#because once you stop the knowledge that something inside you is broken and your joy is so fleeting sets in

[virsancte]

you wouldn’t think having a good time would be so goddamn hard

[meg-moira]

I did the thing. Based on this writing prompt!

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What am I, you ask?

It was a question I, too asked myself, once upon a time. I ask it no longer, because I don’t much see the reason in dwelling upon questions which have no definitive answers.

I can tell you what others think I am. Will that satisfy your curiosity?

An aged deity they call me. A minor one, of course. For they know I never laid claim to the vast domains of the Great Gods. War, Knowledge, Death are all grand pursuits, but they are not to my tastes.

Besides, I would never claim anything so specific. To those who live in the village beneath my humble temple, I am the warmth of a tended hearth, the safety of home - and the joy of returning to it.

It is a quiet village, you know. And I know my people by look and by voice. They take turns climbing the steep hill to tend my temple.

I settled here for a reason.

Did you notice my temple? It’s nice, is it not? Wooden, round, and short enough that the adults must bend to enter. Inside, two rows of candles illuminate walls lined with dangling shells dug from deep within the earth. Shelves are stacked with pebbles, feathers, twigs, and flowers. Gifts from my followers and requests I planted in the minds of my most devout.

At the center of it all, bathed in the candles’ butter yellow light sits a gleaming stone. It is opalescent and a pretty enough sight to behold. It was recovered generations ago, a layer or two beneath the dug-up shells.

The humans believe that I reside in the Everstone. That’s what they call it. Everstone. It’s got a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

I don’t. Live in the Everstone, that is. I don’t believe I live anywhere in particular.

Occasionally I sit in the stone, just for fun. I warm it sometimes when my followers’ reverent fingers brush the grooves. I like the sound of their surprise and delight. Other times I perch upon the temple’s roof, and drink up light from the first and second sun. And on rare instances, I expend the energy to make myself just corporeal enough to walk upon the hillside and feel the grass between my toes. I only allow my most favorite devotees to see me like this. It is strange and awkward to have limbs and take up space. I only do it because the sensation of touch is so entirely captivating.

Those who glimpse my walking form see someone who looks human in the same way that a painting of an ocean resembles the cold, untamable tides. I take up space, and within that space is the suggestion of personhood. They see a figure draped and hooded in ethereal white, brown skinned and with a face whose features are vague and changing. Human faces fascinate me, and I cannot always make up my mind about the features I want for my own. I-

Why would you interrupt me?

Did you not trudge your ugly boots up this steep hill to seek me out? And if you’ve come, as you say, from lands afar - why would you not want to make conversation?

...Could it be that it is not me you seek, but the one who, even now, lies crumpled and half dead upon my temple floor?

That is the truth of it. I can see it in your terrible war-bright eyes. You are no more human than the one who bleeds ichor on my nice wooden planks.

No. No. Don’t go lifting your ugly spiked weapon just yet. I’m not done talking. I can’t talk with the humans. At least, not like this. And the god currently bleeding in my temple wasn’t much able to make conversation.

He staggered up the hillside not an hour before you arrived. He had taken far more care in the crafting of his physical form than I, and I’d guessed right away that he was one of the visible gods. Likely in possession of both power and desire enough to parade himself about for his followers. To drape his body, wrapped in opulent cloth, across the velvet couch upon his temple dais.

Yes, I made the last part up. I don’t know that he liked to drape himself across couches like a subject waiting to be painted, but with his raven black hair, muscles sculpted by an undoubtedly delicate hand, and a pretty face which did not shift like mine was wont to do, he fit the part well enough.

His fine clothes were ripped and bloody when he staggered up my hillside. And his hair, which looked to have once been drawn back in a sleek braid, was mostly dragged loose, falling in wisps and tangles. His pretty face was cut and broken, and when he pressed a shaking hand upon my wooden walls, he left a smear of ichor, brutal and golden beneath the suns.

“Sanctuary,” he murmured, and his voice was cracked and broken as the rest of him.

I could have barred my door. He might have once been powerful, but it had been cruelly beaten out of him by something.

You, I presume.

No. Enough with the weapon waving. I said I was talking.

I let him in. Don’t ask me why. Maybe stripped of his power, he reminded me of my village devotees. Or maybe I just didn’t want his divinely made flesh to stink up my lawn.

He stumbled in as soon as I opened the door, and immediately collapsed, one hand clutching what was surely a severe wound in his side. If he was as human as he appeared, I’m sure he would have died.

No, he’s not dead.

It was touch-and-go for a while. But, as I’m sure you know, gods are not so easy to kill.

I helped him, pouring some of my own energy into his form. It was like feeding oxygen to a faltering flame. As I worked, he lay limp as a doll, lips half pressed to my wooden floor as his voice rasped, filling the room.

His people call him Praesaro. He told me of how you killed a great number of them, cutting a path so you might reach him. His tears of saltwater and gold dampened the temple floor as he spoke, and where they slipped between the slats of wood, wild clovers sprouted from the soil. His throat was dry and grief-wrung, but I did not need to hear him to feel his overwhelming, aching loss. He’d seen his followers cut down, all while he, their glorious protector, was powerless to stop you.

You smile. Does pain amuse you?

I see. It is not just any pain you seek, but a god’s pain. You cared not for the city you slew, did you? You only wanted the god who protected it. So are you the God Devourer of which the wind has been whispering of late?

I hear conflicting tales of you. The wind says that you came from the skies - or perhaps the heavens. The rocks deep within the earth say that you are not of this world. And the oceans say you smell of strange waters. But all of them are in agreement on this point: You come to consume. And you will not leave until your boundless appetite has feasted upon this world.

And now you do lift that monstrously spiked weapon. You intend to destroy my temple and crush the last of the divine life from poor Praesaro - I can see it in the set of your jaw, the way you bare those sharpened teeth.

You intend to devour me too. In my little temple on this little hill, I probably seem nothing more than a snack to you. But before you unhinge your salivating jaw, dear god eater, let me ask you this:

Do you know why I remain here, on this little hill, above this little village?

It is because I like it here.

Do you feel that? The way the earth trembles beneath your bloodied boots? Or perhaps you’ve noticed the wind and how it nips at your skin. And what about the clouds that darken, bearing down upon my little temple on this single, lonely hill.

I was not entirely honest when I told you that I do not know what I am. Or rather, I have a guess.

You see, I remember when oceans covered these hills, and I remember when tiny creatures filled the shells which are strung up in my temple. I knew where each had burrowed, because they were buried in my soil. The feathers collected for my temple were carried here on my wind. And the pebbles smoothed in my streams.

To these people, I am a minor god, because that is how I wish to be perceived.

But for you, Devourer of Gods, I will deign to stretch out, unfurl.

You came to feast upon gods, little one. I wonder, how will you contend with a world?

.

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[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt: Instead of shattering Dad Nie's saber to kill his pride, he shatters Baxia - and thus Nie Mingjue. What better way to punish a man who dared to think anything of his could rival Wen Ruohan? Only, Nie Mingjue survives... and Baxia does too. Of course, sharing Nie Mingjue's body, neither of them is quite the same...

Curse-breaker (Chapter 1/4)

- ao3 -

"I see," Wen Ruohan said, his teeth slightly gritted, his irritation plain and obvious for all to see. "Indeed, I must concede that Sect Leader Nie's saber is finer than the one I own; it is undeniable. Lao Nie, your saber."

He offered it back, plainclothes-wrapped hilt first.

"You do my sect honor," Sect Leader Nie said with a wide grin, accepting the saber. "Our sabers are indeed the finest – and more than that, they get better with each generation. To tell you the truth, my friend: this one isn't mine, but my son's!"

He revealed the hilt, not anything like his own, and laughed, delighted by the joke he had played.

Wen Ruohan’s face contorted, growing pale in what everyone assumed was rage.

It was only later that Lao Nie, at least, recognized that it had been horror.

-

Nie Mingjue was screaming, and had not stopped screaming.

His throat was rent all to pieces, his fingers bloody from clawing at his own flesh, his eyes rolling around in his head as if by some inescapable fit -

"It's a qi deviation," one of the elders said. "Induced by the breaking of his saber. We should take him to the tombs."

"Fuck off," Lao Nie told them, as if saying the words would deny the truth. "He's too young!"

He put himself between them and his son.

"You shouldn't have let him take up the saber so young," the elder persisted, as if it had been Nie Mingjue’s fault that his son’s saber had been shattered by a man a century older than him, and all because of a dispute that had nothing to do with him. "You shouldn't have shown it to others, left it unguarded -"

"Do you think I don't know that?!" Lao Nie roared, abruptly pushed beyond his limits. "Do you think that I don't already regret...!"

He regretted. Oh, how he regretted!

He had not regretted a single thing in his life since the day his father had told him that he would one day die, and how. Even back then, he had swallowed down the regret without choking on it: he had accepted it, understood it, and resolved to live the life he had left to him to the utmost. What good, he had reasoned, would regret do? Would it win him a single additional day of life? Would it wring out a single ounce of additional joy from the days he did have?

There was no point in regret.

Whether that was the right decision or not, he didn’t know, but it was the one he made, and he stuck with it.

His whole life, Lao Nie had been reckless and carefree even by the already low standards of his family. He was always indulging in familiar pleasures and searching for new experiences, doing whatever he could to excite a palate already starting to grow jaded. He broke hearts as easily as he won them, and had what even he admitted was the worst taste in partners imaginable, attracted as he was to danger and death as if to an old and much-beloved friend. He laughed at the idea of risk or consequences, taking care only for his sect, which he loved; everything else was negotiable, or so he'd thought. He'd scared the wits out of most of his family time and time again, and - perhaps as recompense - had grown his first grey hair dozens of years too early. To this day, he still didn't know whether the reason everyone called him Lao Nie so often that even he thought of himself that way was because they were genuinely fond of him, because of the premature black-and-white mix of his hair, or perhaps just as some unspoken prayer that he finally get over himself and grow up.

If it was the last, it hadn’t worked. Even as he’d gotten older, he hadn’t changed one bit.

The only thing that had changed was that he’d finally found something he loved more than his sect.

He loved his children.

He loved his children, whether the righteous and too-serious Mingjue with his secret penchant for tears or the flippant and carefree Huaisang who was lazier than a slug in the sun. He loved them and he, unlike his father before him, did not burden them over-early with knowledge that would only be an itch under their skin that slowly drove them mad.

He loved them.

And now one of them was dying – because of him.

"You should take him to the tombs," the elder said, and ignored the crash of the chair Lao Nie threw at their head. "You let him become a man of our sect, Lao Nie. Do him the honor of letting him die as one.”

“You…!”

“Or do you think you are being kind, leaving him like this?"

Lao Nie looked down at his son, his Mingjue, the baby he’d held in his arms and the toddler he’d taught to walk and the child he’d chased and the teenager he’d taught the saber. His boy, who was thrashing wildly on the bed, spitting up foam along with blood and weeping uncontrollably.

"A-die," Nie Mingjue whimpered, just as he had when he'd been younger and caught in the throes of fever or breaking a bone through his own misadventures. Tears streamed endlessly down his eyes, his brave little boy who was not-so-secretly a bit of a crybaby. "A-die, a-die, it hurts..."

Lao Nie closed his eyes in pain.

He regretted.

But it was too late now to regret.

"We'll take him to the tombs," he finally conceded, and for the first time in his life he truly felt old. "Just let me say goodbye."

-

If you go to the tombs, you will not come out.

Nie Mingjue might only be a child, thirteen or fourteen years old – he couldn’t remember clearly any longer which it was – but he had been a good student before that, reading faithfully through his sect’s histories and listening to his teachers. He knew enough to read between the lines, to reckon the subtle indications and the not-so-subtle hints: he knew, even before he’d been officially told, what it was that he faced down at the end of the road that his ancestors had built for him to walk.

The early death – the painful death – the silent tombs –

There had been so many whispers when he’d taken up his Baxia too early. How could he not know?

His father hadn’t wanted him to know, though. So he hadn’t said anything, and pretended he didn’t.

(Huaisang could be ignorant for real, he’d thought to himself. It’d be okay if he didn’t know.)

If you go to the tombs, you will not come out. You cannot go to the tombs!

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes.

He no longer screamed, even though the spiritual energy that had once felt rich and nourishing and strong now felt like corrosive acid scouring his veins, burning him from the inside out – it wasn’t that he didn’t want to, wasn’t still compelled too; it was only that he had screamed too much, wearing out his voice down to nothingness from overuse.

If I go to the tombs, I will not come out, he thought, dimly aware that something wasn’t right. Thinking was hard, and grew ever harder: the qi deviation, for that was what it was, was worsening, not getting better.

Would not ever get better.

His Baxia, his loyal saber filled to the brim with resentful energy, had shattered. Shattered, and now all that resentful energy that she had collected for herself had flooded back into him, drowning his brain in rage and madness.

Flooding him with – Baxia.

I cannot go to the tombs.

You cannot go to the tombs, Baxia agreed – at least, he thought it was Baxia. It might be himself: he could no longer tell the difference.

She’d shattered, and he’d shattered, too. His mind and his body and his meridians and his golden core: everything was in pieces. His spiritual energy was running the wrong way, twisting him up inside, hurting instead of helping – the rage and resentful energy wasn’t going into Baxia but coming back into him, and it was poison.

There was no fixing it. His ancestors had tried everything they could: brought in the finest physicians with their needles and their clever ideas, sought out mysterious techniques and strange geniuses that played games even with their golden cores, even tried out demonic cultivation to see if it would help – with their lives and their children’s lives at stake, was there anything they wouldn’t do?

As if it would be that easy.

As if the road to death taken time and time again over the generations could be so easily evaded.

Nie Mingjue was a Nie. He had had a qi deviation. He was going to die.

But he was young, too.

Too young.

They all said that’d he formed his core at an extraordinary young age, and he had, too, verifiable evidence of his unusual genius for cultivating – only a golden core formed too early wasn’t quite the same as one done in the usual way at the usual time. It’d formed all right, all the spiritual liquid flowing through his meridians condensing into a shining solid sphere in his dantian, but it was still a little gummy in comparison to the normal ones. It had to be. He’d formed the core before he’d reached adolescence, without any of the necessary hormones running through his body; if his golden core was as fully solid as most adults, he’d be stuck at the age and size he was at when the core was first formed.

Normally, all this meant was that his foundation would be a little unstable for the first few years, just until he got old enough, and only when he was finally at his proper age would it truly settle into place along with his body, growing firm and solid and far more powerful than all the rest.

But he’d never gotten the chance to grow that old.

Nie Mingjue’s core had cracked when his saber that had been fundamentally tied to it had shattered, but unlike the steel of the saber it was still more fluid than solid. Even as the corrosive resentful energy burned him, even as the spiritual energy rioted within him, his old instincts were still there, that subconscious genius for cultivating already at work, trying to force the spiritual energy to run through him, trying to put those broken pieces back together. For any normal Nie, the greater his talent, the faster he’d be driven mad, but for Nie Mingjue, those gummy pieces of his core, sticky and still fluid, were instead being soldered together using spiritual energy and resentful energy both, and unlike the stiff and brittle solidity of the golden core of adulthood, they were still flexible enough to stick together – to coalesce into a whole once more.

Only –

Nie Mingjue opened his eyes.

He’d already opened them once, and now he opened them again. The world as he had always recognized it, he saw through his left eye – but through his right, there was a whole new world.

It was a world of black and white, of good and evil, a world of kinetic movement, of steel and rage incarnate…the world through the perception of a saber spirit. A saber spirit who had shattered when her steel was shattered, shattered when her master’s core was shattered, and whose pieces were even now integrating interchangeably with her master’s pieces into a single indissoluble whole.

If we go to the tombs, they thought, and now that was it, that was right, we will not come out.

Well, that was simple enough to fix.

They just wouldn’t go to the tombs.

-

“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Nie Huaisang’s father hissed. “He can’t be – he wasn’t in any state – he couldn’t have just gotten up and run away – no, stop, let’s go. I don’t want Huaisang hearing.”

Nie Huaisang hated it when his father remembered to be discreet around him.

His da-ge was never discreet, he thought, pouting. If anything, that was something his father often complained about, even if he would be chuckling all the while: that Nie Mingjue had all the tact of a lady boar in full charge, riled up in defense of her children, and with about as much care for anything that did not meet his stringent expectations of justice and fairness – which was rather a lot.

Where was his da-ge, anyway? Nie Huaisang hadn’t seen him in days, not since he went out on that night hunt with their father. He’d asked his nurse about it, because it was unusual for his brother not to come play with him once he’d returned, and she’d said that he’d gotten sick and couldn’t come to see him just yet. But surely it was long enough that he’d be better already!

Nothing could keep his big brother down for long.

Decided, Nie Huaisang hopped up and headed outside, planning to go find his brother. His brother would explain what was going on, simplifying things down until even a little kid like him could get it, and he wouldn’t make Nie Huaisang feel stupid for needing that simplification.

His brother thought Nie Huaisang was smart.

Nie Huaisang walked along the railing next to his window, teetering back and forth with his hands outstretched for balance – his brother had showed him this pathway long ago, telling him that he could use it when he wanted to sneak out go play or look at birds, or even just come to find him whenever he had nightmares.

His brother wasn’t in his rooms, though.

Nie Huaisang sighed. Maybe he was in the study, or the training field, or something like that, but if Nie Huaisang tried to go there, he’d be dragged into lessons or training as well, and he didn’t want that.

He decided to go look at birds instead.

His brother had come up with a secret path to the outside that only they knew, the two of them, one that led them all the way out into the forest where the really interesting birds were. It was close enough to home that it was still safe, still within the bounds of the Unclean Realm’s protective arrays, but far enough to feel unburdened by the presence of their elders.

Nie Huaisang went to look at birds, but it wasn’t birds he found.

“…who’s there?” he asked, seeing movement in the bushes – something too large to be a bird, too small to be a bear, too two-legged to be a boar or a dog. Whoever it was, they were breathing hard, as if they’d run too far, interspersed with little whines of pain, like they were hurt. “Who are…”

The figure in the bush moved forward.

“…da-ge?”

Nie Huaisang’s big brother didn’t look right. He was crouched down, carrying his body low as if he were trying to support himself and protect his middle at the same time, his fingers digging into the ground for balance – his lips were peeled back from his teeth in something caught between a grimace and a growl. His left eye was normal, but his right was horribly red, shot through with pulsing veins that seemed to bleed into the iris, the color of which had faded from warm golden brown to something more like a slate or steel grey.

He sounded like he was in pain.

His brother was in pain.

Nie Huaisang took a step towards him, deeply concerned, and Nie Mingjue backed away.

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang whispered, terrified. “Da-ge, it’s me, it’s Huaisang – I won’t hurt you!”

Nie Mingjue whined, a sound deep in the back of his throat, but this time, when Nie Huaisang stepped forward, he didn’t run. He waited until Nie Huaisang was close before darting forward and nuzzling Nie Huaisang’s hand with his cheek, ducking his head down and letting him touch his hair as if he were a dog.

His brother wasn’t just sick, Nie Huaisang realized. He was reallysick.

“What happened?” he asked, and his brother just looked sad. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

His brother nodded. A short jerking motion, barely recognizable, and yet – a nod.

“…do you have to?”

Another nod.

Nie Huaisang’s lip quivered. “Will you be all right?”

His brother nuzzled his palm again. It wasn’t an answer.

Nie Huaisang took a deep breath. “I won’t tell anyone.”

His brother seemed almost to smile.

And then he was gone.

Walking all the way back inside before bursting into tears was the hardest thing Nie Huaisang had ever done in his life, but the worst part was knowing that this was only the beginning.

[dothwrites]

15.20 coda--at the end of the world

author’s note: while i am still reeling from the finale, this was my way of making some kind of personal peace with it. don’t mistake this for me agreeing with the choices made <3 

---

“I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”--Madeline Miller

---

Castiel opens his eyes. 

All around him is green. A moment later, he hears the soft sound of birds chirping in the background; from further away, the faint sounds of children laughing. The air is ripe with the smell of growth, damp in the air and life underneath his fingers. 

He sits up. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, the kind found only in poet’s and painters imaginations. A few feet away, the shrubs grow, flowers spilling over themselves in their enthusiasm to be born. Everything is a riot of life and color. 

“Cas.” 

Castiel’s heart thumps against his ribs. He knows that voice. 

He whirls around, already knowing who he’ll find. Several feet away, Jack waits, one hand raised in a short wave. 

Castiel finds himself up on his feet, and within two short steps, he’s enfolded Jack in his arms. For a moment, he forgets about everything which came before, and allows himself this sheer comfort. If nothing else remains, then Jack is here. 

Jack hugs him back, twice as fiercely, before they separate. Castiel holds him at arm’s length, trying to find injuries or hurt on him, but there’s nothing. In fact, it’s almost as if...

“Jack,” he says slowly, his arm falling away from Jack’s shoulder, “what happened?” 

Jack smiles, a little lopsided, but still his boy. 

“Well,” he says, gesturing towards a bench, “It’s kind of a long story. 

---

For all that Jack said it was a long story, it ends up being remarkably quick in the telling. Castiel listens, sometimes grieving and sometimes proud, as he hears of how Sam, Dean, and Jack ultimately defeated Chuck. His heart grows in his chest as Jack recounts Dean’s words. 

That’s not who I am. 

A small part of him wishes that he could be there to see it, but he tucks that part of himself away. He said his piece. He relieved the burden which has been pressing down on his shoulders now for years. In his lifetime, it was nothing more than a blip on the map, but those years have made all the difference in the world to him. Finally, he can look back on them now without regrets. 

“And so, I came here,” Jack finally says, shifting a little on the bench. He looks oddly guilty, like the times Castiel would find him sneaking snacks back into his room. “I thought...” 

“What?’ Castiel prompts, after a few moments when it becomes clear that Jack has no interest in speaking. 

“Sam and Dean don’t really need me anymore. I mean, I know that they want me, but the world is bigger now. And the people up here need me too.” 

It’s then that Castiel looks around, scrutinizing his environment more closely. The nagging sense of familiarity hits and then he wonders how he didn’t see it before. His favorite Heaven, caught in an eternal Tuesday afternoon. 

“It’s not right,” Jack says, his forehead wrinkled into an earnest expression of worry. “The people here are stuck. While I was on earth, we all talked about free will, but the people here don’t have it. They’re stuck forever in an endless loop of memories, and it’s all just...empty.” 

Jack looks at Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t see God. He doesn’t see a divine being, or Lucifer’s son, or even an angelic being. He just sees his boy, lost and confused, but still so pure, still wanting to do the right thing, no matter what. 

“Cas?” Jack asks. “Will you help me?” 

---

Rebuilding Heaven is slow work, but time doesn’t really mean anything here. It’s delicate to rebuild the walls separating billions of souls so that nothing collapses. Castiel works alongside Jack, making suggestions as his mind trips along to potential problems. 

Though it’s never said aloud, Castiel knows why Jack is working tirelessly. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the knowledge sits that Sam and Dean are going to die. One day, they will pass from the earth, and come to Heaven, and on that day, Castiel wants everything to be perfect for them. He wants to show them a true paradise, a place without walls or barriers, a place where emotion is genuine and not just a manufactured memory. Rebuilding Heaven is his last chore, the last of his penance to be performed. 

He does make one stop, however. 

When he walks in the door, Kelly’s head lifts up from the book she’s flipping through. Her smile is a balm to the hurt places inside him, the ones that he likes to pretend don’t exist, because he was happy, yes? That was the whole point of everything, was to be happy. “Hey, Cas,” she greets him, shifting over and patting the couch next to her. “I was wondering when you’d be by.” 

“I’ve been busy,” Cas says, settling down on the cushions. In Heaven, his body is easier than it was on earth, more flexible, and he wonders if that’s because after all these years, he’s finally returned to where he was supposed to belong, or if it’s because he no longer has the shadow of his love pressing down on his shoulders. 

“Jack told me. Rebuilding Heaven? Sounds ambitious.” 

“The old Heaven was...not ideal,” Castiel says. “I thought it was at the beginning: each soul gets a paradise tailor made to them. But then, I realized that human life is meaningless without the connections we form along the way. Each soul, stuck forever in its own loop is...” 

“It’s lonely,” Kelly says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. Castiel returns the gesture, grateful for the connection. Her eyes are kind as she moves closer to him, her shoulder pressing into his. 

“So what happened?” 

---

In their time together, Castiel never told Kelly about Dean, at least not explicitly. But she had a brilliant mind and was able to see the threads of his longing woven into everything he did. Relating the story to her comes easily, and he tells her things which he would never tell Jack. 

“And I was happy,” Castiel says at the end. “I was.” 

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Neither,” Castiel replies, bristling slightly. It was true that he might have been happier--he had performed a willful obfuscation of the original terms--but that doesn’t negate what he felt in that moment. The sheer love, the overwhelming gratitude, the incandescent happiness of being able, one last time, to proclaim to the world Dean Winchester is Saved. 

Everything else is unimportant when viewed through those lenses. 

“Why haven’t you gone to see him?” Kelly was always good at cutting to the heart of the problem. 

“Dean has his life on earth. I have my work here in Heaven. I don’t...” Because, of course, he’s asked himself the same question many times. Why doesn’t he go find Dean and tell him of one last, improbable miracle? 

“Cas, let me tell you: I didn’t know Dean all that well, but I didn’t need to if I wanted to know how he felt about you. It was all over his face.” Kelly turns to face him, suddenly serious. “Cas, you should go to him. At least allow him to speak his side. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then you’ll know. And if he does...” 

Castiel shakes his head. Happiness in the being is what he’s told himself ever since he awoke to find himself in Heaven. Happiness doesn’t come from the having. He will live with himself and find contentment in the works which he does. 

Kelly looks sympathetic, but doesn’t say anything as he walks out. 

There’s work to be done. 

---

Castiel sighs with satisfaction as he walks through Heaven. Slowly, the walls are coming down. Souls are mingling and interacting. There’s joy in the once quiet halls, the giddiness which comes from freedom after too long without. He moves through the different realms, silent as a thought, and goes unnoticed, at least until a gruff voice catches his attention. 

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?” 

A wide grin splits Castiel’s face. Only Bobby Singer would think to call an angel ‘boy’. He walks towards the old hunter, who looks the same now as he did in life, and is surprised when Bobby sweeps him up in a hug which would threaten to crack his ribs, were he human. 

“You did good,” Bobby whispers, his voice thick in Castiel’s ear. “I heard what you and that boy Jack did, and you did real good.” 

It means more than he would have thought, to have Bobby’s approval. After a moment’s pause, he hugs Bobby back. 

When Bobby pulls away, he quickly knuckles his eyes, before clearing his throat. “So, you fixed Heaven on top of everything else? What do you have planned next?” 

Castiel’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “There’s always work to be done maintaining Heaven. We don’t know what, if any, effects the restructuring will bring, so I suppose I will be traveling and making sure that everything is stable.” 

“If that ain’t a load of shit,” Bobby scoffs. “From what I’ve seen, your boy has enough power in his pinky finger to do just about whatever he wants. Stop making excuses and get your feathery ass back down there.” 

Castiel swallows. “It’s not quite as simple as that. Sam and Dean have a chance to live their lives, the way that they would wish for them to be lived. It’s not fair of me to intrude.” 

“Now, if that isn’t the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” Bobby’s mouth twists underneath his beard. “Only one thing keeping you from going back down to see those boys, and it sure as hell ain’t concern for Heaven or some BS notion that they’re better off without you.” Castiel opens his mouth, but Bobby speaks over him. “And don’t tell me that you’re just waiting either. Something I learned a long time ago--you never have as much time as you think you do.” 

Castiel closes his mouth and says nothing. 

---

Bobby is wrong. 

There’s still time. He doesn’t have to go yet. There’s still work to be done in Heaven, souls to be guided, walls to be broken. Jack still needs him. 

There’s still time. 

There’s still time, until there isn’t.

---

Castiel feels it before he knows what’s happening. It’s a rift, a tear, something which ripples throughout the universe and comes to hit him in the chest. He staggers backward, hand clutching at his shirt. 

His first thought is that Heaven is under attack, but a second’s observation tells him that’s not the case. Everything is fine. The fabric of Heaven remains secure, the souls are unbothered. It’s only him that feels the blow. 

With a flutter of wings, Jack appears beside him. His face is a mask of distress, tears welling in his eyes. “Cas,” he cries, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “Cas, it’s--” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, finally understanding the bolt of pain which ripped through him. 

It was too soon. He doesn’t know how much time has passed on earth, but he knows it was too soon. 

It’s always too soon. 

“Cas, what do I... I can heal him. I can go and heal him now. I can save him. I can...” Jack trails off, his feet still pacing in desperate circles. “What do I do?” 

It’s a child’s question, and Castiel has no answer. 

“Free will,” is all he says. “Whatever you do...It’s your decision.” 

---

Castiel feels when Dean Winchester’s soul enters Heaven. He held that soul within his grace, he snatched it away from the filth and flames of Hell. He cradled that soul while he was reassembling Dean’s body, pulling atoms out of air to create skin, flesh, and bone. He would know that soul at the end of everything, and he knows it here, when it settles into the place which was created for him. 

It was as perfect as Castiel could make it; down to the Impala sitting in the Roadhouse’s parking lot. He created every inch of Dean’s Heaven in homage, in apology. 

It wasn’t fair. Dean deserved to live to a ripe old age. He deserved to enjoy the world for which he fought so hard. He should have grown old, should have found peace, should have discovered the foibles and pitfalls of normal, human existence. Dean worked too hard, for too long, and he deserved a kinder, softer fate. Instead, he’s here, and all Castiel can do for him is to craft his Heaven with painstaking care. 

He pauses on the boundaries of Dean’s Heaven. Every fiber of him yearns to go forward, to rejoice in Dean’s presence, to see that beloved face again. He wants it so badly he can almost taste it, leather and gasoline and whiskey mingling together until he’s back in the bunker, listening to the sounds of his family--

Castiel takes a step away from the border. First one, then another. After three steps, it becomes easier. 

Dean has his paradise, and Castiel won’t interfere. 

---

Heaven moves as it always does, timeless and changeless. There is no turn of the earth to mark the passage of time. Instead, it moves like the ocean, rolling waves which are always moving and yet the surface remains the same. Castiel travels through various Heavens, observing the newly liberated souls, and taking his peace from their newfound enjoyment. It eases something within him to see his former home restored, better than it ever was before. 

He’s inspecting a field of sunflowers when the sound of a car door closing surprises him. Immediately, his heart lurches in his chest, dipping down to somewhere around his knees before hurtling upwards to lodge in his throat. He swallows before he turns around. 

Dean Winchester is there. 

Castiel’s heart, always out of his control, performs a quick dance against the confines of his ribs. Dean looks...He looks whole and wonderful, vibrant and alive. The lines around his eyes look as though they’ve been carved through laughter instead of despair. His shoulders sit easier, no longer pressed down with the burden of the entire world. 

Castiel licks his lips. “Hello, Dean,” he finally says, when it becomes obvious that Dean has no intention of making the first move. 

Dean’s lips quirk up in a grin. “Cas,” he says, not moving from where he’s leaning up against the frame of the Impala. “You’re a hard guy to track down.” 

Layers upon layers of subtext are placed within the seemingly simple sentence. Castiel remembers Purgatory as well as anything else, the desperate year of keeping one step ahead of Leviathans while close enough to Dean to protect him if need be. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says faintly. “I wasn’t aware anyone was looking.” 

Dean’s face performs a series of interesting maneuvers, dropping and rising and twisting. It finally settles into an expression like stone as he pushes off the car and storms towards him. Castiel waits, caught up in breathless anticipation of the oncoming storm. 

“Look,” Dean growls, reaching out and snagging the lapel of his coat, almost like he wants to ensure that Castiel doesn’t escape. Castiel doesn’t even dream of it; there’s no other place he’d rather be than caught in Dean’s grip. “There was a lot of shit going on at the time, so I didn’t get to say it then, but there’s nothing happening now, so you are going to sit here and listen, all right?”

Castiel nods, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “I can’t believe you didn’t...” He runs the hand which isn’t still wrapped up in Castiel’s coat over his face. “You idiot,” he finally breathes. “A couple of dumbasses. You’ve had me, Cas. All along, you’ve had me.” 

Castiel looks up at Dean in sharp surprise. When he meets Dean’s eyes, there’s nothing but the infinite compassion which he fell in love with. “You... You’re this force of nature that came bursting into my life. All this time, you’ve always been there, always helping, and I took that for granted, I know I did. But, god, Cas, I should have told you every day how thankful I was to have you there with us. I should have let you know what a miracle you are. You never gave up on me, not once, not even when I deserved it.” 

Castiel’s breath hitches in his chest as Dean lets go of his coat. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reaches up to cup Castiel’s cheek. “You never stopped believing. You never stopped trying. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

“Dean.” The name bursts out of Castiel’s chest in a harsh breath. Dean’s words are working their way underneath his skin, to the point where his body can’t contain them. 

“Cas.” Dean gently angles his face up so that there’s no escape when he says, “I love you.” 

“I’m sorry,” explodes from Castiel’s chest, the helplessness and grief he felt when he felt Dean’s soul leaving earth erupting in a single quick sob. “Dean, I’m so sorry, I should have been there, I should have done something, I never should have left you alone--” 

“Cas.” Dean’s fingers press into his cheek, not hard, but firmly enough to get his attention. “It sucks, all right? There was so much I wanted...” The corner of his mouth drops. “I was going to get you out, and you, me, and Sam were going to head to the beach. I was going to get you drinking out of a coconut, maybe a Hawaiian shirt. We were going to do Christmas, I was going to take you to a theme park and see if you puked on roller coasters. I wanted...” For a moment, grief so overwhelming that it can’t be touched crosses Dean’s face, but then, with effort, he pushes it away. “There’s so much that I wanted, but it’s done now. And besides, you’ve been busy.” Dean raises his eyebrows. The grin on his face invites Cas to smile as well. “Reforming Heaven?” 

“I wanted...There was so much I did wrong here. I thought if I could make it right, that maybe...” Castiel leans his cheek into Dean’s hand. “I wanted it to be perfect for you. You weren’t supposed to be here yet.” 

“I know. I know. And it’s not okay, but you’re here, all right? Mom’s here, Bobby’s here, Charlie, and Jess, and Kevin, and Ellen and Jo...They’re all here, and thanks to you, I’m going to see them. You did that, Cas.” 

“Jack did most of the work--” Castiel begins, but he’s cut off by the soft press of Dean’s lips against his. 

Sparks burst in his chest as Dean’s hand slides around to the back of his neck to cradle his head. His other arm slides around his waist, and suddenly, Castiel is held by Dean Winchester, by this miracle of a man. Dean’s kisses consume him, until he’s no longer Castiel. Instead, he’s heat, and friction, and more. 

“You and me,” Dean pants against his lips, pulling away just far enough to run his nose along Castiel’s. “We’ve got time now, Cas, we’ve got so much time. I’m going to take you apart, going to show you how much I love you, every single day. I’m going to show you everything.” 

Castiel is drowning in the outpouring of Dean’s devotion. He’s helpless in the riptides. All he can do to save himself is kiss Dean again, tasting salt on their lips from where their tears trace down to their lips. Castiel cries partly for Dean’s missed opportunities and the fact that life is so cruel. But he also cries from happiness. Dean is right. Here, they have all the time they could ever want. There’s time to explore every feeling and desire, time for them to become themselves, without the pressure of the world around them. 

They part. Somehow, Castiel’s hands have found their way onto Dean’s waist. One of his thumbs is braver than the rest of his whole body, as it sneaks underneath Dean’s shirt to touch bare skin. Dean grins at him. 

“Hey, Cas,” he asks, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s. “Do you want to take a drive?” 

Their fingers entwine as they walk towards the Impala. Castiel’s chest feels light, like Dean’s hand is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. “I’m still trying to figure out the roads here. It felt like I was driving around for forty years to try and find you.” 

They settle into the Impala, where they’ve been so many times before, but now Castiel can enjoy every squeak of the leather seats. He can revel in the imperfections of the car because of the perfection that’s next to him. Dean Winchester reaches across the seat and takes his hand, as easy as breathing. 

“I can’t wait to show Sam everything,” Dean says, as he guides the Impala back onto a road which Castiel is almost certain wasn’t there when he arrived. “I, uh...Hope it takes him a while to get here. But. Yeah, when he gets here, I can’t wait to show him everything.”

“We’ll see it all together,” Castiel finally says. It’s all he can say, his heart too busy dancing in his chest. 

They have all the time they want.

---

Time slips and passes and stops. In between his time with Dean, Jack, and the rest of the residents of Heaven, and performing maintenance throughout Heaven, Castiel watches the earth. He sees those left behind grow older. Claire and Kaia start a family, Claire finally having set aside the kernel of anger in her heart. Castiel watches Sam and Eileen’s family grow, smiling when Sam finally goes back to law school and gets his degree. He spends the rest of his career fighting for justice for children lost in the system, those who can’t fight for themselves. Saving people, hunting things, indeed. 

Several times, Castiel thinks about going to visit Sam, if only to assuage the grief he can still see the man carrying, but each time he stops. It hurts, but grief is a facet of life. This grief is natural. It comes honestly. It’s not manipulated by a sadistic higher being for a voyeristic pleasure. 

Eileen comes out to the Impala and brings Sam back into the house with gentle touches. Throughout the years, she’s learned how to navigate Sam’s moods, and knows how to bring him back. They lay in bed, foreheads pressed together, Eileen’s body curved into Sam’s. 

“I just,” Sam begins, twisting slightly so Eileen can read his lips, “I just miss him so much sometimes.” 

“I know,” Eileen answers. It’s all she needs to say. 

After a while, Sam gently wraps his fingers around Eileen’s wrist, partly for comfort, partly to grab her attention. “Dean’s baseball game is next weekend. Do we know yet if it’s going to conflict with Beth’s dance rehearsal?” 

“It shouldn’t,” Eileen answers, and with that, the normal routine of their life is reestablished. The grief is always present, but it’s part of the human condition. 

Castiel turns his eyes back to Heaven, where Dean waits for him. Despite it being Heaven, he insists on making repairs to Bobby’s house as well as the Roadhouse, even when Castiel reminds him, for the hundredth time, that if he truly wanted to, he could fix these imperfections with a thought. 

“Sometimes, you just have to do things the hard way,” he answers, through a mouthful of nails. 

Castiel rolls his eyes and goes to help him. 

---

The morning dawns, quiet and gentle. The dawn is silvery-gold as it stretches across the grass leading up to the cabin. In the distance, the birds start singing. Castiel can smell the fresh scents of spring, dew clinging to the grass, the clean, bright potential in the air. His toes stick out from underneath the comforter, but a quick flip of his foot flicks the corner of the blanket back into place. 

A warm, heavy arm winds over his waist. “Babe, it’s too early,” Dean mumbles into the nape of his neck. “Go back to sleep.” 

Castiel strokes over the back of Dean’s hand. The words are tempting, but something has woken him up, and now that it has, he wants to know what it is. He props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the chill of the air as it bites at his bare skin, and concentrates. After a second, he startles. 

“Dean,” he says. 

Though he doesn’t put urgency or fear into his voice, something about his tone makes Dean open his eyes, suddenly alert. Castiel looks at him, and Dean rolls over onto his side. After their time together, they’ve mastered the art of the wordless conversation, much to the chagrin of Charlie, Kevin, and anyone within ten miles of them, at least according to Jo. 

“It’s time?” Dean asks. He rolls closer to Castiel, stealing his warmth, as he trails his fingers over Castiel’s ribs. 

“Yes,” Castiel answers, taking Dean’s hand in his and pressing kisses to each of Dean’s fingertips. “Won’t be long now.” 

Dean’s fingers slide across his cheek before he curls his fingers around the bolt of Castiel’s jaw, pulling him down. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss which still manages to make fireworks explode in the pit of Castiel’s belly. He doesn’t think the thrill of kissing Dean will ever fade. Castiel doesn’t want it to. 

“I should get going,” Dean murmurs, rubbing against the bristles on Castiel’s cheek. “You want to come along?” 

Castiel relaxes back into the mattress, only reluctantly parting from Dean. “No, you go. I’ll be here when you get back.” 

“I know.” Dean slides out of bed, and Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the play of his muscles underneath fair skin. He lets out a small, disappointed noise when Dean slides into a pair of jeans and a jacket, causing Dean to roll his eyes at him over his shoulders. “Yeah, keep it in your pants. Definitely wearing clothes to this particular meeting.” 

“Shame,” Castiel murmurs, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Shameless,” Dean corrects, leaning over the mattress to kiss Castiel once more, short and sweet. “We’ll be back before too long.” Another kiss to Castiel’s forehead, and then Dean murmurs, “I love you,” into his hair. 

Castiel smiles. Much like kissing Dean, hearing those words will never grow old to him. He’ll revel in them, roll in the simple syllables, allow them to sink into him, with the simple truth that Jack tells him, that Charlie tells him, that Kelly tells him, that even Bobby and Ellen and Jo tell him. 

You are valued. You are loved. 

He smiles at Dean Winchester, this impossible, miracle of a man. “I love you too,” he replies. 

Dean out of the bedroom. The door to the cabin opens and closes. Castiel rolls over onto his back and stretches, staring up at the ceiling. 

There’s work to be done today. He’ll need to travel through Heaven, informing the various interested parties that Sam Winchester has arrived. There will be a party tonight at the Roadhouse, a celebration instead of mourning. Then he and Dean will get to show Sam their Heaven, will listen to Sam relate through his years. 

There is so much work to do. 

But they have time. They have all the time they need. 

---

“Life never ends when you are in it.”--Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters

[scuttle-buttle]

Chapter 11

WC: 2077

Rated: E

Chapter Tags: full on angst, discussions of emotional trauma, mild depictions of blood/gore, mentions of self h*rm & su*cide, mentions of child abuse, discussions of physical disabilities, institutionalization, some dialogue & plot canon to TV show, hurt/comfort

🧠

The rest of the conference went by much like the first day did. Both you and Laszlo bought a few books for your collections. An ease had settled over your conversations with the help of Sara and John's presence; you spoke more freely with each other. You tell yourself it is not because he's going soft on you or vice versa, but rather that you have found yourself in this imaginary bubble where you happen to get on well. It's inevitable that it will pop once you’re back at school and Laszlo will revert back to his usual callous state.

Laszlo. It still felt odd to think of him like that, rather than by his title. You couldn't lie, it gave you a sort of thrill. Even in your dreams you had only called him by his honorific. Thankfully you didn't have another dream after Friday. You couldn't escape the feeling that you'd said something incriminating in front of the man in question. So you chose to pretend it didn't happen.

Monday morning came and you headed to the train station. Once again he had secured a private cabin for the journey. This time you came prepared with a book since you had yet to replace your broken phone.

"Thank you again for inviting me to this, I really enjoyed myself. It was really nice of the department to foot my travel expenses, the hotel was really fancy. I may have helped myself to a mini-bottle or two," you joked.

"There is no need to worry about the department's finances; they were not involved."

You pause. He paid for you? Laszlo did say he would take care of the arrangements; but the four-star hotel, the private compartment train tickets, the admission to the conference, and every meal? Shit, that must have been a fortune, hundreds of dollars at least.

You don't know what to say, so you settle for an awkward "oh." A moment passes before you add "I appreciate that, um, I can pay you back. Might take some time but I can."

The professor is flippant in his reply. "There is no need, it was well spent for the research and knowledge acquired." He opens his book signaling the conversation is over.

You lick your lips. Fine then, I'll just consider it payment for emotional suffering and damages of the last eight weeks.

The first few hours of the journey were spent reading one of the new books you picked up at the convention. Occasionally you would peek over the pages at the professor. He was engrossed in his own selection; sometimes he would pause to write down a thought.

Around the seventh hour of your journey you had given up on reading anymore in favor of looking at the fields outside. The silence was comforting.

Laszlo had trouble concentrating on the book in his hand. He saw you as a conundrum. One minute you could be sociable and teasing with your comments, then next you were biting at his throat with your quick wit and fierce ideals. He decides that he wants to know what made you into who you are today. Now is as good a time as any.

His eyes on you cause a tingle up your spine but you ignore it. Laszlo breaks the silence; "may I ask a personal question?"

"You just did," you answer, still peering out of the large window. He huffed once, amused. At his following silence you face him. You raise your eyebrows to signal him to go on with his question. Curiosity grows at the thought of what he intends to ask.

"Twice now you have made implications of a traumatic past," he begins.

Bubble popped.

Interrupting, you snark "is this the part where you psychoanalyze me, doc? Because trust me, I've been through enough of that." You pick at the lint on your jeans.

Laszlo tries to choose his words more carefully the next time he speaks. "What I mean to say is, the first afternoon in the classroom where you defended that student you implied you had been witness to a trauma. You then displayed signs of anger and embarrassment before leaving prematurely. Yesterday you mentioned having entered a psychiatric facility. As an alienist I can't help but find myself curious about your experiences."

You slide your eyes to meet his from across the cabin. Your face is devoid of any emotion. "We all have our demons. Even you can't argue with that."

Your jaw clenches. Everyone had warned you. They all said he would try to worm his way into your head to figure you out. All the reviews, the gossip, everything. It was a big fat 'I told you so'. You give a pitiful laugh at the situation. "You know, everyone told me that you would pull this stunt."

He seems confused by your statement. "And what is that?"

"That you'd get inside my head and try to figure me all out or whatever. You already know I googled you beforehand, what everyone says about your methods. By now I assume you've done a little research yourself. I promise you there is nothing exciting here," you scoff and point to yourself.

"You would be correct in your assumption." You chew at your cheek as he starts. "I do know some of what happened in your past. Yet I also know that society likes to dilute the truth into something either more palatable, more entertaining, for people to consume greedily. What I want to know is what you have faced. How you have not allowed the experience to overcome you so much so that your humanity is erased like the characters I lecture on."

Eyes closing of their own volition you are thrown back in time to that night so many years ago. You didn't talk about it anymore. Bitsy knew of course, but that was the extent.

Laszlo waits. He knows this is likely to push you over the edge if your history with him means anything. Quite frankly, anyone would be tossed to their limit at his interrogation had they gone through what you had. John always told him that he needed to work on his bedside manner; that he had a habit of coming on too strong in his pursuit of learning the intricacies of the human mind. But your earlier comment about being sent to a so-called 'nuthouse' rubbed him the wrong way. It left a bad taste in his mouth. He needed to know. He needed to understand.

Laszlo can imagine the reprimand that he would receive from John and Sara for this. Just as he considers apologizing for his intrusion you open your eyes.

"She was fine. None of us suspected anything was wrong. I came home from having dinner with some… boy, and she had locked herself in the bathroom. She- she must have started over the sink and moved to sit on the side of the tub. She was hunched inside it when I got the door open. I pulled her out. Blood was… everywhere." Your voice is clinical as you explain.

"After, I shut down. So I checked myself into a psych ward a few days later when I couldn't get the feel of her blood off my hands. It's slippery, you know. And it smells. You wouldn't think so but it does." You clear your throat. "I did the therapy, took the meds they prescribed, all the standard treatments. Later I started watching true crime documentaries. I'd heard about exposure therapy so I figured the more I saw the gore, the less the image of my dead roommate would bother me. And it did help. The nightmares stopped after a while, I came back to school. I was better, just not the same.” You had watched the passing landscape as you explained. Turning to face him you speak again. “That's why those pictures didn't bother me. They weren't anything I hadn't seen before."

He contemplates you. The discovery and subsequent loss of your friend in this manner would no doubt cause lingering effects to your psyche. A stain that would forever remind you. "I offer my sincerest condolences. I do not presume to know what that would be like to experience, but I am glad you sought help afterwards. To make the choice to alleviate yourself of your own suffering where possible.”

As he says this he realizes that your anger towards the idea of being enslaved to unconscious impulse makes perfect sense. It explains why you focused so much energy on defending your belief in free will. That you have the power to choose how you carry your joy, your anger, your healing. It reminds him of how he held onto his own guilt and hurt, ignoring how it festered within him for so long. He feels as though he needs to share a piece of himself with you.

“I played piano as a child, quite well too. My mother hoped I would someday make a career of it. I vividly remember playing Mozart’s Concerto for Piano No. 20 in D Minor at a holiday party when I was seven years old. It was my favorite to play.... It requires two hands." You finally look at him. "My father...” He pauses to gather himself.

Now it is the doctor that cannot meet your eyes. As you listen you feel your confusion grow. How could he have been a talented pianist if he only had full use of his left hand? Unless..., the realization dawns on you just as he continues, his words slow.

“My father had two sides. One loving and the other brutal, the two often coexisting. It was something as trivial as putting me to bed, I recall... A game of tug of war. We were laughing…” He inhales a sharp breath. Already you can feel the tears begin to blur your vision. “I don't remember if he was drunk or if I said something that offended him. He must have pulled my arm behind my back.” Laszlo exhales shakily. “In small children, fractures can often affect…” he trails off, unable to finish. You can hear how he barely holds himself together.

Your heart aches for the broken man that sits in front of you. He never let on how much his arm bothered him, at least not within your presence. Suddenly you don’t see him as this rude, insufferable, obsessive man, but instead as someone that spends his life trying to protect himself. He projects his own anger and hurt so that he may, just for a minute, forget about his own demons. He wants to help others even when he feels he cannot bear to help himself.

But unlike you, he has to live with the physical reminder of his past every day of his life.

You stand and move to sit on his right side. Before allowing yourself to think too much of your actions, you place your hand atop his own, curling your fingers around his palm and squeezing delicately. You don’t bother wiping away the tears on your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Laszlo;” the whisper is barely heard above the sound of the train. A second passes where you fear you have overstepped and offended him by touching the affected limb. When his thumb tightens against the backs of your fingers you know he is not. He holds you in place.

“You asked me how I kept my humanity. How does anyone really? We learn to take what we get and we carry it in a bag. Sometimes you have to drag the damn thing behind you. But eventually the weight gets less and less if you allow yourself to move forward, even if it’s still there with you all the time. I dealt with what happened years ago and it does still haunt me. It’s easier now than it was, but… I- I suppose I’ve learned from you too. Sitting in those lectures and hearing you talk. We can either let it haunt us for the rest of our lives… or we can accept it… and use the memory of our pain to help ourselves and others.”

“I’m not sure the choice is entirely in our hands.” His tone is mournful.

You turn to smile at him through your tears. His own eyes are bloodshot. “I disagree. If it weren’t, if we didn’t have the freedom to choose that, we’d all be murderers.”

Tag list

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[rosalineandrosemary]

he reached for the sun, and the sun took his hand.

Ao3

There are benches both inside and outside of their school, even without counting the cafeteria, but they’re all encompassed by the hustle and bustle of their school. And so, when Marinette starts walking away from the school after the lunch bells ring, Felix follows like a moth to a flame. She walks past her house, waving at her maman through the windows of the bakery, and he waves too, stiffly. Her maman smiles at them, and points to the display cases to ask if they want anything. Marinette shakes her head and raises the bag she’s holding, to which Mme. Cheng nods, and they keep walking.

Marinette stops them at one of the benches in the park, and sits down in the shade. He sits down without prompting, and Marinette beams at him, a smile that could challenge the sun. He freezes and looks away, trying to hide the warmth growing in his cheeks, and pulls his lunch out of his bag. 

“Did you hear what Lila was saying in class today? Talking about her latest trips to far off places but all the images she showed you can find online with five minutes of searching. Like, it’s nice to sit by you during class, but sometimes I wish I could still sit by Alya in the seat we earned, you know?” 

He hummed in agreement, perfectly content to let her talk while he ate his lunch, but she instead let the statement hang in the air before pulling out her own lunch. 

The silence was companionable, broken only by remnants of conversation from other small student groups and the laughter of some of the playing children. Around halfway through their allotted lunch time, Marinette puts away her containers with a content noise and a full body wiggle before pulling her sketchbook from the confines of her backpack. “Do you mind if I sketch? I have a couple ideas for some outfits that I really want to get down!”

“Feel free.”

“Thanks, Fe!” She smiles again and he’s lost in it, left staring even after she’s turned away. It’s as if her smile is burned into his eyes, an entoptic phenomenon that steals his breath from his lungs. By the time he pries his eyes away, Marinette is already immersed in her designs, her tongue poking out from between her lips. He reaches into his bag to pull out his book, but none of the words stick in his mind, eyes trailing back to stare at Marinette’s quiet joy. 

Eventually he gives up, placing his book back in his bag and sitting there, staring into his own personal sun, sitting right next to him. The ice in his chest is melting into a pooling ocean and it feels like he’s about to overflow with it, surface tension being the only thing keeping his feelings from spilling out and he can’t bear to stare at her for any longer. 

He tears his eyes away, trying to turn the water back into ice, to freeze the feelings back in his chest and keep it contained, but there’s too much water and too many feelings and even if he can turn some of them into icebergs it doesn’t change the amount of water and finally everything comes spilling out. 

“It hurts to look at you sometimes, Marinette.” His words, soft as they may be, break the silence between them. She turns to look at him, endlessly blue eyes piercing into his skin, eyebrows furrowing with worry, an expression he’s seen time and time again: when he gets too close to akuma fights, when the bags under his eyes are darker and he forgoes his usual coffee order for something with more caffeine, or when she’s worrying about other people and he gets to watch the all-consuming flames of her care. 

“Felix?” Her voice is soft and confused, and it takes everything within him to not turn to look at her, to not let the words freeze on his tongue, to not shove everything he’s feeling back underneath his infamous “ice prince” persona that she so carefully took apart. 

He watches her out of his periphery, continuing to stare ahead and try to figure out how to melt the ice in his chest that he had tried so hard to freeze. He can’t take this back now. He can’t leave her with just that phrase, not with the twists and turns and dark corners all throughout her brain. “You’re incandescent, a sun of your own volition, and I fear that I am forever just going to be orbiting you at a distance.” He tightens his grip around the strap of his bag, white knuckled and shaking softly, before releasing it and stretching out his fingers. Felix sees her move, place her hands down on the bench, moving to get up, to stare him in the eyes. Her mouth is opening, an indignant cry of his name on her lips, and he feels like he’s going to burn from the inside out. 

“Please,” he croaks, voice unsteady. “Please, let me finish, Marinette.” His tone is worrying her even further, and so are his words. It’s written plain on her face, a book she never chose to lock. Her emotions are her strength and it’s awe-inspiring to see from inside his several layers of ice, carefully frozen to keep everything locked inside. She continues to melt it with ease, leaving him scrambling, but he needs to tell her.

 “Try as I might, I can’t keep this in any longer. I feel as though I am bursting at the seams, combusting. You melted the walls and pillars of ice I formed for years, nosing your way into every nook and cranny of my being, and I believe I have fallen for you.” Marinette lets out a soft gasp and he turns away, lacing his fingers around the strap of his bag once again. 

He can’t bear to see the look on her face when she rejects him. Disgust? Horror? Her quiet kind of upset, where her eyes fill with tears and she tries to stifle it, to push away her own feelings over and over again? 

He keeps talking, a desperate bid to keep himself away from the truth for as long as he can. “I apologize for the hastiness of my confession, and I hope I didn’t upset you too much. I’m sorry if I did, I truly had no intention to, but I understand if you reject me and I’d even understand if you never wished to see me again, I just wished to--”

“Felix.” Her voice stops him in his tracks, body tensing. “Felix, do you mind if I touch you?” Her voice is soft and her words kind but he flinches regardless, giving a jerky nod. He didn’t expect her to want to touch him, not after he ruined their friendship, but he tensed further as he thought of all the power contained in her body and prepared for backlash. He knew, intrinsically, that someone as kind as Marinette could never hurt someone maliciously, but that knowledge fell into the chasm of fear in his chest, and all he could hope was that she would choose to spare him, even a little. 

One of her hands enters his line of sight and he flinches, closing his eyes, before her warm hand is placed softly on his cheek, slowly turning his head to face in her direction. “Felix, I could never be upset with you for that.” Her tone is impossibly tender, her hand is still cupping his cheek, and he exhales slowly before opening his eyes. 

There are tears dripping down her cheeks, rolling down to the beaming smile stretched across her lips, and she raises her other hand to hold his face like he’s something precious. “I adore you, did you know that?” She smiles even brighter, looking him in the eyes before continuing. 

“Each pen has a specific place in your pencil case, and you change which pen you use each school period. You take your coffee with cream and sugar even though you say it’s black when anyone asks. You pretend you’re made of ice because it’s everything you’ve known, but you still care even if it’s not in your best interests. Everything about you is something to love, and I do. And you’re here. Despite everything, you’re here, not orbiting some foreign sun or wasting away in a cavern of ice. You’re right here, with me, and I am holding your face in my hands and you are beautiful.” She’s still crying, tears catching the sunlight, and she presses her forehead to his but it’s just warm. Nothing burns and she is so close and she’s not a sun, she’s simply Marinette, and he loves her more than anything he’s ever known. 

“Thank you, Marinette.” Those words, choked out his throat, try to compact everything he’s feeling into one simple statement. The love, the awe, the feeling of reaching something he never thought he would be able to reach, the pure joy filling in every gap where fear laid just moments before, like the sun rising over Paris. But instead of being that sun, Marinette is here and she is right in front of him and she is watching the sky turn pink and the darkness retreat and it may be noon but he thinks this is the prettiest sunrise he has ever seen. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for, Felix.” He smiles at her, leaning against one of her hands, placing his own on top of hers. He feels ridiculous holding his own face but she brightens impossibly more and there is blush flaring on his cheeks and he tries to look away but she’s still right there.

“Well then, how about saying I love you instead?” He tries to put confidence in his voice, but he is putty in her hands and she can tell, her smile turning from something big and beaming to something small but so fond it almost makes his chest ache. 

“I love you too, Felix.” And she locks eyes with him and looks down and he tries to nod but forgets that she’s that close and bumps heads with her instead. 

Marinette laughs and it’s joyful and he just stares at her and hopes that she can see the fondness building in his chest when he looks at her. She stops laughing and her cheeks flush to a pink color that he thinks could be his favorite color. Every part of her is his favorite color. The blue color of her hair in the light, the blue color of her eyes, the color of the faint freckles on her cheeks and the pink of her blush and he’s staring again, he knows he is, but she just smiles and places her forehead back against his. 

“Can I kiss you?” She whispers it, like they’re in their own little world, and he presses forward and kisses her first. Her lips are soft and she tastes like a fruit flavor he can’t quite recall, not with her hands on his face and her lips on his.

There aren’t fireworks, or sparks. There’s no burning or fire or hurting. There’s just him and there’s Marinette and a feeling of home and rightness like everything he’s ever wanted. 

He breaks away first, offers another whispered “I love you” against her lips before she pulls away too, far enough away that he can actually see things beyond her eyes and her cheeks and her hair. 

She moves one of her hands and he lifts his so she can take it back, and she puts on a mock-serious face that can’t hide the joy in her eyes. 

“If you ever talk about yourself that way again I’m going to fight you.” She waggles one finger at him, lips curling to conceal her laughter, and he raises his eyebrows even as he melts further into her remaining hand.

“You’re going to fight me?” 

“Yes! With love and affection and pets.” He doesn't get a chance to ask what she means by pets before her nails are scratching through his hair, and he wished he could deny the way that his eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

“You make a formidable opponent, my dear.” She giggles, moving to scratch behind his ear before the alarm goes off, telling them that they have to make their way back to school if they don’t want to be late.

She reaches her hand out to him and he takes it, lacing his fingers between hers. 

[burnedbyshoto]

I really hate you

— Shinsou knows he shouldn’t trust villains. Especially villains who make his mind spin and stomach twist in joy. But there’s something about you that keeps him coming back for more.

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pairing: pro hero!shinsou hitoshi x villain fem!reader

warnings: 18+, smut, a little bit of juicy plot, pro hero!au, reader is a villain, betrayal, biting, marking, collaring, cursing, hate sex, rooftop sex, body liquids, angst

word count: 8,180

a/n: i like deception :) being a chem TA is pretty fun, except when im in lab for 8 am until 4 pm. listen,,, I also really liked this prompt I made last night because the one I had before wasn’t spicy enough for me anymore. I hope you enjoy though! like comment and share for the algorithm (jk been watching too many tikytokys)

kinktober day 8 main kink: collaring

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When the sun sets, and the moon is high in the sky, and the chill of the bitter cold winds raise ceaseless goosebumps on your arms, and the only people who are up are drunken businessmen and tiresome students, it is a common belief that this is when the freaks come out.

The freaks come out to play at night.

You are one of these freaks.

Heh.

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Shinsou nodded at his friends as he walked through the doors of the agency he worked at. Despite the power of his quirks ability, he was an underground hero (unless the ultra-rare occasion where they needed his quirk in the limelight); he was stationed within a large, well-known agency and was one of the founding heroes there at that. His ability to be hidden from the bright lights of the world were both easy and challenging; most of the world knew him as the kid from UA’s Sports Festival that went toe to toe with nearing number one Pro-Hero Deku. It both irked and embarrassed him when that event was brought up; on the one hand, it was true! He had nearly beat Midoriya during that final stage. Yet, on the other hand, their memories seemed to recall some crazy quirk-fueled fistfight where Midoriya had broken his entire body in the duration of their fight. 

‘No,’ he often found himself responding back to the gentlemen and ladies who would awe at his school-day adventures, ‘there was a fistfight, but Midoriya handled it without using his quirk except to snap him out of my quirk.’

They always looked embarrassingly horrified by their faulty memory when they pulled the clip up on Youtube, their bows quick in apology before they made off. 

But people recognizing him from that was rare as it gets, fortunately even with the large agency stapled to his alias, he was quite good at his job—a shadow in the night, an urgent whisper to the villain freaks who roamed the night.

“Ah, Shinsou-chan!” Kaminari pouted, his body draping over his purple-haired friend as Shinsou moved to change from his regular clothes into the black triple-weave kevlar of his hero suit. He had once sported a black cotton-like costume akin to Aizawa, but after many, many gun shootings and stabbing incidents, he figured he needed something sturdier. 

“What is it?” he asked, rising up from his bent position so that Kaminari couldn’t take advantage of his slouched form. 

Shinsou’s tired, purple eyes met the exhausted pair of Kaminari.

“Today was so hard,” Kaminari sighed, his lip still put into the stupid pout, and he slumped onto the bench behind Shinsou. His feet were spread before him, fingers drumming onto his directional equipment. “Since it’s winter, the night comes sooo much earlier now. I swear some weirdos really appear out of the woodworks when the night comes! Like just before I was going to make my way back here, I swear I saw Aizawa-sensei hanging out on the rooftops like some super-secret ninja, right?”

Shinsou frowned. He knew his mentor turned friend was actually on vacation at the moment in Hawaii. Something he thought, at the very least, was long overdue. 

“Aizawa is in Hawaii right now,” Shinsou quickly spoke, his hands buckling the belt on his pants, before moving to lace up his boots. 

“Oh fuck, I told Todoroki he was in Seoul,” Kaminari cursed, the palm of his hand hitting his forehead. 

“Good going, who knows what weird message or gift he’ll end up sending to Aizawa now,” Shinsou couldn’t help the small smirk from spreading on his face at that note.

After being accepted into the Hero Course over in UA, Shinsou couldn’t help but be initially disappointed when he was placed within Class 1-B — Class 2-B at that point — simply because his mentor was with Class 1-A. The initial disappointment didn’t last very long when he got to know the rest of Class 2-B better, and he saw that while 2-A possessed raw talent, 2-B were more well-defined with a much bigger take-no-shit mentality that he appreciated more. That and 2-A were being strangled by a new villain of the month far too often, and Shinsou just wanted nothing more than to graduate from high school. 

Still, his lack of enrollment in Class 2-A didn’t mean that he didn’t see the rambunctious, nearly intolerable group of twenty in class 2-A. As a matter of fact, he thought he saw them a bit more than he’d like. Aizawa was his mentor, so he understood seeing him around, but for some reason, 2-A was never too far away. As soon as Shinsou was admitted into the Hero Course and the two hero classes had weekly meals together, which meant that to him, just the slightest bit, 2-A felt like an unwanted, annoying, ugly stepchild.

So no, Shinsou could not tell you 2-A’s inside class jokes, but he knew a lot more about the forty other hero students than he’d ever like to admit. 

And through his knowledge, he knew that the ever so powerful Todoroki Shouto was an idiot, probably a bigger one than Kaminari.

“I hate that you call Aizawa-sensei just…” Kaminari trailed off, a disgusted shiver running down his spine as if it sickened him to remove the single formality.

“Aizawa,” Shinsou said once more.

“Stop.”

“Aizawa.”

“Hitoshi!”

“Aizawa.”

“PLEASE!”

“Shouta.”

Kaminari hit the floor, his chest heaving with fake, bitter sobs while Shinsou couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of his over-dramatic friend on the ground. He had to admit, Shouta felt weird on his tongue too.

“Stop making a huge deal about how Aizawa and I are closer than you are,” Shinsou half-joked half-told-the-truth.

He was more than well aware of his mentor’s former students trying to become even closer to their beloved homeroom teacher. All doing it in their own ways, all relatively unsuccessful because unknown to them (but not Shinsou), Aizawa already loved them all thoroughly, not that he’ll ever tell them.

“I DIDN’T MEAN TO SHAVE OFF MITTENS FUR!”

Oh yeah, that had lost a lot of love points for Kaminari.

Sighing softly, Shinsou placed his newly replaced coiled capturing weapon around his shoulders, and his artificial vocal cords mask onto his chest until he was off on patrol.

“Why’d you think you saw Aizawa?” he asked again, trying to finish the conversation so that he could leave. It felt like it was going to be a long night if Kaminari confirmed where his thoughts were already trailing. 

“Hm?” Kaminari finally looked up from his puddle of tears on the floor, tears streaking all over his face, small charges of electricity humming off it. He blinked once, twice, his eyes shooting to the ceiling as if the answer was there before his fist came down to hit his open palm in a flash of realization. “Oh, I remember! There was this person, obviously not Aizawa-sensei, standing by the edge of a building watching everyone below. Hair whipping in the wind and his capturing weapon fluttering around them!”

Just as Shinsou thought.

“Where did you see her?”

“Her?!”

“Where, Kaminari?”

“Uh… well, I guess by Gramps convenience store. Don’t tell me this is some super sexy megafan of yours! Wait… do tell me, or… no, I’ll get jealous if you’re having rooftop sex with — eh?! where are you going?! Hitoshi?!”

“My shift started two minutes ago,” Shinsou explained, one of his hands lifting in a wave as he exited the locker room, his heart hammering quickly, knowing just who he was going to need to track down tonight.

…

..

.

It was dark.

Shinsou’s eyes squinting as he hopped from one rooftop onto the other, his capturing device assisting him in clearing the dooming crevice. He wasn’t exactly the most physically threatening, and unfortunately, that also meant he wasn’t exactly the greatest at parkour type movements, although he was getting better. Maybe had he started to ask for earlier shifts, where he would be out when the sun was, he could get better faster.

It was tricky with only the moonlight to guide him, but that’s what he could get at the moment.

As he scuffled through the gravel rooftop of one of the abandoned buildings, Shinsou found himself squinting at the figure in the distance. The one perched near what Kaminari oh so fondly refers to as Gramps convenience store.

He studied the form of the picture still person, noticing if it wasn’t for the slight wind through your hair and twisting capturing weapon around your neck, he would think you’re a statue. But he knows better now, he’s known better for quite some time now. 

“What’re you doing out here, y/l/n?” Shinsou found himself speaking the moment he stepped behind you, hands shoving into his pant pockets.

You didn’t move, nor did you respond, your body still completely still while peering down at the empty world fascinated on who knows what.

“Y/l—”

“How can I help ya, Mindjack-senpai?” you interrupted him, your gaze still not removed from the world below the building. “I hear it’s supposed to be a busy night tonight.”

Shinsou paused, his brows scrunching at your words.

It was plain to see to Heroes that you were a villain, you did what you wanted when you wanted, whatever the price, but if there was one thing Shinsou had learned with this rather weird cat and mouse game the two of you played time and time again was that you didn’t lie. 

What was happening?

“A busy night?” Shinsou questioned, his quirk still unactivated, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to Brainwash an answer out of you anyways. “Where at?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Mr. Hero?” you teased slowly, and Shinsou had to deny the way that the way your head finally turned to lock eyes with his made his stomach clench.

It meant nothing.

Nothing at all.

“You know what happens when you slight me,” Shinsou couldn’t help but warn, the bandages on his neck rising under his command. But your eyes blinked slowly, lips spreading into a lazy, cunning smile.

“And you know what happens when you underestimate me,” you returned, fingers gliding against his old weapon — yes, old weapon. Just two months ago, just before your last arrest, you had viciously stolen it from him, your foot crushing his vocal cords while you managed to pry the weapon from his broken fingers. “Anyways, Mindjack-senpai, it’s a bit unethical of you, a hero, to be threatening me in such a way! I’m just a poor girl waiting for the love of my life to show up.”

“And have they?”

You blink, a soft giggle escaping your lips as you nod, “I got him right where I want him.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Shinsou snapped despite the lick of warmth against his chest and cheeks. “I’ll have you arrested again.”

Now, this has you turning from the edge of the building, you sit on the ledge of the building, fingers supporting your head as you stare at him without fear. Shinsou really fucking hated how fast you riled him up.

“Arrested? But Mr. Mindjack-senpai, didn’t you know?” you ask, the taunt evident in your voice, the twinkle in your eye devastatingly bright. “I’m a changed woman. I’m what you call a hero now. You wouldn’t arrest an innocent heroine, could you?”

“You’re hardly innocent,” Shinsou responded back smoothly and deftly, not at all yet entirely impressed by you. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

He blamed his deep impressions of you on the stupid black and purple attire you wore.

“Well, you know as well as I do that I just got out, but I feel like except what happened two days ago, I’ve really changed,” you emptily promise, pushing off the ledge, sauntering closer to Shinsou until he felt the tip of your nose brush against his. “I’ll make sure to think about you whenever… bad feelings come up.”

He prays you don’t see the scarlet flush on his face.

You’re already back at the ledge when he blinks, and he watches you raise two fingers to your temple in a mock salute as you wink at him.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but two blocks east, seven blocks south from the heart of Tokyo is where you’ll find trouble,” you inform him, dropping the salute as you turn to run.

But Shinsou wants his damn weapon back.

“Y/l/n, wait!”

“Yes—?”

You froze at the ledge, your eyes spacing out, and Shinsou sighed, moving to collect his weapon from you until you suddenly dove off the building, a burst of cheerful laughter on your tongue.

“Oh, I forgot to tell ya!” you screamed from the next building over, your fingers threading through the alloy metal cloths. “I got some earbuds just for when you’re around! They make your voice into electrical signals just for me! So guess what?!”

Shinsou didn’t need you to complete that sentence in order for him to realize what you had just gotten your hands onto.

As long as you wore those, his quirk was useless against you.

Despite knowing that a villain held the key to his demise as a hero, he chuckled, running a hand through his short purple hair.

You really were something.

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Shinsou never took himself as an especially suspicious person.

He figured he had days where he was suspicious of some people the correct amount, especially when they had the most painted on emotions he’s ever seen. Some days he was overly trusting and blamed tight smiles on something acute to nerves. Without meaning to brag, he felt like he was healthily suspicious of people, unlike others he knew who wouldn’t dare to interact with anyone new or would spill their darkest secret to anyone who would listen.

But there was something entirely, conspicuously suspicious with how you were behaving.

Winter had long passed, the long winter nights and graveyard shifts of endless freak encounters had worn a hole in his patience and boots. The spring season was beginning to end, and the warm days and nights of summer were setting on his skin.

Six full months of you, the first-ever villain he had fought as a Pro Hero, the first-ever villain to have openly flirted with him and to have him flirt back, being suspiciously… kind. 

Every shift of his, he would find you waiting for him on one of the regular rooftops. Every time he would check in with the database to make sure you weren’t wanted for some crime to find that you were innocent. Every time he would feel pissed off because you wore those earbuds that rendered his quirk useless and you somehow mastered the capturing weapon within weeks.

Now Shinsou didn’t pout, he really didn’t, but there were moments where you would appear from behind him, finger swiping down his spine as you effortlessly twirled around him, a stupid sly grin on your face as you held onto the collar of his hero costume.

“Don’t pout, Mindjack-senpai, I’m here now,” you’d purr each and every time.

He loved the dangerous purr to your voice, the way your eyes hooded over, peering at him through your eyelashes, but he knew better. He had to know better. It wasn’t that villains were terrible people per se; he’d learned a lot of villains were just thoroughly sick of being mistreated (and he had wondered what would have happened if he had been denied from UA… would he be one?). He knew that for the most part, you were quite harmless, merely sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, living a life to your personal laws and rules.

It didn’t make you evil, merely dangerous.

But he had a job to do where even if it was justifiable to beat the ever-living shit out of your sister's abuser, nearly murdering him in rage and refusing to calm down when Shinsou had arrived on the scene with the use of his quirk didn't hold up well in court. It had started this long chain of events where you had absolutely hated him for a time as you were forced to stay overnight in a jailhouse. And many horrible days afterward where you performed what Shinsou had thought to be illegal actions only to find that no, they weren’t. As a matter of fact, entirely legal because Japan had yet to update their codes. 

Long after he had discovered this, you had returned to actual crime, your physical ability growing by leaps and bounds as he ran after you after catching you doing something dangerously illegal. Shinsou was a proud hero and was incredibly proud of the impact he made as a Pro Hero, but it was clear as day, even to him, that he often let you slip through his fingers. Like a child opening their cupped fingers and wondering why the water had left.

He wasn’t sure what it was about you that made him act this way, but he certainly didn’t wish to find out.

“So what’s on the schedule today, Mindjack-senpai?” you asked, appearing from the shadows of the rooftop, not scaring Shinsou in the slightest as this was always where you greeted him. “Are we saving the Prime Minister today? Stealing — I mean, protecting those stupid bedazzled eggs in the museum? Perhaps solving an unsolvable case?”

“Smooth,” Shinsou snarked, his tired purple eyes piercing through your bright ones that seemed undoubtedly excited. “How many times do I gotta tell you that there aren't that many actual case assignments? Besides, most team-ups happen in the morning when I’m asleep.”

“Being a hero is so boring!”

“You’re not a hero.”

“Am too!” Shinsou snorted, turning on his heel and began walking away, listening to your footsteps running after him to keep up with his long paces as you cried that out.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Yes!”

Shinsou stopped, his eyebrow raised in slight forced annoyance but much more amusement, when you spun in front of him, hand on his chest, cheeks puffing with your heavy breathes.

“Look!”

Tilting his head back, Shinsou grunted when your phone was shoved in his face. “What is this?”

“Hero Commission Regulation Handbook, page fifty-four, Article three, sub-article twenty-three,” you chirped, turning your phone back to yourself so that you may read it correctly. “It states that besides attending hero school like a bunch of nerds, civilians have the option of securing internships with approved Pro Heroes and work side by side with them for six months! Once finishing their internships, said Pro Hero must simply sign my licensing papers and bam, a hero I’ll become.”

“And which sniveling hero did you get to do your dirty work?” Shinsou scoffed, not at all buying the notion that you of all people wanted to become a hero. A vigilante at best, an anti-hero much more realistically, and staying a villain as default.

“You,” you smirked, winking at him before turning on your heel and sauntering off, knowing full well the patterns of his routines. 

Shinsou sighed, but he let a familiar smirk fall on his face as he walked after you, enjoying the way you glanced back at him with your wide clear eyes. But that suspicious, gut feeling didn’t leave his core, no matter how sweet and beautiful he found your smile. 

“So, Mindjack-senpai, who are we apprehending today?”

“You want me to sign your paper this entire time, and you’ve been addressing me as senpai?” Shinsou commented, his weapon shooting off to a nearby building, snapping straight in his hand when it was ready. “Where are your manners? It’s Mindjack-sensei to you.”

He didn’t wait for your response, choosing to swing off the ledge of the building with no hesitation, but a part of him wished he could have heard the sound of your laugh he only seemed to hear through the streaming, far away air.

…

… 

While usually, Shinsou didn’t have actual cases during his patrols, this job, after all, was much more spontaneous than anything else, today was different.

Today was different altogether, really.

First off, he showed up to work when the sun was still up just to get his meeting intel down in time for him to be out on the scene in time. He had nodded plenty, silently taking in Creati’s information on the drug cartel they wanted to in the next few weeks take down for numerous charges. The creation of dangerous, illegal drugs, prostitution rings, robbery, and murder being the main ones. It was some bigger stuff, so they needed all the evidence they could get.

Shinsou stared at the faces of the more prominent names of the cartel, studying every crook, nanny, and scar on their faces as Creati simply ended with where they focused down onto where their drug creating facilities were at, but still needed confirmation. “They’re pretty difficult to get to without knowing where they are,” Creati admitted, handing him a GPS. “You’ll need this.” He would be the first to start evidence gathering; after all, his old classmates would begin tomorrow.

So he had left, going to the first hideout and finding out it was completely empty. Not a single spec of evidence remaining, not a secret door or trap to get him to where they could be hiding from sight.

So was the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Something sat weirdly in his stomach as he began walking towards the final one on his list, and he froze when he saw lights shifting and moving from around the building. Quickly, Shinsou hopped to higher grounds, his phone already out, ready to take pictures. He lay low to the rooftop, practically army crawling to get to place to place as he neared the windows on the rooftop, allowing him to peer in onto the building he was scouting to find precisely what he needed. 

The entire building was a drug production spot.

His eyes scanned the building floor, singling out ten of the twelve main heads on the cartel, and he smirked. Perfect.

“Whatcha doing here, Mindjack-sensei?” your voice whispered millimeters from his ear, and Shinsou bit his tongue harshly to keep the instinctual scream from ruining his covert operation.

He snapped his head over to you, eyes slightly furious, eyebrows knitted tightly as he looked to see you leaning toward him. You were in a different outfit today, completely black, drowning you out in the night. He blinked; even the capturing weapon he had still been unsuccessful in stealing back from you was pitch black.

“What’re you wearing?”

“Do you like it?” you asked, straightening up and twirling for him as if you were wearing a magnificent dress and not personally created ‘hero’ clothes. “Ah, I hoped you would! Sorry, I had to get rid of the purple. I just felt it made me look too cute, right? I know I can’t have villains falling for me like you had me falling for you!”

Shinsou did not blush, no he didn’t, “shut up.”

“So what are we looking for today?” you asked, pressing down onto the floor beside him. Your arm touching his as pressed your face towards the glass. “Is this a stakeout?”

“Less stakeout, more information gathering,” Shinsou grumbled, typing some needed notes onto a file on his phone. It seemed to him that there was plenty here for the drug making charges. “We’re trying to get their bigger names caught in the action.”

“Oh, I thought heroes just burst in whenever they wanted, that’s what they do in the movies. Plus, you always threaten me with being arrested with no evidence,” you giggle, shifting closer to the glass, smile wide on your face.

“After saying that, say goodbye to me signing off that paper of yours,” he grunted, slipping his phone back into his pocket while you scrunch your nose at him. Shinsou couldn’t help but stare at you as the palms of your hands supported your chin as you hummed some song he couldn’t recognize.

“Ne, Mindjack-sensei, did you get the big boss?” you asked, your finger pressed against the cold glass, and Shinsou frowned, returning his head to the glass.

Right where you were pointing was, in fact, the head of the cartel. He was horrendously scrawny, holding no sense of fear or malice, and Shinsou wondered what his quirk could be that he was in charge of an operation such as this one.

“Oh, his right-hand man came too! All twelve are here!” you cheered quietly as Shinsou took documentation on his phone, and that suspicious rock in his stomach finally made sense at this second.

“Y/l/n?” he asked, head turning toward yours, tired eyes glinting with emotions he didn’t know how to handle.

“Mhm?”

“How did you know there were twelve main members, and how’d they look like?”

Silence.

Shinsou’s lips pulled back into a snarl, his canines glinting as he locked eyes with yours that were wide with shock and disbelief.

“How’d you find me—?”

He watched you lean away from the glass, fingers shooting to your earpieces. And with the inkling of suspicion sprinting through his veins, the purple-haired hero still found that he moved too slow. 

BOOM!!!!

He blacked out when his body flew with the explosion.

...

..

.

Ringing.

Pain.

Numbness.

Shinsou could only hear ringing in his ears as soot and ashes fell down from the sky, falling on his body, coating his gaping, open mouth as he tried to breathe, trying to calm himself. Was he bleeding? Was he dying? Where was the explosion from? Were you okay?

His eyes blinked heavily, altogether so irregularly that Shinsou couldn’t help but feel he was out of his body when you reappeared in his sight. Your hand pressing to his cheeks sympathetically, eyes truly hurt as you shook your head, hand grabbing into his bloodied pocket to take his phone.

“I’m sorry,” your voice seemingly whispered, just loud enough for him to hear you through the ringing from the explosion. “You weren’t supposed to be here, Mindjack… these are the scumbags that hurt my friends and family. I couldn’t let them live. Plus… I didn't have a choice, they were competition.”

He spluttered, the warm goo of blood and saliva choking out of his mouth as he convulsed on the ground, his eyes watching as you went.

“See you later, hero.”

He tried to yell at you to come back, that you were a coward, a fucking menace that he would destroy the next time he saw you, but his voice failed to work. Nothing was working except his pain receptors, his heart that kept shoving blood into his lungs that he kept spitting up, but he saw flashing white and red lights as unconsciousness sank its jagged teeth into his neck.

An ambulance was here.

⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆⋄⋆⊹⋄⋆

It took four months to recover from the accident.

His hearing had been fucked up. Not even medical quirks had managed to save his hearing entirely. But hey, it did get him the chance for Bakugou Katsuki to come to his room, called him pathetic, and showed off his own hearing aid that he had needed since his quirk had damaged his own hearing. Not to mention that for the past four months, he had been teaching him sign language just in case.

He wasn’t alone, it seemed.

But it was four months, and he had recovered fully.

The hearing aid he required in his left ear still made his ear ache in pain, and he found that he liked it much better shoved in the back of a draw than anything else. But he knew it was dangerous to be a hero without his full hearing. If it hadn’t been for Bakugou’s trial through this all and the help of Hatsume Mei to create a more appropriate hearing aid for heroes, he wasn’t sure if he would still be here — working that is.

But today — or well, night — was a new day, and he was going to push ahead. He could do this, no sweat, no problem. 

Well, that was until an all too familiar figure sat perched on a ledge on his usual route, legs swaying in the air as uncontrolled rage bubbled in his chest. It wasn’t entirely your fault, but a large part of Shinsou was embarrassed to have been caught up in all of this because of you. He had trusted you above all else even when his instincts yelled at him not to because he knew what it was like to be painted as a villain, and he had hoped by letting you in more, you would have changed. He thought you had.

But you hadn’t.

Not one bit.

…

…

You sat at the edge of the building, already having heard the loud crunch of Shinsou’s shoes against the gravel rooftop, but you didn’t turn around. You didn’t know how to face him, how to tell him that you were both sorry that he got caught up in your schemes, but that you weren’t sorry for what you had done. Those bastards had it coming.

“Give me one good reason not to push you off the building,” Shinsou growled, probably much louder than he intended. 

Instead of answering, you shrugged.

You hadn’t brought the earbuds that would keep you from being immune to his quirk, and you slightly feared what would happen if you gave in to the whispers of his words. Would you blackout in a daze before coming back to normal only when placed in the prefectures jail? Would he actually attempt to kill you? You had no idea.

But you turned on the ledge, looking at his tired purple eyes that shook with his anger and betrayal. You had done a number on him.

“So, now you can’t seem to respond back to me?” he laughed bitterly, his teeth bared into a way too fierce smile, one that made your heart thump and sent a shiver down your spine. “What game do you think you’re playing?”

You still didn’t answer as you planted your feet back onto the rooftop and stood up, watching as his binds flared to life. Dancing and weaving around him in a dangerous coil of fabric, like a frilled dragon lion lizard extending its skin in a warning.

“Should’ve taken you down with that first time I found you,” he spat, his eyes narrowing as you took steps toward him, and the weapon seemed to snap at you. “Did your sister pull the same bullshit on him as you did me? Is that why he became ‘psycho?’”

Now that one nearly got the response out of you as fury thrummed through your veins as you were suddenly nose to nose. You couldn’t help it, but you knew there was no point in explaining your reasoning for doing what you did because he would never understand; he couldn’t. 

So as his eyes flashed dangerously from your eyes, his breathing coming down harshly against your upper lip, the hatred he had for you (that was probably reignited from a year ago and make it double) simmered between the air between you and him. You couldn’t resist.

Your lips pressed against his in a simmering hot kiss. 

Shinsou shoved you away, as quickly as you had pressed your mouth against his, but you were back on him before he could utter a word. Only that this time, he kissed you back with scalding, burning heat. 

You never really knew how much smaller you were to Shinsou until you were on the tips of your toes to kiss him, his hands practically burning you as they gripped onto your hips, pulling you so close there was hardly any room to breathe. His kiss was hateful, spiteful, and full of unspoken passion the two of you had never addressed during the period that was good. It had been so good, but he was a hero, he would never understand.

His teeth bit harshly onto your lower lip, and you hissed, your fingers burying into his hair and tugging at the root of his hair as his tongue came and pressed dangerously against yours. His tongue was hot against yours, he was undoubtedly much more hotblooded than you were, and with his emotions heightened, he exhausted what. 

Tongues clashed against one another, but it wasn’t even a battle of dominance; it was a battle to find who surrendered. There was to be no joy or excitement for whichever tongue prevailed, just the burning of the tears falling down your face and the acid taste on your tongue as he suckled on your pink muscle.

Your eyes were partially opened, watching his angry yet blank purple eyes meet yours, neither one of you allowing yourself to give in to the pure elation and sensation this was bringing. No, he wouldn’t allow it, and you wouldn’t have it.

The stubble of his beard scratched into your skin repetitively, feeling like sandpaper against your own skin as the kiss deepened, consuming the both of you on a whole new level as your crotches ground roughly against one another. Hisses and groans couldn’t stop pouring from your collective mouths, both of you hating yet craving more from this all. You couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he spoke to you like this, would he do something to you while you were like this? So when his massive, thick hand made contact with the underneath of your ass, scooping up your leg so that your covered cunt could now correctly grind into his hard cock, the weapon you stole from him a year ago bound around his neck, choking him, collaring him.

“I like my bitches chained up,” you mocked against his lips, but somehow, someway, Shinsou liked it. 

You groaned loudly at the way Shinsou gasped for air against the makeshift collar, your grin widening as you nodded your head, pulling away from his mouth as the grin became a smirk. “Didn’t think you wanted to talk when we were fucking?” you lied, teeth biting onto his lower lip and sucking on it as your hips oh so artfully bucked against his covered cock. You could feel the growing slick in your panties beginning to feel uncomfortable with the lack of proper friction, and your head lolled backward when he slammed your core against his, devilishly grinding against you.

He picked up your other leg and dropped the both of you to the floor, the uncomfortable gravel stone floor digging painfully into your back, but you could care less. Shinsou’s mouth was already back on your body, scratchy, scraping kisses placed on your neck, making you moan out, legs wrapping around his waist as you cant your hips upward to grind into him.

Unamused with the lack of his hands on your body, you took his arms that were planted at your shoulders and pressed his heavy palms on your breasts, avoiding the pissed look in his eyes as his teeth marked you painfully. You actually shrieked in pain. The feeling of his teeth tearing through the skin on your neck, while his finger kneaded and pulled at your covered breasts. It was unashamedly painful with how he played with your breasts. He seemed to grow happier with every sound of distress you made.

Fisting your hands back into his hair, you pulled him back to your face level, your eyes fluttered at the way his clothed erection carded perfectly between your sopping wet cunt. Blood stained his mouth, making his teeth slightly orange in tint, and you clicked your teeth in partial anger and pain as your neck throbbed. Slamming your lips back against his, you almost gagged at the taste of iron that soared through your senses as his tongue wasted no time to seek yours out. His lips and fingers were so ardent, manipulating your every body movement, cry of pain and pleasure as thrumming hatred for the stupid, stubborn hero above you still coursed through your veins. 

Sweat began to form at your temples as your lips gilded against his, your hips snapping up to meet his grinding hips, and an airy response keened from his mouth as you moaned loudly.

His incessantly grinding hips were making your legs shake with stimulation, your whines and whimpers for more opening like a flood gate as you finally stuck a hand between the two of you and shoved his pants to his knees. You dropped your legs from around his waist, and he assisted you in ripping your pants off from one side of your body, the fabric still clinging to your right leg, but you could hardly care. All you wanted was for him to plant his cock into your blazing heat and to fuck you, to claim you here on this rooftop that started and would end it all. You wanted him, his cock, and him.

“Fuck me,” you begged into his ear, and his back shivered with your words. You hooked your leg around his waist, carding his hot, throbbing cock against your soaked pussy, as you rolled your hips. “I want you to fuck me, fill me with his cock, and cum deep within me to show me just how much you fucking hate me.”

You cried out when his hand shot down to his cock to line it up with your squeezing, dripping hole, his mouth once again covering yours, kissing you aggressively, fueled with an emotion you could taste as bitter hatred. Your legs trembled as the tip of his cock continued to press against your entrance, not entirely entering it, not giving you friction to send you into a euphoric end. You could help the snarl that passed through your lips, your eyes angry beyond repair as the head of his cock continued to deny you. Whenever you tried to grind down, to force your walls around his cock, he went down with you, he wouldn’t allow it, and your cunt clenched against nothing as he gave you nothing.

Shinsou wheezes out a bitter chuckle, his hand raising his cock from between your soaked folds to slap his heavy, thick, and long length against your throbbing clit.

Hatred and desire soak your body, and you needily rub your clit against his cock, your hands shoving up his shirt to feel the scarred pattern of his back as you give him new ones that were produced by your nails.

“Don’t tease me, hero,” you snapped, fingers tearing into his skin to draw blood. “You fuck my pussy so good, right now, or I promise next time you’ll go out with that bomb too.”

That seems to do what you want because before those words settle on your nerves. His cock penetrates deeply within you, bottoming out entirely as your head thrashes back against the gravel of the floor, throbbing pain from that entirely ignorable because fuck, his cock was stretching you out. He was so thick, so fucking veiny that you could feel the pulsating veins on his cock pressing against your puffy, sensitive walls. You scream his name as the pleasure-filled pain pulses within you, your hips thrashing, wildly bucking in your attempt to calm from the sudden placement of his cock.

“Why are you so fucking big?” you splutter, a whining pitch to your voice as you clawed at his back, trying to separate your joined bodies but also trying to get even closer. “It’s so big, my walls feel like! Oh fuck, Shinsou, it feels like Imma split in two!”

It seems that Shinsou holds some great pride over those worse, because he growled deep in his chest, and his hips begin to fuck into you. It sends your hands to the base of his neck, clutching onto his skin with hope as you scream in pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the wet squelches fill the air and tickle your ears. The head of his cock keeps dragging against your spongy wall, brushing over your g-spot over and over again as if he knew where it was, as if it was common knowledge as he fucked you further into the gravel floor. It didn’t even hurt anymore, your skin singing with joy as his cock fucked you stupid.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck me!” you whined, and Shiinsou made an approving noise. 

He grunts as your cunt flutters and clenches around him, his balls hitting your skin in possibly bruising force and speed. And his pelvis crashing against your stings ever so slightly, but has you begging for more, sobbing for more.

Your vulgar words and moans are unstoppable at this point, your legs and thighs trembling as they are still circled around him, sometimes assisting you in coming up to meet his driving, drilling hips. You whine into his ear, your mouth pressing blind and sloppy kisses against his slick with sweat neck.

It’s when both his hands bring your hips up to him, his cock finally bottoming out entirely within you, does the most primal moan rip through your mouth. You convulse underneath him, trying to move as the head of his cock buries against your cervix, poking your womb with power and speed that has you swearing behind the blackness of your vision that this sensation brings. You can see the entire galaxy, the world lighting up when his cock leaves the thin wall, and you gasp, shocked that the heat and slick of your cunt is still going. You tremble underneath him, wordless cries pittering from your mouth while he bites on your earlobe.

You soon readjust to the numbing pleasure, the bruising pleasure, and pain that comes with his cock slamming against your cervix. The way that he thrusts up into you, stretching out your walls far more than you were ever used to.

 A pathetic cry escaped your lips when he rolled over so that you were now on top, your body bouncing as soon as it could against him. You keened and whined, feeling the top of his cock licking your cervix, and you spluttered.

“Fuck this angle, this angle and your cock!?” you stammered, fists curling into his collar as you rode him, his hips snapping up into yours with that same animalistic power and speed.

His pace is irreplicable, near maddening with every successive thrust of his hips. Each snap, each wet noise sends you close to the edge, your inner walls clenching and milking his length with greater power as your senseless cries fill the night sky. His grip on your waist will leave purple bruises later tonight, you just know it, but the fire in his eyes as you lock fazes is enough for you to be okay with it.

Its intensifying, deepening, fire erupting in your core as your cunt throbs.

Sweat, tears, and spit fall from your face, and Shinsou surges upward, kissing you with everything he can. It's a maddening escape of lust and need and hatred being exchanged, saliva spreading between you, covering your hot faces with slimy coldness, But you keep him close, your mouth drinking him in more, begging for more as your tongue sinks into his mouth.

His fingers rake down from your back. Past the curve of your clapping ass and onto your powerful thighs that helped in your action to claim his cock. Your joined mouths, both parted in silent screams, wordless begs for more, branding curses that spoke of his hatred for you, your hatred of his job.

Fuck this, fuck that, fuck, fuck, “fuck!”

You held each other impossibly close. Despite the barriers of shirts and armor separating your chests, you swore you could feel his hammering heart flush against your chest. A steady, consistent beat reminding you that this was a one-time thing, that this was yet another bomb with only one explosion to it.

“S-Shit!” his voice finally managed to escape from the makeshift collar, and you nearly sobbed at the sound of his gravelly, husky voice. 

You still hated him, you really hated him and his stupid deep voice. 

Your back arches as the control you had on collar suddenly slacks, as if you had never had it there, and his own noises of sex, of hatred, of pleasure fill and echo in your ear. You can hear him mumbling something in your ear, your head pathetically nodding, tears streaming down your face only you can’t seem to figure out why. The throbbing pressure in your stomach made you near uncomfortable as his cock sank and disappeared from your cunt, your walls' vice grip becoming tighter and tighter and tighter.

There’s vigor, untapped lust, pent up frustration as he rolls you both around, pushing you back into the gravel and dives his length into your wet, loud cunt without mercy. You were overworked, over thrilled, the pressure of your coming orgasm snapping into your every fiber of your being, your toes curling, and drool seeping from your lips as he growled. 

The noise seemed to resonate deeply in your own chest, and he pressed his sweaty forehead against yours, pathetic, needy noises escaping your lips as you stared into his angry, lusting eyes. And as he buried his teeth into your bottom lip, his nose scrunched in an aggressive snarl, he spoke with finality:

“Cum.”

You weren’t sure if you had suddenly fallen under the persuasion of his brainwash, or he just knew you were overfilled with pressure, but you went rigid in his hold, your eyes rolling backward, and your vision going white. You came in powerful waves, electric stimming vibrating through your entire body as your spongey, wet walls clamped around him, and Shinsou came in a guttural groan. His hips snapping into your with five last, robust, resounding thrusts until your trembling abdomen and thighs were stilled with his crushing weight.

 You could feel his hot cum pulsing and thriving deep within your cunt, and you panted heavily, your body feeling alarmingly weak as the both of you lay there. A puddle of cum, tears, drool, pain, longing, and hatred.

He lays on top of you, his chest heaving with his breathing, and you felt frozen beneath him. The pain of the gravel roof no longer adds to your pleasure but rather is stabbing you in pain. It’s quiet as you lay there.

He’s quiet.

You’re silent.

“Why’d you do it?” he asked suddenly, interrupting the silence that you hated.

“I can’t tell you,” you admit, voice thick and heavy with untold emotions.

“You know I’ll have to arrest you, right?” Shinsou spoke softly, but he didn’t move to capture you, and you didn’t move to run.

What was the point? It wasn’t as if there was ever a fighting chance for the both of you. The world would have never allowed it, so why bother?

“I don’t think you hate me enough to arrest me right now, sleep on it,” you softly chided, your eyes staring up into the universe, begging to know why they made you a freak?

“Not right now, you spent all my energy,” Shinsou admits, rising up from you, his soft cock removing itself from your humming core, and you looked away to keep from staring. “I really hate you though, y/l/n. I don’t like liars or pretenders.”

“Convince your cock of it next time,” you couldn’t help but fire back, your upper lip curling in your anger and hatred at the sound of his zipping pants.

Silence and a beat follow your words.

“I’ll tell you this now,” Shinsou spoke, turning on his heels, his tone was cold, distant, like a stranger who could care less for you. “Don’t let me see you again. If I do, I promise you, I’ll send your ass to Tartarus. We’re no longer on good terms.”

Anger, hatred, and fury course through your veins as you stand up, legs weak, but spirit wounded as you pull up your pants, uncaring of his cum leaking from your slit. 

“Don’t you dare show your face to me again! Next time I won’t save your fucking ass when I blow something up!” you snapped, the tears running down your face uncontrollable although your voice never gave it away. It didn’t have to though, he turned around one last time, and his eyes met yours, and the two of you glared and simmered. 

But, he didn’t bother to respond back as he disappeared into the shadows of the night sky.

You collapsed onto your knees, exhaustion finally catching up with you, and you realized his capturing weapon you had stolen was finally taken back by the rightful owner. You fell forward, the tears and silent sobs muffled by your bitten lip as you stayed on that rooftop for an hour. Crying like a freak.

Truth be told, you weren’t even sure if you ever hated him.

...

..

.

Incoming Text…

Incoming Text…

New Text Message Received!

From Unknown:      ↳ Good job, y/n. Phase one is complete.

[nothing-but-dreamy]

REGRET

Pairing: FFXV! NYX ULRIC x GENDER NEUTRAL!READER

Words: 2.416

Warnings: hurt - comfort; some small cursing

Summary: Nyx dates you for you eight months and everything seems good. At least, you think that. Therefore, you're shocked as Nyx breaks up with you.

Nyx broke up with you because of reasons but ... was it really the right decision? And might his friends be helpful to knock some sense into Nyx?

Nyx watched how you danced through the kitchen. Soft music was playing from hidden loudspeakers. With a low voice, you hummed along while preparing two cups of hot chocolate. For eight months, Nyx dated you. You were pure joy, the kindest person Nyx had ever met. You cared for him in a beautiful way. You gave him the feeling to be something special. To be valuable. There was no time you weren't there for him. You had been able to soothe the pain he was carrying in a loving, self-less way.

"We have to stop this.", Nyx said low but serious and almost feared you hadn't heard him as you didn't react.

But you had heard him. Frowning, you turned over to the man who stood in the middle of your apartment, "We have to stop- what?", you asked, confused even if you already had an odd feeling spreading through your body as you saw Nyx' serious expression.

"This. Between us. I can't do this anymore- well... I could but I don't want it anymore.", Nyx said while looking you straight in the eyes.

"Y-you wanna break up with me?", you considered that it might be some cruel kind of a joke but the longer Nyx stayed silent, the less funny it became, "Nyx? You scare me. What is going on?", you asked, stepping forward, reaching for him.

But Nyx stepped back, drawing his brows together, "I told you what is going on. I'm leaving you. Now. We… Sure, we had some fun together but… it's not enough. You are not enough for me."

Your blood ran cold by his emotionless voice. The soft blue eyes you loved so much resembled more sharp diamonds, "I- I don't understand. Nyx, where does this come from? Have I done something wrong?"

"No. I mean, yes! It's not one thing you have done. It's everything you do. To be with you gives me nothing. I'm bored having you around.", he continued his merciless honesty.

Tears were brimming in your eyes, almost spilling out of them, "No… you can't mean that.", you whispered helplessly, feeling your heart breaking into tiny pieces while a voice told you that his words were just lies. Even the way Nyx looked at you, told you that there was more than he said. He wasn't telling the truth but you had no idea why he tried to hurt you then, "Tell me the truth. What is really going on?", you asked.

Nyx stared at you, blinking several times because he couldn't believe what he heard, "Damn, I had no idea how stupid you are! I told you what is going on. I'm leaving you. I don't have to explain anything. Don't call me or stuff like this. Just … forget me.", he said, grabbing his jacket and leaving your apartment without looking back for one second.

You stared at the closed door, motionless. Just one single, hot tear was escaping your eyes, rolling down your cheek, leaving behind a trail of sadness on your skin.

***

Three days had passed since the last time Nyx had seen you. Three days since all the things he had said to you. You, the most precious and important miracle that ever happened to him. You, whose eyes would forever haunt him. Day and night. His nightmares were nothing compared to the shock and the sadness he had seen in your face because of the words he had chosen to hurt you.

Nyx was awake for seventy-two hours straight. Trying to drown his guilt and sorrow with alcohol but no matter how much he drank, Nyx couldn't get your tears-filled eyes out of his mind. Or the way you had tried to reach out for him. The TV blurted some nonsense. It was nothing more than background noise. He couldn't focus on anything around him because you always came back to his mind.

Therefore, Nyx needed several minutes to realize that the dull knocking sound came from his own door. Slightly swaying, Nyx crossed his small, one room apartment to answer the door. He already expected to see you. That, even if he had said you should stay away from him, you would ignore him. Somehow, Nyx hoped you had come to see him.

But instead, Crowe and Libertus stood in front of a tired looking Nyx. His hair was tousled and all in all, he looked miserable, "Wow… you look…", Libertus said, searching for the right words.

But Crowe was faster. She pushed past Libertus, "You look like shit.", she said. As she spotted all the empty bottles, she added: "And you smell horrible."

Nyx crossed his arms over his chest, "Are you done with insulting me?", he said, turning around to let himself fall into his armchair.

With a stern expression, Crowe followed Nyx while Libertus opened a window for some fresh air before he looked at his best friend, "Spit it out. What is going on?"

"YN left me. That's going on. I'm just trying to deal with this. Problem?", Nyx hissed and glared at his two friends.

Crowe frowned, looking skeptical, "YN... left you…", she asked doubtfully, "And when?"

"What day is it?", Nyx asked, noticing that he had kinda lost track of time.

"Friday.", Libertus answered serious.

"Oh, then three days ago or so-"

"Or so? Nyx!"

"What?", Nyx snapped, looking at Crowe with gleaming eyes, "They left me, ok? They said they couldn't do this anymore with me being a Glaive. And I don't blame them.", he said angrily while taking the next bottle of booze, "And now, if you don't wanna drink with me, I would be thankful if you two leave me alone."

Crowe and Libertus waited a moment but they saw that there was no way to discuss anything with him. So, they left Nyx alone with his self-destructive behavior. At least, for a little while.

On the street, Crowe stemmed her fists into her sides, "You believe what he said? That YN left him?", she asked Libertus.

He shook his head, "Not for one second."

***

But no matter how often one of his friends asked, Nyx stuck to his story: you had left him after eight months because the life with a Glaive wasn't what you wanted. You wanted more. You needed more stability and mostly, you didn't want a life where you always feared for Nyx' life.

So, one day, Crowe and Libertus walked to Nyx who was busy polishing his Kukris while looking tired like every day during the past two weeks.

Nyx noticed the two well-known shadows towering above him, "What is it now?", he asked, annoyed, without looking up.

"We watched you long enough and this has to end!", Crowe said.

Nyx was about to answer but the siren interrupted him and the others. A new attack by Niflheim troops killed this unwanted conversation before it even started.

*

While getting ready for action, Crowe watched Nyx. From the outside, he seemed to be composed and calm, dressing his combat clothes and putting his Kukris into the right spots but she knew the difference. She saw his wild eyes that told her that some kind of storm was raging inside of him. She just wasn't sure how this storm could break through: if Nyx would just let off some steam or if he would do something stupid.

Slowly, she walked over to Libertus and Pelna, "Hey, guys, do me a favor when we're on the battlefield. Look out for Nyx."

Pelna frowned, "You think he's not ready to fight?"

"Oh, trust me. Nyx will fight. I just fear he could do something stupid."

*

And somehow, Crowe should have been right with her assumption. While she was busy with the other female Glaives to create a thunderstorm to destroy some of the Niflheim ships, Libertus was fighting on the ground against upcoming waves of demons. Pelna fought on his right side while Nyx on his left.

It was a hell of a battle and everyone was busy but at the same time, Libertus kept an eye on Nyx as he had promised. But as Libertus checked Nyx' position once again, his friend was gone. Quickly, Libertus called Pelna over to him and together, they searched for Nyx.

"Over there! Is he suicidal or what?", Pelna asked as he watched how Nyx tried to fight against a bunch of ass-kicking demons at the same time. One demon aimed for Nyx without his knowledge and both, Pelna and Libertus, feared the worst.

"We have to do something. He has to get out of there or he will get killed!", Libertus called out over the ear-piercing sound of an explosion some distance away.

"I will warp me to him, help him to fight.", Pelna said, threw his knife to Nyx' position and fought against the last few remaining demons.

As the field was clear, Libertus ran over to Nyx, grabbing him by his uniform jacket to push him against the next half broken wall, "Stop this shit!"

"What? Doing my job?", Nyx hissed, pushing Libertus away from him with a glaring expression.

Libertus kept Nyx' glance, "No! You try to get killed! Since you left YN, you're more reckless than ever before."

"I told you YN left me!", Nyx called out, ignoring the next explosion which covered everyone in dust and debris.

Libertus stepped forward, towering above his childhood friend, "You weren't really thinking that I believed that for one second, right? Crowe neither. YN would never leave you like that! Unlike you, they are sure how they feel for you. YN already loves you too much to leave you! And that's why you left them with some flimsy excuses, am I right? Because you’re too scared to admit your feelings you have for them.", Libertus hissed angrily.

Nyx' eyes flickered back and forth between Libertus' eyes. He swallowed thickly before he tried it again, "N-no… YN... They said they couldn't do this anymore-"

For a quick moment, Libertus lost his temper and punched Nyx right in the face so Nyx' head snapped to the side before Libertus grabbed Nyx by his collar again, "Don't lie to me ever again! YN spoke with me. They told me what you have said to them! And you know what? They weren't even crying because they knew that everything was just a lie! YN knew that you did it to push them away from you!"

Nyx felt how the guilt was back in charge about what he had done to you. There was no excuse in this world that would ever be enough for what he had said, "But I... I...", he whispered weakly.

Libertus let go of Nyx, staring at him with a stone cold expression, "We will end this damn mission! Alive! All of us! And then, you apologize and go back to YN!"

***

It was raining for hours and you were just making a cup of hot, delicious chocolate as someone knocked. As you opened the door, curious who it would be for such an hour, a dripping wet Nyx stood in front of you, looking like a kicked puppy with his long hair clutching to his face.

He still wore his Glaive battle uniform, coming straight from a mission. Libertus and Crowe had made sure that he went to you. He still had dirt and dust in his face, a few scratches were crossing his skin while the rain water was dripping onto the floor of the hallway. His eyes were red-rimmed and all in all, he looked more tired and worn out than you had ever seen him before.

Nyx' heart hammered in his chest as he saw your eyes holding a caring glance while you looked at him patiently, "I- I'm sorry-", he breathed, shaking with coldness and a tear filled voice. He wanted to say more. He wanted to apologize for everything but he got cut off as you just pulled him to you for a strong embrace with your arms firmly snaking around his neck.

Nyx immediately snuggled into the crook of your neck with his nose, shaken by sobs while inhaling your warm, familiar scent. Your body heat enclosed him and within one second, he felt back home again. The emptiness and darkness he had felt during the last days slowly vanished and got filled with warmth.

"Welcome home, hero.", you breathed lovely, raking your fingers through his soaked hair to soothe him.

"I don't deserve you.", he breathed against your skin, embracing you even stronger, clinging to you desperately in fear you could disappear.

"Well, maybe you're right... maybe you're wrong. But ... it doesn't matter. I just want you, Nyx.", you answered honestly.

Nyx leant back, slowly cupping your face with his shaking, cold hands to stare into your eyes he had missed so much, "But why? Just why? I'm a mess. I could die so easily and I don't wanna put you through this pain because you would miss me... So, why god damnit do you want me?"

You nudged Nyx' nose with your own, "Because you're wonderful. Nyx, I saw your real you. How caring you are. How lovely you can be. You're so soft and sweet to me. You're perfect. Even without admitting it, you love me so much and I try to give you as much as I can back because you deserve it."

"And still, I tried to push you away...", he whispered, devastated about what he had done to you, about all the cruel things he had said.

"Yes, and you know, I understand why you did it. But, trust me, I would rather live a life in pain because I have lost you than to live one minute without having you in my life at all.", you swore solemnly.

Nyx couldn't stop the tears from running down his cheeks, "I'm so, so sorry.", he whispered and kissed you desperately because of the loyalty and unconditional love you showed him when he didn't even deserved it but when needed it the most.

You broke the kiss after the first sensation to have him back again. With closed eyes, you were slightly swooning and with a soft smile on your lips you said: "Come in. You have to get out of these wet clothes before you get sick. I also made some hot chocolate that will warm you up.", and with these words, you brought Nyx softly back into your apartment and into your life where he belonged.

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Braaaaaaains...

Jason Todd is legally – and biologically – dead. His family noted his lack of pulse at three in the morning, inside the cave, his body laid out on a table with medical instruments.

No, really, tell him something he doesn't know.

What else crawls out of a grave moaning and groaning?

Or, Jason thought his family full of the world's greatest detectives was smarter than this. Apparently not.

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

It had been an ordinary night. Calm. The stage for very little costumed crime and barely more regular, non-insane crime as well. Half the menagerie that made up Dick's loving ragtag bunch of younger siblings had even taken the night off.

Nothing should have make him arrive to silence this thick, to this faint echo of sniffling.

He sprinted after the noise.

Damian's fine, left before me. Duke didn't go out, nor did Steph. Babs spent the evening with Cass in the cave, Tim swept the bowery and said he was going to stop by Jason's place to-

He collided with a shaking, tear stained Tim right outside the medbay.

There was a body on the closest table. Others around it, crying, pacing, muttering in denial.

Dick couldn't look.

No, no, please, please no. I can't do that again. I can't!

Scarred skin, too pale – to be Duke or Cass – by death. His breath hitched. No. He. Fuck.

He knew those scars. Those arms. That chest and that fucking Y from navel to shoulders.

“Dick! Jason... he was...  I found him in his apartment. And I brought him to the cave... but... Jason doesn't have a pulse. He's... cold...”

Dick stumbled.

No.

No, no, no, that... that couldn't be real.

He caught himself on his little brother. Brought himself into a hug too tight, as painful as the arms gripping his ribs and back. A grip meant for a lifesaving light at sea. For a safeline over a ravine.

Twice. He'd lost the same brother twice. And this time, he didn't even have the excuse of inexperience and unstable situations. He... he patrolled the city whilst his brother was dead, completely oblivious to the fact. How could he? How dare he not know?!

“Shh, Tim, I'm here. I'm here.” But not for Jason, whispered a vicious part of him.

“What's all this?”

Dick's heart just about stopped.

Damian stood at the entrance to the lockers' room, uniform folded under one arm, hair slightly damp from a shower and Bat-themed pajamas worn without shame. His mild annoyance was proof he had no idea of the drama that had happened not twenty feet from him.

With reluctance, he let go of Tim, a gentle hand lingering on his shoulder, before he took a few steps toward his youngest, most vulnerable brother.

“D-Dami, I... ”   Damn it, he had to be the one to tell Damian about this. Because otherwise, the person to break the news would be Bruce, and-

Shit.

Bruce.

Oh God. How could they possibly tell him- ? After all their fights, the goddamned shattering that had broken the man he had been, and their last conversations even being more admonishment about protocols that Jason had flippantly disregarded. Bruce would never recover. That was it. The end of Batman.

...But first, God he hated himself, wanted to just curl up in a corner and forget everything, first he had a young brother he needed to talk to. One... one little brother less than just this afternoon.

“Jason... ” He swallowed, his throat tight, his heart in denial, the words so damning, but needing to be said. “Jason did not make it. He... he's dead.”

Damian stayed thoughtfully silent.

Not... not the tearful reaction he had expected, but Damian had grown up surrounded by so much death and horror that he would obviously be guarded. And oh, Dick's heart went to his baby brother, and he truly wished he could

“I do not understand. Why such theatrics for the zombie?”

Dick gasped, knowledge warring with the flash of anger.

“Damian! He's our brother!”

“Did he lose his head?” Damian demanded, and Dick's mind buckled.

“Huh, no, but that doesn't have anything to d-”

“Then, why are you acting so weirdly emotional, Richard?”

Before Dick's temper could catch up to his mouth, the longest and most painful-sounding gasp erupted from the medbay, where, to the general shock of all, Jason's gray-ish body shot upward with both his arms raised.

Electroshocks didn't make you jolt like that.

Electroshocks, in fact, remained in their kit on the other side of the medbay, unused. Because Jason had seemingly been dead long before he had been brought to the cave.

That was roughly the moment when Dick's brain caught up with the first of many hints. Latched onto it with a fool's hope.

“... Damian... When you were calling Jason a 'zombie', what did you mean?”

Damian's brows scrunched up together, a look he meant to be intimidating, but had more in common with a disgruntled kitten. “Exactly that, Richard. Do we not have files on zombies in the computer? Dead bodies walking about animated by unholy powers?”

Jason's not- Dick forced the half formed thought to a halt. For once, he rather wanted to be very, very wrong in how he perceived his family.

“What's with all the noise? Can't someone try to sleep like the dead without screaming?” Jason groused. “Should have gotten myself buried ag-OOF!”

“JASON!” screamed the hysterical teenager that had launched himself at a very lively dead body.

“Huhh? Hi, Timmy?” Jason said blearily, ruffling Tim's hair, eyebags suspiciously prominent. “... Fear gas?”

The blinking slowed, the fog of sleep drifting away as he silently begged the rest of them for an answer.

Happily provided by a still crying Tim. “I thought you were gone!”

“What is dead may never die,” Jason quipped, his mouth twisting in that cocksure grin from his Robin days.

And Dick wanted nothing more than to stop right there, pass out from the relief and joy of his little brother being alive and kicking, but...

But... 

That joke. One of many morbidly unfunny jokes and puns.

Bone-deep fatigue crushed his back. A bitter curse for whatever higher forces messing with them echoed strongly inside his skull, before he gave in to the inevitable and inhaled a few times for patience.

“Jason. We thought you were dead-dead.”

With prickly, hedgehog style affection, Jason pushed Tim back and stood up, stretching. “Come off it, Goldie. I wasn't even decapitated. I mean, if you were really worried, you could have just called a necromancer or something.” His expression hardened. “But if you ever call a necromancer on my ass, I'll shoot your perfect glutes.”

Yup, yup, yup, this is happening.

Tim finally wiped the rest of the tears away, helped by one of Stephanie's handkerchiefs, when he froze. “Wait. Your skin's still pale as a corpse.”

The flicker of amusement in Jason's eyes killed it for Dick.

God, how could they have all been this idiotic? If Wally ever learned about this – Shit, did Roy and Kory know before him?!

They were going to laugh their asses off at him.

Jason, unaware of the world recalibration happening in his poor big brother's mind, shrugged and rolled his shoulders – who creaked suspiciously loudly, more like rusty hinges than normal body parts. “Eh, I'm just a bit hungry. Nothing a meal or two won't fix and get some blood flowing back under my s-”

“You're a zombie.”

They turned toward him.

“Way to cross the finish line on time, Mister Rabbit,” Jason drawled.

Barbara, for once, looked completely unprepared. “A zombie,” she repeated, dazed.

Stephanie's nervous giggle died out when she noticed the lack of humor. “... No!”

Cassandra furiously looked down, muttering in her fist. Duke, by contrast, had the expression of a person stuck in a very awkward nightmare.

Even Jason's good-natured ribbing faded in when faced only with the distant screeched of bats. “... Hm, guys, bats, roostery, parasites and octopi? This is old news. What's with all the... ”

He vaguely gestured at their faces.

“Old news?” Tim rasped like he was being strangled.

“I came back from the dead years ago! Come on! Am I in a parallel universe? Hey, Demon Brat,” Jason called, baffled, “you knew, right? I didn't imagine that, right?!”

“Of course, Todd. Mother informed me of everything. Besides, Grandfather's interest in your state of being was of interest for a few weeks. How could I have been ignorant about your zombified state of being?”

In the corner of his eyes, Dick noticed Tim's, Barbara's and Cassandra's expressions all pinching in displeasure. In a way, Dick was reassured. He hadn't been the target of a family-wide hoax to discredit him as an attentive and loving eldest brother. No, he was just naturally blind, apparently.

“He knew?” Tim growled, like it was a personal failing of the fabric of time and space.

Damian's tone was the exact opposite. “And none of you realized...?”

Dick squirmed. “I... huh... you see...”

His baby brother eyed him, completely unimpressed, and for once after years of partnership, Dick felt he deserved every single ounce of it.

“I see... I shall reevaluate the value of this 'detective training' I've been given if this is the result then,” he said, the nearest thing to completely disavowing his older siblings without saying so.  

In other circumstances, perhaps the others would have demanded that Damian stay and explain, but he suspected the quelling look it would have deserved prevented them. Not one of them spoke until Damian had disappeared upstairs and the elevator doors had closed.

“Jason, since when have you been a zombie?”

Jason blinked, jaw hanging. Juuuust enough for some of the scar tissue on his face to stretch past normal. Why did Dick only notice that now?

“Wait, you're all serious? How could you not know? I told you guys!”

And there was Dick's pride rearing its ugly head, because no, no he had not been told and maybe his deductive skills needed a very complete overhaul, but his memory was still excellent!

“You never said that. Heck, we weren't even talking until two years ago!”

“I literally told you all that I crawled out of my grave by myself, groaning the entire time. No experiment, no Lazarus Pit, just a body waking up in its own coffin and deciding to breathe fresh air. Does that not scream 'zombie' to you?”

They cringed.

“Not the only one that returned from beyond,” Babs mumbled. He could see her pull up the mental list right there.

“I greeted you all last meeting with a 'What's up, my bat folks? It's me, your favorite zombie!'. What did you think that meant?”

“That you're an asshole with a morbid sense of humor?” Stephanie quipped, and Jason momentarily paused his indignation to high five her. Fair's fair.

“Okay, but what about that time I got shot in the chest and I told you all not to worry about it?”

“I just figured you were going to get stitched up by Leslie or yourself, you know, regular bat neuroses,” Tim confessed.

Dick made a mental note to keep a much closer eye on Tim's patrols for the next few months.

“From a bullet chest wound?” Jason asked with an incredulousness that was not at all earned, because he was a freaking zombie!

“I thought your armor had blocked it! The hole wasn't bleeding!” Tim protested, cheeks red and tone defensive.

“Well, yeah,” Jason replied. “I don't bleed. It's like some fruit pulp or something. Ain't coming out if you don't press. My heart's not pumping.”

That's a 'nevermind' on the smoothie I saved for after patrol.

“Well, I know that now,” Tim said.

“I feel like I should write it down on the plaque or something,” Jason still sounded amazed, and might have pinched his arm just to be sure he hadn't been daydreaming, “Like, 'a good soldier AND A VERY DISCRETE ZOMBIE!' in big flaming letters. With a spotlight. And a dictionary opened on 'Zombie' or 'Undead'. You know, just in case the next batbrat to come along needs a few subtle hints about my true nature. What'd you think, Dick?”

He could not have been blushing harder than he currently was. “I think shut up.”

“Of course. What about when I shoved my deadly cold toes at Tim under a blanket?”

“Cold feet.”

“Never eating around you guys?”

“Daddy issues with Bruce,” Barbara deadpanned, and got a sock thrown at her for her honesty.

However, Duke, poor kid, turned green. “Wait, so when you offered me some jellied brain... was that not a death joke?”

Dick's stomach spontaneously shrivelled.

By the grimaces and sharp inhales all around, that was a common reaction.

Then the worst possible thing happened: Jason grinned.

He strutted, all confidence and brashness, and viper-quick, snatched an arm around Duke's shoulder. “Narrows, Nightlight, my tiny bitsy bro, everything I do is a death joke. My very existence laughs at death.”

Inside the batcave, the groaning was long-suffering and shameful.

“But that was actually brains,” Duke countered.

“Yeah. Calf brains. It's a delicacy.”

Tim massaged his forehead. What a mood.

Duke narrowed his eyes. “It was purely for the joke, wasn't it?”

Jason patted him on the back so hard Duke faltered. “One tragically wasted on your obtuse mind. I prefer me some Tête fromagée instead. Less like grainy jello.”

Stone-faced, Barbara wheeled herself toward the batcomputer. There, upon a series of quick clicks, she opened up the Bats's files. “Alright, you had your fun. Do you need to eat brains or are you just the world's least funny meathead?”

“I'm the world's most misunderstood vigilante!” Jason loudly protested, milking their pain for all it was worth. And then some. “But yeah, I do. No grey matter in there” -- he tapped his belly -- “no thinking up here.” -- his skull.

“Need some better quality brains then,” Tim stage-whispered to Stephanie.

Cass pointed the finger at Jason. “No killing for brains.”

Jason's good humor flickered with a flash of green. “Ain't ever done it, never will. It's a matter of morals, not hunger, Cass.”

Dick swooped in that minefield before it exploded.

“Great! Proud of you, Jay! You're the good kind of vegetarian zombie,” he said, putting an arm around his ginormous little brother's shoulders.

Wait a minute...

“Hey, you're older than when you died! Zombies don't age.”

“No, I was thrown into a Lazarus Pit, and the evil waters cured the malnutrition-induced delay on my growth. Haven't aged a day since.”

“I just thought you had a weird babyface thing going on,” Tim said.

Jason's grin turned sardonic. “Quite the opposite, Timber.”

Dick put his head in his hands in some vain attempt to prevent his brain from leaking through his ears.  With his luck, his little brother would 'playfully' eat some of it. “There's no way you look this rugged at biologically sixteen! I refuse to believe that.”

“Can you imagine my power if I'd been allowed to reach my full potential?” Jason leered, eyebrows waggling like waves in a sea at storm. “So many heart attacks.”

Barbara and Cassandra exchanged a silent look, and, after a solemn nod, Cassandra reached up to slap Jason upside the head.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” Barbara told her. “Jason, never do such a thing again.”

The disgruntled groan that followed must have been on purpose, because Jay was indeed an asshole.

“Besides, it's not like the world will ever know,” Tim said, cutting, a smirk hiding by his hand.

Dick really thought his little brother was far too relaxed upon learning that Jason was one with the undead. Sure, they had all encountered various levels of zombies during their missions, from all sorts of oral traditions and cultures, alien viruses and hidden nanobots piloting meat puppets. It wasn't even classified as a nation-wide crisis to encounter free-roaming zombies. But since the chronically unalive individual in question was one of their own, Dick felt he was owed at least a whole evening of frazzled panic and incomprehension for once.

“Oh?” Stephanie instead asked, sensing blood.

Tim shrugged. “Well, you know, no pulse, no blood flow,” he said with an angled eyebrow nodding at Jason's crotch

Stunned silence followed, their expressions varying from disgust, horror, unholy glee and, from Jason himself, wide-eyed shock that his shrimp of a little brother had had the balls to assimilate the zombieness fast enough to mock him for him.

Dick prayed for patience. For fortitude. And for an alternate timeline where he was an only child.

Why, for all the love of cotton candy and professional uncriminal clowns, did Tim put THAT image of Jason inside their brains? What had he done, him, a loving model for all of society, to suffer like this?

Maybe if he asked nicely, Jason would eat the image out of his head. He owed Dick that much after this clusterfuck of a conversation.

“Ooooooooh,” Stephanie crooned, miming getting dunked on. With acrobatics.

Jason huffed. “Like I was ever interested in the first place. I ain't Dick.”

“Okay, no slut shaming or virgin shaming, in fact, no shaming at all, please. In this house, we accept all sexualities, but we don't give out raunchy details about any of it, I only have so much brain bleach.”

“Share?” Duke pleaded in a whisper.

Oh, I wish I could, you young innocent soul.

A few beeps turned their attention back to Barbara and the batcomputer. “Well, that's one long overdue update to Jason's files. Anyone else want to share their 'obvious' medical condition?”

“Excuse you, being dead is not a medical condition.”

“I will make you wish for the peace of the grave, Jason.”

Droplets dripped from nearby stalactites.

A few bats flew overhead.

Jason turned to them like nothing had been said.

“Right. That was fun. Best night of my month. Can't wait to tell the Outlaws.”

Dick resigned himself to a series of unflattering texts by the absolute dickheads that were his second family. He could already tell the messages would blow up his phone to the Moon. 'You didn't know your brother that came back from the dead is a zombie?!'

“Have mercy and wait tomorrow morning?”

That smile could have been great or terrible. “You're lucky I'm in a spectacularly good mood, Dick.”

He had lifted his leg over his bike's seat when Duke was struck by genuine worry.

“Wait. Does Bruce know?”

Jason barked out a laugh.

“Of course he does! God knows he's got some massive blind spots, but he's obsessive, paranoid and I find subcutaneous trackers on me every week. No way he didn't get the hint before now.”

But, as his gaze went over the rest of them, his good cheer dimmed, his grin slipping off his face as surely as a bit of decayed flesh.

“... Right?”

[visd3stele]

magic and kids

summary:

A/N: I really hope you like it. Thank you for your requests. Loved writing it.

art credit: @phantomrin

TW: none

@britishbookworm2 requested (if you want to leave a request as well, click)

masterlist

°•▪︎~▪︎•°

It's been four years since Taryn decided the mortal world would be a more suitable place to raise her child than Elfhame. Even if her sister was now High Queen, the fairies would still make life hard for her and her baby. Maybe not on purpose, she admits it. But magic runs wild, free and unstoppable. Used to it, the Fae Folk barely notices the dangers. And frankly, they don't care. Not allowed to use it on humans as cruelly as before, some meaner courts claim innocent ignorance. How can an entire society of enchanted beings change overnight? How could they be expected to adjust to human fragility all of a sudden?

So Taryn took her baby, promised her sister to visit and fled to Heather and Vivi's. It wasn't as hard as she'd thought. Getting used to the mortal world, that's it. And if her baby had longer canine than normal, or his ears sharpened to pointy edges to the top, it passed unnoticed. Her son certainly didn't stood out the way Vivi did, even with light brown eyes that looked orange in the sun and rusty red hair. He didn't need much glamouring either, not like Oak, Oriana or Madoc. By the time she sent him to preschool his hair was long enough to cover the ears and no one seemed to notice the teeth even without magic.

For all the talk Taryn did on how she wanted her son to be free of his father in all ways, snapping at Oak when the boy tried to teach him magic before he knew how to properly walk and forbidding her family to bring Fairyland up, she named him Renard.

Fitting, though not what she should have done. Maybe part of her can't let Locke go, not entirely. She knew he didn't particularly wanted the baby, that everything he promised her were pretty lies. But for a few months, it has been real. Their marriage, their love, their lives. She saw her dreams come true, one after another: the mistress of an important household, throwing parties for courtiers, motherhood.

Now that everything she wanted snaped broken in tiny little pieces carried away by harsh winter wind, Taryn Duarte couldn't phantom having her child become like his father.

"It has nothing to do with magic, for fuck's sake!" Vivi exploded once, after Taryn better than not threw Oak and Oriana - who came to visit - out of the apartment for trying to reach Renard's magic. "He won't become a sly, selfish fox if he can change appearance or grow horses out of leaves. It's all about his up-bringing!"

"I want him to be normal, Vivi! That's why I took him here!"

Renard has been barely one year old when the argument happened. But it was enough to take his mother's words to heart.

°•▪︎~▪︎•°

Four years old Renard and twelve years old Oak played outside, jumping in crusty piles of autumn leaves. The princeling hadn't given up his plans to teach his cousin magic. He refused to let go of such opportunity: a friend he didn't have to hide of, one he could play with like he used to in Elfhame.

"Hey, Ren-Ren," Oak said, "check this out!" The older boy held up his hand, brows furrowed in concentration, lip grazed between his teeth. Nothing happened for an alarming amount of time. And then... the leaves twirl around the two cousins, splashing then with guts of wind and scarce dew as it swept them up in a friendly tornado.

Renard chuckled in delight, stretching to catch some of the closer leaves. But as soon as he touched one, the whole thing fell apart. "No!" Do it again, Oak. Do it again."

"I'm sorry, Ren-Ren," Oak faked a yawned and laid on the ground. "Magic is very serious business. Very consuming. I'm too tired to even move." He let his eyes close dramatically, watching Renard between his lashes. Truth be told, every time he did magic Oak felt good. Vibrant. As if the earth itself reached out and gave him life. But Renard didn't need to know that yet. He can definitely learn it by himself if Oak's plan works out.

The younger boy pouted and dropped on the ground. "Not fair," he muttered to himself.

"You know, Ren-Ren, you're half fae. That means there's a pretty good chance you're magic too."

"No, I'm not."

"You can't know that. Come on, give it a try!"

"No, Oak! I'm not magic. I'm not like Father, I'm like Mom. Like Mom, just like that."

Oak straightened himself, but didn't rose from the ground. "Ok, Ren-Ren. Listen up. Magic is not bad. It's fun. Don't you think it's fun?"

"Yes!" Renard nodded enthusiastically. "It's super fun. When you do it, Oak." At that the named boy own enthusiasm faded away in an instant.

"Thank you, Ren-Ren," he deadpanned. "But do you know what's more fun than watching me practice magic?" Not giving the kid a chance to answer, to even take in the question, really, Oak said "To do it yourself."

"Do you really think I should try, Oak?" Clearly, the little boy was attracted to magic. And clearly something was stopping him. But his older cousin slowly made whatever that was seem less big and scary, dragging him along in his qualms.

"Totally!"

Renard pushed his lips forward with his tongue, sticking it out through the gap in his teeth. Caramel eyes shone with desire, his red hair flown around by a cold, pleasant wind. "Ok," he gave in, as expected. "How do I do it?"

The smirk that lightened up Oak's face can only be describes as evil. Though no ill intention hid behind it. Only the knowledge his plan worked out, just like his sister, Jude's.

"Listen to me very carefully, alright? There is not just one way to make magic, Ren-Ren. You have to find your own. But for now, try the basics. Think really hard on what you want to happen. Something easy. Got anything in mind?" Renard frowned, then his eyes landed on a tree which still had some green leaves on its branches and nodded.

"Perfect! Now, imagine whatever you want to happen. Imagine it happening. Are you imagining?"

"Yes."

"No!" Oak groaned. "If you're paying attention to me, then it means you're not focusing on magic."

"But how will I know what to do if I don't listen to you?"

"I told you! Magic is your own, Ren-Ren. It comes naturally. So, dig it up. Use your imagination."

Renard tried to shut out the world around him, picturing the sole tree in his mind. A warm pull tugged at him and he followed. His magic, he tried not to dwell on the joy, but instead focusing on his practice. His magic reaching out. Because he reached out first.

The boy allowed the warmth to take control, guiding him through it. The tree now carved in his mind by detail wasn't enough. He needed action. But just imagining the leaves to fall wouldn't do. Renard couldn't say how exactly he knew it. He just did. Something more tender was needed. The half fae kid had to imply what he wants and trust his magic to follow his lead.

So Renard made himself cold. Chilly. Feeling a breeze of wind creeping inside his clothes, whipping his skin gently. Enough to rip a leaf off a tree, though. Which it did. The wind he summoned couldn't be felt, not really. Only by himself and the green leaves that departed one by one from their branch as if plucked by an invisible hand.

Oak gasped. Then grinned. And then he laughed. Renard broke free of his concentration, pleased to see his magic didn't falter. Not until every and each green leaf from his chosen tree didn't fall. The sight made him still in awe for a couple of seconds. But soon enough he joined his cousin with a bubble laugh, jumping up and down and running to tackle Oak in a tight hug.

"I did it, Oak! I did it!"

"Yes, you did, Rem-Ren. Indeed, you did. Congrats!"

"Can we show auntie Vivi? And auntie Oriana?"

When Madoc and Oriana first came in the mortal world, Taryn wanted nothing to do with them. But years of being cared for by the blue skinned, white haired, pink eyes woman showed their tale. She agreed to see her, but only her. She could be part of her child life, if she wanted.

"Sure. But don't you want to show your mom first?"

"Mom and auntie Heather work a lot. We can show them later." Renard said, but he felt his magic shrinking at the thought of his mother. His Mom didn't like his father. And his magic comes from his father. Is that why his magic doesn't want to reveal itself near Taryn? He hoped it was just him overthinking it, because he loves his Mom and wants to share this with her.

°•▪︎~▪︎•°

Oak stayed with auntie Oriana, who was his mother, so Renard couldn't bring himself to be upset over it. He would want to be with his mother as much as he can as well. So he did a little trick for auntie Vivi, who told him to stay where he was, brought a camera and ordered him to glamour the tea cups again. Renard made them look like pumpkins, since the Halloween being over the corner made him impossibly anxious - in a good way.

Turns out even mortal technology can be fooled by fae's magic. Vivi showed the clip to Heather, who coed over him until Taryn came home.

"Hello, treasure. How was your day? Wanna give mommy a kiss?"

Renard jumped into his mother's arms, pressing a strong kiss on her cheek before starting to tell her about all the fun he had with cousin Oak. "And then he said I should try magic too."

Tamryn stilled. "And?"

"Look, Mom!"

Renard broke a vase, then, with a twitch of his fingers put it back together. "Auntie Vivi says I'm a natural."

"Does she? That's amazing, sweetheart."

But his mother didn't sound thrilled. In fact, her smile wasn't even a smile at all, but a thin line. "I'm sorry, mommy. I knew I shouldn't've done it, but I didn't know why. Now I know: you don't want me using my magic. It'll make me bad, like father."

Renard pushed his lips up front, scrunched his nose up, wiggled his toes, all in an atempt to stop the tears hurting his eyes from falling. When he realized it was in vain, he took off running to his room.

When Taryn entered minutes later she found her son curled on his left side in the middle of the bed, hugging a black goat plushie his uncle Cardan gave him on his birthday tight to his chest. She hated herself for causing the pain struck look on her son's face.

"Hey, sweetie."

"Hi, Mom." Renard wiped his nose with his jumper's sleeve.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie. Mommy was just scared, but that's not your fault. You could never be bad. Magic is not bad. Of course you can practice all you want, but we'll settle some ground, basic rules first. Ok?"

"Really?"

"Rules you can never, ever break. Really."

"Thank you, Mommy! You're the best! Just wait until Oak hears about it."

A/N: Renard means fox in french. Also: oops, guess I finished it earlier than expected and didn't really felt like waiting days to post it 😅

[cassava-49]

I Won't Say I'm In Love

Felix had always walled himself up to not love again and be fooled by it again. Not again, never again, but why? After building up this façade, why is it crumbling to his feet? Right, it's because of her.

A beacon of light and love. Her dark blue hair is as deep as the color of the depths of the ocean where one can swim too deep and drown by its beauty. Her bluebell eyes that are as light as the sky that can make anyone think that they were falling down from heaven as you stare deep into them. Her warm bubbly feeling that can make anyone cozy up with her and let their guard down without their knowledge.

Ever since she transferred here and joined his circle of friends he can't help but feel drawn to the warm sweet atmosphere. He can't have it again. He doesn't want to put his heart on the line again only to be broken into millions of tiny pieces like how she had. He doesn't want to hurt again with that knowledge of not getting his chances since she is already desperately in love with his dim witted cousin.

He then turned his attention to his friends who were chatting happily over lunch. Talking about some silly antics that had happened during class. But he couldn't help but watch her close her eyes as she laughed and cover her mouth. The sound of her sweet laughter was, how would the books describe it, music to his ears, tiny sweet bells that sounded at an hour of beauty. He watched as his friend Claude balanced an orange on the tip of his nose, as Allan subtly made it fall by accidentally jabbing his side.

He continued to watch the bluenette smile and laugh, not noticing the subtle glances Allegra was giving him. The bell rung, signalling the students that they had 30 minutes before classes began again. This made his friends get up and take their trays and brought it to the counter.

"Well, see you guys later," Marinette said to her friends as she headed to the art department wing for her lesson. As she left, she didn't notice the penetrating stare the blond had fixated on her back. But the blond didn't notice the looks his three friends were sharing as a grin crossed each of their faces. Felix turned around to be greeted by these suspicious grins as he let a scowl cross his face, knowing what the three would say.

"No," was all he said to the three as he stalked away. "Come on Fe. We know that you know that you like her," Allegra told him as she walked with him. "Allegra, stop it. You know that I will not love again nor put myself to it after how the past had ended," he said his petty reason. "This is not like you dude. The Felix I know would not let the past be the reason for fear and ignorance," Allan backed. "No one will ever be worth my time in that aspect. And it doesn't help that she looks like her," Felix replied in distaste of his words.

"You know that she's the earth and heaven to you. You can't just run away from your feelings cause your bad at hiding these kinds of feelings," Claude spoke. The four continued walking until they were outside the building for their food and lockers. "I have learned my lesson in loving Claude. I will not throw myself back into this cliche and have what is left in my heart torn into pieces," Felix replied as he tried to keep his face in pure frustration and his thoughts in denial. However, it wasn't entirely working mostly because of this conversation.

"You can't deny it bro, we can read you better than others and all that we can see is a lovesick puppy thinking that it was just the meat," Allan said as Allegra kept on rolling her eyes at Felix's answers. "Hon, we're not buying your bs right now. We all saw how you change around her. You definitely care for her and ever since she cracked you, you began to grow it," Allegra added. "Grow what?" Felix asked getting irritated at his friends persistent jabbings. "A love sickness that you obviously have bad," she continued with her banter.

"That is highly impossible. I am not interested in Marinette in a romantic way," Felix said trying to wrap his words in ice. "Oh, hi Netta, didn't see you there," Claude said which caused Felix to turn his attention to where the boy was, only to find their school mate Antoinette pass by. But Felix couldn't help but let a sigh of relief and disappointment cross his face. But when he turned he was faced with a poster of Marinette and her club's saying that they would be exhibiting their art and a small pageant for the young designers that will be held tomorrow, February 14. He couldn't help but stare at the bright eyed designer in her cute sailor outfit. He couldn't help but let his fantasies run wild until someone broke him out of it. "If you ask someone right now, they would definitely say that you have it bad," Allan commented as Felix scoffed. As he tried to deny and tell his treacherous heart to shut up and let his head think.

He then faced his friends with a glare and said, "Claude your department's that way." Claude then let out a huff and rolled his eyes at the blond and went to the direction Felix had been pointing. "But just face it and say that you're in love," he said as he continued walking. This made him roll his eyes at his friend and caught the scoffs of the other two. "You two just go before me. I need the bathroom," he stated as he made his way to the closest restroom. Once inside, he went into a cubicle, locking it and resting his back at the door as his stared at the ceiling. He sighed and dropped his head letting his thoughts run back to the past.

...

"Hey Felix~~," a bubbly voice called from behind. Irritation crossed his mind as he recognized that voice. The said owner of the voice took a seat next to him as he quietly made his research in the library. "What are researching on?" the bluenette asked as she looked over his notes. Annoyed by her antics, he closed his notebook and the other books as he began packing to leave the insistent girl. 

But this did not stop her as she stood up from her seat and went in front of him and waved two tickets directly at his eyes. "I was wondering if you don't have anything to do later, we can go to the theatres and watch this new movie, you know the one about 'The Little Prince' I saw you reading the book and I wondered if you would like to watch it. I'd even allow you to rant about it," she said in a hopeful tone. He then saw his friend at the back giving out yes signals. He let out a sigh and said, "Fine I'll go." This made the girl smile and jumped for joy as she gave him the details.

This was the start of the simple dates and happy experiences and, to his astonishment, love. Yes, after getting to know the bubbly happy girl he started developing feelings for the young girl. After about 10 dates he finally asked her to be his girlfriend. This made the girl tear up and engulf him in a tight hug after giving him a loving kiss on the cheek.

They had such a good relationship, it even got him out of his shell, slightly. He would be caught flirting in public and show a bit of PDA. He couldn't help it, he loved her deeply and wished that their relationship would last. He loved everything about her; her personality, her blue eyes, her long dark blue hair that were tied in twin tails.

Today was their second year anniversary, they were at the Ponte des Arts, just enjoying their time as they ate ice cream. He looked at the girl at his arm and smiled as he softly spoke, "Bridgette." She then gave a hum of response and looked up at him with a half smile. This made his heart drop as he realized that there was something troubling him. "Is there something bothering you?" he asked, scared of her answer. This made the girl sigh and let go off his arm as she took his hand and looked directly into his eyes. "Do you love me, Felix?" she asked, tad uncertain. This made his eyes widen and took both of her hands and kissed her knuckles and replied, "Truly, deeply, ardently and all the words that can increase the meaning of my love for you."

As he said that he notice a hint of heartbreak pass in her eyes. Just as he feared she lowered her gaze and removed her hands from his, as she stared at the ground. He then watched her eyes well up with tears as she brought her hands to her face to cry in. This caught him off guard as he put his hands on her arms wanting to hug her. But she pushed him away, this broke his heart as he watched his girlfriend cry in front of him and not wanting to be comforted by him.

After a few more sniffles she looked him in the eyes and said in between sobs. "I-I-I'm p-pre-pregnant," she said as he felt his world shatter. But slowly rebuild and a smile appeared on his face as he said, "It's alright, I know 16 isn't the ideal age to be parents, but I'd be glad to have a family with you." He then slowly placed his hands on her shoulders as he rubbed his hands up and down her arms in a comforting manner. (Side note: the age of consent in France is 15)

This didn't comfort the girl at all as she cried more. She then looked him with sad eyes and spoke, "T-t-th-that's the th-thing. T-the b-baby i-i ---." But she wasn't able to finish when someone pulled her away from him and glared at him. "What she meant to say is, the baby's not yours," he said with a smirk. This made him give a look of confusion and then realization came dropping on him. He then remembered that they had only done it twice and he was very careful, he had a condom on and made sure that it was of good quality.

He then looked at the two in front of him and asked, "I-is it true?" This made Bridgette freeze as she recalled this tone as his frightening tone from before they had been dating. She slowly nodded, afraid of meeting his gaze. "How long has this been going on?" he asked in his icy cold voice that set fear into anyone's hearts. Unable to answer the boy next to her answered for her, "Actually we had been getting it on since last Christmas and I claimed her long before you did," the Asian man said to him. He then turned his attention back to his "girlfriend" realizing that last Christmas she went back to Seoul(Let's just say that she's Korean  since  MLB was first released there. Another side note: Age of consent in South Korea is 16).

"Why?" he asked. However, she wasn't able to answer as she tried to hide in the arms of the other man. This made the shards of his earlier shattered world to break more at this action. Trying to keep his cool he then said, "Congratulations. I will back down for the both of you. I wish that you find happiness with him." With that he gave the man a killer punch and walked away, not wanting to notice the look the crowd was giving him.

...

He sighed at the awful memory not wanting it to happen again. He gave her his world, his dreams and his whole being. Thinking that she would do the same, but in the end she broke him, in the last way he thought she would. As he continued to think about it he felt tears prick his eyes, to which he immediately removed. His thoughts came rushing back to Marinette's sweet smile, comforting presence and lovable companionship. This got him sighing as he whispered to himself, "I've got it bad."

The day ended and the gang regrouped as they went straight to the bakery for final fittings. Felix walked quietly by Marinette's side as she began discussing about the adjustments she'd had to make with their clothes. Allegra began gushing about how amazing her designs are even without adjustments. Allan just told her not to worry and be confident in her talent, while Claude was just asking what treats her parents were handing out. Felix on the other hand had just been admiring her talk.

"Hey Felix, you seem out today. Are you OK?" Marinette asked him as she turned her attention to him. This caught him off guard when she turned her attention to him. He only gave her a curt nod as a light blush dusted his cheeks. They then arrived at her home and were all showered with affection by her ever doting parents who insisted that they all stayed for dinner.

The group was in her room as she made a few adjustments to the clothes she's supposed to present the next day. "Maddie this is amazing. I love it," Allegra cooed as she spun around in her white dress, which had three horizontal lines at the collar of the dress and the lower part of the skirt, close to the hem. While a navy blue jacket, sailor inspired, was matched with it, and to top it off, she wore a white sailors hat with her hair curled at the bottom part. "I'm glad you love it Allegra," Marinette replied as she beamed with pride. She then turned to the boys to find them standing with each other in a pose that they probably didn't notice. 

Claude wore a fit round neck white shirt with black horizontal stripes with white ankle length pants, and a black sheer scarf was placed around his neck, while a white hat with black lining topped off the look. "Do I look fat in this shirt? I feel that I look fat," he commented as he stared at the pattern, earning a laugh from the girls. "No, it doesn't. I mean you wear vertical stripes all the time," Mari commented. "You look fat all the time," Allegra added as the group laughed again.

Turning her attention to Allan, she could see that the denim fabric fitted him perfectly. The denim polo shirt with rolled up sleeves and tucked in his denim shorts, that was held by a brown leather belt made him look simple yet stylish, and just like the others he wore a captain's hat. "Well, if you feel fat, I feel like something's missing," Allan critiqued. This made Mari give a designer's look at it as she placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head to the left. "You're right, but what can make it look more complete?" she pondered as she eyed the clothing. After a second, she snapped her fingers and made her way to the other scarps of clothing she had sewn. "No, no, not that one. Nope. Ah! There you are," she stated as she made her way to her model and tied a handkerchief around his neck and tucked it under the collar. "Better," she stated as she looked at the finished product.

She then looked at her last piece, which was being modeled by Felix. She blushed at the sight of him in a form fitting white blazer that was open to reveal a dark navy blue color that had white horizontal stripes covering the bottom half of the shirt. His legs seemed to look more fit at the sight of the royal blue pants seemed to be showing the wonderful shape, since it was slightly fit. Although he looked a bit confused at the clothing as if uncomfortable. This caused her to be concerned at the possible mistake. "Is the fit alright?" she asked hesitantly. "The designs are fine, but like you said, it's the fit. But it's just the blazer, it's a bit tight on my shoulders," he commented as he pointed at the points to be fixed.

"Alright, I'll get it done, but I'm going to take your measurements again just to make sure," she stated as she went over to her desk to take her measuring tape. "Maddie, you wouldn't mind if we change out of this?" Allegra asked. "Sure go ahead and feel free to—," she began but was unable to finish when she saw the three race out of the room. Realizing what they had done she felt her face heat up a little bit as she faced the blond who was taking off the white blazer and folded it nicely and placed it on the chaise.

He looked up to find that they were the only people in her bedroom. He cursed his friends quietly at the betrayal as he watched her make her way to him. She began taking his measurements but found it difficult with his height. This made him chuckle slightly, surprising the young designer at the reaction. "You know you could stand on a stool considering your short stature," he said. "It doesn't mean that you're taller than me by 6 inches I'm already short," she replied with a huff. He then bent down to her level saying, "Everyone who is shorter than me, I consider short and small." 

This got him with a notebook slammed at his face as he saw an irritated Marinette. He then smirked and continued, "Considering that you are '6 inches' smaller than me, makes you seem like a cute munchkin that I can put in my pocket." He watched as she got more irritated at him as he insulted her height. He continued on bantering about her being shorter than him that he did not expect her to finally jump on him and say, "You know that fact that we only have a 6 inch gap makes it easier for me to jump on your back." The two continued roughhousing, forgetting about what they were supposed to do.

After a few more minutes of fighting, Felix got the upper hand and threw her up on her bed as he joined her and began attacking her with tickles. She began to laugh uncontrollably that she was having a difficulty to breath until she finally tapped out, which made him stop his attacks. He then got off her and laid down next to her as they began to calm down.

"Don't insult me with my height again," was all she could say before they got back to what they were supposed to be doing. "You're right, cause size doesn't matter," he jokingly replied as he turned to face her with his head propped up with his arm. This got her to roll her eyes at the blond as she also turned to face him. This was when they both became self conscious about their positions causing the two parties to blush uncontrollably.

Mari then let out a cough and said, "You should, um, y-you know, change." With that she got of the bed and began fixing the things that were out of place after their game.

...

It was the day for their clubs fashion show, and a lot of famous figures were there to watch. Well, that was to be expected from a prestigious school where most of the students were children from well off families. There they could see their parents along with their friends. But looking at the more out shining personalities in the crowd was also where they could find the Agrestes and their secretary, the Bourgeois family, Clara Nightingale, Jagged Stone and others.

Marinette can feel the excitement and the anxiety, and she can see that the rest of the club was also having the same panic. Their theme was "Summer and Beaches," with different sub themes from the designers. One designer had swimsuits, another had Hawaiin style, there was one that had a Tex-Mex theme, one was carnival themed, there was a bohemian theme, tropical, floral, animal and there was Mari's sailor theme.

She can see all of them were too anxious that they were able to dress their models to the T. There was also one of them that threw up because of the pressure. They then watched as one theme after another was called. When it came to her designs she saw the impressed looks of the audience, even from Chloe, although she probably doesn't know that it was her design. She even saw her former classmates looking at the designs as if for the first time. This pained her a bit since she made sure to incorporate her designer tag there but it doesn't seem like they noticed.

Once the show ended, the designers were called up front for their recognition. They were all trembling, nonetheless, were able to make it up front as they were applauded by their success. She could hear the excited cheers of her family and classmates and from a few personalities who seemed to be waiting for her appearance. She watched her former classmates' jaws dropped as they felt stupid not realizing that those were her designs.

After the whole exhausting show they were all dismissed as the group hugged and shook hands in congratulations. Mari was engulfed by her friends and were overly happy at her success. She hugged them backed and thanked them. They then went to their favorite cafe and celebrated. But one by one they left, leaving Marinette and Felix alone, again.

"Outstanding performance as all ways," he commented still trying to deny the rapid beating of his heart towards this girl. "Thanks, but I'd say the same for you guys, after all you guys modeled for me," she replied. This got their conversation moving and they were deeply enjoying each others company when unexpected guests came.

When they heard the door chime they didn't really mind until those people went directly to their table. Marinette froze at the sight of her former friends and classmates. She could feel Alya's glare as she stared blankly at her drink.

"Seriously Marinette, no note, no message. You just disappeared into thin air in the second semester not even telling me!" Alya exclaimed. Felix glared at the girl as he took Marinette's shaking hands into his and gave it a tight affectionate squeeze that gave her strength. Channeling her inner snarky self, she took a sip of the drink and said, "I saw no reason to tell you about it. It wasn't like I heard you all wish that I should just leave Lila for good, like transfer."

This made the rest of the class flush in guilt, except for Alya. "Really Marinette, are you going to turn yourself into the victim again. Can you stop saying that? We know that YOU wanted Lila out of school for good!" she accused. This just made Marinette look at her drink and begin tilting her cup in different directions as she answered, "Wow, you make it sound like I got Lila 'almost' expelled. It's not like I 'almost' got expelled for stealing her heirloom and taking the key to correction of our exam. Or I was the one who have that 'disease' that makes me spout out nonsense." At the end she moved her pupils to look at them to find them processing what she said.

"If that's all I think that we should go," Marinette stated as she set her finished drink down and took Felix's hand and began to leave. "Not so fast, Marinette. You are not leaving until Lila comes here and you apologize to her," Alya said as she grabbed her roughly by the arm. This infuriated Felix so he stepped in to intervene.

"Unhand her, now," he said as he glared at Alya. She in turn glared back at him and said, "Get your nose out of this." He then went fully in front of her, using his height as an advantage to intimidate her. He saw her slightly flinch but still did not comply. After showing no signs of letting go, he forcefully grabbed her wrist and tightened his grip making her let Marinette go because of the sudden pain on her wrist.

"Alya I'm here," they heard someone call. "Lila, great timing," Alya replied as she smiled and winced at the girl. She then turned back to the two and said, "Now, apologize." Marinette then asked, "For what?" This made the blogger more infuriated as she began recounting the times she had injured her, bullied her, humiliated her, insulted her, accused her and other forms of abuse. "Are you done?" she asked after she had recounted all of the 'times' she had attacked the Italian.

Before Alya could say anything, Felix cut in, "Now if you please, I would like to take my girlfriend out now. You lot have already  wasted our time and disrupted our date." "I don't give a damn about your fucking date," Alya seethed as she got more frustrated by the pair. "I know, but I'm sure you are interested in keeping your reputation," he said as he pointed at the customers who were filming and whispering about them. Nino then approached his girlfriend and tried to calm her down but it didn't help, it only made her more aggressive. Blind with rage, she threw a strong punch at Marinette making her nose bleed.

Felix then clapped his hands in sarcasm, which brought the lady blogger back to her senses. "Ma-mari, I didn't, I'm sorry," she fumbled. "Ladies and gentlemen, the blogger of the Ladyblog," was all Felix can say before wrapping and arm around Mari and helping her with her nosebleed as he took her out of the building.

...

Now, the pair was seated in her room, her on the chaise and Felix on the floor as he began tending to her. Once he patched her up neatly they settled down. Marinette shift uncomfortably in her seat as she had been replaying the scene in her head. But what she couldn't get rid of was how protective Felix was when he claimed to be her boyfriend. She blushed again at the thought.

"Are you alright?" Felix asked in concern when he saw her heat up. "Y-yep, OK me, no. Me OK. Wait, I mean, I'm OK," she stammered. Felix smiled at her as he shifted uncomfortably as well trying to forget what he said in the heat of the moment.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Mari spoke up, "So earlier at the cafe, things got out of hand didn't they." Felix only nodded not wanting this to go to that direction. Feeling his discomfort, Mari just got straight to the point. "W-when you said that I was your g-girlfriend, did you say it out of–," but before she could continue, Felix stopped her by saying, "I want you to be." This made them pause and look at each other in surprise.

This sudden realization and confession was not what Felix had in mind. So he turned his head to the other direction so to not see her face of discomfort. To his surprise, instead of rejection, he felt two arms hug his torso and a small body pressed against his side. He turned to find if it was what he think it was, Marinette hugging him tightly and resting her head on his shoulder.

"I-I'd like that," was all she could say that changed his world. Here he could see a woman who would not cheat on him for she hated liars and lying. Someone he could trust not to break his heart in the worst possible way ever. He did not see her in Marinette anymore. Now he saw the person Marinette is, a loyal friend and companion, an honest and trust worthy person who would not string him around because of guilt and displeasure.

This was all that he needed before he took her and kissed her sweetly not finding any resistance in her at all. That was all the confirmation they both needed until they found themselves sleeping next to each other, arms protectively around them and the lack of clothing was all they could think of as they relished in each other for they wanted the other more than they had wanted their pasts.

[em0avacado]

Pen Pals - Ezekiel Reyes

trigger warning : none other than brief mention of removing someone’s pelvis, wearing maybe.

word count : 2068

Dear Ezekiel,

Her first letter started simple, she wasn’t sure whether to address the inmate more formerly, or of this was fine, but with lack of better knowledge on this, she settled on that. It all started when curiosity got the best of her. She had a friend who would constantly talk about her very own pen pal, she’d talk about the stories theyd tell her, how they were interesting and that they had, in reality, not much better to do with their time in lockup. At first, the young woman was rather skeptical, but after reading some of her friends letters herself, the curiosity started eating her alive from the inside out. Maybe she’d give it a try, what’s the worst that could happen? So, after a few hours of extensive reasearch, she’d picked an inmate and began writing, although, after the first two words of the letter, she was stuck. It wasn’t long until she realized how much time had passed since she’d actually written a letter to someone who wasn’t her grandmother.

With a pen gripped tightly in her hand, the black ink began to spill onto the page as her mind finally came up with things to scribble onto the soft blue lines. The nails of her right hand tapping against the finished wood of her desk, it wasn’t long until she ripped the paper out of the coiled notebook and started over again.

Dear Ezekiel,

My name’s Ophelia, I’m about twenty six years old, and my favourite colour is orange, because it reminds me of orange creamsicles on a hot summers day. Seems childish, I’m aware, but alas, my curiosity only carried me so far. It’s been years since I’ve actually written a letter, let alone made a friend. You see, I’m a very reserved person but i supposed that the only way of really making friends with a pen pal is to start off by introducing myself into a bit more depth than small talk. The friends I do have, they call me Oph, no one really calls me by my first name.

God, she sounded so utterly stupid, she thought, but what else was there to write? Who even knew if this man would write back? No one, no one did. But, can’t be for sure unless she tries, right? right.

However, she went on, writing down anything she could possibly think of that could stark some sort of interest from the man behind bars. She went from how the green on the trees in the spring brought her a specific joy in her heart because when she was younger her father would point out that the green in forests meant that the wild life was happy, healthy, to explaining what the saw was initially invented for. Once her hand began to cramp, she called it a day. Folding the papers together neatly, she shoved them in an envelope and sent it off to the right address before her hesitation stopped her. Now; it was time to wait. And she hated waiting.

Without a real timeline in her head on when she’d hear back from Ezekiel, she waited days, then weeks, at some point, the thought seemed to slip her mind. Heading to work each day, only to head home, check her mail box, head inside, prepare herself for the night and get at least a few hours of sleep before doing it all again the next day. An impossibly boring routine that was disturbed when she found an envelope, with blue in scratched into the front. Reading the name ‘Ezekiel’ within the first few lines of the actual letter, thrilled her. Quickly, she tossed her bag and keys to the side, kicking the door shut behind her, she tore into the envelope and began to read.

Dearest Ophelia

You can tell me absolutely anything you wish to, just from your first letter i can tell that your mind is a place of wonder. If you think anything like you write, I’d love to pick your brain some day, those run on sentences really get a man thinking.

A wide grin spread across her lips, her eyes flit across the pages as she read ever word scribbled onto the lines in blue ink. He told her anything that reflected topics she covered, answering all the questions that she asked, even adding in commentary here and there. He matched the amount she wrote, rambling on just as much as she did.

P.s. were chainsaws really invented to cut open and take out the pelvis of a woman who took too long giving birth?

A cackle rolled passed her lips when she read that very last sentence, and she dove into explaining the history of it once more. Every letter she wrote, would end in a fact so buzzard it was hard to believe. The two went back and forth as fast as time would allow, matching the length of letters, each and every time. Quickly, that ugly blue ink from Ezekiels pen became her favourite colour, replacing the orange colours that she once preferred over all else.

But, all good things do eventually come to an end, for years, they’d go back and forth, writing letters and knowing everything about one another. Occasionally letters were sent with tear stains wrinkling papers from when she poured her heart onto the page, she’d sent a picture of herself once too, one she never got back. Dozens of paper cuts, empty pens and notepads empty, pages torn out and sent. Then, one day, it all just stopped, her last letter never got a response, she waited weeks, but weeks turned to months quickly and she assumed he’d gotten out, it wasn’t worth contacting her anymore now that he was set free into the world once again. It hurt, it shouldn’t have, he was just a pen pal, a friend who wasn’t permanent in the slightest, she knew that, she did, but that bond she thought they developed was broken. Perhaps she got attached, but, for lack of better wording, it sucked.

It was now the middle of December, and Ophelia had planned what she usually did during the holiday season. Nothing. She didn’t have family left, her friends had their own families to attend to, besides, she had just up and moved to a town she was dangerously unfamiliar with. Although, none of that really phased her. On her way home from work, she stopped by the store, a hardcore case of the munchies leading her down chips isle. Humming to herself softly, her eyes scanned the shelves, tossing a bag or two in her basket before strolling down the isle.

A small, white sheet of something, perhaps paper? Swayed to the ground slowly, landing rignt at her feet, with a quirked brow, she leant down and picked it up. The man who dropped it, standing not too far in front of her, didn’t seem to notice that he’s lost it. A man, with a buff figure, broad shoulders, he walked like he’d been constipated for a week now, his phone in hand, which his focused had zeroed in on. She trapped the small paper, which turned out to be a photograph. Ophelia didn’t want to look at it, to respect the mans privacy, but curiosity killed the cat, right?

The photo, she immediately recognized the bright red hair, the pearly white smile, the mess on the pale skin and the beaming green eyes. That was her, the photo? it was the one she sent to Ezekiel all those years ago, when they first started talking. But why did this man have it? With confusion, she rushed forward, tapping the man on his shoulder “excuse me -“ she started, but her words caught in her throat when he turned around, it was him. he looked like he did in the pictures on the sight, the one he sent her, just slightly older, his hair had a tight trim, he had a few more stress lines than the picture did.

The basket tucked under her arm just moments ago, hit the ground with a crash. Her eyes went wide, her skin paled. Ophelia looked like she’d just seen a ghost, Ez mimicking the shock on his own features. “you- i-“ she managed to get out, forcing her mouth shut.

A nervous chuckle came from Ez, paired with a weak “O- hey.” he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

She raised her fist and punched him in the bicep “what the fuck?!” she asked, her shock replaced by anger as she waved the photo in front of him. “really?! I thought we were cool, friends? even? you said I was one of the best friends you’d ever made and I don’t even get as much as a ‘oh hey Ophelia I’m getting out talk to you never!’ ?! and you just carry my picture around like a creep?” she asked, pushing it against his chest and crossing her arms over her own. “well?”

“Listen, I’m sorry.” he said, looking for ways to explain himself, why he hadn’t kept in touch, any sort of excuse but there was nothing, truth was, he had wanted to stay in contact but everything with the club, and the deal, and pops got in the way, so it kept getting pushed back. “it was a dick move and I’m sorry.” he said, looking down at her.

“yeah no fucking shit.” she spoke, her arms still crossed over her chest, her glare burrowing holes into his head. She opened her mouth, ready to add more onto what was already said to him, but in that moment someone in a kutte that nearly matched his own, rounded the corner, ready to speak to Ez until her glare shifted from him to the slightly taller man, his green flannel buttoned up, chains clanging together.

“Hey boy sco-“ he stopped mid sentence, not taking another step, he narrowed his eyes at her, looking between her, and his brother, a smile came to his lips in realization “oh shit.” he laughed “you can deal with angry fire crotch on your own, I’ll wait outside.” he laughed, heading out and leaving the two alone again.

“Angel?” she asked, he looked exactly like Ez would explain in his letters, nodding his head, she furrowed her brows slightly and leaned down, picking her basket up again, hanging it in the crease of her elbow. “Look I get it, you got out, had better things to do, I shouldn’t have let my anger get the best of me but come on? We spoke for years, we bonded, or so I thought? Feels ridiculous now, but, hey, I hope that your life treats you better than it has, I’ll see you around.” she said, nodding her head at him, turning to head to the till when she felt his hand on her arm, spinning her around.

“I looked for you.” he started “not nearly hard enough but they never gave away your address, nothing, which was smart but I did look for you, where I could.” he confessed “not once did I forget about you, Ophelia, I couldn’t.” he dropped his arm when she stood, looking up at him.

“I know. Duh. Your memory is like- permanent.” she said, and he nearly rolled his eyes.

“okay smart ass that’s not what I meant.” he groaned. “you’re unforgettable, even if I could forget, I couldn’t.”

“you’re much smoother on paper” she added another little side note.

“Ophelia.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyways, that picture was the only that allowed me to feel a sense of home as of lately, and would be the only thing that did until i found you. That’s why I kept it.” he told her, her gaze softening. “Now that i have, found you, i won’t let you get away again.”

“sounds kidnap - y.” she muttered, interrupting him. He dropped his hands, slapping against his thighs with a soft sight, he shot her a glare.

“Ophelia I swear to god i’m trying to confess my feelings right now could you put a pause on that for a moment?” he asked her, raising a brow.

“no.” she said simply, scratching her nose. “don’t confess your undying love for me in the middle of a grocery store, please. That old lady has been listening and eyeing you this whole time.”

[jojo-reader-hell]

Kars x Pillar Man!Reader: Beautiful Boy

“Take it away! Take it away! I don’t want to see...!”

The way your friend mourned, you would have thought the baby had been born dead. Her wailing was just as loud as his.

“You have to stay calm.” hummed the medicine maker to your friend. “He’s still attached.”

“He’s defective!” She screamed, red staining the birthing cloth below her that your father had made.

“Be still...”

“He’s defective! He’s deformed!”

This was wrong. Birth was supposed to be exciting. A rare opportunity for your species to give life to a being made by two mated pillar people deeply in love with one another. The second birth of the tribe was just as anticipated as the first. It was supposed to be a joyous occasion.

It wasn’t supposed to be this painful.

All you could do was hold the infant to your chest, this squalling pink creature only a few minutes old and swaddled in skins, as Sepultura screamed from where she was kneeling. The medicine maker had to remove the organ that attached the child to her, even after birth the baby would continue to absorb her flesh from the inside with this particular organ. Any pillar woman would have let her child absorb the energy from her body a few extra minutes or even hours to let the child grow stronger, but the moment Sepultura’s child emerged bathed in the melted parts he took from her, he screamed bloody murder and sealed his fate. The extraction of the organ was brutal, the wise old medicine maker emerged with crimson coating his arm up to the elbow. Because you were so curious about infants and how they were born he had agreed to let you stay with your friend as she labored, and as he worked he explained to you what was happening.

Now, you wished with all your might he would shut up.

“Crying means he will have a stunted growth, the infant is too weak to live...” Eisidisi whispered in your ear as he cleaned his hand on an animal skin.

“Why?”

“Look at his neck there. The cord binding him to his mother was strangling him up until the moment he emerged. If he wanted to survive, he had to continuously take from her. It was enough that he lived through the birth. I’ve shown you what normal infants look like, you helped deliver Whamuu and saw how big and silent he was and how strong when he clung to you. For this one to get to that point he’d need to feed far longer. Your friend... She’s far too weak to give any more. This infant will be lucky to find anyone willing to let him feed from them.”

But how was he any less than the other child you helped to deliver? To you, this one was just as perfect. There was a soft dusting of your friend’s fine red strands on the soft crown of his head, little fingers and toes spreading like stars as you cradled him in your arms, even the way he opened his mouth to cry was absolutely fascinating. It wasn’t wrong to you. There was no reason for Eisidisi or Sepultura to recoil from him as though he was a disease ridden member of the Others.

“What do we do with him now?” You asked innocently.

The way he looked at you, you knew you wouldn’t like the answer.

“I need to take him to the altar.” was his gentle reply.

“Why?!”

You sounded like a child because you knew there was only one altar anyone ever talked about. Desperate, high pitched whining, wondering why the little one couldn’t just be left be. It might have sounded to the uneducated that you were totally naive to the ways of life in the tribe, and to the uneducated outside observer they would be surprised (and a bit pleased) to find out they were right. But not for the reasons one might expect. For an artisan, someone as low on the caste as you, matters of procreation and intimacy were withheld purposefully. Even though you were mated, the knowledge of reproduction was shrouded in mystery. Why allow you to add unnecessary mouths to feed to the tribe when already there were plenty? Such was the case regarding your match. Kars had it in his favor that he detested procreation of any kind, he kept you appeased with the most minimal of affections and nothing more.

There was also the rule among the tribe to keep the numbers in check: If you should desire to add to your hearth, a member of your family had to die. Kars wasn’t an artisan, but any offspring would theoretically be trained to take the place of one of the artisans in your caste, just as you were born to take over your grandfather’s role of carving the tribe’s stone death masks of the ancestors. Your father had his place among the weavers, your mother was the armorer, there would be no place for your offspring unless one of your parents willingly gave their life. It wouldn’t be logical to have a child for the sake of having a child.

But hadn’t this infant been given a role? Sepultura and Megadeth had already buried one of theirs, you helped dress Sepultura’s mother for her funeral, the old priestess named Opeth weeping with joy to be reunited with her mate and wishing her grandchild a long and happy life. You yourself made Opeth’s death mask, even helped Megadeth place it over Sepultura’s face as she labored.

The child even had a name... His grandmother had whispered it in your ear, and you had intended to name the child when it was presented to your dear friend.

“... Santana...” you whispered to Eisidisi.

He looked at you curiously, brown skin capturing the glow of the tallow lamps as Megadeth rushed to the side of his screaming mate, holding her tightly and hushing her as she screamed that her offspring was trying to kill her.

“Opeth named him. Before the sun took her.” You murmured. “It was her mate’s name. He’s supposed to be Santana...”

A large hand dwarfed your head, smoothing down your locks of disheveled hair away from your horns as hot tears dripped down on the quieting infant. The baby, Santana, wore himself out with crying and had stopped to open his crimson eyes, training on you and reaching out as though you were his parent. You cried ever so quietly, Eisidisi ushering you from the hearth as he attempted to soothe the distraught mother and her equally broken mate.

Obediently your legs took you through the tunnels and into the familiar surroundings of the sunfasting antechamber. During the glow of the moonlight, it looked peaceful. The air from above provided a cool breeze that whistled softly through the tunnels, sounding as though it was singing, and as you placed Santana gently on the altar where months before you and Kars sat, you knew you were doing something horribly wrong. Santana was calmer now. Drenched in tears and remnants of rusting blood, he cooed delicately at you. His lips formed a smile as he reached out to touch your calloused hands. Such a beautiful thing to see, but it broke your heart to know that you had to leave him here.

They’d know if you tried to save his life, and they’d kill both of you. Kars would certainly volunteer to do it himself. There was no hope for the infant except to return him to the sun, that his parents might try again for the normal, strong child that Opeth sacrificed for.

It must have been a long time you were gone for your mate to come looking for you. When he found you standing at the altar with Santana, he was unusually quiet. His steps towards you were tender, his touch soft as he enveloped you in his arms.

“It’s not fair...” you told Kars.

“I know.” he murmured into your ear.

“It’s not fair... just because he cried when he was born.... just because Sepultura’s cord was strangling him, he has to die for something that wasn’t his fault to begin with. It’s not fair. Why... why can’t they just let him feed and grow stronger? What if from an evolutionary standpoint he’s got so much more to give than his parents ever will? Would they be sorry then? Would Eisidisi feel ashamed for encouraging me to leave him here to die?”

When you looked up at your mate, bitter tears dribbling down your cheeks, you noticed he was looking at the child strangely. He reached out a gargantuan hand, dwarfing the child’s little foot as he stroked it thoughtfully.

“Perhaps...” he murmured. “It would be a shame, wouldn’t it? To be so wasteful. Negligent in evolutionary potential.”

This wasn’t like him, but you only cared that for once in your life, your mate was agreeing wholeheartedly with what you said.

For the first time since this birth things looked hopeful. The expression on Kars’ face meant he was plotting, as he usually did, and you hoped whatever it was that it would work in any way that allowed Santana to live.

Santana... sweet, beautiful little Santana.

In a moment of weakness, you wished Sepultura would be brought to justice for violently rejecting her son, unaware that in a short amount of time your wish would come true.

[luninosity]

Catching up on @evanstanweek ficlets again! Here’s Day 3, prompt: on set.

Read at AO3 here - 2,336 words of on-set love confessions, set during The First Avenger - or read on tumblr below!

#

Sebastian’s watching Chris. He often is, can’t seem to help the track of his gaze—can’t pull away from the magnet-tug that’s Chris Evans’ loud laugh and gesturing hands and philosopher’s eyes, and if he’s honest he doesn’t want to. Right now the low hazy grey lighting of the broken bar sits on Chris’s shoulders and turns him into a grieving supersoldier: a man hollowed out by loss, left with a gaping hole right through his chest.

 Chris is so good. So brilliant at emotion, at getting character. So thoughtful and so generous with his feelings, the kind of bravery that holds nothing back. He is Steve Rogers, through and through: a hero, shining blue and gold.

 Sebastian’s not that brave. Not that brilliant. Good at angst and pain, or dry humor, or intensity, maybe; but he’s in character for it. He does love people and stories, and he thinks he’s funny, sometimes, and he thinks he might want to be a writer, sometimes, and he can shove an entire pizza slice in his mouth when he’s comfortable around friends, but.

 It takes him a while. Exhaling. Stepping out. Speaking up. He wouldn’t say he’s shy, because he isn’t, not once he knows people. He’s just…not Chris Evans, who wears joys and vulnerabilities openly, with pride, unafraid.

 Sebastian looks at Chris, and aches with emotion, and says nothing, every day and every minute on this film so far.

 He’s technically done for the day, though he’s not at all done on this film; he’s spent the morning running around with Howling Commandos and being a young and terrified sergeant thrown into war. They’d filmed Bucky’s fall from the train the day before; Sebastian had honestly loved it. The emotion’d been easy: love and loyalty, throwing himself in to fight alongside the other half of his heart, the moment of sheer shock, a small but gloriously physical drop onto thick mats. They’d let him do that one, because it wasn’t a long fall and they needed to see his face. He hoped it’d been good; everyone seemed pleased, at least.

 He shifts weight, wishes he had a pillar or a wall to lean on. He watches Chris some more.

 They’d caught the stunned disbelief on Chris’s—Steve’s—face at the fall, yesterday. Chris is so incredible at nuance, at blazing emotions, even in a few-seconds-long shot. Sebastian had said, after, “That felt really good, that last take?” and had meant, I think you’re a genius, I think I want to work right next to you forever, I think I love you.

 Chris had gotten kind of pink-cheeked because Chris is too damn self-deprecating, and had said, “Oh—um, thanks, man, you too, I mean it felt good to me too, I mean we’re fuckin’ awesome, obviously,” and had nudged Sebastian’s shoulder, somewhere between a punch and a quick resting of a hand. “Craft services? They got blueberry bagels, someone said.”

 Chris, bagel-focused, clearly had not heard Sebastian’s internal monologue. And if he had, wouldn’t reciprocate.

 Which is fine, of course. Chris never needs to know, and Sebastian’s ridiculous emotions will calm the hell down and go away. Any day now. Sometime. Soon.

 But he’s watching Chris, and Chris is pretending to try to get drunk, pain visibly shredding him inside; Chris is Steve and Steve can’t believe it and has to believe it and wants to scream, to shout, to punch a hole through the world—

 The scene’s fantastic, of course.

 They get it in maybe three takes, rapid-fire, Chris laying out his heart for the watchers. His voice cracks; it’s getting rougher, the third time.

 They do it a couple times more for different close-ups. Sebastian takes a step closer, between takes. His boots—he’s changed; they’re his own boots—are louder than he’d recalled that morning; Chris looks over at the sound.

 And maybe Chris looks surprised, or relieved, or grateful, for a split second; maybe it’s all in Sebastian’s head, though, because the next second they’re right back into it, capturing Steve’s heartbreak.

 It’s a wrap for the scene, eventually. And Chris is done for a few hours too, though he’ll need to stick around; he’s got some close-ups to do inside a mock airplane, being bounced around, for what’ll be the big final self-sacrifice. Sebastian loves the heroism and pain of it; he’s always loved good writing, and he’s got a good feeling about this script and about this universe, which he’s a tiny part of now.

 Chris doesn’t get up right away. Just scrubs both hands over his face, shoulders slumped. Hayley Atwell’s gone off to talk to the director; Joe’s nodding, listening to her. Nobody’s checking on Chris.

 And that’s wrong, that’s wrong and not good and not right—Chris has just been hurting, the way that Chris hurts for the world, and Chris should never be hurting, not while Sebastian’s alive—

 Sebastian’s legs move before his brain makes a conscious decision. He’s picking his way across artistic rubble and taking a few running steps and putting a hand on Chris’s shoulder. “Hey.”

 Chris actually jumps a little, which isn’t the best start. “Oh! Uh, hey, hi, did you, um…have a question? About Steve and Bucky, or somethin’?” The Boston comes out extra-strong; it does that when Chris is feeling a lot, or tipsy, or simply exaggerating to make someone laugh.

 “No,” Sebastian says. “Or, well, yeah, we might want to talk about some of those flashback sequences, so we’re on the same page with emotion and all, but.” He licks his lips, realizes he’s doing it—a nervous habit, one he’s had for years—and stops. He can taste chapstick on his tongue. “I just. Wanted to. I don’t know. Are you…I mean, that looked like a lot.”

 “You…” Chris trails off. He’s looking at Sebastian’s face with astonishing intent; Sebastian would say even desperation, but that’d be ludicrous. Chris doesn’t have any reason to feel desperate about him.

 He tries, “I know you, um, like tea? Not coffee? We could go grab, um, tea. If you want.”

 “Tea,” Chris says, a little blankly. “But you like coffee.”

 Sebastian’s starting to get kind of worried, here. “I do, but you gave it up? We could maybe head back to your trailer, and you can, um, relax for a minute, and I can…try to make tea?”

 Chris stares at him some more.

 “Or not,” Sebastian throws in helplessly.

 “Yes,” Chris says. “Yes, yeah, yes—you—fuck. Okay. Jesus, Chris, get it together,” and he even shakes his head like a puppy flinging off water, and Sebastian kind of wants to grin and also scratch his tummy.

 Well. Maybe not scratch. He can think of better things to do with Chris’s stomach. Mostly involving his tongue.

 And he should absolutely not be thinking of that when Chris needs his help. He sticks out a hand. “To the end of the line? Or at least your trailer.”

 Chris looks at the hand, and then takes it, hauling himself up out of the chair. His fingers are large and strong and a little cold, and they squeeze Sebastian’s for just a little too long, as if wanting to hold on.

 No. Must be Sebastian’s heart thinking that. Wanting what he can’t have.

 He walks with Chris through behind-the-scenes set-ups and teardowns, props and people rushing to and fro, the corners of trailers and the shouts of movie-making going on. The sun’s warm, if light; the ground’s hard beneath his boots. He keeps stealing glances at Chris, who doesn’t seem too talkative. Sebastian’s poor overworked heart wants to take each sensation, each sight and taste and scent of this backstage moment, and fold them up safe deep inside.

 Chris is letting him help. That feels like sunshine.

 Chris’s trailer’s simple, unpretentious, unfussy; script copies and notes lie scattered around, and he’s got some weights, and some Disney-movie DVDs. Sebastian smiles, because that’s so very Chris: delight in the magic, always.

 Chris, still in costume, sits down on his sofa. He breathes out, and looks up. “Thanks.”

 “For what? How do I make tea with this?” He’s poking Chris’s electric kettle. He does sort of know how it works, in theory. His mother has an old-fashioned kettle; he’s got fancy coffee-making machinery; he should be able to combine all this knowledge. “Where is your tea?”

 “Seb,” Chris says. “I—hang on, does anyone actually call you Seb?”

 “Um. Not really? You can. I don’t mind.” He doesn’t. Chris uses last names often, an affectionate Boston-bro shorthand for friendship; Sebastian’s somehow always been Sebastian or Seb, in Chris’s voice. He’s wondered why, though he’s thought maybe Chris just doesn’t feel that close to him. Not deserving of the bro-status.

 “You don’t mind, or you don’t like it, and you’re being nice about it?”

 “I don’t mind,” Sebastian says, too quickly. “I like it.”

 “Sebastian,” Chris says.

 “Really,” Sebastian says. “Either. Whatever.”

 “Jesus,” Chris says, face back in his hands. “I’m sorry. I just…just tell me if I’m sayin’ something stupid, okay? Please.”

 “But you’re not!” Sebastian comes back over to the couch. That damn magnet again. Tugging his bones. “You’re not, it’s fine, we’re good, Chris. I swear. Really.”

 Chris doesn’t look up, so Sebastian drops to both knees, right there at Chris’s feet, and tries not to think of all the times he’s wanted to do exactly that. It’s easier not to think of it, right now, because he’s genuinely concerned.

 He peeks up at Chris’s face. “Hey. Kinda worried here. Not about you, I mean, about your kettle, it’s got all these buttons, it’s like a rocket ship, I’m afraid if I touch the wrong thing it’ll explode.”

 Chris snorts, almost a laugh, and then does look up. His eyes go right to Sebastian’s, so close and so blue; and then all at once he’s moving, leaning forward, one hand reaching out and cradling Sebastian’s head, and then—

 They’re kissing. Oh, god, they’re kissing, Sebastian on his knees in front of Chris and Chris bending down to claim him, hand in Sebastian’s hair—

 Chris kisses like reprieve, like the release of storms, like the dive into a heated pool on a chilly day: wholehearted, devoted, anxious to lick and taste and plunge into every part of Sebastian’s mouth. Sebastian, who’s been kissed before, has in fact never been kissed before, because no other kiss has ever been a kiss, compared to this.

 His knees dimly register the hardness of the trailer floor, and his neck’s at kind of an awkward angle, and Chris is still mostly in the Captain America suit. None of that matters. Nothing else matters at all, because Chris wants him and Sebastian’s whole self yearns for Chris, and Chris’s tongue and taste and tug at Sebastian’s hair are all white-hot gloriously perfect.

 Chris pulls back almost as abruptly. They’re both breathless; Chris whispers, “Oh, fuck…” and takes his hand out of Sebastian’s hair, but then touches Sebastian’s cheek, cups his face, as if unable to stop touching. “I…fuck…I didn’t…I’m so fucking sorry, I just…”

 “Why?”

 “What?”

 “Why’re you sorry?” Sebastian tips his head into Chris’s hand. “I’m not.”

 “You’re…not.”

 “Chris,” Sebastian says, and then runs out of words. He hopes Chris can see it, can read it, in his eyes. On his face. “Yes.”

 “Yeah?” Chris reaches out with the other hand too: framing Sebastian’s face now, tender and awestruck. “You mean that.”

 “I mean it,” Sebastian says. “But—”

 “Oh god,” Chris says, “I’ve fucked this up, haven’t I—”

 “No! No, just…are you okay? I mean, from earlier.” Somewhere amid the kissing his hands’ve ended up on Chris’s thighs; apparently they just want to be there, and now rub along Chris’s legs, soothing and caressing and learning all at once. “I mean, I wanted to—”

 “To help,” Chris groans. “You came over to help—because you’re the sweetest fucking person I know, god, you’re perfect, Seb, the nicest and the warmest and the best—and I fucking, Jesus, practically mauled you—”

 Sebastian cuts that anguished recrimination off by diving forward and getting his mouth back on Chris’s. After some in-depth affirmation, he breathes against Chris’s lips, “Don’t think you’re doing any mauling I don’t like.”

 Chris’s eyebrows go up.

 “Really,” Sebastian tells him.

 “Huh,” Chris says. “Huh. Okay. You—okay.”

 “No,” Sebastian says patiently. “Are you okay?”

 Chris stares at him, and then bursts out laughing. Mid-laughter, scoops Sebastian off the floor. Flops them both down across the sofa, holding on. “God, you’re incredible.”

 “The best, you said.”

 “And I mean it. You just make it all…feel better, kind of?” Chris strokes a hand down Sebastian’s back, over his t-shirt. “That’s what it was, earlier. Like…being Steve, losing Bucky, but that’s you, and all at once I was thinking about losing you, and I just felt like…like someone’d dropped me off a train, y’know? Like I’d never get up again.”

 “I’m here.” Sebastian wriggles against him. They fit together: bodies pressed close, every piece of them learning each other. He’s half atop Chris, but with one of Chris’s legs tangled through his. “I’m here.”

 “I know.” Chris rubs his back again. “And you were there, too. You were right there and I could look up and find you, and it was like I could remember how to breathe. And then you were here, asking about tea and looking at me like—and I just had to kiss you. I want to kiss you. Seb. Sebastian. God, I fuckin’ want—everything. I know it might get complicated, I know we’re in the middle of making a movie, but I can’t not want everything. Together. With you.”

 “Well,” Sebastian says, “good to know,” and stretches to kiss Chris again. It’s that simple, if not easy: the future’ll change, but it does that anyway, sprawling out in all sorts of directions. And he thinks it’ll be a good direction, with Chris at his side. “Because I want everything with you too.”

[ladynestaarcheron]

Invisible String - Chapter Three

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @iammissstark @sayosdreams @ncssian @westrangecollectionkoalaposts @queenestarcheron @nessiantrashh @ko0mbayamylord @skychild29 @sensitiveillyrian)

thanks so much for your patience everyone<3 here’s chapter three!

---

Azriel remembers the exact moment his bond with Nesta snapped into place; that first inhale of breath after it. How cold and crisp it had seemed; like her, maybe. For a brief moment, he had seen it all unfurl in his mind. If he were not in love with another, if her sister did not call to him so, if his brother did not so clearly desire her with every bone in his body...how they might tell their story.

But it had only been for a moment, and every one after only further solidified what he knew: this bond would not be a traditional one.

That doesn't make it any better when it breaks with her death.

It takes him back to that first breath with Nesta, this first breath without her. It hurts to breathe, and then it doesn't get better-it gets worse. Because Rhys asks him what's wrong.

And now he has to be the one to tell them. Feyre, so nervous and guilty all the time now. Cassian, utterly heartbroken and trying his best not to let it show. And Elain, hiding from him.

And the knowledge that this...empathy, this innate knowing of his family's feelings...that that is-was Nesta's. Nesta, and how she saw everything about everyone and catalogued it and sometimes felt it herself...that is gone. He'll never have that again. That...caring.

But she was his only chance. He was never going to feel joy so easily like Mor; he's always known that. But Nesta, though she did not know, helped him see it more clearly. Recognize the light in the world, even when she was in such a dark place herself. He had never thanked her. Never even...

"Az?" Rhys says again, putting a hand on his shoulder, bringing him back. He blinks to see Feyre and Cassian looking at him, concerned.

He can't meet their gaze. Shit. Shit. How did this-he should've seen, should've known. Felt it, perhaps. But now there's only this void, this nothing where Nesta once lay-

"Sit down," Cassian says, moving him into a chair. "Mor-yeah. Az, drink this."

Oh, Mother, how's he going to tell Cassian? How can he do this?

"No," he croaks, pushing Cassian's hand away. So generous and caring, even though his bond with Nesta hurt him so much. Azriel doesn't deserve him.

"What is it?"

He can't do it. He can't. This is the cruelest twist of fate there is, surely. Cassian doesn't deserve this. Azriel shouldn't be the one to tell him-it shouldn't be happening at all-how did this even happen?

"Az!" Cassian slaps him in the face.

"You think that's going to help?" Feyre demands. "He obviously needs a healer."

"No," he says, more forcefully, standing up. "I...we have to...sit. Stay here a moment." He needs to get a grip on himself. Send a shadow to tell Nuala to get Elain and seat her here, too. She and Feyre should be together for this. And Amren...she had been Nesta's friend, once.

How is this falling to him? How is he supposed to do this?

A few minutes pass until Elain shuffles into the room, exchanging a bewildered look with Feyre. They still do not know. They haven't even asked him if this is something to do with Nesta.

But he has to tell them. Now.

He's the worst person in the world for this. He wishes, so intensely it burns, that she were here. What he wouldn't give for her perception right now-how cruel that he does not get to keep a part of her-as if it should have been him who had gotten any of her, when it so clearly was the wrong choice this whole time-

"Azriel?" Elain's soft voice calls him back. She hasn't spoken to him in a week. This is their first conversation in a week. He doesn't doubt it will be their last.

Everyone he loves is gathered around him, sitting, gazing at him. Only Amren's head is turned, staring at nothing. Perhaps she's figured it out.

He takes a deep breath-dull, stale, so unlike that fresh one months ago.

"I'm so sorry to tell you this," he says, voice quiet. He forces himself to meet Elain's eye. She reaches a hand out to Feyre, like she can feel what's coming. Perhaps she can See it. He swallows, daring a glance at Cassian. It's too much to say-he can't force the words. "The bond broke a few minutes ago." He stops for breath. Can't look. Can't do this. "I can't feel Nesta anymore." Don't look. Don't. "She's gone."

When Azriel was a child, he was left largely to grow in a darkened room by himself. He would be let out for an hour a day, and once a week he was permitted to see his mother. So either the Mother has extended Her mercy upon him by allowing him to answer the shadows that beckoned him or he managed to wring life in the darkness by his own sheer will, but either way, that power eludes him now. Every second that passes is excruciating, perfect in its misery and pain, and there is no reprieve. Every second anew brings Elain's screaming sobs, Feyre's hyperventilating, and the dead, broken look in Cassian's eyes. Over and over again, endlessly, and he thinks it's all he'll hear and see forever.

Until she walks in the door.

Nesta stomps her way out of the house, fuming to herself. She ripped herself apart, and for what? It's what everyone wanted, so why are they acting like this is a greater sin than the existence of the bond she has severed? Surely this is what they all wanted. But instead she gets Elain's tears and Feyre's self-righteous horror and Azriel won't look at her and Cassian's not even there.

She isn't crazy. This was what everyone wanted. This was the only way they could go back to...what they had before. That wasn't perfect, and it certainly wasn't normal, but it was better than the alternative.

Her rage clouds her vision as she leaves the house, she nearly misses the bit of ripple in the shadows of her sister's garden behind her.

"You!" she calls out angrily, whipping around before she even realizes what she's doing. "You come back here!"

Azriel steps out of nothing, bowing his head, his hands clasped together in front of him, the picture of submission. But his scarring, his massive wings, the knives she can see hidden on his person make him look like a parody of a manservant. She remembers the fear she felt for herself and Elain when he first stepped into her father's house, but that's gone now.

After a few seconds of silence, he says, "Can I help you with anything?"

She can't help herself. She laughs bitterly. "You are so full of shit." She shakes her head, laughing still, mockingly, as she settles down in the shade of a tree.

She can see Azriel hesitate in her periphery. He can't stand her, she knows. But he doesn't want to leave her here, near mad in his eyes, out of obligation to Feyre.

"You got off easy, you know," she says to him. "You didn't have to do anything. I did all the work."

She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. He's quiet, and she thinks he's gone. But then he says, the rage in his voice almost mirroring what she feels inside, "If you think it was easy feeling the bond severed, and knowing it meant that you were dead, and feeling that alone in front of your sisters and Cassian, you are out of your mind, and maybe as selfish as Rhys thinks you are."

Nesta's eyes snap open. She stares at him, frozen for a moment before she feels her cheeks color a bit. She does not cower under his unblinking gaze, but it takes her by surprise.

"You didn't want the bond," she says.

He doesn't say anything. He never does, Nesta thinks to herself. And she'd get lost inside of herself with someone as quiet as him.

But then he sits down next to her. "I didn't," he says softly. "But I didn't want you to die."

"I didn't die."

"Well, we didn't know that then."

Nesta turns her head to his. "I was the worst person you could imagine to be bonded to," she says. "You hated me. You're happy with this."

He is quiet for more than a few seconds. "You are not the worst person I could imagine. You're not a bad person. And I certainly don't hate you. I admire you. But yes...I think we'll both be happier without this."

Nesta releases a breath she has been holding subconsciously. "We're not right for each other."

"I agree."

"Then why is everyone acting this way," she says, shaking voice falling flat, because she doesn't care about everyone.

"Because it was dangerous."

That makes Nesta want to scream. "How come everyone's choices get respected, danger aside, except mine?" she demands. "And don't tell me that I took away your choice, because you wanted this too."

"I understand your frustration," he says, and she knows he's not trying to be condescending, that that's just how he talks, but all things Holy, it irritates her. "I'm sure you understand Elain and Cassian's emotions better than I do. You're incredibly empathetic."

She wants to reply, but she can't. He said his name, and she doesn't trust her tongue enough to open her mouth.

"I admire your tenacity," Azriel says, sitting down next to her, "and insightfulness and cunning and nerve. I've felt your soul. I know how deeply you feel. I can imagine how hurt you are. The time you and I were...bonded, it taught me how to feel out other people's emotions. I...value that. I value you for that."

She hates him for being the first person to say that to her. She hates him for being the one who's come after her.

"Some advice...about Cassian," he says, voice low. She stills. "He likes to take care of those he loves. He doesn't always realize what he needs, though."

What he needs, she grumbles to herself. What about what she needs? Has anyone offered Nesta an apology, a cup of tea, a shower?

"It's so odd," Azriel says, a faint smile on his lips.

"What?"

"To see you...and know you must be thinking something. But not be able to tell anymore. You appear quite impassive, you know."

Nesta tuts. "Look who's talking."

"Touché," he says, and she's almost calm enough to laugh.

"I'm not impassive," she says softly.

"I know. You just appear that way." He hesitates. Considers his words carefully. "I don't think...anyone believes you're emotionless, Nesta."

"I don't care," she says automatically.

"I never minded your quiet," he continues, as though she had not spoken, "but you should know that Cassian likes to talk. About emotions. Sometimes."

"Stop talking about him."

He shrugs and settles into silence beside her. They stay that way for a few minutes, before Nesta breaks it.

"I suppose...Elain's feeling guilty. And hurt. Though I don't think she has good enough reason to be," she adds. "But..."

But Cassian should have come back by now. Morrigan has told him she is here. So where is he?

"If you don't think she has reason to be hurt, are you going to talk to her?"

Nesta thinks. "Yes," she decides, standing up.

"Right now? I thought you said it was best to give her space-"

"She's had enough space. I'm sick of waiting. Enough of my life has been wasted on this rubbish. No offense," she adds after a beat.

He grins, wider than she's ever seen him. "None taken."

"I'm going to talk to her now," she says. "You can talk to her after, if you'd like. Or don't. I don't care."

"You know, Nesta," he says, walking beside her up back to the house. "I consider you a friend."

She stops to look at him. "You're all right, I suppose," she says finally. She falters in the doorway and turns back around to face him. "Actually. I'm glad it was you."

His eyes widen slightly and she hurries to explain. "So we could break it," she says. "And now we're free. Forever. And we're fine."

"If you want to talk to Cassian," he says, walking backwards towards the house's shadows, "I suggest you do so sometime today."

He disappears into nothing, but she's already inside, rushing to find her sister. This ends today.

[nalgenewhore]

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

“Stay still.” 

Elide held in her sigh, wanting to snap back at the elderly Blackbeak seamstress. Her thick, deep accent reminded Elide of her mother’s mother, who had died when she was young. “Yes, ma’am ,” she mumbled, decidedly averting her gaze from the mirror. 

She didn’t want to see herself in the dress. It would only upset her. 

The gown was by far the heaviest thing Elide had ever worn. 

Voluminous, beaded skirts practically drowned her petite frame, tightened almost painfully around her waist. A long, cathedral train rested on the carpeted floor of the dressing room. An old, crotchety seamstress fluttered around Elide, snapping at her to stay still. 

Usually, Elide could handle elderly people speaking sharply to her, but today it had her teetering on the edge of near sobbing. 

There was a mirror in front of her. Elide tried her best to not look at her reflection, not confident in her abilities to keep her breakfast down if she saw herself. 

Big dresses and sweeping trains were the traditional wedding outfit. Elide loathed it. 

“How does this feel?” 

Elide snapped out of her reverie, “Oh, it’s good. Feels fine.” 

The seamstress - Cresseida - muttered something in Blackbeak that Elide didn’t quite catch. She gave Elide a disapproving look, like she was somehow directly impacted by Elide’s loveless union. “Va . You need minute?” 

Nodding slightly, Elide stayed completely frozen as the woman puttered around before slipping out of the room. She was left all alone, just her and the dress. 

Elide finally looked up into the mirror, swallowing past her tight throat.

It was fine. 

This was fine. 

She was fine. 

Everything was fine. 

+*+*+*+*+*+* 

Lorcan strode through the hall, trying to remember the way Fenrys had told him to go. He had called Lorcan in the morning, telling him to go see Elide before it was too late. 

A willowy old woman was standing by the dressing room door. She eyed him distrustfully, her blue eyes flashing, “Who are you? What you want with the girl?” Her Blackbeak accent was thick. 

“I just need to talk to her. I’ll be done in five minutes,” he said coolly, hoping silently that Elide would give him more than five minutes. The gods knew he didn’t deserve it, but Lorcan hoped for the rest of his life.

The woman squinted at him, making a vague gesture with her hands. At the ends of her fingers, long, sharp nails flashed. “You make cry, I will carve heart out,” she warned him menacingly. Lorcan was stupid, but not stupid enough to think it was an idle threat. 

Something about her said she had done it many a time before and she was not scared of him. With a scoff, the woman muttered something and walked down the hallway, sitting herself on the window bench. She rolled her eyes, “You go in or not? Go, go, stupid boy.” 

Lorcan nodded and turned back to the door, knocking three times. Elide called, “Come in.” 

He breathed in deeply, slowly twisting the handle and opening the door. Lorcan didn’t move to take a step in, until Elide saw him in the mirror and gasped softly. Tears were already pooling in her eyes. “Why are you here?” 

“I want to talk to you.” 

For whatever reason, Elide nodded slightly, “Well, come in then. And close the door.” 

Lorcan did as she said, punishing himself by looking down at her dress. She looked ridiculous. The dress by itself was a work of art, intricate beading and lace, but on Elide… 

 “You look like a doll,” he said, unable to stop himself. 

Elide inhaled sharply and looked away. Quietly, she said, “I know.” She fingered something on the bodice. “Why are you here, Lorcan?” 

“Because you shouldn’t marry Fenrys.” 

She let out a cold laugh, shaking her head, “Anneith above. If that’s what you’ve come to say, I’ve heard it enough. You can leave.” 

Lorcan didn’t. 

“Elide, don’t marry him.” 

Elide didn’t say a word. 

“Don’t marry him.” 

“Why not? Because it ruins your little plan?” 

“No, not that,” Lorcan said, hurt that she would think that was his only motive and angry at himself for everything. “You won’t be happy if you marry him.” 

“Oh, my happiness? That’s why you’ve come here?” she asked, her shoulders shaking with incredulous laughter. “You’re a terrible liar, you know.” 

“Sweetheart, I’m not lying,” he whispered, desperation bleeding through his words. He stepped closer to her, barely half a foot away. “You deserve to be happy and this won’t make you happy.” He didn’t care if he wasn’t the one to give it to her. If Elide found joy and love elsewhere, it would break him, yes, but he could live with it. Lorcan wanted to be the one to give it to her, he had never wanted anything more than it, but knowing she was content was enough, just the knowledge of that was enough. “Please. You- you deserve to be happy. More than anything.” 

Elide turned her head to the side, not fighting him when Lorcan cupped her face in his hands, making her look at him. “El, call it off. Say you won’t do it.” Marry me instead . “Call it off.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, “I can’t do that.” Elide’s eyes filled with tears again, a few slipping down her face. “The lords, they won’t care. They’ll give it to you anyway even if you don’t want it and it makes me sick, thinking of you on my throne.” 

“You don’t have to see it,” he promised, “I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. Just you, that’s all I want.” Her hands curled into his shirt as Elide looked away. Lorcan leaned down, pressing his lips to her forehead, “Please, sweetheart. Call it off, I’m begging you.” 

For a second, Lorcan thought she would agree. He staggered back when Elide shoved him away, her brow lowered in an effort to stop the hurt, “No, Lorcan. You don’t get to beg , you don’t get to say you want me. You don’t get to decide what makes me happy because you don’t make me happy and you never will.” She was crying silently now, not acknowledging the tears coursing down her cheeks. 

Lorcan barely managed to stop himself from wiping them away. 

“You are the thing I regret most in my life,” Elide whispered, heartbrokenly. “I can’t believe I actually thought I could trust you. So please. You said you were leaving. I want you to go.” 

Lorcan stood up straight, nodding once. He dipped his head, “As you wish.” He allowed himself one last, long look at her ethereal face, burning the image of her tears into his mind. And then, like a boat slipping from its mooring, Lorcan left the room, letting her go. 

He pretended he didn’t hear a sob wrench free as he closed the door, pretending like the sound of Elide collapsing on the floor wasn’t real, even as it ripped his heart to bits. Elide wanted him to let her go. 

And so he would. 

Even if it took him the rest of his life. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Her knees were cushioned by the skirts as she fell. Elide sobbed, her vision blurred by hot tears. They ran down her face, dotting along the pristine whiteness of her dress. 

As she had asked, Lorcan walked away. His footsteps grew quieter and quieter until they disappeared altogether. 

Elide only cried harder. She could barely manage to breathe. The dress became tighter and tighter, pressing on her ribs. When she tried to rip it, the beading cut into her fingers, and she couldn’t budge it an inch. 

Her throat burned raw with the force of her sadness, with the weight of everything. Sobs tore free, echoing around her. 

The door opened again and Elide looked up in hope, thinking it was Lorcan. 

“Child, what is this crying? No more tears,” the seamstress tutted, bustling in and sitting next to Elide. “We are witches, my dear. We cannot let them see us cry.”  She couldn’t voice her thoughts, couldn’t voice how the language of her mother only made her cry harder at the comfort of it all. “You are missing home, child, I know.” 

I don’t miss home, Elide wanted to scream. Instead, she let the older woman hug her closely. It was just soothing enough to ease the stabbing agony in her chest. “I hate him,” she sobbed, somehow managing to work the words out over her pain. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.” 

“You hate because you love,” Cresseida said knowingly. “They are not so different, are they? You think about them all the time when you hate them and… that hate turns to love sometimes.” 

“I didn’t want it to,” Elide wept, grasping at the clasps, “please, take it off of me. Get it off of me, I can’t- take it off.” 

“Child, shush, everything will be well,” soothed Cresseida, deftly undoing the buttons and side zipper. She helped Elide out of the dress, until she was crying in her corset. She couldn’t stop herself. 

Elide couldn’t stop crying. It splintered through her heart, making her feel like she was breaking from the inside out. “I can’t breathe,” she gasped, desperately trying to force air into her lungs. “I need air.”  

Cresseida swept away, muttering something as she hit some buttons and spoke harshly into the intercom. Elide couldn’t discern what she was saying and didn’t think to ask, because she couldn’t stop crying. An onslaught of tears, ones she didn’t think she had anymore, spilled down her cheeks. 

Every sob was violent and agonising, torn from her chest. 

He had broken her. She was broken.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

“Lor, hi!”  

Lorcan found it in himself to smile at the sight of his smiling sister’s face. It was slightly grainy and pixelated as the connection solidified. “Hey, Dee,” he said, easily slipping into his native language. “Where’s Aneha?” 

“Oh, she’s in the kitchen.” Sadirah turned her face towards her bedroom door and yelled, “Nay, come say hi to your stupid brother!”  

He frowned, “That’s not nice–”

“Don’t you mean your stupid brother ,” Aneha hollered back as she ran through the hallways. The younger twin jumped on the bed, landing beside Sadirah. “Hey, Lorcan. How goes Perranth?” 

Lorcan blew out a long breath and flopped back down on the bed, “You’ll be very happy to know that I’m coming home tomorrow.” His sisters both gasped happily, smiling widely. 

“No way, are you for real right now? Don’t joke about this,” Sadirah said, her dark eyes sparkling. 

He smiled, “I’m not joking. See,” Lorcan was reaching over for his boarding pass when Aneha spoke. 

“But… Fen said you met someone. What happened?” 

“Fen told you that?” His heart clenched and Lorcan swallowed past the lump in his throat. “It didn’t mean anything. She’s getting married tomorrow so it really means nothing.” 

“Are you talking about Elide? Lochan? Like, your rival?” 

Lorcan jolted, realising he had said too much. He scrambled to remedy it, “Ah, nope. It’s- it isn’t her. Someone else.” 

The twins both arched a brow and looked at each other. He really wished he hadn’t taught them to do that. Aneha sighed and flopped down, “You know, you’re a horrible liar.” 

“Am not.” 

Sadirah nodded, agreeing with their sister, “You’re the worst. So, what'd ya do?” 

“Nothing,” he muttered. When they looked at him, like they didn’t believe him, Lorcan sighed, “Hellas below, it’s nothing. I did nothing. Really.” He was a horrible liar. “It was never going to be anything, anyway. She’s literally marrying Fenrys.” 

Sadirah made a face while Aneha waved her hand dismissively, “We all know Fen’s in love with Ress. You know what you should do, is–” 

“Aneha. Just- stop,” Lorcan rubbed his eyes, frowning again. His sisters both went quiet, staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. He regretted snapping at them immediately, “I- I’m sorry for snapping, but you two aren’t here. And Fen doesn’t know everything, ok? It’s a nice idea, but that’s all it is. An idea.” 

The two teenagers shared a sheepish look and nodded slightly. Surprisingly, it was Sadirah who rolled away, leaving Aneha - who was usually too much like Lorcan to ever apologise first - to speak. She mumbled, “Yeah, I guess you’re right or whatever. We’ll see you soon.”  

Lorcan nodded, “Yeah, I’ll see you soon. Bye, you two.” 

Sadirah popped back in the frame to say bye, the two of them waving, “Bye! Don’t do anymore dumb shit, ok?” 

He flipped them off and hung up before they could say anything else. Tossing his phone to the side, Lorcan looked up at the ceiling. 

It was futile to pretend like he was anything other than heartbroken. And he supposed it was his own fault, falling for her like that, but what hurt more than was the undeniable knowledge that he had hurt Elide like that. 

And he never wanted to do that. He had never meant to do that.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Though her sobs had subsided, tears still trickled over her nose and onto Bear’s soft fur. Somebody sedate me, Elide thought. So filled with pain and hurt, she didn’t know what to do. 

The bed dipped and the duvet was lifted as Aelin climbed in. She too laid her head on Bear, curled to face Elide, “Hi, baby.” 

Elide closed her eyes, not saying a word. She hadn’t, not since Ress had carried her back to her rooms. Aelin didn’t mind and sat up. She coaxed Bear out of the way, causing Elide to sit up in anger, “Why are you making my dog move?” Her voice was hoarse and raw, both from disuse and crying. 

Aelin tutted her tongue and manoeuvred Elide’s head into her lap, “Your hair is a mess.” Elide rolled her eyes, but stayed put as her cousin began to untangle her hair. “We should watch a movie. What are you in the mood for?” 

“I don’t care,” Elide whispered, closing her eyes again. She wanted something to play, the silence unbearable, but she couldn’t seem to get the words out. 

“Hmmm,” Aelin contemplated. She gently stroked through Elide’s hair, “I say we go for the classic Lord of the Rings marathon.” Knowing Elide would be in agreement, the queen picked up the remote and navigated through Netflix to press play. 

Bear, indignant at Aelin’s moving of her, shoved her way back to them and shot Aelin a baleful look as she stuffed her large body into the space between Aelin’s legs and Elide’s body. She rested her head on Aelin’s legs, nosing at Elide. 

Elide turned her eyes to the screen, blessed with distraction until her bedroom door was flung open. The loud noise had the occupants of the bed startling and glaring with indignation at Fenrys, who was flanked by Rowan. 

Fenrys’ eyes were wild, filled with something Elide couldn’t place, “El?” Both of the men ran cursory glances over her, their jaws clenching along with their fists. The blond was the first to excuse himself, “I’ll be back. Just need to see someone.” 

Elide sat up quickly, half-sobbing, “No, please, don’t, Fen.” He didn’t listen to her, already storming back out. Hastily, Elide got out of bed and chased after him. “Fen, just listen to me, I mean this. I don’t want this.” 

“Stay out of it, Elide,” Fenrys bit out harshly. With his long strides, it didn’t take long for him to greaten the distance between them. Still Elide persisted, ignoring the calls of Aelin and Rowan, along with Bear’s soft barks. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

The run he returned from hadn’t done a thing to clear his mind. It was more like… he’d been running away from his problems, but the minute the door shut behind him, everything came crashing down again. 

Lorcan sighed through his nose, eyes glancing over the depressing room. It had become somewhat of a home, or at least somewhere that was more than a bed and a packed duffle bag. 

His stomach protested for sustenance. Lorcan tossed his sweaty clothes onto the floor and changed. His hands were stuffed in his hoodie pocket as he walked out and turned to go down to the kitchens. 

Two voices carried up from further down the hallway. One was filled with spitfire anger and the other melting into a plea. Lorcan looked around, looking for a place to duck into so whoever it was could have their own conversation. 

Only, the next thing he knew, Lorcan was being pushed into the wall. “Woah, man, what,” he said, his eyes meeting dark ones bright with anger. Shit. “Fen, what the fuck–” 

“What did you do to her?” 

He easily shoved Fenrys away, feeling his own temper rise, “What are you talking about, Fen?” 

“Don’t play dumb,” Fenrys snarled. He lunged, but was stopped by a smaller individual. 

Lorcan froze as he looked at Elide. She was trying her best to tuck away behind Fenrys, but Lorcan shifted to see her. Tear tracks ran down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy, the tip of her nose red too. All the air in his lungs left in a rushed exhale. “Sweetheart—” 

“Fen, let’s go,” she said, promptly dismissing him. Lorcan was still frozen, so out of it that he didn’t defend himself when Fenrys pulled away from Elide and shoved him back into the wall. “Fenrys, stop!” 

“I said stay out of it,” Fenrys snapped, “go back to your room.” Elide crossed her arms and arched a brow. Fenrys didn’t turn around to see if she’d done what he’d told her, already knowing she hadn’t. “You told her to call off the wedding? Really, man?” 

“Fen–” 

“You told her it was about our happiness?” There was hurt in his friend’s eyes, but it was swept away in the storm. Fenrys fisted his hands in Lorcan’s hoodie, pressing him harder against the wall. Lorcan had never seen Fenrys angrier, nor had he heard such disgust in his voice when he spat, “You don’t get to speak on our happiness. You lost that right the moment you stepped foot in this city.” 

“Fenrys, you’re one of my oldest friends, I–” 

Fenrys let out a half-mad laugh, the sound slightly unhinged. “My friend? You consider yourself my friend?” 

Lorcan frowned slightly, dipping his chin in a nod. Again, Elide tried to reason with the man between them, “Fenrys, please. I want to go. Stop this, just let him be.” 

“You are not my friend,” Fenrys said, his voice low. “You are not my family. You are not Elide’s fiancé, I am. I’m the one who she calls when she needs help, not you.” Stepping away, he looked Lorcan up and down with a sickened look. “You always wanted to be better than your father. It’s a shame you turned out this way.” 

The words punched a hole in Lorcan’s chest. Elide hissed Fenrys’ name, grabbing his arm, “Fenrys, stop it.” 

The young lord continued, “It makes me sick, looking at you. I think… I think you’re the person that fucks up people’s lives before they find who they’re meant to be with. I mean, it happened with Ro and I guess it happened with Elide too.” 

“What did you just say,” Lorcan’s words left him in a breathless rush, his chest feeling too tight for his heart. “I fucked up Rowan’s life? That’s what you think?”

Fenrys shrugged and looked down the hall, to where Rowan and Aelin were both standing. Pain and confusion rippled across Rowan’s face. Something too complex clouded Aelin’s and Lorcan looked away. “Yeah. I do. I guess he should be thankful that you turned out this way. Maybe you did him a favour, letting him leave like that.” 

“I wasn’t- I didn’t let him-” Lorcan’s breath caught. His throat ached with tears. “Ro- we didn’t- we were kids, Fen. I didn’t- we didn’t know what we were doing.” He shook his head, not entirely able to fully breathe in. His lungs didn’t seem to be working. Lorcan flicked his eyes to Rowan, unable to read the expression on his face. He couldn’t tell if what Fenrys said was true or not. “We were kids.” 

“Fenrys, that’s enough,” Elide said softly, gripping the back of his shirt and pulling him away. “You’ve said enough.” 

Fenrys took one last look at Lorcan, not an inch of regret or remorse on his stunning face. “I miss that kid, Lorcan. Because I knew him. And I don’t know who you are anymore and that kid?” He waited until Lorcan dragged his increasingly blurring vision to his gaze. “He’d be fucking ashamed of you.” 

Lorcan swallowed, his voice thick with tears, “I know.” 

Something in Fenrys’ face crumpled slightly, something like heartbreak, “I don’t… I don’t know you anymore. Who are you?” 

“I don’t know,” Lorcan whispered, voice hoarse and broken. 

He didn’t know anything anymore.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: whoops 😳

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