#and it sets off his unyielding fire of rage inside him. all he wants is to protect the young prince he’s been asked to guide.

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

Mirror: The Fiction and Essays of Kōda Aya translated by Ann Sherif

The papers in those days always had some amazing news in them - from the attempted military coup of February the year before to the start of fighting in China just three months later. A ferocious gale had come sweeping through, causing small whirlwinds some days and, at other times, a tremendous commotion that stirred up everything, even the dust in the forgotten corners of the world. I was just a speck of dust in one of the narrowest, most remote niches. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

A kimono worn by a woman immature in her emotions can be a powerful thing. Or, to put it another way, clothes have the strength to control one's psyche. To me, the striped outfit was a uniform; it gave me a sense of direction and a feeling of pride in my work. The apron shielded me from all arrows; it acted as a cast to brace me against all blows. It was a metal fire door behind which I could hide the anguish of my heart. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

What other child would fail to rise to the occasion when her father was being so honored? He was my only father, and I his only child. Is this any way to behave? I had lost my way at the bottom of a deep abyss. I cast my eyes upward, toward my father, only to see him dimly shrouded by mist. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

I know nothing about the breadth of my father's learning, nor do I pretend to understand the scope of his art. I could not tell you what came to him as a matter of luck, what he accomplished through his own talents, nor about his stature among men. Though I may be vastly ignorant, I do have enough sense not to entertain the foolish notion that he is some kind of lion of literature, a king among writers. He was just my father. From my own biased viewpoint, I would say that Father possessed some lionlike qualities, but there were those of a lion who would finish you off or give you the push-off-the-cliff test. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

Father was an unusual man. He would point out the beauty of blossoms or clouds in the sky with the very whip he had cracked a moment before. With the same knife he had just used to rive your innards, he would slice up a wedge of some delicacy for you. No one else I knew could perform such feats. There was something solid about him. I felt all at once like a contrite sinner and a puppy dog who is eager to please. I wanted to cut all ties with him, but at the same time I needed him to recognize me as worthy of his love. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

Higuchi Ichiyo's nephew Higuchi Etsu once said about [me and my father]: "The parent dons a medal, and the child an apron." I made a show of laughing at his comment, but only because I wanted to hide my weakness. In fact, that apron chafed against my hands and my heart with its unyielding roughness. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

One often hears about the magical powers of mirrors. Certainly the mirror's ability to reflect creates this feeling of mystery. The objects around the viewer look so different in the mirror - what was one may multiply into two or even three. Objects that had appeared to be piled up come apart. Something might look real in the mirror, but then when you try to touch it, you can't. It seems to be there but it makes no sound. Is it real or just an illusion? Sometimes you can see through things in a mirror. Some things seem actually to be alive inside the mirror, but once the reflection stops moving, the illusion of life is gone. The mirror's power resides in this ability to confound. - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

My life was not going smoothly. I could not handle the problems that confronted me and became unbelievably nervous and stubborn. At times, any little thing would set me off in a rage; often I would get upset and break down in tears. I had so many things on my mind. In those days I consoled myself by leaning up against my mirror. To think how proud I had felt of it on my wedding day. Now all I could do was crouch up against it and sigh. In that house it was the only place where I felt calm. The mirror served more as a support for my emotions than as a glass in which I could see my reflection. The sunny location I had chosen for it had been part of my effort to avoid sadness and gloom in my life, but ironically it ended up lodging a darkened, tired soul. I did, in any case, feel most peaceful when I sat by my mirror. - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

The first time I wiped the glass, I was shocked to discover how dirty a mirror can become. One usually does not notice the dust; a mirror will reflect even when covered with a heavy layer of grime. And once you get used to this, you may end up looking at yourself and trying to make yourself presentable with powder and lipstick, unaware that you are seeing yourself through a haze. But who bothers to dust mirrors? If even smoothly polished glass attracts dust how much more would accumulate on a troubled heart? - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

Kōda Aya has also been added to the BSD-Bibliophile Online Library!

You can find more information about Kōda Aya-sensei on the following pages:

List of Books in English Quotes and Facts Collection Fun Facts

[miss-celestia13]

An Arsonist’s Anguish

Richy’s Lament - A Duskwood One Shot

A dark, angsty exploration into Richy’s character as he sets the stage for his death. There is no happy ending. Just some hope that another soul made it out of the mine as it burns. Crossposted on Ao3.

Trigger Warnings are below the line. Please check them.

TW: Suicide, Self Hatred, Hallucinations, and thoughts/descriptions of Death. Read at your own risk. I tried not to be too graphic, but you will know what’s happening.

Richy would never see the sun rise again.

The ghosts of all the beautiful things he killed to protect his secrets haunted his dragging, stumbling steps as he traversed the mine and ignored the cameras he installed. Gasoline poured and splashed from the canister he held as he wove through tunnels and gritted his teeth against the pain in his arm.

It was nothing compared to the emotional torture he felt inside. His thoughts were a tempest raging with the violence of a cyclone. Every destructive gust ripped through the fragile edifices of his grip on reality.

Within the labyrinth of his mind, self-loathing chewed on his soul like a pack of feral beasts tearing at the tender flesh of their fallen prey. Each bite drew forth burgundy rivers of desolation, self-condemnation, and unyielding fury. Blending with the physical aches until he couldn’t tell them apart

His arm throbbed as he ignored the yelling in his mind. Fucking Dan. Dan, who gave him a gun?! Oh, what an idiot! He scuppered all Richy’s plans and left him scrambling to end it before anyone else got hurt. Ensure nothing remains but ash.

Rivers of cold sweat streamed down his grey face as he held his injured arm over his stomach so he wouldn’t bang it into the rough wall. He wanted to punch the stone to take his mind off it. The bottle of pain meds he stole from his mother rattled in his pocket, but he couldn’t risk taking them yet.

His breathing roasted his throat, but his entire body shivered as though an icy glacier engulfed him. The persistent tremble in his body intensified with every labored step.

The combined weight of his physical and emotional agony was an anchor on his back, dragging his broken spirit beneath tumultuous waves, where the agony of drowning and being hammered from all sides echoed through the depths of himself.

It didn’t feel like any of it was unfair. The thirst was the worst thing. He kept smacking his lips together, attempting to inspire some moisture, but his tongue remained bone dry and coated in the remnants of bitter blood rust.

The blood he’d lost stained his skin and the stone as it dripped through the filthy dressing he tried and failed to use as a tourniquet. Everything felt like it happened to someone else. Something otherworldly piloted his body from the inside.

Like some demon possessed him, guiding him down depraved, treacherous paths, and the priest hadn’t arrived in time to exorcise him.

And he’d done it to himself. Every choice he’d made since kidnapping Hannah, it had felt like suicide in slow motion.

He marooned himself on an island surrounded by vipers of his own creation.

Now, the only option to set himself free was fire. It would hurt, he thought, and his stomach wrenched to the side, almost splitting in two as he dreaded it so strongly.

And death. There was a liberating freedom in death. A broken sob tore through his clenched teeth as he thought of Jessy, the emotions he harbored for her, and everything he had never deserved to have with her.

She was a shot of adrenaline after years of lethargy.

So many of his favorite memories revolved around her and their silly inside jokes. He’d used his closeness to her to torment and stalk her. Terrorized her and her friends. She would never forgive him. Her smiling face, her flaming hair, and desire for a life of adventure had made his miserable existence worth living.

She would forget him one day, but never forgive him. He was a coward. An idiot. He’d let them all believe a masked myth was chasing them.

The only masked freak after them was their own friend.

His megawatt smile, stupid jokes, and constant upbeat attitude despite the shitstorm life rained on him had been the heaviest disguise of his brief life. They’d all bought it.

Hook, line, and fucking sinker. None thought to check beneath that smile. Now, it had twisted and transformed into a permanent snarl. If they paid attention, they would have found the rot and ruin underneath his cheerful demeanor. None of his friends had stopped to think about just how stressed he was. How much he had to carry for his family and Hannah—screw her. She was party to his worst decision.

She caused it.

Her wanting to sacrifice herself, him, and Amy to clear her conscience, betrayal. Betrayal was a dagger Hannah concealed in a cloak of mutual trust and unspoken promises to take their secrets to the grave. That blade had appeared suddenly and without warning, piercing the walls of his shriveled heart.

Half of him wished he’d killed her while he’d had her under his control. End the threat, leave her body to decompose in the mine.

No one came here. He’d made sure of it. Everything might—well, it was too late now. She was safe in the hands of Alan Bloomgate. Hannah, perfect, beautiful fucking Hannah.

He hated her. He blamed Hannah. But it was Amy who he blamed the most. Richy blamed everyone but himself for too long. He knew that. And now he would pay the price for it.

He’d already staged his death. Now he just had to commit.

The cloying scent of gasoline infiltrated his nose, thickening in his raw throat, and the empty metal cannister fell from his weak fingers. The thunderous clanging as it bounced and came to a stop worsened the headache he’d had for the last few weeks.

It pounded in time with his thudding heart. Each pulse pushed yet more blood out of the wound in his heavy, aching arm. It tingled and sparked with fiery pain with every paranoid twitch as he glanced behind him, sure he heard footsteps chasing him down.

He gave himself a shake when only his shadow approached. It looked much bigger to him now. Sinister and spreading to encompass the entirety of him.

It had taken him over long ago, and at last, he accepted it. It was too late to beat it back. He’d embraced it. Its hug was gelid and dragged him down, down, down. The shadow had always been in him; his choices had brought it to life, and it was time to eliminate it so it wouldn’t harm anyone else.

If his last victim was to be himself, it would end on his terms.

His last words had been a confession and an apology. To Jessy, and his friends, to the unwitting stranger he’d dragged into this mess, and to himself. His conscience was far from clear, and his reckoning awaited him amongst the flames he would soon ignite.

The cave in which he’d chosen as his tomb would remain safe from the flames, but the poison smoke would choke him. An intangible noose, as he couldn’t bring himself to tie a rope. He shuffled inside and loosed a long breath that felt more like a death rattle.

His stinging eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness encroaching him on all sides as he reached into his jacket pocket with his good hand, and pulled out the zippo lighter he’d stuffed inside days before. He’d always suspected.

Deep inside, Richy had expected that this was how it ended. The cold silver metal warmed a little in his clammy hand as his thumb stroked over the Garage’s logo and wished he had said goodbye to his parents before he gave himself to the fire.

It was best they learned with the world. His suicide letter would speak for him and he prayed it would ensure his family didn’t suffer for his actions.

Naïveté had always been his downfall.

Before he set his ultimate act into motion, Richy took his phone out of his jean pocket and flicked the flashlight on. The bright beam of white light assaulted his eyes and created a flurry of moving shadows. The skittering of tiny claws on loose stone racing away from him painted a cruel smirk on his mouth as he cast the light around the small cavern and found what he was looking for.

A grubby black backpack sat against the grey rock wall, covered in dirt, blood, and guilt as he scuttled over to it. He unzipped it and pulled out the almost empty bottle of water he’d been rationing for days.

After fishing the bottle of medication out of his pocket, he struggled to open them both, and cried out as his jerky movements irritated his wounded arm. It took five very long minutes to get the pills out. The light from his phone shuddered as he set it down to count the pills.

He’d chosen the strongest ones his mother had. One knocked her out for half a day, and he wanted to numb himself as much as he could before the smoke smothered or flames devoured him. They were heavy on his tongue as he tossed back a fistful of the chalky tablets and chased them down with the last of his precious water.

For a moment, they got lodged in his throat, his mouth flooded with saliva and his eyes prickled with fresh tears.

He couldn’t even kill himself right. Everything he did just failed in spectacular fashion.

He was a monster of his own making, and only he could slay it. He swallowed, compulsive and dry, ignoring the hot flashes creeping up his neck as the painkillers scraped down his throat and into his hollow stomach.

Richy dropped to his knees and crawled over to the wall, and slumped back onto it. Paper crinkled in his inside coat pocket as he shifted to get comfortable. He had about an hour before the full effects of the medication set in. He would light the fire once the gnawing, eroding ache in his chest and arm dulled.

Until then, he sat with his thoughts, his splintering sanity, and cursed himself. Cursed Duskwood and the predator the town had forced him to transfigure himself into.

The weight of hopelessness hung around Richy’s neck like a noose pulled tight, squeezing the light of life from his eyes.

It was a suffocating darkness that swallowed him whole, leaving nothing but the biting tang of despair on his tongue. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of broken glass, cutting deeper with every huffing exhale.

The silence that echoed in his soul was a relentless scream, a haunting, deafening reminder of the emptiness that consumed him.

“I should’ve told someone,” Richy said in a whisper.

The words bounced softly off the rock, a harmony of regret.

He twitched as it fell silent, mouth furling and eyes glazing over as he listened to the racket in his head.

All you had to do was hand yourself in. You could have avoided all of this.

What do you think will happen to your family? They’ll live happily ever after in the town you terrorized?

Do you honestly think your pathetic letter will save them?

The slippery voice of his own darkness broke into a baleful laugh. It made the hair in his nape rise and stand stiff. He shuddered, thrashing his head and gritting his teeth until they squeaked.

“I tried. I always tried. But I’m a failure. I’ve always been a failure. I can make it right. It’s the only way.” He muttered as the disembodied voice agreed.

Make it right? Ha! You think you can wash away the stain of your idiocy?

You’re tainted.

Forever marked by your wrong choices, Richy.

Redemption? You make me laugh.

Redemption is a fairytale, a delusion you’re desperately clinging to.

It is so far beyond your reach…

Richy’s voice was a growl as he said, “No, redemption isn’t my goal. I can’t undo the damage I’ve caused, but I can end it before anyone else gets hurt. I can make sure the world knows it was me.”

The derisive laughter of his demons chafed at his skull as if their talons were scratching their unspeakable names into the bone.

You’re a lost cause. A testament to all your failures.

Each step you take is a step closer to the abyss of self condemnation.

There’s no way out.

Your sacrifice won’t save your soul.

“I accept that!” Richy roared, spittle flying from his chapped lips as he panted like a wounded beast.

“My death might be the only way to atone for all I’ve done. I don’t care what comes after that. But my family won’t suffer because of me. Not any more.”

The voice in his head made a sound of agreement before it crooned his worst fears.

Yes, your death is the ultimate penance.

Your final act of contrition for the havoc you’ve so selfishly wrought.

Then again, have you considered the aftermath?

Your family will endure your actions. Long after you’re gone. Their suffering will echo until they, too, shuffle off the mortal coil.

Searing fiery agony ripped through Richy’s heart. It felt as though someone had taken a knife, heated it up over a fire until it glowed red hot, and then plunged it into his chest. The scent of burned flesh and molten iron filled his nose. The sensation felt so real to him.

His hand clawed at his jacket over his pounding heart, as if to pull the blade free, but his fingers met only dirty fabric.

“They won’t! They won’t! They won’t! I’ve made sure of it. This isn’t their burden to bear!” He yelled, voice laced with an anguish that made his body convulse as rivulets of salt descended his bared teeth.

Helplessness stole over him as his demons taunted and chuckled in a scornful manner.

You should have thought about that before you started donning the guise of an ancient legend.

Idiot.

Weak.

Pathetic!

Your existence is a festering wound that poisons all in your vicinity.

Embrace the fire.

Let it cleanse all the filth you’ve spread.

But just know, your family will bear the scars of your choices, as they’re carved into their souls for eternity.

Richy sobbed through the agonising sensation weaving through his internal organs. He felt as though someone was weaving his internal organs together with a blunt needle, and they had deliberately coated the thread in salt to prolong his suffering. The increasing pressure in his head demanded an outlet as well.

Everything ached, it bled, and it tore him apart. He was so tired. So tired of trying.

This mine, this town, and all it had demanded of him, he was done with it all. He wanted it to burn. His desire was for them all to suffer, just as he had for a decade. He hadn’t dug just one grave that night. No, there had been one accident and four graves waiting for them. They’d just seen theirs too late.

The forest had never forgotten them, though. It had been patient.

That night with Hannah and Amy, it had never ended. It was a living nightmare he had no way out of. Their deaths had simply waited for them to catch up, and even if Hannah could find it in her to exist after all he’d done, he knew she’d died alongside Jennifer and the rest of them.

Ghosts. That’s what they were. He saw it now. There was no point in trying to hold it off anymore.

It was as if the pressure in his head imploded with that thought.

He wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings as his mind fragmented and warped, and his tenuous hold on reality slipped from his grasp.

The cave dissolved in his vision. Something at the very core of himself disintegrated with it.

He was somewhere else. Somewhere he had long tried to forget.

It was ten years ago.

Amy was there. As was Hannah.

He held a muddied shovel. The surrounding forest smelled like home, but his blood had turned cold. Jennifer’s lifeless body lay broken and bloodied, the remnants of shock still painted across her lovely features.

Her hair lay in a sanguine halo around her head as Richy set down the shovel, and silently, the trio worked to lift the woman.

Hannah’s sobs blended with his labored breathing, sweat drip, drip, dripped down his sore neck. He’d wanted to report it to the police. Tried to convince them to do so anonymously. But Hannah, in her fright, had convinced him they’d be signing their death warrants.

His family would suffer. It was he who gave her the keys to a client’s car. It was due to be scrapped, yes, but that didn’t make it better. Everyone would boycott his dad’s Garage and now that mom was growing worse, the sickness in her invading her mind, he knew they needed that income more than ever.

All they could do was hide the body, agree never to speak of this night, and give the greatest performances of their lives to ensure no one ever suspected them once word of Jennifer’s vanishing spread through Duskwood. He felt like something inside him was dying.

His throat tightened, mouth flooding with saliva as the urge to vomit overtook his senses. Heat crawled through him as he swallowed a mouthful of acidic bile and looked heavenward as they shuffled to stand at the edge of the crudely dug grave.

The stars overhead mocked them as the foliage and freshly overturned earth disguised the metallic scent of spilled blood and their sour shared guilt.

“Are you sure you can live with this?” He asked as they hesitated to drop Jennifer into the ground.

Amy chewed on her bottom lip, blood staining her teeth she’d bitten so hard, and her leaking eyes wouldn’t settle on anything as she gave a single jerky nod. Richy’s stomach sank, but he turned his gaze to Hannah.

His friend’s grief mottled face would haunt him forever as she said, “What other choice do we have?”

That answer inspired zero confidence, but Richy accepted it as an affirmation, and said, “Okay, on three—1, 2, 3!”

With a slight swing and a wobble, they released their hold on Jennifer and all three screwed their eyes shut as she hit the bottom of the hole with a sickening crunch.

Amy fell to her knees, her shaking hands gripping the loose mud ringing the unmarked grave as she sobbed uncontrollably. Richy could hardly stand to watch her, and was glad when Hannah, who was crying freely herself, hauled her away.

He nodded once as Hannah and Amy embraced, clinging to one another, wordless apologies pouring from them both as Richy retrieved his shovel.

He felt like they were being watched. Paranoia snaked through his mind like a weed he knew would grow out of control. All he could do was start refilling the grave.

The soft sound of metal scooping up damp earth seemed to ring through the forest as he internally shut down. All his emotions, he forced them aside. He locked them in a cage made of lead and lined with explosives. Life would never be the same.

Life would be a method actors dream after this. He knew this would change them at a molecular level and none of them could breathe a word of it once they left this cursed forest.

Richy took the last deep breath he’d ever experience and watched expressionlessly as the earth rained down on Jennifer. The pattering noise reminded him of rain, of tears. Amy cried harder while he diligently worked to cover up their mistakes.

Hannah watched, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Wetness trickled down his cheeks as he slowly returned to the present.

Hannah’s face floated across his vision as the scene fully dissipated, and he found himself back in the cave. Stale air replaced the aroma of the night dark forest, and a thin haze hung over his eyes as a euphoric rush raced through his bloodstream.

He felt as if he was floating and drowning in a sea of deliriousness.

The medication had kicked in. His legs were leaden as his head lolled on his neck as if on a swivel, and there was an odd sensation in his nose, like the smell of a roaring fire, but none had been lit. The bullet wound in his arm still griped. Infection had set in, he thought.

Only death would cure it. The meds would ease his passing.

A synthetic fatigue draped him like a cloak as he blinked blearily at the dancing shadows creeping nearer. His mouth turned so dry his tongue curdled in his mouth, and his breathing grew shallower as the painkillers burned through the aches in his body. Not long now, his mosaic mind kept jumping between the past and present, footsteps and disembodied voices whispered so close and real that he answered one.

“I should have turned myself in, I know.”

“At least we agree on something. ”

A female said. His suddenly too heavy head swung around to find the source, his sluggish heart raced faster and faster as the voice sounded like Jessy’s.

“Jess? Remember the fish? The names I made up? If I could—No—I’m so fucking sorry...” He said. He spoke with a voice threaded with deepest despondency.

“The fish were just another lie. All of it was. Your life ended the night Jennifer did. Was any of it real after that? Anything you said, did you mean any of it?”

His shrunken heart broke irrevocably, the agony radiated through his chest, and filled him with a coldness that would soon embrace all of him.

“I didn’t mean—please—I’m ready to pay for it. No one else will hurt because of me.” He swore vehemently.

Jessy’s spectral laugh, derisive and humorless, taunted him.

“We will hurt. It won’t go away. Your actions caused wounds that will scar us forever. Death is your relief. Living with what you did to us is our grief. Goodbye, Richy.”

Richy cried silently as her voice faded and the full effects of the painkillers turned his bones to jelly. He had to light the fire before he passed out. A coffin was his only way out of this cursed place.

Bracing a hand on the knobby wall, he gradually rose to his feet as rock crumbled under his fingers, and rained to the dusty ground, sweat on his palm mixed with the dirt as he tottered toward the entrance. He thumbed the Zippo open as he panted, jaw clenched and eyes stinging with slaking tears.

Petrol permeated the air. He breathed it in as he flicked the lighter and swayed on weak knees as the tiny flame ignited. In the dim, damp recesses of the mine, shadows waltzed like specters as Richy, face obscured by the glow of the lighter and shadow, dropped the flame with a snap of his wrist into the pool of gasoline.

Flame surged away from him, hissing along in a serpentine trail until it morphed into a living beast starved and hungry for destruction. He stumbled back. The heat was a physical blow as it sucked out the oxygen, and he trembled like a newborn fawn as he dropped to his knees and stared and stared and stared.

Amidst the cavernous depths of the mine, the candescent light of the furious fire cast a macabre ballet of shadows upon the rough-hewn walls, a surreal tableau of light and darkness. Tendrils of flame licked and lapped at the stone, awakening ember-tinged echoes that wavered and flashed like phantoms in the subterranean gloom.

Billowing smoke, an ash ridden shroud, coiled sinuously through the labyrinthine passages. The evidence he had doused in gasoline would soon catch fire. Relief glittered through him at the thought. An acrid perfume of burning wood and charred earth mingled with the metallic scent of ancient minerals, an otherworldly aroma that lingered in his lungs and clung to all his senses.

There was no going back now. Every breath was slower than the last. It felt like he was inhaling lava as the heat singed the soft tissue and hair in his nose.

His weighty eyelids sat at half mast. The tunnel walls seemed to exhale, releasing murmurs of long buried secrets, as if the very mine itself sought to voice its resignation to the all-consuming blaze. Mirroring his own easing turmoil as he shut down the instinct to flee and welcomed the darkness speckling the edges of his vision.

His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, and it felt like there was a boulder sitting on his chest, keeping them from inflating and grinding his bones down.

The feeling went out of his legs as his hands turned to claws and raked down his neck, leaving scarlet trails of pain scoring his constricting throat.

His world flipped sideways as he collapsed and his head cracked off the rubble strewn ground, but he no longer felt any pain. The roar of the fire, the slowing beat of his heart, and the stones poking into his tear-streaked face were all he knew.

As Richy’s weary eyes teetered on the edge of closure for the last time, a bizarre scene unfolded within the tumult of his fading consciousness.

The nerves in his hands spasmed and his fingers twitched, filthy nails scratching at the dirt to distract himself as he resisted the urge to fight for his life.

No, it had to end like this. If Hell was real, it was best he got used to it.

Freezing panic blasted through him like a blizzard as his blurred eyes caught sight of something that didn’t belong.

Through the shimmering haze of smoke and heat, a figure emerged from a tunnel he hadn’t thought to include in his fiery last act. His heart tried to beat faster as fear spread its icy fingers through his body. The person appeared cloaked in a shivering orange glow and erratic shadows.

Masked and foreboding, the phantom figure raced away without noticing Richy. And lost in the fractured fabric of his perception, Richy could not see who or what it was. If it was a real person, they might’ve tried to drag him out. This would all be for naught. For once, his horrendous luck benefited him.

As it was, the panicked footsteps bolted away from him, barely heard over the howling fire, and vanished into the tumult of smoke.

He hoped they made it out. It hadn’t occurred to him he might take another’s life with him. Just another mistake. Another tally on his list of sins committed. His choices lay before him like an intricately woven tapestry, each thread a testament to the wrong turns and paths he tread, yielding a disturbing, wretched pattern he wished he could unravel and weave anew.

His trembling gaze soon faltered as the slithering smoke filled his lungs, gasping for air that no longer existed as he spluttered and coughed. With every shallow inhale, the world blurred and distorted. Black spots burst like maleficent fireworks in his eyes, shutting down his fleeting thoughts of crawling to safety.

A cacophony of wheezes and whines slipping from his open mouth faded into a distant echo, as his eyelids, heavy with surrender, fluttered closed. He gave himself over to the exhaustion eating him alive from the inside.

The world outside ceased to matter as an alleviating darkness enveloped his mind. His tiny exhales were little more than puffs of air. A whispered farewell to all those he was leaving behind.

Richy had fallen quiet, but the fire raged on, growing stronger as it feasted on wood, and hastily packed boxes, and the papers inside them. His legacy of ash and blood.

In the letter he left for his parents, he had assumed all guilt and taken the lion's share of the responsibility for Jennifer’s death, and his actions after. Hannah, he thought she had suffered enough, and whatever punishment she received, he didn’t want it to ruin her more. Death was his toll to pay, his lethal reputation would exist long after him and pay for the rest of it. He only hoped his parents could move on from this.

They wouldn’t see him again, not until the funeral. It was over. The corrosive effects of his choices had eaten away at everything good in him.

There was nothing left to salvage from his wreckage.

He tried. And he failed. This time, he finally succeeded in something. The complete demolition of him. A tear slipped through his lashes, warm and soft as it fell to the mucky ground.

It was the last. No more fell.

Death came quietly for him, as silent as a falling leaf drifting into a pile of its fallen friends. His chest stuttered as tentacles of smoke wreathed around him like funeral wrappings, falling as still as the rock he lay atop.

Death finally slayed Richy Rogers’ demons, and no one heard their screams.

——————

I have never been so nervous about something I’ve written. I hope that you—I can’t say enjoyed 🙈 but I hope your time wasn’t wasted. Thank you for reading, if you made it this far.

This is in no way meant to glamorise mental illness or anything like that. That is not my intention. I have been where Richy was in this story, I didn’t kidnap or help bury anyone, but I’ve dealt with depression/anxiety all my life. I’ve dealt with suicidal thoughts. There is nothing glamorous about it. This is just a fictional character study to explore his mind and emotions at the end of the game. If you are struggling, please reach out to anyone you trust. Or a stranger, if that works better. Share the burden. You don’t have to suffer alone. It can get better. I promise. I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t ❤️🫂

Thank you ❤️

And the “masked figure,” that was Jake from this story, The Ending You Deserve. Just a little Easter egg for anyone who read that 🤭❤️

[illumins]

𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝑙. 𝒉𝑒𝑒𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑔 (#⁰¹)

✦trope: angst, contemporary

✦wordcount: 1,215

✧second pov

▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭▬▭

The air in the room is thick with tension, heavy and suffocating like a blanket of fog. The music thumps in the background, a steady beat that matches the rhythm of your pounding heart. You stand alone in the center of the crowded party, surrounded by a sea of faces that blur together in a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes.

Your gaze drifts across the room, searching for Heesung, your lover, your heart. But he is nowhere to be found, lost amidst the throng of bodies that pulse and sway around you. A sense of unease settles in the pit of your stomach, a nagging feeling that something is not quite right.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, you see him. Heesung, standing across the room, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His jaw is set in a tight line, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

You feel a pang of guilt wash over you, a heavy weight that settles in the pit of your stomach. You know that you've hurt him, that your words have cut deeper than you ever intended. But in the heat of the moment, you couldn't stop yourself from lashing out, from pushing him away when all you really wanted was to pull him close.

Heesung's gaze never wavers as he watches you from across the room, his eyes burning with a fire that threatens to consume you whole. You try to look away, to pretend that you don't see him standing there, but his presence is like a magnetic force that draws you in, refusing to be ignored.

And then, just when you think you can't bear it any longer, he turns away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. A pang of regret shoots through you like a bolt of lightning, tearing through the walls you've built around your heart and leaving you raw and exposed.

You move towards him, your steps slow and hesitant, like a soldier marching towards the battlefield. The closer you get, the more you can feel the weight of his gaze bearing down on you, crushing you beneath its intensity.

And then, just as you reach out to touch him, to bridge the chasm that separates you, he turns away, his back stiff and unyielding. You watch helplessly as he disappears into the crowd, swallowed up by the sea of faces that churn and swirl around you.

Desperation wells up inside you like a tidal wave, threatening to drown you in its suffocating embrace. You want to scream, to cry out for him to come back, to forgive you for the pain you've caused. But the words stick in your throat like a lump of coal, choking off your voice and leaving you gasping for air.

You stand there alone in the midst of the chaos, your heart heavy with regret and longing. And as the music fades into the background and the party rages on around you, you realize that you may have lost Heesung forever, lost him to the darkness that lurks within your own heart.

Jake saunters up to you, a cocky grin plastered across his face. "Hey there," he says, his voice smooth and confident. "I couldn't help but notice you standing here all alone. Mind if I join you?"

You offer him a polite smile, trying to ignore the flutter of unease in your stomach. "Sure, go ahead," you reply, your voice strained with forced cheerfulness.

He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on you with an intensity that makes you squirm uncomfortably. "I have to say, you look absolutely stunning tonight," he says, his words dripping with charm.

You thank him, trying to brush off his compliments with a casual wave of your hand. But he doesn't seem to take the hint, leaning in closer until his breath tickles your ear.

"And that dress," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "It looks incredible on you."

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest as his words send a shiver down your spine. You should pull away, you should tell him to back off. But something holds you in place, rooted to the spot like a deer caught in the headlights.

His hand brushes against your hair, sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, smell the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the heady aroma of the party.

As Jake leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, you suddenly feel a heavy presence behind you. Before you can react, Heesung's voice cuts through the air like a knife, low and dangerous. "Is there a problem here?" he growls, his words laced with barely-contained anger.

Before you can respond, Heesung wraps his arm around your throat, pulling you into his chest with a force that leaves you breathless. His grip is tight, almost suffocating, but there's something reassuring about the way he holds you close, like a shield protecting you from the storm.

Jake's eyes narrow as he takes a step back, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. He rolls his eyes at Heesung's display of dominance, a silent declaration that he won't be intimidated so easily.

Heesung's grip tightens, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Well, she's not interested," he says, his voice cold and cutting. "So why don't you take a hike before I make you regret ever laying eyes on her?"

Jake scoffs, a derisive snort escaping his lips. He knows when he's beaten, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. With a disdainful glare at Heesung, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, his shoulders stiff with pride.

As Heesung slowly releases his grip, his hand sliding off from your throat, you turn around to face him, a mixture of relief and apprehension swirling in your chest. His eyes, once burning with anger, now narrow into bothered slits as they bore into yours.

"Heesung," you begin, your voice soft with apology, but he interrupts you before you can say anything else. "Just go home," he says, his tone clipped and cold.

Your heart sinks at his words, a pang of guilt stabbing at your chest. You had hoped to make things right, to apologize for the fight and the misunderstanding. But it seems that Heesung has no interest in hearing your excuses.

Hesitantly, you reach for the drink in your hand, annoyance bubbling up within you like a simmering pot ready to boil over. With a resigned sigh, you hand it to Heesung, the weight of it heavy in your palm.

Without another word, you turn on your heel and walk away, each step heavier than the last as you make your way through the crowded room. The noise of the party fades into the background, replaced by the dull ache of regret and the sting of rejection.

As you push open the door and step out into the cool night air, you can't help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you and Heesung. But for now, all you can do is walk away, hoping that with time, wounds will heal, and bridges will be rebuilt.

[antimonyandthyme]

Superhero AU; Apology

The Sorry I tried to murder you conversation goes like this:

Mick knocks until his knuckles ache, and begs until he loses his voice. Haas and Ferrari talk. Ferrari is willing to let the skirmish go as long as Mick keeps his mouth shut. The media ask about Michael; Mick feigns ignorance. Whenever words threaten to slip past his teeth, he thinks about the tears in Sebastian’s previously unmarred skin. Cuts made from an instrument finer than a scalpel. It makes his throat close right back up.

Every day, he stops by. Even after the first few times Charles has threatened to burn him alive. Forgiveness, understanding, such things take time. As does the way an idea takes seed and festers into a rage so punishing it flays all it touches. Mick knocks.

“Please.” Mick thinks these words might have to rest on his tongue for the remainder of his life. Please, and sorry.

“Fuck off,” Charles says from the inside. “He doesn’t need you here.”

No, of course Sebastian doesn’t. He doesn’t need to see the person who came close to ripping him to shreds. Or the person who’s a walking reminder of Michael. Or the person who was naive and petulant and misunderstood things in a way that was irreversibly damaging. “Please,” he tries anyway.

Charles doesn’t reply. Mick falls asleep, crouched uncomfortably on the floor, his back curved against the unyielding door.

“Fuck’s sake,” Charles says angrily, a couple of hours or a couple of weeks later. Mick’s lost count. Charles shoves a plate of food into Mick’s hands. “If he sees you like that, he’d be sad. That’s the only reason why I’m doing this.”

“Why isn’t he waking?” Mick scrabbles to his feet, sways. Charles barely stops himself from reaching out. He must look a sorry sight. “What’s wrong with him?”

Charles fingers are twitching by his sides, like he’s contemplating blasting Mick through the wall with a flamethrower. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I was wrong.” Mick thinks he might cry. He hasn’t, since Michael. The last time he laid eyes on Sebastian they were hauling him onto a stretcher, both Charles and him, so exhausted from their duel they could hardly support Sebastian’s weight. The last thing Sebastian had said to him before passing out was, Don’t blame yourself, Mick. “And I need to make it right.”

Charles glares. Mick wonders if he has to endure another fight with fire. He isn’t sure if he can win. He still isn’t fully recovered from the last time Charles deservingly set him alight. He wonders if he has to get on his knees.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to wake up,” Charles says. He sounds heartbroken, in a furious sort of way. “Maybe seeing you was too painful.”

Charles is probably right. Mick doesn’t know the full extent of Sebastian’s power—no one does—but he’s aware accelerated healing contributed to the facade of invulnerability. If Sebastian isn’t waking, then maybe, even if the thought is awful and makes guilt crush his chest, maybe Sebastian isn’t waking by choice.

“Let me,” Mick says. “Let me speak to him and ask his forgiveness and yell at him until he wakes. Let me try.” To make this right.

Charles is staring at him, unimpressed.

“I can be real stubborn. I’m a Schumacher.”

“Yeah.” For the first time in eight weeks, Charles steps aside. “That you are.”

The apologies go like this:

I was angry. And scared. I thought you’d betrayed him. I let the idea fester and I turned you into the enemy. I was wrong. I’m sorry, Sebastian. I’m really fucking sorry. Can you hear me? I’m sorry. I was wrong. I hurt you. I’m sorry. Wake up. I’m sorry.

“I told you not to blame yourself,” Sebastian says, some three months after Mick tried to murder the one person who loved him so much even Ferrari couldn’t cover it up. His eyes are bluer than a clear day’s sky.

[archaicden]

if it weren’t for that damned contract.

[jamespotterthefirst]

With You (Ethan x f!MC)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2K (sorry!) Warning: Strong Language and NS*FW content. Please use discretion and caution when viewing this work. By viewing of this work, you consent that you are 18+

Premise: AU. They sleep together in Miami after their first kiss.

Author’s Note: Okay so this is total wish fulfilment on my part. Like total fantasy land here.

Author’s Note II: I really wanted to name this after an ABBA song because I love ABBA and they're teasing new music. So you can imagine I am insufferable at the moment lol. But alas, I couldn't find a good one.

Every fiber of his skin rages with the need of her lips against his. His heart, almost an unknown entity to Ethan in that moment, drums boldly against his chest. Its beats are an incredulous song because his risk paid off—Lilac wants him as desperately as he’s wanted her for months.

Green eyes pierce him from under a fan of black lashes, her lips dark and swollen from their kiss. Her body shifts on the bed, an invitation Ethan is more than eager to accept. Yet, he hesitates by the glass doors, a war raging inside him.

“Ethan?”

“We...can’t. We can’t go further. We’ve already crossed a line.”

There is no going back, he realizes. He will never again lie in bed wondering how Lilac would feel in his arms or how well her lips molded to his. For one glorious moment, he finally had that answer. Now, the agony clouding his future will be her absence.

Lilac straightens on the mattress, her brow furrowing.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course not, not in the slightest. You…”

You were everything I ever hoped for.

“No, I did. I shouldn’t have let this happen. And it can’t happen again.”

“What? Why not?”

“I’m an attending, and you’re an intern.”

“So?”

“It’s unethical. And it’s complicated.”

Lilac is on her feet now, scrutinizing him in the long stretch of silence that follows. There is a sadness in her eyes as she processes his words and Ethan can practically see her mind working. Not for the first time since he met her, he is gripped by the urge to know exactly what she's thinking. Every one of her thoughts would be a melody he'd listen to as long as she let him.

At last, she straightens her posture, delicate jaw setting in a determined line. When she looks at Ethan, there is a resolute fire in her eyes that makes his skin prickle. She moves away from the bed until she stands in front of him again, her fingers tracing a soft line along his forearm, capturing him so entirely, he wonders how he was ever strong enough to resist her.

“It’s only unethical if you let it.”

“Lilac.”

Lilac shakes her head, undeterred. “No, listen. Edenbrook is a large program. There are many other attendings who could be in charge of me while I’m there. I could easily request for a transfer and a different supervisor.”

Ethan should quell the argument at once, but his traitorous heart speeds up, fueled by foolish hope.

“How do you know all this?”

“I asked Doctor Calais out of curiosity the other day.”

Despite himself, he gives her a crooked smirk. “Were you hoping to get out of working with me that desperately?”

Lilac, on the other hand, is not laughing. Her eyes, brighter and far more beautiful than the ocean outside, are fixed on his, completely serious.

“The opposite, actually.” Her voice is low, soft, earnest.

It stirs something in Ethan—something he always thought was unyielding.

“Things don’t always have to be complicated, Ethan. Sometimes, happiness is simpler than you think.”

The words float around them, echoing in the small space between them. And all the while, Ethan's heartbeat quickens impossibly so, perhaps sensing the turning point approaching. Lilac's hand finds its place over his chest, reminiscent of only moments ago on the balcony.

There is no denying it any longer. The thunderous beat of his heart against her fingers tells of how ardently he has longed for her. Her lips part as she looks at him, leaving no doubt of how desperately she's wanted him too.

When she speaks, her voice is a whisper.

“I could make you happy.”

And then, he kisses her, hard.

This time, when they reunite, their hands know where to go, as though the first kiss was all they needed to become familiar with the other. His hands travel up the dip of her waist and he thinks that perhaps they memorized each other with every stolen glance over the past few months. Lilac hums against his lips, compromising any poetic or even coherent thought from Ethan.

Without breaking the kiss, her hands work the buttons of his shirt, a quiet urgency behind every move. She breaks away from his mouth, no doubt hoping to make her task quicker. Ethan, malcontent with not kissing her, moves to lavish her neck.

Lilac lets out a small moan, rendered clumsier still by this.

“I want you,” she confesses in a breathless whisper as his shirt finally hits the hotel floor.

“I want you, too,” he confesses, pressing his forehead against hers. “You have no idea how much.”

As though to prove this, he brings her mouth to his, allowing his kiss to weave the story of his admiration for her.

As the kiss turns desperate, Ethan backs her into the glass of the sliding doors, expert hands making quick work of her dress. As the shimmering fabric hits the floor, Lilac pulls back long enough to give him an impressed look. Ethan, however, doesn't savor the triumph. The sight of Lilac, almost naked in the moonlight, leaves him momentarily stunned.

Then, she raises herself to kiss his neck.

“Are you going to eye fuck me all night or are you going to do something about it?”

With a shiver, Ethan recovers, and fueled by a primal urge, he grips her hips and flips her around to face the placid sea.

“You're so goddamn beautiful.”

The words are a rough whisper against her ear.

His hands, meanwhile, travel lower to grip her ass. He smacks it lightly, making her moan quietly.

“More,” she begs.

He complies, kneading and palming, relishing in her small cries. Ethan's free hand slips under the lace of the black thong, his fingers teasing and stroking.

“You're so wet for me already,” he murmurs into her ear, enjoying the way she clenches around his fingers in response.

“You always get me wet,” she manages. “The way you look at me some—” she breaks off into a moan, throwing her head against his shoulder when he increases the speed of his fingers. “The way you look at me… when you call me 'Rookie'... I've touched myself at night thinking about you.”

His cock strains against the front of his pants and despite his attempt to be in control, a rough grunt leaves him. Giving in to the savage need to taste her, Ethan withdraws his fingers, earning him a small whimper in protest.

“Turn around, Rookie.”

He can feel her legs tremble but she complies. Her bra hits the floor within seconds, freeing her breasts to his hands and mouth. Despite his enjoyment, he abandons them only moments later and moves lower, kissing every freckle in his descent, his eyes never leaving hers. Lilac watches him through dark, hooded eyes until he reaches the band of her last remaining article of clothing.

“These have to come off,” he informs her, doing the honors of removing them.

Ethan is on his knees, eyes locked on hers as he teases her inner thigh with his tongue. Lilac moans, body taut with anticipation, her knees quivering with need.

When he can't take the teasing anymore, he murmurs against her skin—

“Open your legs for me, Rookie.”

Ethan Ramsey, it appears, is good at everything. As he works her with his tongue, expertly flicking and lapping, Lilac presses further against the glass, biting her lip to suppress a scream.

“Fuck,” she moans anyway. “Ethan. Just like that… Please don't stop.”

He hums his acknowledgement against her pussy, the gritty sound making her wetter still. Ethan grunts in response, effectively making the hottest sex noises she’s ever heard. The deep timbre of his pleasure is enough to bring her closer.

“I’m going to come all over your face.”

He is spurred by the declaration, bringing her thighs further apart, his tongue entering her.

“Good.”

“God, Ethan!”

She shuts her eyes, her head falling against the foggy glass. Her hands dive into his hair, both to support herself as he tongue fucks her against the sliding door and to guide him deeper into her. Ethan grunts against her and with only a few more strokes of his masterful mouth, she comes, loudly and unabashedly all over his tongue.

“That was—”

Her knees give out, properly finishing the sentence for her. With a devilish and proud smirk, Ethan catches her.

“That good?” he asks, already kissing her neck.

“Mmm, I could ask you the same. It sounded like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was,” he returns without hesitation.

They kiss and too soon, her still trembling body aches for him. She guides him toward the king sized bed without breaking the kiss, her body begging to be filled and stretched by him. Her hand moves down to the insistent bulge between them, unable to contain a small but impressed gasp.

Ethan breaks apart to gauge her reaction.

“I want you inside me,” she says in response.

The hungry look he gives her would have been enough to make her moan out his name again. Without saying another word, Ethan works towards fulfilling that wish. As she settles on the mattress, he removes the last of his clothing until he is bare in front of her.

“Fuck me, Ethan,” she begs, eyes on the glorious, impressive sight of him.

He doesn't need to be told twice. Ethan quickly and skillfully rolls a condom down his length, guiding his cock to the entrance of her body. He teases her, tapping the top against her clit before pushing inside her slowly.

“God, you feel so good,” she moans.

Ethan looks as though he wants to echo the sentiment, but his eyes remain locked on her with such intensity, Lilac shivers. He pushes deeper into her, maintaining eye contact. Something tugs at her chest and before she knows it, she sits up to kiss him as he fully enters her for the first time.

Ethan groans into her mouth as he starts to move, slowly at first. His strokes are long and measured, their bodies meeting with controlled restraint.

Too soon, however, they both grow impatient, taking their pleasure with one another in quick strokes.

“Yes, Ethan.”

His fingers dig into her hips as he drives into her, heading her breathless little pleas for more of him.

With mingled cries, they come within seconds of each other.

“That was—” he says several minutes later, when they're settling under the covers.

Lilac laughs, mirroring the prideful smile he had given her when she had said the words.

“It was,” she agrees contently, settling next to him. His arm wraps around her, the feeling so natural, it didn't feel like the first time.

Another small silence follows as the events of the night settle over them like a veil. Lilac glances up at Ethan, his beautiful face is impassive as he stares up at the ceiling, deep in thought. She can practically hear the thoughts racing through his mind.

For the third time that night, he stomach sinks horribly at the prospect that he’s already regretting their time together. But then, he turns to look at her, giving her a small smile that makes her insides melt. Without saying anything, he brings her hand to his lips, kissing the tip of each finger with so much adoration, she holds her breath.

“I'll make the call in the morning.”

Lilac gives him a puzzled look.

“The request to transfer you to another attending's supervision,” he explains.

Her heart leaps as understanding dawns on her.

“And then?”

“And then,” he continues, “we can give this a fair chance.”

Ethan kisses her hand when he says the word this.

“I'd like that.”

He gives her a quiet nod but pauses again, thoughtful.

“Although, I'd still like to keep it private for as long as we can. Even though there won't be any conflict of interest on paper, hospital gossip can still be vicious. I don’t think I can stand it if anyone suggests your accomplishments are a result of sleeping with me.”

“Sleeping with is one of my accomplishments, actually,” she returns with a laugh and Ethan rolls his eyes. When he schools his features into a serious expression, Lilac does the same. “Fine. No, making out at work. That's a good idea.”

“And please don’t tell Naveen.”

Lilac raises a brow. “Embarrassed of me?”

“Not at all,” Ethan explains. “I’m embarrassed of him. He will accost you with questions any chance he gets. Not to mention he will be insufferable and claim he was right about us all along.”

They share a laugh, enjoying the moment in each other’s arms. A peaceful, content pause follows and Lilac feels her body relaxing, teetering on the edge of sleep.

“I want to be.”

Ethan’s voice is quiet.

“Want to be what?” she asks.

He kisses the top of her forehead and she can feel the smile he can’t contain.

“Happy. With you.”

Author's Note: I didn't proofread so forgive me.

Also, I am incapable of writing short smut pieces. This was supposed to be "a short one" lol. I'm thinking of doing some NSFW prompts soon so we'll see if I can shorten them lol

Thank you so much for reading!

*Tagging 18+ List in a reblog*

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Bad Bromance

It’s Tama Tonga time! I’m still adjusting to the new, clean-shaven and short-haired Tama. The two are easier to deal with together than when he just shaved the beard off but... Well, I’m not quite back to my old levels of Tama lust just yet. Doesn’t mean the lust is gone though. Oh no...

Pairing: Tama Tonga x OFC/ reader

Word count: 2,934

Content advisory: smut and angst

You steel yourself as you go to answer the doorbell. There’s no need to look because you already know who it is. 10 a.m. They were right on time. The moving truck is smaller than you expected, such a compact space to fit two years of someone’s life. When you and Tanga Loa had broken up, it seemed like something too huge to process. It’s painful now to see it reduced to a bunch of boxes piled in the spare bedroom waiting to be transported to his new home, his new life. 

The day he’d come back to pack, you told him to take what he wanted and had fled for the entire day, returning late at night to find he’d claimed very little. It had sat there for a week, waiting for the movers and you’d kept the door to the room closed that whole time. If you didn’t have to look at it, you could try to forget how everything between you had just collapsed into a lake of bitterness and suspicion and resentment. The break up had been necessary but that didn’t make it easy. 

You set your features, seeking to look calm and indifferent for the movers but that immediately breaks down when you open the door. You had hoped that Tanga might accompany them, not because you wanted to see him but because him being there would allow you to get out while they worked. Instead, he’s sent his brother Tama. Your expression darkens the moment you see him. He’d come along to help with the packing and the two of you had glared at each other without speaking. It made sense that he would be protective of his younger brother in the wake of a break up but the fact is that you and Tama Tonga had only ever been civil to each other for Tanga’s sake. You strongly suspected that he’d helped bring about the decline of the relationship because he’d never thought you were good enough for his little brother. For your part, something about him had grated on your nerves from the moment you met him. Yes, both brothers were cocky, but Tama carried that further. He was loud and arrogant and always wanted to be the center of attention. Something about him had gotten under your skin immediately and so you’d made a point of doting on Tanga all the more just to show the elder brother that you weren’t going to make him the center of your attention. And things had pretty much gone downhill from there. 

Tama grunts and pushes into the hallway, pushing you right back inside as he does. 

“Everything still in there?” He nods towards the spare room. 

“Yeah.” You have to resist the urge to tell him he doesn’t need to stay. 

You turn and walk back to the kitchen, installing yourself on one of the barstools next to the center island, the feature that had sold you on the place when you first saw it. You stare glumly at your phone, trying to focus on your Instagram feed while your mind is raging at the idea that you’re trapped in your own home with Tama. You could leave but you tell yourself that you can’t trust him not to take a few things extra, or smash something you love, or play some horrible, bitter prank to teach you not to mess with his family.  

Maintaining the illusion of concentration becomes harder when he follows you into the kitchen and helps himself to a beer. You suspect he does this in part to push your buttons, seeing if you’ll snap at him because he doubtless has some retort all lined up and waiting. It’s safer to keep your nose buried in your phone, which is exactly what you do. Nevertheless, you watch him from the corner of your eye, sipping your beer and staring at his own phone. He has a habit of laughing and mumbling in reaction to whatever he’s seeing that grates on your nerves. It’s like everything has to be a performance with him. 

A couple of times, the movers come with questions for him but it’s otherwise an uneventful and efficient operation, up until the very end when you see one of them carrying your lamp out the door. 

“Wait!” you yell, scurrying after the surprised-looking man. “That’s not supposed to go! That’s mine!”

“No, you said everything in the room was his to take,” Tama growls, arriving behind you. 

You whirl to face him, almost unable to believe you’ve heard him correctly. “That lamp has been with me since I went to college! He probably meant to move it to another room and forgot. But it’s mine and it stays here.”

Tama gives you a contemptuous scowl and shakes his head. “You said he could have everything. Considering how much he’s letting you keep, it’s a real bitch move for you to start trying to get more now.”

“Come on, Tama,” you groan, “he can take another lamp. Take whatever other lamp you want. Take a fucking ceiling fixture for all I care but that one is mine. It means something to me.”

He shrugs. “If he left it in that room, it’s because he wanted it.”

“Are you kidding me?” you shriek, trying not to notice the bewildered face of the mover stuck in lamp limbo. “Call him. Fucking call him and ask him if he wants that lamp or if he’d be willing to take another one.”

“I’m not bothering him with this shit, he’s been through enough because of you.” Tama turns his attention to the mover. “The lamp goes.”

You’re humiliated as a loud sob breaks from you, tears flowing. You could fight. You could call Tanga yourself. But it’s suddenly like the weight of the past weeks, of the past months of anxiety in your relationship and watching it fail, crashes down on you. So you turn and run back to the kitchen, trying to keep the sounds of your crying low enough that they won’t hear you. This time, you sit at the kitchen table, where you can bury your head in your arms and wait for this to be over. You hear the men chuckling down the hall. Tama must be entertaining them with stories of what an idiot you are. 

“Ok, so we’re done. I’m heading out.”

You lift your head to see him swagger into the room. He nonchalantly drops the keys- Tanga’s keys- on the table in front of you. 

“You still pouting about your fucking lamp? You can get pieces of shit like that at Ikea.”

“I know where I can buy lamps, you asshole. The point is that that one was mine. It’s the one thing that’s been with me ever since I moved into my own place. You don’t even want it, he doesn’t even want it. You’re only taking it because you know it’ll hurt me.”

“Some of us think you deserve to get hurt a little.”

“A little? You think your brother is the only one hurting right now? I didn’t want things to fall apart. And I did try to make it work. I hate that we couldn’t save what we had and just because you haven’t seen what I’ve been going through doesn’t mean that I’m not in pain.”

“You’re still the one who got to keep this place and almost everything in it. And now you’re trying to take back even some of that.”

“I told him he could have whatever he wanted! It was his choice!” You punch the table to emphasize your point but feel yourself flinch at the pain. “Whatever,” you mutter, “you never liked me anyway.”

“Ok, you wanna start this? You’re right, I never liked you because my brother doesn’t need someone who always needs his attention focused on her, who can’t handle that sometimes he has to concentrate on his career.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you. I never did anything to get in the way of his career. You’re the one who needs all his time and attention because you’re just worried that if he has anything else in his life that it’s going to hurt your career.”

“Hey, he loves what he’s doing.”

“He loved me too.”

Tama chuckles and smirks at you. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, babe.”

You’re on your feet, lunging towards him before you’re even aware of what’s happening. Your fist lands with a thud on his sternum, and you shove him repeatedly with both hands, trying to get him to move. 

“Get out! You get the hell out now and stay away from me!” 

It’s not like you to be physical like this, not at all, but it’s like you’re not in control. You keep screaming and hitting, growing all the angrier when he shakes off your blows like they’re nothing. He stands unmoved, the same smirk on his face. A moment ago, he said he was leaving. Now that he knows you want him to leave, he won’t budge. He just lets you flail at him and cry until he finally places his hands on your shoulders and firmly but not roughly backs you up against the wall. 

“You need to chill out before your neighbours call the cops.”

As soon as you stop raging, it’s like all the strength has gone from your body and you have to balance yourself against the wall to stop from sinking into a pile on the floor. 

“You told him to leave me,” you hiss, unable to look your tormentor in the eyes.

“Yeah, I did. A bunch of times. You’re not the right person for him.” 

“Oh you can fuck off with that you arrogant jackass! You don’t want him to have anyone in his life. You don’t want him to think about anything that might interfere with your plans! I loved him and I wanted a life with him!” Once again, you pound your fists against Tama’s unyielding chest. When your energy is spent, he presses his hands against yours and gently pins them back against the wall, holding them in place. 

“Come on. You and I both know that it wasn’t gonna work between you and him,” he whispers. 

Your first inclination is to hit him again but as he presses his weight against you, holding you in place, dark eyes bearing down on you, it feels like something catches fire in your core. It’s not like desire, at least, not like any feeling of desire you’ve ever experienced, but like an eruption, heat pouring out from your loins and setting the rest of your body alight. Yes, despite the tension, you’ve always known that Tama was attractive, but feeling him so close, the heat of his body penetrating your skin, his attention completely focused on you, you feel a wild lust that eclipses anything you’ve felt for any other man. You return his gaze and it’s like there’s an electricity between you, like you can feel the power of your desire meeting its match. 

His grip on you loosens just a little and immediately your hands are grabbing at him, tangling in his hair and pulling him into a kiss. At the same time, one of his hands snakes behind your head and pulls you to him, his response equal in passion to yours. Your embrace is a mix of lips, tongues and teeth, like the two of you are intent on devouring each other. It’s a few minutes of this before his mouth drops to your neck, teeth gnashing against the flesh there, his lips and tongue soothing the wounds he inflicts as his moans resonate through your body. 

You practically scream as he shoves one hand underneath your shorts and panties, thrusting his fingers into your already soaked sex. The speed and intensity of his touches only increases when you inadvertently shout his name, grinding yourself against his hand while your thigh is positioned between his legs. As wrapped up in your own pleasure as you are, your body shudders with anticipation as you feel the shape of his hardening cock against you. Although you never would have admitted it, you’ve often stared at the man in his skin-tight ring gear and you have noticed the outline of what he has in his pants. 

He breaks away just long enough to pull off your shirt and then his own before pinning you against the wall once more and lifting your hips. You wrap your legs around him, thrusting your hips to meet his as the two of you continue frantically embracing, mouths clashing and wrestling against each other as fiercely as anything you’ve seen in the ring. You let your head fall back against the wall as he grabs hold of a breast, licking and biting his way down your chest and swirling his tongue around the nipple before he wraps his lips around it and sucks harshly. You cry in pleasure and he quickly lavishes the same attention on the other breast before he gathers you up, his hands inside your shorts cupping your ass as he carries you over to the kitchen table, the cool tiled surface sending a shiver through your heated skin. 

He works your shorts and panties the rest of the way off while you nearly rip his pants from his body, desperate to see what he’s been teasing you with. And it does not disappoint. Indeed, it’s kind of astonishingly beautiful, the perfect gentle curve upward, the generous length (a little more than his brother’s, although you’re not about to mention that), the succulent head already leaking precum. You run your hand over it, fingers circling the tip and spreading the liquid before you start stroking him, making both of you moan in pleasure. 

“Oh you like that,” he purrs with a crafty smile. 

You nod and smile back before leaning over to run your tongue along the seam of his dick, pushing him into your mouth. 

“Aw fuck,” he groans, his head falling back. You can feel his legs shaking as he fights to maintain control. “Oh god, honey, slow down, I’m gonna fucking burst.”

He eases you off him and pushes you down on the table, taking a couple of tentative thrusts at your pussy before you push back against him. 

“Fuck me Tama,” you whisper hoarsely. “I want you inside me.”

He curses as he presses all the way inside you and that magnificent cock feels as good as it looks. You’re almost screaming at the sensation of it, especially when you feel his hand move to your pussy. He strokes you a little before taking your hand and placing it so that you’re both manipulating your most sensitive spot. 

He lifts himself up a little, panting, “Show me what to do. Show me how you like it.”

And he proves a very good student, immediately picking up the sort of touches and movements you need, then taking over entirely as you whine in pleasure. Your muscles clench tighter, something which does not go unnoticed. 

“That’s it, come on my dick, angel, I wanna feel it.”

You’re practically there already and hearing his breathless, lusty voice is enough to tip you over the edge, a stream of ecstatic cries signalling your orgasm and making him increase his pace. 

The two of you watch the frenetic movement of his cock into your cunt until he’s clearly reached his breaking point, when he bends you almost double so that he can get as deep as possible, cursing and repeating your name as his own orgasm rips through him. The two of you are gasping for several minutes afterward, his head burrowed into your neck and trailing soft kisses up and down it. 

“Is that what all the bullshit was about?” you sigh. 

You feel him laugh a little before he raises his head, all hints of bitterness and malice gone from his intense brown eyes. 

“Yeah, I think maybe it was.”

You cup his face in your hands, still feeling disoriented from the wave of passion that’s just broken over you. There’s no point in bringing up the obvious problem with what you’ve just done. It’s hovering in the air around you and you’re both aware of it. Instead, you give yourself over to the moment, gently stroking his hair back from his face and humming in pleasure as he runs his hands over your body. And before you know it, the two of you are kissing again, languidly but with no less passion than before, taking the time to explore each other. 

“So,” he murmurs when he finally pulls away, “what were you planning to do for the rest of the day?”

“I didn’t really think about it. Figured I’d just want to lay down or something.”

He smiles and lifts you up, hands running over your back as he does. 

“You mind having some company?”

“I don’t mind having you as company,” you whisper, biting your lip a little. 

He kisses you again as he carries you into the bedroom and lowers you to the bed. As you kiss and stroke his sculpted chess, you have to fight to keep the larger reality out of mind. A wild, spur of the moment fuck is one thing, but feeling Tama’s hands moving over you, pressing you tight to his body and hearing the soft moans of pleasure coming from him, you know that isn’t where you want to leave things. Disaster looms and you’re running towards it.

[gallickingun]

YOUR BAKU IS PERFECT!!! may I pls have more??? 🥺👉👈

a/n: AW THANK YOU! i had to start easy bc he scares me lol. well not him so much as writing him correctly! 

warnings: swearing, blood, lil tension; everyone 18+ even if there’s nothing going on. 

ps, wow, this took a turn. 18+ for a reason now lol aka spicy but tolerable

“Outta my way, Deku!”

“Eat shit, IcyHot!”

“Fuck off, Weird Hair!”

“You know you can talk to your friends without insulting them, right?”

“Shut up,” Bakugo grumbles, dusting the ash off of his uniform.

“Yo!” Kirishima shouts as he trots over to where the two of you are, loitering over what remains of the training bots. He tilts his head, his face guard outlining his features, “Anyone ever notice that Bakugo never calls her anything mean?”

You scoff, “Oh take it as a compliment. Just means that he cares so little about me that he hasn’t thought of a crappy one-liner for me yet.”

“Hey!” Bakugo’s eyes widen, brows raising to form creases on his forehead. He’s growling now and you wonder how far you can push him, “You’re mean to people you like, I’ve figured you out, Baku’.”

He’s gritting his teeth and his jaw is quivering but you can’t help the giggle that parts your lips. The sound only seems to spur him on in his bout of fury, “You take that back, you raging little bitch!”

“There he is,” Kirishima groans, slapping his palm to his face. He sighs and shakes his head, reaching forward to grab Bakugo around the arms, dragging him towards the locker room. 

Pissing Bakugo off had to be the best part of training.

You made it your point to say the last thing to frustrate him; it’s entertaining. And you know he’ll never hurt you, not for real. No matter how far he pushes his limits, he hasn’t ever actually harmed his friends beyond repair.

“Same time tomorrow?” you salute the hothead as he’s roughly yanked to the lockers.

“What did you say?!” He’s screaming from across the yard, his hands ferociously animating in midair. He raises a fist to you before flipping you off with both hands, “You’re lucky Weird Hair is here, or else I’d totally come beat your ass!”

You chuckle as you turn to go to your own set of locker rooms, a hot shower calling your name. There isn’t enough energy remaining in your body to send him another taunt or insult. You also know when is enough with Bakugo - you don’t want to have to have a full fledged one-on-one with him unless you have to. You’d never admit it, but he might overpower your quirk if he were angry enough.

It seems to become a thing then, because now you can’t stop paying attention to the way that Bakugo says your name instead of calling you some rejected insult. Even though he’s moved into an apartment with Kirishima, and he and Midoriya spar on the regular, he still keeps the same nicknames he gave them in high school. 

You allow the tiniest of thoughts to wonder if maybe Bakugo just thinks highly enough of you to allow you to have your given name instead of giving you one himself.

The next time you bring it up, you’re pinning him down with your forearm on his throat, hips pressing harshly to him. You’re enlisted in the same agency, have been for about three years now, and you’re both working your way up the charts and the pay rates.

“Why don’t I get a cute nickname, Katsuki?” you tilt your head in genuine confusion.

He’s growling and before you know it, you feel a stinging explosion set off against your thigh and you’re rolling over. He takes advantage of the moment and pins you right back. Your head bobs against the training mat but the rest of your body is rendered immobile. His shins are on yours, successfully pinning your legs down as his hands make quick work of your upper body.

“Why does it fuckin’ matter?” Bakugo grits his teeth and narrows his eyes down at you, unsure as to what you’re getting at. His forearm is cutting off your breathing and he knows it, pushing into your esophagus as he repeats the question, only harsher this time.

You try to move your hand, signaling your surrender before you pass out.

Once he realizes, he’s leaning off of you, watching as you sputter and cough. You even thing you hear him mutter some sort of an apology as you work through your fit.

“I guess it doesn’t,” you manage, voice hoarse. “I’m just curious, since Kirishima said something.”

Bakugo rolls his eyes, resting his palms on the top of his thighs, “He’s talking out of his ass, is all.”

You find your hands are on his knees, casual as if this were normal. You chew on your lip and he gets impatient, brows knitted together as he snaps, “If you’ve got something to say, then say it!”

“You don’t see us as equals, do you?”

He smirks, “Well, I am the one on top of you while you beg for mercy, so you tell me.”

Your face burns bright red at his words and he falters, his breath hitching. He didn’t really mean it, it just slipped out. Or, rather, he didn’t mean for it to come across so honest.

Bakugo is clambering off of you then, his ears burning beneath the tails of his bandana. He offers you a hand, helping you stand to your feet. Your fingers linger a bit too long and you feel the sweat gather in his palms. You wonder if he’ll light you on fire for looking at him like that.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone as an equal.” Bakugo’s voice is rough, hidden behind his arm as he wipes the blood from his face. He smirks and you wonder why you’ve never seen him as he is, “But maybe I could start. Get better, and then we’ll see.”

As he walks away, you make it your personal mission in life to be seen as an equal on the battle field and in real life.

You train harder, longer, putting every part of your being into becoming better. You research strategies, researching the other heroes, playing your strengths off of theirs. You stay up late and wake up early, your body begging for rest but you are unyielding as you climb the sidekick ranks.

It’s another seven months before you’re face-to-face with him again.

You’re paired up as sparring partners, the two of you going head-to-head for a full thirty minutes without even using your quirks. You’re both sweating, his quirk daring to go off if he really willed it to. You know the strength to withstand using his abilities must take a lot of concentration.

“Wow, you’re not half-bad,” he chuckles, swinging a right hook at you. You dodge it easily, reacting by kicking him in the side. He chokes on his own saliva and you smirk at him, “What, you scared, baby?”

You’re not sure why or how that slipped from your lips, but it takes him by surprise. Either way, it leaves you with an opening to jump in the air and swirl your knees around his neck to pin him to the ground. Your legs are around his waist and you’ve got his arms barred upward.

The sight of his sweating palms so close to your eyes makes you a little nervous, but you have enough faith in him to hold back his anger and his explosive fists. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter. He squeezes his eyes closed and wraps his palm around your face, fingers pinching your cheeks, “You asked for it.”

He swings you by your neck, your legs releasing him as your body falls to the ground with a loud thud, a small wave of energy tousling the ground next to you. Bakugo has you by the throat now, eyes wandering over your face as he inspects you.

“Been training, huh loser?” Bakugo juts his knee into your stomach and you force yourself to withhold from choking on your own spit. Your eyes bug out of your head at the pain but all you do is scrape and claw against his arms and torso, silently begging him to release you.

You glare up at him before reaching out to lick at his palm, thankful for once that neither of you are in your full hero get up. You’re somewhat surprised to taste ashen sweetness on your tongue, but it takes him off guard long enough for you to slap his arm away and stand to your feet.

“You fucking licked me?!”

You shrug, running towards him while he’s still on his knees. Your knee cap pushes into his chest, toppling him to the ground. You’ve knocked the breath out of him, his eyes rolling back in his head as he settles in the ground.

“Yield,” you ask of him, holding him by the throat. “C’mon, Baku, call it.”

The scent of smoke drifts to your nostrils and you barely have time to shake your head before a non-lethal explosion takes your attention away from him. Before he can get the jump on you, you propel yourself backward, flipping twice until you’re far enough away that you feel safe.

“Shows you, fuckin’ lickin’ me,” Bakugo rolls his eyes and his palms are like lighters, sparking as he stalks towards you.

You won’t be bested by him, not after all of the hard work you’ve been putting in for the past few months. You’re thankful that your own quirk is something opposing to his - water manipulation. In the same way that he can pool his sweat and light it on fire, you can turn yours into a weapon.

You call forward the water from your body and the water in the air into your palm, molding it into shards of ice on your fingertips. You start to sling the projectiles towards Katsuki as he walks closer. He dodges them with ease, but the final one slides across his cheek, drawing blood.

Everything inside of you churns at the sight of his eyes hardening, jaw quivering under the stress of his teeth as he grinds them together. He chuckles and it’s dark, but it stirs something in you - now you know he’s giving it his all, so when you win, it’ll be a justified win.

“I’m about to kill your ass,” Bakugo swipes the collected blood off of his face with his thumb, staring you down. “You’re damn lucky that I’m not wearing my gauntlets. I’d light your ass on fire before you even had time to use that shitty quirk of yours.”

You start working on pulling more water from the air, thankful that it’s a rather humid day. Now, if only it could rain. Then Bakugo would be completely out of his element and you would be more than comfortable.

“My shitty quirk just marked up your pretty face, ‘Suki.”

He charges at you and the two of you trade blows for what feels like hours. You have to stay at least a little ways away from him at all times if possible, his quirk only short range without his gauntlets. You’re glad that your quirk is able to become a ranged weapon if necessary.

Bakugo is much faster without his heavy suit, though, and you’re not ready for him to chase you, right on your heels as you try to put distance between the two of you. You lean down and swipe your feet around his ankles, but it seems he was ready for it because he jumps over the top of you and lands just in front of you.

“Not gonna get that one over on me again,” he snarls but it’s just on this side of a smile, his eyes lifting upward as he tangles with you again.

You tilt your head as you block one of his punches, “Am I turning you on, ‘Suki?”

“Shut the hell up,” he grunts.

“Your face is bleeding again,” you comment, twisting his hands in your grasp, hearing his wrist pop under the action. You wince but he shows little reaction to the pain, “Why don’t you clean it up, huh?”

The comment stops you in your tracks and allows him the opening to slam into you, pushing you across the greenway until you’re stumbling over your own body. You suck the water out of the surrounding plants, balling it up in your fists to create your own version of his gauntlets.

“Get over here, and maybe I will!” You call, raising your fists. He’s already sprinting toward you, but you use the remaining water on the ground to propel yourself upward, the spray of it blinding him long enough for you to encase his body in ice.

You’re gritting your teeth, keeping this part of your quirk is especially difficult given that you haven’t had time to hone it, unlike the other ways you know how to manipulate water. You can barely get the words out of your mouth, “Yield, Katsuki!”

You know that he’ll die from asphyxiation or hypothermia before he can blast his way out of your trap. His eyes widen from within the crystalline cage and your lower lip shakes - you were really hoping not to have to use this move, but he’s proven himself to you time and time again that he’s continuously climbing the ladder to get better.

“Yield!” you shout, your blood vessels straining against your skin.

His eyes close and it’s the closest thing to a yield that you’re going to get. As soon as you can, you drop the ice, the surrounding area flooding, the ground turning soggy beneath his feet.

Despite the absolutely enraged look on his face, you approach him and brush your thumb over his cheek, using the water from his face to heal his scratch.

“There,” you let out a breath at the exertion, “now you’re pretty again.”

Bakugo snatches your wrist harshly, glowering down at you, “Enjoy that, because you’re not going to beat me with that stupid quirk of yours again.”

Your jaw quivers but you ask the question anyway, “C-Could you ever see me as your equal, now that I’ve beaten you?”

“If I had my gauntlets, your stupid ice cage would have been toast!” Katsuki is shouting, his grip on your wrist tightening. You try your hardest not to wince but it does not go unnoticed by him as he makes the connection.

He shakes his head, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to grab you that hard.”

“No, it’s fine, I,” your breath catches in your throat, “I shouldn’t have made you angry, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you get it?” he growls, yanking you closer, only softer this time. “You always make me angry.”

If you weren’t confused before, you sure are now. You know that Bakugo has a naturally hot-headed temperament, but you never expected him to attribute some of it to you.

“Gah, you’re such an idiot!” Bakugou runs a hand through his hair before blowing a breath out of his mouth, attempting to calm himself down. He really doesn’t want to screw this up. “Every time I see you, I get this, this stupid knot in my stomach. And it just pisses me off! Why are you different?”

You want to laugh because it appears he’s experiencing feelings for the first time, but you don’t want to make him feel humiliated. Instead, you reach your palm upward and wrap your fingers around his wrist, “You make me feel different too, Katsuki.”

He rolls his eyes, “Great. So we’re both fucked.”

This time you do laugh, but only because he’s so blunt. You know better than to touch him excessively, especially in public, “I guess so. Maybe we can fuck together?”

You’ve never seen Bakugo Katsuki’s eyes go so wide.

-

a/n: well, that was a bit different but still the same lol. not tagging anyone this time bc i don’t want to be a bother :) i hope you guys liked that. feel free to request more/others! 

[gwynposting]

All Along the Watchtower (Ch. 3)

This story takes place after the “All Along the Watchtower” ending of Cyberpunk 2077, so spoilers ahead.

NSFW chapter ahead~

AO3 Link | Ch. 1 | Ch. 2

Panam was never one for being able to hide her emotions, and the attempted smile betrayed by the rest of her cringing features gave testament to it. Cassidy, on the other hand, looked upon V with amusement. 

“Yeah, uh,” V started with an awkward cough, “guess the rockerboy part of Johnny didn’t overwrite my brain yet.” She stared down at Cassidy’s borrowed guitar with a tinge of blush on her cheeks before handing it back to him. 

“Well anytime you want to start learnin’, give me a holler,” Cassidy said with amusement as he set the guitar in his lap and plucked away at an idling tune. 

V smiled in appreciation and turned to Panam, “So, what’s the plan for tomorrow anyhow?”

Panam leaned forward, the fire in her eyes sparking. “We’re meeting up with a contact of ours that’s worked with us and other Aldecado families in the past - Bryce Bane. We’ve used Bryce as our point of contact for operations in the Tucson area in the past - we figure it’s a good idea to help get general intel as well as see how we can help solve your problem.”

V nodded along, “And we can trust this Bryce?” 

Panam scoffed, “Could you trust Rogue?” 

V grimaced in recognition. “Only after convincing her a 50 year old terrorist from her glory days was trapped inside my head.”

“So unless you got another cyberpsycho inside your noggin’, I wouldn’t get too friendly with them.” Panam could see the disappointment creep along V’s face - she was rather decent at hiding it, but the subtle quiver of the lip always gave her away. “But,” she resumed, “with all the gear we’ve gotten from the Arasaka raid, it’d be hard to say no to a fresh load of biz coming their way.” 

“Right…” V hesitated. “Okay. So - who, when, and where?”

Cassidy let out a chortle, “Mitch wasn’t kiddin’ about you city slickers.”

V smirked, giving her forehead a few taps, “I blame the ticking time bomb in my head.” 

Panam broke in, “We’re due to meet them around noon, on the western side of the city outskirts. Now, I don’t have reason to suspect they’ll pull anything, but it never hurts to come prepared. V, you’ll be accompanying me to the meet while Cassidy, Mitch, and Carol provide overwatch.”

“All eggs in one basket, hmm?” Carol interjected, sizing up the roster for this mission.

“More like this is our first meet with this city and I need to make sure we get off on the right foot. And that means no itchy or jumpy triggers. I know I can count on the vets for that.” Panam looked around the table to mixed reactions. “With that being said,” she continued, “I want to perform some reconnaissance of the area so we can set up 3 separate areas of vision around the meeting place. That means we’ll be setting out early tomorrow - around sunrise - to set up. 

“Mitch, V?” she gestured towards each respectively, “You two are going to drive out today and use the drone to do some recon. Note the terrain in the area and try to find overlooks that give a good view of the entire meeting sight as well as any paths to the area.”

V and Mitch made eye contact and nodded in agreement. “We’ll set out right away then,” Mitch said.

Panam smiled and nodded in affirmation, “Excellent. We’ll reconvene later tonight when you two return and go over the finer details.”

“Preem. Anything else?” V asked.

Panam shook her head, “Nope, that’s it. Just lemme know when you two get to the site.”

“Yes, mom,” V smirked, and Mitch failed to suppress his own smile. Panam shot her a deadpan look of annoyance. 

Mitch and V broke off and made their way over to the mechanics station. The Aldecados had set up shop in an abandoned warehouse of some sort - its floor had been picked clean so there hadn’t been much cleanup required at all. But now, it housed the mighty Basilisk, along with the plethora of other vehicle repair necessities.

Mitch pointed to one of the corners, “Drone case is over there. I’ll grab a couple battery cases just in case.”

“What for?” V asked.

“Well, never know if we might need to use the active camo when we get there. And if we do, I’d rather we be able to get a full scan of the area. Not cut corners, y’know?”

“Good thinking,” V said with a huff as she lifted the hefty clamshell in her arms.

Mitch made his way back over, battery packs slung around his shoulder, and together they set off to their ride. 

“How well do you know this Bryce?” V asked.

“As well as you know any fixer in Night City, really.” Mitch responded with a gruff. He was set to leave it at that, but looked over to V’s expectant face. “We didn’t have a particularly contentious past, it’s just been quite a while, and well... we’re runnin’ blind right now. A lot can change in 3 years.” 

V felt the gnawing of doubt creep back into her mind, despite her best efforts to keep it suppressed. The last thing she needed right now was to fall into despair before they even tried their first option. But even the existence of those lingering thoughts sent worry through her, every setback felt so severe and her mental health so weak, like fractured porcelain held in place by glue. A vace drifting through the air in slow motion, desperate for someone to catch her before she reaches the harsh and unyielding floor below.

Mitch seemed to be able to read the apprehension of V’s face, “But hey, we worked with some great techies back in Tucson. If they don’t know what to do, then they sure know someone who will.” 

A shaky smile formed on her face, but hopeful words did little to soothe her anxiety. But she didn’t have much time to ruminate over her thoughts as they pulled up to Mitch’s ride. They took turns loading their equipment onto the bed before climbing inside the cabin.

“Alright then, let’s get this started,” Mitch stated with finality. 

** 

V slung the canteen over her shoulder and let it rattle to the floor with a clank. She whinged at the sharp sound but was far too tired to react. It felt as if her entire body had a layer of dirt, like a second layer of skin. Yet all in all, it had been a very uneventful day, and she liked it that way. Though, she couldn’t say the same thing for tomorrow, whatever that would hold. V had been used to working with fixers in the past, but this time it was different. She wasn’t some solo anymore, money and fame the only thing on the mind. She was part of a family once more, her clan. When things went wrong, everybody had to suffer the consequences for it, whether physical or emotional. She had everyone else to think about. She had - 

Judy. V smiled as she saw the soft hue of blue light bleed through the cracks of the garage door. She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the coat rack, pausing as she flexed and stretched her stiff limbs. In a similar fashion she shuffled off the boots from her feet.

V made her way over to the garage to poke her head in, but stayed silent as she saw Judy sitting in her desk chair, BD wreath wrapped around her head. But something caught V’s eye - many things, really. Judy’s hands clenched the armrests of her editing chair, her thighs pressed together as her legs writhed small motions back and forth. Her chest rose up and down with deep breaths, and the skin visible from the cut of her shirt was painted a deep blush.

V was about to raise an eyebrow in concern, but was interrupted by a soft mew that escaped Judy’s lips, followed by a much lower moan. V chuckled in response, Couldn’t wait for me it seems, she thought to herself. Deciding it wasn’t the best for her to interrupt Judy’s alone time while filthy, V made her way to the bathroom to wash away what she imagined were kilograms of sand and dirt from her body.

Of the few comforts she had gotten used to in Night City, hot water would have been one of the highest. The Bakkers had raised her through the traditional nomad lifestyle, but clearly she had softened up in a few ways. Shivers shot down her back as the cold water began rushing over her body, washing away the caked dirt and leaving goosebumps behind. 

V was meticulous when it came to cleaning, especially with her cybernetic implants. She gave extra care to clean the creases and ports of her mantis blades. She had never had a problem with them so far, and she planned to keep it that way. It had been a recurring fear of hers that some mechanism would fail her when she needed them most - whether they failed to open properly, or extended on their own without command. In those moments she could almost hear Panam rage at her tombstone for being stupid enough to let something like routine maintenance lead to her downfall.

Just as she finished rinsing the suds from her hair, she heard the bathroom door open and close. She turned her head to see Judy rolling her panties down her legs, bra already discarded on the floor. Without a word, Judy climbed inside and pressed V against the shower wall, capturing her lips with her own. Her hands betrayed her neediness as they traveled along V’s skin and down to her ass, roughly taking hold of each cheek. V yelped in surprise at the onslaught, but quickly gave in. V’s hands, momentarily idle, found new life as they began to roam up along Judy’s curves, coming to rest upon her cheeks. 

Judy paused and broke away, leaving both of them panting for breath. They looked into each others’ eyes, lidded and wanting. “Didn’t hear you come home,” Judy breathed.

“Didn’t want to interrupt your fun,” V smirked, “plus, I felt gross.” 

Judy’s hands began shifting, creeping around V’s front, “Probably woulda jumped your bones anyways.” 

V’s response was cut short by her own sharp exhale as Judy ran a hand along her hardening shaft. Judy bit her own lip in smug satisfaction as she felt V’s desire manifest within her grasp, before leaning back in, breathing warmth on chilled skin, and taking V’s lip between her teeth. The two came together once more as their lips interlocked, broken apart only through momentary calls for air or teasing bites. Judy’s hand began tender strokes, back and forth, along V’s length. Judy couldn’t help the butterflies that poured through her as she felt V’s hips begin to thrust ever so slightly - signs of a woman too pent up for her own good.

But Judy also felt that need, and it was quickly tended to. V’s curious hands traveled downwards until they reached Judy’s waiting sex. Her fingers teased along Judy’s entrance, lightly brushing over her clitoris. Judy flexed under her touch, her thirst finally given life. But V, not one to tease at the moment, deftly inserted two fingers and began to give slow, languid thrusts. A flare of pride rushed through V as Judy began to push into her grasp, grinding her clit against the palm of V’s hand. 

Each needy thrust and flex spurred the other on, as they fed off each other's need and want, pressing into each other, grasping, thrusting, their pace increasing with every shaky breath. Their kiss became sloppy and unfocused, disrupted through their descent into pleasure. The drone of the shower head and the cool of the pouring water faded into the back of their minds - all that mattered was their touch. 

Judy hovered over V’s lips, to whisper, “V-” as if but a gasp. V closed the distance once more and captured Judy’s lips as she came undone beneath her. Shivers radiated through Judy’s body as V’s fingers coaxed her through her orgasm. V’s free hand brought Judy closer, pressing her against V’s body for support as she came. Judy broke their kiss and slumped her head into the crook of V’s neck, her moans becoming muffled. 

But her comedown didn’t slow Judy’s pace - if anything, it increased her fervor. As she regained her footing, Judy changed tactics. Instead, she focused along V’s erogenous zones, kissing and leaving love marks along V’s jaw and neck to below her ear, stroking to the tune of the heady thrusts that met her hand. 

V was holding on, prolonging her suffering, until she heard Judy plead, “Please V -” and she came undone. With each stroke V shivered, her hips spasmed unpredictably and unpracticed, almost fucking the hand wrapped around her throbbing length. Each release brought haughty gasps that sent fire through Judy. 

With one final languid squeeze, V nigh collapsed on top of Judy. “Woah there,” Judy helped lean V back against the shower wall.

V returned the smile, albeit weary, before leaning in to give Judy one last kiss, “Couldn’t stop thinking about this all day.”

“My my, what a pervert~” Judy floated.

V snorted, “Says the one sending me nudes mid-op,”

“Details V, details,” Judy reached for the soap once more. “Think we need to get cleaned back up, hmm?” 

“And then we go straight to bed,” V concluded.

“Right. Bed.” 

[noodlewright]

Characters: Clockwork, Danny Fenton, Maddie Pairings: None Rating: G

-

“So will it be between seventy and a hundred, or lower?”

“No. Keep working.”

At the heart of Clockwork's lair, Danny stared unseeingly at the math worksheet in front of him. The numbers were starting to blur together. 

Today, Danny was visiting Clockwork after having a fit of homework frustration that was quickly becoming routine. He was lucky to have found a mentor in Clockwork and studied with him as frequently as he could. Danny had quickly found that the ghost was, apparently, scary good with numbers, but there was nothing to be done to make math less mind numbing.

“No, as in it'll be higher?”

“You know perfectly well Danny.”

Danny wanted to know if all his extra study sessions would pay off when it came to Friday's big test, but he knew what Clockwork was getting at. The spirit was concerned that knowing his future test score would make him slack off, either because of an expectation that he would do well regardless, or that he would see no point in studying with failure to come anyway.

He needed to study for now and later exams, Clockwork insisted.

Danny huffed in annoyance and stared harder at the problem that gave him such grief.

It didn't yield.

“Do you want to go over it again?”

Danny hung his head in defeat. “Yeah.”

Clockwork left his terminal and made his way to Danny's side with a spare sheet of paper, half of it covered in a scrawl from earlier.

Halfway there, the spirit paused. Clockwork stared just over Danny's shoulder, as though a thought had just occurred to him.

It wasn't the first time this had happened. Just the other day, while Danny visited, Clockwork had done a similar action. He hadn't given it much thought then, or the ones before. Everyone did it on occasion. In Danny’s case, it usually happened when he walked through a doorway. Most people though, Danny considered, didn't do it this much.

Maybe Clockwork was a little scatterbrained?

-

It was, by now, what Danny recognized and referred to as one of Clockwork's “Moments”.

Danny had come to learn that Clockwork had these frequently.  Clockwork didn't have all knowledge of all things, the spirit had once explained. Clockwork knew of the past, if he cared enough to know it, and knew of the present, but not all of the present. If he wanted, he could learn it all but there were, he said, very many things that were dull and unimportant, and taking the time to see every bit would be a torture unimaginable.

The future was similar to him, in that he didn't endeavor to see every scrap of it, but even if he tried, it wouldn't have the same easy clarity.

The real take-away was that, when it came to the future, all things weren't set in stone, and as Clockwork explained, the ghost often felt that some events got lobbed at his head and he needed a moment to sort out the new information. Danny could understand that. He had trouble grasping the rest of the hour-long, complicated discussion that included half a dozen different metaphors and some math chalked onto the wall, but he could get that at least, and was glad to gain a little more insight on how Clockwork's abilities functioned.

-

“Are you okay?”

Clockwork’s attention snapped to Danny. The intense gaze made him uneasy. Was Clockwork mad? He got the feeling like he might have interrupted something.

“Uh, sorry.”

Immediately Clockwork's eyes widened, “No no, I’m sorry. I just realized something. I need to go-”

“What?” They had barely started!

A wink was sent his way. “It won't even be a moment.”

Oh right. Well, it wasn't like Danny could just forget the last fifteen years of rigid physical laws that applied to his and everyone else's lives. Clockwork would probably only disappear and reappear between blinks.

A thought occurred to him.

“Wait, have you been disappearing on me this whole time?” he asked. He shouldn’t be surprised, it would be so easy to ditch and return without anyone being the wiser. 

“No, just when you’re already engaged in something.” Clockwork admitted.  

So basically, any time Danny wasn’t actually talking to Clockwork.  Which was a lot.

He shouldn’t be bothered by it.  He hadn’t even caught onto it until just now, but still, it sat unwell with him that Danny was someone who was to be put aside for a later date.  Couldn’t it wait until after Danny had left?  It wasn’t like Clockwork couldn’t just go back to whatever time period he pleased.

It would be polite at the very least.

But what was Danny going to do about it? Clockwork was nice enough, and Danny wasn't about to voice his disappointment when it wasn't actually that big of a deal to begin with. It would just have to be another mannerism to add to Clockwork's growing list.

“Uh, okay. So what's got you in such a rush to go?”

Clockwork opened his mouth to answer, but paused for another faraway look to overtake his face. “. . . Well, how do you feel about coming with me to find out?” he finally said.

There was hardly a thought before Danny agreed. “Sure!”

They set off.

-

Clockwork's portal led them to a large, immaculate kitchen.

“Very nice.” Danny said as he stepped out and oggled at the sheer size of the room. The number of cooking ranges and pots suggested that he was at a restaurant. “Do you come here a lot?”

Clockwork gave a distracted noise of affirmation as he walked over to a glowing red stove top and fiddled with the knobs until it was completely turned off. 

Had he just stopped what could have been a fire?

The ghost then grabbed at unsightly cords that littered the countertops and tucked them into less noticeable places.

“Danny, there is a set of knives to your left. Would you please place them in the cupboard?”

The cutlery in question had been loosely kept in a stainless steel container, not very dangerous in his opinion, but he obligingly shut it away.

From Clockwork's direction, Danny could vaguely make out senseless muttering, “-idiot thinks he's a chef . . . ”

Yeah, no kidding. Idiot was an understatement. Who left a stove on?

Danny startled at a sensation that brushed across his ankles.

He looked down to see a purring cat. “Um. Hi.”

It was long haired, and an obviously very well-kept animal. It was incredibly out-of-place for the current location. The cat gave him a lazy, silent meow. 

“I didn't think cats were allowed in restaurants.”

“It isn't a restaurant,” Clockwork clarified. “This is the home of Vlad Masters.”

Danny suddenly snapped alert and floated off the ground in a battle ready stance. His eyes darted around in search of an unwelcome presence. 

“He isn't here right now.” 

Danny immediately relaxed and found his footing again. He regarded the cat and kitchen before him once more. Now it was looking familiar. This wasn't his first jaunt uninvited to Vlad's house, but he had never paused to really look at the rooms he was darting through.

“Okay, so what are we doing here? I mean, I know fire-safety is important and all, but a blazing house and that guy isn't the saddest combination that I can imagine.”

“I understand,” Clockwork said as he made his way to a nearby window and began working its unyielding frame closed. “Masters has done you a great deal many wrongs. He is, what most would determine, unsalvageable. Unforgivable. Unethical and unrepentant.”

“Yeah. All that times a thousand.”

“He is also incredibly unstable.”

“I could have told you that.” Danny wondered where this was heading.

Clockwork ceased his fiddling and picked up the cat that had only been too content to loll on the ground. It wiggled, displeased at the graceless hold. 

“Before you is the crux of all of Masters’ affections.” He lifted the cat further with emphasis, and spoke with sincere solemnity. “The warmth held for you and your family is but a shrinking mote compared to what he has fostered with this animal.”

Shrinking? Anything that lessened Vlad's attention could only be a good thing. “Really? Does that mean he'll leave us alone now?”

Clockwork didn't entirely look him in the eyes when he said, “Not exactly. Masters is the very definition of passion and he can never entirely drop something once he's set upon it.”

“Not in all the timelines?”

“Most of those are currently closed and the few available are too . . .” Danny thought that Clockwork was about to have another Moment, but the spirit soon found his words, “-dreadful. Which is why it is very important that we curtail his fixations, in what ways we can, and direct him to better . . . things. This cat is crucial to that. He's poured all his love into it and should anything happen to it, Amityville will be a flaming crater, and its residents, crumbling charcoal.”

“He'd kill people for a cat?!”

“He'd kill someone for kicking it.”

“Oh my God. I mean, that's a really mean thing to do to a cat, and they deserve something, but the town is innocent. Why would he hurt them?”

“He’s an idiot when he's angry. And a part of him has always wanted to watch the world burn.”

Danny pulled the, now fed-up, cat out of Clockwork's arms and held it with complete reverence. “We have to protect this cat,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“We need to keep it inside and never let it out.”

“I know.”

“Sam can watch it when I can't-”

“Masters will be consumed with rage should it go missing.”

“Right. Okay. Well, it's- it's a cat, and it's been alright so far, right? It should be okay here. It's happy here and Vlad's happy.”

“But there's a problem. It's why I have to come here almost every blasted day. The cat is suicidal.”

“ . . . Is there a therapy for that?”

Clockwork gestured to the room, heedless of Danny, “She keeps trying to kill herself. Last week she was roadkill and the week before, mauled by a pack of dogs. I stop her from eating poisonous plants and she goes right back to them the next second. I keep her from chewing power cords and she tries and tries again- last time she did it while soaking wet from nearly drowning in the toilet. In fact, had we not been here, at this very moment, she would have deep fried herself! I am confident that I have now seen every possible misfortune that can befall an animal and I grow tired of it.”

Danny scrambled to absorb the dire information. “But . . . the deep fryer isn't even on.”

Clockwork glared at the animal pointedly. “And yet.”

Danny looked at the yowling cat in horror. “What can we do?”

“I'm doing all that I can.”

“But isn't there something we can do that is less hands-on? More permanent?”

“I've been scouring the timelines for that very answer and have come up short. Other possible solutions will show themselves eventually, but we're not at the right stage to begin exploring those.”

“Okay, well if we can't do anything with the cat, what about Vlad? Can't we just stop him?”

Clockwork rubbed his face tiredly. “Danny, a future where Masters has that sort of melt-down, and the city regardless saved, is not a future either of us want.”

Danny wished he could fact-check that, but he wasn't the one with foresight. “Are you suuure?” he needled.

“Yes.”

Well, Danny supposed that was that. He didn't entirely believe Clockwork. It was hard to judge when he knew so little of the information as a whole, it could just be that there was something that had been missed. However, he did trust that it was what Clockwork believed.

“Clockwork?”

“Hm?”

“This future you have in mind, is it a really good one?”

“. . . It's not all good, but it has a great deal many good things, yes.”

Something niggled at Danny. It was a thing that had long been bothering him, and it reared its ugly head whenever altering timelines came up, but he had never earnestly voiced it. Mostly because he had yet to see any bad come of it. “Clockwork, I know you can do all these cool things, but do you ever think that maybe you shouldn't be doing all this? Changing the timelines, I mean. I get wanting to have a better future for people, but what if you don't make the right choice? Why not just let it go?”

“Instead, how about you let it go?”

Danny's mouth dropped open in shock at the sheer rudeness, until he realized that Clockwork was pointing at the cat. She writhed in his arms and gave him warning bites to his gloves. 

He guessed Clockwork's answer wasn’t as much a brush-off as it was a diversion then. Fine.

He, gently, released the cat and planned to get right back to the questions at hand, but Clockwork addressed him before he could open his mouth.

“I've let things go a time or two before, Danny.” Clockwork had taken an interest in one of his many watches, his head tucked down so that shadow eclipsed most of his face. “And contrary to what some would have you believe, I have learned that it is better to do something, even if it's not the very best, than nothing at all. Inaction and apathy are things that I have fought hard to stay buried, and to embrace them again would be inexcusable.”

What could have possibly have happened? How bad did it get? Did he really want to know? 

“What-”

“So, will you help me keep this cat alive?”

And Danny did drop it, just like that. Clockwork clearly didn’t want to talk about it. That didn't mean he wasn't still curious. He was. But for today, and probably for a while, he would leave it be.

-

Vlad returned to the center of his current frustrations. He had been trying to recreate an old family recipe, when suddenly, he had been called away on business. It wasn't a long meeting, but he had felt the need to rush. A thought had dogged at him since he left.

Had he left the stove on?

He swung the kitchen door open and immediately calmed at the lack of raging flames and burning stove-tops. 

It seemed he did remember.

There was also a lack of general mess that often accompanied his random acts of cookery. His ingredients were laid out still, as well as a number of random bowls, but the utensils were nowhere to be seen and the deep fryer had been dumped. Curious. He didn't keep his cleaning staff this late, and even if he had, they wouldn't have been so lazy as to not properly clean up a clear mess.

“Who the shit has been in my kitchen?”

-

More

[whirlybirdwhat]

till the sea gives up the dead - Part 1

Summary:

There are those that belong to the sea, and those that belong to the earth.

Monkey D. Luffy listens to the call of the sea,

On AO3 - authors notes there!

Warnings for: implied/temporary character death

--

Luffy drowned, once.

(It only really took once.)

It was a quiet sort of thing, the way the ocean washed into his lungs and dragged at his limbs. His legs, bound together by rope and so very, very small (he was seven, he thinks) curled in the oceans current, a caress, a chain, a love. He had reached up towards the light, his small hands looking for the last bit of sun before the ocean held him forever, and slowly, slowly, the world went dark and cold and lovely (lonely).

Luffy drowned, once, and it wasn’t painful. Just a gentle sleep, a falling, a sharpness in his chest brought in and soothed by water.

Besides – it wasn’t the end.

Not really.

(Not even as his heart stopped and changed, not even as his skin grew into the ocean floor, not even as his eyes opened with startling brightness, not even as he became not human (born of dirt) but something different (born of water.)

Not even.)

The horizon – the sun, the beautiful sun – looked different from the water, didn’t it?

-

Makino hears the tales, whispered in the village.

Sea child, they say, it’s why we won’t have a funeral.

He’s where he belongs, they say, where he was born. He’s gone back to the waters.

Don’t let your children stare too long at the sea, they say, or he’ll gain a friend to play with in those waters.

She ignores them the best she can, and cooks up meals for a boy who isn’t there to eat them anymore. Mayor Woopslap does not comment, even as Makino asks him to watch after the bar once a day – just for a lunch break – and ignores the sad look in his eyes.

Makino knew a Sea Child once.

She still brings meals out to him, setting pieces of meat into the gentle current and waiting till they disappear from the surface of the waves.

The villagers may say it’s just fish, but Makino sees the flash of scales and hears laughter in the wind and knows it isn’t.

Shishishi! The sea breeze says, so Makino sends out another meal and doesn’t think of a little boy lost to the waves to early.

-

Shanks had a hat once, and now he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that, and people are finding as they comment on it, they quickly end up dead or unconscious or worse.

(He was benevolent, once, and still is, but it’s not the same.)

The people learn to shut up.

(Six are the exception but they always were, anyway.)

Shanks knew a kid once, and now he doesn’t. He pours juice out to the waves on cold nights, and tosses one bit of his meal overboard every time he eats.

No one comments.

They all know the actions of the grieving.

(There are shanties about those who belong to the sea, held in her embrace not like the dead but like the living. Shanks sings them under his breath sometimes, and it’s too much like a mourner’s plea for Benn not to bring him inside and put a bottle of sake in his hands.

They all hurt, sometimes, but that’s the price of freedom.

Of the sea.)

-

Garp has only attended one pirate funeral in his entire life.

(Rouge the Seashaker was smiling as she burned.)

This will be his second.

It’s different from before – quieter. No rage of tyrants, no chants of victories and swells of pride. No child wailing for his mother in the dark of the night, shushed by his new grandfather’s trembling hands.

It’s different from the marine funerals as well. No ranks of white line the edges of a ship, and no cannon balls or swords point their way to the sky. There’s no flag of white – no one singing the hymn of the dead.

Instead, it is Garp, and Makino, and Woopslap along the shores of a long-forgotten beach, standing side by side with a soon to be emperor’s crew.

Three people have arrows in their hands, Benn steadying Makino’s in hers as she cries.

(She hasn’t stopped, since she knew.)

The sun is setting, casting a beautiful, red gleam around them.

Sailor’s delight, someone behind Garp says, staring up at the sky, and Garp thinks Luffy would have liked it this way.

A pirate funeral, for a pirate king that never was.

(His grandson would have never been a marine no matter how hard Garp wished. Luffy wanted freedom – not another chain. Garp just wanted to make sure his grandson didn’t die an early death on the waves.

Now look at them.

Ha!

Some dream that turned out to be.)

(Rarely, Garp knows, do marines achieve their dream. He had hoped he and his grandson were the exception.)

The water is calm before them, the one mercy the sea offers the grieving. The little raft, adorned with nothing but a plain jolly roger, bobs gently with the waves.  Peaceful, but ever moving.

(Just like Luffy-)

Shanks shifts beside him, and Garp knows it’s time.

He watches, as Shanks takes off his hat – Roger’s hat – and holds it to his chest. There are tears in Shanks’ eyes, because no pirate should ever be ashamed of showing that he loved.

The straw crinkles in his grip before Shanks lifts his head.

“To Anchor,” He says, and the crew behind them, lined upon the shore echoes. “To the King.”

“To Luffy,” Garp adds, gruffly because that is who this is for – not some king, not some anchor, but his grandson. “Monkey D. Luffy.”

Shanks nods, and kneels in the sand, hat still held in his hands.

“To Luffy,” Shanks murmurs one last time. “A promise.”

Someone strikes up Bink’s Sake, slow and sad, in the background, as the captain lays his hat in the water, pushing it out to sea.

They watch as the hat drifts to the raft and pause there, as if knowing this is where it’s meant to be.

(It’s not – it’s mean to be on a little boy’s head, far to big but enough to make him smile -)

Shanks nods, and to the tune of a pirate song, shoots a burning arrow into the sky.

The raft catches fire.

(The hat doesn’t burn.)

Makino shakes as she goes next, refusing Benn’s help, and lets her own arrow fly, flashing against the sun. The raft burns brighter against the red sky.

(The hat doesn’t burn.)

Garp is last, and tears blur his vision as he aims for the raft, the echoes of a marine hymn singing violently in his mind.

The sea watches us…. Quietly.

               guiding us through our death… and our birth.

                             From humble…. hometown waters,

                                     to the waves at the end…. of the earth.

The arrow flies true.  The raft blazes bright and unyielding, turning to ash and sinking into foamy waters.

(The hat does not burn.)

“Farewell, Anchor.” Shanks says, somberly.

“Farewell, Luffy.” Garp says, and falls to his knees.

(The hat drowns.)

Weeping for his grandchild, lost to the sea.

All our pain and… suffering,

               it swallows up… in its warm embrace,

                          so knowingly and… gently,

                                    washes them all… away

[unsteadygalaxy]

all is soft inside chapter 5

a miragehound multichapter fanfiction

Also posted on Ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475064/chapters/64957384

previous | next

5. will i float or will i drown?

This city is much too loud, they think.

A lone figure perches atop a very high apartment building in the middle of bustling towers of grey. Talosian cities are loud and busy and choked with smoke, and Bloodhound misses the serenity of the forest. They miss the lush green of the trees, the gentle hum of the insects and creeping things in the summer, the sound of birds in the spring. They miss the rushing of the water in the creeks near their village, the far-off howling of the wolves at night. But most of all, they miss the comforting memories of home, and of their mother. Their father. Their uncle, Artur. 

If they squint, they can almost pretend the bright lights down below are fireflies, flitting around to their own whims, bound by nothing. Free. Sometimes, they miss the simpler times, when life did not consist of killing, sleeping, and killing again. But they know that they have consigned themself to this life for a valuable reason, and they will not soon abandon it.

They try with all their might to remember life before Talos. Life before the IMC. Life before they watched their parents perish before their eyes. But they were much too young- they had only been a toddler when their parents took them to Talos for their research. They had only been four years old when they watched their father get swallowed by a raging rush of ice and wind and death.

The ice slows just the slightest bit before it reaches their house, but they are still screaming. “Father! Father! No! Allfather, protect him!” A great shattering, splintering roar engulfs the air as the ice impacts their home. The windows crack and heave, but hold their shape, by some holy miracle. They are swiftly picked up and carried away from the windows right as the cold begins to rush in. Artur holds them in his arms, but he too is sobbing, praying to the Allfather, containing the child’s beating limbs, but only just.

A chill passes down Bloodhound’s spine, a sinister echo of the anguish they had felt. It had been many, many years, but the images of the ice burying their father’s body would haunt them forever. The way they’d cried when Artur told them their mother was dead too… Bloodhound could sometimes still feel the dizzying shock and grief in all its initial potency. When they had heard the new arena would be on Talos, their heart dropped straight into their stomach. It felt like a horrific violation, a slap in the face that such a broken and painful part of their past would be on display for all to see, even if the spectators did not know the significance. Setting foot in Epicenter for the first time, knowing that this was where their parents had come to rest… That match had not ended in a victory.

The air around them suddenly feels stiff and unyielding. It doesn’t seem to pass through their mask and into their lungs the way they would like for it to. Bloodhound removes their gloves, followed by their helmet, letting their long red hair fall freely. They sigh and remove the elastic holding the top half of their hair. Their fingers run across their sore scalp, massaging the roots till they no longer ache. The round goggles follow the helmet, and after a moment of hesitation, so does the mask. I am alone here, they rationalize. No one will disturb me. They lie down on the ground and gaze at the stairs as their mind begins to wander.

Ever since Artur died, Bloodhound had never been comfortable with letting anyone see their face. The injuries may have healed, but silver scars still stretched across their skin. They had never been one to obsess over looks or vanity, but these scars held a deeper meaning, a deeper story that they did not want to be bothered about. Breathing had been extremely difficult following the accident, but as the years passed, they could go longer and longer without the respirator. Their goggles had assisted them since they were very young; their eyes were unusually sensitive, and the lenses were tinted to dull the incoming light. But under the stars, they do not have to worry, because those far off supernovas could not hurt them.

They close their eyes, feeling the mild night air on their skin. Today’s match had been a particularly invigorating one, one that they enjoyed immensely. Their squad had taken first place after a tense shootout with the last remaining team. All of their opponents had been strong and worthy of praise. A sensation they can’t quite place starts in their stomach and expands to their chest when they think of Elliott. It’s like crystalized electricity, crackling and sparkling as it travels up their spine. Elliott was… refreshingly different. They had never met such a loudmouth, but he was proficient in his skill, and they had to admire him for that. His performance has suffered greatly as of late, they think. When Elliott was focused, he could be an incredibly valuable asset to their team. But now, for reasons that were his own, he was distracted and forlorn. He was not as attentive as Bloodhound knew he could be. Taking him down in a match had never been a problem. They always did what they had to in order to win and honor their fight. They never hesitated when killing an opponent. 

Until today. 

Caustic’s gas chokes the air around them, and for a moment, they cannot breathe. But the Beast of the Hunt propels them forward. They swipe their hands through the mist and break free of the cloud’s envelope, regaining their stride. They breathe deep, reveling in the Allfather’s gift of strength, and sprint down the hill. Scarlet footprints stain the ground like blood, leading to another kill, another victory. Who is at the end of them? They do not know, but they do not care. They flip Artur’s axe in their hands, passing it back and forth, and they itch to throw it. Their prey becomes visible, highlighted red, and Bloodhound’s heart stops. 

It is Elliott.

Elliott hesitates for a moment, then raises his gun. Bloodhound pulls out their R-99 just as three Wingman shots connect against their head and chest. Their shields are down by a considerable amount, but they persist, and unload an entire clip into the top half of Elliott’s body. His shields are ripped away, and he dives behind a storage crate just as Bloodhound reaches him. They back off briefly, waiting and watching to see what will happen. Elliott runs off to the side, but no- it’s not him, it’s surely a decoy. The real Elliott jumps out from behind the crate, his back facing them. A brief flash of something- pity, maybe?- runs through their brain, but the hesitation is gone, and they fire the next clip of ammo into his chest as he turns around.

He falls to the ground, his head hitting the dirt with a painful thunk. A strange feeling takes hold in Bloodhound’s chest- a mixture of triumph, adrenaline, and sorrow. As their Ultimate fades away, so does the rush of aggression, and a feeling of remorse replaces it. Elliott lays on the ground before them, bleeding and battered, quickly fading away. Their heart constricts painfully in their chest at the sight of him, and they flip Artur’s axe once more. 

“Fyrirgefðu mér,” they murmur. They do not want to do this, but they must. 

A flash of silver, a spattering of blood, and Elliott is gone. 

Bloodhound finds themself clutching their chest, right over their heart. The discomfort of all of the conflicting things they had felt comes rushing back, splashing around inside them like children on a rainy day. Why do you care so deeply for him? they wonder to themself. Why now? What has changed? They had lingered in the hospital until they knew Elliott was going to be alright. They rarely did that with anyone that was not in their squad. So why Elliott?

The door to the roof flies open, flooding the area with a vast golden light. Bloodhound sits up in a flash, hastily grabbing their goggles as their eyes burn. A pair of running footsteps abruptly come to a screeching halt, and their owner says, “Oh sorry, I was just-”

Bloodhound fumbles with their goggles, and notices in a panic that their mask is still off. They look up to berate the person who had intruded upon their privacy, but when their eyes meet, Bloodhound’s heart tightens. 

It is Elliott, backlit by the glow of the bulbs from the staircase. He stands there for a brief moment, staring down at Bloodhound, his mouth hanging open. His eyes flicker to the goggles in their hand, then to the mask and helmet on the ground. “Bloodhound! Is that y-” He covers his eyes and begins to nervously pace. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to in- inch- barge in on you like this! Oh, god, I’m dumb, I’m so sorry, I feel like I just walked in on you naked? Wait, no, that’s not the same thing, I swear I don’t imagine you naked or anything- oh my god Elliott SHUT UP-”

“Elliott!” Bloodhound snaps. It comes out more like a bark than anything else, and it silences him immediately. “Please, Elliott, vertu rólegur. It is alright. Please give me a moment.” Shame and fear flood their body with no warning, and they shiver uncomfortably as they put the goggles and respirator back on.

“Bloodhound, I’m really sorry, look, I’ll just leave and pretend this never happened-”

“Elliott, it is fine,” Bloodhound insists, even though they feel horribly, deeply exposed. Their voice becomes modulated and slightly muffled once more as they flip the switch on the mask.

“Are you sure?” Elliott asks, still sweating visibly. His energy is nervous, frustrated, and strangely emotional, as though he had been in an argument or had a nightmare. “‘Cause I can just-”

“Yes,” they reply. “I am sure.” Despite his intrusion, Bloodhound does not want him to leave. But why? He is far too much of a liability right now. Why not ask him to leave? He certainly would like to. They stand swiftly, and gather their hair in their hands, not facing him. They begin to tie it back, but in their stress, they pull at the elastic too roughly and it breaks. They swear under their breath as their body shakes, and drop their hands to their sides, huffing in frustration. It is no use. “You may uncover your eyes.”

Elliott slowly removes his hands from his face. He looks at Bloodhound with extreme hesitation, and seems relieved to find that they are masked once more. He shifts his feet uncomfortably and coughs, then clears his throat. “So, uh… that was awkward.” He pauses, waiting for a response. When none comes, he continues. “Why are you up here all alone, anyway? You don’t like to hit the town after matches?”

Bloodhound ignores his nervous queries. They take a few deep breaths, trying to settle their shaking stomach. “First, Elliott, I must ask you to never speak of this moment. I have spent much of my time hiding my identity from those who could cause me harm, and from all of our fellow Legends. I do not wish for anyone to know who I am, or what harm has befallen me.” They meet his eyes and stare him down intensely.

Elliott visibly shivers and takes a step back, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Even though he cannot see their eyes, Bloodhound knows their seriousness has done the trick. “Hey, look, as much as I want to go blabbing about that gorgeous red hair of yours, I’m not going to tell, I promise. And it’s definitely not because I’m terrified right now, nope, not at all.” He lets out a half-hearted chuckle, but it dies as he quickly checks Bloodhound’s body language to try and get a read on them. 

“Elliott, I need to know I can trust you,” Bloodhound says sternly, turning to face him. He still looks completely stunned and nervous, and Bloodhound’s heart is pounding, the blood thumping in their veins louder than the footsteps of the Leviathan. But Elliott takes a deep breath, and the nerves seem to drain away from him, leaving the strange sense of frustration from before.

“You can trust me, Bloodhound,” he says. “I won’t say a word.”

Bloodhound stares at him, more nervous than they’ve ever been in their entire life. This all depends on him. Will he honor my request? The uncertainty bubbles up inside them like the lava on World’s Edge, and their knees tremble faintly. I must take a chance on him. Finally, they exhale, letting out a sigh. “I am counting on you,” they murmur. 

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off of them, and Bloodhound feels too seen, too exposed. They turn away, and move across the roof to the balcony, trying to put some distance between them. 

“Um… so... you never answered my question. What are you doing up here?” Elliott asks tentatively, and Bloodhound hears the door to the roof close. His footsteps approach them, and Elliott stands at the balcony, a comfortable distance to their left. 

Bloodhound searches for the words, weighs them in their mind, deciding how much to say. Keep things vague, they think. He does not need to know about your past here. Not yet.

“The city below is too loud and brash for my liking,” they say. “I spend time up here to get away from the noise. I did not grow up in the city, as many of you did, and living here is… an adjustment.”

“Where did you grow up?” It is an innocent enough question, but it gives Bloodhound pause. 

“The exact location is something I wish to keep to myself,” they say finally, “but suffice it to say, it was nowhere near cities like these.” In an attempt to steady their hands, they gather their long hair together and begin to braid it, starting at the top of their head. 

“Huh.” Elliott leans on the balcony railing, putting his weight on his elbows. He’s gazing out over the streets, but his eyes are far away, and Bloodhound is surprised that he is not babbling on like he usually does. They wonder where his thoughts are. Back at home, maybe? With a sibling or a friend? A lover, perhaps…?

“What troubles you enough to keep you quiet?” Bloodhound asks suddenly, ignoring the strange surge of annoyance they feel at that last thought. “I have never known you to be leynilega manneskju.” 

“What does that mean?” Elliott asks, looking a little baffled.

“It means… a secretive person,” Bloodhound offers. “You often speak your mind, even when no one is listening. What has changed?”

“Well, uh, that’s really perceptive of you.” Elliott’s voice is tight, and maybe even a little annoyed. “How are you able to tell? You did it just then, and then you did it in the hospital the other day after that shitty match of ours. How can you tell something’s bothering me?”

“Well… Your performance in the Games as of late does not meet the potential I know you to be capable of. You are reckless and run into fights without thinking. You broke a glass in the bar the other night because you were cleaning it too vigorously. Looking at the sunset in the hospital made you pensive and sad. I frequent this rooftop most evenings, and I have never seen you here. You clearly came up here to find a place to be alone.” Bloodhound thinks all of these signs make it obvious, but they decide not to say so. 

“Um, ouch,” Elliott says, feigning shock.“That’s r- ridi- uh, stupidly accurate. You know, a lot of rumors fly about you, but I didn’t ever think the one about you being a psychic extraordinaire would be true.”

“I am no psychic, Elliott,” they reply. They finish their braid, but realize too late they do not have anything to tie it back with. They sigh and let their hair fall loose. “Let the people think what they wish. I am simply observant.”

“Right.” Elliott does not sound convinced. He falls silent for a moment, then, “You said the other night that you’ve lost family members. What happened to them?”

Images of their parents and uncle and other tribesmen flood their mind unbidden, and they let them come, passing over the memories with a quiet acceptance. “They honored the Allfather with their dying breaths,” they say, their voice almost a whisper. “They fought bravely, but their path was made.”

“They died in combat?”

“...Not all of them. Some died because of the IMC’s meddling foolishness, but some died fighting, yes.”

“I’m sorry.” He is silent for a moment, thinking. “If… if they were still alive today, but they couldn’t remember who you were, what would you do?”

Bloodhound’s breath catches in their throat, and they look at Elliott’s face, searching for meaning. He is staring directly at them, making eye contact, even through the goggles. They have never seen any of their teammates quite so vulnerable, quite so trusting, and they don’t know what to do with it. “I suppose… I would make sure they knew they were safe and cared for.” They pause. “Elliott, I wish to make it clear that you do not need to tell me anything you do not wish to,” they say, turning to face him as they speak.

“Only seems fair,” he replies, a glimmer of his usual charm and wit returning. “I invaded your privacy, now you get to intrude on mine.”

Bloodhound mulls this over for a moment, but relents, half a smile crossing their face. 

“Fair enough.”

The bravado disappears once more, and Elliott sighs. He is silent for a long time as he thinks. His head tilts as he looks up to the sky. “It’s my mom,” he murmurs, and it feels like a confession, or a confirmation to himself. “She can’t remember me. She didn’t recognize my voice over the phone when we talked earlier. I knew this was coming, but I thought I had…” His voice trails off, and Bloodhound knows his silence is not because he is searching for words.

“More time,” they finish for him. They meet Elliott’s gaze, but he looks away quickly. The silence hangs between them awkwardly at first, but the discomfort dissipates as Bloodhound waits patiently for the man before him to regain his composure. 

“We are blessed to have loved so much that loss hurts us,” they murmur, once Elliott meets their eyes again. They weigh a choice in their head, mulling it back and forth. The desire to be open with him, the desire for connection, wins out. “As a child, my faðir and móðir taught me to honor the pain I felt. When they passed, I was plagued by grief and sadness for a very long time. Though there is still pain and anger at times, I allow myself to feel it so that I can let it pass.”

“But… how do you know when it will end? Or if it will?” Elliot asks. He looks guarded, but vulnerable all at the same time. Bloodhound knows the feeling. 

They consider his query, pausing to find the right words. “Pain and grief and sadness… These things are not bound by time. We all move through them at different rates. But if you allow yourself to be plagued by the ‘what if’s’, you will never see what is right there in front of you.”

The man beside him is quiet for a very long time, and Bloodhound begins to fear they have offended him. Mirage was never quiet, and they realize how unsettling it is that he does not have a funny quip or self-deprecating comment to make. He was always running his mouth, letting the most absurd things pop out. But not this evening. He is quieter than he has ever been. They almost… miss his voice. He has spoken to you much this evening, they think, a little bewildered at their own emotions. You have no reason to miss it. But it didn’t matter- a feeling of fondness grows under Bloodhound’s sternum, and for once in their life, they do not try to compress it.

“Thank you.” 

Elliott’s voice is soft and accepting and all the things Bloodhound had hoped to hear. 

“I am glad I could be of help to you.” The silence stretches between them again, comfortably this time. A pleasant breeze flows across the roof, and Bloodhound embraces it, inhaling deeply. They smell the usual smog of the city, but it is accompanied by something gentler. Something warmer. And as their eyes wander back over to their companion, they suspect...

“By the way, you’ve got a hell of a throwing arm,” Elliott remarks. “My forehead is still sore from this morning. Don’t worry though, I just shook it off like I always do.” His bravado has returned, and it makes Bloodhound smile.

“I do what I must to vinna,” they say, briefly adopting a tone much too harsh and serious for their current conversation. Elliott fake cowers, taking a couple of steps back. 

“Whoa, alright then!” he laughs. “You know, I can never tell what you’re thinking under there. You could be sc- sco- uh, frowning at me, and I wouldn’t know any better. Makes you look kind of scary.”

“I will admit, that is part of the reason I wear it,” Bloodhound says, smiling wider now. “Intimidation is a powerful weapon.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, raising his hands in a placating gesture, but laughing again. Bloodhound finds themself staring at him, at his smile, and for once they feel… seen. Comfortable. They know, for some unknown reason, that Elliott Witt is someone to be trusted.

“Hey, thanks again,” he continues. “And don’t worry, I won’t go telling everyone that the great Bloodhound is secretly a total heartthrob. The press would have a field day. They wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

Bloodhound stares at him, open mouthed- but it wasn’t like he could tell, anyway.

Elliott realizes what he has said much too late, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His cheeks darken as he blushes, and he immediately splutters, “I- uh- oh my God was that out loud? I’m, uh… I’m just… gonna go…” He dashes for the door to the roof, leaving a stunned Bloodhound behind. He twists the door handle, but it does not budge.

They are locked on the roof. 

And Bloodhound laughs. 

It’s a giggle at first, but it turns into full chested, dizzying laughter in no time. They do not remember the last time they had felt such joy, such freedom. It must have been when they were a child. But this man, this trickster, has managed to find that young one again and bring them forward into the light. Their eyes sting, and to their surprise, tears of laughter begin to fall and fog up their goggles. They turn away from a very bewildered and horrified Elliott in order to lift the goggles and wipe away the mist. 

“Fyrirgefðu mér, vinur minn,” they choke, the laughter beginning to constrict their scarred lungs. “I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the poor luck we have had this evening.” They breathe hard, clutching their chest, trying to get some air in. When the laughter has settled to the occasional chuckle, they turn back to Elliott, and they are surprised to find him leaning against the door, his face buried in the silver metal. He’s mumbling to himself, and Bloodhound cannot make out any words other than “stupid” and “damn”. 

“You flatter me with your kindness,” they say. Still smiling, they walk to him and place a hand on his shoulder. “But I am afraid the press would be quite disappointed. I do not meet their standards of beauty by any means.”

Elliott mutters something that Bloodhound does not catch, but they do not get the chance to clarify. “What do those words mean? The ones you said?” he asks, still blushing furiously. 

“They mean… forgive me, my friend.”

“Your friend, huh?”

Bloodhound considers this. “Yes. I suppose so.”

Elliott takes a deep breath, and even though Bloodhound knows he must be tortured with embarrassment, he looks them directly in the face. “If you tell anyone what I just said, I’m gonna… I’m gonna kick your ass. In the arena and out of it.” 

This earns him another laugh. “I would not dream of it.” The both of them notice that Bloodhound’s ungloved hand is still on his shoulder, and the latter removes it gently, their fingers ghosting across the soft fabric of Elliott’s hooded sweatshirt. He notices their lingering touch, and only blushes more.

Elliott shakes himself out of his daze, pulls out his phone, and types a quick message. The chime of a returning text rings through the air faster than Bloodhound thought was possible. “There. Octavio is coming to unlock the door. You’d better put your helmet on quick, because he’ll be here faster than I can say ‘pork chops’.”

Bloodhound obliges, and crosses back to where they had left their helmet and gloves. They pick up their helmet and store it beneath their arm as they gather up their hair and twist it expertly atop their head. Once the helmet is fastened, they don their gloves once more. True to Elliott’s word, the rooftop door clatters and swings open. Octavio, still wearing a gaming headset, looks impatient. 

“You owe me for this one, amigo,” he whines, tapping his metal foot and glaring at Mirage through his goggles. “I lost my game for you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Elliot replies, grabbing hold of the door and waving him off. “Next round of drinks at the bar is on the house. How about that?”

“Sweet!” the shorter man crows, and he rockets back down the stairs.

“The last thing he needs is alcohol,” Bloodhound remarks, tucking a stray piece of hair away. They highly doubt Octane even noticed they were there, but they do not mind. That just meant there would be less questions toward the pair of them later.

Elliott rolls his eyes. “Don’t go all Ajay on me now,” he teases. “And we were just starting to get along.” A faux wistful look appears in his eyes, and he sighs dramatically.

Bloodhound just smiles. 

The pair of them descend a few flights of stairs and arrive at Bloodhound’s floor.  “Thanks again for the advice,” Elliott says. “I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” they reply. “Sleep well, Elliott.”

“You too, Bloodhound.”

[teacupfulofstarshine]

the crossroad of our destinies book one: earth

summary: virgil isn't sure how he got roped into this crazy adventure. somehow, he's traveling around with the avatar, his blind earth bending younger brother, a chipper air bender, and a banished fire bender prince, and they're supposed to save the world? virgil can't even tell them he's a water bender. he's not cut out to save anyone. little did he know, they're cut out to save each other - and maybe the whole world in the process. 

(OR: an avatar the last airbender!au, centering around a water bender virgil)

a/n: i . . . wrote the entire first chapter in one day . . . how i still do not know . . . the confusion is real. huge, huge, HUGE amounts of thanks goes to @lovelylogans for cheerleading me through this and also beta reading the first chapter. this wouldn't exist without her, and i love her, and i am so eternally grateful 

CW: atla-typical fantasy violence, brief nonspecific allusions to child abuse, angst, background death of minor unnamed OCs, family angst, mentions of burns

wordcount: 5882

read it on ao3! 

“This is gonna be so interesting!” Patton says, draping himself on his belly over the ball of air beneath him. “I’ve never seen real earth bending before!”

“That would imply that there’s such a thing as fake earth bending, which there decidedly is not,” Logan says, adjusting his shirt with a huff. Virgil glances up from where he’s sharpening his knife next to the fire, raising an eyebrow. 

“I’ve done all kinds of reading about earth bending!” Patton says, seemingly oblivious to Logan’s indignation. “There are scrolls about it all over the Air Nation temples, but I’ve obviously never seen one! Earth benders went extinct so long ago that -”

“What?” Thomas says, lifting his head to stare up at Patton. 

“The Fire Nation desecration reaches beyond our home?” Logan asks, one hand curling into a fist at his side. “They have burned more villages to the ground than ours?” 

Roman pokes at the campfire with a stick, keeping his eyes cast to the ground. “The Fire Nation is trying to wipe out all other benders. They don’t want anyone left but us. Why do you think I ran away from home? My father told me that the other nations attacked us first, but . . .” 

“Falsehood,” Logan snaps. The earth begins to shake beneath him. “We would never do something so horrendous! The Earth Kingdom is a peaceful settlement, we - we would never -”

“Calm down, Rocky, I’m not accusing you,” Roman says. The campfire flares up, and Virgil’s eyes flicker to the waterskin at his side. His hands won’t move fast enough if Roman’s temper causes him to lose control. Something else might, but he refuses. “I’m just saying, there’s a lot of propaganda in the Fire Nation. We’re not all heartless evil bastards. Some of us are just trying to protect our homes. I abandoned a lot when I saved you and your brother from my father’s army.”

“Oh, yes, like what?” Logan snaps. “Like a cushy life in the palace? Like your status as the next in line for overlord of us all and destroyer of my people? Like -”

“Like my twin brother,” Roman says coolly, tone betraying the way the fire surges and sinks in time with his heavy breathing. “Like my best friend, the boy I was to marry. I loved him so much, and he helped me escape, and - and my father probably killed him for his insubordination. I’ll never see him again, and whose fault is that? Mine!” 

The fire surges up in a pillar. Before anyone can react in a meaningful way, a vortex spirals to life around the flames. In a flash, all the oxygen is sucked out of the fire. It dies instantly, leaving a pile of half-charred twigs. Patton lets his bending stance drop, and the vortex falls away. 

“Everyone,” he says quietly, “needs to take some deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. Everyone here has suffered at the hands of the Fire Nation. Everyone here has lost something. It’s okay to acknowledge that pain, and hurt, but it’s not okay to blame each other or ourselves. Roman, you can’t control what your father did to you any more than Thomas and Logan can control the fact that they’re earth benders.” 

“I am an earth bender,” Logan says quietly. “Thomas is -”

“The Avatar,” Thomas says. He studies his hands in silence, and Virgil slides his knife into his boot. 

“Yeah, well, Avatar or not, you were born an earth bender,” he says. Everyone looks at him in a surprise that he mirrors internally; he’s not really one for speaking up during moments like this. There have been plenty since they all started traveling together, but Virgil typically keeps his mouth shut. 

“What?” Thomas asks. Logan turns his head towards Virgil’s voice. His unseeing eyes bore right through Virgil, as though they’re peering into his soul. 

“You were born an earth bender,” Virgil repeats. “That’s the whole damn point of the Avatar cycle, isn’t it? The Avatar spirit gets cycled through all the nations so that each Avatar gets a new and different experience to the one before. No matter what anyone says, you’re an earth bender. Just ‘cause you’re the Avatar too, that doesn’t change your birthright.”

His voice slips away from him, falling into the familiar cadence of his grandmother telling him stories as a young child. “You are an earth bender. You were born with the pull of Mother Earth in your bones. The Lion-Turtles have gifted you with an awareness of what is beneath us, always, a firm and unyielding constant in a world too fluid to appreciate it. You must hold steadfast to what is right and true, because no one else will do it for you. Air, flighty and fluid; fire, scorching and shifting; water, rapid and raging; all these will move from one form to the next as it suits their needs. You must anchor them, or no one will.” 

He blinks, snapping himself out of the strange trance he lulled himself into, and becomes aware of the other three staring at him. “What?” he snaps defensively. 

“That was . . . something,” Thomas says. “Where’d you get a story like that?”

“My grandmother,” Virgil says, pulling a knife from inside his robe. He makes sure that everyone catches the sharpness of its edge glinting under the half-full moon before he goes back to sharpening it. “She would tell me stories of the other benders all the time, how every element has its strengths and drawbacks. She told me that every element plays a role in keeping the world balanced, and that someone would have to repair what the Fire Nation was breaking without destroying the Fire Nation in the process.”

“And why not?” Logan asks - not accusing, genuinely curious. He shifts one foot a couple of inches and a rock springs from the ground next to Thomas, allowing Logan to sit down. 

“Because if we lose fire benders completely, we lose everything we worked to rebuild. We need harmony between all four elements. That includes Princey and his fire bending.” 

Roman thrusts a fist forward, and the campfire reignites itself as a small fireball bursts from his fist. “Thanks, Waterboy.” Virgil flinches a little. “What? You’re from the Southern Water Tribe, aren’t you?”

“What? Yeah. What about it?” 

Roman just shrugs and goes back to the campfire. 

*~*~*~*~*

Logan is amazing at earth bending. 

Granted, Virgil knows next to nothing about the techniques, other than the fact that they involve a lot of foot movements and heavy grounding. It seems to be the complete antithesis of Patton’s air bending and Roman’s fire bending, both of which appear to center heavily on movement. Still, it’s plain to see that Logan is something of a prodigy. He moves as though the earth he bends is an extension of his own body, controlling it with an easy, fluid grace that belies his solid stances. 

It’s hard to believe, watching him, that he’s the younger brother. It’s hard to believe that he can’t see anything. Roman comments as much, and Logan sends him flying with a blunted earth spike without so much as turning to face him. 

“Ow!” Roman shrieks. He’s unharmed, of course; Patton had swiftly leapt into the air to catch him and return him to the ground. “What was that for?” 

“I can so see,” Logan retorts. He barely comes up to Roman’s shoulder, but he’s solidly built, despite his young age. 

“I thought you were blind!” 

“I am. My eyes have never seen a day of my life. That does not mean I cannot see, you moron. I simply do not see with my eyes. I use my feet to see. The ground tells me everything I need to know. You, for example, are currently clinging to Patton like a terrified lemur, and he is hovering approximately as far above the ground as my forearm is long.” 

“How do you do that?!” Roman says, dropping from Patton’s arms to land on the ground. “Also, there’s no way that you’re strong enough to take me down.” 

“And why not?” Logan asks. “I could so take you down.” 

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil says. 

“You could not!” Roman boasts. 

“This is a bad idea,” Virgil repeats. 

“That sounds like a challenge,” Logan says, turning in Roman’s direction and tilting his head in a clear act of dismissal. “Unless you are afraid to face a young, blind earth bender, Prince Roman?”

Roman’s face changes from pride to ice in a split-second. He’ll tolerate Virgil’s “Princey” jabs, but he hates being called by his proper title. “You’re on.”

“Not here!” Thomas yelps. “We are standing in a very flammable forest, and none of us can water bend!” 

“Aren’t you the Avatar, master of all elements?” Roman says testily.

“Only in the Avatar state, at the moment, which I cannot trigger on my own! If you guys set the whole forest on fire, people will come and investigate! We can’t risk being found - I can’t risk being found!” 

The sound of his older brother’s voice seems to snap Logan out of it, at the very least. He shifts his left foot, and Virgil shivers as a small earthquake rumbles through the ground. It’s low-scale enough that anyone else who notices it will pass it off as normal seismic activity. For their little group, however, it’s much more than that; it’s Logan checking the nearby terrain. 

If that isn’t enough to terrify Roman into surrender, Virgil seriously worries about the state of his brain. 

“There is an isolated rocky plain not far from here,” Logan says. “I suggest that we have our battle there. Will tomorrow suffice?”

“Fine by me,” Roman spits, stalking away. Patton drops to the ground and begins to croon to his giant sky bison Remy, stroking his nose. Remy huffs out a breath that rustles the trees around them. Virgil is inclined to agree. 

*~*~*~*~*

“I have said it before, and I will say it again. This is a BAD idea.” 

Virgil tugs his thick jacket on over his loose tunic and pants. Logan sits next to him, controlling a small mound of earth like it’s wet clay. With every shift of his perpetually-bare feet, he changes its shape. 

“I will not be injured,” Logan says. “Roman will not intentionally injure me. He considers me an opponent beneath him, and he is too gallant to harm a child.” 

“How old are you, anyway? Not judging or anything, I’m just . . . curious.” 

Logan’s earth mound trembles. “I am . . . twelve years and six months old.” 

Virgil just blinks at him. He’d thought that Patton, newly fourteen, was the youngest member of their crew; he and Roman are both sixteen, and Thomas is seventeen. He’s assumed this whole time that Logan is around Patton’s age, maybe a few months older, despite his slight stature. “That’s . . . younger than I was expecting.” 

“Are you going to remove me from your expedition?” Logan challenges. He clenches his fist, and the earth mound shatters into dust. “I will not abandon Thomas. He is my brother, the only remnant I have of my family. Of my village, my people, my culture. He is everything to me. I will not return to an ashen husk of my home because you do not consider me mature enough for this journey.” 

“You’re the most mature person here, and anyone who says otherwise is an idiot,” Virgil says, holding up his hands in an “I-mean-no-harm” gesture. He says it because it’s true, because he believes it, but he also says it because he can see the way the earth trembles below Logan. It reminds him of the sea, in a way - calm and quiet, but constantly roiling beneath the glassy surface. 

Logan takes a deep breath, air in and out, and the earth calms to stillness on his exhale. 

“Thank you, Virgil.”

“You’re welcome. Now that the mushy shit’s out of the way - this is a terrible idea and you shouldn’t fight Roman. Not because you’re young or weak or anything like that, but because if one of you gets seriously injured, it’s not like we can waltz into the nearest village and ask for help.” 

Logan shakes his head, smiling. He looks much older than twelve and a half. 

“Trust me, Virgil. This will not be much of a fight.” 

*~*~*~*~*

“If I could talk him out of this, I would,” Thomas tells Virgil. They’re sitting on a tall mound of earth that Thomas had bended up from the plain. Patton hovers casually behind them, sitting cross-legged on a ball of air. Logan and Roman stand facing each other, arms at their sides. 

“The duel will end when one of the participants is unable to bend, or when one participant cedes to the other,” Virgil announces. He’s still not sure how he got roped into refereeing this crazy death match. Patton bends the wind so that his voice carries down to Logan and Roman, but he doesn’t have to. It’s so silent that Virgil could hear for miles. “No attacks shall be permitted which may result in death or grievous bodily harm. Are these rules understood by the participants?” 

“They are,” Roman says. They’re different than the rules to a Fire Nation duel, Virgil thinks, judging by the slight confusion that crosses Roman’s face before he settles back to cool indifference. 

“They are,” Logan says. He and Roman are an arm’s-length apart. 

“Bow!” Virgil calls. Logan and Roman each take a step backward and bow from the waist, a sign of respect between duel participants. Despite their bickering, they do respect each other. (Virgil thinks.) 

“Turn and walk! Ten or fifteen paces!” The traditional standard is ten paces, but Logan’s legs are much shorter than Roman’s, so he has to walk fifteen paces to cross the same amount of ground that Roman does in ten. They turn around and walk, and once they’ve made it the designated distance they turn back to each other. 

“Ready your bending stances!” Roman squares his shoulders and lifts his hands, curling them into fists. Logan spreads his feet apart, planting them shoulder-width apart. Virgil raises a hand up high, bringing it down sharply to connect with his palm like a knife slicing through a fresh kill. 

“Begin!” 

Roman immediately launches a huge fireball at Logan. It’s red, the lowest intensity Roman is capable of producing. Virgil laughs internally; Logan was right. Roman is holding back. Thomas makes a worried noise, but Logan is unaffected. He shifts one foot, thrusts his hands out and flicks them up, and suddenly a massive wall of earth rises in front of him. Roman’s fireball slams harmlessly into it, singing the upper layer of dust but otherwise having no effect. 

“I knew you would temper your attacks for me!” Logan shouts, dropping his wall. “If that had been your usual strength, my wall would have disintegrated!” 

“And you took that risk?!” Roman says. 

“Because I knew you would go easy on me! That is not the point of this duel, Roman! Fight me like you mean it!” Logan stamps his foot, and two massive pillars of earth rise up beside him, one on either side. Another stamp, and the pillars segment into disks. Logan begins to move, still between the pillars as he hurls the disks of earth at Roman. 

Roman dodges the first few disks easily, but Logan is relentless. For every few disks he throws, he stamps his food again, and the pillars rise up again. He draws more and more earth up from beneath him, and it’s all Roman can do to keep himself from being crushed. 

“Are you trying to kill me?!” 

“I thought you were a prince! You should be stronger than this!” 

Roman stands perfectly still, and Logan sends a disk hurtling towards him. Roman screams and throws his hands forwards, and a massive burst of golden-orange fire roars out. It engulfs the disk, pushing it backwards and melting it. Molten rock splashes to the ground, and Roman runs forward. He has twin flames clenched in his fists, like knives, and Logan grins wildly. 

“Finally!” 

The ground grows soft beneath his feet. Roman yells, thrusts a fire-knife forward like he’s going to stab Logan in the head, and Logan vanishes. He drops down, sinking below the earth, and Roman whirls around, confused. The pillars sink down into the ground, and Roman growls. 

“Get up here and fight like a man!” 

The ground rumbles beneath him, almost like Logan is laughing, and then a pillar of earth bursts up beneath Roman and sends him flying into the air. As he falls, another pillar flies up, smashing into him, and then another and another and another. Roman is knocked around like a ragdoll; he fire bends in the air, hurling jets of flame at the earth, but Logan is apparently so far underground that he is unaffected. 

Finally, he slams onto the earth, flat on his back. Logan pops up from underground, covered in a layer of dust, breathing heavily. He takes a single step towards Roman and collapses. 

“Logan!” Thomas shouts. Roman pushes himself to sit up, placing a hand along Logan’s neck. The earth bender doesn’t stir. Roman says something, but it’s inaudible. “Patton, please!” 

“On it,” Patton says, bending Roman’s words toward them. 

“He’s alive,” Roman rasps in their ears. Thomas stands, slamming his foot into the ground, and a curved chute carves itself into their observation mound. Another stamp, and a flat piece of earth appears at the mouth of the chute. Thomas leaps onto it and begins to surf down towards Roman and Logan. 

“A little help?” Virgil asks Patton dryly. Patton offers his hand, pulling Virgil up into his arms, and then they’re flying.

*~*~*~*~*

Logan sleeps for about six hours before sitting up, rubbing at his eyes. “What hit me?” he groans. “Did I lose the duel?”

“You both lost, morons,” Virgil says shortly. 

“You and I are the only ones here - no, wait, someone else is laying by the fire. Roman?” 

“Yeah. He’s sleeping off what you two did to each other. Patton and Thomas are off by the river getting water, because if I have to watch Thomas mother-hen over you two anymore I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.” He stabs angrily at the fire. “You over-exerted yourself with that crazy tunneling move.” 

“I . . . have never tried it on that large a scale before,” Logan admits, shakily sitting up. “Even now, my bending feels . . . exhausted. My vision is foggy. I - for the first time since I learned to bend, I feel truly blind.” He sounds like a scared kid, and it’s enough to evaporate what’s left of Virgil’s anger. 

“Hey, you’re alright,” he says gruffly. “No one’s dead, and you two hopefully have a better understanding of each other’s power now, right?” Logan nods, silent. “Good. Just know that if you ever scare your brother and Patton -” ( and me, he doesn’t say) “- again, I’ll drown you in the fucking river.” 

Logan cracks a smile at that, and it doesn’t fade, even when Thomas returns from the river and practically tackles him into a tearful hug.

*~*~*~*~*

Sometimes, Virgil has regrets. 

Remy coasts through the sky, Patton seated on his head with a loose grip on the reins. Logan, Thomas, and Roman all huddle together, Roman in the middle so that his warmth exudes out to encompass them like a bubble. Virgil is starfished on his back, staring up at the sky. It’s so different to the one that he’s used to seeing over the Southern Pole. 

He misses home. 

He misses the familiar sting of ice and snow against his skin. He misses the scent of seal jerky drying out next to the campfires. He misses packing down the firm snow to create walls for the igloo, misses hunting with his friends and family. 

He misses bending. 

The Fire Nation thinks that they have eradicated water benders from the Southern Pole. They believe that Virgil’s father, whom they cruelly killed on their last raid, was the final water bender. 

They think incorrectly. 

Virgil’s father sacrificed himself to save his son. The pendant Virgil wears around his neck, carved from the rib bone of an ancient and mighty Lion-Turtle, was the only thing he was allowed to keep when his father’s body was prepared for burial. His mother gave it to his father when they were married. She died bringing him into the world, and the Fire Nation made him an orphan. 

“Virgil?” Thomas asks, shifting on Roman’s chest. “Are you okay?” 

Virgil exhales, rolling over so that he’s facing his sleepy friends. “Yeah, Thomas, I’m okay. Just homesick, you know?” 

“I get that,” Thomas says. He reaches over and gently touches his sleeping brother. “At least I have Lo with me, to remind me of home. You don’t even have that. I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Virgil says easily. “It’s not like I have a family to go back to, anyway.”

A sad look crosses Thomas’s face, but he doesn’t push. Virgil can’t decide if he’s grateful or disappointed. 

*~*~*~*~*

It’s amusing to watch Logan drill Thomas in earth bending. Every time Thomas messes up, Logan throws a pebble at him, and not with his earth bending, either. He will literally pick up the nearest chunk of rock and throw it at Thomas. He hits him in the arm without fail. 

Virgil snickers from where he’s darning a tear in his pants. He has a bone needle in his pack, and it doesn’t take a lot of skill to find plants that he can twist into sturdy fiber thread. He’s already got a pretty sizable ball of thread rolled up beside him. 

“You can sew?” Roman asks. 

Virgil flinches at the sudden noise, nearly pricking his finger with the needle. “Don’t scare a guy like that, Princey!” 

An upset expression crosses Roman’s face, but he brushes it off. “Still!”

“Yeah, I can sew. In the Water Tribe, you have to learn to do stuff for yourself.” Especially when the Fire Nation kills your parents, he doesn’t say. 

Roman bounces eagerly. “Do you think you could teach me to do that?”

“Why the hell do you wanna know how to sew?”

“If something rips, I have to be able to fix it myself,” Roman says firmly. “Teach me, please?” 

Virgil sighs. “I only have one needle, so you have to wait until I’m done with this actual work before I start teaching you. You will prick your fingers a lot, and you are not allowed to bitch at me for this. You brought this upon yourself.” 

Roman just grins, sharp and wild. It’s the grin of a Fire Nation child, and it should strike terror into Virgil’s heart. He’s almost more terrified by the fact that it doesn’t.

*~*~*~*~*

Virgil quietly creeps away, after ensuring that everyone else is soundly asleep. They’re fortunate enough to have camped near a river this time, despite the fact that they’re still in the middle of the woods as they travel. What their endgame is, Virgil doesn’t know. For now, they’re just traveling so that the Fire Nation doesn’t catch them off guard, complacent in one place. 

He steps into the river, and the feeling of water around his ankles is soothing. “Hello,” he breathes. 

Virgil knows that his father wasn’t a water bender. He doesn’t think his mother was a water bender, either, although it’s impossible to say. The pendant that she gave his father was carved by water bending, tiny thin streams of water manipulated skillfully along the surface until they etched grooves. It doesn’t make sense that she would have trusted its creation to someone else, but if she had no choice . . .

Despite his insecurities, being in the water always makes him feel closer to both of them. 

He slowly lifts a hand, and a stream of water coils up to meet him. It wraps around his wrist, like a vine, like a friend, coiling up towards his neck. Virgil exhales, tips backwards, and lets himself fall into the water. He moves his hands as he falls, bending the river water so that it flows around his head. The water rushes through his ears, and Virgil is at peace. 

He stares up at the full moon, pretending he can see his father’s smile staring back at him in the craters on its surface.

*~*~*~*~*

“There are spirits in this place,” Thomas says. His eyes aren’t glowing the way they do when the Avatar State overtakes him, but there is an unnatural shine to his irises. “They are here, and they are angry.”

“Why?” the village leader asks. Thomas turns his head towards the village leader’s young daughter, sees the way she cowers away from her father. Virgil doesn’t have whatever supernatural perception Thomas does, but he doesn’t need Avatar State eyes (or whatever the fuck is going on) to see the bruises that litter her arms under her tight sleeves. 

Thomas takes a step forward. The earth shakes beneath him. Logan shifts to a bending stance in a single breath, but Thomas puts a hand out to stop him. Ice-blue wisps of fog coil up around him, and Virgil takes a step backwards as a massive spirit-dragon appears in the village square. 

“They are angry,” Thomas repeats, and his voice reverberates with a power well beyond his years.  

Yeah. Virgil’s pretty angry, too.

*~*~*~*~*

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Logan comments idly, as they fly away from the village. He’s holding tightly to his brother; without the ground to, well, ground him, he tends to cling to Thomas. “With the spirits.” 

“You could sense them?”

“Not with my earth bending. They’re not solid. But I could feel them. I knew they were there, and . . . and once you spoke, I knew they were angry.” 

“No child should be hurt,” Roman says darkly. He’s slumped over the side of the saddle, watching the ground pass by below him. “No - no child. No child should be hurt.” 

Patton is silent, clutching Remy’s reins with white knuckles. He’s been silent since they left, but Virgil is too attentive to miss the tears streaming down his face. They’d saved the day, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a pit in all their stomachs.

*~*~*~*~*

When the Fire Nation soldier bursts through the bushes, everyone moves in an instant. 

Patton and Logan spring in front of Thomas immediately; Logan is in an earth bending stance and Patton has wind spiraling around his fingertips. Virgil draws a knife from his sleeves and grips it tightly. The soldier looks to be in his mid-sixties or so, with gray-white hair pulled back in a topknot and a beard flowing down his front. He has a round potbelly, but there is something sharp and militant in his eyes. 

Roman is the only one who hasn’t moved. “U - uncle?!” 

Everyone stops and stares at him. “Uncle?” Patton echoes. The Fire Nation soldier blinks at Roman, and his entire face softens. 

“My beloved nephew.” 

Roman throws himself at the strange soldier, and the soldier catches him, hugging him and holding him close. “Uncle! Uncle, you - what happened?! After I left, Remus, Dee - what happened to them?!” 

“I will explain all in time,” the soldier (Uncle?) says. “But first, perhaps you should tell your new friends that I am not a threat before they kill me?” There’s a wry smile on his lips as he looks at them all, a bedraggled group of teenagers ready to fight and kill. 

Roman just hugs the strange man tighter, and Virgil sheaths the knife when he hears Roman’s muffled sobs. Despite their constant bickering, he knows that Roman really, truly does miss his home, and now he has a small piece of it back. Virgil imagines he’d react in a similar way if a member of his family showed up right now (even though he has no one to show up). He can’t begrudge Roman this little scrap of comfort.

*~*~*~*~*

The Fire Nation soldier is revealed to be Roman’s Uncle Emile, brother of the current Fire Lord. “My brother,” Emile says, stroking his beard slightly, “can only be described as . . . a little bitch.” 

“Remus,” Roman repeats, sitting next to his Uncle and gripping his hand. “My brother, Uncle, what happened to him? What happened to Dolos?” 

“Your father was furious at them for letting you and the young earth benders escape the capital,” Emile says. “He dared not wound Prince Remus, but Dolos is only a noble’s son. He was spared no such courtesy.” 

“Is he dead?” Roman whispers. He’s shaking; Virgil wonders if he should attempt to offer some sort of comfort. 

“He is not dead,” Emile says. “Your father challenged him to an Agni Kai - a traditional fire bending duel. Dolos barely fought back. He knelt, prostrated himself, begged for forgiveness. The Fire Lord did not grant it. The left side of his face and torso are badly burned. But he will survive.” 

Roman blinks, and tears pour down his face. 

“Your father banished him, and you as well,” Emile says. “Remus has been sent on a mission to capture the Avatar - to capture you.”

“Where is Dolos?” Roman rasps. 

“Remus insisted on taking him with him. He told your father that he would leave Dolos in an outlying colony somewhere, but he remains below deck on the ship. He is healing from his wounds. He will be scarred for life, but he will still have a life.” 

“I want to see them,” Roman says. 

Emile shakes his head. “Prince Roman, no. It is a bad idea.”

“Why?” 

“If you are spotted on board the Fire Nation ship, the crew will have no choice but to take you back to the Fire Nation as a prisoner. You are a fugitive. It cannot be risked.”

“I’ll risk my own safety if I damn well please!” Patton flinches at Roman’s shout, but Emile remains calm. 

“I will not risk your safety, Nephew. Will you risk the safety of your twin? Your betrothed? Your new friends?” 

Roman’s fire-angry glare shifts to them, to Virgil, who meets his eyes coolly even despite his terror. He won’t let Roman know that he’s afraid. He knows how much Roman hates it when they look at him as though he’s a fire bender to be afraid of. Roman exhales, and the campfire flares but he remains calm. 

“I . . . I won’t. But I miss them, Uncle.”

“I know you do,” Emile says. “My status as a disgraced general has finally come in handy, for I have been assigned as your brother’s advisor on this so-called fool’s errand. I will do my best to keep him safe and out of trouble.”

Roman fidgets with his hands. “Could . . . could I write them a letter?” 

Emile hums, considering. “I suppose that could be arranged.” 

Roman scribbles down two scrolls and passes them to his uncle. “Please take care of them for me, until - until I can come back and take care of them myself.” Emile nods, kissing his forehead. 

“I am proud of you, my nephew.” 

He disappears back through the bushes he came from, and Roman stares longingly after him. “Roman?” Patton asks. “Would - do you want a hug?” Roman stands stiff, back straight, shoulders pushed back. For a moment, he doesn’t look like their friend. He looks like a soldier. 

Then he turns around, and his eyes are wide and wet, and there’s snot dribbling down one corner of his face. “ Yeeeeeeeees,” he wails. Patton smiles, opens his arms, and lets Roman come crashing into them. 

*~*~*~*~*

Before they head out the next morning, a bird flutters down to land in front of Roman. He gasps when he realizes what it is, gathering the sharp-taloned bird into his arms and crooning over it. He showers its head in kisses. Virgil is lost. 

“This is Dragon! He was my pet back home, he’s a messenger hawk!” The bird chirps, nibbles on Roman’s ear lobe, and presents him with the parchment tied to his leg. Roman snatches the scroll, unrolling it eagerly, and Virgil peers over his shoulder. 

The upper half of the scroll is a near-illegible scrawl, with a splotched signature that Virgil can barely make out as “Prince Remus” accompanying some doodles and a splatter that looks almost like blood. The lower half is in shaky but beautiful calligraphy. The opening address is “My darling flower,” and the ending signature reads “Yours forever, Dolos.” 

“My love,” Roman whispers, tracing his fingers over Dolos’s signature. “And my brother . . . I love them . . . so much.”

“You gave up a lot to be with us,” Thomas says. “I appreciate everything that you’ve sacrificed. Logan and I would be dead without you.” 

“I’m glad no one is dead,” Roman says softly, voice wavering. “I just . . .”

“You love them,” Patton says. “We understand.” 

Roman strokes the parchment. His fingers come away slightly black with ink from the upper portion that his brother scrawled, and he exhales. “I am going to write them back. I’ll send Dragon to them. I’m not losing touch with my family, not again. Not this time. Remus and Dolos aren’t going to leave my life, not this time. They’ve got just as big a bone to pick with my father as we do. They can give us usable information.” 

“Will that endanger them?” Logan asks. 

“Uncle Emile is there, too. He can help them be discreet. I’m not abandoning my old family for this one, but - but I won’t betray you to my father, either. That’s not what a prince does.” Roman squares his shoulders again, and Virgil blinks in surprise. Roman doesn’t look ridiculous, like a child-soldier, or militant, like an enemy. He looks proud and strong and regal.

He looks like a real prince.

“I support you,” Logan says, startling all of them. “You are a prince, even if you are not our prince. I trust your judgement.” Roman seems the most shocked of all of them by Logan’s bold proclamation, especially considering the heated duel they’d had just three weeks ago, but Logan’s milky grey eyes look like they’re staring into Roman’s soul. 

Virgil is familiar with that look. 

“If Lo trusts you, I trust you,” Thomas says, and he smiles widely. Patton nods, smile bright and bubbly, and Roman looks to Virgil. He offers a thumbs-up and ruffles Roman’s hair. Roman squawks and bats at him, pushing him away. Virgil laughs and falls over easily into a back-bend. 

“Once you’re sure Thomas is solid on his earth-bending, we’re going to a sacred Fire Nation site on the fringes of the empire,” Roman tells Logan. “Fire comes next in the Avatar cycle, right? After earth?” 

“I think so?” Thomas says. 

“I know so,” Logan confirms. “And I think he’s ready.”

Roman nods, and the fire blazing in his eyes is the most reassuring thing Virgil’s seen in quite a while. (It’s strange to say, considering Roman is a Fire Nation prince, but Virgil’s used to people judging him by appearances. He’s learning to reconsider his assumptions.) 

“Alright then,” Roman says. “I’ll write back to my brother, try and find out what sites might be relatively empty so that we can camp ourselves out there. Fire Nation, here we come.” 

[huntergatherercreator]

The Takedown | Part Four

Pairing: Mob!Tom Holland x Detective Reader

Summary: NYC has a new drug lord determined to wipe out any and all competition in order to grow his empire. You're going undercover to stop him.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of prostitution and drugs. Violence and gun use.

Notes: This is a such a slow burn story and I'm enjoying writing it so much. Please let me know if I've missed any warnings!

Catch up here: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Part Four - 1,959 Words

I didn’t bother turning away when he scanned the bar. I was already easy to single out being the only non-working woman in the room without trying to avoid eye contact. Not when every other person was gawking. I’d dressed simply in a black dress and low heeled pumps. It was enough to look like I belonged there as a patron but not too over the top to attract attention away from the girls. Now as his eyes lingered on me I wished I’d stuck with my usual street wear. Their dark appraisal sent a shiver through me. I refused to break under his stare, meeting it with a cursory glance of my own to take in more details about him.

In the dim light his shirt was stark white, top three buttons undone in a relaxed way. It belied the predatory gleam in his eye as his gaze finally moved onto the three Zoey had motioned over. They slunk to the table, all doing the rounds to chat with the men. The youngest, Melissa, made a bee line for Holland’s lap. He eased back into the seat, letting her perch on one of his thighs. He made no move to touch her, unlike his companions. I prayed that she would take that as a sign and move on but she didn’t.

She tried her best to persuade Holland into one of the private rooms, her hands roaming over his chest she batted her eyelashes with a coy smile. Ignoring her he scoured the room with a guarded stare. I focused on my drink as his attention drifted over the bar. I could feel his heavy gaze linger on me again, sending goose bumps along my arms as my stomach lurched. I locked eyes with Zoey, nodding to get her to bring me a refill for my water. She laid down a new napkin, fluttering it for a second so I could see the handwriting hidden inside.

Don’t get involved unless necessary.

Scrunching the napkin between my fingers I used it to wipe down my section of the bar before putting it in my empty glass. She was right, again. None of them knew he was the kingpin in this. They didn’t know where their supply was coming from only that they were getting something back from the sale, and that was enough for them. Stepping in now would mean I’d out myself as knowing who Holland was. I could lie and say I’d made the connection based on the fact Arnold was here, but it was tenuous at best. I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself to stay seated. I had to let this play out and deal with the fallout after. The main priority was keeping the girls safe, I reminded myself.

My stomach dipped as a small yelp resounded from the VIP suite. Holland had Melissa. He held her tightly by the wrist forcing her fingers to relax on the bag she was holding. His face twisted in disdain as he stood, shoving her off his lap onto the plush carpet. She whimpered, fingers massaging her wrist.

“Who the fuck is using whores to sell?” he demanded. Everyone in the booth stilled. One or two paled as they caught up on the situation. Rounding on one of the older men he threw the bag at him. “This is your area, Richards. Care to explain?”

Melissa saw her chance while he was occupied and teetered towards the stairs. Hand flying out Holland grabbed her by the back of the neck. “Not so fast. I’m not done with you.” He moved to pull her back into the centre of the group as she struggled. Several of the men had stood, including the one he’d named as Richards. Most were unsure what to do with their hands as they watched their boss turn on them once again.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he warned.

“It ain’t got nothing to do with me. I sell the way you want, my men do too.” Richards held his hand up in surrender.

“You mean to tell me this has been happening under your nose?” Paling further, Richards took a reflexive step back. “T-t-that’s not what I meant at all, Boss.”

Holland yanked Melissa around to face his men, his hand moving to hold her throat.

“Which of these men are you selling for?” he snarled into her ear. From behind I couldn’t see her face, only hear the whimpers as his hand tightened on her windpipe.

“Please let me go, I don’t know anything” she begged.

“Tell me who.”

“I don’t know! She’s never told us where it comes from!” Melissa cried. My heart stilled. Disbelief and anger mixed on Zoey’s face before she shot me a loaded look. That was it the line into her investigation had been crossed. I was on my own.

Steeling myself I rose from my stool. Several eyes flickered my way as I moved towards the suite, including Arnold’s.

“You!” he raged, getting to his feet before realising that if I was involved then he was also implicated. His clenched fists shook as he struggled to think of a way out, to stop what would inevitably happen once Holland found out.

“Sir, I want to let you know that she’s disobeyed all orders I’ve given. I had no idea she was stupid enough to go rogue. I’ll personally deal with her.” Arnold made to leave. Holland tipped his head at the man hidden behind the curtain and they grabbed a hold of Arnold as he reached the stairs.

“Is that her?” Holland asked Melissa, dragging her to the edge of the suite so she could see me in the dim light. She froze as her eyes landed on me, waiting for a sign of what she should say. I worked my way around the room until I was a few feet away from them. His eyes never left me. Crossing my arms I leaned back against the nearest table.

“She works for me,” I confirmed.

His fingers flexed on Melissa’s throat as his gaze narrowed. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Ask Sam. We’re well acquainted.” I baited him, hoping he’d turn on Arnold, which he did. Arnold cursed as Holland’s unyielding stare pinned him to the spot.

“She’s nothing but a lowlife street dealer, she’s worthless,” he spat.

“I wouldn’t say worthless. Not when I currently sell to 30% of your market.” Playing blasé was riling them both up better than I’d hoped. Holland finally let go of Melissa, letting her drop to the floor, and rounded on Arnold, his face a mask of fury.

“Boss, Sir, that’s only true because she cost me four other dealers. It’s not the way she makes it sound.”

“I don’t care how it sounds. I care about how it looks. You’ve let someone into my business, let them take over not only a large portion of your sales but also encroach on a fellow man’s territory to sell, and you’re telling me you just sat back and let it happen.”

“I’m not- That’s not-” Arnold stammered. Holland instructed the one guarding Arnold to take him outside. His struggling increased. He knew that as soon as he was outside, out of sight from witnesses, anything could happen to him.

Holland stalked to my table and stood before me, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but this isn’t how I run my business.” This close my brain struggled to match the correct level of fear as I took in his fresh face and unruly curls. He truly was about the same age as me. It gave me a misplaced boost of courage.

“You need to reassess your business strategy.” His hands caught my upper arms. Anger rolled off him in waves but there was a light flush to his face that worried me more. Anger would simmer away. Humiliation wouldn’t.

“You’re coming outside” he growled. He dragged me up the entrance stairs and shoved me out into the night.  The temperature had rapidly cooled down from the previous afternoon’s heatwave and the wind whipping through the alley felt icy against my skin.

Arnold was on his knees facing away from the road, the guard behind him holding a gun to his head. I should have been surprised that he would authorise this in such a public place but none of his other bodies had been hidden. It didn’t make sense to sneak about now. Not when this would be a show of his power, and show that not even his own men were safe in this war.

He clamped a hand down on my shoulder and steered me to stand before Arnold.

“You either fall in line, or you can join him.” His fingers dug into my skin and I fought the urge to shake him off. I refused to take my eyes off Arnold. I wouldn’t, couldn’t, show any weakness.

In the deathly silence of the space a gun cocked. But it wasn’t the one his guard was holding. Instinct kicking in, I threw myself back against the door, Hollands hands ripping away from me as I dove. A shot rang out. The guard jerked. Face clouding with confusion it wasn’t until blood started blossoming through his shirt that he sagged to his knees. Using the melee Arnold fled, sprinting to the mouth of the alley. I watched as he ran. Shots rang out, continually hitting the guard until he finally slumped over. None had been aimed at Arnold as he made his escape.

Holland was still out in the open, a determined set to his jaw as he tried to track the position of the shooter. It was then I realised whoever was firing had to get through the guard to get a clear shot at Holland. My stomach turned as bile rose. I knew what I had to do, but my body fought the very idea.

With a curse I launched away from the wall. Getting between Holland and the direction of fire I shoved him back into the cover of a dumpster on the opposite wall. I stumbled as a bullet whizzed past where he’d been standing seconds before. The hot sticky feeling of blood running down my arm let me know I’d been hit long before the white hot sting of pain. Diving into the cover I crouched beside him.

“Stay down” I warned. Taking a chance I peered out from our hiding spot. A shot hit the end of the dumpster and I flinched back into Holland’s chest. His hands caught my sides, pulling me deeper into the cover and tighter against him. Warmth radiated from his body as my adrenaline started to ebb, giving way to the chill of shock. Then I felt it. The hard length of a gun barrel pushing into my back. He was armed. Twisting I dipped my fingers into his suit jacket until I had a hold of his gun. He froze when he realised what I was doing.

“You should listen to your own advice.” His voice was smooth, soothing almost as his hot breath tickled my neck. It took me a second to realise why. His accent had changed. He wasn’t from Brooklyn. I didn’t have time to piece things together. I needed to get us both out of the alley alive first.  I focused on the heavy weight of the gun in my hand and checked the ammo cartridge was full.

Whoever was firing wasn’t on the street otherwise they’d have moved closer to get their target. They had to be firing from higher ground. A steading breath and I was ready.  

------

Taglist: @spideylovin @lukesbabylon

Part Five now up! 

[polupenthes]

@mercysought​. | the gentleman: little towns late at night when no one’s awake and the only lights on are the street posts.

Storm Hag, they called her, and call her still. Her brother the Grey Pilgrim, and she the winter he heralds in thick clouds. Both siblings have gold in their eyes, flecking their irises. Her brother’s blue, so his gaze like a sunset. Hers, green, so her gaze like a forest fire.

Each winter she opens her jaws and swallows the moon. Her life as a weapon: unmarred. Sharp and sharpening still. In her existence as the manifest essence of her father lies her becoming, her hollowness, her grief. Her and her brother made to ensure continuity, blossomed from their father’s eye the way other gods may have asked for a writing desk. 

She is the winter, and as such she is cold. This is the dictate of her nature. Her nature demands, and she must answer. Her brother was a fool for thinking otherwise, that nature could be annihilated, ignored. It isn’t. It cannot. Nature is skin. It is muscle and the precision of sinew. 

And it is blood. On her hands. On the knife. The knife she left behind on the wooden floor (clatter!) and the blood didn’t wash off of her hands even now as she melts from raven-form to human again and her knees give. 

No one to catch her. Her palms smack hard on the cobblestone. The late night lights from the windows, flickering pressed up against the darkness, eyes of the great beast of life. She did not look where she flew: she flew, out the window on dark wings and Símidh’s voice still ringing in her ears as his hands grabbed her shoulders and shook. Shook her.

WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU D--

No. None of that. The sting of her palm exorcises the last of the sound from her ears. Her blood, or the blood of this shape, at the tip of her tongue when she bites it. What will drown her, now? She had done what she had been made for, begun to. 

Death was not beyond her. It was her: death and the rebirth of her nature. On the gravel of time her hands laying divots, making mountains and forming, forming, breaking. Water was of her as much as ice. 

She could make it storm, if she wanted to. She could scream and the sky would split open with thunder. And the sound would be a sound of reckoning, discovery. Instead what she has is the deep heaving sobs that vomit inside her an agony. She claws at her collar, tries to catch the terror and pin it down to name it. But it just exists. It exists and it has a name: Medrawt, one she does not discover but rather look in the mirror at. The anger at his reticence, the terror at his horror, and the love beneath it all still hiccuping through her chest making it all of it so raw, so skinless in the sun. 

The storm comes. Heavier rain than the village elders expected. The clouds bruised black, the thunder voracious. Her hair sticks to her forehead. She stands but her knees cannot, cannot hold her. Even her body unravels, rebels, refuses. Refuses. A word she barely understands. A word she barely knows in its entirety. Instead holds it fragmented in her chest like shrapnel, refusal, as if even the possibility of it were too much.

If she were to refuse, refuse her father and refuse the fate he made for her, where would that leave her? What would that make her? Betrayer? Scion? Of self and of purpose, of blood. Blood-breaker. But when she closes her eyes she sees Medrawt cradling Akua’s body, and sees nothing beyond that. Her knees will still bruise in the mud and her hands still grab those fistfuls of wet dirt. 

His hand appears just above her line of vision. He stands completely dry, untouched by the rain she has brought. The rings glint in the lights pouring from the porches, those lanterns swaying lightly in the wind and inside them the bright flame of civilisation. 

A child sits at the window and looks into the darkness of the night pressed up against the warm light of the fireplace, a membrane of thin gold to keep such relentless black-blue at bay. She cringes as she squints past the glass to the wind and the storm and the rain. She does not see the two figures and they do not want to be seen. 

Bheur takes the hand that is offered her, and he pulls her up so she stands. She looks at her stained hands and not at him.

“You always come when I need you.”

He says nothing. Half-shadowed. Like an apparition. Like hallucination.

He comes because her knot in the tapestry has come unraveled. He comes because he has been asked to watch. He comes because if a tree does not fall it cannot be heard. What does it matter why he comes? He comes, always, as the water rises and she drowns in it.

He takes her hand. She is already cold, she is already rotted: the anaerobic environment of her pain peat that seeps into her clothes and skin, digesting, unmaking and re-making into dirt, into rock, into land. She is land. She was giantess before she was daughter, and before she was daughter she was sky.

Elsewhere she would be half-dead. 

She is animal wounded. She is darkness devouring, devourer. 

He says nothing and she knows he is thinking. Of what? How he will sketch her and rot her in his painting of this moment, done yesterday and in a hundred years and while she was still thinking of her act as salvation and not murder? Before. Before. The sun had set upon her and she had been too foolish and happy to notice and by the time she had blossomed red with her dagger the knowledge of her nature had erupted bright and foolish in its half-innocent surprise. 

No beauty, now. Hag bristling and her eyes hardened to granite-marred stones. Volcanic rock. The earth in all her splendour, coagulated and bending upwards in constructions of chert. Around her all the storm, fanged and vengeance-hungry, of a winter come early and merciless. 

She pulls her hand out of her grasp. He thought too long. He said nothing.

“Will you stop us? Can you, stop us? Now, with the die set and my destiny aching to be held?”

Can that which is not born but created have destiny? Hold destiny, understand what destiny is? Can story made flesh choose its own ending? She turns to look him in the eye and find she cannot pin his eyes into any shape that can be seen. It’s maddening, it maddens her. Knees muddied and dress all torn and hands stained with red and then with rich, dark earth, and the wind that howls. 

“SAY SOMETHING!”

Her hands, palms splayed, to his chest. To shove, a child with a broken toy. Were she to rage any louder the ground would shatter into splinter. Beneath her feet it tenses, a skin waiting to be cut, and she feels all of her power condense in the middle of her.

What a reckoning silence can bring. 

His. Her father’s. Her brother’s. 

She knows why he is silent. Because this is choice, litmus test, threshold made specifically for the threshold-dweller. He cannot stop her and he will not: he will not make that decision for her.

So she is alone with the thought of it. So she is alone, then, with the pain and the consequence of it. A loneliness unending and unyielded, one she cannot parse. She lacks the tongue of it for it though she is older than many tongues in many skulls, soothsayers or just simply marsh-dead. Her hands are so cold. Her body so cold, also. 

The blood will not be washed so simply: the blood will be her testament and undeniable legacy. To be bloodied. To be of blood. 

The bright winter cracks across the sky in the shape of lightning. White-hot, veins carved into the pliable fabric of a night as merciless as it is cold. He wants her to think the decision has not yet been made, that the hope for redemption is pliable.

Sweet enough and close enough she could pick it ripe from the vine.

But this is storm, the first deep storm of winter. Any fruit would not survive the unyielding barrage of the rain. Any fruit she could have tasted she has already cast aside, the flesh peeled back to reveal all the ways in which she tricked herself with freedom.

Medrawt will learn it too, she knows. She will make him learn how freedom has a price and the price for them is to break each other’s hearts.

No.

She made her choice long before she crumbled here. She made her choice in the sunlight, the sliver of it, she made it when she decided to silence Akua forever. And in Símidh’s eyes was a rage that had no other name but hate.

The Gentleman’s silence demanded this choice be brought to the present. But there’s none of it left, and it is spent. And it was made. And to those that she loved most she has become monster-creatue-animal. And to her old dance partner who offered her his hand she is none of those things.

But the innocence and compassion he may have been able to gift her is spent, emptied. Lies in their hands, bird skulls emptied of summer. Too thin and light to survive this torrential rain.

In the rain the strong beating of wings: her form of black raven (twin to her brother’s white) takes flight, and with it the rain stops. 

His silence opens chasms. And it is too late to close them.

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves; Chapter Seven, Savagery.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-

Trigger Warnings: !!! Violent thoughts in this chap !!! Kylo’s getting somewhat, territorial. Shall we say-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

When he came to her that night, her tears of grief were still drying on her cheeks. Catching in the fires light, like ribbons of sparkling amber.

 If he had a soul, it would be crumbling in despair for glimpsing the sight of her like this.

 “Oh, My little dove.” He sighs, weary and heart sore for her. She didn’t even have anyone to cry to or to embrace in her sadness. She always had to cry alone.

 Tears staining onto the clasping embroidery of her laced pillow. Her supple form curled up into a fitful tense shape on the bed. Her toed off brown boots are strewn on the floor by the end of the bed.

 Concern weights down the heavy lentil of his stern brow as he rounds the end of her bed to come closer. His big hand cupping the polished twists of the wood pillar of the mahogany frame. He steps over her boots. Coming to tower over where she rests on the mattress.

 She’s still wearing her gown. The ash grey wool she wore earlier today. Her hair is still bound. Though it’s strictness is softened by wisps that have worked their way loose. Spilling over her cheeks and straying across the pillow. Like dark twisted roots.

 She won’t wake. She never does. He sets himself carefully on the bed. Feels it give and creak beneath his weight. He watches her rest. Brings his hand up to stroke a thumb across the soft cushion of her damp cheek. Wet and salt clings to his skin.

 He whispers to her. “I felt it. I felt your sadness. I felt it reach out to me. Calling to me.”

 He leans down and kisses the tear away. When he does, when he tastes that sadness on his lips - a shatter of emotion and memory cracks through him. Like thunder splintering and charring an old oak. He is struck by it. Well and truly.

 He can hear her mothers snarls, feel the crush of guilt and righteous anger drowning his sweet little dove. Being told she must obey to her family expectations. Start making them proud. Start thinking of marriage.

 He sighs deeply as he pulls away. He didn’t even register the pretty floral of her skin he so loves. Not tonight.

 Tonight, he is not a baying monster seeking for blood. He is a suitor who has deeply concerned, rushed to her side as he felt the worst woes of his lover.

 He felt her despair. Her dying hope. He felt the waning happiness of their day wither. Like a dried flower hardening up in the frost or the heat. Seizing up it’s bright petals. Or shedding them. He’s felt how her family’s expectations strip her bare and leave her shredded and bruised.

 Here, he just feels his jaw grit at the rage of it all. He grows wilder with anger. Can feel the black of it, thick like rotten honey, bleeding flushing into his veins.

 “I wonder, do you feel me too? Are you so struck by all the things I perceive?” He asks to her. Not intending at all for his questions to be answered.

 Their bond is strong - this cannot be denied. It’s tug engulfed them both from the second their eyes met. That blazing dazzling storm that took his breath away. The tempest of her influence quakes inside his chest.

 Yet this...fondness, for her. A mere mortal. A simple, human girl. It is not so perishable. To look upon the last love and bond he has felt in his life, it seems so dangerously frail in comparison. Adoring her is like cherishing a birds eggshell. Like a faint ember glowing, about to extinguish. Yearning and waiting to be made bright.

 Humans. All of them are so fleeting. So quick to bud and even quicker to fade. Like a dying little spark. Extinguished before it barely even thrives.

 He can feel this spirit. This entwining of their souls. This dense entanglement of emotion. Can sense how it hungers to grow. Like him; it’s a bloodthirsty beast. Demands heart and cartilage and inky black ichor of blood to sustain it.

 His yearning is more than he ever thought. And he knows how she wants it desperately also. Wants him. Their feelings have found symmetry in each other. This is the first time a woman has been more to him than a collection of veins to drink off.

 “I confess; I care not if you can sense me yet. Because I sensed you the minute I saw you, Iris Ashton. And now I feel how trapped you are.” He explains softly.

 “Little Dove. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to see you freed.” He promises.

 He’s stroking her hair back off her face. Trying to soothe away the crinkling frown in her brow. The one that spoke highly of her turmoil.

 “I would rip those pathetic beings you call relatives to pieces for making you suffer like this. I wouldn’t even drink them. Dove. I’d kill purely for the pleasure and the sport of it.” He pledges.

 Somewhere in his mind, faintly, upon a distant echo of an echo, he can hear his makers voice. He can hear Draegan calling him a savage, chiding him for those words. He always was the one between the two, blessed with more leniency.

 “Your mother is desperately trying to keep us apart. It will not be so. I will not stand for it.” He confesses.

 “I will not.” He makes plain. Shakes his head. His words are quiet venom with the resolute strength of iron, but he’s softly caressing her cheek. Taking away all the tears and salty sadness with his fingertips.

 “I have a foul temper and when people deny me the things I want. They will inevitably lose.” He growls.

 He will kill. Maim. Slaughter and hunt without any whiff of so called or feared consequences. He’s a vampire. He’s above emotion. He does not subscribe to petty human clemency. There is no point in mercy being instilled in such savage beasts, after all. It would wither and die in the face of all the foul things he’s committed. The gore. The pain. The massacres. The bloodlust.

 “I came tonight because you cried out for me. You cloud up every moment in my head. You live behind my closed eyelids when I rest at night...” He expresses.

 He reaches his hand to cover her collarbone. Very close to the space over her heart. Warm skin soothes his icy palm. It’s been so long since he felt the flurry and flush of warmth. He can feel the quivering muscle tremble and tick under her skin. Gushes and guides her blood. The rattle of it pulses and echos through her vulnerable bones.

 The fragility of her tiny timpani heart, beating away her time.

 “And now your body beats for me. Each pump of your heart I can hear; and it sounds like it’s calling out my name. And I will always answer to it.” He promises. “I cannot ignore it, even should I wish too.”

 He cannot fathom the enormity of this strangle hold she has across him. He can only nurture it’s budding into being. He will help blossom and thrive, whatever this may be.

 He quirks a slight tip of a smile. It breaks the stoic nature of his scowl hardened face. Like strong waves being dashed on the rocks. It yielded.

 “When I think back upon you sitting astride Kana today, it makes me smile. I had not thought you to be such a wild creature so ready to dash the rules.” He says in mirth.

 He’d only looked at her and seen the etiquette she adheres too. He was pleasantly surprised to find she was no shrinking violet. He’s enamoured with uncovering more such stubborn wilderness within her.

 “How glad I am for it. That little spit of fiery spirit that not even your foul mother can hope to tame. I’ve always been so enamoured with wild things.” He smiles.

 He rubs his thumb across her forehead. His own brow creases when he feels the tremble and agony of her aching head. The raw sting of her red eyes. He rubs until that grey nimbus of her pain passes away. Like smoke on the gentle breeze. He soothes it away.

 He is sure to put vastly happier thoughts into her head. Plants them there like seeds ready to sprout. He helps her recall every smile they’ve shared. Every ghost of a touch. Every look of their eyes clashing that sent rattles of desire wracking down her spine. His too, though she had no clue as to the potency of her charms.

 No clue whatsoever- it’s one of his favourite things about her. Here is a power she doesn’t even know she wields. He will gladly instruct her to see it used.

 He lets her see them this afternoon. Riding side by side in the frosty sunshine. Stroking the horses in their stalls. The way he caught her and reeled her in when she slipped off Kana’s back. He lets that warm happiness flow through her like golden ambrosia. The sweet honey nectar of happiness they share together.

 He will have more. He will make it so.

 He feels how her body is growing colder. He twists around and sees the fire in her hearth is crumbling low. Barely sustained. He crosses and sees to it. Stokes it with the iron poker and piles on more logs to see her kept warm.

 Silently he walks back to the bed, to her side. Pulls up the fluffy eiderdown over her where it lay crumpled at her feet. The feathery down of it rumples and crushes and he tucks it around her prone body. Her human well-being, hangs loosely by a fine thread compared to his stronger senses.

 He exhaled an amused sound to himself. “And they say I am the creature who bears no soul.” He speaks in detriment to his caring touches.

 But so long as he is near, he will not see her suffer. From cold. From sadness. From anything that may ail her.

 He has seen worse things than his own kind being blights upon humans. He’s witnessed plagues, wars, outbreaks of diseases too foul to name. The awful crippling frailty of suffering a human existence.

 He places his hand on her elbow, atop the covers he shrouded her in. Her dreams eased by his influence. Her strains and stresses plucked away by his hands. He could do more than merely enchant her senses. He could alter them. Make her witness things if he wished to.

 “How is it a creature like me can find such solace in even being near you.” He asks gently. Big fingertips of his grooming through her hair. Feeling the spun-bronze soft of it combing through his fingers.

 He may never have an answer to that musing. An eternal query for him to ponder over through his ages. All he knows, is that he won’t be kept apart from her. Not for anyone’s wishes.

 He stays until a cresting red-gold dawn. Blood and gold copper coins, spill slanted across the sky. The birds outside in Westwell’s meagre garden begin their song to herald to the new day.

 He leaves her. Parts with a kiss to her cheek and before he slips from her sight and off into that blaze of a dawn, he leaves his initialled kerchief crumpled up in her hand.

 The thought as to her confusion of how it got there, will make him smile. Now she has a token of him. That happy thought keeps him smug in temper, and buoyant for the whole day. He hopes it will jab at her acerbic mother.

 Should teach her that no one stands in Lord Ren’s path. And even fewer live to tell the tale of having done so.

   ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

 Iris really did applaud her mothers cruel sense of efficiency. Not but the next day, and Sergeant Armitage Hux and Mrs Hux call at Westwell to take tea.

 As they alight from their carriage, Iris is sat at the window armchair. Watching their newcomers. A flash of brilliant red catches her eye, stark in the icy landscape of the frosted green and creamy cotswold stone gravel drive.

 He wore his full ceremonial uniform under his black cape. Wool coat the shade of split veins. On his head, covering the copper of his short hair, sits a cocked half moon army hat. Fluffy red and white plumage darts up, sprouting from one side. Blood spattered on snowy doves feathers. The ultimate homage to war.

 He looks terribly neat and well groomed. Meticulously so. Coat brushed. His cape is spotless. His white breeches are about as pristine as the snow that fell around the estate last night. His black boots gleam. Freshly polished and waxed. Iris bites her tongue when she sees he’s fully dressed for battle. Even his gold rapier sword hangs at his side. Bumping against his hip.

 Hux turns and helps his mother down from the carriage. She is a stout woman of late age, with greying hair and a face that always looks pinched. Her pale face hidden in her frilly bonnet. A ruffled frill secured around her neck. A chemisette collar of rippled muslin, peaking in cresting white waves. Tied in a bow around her neck. Brushing under her chin. Collar starched and stiff. Holding her chin precariously high. Incredibly precocious.

 Then again, the woman did always adore and admire looking down upon people. Haughtily peering down on her lessers.

 Much of her dress is covered by her deep plum pelisse. She has lilac gloves on and is pinching her skirts up. Afraid of the mud. Sniffing in disdain at muddying her rose pink and mauve half boots with it. Iris shuts her book with a harsh snap. A sigh leaves her lips.

 She sets her book aside. Mother appears in the parlour. Lifts up the arched curtain to better glimpse at their guests. She turns a casting eye over Iris’s dress.

 “Your skirts are wrinkled and your hair is loose at the back. Fix it.” She instructs snappily with quick hurrying. Before turning back to seat herself elegantly on the settee opposite.

 Their parlour was not quite the finest room in Britain. But it was cosy. Heavy blue velvet drapes line the windows with gold tassels trimmed on their edges. There is upholstered walnut settees and arm chairs with white and pink rosebud pattern on the seats.

 The fire is lit and roaring amber in the austere grey of the stone hearth surround. Mother arranged an ostentatious vase of tall spilling blooms on the French end table across the room, by the door. Perfuming the air with violets and bluebells. Sugared fruit of exotic variety lay in the only silver bowl they have in the house. Polished especially. Desperate to show off their finery.

 Mother is fussing with the crocheted lace doily on the table. Tugging it straight. Setting her grey satin skirts to fold nicely and neat around her knees. Tugging on her finest shawl around her shoulders. Hissing at Iris to set her legs straight. For she always sat most uncommonly. With one knee folded under the other.

 Iris is in the upholstered linen armchair opposite to the settee. In the chair has seen better years. A twin set. They creak and crack under her weight. But it’s always done that ever since she was a child. It’s her favourite spot. The light is adequate for reading. Until Posy or Flora come marching in and clamour and demand the chair for they have to fix up their bonnets for church on Sunday. Heaven forfend they are seen out in the same bonnet twice.

 Luckily today they preen and fuss in the parlour mirror before the housekeeper shows their guests into the front parlour. Posy is in a duck egg blue with a green ribbon at her waist. Flora is almost matching in a cotton white with a peony pink ribbon. They preen a moment longer until the door handle cracks and twists across the room. The two littlest Ashton’s dart quickly to take their places. Squeaking with giddy excitement. Plonking artlessly onto the furniture.

 Iris’s mother frowns at her eldest daughters dour smile. She’d tugged her out of bed nearly at dawn this morning. Ordered her up. To bathe and wash and then dress her hair for Hux’s call.

Laced her tight into stays and her whisper-blue silk dress. Barely blue. Like a sky just turning at twilight. It had three quarter sleeves and handsome train. It it showed off the prettiness of her neck and shoulders. Especially when she wore her pearl sapphire earrings. They sparkle all across her neck.

 She puts down her book on the end table. And looks up into the parlour doorway as Mrs Hux enters, preceding her son. Their stout almost-elderly matron of a housekeeper, Simpson, opens the door to them and curtseys. Announcing them. “Maratella Hux and Sergeant Hux. If you please, Ma’am.”

 Maratella glides in first. Still with her parasol hooked upon the crook of her arm. She snaps her fingers at Simpson to take it and her bonnet.

 “I would have disrobed more in the hall. But your entryway is most drafty and I do so fear getting dust on my bonnet. For it will never be gotten out easy in all this fine lace.” Simpson takes her bonnet and her parasol off her. She curtseys to Caroline.

 “Mrs Ashton. You do keep such a snug parlour.” And then she turns and offhandedly stresses Posy, Flora and Iris. The whole bouquet. As if suddenly surprised they’re all here. “Oh. And I dare say such a pretty flock of gels.” She compliments.

 “You remember my youngest’s. Posy and Flora. And of course, Iris. My eldest.”

 Hux nods and lays particular care in Iris’s intended direction. He turns back to Mrs Ashton.

 “I feel I must ride into town to immediately fetch the constable. Ma’am. You have been charged with a criminally beautiful set of daughters. Mrs Ashton.” Hux flatters. With an easy charm of a smile.

 Two thirds of the Ashton bouquet giggle wildly, enamoured with the praise. The remaining third bites her tongue to guard it. To keep from rolling her eyes.

 “You are very good, Sir. Please. Do come, be seated. I have rung for tea.” Mrs Ashton floats delicately to retake her seat. Mrs Hux daintily comports herself next to her friend.

 Armitage remains stood. Arms tugged behind. Sword clanging his belt where he stands with a jaunt to one hip one leg kicked out.

 “How are you? My dear Mrs Ashton...” Maratella greets. Taking Caroline’s hands into her own. She wore spotless calfskin gloves. Before she unbuttons the pearl fastenings and makes a show of peeling the expensive things off her tubby hands. Delicately pinching each fingertip and caressing the thing off her hand like she was doing it for exaggerated show. She wasn’t. She was merely acting elegantly as she thought she must.

 “I am in good health. I thank you Mrs Hux.” She answers. “Your Armitage looks extremely well. London air must agree with you, Sir?” Mother simpers.

 “It did serve me most splendidly. Ma’am. But I am more than pleased to be home. And most thankful for your invitation.” He bows politely and his sea foam green eyes flicker over to find Iris. She smiles meagrely at him, averts her gaze.

 He cuts the figure of a tall man standing there, behind his short mother with his hands crossed precisely behind his back. Trying to make his lean chest look impressive with all his gleaming medals and polished gold buttons resting stitched to their black braiding wool patches. Soot. Gold. And blood. All in one uniform.

 Armitage Hux had missed the main war of late. The Napoleonic wars which happened of 1815, just this last year gone. Iris wondered if Hux really ever equated the finery of such a uniform, with real true war.

 Here he is. Trussed up like a clockwork toy-soldier. With his boots shining and his composure spotless. He’s a young man who has not seen the full horror of war. Iris can’t exactly boast of knowing any more than he. But his uniform spoke of such hope. Time will tell if he can seize the bravery needed to march onto a battlefield.

 “Iris looks exceedingly well. Do you not think so Armitage?” His mother urges.

 “Indeed she does. Most handsome.” Hux says to the matronly mama’s. But he’s smiling right at her. He crosses the few short steps to the unoccupied twin chair where she’s sat by the window. Gracefully deposits himself into the chair.

 Iris takes a subtle breath before she turns towards him. Sat demurely with her hands clasped on her knees and her back straight. When all she really wants to do is lounge. And slouch. And do anything to put him off the idea of marriage.

 She was doomed to its sentence. She’d have rather sat here today and stuck pins in her eyes. Rather than conform to conversations about the weather, the local gossip, the tea or the snow outside. When all their mothers were really trying to arrange, was, when it boiled down to it? A forced mating ritual between the country gentry.

 The way Mama and Mrs Hux are peering at them from their settee, is like they can already envisage the wedding clothes. And the names for the Hux babe they want to see, soiling in its cloth, and squalling loudly it’s bassinet.

 Iris is sick to death of all this match making- but. She is the eldest Miss Ashton. She persists. When all she wants is to flee the room screaming.

 “How did you find London this time of year? Must be miserably cold and busy.” Iris seeks.

 “Yes. It was rather. Lucky my visit didn’t extend for too long. I am not so enamoured of city living. The society may be fine and resplendent. I did not suffer for a dinner invite the whole time I was in town. But the lifestyle suits me very ill. I much prefer my time spent back here at Walford.” He tells.

 “And how is your regiment?” She enquires. He answers. They talk about his militia training. His fellow officers. His sword. His commission. They just lapse to the weather. When the door handle creaks again and in comes their procession of maids with the tea and cake.

 Assam tea with a side of Cooks buttery baked ginger biscuits. Seed cake, and finger sandwiches. Made of fluffy pillow soft white bread. Filled with sliced tongue, or ham, with cornichon or yellow piccalilli.

 Cook has even made her violet macarons. Gorgeous silky little round cakes of smooth, bright purple. Wedged either side of cloying sweet ganache. Almonds and sugar and all things made sweet with violet essence.

 Iris knew mother must’ve gone through a fair amount of their family budget for such an indulgent French fancy. Sugar and eggs and coconut didn’t come cheap. Of course she would pour every hope and penny farthing they had spare into this venture. Anything to catch a suitor.

 Caroline pours, and Julia hands around the cups. Leaves a macaron perched on Iris’s saucer. Waggles her brows at Iris, poking with good natured chiding fun for Hux, who was sat opposite her. Looking most keen.

 Iris sips her tea from her blue and white spode cup and pays their silly maid no mind. Just because they both flutter eyes at anything of Male born, with nice thighs framed by their breeches.

 He’s a soldier too? The maids will state that every romantic girl must get her heart broke by a soldier, just the once.

 Hux sets his tea on the end table between them. Leaning a tad closer to initiate more intimate conversation.

 “Do forgive my speaking bluntly, Miss Ashton. But I believe it is brightening up. Would you care to take a turn on the lawn with me?” He seeks. They had finished their tea. After all. And she must be polite.

 “I’d be delighted to. Sergeant Hux.” She accepts. She stands and deposits her empty teacup down. He tells their Mothers of their plan. He sees Iris into the cold foyer and they pull on their coats. She wished she could find something repulsive in him. But really, he is a gentleman. He holds the door. Helps her into her pelisse. He’s not a horrible suitor. Maybe if he was she could hate him more keenly. 

 She wished she could be repulsed by his every action and snobbery. But he is, genial. He smiles warmly at her.

 He takes her arm when they get outside. They walk along the drive in companionable, yet slightly awkward silence. Iris just knows their mothers will be fussing like clucking hens at the parlour window watching them. Planning a wedding for the spring after a suitably long engagement. Posy and Flora will be marvelling at every barest touch they share.

 ‘Did you see how he took your arm?’ Or ‘How he doted upon you... I should so like for a man to hold a door like that for me.’

 Hux breaks the silence. They walk arm-in-arm around the curvature of the frozen pond.

 “I know men aren’t supposed to be appraised of such matters. Miss Ashton. And if you’ll forgive me, I shall speak plainly-“ He declares to her.

 He brings them to a stop. Ten to rly reaches out. His gloved fingers take her hand. She admires it. The plumage on his hat is battered in the wild wind. The only sounds she can hear is her bonnet ribbons fluttering and snapping on the wind. The birdsong chipping sweetly at her ears. The terrified drum of her heart.

 “I came here today with the express purpose and intention of paying court to you, Iris.” He tells her. A hopeful smile on his lips.

 His eyes crinkle at the corners with hope. His stark inky cape flaps on the breeze. She smells wool and boot polish. Stuck on the frosty landscape that glittered in his eyes.

 Her chest breaks. Crushing in on itself.

 She looks up into his face. The sun kissed gold upon her icy-white cheeks. Red tinted from the cold breeze. She swallows. Tipping her head slightly back so she can see his face past the woven peak of her bonnet.

 Her mouth gapes and she looks down where he’s holding her hand- and it doesn’t feel right.

 She feels like she wants to burst. Needles of hot and ice cold stab at her ribs like ferocious ten thousand little knives. She wants to be sick or run away. This isn’t the pair of hands that should be holding hers.

 Sergeant Hux is terribly nice. Courteous and well bred. And more wealthy than her. But- but he’s not...

 Lord Ren’s face strikes at her mind with so much power. She almost loses her breath. And her footing. She regains her composure. Even though it feels like something just yanked up inside her chest and tore away her lungs from where they are joined to her throat.

 She plasters on a false meek smile.

 “I see...” She remarks. Anything more witty or feeling was beyond her. She felt like soon, she’d fade into the air, like smoke. Just drift away.

 “I know it is the especial wish of your mother, aswell as mine, that we are to consider each other as potential spouses. And I would very much- I should very much like to spend more time with you, if you’ve no objection?” He asks. Still clasping her hand.

 “You are kind sir...” She stutters breath around the words. “Your attentions would be most welcome.” She lies.

 She feels rotten.

 “I know we know a little of each other. I believe there is some fondness between us. That could grow into respect, and, and possibly- one day, maybe more than that.” He approaches cautiously.

 She nods. “You speak very bluntly of such matters. Sergeant Hux.” She says. He speaks as if they are already truths, come into fruition.

 “I merely speak what is present. Miss Ashton. My- words are not finely crafted or driven by passion. They do not fall prettily. I am no astounding orator. Nor poet. But I do so believe that we might have a chance of making each other passably happy.” He declares once again.

 “You shall never want for anything should we marry. You’d be a Sergeants wife and all that is offered it it’s income. I would treat you dearly, and- admire you as any husband should whilst you see to raising our offspring. These are, after all, matters that fall rightly to women.” He adds.

 “Yes, indeed.” She guards her tongue before it becomes uncivil.

 “We are invited to the Elton’s musicale, two nights forth. Thursday next. Would you do me the honour of your hand in the invite?” He seeks.

 “Well. I-“ she swallows the sticky grey lump in her throat. How she’d love to be selfish and refuse. Her eyes still rimmed and raw from crying over all this last night. Heart sore. A great crack splintering through the middle of it like ancient rusted clay pottery. Her heart so badly wants anything- something more. Someone else.

 She can’t do it. Mother would have her crucified. She wants her sisters to have a better comfort in life than what she’s had to suffer with being the family puppet. She wants her father to have new clothes and not have to worry. She wants to see Westwell safe from the bailiffs. 

 “I should be thrilled to attend.” She smiles. Her shattered heart crumbles that little bit more. Morphs into a wet mush of clay. Drowned by disappointment.

 This wasn’t for her benefit- it’s for everyone else’s. And that was no reason to marry. She believes first and foremost in living for herself. Iris so badly wants to live for herself. To be her own person. She does not have that luxury and it’s suffocating.

 She agreed because it was polite. Because he was a genial man and she didn’t wish him upset when he’s done nothing wrong, but let himself be manoeuvred into matrimony by his mother.

She agreed. For her sisters. For her father. Definitely not for her mother though. She doesn’t deserve even an ounce of her thoughts or considerations.

 She agrees, even though all of Hampshire society knew that the musical performed by the Elton’s made all the local dogs howl. Even though several ‘accomplished’ young ladies of the ton, played their instruments so ill, everyone swore they could hear the thud of the long deceased composer banging their skull in lamentation and sheer agony on the lid of their coffin.

 Even though she’ll be sat next to a man who has promised only to love her dearly. He is a nice man. That is simply it. She feels unworthy and ignorant. She doesn’t want the things she’s supposed too.

 She’s overwhelmed. Her head is spinning, and her mouth as sticky dry as a chasm of sand. They’re not even courting properly, or engaged and she wants to pick up her skirts and flee across the horizon. She wants to run. To breathe. To be free from this nice courtesy that she doesn’t want.

 She wants more out of her life than that of being a broodmare of a sergeants wife. The expectations don’t stop the day she says ‘I do.’ The fetid things will live on and on. Until she becomes the perfect bride. Then the most perfect housekeeper slash wife. Then a doting mother to a child she’s sure she doesn’t want. Fathered by a man who loves her with lukewarm and polite affection.

 Can a soul really be satisfied by such a light caress of passion?

 Hers is begging and screaming for more. She’s read in books about exotic cities and lands. Blue blue, so very blue seas and oceans, vaster than her comprehension. Wide wide skies filled with sunsets she could only dream of glimpsing at.

 She’s read of snowy mountains and thick pine woodland. Air full of sap and snow. Of sunny cities entirely made out of blue bricks in Morocco. Or ones in Asia painted the entire street rosebud pink just for one visiting dignitary.

 She’s heard teasing dribbles of exotic accents and tastes and cultures. She wants to see the bursting heated streets lined with saccharine Mango trees in India. Perfume of it in the air, of spices and sweetness. Wants to see the terracotta catholic loud renaissance of Florence. She wanted to see Castles and chateaus and forts and grand ballrooms. And American railways across the plains of the wild west and-

 She’ll never have any of those things. Not a one. Her future was written and decided. And it is appearing bleak.

 She thirsts and wants things she’ll never see. Such opulence in the world out there. And instead? She’ll be manacled to a husband and the children and the stove in this tiny savage spit of a village. Until old age and death comes to take her away. Return her to the heat and rot of earth and maggots to help fade her to nothing. Until all that remains of her, is dirty bones and her loved one’s scraps of memories.

 Hux smiles. Brings her hand up to lay a gentle kiss upon her glove. “I anticipate it eagerly.” He says. She offers a wobbly smile that she tries to make stand strong.

 She can feel eyes stabbing into her back - most likely from the direction of the parlour window. Mama and Mrs Hux stood at the parlour’s front facing windows. Appraising their fine match.

 But there’s something else- something that raises the hairs on the back of her neck. Something altogether much more unwholesome. She feels a cold chill burst and slither up her spine. Horribly slow.

 Hux has taken her palm to place it in his elbow once again. And they wander now around the rest of the pond. He remarks how beautiful the great spreading horse chestnut tree must be in spring. Iris smiles her agreement.

 Peering around. Everywhere in her garden she looked, all was empty. She can’t see their gardener, Higgins, trimming verges or shrubbery. She looks between the copses of the vast spread of trees that shield her view, past the shrubs and the neat hedges. There was nothing. They were the only two people outside the house, out here.

 So why does Iris feel as if they aren’t?

 Her eyes catch on the bare mulberry tree, the sprawling trunk is bare and black. Like dead curled up spiders legs. Swaying in the breeze.

 A black shape sits in that tree. A raven or a jackdaw bird possibly. Onyx black. Curling feet and a sharp inky beak. Fixated its beady glittering honey-black eyes on the both of them. Not moving an inch. Hunched and peering down over them.

 Iris looks at it for a long moment. Watches the wind ruffling it’s feathers. It stays fixing its look on her. And it doesn’t move. Not scared. Not at all intimidated by her presence.

 Hux jolts her out of her gawping at an unsuspecting bird. It gives a scratchy caw of a call, and spreads its flapping great wings. Soars up into the icy soft of the pearl sky and soars away over the house.

 “Miss Ashton?” Hux asks again. A tad louder to capture her attention.

 “Forgive me. Lost in my thoughts...” She laughs explains in mirth, turns back and smiles to him. He smiles awkwardly and ducks his head. Discusses the weather with her once again.

 They head back into the house for more tea. Caroline gives Iris such a sickly smile when they come back into the room.

 Hux announces to Mrs Ashton that he should like to pay call to Iris and escort her to the Musicale next week. Mrs Ashton accepts delightedly.

 Mrs Hux adds onto that enjoyment. “Why, we should get a party together. Such a merry gathering! The Ashton’s and the Hux’s shall all attend. You know we have two carriages, Mrs Ashton. Hux may escort all your lovely daughters. And you and Mr Ashton May ride with me and Brendol.” She organised with a giddy grin. Tapping her companions knee.

 Iris stands there next to Hux. Feeling very much as if her life is being lived for her. She has no choice in the matter. She is chattel.

 Thankfully, after arranging the outing. Maratella and Hux take their leave. They are going on into Pembleton for a general perusal. And Hux needs more boot polish. And she is in desperate need of new ribbons for her hat. Iris shrewdly eyes the hefty bonnet on the woman’s head, groaning under the weight of lace and ribbons and muslin.

 Hux kisses her hand again. Bows to her before he leaves. Iris swallows nervously. But doesn’t let her expression betray it. Flora and Posy giggle and whisper to each other. Flourishing into gossip as he leaves the room.

 Iris stands looking at the door for a second after it’s shut. Mother sees them off to the front door.

 Iris waits to hear the latch on the front door go. When she does she strides quickly for the parlour door, she yanks it open and tears across the foyer and upstairs. Her feet loudly slap each step as she holds her skirts bunched in her fingers.

 When she gets to her room she throws the door open with such ferocity the door handle smacks loudly to the wall. She starts getting at the fastenings of her dress. Unloops them and manages to get down to her chemise and her stays. She throws the fine dress away to crumple to her bed. It balloons on the air and floats gently down. Mourning the loss of being worn.

 She is at her wardrobe, ruffling through angrily. She’s so breathless. Her lungs are not getting air. Why can’t she breathe? Her mind is racing a million miles a minute. She’s sweaty and clammy and her temples are pounding straining pulsing. Every heartbeat hurts her head. Throat clawing shut.

 She won’t cry. She wilfully clamps her teeth shut-she won’t.

 She skips herself into her simple beige muslin dress. And shoved her arms through the old wool blue pelisse. Stabs her feet into her boots. Heads back downstairs with her scarf to hand. Every nerve balances on the precise of a knifes edge.

 She gets to the front door when her mother appears, peering into the hallway from the parlour doorway. “Precisely where do you think you’re going?” She seeks. Frowning. Face pulled into a scowl.

 “I’ve done my duty for today surely. Have I not? What more do you want from me. I’m done parading myself like a witless idiot. I need a walk and some air.” She offers curtly. Slipping out the front door.

 Slamming it shut behind her before her mothers next shrill words pierce her ears. No doubt cursing her daughter for daring to have such an insulting commodity as a functioning brain.

 She walks quick. Off up the front drive. Let’s the sting of cold rip at her eyes and her cheeks. Taking deep dragging breaths. It feels like she’d swallowed an entire ream of dressmakers pins. Stabbing and squeezing more pain into her.

 She puffs and pants and finally feels like she’s gained some breathing space. Coming into the woods near Westwell and shuts her eyes and lets the sounds soothe her frayed self.

 The wood pigeons. A cuckoo’s call. The hiss of leaves scratching against their branches in the wind. High above. The crunch of her boots on twigs and frosted leaves mushed underfoot.

 The tactile scratch of her gloves hands scraping across the rough bark of trees around her. She leans back against one of them. Looks up at it’s dead brown leaves. Elm tree.

 It’s nice to let something sturdy take her weight for once. She doesn’t often have that luxury.

 She regains control of her senses. Of her ragged breath and thumping heart. The cold wind wraps around her snugly. Letting her envelope herself in this silence. Breath escapes silver and wispy from her lips.

 A twig snaps far off in the tree’s-

 Her eyes shoot open. Scanning all around. Sickly bile rising to the back of her throat. She steps away from the elm tree and lets her eyes flicker all around the woodland. Over the ash brown of the trees and the brush of golden leaves mingled with crystals of frost on the ground.

 She turns her head around and then loses her breath. Except this time, it is not of her own making.

 There is a dark shape looming out of the trees. A big shape. A monstrous shape. A big meaty tangle of black-grey smudged fur. Pointed ears, a long snout. Eyes standing stark. Eyes that are more golden than a tuscan sun.

 A wolf.

 She watches as this beast assesses her from afar. Gently picking its paws over the foliage and mess of brittle twigs and mud on the wood floor. It’s paws were as big as dinner plates. It’s not baring it’s teeth at her. She imagines those teeth are bigger and sharper than most silver daggers or pocket knives.

 It’s ears are swivelled in her direction. Eyes fixed on her too.

 She stays still. Frozen to the spot she’s rooted too. Trying not to tremble in fear as tears, hot and molten silver, fill stinging at her eyes. She shivers with the ache of staying so still. Not daring to move one muscle.

 This is the beast that’s been attacking the soused farmhands. The one that’s been hunting for blood. She doesn’t quite appreciate how much of a true statement that is.

 When it’s about a foot away from her- it suddenly stops. Raises its lowered head. She sees the long line of its shaggy neck. Fur shining the shade of matte coal. It regards her with casual concern. It’s not growling. Or stalking her every move.

 She stops holding such tension in her body. She’s used to the wolf hounds they have on the farm. Shaggy slobbering lumbering dogs who go insane for the dried liver, and fresh bones cook saves for them when she had a haunch of pork.

 She remembers how their dogs go apoplectic for them. Gnawing at the fresh gummy blood and meat on those bones. She swallows at the not so appropriate visual of bloodied bones, right at this second. When she could have her throat ripped open by this savage wolf.

 She watches as it comes closer by two steps from those big lethal paws. Then it sits.

 She swallows. The way she knows canines. Sitting is not a sign of a rabid beast baying for blood.

 “You know, you shouldn’t be afraid.” Lord Ren’s voice ricochets through her head. Like a distant echo. Smoke on the air. Did she imagine it, or recall it?

 What else was it he had said? She can vaguely recall. “Wolves are not just blood thirsty beasts. They are intelligent and sociable animals. They are more likely to be spooked by a human than want to kill them.”

 So she does the only thing she can think of. Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe she’s putting herself in greater danger? But the wolf’s tranquility makes her brave.

 She makes herself look less like a threat. Slowly sinks to a crouch, joining it. Her knees stab into the frosty ground as she sinks down. Coming eye to eye with the creature.

 So close now she can see the various flecks of honey in its eyes. Can see every strand of fur where they stand rigid from its sleekly shaggy coat.

 She rests fully on her bent knees. Damning her dress. Dancing the wet frost and mud bleeding into her dress. She tilts her slightly head at the wolf.

 “Where did you come from then?” She asks it. Seeing the huge ears turn to her.

 Where she’s crouched, it’s almost taller than her, sat down. On all fours it would have come up well past her hip she’d imagine. It was no stretch to perceive how this could be the creature that’s been attacking men around these parts of late. It is a brutely sized beast.

 Meaty shoulders, a slim body, long strong legs and a powerful tail. Immense and strong.

 “I know I should most likely be scared of a creature like you.... But you don’t seem very dangerous, to me... I’m sure if you were hungry enough to kill me you would’ve done so by now.” She counters to it.

 It tilts his head and licks its chops. Flashes her the ivory sabres that it had for teeth. She looks down to it’s intimidating big paws. The claws almost bigger than her fingers. Another flurry of fear shivers through her.

 “Are you the only one of your kind? You must be lonely. Are there any more of you hereabouts?...” She seeks. Wobbly voice straightening out when she unknots her tongue.

 The wolf just sits. And watches her. Doesn’t move. Just looks.

 Those gold eyes harrowing in their ferocity. She feels like they burn her. Yet. Why does she feel like she’s seen those buttery-honey eyes once or twice before-

 She must be mad. They should call the doctor to come take her away to the nearest mental institution and pin her into a straight jacket. Here she is sat talking to a wolf.

 “I know better than any what being lonely is like I suppose...” She adds softly.

 Maybe she is insane. She has the oddest inclination- she reaches up. But not before stopping to take her gloves off. She leaves them crumpled in her lap. And extends her hand towards the beast.

 She somehow already knows it won’t harm her.

 It still sits there. Even as she gets her fingers to stroke the side of its neck. Fur so soft and thick under her palm. Silky smooth. She’d never felt a pelt this smooth.

 It makes a deep appreciative growl in the back of its throat at being petted. A deep husking rumbling noise. A chuff of breath.

 A sudden noise makes her shrink back. The wolf sharply turns its head. She looks too. A horse and rider galloping through the far lane, off in the woods

 By the time she twists back, the wolf is gone. Sprinting off through the trees. Far to the horizon.

 A black blur in the woods. And she is alone once more.

  ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~