#Where there is always a smell of smog in the air

[bowlerhatwearer]

I honestly would be very interested in a Star Wars Story/Movie which takes places solely in Coruscant, mostly in the underground and which from the genre is a hardboiled/noir tale.

[fortunxa]

the sound of her absence

Jinx and Isha

summary: Bravery wasn’t in the noise, the chaos—it was in the silence that stood still against the storm.

cw: pain. nothing act II didn’t already deliver. reader not mentioned.

author’s note: i’m quick with it.

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Zaun was a furnace, its heart always burning, always devouring. The city had been forged in suffering, a machine that never stopped grinding down the weak. And yet, somehow, in all its fire and ruin, a single spark of warmth had dared to flicker. A warmth impossibly out of place in the cold steel of Jinx's world.

Isha.

Her face came back to her, vivid and bright in her mind's eye. Wide, eager eyes that shined brighter than the neon glow of the city, full of a hope that had no place here, sparkling with questions, with admiration, with trust. The small, knowing smile of hers or the shrug of her shoulders, the one that said, "I'll be fine". And that moment—that moment—when Jinx's gaze locked with hers in the middle of the battle, when the world around them turned to fire and blood.

When the child who didn’t speak answered the world’s violence with bravery.

She had looked so steady. So determined.

So much like Jinx—staring down the chaos as if daring it to break her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the image. Isha, tiny and frail and far too fearless, standing in the firestorm. Her chest puffed up like Jinx's always did, that same reckless grin trying to stretch across her soft, round face. She had called out for her, her voice tearing raw against the chaos, but Isha didn’t hear her.

Or maybe she had. Maybe that was the problem.

She had always listened too closely.

The hideout was too quiet now, smothered beneath the weight of an absence Jinx couldn’t ignore, louder than any explosion she could create.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms and leaving bloody crescent shapes. The smog-heavy air seemed thicker tonight, each breath heavier than the last. She paced back and forth, her boots scuffing the floor, the sound filling the oppressive silence. She couldn't stop replaying it in her mind.

The air still smelled of gunpowder, acrid and sour, like a wound festering. Her fingers, smudged with grease and blood, itched for something to fix, but there was nothing left to save.

Jinx hadn’t been fast enough.

She hadn’t been good enough.

She hadn’t saved her.

She dropped to her knees, her fists slamming against the floor. The sound echoed through the empty space, but it did nothing to drown out the memory of Isha’s final moments. The way she’d thrown herself forward, packing gemstone after gemstone—overloading the power source of the pistol—before firing it at Vander. Or what used to be Vander, at least.

Hot and bitter tears blurred Jinx’s vision, dripping down onto the cold floor beneath her. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking her head as if she could shake away the weight in her chest.

“Why’d you do it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. It cracked beneath the weight of the question, but the silence gave no answers. “You were supposed to stick around. You were supposed to live. Not… not this. Not for me.” Not for anyone.

But there had been no hesitation in Isha’s eyes.

Jinx slammed her fist into the floor again, harder this time, until pain bloomed across her knuckles like some cruel reminder that she was still here, alive, while Isha wasn’t. “You didn’t have to prove anything!” she shouted into the void. “You were already… You were perfect. You didn’t have to—” Her voice broke, the words dying in her throat.

She crumpled in on herself, her knees pulled tight to her chest, as though folding herself small enough could make the world rewind. Make it undo itself.

She opened her eyes to the dim, scattered wreckage of her hideout and glanced up at the walls, where one of Isha’s stick figures still smiled beside a crooked sun.

“Stop haunting me,” she hissed, her voice breaking on the last word. But they stayed, stubborn in their simplicity, a silent declaration of the joy she had tried to bring into Jinx’s chaos.

She crawled to the wall, her fingers brushing over the faint lines. The chalk smudged under her touch, disappearing just like Isha had—too easily, too quickly.

Jinx’s hands trembled as she picked up one of the little girl’s old chalks, the color a soft yellow that barely showed against the grime of the walls. Her fingers shook as she pressed it to the floor instead, sketching the outline of a sun. The lines wavered, uneven and fragile, and she hated how much it looked like Isha’s.

Hated how much it didn’t.

She snapped the chalk in half, the pieces tumbling from her fingers, and rested her head against the wall, her blue hair spilling over her face like a curtain, hiding her tears from the empty room. “I wasn't worth it.” Her voice broke again. “Why'd you try to be like me?”

But hadn’t she wanted this? To be someone worth admiring? To be someone a kid like Isha could look up to? And now that it had happened, all she could feel was the weight of it, heavy and suffocating, like chains around her chest—grief.

Grieve.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, but the apology fell apart in the still air. "I'm so sorry." The tears come harder now, Jinx’s shoulders shaking with the force of them. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

Her pink eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where Isha’s jacket still hung on a nail. It was too small, patched and frayed, the kind of thing someone would have laughed at in Piltover. But Isha had worn it with pride, like it was armor.

Jinx got up and dragged herself across the room, her footsteps heavy in the silence. She pulled the jacket from the nail and held it close, the fabric rough against her fingers. It still smelled faintly of her—chalk dust and grease and something warm Jinx could never name.

She sank to the floor again, rocking back and forth with the jacket clutched tightly in her arms, as if holding it could somehow hold Isha, too. But the fabric was empty, and her hands came away as hollow as the rest of her.

Be like you.

Jinx shook her head violently, a sob tearing from her throat. “Not like me,” she spat, her voice cracking. “Not like me, Isha. You were supposed to be better. You were supposed to—” Her words disintegrated into ragged breaths, and she buried her face in her hands as the tears came in full force.

She couldn't breathe.

In the dim, flickering light, she felt her world splinter further while the quiet mocked her.

Jinx pressed the jacket to her face, inhaling deeply as if the lingering scent could anchor her to a world that lost its sense once again. But all it did was remind her of how empty everything felt.

She sat there for hours, her breath hitching, hiccuping, her heart racing as her tears soaked into the grime of the floor, her sobs echoing through the empty space. And when she finally looked up, the room was still the same.

Isha was still gone.

All that remained was smoke from that single spark of warmth that had dared to flicker.

[ereardon]

Homecoming [Jake Seresin x Reader] Chapter 1

Summary: Returning home to California after six years abroad in England, you found everything has changed. Jake Seresin, your father's former college roommate and lifelong best friend, is now a widower and has purchased a new vineyard in Montecito, only a few miles from your childhood home. Your parents’ marriage is on the rocks, your brother is struggling with what to do with his life, and you’ve grown up and are starting your own counseling practice. So what happens when you find yourself falling for the man your father calls his best friend? And worse, what happens when your parents find out he’s falling for you, too? 

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader

Warnings: Age gap, eventual smut, cursing, alcohol

Word count: 2.1K

Author's note: This fic references a significant age gap, as reader is the child of Jake's best friend. However, she's in her mid-twenties, and he's been only a small part of her life to this point as he spent the majority of his time traveling with his late wife. This fic does not depict grooming, but if you are concerned with any of the themes please read at your own risk.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes. 

A part of you had forgotten what it smelled like, to breathe fresh ocean air instead of stuffy city smog. Six years in London had warped your senses. It had worn its way into your everyday life, from the coffee you drank (flat whites) to the way you asked for random items (bits and bobs) to the foods you now craved (sausage rolls and chips with mayonnaise). 

You looked down at your ratty pajama bottoms and sighed. Even though you had spent the better part of a decade abroad, living a sparkling social life in one of the world’s greatest cities, you were still the simple girl next door from Montecito. You still lived with your parents, a fact that you were very well aware of as you stood at the french doors of your childhood bedroom, staring out across the backyard. 

Below, you could smell the charcoal grill and your mother’s famous peach cobbler. 

“Y/N!” Your father’s voice was nearly crushed by the sound of a car zipping up the circular driveway. You leaned out further against the Juliette balcony, trying to spy the car, the green back end of a shiny Jaguar coming into view. “Come downstairs for cocktails!” 

“Five minutes!” you called back. 

Ten minutes later, who was counting, you stepped barefoot down the spiral staircase, landing silently on the marble foyer floor. Voices carried across the expansive hallway through to the back of the house where the large iron doors leading out to the patio were propped open, a light early fall breeze wafting in. 

Before you could make it halfway across the room, a ball of fur caught your eye and you were almost toppled by a shaggy golden retriever as he jumped on your legs. 

“Hugo!” You bent down, rubbing your hands along the dog’s spine, over his head, ruffling his ears. “You’ve gotten old, buddy.” 

“He’s aged like fine wine, just like his dad.” 

You looked up. Jake Seresin was headed straight for you, a grin practically splitting his face, his favorite cowboy hat resting on his head. You gave Hugo one last pat on the head before standing up, flinging your arms open wide, letting Jake pull you tightly into a hug. He smelled familiar, like dirt and ripe stone fruit, and as you pulled away you noted that his left hand, typically adorned with a gold wedding band, was bare. 

“Good to have you back, Sparky,” he said, stepping toward the back of the house, Hugo following on his footsteps. 

“God, been ages since someone’s called me that,” you replied. “In London they just called me that California girl.” 

He laughed. Jake’s laugh was always something you had admired. Deep, and whole. It practically had its own seat at the long wooden table that your mother had piled high with bowls of colorful salads and plates of dip. 

“Y/N, can you pour the wine Jake brought?” 

“Sure.” You grabbed the bottle. It didn’t have a label, just a simple green bottle with a red wax drip over the cork. You sliced it off carefully, sinking a corkscrew into the soft cork with ease. Jake watched with hawk eyes as you yanked the handle up seamlessly, pulling out the cork and sniffing it. A warm pinot noir. You poured yourself a fingertip in a glass and took a sip. “Damn that’s good.” 

Your mother frowned. “Manners, missy.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Mother, I’m twenty five.” 

“You’re never too old to be reminded that it’s nice to have manners.” 

“She’s not wrong, Marla,” Jake said, his fingertips folding over yours as he took the wine bottle, filling everyone’s glass. “It is damn good.” 

“You’re biased,” your father said, leaning back against his wooden chair. “It’s the best vintage you’ve had since you bought the place.” 

“Good rain last year,” Jake replied, sliding the glass back over toward you. “And no fires.” 

“Thank God,” your father replied.

“Where’s Colin?” You turned left and right, your older brother nowhere to be seen. 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the outdoor table. You frowned. Colin had always been the wild card of the family, but you had complete faith in him. The two of you were Irish twins, born only a year apart, and he was the one you spoke to almost daily while you lived abroad. Colin was the one who called you when cousin Jackie ditched her fiancé two days before the wedding, and Colin was the one who tapped on your door late at night to sneak out and go swimming on balmy summer nights. It was Colin who you could depend on, even when no one else could depend on him. 

“He’s out,” your father said finally, folding his hands on the table. “Shall we get started?” 

“Yes, please, I’m starving,” you replied, leaning forward and taking a heaping serving of your mother’s famous quinoa salad. 

“So Sparky, how’s it going, being back?” Jake leaned forward in his iron chair, picking at a piece of garlic bread. 

“Well, the food isn’t all brown,” you replied, biting into a ripe tomato, letting the flavor burst along your tongue, “so that’s a plus.” 

“I quite liked those potato triangle things they had in Scotland,” your dad replied. 

You rolled your eyes. “Potato tatties dad. And yes, those are good. But so are vegetables.” You paused. “I have to say, the wine here is way too expensive though.” 

“Ouch.” Jake smirked. “Speaking of wine, your mom said you’re looking for a job for a few months, while you get everything for your clinic organized?” You nodded. You had signed the lease for the clinic over Zoom while still packing up your flat in London, excitement worming its way through your limbs. It was becoming real. Six years of school and finally you were opening your own counseling practice in California. “Contractor said we’re about four months from finishing.” 

“Come work for me.” You looked up, surprised. Jake had his hand dangling over the side of his chair, petting Hugo’s fluffy head. “I need a new manager. Someone with people skills and a head for numbers. You can work whatever hours you need, if you need to start late or end early to check in on the clinic.” 

“That’s a really nice offer.” 

“I sense a but coming.” 

You nodded. “But I don’t know anything about business.” 

Jake waved a hand in the air. There was a nonchalance about him. There always had been. He was the polar opposite of your father – a hard exterior corporate lawyer. No nonsense. Jake and your father had been friends for as long as you could remember. But he and his late wife Jenny were the complete opposite of your parents. They traveled the world. They hiked in Peru and ate at tiny sidewalk cafes in Vietnam. For the majority of your life, they had lived in the Bay area, and you would see them a few times a year, the two of them dropping by on the tail end of a trip or at the start of another. 

It wasn’t until Jenny passed away that Jake decided to put down roots. He packed up the Marin house, settled into a beautiful ranch-style home on the edge of the new vineyard he purchased. 

“Neither did I,” he said. “You’ll make it work. You’re a smart girl. Besides, there’s free wine in the deal.” 

You raised your glass. “Well, who could say no to that?” 

***

You slid your sunglasses to the top of your head, locking the car door and staring out at the vineyards stretched in front of you. 

Jake had bought the vineyard, Carrboro Estates, three years before, right after Jenny died. In that time, you had only been home once, and even that was just a quick four days during Christmas break. This was the first time you were seeing the vineyard in person. 

It was a Monday, the vineyard was closed to the public. As you walked down the stone path toward the Tuscan-style doors, you couldn’t help but see the resemblance between your parents' cliff-side house and the structure in front of you. 

“Hello?” The entry was large, with swirled marble slabs on the floor, a two-storey tall wall of wine bottles to your left, a round table in the center of the entry area with a few sample bottles of wine. You stepped closer. A picture of Jake sat in the very center of the table, grinning and holding up a glass of wine, the sun setting behind him over the grapes. 

He looked handsome. It wasn’t the first time you had recognized your father’s friend was attractive. But it was the first time as an adult you realized just how much of a commodity Jake must be, now that he was single. 

“Sparky? I’m down here, staircase on your right.” 

You followed Jake’s voice, down a hallway that opened up into a large staircase. Quietly, sneakers slapping against the broad steps, you made your way to the lower level, which opened up to an entire wall of glass doors, a patio sitting right outside. 

“Pretty nice view, right?” You swiveled around. Jake was holding a glass in one hand, cleaning it with a white cloth. 

You grinned. “Nice is an understatement.” 

“Welcome to Carrboro Estates.” 

“Fancy.” 

Jake chuckled. “Come on, let’s do the tour and then have a drink.” 

Jake walked you through the lower level, which held the outdoor patio as well as the kitchen. Upstairs, there was a private events and tasting room, as well as a bar. One half of the building had floor to ceiling windows with views over the vineyard, which cascaded down the hillside. 

“I can’t believe you built this all.” 

“Most of it was done by the time I bought the property,” Jake said as the two of you settled into a table at the edge of the patio. He uncorked a bottle seamlessly, tipping it into a wide mouthed glass, the red liquid dripping down the side leaving thin streaks. “I just made some changes, and then added on the house.” 

“Where is it?” You looked around. 

“About half a mile that way,” Jake replied, stretching one finger to your right. “Just below that hill.” 

“Bet it’s lovely.” 

“I’ll have you over some time for dinner. Hugo would like it.” You grinned. Jake set his wine glass down. “So the job. I’m looking for someone to be here when I’m not, essentially. You’d be front of house and back of house, which means helping with tastings, ordering supplies for the food menu, overseeing staff and helping me with some of the books. A little bit of everything.” 

“I’ve never had a real job,” you confessed. “I mean, I was a TA at Uni, and a lifeguard that one summer before senior year, but that’s about it.” 

“I’m looking for someone smart, that people like and want to listen to. You’re perfect for the job.” 

You cocked your head to one side. “That’s it? That’s the interview?” 

“I trust you,” Jake said and you looked up, surprised. His eyes were locked on yours. “What I don’t get is why you think you can’t do this.” 

His words cut, but not because they were harsh. You found yourself shocked that Jake Seresin of all people could read you like an open book. 

“What if I fail?” you asked quietly.

“At what, pouring wine?” Jake shrugged. “Open a new bottle. I don’t care if you break a hundred, fuck, a thousand bottles. Doesn’t matter to me, Sparky.” 

“Not the wine,” you whispered. “My clinic.” 

Jake nodded. “So that’s what you’re afraid of.” 

“Terrified,” you admitted. “Excited. Every feeling in the book.” 

“I was so worried the night before we opened that I accidentally got rip roaring drunk in the kitchen,” Jake said and you laughed. “Woke up the next morning at five a.m. on the floor in just my jeans and boots, no shirt. And had to open and welcome all the employees.” 

“Does it get better?” 

“Starting your own business is terrifying,” Jake said. “And it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. You’re going to be great.” 

You smiled. “I’ll take the job.” 

Jake tipped more wine into your glass. “Honey, your name’s already on the books. You’re working your first shift on Wednesday.” You blinked and Jake shrugged. “I said I needed help, didn’t I? Besides, this place needs some warmth in it. I think you’re exactly what we’ve been missing.” 

Tag list:

@lyn-js @seresinhangmanjake @bobfloydsbabe @blue-aconite @clancycucumber230 @dempy @allbark-no-bite @teacupsandtopgun @na-ta-sh-aa @katiedid-3 @bradshawburner @xomrsalliej4787xo @xoxabs88xox @kmc1989 @shanimallina87 @rosiahills22 @emo @horseshoegirl @eminyourjeans

[parvulous-writings]

Dear Friend // Vander x Piltover!Reader

Summary: There is a silent friendship between you and an Undercity dweller.

Warnings: Brief mentions of violence and injury (not explicit)

Words: 2.7K

Notes:  My requests are currently open! My pinned post (found here) contains both a list of characters I write for, and a masterlist!  Original character list - please request for these too!

Not my gif

The Bridge of Progress may have been built to unite two people's, but most saw it as something that partially furthered division between the two cities. On both sides, the people's knew it was safer not to cross, to stay far from the bridge, lest the guards on the bridge are particularly crabby. Which they almost always were - no one wanted to be stationed there for any length of time. The complaints were always the same; the air was thicker with smog the closer you got to the bridge, there was always this smell of... Mustiness, that came along with it. No one enjoyed it. At least, that was Topside's view of the Bridge. Something to keep away from, to avoid, to not think about it, if it could be helped. For the dwellers of Zaun, however, it was something quite different. It was constant, looming reminder of what they were to Piltover. Nothing more than the things down below - not even people to most of them. Most Zaunites either were entirely indifferent to Piltover and it's so called progress, or held a deep-rooted disdain for each and every person Topside. You, however, weren't like your fellow city-livers. You didn't hate those who lived below you - you didn't see them as less-than for being born into something far beyond their control. Though, that could be in part because of a strange connection you had formed with one of the Zaunites. You knew nothing about him; not his name, his life, none of it. You didn't even know his eye colour - neither of you had dared to venture closer to one another, to close the gap over the bridge, for whatever reason. Whether it was the fear of repercussions from the watching enforcers, or fear of one another you had never really managed to put your finger on. You just knew that it had become an almost ritual for the two of you. Thankfully, the enforcers had never asked what you were doing, visiting the bridge almost every day, at the same time. They didn't care, so long as you left them alone, and didn't cause a fuss.

Today, the fog towards the opposite end of the bridge didn't seem to be as thick. It was still there, of course - it always was - but you could see through most of it, down part of the practically defunct cobble road, but your vision was soon rendered void as the road disappeared into the darkness of the city below. You sat down in your usual spot, about a quarter of the way along the bridge, waiting for your 'friend' to make an appearance. He always turned up after you, but he did turn up at the same time every day. Maybe it was because he knew you'd already be there, waiting for him. There had only been a handful of times where he hadn't shown up. And those days you'd spent as long as the enforcers would let you, sitting in your spot on the bridge, waiting, hoping that your friend was alright. Of course, so far he'd always turn up in a day or two - you came to realise he was probably sick. You'd never really thought how bad conditions down there must have been, and how often illness must've made it's rounds in the populous - it simply wasn't a thing in Piltover, it was something you had always really taken for granted. Everyone did, no one imagined a life without the healthcare that the citizens of Piltover were given. You supposed, for your friend, and any family he may have, that was their reality. No help, besides whatever home remedies they could scrounge together. You pitied them, but you didn't think there was much that you could do.

Whilst deep in your thoughts, you caught a shadow lumbering up the road in the distance. The broad shoulders - even though tiny from how far they were from you - were familiar enough. You sat up a bit straighter, trying to see if he was okay, without exchanging a single word with him. He looked more run down than usual - and even with the space between you, you could see the dirt on his face, the tears in his clothes. His shirt was torn in several places, exposing his skin and a few wounds here and there. His nose was battered and bloodied, and one eye seemed to have swollen shut. You felt your jaw practically drop at the sight. You had seen him recovering from illness before, you had seen him with some minor injuries, but this... This was something else to you. You had no idea what to make of it - was he the one to instigate whatever brawl he had been in? Was he jumping to someone's aid, someone's protection? You had no idea. For all the time you had spent with him, you had never said anything to him; never learnt his name, or who he was beyond his appearance. He could have been anyone - from Zaun's most vicious criminal, to their sweetest habitant. In the state that he was, though, vicious man or not, you were surprised that he had still come. You glanced over your shoulder towards the enforcers standing at your side of the bridge, to check if they were keeping a close eye on you. Of course they weren't - they hardly did, you caused no trouble, so why have cause to believe you would now?

Biting the bullet, you pushed yourself to your feet. Warily, you made your way further down the bridge than you ever had done before, taking yourself closer and closer to your friend, and by proxy, Zaun. At first, your friend didn't notice you. He was preoccupied, trying to rub his hands clean of the grime and blood that caked his knuckles. A fighter, clearly a rough one. You drew close, and crouched down beside him. "How badly are you hurt?" You ask him, your voice as gentle as you could make it, but it still made him jump a mile. So much crossed his face in that moment - fear, surprise, relief, scepticism. He had no idea what to say to you. Why were you this close to him? Why were you talking to him? You give him a moment, to collect his thoughts and his composure, but he still doesn't say anything. He just stares at you, as if you had asked him something unthinkable. "Are you okay?" You ask him, hoping that maybe this time he'd respond to you. "What happened?" He continues to stare for a while longer, before clearing his throat quietly. "Fight..." Was all he responded with, as if that was the most difficult thing to figure out about his current situation. "I see that..." You answer slowly. "But... What happened? How badly are you hurt?" You asked again, now that he seemed to be responding. He looked at you for a moment, seeming to be... Analysing something. Perhaps if you would understand, as a Topsider. "Someone was bein' less then courteous to a mate of mine... Wanted to stick up for him..." He told you - and for some, odd reason, this struck you. You'd never considered that fissure folk would fight for more than just trivial things and necessities. The man must've seen the look on your face, as he scowled a little bit. "What? Think we don't look after each other down there?" He asked, gesturing with his head towards the way he had come. "Well-" You started, though you weren't even sure what you were going to respond with. "Well we do. We're not savages, we're people." He told you, clearly this was something he had more of an opinion on than yourself. You supposed, as you crouched there beside him, that the bridge, and the separation of the cities was something far more prominent in the lives of the fissure folk, than it was in yours.

You snapped out of your thought-filled daze, patting yourself down, your gaze flitting this way and that, as you look for something, anything, that could help him. In a flash of what you thought to be genius, you tried to rip off part of your shirt to wrap his hand; it was something that you had read in adventure novels that seemed to work every time. When you attempted it, however, nothing happened, you couldn't even make a small tear in the fabric. The man just watched, his gaze moving between your hands, and your face. The corner of his lip twitched upwards slightly, clearly he was trying not to laugh at you. You sigh quietly, "Listen, I've not-" "Done this before, yeah, I can tell..." He replied, "I don't need bandages, these'll heal by 'emselves..." He told you, "'S not the first time this has happened, I'll live." "But you're bleeding-" "So? We all bleed. It's only a little, anyway. I'll be fine." He reiterated, shaking his head slowly. "I've had worse." Worse? Worse?? The man looked like he had crawled through hell and back just to sit on the bridge with you, and yet here he was saying he'd had worse? Your jaw when slack, and he huffed in laughter, "Don't s'pose you see much like this often, do you?" You shook your head. "Um... No..." You replied, your voice was soft, almost meek in comparison to his. The pair of you lapsed into silence for a while, sitting the way the pair of you normally did, just much much closer than usual. It was quite surreal, actually. Though you had often thought of the way the gap between you might one day lessen, you had never for one moment thought that this would be how. A few more minutes pass by, and as the midday sun starts to hit the top of the bridge's pillars, an idea strikes you. You start to rummage deep in your pockets, eliciting a strange look from the man beside you. You grasp at many small coins - just spare change you had grabbed and left in your pockets. To be honest you were surprised that there was any still left there, the amount of times you go to get something from your pocket and lose several coins. "Look-" You start, shoving the coins into his bruised and broken hands, "I know it's not much, but it's something, right-?" You hurriedly say to him, and his brows furrow. "I don't need your pity money." He tries to hand back what you had given to him, but you refuse. "I've got enough of it - I can get you some more, if you want-" "I just said-" "I know!" You cut him off, "But... It's just hit me how different our lives are, you know? Like... How much... Better, I have it." The man looked... Unimpressed. "You're joking, right?" Of course, to him, the differences were obvious. They were something thought about and discussed often, unlike with you, where it was a train of thought often shoved away, something that was not discussed in polite conversation. "It only just occurred to you?" You shrugged lightly in response, and he just sighed. "Listen... It's not that I don't appreciate it. I do. But..." He paused for a moment, "I can't just... Take your money, no matter how much you may have - it's not right." "You're not taking it!" You assure him, "I'm giving it to you... You need it a lot more than I do." And at this, he just... Looks at you. You couldn't really tell what he was thinking - then again, he didn't even know what to think in that moment. Were you just doing this out of pity, or was it genuine kindness? His mind logically went to the former, but something in his heart wanted to settle on the latter. A small glimmer of hope within him desperately wanted to believe that you weren't doing this just because you felt sorry for him, but because you genuinely wanted to help him. "I can bring some more tomorrow..." You told him quietly, glancing over your shoulder as if the guards would hear you. You knew they almost certainly wouldn't, not that they really cared anyway. "It's not a lot, but I'll get you more..."

"You didn't even have to give me this…" He mumbled, finally seeming to accept your gift to him. "I know… But you need it… I'm… I'm not going to miss it.." You admit to him, and he's just… Astounded. Not missing money? He could hardly fathom the idea. It just wasn't a concept in his day-to-day life. It was a small difference between your lives, but at the same time, it was something that had such an impact on both of you. There's a beat of silence as he considers this. "You sure?" He daren't pass this opportunity now - the one time he's found a Top-sider who seems to have any sort of empathy towards him and others like him. You nod, completely and utterly certain in your actions. "Yeah, I'm sure. You need it." "Thank you." The words are quiet, not quite ashamed, but appreciative. Truly and deeply grateful for this kindness, even though to you it was only small. There's another beat of silence, as he considers what to say next. "Name's Vander." "Huh… Suits you." You smile back at him, and Vander just watches you for a moment, almost expectantly. "You going to tell me your name?" He asks you, and you consider doing so for a moment. "Maybe." You reply, a smile playing on your lips. "But… Maybe we should be on better terms first…" "What, so you're now my mysterious benefactor?" He asks, shaking his head a little bit. "Come on… It's just your name…It's not like I'm askin' for your whole life story now, is it?" "Well, no.. but… Well you offered your name first, and I was totally fine to keep things anonymous between us… That's how it's always been, and… I don't know if I'm ready to take the leap out of that mystery just yet…. You know?" You turn to look at him, and after a moment, he begins to nod slowly. "Yeah, I think I know what you mean…" He replies slowly. There's a beat of silence before he speaks again. "I respect it… I won't pry. Could be… Fun, I s'pose… Though I don't know if telling folks back home that I got this money from 'a mysterious topsider' will go down well…" Before you could reassure him about the situation, and give him something to tell the other people back home that wouldn't get him in trouble, he spoke once more. "Ah well… I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get to it, eh?" "You could always say it's from a dear friend?" You suggest to him, and Vander shakes his head. "They'd never believe that, not in a million years… I think the mystery will probably serve me a little better, might be able to make some story with it…" He nods thoughtfully at his own words. "Well, so long as you're sure…" "I am." Vander replies assuredly, clearly despite the inconvenience of the lack of information you've given him has had no effect on his confidence at the moment. "Besides, I think people'll be more concerned about this." He chuckles as he holds up a fist. There's another moment of silence between the two of you. Content, almost friendly. Then, Vander puts his hands on his knees, pushing himself to his feet. You follow suite, and he turns to you. "Well, um… Thank you." He tells you, almost awkwardly. It's clear he's not entirely sure what to say to you here. "I've… Got to get going… But I'll be back, tomorrow, like always… If you are, of course…" "I've never missed a day." You respond with a light chuckle. "You take care of yourself, alright? Try not to get into anymore fights?" You ask, like a concerned parent worrying about their rebellious son. "No promises." Vander laughs quietly, before slowly starting to plod away. "I'll catch you next time…" By the time you've glanced at him to say your own goodbyes, he's gone too far down the path for you to follow. At least today. Perhaps, you think as you turn to start on your own way home, you may be able to summon the courage to cross the bridge at a later date. But for now, you're just happy you have your own little meeting place, with Vander. It'll do, for the time being.

[whatyadrawin]

The Fruit After the Flesh 18+ - Chapter 6-

Minors DNI!

Masterlist

Approximately 3,177 words

Pairing: Thomas Hewitt(HeadCanon) x AFAB reader

This chapters Warnings:  Life threatening event, mild sexually suggestive language, swear words

A/n: Sorry for there not being a whole lot of art in this chapter, I am trying to streamline my work so that I can get these chapters out as quick as possible. I have really grown so accustomed to Luda Mae, I admit I am a bit attached to her, same goes for that pervy old man Charlie. As always, reblogs, likes and comments are extremely appreciated, and I hope you enjoy the chapter and art!

Tag-List: @fan-goddess

Chapter 6

The sound of crackling and smell of campfire wafted into your dream, you were so drained from the heat exhaustion you experienced that you could barely wake up. You feel really hot and as you open your eyes you see fire, raging ember flames were licking at the walls and dancing across the ceiling as smoke flooded the air. You immediately jump out of bed and scream as you scramble to get out of the room, the thick poisonous smog was choking your lungs and stinging your eyes. You run to the door but it is blocked by fire and heat, you try to get to the window to open it but a large plank from the ceiling falls in front of it trapping you inside.

 You sprint towards the bathroom and see the window is too tiny to get out of so you decide to get the shower head and spray the entire bathroom with water to prevent the fire from coming in, this futile attempt was modestly effective but the smoke was promising to take your life. You scream for help, in the hopes that maybe Dover could hear you and be a decent enough person to come to your aid, but the more you screamed the more smoke you inhaled. You spray yourself with water and hold a towel to your nose to filter out some of the fumes and begin to cry, realizing that this home is now your grave.

A sudden crash instills even more fear and defeat, the house is now collapsing from the flames eating its structure, but as soon as doom overwhelms you, the door to the bathroom starts pounding with heavy thuds. It takes you a second to process what the sound is -the ceiling is probably collapsing now- you feel yourself begin to slip away as the polluted air chokes you. In a blink, the bathroom door explodes off its hinges, a plume of black smoke furls into the room and from that smoke emerges a beast, Tommy.

He scoops you up and pulls you out of the house and away from the flames to safety, gently placing you down on the ground, he began helping Charlie with spraying the house down with what looks like an old water truck. In a quick half hour, the flames were extinguished and your beautiful home was now sitting there horribly damaged from what you were able to see. You suck in clean air to help get the toxins out of your lungs and clear your blood, Charlie comes up to where you lay with Tommy right beside him and says,

“You’re lucky we were here girly, this would’a been the end of you and your damn house.” He then looks at Tommy and tells him, “Boy, pick her up and get her into the truck, she’s comin’ home with us.”

Tommy nods and picks you up delicately as if you were made of glass. When he got to the truck, he placed you on his lap and held you tightly, you were coughing furiously, trying to get out the toxins that infiltrated your lung tissue. The drive was extremely short, your eyes were closed the entire ride from the stinging you felt. Once you reached the Hewitt house, Tommy quickly brought you inside where Luda Mae was waiting for you.

“Bring her up to my room and set her on the bed, quickly now” Luda Mae spoke with a wavering voice full of worry.

She followed Tommy up the stairs with a bucket full of clean, cool water and a washcloth. You opened your eyes a little to be able to look at Tommy, you wanted to thank him so badly but you could barely speak. The upstairs of their home was a new space for you as you had only ever needed to be on the main floor for visits; Wallpaper colored the walls in an old Dijon yellow, marked with whispers of mysterious stains form years ago; There was a dark walnut trim wrapping around the ceiling and floors matching in a same walnut brown shade, the lighting from dated wall sconces dimly lit the hallway and made you feel uneasy.

Luda Mae guided him to her bedroom door, “Carefully now Tommy, we don’t want to do anymore damage that the fire hadn’t already caused.”

Luda Mae had a bedroom you would expect for a household matriarch, the floors were impeccably clean and reflected the soft lamp light that shone from the corner of the room; The walls were a soft eggshell white and the bed you were placed on was large with soft cotton sheets in a cheery canary yellow color. You start coughing more from the movement,

“Thank you, son, now clear outta here, she ain’t dressed for male company.” Luda Mae pushes Tommy out and he reluctantly obeys, his head was swiveling to keep his sight on you as much as he could before the door closed behind him.

You realize you were wearing the least amount of clothing tonight because of the Texan heat that plagued you the entire time you had been in Fuller. You had nothing much on but some old short-shorts and a slinky little tank top that could barely hang on to your breasts. You almost felt shame but you could barely think of anything at the moment, your lovely new home is now severely damaged, possibly even burnt to the ground for all you knew.

“You poor thing, you just can’t catch a break huh? You must be so scared and tired.” Luda Mae had such a soothing voice; she was so much like a mother you never had.

You try to speak, “Luda *cough* I’m so sorry to be such a burden on your family, I owe my life to you all.” Your barely audible  voice was gravelly from all the smoke and irritation.

She gives you a stern look, “Don’t you dare think you owe us hun, your life was in danger and there was no way we were gonna let you die in that fire.” She began washing the soot from your face and body, then handed you a glass of water to drink, which you promptly guzzled down immediately. You begin to feel a wave of emotion come over you, tears start welling up in your eyes and you start sobbing, Luda Mae holds you close to her chest and pets your head gently, she says,

“It’s gonna be ok sweetheart, don’t you worry none, we ain’t gonna let nothing happen to you anymore. You’re family.”

You sob into her; you haven’t had a strong cry in years and the stress of recent events was enough to break you,

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do now, my home is gone! I have nowhere to live, everything I had, all my memories from home are probably all burnt up now!”

Luda Mae lets out a sympathetic laugh, “Oh hun! You’re gonna live here with us until you want to leave.” She lifts your chin up to have you face her and she wipes your tears with a dainty little handkerchief, she adds,

“Tonight, you’re gonna get some well needed rest, and tomorrow we can go look and see what the damage is together, and we’ll talk some more.”

Luda Mae goes into the joining bathroom and grabs a box of tissues; she sets them down next to you and puts a jug of fresh water next to your cup on the night stand. She looks at you with worry in her eyes, you can feel the motherly concern she has for you just by her expression, she says,

“I need you to get some sleep tonight hun, you might cough a lot and that’s to be expected after a fire, but if you need anything you just holler. I know my boy is going to be right outside all night and I’ll be in Charlies room -God help me- which is right next to this one.”

Through bleary eyes and sniffles, you give her a nod, she gently shuts the door behind her as she exits and you hear her mumble something to someone before walking away. You do your best to get some sleep, the crying puffed up your eyes and made you sleepy enough to pass out.

-

You woke up to the sound of farm animals milling about outside, the gentle clucks of chickens pecking the ground and the calls of cows mooing in the field. You can hear Charlie speaking to Tommy outside in the barn but it’s too far away to make out the words. You slowly get up and pour yourself some water, muffled coughs still plague you but they are lessened in strength. You hear a knock at the bedroom door and Luda Mae speaks softly,

“You awake hun? Can I come in?”

You call out to let her in and she opens the door, she picks up something off the table next to her outside and walks towards you with an in-bed breakfast tray holding a glass of orange juice and some eggs and toast.

“I have some food here for you dear, you don’t have to eat it if you don’t feel hungry so don’t push yourself.” She sets the tray on your lap and puts some pillows behind your back to help you sit up, she follows,

“How are you feeling today? You slept far into the day which is good, you needed it.”

You smile at her and reply,

“I’m doing better today; I didn’t mean to cry on you last night… I’m a bit embarrassed. What time is it?”

She looks at you with an annoyed look and says,

“Now that’s enough of that nonsense, you better not feel embarrassed at all; why, you had every right to cry with all of what happened to you, I’m surprised you weren’t hollerin’ all night.” She looks at a watch on her wrist, “Oh, and it’s past 1pm dear, you got a good healthy amount of rest, that makes me happy.”

She gets up and walks towards the closet, she slides open the doors and stares at the clothes hanging on the rack, she places her hands on her hips ad says,

“Now let’s find you something to put on so we can go check on your house.”

You start eating the food on the tray as she sifts through the clothing in the closet, the eggs were perfectly cooked, sunny side up with a soft yolk for you to dip your toast into. You thank Luda Mae for the food and she smiles back at you, she turns back and spots something; she pulls out a large pastel blue shirt and brings it over to you,

“This was worn by Thomas when he was growin’ up, he grew out of it real quick and now it’s just a big pretty shirt. I think it would be like a nice little dress on you, it’s at least something to put on so we can get you to your home without the men lookin’ at you like hungry dogs to a steak.”

You blush in embarrassment and say,

“I’m so-“

Luda Mae cuts you off immediately and says,

“The next words outta your mouth better not be ‘sorry’ hun. You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, it doesn’t matter how you were dressed for bed, that’s your business, I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable is all, it ain’t a judgment on your character or nothin’…I’m not that kind of Christian.”

She takes the empty tray away from you and starts heading out the door,

“Now you get yourself ready and I’ll take you back up to the house. No need to rush none sweetheart, you take your time.” And with that she closes the door behind her.

You head into the bathroom which is very old fashioned, the walls were painted a pale teal blue, white tiles with flower patterns scaled around the tub and the fixtures were a weathered gold color. You wash your face and gargle some tap water; you clean your body off in the tub which makes the water run grey from the soot still stuck to your skin. You let out a sigh -I smell like a goddamn chimney- the shower made you feel amazing, it was nice to get so clean after a traumatic event.

Once you were done in the shower, you got changed into the shirt Luda Mae left for you, the color was very pretty, it was a powder blue, button down made entirely of cotton; you slipped it over your body and it really was like a dress on you, the sleeves were very long and the bottom of the shirt reached your knees -Fucking hell, this was his when he was growing?- you felt a little scandalous wearing the old shirt of a man you didn’t know very well, you didn’t have that kind of relationship with him but it was fun to imagine that you did which got your mind off the stress of last night.

You make your way downstairs, your bare feet slapping on the cool hardwood floor, each step made a gentle creak which reminded you of the old home you grew up in back in Manitoba. The sepia tone of the afternoon sun washed into the home and a cool breeze flowed in through the open windows making the curtains sway gently. The house was very quiet inside, the muted sounds of the animals and nature outside floated off the walls like a comforting hug, you felt very at home in the Hewitt house as if you were never a stranger to them.

Luda Mae rounds a corner and brings you an old pair of flip flops which looked strangely modern and out of place for an old Texan farm. You ask,

“Oh, who’s are these?”

Luda Mae pauses for a second and purses her lips in thought,

“Uh, they were from a family friend who visited and forgot them. Put them on dear.”

You couldn’t help but feel her response was a little suspicious, but you struggled to place what it was. You shrug it off and thank her for the shoes. You both head out towards your home, you pass by the barn and see Tommy heaving planks of wood from inside the barn, he was shirtless.

You immediately widen your eyes and blush heavily, his sweaty body was shimmering in the sun, most of his torso was disappointingly hidden by his overalls but you were able to see some hair surrounding a small pink nipple. Immediately you had sinful thoughts running through your head, you wondered so desperately what the rest of him looked like and how low the hair went down. Luda Mae called out to him,

“Thomas! Me n’ Y/N are going to head back to her property for a bit, some foods on the kitchen table for you!”

Tommy did a double take to look at you when he saw you were wearing an old favorite of his. He was frozen where he was, his eyes followed as you made your way down the driveway to the main road. Luda Mae laughed noticing this, she said,

“He hasn’t seen that shirt in so long, he used to love wearing it. I bet he’s happy it’s bein’ worn again”

Both you and Luda Mae reach your home, you are feeling anxious to see what you are going to find left after the fire and you feel a knot in your stomach forming. Before you could get up the driveway enough to see the house, Luda Mae turns to you and asks,

“Are you gonna be alright dear?”

You nod and continue up the driveway, you can already smell the burnt wood and you start to get scared; you make it over the hill revealing the house to be in better shape than you initially thought; most of it is still standing and undamaged, your heart lifts a little seeing that you still have well over half a home left to work with. Charlie comes out from behind the house and walks towards you both,

“This ain’t so bad. Looks to me like the bedroom took the brunt of the flames, most of this house ain’t damaged at all.”

Luda Mae smiles and holds your hand,

“Oh, praise lord Jesus. Looks like this can be fixed up, you can live with us while repairs get done, or…forever if you like.” She giggles after adding that in.

You laugh, “I really appreciate your offer, and I will have to take you up on it. I’ll pay my way and help out until my home is ready to move back into of course.”

Charlie puts his hands on his hips and turns to you,

“I tried lookin’ for that shithead Dover but, he’s nowhere to be found. I didn’t see a corpse in the house or nothin’ so he ain’t dead far as I can tell.”

You had completely forgotten about Dover, it was strange that he was missing but you didn’t really care at this moment, you were just happy to know that you still had a home. You make your way inside the house to see the damage in the bedroom, it looks like the fire was most damaging by the window which you thought strange. You see the closet is covered in soot, you open it and check the clothes, they needed a wash but remained undamaged. You take a suitcase from out of another closet in the foyer, you fill it up with clothes and essential items, if you needed anything more, you could just get into the storage container which still had so many things in it.

Once the suitcase was full, you head towards Luda Mae who asks,

“Got everything you need? You can slowly bring more stuff everyday if you like, you’ll be stayin’ with us a while.” She puts her arm around you and squeezes reassuringly.

Charlie walks alongside you and Luda Mae, he asks,

“Y/N, did you leave somethin’ electric plugged in near the window? Maybe some woman contraption for hair or what not?”

You squint your eyes at the ignorant statement but reply,

“No, I didn’t have anything plugged into the wall, not even a lamp. Anything that could have caught fire like that would be in the bathroom but there wasn’t a fire in there.”

Charlie rubs his chin,

“I think we need to keep an eye out for Dover, wherever that backwoods fuck is.”

You furl your eyebrows in thought -Does he think that Dover lit the fire? Why would he do that? It would risk his job and the orchard…- You were perplexed with the thought but it was always a possibility, he did say many times how much he wanted the full property all to himself. He needs to be found, and he needs to be found quickly.

Next chapter-

[platrom]

Long Distance.

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

WORD COUNT: 1608 words

NOTE: Yes, the continuation of “One Last Time” is being written. This is just an old draft I finished up while writing the second part of it.

This will likely have a second part if you guys want one. Enjoy. :)

TW: Reader is in America for an internship Midoriya is in Japan, mentions of cuts & bruises & broken bones, mention of being heroes, Izuku and the reader are dating since they were in UA, homesickness, mentions of Bakugou, everyone in Class 1A missing the reader, reader sleeping and waking up from slumber, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of worrying over reader, no specified gender for reader

“I wish you could see yourself like the rest of the world does.”

His tone is so soft, the pitch so low that the quiet affirmation barely reaches your ears. You teeter on the edge of slipping into a peaceful slumber, mind lulled to sleep by Izuku’s familiar and comforting rambling.

It reminds you of the nights you spent as heroes in training cuddled up to each other, talking aimlessly about the futures ahead of you. Both of you had been so buoyant and youthful, filled with life and freedom; it had felt as if you carry the world on your shoulders if you truly desired to.

That energizing passion and life that once burned brighter than the stars above is one you miss.

After you had become a hero and moved away to America for your final internship, it felt like that unfaltering blaze had been blown away, its embers lost in the darkness of midnight. The harsh reality of the world had finally settled— the Earth had chosen you as a subject to its excruciatingly relentless torture.

Everyday, you returned to your tiny apartment with massive splotches of purple and blue decorating your skin, deep and shallow cuts, and even broken bones if a pesky villain had gotten the upper hand against you. The cost of living was rather extreme; especially for such a compact and small apartment in an area where crime rates were fairly high and the smog clouded the once resplendent sapphire sky. The streets were packed with obnoxiously loud cars, rude drivers, nosy neighbors, and creatures that stomped on all greenery planted for the purpose of decoration or environmental reasons. However, the sidewalks were empty; nothing was in walking vicinity. All had to be done through some form of vehicle transportation, whether that be with trains, cars, motorcycles, or bikes.

You miss when you could walk down to your local grocery market to shop for household essentials. You miss the familiarity of Japan, the common sight of children, teens, and adults alike congregated in the wide streets traveling to their home, workplaces, or to the store. You miss the smell of sizzling street food in the air, the aromatic fragrance of decedent meals coaxing you to hand local shops wads of bills to taste the divinity of such meals. You miss walking hand in hand with your friends down the streets of Japan, giggling and chattering about the mundane parts of life and school.

Being homesick is a feeling you never expected to wash over you so gradually; it was one that you predicted to never even occur.

When you first left for America, waving at your family and friends, pure elation and butterflies streamed through your bloodstream, mind high off of adrenaline and the promise of a new land piled with opportunities and refreshing experiences. Not a sliver of doubt could be traced, only determination and naivety.

The things you would do to go back to Japan were unfathomable.

“We all miss you, even Kacchan does. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he always pays attention when your name is mentioned.”

The fuzziness of sleep plaguing your system slowly drains away, the once slowed beating of your heart picking up to a steady thrum. It wasn’t peculiar to hear Midoriya mention your former classmates or family and their welfare. Yet, he always abstained from explaining how they felt about your relocation; instead, he would inform you that they all missed you and couldn’t wait for you to return from America.

But to hear Bakugou specifically had been missing you? That was quite odd.

Throughout the entirety of the years you spent alongside Bakugou, he had never particularly paid attention to you. The minimal interactions between you both stemmed from academic assignments, group sparing sessions, or the basic verbal exchange in the common room for common essentials. You didn’t know him like Kirishima or Midoriya did— nor like the rest of his friend group did.

Alas, it appeared that long-term separation affects a person more than anyone gives it credit for.

“When I watch you on TV, (Name), I can’t help but get worried about whether or not you’ll be okay. It scares me to know I can’t protect you from villains like I could before. The possibility that I have to watch you die in front of my eyes through a screen is one that haunts me.”

Izuku had always been an honest and expressive man to you. He always communicated with you about his concerns, worries, and allowed you to voice yours.

This, however, was something you had never heard.

“I know how hard you are on yourself. I know that you push yourself to point that even when you have nothing left to give, you still find something to give.”

His voice cracks as he pours his heart out to you supposed sleeping self, the ends of his words becoming fainter and fainter in a poor attempt to disguise the likely tears that are forming in his jade eyes. Whenever Izuku cried while talking, a distinct trembling, a change in stability of his tone was audible to the ears. Even after all this time of being apart, you can still recognize his cues.

Though, Izuku had been right. As of late, you had been working yourself down to the bone; whenever you reached that breaking point, you merely ignored the reality and continued to stretch yourself thinner and thinner even when your body screamed against it. You had always been the type to do so, especially in your younger years.

Bad habits die hard.

“And I know as heroes it doesn’t seem like it, but we have a long life to live. Together.”

A shaky intake of breath is heard through the phone. He lets out a broken sigh.

“I love you, (Name). I love you a lot. And I know because of our distance and different time zones, you don’t hear it enough. But it’s true. I really do love you.”

It’s a tired confession, but it holds all the meaning and love that Izuku Midoriya possessed in his entire body for you. A faint warmth blossoms in your face and you clutch at your pillow in anticipation, unsure of what words would fall from his mouth next. The erratic pounding of your heart against your ribcage sends your face deeper into the cushioning of your pillow.

“I . . . ” he rustles on the other side and a few sniffles are heard. “I just can’t wait for you to come home. None of us can. So please come home soon, (Name).”

In your mind, you’re aware Izuku is reaching to close the line connecting you both. But you don’t want that.

Not now, not ever.

“Sleep well, (Name).”

“Izuku?” you call out tentatively.

But you’re too late.

There’s a beep that signals the call has ended and you’re left alone in the darkness with your thoughts.

Did he even hear you?

You wish you knew.

You really, really did.

#© platrom, plot / writing / banners & headers. do not repost, reblogs are appreciated! please consider leaving a comment and a heart! <3

[katsukikitten]

The day rushes by in a flash. The train ride to Denki's is quiet, him pressing into you on the busy train that jostled the two of you about. You hated the part of the city he lived in for this reason. It was busy, transport always jammed pack and filled with too many fucking scents. A snarl of your lip keeps someone from staring at you too long before you yank Denki off at his stop.

Thankfully no one is home when you open the door to the dark apartment, only having ever dropped him off and never inside. You flick on the lights and a chill runs through your spine from how nasty their scents meld together. Raging summer storm and delicate rose bushes that suffer from root rot.

"Where's all your shit?." You look around, eyes taking in the mostly bare walls with photos of Camie and her friends.

Not a single one had the couple in it, hell not even Denki by himself.

Kaminari swallows thickly, it hurts standing in the doorway, him wondering if they've fucked here in the living room, on the counter, in their bed. He reaches out and grabs your shirt, keeping you rooted to your spot. You made him feel comfortable, safe, calm and he placed his forehead on the crown of yours.

"I don't have a lot of stuff…" You scoff at his statement and gently knock his head from yours.

"Reckon that makes it easier." Resolve settles in your bones as you make mental note to lurk on his isnta and your own camera roll to find special moments for when he found his new place.

It doesn't take long for the two of you to pack, Denki's items are easy for you to identify. You've only known the man for years, that and Camie's items are different…sterile. Like they were only meant to be looked at and never used while Denki's items were well loved. A chip in his favorite mug, cracked spines and dog ears in his books, and the fabric of his clothes well worn but never threadbare.

After barking at him for the better part of the hour the two of you stand in the sunken foyer. Denki with his oversized and overstuffed duffle and book bag, a giant tub of his anime figures, manga, and anime DVDs, with one pillow on top. Meanwhile you held two small boxes filled with his few dishes and video games that the two of you argued over if you could carry it or not.

"We've got everything?" You ask for the hundredth time and he nods softly, slipping on his shoes as he keeps an eye on you.

Just as you're about to leave, a large man opens the door to the apartment.

An Alpha, one you couldn't smell thanks to the government mandated scent blockers on every door in any building after 1999. And Denki's swanky ass apartment in the priciest part of town was sure to have double protection.

He reeked but then again every Alpha did, least to you, smelling like cool air and the tops of trees whose leaves change with the seasons. As his black eyes lock with golden ones his scent sours. Like a thick smog hanging low in the sky instantly making you bare your teeth.

The thunderstorm rain scent clouds the air shortly before you're yanked backwards by your shirt and placed a step beside Kaminari.

"You've got some fucking nerve." Denki's eyes glow both from instinct and the threat of his quirk. No longer was he the sad love sick puppy that got kicked, now he was the dog chained up all his life.

Beaten and starved.

Maybe he felt that way in love.

[chat334noir]

Stardew Valley Fic: Shane x Reader

Description: You inherit a sprawling farm from your grandfather, nestled on the outskirts of a quaint small town, and make the bold decision to leave the chaos of city life behind. As you settle into your new surroundings, you encounter Shane - a brash, standoffish local whose abrasive attitude immediately puts you on edge. He seems determined to keep you at arm's length, and you can't shake the feeling that he's always watching, waiting for you to stumble. In this close-knit community, where everyone knows each other's business, you'll have to navigate the challenges of fitting in and building relationships. Can you learn to see beyond Shane's rough exterior and find common ground, or will you forever remain at odds with the one person you'd prefer to avoid? As you delve deeper into the rhythms of small-town life, you begin to wonder if there's more to Shane than meets the eye-and if perhaps he's not the only one who needs to change.

(Work In Progress)

Chapter One

You let out a heavy sigh as you finish unloading and organizing your belongings in your grandfather's old farmhouse. It's hard to believe you've accumulated so much, especially after living in that cramped shoebox apartment in the city. It hasn't been long since you received the news of your grandfather's passing. The reading of the will took you by surprise; you never expected to inherit his farm, especially given how distant you were from your extended family, including your grandparents. So, you made the bold decision to leave your dead-end job in the city, where you were perpetually underpaid and overworked, and take a chance on becoming a farmer. After all, it's in your blood—your grandfather was a farmer, too.

As you gaze out the window, you notice the sun beginning to dip below the horizon. Unpacking and settling into your new home took longer than you anticipated, and you had hoped to introduce yourself to the townsfolk today. But now, you're unsure if there's time left for that. Still, after a long day indoors, you feel a restless urge to stretch your legs and explore the town. You step outside the farm and head south, lost in thought as you take a series of random turns, quickly realizing you're completely turned around.

A flicker of anxiety rises as it dawns on you that you haven't taken an official tour of the town or even picked up a map. Just as panic starts to creep in, you spot a silhouette in the distance. It appears to be someone sitting against a tree stump, gazing out at the sea. Relief washes over you—perhaps they can help you find your way. As you approach, however, the unmistakable smell of alcohol hits you. The figure is a man, slumped over with empty beer cans scattered around him. You grimace at the sight. As much as you'd like to avoid interacting with a passed-out drunkard, you realize that desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Um, excuse me," you call out softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Silence hangs in the air.

"Of course," you mutter to yourself, rolling your eyes. "A passed-out person doesn't respond."

You take a deep breath and try again, this time louder, giving his shoulder a gentle shake.

Still nothing.

After what feels like an eternity of attempting to rouse him, you finally give in and slide down against the trunk of a nearby tree. Pulling your knees to your chest, you settle in, resigned to wait—either for him to wake up or for someone else to wander by. He has to wake up eventually, right? Besides, the woods feel too lonely, and staying here seems like the safest option.

You bury your head in your knees and let out a frustrated groan. This was not how you envisioned your first day in town—stranded in the, now pitch-black, forest beside a drunken stranger.

You lift your head and take a moment to take in your surroundings. The fresh air, so different from the city's smog, fills your lungs with a sense of renewal. Being in the woods at this hour isn't all bad. The soothing melody of crickets serenades you, harmonizing with the gentle whispers of the ocean waves in the background. Normally, in the city at this hour, you'd be surrounded by the blaring honks of cars and the heated arguments spilling out of bars, couples caught in late-night dramas. But here, the tranquility of nature wraps around you like a comforting blanket. The only sounds are the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant rhythm of the waves, creating a serene backdrop that feels almost magical. As you sit there, the weight of the day begins to lift. You close your eyes, allowing the cool breeze to brush against your skin. In this moment, it becomes clear that perhaps the chaos of city life wasn't what you truly craved. There's a stillness here that invites reflection, a chance to breathe and recalibrate.

You take a deep breath, letting the peaceful ambiance sink in. Just then, a loud noise jolts you from your thoughts. Your heart nearly stops, startled by the sudden loud contrast to the quiet serenity you had been enjoying just moments before.

Focusing on the source of the sound, you soon realize it's a phone ringtone. Curious, you turn your head to follow the sound and discover it's coming from the man beside you, still slumped against the tree.

You crawled closer to the man, your heart pounding with a mix of hope and trepidation. The phone, nestled deep in his pocket, buzzed and vibrated like a trapped animal. If you could just grab it, maybe it could lead to a way out of this strange situation—or at least a call for help.

Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his pocket, feeling the warmth radiating from his body. The phone vibrates insistently, a siren call in the quiet of the night. You take a breath, gathering your courage to tug it free. Just as your fingers wrap around the smooth surface, the man suddenly stirs, his body shifting like a heavy log awakening from slumber.

In a wild, instinctive move, he tackles you to the ground, pinning you beneath his weight. The shock of the impact drives the air from your lungs, and you find yourself staring up at the stars with the cool earth pressed against your back, momentarily disoriented.

"What the—?" you gasp, your heart racing as the realization of the situation hits you. His breath, heavy and laced with the scent of stale beer, washes over you, and you feel the warmth of his body enveloping yours. The stars above seem to swirl in confusion as you grapple with the sudden intimacy of this position.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barks, his eyes narrowed, suspicion dripping from every word. The intensity of his gaze feels like a physical weight, and you swallow hard, trying to process his aggression.

As you come face to face with the man, you finally see his features clearly for the first time. At first glance, he's gruff, cheeks marked by stubble that speaks to neglect or perhaps a certain rugged charm. His dark purple hair falls in tousled waves, a striking contrast against the backdrop of the twilight sky, and for a moment, you're taken aback by the unexpected beauty hidden beneath the rough exterior.

His eyes, a deep shade of blue, bore into yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. They are eyes that have seen too much, worn with the weight of experiences that you can only begin to imagine. But there's a flicker of something softer within them—curiosity? Vulnerability? It's buried under layers of irritation and drunkenness, but it's there.

You find yourself caught off guard by the way his lips twist in a scowl, but even that somehow draws you in. There's an undeniable magnetism to his demeanor, an energy that challenges you to look beyond the rudeness. His shirt, slightly rumpled and stained, clings to his form in a way that hints at a powerful build beneath, and you can't help but feel an inexplicable pull toward him despite the gruffness that radiates off him in waves.

"I—I was just trying to get your phone!" you stammer, the indignation rising in your throat. "I thought it was ringing!"

He scoffs, shaking his head as if your explanation is an insult. "Right, and I'm supposed to believe that? You look like you're out here trying to steal from me." His grip on your shoulders tightens, a roughness that makes it clear he's not just defending himself—he's ready for a fight.

"Steal from you?" you retort, struggling beneath him, irritation bubbling up. "Do I look like some sort of criminal? I'm just lost in the woods!"

"Yeah, right," he sneers, his eyes hardening. "People don't just wander into the middle of nowhere for fun. You must have some kind of agenda." He shifts his weight slightly, as if to emphasize that he's not budging.

"Look, I didn't mean to freak you out!" you snap back, frustration igniting. "Can you just let me up already? I'm not your enemy here!"

He pauses, eyes searching your face, as if weighing your words. The tension hangs thick in the air, but instead of loosening his grip, he seems to relish the standoff, almost daring you to challenge him further.

"Prove it," he demands, his voice low and challenging. "If you're really lost, why don't you tell me how you got here? What are you even doing in this part of the woods?"

You take a deep breath, struggling to keep your composure under his intense scrutiny. "I just moved to town," you say slowly, frustration giving way to a semblance of calm. "I wanted to explore, and somehow ended up here. Now can you please get off me?"

He hesitates for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. Finally, he shifts his weight back, releasing you but keeping a wary eye on your every move. "Fine," he grumbles, pushing himself to stand up slowly, clearly still on edge.

An awkward silence settles between you, the night air thick with unspoken tension. You both stand there, your breaths mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves, the distant sound of waves crashing in the background.

He glances sideways, his expression shifting from suspicion to something softer, but then quickly masks it with a scowl. You can feel the weight of the silence pressing down, and you clear your throat, unsure of what to say next.

Just when you were about to ask him how to get out of here, his phone rings again, the jarring sound slicing through the stillness once again. He reaches down to pick it off the ground, where it had fallen during your earlier scuffle. As he grips the device, his expression shifts from annoyance to irritation, his brow furrowing deeper as he glances at the screen.

"I have to go," he says abruptly, the words clipped and cold, as if he's already made up his mind. Without waiting for a response, he turns and starts walking in the opposite direction, dismissing you entirely.

Feeling a surge of frustration and disbelief, you quickly scramble to your feet and call out after him. "Wait!"

But he doesn't slow down. You quicken your pace, rushing to catch up, and suddenly realize you're losing your breath, even though you've only moved a short distance. I really should exercise more, you note to yourself, half-amused at the irony of the situation.

"What do you want?" he snaps, shooting you a glance, irritation flickering in his eyes like a warning light.

"I'm lost," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart.

"So?" He sounds dismissive, as if your predicament is trivial.

"So... please help me out," you urge, your voice softer this time, hoping to reach whatever part of him is still listening. "I don't know this area at all, and it's dark. I'm not asking for much—just a little direction."

He pauses for a moment, looking at you with a mixture of skepticism and something else you can't quite place. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction, and you sense that beneath his irritation lies a flicker of empathy.

"Fine," he sighs "Where are you headed?"

"Ummm, well, I—" You had to think of a way to describe where your cabin is located, but were at a loss.

"I don't have all day here," he huffs, impatient but not hostile.

You exhale a deep breathe, determined to make him understand. "It's my grandfather's old farmhouse—just a little ways up from here. I just need to know how to get back." Your voice steadies as you speak, and you find the courage to meet his gaze. "Please."

He pauses, his brow furrowing in thought, and for a moment, the tension between you feels almost palpable. Then, as if a light bulb has gone off, his eyes widen slightly in recognition.

"Oh you're the person who just moved into the old man's farm," He exclaims.

"Uh, yeah," you reply feeling a bit sheepish.

"So how did you get lost out here?"

"I wanted to explore a bit of the town after unpacking, but I forgot I didn't have a map or any idea of the town's layout beforehand," you admit.

"That is such a stupid thing to do," He remarks

"Yeah, yeah, I know, no need to lecture me...asshole," you roll your eyes and mumble the last part under your breath.

"What was that?" He leans in, eyebrows furrowed.

"Uhh, nothing!" You say quickly, forcing a smile "So, can you help me out already?"

"Yeah, sure. Follow me," he says, starting off in what you assume is the direction of your farm. You trail behind him, both of you enveloped in an uncomfortable silence. You consider breaking the ice, but fatigue settles in, and you doubt he'd appreciate the effort anyway.

"You should really be more careful out here at night. There are a lot of reports of pickpockets," he finally says, shattering the quiet.

"Oh, I guess that explains why you accused me of being one earlier" you snap back, irritation creeping into your voice. "I guess that's good enough of a reason to tackle someone, right?"

He exhales sharply and turns to face you, and you instantly regret your words, bracing yourself for what you anticipate will be an argument.

"Look, I've had a really rough night, okay?" His defenses start to crumble, and a hint of vulnerability flickers in his eyes.

Right, because that justifies tackling someone, you think to yourself.

"I'm really sorry for doing that," he adds, his tone softening.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he continues, running a hand through his disheveled hair, glancing away as if ashamed. "Can we just forget that happened?"

You pause, weighing his apology against your irritation. You know you should let it go, but the "just forget about it" part really rubs you the wrong way. Can't exactly just forget about it.

"Fine, whatever," you reply, your voice steady but tinged with frustration "Let's go."

You push past him, marching ahead with a quickened pace, only to realize you don't actually know the way. But you're too fired up to slow down now.

Fortunately, it doesn't take long before you spot your farm in the distance, much closer than you anticipated. Relief washes over you as you make your way home, the tension of the evening still lingering but fading with every step.

[riversofmars]

For the prompt "Dystopia" I couldn't help myself: Always wanted to write something cyberpunk-y for them! This time with a visual! First chapter for the event, two more to follow some time in August ;D

Rating: M Summary: Down-on-her-luck mechanic Liv Chenka has had to turn to odd jobs as a hired gun to make ends meet in the lower reaches of the capital city. In the eternal darkness beneath the smog, illuminated only by garish neon lights, the smell of alcohol and filth is heavy and only VR offers an occasional escape. She turns into a club to wash away another dreadful day. Reaching a new low, she is made a proposition, one that has the potential of changing her life forever, but claim it just as easily.

Jailbreak - Chapter 1

The thumping of music grew louder and louder with every step Liv Chenka took down the stairs into a much traversed basement club downtown. Down here, in the lower levels of the capital city, where the light of the sun didn’t reach, she felt a familiar and soothing sense of anonymity.

The steps down were sticky and she didn’t stop to wonder what had made them so. Spilled drinks, vomit, blood- It was anybody’s guess and in the garish orange and green neon lights that blinked through the smog, it all looked much the same. A growl of disgust broke from her lips as her heavy boots hit a puddle at the bottom of the staircase, but she ducked into the club anyway. It wasn’t as though she had anywhere better to be.

As if to remind her of alternative options, a message from her sister Tula blinked up in her field of vision, light blue against the darkness of her surroundings, and she swiped the message away, much like a fly buzzing in front of her face. She tapped the space behind her ear, muting the messaging application, as she was in no mood to talk, not after a long, frustrating day of another job having fallen through. She could do without having to explain herself to her sister once more. That could wait until a few drinks had helped ease the hard frown she’d set her face in.

Low bass moved the patrons of the club in rhythmic motions, ebbing and flowing, and she felt the vibrations carry through the soles of her boots and into her tired muscles. She needed to loosen up, that was for sure. The air was hot and stuffy, a mix of alcohol and sweat, drugs and blood, artificial yet disgustingly human. Within moments, Liv grew hot under her heavy leather jacket and tight trousers, swiping a gloved hand across her sweaty brow.

Keep reading on AO3

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Somehow, Through the Storm

Summary:

Living in the slums of the Warehouse District, Kaz and Inej are struggling to cling on to life through a seemingly unending winter. Wrapped up in a stranger's overcomplicated marriage contract that he is convinced is key to solving the merciless weather, Kaz remains busy and distracted for days on end, putting everything else at risk. So when a storm ravages the city and sweeps Inej into danger, the offer of safety, food, and a place to stay is an overwhelming one - no matter the cost. Terrified of mounting threats, Inej signs a contract - not knowing she would land herself trapped at the Menagerie. Kaz signs a contract that states if he can walk all the way through the city and back to the Warehouse District with Inej behind him, never looking back at her, they will both go free. But this is the Barrel, the darkest part of the city where the rules of physics can change with the stroke of a pen; the journey back will not be the same as journey there…

This is a Hadestown-inspired reimagining of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, casting Kaz and Inej as our main characters and heavily featuring our beloved Crows, set in an alternate version of the Grishaverse with a different magic system based entirely on contracts.

Tags: @lunarthecorvus @marielaure @multi-fandom-bi @igotthisaccountunderduress @thelibraryofalexandriastillburns @devoted-people-hater @spraypaintstainonawhitewall

If anyone else would like to be added to the tag list let me know <3

Warnings for this chapter: fear of rape/non-con, heavily implied past rape/non-con, ptsd, flashbacks, grief, loss of parents

This chapter is the heaviest one so far; please check the warnings <3

AO3 link:

Chapter 6 - Inej

“Hey, little songbird, cat got your tongue? Always a pity for one so pretty and young,”

- Hey, Little Songbird, Hadestown

Inej wanted to believe that she could trust Kaz. 

She still spent most of the night awake, though, waiting for him to come back. No matter how much she wanted to trust him, it didn’t stop her from checking whether he’d locked the door. It didn’t stop her from testing all the windows. There were no drawers in his haphazardly struck together desk, of course, but Inej found the keys to the windows in a beaten little metal tray tucked behind the basin. She went round the room and unlocked every window, then tucked the keys up inside her sleeve in case she’d fallen asleep by the time he returned. 

Inej pushed one of the windows open, the small one beyond the partitioning wall. It was almost definitely too narrow for her to slip out of in a hurry, but peering out into the grey and feeling the cold, unforgiving wind against her face, seeing her breath cling white and empty in the air, was enough to convince her not to leave one of the larger windows open. They were all unlocked, and she had the keys close by to keep it that way. That would be enough. Inej stared out across the city for a moment longer, the lightly frosted rooftops and the icy cobbles far below. She could see the squat buildings of a shanty town in the distance, leaning against each other with heavy sighs, and beyond them the edge of the Barrel. It was hazy from this distance, obscured by smog and the natural dark that seemed to have become one in the same in this city, but still it glittered bright and messy on the horizon. There would be revellers in the streets for hours to come yet, in fact they probably would have not yet cleared out by the time Inej woke tomorrow; the streets would smell of smoke and run with rivers of wine, money would change hands, cards would be laid on tables, people would shout and call and celebrate, whilst children would try to scream with voices that refused to answer them. Inej closed the window. 

It took half an hour of pacing back and forth through the attic for Inej to convince herself to sit down on the edge of the mattress. It heaved an old and tired sigh beneath her, but the springs held more than steady. Something moved over Inej unexpectedly, flooding through her limbs like a damn had broken deep inside her chest. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to wash her hair and change her clothes. She wanted to cry. 

And she could do those things. Any of them. Couldn’t she?

Kaz wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. He wasn’t. 

Inej crept across the room and found a little clock sitting atop his desk - if it was working, and judging by the finished sunset and gathering dark she thought it must be, it was barely past seven bells. Exhaustion clung to her like tiny claws had dug into her flesh, pulling her down, down, down, encouraging her piece by piece into oblivion. She wanted to sleep without waking to the wind or rain or dawn. Just to drift, in quiet and comfort, like she was resting on a boat that flowed down a gentle, never ending stream. 

When was the last time Inej had slept like that? Not since home. Not since the world went sour. Not since she’d started running, and her legs had refused to ever stop. 

Inej didn’t dare to impose more than necessary. She touched nothing of Kaz’s but for the keys she’d hidden on her person, which she promised the listening air that she would return come morning, if he didn’t come. But she did, with shivering fingers, pull a match out of her satchel. She’d bought the little box with the money Kaz had given her for watching Wylan last week, as well as a pair of brass knuckles because he’d told her she would need some kind of weapon. 

The match seemed to complaining at the cold almost as much as Inej’s own skin, and for a moment she worried the box had been damaged by rainwater as it nestled in the corner of her bag. But then the flame grew and she managed to coax it onto the tiny grate. Gentle flames grew and Inej set the basin of water over them, before crouching as close as she could manage without fearing that the sleeve of her too-big jacket might catch. She killed the fire as soon as the water was warmed, flames were fickle and she did not trust them, then tentatively shed her jacket and laid it on the uneven floorboards. She had no soap of her own, but as long as she put it back in the right place she thought Kaz wouldn’t notice her borrowing his just for one night. It felt a strange and frightening process for no real reason, to lift the bar of soap and plunge it beneath the water, but as soon as she’d felt its warmth there was no going back. She washed her hands and the bare skin of her arms, and then her face, and then - after a brief hesitation - undid her hair and lifted it all up over her head so that when she leaned forwards it would all fall into the soapy water. Inej leant over the basin, soap and water and her own fingers on her scalp sending relief through her like she didn’t know how to quantify, until her back ached and the water had begun to feel cold; until she was finally forced to regather her hair and wring it out over the basin as best she could. It was only then that it occurred to her she had no towel. 

Kaz’s only towel appeared to be a small grey one that had been half-heartedly folded and left next to the basin. Inej dried her hands and her face, then wiped any drips of water from the sideboard or the floor before wrapping up her hair as tightly as she could and squeezing it again. She probably shouldn’t have washed her hair. Now she was only going to be colder. And she would get his bed wet. 

Oh Saints, she was an idiot. She felt the panic rise inside her, bubbling impatiently at the base of her throat, and stretched her fingers tightly in and out of her fists. It was too late to fix it now. Even if she relit the fire, which she’d rather avoid if she could not at least because it would only waste Kaz’s coal, her hair would take hours to dry. For now, she settled on keeping it wrapped inside the towel and tied safely away. At least it kept the damp off her clothes, for the most part. She paced the room slowly, jacket hanging back off her shoulders but without her arms threaded through the sleeves, debating with herself. Eventually, she gave her hair another tight squeeze over the basin before folding the towel back where it had lain before, and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the mattress to comb her hair into as tight a pair of braids as she could possibly manage. She started at the very top of her parting, then wrapped the plaits around her head and pinned them into place; a little crown perched atop her head. At least now it was unlikely for water to soak into Kaz’s sheets. He had a solitary, flat little cushion so Inej laid it gently to one side of the bed and instead rolled the spare shirt inside her bag into a little ball that she could use to prop up her head. That was, of course, if she ever convinced herself to lie down. 

She had little sense of how much time had passed, so crept back to the clock on the desk and found that it was nearing nine bells half chime. Time seemed to be one of those things that slipped away from her, recently, a slippery, intangible thing that fell from her grasp more frequently than it settled. How long had she been in Ketterdam? Seven months? Eight? She perched herself back on the edge of the mattress, and finally the tears came. 

It was a blessing, in a way. She was lying down before she’d realised it, curled on her side with her knees clutched up to her chest, sobs wracking through her as her tears soaked into the shirt folded beneath her head. Somewhere deep inside her mind, her mother’s arms closed around her shoulders. Her father took her hand in his, circled his thumb above her knuckles. They whispered to her and promised that she was going to be okay. She used to be able to pretend that she believed them. 

Inej rolled onto her back, staring at the roof beams and patched up leaks above her head. Her mother might have stroked her hair, let Inej rest her head against her knee. Her father might have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, encouraged her to drink a mug of herbal tea. She almost reached out, as though she could find them in the dark and fall through nothingness until she landed on soft cushions in the caravan. As though she could simply fly awake with a strangled scream and they would be there, rushing to close the small space between them and cradle her close until the nightmare faded. But the things in Inej’s head had stopped just being fictional two years ago, and now more than ever they showed no intentions of fading. 

The comfort drained from her in seconds. Her parents’ arms around her stiffened until they belonged to someone else, hands that gripped her tightly and nails that threatened to puncture flesh. Where she’d been held close and safe now she was trapped, lying on her back with the world spinning out of view so far, impossibly far, above her. The world was supposed to smell of rosemary and dill, of flour and fresh bread, of chalk and crisp spring air; instead it was warm with the sweat of summer, the air felt damp, forcing its way down her throat as they go to choke her, and the entire world smelled like vanilla. 

Inej threw herself upwards as straight as an arrow, clawing at the air and at her clothes as she kicked backwards and tumbled off the mattress. She crashed into the wall and a bolt of pain flashed up her spine, somehow both reminding her where she was and thrusting her further into the darkness at the same time. Several minutes passed before she found herself sitting on the floor, her head between her knees, her palms spread to splay her fingers across the back of neck as tried to breathe. She may as well have been drowning for all the air refused to come any closer. 

Inej wanted to be able to trust again. She wanted this feeling to go away. She didn’t want the first thing she did when she finally felt like she could move again to be crawling to her bag and finding her brass knuckles. She didn’t want holding them in her fist to be the closest thing she could give herself to feeling safe. She didn’t want to sit here with her head pressed against the wall, staring at the ceiling because she knew that if she looked down she’d see handprints on her skin. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life afraid. 

Inej wanted to believe that she could trust Kaz. But when she fell asleep, hours later, it was curled on her side on top of the blanket, fully dressed, her own shirt an uncomfortable pillow, brass knuckles clasped between her fingers, one arm looped safely through the strap of her satchel and the other clinging to it like a child holding a doll. Just in case. 

[smytherines]

2 and 27 for curtwen? pretty please???

2. Any sleep habits either had to get used to?

I did the whole Owen Carvour blanket thief thing as a bit for Like Real People Do, but I'm a true believer now. Owen's always cold and he steals blankets, but Curt is a human furnace and wiggles so much that he ends up out of the blankets even when he sleeps alone, so it works out for them. Curt has ADHD so he flops around a lot while sleeping, and if he's trying to fall asleep he just constantly jiggles his foot or flexes his ankle, which is really annoying to Owen initially, but after they've been together awhile Owen always kinda misses the movement when he sleeps alone

27. What random everyday object/activity makes them think of each other?

Cigarettes and whiskey are too easy, so...

So I shouldn't say it because I've had this scene written in my head for forever and I'm just about to be able to write it for chwm, but I think Curt thinks about Owen when he sees a really clear night sky, where you can see the stars really well, because once Owen told Curt that he usually just forgets to look up at the sky, because there's too much light and smog in London to see the stars, and that as a kid he used to sneak out during air raids when all the lights were off and blackout curtains drawn, because it was the only time he could just barely see stars in London. After Owen falls, Curt is glad he lives in DC because he can't see the stars there either.

For Owen, I think he sees Curt in a lot of little things- when he sees a nice car that he knows Curt would appreciate, when he (occasionally) drinks coffee, when he uses the lighter Curt gave him, when he smells a fire burning or pine trees or apple pie, a thousand little things that before the fall make him smile for a second and miss Curt and think of him. After the fall he also adds every ache and pain, every headache, every time his scars itch or burn to that pile. After the fall its like he's trapped in a sensory nightmare because so many things that used to be pleasant reminders of Curt suddenly feel like some terrible cosmic taunt about the life he used to have

[mojavebluez]

bound by blood - a bbc sherlock / johnlock fanfic

chpt. i

John once said to Sherlock: “I’ve seen people die before. I thought I’d never sleep again. I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

fic summary | John has killed before - but not like this. John would do anything to keep it a secret. To keep his family safe. Sherlock would do anything to solve a case. And he seems to have taken a keen interest in this one.

tags/warnings | BBC Sherlock, johnlock, parentlock, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-slow burn, mild smut, violence/ injury, substance abuse

words | 5.6k

a/n | it’s been a while! I can’t say how long this will be but I’m on my holiday now so I’ll have more time to write. Each chapter will be about 5.6k words I’ll try and get part 2 out asap but I just wanted to see how this was received first. Enjoy :))

ao3 edition

————————————————————————————

"You've got to tell him."

"I can't tell him, Mary."

"He would tell you."

Silence. "I know."

"He can help you."

"No one can help me."

—

"Morning, John." Sherlock called from the kitchen as soon as John set foot in the hall.

"Oh, morning, Sherlock." John stifled a yawn and shuffled into the room. He tied his tattered dressing gown around his waist in a lacklustre knot before meeting Sherlock, a regular ritual. No one needed to see his pyjamas - they'd definitely had better days.

"How long have you been awake?" John probed, sweeping a mug of coffee off the table. He gingerly took a sip, but set it back down again after realising it tasted faintly of decomposition.

Sherlock didn't turn around. He was wearing only his pyjama bottoms and a worn pair of slippers. This was nothing new; John had seen Sherlock in various stages of undressed before, even near nudity (in Buckingham palace, where else). So why did he feel the need to avert his eyes when he turned around?

He avoided the sight of Sherlock's bare chest, which filled his vision, instead smiling up at him and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Er, a couple hours, I think?" He whisked back around again without even glancing at him.

John sighed internally. What's wrong with you? It wasn't as if he was naked. He must just be tired still. His thoughts were muddled, nothing made much sense to him right now. Coffee.

"Jesus," he pulled his chair back and walked to the sink, "coffee?"

John didn't know why he bothered asking. Sherlock didn't bother to shake his head in response. "Made some," he carried on clattering about at the counter, "try it."

John cast a sideways glance at the mug. "I did."

Sherlock twisted around, eyes narrowing. "And?" It's like he couldn't help but bring his fingertips together in their signature diamond shape.

"Vile."

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted and eyed John briefly before continuing with whatever he was doing. "I'm not sure why you're surprised, John. I'm always up early."

"Yes, but it's seven. A couple hours ago could mean anything." John glanced at his watch.

Sherlock looked up, seeming to realise something. "Oh, it is seven. Why are you up so early?"

"Sherlock," John let his head fall back in exasperation. "Are you kidding me?"

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together. "Uh, I don't think so."

"Work. I'm going to work. You know, the thing I do three days a week."

Sherlock stared at him like he thought he was lying. His eyes were unfocused, as they usually were when he was working something out. "Oh?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's where I go all day." At this point, John was leant on the counter, arms folded, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The smell almost masked the ever-present aroma of Sherlock's failed experiments that coated the air like London smog. John wondered how Sherlock had managed before he came along - his living space must have bordered on uninhabitable.

Not that John tidied that often. In fact, he regularly wondered how the place managed to stay as clean as it was. He suspected Mrs Hudson might have had something to do with it - though she'd only admit it if she was in an argumentative mood with Sherlock. She usually brought up the, 'I do everything around here!' when it suited.

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down, peering into a Petri dish. John wasn't sure how he could look at such off putting things at this hour. Sometimes he really wondered if he was human.

The coffee had come to boil and John poured two mugs full of the black stuff. One milky, two sugars, one black, one sugar. He sighed loudly to himself before slipping Sherlock the black mug across the table and leaving to get ready. Sherlock must wonder where all the coffee came from.

John stopped still, suddenly remembering something. He ducked his head back in the doorway, noticing that Sherlock was sipping the coffee, unsuspecting. "Oh, and you can forget me all you like, but just don't forget Rosie. She's asleep upstairs."

Sherlock looked up at that. His jaw had fallen in mock-offence. "John, how dare you."

John smiled and shook his head, walking back out the room as he had before. Sherlock yelled something from the table, along the lines of, "Besides, Rosie is far less forgettable than you."

Sherlock didn't say goodbye that morning. John wasn't offended - he was used to it. Still, he called out his own bellowing farewell from the front door and stepped into the street, peering up at the window of their flat as he turned right.

He wasn't at all surprised to see nothing but the swaying curtains. He wasn't even sure what he expected to see - perhaps the familiar figure of Sherlock, waving him off. Smiling down at him. Who was he kidding? Sherlock had never, ever done that.

John was a little disturbed with himself the whole journey to work. He'd woken up half an hour earlier to give himself enough time to walk there (he had given up on cycling a long time ago, much to Sherlock's amusement), but he wasn't feeling the usual benefits of the walk at all.

He couldn't shake the image of Sherlock, bare chested, holding a vial of something brown, standing over him. Every time he blinked it was there. He was there.

I'm going fucking crazy, John thought to himself, I need to go on Tinder or something.

He nodded at this idea once and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. He swiped to the final page, searching for the icon. He eventually found it, thumb hovering over the screen. He slowed his walking pace, thoughts ticking, barely registering the people that shoved past him in the usual London manner.

He completely stopped when he realised what he was doing. On the fringes of his mind, reflected on the concrete slabs, he could see Mary, smiling at him, holding their child. He waved it away, not even caring that he looked like a smackhead. In its place, the woman on the bus, Eurus, smirking from across the aisle. John pressed a firm hand to his forehead.

I'm seriously losing the plot now. He hadn't thought of either of them for months, but somehow, the images always appeared one way or another. He knew he couldn't just stop meeting people - not even Mary would want that for him, he knew. But he couldn't allow himself to. Every time the prospect came up, internally or externally, it was like a brick wall slamming down over his mind.

He wasn't sure what it was. Rosie, maybe. The idea alone that she would grow up without her mother was troubling enough. He knew that he didn't want her growing up with a collage of different women in her life - it didn't feel right to him. No, he needed to be stable for her. Steady.

But it wasn't just that. He couldn't connect the dots, not now, in the middle of a busy street. Still, the answer floated somewhere in his headspace, though he couldn't grasp it. He'd mull it over later - at work maybe - if it was quiet.

I need to start waking up later. The whole morning had been a mess. It was Sherlock's fault, entirely, of course. If it wasn't for him, his skin, utterly stupidly smooth, way above him...

Christ. John slapped himself, hard.

—

Work dragged on, as per usual. The waiting list was long, far too long, leaving John no time to search his brain for what he'd been missing earlier.

At half five on the dot, he leapt from his chair and tidied his room up for tomorrow. His phone buzzed from inside his coat pocket and John, unsure what it could be, eyed it from the cupboard. It stopped for a minute or two then buzzed once again.

John exhaled loudly and stalked across the room, several possibilities crossing his mind: Sherlock with a new case, Sherlock with a Rosie crisis, Sherlock with a general anecdote, or his mother.

Instead, he saw: We still on 4 2nite? See u at the Stag if so - M

Then: Gonna get WRECKEDDD

Shit! John had forgotten about that. It was Friday, and he had agreed, in a slightly more motivated moment, to meet a couple of his friends for drinks. And because he'd forgotten (in the chaos of the morning, Sherlock) his wallet at home, he'd have to walk back to Baker Street before he went out.

He stood briefly with his head in his hands, willing any motivation to rise. He really could not picture himself drinking tonight, let alone with a gang of friends he hadn't seen in months. All he wanted was to head home and watch a Sean Connery film with Sherlock, with Rosie dozing off in his lap. That was his usual Friday routine. And he liked it.

Eventually, by twenty-to, the motivation came. He seized his coat off the hook and walked out of his room, waving bye to his receptionist as quickly as possible to avoid any conversation. She managed to slip out a barrage of questions about his evening, his weekend, his sister (how does she know about Harriet?) despite John shaking his head. He managed to make it out with not a single question answered.

He marched down the street in a manner that resembled his military training. It was fascinating, really, to see the ways those years abroad and in battle shaped him. Sometimes he was truly astounded with himself. Like the way a gun felt in his hand - like it was supposed to be there, like an extension of himself. There was a reason John was the one that carried the gun and Sherlock didn't. He much preferred target practice on Mrs Hudson's walls.

He reached Baker Street in half the time it had taken him this morning. His head was empty of the previous things that had bothered him - though he suspected that would change once he set foot inside. He had no idea what to expect every time he came home.

He only trusted Sherlock with Rosie if Mrs Hudson was in the building. Thankfully, he had created a work schedule that benefited them all and allowed John to work part-time. Working with Sherlock could probably sustain them all, but the consulting industry was temperamental, and John knew the importance of keeping a steady job.

It wasn't that he didn't trust Sherlock, he just got carried away with himself sometimes. For all his supposed hatred for humanity, he was pretty good with kids. John suspected it was because Sherlock acted like one himself most of the time - he knew what to say to them. Especially Rosie.

John was the opposite. He'd never been good with kids. His childhood seemed like a distant thing, something he had no doubt experienced, but a very, very long time ago. Rosie was different. John supposed that was fatherhood - it changed the person you thought you were, and replaced you with something completely different. An imposter. But a welcome one.

John knocked lightly and let himself in, the smell of home washing over him. He was greeted by Mrs Hudson, who was on her way down the stairs with a basket of folded laundry on her hip.

"Oh- I told you not to bother with our washing anymore." John sighed as he wiped his shoes on the welcome mat.

"Well, I don't see either of you washing it. How clean's that shirt? Give it to me when you're done with it."

"We- well, alright. If you insist..." John shrugged off his coat, "how have they been, by the way?"

"Lovely, fine. The things I hear him telling her though, John! Murder and all that. You need to give him a good talking to." She made a disgusted noise in her throat then pottered off to her flat, shutting the door curtly behind her.

John just shook his head. What made Mrs Hudson think Sherlock would listen to him, John wasn't at all sure. In fact, he'd love to hear her reasons.

As John ascended up the stairs, two familiar voices (one distinct, one babbling) became clearer. He stopped halfway and shut his eyes, trying to make out the conversation. He didn't know if they were aware of his presence yet, but he tried to be as quiet as possible.

"...quite short, isn't he?" then, "...obviously he's been off with her...needs to get sacked..."

Once John reached the top of the stairs, he could make out music wafting into the hall out the open door. Familiar music.

"Sherlock! You're letting Rosie watch Top Gun?"

Sherlock didn't turn to look at him, instead waving a hand in his general direction. "Yes, John. You said it was your favourite - I wondered if it might be hereditary."

John scoffed. Rosie turned from the TV, making a pleased noise at the sight of John by the door. She got up to greet him, steadying herself on the arm of John's armchair. Sherlock moved to help her but leant back again when she toddled off by herself.

"She seemed to be enjoying it. Not for me. A bit too..." he made an odd gesture in the air.

"I'm not sure what that," John jabbed at Sherlock, "means, but I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it."

Sherlock just hummed, unable to tear his gaze from the TV. His eyes lingered extensively on Tom Cruise's six pack.

John sighed, holding Rosie's pudgy hand as she looked up at him with wide blue eyes. "Any clients?"

Sherlock nodded, keeping an eye on the TV. "Yes, four."

John raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"Boring, boring," Sherlock stabbed at the air with a slender finger, "okay, and boring."

"What was the okay one?"

Sherlock pressed his fingers together. "Convinced her husband was a goat-man hybrid controlled by the devil, or something or other."

John was slightly stunned. "Well?"

"Carbon monoxide." Sherlock didn't elaborate.

John just widened his eyes and nodded, at a loss for words. Rosie reached up to him, wanting to be picked up, but John made no move to do so. He stared at the TV with his eyes glazed over. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You're going somewhere."

John snapped out of his daze. "Correct."

"You don't want to."

"Also correct."

"Let me guess," Sherlock stood up nimbly out of his armchair, "the pub with Mike."

John nodded, swiping a hand over his face. He had no idea how Sherlock could know, but he wasn't interested in finding out.

"And others." Sherlock frowned slightly, bending down to pick Rosie up. He held her somewhat awkwardly as though he still wasn't used to the gesture, but she didn't seem to mind. She squealed happily in his arms.

"Yeah, a couple guys I haven't seen since the wedding." John's voice cracked a little on the last word. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Well," Sherlock adjusted Rosie, "don't worry about us. It'll be an early night I think." He smiled at her.

John wasn't convinced. "Sure." He paused, looking down at his shoes. "It's not that. They'll ask about Mary, and..."

"And?"

"I really don't want to be hungover this weekend." John frowned at Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to be considering something. He set Rosie down, who wandered off to watch the end of Top Gun. "Well, I could come with you."

When John pulled a face, he continued quickly to make his point. "Make sure you only consume an acceptable amount, redirect conversation, et cetera..." He watched John's expression carefully.

John worried his lip. Usually, inviting Sherlock to any friendly alcohol-driven setting was not a great idea. Especially considering the last time they had gotten considerably drunk together, they'd ended up in a jail cell by the end of it. Even worse than that, the last time these guys had seen Sherlock was during his rather distracted best man's speech. John winced.

"Well," John began, "I'm not sure. What about Rosie?" He looked over at her. She was standing barely an inch away from the TV, mesmerised.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "We can put her to bed and Mrs Hudson can keep an eye on her. We won't be out all night." He smiled as though he had already won the conversation.

He had. "Alright, Sherlock. You win."

He turned to walk out the door, en route to his bedroom. He couldn't exactly show up to the pub in business-casual. He called behind him, "I don't even know why you want to go. You hate this sort of thing."

"Just looking out for you, John." Sherlock said in an odd tone.

"Hm," John hummed sceptically. He wasn't convinced, but he also didn't have the energy to make Sherlock explain himself. He knew he wouldn't be able to get the reason out of him.

John proceeded up the stairs and began getting himself ready. He picked his usual jeans-and-jumper ensemble and re-combed his hair. Sherlock, of course, decided to wear a suit of sorts - him and Mycroft had that in common, at least. He went for the slightly more casual choice of a partly unbuttoned white shirt, however, which was the closest he could ever get to the concept.

It took them all but twenty minutes, most of it being John contemplating messaging Mike about the new addition. He opened and closed messages about fifty times before deciding against it. Showing up unannounced with Sherlock was not John's smartest idea, but it was better than the alternative of having to deal with an awkward text conversation. No doubt Mike would try to wriggle out of it somehow.

"And you're sure you're okay with it?" John asked Mrs Hudson by the front door.

"Oh of course, don't worry," she assured them, "you boys deserve a date."

Sherlock smiled at the ground, but John intercepted. "It's not- oh, you know what? Never mind." He shook his head at nothing in particular.

Mrs Hudson's faint voice followed them out the door, muttering something about "live and let live". John decided to ignore it.

"I really don't know why you're doing this, Sherlock." John commented.

"Like I said, John," he looked straight ahead, "I'm just looking out for you. That's what friends do." He smiled a strange little smirk that John didn't miss.

"You're so..." John trailed off.

"Thoughtful?"

"Wasn't the word I was going to use, no." John weaved through the crowds, trying not to lose Sherlock.

Sherlock met him again and turned right, John jogging slightly to catch up with his long stride. A sign that indicated the pub, nestled between several terrace-style shops, jutted out from the wall. John stopped suddenly.

"How did you know where we were going?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, sweeping his coat behind him as he stepped into the entrance. He held the door open for John. "After you."

John mumbled his thanks. He braced himself for the sight of his friends, no doubt at the bar, and their reactions to his companion. Once they caught sight of John, they all whooped, moving to greet him with their arms out. Their celebrations faded when their gaze rested upon Sherlock, who stood assertively behind John with his hands in his pockets.

John sighed. The next few hours would be interesting.

—

"So you're telling me you don't know who the queen is?"

Everyone was at least four beers deep now. The pub had gotten busier with each passing hour, and the five of them were piled in a booth, elbow to elbow.

The whole place had a warm glow, the ceiling strung with exposed bulbs and bunting. The feel of the decor was very clearly industrial, every wall being exposed brick or faded red wallpaper. It smelled like overpriced beer.

"No," Sherlock replied to one of John's friends who sat opposite. John was squeezed between Sherlock and another one of his pals. John could feel every word that Sherlock said like a deep vibration, and every breath he took warmed his neck.

John was finding it very hard to concentrate.

Especially because Sherlock's leg was pressed right up against his own, and John couldn't bear to move an inch.

"How can you not know that?" John's friend looked around, baffled, his beer sloshing onto the table. John peeled his coat off the already sticky surface to avoid the backsplash.

"It's not important," Sherlock replied.

The whole evening had gone far better than Sherlock had anticipated - each of his friends had taken a great interest in Sherlock's work, all barraging him with questions. They, of course, also had questions about the wedding and Sherlock's speech, but he had skilfully diverted the conversation. Whether that was for John's sake or his own, John wasn't sure.

In fact, John had barely gotten a word in edgewise. He was grateful for that, though - the beer had made him drowsy rather than buzzed. He had to splash his face a couple times in the bathroom to keep himself awake. Sherlock seemed to notice this.

Sherlock nudged John's foot under the table. John, who had his face in his hand and his eyes half-closed, looked up to see everyone staring at him.

"Oh, sorry," he blinked. "What was that?"

"I said," his friend opposite smirked, "are you seeing anyone?"

John paused, a little stunned. He had no idea when this topic had arisen. Sherlock cleared his throat. "They asked me, but I told them I'm married to my work."

His friends laughed at that, which Sherlock looked quite confused about. "Not at the moment, no," was all John could manage.

John noticed a crease between Sherlock's brows. He didn't say anything, though.

"Really?" Another friend joined in, "have you tried any apps? I met my..."

Their voices dissipated into the noise of the pub. John was barely able to concentrate on the conversation anymore. He could feel Sherlock's body heat rolling off him in waves, warming his whole right side. It made him even more tired. It took all his strength not to close his eyes and let his head fall.

Sherlock made the whole table explode into another round of booming laughter, jolting John awake. He groaned and swiped a hand over his face. No one seemed to take note. Except from Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up suddenly, palms pressed on the table. He thrust a handful of coins onto the table from his coat pocket. "Another round gents?"

They all cheered in response, apart from John. Sherlock seized him under the arm and excused them both to the bar. He swept up the coins and thrust them into John's hand as he dragged him along. John was a little dazed.

"Feeling sleepy?" Sherlock said sarcastically, holding John's shoulder.

"Yes, Sherlock, I am," John looked around at the crowd. He could barely hear Sherlock's voice. "Why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing all this?" John clenched his jaw. "Switching on the charm?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock said.

"Yes you do," John mumbled. "You hate going out. Every time I introduce you to a friend you insist on making sure they never want to see me again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. John saw this as a sign to carry on. "And suddenly you're cracking jokes? Trying to impress them?"

He was cut off by Sherlock ordering another round of beers. He shouted over the noise at the bartender. John waited, mouth in a tight line, his first clenched on the bar.

When he was done, John continued. "So what's this about, huh?"

"You're exhausted, John," Sherlock dragged his eyes to meet him. "Imagining things."

"You're kidding, right?" John scoffed. "No, that's not it, is it?" John searched Sherlock's face.

"If you must know! It's for a case," Sherlock hissed through his teeth. He picked up two glasses of beer, gesturing at John to get the others.

John didn't budge. He stood, frozen. "Unbelievable," he watched Sherlock with his mouth agape. "You could have told me. Could have said something."

"Like what?"

"Something!" John pinched his nose bridge. "You barged in on my one meeting with my friends in months! Years! For a case!"

"You didn't want to go anyway. I was doing you a favour." Sherlock moved to walk back to the table, but John grabbed him by his coat sleeve and dragged him back.

"So what is it, then? Huh? Tell me, is one of them a murderer?" He said sarcastically, but his voice held no jest.

Sherlock inclined his head. "Maybe. I'd hardly call them your friends, though, certainly not two out of the three..."

"You know what?" John was barely inches from his face now. He unknowingly still had a fistful of Sherlock's coat. "I don't want to hear it. Keep your deductions to yourself, Sherlock Holmes."

John let him go. Sherlock seemed to be at a loss for words. He was still holding the beer glasses, though a considerable amount was running down his arms.

John spoke for him. "I'm going home." He grabbed a beer glass out of  Sherlock's hand and raised it to his mouth, downing it in four gulps. He wiped his mouth with his coat sleeve, eyes shining. "Take your time."

Sherlock called his name as John left the pub, weaving through the groups of people. He let the door slam behind him. The night swallowed him whole as he stomped down the street, his shoes slapping against the pavement.

He had no idea what time it was. The street was empty. He looked up at the black sky, stars like white-hot pinpricks scattered sparsely across. He shrunk back into his jacket once the cold bit into him again.

He could see his breath fogging the air before him, but he couldn't help himself from gasping slightly. He just couldn't believe Sherlock's nerve. He knew that his sudden interest in socialising was odd, anyway. It all seemed to make sense now.

John wasn't even sure why he was surprised. It wasn't as if this was the first time Sherlock had done something like this. Taking off in the night, leaving mid conversation, disappearing for hours with no explanation… the subconscious list went on.

It seemed to be fading as of recently. Sherlock, a man who detested routine, had settled in to 'family' life well. But John couldn't help but notice the way his leg bounced constantly, or the increasing quantity of stabbed paper on the mantelpiece.

John felt guilty, in a way. Sometimes, at night, when he couldn't sleep, his mind wandered to a time when it was just the two of them. Never sleeping, solving one case after the next, leaving whenever.

John had reassured Sherlock that he could still solve cases without him. Sherlock said that was ridiculous. He tried that before, remember? And it ended the same way it had began: Holmes and Watson.

John huffed into his hands in an attempt to warm them. It barely worked. All he could hear was the wind hissing past his ears and his footfall on the pavement.

Until they were accompanied by something else. Someone else's steps, falling in time with his own. John ignored them for a while, his mind still racing with thoughts of Sherlock.

They grew closer, barely six feet behind him now. John glanced back but only saw a figure dressed in black, the hood of their parka pulled over their head. They seemed to be staring at the floor behind John's feet.

John move aside to let them pass despite half the pavement being empty. They didn't make any attempt to move or quicken their pace. John felt an increasing uneasiness in his stomach.

John decided to take a random turn off the main road, wanting to see if the man followed. There was no clear way back to Baker Street now unless he went past the river.

His bad feeling only got worse when John reached a break in the houses. An alleyway bathed in darkness stretched to his left. John was about to break into a run when the person grabbed him by the shoulder and thrust him into the alley.

John slammed against a brick wall. "Hey! The fuck are you doing?" His voice echoed across the empty street, but the person slapped a hand over his mouth.

John couldn't make out the person's face. Their hood cast a shadow over their features, making them indistinguishable. John mumbled, yelling, against his palm, readying his leg to kick out.

"Do you know Mary Watson?" The person hissed. John froze. A gun had been removed from his pocket and was pressed against John's temple. He flattened his hands on the wall.

They threw back their hood. The person holding the gun to John was a young man, barely twenty-five, with a youthful face. His eyes, however, held something dark. He stared at John with a bitter distaste.

The man moved his hand slightly. John, far too terrified to speak, kept his mouth clamped firmly shut.

The man didn't like that. "I said," he pressed the gun further, bruising John's face, "do you know Mary Watson?" He brought his face so close John could feel his breath.

"She's my wife." John gasped. He fought to get the words out, before realising his mistake.

The man brought a hard fist to the side of John's face. John spluttered, pain clouding his vision. What did this guy want with him? With Mary? This wasn't just a mugging. That punch was personal.

He watched as John rose back up to his full height. John clenched his fist, prepared to throw back his own punch. The man was too quick - he kicked out John's legs from underneath him, causing John to whack his head on the concrete below.

Spots danced across his eyes. He groaned, barely registering the next few kicks to his gut. The man spat out assaults. "It was your bitch wife that did it! I'll kill her!"

John scrambled against the wall. "What do you-" he gasped, trying to rise to his feet, "want?" He finally choked out.

The man smirked. He didn't rush to kick John back down. "Does AGRA ring any bells? Or did she keep that one quiet?"

Just the acronym made John's stomach drop. He hadn't heard that in a very long time. And the emotions he already associated with it, even without the beatings, were bad enough.

"Your wife betrayed them. Betrayed my dad. He was tortured to death because of her."

Through the pain, John fought to recall anything Mary might have said to him before about this. The process was painful enough. Though, there were so many secrets, so many lies, that John couldn't even be sure if her stories were true.

"No? Nothing?" The man drew closer now. The gun was still in his hand, dangling from his palm.

John waited. Slowly, he rose to his feet, using the wall behind him as support. The man just chuckled to himself. This was his first mistake.

John flexed his fingers. Then, rather unexpectedly, his fist connected with the man's jaw. He staggered back but regained his footing, eyes misted with abhorrence. He ran to hold John against the wall, but he moved in time, instead twisting round to grab the man by the back of his neck.

He was strong, but John was stronger. John held him there, cheek against the brick wall. "You're insane."

"You must be," the man spat, "if you married her."

John couldn't help himself. He pulled the man's head back, and smashed it into the wall. He cried out, trying to reach for John, but he couldn't. John pinned his hands behind his back.

"I don't even know who you are!" John yelled in his ear. His vision was hazy, all he could feel was hatred. Hatred for this stranger, who somehow knew all about him, all about his wife. Who wasn't even alive.

"You will," he hissed. "Ask Mary about me. Ask her about my father."

John clenched his jaw. "She's dead."

The man's eyes widened, his black irises twinkling. “Ha!" He gasped.

John tightened his grip on his neck, but the man only winced. He grit his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter. Everything that had been filling his thoughts was gone now - all he could see, all he could register, was this disgusting man.

John wanted to kill him.

The man grinned with bloody teeth. “Though, I wish I could’ve done it myself.”

Something inside of John snapped. His breathing quickened, heart thrumming in his ear.

The man’s head met the wall. Again. And again.

The noises he made filled John’s ears - he hadn’t known, then, that he’d hear those screams for the rest of his life.

John didn’t stop. Not when the wall was splattered with blood, not when a trickle of the slick red stuff tumbled down his face, staining John’s coat. Not when the man went limp in his hand.

John’s chest heaved; his head buzzed with static so loud he couldn’t hear the words the man was spluttering out. John fought to focus, to read his lips:

“I’ll say hi to her in Hell.”

John let go. The man slumped into a bloody heap on the floor, breathing rattling breaths. John tried not to look at what he had done - the man’s nose was a crimson pulp on his fractured face. The wall was stained with John’s actions. His choices.

John once said to Sherlock, a long, long time ago: “I’ve seen men die before. I thought I’d never sleep again—“

John raised his foot, and brought it down, hard, on the man’s face. The heavy breathing ceased. His eyes slowly glazed over, gaping at the scattered-salt sky. John had seen this look before. More times than he could count.

“—I’ll sleep fine tonight.”

END OF CHPT. i

[sparkletastic-cookiedough]

Instead of working on any of my drafts or wips or anything productive, I wrote a little snippet of Batgirl being isekaid into the BNHA universe.

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…”

Barbara Gordon peeked open her eyes and looked up in the mirror. No change. She sighed.

Three hours after waking up in a different world, and she was no closer to figuring out how to get back home.

This strange… alternate dimension… that she was in was nothing like the streets of Gotham. For one, Gotham didn’t even exist in this universe! Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman? None of them existed. There were heroes in this universe that she had never heard of before, but were way less cool than Batman. (But to judge everything on a Batman-metric of coolness? Hardly anyone could compare).

And it was an alternate dimension, given that superpowers were the norm for 98% of the population. Which meant supervillains. If living in Gotham had taught her anything, it’s that if anyone were to get super strength, it’s going to be a criminal. And there were a lot of villains, if the number of heroes was anything to go by. Heroes were apparently a legal entity in this universe. Like, you could go to super hero schools and learn how to be a super hero. Cool.

On the other hand, vigilantism was frowned upon. Heroes were certified by the government. Barbara hadn’t been here long enough to decipher whether that was a good thing or not. Governments having super soldiers? Not always a good thing.

It was all fascinating, but Barbara just wanted to return home. Back to Gotham, listening to the lullaby of police sirens, the sweet smell of smog in the air, where shadows seem to lurk a little bit darker.

Plus, she had responsibilities as Batgirl that she had to keep up.

She ran her fingers through her now curly mess of green hair. If the universal-travel wasn’t enough, it had to be made worse by being in a different body too. Izuku Midoriya, just about to turn 14, and ‘quirkless’ based on his ID card.

Barbara crossed “There’s no place like home” off her list. She didn’t have any ruby slippers, but she had still hoped it would work. It was the last of the plans that didn’t require searching for specific people or magical items.

But Barbara could admit she was out of her depth. This couldn’t be a body swap- it was a whole other universe. She didn’t know how she had gotten here in the first place.

She’d need help to get back to Gotham.

She heard a knock at her door. “Izuku,” a feminine voice said, “are you alright?”

Barbara thought things through for a moment. She needed assistance. She likely wouldn’t be able to lie to someone who knew Izuku very well for long.

Barbara opened the door. “Actually, we need to talk.”

—————

How are you supposed to react when your son explains that they’re inhabiting someone else’s body and are actually a teenage girl from another universe?

Inko Midoriya wasn’t sure. But when she looked into those green eyes, she knew that Izuku (not Izuku) was being sincere.

This person certainly wasn’t Izuku. Izuku pulled at his hands, this person pulled at their hair. Izuku would talk animatedly about quirks, slowly drifting into muttered questions and theories. This person didn’t have the same understanding of quirks. Izuku would speak reverently about All Might. This person did not.

So Inko listened politely. Then she sat beside Not-Izuku, or Barbara as she called herself, as they researched examples of Body Switching, Consciousness Manipulation, or Memory Manipulation quirks that either of them could think of. Barbara adjusted Inko’s computer to hide her trace while researching online.

The situation didn’t quite match descriptions of quirk related incidents. Meaning it could have come from Barbara’s universe.

Barbara had created a list of possible solutions, based on prior situations that had body or universe swapping in them.

1. Make contact with Batgirl and unmask her.

2. Fly around the world at incredibly high speeds

3. Complete tasks related to good deeds or heroism.

4. Find the person/ item that caused this problem and use it to fix it.

5. Wait it out

Barbara explained all of the pros and cons to each solutions, outlining potential problems, and potential steps to complete each one.

Inko was distressed at the idea that her precious son was likely in another universe, and had swapped with Barbara Gordon. But there wasn’t much she could do about it.

So she helped Barbara plan, praying that Izuku would return to his original universe safe.

[thetorturerwrites]

Lamb Ch 15 - Dathomir

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol​​. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

A/N: Well hi there. It looks like this beast still lives. I am unendingly grateful for your patience.

C/N: None

---

Fourth man bled to life. At the fracturing of all that was, heartbreak and misery begat a new age. From the ashes of the gods came the greatest of Grandfather Sky Walker’s gifts. Mercy.

The world was red.

The red that is death.

But you did not want to leave him…

From dark déjà vu, you jolted awake. This time, however, it was not to the eternal gloaming of Hosnia but a jagged terrain cast pallid and somber. Pain radiated from the middle of your body, but you forced yourself to sit and then stand. You took stock, just as so many times before. Fingers and toes moved. Your back stretched and arched, though your muscles groaned for it. Whole…

…Mostly.

You looked around, finding only gray-scale badlands, a nothing landscape that boasted no defining features at all save a black cobblestone path stretching in the cardinal directions for as far as your dry eyes could see, though there was none here to walk the road. Panic gurgled. You could hear the bubbles in your throat because the quiet here was absolute, so absolute as to be terrifying. Nothing here lived. Even the air was dead, thick as smog.

Not for the first time since you crossed The Demarcation, you wondered what this meant for you. Devoid of hope was a feeling with which you were intimately familiar, but even the last time you’d felt its clutch, you’d been nestled safe within the rocky honeycomb Kylo made into his home. You winced at the very thought of him, lips trembling as you fought not to fall into all you’d surely lost. Closing your eyes, you let yourself wallow in the days gone by. Somehow, it filled you with something new - a determination to get back there to him.

“Over here, beloved.”

Your head swiveled so quickly you threw yourself into dizziness. You knew that voice, but it was off, just the wrong side of memory. How was that voice - how was she here  ?  Was she here at all? Or had you descended so fast into paranoid madness?

Turning, you found her seated upon a stack of round, flat rocks. Rocks that had not existed a moment ago. Amazed, you fell over yourself getting to her, filled with equal parts relief and dread. The back of your head buzzed that this wasn’t right, but she had been your salvation too many times before for you to forsake the chance to bury your woes in her arms again. You ran as best your bruised body could carry you and collapsed at her feet. The swish of purple fabric she so loved, the smell of flowers that soothed the yearning in your heart. You erupted into great heaving sobs because she was all you'd wanted since the day you dreamed the first dream of your planet's destruction. Her weathered hand cupped your cheek, and she smiled. Great Father, she smiled, and you felt young again, free and untroubled. 

She was everything you remembered. You could face anything - any darkness, any fresh hell - so long as she was here, even if you did not know where here actually was. You pressed kisses into the wrinkled palm, willing your mind to accept this. Don’t break it. Don’t see the cracks. Your stomach, though, lurched. If she was here, and you were here, that made here…

"Nona? It's you, yes?" 

But she was not simply she, and when you took a breath, a pause, you saw it. There was a sheen to her face, an inky ring around the irises that glowed in a way so strikingly similar to eyes you couldn't bear to picture. Those kind eyes you'd known since childhood had a depth to them now that gave you pause. Had it always been there? A vastness of knowing you’d never noted before. Were you only now old enough to see? 

"Yes," she said, "And no." 

Her voice was richer. No, that wasn’t it. Her voice wasn’t… solitary. Its timbre layered one voice upon another - one you remembered, and one that made your very cells pulsate. You knew confusion had taken over your features, changed wholly by anxiousness because the details of your most treasured relative were so, so close to right. But where her back spent a decade crooked, she sat upright without difficulty, and though her hair was as silver as it had ever been, it floated around her shoulders, fuller and star-touched like she'd swum in waters made of light. 

Carefully, committed to the facade, not-Nona unfolded herself from the precarious perch and stood. In your lifetime, her soft body sagged over, keeping her at eye level with you. Now, she stood straight, a full head taller than you. She bent forward to help you up, and finally, the feminine facade fell away. It was his hand that clasped yours and drew you to your feet once more. 

“You…”

A novel mix of horror and wonder churned in your heart. You dropped his hand as though it burned like ice, hissing and taking a step back. You refused to accept this truth, a stubborn line drawn in the sand because this was too far into the territory of gods. You vaulted from one insane explanation to another to explain the predicament - demon, hallucination, death fugue, Solo in disguise. Anything but what you knew to be the answer, but it was futile.

Silently, he waited, allowing you the time to argue with yourself. In response to your scowl, he smiled, but where it should have offered comfort, it made you angry. His stillness made you angry. His face, the way he clasped his hands behind his back patiently, the twitch of his mouth inside of the white goatee - all of it infuriated you because what you wanted - what you deserved - was the face he'd stolen.

That was the truth. The face you deserved to see, the one you’d endured so much to find in whatever version of peace she achieved, did not stare back at you. 

"Did you wear her face for me, Great Grandfather? Or are you cruel like your son?" 

You didn’t recognize your voice when it came. Lower and more indignant than ever before, it frothed in your throat, sizzling like acid. Beyond frustrated, ready to murder at the next contrary word said, you curled your fingers into fists, nails gouging at the tender flesh of your palms. The real Nona would roll over in her grave if she knew you spoke to the Maker of Heaven in such a manner, regardless of how deserving he was.

He, however, said nothing in response to your barb, though his eyes narrowed slightly. He knew which son you meant, which monster you compared him to, and he did not like it, though you doubted you were meant to know it.

“What is this place? Am I finally dead?”

If you asked him questions, maybe you wouldn’t unleash the years of pain you’d squashed into the bottle that was your gullet. Maybe you wouldn’t gouge his eyes out or fashion a weapon of your own tibia just to find out if he had a heart to stab. Somewhere in the middle of that tidal wave of rage, though, it occurred to you that you were doing the exact thing you’d done to Kylo daily since the moment you’d met him. The thought of your twilight god strangled the breath out of you, heartbreak shooting up into your temples and switching on the faucet behind your eyes. Your palm instinctively sought your belly, brow furrowing as fresh grief took root.

Wherever you were, Kylo was not, and you felt untethered from reality without him as your foundation.

Sky Walker cautiously pulled you closer, holding your shoulder to the center of his chest. You were so entrenched in your distress you allowed it. Who knew how long he’d give you this solace before disappearing to do whatever it is supreme beings do to pass the years.

“So many questions.” He chuckled, softly and obviously not meant maliciously. This time, you forced yourself to not flinch away. "I knew it would draw him like a moth to flame." 

Coaxing you to walk, he led you along the eerie road.

“No, you are not dead. This is Dathomir. Many, the nuns for example, think that the demarcation is the line of Balance, but Dathomir is the true convergence of light and dark, life and death.”

He spoke as though this was a lesson and you his pupil. He gestured around as though he showed you the secrets behind the curtain, but you keyed on the only detail that mattered.

"You knew? Knew what?" 

Your thoughts jumped so erratically that it was hard to fix one in the center of your mind long enough to spit it out. He’d known you would draw Kylo out? Had he sent you? Did Nona know? Your eyes must have been round as moons because when he looked back at you, Sky Walker chuckled again and patted your shoulder. But rather than offer you anything of value, he continued his lesson as though it was the only thing that mattered. 

“He brings the dead here, and they decide if they will be born again or return to the chaos some other way to rest.”

Blinking rapidly, you decided that the only way to get the answers you wanted was to play along, play his game.

“Some other way?” 

His face lit up at your sudden participation. His eyes twinkled, and his lips twitched in suppressed delight, an animation you recognized as a trait of Kylo's. You'd often wondered if they were born in Sky Walker's image, and the similarity in expression seemed testament to that fact. But where Kylo and Solo wore haloes of ebony, Sky Walker was adorned by an almost iridescent crown, a glow to his hair that stretched down into his beard as well. The smattering of freckles across his nose winked like stars, and though he was weathered, it was impossible to discern his age or even his general age range. His body was old, his face wizened, but he stood true, and he had no limp as he walked.

“There is no energy that exists that is ever wasted. The galaxy is one, chaos and peace, conscious and not. Everything that dies can live again, though awareness is not a requirement. Flowers are alive, but they are not mindful of it. Those choices are made here.”

You glanced around, seeing not a single soul, and tried to decide if Sky Walker was a liar or a lunatic. Pursing your lips, you tried your luck once more since this particular deity didn't seem to hate questions as much as your own. You pushed the thought of Kylo away because, if you meant to get back to him, you had to figure out where the fuck you actually were.

“Where is Dathomir? Hosnia is a physical place. Chandrila, too. But I’ve never heard of Dathomir nor where it could be located.”

Sky Walker smiled, clearly pleased with your logic. Leaning towards you, he outstretched his aged hand towards what a sable sky, shimmering to produce a picture of a place you knew well. High, vaulted ceilings. Stars trapped to dance inside wall sconces. A magnificent throne made of stone. You knew it all - only it was backwards. The answer clacked in your head like thunder, and you gripped the man’s shoulder probably far harder than you should.

“We’re inside the mirror!”

He laughed, more vigorous than his earlier chortle. The sound drew your full gaze, and you canted your head slightly to one side at the new puzzle he presented. His voice was heartier than before, if such a thing were possible, and he looked younger, too. The patchy goatee from only moments ago was fuller, more perfectly framing his filling-in face. Was it possible that he was de-aging? Is that a thing gods do?

“Mm. You may think of it that way if you wish. The obelisk is a doorway to Dathomir, yes. It lets me…” His face clouded, and he looked away. “It lets me be close to him without interfering.”

It was only one insignificant detail, a kernel of knowledge that should have skipped away like a pebble on smooth water, but it stuck in your craw. Your brow knit, and you paused. Sky Walker did not meet your eye, which only emboldened you to speak freely. You had literally nothing left to lose. What more could he take from you?

“Are you telling me you’ve been here the entire time? In Dathomir, whose doorway is in the fucking throne room?”

Your voice rose to a shout by the end of your inquiry, and Sky Walker’s face gave you all the answer you needed. Maybe it should have produced another emotion - awe, perhaps, at knowing a different world lay on the other side of the smooth obsidian - but the anger you’d momentarily misplaced came screaming back to the surface, and you were fresh out of reasons to be reserved.

“You’ve watched him search for you for generations. You watched him hurt? Watched him grow more and more weary? And you did nothing! You’ve let him stretch death across the galaxy as he hunted you, and you hid here like a coward in the goddamn throne room?!”

You beat your own thigh to keep from outright punching the Allfather. What right did he have to rest so easily while his son suffered? 

“You left him! Alone and lonely, you left him to himself for all this time!”

Where your shrieks should have produced echoes, there was only a muted thud. The vacuum of Dathomir sucked up the emotion, leaving a lingering hollowness you felt in your joints. Doorway or not, your anger battered against the inside of the mirror but could go no further.

“I did.” 

Sky Walker nodded somberly, pulling his shoulders back to stand fully upright. His chest expanded wide as he drew in a great breath, growing into his prime as he seemed to steel himself against your ire. He clasped now muscular hands behind his back and faced you. You felt compelled to shrink before this new version of him, but you forced yourself to keep the ground you’d gained. This was no old man. This was the Leader of Heaven - solid, capable, resolute - but you were a perpetual idiot, as Kylo enjoyed telling you, and you’d be damned to nothing if you let this man skate over his sins.

“Of my sons, Kylo has always been the stronger. Solo is impulsive, prone to hubris. He lacks scope, you see. But Kylo…” The Great Father smiled, clear fondness softening the lines of his face. “Kylo sees all. He saw even what I did not.”

“Impulsive?” You screeched and threw a hand out, motioning to what he’d clearly seen. “Try murderous? Genocidal? He wants to blot out the sun and replace it with himself. That is a bit more than hubris, and you damn well know it.”

Sky Walker sighed and turned towards the skyline mosaic more fully. You followed his line of sight as the picture shifted to show your body slumped against the base of the obelisk and Kylo mid-roar with half of Hosnia blasted into oblivion. You were the epitome of powerless, forced to watch as the picture moved, turning from snapshot to live reel in a blink.

It was pure agony.

Horrified, you watched as Kylo gripped his brother by the collar, barely acknowledging that half of the man’s head was gone. With a haggard face devoid of everything but hate, he gripped a bloody collar with bloodier hands and dragged Solo to The Demarcation and threw him out, purging the land he’d so meticulously curated of Solo’s uninvited pandemonium.

When Kylo returned to stand over you, jaw ticking and hands balled into fists, tears rolled in fat tracks down your dirty cheeks. You lifted a hand as though you could reach for him, but recoiled and turned away. Instinctively, you knew there was no going back. Dathomir offered only one choice - rebirth. Regardless of what form it took, you would re-enter the cycle and be separated from him forever.

“I can’t do this.” 

You doubled over, crumpling to the ground amidst such sorrow you could not even sob. The tears flowed unchecked, but your chest and throat could produce no sound, no heaving. This was shock, absolute loss, and utter, utter failure. You’d only just told him you’d take up his place, but you never got the chance to even try. 

“I’m not like them,” you wheezed, lifting pleading eyes upon the creature you suspected set all of this in motion. “Not like you. This is too much. Please…” Admitting defeat, you bowed your head, a husk of the fiery fighter you’d only just been. “Let me go.”

Sky Walker came to crouch beside you, gently placing his hands on your shoulder. Part of you hated that his nearness was peaceful, but you had no battle left to give this war. 

“Something happened with you, sapling. Something I did not expect, but that offers us the opportunity to reshape the cosmos and, maybe, unbreak his heart.”

Your eyes throbbed - both from crying and trying to not - but you lifted them to his face and gaped in surprise. He positively was growing younger by the moment, for now he looked like a young man in his twenties, robust with full cheeks, red tinting his beard, and clear, calculating eyes.

He tipped his face up again, enticing your gaze to follow his to the new shapes swirling and coalescing. It was Kylo reaping, red vapor trailing after him, and you, curled up alongside a dying boy, whispering your prayer hoping to calm his panic. You remembered that day and the fantastic lack of control you had over your body at that moment. Even knowing the danger, even knowing Kylo might tear you to pieces for disobeying, you were compelled to do everything in your power to soothe fears you understood all too well.

“Look there,” he gestured to another patch of sky and a new chapter to the story.

Beyond that boy stood two men, not much older than the lad on the ground. Spontaneously, you knew they were his brothers, and they whispered the invocation in exactly the right pace with you. Each cried, but they did not try to shake their brother back to life. It was as though they could see you lying next to him, and they feared interrupting. They finished the prayer with you, knelt down beside their now lifeless loved one, and whispered thanks…to you.

Sky Walker smiled at your astonishment.

“They pray to you now, you know. They and their wives. Their mother. Their children. Everyone to whom those brothers shared the tale of Mother Death, who comforts the dying before her consort, The Ren, comes to claim them. Those whom he left untouched; they speak of you."

If your jaw were once attached to the rest of your face, you’d never have known it. Your mind tried to smash these mismatched shards together, but it was too much.

“No. That’s absurd.”

Sky Walker shrugged, dropping to sit next to you, cross-legged and lanky. His clothes sagged around his slender limbs, and his hair hung shaggy around a smiling, carefree face. It occurred to you that you were running out of time to ask him what the hell was happening to him. He was a teenager now, no older than the dying boy on the hill and unbecoming with every second that passed.

“Maybe,” his adolescent voice cracked - half youth, half rich - the blending of boy and man. “But there was a time when nobody prayed to my sons, and then one day, they did. Faith changes.”

He touched your shoulder again, and his boyish features were so earnest you nearly wept.

“And now, faith includes you.”

You blinked. And blinked again. And again. Because none of this made any sense. You searched Sky Walker’s face for answers he didn’t seem rushed to provide and found it curious to be seeking galaxy-sized guidance from a child.

“What does that mean?”

“It means the Second Age of Gods is here,” he grinned as though he’d single handedly caught it in his own hands, like a fish. But when you only stared at him, he shook his head as though you were the daft one and he wasn’t talking foolishness. “It means that if you agree, you will take my place.”

He was practically giddy, and you could do nothing - absofuckinglutely nothing - but stare at this genuinely unhinged almighty. But if you did this, maybe that meant you’d get to go back to Hosnia, to Kylo. The possibility made your palms itch, and even in this temperate atmosphere, your neck sweat.

“Agree? Agree to what?”

“Balance is not so simple as light and dark, is it?” The voice talking to you now was eerily young, a ghost-child who knew untold secrets but died far too early. It was haunting. “It took me too long to learn that, but it is too great of a burden, is it not? We must stretch it throughout space and time.”

The Great Father was now desert brown hair hanging over clear blue eyes, chubby cheeks tinted rose at the high points. He was grabby fingers curled into your sleeve and the echo of forever hidden in his child’s tone. He was almost…almost undone.

“You will bear him many children, sapling, and each one will carry a piece of me - no you! That is the agreement. You will help him with his task, and care for the dying until he can put down the saber. And we will bless the cosmos with a new generation of caretakers.”

What he offered was beyond comprehension. It was massive and complex. You had a million questions, but there was no more time. You understood that as Sky Walker de-aged, that was the clock on your decision. You had this moment - and this moment only to choose. You could choose to re-enter the fray of life, try to find peace as something simpler and let Sky Walker devolve into nothing. Or, you could choose a different chaos - one that was frenetic in the most exciting way and came with intimacy you’d never dreamed possible and kisses that held the very meaning of life, the point of everything.

Your spirit suddenly felt too big for your body, and you thought for sure you’d combust or learn to fly any second because there truly was no choice at all, was there? All he had to do was tell you where to leap.

“What do I do?”

[nemo-of-house-hamartia]

In The Heat of the Moment Chapter 4 - Homeward Bound

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3

Words Count: 7981

Warning: None

Dorothea

January 1868, London

The first thing that hit Dorothea was the smell: abhorrent, a stinging stench, almost choking in its miasmic pungency.

Phillip had warned her that it would have been a shockful amalgamation of foul odors, but at first, the young woman had deemed her cousin, with his penchant for the dramatic, exaggerated in his assertion.

Now, as she wrinkled her nose with barely masked revulsion painted on her otherwise delicate features, she found herself thinking that, mayhaps, her cousin hadn’t been dramatic at all.

Her sensitive nose had grown so accustomed to the fresh clean air of the surrounding forest of Sturefors, in Sweden -her mother’s ancestral home- that breathing the less-than-salubre air of London felt like a slap to her face and an execrable invasion of her nostrils.

Making sure no one would hear her, Dorothea allowed herself to let out a sigh, barely audible, yet lingering like haze in the cold winter air.

She had known she would miss Sturefors Slott the moment she had set foot in the carriage her mother’s family had prepared for her to bring her to the southern part of the country, where she had taken the ship that had brought her back to London.

Sturefors Slott -despite its name- wasn’t truly a castle as they intended them back in her beloved England, with their towering stone walls and turrets, built during the early middle age to protect the Lords and their people from the barbaric invasion; rather, it was a Hall, elegant and refined if modest in its appearance, nestled within the soft embrace of an endless vastness of evergreens and a clear lake, just outside the door.

Closing her eyes, she wished she could fool herself that it was not smog what she was breathing, but the fresh tingly scent of crushed pine needles and musk and balmy resin.

As she allowed herself to glide through her most recent memories, all she could see was the residence’s walls painted in a soft pale shade of yellow and white, in a way that made them resemble one of those Austrian pastries her father had always been fond of ever since she could remember; she could see the small artificial pond, sitting right in the middle of the small baroque garden, where waterlilies grew aplenty and birds would come and swim at their leisure; the orangery and hothouse, where she had spent countless afternoons reading during those chill summers, surrounded as she was by the delicate perfume of the flowers in bloom.

The complete peace that place provided was one of the reason why it was always guaranteed that she would be found there; but alongside that motive, also the fickle hope that, somehow, being surrounded by all those familiar scents might help quell the melancholy and yearning, she oftentimes felt in her young heart, to see her family soon.

As she raised her eyes to glance at a ferry passing by them- one belonging to her father’s commercial fleet, judging by the men clad in red that shouted on the decks, and the wolf painted on the funnel spewing out a dark, choking smoke- she wondered at what price that melancholy was finally about to be abated.

In Sturefors, she had known a freedom she never felt while in London, with her mother’s protective wings always looming over her and her father’s ever watchful gaze constantly following her, even while not being physically there; like Eva with the Apple in the Garden of Eden, she had tasted the fruit of a far greater independence she had ever dared to dream, a complete sovereignty of her own self she had never experienced ever since she had memory.

“Those days are long over, Dora. You are back home, now,” she thought to herself, sighing again, before straightening her back and tilting her chin up, as she gazed upon the industrial city opening up in front of her, studying at it with uncertain eyes.

Her home.

London, the Centre of the World.

The city had changed ever since she had left it in 1865, almost three years prior: cluster upon cluster of new factories had been built in the industrial neighbours, and even from the river she could see the enormous luminous signs bearing her family’s name or her father’s own wolf crest black on the walls of red bricks, the eyeless predator towering over the buildings that faced the Thames, its watchful gaze the same her sire’s.

So many changes.

So much to get used to once again.

As she let her eyes wander, she felt a small leap of reassurance in her heart when she caught a glimpse of the city’s historical landmarks, the towering height of Big Ben, his belfry raising high against the late afternoon sky, a familiar sight amidst all that chaotic maze of buildings veiled by a haze of smog.

This was indeed her home.

“And yet,” she thought, calling upon all her considerable will not to let the tears that prickled her eyes run free on her cheeks, “It does not feel like it any longer.”

With a subtle gesture of her hand, she tried to brush away the tears away, before anyone could notice, and trying to compose herself, she let her gaze wander around some more and touch the buildings at the side of the river.

She looked at the tiles and doors and windows, bringing her eyes up where the roofs and chimneys sat and let out their nauseous smoke that rendered the air impossible to breathe.

All of sudden, she stopped in her wandering, feeling that her gaze had been returned.

And it had been.

Someone - at that distance a mere silhouette- had moved with switf movement from behind the cover of red bricks, and without hesitation, had jumped from a chimney to the other, graceful and secure in their movement like a cat.

She narrowed her eyes, bringing one gloved hand to her forehead to shield herself from the last rays of setting sun, trying to make sense of what she thought she saw.

Could it have been a trick of the light or the fatigue of the journey that was finally starting to take over her mind?

No.

She was sure of that.

“Ditte, vad hände? Det ser nästan ut som om du har sett ett spöke!”(Ditte, what happened?It almost looks as if you have seen a ghost!)

Dorothea kept looking up the roofs, half hearing what the woman that was approaching her was saying.

“Sassa, såg du det?”(Sassa, did you see that?) she blurted out, pointing with her finger.

“Vad såg du, min kära?”(What did you see, my dear?) Astrid, a cousin from her mother’s family, that had took upon herself to chaperone Dorothea safe and sound to London, looked intently and raised an eyebrow when she saw nothing.

Dorothea looked again, but whoever was jumping around like a miscreant was clearly gone.

“Någon... som hoppade runt? Jag svär, jag vet vad jag såg, eller så heter jag inte Dorothea Marianne Starrick!”(Someone...who jumped around the roof? I swear, I know what I saw, or my name is not Dorothea Marianne Starrick!)

The woman gave her a long look, her lips pursed together in a thin, austere line.

“Herre Gud, Ditte, det är inte så en ung dam i din ställning ska tala! Jag visste att Minna var benägen till fantasiflygningar, men jag trodde aldrig att du också var det!” (Dear God, Ditte, this is not how a young lady in your position should speak! I knew Minna was prone to flights of fancy, but I never thought you were too!”)

“But I know..what I saw…” she murmured back in English, lowering her head in shame at her cousin’s words.

“Där, där, min kära, ta dig samman! Denna smutsiga luft måste ha spelat dina ögon ett spratt.”(There, there, my dear, pull yourself together! The dirty air must have played a trick on your eyes) The woman said with a condescending tone, caressing a wayward strand of silvery blond hair away from Dorothea’s cheek. Then, she turned to look at the houses built parallel to the river with barely contained disdain. “Säg, Ditte, hur kan man bo på ett sånt här ställe undrar jag?”(Say, Dora, how can you live in a place like this, I wonder?)

Shaking her silvery blond ringlets, Dorothea tried with all her might not to sigh in exasperation, her jaw tensing as she turned to look away from the woman that had just spoken to her.

There was no use trying to reason with her.

But she knew what she saw.

“I can live in a place like this because I was born here, min kära. But pray tell me: what happened to all the good propositions of speaking only English from the moment we left Gothenburg?” she answered, putting an emphasis on the English name of the city.

Astrid brought her perfumed handkerchief to her nose, as her periwinkle eyes filled with tears from the disgust the vile air was causing to her poor nose. She stared at Dorothea for a moment longer than necessary, a wrinkle appearing on her brow, as if she was fighting the natural impulse to rebuke in her native language out of spite.

“Very well, Ditte,” she finally conceded, switching to an heavily accented English. “I am going to be here only for a few weeks anyway, I can afford to do that. For your sake, if anything else,”

“Your effort is oh so deeply appreciated, Sassa,” Dorothea pursed her lips, trying to drown her annoyance in a sweet, if tense, smile of gratitude.

However, much as ever, she had to contain the impulse to roll her eyes at Astrid’s tone and words; if caught, it would have earned her a reprimand and a tirade once in front of Mother and Father, and the last thing Dorothea desired was to have her return to London being soured by the constant complaining and nitpicking her older cousin was known for.

Deciding that she had given the woman far more attention than she deserved, Dorothea took a few step away from Astrid, leaning against the handrail that faced the side of the city where the Clock Tower was and tried to distract herself by looking at the busy stream of ferries in front of her.

But melancholy crept again into her heart. If only Minna, Astrid’s own younger sister and Dorothea’s closest companion in Sturefors, had been the one to be allowed to accompany her back home, maybe the journey would have been less grievous, if anything because she could have retained with her some of the happiness she had felt in Sweden.

“My my, isn’t Astrid a charming choice for a chaperone? Are my ears deceiving me or is the Lady Ankarcrona complaining yet again, Dora?” she heard a young gentleman addressing her thoughts, as if on an invisible cue.

The tone was conspiratorial, yet affable in cadence, and the velvety quality of his timber did nothing to hide the sharpness of his silver tongue.

“With extreme passion, I dare say,” she giggled, for the first time since leaving Sturefors.

Dorothea turned to to face the tall, handsome blond man that was approaching her with an imperious gait that well suited his authoritative appearance.

Philip Edmund Starrick, her first cousin on her father’s side, older than her by only a handful of years, was doing nothing to hide the condescension from beaming in his deep eyes, but when he turned to look at Dorothea, his gaze melted into a mischievous look, as a warm smile stretched on his lips.

Dorothea reciprocated with an impish smirk of her own.

“If you were to ask me,” he said, doing nothing to lower his voice,”If she applied all that passionate effort into something other than making everyone else’s ears miserable with her constant twaddling, her husband would not go looking for a nicer company among the valets of the house,”

Gaping in disbelief, Dorothea leaned over to glance behind his shoulder, to make sure that Astrid hadn’t heard his words.

“Mind your words, Pip! How could you possibly even know about that?” she muttered.

He winked at her, his smirk widening even more.

“It is my job to know what is going on around me,”

“In London, maybe,” she chuckled, poking his ribs with her elbow. “But not in Sweden,”

“Sometimes it is indeed hard not to perform one’s job, especially if that someone is considerable remarkable at doing it ,” he chuckled, leaning in so that he would be able to whisper without anyone hearing them.

“Ever the paragon of humbleness, I see,”

“False modesty is for mingling peons and the church ministers who have time at their hands. I have little patience for it, and much more interest in the fruits my job brings; Speaking of, my darling cousin, I couldn’t help but hear voices about how eager young Master Daae was to instruct you in the art of the violin, during your sojourn in that desolated farm they dare to call a Hall. “

Dorothea gaped once more, opening and closing her mouth as a look of profound abashment found its way on her face. She wished she could stop the blushing that prickled her cheeks at the insinuation Philip had purposely left hanging in the air, founding herself unable to.

She gave him a piercing gaze, tilting her chin up in a silent challenge of wills.

“ I haven’t even set foot in London, and you are already enquiring about businesses that are none of yours. Gustave was my teacher, and nothing more than that,” she whispered, glaring at him. “And you might insinuate all you wish, but my conscience is at peace. My conduct at Sturefors has been nothing less than impeccable.”

Phillip raised an eyebrow, giving her a look that spoke aplenty.

“Not even for a moment has the thought crossed my mind. I am well aware you are a paragon of virtue, cousin dearest. He did fancy you, however, or so I had been told,” he added. “He indeed had the insolence to send you letters with flowers, as well as paying constant calls to you, and invited you for frequent walk together, sometime…unchaperoned?”

Dorothea narrowed her eyes, not liking for a moment that last insinuation.

A realization came to her mind, and irritation found a way in her voice.

“I have nothing to hide nor to apologize for. Who spied on me while I was at Sturefors, Phillip? Was it Father that told you to follow my every step? Or Mother, Heaven forbids?”

Chuckling, he took a step closer, leaning against the railing.

“No need to fret or get yourself into a state, cousin. Neither Uncle Crawford nor the Countess had their hands in this. I am at liberty to say it was in fact my own doing.”

“What for, may I ask? Do you think me so inept that I am incapable of properly take care of myself?” She furrowed her eyebrows and  gave him a stern look, crossing her arms against her chest.

The young man gave her a long look, as silence hung between them, a silence Dorothea couldn’t truly decipher. All it did was rendering her more aggravated with each passing moment. Wasn’t she at liberty to have companionship but the one approved by her family?

“As your spies have most likely already reported to you, my good flibbertigibbet, all that Gustave sent me -all he ever did - was to politely express his respect and devotion toward a friend and fellow connoisseur of the art of the violin and singing. It was done in perfect accordance to all rules of propriety and decency, as my Lady Mother has instructed me to,” Composing herself, she wrinkled her nose as her face morphed into a mask or haughty disdain. “As for what you refer as “fancying me”, Mr. Daaé fancied my competence in playing and composing melodies, and in my voice when I found appropriate to accompany his violin. I assure you, he did not want-“ She faltered for a moment, a sting in her chest where her heart was. She cleared her throat from the lump that had formed there, before regaining her word.“-whatever interest he might have shown toward me, it was not personal at all, but merely connected to all that I had to offer as an artist in my own right.”

Phillip didn’t answer immediately, keeping his thoughts to himself as he observed his cousin with an intense look in his eyes.

“Do I hear a certain vein of disappointment in your voice, Dora? Did you wish for him to acknowledge you in a more,how to say…womanly fashion?”

“I-“ the young woman’s face flushed, her cheeks turning a scalding hue of red that could rival the one of the garment she was wearing. “This is not the place nor time to discuss such matters, Phillip. On my word, your boldness had grown bigger than your ego, and that in itself is an accomplishment. I have no idea what you are insinuating, and I surely hope you did not report a single words of this postulation of yours to Mother and Father? Because I shall not accept any besmirching of my own reputation from no one, yourself included, cousin,”

Dorothea felt her heart thundering against her chest, where contempt and mortification took turn in mocking her.

When she saw him still standing, still observing her with those piercing eyes that had nothing to envy to the winter tundra in the North, with no intention to utter a single word, Dorothea felt dejected.

“It matters not,” she murmured, turning again to face the river. “Not now, not ever, because nothing more than friendship dwelled in Gustave’s heart. He did not know who I was -what I am- and even if he had, nothing would have changed. At all.”

How to explain that the companionship Gustave had offered her had proved to be both the greatest of comfort and the bitterest of yearning, and not reciprocated in the slightest? Her young heart knew all to well what her fate was, where it lead her.

A nightingale in a golden cage, that’s how she felt.

Unable to soar against the dark vaults of the sky, forever locked in the maze that was her reality.

“I could very well have hoped to have Brave Lancelot coming at my window and whisk me away to Camelot, and my chances to find a companion worthy of Mother and Father’s approval would have been the same,”

Phillip let out a small chuckle.

“Now now, you are being rather unjust toward our Mr. Daae. Sir Lancelot would always have an unfair advantage compared to any suitor that might end up asking for your hand. He can very well be considered family at this point,”

Dorothea allowed herself to let out a giggle, her aggravation slowly subduing, as it always did with Phillip.

“I might have driven my father out of his mind with all my jibber-jabbering about the Knights of the Round Table and their quest.”

“Him and everyone else in the Order. All the letters you had the Old Bear write for you, asking noble Lancelot to come and rescue us all from the dragons that were threatening your Father,”

He chuckled at the memory, before speaking again, this time, reciting some verses.

“His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;

From underneath his helmet flow'd

His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down from Camelot.

From the bank and from the river

He flash'd into the crystal mirror,

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.”

“The Lady of Shalott,” Dorothea murmured, her smile growing wider. “Have you perchance seen reason and read the poem, finally giving our good Lord Tennyson the praise he deserves ?”

Phillip adverted his eyes, his mustache quivering as he held back a contemptuous snort.

“Well?”

“Mayhaps.”He conceded.

She kept her eyes fixated on him, cocking an eyebrow as her smirk widened the more he avoided her gaze.

“Fine. I’ll admit to it, you impertinent pest! This past winter, Cip and I might have spent the evenings perusing some of your books because we missed hearing your voice reading story to us, and Charlie was adamant we went through “The Lady Of Shalott” at least once per week because he knew it’s your favourite. I swear to all the Heavens, he was more punctual about this reading than he was to attend Mass,”

“Let us always be thankful for Charlie and his sensitive decisions. If we wereto be left to your devices, you would have us read something that would make my father’s hair turn white and my mother’s poor heart fail,”

Phillip rolled his eyes, but cannot hid his smile. “Preposterous. I do not know where you get all these ideas.”

Then, all of sudden, Dorothea felt Phillip taking her hand in his in a gentle gesture, and brought her palm against his cheek. Gone was that quick moment of mirth, to leave place to a far somberer one. The calculating light had all but disappeared from the young man’s eyes, leaving place for a warm compassion she had not seen in many years.

“Forgive me for my actions and words earlier, cousin dearest. I..might have been in the wrong with my own conjectures. I did not mean to bring any harms nor sullying to your conduct while away.”

Dorothea gave him a small smile that did nothing to hide the sadness in her eyes.

“Did Charlie agree with your vision? Did he support this decision? And be honest with me, Phillip: I cannot abide any falsehood to be thrown to my face. Not from you.”

The young man shook his head with a smile.

“Cip was adamantly against me intervening. He knew you would have not approved, and that I had no right to do something like this without you being in the known,”

“At least someone in our family still retains some trust in me and my endevours, I am glad to see,”

And yet she knew in her bones that, if Charlie was aware of Phillip’s intentions, so would her father. She knew that Phillip alone couldn’t have the authority to order her to be followed in Sweden. Not without the giveaway of someone higher than him in authority.

And only two people had that kind of prerogative within the Order.

But which of them, she could not fathom.

“Do I have your forgiveness, cousin? I cannot bear to know you are aggravated with me,” She heard Phillip ask her, his voice now warmer.

She raised her eyes to look at him, and saw the same honest glint he always had as a child when he knew one of his prank had taken things too far and he would be in trouble.

She let out a sigh, giving him a tiny smile.

“ I cannot bear to be mad at you for too long either, you know that, Pip,”

“All I did, I did with the best intention and your well being in mind. I was worried about you,” He continued. “The Swedish Rite does not act as your father would, as the British Rite would, and it was only concern that had moved my hand to extend my authority in Sturefors. And after all that happened at the Manor that year, I-”

Dorothea brought her fingers to his lips, in a delicate but firm gesture, her gray eyes silently pleading.

“Say no more, I beg of you, Phillip. For the love you say to bear me, do not open this door. Let me keep the peace I found in Sturefors for just a little longer.”

The man did as he was told, and stopped talking, not without feeling his own heart growing heavy at the seriousness painted all over her face. So much had changed since the day she had been sent away, loaded on that ship, away from her family, alone in the darkness of the north. 

And he couldn’t help to think that, while having changed in appeareance, while having become even comelier than she was when she sailed away, Dorothea had not regained any of the innocence that she had lost that godforsaken night. Where once warmth and good cheer dwelt in her silvery eyes, now an hollowness remained, a desolation that made his blood boil.

The spectre of fear still lingered all over her, attached to her like a tick to the coat of one of his hunting dogs, sucking away at all the joy she once had as a child.

His heart broke at the memories of what once was, but kept his silence, as promised.

“There you were, you two,” a squeaky voice took them away from their conversation, and both cousins turned to look at Astrid, strutting toward them with small, rapid steps.

“I dare say, Mr. Starrick, is this the way to welcome a foreigner in this country? I was under the impression that the Starrick were amiable people, from what I gathered from my cousin here and her behaviour, but now I have to assume that it was my Aunt’s teaching to her daughter rather than the staple of her father’s family education.”

Dorothea had to silence the chuckle raising in her throat at the sight of her cousin rolling his eyes so much, she was sure he could see the back of his own head.

Not much could faze Phillip or break his composure, for he was known to be one of the most bewitching men, but being around Astrid had been proving quite the trial on his nerves ever since they had crossed the border where the Thames met the North Sea.

Nevertheless, the Master Templar’s expression morphed from aggravated in a mask of charming gallantry, with an easiness that came from constant practice. He took a few steps away from Dorothea and reached for the Swedish woman, looking straight into her violet eyes.

“Why, dear Astrid, you hurt my heart with your unjust words. What can I do to prove to your genteel spirit the extent of my family’s “amiability”?” he said, taking her hand in his with delicate touch, allowing his thumb to caress the back of her gloved hand. Astrid held her breath, too stunned by the young man’s boldness. “I assure you, us Starricks can be most…cordial, when given the chance,”his voice now a sultry husked murmur, almost a caress to the ears. “Just say the word, My Lady, and I will make sure to show you to what great extent us Starricks know how to make a respectable woman such as yourself feel…welcomed”

Dorothea’s eyes bulged as she silently put a greater distance from them, reaching the opposite side of the deck and making sure not to be within earshot.

She had heard enough, and she had no intention to bear witness to her cousin’s own trifling, even less so with that trifling being directed to Astrid. She was not one to admire demonstration of affection in public, preferring to read about it in her books: if one were to look upon two lovers exchanging their deeds of love, she would find herself blushing and wishing to be as visible as a spectre. Modesty and propriety lead her actions, and while being a young woman yearning to find love of her own - or, affection at the very least - she dreaded the idea of showing that love to anyone but her proper husband.

How could Phillip behave in such manner with so little concern of who might be bearing witness to his action, she could never understand.

Trying to distance herself from that lingering feeling of uneasiness, she raised her eyes once more, hoping to be able to see again a glimpse of the jumping figure she had seen earlier.

She knew what she saw.

Byron, so dear to her heart, oftentimes praised her for her grounded intellect and her propensity to not let her emotions drive her best judgment.

She allowed herself to gather strength from that, when she decided that she had indeed saw a figure looking back at her, before disappearing in front of her very eyes.

But what was it?

Or rather.

Who?

**************

The moment the ferry’s gangplank touched the dock, was the moment that truly marked the end of Dorothea’s journey from the North.

But all melancholy and sadness at the lost liberty seemed to melt away, like snow in summer, the moment her eyes found the blond man that was awaiting for her close to the pier, his face almost a mirror of her own.

Charles Magnus Starrick was standing tall and straight as an arrow, waiting for her, his round playful face just as amiable as she remembered, and his smile as warm as the gentle summer sun. She couldn’t help but think how much it contrasted with the much soberer faces of the flock of Templar agents surrounding him.  He had always looked out of place among the Templars, almost as if he did not belong, and yet, his authority, while not as great as Phillip’s, was never disputed.

“Charlie! Charlie!” she called at high voice, waving her hand at her cousin.

“Ditte, show a little restraint! This is not how a Lady should behave,” she heard Astrid’s reproach in her ear.

Dorothea tried as much as she could to maintain the elegant composure of her usual pace, but the child-like joy at seeing her cousin’s sweet kindhearted smile was so great, she couldn’t help herself from hasten and almost fly in her cousin’s open arms and hug him as tight as her own strength allowed.

“Darling Dora, welcome back home,” Charles whispered against her hair, reciprocating the tight embrace.

“I missed you so much, Cip!” she whispered back as  joyful warmth spread in her whole chest. “All your letters kept me so much company in those long winter nights where I could not be with you and Pip!”

“You were equally missed, Dora, I assure you! Oh, but do I dare say: did you become taller since the last time we saw one another? Or maybe my darling cousin has been lured by the Erlking and the one in front of me is but one of his elven vassals? Wait! Let me see for myself, I have an infallible method to know if it is indeed my darling Dora!”

Dorothea giggled, shaking her ringlets as Charlie started to count the freckles on her cheeks.

“Ah,Yes! They are all there! It is indeed you, cousin dearest!” and before she could answer, she was wrapped in another bear hug.

She had to call upon all her strength not to shed tears of joy at the relief that she felt back in arms that had hold her ever since she was a toddler.

She was home.

She was truly home now.

“Here she is, brother of mine. Delivered safe and sound, as I promised, “ they heard Phillip’s voice come from behind them, as he strutted down the gangplank while carrying one of Astrid’s luggage.

Charles took a timepiece out of his pocket, and cocked an eyebrow, as a smile appeared on his face.

“And with only fifteen minutes of delay from the advised time. I daresay I am almost impressed by your efficiency, Pip, albeit your delay cost me a whole round of beers with the men.”

“The nerves you got there, brother! I thought that by now you knew that when I say something, I deliver my promise. And it is not as if I had a way to make that godforsaken piece of scraped metal go any faster, even if I wanted to,”

“I wouldn’t have been surprised if you decided to commandeer it and cause mayhem across the Thames. You surely would have made it on the evening papers, I can already hear the titles echoing in the streets: “Gentleman of dubious background causes an halt to the viability of the river to deliver precious cargo unscathed,”

“Do not even jest on this, brother: the Old Bear and Uncle Crawford would have had me hanging by my breeches, if I dared doing such mischief,”

“Oh, to be sure. But I have a feeling that our Dora here would have had her fun,” he said, winking at the young woman and causing her to giggle.

She was ready to answer with a jape of her own, but once she felt the gaze of the small flock of Master Templars on herself, she quickly tried to regain her natural decorum.

She would never forgive herself if she were to stain her father’s reputation with a less than impeccable conduct, especially in front of all his subordinates.

All of them were wearing dark garments in the finest cut and on their short capelets, the red Templar Cross stood almost flamboyant against white fabric.

Even Charles, not one to showcase his appurtenance to the Order, was sporting the formal attire, and Dorothea could have not felt more honoured to know that he had done so just to welcome her.

She brought a hand to the cross tied around her neck by a silken red sash, caressing the engraved enamel with tender affection. It had been the last gift her father had given to her before she left.

She thanked her forethought for having decided to wear it during her journey back home: what kind of impression would have she given to the other Master Templars, if she, the Grand Master’s own daughter, were not to wear the symbol of the Order itself?

But, despite all intention of propriety being on her side, she couldn’t stop herself from tiptoeing to have a better look around her, trying to find other familiar faces among the much soberer ones that were standing guard around them.

“Where is Father? And Byron?” Dorothea asked, her lips forming a small pout of disappointment when she couldn’t catch a glimpse of Byron’s caring eyes or her father’s solemn face.

“The Grand Master and Lord Harrison have been….held up by an unexpected nuisance that needed to be dealt at once, I am afraid,” said Charles, sharing a knowledgeable glance with Phillip.

Dorothea’s own features turned to ashen, all colour leaving her face when looked in her eldest cousin’s eyes.

Even without a word being said, she knew precisely what the nuisance was.

“Assassins? In our dear London?” she whispered in disbelief . “Has our beloved City of Light become an abode of chaos and ruffians in the three years I have been away?”

“You needn’t to concern yourself, Dora.” she heard Phillip murmur, his lips twisted in a disgusted grimace.

She narrowed her eyes, not entirely reassured by Phillip’s word, before turning to face Charles.

“Is it true?” she asked, a tinge of authority in her normally soft voice.

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes running from her face to his brother’s, and more than ever, he looked like a tiny mouse trapped between affection and duty.

"I am afraid…I am afraid to admit that in the last few months there might have been more…”chaos” than foreseen,"

Dorothea shook her silvery ringlets, a look of incredulity on her face.

“Impossible. Father has held the reins of London since before I was born, and no assassins has ever dared to even cross the threshold of the city. He never mentioned anything in his letters to me. Byron never did, either.”

“I told you already, Dorothea: you needn’t concern yourself with this. It is being taken care of.” Phillip said, his tone final as he shared another glance with his brother, a silent command written all over his hardened face.

Dorothea felt her heart sink, just for a moment, before determination found a way through her bones.

“Be as it may, Pip. Keep your secrets and I will keep mine. Two can play this game. But I swear they won’t be yours much longer,” she thought, letting her features to settle back in an expression of neutral calm.

“Very well, cousin. I shall probe no longer. I will not lie that I am saddened in not finding my sire and Byron here,” she murmured with polite courtesy, folding her hands together. “But if it is true that disruption has reached our fair city, I am most reassured that the Grand Master is taking the due steps to ensure that no Assassin will dare to ruin his work.”

Charles let out a nervous laughter of relief as Dorothea stirred the conversation.

“Cousin dearest, allow me to say that none is more disappointed than them in being unable to welcome you in person after your long absence. Nevertheless, they wanted to be sure that their presence would be with you, despite everything.”

With a small nod of his head, Charles beckoned one of the henchmen standing behind them to come forward.

Dorothea turned and exchanged a glance with him, and for a moment she found herself wondering where she had seen him before.

His face seemed familiar, with the neatly stilled whiskers and short trimmed beard framing his face and a lock of dark, unruly hair brushing over one of his temples.

He was very pleasant to the sight, to be sure, but what caught Dorothea's attention was the subtle glint of mischievousness in his grey eyes, hidden just beneath an apparent playfulness.

Before she could ask any questions, the man did as he had been told and produced a small box and a bouquet of pink soft roses.

She smiled to herself at the sight of those gifts: she knew the flowers were from her mother’s own hothouse and the small box was from Byron himself. With a small thank you, she took them with gentle hand, promising herself to open the box once alone in the privacy of her own rooms.

"I took upon myself to make sure they were to be delivered to you in person, Lady Starrick"

Dorothea raised an eyebrow.

"That is very kind of you, Mister..."

"Markus Barclay, My Lady," he murmured with a bow. “I work underneath Lord Harrison the Eldest himself, and I was given order to attend to all your needs in his absence. I am yours to command,”

Squaring her shoulder and straightening her back, she nodded with solemnity.

“Very well, Markus. I want you to oversee that the Lady Astrid Ankarcrona is to be brought safely to the Grand Master’s residence and that she is settled in the most comfortable of the rooms within the Manor. She is an esteemed guest, and she will be treated with all the honours due to her station.”

“Consider it done, My Lady,” he answered, raising his face and looking straight at her without hiding the smirk that touched his lips.

Something about his demeanor caused an uneasiness to stir within Dorothea’s chest and this, along her inability to focalize why she thought she had seen him before, left her in complete diquiet.

When the Master Templar left to do as he was ordered, Dorothea turned to face Charles, a tired smile on her face.

“Will you accompany me home, Cip?” she asked, trying to hide a small yawn. “I think the journey might have taken its toll on me, afterall,”

Charles took her hand in his and brought it his lips with gentleness.

“It will be my honour to pick up from where Pip has left off,” and with a swift gesture, he beckoned for the other Master Templars to take care of Dorothea and help her to her carriage.

Waiting for his cousin to be far enough from where he stood, Charles approached Phillip, careful to lower his voice.

“Have you told her anything about what Uncle Crawford has in plan for her?”

Phillip shook his head at his brother, as they both stayed behind, looking as Dorothea was giving directions to the ones helping her.

“No. I-“ He hold his silence just a moment longer than necessary, weighting the word he was about to say. “I didn’t have the heart to see her smile wane. She had found some peace while in Sturefors. I let her keep it. But I will not lie to you, Charles: I wish I could offer her the same peace here,” he murmured.

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“Now I undestand your need for secrecy. But I never thought you as a sentimental, brother,”

Phillip shook his head with impatience.

“This has nothing to do with me being sentimental. But after all that happened that night, I was afraid she would not smile ever again,”

“The Assassins have paid aplenty for that,”

Phillip cocked his eyebrow, his face now severe, a quiet question in his eyes.

His brother return his question with a smile so cold, so devoid of any of his usual kind warmth, it left Phillip with a feeling of uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.

“Frye is dead.”

“The perpetrator?”

“The Leviathan, of course. He has left nothing in his wake, not even a body for his children to cry on,” Charles said, his voice grave.

Phillip stood silent for a moment, with the loud chattering of people filling his ears. But nothing could deafen the thumping of his accelerated heartbeat.

Finally, he spoke.

“That’s not enough,“ murmured Phillip. “Not nearly enough. Not after what he had done. The ripples of that bastard’s actions have left more than one broken. His death alone is not enough. Is the Leviathan satisfied and his revenge finally accomplished?”

Charles let a small smile appear again on his lips, just as cold as the one before.

“No.”

At that answer, Phillip's own lips stretched in a vindictive smile, a reflection of his own brother’s.

“Good. Then we know what to do next.”

“Pip! Cip! It is time we go!” Charles and Phillip turned their head as they heard their cousin calling them from the carriage window. “ Are you are not coming with us, Pip?”

“I wish I could, cousin dearest, but alas, we need to part ways here, for my services are needed elsewhere.” He smiled, as he approached the carriage and took his cousin’s hand in his, bringing it to his lips in a parting gesture.

“Will you be attending to the Lady Astrid, cousin?” she teased.

Phillip rolled his eyes, shaking his golden ringlets.

“God forbids I have to spend another minute with that woman. If I wanted to hear someone nagging in my ear all day, I would have asked Father for his services. He has years of experience and a disdain that rivals no other’s. No, dearest, I am bound toward other purposes. Duty calls, as it always does for me,”

Dorothea’s smile couldn’t be but a melancholic one at those words.

“So soon? The time has flown much faster than I wanted to. What will I do without your pestering chatters, I wonder?”

Phillip’s face turned into a mask of disdained, but his eyes were smiling at her.

“Preposterous. I daresay, you have grown far too bold for your own good, cousin dearest. No, you will have to do with Cip’s own chattering, I am afraid. But,” he added, as he smiled to both her brother and Dorothea, “ I leave you in good hands,”

“Oh, I know. The best hands indeed,” she replied, returning the smile and holding Charles’ hand in hers.

“Now go, before your Lady Mother starts worrying for your late return. I shall call on you tomorrow, first thing in the morning,”

“ I count on that, cousin,” she murmured, not truly wanting to let go of his hand.

Not after three years without her family.

He squeezed her hand three times, a silent gesture she understood immediately.

A promise.

And Phillip had never failed to keep his promises.

**************

The pub was loud, messy, chaotic with its patrons busy gulping down pints after pints of what could be considered the foulest beer available on the market.

And yet, its despicable taste seemed to do nothing on the one gurgling it down as if it was water, as the rowdiest of songs accompanied their time sitting at those squalid tables.

Among those people, two men sat in front of one another, barely looking at each other in the eyes. The oldest one, built like an ox, with a sour face and brutish hands that could snap an arm in two without any effort, was busying himself with the food served in front of him, while the youngest one, leaner in his figure and more elegant in his demeanor, could barely keep his own meal down.

“The little Countess has returned, at long last” he murmured, trying to distract himself from the queasiness in his stomach.

“So it seems, my friend. Ain’t so little anymore, though, I’ve been told. All grown up.”

The youngest of the two pursed his lips, an uncomfortable light in his eyes.

He didn't want to be there. At all.

“Come on, eat somethin’, will ya? You look like you’re goin’ to faint, if you so much dare to stand up. Eat. It’s on me, this time.”

“No, thank you,” the youngest murmured through gritted teeth.”This...grub does not sit well on my stomach,”

“What a sissy. Well, suits yourself, mollycoddle. I, for once, have never been one to love wasting a good meal,” and without ceremonies, he took the plate sitting in front of the youngest man and started to scarf it down as if it was his last meal.

“Hasn’t anyone taught you any manners?”said the young man, barely concealing the disgust on his face.

“Aye, me mom. She tried when I was a younglin’. Didn’t quite work out, my brother was much better material for her to work with. But what good are manners anyway? No need for them durin’ a brawl in the street.”

“If you say so…”

“Let’s talk about more important things, shall we? Is the Grand Master still set on his plan? Is she to succeed him, when the time comes?”

“How should I know? I am not in Starrick’s mind.”

“Indulge me, lad,”

The young man sighed, crossing his arms against his chest.

“There might be this possibility, yes. Nothing has been decided as of yet.”

“Bollocks.” said the other, curling his lips in disgust.

“Facts.”

The oldest of the two spit on the ground.

“Don’t fuck around with me, you ninny. I can’t believe Crawford Starrick would do somethin’ so stupid. He has enough foresight to know that it would be a catastrophe for the Order.”

“He might be in possess of knowledge about her that we cannot foresee. When he comes to his daughter, the Grand Master is most secretive,”

“Horse’s shite!” he said, slamming his hand on the table. A few people turned to look at them but hastily ignored them when the older one glared at them, his mouth the snarl of a bulldog.

“Would you care to lower your bloody voice?” said the youngest one."Mind my words, you are the paragon of discretion. It's a miracle all of London did not hear you!"

The young man grabbed the pint in front of him, and chugged down the alcohol, hoping it would wash away his nervousness. His eyes darted all across the room, hoping to not meet anyone familiar. The trouble he would be in, if he were to be found in such company, would be beyond repair.

“That’s an absolute pile of shite right there! “See somethin’ in her”? There is nothin’ to see there! All I’m seein’ is a father too blinded by his love for his child and his own desire to create a dynasty through her!”

“Maybe so. But you forget her father has personally overseen her initiation in the Templars ever since she was but a babe in arms and her mentor is none other than the Leviathan himself. She is a Starrick. I would not do the mistake to discount her on the account of her sex. And young she might be, but she resembles her sire more than you can imagine: there is steel hiding underneath that silk. Do not let yourself be fooled by anything else.”

The other grinded his teeth as he leaned closer to the young man, his face splotched by red stains of seething rage.

“Bah! All you have are conjectures and hyphothesis, nothing more than that! It can’t happen. The Order won’t accept her, just because she's his daughter. She's a woman! She belongs to the house, opening her legs for her husband as he sees fits and whelping as many little bastards as possible. She can’t be made anything else than what she is! We need someone strong at the helm of this ship.”

The younger one looked at the elder man, an inquisitive look in his cat-like eyes.

“And what do you propose we do to stop this? Kill her? Kill HIM?”

The brute hesitated, long enough for the younger man to know that, even blinded by rage, he would not act in haste. They needed a valid reason to justify any action taken, lest they were to become a target like the one they were set to control.

“That’s what I thought,” the youngest one finally said, after the long pause. “You will find that patience, my friend, is a virtue not to be discarded in favour of a hasty approach. We shall wait in the shadow, as we have always done, and seize the moment when the right window of opportunity opens. London is already in chaos as it is, with the Assassins rearing those bloody heads of theirs and causing ruckus all around the city. Those blasted Frye twins are an annoyance we need to take care of now, before this annoyance starts veering into dangerous territories.”

“Ethan Frye's bastards?” said the eldest one. “Had they learned nothing from their father’s death? Are they trying to meet the same end he did?”

“Mayhaps.”

“Wasn’t aware those assassins were a family of suicidals,”

“More like children playing with fire. But a fire that need to be quelled at all costs, nevertheless,”

"The challenge is that they’re unorganized. Chaotic. There's no plan or pattern behind their action and this makes them dangerous. Rumors have it that the Frye lad’ve been fightin' at the pits: the lad packs a mean punch.”

“Nothing that will worry you, I assume?”

“Are you jokin’,? Me and my brother will make a pulp of him, as soon as our paths cross. And trust me on this, ninny, they will cross. Wish I could do the same with the Starrick girl. Hell, I’m a gentleman myself, and would be gentle with the little poppet,” he murmured, leaving the promise hanging between the two of them. “That little neck of hers can’t be too hard to snap. A twig in my hands.”

The younger man’s mouth curled in an expression of disgust.

“You will do nothing of this sort. We have to let the Grand Master take care of this, before striking." The young man took the moment before speaking again, weightung his words with moderation. "Kill the young lady, and you will kill Crawford too, in spirit if not in body, and we do not want that. Not now, anyway. The assassins need to be dealt with first, and for that, we need the Grand Master. We need to destroy the Brotherhood, or what remains of it. Then, we shall take care of Crawford Starrick and his daughter."

The eldest one gulped down his entire pint of beer, slamming it against the table once done. He smiled, but there was no warmth in his light eyes.

"What are we waiting for then?"

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER -  “Confrontation”]

[NEXT CHAPTER -  “Awakening of the Hunter” ]

omg, could it be true??? THE 4TH CHAPTER IS FINALLY DONE AND UP??

Seriously, I don’t know what possessed me to finish this, but I just sort of did?

I missed working with my Starrick family, and so I started to read again the chapter, and before you knew it, I basically added 3k words to it today, and just finished it.

Well, as said in the previous chapter, we are finally back in 1868, so finally we have the chance to move around through London with Dorothea :D

I hope you will like this, I know I will be needing a long nap lol

also, a huge thanks to my dear @susann- noir for being my beta reader and helping me through! you have been immensely kind, I appreciated your help so much <3.

Hope you will like it!

--Nemo

[interactivestorytellingwithkalh]

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Chapter 2: Part 3

“Go have something to eat —” Ravio grunted as he pushed the cardboard boxes back into place over the stairs — “I’ll get the door.” 

Legend didn’t need to be told twice. The hazy golden memory of a fantastic scent — of warm fish stew and butter-fried shrimp — rose to the surface of his mind. He just hoped there were leftovers.

He had just figured out the switches and dials of Ravio’s Re-Heater (a truly genius invention, now that he had figured out how to make it work), when the salient smell of sulphuric ashes, fresh blood, and something wrong cut through the house.

Ravio.

Every detail sharpened. He yanked open the nearest drawer, grabbed a meat knife, and ran. 

Past the stairs, past the cupboard, towards the door at the end of the hall.

The smell strengthened — coated the roof of his mouth. Filled his throat.

He crashed through the door, into the shop, and hurled himself at the purple source of everything. 

Shouts.

Something hit the side of his head. His ears rang. His vision swam.

He raised the knife —

“STOP.”

He froze. His head felt as if it had been caught in a wrench. In front of him, a six-horned purple tiefling in light armour and a sweeping blue scarf picked himself off the floor and wiped a trickle of blood from his nose. Pupil-less golden eyes glared at him. “Hello to you too.” The tail flicked irritably. 

“DROP IT.”

Legend dropped the knife. 

“There we go.” As the pressure on his head eased, he felt the traces of Ravio’s magic — a peculiar hodgepodge of anything and everything Ravio had gotten his hands on — trickle out of his muscles. He could move again.

He straightened and stepped away from the knife. The shop felt cold. He must have dropped the covers somewhere. He crossed his arms. “Where have you been?” He glowered at War. “You reek.”

War raised an eyebrow. “A bar.”

Legend narrowed his eyes. “A bar.”

“A bar.” War pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against his nose.

“What are you doing here? We agreed —”

“Delivering a customer.” War nodded towards a tall air genasi by the counter, who looked severely ill — pale skin, sweating, shivering — the whole package. He was leaning heavily on Ravio, whose left ear ring was still glowing with residual magic.

“What’s wrong with him?” Legend asked and approached. “Can’t handle a bit of sea air?” He turned the air genasi’s face down towards himself. “Hey, what’s your name?”

The air genasi seemed to struggle to focus.

“I found him passed out in an alley Castle-side,” War said. “Between Queen’s Square and —”

“Down Smog Street?”

“That’s the one.”

Legend frowned. Towns and cities the size of Castletown always had strange rumours attached to various areas. 13 Diddle’s Street was haunted by the ghost of a girl whose lover had abandoned her, hurling stones at windows and pulling bushes up by the roots. The trees of Lander Park came to life at night. The university housing estate was full of vampires. 

Smog Street’s rumour was comparatively benign: a haunting melody that seeped through the adjacent alleys in the hour before midnight. 

He clapped the air genasi’s cheek. “Hey, kid. Time to get your bearings.”

The air genasi frowned. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. “Sky.” His eyes rolled back and his full weight fell on Ravio.

“Help!” Ravio squeaked.

War hurried over and manoeuvred the air genasi’s weight off of Ravio’s shoulders. “I didn’t know where else to take him.”

Legend hummed. The air genasi was clearly not local. There was dust on his boots and a faint smell of sweaty goat. He must have come down from the mountains within the last day or so. Under the travelling gear he seemed well-dressed: embroidered tunic, soft but sturdy cotton trousers, and … there. Legend peeled back the cape and the collar of the tunic. Stitched to the inside of the tunic was a small hidden pouch.

“What are you doing?” Ravio asked.

“Looking for clues.” Legend pulled the pouch out and opened it. Inside was a sealed letter, a signet ring, and ten platinum. “Now this —” he lifted the ring and turned it — “is familiar.” He handed it to Ravio. 

“Sir Sky?”

Legend closed the pouch and put it back. “That’s the one.”