#cw/tw — injuries (not graphic)

[withoutalice]

WIP doujin page. Kinda based in some past irl stuffs haha. Also can be looked at in the lense of my Max fic.

I know it looks bad in the tags but it's not medical malpractice i promise-

They're just trying to help...

[matryoshkalex]

yesterday was izuku day so heres a lil dump of kinda old villain!deku art i realized i never posted here!!

looking at him in context of aiden is so funny because they are,,,,,, similar. i made aiden 10 years ago tho and had completely forgotten about him when i designed this izuku lol but u can tell they were both designed by the same person HA.

most of these were made in about march of 2023 so,,,, its been over a year at this point wow

n e wayyyy i had a whole plot for him buuuuut i dont know if i ever will work on that </3 i kinda wanted to make a comic for him but who knows

(more sketches/doodles under the cut!!)

[ryderdire]

Cw: blood animal abuse light body horror eye strain

And still It was never enough. I was never enough no matter how much I let them cut out.

——

I’d apologize for my hand writing but I am not sorry soooo

[cavalrysystem]

How Janus got his scars.

Tw: abuse, graphic depictions of violence, unsympathetic!Virgil, blood and gore.

(Fic under the cut)

The argument had started off so small.

Janus had been telling Virgil he wanted Virgil to stop drinking, and to put the bottle of bourbon down.

"You fucking slut!" Virgil screamed, smashing the bottle against the wall. He stared at Janus, face flushed from drinking, vision blurry.

Janus flinched when the bottle shattered, and put his hands up, palms out, to show he meant no harm. "Virgil, my love, please- you've burned through three bottlessss alrea-"

"Shut up!" Virgil screamed, grabbing Janus by the hair and forcing him to come closer, a clump of Janus's hair falling after he slammed the broken end of the bottle into Janus's eye.

Janus stumbled back, hands touching his face. Cold blood began to pour from around his eye, and the side of his mouth. He breathing shakily and looked up at Virgil. "Virgil, I'm ssssorry! But you can't keep doing thissss!"

Virgil grabbed Janus by the neck.

"Virgil, ssstop!" Janus cried, as Virgil sliced open his human cheek with the end of the broken bottle.

"You don't fucking talk to me like that, you whore." Virgil threw Janus to the ground and kicked him. "Don't get blood on my fucking carpet." He spat on Janus, and walked off.

Laying there, hands pressed to the wounds on his face, Janus began crying. But only from his human eye. Snakes can't cry, after all. He slowly sits up, taking a shuddering breath and using his extra hands to push himself up. The young deceitful side felt his way to the bathroom, turned on the sink, and splashed his face with water.

Dark crimson blood stained the marble countertop and the steel inside of the sink. Janus placed his gloved hands, now stained with blood, on the counter and looked in the mirror, eyes still wide. He was met with the sight of blood pouring down his face, his hair ruined from Virgil pulling out a massive clump of it.

He felt frozen, staring at his reflection. His vision began to grow spotty, and he quickly finished cleaning the blood off his face. He searched the cabinets for a healing plant or potion or something- he found a bundle of the plant Remus had discovered in the imagination that would heal wounds. He untied the bundle and ate the plants quickly, slowly starting to calm down.

He checked his phone. Another apology text from Virgil. Janus wiped the tears off his cheeks and cleaned the sink and countertop.

[peterofthedrakes]

some drawings of my favourite boy i had sitting around on my computer. idk if you could tell but i draw him kind of a lot.

[owlet]

this shit is why i’m not on twitter

[fletcherwilbury]

@febuwhump Day 10: Killing in Self-Defense

Warning for Illness, respiratory issues, injury, faking injury, robbery, attempted murder, murder, minor character death

[qierxing]

Farewell to Thee?

A/N: (checks last post time stamp) Oopsie. (drops this in front of yall like a bag of groceries and fades into the distance)

Yan! Twst Isekai AU

CW/TW: the Mouse is Real™, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids/injuries, assault and kidnapping Pt. 3 Oh Woe is Me... | Pt. 4

◇ Continue

[Loading…]

“..llo?"

"Hello?" 

"Hellooo?”

Out of the wispy fog comes a familiar voice. It echoes on and on, fading into a whisper. The tenure worms into your brain as you struggle back into consciousness. And as your eyes open and focus, your brain finally recognizes who is calling out.

“...Mickey?” You respond quietly in disbelief. “Mickey!”

“[First]!” The reunion, however unexpected, is still relieving. You never thought you would be so happy to see the cartoony mouse again. But…

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, huh?” He chirps, walking up to your side. “I’ve been trying all sorts of things to get here, even trying to change my pajamas before sleeping too, heh…”

“So…this is a dream?” You ask hesitantly. Mickey smiles up at you, unaware of your inner turmoil. 

“Must be! This is quite unexpected, I usually only see your head and shoulders, not your whole body.” 

That makes sense, in a way. Only white nothingness surrounds you. Although you two are striding forward in a sense of strolling, you can’t make heads or tails on whether you’re actually walking somewhere.

“Normally I’d ask to take your picture but I don’t have my special camera.” You wryly smile in response. Did you succeed with your plan? Interactions with Mickey was usually out of the player’s hands…did you force a connection when you caused a game over?

“That’s a right shame. I was so looking forward to it since you mentioned it last visit.” Mickey sighs with a playful pout. It then changes to something more somber as he gazes up at you.

“[First], I’m glad to have met you again, but be careful.” You stop in your tracks at the warning.

“I sensed some dark aura around you when we first met. It’s gotten even stronger this time.” Mickey explains, worried eyes examining you. “Please be careful.”

“Wh-what do you mean…?” Your mouth runs dry. Something prickles in the back of your head, and to your panic, the vision of Mickey starts fading away, images blurring. 

“M…time….up….watch…” his last words hover in the air as you frantically reach out to him.

“M-Mickey?!” You fumble around, trying to reach out to him, but come up with air. 

“Damn it!” You scream, impatient rage blinding your sight. 

Just when you’re so close to getting an answer out of this damn game! You just wanted to go home! Was that such a sin?

The prickling in your head grows stronger and you grow lightheaded, collapsing in on yourself. You look up to see a bright glowing menu.

[True Ending has not been unlocked]

>⬛⬛⬛⬛ Key has not been obtained. 

>Continue?

–

[Loading…]

Your cheeks feel sticky.

It feels so gross. The smell of iron and rust floods your nose and makes your eyes fly open. Your fingernails scrape the substance as you push yourself off the cold floor. When you hold it up to your bleary eyes, you can see blood and dirt flaking under your nails. Your entire front is also soaked in blood and saliva. The disgusting sight makes you cringe. 

The ground underneath your body shakes. You regard the pool of blood, tears, and snot underneath you with a gaze not fully aware. You’re… in Twisted Wonderland?

Screaming? There’s people yelling somewhere, and it’s making your head hurt. You groan, raising your dirtied hand to steady your forehead.

What happened…?

"Easy, Trickster." A warm voice envelopes your ear. Suddenly, the scent of mint and petrichor overtakes your senses. Verdant green eyes peer down at you with relief.

“R…Rook?” The voice that comes out of you doesn’t feel like you. Someone else speaking in your body, like a ventriloquist. “H-How…?”

“[First]!” Grim flings himself into your face, adding to the pool of snot and mucus. It’s okay though. You hug him tightly, curling in on yourself, trying to absorb the warmth Grim gives. 

The others come and swarm you; trying to check in on you, but you don’t respond to their numerous worried inquiries, drained of all your energy. Something catches your ear though.

“Oh, we were so worried! When Neige told us you got accidentally poisoned, we couldn’t take you to the infirmary right away–thank Seven Rook was there!” Kalim clasps your hands tenderly, not minding the gross slew of fluids getting on his hands. 

Poisoned? How was I poisoned…?

A knife sharp pain slices through your brain when you try to recall what happened. You were with Neige…and then? Everything after that was all coming out as static noise.

“Prefect.”

You know who it is without looking. What a sight. How could Vil Schoenheit look this disheveled? Blonde greasy hair that is out of place, skin hollowed and pale with scratches, and bloodshot lavender eyes. He looks worse than you on death’s door.

"Vil…?" You gaze at him with empty confusion, unsure of why your heart drops at the sight of him. "Did…did something happen?"

Vil's eyes narrow but then close in resignation. Epel takes over, eyes wide in earnest. "Vil had an overblot, so we had to wrangle him back to normal."

Overblot…right…that's what supposed to happen, right?

Why…was that supposed to happen?

"Forgive me, Trickster. If only I had reached there faster with Monsieur Al-Asim…" Rook hums, surprisingly sincere. "Roi du Poison's madness and obsession…even when he had overblotted…how wonderfully beautiful it all was. The ink swirling around him, his stature…"

You shiver as his gaze rakes into yours.

"But, mon amour, you must not do that again, oui?" He leans in, lips ghosting over your ear and your blood freezes. What does he…?

"What a fine mess this is. What are we going to do now?" Ace drawls, eyes scanning behind him. Your eyes follow where he's looking and wince at the now destroyed colosseum. Debris and rocks flung everywhere, banners ripped to shreds, and electronics fried beyond repair.

For some reason, you feel calm despite the scene before you. As if…

"Well, well, if this isn't a sight."

Malleus.

Nothing registers until his gaze falls on you, and you swear his eyes glow for a fraction of a second.

"What have we here?" The question echoes and everyone looks nervously around at each other. “I arrive early to find not a single person and a stage laid to waste.”

You can only muster a sheepish grin in response. That's right. Malleus could fix this all up in a flash, no problem.

“Hornton, thank goodness you’re here!” Dried blood cracks on the edges of your smiling lips. “We could really use some help-”

“HORNTON?” You wince at the cacophonous pitch of everyone yelling. Rook is tactful enough to shield your ears but it only did so much to keep your eardrums from ringing. While Grim realizes who Hornton is, everyone else is flustered, attempting to explain the weight of his identity to the two of you.

You don’t need it though. His magic is enough of a demonstration as he winds back time and repairs the stage in moments. With that, the NRC group’s spirit and morale is renewed and once again, they’re raring to prove themselves to RSA.

The only thing that didn’t change is you.

Malleus gingerly carries you in his arms while Grim worriedly looks up at you. While they were reluctant to continue without you, even they were not foolish enough to let you go without urgent medical treatment.

You managed to stay conscious long enough to hear Malleus talking with the school medics and Grim muttering about stones before the dull ache in your throat and stomach forced you into an uneasy slumber.

–

The vestiges of a strange dream about mice and keys linger in your mind as you blink away the sleep in your eyes. 

Evening has fallen, the only light coming from the dim lanterns the office has set up for patients. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can make out silhouettes of curtains and several items on the table near you. 

Snacks from Ace and Deuce, herbal medicine from Vil, and colorful flowers by Kalim (you’re sure Jamil was the reason why it was not mountains of flower bouquets). The gestures are enough to make you weakly smile before it drops into a frown.

You turn to scan the room, and find no signs of life.

Did Grim leave?

An uneasiness begins to settle in your chest and you try to quash it. Maybe he just went to use the bathroom. Or if the staff made him leave, maybe he returned to Ramshackle. Anxiety begins to creep through your mind as the seconds tick by on the clock above the doorway. 

 Screw it.

You slip off the duvet covers and although the feeling of cold tiles on your bare feet is almost enough to make you give up, you push through and leave the room in the direction of Ramshackle. 

Soon, the familiar sight of the Seven’s statues come into the horizon and cobblestones turn into granite tiles underneath your feet. Something makes you pause, however. Like a feeling of deja vu, you wonder why you feel like you’ve been in this situation before.

A growl shakes through the underbrush and you whirl to see the devil tips of a tail thrashing through leaves. Your heart jumps to your throat.

Grim!

The next thing you see is glowing blue eyes and a mouth full of sharp teeth and dripping black saliva. You stumble back partially in disgust at the sight and partially from fear. What happened to your friend?! 

“Grrr…mine…you can’t…” His words are hardly decipherable, making you furrow your eyebrows in concern.

“Grim!” 

He’s already descended into a rabid, feral monster. Your calls only anger him, and his eyes thin into needle thin slits. He bares his teeth again and you steel yourself. 

Letting out a guttural roar, he pounces and you narrowly dodge and avoid getting shredded by jagged claws. 

You will not lose your friend here. You can’t. Not when–

A fleeting vision flashed in your mind: pitch black ink surrounding your feet, before finally flowing away and hardening into a condensed mass. Your head immediately is wracked in red hot spasms, causing you to keel over in pain. What is…

Unfortunately, this leaves you open to Grim’s next strike, and his attack throws both of you off balance. The impact sends you into the grass and it’s only when your back hits a tree trunk that you shriek out loud. Your fragile medical gown is torn through by his claws, leaving bloody gashes upon your midsection. 

The excruciating pain is enough for feverish tears to run down your cheeks and your vision to start blurring as Grim growls again, no doubt readying to finish what he started.

“G-Grim…” 

Your vision darkens, and your world goes silent.

–

A heart wrenching scream rouses you awake.

“[FIRST]!!”

The sound of whistling wind blows in your ears and instinctively you shiver. As your eyes blearily crack open, a gray figure comes into focus.

Grim is hunched over you, shaking your body with tears in his eyes. The both of you seem to be…flying? What?

“Subject F and Y secured. Waiting for other units’ reports.” A cold robotic voice drones above you. You force your head up and see a tall robot donning armor and wielding a formidable looking oar like weapon. As your eyes adjusted against the strong breeze, you realized you and Grim were trapped in a steel cage. 

In the distance, your ears faintly pick up explosions and deep rumbling. 

“[FIRST]?!”

Both you and Grim turn to see Ace and Deuce gaping up at you from the forest floor below. You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come out. 

“All targets have been secured. All units fall back and return.”

“No!” Grim yowls. “My henchman, they’re hurt! Someone, help–!!” 

But his screeching goes unheeded by your stoney captors. And although you swear you hear familiar voices calling back, the robots are undeterred and whisk you both away easily. 

The last thing you see is the shattered ruins of a barrier and a school left in burned pieces.

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 12.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 4.6k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death any tw's and cw's will be added to chapters with them in it.

story playlist

Shera’s head pounds, laden with rocks and gravel as if she were resting at the bottom of a creek. Joints cracking and aching, she sits up. 

She doesn’t recognize where she is, only smelling the salt air and the distant crash of the tides. Her mouth is dry, sticky with a cloyingly sweet flavor. “Mhh,” she groans, vision blurred more than usual, throat tight. 

“You’re awake,” a taunting voice observes. “Good.” 

It takes her a few moments to match the voice to Prince Daemon— her situation going from bad to worse. 

She must’ve made a putrid expression, as the rogue prince gave a chuckle. “Am I that off putting, Lady Stark?” 

She continues to grumble, unable to form words yet— she remembers being hit in the throat particularly hard, rendering her voiceless and silent at the time of her capture. “W… wh,” she breathes, lifting her head to glare at the blurry figure of Daemon. “Wh… y…” 

“Why?” he asks, tilting his head. “I did you a favor, rescuing you from the usurper’s halls. I’m sure that Otto Hightower would’ve had you wedded and bedded with his one-eyed grandchild at a moment’s notice if he thought that your brother might waver to his side.” 

“I… didn’t…” she grasped at words, the ability to speak fleeting, like birds spooked from a windowsill. “I don’t…. w-want…” 

“Don’t strain yourself now,” Daemon chided, scolding her like a child. He watched her for a bit longer, seeming to take in each minute detail of her face. “Nasty scar that,” he gestured to her eye. “Baela didn’t seem to have as good of an aim as Lucerys. At least my nephew’s injury was swift work, taking out the eye entirely,” he was closer now, brow perked. He unsheathed his dagger, embossed in swirling depictions of scales and dragon wings, and began to cut a strip of fabric from the blanket upon the bed.

Shera watched him in blurred confusion, backing herself up against the headboard, trying to be small— mayhaps if she was small, she would disappear. 

The prince offered the fabric to her. “To cover it up— ‘tis a ghastly sight, as you seem to know from your usual garb. I’m sure we’ll have some more… suitable dregs for you soon enough.” 

Her eyes flicked between the fabric and his hand, back and forth. Something in her blood welled to the surface as she leaned forward to grab the cloth. It was a feral rage, something ancient swirling in the pit of her stomach as she lurched forward, sinking her teeth into the soft of Daemon’s wrist. 

She tasted his blood, her nails scratching at any exposed skin she could grasp. Her senses darkened as she heard his far away voice, saying words she didn’t understand, yelling at her, pushing her off. 

The back of his hand met her face as she landed back against the headboard once more, chest heaving. She spit at him, body shaking with rage and adrenaline. “Your blood… t-tastes… like shit.” she cursed him, spatting his foul copper ichor back at him. 

He was enraged, she could tell, feeling a similar dragon-esque heat emanating off of him. A small part of her sobbed, deep within the recesses of her mind— it reminded her of Aemond, even if only for a moment. 

And yet, despite Daemon’s rage, he retained some sort of manic lightness in his eyes, even as he was bleeding, teeth marks indented onto his skin. He stared at her with a morbid interest, as if she was some type of animal he had never seen before, never encountered so close— and in captivity.

It was a blur as the maester walked in and lifted a cool liquid to her lips, tasting of that same saccharine sweet that filled her mouth when she awoke. It was undoubtedly an attempt to subdue her. She drank it gladly, wanting nothing more than to be asleep again. Mayhaps she would dream of Aemond. Mayhaps she would never need to wake and could dream forever. 

As her consciousness faded again, she never once broke the locked stare between her and the prince until her body gave out. 

If he ever got that close to her again, she would love nothing more than to sink her teeth into his neck, maybe even sinking her nails into his eyes. 

She would dream of ways to kill him, surely.

— 

He hasn’t been granted a marble yet— not even an official title for his seat has been bestowed. And yet, he is there, sitting at the head of the table across from the King. 

It had been ten days since Shera was taken, six days since the Velaryon fleet enforced its blockade upon King’s Landing, and four days since court had been held in the throne room to hear concerns from the smallfolk and lesser lords. 

Days upon days of doing nothing— of doing diplomacy as Aegon had put it, to parrot the words from Otto’s mouth. Aemond rolled his eye at the sentiment, knowing he would have this war snuffed out in a moment’s notice. 

Our house’s words are Fire and Blood, are they not? And yet we are nothing more than simpering whelps— for the sake of diplomacy. Aemond suppressed a scoff as Tyland Lannister spoke about the costly nature of the blockade. He could only think, mayhaps Shera would be proud of his restraint in holding his tongue. 

The thought brought a small bit of warmth to the tips of his ears, suddenly grateful for his hair covering them.

Aegon twirls his yellow and pink tinged marble in its circular setting, seemingly bored with the conversation at hand, his eyes set upon the marble as one council member or other continues to drone.

“… the shipments have been delayed due to the Sea Snake’s blockade…”

“… the shepherds are asking for compensation for their sheep being taken…” 

Aemond’s ears begin to ring— a high pitched, ugly, grating sound, drowning out the noise. He looks down at his fist on the table as it flexes and relaxes, the tendons and ligaments snapping and mending back into place like a taut bowstring. All this time of doing nothing, nothing, nothing— 

“Well,” Aegon’s voice snapped through his fog, effectively cutting off whomever was speaking. “I believe I have a plan that will solve all of these… predicaments.” he clasped his hands together with a self-assured smile. 

Otto visibly tensed, sprouting another proverbial gray hair. “Do share, your grace.” 

“You have dragonriders on your side, with very capable dragons. I don’t see why we don’t dissolve the blockade with fire.” 

“I will assume you are speaking of you and Aemond,” the hand spoke, his tone light. “The princess’ side has many dragons as well— what is stopping them from attacking King’s Landing while our two capable dragons are traipsing in the bay?” 

“You’re correct in your sentiment, grandsire. My half-sister’s army consists of more dragons than we— but most are babes or hardly fledglings,” Aegon drawled, looking down at the marble. “You are also discounting that we have another capable dragon and dragonrider. Do you forget your Queen’s dragon so easily?” 

There was a palpable silence in the room as Otto stared at the King. “Helaena is… she is no warrior.”

“She is no more a warrior than Rhaenyra is, than any of us are— but she does know how to say ‘Dracarys’, if I recall. Dreamfyre is large enough to defend the city while Aemond and I are gone on our quick incursion. I don’t believe I need to remind you of the speed at which dragon travel differs from horse travel, grandsire.” Aegon hummed now, seemingly pleased with himself. 

“Even so— it is incredibly reckless for you to be out. You are the king, not some paltry foot soldier,” Otto’s calm demeanor was shedding slowly, irritation bleeding into his words. “It doesn’t bode well for a king to fight so openly.” 

“Nor does it bode well for me and mine to sit and hide here and let paltry foot soldiers die in the masses when we could end it before sundown. I fear you won’t persuade us otherwise, lord hand,” Aegon stood up, pushing his chair back. “In fact, we will even return before you pass your evening constitution, grandsire. Does your privy have a good view of the Blackwater?” 

The Hand turned to his younger grandson, who’s single eyed gaze met him in kind. “Aemond? Do you believe this wise, as well?” 

Aemond didn’t move an inch, merely glazing over Aegon’s smug expression before returning to Otto. “I would not be so capricious as to challenge the king’s wishes, grandsire. I shall do as he commands and nothing less. The blockade needs to be eradicated— all of our diplomatic approaches have been exhausted. As his grace said, it shall be ended swiftly before Dragonstone hears a word of us even mounting our dragons.”

A cold chill befell the council room as Otto let out a tempered breath. There was a vein bulging at his temple, coupled with a myriad of new gray hairs. His expression could only be described as regret, for he is a tower cornered by two fire hungry dragons. “Very well. Rid the bay of the blockade and nothing more.” 

Soon enough, the chamber cleared. All that remained were Aemond, Aegon and Otto, the latter of whom waited until the door closed to speak. “You’re both being incredibly reckless. I expected this from you, Aegon— but Aemond, you are better than this. You have more restraint, more patience.”

The king wilted ever so slightly at the admonishment, turning towards the open window with his goblet. He remained silent. 

Aemond, however, stayed sitting. His leg was propped up against the table, one hand tracing the deep engraved ridges of the pommel of his sword. “Patience,” he echoed his grandsire’s words, mulling over the meaning of it. “Restraint,” the prince continued, finally looking back up at Otto. “I indeed have those qualities in spades, to some extent. But, patience is like an hourglass. The sand dwindles, granule by granule until there is nothing left. I am reaching my limit, becoming bereft of such patience, sitting here on my hands for days upon days. We are ready to do something.” 

Otto’s brow knit together as he observed his second youngest grandchild— a man grown now, always studious and hardworking, a true shining example of a prince. It was a perfect illusion, adept at fooling those who didn’t look deeper. A single crack at the surface reveals a fathomless gaping hole could be seen, leading to molten fire and an adept ability to not be swayed, not to be controlled by someone else. 

This is the first time Otto Hightower realizes how dangerous his grandson had become— and how much he was reminded of a certain rogue. 

Swallowing softly, the hand nods. “Do what you think is wise, Aemond.” 

—

The wolf still follows him, like a mangy shadow. Aemond didn’t care for the animal, but couldn’t bear sending him off somewhere else. 

Moongeist would let out a warbling whine each time they passed the corridor that led to Shera’s guest chambers, glancing down the hallway to see if she might be there, before padding to catch up with Aemond, who wouldn’t permit the wolf into his room. 

Aemond, admittedly, had done the same a few times, having to will himself to not venture to the guest quarters. His breath would catch if he saw a blur of auburn hair somewhere in a crowd, he would smell her scent of lavender and rosemary in the oddest of places. It felt like she was haunting him, her ghost steeping into every facet of his life.

But she wasn’t dead— was she? 

That was the ever clouding thought on his mind. He just wished to know if she was alive— even Lord Larys Strong, a man known to have his fingers and eyes in many places of Westeros, couldn’t catch a bead on Shera’s whereabouts. That in itself was disconcerting to Aemond. 

His gaze was glazed over as he knocked upon Helaena’s door, stepping in without a word or greeting to her handmaiden. The wolf, of course, followed. 

“I was wondering when you would visit today,” Helaena murmured, kneeling at one of the tables in her solar. She was fiddling with wooden cages fashioned for her crickets, facing away from Aemond. “Maelor will be happy to play with Moongeist, I’m sure,” she paused and murmured softly to herself. “The vines are overgrown, they strangled a green dragonfly just this morn…” 

The mention of the cherubic toddler caused Moongeist’s ears to perk up, his tail giving a small wag. Finally breaking away from the invisible chain that held him to Aemond, the wolf walked over towards the doorway of the nursery and took a seat, waiting patiently for the arrival of Maelor, who undoubtedly was taking an afternoon nap. 

“This one has been very quiet lately,” Helaena continued, bringing up one of the cages closer to her face, lips tugging into a frown. “Do you think it’s lonely?” 

Aemond walked to his sister, leaning down ever so slightly to observe the silent cricket. “Mayhaps,” he replied, hands behind his back. “Do crickets get lonely?” 

“Sometimes. They get lonely when no one listens to their song, so they stop singing. What would be the point to sing if no one can hear it?” she ponders, giving the cricket one last look over before putting the enclosure back on the table. “How are you feeling as of late, brother?” 

He was caught somewhat off guard by her question— it wasn’t usual in their family, perhaps even society itself, to ask something so directly. It took him a few moments to answer. “Fine. I am feeling fine.” his words were plain, hollow. 

“I miss her too,” Helaena responded, sitting up and straightening out her skirts. “It isn’t your fault, Aemond.” 

Aemond peered at his sister, hands finally unclasping from behind his back. His shoulders slumped for the first time in days, the muscles previously strung taut like thread on a loom. He couldn’t say anything for a long moment, brow furrowed. “I…” he cleared his throat, feeling more vulnerable at this moment than he would like to. It felt as if he was belly up, soft innards ripe for the slaughter. “It is my fault. I faltered in a time of weakness.” 

“Love isn’t a weakness. We all must love.” 

“Love— love is a… weakness. I allowed for one sliver of something good, I indulged when I should have starved. Look what it has gotten me, gotten us,” he continued, cracking a finger with each inflection. He needed to be doing something, anything rather than to be still. To be still, to be at peace, is to lie down and die. “I won’t make another mistake.” 

“You’re just like mother in that way,” Helaena sighed softly, taking her brother’s hands in her own to stop his incessant fidgeting. “You both have such a staunch code of what you think you deserve. All goodness is an illusion— a trick,” she squeezed his palms. “You deserve much and more.” 

His eye glazed over for a moment as he savored the feeling of Helaena’s hands in his own. He hadn’t been touched by another human being since Shera had gone— he would never let anyone else get so close. Aemond’s throat bobbed, mouth opening to say something, but the steel within him cut it off. 

Helaena felt this, letting go with a nod. “I think today is a good day for flying, don’t you think?” she began to hum again as she looked to the open window that overlooked the bay.

It had been a while since Aemond had left her chambers, leaving her to get on her riding leathers. She didn’t prefer wearing them, as beautiful as they were– she would opt for her regular dress and mayhaps some long pants to prevent chafing. The leathers felt restraining and tight, when all she wanted was to be free and to fly. 

Maelor giggled in the background as he played with Moongeist, who was gentle for such a large beast. But, it didn’t surprise Helaena in the slightest. The wolf was imbued with Shera’s soft sense of humanity, the thought of it making the queen’s heart ache. If she were more fierce, more brave, more fire blooded, she would go to Dragonstone herself and negotiate for her release. But where Aemond’s blood was molten fury, untethered and unpredictable, her veins were full of dreams and predictability. 

She knows that negotiating wouldn’t work, nor would burning down the island. Shera’s escape comes in the means of green dragonflies and barn owls.

“Will you watch him?” she asks Moongeist, who lifts his muzzle to lick her open palm as she approaches. Maelor is laying atop him, arms wrapped around the wolf’s torso as he sleeps, using the poor beast as a makeshift bed. He does not seem to mind though. “He isn’t like the twins. He’s more fragile, you see. The maesters say his heart is bad– how can that be possible? He is just a boy, never doing a bad thing in his life. He is pure of heart, you know that.” 

The wolf’s amber eyes blinked slowly as he gave a small chuffing sound in response. The wolf had attached himself to the toddler since they met, Maelor second to only Shera herself. Now with Shera gone, Moongeist likely felt the same amount of shame Aemond did, if not more. He couldn’t protect his master and she was taken– as much as he tried, as much as he fought, it wasn’t enough to save her. He favored Maelor now, perhaps because he reminded the wolf of Shera, and perhaps he likened himself to protect the little toddler with an irregular heartbeat.

Helaena leaned down and kissed Maelor on his head, then Moongeist between his ears before slipping out of her solar, off to the Dragonpit.

— 

He threw his leg over the saddle, not quite buckled in yet. Vhagar doesn’t rest in the Dragonpit any longer, opting for a craggy shore near the bay. She grumbles, lamenting softly at being awoken. Aemond thinks her akin to an old cat nowadays, opting more to nap than to burn and conquer like she did in days of old. He almost felt bad to disturb her, a gloved hand patting the exposed scale above the saddle. 

“Just burn a few boats, Vhagar, then we shall rest on the cliffs,” he murmured as they took flight, skimming low above the roiling waves. It took Vhagar longer to climb in altitude, but soon enough, they were looking at King’s Landing from the clouds. Her mass blotted out the sun temporarily, casting a shadow over the sprawling city. Even through the dim, a glint of gold caught his eye. 

Sunfyre, with Aegon atop, raced through the sky like a whizzing bee. The king’s dragon was young, hatching as an egg in the cradle, an admittedly gorgeous golden and pink whelpling. Aemond could remember the jealousy he felt at his brother’s bond with his dragon. Aegon had loose ties to many humans of the world– his nature wasn’t made for forging meaningful relationships, as much as he tried. Apart from his children, as well as a confusing relationship with his sister-wife, he was bereft in anything beyond that. 

But, Sunfyre was different. In many ways, the golden dragon reminded Aemond more of a giant dog than a fearsome beast. He was keen on giving and being given affection and was quite pompous, puffing out his chest to Dreamfyre and giving mewling coos when the she-dragon was in his vicinity. Aegon spoke to Sunfyre in broken High Valyrian, mostly opting to speak in the common tongue– the way the dragon learned to understand Westerosi and anything Aegon seemed to say was beyond Aemond. The bond between Targaryen and dragon was bound in ancient magic, but the bond between the king and his mount was even more so– supernatural, even. 

The golden beast lingered a good length away from Vhagar, knowing that she was in a testy and irritable mood. The two dragons seemed to converse, Sunfyre giving trilling whistles, while Vhagar returned in low grumbles. 

“Your old lady is upsetting my boy, Aemond,” Aegon laughed, head thrown back. He was always in his best moods in the sky– they all were. 

“Tell your boy to leave Vhagar alone, I know he must be spewing obscenities at her. You two are alike in that way,” Aemond bit back, the bite in his voice in more of a teasing manner. Aegon wouldn’t get a smile out of him, though. 

A low trill of a third dragon broke through the clouds above them, the cerulean and opalescent sheen of Dreamfyre parting from the blue in the sky as if she were invisible previously. Helaena atop her dragon, waved to them with a wide smile. 

“Seven hells, Helaena,” Aegon and Sunfyre reeled almost in unison at the sudden appearance of the duo. “How did you get above us? You hadn’t even left the pit when we took off!” 

“Camouflage, brother. Dreamfyre blends into the sky at this time of day so well, doesn’t she?” Helaena preened, hands off the reins and resting behind her head. She was always so carefree when riding, especially since Dreamfyre was one of the most steady flyers. When the twins were still little babes, Helaena swaddled them both to her chest and flew, much to Alicent’s absolute horror. They slept soundly against her breast, not disturbed by the movements of dragonflight in the slightest.

“Are we all prepared, then?” Aemond cut in, getting straight to business. “Helaena?” 

“Yes, we shall skim the clouds and keep an eye on the horizon. There aren’t many bugs this high… too cold for them,” she hummed, clad in her deep turquoise colored riding leathers. It was imprinted with embroidery of dragonflies, coupled with a matching engraving on the front of Dreamfyre’s saddle. 

Aemond nodded, not waiting for his brother to answer before he set off towards the bay, knowing he and his fast golden beast would be in tow. 

The Velaryon fleet laid beyond the outcast of the Blackwater, barely floating above the skyline. There were approximately twenty ships encircling and blocking entrance to the harbor. It was a bold move on their part, to taunt the King and his family so openly, in their own waters. Aemond sneered slightly as arrows were notched and released to no avail— Vhagar’s skin was as tough as armor to the pitiful splinters they let forth, and Sunfyre was much too swift to even be nicked. 

The two brothers made quick work of the blockade, blessing the boats in fire and watching them sink to the bottom of the sea. They met in the middle, lines of inferno mingling together. 

“Now we’re clear for the second bit?” Aegon yelled, eyes squinting from the ashes blowing in the wind. 

Aemond nodded, waving his arm towards the north. Decidedly, to the next part of their plan— a bit they did not reveal to the council nor their grandsire. It was something only shared between the three siblings and their dragons. 

They continued northward, the tailwind carrying them towards Dragonstone. 

–

It’s light, the luminosity of the sun reflecting off of the water. The lake was so large, the largest Shera had ever seen, she couldn’t even see the end of the opposite side. The waves were calm, lapping at her bare feet as they sunk into the soft sandy clay sediment that made up the shore. It was very different to the pebbled beach of the Blackwater, and the muddy, reedy embankments of northern lakes.

The air is still, quiet, her hair ruffling only when a dragonfly races past her, then circling back and hovering in front of her face. It is a green color, iridescent in its hue as the rays hit its thorax.

“Hello,” she whispers, greeting the bug like she does with all insects; a habit picked up from Helaena. She lifts her hand, finger perked. It lands on her pointer finger, impossibly fast wings coming to a resting speed. 

But then, it’s spooked by a gust of wind from behind them, fleeing off into the atmosphere. Watching it leave sparks an unexpected feeling of hurt deep within her chest. 

As she turns, she sees him— dressed in the traditional robes of Old Valyria. A garment of beige, steeped in red ochre at the ends. It is tied taut to his chest, a sanguine ichor dripping from his shoulders. His hair is down, his eyepatch forgotten, a pleasant smile lives on his face— one reserved just for her, just for them in this moment. Aemond’s hand extends, his palm eerily cold against her own.

Red leaves fall from the weirwood above them as a woman recites something. Her voice is garbled and as Shera tries to look upon her, a shadow is cast upon her features. Only her long, dark hair and the glint of a green eye is visible as she speaks in a manner of tongue Shera’s never heard before. The language feels… old, primal even, as it tugs at the very roots of her soul. 

Aemond palms her face, parting her lips ever so slightly with his thumb. She feels the cool shard of dragonglass pressed to her skin as it slices into her— barely a prick, blood beading at the surface. He offers her the knife, a shaky hand doing the same to him in turn. Bloody lip against bloody lip, the tang of copper satisfying the need of the Old Gods. 

Shera turns to look at the woman again— but she is gone, only a flitting feather remaining in her place. Her brow knits in confusion, head feeling airy and full of cotton. 

Aemond distracts her from her worries, murmuring slurred words in her ear. She is unable to discern what he is saying, a high pitched ringing drowning out the sound. 

“Ae—mond,” she whispers, clutching at his tunic, the red ochre staining her finger tips. “Aemond, Aemond.” 

He keeps speaking, but none of it makes sense. He still has that pleasant smile upon his face, his lip continuing to drip a steady stream of ichor. 

Splat. Drip. Splat. 

Droplets of blood spatter to the ground, overtaking any and every thought Shera had— it was all she could hear now. Her mouth is full of bile and viscera as the world around her changes. It darkens, castle walls enclosing around her lit only by a few candles. 

She feels the heavy burden of a cloak around her shoulders as a cup of wine is brought to her lips, her arm intertwined with another. 

“In the sight of the Old Gods and the New,” a gravelly voice spoke. “I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for all eternity.” 

The wine feels like putrid spew as it’s tipped into her mouth, trickling down her throat. The arm laced with hers gives her a reassuring squeeze— and just for a moment, she looks to see him, to see Aemond. 

Except it is not Aemond. It never was Aemond. 

Jacaerys looks back down at her, brown eyes dilated into complete darkness. He is as sad as she is, it seems. 

“The union of Jacaerys Velaryon and Shera Stark is now absolute, in every respect. They are wed in the eyes of the Old Gods and the new.” a man speaks, his voice infallible with authority.

[forwhump]

Touch

a/n; touch starved human weapon who’s never known kindness gets a hug :’) & a bunch of other times he’s touched, mostly in a horrible fashion

for the anon that wanted silas to get a hug & the anon that wanted more of the unit !! two bingo squares crossover episode best of both worlds babeyyyy

tw/cw: grievous bodily harm, mutilation, guns, traumatic brain injuries, implied rape/noncon, references to graphic violence, medical torture

living weapon whumpee

The first touch Silas ever knows is that of the cold, gloved hands reaching into the opened cavity of his chest.

Their touch is not gentle. Their touch introduces Silas to pain. It’s a pain that he will very quickly become familiar with.

They open him from throat to groin. They peel skin away from meat, and meat away from muscle. They pry apart his ribcage and crush his ribs into splinters of bone. They pull out chunks of organ tissue and they hold him down, against the cold steel of the operating table, as they take the colder steel of a surgical scalpel of his hairline.

Silas’ very first memory is waking up to those cold, gloved hands fishing his small intestine from his opened gut.

The very first touch Silas ever knows is that of those hands.

Silas doesn’t like to be touched.

He learns this very quickly.

It’s an empty cell, carved from stone, not quite tall enough for Silas to stand in but that doesn’t matter because Silas can’t stand. He’s shackled to the floor by the iron closed around his throat, and he’s left there for days in the dark.

He’s alone. He’s alone a lot in the beginning.

The first person that he ever sees, outside of that operating room, is a soldier. Silas doesn’t recognize him but he spits, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, you ugly fuck,” and swings his fist into Silas’ face with as much force as a human being can manage.

His name is Point, Silas learns later, and his touch breaks his right eye socket into splinters of skull.

They manage to save his eye. Much later, however, Point puts three bullets in it, and Silas loses his right eye for good.

Silas learns very quickly that touch is something vile. It’s something to be shied away from, something that hurts. Touch is inhumane.

When Silas is touched, it hurts him.

When Silas touches, he hurts.

They chain his hands in front of him, and they shackle him at the ankles. He has to wear a bite bar because they don’t trust his teeth.

They’re right not to.

Because they remove the bite bar, the chains, the shackles, and there’s carnage.

When Silas touches, he hurts. When Silas touches, there’s carnage.

Silas usually does his field tests alone, but not always. They are a team, technically, him and the unit, and the district needs to be sure they work well together, or some shit equivalent.

Silas had spent a lot of time making a careful point not to let the unit see him the way the soldiers see him, as the horrible thing he really is, and introducing them into the field tests had made him edgy, and it had made him feel kind of sick.

It turned out to be a waste of emotion.

Even now, the soldier’s gun aimed into Hal’s face, Silas makes quick work of pulling his throat out through the back of his neck. He uses his teeth, and still, as Hal stands, he wipes blood from his eyes with his sleeve and looks up at Silas with a grin that’s nothing but relieved.

“Good looking out, man,” he says, and holds his fist out to Silas. Silas doesn’t know what to do with that, so he doesn’t do anything. Hal kinda gestures with his fist and says, “don’t leave me hanging, big guy. Bump me.”

Silas raises his eyebrows and Hal reacts like he hit him.

“You’ve never had a fist bump?” And he says it like it’s something heinous, like it’s even the most heinous thing Silas has done in the last three minutes. “Oh, man,” he says, but his grin is bordering on obnoxious. “I’m so glad I get to take your fist bump-ginity.”

“No,” Silas deadpans, because he doesn’t know what that is and he also doesn’t want to.

But Hal says, “yeah. Come on,” which isn’t all that convincing on its own, but he adds, “Wren will think you’re really cool if he finds out you do fist bumps,” and Silas squints. Hal grins again, wide and innocent, and holds his fist back out to Silas. “It’s easy. Just bump my fist with your fist. Fist bump.”

“Why?” Silas says.

“I don’t know,” Hal says. “Who cares? Just do it.”

Silas looks at Hal’s hand for a long time and decides the pros — Wren might be impressed he’s learned something — outweigh the cons — he just doesn’t want to. He relents and knocks his fist against Hal’s.

Hal, who throws both his arms up and his head back as he cheers.

June, after she left the service, was a hairdresser for a while.

Silas knows this, because she tells him, “after I left the service, I was a hairdresser for a while.”

Silas says, “okay.”

“So you can trust me,” she adds.

“No,” he says.

June tips her head back, dramatic, as she groans. She’s been wielding the hairbrush like a weapon. “Silas. Come on, dude. Stop being a bitch about it. Let me brush your hair.”

“No,” he repeats.

“Silas,” she repeats.

“No,” he says.

“Wren’ll like it,” she tries, and Silas narrows his eyes. She grins, and she has a very predatory grin. “You wanna look good for Wren, don’t you, big guy?”

He’s starting to suspect these people might be using Wren to manipulate him, and it’s unfortunate that it’s working. Silas sits on the floor, and June, with the added boost of the back of the couch, pulls a brush through his hair like she’s trying to rip all of it out.

He complains the whole time, mostly for the sake of complaining. “Ow,” he says again, and June groans at him.

“You’re too big to be this much of a pussy.”

“You’re hurting me,” he says. She isn’t.

“I don’t care,” June replies. “Stop moving.”

“I’m not moving,” he says.

“You’re flinching,” she says.

“You’re hurting me,” he reminds her.

“You should’ve started brushing your hair six months ago,” she bites back.

“How was I supposed to know?” Silas asks, and he’s won, because she quiets behind him, and her hands tug a little less violently at his hair.

“Sorry,” she says finally, and Silas tries not to smile but it tugs on his mouth at one side. He doesn’t think she’s looking at him, so he doesn’t try all that hard to hide it and so it makes him jump when he turns and she’s leaning over his shoulder to look him in the face. “Hey,” she accuses. “That’s not funny. I thought I hurt your feelings.”

He cracks a smile, despite his best attempts. “You couldn’t hurt my feelings.”

June grins widely, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to try.”

Silas snorts, and she laughs as she pulls back over his shoulder to tug the brush through his hair again. She ties it up for him; a half knot, because, “I thought it would suit you. I was right.”

He tracks Wren down, just in case.

He has a pencil tucked behind his ear and Silas is strangely entranced by it. “Silas,” he says, and he says it with a smile. “You look so handsome.”

Silas doesn’t know what it means, but he’s flattered, anyway.

He’s on his back on the concrete, looking down the barrel of a gun.

It’s shaking. Point’s hand is trembling. “You stupid, disobedient fuck,” he spits, and Silas barely sees the bottom of his boot closing in on him before it’s cracking his cheekbone. “Bad. Dog.”

Both of Silas’ arms had been nearly amputated at different points, but he can still lift his left hand. Just barely, and it trembles with blood loss and severed tendons, but he manages to lift it from the wet concrete and fold almost all of his fingers down, save for the middle.

Point roars in frustration.

Silas knows the cold kiss of gunmetal, for only a second, and then an eruption of heat that’s white hot and electricity charged and Point empties his gun into Silas’ face.

Silas is reintroduced to the touch of surgeons, but this is nothing new.

He loses his eye.

They take Wren.

Silas couldn’t give less of a fuck about his eye. He’s got another one, he’ll be fine. What’s another disfiguring injury? But he gets back to the unit, and Robin finds him in Wren’s absence.

They’d taken Wren. Robin doesn’t know where.

His touch is a firm handshake that makes Silas’ skin crawl. But he accepts it, even if he didn’t need Robin to ask. Even if he would’ve raised hell, anyway.

He’d been really careful around Wren. He’d been so careful.

Wren’s different. He isn’t like any of the rest of them. He’s gentle in a way Silas thinks super soldiers just aren’t capable of. His skin is still soft. He’s still so human, and he looks at Silas, and he sees something in him that’s human, too.

But he’s wrong. Silas has known for a long time that he’s wrong, and whatever it is that Wren thinks he sees in him, it isn’t human.

He’d wanted so badly for it to be true, though. He’d wanted to believe Wren. He wanted there to be something human in him because he never wanted Wren to stop looking at him like that. He’d done his best not to let Wren see anything less, to not let him see him as any less human than a couple of fatal injuries.

He’d never let him see anything else. He’d been so careful.

But then he finds Wren, and he finds him with a group of soldiers.

Their touch is not kind.

He’s shackled to a bunk by an ankle to the bedpost, and Silas doesn’t even know what they’re doing to him but he knows it’s vile. The sounds make his skin crawl. Wren is begging for it to stop.

He’s crying, and it’s crying like nothing else Silas has ever heard. Wailing. He isn’t in complete control of himself after that.

The soldiers all react to him with flailing, frantic cowardice, shouting and clambering for guns, for knives, for weapons, and it’s embarrassing. Silas is embarrassed for them. Cowards, all of them — loud, cruel cowards. All so scared of Silas, every one of them, and they fuckin’ created him. What a fuckin’ joke.

He lets them scramble, looking at Wren through the blur of them. His mouth is swollen, face shiny with tears, and when he sobs, he sobs, “Silas.”

“Don’t look,” Silas says.

He doesn’t recognize any of the soldiers because their faces all blur.

Every one of them dies in that bunk, and they do not die gently. They die screaming and they die in pain.

Partway through suffocating a soldier with another’s small intestine, Silas lifts his head, and Wren is still there.

He reaches out and splinters the bedpost with one hand. He can’t look at Wren for too long — he doesn’t really wanna see the look on his face. “Run,” he says, and peels the jaw off a nearing soldier with one hand, without even looking at him.

Wren runs.

Silas is punished greatly for his disobedience.

Still, he isn’t looking forward to being back in the unit. The long walk back has his heart beating higher in his chest than he thinks it should. He only ever wants to be in the unit because he wants to be where Wren is — if Wren doesn’t want him there anymore, Silas will have to find a way to stay away, whatever he has to do.

He gets back to the unit and he’s expecting Wren to look at him in disgust if he looks at him at all. He isn’t expecting the way Wren pushes himself into Silas’ chest, arms so tight around his waist that Silas is surprised by the strength of him.

It doesn’t hurt, though, a very pleasant sort of vice, warm and Wren. “What are you doing?” He asks softly.

“A hug,” Wren says, face pressed into the spot just beneath Silas’ sternum and the pressure of him is nice.

“Why?” Silas asks, and Wren makes a sound that Silas can’t decipher as laughter or crying. It might be both.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he whispers into Silas’ crewneck.

It’s probably the stupidest thing Silas has ever heard him say. “I’d do anything for you,” he says, flat.

And it’s true. There isn’t anything in the world Silas wouldn’t do for him. Wren doesn’t even need to ask. Clinging a little tighter to Silas’ sweatshirt, he sobs.

Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand and lets himself be hugged.

The concrete of the common room floor is a cool touch against his cheek.

It’s the last thing Silas knows before his skull is crushed.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he has tremors in his hands and he doesn’t remember how to read.

When Silas gets back to the unit, it’s been months. He doesn’t know how many.

When Silas gets back to the unit, he’s surprised to immediately find his arms full of Hal.

“What?” Silas says, and then June is jumping onto his back, clinging to his neck, and Wren is at his side, small hands finding Silas’ skin beneath his sweatshirt and his touch is warm, impossibly soft. Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand. “What are you doing?”

Hal laughs from somewhere around his armpit as June laughs loudly into his shoulder. “We missed you, big guy!” She crows.

“We missed you!” Hal cries.

Wren laughs into his side and it’s a little wet. “We were so worried about you.”

Robin is lingering nearby and Silas points at him with his other hand. “Don’t come anywhere fuckin’ near me.”

His face doesn’t change, militant as he is, but his gaze flickers to Wren and back before he says, in the low, rumbling version of Wren’s accent, “welcome back.”

Silas lifts his chin, sort of a nod. He looks back down, at his shaky armfuls of the rest of them, and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth on one side.

They laugh and they cling to him and the touch of the pressure and the weight of them hurts, it makes his recently reconstructed bones groan in protest, and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t but he’d also be full of shit if he said it bothered him at all.

Silas would consider himself pretty well versed in pain; this has to be his favourite.

[groovynightstrawberry]

Tadfield Zoo - Epilogue

Rating: E

CW/TW: Animals, inc insects and reptiles, minor dubcon, non-graphic animal injury and surgery

Summary: Happily ever after

Excerpt:

Crowley has become quite used to waking up to find Aziraphale already wide awake. On their days off, with no alarm to wake them and force them out of bed, it’s become standard for Aziraphale to read in bed while Crowley sleeps in, using a tiny booklight to avoid hurting Crowley’s eyes when he wakes, no matter how many times Crowley tries to sell him on getting an e-reader.

So it’s somewhat of a surprise, when Crowley wakes up one Thursday morning, to find Aziraphale frowning at his phone instead.

Read on AO3

Start from Chapter 1

@goodomensafterdark

[detectivemarvelingcomics]

Not Your Classic Vigilante [Ch. 10]

Alternate Dimension AU TW: Language, Mentions of Death, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, Body Horror, Monsters be destroying shit, Lots of Gore, Fires, Major Character Injury CW: OC Use, See the OC Guide [Here] Genre: Drama, Action, Angst, Light Comedy Pairing: Batfamily & Batsis!Reader, OC x Reader YN Pronouns: Female (She/Her) Word Count: 4.9K

(10/?) [First] | [Previous] | [Next] [DC Masterlist] | [Not Your Classic Vigilante Masterlist]

Notes: HA I FINISHED IT Bi-annual update fr fr

Disclaimer: This series is originally by @fandom-meanderer who is a close friend of mine, but she has since fallen out of her Tumblr days and asked me to finish a few series for her, hence why I am now in ownership of the Not Your Classic Vigilante series, I hope I can still live up to her writing as I rewrite this series! (I promise not to change too much, hehe)

Taking heavy breaths, you took your time to steady yourself. Your hands were beginning to cramp from how long you’d been holding your rapier, and your uniform had been singed and torn at the edges. You stood your ground, but barely, and before you the daemons were twice your size, maybe even more, but they were mutated so heavily that you couldn’t even tell what they used to be. If one thing was certain, it was that you’d never seen a monster like them before. The casualty count, although you didn’t know it specifically, was immense. Today, regardless of whether or not you made it out alive, is a huge loss for the Guard. 

“Captain! The S squadron has arrived!” You heard a voice shout. Reinforcements have just arrived at the nick of time, whilst more beasts wandered out of the woods and towards the ravaged town.

“You see the situation, if you find any living civilians they are your first priority to get to safety, we’ve determined the daemons’ weak points to be their underbellies, aim for that area first! The skin is loosest there,” you commanded. “This place is already razed down, I don’t understand why they keep coming,” you mumbled. An axe lodges on the ground next to you, just barely missing your side. “Nixon! Now’s not the time to get lazy!” You pulled the axe with one hand and flung it back towards him, something he easily caught while blocking off the daemon’s claws.

“Thanks, Cap!” You couldn’t respond, too busy dodging the swings from the daemon in front of you. Its movements were slow and heavy, but they hit hard. You could barely get in a good attack with the equipment you had. Turns out, and maybe you should’ve expected this, rapiers aren’t the best for large opponents. 

“Ugh, this is getting nowhere,” you mumbled just as you ducked below the beast’s arms. You jogged back, keeping your eyes on the monster, and you switched out your rapier for the rifle strapped to your back. You aimed quickly, precisely, and with a deep breath you fired. The bullet pierced the daemon’s skin, but, if anything, you just pissed it off more. “Fuck, well, we’re screwed. Is it just me or are these things getting taller?”

“Not just you, Captain! Not just you!” Evangeline scrambles up from the floor, casting a spell to knock away the hoard. The blonde runs next to her Captain, shaking slightly. Instinctively, you took a defensive stance in front of her while reloading your rifle. “Where are they all coming from?” Hints of French laced her panicked tone.

“No clue, but we’re going to be here for a very long time,” you grimaced. “Take deep breaths, Eve, if you can’t handle it we’ll switch to base-tactics,” you said

“There’s just so many of them,” Eve huffs. “Almost like… like they were waiting for us to get here,” she coughs. That struck a cord, you turned to her for a moment, but hearing the monsters roar, you refocused back on the situation, doing your best to push the daemons back. Could all of this have been an elaborate trap? Who was pulling the strings? Now that you had thought about it, it would make sense for this to be a trap. All of the Guard were here, high ranking military officials, Starspire was even a village well known for their exports, getting rid of this area would disrupt many industries. But the village was also far enough for it to still be somewhat controlled. Everything happening here, surely, had to be part of some elaborate plan.

‘Take a deep breath, (Y/N),’ Alex’s words echoed in your head. You looked around the field.

‘Where the hell did you go, asshole?’

‘Calling for backup. I don’t think we’re dealing with the natural world anymore, there must be some sort of magic involved.’ Despite your efforts, you couldn’t find Alex anywhere. ‘Don’t worry, I’m still as much a part of the fray as everyone else. But if my theory is correct then I know someone who could help us.’

‘Call them in, I’ll take anyone at this point, anyone who can get rid of these monsters,’ you replied.

‘Certainly, Captain, remain vigilant.’ Then, his side went silent while you pushed forward. Two magic circles appeared under Eve’s hands as the field became encased in a bright light. Half of the daemons, that had already been hacked away at, fell at the attack, while others trudged on.

“Gah, Eve, warn us before doing that!” Carter rubs his eyes harshly.

“Ay, if it’s getting more than half of these fuckers, hell, do it again, Eve,” Nixon shouts back.

“I’m sorry!” Eve apologizes despite it.

“Are there any more coming in?” You spoke after tapping your earpiece.

“All clear in the North, Captain,” one voice says.

“None coming in from the West either.”

“The East is clear.” You looked forward.

“The South is clear,” you said. “Focus on the remaining daemons, we’ll reconvene once they’ve all been killed,” you flicked the blood off your rapier. “And someone get me an actual sword.”

“Captain,” Carter addressed you curtly while offering his own sword. Regal in all rights, Carter’s sword, much like yours, was a gift from the Royal family. As was every weapon belonging to the Brigade, granted. However, Carter’s was a marvel to look at. A silver broadsword upon first glance, but to its wielder it becomes their greatest protection. You made the trade quickly and just in time, too, for what happened next was something you would have never expected and something you would’ve never wanted to happen.

The sounds of despair and destruction had been drowned out by an all too familiar cry. Cries, when you first ran into the burning village you heard them everywhere. Men, women, and children alike were screaming for help all around you. That was hours ago. To hear shouts that weren’t from your squadron only spelt trouble. You turned your head towards the voice, and saw a sight that was some sick twist of what you’d grown up fearing. Without any care for yourself, granted you had other things to worry about, you sprinted towards the young boy with the silver of the broadsword reflecting the flames. In a delicately crafted move, you felled the already wounded beast. You held your stance, your left arm blocking the one behind you, and your right arm holding the sword parallel to the ground. Then the beast slumped to the burnt earth, making no attempt at any further attacks, but your split decision move wasn’t without consequence. The sharp pain across your front side was enough to tell you that next time you should think more carefully before doing.

“Captain!” Eve was running towards you in seconds, but her actions were a second thought to you. No, you were more concerned about the boy behind you. The boy wearing a ripped uniform, mask half hanging from his face and half tied around his head, and with slight cuts and bruises to his face and hands. True, this was the least of the wounds you’d see him have, but the knowledge that he’d been here long enough to get those was what scared you the most. Once you were certain the beast was dead, you were quick to turn, pull your gloves off, and cradle your hands around Damian’s face.

“How… How did you get here,” you huffed, wavering slightly. You moved his face around to see if there were any bad cuts, and your thumb traced under a fresh, but shallow, one under his eye.

“(Y/N)…” Damian’s eyes widened. His eyes fall to the three large gashes that stretched across your hips and abdomen. “You’re hurt…”

“We don’t have time to worry about that, how did you get here?” You repeated despite the good many number of daemons on the field. You brushed off the sparks on his shoulders and offered to help him up.

“I was looking for you,” Damian took your hand and stood up slowly, you didn’t yet know if it was from shock or if he was hurt.

“Is that the whole story?” People don’t just drop out of the sky. And to enter this universe is something that should be incredibly hard, if not impossible.

“A man in a lab coat brought me here,” his voice was shaken. You didn’t fault him for that, the young boy was just dropped in the middle of a blazing battlefield with heaps of dead bodies sprawled across the ground. It was a sensory overload with the blinding flames and the heavy stench of iron. Not to mention the fact that you were covered in blood, your own, your comrades, and the monsters’ alike. Now wasn’t the time for answers, and you’d be damned if anything happened to Damian here, so, instead you strengthened your grip around his hand.

“Do not, under any circumstances, let go of my hand,” you said firmly, holding your conjoined hands up so he could see, if he didn’t already feel it, the tight hold you had around him. Damian nods, what else could he do in this situation? With your left hand holding Damian and the right brandishing the sword you charged across the battle field. It might be better to carry him at this rate, but then you’d be more susceptible to attacks. Hard to dodge when there’s more weight on your back or on your front. This would be best, if worse comes to worse, you’re sure Damian would forgive you for throwing him to safety. But if he kept lagging behind, then there might be a problem. “Keep up!”

“I’m trying!” Damian barks. It was now you noticed the way he moved his gaze from you to the ground in rapid succession, no doubt trying to keep his steps in align with yours. “If you want to go faster then just let—”

“No, Damian, if I let go of you it would only be seconds before one of those monsters picks you up and kills you, do you understand?” You stopped only for a brief moment before taking off again, seeing one of the daemons take notice of your little brother. “Shit, they’re everywhere,” you said with grit teeth.

“Is that a kid?!” Nixon shouts. He pulls his axe from the broken ground. Damian first noticed the red stains on his white uniform before the disgust directed at him. “Lose him, Cap! He’s slowing you down! He’s going to get us all killed!” You pulled Damian along before he could shout an argument back. One, you just need one building that’s at least a little intact to stash Damian in for the time being.

“Just stay focused, Nixon!” You deflected a piece of charred wood. Damian’s hand slips for a moment and you react with a vice grip. “Don’t let go, Damian!” You shouldn't have been upset, it wasn’t his fault, it was the blood between your hands that made it all the more slippery.

“Sorry!” Damian is taken aback for a moment before regaining his senses. You looked to the woods and watches more of the monsters emerge. Luckily, if there was any in this situation, they seemed to be smaller monsters compared to the daemons. If anything, they were probably scavenger beasts, the lot of them will turn tail and run once they see the daemons, while the braver ones will venture more inward. Though you had to be realistic. A monster is a monster, and that’s an added problem on your plate.

“Oh fuck me…” You shook your head. Then a small ray of light. Sure, the roof was on the verge of caving in, but a house is a house. “Eve!” You turned back for a second to make sure the blonde was still in ear shot and when she notices you running towards the house, she opened a warp portal next to her and slipped in, immediately appearing at the front door to open it, and allowing for you to run into a building and push Damian inside. You knelt to his level, and with a stern expression, instructed him. “Do not leave this building, I’m going to have Evangeline place a protection charm up, alright? I’ll come pick you up once I resolve this mess, then you have to tell me every single thing that happened to you before you came here.” Though you spoke clearly, you knew when words go through one ear and out the other. You’d have to trust Eve to explain the situation to him, but you didn’t know if Damian would trust her.

“I can help.” That’s definitely the last thing you wanted to hear. Typical of Damian, though, he was still young, and he still thinks he can do anything, still thinks that he has to. But not here, and not now. 

“No. You can’t.” You kept your words curt enough for him to not misinterpret them. “This world is very different than our old one. You’re not in Gotham anymore. Those things out there can crush your skull in less than a second, and I don’t need anymore deaths on my mind right now, let alone the death of my little brother. Got it?”

“Yeah…” Damian looks back to your abdomen. It was still bloody but the wound was gone. “What happened to—” That might be the hardest one to explain to him.

“No questions right now. I have to get back out there before any of my teammates die. You can trust Eve, she’s a good friend of mine. Now, please, stay here.” With that, you ran out, slamming the door behind you. Not a moment later, Evangeline ran in, her white and silver uniform singed around the edges. She closes the door and places her hand on it, a magic circle appearing between the two with words of an ancient language inside of it. She waves her hand in the air and the building is surrounded in a veil of blue. She eyes the singed hole in the roof, but pays no mind to it, instead looking to Damian.

“So you must be Damian Wayne, right?” She smiles through the tired breaths. Damian nods and looks out the window. Eve seats him on the ground and hands him a thermos. “The Captain has told me so much about you. I’m Evangeline Chandler, your sister and I are good friends,” Damian suspiciously eyes the thermos, but takes it anyways.

“Yeah?” He unscrews the top, seeing some kind of soup inside of it. Eve takes the thermos from him, placing the cup in his hands and pouring the soup into it.

“Yes! I owe her a great deal. She asked me to give this to you, it’s actually Nixon’s, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sharing with you,” Eve grins. “You can trust it, Nixon is actually our resident healer. This soup should fix you right up,” she insists. “If you don’t believe me, I can drink it first,” she continues.

“That wouldn’t matter if you’d grown a tolerance to poison,” he gives her a pointed glance.

“Are you saying that the son of a vigilante and an assassin doesn’t have a well built tolerance?” She fires back.

“… touché,” he takes a tested sip of the soup, the immediate taste of a hearty vegetable broth greeting him. He could feel the warmth circle around his face, his chest, and his stomach.

“You don’t have to mind it, Nixon’s vegetarian too,” she chuckles, kneeling down next to him and dusting off her uniform.

“You know a lot about me,” was Damian’s next statement.

“That Captain tells me a lot about you,” she smiles. “Let’s see… you have a dog named Titus, your best friend’s name is Jon, for your tenth birthday you and the Captain went out to an arcade and ended up staying there for hours so you missed your celebration,” she counts the events on her hands, “oh! And how could I forget my favorite story? Whenever you had nightmares, the first place you’d go is to her—”

“I get it, woman,” Damian clears his throat and, again, Eve could only smile.

“And that is exactly how the Captain described you. She doesn’t talk about her family often, but her expression is always so kind when she does, especially when it comes to her siblings. Of course, this is only after a good number of drinks. Goodness, though, once she starts, she won’t stop, it’s a bit cute,” she rests her cheek on her hand. “I’m glad to see that you match her stories.” Damian could only look out the window as the screams got closer.

“What is going on out there?”

“There are quite a few of you correct?” Eve changes the subject and, with the wave of her hand, the voices deemed to dampen out into mumbles. “Two older brothers and two younger brothers, an older sister and two younger ones as well, if what she told me was right.”

“Yeah,” Damian caught on. She’s trying to distract him from the hell outside.

“Let’s see,” her eyes drift up in thought. “Barbara Gordon, Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, (Y/N) Wayne, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Timothy Drake, and then there’s you,” Eve says.

“That’s all of us, but recently father brought in a new one, Duke Thomas,” Damian explains.

“Ah, yes, the Captain has explained that her father loved to take in children,” Eve crosses her arms. “But, and perhaps I’m biased, I must say that his biological children are just so adorable,” Eve coddles. “Are you still hungry? I always have something on me.” As much as her efforts to divert his attention were somewhat appreciated, she’s wasting her time on him.

“What exactly is your role?” Damian presses. Eve takes a deep breath in before sighing and shaking her head.

“I should’ve known that it would be a lost cause to try to distract you, you’re very much like your sister in that regard, but I’m keen on at least trying to follow orders. Allow me to introduce myself properly then. I’m Evangeline, Evangeline Chandler, and I am from Earth-78, born and raised in Versailles, France. I’m the magic dealer of this team, you can tell because of these silver linings here, see? However, I specialize in support, which is why my uniform is white,” she claps her hands. “Ah, the Captain, your sister, is a damage dealer, she specializes in up-close combat with blade-type weapons. She truly is amazing.”

“I see… I assume this is normal for you.”

“Not in the slightest, no. Oh, well, battle yes, but not these beasts. These monsters just started coming out of nowhere, actually,” Eve scooted away from Damian slightly and, with a few waves of her hand, an image constructed of light appeared between them, “come take a look. These are the variants we’ve been fighting for quite some time,” she invites him to move the image around. The base animal was a kind of wolf, that much was certain, but the creature had mutated the ability to support itself on its hind legs whilst also gaining articulate hands. It was as if it was some gruesome mix of human and wolf, a terror of nature, and a horror of nightmares.

“What are those?” Was all Damian could say.

“In truth… We have no idea.”

~

Alex stumbled behind a building, holding his phone close to his ear.

“Come on… connect, connect…” he plead. Finally, an answer.

“Alexander.”

“Remember when I told you to come tomorrow? Scratch that. We need you now.”

“What in the blazes is going on? Why do I hear fire?”

“Get over here and I’ll still be alive to tell you.”

“You really don’t take no for an answer, alright, hold out for a few more minutes.”

“Will do. I’ll take care of the stragglers, everyone else move inward!” Alex hangs up the phone, waits until everyone was out of earshot, and pivots on his heel, both hands flying out and several magic circles appearing in the ground in front of him. “Sanguis voragine.” In the slight wave of his hands, the circles began to rotate in on themselves before ultimately converging into a larger one. Spilled puddles and splatters of blood began to move in toward the centers of the circle.

‘Alex, don’t do anything you can’t handle,’ your voice had a warning tone.

‘No need to worry, I'd been saving my stamina for this moment,’ he reassures you before walking into the middle of the vortex. 

You, meanwhile, glanced behind you at the fortified safe house. You’d instructed Eve to keep your brother busy, but you didn’t know how long he’d sit still. You’d have to wrap this up quickly now, somehow, at least.

“Okay,” you took a deep breath yourself, steadying the sword in front of you such that you were facing the blade. “Infallible guard,” a magic circle surrounded the sword and, in moments, a clear barrier surrounded you.

‘Perhaps I should’ve said that to you.’

‘See you on the other side.’ You readied your blade for what you hoped to be the final time that night, and charged forth.

~

Eve looked like she’d just seen a ghost. Eyes wide and jaw tensed.

“What’s wrong?” Damian asked quietly, a now empty thermos in his hands. Eve, wordlessly, stumbled to the window and peered outside.

“They’re using artifacts,” she mumbles, she looks back at Damian. Your orders conflicted with her morals.

“What are those? Something bad?”

“Call it a last resort. It should be fine since it’s (Y/N) and Alex but…” her scarred fingertips rose to her mouth habitually and, before she could begin to lightly bite down on them, she answered, “they take a lot of stamina to use, some that I doubt those two still have,” she mutters. She takes a seat with Damian once more.

“Then leave me here, I can fend for myself well enough,” Damian insists.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, young sir,” she replies. “Even if I wanted to, the Captain benched me,” she shakes her head. “I’m unfit for battle at this moment,” she stretches her hands out, the cuts and tears on them, fresh and weeping, were enough to tell Damian all he needed to know. “What good’s an archmage with anxiety?” She laughs pathetically. “Plus, I do enjoy talking with you,” she nudges him softly. “You must be so confused, aren’t you? Scared, maybe, but too stubborn to admit it. I don’t blame you, we all were like that before as well,” Eve clasps her hands together. “You know, I had a brother around your age as well, Felix, I haven’t seen him in so long, he’s back home where he belongs though,” she rests her cheek on her hand.

Curse his sister, it wasn’t Eve on babysitter duty, it was him also.

Damian couldn’t help but glance out the window again, the flames had begun to die down, he could tell from the way the room slowly darkened.

“Your family must be worried,” Eve tries to strike a conversation yet again.

“They don’t care.”

“Or so you think,” she shoots back. Then, when someone bangs on the door, both people stood up in guarded stances. “Being unfit for battle means nothing in war,” she sighs. She picks up her gloves from their spot on the rugged table. Despite the state of herself and her uniform, the gloves were pristine. She slips them on.

“Could be one of your teammates.” The door started to strain against its hinges.

“They would’ve been able to open the door,” a magic circle appears in her palm, “your sister told me to keep you safe at all costs, please respect her wishes.”

“If she’s really my sister then she knows I won’t,” Damian stood next to her, ready.

“She told me that you’d say that too,” the door bursts down, one of the few remaining beasts stood tall at the doorframe. “Divina vocatio,” she chants. Veils of light surround the both of them. “Have faith, Damian, that I will keep you safe,” she says. The beast roars in a way neither of them had heard before. The magic circles in either of Eve’s palms begin to rotate counter to each other as she crosses her wrists in front of her. As soon as she broke the formation, multiple circles appeared in a cross pattern over the beast’s chest, effectively pushing the beast back, but not doing much to detain it, rather, it charged despite it.

What could he do in this situation? Think, Damian. He scanned the shack for anything he could use. The image that Eve showed him, something stood out to him, but he couldn’t quite put where he’d seen it from. Then, kicked under the bed, something gleamed against the dying flames. He dove toward it, holding it up and the beast stopped. Eve chanced a glance back.

“Crucifix…” she holds her hand out and Damian tosses it toward her. “Made of silver,” she weighs it in her palm. The beast takes a step back. It could only work as a repellant, but as a weapon it was hard pressed. Damian looked around again, something made of silver, anything. The cross in Eve’s hand was a likely choice, but he’d rather not chance the karma. Surely there’d be something else?

Well, fuck it. He ran toward Eve, hand outstretched to grab the one silver item in his sight. Then, blood, lots of it. He and Eve turned to the beast, who’d been cut clean in half. Its torso slid to the ground in front of them, while its legs fell backward. Nixon stood at the door, if anyone had never seen him before, they’d think his uniform to be naturally red. Without a word, he falls back, completely passed out.

“This fool,” Eve clicks her tongue. “Help me pull him in here, would you?” She asks.

“Sure,” they both grab one leg each and pull him in, Eve slamming the door shut and placing another charm on it.

“His axe is made of silver,” she says. “And his artifact is an imperial one of strength,” she explains it well enough but Damian still stared blankly at her. “Meaning he’ll be out for a while,” she shakes her head.

~

“Where’s that help you were talking about, Alex?” You shout, stumbling backward and just barely keeping your balance.

“On his way… hopefully,” Alex bumps into you, the magic circle under him flickering weakly.

“After all the damage has been done,” Carter backs against the two of you.

“Well… the good news is that there’s one left,” you handed the sword back to Carter and held your rifle instead.

“And the bad news is that it’s the biggest one,” Carter sighs. You spot your rapier sticking out of it’s shoulder blade.

“Well… your effort is appreciated, Carter,” you nudged him and Carter stumbled further from you. “We’ll need a miracle.” The beast groaned.

“We are called the miraculous trio,” Alex takes a step back, distancing himself from the beast to ready an attack. “Let’s live up to that title,” Alex bends down slowly, tapping the blood puddle beneath him.

“You think we’ll get a raise?” Carter asks.

“Nah,” you aimed your rifle. “Dead Shot,” you said under your breath. A magic circle appeared on the daemon’s body. “There,” you pulled the trigger and Alex focused a ring of magic circles on it. “Carter!” Carter slid in front of you and launched the sword forth, the tip barreling toward the beast before the sword impaled it. The beast staggered back, but it did not fall. Instead, it looked to you, directly at you, in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

“W… W… Wayne,” the beast growled out. You held your hand up, stopping Alex from dealing the last hit. “I… know… you,” it fell forward, but still it’s gaze never wavered. “Do… know… me…?” It asked. You took a step forward.

“Hey,” Carter spoke up.

“It’s fine,” you reloaded your rifle. Soon, you were an arm’s length away from the beast. You spotted a hint of silver on it’s neck and, as if it were calling you, you pulled it out of it’s loose and tattered skin. It was an ID tag, one that every Knight received, hell, yours was around your neck right now. The name was almost entirely worn through, but you could still just barely read it.

Then… realization. You staggered back, suddenly feeling weak in every limb.

“Captain?” Carter’s voice behind you again.

“Oh my god…” You shook your head. You looked around the battlefield, corpses of knights and beasts all around, and then to the one in front of you. You fell onto your knees and you placed your hand on the beast’s head. “You served well, Major Syke,” you said the name on the ID.

“Thank you,” the beast breathed it’s last before stilling. The field was quiet, quiet except for the sound of you pulling your rapier out of the Major’s shoulder. You turned your earpiece on and waited for it to connect.

“The field is clear, report the total number of casualties and damages to me whenever you can, we will regroup in the North delta base,” you turned the comm off and turned around to Carter and Alexander. “Don’t tell anyone this,” you whispered, “but… we’ve been killing people.”

Not Your Classic Vigilante Tag List : @gabytodd @peachydokii @marshmallow12435 @f0leysgurl @luminaaz @lolsnack @akuri-shinsou @pansinspace @time-shardz @lovely-maryj @urminebutidontwantyou

If you want to be added to either tag list or removed just send me a reply to this post, and ask, or a DM and I’ll add you as soon as possible!

[eydi-andrius]

⚔ rating: mature

⚔ cw/tw: AFAB reader, no house name highborn reader, patriarchy, abuse of power, cussing, implied infidelity/cheating, violence, choking, revenge, mention of injuries, threats, tags are not exhausted

⚔ pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Highborn!Reader

summary: You and your House Dressed Up for Revenge.

⚔ a/n: This fic is highly inspired by Taylor Swift's new song "Vigilante Shit" from her new album Midnights. divider: firefly-graphics

MASTERLIST

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Epilogue

ongoing........

© adandrius —do not copy, paste, or translate my works anywhere.

[danizbunbunz]

☆ HOPES CALAMITY (1/4)

- AU AND ART BY @danizmomota -

TW/CW: Blood, Implied Cannibalism, Graphic Injuries, (in the form of writing and imagery) Basic Danganronpa stuff

Main Concept: Hopes Calamity (or AKA Remnant of Despair AU) is a "What If" universe of what if everyone had been captured and brainwashed by Junko and turned into her personal despair subjects? However, despite them being brainwashed, these remnants still have their own feelings and weaknesses. Unfortunately Junko completely ignores that and treats them like crap anyway.

Inspiration: Danganronpa 2, Goodbye Despair & Danganronpa 3, The End of Hope's Peak High School.

^^Does this AU follow the canon story?: Sort of, it follows Danganronpa's concept of Remnants of Despair, but doesn't go with canon (of D2) since it's everyone being turned into ROD'S, again it's a "What if" AU.

Characters//Remnants: (Please note these are only characters that have been drawn, so only a few are here and not EVERYBODY is on here srry srry)

☆ SUBJECT_LK (REMNANT OF DESPAIR, LEON KUWATA)

STATUS: ALIVE // STABLE // UNDER SUSPICION

"Subject is very hot-headed, yet very cooperative. He seems to enjoy jewelry, punk music, and overly decorated clothing. Reports say his Head and Wrist injury seem to be somewhat healed the fall. Although, subject has been acting suspicious with SUBJECT_YH lately.. reports have been known that they hang out, but sometimes for a little too long..."

☆ Extra Facts/Info:

Leon was escaping Hopes Peak Academy along Yasuhiro as it was collapsing around them, only for the ground to crack underneath Leon's feet and make him fall into a giant pit. Fortunately he had survived the high fall, but he unlucky to have a terrible injury to his head and wrists, and to have fallen right where Junko wanted him.

Whenever he was taken in to be subjected to Junko's experiments, she didn't care to fix Leon's injuries, and claims she rather just "let them heal on their own."

When Leon was given his bat, he didn't like how it was just a regular baseball bat, so he forged his own spiked baseball bat, kind of like a mace! (He also changed it so it's easier to bash peoples heads in)

Leon canonically (In this AU) has gotten an ear infection because he tried to make his own jewelry from metal scraps and apparently didn't clean them well.

Leon's weak spot is his goatee, it hurts like hell whenever it's pulled.

Leon was planned to be executed as a sacrifice for Yasuhiro, mainly because Junko was breathing down their necks when they had unfortunately failed a mission, and Yasuhiro had no more strikes before he's executed, and Leon decided to take that fate for him, however this sacrifice would take a massive mental toll on poor Hiro.

☆ MONO3_LK (ROD!LEON MONOKUMA)

STATUS: ONLINE

"This Monokuma is known to act a lot like their owner, just as chaotic, but has a redeeming quality of being able to carry a heavy spiked bat. (which was also its owners.) Although this Mono also seems to be... very decorated. its owner must of had fun adding all of that useless jewelry."

☆ Extra Facts/Info

One of the first few Monokuma's to be made, hence why his subject name is "MONO3_LK."

The Tongue piercing is actually its Off & On button, which is convenient, but not whenever your talking.

Sometimes Leon and his Monokuma sing like as if they are in Karaoke. (They do NOT sound good.)

☆ SUBJECT_YH (Remnant of Despair Yasuhiro Hagakure)

STATUS: ELITE // ALIVE // STABLE (?) // UNDER SUSPICION

"Subject was originally apart of Makoto's little "Hope Group." so this subject should know more about how to finally wipe hope from existence... However reports say he hangs out with SUBJECT_LK for a suspiciously long time.. Also, he himself had mentioned about having constant bleeding from the forehead. Along with reoccurring nightmares..."

☆ Extra Facts/Info:

After successfully fleeing Hope's Peak, Yasuhiro managed to hold out along with Makoto, Kirigiri, Togami, Toko and Aoi to defend what was left of "Hope." However the tables turned when they were taken off guard and Junko was able to get hands on Yasuhiro, Toko and Aoi, Hence making them the first subjects of Junkos experiments. And since they the first, the went through the worst.

Yasuhiro wears his blindfold constantly, he only rarely takes it off whenever it gets too dirty. (or drenched in blood that is...) However he risks letting the Enhancement Drug activate. And speaking of his blindfold, it's worn to conceal his dry blooded slit eyes that are a result from Junko's "Remnant Transformation process." And he only gets his eyes changed in surgery later in the story. But more off of Yasuhiro's injuries, on his forehead he has an eye carved into his forehead that was very loosely stitched back on, so whenever he is really stressed, he tends to bleed from there often.

He's normally seen hanging out with Leon, but that's only because Leon is the only person who actually treats him decently. They are pretty much best friends. Until Leon is executed, that is.. in fact, whenever Leon is deceased, Yasuhiro buries him so he didn't die in vain. (He kept a couple rings too.)

Yasuhiro was actually one of the first remnants I had designed, and a lot was taken in and out from his design. Mainly because at the time he was one of my biggest favorites and the favoritism was going so hard.. one of the few first concepts of Yasuhiro is that he wasn't actually blind (despite his eyes being slit almost in half) and that he can see with his "third eye" and or his crystal ball that he carries with him. But this was quickly scrapped since it seemed "unrealistic and pretty much impossible, so Yasuhiro relies more on sound then visuals, yet he is one of the most feared Remnants.

☆ SUBJECT_KM (REMNANT OF DESPAIR, KAITO MOMOTA)

STATUS: ALIVE // STABLE

“Subject is very energetic and out there. seems to enjoy hanging out with SUBJECT_MH, stargazing and using his trusty brass knuckles we provided him. The Robotic eye seems to be functioning properly. No malfunctions have been recorded. however, I'm thinking of replacing some limbs... Oh, and before I forget, be sure to separate KM away from SUBJECT_KO after missions, they seem to have a record of fighting each other... and almost killing each other in the process."

☆ Extra Facts/Info:

Kaito was fleeing along with Maki and Shuichi to safety, only to be caught in the crossfire of the other remnants. Kaito had been left behind, but Maki couldn't bare to lose him, so she ran back and joined him as together they sealed their fates.

It isn't really shown in the picture, but Kaito was planned to have a purple star mark/tattoo on his left eye, mainly to indicate where his "robotic" eye would be. Speaking of, Junko had basically had removed his left eye then replaced it with an eye that has a laser sights on it, that way he can see enemies from afar, and assess them, Also, Kaito was actually planned to be given a robotic arm and leg to help with movability and strength, but I had never officially made a reference for it.

^^More on his robotic eye, if his eye is damaged, the Enhancement Drug will activate.

He also wears a giant fur cape, similar to his regular jacket, he has space patterns inside the coat. it's not the "Ultimate Astronaut" without it!

SUBJECT_MH is Maki, and he loves to hang out with her because he feels superior, like a king. (She's his bodyguard, and she secretly likes doing it, but hates when he's so full of himself.) Speaking of other friends of his, He's also good friends with SUBJECT_GG, Which is Gonta! He helped Gonta to walk once he gained his insect-like legs, and Gonta has appreciated him ever since.

☆ SUBJECT_KO (Remnant of Despair, Kokichi Ouma)

Status: ALIVE // UNSTABLE

"Subject has been injected with small doses of the “Enhancement Drug.” Although it probably wasn’t a good idea…. Eh, he’ll be fine, he consented with it anyways. Subject has been reported to shake and laugh hysterically often. He also seems to love seeing objects, buildings and people explode. Oh, and SUBJECT_KM seems to hate SUBJECT_KO…. Subject_KO even tried to blow SUBJECT_KM’s head off…."

☆ Extra Facts/Info:

Whenever Kokichi was captured by Junko, he tried to lie his way though, but in his attempt of bluffing, backfired heavily. he ended up being one of the most unstable remnants there was.

Kokichi absolutely wants to see Kaito's demise, constantly helping the enemy (ex: Makoto) by giving them tips and or giving them classified information about Junko. Oh, and since he's a professional liar, sometimes even Junko can't tell if he's telling the truth or not. Not behind that clown mask, So she has trouble figuring out if he doxxed her new hideout location again.

Speaking of the mask, it's actually stuck to his face... Literally. If you try to pull it off, you better be ready for an unpleasant sight... Plus, he's already been on the Enhancement Drug for so long that keeping him from putting dynamite in your mouth.. is gonna be pretty difficult.

Kokichi doesn't really care about SUBJECT_MH, (Maki) but he finds her slight crush on SUBJECT_KM (Kaito) to be stupid. But while on the topic of "Friends," he's actually quite good buddies with SUBJECT_GG! (Gonta) They do normal friend stuff like telling jokes, blowing up buildings, doing dynamite tricks, all that good stuff! He's totally not manipulating Gonta at all... Right?

☆ SUBJECT_GG (Remnant of Despair, Gonta Gokuhara)

Status: ALIVE // RECOVERING

"Subject was...quite the challenge to contain, but now I have him all to myself... I have been wondering about something though. According to his records, he's the Ultimate Entomologist," going by that logic he must really love bugs huh? Well in case, I wanna try something new this time..."

☆ Extra Facts/Info:

Gonta had put up a good fight against Junko and her other subjects, however, he was quickly out numbered and defeated. Junko then had made sure he was contained, because she wanted to try something else with this Entomologist. she decided to conduct a series of experiments to test out if she can give someone the properties of an insect, such as limbs, wings, antae, etc. And thus, Gonta was strapped down, and given new body parts. (which technically does imply that Junko had to.. saw some things off.. ouch.)

Once given his new limbs, he could barely walk in them, And Junko didn't seem to care about him anyways, So she let him suffer on his own. That was until SUBJECT_KM (Kaito) had noticed his struggle, and decided to help out a fellow man in need. Kaito was astonished on how cool he looked, which reminded him of a king and a dragon, so Kaito decided to befriend Gonta and help him out with his new body. Ever since, Gonta has been close to Kaito. But when it comes to other people, one person he dislikes heavily is SUBJECT_KO. (Kokichi) But he can't do anything about it. Kokichi is constantly treating Gonta like nothing but an object, Hurting him with his dynamite, constantly insulting him, any sort of insult or bullying you an think of. (Which in most cases Kaito interferes and makes Kokichi stop, but worst case is Kaito is out doing a mission, and Gonta can't do anything but listen to what Kokichi says.)

Since now Gonta is like an insect, he needs certain types of food to survive, he mainly enjoys meat, but due to food being so scarce in his AU, Kaito usually has to feed him human meat. (Which by the way, Gonta HATES eating, but will eat anything to survive. Poor guy.)

...And that's all I have for now! I'll be making some more posts about this AU soon! Hope you enjoyed my endless yapping :} - Dani

[cerenemuxse]

Like Snowflakes in December

💗 December 1968

CW/TW: Swearing (like two words) and Injuries (no graphic details)

The story can be found at @eosr-by-muxse for easier access.

It’s been years since Edward last felt the sensation. He thought it wasn’t anything important. Perhaps it was this entire time.

Thank you @nightsinfoxx15 and anon for beta-reading for me!

~

One winter morning, Edward scuttled about in Wellsworth Yards. He was searching for the brake van that was usually there.

The engine questioned himself multiple times if someone had taken it, if he misplaced it, or if he simply overlooked it. No matter how many times he looked, though, it was nowhere to be found. Not even a spare could be found, and he was running late.

"Bother," he huffed. With no time to spare, Edward coupled up to his train of empty trucks and took them down to the very end of his branch line. All the way south was Brendam Docks. At the west end of the docks, going a bit up north, was a junction that led in two directions. One led engines back up north and the other led them to the Sodor China Clay Pits.

This was nothing out of the ordinary for Edward. It was his usual morning routine. Pick up any empty trucks at all the Main-Line stations and gather them in Wellsworth, ready to take the following morning. When morning arrived, he'd get a brake van and leave for the clay pits. That wasn't the case today, and it bothered him for a while—though not as much as what else was bothering him recently.

The concern was that the train of empty China clay trucks was usually very long, between twenty to thirty trucks. Today, he was pulling twenty-six. Even with the amount of experience the elderly engine had with trucks, Troublesome or not, it was still concerning. It was important to have a brake van for any sort of train, so he was taking a risk.

Though the absence of a brake van was concerning, the cannily familiar, daunting feeling he felt that had resurged within the past few weeks made that seem like nothing in comparison. Whenever it came, Edward became distracted, spacing out from the world around him. His pipes felt like they were being pulled on and thumping against one another like a heartbeat, building huge amounts of steam that he couldn't even force himself to make. Sudden waves of heat rushed to his face from his firebox.

This wasn't the first time this happened. It went away just as soon as it happened that first time, so he never said a word, brushing it off as something else.

Two months ago, that feeling came right back with full force, throwing the engine off. It was much more intense than the first time, which made him worry that something could genuinely be wrong.

When the odd feelings started, it was getting closer to the winter season, the season when he started to have problems with his parts. He knew his crew would already be on the lookout for any signs, in hopes of preventing a nasty piston accident. His mending back in 1952 had fixed it for a good while before it came back. Since then, it took much longer to happen, typically late December to early January. Ma crew already has somethin tae worry aboot, he thought, on the day he chose not to tell them as soon as possible. I can wait for it, he reasoned.

Now here he was, strolling down his branch line and barely noticing that he passed Brendam, the point where he should start paying attention and keep an eye out for the signals up ahead. There was a small junction entering Brendam Docks, which led to the loop in the area. He had to go straight ahead on the tracks heading south, not on the west tracks.

He should tell them.

No’ now thouch, he figured. Maybe later.

The trucks needed to be there on time, and he was running late already. Or at least he thought he was.

In reality, Edward was able to make up for time as he hadn't realized that he was going faster than normal. His crew had been tapping on his cab for a while, trying to get his attention, but he wouldn't respond to them.

Despite their engine's attempts to hide it, his crew was fully aware of Edward's recent odd behavior. It became more prominent when they entered December. His fireman, Alf, had assumed it had something to do with the expected chance of breaking down, but his driver, Rhett, knew it was something else. Edward had initially been weary about going out in the winter until he realized that the breakdowns would just happen inevitably, but that was years ago. The elderly blue tender engine had simply accepted it.

Tapping wasn't getting Edward's attention, so they started hollering, calling out his name. It worked, only to send them flying forward and into Edward's backhead as Edward pulled on his brakes, thinking something was wrong. The empty trucks bashed against each other and pushed towards him. Thankfully, these trucks weren't the Troublesome ones.

"Whit? Whit happenit?" Edward exclaimed. His warm brass eyes darted around, searching his surroundings.

Both men collected themselves. Rhett peeked out through Edward's cab windows. "Nothing's happened, old boy," reassured the Welsh man. "We just want to know what's going on with you."

"Yeah, you've been acting odd recently," added Alf slowly. "Is something on your mind?"

"Um…" I did say later. "I think," Edward began slowly. "I micht be havin’ some problems wit’ ma boiler."

"Think?" said Rhett as Alf peered out of the other cab window.

"Ma pipes. It feels like I'm forcin’ oot more steam than I can make."

Alf winced. He pulled away from the cab window and examined Edward's gauges and firebox. Not sure if what he was seeing was what he suspected, Alf tapped on Rhett's shoulder. Rhett looked at him swiftly as Alf pointed at their engine's gauges. Taking a glance, he noted that Edward's steam pressure was… fine. It wasn't abnormal. It hadn't been abnormal when Edward had been rushing down the line.

Edward could sense his crew looking at his gauges. "It's no' all the time. It happens oan and aff…"

"So it just happens?" asked Rhett with a concerned expression.

The old iron pondered for a moment. "Aye."

His crew looked at one another. They had two choices. The final choice was ultimately up to Edward.

"We can either go to the Steamworks or continue the day as normal," prompted Rhett. "What'll it be, old chap?"

Of course, Edward quickly responded.

"Continue the day as usual. The lads at the claypits need these trucks as soon as possible, and we've got a busy day o’ passenger and guids trains."

"Very well," said Rhett. He adjusted his hat and pulled off Edward's brakes to continue their journey to the clay pits.

…

The journey to and from the clay pits went rather smoothly. At no point did Edward's steam pressure rise to a concerning level. His driver hummed peacefully once they reached Wellsworth Junction, stopping since their signal was red. Molly swiftly passed by with her five honey-yellow coaches, the Honeypot as the train was called. The blue engine blew his whistle, greeting her. He got a response, and once she was out of the way and down the Main-Line his signal turned green. Releasing his brakes, Edward headed for Wellsworth Yards for a quick rest before the first passenger train.

Or at least he would've if he hadn't remembered something.

"Och, I've nearly forgotten!" he exclaimed. "Today's scrap collection, innit?"

"Yes, it- Whoa!"

The modified Larger Seagull suddenly jerked forward. His movement startled his crew, nearly knocking them off their feet. "I need tae get tae Tidmouth, quickly!"

Before Alf could speak, Rhett stopped him as he looked at Edward's steam pressure gauge. Once again, it was normal, though a bit higher to make up for his current speed. They were starting to doubt what Edward was supposedly experiencing, had anything to do with his boiler.

…

The first run of scrap collection, starting from Tidmouth and ending at Wellsworth, had gone rather smoothly. Much to Edward's relief, he finished a bit earlier, giving him enough time to get his snowplow fitted—having skipped it that morning—and collected his coaches.

As Edward pulled out of the yard, going east with the five branch line coaches, he quickly did a rundown of his day's work. Trucks huv been deliverit tae the clay pits and the first half o’ scrap collection is done, he thought as he lightly hummed a tune. Now all thon's left is the passenger runs up until midday, which is my break. After thon, I huv a few passenger runs, and then the train o’ China clay tae Vicarstown- Och! Maybe James will pass by this time-

"Edward, you've gone too far ahead!" exclaimed his driver.

As soon as Edward heard him, he snapped on his brakes, quickly shutting his eyes in the process. Again, his train bashed against him. Once his eyes opened, he was shocked as he found himself all the way near the level crossing, shortly before Wellsworth Junction.

"Sorry!" he quickly exclaimed, embarrassed as he backed down to the station.

Rhett patted his engine's cab. "It's alright, Edward. Just be a bit more careful."

"O' course!" Edward replied. "I will."

Once Edward reached the station, passengers quickly boarded the coaches. Rowdy schoolchildren climbed on board after saying their goodbyes to their parents. Teenagers and young adults either strayed behind to let the children on or rushed to get on board to beat the children, hoping to get a decent spot. Very few elders climbed on board, some with the assistance of the stationmaster and Edward's guard.

The elderly blue engine couldn't help but chuckle with a warm smile at the children's energy. He could feel the coaches jostle slightly as the children got rowdier. It would die down eventually, typically early on in the run, so he wasn't worried. His crew was, however, though not about the children. Rhett hadn't called out for Edward just because he was getting closer to the level crossing.

"Your steam pressure went too high there, old boy," said Rhett. "Your brakes wouldn't work either."

Immediately, Edward's warm smile faltered. "It did? I didnae feel it thon time." I wid've if I wisnae distractit, thouch, he scolded himself.

"You didn't?" That raised a bit of an alarm to the two men. "It went up fast, and the lever was stuck. You didn't feel me trying to pull it?"

"Naw, I didnae." How oot-o'-space did I go?

Rhett hummed. "We should call for another engine to take this train while we take you to the Steamworks."

Edward panicked. He didn't want to have another engine pull his train. Not at a time like this. It was the early winter, when passenger and goods services were heavy in preparation for the winter holidays, especially in the morning. Unfortunately, "like minds think alike" was the way to describe how busy it got. Traveling was typically planned for the morning so goods trains were pushed to the afternoon. This made it so that traffic wouldn't cluster up during the day, and Edward wasn't about to disrupt that.

"I can take this passenger train just fine," insisted Edward. "I took those trucks tae the clay pits wit’ naw issue."

Rhett and Alf looked at one another. Their engine wasn't wrong.

“Alright, we’ll give it another go,” Rhett relented. “But if anything is off, you need to let us know, alright?”

“Aye, Mr. Driver,” agreed Edward.

When the guard blew his whistle, Edward let out a bright whistle before departing the station.

…

The morning went by with no further issues. During the midday break, Edward’s crew checked him over. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His pistons were fine, his side rods weren't loose, and his smokebox was clean. There was no blockage in the firebox from the look of things, so Edward was fine.

When they finished the afternoon passenger runs, before heading for the China clay, everything was normal. The Victorian engine went on with the day, humming about, as the worry about the problem slowly faded from his mind.

Humming a slow-paced, upbeat tune, Edward headed down his branch-line to pick up the trucks of China clay waiting for him at the dockyard. This particular train was heading to the Mainland, but would be dropped off at Vicarstown so Murdoch would take it from there. Once he arrived, Edward was promptly coupled up, leaving as soon as he had arrived.

The early December cold air stroked against his boiler, sending waves of chills throughout his frame. The steam spewing from his pistons, cylinders, and funnel wasn’t doing much for him.

Edward was switched onto the Main-Line and headed directly towards the goods tunnel cutting through Gordon’s Hill. With grace, he picked up speed, streamed through the tunnel, and came across Rebecca, who was hauling a long goods train on the other line. They pipped a quick “Hullo!” as she passed by. Edward greeted with a different warm smile, his eyes creasing together as his snowplow completely covered his mouth. Whistling in the tunnel was forbidden, due to concerns of triggering a possible collapse. The tunnel was stable enough to withstand the racket the engines made thundering through, but not enough if they added in the shrill of their whistles.

Once the ex-SR West Country passed, Edward didn’t find anyone else in the tunnel. He came out to clear tracks right as his signal turned green. Edward pushed through the junction, switched to the track right of him, decreasing his speed, and continuing down the Main-Line.

It took a while but eventually, Kildane came into view, and so did a certain scarlet tender engine, bringing a smile to Edward’s smile. As Edward passed the station he whistled brightly, and James reciprocated. The red engine’s signal changed and he was soon off, chasing after his blue friend.

“Edward! It’s been a while!” exclaimed James once his smokebox lined up with Edward’s, his buffer beam being ahead of Edward’s.

“It certainly has!” Edward agreed. “Whit’ve ye got this time?” he questioned, noticing the stone dust amongst the snow covering the bright red medium-sized tender engine.

“The complete Shen Valley package,” James replied smugly, to which Edward laughed, before huffing. “Though I’d like to know why people want so much stone at this time of the year. It’s cold outside! How do they build in these conditions?”

“People ur truly somethin’,” hummed Edward. “But then again, they work around us.”

“Touchè,” playfully pouted James. “How’s that tank engine on your line doing? Ryan, was it?”

“Aye. He’s been such a great help since BoCo wis put oan the Main-Line.”

“At least they’re not being a bitch about him anymore.”

“James!” Edward reprimanded, knowing very well who “they” were.

“You know it’s true!”

“Still, you should never speak like thon! Please dinnae tell me Jacqueline is learnin’ any o’ this.”

James gasped, faking offense. “Now, I would never teach my own daughter such things!” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. “Though I doubt she doesn’t know a few in French.”

“Dinnae get her tae teach ye.”

“No promises~!” James sang.

Edward rolled his eyes humourously.

The two continued their conversation, jumping around from subject to subject as they chuffed down the Main-Line. At one point, James said something humorous and Edward began to laugh. Years ago, the mogul Class 28 had come to learn that the Larger Seagull’s squawking wasn’t just restricted to being frightened out of his frame.

So he pressed on.

“James, patch aht!” huffed Edward, trying to control his laughter as it got worse and worse. He saw this coming the moment he started laughing. Oh, curse James’ good humor.

“Nu-uh!” teased James. “I’ll get that squawk out of ya, Seagull.”

That broke the dam.

“Sto-op!” squawked the flustered engine, continuing to laugh.

It felt so good to laugh. The warmth boiling within him was enough to overwhelm the feeling of his piston rod cracking.

…

Once Edward and James arrived at Vicarstown they both dropped off their goods trains, which were promptly shunted away by Rosie and Dennis, preparing it for Murdoch. Both tender engines left as soon as they had arrived, heading for Tidmouth Sheds as a day’s work came to an end.

They were having a peaceful conversation and were going up Gordon’s Hill with the winter sunset approaching when James started huffing heavily.

“James?” asked Edward worryingly. He took notice of James’ chubby cheeks starting to burn.

“Shit,” hissed James. “I’m low on water.”

The blue engine steamed off the profanity, focusing on the issue. “Maron is’nae too far. Wid ye like me tae shunt ye?” he offered.

“No, no! I’ll be fine,” reassured James as Maron came into view. “I’ll stop here. You go on ahead.”

Edward felt a bit on the edge. “I can wait wit’ ye.”

“How full is your water tank then?”

“Halfway, but-”

“I insist. Besides-” James chuffed a humourous huff. “I can catch up to you just fine. I am-!”

“Yon fastest red engine oan Sodor?” hummed Edward with a teasing smile. “I ken thon all too well, James.”

“As you should!” puffed up James. “Now, you go on your merry little way, and I’ll catch up to you. D’accord?”

“O’ course,” replied Edward with a giddy chuckle as warmth rushed to his freckled cheeks. James took no notice, as Edward’s snowplow covered a good part of the warm-brass-eyed engine’s face. Both engines pulled into Maron, with James switching lines to get to the water tower. Edward bid his temporary farewell and went on his merry way down the hill.

The bubbling and boiling grew gradually but Edward didn’t think much of it. How could he? It was warm and comforting, wrapping Edward in a loving, invisible embrace. An intoxicatingly, inviting feeling that the ex-Furness Railway engine reveled in more and more.

That feeling was snatched away when his driver started smacking his cab side. “Edward, slow down!” warned the English man. “Your steam pressure’s gone up again!”

“Do you hear that?” questioned Alf. “Do either of you hear that?”

Edward focused on the noise of the world around him. He heard it, and he felt it.

Loud groans and creaking could be heard from his chassis as a soreness started to spread from his cylinders. He felt the cracks on one of the piston rods, which had grown drastically.

With a loud CRACK!, the damaged piston rod broke off. He screamed in agony as the pain shot through him. Hot steam spewed furiously from his piston and cylinders. The rod dragged on the tracks, repeatedly hitting the sleepers before breaking off. Edward ran over it before he screeched to a halt, managing to avoid further damage to his chassis. Once Edward came to a complete stop, his crew immediately jumped out of his cab to inspect the damage.

The rod lay across the tracks, posing a danger to any other oncoming engine. The crew quickly resolved to grab the rod and throw it into Edward’s tender, letting it sink into the coal. Rhett rushed to the front, finding Edward in a state of despair. Tears of hot water mixed with coal dust streamed down his cheeks, staining his face and the edge of his snowplow. His sobbing, muffled by the snowplow, was interrupted with hiccups.

Gosh, it hurts, he thought as he cried. It hurts so much.

“We’ll call for help, Edward!” Rhett exclaimed frantically. “Just hold on!"

"I think I see an engine coming!" hollered Alf as he began to frantically wave down the approaching engine. "Stop! Stop!" he chanted.

The engine screeched to a halt on the track and behind Edward's tender, in time to not bump into Edward with his snowplow.

"Edward?" the engine called out, peering over from the right of the cerulean iron horse.

The thumping of Edward's boiler tubes and the rush of warmth to his freckled cheeks returned as the recognizable Cockney Londoner accent rang bells. “James!” Edward cried out immediately, frightening his driver, who had kneeled to inspect Edward’s chassis. Despite the intolerable pain that began to haze his smokebox, Edward noticed and quickly murmured an apology. His driver gently stroked the front edge of the matte black running board to comfort the hurting engine.

"He's broken a piston!" exclaimed his fireman to James and his crew. "Could you take us to the Steamworks?"

“Of course!” replied James with haste, beating his crew to a response. Engines interacting with other engine crews weren’t common, so Edward’s fireman was thrown off. With two huffs and a whistle, he backed away. “I’ll turn around at Maron! I’ll be back, Edward! I promise!”

Typically Edward would be fine with that, but with the pain becoming unbearable and hazing his thoughts, he didn’t want him to leave. Dinnae go, dinnae go! Come back! he thought as he sobbed harder, Please come back! Tears continued to trickle down his freckled cheeks as James quickly chuffed away.

…

As promised, James returned, and quite quickly at that. Regardless, it felt like an eternity to Edward as the pain continued. When James backed down on him, his thoughts were swimming. He couldn’t concentrate on his driver’s voice, who was trying to warn Edward that James would buffer up to him. So when James did just that, Edward let out a startled squawk, and the thumping of his boiler tubes increased. It felt like a smokebox ache within his boiler.

Was it a boiler ache? He wasn’t sure. He never had one before.

“Boiler…” he murmured to his driver, who perked up from watching James buffer up his tender to Edward’s. “Boiler ache.”

This seemed to have frightened his driver. He couldn’t tell too well as his eyes felt heavy, letting his eyelids droop. “A boiler ache?”

“I think…” replied Edward.

“What do you feel?”

“Tubes ur throbbin’…” Edward let out a heavy huff of steam, startling the others. “Like a smokebox ache.”

Worry crossed his driver’s face who quickly rushed to Edward’s cab, where his fireman was. Edward could barely hear the conversation.

“...boiler ache…?”

“...was flushed…throbbing.”

“...a boiler cleanout.”

James began to haul him. It was a gentle tug of his rear coupling, yet it was enough to startle Edward. “Does it hurt more?” he heard James holler.

“Naw!” he cried out. Edward continued huffing out sobs, and let his hiccups take over.

“We’ll get there, I promise! Just hold on!”

Edward would’ve if passing out hadn’t been so enticing, letting the haziness of the pain take over.

…

“...Edward? Edward!”

“Keep it down, James!” scolded another engine.

“Well, I’m sorry for worrying!” huffed the red engine.

“Again, I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

“Victor!” whined James.

The pain was gone, replaced by light soreness. Edward furrowed his eyebrows at the noise before gently cracking his eyes open with a soft hum. It was enough to get the other two engines’ attention.

“Edward!” exclaimed James, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness!” rejoiced Victor. “You had us worried, Edward.”

“Worrit-? Och!” Edward perked up. “I-I’m sorry!”

“Sorry?” inquired James, with Victor eyeing him. “For what? Passing out? Worrying us?”

“Er- aye?” Edward replied, flustered as his freckled cheeks burned.

“Well, don’t,” huffed James. “It’s not your fault that you were in pain.”

The smaller engine hummed. He twitched his nose to wrinkle out the stiffness from wearing his snowplow, which was when he realized that it was gone. They must’ve taken it off, he thought, letting his vision wander. From the nearby windows, he noted that it was dark outside, no sunlight could be seen. “How lon’ wis I oot?”

“From when you got here, about an hour,” replied Victor. “We’ve gone in and taken off what was left from your broken piston. We don’t have any spare rods, so you’ll have to wait for the shipment to arrive.”

With a heavy huff, Edward spoke. “I should’ve jist come here in the first place,” he admitted. “I think somethin’ might be wron’ wit’ ma boiler, too.”

“Ah. About your boiler. There’s nothing wrong with it,” Victor noted. “We’ve checked multiple times while you were out, but we haven’t found anything wrong.”

“...Sae I’m fine?” Edward asked, not completely convinced.

“You’re fine,” Victor insisted, who slowly looked over at James. Edward followed his direction, confused.

“Fine, I’ll be leaving,” huffed James as he began to leave. “I just wanted to make sure he’s okay. There’s no harm in it.”

“We know, James. We know,” sighed Victor.

With another huff, James looked over to Edward. Again, a rush of warmth came over Edward’s frame. “Bye, Edward! Get well soon!” he exclaimed before letting out two cheerful whistles.

Edward couldn’t help but chuckle. “Bye, James!” he replied with a warm smile. James smiled back as he left, and Edward’s eyes followed.

Once James was gone Victor glanced over at Edward. “We need to talk about your boiler.”

“But I thoucht-”

“That was just to get James to leave,” interrupted Victor. “He’s been bothering everyone since he got here, and I don’t think that would do you any good if he stayed any longer.”

“He did whit? Why?” inquired Edward, confused.

“My friend, it's because James genuinely cares about you. He was frantic about you,” Victor replied, his words full of perplexity. “Are you two close friends? I don’t remember you both being on such healthy terms.”

“Aye, we huv. We’ve been since thon runaway incident a few years ago.”

“You mean back in nineteen-fifty-two?”

“Aye.”

“I don’t think sixteen years is ‘a few years,’ my friend.”

.

.

.

"Looks like the auld iron caught ye after all," teased Edward with a chuckle. With rope tied from one buffer to the other’s, the two engines gently strolled down the Main-Line. Edward expected James to retort back with something more teasing, an insult even, but no. James said something else.

"I'm sorry I said all those things about you, Edward," James replied. Lacking the ability to pop open his smokebox door, no thanks to his glasses, Edward couldn't see the other’s face well but with what little he could, Edward could see and hear the sincerity of his apology. "Thank you for saving me."

It took a bit for Edward to reply as he processed what James had just said. He apologized and thanked him.

That was new.

"It's alricht, James," Edward replied after a few odd seconds of silence as the pair continued down the line. "And ye're welcome."

"You were splendid, Edward."

A rush of heat flashed throughout Edward’s frame to his already-burning freckled cheeks, turning them pitch black as they journeyed to-

"Wait, where are we going?" asked James after a bit of silence.

"Och! Um-," Edward panicked. The little “old iron” wasn't used to being complimented by anyone, even from the Fat Controller. He was just an engine who did his work as told to, or when he knew it was right. So to say that James' words had flustered him would be a big understatement.

It's not that they were enemies or co-workers who hated one another. No, what happened between them was far from it. They were mostly friends. He and James had gotten along as years went by, facing a few ups and downs in their friendship, and they were able to get through just fine. He didn't expect much from the bright red medium-sized tender engine, though. Anything more than a simple "Thank you," really, which was the usual response he got that he was very content with.

But a compliment? Edward couldn't remember the last time an engine had said such a thing.

Realizing that he hadn't properly answered James, Edward shook himself, a shake light enough that it wouldn't jostle his crew around before he said anything. The rope holding them together shifted around. "Tae the next station!" he huffed out quickly. "Surely ye're low oan water."

James hummed, which only made Edward panic a little more. "My tank does feel rather light," James eventually replied. The exhaustion of going down the line without any stops could be heard in his voice.

"Then tae Kellsthorpe we go," replied Edward.

His response was soon followed by light conversation between the two, as both engines were exhausted, one running low on water and the other on the brink of falling apart. How James hadn't gotten into more trouble going down Gordon's Hill was beyond Edward's comprehension, which he expressed to the other. James expressed the same.

But then James asked, "You don't sound alright. Are you okay?"

And much to Edward's relief, they pulled into Kellsthorpe Station, or Kellsthorpe Road as the engines like to call it, where Sir Topham Hatt II was waiting for them.

.

.

.

“Sixteen?” gasped Edward. “Och my…” He gave his frame a shake. “Whit aboot ma boiler?”

“That’s the thing. It’s perfectly fine, Edward,” replied Victor, receiving a perplexed look from the warm-brass-eyed engine. “What concerns me most is what you felt. Your crew told me that you felt your tubes were throbbing and that your face was flushed.”

“Ma face wis flushit?”

“Was and still is,” indicated Victor as Kevin came over with a mirror. It was typically used when engines wished to see how they looked, either after a paint job or an accident. “Would you-?”

“Aye,” Edward interjected, growing worried. Kevin veered a quick “Hello” at Edward as he positioned the mirror next to him. Once Edward’s reflection came into view, he was a bit startled. His freckled cheeks were burning furiously and stained with streaks of dirty water. “Is ma fire still goin’?”

“No. It went out about a few minutes ago after we ran checks. Your boiler is still warm, however. I don’t mean to insinuate anything, but has this happened before?”

Edward grimaced as Kevin drove away with the mirror, being extremely cautious with it. “Um, aye, actually. When James and I were headin’ tae Kellsthrope Road, tae meet wit’ the Fat Controller oan the day o’ the runaway accident.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning it.”

“Thon’s because I never did,” the elderly blue engine admitted nervously. “It went away oan ma way here sae I figur’it wis nothin’. Thon, maybe, it wis jist the rush o chasin’ James. I huvnae had it since until this September.”

Concerns overcame Victor’s face. “Since then? When exactly did it start?”

“When…”

.

.

.

It was late into the evening, way past the time when the engines normally ended their day. For Edward, this hadn’t been the case. He had been up since last night in the late hours of the evening, delivering a goods train to the midlands on the Mainland. The yardmen there had been kind enough to let him sleep for about an hour before leaving for Sodor. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep before the journey. Hell, he had gotten more of a nap at Wellsworth Yards after having taken the Mayor of Sodor home from the dinner party at Vicarstown.

Maybe doing the special job wasn’t such a good idea.

“Och, well,” he had told himself when picking up that goods train. “Anythin’ tae help a friend.”

Especially when that friend was in need, he thought as he headed to Wellsworth Sheds.

James had been so excited to do the special after a hard day’s work, resulting in being covered in mud, coal dust, and sticky sugar from wheel to dome. His well-deserved washdown was meaningless when he found out about a tiny scratch on his paintwork. It seemed like the world was against him that day as his plan, evidently not foolproof, to dry his new paint job had failed.

He hadn’t expected James to ask him to take the special instead. Edward would’ve said something, knowing that it wasn't fair. But seeing James desperately not wanting to disappoint the Mayor and make the Fat Controller seem like a fool, he’d agreed with delight, hoping his positive energy would cheer up James for just a moment. The same way James would for him.

It worked.

He could only wonder what the next day had in store for James when he told the Fat Controller of the issue that evening. Looking back, Edward wondered if he had done the right thing. What if instead of helping James, it only made the situation worse? His nose twitched as he grew worried.

Edward came to a stop at Wellsworth Junction, just east of his home. Despite his worries, he wanted to just sleep in for a good while. The trip back home was pleasant, but without enough rest it was exhausting as well.

Rhett patted his cab when he let out a yawn. “We’re almost there, old boy. Just a bit more and then you’ll be sleeping in your shed in no time.”

“Sleep wid be nice,” hummed the Victorian with mild humor.

And that’s when he heard that splendidly bright whistle.

Edward immediately perked up. What was James doing up so-? He let out a gasp when he saw a pair of red and cream coaches streaming behind James’ tender.

“Och, ye dae look splendid taenicht, James!” he praised without another thought as the bright red medium-sized tender engine passed by him on the adjacent line with the coaches. He was surprised to see the Mayor inside the coaches, who waved at him once he saw the engine.

“Thank you, Edward!” James boasted. “I know~!”

It was a brief moment when warmth rushed to his freckled cheeks. It wasn’t acknowledged until his crew pointed it out when he settled down in his shed that night. All parties brushed it off as being caused by his exhaustion. That Edward had been pushing himself a bit more to get home and it was enough to make him exhausted.

.

.

.

After some hesitation, Edward replied, “When I came across James when he took the mayor tae Vicarstown.”

Victor eyed Edward with suspicion. “What about the other- No, answer this instead. Think about every time it has happened. Is there something in common with all those instances?”

This drove Edward deep into his thoughts as he looked ahead at the setting sun. Before now, he had it happen twice. Once when he went through his mental checklist that morning, and once again when he was traveling with James to and from Vicarstown before Edward went ahead.

When James and he were heading to Kellsthrope once the chase was over? The day he returned from the works, working better than before, and the engines blew their whistles, James being the loudest of them all? The evening he returned from the Mainland and came across James? The times he spent with James, either taking their respective goods trains to Vicarstown or pulling one together? The times he wondered if he would come across James?

James. James. James. James… “James…”

“Pardon?” inquired Victor.

“James is always there,” Edward whispered nervously, before looking over at Victor. “What diz he huv tae dae wit’ this?”

The small red narrow-gauge engine cleared his pipes. Just that was enough of an indication that Victor knew or at least—had an idea of what was going on. “I don’t want to pry, but if we want to figure this out, we’re going to need to talk about your relationship with James. I think I might know what it is, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions, my friend.”

“Och, um… O’ course.”

“How does James make you feel?” Victor bluntly asked.

The forwardness caught Edward off-guard. He fumbled with his thoughts. “Well… he makes me feel…”

How did James make him feel?

.

.

.

“I’ll turn around at Maron! I’ll be back, Edward! I promise!”

“We’ll get there, I promise! Just hold on!”

.

.

.

“...he makes me feel safe,” he began slowly. “He cares aboot me, and he shows it.”

.

.

.

“Nu-uh! I’ll get that squawk out of ya, Seagull.”

“Sto-op!” squawked the flustered engine, continuing to laugh.

.

.

.

“He makes me feel joy,” he continued as the warmth of his cheeks grew. “The minute I start laughin’, he diz whit he can tae keep it goin’.”

.

.

.

“Could you take the Mayor to the ball for me?” James sputtered out frantically. “Please?”

“Och!” Edward perked up. “I’d be happy tae, James.”

“Oh, thank you!” James sighed with a smile of relief.

.

.

.

“He makes me feel reliable. He trusts me enouch tae rely oan my help. I ken I am but its thon reassurance frae others thon helps.”

.

.

.

“Whit happenit yesterday?” Edward inquired. It was the day after he had returned to the Mainland and he had managed to come across James at Kildane. His worries and curiosity got the best of him.

But instead of answering the question, James smiled warmly. “Thank you for that.”

This slightly confused Edward. “Whit for?”

“For sticking up for me,” replied James. “I didn’t even ask you, and yet you did it anyway.”

“Och, well, he wid’ve askit, sae I thoucht I’d tell him. It wis jist the most logical thing tae dae-!”

“No one else would’ve done that for me,” interjected James, making a point. “Maybe Toad, but no one else has done it when I couldn’t be there. Thank you, Ed.”

“Och! Y-Ye’re welcome!” he quickly replied. And then that throbbing sensation in his boiler happened, and the blue engine couldn’t shake off why.

“You were always splendid.”

.

.

.

“He makes me feel appreciatit. I’m still surprisit he callit me splendid, twice even!” chuckled Edward lightly, letting the giddiness slip out.

.

.

.

Pumping his piston with excitement, the newly mended Larger Seagull engine rushed down the Main-Line in the early hours of the morning. He felt amazing, gliding down the tracks with his mended parts.

“How do you feel, old boy?” prompted Charlie as they neared Tidmouth Yards.

“I feel amazing!” chortled Edward. “I feel new!”

“That’s the spirit!”

And once Edward came into the yards, he was unexpectedly welcomed with a barrage of bright cheerful whistles. The loudest amongst them all came from the very engine he saved all those weeks ago. The one who missed his driver very much, but had missed Edward more, as Edward would come to find out a few days later.

.

.

.

“Lovit,” Edward noted. “He makes me feel lovit. Maybe thon’s why he’s ane of ma closest friends.”

Victor hummed. “Friend, or something more?” he questioned.

“Somethin’ more?” inquired Edward. “Whit dae ye mean?”

“Do you know what it is between a couple?”

The question confused Edward. “I dinnae understand…?”

“Love. You are in love with James, Edward. And not just as a ‘close friend’. The same way a human does for someone else, for the same reasons you’ve felt that way.”

His eyes widened behind his brass-framed glasses. “But he’s a close friend!” Edward insisted, as if Victor’s conclusion was a scandalous discovery. “Engines-! We-!” the Victorian sputtered, becoming a furiously flustered and burning mess, though managing to suppress his squawks. Sure, he’d seen it between the passengers. He wasn’t oblivious to it. He just never questioned it, like the others did. Brushing it aside as “a human thing.” “How dae-?”

“I may be in the workshop most of my time, but I’ve heard enough from the men to know about these things,” hummed Victor. “They tend to put up a front, but when they know each other well enough, they’ll talk about their partners to each other as if they’re the most precious things in their lives. I don’t fully understand this specific concept, but I understand it enough to see when someone is in love. You’re not the first engine to deal with this, from what I hear, I can promise you that. But you are the first engine on Sodor to do so, as far as I know.”

“Sae it's… normal?” Edward inquired with hesitation.

“You remember how people acted when they began to realize us sentient locomotives have feelings?”

Edward could remember that all too well. “I dae.”

“It’s normal,” reassured Victor. “But we, locomotives, believe it isn’t, because of what people say. I’ve learned a lot since I came here to work in this place, and that was one of the first things I learned when I got here. Other than English, of course,” Victor added humorously.

A small laugh managed to slip from Edward’s lips. “Sae I’m fine. As in, actually fine? Other than ma piston rod, thon is?”

“You’re fine, Edward. There is nothing wrong with being in love with another engine, especially when they’re someone close, from the sound of it.”

With a modest burn, Edward smiled warmly. “Thank ye, Victor.”

“You’re welcome, my friend,” replied Victor. “So will you tell him?”

“Naw!” Edward squawked suddenly. “He diz’nae ken whit love is! I cannae jist dae thon tae him!”

“But you can’t keep hiding something like this,” reprimanded Victor. “It might make it awkward for you both if you do.”

“I cannae jist drop somethin’ like this oantae him, Victor!” argued Edward frantically. “Thon’s selfish o’ me, and I cannae dae thon tae James.” Warm-brass-eyes looked away and down at his buffers. “He diz’nae deserve somethin’ sae sudden tae be droppit oan him, somethin’ thon could scare him aff. I dinnae want tae lose him because o’ ma wants…”

Victor relented. He was prying much further than he wanted and intended to. “My apologies, Edward. I’ll leave it to you. It is your decision. I didn’t mean to poke any further.”

“I-It’s fine, Victor. I’m sorry, too, for ma outburst. I ken ye mean well, but I dae need time tae process… this,” Edward emphasized.

“I think you’ll find that you will have plenty of that while you wait for your piston rods,” reminded Victor humorously.

“Touché,” replied Edward with a chuckle.

“Alright, it is getting late, and we can’t do much for your repairs until your piston rods come in, so we’re calling it a night,” noted Victor. With a double whistle and a wheesh of steam, Victor bid his farewell. “Good night, Edward. Get a good night's rest.”

“Guid nicht, Victor!” exclaimed Edward as Victor left for the shed, leaving the elder engine alone with his thoughts. He stared off into the night sky as the workmen shut the doors of the Steamworks. At least these doors had windows at the top, so he could still see through them.

His warm-brass eyes followed the snowflakes that fell, dancing in the chilly air. For once, he could agree with Thomas that snow was light, fluffy, harmful nonsense, or it was from a distance.

From what he understood, love sounded like the way snow worked. At first glance, it’s sweet and oh-so-lovely—Edward’s seen it multiple times—but when one first experiences it or even begins to question it, love becomes more than a concept. It becomes a rabbit hole of questions, ones that Edward couldn’t answer, despite his age and being known as someone to seek guidance from.

He was like a snowflake falling from the sky, wandering and not knowing what, or why. But one thing was certain, and he knew Victor was right. He kept rethinking the times he spent with James for the past few months since that day. The more he did, the less doubts there were about Victor’s conclusion. Just like a fluffy and delicate snowflake in the early days of December, Edward had fallen into a pile with many others who had gone through… this. He had fallen in love with his close friend. The thought still shocked him.

As Edward let sleep take over, he let out a soft but nervous sigh. “I’m in love wit’ James,” he whispered with a yawn. The weight of reality sunk within him as he dozed off to sleep.

…

The following morning was quiet when Edward awoke in the back of the Steamworks, where he had been left last night. He yawned as Kevin approached him.

“The Fat Controller is coming to see you, Edward!” he announced frantically. “He’ll be here shortly.”

Edward perked up from his slumped frame. “Och, thank ye, Kevin!” he pipped with gratitude.

Kevin giggled as usual before rushing off to find Victor.

About an hour passed when he heard the sound of that familiar, splendidly bright whistle shrill throughout the Steamworks. Warm-brass eyes went wide, and he became nervous. In an attempt to push it away, Edward was about to whistle back when he realized he couldn’t. He didn’t have any steam in him. How silly of me, he thought as James approached him with the Fat Controller in his cab.

Once James came to a steady halt, which the Fat Controller praised momentarily, said man climbed out from James’ cab with the help of his two assistants. Once he was on the ground, safe and sound, the Fat Controller walked up to Edward. “Good morning, Edward. How are you feeling?”

“I’m feelin’ fine, sir,” Edward replied, giving his full attention to his owner.

“No pain?” he inquired further.

“No’ anymore, sir.”

The Fat Controller let out a heavy sigh. “Thank goodness, Edward. You gave us a bit of a fright there.”

“Well, I’m alricht noo, sir,” Edward reassured before peering over at James, who was simply smiling and observing the interaction. “I never did thank ye yesterday. Thank ye for bringin’ me here, James.”

The vain iron horse puffed up with pride, but his cheeks burning didn’t go unnoticed by anyone present. “It’s the very least a splendid engine like me could do!”

Edward chuckled softly before returning his attention to the Fat Controller. “The others oan ma line ur’nae dealing with more than wit’ they can, ur they?”

It was the Fat Controller’s turn to laugh. “Oh, don’t worry about it. They’re doing just fine. Ryan’s covering your passenger duties and I’ve put Donald there to do his work while you’re gone.”

A sigh of relief left him. “Thon’s guid.”

“You just rest, old friend,” reassured the Fat Controller as he patted Edward’s left buffer. “You’ll be back in service in no time. Let’s just hope we don’t run into delays this time. We don’t need another- ahem- incident to happen again.” He emphasized as he looked over to Victor and Kevin, who had approached the three moments prior.

Both James and Edward looked at the pair in confusion as Kevin chuckled nervously and Victor laughed with a warm smile directed to his co-worker. “Let’s just say that Kevin’s learned about the snow,” suggested Victor.

“Snow really is trouble!” chirped Kevin with a shudder, convinced by the incident that took place last year.

“I would like a word with both of you,” prompted the Fat Controller. “Preferably somewhere else.”

“Oh, of course sir!” agreed Victor as he led the Fat Controller and Kevin to another area of the workshop.

That left Edward and James alone.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked James quickly before the silence established itself between the pair.

“Positive,” replied Edward. “I assume ye’ve told the others?”

“I panicked!” huffed James in defense. “It’s just odd, that you’re not there Saturdays and nothing’s said about it.”

“Ma-”

“Don’t,” interjected James. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault that your piston rod broke off yesterday. You couldn’t have known, so don’t argue with me about it.”

Edward just stared at James, starting to focus intensely on said engine, before saying anything. "Mmm… Are they doing okay?”

“Are they doing okay?” repeated the vain red engine, to which Edward shot a quizzical look. “Jeez, Edward. You’re asking about the others yet you’re the one injured,” he lightly chastised with good intention.

“Ye’ve seen how Thomas, Emily, and Percy get,” reminded Edward. “I dinnae want tae distract them frae their work.” Edward paused for a moment. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Was I scared yesterday? Yes. But I’m feeling fine now,” James insisted.

“You almost fell into the turntable this morning,” his fireman, George, whispered hastily, loud enough for both engines to hear.

“The turntable?” inquired Edward worriedly, unintentionally raising his voice.

“He didn’t need that!” hissed James before he sighed in defeat. “I… wasn’t paying attention, but I’m fine!”

“Thank goodness nothin’ happenit!”

James huffed before laughing. “Look at you. Worrying about others when you’re the one sitting in the Steamworks waiting for repairs.”

“I-!”

“It’s what makes you a great friend,” reassured James. “I’m glad we’re friends.”

If Edward’s fire had been lit, the smaller engine would’ve been burning and wheeshing about. He was about to speak when the Fat Controller’s voice boomed from the nearby. “Alright, James. Time to go!” he announced as he approached the bright red tender engine. Once he and his assistants climbed into James’ cab, James reversed. “Let’s hope that piston rod comes in sooner rather than later, Edward. Good day!”

“G-Guid-bye, sir!” Edward managed to squeak out. “Guid-bye, James!”

“Goodbye, Edward! See you around!” James hollered as he left the Steamworks.

Edward stared off into the distance, once again watching the larger scarlet engine rush away before disappearing from his view. It was then he took notice of his shakiness. It wasn’t noticeable from what he could tell as nobody had said anything. Why am I shaking? he pondered before his brow furrowed, eyes following in the direction his close friend had gone. It can’t be because of James just being here, is it? Maybe I’m just nervous, but whatever for?

His mind tried pushing away the thought that it was James’ presence setting it off, but it came right back. It worsened his state of mind as he began to worry about how he might act the next time he came across the splendid red engine.

What if James notices and it makes him uncomfortable? To the point where he may not want to be around anymore?

With a deep breath, Edward let out a sigh, recollecting his thoughts before he went off the deep end. I have plenty of time to think things through, just like Victor said, he thought. I have time.

~

ka-chow

Ok, my bs aside! Literally smiling so fucking big rn. Mentally squealing, giggling, and kicking my fic. God, I love these mfs so much. AUGH-!

Edward's piston popping was inspired by the episode "Surprise, Surprise!" so go put the blame of Edward's pain on that thing. Sad that this screenshot is the only decent shot we get of these two in snowploughs :(

Had a sudden spur of ideas for this fic so I sat myself down and JUST WROTE. Went back and edited once my mind calmed down as i had my beta readers go over it. again, ty you both.

If it's the cheesiest shit you've ever read, then i've won. /j

Gonna be honest for a few seconds. I kept cringing as I wrote this, and not for a bad reason. This is my first fic dealing with the "catching feelings" trope. I've written fics (99% of which were never published) dealing with romance before but it only explored the "after getting together" period. Even then, it was very little of what i wrote.

Hope you enjoyed this fic! Thank you so much for reading. Comments, reblogs, and kudos are appreciated. 💙

[hellotherekenobi]

Crystal Clear.

Summary: Obi-Wan has always looked after you and has always shown you that he cares. When the peaceful life you live is threatened, he shows you how deeply his affections lie.

Word Count: 3,670

Dedicated to @immoral-rose ♥

CW/TW: mentions of battle (explosions), injury, & anxiety; crying; a brief sentence about self-injury but it’s not graphic; gn!reader though the term “handmaiden” is used.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Knowing Obi-Wan Kenobi is no easy task.

Everywhere he goes, danger follows. He’s like a magnet to it. Sometimes, you even think he rather enjoys the danger. Not that he would ever admit to it, but it’s true regarding his history.

As for you, the moment you see danger you run. A true flight instinct, rather than fight. Maybe if you had that kind of passion you would be alongside the Jedi, or an ally in some fashion, but truly you just want to live a peaceful life. If any sort of danger is on the horizon, you’re heading in the opposite direction.

Some might consider that cowardly but that’s not it at all. The main reason why you even know Obi-Wan to begin with is because you offered him assistance when there was an attack on the palace you work in, helping to navigate him through the worker’s corridors.

Being a handmaiden came with a lot of perks. One of which just so happens to be that whenever the lady of the house needs Jedi assistance, Obi-Wan is the Jedi who always comes.

Truly, it’s ridiculous how quickly you grew an attachment to him. The first time you met, he had dropped down from the balcony above the one you were standing on and startled you half to death. He had abashedly apologized, though he was chuckling.

That was it. That was all it took for you to fall head over heels for him. One giddy apology matched with his sunkissed smile. Then you were absolutely doomed.

How typical it is that after years of not finding an interest in anyone, the person you happen to fall for is someone who can’t reciprocate those feelings. Jedi aren’t allowed to have attachments and even if they could, you fear he’d want a fighter on his side instead.

Sure, he is ever the gentleman when you two speak to each other. He holds the door for you, he walks on the outer side of the footpath, and he kisses your knuckles with each hello and goodbye. But that’s simply because he has such a pure heart. There can’t be any other motivator under the surface of it all.

When you don’t have much on your list of things to do around the palace—the lady of the house being a very hospitable countess—then you walk around the gardens, and when Obi-Wan has to await further instruction, he joins you.

The conversation ranges amidst many different things. Sometimes it’s regarding your favorite books or poetry. Other times it’s about all of his exciting adventures, remarking on how great so many cultures are in the galaxy.

Obi-Wan is a gentleman, but he’s also a tease.

You had once told him, “I have often wanted to see those other planets, just as you have.”

And he smiled, outshining the sun, and replied, “I’ll take you with me one day.”

There isn’t a way he can keep that promise, you’re sure of it, so you had simply laughed and asked him to tell you another story.

Days like those are your favorites. Especially when you’re feeling more spirited than most, walking along the stone railing with Obi-Wan on the grass beside you, his hand holding yours so that you don’t tip over and fall.

Honestly, you sometimes only go up here just so that you can hold his hand. His skin is soft but with calloused fingertips, and it’s a comforting feeling.

It’s no surprise, then, that you’re walking along the railing again today, hand happily in his hold.

“I think it’s the quiet that I’m fond of,” Obi-Wan speaks, walking at the pace you’re setting. “To be among the mountains. That’s where I want to be.”

You offer him a smile, looking down at him. “That sounds lovely.”

He squeezes your hand, making dragonflies run circles in your stomach. “Your turn now. One place in the whole galaxy, where do you want to go?”

Pursing your lips, you delay your response with a hum. You already know what the answer is but you’ll do anything in your power to stretch out any moment with him for as long as possible.

“The beach,” you say and simply that.

Obi-Wan raises his chin. “That’s all?”

You nod. “That’s all. I’ve never been.”

He stops walking, causing your hand to tug at his when you don’t stop as quickly as he does. Looking down at him, you frown some.

“What’s the matter?” You ask.

His voice is sympathetic, though there’s a very faint grin at his lips. “You’ve never been to the beach?”

“Not once,”

“Well,” he straightens his posture, walking alongside you again. “I’ll have to take you there one day.”

Another promise you’re sure he won’t hold true to. It’s fun, when you’re young especially, to make promises of days you want to spend with someone else, but those plans usually fade away eventually.

Besides, there’s a war going on and Obi-Wan is a Jedi amongst the battle. You doubt you’ll ever watch the waves roll in, let alone with him by your side.

“I’d like that,” you mutter, knowing that your words hold as little weight to them as does his.

When you reach the end of the railing, you turn halfway and Obi-Wan keeps a tight hold of your hand as you lower yourself to sit on top of it, then he pushes himself up to sit beside you.

“Can you swim?” You ask him, swinging your legs.

He nods, scrunching up his face some. The look is clearly displeasing and you can’t help but to chuckle.

“You don’t like the water?” You press, leaning your arm against his.

He sighs. “I’m not too fond of it. Not as much as flying, though.”

“Oh, so flying is worse?”

“Flying is much worse,” he states, a finger pointed. “That’s for droids.”

“Hmm, I’ll keep that in mind.”

A gentle breeze enters the conversation, which is lovely given the temperature. Speaking with Obi-Wan in moments like these feel so special but more than that, they feel comfortable. Around him, you don’t feel the need to act a certain way. You can just be yourself.

Pushing against his arm again, this time in a playful way, you say, “Maybe the beach is out of the question then since you don’t like to swim.”

“Well,” he leans close to you as if he were speaking for no one else to hear, “just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I won’t.”

“By why would you?”

Obi-Wan’s brows furrow marginally, looking at you with an expression caught between confusion and sincerity.

“Because you’ll be there.”

Smiling at him softly, you feel a bit bashful by his genuine reply, shaking your head so that he can’t tell how easily you’re swooned by that affirmation alone.

“You’re quite the charmer, Obi-Wan.”

He grins, showing his canines. “It comes naturally with you.”

You think he’s just being a tease now, so you turn his face away from you with a palm against his cheek, and he chuckles heartily as you push off of the railing and tell him that you both should get back to your responsibilities.

Weeks after that, he hardly visits the palace as battles grow tense against the Republic. The handmaidens alongside you work in earnest for the countess’ benefit and also in preparation should an attack happened here.

If you were crossing your fingers behind your back, you would blame yourself for when battle droids stampede the grounds.

The invasion is unlike any you’ve seen and you hurry to hide away as many people as you can through the worker’s corridors, which leads out to a bunker. There is also an escape route from there but until the threat outside is neutralized, there’s no way anyone can make it out without detection.

You’re not sure what possesses you to remain in the thick of it instead of doing your usual reaction by fleeing, but you’re more focused on the safety of others by doing all that you can.

Maybe Obi-Wan’s ways are rubbing off on you. Though, regarding your secluded history, you’re not sure if that’s a good thing.

So, you keep posted by the entrance to the corridors, waving in more people who run down the hallway and lead them inside, telling them to wait with the others.

One person grabs hold of your sleeve, almost tearing the material right off of your shoulder.

“My brother,” they plead. “He’s only young. We were separated.”

“He’ll find his way,” you say, urging them to keep moving.

“Please, he can’t be on his own!”

Neither can you. This is not the kind of person you are, the type that runs into danger even if it were for a noble cause. It scares you down to your bones to think about leaving your partially safe spot by the doorway, but their wailing pushes at your sensibility.

“Alright,” you cave in. “Hide with the others. I’ll find him.”

The distant explosions around the palace are no match for how deafening your heartbeat rings in your eyes, and you feel it against your chest, at your temples, and at your wrists pulsing with an overwhelming amount that takes your feet down the hallway instead of your mind.

There are endless possibilities on where this boy could be. For all you know, he might be right where all the battle droids are. If you go to him then, you’ll just endanger him more with yourself included.

But you can’t leave him behind. Maker knows he must be feeling worse than you, especially for a young one.

Getting closer to the noise makes you less sure of everything, though. Two times already you have had to flatten yourself to the wall when a battle droid runs past, in an effect to hide from them. Every single thing that moves has you on edge, even when your mind tricks you into seeing things that aren’t there.

Yet, as you expected, you find the boy so close to the battle at hand that he may as well be in the thick of it. He’s crouched behind a crumbled half wall near the assembly hall, a fleet of battle droids ahead of him. Between you and them is a long hallway, an opening on your left and right.

Peeking around each corner, you make certain that when you gain the courage to move from your spot, you won’t collide with a battle droid or their line of fire.

It seems they’re too focused on their attack to notice him, or you, so with an insane amount of luck, you run across the opening and kneel by his side, trying to keep hidden from the flimsy cover that there is for the two of you.

“I’m here,” you tell the boy. “Come with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

He’s been crying, his fist still balled up at his cheek as the tears stream down his face. Whimpering, he holds his arms out to you and you lift him in your hold, carrying him at your side, and dash back the way you came after assuring the coast is clear.

Unfortunately, when you’re about to turn the corner, you’re met with a large group of battle droids who weren’t there before. Gasping, you manage to duck behind the wall before they can notice you and set the child on the floor, kneeling beside him.

“We need to wait here a moment. Don’t make a sound—”

Your voice is buried beneath another explosion, nearer this time as it happens right behind the wall. The strength of it shakes the ground and you wrap the boy in your arms to shield him from the smoke and rubble, hoping that the ceiling won’t collapse.

There’s gunfire and flashes of red and blue as the sounds of the droids grow nearer, and you wonder if there’s any time to run away, though you know you won’t make it halfway down the hallway before you’re shot at.

A shadow grows near and you cover the boy more, hoping to at least protect him, until a hand grabs your shoulder and you shriek, turning to meet your attacker face to face.

But it’s a face you know too well and are relieved at seeing him standing there.

“Obi-Wan!” You reach a hand to hold onto his robes and he lowers to his knee, watching you with worrisome eyes.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, bringing the hand on your shoulder up to your cheek.

You shake your head. “No, no. But the boy,” you move an inch to show Obi-Wan the child behind you. “We need to get him to the bunker.”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan affirms. “Keep to my side.”

There’s no place you’d rather be right now, nodding as you follow him closely with the boy holding your hand. You’re relieved to see that he’s stopped crying. In fact, he’s quite transfixed with the Jedi leading you both down the hallway.

Obi-Wan is more strategical than you, so he keeps you all seemingly invisible to the battle droids you maneuver around, and you feel more at ease now that he’s here.

The drive you had to protect the boy is now kept under a blanket and you grow restless to get to the bunker since you’ve gone through enough excitement for one day. Once is more than enough to try and be brave. You just want to hide again.

As you all approach the door to the worker’s corridor, Obi-Wan lets you and the boy step ahead of him. You pat the boy’s back and urge him to follow the path until he reaches the bunker entrance and as he begins to run, Obi-Wan’s hand comes to rest on your back.

“Lock the door behind you,” he says, still attentive to the noise happening around the palace.

“Aren’t you coming too?” You ask.

“No, there’s still more fighting to be done.”

“Don’t fight, Obi-Wan. Come with us.”

He smiles weakly, caressing your cheek with his soft but calloused hand. “I want nothing more, but I want to protect you first.”

“But—”

You don’t get to finish your sentence as another explosion sets off, this time within the hallway you’re standing in. The distance of it not only rattles the ground but shakes you as well, and Obi-Wan is diving forward, his arms wrapping around you, to push you both behind the corner and away from the blast.

It’s a powerful explosion that takes down the support beams, effectively taking down part of the ceiling, too. The structure crumbles at the corner, creating a mountain of debris that blocks the way and so there’s no going back now.

With the push, you’re sent down to the ground with Obi-Wan above you, his body shielding you from the damage.

When at last the smoke clears, he’s helping you to sit up against the wall, his hands on either side of your face, brushing away soot and dust.

“Are you okay?” He asks, looking you over from head to toe.

Coughing, you shake your head at him, feeling the anxieties of being in danger rise like hot liquid from the pit of your stomach all the way to your throat, and you begin to cry.

“No, I’m not okay— I’m fine but I’m not okay,”

“Hey,” he coos, tilting your head enough to look him in the eyes. “There, there, my dove. I promise you I’ll get you out of here.”

“I’m scared, Obi-Wan,”

“I am too,” he brings one hand down to yours, squeezing it tightly. “But I’m a man of my word. I will protect you.”

Deep down, right through all the worry, you know that he’ll keep you safe. If not by all the heroic acts you’ve heard about and now seen for yourself, then for all the times he’s been kind to you. All the laughter, the touches, and the quiet moments just for you both. You trust him with your life and you know he’ll take care of you.

On the outside, though, you’re shaking. The explosion has startled you so much, seeing as it was so close, and the knowledge of if Obi-Wan hadn’t pushed you when he did, you might have been crushed under the rubble.

Thoughts speak louder than words but in this case your actions are screaming; trembling with your back to the wall and tears still streaming down your cheeks.

Obi-Wan’s hand at your cheek brushes featherlike circles there, effectively wiping your tears. He whispers your name, grounds you with more surety, then leans forward and presses his lips to yours.

The gasp gets stuck in your throat but you immediately still, eyes wide as he kisses you with gentle, potent lips. He whispers to you again, this time through the Force, and you hear him; my dove. Oh, my dove. I love you.

By those words alone, all the tension dissolves. Reaching a hand out to clutch hold of his tunic, you whimper against his kiss, closing your eyes and allowing his lips to soothe your fears.

With his affections, your shaking stops. He’s auspiciously sedated all the nerves you felt, making your senses crystal clear when he leads you through the storm. He keeps you far from the danger, navigating around droids, damage, and conflict.

At last, meeting the others on the outskirts when it’s clear enough for them to travel the escape route, Obi-Wan carefully helps you aboard the ship with everyone inside.

The ship itself is compatible for water, hovering there for now until the top of it will close and sail under to get away from here. Obi-Wan stands on the bay, one boot in the water, with his hand in yours as he makes sure you climb aboard securely.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, offering a smile that eases your concern. “I’ll see you again.”

When the ship doors shut and it dips beneath the water, you wonder if you truly will see him after this. With the battle, it will take months before you and the others can safely return, especially the countess. Living secluded will need to be your new way of life.

That’s exactly what it becomes. In fact, you’re away from home—or what you call it, seeing as growing up there is the earliest memory you have—for a year.

To assure the safety of the people and the countess, you travel from port to port and remain with various folk for intermittent times. You try your best to hear reports about the war and of the Jedi, hoping that you’ll hear news of the man whom you love. And who loves you.

Knowing that he does only makes the time away torturous, not truly sure if you’ll see him again like he promised, though you trust him completely. Whether the uncertainty is there because of your safety or his, or if time and events will allow it.

By the time a year is up and news reaches you that it’s safe to return, the palace is hardly such a thing at all. The grounds, the gardens, the structures, and the homes are all in ruins. It takes months to repair all the damage and by the time you feel yourself back to routine, it’s nowhere near complete.

Walking the gardens is the only comfort you get in such distressing times. The war is still ongoing and you know that at any point, you all may need to flee again. But in this place, your swirling thoughts cease. You simply exist freely amongst the flowers, swaddled by memories of walking along the stone railing with your sweet Jedi.

There’s no hand to hold yours as you walk the railing, your shoes scraping the stone as you take each step. In a silly way, you’re not entirely upset about the fact if you fall. After being away for so long, it may be the only time you feel again.

Yet, when you slip, you feel your heart sink at the expectation of hitting the grass, only for a hand to slide into yours, fingers interlinked tightly, and a shoulder pressing on your arm to prevent you from tipping over.

When you look down to see who caught you, all the breath leaves your lungs. It’s him. Your Jedi, your love. Your Obi-Wan.

You say his name excitedly, watching his lips upturn into that bright grin he’d show you on sunny afternoons, and throw away his effort in supporting you as you leap off the railing right into his arms.

He catches you like he always does, holding you securely to him as he buries his face in your neck, pressing featherlike kisses to the skin and whispering your name over and over again.

“I promised you, didn’t I, my dove?” He speaks. “I would take you to the beach.”

A relieving and altogether elated chuckle bubbles from your lips, leaning back a fraction to look into those lovely cerulean eyes of his.

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” you say, smiling brightly. “I love you.”

He smiles in return, brushing a hand along your cheek. “And I love you.”

Your heart swelters, feeling full of life again. Any adversity ahead of you now is small in comparison to the assurance of Obi-Wan’s love.

A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead and then your cheek. He ghosts a kiss on the tip of your nose, hovering his lips above yours before raising the hand he holds into the space, kissing your knuckles.

As soon as your hand moves away, Obi-Wan leans into you completely, kissing you deeply. He’s gentle and amorous, guided by an affection truthful to the words he assured you now so long ago. With fingers intertwined, he pours his devotions between incandescent kisses.

In between the marble pillars of the palace, deep within the gardens filled with heart and soul and ghosts of the lives lived before now, Obi-Wan kisses you with a crystal clear love that glimmers for time indefinite.

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