#Prune Suicide

[corpsegirl-writings]

Forest

Walking through the woods I see

Everyone who failed

Everyone who lost themselves

Everyone who was in too much pain

None of them deserved their fate

But here they are nonetheless

I look to their branches

And see my reflection

I do not wish to join them

But I fear I, too, will lose one day

I fear I'll meet my end

And become another tree

[klemen-tine]

Glass Bones and Paper Skin Part 3

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect, stalking, Partner Abuse

Part 1

Part 2

@problematicreblogger and @wpdarlingpan Since you guys wanted to be tagged lol

+++++++++++++

Y/N sat in the bathtub in the guest room. It’s been three days since they arrived, saw the photos, and the creepy trophy room. Three days since their conversation with Dick, finding out that they had all been on their terrace and taking photos of them. Stalking them. 

They wrapped their arms tighter around their legs, resting their chin on sharp knees and staring at the porcelain tiles and gold facet. Three days of walking on egg shells, somehow managing to evade most attempts in hanging out with the siblings and Bruce, and only really seeing them at meals. Y/N hasn’t built up the nerve to ask about the trophy room, but Y/N knows that everyone in the house knows that Y/N knows of the two rooms. They know of the photos, the ones taken without their permission or knowledge, and the clothes that have redefined their modeling career. 

Sighing, Y/N stared at their pruning hands and the now cool water. The bubbles dissolved a long time ago and the essential oils had become diluted enough that the scents no longer permeated the air. 

Finally dressed in a robe, lotion and oil on their skin and face and teeth washed, Y/N exited the bathroom and screamed at the sight of Jason on their bed. In the midst of their panic they threw the brush at the larger man, who caught it skillfully. 

“Wha-what is wrong with you? No-wait, why are you in my room?” Y/N walked around the large bed to where all their clothes are kept. Their eyes not leaving Jason’s imposing figure that was currently resting on their bed. 

“I knocked.” Y/N rolled their eyes, “I didn’t ask if you knocked, why are you in my room?” Jason shrugged, “Just felt like I haven’t talked to you in a bit.” Jason and Y/N’s relationship was like that of dragons in the old ages. Full of history and non-existent. 

Jason was already dead by the time Y/N had entered the Manor. A small body buried in the Wayne gravesite. In hindsight, Y/N’s timing had been awful. Moving in when Tim basically forced Batman to take him in as a Robin, Dick’s and Bruce’s relationship had worsened, Jason was dead for about a year, and Alfred had still been grieving. Truly a terrible time to join a family. Y/N could taste the tension when they had first moved in, and they understood immediately that they were just another unneeded burden. 

A 13-year-old Y/N cried in their bathroom, mourning their mother who had loved the fame more than them, the friends that loved Y/N for Y/N, and the life on the West Coast that they were now expected to continue on the East Coast. 

The unfairness of it all. 

“What do you want to talk about?” Y/N asked, rummaging through the drawers and finding a nice shirt and some nice jeans. 

“Hmm, oh you know, the casual how are you doing? How’s the model-life? Any fun stories you have? What have you been doing lately?” Y/N started changing in the bathroom, keeping the door cracked so they could hear the questions. 

When Y/N reemerged, now fully dressed and the robe hanging on the back of the door, they smiled at Jason, “I’m doing good, kind of tired but that's to be expected because of the ‘model-life.’ The fun stories I have are more of traveling around the world and seeing different cultures and eating good food. 

“As of late, I’ve been thinking about getting a cat.” Jason’s brow raised, “You travel though.” Y/N nodded, “Yeah, some models travel with their pets and I think that's what I plan to do. They’re easier to travel with than a dog, and I don’t think a dog would like my condo.” Jason nodded, “You could always leave it here. The little spawn would take care of it.” 

“I can’t do that to the family. It’s my pet and should be my responsibility.” Jason hummed, “Is it because you don’t want to visit?” The air stilled and blue eyes met E/C. Jason didn’t look bothered, if anything he seemed relaxed about the whole thing, “It’s fine if that's the reason. I hate being here too.” 

Jason came back as a dead person Y/N knew not to talk about. From the stairways, they would watch Jason storm out after a bad argument with Bruce. Unable to completely understand what exactly was going on, but from the hushed conversations they knew it was something they didn’t want to know about. 

“I don’t hate being here, I just don’t have reason to visit other than Alfred.” Jason continued to stare at them, “Not even for ‘family.’” 

“Jason, when have you ever looked at me and saw a sibling?” Jason didn’t banter with Y/N, never showed interest or any inclination that Y/N even existed. Y/N is pretty sure that to Jason, Y/N is just a stranger living in the manor. 

Y/N wonders if they will see Jason’s temper. Will it appear like the monster hidden in the closet, waiting for the right time to lash out at anything? Y/N has heard the screaming matches, the threats, the holes in the walls from Jason. For someone who has killed people, Y/N wonders if they should really be mucking around with Jason. 

When Y/N looks at Jason, they see the middle child of a family that had other priorities. Once upon a time, Jason was the youngest and loved by Bruce, but then younger Robins came. Jason died, and while never replaced, Robin was. 

When Y/N looks at Jason, they see the middle child of a family that Y/N is not a part of. 

They are not siblings. Not cousins, relatives, they are not even friends. Barely acquaintances if Y/N is honest. Which is fine. Y/N has gotten over the hurt and feelings of loneliness. 

It is just Y/N against the world, with Alfred partially in their corner. Not fully. Never fully because Alfred will always be in the Wayne family’s corner, and Y/N is not a Wayne. 

Jason sighed, “Mmm, I guess that night when you took a beating from that one dude for not getting in the car.” Y/N paused in brushing their hair, mind reeling and slowly turning their head to look at Jason who was instead picking at his nails. Y/N opened their mouth, but Jason beat them to it, “You went out partying, like almost every high schooler does, and your boyfriend was drunk.” 

“Just get in the car, Y/N!” 

“No! You’re drunk and you said you’d stay sober!” 

“I am sober, now get in the fucking car!” 

“Fuck off!” A 15-year-old Y/N stormed off, turning their back to Marcus Dueller, the then jock of the school. A rough hand grabbed their shoulder and a fist met their face, “You don’t talk to me like that.” 

“...Marcus wasn’t my boyfriend.” Jason didn’t show any signs of hearing Y/N, “You took a pretty bad beating, I’ll admit it. I was going to step in once he started choking you, but you took that brick to his head pretty hard.” 

Blood splattered across Y/N’s face as Marcus collapsed. The hands around their neck loosening and Y/N took deeply needed gasps of air. Their throat aching and lungs burning as they rolled over onto their hands and knees. Tears pricked their eyes as the pain and realization settled in. 

“I called his friends. He was fine, just a concussion.” Marcus and Y/N never talked again, and Marcus’s friends took one look at the bruises on Y/N’s face and neck to understand what had happened. 

They all stayed Marcus’s friends, because unlike Y/N, Marcus was loved by his family. 

“Then, you walked your beaten ass towards the liquor store.” 

“Oh my God! Y/N!” Stacey cried out in shock, and she gently cupped bruised cheeks and watched split lips grow into a smile. 

“Can I have that bottom shelf vodka please?” 

“Bitch, you need a second shelf from the bottom vodka.” They sat outside of the store, Stacey’s partner taking over the counter as she watched Y/N take swig after swig from the bottle. Her concerned eyes tracing over each and every bruise and cut, down to the clothes they were wearing and scrapes in their knees and hands. 

“How many does this make?” 

“Seven. Whoever said seven was a lucky number is a liar.” 

“Oh Y/N, why do you keep doing this?” Y/N gave Stacey the most beautiful they could muster. Not minding the ache in their cheeks or the burning of alcohol on split lips. 

Looking back at it, perhaps Y/N was on a downward spiral. Trying to find love in other people that weren’t the people at home. From ages 13 to 15, Y/N had dated over 9 people. Not one of them made it past two months, and none of them were healthy. 

Once Y/N got into modeling, all their attention went into it. Dating and friends were on a standstill as their career and education became a priority. Maybe that was another thing Y/N inherited from Bruce, a known serial dater. Although, Y/N knows for sure that their taste in partners was definitely inherited from their mother. 

Some of Y/N’s earliest memories are of M/N getting berated and smacked around by men bigger than her. When they would leave, Y/N would emerge with bandaids and tears on their face. M/N would smile at them, blood from her nose painting her lips red and she would cup soft cheeks and whisper in their ears- 

“Diamonds have never been made with gentle hands.” Y/N glared at Jason, who was meeting that glare head on. Now that they are older, Y/N has learned to hate that phrase. They have watched numerous models be in kind and gentle hands and still be beautiful. Still have a loving and healthy relationship with themselves and the other. 

Now that they are older, Y/N knows how untrue those words are. Yet, who said those words had to only be applied to romantic partners? 

“Now here you are, in your glass castle imitating diamonds.” Y/N’s nose scrunched, “Always the poet, reading the classics.” Jason shrugged, "Someone has to be literate in this messed up family. Sure as hell ain’t Bruce.” Y/N rolled their eyes, “So what? That still does not explain anything. More importantly, why now then?” Why was it now that they decided to make a move if they had supposedly been caring for a while now. 

Jason smirked, "Because finally, Bruce sees it too.” Y/N narrowed their eyes and watched with pursed lips as the bigger and stronger man got up from the bed, and walked over to them, “I’d wear comfortable shoes, Y/N. You’re going out with Bruce and the little spawn today.” 

“Wait, what do you mean Bruce finally sees it too? What is there to see?” Jason smiled at him, and it looked more of a monster preening at it’s prey. Callused hands reached up and traced the small, almost invisible scar on Y/N’s upper lip. 

“Make sure you smile, the vultures will be there too.” 

++++

“I do think green will look best on you.” Y/N smiled at Damian, “Green looks good everybody, Damian. You just need the right shade.” Between them was an emerald green silk shirt, the price displayed like a bounty and Y/N wanted to walk out of the store once they saw it. Yes, they made a lot of money, but Y/N also knows what it means to be frugal. 

Damian raised an eyebrow and continued to judge the piece as if it had insulted the family. Y/N set the shirt down and continued to peruse the aisles. Their eyes looking at all the clothing and trying to predict what will be in style. What could they use to match or create their own trend? It is still winter, meaning layers will still be necessary but how to make a stylish outfit when there needs to be layers. 

“Do you see anything you want, Y/N?” They jumped a bit, and whirled around to see Bruce smiling at them. Those blue eyes, intense like winter rivers, roamed over what Y/N was looking at and he raised a well groomed eyebrow, “Do you want that one?” 

“N-no, no thank you. I’m just looking.” Bruce hummed, and wrapped a large arm around Y/N’s bony shoulders and brought them close. He pressed his lips against his temple, an unusual act of affection towards his kids but everyone will chalk it up to Y/N being a model and still young. Bruce whispered against Y/N’s skin, “Just let me know what you want, and I will get it for you.” 

‘If I want to be left alone?’ Y/N didn’t voice it, but they didn’t have too. Bruce’s grin was sharp, “Within reason, Y/N.” A chill ran down Y/N’s spine and they swallowed down the bile threatening to come up. 

“I have money, Bruce. I can buy my own stuff.” Bruce picked up a shirt, “Let me spoil you. It is what parents do.” 

“You already paid off my condo, that is good enough.” Bruce continued to smile, “That was for the birthdays and holidays I missed while you were with us. I still have to make up for the time when you were with your mother.”  Y/N wanted to scream, “How about you donate that then?” 

Bruce smiled, “I already do. Let me spoil you.” He kissed Y/N’s temple once more before walking away, eyeing everything the way designers did when critiquing their pieces. Y/N had a feeling that if they didn’t get something from here, the store would be paying the price. Grabbing a sheer halter top and pair of black high waisted pants, Y/N let Damian throw the green top on the small pile and made their way to the check out. The cashier smiled nervously as the Wayne family stood in front of her. 

True to Bruce’s promise, he paid for the three articles of clothes, the pair of shoes, the jewelry, the accessories, the–

“I think that is enough.There are a lot of bags, and while I appreciate it, I really don’t need anymore stuff.” Y/N placated Bruce and Damian, already picturing the amount of trips it will be to take everything back home. The man seemed satisfied though, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, “If you insist. How about some lunch now?” 

Y/N wanted to decline. They wanted to go back to the manor and get away from everybody. The feeling of walking on eggshells and constantly being watched had their skin crawling and the need to take another bath. Bruce wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder and brought them close, and Damian took up their other side. 

“You’re acting more as a bodyguard than a father it seems.” Bruce smiled, “We’re having a nice family outing. I’d hate it if one of your ‘followers’ interrupted." Y/N furrowed their brow, but they could not stop their body from tensing, “Someone is following us?” 

“Unfortunately.” The photos they saw in their old room re-emerged and a feeling of dread seized their muscles, making them lean further into Bruce. Yes, they were once all Robins, but not once in those photos taken from their terrace was there ever a reflection of the Bat. 

“It’s okay Y/N, I’ll make sure they won’t take any of you.” 

“How… how do you know its not you they want a photo of?” Bruce smiled, guiding them into a fancy restaurant, Damian requesting a table away from the windows, "Because they all know not to follow me.” There was something akin to a warning in Bruce’s voice that had Y/N biting their lips and following the wait staff quietly. 

Y/N watched as Damian and Bruce conversed casually, well, as casually as Damian can be. The topics went from school, a family named the Kents, and future prospects. Damian was still unsure about what exactly it is he wanted to do, and it most likely didn’t help that Tim was the one who was going to take over Wayne Enterprises. 

Y/N continued to eat and sip their tea, not wanting to add to anything as their mind wandered. After talking to Jason, it proved to Y/N that they were somewhat always being watched. Jason bringing up that one specific memory may have made Y/N’s heart rate spike, but it did prove that Jason was there. The photos, all of them that were taken without Y/N’s consent, show that everyone had at some point gained interest. 

However, why did they never act on it? Why wait until now to do something? 

‘Bruce finally sees it too.’ Y/N’s jaw clenched, what does Bruce have to do with any of this? Could they not interact without Bruce’s permission? Alfred would never allow that. 

Would he? 

“What do you think, Y/N?” The question jolted Y/N out of their thoughts and back into reality. Looking around the table to two expectant gazes, they gave an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I was thinking about something, what was the question?” 

Damian scrunched his nose, “What is there to think about when you have blood-related family members in front of you?” Y/N blinked in shock, and then remembered how much blood meant to Damian. They shrugged, “I have a busy schedule coming up.” 

Bruce stabbed the piece of steak with the silver fork, “You do, don’t you.” He stared at his child, one who he has left to their own devices and now is estranged from the family. Always keeping them at arms length, and never looking back to see if they are behind them. Not because Y/N trusts them to be, but because Y/N was used to them not being there. 

Y/N, for how proud Bruce is of them for standing on their own, is still naive. Still innocent. They didn’t notice the paparazzi lurking around, or maybe they got so used to them they learned to block them out. None of it sat right with Bruce. Those should have been things he taught Y/N. Things to prepare Y/N for a world that was bathed in camera flashes and gossip. How to look out for themselves. How to defend themselves, and what to do in case there is a stalker. Those should have been at least a fraction of what Bruce taught them. 

Yet, he never did any of that. Looking at Y/N sitting across from him, sitting tall and with a closed-off expression, had Bruce frowning. Y/N was still polite, smiled when they needed to and engaged in conversation, but there was still a wall between them. Almost like glass. Bruce is able to see everything and hear almost everything, but his ability to interact with his child is limited. All interactions stopped by the wall of glass put up by Y/N themselves. 

It's a good thing that Batman breaks glass windows on a daily basis. 

“You have some shoots in New York, will you be visiting afterwards?” Bruce watched Y/N’s eyes widen and lips pursed. He could see the breaking point, cracks spreading throughout the glass as Y/N’s mind tried to wrap around the question. 

“How–” 

“Is it odd for a parent to know their child’s schedule?” Y/N blinked, and processed the information. A tight smile formed on their lips, “How long have you known my schedule?” Bruce took a bite of the steak and Damian continued to eat his plate of some fancy pasta.

“Now Y/N-” 

“How long have you known my schedule?” Damian glanced up, irritated at their father being cut off, but the look on Bruce’s face had him settling down. The man was smiling, non-threateningly but all Y/N could see was the Bruce that had stood before them in the changing room after Gabanna’s runway show. The same eyes, full of intentions that had Y/N shivering and the money, power, and background to act on those intentions. 

“Like I have said, Y/N. I am making up for the lost time and neglect you have faced within our home.” 

“And I have said, Bruce, there is nothing to make up. That still does not answer my question about you knowing my schedule.” The cracks were spreading, chipping away and becoming weaker. 

“What parent doesn’t know-” 

“Don’t repeat that sentence. Bruce, you know what I am asking and you keep avoiding it. Who told you my schedule?” An emotion other than faux politeness finally filtered into Y/N’s voice, making the question sound firm and unlikely to bend or be swept away with Bruce’s elusivity. He smiled, “Oh Y/N, did Maya not tell you? GLM Agency has been under new agency since last year. Wayne Industries is now the parent of GLM Agency.” 

Y/N stared at Bruce in confusion, their pretty face twisting as the words registered with them. Everything crashed on Y/N, like glass shattering and bathing them in their shards. The guest room that is identical to their bedroom at home, the clothes that are from their closet, the two rooms full of their photos and mannequins wearing their iconic looks, that fucking Batman-inspired piece of clothing. 

“Y/N.” They’re walking away from the table, head lost in thought and body moving on autopilot. The need to get away from everyone was overpowering the logical part of their mind, and Y/N is walking towards the front door of the restaurant. Pushing the glass doors open, and being bombarded by flashes from cameras. 

“Y/N, what do you have to say about your mother?” A 13-year-old Y/N was guided out of the condo by police officers. Eyes rimmed red from crying and their only source of comfort was the blanket they managed to snag before being escorted out. 

“Were you aware of your mother’s drug-use?” 

“Are you on drugs?” A 17-year-old Y/N walked past the paparazzi, keeping their eyes forward even though they wanted to snarl at that person. 

“Y/N! Look over here!” 

“Look!”

“Over here!”  

A large hand gripped their arm guided Y/N through the crowd and towards the parking lot where the car was. The large body blocking the photos and shielding them from the flashing of cameras that had thrown Y/N back in time. Once inside the safety of the metal box on wheels, Y/N became aware of their rapid breathing and the feeling of their heart pounding. Irregular beats and sweat began to form on their skin as they struggled to take a breath. Just one breath.

The hand that had guided them to the car grabbed their wrist and placed it on a large and firm chest, emphasizing the deep breaths that Y/N needed and wanted to take. Rough fingers gently traced their cheek, up to their ear, and then to their hair. Gently bringing Y/N back to the present. 

“Shh shh, it’s okay Y/N. It’s okay. You’re safe.” E/C eyes drifted around the car, and closed once they saw the person’s reflection. 

“Father, those vermin have been cleared. All of them will be getting in trouble.” 

“Thank you, Damian.” Y/N rested their head against the glass and fought down the need to jump out of the car. Bruce eyed Y/N, and what made it worse was there was an apologetic look on his face. 

“Y/N, I… I am sorry. I thought Maya had told you.” 

“Seems like your manager isn’t doing their job if you didn’t know. You should get a new one.” 

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Y/N mumbled, feeling a headache forming and they wanted nothing more than to curl under the covers and die. They could feel Damian’s pointed look through the seat, “Maya is a great manager. She will not be replaced.” Damian sneered, “She didn’t even inform you of the change in ownership.” 

“Because it does not concern me. As long as I am able to get booked and get to my destinations, it does not matter who is in charge.” Y/N paused, “Although, now it looks like nepotism.” 

Bruce huffed at his child’s overdramaticness, "It's not nepotism. I had no say in what shows you did or who booked them.” 

“But you had a say in what clothes I wore.” Ice filled the car and Bruce gave Y/N a long look. 

“Just that one piece, and I asked her to do it. She didn’t have to do it.” Y/N laughed, long and hollow as they turned their head to Bruce, “Of course she had to do it. Bruce Wayne is asking for a commission piece, who would turn it down without risking their reputation?” The man sighed, “Y/N, I submitted a commission piece. That is the only thing I had a hand in throughout your modeling career.” 

“Others won’t believe that.” 

“Who cares what others think.” Y/N whipped their head around to Damian, “I do. I do a lot actually. I care a lot about what my fellow models say and think about me.” The boy rolled his eyes, “Why? Their opinions don’t matter.” 

“And your’s do?” 

“We are family!” 

“By blood, yeah! That’s as far as it goes.” Damian looked ready to snarl out more remarks, but the abrupt parking of the car had both of them pausing. They were already at the manor, and Y/N wondered just how fast was Bruce driving to get them here so quickly. 

Y/N was quick to jump out of the car, “I will grab those bags later. Please don’t make Alfred take them.” Bruce followed, “Y/N.” 

“No! No, ‘Y/N’ or anything. I want to be left alone.” Y/N pushed open the manor’s front door, and they wonder how many times they have snuck in and out of these doors before. Was it really even sneaking out if someone knew? 

“Y/N, we need to talk about this.” There was something in Bruce’s voice that stoked the right ember within Y/N’s chest. Whipping around, they glared at the two Waynes, “For fuck’s sake, I just want to be left alone! I was fine with how things were. None of this-this- whatever the hell this is! 

I was fine on my own. I was fine without you guys. I would have been fine if you stayed away!” Bruce didn’t even look bothered that Y/N was yelling, in fact the asshole looked relieved. He gave a patient smile with fake concern in those blue eyes, “The thing is though Y/N, you never should have done it on your own.” 

Y/N rolled their eyes, “Where the hell did all of this even come from?! This… this sudden need to be part of my life? You’re not even being subtle about it!” They were drawing a crowd, but Y/N couldn’t even bring themselves to care. 

“I keep telling you, it does. Not. Bother. Me that you all were inattentive. It doesn’t make me mad, it doesn’t make me upset, it doesn’t stir anything within me knowing you were not there. Yet here you are trying to make it up and all that nonsense, but when I tell you that it's fine you don’t listen!

“It genuinely seems that you are not doing this for me, but to ease your guilt.” Bruce met Y/N’s gaze, and it appeared they were in their own little showdown. Bruce’s gaze, not showing a hint of anger or irritation at his child while Y/N seethed. For once, Y/N looked liked the wild one in the family. Their teeth bared and eyes full of unadulterated rage, they glared at Bruce with the face of a raging angel. 

They hated how Bruce’s lips pulled into a smile, and the feeling of gloating eyes falling on their body from all their siblings. Like they all knew something Y/N didn’t. 

“Bruce finally sees it too.” 

Y/N pocketed that thought, taking a deep breath and trying to calm down. Nothing intelligent was ever said when angry– 

“So tell your big brother Y/N, how do you expect us to trust you on your own when you can’t even notice someone on your terrace?” 

– Fuck it. Intense E/C eyes landed back on Bruce, “If you bought GLM Agency a year ago, why now?” Bruce continued to stare into Y/N’s eyes, “Because it seemed like you needed a break from Gotham. So, I figured a year away would be good.” 

Y/N narrowed their gaze, “Then why didn’t you call?” 

“Because it looked like you needed a break.” Y/N chuckled, “I needed a break, or you needed time to get those rooms set up?” Bruce raised a brow, but Y/N continued on, “It's one thing to have photos from some photoshoots but not photos taken without my consent. Or the clothes I’ve worn on mannequins with almost the exact same physique as me.” 

“They are exact.” Y/N tore their gaze away from Bruce to stare at Tim, the thin and exhausted looking teen standing above them on the stairway. Chapped lips opened, “We used the measurements within the modeling database and created mannequins that have your exact measurements.” 

Y/N gaped at him for a quick second before rolling their eyes, “Wow. That’s not helping your guys’ case at all.” Dick approached them, going for a placating gesture and an easy smile, “Now Y/N, I think you might be overreacting–” 

“I think I am underreacting to all of this. I find out that you all have been taking secret photos of me, which someone them are from my ‘stalker’ and I don’t really believe that but whatever, you have access to my bank account, you bought the modeling agency I work for, commissioned a Batman-inspired piece, and that you have been keeping some of runway pieces on models that are exactly my measurements!

How else am I supposed to be reacting?! And I still don’t have my phone back!” Y/N snapped at Dick, and then began to rub their temples when the headache got worse. An Aspirin, they need an Aspirin. Now, preferably but Y/N has the strangest sense that even if they did take it, the headache would not go away. 

“Whatever, just… I’m going home tomorrow and whatever was bought today just… just ship it. Since you know my address and all that apparently.” Y/N began walking up the stairs, ignoring the panicked looks some of their ‘siblings’ were giving them and the dark look on Bruce’s face. 

Dick, ever the peacemaker, reached out, “Wait, you can’t go back yet! You still have a few more weeks before your next shoot. Just stay for a few more days.” 

“Add kidnapping and being held against my will to that list too.” Y/N continued walking, feeling exhausted and wanting to sleep. They missed the nod Bruce gave Tim and Damian, and they missed the dark and knowing looks on Jason’s and Dick’s face. The walk back to the room was long, and more exhausting than usual. The events of today caught up to them and Y/N wanted nothing more than to cry, scream, and then go to sleep. 

Because why not. 

“Y/N, you are making a mistake.” Dick followed after their younger sibling, who only sped up to get away from them. The man grabbed Y/N’s forearm, “Y/N, listen! You don’t want to do this.” 

“What is ‘this’ you are talking about Dick? I am literally just going home. It is not a big deal.” Y/N tried to pull their arm away from Dick, but to no avail. 

“It's how you are doing it Y/N. All we want is to spend time with you and make up for the lost time!” Y/N wanted to scream at Dick, but held it in and instead gritted out, “Why didn’t you do it normally then? Like… texting or calling.” Dick pouted, those blue eyes looking sad and his lower lip jutting out like a toddler, “We missed you, and we just wanted to see you.” 

Y/N’s face was scrunched, their mouth open in disgust, “How can you say that with that look on your face as if you all weren’t the ones who ignored me?” Dick looked heartbroken and some part of Y/N felt bad about that. They remembered the room with the photos and the other side of Dick that they saw only a few days ago. Their body seized in terror, but Y/N tried to keep their expression neutral. 

“Look, Dick, once again I am not mad about how my time here was spent. I’m genuinely not. But you guys keep throwing it back in my face and saying such contradicting things, of course I’m going to get upset about it.” They are trying to be civil. Trying so desperately to be civil and it feels like it is not working. Old wounds and painful memories continued to be dragged out of the crevices of their minds like it was some type of zoo attraction. 

A 16-year-old Y/N stared at the shattered mirror, tears racing down their face as they stared at their broken reflection. All they could see were the imperfections everyone continued to call out. Comparing them to their mother, to other models, to society’s twisted views of beauty that Y/N is trying to be. 

If their mother was alive, would she know what to say? Would she gaze at them with those soft eyes and long lashes, smiling beautifully and whispering, “Diamonds have never been made with gentle hands.” Continuing to remind Y/N that modeling was not a gentle job. It wasn’t a job for those with paper skin or glass bones. Those easily hurt by the meanest of comments, nastiest looks, and the horrendous words never made it in this industry.

Would this have been easier if they had the support of Bruce and his kids? 

Labored breaths and broken sobs filled room-turned-practice room as the mirrors caught the sight of a teenager breaking down. Crumbling and shattering under the pressure, pricking their fingers as they cleaned up the broken mirror and picking up their shattered image. 

It will be those same mirrors that watched those broken shards form their glass castle, posing as diamonds to deter others from trying to break in. 

Y/N continued to walk down the long hallway, ignoring Dick’s calls and locking the door behind them. It was only 2pm, and Y/N had plans to sleep the rest of the day. They had no bags to pack, and nothing here they felt like taking. All they needed to do is sleep the day away, which will be easy, wake up tomorrow, call a cab and skedaddle out of here. 

“Thats all we have to do, Y/N.” They closed their eyes for what only felt like a few minutes, until jostling and whispers of their name had them groggily opening their eyes. A yawn escaping them and their eyes struggled to open. 

“Why are you in my room?” Tim gave a small huff, “Its dinner time.” Y/N buried their face in their pillow, groaning out a ‘not hungry.’ The young man hummed, “I think you should come down for this one, Y/N. You might get the answers you want.” 

“Not interested.” Tim leaned down, his breath tickling Y/N’s ear, “You’re glass castle is shattering, Y/N. Don’t you want help fixing it?” Y/N wanted to swing. They wanted to do something to get their point across that they wanted almost nothing to do with this crazy family anymore. 

They opted to glare, and Tim gave a soft smile, “C’mon, lets go eat. Besides, Alfred said that the cab won’t be coming for you if you don’t eat dinner.” 

“Alfie!” Y/N groaned into the pillow, and they had stopo themselves from throwing up their arms and legs in a fit. Leave it to Alfred to do something so diabolical. Groaning one more time, Y/N sat up and mentally braced themselves for this shitshow of a dinner. 

E/C eyes looked at the door they know they locked, and chose that whatever little bickerment that will start was not worth it at this point in time. Throwing their legs over the bed, they followed Tim out of the room and towards the dining room. 

Everyone was there, and waiting for Y/N to appear. Once again, they were made to sit between Bruce and Damian, which they did so with little complaint. 

“Now, Y/N, it looks like everyone has some explaining to do.” Y/N gave Bruce the driest most unimpressed face they could muster, to which the man took with a smile, “So, what questions do you want answered?” 

‘They’re really doing this.’ Y/N could feel another headache forming, but decided to take the brightly colored bait. Looking at Jason, who was meeting their gaze with his green eyes waiting for this question, Y/N asked, “What did you mean when you said ‘Bruce sees it too.’” The man smirked, meeting Bruce’s eyes and back to Y/N, “Exactly that. The old man finally sees what you are to this messed up family.” 

Y/N narrowed their gaze, taking a bite of the pasta, and chewing slowly. Dick decided to chime in, “Y/N, you have been loved by us for a while. Something you probably pieced together, but Bruce took a while to see it because… well because you’re not us.” 

“Not like, you’re not Robin, but more like you’re not…” 

“You’re fragile.” Everyone’s head turned to Damian, and Y/N had half the idea to be upset about that. They raised an eyebrow, but before they could say anything Damian continued, “You are not meant for this life we lead. Vigilantism never suited you, and that is something I picked up on when I first came here.” 

When Damian had first met Y/N, it was like seeing a rare flower that had to be protected at all costs. Y/N was something that at the slightest gesture, could be hurt. When people come across something ethereal like that, the need to protect it can be divided into two different directions. 

Hovering or distancing. 

Bruce chose to distance himself, whether he knew it or not, and Damian had followed suit. He watched as his older sibling hovered from a distance, watching the rare flower bloom before it was finally the right time to engage with it. 

“Y/N, it isn’t so much that I didn’t want to interact with you, it is that I didn’t know how.” Bruce looked into his child’s eyes, “How could I interact with someone who needed gentle hands, when there is not a gentle bone in my body.” Bruce’s hands have broken more bones than the human body has. He has scars on his skin and calluses on the palm of his hands. 

“It took me a while to figure out why, but once I did, your absence became suffocating.” Everyone had been gasping for air, doing everything in their power for the slightest piece of oxygen. It was the fear of Y/N being harmed that kept them collared and chained to the photos, every interview, every runway show. 

However, Bruce knows that every now and then, children should be able to spread their wings and fall. Y/N ended up flying, soaring above them and never looking back down. Bruce, and the family, decided to give Y/N a year. Just one on their own. This gave them all plenty of time to improve the glass terrarium that they wanted Y/N to be placed back in. This time they will be protected and paid attention too. 

“When everyone stated that I can finally see the impact you have on this family, it means I have to come to terms with the fact that I no longer want to be hands off with your life and career.” Y/N’s brow furrowed, not liking the term ‘hands off.’ 

“You have done great on your own. A fabulous job. Clawing your way up and making a name for yourself, I am so proud of you. Everyone is extremely proud of you. 

However, there is no need for you to struggle anymore. You’ve proven yourself, now let us take care of the rest.” Y/N felt shivers go down their spine as they stared at their family in fear. They took in each expression, and when they made eye contact with Jason, the other had a daring look in his eyes. Begging for Y/N to do something, similar to how predators hope for their prey to fight back to make the kill all the more interesting. 

“But… But I don’t need your help, Bruce. I can do this on my own.” Bruce’s smile was that of honey, luring in unsuspecting insects and trapping them in its viscous fluid. If Y/N were younger, they may have fallen for it. They may have allowed themselves to coat their fingers in sugary words and sweet gestures, just so they could feel the love from a father. 

“I know. We know, but you don’t need to anymore.” 

“Now wait a minute-no. No no no no. You can’t just do that, explain yourself, and expect me to just roll with it.” Y/N set their napkin down, and tried to stand from the table, “I don’t need your help, although thank you for wanting to I guess. I am fine with it just being me and Maya.” 

“About that…” Dick grimaced, handing Y/N his phone and pulled up was an article. 

Y/N’s eyes widened and the world around them went cold. THey looked back up, “You’re lying.” Dick shook his head, fake empathy across his face as Y/N continued to read the article.

“No. NO this is a joke and a terrible one. Maya would never–” 

“They were found in her apartment, Y/N.” The headlines, eerily similar to ones from five year ago, flashed across the small phone screen. 

Manager of Model Y/N L/N Suspected of Drug Usage

Y/N wanted to cry. Horrible flashbacks resurfacing and tears pricking their eyes. They turned to Bruce who was still sitting and eating his pasta.

“Bruce, please. I know Maya, she would never do this.” The man said nothing. Y/N bit their lip, “Bruce… Bruce please. If its because of what I said then take that out on me. Please leave Maya out of it.

“Please Bruce! I know Maya. She’d never do that, and–and Bruce please.” Y/N was whimpering now, tears streaming down their face as the thought of losing their manager, the last person they had, nearly had them collapsing to their knees. 

“Lets make a deal, Y/N.” Bruce wiped the corner of his lips, and grabbed Y/N’s thin wrist. 

“You come home more often, during breaks and whatnot. I won’t have a lot of control over your modeling schedule, but make sure you include time each week for family. The only exception is when you are out of the country.” Y/N stared at Bruce in confusion, but nodded along. 

“In return, Maya gets out of trouble. Nothing will change other than the weekly meeting with family.”  Y/N can’t breathe. They cannot breathe and there were eyes all on them. Gulping down on whatever air they can get a hold of, Y/N sobbed out, “Why are you going to such lengths?” 

Bruce stood, and even though Y/N is tall, no one compares to Bruce’s towering figure. He smiled down at the model, and cupped a wet cheek with a calloused hand. Ice blue eyes stared into watery E/C eyes, and that smile turned too sharp to not be hidden blade, “I told you. It is too make up for lost time. Plus, as those photos suggest, you need protection. What better protection could you have that is not only part of the family, but also vigilantes?

“While it is true that diamonds are never made without pressure, diamond-encrusted jewlery require gentle hands and patience.” Bruce kissed Y/N’s temple, and the model flinched away. Ice blue met their eyes once more, “Now pick, Y/N. Either way, you will still be meeting us once a week, but you can have someone you know at your side or someone under my command.” 

+++++

“And cut! Good job everyone!” The flashes from the camera stopped and the stage lighting turned off, no longer blinding everyone within the room. Y/N stood up from the red couch, a smile still on their lips as they thanked the photographers. 

“Y/N, as always, perfect shots!” 

“Good job Y/N!” 

“Thank you for doing this, Y/N!” They continued to smile and acknowledge everyone that passed by, Maya right behind as they walked back to the changing room. Sitting on the couch was Jason’s large form and Tim’s lithe one. Both of them looking up as Y/N entered, ignoring Maya’s flinch. 

“You have a birthday gala you need to catch. Come on, change out of that and lets go.” Leave it to Jason to get the message across. Y/N nodded, taking to the changing room where they know their clothes are already waiting for them. They could hear Tim interrogating Maya in the politist way. Clipped words and empty praises. 

“Y/N they came out of nowhere! They stormed in and went straight to a vent where these-these drugs were! I’ve never even seen those there before! Let alone know that there was a vent!” Maya cried into Y/N’s shoulder as Dick and Damian watched on. 

Emerging from the changing room in jeans and a crew neck, Y/N sighed, “Alright, shall we get going?” Jason stood up and Tim shook Maya’s sweaty hand. Y/N gave his manager a nod, signalling for her to take the rest of the day off. Jason’s large hand rested on the small of Y/N’s back, and Tim led the way to the new car that Bruce bought. 

The ride was only two hours, filled with light conversation and catching up. Once at the mansion, Y/N greeted Alfred with a hug. Not as tight as they normally are, but it felt wrong entering the mansion without hugging Alfred. Bruce entered the foyer and grinned, hugging Y/N and kissing their temple. 

“Your clothes are in your room, and there is another present on behalf of Damian and Jason.” Y/N nodded, “Thanks, Bruce.” The man smiled, “Come and eat dinner when you are done. We’ll have enough time before the Gala to at least eat something.” Y/N began walking away, each step up the stairs feeling like there was lead on their feet stopping them from going any further. 

Once in the room, the locked the door and on the bed was a box and black and gold clothing. The black looking like it was made out of silk, and the gold was sequin. Y/N carefully walked towards the box, and when they lifted the lid, a white kitten mewed at them. Their fur still looking young and their eyes bluer than Bruce’s. They mewed and mewed, and Y/N could feel tears streaming down their face. 

In neat cursive and tied around the bow of the box, was a small note, ‘We’ll watch her when you decide to leave the country.’ 

Y/N bit their lip, and felt as if their world was falling a part once more. Broken glass surrounding them and no matter where they stepped, their feet will end up bleeding. Now forced to rely on their family to carry them out of the mess they made, and now… now there was a lifeform that this family can and most likely will use against them.  

Thin fingers gently picked up the cat and gave it a wobbly smile, as she mewed at Y/N. A red collar already around her neck, tied in a perfect bow. 

“Y/N, the makeup artists are here. Are you ready?” Wiping their tears, Y/N set the kitten down and took in the black and gold piece once more. 

“Not yet, but they can come in. I’ll get dressed afterwards.” 

“Alright.” The door opened, despite Y/N locking it, and it was Dick smiling as he let in the two artists who were now scrambling to get set up. Blue eyes traveled from the cat, to the clothes, and back to Y/N. He grinned and stalked closer to his younger sibling that was now being corralled into sitting in front of the makeup artist. 

He picked up the kitten and passed her for Y/N to hold, whispering in their ears, “Happy Birthday, Y/N.” 

______________________________________________________________

Honestly... I really like this series. I think I'm going to do other stories but in the other characters POV now.

[fandomnerd9602]

all that matters

a Lost/Found story

Wanda Maximoff x Stark!Reader

You had a rough 48 hours. You lost the love of your life, Wanda Maximoff, at the hands of Kang, got pruned by the TVA, woke up in a lost place between space and time called the Void, found a resistance in said Void, got reunited with your little witch, and now you find yourselves in the presence of one Wade Wilson and James ‘Logan’ Howlett - the eponymous Deadpool and Wolverine.

And sadly the Merc with the Mouth wouldn’t shut up. You found yourself sitting in the makeshift resistance base with Wanda sitting snuggly in your lap. The moment would be great if only Wade would stop talking.

“I’m saying it would be great! Huge slow mo fights! Who cares if you live or die!” He tried to pitch it to the rest of the team.

“You want us to go back there and kick Cassandra Nova’s ass?” Johnny Storm asked with a chuckle.

“It’s suicide,” Blade spoke up.

“Aintnowaythatwomangonnagodowneasy” Gambit chimed in.

You looked to Wanda, she looked to you. “We’re in” you state.

“Really?” Wade asked with a shocked expression

“Yes” Wanda states while caressing your face. “We’re Avengers, we keep fighting no matter what”

“I do what she does just a little bit slower” you admit with a smirk. “My armor is just the boots and gauntlets but they work”

“An ending” Elektra says.

“Legacy” Blade responds with a smile.

“I was born ready” Gambit states as he flips a card of his.

“Let’s f—king go” Laura smirks

“Let’s f—king go!!” Wade exclaims.

The night came fast. The entire resistance was readying themselves. Gambit was readying his bo staff and deck of cards. Elektra grabbed her sai blades. Blade readied himself with his entire armory. Johnny was looking over a photo of his old team - the Fantastic Four. Wade was, well being Wade. Logan was lost in a drunken stupor out by a campfire. Laura went out to go talk with him.

And that brings it to you and Wanda. You found a wrecked 70s era Sentinel out behind the resistance base, a few modifications and it would be ready for combat. Wanda was in deep meditation, trying to focus her powers. But she couldn’t focus. Her mind was on you.

Wanda crept into the makeshift lab you made.

“You know I can sense you right?” you say with a smirk.

“you cannot” she chuckles.

“I know. I just wanted to see if you’d fall for it” you finished up on the broken Sentinel. “I never thought I’d see you again, Wanda”

“I never thought I’d see you” she says, tears forming in her eyes. “Losing you to Kang was the worst feeling in the entire multiverse. H-How do I know you’re my (Y/N)? Really mine.”

You set down your tools and walk towards her, you pull her to you by her hips, just like how she always liked it. She gasps. With your other hand, you caress her face, your thumb moving across her cheek. She hummed in delight.

“I love you in every universe” you whisper in her ear, “but I bet not every Wanda would react that way”

“And not every (Y/N) would know what makes me feel the way you do” she responds with a teary smile.

“I lost you once. Never again, my little witch”

“My detka!” Wanda cries before hugging you tight. You were hers.

You just hug her tight, not wanting to let go. You could spend an eternity in her arms and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Will you just hold me tonight?” She asks softly.

“Of course”

You guide her to a little military cot and lay down. Wanda just nuzzles into your arms, a perfect fit.

Tomorrow has its own worries and battles. Tomorrow you and Wanda would be battling Cassandra Nova. Tomorrow you would be finding out if you and your witch would get home or not.

But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was tonight. For tonight, you had Wanda back in your arms. You had your Scarlet Witch back.

Tags @lifespectator @supercorpdanbeau @deafeningsharkslimeempath @scarletquake-n7 @ma1egamer @russianredassassin @family-house-of-m

[perlelune]

Training Wheels | Coriolanus Snow | vii.

Your mother's macabre work never appealed to you as you always preferred the comfort of your books, but when her apprentice takes a special interest in you, your safe, quiet world is flipped upside down.

Warnings: DUB-CON, NON-CON, Gaul!Reader, Shy Reader, Manipulation, Parental Neglect, Drinking, Peer Pressure, Hazing, University set, Loss of Virginity, Dumbification, Insecurities, Abusive Relationship, Degradation, Suicide Attempt

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

A heavy breath flows from your lips as you grip the edge of the sink. Your gaze lands on your reflection. Your chest seizes. Your fingers trail the path of bruises and bites Coriolanus scattered on your cheek and neck. A flash of his body shoving yours into the mattress crosses your mind, his throaty moans, his smell clogging your senses. A shiver races along your spine. You step back from the glass until your back collides with the opposite wall. You slump onto the floor. You glance at the bathroom door, thankfully locked. You need a minute on your own. You bury your head between your knees, body shaking as you wrangle with a sudden rush of emotions.

Only vague snippets of the night before remain in your mind. Still, you believed him when he stated you didn’t say no. You’re fairly sure that the word never passed your lips. So how could he divine thoughts you didn’t express? 

Coriolanus isn’t a mind reader.

Especially when you sounded so needy and desperate, rambling about never being kissed.

He probably misread you, assuming this is what you wanted.

In truth, he gave you exactly what you asked for. Perhaps even begged for, though your memory is a little foggy.

You rise on quivering legs, deciding to shelve the upsetting musings aside. You’re a virgin no longer. It’s a good thing…isn’t it? For years, you thought no one wanted you, that you would never experience what others did. That you’re too plain, attractive, weird and awkward. And you suppose, in his own way, Coriolanus proved you wrong last night. You keep convincing yourself of that, playing the words in an assuaging loop as you shed the dress and step into the shower stall.

The scalding water pelting your skin casts a balm over your stormy thoughts. You hiss when it stings in certain places, the ones where Coriolanus left marks that are still visible.

Your gaze drifts down. As you watch blood trickle from between your thighs and swirl down the drain, your stomach clutches. 

You cling to the bathroom tiles, breaths growing heavier. 

Panic escalates inside you. For a few minutes, you remain this way. Steam surrounds you as you spread your fingers over the wall. Hot tears drip down your cheeks, melding with the water sliding along your bruised flesh. 

By the time you step out of the stall, your skin is pruned from how much time you spent in the shower. Much longer than usual. Furiously rubbing and scrubbing at your flesh, as if your shame and disillusionment could be washed off like grime and dirt. Shaken off like a bad dream or a pesky thought.

When you trudge outside of the bathroom in your robe, Coriolanus is on the bed, waiting for you as he said he would. You fidget beneath his stare. He rises and approaches you.

“I should probably take a shower too. I’m filthy,” he observes, his nose scrunching as he sniffs his shirt. 

“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll…get dressed.”

You try not to flinch when he drops a quick, chaste kiss atop your head. 

“Thanks, angel.” 

He disappears in the bathroom. The pitter-patter of the shower fills the room, ropes of steam escaping through the crack at the bottom of the door. Your shoulders sag. You allow yourself to relax, using that reprieve to sift through your clothes until you find a decent outfit. Your spirits dim. The state of your closet is beyond desolate. It didn’t bother you before. After all, no one cared what you wore. But now, you realize how much it matters. You don’t want to be a blight upon Coriolanus’ perfect image. He’s always dressed so well.  

After a lengthy internal debate, you settle on a long, black dress at the very bottom of your wardrobe. One you bought on a whim but wouldn’t have worn in a million years before. Elegant, flowy and flaring at the waist. You’re grateful for the long sleeves and high collar that will conceal the marks Coriolanus left on your skin. 

You don’t want anyone to see. And, if possible, you don’t want anyone to know.

It likely was a one time thing. After all, Coriolanus has his pick of girls from Uni to choose from. So many who have been batting their eyelashes at him since the year began. He’d never go for someone like you. No, he’d rather court somebody like Livia or Persephone. Even Clemmie would be a far better match for him. 

It must be as he explained. He got lost in the moment. You surmise this happens sometimes when people are drunk. They do things they wind up regretting afterwards. 

You go to your bedroom door, bemused when you find it locked. 

As soon as the door opens, Walter leaps into your arms. He meows loudly, rubbing his face against yours while licking his paws. You chuckle. 

“Hey, buddy. Let’s get some food in you, okay?”

You pad across the living room with Walter clinging to your neck. You grimace as you walk, an ache still radiating in your lower body whenever you move. 

You note that his bowl is still half-full, meaning that Coriolanus must have fed him like you asked. A sliver of relief flutters through you. You felt so guilty for not returning home earlier. The ginger ball of fur is reluctant to part from you, his claws sinking into your collarbone.

“Walter,” you admonish. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t worry.” 

He ends up allowing you to put him down. You sigh as you fill his bowl with dry meat and fish leftovers. You know how anxious Walter can get when you’re not around. You sometimes wonder if it’s because of the time he spent in your mother’s lab, being poked and prodded. Does his memory even go that far back? You genuinely hope not, a shudder coursing through you at the knowledge of how your mother treats her test subjects.

You stroke his fur as he bends down to eat. The familiar softness beneath your fingertips soothes you. 

You’re so distracted that you don’t hear the muffled steps creeping behind you.

“Should we go now?”

You bolt upright, startled by Coriolanus’ abrupt  presence.

“Sure,” you mutter. 

The corners of his lips quirk upward.

“You look pretty,” he says, prowling forward.

“T-Thank you,” you stammer in response.

Without thinking, you stagger backward, your stomach flipping when he matches your steps. Your back hits the counter. 

The blond crowds your space, placing his hands on each side of the countertop. Your heart misses a beat beneath his ponderous scrutiny. 

He cocks his head, his index finger outlining the buttons of your collar.

“It looks a bit uptight though, doesn’t it?” Amusement sways in his cobalt orbs. “Why cover so much skin?”

He flicks the first two buttons with his finger and the top of your collar comes loose, revealing some of the hickeys on your neck. Gasping in shock, you rush to button it back.

“Coriolanus…” you chastise.

He snatches your wrists before you can fix your dress, his intense gaze ensnaring yours.

“Are you trying to hide them?” 

Fire blooms in your cheeks.

“I don’t want people to see and gossip,” you reply quietly.

When he inches closer, his potent scent fills your nostrils.

“Let them gossip. Only useless people do that.” His inflection is dismissive, final. His smile broadens. “You shouldn’t hide. You and I had a wonderful time. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“O-Okay.”

He leans to plant a soft, slow kiss on your lips.

He strokes the side of your head. Long, lithe fingers attach to your collar. He undoes more buttons until a hint of cleavage is exposed. You don’t protest or argue this time, girdling your breath until he’s done. His eyes roam over you, satisfaction lighting his handsome features.

His voice is silky smooth as it pours from his lips.

“There. Much better.”

Just like last time, Coriolanus opens the door of his car for you. 

“Climb in, angel,” he whispers against your ear, making your heart race.

For a while, he drives while humming a soft tune to himself. You twine your hands in your lap, lost in the mayhem of your thoughts. You try to bury last night as far in the depths of your mind as you can, loathing the tendrils of dread coiling around your insides every time a sliver of remembrance slips through. It’s a brand new day. You must look ahead.

Astonishment slithers through you when you realize Coriolanus is headed towards the Corso.

Your head snaps up.

“I thought we were going to the city.”

“We'll stop by the penthouse first.” He turns to you. “I need to change, and check on the Grandma’am.”

“The Grandma’am?”

A soft smile hovers on his lips.

“My grandmother. I live with her and my cousin.”

Your brows knit. Right. Tigris Snow, you believe her name is. You may have seen her and Coriolanus together before. You always thought that was his sister. They both don the signature Snow blonde hair and blue eyes and share the same towering stature.

“Oh. You’re lucky,” you say absently.

He tosses you an inquisitive glance.

“Lucky?”

“To live with your family.” A forlorn smile spreads onto your face, your head dipping. “My mother she’s…she’s never around.”

His brows crumple.

“Truly, never?”

“Never.”

“What about your father?”

Your heart sinks to your feet.

“He…He’s never had any interest in being in my life. He left when I was a baby. Mother says he hates the Capitol and left to start a new life in District One.”

His hand drops over your thigh. His fingers caress you gently as he says, “I’m so sorry, angel. You deserved better, from both of them.”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance despite the prickling in your chest.

“It’s fine. I can’t miss someone I’ve never met.”

His gaze locks with yours.

“Still, it had to be tough, without your parents.”

Uncomfortable, you veer the topic in his direction.

“What about yours?”

You don’t recall ever seeing his parents around either. Neither at the Academy. Nor that first day at the University. Just that statuesque blonde girl around his age you are fairly sure was his cousin.

Coriolanus’ cheek flares, his face hardening.

“Both were killed by rebels…in different ways.”

“Different ways?”

“Yes. My father died while serving and my mother…” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second before opening them again. When he speaks again, his tone is icier. “She bled out in labor because of those damn rebels.” You flinch, floored by the sheer rancor bleeding in his voice. His lips tighten. “Both she and…my little sister died.”

Your mouth drops. Coriolanus must have been so young when it happened. You and your mother aren’t close, but you can’t picture your life without her in it. Coriolanus lost his so soon and clearly had so much fondness for her. A wave of sympathy fills you. 

“That’s awful. I don’t…I don’t have any words,” you say, tentatively covering his hand with yours. He surprises you by lacing your fingers together. 

“None are needed,” he replies tonelessly. He turns his focus back onto the road, concluding in a matter-of-fact inflection, “It’s why we need the Games. To keep those filthy district rats in their place.”

Your mouth clamps shut. You don’t believe in the Games, finding them needlessly cruel. But your mother and Coriolanus do, actively working together to raise the viewership for next year. 

A wave of queasiness swells within you. 

Silence hangs between you and the blond, not another word leaving your mouths until he arrives at his home.

Coriolanus takes your hand and drags you inside. The two of you make your way through the lobby and up the twelve ornate flights of stairs leading to the Snows’ penthouse. You get lost in the gold and blue patterns swirling beneath your feet.

When he crosses the apartment threshold, he tells you to wait for him and takes long strides towards what you assume must be his bedroom.

You awkwardly linger by the entrance, your eyes meandering about. Everything looks recently renovated, a veil of tarp hanging by a glass window where some construction still seems underway. You step further inside, pacing across the living room while waiting for Coriolanus.

“Hi, I don’t believe we met.”

You whirl, blinking at the appearance of a stunning, slender blonde bearing an eerie resemblance to Coriolanus.

She smiles at you. You relax, gathering that this must be the cousin he mentioned. Tigris Snow.

“We haven’t,” you say.

She studies you. “You must be something special for Coriolanus to bring you around.”

“I-I doubt it,” you reply with a shrug.

She shakes her head.

“My cousin’s never brought any other girls here. Some friends visited but…no one like you.”

“No one like me?”

Sadness flickers over her delicate features briefly before she approaches you.

“Just be careful with him, okay?” she whispers, her voice hushed and secretive, almost as if she dreaded being heard. Her gaze lingers on your neck, a frown forming on her brow. “You just seem so nice and sweet. And Coriolanus he…He’s changed a lot lately. So promise me to take care of yourself.”

You’re stumped at first. It seems such a strange thing to say about her own cousin to a perfect stranger. Your forehead creases.

“Changed in what way?” you can’t help but ask.

Her mouth opens to form a reply but the loud clearing of someone’s throat forestalls whatever she was about to say.

You both whip your heads at the same time.

“Tigris,” Coriolanus says tersely while smoothing the cuffs of his shirt. He’s wearing a fresh new suit, his platinum locks neatly slicked back as always. “I see you two met.”

Tigris blanches. She gives you a quick hug.

“I hope to see you again,” she says before scampering out of the room.

“Me too,” you respond, still perplexed by the peculiar exchange.

Coriolanus turns to you.

“Is everything alright?”

“Of course. Why?”

He takes a step forward, a strange look on his face you can’t read.

“Tigris didn’t say anything strange to you, did she?”

“No, nothing,” you instantly reply. You kick yourself inwards. Why did you lie? You can’t even say yourself. Pure instinct drove the answer out of you.

He tilts up your chin, his intense blue eyes plunging into yours.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, angel? If she said something, I mean.”

The drumming of your heart grows deafening.

You yield beneath the weight of his unflinching stare, words tearing from your tongue in a nervous heap.

“She told me to be careful,” you confess.

He snickers. But even as he laughs, you note the way his gaze hardens ever-so-slightly. He doesn’t like that Tigris said that to you, you realize. You should have kept your mouth shut.

His thumb sweeps over your bottom lip.

“I’m glad that you told me,” he croons, his tone much softer than before. “I hope you know that you can trust me, angel. Always.”

“I know,” you mumble, sinking in the sea of his gaze as he cradles your face.

[weebsinstash]

He's not in the show yet but as a comic reader I've been thinking a lot about how ABSOLUTELY AWFUL it would be to be a human captive of the Viltrumites and, forget Mark, forget Nolan, those two would not even compare because THRAGG is the real mf you don't want to be yandere for you

I was sitting and thinking about it and like. Just. Imagine being in a relationship or platonic yandere situationship with the Grayson family and then, boom, the invasion happens. You're just a helpless little human and Nolan traps you away to keep you safe while everything you've ever known and loved is taken from you. By the time you're "let out" the Earth and most of its major cities have been all but razed and Viltrumites and their construction drones are EVERYWHERE, rebuilding what was broken, essentially erasing the history of humanity

You're now a "registered human" under the official Viltrumite occupation of Earth. You have to wear an identification badge that can be scanned to identify you, to designate which Viltrumite you belong to, like some cat with a collar tag, and it also tracks your location at all times. Humans have extremely limited rights, and Nolan and Mark heavily restrict which other humans you can interact with because the occupying forces don't want some kind of rebellion (mostly though Mark and Nolan just couldn't risk any dumb humans putting any silly ideas in your head and getting you hurt when this life is good for you after all :( and what if some nasty little rebel tried to kiss you--)

But I just. I just picture Reader being Nolan's mate and at some point, you're sitting in your completely Viltrum-constructed home with Viltrum robots and androids that cook and clean and do everything for you and completely take away all your usefulness and agency for yourself when, someone comes to visit. Another Viltrumite you recognize from the broadcasts on TV. All you understand is that he's Nolan's boss on some level or another, and he came to speak with Nolan, but since the man isn't here, all his questions are directed to you

Can you even imagine you're like sitting there already suicidal and in comes Thragg asking why you aren't pregnant yet, like literally wanting actual fucking details about why you haven't bore a single child despite being with Nolan for a few years. I'm talking complete dehumanization as Thragg is asking you TO YOUR FACE how often you're having sex with Nolan, which positions, what do you do in bed, acting like you're doing something wrong. He asks what you do after mating and you just kind of start to reply and he sort of smirks, "you can still walk afterward?" And he seems grossly smug about it, but, this is a very threatening conversation to you. You have a man who could reduce you to paste at any moment and completely take away any luxury or privilege you and Nolan have and he's asking you extremely intimate questions you have to answer through ground teeth and at some point I'm sure he starts on about, "your duty as a woman"

Nolan comes home completely unaware that Thragg has been there and you're still sobbing on your hands and knees as you literally scrub the spotless floors by hand because Thragg told you what a submissive little servant you're expected to be as a lowly human woman and Nolan is trying to comfort you and your hands and fingers are literally pruning from cleaner as you keep crying and refuse to stop "because it's not good enough, it's not good enough"

At some point Nolan and Thragg get into it. Nolan is sent off on some mission that he very slightly underperformed on, or maybe he actually made a really huge tactical error, and here's Thragg, deciding to punish Nolan by. Taking you. Just straight up taking you away from Nolan like you're some kind of privilege he has been allowed and YEAH it is to be a servant/mate for Thragg himself. And Nolan makes a big fuss about how he's one of the ones who helped even conquer this damn rock, how dare the Grand Regent take his mate, but Thragg doesn't care and even if other Viltrumites who serve under him disagree, as you know he rules with such an iron fist that none dare to speak up

Can you even imagine you were with Nolan for like 5 years overall with never so much as a pregnancy scare and Thragg has you for like two months and boom, you're pregnant, in fact you're INSANELY pregnant, you've got TWINS, and for you noncomic readers, Viltrumite DNA is literally so aggressive that twins are literally quite literally unheard of because they cannibalize in the womb or only the strongest lives so, now you've presented Thragg with these nice shiny new little trophies he can self aggrandize over. The first Viltrumite twins in the entire history of their culture, and they're Thragg's

(Something something "what if thragg was having birth control put in your food so you wouldn't become pregnant by Nolan before he could manufacture an excuse to take you for himself" something something)

I also think like. Thragg had the twins in the comics, Ursaal and Onaan, so like. What if he already had the twins when you're taken from Nolan and you give him TRIPLETS. Like. Jesus not only is your fate sealed, you're going in the goddamn Viltrum history books as some sort of magical womb the oh so virile Grand Regent Thragg managed to conquer for himself idk 🙄🙄🙄

But I think it's just the concept of. Such a monstrously violent and cold dude realizing he has uncontrollable feelings for you and they're like FEELINGS FEELINGS, but he literally doesn't know how to act so he's being. Like. Kind of just blatantly shitty and abusive most of the time. You give him any lip and he's got his hands on your throat and threatening you but internally he's like. Turned on by your spice. He wishes you were a Viltrumite so he could be rougher with you. You two have a rare argument where you get those oh so rarely seen guts to talk down to him and later that night he's putting you in your place underneath him fucking you like he's trying to get another brood of children out of you

Think of just the little ways he could show affection which is completely foreign to him and he like doesn't even realize his own behavior and is rationalizing it as something else. He sees you talking to Ursaal one day, combing her hair, telling her that she could potentially consider cutting her hair as males tend to grab it as a battle tactic and he feels a little warmth in his chest as Ursaal dutifully nods "Yes Mother" and Onaan is lurking around the corner, jealous. Thragg forces you to make public appearances with him and you learn how to temper your emotions better, and you'll be brought along to school functions for the children, like Thragg smirking internally as you scold Onaan that he lost a scheduled fight because he's arrogant and wasn't properly paying attention to his opponents

You're forcibly assimilated deeper into Viltrumite culture, but you're also humanizing the Viltrumites you interact with. Ursaal and Onaan realize that they deeply desire more affection and support as children and become fiercely protective of you because you actually treat them with kindness. Thragg can act indifferent to you at best but one day you realize that you have significantly more privileges as his mate than Nolan's and you march off to Thragg's place of work because maybe the twins wanted you to see where they work with their father and you're brought into Thragg's office and he's as stonefaced as ever while you're like. Surrounded by photos of yourself just all over the place. The one on his desk directly in front of him isn't even one of you smiling, it's you scowling with a glare and looking pissed and apparently that one is his favorite. And Thragg is like not even bothered by you seeing all these photos, and his kids are just completely nonchalant like this is all totally normal, "oh, Father, you had a memorial photo made from where you and Mother visited my school, I like this one--" as if these uh collages have been up for quite some time, some maybe even taken from security cameras from your time with Nolan--

I just picture like. Can you imagine the triplet scenario and you wind up giving Thragg Mark, Ursaal, and Onaan, and you bond more with Mark as a late bloomer and the one who is the most human and his siblings are getting monstrously jealous and Thragg doesn't want his legacy tied to a weak powerless Viltrumite, like this man would rather have Mark be dead than not have powers, and Thragg is trying to force you and Mark apart. Can you even conceive like, being a mom and you walk into the room and your son is being absolutely brutalized by his father who is convinced he is hiding his powers or something and you have to shield your own son from his father before he kills him. Could you EVEN IMAGINE Thragg going to throw Mark off of whatever cyberpunk skyscraper nightmare you're living in because he's convinced the panic will make his boy finally learn how to fly and you have to watch as he just drops your (favorite) child off the building and Mark ... never comes back up. Thragg just sees how absolutely devastated you are and convinces himself it's because you're emotional and weak and just casually, "we can make another" (although I imagine in this scenario Mark was saved by Nolan and the two train and eventually basically spearhead a rebellion against Thragg and his empire and rescue you and restore Earth, but, whatever lmao)

I feel like as a general thing, yandere Thragg would often indulge in and enjoy the fact you couldn't deny him sex, because even if you try to deny him, what are you gonna do, overpower him? So he uses it to assert control over you. You snap at him or mouth off, you're getting railed that night to remind you how powerless you are, that you're still his mate. You two have a nasty fight where you legitimately manage to wound his pride, you're getting fucked near unconscious and you're essentially "grounded" for the next few days if not weeks where you aren't allowed to leave your home (maaaaybe because you've managed to make him insecure that his little mate doesn't like him 👉👈 he can't have anyone else steal you away, not when you're making him feel all these powerful emotions he doesn't even know what to call)

You're not even aware of it but the surveillance systems in your home are being CONSTANTLY tuned into all the time, if not by him, then by his own children who are tasked with watching you. I also feel like having the kids on the mix kind of makes everything kind of grotesque. Like imagine you just wake up and you're going by your business one day and you walk into the room and Thragg has your like 5 year old toddlers gathered around a table with knives and weapons on it and you hear little Mark say, "all these things can hurt Mom?" "They can" "even though they're so soft?" "Only to Viltrumites like us" "Mother is really that... weak?" And you realize Thragg is turning your own children into weapons to use against you, watch you, report back to him, because... your kids aren't like you. They're Viltrumites like him and he'll be damned if you make them 'too soft'

But I imagine a day comes when he's forced to at least semi-confront these feelings. Ursaal and Onaan are dedicated little soldiers to him, but also seem to respect your authority as their mother, something Thragg also sometimes encourages (since your "rank" as their mother earns a certain degree of respect and he's trying to teach them to respect the chain of command, even if you are a soft human). Ursaal and Onaan take a mission to another planet with their father and they return and Onaan has a gift for you, an alien flower he thought you might like, something he took without telling his father, but. He doesn't realize there's something wrong with it, something that wouldnt bother a Viltrumite but would definitely harm a human. The second you touch the plant, the second some of its pollen touches your akin, enters your lungs, you start becoming ill, very, very, very ill.

Thragg is trying to tell himself you're just another mate to him, just another bearer of his many many many children that he has no emotional attachments to, but the second he receives word that you might ACTUALLY BE DYING like genuinely actually fucking dying, there's no hesitation. The next time you open your eyes, you're in a Viltrum-run hospital in a lavish sanitized room receiving ONLY the best of care as Thragg is sitting in a chair beside your bed staring directly at you as if he had been staring at your unconscious body perhaps the entire time you were asleep. There's almost a visible relaxation of his posture as you're able to hold a conversation with him, but, his voice is, lowered but firm as he tells you you have yet to fully recover, that you're in isolation to reduce the risk of foreign pathogens. He feels the need to tell you in detail how severely Onaan was beaten for almost costing you your life, almost as if he's seeking your approval, some sort of forgiveness. You ask him how long he's been sitting there and he just deflects and tells you you're still too weak to hold a conversation and to conserve your strength, that the two of you can speak later.

Once you've recovered, it doesn't even seem like he's that interested in sex anymore, but the notoriously sturdy Viltrumite is suddenly returning home much more often now, if only to hold you as you sleep in the marital bed you share with him....

I guess as one final, final suggestion, I can't get over like. Is there an upper limit on the whole "oh you had Viltrum DNA but it just didn't kick in yet" thing. Could you imagine like, once the Viltrum invasion has begun and you're "acquired" for either Nolan or Thragg or whomever, you're scanned or whatever by Viltrum tech and they're like "oh hey what up, Viltrumite DNA detected? Dope?" And maybe it could even be "weak" like from a grandparent or something but, it inevitably "kicks in" and now you have to confront all the new caveats this brings with you. You're expected to live as a Viltrumite now. Maybe Thragg seems to find you a little less pathetic and personally wants to train you himself because he doesn't want the most publicly visible and famous of his mates to be weak. Also just maybe he's glad he can have rougher sex with you. I can just imagine he's forcing you two to have some sort of spar amd you have some sort of natural aptitude or higher than average strength and you wind up really giving him at least ONE really good fucking punch to the face and he's wrestling you down, pinning you down and forcing a kiss onto you as the blood from his broken nose drips onto both of your faces, like

Yeah, anyways I have normal feelings about this series tee hee 😘

[vivalarevolutionxd]

Plants that unalive people.

Project 2025 (if it is voted in) will get rid of a woman's right to divorce her husband and her rights to her own body. This means we need to protect women from dangerous men. Here we go:

-Abrus Precatorius (Aka Crabs eye, rosary pea, Indian licorice, ect) causes vomiting, convulsions, liver failure, and death. Even one seed will cause it.

-Aconitum (Aka Wolfsbane, aconite, monkshood) causes disabled nerve endings, low blood pressure, cardiac irregularities, vomiting, and of course death.

-Actaea Pachypoda (Aka dolls eyes, or white baneberry) which basically paralyzes the cardiac muscles, not always deadly.

-Ageratina Altissima (Aka white snakeroot, white sanicle, richweed) causes milk sickness, which if you don't know it causes significant weightloss, polydipsia, vomiting, appetite loss, difficulty standing/walking, coma, and then death. Death occurs 2-10 days after eating it.

-Arnica Montana (Aka mountain tobacco, leopards bane, Mountain Arnica) causes bleeding in the intestinal tract, inflammation of the liver, paranoia, accelerated heart rate, muscular weakness, and death. Though a lot of the seeds/plant need to be digested for it to kill, though little amounts for long enough time can cause cancer.

-My personal favorite,Atropa Belladonna (Aka deadly nightshade) it's a long list but it causes: dilated pupils, sensitivity to light, blurred vision, slurred speech, dry throat and mouth, tachycardia, loss of balance, staggering, headache, urinary retention, constipation, confusion, delusions, hallucinations, convulsions, necrosis(limb death), paralysis, and death.

-Brugmansia (Aka angels trumpet(cause you will see the lord)) causes hallucinations and losing connection with reality. Not 100% deadly by itself but causes severe paranoia, hallucinated pain, and delusions. The most notable case of Angel's trumpet is a young man self amputating his leg with pruning shears after consuming the tea of just two flowers, he died.

-Caltha Palustris (Aka marsh-marigold, kingcup) causes convulsions, burning of the throat, vomiting, bloody diarrhea, dizziness, fainting, blisters, inflammation, gastric illnesses, and patients usually die to the symptoms.

-Cerbera Odollam (suicide tree) the one just kills you within a few minutes, muted taste, undetectable in autopsies, and can't be treated once consumed.

-Chelidomium Majus (Aka Greater Celandine) this one also just kills you, but you need at least 18mg per kilogram of body weight, so a 50kg (110lbs) person needs at least 900mg to kill them.

-Cicuta (Aka water hemlock, cows bane, wild carrot, snake weed, poison parsnip, child's bane) this one causes just over and over seizures until death. Can't be treated.

-Colchicum Autumnale (Aka Autum Corocus, Meadow Saffron) causes burning in mouth and throat, fever, diarrhea, abdominal pain, kidney failure, multiple system organ failure, hypovolemic shock, fluid loss, damage to the gi tract, bloody urine, low white blood cell count (damages the bodies ability to fight off infections), anemia, muscular weakness, respiratory failure, and death. Death occurs in 42-74hrs from consumption.

-Another one of my favorites, Conium Maculatum (Aka Hemlock, spotted parsley, spotted cowbane) for the following symptoms to occur you need to consume at least 6-8 leaves or half a gram of the roots. Symptoms include but not limited to, necrosis (limb death) within 30 minutes of initial dose, and paralysis of lungs, this causes suffocation within the hour.

I'll make a pt. 2 later.

[elemwire]

Hating People

I hated the rich, I hated the poor

I hated myself, I hated another

I hated anyone who I deemed better

I hated my actions towards others

I hated that life is meant to be lost

I hated that I couldn't save anyone

I hated God for this body, this life

I hated my parents for all things done

Then one day I was forced to realize

That all this hate can't end my suffering

I was shown a way out, not suicide

It was in stillness that I made the offering

Of desires and pains that rooted out

Scars of emotional lava that erupted within

All the wrongs and rights I attached with

Weighing me down, trapping me in sin

Forced me to see the suffering of others

Feel the devastation of desires

Killed parts of the old me, now pruned

I write with a rekindled fire.

-By Sebastian Devassy Cherian

@elemwire

[afreakingdork]

Weak Spot - Chapter 62

RotTMNT Donatello x Reader

The previous chapter art was removed 4/30/2024, but as of 9/2/2024, Mikey thinks it's pretty cool that we got a new one by @unknownfanartist

Warnings: Aged-up Turtles, Romance, Meet Cute, Villain Donatello, Cussing, Crushes, Xenophobia, Fear, Intimidation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Love, AFAB Reader, Vaginal Sex, Sex Rough, Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Creampie, Teasing, Scent Kink, Sexual Tension, Breeding Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Marathon Sex, Somnophilia, Bondage, Feral Behavior, Feral Donatello, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Public Sex, Dom Donnie, Human/Turtle Relationships, Turtle Noises, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay

Synopsis:  A love story of villainous proportions! Though it hadn’t come easily, as these things rarely do, you found yourself in a whirlwind romance with a handsome and mysterious mutant. His idiosyncrasies had been easy to ignore as attraction grew into something more. However, will love endure when the unknowns about him end up being far darker than you ever considered?

Fem!Reader References/Warnings Below Cut

Also available on Ao3

First 💜 Previous

Fem!Reader References/Warnings: cast removal, crutches, muscle weakness, general injury recovery

Getting your cast off should have made you happy.

It should have come with a sense of relief. The thing had yellowed with age and stunk to high heaven, but you were numb as the many little saws buzzed around you. You only watched listlessly as bits of fiberglass shattered and nicked the doctor’s mask. You should have some anxiety, you thought. You should be worried that their hand might not be as steady as you’d hoped and they might dip and slice your skin.

You felt nothing.

You only stared on as you were helped out and you saw your legs for the first time.

Pruned from trapped moisture, somehow flaking, and a sickly color, they did not look like your own.

Words pelted you next and you heard them vaguely.

There was a new schedule.

New aftercare.

More healing.

You would never be done healing.

Your body would always be different.

These legs were not your own.

You couldn’t stand without an aid.

Donnie was everything.

After the incident with Leo, he went above and beyond where he’d already stepped up. He cut the others out of the support system. They were still there, the backup they needed to be for him, but Donnie decided in seeing your tears that he was the only one made to aid you. He moved around attentively, pampering you and getting everything you needed. He shifted his focus away from himself and helped however he could with your physical therapy.

You hadn’t told him what happened to Leo.

A piece of you had been extinguished in the exchange, not that you completely understood why.

Something was fundamentally wrong with the picture and the only element out of place was you.

Leo was right, you’d come in and changed something about their dynamic. You had tentatively seen it as good, but in practice you weren’t as sure anymore. You’d been reassured from countless sources, but it all seemed for not after being told point blank that you had upset the status quo and nothing could be put back. You had two happy years with the man you loved, but there was irreparable damage. 

It manifested in your mate in a very real way.

He could no longer act.

The feelings he once pushed away as unnecessary were now a threat to him and everyone around.

You’d robbed him of his joy.

The one he’d found after such an agonizing journey.

You hated it.

You hated every moment he came near.

You hated every little look he gave you, checking in to see if it had been the right one.

You hated how every time, he’d smother even that reaction.

He was a shell. 

He was unsure. 

You were the same.

Then, there was Leo.

After the incident, he had taken a five day sabbatical where on rotation you learned from both Raph and Mikey that he only left the gym when it wasn’t open. He worked himself out until his body gave out and the tiny owner had called Raph away on day three to pick up the passed out husk of his brother. They had their own med bay you learned. Leo slept the last two days and drained multiple IV bags.

When he returned, he was a shadow of his former self.

There were no words left to barb and he parted no attention. Lucinda even greeted him and he only looked away. She’d wanted to ask, you saw it in her eyes, but you held the same empty look.

She’d said nothing and for the last week and a half in your cast, the apartment was trapped in haunting silence.

“It’ll be a wheelchair ride to the car.” A nurse told you.

You only nodded.

Donnie was beside you and you leaned against him.

Despite everything, he was still a comfort.

His hand settled on your shoulder and eventually your chariot approached.

Both in the form of Donnie’s car and a mobilized chair, you stared at your legs all the way.

They moved around you as you were helped into the car.

They sat uselessly in front of you.

You didn’t dare touch them in the ride over.

Crutches took your attention and you headed for the elevator.

You could hear Donnie thinking about getting another apartment.

Stairs got in the way. 

Raph was somewhere.

You vaguely saw him already on your floor when you exited the metal box.

A coordinated clinking took you to your door.

You entered and made it far enough to the partition between the living and bedroom before you stopped.

Donnie and Raph spoke something paltry to each other.

You needed to wash up.

You still stank.

You assumed that’s why the other two had kept their distance.

Raph exceeded the elevator weight limit.

You knew that.

You didn’t care about facts.

Donnie appeared in what you figured was a creep.

You only passed him a glance before finally heading towards the bathroom.

He wandered after.

Had you snapped at him?

You could barely recall.

You thought you should have.

He was around too much, wasn’t he?

He was always there.

He was your blight like the other turtles were to him.

A hovering avatar of your failings.

You felt a few tears loose down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that.

You were free of your cast.

You should have been happy.

Not bitter.

You quaked to a halt just in the bathroom’s entrance.

Donnie was behind you.

“Stay with me…?” You begged him through a sob.

He said nothing and only appeared nodding in your vision.

A bath.

You were supposed to take a bath.

You needed to ease into these legs.

Muscle loss.

Breakdown.

Physical therapy.

Endless.

A spray turned on and you collapsed onto the seat of the toilet, letting your crutches go. Donnie caught them and shut the door properly before kneeling down in front of you. Words would need to be spared now, you thought, but you could only stare at him with what you could feel were soulless eyes.

He took them in with a glance that might have broken into sadness if this were any other world. In your current reality, his own shifted to a similar empty state as that was what was required. As the water warmed up, you were stripped. Not speaking made it more difficult, but you relied on your memory of how to move together.

The movement of Donnie’s beak said a lot.

Now in an especially enclosed space he was trapped with your wretched scent. You smelled it too, but you’d been locked into it for so long it lingered like the rot of your soul. The sink and wash cloths had only ever done so much.

You wanted to be boiled.

You wanted to scrub until there was nothing left.

You’d swirl and go straight down the drain and out of sight.

Your ass hit the cold porcelain and for the first time in over two months you felt something other than musty gauze there. It knocked you out of your stupor where Donnie was stripping without pretense. You didn’t watch him and instead reached through the curtain to touch the stream. It was sufficiently hot and you made a grab for the sink to pull yourself up. Donnie caught your wrist before you could and you sent the barest form of ire up at him.

He took it with the faintest crack of affection in his gaze.

It was something and your heart clenched.

How long had it been since he let something leak?

Not long, you knew.

A week or so at most.

You’d been downplaying them.

Each time he tried a little harder you’d lumped it into an anomaly pile.

You were in a constant state of twisting what you saw to your own view.

You were the numb one and Donnie was curtailing himself to you. 

There was more there, in the way Donnie led you to the curtain. He had your weight, but at the same time you had full control. He was there if you fell, but otherwise you were the dancer that instructed. He, your studious partner, waited as you pulled back the shower curtain and he hopped you up the little step. The warm water splashed your toes and you yearned to bury into the spray. A stepwise process still necessary, you waited for Donnie to follow behind and close the curtain before you moved.

Showers washed away so much. 

You felt not just the grime slipping away, but the sludge attached to your soul. It schlepped off in layers and you watched it metaphorically spin out and disappear down the hole that you thought you might too. Looking now, it was too small and nowhere near enough to encapsulate you. You felt your partner’s grip switch. 

With one hand firm on your waist, the other ghosted over your arm. A move he’d done dozens of times, it was both your ways of recuperating with your partner. He drew strength from you in swipes and soon the lopsided display rotated you like a boat with one oar. Turned to face him with the spray at your back, you thought this was a sign. You started with flat hands over his wet plastron. A smooth glide, you withheld your features as you drifted up to his shoulders. You found him there, watching you with metered affection that you spied as more cracks. Wary of them, you had enough wherewithal to send him a worried look which he took in kind as a palm cascaded down to your hip.

His veneer split. Stroking along his shoulder blades, you grabbed the bulb of his shoulder just in time for a gooey expression to form on his face. Tinged with longing, it swirled as he opened up and you saw a gleam in his pupil. All looks reserved for his precious mate, you leaned into him though you couldn’t safely arch your back. It meant mostly a tip of your body without joints, but it still drew you closer to him.

“I love you.” He spoke without holding back.

Your entire being squeezed.

“I love you so much.” He cast the spell anew and brushed dripping water from your chin.

“Donnie…” You murmured and wanted to wrap him up.

You had the leverage, but there were so many threats. One slip would spell more injuries, but you wanted to launch yourself at him. You wanted to drape around him and tell him you alone could keep his ninpo from spawning. A theory already proven to be ineffective, you didn’t care. You would try harder. You had further mobility now and your mate needed you. You decided you could find a way; you could always find a way.

“Y/N.” He nosed over your shoulder as he reached behind you.

Washing, you were supposed to be washing up, but you could only choke on a sob. “I missed you so much.”

When he reappeared as a gelatinized version of himself, you could still see the upturned corners of his lips. “Tell me?”

You heard a cap pop and could mentally see him applying soap to a loofa in a silky drove. “Tell you what?”

“How much…?” He stalled with a press of suds to your shoulder and a wet look.

You knew his suffering was equal to yours, only different.

In that moment, in its current presentation, it seemed new.

He looked youthful and lonely.

He looked as though he’d been punished unjustly.

He was sat in a corner for a crime he didn’t commit. 

He needed care.

He needed reassurance.

You drifted up his neck and to his jaw. “I miss you constantly. I’ve been miserable. You’re right there, but you’re not. I get pieces of you and that’s never going to be enough. Not when I’ve had the whole thing…”

“Whole thing…” He scolded and his lips warbled as he tried to divert attention into scrubbing your back. “Watching you deepen into your withdrawal has been…”

You shuffled a little closer to him and he slid his steadying hand more securely around you.

“It’s torture.” He rotated you out of the spray so he could reach more of you. “You need so much more of me than I can offer. I attend to all your physicalities, but the emotional aspect…!” He choked and shifted away to wash your arms. “To know that I no longer have the facilities to be a proper partner…”

“You’re wrong.” You pulled his chin so he was forced to look at you. “You’ve done so much. Do you know how many people can’t step up when their significant other gets sick? Truly sick, truly injured!”

He scoffed. “I would attend to you for multiple lifetimes.”

You helped move his hand so he could wash your chest. “Not even want, I can’t imagine being with anyone else.”

Donnie slowed as if that was a revelation and looked at you with tempered hope.

“Silly.” You moved to wipe his eyes and he delicately closed his lids so you could brush over them. “You know that.”

“Time and time again my warning that grievous harm will come to you as long as you stay by my side comes to fruition, you should not-”

You pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him.

He searched you in an attempt to break your resolve.

You brushed your digit side by side until he pressed a slight kiss into it. “Do you think what happened is actually your fault?”

You moved your finger away and he spoke immediately. “No.”

“Not that you allowed us to get drugged and taken?” You squeezed the words for what they were worth to translate your own feelings on the matter.

“I had every precaution in place, but there are gaps that cannot be accounted for-”

“Do you blame yourself for that?”

His pupils slowed and he dove into yours to scrounge up every bit of your meaning. “No…”

“Do you know how much growth that is?” You couldn’t help but smile.

He sneered lightly, but there was an obvious raise to his spirits.

You hugged into him and felt the little bubbles of soap pop between you.

He stood still as if to immortalize your affection before he moved to return it. “Do you hear yourself? You are celebrating that I am not performing self-flagellation over nearly losing you.”

“You see it too though, don’t you?” You turned your head and rested it against his plastron.

He squeezed you tighter instead of responding.

“I’m still here.”

“Don’t go.” He forced out.

“I’m right here.” You pulled away to look at him.

He came right down and his arm dipped, holding you upright around your thighs. “Y/N, please, there cannot be a repeat of this.”

“There won’t.”

“We’ll never go to the Hidden City again.”

“We won’t.”

“You’ll stay.”

“Donnie.”

“Stay with me.” You saw obvious tears prick the corner of his eyes. “Please, please, please… Don’t… Don’t ever…!”

“I won’t go.” It took a little too much movement, but you finally slotted your arms around his head. “You’re stuck with me.”

He tried to squeeze in another ‘please,’ but he interrupted himself as he kissed you.

You returned it, but felt the distinct lack of heat.

It was a reassurance and you poured all of yourself into it.

He broke it out of a smile that burst forth between you.

“L-let’s…”

You pecked across him as an encouragement.

“Get you cleaned up.” He decided and swallowed thickly.

You moved away as much as his hold allowed and he was methodically washing you. Running between foam and rinses, you had enough strength to scrub his plastron, but anything further that required a bend proved to be too difficult. He cared little and openly ate up the attention. You leaned into it, feeling slight guilt over denying him more, but you reminded yourself that this was unavoidable on both your parts. Donnie had to keep his emotions in check and you had to recover which was annoyingly no alive person’s fault.

Finishing your proper shower under Donnie’s steady grip, you then languished in letting the spray run directly over your face when you felt your boyfriend nose your mating mark playfully. You turned slightly, moving out of the shower’s line and he followed with pressed kisses there.

 “Donnie…?” As far as you knew, this was part of the unspoken territory that couldn’t be crossed.

“Won’t break skin. No more injuries of any kind.” He let the water rinse the spot before mouthing over. “Still… Want to renew so badly.”

“Please…” You folded an arm around you to reach him.

He slid his fingers into yours with his free hand and the other supporting you shifted so he could give one of your butt cheeks a quick squeeze.

“Donnie!”

“Part of you kept from me.” He gave a testy little growl.

You leaned away in a turn to kiss him.

He ignored you and instead put on a show of opening up his mouth. His teeth gleamed a ferocious row and he angled them with a panting desire to sink them into your shoulder.

“Please…” You repeated much quieter.

“You’re mine.” A heat lingered against him and he lost sharp will as his maw came down.

His sharpened canines pricked the most, but he bit without breaking skin. “All yours.”

His hold shifted to wrap around your belly and he metered different pressures.

While there was a certain sexual edge to the move, it spoke more of a hunger.

Of things he’d been denied.

Things he couldn’t have.

All that he wanted.

He wrapped it in a nibble as his starvation would go on.

He could only have a taste and he released with a few little licks over the reddened skin.

“I love you.” You told him.

“I love you.” He nuzzled into the side of your head and reached past you to shut the water off.

Before the cold could set in, you were hoisted up just like you were and protested with little bubbles of laughter as he swung you up and out of the tub. Landing on a soft mat, he pulled down a towel to wrap you up in and you were soon sat on the toilet again. Both to be dried and while he toweled himself off, he eventually came around with several bottles.

From getting your cast off you were told to moisturize heavily and Donnie started with a cream for that. Knelt in front of your legs like your knight, you saw he took pleasure in rubbing the lotion into your skin. Taking particular care both for its purpose and because your legs had been locked away for so long, your stems soon took on a shine both from the cream and from the worked up blood flow.

You twisted your toes through the shaking weakness from having been upright for so long, but for the first time since the cast removal, your lower body felt like your own.

Donnie procured another bottle, a new formulation of his muscle cream and added that on next. He’d concocted a slew of new products with computer screens alone and sent them off to be formulated and tested. All done with rush orders, you were soon inundated with all sorts of medicinal ointments. From salves to heal scars to potent oils that stimulated cell regeneration, you noticed there was some labeling that had Old Lady Nagami’s flare, but you didn’t bring attention to it.

You had mostly applied them yourself, but now you wished you’d deferred to Donnie. This could have been stolen moments of intimacy you both craved all along and you berated yourself for not allowing him that much. You only felt you’d taken enough so any little thing you could do yourself felt like a load off of him. He’d also stepped aside whenever possible to not subvert your independence. You adored him and as he finished up with a smile saying he had a job well done, he turned that up to you and all of that must have been plastered on your face.

From his knees he rose up to kiss you reassurances.

You lingered in them before mumbling against his lips. “Let me.”

“What? Anything.” He nosed you slightly.

You giggled at how quickly he complied. “You must be sore too.”

He came away with a furrowed brow ridge.

“Switch with me in your lap.”

He gave the idea a once over before a quick nod and lifted you right up. He then dutifully switched, sitting on the toilet lid and dropping you onto his thighs where he then fetched his cream from a drawer. He passed it over and you scooped a good handful out before pulling one of his arms close to work it into his aged scars.

Within a few strokes he immediately wilted around you like a drapery. You staved off laughing by chewing your lip and the faintest little churr cropped up that startled both of you.

Having both shot away, you shared a surprise stare before you were both tentatively slow moving back into place for fear you wouldn’t be able to replicate it. Taking much longer than the first as awareness was difficult to offset, the tiny vibration eventually picked up as you trended down to his forearms. Music to your ears, you languished in it and rubbed his wrist even though the cream was soaked into his muscles.

He was the one who grew tired of the imbalance and eventually broke to turn you around to reach his other arm. You cuddled close to him, repeating the process and eventually the churr he met you with was one you considered his norm. Overjoyed with his comfort, you felt lulled and your rub lost cohesion as he slid down to his hands.

“Sleep…” He managed around the rumble.

“You too?” You teased lightly.

“Who’s on duty…?”

You had to think about it. “Raph.”

“Yes.” It almost sounded like a cheer and he nuzzled into your neck.

“Why’s it okay with him?” Though you knew Raph distanced himself as best he could, he and Donnie interacted so little that you weren’t sure what their dynamic was like, even with all the weeks of him being around.

“He hesitates.” Donnie reluctantly lifted his head. “Avoids. If I had to take my pick…”

You nodded, not wanting to push the subject when you were both so comfortable.

Lifted back on jittery legs, your towel was adjusted and the door opened with a shift in humidity. Chilled by it, Donnie quickly wiped your crutches down and passed them off before you thunked over to get some pajamas in a perilous game of not letting your covers fall in the process.

“Raphael.” Donnie peered around the partition.

“I didn’t hear nothing!” Raph called from somewhere distant.

Grabbing comfy clothes, you thought you could place him squished right by the door. Of the three, he was the one that seemed the most out of place in your apartment. He tried to minimize himself as best he could and you often had to tell him to sit on the couch even though he long should have known it was available to him.

“Guilt over nothing.” Donnie let a certain disdain fill his voice. “Y/N is going to nap.”

There was a beat of silence as Raph parsed the meaning there. “Understood.”

“And sit down.” Donnie gave an annoyed command and then followed after where you waved a pair of sweats for him.

He took them with a kiss to your cheek and you could tell he was just fatigued enough to not put on his emotional block.

You sat on the bed to get dressed and once you were clad you fell back into the covers letting the many balms on your body swallow you up until Donnie’s voice broke through. “Get under.”

“Throw a blanket on top of me.” You groaned, not wanting to move.

He clicked his tongue, scolding, at you before hoisting you up to pull you under the blankets with him.

You wiggled as much as you could on weary hips to get close.

He tucked you both in and you watched each other until lids grew heavy enough to fall.

-

You weren’t totally sure, but it seemed like Donnie was trying to meditate. It was never particularly obvious, but he would clearly drift when his attention wasn’t on you. Different from his usual trains of thought, it left his features empty in a way that you thought illustrated his thoughts. When he was on the path of mental conquest, that fortitude showed up with a furrowed brow and narrowed gaze. Now, however, you often found him with loose features and a slightly unfocused gaze.

You’d meant to ask, but the first time you roused him from the state, he’d surfaced with a knife-sharp gaze that said it was not to be discussed in company.

Such company was thankfully Mikey at the time who hadn’t even noticed anything was off.

You imagined that was probably why Donnie chanced it. You were left to mull things over which meant you ran various simulations the best you could. It helped you place a few things in perspective since it wasn’t something up for debate. The first of which regarded the level of vulnerability. Donnie never chanced the lowered guard that came with meditating around Leo. He also rarely breached his emotional moat which made you think this had to do with his ninpo. All of which made sense when you thought of Raph.

The eldest had told you point blank that he honed in on ninpo frequencies by meditating and you had filled Donnie in on everything that had happened on your last unwilling trip to the lair. You might have been surprised your genius hadn’t thought of it sooner, but you imagined it had a lot to do with you. Meditation took time, as far as you understood, and a certain level of calm that you bet Donnie wasn’t capable of considering the circumstances you were both currently stuck with.

From your healing to the brothers constant vigil, Donnie had to hold tight to his sanity by any means. Now that the entire set of turtles had settled into this new sort of treaty they were forced into and you were out of your cast and nearing the end of your obvious healing, that meant Donnie could practice more sensitive exercises to get his ninpo under control. He didn’t chance it often, but you had seen him trying to drift in every way except for folding his legs up and assuming a Siddhasana.

The logistics were something you were ruminating when Leo stood up from where he was pretending not to monitor your sitting leg exercises.

The tenuous relationship between the two of you had stretched on, but in the last few weeks you could at least manage being in the same room together.

Donnie hovered closer regardless and it pained you that you still hadn’t been able to tell your boyfriend what had transpired.

Glancing first at Leo and then at a clock, it was two minutes until the hour which meant it was time for a change over. Leo passed Donnie a single nod to translate this before stepping away to make space for a portal behind the couch. The schedule dictated Mikey was next, so Leo sliced through and you expected the orange brother to pop out with his usual buoyant energy.

Instead Leo walked out only for Mikey to emerge with an angry figure that stomped all the way around to you.

With his hands folded on his hips, he held a height over you and a face that begged you to ask.

“You… okay?” You set your weight down and tried not to laugh at how silly he was being.

“No!” Mikey took his opening and was only careful in dropping down into the couch beside you so as not to jostle you. “I’m mad!”

“I can see that.” Your smile was only dimmed by a minor wince as you pulled your legs up onto the couch so you could turn to him. “Want to rant?”

“Finally! Yes!” Mikey threw his limbs out before he turned toward you to tuck into the details. “So I’m trying to do my daily meditation, right?”

You blinked to attention.

That was almost too apropos.

It was clear it struck your partner similarly as Donnie was still nearby and had lifted his head where he was once casually looking through something on his phone.

“What?” Mikey noticed your distraction with a crouch of his brow ridge. “Don’t tell me I don’t look like I meditate because that stereotype’s been beaten to death!”

“No, no… I was…” You waffled and tried not to look around the room. “Meditation helps… healing. You caught me off guard because I was thinking about it, but wasn’t sure if that was real or not.”

All of Mikey’s suspicions evaporated. “Oh-me-gosh! Yes! I’m not going to lie to you, there’s a bunch of misconceptions and finding actual thought out studies is both impossible and annoying, but there is good evidence for it, I swear!”

“Thought out… studies…?” You mouthed, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

“Yes! You can prove anything with a survey as long as you control who you ask! I immediately dump a study if I can’t find out-” He held up both hands ready to count. “-who ran it, what’s the goal, the poll, how many people were involved, and a breakdown of the demographics!”

You pressed your lip to a thin line and did everything in your power not to look at Donnie.

“Trust me, it’s a whole thing.” Mikey dropped his hands and shook his head.

“I guess… I didn’t realize you’d be so thorough.” You admitted, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Yeah, well…” Mikey shrugged. “I’m on my own healing journey. You’re on yours and I’ve been long trying to stop pushing my beliefs on others if I can help it, but I am here if you have any questions.”

“Yeah… Maybe, but you were mad about something, weren’t you?”

“Yes!” Mikey threw his head up as if he could spout fire. “No matter what I did there was something! First, there was a gnat that kept trying to go up my nose, then Raph had this fuzzy thing stuck to his shell, but he was being such a pain about holding still because it tickled, then Dad thought, I don’t know, freaking 3pm smoothies during the same time I always meditate is a thing now!”

You watched Mikey’s rant fondly.

“Like that’s when his show is! He hasn’t drinken a smoothie in months and I’m supposed to believe that’s not a personal attack!?” Mikey looked at you as if you could sympathize.

Your life had been pretty planned out as of late and you didn’t.

“Doesn’t matter.” Mikey sighed deeply. “I never got to and now we’re here. What are you doing there?”

“Strengthening the legs.” You glanced down to the weights on the ground.

“I know a version of those bad boys all too well. They’re so small.” He nodded with a weight of knowledge.

“Yeah…” There were so many things you hadn’t been able to discuss and it seemed silly you’d never tried. “Leo said you did physical therapy?”

“Still do.” Mikey stretched out his arms for you to see. “Though they call it occupational therapy after a certain point. Don’t know the difference, but it feels pretty much the same.”

He did nothing to cover the golden cracks that split his skin and you chanced following a fissure with a finger.

Along the line there was no texture to it, almost as if the glow was an illusion.

“It’s mystic scarring.” Mikey explained. 

“Ah…” He’d offered so you thought you shouldn’t feel bad, but part of you wanted to apologize.

“Got it saving Leo.” He thought for a moment. “Not Donatello related.” He looked over his shoulder at Donnie. “No offense.”

Donnie barely bobbed with a shrug. “I’ll take only my appropriate credit.”

Mikey rolled his eyes back to you. “Almost got ripped to stardust, but Raph helped stabilize me. He’s got some scars too, but he never shows ‘em. I think he thinks I’ll think…” He had to stop and go over what he’d said and punctuated counting with wags of his fingers. “He doesn’t want me to feel guilty!”

You nodded lightly.

“Everyone lived.” Mikey nodded. “That’s what was important. Then it was all healing, kinda like you, but it’s always a thing which is its own thing and then the other injuries…” This time Mikey pointedly looked at Donnie. “Full offense.”

Donnie gave a malicious sweeping bow with an arm.

Mikey sneered his cut lip before returning to you. “So my healing’s always ongoing.”

You tapped your leg.

“Ask.” He urged you with a knowing cock of his brow ridge.

“What?” You hadn’t thought of anything in particular.

“You were on the receiving end. Someone-!” Mikey didn’t look this time, but it was obvious he was again directing his attention toward Donnie. “-is in a less hateful mood so I think we’re safe to touch on more sensitive stuff: don’t you want to ask about the healing spell?”

You watched him before the nebulous thoughts converged for you. “Why… haven’t you healed yourself?”

Mikey gave a single sharp nod that said that was what he was looking for before he sank back into the couch. “I’m not schooled like Lee. He’s got human medical training where mine is mystic, but let’s say that was schooling and I got heavy into self teaching after having my face split open.”

You saw Donnie move slightly out of the corner of your eye, but this time Mikey let him be.

“It’s called Anosmia: the whole no taste, no smell thing. The attack severed not only my brain nerves attached to the old nose bulb, but also different nerves in my brain for other stuff. I’m not big on getting into it because it’s all kind of boring.” He flapped a dismissive hand. “Leo mentioned he explained the healing I did to you?”

You gave a single nod, not wanting to interrupt.

Mikey passed you an appreciative smile for it. “The smaller the parts, the harder they are to connect and you can imagine how small neurons are. That meant trying to reconnect the brain bits was not only the toughest, but also had the highest chance of something going wrong. You miss a connection or hook up the wrong parts? You might not be able to wiggle your toes ever again or forget you even had them to begin with!” He grew quiet and narrowed his gaze. “Thing is, I’d already been there, done that with the whole life changing injury so when I had to do it a second time around…”

You waited.

“I knew more.” Mikey tipped with an anticlimactic lean to his body. “I knew there was a lot that medicine or mysticism couldn’t obviously do and I’d already gone down the rabbit hole of self improvement. If it exists, I’ve tried it. If it can help, you can bet I’m into it. I’ve got opinions on everything!”

You always admired how steadfast Mikey was, even if it came as a detriment to him and those around.

Mikey leaned in even though you knew it wouldn’t offset Donnie’s hearing. “Wanna know my goal?”

“Of course.”

“I think I can fix it.” He bobbed his brow ridge before tossing himself back into the couch.

“Fix…?”

“Regain my sense of smell and taste.” Mikey gestured lazily to his face.

“Is that… possible?”

Mikey smiled out to the living room. “Weirder things have happened and you can train neurons. Everyone else in my family has written it off, but I don’t know… I’ll keep trying. I’ll take the health nut whacko label and own it and one day I’ll be able to smell freshly baked cookies again.”

He was so staunch you believed he could do it and shared that with a smile.

Mikey returned it. “Wanna meditate? It’s pretty quiet here. You can see how it makes you feel and I can give you tips if you wanna keep going.”

That was almost too easy.

For a moment, you felt like Mikey did know about Donnie.

He’d noticed and all this was a farce.

Except, Mikey was still looking at you with nothing but patient eyes.

You also felt as though those eyes held a nefarious purpose.

“Yeah…” He spoke a little too knowingly.

You bristled ever so slightly.

“It’s boring so I get if not. I kinda just wanted to get my dang session in though!” He chuckled with obvious guilt. “Plus it’ll help me with being bugged out and all.”

He had the terrible power of disarming those around him too quickly. “You seem alright now.”

“I’m chill, but that doesn’t mean I’m cool, you know?”

You stared for a moment. “I really don’t.”

“Huh…” His pupils darted as he thought back over what he said. “Yeah, I have no idea what I meant.”

You shook your head.

Between the similarities to S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. to this evil edge every single turtle man had, your perception of all of them was always warped and compared to Donnie.

“Fuck it.” You came away needing very much to stop judging this lot and treat them like the new individuals they really were to you. “Let’s meditate.”

“Yeah!” Mikey held out a high five that you took.

You wiggled in preparation of sitting cross legged.

“No, no, no.” Mikey laughed and held out a hand to stop you. “None of that… Or I mean, unless you want to.”

“I don’t think I can…” You admitted.

“Right, beginner…” He obviously put himself into a new mindset as if swapping clothes. “Okay, here’s the deal: forget everything you know about meditation. There’s no talking; I’m not into guided meditation because the voices get so annoying when I’m trying to chill. There’s no real pose to get into it; just vibe however you want. It’s boring; it’s so freaking boring. When I started, way, way back when dad taught us as kids, I felt like I would explode. Meditation and ADHD are a nightmare combo, but I’ve learned to make it work, but what works for me isn’t necessarily going to work for you, make sense?”

You took a moment to sift through everything he’d said. “Not… really…?”

“Yeah…” Mikey had a look that said he agreed.

You gave him a more abysmal stare.

“Never was good at explaining!!” Mikey tittered before he thought hard. “I guess what I’m trying to say is: use this first session to just… relax.”

You watched as he looked at you with mirth.

“Your biggest goal is to not fall asleep at first, but basically don’t punish yourself. This is all about calming down and getting in touch with your body. For me, my mind always wanders so I have to focus. I do a whole thing where I check in with myself. I start with the top of my head and “feel” down each part of my body slowly to help keep myself focused. You might think of things you need to do or… anything, and that’s fine, but it can stress some people out. You mostly just want to be… okay with being with yourself. The calm comes with that.”

Again taking a moment to think, this time you were slow to nod your head. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He perked up a bit.

“How do you sit?”

“Up!” Mikey shifted until his posture was straight and he relaxed. “I also do eyes closed, but some people start eyes open and then drift close.”

“There’s no wrong way I’m hearing.” You jeered lightly, getting into a similar position as him.

He started to close his eyes, but craned one open to watch you. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You giggled.

“I’ll count us down and then just… float.”

You settled and took a deep breath before a thought caught you. “Do you ever…float away? For real?”

“Yes.” In his profile you saw his grin split his face. “I’ve come to many times having left the ground.”

“ Sounds like enlightenment.” You pretended to be in awe.

A laugh caught him and he had to sigh back into position. “Not a chance. I also sometimes wake up from just sleeping flying which is such a pain.”

You wanted to ask more about that, but you resigned yourself to the exercise.

“Alright.” Mikey’s voice took on a calm. “There’s no time limit so just whenever you’re feeling over it, we can stop. I think like ten to fifteen is good, but hey, do you.” He inhaled long and slow. “Return to yourself.”

You unconsciously breathed in time.

“And be.” He exhaled slowly and you followed suit.

For a moment, you waited for something to happen even though you knew nothing would.

Then something about having to sit in silence struck you. You wondered if there was space for music or if the guided meditation was something you’d prefer. Currently, you felt like you were in a sort of limbo and wished he had started a timer.

Then you thought about what Mikey did.

Starting from the top of your head, you focused all your energy there and something about it reminded you of Donnie’s battle shell. Finding purpose in that idea, you slid down your head, shifting through your brows and eyes and thought of the shell’s arms gently tapping each zone. The metallic arms whirled in your ears as a memory and you let them drift along your lobes and through to your neck. There the pair split apart and cascaded down each shoulder.

One gave a little extra squeeze to where the tissue had healed on your left side. It was slightly numb to the touch, but always felt dense when you tried to lift the limb. Now, instead, the arms locked around your arms and gently rolled their grip down. Testing your flesh in little squeezes, it got to your fingertips and switched to your legs.

Those appendages were ones that you had been in a steady process of getting back under your control. It translated to your imaginary mech caressing you gently in a way that reminded you of Donnie’s massages. You were on a nightly rotation of receiving them and if you could manage, you returned the favor. It was exactly the little buoyancy you had thought the two of you needed and could easily be done in the privacy of the bathroom with only the faintest judgment from whatever turtle on duty.

Donnie.

Reaching your toes, you realized you’d forgotten about him.

Having momentarily gotten lost in your imagination, you cracked your eyes to find your vision blurry.

Something like coming out of sleep, you felt subdued and lingered in focus returning.

It came like a gentle current and with it you remembered that part of you had meant to use this time to siphon information so Donnie could get help in his meditation. If that were what he was doing, you also realized that he could just listen along meaning you had already done your part. Blinking off the last vestiges of peace, you turned your head slowly to first glimpse Mikey’s calm face. The picture of zen, you no longer saw the flecks of irritation that were now obviously gone from the man’s expression. Happy he’d gotten his, you looked past him and felt awe wash over you as you saw Donnie over by his computer.

Standing, but just seated on the edge of his computer desk, Donnie’s eyes were closed. His posture was closed off, but there was an air to him that was accentuated by the sleepy monitor glow behind him. With his arms folded in a loose hold, the tip of his body said one of his legs was kicked over the other which made him reclined. There were then his features, a similar slack to how you’d been catching them except there was a honed edge to it. Nothing that wrinkled the muscles in his face, you instead watched his pupils dart under his closed lids as if he was watching something get typed out. Staring in order to catch the exact movement, you found it wasn’t a side to side, but instead an indistinct roll as if many parts were being put in place.

Building.

You weren’t sure why, but you had the distinct thought that he was building something in there.

One little piece at a time, you imagined he’d taken care in laying out even the smallest screw before beginning the construction process.

This could work.

Another patently intrusive thought, you were sure that if Donnie kept this up then he’d find some relief from his ninpo.

You were flooded with pride.

Almost as soothing as the meditation itself, you took another dreamy stance, but this time in watching your partner. Curling up against the back of the sofa, you stared as he continued to run through his schematics. They detailed out like your feelings for him and all you could think of was how lucky you were to have him in your life. No matter how much strife it had come with, every moment with him was a precious one and it was in that headspace that Mikey came to.

His tongue darted in a roll of his jaw as if he too had awoken from a nap. Sucking saliva and rinsing with a swallow, Mikey stayed mostly silent as he adjusted his vision for your apartment. He looked straight in front of him, remembering where he was before he took great care in sneaking a look at you, an obvious case of not wanting to disturb you if you were still meditating.

He found you awake, but you held a finger to your lips.

The wrinkling of his gaze said he knew exactly what you were referring to and you pursed your lips with accusation.

He fluttered his lashes, similarly tucking his cheek against the couch while facing your direction.

You narrowed your gaze to translate your displeasure.

Mikey looked up roguishly before shooting you a wink.

You gave him one last sneer before you exhaled sharply to say you accepted that he was being sneaky since it helped Donnie.

Donnie’s prosthetic hit the floor a little heavy as he seemed jarred out of his meditation.

“So…?” Mikey led for you, even though there was a double entendre for your boyfriend.

“It was… interesting…” You spoke honestly. “I’m not sure I’d do it all the time, but I can see the use.”

“What’d you do?” Mikey wondered.

You thought of the best way to phrase it. “Thought about moving something with my mind.”

“Oh!” Mikey crooned. “That’s a cool way to start!”

“Well!” You pretended to take praise. “How was your body?”

“I’m all here.” He grinned brightly. “I did have a revelation!”

“I thought you weren’t going to reach enlightenment.” You teased, still curious.

Mikey held an impish hand to his chest before dropping it and the act. “I want to cook.”

You snorted. “Is that new?”

“Kinda…” He took on some level of nerves. “A potluck for one.”

“Huh?”

“I want to celebrate you.”

You stared at him. “What?”

Mikey smiled, his cheek squished against the couch. “No rotation. All of us at once. We break bread to say ‘you made it.’”

Your eyes widened.

He wanted to throw what was essentially a family meal, but fold you and Donnie in.

He wanted an excuse.

“Next week is three months since the day you were taken in.”

Had it been that long already?

“There’s been huge progress all around.” Mikey was getting a little too close to naming Donnie.

You had a complaint on your lips.

In fact, you had thousands of them.

Of all the ways this could go badly.

Then you saw breakfast.

You saw four uncomfortable men under one roof.

And you.

Unintentionally.

And yet again.

You’d brought them together.

Wasn’t that what you were trying to avoid?

It all came back to Leo. 

Was he the only one?

You weren’t sure. 

“We’ve all been busting our butts, you most of all. I think we all could use a meal that’s way too big that says we’re moving to the next step.”

“Which is…?”

“Us heading back out.” Mikey’s crow’s feet looked particularly joyous. “We keep going.”

Your new normal.

“I’m thinking I’ll whip up a bunch of stuff, cook and finish some here. The place will smell so good.”

That did sound nice.

Your gaze lowered and you tried to picture all four together.

It had been so long and everything so tenuous it was hard to imagine.

You mostly saw Leo.

Distant Leo, doing his best to not fall apart again.

Your chest tightened.

Mikey lightly touched your leg. “No pressure.”

“That’s not…” You sent him a half sure grin before you looked at Donnie.

You weren’t going to sway him this time.

This decision was his alone.

You translated this to your partner where he seemed to be waiting.

He took you in with a tilted chin that had many reservations.

You softened your gaze saying you knew them all too well.

He looked one step away from chuffing before his body loosened with a relaxation you also felt.

The meditation had worked.

Donnie gave a slow singular nod and you bowed your head slightly to show you deferred to him.

He took a seat in his chair as if it was a great effort and slumped with his own sigh.

Returning to Mikey found the younger man watching with an interested twinkle in his eye.

“Okay.” You gave a tentative grin. “Let’s do it.”

“Yes!” Mikey hopped up and right back down so he was plopped closer to you with his phone manifesting in his hand. “Now tell me all your favorite foods, don’t hold back, go!”

You giggled and spent the rest of Mikey’s shift going on and on about food. From planning the menu to simply ranting about nearby restaurants, the time flew by. You soon had a menu laid out along with a detailed grocery list that Donnie had stepped in to say he would purchase. Even though you knew the action had an edge of fear to it, you took his participation as a good sign and Mikey offered to send you over the recipe list so you could send it to Donnie. You agreed and after lobbing way too many messages around your phone, Mikey soon shot upright. “Alrighty!”

You looked at him in confusion before going to check the time.

“Don’t wanna keep Raph waiting!” Mikey took a big step in front of you before rounding to where Leo’s portals usually appeared. “Oh, one more thing…”

“Yeah?” You did your best to look over the back of the couch.

You found Mikey staring at Donnie.

Your mate returned the gaze with growing concern.

“Think of this as thanks for your shitty bow!” Mikey split a manic grin.

Both you and Donnie tensed.

Mikey’s head snapped in your direction with a sickly tilt. “This bastard relapsed when you were in your coma.”

Donnie reared with the first bits of a snarl.

A blue portal appeared the second he tried and Mikey gave double peace signs while biting his tongue for a crazed expression as he fell backward through it.

You stared after.

Donnie made it several steps forward and you could feel the fumes coming off of him.

Raph then hurtled through the portal. “W-what happened?!”

You watched purple flicker and sputter in Donnie’s eye.

Raph’s own caught fire. “H-hey now…!”

“Relapsed…” You spoke fearfully.

“Y/N…” Donnie didn’t look at you and was instead locked onto the center of Raph’s plastron to where Mikey had been.

“Like… the drugs?” Against your leg’s weakness, you rose to better look over the couch. “You did drugs again…?” 

“Ah…” Raph didn’t drop his attention, but what was happening fell into place for him. “Yeah… You shot up a few times, didn’t you?”

Raph knew. 

Mikey knew. 

You didn’t know.

“I needed to stay awake!” Donnie roared, taking another step forward.

You saw a ghost of Raph in red slip from his form.

“Awake and numb!!!” Spittle flecked as Donnie panted through his teeth.

Flickers of purple shimmered in the air.

Raph’s projection grew the slightest amount. “Donatello…”

Donnie’s heavy breathing filled the space.

Diffuse.

It would be better to diffuse the situation.

You weren’t even mad.

You were more haunted by the knowledge.

Donnie had been candid about making and taking drugs, but it had also seemed like he left them behind in the mania of his 20s.

You weren’t sure how to feel about them now.

They made sense to an extent, which placed you with a single question.

“Ha… have you since…?”

Donnie didn’t seem to be able to move, but his lips momentarily closed. “No…”

“Are you…?” He clearly wasn’t alright.

Not now.

Not in all the time since the attack.

There was something more.

Though there was glitter in the air and Donnie seemed to be close to hyperventilating, nothing had actually manifested.

No artillery. 

No guns. 

“Okay.” You finally spoke, a single note drop in the bucket.

It plopped and did nothing to change the amount held in the receptacle.

Things were different.

The lack of weaponry was a sign of that.

As Mikey had said: It was time to keep going.

“Okay.” You repeated, this time enforcing the syllables.

It wasn’t an immediate disengagement, but Donnie garnered enough strength from the sound to look at you.

His gaze pained with a broken blinker of purple and he continued to strain with his body.

The purple in the air flittered away and Raph’s projection slowly melded back with his body until Donnie slumped a certain amount.

A collective breath was released and only when Donnie collapsed back into his chair did Raph throw his hands up to claw them down his face. “Mikey! He’s such a little shit, I swear!”

You gave a puff of what wasn’t laughter and sank down into the couch.

“I did not want to get shot again!” Raph complained and had to take a step to anchor himself to the couch. “Not a way to start my shift.”

You sympathetically patted Raph’s hand where you could reach it. “Good news.”

“What’s that?” Raph’s face said he wanted more than the obvious.

You would exalt Donnie for successfully disengaging his ninpo for the first time later.

For now, there was something else to pass along.

“We’re having a dinner party.” You told him, feeling exhausted. “We’re what?” Raph deadpanned.

💜NEXT💜

I'm so sleepy, but i love my betas @tmntxthings and @thepinkpanther83

[januaryembrs]

LAST KNIGHT IN SOHO | Steven Grant/Marc Spector x reader [10]

Description: Marc finds out the truth about Dove, and pays the mortal price.

Word count: 12.6k

Trigger Warnings: okay so; HEAVY TRIGGER for drug use and overdose/ accidental suicide. guns. blood. gore. abusive relationship. poverty. HEAVY ON THE ANGST PEOPLE. suggestive tones in parts.

authors note: I'm sorry this has taken forever and a day to post, I had planned to upload on valentines day however life got in the way in every way it possibly could and so this got put on hold for few days, I hope that's okay! enjoy!!

main masterlist | series masterlist

“Boys, get down here. Dinner’s going cold.” She called up the stairs, her voice already that of a tired mother. Mathew practically skidded past her bounding down the stairs, god knows that boy knew how to eat, even if the parsnips were stone cold he would still devour them whole, “Where’s Mikey?” She yelled after him, her tattered apron tied around her waist, greasy fingerprints dragged down the whites. 

“In his room,” Joey said, his bulky glasses deep in his new crossword book, “Nine down, a second chance at life?” 

His sister looked up the stairs worried, her natural expression whenever Mikey wasn’t under her constant watch, before she met his gaze, adjusting fake pearls around her neck. 

“Huh?” 

“Second chance at life. Nine letters.” He repeated, scratching the light smattering of facial hair he had only just been able to grow. He felt her fingers deftly begin to fix the tie around his collar, the golden fairy lights wrapped around the bannister illuminating where her red nail polish chipped around the edges. 

“After life?” She guessed, straightening his shirt out for him, fussing like she had always done. He shook his head, wincing as she screeched over his shoulder into the dining room. “MATHEW, PUT THE ROAST POTATOES BACK- THOSE ARE FOR EVERYONE,” She tutted under her breath. Sometimes he forgot she was only seventeen. “Sam, can you get the stuffing out the oven,”

A grunt of agreement from the second boy, before a six foot tall, moody boy shuffled past the open door with bumblebee oven mitts on which took every ounce of attitude out of him. 

“One word,” Joe said, his eyes flicking over to the vinyl player that stuttered on its eighth run through of ‘Fairytale of New York’. 

The tinsel she’d braided into her hair rustled, eyes identical to his own watching his mouth quirk in thought. 

“You’re supposed to be the genius of the family,” She teased, her finger nudging under his chin affectionately before she released him, pecking his forehead as he passed her to go take a seat at the table. She fussed some more over the baubles hanging from the tree on her way to the kitchen, straightening out the few stragglers, her pruning fingertips brushing over the fleece blankets covering the back of the sofa, as if she needed to feel their home to remind her where she was, “How about Migration?” 

“Good, but it ends in T,” He called out to her, watching his eldest brother look up guiltily where he had a dollop of mash on a spoon, his mouth already full.

It seemed their sister caught onto his greed as she sharply smacked him over the back over the head, ripping the spoon from his hand, “Pig,” She spit at him, not that it seemed to phase him too much as his eyes already set on the small beef loin, the fat dripping off the plate tenderly, “I’m going to get Mikey. Resurrect?”

His eyes lit up at the suggestion, scribbling it down in his book. The cinnamon candle burnt strongly in the centre of the table, warm and spicy, just how Christmas should smell. 

It didn’t negate the fact they had all had to go easy on showers for the week, or that the house was freezing at night or that it was obvious all of their “Fancy day” clothes smelled like a charity shop. 

Joseph was only thirteen and already he’d noticed how exhausted his sister seemed every day. He’s stopped thinking about it so much, seeing as she’d always been that way, but the drain on her body was clear as anything nowadays. 

Joey was just a kid, but so was she. 

It wasn’t long before the final two of their little family came traipsing down the stairs, Mikey’s hand tight in his sister’s. At twelve years old, he was still a dot of a boy, scrawny, practically all ribs she would say, and he was a weepy one too. It wasn’t a surprise the kids at school were so cruel, even their own father, when he bothered to drag himself home from the pub or his friends’ sofas, would say the fire had died out a little more with every kid that came out of his ex-wife. His sister was so fierce she could melt the world’s core if she wanted to, Joey was convinced of it. Matt simply was untouchable despite the kids at school taking digs at him just as often as they did Mikey, as if he knew from birth he was getting out of this hell hole, that he was made for better than this. Children could sniff out the ones among them that were struggling like a cadaver dog onto a corpse, and once they latched on they rarely let go. Then was Sammy, and well, one look at him and he spoke for himself. At fifteen he was already broad enough that the kids picking on Mike turned to deadly silence when he was around; grumpy as a mule, cold as their mother, a boy with a bitter face. His sister would rub her thumb over the scowl that marred his brow, trying to flatten the crack where his nose met his forehead, where the anger seemed to settle. She hated seeing them upset; had the unshakable need to fix them. 

Joey was her smart boy, trying to fly under the radar and cause her less anguish than he saw the rest of the boys gave her. He thought sometimes, when she would come home at 2am in her clothes from the club, bruises on her arms, when she would make them both a cup of tea and help him with homework, he thought then that he might even be her favourite. They all vied for her attention, only her and Matthew even remembered their mother, it only made sense that she was the next best thing for her boys. 

But she was more than just a stand in for their mom. She was their everything, even with the fights over who was doing laundry, the yelling between her and Sammy when she would have to pick him up from the station for the nth time that month for petty thievery, even when Matt started wolfing down a rogue handful of carrots that had fallen onto the dinner table and she had all but dragged him by the ear into the kitchen to go get them drinks. 

They revelled in their little bubble, knowing the only thing they’d be given for free in this world was each other. 

And when they had finally sat down for christmas dinner, the smoke from the DIY Christmas crackers tiny Mikey had made lingering with a sulphur bite to their nose; when Sam flashed them all a rare laugh as she read out the terrible jokes hidden inside, the paper hats falling down over their eyes as they laughed, their full tummies hurting, plates polished of every scrap, Matt ofcourse eating the left over yorkshire puddings as if they were crisps. When they’d sat in front of the TV that only had four channels and a hefty video player underneath, Joey fiddled with the only film they ever bothered to watch on Christmas Day. 

The sepia scene met the soft orange of the fire she’d lit for them, every light besides the ones on the tree turned off for their movie. Joey and Mikey sat practically two inches from the screen, a somewhat stale bowl of popcorn passed between them. 

They watched in awed silence as Dorothy ran down the country lane, Toto at her heels, her auburn hair jumping behind her in bunches as she looked over her shoulder. 

Running away, always running away, same as she was every year they watched. 

“She isn’t coming yet, Toto. Did she hurt you?” Judy Gartland fawned over her pet, the gingham dress bunching around her knees. 

Worried, always worried. Always preening. Always fixing.  

And by the time the twister came to rip her away from her family and send her to Oz, the girl who wasn’t Dove just yet was already asleep on Sammy’s shoulder, the grumpy boy knocking his head against hers affectionately, silently, the crunching of popcorn and the slurping of an off brand Cola the only things that cut through the sound of the movie.

Unaware, naive to what was about to happen to her. 

—

Dove and Steven had a glint in their eyes that she was sure would never be wiped off as they walked beside one another, their pinky fingers clasped tightly together. 

He had a dopey look on his face, not even watching where they were going as he stared at her side profile, seeing the warmth meeting her eyes for the first time in a while. Her cheeks were starting to hurt from the smiling, biting her bottom lip like she had a secret. 

She would glance back at him every so often, only to see him already staring, his brown eyes softer than a cup of hot chocolate, swirling with adoration and melting at the sight of her meeting his gaze. 

After the fourth or fifth time, she reached up to brush her nose gently, “Do I have something on my face?” 

He didn’t even answer, he just pulled her in for another kiss, his free hand tugging at the fat of her hips, squeezing gently as he kissed her with a greed she felt high on. 

She held back a whine, the hands on her body kind and loving, overwhelming, invading, saturating her with something so entirely like home she felt her face run hot. 

She giggled into his mouth as he released her, her hands finding the sides of his neck, thumb running over either side of his jaw as she felt him smile under her touch. 

“Steven?” He seemed dazed, eyes never leaving her lips as she said his name again, giddy like his brain had malfunctioned and slowed, “Do I have anything on my face?” 

He mumbled something wordless, shaking his head slightly, looking back at her goofy smile as she waited for a real answer. As if it had only just caught up with him, his brow creased, meeting her eyes with a bit more clarity than before. 

“Huh?” He asked, to which she giggled and kissed him some more. She was sure her heart was pounding out of her ribs, and that he could hear it from how closely he was pressed to her front. 

“You’re staring, I thought I had something on my face,” She said, his nose brushing against hers as he dipped in to kiss the laugh lines of her cheeks, “Do I?” 

Steven shook his head, his gaze fanning over the entirety of her face and landing where he wanted her the most, back to her lips that smiled at him in content. 

“No, just,” He stopped himself from kissing her again, worrying he was smothering her, though some part of him knew she craved the touch as much as he did. She told him as much by the way her fingers intertwined in the root of his hair, pressing into him like a cat purring under his hand, “You make me really happy,”

Her throat bobbed, the smallest of tears springing to her eyes as she kissed him one last time. She wished she could meld her body to his, couldn’t wait for them to have a moment alone when she could take him fully if he would have her again. Truthfully, selfishly, she couldn’t give a damn about Harrow all that much anymore, her entire being hollow the moment she pulled away from him. He’d changed the epicentre of her world the moment she’d heard those three words. 

He loved her. 

She didn’t deserve it, but he loved her. 

Shuffling away from him, not entirely unaware of how his hand was reluctant to drop her waist, how his lips chased hers, how he seemed to pout when she put some distance between them. 

“You make me really happy too, Steven,” She said, her voice mellow and buttery, moving to hold his hand properly, the two of them setting off back to where Layla seemed to be fiddling with something from her backpack.

She knew she would never be good enough for him, that he deserved someone so much better, but it was difficult to hear the horrid thoughts that whirred around the abyss of her head when she heard him softly chuckle, smiling to himself as if he couldn’t believe the words out of her mouth. 

Sometimes it’s not about deserve. That’s what Marc had said. And maybe she could start believing him. Because it was Marc, and Marc knew everything. Marc would know what to say, know how to soothe the feeling of rot that threatened to ruin Steven’s sweet words, his soft kisses. 

Marc would fix it. Marc would understand. She was sure of it. 

–

“We’re going to belay down there,” Layla explained, securing the mountaineering rope to the clasp on her waist, tightening the notch and giving the cable an experimental tug. 

The two of them blanked, looking at one another in their own sets of gear that the woman had them step into with little explanation. 

“I think we should be right on time, Harrow shouldn’t be too far ahead of us-” Dove started, only to be cut off by the older woman with a scoff and an eye roll.

“Belay. It means we’re going to lower ourselves down using our own weight.” Dove’s face fell in embarrassment, smiling sheepishly as Layla shook her head with a hidden chuckle. 

“Right, got it.” She held her hands up, nudging Steven’s when she saw his smile widen, if that had even been possible, “Floor is yours,”

Layla hid her laugh with a cough, taking one confident step off the ledge and down into the tomb, the rope gently dropping her into the darkness. 

Dove and Steven watched with bated breath, the former leaning forwards to ensure she had reached the floor safely. Her eyes squinted, not seeing all too much other than the broken steps that would have once been functional, that were half buried in sand by now. 

“Be careful love,” She felt his fingers loop into her harness, keeping her safe even though they both knew she could survive the fall and much worse. 

She smiled, ready to reply when she saw a flash of Layla’s torch from below, and the woman’s face returned.

“Alright, it’s safe. Come down one at a time,” She instructed, the younger woman sticking a thumbs up at her and moving back into a hard chest where Steven hovered over her. 

“I’ll go first,” She said, reaching for the clip and tightening it to her harness the way Layla had. 

“Wait, shouldn’t I go first? Make sure it’s working properly?” Steven said, though his voice hardly matched the chivalry of his words. She smiled toothily at him, tugging on the rope once to set it in place. 

“Put it this way, honey. I can survive broken legs, but I need every bit of you to function or else I don’t know how I’m going to repay you,” It was new. It was flirty. She had a cheeky twinkle in her eye that reminded him she was able to be girlish and happy and tease him and call him honey and it all felt normal and he wanted more of it by the bucket load. He’d not seen her like this perhaps ever. He fell in love with her even more. He didn’t even think he could.

His mouth moved in an attempt to say something, his face tinging red at the implication of her words. 

“You don’t have to repay me,” He murmured, feeling her fingers loop through his belt, a heat to her gaze that had his skin prickling. 

“I know,” She pecked his lips one more time before they had to be parted even if it was only for a matter of a minute or two, “I just really want to,” She drew back when she heard his breath stutter, his cheeks growing all the more darker in their cherry red shade, and gripped the top of the rope the way she’d seen Layla do. 

“Ok-kay,” The man stammered, his palms sweating, nose tingling with heat. 

“See you in a minute,” She quipped with a deep breath for courage, stepping into the darkness as her body weight tugged against the rope. 

Her feet met the sand faster than expected, stumbling a moment before she steadied herself, fingers quickly undoing the harness that sat around her thighs and waist. 

Taking in the small entrance to the catacomb, she saw Layla crouched over the foot of a statue, her own torch clamped tightly in her grasp. Figuring she was conducting her own search, she chanced a look back up to where Steven’s dopey grin looked down at her, as if cartoonish pink hearts swirled around his head. 

“It’s safe!” She called up, as she fumbled with the latch around her harness, “Just need to get this off-”

The wind was knocked out of her as a body crashed into her own, two startled voices filling the cave, two hands pinning either side of her, landing on her back with a shooting pain through her brow. 

She groaned in unison with the heavy body atop her, feeling where his head had banged against hers. 

“Guess you could say I’m really falling for you,” Steven’s joke melded with a grunt as he pried himself off her, feeling Marc huff in annoyance from inside the head. 

“Huh?” Her voice was muddled, her face scrunched in pain. She barely heard what he said before he had stumbled to his knees, holding his hand out to lift her off the floor. 

“I said- Nothing- Sorry love,” Steven stuttered, his hand pawing at his aching temple, pulling the girl back to her feet, “Guess I just need a bit of practice at that Belay thing,” 

“A bit?” Layla scoffed, though she watched the pair with a hidden smirk, the bumbling mess of limbs as they dusted themselves off and unhooked their gear, “You okay?”

“I’m aces,” He said, turning to where Dove had dirt collecting in her hairline. Reaching a hand up to help her brush it away gently, he was distracted by the huge statue of big cat, most likely a lion, engraved into the stone, “Look at you,” He murmured breathlessly. 

It was her turn to warm under his brazen words, stilling her movements, fingertips rubbing away the traces of sand clinging to her clammy skin. 

She laughed with more shock than anything, though it sounded more like a choke, swallowing heavily as she braved to meet his gaze. 

Her brow furrowed as she flicked a glance over her shoulder at the artwork along the wall, untouched for hundreds of years, the paint lines a thick and dark umber red as if sketched only yesterday. 

Looking back to him, she crossed her fingers he hadn’t seen her flattered expression, knowing better than to be embarrassed around him yet she couldn’t deny those three words spread the heat back through her gut that he had satiated only moments earlier. 

Clicking her torch back on, she threw her attention away from those soft brown eyes, back to the sculpt of the lions, the stone cracking as chalky under their years of solitude, but striking nonetheless. 

“If they just sprang to life right now and asked me a riddle for passage, I’d be thrilled,” Steven said, his voice that of a boy at Christmas, “I’d shit myself, but I’d be thrilled,” 

Giggling behind besotted eyes, Dove moved to head further into the tomb, stopping dead in her tracks when she saw freshly drawn initials in the sand. 

Glancing back to where Layla seemed to shrink in demeanour, she gestured to the markings with her light, “Did you do these?” She asked, curious to her motives. 

“Yeah,” She cleared her throat, averting her eyes to the wall opposite them where vibrant blues and sunflower yellow strokes stared back, “Yeah it’s for my father. He would have loved to be here,”

“Big history buff is he?” Steven asked, the three of them setting off through the tunnel, leading them further into the crypt.

“So much worse,” The El-Faouly woman replied with a smile, falling into step with the duo, “Archeologist with a mission,”

They all breathed a laugh, the air stagnant and musky around them, the smell of a place only the dead seemed to know the past few thousand years. 

“And to him it was a dream worth dying for. And he did,” She went on, Dove’s face falling into solemn sorrow. She knew, if Layla was anything like she was, she would hate the idea of hearing an apology, would hate the idea of someone feeling sorry for her. She had barely been treading water the past day or two, fighting to stay in Layla’s good books, she feared if she were to show any remorse now it would only earn her a slap to the face. 

“Did he dig it?” She asked, her face forlorn and wary as she toed the boundary between their friendship. Casting a glance back at Layla and Steven, she gulped, “So history, you could say he dug it?” 

The light bulb went for both of them, Layla frowning with a defeated grin. 

“That was awful,” She playfully shoved the younger woman, who took it with no bother, smiling back in relief her joke had been taken kindly, “That was the worst-”

“I quite liked it,” Steven inputted helpfully, also earning a bash to the shoulder as Layla laughed. 

“Not a word from the two of you now unless it’s something useful,” She scolded, leading the way through the tightening corridor, the darkness encompassing them in something that felt like comradery. 

“Did you want to hear the one about the dinosaur’s dog-” Dove started, the words echoing around them as they headed further in, only to be stopped again by Layla’s softened voice. 

“Do-you-think-he-saurus rex!”

–

She stared at the house, the one she’d been born in, the light in her room long since switched out. She wouldn’t blame them if they’d taken over her room, it was the biggest one, though that wasn’t saying much. She could see it now, Mathew shotgunning the double bed the moment she left, there was more than enough room for Billie’s small cot next to him. She’d grabbed what she could the day Oz had taken her away, but she wouldn’t bat an eye if they’d sold the clothes she’d left, or even thrown them on the fire to stay warm. 

No, she wouldn’t blame them for erasing all memory of her. She’d been the one to leave, not them. As far as they knew, she’d not made contact whatsoever. Her letters had never been sent, never even left the house. 

She’d not seen home in three years. It was smaller than she remembered. Darker. 

The duffle bag was clutched tightly in her hands, wringing the fabric of the handle between her fingers. The accelerator had been to the floor the entire way here, the blood was still caked thick in her hair, under her nails, stained parts of her skin. 

Frank’s blood. She wondered if the neighbours had called the police yet, if they ever would since he kept them so isolated. Wondered if she was already a suspect in his murder. 

She shook in her shoes at the thought, though that may just be the December night air. 

A figure came storming out of the front door, hands in his pockets, his coat thin and moth eaten. 

Mathew had never been a tall boy, not even at eighteen when she’d last seen him, especially not now at twenty. He was always thin in his face, despite devouring the most out of any of them, his eyes always tired. Though, becoming a dad at such a young age would do that to someone. 

He stopped in front of her, his eyes roving over her with a grand mix of anger and worry. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, as if he’d seen a dog returning home with its tail between its legs. Which was sort of how she felt. 

“Matty-” She breathed, her exhale clear as day in the freezing night, only he scoffed at the words. He may as well have spat in her, “I don’t have time to explain-”

“What?” He growled, lip sneering in a way that looked too much like their mother, “Where the fuck have you been?” 

She baulked, eyebrows furrowing in a way that she willed herself not to burst into tears. She wanted to head inside, wanted to curl up on the old, ratty sofa they’d had since she was young, wanted to feel Sammy’s head knock against hers affectionately, the only sign the grumpy boy ever gave that said he loved her, despite the fact she knew. She wanted to scold Matty for eating all the bacon out the fridge, help Joey finish his sudoku, wanted, no, needed to see Mikey, see he was okay. Last time she’d been here, she’d found him stashing pills for his friends she knew had a one way ticket to juvie or the streets. 

She’d left for all of them, left to get them a better life. And now she was standing outside her childhood home, drenched in bloodied clothes, her body used, beaten, betrayed. Grace was gone. Frank was dead. 

This was all she had left. Her boys were all she had left. 

“I don’t have time,” She repeated, forcing the duffle bag into his hands, hoping he missed the way the blood collected beneath her nails. She’d scrubbed off what she could before she left, but she knew had it been daylight he’d notice the red ichor immediately, “This is for you,”

“Wha-” Matty looked as if he could swing for her, and she knew she deserved it. She’d left them. Her bottom lip trembled at the very thought. He said her name, only now it seemed dirty, filthy, tainted, like that name had been said by so many awful men she felt as though it was muddied even Matty when he said it, “You leave us to rot for three years, and all of a sudden you just swan in here with presents-”

“Mathew, be quiet,” She barked, hearing his voice grow louder and louder, echoing in the silent street she used to run down to catch her bus, “I have to go,”

He stopped, staring at her teary eyes for a moment, and then laughed. Loud and cruel, and she knew his vitriol was still ongoing, knew she wouldn’t even stop him if he wanted to throw a cruel hand across her face for running away. 

She was such a coward. She was a liar. A murderer. But she was a coward above all of that. 

“Did we stop being good enough for you, huh?” He spat, trying to hand her the bag back, “I don’t want your pity or your little presents, take it-”

“It wasn’t like that,” She pleaded, wrestling with him to keep the bag strap in his grasp,  “Mathew, just take the bag,” 

He shoved her away, but she didn’t relent, her mind set on getting him to take the damn money, the fucking notes that mean nothing to her anymore. There had to be at least thirty grand in there by now, probably more. 

“We needed you, and you weren’t here,” Matt stumbled away from her as she forced the bag into his chest. His voice trembled in a way it hadn’t since he was a boy, since she used to bathe him with that damn toy boat, wash his hair with dish soap, “Social Services know about Mikey and the pills- they want to take Billie away-”

She stopped at that, the two of them looking at each other for the first time since she’d shown up. His eyes were watery, where hers were empty. His sister had always been strong, Matt didn’t think he’d ever seen her cry in all the years of shit she’d trodden through for them. She had always looked exhausted, as if her brain was fired up every moment of the day, as if she could go for a three day nap and it wouldn’t so much as touch her. 

But this was worse. She wasn’t tired. Wasn’t thinking hard. His sister didn’t even look alive. 

Whoever it was staring back at him was not the girl he remembered. Someone could tell him a wraith had crawled into his sister’s skin and dragged her back here with the sole mission of getting him to take the damn bag, and he’d believe them. 

She looked dead. She felt it too.

“Is that-” He stopped himself, a bitter hand reaching up for a mark on her face that glinted under the moonlight, “Blood?” 

She froze, and for a moment neither of them said anything. 

Her breath rattled in her chest, the stickiness of Frank’s blood clinging her clothes to her skin, and he realised once he’d actually taken the sight of her in, that she smelled metallic, that she had a thousand mile stare that had not been there the day she’d left them. 

“Everything I’ve done, I did it for you.” She said after a moment’s reprieve and the anger brewing in his frown wiped immediately, the words soothing his fury into a simmering guilt. 

He tried to say her name again, only to have her cut him off, shoving the back into his arms with finality, her eyes blank, leaving no space for questions, for retaliation. 

“Get Mikey a lawyer. Get him to rehab. Read the letters, or not, I don’t care,” But she did. She cared more than anything. Cared so much she needed to run, now, cared so much she knew every moment she spent talking was more time for him to be incriminated in what she’d done. “I have to go, it’s not safe,” 

He wanted to hug her; he’d never been the affectionate one, she usually saved her cuddles for the younger ones. He wished he’d hugged her now. Wished he’d dragged her back inside, gotten her warm in front of their fire, forced the truth out of her. Anything to tell him what that look on her face had meant. Anything to make her stop seeming so dead it scared him like a child. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t, not even as she all but sped away in a car he’d never seen before, a limp he’d not noticed through his anger fogged brain as he’d stormed down their front path. 

He barely caught Sammy, filling their entire doorway with his form that had only grown tenfold, if that had even been possible, since his sister left, looking like a kicked dog behind angry eyes that glinted with rare tears. 

“Come on, Sam,” Matty said, brushing past his little brother, though he towered over him for a nineteen year old, heading inside their small house that had felt colder since she’d abandoned them, “We’ll sort it out in the morning,” 

But Sam didn’t. He watched the broken tail lights of the car speed off into the distance, until they were no more than a sound rattling around the silent neighbourhood. Only then did he let himself begin to cry, hoping she came back for them soon. 

–

“It’s a maze,” Layla said, as the three of them traipsed through the tunnels that certainly looked like they had seen better days. Dove startled a bit at the bugs that skittered up the walls as the light hit them, no doubt a little frightened themselves at the rude intrusion from the trio, though she stuck behind Layla. She’d fought demon jackals, men with guns, lived a double life but bugs were what scared her. 

“It’s a-maze-ing,” Steven replied, snickering to himself, which had her giggling too, shaking her head at the man behind her. 

“She means there are six paths, Steven,” D ove clarified, and he hoped the light covered the way his cheeks rouged. 

“Right, yeah, yeah,” He replied, sticking his head down one of the thin alley ways to scope out the labyrinth they’d found themselves in, “Six points,” 

Dove hung back as Layla went towards another one of the pathways, eyes clocking a stone surface planted directly in the middle of the antechamber, the sand laying thick over the top, yet uneven as if the stone wasn’t entirely flat. 

Her brows furrowed, and she traced her finger deeper in the dust, carving out where the ridges grooved into the table. She made an almond shape, an arching line parallelling it, before she realised what the marking was, her brows shooting into her forehead. 

She saw a torch flick over where she worked, felt Steven’s body press against her side as if he’d forgotten what personal space was exactly. 

“You don’t think…” He started, watching how her soft fingertip swirled around into a spiral the two of them had seen a million times walking past the exhibits on the way to the gift shop, “This whole structure is-”

“The Eye of Horus,” She finished, curving around to create the iris. As if proving her point, Steven’s light reflected off the the shiny stone of the table, producing the identical symbol on the ceiling of the room, which had her nudging his hand, pointing to the light, “Look at that,”

“Wow,” He hummed, his eyes flicking between the eye and the wonder on her face as she smiled wryly at the stone, “It’s the royal symbol, protection in the afterlife.”

“I mean the resources needed to build this-” Layla added, looking between all of the corridors that had certainly not been crafted in a day’s work, nor had it been done cheaply, judging by the quality of stone that surrounded them. She stopped, her eyes wild with excitement as she looked at the two of them, “Her final avatar was a pharaoh,”

A breath whooshed from Dove’s lungs, jaw gaping, feeling Steven practically buzzing in his shoes beside her. 

“A bloody pharoah,” He repeated, the joy coating his words like a kid on Christmas. He and Layla chuckled between one another, before their gaze fell on Dove, who stared at the drawing in the sand as if it would outright speak to her.

“So you think it’s a map?” Layla asked, her fawn eyes dropping to the girl who bit her lip unsure. 

She nodded, gaze scanning over the drawing again, as Steven’s rough finger followed where her own hand had traced just moments before. 

“Right. So the eye of Horus is also the Eye of mind, yeah?” He asked, his face now more serious than she’d ever seen him, as he thought harder, “Representing the six senses, six points.” He gestured to each of the corridors that lead away from the chamber they huddled in, “So you’ve got the eyebrow that denotes thoughts. Pupil, sight obviously.” He followed each of his words with his calloused fingers, the same ones that had been down her trousers not so much as a few hours ago. She felt her stomach writhe at the thought, “This point here is, uh, hearing. Smell. Touch. And this long line ending in a spiral is the tongue,” 

She felt her eyes train on his lips as he said it, his gaze falling to her face where she stood besides him, watching every movement on his lips as if she could barely hold herself back from meeting their mouths then and there. 

“The avatar would be Ammit’s voice,” Layla murmured, entirely unaware of the heated thoughts racing through the girl’s mind as she stared at the man, his own expression indiscernible, meeting her eyes with his own chestnut hues, “We should head this way,” 

Layla took off towards the route the tongue pointed them to, the two of them hanging behind for a moment, unable to rip their eyes from one another. 

“What’s that look for?” Steven asked, chuckling nervously as he tried and failed to pull his gaze away from her where she licked her lips slowly. Leaning towards him, her fingers found the front of his jacket as she pulled him closer, kissing him gently, though there was a subtle bite to it that went straight to his trousers as he melted. 

Pulling away, she looked at him with a spritely kind of excitement, as if she loved every moment of looking at him like that. 

“Did I ever tell you how amazing I think you are?” She asked, her face warm with adoration, and the words had his cheeks blazing instantly. 

“You mentioned it once or twice,” He joked, both of them knowing full well the girl was known to give him every compliment she could even before they had been brave enough to admit how they felt for one another. 

She snickered, pulling away from him to follow where Layla had wandered off too, looping a pinky finger in his own to encourage him to follow. Had she not, he was sure he’d be rooted to the floor, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down, or even for his cock to calm enough that he could move without feeling it press against his trousers. 

He cursed himself moments later, when his brain caught up to him, that he hadn’t told her just how amazing he thought she was. 

Yet Steven felt his jeans tighten again when he thought of one other way he could show her just what he felt. 

-

The heavy panting was the only sign either of them were even there as they walked through the narrow corridor, the smallest slither of light meeting them at the end, not unlike when they had trudged into the Great pyramid. That had seemed weeks ago, when in reality it had only been six days, how her life had been flipped upside down all the more since then. 

Her head rattled on her shoulders, thoughts flitting over Layla and her whereabouts as they stepped through the hallway, dust thickening in their lungs with every pant. Her ears were alert to the smallest of movements, her heart pounding in her chest, the image of that thing, the resurrected Heka Priest, replaying in her head, the screech of its rotted vocal chords keeping her arm hairs standing in goose flesh. 

“She’ll be alright, won’t she?” Dove asked solemnly, her brow creased so tight she reminded herself of Sammy, knowing they had always looked the most similar out of all of her brothers. She knew, by the way Steven blanched at the sight of her worry, that she looked as guilty as she felt, “I shouldn’t have left her-”

“We didn’t have much choice, sweetheart,” He sighed, grabbing her hand tightly in his own, stopping in the middle of the darkened chamber to look at her properly. She tugged her lip between her teeth as she averted his gaze, the disappointment in herself shadowing over her chest, “We did everything we could- it’s Layla, she’s done this a thousand times with Marc. She’ll know what to do,” 

Though he was more convincing himself than anything. He wasn’t so sure from the way Marc scoffed inside the headspace that she had in fact not run from undead creatures that threatened to rip her limb from limb a thousand times. Not even once. This was new territory for all of them. 

She didn’t seem convinced as she nodded, her lips quirking as if she was about to say something, only for him to kiss her forehead before she could. 

“I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if something happened to her,” She confessed, after he drew back, watching her thoughts swimming behind sad eyes, as if he could see the way she bit her tongue to stop herself from calling herself the worst names imaginable. 

He stroked her cheek gently, tilting her chin to meet his gaze, his chocolate gaze warmer than summer and he smiled at her sadly. 

“None of this is your fault,” He said, though she said nothing, chewing her cheek silently, “The faster we get the ushabti, and the faster we can go find Layla. Deal?” 

She nodded again, and he squeezed her hand, pulling her towards the end of the corridor with a small smile. 

Steven Grant was not a brave man, not by any means. But for her, he would be. He thought the same as she had, worried for the El-Faouley woman more and more with every step they took towards the tomb, his own body on high alert for an incoming attack from one of those creatures. 

The end of the hallway drew near, the path widening out to accommodate an entrance, water trickling between the tiles in a silent stream, and he held her hand tighter as they navigated over the stepping stones, her boots slippy over the moss that clung to the rocks. 

It wasn’t until he reached the end, where the corridor opened out, that he let go of her hand in favour of flicking his torch on. His entire body froze at the sight, satiated in awe of the tomb before him. 

She hopped the final stepping stone, hands grabbing onto the wall and his shoulder for support before she followed his gaze to the room, and her jaw dropped too. 

“First ones in, tomb fit for a pharaoh,” Steven hummed, stepping further into the antechamber, and he wasn’t wrong by any means. The walls were all but covered in bright paints that had yet to wash away, the tales of heroic battles and armies surrounding them like one huge mural. Solid gold plates, figurines, vases scattered neatly around the room, each one shiny and polished as if the death bed had never been touched since the day it had been sealed. Four bronze horse statues the size of her watched them enter, carefully avoiding the water that surrounded the sarcophagus in a deep pool, stepping between cracked slabs towards the coffin.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding as she saw the sheer amount of engravings on the sarcophagus, each one proving the power the dead king had held over his people when he’d died. It was more than she’d seen even on one, more than she would ever see. 

This was a wealthy, wealthy pharaoh, she realised, her brows flicking into her hairline

“Thutmose II?” Steven guessed, leading the way to the coffin, the excitement blaringly clear in his voice. He couldn’t so much as catch his breath behind his smile, “Nefertiti. It’s gotta be one of the bigg’uns, Dove,” He said, flicking a grin over his shoulder as her eyes scaled every inch of the tomb. Her jaw hung open, ignoring the dusty task of musk in her mouth, the stagnant smell of water, her eyes pure wonder of what she was seeing. 

This was the stuff of movies, of adventures she read to Joey and Mikey before bed, never did she think she would be part of it, let alone with Steven Grant, a man so quiet he apologised to pigeons, who jumped at his own shadow, who missed his bus every single morning. 

“Must be, I’ve never seen so many offerings,” She replied, willing her feet to hold steady as they stepped between the stones and water carefully. “The engravings, there nothing like I’ve studied before,” 

“Oh wow, look at that,” Steven gawped, taking the final step onto the centrepiece, heading towards the sarcophagus with ravenous eyes, “Look at all these relics,” 

She was hot on his heels, quick to hop over, and expand her search with an eagle eye as she closed in on the sarcophagus. 

“Hold on, Macedonian?” Dove stopped in her tracks, clicking her torch on and nearing the engravings with wide eyes, “It can’t be right-”

“That’s Macedonian,” Steven echoed, kneeling next to her with wary fingertips. He brushed over the markings, a gobsmacked laugh coming from his chest, “Well-b-but the only pharaoh-” 

She grabbed his arm with a clawing strength, head drinking in the facts before her, gently hands following the engravings as if she needed to touch it herself to believe what she knew to be true, “H-He insisted on calling himself Egyptian,” She swallowed, standing on shaky knees to behold the rest of the coffin, her heart hammering. The two of them approached either side of the king’s burial place. “Steven, I think we found the long lost tomb of Alexander the Great,” 

Taking a moment, if not to catch a nervous breath, their eyes met across the top of the sarcophagus, an identical expression of astonishment on their faces. 

She couldn’t help it then; she started laughing. Nervous and yet amazed, she was lost entirely for words. 

“We have to open it, Steven,” She said, her chuckles dying out, a hand flying to her forehead when she realised what a desecration they were about to cause, “The ushabti has to be inside, we have to open it up, oh goodness-”

“Everything inside me is screaming not to touch this thing,” Steven agreed, shaking his nerves out through his hands while watching her also fret over the slight grave robbing they were about to commit. 

“You want Harrow to get to Ammit first?” Marc snapped from the glint in the cursive gold writing across the sarcophagus’ chest. He seemed to have roused from his silent protest and come back swinging, Steven thought with a bitter huff, his hands coming up to the side of the opening. 

“Alright, alright, alright,” He replied, a nervous grip settling on the cold sandstone. His eyes flicked to her again for reassurance, though she herself looked to be coming to a sobering understanding they needed to disgrace the burial sight to get what they wanted. She nodded, her hand drifting to clutch over her mouth in shock, like she needed to stop herself from protesting his actions, and with that he pushed. 

The smell of death invaded her nose, choking her for a moment as the stone slid to reveal the mummified corpse of the man historians had been babbling about for decades. 

This had once been a conqueror, a king, a pharaoh everyone whispered about, a man who’s name was spoken a thousand times a day on the guided tours in the museum.

And they had found him. 

A plated scarab sat across his chest, one she assumed was a sister to the one they had used to find him, the one Harrow took, below it; a huge, solid battle axe with engravings the entire length of its sharp edge. An offering to a man so revered for his wars. 

A shiver trickling down her spine, she looked up at Steven through wide eyes, the two of them entirely stumped for words at what they were discovering, the thousands of years they had just peeled back with one fell swoop. 

“Oh man,” Steven shook his head, barely ripping his eyes away from the mummy for a moment as she moved to stand at the head of the sarcophagus.

“Where’s the ushabti?” Marc spoke again, this time from the fresh golden sheen on the axe, seeing no other offerings or trinkets inside the coffin besides the weapon. 

“Well, if you’re going to hide it for all eternity, you’d probably put it in a place where the average looter wouldn’t think to look,” Steven replied, his heart a hummingbird behind his chest, almost, almost as excited as he had been when he’d been kissing her against that post. 

Almost, but not quite. 

She stayed silent, attuning her ears into keeping watch for Harrow’s men approaching, or hopefully even figuring out where Layla was, while Steven’s brain whirred, conferring with Marc. 

She hoped he wasn’t mad at her for Steven pushing him out of the headspace, for throwing that mirror into the sand the moment he’d gotten his lips on hers. She hoped he would understand. Marc always understood. 

Steven’s face smoothed out in realisation, whether he had come to it on his own or Marc had helped she wasn’t sure, but she grabbed his wrist gently nonetheless. 

“What is it?” She murmured, his eyes trained on the tightly wrapped linen, an almost horrified look on his face. 

“Alexander was the voice of Ammit…” He trailed off, his hand coming to rest on the corpse’s jaw, “All right, I’m gonna try something, I’m gonna do something here.”

His fingers found the lip of the cloth where the head met the body, weaving their way under and tugging them away carefully. 

Dove released a shaky breath, her hand returning in shock over her mouth, knowing that this was technically known as grave desecration, let alone ruining thousands of years of history. 

“Steven, oh my god-” She gagged as the smell hit her, the man beside her writhing in sickness as his fingers touched the mummified skin beneath. 

“Oh god- so sorry- sorry, Mr Great,” He choked on his words, the disgust running over his skin when he touched something cold and wrinkled. 

He tore the bandages with more force, the linen coming away easily, but they both shuddered hearing something crack under the weight of his hand, something she could only imagine was a bone.

Steven pulled the cloth away to reveal a perfectly mummified face, and the sight wasn’t so uncommon as she’d thought since they had two preserved in the museum. But seeing it so up close, without the temperature controlled glass, it made her want to vomit and stare in awe all at the same time. 

Steven took an unsure breath, before he went even further, his fingers resting on the lower mandible, pulling back whatever remained of the lips to slip between his teeth, his other hand holding his cranium still. 

She forced herself not to wince as he started tugging the mouth open; the look on his face was torture for him enough. 

“All right, open up. Oh, sorry, Mr Great,” He bit out, bile rising in his own throat at the sensations beneath his hand, the jaw cracking and ripping down with a nauseating crunch. His hand reached down the gullet, and she had to turn away then when he started rooting around the throat, resisting the retch that fought her own mouth, “Oh, sorry, oh god, I couldn’t be more sorry,” 

It wasn’t until she heard a squelch they both heaved, Steven’s own noises of disgust filling the tomb as his entire upper arm wormed its way into the chest cavity, and she thought he might just be the bravest man she’d ever known. 

His arm twisted for a moment, before he started pulling it out, not without some resistance from the collar bones, only for it to come away with one final tug, and in his hand producing a small ceramic figure of an alligator headed woman, and two audible gasps filled the silence. 

“Steven-” She started, turning to him with something warm and gooey and close to pride in her eyes, “Steven, you did it!” 

She threw herself at him in a hug, ignoring every morsel of her that cringed when she imagined where his hand had been, feeling him squeeze her to him just as tightly.

“We did it, we did- I could never have done any of this without you,” He replied, nosing her hair for a moment before he pulled her away to look at her face, beaming with glee. It didn’t matter then, that he had been chased by that creature, or that he’d been shot at, or that he’d been digging around a dead man’s throat. It didn’t matter then that his life had been turned upside down, or that he was actually one man split into another, or that he’d lost his job. He didn’t care. Because seeing how she looked at him, as if she’d just watched him solve string theory or win a nobel prize, healed every wound he’d ever had. 

He only needed her; only ever wanted her. 

“I really do love you,” She said, and he wondered it she’d heard his thoughts, fought the urge to kiss her then and there. 

Her head snapped to where they had entered the tomb, something wary in her gaze until he saw Layla appear in the doorway, looking entirely scraped up, as if she’d just been dragged through the caverns backwards. 

“Layla!” Dove called, bounding over the stepping stones, “Layla, are you alright- we got the ushabti-”

“Layla, look! We won!” Behind her Steven held up the figurine, the pair of them with billion dollar smiles on their faces, watching the woman approach on shaky legs, “And the ushabti goes to; us. I had to go digging down old Alexander the Great’s gullet, but we found it,” 

Dove giggled at his teasing, shaking her head, and fighting the urge to yank Layla into a hug of her own. They had done it, they’d won. Now they could get out of here and away from Harrow, she could go home, go home with Steven-

She was quick to notice the stare Layla pinned on the man behind her, something visceral and in pain beneath her skin, something raw, a wound ripped open. She knew it well, knew it like an old friend. Layla was the pure image of betrayal. 

She stalked forward silently, not paying the younger woman a scrap of attention as she approached, stepping over the cobbles with not a single hesitant foot. Her eyes gleaned with unshed tears, something rageful keeping them bay. 

Dove stopped still, her eyes trained on the woman, her smile dissolving into confusion. 

“Layla, are you alright-” 

“Can he hear me?” Layla cut her off, not giving a shit for her soft lilted voice or her concern. She only cared about Marc, Harrow’s words rattling in her head like a foghorn calling every shred of anger she’d ever felt for her ex-husband to arms. 

“Alexander? No, I don’t think so, god I hope not,” Steven snickered, and Dove winced. Layla’s eyes darkened, her honey tones near black in the lowlit antechamber, and the younger woman knew whatever had happened in the moments passed since they’d parted, Layla was now out for blood. 

“What happened to my father?” The El-Faouley woman spat, her hands shaking with anger, and Dove could do nothing but wait for Steven to understand that she wasn’t kidding around.

She dared a glance at the man who stood there like a lost child, whatever celebration and relief they had felt swept away in a matter of moments. Seconds. 

She knew from the silence that lingered Layla already suspected something. 

“I’m talking to you,” Layla seethed, stepping towards the man without a bat of an eyelid at the woman who watched whatever progress they’d made swirl down the drain like yesterday’s newspaper. 

“What?” Steven murmured, a frown on his face as Layla’s hands came up to shove him in the chest hard. 

“I’m talking to you, Marc,” 

He barely stumbled, barely blinked, but she saw it. Saw the way the innocence melted away, and his frown became cold and distant. She saw the moment Marc took the body, and her heart dropped at the flash of guilt that glinted in the crook of his eyes as he saw his ex-wife’s expression in the flesh. 

“Come on, let’s go, let’s go-” He tried to pull her away, but Dove knew it was his own brand of avoiding the subject. She’d never hold it against him, who was she to judge someone for running from responsibility, but she knew. And so did Layla. 

“No,” The woman dug her heels in as he tried pulling her to the exit, her empty fist weakly beating on his wrist while he yanked on her coat. 

“We have to go right now,”

“No, Marc, no,” She fought, the venom in her tone only growing. He tugged her harder, the two of them all but grappling with one another for control. 

“We have to go, right now,” He repeated, eyes flicking to where Dove stood still, her hands playing with one another nervously, “Come on, we gotta get out of here-”

Layla forced his head back to her, away from where the younger woman moved between each foot, watching it play out like a tragedy. 

“What happened to my father?” She said again, louder this time, and it was clear no amount of deflection would stop her from getting an answer.

“Listen to me,” Marc said with a seriousness Dove had never heard, real life panic in his tone that had her shifting to check the doorway for signs of Harrow’s men following closely behind, “We need to leave right now, I will explain everything, I swear. But we have to go,”

“Did you kill Abdullah El Faouley?” Layla’s voice cracked, because the answer would break her if it were true, if it was what she feared. 

“Of course not. Of course I didn’t,” And it was the first honest thing Marc had said to her in years. The pain in his eyes at the accusation said it all. 

Layla sighed in short lived relief, running a hand over her face. 

“But you were there,” She said quietly, and the four words cleaved Marc’s resolve right down the middle, his brow furrowing in agony, “You were there, right?” 

“I was- I was there,” He confessed, Dove’s stomach turning over in anguish. She wanted to hug both of them to her in entirely different ways. Wanted to grab Layla, stroke her hair the way Grace used to when she was upset, hold her to her chest and tell her how sorry she was that her father was taken from her so cruelly. She wanted to pull Marc in, slot him right over her heart and tell him he wasn’t bad, not even now, not ever, that he was good, pure, golden goodness, just as good as Steven. That he wasn’t guilty, he was just unlucky. 

“My partner got greedy, he executed everyone at the digsite. Shot me too, I was supposed to die that night,” Marc spilled out, his expression bleak, distraught. 

She knew better than to interrupt, than to get in between the two of them when they fought like this. That is, until her ears pricked up with her inhumane senses, the sound of guns cocking and creeping footsteps dragging through the sand stones they had just come from, whispers between comrades that they were getting close to what they had been searching for. 

“Someone’s here,” She said, before she could think better of speaking. Their heads turned to her, as if they’d forgotten she was there, Marc’s face a picture of a tortured soul. She angled her head to distinguish what the men were saying, try give her some pointers how long they had, “Harrow is getting close, I can hear his watch-”

“Who’s Grace?” Layla asked, her tone guarded, as if she’d begged the question the entire time she’d known the girl, “Marc’s not the only one who’s been keeping secrets,” 

But Dove was frozen. Entirely frozen. Not so much of a breath in her chest, not even a blink.

Because hearing that name again, her name, hearing Layla take everything close to her and toss it around as a conversation piece shattered her into a million small pieces, floating down neatly into the water right then and there.

He saw it.

When her eyes glazed over, as if hearing the name pressed play on a movie she’d not seen in years, and she no longer stood there, with them, but she was transported somewhere else entirely. It was the same as when she’d been in the car, staring out that window, he wanted to yell out to her, grab her delicate face and scream Where do you go? Come back to me, take my hand and come back to me. Where are you where I can’t follow.

Because she wasn’t there, inside her own body. And she feared she would never be again.

She was back in that room, in that window sill, replaying every single night she’d spent in Grace’s room. Who’s Grace? She was opening that door, the one Frank told her not to go in, she was staring at the body, the unmoving one, the cold corpse, frozen in pain, what was once her entire world ripping away from her soul, pulling her apart right down the middle, the empty bottle staring right back at her from the bedside table as if to say ‘I won, I won.’ Who’s Grace? She wasn’t there, wasn’t in the tomb at all, she was rotting in her bed, lying still and waiting for death to take her too, because it seemed impossible that the person who had been made as her mirror image in every way but looks could be culled but not her.

How could she explain who Grace was? How do you even begin to explain to a person what every cell of your body is?

“Harrow said you let her die,” Layla said, and she knew she’d hit a home run with whatever that look on Dove’s face meant, knew that everything he’d said had been true, “He said you could have saved her and you didn’t-”

“Don’t,” It was a snarl, something unearthly and rotten, but the grief in the single word was clear as a bell, “Stop it, Layla,”

She hadn’t ever spoken to her like that, had snapped and rolled her eyes, but never had such a clear threat to her words.

The woman blinked in response, the hairs on her arms standing on end at the voice that was entirely not Dove’s coming from her throat. It was monstrous, and part of her wondered if it was Seth who had in fact taken her body, only to see the eyes she knew well staring back at her with the image of a deer at the barrel of a gun.

Vulnerable. Ready for slaughter. Ready to be laid bare on the butcher's block.

Layla thought twice before she opened her mouth again, second guessing pushing for more answers, but something in the way the girl looked told her there was a truth to it.

“And Frank?” Layla asked, watching Dove’s hands shake. With anger, Layla guessed, anger that her little secrets were being poured out on the cobbles for her precious Steven to see.

Layla was not a cruel woman, not by any means. But she despised liars. And Dove was one of them.

“You and Harrow seem to be best pals, Layla, why don’t you ask him who Frank was,” Dove hissed, and it was like Marc was looking at someone else entirely, like he was watching a mutt backed into a corner snapping at everyone who approached, like watching game gnaw at its own leg to be free of a trap, “He got what he deserved,”

And Marc didn't doubt it. Not even when he reeled back in shock at her tone of voice, not expecting it from his peaceful dove, but then again Layla had ripped all sorts of wounds open in the interest of her own search for answers.

Marc opened his mouth to reinforce their need haste, only to hear for himself the footsteps draw nearer, and the three of them swivelled to look at the direction they came from.

“They’re here,” He said with a pit opening in his stomach, right around where his heart had fallen, springing into action as Layla paced across the stones, searching for a hiding spot.

“There must be another way out,” Dove said, though she felt her brain wrestling with images of that day, that last day, the feel of the mirror beneath her fingers, the scars that to this day marred her palm from the glass as she’d driven it into his chest.

“You find it, I’ll hold them off,” Marc ordered her, backing on himself to grab the battleaxe from inside the sarcophagus. Layla followed orders without protest, heading for the small alleyway she had come from, knowing she couldn’t go back that way with those creatures lurking behind the walls.

Crouching behind a pillar, she watched them with doubtful eyes. She knew they could find her in a matter of seconds. She was beyond angry at both of them for their deceit, yet she watched Dove summon the claws of her suit around her hands, ten blades sprouting over her natural nails in a small motion.

“Get out of here-” Marc waved her off, trying to nudge her body towards where Layla crouched, only for her to gently brush his hands away, careful not to scratch him with her talons.

“Marc, I’m not letting you do this alone- you don’t have a suit-” She argued back, hating the way he was still ready to go down swinging for her, hating the way he’d brushed off what Layla had said because it was Layla and Layla had every reason to throw her under any bus coming.

Her heart plummeted even more, dragging her shame down with it, and she understood then what it was.

He didn’t believe she’d done anything. He didn’t believe something was wrong, something was wrong with her. Didn’t believe she had lied, and kept things from him, didn’t entertain the idea for a single second that she was not the Dove he thought she was.

She knew if he would ask, she wouldn’t have the heart to lie to him to his face, knew she couldn’t keep betraying the undying loyalty he had to her. Knew he would take Steven away.

But she also knew he wouldn’t ask in the first place. Because to Marc, she was innocent of everything everyone accused her of, no matter how true.

She felt even worse than before, if that had even been possible.

She could only steel her face over as Harrow entered the room behind her, the infuriating tap tap tap of his staff against the floor giving him away.

And in a split moment, twenty armed men followed him, crawling out from the corners of the room, their rifles loaded, torches trained on the two of them, the red aimpoints hovering over their chests. She tried to account for every single one of the guns and their wielders, but she couldn’t. There was just too many.

The only way they were getting out of here alive is if he ran, if he ducked out with Layla and left her here to fight alone. But she knew he would never. Not unless she were to throw her body over his, take every single round of ammunition in her suit, keep him protected until they had run dry, but even then she knew he would fight against having her in front of him.

She couldn’t just stand by, couldn’t just let him go, no matter how much she dreaded what was coming next, how much he would hate her once she told him. But maybe he could understand, maybe he would. He had killed people before, she knew he had, he never hid from that. Killed those who deserved it. He hadn’t cared, hadn’t treated her differently when Hellhound had slaughtered those men. She wished she was back in that bathtub, back in their hotel room, the room full of lavender and vanilla, wished his hands were back in her hair telling her she was going to be okay.

She wished. Because that was all she had left.

“Just you two?” Harrow asked, his voice a wisp of smoke in the dark tomb that seemed to be closing in on them as the men steadied their aim, fingers resting on the triggers, “The rest is silence. I remember the first morning, I woke up knowing Khonshu was gone. The quiet was liberating,”

Harrow pocketed the scarab that nestled in his palm, stepping carefully towards them, his damn stick tapping at the floor like death had come knocking.

“And you, little dove,” Harrow turned to her, her eyes a cold glare, twitching with every knock of the wooden cane against the floor, “The truth can be just as liberating as being rid of the voice that controls you. But maybe, you already know that.”

She couldn’t disagree more. There was nothing liberating about what she’d done to Frank. She was a woman haunted, forever tainted by that day. She was ruined, she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought she could be fixed.

“Why don’t you tell him the truth?” Harrow goaded, her insides shrivelling as she saw Marc’s chocolate hues flick to her for a moment, “Ask her, Marc.”

“Marc, I can explain-” She said, eyes locking onto where he clenched a tight fist around his weapon, Harrow's words cutting her off.

“You’re a free man. And ofcourse with that freedom comes choice.” Harrow continued, “You can choose to pretend not to see the guilt writhing under her skin like a serpent. Or, you can choose to keep dear Steven safe,”

“Safe from what?” Marc snapped, his hackles raised at Harrow’s words, as if there was ever a moment of doubt he would choose anything over Steven’s wellbeing, or perhaps it was the way he questioned her that did it.

“Safe from the woman who slaughtered her own boyfriend, maybe?”

Harrow’s tone was soft, gentle, like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb upon the room, a tidal wave of cold overcoming the space between them.

“What?” Marc scoffed, almost a genuine laugh emerging at the levels Harrow was willing to stoop to in order to get the ushabti, including making up ludicrous tales, “What kind of shit is that, you can’t honestly think I’d believe that-”

He looked back to her, expecting confusion, aghast, anything except the deep pools of guilt encompassing her entire being as she stared at him.

He went cold.

No. No, please, no.

He said nothing, did nothing, not even when she tugged a lip between her teeth to keep it from wobbling.

“Please,” She whimpered, stepping towards him with empty hands, “Please, I can explain,”

Only he stepped back, and with it ripped whatever remained of her soul away from.

His eyes no longer were warm nests of mousy brown, his expression no longer soft as he took her in, his jaw tight and feathered with hesitation.

“I can explain, please listen to me,” She begged, she wasn’t above sinking to her knees and pleading against his knee in tears, “I was going to tell you, I tried-”

“You lied to me?” Marc bit, his face empty of whatever it was that he’d regarded her with before. The hands in her hair as she bathed were a million miles away, the kindness that had shone upon her like a warm summer now pelted her like hail in a storm.

“It wasn’t like the others, I had to-” She said, her hands shaking as she dared another step towards him, only for him to take another step back, “I thought you would understand,”

“I killed people because it was service to Khonshu, or-or because people's lives hung in the balance, not because I chose to,” He snapped, drawing his hand away from her like she’d burned him with her very being, “You killed your own boyfriend? You told me you stole- you lied to me,”

“No.” Steven’s voice was a whine, a bleat of agony inside the headspace, a man who was watching the only thing he’d ever had for himself slip away, “No, she wouldn’t Marc, she-”

“Please, just listen,” Her eyes had welled now, “Please, I- Marc, watch out!” She jumped at him, not missing the way his knuckles had quivered on the axe at her sudden movement, only for her to shove past him and descend onto a figure that had been moments away from grabbing the Ushabti.

It was like a switch had flickered then, and the rest of the room was invited into their conversation.

Marc slashed at one of the men who dived for her, snapping his forearm clean in two, the rifle falling from his grasp, and she clawed at the guards wrist, ripping through tendons and flesh like it were fabric.

He heard another of the men squeal as she slashed his face, he cut down another of Harrow’s men with a swift blow to the arm, ichor spurting over his hand at the contact.

He barely even blinked an eye as he threw the battle axe at the next one in his path, though he hadn’t even felt the handle leave his palm as it hit its mark and another one of the men went down.

He knew it made him somewhat of a hypocrite. But it wasn't just the blatant lie that had caused his walls to clamp down around him. That man, whoever he was, had been her boyfriend. And Steven... If he hadn't known something so telling about her, how could he be sure she wouldn't flip and do the same to Steven.

She wouldn't. He wanted to say he knew she wouldn't lay a hand on the man clawing at his brain in torment, but Marc felt he didn't know anything about her anymore.

She had killed someone. His dove, his innocent dove, that he had spent weeks feeling like filth for so much as touching, feeling as though he had ruined her, only to find out she was just as tainted as he was. She had lied to him. She had every chance, every moment he showed his soft underbelly, to tell him the truth, and she hadn’t. He was supposed to keep Steven safe, and he was dropping walls left right and centre for someone who could have had him lined up as her next target.

Dove’s head whirled around when she heard him grunt, fearing he had gotten a barrel to the face, or even a rogue fist. She took a sweeping glance at him from head to toe, the relief tangible in her bones, seeing he was rattled and angry, but not bleeding.

She needed to set this right. She was a liar, she knew that, she was a murderer, she knew that aswell. She didn’t deserve any of the kindness she’d been shown, she’d known she was on borrowed time the entirety of their friendship. She had known this was coming any day now.

It still hurt like a bitch to be confronted with the truth. And the truth was Marc glared at her like hated her. Marc wanted nothing to do with her, as liar, a con, an actress. A whore.

She had to fix this; if she even could. She had to try. For Steven.

Dove had gotten all of one step when Harrow pulled the pistol out of his jeans.

It was like a slow motion picture from there, like she was in the back seat trying to steer the wheel, sitting front row of the audience as the movie played out in front of her.

Harrow lifting the gun at Marc’s chest, pulling the trigger once, his aim true enough that a crimson hole bloomed through the man’s sweater in seconds, spraying out of the wound and onto his outfit.

She heard herself scream, heard his name coming from her in a deafening squeal, something weak and horrified in the tone. She heard the second bang of the bullet leaving its chamber, puncturing in the gut in a second deadly hit, Marc’s body stumbling back as the wound poured faster, harder, his eyes glazed into an entirely empty concoction.

She heard herself call him again, didn’t realise until it choked through a sob that she was crying, inconsolably actually. He swayed for a moment, before the weightlessness took over and he tipped backwards on his heel, and his cold gaze fell to hers for a split moment of reprieve of what she knew was coming.

She didn’t even realise until she had crouched over where he’d fallen into the water that she was sobbing, didn’t realise until the tears started falling on his face that she was crying over him, over every word she was supposed to say to him.

She didn’t realise until the heartbeat she adored so much, the one she’d planned to spend every morning pressed up against, had stopped beating, and Dove was swept up with a feeling she despised.

In all of two seconds, Dove was all alone again, and Marc and Steven were dead.

TAGLISTS.

KNIGHT IN SOHO TAGLIST 

@shirukitsune @s-u-t @ahookedheroespureheart @willowseason @imonmykneessir @acceptedbyace @broadwaytraaaaash @mythicalmo @stevenknightmarc @avery88 @fandombrackets @thelostlovedone @raythecomputerart @nyctophile-moon-child @unknownduck0 @emily-roberts @cheshirecat484 @lockleywife @strangeobsessed d @thebestrouge @0bsessedwithfictionalcharacters @dumbhxeredrose @badbishsblog @jvexoxo  @sxftie-mari i @mythical-goth @cillmeslowly @wildwallflower24 @ameliashideout @moonsua1 @latenightcravingz @blackqueengold @jesfreedark @uncle-eggy @onefinnedwonder-fm @homuraak3mi @animechick555@1800-get-alife @peachipeachy @hoemadegrace @raineisms

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

did someone say kit x bucky hurt/comfort??? yes. i did. warnings: injury description, blood, mentions of suicide and alcoholism

-> injured

The metallic tang of blood filled Kit’s mouth as a sudden stab of pain pierced her flesh, teeth finally breaking through the inside of her lip from how hard she'd been biting it. The discomfort came as a welcome distraction from the more pressing of her injuries, fighting to ignore the grating throb as she counted down the seconds until landing, Thorpe Abbotts' airstrip already in view up ahead.

It had been a close call, and if Kit hadn't spent the entirety of their return flight fighting back the jolts of agony shooting up her arm, she might've found time to be grateful. A piece of flak had struck one of the cockpit windows, and if she and Thea had not been wearing their oxygen masks, they would never have made it back at all. But even this did not negate the fact that a dozen tiny shards of glass now protruded from Kit’s hand, her knuckles a bloody mess, the back of her fist ripped to shreds.

"Fuck!" She had screamed, terrified of breaking her focus for even a second but unable to fight the blinding tears that welled up, the sudden pain a shock to her system. Something had struck her cheek, embedding itself in the skin, but what she could not see would not be allowed to distract her - even that became a problem for later. Later - once we're all on the ground alive, once a single slip up from me doesn't mean certain death for the nine people I care about most.

Thea’s concentration had begun to slip, desperately trying to sneak a glance across at her pilot to assess the damage, voice coming anxious over the radio. "Kit, y'alright? Tell me what we're working with."

"We're okay. My hand's fucked but I'll be alright." She'd called back, a slight tremor lining her words. There was no breaking formation, no turning around. And now came her reward - the instant breath of relief that came with the bump of wheels touching down on the runway and the sight of a medical van waiting dutifully for their return. The moment the Seraphim ceased it's motion, rolling to a steady halt, Kit’s grip on the controls recoiled, scared to move even a single finger once her hand was free.

"Oh, Jesus, that's a real mess," Thea muttered, already clambering hurriedly out of her seat. "I'm gonna call the medic - go clean up, I can take the lead on interrogation."

Kit opened her mouth to thank her, but her co-pilot had already fled the cockpit before she could speak, the clank of rushed footsteps echoing through the hull behind her. Clumsily unbuckling her seatbelt with her good hand, she fought the urge to wince as she too stood up, the pain in her cheek growing apparent without the threat of death to distract her. Sylvie was waiting on the tarmac below, brow furrowed in concern as Kit made it to the exit. "You need a hand?" She called up, eyeing the wound on her face warily.

"You're a doll," Kit huffed, letting Sylvie get a grip on her legs so that she didn't have to use both hands to lower herself through the hatch.

"Well... at least the scars'll look cool," Sylvie shrugged, blatantly staring at her injuries as they crossed the runway towards the trucks.

Kit cracked a smile, nodding along. "Hadn't thought about it that way... thanks, bub. You just get to interrogation, 'kay?"

"Catch you later," She nodded, bouncing on her heel as she bounded towards the truck where the others were waiting to leave, offering Kit a handful of sympathetic waves as she passed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The infirmary was unusually quiet, the doctor working with a furrowed brow as he carefully plied one piece of glass after another out of her flesh, working the tweezers with a practised, steady hand. With each tug, Kit's face shrivelled like a prune, lips pursed as her eyes screwed tightly shut, fighting the urge to yelp.

"You're killin' me, doc," She shook her head, letting out a heavy breath as he turned away to deposit another shard in the metal tray beside him, each piece landing with a clatter.

"I'd say count yourself lucky you still have both eyes," He pointed out, gesturing to her face with his tweezers, the tear in her cheek mercifully benign. Kit shrugged, about to crack some joke at her own expense, when the door at the far end of the room was suddenly thrust open, the bang startling them both. As Bucky's familiar figure stormed in, she couldn't tell which gave her more relief - his arrival, or the fact that she hadn't had the doctor's tweezers sticking in her face again when it had happened.

"What happened - you ok?" He called hurriedly, marching the length of the ward towards her. He was still in his flight suit, droplets of sweat beading on his forehead, and she had to wonder if he'd run all the way here from the airstrip.

"Flak took out the window, stuck me full of holes," Kit sighed, rubbing her good hand across her forehead. "I'm good, it's all superficial, just hurts like a- shit!" She cut herself off with a wince as the doctor pulled out another shard, eyes squeezing shut once more.

"Aw, Jesus," Bucky sighed, bending down to get a proper look at her face. His brow was drawn into a tight furrow, expression contorted in endearing concern.

"Sylvie thinks I'll look cool with the scars, so that's something," She joked, offering a pathetic excuse for a smile, the nails of her good hand digging into her seat with the next stab of pain. Standing beside her, Bucky took her hand in his without another word, squeezing it tight with each removed fragment as if offering a silent invitation, a wordless promise of 'you can hurt me. I don't mind.'

Kit looked up at him then, but he barely seemed to notice, transfixed by the bloody, scabby mess that decorated her once unblemished skin, frowning in concentration as if overseeing the doctor's work, making sure everything went as it should. For a second, she almost didn't notice the pain at all, a bubble rising in her chest until she could barely breathe, clogging up her throat until she felt like she might choke. He stood there with her as if there was nowhere else in the world for him to be, cradling her hand in both of his, accepting every squeeze without so much as a twitch no matter how crushing her vice grip became.

Somehow she had managed to delude herself into thinking the worst of the pain was over, but the stitching was worse, the needle dipping in and out through her skin with a thousand stabs, and she fought against every muscle in her body not to flinch. Bucky raised a hand to the side of her head, gently tugging her closer so that he could press his lips firmly to her scalp and just rest there for a moment, his steady breathing making her hair flutter.

She felt the sudden urge to cry.

What had she done to deserve this tenderness, to deserve his undivided attention and gentle hand? He had come here just for her, but she had never done the same for him. Kit could tally up every nicety she'd ever offered, but it couldn't help her to explain this, couldn't help her to rationalise a warmth that wasn't transactional.

The love of her crew had always made sense. They had trained together, grown together within the Seraphim as a single, beating heart. Their love kept them alive. It was an essential organism for survival, because without that affection they lacked trust, without that devotion they wouldn't have been ready to die for one another.

But Bucky chose this. He chose it when he didn't have to - when nothing forced him to lean on her, he rested here anyway. Devotion was difficult to fathom for a woman like Kit. When her father had chosen a bullet over the unconditional love of his daughter - when her mother had chosen to drown in a bottle of whiskey rather than make sure her child had a roof over her head - then the notion of care freely given had lost its touch.

Kit hadn't been worth her father's life or her mother's sanity - why was she worth this?

"Alright," The doctor's voice broke her trance, tying off the last layer of bandage around her wrist. "All good for now. Keep it dry, come back for dressing changes in two days."

She blinked, opening her mouth to speak and coming up dry. "Thanks, doc," Bucky nodded above her, grip on her hand slipping loose. He'd let go of her head long ago. She hadn't noticed.

Kit stood up without a word, uttering her thanks to the doctor as the pair began to leave. She tugged her life vest off over her head, desperate to get out of her flight gear, and Bucky took it gently from her hand, carrying the weight without her ever having to ask.

"Y'alright?" He asked tentatively, eyeing her sideways as they headed outside. "Gone quiet."

"Yeah, yeah," She nodded, batting a hand. "Thinkin' about how mad the squad's gonna be that I got the first battle scar," She joked, shooting him a grin.

She hated how easy it was to push feeling aside, how easy it was to turn even her own agony into a joke and a smile.

He chuckled. "That's a thing, huh? Competition?"

"Oh, point of pride, for sure," Kit smirked, gesturing to the wound in her face, now safely taped shut and covered over. "If this thing heals gnarly, it'll be a real hit."

She hated how hard it was to talk about anything as seriously as she felt it.

She hated how hard it was to act fucking human.

Bucky was just glad that she was safe. The rush of relief that had hit him the moment he'd rushed into the infirmary to see her sitting up and talking like normal had almost knocked him off his feet, the air momentarily knocked out of his lungs.

He'd been in the next crew to return after the Seraphim, and the moment he'd spotted it, the window beside Kit's pilot seat blown clean out, he could've sworn his heart had stopped beating for a moment, a wave of nausea rising in his stomach.

Maisie had been waiting, hovering by the plane, arms crossed as she passed her weight impatiently from foot to foot. She should've been in interrogation already, but she had waited for him - waited to tell him that Kit was alright, like she'd known his imagination would take ahold, torturing him with the worst-case scenario. She'd been a one-night stand - a drink, a laugh, and nothing more. Or at least, that had been the intention.

They stood three feet apart.

He had never felt closer to her.

[takami-takami]

I'm really proud of this passage in the slowburn priest keigo fic. It's like... Devoid of context it still hits I think but like ! Anyways here it is. ^-^

Tw religious trauma and deep repression. Undertones of conversion. Mention of suicide.

Chapter description: "For if you live according to the flesh you will die, but if by the Spirit you put to death the deeds of the body, you will live… Blows that wound cleanse away evil; strokes make clean the innermost parts." 

(Note: this should be after the near kiss scene, where you subtly reject him by turning your head in shame. Have him staring in bed at the ceiling. Subtle call back to the j/o scene.)

A few thoughts crossed Keigo’s mind that night. 

He observed the sickness that brewed in the cavity of his chest in a manner not unlike the steaming tea you prepared to pour into his empty cup that morning; only this viscous fluid was far less saccharine, less sweetened to taste with sugar. Your sweet tea kept itself neatly within the barricade of his ceramic cup— contained, if not seconds from boiling. The sickness, bless its beating heart, had already begun to leak through its ephemeral cracks.

These thoughts burned Keigo’s esophagus rather than his tongue.

These thoughts were dirty.

These thoughts were as follows:

It settles like bile spit into your stomach, and your body rejects it. Cognitively, you know you should listen to them; your bishops, your people. Your holy, unsoiled text.

They are the authority. You must be sick.

God loves you when you don't love yourself. That's true, isn't it? You love your God so dearly, you would amputate your own limb to continue to shephard in his good graces. You would gnaw it severed using your bare teeth if you must, shredded like a starved canine’s cuspids into sacrificial meat, allowing the pearly off-white to become drenched with red— the same shade of red that stains the same, damned shade of pearly off-white on Sundays; and Fridays and Tuesdays and Thursdays and Mondays and Wednesdays and Saturdays, the tirade of a Catholic parade.

It is self-love to prune your dead ends. The tips of your leaves are rather necrotic, blistering in putrid, desaturated green. They fray at the seams, and ever-diligent, you take the task upon yourself to play both gardener and executioner. You clip the infected tips, the stems, the buds; and at desperate times, you cut the petioles.

It is self-love to prune your dead ends. 

So why does it feel like suicide, instead? 

And is that offering good enough for Him? Does the mortification of the flesh— blistered knees, empty stomachs, self-scarred backs, and the dirtying of some carpenter’s hands— pave the road to salvation? 

Is this truly what it takes to save them?

It isn’t until you get out that you look down at your amputated parts and begin to weep.

The last wasn’t a thought he had at that very moment, of course. Thoughts such as those only blossom in the aftermath of a great drought, with seeds tentatively sprouting through curious tendrils that reach like babies’ hands into newly quenched soil, the fear of being struck still etched into their epigenetics. But there will come a time when Keigo, too, sprouts like trees. Not in the way that his congregation plucks the fruit of his branches for, but in a way his inner child could. 

Not sturdy as in weathered, but sturdy as in whole.

Neither savior nor saved, neither corrupted nor uncorrupted. They were never truly opposites from the start, and neither were the two of you.

Keigo loved you. It was dirty, but he loved you.

And it was good.

[lavender-long-stories]

WIP Name Game

@cariata brought this back and I am all for it

Rules: ✿ Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. ✿ Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! ✿ Tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I am going to try to format it better this time rather than have the images.

Nothing that I am currently working on will be on here, but anything on here COULD come out this year.

I had to prune the list a little because the original list was 89 items. I don't think anyone wants to read through all that.

These are all Hinata x Title Card

✿ 𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚎 ✿

A Better Life Disaster Witch -> Post Here I’m Sorry  Loop Luck Medic Money Can’t Buy Love Monster With Us Monster-in-law Organ Donner Romance Books Will Be The Death of Me Single Parent Sasuke -> Post Here You Don’t Love Me Silent Help What Do You Need Right Now? Contract Date Fame Immortality Like Mother Like Son -> WIP Post Pageant Story

✿ 𝙸𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒 ✿

Behind Closed Doors Blind and Rude Hyuga Massacre -> Post Here Itachi's Unwanted Help Mob Wife -> Post Here Murderer Story Safe The Cute, The Muscle, and The Paperwork The Kiss That Shouldn't Have Happened Cooking Hell Grandfather -> Post Here Hate in the Workplace Help Me Suicide Mission Wish For Love

✿ 𝙶𝚊𝚊𝚛𝚊 ✿

Fear of People Happily Apart Love from the Kitchen -> Post Here Reluctant Roommates Deals and Payment Eye Translations Watching You

✿ 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚔𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚞 ✿

‘Check on her’ Lavender Dreams Pure Fluff Shadow Friends The Quite Genius Your World and Mine -> Post Here From With In The Book

✿ 𝙺𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 ✿

Ghost Full House -> Post Here Would It Make Me A Bad Friend The Bar Owner and The Single Mom

✿ 𝚂𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚒 ✿

Terrorist Robot My Doll Baby Magic

✿ 𝙷𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗 ✿

One Wild Night -> Post Here Hidan in a coffee shop

Now I am not going to be able to tag as many people as I have WIPs I don't even know that many people, but I am going to get a damn few of you. This is fun.

@nikandrros @sweenyalice @stephsageek @chikahoshi @opal-chan @0rent @gerardwayissexah @goldfishlover73 @lightweaving @lilypheria @munchbell45 @daifukumochiin @wickermayne @p-crowds @pianocoat @raven-lane @kersu @twofortea @xylazine @emihkka @everything-minni @hinar3dx

Let us peek into your WIPs >.>

[mysticalsoot]

someone to (not) watch me die

mistki and dsmp dr? tears.

➸ note; um so i got one too many dsmp crimeboys edits on my fyp that inspired this monstrosity. i don't often cry at whatever I write, especially while writing it but I'm still recovering so.. fair warning. its based off my dsmp dr with @lillylvjy so that's why its very very very canon adjacent. anyways, listen to I bet on losing dogs by mitski while reading (have it on repeat) if you want an extra lil sting. also I uh may have used this photo on a diff fic before but if I did, no I didn't!

➸ pairing; c!lmanbur x gn!reader

➸ summary; wilbur's been distant lately but when you finally convince him to spend some time with you, your life takes a dramatic turn. he doesn't always keep his promises.

➸ warning; hurt absolutely no comfort, MCD !!! incredibly implied suicide/assisted suicide (going into a battle knowing he's not coming back), swearing probably, overuse of baby (sue me), reader kinda wants to off themselves at the end but uh who wouldn't? implied age gap

➸ age-rating; 15+

➸ wordcount; 2k

main masterlist // part 2

it wasn't uncommon for wilbur to be distant with you, he always had his moments where he was less than loving. but he always had his moments, the nights where he'd come home after a day of work, crawling into bed and holding onto you like his life line. he'd kiss all over your face and murmur sweet words and praises, how much he loved and adored and appreciated you.

yet, the next day when you woke up, he'd be back in his office, working by lamplight and only responding with hums and refusing eye contact. it was torture for you. getting him again, held in your arms and so close to your heart only for him to walk away. to turn off his warmth and shove the cold into your face.

there came a day where you wouldn't seek him out anymore, you'd let him come to you if he so desired. but he often didn't, and when he would exist out of his office once in his adult life, he'd simply complain about the war or his enemies or his father or his brothers. if anything, more complaints slipped past his lips than a simple 'i love you'.

of course, you wondered if it was your fault, if you did something that turned him off from you, made him shut you out. yet you also wondered if he found you to be a bother, or something that only held him back. granted it was known he was a bit older than you, it didn't really matter but maybe it finally got to him. where he internalized it and thought it would lessen his chances of being elected or keeping office for the country of L'manburg. you thought it was stupid, but it wasn't so out of the picture.

the day started out like most others, you'd tend to yourself, eating and showering and doing something to keep your mind at peace. often baking or crafting, or going out to the flower fields to check on what has newly grown. you began to get restless, hearing wilbur from upstairs. he's pacing and mumbling to himself. most likely frustrated with something new, something he must be writing. something with lmanburg. something that has nothing to do with you.

but you want to mend things, you want to heal things or at least build a temporary bridge between the two of you. you're desperate for closeness again, and while you'd never admit it to him; you could never love another like he. you simply couldn't find the same type or amount of love in your heart for another person. another insane man like him.

so, you set out to pick a bouquet of his favorite flowers, pruning them and putting them in a vase you both made together early on in your relationship. you filled it with water and sugar, placing the cut flowers in the vase and tying a ribbon around the glass and making a bow before starting your trip up the stairs and into his office. you sigh softly before knocking on the door.

you hear shuffling for a moment, drawers opening and the sound of paper rustling before wilbur sighs deeply, "come in, love."

you open the door, stepping in and closing it behind you, his face held in his hands on his desk. he lifts his gaze to catch on you as you set the flowers on his desk. his gaze softens on you, almost sad and mournful and you can't quite place why.

a sour, sad smile curves on his lips, "what are those, dear?" he pats his thigh, beckoning you to him. he hasn't done that in months--but you'd be a fool to decline, so you quickly run over, sliding into his lap and resting against his chest.

"flowers for you," you sigh, nestling your nose against his neck, his hands coming up behind your head to rub at your hair.

"why, baby?" his voice cracks softly and he leans his face down to your cheek, kissing the soft skin before nuzzling his nose against the shell of your ear.

"a reminder that you can't throw me away," it comes out as more of a whine than you would have liked it to, but as always, you become vulnerable around him. there isn't much you can hide.

he's silent, his body tensing up at your words as he combs his fingers through your hair. his breath shakes, but he hides any emotion he must be feeling too well for you to pick it out.

"I haven't thrown you away. you're my baby, yes?" he croons softly, his lips ghosting over your temple and cheek, placing kisses as a silent truce.

"then why do I never see you?" you huff, pulling your body closer to his as a way to soak in the attention. or to receive comfort. you are his baby, but you aren't strong enough to admit it.

"I'm busy, that's all, love. I'm here now, aren't I?" he sucks in a breath after he speaks, hands now both in your hair and on your back, trying to give you that comfort you seek.

"you should come to bed earlier tonight. just.. I want you to be around me, for once."

you can tell he takes a moment to think, gears turning in his skull as his fingers trace on your back, ghosting over the skin.

"I can try," he breathes softly, his face in your hair, and his hand held on the back of your head.

"do you promise, wilbur?" you whisper, pressing your hands into his back.

"I promise," he kisses your forehead, holding your face in his hands as he keeps you in front of him, "I have some more work to do, I'll see you later, okay?"

he brushes stray strands of hair out of your face before placing a few kisses around your face, landing a final sweet kiss to your lips.

"okay, okay," you whisper, like a promise to yourself as you step out of his lap, walking to the door and standing there for a moment before turning to face him.

"enjoy the flowers. i love you, okay?" you smile softly, and he meets your eyes, an apology held in his irises that you can't quite register fully.

"I love you too. i will, I always do," he smiles sweetly, waving at you as you leave his office and head downstairs. you're partly thankful he has work for a bit more, you had plans of going to nikis bakery to pick up a few pastries for the two of you to share and your hope is that he'll be done by the time you're back. so you slip on your shoes and take the walk towards town square. it's nice today, the leaves are falling all ready to crunch under the feet of L'manburg's citizens. the wind brushes your cheeks, chilling the skin and bringing that familiar fall redness.

you always enjoyed fall walks, and it always brought you joy but the prospect of spending time with wilbur this evening put an extra pep in your step. you wave at any familiar face, smiling softly and greeting all of the sellers at their booths. you don't notice your sister not being at her flower shop, or Tommy not tending his fireworks stand in front of it. you don't notice many of the things that are painfully off about the day, your happiness clouding your judgement.

you quickly slip into nikis bakery, looking down at the case of the daily pastry specials, before choosing two of her cinnamon cookies and two of her pain au chocolat. they're both yours and wil's favorite, and while you'd adore sharing, wilbur is often possessive with his sweets. so it's best to get two of each.

you smile to yourself as Niki packages each pastry and she giggles at your happy demeanor.

"feeling extra peppy today, huh?" she smiles, ringing up the pastries and asking for payment. you pay quickly while nodding, smiling so wide and happy.

"yeah, I finally got Wilbur to agree to come to bed early. so I have plans for a bit of a date night. i just hope he sticks to his promises," you grin, taking the pastries gratefully into your hands.

"he sticks to his promises, when it comes to you. I have a good feeling," she nods as she speaks, a few moments later you both bid your farewells to one another; fully knowing you'll be back for a bread order on Sunday.

you took the long walk home, wanting to take in more of the nature around you, and to give wil some extra time to work. you knew he'd go over what he promised, but you hoped he'd pay his promise due.

plus, the scenic route was always more enjoyable. so the longer way will do, the flower fields grazing your ankles. the sun setting gently, casting a golden hue across the land, the soft shadows of buildings and trees painted on the grass. it was beautiful, almost like you were walking through a painting.

you finally made it home, opening the door and shutting it behind you. not noticing wil's work boots being gone from their spot on the rack. you giggled as you held the pastries in your hand, calling out for Wilbur.

"Wil? my love! i have sweets from Niki!" you hurried up the stairs, peeking into the bedroom before looking over the banister at the downstairs; nothing. you hum, walking over to his office, opening the door to still find anything but him.

you frown, "wilbur?" you call again, turning to walk out before your eyes catch on his desk, the now empty vase held on the desk without a flower in sight.

you looked closer, there on his desk laid a note and a rose from the bouquet you put there the same morning. you opened the note after a moments hesitation and you skimmed the words, eyes widening and tears falling as the message set in your mind.

'my darling,

you'll always be my baby.

yet, there's more for me, just not here.

- yours, wilbur.'

you dropped the pastries, and then the letter, slumping into his desk before shuffling through every single drawer and pile of papers. tears cascading down your cheeks.

"no, no, no, no-" you try desperately to convince yourself or a cruel joke, searching for more answers somewhere in his desk. it must be here, mustn't it? he was always one for dramatics so surely there's another secret note.

you spend the next hour tearing through his desk, tearing apart his office before you admit defeat. laying your head on his desk and letting yourself crack, you let it all out. tears and sobs and cries and screams bounce against the bookshelves that line the walls of his office.

there's a knock at the door, and after a moment of contemplation, you dazedly take the stairs down to the foyer, opening the door and being greeted by Phil. by Wil's father.

"Phil?" you start, ready to ask if he's here to tell you where wil is, that it's some sick joke he'll apologize for and never pull again-

"you know, don't you?" he pauses, avoiding your gaze, "we found his body, he left this for you."

he hands you an envelope and you take it, nodding to him as he speaks soft words of condolences and a goodbye. you shut the door, letting yourself fall against it as you stare at the folded envelope, wondering if it's worth the trouble to open.

what more could he possibly say?

but also, what more could it hurt?

you open it gingerly, sighing softly as you sniffle, wiping your eyes gently.

as you unfold the letter, out comes a wedding band, tied by string to another ring.

the ring you told him you wanted as your wedding band.

it clatters to the floor and you break again, letting out loud, pained sobs as you cry and shake on the floor, eyes unable to peel themselves from the rings that now lay on the hardwood below.

the note falls beside the metal rings, a simple phrase scratched into the parchment; 'in another life, my baby'

you want to burn it, to scream and curse the universe.

but then you wonder how much trouble it'd be to join him.

taglist; @lcvejoy @lillylvjy @ella-fella-bo-bella @lotusanonymouse @willgoldszn @whos-nicooo @zebonos

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Left for Dead

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 14: Left for Dead

tw for depression, suicidal thoughts, assault, theft, injury

Knuckles’ people had been searching for the Master Emerald for hundreds of years.  Hundreds of years of war and death and suffering.  War that had claimed all of his tribe until only he remained.

And he had the gall to lose hope.

Knuckles trudged through the desert sand, feeling miserable and hot and ashamed of himself for complaining.  He had started this particular leg of his quest with such enthusiasm.  It had seemed so promising: legends of a huge green gem hidden deep in the desert.   The stories specifically said that it was ‘hidden’.  When he found there was supposedly a tribe of owls living in the desert too, it seemed like he had finally found his quarry.

Knowing there would be next to nothing to forage, he’d stocked up before leaving.  He acquired some pale wrappings to cover himself from the harsh sun.  Gathered dry foods that would keep well and containers for water.  He set out carrying enough for a week’s journey.

It took two weeks.

He learned much in those two weeks.  He learned it was best to travel by night and dig burrows deep in the sand during the day.  He learned if he dug deep enough he might find water.  And he learned that anything edible that crossed his path, be it cactus or insect or snake, needed to be eaten… but with caution.

When he saw the stone cliffs in the distance, his only thought was that he might find a shady resting place that he wouldn’t have to dig himself.  Then he entered the canyon and found what could only be the desert’s green gem.  It wasn’t the Master Emerald.  It was a lush oasis.

Knuckles immediately drank his fill of water.  He was so happy to wash the sand from his mouth that he flung himself out into the pool.  He floated on his back, staring up at the moon, until his skin began to prune.  Then he trudged back onto land and carefully perused the little trees and shrubs that dotted the green patch.  He ate his fill of what fruits and nuts he could vaguely identify as edible.

It was hard to be glum when his belly was finally full, but without the pressing need to survive, Knuckles’ thoughts caught up with him.  Namely, what he should do next.

Knuckles sat on the shore of the oasis’ great pool and looked out into the distance where he could see towering sand dunes.  In the dark, the moon didn’t quite illuminate the distant sands so they loomed like shadows against the starry night.

The next logical step was to gather supplies–more this time–and then turn around and go back the way he came.  But he was so tired.  This failure was the newest among many and not the first time he’d nearly perished for naught.

At least if he died, he’d be able to rejoin his people.  

It was a thought he’d had many times.  Every time he went into battle, was trapped, attacked, or betrayed, faced starvation or pain or hatred, he always reminded himself that if he was killed then at least he would rejoin his tribe on the great battleground in the sky.  But still, he soldiered on.  He was the last of his people, who would find the Master Emerald if not him?  So no matter what the universe threw at him, he picked himself up and kept going.

And that’s just what he did.

He started by gathering supplies.  He climbed the stubby trees and picked their seeds.  The fruits he left, they wouldn’t keep long in the heat and might spoil the rest of his rations.  He filled his water pouches.  Unlike his rucksack, he could not overfill the pouches.  He would leave the oasis with as much water as he’d started his journey with (which hadn’t been enough).  He would simply have to commit himself to stretching them as long as possible and take any opportunity to hunt for more along the way.

During the day he slept.  At dusk, he set out once more.  He didn’t know where he might next hunt for the Master Emerald, but that didn’t matter.  His goal now was simply to get out of this desert alive.

He followed his footprints back.  Some of the burrows he had dug still stood and he used them as shelter during the day.  On the second day the footprints became fainter.  The subtle winds shifted the sands just enough to obscure his steps.  On the third day, he lost his trail several times.  He hiked up dunes to look at the leeward side and was able to find his tracks a few times this way, but it took longer.  He hadn’t made good time by the end of the day.  By the fourth day his tracks were gone entirely.  He could only follow the stars and hope the desert’s edge was near.

He wasn’t taking the exact route back, this much was obvious when he saw the outcrop in the distance.  The towering stones reminded him of the place where he had found the oasis and so he headed in that direction, feeling hopeful that he might at least extend his rations a few more days.

His path led him down the center of a stone canyon.  The winds had carved strange shapes from the rock and the moon threw odd shadows.  Knuckles had seen no people or large predators since he began his journey.  The worst to fear here were snakes.  As long as he kept clear of their hiding places he had nothing to fear.  As he walked, he listened only for the sounds of running water.  He sniffed the breeze for any trace of greenery.  He found none, but pressed on.  The oasis had been hidden, any other sanctuaries might be as well.

He didn’t know how long he had wandered when the quills on the back of his neck stood up.  He’d heard something on the cliffs overhead.  Something big.

Knuckles held up his fists and backed away, trying to get a look at what was above him.  He should have minded what was behind him.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground.  Something stood on his back.  Sharp claws pulled at his bag.  His supplies!  Panic caused his quills to flare and his attacker jumped back.  For a moment, the canyon was illuminated.

Knuckles looked up only to recoil in horror.  Small, curved beaks sat below huge, black eyes, resting in round, feathered faces.  Owls.  But… not the owl warriors he’d known.  They wore no armor and they were smaller, just a little bigger than him in body, but with such long legs they towered over him.

His glow faded and the flap of wings cut the air.  The light that had illuminated them had also left him seeing stars.  He swung wildly and hit nothing.  He drew on his power and red sparks arced across his fist.  His next strike delivered a glancing blow, the owl staggered and then used those long legs to dart out of range.

Claws snatched at his rucksack.  With one powerful wingbeat he was lifted off the ground.  In a moment, the canyon was below him.  The owl flung him and the rucksack strap snapped.  Knuckles hit the canyon wall.  He rolled down a few feet before he struck out with a fist and caught himself on his spurs.

The owls closed in.

Knuckles kicked off the cliff with enough stretch to shatter the stone behind him.  The rubble and burst of dust sent the birds scattering.  Knuckles spread his quills and glided away.  The desert wind caught him and his hopes lifted as the canyon fell away behind him.  But of course, he could not fly like an owl could.

He was hit from above and then from the side.  The flurry of wings buffeted him and kept him airborne. Claws raked his side as they went for one of his waterskins.  Knuckles struggled, trying to pull the claws away but keep the pouch.   The second owl grabbed him around the middle and they both pulled.  Knuckles was ripped away from his water pouch.

Knuckles struggled, flipping onto his back in midair so he could punch.  But the owl merely straightened it's stupidly long legs and tucked in its wings.  They began to fall.  Knuckles grabbed at the claws around his middle and bucked and heaved.  The claws merely tightened and he felt the talons pierce skin.  He screamed.

His cry was cut short as he hit the ground.  The owl’s weight drove all the air out of him and he realized with swift panic that he couldn’t inhale.  Then they all descended on him.

One raked its claws over him to take his second waterskin.  Knuckles feebly tried to cover it.  Another owl grabbed his arm, hooking its claws into him.  It pulled away so sharply he thought the flesh would be torn from bone.  He lost his second waterskin.  Claws cut all over him, searching for more supplies and ripping through the thin cloth he’d used to protect himself from the sun.  It was no protection from owl claws!  With the owl on top of him, he couldn’t even curl into a ball for defense..

Darkness began to infringe on his vision.  It had nothing to do with the night though.  He couldn’t breathe.  He was bleeding from a dozen places.  The world began to slide away.

The last thing he felt was weightlessness.  The owl lifted him up only to toss away like some worthless, used-up thing.  Knuckles hit the ground and rolled across the sands.  He gasped for air and choked on sand.  He did not see the owls depart, but he heard their wings flapping away and knew he would be hearing that sound in his nightmares for weeks to come.

***

Knuckles was almost surprised to wake up again.  He tried to move and groaned in pain.  Every part of him that wasn’t cut was bruised.  He cracked his eyes open to see the lavender sky.  The sun would rise soon.  He needed to find shelter.  He needed to find water.  He needed to find food.

He lay there instead.

The sky grew brighter and brighter.  He kept thinking that he should get up and find someplace safe and cool to rest for the day.  To regroup his strength.  But… What if he didn’t?  What if he just lay there and let the sun scorch him into nothing?  No one would notice.  No one would care.

Knuckles stared up and watched the sky grow lighter and lighter.  He was just so tired.  And what was left for him to keep fighting for?  He couldn’t survive another two weeks to get out of this place.  He’d hardly survived the initial journey and he’d had supplies!  Maybe it would be better to just lay here.  Let the desert take him.

If he died here, at least he’d be with his tribe again.

But… If Knuckles died here then that meant his people had failed.  Hundreds of years of struggle only to fall short because Knuckles wasn’t strong enough to pick himself up again!  How could he face his father on the great battlefield in the sky if he gave up?  His father hadn’t given up.  None of them had.  They had all died for the Master Emerald–what right did Knuckles have to give up?

They hadn’t left him behind just so he could choose to die.

Knuckles rolled over.  He was in a fair bit of pain, but he wasn’t bleeding anymore.  He could go on.  He would go on.  He picked himself up and kept going.

[sparrow-the-tired-lesbian]

in answer to your request for lokius prompts

(btw, sorry if you're closed for prompts rn, if you have, i haven't seen - and pls don't feel pressured to fill out the prompt if you don't want to!! <3)

the prompt:

loki starts to have nightmares about time-slipping. and, strangely, (but altogether not strange), mobius is a constant throughout his nightmares. can be platonic or romantic. mobius can find out, or maybe he doesn't.

honestly? i just wanna read about loki having hurt angry sad feelings around and about mobius, while mobius is completely (or almost completely) oblivious.

bonus points if loki tries to hint about his feelings to mobius but never outright says he's hurting! :DD

(but of course - do whatever you feel comfortable doing! i trust in your creative capacities as a writer, and i know you'll do what's best for you <3)

GOD BLESS YOU FOR WAITING ALL THIS TIME, I PROCRASTINATED

Okay anyways

HURT/COMFORT LOKIUS LETS GO

LOKI POV

My body tears itself apart at the seams as I shout out for some consolation from anyone, anywhere. When I’m stitched back together again, I open my eyes in the dim Time Theater to see a silhouette. I tremble, my knees buckling and my eyes watering. Even as my body hits the floor, there’s that smell; that familiar smell of espresso fills my senses. 

My voice is nothing more than a whisper as I utter the name, “Mobius?”

The figure kneels, his face coming into the light. It feels as if the skies are gazing upon me. “Yeah, love. It’s me. Just relax.”

“It hurts…” I falter.

“I thought as much.” Mobius smiles. “Just close your eyes.”

I shut my eyes, then…

I gasp, my eyes shooting open. I sit upright in bed, clutching fistfuls of the polyester sheets, looking around for something or someone to ground me. 

I take a deep breath and look down at my lover. Mobius has his arm around my waist as he sleeps, an almost inaudible snore leaving his lips. It’s adorable, to be quite frank. I almost forget about the events of my nightmare as I look at his face. 

These nightmares always seem to have Mobius in them. I feel lucky that this time was more tame. The last time I had these nightmares, Mobius didn’t have any skin. That’s… creepy. I could see all of his muscles and tendons and-

“Mmm… Loki?” Mobius looks up at me with sleepy eyes and a little smile. “Everything okay, love?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, darling. I’m fine.” I smile back, pushing all of the thoughts down. “Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“You’re lying.” I chuckle. “You’re a bad liar.”

“Maybe that’s what got me pruned back then. After the time loop.” Mobius says, looking up at me with the prettiest look in his eyes to accompany a soft laugh.

“What? No, that wasn’t your fault. You didn’t…” 

“Relax, Loki. I was kidding.” He sits up and kisses my cheek before leaning back against the headboard. “What’s got you awake?”

I rest my head on his shoulder. “Nothing. Just thoughts.”

“What about?”

“…just… things.”

Mobius grins, quirking an eyebrow. “Things?”

“Yes.”

“You need to be more specific. Things could mean anything from sex to suicide.”

I laugh briefly, repositioning myself to bury my face in his shoulder as I do. “Oh, shut up.”

“There it is.” Mobius lifts my chin with the goofiest smile.

I give him a peck on the lips. “Mmm… What?”

“That laugh of yours. The full, genuine laugh.” Mobius muses. “I don’t think I’ve heard it in a while. Are you feeling better?”

All of my worries seem to disappear. I don’t even remember what I was so worked up about. “Yeah. I think I’m better now.”

[evita-shelby]

They didn't know we were seeds

Chapter 16

Cw: grief, mentions of rage, prostitution, pedophilia

Heaven belongs to @call-sign-shark

@justrainandcoffee @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings

She cleans the wounds in his hands and holds him as he mourns his niece.

Drunk with whiskey and grief, he is only a shell of the man she loves. He is broken, in ways hardly a few mentors have been. Not many survive it either, suicides were high amongst the victors even the careers for a reason.

Jack sleeps with her in her floor until the games are officially over. His room was too wrecked, and neither she nor Lyme could trust that he wouldn’t hurt himself in his pain.

Heaven wins on the third evening, with a staggering number of kills that thrill the Capitol.

Eva’s heard the eldest of Shelby’s brothers will be rewarded for his loyalty the same way Luca was rewarded with her. She can’t help but sympathize for the girl knowing she’ll have no choice but to join the roster or risk seeing her family die because of her.

You never win these things, you’re just stuck in the arena for the rest of your life, Eva thinks to herself as she holds Jack after his nightmares like she’s done these past three nights.

The morning after the games end, the avox assigned to Eva comes with Jack’s clothes and a note.

President Snow summons her before lunch, and she’d be a fool to even wonder why.

Jack had told her about that last argument with Gina where he had admitted to what they knew not to confirm. Nothing incriminating had been said, she knows for a fact what he told her in the gym hasn’t been reported and this life has made her into a good liar.

Eva is taken to a greenhouse, a beautiful thing filled to the brim with roses. It is a wonderland of colors and forms only the Capitol can have.

There are simple white roses like the ones Tigris had her wear. They don’t stand out here beyond being the favorites of Snow.

“I see you recognize them from your own games. My cousin knew what they meant to me and sought to hurt me.” He speaks as if they were more than master and servant.

“I inferred that by the way you hid it when you saw it on Dustin’s lapel…and by giving Jack the chance he needed to kill me.” Eva doesn’t play dumb, it’s not her way of playing these things. “Mistakes of your youth coming back to bite you, I supposed.”

She is dying to say Lucy Gray Baird coming back to haunt you. But she isn’t here for that, to play her card right now wouldn’t gain anything.

The words have him change the topic and get to it.

“Your unorthodox relationship with Iacobus has raised many concerns. Mr. Shelby believes as long as the rest of the districts hate District 2 we are in no danger.” Snow doesn’t beat around the bush, something Eva is thankful for.

There is a straightforwardness he shares with Tigris, only where it is comforting with her former Stylist it is deadly with him.

“People find it, what is the word, unpalatable. I killed his brother to win and named our child after him. Too macabre to inspire anything but disgust.” Eva grows brave enough to touch the white rose sporting shades of pink thanks to the acidity of its soil.

An unwanted flaw in the sea of perfection. Snow’s likely to prune it to keep it from destroying the image he portrays.

He'd prune them from existence if he knew what they were truly up to.

“Is that why you try to foster friendships between the tributes by those last day of training parties?”

Ah so that was part of it too! He couldn’t have someone show that the districts can unite for one goal. Heavensbee had said Jack and Eva being together were a threat to Snow’s order but could never be the symbol of the rebellion. The rebellion needed someone cleaner, a newer victor who didn’t have the blood of her lover’s brother in her hands.

“Started out as way to get Finnick and Annie one last date, but the children forget this is a punishment for their forbearers’ sins for a moment and sends them a little more relaxed into the arena with a hope maybe they will be the ones to go home.” Eva answers honestly, doesn’t have much to hide. “As you know humanely treated livestock produces tastier meat than its opposite. tributes who have hope and time to form alliances and even romances with fellow tributes produce better games, as you’ve seen.”

It is a disgusting thing to say, but makes Snow remember how much the Capitol loved Eva and Laurie’s ill-fated romance. There was even fanfiction about it, weird tales about her and him in their last days. Too many people had wanted them to fuck when they broke away from the rest of the career pack apparently.

The drama of friends going from fighting for each other to fighting each other gives ratings, star-crossed lovers dying to save the other or killing the other as well.

Jack’s pain and anguish had the Capitol bet against Heaven in hopes Marius could avenge the little girl on whose corpse he spread breadcrumbs on as was tradition in their district. They had lost their money, wept when Marius lost to the girl, but gave Eva the thing she needed to convince the President what she was doing was only her patriotic duty.

She hates herself for it.

“Your idea has merit; these past games have had higher ratings than their predecessors. I may be inclined to keep the practice for a price, Miss Smith.” Snow delicately cuts the rose she had touched and offers it to her.

“Some clients do not like women who have given birth.” Eva knows exactly what he wants. She was in high demand still, she was enigmatic and sexy, fond of revealing outfits and very well trained in fucking.

“They won’t be able to tell once the surgeons are done with you, dear.” He gives a smile as dangerous as snake oil, the blood on his sore tinging it like the nature he hides.

Snow knows Jack hates it and seeks to drive a wedge between them.

Smart man. Too bad it won’t work.

It’s a shit deal.

He tells her so and yet she comes home without a single hint of ever having nurtured their baby inside her.

Jack hates it, more than he hates how they cover up her freckles with makeup and make him wax off his body hair to fit their idea of beauty. Hates how his room had not a single sign that he had demolished it with his own fists and the metal floor lamp.

Laurie was the physical manifestation of their rebellion against Snow and his freak show, Eva’s ticket off the auction block and his reason for rebelling. His reason to live now.

To let herself be put back in that place for the sake of a fucking party for kids is a bad fucking deal. What if its not enough? What if Snow begins to demand more? What if one of those fuckers decides they want more than just some nights with her?

“I don’t need him to suspect anything about all this, they took Gina and will stop at nothing to take Laurie if we don’t dance to his tune.” Eva reminds him. “He knows we’re a threat, but if we do as he says he will believe he has won and fuck off for a while.”

Snow had taken Gina from him and knew Jack wouldn’t be able to handle Eva being forced to submit to anyone else. Jack had endured his fair share of torments with the people who bought him, he hated to see and even witness how people treated his Eva, his wife, like a fucking toy.

He’d kill them all if he could.

Perhaps that is what Snow wants, for Jack to lose what little restraint he has left and give them a reason to put him out of his misery like Titus from the last games.

Which is why they must run to 13 before Plutarch Heavensbee kills them all waiting for his fucking symbol. On the next shipment, he has to go with them, perfect the passage and see how he can get his family out here before Snow stops trusting Shelby.

It’s the only way.