#because their absence brings you misery. It's a strange feeling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

seijorhi · 4 years ago

Text

Fracture

i apologise in advance.

Miya Osamu x female reader

TW non-con, dub-con, psuedo-infidelity, referenced character death, angst, drunk reader, gaslighting, age gap, the slightest hint of nsfw

‘Yer still coming home for summer, right?’

How many weeks had your sister spent lovingly bullying you into coming down? How many hours had you spent listening to her gush over the phone about how excited she was?

And until about three months ago, you’d been excited too.

Despite the ten or so years between the two of you, there was nobody on earth you loved more than your sister. When you were sixteen years old and your parents passed away in a car accident, she was the one who stepped up to take care of you, putting a roof over your head, making sure you ate, slept and kept up your grades, balancing two jobs to do it.

And she grumbled and you fought, but she’s the only reason you managed to keep it all together enough to graduate high school, and when it came time for you to leave home for university, she was the one blinking back tears and loudly complaining about you ‘abandoning your poor older sister in her time of need’.

As if she hadn’t sat with you for hours, pouring over your options and gently nudging you in the direction of Tokyo.

“It’s just a few hours away,” you’d told her. “I’ll come back and visit you all the time.”

There was truth to that. The first six months of uni, you came home every other weekend arms full of expensive textbooks and mountains of assignments to write, but then she met Osamu.

You’ve never seen anybody fall so hopelessly in love as quickly as she had. Miya Osamu may as well have hung the damn moon in the sky for how your sister looked at him. And you suppose you can’t really blame her; he was stupidly tall, broad shouldered and handsome. Even back then his restaurant was a wild success, the man was talented and clearly knew how to cook. Nice was the wrong word to describe him, but Miya Osamu was good, and so long as he made your sister happy, that was enough for you.

And it wasn’t like he was the one to drive you away.

Osamu liked you – he let you camp out in his restaurant and work on your assignments when you desperately needed a change of scenery, stopping to humour you with conversation if it was quiet. He made you laugh, he was interesting, and the more your sister brought him around, the more you realised that you actually kinda liked the guy.

Things were just easy between the two of you, you never had to pretend to be anything but what you were.

You were the one who started putting space between you and her. It wasn’t intentional, at least not on their part, but somewhere along the way you’d started to realise that Osamu wasn’t the odd one out anymore; you were. She was building a life with him, and fortnightly visits turned into monthly ones, and then eventually it became once every few months and after that only on holidays and special occasions – their wedding being one of them.

At Christmas, cheeks flushed with alcohol, she’d pulled you into a one armed hug, pouting into your sweater. “You never come visit us anymore,” she’d sniffled dramatically, “I miss you.”

But it was Osamu – fingers laced with your sister’s, a hint of a smile curling at his lips – who’d voiced it. “Come spend yer summer break with us.”

Three months later you’d awoken to a call telling you that there’d been an accident. Your sister was dead.

Weeks pass by in a blur. Your classes are a haze of droning voices and mindless typing, you submit papers you don’t remember writing and you get good marks anyway. Your friends don’t know how to act around you, everything feels surreal, like you’re moving around in a dream, nothing touches you anymore. It hurts, but you’ve wrapped up that pain and put it someplace safe, seeking it out only when you’re alone and you just can’t bear the numbness a second longer.

The trip you’d promised to take back home to Osaka is the furthest thing from your mind, at least until Osamu calls you in the early hours of the morning, a week or so before the semester ends.

“Yer still coming home for summer, right?”

The word ‘no’ lingers on the tip of your tongue. The last time you’d seen each other was at the funeral, his face blank and hollow, eyes rimmed in red. He’d barely spoken more than a few sentences to you, but he’d stayed by your side the entire time, calmly thanking those who came up to express their condolences.

You’d lost your sister, but he’d lost his wife.

“Do you still want me to?” you ask him quietly instead. If you were in his shoes, you’re not so sure that you would.

Yet Osamu sighs heavily, and you catch a faint clinking sound on the other end of the line, like a bottle being set back against the marble countertop. “I just–” but he breaks off and something inside of your chest tugs. “I want ya here. The house is empty… she’s gone and I… I want ya here. Please.”

How could you possibly say no after that? Maybe you’ve been selfish, so wrapped up in your own grief and misery. You’d assumed that because Osamu had Atsumu he’d be okay. Not right away, of course, but he’d have that support around him – a support system that you were without.

It didn’t enter your mind that perhaps he was struggling too. That he was spending night after night alone in a house etched with memories of her. And just as you’d thought that Tsumu was the one keeping his head above water, maybe he was offering a hand to do the same for you.

—

He’s waiting for you on the porch when your taxi pulls up on the kerb. The driver’s nice enough to help you with your bags, but Osamu is quick to intercept, waving off the help with an impatient huff that almost makes you laugh.

“Yer here,” he says once he sets them down on the porch, grinning as he tugs you into a warm embrace.

It’s then that you get a good look at him, a proper look – and for a moment, you’re taken aback. You haven’t seen him since the funeral a few months back, granted, but Osamu doesn’t look the way you imagined him to – especially after your call the other night. There’s no hint of pallid skin, no bloodshot eyes with heavy bags underneath or a 5 o’clock shadow on his face. No, even with his dark hair still a mess, dressed in jeans and his Onigiri Miya tee, Osamu looks good. Healthy even, if the way the sleeves of his shirt cling to his biceps is any indication.

It takes you a second to realise that you’re staring, because Samu chuckles, brushing past you to bring your stuff inside.

“Y’know, most people start with a hello,” he calls over his shoulder.

Your cheeks heat, a hint of shame curling inside of you. Were you expecting him to be an inconsolable wreck? You know better than most that grief messes with people differently, and it’s not fair of you to judge him, however unintentionally, for not fitting that image of the grieving husband.

It’s a good sign.

“Hi, Samu,” you reply somewhat sheepishly, following him inside.

He’s already walking towards your old bedroom, the ‘guest room’ now (though you and he both know it’s always been yours), leaving you to trail behind the older man. Your intention is to stop him from going to too much effort, but as you walk past the living room, something catches your eye.

Or rather, the absence of something. Faltering in your step, it takes you a second to realise what’s missing, but as you glance around, brows furrowing in confusion, it hits you.

The pictures of you and your sister, the cute ones with her and Samu, the old family snaps that used to line the walls and sit on the TV unit, they’re gone. And it’s not just the pictures. The artwork your sister had painted that used to hang by the wall next to the kitchen, the little pot plants she’d doted on like children, hell, the throw that she’d knitted one winter that was always lying on the couch; they’re all gone.

The room feels almost alien without them, unfamiliar and cold. He’d hung up some cool photography stuff to fill in some of the spaces, but instead of homey it just felt… modern. Like the pictures you see in magazines of staged houses that nobody actually lives in.

And you must have been standing there for a while, because you don’t notice it when Samu comes back to find you still holding your purse, gazing around like a lost child.

“I didn’t get rid of ‘em, if that’s what yer thinking.”

You turn to face him, except Osamu isn’t looking at you. He’s gazing at the walls around you both, his face strangely impassive – except for his eyes. It’s impossible for you to miss the hurt that swims there, the faint sheen they didn’t hold only moments ago. “I packed them away – they’re in yer room if ya want to look through any of it, it’s just…” he trails off, finally glancing back to look at you. And once again, you feel that flicker of guilt slowly eating away at you. “It was painful, seeing her face everywhere.”

Before you left your apartment that morning, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t cry today – but the tears come unbidden, and one moment you’re standing there staring at him and the next you’re choking on a sob, hand coming to your lips to try and stifle it.

Osamu’s there in a second, solid arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest. He doesn’t say a word (what’s there to say anymore?) he just hums softly, stroking your back with a gentle hand as you fall apart once more.

—

It’s surprisingly easy for the two of you to fall into a rhythm. There’d been some part of you that was hesitant about this whole thing – despite having a relatively good relationship with your brother in law, you knew that the only real connection between the two of you was your sister.

Without her, living in the same space and trying to navigate around the holes that she’d left, you’d expected it to be at least a little awkward between the two of you. But with Osamu working full time, it was kind of a non-issue. Aside from the first day when he’d taken the morning off to help you get settled, he was usually gone before you woke up, and most nights he wasn’t home until nine or ten. How he worked such long hours six days a week without collapsing out of sheer exhaustion was beyond you, but you tried to make things easier for him, cooking dinner for the two of you.

“Y’know ya don’t have to do this every night, right?” he asks you one night, sticking the leftover chicken into the microwave. “I have a restaurant, I can sort out my own dinner.”

You don’t tell him that despite being a rather terrible cook, it was one of the things your sister made sure to do every night in the weeks following your parents’ death. You’d spend most of your day holed up in your room if you weren’t at school, but dinner was the one time you’d sit and talk with her. It became a ritual; something sacred and special between the two of you.

You’re a better cook than she was by far, no comparison for Osamu, of course, but it’s the only way you really know how to help with… whatever this is.

Instead, you just offer him a wry look from your position on the couch, “And yet, you never do.”

He scoffs at that, a hint of a smirk curling at his lips, “Why would I eat there when I know yer cookin’ for me?”

—

Of course, as easy as it is to slip into living with Osamu, you can’t escape what happened there forever.

It doesn’t slip your notice the first night you spend there; the spare toothbrush in your bathroom, the decidedly masculine body wash in the shower, or how one of the shelves in the vanity was stocked with shaving cream and cologne and a few odd skin care products. You’d assumed that they were Atsumu’s, spares stashed away for the odd nights he crashed here. There’s another bathroom off the master bedroom, so you know it can’t be Samu’s stuff.

Except you find yourself proven wrong one night, when fresh from your shower and clad only in a fluffy white towel, you open the door to find a shirtless Osamu filling the space, one arm propped up on the doorframe.

“Anyone ever tell ya yer a bit of a bathroom hog?” he asks, smirking down at you.

And you’re so taken aback, utterly confused as to why he’s standing there half dressed, why it matters how long you take in the bathroom – never mind that the only thing covering you from complete nakedness is your towel – that you can only stand there, gaping like a fish as he laughs, takes you by the shoulders and physically shifts you out of the way as he slides on past.

It takes you until the following morning – Osamu’s sole day off – to ask him about it, clutching nervously at your cup of coffee while he busies himself making breakfast for the two of you.

“Samu, um, about last night…” you timidly begin.

He glances up at you from the stove, a single eyebrow raised. “What about it?”

Your cheeks are already burning, eyes darting between his face and the mug in your hands as you struggle to find the right words to bring it up without making things weird. “Well, I-I was just wondering… um, why you were using my bathroom?”

You’re not sure what kind of reaction that you’re expecting, but the dark look that flashes across his face isn’t it. For a split second, your insides clench, terrified that you’ve said the wrong thing–

But as quickly as it appeared, Osamu’s expression smooths over. He exhales heavily, setting down the spoon in his hand as he turns to face you properly, and when your eyes flicker up once more, you realise with a start that it’s pity that’s taken its place.

And a second too late, the pieces inside your head fall into place.

“Oh.”

Osamu nods only once. “I can’t go in without seeing her lyin’ there… I thought ya knew.”

And it’s like all the air’s been sucked out of the room. She’d died in their bathroom – slipped on the wet tiles and cracked her head open on the edge of their bath, and Samu had been the one to find her.

Weakly your eyes flutter shut, bitter nausea churning in your gut. How could he stay here, sleep in the next room when–

“Hey, hey, calm down, I gotcha,” Samu’s voice is at your ear, and your head’s spinning, pounding, and you can’t breathe. The mug in your hand tumbles to the floor, your coffee spilling across the wooden floorboards as weak fingers clutch at empty air, and then those arms are around you once more and Osamu’s trying to soothe you.

Breakfast is forgotten as he tugs you towards the couch to sit. And as he holds you, speaks to you in that calm, unwavering voice you try to focus on the scent of him (masculine and earthy, a hint of spice and cedar), the fabric of his shirt under your cheek and the gentle, almost lazy circles he rubs into your side and not the mental image of your sister, lying broken and bleeding on the bathroom floor.

—

It doesn’t take much effort to find the stash of your sister’s things that Samu set aside in your room. You lose hours flicking through pictures of her, smiling through your tears as they dredge up old, happy memories of the two of you.

Even the ones of her and Samu, his arms looped around her waist, resting his chin on the top of her head; she’s always wearing that bright grin that makes your heart ache.

There are a few of the three of you – one from the last time they’d come to visit you in Tokyo and you’d dragged them off to Disneyland. You’re standing between the two of them, beaming at the camera while Samu’s arm hangs off your shoulder and your sister, grinning widely and wearing the minnie mouse ears she’d bought at the first opportunity, tosses up a peace sign.

Softly wiping away your tears, you set it aside. You’ll have to ask Samu if you can take that one home with you.

—

“What’re ya doin’ tomorrow?”

It’s late, and the two of you are sprawled out on the couch, watching TV with a bowl of snacks between you like the old days when he asks.

“Not much,” you reply. “I was going to go to the markets at some point in the morning and maybe head to the beach after that, why?”

Grey-ish brown eyes flicker across to you, “A few of my old teammates are in town, we’re meetin’ up for some drinks. I want ya to come with me.”

“Oh,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. “Um, yeah… if you want?”

It ends up sounding more like a question, a fact that doesn’t slip past Osamu if the amused little snort he gives in response is any indication. And it’s not that you don’t want to give up your plans in favour of going with him; you get along pretty well with Atsumu and you’ve met most of his old teammates at least once or twice, it’s just that you’re a little confused as to why he’d want you there to begin with.

They’re all at least twelve years older than you, and while it occurs to you that maybe he’s just inviting you along to be polite (not that that’s ever been his style before) the last thing you want is to be stuck feeling like an afterthought, all but ignored as he and his friends catch up.

“I said I wanted ya there, didn’t I?” He doesn’t wait for a response, “‘sides, Tsumu already asked if you were comin’.”

Which is how you find yourself dressed up for the first time in months, fingers smoothing out the hem of your dress as Samu tosses you a lazy grin from the driver’s seat. “Relax, wouldja? They ain’t gonna bite.”

You know that. They’re good guys, but no matter how much rationalising you try to do, you can’t seem to quell the anxiety eating you up, and the frustrating thing is that you don’t know why you’re feeling it.

He’d neglected to tell you that they weren’t meeting at some bar or restaurant, but at Atsumu’s condo in the city (‘Showy fuckin’ bastard’ Samu’d huffed as he’d pulled up in front of the building), but you suppose it really doesn’t make much of a difference.

“Ya look good,” he compliments, eyeing you for a moment while the two of you wait for the elevator.

Cheeks warming, you drop your gaze and stutter out a quiet thank you. Apparently unsatisfied, he leans closer, reaching one large hand up to gently ruffle your hair – grinning in satisfaction when you shriek and try to pry it away. “Relax,” he whispers again, the warmth of his breath tickling the bare skin of your neck. “Yer too wound up.”

Distracted by the arrival of the elevator, you fail to notice that instead of returning back to his side, his hand drops to your shoulder.

And it should be easier to do just that once you have a drink in hand. Atsumu greets you with a one armed hug, the only hint of anything out of the ordinary being the way his gaze lingers a beat too long as he studies your face, his eyes sharp and missing nothing. But whatever he sees (or doesn’t see) his expression softens into a smile, “Glad ya came.”

But even as you’re greeted by the others, falling into an easy conversation with Kita and Aran you can’t seem to shift the uneasiness in your stomach. There’s something in the air, a tension nobody really wants to admit to.

And you can’t quite tell if the others are surprised that Samu brought you at all, or if it’s just because you’re a living reminder of a tragedy that’s still fresh and raw, and everyone’s trying to pretend that it’s not. You don’t blame them for it, of course, they only mean the best. But you can see it in the way Suna side eyes you every now and then, how skilfully Akagi skirts anything that could touch a nerve when he comes up to chat.

It’s like they’re all walking on eggshells – though whether it’s for your benefit or Osamu’s, you’re not entirely sure. For his part, Samu sticks close, keeping your drink topped up, an arm slung over your shoulders as the afternoon wears into the evening.

Yet despite that, the alcohol you’re drinking far too quickly starts to work its magic, filling your body with a warm, pleasant little buzz, and you actually start to enjoy yourself. You laugh easier, giggling when the twins start to bicker, gasping in wicked delight when Suna offers to show you certain embarrassing photos of both of them on his phone (he has quite the collection), even letting Gin and Tsumu drag you into taking shots with them.

And all the while, Samu watches you, a soft smirk playing at his lips.

—

By the time he unlocks the front door and you stumble back inside, you’re absolutely plastered, giggling at nothing and tripping over your own feet.

As always, Samu’s there to catch you, strong, muscular arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him. “Careful there, princess,” he laughs.

You grin up at him, carefree and heartbreakingly beautiful. For the first time in months you feel light, you feel amazing and you don’t want this to end. Kicking your heels off, you skip inside, leading him by the hand. “Samu,” you call back over your shoulder. “I wanna dance.”

“Nobody’s stopping ya.”

“But there’s no music,” you pout, and once again he chuckles, letting you go to settle back into the leather couch as he pulls out his phone. A moment later a familiar, lively melody floods the living room, and you let yourself become lost to it. It doesn’t matter that you’re drunk and dancing alone, Samu’s dark eyes following your every move, you’ve never felt so free.

Arms raised in the air, hips swaying hypnotically to the beat, you lose track of time. It could’ve been minutes or seconds or a whole hour, but suddenly you’re not alone anymore – Samu’s there with you. His cologne invades your senses, why does he always smell so good? His body’s warm, almost hot as he slots himself behind you, caging you against him.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice sending shivers running down your spine. “Yer a little tease, ya know that?”

And there’s something wrong with that, you know there is, but you can’t seem to think of what it is – not when the weight of his hold’s impeding your movement. A pout adorns your face, a soft, almost petulant whine escaping your lips as you try in vain to untangle yourself, “Samu, lemme go. I wanna dance.”

He huffs out a laugh, but that doesn’t sound right either. “Don’t wanna dance with you, pretty girl.”

There’s something hard pressing against your lower back, and his hot breath ghosts over your neck a moment before lips descend to suck on the sensitive flesh.

In a split second, all that blissful, warm, drunken happiness evaporates. Samu groans lowly, his chest rumbling at your back, but there’s a pit of something cold and urgent that’s seeping through your veins, distant, foggy alarm bells tolling inside of your head and you don’t understand what’s happening, but you know that you don’t like it.

You want it to stop.

“S-Samu,” you whine, shifting uncomfortably against his hold.

This time he listens, drawing back just enough that he can turn you around to face him. And those familiar eyes are hooded and dark, burning with an intensity that makes you want to recoil even as he stares down at you, taking your cheek in hand.

You don’t even realise that you’re crying until his thumb’s brushing away your tears. There’s nothing comforting or pleasant (nothing of the Samu you know) on his face as he studies your fearful expression, but eventually he lets out a heavy sigh.

“She was positive I was cheatin’ on her,” he admits. “Did she ever tell ya that?” He pauses for a beat waiting for a reply, but when it’s clear that you don’t have one for him, he just scoffs, “No, ‘course not. That’d be admitting that not everything about our life was picture perfect, and heaven fuckin’ forbid we do that. Y’know, that's why she wanted ya back here so bad. She needed a buffer.”

Bitterness clings to every word like poison and you flinch, renewing your struggles to get away. Not that he lets you – the moment you start to squirm the arm around your waist tugs you closer, anchoring you against him. The tears come faster, followed by soft, hiccuping sobs, but Samu seems beyond caring at that point.

“Stupid bitch never could see what was right in front of her face. That’s what we were fightin’ about that night; she said she was gonna leave me.”

Your heart clenches, fear pooling in your gut, but Samu just smiles at you, a mockery of sweet tenderness, reaching back to tuck a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “But you know I’d never hurt my pretty girl, don’t ya, baby?” he asks. “Just want a taste tonight.”

You don’t even have time to suck in a breath before he’s kissing you, cradling the back of your head as his mouth moves hungrily against yours.

And all you can taste is the whiskey on his tongue.

—

You can’t tear your eyes away from your reflection in the mirror, the faint, reddish blemish colouring your neck.

A hickey.

Tentatively, as if trying to prove that it’s real and not a figment of your imagination, you prod at the mark, only to wince at the tenderness. Definitely real.

You’d woken up to an empty house – unsurprising considering it was well past ten and you knew Osamu had work today – with your head pounding and your mouth uncomfortably dry. Wracking your brain, you can’t seem to conjure up a rational explanation for the bruise. Granted, you can’t really remember much of last night, only fragments of being at Atsumu’s place, and certainly nothing after you’d started taking those shots.

Which doesn’t make the uneasiness sitting heavy in your stomach any easier to take, because you know that you hadn’t been cosying up to anybody before you’d lost track of the night, and if it had happened after, then surely Samu or one of the others would have stepped in and put a stop to it.

And that should’ve been more of a comforting thought than it was, because if it didn’t happen at Atsumu’s then that meant it happened afterwards, when you were here with Samu.

Your heart thumps unevenly against your ribs.

Osamu. Your dead sister’s husband, your brother in law.

A hickey on your neck isn’t just a kiss. It’s not a simple, drunken peck against your lips, it meant that somebody had sucked on the skin, bitten at it, kissed until blood vessels broke – it’s not the kind of thing that happens accidentally.

A wave of nausea threatens to overtake you, and you barely manage to make it to the bathroom before you’re violently emptying the contents of your stomach into the porcelain bowl. And you know as you collapse onto the cool tiled floor, shaking just a little, that this time at least, the alcohol isn’t to blame.

You know Samu; you trust him implicitly. Whatever happened, it must have been a mistake or something. You’d both been drinking, and he’s still grieving and–

There’s no point jumping to conclusions or working yourself up any more than you already have. You’ll just bring it up with him when he gets home, you decide.

Yet anxiety and guilt gnaw at you as the hours crawl by, you’re half tempted to pick up your phone and just call him to ask point blank. The clock feels like it’s mocking you every time you glance up, and while you try your best to distract yourself with household chores and then busying yourself with dinner, none of it works for long.

By the time he does stride through the door, a little before ten, you’re an anxious wreck, all but wringing your fingers as you sit rigid and tense at the table. Most nights you eat before he gets home, hunger getting the better of you, but tonight you don’t seem to have much of an appetite.

“Smells good,” he comments with an easy grin, toeing off his shoes and dropping his wallet and keys by the door.

You open your mouth, but the words seem to get stuck in your throat as he drops a kiss down on the top of your head and walks on past to grab a bowl from the kitchen.

“I’m starving.”

Instead, you just swallow nervously as he pulls out the seat next to you and sits, not wasting another second before digging in. Your eyes quickly dart over to study him, but you don’t see any hint of guilt or unease on his face. He just looks like the same old Samu, a little tired maybe, but otherwise totally normal, and so you force yourself to pick up your spoon and follow suit.

And he’s never been one to fill silences with meaningless chatter, but tonight the quiet between the two of you feels oppressive, every clink of metal against ceramic echoing too loudly, every chew, every swallow setting you on edge. You can’t even taste the food, your stomach too twisted in knots for you to feel anything but nauseous after a few bites.

“… Is everything okay?” he asks after a few minutes, and it’s so sudden amongst the tense silence that you visibly jerk, almost dropping the spoon you’d been toying with.

You glance up to find him staring, brows furrowed in concern, and once again your stomach flips. It’s now or never.

“Um… did anything happen last night?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Osamu’s frown deepens fractionally, and he tilts his head as your fingers twist in your lap, “What d’ya mean?”

Did we kiss? The words dangle on the tip of your tongue, but as you nervously meet his eyes, you find nothing but confusion and concern there. And for a moment, you almost speak them, but then Samu’s reaching across the table to take your hand in his, and as his warm palm swallows up yours, you lose your nerve.

“You sure yer okay?”

Whatever happened, he doesn’t remember it and neither do you.

Smiling tightly, you nod. “Yeah, it’s nothing. Nevermind.”

There’s no reason for you to drag him through the mud for this, you’re already feeling enough guilt and shame for the both of you.

—

You try to put it out of your mind, but it’s not that easy.

Lying awake in bed at night, your brain unwittingly turns over possibilities of what else could’ve caused the mark if not Osamu. Guilt gnaws at you every second that you’re around him and all the while he’s painfully oblivious to it all.

He’s always been affectionate with you, but all those stray, unthinking touches now carry a different weight with them. You find yourself ducking away from them more often than not, pretending that you don’t see the almost wounded look in those greyish-brown eyes when you do. You start to avoid him, finding other places to be whenever he’s home.

And you hate yourself for it, because Osamu’s been nothing but faithful to your sister for as long as you’ve known him. You’re the one acting like there’s something wrong between the two of you, like he’s treating you any differently than he always has when you know that’s not the case.

You know that, but when you catch sight of the fading bruise in the mirror, your stomach twists into knots all the same.

There are excuses and justifications aplenty, but none of them make you feel any better. You still find yourself sniffling into your pillow, swallowed up by your guilt when you imagine how devastated your sister would be if she knew.

You’d let her husband kiss you. Being drunk and miserable and grieving didn’t change that. Whether he knew it was you or mistook you for her; it doesn’t matter. Maybe it was a mistake, letting him talk you into coming.

Things were still too raw, too fresh. You’d thought that coming here would help, but so far it’s only made everything worse, and unintentionally or not, you can’t kid yourself that your presence is doing anything to help Osamu anymore.

You need to go back to Tokyo.

Somewhat selfishly, you’re tempted to put it off until the weekend, because you know that Onigiri Miya has a stall for the beginning of the summer festival and he’ll be too preoccupied with that to think about anything else – but you just can’t bring yourself to do that to him.

No, it’s better to rip it off like a bandaid; nice and quick.

You’d planned on breaking the news over dinner, but as you pick your way through your noodles, you notice that Samu’s quieter than he usually is. Every time you risk a glance up he’s staring at the table, looking entirely lost in thought, and it just doesn’t feel like the right time to bring it up.

Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll cook his favourite for dinner and tell him then.

—

The knocking startles you from your sleep with a jolt. It’s quiet, hesitant almost, but you’ve always been a light sleeper.

“Samu?” you croak out, fumbling blindly for the phone at your bedside to see what time it is.

The door opens, a crack of light from the hallway spilling into your room as Osamu looks in. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “I know it’s late, but I need to talk to ya ‘bout somethin’.”

He’s shirtless, clad only in a pair of cotton pyjama pants, but he doesn’t look to be in any immediate kind of trouble. Still, he wouldn’t have disturbed you in the middle of the night if it wasn’t something important, so you blearily wipe the sleep from your eyes and force yourself to sit up as he slips into your room and shuts the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?”

He hasn’t bothered to turn on the light, and even with the moonlight streaming in through your window, his face is cast in shadow as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed. And it’s silly, especially considering he’s the one who’s shirtless right now but it’s hard not to flush at the realisation that you’re only wearing a thin, satiny slip. You feel almost naked – he’s seen you in bikinis before, but it feels different here, when he’s the one in your bedroom.

“You asked me the other day about what happened the night we went to Tsumu’s,” he begins, his voice quiet and soft in the early hours of the morning, and suddenly your state of dress is the last thing on your mind.

Swallowing tightly, your pulse quickens and you still, waiting for him to continue.

And you feel, rather than see, the way he stares at you, inching a fraction closer when you don’t immediately answer. “And I lied. Or I didn’t exactly tell ya the full truth.”

“Which is?” you force out.

Samu’s shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep, slow breath in and exhales heavily. “You were drunk and ya came onto me, tried to kiss me.” You flinch, a choked sound escaping your throat at the blunt admission, but he’s quick to reach for you, his hand coming to rest on your knee, squeezing it reassuringly. “And in the heat of the moment, I let ya.”

Hot tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but the moment you try to turn away from him, biting your lip and trying to blink back the tears, he stops you.

“Osamu–”

“‘Cause I’ve spent years waiting to kiss those lips, an’ I’m tired of pretending we both don’t want this.”

And he’s kissing you; soft and sweet and gentle, his lips molding to yours as he cups the back of your neck. You wonder if he can feel your pulse racing under his fingertips as he draws himself closer, groaning into your mouth.

It doesn’t matter that your hands are on his bare chest, pushing at him, hitting him – those muscles aren’t just for show; he’s immovable. The more you squirm, trying to extricate yourself so that you can plead with him to stop–

This is a mistake. A horrible, awful misunderstanding. He’s upset and grieving and not thinking clearly and you have to stop this.

He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

– the more his grip tightens until it starts to hurt and you’re whimpering into the kiss. Your tears are wetting his cheeks, but he doesn’t care, won’t stop and there’s a panic that rises within you every second that you’re entangled with him.

“Don’t do this,” he mutters, breaking the kiss as a sob rips its way free from your throat, “Don’t pretend ya don’t want this, baby. I know ya do. Stop being a little fuckin’ tease.”

He leans back in, intent on capturing your lips again, and in an act of desperation you reach for his face, cradling his cheek in your hand. “Samu, please,” you beg, wide, imploring eyes searching his face for any hint of a reprieve. “You’re scaring me. Stop, please, j-just for a second.”

Just a second, that’s all you need to try and snap him out of whatever the hell this is. One second.

Osamu stills, his face mere inches from your own, his body hovering atop yours. His breath, ragged and uneven, ghosts over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, but you don’t dare move as he leans into the touch, grey eyes fluttering shut.

He sighs, the sound almost like a shiver. “Ya don’t need to be scared, ‘m gonna take good care of my girl.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to say anything else, not as he forces himself onto you once more. You used to marvel a little at Osamu. Tall, handsome and strong, even in his mid thirties; Samu was fit. Now, straddling your waist, pinning your wrists to the wall with one hand, the other palming at your tits, he dwarfs you entirely. He isn’t impatient, not as he kisses you languidly, not as he slides the soft, satin up your thigh, revealing your underwear.

Your hiccuping sniffles aren’t enough to move him, you’re not strong enough to physically fight him off. He doesn’t pay the tearful, breathless pleas sobbed out between kisses any mind.

Osamu grabs you by the waist and flips you onto your front, lips brushing at the nape of your neck as he smooths your hair back, and you’re utterly helpless to stop him.

And as his hand runs down your side and he coaxes your hips up into the air, you almost wish that he was rough. Because this pretense of gentleness, glinting steel masquerading as silk – it’s too intimate, and you feel complicit.

Like you’re willing.

Like you want this with him.

An act of love as he tugs your panties down to your knees and hums in quiet satisfaction at the sight of your bare cunt, glistening just for him.

There’s a voice in your head telling you you should be screaming and kicking and snarling like a wild, feral thing, but Osamu’s grabbing at your ass, spreading it to get a better look, his thumb gliding along your slit and all you can think about is the picture he’d packed away, the one of the three of you at Disneyland.

Samu’s arm slung over your shoulder, and your sister’s bright smile.

He spits; a warm, fat glob of saliva hitting your pussy, and as it slowly dribbles down the only sound that leaves your lips is a soft, broken whine. You don’t fight him when he takes his cock in hand and guides the flushed head, pre-cum already oozing at the tip, along your cunt, you just lie there, a toy for him to move and manipulate however he wants.

“You’ll forgive me for this, I know ya will,” he murmurs, softly squeezing your hip just once as something thick and blunt presses at your entrance.

But it doesn’t matter, not as his cock sheaths itself inside of you with one hard, brutal thrust, because you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to forgive yourself.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere osamu miya #yandere osamu x reader #yandere osamu #yandere osamu miya x reader #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: infidelity #angst #drunk reader #manipulation and gaslighting ahead y'all #dilf osamu

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

NMJ is used to taking care of everyone else. He's not used to being taken care of. After getting injured or sick or a qi divination or something, his loved ones all come together to take care of him. He learns more people care deeply about him than he realized.

And if you can include a scene with someone bathing him or washing his hair, I would be ecstatic.

ao3

“- and no excuses!” Nie Huaisang’s voice was a little shrill, but under the circumstances, Nie Mingjue didn’t entirely feel like he could object.

After all, all the yelling, shrill or otherwise, was a sign that Nie Huaisang was sincerely worried about him, something Nie Mingjue usually did his best not to doubt. His little brother was self-absorbed and carefree, just the way he’d vowed he’d let him be years before when Nie Huaisang had been little more than a child. So even if Nie Huaisang’s behavior annoyed him or worried him, which it often did, even if it seized up his heart to think about what might happen when he was gone, when there would be no one to take care of his brother for him, it still pleased him beyond measure to see his brother grow up happy.

So what if it meant taking on some extra burdens, meant doing that little bit more to conceal his hardships and portray himself as the unshakable older brother Nie Huaisang saw him as? So what if his brother’s complaints sometimes acted as thorns hooked deep in his heart, itching under his skin, making him wonder does he really think of me that way and have I gone too far this time, maybe he hates me now and all that?

Nie Huaisang was yelling at him again, voice painfully shrill and piercing, but for Nie Mingjue, to hear his brother worried for him and not from him made for a nice change.

Anyway, he himself had probably been just as shrill, when it had been his father that –

It wasn’t that bad, he reminded himself. Baxia was as strong a presence in his mind as ever, their bond uninterrupted. It only looked bad from the outside.

It looked – pretty bad from the outside.

Nie Mingjue tried to smile at Nie Huaisang, but for some reason that just seemed to make things worse: Nie Huaisang’s eyes filled up with tears at once and the scowl on his face deepened. “I’m serious, da-ge! Really serious. I’ll take care of everything, you won’t need to worry about anything at all – for real, this time – and in return, you’re staying put until the doctors say you’re better.”

Nie Mingjue nodded obediently.

Nie Huaisang burst into tears and fled the room before Nie Mingjue could even offer him a hug.

Watching his little brother run, Nie Mingjue sighed and turned his gaze towards his (usually) reliable head disciple standing guard in the corner of the room, trying to ask with his gaze what in the world he was doing wrong, but Nie Zonghui’s eyes were red like a bad attack of spring fever and he wouldn’t even look at him.

It was not, in Nie Mingjue’s view, a very effective way to guard him. Not that he needed guarding – maybe if he’d had no choice but to return injured to Jinlin Tower, that pit of vipers and nest of foxes, but despite the gravity of his wounds they’d still managed to make it as far as this little outpost in disputed territory. Even if it was a stretch, they could put soldiers here and call it justified as being land under the command of Qinghe Nie…though possibly Jin Guangshan would try to find some way to use them doing that to his advantage.

And Nie Mingjue wasn’t exactly up for another war at the moment.

He wasn’t up for anything.

“Stop thinking of politics,” Nie Zonghui said, and his voice was hoarse as if he’d been swallowing sobs. Nie Mingjue wondered how he’d guessed. “I always can tell because your nose wrinkles whenever you think too hard about it…ah, A-Jue, you scared us.”

Scared his half-generation uncle enough to revert back to using childhood nicknames, apparently.

Nie Mingjue wished he could say something to comfort him.

Well, if he were wishing for things, forget wishing that he hadn’t been struck temporarily mute, he might as well go the full way and wish that the terrible creature he’d been fighting – a demon of especially vicious character, and so unexpectedly near to Lanling, too! – hadn’t taken advantage of the weakness he still suffered from, after the Nightless City, to attack his saber rather than himself.

Might as well wish, too, that he’d never been captured in Yangquan in the first place. That he’d never been beaten or tortured, that he’d never had a hundred Wen feet kicking at his saber in some pale shadow their sect leader, attempting to break him as their sect leader had broken his father.

How he had felt when the demon’s blow had fallen straight onto his blade and she had cracked –

Baxia was fine. He could feel her.

(He remembered his father shouting for someone to bring him his saber, long gone, and wondered –)

Baxia was fine.

He’d examined her a thousand times and couldn’t see any true damage – the physical damage was artificially induced, located at the far end; for a regular saber, it wouldn’t be anything to think twice about, a bit of hammering in the forge and it would be as if it had never happened, with no lingering weakness. It was only if her spirit had been harmed, or the bond between them, that his own spirit would be injured, his mind affected, and that hadn’t happened. He’d checked, was checking, time and time again. She was fine.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell anybody that.

When the blade had cracked, he’d reacted on instinct in a fit of panic, sending all of his qi immediately to his bond with Baxia, desperately and frantically trying to ensure that his soul wasn’t torn out of his hands the way his father’s had been, that gruesome descent into madness and frothing aimless rage. The demon had sensed his distraction and gone for his throat with its claws, and then the rest of the Nie sect that had come on the night-hunt with him had descended upon it like howling wolves, throwing everything they’d brought with them at it.

Not a good night-hunting strategy (what if the demon hadn’t been alone? what if it was huddled together with other creatures of resentful energy the way they usually were, and using up their arsenal on it left them vulnerable? what if they encountered something on the way back?), but admittedly very effective.

The demon had been utterly vanquished – and really, all the admonishments not to think of politics aside, it was very unusual for such a thing to be lurking around in the environs of another Great Sect like that, especially when that sect had invited its guests to casually night-hunt to entertain themselves – and now they were here.

Or rather, he was here, lying in bed with needles stuck in him like a porcupine, drinking bowl after bowl of medicine as his brother frantically hovered over him. And Nie Mingjue was yielding to it all without complaint even when it was really annoying (he’d never been a very good patient) because he understood, having once been there in Nie Huaisang’s place when his father had been in his, except all his complaisance seemed to be only making Nie Huaisang even more upset.

Baxia grumbled in his mind, having apparently realized that they weren’t going night-hunting again until she was fully repaired and all the worry-warts around him satisfied, and he comforted her with his own misery at the idea: stuck in bed, not allowed to train, not allowed to hunt –

He’d tried to mime the idea of doing some correspondence, since much of it was in fact urgent and he couldn’t even imagine how much of the endless work of being sect leader would pile up in the event of an elongated absence, and Nie Huaisang had thrown a fit, and also several teacups.

Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to do that.

Nie Mingjue sighed and sank back into the bed, briefly putting on an exaggerated pout that made Nie Zonghui laugh a little, the sound wet in his throat. But then, once he’d turned away and followed Nie Huaisang out the door, Nie Mingjue’s pout faded into a resigned sigh.

A little while later, he heard familiar voices at the door.

“ – came as soon as I could, of course,” Jin Guangyao was saying, sounding a little – amused? Long-suffering? What a strange emotion for him to openly display, given the circumstances. Even if he was enjoying someone’s misfortune, and Nie Mingjue knew that his sworn brother often did, he would normally be more tactful about expressing it. “Your missive wasn’t very clear about what the issue was, Huaisang.”

Well, that would explain it. If it was Nie Huaisang, being called to assist with a disaster might mean anything from the dramatic breaking of a fan to the even more dramatic prospect of being forced to actually do some work for once in his life. It very rarely referred to actual disaster.

There was the muffled sound of sobbing – it turned Nie Mingjue’s stomach to hear Nie Huaisang like that, but the last day or so had shown him that there was nothing he could do about it – and then some quiet discussion, too low to hear without trying, and Nie Mingjue had gotten some very stern lectures on how much he was not to try anything for a while.

The murmuring continued for a little, and then – “What?!”

A moment later, Jin Guangyao rushed into Nie Mingjue’s room, usual smile still frozen on his face and his eyes a little wider than usual. It was a refreshingly subdued reaction, Nie Mingjue thought: none of the wide-eyed teary eyes or drooped shoulders that usually accompanied Jin Guangyao’s demonstrations of upset feelings, the pity-me scenes that felt so staged now that Nie Mingjue knew what an able actor Jin Guangyao was.

This time, though, he seemed almost sincere.

Jin Guangyao stopped a few steps into the room, staring at where Nie Mingjue was lying, expression still frozen for a moment, and then the ice melted and the artifice returned, a look of sorrow and sympathy – look at how bad you’ve made me feel by being hurt like that – that made Nie Mingjue want to sigh. He’d been happier, their relationship better, before he’d gotten to peek under the mask Jin Guangyao wore, but it hadn’t been the truth, and he always preferred a hard truth over a soft lie.

“Oh, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao murmured. “Da-ge, poor da-ge…how are you feeling?”

Nie Mingjue said nothing, of course, and Jin Guangyao frowned.

“He can’t talk,” Nie Huaisang said, having followed him into the room. “His throat was nearly ripped out –”

For fuck’s sake, it was a scratch.

“– and he was almost entirely drained of his qi. I could barely feel his heartbeat when I arrived! And he hasn’t been acting like himself, either! I don’t know, I just – I don’t remember what it was like, la – last – last time –”

The tears were starting again, and Nie Mingjue tried to raise a hand to reach out to Nie Huaisang, wanting to comfort him, but something about the gesture made Nie Huaisang sob even harder and even Jin Guangyao looked a little taken aback, even a little stricken. Maybe it was the amount of effort it took for him to lift his hand, the way he had to stop and start the movement? The way his fingers trembled with the effort it took to keep it up in the air?

(His father hadn’t been like this at all. Maybe Nie Huaisang had been too young, Nie Zonghui too distant, but Nie Mingjue remembered it as if it were yesterday – there hadn’t been weakness, not like this. His father had been in a coma for three days and nights, and then he’d woken up. He’d seemed fine at first, not weak at all beyond the usual sluggishness that followed after a period of unconsciousness, and then he’d asked for his saber – and kept asking, no matter how many times they tried to explain –)

Baxia was fine.

The weakness was his own.

It wasn’t like that.

“How can I help?” Jin Guangyao asked. “Sect business –”

“I need someone to watch over him,” Nie Huaisang interrupted, wiping his eyes. “Someone who knows him well. He’s not…his reactions are all wrong. He goes into these dazes sometimes, doesn’t respond, and even when he seems present, he’s flinching at things that aren’t there or being nice and I just…I really can’t tell how much he’s really here or how much of it is reacting on, I don’t know, some sort of childhood instinct. So it has to be someone familiar with his habits, his likes and dislikes.”

Jin Guangyao was blinking rapidly. “And – me? You want me to...I was his deputy, yes, but – surely you or someone else in the Nie sect would be more appropriate?”

“Sect Leader Nie has always respected the differences between rank,” Nie Zonghui volunteered, voice low. “It would hurt his pride to be seen in such an undignified state by someone who wasn’t family.”

The blinking stopped, Jin Guangyao’s rapid thinking abruptly (and visibly) hitting a wall. “I’m – I’m not family.”

“You’re his sworn brother, aren’t you? That’s almost the same as being brothers, which makes you family,” Nie Huaisang said practically. “I’ve written to er-ge, too –”

He’d what?!

“Anyway, I know how good you are at managing things, but it wouldn’t really be appropriate for you to be involved in Nie sect business, would it? It might put you in an awkward situation, having to negotiate against your father.” Nie Huaisang gave Jin Guangyao another hug. “You just focus on taking care of da-ge, all right? I don’t want – if anyone found out, they could –”

He was going to start crying again, Nie Mingjue thought miserably, and wondered if people could die of dehydration by means of tears.

“Nothing will happen to your brother while he’s in my hands,” Jin Guangyao said, and Nie Mingjue even believed him. If there was one thing Jin Guangyao hated, it was being blamed for anything – even if he wanted Nie Mingjue dead, which Nie Mingjue was sure he did sometimes, he would never let it happen while he was the responsible party. Which was why it was something of a surprise that he was allowing himself to be made responsible. “It’ll be all right, Huaisang. You have to believe that.”

Nie Huaisang sniffed and finally wiped away his tears. “You’ll see what I mean soon enough,” he said ominously, and stalked out with Nie Zonghui a few steps behind, shooting Jin Guangyao an apologetic look as they left.

Nie Mingjue couldn’t tell if he agreed or disagreed with Nie Huaisang’s words.

“I hope da-ge doesn’t mind my forwardness in agreeing to help him,” Jin Guangyao said, coming closer to the bed to look down at him, his expression simpering and fake as it always was these days.

As much as that falsity annoyed him, how could Nie Mingjue mind? He knew, as Jin Guangyao did not, what his brother was afraid of; anything that could ease his brother’s mind, if only for a moment, was good.

(Why would Jin Guangyao agree to be the one responsible for him? A demon of such strength shouldn’t have been anywhere near Lanling. And this little outpost was nothing, unguarded, vulnerable; they didn’t have any defenses if Jin Guangshan decided to do something against them here, and yet Jin Guangyao willingly agreed –)

He couldn’t tell Jin Guangyao that he appreciated what he was doing and knew how hard it was, how much of a burden it was, so he reached out and caught his sleeve, tugging it lightly, and tried to smile at him.

It wasn’t any more successful than when he’d tried it on Nie Huaisang – less tears, but it made Jin Guangyao frown in a way that looked actually sincere, as if Nie Mingjue had done something incorrect – so he tugged on his sleeve again, like a child, until Jin Guangyao instinctively lifted his hand to stop him. Nie Mingjue exerted himself, caught it, and drew the words for an apology on his sworn brother’s palm.

My fault, he thought at Jin Guangyao, hoping that he’d understand. I’ve troubled you.

My fault.

It was his weakness. His family’s, his father’s, his own – why should others pay for it, the way he’d paid for his father’s? All he’d ever wanted was to keep them from having to go through that type of suffering.

Jin Guangyao’s hand was trembling, he suddenly noticed, and opened eyes that had slid shut with temporary exhaustion to look at Jin Guangyao again.

His sworn brother’s face had gone ashen, his lips pressed together tightly as if something was upsetting him.

“Da-ge?” he said, strangely hesitant, but Nie Mingjue didn’t understand what he was trying to ask him and was too tired to really try. He squeezed Jin Guangyao’s hand again and released him, letting his hand fall down to the bed.

He checked once again on Baxia.

She was fine. She was right there, their bond as strong as ever.

(“Where is my saber?” his father asked, rubbing his face. “Pass Jiwei to me, A-Jue, will you?”)

He shivered.

Opened his eyes.

The room had been reorganized, he noticed, and the light was different, although not too much – had he fallen asleep? He must have.

Well, he was still healing. It was normal.

“Da-ge!” Jin Guangyao was still there, too. “Can you hear me now?”

Nie Mingjue nodded.

“Good,” Jin Guangyao said, and seemed to even mean it. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

My saber, Nie Mingjue thought, and started shivering again, the room suddenly gone terribly cold even though he was under two layers of blankets already.

Baxia was fine. She was only out of his sight because they were fixing her – it was a small thing, nothing to a normal saber, easily repaired. It was only taking so long because they would have to find a good forge and bring over a smith familiar with spiritual weapons.

Baxia was fine.

He wouldn’t ask for her. He wouldn’t.

“– leader Nie! Look at me – can you hear me? Sect Leader Nie, Meng Yao has a question for you –”

Nie Mingjue turned his head with some difficulty and blinked at Jin Guangyao, who looked relieved. He’d used his old name for some reason, maybe to get Nie Mingjue’s attention, and even that much was a bit of a surprise. Jin Guangyao hated his old name, would prefer to pretend it had never existed, and this was the first time Nie Mingjue had heard it from his lips since the ceremony in which he’d received the new one.

“Good,” Jin Guangyao murmured, seeing him. “Good – yes, da-ge. You’re back. Good. Look at me.”

Nie Mingjue tried to mouth the word ‘question’ at him, but it felt like it was impossible to communicate properly. The lack of language frustrated him immensely, even if the usual anger that was always so quick to leap to his side at the first instance of such frustration didn’t come, too buried beneath the fear.

Luckily, Jin Guangyao was quick and smart and after a few moments seemed to understand. “Oh, ah, the question? Yes. That. Ah...I wanted to know if there was something you wanted.”

My saber.

Nie Mingjue shivered.

Baxia was fine.

“I rearranged the room to your preferences –” He had, too. Even the light fell differently. “– but I’m not sure what else I can get for you that you might need or enjoy.”

Nie Mingjue considered trying to ask for correspondence again, something to do that would be useful, but quickly realized the futility of that. Still, he didn’t really do anything else, other than work; he’d long ago given up all his old hobbies in favor of his duties, being sect leader and training himself for war and eventually war itself, and even he didn’t remember what they were anymore.

“As da-ge knows, he has always been a mystery to me,” Jin Guangyao added, a little bit of self-depreciating humor in his words. That old joke between them (had it been a joke?), about how Meng Yao would constantly be trying to figure out what Nie Mingjue liked so that he could serve him better and Nie Mingjue constantly being disinterested in every vice he tried to present him with…after everything, Nie Mingjue had started to wonder if it hadn’t been a joke at all, if Meng Yao had been truly frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t find any chink in his armor, a weakness he could exploit to hold over his head.

He was so weak now, though, and yet Jin Guangyao made the same joke.

Was there anything, really, for him to do? Jin Guangyao must be terribly bored, forced to be a babysitter for a man who couldn’t even speak to convey his wishes, and wouldn’t –

Actually, now what he thought about it, there was something.

Nie Mingjue lifted his fingers and twisted them into the hand sign they’d used during the Sunshot Campaign to mean ‘break camp’.

Jin Guangyao stared at him blankly.

He made the sign again, hoping to convey meaning. There wasn’t anything in the room he could point to, and he’d never been especially talented at pantomime, yet surely Jin Guangyao with his quick mind would be able to puzzle it out – every time he made that sign, they would stop moving, set up the tents, and the first thing he’d want, every time it was possible, was –

“A bath?” Jin Guangyao asked, and Nie Mingjue nodded in relief. “I’ll order one set up right away. Anything else?”

Nie Mingjue pointed to the pile of his clothing that was now neatly folded up on a nearby table – and much reduced, by the look of it. Not a surprise. The always-efficient Jin Guangyao would have sent the worst pieces, the ones that had been cut off his body by the doctors, away to be retailored.

Jin Guangyao frowned at it. “You want to get dressed? No…to get ready to receive visitors?”

Nie Mingjue nodded.

“Why? Who are you expecting?”

After some contemplation, Nie Mingjue held up two fingers.

Jin Guangyao blinked.

Sighing, Nie Mingjue pointed at himself – one finger – and at Jin Guangyao – three fingers – and then held up two again.

“…you want to get bathed and dressed before er-ge arrives?”

It was so good to have someone by his side that understood him. Losing his trust in Meng Yao’s character had always been the worst part of that entire experience, the realization that the person he’d thought was a friend had never existed but had instead been deliberately manufactured to match his tastes, but losing the help of such a competent deputy hadn’t been great, either.

“Da-ge, are you sure?”

Nie Mingjue nodded. He couldn’t let Lan Xichen see him like this – the Nie and Lan sects had always been closer allies than they’d been with the others, and they’d been friends since childhood. While not physically present, Lan Xichen had seen some glimpses of what Nie Mingjue had gone through when his father had been dying, and again right after he’d died.

He’d been the one to whom Nie Huaisang had revealed that one letter that Nie Mingjue had thought he’d burned, the one that he hadn’t actually intended on ever using, the one that laid out what he’d say if he were to say goodbye – it had only been theoretical, a way to get out frustration. He would never have been so selfish as to let the awful burden that had fallen on his shoulders fall in turn on Nie Huaisang.

But Lan Xichen hadn’t really believed him back then, when he’d explained that he didn’t mean it, that he didn’t have any plans to do anything that would make such a goodbye necessary. He’d worried himself sick over him back then.

He’d worry now.

Nie Mingjue knew Lan Xichen loved him, he did, even if sometimes recently he felt that Lan Xichen might take him a little for granted. Lan Xichen loved him, so Lan Xichen would worry about him, but Lan Xichen also expressed his worries through trying to fix things.

He didn’t want to have to deal with that right now. There was nothing that needed to be fixed – Baxia was fine, he was fine, it was just a matter of healing for him and a bit of reforging for her.

It was fine.

“Da-ge, the bath is ready.”

Nie Mingjue pulled himself back out of trying to check on his bond with Baxia again to find that it was, steaming and hot; the servants must have moved it in while he wasn’t paying attention and then departed again. He tried to pull himself up to sit, but Jin Guangyao pressed down on his shoulder with surprising strength.

“Let me help you, da-ge,” he said, and Nie Mingjue graciously didn’t call him out on how much he was clearly enjoying himself. It was nice to think that part of that enjoyment was in helping him, as opposed to merely being in a position of power, but it was so hard to tell with Jin Guangyao – he wasn’t even sure the man himself knew which it was.

Shakily, with Jin Guangyao’s assistance, he sat up, and put his feet on the ground, only to have to wait while Jin Guangyao fussed around removing the acupuncture needles that had been left behind, murmuring something about having gotten the doctors’ approval. After that was done, Jin Guangyao helped him painstakingly totter over to the bathtub – his sworn brother might have only mediocre cultivation, but he was still stronger than Nie Mingjue was now, with his qi depleted and his battered body little more than dead weight. Nie Mingjue was as dependent on him as a small child on their parent. Once there, he helped brace him against the wall, helped remove his inner robes, and finally, blissfully, helped him slide into the bathtub.

“Da-ge has so many scars,” Jin Guangyao said, and Nie Mingjue looked at him.

Jin Guangyao was studying him with a strange expression on his face. He hadn’t allowed him to assist him with bathing before, Nie Mingjue recalled; he had been trying to maintain a divide between personal servants and military hierarchy, and Jin Guangyao – Meng Yao, then – had been a guest disciple, not a servant. Even when there were no personal servants to be had and Jin Guangyao had offered, Nie Mingjue had refused, not wanting his deputy to feel as though he were being looked down upon.

Still, it wasn’t as though the man hadn’t seen his bare chest before – there had been times on campaign when a bath hadn’t been possible, only a quick dip in the river to wash off the blood, and Jin Guangyao had even helped stitch him up a few times when an enemy’s blade had struck true and the doctors were busy elsewhere – so Nie Mingjue wasn’t sure what was drawing his interest this time.

Normally, he would have asked.

Normally, he would have gotten angry at the presumption, less because of the violation of social norms than because he was embarrassed, and when he was embarrassed he got angry. That was his temperament, the way he’d been raised, always defaulting to anger instead of other, less comfortable emotions, and he’d tried very hard to avoid passing along those habits to Nie Huaisang. He hoped one day to see Nie Huaisang teaching children of his own with new habits, different habits – for his little brother to scold him for being a bad example to the younger generation, for him to have a reason to try harder to be better.

He couldn’t ask now, and there was no point in being angry. Or embarrassed, for that matter.

Jin Guangyao’s hand came to his shoulder, and then slid down to his chest, the pressure of his fingers light and barely present. There was nothing sexual or threatening in the gesture, simply curiosity.

“So many new scars,” Jin Guangyao murmured, and Nie Mingjue looked down at his chest: raised red lines all over, old injuries scabbed over and scarred and healing. His cultivation was at such a high level that even scars eventually faded away, but many of these were too new. The marks of a knife, a sword, a whip, the remnants of blunt weapons that hit so many times that they pierced skin, even the indentation of human nails driven in deep…

The worst of it was his left side, right above his ribs, where the knife marks were precise and orderly, triangles of flesh cut like fletching; he had made a habit of not looking at himself there, yet that was where Jin Guangyao’s fingers went.

“How did this happen, da-ge?” he asked, staring, his gaze unnervingly intent. “Who tried to skin you alive?”

Nie Mingjue didn’t understand the question. He pointed at Jin Guangyao.

“What?” Jin Guangyao asked, not understanding. “Do you want me to get you something?”

Nie Mingjue shook his head. He pointed again, this time at his side at the place he preferred not to think about, and then once again at Jin Guangyao himself.

Jin Guangyao stared back at him, blank for a moment until he understood, and then he visibly flinched. “Me?” he said, his voice rising an octave. “No, I didn’t –”

It hadn’t been him directly, no, but the person who had done it had been his student – had boasted about being trained by Wen Ruohan’s chief torturer, the inventor of all those terrible machines that they’d heard rumors of, some of which they’d brought out to show him through intimate demonstration – the sick feeling in Nie Mingjue’s stomach when he’d found Meng Yao standing above him, smiling, and realized that the person that had been spoken of was him…

It might as well have been him that did it.

“I hadn’t realized,” Jin Guangyao said. His fingers had fallen to the edge of the tub, holding on until his knuckles were white. Anger, Nie Mingjue thought with the experience of a connoisseur, but he didn’t understand why it would make Jin Guangyao angry. “They shouldn’t have touched you. They weren’t allowed –”

Nie Mingjue didn’t especially want to hear any more of Jin Guangyao’s excuses – there were always excuses, he’d found, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t forgiven him for it already, or did Jin Guangyao think that he’d sworn brotherhood for nothing? – so he closed his eyes and let himself sink down into the water until it was over his head.

It was peaceful under the water, disconnected from the rest of the world. He didn’t have to think about Jin Guangyao ordering his torture and then covering it up, or maybe even ordering them not to do it but not keeping close enough watch to prevent it; he didn’t have to think about all the people that Jin Guangyao couldn’t use, the ones that didn’t get the benefit of such an order.

He didn’t have to think about all those feet kicking his Baxia like she was a dog they wanted to put down, or Meng Yao holding her in his hands and asking him how many slaps he thought it would take until she shattered the way Jiwei had shattered, or the invitation to go night-hunting at Lanling that led him straight to a demon that knew exactly where to strike –

Baxia was fine, he reminded himself. Fine.

Hands abruptly appeared in front of his eyes, bursting into the underwater scene in a frenzy of bubbles, catching him around the shoulders and pulling him up into the air to see Jin Guangyao’s white face and hear him shouting, “Are you mad, staying under for so long?! You’re not a fish; you can’t breathe water!”

Nie Mingjue blinked at him.

“You’re no Jiang sect child of the river,” Jin Guangyao scolded. “What’s wrong with you? Do you not want to live anymore?”

(“Stop stalling and get me my saber!” his father roared, his hand lashing out too quick for Nie Mingjue to avoid, the full-force blow sending him staggering and breaking something inside of him in more ways than just the physical. “Do you not want to live anymore?”)

Nie Mingjue missed the water already.

Jin Guangyao’s fingers tightened on his shoulders. “You’re not allowed to go, da-ge,” he said. “Not when I just realized that I want to keep you around.”

Nie Mingjue shook his head, realizing that Jin Guangyao had misunderstood his silence. It wasn’t that he wanted to die, he wouldn’t do that to Nie Huaisang, but that sometimes he didn’t know if he would be able to stay.

Baxia was fine – wasn’t she?

“Just don’t move, all right?” Jin Guangyao huffed, and settled down behind him. He found some soap and began scrubbing at Nie Mingjue’s skin as if he were a piece of laundry, although he didn’t use enough pressure for it to actually hurt. The repetitive movements were soothing, lulling him to relax – especially when Jin Guangyao, grumbling something about stress, jabbed him repeatedly in certain acupoints to force his muscles to release stored-up tension – and after a little while Jin Guangyao stopped being so rough.

“Huaisang was right,” he said after a while, having shifted over to running his fingers through Nie Mingjue’s hair as if he were a child, carefully detangling each knot he encountered. “You really are acting far too nice. Shouldn’t you be scolding me for overstepping?”

Nie Mingjue shook his head lightly, careful not to jostle Jin Guangyao’s hand.

“No? Then something else, surely. Where’s your anger, da-ge?”

Nie Mingjue looked down at his hands, his saber hand instinctively curling up to grasp a hilt that was no longer there. It looked wrong to see them like this, empty.

(“Where is my saber?” his father cried out. “My saber – my saber!”)

He wasn’t his father.

That he would die of a qi deviation, die young, years before his time – this he had accepted. But he would not die the way his father died, angry, lashing out at all the ones he loved most, not if he could do anything about it.

Maybe in the future, when he lost himself fully, he would become a resentful ghost in human flesh, a raging monster fit only for slaughtering – if his thoughts themselves had already begun to lie to him, to drip poison into his ears and into his heart, if despite everything Baxia was actually gone and he was already dead and he just hadn’t realized it yet –

For as long as he could manage, Nie Mingjue wouldn’t let himself be angry.

Did he still doubt Jin Guangyao? Yes, of course. But what good would it do to suspect him now? If he tried to accuse him, even he wouldn’t believe his own testimony.

(“- they say your father died of rage –”)

“Come on, then,” Jin Guangyao said, coaxing him like a child, and his hands as he helped him out of the bath were almost gentle. “I’ve got you some new robes. I’ll help you into them.”

Nie Mingjue caught his hand.

“Da-ge? Do you want something?”

My saber. Where is my saber?

He shook his head and let Jin Guangyao help him back to the bed. He sat heavily there and stared at his hands as Jin Guangyao wrapped him in a new set of robes – his own, he thought, but he couldn’t tell if it was the extra set he’d brought with him to Lanling or if it’d been brought from the Unclean Realm.

Was there enough time for someone to come from the Unclean Realm? They had smiths there, and forges –

Where is my saber?

He stared at himself in the mirror, Jin Guangyao lingering behind him, and closed his eyes.

Like all cultivators, especially good cultivators, Nie Mingjue had a very good understanding of his spiritual energy, the way his qi moved through his meridians and settled in his dantian. He felt it every time he cultivated. His spiritual energy was drained dry right now, but if he really pushed and strained himself, he could squeeze up a small droplet of qi and guide it through the whole cultivation sequence. He could watch it carefully, wait for it to hit the place where he connected with Baxia – where he could feel her, echoing back at him. Intact.

She was fine.

She was.

She had to be.

Nie Mingjue felt someone start to braid his hair and frowned a little: perfect memory or not, he didn’t think Jin Guangyao knew the right braids. There were very subtle nuances to the ones he wore, significant ones; copying another version of his own hairstyle might be making a grievous error. He’d been wearing war-braids almost the entire time they’d known each other, after all…

He opened his eyes.

It wasn’t Jin Guangyao behind him.

“Welcome back, da-ge,” Lan Xichen said. His eyes were red around the edges, as if he’d been crying, or trying very hard to keep from doing so. “How are you feeling?”

Empty, lost, afraid – oh, Xichen, I’m so very afraid –

“Huaisang said to tell you that if you don’t stop doing whatever it is that’s keeping your qi drained, he’ll lock your spiritual energy away,” Lan Xichen said after a few moments, when it became clear that Nie Mingjue wasn’t going to respond. “And I have to say, I agree with him.”

Nie Mingjue lowered his head, feeling guilty. He shouldn’t be causing them any more worry than they already had – Nie Huaisang’s eyes were never empty of tears, and it was all his fault.

“You need your spiritual energy to recover if you want to heal,” Lan Xichen said. His hands did not falter as he made the braids – the right ones, too, a sect leader at peace who was in temporary retreat due to ill health. “And you will heal, da-ge. We’ll do everything that we can to help you.”

Nie Mingjue’s shoulders slumped. That was a familiar refrain by now, and his eyes drifted down in the mirror in front of him to look at Liebing, tucked away in Lan Xichen’s belt as always – Lan Xichen would want him to meditate while he played, no doubt. As far as Nie Mingjue knew, there was no guqin here for him to play Clarity, but there were other songs available.

“I’ve asked Wangji if he would play something calming for you, if you think it would help, but I won’t force you,” Lan Xichen said, and Nie Mingjue raised his eyes to meet his in the mirror, surprised. His old friend tried to smile but didn’t quite succeed. “I’m not entirely up to doing it myself, I’m afraid. Liebing requires perfect control of breath, and I’m…”

He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them once more.

“Do you know how much I’d miss you, da-ge?” he asked, voice low. “How much emptier my life would be without knowing that you were there? And not just me – all of us.”

Nie Mingjue didn’t know what to say.

“There’s Huaisang, of course, but you know that. Your sect, your family…even A-Yao has been unusually upset about the idea of something more happening to you, he was engaging Nie Zonghui in a conversation about the defenses in place here in the event someone tried something last I saw. Wangji dropped everything to come rushing here when I wrote to him, and – you’ll never believe this – Wei Wuxian himself followed him here, asking about your health.”

Wei Wuxian? Here, so close to Lanling? That was a terrible idea.

“He’s being careful,” Lan Xichen assured him. “He went with Wangji and Jiang Wanyin to examine the site of the night-hunt – they’re saying it’s suspicious that a demon of that power managed to end up this close to Lanling, especially undetected, with you going in without any warning and the demon targeting you in such a specific way.”

It was suspicious. Also, Jiang Wanyin was here?

“I don’t know how he found out, he just showed up here,” Lan Xichen said. “I think Nie Huaisang might have written to him? Either way, he wanted to help.”

Nie Mingjue’s brow wrinkled.

“If you’re wondering why, it’s because he respects and admires you,” Lan Xichen said. “You helped him so much during the war; he wants to repay you…everyone does. You’ve done so much for all of us.”

Nie Mingjue shrugged. He really hadn’t – he’d only done what he’d need to, nothing more.

“You mean so much to all of us,” Lan Xichen murmured, finishing the braids and putting his hands on Nie Mingjue’s shoulders. “Oh, da-ge. Please hold on for us.”

(He thought of how his father looked at the end, gurgling on his own blood, red seeping out of his eyes and ears and nose as well and looking almost relieved to be going – relieved that his endless nightmare would finally come to an end, that he could rest at last in his grave…)

Nie Mingjue nodded and ducked his head to hide the tears brimming in his own eyes.

He’d stop checking, he promised silently. Baxia was fine, he thought, or maybe she wasn’t, but he hadn’t yet lost his mind, hadn’t yet started lashing out, and all those he loved were here by his side, ready to support him and help him however they could, if they could.

He would need to have faith.

He was still afraid, terribly afraid, but – he would, he could, rely on others to help support him, when he couldn’t support himself.

They wouldn’t let his anger eat him alive, and so he couldn’t let his fear do the same.

Nie Mingjue raised his hand and covered one of Lan Xichen’s with it.

He licked his lips, swallowed.

Forcing himself to speak felt like trying to break the Lan silencing spell, but he had to do it.

“Xichen,” he croaked, voice barely audible. “…Baxia?”

Where is my saber?

Lan Xichen’s hands tightened on his shoulders.

“Repaired,” his friend promised him. “Reforged by the finest spiritual smith in Qinghe. Huaisang is on his way to bring her to you now.”

Nie Mingue smiled.

A shichen later, Nie Huaisang pressed Baxia’s hilt into his hand, expression worried, all of them worried, all of them staring at him to see what would happen as he held his saber and carefully pressed some little, tiny part of the spiritual energy he’d been saving up into her.

Baxia sang out her song, bright and clear and unblemished, full of righteousness and rage.

Nie Mingjue closed his eyes and wept in relief.

She was fine.

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #lan xichen #my fic #my fics #fine #ebonykain

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kojinnie · 4 years ago

Text

In the fifteen days of your absence

Pairing: Reader x Reiner Braun

Tags/Warning: deep angst in the end

Summary: Reiner wanted to leave you, but you chose to leave him first.

Word Count: 1.5K

A/N: Written half-drunk at 4 AM. Very unstructured piece that I wrote in a whim. Just me being overwhelmed with emotion. So please, bare with me.

There is a prolonged misery in the way Reiner Braun saw the world, in a rather apocalyptic outlook which made wariness became a permanent figure throughout the course of his life, he couldn't help but to incessantly ponder on his role in the world. Every day, every waking moment in his short, miserable life. Like it was an urgency that he had to find answer to immediately.

"What was I destined to be?" was the question he pondered every morning. He had grown to believe that everyone was made for single, destined role and he was on an never-ending quest to find his. You often thought, what was it that drove the man into the verge of such desperation to find an answer? "Doesn't that depend on what you choose to do every day?" you once asked, as the two of you laid naked on your bed. He didn't utter a word afterward, but he knew your answer-slash-question wasn’t up to his appetite for philosophical discourse. He just rolled over away from you and succumbed into silence until the next morning when he left your apartment without saying goodbye. Even in the path where he left, you could sense he left with utter disappointment towards you.

He didn't reach out to you after his shift. Nor did he send the customary good morning text that had grown to be habitual rather than a display of affection over the past three years you had been with him. You waited patiently until the night came, yet still there was no sign of him. That night, you slept anxiously, jolting out of drowsiness each time your phone buzzed, only to find that it was just a typhoon warning. You didn’t care, all you wanted to know was how Reiner was.

The next morning, out of fright of somewhat the expected disappointment, the first thing you did in the morning was shoving your phone underneath your pillow, as you got ready for work. You didn’t want to have your heart shattered by the non-existing message or missed calls from Reiner. That was the least you could do to refrain having an anxiety attack an hour away before your shift started.

At lunch, your Japanese bento tasted bland. And the words of your manager rung into your eardrums like a mere inconvenience. You had grown antsy by that point, and you had not checked your phone since the morning. You continued to torture yourself by putting your phone on Airplane Mode. You couldn’t bear having each minute neurotically checking your phone to see whether Reiner had texted your or not.

By the third day, you caved in. You finally operated your phone because you had to call your grocer for a weekly delivery. When things were okay, Reiner would come by and walk with you to the nearby deli. He would buy three bottles of his favorite ranch, one that he would store at your house, one at his mum’s, and one for his own storage at home. But now that he was off the grid, you didn’t feel like leaving your apartment and opted for a delivery instead. The courier was grim, didn’t say thank you even after a rather generous tip. He was listening to Happy Days Are Here Again, the melodious tunes seeped through his headphone. What an odd irony, you thought to yourself as you closed the door on him.

There was a sickening anticipation as you waited for your phone to load, and when the homepage popped open you felt nausea looming as you found no sign of Reiner neither in your inbox nor your call log.

You had grown accustomed to the anxiety of being with Reiner. As if being nauseous, with your heart thumping all night, wondering his whereabout, is the default state that came with dating the man with those sorrowful eyes.

Reiner Braun. That man.

He had affinity for leaving in the quietest fashion, putting you in the dark over what went wrong. Beating yourself up for his departure. Sometimes it would be because of the little thing you said mindlessly, or the way Reiner felt like he had been treated by you in a way that he regarded as distasteful. But he never told you about it, he would just disappear into the thin air and let you succumbed into your own misery in the complete absence of him, until you came to your sense into what wrongdoing you might have committed.

Yet, despite knowing his playbook already, still you were the willing victim, “Reiner, I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.” Were the words he would be waiting from you.

“Do you love me still?” once Reiner asked, when the two of you were soaked underneath the summer rain because Reiner forgot to bring the umbrella although you had reminded him numerous times before stepping out of the apartment. You thought the question was a misfit given the circumstances, but he looked dead serious as he wiped his eyes from drips of the water that drenched the two of you.

“Yes. I do.” You said, to which he nodded with no smile.

For the longest time you wondered what did he mean by that? Until you realized too late, that he was so scared of being left, that his question was his desperate way to commit you into forgiving him after a small mistake he had done. Later, you were bed-ridden from the cold you got after being drenched for hours, and he asked you again, “Do you love me?” You had no other choice but to plant a deep kiss on his soft, thin lips as an answer. A display of forgiveness he was yearning for.

Reiner’s absence persisted like the growing pain he caused within you that was only becoming more gaping as days go by. When fifteen days had passed, your friends started to chirp, ‘Why don’t you just come to his house?’; ‘But you have tried calling him right?’. You couldn’t quite explain the strange way you understood Reiner, in silence, in certain distance, in mutual recognition of each other’s disdain.

You knew he had blocked your caller ID, and how should you tell your friends that you never went to his home more than once before? Because you could feel the palpable reluctance in him as once, years ago, you insisted to drive him home. “In certain distance, did our love find no resistance,” he once declared.

In resistance did our hearts bound with happenstance,

and in happenstance did we end in desistance.

Reiner. Reiner. Reiner. You thought of him relentlessly. Was it only a happenstance that you uttered the wrong choice of words as he asked for validation of his role in life? What was it that he wanted to hear from you anyway? Maybe: ‘You are destined for something big, Reiner.’ Did the happenstance finally led him to desist from further effort in loving you?

The thought persisted when you walked down the street that night, out for a beer on your own. As you passed through the lonely buildings of your neighborhood, the reminiscing of his form made your thoughts murky, as you crossed the avenue in scurry, with your gaze that had gone blurry.

You couldn’t make out of it, but a very loud noise suddenly deafened your ear and you could feel your body tossed into the air and fell into a hard surface. You could feel nothing as you slipped into the abyss of nothingness. Was it the sound of Reiner calling for you finally?

“Do you love me?” you heard a voice. A deep, sad voice coming from a mouth of a man with sorrowful eyes.

“Yes, I do.” you answered. But still he asked, “Do you love me?”

And he asked again, “Do you love me?” and again, and again, no matter how much you have answered, “Yes, I do, Reiner. Yes, I do.” still he asked the same thing, “Do you love me?”

You didn’t know where you were, you could hardly see the man that you had loved with your demure heart, despite the desolation of his heart. You could only hear his voice, calling out for you like you wished he had been in those fifteen days of his absence.

“Reiner,” someone said, a kindly voice of mature wisdom. She sounded a lot like your mum, “let her go.”

“I can’t,” he refused, his voice broke in despair, “not until she answers me.”

“Baby, do you love me? Do you love me?”

You shouted with all your might, “I do, Reiner! I do!”

Yet he heard no words. He held you close in his cradle, yet still he knew you were slipping away. Underneath the bright lights of an ER did your body lay cold. Reiner had came late after he was told, “She got hit by an eight-wheeler,” a colleague told him over the phone. Even then, Reiner knew he had lost you, but still he wished for the last chance to make amend. It was true he contemplated to leave you, but never did he expect he’d be given no second chance to atone.

In his cradle, you finally went away. Underneath his tears, your face drenched once again. In the agonizing realization did Reiner find himself, drowned in his regret on how he had chosen to spend the last fifteen days he would ever have with you.

#reiner braun #reiner x reader #reiner angst #attack on titan reiner #aot reiner #snk reiner #attack on titan fanfiction #reiner braun angst

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writtingfiction · 3 years ago

Note

Can chrom suffer please i would love him to watch himself slowly lose robin as she spends more time with lon'qu

I'm not dead, I swear, here's your monthly content!! also forgive me for any misspelling...

pairing: Chrom x Robin

words: 2.3 k

Chrom did not realize just how much time he had spent with Robin until Lon’qu had joined the army. He did not realize just how much he enjoyed spending his free time with her. She was there, always. That was until Lon’qu had joined. It wasn’t too noticeable at first but, as the days went by, it was hard not to notice. After all, Chrom had spent most of his free time with his tactician. Chrom loved Robin with his heart and soul, he would do anything for her. Perhaps too late he thinks, seeing her laugh as Lon’qu looks away growing redder by the second.

The first time he takes notice is when he’s looking for Robin, something about training or battle plans, he doesn’t remember. Chrom had made his way towards the main tent, convinced that’s where she would be. To his surprise, instead Robin is chasing Lon’qu and throwing figs at him. He’s dumbfounded by the scene in front of him. He can’t help but laugh at the scene in front of him. It catches their attention, Lon’qu takes this as his chance to flee but not before he gives a quick hello before running. Robin says hello but calls after Lon’qu saying she’ll get him. A small blush makes Robin’s cheek go pink as Chrom calms from his laughter.

“Just what are you doing?” Chrom asks. Robin lets out a small laugh, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“Training.” Robin responds in full confidence, nodding once. Chrom gives her a quizzical look, but he doesn’t crack her.

“Are you sure? Poor man look liked he was running for his life.” Chrom said, coming closer to her. Now feeling the weight of the maps in his hands.

“Trust me, it’s part of training. Special training for Lon’qu only.” Robin said, looking down at her hands. “I only had five figs left too.”

“What training involves figs?” Chrom said in surprise. “Robin, I know your tactics are amazing on the battlefield but maybe we need to talk about your training regimes for others.” This pulls a laugh from her lips and it can only bring a smile to his face.

“Oh come on, my training regimes aren’t that bad. You’re just jealous I’m not throwing figs at you.” Robin says, a smirk curling on her lips. Chrom’s eyes go wide.

“No, no such thing. You’re reading the room wrong.”

“Chrom~”

“Robin, no.”

Robin’s smirk gets wider and Chrom is already turning and running. Robin is hot on his heels though. They run and one fig gets thrown towards him. He ducks his head, but the tactician has deadly aim and it hits him on the back of his hand. He cries out but keeps running. He can hear Robin laughing behind him. Chrom feels a warmth in his heart, he hopes it never goes away.

The second time he notices a lack of Robin’s absence is when she is deep in different tactic books from varying time periods and regions, with someone beside her already. They’re back at the castle, in the library, and Chrom wants the company of his dear friend and the holder of his heart. He is too late though, someone is already talking to Robin, taking their time as they speak with her. Chrom pokes his head into the library. Searching a little before he sees the fur-lined coat that is unmistakably belongs to Lon’qu. He bites his tongue, preventing him from saying something foolish. Chrom wants to find Robin alone without someone talking to her, although it does seem to be harder and harder these days. He almost misses the days when the shepherds were smaller. He could spend hours with Robin without anyone interrupting them. Now, he’s lucky to even find her without someone by her side.

“Tactics and the sword? Never seen someone do both. They pick book or sword and never look back.” Lon’qu voices carries through just loud enough for him to hear.

“Then I’ll be the first to pick both.” Robin said. Chrom can’t see her face, but he can hear her smile. “I want to keep my friends safe. The citizens and so many more safe. Where my sword can’t reach, I’ll protect them with tactics.”

“Hmm.” Lon’qu nods. “You are a strange woman, but you’ve taken a worthy undertaking. Perhaps, I have to learn something from you yet.” Chrom can’t see what Robin’s face but he knows she’s at least smiling. She’s managed to pull a compliment from Lon’qu and it’s not an easy feat with his fear of women and high standard of strength.

Chrom pulls away from the library doors and leaves. He doesn’t feel, well. His stomach is twisting, and not in a good way. He feels sick almost. He thinks back to dinner if it was something he ate but, it couldn’t have been anything he ate. Chrom takes a heavy breath in as he slowly steps in the courtyard. Something wasn’t right. He couldn’t place it, but something didn’t feel right.

~~~

Third time Chrom realizes something. Robin was slipping through the cracks of his fingers. It was as if he was grabbing at sand. He wasn’t acting quick enough, but he didn’t have the time too. Or was it because he didn’t think he had the time to chase after her? His heart hurt at the thought. Everything was picking up and it wasn’t going in a nice direction either. His eldest sister is kidnapped and he’s going to war with Gangrel and Plegia once again. He fears he will become his father, but he vows to make things right. He won’t become like his father. He know he won’t, with Robin by his side-romantic or not-he won’t become his father.

“Chrom.” Robin says quietly, standing at the entrance of his tent. “Are you alright?” Chrom turns away from her. He sighs heavily.

“Emmeryn is taken. The fire emblem is in our hands, but we’re stuck. Hand over the emblem and free Emmeryn or, or…” Chrom can’t finish. His hands ball into fists, anger coursing through him. Robin is silent as she comes closer. Hand reaching out to his, unfurling them into her palms.

“We aren’t stuck. I’ll come up with a plan, we’ll get your sister back.”

Chrom believed her with his whole soul, so when things had reached it’s climax and Emmeryn sacrificed herself. He knew he shouldn’t have exploded on her. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault but Gangrel’s.

“You had a plan!! You said we would get her back!” Chrom said harshly, his sadness shed for anger to appear. Robin, Robin looked small from where she stood. Small hand falling back to her side.

“I tried, we all tried our best. We did everything we could to try and prevent what happened. We couldn’t foresee what Gangrel would do.” Robin said, voice strong.

“Are you sure? What about that amnesia of yours, perhaps you’re actually a grimleal spy and this is what you wanted from the beginning?!” Chrom regretted what he said the second the words passed his lips. The visible shock turning into hurt on Robin’s face made his heart sink to the floor and he wanted to crumble on the spot. He heard her breath in sharply, eyes watering as she tried not to spill tears. Lips quivering as they stood in silence. Stunned by the prince’s hurtful words.

“Chrom…” Robin’s voice is barely above a whisper, wavering in the air. “You’re grieving, but remember that you’re not the only one.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she spoke. Unable to hold them back anymore.

Everything that held Chrom together broke. Walls no longer standing. He feels his leg shake underneath him. He’s tired. Hot fresh tears roll down his cheeks. Chrom opens and closes his mouth multiple times before finally saying;

“I’m sorry.” He means it, with everything he has left to give. Robin’s only response is her turning around and leaving him to stand and wallow in his misery. He falls to his knees, knowing he deserves it. He loves her, she doesn’t know it, but the way he yelled at her, she doesn’t deserve that. Chrom knew that his words affected more than anyone else, he trusted her from the beginning. This was a stab to the back for poor Robin.

Chrom picked himself up hours later, searching for Robin to apologize after a couple encouraging sentences from Lissa and Frederick. Although, it was mostly scolding from his sister. Chrom spotted Robin sitting at the edge of a fire poking it lazily as a familiar silhouette stood nearby. It was Lon’qu. He knew that fluffed collar and stance anywhere. He swallowed his pride, he had to as he approached the two of them.

As he approaches, the two look at him but only Lon’qu is the one to acknowledge him. Robin looks back to the fire as the Ferox man nodded his way, but his body language went rigid.

“Robin, may I have a moment with you in private?” Chrom asked, hand gripping against Falchion out of nerves which he tried to control. There was a shared look between Robin and Lon’qu before Lon’qu made the decision to move on.

“You have me alone.” Robin said flatly, not looking up from the fire. Chrom sat on the other side of her, eyes locking on the fire instead of her. He breathed in deeply before he spoke. He had hurt her deeply after all.

“I wanted to apologize,” Chrom paused, wringing his hands together. “What I said to you was unacceptable and I regret what I've said. I’m sorry, and I'm sorry that I yelled and blamed you for what was out of your control. I’m not here forgiveness, just to apologize.” There was a heavy silence, the crack of the fire keeping them from complete silence. It felt like an eternity before she spoke up.

“You’re forgiven.” Robin’s voice was barely audible over the fire but he heard her. Locking eyes in surprise. There was a soft smile on her lips, one of forgiveness. He let out a sigh of relief.

“I don’t deserve you.” Chrom said without thinking. Robin’s smile only grew wider. His heart raced in his chest. She hasn’t smiled like that in a while, or has she and it wasn’t directed towards him?

The two chat about a lighter topic but Chrom can’t help his thoughts trail off towards Lon’qu. He knew the man had grown closer with the tactician. Were Robin’s wider smiles directed to Lon’qu? What about those long nights he didn’t seem to catch her doing anymore, was Lon’qu whisking her away without him knowing? Did Lon’qu take Robin from right from under his nose?

“You’ve grown quiet, what is on your mind?” Robin said. Chrom relaxes hearing her words, not realizing how tense he was.

“You and Lon’qu, the two of you have grown quite close over the last couple of weeks.” Chrom says his words in a light hearted manner. However, what makes his gut twist is seeing her reaction. Her brown eyes are wide and there’s flash of red on her face.

“Well, of course! A tactician needs to know her soldiers in order to keep them safe!” Robin said, mind scrambling to find the proper words that wouldn’t give her away. It pulls a chuckle from Chrom, he was too late he realizes.

“Not as close as you are with Lon’qu though, probably...” Chrom’s heart sinks to his feet at her protests. She denies it like a child hanging out with their crush. He is bitter with his feelings, but she deserves to be with someone who won’t betray her. Who wouldn’t blame her for something that wasn’t her fault, someone not like him.

~~~~~

The fourth and final time, Chrom knows he’s lost her. The war is over, peace has returned and there’s a shining new addition to Robin’s finger. The ring catches his eyes when Robin and him are going over treaties with the noble's paperwork. He must have been staring at a little too hard and long for Robin notice.

“Chrom?” Her voice brings him out of his little head space as his eyes move from her hand to her face.

“A ring? Since when did you wear a ring?”

“Oh, Lon’qu proposed not too long ago. I thought Lissa told you.” Robin said sheepishly. Chrom shook his head softly.

“She did not.” Chrom said it softly, almost laced with regret. His eyes quickly move back to the ring before meeting her face again. A large smile on his face this time. “How come you didn’t tell me? I thought I was your best friend?!” Robin lets out a loud laugh.

“Well, I had a whole meticulous plan but then someone came by and ruined it...” Robin started to spin a story. The papers all forgotten about.

Chrom listens to her carefully, heart sinking as he can’t figure out when he lost her. Well, lost his chance. Perhaps it was when Lon’qu first joined them, or maybe that moment in the library. He thinks about it a little more and he lands on that moment at the fire when he had apologized. It might have been when he lost his chance. Robin swings her arms around, talking about something and he acknowledges that perhaps it was for the better that she got with Lon’qu. Doesn’t mean he wouldn’t trade spots with Lon’qu in a heartbeat, cause he would.

Chrom would give everything he had and more just to be with her, but she’s happy. He tells himself it’s all he needs, but the ache in his heart tells him otherwise. In another lifetime, we will meet again and I’ll choose you again and again.

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twocubes · 4 years ago

Text

(i’ve talked about this before, but i’m going to try to write about this again. sorry for the repetition... cw: suicide)

There is a story that you sometimes hear. Not quite an urban legend, not quite a personal anecdote, but it always seems to have happened to someone else’s friend’s relative.

A man is hurt — irradiated in the first variant I heard — and wakes up without the ability to feel pain. You, the listener, are invited to think that this would be a good thing. However, at some point, the man puts his hand on a hot stove, and does not notice until his hand has started burning and he notices the smell.

The moral of the story — or usually more honestly, the point that the person who is telling the story is trying to illustrate — is that while pain may hurt, it has a purpose. It has a function. To be rid of it is a curse, and it is necessary in its absence to behave as if it was still there.

In some of my earlier bouts of depression, I was forced to contemplate the possibility that I would never be able to feel any positive emotion ever again. That my life would simply be unending misery and then death, because my brain had apparently broken that way.

I remember finding myself wondering if it was not simply rational at that point to kill myself. Surely, the expected value of my life would be negative then, would it not? Surely I should die.

It took me longer than I care to admit to connect this situation to that story. Aren’t those two situations essentially similar? In one case, the pain is malfunctioning in one way, and in the other, it is malfunctioning in another, but either way, isn’t it still just malfunctioning pain?

Surely the reaction to both should be to discard the pain and to behave as if it were there but functioning normally. And, surely, this is what I have accepted for myself. But to do so has been a strange step.

In order to accept the possibility of lifelong misery, you need something else, a sense of what you would feel, of how you would act, of what you would pursue, without the misery. Then, you can imagine yourself pursuing those goals no matter what.

This has odd consequences. The hypothetical of Hell is no threat, as an example. Infinite torment is better than oblivion because it does give Infinity. Many fates worse than death no longer really parse.

In a less fanciful context though, you can consider, instead of an infinite future, the infinite branches of probability of your own finite life.

Because the interesting thing is, if you have goals like this, you will have to pursue them no matter how unlikely they are, right? You will have to attempt to bring them forth even if the more likely outcome is failure and a wasted life.

And the thing is, if you widen your perspective. If you forget about you, for a second, and imagine that you could be any person on earth. What happens if everyone only tries to do what is wise, if everyone behaves rationally and tries to pursue the minimization of risk and secondarily the maximization of expected return?

Surely the only way for unlikely things to happen, for unexpected advances to occur, for there to be changes in what is known of the world, in other words, is for people to do things that they think have low probabilities of success.

Surely, in other words, you must act unwisely.

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greenbriar-j · 3 years ago

Text

5 times the prince crashed the bookstore

and the 1 time the owner(’s grandson) broke into the palace

One.

The first time was an accident. Sort of. Not really.

Prince Gabriel did need to buy new ink and maybe a new journal to replace the one Gunther accidentally threw into the fountain the last time Gabe escaped the palace. If he was so pressed, though, he could’ve asked one of his attendants to buy it for him.

So, yeah, it was kind of an accident. Gabriel donned his “commoner” attire, hiding his immediately recognizable curls under a cap. The clothes he wore were bland, but he had the kind of figure that made every outfit stand out. He snuck out through the window, running to the bookstore to get as much time away from his princely duties as possible.

It was so boring, all of it. The paperwork, the meetings, the girls.

Full confession: Prince Gabriel loved girls. Adored them. Thought they were the neatest thing to be placed on the planet. He loved the neighboring princesses, their mother queens, the female attendants – he loved women. He could not for a second imagine kissing any of them.

Kissing Gunther? That, he’d imagined several times before the guard had caught on and assigned him even more paperwork. Fucking Gunther.

Not, Gabe grimaced, pushing open the door to the bookstore, fucking Gunther. Stop thinking about fucking Gunther. About fucking. In general. … You’re a disgrace of a prince. At least you’re not responsible for producing an heir.

Because he was the second prince. Because he was responsible for many things, actually, while also not being responsible for a thing at all.

“Welcome to Vanilla Pages, how can I help you today?”

The prince’s head whipped to the sound of the voice. It was not the voice he expected to hear, the almost frail, ever-loving voice of the old Asian lady who’d always been here the last few times he came. This voice was rich, masculine, deep – and, oh, the prince was very, very gay for it.

“Uh,” he said intelligently. “You’re new.”

The man smiled at him. “I’m not. I’ve worked here every summer since I was ten. Granny gets a little faint in the summer. The heat and all.” A beautiful hand waved in a beautiful, dismissive gesture.

Gabe had one thought, and it was this: He himself was feeling a little faint this summer. Somehow, behind the broad shoulders filling out the loose shirt, the scruffy ponytail, the calm yet twinkling eyes, the man was undoubtedly a big teddy bear. “Ah,” he said, again the pinnacle of intelligence towering over his whole kingdom. “What’s your name?”

“It’s impolite to ask for someone’s name without giving yours first,” the man prompts. “Your Highness.”

Your-? “The disguise is that bad?”

“If I say so, will it end in a death sentence?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. That smile is unfair. What the fuck. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

“Then yes, it sucks. The name’s Phuong.”

“Oh, word? Good name.” I did not just say that. Who responds to introductions with oh, word?

Gabe could not stand to make any more of a scene. This was fun. It was also very embarrassing. He grabbed a journal without really examining it, checking out and running across the street to the bakery.

Gunther picked him up there after his own round of flirting with the baker’s daughter. There would probably be a wedding soon. Depending. The guard seemed surprised that the prince turned up on his own, but the prince thought nothing of it. He thought nothing at all.

Not about the name Phuong.

Not about those broad shoulders and muscular arms left on full display. The wide, toothy grin.

Not anything at all.

Two.

The second time was a detour.

“Gabe, I mean this in the most respectful way, but if you do not finish writing a birthday card to the prince of [other kingdom, idk], we will be having a war council within the month.”

“Gunther, he can’t even read. Why does it matter?” Tossing his head back and stretching his legs out, he acted like the brat he only was for Gunther.

The guard delivered a withering glare without adjusting his rigid stance. Even the prince has to admit that Gunther seemed to be experiencing physical repercussions for his job. In just a month, the prince had aged his friend by a year, or so it seemed.

Reluctantly, Gabe held in every protest dangling on the edge of his tongue and penned a birthday note to the two year old prince. “We have to deliver this in person?”

“Yes.”

Gabe groaned. He could not think of a prospect he hated more. In a month, he had not managed to gather enough poise to revisit his beloved Phuong at the bookstore. He merely whimpered the name in his sleep, according to an unusually smug Gunter. And now, to be separated by this meaningless trek?

“To the post, Gabe. Not to [neighboring kingdom].”

Ever the model prince, Gabriel drew himself upright immediately. “The post, you say,” he repeated regally. “The one three streets away from the bookstore.”

“That’s the one.” His guard, his best friend, smiled tightly. “I intend to propose along the way, and your stringing this out is not helping my nerves.”

His royal eyes wider than saucers, Gabe ruffled all of his curls in distress and excitement. “Propose! Why didn’t you say so, you big baboon?”

“You were sulking, Highness.” Gunther’s smile is wry, only a little amused.

“I most certainly was not. Agh, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

In his rush, he sustained more injury to his hands that day than he had in the past year.

“So…” Phuong glanced at Gabe’s hands, a quick flicker of dark brown eyes. “What happened to your hands?”

Prince Gabriel hid the offending bandaged digits behind his back. “A mishap while writing the world’s most useless letter.”

“Oh?”

“Its recipient can’t even read. OH!” Without thinking, Gabe grabbed at Phuong’s shirt, tugging in his hasty excitement. “He’s doing it, he’s-!”

He turned, only to find his face alarmingly close to Phuong’s. Why was the other man looking at him anyway? Did it matter?

The moment was broken too soon by a holler across the street. “GABE! SHE SAID YES!”

“OF COURSE SHE DID, YOU BABOON!” He fired back, pretending not to feel the heat rising inside him from the sudden close proximity. “He’s going to look so hot at his wedding,” Gabe muttered dreamily, still clinging with bandaged fingertips to Phuong’s shirt.

“I have something for you,” Phuong said suddenly. “I wasn’t sure when you would come back, but I have something.”

It was the best news the prince had heard all day. Seeing Phuong while getting his work done and receiving a gift? Only the gods could provide such a setup.

He was right, for once, that it was too good to be true. Phuong deposited a box of fanmail in the prince’s arms and turned away without a word.

Three.

The third time was a disaster.

“Did you read them?” Phuong asked after the initial pleasantries had been exchanged.

“The letters?” Gabe leaned on the counter. “Burned them.” He grinned, but back-pedaled when the joke falls flat.

Phuong swallowed, then busied himself wiping down the counter. “You burned them?”

“If I read every piece of fanmail I ever got, I wouldn’t survive, Phuong.”

“I see. I suppose- No, never mind.”

While he hadn’t burned them, Gabe hadn’t read them either. He had no reason to read confessions of love from women who didn’t stand a chance with him because 1) he didn’t like women like that and 2) he only had a certain pool of suitors to choose from. This thing he was perpetuating with Phuong… It would burn him eventually. But Phuong was still very, very hot, and Gabe was still very, very gay.

There was no promise of reciprocated anything from the clerk. He was simply doing his job, and Gabe was just a guy that came in a little too often for a little too long. That was all.

“What’s this about, then? Was there one I should have read? Is it from your sister?”

“I don’t have a sister.”

“Your cousin?”

“Your Highness,” Phuong looks at him, finally. Gabe doesn’t enjoy it, though. Not the way the address comes out so clinical, so distant. “All the letters had the same handwriting. My handwriting.”

The prince’s throat goes dry. “What?” He whispers.

“I’m closing the shop early today,” the other man responds in that same distant voice. “You’ll need to leave, Your Highness.”

Stunned, Gabe returns to the palace.

Each of the letters is one sentence long.

I hope this finds you well, Your Highness.

The stars in your eyes shine brighter than mine, yet belong to the same single sky.

You’re a brat.

Gunther came to the bakery today; I’m strangely disappointed by your absence.

A heartless one, you turned out to be.

The stars in your eyes shine on different continents than mine, it seems.

Foolish of me to write letters to someone I’ve only met once.

Why do I think of you so often, my most hated daydream?

There’s one for every day of the month Gabe avoided Vanilla Pages.

“Gunther?” He calls into the air. A maid scurries in instead, apologizing for the absence of his guard, a different guard trailing in behind her. “It’s fine. Will you bring me some alcohol?”

Four.

The fourth time was a mistake.

The very same night, a very drunk Gabe stumbled through the streets. It would be a prime night for assassination, if anyone wanted to put him out of his misery. A shame that no one did.

Mindless feet guided him back to the bookstore. Fruitlessly, he banged on the shut and bolted door.

An angry Gunther dragged him home, and Phuong was never the wiser.

Five.

The fifth time was purposeful.

“Your engagement was decided today.”

Hollow-eyed, Prince Gabriel blinked at the captain of his guard – a married man now. The wedding had been beautiful. As expected. “My what?”

“Your engagement, Highness. She’s a very pretty woman, if it’s any consolation.”

“It’s not.”

“Phuong is also in very bad shape, if it’s any consolation. Rea said so.”

“It’s not.” The words came muffled by the pair of hands covering the prince’s face. It was enough that he felt bad about everything. There was really no reason both of them should feel awful. “Gunther, clear my schedule for the next hour. I’m going to the bookstore.”

“You’re engaged now.”

“I’m aware. Betrothed men ought to tell other suitors when they’re off the market.”

The intention is clear, and Gunther seems upset. Unreasonably so. “Your Highness-”

“I have to, Gunther. I’m going to make him hate me so he can move on faster.”

“But you-”

“I always knew how this would end. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He was anything but okay. He was gay and in love and engaged to a beautiful woman who deserved the kind of love he could never give her because he was gay and desperately in love with someone else.

Each solemn step of the way, he bid farewell to each part of the man he had inexplicably grown to love. Goodbye, beautiful hair. Goodbye, kind heart. Goodbye, brown eyes. Goodbye, biceps; goodbye, thighs. Goodbye, hands. Goodbye, stupid love letters.

He walked in, announced his engagement to the ground, and fled before he could see the other man’s reaction.

One.

Phuong considered his life in chapters.

They were typically large, vague categories of his life that were boring and tedious to live through. Childhood. Teenage years. Adulthood. Gabe. It was only this latest chapter that made any difference in anything he thought.

Before Gabe, life was dull. Every day, the same. After him, every day was painful – but the good kind of painful that perhaps would lead to something. The second prince bore the name of the messenger of the lord, and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

Apparently not. For Gabe to cut him off so quickly… If he had hoped to give Phuong any kind of conclusion about what they were and what they meant to each other, he failed spectacularly.

After milling around Rea’s bakery for half the day, he finally called in his favor. “Rea, can I… Uhm…”

“If you wait until sundown, Gunther will come home for dinner, and he can take you straight to the brat himself,” she replied before he finished the thought. “Just tell him how you feel, and if it goes bad, you can have free cakes for a week.”

“I’ll get fat and unattractive.”

“Honey,” she said in that pitying tone he’d so hoped to avoid.

“Can I… Have a free cake now?”

Prince Gabriel and Gabe were very different people, and while Phuong had known this, it didn’t really dawn on him until he saw it with his own two eyes.

Gabe – his Gabe – smiled and laughed at everything, had horrible posture because he was always trying to get that tiny bit closer to Phuong, and dressed horribly because he thought it’d work as a disguise.

Prince Gabriel wore tailored clothes that made Phuong a little dizzy because of how they accentuated a man who didn’t need accentuating at all. Prince Gabriel spoke with authority and walked with it, too. He oozed it.

Phuong didn’t know if this made his job any easier.

The moment the door shut behind him, the prince groaned and stretched and stripped off his clothes from the day. He flopped face-first on the bed like a child and immediately called for the captain of his guard.

“Is it okay that I’m here instead?” Phuong said softly.

Unexpectedly, the prince jumped ten feet in the air. “Phuong?”

A complicated series of expressions crossed the prince’s face. He looked like he wanted to be upset, but couldn’t, and in the end, he started to cry, reaching for Phuong with grabby hands and a bleeding heart. What a foolish prince, to wound himself like this, when he really didn’t need to be wounded at all.

“Your eyes shine with stars that are different from mine, but they share the same sky,” Phuong murmured, climbing into the prince’s bed and pulling him into a clumsy embrace. “If you had read that, I thought you’d have understood.”

“It’s not the same as telling me upfront. I can’t bank my decisions on I think.”

“I know.”

And the prince only cried more. This was all his heart had ever wanted, but it still didn’t tell his mind what to do. Could he afford to forfeit his engagement? Would he have to forfeit Phuong again, knowing what he knew now?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care yet. It was hard to care with Phuong’s finger sliding through his curls, with feathery touches of lips to his forehead.

“Gabe.”

“Hm?”

“I really, really like you. But I get it if you still have to let me go.”

Gabe tightened his arms around Phuong. “I won’t. I don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

Spoiler alert: I have no idea how to actually end this but I believe they figure out their way to get together and live happily ever after bc that was the whole point of this but I really can’t be bothered to write it out whoops

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randomingoftherandomness · 4 years ago

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Squeals and flails! Your writing is so good! Have been stopping myself from asking for continuations of pretty much every piece, especially the childhood, omega Lao Wen going into heat and possessive Ah Xu ones! Could you write a 5+1 fic with five times Ah Xu dotes on his Lao Wen, and one time Lao Wen is sweet to Ah Xu please? Was thinking that the first moment could be Wenzhou stargazing with Lao Wen falling asleep in Ah Xu’s arms and then Ah Xu hugging him closer? Thank you!

A/N: So this is going to be a 3 + 1 instead of a fiver because I’m sleepy and I want to finish this before bed haha... Sorry...

1. It’s a little too late in the season for them to be indulging in a spot of stargazing on the roof of the Manor, but Lao Wen had complained that they’d barely had any time alone (lies; they’ve stolen plenty of time alone because his ass sure as hell remembers those times alone) and had pulled out his trump card of telling Chengling to gather the kids for a spot of camping out in the plum forests as a form of cultivation exercise.

Zishu isn’t sure what sort of bribery Lao Wen had promised the brat, but he hopes Chengling bargained hard for it.

So, here they were. Up on the rooftop, wrapped up in their cloaks, passing a bottle of pear blossom wine between them as they watch the heavens twinkle down at them. In the distance, Zishu can clearly see the dull glow of the firelight and he feels assured that the kids haven’t gone too far.

“Ah Xu, pay attention to me,” Lao Wen harumphs, wriggling himself into his arms with a laugh. Zishu wraps his arms around him, burying his lips to the crown of his head and kissing him there with a smile.

“I’m always paying attention to you,” He says.

It takes Lao Wen a beat to reply and when he does, it is a quiet but fond, “I know.”

Under the moonlight, they enjoy each other’s company; reminiscing of their first time stargazing together and all the hijinks that night had entailed. They talk about the progress of the disciples, about Chengling and his upcoming trip to Nanjiang to visit Luta, about the extension they will need to make for the new students that are coming next month.

It is about an hour into this when Zishu realises that Lao Wen has fallen silent. Worried that he may be struck by a bout of strange moods again, he looks down only to find that Lao Wen has fallen asleep in his arms.

Smiling, he adjusts their cloaks so that they’re bundled up warm in the night chill. Curling a touch to Lao Wen’s cheek, Zishu settles in against him.

2. When Lao Wen sulks, he doesn’t do it in half measures.

Chengling winces at him in sympathy before backing away slowly like he is trying to escape a spooked tiger. In a way, Zishu thinks that this situation probably warrants a strategic retreat of some kind.

Still. He glares at Chengling’s winning smile as he darts away to safety. That little traitor.

“So when were you planning on telling me that Lord Seventh,” Here Zishu notes that Lao Wen spits the syllables of Beiyuan’s title as if rolling something extremely distasteful in his mouth. “Was coming to visit?”

He mulls over what to say; well-versed as he is in taming Lao Wen when his darkest impulses flare to the fore, Zishu needs to weigh the next things that come out of his mouth before he digs this grave any deeper.

“Or were you not planning on telling me at all?”

The thread of hurt in those words strike true in twisting his heart. Looking up at where Lao Wen has his back to him makes it worse and he hurries across to him, pulling him into his arms and peppering kisses over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his brows, the plush heat of his lips, as he seats both of them on the divan.

“I really was going to tell you, I promise,” Zishu says, brushing back his hair. Letting Lao Wen nuzzle against his throat, he sighs. “I know how you are when Beiyuan visits and I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable with him being here, but he’s one of the few people in the world who knows me as well as you do. He’s a friend and there are times when I just want to have my friend with me.”

��I don’t hate him...” Lao Wen mumbles softly.

Zishu has to laugh at the blatant lie. Anyone with two brain cells to rub together can tell that Lao Wen gets an eye twitch or two when Beiyuan and he exchange some inside joke or two that excludes him. It’s such a little thing; petty by the standards of others and Zishu knows that he isn’t actually jealous or trying to be controlling, but is instead curious and yet dreading all the secrets that Beiyuan may let slip about Zishu’s life before him and all the persons that came before.

Now, that he is jealous about.

He doesn’t say anything to the contrary, merely pull Lao Wen tightly against him. “Alright, alright, if you say so,” He says agreeably, peppering kisses to his husband’s cheek.

3. Absence, as those who claim to be wise, would say, makes the heart grow fonder.

What Zishu finds is that it makes him a fucking misery to be around.

Chengling had long since given up in trying to coax him into some sort of reasonable mood a good week ago and had taken off in the night, leaving a note to say that he will rendezvous with him in another week. That disciple of his is getting better at picking up the subtle things that people are telling him without saying a single word.

He downs another cup of wine.

It has been horrible to travel this far without Lao Wen. He’d had to contend with constantly looking over his shoulder for a smiling face and the quick-fire wit of his beloved. He has had to draw upon every self-control he had in him not to scream at the Sect Leader they were visiting to further their alliance.

Zishu fumes and drinks two more cups in quick succession.

If Chengling isn’t back in time and if he has to delay his trip back to the Manor just to wait for his silly disciple, he will absolutely without a shadow of a doubt, leave the idiot behind to fend for himself.

He’s done his best to equip the kid for surviving in the wild. No one can fault him for wanting to run back home with the stash of wines he had found on his travels. Zishu had bought them to share with his Lao Wen of course; there were some well-loved flavours and then some others that could be considered rare enough that a former Lord of the Ghost Valley would definitely find delight in the taste of.

Zishu finds himself calming somewhat at the thought of laying out his gifts for Lao Wen; of how those beautiful eyes would widen at the sight of all the wines, of how his lips would curl in a smile as he tastes each and every one of them, savouring them in the only way a connoisseur can; the sounds he would make in his enjoyment that could only come from a place so deep in pleasure--

No, no, no. Zishu is not going there tonight. He downs three cups and sighs. He’s already rubbed himself raw from missing Lao Wen this entire trip. If he does anymore, he’ll probably...

Yeah. Best to just save it til he gets home to his beloved.

Lao Wen likes to think that he is an attentive husband. Certainly, Ah Xu has never wanted for anything when he was with him. Be it in bed or outside of it, he loves to cater to his beloved’s needs.

As such, when it comes to his birthday, Lao Wen will die before he admits that he doesn’t know what to get him.

In the end, the answer comes simply.

After the birthday dinner with the members of the Manor, he steals Ah Xu away for a bout of kisses that leave them both weak-kneed and aching jawed. “Get into bed. I’ll bring you your gift,” He says, hands on Ah Xu’s slender waist. Smiling, he swallows down his moan, licking the taste of wine and good food off Ah Xu’s tongue. “You’ll love it.”

He watches his husband stumble back, eyes a deep desire dark.

He cannot wait to see how his Ah Xu unravels when they put into play the little gift he had custom made for him; an exquisite jade that sits on a bed of silk in a lacquer box, hidden in the folds of his second-best robe. The same jade he may or may not have spent a small fortune in carving into the shape of his own cock.

If he was being honest, this was an entirely selfish gift to be giving someone else on their birthday, but what does he care? This is something Ah Xu and himself can utilise over and over again, and this was something that could be the first of many to come.

Absently and with glee, he thinks of the day he gets to help Ah Xu model for a jade phallus of his own.

Oh, Lao Wen is going to have so much fun tonight.

#wen kexing #zhou zishu #word of honor #gab writes stuff

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onecanonlife · 4 years ago

Text

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 6,196

Chapter Warnings: swearing, implied s.uidical ideation, non-graphic panic attack

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur frankly has no idea how a reunion with his father is supposed to go, considering the circumstances. Also, a ghost makes an appearance.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Three: listening for that angel choir

He comes to awareness violently, lurching into a sitting position, his hand outstretched before him. He is silent, but that’s probably only because he trained himself to be, back when they were so afraid of someone finding where they were, down in that dark, hidden ravine, stone on all sides and darkness above, closing in. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about,

(fire all around and the world falling to pieces and it’s all so very beautiful, and the worst thing is Tommy’s horrified face but he’s too far gone to care)

but the vestiges cling to him like cobwebs, difficult to shake off. He takes a moment to steady himself, to bring his breathing back under control, and then looks around, the remembrance of where he is coming swiftly. Technoblade’s living room is unchanged from last night, but there is no sign of Technoblade himself.

There is, however, someone in the kitchen.

He can smell food—eggs, he thinks. There’s someone moving around, their tread light and sure, and he knows those footsteps, knows them like he knows his own name.

He is standing before he can think better of it, and it is habit that keeps his own strides silent. He walks to the doorway of the kitchen and stops there, stops because there is a man at the stove, his back turned to him, but Wilbur doesn’t need to see his face to know him. He never has.

Something about this picture is wrong, though, and he doesn’t know what it is. He’s seen this a thousand times, if not in this setting, has woken up to this exact thing on countless occasions, back in their old home, back before Techno started going off to tournaments, before Tommy and he left to make their own ways, before Phil started spending more and more time on hardcore worlds, out of contact. Before all of that, it was just this, just Phil making them all breakfast in the sun-soaked morning.

Something about it is wrong, and he can’t pick it out, and he can’t stand here forever. He could leave, could turn his back and slip out the front door when no one is watching, but that won’t be well-received, and he hardly wants to be followed. That really only gives him one other option, and it’s ridiculous, how fast his heart is beating, because it’s just Phil.

(it’s just Phil, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? just Phil, and you can’t face him, not after what he did, not after what you made him do)

It’s just Phil.

So he leans against the doorway, and he clears his throat.

Phil whirls around, spatula raised.

(was he always on such a hair trigger? or is that new?)

He lowers it after a split second, his face flickering through several expressions too fast for Wilbur to process. Eventually, he settles on a warm smile, but there is something lurking around the edges, something that he is hiding, though Wilbur has no hope of figuring out what. For some reason, this doesn’t feel like seeing Techno again at all. With Techno, it barely took a moment for old patterns to resurface, barely took a moment to remember how to read him, but with Phil, it’s almost like looking at the face of a stranger.

(did you think he’d be the same? did you think he would be unaffected? even the most stable of anchors rusts eventually, exposed to the deep water)

“Wilbur!” Phil says, and he could weep to hear the sound of his voice, even though it hasn’t been that long, not technically. Not that long since the last time Ghostbur spoke to him. “Good morning! Did you sleep alright?”

He thinks about his nightmares and decides not to say anything.

“Pretty alright,” he says, and then adds, belatedly, “Good morning.”

The words come out awkwardly. It’s too casual, too normal, and everything that’s happened since the last time they ate breakfast together is sitting in the air between them, about as unobtrusive as a flashing creeper and just as dangerous. There’s too much left unsaid, and he has no idea how to go about fixing that.

So he just keeps standing there. Silently. And Phil stands there too, just as silent, just as watchful, just as awkward, and perhaps Wilbur should take comfort in the fact that he, too, seems to have no idea what to do. But he finds no room for comfort within himself, only a vague resentment, because wasn’t Phil planning to bring him back anyway? Just what was his plan for afterward, if he had managed to succeed? Was it this? This silence, this hesitance, this painful awareness of the distance between them, of all the things that went so bitterly, terribly wrong?

If this was his plan, Wilbur can’t say that he’s all that impressed with it.

But then, Phil steps forward. Only a bit, and slowly, as if he’s approaching a startled animal. Wilbur would be angry at the implication if he didn’t feel like he was one, if there weren’t something snarling and desperate caged within his ribcage, calling for him to either fight or flee.

“Would it—” Phil starts, and then stops, and it’s odd, because Wilbur doesn’t remember his father ever being so hesitant. Phil’s confidence has always been quiet, but at the same time unmistakable, and that makes this so very strange. “Would it be alright if I hugged you?” he goes on to say, and Wilbur’s brain stutters to a halt.

He can’t help but remember

(the spatula becomes a sword and his great creation is in ruins around him and he is laughing and sobbing and wild and everything is spiraling, spiraling, and what a glorious destruction it is, a beautiful chaos, and the center cannot hold and he is begging pleading shouting and there are tears streaming down his father’s face and an awful waver in his voice, but the sword is in his chest and he can feel nothing but relief, relief, relief, it’s over now, you can rest, your symphony is not finished never finished but it is over at long last, good night, good night and goodbye)

the last time Phil held him.

But that was then, and this is now,

(isn’t it?)

and Phil is watching him with an expression that might be either desperation or hunger, masked behind a slight smile, and that is what drives him to nod, what drives him to open his arms slightly, and then Phil is embracing him, and—

The mess in his head goes quiet. Just for a second, his father is enough to drive his demons away.

And it’s like fireworks on his skin, fireworks at first and then an all-encompassing warmth, and he doesn’t fit into Phil’s arms quite the same as he did when he was a child, is taller, older, cobbled-together pieces of the bright future he used to have, but something in him recognizes this feeling, recognizes it as safety, as comfort, as home. He slumps a bit, melting into the touch, and Phil doesn’t complain at suddenly holding up half of his weight, just adjusts his position a bit and grips him tightly, like he thinks that Wilbur might disappear if he lets go.

“God, Wil,” Phil murmurs. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

Wilbur closes his eyes against the words. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Phil that he isn’t. Even if for a moment, he can pretend. Pretend that this was his idea, that he’s alright with this, that what he wishes more than anything else isn’t to escape back into rest and away from this world that is too bright and too sharp and too laden with consequences.

“It’s good to see you,” he says instead, and that, at least, is mostly honest.

His hands are clutching the back of Phil’s shirt, entangled in the fabric, and beneath his hands, he can feel Phil’s wings shifting. It is then that he realizes what he didn’t, earlier: Phil is hiding his wings, and that is what is wrong, because Phil never does that around the house. Never.

Though, come to think of it, Ghostbur never saw him with his wings out either. Not once.

Did Ghostbur ever question it? Did he ask and then forget about it, because the answer upset him? Or did he just not bother, presuming that Phil had his reasons and that everything was alright? That sounds like something Ghostbur would do, and for a moment, he is overwhelmed by a seething rage at his dead counterpart, because why couldn’t he ever be useful—

(better to be useless and happy than alive and miserable and the cause of everyone else’s misery to boot, better to forget than to remember, better to let it all go and float away in the wind with the dandelions and the blue blue sky)

“Are you alright?” Phil asks, and he realizes that he’s balled his hands into fists. He pulls away from the hug, steps back to meet Phil’s eyes, pretends that the sudden lack of contact doesn’t leave him feeling bereft.

He tries for a smile. He doesn’t think he manages very well. His skin feels as though it’s stretching oddly, as though it’s forgotten the proper shape for the expression.

“I’m fine,” he says, and that—that is a lie. That is a lie for sure. But what else is he supposed to say?

The wings—or lack thereof—are bothering him. Now that he’s spotted their absence, he can’t unsee it. He’s not sure how to ask, though, because he has the sneaking suspicion that

(he shielded you you idiot shielded you from your own explosion from your own destruction don’t you remember don’t you remember the way he cried out and the feathers in the air and he was holding you holding you don’t you remember don’t you remember how he tried to protect you even to the last don’t you remember)

there’s something about it that he’s not understanding, still, and he hates this, hates not even being able to trust to his own recollections, but he supposes that’s what he gets for his troubles. A beating heart and a mind full of holes and a wide open world that feels like a cage and a precarious stability that he thinks might go out from under him at any moment, like sand into a hidden ravine, and he’ll be sent down, down, down—

“Oh, great,” Techno says, and Wilbur jerks, wheeling around. He hadn’t heard him—but then, Techno has always been able to move far more silently than ought to be possible for someone with such a terrifying presence, with such a weight to his blood-soaked step. “You guys are being weird, aren’t you?”

He blinks.

“What?”

“We’re not being weird, what are you on about?”

His voice overlaps with Phil’s, and it’s a bit weird.

Techno snorts, stepping further into the kitchen. “Don’t be weird in my house, you guys,” he says. “If you’ve gotta be weird, do it somewhere else. I can’t take this.”

“What, the great Technoblade can’t handle an awkward social situation?” he says, and there is more bite to his voice than he intends, and Techno hears it, judging by the way his lips twist into a scowl.

“You know I can’t,” he says. “I hate socializing.”

What should have been a joke has turned into something that is—not. Wilbur should have known better than to push, maybe, should have known better than to call Techno out, because Techno does hate socializing, does hate being forced into awkward situations, hates an enemy that he cannot defeat with his sword. But then, none of that is quite right either, because awkward social situations are one thing. This should be quite another. Because they’re family, or at least, they’re meant to be, and no amount of awkwardness should be able to outweigh that. And yet, here they are, Techno glaring and Phil quiet and Wilbur suppressing the urge to bolt from the room and start sprinting across the tundra.

Staying the night was a mistake. Not leaving when he could was a bigger one. He’s not sure what he was thinking.

(he does, he does know what he was thinking, and he was thinking that he wanted things to be the way they used to be, if he was going to be alive, if he was going to be forced to live in this world once again, he wanted a family that was strong and steady and whole, not the fractured mess that this is, not fragmented and separated and snapping at one another’s throats)

“I’m making breakfast,” Phil puts in. He seems so very weary. Wilbur’s not sure why he’s only picking up on that now, but the bags under his eyes could probably pass for bruises. “Techno, Wil, how about you sit down? The eggs’ll be off in just a few minutes.”

Techno huffs, shooting Wilbur one last glare. But then, he does as Phil asks, sidling past to sit at the dining table, the chair legs making an awful scraping sound against the floor.

Wilbur remains standing.

“C’mon, Wilbur, come sit down,” Techno says. “I want eggs.”

Something shifts. His blood is buzzing, like his veins have been replaced with live wires. It’s a picture of domesticity, father making breakfast and son waiting for it, and he belonged here once but now he’s a piece that doesn’t fit, his edges worn away and grown out wrong.

(they shouldn’t fit either, and it’s wrong that they do, wrong that they’re comfortable with this even when the picture is incomplete and Tommy isn’t here)

“I’m not staying,” he blurts out. He doesn’t know he’s going to say it until he does. And once he does, it’s out there, and he can’t take it back. But he doesn’t think he would if he could. It’s the truth, even if he’s only just discovering it. He’s not staying. He can’t.

Phil has turned back to the stove, but Wilbur can see the way his back goes stiff, the way his shoulders hunch, just a little.

“It’s breakfast,” Techno says slowly, almost bewildered, if Techno did bewilderment. He doesn’t, usually, but perhaps that’s another thing that’s changed sometime between Wilbur’s death and now. “You can’t stay for breakfast?”

“I can make something else, if you don’t want eggs,” Phil murmurs. Wilbur barely catches the words.

“It’s not about the eggs and you know it,” he snaps, and then stops to take a breath. Phil is silent. “Look, I wasn’t even planning on being here as long as I have been. Where’s Tommy?”

“At his old home, I think,” Techno says. He is holding himself very still, watching Wilbur very carefully, and viciously, cruelly, Wilbur considers making the attack that he is so clearly expecting. Considers leaping across the table and going for his throat, rolling around on the ground like they did when they were kids, playing, roughhousing, sparring, only this wouldn’t be any of those things. He wouldn’t be able to defeat Technoblade, of course, but he’d be able to get a good few licks in, even if he doesn’t have a real reason to do so,

(he wasn’t there for Tommy he left Tommy alone left him to that monster’s mercy he abandoned him and even when Tommy came to him he discarded him again tossed him aside as if they weren’t raised together weren’t brothers as if none of it meant anything at all he spawned withers in L’manberg and destroyed it destroyed it all destroyed even what it stood for and there won’t be any coming back from that)

even if his rage is aimless, directionless, building in him like a volcano begging to erupt, begging to destroy everything in its path, to delight in the carnage and—

He’s felt like this before. He’s felt like this before, and it didn’t end well, and it set the stage for all of Tommy’s suffering, and if that’s not a reason to try to hold back, he doesn’t know what is.

“That’s not what I was asking,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you why he’s not here. You don’t see a problem with it?”

“We’re not on the best terms with Tommy at the moment,” Phil says quietly, and Wilbur wishes he would turn around so he could see his expression, but for now he’ll settle for glowering at his back.

(where was the father when his son needed him the most? not there, not there, never there, and what happened to the father who raised them, to the father who promised he would always be by their sides?)

“And whose fault is that?” he demands. “He’s a fucking kid, Phil! He needed someone in his corner, literally anyone, and I’m sorry, but the fucking amnesiac ghost couldn’t quite cut it!”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Phil asks. “Do you really think I don’t have any regrets? That I wouldn’t give anything to have him here, safe with us?” Phil wheels around, then, and usually, in times past, such a motion would be accompanied by a flaring of wings, an instinctive response, but there are no wings behind him, and without them he looks so very small. Once again, Wilbur is struck with that overwhelming sense of wrongness. “I know damn well that I failed him, Wil, that I failed all of you. You don’t need to tell me. I already know.”

“Phil, wait, no—” Techno starts, but Phil shakes his head.

“I have, Techno, don’t try to deny it. I’ve failed you all, and the worst bit is that even when I had chances to try to fix things, I didn’t take them. Haven’t taken them.” He meets Wilbur’s eyes. “All I can do about that is apologize. I am sorry, truly. But Tommy doesn’t want to see me. He’s made that clear, both after you died and after Techno and I destroyed L’Manberg. If you’ve got ideas, Wilbur, I’m open to them.”

And really, what is he supposed to say to that? His rage shrivels up, becoming something cold and hard and acrid on his tongue. Phil believes what he’s saying, that much is clear, and perhaps that’s the most disappointing thing of all, that he’s given up so easily, given up on keeping their family together.

(part of him understands. part of him understands that in the wake of everything, in the wake of his father murdering one of his sons and alienating the other, of course he would retreat to the third, to the one who was still there, to the one he thought he could still help. part of him understands the way that he clings to Techno, unwilling to lose, in his eyes, the only son he had left to him. part of him understands why Phil always takes Techno’s side)

(but part of him whispers, bitter and sharp, that Techno has always been the favorite. so was it ever really a choice, between Techno and Tommy? did he lose sleep over it, any time during the late watches of the night? or was he secure in his opinion that he’d done all that he could do, even though he never tried to do more?)

“I need to go,” he says, and braces himself for their renewed protests. But Techno is silent, and at length, Phil nods once, short and sharp.

“Will you be coming back?” he asks, and Wilbur gives the question due consideration.

“Maybe,” he says. “We’ll see.”

Phil closes his eyes. Nods again.

“Okay,” he says. “Please be safe.”

It’s as close to a blessing as he’s going to get, as close to an understanding as they will reach, and somehow, it sounds like more of an apology than anything else Phil has said. And if, for his own peace of mind, Wilbur has to pretend that he doesn’t hear how wrecked Phil sounds, how he seems to have aged another five years in the past five minutes, well.

“I’ll try,” he says, and he’s not sure whether he means it or not, and he thinks that if he stays here any longer, in this small kitchen with eggs on the stove and his father standing in front of him like he’s pronouncing a death sentence and his brother glaring balefully from one side, he will lose his resolve.

He’s angry, but he doesn’t want to hurt them. Not really. That compulsion is gone, it seems, washed away in the peace of the void, and only time will tell if it will return, now that he’s been ripped back into existence.

But in the end, hurting them is the thing he knows how to do best.

So he leaves. Nods once, sharply, turns on his heel, and walks toward the front door, grabbing his coat as he goes. It’s not in the same spot he left it in last night, is draped near the crackling fire, and there’s only two people who could have placed it there and Phil wasn’t there by the time he fell asleep, he knows, and his mind recalls the sensation of a blanket being draped over him. That is enough to get him to stop, to pause.

But not to stay.

The sunlight is cold, but he barely feels it at all.

----------

He manages to make it out of the tundra before he breaks down.

He wasn’t expecting it, even though he probably should have been, but it doesn’t matter either way, because he blinks and he’s on the ground, hands braced against wet grass, heaving for breath because this is so fucking fucked up—

It was a mistake. Going to Technoblade was a mistake, because now he and Phil both know that he’s back and he just walked out on them and he’s so angry at them for so many things but now they’re probably angry right back and when the fuck did his family get so fucking broken? And now he’s here, in the forest again, and he’s all on his own

(but he’s not on his own and there are so many eyes watching him)

(he is on his own because there’s no one to stand with him, no one brave enough, no one who truly sees)

(he is on his own because he’s pushed everyone else away and even at his lowest point there was a voice in the back of his mind screaming for him to stop to walk away to take a step back and gain some fucking perspective but there’s no one there for him and it’s all his fault)

(he is on his own even though Tommy is still there, despite everything, because even Tommy is wary of him now and that same voice tells him that he deserves it even as he denies it all and decries his little brother for a traitor)

(but he’s not on his own)

and his empty stomach is rolling and he can’t fucking manage to get a good breath in, and this might be how he dies again, and he doesn’t think he would mind all that much if it was because he still doesn’t want to be here, with all the cares and all the worries and all the responsibilities piling up on his back once again, and who the fuck thought this was a good idea? Who the absolute, ever-loving fuck took a look at what he did last time, took a look at how he cracked under the strain and blew up a city, and thought that it was a good idea to bring him back into the world?

In fairytales, when monsters die, no one brings them back. The victory is celebrated and the villain forgotten and their grave spat on. Wilbur never got a grave, but the principle should be the same.

He still can’t breathe properly. He’s gasping for air, but he can barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He might die here. He might die here, and he’d be mostly fine with that, if it weren’t for—

Tommy.

It’s probably Tommy’s fault that he’s here. Probably Tommy who—got Dream to resurrect him, and he really does need the details about that. But he still wants to see him, still wants to see his brother, and the original plan holds true. Find Tommy, then kill Dream, and maybe then he can think about his options. He can’t allow himself to die here, even if he feels like he’s going to, like his ribs are going to crack apart and his brain pound right out of his skull.

(and even besides all of that, what would Tommy think if he saw the message on his communicator, saw WilburSoot died without any context at all, without knowing that he was back in the first place?)

It’s easier when there’s someone there to help him. But he has no one, so he regulates his breathing himself, little by little, his progress set back every time a new wave of panic and desperation crests over him and makes him choke on air. But he does it. It’s not pretty, but he does it, and after some time, he’s kneeling in the grass, exhausted and wrung out and still here, for better or for worse.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!” Each one increases in volume, and by the last one, he’s shouting. No one answers. He thinks he startles a few birds.

And then the forest is silent. He curls his fists into the grass, tearing up a few blades.

To the side, there is a flash of blue.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up.

(there’s something he’s forgetting)

“Who’s there?” he calls, his voice rough and hoarse. “You’ve been following me, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come out where I can see you!”

He gets no response, but he can’t say that he was expecting one. He clambers to his feet, sighing sharply through his nose.

(there’s something he’s forgetting something was it something he said to Tommy what was it)

“Last warning,” he says. “Come out. Or I’ll make you.”

It’s an empty threat, said with more confidence than he feels. But he has to be right about this, has to be, or else he’s been hallucinating, has been letting his paranoia get the best of him already, again, and if that’s going to be the case, maybe Tommy really would be better off without him there, because he refuses to go down that same road now that he knows where it leads.

(even though part of him still yearns for it, yearns to go to hell and take everything with him)

(it was something he said to Tommy, in that moment when the veil between worlds was thin and he could see his brother there, plain as day, sitting on that bench with Tubbo at his side, and Tommy said Dream could bring him back and he said no fucking thank you and also that)

“Aw, you been pining for me, Wilbur?” someone says, and it all falls into place.

(he wasn’t alone. he wasn’t alone in the void. as much as he might have liked to be, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. he wasn’t alone. not then, and not)

He pivots, and uses the momentum to send his fist right into Schlatt’s stupid, smug face.

And it passes right though him. It’s a strange sensation, one that sends sparks of electricity up his arm and feels a bit like dozens of tiny firecrackers are going off. For a split second, there is a bit of resistance, and then a give that sends him stumbling forward, off balance.

“Did that make you feel better?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, stepping back. “What the fuck are you—what are you wearing?”

Wilbur doesn’t think he’s ever seen Schlatt wear anything but his signature suit and tie. Not since they were young, anyway, young and stupid and ready to take on the world,

(for each other, and where did that fall through?)

so painfully ignorant of everything to come. But the Schlatt in front of him is not the Schlatt he knows, not quite, is off in so many subtle ways and one big one. His pallor is grey, his horns chipped and cracked, his hair mussed and disarrayed, but all of that is overshadowed by the oversized blue sweater, a horrible parody of Ghostbur’s yellow one, and honestly, Wilbur wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly what it’s meant to be.

“What, you don’t like it?” Schlatt smiles, more a baring of teeth than anything else, and—his teeth didn’t use to be so pointy, right? “I think it’s a fashion statement. All the rage with ghosts these days.” He steps back, and the movement is wrong; it’s so obvious that his feet have no real traction on the ground, that he’s moving in the same way that Wilbur remembers Ghostbur doing, willing himself into the new space rather than working dead muscles.

(funny, though, that Schlatt would at least pretend to walk, would at least pretend at some semblance of normalcy. Ghostbur almost never did, was always content to float around and disregard the unease he caused, to hand out blue and avoid any confrontation that might make him uncomfortable. but then, Ghostbur was completely happy to be the way that he was)

“You’re an arsehole,” Wilbur grits out. “The fuck are you doing here?”

And just like that, the pretense is gone. Schlatt rises into the air, tilting forward, though he keeps his eyes level with Wilbur’s, scowling ferociously. He’s a bit transparent around the edges, Wilbur notes absently, a bit fuzzy, like he’s dissolving into the air bit by bit.

“You think I want to be?” Schlatt says. “You think I wanna be here, Wilbur, really? I had all the booze I could possibly want and none of the pitfalls, and now I’m here, in this shitty world with all the shitty people I never wanted to see again, and I can’t even fucking touch anything!”

His hand lashes out, and Wilbur flinches on instinct, but it passes through his shoulder harmlessly. There is the strange electric sensation again, but other than that, nothing.

“You think this is what I want?” he continues. “I’m fucking dead and I want to stay that way. None of this haunting bullshit. My business here is fucking finished. Over. Done. I don’t want to be here.” He pauses, and it’s for effect, because he doesn’t need to breathe, he’s just a dramatic arsehole. “And yet, whatever asshole dragged you back down here caught me too. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are, but I can’t figure out how to get back. So that’s a fucking, I don’t know. Fucking karma, maybe. How’ve you been?”

Wilbur stares at him for a moment. He starts laughing before he can stop himself, hysterical gusts, torn from him like someone is reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs out, and he doubles over, bracing himself against his knees.

“Oh my god,” he eventually manages. “I don’t wanna fucking be here either. This is so fucked.”

Schlatt is silent for a moment, and the only sound is the last of Wilbur’s laughter, dying down into desperate chuckles. It’s not funny, not funny at all, but it’s either laugh or have another breakdown, and he’s filled his break down quota for the hour.

“I figured,” Schlatt says, calmer now, quieter. He drifts back down so his feet at least appear to be touching the ground. “I figured, I knew you didn’t want to—fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, and once again, Wilbur is struck by the action. It’s for effect, or perhaps it’s just habit, but either way, the dead don’t need to breathe. Can’t, really, though they can go through the motions if they put the effort in.

“You’re the worst and I hate you,” he says, and there is absolutely no heat in it at all. “Why are you here?”

Schlatt looks at him incredulously. “I just said—”

“No, I mean here.” He gestures. “With me. Unless you have to be, or something like that.”

“Nah, I can walk away from you,” Schlatt says wryly. “Believe me, that’s the first thing I tried. But where the fuck else do you think I’m gonna go, Wilbur? You think I’ve got anybody waiting for me with open arms? That’s ridiculous.” He pauses. “Also, I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can see me. I did a little tap dance routine for Technoblade earlier and got absolutely nothing, so.”

“What?”

“No, yeah, see? I can go invisible, like this, and hide from you,” Schlatt says, completely ignoring what his question was actually about, the bastard. And then, he vanishes, like he was never—wait. No, he’s still there, but Wilbur can only tell if he’s not looking directly at him. And even then, it’s just a faint shimmering, and an almost transparent splash of the color blue. “I can tell I’m invisible when I do that. But when I do this—” He reappears, his arms crossed— “no one else can see me. Except you, apparently. Make my fucking day, why don’t you.”

“Gladly,” he replies automatically. “Wait, why is that even a thing?”

“You’re asking me?” Schlatt demands. “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one who was a ghost for months, you should know how this works!”

“I really don’t,” he says. “And besides, Ghostbur wasn’t actually me. Just a fragment. A shadow.”

“Real poetic,” Schlatt mutters, and, well. Wilbur doesn’t have much to say to that.

They stand there in silence for a moment. Or rather, Wilbur stands, and Schlatt drifts about half an inch off the ground, the soles of his shoes brushing the grass. He briefly considers whether attempting to punch him in the face again would be worth it or not, but dismisses the idea. Dismisses it a lot more easily than he should, actually.

“I feel like I’m not as angry with you as I definitely should be,” he says.

“Well, I’m fucking pissed,” Schlatt says, and then, after a moment, adds, “Not so much at you, though. I mean, I am. But not more than I am at the general everything. Do you remember much of the—the you know?”

(darkness all around and a howling emptiness but so much better than the world so much more peaceful and after a while the void felt like an embrace, felt like coming home)

(Schlatt was loud and irritating and the clink of his whiskey glasses made him want to kill him all over again but it was a break from the monotony and it was nice, sometimes, to have someone to talk to, someone who understood if only a little, someone with whom he didn’t have to hide his shattered edges in favor of painting a prettier picture)

(empty and not and there is no death for the already-dead so the only thing to do is come to an understanding)

doesn’t, not really, only recalls a general sense of peace, the rest that he so craved, attained at least. And he knows that Schlatt was there, too, knows it, but while he remembers talking to Tommy, that one time, he can’t remember if he ever actually spoke to Schlatt. Evidence is pointing toward the affirmative, he thinks.

“Not much,” he says. “Do you?”

“I remember it was better than here,” Schlatt says. He kicks at the ground, and scowls when his foot won’t make contact with anything substantial. “I had all the booze I could’ve wanted. Sure, none of it was real, but that didn’t matter much. I’d kill to have a drink right now. Literally, I would murder someone.”

“Good luck with that,” he says.

“Shut the fuck your mouth.”

“I’m planning on seeing Dream,” he says, ignoring that. “After I find Tommy, anyway. I’ll make him tell me what he did to bring me back. And you, too, I suppose, assuming it was the same thing. Why are you a ghost when I’m not?”

“You keep asking me these questions like you expect me to know the answers,” Schlatt says. He levels his glare at him, but it doesn’t look very angry. Just tired. Wilbur knows the feeling. “Ask him to send me back, how about? I don’t want to fucking be here.”

His eyes slip shut. “Neither do I,” he says, and it’s more of a confession than it has any right to be. His tone matches Schlatt’s: tired, exhausted, weary, wrung out, sick of everything.

When he opens his eyes, Schlatt is gone. There is no sign of blue, no shimmer in the air. He’s really gone, then, but he assumes he’ll be back. For better or for worse.

He sighs, gathers himself, and resumes his march through the forest, looking for Tommy.

#mcyt #dsmp #dream smp #dsmp fic #wilbur soot #technoblade #philza #jschlatt #alivebur #glatt #/rp #cat writes fic #long post

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thedemonstherapist · 4 years ago

Text

Of Decietful Fate

Summary: “’Remember when we met here? What a beautiful night that was’.

‘Nothing could be more beautiful than you, my dearest. Sat on the bench, all alone, as if waiting for only me’”.

Wordcount: ~1,6K

Pairing: Unrequited! Barbatos x GN! Reader/MC

Warnings: Angst, unrequited love, (personified) self-hatred, some pining

Author’s Note: Aaaaand another wordvomit dump. I seem to only be able to write angst these past weeks, but it is helping me get back on track. I hope you like it nevertheless, once more, neither proofread or edited.

You shouldn’t have walked that way.

They’re so much prettier than you, pressed up against him. Their lips press against his with such gentle precision, with knowledge that they should be there. Their hands look natural intertwined, fingers delicately laced together. His other hand cups their cheek, lifting their chin towards him. They’re pulling him by his tie, a smile curving their lips upwards. Both of their eyes are shut in bliss, a perfect still-life of the perfect couple.

Happy. Together.

And you stand there, barely holding onto books and bag, frozen at the sight. You knew it would come to this eventually. You knew your denial couldn’t hold out much longer, that you would eventually be confronted by the truth.

You’re an obstruction to the beauty before you, and you want nothing more than to vanish. The seconds bend and twist, stretched out longer than they needed to be. You’re taunting yourself, your alter ego looming over you with a gleeful grin and a disapproving, arrogant stare. You should move. You’re the idiot, standing here, mask slipping, taking up space. You don’t belong.

So you turn on your heel before they even notice you were there.

---

Of course they notice a difference. Not that you willfully let them, but they know. They don’t pry, Asmo breeches the subject the most, always careful, always gentle, always stopping when you ask him to. You tried lying, and that was the most obvious signal that you didn't want to talk, but it didn't stop the gazes, the whispers, the concern. Nothing does.

And for a while, you allow yourself to live like that. Misery builds a strange shell, one that can only break if you allow it to, and you do everything to prevent the wreckage. You allow yourself to swallow the bitterness, to bite your tongue in anger, to numb your tears to simple technicalities. You’re not in denial about them anymore. You’re in denial of your own.

Somehow, it feels less painful to blame yourself than somebody else.

They don’t establish the connection, to your relief. After all, they have existed for a while, and everyone knew long before your isolation came. To them, it may be normal, may be a past pain, may be a depressive phase, may be something entirely else. You’re thankful you never made yourself so obvious.

Was it something I said? Mammon asks one time, voice so quiet and broken that you almost burst into tears. No, no, no, it’s none of your faults, you reassure him vehemently, giving a small smile, I’ll be okay, please don’t worry.

Of course he still does, gentle with his affections. Why couldn’t you fall in love with him, you sometimes ask yourself, late at night, staring out of your window. Lucifer might have disapproved, but you would have saved some heartache. Maybe. Who knows if Mammon would have reciprocated.

Probably not, your alter ego sneers, just look at yourself.

---

Solomon, ever so inquisitive, ever such a pain in the ass, figured it out.

A Ball. Another one, at the Demon Lord’s castle. The one where they would announce their forever. You feel empty as you stare at yourself in the mirror, absently smoothing out a crease on your sleeve. Weeks ago you would have been so excited for a night like this, spending hours getting pampered and dressed-up by Asmo. The smile you put on passes as well as the others you’ve put on these past days. It would do.

You enter the ballroom with the brothers, arm linked with Asmo, as per usual. Solomon greets you at the entrance, his own demon companion next to him, whom Asmo greets with the enthusiasm of an old friend. You barely have time to breathe before Diavolo is upon you, and his absence is immediately noticeable, replaced by a demon in a similar uniform and customary smile. Your eyes travel across the room to find him, knowing full well that they would make their entrance together soon. Your mind races to torture you, imagining how they would be dressed. Would they match him? You can only imagine the ripples of turquoise fabric, hair made into traditional fashions for the occasion, jewelry glistening across and down delicate hands, arms, necks, backs. Asmo had once shown you how one dressed for this celebration, chattering excitedly away as you stared at the magazine pages.

What a beautiful couple they would make.

Satan asks you something, ripping you from your thoughts. You jump to answer, giving a nervous laugh as Solomon’s apprehensive gaze falls onto you. Spotting Levi and Beel across the room, you excuse yourself, hurrying over to where you would hopefully be able to meld into the background and look away.

Of course, you don’t get that privilege.

Because Lucifer ushers you over no five minutes later, gathering everyone in a neat circle. You end up back between Asmo and Solomon, watching as Diavolo ascends to his seat, quietning the room. The flowers everywhere glisten so prettily in candlelight. You concentrate on staring at one of the lilies behind Diavolo’s left shoulder, drowning out his words. The anxious tapping of your nail against your glass fades into the background, heart pounding out of your chest. You feel dizzy by the time the roaring applause starts, eyes flying to the open doors.

In that moment, all you want to do is wake up.

Your hands find the rhythm by themselves, absently joining in the commotion. You don’t notice the hot, sticky track the tear makes down your cheek, in hollow acknowledgment of how happy they look together. He holds them so delicately, smile realer than you’ve ever seen it before, gazing at them in adoration. They are the epitome of elegance, expression bursting with joy, one particular jewel hung around their neck.

You’re glad that demon engagement customs differ from human ones. It makes it easier not to imagine yourself as them.

Somebody’s stare is burning into your sides. You turn to look at Solomon, in silent acceptance of his knowledge. His expression is pure surprise, slowly softening to apologetic sympathy.

He’s rarely looked so human.

You turn back around, lifting the glass to your lips.

---

It’s quiet in the palace gardens.

The sounds of you walking are all you hear, aimlessly wandering along the stone path, following a trail of lanterns. You’re not quite sure where you’re going, but the sounds of the party are diminishing behind you. It’s not cold, gentle breeze sweeping across the lake beside you, creating small ripples across the surface. You know that someone will come running after you any second now, telling you you shouldn’t be out here alone. You knew that the moment you passed the demons on the balcony, but you can’t bring yourself to care, just wanting to be alone for a while.

The trail ends at the small marble dome at the edge of the lake. Even this is decorated lavishly, candles casting flickering light onto your silhouette. You stand at the entrance for a few seconds, taking it all in. There is a hum of magic surrounding you, gentle and unabrasive. It’s almost angelic.

As you step inside, you can feel something click. You pay it little mind, stepping to the bannister. Your hands close around the cold marble, letting out a long sigh as you lean on it.

This is where you and Barbatos had your first proper conversation.

It was a similar night. The party had been loud, even from here, and you’d needed space. He found you, sat on the bench, staring at the lake in wonder. After the customary greetings and asking if you needed anything, he had lingered. You remember the exact hesitation in his expression, glancing at you from the entrance. You hadn’t known what to say, carefully asking if everything was alright. He’d smiled lightly, telling you not to worry about him, that he was only admiring the one of the constellations visible tonight.

Conversations about the stars became common between you two afterwards. You wish you’d known that it was never meant to be more than platonic.

Steps. Quick ones, almost stumbling over each over. You take a shaky breath, hoping your tears haven’t smudged your makeup, straightening up. Could it be him? Could it?

It is.

But not only him.

Their eyes meet yours, confusion flashing across them. Suddenly you realise why you stand in the midst of flowers and lanterns, why that gentle hum of atmospheric magic feels so comforting. Why they stand at the entrance, hands intertwined, cheeks flushed.

I’m so sorry. You want to vanish, quickly tugging your jacket closer to your body and stepping away from the bannister. I didn't realise-

It’s not a problem! We love this place, don’t we, Barb?

He nods, glancing over at you. Did you need some air?

You nod, staring adamantly at one of the pillars beside him, refusing to meet his eye. You feel so endlessly stupid. Your alter ego is right back behind you, snarling into your ear, venom seeping under your skin.

I better get back. Your voice comes out a whisper. Congratulations. You make a wonderful couple.

Thank you, that’s so very kind of you. They sound so sincere, and you can’t help but doubt it. Demons of deceit don’t tend to be honest.

Your eyes find him against your will, hope tugging your heart apart, and he smiles. Dutiful as always. Take care.

Remember when we met here? Their words almost stop you in your tracks, but you’re already past them, slowing to listen. What a beautiful night that was.

Nothing could be more beautiful than you, my dearest. Sat on the bench, all alone, as if waiting for only me.

The air feels a lot colder against your burning eyes.

Link to my Masterlist / AO3 // Requests currently closed.

#barbatos x reader #barbatos x mc #obey me barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me!#obey me swd #obey me! shall we date?#obey me fanfic #obey me fanfiction #obey me angst #unrequited love #gender neutral reader #hope you enjoyed <3

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superprincesspea · 3 years ago

Text

Chapter 11: Traitor

Masterlist

It rained for almost a week and Rollo didn’t return home.

Edithe was too proud to ask Haedde where he was and should have rejoiced at being without his heathen company, but the old woman bored her. Praying, sewing and sitting bored her. It always had.

She missed her family and home more than ever but even there, she’d been unhappy. Quiet reflection and tedious activity never suited her. Being the daughter of a Saxon Lord never suited her. Rebellion had burrowed under her skin for as long as she could remember and over time she’d learnt to quell it rather than banish it entirely.

The last words she’d spoken to her family had been in anger. She’d envied her brother. Envied his freedom most of all. She was going to be sent away to marry a boy prince, while her brother would remain and one day become Lord of all she held dear. It wasn’t fair but nothing was ever fair for a woman, Haedde was right about that.

Today the sun shone brightly amidst fluffy white clouds and she perched at the window, watching the world go by, her foot tapping rhythmically on the floor.

“Why are you so restless, child?” Haedde asked for what must have been the tenth time that morning.

“I wish to go outside. It isn’t even raining today. Can’t you ask the guard again, Haedde?”

“Each day it is the same answer from them, child. Have patience. I’m sure Rollo will be home soon enough.”

She sighed, resting her chin in the palm of her hand. With each passing day she longed more and more for the easy meander up the meadow. To feel the long grass tickling her legs and to fill her lungs with sea air as it swept across the fjord and onto the hillside.

“Why don’t I tell you the words for the days of the week?” Haedde said.

Edithe slumped even further into misery, “who cares about the days of the week when every day is the same?”

Haedde replied but Edithe didn’t hear it. Instead, her eyes searched a group of warriors who were walking from the docks, talking, laughing, returning home. And in the middle of them all, there he was.

Rollo .

“I told you he would return soon and already you are happy,” Haedde cooed, watching over her shoulder to see what had caught her attention.

Edithe bit back the smile which had fallen carelessly onto her face. Thanking God it was only the old woman who had seen the proof of it. “I am happy to leave this prison, nothing more.”

By the time he entered the house, she’d taken a seat by the fire, pretending to sew.

He sat away from her, unloading the sack he carried and chatting to Haedde while she fussed over him.

“You look well, Lord. You have been busy?”

“Yes, it has been a long week and I have missed your cooking old woman,” he smiled, flattering her.

Edithe was trying her best to ignore him but she couldn’t help herself, nor could she help the sting of disappointment in his disregard for her. She was supposed to be his bride yet he had no interest in talking, or even looking at her.

“Will you not greet me, heathen?” she said, wishing she held more patience.

“Hello, Edithe,” he replied, meeting her stare briefly before resuming his conversation with Haedde.

Edithe jabbed the stupid sewing needle into the dress she was embroidering and caught her finger in the process. It bled out but she suffered in silence, quietly seething and certainly more wounded by his ignorance than she should have been.

“No doubt you have had a long journey, Lord. But will you be taking Lady Edithe out for the afternoon? She has been so fretful in your absence.”

“Has she?” Rollo asked, looking pointedly in Edithe’s direction.

Edithe was grateful Haedde thought of asking Rollo to take her outside, but the manner of her phrasing left much to be desired. She hadn’t been fretful because he was gone she’d been bored because she was trapped.

She ignored the way he looked at her, giving her attention to the sewing once more.

“She is young, it is not good for her to be cooped up all day with an old woman. Take her, have fun together, hm?”

Rollo humoured Haedde but his tone had an edge when he asked, “but does Lady Edithe wish me to take her?”

“I think-” Haedde began.

“I wasn’t asking you, old woman.”

Edithe straightened her spine, chin up, “you promised to train me, did you not?”

He scoffed, “I’m a heathen and a barbarian as you always point out. Why should I keep my promises to you, Christian ?”

Edithe held her temper tightly in her chest. She would rather die than beg him.

“I think she does not understand you-” Haedde lied to Rollo in Norse before speaking to Edithe in Saxon, “-you want to go with him, why be so stubborn, child?”

“I think she understands perfectly,” Rollo decided, watching her carefully.

Edithe tightened her jaw, her whole body rigid with frustration. “Do as you please, heathen . I have not asked you for anything and I never will!”

“Then these will go to waste,” he said, tossing a burlap sack at her feet.

She wanted to ignore it but the curiosity was far too tempting. She picked it up, opening the ties to find a tunic and trousers like the ones Solveig wore. But more excitingly, there was a black leather tabard, delicately stitched and soft to the touch.

“I do not want them,” she lied, still clutching them in her hands.

Rollo sighed, “wear them, don’t wear them. It makes no difference to me.”

“Then why bring them for me?”

He sighed again, “to make you happy, Edithe. Though I can see it is impossible to do so.”

He was wrong, the clothes did make her happy but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She could hardly even admit it to herself.

They stared at each other in silence, both of them unwilling to yield.

“I will leave you to your sewing then,” he decided, grabbing a piece of bread from the plate Haedde prepared for him. “Do not wait up for me.”

He walked to the door and she couldn’t remain seated or impassive a moment longer, not when freedom was tantalisingly close. “Wait,” she called.

He turned, giving her the opportunity to speak.

“I…” she’d asked him to take her before, why was it so difficult now? “I do wish you to take me.”

She thought he might mock her and then refuse but he didn’t. He smiled, his eyes crinkling warmly, “then change quickly, woman.”

She smiled too and in hindsight, perhaps she could have been less enthusiastic, but some emotions were impossible to hide.

Pulling on the new clothes, she liked the way they made her feel. In trousers, she would be able to kick, run and tumble as freely as any man and, in Kattegat, nobody would judge her for it.

Yet, in her mind’s eye, she could see the scorn on her mothers face. If she was here now, she would hate it and think her unladylike, unchristian even. Edithe banished the thought. She would pray on it later but for now, she would enjoy the newfound freedom a pair of trousers seemed to promise.

When she emerged from the bedchamber, Rollo’s gaze caressed her body, admiring her shape without restraint. Stupidly, she hadn’t even considered how the trousers would hug her figure.

Her cheeks heated, after a week she’d forgotten what it felt like when he gave her all his attention.

“Enough,” she said and his hungry gaze flicked to meet hers.

“Now you really do look like a warrior of Odin,” he praised and she ignored him, moving across the room to collect her wooden sword.

Rollo move closer to her and, when she turned, she had to take a step back to avoid crashing into him.

“For you, Valkyrie,” he said, uncurling his hand to reveal a black leather belt clutched within it.

Another gift, another thing to pray on later. She reached for it but he moved it away.

“Allow me,” he insisted, his hands deliberate as they carefully began to fasten the belt around her waist.

All the time her heart thudded. Every brush of his fingers rippling a flurry of tingles to her core. She held her breath, trying desperately to ignore the scent of his skin, the scent of his very presence, as it enveloped her.

Sea, soap and leather. She hadn’t realised how familiar the smell had become until this moment, and now she was trying not to drown in it. Trying so hard she was lightheaded and unsteady on her feet.

“For your sword,” he said, smiling as he eased the weapon from her hand and slipped it into her new belt.

He turned towards the door and she exhaled, wondering why his touch had seemed to brand her skin. Even now she could feel the heat of it.

Luckily Rollo didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. He stepped outside and waited for her to follow with hardly a second glance.

After a week trapped indoors, the meadow was even better than Edithe remembered and she took the time to ramble through the long grass. After so much rain the air was fresh and wildflowers bloomed all around. She picked a buttercup and twirled it in her fingers, admiring the way the light dance on its waxy petals.

Rollo was watching her and she was very aware of him, very aware of herself. She didn’t want him to know that she found beauty in this place or, that if he was a Saxon man, then she could have found pleasure in his company.

She was a traitor for even having such a thought steal into her subconscious. But it was becoming impossible to deny. Despite her hatred for Rollo, his smile fell warmly onto his face and she had missed it. She had missed their lessons. He was a patient teacher. More patient than the nuns had ever been, infinitely more patient than her father.

It seemed so strange to her that a heathen Viking could have such a capacity for gentleness. In many ways, Rollo was much more agreeable to Edithe than the boy prince she was supposed to wed. But underneath Rollo’s pleasing exterior he was a pagan and a murderer.

She let the buttercup fall to the grass, her face hardening to him as she recalled the moment he’d killed her brother. When she thought about that, Rollo became the most hateful thing she’d ever seen. But if only he could be unpleasant to gaze upon too. It would make everything far easier and she would feel far less shallow in her sinful thinking.

“Perhaps we could walk a while?” she asked, feeling suddenly unprepared to be in such close proximity to him.

“Anything you want, we will do. As always, Lady Edithe,” he chuckled.

Was he mocking her? Calling her spoilt? How could she ever think anything good of him? “We don’t always do everything I want,” she snapped.

“Do we not?”

“I did not want to be brought here. To be locked in your house, day after day. Even Haedde gets to leave whenever she pleases while I have to sit and wait for you . You disappeared for a week and left me to rot.”

“So you noticed I was gone?” his smile wasn’t mocking her, it was warm and handsome and she hated it all the more.

“I noticed your man stopping me from leaving.”

“He’s not there to stop you from leaving. He’s there to stop anyone from getting in.”

Edithe laughed, now it was her turn to mock, “like Ragnar?”

“What of him?” Rollo’s tone was serious now, his face hardening as he moved to tower over her. This was the Viking she expected. Menacing, dangerous, heart-stopping.

“He said he would never touch something which belonged to you.” So perhaps she would relay Ragnar’s message after all.

Rollo relaxed, his eyes softening once more, had they always been as green as they were right now? Surely not.

“Do you belong to me, Valkyrie?” he asked, reaching for her plait and letting it slip slowly through his long fingers

She couldn’t bear to hold his stare a moment longer. Couldn’t bear to be so close to him when he looked at her as he was looking right now. As though there were no Christians or Pagans just Edithe, Rollo and his boyish smile.

“I belong only to God and you should never have taken me.”

She could hear his frustration, feel it even. “So I should have killed you? Left you for the crows? Or for the other men to do with as they pleased? Do you have any idea how much you would have suffered in the hands of another man?”

“Stop,” she told him, angry because he was right.

“I saved you,” he whispered, his presence encompassing her, “and you have given me nothing, Edithe. Not even a kiss.”

Her mouth was suddenly dry, adrenaline hurrying down her veins but she didn’t run away. His eyes grazed her lips and she knew what he was thinking, knew she should stop this madness.

“ Rollo ,” she said, her word a breathy whisper rather than a command and as soon as it had rolled from her lips, he took her into his arms and leaned in to kiss her.

She pulled back but his hands caught her escape and his lips were soft with tenderness as they pressed to her hers. They warmed her, yet she shivered, goosebumps prickling along her skin.

“Rollo,” she said again and when he kissed her a second time, his open-mouthed urgency startled her. His tongue pushing past her lips, sinking wet and smooth into her mouth. She whimpered, allowing him to consume her and allowing herself to drown in the sea, soap and leather of his scent.

She didn’t know a kiss could be so longlasting and as it deepened, his hands gliding easily over her body, heat pooled unexpectedly between her legs. He was invading her, breaching her walls and somewhere in the back of her mind a voice called for her to fight. But she was weak, melting willingly into his unyielding kiss.

When it was over she trembled, frightened by the deep pull of desire which coursed across her traitorous body.

“How can I ever stop kissing you now?” he asked, smiling, leaning down to kiss her again.

“Stop,” she whispered, pushing her hands against his chest but he was too strong, too entranced.

“Why should we stop?” he breathed in her ear before his lips peppered lazily along her neck, tightening whatever it was which made her body thrum for something more.

“Please Rollo,” she begged, unsure if she was begging him to stop or begging him to continue.

How could she let this heathen touch her in such a way? This was not her, this was madness. Utter madness. She had been too long from home, too long in this pagan land. Her body was for God first and her husband second. Rollo was neither and he never would be.

“Let me go, heathen!” she shrieked, pushing him more forcefully.

He released her, his breathing ragged. There was no more sweetness or gentleness in his features, only lust.

Edithe didn’t wait to see what he might do next. She ran. From Rollo and herself. She didn’t recognise that girl in the meadow. Nor did she recognise the part of her who wondered, what it would feel like, if she didn’t stop him at all.

#rollo #rollo vikings #rollo lothbrok #vikings #vikings fanfiction

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nothisis-ridiculous · 3 years ago

Text

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven: To The Place I Belong

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

Evelyn ripped around the Recruit; the endless stream of energy the kid displayed was a thing of envy. She was an old soldier indeed- growing exhausted from just watching the child play about excitedly. Once she swore never to become that person, but it had progressed subconsciously. It was far more than a physical tired; emotionally and mentally, she was a strange form of exhaustion that taxed her brain to move on a typical day- on the worst days, it was immobilizing. "Please, just one more lift," the mousy-haired girl begged. "You're going to get me in trouble again." Evelyn pouted, "she's not watching right now. Plus, Rahna said she isn't mad it just makes her sad, which makes her act mad." "So you want to make her sad?" "No," but there was still a little bit of defiance in the utterance. "Plus, don't you want some of that energy for Pater?" "Ugh, we won't be there for forever ."

"You could try napping in the Mako," Jane retreated as the kid threw her a cross look, "or you could write another log." The kid was precocious, but Jane liked that about her. She was only privy to the existence of the log because of her Spectre status. Evelyn had believed what all others would take as a lie at face value. Claiming a secret mission, the kid was more than onboard to keep mum about the existence of a previous life. Though Evelyn may begrudge her later, Jane hadn't utterly lied to her. "But, you're doing dangerous things," Evelyn whined. Super dangerous if they allowed the seven-year-old to bother her, no doubt, "I suppose I am. How about you help me keep an eye out for any baddies?" It kept her entertained for a while, at least until Jane started to recognize some of the roads again. Her detail was ornamental at this point the route had been quiet. Who would disturb a company of Makos and Kodiak shuttles? Having boots on the ground was only required because of the state of chaos the city was under from reasons that ran from collapsed structures to faulty ordinances. The medical equipment was worth far more than creds; it was a step toward rebuilding. Jane paused once the building crested the horizon, the corpse of Harbinger in rest behind it. Her hand raised, bringing the caravan to an immediate halt. "What's the holdup?" the 2nd lieutenant buzzed over her comm. "I want a scan of this area, "Jane couldn't quite place the exact threat, it was an absurd tingle that whispered caution, "get behind me." The woman's demeanor bid the child to comply. "Mec-" Jane's pistol fired a split second before the comm's warning, blasting the processing 'head' clean off the LOKI unit. "Woah, Woah, Woah," a figure shouted from between the buildings, the white-haired figure raised his hands, "just mechs, Recruit." "Pater!" Evelyn cried, running from her side without a hint of caution. Half tackling the man with the ferocity of her joy, but he recovered quickly, spinning the girl around before setting her down. Holding her hand for the rest of the trip to the convoy. Roy's forehead knocked against her's, hands holding her face, "fucking hell, Recruit." "LT." "Jane, you-" his voice quivered before it left, pushing her aside with unintended belligerence. His steps were wobbly as he approached the short woman wearing a sour expression. They stared at one another. He stopped just out of arms reach from the woman. "I'm not going to smack you, you old geezer." The LT muttered something unintelligible as he swept the woman up into his arms. Cue the crying and all the grotesque cuteness one could endure from the scene. Jane had to look away; it was like watching her parents kiss. It was something better left unimagined and unseen, and sure it happened just somewhere else. The pang of envy was also unbearable, despite how happy she felt for them. It was time to look for an exit. Apparently, after trouble ran into her- "It's nice to see some of the Alenko family reunited." "Is this a joke to you?" envy helped pull a simmering anger into a seething mass of it. Rahna remained gentle, undaunted, "it would be good for all of you to have some closure." Logic bid that Strawberry couldn't have known that her Roy was the Major's father. While she knew who Helen was, Jane hadn't been exactly willing to spend any time with another person during her recovery. It all seemed obvious now if she hadn't been so clouded with grief and self-gratifying misery. "Please, let me go," Jane begged. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ Harbinger's warm (for London) breath collided around her form. They sat in a prolonged stalemate of silence, the Reaper judging the creature before him. What was a flawed creature of flesh compared to a collective intelligence? This ant was pathetic, hardly able to pose a threat to itself. Yet here it sat, thinking it was worthy of words. But it wasn't without pithy for the small things. "Death wouldn't claim you." Why would it? The real punishment was surviving. Reliving the guilt without a

barrier to stop the whole barrage of the tide. While she fought and campaigned against forces that seemed impossible, she had a way to hold back the pain. A reason to forget, a goal that kept her focused on what was forward and not on the past. The failure of losing one homeworld seemed small compared to the loss of all advanced life in the Milky Way. But now, with time, without a goal to keep her focus forward the weight of Thessia, Earth, The Citadel, Palavan, and countless untold colonies compounded together. Her personal failures insult to the injury. If only she could have provided more evidence about the Reaper threat. If she had tried harder, been louder, would they have listened to her? Was it a mistake to abandon Cerebrus? They were evil, no doubt, but could those resources have made the difference? If they had managed to find the Catalyst earlier, the galaxy would have suffered less loss. Instead of the Illusive Man needing to make her an enemy, would her compliance have stopped the indoctrination of the organization? Had she pushed them to that extreme? Was it a mistake to not take the Dalatrass's deal and fool the krogan? Even if for a short while. Was her moral qualm worth the lives and time it took? There was always more she could have given. Her repentance must be witnessing the Galaxy struggle to rebuild after what she had brought upon it. "Who would believe you were Shepard?" Just another facet she wanted to forget. How could she face his parents? Was it wrong to stick around? Helen was a nominal presence in her life, but the LT... him she couldn't forsake. Roy's company brought her peace, likely out of familiarity, a brief reprieve from the current of guilt that swept her under. Guilt she didn't want to bring into their relationship, shame that her attempt to save his son had failed. She wasn't ready to talk about Kaidan or the Normandy. It was still too much of a burden, the force petrifying her humanity. What would it change between them? Or the way everyone looked at her? Would they shun her for what she could no longer be? Couldn't she steal a little light? At the time, she hadn't saved the man for Kaidan, but at least she could protect them now. Or try her damnedest as Jane, as much would not be expected from her. "I see we found Harold again," a graveled voice chided disapprovingly. Jane flinched at the physical contact, finding her words to come out in a tumbling mess, "shouldn't you be shacking up with your old lady?" "Who's to say I haven't." Now, this was super gross, "you picked a fun one." His eyebrow raised, but he otherwise ignored the undertone of Jane's statement, "Alenko men always pick a partner far out of their league. I think my son really took the cake, though." Jane tensed, waiting for the inevitable. He knew. He had to. Rahna wouldn't keep quiet, not now. Why else would he leave his wife? Nearly two years' absence was nothing compared to a stranger disappearing for a month. "A Spectre is a Spectre, and never for an arbitrary reason," she retorted defensively, no longer waiting for the blow to come. It was also a little personal- she loathed whenever someone implied Kaidan simply rode her coattails. Yes, he was monumentally important in her crusade, but the man was his own force to be reckoned with. He was capable, intelligent, level-headed, and most of all kind. It was rare to have someone never ask anything of her, as he had. Rarer to not be put on a pedestal, the Major had always seen her as human. As a person and not the title. Despite how challenging the distance between them had been, she would always respect that he never wavered on his choice to act independently from her. "Heh, did someone have a celebrity crush?" Roy shook his head, "I didn't come here to reminisce. I wanted to speak with you about something." "Okay, let's have it." He took in a deep breath, folding his arms in a manner that made her question how she had missed the resemblance, "about that day, the raid. Look, I appreciate what you were trying to do for me, but never do

that again." "I can't promise that," she returned flatly. "You know," he drew in a steadying breath, his tenor turning into a heartbreaking rumble, "it's possible you have people out there that care about you. You're a stubborn shit, but you're becoming like one of my own. Maybe you can't imagine someone coming back for you, but one day someone's going to thank me for keeping your sorry ass alive for them." "You can lecture me all you like then," she quipped, but the hot tears slipping out from the corners of her eyes betraying her true feelings. Roy's hand returned to her shoulder, letting the woman release in complete silence. He waited a few minutes after her shaking had stopped to speak again. "But you should come inside, there may or may not be a banner with your name on it awaiting you," he said wryly, "while I think Evelyn may not mind all the attention on her, she does not need that much cake."

#shenko #fshenko #mass effect fancition #kaidan alenko #take me home

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cartoonfangirl1218 · 4 years ago

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If Bombshells ever returned, maybe to explore the aftereffects of the war. Here are some superheroines and supervillainesses that could join the fight into the new era. The Cold War.

Jesse Quick; Jesse would totally join the families providing their homes to the displaced Jews of Europe while at the same time protecting her city from all sorts of crime. But her storyline might come with learning that in her need to help everyone and solving everyone's problems since she has the technology and the privlege, well... kinda appears as a white savior. At least to Lisa Snart which brings me to...

Golden Glider: Well I think we can all guess that Lisa has a Jewish-like last name and while her big bro, Captain Cold, Leonard was working with the Nazis, I am so arguing that he was just conveinately converting in order to save his skin and his sister's. Anyway with her brother in jail and Europe in shambles after the war, Lisa can travel to America with other displaced Jews. Some families were kind enough to "foster" these peoples which is where Jesse comes in. Well Lisa isn't the type to accept the "pity" and dislikes how priviliged a life, Jesse leads. Then comes a whole new yet classic Flash vs the Rogues rivalry.

Nyssa ah Gul: How can we forget another misplaced Jew. Well not Jew but Ra ah Gul's other daughter, Nyssa, whose entire adopted family died in the concentration camps while Ra was off whatevering with the Lazerus Pit. But since Ra's long gone from the picture, I suppose Nyssa will have to seek answers from Talia about why she didn't try to help her or contact her after finding out they were sisters.

Mya: Meanwhile after WWII, India is revving up for a revolution after being used and abused by the British Empire in a war they didn't even want to be in. And after being in the war, STILL treated like second class citizens. That's why Myra, prodigy of Shiva is up to lead a revolution for her people.

Gypsy: Let’s not forget about all the other groups that Nazis were prejudiced against. Cynthia Reynolds or "Gypsy" as the SS slurred against her and her Romanian family. But with Europe's landscape in disarray, Cynthia can use her earth-bending powers to help and educate people that she is more than the fortune telling, pick pocketing stereotype that the world believes.

Volcana: Now I know we didn't really get into Italy's part in WWII, but someone with volcano powers would totally be working in Italy, specifically Pompeii. The one issue is that, like in her origin story, she was working for Mussolini against her will and the Italian still wants their "super weapon" under lock and key in case of WWIII.

Thorn: Meanwhile the late 40s-early 50s is totally not a time to be woman with a mental illness. Especially when the "understanding" doctors try to lobtomize you. So Roselyn Forrest's double personality disorder is a big problem in her life. Especially since her second personality is a scythe weilding maniac and her uncle wants to put her in an institution. Added to the fact that she is still suffering under Irish discrimination. Hopefully the Batgirls can help, not only change child labor laws, but views on mental illness too. Giganta: A gorilla turned into a girl. Why shouldn't that be an experiment by the crazy Americans or Russians in a way to beat each other as the world superpower. Well technically the Russians wanted to send a gorilla into space and beat the Americans, but they thought a woman astronaut (or as they called cosmonaut) would make them look better. (All true look up Valentina , first woman in space). But besides being part of the space race, Giganta can bring spotlight to Africa where she was born, and which is being divided by the major world powers for exploitation.

Crimson Fox: Constance D' Amis, French heiress would be part of the small army of woman workers during the YALTA conferance trying to get their say into how to rebuild Europe for the benefit of all. Who knows, maybe she even talked to Selina Delgatti. Hey French heiresses and Italian heiresses must know each other. Plus she expels hormones that can make anyone under her thrall which leads me to...

Queen Bee: Another pheromone expelling woman. A villainess though. Africa wasn't the only one being exploited and colonized. The former Ottoman Empire was being exploited for its oil and Lebenon is taken over by the French (Basically ample reason for Constance to go to Lebenon and fight Queen Bee). And the former queen is certainly not above going to the Russians to fight the US/Europe to get her country back. Or just team up with Lex Luthor to take down Supergirl and get her country back. I just imagine Lex and --- to be like an evil Mr.Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet okay. All suave, witty banter. It makes sense in my head.

Catherine Colbert: A bit like Lois Lane, Catherine is an everygirl. Well if the everygirl was a daughter of an dimplomat and had her sights on making a name for herself in NASA and trying to avoid the pressures of mysgonistic men that woman aren't fit for government. Being told that she is too emotional and should stay in the kicthen, Catherine rebelled by becoming a stone faced, cutting ice queen in the diplomacy track and also a horrible cook. Artemis and Cheshire: I'm taking a bit from the YJ story in that Artemis and Cheshire are half-french, half-Vietnamese. Since their abusive father was loyal to the Nazis, he disowned them and cast off their Vietnamese mother in Japanese concentration camps. While Artemis made it to America and tried to stay on the good ol American democratic way (while fighting petty looters in the streets of Gotham as one does), Cheshire went to Vietnam where she works as an assasin, for the communists and the non-communists. It doesn't matter to her as long as she gets paid. But times are changing in Vietnam as the fights about communism between the North Vietnamese and South escalate.

Lady Blackhawk: Zinda Blake, hero of WWII and the Blackhawk brigade comes home to nothing. No money. No pension. No respect. Life as a veteran has no perks since no one has money to pay in Europe. Plus she'd still be trying to adjust to civilian life after nonstop combat and the inevitable PTSD while the Germany she loved is split into two. Hopefully Rudi and Helen will help to keep her in a safe place until she can get back on her feet. Miss Martian: While I don't know whose in Harley, Ivy and Viktoria's circus, I feel like Miss Martian would find a safe haven there. While she did not experience the WWII, she did experience a similar prejudice and genocide on Mars being a white martian so I bet she can help with reprations. Or just join Starfire on the fire squad...wait nevermind. Fire is Martian weakness. Well at least have her and Starfire being alien girlfriends exploring the strange Earth world together.

Rocket: Again, haven't had the joy of reading the final vol of Bombshells United so I don't know exactly what Bumblebee has been up to nor the racism she had probably experienced. But Raquel would be in a similar boat. An African American teen in an unjust pre-Civil Rights movement society with the added difficulties of teen mom hood. I really want some spotlight on her whether she joins the Batgirls or strike out on her own or helps Icon just like in the comics.

Mercy Graves: Alongside Lex wherever he is, I want a similar debut to what Mercy did in JL. Mercy takes over LexCorps during Luthor's absence, absolutely crushes it and makes it more of a success than Luthor ever did because she is not obsessed with the Kryptonian heroes. Maybe she even teams up with Waller? Who knows? Or even have two heads, Mercy Graves and Lena Luthor, making millions and making plans, evil or no, always ending on top.

Silver Banshee: A woman whose screams causes people to age. How they could NOT use her in a war, I do not know. But I picture Siobhan's arc going something like after her family dies in battle or something or other, she taps into her genetic banshee powers. Fueled with grief/cynicsm/vengeance she travels around the Iron Curtain, causing death since death is a mercy compared to living in destitute misery.

Plastique and Roxy Rocket: One is a Canadian explosives expert, another just really, really loves rockets. Both would be very useful on either side of the Cold War. They're traditionally illanesses so I could see them as double agents like Cheshire, working for whoever pays the most for their time.

Roulette: Roulette’s big thing is gambling on illegal cage fighting activities. Well lets up the ante by having her big gamble being stoking US/Russian tensions. After all the longer the war goes on, the more she gets paid for her information on the other side, her contacts for weapons, her spies etc. She'd be rolling in dough, and loving it even when under threat of nuclear destruction.

Fire and Ice: No idea how the heck they would fit in to a post WWII world. But let's suppose they want to escape Brazil and Antartica respectively to be able to help out in the aftermath after doing nothing during the war. Jessica Cruz and Aresia vs Star Sapphire Meanwhile with Hal Jordan out of the picture, let's have the infamous Green Lantern vs Star Sapphire rivalry again.

Lady Shiva: Street fighter, assassin, mother of the future Batwoman, Cassandra Cain. Lady Shiva must be part of the Cold War. She is bit of a anti-hero so I doubt anyone would know where her loyalties truly lie, but she'd be on the side of whoever her daughter wishes to protect.

Cassandra Cain: The new Black Bat, continue Katy Kane's work, and the Batgirl's work, and all the work that needs to be done after WWII. She's the new heroine.

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margarethelstone · 4 years ago

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Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears | Chapter 6

Chapter 6 / Read on AO3!

It was dark and late when Taichi reached the doorstep of his own house that eve. With his hands still firmly in his pockets, he had walked slowly, his buoyant step lost somewhere along the way as the distance between Chihaya and him grew wider and wider with each stride. It wasn't that his misery had taken over him again, that the magical spell he'd been under while talking to her had been maliciously broken; there was no spell, and he was not miserable. More like...

More like Chihaya's presence had been a force that pushed him forward, while the absence of her allowed him to stop and think on his own.

Though she certainly did her best not to push too hard today, he couldn't help but think as he ascended the steps that led to his front door. I've never seen her this guarded. Now that's something to think of.

All the way to her home, he'd been awaiting the moment she'd speak up and pester him about returning her school bag. He'd seen the glimpses she gave him. Each time he'd responded with a smile and when he had glanced sideways at her, she'd done exactly the same. And yet, never in his life would he have thought that she'd manage to hold back until the end, only daring to reach for the bag after they'd already come to a halt.

She'd given him all the time and space she thought he might need, even though it was obvious how much more she still wished to tell him.

And it wasn't the only time she'd done that today.

Holding back a yawn, he put his key in the lock and turned it, suddenly feeling more tired than he had been in a while, and not only in the psychological or emotional sense. It seemed that the exhaustion from his matches with Master Suo had caught up to him at last, too, to the point where he thought he might actually faint on the spot. Mixed with the turmoil he had just gone through, it left him feeling all the weaker and more vulnerable.

The combination was deadly – the cure, as of yet, was unattainable.

If only he could go straight to bed and sleep it all off.

"I'm home!" he called out upon entering, idly wondering what kind of speech his mother would give him for being out for so long. Granted, he'd told her he'd be staying with his tutor, and the funniest part was that it wasn't even untrue...

Still, even Reiko didn't think of him highly enough to believe that he could study for this long without break.

Almost mindlessly, he took off his shoes and set off towards the staircase that led to his bedroom. Having heard no response to his greeting, he wondered if perhaps his parents were out after all – heavens knew that they went out often enough to ground his suspicion in this regard. Chancing a look inside the kitchen, he noted that just like the living room, it was empty, and strangely relieved, he picked up his pace towards his own room.

Just because he'd learnt how to handle his mother's attitude didn't mean he was looking forward to facing it.

Besides, he hadn't been lying about the work that awaited him. There was a lot of it, both for his usual classes and his barely commenced course at the cram school. The fact that he had just spent hours playing karuta with Suo Hisashi, and then some more time talking to Chihaya certainly did not help his case; and for once, it was more than his typical reluctance to search for excuses that made him want to hide these particular facts.

Long story short, he was in for a night of studying, and one that he was bound to keep a secret this time.

Suddenly he wished his parents were away for the entire weekend.

If only.

"Welcome back," he heard his mother’s voice coming from behind him just as he was about to take the first step upstairs. Instinctively, he grimaced, but turned around anyway, making sure to school his features before facing her directly. "I was starting to worry, you know. I've never expected you to stay away for this long, competent tutor or not."

"I'm sorry for troubling you," he replied curtly. "I don't know if it makes it any better, but I couldn't even tell how long it would take myself."

"So you've said," she agreed. "Well, I hope you made good use of that time. You know how-"

"How you feel about wasting one's time. Yes, Mum, I know," Taichi cut her off in what he hoped was a polite tone. "And I promise you that I haven't. I still have things to do though, so, if you’ll excuse me, I'll go to my room now."

Reiko eyed him carefully.

"There's dinner waiting for you," she said simply, yet, the look she was giving him clearly indicated that it was not what she was really thinking about right now.

Taichi barely restrained himself from sighing wearily at the display.

"Thanks, but I've already eaten," he answered, as if he'd not seen her expression. "Now I really must go. Say goodnight to Dad for me, will you?"

Before she could say anything else to hinder him, he left his place at the foot of the stairs and resumed his hasty walk, determined not to give Reiko another chance at figuring out the truth behind his brief replies. She was already suspecting something, there was no doubt about that; however, there was a grand difference between his mother guessing and her knowing for sure.

He was conflicted enough without her sticking her nose to it.

"Did she get to you?"

All air seemed to leave his lungs at the question, his body stopping mid-step as he comprehended his mother’s words. It took all of his strength not to turn back to look at her rapidly, the urge to do so only rivalled by the strange feeling of impotence that held him frozen in place, which again was probably the only real reason why he didn't do that.

"Answer me, Taichi. Did Chihaya get to you in time, or did you miss one another somehow?"

Slowly, he turned around at last, desperately trying to ease his breathing again. The rational part of him told him that he was being the opposite, letting the unfounded fears take over him when the hardest part had already been behind him. After all, what was a little prying of his mother compared to the conversation he and Chihaya had had? Why would he be worried about her finding out about it when, apparently, she'd known all along?

But how had she known?

"Thank your mum from me, will you?"

Of course. Chihaya had come to his home, hoping to find him and since he hadn't been there, it'd been Reiko to whom she'd talked. It had been Reiko who'd told her how and where to find him, though for what reasons, he couldn't fathom – and all that Chihaya had admitted to him openly when he'd asked about the reason for her coming to the cram school.

"You weren't at home. Your mum gave me this address."

You didn't need any deduction skills to connect the dots here. And his mother's were more than extraordinary.

And he'd forgotten all about it.

He supposed his tired brain could only take so much.

"She did," he answered with all the composure he could muster; there was no use denying the facts now. "She arrived shortly before I left, so the timing was spot on."

Reiko nodded. "Have you two talked?"

You know when she was here and how long it would take her to get to me. I've just told you that I left shortly after. If I had gone home promptly, I would have come back hours ago and you know it."

"Yes," was all that he cared to say out loud.

Their eyes met and for a moment, it seemed to him that Reiko was preparing to treat him with another question of hers, or maybe a whole lot of them. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, praying that she wouldn't – and yet, he didn't allow himself to get too attached to that hope.

His gaze was still on her as he pondered about the interrogation he should expect. Would she ask about the subject of their conversation? Would she inquire about Chihaya's state or why it was so important for them to meet that very day? Or was she completely indifferent to all that and only bothered to bring up the issue to scold him for wasting his time after all?

Was it all just to tell him that she was disappointed with his choices?

"Good. She looked like it was important."

And that was all. No biting remark, no feigned sweetness or sarcasm resounding in her voice. Nothing but those few words of acknowledgement and – was that approval?

"I take it you'll be staying up late tonight, so if you grow hungry, the dinner is in the fridge. Though I'd recommend not stretching it too much, or you won't be able to learn much anyway. Now if you excuse me, I need to pick up Rika from her friend's place."

And with that she left him, adding no more to the most astonishing talk they had ever had.

And to think that he considered Chihaya unpredictable.

***

Now, as he sat by his school desk five days later, the thoughts of his conversation with Chihaya came back to him, making focusing on his literature class even more challenging than it already was.

He couldn't even tell what it was that had brought them to his mind this time or why it was now that they'd reappeared. He had done a pretty good job not thinking about the subject so far, barring the intrusive memories by simply shifting his attention to the more pressing tasks, such as the assignment he was expected to hand in at the end of this very class. After all, even with his time split between the regular lessons at school and his own studying at home, as well as the not so rare meetings at the cram school, he still was no less determined to maintain the strange arrangement with Master Suo who for some reason had decided that he wished to practice with him now.

He could hardly point out the moments when he could just physically rest – he simply hadn't had enough energy left to indulge himself with idle thinking, regardless of how crucial the subject was.

And yet, somehow, he still felt more relaxed than he had in months.

Perhaps it wasn't the workload that had exhausted him so, but the imbalance and intensity of it that were so characteristic of his previous endeavours, together with the reasons that had made him push himself so hard in the first place.

Earlier, he'd worked to take his mind off Chihaya and the pain she'd unintentionally caused him – now, no longer scared, he couldn't have found the time to think of her if he'd tried to.

Maybe he really should have just focused on his own needs more.

And yet, the memories had come back eventually. Not in the intrusive, menacing way he was so used to, one that made him want to turn his brain off for good and run away promptly. No, the thoughts that came to him now were gentle, resemblant of hints and leads and not proclamations and claims. If anything, they were like kind, patient acquaintances that awaited their turn quietly, instead of barging into his house whenever they felt like it in the way his good friends would have.

Which, compared to what his relationship with Chihaya had always been, really was quite ironic.

He let out a long sigh of relief upon hearing the bell go off at last and rose from his seat eagerly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so willing to leave the classroom – even at the lessons as trying as the ones conducted by Fukusaku Tokiji, Taichi was usually able to find the minimum amount of interest necessary to get him through the period in relatively good spirits. The only instances when he really had been itching to leave the room were when he'd had a club meeting to attend; those however, were well in the past now.

The fact of which Taichi was painfully aware, and yet could not bring himself to abhor.

The decision he'd made was the only one he could have made. He was not going to let himself regret it.

Still, he did miss it. Not just his encounters with Chihaya, but with all of his friends that had helped them build the now famous team. Sure, he still had Komano as his classmate and the two of them talked no less than before Taichi had left the club, and perhaps even more frequently. A lot of those conversations were started by Komano, too, as if the usually reticent boy had considered it his duty to maintain and protect their relationship after the natural territory of karuta had been lost to them.

Taichi saw the effort and appreciated it wholeheartedly. Even if it was planned, even if it might have been deemed calculated as well. To anyone else it might have seemed forced or downright fake - and yet, he knew that there was nothing but sincerity and concern behind Komano’s actions and words, the succinctness of it simply mirroring his friend’s way of being.

He could feel nothing but gratitude for it.

He also felt grateful to Nishida who, despite being in a different class, always made sure to stop and chat with him whenever an opportunity arose. It wasn’t uncommon for him to join him for lunch, either, always urging Komano to do the same, deaf to any objections either of the others might have. Clearly unaware of the reasons behind his retirement, he never wasted his strength trying to avoid the subject of the club, updating him on his fellow members' shenanigans as if he'd been talking about the weather.

That kind of behaviour had earned him more than a few meaningful looks on Komano’s part; and yet, his behaviour had not changed one bit in result.

It was a nice change of pace when compared to the other boy who - of that Taichi had no doubt - had at least a vague idea of the situation that had caused his leave.

Oe was not in his class, but he still met and talked with her occasionally, though contrary to his male friends, she seemed much more guarded – but then again, he was sure that she knew exactly why he'd left their club. Considering all of the support she had shown to his case so far (as well as her gentle nature in general), it was only natural that she’d empathise with him more; it was not surprising to see her act a little awkward about it, either.

Even if she hadn’t known all the details, she certainly was smart enough to figure out a great deal of it herself.

Hanano had known all along, of course.

Tsukuba appeared to be even more clueless than Nishida.

They all talked to him; and yet, as determined as they seemed to keep him in their lives, talking was all they could have done. And after everything they'd been through together, talking just didn't seem enough.

He walked over to the teacher's desk and handed in the essay, before turning away from the older man as soon as he could without seeming impolite. Lost in his thoughts, he marched toward the exit, missing the concerned look the latter had bestowed on him as well as the curious glances his classmates had been giving him for much longer than just today. He did hear his name spoken quietly, almost conspiratorially, but paid it no mind anyway.

He'd had people talk about him for years now; there was no reason why he should trouble himself with it now.

The corridor he had entered was empty, much more so that one might have expected at this time of the day. True, the literature class he'd just finished was the last of his lessons, and he was well aware that there were students that had finished theirs at least an hour earlier – yet, even considering that everyone was pretty much dying to leave the building to enjoy the late spring weather outside, it still was surprising to see the hall deserted like this.

Oh, well. The fewer people there were, the less chance he had of accidentally walking into someone, which, given his current state of mind, would not have been at all unlikely otherwise.

"Ouch!"

Taichi started and stopped, realising a split second too late that he had, indeed, walked into someone.

And not just anyone, it seemed.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," he heard the girl in front of him apologise hastily. His eyes grew bigger with surprise as he saw her abashment, and his guilt did the same, but he still missed his chance to reassure her as she went on, "I hope I didn't hurt you or-"

She trailed off as soon as she looked up and recognised him. As Taichi gazed at her, it became clear that his initial astonishment was nothing compared to the shock she felt, and not only thanks to the expression she was now wearing. Slightly abashed, he gave her an awkward, lopsided smile – however, she once again beat him to an answer.

"Mashima-senpai?!"

Suddenly all he wanted to do was to burst into a laugh.

"Yes, well, that would be me," he admitted somewhat sheepishly, as he harnessed all of his will not to give in to the silly cheerfulness that had overcome him, if only in order not to make Hanano feel any more uncomfortable. "Also, I think I should be the one apologising. I wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings, either."

"In that case, we're even," she replied, her cheeks still a little pink from the embarrassment. "Where both are at fault, it's better to assume that neither is."

Taichi couldn't help but blink at her answer.

"That's... pretty profound, you know," he remarked, impressed. "Perhaps a bit too profound for a situation like this, but I won't hold that against you. Thank you for your understanding."

"It's nothing. But are you well, senpai? I've never seen you bump into someone like this. Is everything alright?"

The stunned look in her eyes was now replaced by that of concern, as she watched him carefully, as if trying to figure out the reason of his absent-mindedness before he gave her his own account. Not for the first time, Taichi noted that she was also trying hard to be discreet, limiting herself to generic questions and little glances, even though it was obvious that her mind was reeling with questions she wished to ask.

She had been like that ever since his confession to Chihaya, even though she had known it was coming and then learnt the outcome. She was the only one he'd told about this – the only one with whom he'd made sure to be open, despite the toll it had taken on him. It was only fair that he had, what with the support she had given him regardless of her own affection.

She had admitted her feelings to him when she'd known they wouldn't be returned and then encouraged him to do the same to the girl he loved in turn. She had been honest and she had been brave. She had shouted her confession for all of his class to hear, ready for the rejection of which she knew it was coming, because she knew it was the only way the two of them could leave the vicious cycle they'd locked themselves in.

If it weren't for her, he doubted he'd ever had found the guts to proceed with his plan, and surely not as soon as he had.

Even considering the disastrous end of the whole ordeal, he couldn't feel anything but thankful towards her.

And it hadn't changed afterwards. Every time they saw each other she had a smile ready for him, though hardly a word followed. She certainly kept her distance; however, there had never been any hostility in the way she looked at him, no grudge or falsehood that he could see behind the small grins. Just like Chihaya, she had given him a wide berth - and yet, so unlike with the latter, he'd always felt like the gap could be crossed if only they so chose.

In fact, Taichi was certain that the only reason why that hadn't happened yet was the fact that she felt she wasn't supposed to cross it. Like she thought it would be wrong to get close to him now when the main obstacle had been moved out of the way. Like it would be inappropriate to try to win him over when the pain he felt was still so very fresh.

As if the very idea of taking advantage of the situation was repulsive to her.

She really was much more considerate that she gave herself credit for.

"I'm fine, don't worry," he said eventually, making sure his reassurance was backed up with another soft smile. "It's been a pretty long week for me, with classes and cram school, and studying in general. A fairly busy one, too."

"You look as if it's been more than just this week that was long," Hanano corrected him hesitantly. "Are you sure you're not pushing yourself too hard again, senpai?"

"You may be right about that first part. But no, I don't think I'm taking it too far, not this time anyway."

"Really?"

"Yes, really," he confirmed warmly. "I know it may be alarming seeing me like this, walking into people and all, but I promise you, I'm fine. I was just lost in thoughts."

Hanano seemed to assess his explanation in her head for a while.

"If you say so," she admitted hesitantly and nodded.

Taichi's smile grew a little wider. "I do. So how about we let that go and instead you tell me how you've been doing?"

The hesitancy did not disappear from her face; if anything, it grew even more visible, as she tightened her grip on her books and looked away, somewhat puzzled. Taichi used the opportunity to have a good look at her on his part, wondering if there was anything he should be worried about in regard to her well-being, searching for a sign of distress that he might have missed before. It was more than probable, after all.

If her feelings for him run even half as deep as his love for Chihaya did...

The few short moments between his question and her answer were enough to convince him that his unease was ungrounded after all. Hanano might have seemed a little uncertain still, but she didn't seem miserable in any way. The feeling of relief washed over him like a wave when he realised the extent of his previous worry as well as the incorrectness of it. After all, the last thing he needed - the last thing he wanted - was to have someone else live through the same suffering he experienced, just because he was too blind or self-centred to notice.

No, she really was fine.

Thank God for that.

"I'm alright," Hanano said clearly and simply, certifying his assumption as she looked up at him again. "The teachers haven't been giving us too much work so far, so I suppose it's easier for me in that field. Even though I'm sure that will change as soon as they realise that our exams aren't as far away as it seems, even in comparison to yours," she added with the weakest of chuckles.

"Oh, yes. It's really no fun when they do," Taichi agreed cheerfully. "Though I don't think you need trouble yourself with that for some time now. I can only judge by the way they're working with us third-years, but they really do act as if our education was the only thing that mattered. Might be a while before they remember they have other students in need of attention as well."

"Was it the same last year?"

"Oh, for sure. I think it wasn't until summer exams that they made that discovery, and even then it only included the students with poorer grades."

"Like Ayase-senpai?"

Taichi's smile withered for a second, before he remembered to bring it on again.

"Yes," he said. "Just like her."

A look of discomfort reflected on Hanano's face. She shifted her gaze away from him again, blushing slightly, and bit her lip in what could only have been described as a nervous reflex. Not at all pleased with himself, Taichi reached out to put a hand on her shoulder; however, all Hanano did was wave at him dismissively.

Confused, he pulled back instinctively.

How was she more disturbed than he was?

"I'm sorry for bringing that up," he heard her apologise for the second time that afternoon, and just as needlessly. "She was just the first person that came to mind. I remember someone at the club saying that the Empress once forbade her from going to a tournament because of the exams and instead made her revise the material with Komano-senpai. But then Ayase-senpai ran away to cheer you on and... Oh, no. I'm making it worse, aren't I?"

Her skin was flushing bright red now as she groaned with annoyance. Watching her, Taichi was confident that the only reason why she hadn't hid her face behind her hands yet was because her arms were still occupied holding books. That didn't stop her knuckles from turning white, however; and that was enough to prompt Taichi to speak up at last.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he said firmly, hoping that the tone of his voice would be enough to convince her about his sincerity. "It was a natural connection to make, you don't need to apologise for coming up with one."

"Yes, but-"

"Hanano-san," he cut her off. "Just because things didn't work out between Chihaya and me doesn't mean you can't say her name in my presence. I'm not that vulnerable. No need to walk on eggshells around me."

"I - alright. I won't," she agreed.

"Good," Taichi replied. "I don't want you stressing out about my problems. Also, I think it's actually easier with people acting normal, you know? Otherwise I just feel like I should be thinking about it, too and that's just... Well, it kind of hurts more that way."

Hanano opened her mouth to reply, but was then interrupted by the buzzing of her phone. Changing her grasp on the books so that she could hold them with one arm, she reached for the device - and then she froze, seeing who it was that was calling her.

Taichi's curiosity grew together with his anxiety. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes! Yes. I mean, I must go, Oe-senpai is calling me and she wouldn't do that if I weren't already - LATE!" she answered in a series of cries. "It's so late! The first years must be all at the clubroom already, and I still need to stop by the teachers' room before going there. Now I won't make it on time!"

She opened her phone only to reject the call and then thrust it into her bag rapidly.

"Mashima-senpai, please excuse me," she concluded hastily. "But I can't stay any longer. I'm glad we could talk. Good luck with your studies!"

And with that she was off, dashing towards the nearest staircase and to the teachers' room she'd spoken about. Still slightly dazed, Taichi watched after her for a while, until he remembered that he, too, had no time to spend on aimless dawdling. So he shook his head and set off towards the exit of the school himself, his mind as full of ideas as it had been before he and Hanano had met, if not more so.

Small wonder that he forgot that it was the library he was supposed to go to.

#Our Sleeves Were Wet With Tears #chihayafuru #taichihaya #mashima taichi #ayase chihaya #volume 2 guys!#it's here!#and i'm so happy!#thank you for being there for me!

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esamastation · 5 years ago

Text

Because i am writing it and wanna see what people think

Sneak preview of hithertho unnamed sequel to “True” Reality

Nothing is True.

Nothing is there.

Desmond doesn't so much float in the nothingness as he… just… is. He doesn't know how long it's been, he's kind of lost the sense of why of it, too. He thinks he minded it, way back when, an eternity ago, he wanted to leave, maybe? It doesn't really matter. Nothing matters. There's nothing.

Well, that's not exactly true. Not True true, just true. There's something – just enough of a something for him to still be sticking around. It's like a string inside him, a cord frayed to its last sliver, gently waving in the nonexistent wind, just enough to remind him that, that he's still there. He's not gone yet. He's here, here is nothing, and he's in the nothing.

No one would ever see him here. No one would find him. And no one would care.

The Lonely savours him slowly, digesting his slowly ebbing, flowing misery like a tasty morsel. He's a candy on it's tongue, and it's wearing him out slowly, so slowly, tasting every aspect of his Aloneness and humming with the drawn out enjoyment.

The knowledge that he was always alone. Surrounded by what amounted to paper cutouts of people, rather than real individuals. They stand up in his memories now like stand-ins, all hollow and two-dimensional, repeating the same hollow, meaningless words.

Get up, Desmond, the words echo, sharp enough to cut, to bring forth a reaction, to make him twitch. Dad, calling him across the training ring. Get up, Desmond, he says, and never holds out his hand, never helps him up, never does anything. Get up, Desmond, he snaps, impatient enough for Desmond to hear it in his voice, but also distracted, like he's looking elsewhere, his attention on something else, like whether Desmond actually gets up or not doesn't actually matter. Get up, Desmond.

And the Loneliness whispers, No one ever asked if you needed help. No one offered a hand to pull you up. Did anyone ever give you their arm, their shoulder to lean on? Did anyone ever lift you to your feet? Did they hold you?

His mother's hands, cool and perfunctory on his cheek as she dabs stinging antiseptic on a cut. Her fingernails feel like paper cuts, and her disapproving tutting sounds like distant static. "It's just a cut, and you're a big boy, Desmond, you don't need my help."

Desmond knows, theoretically, that his mother helped him. He remembers it. But he also remembers the holes in those memories, the parts where they don't exist. Dad is easier, Bill Miles actually made an appearance in his life, such as it was, but his Mother is only a voice. Voice, and vast holes of absence, where the game creators hadn't bothered to fill up his background. Seventeen years worth of memories.

The Lonely has filled them, bit by bit, with cold shoulders from her, with dismissal, with distracted disregard as she turns away. Just enough care to make him feel it, a hand on his shoulder, a band aid on his lip, just enough to make him long for more – and then the Lonely takes the image and turns her away from him, leaves him at the mercies of a father, who turns more and more callous and cold as the memories twist and turn and...

You were a thing they raised, a fruit of labour, the culmination of a bloodline. They married for lineage, not love, they didn't love each other, they didn't love you – you were just a thing they made, an Assassin of Assassins, the Assassin, their Chosen One, alone and strange and…

Desmond drifts. He thinks he might be floating. He has enough will left to know that this is kind of – not wrong, exactly, though it's that too. The Lonely wants his suffering, his slow anguish, his Loneliness, his Aloneness, his Solitude – and his knowledge of it, too. Wants to make him feel it.

But it doesn't come naturally for him. He can feel it, but it's artificial, in the end. Those people never existed, and those experiences never happened, and he knows it. He knows what he is. The Lonely can't take that away from him – it's the main thing it's feeding on.

He's a Solitary Existence, artificial, hollow, fake, empty, the Lonely can digest him forever. So it won't make him think he's human, not all the way. Whenever he threatens to tip over the edge of that knowledge and into delusion of humanity, it reminds him – he's just code, code, code, nothing but symbols on a screen, unloved and unreal, a thing no one knew, a thing that shouldn't be – and that breaks the illusion of suffering.

Desmond sighs, and the Lonely drinks it up all the while breathing in on it, like blowing on a hot coal, making it blaze in his chest. Alone, alone, alone, and unknown.

Desmond has no idea how long it's been going on. Doesn't know if there's time in this place. There probably isn't. The Lonely can and will feed off on him forever, and he's more or less… fine with that. Would be nice if it wouldn't try and fake it, though – it doesn't feel right. He knows loneliness and isolation, and it can be so nice. So much nicer than fake social isolation. He's never minded social isolation, it's never done that much for him. Sure, he was sad, at times, but true isolation, the feeling of being properly removed from everyone and everything…

That's sweet.

Desmond jerks in the Nothing and in the Emptiness, and around him the Lonely shifts and breathes. There's – something. Like a tug in Desmond's chest, in his soul – in his code screen, or whatever it is he has. The empty space that's his body is feeling a drag, though. It kind of feels like he's -

Gasping, Desmond convulses and grabs at his chest, as the Lonely disperses like so much mist around him, and the faked illusions of social isolation and dismissal fade. There's a tether – Desmond can almost see it, and he can definitely feel it. Someone's got a hand around his story and is tugging at his words, at the strings of his code, and he's -

Out there, someone Knows him.

He's Known.

He's Seen.

The string is tugged – and then released. Desmond stares in dismay as it goes taut and then snaps, withering away like smoke in the wind – the mist of the Lonely eats it up, wears it out, until Desmond is left holding just a – a bit of it, hanging from his chest. It's – thin, and black, plastic.

A… tape? It's thin and flimsy and takes Desmond a bit to actually remember what it is, but… yeah, it's tape. Cassette tape. "Huh," he says out loud, as the thin flimsy string of it loops loosely over his fingers, almost too light to be felt. Been – never, since he's seen this stuff, actually.

"Statement of Desmond Miles," the cassette tape announces into his fingers in a firm, brisk male voice. "Regarding his… existence…"

Desmond's skin crawls and he knows, instinctively, that it's Another. Another what, he's not sure, but it's Another. It feels like – like sandpaper against his senses, like anathema, but also like kin. It's a weird mixture of sensations, not entirely pleasant nor unpleasant. Kind of… tingly, like an itch that's satisfying to scratch.

It has to be the story, the one he made to the Eye, just like that old guy said – that has to be – someone out there, someone with power, just did something with his story. Recorded it on tape maybe? He isn't sure, but…

He has his hands again. And legs. So that's kind of nice.

Slowly, shakily, Desmond finds his feet enough to stand on them, peering around curiously. The Nothingness hasn't changed, the Lonely is still there, looming upon him, wishing to smother him, but – he's Known now, and that changes things.

"You're hungry," he says, which – is probably a weird thing to say, but it's what he feels. "I'm sorry, I'm not that kind of meal. I don't fear being lonely – it's all I've ever been. Can't fear the only thing you've ever known."

The Lonely doesn't answer, of course not, but it leans in, hungry and withering, whimpering and savouring. No one loves you. it whispers in his own voice, which is right enough. No one wants you. You're safe here. No one can hurt you here.

They're not really things it's saying, though, more like stuff his mind is saying at himself, as a placeholder for the things it craves. It kind of – it has the feel of a petulant, lonely child, mumbling into its knees, bitter and unintelligible.

The weird thing is, though it's been slowly digesting Desmond for eons, now, Desmond kind of feels bad for the thing. It's pitiful. Lonely things usually are… at least until they learn to live with it. And Desmond did, a long time ago… given the value of living, maybe, but… still.

"Here," Desmond murmurs, and gives the Lonely not his sadness, because he doesn't really have any to give, but his… serenity, the masochistic, drawn out edge of it – the moments spent alone in his flat, feeling self-righteously bitter about having to turn down an invitation to a party because someone was filming there. He feeds the Lonely the moments in abandoned gas stations when he was at his most desperate, his most alone, and with no one to turn to he turned inward instead, and felt worse for it. The moments of dissociation just after using the Animus, when he felt disconnected from everything, body and soul…

The Lonely flexes around him, and Desmond draws a shuddering, shocked breath. "Yeah," he croaks, shaky. "Now you get it." His mouth feels like dry parchment and tastes like mothballs at the end of a cabinet that hasn't been opened in decades – like an empty tomb in an abandoned castle, where Altaïr sat alone for centuries. "Isn't that better?"

The Lonely lets him go, and Desmond grips the shredded cassette tape in hand, and turns to follow it out.

So, Desmond the avatar of the Lonely? Taking place somewhere early on season 4 of the Magnus Archives. Yeah.

#fanfiction #crossover #the Magnus Archives #assassin's creed #tma #ac #desmond miles #the lonely

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