#But the Thirteen did not need his caution or his help.

[acourtofquestions]

"And who, exactly, are you?"

Dorian gave the witch one of those charming smiles and sketched a bow. "Dorian Havilliard, at your service."

"The king," one of the Crochans murmured from near the wyverns.

Dorian winked. "That I am, too."

[imeternallylove]

Secret - S.Holmes; part nine

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Genre: purely angst, upcoming age and some smut

Warning: none

Word: 4.2k

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

prologue | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven | part twelve | part thirteen | epilogue

Sherlock could feel his heartbeat thumping against his chest, loud and rapid, as he manoeuvred his way between the chairs towards you and a shy Zoe. He'd never felt this nervous for anything in his life, to be honest, and compared to anything that had happened in his life, he'd never felt this high strung. He didn't want to mess this up since his daughter was too important to him, and here was his chance to make up for the years he'd lost.

He made a pleasant introduction, trying not to let his anxiety show through his voice. He gave his daughter a bright grin, hoping it would provide her some consolation. His stomach, on the other hand, was performing somersaults.

“I’m your dad.” 

It felt strange to refer to himself as a father in such a literal sense. He was used to jokingly referring to himself as a father to his supporters. Calling himself Zoe's father was serious business, and he wanted to make sure he did everything he could to worthy the title.

Sherlock's heart swelled when Zoe revealed herself from her hiding location at the base of your neck, looking up at him with huge brown eyes. "It's nice to meet you, too," she said quietly, extending out a little hand for him to shake.

He reached out and gently shook his tiny fingers around hers. "Your mummy told me that you're secretly a princess," he added, flashing his gaze up to you and winking before crouched a little and came face to face with Zoe. "So I went out and bought you a little present that only princesses are allowed to have." He'd spent the entire day looking for the ideal gift to help bridge the gap between you two.

It was successful. Zoe raised her head and released her grip on you. "A present?" She asked, a small smile forming on the corners of her lips.

"Do you want to come see?" Sherlock responded by moving to the side and holding out his hand for her to take. He caught his breath and locked his lips in a smile as he waited for Zoe to agree to accompany him.

Sherlock let out a quick exhale and felt a flood of relief rush over him, soothing his anxiety just a little. With Zoe standing on her own two feet, she put her little hand into his and followed him to the table in the centre where he'd left the present. He helped her into one of the seats and sat next to her, sliding the gift box over to her.

With sparkling and delighted eyes, she removed the bow and lifted the lid, displaying the pale blue Cinderella gown he had chosen earlier. "Oh wow! "It's Cinderella's gown!" She yelled loudly as she climbed up onto her chair. She took out the dress and pressed it against her body. “Look! Mummy! "A real princess gown," she said as she turned to show you the gown.

You were standing a bit back, arms crossed across your chest, carefully watching the situation between Sherlock and his daughter. "It's very pretty, Zoe!" you exclaimed, the corners of your lips curling upwards in a huge smile. "Make sure to always say thank you," you cautioned. 

Zoe smiled as she returned to her father. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She yelled, jumping awkwardly on the chair. "Can I put it on now?" Her glance shifted between Sherlock and you, wondering who she needed permission from.

Sherlock didn’t think he had any liberty to give Zoe what she wanted so he looked over at you expectantly.

Sighing softly, you unfolded your arms and approached the table. “Let’s go to the toilets and put it on,” you told her with a little smile, taking her hand so she could jump down safely.

“I can do it myself,” she cried loudly, “I’m a big girl mummy!” Then she skipping off the toilets by herself and leaving you and Sherlock in uncomfortable silence.

You hesitated for a moment, gazing at the floor and then the table before ultimately taking a seat in front of Sherlock. "You didn't need to do all of this," you said quietly, your gaze scanning the deserted children's café. "What did you do? Buy the café?" You laughed quietly until you caught Sherlock's gaze and frowned at his solemn face.

“I only rented it for the evening,” he justified, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “I thought it would be a better way to get to know her, without crowds and other children getting in the way.” In the back of his mind, he was wary of people recognising him, posting things online and attracting unwanted attention when all he wanted to do was get to know his daughter. The media was an unfortunate part of his life: he didn’t want to expose Zoe to it too.

A warm smile crept up on your face and brightened up the whole room for Sherlock. “Just be your normal crazy self and make sure you drink all of your pretend tea,” you joked, dropping your head to hide your laugh behind your hair.

Suddenly, Zoe made an appearance from the corridor that led to the toilets with the dress stuck over her head. “Mummy!” She whined, jumping up and down impatiently. “It’s stuck!”

All Sherlock could do was sit back and watch as you jumped into action and hurried over like a caring mother. Would he ever be as good a father like you?

You sat back pushing a warm mug of tea between your fingers, watching Sherlock chase your daughter around the soft play area with a big smile on your face. It was a sight you never thought you’d get to see -your daughter and her father laughing and playing together. It made you feel stupid that you had been so worried. The pair of them were already as thick as thieves. 

They’d had a big tea party with Mr Snuggles. Sherlock heeded your warning and drank all of his pretend tea, however he also stole the last pretend cupcake which made Zoe sulk until he asked one of the workers at the café for a special chocolate doughnut. Then they played around in the ball pit, burying each other with balls, hiding at the bottom of the pit and jumping out loudly, throwing the balls at each other until he surrendered and admitted defeat. Now they were climbing through the maze of tunnels and shooting down the slide together.

You however were happy to just sit at the side and watch the whole thing from afar. Zoe was having so much fun and yes, you wanted to be a part of it but this was Sherlock’s time. This was his moment to forge that bond with his daughter that you already had from raising her for five years.

However, you realised how late it was and although he could play all night (you remembered that part of him vividly), Zoe’s bedtime was creeping closer. And no one liked a tired Zoe. 

Finishing your tea in one big gulp, you got to your feet and leaned over the safety fence just as Sherlock and Zoe came giggling down the slide together. “Zoe, can you find Mr Snuggles? It’s nearly your bedtime,” you told her as a matter of fact, preparing yourself for the mini tantrum that would follow.

“But, MUMMY!” She wailed dramatically, collapsing to the floor with a pout on her lips. “I’m not even tired. Can’t we just stay for half an hour more?” She looked up at you with her big brown eyes, pleading you for a little bit longer.

However, this wasn’t your first rodeo. “You can ride the slide three more times but then I want you and Mr Snuggles by the door ready to go, ok?”

Zoe was quickly smiling and scrambling to her feet. “Can daddy come too?” She asked, wrapping her arms around her father’s waist and clearly taking him by surprise. “Pretty please! I really want him to read me a bedtime story.”

Nibbling on your bottom lip, you lifted your eyes from Zoe’s pleading eyes and found the same twinkle in Sherlock’s. He was looking at you with the same hopeful look he used to give you many times at school. You struggled to say no back then (that’s probably how Zoe came to be) and now they were both using the same look, worming their way into your heart and destroying any resolve you had left.

“Only if you promise to go straight to sleep afterwards,” you answered, giving her your best stern look. 

“I promise,” she squealed excitedly, holding out her baby finger for you to link with yours. Then she sped off back through another tunnel to hopefully find Mr Snuggles. 

Sherlock was staring at you with a bright smile, his face glistening with a thin layer of sweat. “Thank you for this,” he said quietly, dabbing the back of his hand across his forehead. “It really means a lot to me.”

“I never wanted to deprive you of a relationship with Zoe,” you replied honestly, offering him a weak smile of your own. “But now that you’ve made one, it’s up to you not to break her heart.” The last thing you wanted was for Zoe to be sat waiting for Sherlock when he was off being an detective. He was a father now too and that meant he had a responsibility to his daughter as well.

“Never,” he murmured softly, picking your hand up from your side and squeezing it tight before going to find Zoe …All the while leaving you with a pounding heart and a head filled with dizzying emotions.

Sherlock was an expert at bedtime stories. He gave all the characters their own special voices, reading the words dramatically with the all the emotions necessary – a true performer. Zoe loved it too, smiling and laughing as he revealed that the dragon had learnt how to breathe fire all by himself. With a loud roar into the air, he dropped the book on his lap and turned his attention to Zoe, tickling his nimble fingers up and down her sides.

Sensing that Sherlock was probably going to get your daughter all hyped up again, making it harder to get her to go to sleep, you peeled yourself off from your spot on the doorframe and stepped in. “Ok little one, time to say goodnight to your daddy,” you told her firmly, turning off the big lamp in the corner.

In the faint hue of Zoe’s nightlight, you watched Zoe throw her little arms around Sherlock’s waist tightly. “Can we play again soon, papi?” She asked innocently, looking up at him probably with the same puppy dog expression she used on you.

Sherlock was stunned at the spot for a moment, taken aback by Zoe and her words, you too, you're frozen by the surprise of 'papi' that Zoe had just named her father.

They're so boned, it's hard to believe it's only half a day. And it's made every bone in your body ache that you were harm them by kept them away from the truth so many years.

“Of course,” he replied instantly, smoothing her hair back off her face and cupping her cheek with his gentle touch. “I will look at when I have a day off and we will go and do something fun,” he promised, flashing his brilliant smile.

This was exactly what Zoe wanted to hear as she buried her face in his chest and squeezed him in her tightest hug. “Goodnight… papi,” she murmured shyly, letting go quickly and hiding her face behind Mr Snuggles.

It was cute to watch the dumbfounded expression on his face before he snapped back to reality and got up from the bed. “Sleep tight, little one,” he murmured softly, stroking his hand through her hair and then stepping back.

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you pulled Zoe’s blanket up to her chin and moved Mr Snuggles to the side so you could see her face, kissing each of her rosy cheeks. “What are you going to dream about tonight then little one?” You asked, crouching down by the side of her bed.

Zoe pursed her lips and wiggled them from side to side cutely. “Papi, mummy and me riding unicorns along a rainbow,” she answered after a second of deliberation, making sure Mr Snuggles was under the covers too.

“It sounds magical,” you told her softly, giving her a warm smile as she closed her eyes and then dimming her nightlight. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”

When you stood up, you noticed Sherlock staring at you with a piercing gaze and the corners of his lips drawn up. You gave him a puzzled look, hoping to figure out what he was thinking, but he shook his head and led the way out of Zoe's room. After gently closing the door, you turned to Sherlock, suddenly worried about just the two of you. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"That would be nice," he gently said. It seemed overly courteous, as if Sherlock was trying too hard. You didn't like it, but it was almost certainly your fault. You lied to him, which most likely spelled the end of your friendship. The only reason he was staying was for Zoe.

You walked by him into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, opening cupboards to make two mugs of tea. Meanwhile, Sherlock was leaning against your breakfast bar, his gaze darting about your modest flat. "It's a nice place you have here," he said gently, seeking to strike up a conversation.

"It's a lot smaller than the place we lived before, but it's cheaper," you shrugged, trying to recall where you hid the sugar when you spotted Zoe sprinkling it on her cereal that morning.

Sherlock turned around to face you in the kitchen, leaning across the counter. “Were you living with your dad all this time?” He asked, propping his head up on his elbows while he watched you move around the kitchen.

You shook your head, laughing quietly to yourself. "Oh boy... he actually kicked me out when he found out I was pregnant," you said, peering up through your hair to see his mouth widen in surprise. "He didn't want anything to do with me or Zoe and still don't. I moved in with my grandfather, who took care of us by helping me acquire a job with the local newspaper and financially supporting us. I'm not sure where we'd be without him." You spotted the sugar concealed in the cupboard with the saucepans after flipping your hair back out of your face.

As you brushed past the breakfast bar, Sherlock caught your hand and interlaced his fingers with yours, freezing you in your step. “That must have been so hard for you,” he acknowledged quietly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles before he let you go. For a second, your head felt dizzy and scrambled. You expected Sherlock to be angry still that you didn’t tell him anything when you were pregnant, but instead he was sorry for you?

“I like to think Zoe was worth it,” you responded, spooning some sugar in into your tea just as the kettle came to the boil. “Waking up to her smiling and laughing made the days easier.” You stirred the water in and passed the mug to Sherlock, remembering that he liked his tea a certain way.

“What was she like as a baby?” He inquired curiously, swirling the tea bag around before leaving it to sink to the bottom of the mug. “Do you have any photos?”

Taking your tea with you, you moved into the living room and started rooting around in the drawers underneath the TV. “I have an album somewhere,” you muttered quietly, eventually finding it at the bottom of the drawer. You sat next to him on the sofa, an awkward and unnatural gap between the pair of you. “I scrapbooked everything,” you justified sheepishly, sliding the album into his lap.

He opened up on the first page and it was like a wave of nostalgia hit you straight in the face. You’d attached your first ultrasound picture of Zoe, along with her hospital band and photos your grandfather had taken of you both at the hospital. Sherlock looked at them with his mouth completely open, his eyes filled with wonder as they traced over the photos with such focus.

“She was so small,” he marvelled, dipping his head closer to the album to have a look. 

You laughed, thinking back to Zoe’s painful birth through a cloud of drugs. “Still big enough to hurt,” you retorted, taking a large gulp of tea while he moved to the next page. 

In the six years of Zoe’s life so far, you had documented everything you could, from the first time she ate a mushed up banana and managed to get the majority of it in her hair, to the first time she stood up without holding onto anything and then fell straight on her bottom with an audible thud. Every first, every last, you tried to capture each memory. 

And as you watched Sherlock flick through the pages, studying each photo with pure amazement on his face, you realised that unconsciously you may have been making this album for him, for the moment when he found out about his daughter and wanted to see what he missed.

“Where’s this from?” Sherlock questioned, tilting the album in your direction and pointing at a single photograph.

Placing your tea on the coffee table, you moved closer to him for a better look, almost brushing up against him, once again of his elegant aftershave and his smell was touched your nose.

The photo he was pointing at was one of you and Zoe at the peak of a mountain surrounded by beautiful pink flowers. “Chiangmai, Thailand,” you told him, already smiling at the memories of your hike to the top of the mountain. “I think Zoe was three and she said she wanted to go somewhere she could touch a rainbow so I decided to fly over there, we to the peak one weekend.”

Your fingers traced over the photo of you with Zoe in her harness on your back, in front of a million pink flowers and the clear pale blue sky. “I really wished I had taken my paints that day. The scenery was so perfect; it would have made a great painting,” you mused quietly.

“You haven’t given up on painting, have you? You were so talented at school,” Sherlock exclaimed dramatically, making you jump a little and look up at his handsome face.

His eyes were the first thing you noticed, warm light ocean orbs that drooped in the edges like a little puppy. His dark hair was scattered messily across his forehead, making him appear younger, more like the boy you went to school with. Your gaze moved down his nose, noting the individual moles dotting his left cheek and the fresh born moustache over his lips. His soft beautiful lips. You could still remember how it felt to have them pressed up against yours, to have them brush along your sensitive skin as Sherlock worked to set your nerve endings alight.

Gulping hard, you flickered your gaze from his eyes to his lips, feeling dizzy as his sweet aftershave washed over you for a second time. “I wouldn’t say ‘given up’, just focused on Zoe first,” you murmured a little breathlessly, trailing off as your eyes settled on his lips.

And then your phone from the kitchen rings, and you two are separated and went back to reality. "Ah sorry," you realise, his palm now on your waist. You race to the phone, and he awkwardly peers out on your back form as you frantically take a few short strides to the kitchen counter.

You, too, peeked at Sherlock as he returned to Zoe's images before turning away from him and face the dish washer.  You biting your lips in relief before Sherlock notices your scarlet face.

"H一Hello, it's Y/N here," you answer the phone first, wondering who is calling at this time, and wait for the caller on the line to say something to you.

"Oh, hello, miss. Remember the time I talked you about floral cake? I went to your shop yesterday and it was closed, so I took your business card." He paused, and the commotion of the crowd on the line could be heard. "I want to apologise for calling you this time. I was busy and barely had a few minutes left."

"No, no, it's perfectly alright. Don't be concerned." You respond to the manager of a cafe a few blocks away from your store. You reply while tucked your unkempt hair. “Do you need any help with the sketch?”

"Well, kinda," he said softly, "I just called you to ask you to meet up with me this Wednesday, are you okay with that? My graphic design team has just finished with the drawings for each among our dessert types." 

"Okay, I can manage my schedule." You smiled and responded gently, humming. "However, if it's lunchtime, it'd be great." 

"Who's calling you?"

The baritone voice on the other side of yours practically made you quiver. You knew it had to be Sherlock, but you couldn't fathom him standing behind you like this. You returned to him with a bewildered expression, and you were about to answer when he interrupted you with the same inquiry. "Who was it that called you?"

"It's just my customer..."  Your look became increasingly astonished as you answered him, and he shocked you by stealing your phone from your hand and speaking to the line.  "This is Sherlock Holmes speaking; Y/N and I are busy putting 'our children' to bed, and I believe it is time to end the call. Bye." Sherlock then crashes the call end button and walks back to the couch.

You quickly scrolled your feet after him, enraged and mystified.  "What the heck, Sherlock?" 

"It's just that I don't like it." He pouts, and you just roll your eyes and plop down alongside him on the couch. "Sorry. I really don't like it when you talk about meeting up for lunch with the other guy; meeting up for lunch is nothing less than a date. So you're going on a date, huh?"

"Oh my god. HE'S MY CUSTO一" You were going to yell, but he stopped you with a kiss you're not even aware of. Any space between you was filled in an instant, and all you could feel was the contact of his lips pressed up against yours. You weren't sure what was going through your mind, but you hadn't shoved him away. In fact his hands had weaved their way to the back of your head so he could cradle your face with the gentlest of touches. It was bliss, just like you remembered all those years ago from your secret meetings. 

Forbidden bliss ... and yet so tantalising.

While your lips moved familiarly against his, your tongue fighting with his as you traced his plump bottom lip, your hands felt their way up his neck to the base of his head where your fingers could wrap themselves around little tufts of hair. He leaned in closer, wanting more. The movement caught you off guard and you fell back a little too far, losing your grip on him and landing ungracefully on the pile of cushions on your sofa, lips still puckered.

Sherlock’s eyes raked your body, his expression giving nothing away. Then he abruptly jumped to his feet, his hand pushing the hair off his forehead while he looked around the room. “I’m sorry,” he breathed almost inaudibly, spotting his coat on the breakfast bar and moving to collect it. “I’ll uh … I’ll text you 一about when my next day off is.”

You gathered yourself quickly, getting to your feet and tucking your hair back behind your ears. “Well… well一yeah, cool,” you stuttered dizzily, watching him back towards the door without meeting your eye.

“I’m sorry,” he confessed, and then he looked up at you and you could see the guilt in his eyes. It froze you on the spot, unable to move and follow him. Instead you were resigned to watching him leave, the door slamming shut with a note of finality that echoed through your apartment.

Fingers on your lips, it was there... It was a sensation of his soft lips pressing against yours. It's all so full of unrealistic, perplexing, and hungering that it's like gravity. Even if you escape from him, he follows you, making your heart pound like a rumbling thunderclap. 

But it's all too good, and it causes your heart throb. 

Close the door, you were ready to slide yourself slumping down to the floor when your phone alarm and message notifications sounded up.

When you open it, you see the same number that phoned you before the bizarrely kiss of Sherlock's. Sighing, you opened it carelessly and read the text while lightly scratching your brows with your little finger.

‘Sorry for disturbing the precious time with your family! And sorry for not having introduced myself yet, miss. I'm James, just called me Jim, plain and simple. Good night and ttyl!'

my reader be like:

oh no dont hurt me pls!

[pap1taa-toto]

My GOTG OC

soooooo… first of all, good any time of the current day, and here I come to introduce you to one of my many OCs, Lyu.

Full Name: Lyubov Balkirev Age: 28 Gender: Female Sexuality: Straight, Demi-AroAce

Attribute: She has a pair of white retractable wings with some dark spots and a tail of the same colors (usually hides the tail, occasionally shows it, like, it can change the size of her tail and wings).

Example:

Likes: The smell of air after rain, listening to music, fruits, photography. Dislikes: does not like injustice and being treated as a foolish person.

Abilities: Flying and running very fast, Atmokinesis and can fly carrying people on her back (as long as they are not TOO heavy), advanced animal communication, versatility in combat and mental resistance.

(For Atmokinesis, she usually has to concentrate all her energy and when she finishes using that power she ends up exhausted)

Weaknesses: High emotional sensitivity, excessive caution, need of lonelines (given her ambivert nature, Lya may need periods of solitude to recharge her emotional energy. During these times, she may be less effective in group situations). Items she has most of the time: A voice recorder, her smartphone, headphones and a polaroid camera. Defense item: A scythe.

She was born on a distant planet called Garmoni, inhabited by people with human characteristics but with bird wings and other characteristics. Specifically she was born in a continent very close to the south pole of the planet, that's why her hair color and feathers and there she grew up normally like any other child, but her parents gave her a lot of freedom, they let her go to run errands alone and that was a mistake, because one day people from another planet kidnapped her and sold her on the black market; but she managed to escape.

After 12 years she was in Contraxia when she met Kraglin in a bar, it was not the best encounter of all but they got to know each other until he introduced her to the crew he belonged to, including Yondu; She did not get along very well with Yondu but in the end she got along with him. She wanted to spend more time with both of them, so she decided to show Yondu her skills and try to convince him to join her to his crew. In the end she managed to convince him and she was part of his crew for quite a while.

After a looong time, when the most of the crew revealed themselves against Yondu she knew it was best to pretend to be on Taserface's side. She helped Yondu get rid of the others. When Yondu died she was devastated for a while until she got over it with difficulty. In the end she stayed with Kraglin, with the Guardians of the Galaxy and there she met Ember (credits to @thirteens-lucky-tardis and thanks for your permission to create an oc that has a relation with your oc) and Lya couldn't believe that she met another individual with wings, they got to know each other and shared a lot of things to finally become friends.

P.D: I based the character on the snow owl

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Hail Hydra - Chapter Thirteen “You can never put it back together like it was.”

A spectre of the past returns to life, and the real training begins. Prompts fulfilled; - ‘For Your Own Good’ – Bug’s First Bingo (this one is just for us, sorry folks!); - 'Nightmare Fuel’ (Alternate) – @halloweenhorrorbingo; - “Beg for it.” – @anyfandomfluffbingo; - ‘On a Leash’ – @badthingshappenbingo; - ‘Collar’, ‘Failure’ and ‘Scarring’ – @fandom-free-bingo (Frosty Edition). CW: Physical examination, mentions of sexual assault, starvation as a side effect of self-induced vomiting, sexual assault.

Check it out below, or on AO3 here. Divider by @atlasscrumpit. Boards at the bottom. Please proceed with caution and heed the CW.

I pushed myself ever harder following my interaction with the lieutenant, but nothing I ever did was sufficient. No matter the degree to which I tried, I was punished for not being fast enough or skilled enough.

And each time I was reprimanded, my day ended with me kneeling before Lebedev, a hand knotted in the collar around my throat, straining to breathe as he enacted aa punishment of his own.

The daily vomiting was taking its toll, my weight dropping rapidly despite my improved rations. The lack of adequate nutrition was having a horrifying effect on my body – wounds healed slower, bruises marring my skin for days at a time, aches and pains keeping me awake at night. All of this added up to an ever-detrimental impact on my work capacity, leading to fiercer beatings and an eternally tightening spiral of hellish monotony.

I was slowly dying under my workload, and I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. My muscles screamed each time I moved, and by the time I woke up a few weeks later, I knew I wouldn’t be able to face another day of beatings and abuse. My body was made of lead, weighed down into the places where bone met thin mattress, my struggling metabolism no match for the sores developing along the popcorn-like vertebrae of my spine.

One of the Lieutenant’s soldiers came to my room as I fought to keep my eyes open, and I blinked in exhausted surprise.

“I haven’t done anything yet; what could he possibly need to punish me for?” I muttered, too drained to fight the sarcasm in my voice For the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to survive this. I couldn’t help but hope my quip would anger this grunt – one more thorough beating would likely be the end of my suffering, or at least push me beyond the capacity of recovery, which would inevitably lead to my termination.

If I can’t fight, what good am I to them?

But instead, he simply crossed to my side, flipping my body like a ragdoll and tugging sharply on my collar to jerk me upright. A palm met my cheek and sparks exploded behind my eyes, eliciting a soft whimper and a trail of blood from the corner of my lips.

“That smart mouth will bring you no end of trouble, Asset,” he snapped, and I could only watch vacantly as he clipped a short chain leash to the collar, leaning forward with a sinister smile. “You will walk, or you will be dragged.”

The threat was proven not to be idle a heartbeat later when I was hurtled from between the sheets without hesitation, clawing at my throat automatically as I fought for breath, leaving me gasping and retching when I finally managed to struggle to my knees.

“On your feet, Asset. This is your last chance; I won’t tell you again.”

Reluctantly and with resignation, I stumbled upright, grasping tightly at the chain as I weaved unsteadily. The soldier simply narrowed his eyes in irritation, but said nothing, tugging me forward with marginally more kindness than before �� though my clumsy feet still threatened to trip me as I staggered after him.

I’d taken this path three dozen times at least by now, but the shame and disgust that curled in my intestines was just as intense as ever. My failure to prevent my utter humiliation was a significant source of distress for me.

But nonetheless, I staggered on, a hand on the wall keeping me upright when the floor wouldn’t stay level ahead of me. The motion and the fatigue together had my stomach churning and my lungs heaving, but I didn’t dare stop to steady myself further.

It was until I was in Lebedev’s office that I let myself drop to my knees, knowing that this was undoubtedly where I’d end up anyway and opting to give myself a moment’s respite before my punishment began, rather than attempting to fight.

“I see you have trained the Asset well in my absence. Well done, Lieutenant.”

My blood ran cold, the dark ring around my vision growing thicker as I fought the ever-solidifying concrete in my lungs.

I’d heard that voice in barely-recalled nightmares, punctuated by flashes of body-wide pain and lighting heating in my veins.

Not you. Anything but you.

The short man stepped around me, his cologne thick in my throat, cloying and suffocating as he ran a hand over my hair. “He seems skinny, though. He won’t be at peak strength if you’re underfeeding him.”

I couldn’t move – couldn’t think – couldn’t parse the response, but Lebedev’s hand found my jaw, wrenching my face up to meet his gaze. “Well?” My mouth moved wordlessly, and he growled, leaning forward until his breath washed over my skin and my stomach rolled. “Tell Mr. Zola we’ve been feeding you well, Asset.”

I nodded quickly around his grip, eyes flickering nervously to the man by his side, unable to quite meet his gaze as my own stalled at his chest. “Th-they have. Been feeding me well, I mean. I-I’ve been sick. It’s not their fault.”

Coward.

You’re a fucking coward.

You should kill this asshole where he stands.

Zola moved closer, half-squatting, forcing my eye to his as my heart hammered wildly. “That shouldn’t be possible,” he mused, pulling on an eyelid to investigate me closer. “I’ll have to do a full examination to determine the serum’s efficiency. His body should be fighting off any type of infection or illness long before it ever takes hold.” I stayed quiet as Lebedev stared me down pointedly, his silent message clear – Don’t talk about the punishments. “Bring him to the lab. We may as well begin.” The scientist grinned, his eyes wild and insane. “I’ve waited a long time to find you again, Asset. Now the real training will begin.”

I was lifted and deposited once more on a cold, metal surface, my wrist, ankles and throat secured under heavy cuffs. I didn’t have the strength to fight, even though every part of my mind was baulking at my compliance, wincing as pale eyes stared into mine with a tut.

“Open,” he muttered, cupping my jaw. I hesitated minutely, and a hand found my foot, applying pressure to one side, forcing my ankle to bed until pain shot up my thigh and my lips parted automatically. Two metal tools were forced between my teeth, poking and prodding as he hummed thoughtfully. “The vomiting doesn’t seem to have impacted your teeth, at least… I expect any minor damage is repaired before it can escalate.” He offered me a broad grin, seemingly proud of this development, and I growled, jaw closing on the utensils in protest. My gums were scraped as he pulled them free, an odd feeling of satisfaction building in my chest at the amount of effort it took, his face turning red before he stumbled backward from the force. I was punished for my actions by a sharp tug at my foot, and I gasped at the searing pain in my little toe, tears pricking my eyes.

“Keep it up; there’s a lot more toenails,” Lebedev warned, pulling gently at the next nail warningly. My fingers curled into a fist, muscles tight with the indignity and humiliation of the experience, Zola’s hand moving slowly down my throat, poking and prodding curiously at my skin.

“No sign of permenant injury, and- What’s the collar for?” His grip tightened minutely around the metal, and I swallowed nervously, eyes squeezing shut.

“To keep him under control,” Lebedev replied simply, offering a light pat to my calf. “It works well. Doesn’t it, Asset?”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied softly, heat travelling up my cheeks.

Just get this over with, or you’ll be put through hell later. Just get it done. Just… Just obey.

I opened my eyes once more as Zola nodded, releasing the collar to move down to my shoulder. “Did this happen here?”

“Tell him,” the Lieutenant barked, and I gulped.

“I-I… Before I came here, I was in a Soviet base in the Alps. They found me after I fell from the train. Half my arm was ripped off in the fall, and they amputated the rest.” Without anaesthetic, I added silently, wincing at the memory. Zola tutted, running a hand over the scarred stump, making me jerk as my nerves lit up unpleasantly.

“A butcher. Don’t worry, Asset. We will soon have you fixed up. I will make you a new arm – a better one. You will be unstoppable.”

By the time the examination was complete, I’d had sugar water poured into my veins, been poked, prodded and groped all over, and been measured for this ‘new arm’ the doctor was enthused about.

And then he went, satisfied with his findings and his plans, entirely forgetting my sentience as he left me secured face down, my head turned to one side, cheek pressed to the cold surface as I watched his back retreat.

A light fingertip ran down my spine, and I trembled.

“You failed me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, eyes squeezing shut. I’d whimpered when Zola’s hand pressed on my abdomen, bile rising in my throat, and Lebedev’s nails tightened around my ankle – a silent promise as to punishment to come.

I hated being so vulnerable, my body pinned to the table and limbs restrained, not a scrap of dignity or cover afforded to me. His hand was rough as it travelled over the curve of my ass, pausing at the top of my thighs, and I quivered with fear.

“You deserve this.”

I could only nod, my throat closed with terror, agreeable and compliant in an effort to make the pain end faster.

“This is for your own good.”

I whimpered through my teeth when he knelt on the table behind me, the sound of his belt sending bolts of horrified realisation through me.

Not that. Anything but that.

I finally found the will to fight, tugging and thrashing frantically against my restraints, trying my best to buck his weight from where he straddled my thighs – but in my emaciated state, the metal did little more than groan. I sobbed openly as his hand found the space between my protruding shoulder blades, pressing painfully on the exposed vertebrae until I fell slack once more.

There’s nothing I can do.

“Kill me,” I whispered, eyes opening once more, glancing back over my shoulder as best I could to shoot him a pathetic, imploring look. “Please. Just kill me. Anything but that. I’d rather die. Please.”

He laughed softly, leaning closer and brushing a few strands of hair from the nape of my neck, his lips skimming my skin and making me shudder. “Not a chance… I’m far from finished with you. But if you beg for it like a good slut, I’ll make it quick.”

My mouth opened to object, to argue that I would never – could never – beg him for this, but he chose that moment to press himself swiftly inside me, and I jammed my lips closed, biting back the scream building in my throat. I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out, even as I felt the blood run down my testicles and pool beneath me. His pace was ragged and irregular, my body tearing around him as he violated me, the nails of my hand digging so violently into the metal in a desperate attempt at purchase that they bent and snapped under the strain.

“Beg for me to fuck you, and it’ll end so much faster…” Lebedev purred, his free hand grasping my hip to press himself harder against me. I cried harder as liquid agony shot through my spine, every muscle taut and protesting the invasion.

“Please…” I whimpered, lip bleeding where my teeth had buried in a vain attempt to muffle my pain. He tutted with disappointment, thrusting roughly deeper, and I cried out at last, head banging against the table with frustration and humiliation. “Please! Please, Lieutenant Lebedev. P-Please fuck me.”

The response was immediate – his hips rolled more smoothly against mine, his movements slickened by the tears he’d created, the bones of his pelvis colliding painfully with my ass. It was still agonising, but marginally more bearable, and my yelps dissolved into quiet whines, punctuated with the sound of his breath becoming progressively more ragged. “So fucking tight – you’re a virgin, aren’t you? I’m the first one you’ve begged to fuck this slutty hole…” he crooned, his fingers shifting to grasp my hair as he moved faster. “Don’t worry – next time I’ll let you look at me. If you’re good, maybe I’ll even let you stroke your cock. I bet you’re hard under there, Asset. I bet you’re loving being used like a toy.”

I didn’t dare object, to declare that this agony was not arousing to me in any way – that this violation was not what I wanted ��� for fear that he’d make it last longer. I simply stayed still and quiet as best I could as his groans grew louder, nails digging into my flesh, until he finally came to a shuddering halt, buried to the hilt inside me, the internal tears burning beneath his seed.

He carried me almost tenderly back to my cell, my blood mixing with his semen and leaving a thin, macabre trail in our wake. I was barely conscious, my already depleted body exhausted by the intrusion, as he placed me on my bed, smiling down at me with eyes that would haunt my nightmares.

“You take it very well. I’m impressed with you, Asset. You’ll be rewarded for your obedience.”

I could only nod again, aching and shaking with pain and fear, too defeated to worry about what this ‘reward’ could entail. My eyes closed automatically, weariness winning out over terror, even as he stayed stood over me, his fingers gently caressing my hair.

I wish he’d killed me.

[adureus]

❛ you reek of hopefulness . . it reminds me of someone. ❜

Oh ⸻ ? Was it so obvious ? Was it so intrinsic a characteristic, so tied to his person, his being ? Would the same claim be said but a passing moon ago ?

❛ Is that so . . . ❜

Tenor shifts to caution. A shifting stance, each word flows intentional, harshened by the natural husk borne upon tone. Thirteen years still pay their toll, spun a fruitless pursuit. Then, it fuelled better than any succour could. An addiction, feasting upon sense, more and more, moulting to expose and doom unto chaos. And he would crave its blackened embrace despite its voracious need of his soul, eating away at the humanity he so held dear. Supplanted by notions of rot and decay, a one-track mind so consumed by rage only seeks to sever itself from any semblance of the once tender, more conscious psyche of youth. At twenty and eight, he'd been but a mockery, a shell of decorum. At twenty and eight, he'd march with bones bred of hatred and vengeance and of blood boiling hot as molten coal. That baneful blindness was of a helplessness of a different ilk, a contrast to what he claims at present. He was loath to submit to the realization. But there was naught else to sup but this driving factor ; a life of servitude and a Blight assails both body and spirit, the very earth he trod, consumed hope just as his ire once did.

Now, he need mind his boots, take note of death and its company, consequence and permanence, as well as the fleeting nature of life. Now, he need mind the lives and reality which surrounds, rather than the carapace of one's ego, the impenetrable, siloing nature of it all, shutting out change which impacts him just as deeply as an outsider. It's all he perceives, eyes freed of their bleak, selfish rule in favour of a socially conscious, empathetic lens. No longer does he reject the enlightening, arresting effect of truth. Purpose has revisited his veins ; he is of a different composure, a presence enhanced in every psychological facet. A ripened spirit and cast. The wounds of yesteryear still bear their stories, but also mark the beginnings of a rebirth. He is a man anew, a man inspired. And he yields to a streak of pride, unwound in this discovery, and at this man's remark at his escape from torment. The progression of his healing was palpable and observable, something to be celebrated ( though he had plenty of work to do ; he had his moments of regression, his moments of surrender to melancholy's contact ).

Still, to reek of hopefulness ⸻ it notes a certain detestation of the trait, an aversion to it, or perhaps even a contradictory attraction to its potential might. A mystery unwinds before him, akin to life's pitch of its discord. Oddly, he does not shy from the challenge. But in these readings from a stranger, he cannot help but question this fondness towards his hopeful manner over the viciousness of his label ⸻ the viciousness of an outlaw. Revered and feared for such ferocity ⸻ known first through the change he wrought, for his supposed phantom over the realm ⸻ more than his optimism.

❛ Hm. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for you. ❜

[eustasskiddsprosthetic]

It has barely been an hour and my Sabolaw brainrot has activated. I have a specific vision.

Sabo is a pawnshop owner living like a hermit in a wayward forest. He works as a writer in his free time and has a pretty humble way of life. He goes to the city to visit his brothers and friends but would always return home to his little home.

TMI but I'm from Singapore, which means Southeast Asia and I have a particular fondness for the tropical, humid aesthetic. Large banana trees, large mango and jackfruit trees towering over small kampung houses. Sabo makes his living there where he eats fresh meat and vegetables from the market while also harvesting fresh fruit for himself for supper.

One day, he meets this quiet, softspoken traveller named Trafalgar Law. This person says he needed to get his watch fixed and Sabo happily obliges since Law offered to pay any price. It was his father's Corazon's watch and it was in the shape of a heart. It was made of multiple tiny pink diamonds and it was a joy to see them all shine and glitter from the light of the window.

Sabo says Law could stay behind if he wished. He could use the company. Law hesitates.

This traveller, as Sabo realises, is incredibly awkward. Sure, he looks like he could and would kill Sabo for sport but Sabo doubted that would happen. If he tried anything, Sabo could and would kill him back! It's fine.

Sabo invites him to sit down at his desk as he fixes the watch. Usually, people would stare at his hands as he works on their precious valuables. Partly out of interest and partly out of caution—Sabo's used to both and he doesn't mind that Law is wary but he could not help but feel Law's looking at him rather strangely.

"May I ask you something?" Law asked politely.

"Sure!" Sabo says mindlessly as he removes a particularly rusty gear.

"What happened to your eye?" Sabo glances up and takes a good look at Law and realises Law looks quite smart. An educated man. "Y-you don't need to explain. Everyone has a thing they'd rather not share and it's none of my business, anyway."

Law isn't the first to notice but he is to point it out. Sabo stopped working and smiled. He closed his right eye, such that he looked like he was winking and smiled. "Look closer," Sabo said and Law did. Law gently touched Sabo's scarred area and nearly jumped.

"It's fake."

Sabo opened his right eye and smiled. "Ding-ding! Yep! It's cool, isn't it? I did it myself when I was thirteen? I think."

Sabo loved the way Law's expression changed from, "I think I can take him on in a fight" to "Please do not fight me." It might be his sadistic side speaking, but he found Law's pink cheeks rather adorable.

After about two hours, Sabo fixes Law's watch and Law pays him very generously. Apparently, this watch was the last thing he had from his father before he passed away. He found it in his (abusive) uncle's bedroom one day while snooping and stole it for himself, hiding it in the most random places to keep it safe. Law was very embarrassed for oversharing but Sabo insisted Law stay for dinner so they could talk about it and Law timidly agreed.

During dinner that day, they spoke about themselves and got to know each other better.

Law was a doctor and was on vacation for a month to 'take a break'. He liked eating rice and fish. Sabo had this pawnshop for about ten years and he likes writing about whatever trinkets he comes across. They both don't like 'rude, inconsiderate people'. They both liked wearing suits. They both loved reading and Sabo promised to let Law indulge in his library. The fact that this felt like a first date was not lost on Sabo but Law seemed so happy to make a new friend that Sabo let it be. His small smiles were cute. This would be the first of many such dinners together. After all, Law just sort of stayed with Sabo for what seemed like a few days, and then weeks... And then three months have passed and Law was still there, now reading Sabo's book of translated poems with illustrations, signed by the author at a book fair. It felt almost too natural to welcome Law into his life... Almost too perfect.

"Law, are you leaving soon?" Sabo asked politely as he gave Law some water.

Law seemed startled. He nodded. "This Saturday, actually. I can't take anymore leave."

Sabo was rather sad to hear that. "This was lovely. It would be nice if you would play host for me."

Law laughed. "I can't ask that from you."

"Ask what?"

"I can't ask you to leave this behind and come with me," Law said mildly. "It'll be unreasonable."

Sabo nodded. Law was right. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

"I too have something I can't leave behind," Law said.

Sabo laughed. "And what is that?"

"My friends. They're all I have left."

Sabo seemed a bit sad to hear that. I'm here too.

"Shame," Sabo said. He tried to smile when Law did. Sabo saw Law was trying very hard to act okay too. He wanted to say that he would miss Law but the words just won't come out of his mouth. Sabo had always been articulate—that was why he loved writing and talking. Now, however, when it really matters, Sabo could not get any fucking word to work.

Thankfully, Law, in a rare moment of courage, stepped forward and kissed Sabo first on the cheek and then on the lips. Longingly but also warmly, like Law enjoyed loving Sabo in those three months. Sabo kissed back, feeling the same.

I'm working on a kidlaw thing now where Kidd's the owner of a fashion conglomerate called Victoria Punk. They met in the flagship store and they flirt, yadda yadda whatever—that's not important. What is though, is how I immediately thought of how the Ace and Sabo would get involved in the (luxury) fashion industry since they're my favs alongside Kidd. Here's my takes lmao

Ace would own a shoe store. He sells a pretty small but reliable and beautiful collection of leather shoes and boots. As an athlete and hitchhiker, he understands the need for footwear that's durable, comfortable and fashionable. Since his target demographic are fellow hitchhikers who do insane shit outdoors, his shoes are good quality. They will live through avalanches, snowstorms, cyclones, rocky mountains, swamps—whatever—and the most you'd need to do is replace the laces. Aesthetically-speaking, they're plain, but if you're into the look of sturdy leather that smells wonderful (like me), his stuff is perfect for you.

I say this because I'm currently imagining Ace helping Law try the shoes on like he would delicately slip them on Law's feet like a princess and tie his laces for him. He would look up at Law and smile when he sees that Law feels very comfortable in these shoes.

Gah! The intimacy!

For funsies, he makes Law try on those high, knee-length boots and gets very turned on because Law has legs for days. It's like a kink of his now and he gets esp turned on seeing that.

For Sabo, I can't decide between a watch shop or a (pawn) jewellery store. Either way, I want him to be very involved with people, as in he would sit there and admire little intricate things with his clients. He loves listening to what customers like and helping them find what they're looking for. Rather than for practical purposes like Ace, Sabo's more interested in sentimental values. He's not interested in just a pretty watch or a pretty ring— he wants to help clients find the perfect watch for their children to pass down to their grandchildren; he wants to help clients find the perfect engagement ring for their loved ones. He's into the storytelling aspect of luxury marketing.

If we're talking Sabolaw, then maybe Law walks into Sabo's little run down store one day and asks if Sabo could help fix an heirloom from Corazon. Sabo agrees for a small fee and from there they talk about the thing itself, and then onto what Sabo does, and then what Law does. Amongst this heart to heart, they look at each other and go. oh.

I enjoy this person very much.

[dienamights]

Unfavorable Guidance | H.Shinso

​✎ Mindjack has been doing these kind of jobs since he was recruited as a hero, he is unmistakingly the best at them, doesn’t need anyone butting their noses in his business, especially you, the sly fox in disguise, offering your tainted helping hand.

✎ Protagonists: Hitoshi Shinso x Fem!Reader.

✎ Word count: 6.4K

✎Category: noncon/dubcon, Smut MDNI, Prohero!au

✎Caution(!):  noncon/dubcon, Smut 18+ MDNI please, , mentions of alcohol, mentions of murder, minor character death, sex under quirk use, spitting, degrading, swearing, manipulation, unprotected sex. 

✎ Author’s notes: I KNOW I’M LATE EUFGKHDFVBDFXL, but here is my contribution to @daisy-bakugo​ 2k event Vice City! Please take the time to read everyone’s work if you haven’t! Thank you so much for letting me participate.

I listened to this throughout the entire process of writing it, if you’re familiar with Kingdom Hearts, some names will ring a bell to you lol. also I hate the header and the summary but you’re just gonna have to live w it for now cause its 8 am I NEED SLEEP

» Masterlist | Requests | Taglist

The annual auction of Vice City is one of the biggest social events of the year. The wealthiest families and richest people in the world come from everywhere in attempts to win what is secretly considered the greatest treasures of all time. Greatest and most expensive.

Alas, the after party held later on is what people are all secretly actually waiting for, where the most exquisite and rarest artifacts of the year get auctioned off to whoever is lucky enough to even be included in the guest list.

While not all are there for the auctions, it certainly is the perfect opportunity for anyone who's anyone in the world to show off their wealth. Filthy rich people sway all around, laughing and bragging. Venetian crystal chandeliers, velvet carpets, gambling, and alcohol. Men with their cigars, men with their wives, and men with their arm candies, their escorts or mistresses.

Yet, Shinso isn’t here for the luxury, he isn't here for the fame and the fortune, nor the reputation people thrive for when they buy those - meaningless, he calls them - relics. No, he is here on a mission, one he certainly wants to be done and over with because he wants to go home. He loosens his tie with an aggravated sigh before knocking back the last of his only gin and tonic, the bitter taste prickling his throat as he surveys the crowd of people all around him while he stands idly by the bar.

He knew it’d be a pain in the ass the second he got the mission assigned to him from the agency, the words “intel” and “Vice City'' of all places forced a frown upon his face, yet, being the most suitable for this job, he couldn't really decline.

Mindjack isn’t the type of hero you see on billboards and magazines, isn’t the type of hero to kiss babies’ heads that get thrusted at him in meet and greets, he certainly isn’t one to have those adoring fan clubs that follow his every move, posting about his greatest conquests. Oh no, he is a hero that works in dingy jobs with filthy manipulative men in black markets and the human trafficking industry, undercover -lie through your teeth throughout the whole ordeal- kind of hero, the kind of hero that goes home at the end of his missions with no gratitude towards his work, because nobody knows who he is or what he contributes to the society.

For the longest time, Shinso accepted the life he’s living, he didn’t look for validation from the citizens, knowing his work is always beyond the scope of their knowledge and their awareness, but sometimes, just sometimes, the sour droplets of envy would foul his mouth when his amethysts for eyes scan over the extravagant heroes, making a show out of saving their cities and getting praised and awarded and loved for doing what they’re supposed to be doing, their job. 

“Squeeze that glass a bit more and you’d break it”

A voice just like silk, weaving around him and entrancing him, Shinso blinked twice before his eyes dragged over to you, oh so beautiful and oh so close. Your nimble fingers wrapped around his fingers, the lacey glove lightly scratches his hand before he lets go of the glass in surprise, dropping it into yours. You giggle sweetly, turning around to place it on the bar before ordering your own, but not without looking at him over your shoulder and sending him a smile.

“What will it be, sugar tits?” the bartender leans over the counter, towel thrown on his shoulder as he sends you what's supposed to be a sultry look. Your elbow is placed on the counter while you rest your chin on your hand, smiling temptingly at him. “Anything that’ll get you to stop staring at my boobs.” Shinso almost laughs at the contrast between your smile and your voice, sharp and venomous, and the man leans back so far from you like he’s been stung. Walking away to work on a drink for you.

Shinso’s eyes rake your body without his knowledge, he admires the dress adorning your body, hugging you in all the right places, cascading down to the floor, and that slit my god, your legs looking endless in those heels he wonders how you can strut so elegantly with them on. A snap of your fingers breaks his trance and he tries - keyword tries - to act nonchalant to his obvious ogling and you only laugh in return.

You hum lowly, “So,” you’re turning to face him as you lean back on the counter, pushing your chest out to grasp even more of his attention, “what's an esteemed hero like you doing in a place like this?” It takes Shinso a good minute before he narrows his eyes, left foot back and ready to either take you down or run away if you were to involve greater forces. No one is supposed to know about his true identity, no one is supposed to know that there is a hero within them.

But what shakes his demeanor is the way you dangle his wallet in front of him, like dangling a stupid feather for some silly cat, waiting for it to jump at you to entertain you. Shinso swallows with a struggle, deciding that using his quirk to retrieve his wallet back will lead to him leaving, and he didn’t want that. He’s been keeping an eye on the wanted man for hours now, and it’ll all go to waste because of your slimy little hands and your-

“Here,” you toss it back to him, and he stumbles a bit before catching it properly, eyeing you for any sudden movements, but you simply turn back around in time to hold the drink from the bartender’s hand with a smile dazzling your lips. “You’re getting intel on The Wise?” you mumble against your cup, sipping slowly, eyes never leaving Shinso’s glaring ones. How the fuck do you know?

“You’re not the first.” you smirk, finger wiping the smeared lipstick against the glass before circling the rim. “You all look the same, thinking you’re better than them because of your position in the society, only for that ego to come and bite you right in the ass.” It’s almost ironic how poisonous your voice could get while still maintaining that mesmerizing smile, and oddly enough, Shinso’s eyes keep drooping despite his desperate attempt to fight against them.

You hum again, the click of your heels sounding muffled to him, eyes blurring when you get so close to him your breath tickles his cheek. “But you’re different, hmm? You’re gonna make the bad guy go away?” 

“Yes.” it's rushed, almost desperate, and the hero is astonished at how he sounds. “Then, lemme help you… Hitoshi.”

A blink, and you’re gone just like you vanished right from under his nose, slipped right between his fingers. A low curse escapes Shinso’s lips and he turns around swiftly to question the bartender, hell bent on getting any information on the girl that just revealed his entire identity and mission to him in a matter of seconds. 

“How can I help you, sir?” the question boggles his mind, the big burly man with an attitude problem wasn’t there anymore, replaced by another sweet woman that held concern in her eyes at his sight. “You’ve been staring at the wall for a while there, need me to call your driver to get you back?” 

“Wa- but I- She,” Shinso’s body started heating up in anger, worry, embarrassment, he doesn’t really know, but what he wants to know right this instant is how long he’s been out of it and for god’s sake, why?

Shinso doesn’t really consider himself to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but dammit did he feel like a complete idiot letting you run off like that, a quick trip to the restroom for a splash of water clears his head enough for him to pull back his wallet from his pocket, flipping through it and finding something he was absolutely sure wasn’t there prior to your visit. A silver card, with ‘Surveillance room’ scribbled on a note behind it.

Caving in and accepting whatever help you were offering him, Shinso slides the card through the reader, sighing in relief upon the satisfying ding sound, followed by the door opening to the surveillance room.

“Now that’s what’m talking about.” life got so much easier now that he could watch The Wise through multiple screens, making it hard to miss a single move of his. The hero allows himself to relax a bit, hand messing with his hair and tired eyes blinking in irritation against the glare of the screens. The Wise was the mastermind of Organization XIII, as their name intel, they’re consisting of the same thirteen members that founded it years ago, nobody really knows how they started, what shocked the whole world is how grand their first crime actually was, bloodbath of the century -they would call it, seventeen slaughtered heroes, followed by their families, including women and children, thousands of millions of ¥ in money laundering atop of it, all within a span of 4 months, that was years ago, back in their prime.

Now, with eight of them behind bars, the remaining five were able to stay under the radar, distributing whatever money they were able to keep between them and fleeing to different parts of the world. Just because they were apart, didn’t mean they were any less dangerous, The Wise is a prime example for that, brutally murdering three of the undercover heroes sent his way to bring him back to justice, but they weren’t Shinso, he’d try to remind himself.

May their soul rest in peace, they were those heroes he felt dissociated from, the type of heroes to flaunt their powers, monetize the peoples’ knowledge of their quirks, uncover the secrets of their job, they were easy targets for people like The Wise, he’d know their weaknesses and how to take them down before they even think about pursuing him. Now, Mindjack was a different story, he wasn’t held on a pedestal by the people he saves, simply because they don’t recognize him, while he would loath that reality sometimes, he thanks the god for it today, as he’s watching the man’s call out for a drink.

Amethyst eyes scan the remaining screens, widening upon the sight of you looking right back at them, you are a vixen to him, eyes half lidded with a smile so intoxicating it does nothing but entrance whoever was lucky enough to catch its sight. Lace clad fingers wrapping around a piece of paper, you are so beautiful, Shinso tries to stop his mind from wandering, imagining what you wore underneath that angel crafted dress, envisioning what those fingers could do to please him, the same fingers that held the unfolded paper, the word ‘RUN’ smeared across it in lipstick.

Wait a minute, run?

Even before the poor hero could react, the similar satisfying -now dreadful- ding rings in his ear, before the door opens behind him, illuminating the room even more. Shinso stands to face two men, both as surprised as he is to see another occupant in the room. Right before any of them move, the hero opens his mouth and prays to god that whatever way he’s winging it works. “You got a permit to be here?”

Jesus one of you answer, and they both do - the left having fingers curving into talons while the right pulled at strings from the tips of his fingers, both ready to attack - and by god Shinso couldn’t be happier upon hearing a sound, because the minute the word ‘yes’ slips through their lips, Mindjack is smiling like a madman, welcoming the look of glossy eyes and heavy heads like a beloved relative’s return back home. 

“Great… Now,” the two manipulated  men face him, unaware of the dreaded fate bestowed upon them, while Shinso just can’t seem to keep the glint in his eyes at bay. “Why don’t you put on a show for me,” he breathes, smiling down at the ground before looking at them. ”Choke the fucking life out of each other.” The men don’t even blink, quick to face each other and jump, hands wrapped around throats like a vice, Shinso only moves away from the men on the floor as they thrash and kick at each other, limbs flailing as they try to force the life out of each other.

Turning his back against them, Shinso eyes the screen he was monitoring before their entrance, ignoring the groans and gasps of air behind him. He curses under his breath when he sees The Wise getting up from his place, heading towards a room that is supposed to be monitored by screen #6, but is purposely out of service. If he isn’t able to question The Wise or even keep an eye on him, then he’s gonna head on over to the next best thing. Gargled screams echo through the corridor as the hero makes his exit, making sure the door clicks shut behind him, he wouldn’t want to cause disturbance to the esteemed guests of the society of lowlifes.

Mindjack works in dingy jobs with filthy manipulative men in black markets and the human trafficking industry, killing machines that didn’t spare the live of the innocents, so why should he spare theirs? 

Shinso makes it back to the main event, immediately finding you between guests, sitting so pretty on the poker table, eyes drawing him closer, the grin adorning your lips now wobbly, easy for him to distinguish as fake, forced, a façade kept for the people surrounding the table. He is hasteful in settling himself in the chair near you, shoulders tense when different pairs of eyes fall upon him, the dealer shuffles the deck to draw cards for Shinso, but you hold your hand out with a smile. “He’ll sit this one out, by my lucky onlooker.” A round of laughter causes Shinso to flush in embarrassment, feeling degraded and looked down upon by all these lowlifes, petty thieves and criminals, thinking they’re better than him, oh he’ll show them.(1)

It takes a few rounds for the table to empty out, now occupied by Shinso and yourself, the dealer asks him to move over to the next chair before they start their game. “Place your bets.” you’re quick to slide over a few of your chips to his side - some black, others red and blue, he didn’t really pay that much attention to them- your eyes daring him to reject your invitation to take the money to play.

He only blinks at you, his eyes seemingly never wanting to lose sight of you as he fights with himself to sit straight to face the dealer again, the man proceeds to deal both of you the cards for you to review before placing your bets. “You tricked me.” Shinso is almost appalled at the hurt laced in his voice, as if the two of you had a bond that was never meant to be broken. “don’t believe so, told you to run didn’ I?” The mockery in your voice is a hoax, the single twitch in your brow catches his attention and he can only deem it as you being stressed, whether it be because of the ordeal regarding the surveillance room or not is beyond him. No, he was stupid and foolish and he will not fall for your silly games again. “Exactly, you knew they were coming.” you hum in response to his accusation.

“Call.” Dropping a few of your chips on the table, your eyes shift momentarily to him, “I did, I said I’d help you and here I am.” He slams his bet on the table, ‘Raise’ gritted right through his teeth at your words. “I don’t want your help!” He reveals his cards on the table, a way to show his disinterest in your assistance as the dealer announces ‘Flush’ at his hand. Your eyes meet again from above your cards, now narrowing down instead of the half lidded look you seem to always have “You don’t want it, but you need it.” The façade you held before is slowly but surely breaking, now a deep frown tugging at your lip as you reveal your own hand, brows furrowing even further in challenge as you hum in displeasure when the dealer announces your ‘Full House’ hand to be the winner of this round.(2)

Shinso moves swiftly to stand when he sees you do the same, right before his entire world starts to spin, lights and colors mingling together and causing his head to spin, he sits down again, head between his hands as he tries to calm himself down, it's probably the strain of the mission, maybe it’s the weight bestowed upon his shoulders to finish it up. The hero lifts his head up to ask you, about something he himself isn’t even sure of, he just wants to hear your voice, like a drug to him that he can’t help but ask for more. Except when he does, you aren’t there, the table is occupied by different people, the dealer is another man with longer hair and slimmer figure, and by god did Shinso want to rip his hair out.

The minute he feels like he could get back on his own to feet without falling down on his ass, Hitoshi is quick to check his pockets, adamant to find a clue your sneaky hands slid into one of his pockets while he was out, despite the tantrum he almost threw at not wanting your help nor guidance, and he does find something, a simple metal key, attached to it was a tag with the number XIII on it. 

In his shock, he almost drops the key on the ground but barely holds himself together to avoid any further embarrassment, Shinso takes deep breaths, knowing that the key in his possession is his entry to the heart of the organization, and especially to The Wise. 

Every year, specifically at the Vice City annual auction afterparty, The Wise holds a meeting with the most dangerous men within the continent, the most loathsome masterminds of the criminal world, all in the hopes of recruiting one of them into the organization, to uphold its name and spread its message. Every year, with no recruitment yet. 

With trembling hands, Shinso stuffs the key back into his pocket, eyes on the lookout for anyone who might’ve caught the key in his hand, but sighs in relief when he sees some engrossed in their meaningless poker and absurd talks, while the majority have made their way to the next hall over for the auction that is being held. He takes the stairs three at a time up the floors, facing a red oak double door, the same forsaken number engraved into it. After multiple failed attempts at inserting the key in the lock, he finally does with a huff, hearing the lock echoing in his ears before pushing the door open.

To be honest, Shinso didn’t know what he was expecting to see on the other side of the door, he thought maybe he’d watch weaponry trade off, perhaps people brawling and fighting amongst each other for the title of being the new members. But he certainly didn’t expect to be engulfed in jazz music, men with their cigars laughing and chatting, without a single care in the world, as if their hands weren’t tainted with the blood of the innocents, oh how he loathed them. In an attempt to fit in, he grabs a glass of whiskey from the butler standing by the door, nodding to him in thanks before moseying his way over to the corner in the room, he’d be damned if he got caught in the crossfire of those lunatics.

A stage is set up in the front of the room, and it takes a second for him to acknowledge the pole placed right at its center, it takes him another few seconds to see the beauty dancing on that pole, Shinso’s eyes rake her body without his knowledge, he admires the lingerie adorning her body, hugging her in all the right places, garter snug against her thighs as she twirls, her legs looking endless in those heels he wonders how she can dance so elegantly with them on… wait a minute. 

As if predicting the minute he realized it was you, you twirl to face him, lips pulled into a smile yet again, a giggle interrupting your humming as your body twists and turns on the pole. Shinso isn’t really sure how long he sits there captivated by your body, the only thing breaking his trance is the clap on his back and the heavy weight that sits next to him. “Beauty, isn’t she?”

Bile rises to Shinso’s throat at the mere sound of the person next to him, fear stills him in his place, restricting any movement he’s even thinking of doing, all he could do is sit, widened eyes and sweaty brows at the sight of The Wise right beside him. 

“Don’cha love it when women like her,” The Wise points at you with his cigar, “work to please men like us?” His arm now completely wrapped around Shinso’s shoulder as the hero feels his soul levitating from his body. “Look aroun’ya,” and he does, and only then does he really pay attention, he should’ve seen it all along, the glossy eyes, the droopy heads, it's a sight he was so well accustomed to that his brain normalized it to him. With whatever courage he musters up, he shifts his eyes to look at the man beside him, noticing the ear plugs he wore, and right then the gears start to turn in his head. “My most prized possession I tell’ya.” 

Of course you would be, how else would you have access to all these things, the card, the key, the vanishing from thin air, it all makes sense now.

“Enjoying yourselves, gentlemen?” your words are flowing like honey to his ears, a low buzz ringing in his brain as you spoke to the men in front of you. His ability to frown is nonexistent, a relaxed look adorning his face as he looks up at you, so elegant and beautiful in whatever hugged that miracle of a body.

“Sure are,” The Wise jerks Shinso by the shoulder, and he realizes that was done to break whatever trance he was in, he could only glare back at you when you smile at them, that conniving smile that hosted all the lies you spouted to him.

“y/n,” He calls you and by God if this isn’t the most beautiful name Shinso ever hears, what a shame it's being tainted by the voice of this criminal. “Wadda ya say to takin’ this fine boy to the red room, hm?” The man urges him to stand and take your hand, which he did at the blink of an eye, his body moving on it’s own to graze his lips against your knuckles in a breathless kiss. “Treat’m real nice for me.” The hero’s feet take him to follow you, his steps light, like walking on clouds, the sway of your hips pulling him closer to you until his chest is flush against your back, pushing you to move faster into the room you are pointed towards.

Walking aimlessly through hallways, taking lefts and rights he would never be able to recollect in his current state, you both enter a room, red just like The Wise called it, crimson silk sheets fitted on a king sized bed, maroon loveseats and plush carpets, everything in that red hue that it's almost nauseating. 

Bringing your hands in a loud clap, the fogginess in Shinso’s vision dissolves, your creased brows and frown now more prominent to him than ever, his eyes catch the scar trailing from the back of your neck to your cleavage, confused as to why his usual perceptive self would miss it, but then again, he doesn’t feel like he was ever himself throughout this whole ordeal.

To say he was furious is an understatement, he never felt more played in his life, he is Mindjack, the most conniving hero of all of Japan, he was manipulative and sly , known by his people to get jobs done, no matter who his opponent is, he always comes back victorious. And when his ears pick up your sigh of relief, he could only see red, he is hurt, he is scared, but now its his act, his turn to fuck shit up, he wants to hurt, he wants to scare.

“Fuckin’ lying bitch,” It takes him all but two steps for his body to graze yours, tantalizing eyes boring down into yours as you gasp at the close proximity, “you were workin’ with’em this entire fuckin’ time?”

“N-no that’s not it,” you stutter, flustered at his overwhelming presence, trying to put some distance between you and the fuming man by pushing his chest, “Please, I need you to listen to me.” 

“Oh, now you’re beggin’ hmm?” his firm warm hands circle your wrists, tugging them away from his body and using them to pull you even closer to him, his breath now grazing the tops of your cheeks, “Didn’t your boss tell you to treat me right?” he breathes, “well, get to it, slut.”

“That’s not what this is Hitoshi, just listen-” for the love of all that’s pure in this world, why does the sound of his name exceed his perception of how happiness is supposed to reverberate in his ear? “Keep my name outta your mouth, or I swear,” He hisses at you, the grip on your wrists tightening as you whimper out in pain. 

“You think you can just toy with me? Have me running around and following your orders like a lil bitch!?” He sees you trembling, lips wobbly and in tears, how ironic, he doesn’t know a few words would get you to start tearing up, the change in demeanor from when he first met you confuses him for a second, but only a second, because he’ll be damned if he falls for any of your tricks anymore. “N-no, I swear it isn’t like that, just p-please, please c-calm down! Let me explain myself-” the ugly cackle he lets out shuts you up, teary eyes widening as they fall on his, the aura he’s radiating is terrifying to say the least, your knees shaking in dread at what’s about to fold.

“You think you can play my game and win?”

It takes you a minute to answer, the word no echoing in your head, throbbing in your brain so painfully you forget the words that follow it, but what you can’t forget, what you will never forget, no matter how delirious you feel, is the look of pure sin across Shinso’s face, grin rivaling that of the Cheshire cat, because you were now simply a measly little pawn in his game. 

Mindjack works in dingy jobs with filthy manipulative men in black markets and the human trafficking industry, criminals that broke every law in their way to get what they desire, so why couldn’t he indulge even a little himself? 

He lets go of your wrists, watching as your arms sway next to your body like dead weight before he turns around to flop down on the loveseat, legs spread wide as he waves his hand over to you.

“Waddaya waitin’ for,” he knows you can’t answer him, but it feels so fucking good to hold such power over you after all you’ve put him through. “Now, strip.” the surge of power he feels jolts his dick up in excitement as he watches you take off your lingerie, moves robotic and forced, eyes glazed over both with tears and his control over your dumb little brain. Hitoshi is no villain, he is a respectable hero, but he’s been called that all his childhood, he might as well live up to that expectation, one way or another.

Shinso stands when you’re fully naked in front of him, long legs circling you and taking you all in, the back of his hand grazes your nipple and he all but groans as it pebbles at his touch. But god, he was nowhere near being done with you.

“Spread your legs for me on that bed,” he grins at the way you follow his orders even before he asks, “will ya?” you settle yourself on the bed before slowly dropping your weight on your back, hazy eyes staring up into the ceiling as your arms bring themselves down to circle the back of your knees, pulling them up close to your chest to expose yourself to him. 

Shinso’s cock twitches in his pants again at the opportunity to just seath it into you without any warning, but he barely holds himself back, approaching your body and feeling himself salivating at the sight, what a sight it is, your pussy looking so fucking beautiful clenching over nothing, the sight tempting him to just dive his face right in to get a taste of your juices.

Taking off his suit jacket and rolling the sleeves of his shirt, Shinso presses his thumb to your clit, frowning when he notices how dry you are, of course you would be, he chuckles to no one, puckering his lip to spit right at the nub, watching it trail down to your clenching hole, the sight igniting a flame within him, he does it again, simply to watch your spit hide in your cunt, impatient to follow suit and bury himself in there. 

His thumb is quick to draw circles with your clit, needing for your orgasm to wash over you quickly, eager for the things he’d do to you after he preps you enough to take him. The usual comforting silence is thick between you, no moans escaping your ajar mouth as your arousal seeps out of your pussy, he prods your hole with his finger to collect your nectar, smearing it across your clit again to rub even faster against it.

The only indication of you coming undone is when your thighs start to shake, your body curling in on itself as your back arches, your cunt gushing on his fingers, and Shinso is almost disappointed to not hear you moan out his name in pleasure. But he isn’t that disheartened, he’s bound to hear you scream.

You on the other hand, are petrified at the way your body is being handled, feeling yourself looking down at the horror being folded in front of you, this isn’t you, this is a shell of who you are, wrapped around his finger, at his mercy, and you want out, no matter the cost. But, you are to regret these words, because you see him unbuckling his belt, you hear the zipper drilling in your ear, and you watch him lay atop you, feeling your lungs constrict at the weight settling upon it, and to your utmost terror, the only thing that breaks his bind on you is when you feel his warm head prodding at your entrance, right before seething completely in, your throat prickling when you wail hoarsely in pain at feeling like being split into two.

“No, nonononon, st-stop please, please!” You’re crying, legs thrashing and arms flailing trying to push this monster off of you, but you can’t, you think as your walls pulsate in pain at the intrusion, you’ll never be able to with him placing his entire weight on you like that, and the way he pulls out before impaling you again has you seeing stars in the worst way possible. Desperate for an escape, you grab a chuck of his hair, your nails digging into his scalp before you yank, your jaw throbbing at how tight you clench your teeth in pain and disgust and pure panic. The strength you muster to pull his head up is in vain, because it only jerks his face deeper into your neck, right where your scar trails, and he bites, so hard you’re certain it draws blood. 

Only then does he lift his head up, his upper lip smeared with a smidge of blood, your blood, before he spits right into your mouth. Sick to your stomach at the metallic taste invading your taste buds, you spit right up at him, mindless to the debris falling right back at your face, your mascara running down your cheeks as you sneer up at him. Even as he laughs teasingly at you.

“Don’t worry slut,” He rasps, his nose brushing against yours as his thrusts find a pace, pulling out to the tip before pushing himself fully inside, “It’ll feel good in a minute.” and it does, he feels more of your arousal coating his cock as he snaps his hips against yours, your wails and whimpers slowly yet surely are coated more with lust as you moan out his name. “See tha’, almost too easy…” almost too good to be true.

And it is, because when his eyes struggle to find yours, he is reminded by the feeling that overtook him this entire evening, and when he sees the corner of your lips pull lightly does he want to rip your head right out, but the minute he moves his hand, he is overwhelmed by how wobbly he feels, how your face distorts and misshapes before he is met with the sight of the ceiling, the sight you grew accustomed to when he was taking advantage of your unconsciousness. 

He groans when he feels you impaling yourself on his cock, pussy clenching so tight as you bop yourself up and down his shaft, your tits bouncing with you as he looks up at you, so mesmerized and entranced by your beauty all he does is hold your hips, helping you lift yourself up before dropping you on him, the squelching sound that follows it music to his ears.

You plant your hands against his chest, hips rolling as you pant at his lips, both of you so drunk on the feeling of each other and chasing your highs, “You gonna listen to me, when I ask you to?” His hand claps against your ass at your question, “Yes, yes oh God, anythin’ just don’t stop.” He can’t help but want more of you, want to feel his cock push against you even further, so he plants his feet firm against the bed, hand grabbing handfuls of your ass as he starts thrusting up at you, moaning against your neck when he shoots ropes of his cum inside of your sopping cunt, squeezing him so tight and milking him, and all of what Shinso remembers is the way you arch your back, pressing your chest against his as your whimper out his name, as he feels your juices dripping against his balls and down on the sheets beneath you. After that, all he could see was black.

Shinso awakes startled, eyes darting in alarm before he relaxes when he confirms he’s alone, the red silky sheets now draped over his lower body, pooling at his lap when he sits up to look around once more, desperate for any sign of you. Yet he only sees a brown folder on top of the love seat, impressively thick with the amount of papers stacked inside it, and when Shinso reaches for it, he catches the note that slipped off and draped down on the floor, reading it and scowling at it. ‘You promised you’d listen’

And boy is he more than lucky to listen to you when you asked him to. Because that folder has every tiny little detail he needs to know about The Wise, from the quirks of his circulating bodyguards to the keys to his multiple homes within the world. Pictures upon pictures of the man, decoded letters and basically intel on his entire criminal record.

Fucking finally, Shinso gets to just go home no that everything’s over and done with.

Limited Edition Sneak Peek:

It is way too early for Shinso, the sun glaring at him as he makes his way into the agency, the honking cars and chattering people feeding into his migraine so early in the morning, and he groans as he pushes his door open, ready to get back to his regular routine after the incident at Vice City.

It hasn’t been even a week, but it sure was eventful, using the folder you left him, Mindjack was able to capture The Wise the very next day, via the map of the routes he takes that was attached in the folder. They were able to ambush him, easily being able to bring the right heroes for the job to overcome the quirks of both his workers and himself. Now the mastermind of Organization XIII was behind bars, making the job of catching the remaining members now much easier.

It almost felt like child’s play, at least, that’s what the heroes made it out to be, flexing their powers and their potential, when they were well aware that all their efforts would’ve been in vain if you and your folder weren't there to aid them in every step.

To say that guilt ate him up is an understatement, he feels himself decaying from the inside out from resentment, he figures he spent too much time in the dark, that it started to mess with him, manipulate him, carve him into someone he isn’t, someone that isn’t fit to be a hero. He feels like was walking into a tunnel with no way out, engulfed and trapped in pure merciless darkness, that ate away at his soul every step he took further in.

Shinso trudges up the stairs with a heavy heart, the dread at what he did to you, especially that your intent to help him didn’t waver despite his actions loomed over him, and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt like he didn’t deserve the life that he’s living in right now. 

Yet, the saying ‘there's a light at the end of the tunnel’ rings in his ear, the minute he opens up the door to his office, eyes widening at the sight before him, smile so dazzlingly sweet, a voice just like silk, weaving around him and entrancing him as the words captivated him despite their simplicity.

“Missed me, Hitoshi?”

(1) its common in poker for women to be onlookers, like the wives of the players for example, the jab at him being an onlooker is basically just a sexist joke to make the people around the table laugh to ease their mind.

(2) to help gain more perspective about the poker scene you can read the elaboration here

Aaaand more about the reader’s quirk here!

Hope you enjoyed! Also, PLEASE if you could theorize with me after reading the fic I’d love you forever, ask me about the reader’s quirk, ask me about some hidden meanings between the scenes JUST ANYTHING. MWAH

Borrowers (taglist):

@hanji-is-life @anarchicmartyr @sleepykyan @yourprincess-maybe @wolfygirl1900 @tteokdoroki​

@theehoneybunii @nanamisbento​ (not sure if you wanted to be tagged for bakuhoe only of all my fics, so sorry if its the former!)

if you want to be tagged with for any of my fics let me know ♡

[khneltea]

Day 2: Strength

You're Strong

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

She was a walking disaster. They should hang a sign on her saying she was a hazard and caution should be taken within a ten feet radius. Why would they trust her around anything not glued to the ground?

She should start from the beginning.

------

"Adrien," she whined. "It's not like that."

Adrien shrugged, sliding his shades up to give her a pointed look. "Right. It's just a study meeting."

"Yes, we've discussed this before. You saying it in that tone won't change the meaning of it." Marinette rolled her eyes at her brother.

"Yeah, but you're going to a study meeting. That's just the two of you. When you're not even in the same course." She could feel the teasing grin growing on his face at her rising blush.

"He just offered to help!"

"With what?" She didn't look him in the eye, grabbing her tote bag instead.

"Studying isn't just about the content. Sometimes it helps to have someone to revise the concepts with." She said and busied herself with the contents of her bag, making sure she had all her study materials. He didn't bother hiding his grin from her.

"When he knows nothing about it?" She didn't respond, but she shot him the finger when she walked out the door. "Have fun with lover boy!"

"Fuck you!"

"Love you too, bugaboo!" He honked his ridiculous horn and zoomed off.

She loved Adrien, she really did. But sometimes (which was at least twice a day), she wanted to strangle him.

Passing by the glass window of a coffee shop, she paused and checked herself in the mirror. Mask, check. Clean ponytail? Check. A super cute outfit that she put on to make herself feel good, not to impress a certain flannel-wearing boy? Yes. Flannel jacket to return, already washed and cleaned? Che—

She patted the bag. It didn't have the big lump it did when she first brought it into the car. There was supposed to be a big lump there. Where was the lump?

Her face turned pale. She must have left it in the car.

Maybe Adrien hadn't gone too far yet? She pulled out her phone to call him, racing back to where he had dropped her off in his bright yellow sports car. He had bought it with his father's money to piss him off when they were seventeen. It was the car they thought would annoy Gabriel the most. Loud in both sound and color, tacky, and above all, expensive enough to make a dent into Adrien's modeling salary.

Bam! She crashed into a wall as soon as she pressed Adrien's contact on her phone. Everything went in slow motion. The ground tilted closer. The wind whooshed in her ear. Metal clattered to the ground as her tumbler rolled on the cement. Gravity shifted, and she could feel the hulking stand she hit losing its base on the ground.

Goddamit, if she learned one thing from being a clumsy thirteen-year-old girl turned superheroine of luck, it was that any luck she had was luck she made out of a situation. She planted her dominant foot forward, pushing on the balls of her feet as she grabbed the thing she collided with. As she grabbed it, she shifted all her weight backward and heaved the object up.

She panted, closing her eyes in exhaustion. The busy street continued without fail, the chatter and traffic punctured by the metal clang of her water bottle rolling on the ground. There goes her coffee.

"Oh, wow." Her body froze. "You're strong."

Opening her eyes, she felt her lungs constrict, and her jaw slackened. Breathing? What? Did she need to breath? Yes, she did, the blood was rushing to her head. She could hear her blood. She shouldn't be able to. How did she breath again? Oh gosh. Was it in first or out? How much was too much? Nose or mouth? Maybe mouth. Probably mouth. The air goes in the throat right?

Scratch that, mouth was not good. The air tasted funky, she should close her jaw. Wait, nope, the muscles in her lower face weren't working. Would it be weird if she raised her hand to push her jaw up? That would be weird.

Breathing? Yes. Systems were clear now, kind of.

"—rinette!" She blinked and focused on the blue-eyed vision standing in front of her.

Right. Breathing. Systems may be failing again.

"Are you ok, Marinette?" She nodded, not trusting her voice. He sighed in relief. "That's good."

"I'm so sorry for bumping into you like that, I swear I'm never—" She cringed and spoke again. "I'm not like that most of the time."

"I understand that." She was hallucinating. It was a trick of the light. His cheeks were not pink. It was just cold.

"Really?"

He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah, I'm a bit clumsy."

"Oh," she said, then brightened. "We're a pair then!"

"Yeah, yeah, we are." His smile brought the sunshine out. Damn, it was bright. If this was how she died, she'd be dying happy, if not a little mortified at her own actions. "So, we're heading to the library right?"

"Yeah," she sighed, a dopey grin stretching across her face. "Yeah."

this is the second or third time i've written this out, hopefully this saves! what did you think? marinette is obviously totally irrevocably in love and simping over Jon but Jon is Jon hahaha. thanks very much @maribat-calendar-events for the prompts!!!

tag list:

@couffeeine @jumpingjoy82 @verymuchimmortalcat @wolfy-kat

[dumdumsun]

And Dusk

A/N: Just a heads up, the sensitive content in this chapter will be marked "<<<<<<" as the beginning and ">>>>>>" to signify the end. The racial slurs used in this chapter were targeted towards African Americans (and still are) and I chose these because I, myself, am African American and used them as a sort of “default” for any POC readers. ⚠️Please, never use these towards anyone. Whether it be in a “joking” manner or not. They are hurtful and were created to be that way⚠️ I wrote this chapter the way I did to bring awareness. Proceed with caution. Much love ❤️

Warnings: ⚠️racial slurs⚠️, violence, mentions of guns and dying/death

Word Count: 3707

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Chapter 3: The Frankel Footage

Shaking himself out of his shock, Five stood from his seat and hurried after his brother, grabbing onto his arm and stopping his strides. “The hell is wrong with you, Luther? I just told you the world’s gonna end in ten days!”

“Yeah, well, you’re always saying that.” Luther nonchalantly spoke before moving away, but Five intervened yet again.

“And so far, I’ve been right.” He hissed as Luther sighed and shook his head.

“Look, you want to go save the world? Knock yourself out, alright? I already got a job.”

“Wait, you work in this shithole?” The boy furrowed his brows.

“Yeah. Well, my boss owns the place,” Luther only received a nod from his brother, so he clarified. “I’m his body man.”

But this only made Five even more confused. “What’s that? Like, a masseuse or something?”

“Okay, you can make fun all you want, but I take good care of Mr Ruby.”

“Wait, Ruby. The Jack Ruby? The gangster who shot Oswald.”

Despite Five’s concern, Luther proudly smiled a smug smile as he glanced over at his boss. “Yeah. The one and only.”

“Well, it finally happened,” Five sighed. “That gorilla DNA has finally taken over your mind-”

“Hey, watch it, alright? Jack’s a good friend-”

“And you’re Number One. Numero Uno. Remember?”

Luther clenched his jaw and shook his head. “There is no Number One. Not anymore. Not in 1963,” When Five stared at him in disbelief, Luther sighed again. “Look, I’ve been stranded here alone for a year. What did you expect?”

Five scoffed. “I get it, alright? You watched Pogo die, the world exploded, and I marooned your big dumb ass in time. I’m sorry, okay? But I’m asking for your help, Luther. The Umbrella Academy needs you.”

“It doesn’t need me,” He slowly spoke to draw out his words. “It never did.”

“Luther, honey,” The waitress from earlier approached the two. “Jack’s about to lose it on some half-wit. A little help?”

“Ah, shit,” He groaned and began walking away. When Five tried yet again to stop him, he whirled on him, his lips pulled into a thin line. “Listen. You’re the genius who said we should jump, right? You’re the one who got us stuck here. And you’re the one who brought Vanya. So, if there is a doomsday coming, she’s probably the cause. And if I was gonna do something about it, it sure as hell is not gonna be with you. That’s (Y/N)’s job, being dragged around into your messes-”

“I don’t drag her into anything.” Five swallowed, blinking rapidly.

“Yeah? Well, she wasn’t stuck as a thirteen-year-old and constantly worrying about her kids until you showed up. I’m surprised she isn’t sick of you yet.” And with that, he stomped away to his boss. This time, Five let him go, his words sending a pang through his chest as he thought back on it. Grabbing his drink, he sighed and shook his head.

“Dad should’ve left him on the moon…” He muttered, taking a sip of his drink before moving to leave his seat. When he felt his jacket snag on something, he looked down to see an object in his pocket. Taking out the tape, he frowned and turned it over.

Date: 11/22/63

Subject: FRANKEL FOOTAGE

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This world was unfamiliar to (Y/N). She knew she had to have been somewhere in America, but she didn’t know where. The cars, fashion and stores bringing the street she walked to life told her she had to have been in the sixties. But she didn’t want to believe it. Surely Five hadn’t time travelled that far? She had to have been dropped during some type of sixties-theme festival. But the voices suddenly beside her quickly prove her doubts wrong.

“What do we have here?”

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a lost little colored girl.”

Tensing, (Y/N) continued her way down the sidewalk, slightly speeding up her pace, but the men fell into step beside her with ease, flanking her sides.

“You’re on the wrong side of town, girl.”

“Yeah, we don’t like coons around here.” One of them hissed right in her ear. Her eyes welled up with tears before the other shoved her forward.

“Gon now, get!” He ordered as if she were a dog. She realized that’s how they had seen her. An animal. Nothing more. Tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, she fell to the ground, smacking her face on the concrete. She choked out a sob as the two men cackled. And to make matters even worse, she felt the pitter patter of raindrops start to freeze her skin.

(Y/N) gasped out in shock when the men spit two wads of saliva in her face. She knew she must’ve looked a mess with spit and tears sliding down her cheeks and blood oozing from her nose. She hiccupped on her sobs and began to stand, much too tired from her previous fight with Vanya and literally being dropped from the sky to successfully do so. The men backed her up against a wall and one fisted the front of her vest before a voice called out.

“Take your hands off of my child!” Whipping around, the men were half expecting to find another target, but (Y/N) coughed and sputtered nonsense upon the person her gaze fell upon.

“M-Mom…?”

Before her was Grace, but… she wasn’t robotic in any sense. She could tell by the raw anger etched into her features. She took a brave step forward. “I said. Take your hands. Off my child.”

And that was another thing: her accent. (Y/N) was immediately comforted by the stern southern accent the woman shared with her attackers. It was a voice she never thought she needed. The two looked between Grace and (Y/N) with smirks. “You mean this lil ol’ jigaboo-”

“Is my daughter. Now you let her go before I call the police.”

“Woman, I don’t care if you call the police-”

Grace took it upon herself to step closer and grab the child by her arms, yanking her into her warm embrace. (Y/N) immediately latched onto her, quivering in her hold. The men scoffed and shook their heads, beginning to walk away. “Make sure to keep that thing on a leash if you’re gonna have it out, ma’am.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She growled before turning and walking back in the direction the girl came from. As they walked past the alleyway, Grace took out a handkerchief and began wiping the girl’s face clean of what the raindrops hadn’t already washed away. “It’s alright, hun, they aren’t gonna hurt you anymore.”

“T-Thank you.” (Y/N) sobbed and gently held her nose in pain. Grace crouched in front of her and gently held her face in between her hands.

“Don’t thank me, darlin’, it’s how everyone should be treatin’ you ‘round here… Where are your parents? I could take you to ‘em.”

(Y/N) thought for a long moment, watching as the rain soaked Grace’s hair and clothing. The woman didn’t seem to mind as she watched the girl before her swallowing thickly. (Y/N) skimmed over her current choices. She didn’t have any choice.

“I don’t have parents. I-I don’t remember them…”

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“I’m tellin’ you, Reggie, she’s highly intelligent for a child her age.” Grace proudly presented (Y/N) to the man she had grown fond of over their time working together. (Y/N), however, was frozen in her spot. Sir Reginald Hargreeves. The man whose death she had wished upon for years, whose death had finally graced her existence, was back in her life. She flinched at the disapproving look on his face, much too acquainted with it by this point in her life. “And she’s very respectful. Talented, too, this girl can speak several languages.”

“You seem rather fond of this child.” The man observed as Grace squeezed her into her side.

“She’s my pride and joy.”

“And you cannot remember anything of your past, child?”

“N-No,” (Y/N) shook her head and stared down. “Not a lot. J-Just my name and birthday.”

Reginald hummed and stared her down with an unreadable expression. When she met his eyes again, he was crouched down to her level, his monocle clutched in his fist. “(Y/N), was it?”

“Yes.”

“It would be an honor to have your presence within my home, along with your mother.”

“O-Oh, that’s okay-”

“I insist. Besides, you have been living with her for almost half a year, correct? It is highly unlikely that she will share a home without you.”

“He’s right about that, hun,” (Y/N) glanced up at Grace, who was smiling warmly at her. “I’m not leavin’ you.”

(Y/N) could have cried.

And she did.

One year later, (Y/N) had been living quite the comfortable life with Grace and Reginald. She had been introduced to the ape, Pogo, for the second time since Grace first started working with him. As much as she loved being around the chimp, it brought back so many memories. She almost felt silly, looking after him sometimes knowing he had done the same for her in the original timeline.

Her relationship with Reginald was nothing she ever expected. He was gentle, well as gentle as Reginald Hargreeves could get, he cared for her, spoiled her, even. She wouldn’t have to ask for anything half the time. If he were to overhear a conversation between her and Grace about a dress she oh-so wanted, it would suddenly be laid out on her bed the next day. She usually had a say in dinner meals every Thursday and Sunday and Reginald listened intently whenever she would voice any discomfort or concerns with her living conditions. (Y/N) never had a real father, but she assumed this is what it was like to have one. She never wanted to let go of it.

For her birthday in 1963, she was surprised that he had actually gotten her a present. As she entered the parlor, she was met with the tiniest bark and an even tinier golden retriever, bounding up to her. She gasped and stopped low, letting him jump into her arms. She let him lick her face and giggled in the joy it brought her.

“Your mother said you would like it. Though I would never allow dogs in my house, I have come to understand that there are rules I must bend for you, my child.”

(Y/N) turned to her father. Yes, father. Reginald, also growing quite fond of their father-daughter bond formed between them, decided to adopt the girl. As much as his beliefs and his deep distaste for children protested. There was just something about this child. Or perhaps it was Grace’s insisting, reassuring him that he would make a wonderful father. (Y/N) was very hesitant at first for her own reasons she never shared, but eventually came around to the idea of being his daughter again.

This was the same Reginald Hargreeves who locked her in a dark room for five days straight, but also an entirely different man. Perhaps it was her fascination with the differences, or maybe she just wanted a real father for once.

“Thank you, Dad.” She softly smiled, the man nodding in response.

“But this is your pet, (Y/N). It is your responsibility. I will not find it in my study, in my bedroom, you are to train it yourself-”

“Can you-”

“And no, I will not help you pick out its name.”

The girl softly groaned and looked back down at her new puppy. Looking into its eyes, she smiled softly at a distant memory as a small child.

“Welcome to the family, Mr Pennycrumb.”

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

(Y/N) groaned when she felt the sunbeams of the early morning sunrise hit her eyelids, coloring her black vision with the stinging fire of orange. Rolling onto her other side, she stretched her blanket over her head. They were yanked away the next second, causing a whine to leave her lips. “Mom… Five more minutes.”

“I let you sleep in long enough, hun, it’s time to get up. You have a date with Preston this afternoon.” Grace gently pulled her daughter to sit up, giggling quietly at her look of disgust.

“Preston? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously, let’s get goin’.” Grace patted her leg and walked to her door, waiting patiently. (Y/N) sighed and rubbed her face, letting her feet slide into her slippers. As they descended the stairs to the kitchen for breakfast, Reginald could hear his daughter’s sleepy complaining from his place at the table.

Setting his utensils down, he turned his head in their direction. “My child, how many times throughout each week must we have to repeat this conversation?”

“Until it starts making sense.” (Y/N) stepped into the dining room, now in her robe, and crossed her arms over her chest. Reginald sighed and stood from his chair at the table.

“You are one of my greatest accomplishments,” He began towards her. “There is no doubt in my mind that you would make a fine successor. I do not believe you will need a husband. In fact, you would be better off without another individual holding you back from what you are truly capable of.”

“But?” She raised a brow.

“But… I have grown to know you more than I expected… and I know that you would need someone to help manage your finances you inherit once I am gone. Preston is a fine young man who was born into this life, made into this life. He will take good care of you.”

(Y/N) knew there was only one person in this world who would truly take good care of her. But he wasn’t here, and she needed to play the part as the amnesiac adopted daughter, so she huffed and nodded. “Fine… I’ll go…”

“Thank you-”

“But only if Mr Pennycrumb can go, too.”

“Very well, but you will not be gifted another animal if you lose it.”

The outing wasn’t entirely bad. (Y/N) didn’t mind the picnic or the art museum, it was the company that made her blood boil. Preston is anything she would have expected out of him. This had been their seventh date, tenth of the ones he planned. (Y/N) sought out any opportunity she could to cancel on him to save herself from the unbearable three hours she would have to spend with the kid. He was arrogant, smug, selfish, narcissistic, and overbearing. Of course, this was not the Preston he presented to her parents. No, to them, Preston was ‘a fine man with a bright future ahead of him’, or as Grace would put it, ‘a delight to have around’. He laughed like a drunk, talked like a husband, and smelled like a man. All at the age of fifteen. (Y/N) had to remind herself on several occasions that she was mentally the older out of the two and to not stoop to his level when he got under her skin.

“Don’t you think, (Y/N)?” The voice brought her attention back to the boy beside her. She looked up from the grass they had been strolling through. When she hummed in question, he amusedly scoffed and side-step closer to her. “Never mind. I should have known you wouldn’t have been interested in politics.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The girl raised a brow. At her confusion, he laughed and gently tapped the side of his head.

“You’ve always got that head of yours in the clouds. Or turned behind you- like right now.”

(Y/N) turned her head away from where she had been looking over her shoulder. “What? Sorry, Preston, I’m a little preoccupied today.”

“With what, exactly? You don’t seem to be the type of girl to have very many issues. Nothing to worry about.”

“And you wonder why I don’t listen to you.” She sighed as her puppy ran in between her legs, rolling in the grass once he was a few paces in front of them. Preston frowned in distaste and shook his head.

“You should really keep that thing on a leash, sweetheart.”

She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, clenching her teeth as she folded her hands behind her back. “Really now?”

“Really. You know, I’m not very fond of dogs, so I’m not sure how it’ll work out once we’re married. I think we should get one after we have kids, you know? Just so the kids could grow up with it.”

(Y/N) quickly turned her head to the left, pointing out across the street. “Preston, would you look at that?”

“Look at what?” He gullibly looked in the direction, (Y/N) quickly checking the area before almost silently singing her tune. From her shadow, her clone formed and robotically walked behind the two. She quickly switched spots with it and ordered the clone to walk with Preston before scooping her puppy into her arms and rushing off in the opposite direction. Once she was behind a diner far away from their date location, she let out a sigh and gently patted her dog on the head.

“Were you sick of it, too?” She chuckled. Resting the back of her head against the brick wall she leaned on, she let out a slow breath and began to relax. The sound of guns cocking had her head snapping up so fast, she swore she could have dislocated it. Just down the end of the line of stores were three white-haired men, one in a milkman uniform, training their guns on her. (Y/N) didn’t waste a second tucking her dog in front of her and spinning around, charging down the opposite direction as bullets whizzed past her. She dodged them the best she could, jumping a few feet in the air at the ones that threatened to take their place in her feet. It was like a dance; the twisting, spinning and jumping, and she was to perform this dance until one of those bullets killed her if she didn’t find a way out soon. Sliding to the side of a clothing store for cover, she gently shushed her pet as she caught her breath.

The three sets of footsteps eventually found their destination and rounded the corner with skilled quickness, shooting at the girl until she was nothing more than a bloodied corpse on the ground, bullet holes lodged in almost every inch of her body. The three men nodded to each other and turned around, making their way out from behind the stores.

(Y/N) had already been down the street from her house by the time her attackers found the clone in her place. She couldn’t have been bothered to check herself for any wounds, too worried about Mr Pennycrumb’s potential bullet wounds. But the pup was perfectly, happily nuzzling into her arms and wagging his tail. This left (Y/N) to ponder.

Who the hell were those men?

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

“Is it on?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? There’s an ‘on’ button. Just- There’s something over- that jigga-ma-thing, whatever.”

“I hit the jigga-ma-thing!”

“Okay, well, just- Give it to me. I know how to do this.”

“Alright, here, here. Hurry up.”

“Okay, alright, let’s see…”

Lila didn’t look up from her task of painting poor Elliott’s toenails, his bindings he received after threatening the trio with a gun preventing him from moving too much. Which was beneficial to her, as it kept her from ruining the paint job. She softly smiled as she listened to the argument between the elderly couple on the film Five and Diego were intently watching. “They’re so cute,” She commented. “I love old couples. I’m always so proud of them for not murdering each other.”

Ignoring her, Diego turned to his brother from his seat on Elliott’s counter. “Why are we watching this?”

“Shush.” Five replied, eyes trained on the film before him, searching for any clue to the approaching apocalypse, brows furrowed in concentration.

“Yeah, I… I’m Dan Frankel. And…”

“I’m Edna Frankel.”

“...Edna Frankel. We are in Dallas, Texas, to see the president. Today’s date is November 22, 1963.”

Five nodded as everyone’s attention was brought to the projected screen before them.

“That’s six days from now.” Lila spoke as Elliott thrashed about more against his bindings. Diego sat forward in interest.

“Holy shit. This is it. The grassy knoll. Kennedy’s about to get shot. How do you have this?”

“Hazel died to get me this footage,” Five answered. “It must be the key to stopping doomsday.”

“Hazel…?” Diego frowned, remembering the man he spent hours searching for and planning to kill to avenge the death of Eudora Patch.

“Long story.”

“What’s doomsday?” Lila looked up at the boy.

“Longer story.”

“What exactly did he say to you?” Diego asked as Lila turned her head back to the film.

Five shrugged. “Well, he was killed before he could explain. But whatever he wanted us to see, it’s on this film.”

“This is very exciting.” The old man smiled before the sound of gunshots and screaming could be heard, the camera moving around in blurs due to the shock of the old woman filming.

“Oh, my god!”

“Oswald…” Diego whispered, setting his knife down as Five leaned in closer.

“The president!”

When the camera was steadied to record across the street, Five and Diego both stiffened in their spots at what their eyes caught. “Oh, no…” Five breathed and moved behind the projector, rewinding the film and scooting the cart backwards to zoom in closer. The room was silent as Diego stood to his feet and Five rounded the cart before standing beside his brother, directly in front of the film. “This can’t be…”

“Okay, you gonna fill me in now, boys?” Lila glanced between the two. “What the hell is this shit we’re watching?”

But she was ignored yet again.

“No, that’s impossible…”

“Clearly, it’s not.”

“What… What is it?” Elliott muffled past the gag in his mouth.

A beat of silence went by before the two Hargreeves whispered in unison,

“Dad.”

—————————————

Taglist: @unfortu-nate-ly @sapphicsyn @m00n-sh @starcurrent @alexander-hamilhoe @youcandalekmyballs @wonderlandfandomkingdom @yrdadjstcallsmekatya @sm0kingcrack @a-t-h-r-e-e-n-a @moatsnow @bubblegumflamingos @starstormssymphony @meowiemari @magicalgothpandamaker @simping-4-fictional-men @hehehehannahthings @harrystylescherrie @rhain3 @himikaphoo @zerocanonlywriteshit @xxeiraxx @camerondiaz48104 @isawachickeninatree

[ohdarlingohsweetheart]

TWENTY-SIX.

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-one | Twenty-two | Twenty-three | Twenty-four | Twenty-five | Twenty-six

Second time's the charm~

A casual greeting at a book store turns into so much more.

[WARNING]: This is a YANDERE story! Stalking, murder, the whole nine yards!!! Read with caution!

If you find this story on any website NOT under misfitgirlwrites/misfitgirl3390 please let me know!

Font for book cover credit (x)

   "I have to say, I didn't expect you to go this long without caving."

   Leo rolled his eyes and sat back on the couch, "I'm testing out a theory I have."

   "Oh, I see. Well the plane will be ready in three days as promised. I'll meet you in Italy and we can talk more about your side of the deal." Michael explained. 

   "Alright that's fine."

   "Oh, and I want to apologize."

   "For?"

   "I wasn't aware that Nova didn't know about any of this."

   Leo groaned, "fuck. You told her?"

   "Not everything. She put two and two together and isn't very happy."

   "I'll talk to her then. See you soon." Leo hung up and sighed. His phone started to ring, like he expected. He picked it up. "Yes?"

   "Is she dead?"

   "Be specific."

   "Cherri." Nova hissed.

   "No. I wouldn't kill her."

   "No but you'd lock her up like a fucking animal. She's probably terrified--"

   "She's fine."

   "I want to see her."

   "Hell no." Leo scoffed.

   "Why the fuck not?!"

   "You helped Gabriella when I had her, I'm not fucking stupid."

   "...If you let her go we can bury this."

   "No."

   "You don't have to do this."

   "I do."

   "Leo, if you didn't fucking stalk her she wouldn't have a reason to want to leave!" Nova snapped. 

   "That wasn't what did it. Gabriella told her everything."

   Nova didn't respond.

   "I did what I needed to do."

   "You're fucking crazy. And Marcel isn't stupid. If you kill him or Mary, Cherri will never forgive you."

   Leo clenched his jaw. She was right.

   "You can't just keep her away from everybody like this."

   "That's not for you to worry about. I have to go." Leo hung up before Nova could say more. 

   He sighed and stood up, grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen and going downstairs. He went into Cherri's room and placed it on the bed. He turned to leave but Cherri grabbed his hand. 

   "Wait! P-Please.."

   Leo arched a brow as she looked up at him.

   "I'm sorry. I-I'm really sorry. Can you please talk to me?" Being alone was driving her crazy. She tugged on his arm and he finally caved. 

   "I forgive you." He sat down and pulled Cherri onto his lap, hugging her tightly. 

   The redhead closed her eyes and Leo did the same. They stayed like that for a while. "I won't try anything anymore. C-Can I please come upstairs?"

   Leo sighed, "Cherri--"

   "I want to sleep in our actual room. I-I miss you.."

   He looked at her, "do you?"

   Cherri nodded, holding eye contact. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either. It was still enough to satisfy Leo though. 

   "S-So can I--"

   Cherri was cut off by Leo kissing her. He grabbed her face and deepened the kiss as she grabbed his wrists. He pulled back some to let the girl catch her breath.

   "I missed you too." He mumbled. "I missed holding you like this." He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Will you be good?"

   Cherri nodded.

   "Say you'll be good."

   "I-I'll be good."

   "I'll take you to our room then."

   Cherri was relieved to finally leave the basement, even if she was just moving to another bedroom. At least this one had windows and was much bigger. She didn't feel trapped. She climbed onto the bed and let out a sigh.

   "Let's talk, darling."

   The redhead looked at him as he put his hands in his pockets. "A-About what?"

   "How this is going to work. You wanna talk to your friends again, don't you?"

   Cherri gave a small nod and Leo smiled. "Good. Listen carefully. We're leaving in three days."

   Her eyes widened slightly but she let him continue.

   "And it'd be much easier without having you permanently locked away."

   "S-So I'm getting my phone back?"

   "Mhm. And if you still want to go to college, you can." He sat on the bed next to her. "I need you to understand something though. If you try anything stupid, I won't just lock you in a basement any more. I'll make you watch me kill them. Destiny and Ray. Mary and Marcel."

   Cherri tensed up at that. She looked at him, hoping if she could tell if it was a bluff or not but he was dead serious. He tilted his head.

   "Do you think I'm joking, Cherri?"

   "...I-I--"

   "If you want me to show you that I'm serious--"

   "No! I believe you.." Cherri muttered, "don't hurt them, please."

   "No signs that anything is off. I mean it. I'll punish you too after I kill them."

   Cherri just gave a nod, pulling her legs to her chest.

   "I'm doing what's best for you. The faster you understand that, the easier this all will be. So if you want to test my patience you can. But their deaths would be on your hands. Understand?"

   She nodded.

   "Hm?"

   "I understand."

   Leo was partly bluffing. He would definitely kill Destiny and Ray. Just thirty minutes with Michael made it painfully clear that Mary was off limits though. Marcel he wasn't so sure but he'd certainly try if needed. Cherri didn't need to know that though.

   "Good. Come here." He loved having her close to him. Cherri complied and took her phone once it was handed to her. "I love you."

   "I--"

   "Look at me, baby." Leo lifted her head up and tightened his grip once she tried to pull away.

   "...I love you too, Leo."

   He smiled. She loved her. 

   She was his.

~~~

Taglist: @lilkrissmuffet​

[astro-rain]

delicate; b. barnes

chapter thirteen - “sober desires & the reminiscence of a winsome smile”

delicate masterlist

word count: 4k

synopsis: wakanda gets a visit from our favorite captain, two drinks is too much rum for a reticent psychologist, and bucky knows (& feels) more than meets the eye.

pairings: bucky x fem!reader

[A/N]: this took so long to write but WHEW this chapter!!!! pls let me know what you think >:D

The knock on the outside of his hut was followed by a deep accented voice, one that he had heard before.

"Sergeant Barnes?" it called.

Quickly enough Bucky was outside, facing the king of Wakanda himself. He wasn't sure exactly what to say. You see, the majority of their past interactions included the Black Panther trying to kill him. T'Challa was kind and Bucky trusted him. It was just... a little awkward given the history.

"Your highness," he greeted.

He smiled bashfully at the title.

"I have some news for you."

Bucky's head cocked to the side, curious. News? Should he be worried? He hadn't been expecting anything.

"Captain Rogers is on his way here. He was alerted about our recent complication with N'Jadaka," he said, referring to who Bucky guessed was who Y/N called Erik Killmonger, "and he asked to come check in, make sure you're okay."

Steve was coming. His mood was immediately uplifted. He hadn't seen his oldest friend for months. It was weird to have Steve feeling the need to make sure Bucky was okay; it was usually the other way around. Nonetheless, he was excited. And he had the sudden urge to tell Y/N.

- - -

READER

"Sharon. Hey," she said into the phone.

The friends hadn't spoken since Y/N left for Wakanda - security measures since Sharon helped Steve and betrayed the... well everyone.

"Y/N!" Sharon greeted. "How is everything? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, no I'm totally okay. The Killmonger thing was more the royal family's deal than mine. I was just hiding out in some bunker with Barnes."

Concerned weaved its way into Sharon's voice. "Oh my god. Did anything happen?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, historically, stress hasn't affected him well..."

She wasn't sure why she almost got offended. "No... he was completely fine. He doesn't lose control out of nowhere and turn into the winter soldier. It's a lot more complicated than that... We were fine."

"Oh, that's good. Listen... I'm actually on my way to Wakanda right now."

"You're-... what?"

"Steve needed to check in on Bucky after Killmonger. Wilson and I are coming too."

They must all be together. It makes sense considering what happened after the disaster in Berlin, and then the airport fiasco in Germany and then... everything in Siberia.

Aw, they're in hiding together, Y/N joked in her head. She almost laughed out loud.

"Oh. Is that safe? For you? For everyone?"

"I've been careful. We've all been careful. But, things don't always go as planned. And T'Challa feels bad about putting you guys in a dangerous situation when he was supposed to protect you."

"It wasn't his fault."

"I know. We all know. But, it's kind of his way of making up for it: letting us stay so that Steve can check in on Barnes and we can cool off for a bit."

"Was Rogers mad?"

"Well, he wasn't thrilled that his best friend was trapped alone in a country that just got taken over..."

He wasn't alone.

"...he was mostly worried," Sharon continued. "Still is."

"Right."

"Alright, well I got to go. We'll be there in a couple hours."

"I'll see you. Be safe."

"See you."

- - -

BUCKY BARNES

"Hey Buck," the happiness in Steve's voice was genuine as he patted his oldest friend on the back in the middle of an embrace. "How you been?"

"A hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you, that's for damn sure," Bucky smiled.

Sam Wilson stood next to the star spangled man with a plan. Bucky briefly glanced at him.

"Wilson," he deadpanned.

"Barnes," he returned the greeting.

"I was worried when T'Challa told me about Killmonger," Steve said. "Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that they let you stay here, but I just didn't think I'd have to be worried so soon."

"It's alright. Everything turned out okay and I was fine the whole time. You don't have to lose your head."

"I'm not losing my head."

"You never had it in the first place."

The blonde changed the topic of conversation.

"You were with that therapist right?"

"Yeah."

"What do we think about her?" he asked with equal parts caution and suspicion. "Do you trust her?"

Bucky wasn't sure why he was almost offended.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, you know what happened the last time you were with a psychiatrist..."

"Yeah well, this one doesn't have a personal vendetta against the Avengers."

"You sure she's alright?"

He looked serious, and Bucky could see the genuine concern etched into his friend's face. Steve was truly wary.

"I'm positive. She's helped so much since I've been here. I really trust her."

"Okay, if you say so. I trust you."

Bucky smirked. "Hey uh... is Sharon with you?"

Sam said nothing but radiated a smirk to match Bucky's perfectly, a kind of smirk that only a ball-busting best friend cracks.

"She is..." Steve replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh nothing. Just wondering, that's all."

"She said she wanted to talk to a friend."

"Oh, she's probably with Y/N."

"Who?"

"Y/N. Dr. Y/L/N. 'The therapist.'"

"I didn't know they were friends."

"Why do you think Sharon recommended her?"

"She said she knew 'the best' person to help."

"That true. She's crazy smart."

"As long as she can do the job, I'm all for it, no matter whose friend she is."

In a short-lived thought, Bucky wondered what Steve Rogers would think of who else Y/N was friends with. He wondered if Steve would think it was strange to be friends with your doctor, or if he'd be pleased that Bucky had gotten close to someone, anyone else in this world.

"How long are you guys staying for?" Bucky asked.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "Honestly, we were only planning on staying for like a week or so. We've been moving throughout Europe, and the other day, when we were in Prague... it was almost really bad."

"We need to stay low for a while," Sam added.

"What did you do?" Bucky asked, used to Steve getting himself into trouble.

"It's a long story..."

"What did T'Challa say about it?"

"He said to take as much time as we needed," Steve filled him in.

"You know, I'm startin' to really like this guy," Sam nodded, smiling. "Obviously when he went all cat murderer on you, he was a bit of a pain in the ass. But now? Guardian angel."

Bucky shook his head at Sam's nonsense. What an idiot, he thought. He wondered what Y/N would think of Sam, but then a more pressing question popped into his head.

"Where are you guys gonna stay?"

"I'm guessing there," Steve said pointing behind Bucky.

When he turned around, Bucky was shocked but he also wasn't. Behind and around his hut stood three more just like it, but slightly smaller. He could've sworn those weren't there yesterday, but that's the beauty of Wakanda. They were ten steps ahead of the rest of the world and he guessed that included speed building as well.

"I will never stop loving this place," he admired.

-

He tried not to sound too eager when he knocked on her door. She looked shocked but didn't really try to hide it.

"Oh," she sounded confused. "Hi, Bucky..."

"Hey," he grinned. "I have a proposition for you."

Her eyebrows lowered as her lips twisted into the most devilish smirk. She could communicate an entire joke with just her face.

"Not like that!" he exclaimed.

She laughed, smirk morphing into an endearing smile. "Like what then?"

"Steve wanted to have like a bonfire sorta thing to catch up since we're all together for once. You know, just like drinks and stupid stories from the forties. D'ya think you could part with your paper work to grace us with your presence?"

"Oh, uh... are you sure?"

"Of course. I'd love to have you there."

She wrung out her hands. "I don't know, Buck. Is that really appropriate? To have your doctor hangin' out with your friends?"

"That may be, but that's not what I'm asking. I want my friend to 'hang out' with my other friends."

Out of her composure seeped a meek smile. The air felt softer to him.

"And maybe you can analyze Wilson and tell me what his biggest fear is later," he added.

She snickered.

"Okay. Lead the way, James Buchanan."

-

The fire was a monster, roaring and crackling with all the life in the world. Bucky loved it. He loved the warmth, the heat, the lack of cold.

"I'm gonna get another drink," Y/N said. "You want anything, Buck?"

"I'm all set," he smiled, gaze lingering for only a second too long.

"Sharon?" she turned. "You?"

The blonde shook her head. "Oh, I think I've had plenty."

Surrounding the fire sat five chairs. All but one was empty as Y/N went to get her second drink. Of course they were in Sam's hut, Bucky thought. After all, even though it was Steve's idea, Sam was most excited about the whole thing, actually sitting down and just relaxing instead of fleeing from belligerent governments.

"Therapist's pretty," Sam noted with a smirk once she was out of hearing range.

"Y/N," Bucky corrected, mind going completely elsewhere. "She's so smart."

"Smart enough to call you Buck..." Steve said, catching on to Sam.

"What?"

"She calls you Buck."

"Yeah, so? You do too."

"Yeah, but I've known you longer. And I'm your friend."

"She's my friend too," he shrugged.

"She's your doctor..."

"And I'm a hundred year old man with one arm trying to get un-brainwashed in a country that the rest of the world doesn't even know exists. None of this is conventional."

"...fair," Steve said, with only a little bit of skepticism. "Are you guys close?"

Does spending hours alone talking with someone in a hidden bunker make you close? Does them comforting you after a nightmare and then subsequently allowing you to get the best night sleep you've had in forever? What about making daring voyages to quaint waterfalls and laughing a kind of laugh that makes your heart swell? What about-

"Buck?"

He shrugged. Again. "I guess so."

Sam narrowed his eyebrows. "How close?"

"Wilson," Sharon admonished exasperatedly. "Y/L/N's his doctor, come on. That's inappropriate to suggest."

Sam put his hands up in mock surrender. Briefly, just briefly, Bucky imagined kicking the leg of Sam's chair and watching him fall back. He didn't, obviously. But it would have been funny if he did.

The seemingly never ending conversation was cut short when Y/N returned, drink in hand, and took her seat next to Bucky.

"What'd you get?" he asked, demeanor subtly but swiftly changing into something lighter, something happier.

"I don't know, but it has rum in it," she shrugged sardonically before clinking her glass with Bucky's.

"Cheers," Sam raised his glass, trying to engage.

Y/N wordlessly, and with a half-smile, raised her glass in his direction.

"So," Steve started, comfortably crossing his legs and leaning back into his chair before asking Bucky, "you wanna know what actually happened in Prague?"

"Do enlighten me. I've been waiting all night."

"Jerk."

"Punk."

The rest of the night went on sort of like this. The group took turns telling stories and then listening. Cracking jokes and then laughing. Everyone but Y/N, Bucky noticed. She just... sat and drank, livelihood only extending to the borders of her seat.

He hadn't seen her like this before, and he found himself stuck halfway between confused and worried. Had something happened? Had something wrong been said?

He kept an eye on her as dusk melted into night. He told himself it was because he was concerned, but that was only in addition to the way he was magnetized to how she looked with the light of the fire gleaming on her skin.

After she would finish a drink, she'd stare into the fire for a little while, before leaving to get another. When he made sure no one was looking at him, he'd look at her. Discretely. At her eyes. The reflection of the fire in her pupils made him wonder if she would burn the fire before it could ever burn her. He was all too aware of the heat that accompanied her gaze. It was a ravishing burn that made him ache for the searing feeling as soon as it was taken away.

He didn't dare think of it for too long or else he would get distracted. And someone would call his name, pulling him out of a trance he didn't want to be caught in. A trance he wasn't sure he wanted to admit that he was in.

The night remained as such until someone - he couldn't remember who - said they were tired, and everyone bid their farewells, and wished their good nights.

Y/N spared about a side hug to Sharon before walking off on her own. Bucky half volunteered, half insisted on tending to the fire to make sure it went out, only to ignore it as soon as everyone was gone and follow after his psychologist.

He caught up to her as she was in the middle of opening the door to her living quarters.

"Y/N."

She turned around in the spot, door wide open, staring up at him.

He bore into her eyes, looking at something, noticing her dilated pupils and hazy stare.

"You're drunk," he said, but it sounded more like a question.

"Yeah."

"But you don't seem drunk?"

"I'm not wasted," she padded into the room, carelessly leaving the door wide open for him to walk through. "Just drunk enough to remember why I didn't drink in college."

She rubbed her eyes.

"Think I want another one," she sighed, heading for the door with a bitter smile. "More rum."

Bucky gently closed the door, maneuvering himself in front of it, and blocking her from exiting. Another drink is definitely not a good idea.

He changed the subject. "Why didn't you drink in college?"

Her eyebrows raised, introducing a look that said Really? You think I don't know what you're doing?

"Wow, look at you being the voice of reason for my otherwise inebriated brain."

Nevertheless, she cooperated.

She sighed. "It just... makes me miserable. I'm a sad drunk."

"Better than a mean drunk," he offered.

"Possibly. It's a real mood killer, though."

"That why you were off all night?"

"Off... ? I don't know, I guess so... I'm usually pretty inconspicuous when I'm drunk. Didn't think anyone would really notice."

There was no hesitation when he spoke.

"I did."

"I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry. Just... why did you keep drinking if it only makes you miserable?"

"Alcohol is a depressant," she breathed mechanically, as if speaking was difficult. "It depresses your nervous system, then you get disinhibited. Then you don't care about rationality and just drink! Then in the moment it feels kinda good... but then it makes you sad... and then you need more to blur the feeling away. It's like... the worse you feel, the more you need to drink... but then the more you drink... the worse you feel..."

"How are you drunk but still talking... sorta still like you usually do?"

She smirked, looking like she was trying not to laugh. He was glad she was smiling.

"Maybe you're not the only one with heightened metabolism as a result of the serum..."

He looked at her quizzically, amused. She wasn't making total sense, but he couldn't find it in himself to give much of a damn. She smiled, again.

"Kidding. I just have outstanding self-control."

She plopped down on the floor, deciding that she no longer wanted to use her legs. Fine motor function was overrated for intoxicated people.

He sat down with her, next to her.

"If I tell you a joke will you be less sad-drunk?"

"I already am 'less sad-drunk.' I wasn't before, but," she took a breath in, "now you're here, so... improvements have been made."

"That's good 'cause I was worried before."

She glanced up at him with brazen eye contact. Her face held a mixture of what looked like a confused and pained expression, as something changed. Some sort of realization or reality check.

She wiped her hands over her face. "God, this is so ridiculous. I'm sorry. You shouldn't be worried about me, that's not your job. I'm sorry. I should just go to bed, and you can leave..."

"I know it's not my job. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I was alright- it... it's not like I was crying at the fire or something. I was fine."

"After your second drink, you were silent almost the entire time."

"You were counting my drinks?"

Not exactly.

"I was paying attention."

"To what?"

To you.

"You completely turned into yourself. Your elbows and legs were drawn in close to your body: unrelaxed and almost apprehensive posture. You were nonverbal, didn't make any jokes, no sarcastic commentary. I was literally purposefully saying things I knew you would correct or tease or laugh at and nothing. I was waiting for a 'smartass' or a 'there's a reason behind everything' explanation or anything science related. But there was nothing."

Her face was blank. It took her a second to catch up. Blinking slowly, she shook her head, eyebrows furrowed, all emphasis on the word. "Why?"

Her tone was truly confused. It was like she, in her heart of hearts, for the life of her, could not believe he was concerned.

"Y/N you're my friend," he chided. "Why wouldn't I be?"

She averted her gaze. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know."

"Look," his voice was soft. "I know you know everything and you know my mannerisms and micro-expressions and you know when I'm lying and whatever else 'cause you're a genius psychologist. But is it really that hard to believe that, after all the time we've known each other, I know you a little too? That I saw you for once instead of you always seein' me?"

"I think you're the only person who sees me."

The words leaked out before he thought to analyze them, tone lower than a whisper.

"Well I can't seem to look at much else."

He had never felt such potent silence. Did he just fuck up majorly? They just sat, on the floor, eyes glued to each other like twenty year old dried cement. He didn't think he could move away if he tried.

"I see you now," she whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"Blue," she breathed. "Your eyes are so blue. I don't... think I've ever seen that shade of blue."

It happened exponentially slowly, but the closer her face got to his, the more his chest felt like it was going to burst in the best way possible. As if liquid light poured into his lungs, inflating his chest and igniting every nerve with adoration.

Her lips hovered over his so lightly it was as if it wasn't even happening, like her affection was a ghost. But it was happening, and he could feel it. He could feel the softness in her lips and the smell of the rum she drank as they combined into the wondrous dual sensation that permeated throughout his brain.

They weren't kissing by any stretch. Their lips were hardly touching. However, in that moment, he was at her mercy. He was prepared to bend the laws of nature to her will if she would allow the continuation of this feeling for even a fraction of a second more.

Until it stopped and she waned away like the moon bidding adieu to the morning sky.

Her voice shook. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't... it's-"

"No. It's not okay. It's not okay."

He leaned back, examining her face. She looked confused and embarrassed and scared.

"Y/N, it's fine. It's okay, seriously, don't worry about it."

"I'm sorry, I'm... I'm drunk and I'm disinhibited and it's affecting my judgement and making me impulsive. I'm sorry."

He couldn't be exactly sure, but it sounded as if she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince him.

Neither of them moved a muscle.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

She was silent, frozen. It reminded him of a past conversation about the fight or flight response.

Bucky stood up and offered his hand to the woman sitting on the floor in front of him. "Here."

She took it gingerly and stood up with him before wide eyes stared into his apologetically.

"Please don't feel bad," he pleaded. "Barely anything happened."

"Still..."

"Why don't you just get some sleep and we can talk tomorrow. I promise it won't seem like such a big deal when you're sober."

She nodded but they both remained motionless, hands still together. He knew they needed to let go, but her hand didn't move, and she just kept looking into him.

"Okay," she whispered.

She walked him to the door, hand still in hand, and until he was forced to let go of her to open it. He stepped, ever so slowly, out of her room and onto the grass outside. He looked up at her, the doorway between them suddenly feeling like worlds of distance. They stood on opposite sides of the open door like statues. Bucky didn't know what to do and he wasn't sure what to say.

He settled on a, "Goodnight."

He tried not to make it sound so weak and timorous but he failed entirely. He didn't want to leave her like this. Guilty and alone. God knows he knew what it felt like.

Her voice was dry and quiet. "Goodnight."

He wasn't sure when the door shut or which one of them had shut it. The only thing he was sure of was the feeling of formidable regret pooling in his stomach.

On one hand, there was regret for letting her lean in and get so close because now he was scared that their dynamic was ruined and worried that Y/N felt awful. On the other hand, there was regret that he just let her pull away. Regret that he didn't lean in more and shamelessly drown in her. Regret that he didn't unapologetically suffocate himself with the softness of lips, the inebriating smell of rum on on her tongue, and the utterly bewitching taste of her he was sure would follow.

He wasn't sure what he felt, to be honest. He was a muddle of emotions of which he had no idea how to sift through. Momentarily, he wished he was drunk so he wouldn't have to think so hard. Then, he remembered the saying, "drunk words are sober thoughts," and he was damn glad he was stone cold sober; he could only imagine the things he would say to her if he was drunk.

This lead him to pondering, it got the gears in his brain turning. It made him wonder. Maybe... just maybe... if drunk words were sober thoughts, then what if drunk actions were sober desires?

Thinking like this could cause him read the situation completely differently. Thinking like this could make him read the situation in such a way that conceived the slightest sliver of hope for emotions gone repressed. Hope is dangerous...

Hope is dangerous, so Bucky shoved it down into the deepest cavern of his brain, the very same cavern where his feelings for her resided. It was a monster in a cave, growling and hissing menacingly. Intensely.

It scared him, this intensity. It scared him so much that the only way he could fall asleep was by thinking about the way James Buchanan sounded when she said it with a winsome smile.

delicate taglist: ​@bakugouswh0r3 @thefridgeismybestie @strivingforelegance @ilovespideyyy @xpurpleglitter @bluelakeee @darkacademic2 @nickkie1129 @eclipsedplanet @paradisedixon @crazy-beautiful @coffee--writes @lilithknight1111 @buckybarnesishot310 @softladyhours @alwayssandy @quxxnxfhxll @those-sea-green-eyes @hero-ically @devilswaldorf

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Guy in the Chair

Summary: Having a superhero for a best friend isn’t easy. But with the help of Mr. Stark, Ned things he might just be able to swing it.

Or, 5 times Ned was there for Peter and 1 time they were there for each other.

Read on Ao3 here.

-----

Ned hates funerals.

But mostly he hates seeing Peter in so much pain.

He sits beside his friend now, silent and relieved to be hearing him breathe evenly. The service for Ben had ended less than an hour ago. Overwhelmed, Peter had let Ned guide him away from the grave. They’re close enough to see May kneeling beside the freshly upturned dirt, her head in her hands, but far enough away that Peter no longer hyperventilates.

The cement bench they sit on is freezing. Snow comes up to their ankles. Both are shivering but too numb to move.

“Peter?”

Nothing.

Expecting it, Ned looks to his friend. Peter is curled in on himself, eyes open with frozen tear tracks running all the way down to his chin. He doesn’t give off any external cues that he’s heard Ned’s prompt, his sight unseeing.

“Peter?” he tries again, and when it still doesn’t elicit a response, he reaches out cold fingers to rest on Peter’s arm. Lightly, carefully, like he’s touching something fragile. “Hey man. You with me?”

Eyebrows creasing, Ned watches as a glimmer of coherence returns to Peter’s eyes. And with it, pain. Sharp and raw. Peter sucks in a long breath that rattles in his chest- like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in hours. It blows out in a puff of air that obscures the grave ahead of them.

“Peter.”

With some confusion, Peter swivels his head. He reaches a trembling hand to his face and uses his fingertips to feel the ice on his skin. “N-Ned?” he stammers. “I- when did we... I don’t remember coming over here.”

“It’s okay man. We came after the service.”

“May?”

“Over there. She’s okay.”

Breathing deep again, Peter’s eyes shine with new moisture. He buries his head deep into his elbow and leaves it there, his knuckles white where they clutch at his coat. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “God, I’m going crazy.”

Ned’s stomach hollows out. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I am,” Peter sniffs. “It’s cold.”

“It’s not that cold.”

Peter lifts his head and offers Ned a weak smile, though it falls fast. He hopes it isn’t permanent. “I just- I can’t believe he’s really gone.”

Ned bites his lip. He hadn’t known Peter when his parents had died, but he knows well enough from their sleepovers that he wakes up in cold sweats. He also knows that Peter has a tendency to blame himself for things that aren’t his fault, that he walks as if the world is on his shoulders.

And Peter had been there. In the alley. He had tried to keep Ben alive as he bled out.

And it didn't work. God, why couldn’t it have worked?

“Me either.”

Peter chokes on his next breath. Holds it. “What- what are we going to do without him?”

“Peter-”

“May can’t…I can’t-” Peter breaks off, gasping. “He can’t be gone.”

Words are impossible. Ned reaches deep within himself and whispers, “I’m sorry Peter. I’m so sorry.”

Peter’s lip wobbles. His eyes fill until there’s nowhere for the tears to go but out. At the same time they reach for each other, and Ned holds onto Peter as if it’s his sole purpose in this life. “It’s my fault Ned,” Peter sobs into his shoulder. “I couldn’t save him. It was me. He’s d-dead because of me.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

“We had a fight,” Peter continues, delirious in his grief. “We had a fight and he died and I should’ve been able to save him.”

“It’s not your fault, man. What happened to Ben was terrible, but it wasn’t your fault, okay? He wouldn’t have wanted you to blame yourself. You know that.”

Peter tries to speak but is crying too hard for Ned to make out the words. So instead he pats Peter’s back and hugs him as hard as he can. He holds on. He whispers ‘he loved you’ and ‘it’s not your fault’ in between Peter’s sobs. He’s not sure how long it goes on for. He feels like a skipping record, his condolences an endless loop.

Eventually, Peter’s head lolls against Ned’s cheek. He stops crying. Stops everything. “I’m sorry,” he says. Then, more sure, “you’re a good friend, Ned. Thanks- thanks for being here with me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Always,” Ned says. It’s a promise, a vow. “No matter what.”

And with every nerve in his body, he means it.

------

Peter is Spider-Man.

In a way, Ned still feels the aftershocks of the surprise. It hits him over and over again whenever he sees Peter with a limp or a bruise, or a cut that he can tell from it’s scar Peter had stitched himself.

But it’s nothing in comparison to Homecoming.

What’s supposed to be a fun night turns into a full out adrenaline high with life or death stakes. Instead of dancing, he fires Peter’s web shooters and works tirelessly in the computer lab. Being the guy in the chair.

And then there’s silence. An awful, consuming silence.

Ned expects Peter to come back to the party, and when he doesn’t, he tries calling. All thirteen calls go straight to voicemail.

He tries again now.

“Hey, it’s Peter. I promise I’m not ignoring you. Uh, leave a message. Thanks.”

Failing to ignore his worry, Ned drags his aching feet home. His mom is working a late shift at the hospital so he unlocks the door to his apartment and flicks on the lights, rubbing at his face in exhaustion.

He barely makes it two steps before he hears it.

A thud, like something heavy hitting hardwood.

Ned grabs the item closest to him, an umbrella propped up in the corner by the door and walks with caution towards his bedroom where the noise came from. Not for the first time that night, his heart beats viciously in his chest. Did Liz’s dad figure out he was helping Peter? Did the guy from the bus lot follow him home?

“Hello?” he calls, wincing when his voice shakes. He holds the umbrella a little tighter, the thin metal sticks digging into his palm. “Who- who’s there?”

When there’s no answer he pauses outside his door and cranes for clues. Hearing nothing, he braces himself before kicking open the door. The first thing he sees is his open window, and then-

“Oh my God! Peter!”

His friend is slumped under the glass, pale and covered in sweat and blood. Though his eyes are half lidded, he smiles at Ned when he sees him. “Why’re you holding an umbrella?” he slurs.

Ned dips his head to look at the makeshift weapon before tossing it to the side. His hands are shaking horribly. “I thought- I thought someone broke in!”

“Well technically,” Peter coughs, wincing, “I did break in.”

“It’s different,” Ned says, his legs like jelly as he stumbles forward. He kneels beside Peter and holds his hands out gingerly, sure whatever part of Peter he touches will shatter. “What the hell happened to you?”

Peter frowns. There’s too much blood. “I crashed Mr. Stark’s plane,” he says.

“What?”

“Liz’s dad was trying to steal it. I stopped him though.”

“You’re hurt.”

“I get hurt all the time.”

“Not like this,” Ned argues, and Peter’s eyes darken.

“I’m okay,” he whispers.

Grinding his nails into his knees, Ned shakes his head. Peter hasn’t moved since he found him, his arms curled tightly around his chest. “Why’d you come here?”

Gaping, Peter pales further. “Oh. I didn’t... I’m sorry-”

“No,” Ned says quickly. “Not like that. I mean, isn’t Mr. Stark supposed to help you with stuff like this?”

Peter closes his eyes, his face shadowed. “Mr. Stark doesn’t want to see me anymore. He ended things, remember?”

“But if he knew you were hurt-”

“Ned.”

“You’re bleeding really bad. I don’t know how to help you.”

Peter smiles again, but it’s sad. Broken, like the day of Ben’s funeral. It makes Ned feel sick. “Can I use your shower?”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Definitely. I’m covered in sand and ash and concrete-” Peter shudders, eyes becoming distant for a moment. “Please?”

“Right. Of course, man. Whatever you need.”

“Thanks.”

Peter tries to stand but needs Ned’s help in the end. They limp to the bathroom together and Ned helps Peter pull the top half of his suit off because Peter can’t lift his arms above his head. Peter is quiet during the process, but Ned doesn’t miss the way he sways and bites his lip.

When the suit is finally stripped away, Ned is sure he’ll have nightmares of for the rest of his life. Impossibly dark bruising covers nearly every inch of his friend’s skin, puncture marks still leaking blood and surrounded by countless smaller cuts and scrapes. He notices that Peter doesn’t look in the mirror. He doesn’t even look down, his hands shaking as he stares in determination at the opposite wall.

It’s only now that Ned truly understands the weight of what Peter is taking on. That having superpowers comes with a cost.

I just wanted to be like you, Peter had told Mr. Stark.

And I want you to be safe, thinks Ned, aching.

“Peter,” he whispers. He feels strangely detached from his body, as if he’s viewing the massacre through someone else’s eyes. “This- this is really bad. Like, hospital bad.”

Peter doesn’t argue, which Ned knows is a bad sign. Instead, his eyes glisten as if he’s about to cry. “I heal fast.”

“But-”

“I’m going to shower now.”

“Peter.”

“Ned please. I know you mean well, but- but I can’t think about it right now, okay? I just need to shower and then I’ll be okay.”

Ned stills. Swallows. Then, with great reluctance, he nods. “Okay.”

Looking weak with relief, Peter gives him a watery smile. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “Thanks man. I- I really owe you one.”

“It’s nothing. Guy in the chair, remember?”

“Thanks Ned.”

After their handshake, Ned leaves. It takes a minute of standing by the bathroom door and breathing intently through his nose to get his heart to calm. When it does, his pocket vibrates. He pulls out his phone, expecting it to be his mom.

Instead, it’s an unknown number.

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Ned answers, making sure to move away from the bathroom. “Hello?”

There’s staticy silence. Then, heavy breathing. “Is this Peter’s friend?”

“Who’s this?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. This is Happy Hogan. You called me earlier.”

An unexpected surge of anger makes his ears hot. Hand tightening around the phone, Ned doesn’t try to keep the annoyance from his voice. “What do you want?”

Happy sighs. “Peter. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Now. He’s at my apartment.”

More silence. Ned paces.

“How is he?” Happy asks finally.

“Why do you care?” Ned snaps. His heart is beating fast again. He can hear it in the base of his eardrums. “I tried to warn you earlier and you hung up on me.”

“Kid, listen-”

“He’s not okay,” Ned interrupts. “He’s hurt really bad. And he wouldn’t be if you had just listened.”

Ned expects deflection, but Happy’s words surprise him with their concern. “Wait. Peter’s hurt?”

It leaches his anger. “Yeah.”

“Can I talk to him?”

Ned opens his mouth to respond but pauses at the sound of a muffled conversation on the other end of the line. There’s a short struggle and then a new voice fills his ears. One that he’s more than familiar with.

“Ted, right?” Tony Stark asks. “Put Peter on the phone. Pronto. ASAP.”

“I- I-”

“He’s with you, isn’t he?” the man urges.

“I- yes.”

“Well then?”

Ned, despite how freaking cool it is to be talking to Iron Man, can’t help but feel a streak of protectiveness for his friend. “He didn’t call you for a reason.”

Tony is quiet, which Ned doesn’t expect. He plows on. “He thinks you don’t care. And maybe you don’t. But you can’t just choose when you want to help him. He’s here and he’s hurt, and I’m just about the least qualified person to be helping him. There’s blood on my floor and my mom is going to freak out-”

“Take a breath kid,” Tony interjects, his voice pinched. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Just let me talk to him.”

“He’s in the shower.”

“We’ll come pick him up, then. What’s your address?”

Ned closes his eyes, feeling two seconds away from a breakdown. He should be excited, but instead he just feels hollow. How did this become my life?

He rattles off his address and hangs up before Tony can respond. Then he sits on his floor beside Peter’s blood and cries silently into his hands.

-------

Ned tries to talk to Peter about Homecoming, but his friend just defects. Ned tries not to let it bother him.

But it does.

Physically, Peter recovers quickly. The ugly cuts and bruises disappear after the weekend, but the weariness that accompanies them never really leaves. The dark circles under Peter’s eyes get worse everyday and it’s harder to get a genuine smile out of his friend.

It all comes to a head on Wednesday.

They’re in the hall grabbing textbooks from their lockers between classes. Peter has been especially quiet today and Ned has done his best not to say anything about it. He’s reaching for his physics binder when it happens.

A loud crash, the sound of metal hitting the floor. Heart jumping, Ned spins to see a table flipped on its side beside a group of snickering kids. He exhales, shaking his head. “Man, that scared me.” He turns to Peter to laugh it off and freezes, insides turning to ice.

“Peter?”

His friend has lost all the color in his face, his eyes wide, unblinking, and staring out at nothing. When he doesn’t respond Ned takes a step forward to nudge his arm and Peter flinches back as if burned, hitting one of their classmates who scowls and pushes him off.

Peter barely manages to catch himself, his chest heaving like he’s just finished running a marathon. More careful this time, Ned grabs Peter’s elbow and steers him away from the hall and towards the bathroom. When they get there Peter detaches himself from Ned’s grip and stumbles until he hits the wall, sliding down to curl into a ball on the dirty tile. Now that it’s quieter, Ned can hear just how strained his breathing is.

“Peter?” he asks softly, squatting down to his level. “You’re scaring me man. What’s going on?”

Peter looks up at him helplessly, clutching at his chest as he pales further. “S-sorry. Just- ah. Gimme a minute.”

Ned opens his mouth to argue but closes it decidedly. The door to the bathroom swings open behind them and Ned shoos the freshman who appears away with his hands.

Peter’s upbeat ringtone cuts through the tension. Obviously not coordinated enough to answer, Ned helps Peter pull it out of his pocket and stills at the contact.

“It’s Mr. Stark,” Ned says in awe. “What- what do I do?”

“Don’ answer it-”

But his thumb is already on the green. He gives Peter a panicked look of apology before yanking the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

“Ted? Why do you have Peter’s phone?”

“It’s Ned. And he- he can’t really talk right now.”

Tony curses. “Is he with you? His watch sent me a spike in his vitals. Don’t tell me he’s actively bleeding out.”

Peter must hear what he’s saying because he groans, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured. He sticks his head between his knees and digs his knuckles into the tile until tiny cracks appear under the pressure.

“He’s not bleeding out,” Ned assures. “He’s- well, I don’t really know what’s happening. He said he can’t breathe.”

“Damn it. Damn it. Okay. He’s having a panic attack. Put me on speaker.”

“But-”

“Now, Ned!”

Gulping, Ned obliges. He holds out the phone between himself and Peter like some sort of offering and feels some distant part of him relax as Tony takes control.

“Pete?” Tony asks, his voice sharp and clear. “Focus on my voice kiddo. Alright? Imagine that I’m there with you.”

“Mr. St-Stark-’

“Shh, kiddo. It’s okay. I’m going to help you breathe. I need you to tell me five things you can see. Can you do that?”

Eyes gaining some clarity, Ned watches them wander. “Uh, Ned. The phone. The- the sinks. A mirror. And- and, uh. Paper towel.”

“Bathroom. Classy. Alright, now four things you can touch.”

“Ground. Wall. C-clothes. Backpack.”

“Good, kiddo. You’re doing so well. Keep breathing. Three things you can hear?”

“You. Ned. Kids outside.”

With every answer, the tension in Tony’s own voice seems to ease. For some reason, it softens some of the resentment Ned’s been holding against the man ever since the ferry incident. He continues with urgency. “Two things you can smell?”

“Soap. Sweat.”

“Good. And one thing you can taste?”

Peter exhales, long and slow. He closes his eyes. “Spearmint.”

“That’s great,” Tony encourages. “Feeling any better?”

At this, Peter’s face scrunches up as if he’s about to start crying. Instead, he relaxes more fully against the wall and reaches up to wipe his eyes. “Yeah, Mr. Stark. That’s better. I’m really sorry-”

“Nope,” Tony interrupts. “Gonna stop you right there kid. We’ll talk in person. I can be there in twenty.”

“What?” Peter stalls, eyebrows drawing together. “I have class.”

“Not anymore. See you soon. Ned, can I talk to you real quick?”

Another shot of adrenaline spiking through him, Ned fumbles with the phone until it’s off speaker and pushes it up against his face, though he knows full well Peter will still be able to hear. “Yeah Mr. Stark?”

A short pause. “Has this happened before?”

“Not at school.”

“And not at school?”

Peter looks down at his shoes. Ned frowns. “I don’t know.”

Tony sighs. “Thanks for watching out for him. Do you know what triggered it?”

“Um. A table got flipped over. It was really loud.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. Damn it. Can you stay with him until I get there? Give him water and make sure he doesn’t fall asleep. You got that?”

“Yeah. Yes. Of course.”

He doesn’t get a response, the line going dead. He pulls it away in disbelief and sets it on the floor. Peter smirks weakly at him from where he’s slumped against the wall. “It’s okay,” he mumbles. “He hangs up on everyone.”

------

For a while, it gets better.

“Ned! Oh my God- MJ said yes! I’m freaking out man!”

Stomach dropping with excitement, Ned spins a full 360 in his room, hands reaching up to his hair. “No freaking way! I told you!”

Peter’s excited rambling continues through his phone. It makes Ned’s heart soar. “What do I do? Where do I take her? The movies? The park?”

“Swinging through New York,” Ned offers with a smile, and Peter laughs.

“No, seriously. It needs to be perfect.”

“Laser tag?”

“Don’t forget that I’m broke, man.”

“How about the Pride Parade? That’s happening this weekend. Seems like her kind of thing.”

Peter pauses, warmth filling the other end of the line. “That’s perfect! God, you’re a genius. Thanks man!”

“You owe me,” he teases.

“I so do. We still on for the death star 2.0 tonight?”

“Wise is Yoda the most?”

Peter laughs again. It’s nice. “Right. See you soon.”

“See you.”

When Ned hangs up, tears bite at his eyes.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s heard Peter so happy.

--------

Of course, it doesn’t last long.

Ned gets the text during band practice.

It’s from Peter and the empty seat next to him feels more pronounced. He almost ignores it, feeling, despite reason, a deep bitterness for his loneliness. But the message is short.

Help.

Ned nearly tilts out of his chair, his mouth adopting a strange metallic quality and his stomach dropping down to his toes. Before he can even get his shaking hands to cooperate another message lights his screen.

Bleachers.

Ned stands before he can process how strange it must look. His teacher, Miss Gregerson, raises her pencil thin eyebrows. “Ned? What is it?”

“Bathroom,” he blurts, and parts the music stands blocking his exit before she can say another word. He hears laughter follow him but can’t find it within himself to care, his heart beating loud in his ears as he jogs through the empty hallways. Peter needs you. Something is wrong.

He had thought having a best friend for a superhero would be cool. But the longer the time stretches, the more Ned realizes how much sleep he’s been losing over his friend’s safety.

Please don’t be dying.

Ned bursts through the back doors and trips his way down the hill to the track. The yard is empty, filtered with pink and orange light from the sinking sun. It’s warm and the air is still, but the deep sense of foreboding doesn’t leave him.

“Peter?” he calls, even though the bleachers are distant and his throat is closing with fear. He walks faster and it’s only when his feet hit the red dirt of the track that he sees Peter’s hunched form. He’s sitting on the lowest step of the bleacher, his face pinched and the edges of his suit showing from his open backpack. He’s pale and covered in sweat, and when he sees Ned, he sags, his eyes fluttering with what can only be a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

“Peter,” Ned repeats, skidding to his friend’s side. His hands hover, unsure again what to do or how to help. Assess the problem, his mind supplies. Find out what’s hurt.

It doesn’t take long. He follows Peter’s tense posture to his hand, which is clamped down hard over his side. His skin is painted red underneath, the material of his dark shirt shining in the fading light. There’s a cut on his temple that bleeds too, and Ned notices how hard Peter is trying to concentrate on his form, his eyes seeming incapable of adjusting.

“Hey man,” he croaks.

“Oh my God,” Ned breathes. His whole body is shaking now. Weak. Because he’s not equipped for this. “What happened?”

Peter struggles to process his question, blinking heavy and biting hard on his bottom lip. Then he swallows, sways, and musters a weak smile. “Stabbed. Long knife.”

When Peter falls to the side, Ned has to lunge to catch him, supporting his entire weight against his body. The new position allows him to see the blood that’s been pooling on the metal where Peter’s been sitting. A distant part of his brain wonders if the stain it’ll leave will be permanent.

“You need to go to a hospital,” Ned says. Peter’s head is pressed hard into his rib cage. They’re both shaking, their breaths uneven and loud.

“No,” Peter says. “You can help.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

It’s desperate. More desperate than Ned’s ever heard his friend. Even after Homecoming. “Peter-” he starts, but there’s no words to convey the weight in his chest.

“We can fix this,” Peter says. “We can fix it.”

“You’re bleeding too much.”

“I just need some help.” Peter lifts himself away with Ned with trembling arms. He’s even more pale, his skin close to translucent. He struggles with the side pocket on his backpack before revealing a small sewing kit. He transfers it into Ned’s palm where it leaves a thick smudge of red. He stares at it for a long time and won’t realize until much later that he’s in shock.

“What?” he stutters, transfixed by how much blood is on the sewing kit.

“My hands... my hands are shaking too much to thread the needle.”

Ned stares. He’s numb.

“Ned?” Peter prompts. He reaches out a hand and bracelets Ned’s wrist in his blood. “Can you- can you thread the needle for me?” he pauses, and almost sheepishly, he smiles. “I need my guy in the chair.”

It’s like a damn breaking. Ned snaps back into awareness, sad, angry, and unable to fully comprehend why. Guy in the chair.

“I’ll help you,” he says, “but not in the way you want.”

Before Peter can protest, Ned pulls out his phone. He dials in the number and tries to ignore the way Peter’s chest falls, or how a tear cuts a line through the grime on his face.

“Mr. Stark?” he asks when the line connects. “I need your help.”

In the background, Ned can already hear the mechanical thrum of what can only be a suit being activated. Mr. Stark doesn’t question it. He doesn’t waste time. “I’ll be there in three minutes,” he says, and then the line disconnects.

Peter blinks slow. His lip trembles. “I wish you didn’t do that,” he says.

And then he collapses.

Ned cries out as he catches him. His shirt will be ruined. Peter’s head lolls sickeningly against his neck, his arms going limp at his sides. Acting on instinct alone, Ned reaches to put pressure over the still bleeding wound in Peter’s side. It’s warm and he gags. His eyes burn with tears.

“P-Peter?” he cries, but Peter remains still against him. He wonders if this is how Peter had felt when Ben had died, and for the first time understands the guilt Peter had pinned on himself. “Wake up, man. Mr. Stark is coming. He’s going to- he’s going to help.”

But Peter doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t even twitch until Mr. Stark hits the dirt hard beside them, his suit retracting from his face to reveal a look of complete terror. It catches Ned off guard, but not as much as the way Mr. Stark gently maneuvers Peter out of Ned’s arms and into his own lap.

“Hey Underoos,” Mr. Stark says. His voice is soft but urgent. He taps on Peter’s face and brushes back his hair. “This isn’t a good look, kiddo.”

Ned is frozen. Stuck. He feels the tacky wetness of blood on his hands and is unable to look at them.

“Pete,” Mr. Stark continues, louder this time. “Wake up. That’s an order.”

Ned holds his breath as Peter’s eyes open to slits. They’re hazy, confused, but his lips manage to quirk up into a smile that betrays the pain in his eyes. “Tony,” he whispers.

Mr. Stark sags and Ned can practically see the relief leak out of him. He plays with Peter’s hair, his free hand pressed down hard against the worst of the bleeding. “You never do things halfway, do you kid?” he asks with a smile that even Ned can tell is for Peter’s benefit alone. “If it weren’t for Ned, you’d be six feet under right about now.”

Peter’s eyes drift to find Ned. His smile widens when they connect. “He’s my guy in the chair,” he slurs.

Tony hugs Peter tighter and Ned is struck just how paternal the hero is acting. Like Peter is the most important thing in the world. A lot has changed since Homecoming, he realizes. “Let’s get you some help, buddy. You up for a flight?”

But Peter doesn’t seem to hear. His eyes are still glued to Ned. He doesn’t speak, but Ned understands anyway.

Tony stands, bringing Peter up with him, and Peter goes limp once more. Ned doesn’t miss the way Tony’s breath hitches or the urgency in his movements. He stops before he takes off, regarding Ned with a look of gratitude. “Happy is on his way to pick you up. Wait here for him, okay?”

Ned can only nod, and when they both disappear into the air, he sinks to the ground. It takes hours for the blood on his hands to wash off, and when he finally makes it to Peter’s room in medbay, he finds Tony Stark with his head pillowed on Peter’s thigh. They’re both sleeping, their arms linked.

And for the first time, it all makes sense.

------

It’s been two weeks since the blip’s reversal.

They’re back at school. Ned shuffles awkwardly at his locker, uncomfortable, like his skin is on too tight. Graduation pictures of his classmates hang on the wall.

Five years.

A deep, unrelenting sadness pulls at his heart. He should be happy to be back, but he’s not. Not really. His little sister, who what seems like yesterday was half his height, now reaches his chin. The calendar in his room is useless.

So much time.

Across the hall, he sees Peter. It calms the sharp edges of his anxiety and as if mirroring his own relief, he sees his friend’s shoulders lose their tension. Ned begins walking towards him and Peter drifts too. It’s slow, cautious, like everything will vaporize in a moment if they move too fast.

But at last, they meet. And in the middle of the hall, surrounded by faces Ned no longer recognizes, they hug. Peter’s grip is strong. Almost bruising. It reminds Ned of Ben’s funeral and the heaviness in his chest doubles.

Peter sniffs. He trembles like he’s cold.

“Are you okay?” Ned whispers in his ear.

Peter is quiet. Ned can hear his measured breathing, an exercise taught to him by Mr. Stark shortly after the incident in the school bathroom.

Mr. Stark, who had died to save them all.

“Not yet,” Peter says after some time. They still haven’t pulled apart. “I just- I really miss him, Ned.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Peter’s fingers curl into his hoodie. People are staring at them, and for the first time in his life, Ned can’t bring himself to care.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Peter says, and Ned feels his eyes sting.

Five long years.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you either.”

Finally, Peter pulls away. He wipes his sleeve across his cheekbones and takes in a rattling breath. “Wanna help me with my web shooters after school? May’s making lasagna. Pepper and Morgan are coming over, too.”

Ned smiles. Because after all the injuries he’s seen Peter sustain over the years, he’s seen them all heal too.

He’ll heal.

They both will.

“That sounds great, man.”

After a particularly sloppy handshakes, they walk to class with their shoulders bumping.

And though it may just be a trick of the light, Ned swears he sees Mr. Stark standing in the crowd of students, a wide smile on his face as he looks at them.

And just like Ben, Ned knows that Peter has Tony forever.

[pastelsandpining]

Whumptober Day 3

sticks and stones may break my bones but...

taunting | insults | “who did this to you?”

kingdom come - corrupt!zelda au part 2 | part 1 | part 3

warnings: gaslighting, manipulation, death mention, cursing, survivor’s guilt

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

From what little he could remember, Princess Zelda was nothing short of lovely. She was the sort of kind that came from a genuine place, unlike the fake kind that so many had offered him because he was the one burdened with the sword. Even when she was mean to him in the beginning, he could see the good in her heart, the passion in her voice, the brilliance in her mind. She was a girl willing to do anything for her kingdom and for people who didn’t even bother believing in her. She was so painfully human beneath the crown and the gods and the sealing power that it was impossible not to like her. The only thing she wanted above all else was to save her people.

And now, a century later, she was nothing short of cruel. 

For days, Link could not go outside of the Sanctum for fear of Zelda setting the Calamity loose on him. On Hyrule. 

“You can go,” she’d told him from her seat in the throne, looking every bit the queen she was always meant to be, “but he will follow you, and wouldn’t it be a shame if the Calamity was brought about by the very hero destined to slay it?”

And when she wasn’t in the throne, gazing out at her kingdom with blank eyes, she was toying with him in whatever means she saw fit. She’d long since made him discard the Champion’s Tunic in favor of the Royal Guard’s Uniform, telling him she’d always preferred how formal he looked in it. It disgusted him after that and he fought tooth and nail to keep the last piece of his Zelda he had left, because this was not her. 

“How loyal you are to a girl you remember so little about,” she said, tangling her fingers into his hair. He’d shoved her hand away from him and replied, for the first time since his imprisonment began, “You know nothing about me.”

Zelda smiled then, gripping his chin with enough force to dig her nails into his cheeks, and answered him very simply, “Oh, Link, I know everything about you.”

The worst part was that there was no malice to her. Her skin was pale and soft and did not hurt to touch, and her eyes were green and familiar with no trace of the pink or orange Calamity Ganon made him so familiar with. She was completely, wholly herself, and not herself at all. 

She was not terrible to him, either. She took caution not to hurt him, even when her grip became too tight or her nails caught his skin. It was the things she said, the empty gaze behind her eyes, the twisted smile that made her so unlike the Zelda he hoped to find. He almost rathered she bite him with teeth instead of words, hurt him physically instead of where she knew it would hit closest to home. 

Something had made her particularly agitated today. He didn’t care to know what. As long as she stayed far from him, he could continue his brainstorming of just what he had to do to get out of here without the Calamity or Zelda following him. The Calamity did not sleep. Neither did he–not peacefully, at least. He wondered if it was the same for her, then decided he did not care. Zelda didn’t stay in the Sanctum. Hylia knew where she went, but she would always return to torment him further, looking so much like the girl he’d once worn his heart on his sleeve for. It was painful, and he would be ever frustrated by his inability to grasp the stoic mask he’d mastered all those years ago. Something would always slip. She would always get him, whether it be a flicker of his eyes, a tug of his mouth, a twitch of his hands. She did know him, far better than he wanted to admit, and he needed to get out of there before she learned how to use that against him.

“Link,” she called out, her voice soft enough to float to him in the gentle breeze. “Come here, please.”

He did not move. He turned his back to her instead, continuing his work of cleaning the Master Sword. It wasn’t dirty by any means, but it gave him something to do and he quite liked the way Calamity Ganon reeled back at the sight of it glowing in his hands. 

“Link,” she repeated. He could hear the edge of growing annoyance this time. Link spared her a glance of his eyes in acknowledgement, but nothing more. Then she was in front of him, pulling the sword forcefully from his grasp and holding it out of his reach. “It goes against conduct to be so rude to the princess. Shouldn’t you know that? You’re supposed to serve. Answer when you’re called like the loyal little dog you used to be.”

“You’re not her,” he argued simply. Her laugh was deranged, bitter, and she used the tip of the sword to lift his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“You don’t even remember her,” Zelda taunted, so bitterly cruel, and it twisted his heart just as it always did. “What did she do for you, Link? Left you pictures? Thirteen measly little shots of Hyrule, and they were all about her, weren’t they? So much for the Champions.”

Link pursed his lips in stubborn silence. He would give her no response, no satisfaction, but her eyes glittered as if he already had. He hated when she talked like that, because it solidified that she was not his Zelda, and stoked the flames of the fiery fear that she was long gone before he could ever get to her.

“You’re not the girl I died for,” he spat at last, leaning away from the sword before she could use it to impale him. He wanted a rise from her, to affect her in the way she was affecting him, but as soon as the words left his lips, he wished they hadn’t. Something in her eyes darkened and she tilted her head, regarding him with a frown.

“No,” she agreed quietly. The way her lips curved up into a beautiful smile was cruel. “She died with you.”

With those simple words, she threw the sword onto the ground by his feet, discarding his heart along with it, and turned from him to walk away. The skirts of her blue dress trailed the floor behind her and the sense of anger, of guilt, that washed over him did not want to let her walk away from him. She shouldn’t be able to. She shouldn’t have the right to keep him here, to toy with him, because of an obligation he had a century ago. When he’d agreed to face the Calamity, to find her again and free her of her prison, it was not this Zelda he’d made that promise to. So he did not hold his tongue.

“Who did this to you?” he snapped, standing to follow her. She paused in her stride and he took the opportunity to grab her wrist, but she yanked it from his grasp and spun on him with a sea of anger in her eyes. “Tell me, Zelda.”

“You will know your place, soldier,” she ordered, her voice cold as her hand gripped his chin again. “You will be careful of your tone when questioning my authority.”

“Zelda,” he repeated, softer this time. “Please. You owe me this-” 

Her grip tightened, her nails digging into his cheeks, and he knew he’d greatly displeased her.

“I owe you nothing,” she said, but her grip loosened and she turned away again. 

“I came here for you,” Link replied, the growing desperation evident in his voice. “Everyone asked me to help you. You asked me to help you. And everything I’ve done– It was all for you, Zelda.”

“It seems I was wrong to call you a loyal dog.” She turned back to him, the smile on her face wicked. “Perhaps the more fitting term is bitch. I called, and you obeyed. But now, the little puppy wants to bite back.” 

She set her hands on his shoulders and shoved before he could do so much as back away. His knees hit the marble floor and he had to stick out a hand to catch himself.

“Your bite always was bigger than your bark,” she taunted, and her expression was suggestive. Whatever she was implying, he couldn’t remember it.

“You’re being cruel.”

“Do you want me to be cruel, Link?” A slender finger lifted his chin. “Because this is nothing.”

“I want to know who did this to you, because this is not the Zelda that I-“

“Remember? Pray, tell, what do you remember? I’m actually rather curious.”

“I remember a girl so bitterly human that she gave everything for her kingdom.”

“And look where that’s gotten me!” Zelda exclaimed, stepping back from him so she could turn away. Link took the opportunity to rise from his embarrassing station, his eyes ever studying the fallen princess before him. Her shoulders did not sit as high as they usually did. Something in his words had stung her. If she wasn’t so mean, maybe he would have apologized.

“Human. Tch. Is that what you see? Perhaps you fail to realize that humans are capable of terrible things. Did you know that, long before our time, the horrid Calamity you see before you was nothing more than a man?”

Link reeled back, looking at her through furrowed brows. 

“Something like that did not come from a man,” he argued–it couldn’t have–but Zelda did not look at him. In fact, she carried on as if she hadn’t heard him at all.

“A simple Gerudo chief, longing for nothing more than to help his people. A people that distrusted him. Hyrule distrusted him. Sentenced him to death because they couldn’t bear the thought of a man who wanted to use power to improve lives. No matter how genuine he was, it was never enough. The Calamity and I are quite alike in that way.”

Calamity Ganon had shuffled closer, bowing to the princess before it, and she extended a hand to run her fingers through the matted, wild mane of red hair on its head. Link wanted to pull her away, to convince her that she was not like that thing at all, but he was too rooted to his spot in surprise to make a move.

“Hyrule tried to have him killed,” she continued, her voice quiet and far away. “As it would turn out, it is not easy to kill someone who holds an ancient power of the gods. You know that already, don’t you, Hero?”

She turned her head, looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, and his breath caught. He shifted, the struggle to maintain his composure getting the best of him, and he took a step backwards. 

“When they could not kill him, Hyrule chose a different route. They took him beneath this very castle and brought forth the Sheikah to pry the energy out of his body. For lifetimes, we have been living off of a dying man’s life force. How else was the Calamity able to possess ancient technology so easily? It is no wonder that Ganondorf harbored enough hatred to transform into malice–into the beast you see now. And Hyrule would expect me to seal him away, bury our sins along with him for another ten thousand years.”

It was all too much to hear. Too much to take in. But Zelda turned to face him and was relentless in her story. She did not give him time to breathe, to process all she’d said, before she was speaking again, backing him into one of the Sanctum pillars. 

“I sat alone, for one hundred years, and the Calamity was my only company. I was surrounded by malice, by whispers of his hatred, echoing in my head until it was all I could hear and I couldn’t breathe, but it was too late for anyone to care because everyone I’d ever held dear to me was already dead by the time I thought about letting it consume me, too. And then, when I thought all hope was lost, when I spent years watching that stupid shrine on the hill, waiting and waiting for your body to show any sign of life, it started to speak to me. And it was sweet. It understood me. It understood how so many of my people doubted me, how I doubted myself. It helped me in those lonely years, Link. I was going mad.”

She brought a hand up to his face, holding his cheek so tenderly that he couldn’t help leaning into it. He could see, now, the tears glittering in her eyes, the pain in her expression. She was familiar, then–just the girl sobbing in his arms as the world burned all around them. 

“I watched you die,” she whispered out, rubbing her thumb over his skin. “How am I supposed to be alright after that?”

Her words wrenched his heart from his chest. How guilty he felt then, for failing her. For selfishly letting her hold him in those final moments. For making her watch as the breath left his body. He would never quite be able to forget the way she looked down at him in such horror. 

“I’m sorry,” he replied, quiet as the wind. For failing. For making her wait so long that she’d been driven mad. Her smile was soft, weak, but genuine. He wondered vaguely if, when he held her in those woods in the midst of the Calamity, he’d wanted to kiss her then, too.

“Do you know who decides right from wrong?” she asked softly. Link shook his head. “The side you’re on. My side has changed, because I’ve decided that I don’t want the help of gods who turned their back on me as I groveled at their feet for the salvation of my kingdom.”

“So you side with the being that brought it to its knees?” he argued, pulling his face away from her touch at last. He felt so empty without it.

“What choice did I have?” Zelda fired back, her voice raising as she crumbled into hysterics. “The Calamity brought down the strongest people I knew. I’m hardly a quarter of what you all were. I did what I could, I sealed it, and then I realized that it was right. Hyrule should be destroyed! And if you think you’re here to slay it, then I suppose you’d better shove your sacred sword through me, first.”

Link stepped backwards, hitting the pillar again, and he felt like crying. 

“I can’t seal the Calamity without you, Zelda,” he tried, reaching a hand for her. She swatted it away, fixing her once vulnerable gaze into an icy glare.

“Then you’re not sealing a thing. You asked who did this to me, but you fail to see the obvious. I did this to myself, Link. You have no idea what it was like.”

She turned away again, filling him with an overwhelming sense of panic. No, he couldn’t let her walk away. This conversation couldn’t be over. There had to be something he could do, something he could say, that would bring her back, keep her from the hands of the Calamity.

“Why do you keep me here?” he asked, stepping after her. “Why do you—“

“I should think that would be obvious,” Zelda replied, pausing to glance back at him. “I loved you, you know, and you’re here on your own accord. You could leave rather easily if you pleased, but you stay. Why? Is it out of fear that Ganon would follow you? No, I don’t think it is.”

Link frowned, feeling sick. He wanted more than anything to ask what she meant by that, to press her further, but she kept walking and only said,

“You should pick up your sword. Wouldn’t want to offend the Goddess.”

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

masterlist | whumptober by day | whumptober by collection | original post

[watch-grok-brainrot]

A Good Sword

Written for @mdzsnet 1 year net anniversary event. Request sent in by @susuwatari-kompeito​

Rated: G

Word Count:  4392

Characters: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, Suibian (Módào Zǔshī), Lan Yuan | Lan Sizhui, Lan Jingyi, OC character mentions

Other tags:  Post-Canon, sentient weapons, cw blood, cw injury, Night Hunt, Yunmeng, Post-Canon, Established Relationship WangXian, Gusu, Jiang Cheng being difficult, I stan the least Lan of Lans who also happens to be the best Lan, food mentioned

Summary: Wei Wuxian is forming a golden core in Mo Xuanyu's body. He realizes this means he can wield Suibian again but Lan Wangji reminds him it's with Jiang Cheng in Yunmeng. Their help is requested to subdue supernatural disturbances on Mushan Island so Wangxian head there with some juniors. During the night hunt, they run into Jiang Cheng who happens to have Suibian with him. How will Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian resolve who gets to keep the sword?

Thank you @merelhyn and Aube for the beta!

[Gusu, Cloud Recesses]

A warm spring breeze drifted through the bamboo forest outside the Jingshi, rustling the leaves. As the wind ebbed and flowed, the rustling rose and fell, mimicking the sound of ocean waves. The soothing sound of the bamboo served as stark contrast to the stillness of the Jingshi. Cool sandalwood smoke curled up from a small ceramic incense burner, tumbling up and dissipating into the air. Lan Wangji knelt before his desk with his back straight and shoulders relaxed. A small mountain of letters piled to his right. Three stacks sat neatly to his left. He took a letter from the pile to his right, skimmed it twice with his pale colored eyes, and carefully set it in the appropriate pile to his left. The sandalwood smoke continued to rise as Lan Wangji methodically moved through his work. Only the occasional crinkling of paper and the wave-like sound of bamboo could be heard. The stillness was interrupted when Wei Wuxian charged into the building. Lan Wangji looked up at the sound of quick footsteps. “Lan Zhan! Look what I noticed today!” Wei Wuxian shoved his wrist in front of Lan Wangji. His shirt was half open, showing his bare chest, and his cheeks flushed from exercise. “Mn?” Lan Wangji asked, setting down the letter he was reading. He looked up at Wei Ying’s face and then his gaze drifted to Wei Ying's bare chest. “Feel, Lan Zhan! Feel my pulse!” Wei Wuxian waved his wrist in front of Lan Wangji’s face as he plopped down next to Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji caught the flailing limb, set Wei Ying’s hand gently onto the desk, and pressed his fingers against the other man’s pulse. Wei Ying beamed as Lan Wangji assessed his pulse, feeling along the paths of the shorter man’s meridians. Lan Wangji’s qi was met with Wei Ying’s own energy and ferried to Wei Ying’s core. A golden core was forming inside his Wei Ying at last. “It’s coalescing.” “Yes! And at a decent pace too! Before you know it, I’ll be able to fight with a sword again! Are you looking forward to sparring with me?” “Mn,” Lan Wangji felt the corner of his lips pull back slightly. “Hey, Lan Zhan, speaking of swords, do you know what happened to Suibian? I haven’t seen it for months. Did I misplace it somewhere in Jingshi?” “Jiang Wanyin has it.” “What? Since when?” “When we left Yunmeng.” “Huh. I don’t remember this.” “Do you remember Jin Guangyao provoking Jiang Wanyin about the core transfer?” Wei Wuxian’s eyes darted up towards the ceiling briefly. “He could pull Suibian from its sheath. I remember that now! Hm… I wonder if he’s planning on keeping it or if…” Wei Wuxian trailed off as he turned around and leaned against Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Lan Zhan, were you working this morning?” “Perusing correspondence. I should continue,” Lan Wangji responded as he wrapped his left arm around Wei Ying. He placed a kiss on the other man’s hair and breathed in — musk from exercising, dust from outside, pine resin, and hint of prickly spice. “Wei Ying always smells good.” The other man laughed. “You always smell good too, Lan er-gege.” Always active, Wei Ying reached towards Lan Wangji’s desk. “Lan Zhan, watcha reading now?” “We received a letter seeking help from Wuhu Gong Sect.” “Wuhu? Where is that?” “Between Gusu and Yunmeng, east of Hefei.” “What did they want?” “Disturbances on ChaoHu’s MuShan Island near Hefei.” “What kind?” “Unclear.” “Are we going to go help?” Lan Wangji waited, choosing not to answer. Wei Ying will figure it out. “Silly question. You go where the chaos is,” Wei Wuxian turned and kissed Lan Wangji. He then laughed, “And here I thought I was the chaos.” Lan Wangji huffed out a small snort. “Alright, alright. We should write back and go help out. I’ll find Chenqing and pack our stuff. You can finish your pile of letters.” “Check between the bed and the window.” “What?” Wei Wuxian hopped from where he was sitting and bounded over to the bed. “You left Chenqing there earlier in the month.” “You really remember everything, don’t you, Lan Zhan?” “No. Only if it pertains to Wei Ying.”

[Yunmeng, Lotus Pier]

Jiang Cheng snapped his head up at the sound of running. “Zongzhu! Help is requested urgently from Hefei!” A young disciple charged into the room waving a letter. “Is there the need to yell and run? Will a few additional moments change the outcome?” Jiang Cheng scolded as he snatched the folded message from the frantic disciple. “Go practice ‘Picking Lotus Roots in the Mud’ in the courtyard at one fifth the standard pace.” “Uh… One fifth?” “Do I need to repeat myself?” Jiang Cheng looked the boy in the eye. “No Zongzhu. Right away,” the disciple scurried off. Jiang Cheng watched the retreating figure and wondered if he himself could even perform the form at one fifth the speed. No matter, the boy was supposed to practice and it would teach him patience. Jiang Cheng turned his attention to the message in his hand. It was from Hefei’s Mi sect, a small sect allied to Yunmeng： “Seeking help from Sandu Shengshou Jiang Wanyin and the Yunmeng Jiang Sect. Mysterious yao disturbances on ChaoHu’s MuShan Island. Hefei Mi and Wuhu Gong attempted to subdue to no avail. Many spiritual weapons were lost in the process. The disturbances have been intensifying over the past three months. The people suffer. Area sects are forced to seek aid from major sects. Hefei Mi Sect Mi Tayan” Jiang Cheng rolled his eyes and refolded the letter. Why can’t minor sects be more competent? He and Wei Wuxian were probably subduing yao of that caliber when they were thirteen. Then again, Gong and Mi have had decent reputations lately. Maybe he should not underestimate the yao. Jiang Cheng’s right thumb began idly spinning the violet ring on his middle finger. ChaoHu was large. Yao thriving on those resources could be powerful. Such situations would be best approached with caution. A pity he couldn’t simply ignore this. As the Mi sect was Yunmeng’s most loyal supporter, Yunmeng was obligated to help. Luckily he had at least one spiritual weapon to spare. He stood and swept out of the room.

[MuShan Island]

Dusk blanketed the island in the middle of Chaohu. As the long shadows of trees merged into deep blue darkness, a full moon rose to cast a crisp white light over the party of cultivators on a night hunt. “Lan Zhan! There’s something over here!” Wei Wuxian said as he threw out a talisman towards a large tree. They had been scouring the island since lunch time and Wei Wuxian was growing hungry. The talisman flew forward, glowed bright red, and expanded into a spiritual net, aiming to capture an unidentified target. Wei Wuxian followed his talisman attack by pulling out Chenqing, twirling the flute in his hand once to adjust positioning, and bringing it to his lips. As the high pitch trill of the black bamboo flute pierced the air, the red glow of the spiritual net flickered and flared. Shadows pulsated against the net and Wei Wuxian closed his eyes to focus on pushing his will onto the creature with his infamous demon flute. “Sizhui, flank right with your group. Jingyi, flank left with yours. Aim to subdue, not kill,” Lan Wangji instructed the group of juniors. He then summoned Wangji qin from his qiankun pouch and set about sending spiritual energy towards Wei Wuxian’s net. Sizhui and Jingyi had developed enough experience that they were leading small groups on their own in major night hunts. The two juniors directed their groups to take up positions based on the Seven Stars of the Northern Dipper. Then, they all unsheathed their swords and sent them towards the being under the net. The spiritual blades danced around Wei Wuxian’s talisman. As they flew, the swords collided continuously. “PoZhangYin!” Wei Wuxian opened his eyes and exclaimed after a few collisions, realizing the clanging of the blades played out Gusu’s famous battle melody. “That’s a clever use of swords! I see someone has been teaching useful things like creativity and practical application of known skills!” “Wei-qianbei has a good ear!” Jingyi said as his sword hit Sizhui’s. “It was Sizhui’s idea. He remembered that awful blade of grass you used and thought we could do the same with our swords. We have been practicing!” “Jingyi, focus,” Lan Wangji chided, sending another wave of qin energy towards the target. “Wei Ying, do you know what it is?” “Some sort of old waterfowl yao. I can’t quite get a sense of it yet. Possibly a duck. Hey, Hanguang-jun, do you want to have roast duck for dinner?” “I prefer sampling local delicacies,” Lan Wangji responded, his voice steady as he sent another wave of energy towards the trapped yao. “You do have a point, Lan Zhan. I hear the Binjiong cakes here are good. We should give them a try.” “Mn. Focus so Wei Ying can eat later. It’s loquat season.” Wei Wuxian laughed, “Alright! Your treat, Hanguang-jun!” He turned his attention back to the trapped yao. As the nine cultivators poured their energies into the talisman and sword formation, the shadows emanating from the net began to subside. After a stick of incense worth of time, the last notes of PoZhangYin clanged from the swords and the talisman net’s bright glow softened to the dim light of embers. Anguished quacks could be heard. “Wei-qianbei! You’re right, it is a duck yao!” The noises continued and Wei Wuxian’s brows furrowed. Something did not feel right. The sound was not… Wei Wuxian cursed and bolted to the yao. He hurriedly started casting a silencing talisman while explaining, “This isn’t a duck yao. It’s a mandarin duck yao and she’s calling for her mate. He’s probab—” Something fast crashed into his back, knocking him forward. He fell, crushing the talisman net and releasing the yao inside. “Wei Ying!” Wei Wuxian heard Lan Zhan yell as energy waves from Wangji washed over him. Both yao being hit by the chord attacks reared up and expanded in size. The smell of rotting fish, stale lake water, and decaying wood filled Wei Wuxian’s nose. The two yao propelled themselves into the air, their attention diverted from Wei Wuxian to Lan Wangji. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian yelled as he scrambled up and brought Chenqing to his lips again. The strong melancholy notes from Chenqing pushed towards the yao, attempting to control them. “Sizhui, Jingyi, Bagua formation! Contain them. Vanquish if necessary,” Lan Wangji ordered, Wangji still in hand. He swept his fingers over the seven strings, sending out seven separate chord assassination attacks. The juniors took positions in accordance to Bagua with Lan Wangji at the Qian position and Sizhui at the Kun position wielding their respective qin. The other juniors’ swords wove around the two yao. Marsh, Fire, Thunder, Wind, Water, and Mountain anchored between Heaven and Earth. The Bagua formation shifted between its permutations, drawing upon these primal aspects of nature. The two yao, trapped in an ever-mutating array of sword and qin energies, struggled against the Lan sect attack at first. The female soon calmed. She flew around the male, calming him as well. They hovered in midair observing the attacks. Then, the two yao moved. The female allowed herself to get hit by an attack from Lan Haoye. The sword stabbed into her left side but seemed to do little damage. Instead, the sword became embedded in the yao and Haoye lost control of her sword. Then, the female dove for the youngest cultivator, Lan Pinshu, who stood halfway between Lan Sizhui and Lan Wangji. The male, similarly, took a hit from Lan Runchan and dove for Lan Jinglin. Haoye stood on the water position and Pinshu on fire. Lan Runchan was on marsh and Jinglin on mountain. Wei Wuxian cursed again, “Everyone be careful. They’re taking hits aligned with their nature to strengthen themselves and attacking the opposite element to counter us. The female is cunning.” Wei Wuxian gathered his qi and pushed off the ground towards Pinshu. Times like these he missed his old body. This one was still too slow and had too little reach. To accelerate himself further, he slapped a talisman onto his lower back. He was closer to the boy than the female yao. He had a chance to protect the boy if he could just move between them. The force of the magic boosted his speed, giving him just enough time to step between the yao and the boy. He tucked Chenqing into his qiankun sleeve and grabbed Haoye’s sword jutting from the yao’s side. The yao screamed, strong resentful energy burst forth from her body. Gusts of resentment whipped around Wei Wuxian and Lan Pinshu, lifting up small pieces of foliage and debris. Wei Wuxian stood firm, putting himself between the yao and Pinshu, using his body as a shield. He clung onto Haoye’s sword and sliced down, aiming to split the yao in half. The yao screeched for her mate. The male yao abandoned his trajectory, shifting his body and arced towards Wei Wuxian. In flight, his form flattened into a blade with his beak elongating and sharpening into a point. Wei Wuxian saw the male yao approach but stood his ground. Haoye’s sword cut through and broke free from the female yao as the male yao’s beak pierced Wei Wuxian’s left side, sliding between two of his ribs. Before Wei Wuxian could redirect Haoye’s sword to slice towards the yao embedded half way in his chest, a bright flash of purple accompanied by a loud pop grabbed the tail end of the yao and forcibly pulled it out of Wei Wuxian’s chest. Wei Wuxian bit down on a scream. There was no reason to scare Pinshu right now. Wei Wuxian heard his name through a daze as something zoomed towards him. He lifted up Haoye’s sword to deflect the projectile but instinct took over and he found himself catching the object at the last moment. Suibian, his old sword, rested in his hand. In his previous life, Suibian’s hilt fit his hand so perfectly it was as if the sword had formed knowing it would be his. Considering the inscription on its sheath, maybe it did know. In this new body, his hand was just a fraction too small to wield Suibian with that old familiarity and ease. Wei Wuxian tightened his grip on his old friend. “Wei Wuxian, pay attention!” The sound of Jiang Cheng yelling shook Wei Wuxian from his thoughts. The female yao charged at him with half her entrails spilling from her body. Wei Wuxian unsheathed Suibian, pulled spiritual energy from his newly forming golden core, and sliced towards the yao. After a few exchanges, Suibian decapitated the creature, its body falling to the ground with a splat. Wei Wuxian smiled, “Suibian, looks like we still got this.” He thought he felt the sword shiver in response. Looking around, he saw Jiang Cheng and the Lans had disposed of the male yao as well. Lan Wangji and Sizhui were putting their qin away; Zidian was receding into Jiang Cheng’s ring; and the juniors were all sheathing their swords. Wei Wuxian watched Lan Wangji give instructions to the five unseasoned juniors to cleanse the area of residual resentment. Everyone was safe and well. He let out a sigh of relief which turned into coughs. Blood dribbled from his mouth and he fell to his knees. As he toppled forward, his right hand shot out to support his weight as his left hand pressed against the suddenly searing wound on his chest. Footsteps and people yelling his name closed in around him. “Wei Ying!” “Wei-qianbei!” “Wei Wuxian!” “I’m ok. Just a small wound,” Wei Wuxian tried to wave everyone off. Lan Wangji knelt by Wei Wuxian and started examining his puncture wound. “I can’t believe you let that yao hit you. What were you thinking? What if it were trying to curse you?” Jiang Cheng walked up and started scolding. “I was fighting the female.” “You’re coughing up blood.” “Jiang Cheng, you try having something stab you in the lungs. I’m sure you’ll cough up some blood too,” Wei Wuxian retorted, making himself cough up more blood. “Jin Guangyao did a few months ago, remember?” “Wei Ying. Stop talking.” “Jiang-zongzhu, maybe it’s not the best idea for you to antagonize Wei-qianbei right now,” Sizhui spoke up, giving Lan Wangji nervous glances. Lan Wangji stymied the blood flow by hitting a few choice acupoints. He then disinfected Wei Wuxian’s wound with a stream of qi and sprinkled some wound sealing powder to help accelerate clotting. He wrapped his right arm around Wei Wuxian’s waist, “Can you stand?” Wei Wuxian gave a nod and let Lan Wangji help him up. He looked at Jiang Cheng awkwardly. “Um…” “I’m just here to retrieve my sword.” “Sandu?” “The one in your hand.” Wei Wuxian felt his grip on Suibian tighten. “Suibian has always been my sword.” “It unsheathes for me.” Wei Wuxian paused. What argument could he use? They both knew Suibian would unsheathe for Jiang Cheng because Jiang Cheng has Wei Wuxian’s golden core. Because it was what Wei Wuxian owed the Jiangs. Because Wei Wuxian did not believe Jiang Cheng would be able to survive without one. But that was not an argument he could make. His chest was hurting and he did not need to revisit Jiang Cheng’s reaction. “I’m taking your silence as agreement,” Jiang Cheng reached for the sword. Wei Wuxian pulled Suibian out of Jiang Cheng’s reach. “Suibian also unsheathes for me.” “Suibian was given to you as the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. You’re no longer in the sect. You defected. I should have taken Suibian with me then,” Jiang Cheng drew himself to his full height and looked down his nose at Wei Wuxian. “Suibian is sentient. It knows Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji spoke up, glaring down at Jiang Cheng. “Suibian is made from the trees of Yunmeng, its blade quenched with our waters. It belongs in Yunmeng. And it knows me as well.” “Suibian has always been Wei Wuxian’s sword. You did not take it when Wei Ying moved to the Burial Mounds. It is not yours to take right now.” “Wei Wuxian would not even have it had I not brought it as a backup to Sandu today.” “Jiang Cheng, why are you here anyway? And why bring Suibian?” Wei Wuxian asked. “Mi Tayan wrote Yunmeng seeking help. Apparently the Gong sect and Mi sect could not handle these two on their own. Suibian served as a spare since the yao had been taking spiritual weapons,” Jiang Cheng answered frankly. He then looked Wei Wuxian up and down. Wei Wuxian shrunk into Lan Wangji, hearing Jiang Cheng’s unspoken words: Your new body is weak. You don’t have a golden core anyway. You can’t use it for long. “A few days ago, I felt the beginning of a golden core coalescing.” Jiang Cheng raised an eyebrow. “Why are you telling me this? Why would I care?” “I will have the strength to wield Suibian again. Suibian is mine.” “You can take it when you can and are willing to take the golden core inside me back,” Jiang Cheng spat. His ring crackled as Zidian sent forth a warning shock. “You know I would never do that.” “Then give me back my sect’s sword.” Wei Wuxian pushed Lan Wangji away and placed his right hand on Suibian’s hilt. “I don’t want to fight you Jiang Cheng but I’m not someone you can bully.” Zidian crackled. “Suibian belongs to Yunmeng. I will not let Lan-er or any other self-righteous, headband wearing, cultivator take what belongs to my sect. Yunmeng will not back down.” Sizhui interjected, “Wait. Fighting now is unproductive. Jiang-zongzhu, Wei-qianbei, is there no other resolution? If Suibian is sentient, can we not ask it to choose?” “Yeah! Even if Jiang-zongzhu beats Wei-qianbei, it wouldn’t reflect well on Yunmeng. I didn’t think Yunmeng would be the type to pick on someone who was just injured and without a fully formed core,” Jingyi added. Wei Wuxian scoffed, “You’re not holding back, are you, Jingyi?” “Sorry Wei-qianbei. Fighting Jiang-zongzhu right now would be so unfair to you.” “Ask it to choose?” Jiang Cheng scoffed at Sizhui. “Suibian isn’t some spirit you can just ask with WenLing who it is, how it died, what it wants. It’s a sword that has bonded with a person.” Jingyi laughed, “Well, then we just have to show if it’s bonded more to the soul or the golden core.” “And how do you propose to do this? I’ve never heard of such an assessment.” “Jiang-zongzhu, we just need to be a bit creative. Would you mind performing some initial tests with us?” Sizhui asked. “I’m not here to play games.” “We are serious, right, Sizhui? We are simply trying to apply our new-found creativity and practical application of known skills!” Jingyi beamed. Sizhui did not roll his eyes at his smug friend. “Jiang-zongshu, has Jin Ling ever spoken with you about the events that transpired at Yi City involving Xue Yang, Song Lan-daozhang, and Xiao Xingchen-daozhang? “Some.” “Are you aware that Xue Yang had Shuanghua at the time? And Hanguang-jun was able to take it from him?” “Jin Ling did mention something like that.” “Shuanghua was aware that Xue Yang did not align with Xiao Xingchen-daozhang’s world view and thus abandoned Xue Yang. I believe if you and Wei-qianbei are both able to wield Suiban then it becomes a matter of seeing if one of you can override the other’s will.” Jiang Cheng pursed his lips into a line. Sizhui added, “Jiang-zongzhu, you have the advantage here. Considering Wei-qianbei’s lower cultivation, he would only be able to override your will if Suibian is truly loyal to him. You have very little to lose.” “Fine,” Jiang Cheng scowled. “Let’s get this over with.” Sizhui then turned to Wei Wuxian, “Wei-qianbei, would you mind sending Suibian out to encircle that tree, approaching from the left, and returning it to its sheath?” Wei Wuxian performed the task. “Wei-qianbei, hand Suibian to Jiang-zongzhu,” Jingyi ordered. “Jiang-zongzhu please do the same but approach from the right.” Jiang Cheng performed the task with a bored expression. “Jiang-zongzhu, please hand Suibian back to Wei-qianbei. Now, Wei-qianbei will perform the same task as he did earlier. You goal, Jiang-zongzhu is to get Suibian to circle the tree from the other direction.” Wei Wuxian stared at the sword that was too big for his hand. Are you really mine? Or have you bonded with Jiang Cheng in the last few months? He closed his eyes, sighed, and sent Suibian flying. Suibian flew true and returned to Wei Wuxian. Jiang Cheng scowled, “Is that it? This proves nothing.” “There is at least one more step,” Sizhui answered respectfully. “Wei-qianbei, give Suibian to Jiang-zongzhu. Your turn to try to make Suibian fly the other direction!” Jingyi said, shaking with excitement. “Jiang-zongzhu, if Wei-qianbei is able to divert Suibian, then it is likely bonded with him more than with you. If not, then we will need to find a different way to assess the ownership of the sword.” Wei Wuxian nodded and whispered to the sword, “Suibian, you sealed for me for thirteen years. I cannot ask for more. But maybe do me a favor this one time.” He then handed it over to Jiang Cheng. Sizhui stared Jiang Cheng in the eye. “You may proceed.” Suibian flew out from Jiang Cheng towards the pre-appointed tree. It started veering right but wobbled. Jiang Cheng’s brow furrowed, driving it back on course. Wei Wuxian bit his lip, his eyes narrowing slightly, shoving his focus into the sword. The distance between where they stood and the tree was only ten zhang or so. He didn’t have much time. He could feel Jiang Cheng urging the sword to the right. Wei Wuxian shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, mentally reaching for Suibian. Suibian, I miss you. Please. Wei Wuxian could feel Jiang Cheng’s connection to the sword snap as Suibian swerved in mid-air, circled the tree from the left, and flew into Wei Wuxian’s grip. Jiang Cheng let out a startled grunt. Wei Wuxian almost laughed at the familiar sound. It reminded him of childhood in Yunmeng, of waking up to that sound and a thud as Jiang Cheng rolled off his bed. A grin spread across Wei Wuxian’s face. “Incredible! Suibian really is sentient,” Pinshu sighed in admiration. “I thought only cultivators who had bonded for a lifetime with their swords had that sort of loyalty!” “Suibian has always been loyal to Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji explained. “Its inscription is indicative of its devotion. Sizhui, Jingyi, good work." The two juniors stood up straighter and grinned at each other under Lan Wangji's praise. Jiang Cheng handed Suibian's sheath to Wei Wuxian, “Yours. Don’t be too smug. I don’t want it if it doesn’t belong to Yunmeng. And stop leaving it places.” “Jiang Cheng…” “What?” “Thank you.” “Whatever. It’s not like it’s that good a sword anyway,” Jiang Cheng said and stalked off into the darkness to look for the other members of his sect. Wei Wuxian clung onto Suibian, “Welcome back. I’ve missed you.” He suddenly lifted up Suibian and stared at the sword in awe. “Wei Ying?” “Lan Zhan, is my hand suddenly bigger?” Wei Wuxian asked, holding up a hand that once belonged to a man named Mo Xuanyu. Lan Zhan held up his hand as well. Wei Wuxian’s hand was smaller by the same familiar margin. “No. Why does Wei Ying ask?” Wei Wuxian gripped Suibian by the hilt and held out his fist out. “My hand was a bit too small earlier tonight. And now it’s perfect for my hand again.” “Mn. Suibian is a good sword.” “Suibian really is a good sword,” Wei Wuxian echoed. “Hey, do you think you can treat your poor wounded husband to some roast mandarin duck and Binjiong cakes now?” “Loquats as well. My treat,” Lan Wangji nodded once with a hint of a smile.

Author’s notes: 

1) For SHL/WOH fans, I was working on this request and trying to find a place between yunmeng and gusu. I ended up seeing Hefei, Chaohu, and Mushan Island. As I was zooming out, I noticed Wuhu was a town pretty close by… so I decided to shove a reference to Gong Jun and his Wuhu singing into my story as an easter egg. I’m not sorry.

2) Poetry references: A - The name of the form JC asks the disciple to practice is 泥中采藕 in chinese. I pulled it from this poem: 元 · 丁鹤年 水上摘莲青的的，泥中采藕白纤纤。 却笑同根不同味，莲心清苦藕芽甜。

B - This is completely me being derp. Hefei is a location where the name fertile (in terms of soil)/fat is part of the name. I chose the sect to have a last name related to grains. And then I looked up that character in poetry to name the sect leader: 黄庭坚 (宋） 嚼冰进糜餐，冲雪踏层巘

C - Since CR’s name is from a Jia Dao poem, I chose to pull all the names of the OC juniors from Jia Dao Poems as well: Pinshu is from: 《让纠曹上乐使君》 瓶汲南溪水，书来北岳僧。

Haoye is per: 《上谷旅夜》 月到寒窗空皓晶，风翻落叶更飕飗

Jinglin and Runchan I took inspiration from: 《升道精舍南台对月寄姚合》 月向南台见，秋霖洗涤余。 出逢危叶落，静看众峰疏。 冷露常时有，禅窗此夜虚。 相思聊怅望，润气遍衣初。

3) Seven Stars of the Northern Dipper is the big dipper. It’s common in wuxia as a formation. Same goes for Bagua. Both are daoist but so is Xianxia type cultivation. I know the Lans are Buddhist in origin but they really aren’t that way religion-wise.

4) Mandarin ducks are yuanyang and a term/symbol of a loving couple and monogamous faithfulness.

5) 滨炯一品玉带糕 are binjiong yiping (first ranked) jade-belted cakes. They’re a famous pastry/cake in the area. Idk if it’s period accurate but mdzs isn’t period accurate so i’m using it. 姥山枇杷 (mushan loquats) are supposed to be large, sweet, thin skinned with lots of flesh and super juicy. It was a good thing to include since this story is so heavily wangxian. And i don’t know if people eat mandarin ducks, but I would want to if i were wwx after that night hunt.

[lcvesque]

WHAT IS THIS SPACE BETWEEN MYSELF AND MYSELF?

atlas and the hesperides, john singer sargent  /  According to Hesiod’s Theogony, Atlas was one of the Titans who took part in their war against Zeus, for which as a punishment he was condemned to hold aloft the heavens. Atlas was said to have been skilled in philosophy, mathematics, and astronomy.  — “Is maintaining an empire the same thing as building one?”

delusion’s master, tanith lee / The unspeakable, abominable truth is, they remind you of the boy you killed that night of the accident. The lie is that you never told them. For all your rhetorical prowess, you never had their gift for speaking honesty. You should have never told them you loved them. You should have lied.  —  “We may be strangers, but we are both still trapped in this web of lies. You need me more than I need you, Bellamy, did you really think you would be able to get out of this mess without my help?”

lelouch vi britannia, code geass /  Lelouch wore a mask to live in japan as he lived with the identity of Lelouch Lamperouge, he showcased a mask in front of his schoolmates, a different mask in front of the members of the Black Knights and a different mask in front of the world as Zero. [x] — “He does not point to the painting in the left hand corner, he knows they'll find it eventually. But even as they draw closer to his spot, August does no move. As though he had been turned to stone, Infamia cannot pry his eyes away from the image of himself.”

upstream, mary oliver / You found him floating beneath the moonlight. He was an angel, and as he stared into that starless sky, you wondered what it was he saw. — “Why did it take thirteen minutes to find his body. The dock was only four minutes away. Why wasn’t anyone watching him. /  He snuck into the lake, dear. The employees didn’t realize they had to keep an eye on someone. / You’re lying to me.”

12 angry men (1957) / The jury in a New York City murder trial is frustrated by a single member whose skeptical caution forces them to more carefully consider the evidence before jumping to a hasty verdict. — “I say this as a friend and not as your lawyer. No one has been criminally charged. Be polite, be cooperative, but do not offer more information than necessary — not even if they give you a plea deal.  Anything you say will be held against you. I also recommend hiring an attorney and having them with you for your interview."

[kagrena]

tea

The Mysterium Xarxes. The Mysterium Xarxes. Encrusted in letters that are drawn all over the skin of sacrifice, pages woven of the will of Lord Dagon, rippling with power, ripe with potential, the wounds yet to be carved into Tamriel, “We shall script the divine, through shed blood and cleansing fire –” the words still rattle in your head “–shall be reckoned through the violence of the dawn to come–” that Mysterium Xarxes.

It’s not held sacred in a torrent of fire and rage. Instead, it’s sitting on a stone table, looking small, in this too-long too-wide too-empty temple hall dedicated to some nonsense dragon-god, all-adorned with detailed Akaviri-style carvings of some righteous battle scene whose name has been forgotten by anything except musty historians, sickening and ostentatious next to an unthinkable daedric artefact, a real and dangerous unthinkable daedric artefact, sits cold and small in the hands of the last living drop of the Emperor’s bloodline.

You wonder whether a fiery hand will rise up through its pages and drag you down screaming.

Martin, for his part, appears oblivious to this very real possibility, but you have learnt not to make assumptions on his behalf, not since he tore a scamp straight in half with a firebolt on your winding way up to Bruma. He is busy contemplating. Pausing. Turning a page forwards. Turning a page backwards. Mumbling. Nodding, occasionally. Making an occasional, quick note into a small leather-bound book he can slip in the inside of his robes. Perhaps he is dissecting it carefully. Perhaps he is leafing through it like a borrowed recipe book. You can’t tell. You have circled him twelve times. You have shifted out of your chair. Into the chair. Onto the floor. Into the air. Legs up, hands down. Then back in the direction of gravity. You then circled thirteen times, for extra caution. Each time, you’ve made twelve different patterns in the overly ostentatious and excruciatingly detailed Akaviri-style tiling, which you think depicts the end of the world, or perhaps the sundering of Akatosh, you can’t tell, not even when you squint, what the meaning is. Esoteric akaviri symbolism is not your forte. (Forbidden Daedric magic is your forte). You spin around. You consider, briefly, setting all your hair alight. Then the wobbly feeling scrunching up inside of you lets you breathe for a moment, and you do something rational. You turn to Martin.

“Do you need…. ah, help?” 

“Help, Ysamyne?”

There’s a strangled pause.

“I have a lot of expertise,” you add. “Considerable expertise, in this area, that is.”

Something softens. “Ysamyne, I have no doubt regarding your abilities. But I believe it was you who suggested that this research could be of particular risk to a former–”

“I know. I know – I know – I…” Long sigh. Deep, strenuous breath. Blink rapidly. “I’m just not used to it. Not used to.” You pause. Gesture emptily. Gesture at the way your insides bunch up. Gesture to nothing at all. “This.”

Martin looks towards you, too kindly.

“Ysa–”

“Martin. Is there anything I could do. Literally anything.”

He pauses. Features cross into frown – briefly, before clouding again. “Well, I suppose…” 

“Martin.”

“I wouldn’t want to send you on an errand I could easily do myself, it’s such a menial task–”

“–I don’t care, Martin,” you cut in. “I really. I don’t care.”

He looks at you.

“Ysa, it’s… it’s more of the principle of the thing, I’m not anywhere close to being, well, the Emperor–”

“Martin. Come on. Please.”

Someone swallows. Perhaps it’s you. Something’s stuck in someone’s throat because there’s a silence and it’s too long, before Martin takes a long breath.

“I suppose… well, I suppose, Ysamyne, you could make me a cup of tea.”

You blink.

“A cup of tea.”

“I… Yes? A cup of tea?”

It wasn’t a question. You don’t know why he made it a question. You want to rub at your temples. Why did he need to make this needlessly complicated.

“A cup of tea.” You say it again, quietly. “A cup of tea. Yes. A cup of tea. I can make a cup of tea.”

“Ysamyne. Please. It’s really not necessary, really, I am perfectly capable–”

“I’m going to make you a cup of tea, Martin.”

And you stride towards the kitchen, your back that bit straighter. You are going to make a cup of tea. An excellent cup of tea. You just need – What do you need? Leaves, obviously. Tea comes from a tea plant. You’re not a simpleton. You used to watch Mother, back when she was still trying to drag you by the collar from stopping you squeeze out the hatch for the half dozen crows she kept, brew a pot of tea with a practiced hand, carefully measuring spoonfuls of tea leaves as the water had just stopped to steam, a great delicacy, an alchemist’s artistry. You were an accomplished alchemist yourself, of course, Mother had seen that you had half a dozen recipes for sickly poison reeling through your head before you hit sixteen, and not just nightshade and bloodgrass too, but dragon’s tongue nectar and fresh strawberry leaves and golden apple peel. Which wasn’t helping. You were not trying to poison Martin. Poison was complicated.

A cup of tea? Simplicity. You, however, have a knack for making things extraordinarily complicated. Which works for intricate summoning rituals, less for basic domestic tasks. 

Tea. Simple.

You swing open every cupboard door in the kitchen. It’s all empty, of course, there weren’t even ghosts left in this place. There’s still crumbs of things left in the pantry, though, and that’s where you find a bag of dry leaves stashed in the third left bottom shelf, which you presume is tea, you suppose – you suppose, because you haven’t had a nice hot drink in a long time, haven’t you? Did anyone ever offer to make you a cup of tea? A sobering thought, you think – no, this isn’t the time to think, you have a task at hand. 

You look at the bag. Dry. Measly. Withering. You take a bite of one, just in case it’s something else, and it’s awfully bitter, and not much else. You decide this has to be tea. Mother would have drunk nothing else – nothing, except perhaps the tears of her sworn enemies, so she claimed – a dark jest, you had thought, but trust mother to be serious about idle threats of vengeance, especially about tea. You don’t recall her drinking anything else. You don’t recall her eating much of anything, actually – it strikes you, perhaps she skipped her meals to make more for you, to make sure you weren’t ever in hunger? Starve herself for an ungrateful weed to grow –

You bite your lip. It’s dry, and it almost bleeds, in the cold.

You think you understand the next stage. You need a pestle and mortar. A mortar and pestle. And you need water, and it needs to be hot, and you set a blue flame alight beneath a rusted kettle, and while it begins to whistle you begin to grind, but how much should you grind, and where do you put the leaves – there’s a filter, but does it sit above to soak, and your water is bubbling and that’s good and you wonder whether it was three minutes or five your mother left for the tea to brew, perhaps it’s different based on if the water is hot enough but if it isn’t hot enough will there be enough flavour, you don’t want it to be tasteless, your water is bubbling out of the spout and boiling over and maybe yes perhaps you should leave it to soak – yes, you need to leave it to soak, it’ll stop it from being too dry, so you pick up the leaves – the water’s on the floor and it’s scalding – and – and – you ground the leaves too finely and it’s all slipped through and you’re there – fretting, trying to pick out bits of leaves from scalding water because you don’t even know how to make a stupid cup of tea, you imbecile, you utter fool, you stupid – to Oblivion with this – 

You freeze the pot. You freeze the pot until it’s ice the whole way through. And the pot shatters. 

Shit.

You sit on the floor for a minute. Your burned fingers running through your hair, wet.

You’ve made a complete mess out of everything, haven’t you, Ysa?

Ysa. Martin’s name for you, you’re using. It sounds wrong, the way it rumbles in your head, though.

Ysamyne.

Something quick and flung-together to throw away after used, a nonsense name, an impossible person. But he kept on to it, though. Held onto every syllable. 

It sounds wrong, the way it rumbles in your head. So cold. 

When you pull yourself up, so that you’re just about standing, you begin melt what’s left until it’s warm enough, and you dump what you can gather of the leaves in another pot. It hardly matters now, and you know you want it to taste of something rather than nothing, so you suppose, well, ten minutes, if the water’s cooler, it needs more time to steep, surely. You know that’s stupid, and wrong. You don’t care. You’ll heat it up at the end.

It doesn’t matter.

You offer Martin tea, from hot to cold to hot again, in this little grey cup and saucer that you’d found at the back of this cupboard along with a bunch of dusty tableware which might as well been from the Reman dynasty. Crumbling antiques. Perhaps it’ll taste of dead history. Or perhaps it’ll taste of nothing at all. 

He takes the cup, and sips it. There’s a pause.

“Ysamyne, this is rather… well, it’s bracing.”

If Martin has noticed the scalding on your fingers, or how much you’re trying to hold in all that damned shaking you’ve started doing, he’s kept it all to himself. 

“It’s... not too bland?” 

“Oh, no,” he says. “No. Definitely not bland. Rather far from bland.”

You nod. “Well. That’s good, then.” 

You don’t – you’re not sitting down. You’re standing there – like you’re waiting. Except – you’re not waiting for anything. And you’re trying not to shake but you’re still shaking, still, in your fingers and your boots and your smile you’ve tried to stitch-on here, paste onto your face like it’s not all a stinking disaster, is all lop-sided and there is something wrong, something very wrong, you think, with you, and you’re thankful you’re not holding the tea-cup because you think it would shatter, shatter –

“Ysamyne?”

A hand almost touches your shoulder, but it’s a touch too hesitant. It hovers, uncertain.

“Ysamyne, you don’t – it’s – it’s just a cup of tea – it’s – um, I’m not very good with this, with... um.”

“Martin.”

“Yes?”

“Just... let me lean on your shoulder. But don’t look. Don’t let anyone look.”

You begin to spill. You begin to spill over and flood the floor and part of you wants it to be loud and thunderous, a storm of yourself, all the wind and all the rain, howling –

– but really, you’re barely more than a girl, who hasn’t yet learned how not to cry. It’s an ugly, wretched sight.

He doesn’t even take a glance. But he does wrap an arm around you eventually, holding on just gently, but just firmly enough, as you cry into his shoulder.

——

(“We’ll make another cup. Promise. I’m actually not bad with tea, myself. I could even show you how.”

“Oh, piss off.”

It tastes delicious, of course.)

——

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