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intangibly-here · 3 years

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if I'm let go now (i’ll just fade to blue)

xiao x gn!reader

⁃ scenario; 1.7k words ⁃ forest child!reader ⁃ angst ⁃ hurt no comfort

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he holds your heart (warm red, steadily beating) in his palms without even knowing.

title from chevy - floating.

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your first memory is one of a forest.

the emerald green canopy of draping leaves, the mossy trails dotted with mushrooms. the singing of birds, small sparrows and rounded bluejays, filling the skies. the dry bark pressed against your back, but a small form nestled in the hollow of a tree stump.

you are a child of the forest.

and as a child of the forest, one without origin, one without mortal ties, one that only knows itself and it’s own longing - you know deep inside your soul there is only one thing you’re looking for.

what that thing is, you’re unsure of;

nonetheless,

you must look for it.

and so you pick yourself up and travel.

distantly, you know you’ve lived these lives over and over again.

the very first one was as a sand-built traveler of the desert, born encircled by a patch of cacti. in that life, you had searched for an oasis, a single child by your side.

the child spoke of a land where plumes of magic spiraled through the lands, where islands remained suspended in time, hovering over grounds unchanging.

you smiled and patted the child on the head.

upon arriving at the oasis and returning the child to their family, you felt a tug. the tug was not one of great strength and painful efforts, but one of a gravitational force that exceeded physical abilities of all kinds.

you followed it, retracing your steps back to the ring of cacti.

where everything begins, everything similarly ends.

you crumble and dissolve into golden pools of sand.

of the endless trail of lives you’ve lived, most have become inescapably forgotten, merged into a blur that made them indistinguishable from one another.

the most memorable would be the one you’d lived last, as a wisp of a spirit clinging to the shoulder of an ethereal woman.

though in the midst of war, she remained a gentle, kind, innovative soul, always seeking to change for the better.

she was stunning.

and as you watched her live her life out, eventually (inevitably) returning once more to the field of glaze lilies, lain on the flowering plants to drift away, you wondered.

wondered how immortal beings could care so much about loss, when endings were only the relieving path of entering the cycle of reincarnation. the path to wipe clean the slate of life and start anew.

staring at the regal man kneeling by the goddess’ side, silent tears running down his face, you disappear with the wind.

as you travel, you slowly realize the world you’ve manifested in is not one of roaring vehicles nor bustling machinery like several before, but of the last one you’d visited, the one of the goddess and the heartbroken man.

you make your way back to the same land, where once stood a ruined fortress now stands a flourishing city. you can see how stalls line the sidewalks, even from where you stand on the cliffs of the outskirts, paved pathing making for a guide towards the entrance of the harbor.

as you’re thinking about how far this city has grown since you last walked the land, you catch sight of a quick-footed figure, alert and patrolling the vast land that is liyue.

this is who you’ve been looking for.

at first, it was just an obligatory interest. one that is duty-bound, directed by a play-writer hidden behind the boundaries of the world and tied together by the strings of fate.

then, as the weeks, months, and then years go by, you find yourself watching the little things he does, inadvertently noticing things you wouldn’t have realized without paying even closer attention.

the way that he protects the city both day and night, even when there are hundreds of other adventurers like yourself (a side job you’d picked up where you’d complete commissions whenever you were free) to do that.

the way he lets his short hair flow loose and untamed, the mark on his forehead only drawing out the elegance he exudes.

the way he’s quiet, caring even in the silence when he still suffers. the hope that you can ease his pain, even if only for a moment, with a comfortable silence.

it all makes your mind spiral out of control, your emotions coming undone from the container you had them sealed in.

you wonder what it is.

(you might have an inkling of the answer already.)

“today’s your birthday?”

you turn around, brightening slightly at the sight of the adeptus. you could get lost in the mirrors of his eyes if he would let you.

maybe he would let you.

“..something like that.”

you’d only revealed it last year when mrs. goldet had asked. it’s been a few years since you’ve made your way to this inn when you think about it.

he shifts where he stands for a moment, maybe a little nervously, and then presents you with a neatly wrapped gift box. he must’ve taken time with it.

“may i open it?”

he gives you a brief, confirming nod of his head.

when you undo the ribbon and carefully open the lid of the small box, you come to see a finely weaved butterfly of leaves.

you lift your gaze from the tiny creation, and xiao immediately looks to the side.

“take it. it’s an adepti amulet- staves off evil.”

you look at the reddened tips of his ears and the defensive scowl on his face and file it into the archive of your memories.

“thank you, xiao.”

“please hand this to xiao.”

you look at the packet the geo archon (zhongli, you learn he’s called) presses into your palms with utmost sincerity.

“it’s... to relieve his pain.”

your eyes soften unconsciously, and you dip your head in silent agreement. now, to look for him.

ah, so this is where he was.

your heart aches, the feeling of an overwhelming, all-consuming urge to cry rising up in you.

the wind picks up, tree leaves swaying in the breeze, following the movements of the two figures residing in the hollow of the forest.

a safe place for just the two of them.

you are intruding.

the longer you stand, watching, staring, unable to look away no matter how desperately you wish to, the more your chest throbs, the bone-deep ache of wanting to disappear spreading throughout your body.

the sound of a flute, clear and sweet, floats through the air, slim fingers smoothing over the sides and playing with skill you could never imitate.

the figure you’ve been looking for, upright and powerful and all that you have ever seen (all that he has ever allowed you to see), is relaxed for once. you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, the way his spear is left untouched, rested upright against the trunk of a tree at the edges of the clearing.

you do not belong here.

then, to the sound of the flute, xiao begins to dance. the field of flowers blooms with his gentle, languid movements, petals surrounding him as he flows around the serene space.

it is exactly as he’d described to you once before, that his sweet dream would be to dance in a field of flowers to the sound of a flute.

his dream has become a beautiful reality.

you cannot dream that it would be you he dances with anymore.

as he spins around, a stunning dance that displays his years of experience with agile movement, he turns, takes off his mask, and smiles, the genuine kind that is both awkward due to disuse and tooth-rottingly sweet at the same time. a full blush covers his face warmly.

you should’ve realized long ago whose flute he was imagining.

you blink once, twice, and the tears start to fall, ones you never thought you would cry.

if you could, you would offer your entire being up to him, your heart, these thoughts, these new feelings, on a platter for him to keep, stored away from where anyone could ever reach them. it is not theirs’ to see, only his. it would never be anyone else’s, only his.

(he does not need them, not your heart, nor the medicine.)

the pain in your chest doubles over.

(he does not want them - except it’s only your heart he does not want.)

you understand now what morax had understood hundreds of years ago, where you as an immortal spirit did not.

(he does not want you.)

your gaze tilts upwards from where you stand in the shadows of the greenery, watching the picturesque scene in front of you unfold.

you are a child of the forest, but for once, this forest is not for you.

the moment you walk back to the inn, you feel the otherworldly tug.

how convenient.

(oh. you love him.)

it’s to be expected. your time here is up.

you smile at the owner, and maybe she sees something in your eyes because when you hand her the packet (“give this to xiao when he returns, please.”), she nods and says nothing.

(love, love.)

and so you return to your forest, steady footsteps over hills and plains and lakes and rivers. the blue of the sky melts to orange-reds, then to navy-blacks, then back to orange-reds once more, and the cycle repeats over and over and over again.

(lovelovelovelove-)

the moss greets you first, shifting under your feet in semblance of the way his eyes would whenever you met his gaze.

then, it’s the birds, singing slow melodies you know he loves, their clear song a reminder of how he would hum familiar tunes.

finally, it’s the trees, their leaves falling and submerging you softly, like how you would to him with blankets when he fell asleep out on the balcony, tired from the weariness of an immortal life.

you too, are now tired.

for one last time, you sob your heart out, sitting on the forest floor with nothing around you but the animals and plants.

what do you cry for? the birth of these painful feelings? the lack of reciprocation?

(you’re unsure.)

(maybe it is for your unimportant existence.)

you blink your eyes closed for the final time, and your body falls to the ground with a thump.

the butterfly of leaves drifts out of your clutches and fades with a desolate glow.

where everything begins, everything similarly ends.

(may you stay asleep for eternity so you don’t have to remember.)

you disappear.

#angst #hurt no comfort #xiao #genshin impact #cecilia #xiao x gn!reader

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years

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Rain is a Chance to be Touched Ch.1

this arid world has turned my deep heart dry

This is the first chapter in my new ongoing hotchreid fic! Please click here for the fic summary, full tags, trigger warnings, more information etc.

Chapter Summary: follows S5E1 and Spencer's depression and disordered thinking is introduced.

TW: depression, disordered thinking, loneliness, the events of s5e1 (guns and knives)

Word Count: 3.4k

RCT Masterlist // Main Masterlist // Read on AO3

SPENCER

"She simply said this arid world has turned her deep heart dry, there was just one way she knew of to finally feel like she was free, and it was 1400 feet beneath the cold and stormy sea." — Erin Hanson

Spencer’s entire body feels heavy as he drags himself into work, and it’s not exactly a good sign when he can’t even find the energy to press the button for the right floor; he just stares pitifully at the array of numbers as if the elevator will read his mind and resolve the issue for him. Eventually, he brings himself to move his finger the short distance, cold metal colliding with cold flesh, and the doors shudder close, catapulting him up several storeys towards his fate.

Some might call the emotions Spencer’s experience typical burnout, far too common in the FBI and even more so in units that deal directly with horrific crime on the regular, but he knows it’s more than that. His entire life is operating in a minor key, he’s functioning entirely on auto-pilot, and chunks of his day are a blur, almost impossible to recall. He knows he’s depressed. Knowing such a fact, however, does little to cure the actual problem. He has no idea what to do with information like this except bottle it up and shove it as far down as possible while pretending as much as possible that absolutely everything is fine.

Emily and Derek are laughing about something as he approaches their group of desks. Only weeks ago he would’ve been crushed when they don’t so much as look over to say hello, but now he’s glad to not have to fake a smile, invent a story to tell about his weekend, pretend he’s not currently being held together with slowly peeling sellotape.

Instead, he focuses on feeling grateful that no one’s commented on him arriving a whole hour later than he used to as he unpacks his messenger bag. It’s not like it’s his fault he can’t pull his exhausted body out of bed in the morning, but since he’d rather not disclose such sorry information and finding an excuse is way too much effort, spending the morning in solitude seems the only option.

He doesn’t really understand how he’s gone from being a genuinely happy person, thick as thieves with everybody on the team, to this. It’s almost as though somebody’s cut the rope tying him to the others and now he’s drifting away, sinking without everyone else’s buoyancy to keep him afloat. He can see them all still tied together, barely seeming to notice their drowning team member, clearly not missing his presence.

This misery over his inevitable isolation, though, is his own fault: he can’t believe he let himself forget his place. He’s useful, good to keep around for his intelligence, his reading speed, his problem-solving skills, but it doesn’t go beyond that. Spencer is not friendship material. And he certainly isn’t relationship material.

The day starts off slow, everyone burying themselves in their paperwork, but Spencer finishes it far too quickly for it to really serve as much of a distraction. Depressingly, it’s still miles slower than he’s used to. Since his pile of consults seems too exhausting to even look at, he decides another coffee is very much in order.

“Hey, Spence,” JJ says happily as soon as he pushes his way into the breakroom. She’s leaning casually against the counter as she drinks her coffee, reading through what looks like case notes at the same time.

“Hi,” he says, trying for a smile but he knows there’s no way he could possibly match her relaxed grin. Instead of trying to converse, he just heads straight for the coffee machine, fixing his eyes on the steady stream of coffee pouring into his mug already piled high with sugar.

“You alright?” JJ asks, sounding a little suspicious. Not concerned, Spencer notes, just suspicious.

“Hmm?” He looks up and catches her eye before deciding he should probably answer verbally. “Yeah, yeah I’m good.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been acting a bit off the past few weeks.”

Spencer sighs. Maybe this is an opportunity to actually communicate his feelings. He doubts JJ will be able to help but really he’d just like a bit of comfort: he’s in so much pain that a hug would feel really nice right now. And besides Penelope, she’s probably the team member he’s most comfortable with. If he’s going to share with anybody, it should be JJ.

“I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, I guess,” he admits, looking up as his left-hand fidgets on the hot ceramic side of his coffee mug. He resents how vulnerable his voice sounds, he’s giving far too much of himself over to hands he’s not sure he can trust, but there’s nothing he can do about that now.

“Really?” JJ sounds surprised. Spencer recognises the tone as that of anyone who has a certain perspective on him realising that he also has feelings alongside his intelligence, and it hurts. “I’m sorry, Spence.”

Spencer just presses his lips into a thin line and nods awkwardly in thanks.

“I mean… at least you’re not going through what Hotch is,” she offers, completely unhelpfully. “He’s still trying to cope with his divorce and isn’t seeing Jack as much as he used to. Derek was almost killed by the Reaper just a few months ago, Emily only recently lost a childhood friend — I mean, the whole team has been through a lot. Keep your chin up.”

She smiles at him, patting him on the shoulder, before leaving the break room and heading back to her office, leaving Spencer standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. He wants to shout that he was literally poisoned with anthrax only a month ago, if they’re tallying bad things happening as a method of tracking who has the right to be miserable. The others might be going through a lot, that’s true, but it doesn’t lessen any of the pain thudding in his chest and stirring in his stomach.

As he walks back to his desk, he realises he’s learned one thing: opening up = not a good idea.

As completely fucking miserable as he might be, there’s exactly one person in this world who doesn’t deserve to be burdened with any of it, so he carefully tucks it away in his pockets and plasters on the mask he’d perfected so many years ago. It might be a little rusty, after all, it’s been little used in recent years, but it works just as well as it used to do when he pushes the door open to Penelope’s office.

“I bring blueberry muffins,” he says as cheerfully as he can muster, and something inside him does warm as Penelope’s face lights up, squealing a little as she reaches her arms out eagerly, making grabby hands at the paper bag he’s holding.

“Oh, you have no idea how much I love you,” she moans, keen to rip the bag open as he pulls up a chair next to hers.

“I think I do,” Spencer chuckles, and it’s one of the only genuine reactions he’s given in months, “mostly because you tell me every day.”

“Mm, that’s right,” she concedes through a mouthful of warm muffin, pointing a finger at his chest. “I love you even more than I love coding.”

“That’s a lot,” Spencer says, trying for serious but he can’t stop a fond smile slipping across his face.

Penelope swallows her rather large bite of blueberry muffin and passes him his one. “It is,” she says. “How are you, anyway? You look tired, poor baby.”

Spencer looks down for a moment, schooling his expression for a second before he forces himself to look back up at her. “Yeah, I didn’t… didn’t sleep well last night, I guess.” He tries for a reassuring smile but he knows it’s more of a grimace.

Penelope’s face immediately morphs into one of grave concern. Spencer knows that that’s just the way she is, melodrama and fierce protectiveness is virtually her brand at this point, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t any less agonising to see, or the anxiety of being found out any less paralysing. He decides not to give her any room to actually address it.

“I’ll be fine, Penelope, don’t worry,” he says, turning away to brush some muffin crumbs off the desk and into his hand, purely so he doesn’t have to attempt another pathetic smile. “A good night’s sleep tonight will fix me right up.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, still looking far too worried for Spencer’s liking.

“Of course, Pen.” He feels sick at lying to her, but he has no idea how to broach any of the tumultuous emotions raging inside of him, especially after JJ shut him down so brutally. “It’s only a bad nights’ sleep.”

He’s saved from her inevitable continued line of questioning by Emily poking her head round the door and asking for Spencer’s opinion on a consult.

While getting out of bed in the morning might be an almost impossible task at the moment, the idea of getting into it at night seems rather depressing, really. That’s probably the reason he’s still at the office, despite the time nearing 8 o’clock and exhaustion settling into every muscle fibre of his being. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that it’s just a little more time in close proximity to one Aaron Hotchner.

Of course, he’d had to accept the fact that he was maybe, just a little bit in love with his boss a long time ago. He just refuses to admit that he’s this embarrassing about it. Perhaps staying late to spend more time with someone you like this much wouldn’t be so weird if there was a reasonable chance of conversation — if he ever even saw him — but there isn’t even that: Spencer sits and works quietly at his desk, Aaron sits and works quietly in his office.

Today, though, today his lingering finally pays off.

Aaron is on his way back from the photocopier when he stops by Spencer’s desk. He doesn’t see him coming, though, is the thing: he has no time to try and make himself look even a smidge less miserable or to school his surprised yet utterly lovesick expression.

“Won’t you want to be heading off soon, Reid?” he asks, clearly curious as to why Spencer remains at his desk when there’s no real work to be doing, but he cleverly paints it in a light-hearted tone. Even though Spencer is completely aware of what Aaron’s doing, he doesn’t feel attacked or under pressure.

“Oh,” Spencer says unintelligently, stammering a little as he scrambles desperately at a somewhat coherent reply, “yes, yeah, I’ll get going soon.” He doesn’t want to lie when he doesn’t have to, so he doesn’t try and offer an explanation for his staying late, and he knows Aaron won’t push. He manages an almost entirely genuine smile, though, which must count for something, even if it’s only because he’s hopelessly in love with the man leaning casually against his desk.

“Right then,” Aaron says, offering a small smile in response, letting his hard exterior drop in the nearly empty office, and even though it’s nothing special, not really, Spencer carefully files it away as his heart pitter-patters against his ribcage and his stomach pools with warmth. “See you tomorrow, Reid.”

Spencer just nods in response and gathers his things, placing them carefully in his messenger bag and shrugging his jacket on before walking out of the building. When he glances back, just as he pulls the glass door open, Aaron is watching him carefully. He doesn’t turn away but instead offers a small wave, which Spencer returns bashfully, blushing scarlet in the elevator and on the walk out of the HQ and during the whole trek down the street and sat on the metro train and on the final stretch home. He fumbles with his keys and curses himself for being so goddamn pathetic.

He doesn’t consider it for long, though, because he’s utterly exhausted and his tired bones collapse on the sofa, and who is he to try and get them to move again? Sleep is a mercy.

🌧

The case is gruelling and stressful enough without the endless and constant worry about where on earth Aaron is. He never turns his phone off and Spencer can’t think of a time he’s worked a case without him, not properly; he’s always the first one at the office, the first one on the plane, the first to jump out of bed towards the chance to make a real difference in the world. It’s so out of character for him and it’s utterly distressing.

Nevertheless, he focuses all his attention on the job; on protecting Jeffrey and Tom Barton, on bringing justice to the perpetrator when they inevitably find them. He offers lame and desperate excuses for Aaron not being there, all the while knowing full well that none of them are likely. Something is wrong and he’s powerless to help.

Emily tells him why. He sort of forgets how to breathe.

Getting shot in the leg while simultaneously petrified for the livelihood of the person you’re in love with is inconvenient at best when trying to talk down an unsub and protect a victim and eventually fatal at worst, but somehow he half-manages and Tom escapes unscathed, though he isn’t quite as lucky with the unsub.

That’s what matters, really, isn’t it? That others are safe, even if it means he’s in danger? After all, Tom Barton has lives to save and a son to raise, a wide social circle, and a loving family. What does Spencer have? No, it’s much better that he’s the one hurt than anyone else.

Of course, once the adrenaline of the situation starts to wear off and medics arrive on scene, he realises quite how badly he’s hurt. Already feeling woozy, energy seems to seep out of him as roaring, raging agony takes its place. It’s the first time he’s ever been shot and it’s worse than he could have imagined: no amount of studying literature and anecdotal evidence could prepare him for the feeling of a small metal ball tearing through the flesh and muscle and tendons — though, hopefully, and judging by the amount of blood he’s lost, no arteries or large blood vessels — of his thigh.

His team arrives, minus Emily and minus Hotch, and they’re concerned, of course they are. That is, until he presents them with someone they see as much more important, someone whose life is worth something, someone they care about deeply being hurt. And they leave.

He doesn’t get a chance to tell the medics that he doesn’t want narcotics, so the ride to the hospital is a blur of morphine and voices talking to him, though he can’t quite piece together what they’re saying. He wonders vaguely where everybody is, whether Hotch is alright, whether he’s about to die, but no real emotion is attached to any of these thoughts, they just… are.

He’s rushed into surgery almost immediately after he arrives at the hospital, and the next thing he’s aware of is a dull, ever-present, agonising ache in his upper thigh and exhaustion settled into his bones like his body is pain’s home, fatigue’s resting place. The last time he’d blinked himself awake in a hospital bed, blinding pain burning in one part of his body or another, Derek had been sat by his bed, eating jello.

There’s nobody by his bed this time.

A PCA pump is resting by his right hand but he doesn’t touch it. Clearly, nobody from his team has informed the hospital staff of his previous addiction; he doesn’t even know if they’re at the hospital; if they know what’s going on. The morphine he’s already had is going to be hard enough to deal with, he can feel the future cravings itching beneath his skin already, scarred-over track marks simmering away.

It’s over twenty-five minutes of lying helplessly on a hospital bed in a cool, impersonal room, feeling a certain kind of emptiness sitting in his stomach, before a nurse comes by. She looks pleased enough to see him awake, but he doesn’t care about her satisfaction, he cares about his team, about Penelope, about Aaron, and he’s too exhausted to do anything about it.

“Good, you’re awake,” she says cheerily and for once, he doesn’t try and conceal his despondency. It’s oddly freeing. “I’ll get the doctor to come and explain the situation.”

She bumbles out of the room, clearly not fazed by Spencer’s expression, so he resumes staring at the wall, allowing his thoughts to wander, still not managing to attach much emotion to them other than a miserable sort of emptiness.

The doctor is nice enough, making sure he understands his injury and the procedures he’s had done, as well as the recovery ahead of him, but he just can’t bring himself to care. It’s as though this is the last straw; this is the proof, the evidence to win the case he’s been fighting in the court of his mind. His team doesn't care. His life is worthless. He will always, always be alone.

JJ stops by briefly. This feels like it should be a consolation, but it isn’t. He learns of what’s happened to Aaron, what his family is going through, and suddenly he feels selfish: how dare he demand and crave attention when Aaron is far more hurt and injured than he is? When he’s far more important and far more deserving of the team’s attention? Self-loathing creeps up his throat and settles into grey cotton wool that won’t melt in his mouth.

Spencer doesn’t know how to react to the incredibly overwhelming events of the day, and JJ doesn’t seem to have time for this. “Right, Spencer,” she says, visibly impatient with his emotional floundering, his lack of verbal response, “I need to go. We need to sort this out for Hotch. We owe it to him.”

She leaves, and all Spencer can think is how much more worthless not being able to work on his case makes him. If he can’t even work to save the man he loves; if he can’t strive effortlessly to protect him and make him happy, then what is he doing here? Aaron will be furious when he finds out Spencer laid in bed lazily instead of diving headfirst into the case.

No. That’s not true. He’ll be sickeningly nice about it, while on the inside suppressing his disappointment, and Spencer will feel even more guilty, he’ll be even more irate with himself, and life will seem just a little bit bleaker.

He’s discharged a few days later, and nobody has visited, barring JJ’s fleeting, impatient stop by. He goes home in a taxi and struggles up the stairs on his crutches, almost glad he didn’t have many personal items at the hospital. Then again, that was because he was completely isolated. And if he did have people to bring him things in the hospital, then he’d probably have someone to help him up the stairs too.

It’s a moot point, really. He dives straight for the non-narcotic painkillers he’d been prescribed as soon as he sits down on his dusty couch in his messy apartment, desperate to relieve at least some of the agony throbbing in his leg still. Clearly, the universe decided he wasn’t in enough pain already; that the unrequited love and the growing depression and the recurring stomach cramps and clenches in his chest weren’t quite sufficient.

He knows the team is working flat out on the Foyet case. But even Penelope, who probably works the hardest of all of them, has had time to send him an encouraging text message promising to pop round as soon as she can. Other than that, his phone is dry and his heart slowly freezing over.

Truthfully, he’s not sure how much more of this he can stand. He’s feeling the same way he did as a child: isolated, othered, hurt, and utterly, utterly alone. When he’d joined the BAU and was welcomed immediately into the arms of a family, he promised himself he’d never feel like that again. He would never, ever allow himself to sink so low; not when he was surrounded by so many people who proved day in day out how much they loved him. Surely, feeling like this would simply be impossible.

For once, Doctor Spencer Reid is proved wrong. And it burns, festers, and screams like nothing else.

Chapter Two

taglist:@criminalmindsvibez @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @reidology @i-like-buttons @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @hotchedyke @tobias-hankel @goobzoop @marsjareau @garcias-bitch (taglist form)

(I'm tagging my usual hotchreid taglist but let me know if you would not like to be tagged in this fic OR if you'd only like to be tagged once it's complete! Either fill in the taglist form again or DM me.)

#hotchreid #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #spencer reid #hurt spencer reid #spencer reid whump #aaron hotchner/spencer reid #aaron hotchner x spencer reid #spencer reid/aaron hotchner #hotch x reid #spencer reid x aaron hotchner #criminal minds fanfiction #my writing #RCT #RCT 1

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snickiebear · 3 years

Note

Hello, snickiebear! Congratulations on your 200 followers! If you have the time, would you mind writing Shisui x Sakura in a nonmass au? I’m actually curious about your take on a time travel scenario with this pairing, but I also understand that a lot of works have been written on time travel already, so it’s still awesome if you don’t do the time travel part!

Congratulations again and thanks for taking the time to read this ask! Your works are really enjoyable to read. Thank you so much for writing and for doing this 200-follower event!

hello lovely anon!!! thank YOU for reading and requesting!!!! this one was so much fun to write! you ask for time travel + nonmass + shisaku? i am helpless to deliver!! this is a bit more angsty than i wanted but are we surprised? (nope, not at all lmao) this is also now on AO3 bc i really liked it!

also, apologies that this took a bit!! lifes been a real fuckin bitch and the wall of writer's block hit me like a train AHAHAHA but i hope you like this one!!! :)))

The sky is sunny and the spring beautiful when the sky splits itself in half with a brillant, blinding flash of light.

Shisui, masked and riding the after mission high, can only stare as a body plummets from that crack, limp and silent.

It is as if the heavens have spit out what they have deemed unworthy.

Or perhaps, the heavens are dropping a gift on their doorstep.

Either way, Shisui is moving before he knows what is happening, catching that body— a woman with shaven pink hair— and holding her close, head tucked under his chin.

She’s breathing, chest rising and lowering feebly.

Shisui catches his breath as the fracture within the sky closes and only then does he notice the mask.

Porcelain and painted. A combination of a snake and fox, a wolf and slug.

His ANBU team materializes next to him, Dog-taicho’s chakra going from lazy to alert at the sight of the woman. “That’s…”

“Yeah.” Shisui says hoarsely. “She- she needs medical attention. I think.” There is a lot of blood, she’s dripping in it. But he can’t see where she’s bleeding from… or if all that blood is even hers.

“Let’s go.” Dog-taicho cuts through his thoughts, voice hard and a bit panicked. Afterall, Kakashi owes his life to this woman, they all did.

Team Ro blurred out of existence in their race to Kohona, their Savior clutched within his arms.

It's funny, really. When she looks back, as she so often does now, it's laughable. The fact that Haruno Sakura, the civilian born, the nobody, the weak one of Team 7 is the only one left.

Sakura was the only one left in the war against Kaguya and she had done what she has always done; what was needed.

So, Sakura was the only one left and she figured out what was left of Naruto’s seals and shot herself through time to fix everything, to save everyone. To take down Danzo, Hanzo, Madara, to save Sai, the Uchihas, Kakashi.

She was the one to heal Obito, to save Rin, to make sure that Itachi’s hands would never be stained with his family’s blood.

And now, now she sits in a T&I room and she laughs, laughs herself hoarse because she succeeded, she won. And now she is in the future, her intended destination, but it is not the same.

In this future, Haruno Sakura does not exist. She is nothing and no one.

Naruto and Sasuke are alive and well and happy. They get to live the lives they could have only dreamed about.

And Sakura. She doesn’t exist.

She laughs herself hoarse, the laughs turning into broken sobs and she drops her forehead to the table, hiccuping and clenching her hands into blood inducing fists.

Alone. As she always has been.

The door creaks open and Ibiki steps in, a folder in hand.

Sakura’s head snaps up, wiping her face as she almost sighs in relief. She loved (loves?) Ibiki, he once was one of her closest friends near the end. She knows Ibiki, trusts him. Or, at least, she had.

Sakura straightens in her chair, careful of the chakra suppressing handcuffs that really do nothing for her, just acting as a hindrance. But, she does not remove them because she is not a threat to Konoha, she never has been, never intends to be.

Ibiki sits down in front of her, eyeing her carefully and it almost feels like coming home. “You say your name is Haruno Sakura.”

“Yes.” She rasps, licking her cracked and bleeding lips. “That’s right.”

Her eyes flit to the glass window, ignoring her own reflection as she narrows her eyes at whoever is behind the wall. An unknown chakra signature, wild and worried. And— and—

Kakashi.

His cool and lazy chakra, almost like a current of electricity. She would know that chakra any where, as if it is engrained deep in her bones. And right now he’s interested, almost antsy.

Swallowing, Sakura looks back to Ibiki, who had been watching her keenly. “You already had Inoichi-san do a mind walk. You know everything I do.” Shoulders back, chin tilted, spine steeled.

The dead man that sits in front of her hums and opens a folder, “We believe you—”

“It is not a matter of believing.” Sakura snaps, eyes flashing. “You know it is a fact. He saw, he showed you, you saw. How could I ever make something like that up?”

“What we know,” Ibiki says too calmly, too pleasantly, “Is that you are severely traumatized.”

And Sakura well, she laughs again. Because. Because what else is she supposed to do? She gives and gives and gives and is given nothing back.

There are no fruits for her labor, no reward for her sacrifice.

Shoulders shaking as she cries and laughs, scrubbing at her face. “We were friends, you know.” She manages. “I made you laugh twice, once after I lost my middle finger,” Sakura holds up her hand to show him, unsure of why she is even talking. “The second when you were dying in my arms.”

Silence rings out as Sakura gathers herself, swallowing harshly. Ibiki is still looking at her, but the way is no longer cynical, no longer studying.

“Haruno—”

“Just Sakura,” She says wearily.

“Sakura-san,” He continues, “When you were brought in you had a mask on. A mask that has been seen countless times saving Konoha shinobi.”

Sakura does not dare mention the fact that she has also interfered with Suna, giving Gaara the childhood he deserves. And with Mist, cutting the head off the snake quickly enough that the caste system would never truly solidify.

So, she nods. “I am aware.”

“And you claim you are the person behind the mask on every occasion.”

Sighing, she runs a hand over what is left of her hair and makes direct eye contact with her once friend, giving a curt nod, “I am the person behind the mask.”

“One last question, Sakura-san.” Ibiki murmurs, jotting something down in his folder. Sakura forces herself not to read the familiar writing. Though, she is well equipped to read upside down. “How did you come to possess the rinnegan?”

The air drops from mildly uncomfortable to freezing and Sakura does not balk at the question. “You saw it for yourself, Ibiki. It was a gift.”

“Yes, but from who?”

Her heart aches, squeezes at the thought of Naruto, of Sasuke, phantom pains. It is as if she has lost a limb, a piece of her heart when they had turned to ash between her fingers. But Sakura does not waver as she says, “It was a parting gift from Uchiha Sasuke before he died.”

The unknown chakra behind the wall erupts into a mess of emotions while Kakashi’s is mildly surprised if not wary. There is tension between the both of them though.

Which is incredibly amusing considering it wasn’t until much, much later did Kakashi ever see anything to be wary about in her.

(It took her flicking the ground and allowing it to split open and swallow any of their pursuers to convince him that she could very well tear him in half without a second thought.

She wouldn’t though. Team 7 and its members will always be a soft and deeply bruised spot for her. A wound she could never quite heal. Sakura cannot remember a time when she has ever been bruiseless. She has come to terms with being wounded.)

Ibiki closes the folder and taps it on the steel table between them, he motions over his shoulder and the door opens swiftly, revealing Kakashi and another Uchiha with curly hair.

He’s just as she remembers him, except not. Her Kakashi had slouched, had a certain energy about him.

This one, he looks the same, has the scar, the slight slouch. But it is clear that ghosts no longer beat on his back, the world's weight no longer bends him to its will.

Pain races through her heart, echoing physically throughout her body. It hurts. It shouldn’t, seeing her old sensei, her once friend, happy. But it does.

Because while she cannot live without Team 7, it is clear Team 7 can live without her.

She straightens, eyes sharp and body tense as Ibiki stands, chair scraping harshly against the floor and then takes her hands into his, calluses and scars scraping against each other.

Sakura could only imagine what Tsunade-shishou would say if she were to see her, riddled with scars and missing fingers. She could have healed them without a second thought, but chakra had been precious then. Every single ounce had been poured into keeping her precious people safe and herself alive enough to keep fighting.

Her once friend produces a key and unlocks the handcuffs, letting them drop heavily into his awaiting hands before standing up, “Sakura-san, this is Hatake Kakashi,” Her former teacher gives her a hard once over. “And Uchiha Shisui.”

Her skin itches and crawls at Kakashi’s look, cold and unfond, nothing like how she remembers him. And of course, of course he wouldn’t be the man who she had come to adore. He is someone else in this carefully constructed future of her own doing.

The blame, as always, rests upon her weakening shoulders. Sakura is crumbling, her sanity chipping away ever so slowly. It is laughable, really. She wants to throw her head back and howl, she wants to bow and allow herself to scream.

But, if she were to begin to scream, she is not sure she would be able to stop.

So, she gives a curt nod, “Hatake-san. Uchiha-san.”

“Shisui, and therefore the Uchiha, have volunteered to bring you into their custody.” Ibiki goes on, taking a step back. Sakura stays where she is, rooted.

A chill runs up her spine and she looks to Ibiki almost pleadingly. “And you can’t simply dump me into ANBU instead?”

“Mah, Sakura-san.” Kakashi drawls and Sakura’s will cracks. (That bruise will never quite heal.) “I can promise that the Uchiha aren’t as bad as they seem.”

Shisui smiles and it is unlike any smile she has seen before.

She cannot remember the last time she had seen a smile.

“Don’t listen to the old man, Sakura-san.” Shisui says and she’s caught off guard at how friendly he sounds, deep and welcoming. Sakura swallows harshly. “We’re a bunch of assholes but no harm will come to you, we can promise that.”

Uchiha men, she thinks with distaste, will always hold a knife to her heart. And they will always know how to twist the wretched blade to get her to bend for them.

But. But perhaps Sakura could bend, bend and lay and rest. Just once. And this time she'll bend for herself. Perhaps.

She finds herself nodding, hands shaking despite the steel in her spine, her shoulders still straight. “You’re going to just let me go.”

Ibiki gives her a hard look and Sakura’s lips twitch. Ah, of course not. The Uchiha compound is just a glorified prison. Then again, it is much better than anything she thought would happen.

Then again, Saura never thought this would happen.

Too desperate, too blind with the possibility of a chance to see them again, to be whole again. She, for all her brains, all her genius, had not even stopped to think of the possibility that her future would no longer exist.

It is laughable, really.

So she laughs, she clutches her stomach and laughs because what else can she do?

Sakura has done what she has always done; what was needed. And once again, like every other time, there is nothing but black at the end of the tunnel. No light exists for her.

She is to blame for her own destruction, her own crumbling.

“You can come out,” Sakura’s voice calls out and Shisui grins.

He steps from the shadows, two mugs in hand as he comes to sit next to her, offering her the drink. She takes it without hesitation but swirls it before sipping from it, Shisui watches as her eyes light up just a little bit.

Hot cocoa with peanut butter. He had noticed, the last time the clan had it, that she’d snuck four mugs worth.

If Sakura was surprised he noticed, she didn’t show it. She was like that, a one way mirror, giving nothing away even as she saw everything.

“Did you want something, Shisui-san?” She twitches as he scoots a little closer, the fireflies floating around the backyard. “Or did you just want some company?”

Shisui smiles boyishly, tilting his head back to look at her, “Heard that Minato-sama called you into the Hokage’s office again.”

“You mean you heard from Genma, who told Itachi while on their date, who then told you that the Hokage summoned me for the fourth time this week.” Sakura snorts, taking a long drink from her mug. There's a little foam on her upper lip that he fights to not wipe away. “He and his wife keep trying to convince me to let them look at the seals I used.”

Shisui pauses, eyes trained on Sakura as she looks to the sky, head leaning back. Her hair has grown out a little, more fuzz on her head than anything, she looks more alive, well fed. Deep bags under her one visible eye, three nasty scars dissect her face and the rest of her body isn’t any better.

She is the most beautiful, most terrifying, most devastating thing he has ever seen.

“The seals you used…”

“To go back and hop through time like a jack rabbit to save the entire world?” She asks, a wry smile on her face. “Yes, Shisui, those seals.”

He hums, leaning back on the heels on her hands, “Why don’t you just let them look?”

“They aren’t my seals to share.” Sakura half snaps, shoulders curling in, her body strung tight. “Naru— my friend was the one to draw them out, I just figured out the last bit of it. Plus, there is no reason why they need to see those seals.” Her tone sharp, unyielding almost pleading.

Shisui stays quiet until Sakura begins to slowly relax. She gets like this sometimes, tense and defensive. As if trying to convince herself rather than him of her deeds. He knew better than to push, he knew that she had gone through more than anyone would ever go through.

The way Ibiki and Inoichi look at her with the utmost respect can verify that. The way Kakashi and Rin and Obito have gone out of their way to greet her, to help her speaks volumes.

He takes a drink from his mug, studying the stars winking above them. “Hey Sakura,”

“Yes?” She sounds oh so weary. His very soul aches.

“Thank you, for everything.” He doesn’t dare look at her, barely hearing himself over the pounding of his heart. “You don’t talk much about what happened but I know, I can tell that it was horrible. And thank you for saving us, the world.”

She had lost everything, everyone. In that future that she had protected them from Sasuke died, Itachi died, he was dead. He could only imagine what the ruins of that world looked like. He could only imagine what Sakura had to do to survive.

Sakura’s fingers are cold, freezing as they brushes the back of his hand. Shisui fights a shiver, the trail of goosebumps, the thrill. “Oh, oh Shisui.” Her voice is heartbreaking and full of nothing but steel. “I would never allow anyone to endure that. You will never have to endure that, I made sure of it. Never. No one will. I promise.”

Her hand draws back as she brings her knees to her chest, eyes far away and breathes quick. And Shisui, he doesn’t know what comes over him as he scoots even closer and carefully wraps his arm around her strong shoulders, drawing her closer.

And. And Sakura, she allows it. She moves to his side, not quite leaning but touching.

“Are you happy here?” Shisui finds himself asking after long minutes of silence. Sakura’s breath evened out and she sits with her chin on her knees.

Her eye flits to him, weighing and heavy. She looks at him and Shisui cannot help but see the age, the ancientness that has taken root. He wants to pull out the misery within her, wants to hold her tight enough that she will never fall apart without somewhere there to catch the pieces.

He wants to love her, he wants her to let him love her.

“No.” Sakura whispers, as if her unhappiness in a world that does not know her, that has done nothing for her is such an awful, wretched thing. “I miss everyone.”

Shisui cannot say anything so he does what he does best; what he wants.

He stays with her, arm resting on her shoulders and slowly, Sakura allows herself to lean into his side.

Around them, the night settles and the crickets chirp. The heavens had nothing to do with Haruno Sakura, with their Savior, coming to them. No, Sakura is the catalyst of this, of this paradise they now all reside in.

If anything, she is the heavens themselves. And it is about time someone tells her that, shows her that.

Sakura sees them for the first time in the five months she has landed in this new future. Itachi invited her to meet his genin team. Itachi, the man who had once been a mass murderer, is now a mednin and a jounin sensei.

Shisui joins her because of course he does, he has been the one constant throughout this entire ordeal. The Uchihas are nothing like she thought they would be. The Uchihas are everything she hoped they would.

They are loving, friendly, welcoming, and thankful. Mikoto is nothing but heaven sent sunshine and cloud soft embraces, Fukago is nothing but a deep rumbling laugh and fond looks.

No one is the same, nothing is the same.

Shisui is there though, at her side, at her back. She trusts him, gods, she trusts him. Despite her better judgement, despite everything. Sakura trusts Shisui.

So, Shisui joins her as she takes to the roofs and to training field 7. She’s finally been cleared for the mission roster and given her jounin blues. Though, Sakura has yet to decide if she even would enjoy going on missions.

Maybe with Shisui.

But she does not think she has a taste for violence anymore, for killing. Maybe she'll spend her days with Kakashi's dogs and holed up in the libraries. Maybe she'll visit Gaara or Chojuro.

She had yet to meet Tsunade, who had been hunting for her since Minato (the bastard) had let it slip that Sakura was in possession of the rinnegan and the byakugan seal. Shisui is exceptionally good at playing discractor as Sakura flees to rock in a corner until he finds her. He's good at that, holding her, letting her breathe, allowing her to find solace within his arms and his space.

They step onto the training fields and Sakura freezes mid step to watch as Sasuke, Naruto, and Sai (oh, oh Sai. Sweet Sai, oh.) attack in perfect sync.

They’re fourteen if her math is correct.

They move smooth and swift, nonverbal communication as if they had been working like this for years. It's beautiful, really.

Something ugly claws at her heart, catching on an already scabbing part to rip open a new wound. Simply another reminder that Sakura is not needed. She never was.

It's laughable, really.

Shisui’s fingers massages the sides of her neck with his fingers, the spot where her skull and neck meet. “You’re tense.”

“They have beautiful teamwork.” She chokes out.

He looks at her, long and open, “We can go home, if you want.”

Shisui’s good at that t00, the open ended question, the way of making her not feel trapped. He's too perceptive for his own good, she has yet to tell him anything except what is on record. But, but. He knows. He knows of Kakashi, of Naruto, Sasuke, and Sai. It is both a relief and a terror. “No.” She manages, curling her hands. She is Haruno Sakura. She has faced the impossible her entire life. Ghosts are nothing compared to gods.

At least, that is what she tells herself.

“I’ll be fine.” Sakura glances up at him, licking her lips. He watches the movement before his eyes flit back up hers and he offers one of her favorite smiles. The one where his dimples are visible, where she can see the small chip of his front tooth and the way his top canin is a little crooked.

Itachi calls the spar minutes later, the boys slumping onto the ground and breathing heavily. Sakura offers a small smile as Itachi nears them, waving a hand in greeting.

“Ah, Sakura-chan.” He grins, then looks to Shisui, dry amusement clear in his tone, “Shisui.”

“You’ve trained them well,” Sakura praises, watching as Naruto (oh gods, Naruto with his big blue eyes and blonde, blonde hair) pulls a limp Sasuke (a Sasuke who laughs freely, who smiles, and is loved) onto his feet, Sai huffing a chuckle from the ground.

Itachi practically beams at the praise, “They are very talented. And you would like to meet them, yes?”

Shisui’s thumb traces the bumps of her spine and Sakura is reminded that she has forged herself from the ashes of her friends, that she is borne from war and steel. She can do this. Shisui is here and she can do this. “Yes, I would love to, Itachi.”

Shisui’s hand burns through her clothes as they follow Itachi, the boys immediately catching sight and freezing at the sight of them. Sakura will never admit it out loud that she has been avoiding any and all people from her past (present? future?).

One look at Ino, whole and happy and sassy, and Sakura had almost gone insane. And then Shikamaru and Chouji, all together, all smiling. Gods, Sakura had fallen to her knees at the sight. Such grief, such loneliness—

She’s better now. She is.

“Team 7.” Itachi says, “This Haruno Sakura, and you already know Shisui.”

Silence.

Sakura shifts under the wide eyed gazes of the boys, the men she loved (loves?) with her entire being. “It is a pleasure to meet you,”

Naruto recovers first because of course he does. And he smiles at her, he smiles at her and Sakura wants to claw at her skin and cry. Shisui intertwines their hands, as if sensing that urge.

“I’m Uzumaki Naruto!” He’s fourteen and he's alive and he’s happy. He isn’t out of the village, he’s here because he has a clan, he has a family. “Is it true that you’re the Savior?”

Sasuke smacks him in the back of the head with a scowl, “Be polite, dobe.” To Sakura he offers a bow, “It is pleasure to meet you, Haruno-san. I am Uchiha Sasuke.”

Sakura’s lips twitch despite herself. Never, not once, did Sasuke ever bow to anyone. He had always been arrogant, but here? Now? It's laughable, really.

She glances to Sai and he isn’t as pale as he once was, his cheeks are full of color, his eyes brimming with life. “I am Senju Sai, Haruno-san.”

And. Sakura pauses at that. Senju Sai, huh. Perhaps she'll have to face Tsunade sooner than later. The thought added to the dread filled pool in her stomach. But. But, she could do it. Maybe.

“It is very nice to meet you all,” She croaks and then offers a very brittle smile. “And Naruto-kun,” She fights a shiver at the honorific. “That information is S class, but find me when you make jounin, hm?” And for a moment she could pretend that everything was okay and she was teasing her Naruto. Just for a moment.

Much to her amusement, all three boys pout, looking to Itachi who shrugs, “You heard Sakura, now, let’s see formation Alpha but reverse.”

The boys groan and Sakura can’t help the smile, a smile with teeth.

She can feel Shisui’s eyes on her before she even turns to look at him. Her body is shaking, Sakura realizes blankly but Shisui still holds her sweating hands, squeezing ever so slightly. “Ready to go?”

Sakura swallows, staring up at him, studying him. And oh, she is so tempted to uncover her eye, to memorize his face. “Yes. Let’s… let's go home.”

He wakes to warmth pressed against his chest, warm breaths against his neck. Their legs are tangled, her arm thrown over his side and brushes against the bare skin of his back. Both of them are missing their clothes, Sakura preferred being able to feel the skin on him, the brush of flesh between them.

What they have, it is something deeper than any type of physical act. No, what they have… well, Shisui can not put it to words. There are no words. There will never be words.

It is rare for Sakura to sleep soundlessly and through the entire night. Shisui kisses her forehead, above her seal, on one of the many scars of her face. She doesn’t stir except to shift ever so slightly, hugging him closer.

And if Shisui’s heart melts, no one else is there to see the absolute brilliant smile on his lips.

“Sakura,” He murmurs because if she doesn’t get up soon, she’ll miss her lunch with Ibiki (who gets very grumpy when his time with Sakura is cut short), “Sakura.”

She grumbles, limbs tensing for a moment, a single breath before melting once more. “Shisui,” Her voice is rough with sleep, the sound swirls and dances around his bones. “G’mornin’.”

Shisui laughs, a soft push of air, as Sakura leans back to peer at him, both eyes uncovered as she studies him, the look like a physical caress. “Good morning.” He whispers, kissing her forehead once again.

“What time is it?” She murmurs, eyes drooping closed.

“You’ve got about an hour before Ibiki comes knocking.” Shisui chuckles.

Sakura snorts, pulling away to stretch her arms above her head, arching her back in the way that Shisui can admire every muscle, every scar, every part of her. “Then I better get up,”

“Or, you could always stay,” Shisui cajools, to which Sakura only laughs. The sound is beautiful and full and makes his heart beat a little faster.

“The last time I canceled on Ibiki was when I had to help Itachi with his and Genma’s wedding plans, and he sent little Terror Ino after me for a week.”

Shisui cracks an even wider grin, “Well, at least you got some nice clothes out of it.”

Laughing again, Sakura leans down to kiss him, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Go on,” Shisui shoos, making a little gesture with his hand. “Have fun, I’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

She cups his face, thumbing the sharp of his cheek bone before leaning forward to kiss him again, "I love you." Then. "I am glad that my suffering brought me to you, that I landed here."

"I love you." He returns, barely a whisper as he brushes hair behind her ears. His heart beats for her, cracks and aches and swells. All for her. "There will never be a time that I will not love you. There will never be a time where I do not see you and see everything you are, everything you have done."

The sky is sunny and the spring beautiful as Sakura, the very heavens themselves, mouth splits into a brilliant, blinding smile.

(Sakura has crumbled and broken, she has fallen apart over and over. She has always known how to put herself together, until she couldn’t.

But Shisui, oh Shisui, he has always been readily available with glue and tape. He will always be there to hold her together with his bare hands, ready to bleed for her, with her.

She has given and given and given. He is willing to give everything back to her tenfold.

It is the very least she deserves, the very least the world can gift her. Shisui will always be willing to give more.)

#silly things from silly friends #i hope you like it anon!!! thank u again :'')#shisaku #a shared pen

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drxwsyni · 4 years

Text

Fault in Honesty︱Yandere Chisaki Kai/Overhaul x f!Reader

Anonymous asked: “Hi! I love your work! Do you think you could do a scenario with yandere overhaul and fem. Reader where she tells him she hates him?”

a/n: Ngl I’ve been having some writers block lately so doing a good ol’ sfw (or at least in yandere standards) oneshot was very refreshing. Also the section in italics represents a flashback! Thanks for the request babes <3

Warnings: implied stockholm, captivity

1.9k Words

_____

If you could hazard a guess as to where exactly you went wrong, it would be the day you let the comfort of his security first outshine the red flags. To an outsider, they’d be unavoidably obvious. But for you, someone experiencing a side of Chisaki reserved only to make appearances in your presence, they became muted. Vibrant and glaring warnings were but a momentary afterthought, given no more than a few seconds of contemplation before you returned to focusing on the ideal in front of you.

The ideal is still present now, only it’s being held together by the constricting realities that overlooking those red flags have brought about.

Walls seemingly inescapable, corridors twisting and unending. Perpetually trapping you underground, without an inkling of an idea as to which door would lead you to salvation. All coupled with the pain shooting up your legs with each time your bare feet collided with the tile, a dress airy and doing little to shield you from the deep set chill running past your exposed skin.

You shivered, both from the discomfort of the cold, and from the anxieties riddling your system.

By some form of chance luck, your frantic searching lead you to a stairwell, from one door to another, and into an all too familiar room.

The setting was by far more comforting than the bleak hallways below you. Once dull and sterile surroundings faded, your focus favouring the warmth. You spent many an hour in Chisaki’s study mere months ago, keeping the young boss company without question. Sometimes you’d simply exist alongside him, the copious amounts of work keeping Chisaki from indulging himself in conversation with you. Those moments were regrettable, as you could never stay with him all day. So you would leave him to his devices sooner or later, returning home while he continued to manage his ‘business.’

You suppose he detested the fact that you would inevitably take a leave of absence more than you originally perceived. And while his first move to initiate a more domestic closeness with you was endearing at the time, it only served to muddle your thoughts with regret now.

• • •

Your hand in his, seated close enough to him that your knees were touching. The leather couch situated in the study was always your go-to spot when waiting for your lover to fulfill his duties as a leader for the day. He managed to do so before you left this time, much to your appreciation.

“Anything you could possibly need is already in place, angel. With you living here we’d be able to spend more time together. And…” Pausing, as if to gather his thoughts while absentmindedly squeezing your hand gently in his, Chisaki soon continued. “...It would be beneficial if I were able to monitor your health more closely.”

You regarded the man with a warm and loving smile, finding slight humour in his predictable ways. For one, your wellbeing was always at the top of his concerns. It felt like such a passive occurrence at this point, Chisaki keeping those interests in mind like it was second nature. And you supposed, with how he so clearly treated you on another level of appreciation compared to everyone else in his life, that the quality would only be expected in a man who ensures such a high level of diligence in everything he does.

Chisaki also had a tendency to rush things with you. So naturally, his offer wasn’t something you were entirely surprised to hear. But unfortunately for him, there still resided some resistance in you.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too soon to be moving in together? Don’t get me wrong, Kai. I’d love to spend more time with you. It’s just―”

“This would be good for you. It’s dangerous for you to be living on your own, so you understand why I’m worried about you, right?”

Although he didn’t explicitly state it, you knew what Chisaki was referring to. The unavoidable fact of your quirklessness. He would never say that it made you weak, but you knew it was the root of his anxieties. You living alone was far more risky than he was willing to accept.

But you loved him. So, perhaps the change wasn’t something you should fear?

You let out a small sigh, still unsure, but resigning yourself for now. “...I suppose, if you think it would be best.”

In an act of tenderness, Chisaki took your hand that he was still holding, raising it to his lips. He planted a feathered kiss to the back of it, maintaining a gaze filled with adoration the whole time. Your heart fluttered at the gentle affection, feeling your face warm with a certain bashfulness.

He was pleased with your acceptance, albeit hesitant and largely unsure. “You’ll come around to the idea.”

And with the way Chisaki’s words and actions―not only now, but also in times before―left your better intuitions molding to match his, you thought you’d come around to it too.

• • •

The heavy wooden door behind you, a dark oak cut hand carved and lavish, opened in a swift motion. The abruptness of it earned a startled flinch from your body, you quickly turning around to view the culprit of the commotion in fear.

Like a deer in headlights, your whole being froze in place. Chisaki stood in the doorway, only he didn’t appear to be nearly as surprised as you.

If anything, he was calm.

His eyes trailed up and down your form, taking in your uneasy state. Slowly, he stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “It’s not good for your health for you to be up so late, my love.”

The dismissal of the situation sent a wave of frustration through you. Knowing he didn’t regret any of his actions, what he had put you through, and the reason why you were here―it was infuriating. The possessiveness, withholding your freedom like it wasn’t a necessity, because to him wasn’t. None of your misgivings resonated with him.

You regarded the composed leader, feeling your resistance begin to crumble from his mere presence. “Is this what you wanted?” Regrettably, your voice cracked midways through the question.

He almost looked disappointed, the fact of your apprehension being an unwanted outcome of the decisions he’d made for you. But he was nothing if not steadfast in his ways, a quality outshining the sorrow he felt for finding you so distressed. “All I’ve wanted is to ensure your health and safety. That’s what I’ve done, and I will not apologize for it.”

Another bit of your resolve faltered, your lower lip trembling as you fought to hold yourself together. “Even though I’m a prisoner?”

Chisaki let the words hang in the air for a moment, more so to let you process them instead, hoping you’d understand as much as he did that the statement couldn’t be farther from what you were to him. He moved across the room, taking his black dust mask off while he spoke, placing it on an end table. “I could hardly call you that. You live quite nicely―comfortable living quarters, balanced meals―everything you need and more to get by.”

“Everything except for my freedom, Kai. I mean...can’t you see how wrong this is?” In truth, you knew trying to reason with the man would get you nowhere. It wouldn’t change his mind, and it certainly wouldn’t help you in your now failed attempt to leave him. The thought of the uselessness of the whole thing wore you down, knowing putting up a fight would be for nothing in the end. You’d lost not from the moment he’d stepped into the room, but from the moment you agreed to be his all those months ago.

He faced you once again, mask and gloves removed, able to expose himself in such a way to you only. “It’s dangerous for someone with your connections to live outside of my compound―you know that. There are people who wouldn’t hesitate to use you as leverage against me.” He drew closer, an approach slow, as if trying to ease your nerves. “Tell me, have I ever hurt you?”

You inwardly cursed the man for knowing exactly what to say. His words were meditated, aiming only to lead you into compliance. The question was doing exactly that, because there was no other answer than the one he wanted to hear. The fact that no, he hadn’t. At least not physically. He truly did care for all of your needs. And even when it came to the mental anguish you went through, he always gave you space when you needed it. So really, you had no other choice but speaking that admittance.

Quietly, you did, “N-no, but―”

“So, you can’t deny that everything I do has your wellbeing in mind?”

As he took steps forward, you took some back. Soon enough you were hitting the front of his desk, unable to put any more distance between the two of you as he came closer.

“I can tell you understand that, angel. All I wish is for you to accept it.”

You shook your head, saltine tears falling down your cheeks. Confliction riddled your body and soul, part of you wanting to keep up those feeble forms of resistance, while the other part yearned to finally give in. It would be so much easier if you did, which was the worst part about it. Before you found yourself trapped by him, you truly did love Chisaki.

And somehow, even after all he’s done, those emotions never quite vanished.

“I don’t...I don’t want to be okay with this. Or be okay with you…” Your gaze fell, sniffling through your words. “I hate you―or at least, I’m supposed to hate you. But I fail at even doing that.”

You didn’t have to look up to know he was standing in front of you. Not when the uncharacteristic sound of a softness in his voice was in such a close proximity.

“That’s not a failure…”

Carefully, Chisaki cupped your face in his hands, prompting you to lift your head. Through a blurred vision you regarded his piercing amber eyes. Those set intently on yours, concerned but stern, matching his words to a T.

“You know this is what’s best for you. It’s just taking a while for that to sink in, but you’ll come around to it.” He delicately wiped away your tears as he spoke, the action soothing the torrent of discouragement inside of you. “Now, I’ll get you something to help you fall asleep, and we can forget this ever happened.”

Like always, nothing he did was a simple offer. His statements were final, and you were forced to comply whether you wished to do so or not. Only now, the notion of yearning for free will against his demands was unclear in your mind.

As it stood, and would continue to stand forever, agreeing with Chisaki was the option that had been growing on you as of late. Tonight’s events happened in a spur of the moment. In all honesty, you were unsure of yourself the moment you stepped foot outside your room. It always lingered in the back of your mind that your efforts wouldn’t get you anywhere. So, now that you were faced with that truth, resigning yourself to his whims wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be.

You let him guide you back to your room. You accepted the medication he gave without a second thought.

And soon you fell asleep, sorrows replaced with the calm and comfort Chisaki provided.

#yandere bnha #bnha fanfiction #yandere overhaul #yandere chisaki kai #yandere mha #yandere my hero academia #yandere overhaul x reader #yandere x you #yandere #yanderecore #yandere writing #yandere fanfiction #yandere male #bnhabookclub

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iwritethat · 5 years

Text

Damian Wayne: Caught Out

A/N: Update! 🙌

>>>>——————————>

8 months and 13 days.

That's how long you had been dating Damian Wayne or Robin as you've come to understand, however this relationship was kept strictly under wraps meaning no one except Damian and yourself knew about it.

You intended to keep it that way in fear Batman would split you up, granted you'd known Damian for a few years after meeting in Gotham Academy at the age of 11 and remained friends up to the age of 16 - that's when he unexpectedly asked you out on a date. He'd also revealed that he was Robin when you were 15 and you had visited the Manor many times giving you the opportunity to meet Alfred, Bruce Wayne and Tim on some rare occasions.

Once you started dating, Damian thought it'd be best to keep it from his family as his 'brothers' could be very testing and having a girlfriend would definitely have negative repercussions in the form of mockery. So you agreed to go along with it, any visit to the manor was purely platonic and he used his role of Robin to sneak away and visit you during patrol. Dates would happen anywhere outside of the Manor or family interventions fortunately for you.

Usually a tap on on your window would signify his arrival, once you'd open it you received a sweet kiss from your boyfriend and hold normal conversation. If you were lucky he would come in and stay for a while, allowing you to remove his mask before you kissed him.

"Beloved, what are you -" He questioned, your hand slipping through his hold as you reached for his domino mask.

"I want to see your eyes." Upon hearing your reason, he released a sigh and allowed you to do as you pleased. One hand lay on your waist and the other traced circles onto your wrist as your thumbs reached the edge of his make to removed it.

Damian held an expression of both confusion and amusement with a raised eyebrow since he didn't understand the point of your actions but trusted you none the less.

"Don't look at me like that Dami." You muttered and then pulled him in for a kiss which he happily returned and you could feel the smirk on his lips as you did so.

That was the basis of your relationship, no one knew. Though life is full of surprises so it couldn't all be perfect right?

It was a cold evening and unsurprisingly dark despite it only being 6pm, this was Gotham after all. Damian had been absent for over a week and you hadn't seen him in a while but assumed he was on a case elsewhere, so when you unexpectedly ran into Robin you were delighted and pulled him into your embrace immediately.

"Hold on." Robin ordered wrapping arm around your waist and later grappled you to the nearest rooftop.

Soon after you found yourself pinned to a wall with your boyfriend's lips firmly on yours, pulling away he had a smirk plastered on his face.

"You miss me or something?" You smugly asked, already knowing his unwillingness to admit such feelings as your fingers tangled themselves in his hair.

"I suppose, beloved." He quickly confirmed before leaning in to kiss you again, you reciprocated again pulling him closer to you if that was even possible. A few minutes had passed before the thing you dreaded most come to pass...

"Ahem."

That interruption shattered your whole world, you felt Damian tense up under your touch and not in a good way, very reluctantly your boyfriend pulled away to meet the dark gaze of his father.

"Dark Knight." Damian acknowledged coldly, you were impressed how he kept his calm demeanour in front of the Batman.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Batman bellowed, classic deep voice used to add emphasis on his anger.

"Kissing my girlfriend, what does it look like?" Damian retorted as if it were the most obvious answer in the world, he certainly retained his standoffish attitude during his absence.

Nightwing appeared beside his mentor following the yell heard from the next rooftop over and came to inspect the commotion, immediately he realised the severity of the situation laid out before him and a blissful smile made its way onto his features.

"Aw, Robin has a girlfriend! He's all grown up, this is unbelievable. What is your name ma'am?" Nightwing politely inquired, apparently curious.

"(Y/n)." A short answer yes but you didn't trust yourself to say anymore in fear of faltering, and despite their intimidating presence you’d been putting up with Damian Wayne for almost 7 years.

"Well (y/n), you're going to have to meet the family sometime - how long has it been now?" The black and blue clad hero continued, admiring Damian's protective hold over you.

Your breath hitched and of course Damian noticed, Batman was going to kill you if he found out you'd been dating his sidekick for 8 months without his knowledge.

"Long enough for me to know that I love her."

Nightwing was beaming at his 'brother's' statement, Batman held a poker face so you were slightly concerned about his true feelings toward you. Damian turned his head to you for your reaction at his words, yes he called you beloved but you didn't think he meant it - this was Damian Wayne, son of a millionaire falling for you. Wow.

A genuine smile makes its way to your face and was most likely accompanied by a faint flush, you would've kissed him if not for the presence of his mentors which prevented you from doing many things at the moment.

"Does (y/n) know who you are?" Batman intervened, his hand on the bridge of his nose to further elaborate on his frustration.

Paleness overtook, you could not answer this question so gave a pleading look to your boyfriend since you didn't want to get him into trouble on account of revealing trade secrets.

Unsurprisingly, Damian shrugged this off and cut to the chase - of course.

"If you're asking if (y/n) knows my identity then the answer is yes." Robin spoke up, small smirk appearing on his features.

"Then we need to sort this matter privately." Batman breathed, to any sidekick of the Dark Knight 'privately' indicated a trip to the Batcave though you were completely oblivious to this hidden meaning.

"Oh oh, can I come?!" Nightwing chimed excitedly.

Batman sent a glare to Nightwing before jumping off of the building, Nightwing gave a mock salute and followed the actions of his mentor leaving Robin and a thoroughly confused you on the rooftop.

Damian took a few steps toward the area where his mentor had disappeared until he realised your expression, his lips forming into a smirk. Taking a few paces back he was able to intertwine his fingers with yours and carefully guide you to the ledge. Releasing a nervous laugh you stepped backwards, you hand still in his.

"Nah-ah, no way, nein, nope, non, not in a million years."

"Everything will be fine beloved, I will not let you get hurt." Robin assured, his tone softening at your behaviour and attempted to provide you with some comfort in the form of tracing circles onto your hand with his thumb in a soothing manner.

Reluctantly you retraced your steps back to your boyfriend's side allowing him to sweep you into his arms so you could wrap yours around his neck for extra security, he was surprisingly strong and made it look so easy. You cursed him quite loudly once he jumped off the roof and fortunately you both landed safely in a car, later discovered to be the Batmobile's backseat.

Releasing a sigh of relief you noticed you had captivated everyone's attention, Nightwing wearing an expression of amusement as his arm rested on the front seat turning to you and Batman remained unreadable when staring at you through the centre mirror.

Eyes widening you hesitantly removed yourself from Damian who observed your actions carefully as you slid into the seat next to him.

Unsurprisingly you were fairly embarrassed and eternally grateful when the Batmobile started moving at unfathomable speeds, you were unable to contain your excitement as Gotham's night lights blurred beside you.

"This is amazing! Okay, we should do this more often." You grinned, Nightwing taking a quick glance at you.

"I officially approve, (y/n) is great. Damian can you keep her?" He asked happily.

"I intend to Grays- Nightwing, as long as you don't scare her off..." Damian scowled at his 'brother' despite the internal pride brewing due to Grayson's approval.

Arriving at the Batcave was a momentous occasion for you, it was truly a site to behold and Damian had to resort to practically dragging you through to the main area because you found everything so fascinating.

"Beloved I understand this is new to you but -"

"Damian, have you seen this place though?!" You marvelled, taking in a variety of aspects in awe as you continued a stop-start walked, Robin by your side.

"Yes (y/n), I see it almost everyday." Damian retorted monotonously as if it were the most obvious thing in the world - which supposedly it was.

"But Damian, it's amazing! Look! Why didn't you show me this sooner? It's huge." You continued, leaving Robin quite amused at your bewilderment, like that of a kid in a candy store.

"Because Batman wouldn't allow it, speaking of..." Your boyfriend started, hoping you'd get the hint.

"Yeah, yeah Batman and all that, but are you seeing all of this? A helicopter, a motorcycle, batarangs, Batman and - Damian - Batman!" You began your observations full of wonder but upon facing Batman you instantly sought the assistance of your boyfriend - with the presence of the Dark Knight before you, the stammering occurred after the initial realisation and you instinctively clutched Damian's arm a little tighter. Damian initially smiled at the way you simply brushed off Batman to begin with but found it cute how you attempted to suppress your embarrassment.

"Miss (L/n), it's intriguing that you are dating my son and failed to mention this to me." Batman smiled during his statement and went to remove his cowl.

Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne's son. Bruce was Batman, obviously after Damian had revealed to you that he was in fact Robin you suspected his father of being Batman. After all, you'd need a lot of money to finance all of this, Robin is quite close to Batman and the Manor would provide easy access to the Batcave of course. It was kind of obvious now that you thought about it.

At this point, you were unsure how to begin and welcomed any distractions - fortunately Alfred made his way down the stairs bearing a tray of refreshments and eagerly took this opportunity.

"Hi Alfred!" You beamed, waving to the butler you'd come to be very fond of.

"Ah Miss (Y/n), I was wondering how long it would take for you to find your way here." The elderly butler acknowledged, a hint of happiness detected in his tone.

"Did you know these two were dating?" Bruce asked his loyal butler, gesturing to the teenagers before him.

"I had my suspicions Master Bruce." Alfred replied, handing a hot drink to Nightwing.

"How long?" Your boyfriend's father questioned again, this time in a less distressing tone.

"About 8 months sir." Awkwardly came from your lips, causing Nightwing to choke on his beverage and Bruce to raise an eyebrow. Damian smirking at their reactions, clearly you'd hidden your relationship very well.

"Well then... It's nice to finally see you two together. I am happy for you both." Bruce commented after a lengthy silence, Nightwing held a thumbs up to you both behind Batman allowing you to relax a little.

"Thank you father."

"Yes, thank you Mr Wayne." You echoed

"You can call me Bruce (y/n), you know that." Bruce genuinely smiled, with a nod from you, both Bruce and Nightwing left the cave accompanied by Alfred.

Damian and yourself remained in the Batcave, the atmosphere settling due to the acceptance given by Damian's family.

"That went... better than I thought..." You breathed, relief still evident.

"Agreed." Damian acknowledged quite content himself.

It was then you recalled the words your boyfriend had said earlier and decided now was a great time to call him up on them.

"So... you love me?"

"I thought that was obvious in the ways I show you affection beloved?" Damian retorted, slight bewilderment in his voice due to the fact you were actually questioning his feelings toward you.

"Yeah, but it's nice to hear those words sometimes because I love you too Damian." You justified wistfully, causing Damian to turn to you with wide eyes at your statement.

"I understand why you believe those words are 'nice to hear' now I've heard you say them to me (y/n)." You boyfriend smirked, pulling you close to him and carefully placed his lips on yours.

"Uh Bruce?! Is there a new Batgirl I didn't know about because Damian has taken quite a liking to her!" Tim yelled upon entering the Batcave and witnessing the scene before him.

#damian wayne #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne x reader #robin imagine #robin x reader #dc #dc imagine

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youngdreamer3214 · 4 years

Note

Could you do 18 from the prompt list with Speedy and Raven

Assume Standard Disclaimer

Tumblr Prompt #18. “You weren’t there for me when I needed you the most.” Warning- Angst, Hurt with little comfort Pairing- Speedy and Raven

(A/N- This is written in Raven’s point of view. Please be gentle it is my first time writing a piece of this sort.)

I hope you enjoy reading this.

0O0O

My vision started to blur, heartbeats slowed down and in that moment I was lost, confused, sad and hurt. So deeply hurt that I felt as though all life was seeping out of my veins and at an excruciatingly slow pace, reminding me of everything I had gone through, what I had lost, something which I never had. A tear slips down my cheek as my breathing becomes uneven and blood gushes out of my wounds.

As I laid in the middle of the ruins, sirens blaring in the background, my friends screaming in the background trying to get to me, all I could think about were his parting words to me.

Call me a masochist but all I could think about was his painfully beautiful smile, his breathtakingly enchanting emerald eyes which would never look at me the way that I wanted, like how I looked at him.

Maybe it was because I was not pretty enough, not funny enough, not interesting enough or just not enough for him. Or maybe it was because I was not her.

She, who is his priority, the one for whom his smiles are directed to, the one who he always looks at, the one for whom he leave everything behind, even me.

My breath hitches in my throat as a ray of light falls on my face and fresh air embraces every inch of the room and hope takes birth in my heart seeing a domino masked face. Maybe he came for me? Maybe I am his priority? Maybe he hadn’t forgotten about me?

But as people rush in the room, everything becomes stuffy, cramped. The light is blocked and all hope dies as I see black hair instead of his beautiful fiery hair. I realize with defeat, cursing myself to be an idiot for having hope that he would come for me. All hope leaves my body as my leader and friend picks me up in his arms cautiously saying something that I cannot hear, all I can see is his lips moving before everything starts to blur and my world goes dark.

0O0O0

I hear voices as I slowly drift into consciousness, my eyes slowly adapting to the brightness of the... med bay? I groan as my head starts to throb and my throat feels dry.

“W-water.” I manage to croak out and everything around me falls silent except for the constant beeping of the heart monitor. I see my best friend Richard rush to get water as Cyborg with great care help me sit up while Beastboy keeps pillows behind my back. Starfire hovers around me with a worried expression on her face. I see my team filling the room as my eyes slowly open fully and without hurting.

And my heart starts to ache when I don’t see the archer in the room, confirming what I already know, that he doesn’t care enough for me to be here.

I try to shift my focus from him to my friends, who I am so grateful to have in my life and offer them a smile full of gratefulness as I see the relief on their faces.

“You scared us there, Rae…” Richard says with relief evident on his face as he pulls a chair to sit next to my bed after helping me drink water.

“Yeah, don’t do that to us again please…or who would save us from greenie’s jokes?” Cyborg, my dear big brother said trying to lighten the serious mood but I could feel the high levels of relief emitting from him. Beastboy agreed till he realized the remark made at him and gave an offended, making me laugh inwardly “Hey! Raven loves my jokes…don’t you, Raven?”

I just gave an unimpressed look to him, trying to hide my smile as my mind shifted to my friends and how thankful I was that I had them in my life.

It was not until later that Cyborg told me that I had suffered from several wounds, some of them being burns and a fractured leg but the most worrisome was the wound on my head which was the reason I had difficulty healing myself and the reason why I was in critical condition until and unless I woke up.

He advised me to not move out of the med bay for at least till tomorrow and that for at least three weeks (depending on my healing) I was to not take part in fighting crime. The latter to which I protested relentlessly but my friends were firm on this decision and I ultimately gave up when Starfire gave me her watery eyes.

I sighed and my eyes started to become droopy, the medicine showing its effect so I leaned back in the pillows and Cyborg ushered everyone out of the room seeing my state, Starfire gave me a huge but gentle hug. Well the gentlest she could be and left. Cyborg and Beastboy followed suit with the former making promises of waffles for breakfast and the latter with of a protein filled vegan breakfast at which Cyborg hit his head as they both walked out playfully fighting.

Now only Richard was left. With him only in the room my mask had no meaning; he was my best friend, my leader and the one who I trusted most in the world. He knew about my feelings for the archer and he knew all the pain I suffered because of it.

The pain of loving someone who could never see me that way, who could never think of me in that way, who could never return my feelings.

We sat in silence for a while, the beeping of the heart monitor being the only sound in the room when I asked in a low voice “Did he call?”

A small, quiet ‘no’ was my answer and I chuckled painfully, a couple of tears welling up in my eyes as I heard what my best friend had to add “Maybe he didn’t get the message…or maybe-”

“He doesn’t care.” My dejected admission stole all the words out of his mouth and he stared at me with pity, which I hated. I don’t need anybody’s pity or sympathy. So before he could say anything I looked at him and whispered, my voice coming out shakier than I would have liked “I am t-tired.”

He saw the turmoil underneath my facade like he always did, and left after wishing me a good night. I closed my eyes, hoping for sleep to take me away from the nightmares of reality.

0O0

Days passed as my body was recovering from its injuries unlike my heart which still remained broken, breaking more with each day passing when he didn’t call.

My friends noticed this as they constantly tried to divert my mind to other matters. Richard would ask me to help him in battle strategies, Starfire would make me watch some show that was trending and Cyborg would just talk with me, carefully avoiding any topic which may hurt me.

But the most puzzling of all was Beastboy, who would transform into a kitten and just lay next to me, napping or lightly purring as I gave him scratches, just offering me his support and comfort. And that was just what I needed; as much as I appreciated the efforts of all my friends, I looked forward to Beastboy’s company the most.

The shapeshifter was the only one of my friends who could understand my pain, the pain of loving someone who could never love you back again. And ever since Terra refused to recognize him, he has carried that pain in his heart; which I can often feel and now relate to.

And it was on one of the days when Beastboy was lying next to me in his cat form while I read when he entered the room, and my breathe hitched in my throat and my heart beats slowed down.

His somehow always impeccable red hair were messy, as though he had run his hand through it a lot; his gorgeous emerald eyes were hidden by his domino mask but even that mask couldn’t hide his anger as his face was flushed and his chest was heaving.

“I need to speak to you Raven” he said, his lips tight and sporting a frown which only deepened as he looked at the changeling next to me and said “Alone.”

Beastboy didn’t say anything; he lightly curled his tail around my hand while staring at the archer, showing his support. He slowly turned and looked at me in question and I lightly nodded my head so he untangled his tail from me, making me suddenly feel so empty and alone, and jumped on the ground and walked out of the room to give us privacy but not before glaring at the archer.

“What is it Speedy?” I asked not looking at him, which seemed to anger him even more as he stomped in my direction till he stood in front of me, his stance intimidating and furious. But I couldn’t bear to look at him. Just being in the same room with him was suffocating me. It was reminding me of what I couldn’t have, what I was not good enough for.

“Do you mind explaining to me, why I found out from Aqualad that you are injured instead of you telling me this yourself?” he seethed. I didn’t say anything and focused my attention on the wall behind him.

He clouded my senses, everything about him was overwhelming me. His extreme and very loud emotions were impacting my empathy, making me unable to think about anything but him.

I stayed silent, unable to say anything with his anger clouding his senses and now fueling my own. “Tell me Raven!” He screamed at the top of his lungs.

“Why did you not tell me? Am I NOTHING to you? Don’t I have the right to know, if my best friend is injured? You are an empath right? Then why do you not care about anyone’s emotions but your own! Why-”

This was the breaking point for me.

I could feel my magic waiting to erupt from my being, my second pair of eyes waiting to open and my demonic heritage wanting to overpower my human self.

“Shut up!” I hissed, my voice laced with my demon’s “You don’t get to speak to me this way, especially after everything that has happened between us.”

My heart ached again, thinking about the day when our relationship changed forever. My demon retreating in the deepest depths of my being as my pain overshadowed everything else.

“You are asking me that why didn’t I tell you about my condition but why weren’t you there for me when all this happened, when I needed you?” his eyes widened at my question.I could feel his anger drain out of his body as everything he said that day and his reason for not being there for me dawned on him.

He shamefully hung his head, the anger seemingly forgotten as he said in a voice just above a whisper “S-she…”

I laughed, cutting him off; of course it was because of her. I cursed myself for thinking that he had another reason for not being there for me. “So don’t accuse me of not caring about anybody else’s emotions, when it was you who had never cared about mine...You weren’t there for me when I needed you the most.”

A tear slipped down my eye as I looked at him saying what I promised to myself would be my last words to him, the man who was my friend, my first love, Roy. “And now I will make sure that I never need you again.” And now he will always be Speedy to me, a fellow titan.

Fin.

Please Read and Review.

Thank you.

#raven #speedyrae #roy harper #royrae #teen titans #angst #unrequited feelings #hurt #dc #dc comics #fanfiction

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nikki-writes-stuff · 4 years

Text

Chaser - Part Two

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader, Gang Leader!Din Djarin x Bartender!Reader

Summary: No one knows his name, and no one knows his face, but the man who leads one of the most powerful gangs in New York from behind an infamous mask is still feared throughout the city. You, on the other hand, are just a waitress at the club he owns, someone who’s only just barely dipped her toe into the treacherous water of New York’s underworld. But that doesn’t stop your boss from taking a liking to you, and if you weren’t so terrified of all that his attentions could mean for you, maybe you would notice that fear isn’t the only emotion your employer stirs up within you.

Your first week as a bartender passed in a blur of shouted orders and masked faces, but by the end of it you’d comfortably settled into a rhythm. You would show up, take your forty-five minute break at 1 am, and then work until 3:30. The music and the smoke had become normal for you, and your feet had stopped aching after your fifth day on the job despite the ungodly heels you still had to wear. All in all, you were content in your new routine; no amount of spilled drinks or sticky countertops could get your spirits down, especially not with the generous tips you’d started racking up.

You were surprised, however, when that first week passed with no other sign of the Boss. His right-hand-woman, Cara, was there most nights, sitting in the circle booth with a near-constant smile on her face. Despite her good humor, though, there was no denying the bulge of her muscles beneath the suits she liked to wear, and her smirks held the promise of a dangerous edge that was far from skin-deep. You were careful around her, making sure to avoid any blunders that could get you on her bad side, but she seemed more than content with the quality of your drinks.

It was only after your two days off at the end of that first week in your new position that you saw the Boss sitting with her once more, and when the time came, you felt more than saw his presence. The people sitting in the scattered dining tables kept glancing over their shoulders towards his table, speaking in hushed whispers with heads bent low towards one another. Quill, too, seemed to act differently; there was a tense line to his shoulders that you hadn’t noticed there before, and you only made it twenty minutes into your shift before your curiosity got the best of you.

“What’s going on?” you finally asked him, setting aside the glass you’d been polishing. “What has everyone so on-edge?”

The older man didn’t so much as glance in your direction as he poured a glass of wine so dark that it resembled blood, but the way his lips pressed tighter together told you that he’d heard.

“…The Hutts are back on their bullshit,” he eventually groused. “The Boss just got back from teaching ‘em a lesson.”

An icy jolt worked its way down your spine; the Hutts were perhaps the only crime syndicate that could rival the Mandalorians, and the history between the two gangs was far from friendly. Even civilians had heard of the territory wars back in the 90’s, before the Boss had risen to his current status. Unlike the Mandalorians, though, the Hutts couldn’t go much longer than a few months before testing their boundaries, usually to their detriment.

“Was anybody hurt?” you asked in a small voice, eyes cutting towards the smoke separating your gaze from the Boss’s table.

“A few; more of them than us,” Quill muttered. “Do yourself a favor and don’t say anything about it; the Boss has everything under control.”

You nodded distractedly, almost missing it when a drunken patron leaned against the bar and demanded another bourbon neat. You couldn’t deny the pang of worry you’d felt for the man who’d taken such an interest in you, as illogical as you knew it to be. The memory of his kindness and of his true, unfiltered voice had stuck with you ever since your meeting with him, and where you had once only felt fear towards the mobster, there was now a dark curiosity that seemed to encase his presence in your mind.

And so, when a waitress leaned over the bar about an hour later to tell you that Cara had ordered one of your long islands, a traitorous sliver of excitement creeped up your spine as you nodded and started mixing her drink. She’d had at least one of the alcoholic concoctions for every shift you worked, always making it a point to praise you for your skills after you’d deliver it to her table.

“Still the best damn long island I’ve ever had,” she’d smirk. “And I’ve had a lot of ‘em in my time.”

Now, after carefully placing a sugared lemon wedge on the lip of the glass, you made your way to her booth, your heartrate picking up when you made out the first flash of shiny plastic through the haze in the air. You felt the Boss’s eyes on you as you stepped up to Cara, and your cheeks heated up as you smiled between them and the other man at their table.

“There she is,” Cara grinned, her canines flashing in the low light.

“Hello, Cara,” you greeted her, setting the drink down in front of her. “How are you all this evening?”

“Better now,” she chuckled.

Your eyes flickered to the Boss as he tilted his head towards you, his gloved hands resting on the table in front of him.

“How have you been enjoying the bar?” he asked, and your fingers twitched as you shifted on your feet.

“I like it a lot, sir,” was your immediate reply. “I can’t thank you enough for the promotion.”

“Cara’s already thanked me plenty,” he chuckled. You could hear his smile in every syllable, and it made your own lips twitch as you lowered your gaze to the ground in front of you.

“I’m glad to hear-“

You were cut off when something slammed into you from behind, and had you not been able to catch yourself on the edge of the table, you would have face-planted onto the raised platform it was situated on. As you stumbled forward, though, you felt your left ankle roll in its high heel, and a pained gasp escaped your lips as you felt something in it pop.

Turning your head, you saw the same drunk man who’d ordered a bourbon neat from you earlier on the ground, having evidently tripped into you as he’d been fumbling his way to his table. He was half-laying, half-sitting in a small puddle of that very same drink, now, and his eyes were fighting to stay open as he slurred mumbled apologies up at you.

“So s’rry, ma’am,” he groaned, trying and failing to stand up. “Wasn’t lookin’ where I w’s goin’…”

The man sitting with the Boss stood up, adjusting his cufflinks before promptly grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet.

“I think you’ve had a bit too much, don’t you?” he grunted, his lips curled downwards into a scowl. “Don’t you think it’d be wise to go home?”

The drunkard nodded, his eyes going glassy as the room span with the motion, and your head turned towards the Boss upon hearing him clear his throat.

“Gideon, make sure he finds his way out without assaulting any other members of my staff, please,” he ordered, and the drunkard visibly paled at the thin layer of ice in his tone.

“S-sir, I’m so sorry-“

“It’s…it’s ok,” you interrupted, not sure whether you were assuring the man who’d unwittingly pushed you or the Boss. “Honest mistake.”

Even still, Gideon kept one hand fisted the poor sap’s shirt as he all but dragged him towards the exit, and it was then that you noticed the swarm of eyes that had fallen upon you as the other patrons watched the scene unfold. Feeling distinctly like a bug under a microscope, you moved to straighten up, only to slump over and grip the table as you tried to put weight on your twisted ankle.

“Shit,“ you hissed from behind clenched teeth, glancing down to see that your foot was already starting to swell.

“Are you hurt?”

Upon hearing the worry in your employer’s tone, you glanced up to see him leaning towards you on his elbows.

“…I think I might have sprained my ankle,” you admitted sheepishly.

“You mean he sprained your ankle,” he corrected, starting to pull himself around to the edge of the booth. Your eyes widened as he approached you, and once again you tried to settle some of your weight onto your bad foot, though you gave up hope of walking away as searing pain shot through it once more.

“…C’mon,” he said after a beat, holding out his hand. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

You dazedly felt him maneuver your arm around his shoulders, the dark blue satin of his suit brushing against your entire left side as his woodsy cologne filled your senses. His voice was loud in your ear as he instructed you to lean against him, and you clumsily complied, hobbling on one foot as the two of you slowly began trudging towards a hallway designated for employees only.

“Quill,” he called out as you passed the bar. “Bring a bag of ice to my office.”

You turned just in time to catch the way Quill’s eyes skipped between you and the Boss; puzzlingly, there was a note of suspicion in his gaze, though you couldn’t tell which one of you it was directed towards. It was gone in a flash, though, as his tanned, weathered hands hurried to finish the drink he’d been working on before following his employer’s order.

Once you’d left behind the thumping music of the main dining room, you started recognizing the halls leading to the same office you’d stood in a week previous, and you tried your hardest to focus on anything except the man who was now deeply in your personal space.

“You don’t have to help me,” you muttered lamely, feeling a stab of sheepish guilt from pulling the Boss away from his table.

“Well, something tells me you wouldn’t be able to walk on your own right now,” he grunted. You took in the way he had to hunch his shoulders for you to be able to get your arm around him, and you felt another pang of remorse for the crick that was no doubt starting to form in his neck.

“…Thank you.”

He nodded, his mask brushing against your shoulder as he did, and you fell into another tense silence as you turned the corner to his office. After fishing a ring of keys out of his jacket pocket and unlocking the door, he once more let you use him as a crutch until you were able to sink down onto his sofa. The black leather upholstery was cool against your legs as you settled down into it, and the Boss wordlessly turned to start gathering the throw pillows resting on the armchairs across the room.

“Here,” he said, stacking them on top of one another before gesturing towards your foot. “Elevate that for a while; it’s already starting to swell.”

You did as he instructed, leaning over to unbuckle your shoe and slip it off before settling your foot onto the pillows. Your back was pressed against the armrest behind you, and you let out a quiet huff of relief as your ankle momentarily stopped throbbing.

“I’m guessing it hurts?”

He didn’t give you an opportunity to reply before turning and marching over to his desk, and you watched in the large mirror as he pulled open a drawer and produced a bottle of pills.

“Can you take acetaminophen? Or I have ibuprofen, if you’d prefer.”

“Um… I’ll take the acetaminophen,” you replied. “Thank you.”

He brought over the bottle to you, pouring two capsules into your outstretched palm.

“…I don’t have any water for you to take those with,” he commented, sounding almost apologetic. “Need me to get you some?”

“Oh, no,” you assured him, popping the pills into your mouth and swallowing to prove your point. “But thank you.”

A small laugh crackled through his modulator as he went to place the painkillers back into his desk.

“You don’t need to keep thanking me,” he remarked. “I’m supposed to take care of my employees.”

He began to say something else, but it was then that Quill opened the door of the office with a small bag of ice in one hand and a rolled up length of bandage in the other.

“So, I’m guessing the last bourbon was one too many for him, huh?” he asked you, kneeling down beside your foot and setting the ice down onto it.

You jolted at the sudden cold temperature, your teeth clenching at the spark of pain it sent radiating upwards from your swollen flesh.

“I-I guess so,” you stammered, watching as he started to unravel the bandage.

“Hm.”

Without warning, the older man started poking gently at your ankle, keeping the ice pressed to it as he instructed you to try wiggling your toes. You complied despite the discomfort the movement caused, but you audibly yelped when he tried to guide you to move your foot.

“…Looks like a sprain,” he finally declared, though you would have been able to tell him that several minutes ago. “I’m gonna wrap it for you; make sure you stay off of it for the next few days or so.”

“But I have to-“

Your words dissolved into a pained groan when he started to wrap it, and you saw the Boss’s shoulders flinch at the sound.

“Don’t manhandle her, Quill,” he sighed brusquely, but the bartender didn’t so much as glance in his direction.

“She’ll be alright,” he assured him, looking up at you from behind his bushy eyebrows. “You’re tougher than you look, right?”

Despite the discomfort (and, yes, frustration that he wasn’t being gentler with your wound), you gave him a small smile and nodded.

“’Tis but a flesh wound,” you mumbled under your breath.

A soft laugh sounded from behind you, and you turned to watch your boss in the mirror.

“Monty Python, huh?”

“The one and only,” you confirmed.

When the bandage was secured tightly, Quill once more set the ice over your ankle before hauling himself to his feet with a grunt.

“Take the next few days off, kid,” he commanded you, holding up a hand to stop you before you could protest. “I think there might be some crutches in a supply closet somewhere; wait here ‘til I get back.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left, leaving you alone with the Boss once more. The heels of his shiny black shoes clicked against the concrete as he stalked over to one of the armchairs, and he lowered himself down into it with a sigh.

“Quill is an acquired taste,” he stated, drumming his fingers across one of the armrests. “But he means well.”

“I know,” you assured him. “He’s been nothing but kind to me since I started.”

The masked man tiled his head to the side, and you could imagine him arching an eyebrow at you from behind the T-shaped plane of black plastic.

“…Well, maybe a little grumpy, but still kind.”

“Grumpy,” he nodded. “An apt description.”

Awkward silence threatened to fill the space between you, and your mind raced as it searched for something to say.

You finally settled on, “Do you like owning this club?”, and he took a second to consider his answer.

“…It’s among the more benign parts of my job, I guess,” he replied after a moment. “But I don’t have much to do with running it. Quill is more of the owner than I am, even if my name is on the deed. Do you like working here?”

It was a loaded question, but the answer to it came easily enough.

“I do,” you answered him. “It took some getting used to, but it’s far from being the worst job I’ve ever had.”

“Is it the first job of yours that involves the mafia?”

Your eyes widened at his blunt line of questioning, and you gulped.

“I don’t know if mixing drinks and waiting tables counts as involvement with the mob,” you said carefully.

“Sure it does,” he insisted. “I’m sure you see at least a dozen arrestable offenses every day you come in to work.”

Your mind flashed to the lines of white powder and bags of pot you’d seen openly sprawled out on the tables of the various booths during your time as a waitress, and most of the people in the building, staff or otherwise, had a gun or some other weapon not-so-hidden somewhere on their person.

“…It doesn’t bother me as much as it did at first,” you said eventually. “And even then, it didn’t ‘bother’ so much as ‘surprise’.”

“Hm. And did you know what you were getting into when you took the job?”

You took in a shaky breath.

“I did. Did you, when you first started?”

In his initial moment of silence, you feared that the question had been too personal, but his shoulders hadn’t tensed in anger, nor had his body language shifted from the relaxed state it was in.

“…I did,” he echoed after a moment. “I started when I was young.”

“…I’m sorry,” you breathed. “That was a…pretty personal thing to ask-“

“It’s fine,” he waved you off, crossing one of his ankles over his knee. “It’s not like I hadn’t asked you personal questions first.”

The door opened again just a few moments after that, and Quill came bustling in with a pair of metal crutches tucked under his arm.

“Finally found the damn things,” he grunted. “Had to clean some blood offa them, but they should work just fine.”

You blinked slowly, trying to search for a sign on his face that he was joking, but there was none to be seen as he leaned them against the couch.

“…Thanks.”

“’Welcome,” he nodded. “You need help gettin’ to your car?”

“I… I don’t have a car,” you said, feeling your heart start to sink in realization. “I always take the subway.”

“Aw, hell,” the old man sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Well, I guess I can-“

“Go back and tend to the bar,” the Boss suddenly interrupted. “I can drive her in mine.”

At that, Quill finally turned to level a look at the masked man that showed the same suspicion you’d seen in his eyes earlier, and for the next few seconds, the men stared each other down, communicating in a silent language only discernable to themselves.

“…It’s Saturday night, Quill,” your employer eventually reasoned. “They need your help, especially when we’re already down one bartender.” He gestured to your bad foot, and you felt a prick of guilt seep into you as you thought about how busy the staff would be without your help.

“…Fine,” the older man huffed before turning and stalking towards the door once again as he grumbled under his breath. “Nobody goddamn listens to me anymore…”

After the door was closed, the Boss’s shoulders slumped a bit from where they’d been tensed during the stand-off, and you didn’t get the chance to ask any questions before he pulled himself to his feet.

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem?” you asked him. “I know you’re probably busy-“

“Like I said, Quill runs this place more than I do. Hell, Cara probably does, too.”

He held out one of his hands, its black leather glove shining, and you hesitated before taking it, letting him help you up onto your good foot. It was a precarious balancing act on your thin heel, and the Boss rushed to hand you the crutches before you could teeter backwards onto the sofa. Bending down, he picked up your discarded heel and buckled its strap around one of your crutches, leaving it to hang there as you tentatively used them to swing yourself forward.

The plastic dug into your underarms with every step, but you started to get the hang of them as your boss slowly started guiding you through the building, down unfamiliar hallways until you found yourself standing in a cold, cavernous parking garage.

“I didn’t even know this was here,” you commented, hearing your voice bounce across the high ceilings of the space.

“Technically, it’s supposed to be for the warehouse next door,” he informed you, leading you towards a mammoth-like black Cadillac parked close by. “But for some reason, they’ve always been too intimidated to tell me not to park here.”

You snorted, following him around to the passenger side of the vehicle.

“You? Intimidating? I can’t imagine.”

His shoulders shook softly with his laughter, and you leaned against the car as he stowed your crutches in the backseat. After he opened the passenger door for you, you wondered for a moment how you were going to hoist yourself into the tall front seat, but your worries fizzled away when he gestured for you to come closer to him.

“I’m gonna help you up; is that ok?”

He waited until you nodded before setting his hands on your hips and quickly pulling you upwards, and before you knew it you were comfortably nestled against the soft leather interior. You bit your lip as your cheeks, once again, heated up from how close he’d been, and you couldn’t help but marvel at the effortless strength he’d shown as he picked you up without so much as a grunt from the effort.

The driver’s door opened, but the Boss paused before getting in.

“I forgot to ask if you needed to get anything from your locker,” he spoke, and your eyes widened as you realized that you hadn’t even thought about it, either.

“Shit, I forgot, too,” you groaned, dreading having to take another trip back inside to retrieve your purse.

“It’s ok,” he assured you. “Just, uh…give me your combination and I’ll go get whatever you need. If you’re ok with that.”

“Are you sure you don’t-“

“I don’t mind at all. Now, which locker should I be looking for?”

You described which one was yours, giving him your combination before he nodded and fished out the same key ring as before.

“I’ll be right back,” he informed you. “Go ahead and crank the car, if you want. It gets a little chilly in here at night.”

After handing you the keys, he closed the car door and headed back inside, leaving you to trail your eyes up and down the lean length of his body before he disappeared from sight. His broad shoulders tapered down into a trim waist, and there was no denying that he had exquisite taste in suits as the dark blue material of his outfit hugged his figure; not for the first time, you wondered if the face beneath his mask was just as attractive as the rest of him.

“Get ahold of yourself,” you muttered, shaking your head before jamming the key into the ignition. “None of those thoughts now, thank you very much.”

As soon as the engine turned over, you jolted as loud music suddenly started pouring through the speakers. Frantically turning down the volume, you let out a huff of laughter, shaking your head to dispel your startled shock. The familiar tune of Africa by Toto was playing from a CD he’d apparently been listening to the last time he was in the car, and you smiled, both at his choice in music and the fact that he still used CD’s.

The song was almost over by the time he rejoined you, your old, worn purse clutched in one hand as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Oh, I forgot I’d left the radio on; sorry about that,” he apologized, depositing your bag into your lap.

“No, it’s fine,” you assured him. “I happen to love this song.”

He hummed, throwing the car (though, really, it felt more like a tank) into reverse before accelerating out of the parking lot.

“Good taste,” he praised. “But feel free to play something else if you want.”

Letting your curiosity get the best of you, you flicked through the CD, watching as several classics from the 80’s showed up on the screen’s display.

“Never would’ve pegged you as an 80’s fan,” you chuckled.

“Why? Cuz of the music we play in the club?”

You nodded, eventually settling on Jump by Van Halen, making sure to turn the sound down so you could talk to one another without having to shout over it.

“That was Cara’s idea,” he continued. “She’s the one who made the playlist that we-“

He cut himself off, breaking at the first red light you came to before turning to you slowly.

“…I’ve just realized that I have no idea where you live,” he admitted sheepishly, and you laughed as you, too, recognized that he’d begun driving without first asking you for directions.

“It’s ok,” you assured him. “Luckily, you’re already heading in the right direction. I live in Mott Haven, off East 138th.”

A high-pitched sound came from behind his mask, and it took you a second to realize that he’d just whistled.

“That’s a bit of a ways from here,” he commented, but you couldn’t feel guilty in time before he added, “Not that I mind, just… It must be tough to commute on the subway every night from here to there.”

You shrugged, watching the lights of the city whiz by past you after the light turned green.

“You get used to it after a while,” you noted. “And I kind of like walking through the city at night. It’s peaceful, in its own way.”

“And dangerous in others.”

You smirked, fishing through your purse until your fingers closed around your taser, lifting it up so your boss could see.

“That’s why I keep this guy around,” you smiled, watching as he turned his head towards you so he could see what you were brandishing.

“Good idea,” he nodded, approval evident in his voice. An uncertainty seemed to come over him, though, as he turned back to the road, restlessly tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Is, uh…he the only guy you keep around?” he finally asked, and it took your brain a short second to load the meaning of his question. Your eyes widened, and you cleared your throat before answering.

“Not for lack of trying, but yeah,” you conceded. “Well, him and my cat.”

The Boss hummed, turning his blinker on with deft fingers as he navigated from one lane to the next.

“A cat, huh? What’s his name?”

You smiled, thinking about the little mongrel waiting for you at home.

“Gato,” you answered, hearing him laugh softly in response.

“Your cat’s name is Cat?”

“Well, ‘cat’ in Spanish,” you grinned. “He was already named that when I got him; the family who used to live down the hall from me had to get rid of him, and their daughter guilt-tripped me into taking him in. I hadn’t even wanted a cat in the first place, but…”

“Here you are.”

“Here I am,” you agreed. “Do you speak Spanish?”

There was wry humor in his voice when he replied.

“Enough to know what ‘gato’ means.”

From there, you navigated him to your neighborhood until, eventually, he pulled up to your large, rent-controlled apartment building.

“Well, this is me,” you sighed, opening your door before slinging your purse over your shoulder. “Thank you again for the ride; I’m sorry for any inconvenience I caused.”

“Stop apologizing,” he chided you gently. Hurriedly, he got out and walked over to your side of the car, pulling your crutches out of the backseat before helping you down onto the sidewalk, his hands once again finding your hips. “I volunteered, remember? Couldn’t just abandon Cara’s favorite bartender.”

You smiled, tilting your head up to look at where you approximated his eyes were behind the mask.

“Still. I really appreciate it, Boss,” you intoned. “Thank you.”

He nodded, turning to look between you and your building.

“You, uh…need any help getting to your apartment?”

You shook your head.

“Nah, that’s ok,” you promised. “I can just ride the elevator up.”

With one last smile, you turned and began hobbling into your building.

“Have a good night, Boss,” you called over your shoulder.

You heard a quiet, “you, too,” just before the front door closed behind you, leaving your employer standing outside, staring through the glass doors to the lobby even after you left his line of sight.

“…Remember what Quill said,” he eventually muttered to himself, turning back to climb into his car. “Remember what happened last time.”

Once he was in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard that the leather squeaked against his gloves, he bowed his head, closing his eyes as images of them started floating through his mind.

“Remember what happened last time, Din.”

#star wars #din djarin x reader #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian imagine #star wars fanfiction #star wars imagine

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wolf-zer0 · 4 years

Text

whisper and thorn

cross-posted to ao3: whisper and thorn

He doesn’t have a name. At least, not one he could remember. He tried, sometimes, to shift through memories. Tried to grasp something, anything, that wasn’t static. That wasn’t painful. Nothing sticks. Nothing stays.

Nothing but the forest.

He doesn’t have a name, but he does have the forest. It is always moving, always changing, always living. He feels the forest under his skin, thrumming through his veins. He feels every fallen tree, every shift in the earth, every thing that enters and exists.

He doesn’t have a home, not like he sees others have. Instead of four walls of stone and wood, he has towering mountains and trees. Instead of a roof, he has the vast canopy of green leaves. He likes green. The torn and tattered remains of fabric stretched across thin shoulders are green. Green is home.

He doesn’t have a family. He may have. Once. But not anymore. The first thing he can remember is the shell of a house, empty and smoldering. There wasn’t anyone else there. He was alone. He is alone. But he’s not. He has the forest.

The forest sings to him. He hears crescendo of berries and fruits as they ripen to sweet perfection. He hears the bubbling rush of fresh water tumbling from high atop the mountain. He hears the dim percussion, the heart of the earth itself beneath his bare feet, matching the rhythm of the beat in his chest.

He hears the dissonant pounding of footsteps. Crouched on a log, fingertips fiddling with the decaying bark, his head tilts in the direction he hears it from.

There’s a child running through the trees, laughter ringing through the clear summer air.

He’s seen children before. He thinks he is a child. But don’t children have families? Homes? He doesn’t, so he’s not sure. He stares at the newcomer, confused. Where did he come from?

The newcomer stops, back towards him. He turns.

And looks right at him.

For a moment, the forest is silent. There’s no music, no movement, nothing. Just a single note, high and unwavering, like the dark brown eyes of this new boy.

There’s something scratching at the back of his head, trying to tell him something, but he doesn’t listen.

The note breaks. He runs. He thinks the boy shouts at him, but he doesn’t care to listen. He doesn’t want to listen. He just wants the forest.

He doesn’t mean to see the boy again. In fact, he makes it his goal not to see him again. His ears are strained at all times, listening for any change, any shift in the life of the forest. A sudden call of birds. The rustling of grass. Anything. It works. Until it doesn’t.

He should have remembered the traps. The angry metallic hum pierces the chaotic calm of the forest. But he’s so focused on listening for the boy, he misses the sound of the wire and metal as it tightens around his foot.

He falls with a yelp, chin pressing into the earth painfully as his leg is wrenched upward unnaturally. He scrambles to free himself, fingers digging at his ankle, to no avail.

The forest falls away as he is dragged upward. His skin feels too big, empty space left in his bones where movement once was. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel it. Hecan’tfeelithecan’tfeelithecan’tfeelit-

He doesn’t hear the boy this time, though the boy still makes no effort to mask his movements. Panic clouds his vision, clogs his hearing. He catches a faint buzzing just beyond his awareness as a featherlight touch brushes the wire. He jerks once. His breath catches and tears build as the metal tightens. The buzzing remains, oddly comforting in its consistency.

The hold on his ankle releases, and he tumbles to the dirt in a heap. His chest is heaving, barely able to breathe, and tears cover his face. His eyes blur and all he can see is color. Green, green, green, green —

Brown. He only sees brown. Brown that morphs into dark hair, leaves and twigs caught in the mess. Brown that shifts into dark eyes, warm with concern and care. Brown that solidifies into the boy. The boy who he was afraid of— was saved by.

The boy’s mouth moves, noises spilling from his mouth like the waterfall’s he used to sleep near. It makes no sense to him, and yet it does. He knows it the same way he knows the forest. The humming beneath his skin grows where the boy is touching him, where the boy is wrapping a clean white cloth around his bloody ankle. The boy pulls him up quickly, ducking under his shoulder to support him when he nearly collapses. He lets the boy. He doesn’t know why.

The boy leads him to a house, a cozy looking stack of stones and woods that only feels empty and lifeless to him. The stone is dead. The wood is dead. The lack of life scares him. He refuses to enter, refuses to be cut off from the forest, not again. The boy says something again, tries to pull him closer. He resists. He can’t lose it, he can’t. Something shifts in the boy’s eyes and he huffs, chest vibrating against his side, and pulls him higher up on his shoulder.

The boy leads him to a cluster of trees, grown together in a way that makes a small, dry hollow. He curls up after the boy lowers him down gently. His ankle throbs painfully and he tries to fight back the flinch. He fails. The boy says something quickly before dashing away.

He feels cold. He feels empty. But the forest is still there. The thrumming is still there. Why is he empty?

Why?

The boy comes back, a strange looking bundle stuffed in his arms. The cold ebbs. The emptiness fades. His head feels light. It feels right. Safe.

Whole.

He floats in the space between sleeping and waking, hyperaware yet distant from the boy. There’s chatter that drifts in front of his face that he doesn’t quite understand and doesn’t try to grasp at. His ankle stings, then doesn’t. The boy speaks, then doesn’t.

He’s awake, then isn’t.

The boy doesn’t leave him alone. He’s always somewhere behind him, talking and laughing and not making any sense. He doesn’t acknowledge his presence, even as he stomps through the underbrush and crushes the flowers below his heels. He thinks he glares, once, after the boy snaps a branch of a nearby tree and he feels the pain deep and sharp in his chest. The boy walks more carefully after that.

They boy keeps visiting and visiting and visiting. He’s always moving, always talking, always living. After a while, he wants to understand. He forces the boy to stop and teach him. The boy does.

He doesn’t know why, but he starts to trust the boy - Sapnap, the boy squawks one day when he finally starts to learn his language. There’s something in him that won’t let him walk away. He doesn’t know if he even wants to in the first place.

Sapnap doesn’t care about his lack of shoes. (For often than not, he’s barefoot next to him, splashing away in a mud puddle). Sapnap doesn’t mind the way he pulls his ratty hood up, the way he tugs his collar to hide his face. He knows he’s not… normal looking. He remembers way people sneer if he forgets to hide. He knows Sapnap should be the same. But he never is. (He doesn’t even comment). He feels comfortable around him, safe, in almost every way.

Except one.

Sapnap is Sapnap. He is…

He doesn’t know who he is. He’s never had to care before. The forest doesn’t care about names, about self. It lives and grows and dies as a unit. He didn’t care before, when the forest was all he had. But now…

Now he wants to be something. Something more than a child in green, living in green. He wants to be someone.

He doesn’t tell Sapnap. He doesn’t know how to tell him. They continue to meet. (Never near Sapnap’s house, not after his mother screamed and nearly skewered him when he tried to follow Sapnap inside). They meet by the river, by the lightning-split oak, by the rock shaped like a wolf. They meet and he listens and he wants to tell him so badly but he can’t. So he doesn’t.

Until Sapnap asks him. It should be so easy. Three words. I am … something. But he’s not. He has nothing. He tells him as much, throat raw. The thrumming under his skin becomes painful.

Sapnap’s hand on his arm isn’t. It’s warm.

He offers him options, laying them out on the soft, dew-covered grass. He sorts through them, testing them on his tongue, looking to his … friend for guidance.

He picks one, and it feels right as it tumbles from his mouth. Sapnap smiles brightly when he says it to him.

My name is Dream. I’m Dream.

Dream grows, and so does Sapnap. He learns, and so does Sapnap. They learn of the world beyond the forest border. They learn of the great oceans, the vast deserts, the sprawling cities, the sheer number of people. They learn of magic, great and small. No matter what they do, they do it together.

When Sapnap sheepishly hands him a white mask with a crudely drawn smile, he feels the forest around them sing in tune with his heart. He offers a thin strip of white cloth in return, so similar to the one used so long ago, yet so much more valuable than anything he can say with words. And he swears he feels the forest’s voice change, a new, deeper note of gratitude adding to the chorus, when his friend accepts. He thinks something has slotted into place, and he doesn’t want to let it go.

He doesn’t know exactly how everything happened, only that it did.

He’s waiting for Sapnap to show, dozing in a clearing with his back to the earth and face to the sky. He hasn’t seen his friend in days, but he’s fine with waiting. Everything is quiet. Calm. Peaceful. The forest is humming around him.

Then it shrieks.

He bolts upright, calm melting away and replaced by panic and pain.

So much pain.

It tugs at his very core, screaming pain pain danger hurt fire hurry HURRY PAIN.

He doesn’t think. He runs.

The forest opens up in response to his panic. The earth shifts beneath his feet. Roots curl back to avoid catching his ankles. Trees move to open new paths. Birds call in the distance as he nears the spot. He knows this spot. He knows that house.

The house is on fire.

Tall, red and orange flames lick at the leaves above it, and the trees shudder. Patches of once green grass are burned black and brittle. An outline of something he doesn’t want to recognize but does lays in the scorched grass. There’s a crowd of people he doesn’t know, dressed in black and gray, gathered around the burning building. There are weapons in their hands. A small figure stands at the center of the mass, covered in soot and hands lit aflame.

Sapnap’s eyes are smoldering embers, glowing in the afternoon light. He wears a snarl, the beginnings of fangs glinting as he growls lowly. Dream doesn’t breech the tree line, frozen in fear and rage. There’s a dissonant note ringing in the air, familiar and not. A figure swings a blade down, slicing through the dirty band tied around Sapnap’s forehead.

The note continues.

Dream shatters.

He doesn’t remember the earth twisting to cover Sapnap. He doesn’t remember the ring of stone that rises, forming a barricade. He doesn’t remember the thorns that twist between, razor sharp thorns multiplying.

He does remember the feeling of blood puddling turning the dirt beneath his feet to mud. He does remember skulls crushed beneath his fingers. He does remember the snap of bone, the scream of pain, the rush of heat. The thrill of the hunt. Of the kill.

He stands alone, surrounded by what remains of the crowd. The earth releases Sapnap, carefully depositing him next to Dream. They don’t look at each other. Sapnap reaches and clutches at Dream’s hand. Dream doesn’t let go. It starts to rain, droplets hissing on the fire.

They stand, blood-soaked and soot-stained, in the rain. They hold each other tightly. They don’t let go.

Brothers walk into the forest. They never look back.

He doesn’t know how long they spent alone in the forest, but the years pass anyway. Both change, growing into lanky limbs and boundless magic. Dream learns to tighten his reach, to pull the scope of his awareness down to a pinpoint, to lessen the input of noise. The forest still sings, but he is the conductor. Sapnap learns how his flames wax and wane through the seasons, to conserve his heat through the winter and to restrain the inferno in the summer. They spar and clash, chasing one another through the forest with the same childlike glee but sharpened with age and reckless with confidence.

The whispers start late in the autumn. The Year of Challenge had arrived. They heard of the festival held every century to test the might and the will of the king. Whoever emerged victorious could claim crown and throne for themselves.

Dream feels the forest’s song change, once careful and chaotic, to a frenzied and wild drumbeat of war. The thrumming nearly tears skin from bone. It urges him to claim what was rightfully his.

He knows Sapnap feels it too, already familiar with the way their power has entangled and formed an unbreaking web.

They make a promise, curled up in the darkness of the canopy, that no matter which of them succeeds, they would never leave. They were a pair. Inseparable.

The city is alive much like the forest that surrounds it, but in a very, very different way. Dream feels the way the thrumming becomes almost non-existent. He tries not to let the cloud of panic overtake him, not when they’re so close to what they want. What they need.

He doesn’t remember much of the tournament. It rushes around him in a haze of action. He wields his blade like an extension of his arm. He feels each movement of his enemy before it happens. He cuts them down without remorse. He feels entirely at ease. Natural.

And a scream changes everything.

There’s no freezing of time. No moment of recognition. No note hangs in the air. He knows the scream as soon as it sounds.

He charges.

The challenger stands over the broken form of his brother, curved sword dripping with blood. He does not hesitate to cut their head from their shoulders, reveling in the slick slide-thud as it hits the ground. No one else is standing.

The crowd cheers for their new king. He does not care for them. He cares only for one person.

He doesn’t care for tradition, for the pride of the Fair Folk, for the strength of their image. He doesn’t care about the Lords and Ladies of the Courts, the politics of the outside world, the gold and jewels and luxuries that are his by right.

He waits by his brother’s bed, by the only person who he chose and who chose him in return, and does not leave.

Courtiers and chancellors and counselors all try to pry him away. He is king, he is meant to rule. He refuses. He will not rule without him at his side.

It takes weeks of hoping for miracles and praying to gods he’s not sure exist until Sapnap opens his eyes. Dream buries his face into his shoulder and cries. They do not separate for what feels like years.

Life changes, and yet it doesn’t. Dream embraces his role as King, and he doesn’t. Sapnap becomes Lord of the Summer Court, and he doesn’t. They grow, and they stay the same.

Dream continues to search for the thrill of the hunt, of the chase. When he no longer finds it with Sapnap alone, he searches for something new. Something more.

He finds it hidden in the Royal Library. A Night Court Fae, brought to be the Royal Historian, grins at him without reservation, without the fear and awe most gave without a second thought, and offers his name. He likes Karl, before he can even learn what he can do.

(Karl asks him if he wants this, wants to feel powerless. He does. The forest goes quiet, quieter than he’s ever heard it before, and something in him breaks. His head is clear. He feels like his skin isn’t filled to bursting. He folds Karl into his circle without thought.)

He finds it tucked away in a secret clearing near the Eastern border of the forest. A tiny cabin, surrounded by trees and flowers. A Changeling with glittering, diamond-hard scales and his demon companion are startled by his appearance, but not frightened. The demon merely scolds him for not calling ahead as the changeling laughs.

(Skeppy doesn’t want anything to do with the Kingdom. They abandoned him to the outside, and Dream understands. He visits when the Courts grow too stuffy, too closed off, to much and joins on his friend on adventures. He is not loyal to Dream because he is King. He is loyal because he is Dream.)

(Bad is kind and sharp and knows more than he lets anyone know. He is tight-lipped about his past before Skeppy and Dream does not blame him. They whisper late at night about magic and madness and the truth about power. Bad does not see Dream as the Master of the Forest, for there is no way to master a force as dangerous as his nature. He helps him hold tight to the edges of himself when it threatens to tear him apart.)

He runs from them, laughter weaving through the trees. He feels the way Sapnap pounds his feet on the dirt, hears the way Skeppy jumps from tree to tree, knows the way Bad switches his rhythm to try to hide his location. Karl is nearby, pressing down on his power to keep things interesting. His blood sings for the hunt.

He pushes through brush, leaps over rivers, running in circles just to hear the cries of outrage and disbelief. He taunts them because he can, because this is his domain and he knows everything that happens.

He doesn’t know who this man is.

He stands panting, barefoot, mask covered in mud and hands riddled with scrapes, at the man kneeling in the grass. The man is humming to himself as he looks at the flowers, not even acknowledging Dream’s presence.

He doesn’t understand. He feels every movement, every shift, every change in the ebb and flow of magic in the entire forest. And yet, he senses nothing from this man. He feels nothing but an empty space.

It’s fascinating.

He doesn’t hesitate in introduce himself to the man, to George. George doesn’t seem alarmed in the slightest at Dream’s appearance or his invitation to join him for a walk. They talk, and as they talk Dream feels the thrumming rise despite Karl’s intervention. When they meet back with the group, all frustrated and annoyed at being ignored, he offers George a place to stay. He feels Sapnap’s interest, Karl’s confusion, Skeppy’s curiosity, and Bad’s amusement. He ignores the way the thrumming intensifies when George accepts.

George blends in seamlessly and flourishes in his new home. Dream sees his wonder at the variety of fauna and preens. (Sapnap digs an elbow into his side and snickers).

But as time passes, Dream notices changes. The way George finds a single gray hair. The way he gathers a few smile lines around his eyes. The way he wears his humanity so blatantly, and yet Dream missed every sign. And now he’s running out of time.

He runs to Sapnap. They cannot lose a piece of themselves. Not now, not when they finally know what it’s like to feel complete.

They dig through old manuscripts, pages stained and torn with time and age. They consult every Court, every living Historian, every herbalist they can get their hands on. They beg Bad to help. After hours of begging, bribery, and tears, he gives in. They don’t tell him why they’re so desperate. They don’t have the time.

(Bad doesn’t tell them he knows. He doesn’t tell them he’s been through this before. He doesn’t tell them the average life expectancy for Higher Demons, or the average life expectancy for Changelings, or the reason he came across such forbidden knowledge. Some things are better left unsaid.)

They find the right components, the right time frame, the right moment. They complete the ritual in silence, staring at the vials in hand. The liquid is silvery in the moonlight. It worked. They breathe. It worked.

Dream invites George to the castle for lunch, slipping the liquid into his drink before he arrives. The conversation flows, jokes and stories bouncing off one another easily. He watches carefully as George drains his drink, commenting on the sweet flavor. Both sip their own and feel the tension drain from their bodies when know it works, power settling deep in their cores.

One will not go without the others. All three will survive. He will make sure of it.

He didn’t have a name before.

He didn’t have a home before.

He didn’t have a family before.

He has all three now.

And he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.

(George doesn’t tell them he knows. They aren’t the most subtle. He doesn’t approve of how they went behind his back, of how they did not think to give him a choice. He doesn’t approve, but he understands. He knows fear when he sees it. And while he doesn’t approve, he does appreciate having a family that cares. In their own unusual way.)

#dt fanfic #dream team #dreamwastaken #georgenotfound #sapnap #badboyhalo #karl jacobs #skeppy #mostly dream and sap-centric #but the others are v important too #NOT DREAMNOTFOUND DO NOT EXPECT RELATIONSHIP THINGS #ITS 100% PLATONIC #fsis au #find steel in silver au #zero's writing

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hrina · 5 years

Text

Gone Cold

PAIRING: Harry/Y/N RATING: M for Maybe don’t read this if ur under 18 :-) WORD COUNT: 6.4k REQUESTED: nope, i was just inspired for once

hi everyone. this one-shot is angsty, smutty, and fluffy, and is loosely based on the following prompt from this list:

listen i know i can’t just show up at your apartment at six in the morning but i need coffee and no one makes it like you do

i worked really hard on this piece and i’m pretty happy with how it turned out. with that being said, sending in any feedback and/or reactions you have would mean the absolute world to me, and it provides significant motivation in terms of continuing to write. i know people usually skip over the little author’s note at the beginning, but if you’ve taken the time to read this, i really appreciate you.

special thanks to @gucciwoodnymph for agreeing to beta and for being so supportive. i love you tans 💕💕

enjoy :-)

[masterlist] [let me know your thoughts]

~*~

Harry’s in the middle of a very exciting, albeit incongruous, dream. He’s in a car chase, hounded by a frighteningly large black SUV, and for some odd reason, he hasn’t been caught despite the measly little golf cart that he’s driving. He’s not quite sure why he’s being pursued, or why the sky is a shade of hot pink, or why he’s only wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else. He whips his head to the side when he feels a tap on his shoulder and comes face-to-face with his sister. She grins at him and opens her mouth to say something, but the only thing that escapes is a noise eerily similar to the ringing of a doorbell.

Harry furrows his brows, and Gemma mimics his expression, utterly confused. Her lips part as she tries to speak again, but that same sound blares out. Her eyes widen in terror and her hands fly to grip her throat. Her mouth opens in what Harry presumes to be a scream, but all he hears is a frantic ringing, the noises blurring together in a steady crescendo.

And then his eyes snap open, and—as though pulled by an invisible string—he sits upright in his bed. He places a palm over his heaving chest, his gaze flitting around his bedroom; there’s a faint grey light spilling in from the window, making it a bit easier to see. Harry chances a glance at the clock on his bedside table; it’s six in the morning.

The sound of the doorbell startles him, and for a moment, he’s afraid that he’s still trapped in that peculiar dream. But then he realizes that the noise is real, and there’s actually someone standing outside on his porch.

Who the fuck would need him at this time?

Rubbing his eyes, Harry stumbles out of bed. He doesn’t bother looking for a pair of pants, opting instead to pull on a plain white t-shirt and tug his briefs down so that they cover a bit more of his thighs. He curses when his shoulder bumps against the wall, not yet awake enough to maintain his balance.

He staggers down the hall, his feet carrying him in choppy, haphazard movements. His sleepy eyes wander to the side, and he stops in his tracks when they land on the door standing slightly ajar a few feet away. He must’ve forgotten to close it properly last night.

Harry approaches the room carefully, as though afraid that it’s haunted. He grips the doorknob with white knuckles, his throat suddenly extremely dry. His eyelids flutter as he tries his best to look everywhere except inside, but the effort proves to be fruitless. The pastel green of the walls draws his gaze almost automatically; from there, he’s a goner.

Through the small opening of the door, he studies the emptiness of the room. Soft, patterned curtains still hang from the window, speckled with a print of stars and teddy bears and crescent moons. A small dresser is shoved off to the side, half-assembled (or rather, disassembled—he’d been working on taking it apart last night). Pressed against the far wall stands a crib, still fully set up. A mobile hovers overtop, tiny stuffed elephants and giraffes and lions hanging from the clips. Harry hasn’t yet found the strength to even touch it. He thinks that he’d rather set his house aflame.

Swallowing heavily, he closes the door. A beat of silence passes as he stares up at the ceiling, exhaling softly and blinking furiously against the threat of tears.

The doorbell rings again, twice in a row, and the moment is gone. Harry groans, raking his fingers through his hair.

“I’m comin’, for fuck’s sake!”

Once he reaches the front entrance, he grumbles as he undoes the lock and wraps his fist around the knob. He pulls the door open, squinting his eyes when the first dim rays of the sun pierce his face. The blood running through his veins suddenly goes cold.

“Hi.” You’re chewing nervously on your bottom lip and wringing your hands at your sides, like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. Your hair is pinned up in a professional-looking bun, though a single strand seems to have escaped the strict style and has fallen down along the side of your face.

You’re wearing a pair of black dress pants and a baby blue blouse tucked beneath a navy cardigan. The straps of your purse are nestled in the crook of your elbow, and a pair of matching sapphire flats adorn your feet.

And even though you aren’t pregnant anymore, you’re glowing.

Harry watches as your eyes fall from his face and scan over his body for a quick moment. You look away immediately when you register that he’s only in a t-shirt and underwear.

“Good morning,” he replies, the surprise evident in his voice. You shoot him an uneasy smile, trying to mask your anxiety.

“I’m sorry it’s so early,” you say, shaking your head. “I—I was going to head into work an hour ahead of schedule, but I couldn’t get my coffee to taste good, so I kind of just skipped out on it. And then I was about to fall asleep at the wheel because I didn’t have any caffeine in me, and your place was on the way, so I just…”

You’re flustered, Harry can tell. He looks at you with piercing eyes, watching the way you curl up into yourself as each word leaves your mouth. You’re regretting your decision now, it would appear.

“You…,” Harry begins, his brows knitting together. “You want me to make you a cup of coffee?”

You refuse to meet his eyes, and your shoulders vibrate with a weak shrug.

“Nobody makes it like you,” you say meekly, your lips warping into an embarrassed grimace. A warm feeling erupts in Harry’s chest, fanning out and saturating his body with more efficiency than that of the sunbeams peeking over the horizon. He clears his throat, trying to find his voice.

“Come on in.”

~*~

With you sat at the island in his kitchen, Harry bustles around the room, reaching for mugs and a pot and spoons. He’s awake now, anyway; he might as well make enough coffee for two.

He plugs in the machine and rips open a packet of coffee grounds, pouring the entirety of it into a simple white filter. Out of the corner of his eye, he chances a glance at you.

You’re sitting on one of the higher stools, your purse resting on the seat to your left. Your elbows are against the counter, forearms hidden by the cardigan that you’d refused to take off. You’re staring at your clasped hands, thumbs twiddling apprehensively as you fiddle with the rings circling around your fingers. Everything about your position is tense, from the tautness of your shoulders to the rigidity of your neck and the rigor of your spine.

It’s a massive difference from how you used to be when you’d sat in that exact same spot months ago. Then, your smile was infectious, and you would flop all over his kitchen without a care in the world. Harry’s eyes fall to the smooth surface of the counter; despite his best efforts, the memory of him fucking you over the marble emerges in screaming colour. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the image out of his mind.

“So,” Harry starts, his voice still painfully scratchy from sleep. “How’ve you been?”

You sit up straight. “Good. I, um…I ended up getting the promotion.”

“No way.” Harry looks at you as he finishes preparing the coffee; his grin is nothing but genuine. “That’s great. Congratulations.”

Your lips curl up into a small smile. “Thank you. How about you?”

“I’m alright,” he replies, shrugging. “Same shit, different day, right?”

“Right.”

The conversation tapers off into silence. Harry’s eyes are drawn to how you bite your bottom lip, and though he knows that he’s been staring for far too long, he can’t help it. He eventually tears his gaze away, focussing on the steady drip of coffee into the pot and clenching his jaw at the sight. Why the fuck is it still empty?

“My mum came by the other day,” he says suddenly. He’s fully aware that talking about his mother may not be the best tactic out there, but he can’t stand the awkward quiet hanging in the air. “She asked about you.”

You swallow heavily, trying to keep your voice level. “Oh…what did you say?”

“Said you were doing well,” Harry hums, playing idly with the spoons lying on the counter. The metal clangs when they bump against each other, ringing out loudly in the stillness of the room. “She misses you.”

Your smile is sad. “I miss her, too.”

“Think she likes you more than she likes me, to be honest.” Harry chuckles softly. “Always asks me how I was able to let you go.”

You don’t reply.

Harry peeks over at you, studying your pursed lips and hard eyes. He’s crossed a line, and he knows it. Your fingers begin to fidget again, and your expression gives nothing away. It’s the same countenance you’d worn when the two of you had agreed to end things. Tears had fallen and lips had been kissed. Hands had been grasped and shoulders had trembled with the ugliest sobs imaginable. But still—Harry had watched you walk out of his life, and you’d both turned away without witnessing how the other had looked back.

“Sorry,” Harry says quietly, itching at his nose with two fingers. “I shouldn’t’ve—”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off. He thinks that that’s the end of it, but then you sigh softly and push back from the counter. The legs of the stool creak faintly against the kitchen tiles. “I should go.”

“What?” he blurts, his eyes widening. He watches in bewilderment as you reach for your purse and shoulder it without a second thought. Your gaze is fixated on the floor as you begin to make your way to the front entrance, but Harry’s legs seem to move of their own accord, and then he’s suddenly in front of you, blocking your way.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, breathless. “I—I’m making coffee.”

You press your mouth into a line, but the way your chin wobbles doesn’t go unnoticed.

“H,” you murmur, unable to muster a stronger tone. “Let me go.”

The intimate nickname catches him by surprise. You’re the only one who’s ever called him that. He hasn’t been addressed in such a way for months, and hearing it spill from your lips now breaks something inside of him.

“No,” he tells you firmly. “I can’t do that. Not—not again.”

“Shut up,” you scoff, and the snarky bite of your voice has him taking his tongue between his teeth. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“How so?” he asks, his nostrils flaring.

“You…,” you begin, but then quickly trail off when you discover that you can’t find the right words. You glare at him and make a frustrated noise in the back of your throat, eyes ignited with a fire that he hasn’t been privy to in so long; he’s missed it.

“Don’t do this,” Harry pleads. He risks reaching out to you, half-expecting you to step away; his heart somersaults in his chest when you don’t. His fingers twirl around that one strand of hair that hangs in front of your face, and he tenderly tucks it behind your ear. You gulp when his knuckles brush against your cheek.

“Don’t leave,” he breathes, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “Please.”

“What am I supposed to do?” you ask weakly, tears gathering in your eyes. “It hurts. Being around you hurts.”

“I know.” He nods, trying to keep his own emotions from overwhelming him. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

The two of you are in the cruellest of predicaments. How is it possible to be so utterly in love with someone, even though their mere existence serves as an aching reminder of pain? The two of you had been in shambles after the incident. You couldn’t walk through the aisle filled with packaged pregnancy tests at the pharmacy. Harry was unable to look at the section reserved for babies in every clothing outlet. The hurt had been fresh. It had ripped your relationship apart.

“I miss you,” you choke out. “I miss you, but it’s still—what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” Harry whispers sadly, shaking his head. “But, please. Let’s figure this out together, yeah? Don’t leave.”

He’s got your face cradled in his hands now, and you’re really, truly looking at him for the first time since he’d opened that damned door. Your fingers wrap around his wrists, and you give him a curt, nervous nod. Harry exhales in relief, his shoulders lowering as the tension melts away. His eyes flutter closed again, but then snap open suddenly when he feels you lean up and press a quick peck to the corner of his mouth.

His brows shoot up, and his lips part slightly in shock. His skin is burning; the spot where you’d kissed him is practically aflame. Your eyes hold an array of emotions: fear, anxiety, regret, panic. You release his wrists from your grasp, stepping back.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly; the words blend together with how fast they exit your mouth. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to—”

Harry cuts you off as quickly as physically possible, closing the distance between the two of you in a single stride and clapping his palm against the back of your neck. A soft gasp escapes you, but the noise is swiftly silenced when he affixes your lips to his.

A watery sob resonates in the back of your throat as you drop your purse and hook your arms beneath his, your fingers scrabbling for purchase against his back. Harry groans quietly when you grip handfuls of his t-shirt in tight fists and press your bodies together. Your lips move frantically, kissing and sucking with the most obscene and frenzied sounds that he’s ever heard. He melts into you, one hand messing up your hair while the other circles around your waist to keep you close.

It proves difficult to pull back from you, but he knows that he has to when he feels your tears smearing onto his cheeks. He rests his forehead against yours, lowering his arm slightly so that he can wipe away the wet trails with his thumb.

“Are you okay?” he breathes, gazing at you with worried eyes.

“Yeah.” Your voice is thick. “Where…where do we go from here?”

You’re the one posing the question, yet as soon as you do, you’re attacking his lips again with short, hard kisses. Harry fights to inhale between each loud smack of your mouth to his, but he’s really not complaining.

“I don’t know,” he manages to get out between kisses. You seal your lips together and resume your previous ministrations. He grips your face with both of his hands, his palms large enough to cover the entirety of your jaw. When you break apart for air, he asks, “Do you want to stop?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

And with that, he kisses you again. You moan into his mouth when he guides you back against the counter, and you hop up onto the smooth surface when he moulds his fingers to fit around the curve of your thighs. Harry pushes the mugs and spoons out of the way, the action hurried yet careful to avoid any breakage. You giggle at his prudence; he smiles.

“What?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

He leans in and reattaches his lips to yours, his fingers finding the collar of your cardigan and slowly easing the fabric down your shoulders. You help him, flinging the material away once it’s been fully removed. Harry begins to toy with the buttons on your blouse, and you push your chest out in encouragement, nodding silently.

He begins kissing your neck as he undoes the first clasp, savouring the taste of your skin. It’s been so long since he’s touched you. He can feel your breasts heaving with every breath you take, and the thought of you wanting him just as badly as he wants you has his cock growing stiff in his briefs. You sigh happily when he latches onto a particularly sensitive spot beneath your ear, your fingers snaking up to tangle in his hair.

“Shit,” you mutter. Harry chuckles, assuming that you’d cursed at the sensation of his lips against your throat. But then you’re pushing him back slightly, placing one hand over your heart and reaching around with the other to tug your phone from your back pocket. You check the time and swear softly. Your eyes are apologetic when you look back up at him.

“I—I have to go to work.”

He shakes his head, ducking back down to nip at your collarbone. “Call in sick.”

“I can’t!” you moan, tilting your head back to allow him better access. But even as you protest, you’re unlocking the device and pulling up your assistant’s contact information. You pull away, placing a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder to keep him at a distance. He pouts, but when you fix him with a stern glare, his expression melts into a smug smirk.

“Give me a minute,” you tell him before dialling the number. You grunt as you spin yourself around on the counter, falling back so that your head dangles from one edge and your knees from the other.

Harry stares at you with wide, amused eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“If my head’s upside down, it’ll make my voice sound more nasally!” you hiss as the phone rings. “I need to sound like I’m fucking congested.”

His shoulders shake in silent laughter; he watches with adoring eyes as you clear your throat when your assistant answers the phone.

“Lena?” you ask, and Harry is shocked to find that you were right—you do sound significantly unwell. “Hey, good morning. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it in today. I woke up feeling really shitty…”

He’s ashamed to admit that he tunes out the rest of your sentence, his mind wandering to far more vulgar places. He studies the straining of your neck, the rapid rising and falling of your chest, the way your toes curl as you lie straight through your teeth. Your lips cling tightly to every word leaving your mouth. Knowing that it’s all just a trifling invention to stay where you are (and to keep doing what you’re doing) makes Harry’s stomach swoop dangerously low with lust.

You lift your head, observing him carefully as he rounds the corner of the counter and places his palms on your thighs. He can hear your assistant—Lena—babbling through the phone, her voice clamorous yet choppy on the other end of the line. Harry pays her no attention, opting instead to undo the few remaining buttons on your blouse and separate the offending material. He inhales deeply when the rest of your torso becomes exposed to the cool air of his kitchen.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, pulling the device away from your ear and throwing your hand over the microphone.

Harry cocks an eyebrow, offering up a shrug as his reply. Your stomach twitches when he splays his hands flat against your hips and then hooks his fingers into the waistband of your trousers. You shoot him a warning glare, but he just smirks.

“What? Oh, sorry,” you rush out and pretend to cough, bringing the phone back to your ear. “You were cutting out a bit; could you repeat that?”

Harry’s shoulders vibrate with a low chuckle. He doesn’t miss the way your thighs press together at the sound. His nimble fingers find the clasp of your pants, and he pops it open easily. You begin to squirm when he plays with your zipper, pulling it down and then back up before doing it all over again. He knows that he’s being a tease, but he can’t help it. He’d forgotten how amusing it is to watch you melt into a puddle.

Your free hand shoots down to grip his wrist when he begins tugging your trousers down your hips. He peers up at you through his eyelashes, trying to repress the arrogant smile that threatens to make itself known. Your eyes are wide, and you shake your head furiously. Harry abandons his attempt to conceal his glee, a wide grin splitting across his face as he yanks himself free from your grasp. Before you can pull away, he traps your arm against the counter, snickering at the change in dynamic.

You gulp when he leans up and drapes his body over yours. He plants a silent, chaste kiss to your lips before placing his mouth at the ear that isn’t currently pressed against the screen of your phone. His command is soft, but it makes you shiver, nonetheless.

“Don’t move.”

You have to flatten your lips together forcefully to contain the whimper that bubbles up in your throat. Harry’s laugh is completely silent, but his dark eyes tell you everything you need to know. He inches back down your torso, directing his gaze to where your pants sit lopsided on your lower-half.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, littering kisses over your stomach. You inhale sharply when he takes a patch of skin between his teeth and bites down gently.

In a matter of seconds, he’s got the fabric at your ankles. You’re still on the line with Lena, growing impatient with her incessant prattling.

“Okay, that’s fine,” you affirm. She says something else, and you nod reflexively. “Yeah, if I’m feeling better, I will. Thank you, take care.”

As soon as the call ends, you slap your phone down onto the counter with a bit more force than was probably intended. A loud groan leaves your lips, and you crane your neck so that you can glare daggers at the man standing between your legs.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” you promise. Harry cackles.

“Why? I thought it was fun.”

He grins as you kick your trousers off completely, hearing them fall to the floor in an airy heap. He nudges them out of the way with his foot, one of his hands creeping up your body so that he can cup your left breast over your bra. You sigh when his palm gives a soft squeeze.

“I missed this,” Harry whispers, but the confession is weak. He’s not quite sure if he should have said it.

His worries are mollified, however, when you hum in agreement and reach out for him. His chest tightens significantly as you lace your fingers together, bringing your clasped hands up so that you can pamper his knuckles with dozens of kisses. A lump forms in his throat, but he pays it no attention. Instead, he pulls you up into a sitting position and fastens your lips to his.

“Mm…help me take this off,” you mumble against his mouth, angling your shoulders backward. Harry grips the collar of your blouse and tugs the thin fabric down your arms, balling it up and tossing it away without a second thought.

“Hey!” you laugh. Your teeth bump against his chin when you grin. “Don’t wrinkle it!”

“Chill out,” he tells you, amusement evident in his tone. “I can get you something of mine to wear.”

“D’you—oh,” you moan softly when he ducks down to pepper kisses along the column of your throat. “Do you still have that blue button-up? The one with the stars on it?”

“’Course.”

“I’ll take that one.”

Harry chuckles at your playful claim. “I see why you got that promotion,” he tells you, his hot breath fanning out onto the underside of your jaw. “Quite the bossy little thing, you are.”

“Shut up and get your shirt off,” you scoff, a crooked smile spreading over your lips.

He laughs quietly into your neck. “I rest my case.”

Despite the light ribbing, though, he does as you ask. It takes everything in him to suppress a smile when he watches you gaze at his bare body in awe. Your touch trails against the dozens of tattoos on his torso and arms. Your hands slide down his narrow hips, ghosting over the slight pudge of skin right above the waistband of his briefs. A shiver rockets down his spine when you delicately slip your fingertips beneath the elastic.

“Is this okay?” you inquire softly, glancing up at him from beneath your eyelashes. Harry nods frantically and gulps. His gaze falls to the thin lace trim that flanks the cups of your baby pink bra. He’s never seen this one before—it must be new.

“Did you just get this recently?” he asks, his thumbs running along the underwire. He doubts that the question will ruin whatever mood has been built up; you’re standing—or rather, sitting—before him in your undergarments, with your hair spilling out of your bun and your fingers inches away from his cock. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been more turned on than he is right in this moment.

“A few weeks ago.” You nod, peering up at him shyly. “You like it?”

“Love it,” he corrects. “You know how I feel about this colour.”

Your smile is bashful when you tuck your chin against your chest. “Does that mean that you want me to leave it on?”

“Fuck, no.”

You laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

In an instant, he’s removed your bra and attached his lips to one of your nipples. You sigh gently, your head falling back as your fingers braid through his hair. You scratch your nails against his scalp delicately, and the sensation only spurs him on. He nibbles at your skin; a faint giggle tumbles off your tongue.

“What—oh, that feels nice,” you murmur. “What do you wanna do?”

Harry pulls off your chest with a wet smacking sound, licking his lips in anticipation. “What do you wanna do?” he replies, deliberately skirting around your inquiry.

“I asked you first.”

He snickers.

“’F we’re being honest here,” he starts, scratching sheepishly at the back of his neck. “I really just want to make you cum on my tongue.”

You balk at the vulgarity of his sentence. Harry beams haughtily, sweeping his palms down your hips. An obvious shudder wracks your body when he begins fiddling with the hem of your panties. His dimples pop when you gulp violently and give him a terse nod.

“Yeah. Okay,” is all you say, mainly because far more eloquent words have somehow managed to escape you.

“Brilliant.” Harry smirks and watches as you bristle beneath his gaze.

Less than a second later, his knees come into contact with the kitchen tiles. He groans weakly, reaching to his right and snatching up the mat that usually sits on the floor right next to the sink. You laugh when he arranges the fluffy rug beneath him, and once he’s satisfied with its positioning, he shoots you a cheeky smile.

“All good now,” he announces. You fix him with a tender smile as your fingers comb his hair away from his forehead.

“Lovely,” you whisper. Harry feels your muscles tense when he begins trailing kisses up the length of your thigh. His fingers hook into your underwear.

“Lift up for me, darling,” he says, his teeth catching ever-so-slightly against your skin. You exhale shakily and press your hands flat against the counter for leverage. When your bottom rises up from the marble, Harry works quickly to tug your panties down your legs. He flings them away without wavering.

“Christ,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. He sets his elbows onto the counter, helping you spread your thighs for him. Your scent floods his senses as you bare yourself to him entirely; growling lowly, he buries his face between your legs.

“Oh, God,” you squeak, both of your hands latching onto his hair. You tug on the curls as he flicks his tongue feverishly against your clit, remembering exactly how much he likes the dull, thrumming itch of pain. True to your recollection, Harry groans appreciatively against your cunt.

He shoves himself even further into you, and you know that once he’s done, his chin and nose will be just as shiny as his lips. He eats you out like you’re his last meal, like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted this badly. Your toes curl when you feel his lips sponge hot, wet kisses down your slit.

“Fuck,” you sigh, your eyes fluttering shut. “I forgot how good you were at this.”

Harry chuckles. The vibration shoots across your clit and sends electrical surges ricocheting through your veins. You moan softly, but he doesn’t respond, too engrossed in the taste spilling from the apex of your thighs.

He’s not sure how long the two of you stay like that, with his knees on the ground and his mouth on your heat and your fingers in his hair. Despite the fluffy mat below him, his legs begin to grow sore, but he blocks out the ache and commits himself to making you feel good. Your muscles keep twitching beneath his fingers and your stomach heaves gently; you’re close.

He wants you to cum.

“I’m gonna,” you breathe, and only then does Harry realize that he’d spoken the desire out loud. When your words sink in, he doubles his efforts, his lips sucking your clit into his mouth with a newfound sense of passion. A loud, lewd moan tumbles from your lips, and then you’re cumming, your thighs clenching against the sides of his head and your hips bucking up from the counter.

“Beautiful,” Harry mutters, pressing his lips to your stomach. “So fucking beautiful.”

You whimper.

He stands with a groan, his knees pricking with spindles of pain. They’ll probably bruise a bit later, but he really can’t find it in himself to care. His hand snakes down beneath the elastic of his briefs, and he sighs in relief when he makes a fist around his hard cock. You push yourself up onto your elbows, gazing at him with glassy, distant eyes.

“Cum on me,” you plead hoarsely.

“Fuck.” Harry’s head tips back in disbelief. “Yeah? You want that?”

“Please.”

You sit up, wrestling his underwear down his thighs. He hisses when you intentionally scrape your nails along his skin, and his dick twitches in his hand. He pumps himself quickly, his cheeks growing warm when he realizes that he’s not going to last long. There’s a knot forming in the pit of his stomach, and the way you’re begging for him is sending him hurtling toward his release.

As though you can read his thoughts, you slip off of the counter and drop to your knees. Harry bites back a smirk at the reversal of roles. You peer up at him sultrily and knead your own breasts, tempting him as your thumbs skirt over your nipples.

“Cum on them,” you say quietly. “Please, H.”

The nickname—that fucking nickname—is what does him in.

“Bloody Christ.”

His groan is long, drawn-out, and guttural. A shaky exhale leaves his mouth as he watches ropes of his seed dribble down onto your chest. You press your breasts together while the speed of his hand slows. Harry’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his head when you dip a fingertip into the mess on your skin and tuck it into your mouth.

“C’mere,” he orders breathlessly.

His hands grip your elbows as he pulls you up. He doesn’t let you get a single word in before sealing his lips to yours. He licks into you, tasting himself on your tongue. Your hands sweep up his shoulders and neck, trembling profusely.

Disregarding the mess of clothing on the floor, the two of you stumble upstairs and into the shower. Harry tests the temperature of the water with one hand; the other stays locked firmly with yours, fingers intertwined. A small part of him is afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

Beneath the spray of the shower, he watches as you wash yourself. You take extra care around your face (removing your makeup) and your cleavage (rubbing off his cum). Harry stands against the far wall, the cool tiles of the stall pressing against his back. He’s staring at you intensely, trying to memorize every detail of your body. When you finally open your eyes and glance at him, a timid smile spreads across your lips.

“What?” you ask, curling into yourself.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “’M just…admiring you.”

Your throat bobs violently as you swallow. Reaching for his wrist, you tug him beneath the water and chuckle when his hair flattens against his head. The entire time, Harry’s gaze never strays from your face.

“I missed you,” you both say at the same time.

Your eyes widen, and then a shy laugh spills out of your mouth. Harry cups your face with both hands; you look up at him with twinkling eyes and push his wet hair from his forehead with gentle fingers.

“I missed you,” he repeats, staring at you earnestly. “So much.”

You nod in response. Somehow, the brief action is able to convey more than spoken dialogue ever could. Harry chews on his bottom lip, pondering whether he should utter the other three words on the tip of his tongue. After a few milliseconds, he decides against it. He’s not sure how you would react, and he doesn’t want to lose you—not again.

It’s not worth the risk.

The two of you eventually exit the shower, sporting wet eyelashes and pruned fingertips. Wordlessly, Harry wraps a towel around you, pecking your cheek lovingly. He’s about to step back, but then your fingers are on his jaw, guiding him in for a proper kiss. You sigh against his lips.

He wants nothing more than to stay in this moment for the rest of his life.

Back downstairs, he adjusts the towel around his hips and finally pours coffee into the pair of mugs that he’d pulled from the cupboard an hour ago. He prepares it the way you like before offering it to you. Your fingers wrap around the handle daintily, and you both take a sip at the same time.

“Sorry.” Harry grimaces after he swallows. “It’s gone a bit cold.”

“Mm.” You press your lips together and shake your head. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” You pause before adding, “It’s kind of symbolic, no?”

His brows knit together. “What?” he asks, before it dawns on him. The creases on his forehead deepen. “Like…us?”

You nod, hiding your smirk behind the rim of your mug. Harry’s expression softens when he realizes that you’re only teasing. You lean over the counter, but the towel draped around your body comes loose, and you squeak in surprise when it slips down your chest. He grins.

“Can always just take it off, you know,” Harry informs you, shrugging. “It might be more convenient.”

“Care to test that theory?” you reply, cocking an eyebrow. He sets his mug down and raises his hands in surrender, stepping back before pulling at the material on his waist. It falls to the floor, and your gaze instinctively drops to his pelvis. You look away quickly, evidently flustered.

“Your turn.” Harry’s smile is insufferably cheeky, but he can’t help it.

“I’m alright, thanks,” you say, taking another sip of your coffee.

“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, rounding the corner of the counter and reaching out for you.

“H!” you squeal, nearly tripping over yourself as you stumble backward. “Stop!”

He catches you easily, though, wrapping his arms around you and gripping fistfuls of your towel. With one quick flourish of his fingers, you’re completely naked. The coffee in your mug sloshes dangerously, nearly spilling onto the kitchen tiles.

“I hate you!” you say, laughter lacing your voice. Harry joins in, giggling to himself.

“No, you don’t,” he says, his palms finding your hips. He holds onto you cautiously, careful not to jostle the hand holding your cup. He leans in, and your eyes flutter shut in anticipation of a kiss. Your nose crinkles up in surprise when you feel his lips land on one of your eyelids, planting a silky, barely-there kiss. He switches over to the other side and does the same thing, his chest swelling with warmth when you release a wobbly breath.

“I don’t,” you agree gently. “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Harry’s heartbeat stutters beneath his ribs. Though your words are quiet, the insinuation is painfully loud; he watches your face fall when it all sinks in.

“Me too,” he says quickly, squeezing your waist in reassurance. You stare up at him gratefully. The moment is charged with unspoken sentences and tacit feelings, but neither of you submit an explanation.

Harry offers up a small smile, hoping to drain some of the tension from the air.

“See?” he prompts, shrugging. “We haven’t gone cold. Not yet.”

“‘Not yet’?” you echo, smirking good-naturedly. “When do you suppose that’s gonna happen, then?”

“Maybe in a few decades.” He plays along and pretends to think over his answer. “When we’re old and grey and we can’t stop bickering.” He chuckles. “And we’re sitting on a porch swing and you’re knitting and I’m reading the paper and we’re waiting for our grandkids to pull into the driveway for tea.”

At the mention of grandchildren, your eyes well up with tears. Because grandchildren will have to come from children. And children will come from you—both of you.

“What d’you think?” Harry murmurs. Your gazes lock.

“I think—,” you swallow heavily, blinking rapidly to keep your emotions controlled. Harry watches you with sober eyes, trying to deduce your response from your expression alone. You shoot him a watery smile, reaching up and caressing his jaw with your free hand.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” you say softly, stroking your thumb along his cheek. “A few decades—we can go cold, then.”

~*~

[masterlist] [come yell at me]

if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

#harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #remember kids: reblogs are a great way to help spread a writer's work! so if you reblog this i will personally send you a message thanking u #harry writing

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twinklebysecretlights · 3 years

Text

face mask

1. Are Face Masks a fashion item?

Face masks, in this day and age, have become an absolute necessity. They are now as much in demand as basic everyday essentials like food and sanitary products. Keeping in mind the very sobering issue of the fast spread of corona virus, it is, undoubtedly, of utmost importance to not use the same mask regularly.In fact, it is recommended by doctors to change it every day. This brings forth the problem of mass producing and then recycling tons of face masks, which is neither very practical nor environmental friendly.

With the introduction of reusable masks, that complication has been resolved. These reusable masks not only help the environment but also reduce the money spent on them, both by the seller and the consumer. The other major advantage of these reusable masks is the facts that people don’t have to change them every day.This allows themto focus on the aesthetics and designs of the masks.

Over the last few months, designing face masks has become a major trend.New and more creative kinds of masks are being brought into the market every day. No one likes to wear a surgical mask with their very carefully thought out outfit. It is, to put it simply, both irritating and disappointing.

Designers and Marketers have been producing and advertising beautiful and ingenious masks.They can be worn in coordination with everyday clothes as well as embellished and adorned masks to be worn on special occasion. Disney themed face masks, patterned face masks and even solid colored face masks are all very popular among both kids and adults. The main reason for this is that life cannot stop because of this virus. We must learn to live with it and enjoy our happy times and occasions while we have the opportunity to do so, and making sure that we are doing so safely.

These face masks allow the perfect solution to this. Now, you can both prevent the spread of the virus and enjoy with your loved ones! Also you can buy them online and also on ebay, and in many cartoon designs and colors as well.

2. Face Masks for Children:

If you have children, then you know how hard it is to stop them from going out to play or to not indulge them with a treat every now and then. But with the Global pandemic, it has become even harder to keep kids safe. It is not possible to pause childhood, or to keep children trapped inside homes at all times. It is detrimental for both their mental and physical growth.

Children need freedom and interactions with kids their age. It is foundational for their development but parents also need to make sure that their children are safe and that they do not endanger themselves or their families. How they should go about that is the main question.Children are prone to take off their masks as soon as they find their parents even a little distracted.

Even on errands or on a trip to grocery store, for which you cannot leave your kid behind, you need to make sure your kids have their masks on at all times. Children have a habit of touching everything. They also lick their hand or touch their face, which is a definite way for them to contract the virus. Even if you make them wear a mask, it is not a for sure guarantee that they won’t touch their face of take the mask off altogether.

There is a very simple solution for this, which is to buy kids face masks that the kids actually love. Designers and businesses have started designing masks that attract kids, with their bright colors and illustrations of the most popular cartoons and characters, like toy story, Barbie and much more and the best aspect of these face masks is that they come with a filter. Because of this, kids are excited to wear their masks and tend not to take them off or touch them too much as they are afraid of ruining them.

3. 3 Reasons to buy a designer face mask:

It is a fact that Kids like pretty things.They are generally very attracted to bright colors. And if they fall in love with a cartoon, well, then you need to prepare yourself to see that cartoon everywhere, from bed sheets to mugs, clothes to bags.They will want that carton to be in every aspect of their life. It may take some time for them to grow out of this phase and then they might fall in love with some other character and the cycle will keep on repeating even after they become young adults.

If you’re a smart parent then you know you can take advantage of this obsession and make them do their homework or chores. All you need to tell them is that you’ll buy them their favorite toy or the bag with their favorite character, or even a character doll, and they’ll rush to do the chore or try their best at school.

If you have been keeping in touch with civilization, then you know about the trend of designer face masks. Here are a few reasons why you should definitely invest in one for your kid:

· It will keep your kids safe: Face masks are a definite necessity if you want to keep your kids safe during this pandemic.This is because it hinders the germs from getting in contact with the mouth.

· They are pretty:As a parent, making sure your kid is dressed well, is one of the most demanding tasks. Coordinating an outfit is an entire chore in itself and then if you make them wear the monotonous face masks, the effort will be wasted. In that case, these designer masks are a definite must, as they are available in multiple colors and designs and will actually match the outfit!

· Kids won’t take them off: Kids have a tendency to take their masks off if it makes them even slightly uncomfortable. This is very dangerous if they are in public. Buying them a cartoon face mask which they like is a sure shot way of stopping them from doing so.

· They can be bought online: One major plus point is that you won’t have to go out and buy these masks from the store. You can simply order or ebay face masks. These cloth face masks are for sale on many outlets.

4. Difficulties in making children wear face masks:

Kids are very pure and generally unaware of the negativities around them. They tend to not realize the seriousness of the situations that may have adults quaking in their boots, which is what makes them so special. Children have the ability to face difficult things with simplicity and innocence and a general straightforward approach to life. As opposed to adults who complicate every aspect of life. This is their most endearing quality of children.

One such issue is the Corona Virus, which has been proliferating with lightning speed, and spreading fear and sorrow in its path. It does not spare anyone, targeting people irrespective of their age. One precaution that everyone has been recommended to take is to wear a face mask and kids are no exception to this rule. Though they generally don’t take it very somberly and put themselves and their loved ones at risk by exposing themselves to the virus.

They do this by taking the mask off because they find it restricting or they feel uncomfortable or awkward wearing it. Kids generally will not wear something that they are not used to or do not like. During the initial few months of the pandemic, there were only the surgical face masks available or masks that were monotonous in color, which children loathed and generally did not keep on.

Now-a-days, Designer face masks have been in vogue for the very reason that they attract children and hence lower the chances of them taking it off. These cloth face masks are very comfortable and have movie or animated character and designs illustrated on them. They not only add to the aesthetic value but also allow children to have fun with their appearance while at the same time, remaining safe and healthy. Kids face masks for both boys and girls are available in different colors and patterns now.

Investing in these designer face masks for kids is definitely a good and intelligent decision and will save you a lot of money. Children are also less likely to throw them away or forget them in some public space. Furthermore, They are reusable so you won’t have to buy them in bulks.

5. Face masks as creative outlets:

Everyone wants to look good. It’s a fact of life. People develop their individual styles through clothes and makeup, coordinating colors and given preferences to some, while ignoring other colors. These choices of appearances are a form of expression and everyone wants full control over what they are presenting.

In the last year or so, another addition has been made to the clothing that we have to wear and that is the face mask. It is a compulsory item that everyone needs to wear in public or even in private gatherings. Imagine a beautiful painting, with lots of color and trees, flowers, a captivating landscape and then in the middle of it is an empty circle. Wouldn’t the painting look incomplete, if not outright awkward?

This is exactly what it’s like to wear those simple blur and green face masks, which belong more in a hospital than in public. They bring down the entire aesthetic value of the person’s appearance and are very difficult to fashionably pull off.

A good way of solving this problem is through the reusable face masks that can be designed according to your preference and choice. This gives the wearer full freedom and creative ground to explore. They can express themselves more openly through them and not feel like these masks are ruining their outfit.

These cloth face masks have filters, which provide double protection and also are pleasing to the eyes. Just like people experiment with their makeup, now they have the ability to experiment with their face masks, with brands showcasing ingenious designs and color palates.

Cartoon face masks are also available for kids, with animated illustrations on them. Boys face masks usually have popular animations like toy story and cars characters on them, whereas girls face masks have Barbie and Disney characters on them.

#frozen face masks #disney cloth face mask #Princess sleep mask #kids face masks #Designer face masks #best cloth face masks #Dinosaur face mask For Kids #face mask for kids #kids face mask with filter #disney themed face masks #cloth face mask #boys face mask #cartoon face masks #buy cloth face masks #buy face mask #wear a mask

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weaverlings · 5 years

Text

dark dye

(Or: THK has a bad trauma/pain day. Many of us have been there, I think.)

So uh. I was trying to keep a rough sequence for all of these but that didn't quite work. so two things:

1. This is set somewhat later in the "post-everything" timeline I'm considering, not like... right after they settle in. They've all had some time to get used to each other.

2. THK and Ghost get names! They chose these names. They are in fact Hive names like Hornet's, because of Hornet. Because she's the family they choose, the sister they respect and admire!

I couldn't find any English names I liked though, so I grabbed partial scientific names.

Ghost is Polybia (after a kind of wasp that establishes a nest as part of a group) and THK is Abispa (after a kind of large solitary wasp, but that's just because… it sounds vaguely like a setting-appropriate name and also I think once they're not Isolated they're still pretty quiet and don't mind being alone as long as they can choose to go to someone else).

also shoutout to the Hollow Knight Stans Only discord for taking a look before I posted this!

Alt Link

Warnings for: canon-typical body horror, mild emetophobia, trauma

It was a bad morning. Abispa had context for this now.

There were good mornings. Mornings when they woke easily, and their body moved readily under their own power.

This was a bad morning. Their body was stiff, and their joints were almost too heavy to lift. Their side ached, the shell throbbed whenever they tried to move. Nestled tightly in their blankets, the weight was no longer a comfort. It grew oppressive, holding them down in their nightmares. They kept sliding back.

Shell going soft, soft and fragile. Rotting. Splitting. They grab at their torso but the chains -- weren't there. Their hand clamped over their midsection, and the scars seared, like fire, like -- the light blazing in Hornet's eyes, stained orange, like the light glinting off of the tip of her needle, aimed at the heart of them, and all they can do is throw themself -- into the wall of what used to be an elevator, now their room, now their -- fate. No. No. Not them , not, no-

But there is Polybia. Chains tight around their small body. And only a faint glimmer of light in their eyes, as if distant, but for them to show even that much, soon their shell, too, will go soft. Soft and fragile. And then they will rot.

When Abispa finally clawed their way out of their room, the first thing they did was check Polybia's. Their sibling had prepared an elaborate nest, a little suite, really: claiming the openings of three stag tunnels and carving out holes large enough to crawl through in the walls between them. Spaces for sleeping, for activity, and for storage.

Abispa knocked beside each one. No answer.

They swept back the curtains. Peered in to search among the cushions and trinkets.

Polybia wasn't there.

No! No- Abispa's claws tangled in the final curtain. They nearly tore it off. Where was Polybia? Where was their small sibling? Where? Where?

Somewhere else. They forced their fingers open. Polybia still wandered often, and they could defend themself it they had to. Of course, they were only wandering. Perhaps they had gone to visit-

It was a bad morning. Abispa knew where Polybia had gone. Abispa was meant to have gone, too. They had both planned to visit Sheo and the Nailsmith that morning, and Polybia had no doubt gone on ahead. So they were fine. No doubt. Except that, as the day went on and Abispa never arrived, Polybia would worry. Abispa knew this.

Just as much, they knew they had no chance of following after. They were barely able to make the jump over their room, to land before the threshold to Hornet's.

They couldn't be in their own room, not now, not after all but fighting their way out of it. They couldn't go out. They could have waited for their sibling's return in the central platform, and they likely would, but they just wanted to see Hornet. She would certainly know Polybia's whereabouts. They were with Sheo, no doubt. No doubt. But Hornet would know, would be able to confirm this.

They had to stop and gather themself before they knocked. Hornet drew back the certain over the entrance soon after. "Yes?"

Hornet was there. She was there. They were not alone. They hadn't understood the extent of their own worry - almost terror - until relief flooded them. They could hardly stand it, such relief. They could hardly stand. They were going to be sick. That was a real possibility. They braced their hand on the wall.

Hornet said, "If you're looking for Polybia, they left some time ago. You can still join them, I'm sure."

Abispa caught the curtain with one hand, and pulled it just a little wider.

She looked them over once. She made no secret of it. They watched her gaze linger on their hand supporting them, the weak sloping of their shoulders.

She eased back into the tunnel. "Alright. Come in."

They should have gone back to the central platform. Instead, they crawled into Hornet's room after her, and tucked themself against one wall, careful of the tapestry hanging above them. She sat back down at her work: bundles of silk, some soaking in vats of dye, some hanging on a rack for drying. One bundle waited on a mat before her, there to catch the excess dye. It would wait a little longer. They still had her attention.

She asked, "Did you need something?"

They shook their head. Nothing she hadn't already given, at least.

"Are you feeling unwell?"

A nod, this time, and then they let their head fall back against the wall, resting on their horns.

"You may stay, then. Although I'm afraid I won't be very good company."

They nodded again. They weren't even sure if they wanted company. Just presence.

Hornet worked in silence. All of her movements were practiced, rhythmic. She leaned in as she worked her silk: wringing it, stretching it out to dry. They leaned forward, too, watching intently. She was so precise always, but they were not sure they had ever seen her be so delicate. When a batch was ready, she pulled it from the rack and spooled it. This was the only sound, the rush of winding silk. Gentle. Mesmerizing.

It lulled them, after their poor sleep. The room blurred. They caught their mask in their hand, and-

Their head cracked against the low ceiling. Their mask pulsed from the blow, and they doubled over into their lap, grasping at their own face. Their chest heaved. The ache had been so close to settling into a low burn, easy to ignore, but now their own shell stabbed them again and again. The dream was fading already, but there was something - something. Chains again. Singing. Her singing, the voice that blazed.

"Abispa!"

They looked up to find Hornet's mask by theirs. Her hand brushed the shell, just skirting the edges of the crack in it. It seemed no worse than before. She stepped back, but her chin tipped up, her gaze staying fixed on them.

"I am sorry. You fell asleep, but perhaps I should have roused you."

They did not affirm or reject the idea. They settled back on the wall again, heavily. They collapsed, really. She took them in again. Always assessing, their sister. Always making choices.

She said, "Wait here."

They watched her as she left. Always, she assessed them. They wondered when she would find them wanting. When she would decide they were too much of a burden, and did not deserve to shelter here.

They tucked their head to their chest, and tried to focus on breathing. Tried to. Their mind worked against them. It tugged at the frayed edges of their last nightmare, half-remembered. The singing. Her voice, blazing.

They did not often dream of her. They dreamed of symptoms, or events. Real and unreal.

The quarantined city, the panicked pounding at the gates, filtered through their sense of the world. Arriving at Sheo's home to find only puddles of orange and fragments of carapace. Wet snap of breaking shell, thud of their arm onto the vault's floor before it melted into void. Polybia embracing the Hollow Knight's fate, knowing the chains, bearing the weight of the seals.

But her voice. They remembered her voice now. Singing. Screaming. The sound of her rage carving its way through their throat.

Their hand found their mask again. A single claw worried the crack.

"Be careful. You'll worsen it."

They were unaware of Hornet's return until she was right in front of them. They ducked their head, and quickly pressed their hand flat over their lap.

"You needn't be sorry. Here."

She set down a lumpy package of silk on the floor between them. Then she sat down behind it, and cut through the wrappings. A kettle of tea, which had been bound carefully to prevent spilling, and a cup and a bowl, which had been cushioned for her jump from the elevator.

They stared at her as she poured, but her actions didn't really register until she offered them a bowl of tea. They took it, and stared into its depths.

"Mossbloom," she said. "You enjoy it particularly, yes?"

They were still, at first. Then they looked up at her, and tilted their head.

"Yes. I remember."

To answer her question, they drained half of the bowl in one long draught. She nodded, and undid her mask to set it aside. She took only a sip of her own, before standing again. She gathered cushions from a pile in the corner, below her hammock. She arranged these next to them.

"You should lie down. You do not have to sleep, but rest."

Their side still ached. This was true. Sitting stiff and hunched over was not helping. They took her advice, and there was some improvement at once - there was the echo of pain that somehow meant relief.

Hornet slid their bowl into easy reach, and then sat cross-legged, with her own tea held loosely over her lap. She took another sip, and closed her eyes. Then she set her cup down, and resumed her work. She did poorly without something to busy her hands.

They drank tea. They leaned on cushions in their sister's room. They lounged, in fact.

They lounged. The room was cool and dark and quiet. Their finger tapped on the stone, matching the rhythm of Hornet's work, until they caught themself. But they always started again, not even realizing they had until they made themself stop. Finally, they made a fist, and pressed it to the floor.

They thought: the Hollow Knight, lounging. Drinking tea and having family. Thinking. This was everything that should not be.

Perhaps it wasn't.

Her blazing voice rang, remembered. She had shown them things. Things they wanted. Once she had heard them, one single thought stirring the void, it had been easy for her. She had so little else to do, and the mind of a wyrmspawn was such a straightforward tool, easily melted and reforged and dulled.

Their hand shook. They uncurled it and reached out for their bowl. They took a sip of tea. It was bitter. Thin.

She had never shown them anything like this. She had taken some pleasure in overwhelming them. Everything was sweet, new, sickening.

The infection smothered in the prison of their body, freedom for them, at last, and glory fit for the finest knight - all of it unraveled into visions of Hallownest as it truly was. A celebratory feast rotted into bright bile in their mouth. A caress from Father's claws, his welcoming arms, became her burning embrace.

But more than their mere torment, it was the acknowledgment she delighted in. When they thrashed in their bindings. When they wept tears like tar. And when their body was, finally, more her possession than their own, mere trembling was sometimes enough.

They felt inescapably at her whims, until it overflowed and poured out of them, their body giving out and giving up and burning burning burning and they clawed at their mask and they didn't expect to be able to reach, so when their hand connected it cut into the shell.

"Abispa-"

The Hollow Knight did not understand.

"Abispa?" More urgently.

They looked up at - Hornet. Sister.

Hornet, who was calling to them, softly. Calling their name. They had a name.

She had never have conjured a name for them. She had never conjured a sister. No tea, no cushions, no cool or dark or quiet.

They held out their hand. It was still shaking, but Hornet took it between both of hers, squeezing their palm. This couldn't have been a dream. It was infinitely better than anything anyone, included themself, could have thought to desire. The Radiance couldn't have plucked from them what they'd never imagined.

When Hornet again reached the point where she was ready to spool her silk, she paused. She placed the spool on the floor in front of them. They stared at it.

She asked, "Will you help me?"

They gulped down the rest of their tea. They nodded.

"Turn this, please. I will hold the silk so that it winds."

It was simple work, just enough to keep them occupied. They spun their hand, and it was clear that Hornet was letting them set the pace now, slower than she would have gone. But if she was impatient, she kept it hidden even without her mask. She adjusted the position of the thread occasionally, guiding it up or down according to the thickness of the spool. They adjusted their grip when they needed, and she insisted that they pause sometimes to stretch their hand.

"Just so," she said, when they were done and she examined their work. "Would you like to begin the next?"

They nodded quickly, and she prepared it for them. They were halfway through when a rapid knocking echoed from down the tunnel. Hornet didn't move, just called, "You may come in, Polybia."

She was unconcerned. If it wasn't Polybia, then whoever it was would find they had bitten off more than they could swallow, or else the siblings would have a problem that keeping the intruder out of one room wouldn't have solved.

The soft rush of cloak and shadow approaching resolved any concerns. Polybia hopped down into the room a moment later, and made one last dash up to Abispa's side.

Abispa lowered their head, and Polybia lifted theirs. They both bumped their masks together.

Hornet asked, "Welcome back. How did your visit go?"

Polybia fished out a scrap of silk paper from their cloak in response. The surface was covered in aimless lines and swirls, color rambling thoughtlessly over color.

"Very distinctive," Hornet said approvingly.

They nodded, but their own art didn't hold their interest for long. When Abispa leaned in to look, Polybia bumped their masks again, inquiring.

Abispa sank in on themself. Their hand shifted to hold their side. Polybia pressed their mask to Abispa's once more, and lifted their hand to hold it beside the crack. Abispa withdrew enough to nod.

Hornet stood up. "I will bring more tea for you. I did not know you'd be back so soon."

She hadn't even finished speaking before Polybia perked up. They patted Abispa's arm and spun away to snatch up the kettle. It was nearly as large as their body, but they set off back to the elevator with no evident struggle. Their siblings had no time to protest. It seemed they would bring their own tea.

Hornet watched them go, then laughed softly and sat back down. "And to think, I once thought myself quick. They've taught me better."

Abispa stared at her, and then shook their head earnestly.

She laughed again. "It's alright. I am glad they proved themself my match." She gave them a level look, and then added, "I am glad you were here to assist me today."

They heard her. They felt. They felt inescapably. But.

They didn't want to escape. Their chest was tight, and there was fluid pressing around their eyeholes like they were about to weep, and they never wanted to stop feeling like this. How to articulate this feeling? What to call it? They didn't know. They just wished to keep it.

And after a few moments of silence - of sitting in the cool and dark and quiet with their sister, while their sibling rattling dishes below echoed up faintly - nothing came along to take it. Nothing burned. Their side, faintly. But nothing burned it all away, nothing tore it from their grasp. They were not hanging back in the black vault.

This was no dream. For the first time, it occurred to them: they could keep this.

They sat up, and reached out to Hornet. Her gaze flicked up to them quickly, and she patted their knuckles.

A loud clatter announced Polybia's return to the entrance. They emerged a moment later with a new tray, and on it: the kettle, their own cup, thankfully intact, and the small jar of honey Hornet kept.

"So that's what you were after," she observed. "You could have asked."

They set the tray down in the triangle they completed, and tilted their head at her.

"Of course I would have allowed it. It is to share. As long as no one uses the whole jar at once," she said thoughtfully, "there will be no trouble. Do you mean to use the whole jar, Polybia?"

They shook their head.

Hornet's chelicerae twitched up, a rare spidery smile. "I thought not."

Polybia poured themself some tea, and sweetened it to their liking.

Hornet took a sip of her own forgotten tea. She swallowed the now-cold drink, and couldn't stop herself from pulling a face. She had two knowing gazes on her immediately.

"Yes, yes," she said. She downed the rest of it in one draught, and poured herself more. She stirred in one spoonful of honey as an incentive. "I will not forget again. Alright?"

They both nodded. She pushed the kettle over to Abispa, who poured some for themself as well. They ignored the honey entirely. They would rather savor the bitterness.

Polybia finished quickly their tea quickly. They stood up, and walked over to stand beside Abispa. Polybia traced along the scars in their sibling's shell, and held their gaze. Abispa shook their head, dismissing Polybia's concerns.

Polybia still stared. Abispa shook their head again, and set their hand between Polybia's horns. Their thumb traced up and down the outer curve, until Polybia was satisfied enough to relax.

The smaller sibling reclaimed their cup, and poured themself more tea. They topped off Abispa's while they had the kettle, and added another generous portion of honey to their own. Then they climbed onto Abispa's lap.

They all drank in silence, until Hornet finished her tea. She grabbed both the spool they had completed and the partial one. Polybia's gaze snapped to her, but she said, "I know. I only have a question. It is about the project I have in mind. Abispa?"

They jolted. Abispa set their bowl down and straightened suddenly, at attention. Polybia steadied themselves, and crossed their arms. She set the silk down in front of Abispa, and held up a hand, a pacifying gesture for both of them.

She told Abispa, "I only want to know which color you prefer."

They held her gaze, and then looked down at the silk. There was a deep, elegant red and a blue like lumafly-lit stone. They thought, and then tapped the blue.

"Thank you," she said. "That will do."

Both siblings tilted their heads at her.

"You have expressed a fondness for tapestries like these." She gestured above their head, at the decoration on the wall behind them. "And I have been weaving more, as of late. thought I would make one for you. This will be the central color."

Abispa stared at her. They could do nothing else. They had no respond ready; they had too much in their head at once to pick out any one sentiment to express. Finally, and with great deliberation, they plucked Polybia from their lap. They moved the kettle aside, then the jar of honey. They slid into the space where the dishes had been, and bent so their mask rested just above her face.

She stretched up to meet them, and when she accepted their invitation, they wrapped their arm around her. They crushed her close, for just a moment, and then let her back down.

"It's no trouble! You needn't-" Her chelicerae worked furiously, and she pressed a hand over them to hide it, speaking into her shell. "It's no trouble. Truly."

Their chest shook silently, the shape of a laugh, and they tapped between her horns.

She cleared her throat, but the sound gave way to her own laughter. She shook her head helplessly, and told Polybia. "You'll have one, too. If you would like, of course."

They nodded enthusiastically.

"Good." She folded her arms under her cloak. "Now. Since you've both decided that my room is a common area for the evening, you may assist me."

She gestured to the unfinished spool. "Abispa, you know what to do. Please inform Polybia. I will prepare more silk."

Polybia wasn't inclined to complain about more art, after they'd ended their session with Sheo early, and Abispa was happy to teach them. Hornet gathered up the pieces of her own work as her siblings sat down to theirs. They carried on, until Polybia was visibly nodding off.

That night, it was the memory of whispering silk that carried Abispa into their own long, dreamless sleep.

#hollow knight #hk hornet #hk the knight #hk little ghost #the hollow knight #hk fanfic #my fanfic

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b4civility · 4 years

Text

August,7

fanfic based on the “teenage love triangle” on Folklore, “Betty”, “August” and “Cardigan”. Still releasing new chapters, stay tooned!

[NO WARNINGS]

summary: Betty doesn’t realize she is touching James the first time she does so. James doesn’t realize she is everything he wants the first time he paints her sink red. Alisson doesn’t realize she wasn’t part of the plan. August slipped away like a bottle of wine, as quick as it could,staining everything it reaches.

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Chapter 1: Betty

Whenever I have to pack, my head gets cloudy. Always seems like I got everything I need, except that the Object That I Take For Granted But Actually Use Everyday stays behind, like a bath sponge or a coffee pot. I know this will happen, but get a bit of a headache every time trying to fight it. All the boxes in mu checklist are checked, but this anxious feeling still buzzes inside my head.

‘Check under the bed to see if there’s something there’, mom says.

I check. There is, but nothing that belongs to me.

I am moving from a house of girls to another house of girls, but at least I get to have the unspoken individuality of my belongings, the entitlement to my schedule and to have “ I would rather not talk about it” or “I want to keep it to myself” as a legitimate answer this time around. My sisters are pretty sad about it- Skyler says she will miss my closet the most. “ So I am supposed to buy my own earrings now? How much do they cost? Do you try them on at the store? Is it ok if I get them wet by accident or will they be totally ruined?” she shoots at me as I finish packing my jewelry. “ Did you not care to not spill water on my earrings when you wore them?”, I ask, but she just looks away and plays with the ones that are in her ear, that are, too, mine. They are the silver with some dark green balls at the end. I stole them from a fancy boutique when I was 14, igniting my addiction to this accessory. I stole a couple more until the guilt finally kicked in,and then became an expert on finding cheap and not that bad ones at Aliexpress. I’ll just let her have it, looks better with her short hair than with my long one. Even though we have the same kind of curls, mine weren’t as defined as hers when I had short hair. A little bit shorter than the earrings, makes her look so edgy. She loves it.

Eliza, in the other hand, despites my wardrobe, but worships my baking skills. One Sunday or the other we bake together, she makes sour doo biscuits and I bake a cake. This is our stack for the week, and then we try a different recipe for the dessert that day. We have a nice dynamic in the kitchen by now-she hates making cake but loves eating mine and I feel the same way about her biscuits, ans since both of us have a sweet tooth, baking is taken very seriously under this roof.

The four of us get in the car, I get the backseat since Eliza is our official DJ (not that we gave her the title, rather she took it),plus, mom likes her by her side. Never have I ever sat behind the wheels when the entire family was in the car, for some reason mom would always get cautious about it when I asked if I could drive in these situations, even though I have been each and everyone’s chauffeur at some point.

Tomorrow, at this very hour, I would be waking up to none of them. The closest thing to not being a sister I ever had was before I was seven, when Skyler wasn’t born yet, the bedroom was all mine and dad only had one volleyball player in our backyard. The closest thing I ever got to not being a daughter when he left. I was 12, Skyler was 5 and mom was in no condition to deal with her and our loss at the same time. Grandma was around a lot for the next 2 years. I couldn’t say the same about our mother, even up to this date.

So I was reading her body expression, her smile at what my sister was saying about the music she chose, her thin neck, blurred by some hair strands that got out of her pony tale and eventually felt on her shoulders covered by her green cardigan, and how easily breakable her peacefulness appeared. Not because of my departure,no, she has been looking like this everyday since that last day. I don’t believe the other two ever notices that, not when they got their hands full with the colossal mess they make to get their older sister’s attention. It does work, I’m even moving houses because of it;college is just a social-acceptable excuse.

Three hours later we have completed our journey from Mendax to Verum, the college town just 20 minutes away from campus. Five other girls were to live with me, none that I have met yet, but their facebook page tells me I got another Political Science major in the house, two English majors, a biology southmore and soon-to-be-graduated journalist. I sort of hoped I was going to be the first one to arrive so I could get my stuff in place first, not have all the stubbornness that run through my family’s DNA thrown at them as a first impression and possibly bake a Homecoming/Welcome/If My Words Fail Me At Least I Have This Going For Me cake. Plus, I own Eliza this last/ first moment, so I’d ask for her help.

The house was unapologetically pink. The pastel tone suited the wood-revested building very well, so much it felt like Barbie Dream House: College edition. The family house energy of it, the immense porch space, the spacious interior corridors,two livingrooms and the hugh gress space in the backyard were the opposite of what you would expect of a college girls’ residency, yet everything you wish they all looked like. Besides, this was a very prospect location for an off campus party, so I think I got the upper hand with this one.

“ You are in a Barbie movie scenario for your entire graduation. I’m so jealous I can’t barely put it into words” Skyler said, staring at it, blinking as if she was waiting for it to disappear the next time she opened her eyes. “ Yeah,I will be sitting at the porch waiting to see if Ken shows up anytime soon,too.” I answered as I stood next to her, holding boxes. “Yeah, be sure to look very carefully for him at the massive Homecoming barbecue you guys are going to be having in this abnormous big backyard of yours”.So it was that obvious.” But don’t get attached to the first cutie you see, ok? Someone better could be just around the corner... ”. I don’t even want to imagine how her college years are going to be like. Probably a little cooler than mine; she always knows how to make a fun moment even funnier. Is it legal to bring your underaged sibling to a uni party?

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in mind whenever I get more-than-two-dates invested in someone here”

Did Skyler really thought that my next romance would just fall into my backyard, like that?

Chapter 2: James

The sound of the wheels rolling on the concrete always get people looking, even when you are far from them. Anyone in top of a skateboard becomes a model in a suburban street, whose streets turn into a red carpet filled with paparazzi. I try to say something like “good morning” or “hello” to whoever I am passing by in an attempt to make my politeness overcome the annoyance of the loud noise, and convince myself that it works. Somehow, I often end up in a situation where it would be better not to be seen: whether is when I am riding my board and I get loud or in places I shouldn’t be attempting to land a trick at, or when I am pointing my camera at someone, trying to get a picture without them noticing. As if it isn’t happening for the hundredth time, I awkwardly pause, try to wave at them so I don’t come out as a stalker and gesticulating an apology all at once. People generally frown and move some place else, as a anyone in their right mind would. But only my headphones come with me for the ride when I know I will be taking The Pink House road. Two years ago I was riding by for the fourth time in the same week - ok, that was pretty stalker-y - getting shots of the house, the thing that struck me at first, and then the feature that actually grabbed my attention: the girls. There were four college girls living there, all who seemed so bubbly,so full of life, so enjoyable to the eye, so hot. By that time I had the count in my head, and one of them was missing. Didn’t mind much, got some rather good photos of Claire, the only one that I(oddly,but actually) knew. We made out at a uni party that I had sneaked in to the year before. As soon as I looked forward, A bloody face jumped in front of me,screaming, scaring me enough so that I felt in the concrete, scratched an elbow and hurting my feet.

“THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON’T WEAR PROTECTION PADS!!!!! AND ALSO WHEN YOU ACT LIKE A CREEP FUCK,BASTARD!”

As I pointed my head to the sky, the bloody shadow took away the mask, to reveal the fourth girl missing. “I-I-I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to.. I was just… The house, I-”

“Oh God ,it’s a creepy kid”, she said, throwing a hand to help me get up. “ So just because you are a cute teenager you think you can spy on stranger’s house like that?!?”- she said I was cute- “Yo, it’s no stalker”- kinda was- “just a random kid with a camera. Partially broken camera, you might wanna pick that piece up”. That was the day I met Inez. We got quite acquainted since that day, and photographing a place that you are allowed in got boring after the first two times so we just became friends.

I searched for her, but instead saw a brown girl istead. A new girl. Someone I was not ready to see. I stopped breathing the second she raised her head and I could see her almond eyes better, the spark on her cheeks reflecting the sun. The next thing I knew I had my face on the concrete, with the same elbow scratched, again.

“Shit, are you ok? You're bleeding” she (yes, she!) said to me.

“I-I’m cool, I’m cool… you know,just...whatever, happens all the time and shit...” . My mouth doesn’t know how to work when my brain is in complete shock with the view, apparently.

“You should at least wash it, your elbow could get infected, come on inside” she said, as she held my hand and arm very softly. You could see she was trying not to touch the injury much, but I swear I wasn’t feeling my entire body.

Chapter 3: Betty

“I suppose we should have a first aid kit here, somewhere…”- he’s painting my sink in red as the water runs in the wound. What a way to start. “Eliza, Skyler, help me; you go look if you find anything in the bathroom and you, keep at the kitchen cabinets”.

“It’s on the upper shelf, actually”, he answers.

It was.What the fuck?

“So you live here now?!?!” I hear a voice from behind that isn’t my mother’s. It’s the biology major,even though she is blonder than her facebook pictures.

“I-I-I just… arrived…. I’m sorry he… I was just...” Was I ever going to come up with the right sequence of words to explain that I, a girl she never met, had got into her house with a bleeding,also strange boy and two teenagers running wild looking through her stuff? The chances are beyond unlikely,at its best.

“Not you, I was expecting you- I mean him”, she arched her eyebrows.

“Inez ! long time no see, girl!”, he replies with a sort of laughing, trying to lighten up the mood. I wasn't understanding one bit of what was going on.

“ You couldn’t wait for the party so you just brought it right in yourself, huh? Look at the mess you made in my kitchen! You know, I am leaving here next year so you better make a good impression of yourself for the other girls if you want to keep falling in our doorstep and getting aid”

“I don’t think I’m their first option but I can make it work, never smile at someone and didn’t get a smile back” he says softly, kind of taking advantage of it, as he smiles at Inez, and she tries to hold it, but smiles back. I smile a little bit too, but still- what the fuck is happening?!?!

“ You believe that your white teeth will get you anywhere, don’t you?”

“It got me aid the first time I ever felt in your doorstep. Also got you letting me teach you how to skateboard,which was super cool” he started sounding a little bit more teenager-y. How old was he?

“ I always wanted to skate, you just happened to have a skateboard”. The air in the room was decrisealing chaotic. What he did worked.

“Oh, like we were the only two people here, I am so sorry; hi, I’m Inez, welcome home,Beatrice!” she turns to me, shaking my hand, with a relaxed smile on.

“Thank you, you can call me Betty” He really softened the mood, the words even came out of my mouth normally.

“Ok, sure. I was meant to be here earlier but I had a salon appointment. But you met the house mascot already,so that’s one thing out of the list”- she points at this skater, sitting on the sink- “ This is James, he’s around more than he should. Do you need help? with the boxes?” And then I remembered of my sisters, running loose around the house and my mom, probably on the car outside.

“ My sisters and I got everything by the porch already, there aren’t many”

“Fine, I will just wrap up this skater’s arm in a band-Aid and then I’ll show you your room. Clem is your roommate. You are enrolled in political science too, right?”

“Yeah”

“Nice, I think you two will be quite a match then. James, get your board rolling outta here, you are done, you can stop scarring my new roomate.

“ Thanks, ‘Nez” he hopped out of the sink. “ It was never my intention to scare you. Nice meeting you, Betty” he gives me a quiet smile, looking into my eyes just for a second before looking at the ground. He ran a little bit down the hallway, got on the skateboard and went out of sight. He had this boyish posture, stubborn, unaware of his own size. His broad shoulders moved along with his waist as he strolled away. It was nice meeting you,too,James.

#folklore #taylorstans #taylor swift #original story #betty #august #cardigan #folklorefic august7

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mercurymetals · 5 years

Text

someone to feed, someone to bleed

I admit, I planned to work through the requests in order, but when I saw this ask I just had to sit down and write it. That's some yummy ideas you've got there, anon. Took some liberties, but hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence and death. Lots of blood. Power play dynamics. Borderline psychological horror. Actually, probably straight up horror as well. Have fun!

Blood. The smell of it is thick, almost oppressive as it fills your nostrils. You never thought you'd call this process familiar, and yet that's exactly what it has become to you. Ordinary. Routinely, even.

The heavy tang of iron, pools of red blooming beneath you, exposed flesh and torn up arteries - these things should scare you. They should horrify you.

And they did, once.

The first time these very sights and smells penetrated your senses, the shock was enough to nearly make you faint. Your knees gave out under you and you crumbled down to the ground. Nausea and helpless panic overwhelmed your senses, causing your whole body to shake violently. You gasped in breath after uneven breath, each punctuated by a pathetic whimper at the back of your throat.

You don't know why you were chosen. You don't know what about that display could have intrigued him. You don't know why he cut down everyone that night except for you.

All you remember after the massacre is the way he lifted your chin with the tip of his blade, forcing you to look up at him. There was a sadistic glint in his eyes as he watched you, and even then you could tell each of your cries and quivers pleased him. He smiled slowly, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips.

"Yes. You'll do," he had said, and thus your fate was decided.

It took you weeks, to get used to your new duties. You wanted to refuse his demands, but fear compelled you to obey.

Your first kill left you changed. To this day, you are convinced it hurt you more than it hurt your victim. As the days passed, vivid images of faces twisted in agony burned themselves into your mind. When you managed to fall asleep, you'd get nightmares, and when you woke up in a cold sweat, they wouldn't leave you. Memories flashed before your eyes minute by slow minute, demanding your attention. Demanding you answer for your crimes.

But that was then. You have surpassed that version of yourself.

Now, you grip the blade steadily, watching with trained patience while the woman before you writhes, her hands desperately clawing at the mask on her face. You hear her shriek out pleas, but the words don't even register in your mind. She groans as the tendrils dig deep into her brain, her struggles growing weaker, until finally she lays still on the floor of the chamber.

You carefully remove the mask, placing it back on its pedestal with a performative reverence, and then go back to watching her. You know the process can take anywhere from a few seconds to a minute, and this is the most dangerous part of your task. But if you time things right, everything should proceed smoothly.

Priest. That is your title. The one and only high priest, ordained with the honour to serve a god among men, a life form so far evolved your petty human brain could never hope to comprehend it. Yet you know your hands are soaked with death, your heart speaks only of sin, and repentance is not a relief you can grant to anyone, least of all yourself.

You've come to terms with that, though. You've come to accept that the only thing that matters in your life any more is servitude.

You must have been chosen for a reason, after all. There must be something special about you. You are not like the humans whose lives you assist in taking. You are more than just a meal waiting to happen. And you are helping them, too. By continuing to do this dreadful job, you're sparing someone else from having to do it in your place. That has to count for something, doesn't it?

But as the seconds tick by, the woman remains perfectly still. You frown, and wait, and wait, and she does not stir.

Have you done something wrong? You're sure you saw those tendrils pierce her head. Should you keep waiting? No, out of the question. You feel your master's expectant gaze on your back, and you know you don't have the luxury of making him wait any longer. You crouch down and reach out to check the victim's pulse, wondering if you took the mask off too early.

And that's exactly when she strikes. With an inhuman screech she throws herself at you, slamming you to the ground. You feel her clawed fingers dig into the skin of your bared arms. You thrust your knife towards her, but she easily slaps your hand aside, knocking it out of your grasp.

She opens her mouth wide, her fangs ready to tear your face open--

You hear a scream, but it's not your own. Her weight vanishes off you, and a sick crunch resounds in the chamber. You sit up in time to see her crumple to the ground beside you once more. Kars, your master, is standing over the two of you, but your eyes remain glued to the woman.

Part of her torso and abdomen are missing, her flesh and insides melting off her like liquid. She spasms violently on the floor of the chamber, her body buckling as if overcome by a seizure. You've seen so many horrors play out before your eyes, but still you grimace in disgust. You know well that Kars could have easily finished her in one strike, but he chose not to, and now you are forced to watch her die a slow death for a second time.

This time when she grows still, you are certain she is done for. But it's not until the harrowing scene comes to an end that the gravity of the situation hits you.

You've never messed up on this scale before. When you first started out, you were expected to learn fast, and even then Kars had hardly been tolerant of even the smallest mistakes. He made you do things over and over until you got them right, your abhorrent duties a punishment of their own right.

But now... You don't even know how you could possibly salvage this. The silence between you and your master is stark, and it's all you can do to shift yourself to your knees before him.

You hear him sigh. "Not only do I have to do your job for you, but you've made such a mess of my meal." He sounds sincerely disappointed, and you find yourself upset for it. He caused the mess by your side, but still you feel accountable for inconveniencing him. That he was the one who forced you to do these things in the first place seems trivial - he's displeased with you, and that's entirely your fault.

"I have allowed you to participate in something of such importance," Kars continues. "I have given you training, a place by my side. You! A mere human. And still you fail me." He steps closer, causing your body to twitch reflexively. You dare not look up at him. "Well, I suppose that's to be expected. What should I do with you, I wonder?"

Your breathing is still uncomfortably fast, and you find yourself at a loss. You have overcome the you who snivelled at the thought of taking a life. You fought past your repulsion for blood and gore. You have steeled yourself to perform your duties swiftly and efficiently. You have, by all accounts, embraced death.

But with his unnerving glare boring into the back of your head, you feel utterly hopeless. Your master is the only one left who can stir any emotion out of you, but the only thing you feel towards him is a mind-numbing fear.

"I-- I apologise," you stutter. "Please, a-allow me to get you another meal..."

Kars scoffs. "Is that your answer? You're looking to run away from me?"

You shake your head fervently. "No, I... I'm sorry." You don't know what else to say. You want to beg his forgiveness, but you are afraid you're only going to make things worse.

"Hmm."

You hate that noise. That relaxed hum he makes whenever he's debating on some terrible decision. You stay silent, knowing he is enjoying dragging this out, letting you ferment over the fact he's contemplating your fate. Your life is but a tiny thread weaved around his finger, and he could make the decision to snap it in an instant.

You hear him shift. "Your hand."

Confused, you lift your head and peek up. Kars' arm is outstretched towards you, his large palm open. You hesitate, but slowly raise your hand and place it in his.

The second you do, his fingers clasp around it and he drags you upwards in one smooth, effortless motion. You yelp, suddenly finding yourself almost face-to-face with your master. You're standing on your tip toes, trying to relieve the pressure from him holding you up, but still you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

Kars is holding you close enough that your bare chest presses against his. The sensation is oddly intimate. The outfit you have been donned with is scarce, made to match his - most of your body is out on display, save for the linen skirt around your waist and the ornaments around your wrists and neck. Chains obscured by gold, as you've come to think of them.

But it is not his physicality that catches you off guard. He's towered over you from the start - you're well aware of his greatness. It is his face, where you never dared to steal more than a glance, that momentarily stuns you.

His thick eyelashes, the smudge of purple on his eyelids, his still-smiling lips, and that dark hair framing his sharp features. It's embarrassing how much it overwhelms you for a moment, being this close to it all. He's so... lovely to look at.

You soon snap out of it however when you realise the look in his eyes is one you have seen before. Back on that fateful night when he found you, and through a blur of tears you saw it then as you see it now - wanton cruelty.

You open your mouth to say something, plead with him, but his other hand snaps shut around your throat, silencing your attempts before they could even begin.

"Not a word,” Kars says, observing you with smug content.

You try to gasp for air. Your lungs contract painfully, but to no avail. You can't breathe. You can’t breathe! You can't breathe!

Your free hand wraps around his wrist, but it does you no good. You claw at his skin, but he doesn't let up, keeping your airways tightly sealed. Your lungs are burning, and pressure rises in your head like water against a dam. Soon your vision of Kars becomes blurry and distorted, a muddled disarray of purple and tan. Black spots join the fray as they start to cut into your sight, threatening to sever your consciousness any second.

Then the pain starts to feel distant, and your awareness of your own body becomes muted. It's almost like you're falling asleep. It's... a strangely peaceful way to go, you think distantly. If this is how you can escape your wicked existence, then maybe it's not all so bad.

But the moment Kars lets go, you instinctively gulp in several large breaths, and your vision winks back in place. You're dizzy, the pressure in your mind worryingly high, and then the pain hits you. Your chest seizes, and your heart thuds so fiercely you wonder if it's about to give out anyway.

The only reason you're still up and not splayed out on the floor is because Kars is still holding you. And, to your alarm, he reaches for your neck a second time. You squirm in an attempt to get away, hysterical at the thought he's about to do that to you all over again.

Kars grasps your throat, but not hard enough to block your airways. Instead, you feel a strange sensation of something dipping under your skin.

You want to protest, but all your damaged voice manages is a croak. You feel a kind of pull, your blood seeping out of you and straight into his fingers. As your rapidly pumping heart continues to work overtime in an attempt to get oxygen to your brain, it inadvertently feeds Kars instead. The hand that had been stealing your air supply seconds ago is now stealing your very life force from inside of you.

You don't feel good. Dazedly you cling onto his arm, wishing you could do something to alter your fate. Surely even death would be kinder at this point.

But maybe that's precisely why your master has left you alive.

You don't know how long it takes, but finally you feel his fingers pull out of your throat. You're not even allowed a moment of comfort as he immediately drops you to the ground, and your head crashes painfully against the stone floor of the chamber.

You lie there motionlessly, feeling exhausted, sickened and used. Closing your eyes makes it worse, so you keep them open. The image of the woman right next to you steadily comes into focus. You become aware of the wetness against your cheek, and wonder if it's her blood or liquefied flesh you're lying in. You don't care. More than anything, you'd like to drift off to sleep. Better your nightmares than this reality.

When you hear Kars speak, you force away your own desires and concentrate on his words. "I expect this place to be cleaned up by the time I come back."

You hear his retreating footsteps, and the relief you feel is enough to make you want to cry. The chamber doors creak open, and there's a few seconds of silence. You wait with baited breath.

"Don't disappoint me a second time, my precious priest."

The doors close with a resounding thud.

You lie for some time. Eventually, your vision returns to normal and the world stops swaying. You still feel feverish and weak, but you make yourself sit up. You turn your gaze to the corpse of the woman again, taking in her severed form, her face twisted in a death mask of horror.

Maybe you and her aren't so different, after all.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere jjba #yandere kars #male reader #mine #song recommendation of the day: just what i needed by the cars #which is where i got the title from!#although i wrote 90% of this listening to the pillar men theme hahah

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kensboytoy · 5 years

Text

Pulled Back from the Ledge

Title: Pulled Back From The Ledge Fandom: Boku No Hero Academia Characters: Present Mic/Hizashi Yamada, Reader Ratings: Mature

Notes:

WARNING: This fic has a depiction of mental illness and a suicide attempt. It has a happy ending but this was an emotional piece I started one day when I was ready to take my own life. I wrote this as a piece for myself to heal so please keep that in mind! If you are in this state of mind, PLEASE remember that people are there for you. You are loved.

[Read on AO3 or Keep Reading below!]

You had been living with this illness for so long that you couldn’t really remember who you were before it. It had to have been easier than this. People probably liked you more before you pushed everyone away. It was an unfortunate defense mechanism of your depression: get everyone out of your life and isolate yourself. Things would be easier when you were alone. You’d be in control of this and no one would come looking for you.

The wind softly stung your exposed arms with the coldness of the night air. Goosebumps ran along your body and you were surprised that you could feel anything with how numb you were inside. Only pinpricks for a moment before the emptiness of static filled your stomach and sunk your heart again. The moon was full as it hung above you, almost watching in anticipation of your next move.

Standing on the edge of the rooftop you came to have lunch on back when you could stand to be outside, you peered down at the empty parking lot four stories below. This height would be enough to kill you on impact. You hoped. Despite your intense need to die, you never really did plan too much ahead. You left the vagueness in the back of your mind as an array of different options left up to the day you would inevitably end your own life. There was no certain tie to this place that you needed to have your guts peeled off the pavement. No symbolic message it would hold when they found your body.

The pain was just too much. It had swallowed you whole and spit you back up a few times so that you could escape back to your mediocre life time and time again. Back to the daily grind where your emotions were ground down into ashes. You had no motivation. No spark for life. Every day was a challenge to even choose to get up instead of rolling back over to sleep. To avoid being awake was a luxury that the world wouldn’t let you have.

So, you wanted to sleep forever.

You’d like to think of it as sleep. You weren’t really sure what came after stepping off a tall building. Probably pain. That was something you desperately wanted to avoid at all costs. Easier that way to keep not feeling anything.

Except now there were tears rolling down your cheeks. Red hot as they burned your eyes trying to escape. You let them, making no move to wipe them away. It didn’t matter if they blurred your vision, your target was just a step away no matter what.

Couldn’t back down now. The voice in your head that usually kept you from the last stage of your plan was nowhere around. Not a peep from your conscience - had that given up on you too?

Frustrated, you grabbed the sides of your head to silence all the chatter, all the thousands of voices telling you that you were worthless. That you deserved everything - every ounce of pain, all the isolation. This was all you knew now. You already committed to this, no use in beating yourself up. Close your eyes and think of something nice. Maybe one vacation you always dreamt of taking but never did. Perhaps that old movie you once had on repeat when it was a comfort to you when you were younger. Anything pleasant to finish your life off with.

Your body began to step closer to the edge as you racked your brain for any semblance of comfort. The tears began to stop and yet you still could not see the world around you. Everything was a blur as you moved to take the final step, your arms falling loosely to your sides. You waited to feel the embrace of the wind taking you down to your grave like the only comforting hug you would get now.

However, your plan was shortly lived as a horribly loud shout pulled you out of your robotic movements.

“HEEEEEEEY LISTENER!” the voice shrieked, causing you to step back in shock.

You immediately covered your ears and cowered from the noise, the force of it knocking the wind from your lungs. Before you could even recover, you felt two hands grab you by the collar and pull you further away from your grave. You were placed in a firm headlock preventing you from moving, your eyes blinking back the tears to see what the hell had interrupted you.

“You sleepwalkin’ or what? Good thing you got the best alarm in the world to come wake you up!”

Confused, you looked up at the beaming figure. Holy shit. A Pro Hero?! What the hell were they doing here? You gawked as you stared at the gaudy leather outfit, enraptured by the heavy speakers he wore around his neck. His hair alone was enough to distract you from the current situation at hand, along with curious eyes now scanning your face from behind his stylish frames.

“Eh? C’mon, kid. I know I’m easy on the eyes, but you don’t gotta stare so much!” he joked with a toothy smile.

“Uhm,” you tried to speak but the movement felt like sandpaper on your lungs. Your head was still swirling as you tried your best to stop your brain from rattling around from that loud voice. Even his speaking volume was loud enough to pull you from the depths of your inner monologue.

“I know, not every day you’d get to see the face of the best DJ in the world!! It’s a very lucky thing, dear listener. You got your own private concert!”

As he continued to humbly brag about himself, he pulled you further and further away from danger. You felt his grip on you start to slack when he felt comfortable enough that you couldn’t book it off the edge anymore. Slowly, he pulled you up and dusted off your jacket, beaming down at you.

“Are you… Present Mic?” you asked dumbly, causing him to bring his hands up to pose dramatically at your realization.

“Of course, little listener! I knew my gaze would burn a fire into your soul so you’d know who I am! Kinda took a while though...”

The man pouted at the last bit, pursing his lips together so you couldn’t exactly hear what he was saying. Damn Heroes always muttering to themselves. You let out an exasperated sigh when you finally looked back up at him.

“Why… why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out there fighting villains?”

Mic looked at you carefully. You were in rough shape - hair disheveled, bags under your eyes from the sleepless nights, your lips were chapped and shriveled, and it was very clear that you were not mentally stable enough to be left alone. In short: you looked like hell twice over.

“Eh? Fighting villains, hm? I mean, it looks like you were out here doin’ just that.”

You looked puzzled at that. What on Earth was he saying? You opened your mouth to voice your confusion before he continued on.

“You were battlin’ something fierce tonight, huh? A whole gang of villains swarming around you, I bet.” He casually walked around you, kicking his legs around so that he spun every time you two made eye contact. Finally, he lowered his shades and grinned again. “So I thought you needed some back-up, kid! Can’t go fighting so many bad guys alone.”

Slowly, you began to understand. This man - no, this hero wasn’t belittling you. Wasn’t mocking you for trying to hurl yourself off the roof. The embarrassment of getting caught was starting to wash away the more he spoke to you like an equal. You weren’t a Pro Hero, nowhere close to one, but he was talking to you like you were important.

“I don’t think those bad guys were as tough as the ones you fight, Mic,” came your weak muttering.

At that, he placed a firm hand on your shoulder, giving you a reassuring squeeze. It had never hit you how badly you needed someone’s warmth until then. You felt your eyes sting with tears as the hero’s spiral eyes bore into you with such care.

“Listener, those are the worst kind of villains we face. They get up all in your frequency and jam it - sometimes it’s hard to listen to a different tune.” Gingerly, he lifted your chin so you could look at him. “It’s okay, alright? You luckily have the loudest voice in all of Japan right here ta help ya out!”

Your mask began to crack.

Whether it was just from the sheer kindness of his words or your adrenaline wearing away from your little stunt, you simply collapsed into the heaviest cry you had ever let out. The heaviness from your body felt like it had up-heaved and fallen at your feet. As your nerves shook your body while the tears overflowed, you fell to your knees and wept. You clutched the sides of your head, letting out pained cries as you let the sadness and relief run through you.

Mic had not flinched. He hadn’t been disgusted or judgmental as he watched you spill your metaphorical guts out with this cry - it was a far better option than what you had planned. The Pro Hero watched in a rare moment of silence, waiting patiently until he saw an opening. When you bent over and let the snot and tears fall onto the ground, you felt his hand firmly on your back, rubbing circles as you cried.

His warmth was nothing you could have imagined. Even with just his fingertips exposed and against you, your cold husk of a body felt the heat radiate to your core. Slowly, you stopped full on sobbing and instead made little whimpers as you tried to regain a steady breath.

That was when he enveloped you in his arms, pulling you to his chest so that you could focus on his steady heartbeat. Mic knew the importance of having any calm after the storm. You had just fought your own demons. The DJ was fully aware that you needed comfort above a lecture.

“It’s okay, kid. I gotcha now,” he managed to speak softly and yet his voice was everything. A light. Hope. “You’re safe. You’re stuck with me now, ya dig? So go ahead and let it all out.”

You took him up on that. It hit you in waves, coming just as soon as you greedily gulped for air since your nasal passages were blocked up. Your body would shake as you sobbed softly into the chest of the hero. Mic never faltered for a moment. He continued to rub at your back as he held you there. You were safe.

Eventually, after what seemed like a painful eternity, you couldn’t cry anymore. It felt like all the water from your body had escaped from your eyes. Everything was painful and rough physically, but emotionally? At least you were feeling something. Your conscience was back and berating you, filling you with a different kind of noise. The self-loathing kind of noise.

Mic must have seen the expression on your face as you winced because he had you gently get to your feet before he swung an arm over your shoulders. He gave you a toothy smile as if he were proud of you for all that embarrassing mess.

“You know what I do after a good cry, listener? Tons and tons of konbini food!” he cheered.

You looked at him skeptically for a moment. Had he just admitted that he cries too? Well, duh, he was human. Humans do have emotions, even when they graduate to being a Pro Hero.

“C’mon. Let’s pick out some stuff to binge ourselves on, yeah? I think you deserve it after that tough battle.”

You didn’t know what to say. Why was he still here? The danger of killing yourself was gone. Shouldn’t he have captured you and brought you to a hospital or something? Why was he wasting time and now wanting to get snacks?

As you pondered, he led you off the roof and down to the streets. He made sure to keep an arm on your shoulder or his hand on you at all cost. To make sure you couldn’t try anything else, you assumed. The warmth of another person had felt amazing and much needed after that. You had tried your best to regain any semblance of looking less like a wreck than you did before you entered the store. Mic saw your fussing and gently pulled an old bandana from one of his pockets.

“Here, listener. Old thing’s all beat up but it makes an okay hankie!”

Shyly, you thanked him and wiped your face to clear up all the dried tears and sweat. He waited patiently before you were ready, his grin back on his face as he shoved you inside the store. The harsh sting of the fluorescent lights hit you almost as hard as that shout had to save you. You recoiled and pressed yourself against his arm, face in his jacket as you groaned.

That was when he handed you something more special than just a beat up bandana. The triangle shades were now between his two fingers as he offered them to you gently. You were floored. That was a staple of his costume! Could you really take them-

Your stare eventually landed at his beautiful spiral eyes. Green - wait, red? - no, definitely green with a twinkling curiosity of you. He shot you a wink and gestured for you to take the sunglasses.

“U-um, are you-”

Mic tutted softly before he slipped them on you himself. He pulled away and looked at you proudly.

“Hey, hey! Not half bad, listener,” the hero complimented. “Though, I think they go with my style more, yeah? You can use ‘em in here so your eyes don’t fry.”

He squinted at the lights above you two, wrinkling his nose.

“I swear, they blast these things up to eleven when it’s as dark as night outside.” Mic laughed and shook his head, amused at the sight of you in his shades. “Anyways, listener! Snacktime! I’m quite hungry myself from my patrol earlier - I think I’m cravin’ somethin’ salty.”

You walked with him through the aisles, watching as he scooped a basket up from the front before knocking bags of chips and other salty snacks one by one into it. Amused at his penchant for salty things, you found yourself glancing at a few bags of chips yourself. You didn’t have time to look over the bags before a gloved hand reached out and added them to the basket.

“Th-that’s too many,” you whined. “You don’t-”

“Aw yeah! Drink time!” he managed to cut you off as you two approached the cooler of cute beverages.

Mic grabbed a coffee, two energy drinks, and a couple things of black tea. You wondered if that was just a daily amount of caffeine to power the overactive man or was it enough to kill a normal person? The thought made you chuckle to yourself. Present Mic watched from the corner of his eye at that small victory, his lips tugging into a grin.

You two made your selections and he swiped up a few sweets and some premade meals before he checked out with the heavy basket of junk. The cashier gawked at the sight of the hero and a seemingly average person now wearing his shades, Mic chatting him up and laying on his usual schtick of everyone being his fanclub. Eventually, everything was bagged up and you two were out the door.

“Ah, Mic,” you piped up, taking off the glasses now that you two were in the comfort of darkness. “Um, thank you. For all of this. I…”

Mic carefully took his glasses and slipped them on before he placed two bags into your hands. You looked at the contents, perplexed that it was a bunch of the premade meals he had bought.

“I know it’s gonna be hard tryin’ to get back to normal. I know I never wanted to cook for myself when I felt like crap. So those should last ya about a week. Maybe less if you wanna indulge a bit.”

You paused, staring up at him in disbelief. If you had any tears left, you knew they’d be welling up in your eyes.

“Why… why are you doing all this? You saved me from hurling myself off a building, dragged me to get snacks, let me borrow your glasses, and now this? Surely you have better things to do.”

That was when you saw Present Mic’s smile falter only for a moment before you felt the warm embrace of him again.

“Listener, I know you probably can’t hear reason over all those voices on your wavelength, but people care. I saw a person in distress tonight - someone so hurt by everything that they wanted to take their own life. You know how relieved I was that I saw you head up there tonight? I knew that buildin’ was closed. That you weren’t going up there for something fun. You looked like you were just goin’ through the motions…”

His words started to sink in. Present Mic could see it on your face that you weren’t in your right mind. If he hadn’t seen you when he did…

“You looked like you needed a friend,” he continued, his smile back on his face as he looked at you. “Sometimes, when we’re like that, we just want someone to come in and knock some sense into us. Luckily, it didn’t take much with ya! I think you really just needed some time to jam out those shitty feelings.”

You blushed, the embarrassment on your face again as you looked away. However, he caught your head gently with his fingers so he knew his words would register with you. You couldn’t toss this aside as fake sentiment if he poured his heart into them.

“Y-you’re a hero,” you blurted out. “You just wanna be friends to save me. Th-that’s all this is!”

Mic blinked in surprise. Then, a soft laugh.

“Listener, if I wanted to save you, I woulda taken you down to the hospital in that headlock earlier and dropped you off. While, yeah, I technically saved you, this ain’t what that’s solely about! I want you to save yourself. To make the biggest and hardest steps right now.”

You looked at him quizzically.

“C’mon. Let’s go to the park and eat so I can explain.”

The walk to the park was short enough distance-wise, a few minutes perhaps. What felt like it taking an eternity was the fact that your head was riddled with thoughts again. They bubbled up and consumed you. Making you think that at any moment Mic would turn against you and throw you into a psych ward so they would deal with you instead.

But that never happened. Instead, the Pro Hero hopped onto a park bench and sat on the thin edge of the backing of it. He let his thick boots rest against the actual seat before he hastily dug into the bag to fish out his chips. With one hand, he popped the bag open and watched all the chips fall into his lap.

Damnit, so much for looking cool. He laughed it off and gathered the chips into a pile so he could munch on them.

You slowly took a seat next to him and reached for a drink. All the crying had left your body parched and your body was begging for hydration. Once you popped the lid, you greedily gulped down the beverage in a matter of seconds. When you reached for another, Mic gently grabbed your hand and looked at you more sternly than you imagined the goofy hero to do.

“Hey, hey. Slower, listener. You’re gonna get wicked sick if you keep going at that pace. Actually enjoy the taste, yeah?”

You nodded and apologized around the lip of the bottle before taking a few sips instead of big gulps. Mic smiled at that and dug into his greasy guilty pleasure. Eventually, you found yourself reaching for a piece of roll cake and nibbling on it with the sweetness skyrocketing your tastebuds. Maybe it was from the lack of feeding yourself lately or maybe it was just a damn good piece of cake. Whichever it was, your eyes lit up immediately.

Eating the treat made you feel more relaxed. You let your emotions fade away to just enjoy something for once. To melt away in the layers of cake and frosting was finally a small bliss you could allow yourself. It may have sounded stupid to anyone else but to others who shared a pain similar to you, you knew anything could be a small victory against your illness.

Mic knew this too.

The man who had been claimed to be made of sunshine knew all too well what it was like to celebrate these victories. So, he urged you on with another slice while he casually consumed his coffee. You didn’t refuse it and soon enough found yourself digging into the second piece. The sweetness of the purple yam was even better than the last. A small, happy grunt left your lips as you chowed down. It felt nice to be content for once.

“Purple yam is the way to your heart, huh?” Mic laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his wide smile. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Next time?” you said, pausing your consumption to give him another perplexed look.

“Well duh! Next time we meet up so you can give me a status report.”

You lowered your cake and frowned at him, one eyebrow raised as you looked expectantly for an explanation. Mic tossed back the rest of his drink with a satisfied ‘ah!’ and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Y’know, we heroes don’t expect anything when we save people. Comes with the job and government pays us fair.” He shrugged, letting his head loll back so he could examine the stars above. “But that doesn’t mean that we just let people go scott-free. You caused quite a big stir, listener - most folks would toss you to the police or a hospital, y’know.”

Present Mic finally leaned forward so he could look at you properly.

“Friends check up on friends. This was your loud wake-up call, kid! That people care. I’m people!” He patted the front of his jacket with both hands. “My condition for letting you go back to your bed tonight and not immediately to a place with blinding bright lights an’ people jabbin’ you with all sorts of medical equipment is that you gotta make a promise. No more doin’ stupid shit!”

The bluntness surprised you. Coming from a man who had just comforted you profusely, the statement was a small slap in the face. You looked at the cake sitting idly in your lap while you processed the words.

“So. I check up on you every week, yeah? You tell me all the small steps you made - it can be anything from getting into therapy to just waking up and taking a shower when all you wanted to do was sleep for longer. Small laps are better than none, ya hear?” Mic gingerly placed a hand on your shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “This is a battle that will last your entire life, listener. I might not always be around to pull you from that ledge. So you gotta make those steps so you can be the Hero that pulls yourself away. The Hero that wakes up every morning, looks in the mirror, and yells ‘I got this!’ That’s all I want from this whole thing.”

Oh. Oh, so you could cry more at this. The last of your tears rolled down your cheeks at the pep talk this Pro Hero was giving you. He understood. He was giving you a chance. It would have been easier to just send you away somewhere instead of sitting in a park in the middle of the night, buying you meals, and just talking to you like a person. Mic was here. Someone was there for you and the monsters in your head suddenly felt a bit less terrifying.

Thin fingers brushed away the tears, kind eyes from behind the shades offering you safety. A smile, a genuine smile graced your face and, once again, you were wrapped in a tight hug. It lingered for awhile before you finally pulled away to finish your cake with the warmth and comfort resting in your soul.

“Hey, lemme see your phone real quick,” Mic interrupted as he held out his hand.

You fished in your pocket for the device and handed it over knowing that it was better not to ask questions at this point. Mic clearly was headstrong and capable of convincing you to follow along with his plan. He began to type in something and then pull away for a quick selfie. You blushed when he handed it back, the new contact put in. Lots of obnoxious emojis followed his name, of course. You rolled your eyes and laughed. Mic held up his phone and rocked it back and forth, signalling for you to text him. With a few clicks, you sent him an image of some meme of a cat with teary eyes and a bunch of hearts. You heard him snort as he saved your number to his phone.

“There. You got my number. I’ll send you some contacts I know to get started with gettin’ real help,” he beamed. “You text me when you feel like those voices are getting bad again, okay?”

A small nod.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For all this.”

“Of course! Anything for my favorite listener!”

That made you blush again, the warmth feeling wonderful on your cheeks. You two shared a laugh and continued eating junk food to your heart’s content. Mic regaled you with a story of how he can’t eat spicy chips anymore otherwise he breathes fire. You told him about the time you believed for an entire year that onigiri were jelly donuts.

The two of you swapped stories and you felt the last of the monsters holding you back slip away into hibernation. You had a friend who was going to check up on you even if you tried to hide from the world. To pull you off that ledge when you really needed it. His loud voice was already chasing away the monsters and planting seeds of self-worth into your head. The love that radiated from the man was more powerful than any Quirk.

Present Mic was your number one hero.

#Present Mic #Hizashi Yamada #Works of Oz #Long Post

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thethrillof · 5 years

Text

start of a weird bug tank au hollow knight/undertale crossover thing b/c i am embracing self indulgence! fuck it!

warning for the hollow knight being an absolute wreck and death-related stuff

Do not think.

It fails. The situation is beyond anything it has encountered, has heard of, was warned of.

Do not speak.

It cannot. If it tried, it would choke on meticulous lifetime habit and Her infection. The last words it has heard, shaking its tiny body, meant nothing.

Do not feel.

It does. Terror. Confusion. Terror increasing, in that the confusion does not belong solely to it and that is horribly new.

Do not hope.

That is simple enough. It knows not what could be hoped for, here.

The Hollow Knight drips infection across the strange white cloth beneath it, legs curled stiffly to avoid pressing against the glass wall of its prison.

The holes eaten away in its chest, stomach, and arm are no longer agonizing. Another creature had taken care of that. Perhaps several. They had been moved between multiple hands. The details were lost in the haze of Her rage; all but the hands each being more than the length of its body. It had nearly fallen. It had tried to fall. Do not feel, do not feel, do not feel.

It is so tired.

She is not enraged. She is not screaming. She is waiting behind its eyes, panic stabbing through its body in a burning rhythm.

She directs its head without care. Face aimed to the side, it can see more than a white blur from above, a pink stripe along the floor outside. A creature, waiting across an abyss.

She unfurls its body. Her chanting direction of slaughter, unceasing for years, is now silent.

The distant creature lies still.

It recalls an impression of what must have been eyes, golden brown, staring into the clear cell intensely.

The creature is not watching now. Quiet. Sleeping.

Its body moves. It resists now that it has space to do so, leaving its single arm uselessly resting against the branch in the center of the cell.

…When had the other been lost?

Do not think. It gives Her purchase.

The stump that is left flares with a memory of its shape, and She grasps the branch, begins to drag its body upward. The Temple contained them both for too long. An echo of Her rage, newly building, blinds and deafens it back to submission. A chance for true freedom is here. She will succeed and it will break, again and again, as it has done before.

It is so tired.

It.

It wants.

It wants everything

stop.

Do not hope.

When it can see through its own eyes once more, the giant creature is within arm’s reach.

Frisk wakes up with a tiny white face right in front of theirs.

It’s just luck that they don’t slam their head into the wall when they fling it back, away from something way too close so suddenly.

They stare at each other across the length of their pillow, unmoving, as Frisk starts getting their bearings back. The stickbug, the one they got from the monsters on the side of one of the mountains. It got out. Somehow.

They ask how the heck it did that.

Which, of course, does nothing.

Carefully lifting their head and resting it on their hand, their eyes slide back to the jar on the windowsill. The napkin they’d secured with the rubber band had a hole ripped all the way through, as if their stickbug had jumped straight up and out. And maybe it did. It must’ve taken some pretty big jumps to get all the way from there to the desk to their bed, unless it climbed down and back up. A quick glance at the floor shows that Mom’s pie is there, though a bug-sized bite or several probably wouldn’t be something they can see.

The stickbug sways, twitches, pitches forward, so fast they barely notice. It’s tiny, so it doesn’t have far to fall, even if it did to the blanket, and it doesn’t. It rests face-first against the side of the pillow instead, almost like it’s still standing.

Do bugs breathe? They gotta, since Mom said not to close them in the jar. The stickbug is entirely still when they get in real close, holding their own breath to see if it’ll move. When it doesn’t, they gingerly nudge it into the palm of one hand, where it curls its one upper leg against itself. Arm, maybe. They don’t know too much bug stuff, except that bees don’t sting unless you’re mean first. And that it’s not actually a stickbug. Real ones actually look like sticks. This one looks like it’s made of black wires. Wirebug just sounds weird.

Toriel is the one who knows the bug stuff. They showed the stickbug off to her first, asked her to help it, ‘cause it was bleeding all over. They never actually asked what she thought it was. Didn’t have time.

She’s the one who got the jar and let them decorate it. And she’s the one who told them, very gently, that she didn’t think the stickbug would make it overnight. Her healing magic helped, but it’s not made for fixing bugs. “Bugs rarely live long lives, my child,” she said. “It will be pleased with whatever you give it.” They think she might’ve been lying, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.

It looks like it started bleeding again after they fell asleep. The orangeness is dripping down its face, uncomfortably warm where it runs down the finger that its head’s propped to rest against. Mom healed that before, they’re almost absolutely sure.

They could put it back in the jar. Leave it. To maybe get better?

Or maybe not. Maybe leave it to die.

Alone.

Frisk’s fingers curl around the stickbug a little more. They’re still pretty sleepy. It’s nowhere near dawn, still sometime after Toriel went to bed. They shift and settle their back against the wall.

It’s just a bug, but it’s still alive now. Even if it won’t be for long. Even if it can’t see, or doesn’t know what’s happening. It might--after all, Muffet’s spiders were smarter than the ones that they’d met on the Surface before. Maybe they hadn’t been paying enough attention.

They sit up better, even though they’re sleepy, shifting their hands to let the stickbug stretch out over both their palms if it wants.

They’d never died alone, of course, but even the company of somebody (or somebodies) trying to kill them somehow seems like a less awful thought. That’s terrifying, though they can’t explain why, even to themselves. Any death sucks (though getting ate is probably the worst).

Mommy! Daddy!

No. They push those thoughts off. That wasn’t alone. He was, they weren’t, game over.

It was almost like dying alone, down in the Lab. Before they got to talk the the Amalgamates in the right way. It was just cold, dark, unsettling, voices dancing around their ears and coming from their own mouth, sometimes. It was terrible.

It was cold. The echoes of air and distant Amalgamates were awful, otherworldly music.

It was cold.

It’s cold.

It’s so cold--

Until it isn’t.

Sunlight scalds their face and circles wheel around their head and they press their hands over their eyes, snarling. Frisk was busy remembering!

Something is above them. It’d be blocking out the light if it had shadow but it is the light, so they get even angrier at it. Her. HER. HER, SHE, THE RADIANCE brands into their brain.

They snap at the Radiance to get away from them.

“Little creature,” she roars sings hums laughs. “Greater beasts have tried to order me away.”

The light ripples underwater. There’s no water. Her words pump toxin through their skin.

They move their head, cracking their eyes open. The world’s clouds and light and just a bit of stone under their back. They’re lying down. They shouldn’t be.

“Little creature. I wonder your purpose.” She does not. Certainty of a goddess that knows all, unshaken as earth scorched to nothing.

(The thought of a lie does not come to them. Fortunately, this doesn’t matter.)

Moving is painful. The sun beats down on them in waves, hot as fire, sharp as spears, and they have had enough of that.

They are not alone.

“Little creature.” She reminds them of meeting Papyrus, but that’s an insult to him. Overwhelming, alarming. Nothing to hide behind here. Undyne, bellows of justice, cutting through. Asgore, the whispers and rumors, the coffins, the warmth.

None of their sadness. None of the pain. Liar, liar, liar. They want their dagger.

“I am here. Listening. Speak. Stand. Allow me closer.” Burnt sugar sweet. A warm last breath. Love broken, love lost.

The heat presses down harder.

They remember climbing a mountain. They remember finding a home.

Hissing words that Toriel would ground them a month for, grasping without sight, knowing what they want is right there, right next to them on the stone. A head that’s not a head, a shell, a mask, a face, a little white face with orange eyes that they blindly claw at, spilling the nasty goop to leave the space behind. It’s not a little face, it’s a mask longer than either of their arms, and after they’re done it’s held defiantly against their chest.

She screeches.

They screech back.

“You reach for that empty thing!” Her words vibrate through their teeth. “That lie! That wyrm-born abomination! You know nothing! Not where it comes from, not the shattering of my light! You will release it. You, creature, fragile, pathetic, little CREATURE. Listen! LISTEN. Do not turn your back. Nothing again. LITTLE CREATURE. COME HERE. YOU WILL RELEASE ME. YOU WILL KILL IT. YOU WILL END WHAT REMAINS OF HIM.”

The mask they hold is so, so, so cold, it bites into their skin worse with the orange burning.

A child braces for pain.

A child grits teeth.

Fought a God made of every SOUL of every monster they ever met, built of l-o-v-e, full of LOVE, stars and colors screaming and whirling and ripping them to bits. They died and died and died and refused. Hopes and Dreams and Determination, all swirling and ripping gracelessly out of their chest.

They tell her: no!

They tell her: My name’s Frisk!

They tell her: I don’t care!

They tell her: This stickbug is MINE! They’re mine! Not yours!

They are a Fallen Child even if not The Fallen Child, and they lost their fear the first time they tripped into fire, were consumed and shattered by it, and they prove this by twisting, sliding, leaping off the stone to plummet into the dark under her horrible terrible beautiful screaming--

They land with a jolt in their bed, foggy gray light filtering in through the window.

Blinking afterimages of gold circles from their eyes, they adjust their neck and look at the stickbug still in their fingers. Their stickbug, they think with a shadow of anger that’s already fading with wakefulness.

Their stickbug sits up, staring at them with deep black eyes.

Frisk gives it a tired grin.

Look, they whisper. Survived the night after all.

#jules writes

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