#from having his just healed wings torn to shreds once again

[factorialsotherfandoms]

TW: Major character injury, a lot of blood

(Also maybe not the best picked characters for immediately post purgatory but I'm soft on morning crew - five man definition - so shoot me)

High in the sky, Philza finally dares open his wings. Everyone is already thrown up, why not give himself a moment to glide down? To feel the wind again, to taste the sky again, for one more moment to be truly free.

After all these months his feathers have grown back and his bones have healed, and finally he can twist and soar in the air once more. He does not just glide - he spins and he laughs and for a long moment he is truly free once again.

The others watch in awe, or do not notice too worried with saving themselves.

People are watching; if he wishes to keep his wings, he cannot use them, this he has long known.

Slowly, reluctantly he descends, rejoining his people on the ground and accepting their joy to lift him in a different way and once more.

---

Less than fourty eight hours later, Philza awakens on the floor of a train to the smell of blood and already screaming in pain. His head is in a sobbing Tubbo's lap, while many hands press against his back - his wings - and chaos reigns around them.

"Phil?" Tubbo's shaky question.

Philza cannot find it in himself to speak; he gives a sob and a chip and hopes it's enough - he knows what this is, he knows what this is, it might be Tubbo with him now, where it was Wilbur before, but it's all the same again.

"Stay with us, big boy," it's Fit who speaks next, from somewhere behind Philza.

He hates the idea; he fights the darkness anyway, because fuck it at this point.

A door opens, there's a shift from some of the hands on his back and a hiss that sounds a little like Cellbit, echoed like someone else is joining in - the door closes and the footsteps which tried to enter leave.

"We're nearly at the station," it's a softer and less familiar voice that speaks next - not one of the other people at his back, but over by the window. Pac, perhaps, though Philza's brain is shaky. "If my bag is there, there are potions."

"If they are not, they are shits," Etoiles is more obvious, sharper. "Make him bleeding on the train? They are the worst. Do they also want to be the worst shit?"

The words manage to draw a bubble of laughter from Philza, who shakily reaches out an arm to his friend. Etoiles takes it, intertwines their fingers, and looks ready to rant all over again.

"It's fine, mate," Philza gasps slightly at the pain of speaking, his head falling heavier onto Tubbo's lap. "Fuckers did it last time, too; nobody even had potions then."

He can almost feel Fit's eyes narrow on him, but ignores it anyway; instead he listens with half a brain to the sound of Etoiles voice as he rants, even angrier than his previous one would have been.

[nomsfaultau]

Hybrid AU in exile week where avian instincts can take over to a degree that is almost horrific, erasing someone’s personality and rationality when they’re panicking. First part here.

Tw nontraditional self harm, discussion of abuse

They don’t bother to bury the scraps of the abuser, leaving his remains to be scavenged by crows. Not that there was much left of him by the time Philza was done. Tommy stands at his side, arms wrapped tight around himself and shying away from touch. His wings tremble ever so slightly, and the pair return home in complete silence. It aches between them, this thing that happened, a throbbing wound both are too scared to touch. But left unattended, it will only fester. 

“Tommy…how often did he groom you?” 

Silence. Pure silence. Okay. Okay. 

Techno is blissfully unaware of everything, and greets them brightly upon return, asking Tommy about the berries he’d been gathering for a cake. Tommy fully snaps on him, screaming awful invectives, and then storms off to Philza’s house with a slam of Techno’s door. The pair wince at the sound of something shattering. Then another, and another. Tommy’s muffled, venting screams echo as he begins to destroy the inside of Philza’s house. 

Philza gently pats Techno’s shoulder. “Not your fault, mate. He just needs…” Philza doesn’t know. Space? Or is that the last thing he needs? Philza himself feels nauseous in a way that refuses to ebb. He lets the rampage continue, tentatively deciding that Tommy needs an outlet. In hushed tones he explains what transpired to Techno, who is about ready to revive the abuser just for the chance of murdering him again by the time Philza mentions the net he’d found Tommy ensnared in. But eventually Techno settles on making a nice meal for Tommy instead, mostly because Philza wants them in ear shot of Tommy. 

An instinct that is eventually rewarded. It’s the pained cry that has them hesitate, and decide to check in. He finds Tommy clutching fistfuls of his own bloody feathers, wings ragged and floor littered with ripped out clumps. When he sees Philza, he pales. Tommy flinches and scrambles back as Philza lunges, wrenching his wrists away. He’s utterly terrified of being ensnared again, but Philza doesn’t know how else to make him stop. Tommy doesn’t try to escape the hold, but that only makes it worse. The child shrinks into himself, expecting punishment for lashing out. “I’m sorry it was an accident I didn’t mean to break your stuff I’m sorry I’m sorry don’t hurt me-”

“Shh, shh,” Philza soothes, carefully letting go of him. “That’s just stuff that can be replaced. I don’t care if it gets broken, only if you do.” 

“It’s too late for that,” Tommy spits bitterly. “What I do won’t change that.”

Horrified, Techno kneels, carefully scooping up bloody feathers. “Maybe- here, if I heal it fast enough they might fix properly.” He pulls out a regeneration potion, and Tommy scrambles back. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“I’m not, alright? I won’t touch your wings.” Techno presses the potion into Tommy’s hands, only for the boy to hurl it across the room. The boar winces at the shatter of glass. “...haha…butter fingers. Don’t worry if you accidentally dropped it, I have loads, here-”

“I don’t WANT them to heal,” Tommy snarls as ugly tears brim over. “I don’t want them at all.” 

It feels like his throat has been slit. “What?” Philza asks quietly, painfully, as if he didn’t already know that. He knew, by the bloody russet feathers clutched in his trembling fists. He knew, by the way the nest has been torn to shreds. He knew. 

“What good are they for? I don’t want to be an avian! Who would? All it does is make me weak and scared and freeze up. All it does is make me want him back.” 

“This…isn’t normal for avians, either,” Philza says carefully. “Once one can fly the freeze instinct shouldn’t happen anymore. Startling into flight at the slightest movement, maybe, but still. Given you’re, eh, slightly older than a five-year-old, this shouldn’t be happening. I think you might’ve reverted to a hatchling phase because of how he treated you. Perhaps remaking developmental milestones might help you move away from chick instincts. Like learning to fly.” 

Tommy stretches a wing out, flicking his clipped primaries. “Yeah, and he ruined that, too, just like the rest of me.” He misses flying so much it hurts. But the shadow of the tower pools over him, swallowing Tommy in shame. For all that he knows it’s all his abuser’s fault, it doesn’t heal the damage that’s been caused. 

“He’s dead. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“And yet it does hurt, and it’ll never stop.”

“That isn’t true.” 

“It feels true.” 

Next>

[bluuedraws]

Fight or Flight

Chapter two

Xelqua blinks open bleary eyes to the muted light of dawn. Shades of pink and orange faintly light up the dim cave around him, cool stone pressing against his bloody cheek. With a groan he slowly sits up, feathers rustling and shifting behind him and glowing in the morning light. His body aches all over, his cuts smarting, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He…

He’s actually here. Actually in a world, a player’s world, and he’s not Watching. He’s sitting in the cave, and he’s actually touching the stone. Xelqua traces a finger against the rocky surface, numb shock spreading through his chest. He relishes the feeling of smooth stone against his shaking fingertips. Rocks roll over beneath his touch, bits of dirt and gravel caught up in the sweeping movement of his hand. His gaze flicks upwards and the cracked walls are filled with moss and greenery, flowering plants and vines snaking their way up the sides of the cave.

It’s beautiful.

For the first time, the full weight of his situation crashes over him. The realization sends him reeling. A strangled sob escapes his throat and he clutches his mouth with a shaking hand, bent over and trembling. He feels strangely light, and a mixture of strange emotions clashing together inside of him. Another sob escapes, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the tears begin to fall. He stays there for a long time, hunched over and sobbing against the wave of emotions, body shaking with the force of his tears.

When his breaths finally slow and his eyes blink open once again, the muted hues of dawn have been replaced by the bright light of day. Xelqua takes a shuddering breath and slowly straightens, quivering wings tentatively stretching out behind him. He needs to do something, to move, he can’t just sit here forever. He can’t allow himself to be overwhelmed like that again. Shame bubbles in his chest at the weakness he’d just displayed. He’s lucky his stupidity didn’t cost him his newfound freedom. Anyone could have stumbled in on him, could’ve taken him out easily. 

He won’t make that mistake again.

Okay. Oh man, okay. J-just… just calm down. Let’s think about this logically.

He takes another shuddering breath, forcing himself to calm down. He needs to focus. His fingers tap against the ground in a strange rhythm he doesn’t quite recognize, a nervous, repetative movement. His teeth gnaw at the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking back and forth nervously as he scans the area around him for any signs of life.

Just start with what you know.

He’s in a beautiful, strange world, no doubt being hunted by Them, and he’s seriously injured. There is every possibility the players on this server know of his arrival, and are hostile. Xelqua doesn’t know if their Admin recognized Watcher magic during his forceful entry to the server, but they must suspect he’s not a normal player. No normal player could claw their way in the way he had.

More than likely, everyone is his enemy. More than likely, everyone wants him dead.

All in all, not a good start to his new life.

Xelqua flinches as the pain in his chest flares up again. He looks down at his torn robes, stained with blood and hanging in shreds of dangling fabric. Right. There’s another problem for him to deal with. Usually, he’d just wave his hand and heal himself no problem, but he can feel how low his magic has gotten. He’d used the last dregs of it in his escape, and what remains he should save for emergencies.

Looks like I’m healing the old fashioned way.

There's moss in the cave, the soft and absorbent kind that springs back into shape after you touch it. Xelqua peers closely at its code before deeming it clean enough to be used. A few moments later, he’s fastened a makeshift bandage across his chest, vines holding the moss in place over the angry red slashes. Feeling slightly better, he raises himself up slowly, leaning against the wall for support. He’s shaky from blood loss and there's a pounding ache in his head, but he feels well enough to start gathering resources. Staying in this cave forever wasn’t an option, as much as he wants to lay down and never get up. If he wants to survive, he needs proper shelter and food. A couple careful steps later and he’s standing outside in the sun, blinking in the bright light. Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he spots a patch of berries growing amidst the greenery. The sight of them brings a small smile to his lips, and he stumbles over, bending to pick the delicate berries and carefully placing them in the folds of his cloak. He places one on his tongue, relishing the flavor as the sweet juices fill his mouth. It’d been so long since he’d tasted something, anything, as flavorful as this. Holding the precious berries close and taking care that none fell out of his makeshift pouch, Xelqua shakily makes his way back to the cave and deposits them in a corner. Just that little bit of exertion has him quivering, and he sinks to the ground once more.

This is gonna take forever…

.

.

.

.

“Scar, what are you doing?”

“Aah!”

Scar jerks up from his kneeling position in surprise, bonking his head on the table above him. Wincing, he slides out from under it to find a very confused Mumbo standing in the doorway. His friend is dressed in his usual suit and tie, looking as dapper as ever. His usually perfect hair is a little messier than usual, a testament to how anxious he’s been since Xisuma’s announcement. Scar himself had been feeling a little nervous, but more than that he was curious. It wasn’t everyday some mystery player broke into your server.

“Oh, why hello there Mumbo! I didn’t see you come in!”

Mumbo just stands there, brow furrowed in bewilderment as he stares at the man still sitting on the floor. 

“…Evidently not. Why are you down there?” 

Scar casually picks himself up and leans against the wall, blowing a strand of hair out of his face and smiling widely at his friend.

“I was petting Jellie, of course! She didn’t want to come out from under the table, so I had to go to her.”

The cat in question pads out into the open, shooting a death glare at Mumbo before hopping onto the couch and beginning to groom herself. Scar smiles and gives her a quick scratch behind the ears before turning back to his friend (who was looking at him quite strangely). 

“Anyways, welcome to my humble abode! How can I help you?”

“You’re joking right?”

Scar blinks. “Uh…”

“Scar, it’s our turn to patrol. Did you not check your console? Xisuma told us, like, an hour ago!” 

“O-oh, uhm…” He stutters, scratching at the back of his head. “…yes?”

The truth was, he’d been lying in bed for the past hour, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the aching pain in his legs. They’d been giving him trouble all day, and the painkillers he usually takes just hadn’t been cutting it. He’d had to resort to using a little magic to ease the pain. Even now they ache a bit, feeling weak against the magic-infused braces wrapped around his knees.

Mumbo sighs in exasperation, fingers pinching his very furrowed brow. “Well, we need to get going. Keralis and Ren just finished up, so we’d better get there quickly.”

“Fine, fine! Just let me grab my stuff. I’ll be quick, I promise!”

Quickly grabbing a backpack and filling it with various supplies they’re probably need, Scar slings it over his shoulder and follows his friend ourside

A few minutes later, the two are flying over Hermitcraft, elytra strapped securely to their backs. They touch down in a meadow, just on the outskirts of the main part of the server. All seems fairly quiet, apart from a few strands of birdsong here and there and the buzzing of insects all around. All in all, it’s a lovely summer day. Scar turns his face to the sun for a moment, relishing in its warm caress before re-focusing turning towards Mumbo.

“Sooo… what do we do now? Just walk around and look for some weird player none of us recognize?” Scar asks, looking around the empty clearing. 

 Mumbo shrugs, fiddling with his hands as he glances around nervously. He looks pretty out of his depth, unsure of how to go about the patrol. Scar feels a stab of pity for the man. Mumbo rarely fared well with unpleasant surprises, and it was impressive he was managing so well. Still, it was probably best not to push him in this state.

“I mean… I guess? X told us to just keep an eye out, and to not engage with it if we do see anything.” He hesitates again, obviously unsure. 

Looks like it’s up to me to take charge! 

“Alright, sounds good! You go left, I’ll go right. See you in a bit!” 

“W-what? Scar, wait!”

Scar’s already halfway across the meadow when Mumbo catches up to him, grabbing his arm and bringing the man to a jerking halt.

“Scar, the last thing we should do is split up! What if this thing’s hostile?!”

“….You know, that’s a good point.” Scar chuckles and turns back to Mumbo, swinging his arm around his shoulders and leading him into the forest. “Guess it’s probably best for us to stick together, huh?” The redstoner gives a large sigh of relief, and allows himself to be pulled along. “I swear, sometimes I think I’m the only sensible one.” He mutters under his breath. Scar just chuckles.

A couple hours of trudging through brushy foliage and ducking under low hanging branches later, they’ve travelled nearly halfway around the server. Both are panting hard, and Scar can feel his knees slowly beginning to give out. With a groan he flops to the ground, hanging his head back and taking a moment to breathe. Mumbo sits down beside him. “You seem a little tired.” 

Scar huffs. “I don’t know what you mean, my dear Mumbo. I think you’ll find I’m doing perfectly ah-may-zin!” 

The other playfully nudges his shoulder, chuckling at his performance. “Well you could’ve fooled me, what with all that gasping and panting I heard.”

“Wha-! I would never do such a thing!” He gasps in mock indignation, hand over his chest and eyes wide. Both are giggling like little kids, trying (and failing) to stifle the noise with their hands.

“Sure, sure. Here, take some water Mr. Athleticism. Maybe it’ll help with your lying skills.” 

Scar takes the bottle from Mumbo’s outstretched hand, shoulders shaking with laughter. He tips his head back and lets the cool liquid soothe his dry throat, cold and sweet and absolutely delicious. With a sigh he holds the bottle back out to Mumbo, mouth open to give his thanks when he spots the flash of movement behind him. Scar freezes, eyes trained on the thick leaves of the forest. Was that just the shadows of the leaves against the ground, or was someone there? A shiver runs up his spine as he senses… senses something odd, something out of place.

“You gonna give me that back anytime soon, mate?” Mumbo chuckles. 

Scar just stares.

“...Uh, Scar?”

“There, in the trees. Look.” Scar breathes, completely still.

Something is definitely there, he can tell. A figure is moving, gently rustling the leaves and hopping from branch to branch with a cat-like grace. He and Mumbo sit there as if frozen, breathless and staring. The foliage is too thick to make out much, the leaves shrouded in shadows. Scar squints, straining to make out something, anything notable. He lets out a small exhale before starting to slowly draw on his magic and weave it into his vision. A cold, tingling sensation grows in chest, spreading and growing through his body. His vision sharpens, and suddenly everything is clear, spread out before his eyes. And then shock spikes through Scar’s body. He can’t breathe, his chest is tight and he can’t stop staring at… at whatever it is.

Looking through the lenses of his magic allowed him to see the world as it truly was, to see the magic flowing though everyone and everything, pulsing like a beating heart. And from the forest comes the brightest surge of pure magic Scar has ever seen. The light is blinding, forcing his eyes closed and his head to turn away, to hide from the pure power radiating out towards him,

“Mumbo!” Scar manages to gasp, reaching out and clinging desperately to his friend, his whole body shaking.

“What? Scar, what’s wrong!? What did you see?” Mumbo’s panicked voice seems distant to Scar, but he manages to crack one eye open against the surge of power. He blinks once, then again. The magic is gone, the figure vanished along with it. The whole thing must have lasted only a second.  He stares into the forest with unfocused eyes, until Mumbo’s voice draws him back to the present. 

“Scar! Scar, can you hear me? What’s going on?!”

“S-sorry, sorry! I’m good now.” His voice is a little hoarse, and he clears his throat before raising his head to give a weak smile to his friend. Mumbo seemed to visibly relax, breathing a shaky sigh of relief before fixing him with an angry glare. “Well then, what on earth was that you absolute spoon?! Just felt like freaking me out for no reason?”

“Sorry…” he muttered again. “But I… I saw something in there, something really really powerful…”

He slowly picks him self up until he’s standing on two shaking legs, leaning against Mumbo for support. He looks back at the tree line. Everything is quiet, still. No magical presence anymore. 

“I think we found it, Mumbo.”

.

.

.

Xelqua was in trouble.

He was in really, really deep trouble, actually. His heart is pounding against his chest almost painfully as he frantically flaps his wings, ignoring the aches and pains that spike through his body with every movement. He’s soaring high above the clouds, well out of sight from anyone below. God knows where he found the strength to fly, but he suspects pure panic had quite a lot to do with it.

Oh, I’m so stupid! Stupid stupid STUPID!

He wants to yell, to scream, to cry, to hide away in his cave forever and to never do or feel anything ever again.

How had he been so careless? 

The excitement of the new world had gotten to him, despite his anxieties and many, many problems. He’d wanted to explore so badly that even his weak body wasn’t enough to deter him. He’d promised himself he’d be careful. No one would see him. Besides, it seemed necessary to explore his new home a bit. He’d need to know the basic lay of the land, so he could survive until his magic returned and he could escape into a single player world.

He’d thought he’d been doing well, up until the tingle of foreign magic began to creep up his spine. He’d turned to find two players watching him, fear in their eyes. Xelqua had panicked, had drawn the last dregs of his magic into his hands and wings in preparation to fight, kill if necessary, he just could be caught, wouldn’t go back, he couldn’t-

But then one of them had fallen back, collapsing into the other with a gasp. He’d taken the opportunity to run, launching himself into the air when he was sure he was far enough away not to be seen again.

And now he was here, high in the sky, probably with a manhunt out for him at this very moment. Oh, he was screwed. He was absolutely screwed.

He dives down into the forest, shooting past the hanging vines and flower and into his cave, landing with a thump! on the floor and shaking from head to toe.

What do I do what do I do what do I DO-

He jerks back and forth, unsure of where to go and battling with the two warring ideas in his head. The first is obvious: Attempt to run again, use the very last of his magic to force his way out before the players caught him. A full watcher wouldn’t be scared of mortals, could destroy entire world with a wave of their hand. But Xelqua isn’t a normal watcher, and with how weak he’s grown he doubts his abilities to take on a whole server. Which is why he needs to leave, to slip into the void and-

and-

And then what? He’d be immediately on Their radar again. The void was the Watcher’s domain, they knew everything going on in there. Xelqua doubts he’d have time to even attempt to jump to another world before they caught him, and that’s just assuming he had enough magic to do it. That wasn’t going to work.

Option two wasn’t looking much better, though.

Do I stay and risk being captured by a server of players who despise what I am and would love to be rid of me, or do I leave and practically guarantee going back to Them?

He hates both options, but he can’t deny that one is sounding much better than the other.

Even with a posse of players constantly snapping at his heels, even being forced to run and hide for centuries, even with the aching wounds covering his body that weaken him even more, he knows he’d rather endure this than go back.

He won’t going back.

He refuses to keep hurting others for his own selfish needs.

Then I guess I’m staying.

After the panic begins to die down, Xelqua spends the next day hiding his little cave, working his fingers to the bone as he weaves vines and flowers to cover the rocky entrance. With any luck, this would be enough to keep him hidden until he had the strength to find a proper hiding spot. For now, he’s content with spending the days in his cave, munching on sweet berries and staring at the walls. After years of never ending white marble structures and pathways, he still finds everything fascinating. The colors and textures are all so vibrant that he spends hours just memorizing every part. Some moss is piled in the corner, a decent bed for him to sleep on. It’s soft, softer than anything Xelqua has felt in a while. It feels like a luxury.

Everything is… honestly, not too bad. Things could be a lot worse. So much worse.

The was one problem, though.

His wings were bit of a mess. They itched horribly and kept twitching, and he was in a constant state of discomfort.

He did his best to ignore it, not wanting to do anything other than sit and stare at the mossy wall.

The constant itching is starting to drive Xelqua a little mad, though . It’s always there, ever present in the back of his mind, constantly reminding him of his feathery limbs slowly falling into disarray.

Itchy itchy itchy ITCHY ITCHY ITCHY-

“Gah!” 

Xelqua flings himself backwards onto his makeshift bed in his frustration, wings flaring out behind him and twitching in discomfort. They need preening desperately, but Xelqua just hasn’t had the energy to sit down and do it yet. Well, excuse him for being a little preoccupied lately. Self care was hard to remember when hiding from a whole server full of players.

Ugh… It’s gotta be done though. Stupid wings and their stupid preening…

He sighs and reluctantly sits up. Better to get it over with now, during this rare moment of peace. He curls his right wing around his body, brushing his hand against the soft feathers. Carefully, he begins the long, arduous process, delicately straightening every feather and picking off the bits of dirt and grime that have collected in his week in the overworld. It feels good, a comforting chore that Xelqua is glad he finally started despite his complaints. He hasn’t looked at his wings in a while. There were no mirrors here, at least none that he had access to. He’s surprised about how… normal they look. They’re still the dark purple that all Watcher wings are, tipped with lighter purple that glows in the dim cave. But no longer do they have the strange sheen coating them, as if they’d been dipped in liquid magic. No longer were the feathers heavy with power, weighing him down with every step. Now, they’re soft and dull, filled with dirt and twigs and looking very messy. No longer the perfection they were meant to be. Xelqua’s not sure how he feels about that. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts (he realizes he does that a lot), he huffs, annoyed at the mess he has to clean up. It’s like there are clumps of dirt under every feather, bits of grime nestled into every crevice. Xelqua can’t remember the last time his wings had been so dirty. During his time with Them, everything has been so pristine and perfect he’d rarely ever needed to preen. And on the rare occasions he’d had to, it’d been a simple matter of straightening out a few feathers. Over and done with in a matter of minutes. 

The last time his wings had been in such a state was…

Well.

It’d been a long time ago. 

Xelqua’s throat tightens as he remembers the delicate fingers that had once caressed his wings, practiced strokes that had rendered him helpless against their touch.

That had been during Evo…

His breath hitches in his throat, fingers tight against his curled wing. He feels the tears begin to form, and he blinks quickly to rid his eyes of them. He doesn’t have the right to cry over them, to take even a second to mourn. Not when their deaths were his fault.

No, he deserves far worse than what he has now.

The memories are threatening to overtake him, a wave of despair and guilt he isn’t sure he can overcome. His teeth clench, grinding against each other as he focuses on one spot on the floor, taking note of every particle of rock and dirt that speckled the floor. His heart is racing and hurts more than he ever thought possible, and he doesn’t know how long he can stave off the tears. With a strangled sob, he shoves the emotions deep, deep inside of himself, crumpling them into a tiny little ball that rests in the pit of his stomach. He stills, hurting, but the pain is more concentrated now, a focused pressure instead of the whole body ache he’d been feeling mere seconds before.

 He takes one long, shuddering breath, then another. He feels his wings shaking above his head as he blearily opens his eyes, peeking out from beneath the canopy of feathers. 

I’m so stupid.

Xelqua raises a shaking hand and presses it against his face, shutting his eyes.

So fucking stupid.

He keeps letting his emotions get the better of him. Keeps breaking down at the most random times. It’s so stupid, he’s so freaking weak. His laughter fills the cave, a jittery, echoing noise that he couldn’t stop if he tried. His hand drags down his cheek as the laughter shakes his body, leaving red scratch marks in its wake. 

Oh, for fucks sake…

His wings are still dirty, still itching, still a constant reminder of Them, permanently attached to his back. 

He knows they’ll fall into disarray if he doesn’t care for them. He knows he needs to, for his own safety.

He knows.

He leaves them be.

Hope you all enjoyed! <3

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[factorialsfandoms]

Day 3 - A Hair’s Breadth From Death

I... Apparently do also want to do impaled oops. Hyrule Warriors Link finds his first My Fairy fairy!!! PoV... The fairy??? Specifically the light fairy from H7 on the basic Adventure Map, here named Punkin

Content warning, I feel kinda obviously, for horrible horrible injuries to someone very small and sweet (I’d get you a screenshot of her but um housemate has the switch rn), also some torture.

Punkin awoke screaming. It was not in a fairy’s nature to do so, but the agony was too much to do anything but. She had no idea how long it had been since she was pulled from the sky and shoved into a bottle, but certainly enough time has passed - no longer is she in the open fields, playing with her sisters. She is not even in the ornamental gardens, fleeing with all her strength as monsters invaded their mother’s fountain. Instead, she found herself inside a stone building, her body and mind in agony.

Desperately her magic tried to heal the injuries, but to no avail - it could not heal with something still in the way. Instead it just drained and drained, her strength and life sapping alongside her magic.

What was the point of this? What possibly could be the point? If they stole everything from her, they could not even force her to help!

Stifling a sob alongside her screams, Punkin could do nothing to stop the instinctual need to /live/, to heal her body. Even as it was that healing killing her.

For she was not just impaled on sticks or branches or even brass, but with cold, hard iron.

Just by a few pins, but it was enough to be killing her - two in each wing, spreading them flat. One in each hand, forcing her arms to her sides. One through both feet, keeping them still. One through her abdomen and one through each shoulder, keeping her torso too still and on the board to which she was binned.

She could not sob - moving her chest would only do more damage - but how could she not? Agony and fire both radiated out from every pin, absorbing her magic and stealing her breath. There was nothing she could do to remove them, only pray to the great mothers that her captors would soon come and grant her a swifter release.

Punkin had no doubts about the fact she was about to die. It terrified her and broke her, the idea of being unmade, the magic that formed the essence of herself being torn completely to shreds.

Her screams continued until her throat was raw, and then until there was nothing left.

Nobody came. She did not expect them to.

Still in agony, she could do nothing but pant. Her vision was dark, but she could still hear - long she listened in silence, until from outside she heard the sounds of fighting.

Fighting? The Hylians? She... She had heard that the Hylians were fighting the monsters - maybe, maybe... Maybe she could get help after all!

Once again Punkin tried to scream, only to find her voice was gone. It was raw and lost, causing her to choke as she just tried to force out enough air.

The movement of the choking caused the pins in her shoulders to rip more of her flesh, more magic leaking from impossible wound.

Desperate, desperate, she reached out with her magic - looking for anything she could possibly reach. It brushed against a mind, but she had too little left for any more.

Having exhausted the last of her reserves, Punkin fell limp, gravity straining the pins in her body even more.

Vision dark and body not responding, she could yet hear - clung to the noises as proof of her continued life.

The fighting stopped, orders were shouted, and footsteps came. The sound of vomiting, and a yell of “Captain!”

More boots ran quickly, lighter than the last. There was no vomiting this time, but the gasp of horror - no, two gasps of horror - were audible all the same.

Weakly, Punkin tried to do anything - anything - to get their attention. Maybe they were as bad as the monsters, just as her mother had claimed, maybe they were friends, as her sister had said. It did not really matter, Punkin just knew that she /did not want to *die*/ and they were her only hope to live.

There was a fluttering that came closer - another fairy? - and a gentle press of magic on her mind.

Punkin was too weak to resist it, but too weak to provide anything but the briefest glimmer of consciousness in return.

A tiny hand grabbed her hand, careful of the pin yet offering Punkin the tiniest thread of magic all the same.

Greedily she absorbed it - it was not enough even to stave off the drain from the metal pins impaling her body, but it was enough to slow it.

“Oh no oh no oh no,” came a fretting voice, in the familiar shrill of the fairies speaking Hylian. “Link! Link, you have to help her! Quickly!”

And then, the same voice, softer more as the new fairy shifted to speaking in their own chirping tongue, “big sister? Big sister can you hear me? It’s going to be okay! Link will get you free! He’s the best! He always saves everyone, it’s going to be okay, I promise-”

The other fairy kept talking, but there were fingers on one of the pins, the one in the hand being held - the pain somehow spiked and all sensation was lost a moment, only for Punkin to return to herself, finding the other fairy now clinging with both hands, and that pin gone.

“Shhh bif sister,” the other fairy continued to chirp. “We’re helping, I promise, it’ll be over soon.”

Punkin’s body somehow found the strength to make another, hoarse sob as the pins were pulled from her shoulders.

As steady hands pulled the pin from her abdomen she whited out again.

By the time she came too she was wrapped in something every so soft, its warmth trying to save her fading limbs. The other fairy was no light fairy nor fire - unable to heal Punkin or to warm her - but kept clinging to her hand none the less.

“-the great fairy is gone, but the water will help!” The other fairy was once again speaking shrill Hylian.

It made Punkin’s ears ache.

Whatever the reply it could not be verbal, for Punkin heard nothing.

Or mayhaps that was just her consciousness fading once again...

---

Punkin awoke trying to scream, but her voice was lost. Her body and wings burned in agony, but there was a gentle hand running through her hair and another, much larger, one supporting her back.

She was floating in water that tasted of magic and safety, though the protection was gone.

Mother’s fountain. Mother’s fountain, and yet... And yet mother was gone.

Unable to speak or to scream, Punkin still managed to groan.

“Big sister?” the voice of a fairy chirped. “You’re safe now, Link will look after you... Just wake up soon? We’re very worried about you.”

With six holes in her body and four in her wings, Punkin struggled to open her eyes. When she did, she found another pair boring into hers. Bright blue, and belonging to a fairy somehow even younger than Punkin herself - and Punkin had been the youngest of her fountain.

She just hoped her big sisters had managed to mistake.

The fairy child grinned at her, bouncing a little as she moved to the side, “hi! I’m Proxi, and this is Link, and he’s going to beat up all of the bad guys! So don’t worry, because him and me are gonna keep everyone safe!”

In the fountain of a dead great fairy it was obviously a lie, but Punkin appreciated the attempt.

Looking up from Proxi, she found the owner of the hand on which she lay. Green tunic, blue scarf, blonde hair and lonely eyes.

Cautious of her magic levels, Punkin reached out, gently touching his mind. Her own desperation and fear tainted his thoughts, but... But she found no ill intent. Nothing harsh there.

Still weak, still healing, she splashed deeper into the water.

“What’s your name, big sister? I bet its a pretty name!” Proxi asked, still kneeling in the sacred water.

Punkin tried to answer - it was the least she could do - but... But when she opened her mouth, no sound came. Nothing but hoarse coughing when she pushed it too far.

Proxi grabbed her as she choked on her own throat, frantically rubbing at her back, “okay! It’s okay! You can wait, we can ask later, the army will be camping here a little while! Right Link? We can stay until Big Sister is healed?”

A nod from the man, or maybe a boy. Had he hurt his throat too?

“See?” Proxi said, a little gentler now. “And once you’re all better... We’ll help you find somewhere to go! Somewhere safe.”

The fairy child that was Proxi pulled Punkin into such a careful hug, and Link’s fingers curled a little protectively around.

Everything hurt, and nothing was okay, but maybe... Maybe she would be safe long enough to heal. Maybe, just maybe, she could survive yet. And if she did...

If she did she owed these two strangers a life debt, and maybe her magic was not strong, but she was a fairy of the light. And, like any fairy of her ilk, her magic was well equipped to heal.

And soldiers always needed healers in a war.

[cest-la-vieve]

A Court of Pain and Pleasure (Ch. 10)

Summary: Evelyn learns to live with her new Fae body as the confusing tension between her and Azriel continues. Featuring her big bros Rhys and Cass

Word Count: 5.2k

Warnings: Chronic disability/pain, cussing, ANGST, friendly fluff with rhys and cass

Notes: ello ello my friends! today's chapter comes to you from the middle of the atlantic ocean!! i am on my way to venice, italy on my very first trip to europe ever. i am beyond excited (and beyond excited for y'all to read this chapter!). as always, please please please feel free to leave your thoughts either on here or in my inbox 😉💜

Next Chapter: Chapter Eleven

ACOPAP Masterlist

-

Apparently, a month unconscious in bed will leave your body aching, High Fae or not.

After that rather awkward exchange with Azriel, I eventually picked myself up off the floor and trudged to my bed. I flopped onto it rather clumsily, still unsure of the extent of my Fae balance and power. It was so strange moving through the world in a foreign body. I giggled a bit to myself as I realized this is how babes must feel as they learn to crawl and walk, clumsily and uncoordinated. 

I laid on my back and held an arm in the air, hand in my line of sight. I carefully curled and uncurled my fingers, feeling each and every muscle as it moved in tandem with the others to create motion. I put that arm down and did the same with the other hand, it, too, worked perfectly.

I dropped my arms out to my side and lifted my legs high into the air. They both stayed straight, even as my body formed a perfect corner with them. No pain, maybe a bit of a stretch, but definitely not a position I could have gotten into a month ago. I continued like that for a bit, moving various body parts, stretching them as far as they could go, and relishing the feeling of the muscles flexing under my skin.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’d demand that… Well, not Azriel, after how today had gone. And certainly not Cassian, whose wings still didn’t seem as strong as they once were, even if they were mostly healed. Rhysand. I’d demand that Rhysand take me somewhere so that I could explore and get used to walking and moving and living in this new body. 

For now, despite a month of “rest”, I needed sleep. So I curled under the covers, gripped a pillow tight, and willed myself to sleep.

I was back in that damn Cauldron. I could feel the cold water nipping at me as my lungs burned. I forced my eyes open and couldn’t stop the gasp that sent bubbles spiraling from my lungs outwards. I was in the Cauldron, just like before, but I could see the world around me. It was the exact same scene I had heard from Nesta about the state of the throne room, but…

Everyone was dead.

Cassian, his wings shredded and sticking out at an odd angle from his body, laid over a completely pale and lifeless Rhysand - as if he had done everything to protect his High Lord before he perished. Mor was in front of both of them, looking equally pale as Rhys, drained of all the life that usually flowed so freely from her, lighting up whatever room she was in.

Feyre was crumpled in front of our sisters, her head bent in a way that I knew the King of Hybern had snapped her neck, a cruel irony from her time under thatv wretched mountain. And Nesta and Elain… Oh, gods. Their nightgowns were torn and bloodied and… I forced my eyes from them to survey the rest of the room.

Tamlin and Lucien were standing near the King, all of them laughing as they beheld the decimated remains of the Night Court.

My breath once again hitched in my throat as I realized that left all but one accounted for.

Where was Azriel?

The rage and despair that had steadily grown inside of me exploded as I finally found him amongst the carnage. Despite the water flooding my lungs, I struggled to swim forward and fight against the invisible shackles that restrained me in the Cauldron.

Azriel was on the floor, far from where the rest of the Court was. A single bloody hand reached towards where I was floating, a trail of his blood leading from the group to… me.

I felt something rise in my throat, not sure if it was bile trying to force its way out or my heart deciding to abandon my body. But I screamed. I screamed and screamed until I heard my name being called.

I woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed, chest heaving, my hair loose from its bun and sticking to my sweaty forehead. A nightmare. It had just been a nightmare.

I loosed a breath and took in my surroundings, flushing as I finally noticed the three Fae males in my doorway.

Rhys, Cass, and Az stood in various states of undress with an interesting assortment of weapons. Cassian wore only an undershirt and undergarments, holding a wicked-looking sword in front of him, eyes cloudy with sleep but aware enough that they scanned the room for a threat. Rhys was next to him, a dark cloud flecked with stars writhing behind him, and he had at least had the sense to throw on his pants before bursting into my bedroom. Azriel was in front of both of them, wearing only the siphons on his hands and his underthings as his shadows leaked from him.

“Um. Hi?”

I watched as the males softened their stances, lowering weapons and powers alike, as they realized there was no threat. Azriel took a step forward but I shrunk back into my bed, not sure how to act with it the Shadowsinger anymore. He hadn’t made it clear one way or another, his feelings or affections for me nor my sister. His eyes widened in shock and I could almost feel the worry, pain, and hint of anger coming off of him in waves. I kept my face neutral as he gave me one last exhausted and exasperated look then turned and shoved past his brothers.

Rhys’s eyebrows shot up and Cassian shrugged at him as they both took a few steps towards the bed. I nodded at them and scootched over, patting the space next to me. Cassian gave a tentative grin and placed his sword on the bedside table before sitting. Rhys took a seat at the foot of the bed, still scanning me over for injuries or any other signs of distress.

Cass slung a casual arm around my shoulder, tucking me neatly into his side. I smiled and sniffled, subduing the tears that had been streaming down my face since waking up. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and turned to look at Rhys.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you all this late,” I said softly.

A pained look flashed through his eyes as he leaned forward and took my hand in his own. “We all have things that haunt us, Evelyn. This group probably more than most. We understand.”

Cassian nodded in agreement, gently tapping his hand on my shoulder.

“Though the next time you bust in here, do me a favor and get dressed all the way first?” I teased, gently nudging Cassian with my shoulder. He looked down at his bare chest before giving a lopsided grin and shrugging.

Rhys huffed out a laugh but his eyes turned serious, “You have no idea what you did, do you?”

I scrunched my eyebrows. I assumed my shouting had woken them up but judging by the looks on their faces, that wasn’t the only thing that happened. I gestured vaguely to my temple, “Can you… show me?” 

Rhys nodded and I felt a strange pressure in my mind before I was launched into Rhys’s memory. I heard Azriel’s stern voice echo “Rhysand” in my - Rhys’s - head before watching through his eyes as he launched himself out of bed. He ran down the hallway, noting how Az had stopped at my doorway and joined him.

Light leaked out from under the door but not the soft warm glow offered by Fae light but something… harsher. 

Cassian arrived next to Azriel, sword drawn and face hardened, as Rhys reached out his hand to open the door.

I was on the bed, shouting and clearly in the midst of a nightmare, but a bright white light leaked from my sleeping form. It was almost a perfect opposite to that swirling power that Rhys could summon. A cloud of white that was filled with flickering strands of something more tangible.

“Evelyn!” Az screamed from his spot by the doorway, Cass holding his arm to stop him from running to me. “Evelyn!!”

And just like that, I woke up, the light somehow blinking out as my eyes snapped open.

Suddenly I was back in my room, Cassian still pressed to my side and Rhysand across from me. I blinked a few times.

“What… was that?” I asked.

“That… That was raw power. The kind Cass has. The kind Az has,” Rhys said.

Cassian added, “The kind that tends to ‘destroy now, ask questions later.’” 

“But I didn’t hurt anyone? So it can’t be the same, right?”

“That’s only because I managed to contain it before the whole house was in ruins,” Rhys murmured.

I gaped. I could have done that?

“Don’t worry. With some practice, you’ll be able to control it,” Cassian smiled.

I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to make of this power, so soon after waking up and having to deal with being Fae. “For now, can I just go to sleep? Or will that be too dangerous for everyone?” 

“I’ll secure the room with magic so if that happens again, it won’t harm anything or anyone,” he said with a pointed look from me to the door Azriel had stalked out of, “And I’ll be right down the hall to help if anything happens.”

“Thank you. I’m really, truly sorry for… for all of this. For me.”

“Evelyn…” Rhys sighed before shaking his head and rising to stand from the bed. “Never apologize for being you. The King of Hybern did this. He is responsible and he will pay. But whatever happens, we’ll be here to help you through every step of it. Feyre, too, when she returns.” 

He walked to the door but I stopped him, “Rhysand?”

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow… Could you take me somewhere? Somewhere private? I want… I want to run.”

“Of course,” he said, purple eyes sparkling with mischief as he left.

I turned and gave Cassian a tight hug before he could also stand to leave. “Thank you, Cassian. For being here and for sitting with me when I was out.”

He squeezed me back and stood up. He chuckled, “Of course. From what Rhys tells me, you’re gonna fit in around here just fine and we look after our own.”

“So you’ll help me? With the training and everything?”

“Of course. But I doubt I can do the more intensive exercises,” he said, flexing his still-healing wings. “Fortunately,” he grinned, “I do know another Illyrian who might be able to help you out.”

I paled, ducking my head to hide the way my cheeks blushed at the thought of Azriel training me. And to hide the scowl as I thought about spending that much time with him while still unsure of his feelings.

“No. That’s alright.”

“You should talk to him, you know? He’s not as grumpy and broody as he seems to be.”

I snorted. “Talk to him while he tries to forget I exist or while he thinks about my sister?”

“What?”

“It’s just, Azriel has been so strange. At the manor, he left without saying much of anything at all then never addressed it again. Then, he went from helping me out of bed to leaving with no warning. And he helped me find my room but left when I thanked him without saying a word. I knew he was… reserved but it’s confusing.”

“That’s not the part I was asking about and you know it.”

“Oh. Well, Nesta told me he’d taken a liking to Elain this past month. He spent time sitting with her, reading beside her, getting her tea. I just figured… maybe there was something between the two of them.” He quirked a brow. “Which I mean is perfectly fine! They’d work out quite handsomely - I think she needs someone as kind as Azriel after everything that happened.”

“Oh, Eve. Azriel’s a puzzle not even Amren has been able to solve. Just give him a chance - and time - and you’ll get used to it. If you don’t want to train with him, I won’t force you, but you and I will have to take it easy.” He gave me one last glance and shook his head, such sadness coating his features, as he left my room.

~

When the sun finally peeked through the curtains of the large window in my room, I yawned, stretched, and tossed the blanket away from me. I had spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, wondering about anything and everything. I had even tried to reach for any bit of that power that must be inside me but found nothing. Maybe it had been a fluke and it hadn’t been me who had summoned that light.

I thought a lot about what Cassian had said, about Azriel being a puzzle, and decided that I’d work on being more comfortable around him. Part of me knew that the problem wasn’t that I was uncomfortable, it was that I found myself too comfortable around the otherwise terrifying and intimidating Shadowsinger.

I got out of bed, digging through the drawers of the dresser someone must have filled for me, before pulling out a pair of pants and a loose-fitting shirt. How someone got my size right, I didn’t want to know.

I braided my hair, letting it fall over one shoulder, and tied on some boots before quietly slipping out of my room. I willed my footsteps to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to run into anyone but the High Lord.

A flicker of guilt washed over me as I realized I should check on my sisters. With how poorly Elain was doing… I would sit with her when I got back.

I snuck down the stairs, careful to avoid the center of each step that usually creaked from years - centuries, I realized as a chill crept down my spine - of use. I could almost feel where Rhys was in the house, unsure if it was my new Fae senses or the power that rippled off of him. So I followed where my instincts pointed before coming across him sitting at the dining table. Papers sat in front of him and he rubbed his temples as he studied them.

I frowned at the stress evident in him but leaned against the frame of the entryway to the dining room and smirked, “Brother-in-law.”

His head whipped up, “How did you do that?”

I scrunched my nose in confusion, “Do what?”

“Disguise your scent, sneak in here without making a sound?”

“Well, it wasn’t on purpose, I assure you. Maybe you’re getting rusty in your old age.”

He tilted his head as he examined me. I met his gaze, hiding my tremble at the way he assessed me. Was it to see if I was a threat or if I was a weapon?

He finally stood and offered me a hand. I smiled and walked forward to grab it. I lost my balance as he yanked me towards him, wrapped an arm around my neck, and ruffled a hand through my hair. “It’s just brother, Eve.”

I stifled the urge to smack him. Fine. I didn’t stifle it. I smacked his arm as hard as I could. 

He gave me a shocked look before laughing and leading us to the porch. Before I could ask what he was doing he scooped me up into his arms and the powerful wings now gracing his back took one beat to get us off the ground

I shouted as I saw the House growing smaller and smaller as we shot into the air. I dug my nails into his shoulder to keep from falling. I could feel my stomach drop at how quickly he was flying and shot him a glare, “A warning, Rhys! A warning!”

He grinned a devilish grin that made me want to smack him again then said, “No flying then?”

I shook my head as best I could with it tucked into his shoulder, my eyes closed tightly. I had never been this far off the ground before and the feeling of being tossed back and forth by the wind wasn’t my favorite.

“Hold on then,” and I felt him winnow us somewhere. I sighed in relief as he set me onto solid ground again.

“You said you wanted to run. Well,” he gestured to the large field in front of us.

“Where are we?” I asked in awe, looking at the sprawling field and the forest that surrounded it.

“Near the border to the Day Court,” he said, smiling slightly at the dumbstruck look on my face.

I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. I didn’t say another word as I took a few steps away from him. I stretched my legs before getting into a crouch, then took off.

It was the most incredible feeling in the world.

I could feel each push of my feet off the ground, each breath in my lungs, and every movement of muscle in my legs. Despite never having run this much in my entire life, I wasn’t gasping for air or unable to take another step.

I barked out a laugh as I kept running, pushing this new body as fast as I could until I had cleared the entire field and found myself bounding through the forest. My instincts picked up on things before my brain could, avoiding fallen trees, bushes, and any other obstacles. I had no idea how long I had been running, seconds, minutes, hours. I didn’t care. I had never felt this free, trapped for years in the confines of a body that couldn’t move.

I only stopped once I reached a small clearing that had a creek running through it. I sat on the side of the creek, untying my shoes and sticking my feet in the cool water. I let myself fall backward, feet still in the water, arms laid out to my side, and chest heaving to gulp down air. I laid there for a good while, my chest eventually slowing as my body returned to its resting state. The sky was beautiful here, probably thanks to whatever magic the Day Court possessed. Different blues melted together overhead, only interrupted by the whitest clouds I had ever seen. I would have been content to lay here forever.

I heard steps crunching the small stones of the creekbank but couldn’t bring myself to care about what was probably Rhysand coming to retrieve me. I just closed my eyes, grinned up at those fluffy, massive clouds passing far above me, and kicked my feet through the water.

“Go away, High Lord. Your loyal subject is enjoying herself.”

The chuckle that sounded above me had me sitting up and gathering my legs underneath me. I looked up from where I sat and saw Azriel’s handsome face gazing down at me.

“Hi, Azriel,” I said in a near whisper.

“Hi, Evelyn,” he said at a normal volume. 

He reached out a hand and I accepted it as he helped pull me to my feet. I become hyperaware of how close he was once I was standing. A strong enough breeze would have us touching. 

I looked up into his hazel eyes and searched his face for any hint he was willing to give me. I was met with nothing. No glimmer of hope or wonder or fondness in those bright eyes. No hint of a smile or amusement. Just steely indifference.

I huffed and pulled my hand out of his, taking a few steps away to leave a healthy, yet cold, distance between us. Of course. Of course, I wouldn’t find what I was looking for because it didn't exist. 

“Evelyn-” he started but I quickly interrupted.

“Where’s Rhysand? He was supposed to winnow me home.”

He shifted on his feet, “He was called away on urgent business. I’m meant to fly you to the House of Wind.”

“Fly me… all the way home?” I said, feeling my stomach turn at the thought of flying again. 

“The House has wards on it to prevent anyone from winnowing in. And since I can’t winnow, not in the way Mor or Rhys can, the only way I can get you there is by flying.” His wings shifted behind him and his shadows danced as if in agreement.

I nodded hesitantly. 

Rhys. He was going to get an earful when he came back from wherever it was he flew off to. First, the bastard surprises me with flying, then sends Azriel in his stead, and conveniently forgets to tell me that flying is the only way to get back.

Azriel, sensing my discomfort, said, “You know, I’m much better at flying than Rhys. It might have something to do with having to learn much later than him and Cassian.” A hint of a grin crossed his face.

I forced out a laugh to release some of the tension in my shoulders, “If that’s your idea of a joke, we have a lot of work to do.”

He had the decency to look offended before reaching out a scarred hand to me again. I took it but made no move to get closer to him. I marveled at his hand, not the scars but the large blue gemstone on the back and the way it fully encompassed mine. I noted his discomfort the longer I admired his hand - our hands - and smiled apologetically.

“What are these for?” I asked, turning over his hand and using my free one to tap on the stone.

“They’re siphons. Illyrians” - I recognized the distaste in his voice as he said the word, the same way Nesta had spat the word mate at Feyre and Rhys - “have a raw killing power. Siphons help them focus it. The more siphons, the stronger the power.”

“Am I going to need one?” He cringed at the question.

“I’m not sure. We’ll have to determine the extent of your power and see if siphons can help direct it.”

I wasn’t sure why the topic of Illyrians and their power made him so uncomfortable and angry but I couldn’t stand the shadows, not the literal kind, that haunted his beautiful face. Even though he had not shown me an ounce of caring in his gaze earlier… I still couldn’t bring myself to borach the topic and upset him. Something tugged on my heart at the pain and sadness that was there and I knew I never wanted to see him look like that again.

“You and Cassian are going to be jealous when I need more than both of you,” I said, finally taking a step to close that distance between us.

His eyes flicked back up, taking their time to look over my face and it was an effort not to blush under the intensity of his studious gaze. He looked at me the same way I looked at Feyre’s paintings, taking it apart layer by layer and considering the meaning behind everything while admiring the beauty along the way. That pain still didn’t leave his face, even as it turned softer, somehow.

“Azriel…” I started to lift a hand but stopped, remembering the steel in his gaze as he had helped me up. He grabbed it midair and forced it to continue its original path to his cheek. I gasped as it made contact with the soft skin there, so different from the hard planes of muscle covering every other inch of him. I spread my fingers slightly and watched in awe as his eyes fluttered shut and his face leaned into my hand. 

His eyes opened again as he moved his hand from mine and instead rested it on my back. He gently pulled me closer to him and I felt our chests press against each other. The hand he offered me, presumably to fly us home, still encased mine on our side.

To anyone else, it would have looked like we were about to dance. To me, I couldn’t move as his breath met mine. I could only tip my head up, craning my neck, as I strained to get closer to him. He was so tall. He was so tall and so hard against my chest and so so close.

My breath hitched as his face inched towards mine. I closed my eyes, all rational thought leaving my brain as I waited for his lips to meet mine. I wouldn’t let myself think about the coming war, Feyre in an enemy Court, Nesta’s burning hatred for the people I was coming to love, Elain - Elain.

I opened my eyes at the same time I shoved Azriel away from me. “Take me home.”

His mouth opened, in a question, an apology, it didn’t matter. “Take me home. Now.”

That invisible shield snapped back into place in his eyes and my heart broke at the thought that I had caused that. I knew being vulnerable was hard for him, perhaps harder than anything he had done or would do for his Court. And I had stopped it. I shut him down and hurt him, even if he wouldn’t let me see it, even if he had hidden it from me when he first arrived.

He nodded silently and carefully picked me up. His shoulders were tense as I wrapped my arms around them and held tight. He gave me a moment to prepare before launching us both into the sky.

He didn’t spare me a single glance as he flapped those mighty wings and steered us towards the sprawling house nestled into the side of the mountain. I had nothing to do but take in the set of his jaw, the distant look in his eyes, the way his hands only held me tightly enough to keep me from falling. There was nothing of that intimacy that had been there just moments before. The soft, pained look he had given me or the desperate sprawl of his fingers against my back as he pulled me impossibly closer to him were gone and replaced by… nothing. No emotion in those bottomless depths held in his eyes.

I shivered against him. It wasn’t from the cold, no he shielded me from that. It was from that look. A look I’m sure many had seen right before Death claimed them. I shoved my face into his shoulder, telling myself it was just because we were getting close to the House and I wasn’t ready for the drop my stomach would feel as we landed.

I felt him bank away from the direction we were headed. 

“Where are you going? I told you I wanted to go home,” I demanded, pulling away from his shoulder to look at him, despite the nausea that washed over me at looking at just how high up we were.

“Feyre’s in trouble. Rhysand told Cassian and me to meet her on the border of the Winter Court and I don’t have time to drop you off.”

“What kind of trouble? What can I do?”

“The kind caused by the heirs to the Autumn Court. The kind you are getting nowhere near. So what you can do, Eve, is wait with Mor on the shore while Cassian and I get Feyre the hell out of there.”

“Like hell I am,” I grabbed his chin and forced him to look me in the eyes, “Azriel, you take me to my sister or you drop me here and I will walk to her.”

Instead of the rage I expected to see, he looked amused as he said, “Only you, Evelyn Archeron, would speak to the Spymaster of the Night Court in such a tone.”

“I’m not scared of you,” I said, and meant it. Even with that cold look he had given me, he’d already proven he was capable of kindness and gentleness. I knew deep down that he would never do anything to hurt me and I would never judge him for what he had to do to protect his family. “I would never judge you, Evelyn” the words he had spoken that one night that seemed like a lifetime ago echoed in my head, my heart. I could only offer him the same.

I didn’t look at him as he flew us towards the border of the Autumn and Winter Courts. I wasn’t sure what I would see if I did - that nothingness or the amusement that lit up his entire face? Which did I want? This whole thing, despite Cassian’s insistence that Az was a puzzle, was becoming an exhausting game. They way he could flip so smoothly from the male I had come to dream about spending time with to the one who had turned to my sister in my absence and could rid all emotion from his face in the blink of an eye. 

I turned my thoughts away from the male pushing against the wind as he rushed us to my sister and instead focused on what we would find when we got there. My focus shifted entirely to Feyre, quelling any grumblings in my stomach about the height and the flying and Azriel.

Feyre was coming home. And I’d do everything in my power to get her there, Autumn Court heirs be damned. 

I watched as dark shape headed directly towards us. For a moment, I almost warned Azriel but recognized who it was as they got closer.

“Cassian!” I yelled in greeting.

“Enjoying your flight, kid?” His voice, strained by the wind, yelled back.

“Not as much as I’m going to enjoy kicking your ass for that, you dusty old male!”

A clipped laugh was his only response.

Azriel remained silent throughout the exchange, gaze set on the approaching border between the two seasonal courts. I saw figures racing across a large swath of ice but couldn’t pinpoint which was which.

Cassian and Azriel evidently could as they began their descent towards where my sister needed our help.

As they approached the ground at nearly full speed, I realized I was not going to be able to stomach the landing. I yelled at Az, “Let me go!”

He whipped his head to face me and said, “Absolutely not.”

“Azriel, just drop me, I’ll be fine. We’re close enough to the ground.”

“No,” he growled, pulling me closer to him as the ground got closer and closer.

“You stubborn male,” I grunted as I pushed myself out of his grasp. All I could do was twist my body to prepare for the impact on the ice as Azriel’s shout of my name echoed over the roaring wind.

-

Taglist: @mis-lil-red @ambivertedcroissant @reareaikea @biblophilefox82 @in-some-fandoms @hollyismentallyillhelp

[get-shiggy-with-it]

collab masterlist

✧ pairing: villain!hawks x afab!reader

✧ word count: 5k

✧ warnings: this is like all smut, angst, ambiguous but happy ending, unhealthy relationships, mentions of transactional sex, reader has a healing quirk but it's really just for poetic purposes, reader has a vagina, no other gendered parts, oral sex (reader receiving), vague metaphorical drug reference, mentions of blood, mentions of wounds, mating press, soft sex (?), sorta, slight potential could be read as dubcon but they're both into it

✧ summary: for years you've stitched hawks back together when the world has torn him to shreds—and he always pays you back, though you can't help but start want more than he can give you.

✧ a/n: hey y'all this months theme was villain/hero swap with a shared opener! please go check out all the other wonderful works in this collab, there are so many talented writers/artists involved!! credit to @/lady-bakuhoe for the amazing intro. also bonus points if you catch the old aesthetic tumblr post references.

Breaking news: We have yet another report to add to the slew of attacks this month, this comes just days after we broadcast rumours of villains running rampant over the city. This spate of attacks has put the entire metropolitan area at a standstill, road closures and damaged property making it difficult for commuters to get to work in the morning. Road maintenance endeavour to do its best to keep the city running, but it seems futile when these attacks continue to increase. The entire city was brought to a standstill by the mysterious villain who has still not been named, but reports show they are nothing like we have ever experienced before.

Where are the heroes now? Who will save us from the terror overwhelming our city?

Every day the crime toll continues to rise and we have no one here to protect us. The Hero Public Safety Commission assured us earlier in the week that the crime rate would go down, that the top Heroes are out there protecting our city, but if so, where are they? Is it really safe to go out anymore, who can we trust? Would you put your life in the hands of a Hero today? When they have proved our streets are no longer safe. We still have no information on what is going on, or who is involved but we must remain observant. We will continue to report the latest news as we receive it, but for now, we must implore you to heed the warnings of the city-wide curfew that is soon to be implemented. If anyone has any information on these occurrences in the city please send them to us or contact the police, you can remain anonymous. The safety of our citizens is what is most important, stay vigilant and don’t go out unless it is absolutely necessary.

One thing we know for sure: we can no longer rely on Heroes to protect us. The streets of our once-great city are no longer safe, we are no longer safe.

***

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

That fact is made even more horrifically apparent as he stumbles through your open window—and how long has it been since you’ve slept with it closed?—dripping with blood and panting from his flight.

The T.V. blares in the background, filling your tiny apartment with incessant ramblings that only grow louder by the day, and you already know what they’re going to say before they say it. Because you see him, before the reporters stumble upon heroes in the wreckage—you see what they do to him before they’re warning the public of dangerous villains loose in the streets.

They spout off about failing heroes but you think they’ve done a pretty damn good butchers job. Red feathers matted together, sticky and brown, fall in tufts from his back. You burn with shameful jealousy at the thought of those who would call themselves heroes having laid hands on what is yours.

He isn’t really yours and you know that, though you often wish you could be a bit more delusional. It might not hurt so much then.

They call him a villain. They call him a threat to society.

But even faced with the truth spilling from him and onto your creaking floors, it is easy to forget what a ruthless predator the man before you becomes when he leaves these four walls.

Especially as he falls forward on heavy feet straight into your arms, outstretched and waiting. There are stains on your shirt but you’ve known the secret for getting blood out of clothing for years now. Cold water for the fabric, warm to wash away the grime on his lovely skin.

“Gonna need you to fix me up again, sweetheart,” Hawks mumbles into your shoulder where his forehead rests.

His breathing is even more ragged now, not just from the flight.

“I know,” you reply and your hands shake when they find the gaping wound at his side—wide and deeper than the ones before. “I know. Can you walk?”

He doesn’t respond but that mop of golden hair shifts a bit as he slings an arm over your shoulder and rests his weight. You don’t need to direct him to your bedroom. This is an old game you’re playing and he knows the steps.

So do you.

Though, you’re never sure if it's dread that fills you and makes your stomach knot and your knees weak. Or if it’s that awful, momentary rush of excitement at the prospect of being able to run your fingers over him, bare and giving you free reign.

As long as he’s bleeding out on your floor.

Then you can feel him.

When he’s dying and needs you.

Needs you to fix him.

But won’t ever let you close enough to finish the job the way you want to.

You comfort yourself in with the knowledge that at least he lets you this close. At least those thin, silver-skin scars are the unmistakable mark of your healing hands. At least you’ll always haunt him like the red feather down that sticks to your pillows or between your floorboards.

So you strip him carefully and try not to let his sculpted chest distract you from the work. Hawks is silent, such a model patient as always. Only grunting when your fingers move to knit together the ragged edges of his flesh.

This will leave a nasty mark, you know it already. But you can’t find it in yourself to mourn the loss of that lovely skin.

It will only make it harder for him to forget you.

You’re knelt beside him, laid out on a towel you keep at the edge of the bed. Blood will soak through to the sheets regardless, but you try your best. He takes a sharp breath, white teeth catching the back of his hand between them to stifle groans.

You wish there was more pleasure to it. That he was biting back moans for you instead of trying not to scream as his flesh pulsed and grew hot while it was rebuilt under your fingertips. So you indulge, pretend your hands are elsewhere, roaming his perfect waistline and pulling whimpers from him.

Your dangerous, villainous, predator Hawks sprawled on his back, wings spread and cumming onto his chest under you.

The sounds above you change, and you know it hurts—must be excruciating as bone is set back into place—but you chose to believe it’s because he’s trying to keep himself from screaming your name as he reaches his release.

Hawks, you’d croon to him—Hawks because you don’t know his real name. Don’t know who he was before he started this underground life of crime on the fringes of a society that called him a monster and then turned him into one.

He isn’t a monster in your bed, though he may cry like one.

Cry as you mold his flesh and try not to look him in the face. Try to pretend they are an overflow of some better emotion. And when those summer wheat field eyes roll back in his head and those horrible pretty noises stop, you push past the growing ache in your limbs until the skin under your palms is smooth and no longer leaking thick, red blood.

And you do your best to resist the itch to feel more of him while he can’t stop you. Even with your fingers numb from overexertion, you can’t help but fall back on your heels and long for the feeling of his cheek in your hand, or his chest on your face.

But your part of the transaction is done.

And your permission doesn’t extend past these limits.

And it pains you to wish harm on him.

But it hurts even more when he does not need you.

So you sit and hate yourself and hope that those heroes with their disgusting philosophies get their shit together just a bit more. So you won’t lose your purpose. So he’ll keep coming through your window, permanently open through rainstorms and snow and spring heat.

Hawks’ breath evens slowly, and you stay still as a watched painting—no shifting eyes or moving limbs.

You crave these times like water or warm food—constant and instinctively.

And this is the only time you’ll ever have them, hands so filled with pinpricks of fried nerves that you can barely feel the soft, relaxed muscle beneath them.

What a tragedy.

What an injustice—

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

***

“Hmm,” he groans, sitting up and wincing as the new flesh protests under his movements.

“You should rest for a bit longer.”

Hawks looks at you, stretched next to him on the mattress—a purposeful few inches of space left between your bodies. It’s both selfish and practical advice.

But he isn’t here for that kind of help.

“You know I can’t just be sittin’ on my ass,” he quips, flashing you that eyes closed, wide smirk that sets your heart hammering in your chest. “Can’t have anyone tracing me back here.”

“Normally I’d agree,” you don’t find it in yourself to give the words any bite, “but you were just actively bleeding out a few minutes ago.”

“Sure, but that was a few minutes ago,” he winks and you can already feel the bed shifting as he moves to settle himself over your hips, one toned thigh on either side to bracket you against the bed. “Now, let me pay you back for all that hard work, yeah sweetheart?”

You wish the way he peered up through those long lashes, gold eyes honed in on you like a piece of meat on a hook, didn’t make your face burn this much.

It doesn’t mean anything to him.

Because this arrangement really is transactional—so you have to get something out of it too. At least, that’s what he tells himself, you think. He doesn’t know that those scant few moments you hold his life between your fingers is more than enough payment.

It’s been this way since the very first time you stumbled across him, half dead in an alley. But then you think it might have just been a ‘heat of the moment’ sort of thing that had just stuck.

You heal him and he makes you writhe on the sheets with his tongue and his hands, until you're fucked into unconscious bliss and he can slip away without your prying eyes watching him go.

But you still aren’t allowed to touch Hawks, even when he reaches into those deep parts of you and molds them to fit only him.

“You don’t—” you start to protest, partly because you want to believe you don’t want it and partly because you want to hear him insist that he does.

“Shh,” Hawks presses a calloused finger to your mouth and it takes every ounce of strength not to suck it past your lips. “I don’t like leaving my debts unpaid.”

That’s the end of your determination for the night. So you try to relax into his touch as slides your bottoms off and tosses them to the floor. Try not to clench up under those fingers that spread your legs. He doesn’t like it when you squirm away, when you flinch from his hands.

You want to think it’s because he hopes you aren’t afraid of him—of what he is—like the rest are, and not because he wants to get it over with as quickly as possible.

You want to.

But he’s so hard to read, and your mind is not often a kind place.

“Mm, god I’m always so hungry after you patch me up baby,” Hawks licks his lips as he stares down at you. “You won’t mind if I eat you right?”

You cringe at how fast your head shakes.

“Mm, course you wouldn’t.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice, and he’s right though you resent it a bit that he’s got you pegged so easily.

But you’re weak, you’re no villain, you’re no hero.

And so you’ll never be able to resist him. But, damn, did you wish you had a name to cry out. Then at the very least, you could keep a part of him with you too. Then you’d have some to moan on the nights he goes uninjured and you have to bring yourself to lonely release, only thinking of him.

Of those wings spread above you like a burning, red sunset, obscuring the rest of the world from view with his blinding light.

“Hawks…” you hiss instead as he shifts your legs over his shoulders and lays his tender chest on the sheets. “Please.”

“Yeah, yeah, what’s it gonna be tonight then?” he asks, breath ghosting over the damp folds between your thighs.

“Thought you said you were gonna use your tongue,” you whine, impatient now for any scrap of attention he’s willing to give.

“If that’s what you want,” he presses a kiss into the crease of your leg and hip, nipping the delicate skin so you whine again. “It’s whatever you want, you know that.”

It isn’t though.

It’s not whatever you want.

You can pick the position, you can ask for his mouth or his fingers, but even then, they won’t go past your neck. Your hands must stay firmly knotted in the comforter and away from him while he works. Cause he is working. This is part of the job to him, it's only in your fantasies that he’s doing it simply for the hell of it.

Hawks nudges your embarrassingly soaked slit with his nose and hums at you, “So is that what you want? Want me to eat your pretty pussy, yeah?”

“Yes—ngh,” you don’t get much in past the confirmation.

He’s a busy man.

He doesn’t have time for your stupid, romantic day dreams.

So he dives right in, and it’s enthusiastic enough that you can convince yourself he simply wants you that badly.

Hawks tongue licks a long strip from your hole to your clit and sucks the little bud past his plush lips. They’re a lovely, soft pink against your skin and they make a mess of you in seconds. He starts up an even rhythm, drawing circles into the nerves that sing and have heat building up in you only seconds after he’s started.

You hate that you love how well he knows your body.

You hate that you only know his when it’s shutting down.

“You taste so good, you know that?” he mumbles, lapping at you and kneading your thighs. “Could live down here just drinking you every fucking day.”

He doesn’t always talk like that but you’re happy he is now. It distracts you from the deep, ingrained urge to yank him by the hair and taste yourself on his lips.

“Makes me wish I’d let those damn heroes get hits in more often,” he’s back to panting and you keen at the sound. “Want my fingers too?”

“Fuck yes,” you don’t even bother hiding the desperation anymore.

He deserves the boost to his ego. You’d shower him with praise if he’d let you, bathe him in warm words and press them into his skin with your tongue.

But he doesn’t let you.

Hawks’ hand on your thigh trails slowly against the sensitive skin until he’s pulling back to run his fingers through your folds to ease the stretch a bit as he pushes two inside. He knows you can take what he gives to you, knows you love the way he fills you up.

Your tingling hands ache to grab his head and force his lips back as he sits for a moment, eyes glued on the space where his fingers disappear into your body. He groans low at the wet sounds your bodies make at their joining. Your legs shake where they rest on him, the one other point of contact he’s allowed. Those deadly soft feathers brush your calves as he curls his fingers up and waits expectantly for the strangled cry he pulls from you.

“There it is,” his voice is so much lower when he speaks now. “Can’t exactly show you the real ones, but how ‘bout you let me make you see some stars, huh?”

He asks so much of you. So much. So often.

In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever actively asked him for a thing he hadn’t already offered in the few years you’d known him. Hawks does it all—the taking and the giving and the demanding.

And you’re simply along for the ride, holding on for dear life lest he drop you, let you plummet like rock to the barren ground.

Still, you are mortal and you crave and you will take what you can get.

“Mhm,” you whimper when his deft fingers increase their pace, not thrusting but grinding mercilessly into that delicious spot inside.

“You wanna cum now, sweet thing?”

Then, true to his villainous nature, Hawks latches his lips back onto your clit, wracking your body with waves of truly sinful pleasure. His tongue draws quick, perfect circles across the bud just how you like. You’ll never know why it feels so much better when it’s him touching you.

How he knows exactly what you want.

Most of it.

Then his other hand is reaching around your hip, thumb taking over to press down where his tongue had been. Panting for the third time, his gorgeous head rests on your thigh and he stares dead on into your eyes. That predator yellow gaze pins you to the pillows better than any hand could and he licks across his lips while you watch, moaning as he tastes you there.

You groan deep and unabashedly at the sight.

“What is it?” he’s teasing you, unable to keep that part of his cruelty hidden even now. “What do you want?”

You shake your head and wish you could turn away, flop against the mattress and writhe but you can’t. You just can’t give up this moment that’s etching itself into your retinas—like you’re staring head on at an eclipse, celestial and short-lived.

“Tell me,” Hawks whispers, nipping at your thigh and working his fingers harder on you. “Whatever you want, you’ll get it.”

And maybe it’s the sudden heat of the room, or the little breeze from his wings spreading defensively to block you from view of his nonexistent audience—the outside world maybe? To keep you, this secret indulgence, hidden from their prying hands. Or quite possibly it’s just your own weakness at the feet of years and years of loving—because you do, you love him, it’s clear by now that’s what this is—this man whose name you don’t know and whose eyes never seem to leave you even when he’s gone.

Maybe you simply crack under the pressure of keeping this awful, looming silence for too long.

You feel your lips split at the seams and it all comes rushing out in a polluted flood—a stagnant river of secrets.

“Let me touch you,” you gasp and close your eyes then just so you won’t have to see that grin slip from his beautiful face. “Please Hawks, let me touch you. I can’t do it anymore, just—I need to kiss you, I need more.”

All this time he hadn’t let up on pulling pleasure from your skin, but he stops now, bringing your release to a screaming halt.

The quiet that follows—devoid of fast breaths and wet slapping—is suffocating.

You wish you regretted the outburst, the waste of years worth of work to keep him coming back.

But you don’t.

Of course you will in a minute, when he slips away and doesn’t return.

But now it just feels as though that boulder of secrecy has been lifted off your chest and you can finally take in lungfuls of sweet, unhindered night air.

It’s only after that dreadful minute has passed and there are still hands on you—buried in you—that you dare to open your eyes again.

Hawks is staring blankly, an expression you’ve never seen before, so stark from the usual quirk of his lips and tilt of his chin. Blank, but calculating. You can see the gears clanking as his thoughts rush a mile a minute, faster than he’d ever dream of soaring over the city skyline.

He blinks once, twice, then again and you can see the redness blooming at the corners as his eyes grow glassy between each flutter of lashes. And then, as though moving through honey, he draws back from you, only to crawl up your body until your noses touch.

You hold your breath, lip caught between your teeth, but his slicked thumb comes up to pull it out of your gnawing reach. He strokes across the puffy skin, never meeting your gaze, until he slowly, slowly leans down.

It’s not really a kiss, more of an accidental brush, so little of your lips touch you could easily have imagined it. When he speaks again, you can feel him forming the words against you.

“I—” he starts and licks his lips and yours and you don’t think it’s an accident, “I can’t.”

It isn’t what you want him to say, but it’s better than a silent loss .

You know truth when you hear it.

“I know.”

And you do, you do know, you’ve always known. He’s darker when he’s not with you. You’ve seen the carnage he leaves behind broadcasted on screens, but it’s never stopped the ache before.

He can’t keep you the way you want, can’t have things that get in the way.

You can only touch him when he’s dying. You can heal him, reform his flesh and bone—pull him back from the brink—but you’ll never feel his chest against yours or his hair slipping through your fingers or have all of him buried inside you. He’ll never love you like you want him to.

It doesn’t stop you from wishing.

And apparently, it doesn’t stop Hawks from kissing you anyway.

“I can’t,” he repeats and it sounds so broken you almost think that wound has reopened and he’s going to start slipping away again.

But the only thing that slips is his tongue past your lips and tangling with your own.

And then the levee breaks.

It’s a sudden torrent of hands and legs knotting together like the torn edges of too many injuries. Hawks covers every available part of you like an addict seeking his fix. It’s breathless and uncoordinated but you’ve never felt more alive, alight, aflame.

He presses his lips to yours again, pulling away and then diving back in. Frantic hands pull you off the mattress until your back is against the headboard and he’s straddling your lap. You take the opportunity to sink your fingers into that goldenrod hair and it’s just as silky as you’d imagined it to be.

Hawks moans into your mouth, kissing you wildly, like the beast he is with teeth clacking and your tongue sucked between his lips.

“I can’t,” he keeps mumbling, between groans and hips grinding and hands grabbing, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t— “

You wonder then which one of you he’s trying to convince.

But you don’t ask, just let your hands wander to the delicious curve of his ass on your thighs and squeeze, rolling his bulge against you. His fingers push and proud, ghosting across your chest and stopping to pinch your nipple. He drinks down the whimpers you let out, letting his lips wander your jaw and throat, sucking bruises—leaving his own scars on you—as he goes. He pushes you back down to the pillows so his lips can continue their work, latching onto the quickly hardening bud and suckling lightly. His groan sends little shockwaves through you and he looks up with brows furrowed like he’s in pain with how good it all feels.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it’s so soft you barely hear it between licks at your chest.

“No,” you finally find it in you to respond, shaking your head and pulling him back to your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he says again while you nip at his earlobe and down his jaw, tight pants yielding under your hands as they’re tugged away so he’s just as bare as you.

“No,” you shake your head and any response dies on his tongue as you dig your fingers into the feathers at the base of his wings and pull him forward.

Hawks lets out a choked gasp as his length, bare, hard, and leaking glides across your cunt. Any other time, you’d have liked to savor this moment. Get on your knees and worship his pretty cock—and you know it's pretty, just from your short glimpse. He’s long and perfectly thick, just how you dreamed he would be. The cute tuft of blond curls at his base is course in the best way as you trail your fingers through it to take him in your palm.

“Ahh,” he keens, arching above you with his head thrown back as you stroke him for the first time.

It’s been so long, you're not sure how you ever resisted this before. Not with how heavy and warm he is in your fist.

“Hawks,” you moan, sucking at the dip in his collarbone and moving to bite at his nipple. “Hawks, please.”

“I—” you think he might protest but you flick your thumb over the tip and it pours precum to help the slide of your fingers.

He’s already got those powerful arms hooked under your knees, all he has to do is lean forward and sink into that tight, awaiting heat, and he knows it. You can see the resolve cracking.

“Hawks,” you beg again. Because you are begging, that’s what this is.

And he looks at you, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth and brows all bunched up with his head shaking.

“Hawks.”

His hands grip the underside of your thighs and knock your hand from his dick.

“Hawks.”

His forehead comes down to rest against yours, eyes squeezed shut and red at the edges. You feel the sting at the corners as if they were your own.

“Hawks.”

You can only touch him when he’s dying.

Is he dying now?

Are you killing him?

“Hawks.”

His breath hitches, whatever he might have said is long gone when the head of his cock catches against your entrance.

“Hawks—”

He sinks in to the hilt all at once and the last utterance of his name is a yelp. Your walls clamp down hard around the intrusion, so much bigger than his fingers, so hot and long and thick as he pulses inside you.

There are no words after that.

No names, no refusals, just his face pressed up on yours as he pushes your thighs to your chest and rolls his hips, fucking you evenly into the mattress.

Not soft or slow or overly rough.

Though it is all of those things at once as well.

Hawks has always been full of contradictions. It makes sense that this is too.

Both your eyes stay open, lips brushing and sharing breath as he slips a hand back down to your clit and starts those perfect circles up again.

He doesn’t ask you questions now. Just stares in your eyes and sinks his cock into your over and over until you feel fuller, more complete than you ever have in the whole of your life.

There’s no warning leading up to the end. You feel the crest approaching, the coil waiting to snap low in your belly and you don’t dare take your eyes off his face. You need to commit the entirety of this moment to memory. Just in case.

Just in case it never happens again.

Or worse, it happens over and over until it doesn’t.

Until you run out of chances to touch him.

Until he comes to you too far gone.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters and that’s all the warning you get.

All the warning you have the strength to listen to as you tumble over the edge, waves of rolling pleasure burning under your skin. You clench hard around his cock as his hips stutter in their pace, thrusting unevenly as you gush and he spills rope after rope of hot release deep into you.

And you’d been wrong before, because this was full. This was whole, your stilling bodies pressed together at every point with his cock still hard and twitching as your walls milked him of cum that warmed you from the inside out.

This is what you would die for.

***

Later when you stumble into unwilling wakefulness, there are hands tucking a thin sheet over your bare skin.

Hawks has pulled himself from you after resting like you’d told him he should. He’s dressing, though not hurriedly, and you can’t find it in your jelly bones to move or stop him.

You’re both silent, even when he looks down to find your eyes alert and raking over him—costume donned and wings prepared for flight.

His face is drawn in a way that might have been resentment. Maybe towards you for breaking his resolve, maybe at himself for indulging in what he cannot have.

I can’t.

You hear the words as clear as though he’d just said them.

I can’t.

Can’t have you. Can’t forget his purpose. Can’t have gentle things.

Hawks is a villain, first and foremost, above all else and that includes you.

So you don’t move to stop him as he walks softly through your door. You just watch as he makes his way to the open window and perches on the ledge. He does look back, only briefly, to see you draped across the sheets, head resting on your arm and staring at him as he leaves you.

The ghost of that cheeky grin crawls its way onto his face before he tips backwards off the landing and into the night sky. He winks once before the indigo of the night swallows him like the maw of a leviathan. The city has teeth and it will chew him up and spit him back out into your arms soon enough.

So you’re content to wait.

You know this isn’t the last time. That he’ll come back to you as he’s always done. And offer you more and more of himself each time.

Because you can only touch him when he’s dying.

And this world is nothing if not determined to kill him.

So you can keep your purpose.

And by extension, you can keep him.

[dancingamongstdust]

Old Habits (Warren Worthington x Reader)

So I was digging around in my old files and I found this from a few years ago. I’m sure I published it somewhere once but I have no idea where. Either way, the writing isn’t too bad so I thought some readers here may enjoy it. 

Before, when you originally met Warren, you had never had an issue with reaching out and grabbing his wings if he tried to march away from you. It had become a habit.

There would be an argument over something inconsequential and both of you would scream and shout like children. Warren would realise that his temper was getting out of control and try to stalk away from the fight before it got out of control. You would snatch a fistful of his feathers or the edge of a wing; anything that was within range was ample gain. It never hurt him but he stopped moving due to the sensation. Then he would turn around and kiss you until your lips were bruised and you couldn’t breathe properly.

This time…

You had been eternally grateful to Charles Xavier for bringing Warren back despite all his previous actions and your heart belonged to whoever had saved his life. When you had seen him walking through that portal, you had sold yourself on the notion that you would never be seeing him again. A bitter reality without the white angel wings that you had spent hours wrapped in.

The fight had been inconsequential really. Something about his sulking and yelling at anybody who tried to get close to him.

But now you withdrew your hand as quickly as you reached out.

Warren still spun around to look, the metal feathers screeching against the walls as he did so. Instead of kissing you, his eyes fell on your bloody hand and he reached for it with tentative hands. “I…” his words died in his throat.

You met his eyes with a clouded expression and sighed. “Sorry,” you said. “I forgot…” Your eyes fell on the huge metal wings and you sighed. “I didn’t think that through. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Warren said. “No, you shouldn’t have had to think about it in first place.” Unlike the feathered version, these wings made a horrendous noise when they bristled and even he winced at the sound. “Just go and get somebody to look at that.” And he stormed back into his temporary room, slamming the door far too loudly behind him.

You sighed, shoulders slumping. Charles had approached you to see if you could possibly fix the situation and maybe convince Warren to relax a little more in the mansion. His end goal obviously being to offer the angelic mutant a permanent place to stay.

Stomach churning, you hurried down the stairs to the nearest mutant that could heal your hand or at least somebody who knew basic medical skills.

Two stitches and a little bit of healing later, you were sitting in your own room and staring down at your bandages. While you had been standing up there, it hadn’t hurt at all but now it was burning like fire. You rubbed it gently and sighed. Warren had always been self-sabotaging. At this point, shutting you out could almost be classified as a hobby of his.

So eventually – at an hour that any reasonable person would be asleep at – you climbed out of bed and marched over to the room to quiet your wailing mind. If you didn’t know Warren’s self-destructive tendencies you would have presumed it was too late.

But you had lived with the man before.

You didn’t bother knocking. You knew that Warren would have pretended he didn’t hear you. So you counted on him forgetting – or purposefully – not locking the door.

“I’m tired of this,” you said when Warren finally noticed you and removed the headphones that were blaring rock music so loudly that you could hear them from across the room. You walked over and sat on an untouched desk, watching the winged mutant carefully. “Every day, you make me sit and watch you turn all that anger and hatred inwardly and I can’t do anything about it. I feel useless when it comes to you. Like there’s nothing I can do to help.”

“Help?” he scoffed. “Help what?”

“You.”

He rolled his eyes and sat up on the bed, those metal feathers screaming a symphony as they were dragged across the wall. “I don’t need your help,” he said. He glanced at your bandaged hand. “Look what happens when you try. I’m fine. They said that my feathered wings will grow back soon and then I’ll be able to get as far away from this fucking place as possible.”

“I want to stay.”

“Then stay.”

You gave a forced laugh. “And here I thought you knew me well enough to know that there isn’t a chance that you would leave without me following.”

Warren crossed his arms and his wings puffed up as he attempted to become more intimidating. It would work on most people. Not you. “Nobody likes codependent twits,” he grumbled. “But then again, it’s not my problem if you want to chase me around the country like some lost poodle. If you get killed, I don’t want anybody blaming it for me.”

“It’s not… alright, no, I’m not rising to that,” you said firmly. “No matter how often you insult me, I’m not going to leave and you know that by now. Warren, won’t you at least consider staying here? There are others who –“

“Joined forces with an ancient evil and attempted to bring about the end of the world because they were offered shiny wings then almost died and had to be saved by their enemy out of pity. Just so many of those assholes running around that I can barely even walk without seeing one.” His hair was falling into his face now but he didn’t seem interested in doing anything about it. “But they don’t count if they switched sides during the actual battle.”

“You were unconscious the majority of the battle.”

“Thank you for reminding me. I wasn’t aware.”

You sighed and reached out to move his hair away from his eyes. It said something that he didn’t move away despite the glare he was sending in your direction. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be able to rest for a little while until you got back onto your feet?” you asked. “I’ve been talking to some of the people here and they’re all friendly if you give them a chance.”

“I don’t see any weapons attached to your back that are constantly hurting people you actually care about,” he noted.

“My hand was my own fault,” you repeated. You stood up and moved closer, reaching the uninjured hand past his head and resting it gently on the metal of his feathers. “See? I’m being careful now and it’s not getting me hurt. If I had taken a few more seconds to think it through, I wouldn’t have grabbed your wing out of habit. But you said they’ll go back to being normal soon.”

“Apparently,” he said. “Some of them have fallen off but they’re meant to do that. What would you do if they stayed metal? You’d have to start finding your own beds instead of curling up next to me constantly. Something tells me you won’t find these wings ‘comforting’.”

A phrase you had always used when speaking about his wings and it hurt to hear him spit it with such bitterness in his tone. It had always been something genuine to you. “They probably won’t keep me as warm as the normal feathers,” you admitted. “But I don’t doubt that I could grow used to them and love them as much as I adored the originals.”

He scoffed. “Always a fucking optimist. Even when I have tattoos that probably will never fade etched into my face.”

“I’m not always an optimist,” you said. “When you disappeared into that cage fighting thing for months without telling me and then came back with your wing fried to a crisp, I was so worried that I thought I would vomit. I lost countless hours due to nightmares about waking up and finding you dead or missing again.”

“And then you did.”

“I was too late,” you said. “No matter what you said, I knew that your wings were making you distressed and I wanted to help but I didn’t know how. If I had figured out how to fix things sooner then there wouldn’t have been a reason for you to go with that asshole.”

Warren just glared at you and then flicked his bedside lamp off and lay down on his side. It used to hurt his wings when he slept like that but you were unsure that the metal felt anything. Either way, you lay your hand on his shoulder temporarily and then took the hint to leave the room. There was nothing else for you to say or do.

Almost a week passed where you only opened the door to throw random food and drink items at Warren where he was pretending to be asleep. Sometimes he would mumble something and other times he would continue to ignore you. You took the bandage off a few days later. It was something Warren undoubtedly noticed but he didn’t say anything until the day you opened the door to find everything strewn across the floor in such a state of disarray that you flinched.

“What’s the problem?” you asked.

Warren glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and muttered something about not having any shirts that weren’t torn to shreds by his new wings. Which later led to you going shopping and returning with a bunch of new shirts with cuts in the back for the new wings. It took you a while and he grumbled under his breath when you dumped them on the floor but you didn’t say anything.

The charade continued day in and day out but you weren’t deterred. You waited patiently for Warren with a well-learned routine. This had happened many times before. A waiting game that you had perfected over many years of worrying about the angelic mutant who held so much of your attention and your heart.

You walked through the door with a milkshake in hand when he was busy plucking the metal feathers off his wings. Silently, you placed it down and settled cross-legged behind him on the bed to help him peel off the shedding metal over the unreachable areas.

It came off easily and you happily spotted some of the soft, white feathers peeking out from beneath the metal. You ran your fingers happily over it and smiled. They would be returning soon.

“You’re going to need to preen these daily while they’re growing out,” you said. You didn’t expect an answer but you said it with the knowledge that you would be the one to do it. “Otherwise they’re going to be crooked and then you won’t be able to fly properly.”

Warren’s feathers fluttered slightly as he turned around to face you. They didn’t sound quite as horrible when they brushed against the wall now and there were fewer grooves than before. Deep scratch marks already tore up the bedframe and one of the bedside lamps had disappeared a week ago. “Just leave.”

“Alright. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Why do you bother?”

Your fingers brushed the doorknob and you shrugged. “It’s just force of habit now.”

[lunmelia]

Listen I know that Jack had to “grow up fast” because the world is a “dangerous place” or whatever but if he was born a baby?? I would’ve watched the hell out of that show. Just two dudes, their mum and an angel raising the devil’s baby. Because I say that they kicked Lucifer’s ass to the alternate world and everyone lives (except Kelly. Sorry.). Could you imagine? 

You have Mary; the woman who has experience in raising two babies, even if one was only for six months.

You have Dean; the man who basically raised Sam and has vague memories of helping out when his brother was a baby. Helped Lisa with her son and baby niece. Took care of a shapeshifter baby for a day. Also had a daughter for a couple of days but didn’t interact with her much. 

You have Sam; not much experience. Also took care of a shapeshifter baby for a day. Strong in research, might manage to find them at least a paragraph of how to raise a nephilim. Killed his niece. Not a great sign but he promises he won’t do that this time. 

You have Castiel; the angel expert. Is a literal angel. Has no experience with babies apart from that one night he babysat for his co-worker. Kind-of-sort-of-not-really a dad to a teenage girl. Only times he’s had to interact with a nephilim is when he’s been ordered to kill one, so, not a good sign but he promises he won’t do that this time. 

Together, they make do. But holy shit is raising Jack tough. 

He may not have a true form like Castiel but he does have wings and a true voice. Which he can’t control. So the tantrums. The tantrums. When he was born he made their ears bleed from the crying, and the lights exploded. Cas was miraculously able to calm him down before further damage was done, but the humans always make sure to have earplugs on them from then on. They also had to buy a large supply of lightbulbs to replace the ones in the bunker every time he cries. 

They had to baby proof the bunker. And I mean baby proof the hell out of the bunker. You think a normal house can be dangerous for a baby? The bunker is huge. And full of knives, guns, spellbooks, ancient artifacts, and just about a thousand other things that are not. good. to have around a baby. The baby proofing took a week. Two days of exploring the bunker and recording everything that needed to be baby-proofed, two shopping trips in a day to buy the things needed, and another three days of installing everything. Cas had to stay with Jack in his room while Mary, Sam and Dean did all the baby proofing. 

(also yes this is an AU in which Dean and Cas get their shit together, confess their feelings, build a house and raise Jack as his dads. the build a house part comes in when Jack is like 3)

The absolute freakout Dean had when Jack flew the first time. It happened when he was five months old, and Dean was changing his diaper. He turned around for a second to throw out the wipes. Heard the flap of wings, turned back around with a greeting for Cas on his lips, and Jack was gone. It went like this: Dean, staring at the empty table: ... Jack? Jack- *realisation* Cas! Cas, the baby’s gone! Cas! The baby can fly! Baby’s flying- Cas, appearing in front of him with a giggling Jack in his arms: yes, I am well aware Dean: oh my god- Jack: *disappears again* Dean: *yelps in alarm* Cas: *simply reaches up and just. plucks Jack out of thin air. one moment there’s empty air and the next Jack is just in Cas’ hands* Cas: this may become... difficult Dean, leaning over with his hands on his knees: I’m gonna have a heart attack

Turns out, baby Jack can heal! Which is what Mary discovered when once she had held Jack after coming back from a hunt with a few scrapes, they miraculously disappeared. 

You know when toddlers will get into the flour and leave a mess that you have to clean up for the next two hours? Yeah, well Jack got into a box of spellbooks and opened one which released monsters from fables. So that was a very panic-filled 6 hours that included Sam, Dean and Mary researching how to put them back / kill them while Cas held Jack close to make sure he didn’t fly away. Turns out, baby-proofing a bunker is pretty useless when said baby can fly through walls.

Apart from the many mishaps thathappened during raising Jack from infancy to toddlerhood, he’s just a weird kid. And kids are usually weird, but Jack is weird. 

Sam basically sprinted back to the car with a five-year-old Jack in his arms after Jack had held a woman’s hand in his at a playground and gently told her, “the events that lead to your father’s death were never your fault. He is in his Heaven now and although he is at peace, he begs that you make room in your heart for forgiveness of his wrong doings.” Yeah, they were very close to moving town when that happened. 

One day when he was 6, he walked outside into the back yard and just sat down in a random spot and stared at the ground. After a couple of minutes of glancing out the window to check on him, Dean walked up to him. Dean: whatchu up to, kid? Jack: there is a daisy that is going to grow and bloom here in 15 days. I’ve never seen a flower grow. I would like to watch it, if that’s okay? Dean: you want to sit here, in this exact spot, for 15 days so you can watch a flower grow? Jack, still not taking his eyes off the spot: yes Dean, who’s honestly used to this behaviour after witnessing it for the past two years: ... alright, sure. I’ll bring you dinner in a couple of hours, that sound good? Jack, finally looking up with a beaming smile: yes, thank you! (Cas and Dean did not let him sit in the same spot for 15 days. They did sit next to him for like two hours when the daisy did bloom, though. And despite the creak and buzzing ache in his knees and back, Dean can’t find it in himself to regret it.) 

he had a phase when he was 7 where he would say hi to everyone he came across. Everyone. Dean and Cas cannot make one shopping trip with him without everyone in that store knowing Jack’s name. He says bye when they leave too. 100% every time they get at least 5 people saying bye back. 

On the year he turned 8 they decided to enrol him in school. After weeks of telling him not be “weird” and teaching him to be as normal of a kid as he could be. When the 4 of them are confidant that he won’t go around using his powers, they enrol him. They did not anticipate the school calling him the first day, telling them that Jack had explained to the other kids that Santa isn’t real and they should “learn to not set themselves up for disappointment or believe what their parents say” which caused the entire class to burst out into tears. It was another “maybe we should move town” moment.

Another kid: my dad broke his leg. he has to walk with crutches now. sometimes he lets me use them! Jack: both my dads have died. one of them was torn to shreds by hellhounds who then dragged his soul down to hell where he was tortured for 40 years, but then father rescued him, that was how they met. but then father was blown to bits by my biological father. but then my grandfather resurrected him! they’re fine now.  Their teacher: uh, wow... Jack. sure sounds like you have some very vivid dreams Jack, remembering he’s not supposed to talk about this kind of stuff: ah, yes, of course... dreams. I woke up... crying. a lot. the dreams... scared me. 

I have... so many other little moments in my head, but this post is already so long so let me know if anyone wants more. 

[ficforce]

Strong For Me

Sagamiya Konro x Reader

SFW

Set during the great fire in Asakusa

Established relationship

Watching Company 4 roll in on their metal vehicles and dousing the last of the dying flames filled Y/N with more anger than she thought she could bear. They came in like triumphant heroes but where had they been when the fires were roaring and their people were turning into Infernals?

Nowhere.

It had been the Hikeshi running through the town fighting fires and saving anyone they could, it had been regular people throwing endless buckets of water in an effort to save their houses and many of the people who had an ability to control flames were exhausted. She shoved past one of the Fire soldiers as they tried to direct her elsewhere, drawing Konro’s sword on them when the man tried to grab her - she was quickly left alone.

The sword had been given to her before Konro ran off with Benimaru; he had told her to use it to protect herself whilst he was away from her side. The weapon was one of the most precious things he owned and by giving it to her he was telling her he was going to come back.

Only… he hadn’t come back to her yet.

Y/N stepped out of the way as the Captain of the 4th Company headed up the street, glaring at him as he passed but then she heard Benimaru’s voice from a short distance away, “Beni!” Running hurt her possibly broken ribs but it was hardly on her mind as she spotted Konro propped up against a building, “Konro! Konro you’re o… okay?” Dropping to her knees on the side Benimaru wasn’t she reached out to cup his face, turning it a little to properly look at the slash across his nose, “That’s gonna scar but you’ll still be handsome.” Konro tried to smile at her gentle teasing though it came out as more of a grimace and Y/N finally seemed to notice that his skin was smoking.

Her eyes widened once they saw the burnt and still burning flesh over his shoulders, his arms and his neck, “This…” it wasn’t a normal burn, it wasn’t even the kind of burn that someone with fire resistance skin could get in extreme cases - it was burning from the inside out. Inside some of the wounds, she could see what looked like embers and she realised what he had done. “Konro… you… you didn’t have to go so damn hard! What did you do?!” Hearing her voice too loud and almost shrill she covered it with her hands and tried to fight off her tears. Through her blurry vision, she saw him try to lift his arms to hold her but it seemed it was either too painful or they were too damaged.

“I’ll be okay, Y/N.” Konro grit his teeth as a spike of pain shot through his shoulders again, “Just be strong for me.”

x - -

The town was abnormally quiet, even though two days had passed they were still finding their dead and trying to figure out who combusted and who died from some other cause. Asakusa had always been quick to pick itself up and go about its day but this was something different. The fires had destroyed most of the buildings, the Guardhouse was overfull with the homeless even though everyone with a house left were taking in as many as they could - many were frightened that another Demon might appear and Konro wouldn’t be able to beat it this time.

She had been handing out food and blankets to those who needed them when she came across the massive crater Konro had scarred into the land.

It was terrifying to see.

Not only because of what a full-powered Akatsuki could do. Not because it marked where something as catastrophic as a Demon had appeared either. It was where Konro had been willing to sacrifice everything for his Town. Her lover had gone as far as knocking Benimaru out in order to take the Demon on - not because Benimaru couldn’t have handled it but because Konro wanted to make sure someone who loved and could fight for Asakusa as much as him survived.

She could have lost him completely…

Konro had led as many able-bodied men as he could with Benimaru to protect what they could. The crater in front of her didn’t feel real, it felt like if she stepped forward it would dissipate like some sort of mirage. “Y/N,” a thick coat was wrapped around her shoulders as Benimaru came to stand next to her, worry laced his voice as he forced the woman to stand back a little. “You’ll fall in.” He didn’t say anything more as she pulled the coat closer to her body and pressed her face into the material, it was Konro’s coat, it smelt of him - like he did before all of the medicines and charred skin. “I’ll take care of giving the rest of this stuff out. Konro’s asking for you…” What he actually meant was that Konro was in agony and was calling for her.

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes were a little wider than usual and she was trying to smile at him in the same reassuring way she always did. Her hand reached for his hair and she brushed it back a little, stroking her thumb over the bruise on his temple, “Y/N… I’m sorry. I should have done more. I should have been stronger.”

“Y/N…” Konro whispered and tried to reach for her face, wanting to wipe away the stray tear she was trying to ignore - it was agony. His jaw tensed as he tried to clamp down on the pained sounds wanting to escape as he tried to force shredded muscle to work.

Y/N shook her head, “He buried you, Beni… he would have broken your arms and legs if it would have protected you. There was nothing you could have done.” The young man was never going to forgive himself for not being there for Konro, she could see he was already blaming himself and wouldn’t listen to reason. Konro had explained to her how Benimaru had been at his limit, how he had been overheating and for him to be shoved aside so easily further proved that Konro had done right by him.

“…He’s calling for you, Y/N.” He took the supplied from her and headed for the next household that needed help.

Konro appeared to be asleep when she entered the room, the doctor glanced her way before hanging up another IV of who knew what inside, she didn’t care as long as it helped him. There was a large bowl with pinkish water and bloodied bandages soaking inside, shredded packets of medical patches, discarded cooling blankets designed for someone overheating… the room was a mess. The medical rooms were already taken up by the injured so they had moved him to his own room to recover and avoid infections.

“How’s he doing?”

“We’re sedating him as much as we can without killing him, Y/N.” The doctor sighed and began gathering the supplies they’d strewn out of the floor, “It’s tephrosis, his skin is carbonising and the lack of oxygen to his muscles has caused tears all over, he’s got limited mobility in his arms and the muscle around his shoulder blades will take months to heal… if it does.”

Neither spoke as Y/N let that sink in. If Konro couldn’t fight anymore… Strong men were respected in Asakusa, no one challenged the authority of the Hikeshi because it was led by the strongest. Technically, Benimaru was the strongest in a fight but he didn’t have the confidence to lead - someone could easily chip away at his resolve or Benimaru could lose his temper and go too far.

“It’ll heal, he’s stubborn.” The doctor gave her a weak smile and Y/N bit the tip of her tongue, waiting for more bad news.

“His lungs are shot.” There was no gentle way to tell her, “He’s going to be more prone to pneumonia and it won’t be easy for him to fight through it. If he uses his ability excessively not only will it be excruciatingly painful but it will impact his breathing and… the tephrosis could spread.”

It was difficult to imagine what Konro was going through physically and mentally. He wouldn’t regret risking it all for Asakusa but she knew this would be difficult for him. Y/N stood in the doorway with her hands balled up in the material of Konro’s coat, she took in his prone form as if that was going to make her understand how to deal with this. There were cooling blankets beneath him to help fight the inferno beneath his skin, he was pale and even from across the room she could see his skin was clammy as the heat seemed to pour out of him - when was it going to burn itself out?

They hadn’t bandaged his wounds yet, hoping that the air would aid in the healing.

As silently as she could she made her way to his side after the doctor had left, she knelt beside him and reached out to brush the hair from his sweaty forehead, “Y/N?” She nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, her heart hammering against her ribcage as she saw his eyes flutter open weakly, he looked exhausted and her own eyes watered as she saw how much pain was reflected in his. He was doing his best to hide that from her.

“I’m here, Konro,” Y/N leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his lips, “What do you need?” She had never seen him down like this, she had never seen him looking so… weak. He was supposed to be a strong man, he was Asakusa’s protector and now they were saying he would never fight again. Benimaru was torn up inside with guilt. Asakusa was in ashes and its people had lost their usual fighting spirit. “Do you need some water? Or… I can make you something to eat - I c-could…” Her voice got stuck in her throat, the lump that had been forming all morning finally grew too big and she nearly choked on a sob.

“Stop!” She grabbed his hand and lowered it to his side, keeping hold of his hand in both hers, “Please don’t.” Even with her voice breaking she still tried to smile for him, “Don’t hurt yourself anymore, Konro… please.” Y/N could hardly breathe anymore, she pressed her forehead down to his and forced the sadness back - she needed to be strong - “You’ve done enough. You don’t have to give anymore.”

He was the man everyone went to for help or advice, he was the one who brought Benimaru under his wing after the Master had died and kept him on the right track. He gave and gave and gave…

Konro let out a shuddering breath, his lungs ached and he began to cough, every single jolt to his body hurt worse than the previous and he couldn’t repress the pained gasps this time. “It’s okay, Konro, I’m here, I’m gonna look after you.”

x - -

“Building was completed this morning, every house has the bare necessities, schools are open, the market  is trading as fairly as they can and we have a few new recruits training to join the Hikeshi by the end of the month.” Benimaru let out a small sigh as he finished his report whilst trying to learn how to treat Konro’s wounds. He wanted to help in any way he could and somehow, being able to properly treat Konro made him feel somewhat better.

“Three months to rebuild the Town?” Konro mused, “Was it supplies or labour?”

“Labour. Builders worked flat out but most of them were laid up till recently.”

Y/N listened quietly as they spoke, occasionally she would explain to Benimaru what she was doing but it was good to have the young man there to distract Konro. Months had passed but he was still in a great deal of pain, still burning on the inside but the Haijima patches seemed to help prevent the spread and provide some pain relief - she just wished it was something they could replicate so they didn’t need to rely on the Empire. She heard the pained hitches in Konro’s breathing and sometimes he would stop mid-sentence when it got too much. Sometimes it was enough to bring Konro to tears and he was hiding it the best he could to protect Benimaru and Y/N.

“H-how are the twins?”

Benimaru handed Y/N more bandage as she started to wrap Konro, “They’re assholes… they’re gonna come by later and tell you a bunch of lies about me - anything they say is a lie and if it’s not they deserved it.”

“…If Y/N and I ever have kids you’re not allowed to babysit.”

Benimaru snorted and gathered up the medical supplies to toss out, “That’s fine with me.” He stood up and headed towards the door, “Though I doubt any kid of yours would be as mean as two little girls on a sugar kick.” Not a moment after the door had slid shut, Y/N and Konro heard a crash and two little voices mocking Benimaru - it was followed shortly by their squeals and the sound of a nearly grown man chasing two little girls.

Y/N laughed at the noise and for a moment it felt like old times.

Life was slowly returning to Asakusa, it wasn’t surprising really, they were a resilient bunch. “We’re all done for today,” She kissed his heavily bandaged shoulder and rested a cooling blanket over the top, “Ready to eat?”

Konro winced as he turned his head to kiss her temple whilst she rested lightly on his shoulder, “Not really but you won’t take that as an answer, right?”

“Nope,” Y/N had been keeping his meal warm to the side and picked it up as she moved to sit just beside him, more than ready to feed him as she had for the last few weeks, “Konro…” he gave a hum in response, recognising in her tone there was going to be something he might not like. “I know you said you wanted to do it but let me put your sword on its stand…”

Since the day of the great fire his sword had sat in the corner of the room against the wall, she had made sure to clean it but he had told her he wanted to put it back. It was like a target he had set for himself, that if he could pick it up and place it on the stand on top of the dresser, it would prove something. It felt like such a sad thing to see it neglected and thrown aside - Konro had saved up and worked so hard to have it made.

Konro shook his head, “Be a little more patient with me, Y/N… besides, look,” There was a little more light in his eyes and he slowly reached out and took the chopsticks from the tray, “I’ll be feeding myself in no time!” he opened and closed the utensils and Y/N smiled back at him.

“Okay, that’s pretty impressive.” It was a good sign, it meant that he was healing and a part of her was relieved - being strong all the time, keeping his mood up and helping where she could was exhausting. Konro wasn’t a burden to her, she loved him and even if she ha to feed their whole life she would. She wondered how he managed. “You’ll be lifting your sword in no time then?”

“Yeah.” He parted his lips as she fed him a mouthful of rice.

Whilst he chewed Y/N bit her bottom lip a little nervously, “A-and then you’ll lift me up next?”

“Carrying you around is one of my favourite things, Y/N” She brushed a piece of rice from the corner of his lip where she had seemed distracted and missed. “What other challenges have you got for me?

Y/N hesitated before placing the bowl down and she reached for one of his hands, carefully bringing it to her belly, doing her best not to pull at him, “Do you think that in six months time… you could lift our baby?”

“…W…?” Konro’s eyes widened and he stared at her in shock, his mind turning over what she had said and as it began to slowly sink in, a smile a much brighter than any he had had since the fire spread across his face. “You…” Unable to think properly, he moved forward and wrapped his arms around her as best he could, it hurt like hell and she was going to yell at him but he didn’t care in that small, hopeful, moment, “I’ll be strong enough for you both.”

[amethystpath-writes]

Secret Caretaking

Tumblr is acting extremely dumb so there's a high possibility that this will post twice now.

@badthingshappenbingo

Original Work

Secret Caretaking

Angel and demon whump, anyone?

@whatwhumpcomments

******

The halls changed as Angel walked through them. She did this often, walked, and watched what her Holy Land provided her with- what she desired. It was such a delicate system, one always so soft and comforting, but one that only ever served as a happiness while you explored it.

Usually she saw Earth's puppies and baby alligators- goodness she loved the alligators. All of the other angels disliked them- didn't hate them, but weren't particularly fond either. In any case, Angel loved them.

There were other rooms, of course.

Another room she loved passing through was the cloud rooms. Sometimes the clouds were painted with an early sunrise. Other times they were sunset. And the remainder of the times were solid colours that made the clouds look like something the humans would make with cotton and the coloured bulbs they created.

The Holy Land knew her well. Of course it did. It knew every angel inside and out.

Today, the land brought Angel something it never did before. As she walked through the ever changing hall and forever open doors of glorious joy, she spotted a closed door, one black and with a slit at the top with thick metal bars.

Angel stopped, peering at it from a few feet away. She...well, she didn't really like that door. It kind of frightened her. Why was the Holy Land giving her such a dark door? Angel didn't understand. But the Holy Land always knew what she wanted. Surely whatever was inside could be deemed relevant to herself.

With a deep breath, she collected herself, straightening her spine, lifting her chin until it was parallel with ground. This was how Angel walked when things were normal, and this- this completely normal door- was normal. Normal, normal, normal.

There was a handle, one that looked like old, rusting iron. This is normal. This is meant for me. Angel gripped the handle and pushed it forward until she was stepping and sliding through the crack. She watched her feet, careful not to trip over them.

When the door shut, she looked up to see her own light illuminating the room- more than that, she was illuminating a-a form. She didn't dare think the real word, even as she squealed in a sudden fear and let her back slam against the door she'd just slipped through.

"Ah, another of you."

Angel's light dimmed to almost match the pitch black the room had been before. But her light could never be dimmed all the way, especially in her silky white hair which glowed with a faint yellow-orange. Angels couldn't shave their hair, or else they lost their purity. It's why the man in front of Angel terrified her so. His hair was cut short- previously shaved, but now fuzzy, and no longer white or glowing. His skin was the colour of ash- grey, black, and white, like a fire burnt out. He was Fallen.

"You shouldn't be here, y'know?" His voice was barely a whisper. It made Angel wonder how it was so deep, how it penetrated her absent mind so easily. She was usually so good at blocking things out around her. Right now, Angel couldn't even think passed the fallen man's voice, the way he was stretched out before her, wings spread with rings punched into the thick leather and then attached to the walls on either side. She imagined those rings in her own wings and let out an involuntary whimper.

Her hand reached for the handle. She would pull herself up and then open the door and walk out. Simple. But it wasn't so easy as that. Her whole body trembled, shook like when Earth's tectonic plates shifted over one another.

"Come now. Won't you say anything?" The fallen man paused, waiting for a response of any kind. Then, when he received none, he said, "I may be in no position to tell you to leave, but maybe I could scare you out. That is, if you don't give me proper company. You did intrude. It's only polite that you give me your name."

His voice pinned Angel where she was. She wouldn't look up at him, not again. He seemed so large. Was it because she was cowered on the floor or was he really so big as that? She swallowed, still trying to clutch and pull herself to her feet.

"Alright, then."

Angel screamed and hid her head behind her clutched knees as the fallen jerked his wings forward. There was a persistent, but not quite repetitive, sound of something being pulled tight- a chain maybe. He was flapping his wings wildly and with each thrum and pull of it, Angel's body clenched tight like she was preparing for the man-thing to break free and hold a hand against her throat.

She didn't realize she was crying until the fallen stopped moving and told her, "You shouldn't be crying. I'm the one shredding myself over here."

"Shredding yourself?" Her voice was quiet. She hardly even heard herself. With closed eyes, Angel focused on her breaths. When she felt her limbs finally relaxing just a bit, she opened her eyes and looked at the wings before her. She didn't dare look at his face; she was too afraid of what she might find there, but his wings- his wings were destroyed, a torn line down each one from the rings he just hurt himself with. Angel stood in an instant.

"Why would you do that to yourself!" She clamped a hand against her own mouth. Angel spoke to the fallen man. She said something to him. There was no rule against it, per say, but- well, angels didn't talk to the fallen. Maybe it was a fear that, despite there being no rule, if they talked to one of the fallen, they would fall themselves. Maybe they would accidentally introduce themselves to the fallen- and therefore doom themselves.

Even with this terror in mind, Angel touched the bat-like, membranous wing in front of her. She stood at the right wing, shaking her head when her finger made contact and as a shudder traveled through her. Angel breathed shakily with the shudder, stiffening with eyes rolling back for a moment. She withdrew her hand.

"Will you heal?" Angel croaked.

"Of course I will." His voice was louder than a whisper now, but still quieter than his regular volume, Angel could tell. "Just not as quickly without your light."

"I won't give you my light," Angel said, dead-panned.

The fallen man laughed, and Angel watched the wing in front of her bounce as he did so. Her legs were still tensed as she stood. Damn him- literally- for getting her to speak by hurting himself.

"Oh no, no, no, no, dear angel. You would never give your light to my kind. But you would lend it, wouldn't you? Lend it if it were put to good use?"

Swallowing, Angel turned her head towards his own. Her tongue was pushed against the roof of her mouth.

His eyes were like fresh embers.

"You can still be saved," she observed by the glow of his eyes. Without herself realizing it, she took steps closer to his center mass, reaching a hand towards his face. His teeth snapped at her fingers and she yelped, retreating her hand. "You seem perfectly demonic to me. The Holy Land can't possibly see any angelic qualities in you."

"Now, if that were true, you wouldn't be here."

"And how would you know?"

He chuckled at Angel, and she hated the way his eyes glowed brighter when he did. She hated the beauty they portrayed. His eyes were the equivalent to Angel's hair.

"Did you forget I was an angel once, too? The Holy Land led you here. I take it it's because you desire to feel helpful." His eyes dimmed; he was manipulating her and she knew it. Still, he was right. All she ever did was wander around her halls and rooms. She was useless. But- "You could heal me, y'know? It's about the only way you'll feel any fulfillment in this hellhole you call heaven."

Angel thought about it, disregarding his aversion to her home. He had no right to be calling the Holy Land a- a...the word he said.

"Healing you might cause me to fall." Her voice was quiet, but seeing as she was directly in front of the fallen man, he heard her.

"The Holy Land would lure you into a trap?" He smirked, and she knew what he was implying. How holy could the Land truly be if it deceived its own angels?

"Well, yeah. You were tempted, weren't you? The Land is testing me. You- you're a test to me." Which also meant-

"If you walk out of here now without doing anything to help, I'll be hurt worse for attempting to escape." His eyes flared with an orange-red colour again. "I have a feeling they won't make you my tormentor. So, walk out and forever know you're a failure to yourself. Or, satisfy your one and only desire and heal me. Help someone real, even if it's a Fallen One."

He's right. You know he's right, she said to herself. As lovely as the puppy rooms, alligator rooms, and rooms of colourful clouds were...they would never be enough for her. Because she did want to help. It was all she ever wanted, to be a true angel, not just an emergency one- one that stepped in only when there weren't enough angels to help with a catastrophy on Earth with the humans.

"What if-" Angel turned her gaze down, ashamed that she was even thinking about doing this. But...but it was the only way she could feel eternally happy. She needed to be useful. "If I just heal you and leave, they'll know. Because if this is a test, they'll be waiting for me to come out of this room. And if you're healed, they'll know. They'll see my light in the once damaged parts of your wings."

The fallen man hummed as she spoke, agreeing with eyes burning something hot. He didn't feel it, of course, but his vision was always clearer when his foolery and trickery were in play- and succeeding.

"I'll heal you, and you can use the same light to make an illusion that the light is gone. A cloak. The fallen can still use light if they can still be saved. Your eyes reveal your cunningness, which means the Holy Land still accepts you enough that at least one angel will know to help. And I will. I'll help you, if you help me, too."

"You'll have yourself a deal if-" The fallen's lips curled and split to reveal yellowed and dirtied teeth. Four of them were sharpened, like a wolf's. Two on top. Two on bottom. The other angels said the Fallen used them to feed on their light so that they could return. It was terrifying to say the least, but even with teeth like his, the Fallen were beautiful creatures. Angel hated them- hated him, but he was her ticket to true happiness. "-you give me your name."

"What?"

His shoulders lifted and relaxed. "You heard me. I want your name."

"No." She shook her head. "No. No, you know I can't do that."

"It's the only word I'll trust of yours. Your promise, your word...it comes with your name. It's the only way I can trust you'll come back and heal me when the others inevitably torture me again."

Angel felt a fury she never felt before. Holy Land, she didn't even know what fury was. Melancholy, yes. Anger, no. "You don't need my name," Angel seethed. "The only thing you could ever use it for would be to- to return to Holy Land as an angel yourself and- and damn me in the end. Angels aren't allowed to give their names to the fallen. But you know that."

There were too many conflictions in this all. If she left the near-demon here without healing him, she'd never be content. But if she healed him and walked out without giving him her name, he wouldn't cast the illusion to save her skin. And if she did give her name, well he could use it at any point against her, to condemn her to Hell.

"How do I know you won't use my name the moment you learn it?"

The fallen man rose a brow, slid his jaw askew. "You think I want to be an angel even after they casted me away. No. But if I have to choose between being an angel and being tortured by them, I'll take the former unless I can escape- which you are going to help me do."

"But you didn't say-"

"It should have been a given, dear angel."

"I'll damn us both," she said, crossing her arms. It was cute. Wrath and cunning didn't match her features or personality. "I'll heal you for my satisfaction and if you won't cast an illusion to save me then your one chance at escaping will be gone because they'll take my feathered wings. I'll be fallen like you and you'll still be in this room being tortured."

The Fallen One sighed in a dreamily way. "You won't let yourself fall. It terrifies you. I wouldn't know it as well as I do lest you had reacted differently when you realized what was behind that door when you walked in. And again when I flapped my wings. You. Flinched. Every. Time." He laughed. "But here's the thing. You aren't afraid of me. No, you're afraid of becoming me. You're going to give me your name. And you're going to hope with all your angelic being that I'm an honest 'near-demon', as your kind likes to call my own, wishing for God or the Devil's good grace."

Angel blew her nose like a bull, a huff more-like. "I shouldn't," she whispered to herself. "I can't." But the Holy Land says he can be saved. You have to try, Angel.

With a deep breath, she got to work. The glow in her hair gathered into her scalp before sinking into her blood. "My teeth aren't sharp enough to pierce flesh," she said, and swallowed like so many times before while she'd been in this room. She needed to wipe her light on his wings to heal him, but she couldn't get to her light on her own. "I- I need you to..."

"To bite." The Fallen One smiled, on corner of his upper lip lifting further than the rest. "Gladly," he said, and licked his teeth, lip curling a little too long on his sharpest ones.

Angel shook her head, took a shuddering breath, and hovered her index finger in front of the near-demon's mouth. He bit, closing his lips against her finger. Angel gasped, feeling the way his tongue lapped against her skin. "No. No, please! Stop!" But he wasn't stopping. He was going to steal all of her light. "My name is Angel!" His mouth opened. She stole her hand back, clutching it to her chest with her other. Angel nearly sobbed with relief, and also dread as she had just exposed herself to the Fallen One.

"You thought you were clever." His tongue wiped across his teeth where a bit of Angel's blood remained. "You thought with your little ramblings, I'd forget you never told me your name. Angel," he drawled. "Almost as delicious of a name as is your light. No matter. I have the light I need. You'll come back every week to give me more, or else I'll introduce you to Dear Ole Luci."

Angel took a step back, nose scrunched. "You can't be saved," she spat at him.

He sighed. "Didn't I already tell you I didn't want to be saved?" The Fallen One hummed. "Is that more light I see coming through the slits in the door? Looks like you're running out of time to leave my cell, Angel. I'd be scurrying along now."

She had to suppress the urge to scream and tear into him, not only because she might be caught, but because thoughts like that would earn her a ticket to Hell more quickly than what the other angels could tear her wings and throw her there themselves. "If," Angel stressed this word. "If you trick another angel into this evil bidding, I will sacrifice my wings in order to rip your own to pieces."

"Feisty," he mused in return. "Go on, now. I'll look forward to our next visit."

One last huff and she rushed out of the door. Damn him, she thought. And damn me for being fooled so easily.

******

If this weren't for a prompt, I would have split it into two 😬

[maevelin]

Reading your meta about Nesta and the Temptation and Power gave me another insight about her sacrificing her powers but I still hate it. I just find it so pointless.

I get where you are coming from and I somewhat agree. It did feel pointless in some ways while in others did not. However since the author chose that for the character from a characterization standpoint it defines Nesta as a character along with her response to power. 

That been said Nesta giving away her powers to save her sister was important for her personal growth and this book was more focused towards her personal journey, her relationships with other people, and her healing rather than her nature as Fae and all she could achieve and be through that transformation. This was not so much about Nesta accepting her powers but it was about accepting herself. The powers were an added bonus but it was not what made her...her.

Given how Nesta’s relationship with Feyre is in its core something of the outmost importance for both characters but also a focal point the readers want to explore more then this sacrifice highlights more and gives us a breakdown of the emotional ties between the sisters which is something that the narrative had to give to the readers and foreshadowed throughout the previous books.

Now let me get to the somewhat agree part.

The problem here was that it was basically a cope out.

This was just wasted potential. For any sacrifice to matter what is sacrificed must mean something for the person that does the sacrifice. Must be something accepted, valued. Something the person can’t live without. Something that losing cripples you and you feel the loss. Otherwise the sacrifice is a bit hollow. 

We basically saw how Nesta was afraid of her powers, we saw how she viewed them as a burden and how she didn’t get to the point of diving into the pool of her strength and Fae magic. We saw some conflict she had between her humanity and her new High Fae nature but that was mostly something the writer told us but didn’t bother showing us. It was also something mostly pointed towards romance rather than self growth. Which was pity because based on the prejudices Nesta had towards the Fae and based on how she was forced into the Cauldron her exploring her powers and what that meant for her understanding of the world, for herself, and for the powers as something primal and part of herself would have been hella interesting. It was never about Nesta becoming a Queen or being more powerful than other characters. It was never about petty competitions between characters. But by expanding, exploring and showing Nesta’s power and by observing the new creature she became the writer would add a duality in Nesta’s mentality that would bring more complexity. It would all make for a more entertaining read. 

If Nesta had understood her powers, if she had connected with them and appreciated them then giving them back to save her sister would have been a thousand times more impactful but the truth is that in the book we had just scratched the surface of her powers without expanding on them.

Either you loved or hated Nesta as a reader everyone should admit that her ability to pillage the Cauldron and the concept of conquering Death is something that can be very interesting to read. It is a concept that can generate amazing plots, amazing characterization, introduce incredible things to the world and the universe of the series.

I also understand that once you touch that potential and after hyping the hell out of it is very easy for any writer to be intimidated and back down. But backing down is not the same as dropping the whole thing in a rushed way without bothering to even...try.

This points me to the writing using things for shock effect and them abandoning them because the writer can’t handle them. 

But even if that was not the original purpose and the author chooses to center solely on the characterization and not on the fantasy aspect then it is still a failure of sorts to not expand on those powers. Because when it comes to Nesta giving away her power, for the emotional impact the writer intended, and for that to even work, we as readers should have understood what those powers truly meant. 

We got some silver flames and ‘Death’ and sure the cinematic effect would have been nice in a potential adaptation and when you read certain lines (Lady Death, Queen of all Queens, Death Gods, etc) you get the epic sense but...what does it really mean? How does it work? What is it? It’s like watching a vague sketch of a cake, waiting for it to bake and never seeing and how much more tasting it. I mean sure...the sketch was awesome, the intention clever, it would have been amazing but...the sketch was torn and you are left wandering.

Beyond that we should have understood what those powers truly meant so we could appreciate the gravity of Nesta’s action. If Nesta had embraced them and we have seen them in action and she had retained them for a certain amount of time by organically growing along with them then we would be getting both the practical and emotional gravity of those powers and how they redefined Nesta. 

Truth is that we didn't. We only got hints of her power and an outburst of it but in reality most of it was left unexplored. It was vague, simplistic and hollow. 

It all comes down to substance and in order to have that then what you work with, what you give away it must matter, it must have nuances, depth, dimension. It must have repercussions. We got nothing of that for Nesta's powers and by the time she was finally ready to embrace the possibility of handling them those were gone.

It was superficial in the sense that was superficially handled.

And then whatever was left of those powers was given in a sort of open ending and again in a vague way like throwing to the readers a bone for getting them to read the next installments of the series that won’t even be about that character (you can also call it money grab).

On the other hand the sacrifice of powers is a trope that I general don't like. It is constantly given by writers (along with similar death tropes as the ultimate sacrifices) and it is almost never done right and this was not an exception. It was sloppy.

One thing that I also find tiresome is the repeat of a certain behavior in these books. Maas has the tendency to over hype things. To aim for the epic and the legendary. To give epic quotes and hype and hype and foreshadow and then she either gives an anticlimactic conclusion or drops everything she kept building and hinting at.

It’s frustrating and annoying and we haven’t even seen this for the first time with Nesta and her powers.

In the end of ACOMAF Cassian's wings get shredded which led to the readers anticipating a certain plot for that character. We had expected to see how he would overcome that trauma, how it would define his character, how he would work through that and how that would affect the plot, his dynamic as a character, his relationships and so on. Something that given who and what Cassian is both as a person and also as an Illyrian warrior and General led to a certain hype and by the time ACOWAR was out the writer basically shrugged this off. Cassian was healed outside the narrative and it was as if that never happened. So it was mostly used for shock value and nothing else. 

By the time we read ACOFAS the Illyrians were heading into conflict that hinted towards internal war and an uprising. We all thought this would be a big part of ACOSF and that was not touched either. 

We get all this hype and hype and it does not pay off. We get nothing in the end. Everything deflates and is not even handled. Hell, at this point in the books and we don't even know the last names of most of the main characters. We still know the King of Hybern as Hybern based on the name of a territory. I mean..

Another issue I personally have with this is the 'agenda' the writer has that has nothing to do with the writing or the narrative but is partially inclined towards something that is not related with the characters in question of their characterization. Nesta was basically the most powered up individual in the ACOTAR series similarly to the death gods. It was meant to hype and foreshadow something epic but at the same time it went against what the writer had imagined as the core of the universe which for her is Rhy/sand, Fey/re and Fey/sand. In the same way Amren was de-powered for that purpose alone Nesta followed and it has nothing to do with Amren or Nesta in the grand scheme of the things but everything to do with the writer being partial to certain characters and certain characters having special and preferential treatment. And I could get behind that if the writing did it right and I could not see right through that intention. But I do, so it feels forced and it just takes away a lot of my enjoyment.

[herohotline]

It’s Gonna Be Okay (It Has To)

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

A/N: because apparently I can only write dark shit if Deku is involved

Request from Ao3:  Can I get an Izuku x Reader? Reader is another student with a weaker quirk(they can heal others, but in order to do so they must take on the wound themself, maybe?) Maybe kinda the “Are you crazy? You almost lost your life!” prompt.

Warnings: Descriptions of gore, trauma, angst. Also some dadzawa because I’m weak

Like many quirks, yours had an upside and a downside to it. Your parents called you blessed to have such a quirk; as if you were some sort of angel. You didn’t really agree with that phrasing- and you soon had to run away from your parent's eager hands so they stopped abusing your quirk. You took refuge in U.A- once you barely passed the exam you explained your situation to the teachers, they were quick to take you in. Aizawa had interestingly enough decided to house you- but he made it quite clear that even though you were in his class he wouldn’t be playing favorites and you would be graded fairly. 

Your quirk is simple enough. You have the ability to heal others completely, but it might cost you your own life. You take their pain and transfer it to yourself- sometimes it’s not a big deal, and sometimes it is. For instance, you are not allergic to peanuts, but if someone else is and starts to choke from the effects, you can easily snatch that away and save their life while having no real consequences yourself because your body is not allergic to peanuts. 

Your parents thought of you as a lifesaver; anytime they were presented with discomfort, they demanded their angel take it from them. Not only was this abusing your quirk, but it was abusing you in the process. You had since learned from Aizawa housing you that you are not required to heal anything and anyone- you have a choice in the matter. 

Today, you made a rather… drastic choice. 

It was a completely normal day. You, Midoriya, and Uraraka had been traveling Musutafu for fun when you had heard about a villain attack nearby. Of course, your blood boiled at the thought of another villainous attack, but you knew that you were still in training and going in to help was the last thing anyone needed right now. Convincing Midoriya was difficult- in the end, you weren’t even able to win- but you made a compromise. 

You’d go look at the damage, and once the villains were dealt with, you’d help with damage control and any civilians that needed a hand after the attack. That sounded fair enough. 

When you arrived at the scene, everything was pretty much taken care of, to your relief. There was some rubble and people needed help getting out from under them, so Izuku and Uraraka used their abilities to help while you observed from the background. Your quirk wasn’t exactly useful in this area, but you could help with any minor injuries people may have. 

As you look around the area, you notice something moving from underneath all the rubble. At first, you think it’s a civilian, but claws snatch out from the rocks and the nails make angry marks as the thing pushes itself up from the boulders. 

You freeze in shock. It’s a Nomu- of course it is, when is it not? 

“Deku!!” 

You scream, your vocal cords shredding as you do. It’s not enough time- you were too late with your warning as you watch Midoriya get pummeled into the ground by the Nomu. You can hear everything-

Midoriya and Uraraka’s screams, the heroes nearby telling everyone to evacuate, the vibrations in the ground as people run and scatter. 

You don’t even get a choice to run in and help- a hero scoops you up in his arms and runs away with you. He can't get very far until the Nomu has clawed his back- the whole thing looks like an insane, mutated bird. It has fierce wings, but the most threatening thing about it is its strong legs with talons that are sharp as knives and several inches long. He picks the hero up with the talons, flying him up into the air before swinging and dropping him onto the ground below. It all happens right in front of you- 

The blood. The limbs, the guts… flying everywhere- what used to be a man is scattered in several disgusting pieces- all over you, all over the concrete, all over all over all over- 

Your scream is bloodcurdling. 

Uraraka scoops you up as you scream, and you’re vaguely aware that she’s taking you somewhere, but you don’t know where. You don’t stop screaming, you don’t stop crying- you don’t stop because you can’t. All you can see is blood, blood, blood, and it makes you want to vomit. 

Uraraka keeps running. 

Eventually, the chaos ends, but you’re unsure exactly when. You don’t know how long it’s been, you don’t know if you’re even alive, really, but police cars and their sirens fill your senses as well as the ambulances. Your friend places you in one before quickly running off again, and you don’t even get to say anything. 

Can you say anything?

There’s doctors, nurses- people, they’re all just people in uniform- checking your vitals and asking you questions you can’t answer. You feel partially numb, partially scared and partially frozen. You sit there and let them do what they need to do, but they don’t do a good job. Nothing will help the white noise in your ears and the pictures in your head and how your body just won’t stop shaking. 

As you stare at all the damage the Nomu caused, there’s a stretcher being carried into another ambulance. You can barely see who it is from your spot, but there’s a glimpse of green hair. Your stomach flips when you think about who it could be.

You don’t ask the doctors for permission. You know that nothing is wrong with you, nothing but your head, so you tear out all the wires they put in you and jump out of the vehicle. You don’t listen to them calling out for you as you rush toward the stretcher, breaking your way through the several men in white that surround him- Midoriya. 

He’s covered in bruises, scrapes, and gashes. There are three gnarly, ugly tears on his side that look like the very definition of worrying. The voice you couldn’t find before suddenly comes back. “Will he make it?” You look at the doctors. 

“Please get out of the way!” 

“No!” You scream, holding onto Midoriya’s stretcher with all your strength. “Is he going to live?!” 

“We don’t know-”

Not good enough. 

“Okay, okay,” you breathe shakily, looking down at Midoriya. He’s barely lucid, you can tell- his eyes are open and unfocused, looking in several different directions in a haze. Tears run down your cheeks and snot down your nose as you grab his face with shaky hands. “Okay, Midoriya. Listen to me- okay? Listen. You’re gonna be okay, I swear- I swear you’re gonna be okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 

Your hand drifts down to the torn-up flesh on his side. You can do this- you know you can do this. It’s just as easy as taking a paper cut. 

Another shaky breath leaves you as you sob, preparing yourself for the pain- and then you activate your quirk. 

---

You hate the color white. 

It’s not even a color- it’s meaningless and void of anything real. It’s the beginning of color but isn’t a color itself. It is ugly and dark in your opinion. 

When you wake up, you’re surrounded by that non-color. It’s all white- the walls, the ceiling, the bedsheets, and your gown. You know where you are immediately. Only a hospital can bring you such dread. 

No one is in the room at the moment and you’re glad. It gives you a moment to think about what happened. There’s a burning sensation on your waist, something that hurts more than you think you’re processing at the moment- you’re probably drugged. Sloppy and heavy hands lift up your bedsheets and your gown, revealing the fresh, dark scar. It hugs your entire waist, curling around you as if it were a curse. 

But you think it’s a blessing. You saved Midoriya, right? God, please- he’s still alive, right? 

Alone in the hospital, you cry again. It’s silent, the tears leaving in streams but you don’t have the energy to sob. You lean back into the uncomfortable, stiff pillows on your bed and let yourself sink into the mattress. Tears fall into your ears and your hair, but that’s okay. 

You’re alive- Midoriya is alive. He has to be. 

---

The next time you wake up, you’re not alone. 

There’s a doctor on one side of your bed, her hands on you and doing something you don’t really know. On the other side, there’s a familiar shade of green sitting on a plastic chair. They’re both talking but it’s all muffled in your ears- you’re too drowsy to fully grasp what you’re seeing and what they’re saying. 

But the green- it makes your heart feel warm. 

“Deku,” you whisper. 

And then you fall unconscious again. 

--- 

You’re a lot more lucid when you wake up next. You’re once again alone in your little hospital room, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon, the door straight in front of you opens, several people walking in at once. They’re doing their best to be quiet as they walk around your bed and you can’t help but smile. 

“Hey, guys,” you croak- your throat more dry and hoarse than you realized.

Midoriya, Uraraka, Iida, Todoroki… and surprisingly, but maybe not so much, Aizawa. 

“___!” Uraraka speaks first, a hand slapping over her mouth as she gasps. “You’re-” her eyes are already watering, “you’re awake!” 

You give her a sad, broken smile- but before anyone else can say anything you watch as Aizawa makes his way over to the front of the bed. He stands right next to you, his eyes boring holes as he reaches forward and grabs at your forehead with his hand. 

Something that’s meant to be threatening, but he’s much too gentle for the message to really stick. 

“What were you thinking?” He asks.

“I wasn’t,” you tell him honestly, looking your teacher- your parental figure- in the eye as you speak. “I was scared. I was really, really scared, and I made a choice. But I’m not sorry.” Maybe you haven’t had a lot of time to fully process what happened- what consequences your choices might have- but this you are sure about. Your lip quivers slightly as you try to take a deep breath, holding Aizawa’s wrist gently and taking his hand off your head. “But I am sorry for worrying you.” 

It’s silent for a long moment- the tension was tight enough to wrap around your throat and it’s hard to breathe, but eventually, it loosens as Aizawa’s tense shoulders sag and he huffs. He turns on his heel, heading right for the door. “Come on. Let’s give them some privacy,” he says, a hand reaching out toward Uraraka’s back and gently pushing her toward the door. Iida silently waves as he leaves alongside Todoroki, and then the door shuts- silence once again coming in waves as you sit alone with Midoriya for the first time. 

“...You’re not sorry?” He asks, a hand grabbing the foot of the bed. You can see how it shakes. 

You know it might not be what he wants to hear, but it’s the truth. Your eyes fall to your lap as you tug on the scratchy blankets with your fingers. “I’m not.” You tell him. “...You were dying.”

“So were you!” He suddenly yells and his expression flashes to an angry one as he frowns. “You… you were dying! And it was my fault!” 

“It wasn’t!” You yell back at him. “It was my choice!” 

“Well, you shouldn’t have made it! You- you weren’t in the right mind to make a choice like that!” 

“But I did!” Your voice raises again- there’s a frantic pounding in your chest and you’re sure Midoriya can hear it through the heart monitor. 

You don’t want him to be angry at you- you don’t want to fight. You just wanted to make it better. 

“I made my choice, and I- I’m sorry it hurt you, Midoriya,” you keep fighting back your tears as you stutter along with your words. It’s hard- your eyes are stinging like crazy- but you don’t want to cry in front of him. You don’t want to make it worse. “I’m sorry I made you sad… I just… At that moment- I couldn't bear it. I couldn’t do it again- I couldn’t watch another person die. I didn’t want you to die!” 

Quickly you use your hands to cover your face as you start hyperventilating. The tears come in bursts, and you can’t help it, so you try to wipe them away and cover them up. The beeping from the monitor is driving you crazy. 

You feel something touch your wrist, and then fully grab it, pulling your hand away. Midoriya is by your side now, his eyes wet and his lips wobbly as he grabs your other wrist. He pulls them up to his lips, closing his eyes and placing your hands against his mouth as he stands there. You watch him with wide eyes, your breathing still coming out in funny waves, but it slowly starts to even out as Midoriya continues to calmly stand next to you. 

“___,” He finally speaks. It’s squeaky and quiet- he clears his throat to try again as he finally opens his eyes and looks at you. “___, thank you… Thank you for helping me… But you have to be more careful, alright?” Midoriya’s hand reaches out, cupping your cheek and wiping away the tears that lie there. “Cause… cause I don’t want you to die either, okay? So please- please be more careful.” 

“You too, okay?” You bite your lip. “No more going into fights. We… We don't do anything until we’re called in. If there’s an attack somewhere… you don’t do anything until we graduate. Okay?” 

Midoriya clicks his tongue, giving you a watery smile as he shakes his head. “I guess that’s fair, huh?” You smile back and nod, and as Midoriya lets go of your wrists you place a hand on top of the one on your cheek. 

You’re alive- Midoriya is alive. Things are okay.

Things will be okay.

[darkblueboxs]

Lifelines

For AFTG Angst Fest day 23: “You can’t die”

Read here or on AO3

TW for extreme violence and gore.

*

His father starts, as promised, with his legs. He slices the tendons with thick, blunt blades that catch in the shredded flesh, eliciting noises that would be stomach-turning if they could be heard over the screaming. There isn’t much left by the time Nathan is finished, lumps of quivering flesh that may have once resembled a human but no more.

By all rights, he should be dead.

But he isn’t. He waits for death to release him from the sweat and blood and agony, but past all reason, all possibility, his heart keeps forcing blood through his veins only for it to spill out onto the cold tiles of his father’s basement.

Eventually, the voices grow distant, and the room grows dark. They didn’t bother locking the door, never imagined that what remained of him could still be capable of movement. On shaky, new limbs that heal with a speed that Neil never thought possible, he drags what is left of himself into the dark.

Three months later, they catch him again at a rest-stop near Chicago. He doesn’t know if they understand what has happened to him any better than he does; he doesn’t stick around to ask. In the backseat of a car wheeling its way back to Baltimore, he cuts and cuts and cuts until the meaty stump of his hand slips through the handcuff without catching.

The cops find a steaming wreck of a car at the roadside, and Malcom’s body cooling in the driver’s seat. The source of the pool of blood in the back, however, remains a mystery to them. The flesh of his regrown hand stings as the night wind catches it, and he picks up a new name and a new look and loses himself once more.

A month later, he is shot.

Days after that, stabbed.

Weeks later, he spits up blood as the gash drawn across his throat seals itself over, fading to a vivid, white line against dark skin. The store clerk stares at it as he swaps his blood-stained tee for a high-collar polo shirt. Later, while examining the scar in a dingy motel bathroom, he wonders in a detached kind of way whether he’ll ever grow numb to the pain, nerves torn through by endless wear and tear. He touches an exploratory finger to the scar, and yanks it back as the ghost of a blade tears through his throat once more. No. He never had that kind of luck.

“He’s been waiting a long time for you,” Lola hisses. Her threats spiral like smoke in the icy mountain air. The wind whips her hair around her face as she backs him up against the cliff edge. “We kept your room just the way you left it. Ready and waiting for your family reunion. We’re going to kill you again, and again, and again, and again, and…” She punctuates her every word with another step forward, and he steps back in turn. As his heels hit the edge, her smile turns sharkish.

Between the cliff and Lola, the decision is easy. He lets himself fall.

He doesn’t hear Lola’s outraged shriek, doesn’t remember landing, doesn’t linger long in the snowdrift before hauling himself back towards civilisation. He doesn’t think about the creak and shift of his ribcage realigning, but he does worry about the deep tracks he leaves in the snow behind him.

He takes a new name, and heads to Arizona.

“You can’t die.” Andrew’s tone is flat, yet still somehow still laced with disdain.

“I said you wouldn’t believe me.” Neil glances over to Wymack, who is watching with his arms crossed, understanding nothing of the German passing between them.

“I never said I didn’t believe you. It would be a stupid lie to tell, even by your standards.”

“So you do believe me.”

“I never said that, either.”

“There’s one way to know for sure.”

Andrew smiles ghoulishly. “I promised coach I wouldn’t spill blood on his carpet.”

“If you can’t figure out how to kill me without spilling any blood then you’re not as good as I thought you were.”

Andrew’s eyes flick over Neil, as though mapping out points of vulnerability, or perhaps looking for something else he missed. “We’ll see.”

Neil waits for Andrew to test his truth, but the night never comes.

A toy that never breaks, Riko calls him, when he uncovers Neil’s secret. His delight drips from his lips like saliva. Buried in the nest, he takes his knives to Neil again, and again, and again, and-

Neil doesn’t die.

With the marks of Christmas still fresh on their skin, Andrew takes him to the roof, eyes roaming critically over Neil’s recoloured hair and naked eyes. He drags Neil over to the edge by his collar, and Neil wonders if Andrew has finally decided to kill him. It’s a long drop to the concrete below, and the horrified churn of Neil’s stomach isn’t lessened by the knowledge that his body will knit his broken bones back together afterwards.

“You’re awfully nervous for a man with nothing to fear.” Andrew has Neil in one hand, his cigarette in the other. One moment of inattention and either could be sent tumbling over the roof’s edge. Neil’s heart hammers so frantically that he’s sure Andrew must feel it through the hand bunched in his shirt, stuttering nervously like the beating wings of a sparrow. The frailty is an illusion; Neil has yet to meet anything that will stop it powering on, dragging him through the worst the world has to offer him.

“You and I know there’s far more to fear in this world than death.”

Andrew makes a noise several shades too derisive to count as laughter. “And what do you fear?”

Neil thinks of a dark, musty room, and the steady drip of blood on tiles. “Eternity.”

Andrew’s hand releases Neil’s shirt to lie flat against his chest, and for a moment Neil is sure that Andrew is finally going to push him over. He studies Neil with eyes that burn amber against the brisk winter sky, and the moment stretches into forever between them.  Not the kind of forever that Neil fears – an eternity spent in the dark being broken and broken and broken is the kind that haunts him at night, but this electrifying moment of uncertainty, he could… tolerate.

Andrew’s hand is warm enough that Neil misses the heat when he withdraws it. Neil tilts forward, although whether he’s following Andrew or escaping the drop behind him he can’t say. Andrew doesn’t acknowledge the impulse as he flicks his cigarette butt off the roof, but his eyes don’t leave Neil’s face.

“Just because you can’t die,” Andrew says, words clipped with a tension Neil can’t decipher, “doesn’t mean you have nothing to lose.”

“I know.” It’s a new truth that burns like acid in his chest, painful as it is terrifying. “I went to the nest because I have something I can’t lose.”

Andrew’s fingers twitch. Maybe he regrets throwing his cigarette off the roof. Maybe he regrets not throwing Neil off after it. “Get out of my sight.”

Neil leaves, heart still beating a frantic pace as though he left it up on the roof edge with Andrew.

He used to believe that it wasn’t the world that was cruel, but the people in it. But people – as far as Neil knows – are not responsible for the power that drags him back to life over and over. For a man who spent the best part of his life on the run, immortality should be a blessing; an immunity to the sticky end that was guaranteed to come to him at his father’s hand. Instead, Neil’s fears have multiplied a hundredfold. At least before, he had been guaranteed some kind of release, no matter how slow and painful the means. Now he fears a lifetime spent in a dark basement, a body pulling itself back together only to be torn apart once more, like Prometheus chained to his rock, rip, repair, repeat.

He wonders what his mother, who he can only picture clawing towards him across the blood-stained tiles of his father’s basement, would have thought of it all. A woman who sacrificed a true life in favour of survival, who put herself through the unimaginable just to keep Neil alive, would perhaps have appreciated Neil’s curse more than he ever could. Maybe it was her sheer determination that landed Neil in this mess, bending the laws of reality itself from beyond the grave just to keep her son’s heart beating. For a moment, Neil is so overcome with hatred that he can barely breathe for it. It’s only now, with his Foxes, that he understands the difference between surviving and living, and if he had any real choice in the matter he would take the latter without hesitation.

Surviving is scraping himself off a grey tile floor and losing himself along stretches of highway that tangle into forever. Living is the weight of Andrew’s body pinning him to the floor as he takes Neil apart again and again and again and-

Andrew says, “stay,” and Neil pictures another kind of forever.

Three. Two. One. Zero.

There was nothing of Neil that needed protecting, that could be protected in any way that wasn’t covered by his curse, and yet Andrew had insisted all the same. Give your back to me.

With Nathan’s men watching the door and Lola’s voice still hissing in his mind, Neil looks at his Foxes and makes the only choice he can. He gives them his forever.

Thank you. You were amazing.

The gun digs into his spine as the team heads out, the threat dragging Neil’s attention away from the riot roaring to life around them. Still, the bullet comes as a surprise.

Of course, the only way to guarantee there isn’t a search is to make sure nobody thinks there’s anything to search for.

The sound registers before the pain does, earth-shatteringly loud even in the chaos of the riot. Neil’s ears scream with the aftershock, but the twist of the bullet inside him tears his attention elsewhere.

Muscles rip and bones shatter and organs burst as the bullet grinds through Neil’s body, and oh, he liked this jacket. Red bleeds through the orange of Neil’s windbreaker, and if he had to guess he would say that the bullet had gone right through the o in Josten.

The crowd screams and ripples around him, a blur of faces that could be Foxes or could be strangers for all Neil’s flickering vision can tell, and men dressed like paramedics seize him by the arms and drag him to a waiting van.

In his last, fleeting moments of consciousness he looks for Andrew.

Then the doors shut, and everything goes black.

He comes around with a bullet rattling around in his ribcage. Coughing the bullet up isn’t as unpleasant as it was being shot by it, but still it scratches Neil’s insides like sandpaper. Between retches he runs through curses in every language he can think of.

Finally, he forces the slug back up his throat and spits, watching as it clatters across the grey tiles.

Grey tiles.

Gr-

The realisation feels like falling off a cliff, dizzying, disorientating, and with the certainty of a rough landing awaiting him at the bottom.

“Rise and shine, kiddo.” He would recognise Lola’s voice anywhere. It seeps into his ears like blood, blocking everything else out.

“My teammates-” Neil stutters.

“Saw you die. Don’t worry, they won’t be looking for you. Well, only in the morgues. They won’t find your body, of course, but maybe we could snip a few pieces of you off for them to stumble upon. I’m feeling generous.” She trails a painted fingernail down Neil’s torso as though following an invisible dotted line. “Your immortality frustrated us at first, you know. But now we’ve all had time to reflect on it, and you know what we’ve seen?” She leans in close, and Neil tries not to breathe in as her perfume drowns him. “Potential.”

Neil yanks at his arms, desperate to put anything between himself and Lola, but the rattle of handcuffs at his back is predictable as it is devastating. The cuffs around his ankles are an unexpected addition to the ensemble. He tries for a kick, but she surges forward, pinning his legs easily with the weight of her body.

His time in the nest – what he can remember of it – was a nightmare of knives and exy and Riko’s smile. But Riko was, when it came down to it, an amateur. He knew how to hurt, but he didn’t know how to destroy, didn’t know the ins and outs of a body like his father’s people did, didn’t know where to draw the line that would keep a victim hovering between awake and unconscious, to keep them suffering that little bit longer. Riko was a bully, but he wasn’t a professional.

Neil survived by clinging to a few things – his foxes, exy, his promises to Andrew – but also to the knowledge that he had survived worse. Riko was a nightmare, it was true, but he was no butcher.

They leave him there to stew in the dark. With a lifetime to wait and their tracks well and truly covered, they have no need to hurry. The air that feeds into the basement through an array of soundproofed ducts is stale and faintly ashy. Without windows, he has no way of gaging the passage of time. The room isn’t just dark, it’s a void, and as time melts Neil’s eyes start picking out patterns from thin air, shapes and shadows that slide around him. He thinks of the bitter January nights spent on the tower roof with Andrew, the glistening stars above and the glow of Palmetto below. He had lived each of those moments with the knowledge of how brutally it would all be ripped away from him, had known to savour the hum of the city and the sparkling sky and Andrew’s lips on his, but all the same he longs for it all just once more. The longing is such a persistent, unhealing pain in his chest that he wonders if it might be what finally kills him.

No such luck.

When the lights flick back on at last, it has been so long that the fluorescent bulbs all but blind him. Neil wants to be on guard against what’s coming, but reflexes force his head into the crook of his shoulder until his eyes can adjust. When he finally forces them open, he wishes he hadn’t, nausea rolling over him as his father’s distinctive outline comes into focus.

He speaks, probably, but nothing penetrates Neil’s terror. He’s five years younger, watching Lola drag his mother’s body away in pieces, promising she’ll be back for him next. Trying to connect the bloodstained hands of his mother’s corpse to the ones that first showed him how to tie his shoelaces, that sewed up his wounds with dental floss and whisky, that massaged hair die into his scalp and broke three of his ribs for kissing a girl…

He was too busy watching the patterns his mother’s blood made on the floor to notice the scars on his face and arms slowly seal themselves over. He did notice his father’s approach, freshly-polished axe glinting at his side.

Past and present blur into one. The first time, his father was restrained, savouring every drop of Neil’s blood as it dribbled onto the tiles. Then came the confusion as wounds sealed themselves over, then anger, cutting and cutting and cutting until Neil couldn’t even remember his own name. Both of them staring as his body knitted itself back together.

The sentence “passed out from the pain” was one that had always irritated Neil. People don’t pass out from pain. They pass out from blood loss, or lack of oxygen, or because of whatever is causing them the pain. There is, however, no simple pain threshold after which the human mind will shut itself off regardless. Pain is not a trip switch. It might shut down the mind, but the body powers on. His body always powers on, and trained hands could hold him on the knife-edge between conscious and not for a long, long time without sacrificing an inch of his pain.

This time, the butcher has no need to hold back. The axe swings, and Nathaniel screams.

He screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams and screams until he can’t scream anymore.

And still he powers on.

Time passes. The lights flicker on. The lights flicker off. Light is terror, because it comes with pain, but not knowing what might creep in the shadows is its own kind of nightmare. Sometimes it’s his mother, clawing through a pool of her blood. Sometimes it’s Riko, racquet in hand, the Raven’s victory march roaring at his back as though a stadium is cheering him on. Sometimes it’s Andrew, blood running down his face, laughing faintly as drugs twist his mind into knots.

Lola likes to visit him in the dark, or he thinks she does. Maybe it’s just his own broken mind turning on him. Her disembodied voice puts words to the desperation clawing at the base of his skull. Forever, forever, forever.

Nathaniel forgets the stars. It’s easier than longing for them.

One day, the lights click on, their low buzz enough by now to rouse Nathaniel immediately from sleep. But it is not his father, nor any of his men, who enter.

Nathaniel stares vacantly at the police uniform.

The cop leans against the wall with one hand, makes a faint choking sound. “We got a body down here.”

Do we? Nathaniel wonders.

There are more footsteps, more noises, the door opening and shutting. Neil doesn’t do anything until a hand touches his shoulder, and he jerks back into himself with a shout. Several people scream as Nathaniel wrenches himself away from the touch. The handcuffs bite into the torn flesh of his wrists and for a few minutes everything is a rush of movement and panic.

Eventually, a woman approaches with a pair of plyers in hand. Nathaniel’s vocal cords haven’t healed enough to scream, but the noise he makes seems to get his point across. Gently, without touching him, she twists the chain of the cuffs around his ankles until it snaps, and waits for him to still before repeating the action on his wrists. His arms tumble numbly forward, and Nathaniel slumps for the first time in… he doesn’t know.

“Nathan,” he says, voice like sand in his throat.

The officer glances to her colleague. “Dead.”

It takes Nathaniel a moment to recognise the sound that escapes him as laughter.

He wants to tell them that he can walk, but his throat has done all it can for him, and he doubts they’d believe him anyway. A stretcher comes, and when he catches a glimpse of himself in the upstairs mirror, he starts laughing all over again.

Then they pass through the oak double doors and down the drive towards the waiting ambulance, but the rest of the world fades to a faint mess of colours as Nathaniel stares, stares, stares at the burning blue sky, so bright that he thinks his eyes are going to melt, but he won’t look away.

He breathes.

When he next comes around, the world is soft and blurry, like he’s wearing glasses that don’t belong to him.

“Were you disqualified?” Nathaniel croaks.

There’s a huff of air from beside him. “Jesus, kid.”

His throat hurts too much to repeat the question, so Nathaniel looks pleadingly in what he guesses is Wymack’s direction until he gets his answer.

“We’re playing the Ravens on Saturday,” Wymack answers at last. “Neil-”*

He’s already asleep again, a smile pulling at his lips so painfully that he thinks he might have torn something in the effort.

The hospital doesn’t want to let him go, and neither does the FBI, but in the end neither can find a good enough reason to hold him. They took Nathan in a bust which turned violent, leaving his most of his men dead. The promise of a reunion with the Foxes on the horizon, Nathaniel fidgets with his hair in the bathroom mirror as though taming it to his liking will distract from the rest of him. He can heal himself of anything, but the scars always remained, and there are so many that Nathaniel barely recognises his own reflection. While he’s worried about the foxes’ reactions, more than anything, he’s grateful. There isn’t a hint of his father left in his appearance.

And, at last, he is returned to his Foxes.

The deathly quiet of the room is broken by a whispered, “Neil?”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says by way of answer.

“It is him,” Nicky confirms, a little hysterically. Matt makes a pained noise and reaches for Nathaniel’s face, and he can’t help but flinch away from the contact. Matt drops his hand, expression crumbling.

“No,” says Allison sharply. Renee tries to place a hand on her arm, but she throws it off. “No. I’m calling bullshit. We saw you get shot. We saw you die.”

“Where’s Andrew?” He knows the goalkeeper has to be okay, the Foxes could never have made it to the finals without him, but still he needs to see. Allison makes a frustrated noise, so he looks to Renee instead.

“The police just wanted to go over a few more things with him.”

“Like how he beat them at their own job,” Aaron adds flatly. “And how he knew that their dead man wasn’t dead after all.”

Nathaniel ignored the accusation in his tone. “He went to the police?”

“He dragged Kevin in by the neck and told him to say whatever it took to set them after the butcher.”

Nathaniel’s eyes snap to Kevin. “What did you-?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Kevin replies with a kind of certainty Nathaniel has never heard from him before. “It worked.” His eyes linger on Nathaniel’s cheekbone, tracing out what remains of his tattoo. “It worked,” he repeats quietly, as though still convincing himself of the fact.

Nathaniel considers dropping into French to scold Kevin for putting himself in the line of fire, but there’s nothing he can say that Kevin doesn’t already know. After all, Nathaniel knows better than anyone how faint the world’s dangers seem with Andrew at one’s back.

He turns to Wymack. “Take me to him.”

“Neil, you need to rest,” says Abby. “You need your injuries checked, you need-”

“I need Andrew.” Nathaniel runs a hand over his face, feeling the new ridges and bumps drag against his fingertips. “Look at me. Really look. These aren’t injuries, they’re scars.”

“Old scars,” says Dan faintly. “But it doesn’t make sense, Neil-”

“You deserve answers. All of you do. But first, I need to see Andrew.”

Reluctantly, the Foxes agree. They seem unwilling to let Nathaniel out of their sight, however momentarily. He ducks back from their open arms, his heart tipping around in his chest like a boat in a stormy sea, overwhelmed by their affection but unable to reciprocate. Every time hands twitch in his direction, his vision blackens and his body tenses, preparing for a new wave of pain. His injuries may have healed themselves, but each brush of contact revives the sensations that scratch through his skin like phantom fingernails.

Wymack drops Nathaniel at his apartment before heading off to collect Andrew, silencing Nathaniel’s protests with a heavy look. He may have a point – the last place Nathaniel wants to do this is a crowded police precinct.

Nathaniel’s legs buckle as soon as Wymack shuts the door behind him, but luckily his couch is there to catch him.

He is woken by the door tearing open.

Andrew is kneeling before him in an instant, but somehow he knows – knows – not to touch. Arms held stiffly at his sides, he looks his fill, cataloguing every new cut and bruise with his all-consuming gaze. It melts something stiff and painful in Nathaniel’s soul, and he lets himself soften under Andrew’s gaze, spine curving as he melts back into the couch.

For the first time in days, weeks, months, forever – he feels safe.

Andrew whispers his name, and it is his once more.

Physical contact is slow to return to Neil, coming in fits and starts as he gives himself back to the steady care of Andrew’s hands. The dark of night is terrifying, but the court’s glaring artificial lights are worse, and it takes a long time for him to feel comfortable under anything but the gentle amber of sunset.

He learns to love the weight of Andrew’s hands pinning his scarred wrists to the pillow, loves the drag of Andrew’s callouses against the ridges of his healing skin.

The Foxes, to Neil’s eternal surprise and gratitude, accept his truth for what it is. He can tell from the sad glances most of them flit between him and Andrew that they have worries that they aren’t intrusive enough to voice, worries about their future. Neil doesn’t know if he can ever die, doesn’t even know if he can age. He may have an eternity, but Andrew doesn’t, and the prospect of a forever without him is a new kind of horror that jerks him awake in the night as frequently as any of his most violent nightmares.

Instead of acknowledging the time-bomb between them, Neil presses his lips to the pale freckle hidden behind Andrew’s ear and whispers, “stay.”

He’s back on court in time for them to face the Ravens, and under the glow of stadium lights he feels all but on fire. The final timer screams, and Neil falls to his knees, the world hazing over as the adrenaline of their victory pounds through him.

He can only watch with a detached kind of fascination as Riko’s racquet whistles down in the direction of his head. He doesn’t bother to brace himself for pain, doesn’t bother closing his eyes, knows that nothing he can say or do will make the pain any less consuming. He feels only a flash of regret that his family will have to witness something so undoubtedly unpleasant.

There’s a sick thud as racquet connects with body, but the pain never comes. Neil blinks, and his world falls out from under him as he sees who was on the receiving end of the strike.

The racquet hits the floor a moment before Andrew does. Both are dripping with blood.

The world blurs into a rush of blood and noise, but this time it isn’t Neil’s blood, but he can feel the impact regardless, screaming through him like a bullet but worse, and there are hands and faces and they want to separate them, no, no, never again, and Neil hooks a finger into Andrew’s collar and holds it like a lifeline even if he isn’t sure who it’s keeping alive, and then there’s the rumble of an ambulance and the fragile blip of machinery-

And then quiet.

Alone in a hospital room, Neil finds the tangle of something deep in his chest and unravels it, unspooling the source of his impossible power like gossamer thread, so thin and fragile between his fingers for all it has endured, and although he had never wanted it he had never had anywhere else to keep it but within himself, but not anymore, and he weaves and weaves and weaves and finally, finally, finally Andrew opens his eyes.

He touches his hand to where the pain should be, before turning heavy eyes on Neil. “What did you do?”

“Why?” Neil says, because it’s the only syllable he has been able to string together since Riko’s racquet hit its mark. “You knew I could have taken it. You knew he couldn’t hurt me.”

“You can’t die. You can still be hurt.”

“Who cares?”

Andrew’s eyes darken with such fury that the rabbit part of Neil’s mind twitches instinctively. A moment later Andrew’s usual blank expression seals itself back over, and the anger is swallowed.

“I made you a promise,” he says at last.

Half-listening, Neil slips one of the knives from Andrew’s armbands and slides the blade across his palm. They watch as blood wells up along the thin slit and pools in Neil’s callouses. The wound stays.

“That’s new,” Neil says faintly. Andrew retrieves his blade and draws it across his own palm.

Neil doesn’t realise how tightly he’s gripping the sheets of Andrew’s bed until Andrew nudges his hand. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

“So are you.”

Andrew turns his hand over, and slowly they trace each other’s wounds, fresh and painful and wonderfully mortal. Neil can’t feel a hint of the energy that kept him alive for so long, but when his blood mixes with Andrew’s there’s something new, an intricate tangle of something holding them together.

It’s beautiful and terrible, bone-achingly addictive, and when Andrew cups Neil’s head and pulls him in it’s all he can taste, strong and fragile all at once, sweet and tingling against his lips.

They tie themselves together, and they never let go.

 *

[hermit-whump]

Watchers - Pt 1

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231755/chapters/63845446 Warnings: mentions of death, heavy descriptions of blood, broken bones, teen whump, creepy captor, kidnapping, past kidnapping, electric shock

The hermits stand together in the shopping district, covered in blood and mud. False holds onto her stomach, blood oozing out from her gut and mouth and she struggles to both stand and hold her sword. Doc lies on the ground, his prosthetic arm lays broken a meter away from him. Iskall holds their eye in their hands, redstone leaking out of the socket where the diamond should lie. Stress and Zedaph try to reach as many people as possible, to heal and to help. No one is left un injured, some sport broken arms or legs, some boast stab wounds. Some, like Etho, Scar and Cub, simply drained themselves of their magic during the fight.

Whatever made them think that they could defeat a watcher? Especially one that had a clear prize in mind.

Grian stands behind everyone, trying to pull Xisuma out from the collapsed shop, looky looky at my booky. Xisuma groans in pain, not fully awake. Grian forces himself to focus on getting the admin out, on making sure that no one will die on this day. It’s futile. It works, distracting him from the screams of the hermits as the watcher approaches. He continues to try and pull Xisuma out from under the shop, even as Mumbo screams at him to run.

Xisuma opens his eyes, his helmet cracked and visor broken. Grian watches Xisuma’s eyes widen in fear as a hand wraps around his mouth and an arm around his gut. And without a struggle, Grian is forced from hermitcraft.

---

“That was easier than I thought it would be.” The watcher taunts, the watcher mask that rested on his face resting on a box. “You didn’t even fight back.”

“Let me go, Sam.” Grian says, glaring at the watcher. “What do you want from me?”

“The watchers have missed you. I’ve missed you. You left us, Grian. You’re not going to get away with that.”

“Kidnapping me isn’t going to undo what you’ve done.” Grian spits. “It won’t bring Taurtis back.”

“I don’t want to bring him back.” Sam smiles, making Grian pause. “I want you to suffer. You didn’t just abandon me, Grian. You betrayed the watchers. That’s high treason. You’re lucky to be alive right now.”

“At least I’m not a murderer.”

“But you’ve killed before.” Sam smiles, a look in his eyes that makes Grian’s heart stop in his chest. “And you’ll kill again, if we have anything to say about it.”

“You’ll never break me.” Grian growls. “I won’t kill. I wont kill my friends.”

“We don’t want to make you kill them,” Sam’s smile only grows wider. “But by all means, tell me how you won’t break. You’re screams will only be more music to my ears.”

---

Blood runs down Grian’s back, his red jumper torn to shreds on his back. He hasn’t scream once, not even as Sam whipped him. No, Grian prides himself in not screaming. Not breaking. He’s strong. He won’t break, not for some bunny bitch who’s on a power trip. Sam just surprised the hermits - that’s all. He won’t win when they come for him. Sam will lose. He has to.

Grian doesn’t know what he’ll do if Sam doesn’t lose.

A hand yanks at his hair, forcing Grian’s head up from the ground. Grian’s eyes meet Sam’s, and the watcher spits on Grian’s face, growling under his breath.

“They aren’t coming for you. I don’t know why you’d hold out for them.” Sam mutters, pushing Grian’s head down, and Grian’s head bounces off the stone floor. “They’ve probably been waiting to get rid of you since you joined them.”

Sam leave’s Grian’s room, and Grian curls into a ball on the floor, shaking with sobs. The hermits wouldn’t leave him now. They wouldn’t let the watcher’s have any of them. They’re his friends.

Why does it feel like Sam is telling him the truth?

---

He’s thrown against the wall, waking with a scream. He’s exhausted, a foot on his chest serving as the only warning against moving. Not that he could - too tired, too much pain. Excuses for why he doesn’t struggle against Sam plague his mind, and all Grian wants to do is sleep.

Except this watcher isn’t Sam.

This one wears a mask - standard watcher issue, a symbol on the front that covers the eyes and mouth, nothing else on it - and a dark purple cloak. Grian spies a tuft of blonde hair sticking out from behind the mask, and notices with sorrow that this watcher is new - quite possibly from one of the latest intakes. A child, most likely no more than 17. Too new to be alone - another stands in the doorway - but he’s been here for long enough to be allowed into this room. With a traitor.

Maybe the watchers finally want him gone.

“What’s your name?” Grian asks the boy quietly, sympathy in his eyes. He remembers the first time he and Taurtis were forced to interrogate someone. Netty. She got him out, maybe he can help her legacy and get these two boys out.

"ℸ ̣ 𝙹ᒲᒲ|| ↸𝙹リℸ ̣  ⊣╎⍊ᒷ ⍑╎ᒲ ||𝙹⚍∷ リᔑᒲᒷ" The other says "∴ᒷ ᔑ∷ᒷリℸ ̣  ᔑꖎꖎ 𝙹∴ᒷ↸ ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⊣╎⍊ᒷ ⍑╎ᒲ 𝙹⚍∷ リᔑᒲᒷᓭ."

"╎ ∴ᔑᓭリ'ℸ ̣  ⊣𝙹╎リ⊣ ℸ ̣ 𝙹! ∴⍑ᔑℸ ̣  ↸𝙹 ||𝙹⚍ ℸ ̣ ᔑꖌᒷ ᒲᒷ ⎓𝙹∷, ᔑ ℸ ̣ ∷ᔑ╎ℸ ̣ 𝙹∷ ?" The other snaps back. “ℸ ̣ ⚍ʖʖ𝙹, ╎ ↸𝙹リℸ ̣  ∴ᔑリℸ ̣  ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ⊣ᒷℸ ̣  ╎リ ℸ ̣ ∷𝙹⚍ʖꖎᒷ ᒷ╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷”

Grian winces as he listens to them, recognising the names. They’re the two boys who went missing a few months ago - Wilbur had come to Hermitcraft himself begging for the hermits to look for them. Tommy and Tubbo. They’re just boys. Guilt eats at Grian’s chest, knowing that whatever they went through was horrible, probably worse than what Grian went through if they are under the watcher’s control after only a few months.

Though the watchers do control some form of time. They could have been here for years because of the bastards.

“I just want to help you two.” Grian says, a sword appearing under his throat. “Wilbur came looking for you both. He was so worried. Let me help you.”

“Wilbur ╎ᓭ ꖎ 𝙹 𝙹 ꖌ ╎リ⊣ ⎓𝙹∷ ⚍ᓭ?” Tommy mumbles

"ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ|| ᓭᔑ╎↸ ⍑ᒷ ⎓𝙹∷⊣𝙹ℸ ̣  ⚍ᓭ. ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣  ∴ᒷ ⍑ᔑ↸ ↸╎ᒷ↸." Tears spring into Tubbo’s eyes, and Grian feels the sword at his throat waver. 

"𝙹⎓ ᓵ𝙹⚍∷ᓭᒷ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ|| ↸╎↸." Grian mumbles to himself angrily, startling the two boys. The sword is pressed against his throat once more, and Grian can see sweat drip onto the handle.

"⍑𝙹∴ ↸𝙹 ||𝙹⚍-”

" ̇/ᒷꖎᑑ⚍ᔑ. ⍑ᔑ⍊ᒷ ||𝙹⚍ ⍑ᒷᔑ∷↸ ℸ ̣ ⍑ᔑℸ ̣  リᔑᒲᒷ ʖᒷ⎓𝙹∷ᒷ?” Grian fumbles over his old title, hating how he is forced to out himself as the escapee, the original traitor, Xelqua.

In reality, he’s the only watcher to escape who was allowed to survive escaping. A symbol of hope for recent intakes. A symbol of failure for the ones who let him go. A dangerous symbol of rebellion for the enforcers. A powerful pawn for propaganda for the Eagles. The highest of higher ups.

He can only pray that Tommy and Tubbo aren’t going to turn into prey because of him.

---

Crack. His foot. Snap. His arm. Pop. His fingers Thud. A foot on his chest. Tears stream down his face, his voice hoarse from screaming. Something tangy is in his mouth, tasting of metal and salt. Blood. 

The red liquid is bright against the grey floor, shining as the bright lights hit it. Grian watches as it turns darker. He watches, almost as though he’s separated from his body, as Sam’s foot hits against his head, knocking him unconscious.

---

“They aren’t coming for you.” Sam says, and Grian looks to the ground. He has to be strong. For Tommy and Tubbo, who stand by the door. He can’t let them know that he believes what Sam is saying. “Repeat it, Xelqua, or we start again. The hermits aren’t coming for you.”

“The hermits aren’t coming for you.” Grian snarks back, and he screams as the knife plunges back into his arm, right next to the last stab wound. “I. Repeated. It.”

“No, you disobeyed orders.” Sam brushes his hand through Grian’s hair, almost caringly. “If you really wanted this to end, you would have said ‘me’ instead of ‘you’.”

“You told me not to lie.” Grian snarls.

“Oh please, the hermit’s can’t come for you.” Sam smiles, the knife dancing across Grian’s throat. “They’re dead. Just like Wilbur. Just like Fundy and Eret and Dream and George. They’re all dead.”

“No!” Tommy yells, and Tubbo reaches out to him, just missing him before Tommy’s on top of Sam, tears falling from under his mask. “Take it back! They aren’t dead, they can’t be dead.”

“Tubbo, get the watchers.” Sam says evenly. Tubbo freezes in the doorway, tears falling from under his mask as well. Sam is most likely lying, but there’s no way to tell. “Tubbo, so help me, if you don’t get the watchers now you’ll all be punished for this.”

“I won’t.” Tubbo’s shaking, and Grian sends him a smile, one that is supportive. One to conceal the sadness. “I won’t get them. You’re lying. They aren’t dead.”

“It’s a pity that you all will be punished for this.” Sam sighs, and with a flash the knife is in Tommy’s side, a scream ripping from his throat. “Should I start with Tommy, for attacking a superior? Or you, Tubbo, for not following orders?” Tubbo shakes his head, pressing himself up against the doorframe. “So I should start with Grian then, for giving you both rebellious thoughts?”

Grian gulps, readying himself. He can’t scream. He can’t let them think that it’ll be painful. They need to be safe.

They’re both just kids.

---

Tommy is the first to disappear, the watchers coming in the night to take him. Grian and Tubbo both wake up to find a patch of blood where the sixteen year old once laid, and though both want to believe that he’ll be fine, neither hold onto the hope too strongly. Tubbo suggests that Tommy is fine, just taking the final test to become a watcher, though that doesn’t make Grian relax, two scars resting on his back where the wings once laid. That test will decide if Tommy is predator or prey, and he will not be allowed to survive if he’s prey, already showing signs of rebellion.

Grian was the only predator to be rebellious though, so the hope he hold is far weaker than Tubbo’s hope.

Tubbo disappears in the day, or at least while both of them are awake, Sam coming into the cell and dragging him away, Grian trying to get to him even with a broken leg. The hope that Tubbo is alive still rests in his chest, but its dim, a fire fighting against rain. He doesn’t want to believe that Tubbo has died, but the test is rigorous, and that would be the only reason Sam took him without a word to Grian.

So Grian waits.

He waits for three days and nights, or at least three rounds of his sleep cycle, the lights never truly turning off in the room. He’s left alone, no food or water arriving in the room. Nothing leaves, and nothing enters.

It’s almost relaxing.

The fourth day arrives, and Grian is dizzy and tired from the lack of food and water. Sam opens the door, a tray in his hands. Mushroom soup, by the smell of it. Sam sits the tray down near Grian, standing back from him. Grian blinks, looking at Sam with wide eyes.

“Well, are you going to eat?” Sam asks, his voice clipped. “We’ve gotta keep you alive, you don’t exactly have anywhere to go with the hermits being dead.”

“They aren’t dead.” Grian mumbles, taking the soup with shaking hands. “They can’t be dead.”

“Yes yes, Tommy and Tubbo said the same thing before.” Sam waves him off. “Prey, so naive. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Grian looks down, taking small sips of the soup. Shame eats at his stomach, and sorrow eats at his mind. He’s a full feast for his emotions. He was a predator, he killed prey watchers, people from his own intake even. 

Sam might have been the predator to kill Taurtis, but Grian’s hand’s are just as red as his.

“So they’re dead.” Grian says, his eyes darkening.

“Of course they are. They’re no purpose for rebellious prey, except to make an example of them for the other prey.” Sam shrugs, a bored expression on his face. 

“They were children.”

“You’ve killed younger, executioner.” Sam smirks. “Let yourself get weak with the mortals, have you?”

“We’re not gods, Sam.” Grian points out. “We can die.”

“Ah yes.” Sam smiles, and Grian sways slightly, confusion on his face. “It’s finally kicking in.”

“Wha-” Grian’s head is filled with cotton, “What have you done to me?”

“Nothing you won’t sleep off. Let’s get your wings back onto you. I miss ripping off your feathers.”

---

[hobbitsnapes]

The Red Hoods Protègè chapter 15

Older Damian Wayne x ofc

(Photo made by my lovely friend @tyuuniverse)

Summary:Red hood has taken a young vigilante under his wing and subsequently changes Damians life forever. (I suck at summary’s)

Everyone waits each day for things to change. Waiting for her to come out of her room. But it’s as if she wasn’t there, in that lone room.

Everyday, they all walk by her door expecting to see her. Some are curious, some are honestly excited, and one, dreads it.

Damian knows eventually he’ll see her. Coming out of his room to meet her eyes, following a pain resonating through him. He knows that he’ll have to grow used to it. But that doesn’t change the tinge of pain each time he walks by the old oak door. But what he doesn’t know, is the hell behind that door that she’s consumed by each time she hears him.

It’s as if she’s trapped me a bubble of thick air that won’t go away. Each time she opens her eyes, she’s reminded he’s there. Each minute of the day that she’s conscious she battles with herself. It’s like she wants to think about him, to feel the sharp pain in her heart as tears fall down her cheeks. But she fights with herself to stop thinking about it. Sometimes she succeeds. Drowning herself a short film on her phone, but never completing them cause as soon as she raises her eyes, she’s met with her reality of where she is. Or she’s brought back when the footsteps outside her room.

In the last week, she’s been able to track and remember the footsteps of each of the people in the home. The man she’s come to find out as Dick, has fast but light footsteps.

The man known as Tim is near silent. But the small bits she can hear, he’s slightly slower than the previous.

Alfred almost has a skip to his walking. Each day the sweet man will lay a tray of food at her door. Picking it up later that same night.

Bruce’s steps are the louder of them all. Clearly hearing the heal to toe each step he takes.

Damians was the easiest but the hardest to hear. Having a mix of the clear steps of his father, but still being light like Dicks. His are slightly slower, and a hair faster when he passes by her door.

Her heart sank each time she heard it. Knowing he was walking away like that because of her. It broke her heart further knowing that the man she had fallen for, the man who made her feel like her past wasn’t her, that the way he looked at her like stars shown up her spine into tendrils from her skin, looked at her like she was painted red. Her heart once warmed through her chest out of her skin, now felt cold and strained each time she remembered him.

Their lips move in a soft harmony together. Lips barley grazing as they lay there in one another’s arms. The pads of her fingers gently run across his face. His fingers running up and down the bottom of her back. A shiver runs up her from the soft contact. Their breaths meld together, noses touching as just the very touch of their lips stay together. A soft smile graces his face, his hand traveling to the side of her face where her hair lay. Shielding her eye from him. Her eyes had slightly shut, a hazy look to them with her pupils slightly dilated. His fingers run along her temple, down to her cheek, and ending at her lips. He lightly runs his fingers across them. The action causing a soft smile and an equally soft laugh. He looks into her eyes again, the same haze to them as before. “You are so beautiful.” He whispered, her flush blooming even harder. A grin formed on his face at her. Grazing his fingers against her cheek. “You’re even more stunning than the Middlemist's Red camellia.” She let out a soft chuckle, “what’s that?” She questions him. “It’s the rarest flower in the world. Only two plants have survived. One in New Zealand, the other in the United Kingdom. Ironically it’s blue in color. But even then, it can’t compete with your eyes and beauty. There’s so many different kinds of roses, while they’re beautiful, there’s so many of them. Not only are you the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen, you have the purest heart I’ve ever come across.” Her eyes shined with unshed tears, brushing his fingers over her eyes. “You don’t know that, I’m not as amazing as you think I am.” She whispered. “No matter what you think, I’ll always believe you are.” He said, kissing her lips again.

Tears streamed down her face at the look of pure hatred covering his face when he saw her standing there. “And I could never be with someone who does the things you do. You’re a monster. All that happened to you, was your fault. Your parents dying, you could have stopped it. You sat and watched as your mother and father were beaten, bloodied and stabbed to death. If it wasn’t for you being born they could have left the city. They would be alive. Ally, if it wasn’t for you finding her and taking her in, trying to fix the wrongs you’ve done, she could have ran away from here and away from her father who probably went and killed her. Another life, lost to be forgotten, all because of you. You’re nothing but a bad omen. I mean just look around sandy.” Damian gestures. Her once homey apartment burning around them with the movement of his hand. Her heart screaming out of her chest in throbbing pain. “Take a look at what you did.” He says as he steps to the side. A scream of agony rips out of her chest at what she sees lying on the floor. There on the floor, is a bloody, chopped up jason. Stab wounds cover his body. Blood seeping from each cut that pool on and around him. Bones are exposed, muscle torn to shreds. But the most haunting of it all, is his bloody cut up face. Stab wounds in his cheeks,nose slashed open, his mouth torn. But the worst are his eyes. Once an icy blue, now clouded over and milky. A stark contrast to the streams of blood covering his face. His eyes boring into hers. A scream rips from him. Blood spewing out of his mouth. “YOU DID THIS TO MEE!” He screams out. Blood choking him and pouring out of his mouth. He then falls limp to the ground. His eyes still looking at her, lifeless. A tall figure comes out from nowhere. A scream ripping from her when she sees him. “Ah such a good job! You did good, we did good! I mean just look at the boy! Even I wasn’t able to do that to him! And after everything I did to him, I knew it would be you to finish my job.” Joker says, his face scared and almost cracked looking. She looks down at herself. Seeing a bloody knife clutched in her hand, her once white nightgown soaked in blood. “GET AWAY FROM ME! YOU SICK FUCK I SHOULDVE KILLED YOU!” She screams out. “Ah but you didn’t my dear. That night I chopped your lovely mother up and beat your father to death, you could have picked up a knife and killed me then. But you didn’t. Now, I’m gonna keep going, keep on killing families, haunting you because you did nothing. It’s because of you, we can keep doing it.” “W-we?” She shudders, tears falling down her face. “Yes, we.” Damian says, walking over to joker. Joker putting his hand on damians shoulder. A scream ripping from her at the pointed, crooked smile on his face.

A choked up gasp leaves her as she shots up out of bed. Panic filling her before she feels the soft sheets surrounding her. Relief filling her, that is until a searing pain in her back takes over. A loud groan leaving her.

Walking slowly over to the bathroom being near impossible due to the excruciating pain in her back. The pain worse than when she was carved. It feels like something was ripping from the inside out of her skin.

She takes her nightgown off, a yell leaving her due to the pain getting worse.

She looks in the mirror in the bathroom, a scream ripping from her. Her once healed scars were ripped open, shoulder blades exposed completely from both flesh and muscle chunks being ripped out. Black feathers poking out of them, ripping out from her, screams of pure agony ripping from her as the feathers rip through like barbed wire. Breaking through her bones and skin. A final scream ripping from her, before everything around her going black.

Screams ripped from her throat as she shoots up out of the bed. Tears streaming down her face as she sobs. Her heart pounding out of her chest as she yells out sobs. Her breathing coming out in heaves. Her eyes shutting tightly, although it did little to nothing to stop the images of Jason lying there in a bloody heap. The image of Damian and Joker flashing to her as sobs wreck her body.

Dicks breath and heart pounding as he sprints to her door. He heard her screams of pure agony all the way downstairs, knowing exactly what’s going on. He knew they would eventually come, memories of him waking up in a sweat screaming till his vocal cords gave up as his screams turned into silent tears. He has yet to speak to her, feeling terrible due to her being his niece.

His hands knocking on the old oak door. Hearing her sobs from the other side breaking his heart. He can hear the large ragged breaths she’s taking in between her wails. Tears collect in his eyes. He tries for the handle, grunting due to the lock. He knows he can bust the door down easily, but not wanting to further her panic. “Hey, can you please let me in? It’s me dick.” He says, trying to steady his breaths. He hears nothing after this. “Look,I know you don’t know me. But please, I-I wanna try to help. I remember when your father was first living here.i can still hear his screams from nightmares even today. Please, we all have them.” Again, nothing. He sighs, knowing she won’t budge. “Alright, I’m not gonna force you. I’ll be staying in the room right next to yours if you need anything.” He says, walking to the door, hearing her faint sobs.

Damian's eyes shooting open when he hears it, he hears her scream out. A pain lodging into his chest at the sound. His throat growing tight when he hears her sobs. He can hear the gagged and rough intake of air from his room.

His footsteps are heavy as he heads into his bathroom. He feels like he’s going to be sick from the pain in his chest creeping out from him. Her sobs echoing in his head even with his door shut. He grips onto the porcelain sink, head ducking down as his eyes sting. Why, why is this happening. He wonders, not understanding why hearing her cry is bothering him so greatly.

For the past week she’s been here, once hurting at the mere thought of her, now anger. Why can jason just dump her here, and everyone just going along with it. They would argue that’s his daughter. But he’s no father. They don’t have a father daughter relationship. His father is a better parent than he is. And him and his father’s relationship is strained at best. From what he was told, Jason would go on and on about how he hated that Bruce adopted him. Yet he goes out and takes her in? And turns her into a killing machine who doesn’t know when to shut up. But his heart still pains him when he remembers. The touch of her lips against his, the warmth of her hold. The soft smell of vanilla each time he’d hug or be close to her. Her eyes sparkling whenever she’d beam up at him with the look of pure astonishment and joy. Her soft chuckle and rider cheeks gave him a warm bubble in his chest. He can’t keep thinking about it, pain filling him the more his mind wanders. God, why did she have to be this. And why does it hurt so badly. His grip growing so tightly, that it finally cracks under his touch. Breaking him from his mind when the large groan and crack emit from the sink. He abruptly lets go of it. A tear collecting at the corner of his eye when he lets out a shaky breath. His heart hurting just as bad as when he first heard her screaming out.

Days go by, and each one feeling better. She’s not as panicked and hurt whenever she looks around. She finally looked around the large room. She put all her clothes in the large closet, barley filling it due to the sheer size of it. She put her books away in the large bookshelf beside her bed. She hung her photos on the wall, put her shampoos and washes in the bathroom. Finally turning the room into her own. She knew she’d be here a while, so she thought she might as well make her room feel like home, and not just a cell.

Out of the entire room, her favorite part was the large bay window that opened up into a balcony. The sun shines beautifully through the soft blinds, a welcoming warmth from the sun would instantly put a smile to her face whenever she’d step out of her room. She put a chair out there, sitting there each day no matter how cold to gaze out with a new book.

Alfred would bring her meals to her door each day, and for the last few days she’d let him come in, chatting a small amount. It was warm and welcoming to be able to talk with one person here. And each day he’d ask if she would come with him to the garden. Telling her it’s his favorite part of the entire manor. But each time she’d tell him she would eventually. Still worrying about coming out. She wasn’t as scared to see Damian. While it’s a big part, it’s not the entire reason for her staying in her room. It was the fear of properly meeting everyone. Jason didn’t divulge everything that happened to him, but he said enough to make her weary of the others that lived and came by. Preferring to stay in her room, away from the new place she’d have to consider home. That is, until one Friday night.

Her stomach rumbles as she laid in bed. She was trying to concentrate on a book, but the pain in her stomach grew the longer she tried ignoring it. She had some soup and a sandwich earlier in the evening, but for some reason she had grown hungry in the last hour. She knew exactly why she was feeling hungry.

Alfred has asked her early that morning if she’d like anything from the shops. Telling her he has a list ready and wanted to know if she’d like anything. She told him her favorite food was yogurt. He asked her what kind and she replied with anything. She didn’t care about the brand, flavor or texture. Loving each and every kind since she was little. It brought back fond memories of when her mother would make homemade yogurt with milk and berries. She remembers helping her mother as a child make it, and turning it into anything from just plain to baked goods that the family would eat for dessert.

When he had gotten back, he informed her he had bought a different flavor from each brand, and one he went to a bakery and got freshly made yogurt. Her stomach rumbling just thinking about it.

She looked at the clock, seeing the flashing 3:36 light up. She knew that everyone had gone to bed. Having heard them walking to their rooms and being in there for some time.

She was still nervous, having not gone through the manor at all this entire time. She had just about zoned out completely when she was brought from the cave to her room. But Alfred has told her that her room is the closest to the hallway to the living room and kitchen. Saying the kitchen was on the left and the living room was further down to the right.

She hesitated going, fear bubbling up her throat as she looked at the door. But a large grumble from her stomach made her decision for her.

She stepped into the kitchen, with only her phone light to light her way. It took her much longer than she’d like to admit to find the room. She found the large fridge, opening it and squinting due to the bright light. Opening her eyes, and instantly seeing the tub of yogurt. A chuckle leaving her when she sees the writing on it. There was a piece of paper taped to it, and in the neatest handwriting it said ‘Miss Todd’s yogurt.’

She scooped some out into a cup. Looking around and seeing the large island in the middle of the room. ‘Eh, fuck it nobody’s up.’ She thought. Hopping up onto it. She decided to keep the light off. Not wanting to wake anyone. Not knowing the person right in the next room coming in for his next coffee.

She heard him before she saw him. Pain is filling her as he hears the footsteps. Grabbing a knife that is bolted to her thigh, reading to throw it once they enter.

Tim feels a presence in the room when he walks to the door, thinking it’s the lack of sleep, he thinks nothing of it as he clicks the light on. A shrek leaving him when a knife is thrown at him, hitting the wall right beside his head. Nearly cutting his long hair. “HEAVEN ALMIGHTY WHAT THE FUCK!” He yells out. Clutching his chest as he watches her. She’s as ridged as a spooked out cat. He ducks down when she grabs a fork, aiming it high at him. “Nonono I’m not here to hurt you! God I just want some coffee.” He says. Her hands lowered down. “Sorry, you kinda scared me.” She says. “Oh and the knife nearly clearing through my head didn’t scare me at all.” He chuckles. A laugh coming out from her at this. “You’re just lucky I didn��t hit you.” She laughs. “Yeah, if that’s your aim in pitch black, fuck I’d hate to piss you off.” He says. A chuckle leaving him at the end. She pops a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. Nodding her head at him. “Yeah, just ask your brother.” This causing a large laugh to rumble out of his chest. “Yeah, he pisses everyone off. It’s why we’ve called him the demon for years.” A large laugh erupting from her at his response. Tears collecting in her eyes. Both laughing for a good minute. “So, can’t sleep I see?” He asks. “Yeah, you?” He nods at her. “So, want some pancakes?” He asks. Her head piping up at this. “Can you make it with yogurt?” “Oh yes I can.”

They both sit on the island side by side, munching on their pancakes. “You gonna try to sleep, or say fuck it?” Tim asks. “Fuck it.” She replies. “Well I’ve got stuff to do..eh screw it, wanna go watch funny vines and tiktoks?” Her head shoots you at this. A wide smile covers her face. Nodding up at him.

Damian hears laughter when he walks down the hallway. Hearing a song playing that makes it difficult to hear. Until he hears her. His chest tightening.

He looks in, and to his shock, and a bit of horror, he sees her and Tim on the couch laughing so hard they’re falling over. Both doing a horrible job at singing in between laughter. “Aye Somebody come get er she’s dancing like a striper! Somebody come get er she’s dancing like a stripper!” They sing. Laughing profusely as they watch one another. Tim gets up from the couch, waving his arms around. “A potato flew around my room before you came!” He sings. Casing her to dibble over again laughing “He needs some milk!” She laughs out. Both dubbing over clutching their stomachs. Anger filling his chest as he watches him make her laugh. Remembering when he could get her to laugh so hard she’d wheeze out. He leaves without saying a word. Clutching his fists tightly and jaw set. His chest growing in pain making his anger worse. Why, why does this keep happening.

Tags: @comic-nerd-dc @comic-brew @psychovigilantewrites @psych0crybaby

[inspirationdivine]

Faeby Driver || Lydia and Rio

Timing: Tonight and Tomorrow Parties: @3starsquinn​ @inspirationdivine​ Summary: Several hours after being attacked by Kaden, Lydia completes her promise Warnings: medical blood, body horror, mentions of gun use

Lydia had pulled herself into the car’s backseat by the time she heard someone approaching. Sometimes, when she moved wrong, white hot pain filled her vision with stars, and the only way the world stopped spinning was if she pressed her forehead against the cold window. Inch by inch, she had eased her coat off her body. It was torn and useless now, good only for protecting the cream leather of her carseats from the blood and mud that covered her from where Kaden and her had grappled on the forest floor. Wooden splinters dug into the palms of her hands and on one side of her face, but she couldn’t reach to pull them out. Instead, millimeter by millimeter, she tried to straighten the shattered boneos of her right forearm. This was no easy feat, considering the heavy iron burn and still-bleeding cut from Kaden’s iron-tipped crossbow bolts. She didn’t even know how to begin looking after the shredded wing that hung lightly to her side. Without help, Lydia wasn’t sure she would even get out of here. Her promise to Kaden was slowly beginning to eat at her insides. When she heard Rio approach, Lydia wrapped her glamour around herself like a blanket and growned with the effort. He couldn’t hurt her. He was afraid of hunters himself. If nothing else, he would be ever such a good bargaining chip. Still, her heart beat as fast as a rabbit’s as she watched him approach. 

 In the hurry that Orion was, he hadn’t had much time to get ready before rushing out of the door. He still had on the same sweatpants that he had been sleeping in and had only been able to throw on a hoodie and a pair of shoes before he was rushing out the door and jumping into his car. Rio had no idea what Lydia’s car looked like, but he figured he would just get to Derry Lane and go from there. “Lydia?” Rio called out once he jumped out of his car. His hair stood on end. As far as he knew, that hunter could still be out here and looking for Lydia. Was Rio ready and willing to get in their way? To try to fight the hunter if he had to? The thought alone made Rio want to throw up, but he wasn’t about to let Lydia get killed. He didn’t exactly keep himself well armed on normal occasions, but did have a small hunting knife in his car that Athena had insisted that he keep with him. Just in case. His hearing picked up on a nearby noise and he took off towards it, coming to a stop when he noticed a car along the woodline and jogging to a stop in front of it. “Holy crap.” He whispered, noticing the figure in the backseat. She looked brutalized. Dirt and wood covered her face and she cradled her arm as if it was damaged. There was a nasty burn across it. Up to this point, Rio had never given much thought to what supernatural species Lydia might be. In the grand scheme of things it didn’t really seem that important. But now, Rio was starting to get a ballpark idea. “Thank god you’re alive. Do you have your keys? I need to get you somewhere that’s not here.”

 “Thank the lord indeed,” Lydia groaned. She grit her teeth together and hissed as she reached into her pocket,  pulling out her keys  and tossed them into her hands. “Out of town. I have to- I have to get out of the town,” she insisted. They could stop just outside the border, but she had to leave. The promise was starting to make her sick. There wasn’t even any time to go back for her humans, but she could get Deirdre to get those, if need be. Lydia shifted slightly and cried out as her vision whited out from the searing pain. Her glamour fell to the wayside, her skin glowing only faintly as her wings unfurled and ears extended. 

 “Out of town?” Orion questioned almost immediately. Sure, a hunter was dangerous but did they really have to leave town? If they could get somewhere safe Rio could figure out how to keep the hunter away from her. “How far out of town?” Rio asked. He was apprehensive about the idea, but hadn’t completely counted it out yet. He was desperate to help Lydia. Desperate to prove that he was worth more than the murder of his two parents. If driving for a few hours to drop her off somewhere safe was what she needed, Rio had to at least consider the idea. Before Rio could answer, something happened. Rio knew about glamours. He had never seen one drop so quickly. But in an instant, Lydia had gone from a completely normal woman to a woman with glowing skin, elongated ears and undeniably Fae wings. Though the most shocking visual about this wasn’t any of those things, but instead how maimed and shredded the wing looked. The hunter that had attacked her had been ruthless. The way it looked, Rio didn’t have much choice but to give in. “Yeah. Fine okay. I uh- I’ll drive. Where do we go?”

 She could hear him hesitating already, and almost screamed that he didn’t have a choice. He owed her a debt, he would do as she damn well pleased. But honey caught more flies, and she wanted to keep him sweet as long as she could… Lydia was in no mood to be clever or cruel right now, even to a human, as she pulsed blood out of injuries she couldn’t even wrap herself. He didn’t panic when he saw her, even though for many hunters her distinctive appearance only meant one thing. Not that he could, but it was a small relief that he wouldn’t even try. “Just- just out of town. I promised. I’ll- I’ll explain, I just need to get out first.” Lydia could barely even sit up for the ride, each tiny movement jolting her like hornet stings. She could barely think, barely stay awake, barely plan the next step, like where the hell they should go. How many people she loved that she was leaving behind. “I- I don’t know where to go,” she said, her voice cracking. She could barely believe she was alive.

 Lydia didn’t seem like she was in any state to make a rational decision where to go. But she seemed adamant about leaving town. The more time they spent here, the more they risked that hunter catching up with them too. The way Orion saw it, he wasn’t left with much choice. With a deep sigh, less because of Lydia’s own situation and more because Rio’s own anguish about making a decision might legitimately force him to break into hives.But finally, he relinquished, “Tuck in. I’m closing the door.” He shut the backdoor and circled around to the driver’s seat. One last chance to call 911 instead. But he knew with her state she wouldn’t be able to keep up the glamour. That may put her in even more danger than driving her out of town in her current medical condition. Rio was no doctor. The only training he had was dealing with his own wounds following a particularly brutal training session. Either way, Lydia’s life was in danger. Rio had just decided how much he was willing to participate in keeping her alive. “Try to stay conscious, okay? You might be concussed.” He started the car and gripped the wheel tightly, twisting until his knuckles grew pale. He had no idea where he was going to go, he only knew that he needed to drive. 

 Lydia pulled in to the car, shifting her weight until she found a way to lie that hurt the least, as her blood trickled down her clothes, into the cream leather of her seats and into the creases that only professionals could keep. Staying conscious was manageable, but each bend and bump and everything had her cringing. The weight of the promise lifted off her with every mile, until at least that was one pain untangled in her chest. “I kept making promises,” her voice cracked, and she wasn’t sure if this quick confessional was for her or for him. “God, he just kept hurting me. I was begging him, I couldn’t do anything and he wouldn’t stop. I promised to leave town and he wouldn’t stop. I- I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” And Lydia didn’t know if that counted as a truth because she hadn’t been doing anything except walking in that moment, or because she believed that she hadn’t made a single mistep when it came to Regan while she was here. Her ears rang and her arms hurt too much to wipe away the sudden tear. “Y-you can stop for a little now.”

 Hearing Lydia recounting what happened to her made Orion’s chest tighten. A hunter just as evil and monstrous as his parents had been. So willing to torture someone just for having been born as anything other than human. He wished he had the strength to keep them all safe from hunters, but he knew that in a physical battle Rio didn’t stand much of a chance against most hunters. He never regretted refusing to take part in his parent’s training. But sometimes he wondered if he would have been better off playing along so that he could learn what he could from them before flipping sides. Not that it mattered now, obviously. It was too late to go back and change anything. “Yeah. Sounds good. Let’s just get some rest.” Rio had no idea how long the two had been driving. A glance at the clock showed that it was getting closer to morning, but Rio could barely remember when he had started driving in the first place. He pulled off at the next exit and parked as soon as he could, rubbing at his tired eyes and failing to stifle a yawn. “So what do we do next?”

 “Can you- Can you stitch me up? I have- I have tape for my wing, I just- I can’t reach.” It was the wing she’d just regrown, the wing she’d poured hours and hours of care and ancient fae wisdom into growing. It would heal in time, but slowly with the iron burns, and it would never be complete again. It might have been better if he had torn it right off. Lydia shook that thought away immediately. Her own vanity would be the death of her. First, she would get to Peru, then she would worry about more superficial things. And then the thought struck her again. Peru was the place she needed to go. She could sink into the cultures of the local Aos Si, wait a couple decades for all the hunters in town to die out, maybe even start the family she so desperately desired. When her face would no longer be associated with Lydia Griffin and everyone who wanted her dead was dead themselves or had long forgotten her, she would work out how to break her promise about Regan, and return. It would take time, but time healed most wounds. That was what she needed to do. Lydia reached for her phone, only to yelp, recoiling abruptly and collapsing into the backseat again. “Oh god, oh god,” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut. “To hell with fucking Kaden Langley.”

 “Uh” Was all that Orion managed to draw out for a long moment. He was barely confident in his abilities to patch up his own wounds. A practice that he had spent most of his life doing on a fairly consistent basis. He definitely didn’t have much faith that he could carefully and painlessly wrap up a Fae’s wing. The practice seemed dangerous. But he wanted to help. “Sure. Uh. Just let me know where the tape is.” Rio finally gave in, moving quickly to find the tape so that he could get started. “So uh, I’ve never done this before. Just tell me what to do.” He was ready to get started when the name threw him completely off base. “Wait… what?” Rio recoiled, a sliver of doubt running through his mind. Kaden and Rio had too many arguments to count about the morality of hunting, but even this seemed too violent. “Kaden did this to you?”

 “Glove compartment,” Lydia murmured. “I have a first aid kit there.” His nerves were palpable. She couldn’t in good conscience lead hunters to her healer, she couldn’t call Deirdre, she couldn’t do much of anything other than trust this human child to do a tolerable job. “Start at the back of the wing closes to my spin and closest to my joint. You can slowly work out where it needs taping.” Lydia shuddered at the thought of any human touching her wings, but the situation demanded it. “Just make sure everything's aligned. I’ll try to keep still.” Lydia braced herself as well as possible against the backseat. “He did. I was just walking through the woods, the first thing I heard were gunshots. I don’t know how he kept missing me. Then he wasn’t-” Lydia hissed sharply through her teeth, gripping the seat in front of her sharply. “I guess he stopped missing. It was almost like he was enjoying making me hurt. He was… I’m terrified, Rio, I’m so scared.”

 Orion got to work quietly, focusing on the wrapping to make sure he wasn’t too rough. One of the many cons of super strength meant that it was far too easy to put too much in what should be a regular push or pull. When Rio’s strength first came in he had made unfortunate victims of many door hinges and freezer doors at grocery stores. At this point in his life, he had mostly gotten a grip on that strength, but stressful situations always made Rio lose focus. But he tried to focus on her instructions as he slowly wrapped the damaged wing. His mind kept straying to Kaden though. How could he have done something like this? Maybe that was just who Kaden was. Rio hadn’t wanted to see that. Maybe he had been fooling himself into thinking that Kaden was changing. Kaden had been very clear on many situations that he didn’t see them as people. Rio shivered at the thought. What was he supposed to do about this? “He’s not going to hurt you.” Rio reassured her. “We’re going to get you out of here and then I’m going to talk to him when I get back to town and… you’re going to be fine.”

 Once he began to tape her, Lydia’s mind shrank to white static, digging her nails into the bloodied leather as she screamed between her teeth. Her body burned like lightning had hit her. Not that any hunter deserved to think they were that powerful, but if the last seven decades hadn’t done it, Kaden had cemented her belief that hunters all deserved to die, Even the ones she could weaponise, Lydia screamed on last time, and then Rio let go.  Lydia slumped, pressing her face into the seat.  “Please don’t. I don’t think you can reason with him. He might even hurt you.” He would be dead by the time Rio tried, but that was neither here nor there. She reached for her phone, trying to think, trying to win. Kaden Langley would send more. They couldn’t stay here. “I think I- I can get in touch with a friend, I can get out of the country. Can you- god, I hate asking, but can you stay until they’re with us, wherever they want to meet?”

 Orion was quick to move away from Lydia and her wings once he had finished wrapping it. Something about it all felt so… wrong. He couldn’t touch them without flashing back to the moment Lydia deduced that Rio was a hunter. The disgust and fear in her voice had been so visceral. So absolute. What right did Rio have to help her, knowing what his family had done to fae just like her? He wanted to keep a healthy distance if he could. For her own comfort as well as his own. “I don’t think-” Rio wanted to defend Kaden. Rio knew the image of Kaden that he had built up for himself. Someone who truly believed that they were doing what was right. Someone that had seemed so black and white when the two had first met. But now seemed conflicted in all the opposite reasons Rio was. In a way, Rio and Kaden seemed to be two different sides to the same coin. How could someone Rio considered a friend do something like this? But Lydia’s condition was hard to ignore. So for now, Rio would listen to her pleas. He wouldn’t reach out to Kaden. Not yet at least. At least now Lydia seemed to have a plan. It meant leaving the country, which seemed a bit dramatic, but Rio wasn’t about to argue. All he needed to do now was hang out with her until this friend of hers could step in. “Yeah. Of course. You got it.”

 “He did. He did, please, you have to-” Lydia coughed from the bruising ache of Regan’s last scream. Or perhaps it was from when she’d plummeted to the ground where Kaden had shot her out of the sky. Every inch of her ached, all the way to her heart and the weight of newfound family, and everyone who had been left behind. She made a call to her friend, black stars flashing in front of her eyes. She’d need ID, enough to get on the plane, and the plane itself, but nothing else until she landed. “Okay. Can you… drive me to Castle Rock and my friend’ll- my friend’ll-” The dark swallowed Lydia as she collapsed in the backseat. Her body was healing itself, and it would not wake her for another several hours. 

 Just drive her to safety and wait for her friend and then you can go home. Just drive her to safety. Wait for her friend. Then go home. If Orion kept repeating the same mantra over and over again, he could convince himself that nothing about this could go horribly wrong. She would make it there without dying from her potentially very serious wounds. Her friend would show up with everything that Lydia needs to make sure Kaden can’t hurt her again. Then Rio could go home knowing he had helped someone. He refused to consider any other scenario. Acknowledging all the things that could go wrong seemed counterproductive. “Castle Rock- Got it. I-” Rio was already in the driver’s seat and starting the car when he realized that Lydia hadn’t just trailed off. She had passed out completely. “No- Hey… Lydia.” Rio began quietly, trying to ease her into consciousness. When that didn’t work, his voice became increadingly louder and frantic. “Lydia! You need to wake up okay? You could have a concussion. Lydia!” He started driving, still mumbling her name as he got back onto the main road and headed towards the highway. He would start heading in the direction of Castle Rock. If she didn’t wake up soon, he would have to detour to a hospital. He didn’t have any plans on how to explain her anatomy or her appearance if the glamour failed, but he couldn’t just let her die. 

 When Lydia woke up, the light had changed, dark into daylight. Her bones had begun to stitch together incorrectly, the bleeding stopped and caked onto her skin and the leather behind her. Her phone was vibrating by her cheek, like a call was coming through. After reassuring Rio, she sat up, blinking blearily at the screen. Hermana. Deirdre. Lydia blinked in confusion, before declining the call. She could answer later once she was on the flight. They could discuss Regan and Kaden and whatever dead rabbit Deirdre had found then. Lydia checked her messages about the flight. Three more hours. She set her phone down, only for the buzz to come through again. Deirdre. Lydia declined on the first ring this time. “Where are-”

 It was her phone. Again.