in the audience, sitting close.

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #shingeki no kyojin #jean kirstein x you #aot #jean kirschtein #attack on titan

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mawrblaidddrwg · 8 months ago

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WIP Wednesday - Sons of the Saiyans

“Please don’t make me go in there. Chi-Chi will never let me see the light of day again if she finds out that I was in a strip club,” Goku was half hiding behind his hands as Vegeta dragged him by his arms towards the black painting building.

“I don’t want to fucking go in there either! I’m not a pervert like R—” Vegeta stopped mid sentence realizing what he was about to say. He swallowed hard, pushing the name down his throat. Still not able to speak it out loud. “But that’s where the people we need to talk to are,” Vegeta said.

“Easy for you to say, Vegeta! Bulma would probably be thrilled to be in there. She probably has a stack of dollar bills ready to go,” Goku grumbled, his cheeks turning crimson. “Chi-Chi is going to throw hot coffee in my face if she finds out.”

Vegeta had to think very long and very hard about anything else other than the visual of Bulma at the Red Ribbon. He took a deep breath in; he had to focus on the task at hand.

When they entered the doors of the Red Ribbon, Vegeta clicked the safety of his gun that was tucked into his jeans immediately. After all, he was the one who ended the ceasefire, so it seemed only appropriate for him to be ready to fire at any moment. Goku put the hood of his sweatshirt on over his head trying to squeeze it as tight as possible to himself, resembling a turtle attempting to hide inside of its shell.

“Kakarot you’re so fucking embarrassing,” Vegeta sneered feeling even more disgusted about having to enter the Red Ribbon with his cousin.

Vegeta braced for the loud, violent sounds of dance music pounding his skull once the door opened, but instead was greeted with the melancholy riffs of How Soon is Now. Several dancers paused upon his entrance into the bar and he noticed the lack of patrons. His black eyes did a quick sweep of the premises and right away he noticed the blonde woman who shot him the last time he was here. She immediately pulled out a shotgun from behind the bar. She was wearing clothes this time and seemed to be the bartender instead of a dancer, adorned in a short acid washed skirt and off the shoulder top.

“We come in peace,” Vegeta said holding his hands up and pretending as though he hadn’t just clicked the safety off of his gun.

“Right, sure. And I’m Madonna. Nice try, asshole,” she cocked the shotgun and aimed it at Vegeta’s head, who held his ground with his hands still up.

“Hi, um Miss. We are here to talk to someone named 17,” Goku said realizing that any impression Vegeta would attempt to make would result in their heads getting blown off.

“You look very familiar,” she said warily, nodding towards Goku behind the barrel of the shotgun.

“My uh—” Goku swallowed the bitter pit lodged in his throat, “my brother, Raditz was a frequent visitor here.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a long while until she seemed to accept his answer. “Are you here to shoot 17’s kneecaps off too?”

“Technically, I only shot one of Gero’s kneecaps,” Vegeta corrected her before she gave him a pointed glare. “But no, that’s not why I’m here. I have a business matter to discuss with him.”

“Fine, hand over your gun then,” she walked around the bar still pointing the shotgun at him.

“I don’t have a gun,” Vegeta lied.

She shot the gun at the floor near Vegeta’s Dr Martens and shattered a black tile from the black and white checkerboard pattern on the floor. Goku nearly jumped out of his sweatpants, but Vegeta didn’t even flinch. The sound of bullets ricocheting being the closest thing he could think of to a bedtime story.

#my fanfic #sons of the saiyans #vegebul fanfic #dbz fanfic

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bridgetlynn · 21 days ago

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37. Eyes. Langdon & Bobby Nash. - - - There's interesting parallels there plus I miss Bobby.

This was kind of a random character crossover. But I strangely didn't have a problem with it. At the same time, I'm not sure how I feel about it? I just kind of started writing - like, this is very much a weirdly stream of consciousness unedited (key word there) piece. Hope you like it, whomever you are. This takes place in a world where even the sheer ridiculousness of 9-1-1 couldn't be forgiven. So yea, that thing that we all side-eyed the writers about didn't happen. (It probably helps that I stopped watching the show regularly in Season 6 I think?) It's also very much meant to have an open ended, reader not getting all the information, feel to it. Cause Frank's still very much not in a good headspace. I might do more with this. I might not. We'll see how it goes over. #37. Eyes. Frank Langdon & Bobby Nash.

“You okay there kid?”

Frank lifted his head quickly, somewhat startled, when a voice interrupted his intent examination of the pattern of the floor tiles covering the meeting room located in the back of the small Catholic church he had found nearby his new apartment. Exhausted blue eyes met a pair of friendly looking brown, set in a face that had just enough line definition near the mouth and eyes to indicate to Frank that he was looking at someone who had smiled, and probably frowned, a lot over the years.

The man looking down at him practically exuded kindness. That was immediate upon first glance; but, it was a very specific type of kindness. There was an underlying steel to him that Frank could see in his eyes. This was someone who was used to being listened to without question. Frank would bet that as kind as this man looked that he could also flip on a dime and be just as harsh when it was warranted.

It was like looking at Robby from before The Shift. It was a sight he hadn’t seen in six months.

And that was the thought that finally made him flinch.

“Kid?” the man prompted again, this time taking a seat next to Frank, with a growing look of concern. “You okay?”

Frank nodded, realizing he hadn’t answered and a good two minutes had passed, and cleared his throat to rasp out, “Yea. I’m good.”

There was a growing obvious concern in the older man’s expression as he looked Frank over and replied, “Really? Because the meeting ended fifteen minutes ago and you haven’t moved. Also, you have the look of someone who is clinging to their sobriety with both hands; except those hands are getting a little slippery.” Frank snorted at that and firmly shook his head, “No really. I’m good. I’m just waiting for the next meeting to start. I, uh, didn’t read the schedule properly. I thought the 5 o’clock was the NA meeting. Not the AA.”

The older man nodded slowly, looking for all the world as if he was getting comfortable in the very uncomfortable metal folding chairs that had probably been in the church since the 80s, and then he spoke, “Well, I’m sure you won’t mind if I hang out with you then. You look like you could use a buddy at the moment.”

Frank blinked in confusion at the statement. The last few months most people, outside of his therapist and Yolanda, had just taken his word about his state of mind. Frank assumed it was mostly because they very rarely seemed to want to actually be involved past a socially acceptable passing inquiry. What he wasn’t sure of was if that stemmed from general apathy for or acute dislike of him. Either way the result was that he had spent the last six months building up his walls once more, to where they hadn’t been since shortly after medical school, and not letting anyone other than his children past it.

Another man with sad brown eyes that had kindness and leadership pouring out of them was not going to break those walls down again.

Thoughts of his parents ice cold blue and sharp green, staring him down in disgust and disappointment. Abby’s hazel, radiating relief and glee as he sat in rehab staring at her in shock and horror. And Robby’s own deep brown, rage and nothing else shooting out at him that last night. Shaking the spiraling thoughts off Frank spoke again, slower and clearer this time desperately trying not to sound steady, “I’m fine. Really.”

“That’s good. But, I think I’ll still hang out with you,” the man responded, just simply shrugging and pulling his cell phone out. Frank watched him open what looked like his text message app; but couldn’t see what he wrote. Just the name Athena at the top.

“I wouldn’t want to bother you?” Frank answered softer this time, inadvertently turning what he meant to be a statement into a question. “No bother at all,” the still unnamed man assured him - texting away on his phone. “Anyway, I usually attend both of these meetings when I come here. I usually only go at the end of the month; I like to be there to celebrate people’s milestones. But, work’s been a little rough so it never hurts to give yourself a little refresher now and then when you need it.”

Frank nodded slowly and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as he tried to think of something else to get the, apparently also very stubborn, man to leave him alone, “Well, with the next meeting being an NA meeting you don’t need to stay for it.”

“That’s alright. I have past issues with both so when I do come I’ll attend both.”

“Okay then,” Frank breathed the words out and gave up his protesting; much more and it would begin to resemble Tanner having a pout. “I really am good,” Frank tried, once more, to reassure the older man; because ironically, the longer he sat quietly next to the reassuring presence the truer that statement was becoming.

“Yup. I believe you,” the older man stated in a dry tone, obviously just humoring Frank at this point. “Bobby Nash by the way,” he added, holding his hand out for Frank to shake. Frank stared at it for a moment and then slowly raised his own hand up to meet Bobby’s, and shook it, “Frank Langdon.”

“Well Frank. It is very nice to meet you,” Bobby greeted. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he added. “Are you new to this meeting? Or the program? Have you met anyone here yet?” he questioned somewhat gently and lacking any judgement in his voice.

Frank frowned and looked somewhere other than the floor or those new brown eyes for the first time all evening; he let himself take in the people milling around the room talking, drinking coffee and eating supermarket baked goods in cheap plastic containers. He could see people coming in and out the doors; probably smoking. Some people were straightening up a little; but nothing was being put away yet. But either way, everyone looked relaxed and comfortable.

He had been coming to this specific meeting hall every morning for three weeks; ever since he had arrived in Los Angeles. Only he usually just walked in, sat in the back, listened, got his paper signed and left. It’s what most people did at six in the morning - most of the attendees were dressed for work in everything from high end business attire to blue collar style work gear. Frank had even seen more than a few doctors or nurses based on the few hastily covered scrubs he could see underneath large sweatshirts. That meeting was about getting your head on straight and going about your business for the rest of the day.

He could hide at that meeting. But Frank had overslept and couldn’t risk missing work so he had quickly looked up an evening meeting; which put him here and now with this person, Bobby Nash, once again staring at him looking more and more concerned as the minutes ticked by and Frank still didn’t respond to his question. Another glance at his watch told him the NA meeting he had mixed up with the AA session wouldn’t start for another forty minutes - at 7pm.

“Both?” Frank responded with a shrug, somewhat resigned now to a conversation. “I moved to L.A. about three weeks ago,” Frank vaguely explained. “This is the closest location to my apartment and work. I just usually come in the morning.” Bobby frowned slightly, those eyes narrowing and looking distant as he thought, “The six o’clock meeting?”

“Yes. Why?” The older man breathed out and looked into Frank’s eyes, seeming to take the younger male apart piece by piece within seconds before asking, bluntly, in a tone that would not allow for a dishonest answer, “How long have you been sober?” Frank blinked and immediately replied, ”I’ve been out of rehab since February - so about eight weeks. Ninety days inpatient before that. Like I said, I’m fine.”

“That gives you a little less than five months,” Bobby said quietly, looking Frank in the eye, “You’re not fine at this moment. Maybe you will be in an hour; but since no one is going to force you to stay here until you’re not crawling the walls with cravings. I’ll hang out with you.”

Frank shrugged and, once again, wished he could slouch into the chair; but, he had finally gotten his back straightened out - somewhat literally - during rehab by a physical therapist and he had been avoiding damaging anything again, “Suit yourself.”

“It’s not any bother,” Bobby insisted, as if Frank hadn’t just shrugged him off and had instead effusively insisted he didn’t want to cause a problem. That his inner-self was starting to cook up some severe anxiety over disturbing this man’s plans was neither here nor there. “So what brings you to Los Angeles? You said you moved recently? This is a stressful time to lose a support system.”

“Yea,” Frank half agreed, letting his gaze drift back to the interesting patterned tile on the floor once again. He forced himself not to laugh at the idea of a support system in the first place.

After another minute or so to consider how to phrase his answer, Frank finally answered the question Bobby had asked, having long since stopped caring who knew anything about his fuck ups anymore, and he traced the swirls in the terracotta style tile with his eyes, “I hit rock bottom in November after a two month denial spiral. Finally went to rehab. Then on Thanksgiving my soon to be ex-wife surprised me with divorce papers on a visiting day. She said she gave them to me then since I had access to therapists there and they wouldn’t let me do anything too drastic.”

“I’m sorry,” Bobby replied, looking incredibly sad and Frank shrugged.

“It’s not so much the divorce itself,” Frank admitted. “I came to terms with that eventually. It’s that she lied to me about it. I walked into that rehab being reassured that everything would be good when I got out. And three weeks later I had papers that were dated from two months before I got hurt and started using.”

Bobby winced, “Oh.”

“Yea,” Frank agreed rolling his eyes. “Oh. I’m only in LA because I got out of rehab and found our house empty. She told me she couldn’t bring the kids to visit me because Pittsburgh to Manhattan was too big of a trip. Which, yes, she’s right. But really she was apparently moving my kids across the country to her parents house.”

Bobby frowned, narrowing his gaze in thought and just asked, “Is that even legal?”

“It becomes murky when your soon to be ex-wife’s father is a family court judge.”

“Yes. I definitely think I’ll hang out with you for a while,” Bobby insisted again, reaching over and giving Frank’s knee a strong reaffirming pat. “So Pittsburgh huh? I’m from Minnesota. I still kind of miss snow. How about you?”

And Frank blinked his eyes in surprise at the complete one-eighty turn in the conversation; but allowed himself to be dragged into a mindless chat about the local weather which turned into local sports which turned into local things to do with kids. And before Frank knew it he was calmed down, the meeting was starting and he no longer was considering how exactly he could possible get his hands on pills to calm the noise in his head.

“Told you you would be okay,” Bobby said seriously, after the meeting. “Here’s my number,” he added, handing Frank a business card for the LAFD that had another phone number scribbled in pen. “That’s my personal number. Call me if you need someone to talk to. You’re at the point where it’s really just about distracting yourself to get through the cravings. Stress doesn’t help.” Frank nodded and pocketed the card, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Also, that six o’clock meeting is designed for people with a lot longer sobriety than you. It’s more of a check-in then it is doing anything to encourage active recovery. Keep that in mind too please.”

“I will,” Frank agreed since he had actually listened for once this evening and felt a lot more settled after hearing people speak about their current struggles rather then things that had happened five or ten years earlier. “Have a good night.”

Bobby nodded and shook his hand again, “Goodnight kid.”

#ask response #writing prompt response #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #9 1 1 fanfiction #911 #Frank Langdon #Bobby Nash

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everlastingdreams · 1 year ago

Text

The Weeping Monk x Reader : Born In The Dawn Chapter 23

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Story Summary: Locked inside a dark room in a dungeon, kept alive only for your power, you believed you’d never see the daylight again. That is until the Weeping Monk finds his way down and steals you from your captors. It is the beginning of a journey that leads you through hardship and newfound hope, but nothing is assured in a world that is changing for the Fey. The magic that runs in your veins is drawing out the worst the world has to offer, does it include the man who pulled you from the dark?

Chapter Title: The Wrath Of The Gods

Notes: /

Warnings: !Grief!. !Violence!. Torture. !Sexual Assault!. !Rape Threat!. Gore. Enemies To Lovers. Pining. Trauma. Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Gore?. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn…

Word count of this fic: +190K

Chapter: 23/ It’s a secret.

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Lancelot fell over on his side. Your body caved in at the sight of it happening, “No! Please, no!!!”

The Hidden’s enraged voices took over all sound.

You fought to get to him before it was too late to save him with your magic, the Brothers used their combined strength to keep you on the floor.

They forced you to watch him suffer, blood streamed out of his chest fast and began to pool under him.

The many times you had screamed out his name were countless, it was like being in a haze.

It took longer for Lancelot to die than the others, and by the time it was over you sat defeated and drained on the cold tile floor. Your vision was blurred completely by the tears.

This was the Reaper’s way of motivating.

Soran was saying something, you heard not a word of what it was.

Your eyes did not move away from the Ash Man, your friend, that had met a cruel end.

Only when the Reaper knelt down in front of you did you hear, “Bring him back.”

You spat in his face in response.

Soran held back his anger and rose to his feet. “Unhand her.”

The Brothers let go off you immediately at his command.

Soran coldly said, “Change his fate. Or will you leave him to rot?”

With the shock going through your body, you did not trust your legs. You crawled to Lancelot, your knees were in the blood when you got to his side. “Lancelot…”

The leaf pattern that had risen to the surface of his neck, no longer looked green, they looked withered like leaves who had abandoned their tree long ago. A sob cruelly forced it’s why out of you at the sight of it, you couldn’t stop them from flowing out of you anymore, the agony had taken hold on your body in the worst way.

Soran had left the knife where it was, a cruel act.

You could not heal a person when a weapon was still in their heart, the Reaper must have known this.

It forced you to remove the knife from Lancelot’s heart, and doing so was the most awful thing.

The knife fell from your hands, you didn’t want to touch it ever again.

“I am so sorry.” You sobbed and touched his cheek.

It was testing the Reaper’s patience it seemed. “Stop wasting time!”

You felt physically ill, it did not stop you from cupping Lancelot’s face and quietly begging the Hidden for help. “Please… hear my plea… give me your strength.” The green glow overtook your eyes, “And I will be your summoner.”

The Hidden’s power surged through your veins at the offer and it felt almost too strong to bear.

This magic felt wrong, like the Old Gods themselves gave it to you with great reluctance.

Still, you selfishly took it from them. If they decide to punish you for it, so be it.

Your head began to hurt, and as the pain increased blood came from your nose.

Your vision blurred until all you saw was green and all you heard were the Hidden.

The Old Gods had accepted you as their summoner and took control, proving how powerful they could be.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♧~~~♡~~~♡~~~

The cold that enveloped you in the cell had you jolt back into consciousness.

Inside the cell it was dark and it only added to your disorientation. You tried to get up and your legs gave up immediately.

Gods… you were tired.

It felt like you had been trampled over by a horse. You crawled to the bars and held on to one. What had happened after you had lost control to the Hidden? Had they made you do the impossible? One thing was for certain, it had drained you.

An attempt to call out Lancelot’s name failed miserably, your voice was both too weak and too strained, his name changed into air instead of a word because of it.

Your throat hurt and your trousers were covered in blood. His blood…

They had left a meal for you, the soup was still warm. The grief made it difficult to swallow a sip of soup to fix your sore throat.

You drank some, no longer caring if it contained poison, you needed to catch your strength and the warm soup helped your throat.

When you called out for Lancelot, louder this time, you waited for a reply.

The wait lasted and you had never felt so alone. You put the soup down and knocked it over on purpose.

It was as if your body had shut down, there was no hunger or thirst anymore. There was no point to drinking soup to fix your throat if there was no one there to hear your call, at least no one that you cared about.

The Ash Man’s death was numbing.

The only feeling truly registering was of the cold iron bars against the side of your face.

You had not even heard them enter the dungeon and only noticed them when the group of Brothers stood outside your cell.

“She’s finally awake. Soran will be pleased.” These bastards sounded happy to find you alive. Even though they had left you in a cold dark cell unconscious.

The cell door was opened, and you were still too weak to get up off the floor.

It took two of them to tie your wrists and drag you out of the dungeon whilst the others helped.

They weren’t taking you to the dinning hall, it took too long and the route was different.

They opened the door to a bedchamber, the carpet flooring was softer to sit on when they left you there and locked the door. They didn’t even bother to help you sit on the bed, you sat on the floor, looking at it.

You didn’t know how much time had passed when the Reaper walked into the room, your mind was elsewhere.

He spoke his usual madness. “We control the balance of life and death.”

Your thoughts slowly returned to you, “What?”

Soran kept a small distance. “The Weeping Monk is alive.”

Your eyes snapped to him, it didn’t feel real, was he even telling the truth?

Your question was sharp, “Where is he?”

He was deliberately vague. “We are keeping him somewhere else right now to see how well your magic has worked.”

You tried to get up from the floor and managed to do so by using one of the bed posts as support. “I want to see him!”

Soran had not expected the news to fuel you so. “I was right to believe in the legend of the Dawn Folk.”

You hated that he had been right. “This is wrong!”

He stepped closer, hand close to a knife on his belt, “Did you consider it wrong when you brought the Monk back from the dead? No. You are willing to defy the odds if it serves your purpose, just like I am.”

How dared he compare himself to you?!

You were tired of his blatant attempts to try and get you to join his cause. “I will not damn my people for you! The Hidden gave me the power to save a Fey. They make it no secret that they are the gods of the Fey and not of Manbloods. This sort of magic is against the rules of nature itself!”

Soran knew how weak you were after such use of your powers, he took the opportunity to get physically closer. “ In a few decades, a new Brotherhood will be born of the Dawn Folk. Half-bloods, but your legacy will spread and bring victory to the Church. My warrior blood, mixed with yours.”

It was the final insult to your clan, for them to become what had caused their erasure. He would turn them into murderous monsters, they would be able to heal and bring each other back from the dead, an enemy to be feared. Even one Dawn Folk child would be enough to heal the Brothers for years to come and ensure that the Brotherhood grows in power.

He continued to try and act like this was normal. To try and… charm you? Did he truly think you could ever fall in love with him??

He tried to caress your cheek and you quickly moved away, using the bed as support.

You tried to get that idea of of his head before it lead to trouble. “The Church will never accept Feys as allies!”

Soran was unwavering in his belief. “You saw how Father Carden used his Weeping Monk, his name is feared among the Fey. Not even the Holy Father will disapprove when the Dawn Folk rises to bring us glory. The Brotherhood will be undefeatable, Dawn Folk will heal their brethren.”

The danger he posed to you was evident.

You fed him doubt, “What if I can’t carry children? Have you ever thought of that in your ‘great’ plan?!”

He did not care for the torment it would put you through, his eyes were on the goal. “We will try. Your gods are no strangers to using their powers to assure the Fey are surviving. And I know the secret to children of the Dawn Folk. A full moon.”

It was a long kept secret among your people that all Dawn Folk children were conceived on a night with a full moon, that was the key. If the Reaper knew, it meant one of the Dawn Folk must have told him.

Soran had not a glimmer of real compassion in his eyes. “Think of my offer. You could become the most powerful woman in the lands at my side.”

He was truly delusional.

Finally you got back some strength in your legs and used the bedpost as support to try and take some steps away. “The only thing I would become is a monster!”

You noticed how he kept his hand close to the belt that held the knives across his chest.

He tried to reason, “In time you would be seen as a saint. Your children will save many.”

“Many bastards of your Brotherhood!” You snarled.

There was a change in his eyes.

Your instincts kicked in and with the little strength in your legs, you bolted to the door and actually reached it.

But the Reaper’s reflexes were fast, he pushed it shut before you could open it enough and trapped you between his body and the door.

Panicked, you hit him with your elbow and tried to turn around.

He shoved you with your front against the door, and even now he acted like he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “Shhh… do not fight.”

You wished he wouldn’t feel you tremble, but he was too close not to.

Soran seemingly believed you could be persuaded. “I intend to keep you alive, to offer you an existence outside of locked doors, something the Church will not offer you. All I ask is that you surrender yourself to me.”

It was obvious what he wanted, he had made that very clear these past few days.

And you weren’t willing to have this bastard anywhere near you, let alone carrying his children and letting him have your body to use.

You struggled against his hold. “Go to hell!”

He gave a sneer, “Only the Fey are headed there.”

You gave your own back, “I will do one thing for the Dawn Folk. I will survive you.”

Some of his anger slipped out, he took hold of the back of your head and slammed your temple against the door. Hard.

Right afterwards, while tears began to brim in the corners of your eyes, he acted like it was your fault.

“Stop making me take these measures.” He warned and began to move your vest up.

The panic truly settled in when he touched your lower back and the waistband of your trousers.

No. No. No…

You used the strength of your wrists bound together to try and push back to no avail. “Get off of me!”

He coldly dismissed the protest. “It will not take long, stop struggling.”

It only made you struggle more and than a knife was near your eye.

The bastard threatened, “Remember, I do not need all of you. You do not need your eyes to use your magic or have children.”

Oh, you dearly wished that the knife was in your hands instead, you wouldn’t be threatening…

By trying to hold back tears, you wanted him to know that he wouldn’t break you. Not when his hand groped your chest and not when he tried to take off your trousers.

The fury that flared up inside of you was the thing that kept you from shattering.

He did not care when you began to quietly ask your gods to give you their strength.

Maybe he should have cared.

The voices of the Hidden filled the air and Soran all of a sudden stumbled backwards and away from you.

Their aggressive intervention came with the whisper of your title.

~“Summoner.”~

“What are you doing?!” He regained his footing fast but it was clear that he was in pain.

Was that… panic you saw in his eyes?

You had no idea what was happening or what the Hidden had done.

“Brothers!” He called out, the panic audible in his tone.

Two of them entered the room at his call, quite baffled to see their leader half-buckled over in pain.

“Soran-” One tried to speak.

Fury burned in the Reaper. “Take her back to her cell! Now!”

You heard the Reaper curse as they dragged you out of that room again.

The Hidden had kept their promise to you as a summoner. The ancient power of Festa and Moreii was their gift to your acceptance. And what better use for it than making the Reaper regret all he had done to you.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~♤~~~♡~~~♡~~~

Hours passed in the cell again, and you were yet to see if it was true that Lancelot was alive. Where were they keeping him? Was there another part to the dungeon you had not seen yet? Or was it a lie the Reaper had told to pacify you?

You still felt his hands on your skin, and in the darkness of the cell you could let the tears flow.

Your shocked state, huddled up in the corner, did not alarm the Brothers who passed.

“They say our leader’s steel is damaged.” One whispered.

Steel?… Oh.

“Do you think… she did it?” The other wondered.

They looked in the direction of your cell with great suspicion.

Good. Let them fear.

The bastards were cruel enough to take the torch that provided little light and moved it to a holder on a wall further away.

Their footsteps rescinded and you heard them close the iron door that led to the stairs.

It was both frightening and comforting to be in the darkness alone. At least they left you alone there.

You leaned your head against the wall, hiding far at the end in a corner of the cell.

Another hour passed, then a Brother came over with a stale looking piece of bread.

“Got you something to eat, Fey.” He put it down on the floor, putting his arm between the bars to do so.

When you gave no response and didn’t even look, the Brother whistled.

His pathetic attempt at comforting could not hide the threat under it. “Come now. It will only get worse for you if you behave like this, Soran can do a lot worse than what he wants to do with you. Give him what he wants.”

You didn’t want to waste the little energy left in you on this bastard and continued to ignore his existence.

The Brother sighed. “Can’t say I didn’t warn ya. All you had to do was open your legs.”

It really made it hard to hold your tongue and not call him every horrible name you could think off.

Your eyes never left that strange dirty spot on the wall.

You heard him take a couple of steps away and past the cell, and then a loud thud, it made you jump a little

You looked and saw the Brother face down on the ground.

The steel of a blade had cut across his neck and send the Brother to the floor whilst he bled out rapidly.

The next thing you registered was a sword sinking down into his back and withdrawing from it.

You had not moved a muscle, like your body was frozen in place.

It was strange to know that you knew who stood in the shadows outside your cell just by the way he walked and moved.

The door of your cell was unlocked seconds later. Your mind was slow to process it all and slowly you rose to stand.

Lancelot stood in the doorway, like something had stopped him.

Even in the dark he could see enough of your face to know that you had been crying. Your eyes were haunting.

He spoke your name, gentle and with relief.

You couldn’t believe the miracle that stood before you.

This was the second time the Ash Man had opened the door to freedom for you, this time you were actually glad to see his face.

And only the heavens knew how it gave you a surge of energy strong enough to cross the small distance and breach the line that had once been.

You reached for his aketon and latched yourself onto him, feeling the warmth of his body and considering it a blessing after having it felt cold and lifeless.

Tears ran their path down your cheeks and unto his clothing. There were things you wished to say, but you couldn’t get a word out.

Never before had he felt arms hold him like this, another being willing to blend into him.

After the cold hold of death he had experienced, the warm hold of life was more than welcome.

The Ash Man’s response was delayed by only seconds, then his arms came around and brought you in closer.

No one had ever held you like this before, in an embrace that felt like it could protect you against the ocean’s strongest wave within a storm, with your head cradled in his hand while he vowed that you would have your freedom again.

You weren’t afraid to hold him tight, murmuring into his shoulder. “The Hidden brought you back to us.”

Lancelot couldn’t stop stroking the back of your head with his fingers. “You brought me back.”

It was your voice he remembered pleading for his life.

He explained how he freed himself, “That hairpin was useful indeed.”

With great reluctance you broke away and took the smallest step back, he took the moment to cut the ropes from your wrists.

You noticed the second sword at his side, “Found those?”

He handed it to you. “One for you. I ‘found’ keys as well.”

He found it all on the one that had been guarding the door to the cell they had kept him in. He could only try to pick the lock when the Brother guarding his cell was asleep. The man was snoring like a boar seconds before he died.

Next thing you knew, Lancelot was steering your chin to the side as his eyes focused on your face, “Did he do that?”

He could see the discoloring on your temple.

It took you a second to realize he must be seeing a bruise from when Soran had slammed your head against the door. “He…”

Your throat tightened like a cord had wrapped around it.

He feared the worst, hot white rage boiled in his veins, “What else did he do?”

“Nothing.” You didn’t know why you lied, maybe because it felt humiliating.

By steering your chin again, he made you look at him as he searched your eyes.

It was that that made you try to tell the truth. “He tried to… but the Hidden helped me.”

You didn’t need to say more, he understood what it had meant.

He cupped your neck, the burning fury carried his vow, “I am going to kill him.”

For now, all you wanted was to leave this place behind. “No. We need to get out of here.”

It was like his mind sprung into action seconds before he did. He took hold of your arm. “Stay close to me.”

You let him lead you out of the cell, it was easy to tell that he had some idea as to where he was going. “Where did they-”

He quickly hushed you before it would alert the enemy.

As you followed him, you had to step over the bodies of the Brothers that had crossed his path whilst he had made his way to your cell.

He plucked a torch from the wall and used it to set fire to the wooden pillars you passed.

“What are you doing?!” You whispered.

Lancelot continued to strategically set them alight. “Burning this fort will force them out and offer distraction.”

He steered you along, and away from the fire.

The keys he had taken from one of them were put to use on a door that lead into a narrow pathway, he locked it behind you. He wasn’t guiding you out of the dungeon the way the Brothers had been doing so.

The pathway ended with another door and opened to a dungeon where many rodents had their home.

It looked far worse than the one you had been kept in.

He shared a look, and while passing a cell he pointed to the dead Brother he had left inside of it.

They had kept him there…

You gave a look that told him you understood.

A vague sound came from the direction you had come from, then a loud bang was heard. They were trying to break through the doors that had been locked to keep the flames behind you.

“They know.” Lancelot said and urged you to follow.

He walked faster and led you to a narrow stairwell. You followed him up the steps, sensing he no longer knew where to head now.

He searched through the keys to find the one that would open the gate at the top of the steps and let the two of you out of the dungeon. He was visibly stressed.

You touched his arm, hoping it would calm him somewhat.

Lancelot took a deep breath and focused on the keys, finally finding the right one that unlocked the gate.

It was impossible to ignore how many times he had touched your arm now, as if he constantly feared that you would disappear from his side.

Oh, how things had changed. Once you had hated this, now if felt quite nice.

Past the gate it was a completely different world to be in. The fort was warmer than the dungeon below, but it was also swarming with members of the Brotherhood and you knew that any loud sound could cost you your freedom again or worse.

He wanted to turn to a hallway on the right but you stopped him, that one lead to the large stairs that they had dragged you up to bring you to that bedchamber.

You could see him take a deep breath through his nose.

If he could smell a breeze that would lead him the way to an exit…

Lancelot tilted his head, deciding to take the route ahead instead.

The urge to run out of there was strong, but it would make too much sound. The only thing you could do was walk faster than usual. A door was opened in the distance, Lancelot quickly opened one nearby and upon finding the room empty he moved you with him inside of it.

It was pitch dark inside, the only shimmer of light came from the torchlight passing under the door.

The both of you stood against it and listened.

A group didn’t walk by, they ran by. They must be on their way to the dungeons to find you and help their Brothers.

Lancelot waited a few seconds longer, than opened the door again.

The plan was to continue the path ahead, but there were so many voices coming from there that you pulled him into the direction you had come from.

He took the torches off the wall and set the large curtains in the hallway alight.

You pulled a curtain down and draped it on the floor across the width of the hallway, “Put the torch to it, it will give us time.”

Smart.

He set fire to the curtain on the floor, and then followed your lead.

You remembered a little from the path to that bedchamber, there had been two other stairwells, one that led up and one that led down.

The size of the stairs took up the width of the entire hallway. Such a big fort must have multiple exists, there had to be.

Once up the higher floor, you hurried to the stairwells that were right next to each other.

You were about to begin descending the ones leading down, when you heard voices coming from below.

Lancelot shared a look with you, you were already rushing over to the curtains and pulling one down while he took a torch again.

You let some of the curtain drape over the first few steps, than he put to torch to it.

The castle was already starting to smell of smoke, the old wooden floor would not survive for long.

Lancelot took you by the hand and pulled you up the stairwell that went a floor higher again. “I can smell the sea.”

That meant you were close to getting out of there…

At the top of the stairwell was a heavy wooden door and you could hear the sea at the other side of it.

None of the keys he had on hand worked and the two of you ended up having to use your swords to get the door to budge, then Lancelot put his shoulder against the door a couple of times and broke it down.

Heavy wind and rain almost pushed the door shut in your face again, luckily the Ash Man anticipated it and kept it open. He let you step outside first and you couldn’t care less that the rain was enough to soak through your clothes in minutes.

The rain mixed with the dried blood on Lancelot’s aketon and cloak. The moonlight was the only thing offering light, the sea around you would have appeared as a black abyss otherwise. You were at the top of the castle’s keep, fear had no place in you anymore when hearing the sound of the sea around you and the wind going through your clothes.

Fire was breaking through the windows in multiple places throughout the castle and it was spreading with aggression. For a moment you wondered if the flames were somehow connected to the one who had created them. If the Hidden made your healing magic stronger, who was to say that they did not make their summoner of the Ash Folk stronger as well?

Lancelot stood not far from you, his eyes fixed on the flames down below.

You faintly heard the Hidden, and deep down you knew that the flames were not just born from fire, but from fury as well.

While you were looking around to reach the alure of the castle walls, the heavy door Lancelot had shut behind him was kicked open.

The Reaper had managed to avoid the flames that had begun to fill the hallway where his bedchamber was located, by fleeing for his life he had chosen the same route you had taken.

The sword was already in Soran’s hand, still he seemed surprised to see you and Lancelot there.

Immediately, Lancelot stepped in front of you.

This bastard would have to crawl over his corpse before he would ever get to lay a hand on you again.

The Reaper watched the flames destroy his Brotherhood, then looked at the one responsible for it. “If Father Carden had seen this, he would have given the order for your execution himself.”

Lancelot fought back the response it caused in him and spoke to you over his shoulder, “Go. I’ll distract him.”

You weren’t going to leave his side again, especially not when he was facing the Reaper in battle. “No.”

There was a sword in your hand, you weren’t running from this.

Soran offered a chance to the Ash Man, “Hand her over and I will see past this.”

Lancelot scoffed, a wry smile formed. “I will not.”

The coldness in the Ash Man’s tone put ice to shame.

Soran took some steps closer. “I only offer, because I know how she will suffer once I kill you. Permanently, this time.”

Even now, he was trying to blackmail others into submission, while his fort was burning to the ground and none of his Brothers were there to aid him. The confidence the Reaper displayed worried you, he showed no fear.

Soran got closer, warning you of what it meant to fight him, “I have trained the strongest of men, the Trinity Guard’s skill is no match for the Brotherhood and neither is yours, Brother.”

“I am not your ‘Brother’!” Lancelot’s tone was sharp.

The Reaper spun the sword in his hand. “You’re right. You betrayed us and now you will suffer the consequences of it.”

Lancelot did not let Soran get closer and faced the inevitable battle head on.

You knew he was doing it to try and keep Soran at a distance from you. The Ash Man was walking to the blade to protect you from the monster that wielded it…

Lancelot was the first to lunge and saw Soran move skillfully to avoid the blade.

The Reaper was not the sort to fight fair, the knives he carried on him weren’t there for decoration, he drew one and tried to cut Lancelot’s arm with it.

It was anticipated by the Ash Man, he had seen him reach for it and punched Soran in the jaw after avoiding the knife.

He had to duck to avoid Soran’s sword cutting off his head, the bastard did manage to land a kick against his stomach that send him stumbling back.

You attacked the Reaper, aiming to disarm him.

Soran blocked your sword with his, but you took him off-guard by striking him across the face with your fist.

He hooked his sword with yours, forcing you closer and then he moved his elbow in a quick motion, it struck your jaw and nose.

Only a few ‘things’ of you were necessary to him, others could be damaged… he had been truthful about that.

That blow to the face landed you on the ground, leaving you disoriented for a moment.

Liquid ran over your lips and you realized blood was running down from your nose.

The fight was still going on and you pushed yourself to your feet, feeling some vertigo hit as you did.

Soran was trying to get Lancelot closer to the edge of the keep, undoubtedly to make him fall. He attacked Lancelot, using the sword as a distraction to aim the knife for the heart of the Ash Man again.

Lancelot was strong enough to grab Soran’s arm to prevent it, but the Reaper took solace with sinking the knife into his shoulder instead.

He gave Soran a push, who left the knife lodged where it was.

You saw Lancelot pull the knife out of his shoulder. The knife was worse enough, but you saw where he was standing.

You ran up to the Reaper, sensing what he was about to do.

That rotten filth had lunged at Lancelot with the sword, Lancelot blocked it with ease, but he could not defend himself against the second kick he got from the Reaper.

He lost his footing and stumbled backwards. As a last effort to save himself from falling down to the rocks below, Lancelot held on to the edge of the keep with his hands.

Dangling from the wall, he had little chance to pull himself up again, Soran was quick to go and step on his hand so it would let go.

You charged at Soran and slammed your body into his side to knock him over, when he hit the ground you reached for Lancelot’s arm to help.

You had only took hold of his arm for a few seconds when you were ripped away from him by the Reaper who pulled you away from the edge.

He clearly didn’t want to risk you falling to your death. “Stay away from the edge, you are still needed.”

You elbowed him in the side and broke free, only to be grabbed by him again.

He held on while you struggled against him. “I will let you watch how the Weeping Monk shatters his skull on the rocks below!”

The Reaper was determined in not letting you escape from his sight and steered you with him to where Lancelot was hanging on for dear life.

And then Soran saw that the Ash Man was no longer hanging on to the edge.

Soran had made the mistake of turning his back on Lancelot, his priority should have been with him, not you.

You knew that there wasn’t enough time for you to pull Lancelot to safety, but what you could do was touch his arm and heal his injuries, making him strong enough again to save himself.

Then all that need to be done was distract the Reaper to buy him time. To move in Soran’s grasp so he would not be facing the edge.

Soran must have thought Lancelot had fallen, because it took him three counts before the truth of the matter set in and he realized he had been tricked.

Lancelot’s sword came down on Soran’s arm, and severed his lower arm from his elbow.

It fell to the ground at your feet and you instantly felt the hold on you disappear.

You broke free and created a distance.

The sight of the severed arm did shake your stomach a bit.

Without a sword, and horribly wounded, Soran was powerless when Lancelot stabbed him through the heart.

Lancelot twisted the blade and then withdrew it.

The blood mixed with the rain and it made for a gruesome sight.

Soran fell down next to his arm, and his dying breaths told you that he was choking on his own blood.

The silence that soon followed felt strange. You never thought you would be looking down at the Reaper’s corpse one day.

Lancelot stopped in front of you and wrapped a hand around your upper arm, then he moved closer, “Are you hurt?”

You could only shake your head, to lost for words by what had transpired.

Something on the ground reflected in the moonlight.

Soran’s ring…

“That ring… if we show it to the Fey…” You offered him the idea.

With the ring, they would be more inclined to believe him when he would tell them he had killed the Reaper.

Lancelot went over to retrieve the ring from the severed arm, while focusing his thoughts on something else and not on the fact that he was stealing from the dead.

He pocketed the ring and came back to you. “We need to go.”

You agreed with him on that and together you made your way over to the alure of the castle walls in search of a safe way down to ground. From the direction you were heading into, shouts were heard. You shared a look with Lancelot, knowing that the way back only led to fire.

He knew what had do be done to survive, “We have to jump.”

It was a long fall down into the sea and you weren’t keen on that plan at all, “Are you bloody mad?!”

Lancelot sheathed his sword, took you by the arm and steered you to the edge of the wall in between the battlements. “We jump or we die.”

Even his own faith in the plan seemed to falter for a blink when looking down at the sea that was only illuminated by the full moon.

The voices sounded closer, this had to be done.

“Dammit…” You cursed and sheathed your sword too. “You first?”

Lancelot managed to grin. “You lead, I follow.”

Oh, so now he had no problem with someone else taking charge.

“You’d better.” You warned and stepped to the edge.

It took a lot of your courage to make the jump into the depths below.

The fall went faster than you had anticipated and you hit the water, you swam to the surface right away.

Just as you reached the surface, the Ash Man hit the water on your right.

It were a couple of worrisome seconds until he came above the water as well.

Together you swam to shore and were grateful that the sea was calm compared to the rain and wind.

You crawled unto the sand, tired from the healing and the swim.

Even Lancelot struggled to get to his feet, when he did he looked back and saw the castle burning like the sun in the night sky.

You looked as well, seeing the flames claim all of the fort without mercy.

A deep sigh of relief left you, and for a moment all you focused on was the water moving around your body whilst laying in the sand.

A castle burning in the midst of night was sure to draw attention.

There was no time to rest. Some of the Brotherhood would escape the flames.

Lancelot held out a hand for you to take. “We have to leave this place. Others will see the flames from afar.”

You sighed and let him help you up, vertigo set in again and you had to lean into his side to keep yourself steady.

He did not complain, your magic had been what saved him, “Can you still walk?”

“Depends on how far we are talking about.” You admitted, “Did they take Goliath when they took you?”

He shook his head. “I send him away before they could try to take him too.”

In other words, you had no horse.

Lancelot didn’t let the newfound hope escape. “There have to be horses nearby. They brought us here on wagons…”

“Use your nose?” You made the suggestion.

He deadpanned. “Hard to smell anything besides the ashes in the air.”

Still, he tried to inhale deep and slow a couple of times.

After coughing the scent of smoke out of his lungs, he said, “I can smell a stable.”

“You can smell the wood and horses?” You frowned while letting him help you walk.

An actual chuckle fell from him, light as air, “I can smell the manure, and now with the rain the scent is strong.”

Gods, and you had even asked him to smell it…

The small laugh escaping you felt wonderful. “Lovely.”

His chuckling increased until he composed himself. He helped you walk over the rocks that had washed ashore over time. All of a sudden he stopped you and turned you to look at him, before you could question it, he made you tilt your head backwards to inspect the damage to your nose.

“I wish I could heal you.” He stated and let go, something akin of remorse was in his eyes.

You wouldn’t hear it, he had done more than enough. “I will live. Don’t you worry about me, Ash Man.”

It was one of the few things he could not do.

The sound of horses neighing reached your ears, they must have noticed the fire too. Lancelot helped you walk towards the sound until the vertigo you felt lessened. The sight of the burning fort against the dark sky and between the rain and wind was imposing.

You found the stables at the beginning of the stone pathway that had led to the fort. A wagon with horse stood outside of it and you left Lancelot’s side to go to the poor animal waiting for it’s rider alone.

Lancelot walked by and went into the stables. “Call out if you see or hear anything.”

You gave a nod, and saw how the horse was clearly glad to see someone.

He had left the door of the stables open, a few horses suddenly darted out and headed for the woods. You looked and saw that there were still other horses inside of the stables and that the Ash Man was cutting their reins loose. He was freeing them. Once he was done, Lancelot came out of the stables and joined you by the wagon.

This wagon equipped with a bonnet would be very useful, especially in this weather.

“We are taking the wagon?” You guessed his plan.

He gave a nod, “I’ll ride.” And steered you to the back of the wagon. “Up you go. Careful.”

You almost envied how energetic he was from the healing he had received from you twice, because you barely managed to get yourself up on the wagon, it took two attempts.

On the second attempt, he offered his shoulder for you to use and supported your elbow with one hand while using his other to make sure you didn’t fall.

And that was where it got him into trouble…

His hand was on your back until you were halfway up the wagon. And his attention had been on getting you safely onto the wagon, not on where his hand landed next.

When you felt it touch your rear, you were on that wagon in a blink.

The last thing he wanted was to make you think it was on purpose, that he would use the situation to…

He quickly began to apologize, “Forgive me, I did not mean to-”

You stopped him. “I know.”

The experience with the Reaper was still fresh on your mind, and you could not hide the look in your eyes from the Ash Man. Your mind had went back to the moment, and it took you a few seconds to feel Lancelot’s eyes on your face.

Not a word was shared when you looked at him, he knew…

With some reluctance, he stepped away from the back of the wagon and headed to the front.

You saw him climb up into the seat and take the reins, “Have you ever rode a wagon before?”

No…

“Do not worry.” He eased your mind while trying to sound confident.

He would do the worrying on his own.

Luckily, some of the wagon’s bonnet covered him from the rain as well.

And by the answer, you knew it would be an interesting ride.

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#the weeping monk #lancelot #weeping monk #cursed netflix #weeping monk x reader #cursed #lancelot x reader #weeping monk x you #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #daniel sharman character #daniel sharman

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repeatsquared · 7 months ago

Text

A Life for a Life - 4

Chapter 3 Recap: After an interview from the police and healing for a few days from injuries, Alex finds themself facing crowds of interviewers trying to get an inside scoop, fear of the new change and what that could mean for them, and a surprising invite from a coworker.

Word Count: 1,944

Trigger Warning: Non-graphic violence, drinking, isolation

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

When 6 o'clock came they were already waiting in the lobby. The two women were still at reception, chatting amongst themselves and gathering their belongings. Another man sat near Alex, in one of the plush armchairs resting against the glass.

Lucas. He had an office - not just a cubicle - sitting on the second to top floor. He wore a deep blue suit, black undershirt, and a red tie. His skin obviously wore an artificial tan, given from the pale circles around his eyes, clashing with his bleached blonde hair. They had never gotten along, yet they managed to avoid animosity over the years.

Lucas paid no mind to Alex, instead focusing in on his phone, scrolling through loud videos that almost echoed around the room. It was either out of pure ignorance or a show of some kind. Either way, Alex did their best to tune it out, favoring the look of their scuffed leather shoes tapping quietly on the tile floor.

Gracie arrived late, accompanied by two more people. They headed towards the seating area, catching the attention of Alex, who promptly stood, and had to wait until Lucas finished one of his many videos. He only stood after insisting on showing it to a Gracie and the other man with her, standing with a sigh to sling an arm around her shoulders.

"We ready, babe?" He didn't wait for an answer, shooting an impossibly bright smile to the man. "Hey, Jacob, your bitch meeting up with us? She was fun last time.'

"Hey man, don't say that shit," despite the protest, Jacob was laughing, staring straight down at his phone. "She'll be there, don't worry. Let's get going, yeah?"

They fell into a pattern of chatter, gathering themselves and heading to the door. Alex stayed in the back, and quiet, unsure of whatever bar had been chosen.

"What, the nerd's coming with us?" Lucas murmured in a not-so-quiet whisper to Gracie, earning him a swift slap to the chest. "Oh come on, think they're hot shit cause they-"

"So, Alex, have you ever been to The Tap Room?" Lucas' smile dropped, instead replaced with something closer to a grimace, annoyed at the interruption from Gracie.

"Can't say I have." Alex reached up, scratching the back of their head. "I don't get out much." They shot a weak smile, an attempt at reassurance. They weren't expecting the others to be as accepting of their presence. If it got bad enough they would just leave.

"Ohhh, it's so nice! Lucas is a VIP, so we get a pretty nice table whenever we go." Gracie continued on, only stopping when pulled snug to his side.

"Yeah, I give 'em a lot of business, so that's how they repay me," he sighed, as if going out drinking was taxing. "Take some of my incoming clients there. Y'ever take clients out like that, Alex?"

Alex didn't answer, diverting their gaze and glancing around at people they passed on the sidewalk. This was already a stern reminder why they never did this sort of thing.

Their silence was rewarded with no more pointed questions, and the group fell into the same chatter as before. Alex felt calmer, raising their gaze from the cracked concrete in favor of glancing at people passing by, the tightly packed buildings, cars honking and getting stuck in rush hour traffic. Despite their desire for silence, they always loved the sounds of the city.

What they didn't love was the sound of bars. Looking back on it, the only bar they had ever visited was a shabby, quiet one filled with a handful of locals at their hometown. Their mother had insisted on it for their "coming-of-age" party. It was easier back then, feigning interest enough to enjoy themself.

The Tap Room felt much too expensive for a name like that. Alex had expected a rather shabby bar. Sticky floors, drab interior, the works. Instead, it was filled with vibrant LED lighting, a long and sleek black bar, coupled with four bartenders calmly moving around one another to make drinks. It was relatively quiet, save for light chatter between groups and pop music playing over the speakers. The air felt stiff.

Alex couldn't help their eyes from wandering all over the room, taking notice of mirrors and a significant lack of decoration. The lights seemed to take care of most of it, all colors of the rainbow pulsing rhythmically along with the music.

They were almost immediately led straight back, towards the back wall where three black doors sat. There were no numbers of indicators on them, and the only semblance of decoration was a black handle. It opened to reveal a very short hallway, and a curtain. Alex couldn’t understand the desperate need for this amount of privacy, especially during such a public activity.

Behind the black curtain was a much version of the rest of the club. LED lights colored the room, which was largely dominated by a couch, curved into an incomplete ellipse. A smaller, also circular, table sat in front of it. The rest of the room was fairly plain, no decoration. It almost felt sad to waste such a nice space with such bland design.

Lucas walked in first, waving a hand to send Gracie into the middle. He followed suit, with the other woman (who Alex had yet to be introduced to) taking the other side of Gracie. Alex slid in next to her, keeping a comfortable, but not awkward, distance, with Jacob sitting across from them, next to Lucas.

”Alex, what sort of thing do you like to drink?” Gracie called, shooting a wide smile. She didn’t seem to notice the arm Lucas wrapped around her shoulder, bringing her in a bit tighter.

“Oh, uh,” Alex blanked, staring down at the table for a moment. It had been a while since they had a drink. “Gin and tonic?” They eventually decided, giving a slight strung.

“I’ve never been able to stand those, I like the fruity drinks.” She laughed, the other woman following suit. “You okay if I pay for you? As a thanks to you coming out.”

“That’s alright, you really don’t ha-“

“Yeah, Grace, don’t worry about it.” Lucas cut them off, his eyes burning holes into Alex’s. “Hot shot over here can take care for themselves.”

Alex felt their face burn, looking away in shame. Of course this was how it would be. It was stupid of them to think that this time would be any different.

“Cut it out, Lucas, leave them alone,” Gracie hissed out, shrugging his arm off of her shoulders. “I’m gonna pay for your drink, okay?” She smiled again, and Alex couldn’t help the flutter in their chest.

“Okay. Thank you.” They smiled, now avoiding the piercing stare of her partner.

Alex sat in silence as they ordered on a small tablet in the room, and gave no protest to the drink being purchased for them. The drinks were served quickly, passed out to each person. They sipped at the drink, clutching it between two hands as if it would be taken away if it hit the table again. This time, they were incorporated into light discussions regarding the company, though personal gossip is when they fell back into silence.

Jacob gradually became more agitated, checking his phone often. Eventually he declared that his girlfriend wouldn’t be coming, much to Lucas’ disdain. They continued on without her, however hard it was. Alex couldn’t comprehend the desire for such a “party animal” when the company of Gracie had been pleasant. She was kind, chatty, and funny, more than they could say about any of the other three at the table.

“Do you want another? Or something else?” Gracie began offering almost immediately after their glass emptied, already reaching for the tablet.

“No, no, I’m all good.” Alex waved a hand, still holding onto the glass. “I don’t drink often, so I just wanna have a clear head on the walk back home.”

She narrowed her eyes, though it wasn’t in the typical judgmental way that they had grown accustomed to. Playful. It made them smile.

“Anyways, I think I’m gonna head off.” They set the glass down, standing and gathering their jacket. “Thank you, I appreciate the invitation. And the drink. I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Oh, of course!” She started to stand, attempting to move overtop of her partner. “Here, let me walk you out-“

“All good, babe, I got it,” Lucas placed a hand on her shoulder, pushing her back into the seat. He stood, narrowed eyes staring into Alex’s once more. “Come on, I’ll help you get a cab.”

Alex’s throat ran dry, but they merely nodded, shooting an awkward wave to Gracie before following Lucas back out of the room.

The club had grown more lively by then, and so did the rest of the street. They began to take notice of the bars lining the road, ones they had previously never acknowledged before. It was an interesting realization. It was easy to get drowned out into the sound.

Following Lucas was easy, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Most people were dressed in business casual or club attire, while his full suit and bleached hair acted like a neon locator. He walked towards the street, pausing to wave a hand.

“Don’t talk to her again.” He stated, turning to stare down at Alex. “I mean it.”

They stared into the street, hands fidgeting. They didn’t want to meet those eyes again. “She talked to me.” The murmur barely left their lips, and they were shocked Lucas could even hear them.

The man almost immediately grabbed onto to the collar of their shirt, dragging them only a few inches from his face. “The fuck did you say to me?” He hissed out, spittle landing on Alex’s nose. “Watch yourself. You’re lucky she’s in there or I’d lay you out. Just because your stupid ass got lucky doesn’t make you hot shit. Got it?”

Alex stared at his nose, painfully aware of their hands trembling at their sides. “Got it.” Their voice shook with each syllable, barely over a whisper.

Lucas scoffed, pushing them back a couple feet. “Pussy. Knew you didn’t have the balls to do that shit.” He spat the words out like venom, turning to walk off.

Alex clenched their fists, still shaking, though now out of anger. They didn’t think, their brain working on its own, moving their legs straight after the man. The weren’t going to tolerate it anymore, the judgement and abuse. They had stood up for themselves before, and they could do it again.

“Hey, Lucas!” They called, reaching out a hand to grab his shoulder. Their lips parted to call out another sentence, but the words were lost as a fist crashed into their cheekbone, just under their eye. They rocked backwards, stars flooding their vision.

They couldn’t focus, head spinning from pain, anger, embarrassment. It was almost a shock when they weren’t struck again, instead left lying on the ground for a few moments.

Their head spun, eye throbbing. Tears stung their vision, and it was all they could do to not break down into tears right then and there. Not with all of the people around them, not when they could be seen.

Alex let out a shaky breath as they pushed up, one hand grabbing onto their ribs and the other gently pressed against the goose egg swelling onto their face. Head down, they looked towards the blinding lights of the street, releasing their ribs to wave down a cab.

It was time to leave.

Chapter 5

#hero oc #oc #original character #short story #villain oc #villain x civilian #writing #a life for a life #enemies to lovers #fiction

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