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canned-goose-feathers · 2 years ago

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IX.

It's odd how quickly the presence in his head becomes normal. It still scares him occasionally with a whisper in his ear or warmth spread down his spine. He steers clear of the other hermits, though some are easier to avoid than others, Scar being the absolute worst. While the man still gives him space, it's like he's waiting for something to happen. He talks to Grian like he's waiting for some big surprise, like a child who knows his parents have planned a surprise party, but he knows that he's not supposed to know. The difference is that Grian knows that he knows, except Grian doesn't really know what Scar thinks he knows (or should know).

It's very confusing. Grian tries not to think about it.

Grian is sitting in front of a dormant Grumbot. He wonders if Grumbot is sleeping. Can he dream? He didn't program h to, but then again he'd had been showing some . . . Interesting attributes Grian definitely didn't program in. The sound of a rocket breaks his thoughts and he looks up to see someone gliding into his little hole.

Xisuma lands easily, his elytra folding behind him. Grian can't really see the bottom half of his face through the visor, but the crinkle of his eyes tells him the admin is smiling.

"Hello Grian!"

Grian grins, "Fancy seeing you here, X-eye-zuma. What brings you to my rift?"

Xisuma visibly rolls his eyes, then says "Just wanted to check in with you, mate. Mumbo's not here to do it, someone has to."

"That is true." Grian tries not to let the longing seep into his voice. He misses Mumbo more than he'd dare to say. Grian purses his lips for a second, then looks back up to Xisuma. He opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly there's static in his head. He blinks away the stars that have gathered in his vision. His tongue refuses to work, as if the words have just left him.

"Grian?" Xisuma says. He doesn't sound confused. He doesn't know why that sticks out; in any other situation like this, the other should sound confused, maybe even worried. He doesn't sound like he's either of those. He sounds almost . . . Wary? No, that's not quite right. His voice is almost like a warning, like the kind one would a cat about to get into something it shouldn't.

Xisuma's hand touches Grian's shoulder and glass shatters.

Grian is stumbling backwards, uncoordinated and frantic. He doesn't even notice the movement over the screaming in his head.

He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows He Knows-

Grian claps his hands over his ears as the Entity shrieks in his head. He feels his wings raise and it takes every ounce of strength in him to shove them tight against his back.

"Shut up!" he yells over the cacophony, "stop it, stop it!"

The screaming stops. He's shaking hard, rattled in the sudden silence. He's never felt so out of control, never had it use his body like that. He wants it out, wants to tear out red feathers and extract this thing from him in any way that he can, he wants it gone.

Xisuma stares. His visor is darker and Grian can't even begin to guess at his expression. His hand is still outstretched towards him.

Grian stares back, his mind racing to recover from the onslaught and somehow say something, anything, to cover for the fact that he just lost it at a single touch and, oh void, he'd yelled out loud, hadn't he? He needs to say something, but his brain is scrambled and all that comes out is "Please don't touch me."

Xisuma drops his hand.

"Okay," he says softly. "I'm sorry. Are you . . ."

"I think you should leave," Grian says. Or, rather, tries to say. What comes out instead is "Voidwalker. Leave."

Xisuma stills.

Grian tries to stop the words as they tumble out of his mouth. "He is mine, don't touch. You corrupt. Get out, get out, get out—" Grian snaps his jaw closed so hard that he bites his tongue. Blood fills his mouth and he seems to gain back some control, but Xisuma is already moving away, turning and rocketing out of the cave.

Grian sinks down until he's sitting again. He's not sure he trusts himself to stand at this point. That . . . Could have gone better. Warmth spreads down his spine across his wings, safe, comfort, security. He feels the push, a want to return to the Entity. It's easier now that he can see the distinction between what he wants and what it wants. It's also easier to disregard it.

He ends up flying over the forests and mountains surrounding his base. Really, what else can he do? The Entity stops clamoring in his head, though he can still feel its hunger. It's been hungry for a while now; he'd managed to catch a few rabbits and eat one of his sheep, but he still hated it. It was enough to keep the Entity fed. At least that's what he'd thought.

He makes it as far as the villager ship by the time his wings start to ache. The rising air from the water feels good on his wings. The miniature handmade ocean around the villager "farm" is so much nicer than the actual ocean, mainly because he doesn't get salt everywhere. He lands gently, the noise of villagers below perking his interest.

The thing is, Grian knows better than this. There's a reason he hadn't been to the villager farm, and it's the same reason he'd been avoiding the hermits. He was a starved dog, willingly throwing himself into a pen of sheep and hoping that he wouldn't kill them.

The scent of sweat and leather and metal hits him as soon as he descends the ladder. He stares as the villagers bustle around their respective work stations. They look at him every once in a while with the same wary expression he remembers seeing on the horse; like they trust him, but something deeper tells them not to. He hates how excited that makes him.

It couldn't be bad, right? No one would have to know. The villagers are easily replaced anyway, and it's not like there aren't a lot of them. No one would even notice. His stomach churns and his mouth waters. He's not thinking straight. Maybe the Entity didn't really leave him alone. He wants, so badly, more than ever before.

Just once, then he's done.

He steps forward and grabs the arm of a villager, a calligrapher he thinks. They pull against him, but he's far stronger. He pulls them into a quiet area of the ship, ignoring it's rushed words of a language he can't understand.

He should have brought potions. Then again, he hadn't gone and planned this. His vision is swimming in red and his hands move of their own accord, or the accord of another.

He thinks, maybe, that he's starting to understand

It's dark here, enough that he can barely see what's happening, what he's doing. He thinks he might be shaking with excitement as his hunger roars in his ears like a torrent.

Grian can't let go of the villager. He's trying— oh god, he's trying— but his hand is a vice and no matter how much he wrestles with his fingers, they remain wrapped around, unmoving, like a statue, like some sort of immovable force. He didn't ask for this. How is he going to sleep tonight if he does this? Is it going to stay in his head, is it going to haunt his nightmares, will he dream of the taste of blood on his tongue forever now, is this what it's going to be like forever—

His ears are ringing. He thinks he'd be screaming if he could. He can't. His mouth is full. Pleasure floods through his brain. He's alive again, like the break of a fever. It's too much and not enough all at once.

Horror dawns slowly, the coppery smell of blood becoming acrid in his mouth. The mangled corpse in front of him is burned into the forefront of his brain. He wants to vomit and rid himself of the new contents of his stomach, but the pressure in the back of his head tells him that it'll end poorly. He's trembling, breath coming too fast, black spots dancing in his vision. There's an echo, like the whispers he hears deep in the caves or the crackle of sculk under his feet. It sounds just distant enough that he thinks it might be his name, but it might not.

"Stop stop stop stop! " He yells, hands clamped tight over his ears to block out the sounds, until the words lose meaning. His fingers twitch and he imagines digging into his ears until something pops so he can finally have silence. His talons dig in and the pinpricks of pain aren't helping. Something touches him and he feels like he's been shocked, he wants it off.

His eyes snap open to meet worried green eyes and bloody hands cradling his face.

"Grian, are you hurt?" Scar says. He's scared, and that fact scares Grian more than anything. Why is he here? Where did he come from? Doesn't he see—

Grian gasps in a breath as his lungs scream. "Hey, it's okay, just breathe with me—"

"Don't touch me," Grian wants to scream, but it comes out more like a plea. He can't, it's too much, there's so much noise and his skin doesn't feel right and he wants to claw at it until he can't feel it anymore. Scar's hands are off of him and the shrieking noise in his head quiets to only a cacophony. He's moving before he can really think about it, Void he just wants the noise to stop.

He's up the stairs when Scar reaches out to him again, calling his name. Anger flares hot and fast, a roaring fire burning from barely even a spark.

"Don't touch me!" he whirls, roaring, "just shut up!"

Scar looks far too neutral. Grian should feel guilty. He doesn't mean it, but the electric-charged feeling isn't going away and he needs out.

He trades the constant noise of the ship for the rush of wind. It's not better, not by a long shot, but he manages to fly until he nearly crashes into the side of a mountain. He lands at the mouth of a cave.

It's quiet. He tucks himself against the cave wall, his hands tight in his hair and his eyes firmly closed. Even the touch of stone against him feels like too much, and yet the gentle hum of approaching night wraps around him like a soft blanket.

Scar's approach comes sometime later, although Grian isn't sure when. It's long enough that he's stopped shaking, which is a plus. Scar lands as quietly as he can and then just . . . Stands there, waiting.

"I'm not— There's something—" he stutters and starts, unsure what he even wants to say, what he should say. He takes a quick breath. "That. Wasn't me."

"I know," Scar says softly. Grian stares at him, raw emotion flickering across his face. Scar knew? He knew something was wrong this whole time and he never said anything? He just let it happen.

He must have said some of that out loud because Scar stares resolutely at the floor as he says "I was pretty sure, at least, but I didn't know what to do. It's not . . . It's not simple, G."

Grian wants to shatter into a million pieces. He feels so small suddenly. "What's happening?" he asks, voice nearing a whine, "I don't want this, I don't understand. I don't know what's happening to me and . . . And I don't know who you are, Scar."

Hurt flashes across Scar's face. He kneels in front of him and raises his hand — still coated in blood — to Grian’s cheek. He hates that he leans into the touch. "I wish I could explain—"

"Why can't you?"

"—But this isn't something that can be explained. It's . . . Complicated."

Frustrated tears well up in his eyes and he grabs Scar's shirt in his hands, scrunching it up until his fingers protest. "What did you do to me, what's happening? I don't— this is wrong, I just want it to stop."

Scar's thumb rubs over Grian's cheek. Before he can protest, Scar has pulled him into a crushing hug. He should hate it, he should shove Scar away, but a little bit more of his resolve is chipped away and he finds himself leaning into the hug.

"I'm so sorry, Grian," Scar murmurs in his ear. "It's gonna be okay, I promise. I know. I know how hard this is. And I'm so, so sorry."

Grian holds on to scar like a lifeline, and at this point he very well may be. He feels so tired. His eyes close as exhaustion waves over him. There's something he wants to say, some question to make everything make sense or some accusation — the accusation, the thoughts he's not had the strength to put to words, the blood in Scar's teeth he resolutely ignores — but there's a ping that sounds from both of their comms. Grian wants a reason to pull away anyway, he doesn't, and to hold on to at least some of his dignity, so he does and fishes his comm out of his pocket.

His stomach drops.

Mumbo has joined the game.

#prion au #hermitcraft #grian #hermitcraft fanfic #mcyt #hermitblr #gtws #mcyt fanfiction #scarian #hermitshipping

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mmvalentine · 3 years ago

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Take It Off | Feysand

I'm in my spiky feels... time for smut. Canon compliant.

Rhys hasn't seen Feyre in two weeks and he's going out of his mind.

She's at the Summer Court. On a diplomatic trip that he was had every intention of joining Feyre on but she didn't let him.

"Because you already have so much work in Velaris," she had said. "It's only two weeks, there's no point in you taking on even more when you barely have time to breathe as it is."

"That," Rhys had said, his arms looped around her waist and his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ticked, "is not a good enough reason to be parted from you."

"Fine," Feyre said, and her eyes sharpened. "Then it's because I'm keeping you far away from Cresseida and her greedy little claws."

"What?" Rhys balked. Feyre slid her hands up his chest, and pressed her lips to his throat.

"I've seen the way she looks at you. It would not be in the diplomatic interests of the court for me to strangle her in her sleep."

"Gods but you're sexy when you're jealous," Rhys said, and Feyre reached up on her toes to kiss his nose.

"I know," she said. "I'll be back for the Beltane revel."

And then she had swept out of the room and even though Rhys knew she had no such insecurity, he delighted in how wickedly fae she had become over the years.

In between now and then of course Rhys had spoken to Feyre every evening. Had spent time curled around her mind as she drifted off to sleep, sometimes having to wait while she worked late and other times watching the mists of her dreams curl upward like smoke.

One night she dreamed of him.

Rhys was almost asleep when he heard Feyre moan, as clear as if she was lying right next to him. He woke up, wandered down the bond and watched her back arch as she slept. Her small hands were fisted in the sheets, and brow creased as her head tossed. Rhys ghosted a finger down her heated cheek, growling for not being able to to touch her. She moaned again, and he knew that moan. It made him hard as a fucking rock.

It's not often that Rhys intrudes on Feyre's thoughts. But the hunger for her, the need to be close to her, egged him on. He wanted to see what was making her squirm- because he was fairly sure he knew. And he loved it.

Feyre's dreams were mostly just snatches of feelings and remembrances. Nothing especially substantive or specific. Nothing in comparison to the vivid memories he started threading into her mind. Just to... help her out.

Memories of the last time he had had her. In the bath tub. The steam rising around them. The water dripping off his wings. His cock buried so deep inside her she could have choked on it. Rhys replayed the feeling of her, tight around him as he slid in and out, in and out. Getting lost in it. He hoped she knew just how fucking good she felt.

Feyre woke, half way to orgasm, and Rhys didn't say a word as her hand slipped under the covers and between her legs. Didn't need to get behind her mind's shields to remember exactly how wet she could get for him and what that felt like on his fingers. Feyre moaned once more and he swore before grabbing his cock, too, miles and miles away, and moving his hand in time with hers.

"Yeah, just like that," Feyre whispered, still half asleep, and Rhys was burning up. The lust dripping down the bond had his vision blurring his cock aching. When Feyre finally opened her eyes, she looked straight at him, and all he could see was those baby blues, whether his eyes were open or closed. And then he was gripping himself harder because when she was staring at him like that with desire ringing her pupils he knew he was completely hers.

Let me see, Feyre murmured.

See what? Rhys asked muzzily.

You know what. Let me see.

What? Rhys said again. See this? He looked down at his cock in his hand.

Yeah, Feyre breathed.

You want to see what you do to me? He moved his hand up and down. You want to see how hard you make me? You know this happens every time you're on my mind. I'm walking around like this all day because of you.

All day? Feyre licked her lips, and Rhys watched her watching him.

All fucking day, he growled. And when I've got your voice in my mind, when I know you're lying there in bed all alone, thinking of me with your hand in your panties... it makes me just...

He trailed off, but his hand sped up and Feyre moaned a little.

You like watching, huh? Rhys asked her. You like watching me stroke it for you?

In another room, in another court, Feyre bit down on her lip and nodded.

Are you playing too? Rubbing that clit while you think of me?

Yes, Feyre whimpered, and her hips lifted off the bed.

I want you to slide your fingers inside yourself. Do it and imagine you've got my cock in you.

Feyre obeyed, and Rhys groaned. He stroked himself faster, and felt Feyre's attention shift back onto him.

Are you gonna match my pace? He asked. You fucking yourself just like I want to fuck you?

Feyre nodded and sped up. Her breathing shallowed, and Rhys growled low.

You wanna see me come?

Yes, Feyre said, and he could feel the wetness gathering on her hand.

You first, Rhys snarled. Come on your own fingers. And she did, so hard he felt it shudder down the bond, and there was only so many moments he could hold on after that before he was coming, too.

Feyre laughed softly as she drifted back to sleep.

I love you, she said, and then dropped off.

I miss you, Rhys whispered. He rolled onto his side and tried to get some sleep too. But somehow, he was still hard. No imagined tryst was as good as his mate in the flesh. He groaned, turned around to his back again, and jerked off hard and fast with the scent of her in his nostrils.

In much the same fashion, this night does not soothe him, only makes him more restless for her return.

Now two weeks later he is stalking around the moonstone palace with energy crackling at his fingertips. Feyre is due back today. Fourteen days without his mate is far too long, and his friends have started to avoid him. Had just teased him at first, but then he had become so irritable and unpleasant that they just steered clear altogether.

Which has left him slouching in his throne, wondering where the hell Feyre is. She hasn't so much as whispered in his mind all day.

And then just when he is about to storm into the Summer Court and fetch her himself, Feyre walks through the door and sits herself on the arm of his throne, casual as anything.

"Darling I'm home," she purrs, leaning back and gazing out at the crowd.

"And just where have you been?" Rhys asks, still looking out at the revellers.

"Working, lover, as discussed," is the cool response.

"I expected you back hours ago."

"I was... detained."

"At Tarquin's behest, no doubt."

"Perhaps."

Rhys grinds his teeth. In the corner of his eye, Feyre crosses one of her legs over the other, so that the toe of her pointed shoe grazes his ankle. Finally, he looks over, and his mouth goes dry.

Feyre is wearing the black dress, the Court of Nightmares dress, and the black diamond diadem to match. She looks down as he stares, and raises an eyebrow.

"What?" she says, and it is so insolent Rhys has a mind to bend her over that infernal armrest and take her in front of the whole court.

As it is, he manages not to. Turns his body toward his mate's, and runs his hand up her bare thigh, over the curve of it so that his fingertips travel the inside edge of her skin. He stops himself at the top of her thigh, barely holding on to his self-control. He remembers the first time she wore this dress and he had touched her like this. Her face watches his impassively, but her legs fall open just a fraction, and Rhys, wound up as he is, feels a shudder run the length of his body.

"Fuck," he hisses, and he is so hard it hurts.

"Something troubling you, my lord?" Feyre asks, all wide-eyed innocence.

"We're leaving," Rhys grits out.

"But darling," Feyre says, and she shifts her hips so that his hand, resting just under the satin of her skirts, finds that she is not wearing any underwear. "The revel has only just begun." This fucking dress. He doesn't know what's more tantalising- the exposed curve of her breast, or peak of her nipple beneath the fabric, so fine he thinks it doesn't count as clothing.

Rhys visibly swallows, moves his fingers so that they only just brush against the soft lips of her bare pussy, and looks at her with desperate eyes.

"And I just got here." Feyre smiles beatifically, and her mate growls with all of his teeth showing. She tilts her hips, outwardly not seeming to move from her perch but managing to shift to that his fingers are right on the centre of her. Rhys stares at her navel, seeing nothing, transfixed by the silk and heat of her. "Shouldn't we stay just a little longer?"

Feyre blinks at him, all wide-eyes innocence. But then his fingers twitch and even this tiny movement has her soaking, and it's far too much.

"Take it off," Rhys snarls.

"What?"

"Your dress. I can't stand to have you covered up another fucking second."

"My love, you can hardly expect me to strip off in front of all these good fae."

He grabs her wrist, and the next second they've winnowed into their bedroom.

"Take. It. Off."

Feyre tips her head to one side, and looks at her lover, half-feral by the closed door.

"Did you miss me when I was gone?" she croons.

"Off," Rhys repeats, and Feyre's gaze meets the protrusion in the front of his trousers. Her mouth forms the shape of recognition, and her eyes sparkle. She lifts her hands to the fastenings in the back of the dress, but she is too slow.

Rhys crosses the room in three strides and tears the fabric with his hands. Feyre gasps as he touches her, puts his hands on her everywhere. His teeth pull at the skin of her neck, his thumbs stroke over her nipples. His fingers find the clasp of her necklace and remove that too. She goes to lift the tiara from her head, but Rhys stops her.

"That, you can leave on," he growls, and then finally her kisses her and it's somewhere between scathing possession and relief that could shatter him.

Feyre whimpers, it's a long moment before Rhys can pull himself away. Then with steely eyes but gentle hands he pushes her to her knees.

Feyre looks up at her mate, keeping her eyes on his as he takes his cock out and lowers it to her lips.

"Are you going to be a good girl?" he asks, low and dangerous. "Are you going to give me what Tarquin doesn't get?"

Feyre doesn't break eye contact as she takes his entirety into her mouth, relaxing her throat to fit him in. The groan this pulls from Rhys is entirely worth it.

"So good," Rhys murmurs, as she starts to move her head back and forth. At that moment, Feyre flashes up a memory. Her and Tarquin sitting at a long table. So good, Tarquin says with his eyes on Feyre's and a dessert spoon in his mouth.

Rhys growls, and his hands slide into her hair. He holds her in place as he fucks her mouth a little harder, and Feyre's laughter tickles the bond.

"Oh you think that's funny, do you?" Rhys snarls, and in the next second he's pulled out, lifted her up and over his shoulder, and is carrying her to the bed.

Feyre is dumped unceremoniously on her back, and before she can sit up Rhys’s whole weight is on her and his snarl is grazing the shell of her ear.

”You‘re a fucking tease, my darling,” he says from his throat. Feyre starts to reply but he’s pressing the air out of her. "I think you'll pay for that now."

Without breaking eye contact, takes her bottom lip between his teeth, and slowly pushes his cock inside of her.

Feyre's head tilts and her eyes roll. Her lips part and she goes for a gasp, but Rhys is still heavy on her chest and she can't get any air in. Her mouth opens and closes, and her hands tighten on Rhys's arms. Rhys's lips curl, as he reaches his hilt. He kisses gently down Feyre's neck, still not letting her breathe. His hands lift hers above her head, and his tongue glides all the way back up her throat to her ear. When he finally lets up, he watches her inhale as he withdraws, and then just before she exhales he punches his hips forward so her next breath is forced out in a cry.

Rhys loves watching Feyre when he's moving inside her. She knows he loves her wicked words and taunting eyes, but even her mind is silent as this sensation, this bond, this coming home after weeks away becomes more important than everything else.

At first, Rhys is hard and desperate. Needs to feel her everywhere so he knows she's back and she's safe. Needs release after so long in a cold and empty bed. And he's in love with the way that she responds to him, never shying away from him even when he's sharp and rough with her. In fact, she seems to need it too, and when her fingers taper into talons that drag down his back, he shudders with his whole body as his wings ripple out from beneath his skin. Her knees hug his ribcage, and her can feel the pulse in her throat beneath his lips.

And then her eyes open and the entire sky is framed in her lashes. Rhys's heart breaks and suddenly he's moving slow, sinuous, deep and rolling. His wings shut out the twilight, narrowing the world to just the two of them. Feyre's breathing changes and then the moans are long and keening. Rhys holds her gaze as she starts to unravel in his arms. He moves a thumb to circle her clit. He moves in, and out, and in again.

"Come for me," he whispers in her ear, and when she does it's delicious. When she's halfway through her orgasm he picks up the pace again because he isn't going to let her come down. He's got two weeks to make up for.

Feyre is screaming as his hands slide over her and squeeze her breasts. His thumb caresses her nipple, gentle even though his hipbones are knocking hard against hers. He kisses her open mouth and uses his tongue to cut off the sound, and her grip is so tight in his hair.

Please, Feyre finally begs. It's the first word she's uttered since they began. Now it comes in a litany. Please, please, please.

Rhys scoops his hand behind Feyre's head, fingertips scraping against her scalp before pulling her hair so hard her head tips back. Her eyes slide closed and her hands shake on his shoulders.

Please, I need you.

Rhys turns her head slightly to the side using the fistful of hair he's got, exposing more of her throat to him. He bites down between her jaw and her ear lobe, where he can taste her heartbeat and the smell of her is clearest, and when all that's in his mind is his mate, he comes hard in the tight heat of her and she's got tears in her eyes when she comes again with him.

In the fading light, in this sumptuous bed, in the embrace of his lover, Rhys puts his face into Feyre’s neck and breathes deeply. He grins against her dewy skin as he listens to her heart stutter and catch its breath. Feyre sighs contentedly.

”You know,” she says after a moment, “leaving you is almost worth it for the reunion sex.”

Rhys growls at her, tugs her down the bed and flips her over. Feyre laughs breathlessly as he smacks her once on the ass, and then he pulls her hips back toward him and fucks her until her laugh has turned to moans and her moans have turned to sobs. And this time when he’s done with her there are no smart remarks, just her curled up on his chest like a limp kitten and he traces his bitemarks in her skin until she’s falling asleep.

“Alternatively,” he whispers, “you can just never leave me again.”

He takes her lack of reply as an agreement.

**** MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #smut #it's just smut that's it that's the post #i can't write fluff rn i'm grumpy okay

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onwesterlywinds · 2 years ago

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PROMPT #27: Hail

Each time Ashelia Riot thought herself better prepared to receive the Seraph's visions, she awoke more mistaken than ever. The all-too-brief glimpses of divinity, prophetic even after thousands of years, fled from her memory like water through a sieve - not because of the inherent forgetfulness of waking, but because she herself could neither absorb nor comprehend the sights she'd been gifted once bereft of the Seraph's presence.

The change had become acute in her waking hours: she spoke with all her usual certainty of matters in the here and now, and yet anything removed from her company's present location and circumstances - anything taking place upon Dalmascan soil - invoked fragments of disjointed memories, scraps of omens long since lost, urgent but beyond her reach. She saw how the others looked at her in fear, how even those with stones of their own beheld her with pity.

She could not lead them in such a state. She would have to grow more, and soon - the better to render herself up as their Dynast-Queen as the ever-swelling storm approached.

You are still coming into the fullness of my blessing, the Seraph said, with a patience she did not merit. All will become clear in time.

That night, at her own prompting, Ashe focused as deeply as she could upon one history in particular.

Not so very long ago, a young soldier took up arms to protect his only family. He returned alive but shattered in body and mind, the sole survivor of an especially brutal siege. It was a story she knew all too well, having borne several almost identical ones throughout her upbringing as an Ala Mhigan. She had even seen traces of it play out verbatim in what her company had learned thus far of Duane and Grissom.

Do not turn from it yet. The Seraph's words of caution, and the delicate touch of fingers along the length of her spine, held her in place when her hubris might otherwise have called her on. There is more for you to uncover here.

She saw then the conspiracy from his oppressors that had singled him out, scapegoated him, made him a tool for their own destruction.

She watched as the soldier's sibling placed a bouquet of their favorite flowers - bright red lilies that made her gut clench even in the Seraph's demesne - into the young man's lap.

The lilies had grown across across all of Hydaelyn's great continents, once; they had been laid at the graves of kings and traitors alike. They had withered beginning in the Fourth Umbral Era, as the divine right of kings had likewise languished, until they grew nowhere except in the shadows of Ala Mhigo's ramparts. The fact, then, that they featured with prominence in her earliest childhood memories was-

"Please," Ashe whispered, the supplication leaving her lips before she was conscious of forming the thought herself. "Tell me what you would have me do."

Oh, Dynast-Queen.

The Seraph alit before her in all her golden-winged majesty, and she was struck with the same sense of awe.

I would have you praise me.

#FFXIVWrite #FFXIVWrite 2022 #Ashelia Riot #HAIL ULTIMA #HAIL! ULTIMA!

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sabxism · 4 years ago

Text

But I’m Here In Your Doorway

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Based on these lines from this is me trying:

Pulled the car off the road to the lookout Could've followed my fears all the way down And maybe I don't quite know what to say But I'm here in your doorway

Word count: ~2.6k

Warnings: mentions of and encounter with possible suicide, injuries (blood, bruises, etc), mention of (previous) deaths

Summary: reader loses everything. after she nearly makes an irreversible decision, she goes to Poe for help.

GIF not mine

The screams of your squadron members bounce around in your head. It was your fault, you knew that. You shouldn’t have set off without checking your ship. Without checking for any trackers. So it wasn’t a surprise when, out of nowhere, a group of TIEs burst out of hyperspace, straight into your fleet like pins being knocked over by 30 flying bowling balls. You had watched, helplessly, as your friends - your family - were picked off one-by-one. As they went up into terrifyingly bright balls of gas and flame and smoke. It was your fault. All your fault.

Part of you was trying to cling onto the notion that you couldn’t have known, how could you have known? But the majority of your mind beat back those thoughts, letting the sickening guilt take over and push you into a dark corner. Debriefing had been a nightmare. General Organa had, of course, told you that it wasn’t your fault, that it was nobody’s fault but the spy she hadn’t discovered in time. She could sense the weight on your shoulders, sense you falling into a pit inside of yourself.

After the meeting, she had pulled you aside.

“Y/N. I need you to look at me,” she said, turning your head gently but firmly with her right hand. “It isn’t your fault. You did everything you could. Sometimes, things are just out of our control.”

“I know,” you lied, just wanting this conversation to be over. Leia could sense your apprehension, and sighed.

“Look, I know that nothing I say is going to change how you feel, because I’ve been there, and I know what you’re thinking. I know it’s hard. Trust me.” you look down at the floor, scuffing the tip of your boot across the dusty ground. “It will get better. I promise you.”

“Thanks, general.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Leia?” she asks lightly as you turn to walk away.

“A few more, apparently,” you respond, the ghost of a false smile resting over your face. With that, you turn on your heel and head to your quarters.

You step through the door as it slides open and sit down on your bed. You reach for your datapad, wanting to distract yourself with something.

You click the screen on, and your heart drops. Staring back at you are the smiling faces of your squadron. You’re all clustered around Mari’s new droid, with hands on its shiny purple head. She had been so happy to get that little guy.

Now they were both nothing more than dust drifting through the empty expanse of space.

You hurl the tablet at the wall, watching as the screen shatters and falls to the floor.

You place your head in your hands, silent sobs racking your body. You clench your hair in your hands, knuckles turning white. You stand up, body shaking, and walk out of your quarters.

You pass Finn in the hallway. He smiles at you, but you can’t bring yourself to do the same. You feel awful as he looks back at you as you pass him, but at this point there’s no use trying to fix it. You trudge outside and up to your x-wing sitting on the tarmac, the edges of the wings blackened from smoke. You glance around, checking the coast is clear, then scurry up the ladder and into the cockpit. You check the time.

1800.

Sighing, you boot up your craft and quickly take off. You cruise over the base a few times, watching everyone go about their day. Like nothing happened. Like 10 of the most beautiful, vibrant souls hadn’t just been snuffed like a match. You swallow the knot in your throat and head for the atmosphere. You need to get away from here.

“General Organa!” Leia turns, to see a frenzied runway tech sprinting towards her. “Y/N took off on an unauthorized flight.”

Leia swallows thickly, her heart dropping. “How long ago?”

“We noticed she was left just now - but it looks like she’s been gone about an hour.”

“Then there’s nothing we can do but hope she comes back safely.”

“That’s what I was worried about.”

You land on a nearby forest planet, after searching for about ten minutes for a place to touch down. You pick a plateau on the Western side, lowering your land gear as you begin to descend. You hop down from your ship onto the grassy earth, and look around.

It’s quiet up here. There’s a soft wind blowing, and it weaves delicate fingers through your hair and across your face as you take off your helmet. You let it fall to the ground, and decide to walk around for a bit. You make your way to the edge of the plateau, and look out across the forest beyond. It stretches on for miles, a swath of dark green. The last rays of the sun blaze across the sky, painting the clouds with a pink-orange hue.

You glance down, and your heart drops to your toes. It’s a long way to the ground below. You begin to back up, but for some reason you find yourself stopping. You get closer to the edge, still looking down. It would be so easy to just take another step. Just one more. All of this would be over. You wouldn’t have to feel this guilt anymore.

Your knee lifts up slowly.

Realizing what you’re about to do, you scramble back, falling to the dirt. You brace your hands on the ground, digging your fingers into the earth to anchor yourself. Your chest heaves, and your vision spins. The ground seems to buckle, to toss you around. The sky bends and arches above you as you struggle to breathe. You roll over onto your stomach and wrap your arms around your knees.

You don’t know how long you lie there, but by the time you have the courage to stand up and walk again, the moon is floating in the sky above you, and the stars glimmer against a black backdrop.

You climb back into your x-wing and sit there, staring at your dashboard. Your eyes meet one of the few pictures leaned against the fuel gague. You and Poe lean against his x-wing a few months ago. You have your arms wrapped around each other. He’s kissing your cheek, and you’re laughing, open-mouthed, your nose scrunched up and your eyes shut tight.

You take a shuddering breath. Poe. You couldn’t believe what you’d almost done - what you still might do, if you don’t get out of here. You couldn’t leave him like that. You rapidly go through your flight checklist and then take off, headed back to base.

You land on the tarmac around 0200, exhausted and beaten down by your own thoughts. You hop out of your ship, landing on the ground with a thud.

You start walking, not really knowing where your legs are taking you, but you end up at Poe’s quarters. You can hear movement inside the room. You raise a trembling hand and knock once.

He opens the door, and his eyes widen. His mouth moves silently, searching for words.

You swallow thickly, a nervous knot tying in your stomach.

He takes a step toward you, not quite believing what he’s seeing. Leia had told him that you’d left suddenly after their meeting, and he had grown worried that you were hurt, or worse. But here you are, standing in front of him. Your form is limp and you’re drawn into yourself. Your face and neck are caked with blood and dirt, and your eyes are clouded and empty.

“Hi,” you say weakly. He quickly closes the gap between the both of you, wrapping you in a tight embrace. Your arms hang limp beside you.

“Stardust,” he breathes, holding you tightly. “I was so worried.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, falling down your face and onto Poe’s shoulder. He pulls back, concerned. Cradling your face in his hands, his eyebrows crease with worry.

He looks down at you, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb. There’s a silent question written across his features. You shake your head tearfully. You don’t know what to say.

“Baby…” he whispers, pulling you close to his chest again. You clutch at the back of his shirt with shaking hands.“I’m here now - you’re safe. You’re ok, you’re ok, you’re ok.” He repeats those two words over and over like a mantra, equally to himself as to you. “Let’s get you inside, ok?” he says, and you nod. Placing a hand on the small of your back, he guides you into his quarters.

“I’ll grab some clothes for you,” he says as you sit down on the edge of the bed. He rustles through his drawers, eventually coming up with a long-sleeved olive green shirt and a pair of grey boxer shorts. He sets them on the bed next to you. “Are you good to take a shower?” You think about it for a minute, and slowly shake your head. The idea of being pounded with thousands of tiny droplets makes you want to hide under a blanket.

“Too much,” you murmur, and he nods in understanding.

“Ok, love, that’s fine. We do need to clean you off and deal with these cuts, though.” he gestures to the lacerations across your skin. You nod weakly. You hear him pad over to the refresher unit and grab a medkit and some washcloths, which he wets under some running water from the sink.

He kneels in front of you, and motions for you to take off your flight suit. You slip it halfway off, letting it rest around your waist. Poe sucked in a breath through his teeth as he saw the bruises blooming across your torso and arms. You’d gotten tossed around pretty bad, getting knocked through space by several of the TIEs. You’d slammed your sternum right into the dashboard at one point, and small fragments of something had slashed open nearly every bit of exposed skin and even some under your suit.

“Y/N…” he says quietly, tearing up. You bite the inside of your cheek, hating to see him so upset.

He gets to work cleaning your cuts. He’s as gentle as he can be, but you still hiss as the cold water on the washcloth cleans out your cuts, and tears start to fall as he bandages up a particularly bad cut on your stomach. He holds your hand the whole time, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you need to, never even flinching as your vice grip tightens around his fingers.

“Ok, baby, let me check your legs and then you’re all set,” he says, and you turn away, face flushing with nervousness. He’s confused for a second, then has a moment of understanding. He’s never seen you naked - you weren’t ready to get intimate yet, so you guys had been taking it slow, and now really wasn’t the best time to breach that barrier. “You can change into the shorts first,” he says quietly, and you look back at him gratefully.

You make your way to the refresher unit, shutting the door behind you. You peel off your flight suit the rest of the way, followed by your undergarments, crusted with blood from the cuts on your stomach. You pile the discarded clothes in a pile by the shower, and slip on the shirt and shorts Poe had leant you. You take the opportunity to glance into the mirror above the sink, and grimace at the reflection that gazes back at you. Hair messy and tangled, face bruised and covered with small cuts, you were not a pretty sight to behold. Sighing, you head back into the main room.

Sitting back down on the bed, you lean against the wall and stretch your legs out in front of you. Poe sits down on the mattress next to you, surveying your exposed limbs. They aren’t as bad as the upper half of your body, but they definitely aren’t good. He dabs at the cuts gently, taking your hand again. He mutters sweet nothings as you clench your teeth and shut your eyes tightly for the next few minutes as he finishes up.

“All done,” he eventually says, and you relinquish your grip on his hand, wiping the tears from your eyes. He looks up at you, and you almost melt at the love in his eyes. You realize in that moment how lucky you are - that no matter what, he’ll always take care of you. Always.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he smiles softly, opening his arms. You crawl over to where he’s leaned against the headboard and collapse into his embrace, breathing beginning to even out.

“You need sleep, baby,” he says, and you nod. “You can stay here, if you want.” You nod again, and he presses a kiss to your hair. “I’ll grab some extra blankets from the closet.” He gets up and goes to retrieve them. You get under his comforter and lay your head down on one of the pillows. Your eyes drift closed.

Poe pads back over to the bed and pauses, looking down at you. He swallows thickly, tearing up. He makes a promise to himself then and there that he’d never lose you like that. Never again.

He lays another blanket over you, then switches off the lights. He quickly changes into some sleep clothes and then gets under the covers, laying down facing you.

“Poe?” you mumble, searching for his face in the dark.

“Right here, honey,” he says softly, and you inch closer to him, a bit nervous to get too close. He senses your unease and smiles softly. “Cmere,” he says, draping a hand over your waist and pulling you close to him. You tuck your head against his chest, a warm feeling creeping into your very core. Being this close to him is grounding. You take a deep breath in. The scent of the lavender soap he uses clings to his skin, and it washes over you. You listen to his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest.

“I love you,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize what you just said. The two of you haven’t exactly said it before. You feel Poe freeze beside you, and your heart drops. You mentally kick yourself. How could you say that right now?

“I love you too,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. You blush furiously as he tilts your head up with his thumb and forefinger. “To the edge of the universe and back.” He presses his lips to yours, feather soft.

“I love you,” you say again, just because you can. He smiles softly.

“I’m proud of you, I want you to know that,” he says after a while. “For...getting through all this. I know it hurts, and it’ll stay that way for a bit, but…” he pauses, taking your hand in his. “But I’ll always be here if you need me. To talk, or just listen. You can lean on me, ok?”

“Ok,” you say quietly, looking up into his eyes.

“Ok,” he whispers.

“Ok.” You smile, and his heart flips at the beauty of it. He pulls you into his chest once more, and you’re out like a light almost instantly. He presses his lips to your forehead before drifting off, holding you tightly in his arms.

#poe dameron #poe dameron fic #poe dameron/reader #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fluff #poe dameron angst #star wars #star wars fic #star wars fluff #star wars angst #poe dameron fanfic #poe dameron fanfiction #fluff #angst #fluff and angst

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yzafre · 2 years ago

Text

just promise you won't let me go | epilogue

AO3

< First | << Previous

Three hundred and fifty-seven says after Roxas joined the Organization, Xion found Roxas at the top of the clock tower. The sun was setting. Her face was not her own.

Their Keys clashed, a stellar collision, the orbital decay of a binary star.

They shattered.

There was a girl.

She had collapsed, and now laid cradled in his arms, ice-like crystal creeping up her legs as she whispered to him between labored breaths. Something about Sora and going away – about Kingdom Hearts and setting it free. There was something about her – Roxas felt like he should know her.

His head hurt.

“Goodbye, Roxas,” she said, and her fingers whispered across his skin, the softest kiss before she shifted to cradle his cheek, “See you again. I’m glad I got to meet you.”

He stared down at her, confusion painting his face, and she just smiled wider, softer and sadder, and he hated it, she shouldn’t look like that, her smile should be, should be –

She curled her head in, that smile pressed to his shoulder, “And of course, Axel, too. You’re both my best friends. Never forget; that’s the truth.”

Her hand shook, tremors against his cheek, before falling, and he caught it without thinking. Warmth sparked where their hands met, a shock to the system traveling through his veins, star-to-star, hello, goodbye.

“No,” he remembered, “Xion!”

He pulled her in close, begging as she stared up at him through heavy eyes, “Xion – who else will I have ice cream with?”

She smiled, eyes slipping fully closed. He clutched her, closer and closer, until she shattered into light in his arm, his embrace coming to rest on only himself.

For a second, he was left alone in the quiet. At this point in the day there should have been sounds around him: the soft murmur of afternoon crowds echoes up from the square and the clinking rumble of the trains hum behind him and the wind across the trees.

He inhaled once, choked on it. His next breath fed a pressure in his chest, and on the exhale it exploded outward, ripping up and out from his back. Heat speared through his veins, out his limbs, supernova in his chest searing and numbing every inch of them.

He couldn’t breathe – he couldn’t breathe. There was this ringing, blurring out the world until his body caught up and forced a gasp, only for it to start all over again. The ugly, roiling mass in his chest writhed against his lungs, and he tried to push it away, outoutout, pain bursting from his spine, but it only left him feeling empty, wrung out and weak. The release of pressure did nothing for the weight upon him, and each new breath only brought more tears.

Roxas didn’t know how long he knelt in front of the station. Eventually, he managed to stop heaving up sobs so that his vision could clear to show more than the blurred, blinding lights of the eternal sunset.

As he blinked the last of the tears from his eyes, he felt something sharp pressing lines into his palm. He turned his hand, finding a seashell tucked inside. Another small shudder passed through him, and a flurry of feathers stirred around him, brown and shimmering blue-black. He stood, a heavy weight dragging him down. The feathers danced around his feet as he swayed in place.

From the corners of his eyes a shape behind him caught his attention. He twisted one way, then the other. Through the remaining fog in his mind, it took a minute to realize the shadows were attached to him, and the weight pulling at him was very, very real.

Two pairs of wings drooped behind him, one a soft, pale brown and the other a sleek blue-black. It should disturb him more than it did, he thought, but they looked as sad as he felt, scraping across the ground as he moved. It seemed right, that he should be transformed when a fundamental pillar of his world has been lost.

The sun dipped below the horizon, the world going dark.

Turning, he found two keys laying abandoned on the pavement, mirror images of each other in pink and yellow. When he picked them up, they hummed, fizzled, the energy inside him roiling, alternatingly begging to get out and pushing them away, magnets at opposite poles. He reached down, magic coming stronger and smoother than it had in weeks, twin stars in his chest jumping to answer and the keys shattered, new forms taking their place.

The key on his left, a long lance decorated with dark, sharp points, a perfect weight in his hand, and the other, a long silver blade with a yellow guard and sunburst decoration running along the edge, hummed quietly to him, a song he knew to his bones, the words just out of reach.

She asked him to free Kingdom Hearts.

If that’s what she wanted, then that’s what she’d get.

Axel woke up. Grass tickled his cheek, and everything ached – his back, his limbs, his head. He had lost.

Xion was gone.

That was – not great. Well, it was bad, actually, very, ridiculously bad, but if he started going down that line of thought, he’d never get anything done, so.

Xion was missing, fully willing to let the heroes destroy her. Not great.

He heaved himself to his feet, craning his head around to get a better look at the sky. It was hard to tell, in Twilight Town, but it looked like it was heading toward true sunset, now, meaning most of the day had passed.

Again: not great.

Right, okay. He could do this. He reached out with his senses, looking for any lingering traces, any clue on where she went.

Most didn’t realize, but if you got to a dark corridor just after it closed, you could trace its path. Time was working against him here, but he was the best, so maybe, just maybe, if he looked –

There were two scars left in the air. Two rifts that had been torn open at the front gate. One went somewhere else in town. The other went to Castle Oblivion. He couldn’t tell exactly where they went, not from here – he’d only be able to follow it if he opened the corridor and traced its full path. By the time he did that, whatever lingering thread remained of the other would be long gone.

There were two paths; only one of them would lead him to Xion.

Axel took a deep breath and made a choice.

Axel had been up and down Castle Oblivion what must be a hundred times at this point; the place didn’t get better with familiarity.

The corridor let him out on a landing between two floors of the castle – impossible to tell which one exactly, of course, with the way every floor looked the same. It didn’t matter; all he had to decide was: up, or down?

A quick pause and a bit of a listen lead him upwards, towards the slightest buzz that indicated some sort of active magic – in this place, that should indicate a room in use.

He reached the hall just in time to watch the main door to the floor crack open, a small figure in a red cloak slipping out. Through the opening, he spotted a dimly lit room, a sliver of a long table covered in notes – and he’d seen that room before, where was it? – and at the end, two tall chambers, a body floating in each with them. Replicas, he thought. Only one door was open, so most of the right pod was cut off, but if he squinted he thought he could just make out the one on the left –

Oh.

The door slammed closed just as he recognized the face. Riku. Or, he suspected, the Riku replica.

“You know, there was this one thing I could never figure out,” Axel said, watching as Naminé startled, turning to him with eyes wide, gaze flickering between him and the door behind her. She had a small, black-haired doll clutched to her chest.

“Axel.”

“See, when Xion first tried to break into Castle Oblivion, she told me she had memories of me, here, in this castle,” he said, prowling forward, grim satisfaction creeping over him as she pressed herself back into the door, “Not too odd, though. I did meet Sora here, even if you’re making him forget about all of that. But then she said something odd – do you want to make a guess?”

Naminé didn’t answer; but then, he didn’t exactly leave her much room to answer.

“She said she had memories of me chasing her down. Capturing her. It seemed impossible, so I tried to ignore it, of course, but there’s only one person who would have a memory like that.”

“Hitoshi,” the word spilled from her on a strangled sigh, seemingly against her will.

“Your Replica,” he agreed, “But I just couldn’t figure out how she got the memory, you know? But now… well, I suppose I’ve found my answer. So, this was your plan all along.”

“That’s not true!”

“No?” he asked, “So you didn’t convince her you were her only option? Didn’t tell her to come to you, so you could take her apart?”

“She was falling apart already!” Naminé argued, “And I’m the only one who could fix it.”

“Fix it?” he sneered, “This is what you call fixing it? The last time I saw her, she was ready to try fighting this – and then she sees you, and she comes out ready to die.”

“I had a plan! One that would have saved her, if she came with me. It wasn’t supposed to go like this! How was I supposed to know she run off to – why would she - !”

She cut off, and he had half a second to wonder why before pain spiked through his head. The world flickered, his vision blinking in and out as the floor swam benath him. Across from him, Naminé had slumped back, nearly sliding down the wall.

“What,” he blinked slowly, swaying, “What was I….”

“It’s over,” Naminé whispered, face screwing up, “She’s… she’s gone. It’s all fading.”

“She?” That’s right, they were fighting about – about –

Why couldn’t he remember?

“I have to go. I have to place a reminder, before I,” she cringed, holding a hand to her head for a long moment before slumping, “Even I can’t hold on for long.”

“What are you talking about?” he growled. He flickered his eyes around the room, trying to figure out how he got here, why he came here. Castle Oblivion – a mission? No. Naminé watched him, something sad in her eyes. She was clutching a black-haired doll to her chest. He squinted, tried to make out more details – there was something, something about the shape –

Another lance of pain stabbed through his head, and he collapsed, knees slamming to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, reaching towards him.

The world went dark.

Axel woke up. His blankets tickled his cheek, and everything ached – his back, his limbs, his head. He had lost everything.

Roxas was gone.

Drawing in a sharp, bracing breath, he pushed upwards, scrubbing at his face. A flash of bright white against the gray of his room caught his eye and he paused, twisting around.

It was an envelope, sitting on his bedside. Curious, he picked it up, turning it over and over. No name, no note. Well, nothing for it – with a shrug, he flipped it open, feeling inside until he could pull out it’s contents.

A stick, mostly dry but with a bit of sticky residue left on the end. The text on it said “WINNER”.

The breath punched out of him, something in his chest aching. Roxas was gone.

How did this happen?

Roxas advanced towards Kingdom Hearts.

He didn’t dare open a corridor straight into the Castle. Instead, he stepped out into the City, stalking through the streets, taking out the heartless that seeped from the asphalt. Rain fell from above, soaking through his coat, making the ground slick, filling puddles in every divot and groove.

The heartless didn’t stop coming.

He met another boy in a black coat – the Imposter, he thought – as he was overwhelmed, who slammed down beside him, summoning a Key of his own – what? – and joining the fight. When the heartless finally cleared, they turned, leapt away and faced each other.

“Who are you?” he growled.

The stranger tilted his head, silver hair spilling over his shoulder, “What does it matter? I’m here for you.”

“Why are you trying to stop me?”

“Because I want back the rest of Sora’s memories.”

“Sora,” he muttered. Sora, Sora, Sora, that was all he ever heard from people these days, “Enough about Sora!”

“Do you have some kind of plan?”

“I’ll set Kingdom Hearts free – then everything will be the way it was. She’ll come back… and the three of us can be together again!”

“You mean Xion,” the imposter said, and Roxas hissed, because how dare he, what right did he have to say her name, “It’s a struggle just to remember the name, now. Either way, I can’t let you go doing anything crazy.”

“I’m freeing Kingdom Hearts, and I’m going to find Sora!” Roxas shouted, “I want Xion back. I want my life back!”

“If you try and make contact with Kingdom Hearts, the last thing you’ll get is your life back. The Organization will destroy you.”

“Enough!”

Roxas leapt, barreling into him. Pressure burst from his chest, his spine, heavy weights falling behind him, strengthening him, propelling him forward.

“What?” the Imposter gasped, but Roxas pressed his attack, and he had no room for anything more. The fight passed in a blur, nothing but the pounding in his ear and the swing of his Keys, striking again and again until the enemy fell, gasping in desperate breaths.

“Why,” he panted, “Why do you have the Keyblade?”

Roxas paused, just a hitch of his breath, his gaze jumping involuntarily to his weapon, because – why, why did he have the Keyblade, why wouldn’t anybody tell him?

He shook his head, “Shut up!”

The Imposter twisted, managing to swing his Key up in a swift deflection, sending him flying. He hit the ground and rolled, head throbbing, the feeling of something slipping lose.

What was he doing? He was… he was going to… to free something? To fight something? He…

He staggered to his feet, eyes meeting his opponent across the street.

He’d defeat his enemy. Surely, he’d be able to remember from there.

He lost.

Riku stared down at the prone form of Sora’s nobody as DiZ’s footsteps fade away into the rain. He stared and took a moment to remember before the truth faded away.

He owed it to her, after everything.

Here’s the thing about naming something: It changes every person who hears it, every voice who says it, every life that it touches.

If you name something, you get attached.

To name something is to give it a unique identity, and you can no longer deny its existence as separate from all others.

Feathers scattered the floor, brown and sleek blue-black. The wings had been a surprise – the two pairs even more so. Where had they come from? From Sora? From the Nobody? Neither pair were white, like the pair he last saw Sora sporting, but then, Sora had always insisted those weren’t his.

That accounted for one pair, but the other? Where did that come from? The Nobody? No, impossible – they were creatures without hearts, remains of their Somebodies, his wings would be Sora’s. Then who - ?

Here’s a secret: Just because you have a heart, it doesn’t mean you make the right choices.

No matter what he saw, he chose Sora. He would always choose Sora. He fell back into darkness for Sora.

So, he ignored the wings, because they wouldn’t matter anyways.

He reached into his pocket, rubbing along the crease of the paper tucked away there. The drawing was – odd. A blonde, one that looked like the Nobody unconscious before him, but surrounded by two unfamiliar figures – a woman with blue hair, and tall man that almost –

Naminé said she found it in Sora’s memories, certainly coming from him but still somehow foreign. And Mickey’s reaction to it was strange. He hadn’t been able to piece together what was happening there, and the King wasn’t sharing.

It was a long shot, but maybe there was an answer hidden somewhere in the mystery. He supposed it didn’t really matter for what came next. Sighing, he pulled his hands free, reaching down to lift the Nobody over his shoulder.

The rain faded away. The silence rung heavily; if he stretched his senses, he could almost hear echoes of the Nobody’s screams. Strange, how real they had sounded.

If the grief is real, then –

Shaking his head, he opened a corridor, stepping swiftly through to Twilight Town. The world was dim, only the barest hints of pre-dawn light illuminating the horizon. Morning had come; it was time to get to work.

Sora would awaken, soon.

#kh #kingdom hearts #fanfiction #wingfic #wrap your wings au #roxas #axel #riku #Yza writes a thing #358/2 days

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kaitycole · 4 years ago

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losing what he never had

Summary: Bokuto recounts the worst day of his life that all started with a phone call.

Pairing: Bokuto x fem!reader

Word Count: 2822

Warnings: Angst. Pure fucking angst. Character death. Slight mention of pregnancy loss.

A/N: Thanks to @cosmicmermaid25 for this prompt. She said “make me cry” I hope this lives up to it.

“I was supposed to be there, at home with you, but a match got rescheduled and I had to be in Tokyo. I was supposed to be there, driving with you to your doctor’s appointment because you wanted me with you, but instead I wasn’t and you were all alone.”

* * Present Day

Bokuto isn’t sure what he’s supposed to feel, but he does know that he feels empty and maybe a little lost. That feeling you get when you turn around in circles, first noticing the person you’re with isn’t there anymore. That feeling right before the panic sets in that you’re alone. Or maybe it’s more like when a strong wind blows in your face and you can’t catch breath, the struggle of quickly trying to block the overwhelming emotions that flood you as you try to breathe.

It’s been two months since he got the call, a phone call that shattered his entire world, that brought him down to his knees and nothing in his life has been the same. Like looking through a shattered mirror, hoping to see a complete image.

It had been on the calendar for weeks, the day that Y/N had her doctor’s appointment and she didn’t really like driving to far places alone, so of course being the doting boyfriend, Bokuto offered to drive. He didn’t mind, in fact he rather enjoyed driving and a part of him really enjoyed Y/N depending on him. She didn’t need to, she could hold her own, but he loved to feel needed and was confident that his partner knew that too.

But there was a storm, a match between MSBY and Schweiden Adlers had to be reschedule, but it became an away game and as fate would have it, it was scheduled for the same day as the appointment. Bokuto apologized profusely to his partner, swearing if he could sit out then he would, but she brushed off his worries, saying she understood, it wasn’t a big deal. Sometimes having such an understanding partner could hurt.

* * Two months ago – 7:45 AM

*alarm noises*

Bokuto picks up his phone, clicking end on the alarm, but truth be told, he had been up for a while. It’s weighing down on him that he can’t be there for his girlfriend, knowing she is getting ready to do something that she isn’t comfortable doing to begin with.

“Ko?” Her voice still sounds full of sleep, even though he knows by now she’s already had her morning tea and shower.

“’Morning babe. I just wanted to call before you left.” He steps out of the hotel room, out into the hallway. There’s a deeper meaning weighing his words, worry for her trip, but he’s hoping she doesn’t take it as doubt.

“You have perfect timing.” He hears the door locking in the background, “I was just walking out of the apartment.”

“I wish I could’ve been there to take you. Or that you’d have agreed to let Akaashi go with you.” He knows she can do it, but it doesn’t alleviate any guilt he has knowing that she didn’t really want to go alone.

“You can’t help a scheduling change and I’ll be okay, it’s not too far, ya know?” There’s a bit of hesitation in her voice and it kills Bokuto to know there’s nothing he can do. He tried to get her to reschedule but she said it had taken her a while to just get this one, she didn’t know how long it’d take to get another.

He sits on the ground next to his hotel room’s door, leaning back against the wall. “I know, but I still like feeling needed.” “Ko,” there’s a smile in her tone, “I’ll always need you. I gotta go, good luck at your game!”

“I love you. Be safe.”

“Love too you Ko!”

He stares at his phone, the screen now black and he can’t help but feel this pit in his stomach, like something’s eating at him. He pushes himself off the ground, trying to shake off the feeling, chalking it up to pre-game jitters.

* * 10:30 AM

It’s nearing the end of the first set of the match against the Adler that Bokuto’s focus seems to be withering. Hinata starts trying to pick up the slack on Bo’s end and Atsumu gets pissed off enough to stop setting to him altogether, which helps but the Adlers are quick to use that as a weak spot for MSBY. After the first set, Adlers in the lead, Coach Foster makes the decision to bench Bo.

Bokuto flops down on the bench, accepting a water bottle from the team’s manager. He hates this feeling, especially when he proudly told Akaashi and Atsumu that he wasn’t the moody guy that he was back in high school, and here he was letting whatever this feeling is affect his gameplay.

“Just cool down and clear your head.” Coach Foster says, not taking his eyes off the court.

Bokuto leans forward, his head between his knees as he steadies his breathing, letting go of everything that feels like it’s weighing him down. He knows that she’s fine, she promised him that she would be and he lets the comfort of her voice clear his mind before he makes eye contact with his coach, telling him that he’s ready now.

* * 1:55 PM

She should be home by now, right?

Bokuto looks down at his phone again, her voicemail echoing from the other end. Once Bokuto’s mind was clear, the Black Jackal dominated the court and took the win, but even with the various cheers filling the locker room, Bo found himself feeling miles away from the celebration.

He clicks on her thread once more, the last text having been from a few days ago about dinner, no “got here safely” text from today and that makes his stomach sink. He tries calling again, trying to rationalize that maybe it hadn’t gone through the first time, locker rooms had shaky cell reception, right? But he gets her voicemail once again, glances up at the clock, noting that maybe she was eating lunch or taking a nap, she’d been napping a lot more lately.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Bo!” Hinata says, patting his teammate on the back.

“C’mon, let’s go get something to eat!” Atsumu yells and a few other teammates quickly agree.

Bo lets out a sigh, shaking the thoughts from his head, “yeah, okay.”

* * 2:30 PM

Bokuto walks out of the hotel, most of the team already waiting out front, he doesn’t want to get food, he’d rather head back home, but the team is scheduled for a meet and greet tonight. Meaning chances of him leaving before tomorrow morning are slim. He looks down at his phone, an unknown number is calling, but before he can ignore it, the almost paralyzing feeling that weighed him down on the court grips around him.

“Hello?” His voice is shaking, Hinata and Atsumu walk over to him, both lost in whatever they were talking about to notice the shift in Bokuto’s demeanor.

“I’m calling for a Bokuto-san. Is this them?” “Yeah, I’m Boku—” He can’t finish his sentence, his mind racing with various thoughts, negative thoughts dry his mouth, causing a lump in a throat, like his body already knows what he’s about to hear. Hinata looks between him and Atsumu, clearly concerned for his teammate and friend, while Atsumu leans into the other side of the phone, hoping to overhear.

“You’re listed as an emergency contact for a L/N F/N.” There’s a pause that last about five seconds too long for Bokuto’s worried mind.

He doesn’t really hear anything after that, just snippets of the unfamiliar voice on the other side.

There was an accident…

…emergency surgery.

How soon…

…be here?

Atsumu catches Bokuto’s phone as his hand just lets it go, his mind still racing as the color drains from his face. He turns, running back into the hotel, using the stairs to get to his room because his anxious mind couldn’t take the wait for an elevator. Hinata and Atsumu run after him, but all he can hear is the thumping of his heart in his ears, his vision getting blurry from either tears or shock, he’s not too sure.

He fumbles with the keycard to get into the room, all but slamming it against the sensor before flinging the door open. He’s panicked, looking around the room trying to figure out what he needs right now, what should he take, he was never good at this thing, Y/N is always the one who packs things for him.

By the time Hinata and Atsumu have caught up to him, he’s mumbling to himself, Sakusa stepping out of the room next door to see what all the noise is from.

“I’ll fly. I’ll fly back to Osaka.” Bokuto says, looking for his passport, because in his mind airport equals passport.

“That’d take too long Bokuto.” Sakusa slowly steps into the room, trying to reason with him, “by the time you got a flight you could’ve already been back.”

Bokuto looks back towards the door, towards three of his teammates and the expression on his face could break their hearts. His bottom lip is poked out in a worried pout, his hair drooping down, almost like it’s deflated. None of them know what to do or to say, this is Akaashi’s or Y/N’s territory, not theirs.

“The train, Bo. That’s the fastest to get to her.”

He starts nodding, patting his pockets to make sure he has his wallet and quickly grabs a hoodie, as he starts making his way out of the room, his face void of any expression or emotion.

Keys.

Check.

Wallet.

Check.

Phone.

Check.

He pauses, still panicked, “I don’t have my passport. Where is it? I need it!”

Atsumu wants to grab and push Bokuto out of the room, to yell that he doesn’t need a passport to get on the train, but Hinata rushing into the room, swiping it from the inside pocket that lined his duffle bag. It’s where Y/N had told Bo to keep it so he wouldn’t worry about losing it or walking out of the hotel without it and where he’s kept it ever since.

“Here you go.” Hinata hands it to the wing spiker, noting that Bokuto’s eyes look dead, there’s no light in them like usual. “C’mon, let’s get to the train station.”

* * 6 PM

Bokuto bolts into the hospital, frantically looking around the sterile white building, breathlessly. He walks up to the first person that he sees in a white coat, not really caring how he looks to anyone.

“I…got a call…”

“Patient name?”

He tells the doctor her name, watching the woman’s face drop just slightly before becoming stoic again. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

“After I see her…” His words are desperate, like he’s hanging on from the edge, getting ready to fall at any moment. The pain in his eyes clearly evident to the woman as she tries to figure out what to do, how to handle the situation. “Please.”

“We tried….there wasn’t…I’m sorry…”

He shakes his head, as if the motion alone would change what he’s about to hear, what he’s feared since he got the call. His fingers run through his hair, tugging on it slight to ground him because it feels unreal, like he’s watching this unfold from outside his own body.

“…your losses.”

Bokuto’s attention instantly refocuses, eyes lined with tears that are seconds from falling, such a pathetic expression in his eyes. “What?”

“I just assumed you knew.” The doctor shifts awkwardly on her feet, “it seems she was 11 weeks pregnant.”

* * 7:12 PM

“Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto’s sitting next to the hospital bed where Y/N is, holding her hand, half asleep, the mix of crying and the adrenaline wearing off has drained him. He’s been there practically since he arrived, refusing to leave her, refusing to accept that she’s anything but sleeping.

“Bokuto-san.”

He looks up, eyes red and puffy, his nose stuffy as he breathes through it, turning slightly to see the owner of the voice, never letting go of her hand. Though it doesn’t feel like her hand, it’s cold which isn’t unlike her, she’s always been warm. She brought a warmth to Bokuto’s life and he’s not sure he’s ready to let it go, he’s not sure that he can let go.

Akaashi walks in the room, placing a hand on Bo’s right shoulder, “Bokuto-san, let’s get you home.”

“I can’t…leave her…here.” He starts choking on the sobs that rip through his throat, “she won’t know where she is.”

“I know, but it’s getting late.”

“We can go…after she wakes up, okay? Yeah, yeah,” his voice raises a little bit, like he’s satisfied with the idea he’s come up with, “that way…I can let her…know I’ll be back.”

Akaashi takes a deep breath, he thought he’d seen every side of Bokuto, that he knew all of his weaknesses and strengths, that he was the one of the few people that could ground Bokuto, but he’s out of his element here. How do you tell your best friend the love of his life isn’t going to wake up?

“Boku—” “Aka—Keiji,” He steadies his breath, a small sob cracks his voice, “I know…she’s gone, but once I leave we won’t be a family of three, it’ll just…it’ll just be me.”

Akaashi feels his own tears starting to form, trying to blink them away, he has to be strong for his best friend. He squeezes his hand on Bokuto’s shoulder when he feels him start to tremble, to shake underneath him, cries filling the room. He wants to tell Bokuto that it’s time to leave, that they really need to be going, but how do you take someone away from something that wasn’t theirs yet?

* * Present Day

Bokuto’s never really believed in a higher power, he doesn’t give much thought to horoscopes or pay any attention when people swear they had “feelings” about something, but looking back on that day, something didn’t sit right in his stomach after their call ended. And that’s something that has plagued his thoughts ever since.

If only he had called her back, begged for her to just miss the appointment, maybe…maybe she wouldn’t have…

He shakes his head, tears trailing his cheeks, he knows it won’t do him any good to think that way, but how could he not? Looking back, he knows something was trying to tell him to stop her, but he didn’t, he just let her go and this was the outcome of his choice.

“Sorry I didn’t come for a few days, we had another away game, but Akaashi told me that he came a few times to keep you company.” He wipes the tears, smearing this across his face. “I’ve gotten better at packing my bags now, though Sakusa still brings extra toiletries for me.”

He tilts his head to the side, realizing that sometimes if he stopped thinking, it still felt like she was there, so much of her still part of his daily interactions, bits of her still sprinkled through his decisions.

Laundry’s still done on Wednesdays because she liked doing it in the middle of the week.

Take-out for dinner on Saturdays because that was always their at-home date night.

Passport can still be found in the lining pocket of his duffle bag when he’s traveling.

Her favorite tea brand is still in the cabinets because Bokuto still brews it just so the house smells like her.

“I was picked to play on the Japan National Team in the Olympics this year, Y/N. You always said I could do it.” He fumbles in his pocket, grabbing the small item that’s been weighing down on him. “I never told you, but I had big plans for if I made it to the Olympics.”

Bokuto places a small black velvet box on top of the tombstone, his fingers dragging across the smooth surface, letting his hand fall when it reaches the end. He whispers that he loves her one more time before he heads back to the parking lot, Kuroo was waiting there. Even without her around, he was never alone, not really, one of his friends was always finding an excuse to stay with him which he didn’t mind.

It hurts, hurts to try to figure out a life without her, knowing that if things had been different they’d be getting ready for a baby. Part of him wants to fall apart acknowledging that, knowing that in some alternate universe she’s his wife and mother of his child, that he’s a dad, but he can’t because it feels wrong to mourn over something that was never his to begin with.

#haikyuu!!#hq bokuto #bokuto kotaro #hq bokuto x reader #bokuto x reader #bokuto x female reader #bokuto angst #hq angst #no fluff here #pure angst #tw angst #tw character death #tw loss of a loved one #tw grief #tw mourning #tw loss of pregnancy #reader death #tw reader death #bokuto kōtarō x reader

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its-warm-in-here · 4 years ago

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Playing Pretend

I’m sorry I didn't get this up sooner. I gutted the end but here’s the first part of the first chapter of a Heisenberg x reader fic that will probably go on too long. This is more of a prolog. No smut yet! Written with a female reader in mind, but I may have versions for both m and f when the final product goes up. Gonna start out kinda fluffy before we get darker. Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated!

Summary: This summer trip to Romania was supposed to be momentous, life changing, and the bases for your master’s thesis. Too bad the villagers want you gone and this ‘Mother Miranda’ won't even see you. Luckily, you run into a greasy engineer who says he can help.

Karl tries to take a day off from being ‘Lord Heisenberg’ with the cute stranger who wandered into the village. Things only spiral from there.

~2080 words

Miranda loved the yearly festivals. She always made a big show of the village, flowers and banners everywhere. The townsfolk would bring out their best clothing, even if their best was still black and brown. The dreary village would come alive with drinking, dancing and merry making. Even some of the neighboring villages would join in the festivities. The town would be near bustling, the local tavern would be full, laughter and song would echo from the church to the castle.

He hated it. All of it. Heisenberg avoided the celebrations, instead opting to stay holed up in his factory as much as possible. And it wasn't just because of the excess of people, while that didn't help. No, it was an insidious purpose for these gatherings. He exhaled a ring of cigar smoke.

First, boost morale through the village and reaffirm the people's faith in Mother Miranda. Second, and far more insidious, was to widen the flock, to expand her influence and bring in new blood for her experiments. The surrounding towns were just as small and removed from the rest of the world as Miranda's village. Made it easy to bring new blood under her wing. Youth would meet and marry, a drunk or four would go missing, and some of the visitors would become new members of Miranda's community. More meat for her Cadou grinder.

Heisenberg flicked the ash from his cigar and watched it float down before the wind caught it. The early morning view from the top of his factory wasn't bad. It was his own part of the world: no view of the village, the stench of the reservoir was nonexistent, and the most he could see of Castle Dimitrescu was a massive wall keeping their territory separated. Just him and his machines. He took another puff. As much as he planned to avoid today, Heisenberg knew that he would have to make at least some appearance. All the Lords did, even if it was just for a moment. Just another way to show her power; having all of her ‘children’ before the townsfolk. He grimaced at the thought. Târgul de Fete was set to start soon. At least that gave him the morning to get shit done. Heisenberg kicked a bit of metal scrap off the roof and it bounced off the scrap heap below with a ping! before landing in the dirt. He rolled his shoulder. Time to get to work.

---

"Well fuck you too!" You slammed the door behind you. Why even bother going through the proper channels? No matter what, they turn you down, tell you to leave and treat you like an outcast. You spoke to towns folk, to village leaders, hell, you even wanted an audience with their 'Mother Miranda,' but she refused to even see you! You stormed along the path and the few people that had not made their way to the Târgul de Fete celebration steered clear of you, opting to give you a side eye and shuffle to their destination. All you wanted was to observe their festival, and maybe take a few pictures, but even that was negotiable. You had even offered to leave your camera behind with them for the day. Why hadn't you gone to Sweden with the rest of your class? No, instead you went to some culty, backwater town in Romania!

You kicked a rock, hard, sending it flying into the tall grass. "God Damnit!" This was supposed to have been your thesis! Supposed to be life changing! No, now you were just stuck, miles from any true civilization and being kicked out of some stupid, ramshackle heap, whose plants can't even grow right in a Romanian summer. Some of the plants were barely green, most appeared dry or yellowing. The flowers were either wilted and falling apart or hadn't even bloomed. You were no botanist, but you were certain that wasn't healthy.

You kicked another rock, it soared through the grass, but it struck something metal this time before landing with a thud. They didn't want you here, didn't want you at Târgul de Fete? Fine, but they didn't take your camera. Without thinking, you dug the old DSLR out of your bag and snapped a picture of the church.

And immediately deleted it.

You signed. Even if the villagers were a bunch of jackasses, this was their culture and they made it very clear that you were not welcome. Even if they had agreed to all this three months ago. And even if they had called you a bad omen, a poison and a danger to the whole village. You weren't about to infringe. Crestfallen, you huffed your bag over your shoulder and began the trek back out of town. It was at least a four hour walk to your rental car and a good chunk of that walk was more of a hike. Not like there was much you could do other than leave after cussing out the town speakers and nearly slamming the door off its hinges.

The village had felt abandoned when you walked in, and now that everyone had headed off to a celebration, the village was positively desolate. No traditional brightly-colored dresses or intricate belts to be seen. And no wary or hostile glares from the inhabitants either. It was... quiet. Aside from the occasional crow, you might as well have been in a ghost town. It took you a bit to find the correct path out of the grave yard, but after spinning in circles for a good moment, you pushed past a red door and were back on your way. The village wasn't large, most of the paths were poorly maintained and the whole place was enveloped in a strange fish smell.

You bit the inside of your cheek. This was a good thing, really. Who would've wanted to stay in the ramshackle place for more than a few hours, let alone a few days? You groaned and kicked at the ground again. While not lacking in repellent attributes, the pagan worship of the place fascinated you. They had their own religion but had incorporated traditional Romania holidays into their culture. Where else in Europe could you see that happen in real time? Of course, you could think of a couple of places, but you had picked here in the Carpathian mountains in particular! While you did have a second choice, you couldn't stop the self pity from setting in.

Ugh.

The village was relatively small and was quickly fading to forest, the castle that overlooked the town vanished behind you as you shuffled down a particularly steep part of the path. The trees here looked more normal, less sickly. While it was only marginally, you felt a bit better, a bit less mad. Stepping away from that place was a breath of fresh air.

Your boots skid a bit as you reach a flat spot. With a huff, you grip both backpack straps to center yourself. If this couldn't be your thesis, that didn't mean you had to hate the walk. This was Romania afterall, when was the next time you were going to be here? The sky may be overcast, but it sort of added to the eerie charm of this place. You sidestepped your way down another steep incline, using one hand to grip overgrown branches for balance. The last step is a bit further, but you find your footing easily.

And the rock gave way under you, tilting forward with an abrupt grinding sound. A burst of panicked adrenaline rushed through as you struggled to stop. You pitch forward, stumbling over branches and underbrush, your eyes forcibly losing focus.

"The fuck?"

That wasn't your voice. You slammed full force into something, another body? And it gives under you. The other person takes the brunt of the fall, landing on their back with a distinct, "oof."

For a moment, you don't speak, too focused on catching the breath. Finally, your vision swims back and you find your voice, "Damnit... are you ok?"

The man under you goans, sitting half way up to look you over. His hair is grey, and a bit too long, but he couldn't be any older than forty, possibly younger. "Get off." Your eyes go wide and that panicked beat fills your chest. "Ya deaf? Off."

"Er, right," you scramble to your feet and, without thinking, extend a hand to the stranger, "Sorry about... that." You gestured vaguely to the path. "Lost my balance."

He lets out an exasperated huff, and knocks your hand away. For a moment, he doesn't acknowledge you, instead retrieving something from the grass behind him. He's wearing a loose linen shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up with black leather gloves. You force yourself to look somewhere, anywhere else, nervously bouncing from foot to foot. When he turns back to you, he has a tattered, wide brim hat in place and is looking over a pair of broken sunglasses. One of the lenses was clearly shattered, but he hooked them over his shirt collar, his attention finally turning to you. "You're not from around here, huh?”

You couldn't help but snort, "What gave it away, the wind breaker? Don't worry, I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" He repeats.

You start moving back to the path. "Yup, your village speaker has made that very clear."

"They were clear? Not all back and forth on it?" He chuckles, "That's impressive, they must really not like you."

You stare at him, was this a friendly face? It was certainly a handsome face, even with scarring and stubble. But a trustworthy one? "You sure you're ok? Didn't scramble that brain when I ran into you? The rest of the town was pretty dead set on driving me out."

" 'Cause they're a bunch of morons, sweetheart," he insisted, "All part of Mother Miranda's big, idiot mob."

"Huh," you are walking ahead on the path, and he's not but a footfall behind you.

"But they don't matter."

"No?"

"What matters is, why didn't they want you here?"

You stop, turning to face this stranger. He was gruff, and more than a little rude, but in comparison to the townsfolk, he was downright friendly. Hell, you were surprised he was so forward with you. "Masters thesis," you put plainly, hoping he'll leave it at that.

"On what?"

"Anthropology."

He leaned in close. He wasn't that much taller than you, but you couldn't help but move away from his imposing figure. From this distance, you could smell motor oil and some kind of smoke on his clothes. "That's it?" You scoff, the sooner you are back in your car the better. "I just mean, it's surprising they'd want you gone. You sure there's nothing else? Didn't kick over any goat statues?"

"Not that I noticed," you started back down the path. You'd wasted too much time talking to this weirdo anyway. Just based on his demeanor and dislike of the rest of the village, you wonder if you'd maybe tripped over the town pariah. He certainly wasn't dressed like anyone else from the village.

"I could get you back in."

You stopped, not fifteen feet from him. "You're assuming I want to go back in." And didn’t you? You just risk getting yelled at again. But if there was a chance to write your thesis...

“Well, if you're not interested,” he turned to leave. You grit your teeth, your nails digging deep into your backpack straps.

“Hold up!" It doesn't take much to catch up to him. "How exactly are we going to do this?"

"My word carries a certain amount of weight," he carried on, "Though, the village doesn't meet on these matters till next week."

"But what good does that-"

He isn't listening, "For today, I know a place you can watch the town. Besides, you're an Archeologist, you probably want an interview, right?" Of course he gestures to himself with a sort of half bow.

You roll your eyes, but still follow, "Anthropologist." He gives you a blank look. "I'm studying Anthropology, not Archeology."

He doesn't seem to care, instead pulling a cigar and lighter from his pants pocket. "Got a name?"

"Oh, (y/n). You?"

The stranger is part way up on the path you had tripped down. "Karl," he had extended you a gloved hand. You look from him to his hand, before brushing past him, pulling yourself up next to him without the offered aid.

#Karl Heisenberg #Re8 #re8 heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #Ill keep this going as long as i can #wow creativity is hard #karl can be nice if he tries

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kaiparker-avengerssmut · 4 years ago

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Our Doll 2//Awake

B.Barnes x S.Rogers, B.Barnes x Stark!Reader, S.Rogers x Stark!Reader

Series Synopsis | After the events of the horrific past, y/n Stark, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes have finally admitted their feelings for each other. But is life as an avenger whilst dating two super soldiers any easier than anything y/n’s experienced in the past?

sequel Series to Their Doll

Series Warnings | smut, violence, torture, swearing, threesomes

Chapter Summary | y/n finds a way to cope with the stress

Warnings | smut, vaginal sex, swearing, mentions of drug usage

A/n | This is a sequel book/series to my fic Their Doll! This book loosely follows the mcu timeline, starting in CAWS in book one and starting just before AOU in this book. Bucky had been recovered and is safe, and Peter was taken under Tony's wing when he was much younger.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

"G'morning, baby." Steve mumbled huskily, one eye opening into a squint so her could look at me without being blinded by the unforgiving sun spilling like water through the curtains that we may or may not have forgotten to close in our lustful hurry last night.

"Morning." I whispered back, fully aware of the brunet super soldier laying peacefully asleep behind me, cool metal arm sling over my waist atop the duvet. His hot, steady breath fanned over my neck, his nose buried into my hair. I was laying on my side, simply watching steve as he slept until he had clearly awoken.

"It's rude to stare, you know." He mumbled back lazily, eyes finally fluttering open. A wide smile played on my lips, as it always did when I could look so deeply into those ocean blue eyes.

"Sorry." I smile back, eyes pleading. A chuckle, low and rumbling, came from Steve at the sound of my disjointed, broken morning voice. "Hey!" I whisper-shouted, untucking my hand from under my head to slap Steve's bare chest, but he caught my wrist with ease. He slowly pulled it up to his face, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my hand, lips feathering against my skin.

"Now I'm sorry. I somehow forgot how you're still recovering." Steve apologised, continuing to press his lips to my hand, eyes looking into mine. I shuddered slightly, letting my free hand raise to my neck, my fingers dancing faintly over the long, horizontal scar spanning the space. The memory, the pain, still haunted me. Haunted me like a ghost that was sent for me, and only me. My dreams had often been filled with these images - ones of a flashing silver blade, sinister splatters of blood, grotesque and open wounds. The thought made me shudder again, as if to shake off the bad memories.

"You know that one won't be awake for a while." I mumbled, taking a glance at the clock over Steve's shoulder, seeing that it was barely nine am. Steve smiled against my hand, eyes loving.

"I know. So why don't we have a little fun while we wait?" He grinned, almost boyishly, a level of lust clouding the pure blue that usually dazzled across his eyes. I quirked a brow, expectantly, as Steve kept looking at my mischievously from under his long lashes, lips travelling quickly towards my neck.

He grabbed my other wrist, chuckling lowly as I giggled when he flipped us, gently pulling me from Bucky's grasp which earnest us a longing groan but not even a stir, before I was under Captain America in his bed.

Steve's lips didn't leave my skin once, his skin soft against mine as put naked bodies rutted into one another, my head thrown against the pillows now as I felt the surge of arousal pang at my core. One of this thick fingers traced my slit, circling my cliff lightly before he was pulling it away, offering the digit for me to lick clean. I moan at my taste, the sound matching Steve's groan as his cock hardened watching my suck off his finger.

"Ready baby?" He breathed, lining himself up with my dripping heat and pushing in when I whispered with a nod. His palm covered my mouth, strangling my moans and muffling any noise as he begun to thrust, slow but hard, the headboard slowly knocking into the wall behind us. The thumping of wood against plaster only made me more aroused, the realisation of how strong to man above me actually was.

With his free hand, Steve ran his fingers over my arm and up my wrist, before tangling them with mine and pressing my hand into the pillow beside me face, gripping me tight. His face was buried in the joint where my neck and shoulder met, his soft grunts disguised by my flesh as he bit down on my skin to keep himself quiet. My other hand claws at his back, harsh enough for boy of us to know there'd be lines down his back when this was done.

The trimmed patch of hair at the base of his cock scraped across my clit with every thrust, sending jolts of pleasure through me and causing stars to cloud my vision.

It was obvious we were both getting close when we heard Bucky speak.

"Getting started without me?" His raspy husk of a morning voice pondered, the bed dipping by my shoulder as he propped himself up on a fore arm. Steve groaned, lifting his face from my neck and turning it to the side, giving Bucky a glare. But his hips never stopped moving into mine. In fact, they only seemed to speed up, his pelvis slapping into mine hard enough to leave bruises.

"Don't mind me. I think it's a rather lovely sight to wake up to." Bucky grinned, his tongue tracing his bottom lip as he watch steve lift his palm from my mouth, tangling his hand with mine as a jumble of moans and pleas finally fell from my lips. "Make her cum."

And with those words alone I was seeing white splotches across my vision, my hips bucking up desperately and Steve threw his head back, the tightness of my walls from my orgasm causing his own.

"F-fuck! Y/n!" He moaned loudly, collapsing on top of me as he painted my walls with his seed. My eyes were still lost somewhere in my skull, chest heaving as I slowly ran my fingers through Steve's hair, his head resting against my chest.

"How about we fill in Bucky on what he's missed?" Steve murmured in my ear, teeth nipping along my neck, a smirk tugging at our lips.

...

Pulling her hood up further over her head, y/n quickened her steps. One of the other downsides that came from the night Bucky returned was that her face was now well know. With the amount of reporters and just cameras in general that were at the party her dad had originally thrown to celebrate the first proper steps of her recovery, y/n's face was probably the most well-know one in New York second to maybe only Tony Stark's himself.

The pavement slapped beneath the rubber soles on her shoes, the dirtied black trainers helping y/n blend in against the see of clearly struggling people. Her eyes stayed narrow, fixated on my target as she eyed the small alleyway, three doors away from Benjies, a little run-down cafe that no one wanted to buy and no one could afford to buy. The bricks swallowed any hint of safety, dark shadows lurked almost as anxiously as the people they concealed.

Sharply turning on her heel, y/n pivoted into the dingy space between two broken buildings, litters of waste, used joints and other miscellaneous junk scattered the crumbled tarmac floor, the gaps between bricks stuffed full with moss and wrappers whilst the bricks themselves were marked up with paints of all colours, forming poetic pieces of scrabbling artwork that decorated the discarded buildings.

Y/n cleared her throat, nerves bubbling as she approached the also hooded-figure who was leant casually against the left wall, giving the illusion he knew it well. But y/n could tell from the way his slender body was slightly tensed, brown eyes darting as the drips of clinging water shattered against stone and the way his hand rested over the side of his thigh - ready to pull out the small gun at a splits second notice that he was only once familiar with this place, but had neglected it - even fled it, for a long while now.

"You sure you wanna do this, kid?" His voice was soothing, a complete contrast to y/n's abused, scratchy one as she gritted through her teeth,

"Don't tell me what to do, Sam. You promised you'd give me the name of your supplier, no questions asked." She ground the last words out, hands falling from her pockets and balling to fists at her side. Sam sighed deeply, pushing himself from the wall and sauntering closer, closing the gap between him and y/n as he rolled his eyes obnoxiously at her irked stance.

"I know, just consider what you're doing. This shit can really fuck you up, I stopped for a reason." Sam suggested, fingers curling over her shoulder his his hand settled there, a comforting gesture.

"I know what I'm doing. I just- I can't keep up with the stress." Y/n admitted, a vulnerable crunch behind her grit teeth as she tried to spit the words out. Sam held his hands up in surrender, backing up a step when he saw the dangerous lurk to y/n's eyes.

"I know, I know." He offered a small smile, dipping a hand into the back pocket of his jeans and fishing out a small slip of paper, torn edges and all. He crammed the piece into y/n's waiting hand, but didn't let go as he looked directly into her eyes. "I'm sorry. I know it's tough, and I get why. Hell, it's exactly what I did. But it's a steep slope, one that few get off of." He warned.

"I understand, are we done now?" Y/n scoffed, her indifference unnerving yet the facade held cracks that few could see.

"Just don't let your boys know I gave that number to you. I know both of them would give me hell if they ever found out I was involved." Sam requested, and y/n gave him a cert nod.

"They won't find out. Promise." Y/n even punctuated her words with a tight smile, although it didn't quite touch her eyes. Sam returned the gesture, all be it slightly warmer, before he was brushing past her, clearly desperate to leave the little alleyway before anyone could catch him.

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letsfluxshitup · 4 years ago

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the mortifying ordeal of being cared for (ao3)

(tw injury/blood/stitches)(not permadeath btw <3)

Technoblade thought, with absolute surety, he was going to die.

He wasn't sure how he'd made it back to Pogtopia, fresh bloody handprints decorating the walls, and small pools of blood from where he rested a second too long.

It didn't matter if he died, he'd just respawn, it'd be fine, but that didn't stop the deep primal fear of death, of not coming back, of the respawn failing.

He let out a deep stuttery breath as he fumbled open a chest, desperately searching for bandages, cloth, anything to staunch the bleeding.

He heard, faintly, some noise behind him, muttered talking that turned more frantic but he brushed it aside, it was unimportant, where was his medkit-

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his desperate searching, and he automatically swung backwards, but he was slow, too slow, and the figure easily dodged.

He reached for his knife, fumbling to his feet, knife first, all regards for tact and technique abandoned in his desperate swing.

He wasn't sure what happened then, vision blanking from the rush of movement, but he knew he was knifeless and being cradled to someone's chest. Quackity's, he guessed, between the panicked shrieking and signature jacket.

It was slicked with blood now, and no, his jacket shouldn't look like that, and he tried to pull away, to mitigate the damages and prevent more blood spilling. Quackity only held him tighter, arms feeling like iron bars locking him in.

Since when was Quackity so strong, Techno thought. Since when was I so weak.

His memories after that were spotty as he slipped in and out of consciousness, mostly remembering the warm water and rag that cleaned his wounds, the bite of the needle from stitches, and Quackity's soft cooing as he ran fingers through his hair, a reassurance and distraction from the burning pain spreading up his side.

Quackity had decided that morning that he very much did not like Pogtopia. It was cold, Tommy and Techno(traitor) bullied him, and he could never find things where he left them.

Case in point, he was clambering down the steep staircase that had fallen many a foe, in a futile search for his misplaced pickaxe. It took a second to register the blood smeared on the walls, the scent of copper smothering in the air. He walked faster, ignoring his shoes sticky with blood, as he nervously called out a tentative 'hello?'

No response.

He walked faster, gaze sharp as he took in the ravine before him, and he wished it had been lit up a little better, fumbling through long stretches of burnt out torches. He followed the trail to Techno's door and his stomach dropped, if something had fucked him up so badly, what did that say for the rest of them?

Praying that whatever he picked a fight with was either dead or knew better than to come back, he entered the room.

"Techno?" He started, trying to sound calm but quickly dissolving into panic as he rushed towards a hunched over and bloody Techno.

He'd barely touched his shoulder when he lashed out at him, a sharp snarl echoing through the room, eyes unfocused and uncomprehending. He lurched forwards, half crawling half on his feet, and Quackity easily, too easily, pried the blade from his hands.

Techno then face planted into his neck, a pained sob making its way out of his throat. Quackity quickly dragged him back to the ground, curling his arms around him, trying to keep his voice soothing but he knew the panic was leaking through.

Techno squirmed weakly, before stilling, a dead weight in Quackity's lap. Quackity tried to calm down, take deep breaths, but the cloying smell of blood was making it difficult to even think.

He went through the first aid he knew, haphazardly cleaning wounds and his stitches sloppy and almost definitely going to leave an ugly scar.

At least he isn't bleeding out anymore, Quackity thought nervously, splashing a regen potion on the worst of the wounds.

After assuring he wouldn't bleed out, he found a bucket that he filled with water, keeping it warm near the fire.

He carefully cleaned the blood off of the rest of Techno, scrubbing it out of his hair and nails. He used the knife Techno had swung at him to carefully cut away his ruined shirt, cleaning the blood off of him before shoving him into a nightgown he'd found when digging through chests for more medical supplies.

Quackity decided that once Techno was better he could tease him about it, but it would probably reflect poorly on him if he made fun of a half dead bed ridden man.

He absently wondered who had given it to him, doubting he'd bought it for himself. It was covered in potatoes and looked comfy as hell, so he couldn't really judge him.

Techno was relatively dead to the world anyways, so teasing him now would be pointless.

The most response he had gotten from the man was a reflexive splutter when he'd accidentally dropped a water soaked rag on his face, and Quackity could only hope he wouldn't remember that.

He dragged Techno into bed, mindful of his stitches, and noticing the drop in temperature. He was still unnaturally warm by human standards, but unnaturally cold by... Techno standards. Blood loss would do that to you, apparently.

Quackity hunted down every blanket he could find in the room, uncovering some from chests and the like before carefully tucking Techno in. He looked very... small, on the bed, face colorless and slack, breaths uneven and stuttery.

Quackity hoped he wouldn't have to do anything about his breathing, that was a bit out of his area of expertise.

All of this was out of his area of expertise, actually, but that was fine.

Techno was breathing, wasn't he?

Well. Mostly.

Techno wasn't sure how much later it was until he woke up properly, but he was propped up in his bed, thoroughly tucked in. Quackity was slumped in a chair next to him, face buried in the sheets as he snoozed.

Techno cleared his throat, and that hurt, and his mouth tasted awful and everything else was just pain.

Quackity sat up abruptly though, hair sleep ruffled and he hastily swiped away drool. He blinked blearily, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes before giving Techno a nervous lopsided smile.

"How's my favorite patient doing?" He chirped, standing up and carefully checking Techno's wounds. When Techno just grunted in response he waved a healing potion in front of him, and Techno was grateful for having at least a semi competent caretaker.

That gratefulness was swiftly shattered as Quackity waterboarded him with the healing potion, overzealous in his offering and spilling it all over his face and shirt. Thankfully the potion wasn't picky, and absorbed anyways, the healing effect settling in and making him feel tired.

He wanted to fall asleep, but Quackity was waving food in front of him, toasted bread slathered with sweet berries, as he stuttered out apologies.

"I'm not the, uh, best doctor-" Techno interrupted him with a snort, "but I'm the best you got for now, alright?"

Techno just gave him a flat look in response.

"Listen! Would you rather I wear a nurse outfit? Would that make you feel better?" Quackity huffed, arms crossed, and Techno made a show of shuddering in horror.

"Hey, fuck off! I have the fattest ass in the cabinet, you know! You should- you should be appreciative of- of my... Of my ass." He finished lamely, cheeks aflame as he waved his hands. "Listen, listen, let's just- we're gonna forget all that, alright?"

Techno snorted, and it hurt his throat and ribs but Quackity was grinning back at him, and he figured that made up for it.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been sleeping on and off, waking up only for the occasional healing potion and sip of water. Quackity never asked what had happened, and he was glad, not wanting to explain the circumstances that had almost led to his untimely demise.

Quackity insisted on brushing his hair every time he woke up for longer than thirty seconds, chastising him about proper hair care and tangles and if Techno could say more than a word at a time he'd point out the poor state of Quackity's wings.

As Quackity deftly braided his hair from where he'd settled behind him, Techno focused on the apple he'd been given, carefully slicing off bits with a knife and alternating between handing them to Quackity and eating them himself.

He had to question the logic of giving a very out of it patient a knife, but he quietly revelled in the feeling of comfort it gave him, and the warm feeling spreading in his chest from sharing food.

When the apple was finished and the braid completed, Techno leaned his head back, resting on Quackity's shoulder. Techno couldn't understand what Quackity was saying, instead just humming and snuggling back, dead to the world in an instant.

Quackity felt a small pang of pride at the blatant trust, before starting to settle in for the night. Day? He'd lost track of time, caring for Techno being his prime focus.

His communicator flashed with unread messages, but he had been busy, alright? Was still busy, he thought, eyeing the knife in Techno's now loose grip.

Quackity gently took the knife from him, setting it in reach, before settling his arms lightly around Techno's torso, protective of the hastily stitched gash in his side.

It took a bit of squirming before his wings settled comfortably on his back, but finally Quackity managed to fall asleep.

Quackity had been helping a shaky Techno into a new shirt when the door abruptly shrieked open.

Reflexively, Quackity reached for the knife on the bedside table before turning towards the door. Techno had drilled into him that it was better to be paranoid than dead after Quackity had unthinkingly mentioned the condition Techno was in to the others.

Privately, Quackity thought Techno was being a bit paranoid, but it helped him relax a little and Quackity really was worried about the poor guy's heart.

Wilbur stepped in, taking in the scene before him with an impassive face.

"You're making friends." It wasn't a question, more of an accusation over anything else, and Quackity wondered why Wilbur sounded offended.

Turning back to help Techno, he absently looked over his healing wounds, checking for any damages or fresh blood.

Wilbur continued to stare past Quackity, studying his brother and oh.

That's why Wilbur was offended.

Techno opened his mouth as if to speak, but Wilbur cut him off, irritation clear in his voice.

"No, no, I get it. You're injured and need to be cared for so obviously you ask the flake with a complex." Wilbur's face had turned more snide, his voice disparaging as he planted his hands on his hips.

Quackity wanted to defend himself, and also ask what kind of complex Wilbur thought he had, and also ask what the fuck, low blow, asshole.

Techno moved like he was going to stand up, looking pissed, and Quackity waved his hands frantically, wings puffing up and blocking his view of Wilbur.

"Hey, hey, c'mon, buddy, you don't have to defend my honor or anything, stay in bed." Quackity carefully guided him back into bed but Techno still looked irritated.

"He's being an ass." He deadpanned, leaning around Quackity's outstretched wings to send Wilbur a scathing look.

To Wilbur's credit, he managed to mainly suppress his flinch, but it was still noticeable enough that Techno shot him one of his more feral grins.

Quackity, realizing he was still holding the knife, set it back down on the nightstand. This quickly turned out to be a big mistake as without hesitating Techno snatched it up, throwing it at his brother.

Between the injuries and not actually wanting to hurt his brother, it missed by a mile, and Techno punctuated the clear message with a snarled 'out'.

Wilbur looked hurt for a split second, before he settled back into an unbothered stance, leaving the room with a muttered 'whatever'.

"Your family's fucking weird, man." Quackity finally broke the silence, letting out a nervous laugh as he side eyed Techno.

Techno just nodded slightly, scrubbing at his face before settling back into the pillows.

"He's just lashing out because he's a theatre kid and doesn't know how to process his emotions any other way."

Privately, Techno wished Philza was here, he was always a lot better at smoothing things over. Or riling things up, depending on the situation.

"Right." Quackity said, after a bit of silence, both deep in thought. "Do you want him to take care of you? Like, I know we've settled into this sorta thing, but, like, I'm not gonna be offended or anything if you'd rather have family watch over you, y'know?"

Techno looked perplexed for a second, before shaking his head.

"Wilbur's been pickin' fights with me lately, should probably give him space or something." He looked towards Quackity, uncertainty written across his face.

"Oh! Yeah! That makes sense, absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that." Quackity nodded, self assured in that way only someone who wasn't entirely sure what they were talking about could be.

Techno snorted, before patting the bed next to him.

"Sleep?"

"Sure. Y'know, big guy, you should feel special." Quackity grinned at him, as he settled into the bed next to him.

"Oh?" Techno raised an eyebrow, settling his arm around Quackity.

"Yeah. Not just anyone gets the Quackity into their bed." Quackity tried to hide his smile in Techno's shoulder, failing miserably once catching sight of Techno's expression.

Techno stared down at him, eyes wide and looking... Confused? Mortified? Quackity wasn't that great at reading his expressions, yet.

Unceremoniously, Techno shoved him off the bed, hiding his snorts in his pillow.

Quackity's hip hurt where it connected with the floor but he couldn't hold back his wide grin.

He stumbled up off the floor, flopping on to the bed and settling in against Techno, delighted he could make Techno laugh like that.

Quackity laid there in silent horror, staring down at the wet spot of drool on Techno's shirt. Techno would never sleep with him again. Not that he cared, or anything. Techno was just very warm and the ravine was very cold, alright?

"Techno." Quackity whispered, sitting up as best he could with Techno's arm locked around him. "Techno it's time to get up."

"No," Techno murmured, moving the arm around Quackity's waist to cup the back of his head and gently push him back into his neck. Quackity snorted into Techno's neck, before patting at his chest.

"C'mon big guy, time to get up." He squirmed out from under Techno's arm, patting at his cheek insistently.

Techno's eyes fluttered open, looking mildly irritated, before he rolled, taking Quackity with him and pinning him underneath him.

He buried his face into Quackity's neck, free hand moving into Quackity's closest wing and lightly petting the feathers.

Quackity huffed, batting at his hand because that was cheating, thank you very much, Quackity was going to fall back asleep at this rate.

"C'mon, Blade, we gotta get a move on." Quackity twisted the fingers of his free hand into the hair at the base of Technoblades neck, and tugged lightly.

Techno let out a warning growl, before rolling off of Quackity. Quackity side eyed him and, deciding may as fucking well, shoved Techno the rest of the way off the bed.

He was mostly healed up anyways, and it wouldn't hurt him that much. Hopefully.

There was a beat of silence before Techno popped up from over the side of the bed, looking completely baffled.

Quackity jumped over him and made a break for the door, but Techno was faster.

He draped himself heavily over Quackity, nearly sending him tumbling to the ground, as he sighed obnoxiously in his ear.

"You're going to have to carry me, I think you broke my legs." Quackity could hear the grin in his voice, but didn't call him on it. He'd rarely seen Techno in any kind of playful mood, and he figured he could risk playing along if it made Techno happy.

He'd only heard the man laugh a handful of times before, and all that stress couldn't be good for his heart.

Quackity barley made it another stumbling step before there was a sharp rapping at the door.

"Techno? Wilbur needs you." Tommy called through the door.

The change in Techno was immediate, the playful attitude rolling off of him as he straightened up and headed for his clothes and sword. The past... Dispute still fresh in his mind.

"Tell him I'll be there in a minute." Techno called back.

He knocked his crown off of it's hook and Quackity reached down to grab it for him. He was met with a sharp look, Techno quickly snatching it up, the cuddly Techno from earlier replaced with a cold, more analytical persona.

Techno whipped open the door, brushing past Tommy with barely an acknowledgement, deep in thought and looking mildly irritated.

Tommy looked over at Quackity, shifting awkwardly.

"Sorry about him. He's not much of a morning person." Tommy said absently, as he watched Techno move through the ravine.

"So! What do you want to eat, Big Q?" Tommy beamed at him, energy cranked up to 11 after his brother was out of sight.

Quackity gave him an unusually soft look, before throwing an arm over his shoulder and knocking their heads together.

"What've you got here, boss?" Quackity practically chirped, letting himself be dragged away by an overly excited Tommy. He tamped down on his worry over Techno, as he settled into bantering with Tommy.

#technoblade #quackity #my fic #blood tw #injury tw #death ment #wilbur and tommy are there but only briefly #i think wilburs pretty ooc but i needed an instigator im sorry my lvoe #anyways this took way longer than it should of considering what it is lkjdflksjlksd #ok to reblog <3 #quacknobros

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sabraeal · 3 years ago

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All That Remains, Chapter 8: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 5]

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 3: Strength Upright: Compassion, Courage, Self-Control Reversed: Weakness, Doubt, Discord

Once upon a time, a troll makes a mirror.

Is that not how we started this story, so long ago? How so many start: a vile creature forges an object. Who and what change in the telling; a troll makes a mirror, a god conjures a box, knowledge grows in a garden. In the end, it is all the same: what is once contained is opened, unwitting. Or lost, foolishly, in a heart so cold and cruel that it becomes bent to another purpose entirely.

But that is merely an allegory, a fiction composed to cover the raw edges we leave when we rub against each other. For that is the truth, is it not? There is no fell creature, no capricious and omnipotent beings to blame for our misery. There is only us, carving our place in our story by smoothing pieces off another. A snow queen is not made from frost and cold but by the blades of others, slicing slivers from her flesh until only ice remains.

That is the truth we cannot bear: the only monsters we face are the ones we have made. The only poisons we drink are those human hands have brewed.

And it starts like this, always: a girl in a garden, remembering the image of a rose, and wondering, how could I have I forgotten?

“You were quiet at dinner tonight.” Shirayuki hasn’t been at court long-- or rather, in court, privy to all its secret signals and capricious undercurrents-- but she knows that this is as close to an “are you all right?” as Haki can come. If confrontation is only allowed the glint of a knife, affection is stifled to a hint of warmth, a fire made in a room one is forbidden to venture. “I hope that the meal agreed with you.”

A flash of pharmacy white flutters at the corner of her vision, frustratingly out of reach. It’s been so long since she’s been there, since she’s thought of anything but silverware and schottische; when she tries it’s like a hundred voices shouting at once, each demanding to be heard. Just like being at Lilias, heads bent over a knotty problem--

“Shirayuki.” The consort does not crouch; it’s best, Lady Mihoko often remind her, to pretend one has no anatomy beneath the waist. But Haki does perch on a cushioned stool, her brows drawn tight over the elegant line of her nose. “You are not...indisposed, I hope?”

A solid shake dispels the fog mired around her. “What? Oh, no! I only...” It would be a mistake to speak of loam between her fingers, of the satisfaction of hearing a pod snap from its stalk. “I didn’t have much to say with my, erm, conversational partners.”

Royal brows raise to stunned arches. “Is that so? I would have thought you’d find much in common with Lord Kazunori and Lord Seiichii.”

They had both been older men, southern lords drawn to court for Seiran’s summit. Kind enough, but they spoke to her as they would their own daughters, which is to say: warmly, but brief. Not of any topics that one might sink their teeth into, lest it leaving lines around her mouth.

“I think they were more interested in talking to each other than to me,” she admits. In part because of her sex, and in part because-- well, her body may have been in that chair, obscuring the twining gods and goddess painted across it, but her mind had been a wing away, wondering if it was yet time to harvest the roku berries, or whether this year’s crop of apprentices knew akegi from yura shigure. “It seems there’s much to discuss before they all meet for, ah...discussion.”

Haki hands her a rueful smile. “There always is.” With a sigh, she sweeps to standing, as statuesque as any marble in Wistal’s halls. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to ask the majordomo to find you some more scintillating seatmates tomorrow.”

“Ah..!” Tomorrow. Never had a day seemed so far away, so much more than a handful of hours between dawn and dusk. At Lilias, the nights had wavered between seasons, some so short she hardly slept between sun set and rise; and others so long that she woke in darkness, only to leave the lab in the same. But still, none seemed so long as this, and for no reason at all.

“Is something wrong?” Haki turns to her again, concern rumpling the curved lines of her mouth. “Do you have plans...?”

“No!” Shirayuki rushes to assure her. “It’s only...you mentioned dinner, and suddenly I felt so...”

“Weary?” Haki offers, when she won’t. Her eyes soften with mouth to match, smile turning her from heavenly to beatific. “I’m not surprised. You have been hard at work these last few months.”

And hardly anything to show for it, in Lady Mihoko’s learned opinion. Shirayuki bites back a groan. She would be sixty before that woman found her approaching passable, and even then, she still wouldn’t be good enough for a prince’s wife. Not when his children might have some chance, no matter how slim, of seating their sullied bloodline on the throne of Clarines.

“Perhaps you have earned a break.” Shirayuki blinks, staring up into the consort’s glowing face. “A private dinner seems in order. A night of no pressure of expectation.”

It sounds too good to be true. “Oh, no! I couldn’t--”

“Give me but a moment.” Haki hesitates at the door to her boudoir, lips lifted in an impish grin. “Perhaps my good brother might find himself available as well?”

Her mouth snaps shut. It’s been ages since she saw Zen, just the two of them. He came to dinner rarely-- understandable, with the summit only weeks away, and entirely under his purview, despite Seiran’s tacit position as host-- and where he went, Mitsuhide and Kiki went too. Haki had been her closest companion these past few weeks, the only friendly face, but Shirayuki longed for someone who didn’t look at her and see a princess, but--

Nervous energy courses through her, jolting her to her feet. Her hands itch, wanting for something to do, and with no plants to hand, they land upon the package on the receiving table. It’s wrapped in humble brown paper, folds clean and crisp, twine tightly tied. Haki’s medication, she realizes, dropping it from her numb hands. Made in the pharmacy. There’s a note on top-- instructions. She’d recognize them anywhere; after all, she’d written more than a few of them herself.

It’s curiosity that makes her pluck it from where it sits. It’s been ages since she’s been in the lab, but her knowledge hasn’t faded; there’s no harm in seeing whether there are any mistakes. An apprentice could have made this, after all. The dose does, as Garack was so fond of saying, make the poison.

She flips open the card, already flushed with the thought of being useful, but--

It’s not some apprentice’s writing at all. Oh no, she knows this spidery scrawl all too well. It was on every jar at her bench, every treatise she read late into the night.

It’s Ryuu’s.

Ignorance is bliss, they say. Always with a laugh, but stewing beneath it is envy and longing in equal measure. A pining for times past, for a childhood never quite as innocent as we remember.

For that is what we miss: innocence. Not the not-knowing, but state of not needing to know. The trust we felt towards those who always knew in our stead, who kept us safe from the dangers that pressed in around us. The ones who protected us with little lies; the small pauses to omit what might scare us, the careful editing to make our worlds the giddy fantasy we dreamed.

But there comes a day where all children must grow up. There is a day we must know these things for ourselves, so that we may see the world with clear eyes. For even innocence can be a cage, should some other hand try to lock you within it.

Ignorance is bliss, they say, but oh, only if they can keep you from knowing what it is you do not know.

May I ask you a question? the little girl asks, her gaze no longer on the garden, but the horizon beyond. It is bent in her vision, the glass made in such a way that each diamond blows out the edges, warping the world around it. She had never noticed when she looked only at the garden so near to it, but now...

Now the imperfection is all she can see.

Anything, the sorceress replies, her fingers wrapping around the caps of her shoulders. They’re cold, as cold as the glass beneath her palms.

The girl looks at their reflection, at the way the wave of the glass make those fingers bleed into talons. Where have the roses gone?

Shirayuki’s hands tremble, her eyes tracing every last loop, every hurried curve. “I didn’t...”

Haki peers around the jamb, letter folded in her hand. “Did you say something, my dear?”

This is the closest she’s been to Ryuu in months; even from where she holds it, the scene of lavender and akegi shigure waft from its paper. Not scented, not on purpose, but just from being left in a desk’s cubbyhole with his hastily tidied samples. His parchment smelt the same in Lilias, fragrant as the hothouses themselves.

Her chest can hardly contain her breath. “I didn’t realize that Ryuu was overseeing your treatment.”

A shadow flickers over the sorceress’s face, her grip painful for but a moment before she is her usual smiling self. A moment that could have been imagined, if only the girl was so sure it was not.

Roses? the sorceress asks airily. I’ve never grown any roses.

“Excuse me?”

“It only makes sense,” Shirayuki hurries to add, placing the card back atop the package. “He’s taken over for Chief Garack, and she always oversaw the royal--”

“Shirayuki.” Her name is firm from Haki’s lips, just shy of a scold. “I’m quite sorry but...who are you talking about?”

So many tales speak of trust as a blade, one that may be used to cut, that breaks when forged from brittle iron. A weapon, wielded and forgotten on the battlefield once the story is done.

But you and I know better: trust is a spell, woven to protect. It is a shield, unseen but always felt; sense by faith and not by fingers. And when it wavers, it does not break, does not shatter like a blade upon a stone; no, nothing so dramatic as that. Instead, it frays, unwoven one thread at a time, unnoticed until--

Until the hole can no longer be ignored.

She doesn’t leave the consort’s chambers meaning to break her curfew; oh no, when the door closes behind her, Shirayuki has every intention to head straight to her own. Her feet drag beneath her, weary from contorting herself into a mold that barely fits. There’s nothing she’d like more than to divest herself of all these courtly trappings and pass effortlessly into oblivion.

But she turns a corner, her mental map of the palace resolving, and she realizes: in one direction is her room, and in the other, the pharmacy. It’s late, but Ryuu would still be there, committing his last-minute thoughts to page while the offices emptied around him. She misses him, a longing so intense it aches.

It would only be a short visit. If Izana brought her before him in the morning, trying to act as both judge and jury-- well, Ryuu would be her physician, once she and Zen finally managed to make it down the aisle hand-in-hand. It only made sense to keep a cordial relationship with the man who would bear the next branch of the Wisteria tree into the world.

And if she missed him, the boy who straddled the line of friend and brother and son both-- there was no need to explain that to the king. It wasn’t as if Izana made a habit of confessing his ulterior motives to her. Though strangely, she thought he might understand that better than anyone.

Or all but one. And he...

Well, if there was a single person who might know where he went besides her, her feet were carrying her to him now/.

Were you to ask the girl, she would say she had not chosen night on purpose. The sorceress had housed her, fed her, loved her in her way; even with the image of the rose burned behind her eyes, she trusted her still, in the desperate way one does when one knows they should not, but cannot bear to contemplate why.

Opportunity chooses for her; the late afternoon sun burns hot, and when they finish their dinner, the sorceress excuses herself to lay down in the dark, to merely rest her eyes-- and does not wake, not even when the door creaks as the girl slips around it. The moon guides her steps when she walks into the garden, bright as the day itself, but she does not need it: her feet carrying her better than memory could.

There is one there, just as there was this morning: a petal, pink and sweet, fragrance so familiar she knew it even without sight.

Come out, she murmurs, digging her hands into the earth. Come out my lovely, my dear. I have been searching just for you.

A tendril spirals up from the ground, tentative. It flips and flaps, and oh, she is too shocked, too awed to help it. Even still, it finds her, wrapping around her finger, and with a single drop of blood the bush emerges, whole and dirt-smeared, from the soil.

What, it murmurs, impatience tinging its words, took you so long?

In the day, the pharmacy is all rush and chaos: apprentices burning tinctures and ushering patients to their rooms; masters emptying drawers as soon as they are filled, only for other herbalists to hurry to replace them. Guards arrive with injuries and nobles with ailments, no moment ever dull while the doors are open.

But at this hour, when the lords and ladies are all tucked in their beds-- or are at least pretending to be-- and the work is done, the pharmacy sleeps. There is no herbalist at the front desk, only the push bell Ryuu despised when she was his apprentice, since it always meant she would be pulled away from him or he away from his project.

A necessary nuisance, he called it once, and Obi had laughed. Just like me, eh, Miss?

She no longer remembers what she said-- it was early enough when he was one still, though she’d like to think she was too kind to say it-- but now she wishes, even if just for a moment, that she could tell him how much of a gift he was to her. How much he had made tedium bearable, even when she hadn’t known it for what it was.

Instead she bites her lips, rubbing at the ache in her breast. It’s hardly the first time she’s forgotten to say what matters, but-- but this won’t be her last chance. Obi might be away now, but he will be found, and she will tell him...

Everything. Every last thought she had since the moment they last spoke; her apologies and her worries, her failures and her triumphs. Because Obi hearing them-- that’s what makes them real.

Her hand wraps around the third door’s knob by habit; even now she expects to open it and see her projects spilled across her desk, to see a curtain closed beneath the other, and a window open between them. To see it waiting for her the way her heart waits for them, empty and waiting to be filled.

But there’s nothing of them there anymore. Nothing besides memories that no longer fit over the space it has become.

Her feet carry her onward, down to the last room, a sliver of light slipping across the hall where it’s been left ajar. She still expects to see a curled mass of blonde hair bent over the desk, long tables sprawled with books and half-finished studies, a bottle of roka medicinally sitting in the corner. But instead--

Instead it is a dark one, a riotous shrubbery of walnut and teak in desperate need of pruning. That had been her job in Lilias, along with Yuzuri’s helpful hands, but is seems no one here has yet talked the Chief Herbalist to task.

Give it a few years, Garack would tell her, and he’ll have herbalists as eager to get into his hair as you three were with me.

She leans against the jamb, a sigh slipping past where her heart clogs her throat. Ryuu had once fit beneath a desk half this size, and now he towers over it even seated, looking more and more like Shidan with each passing day, a man overgrown by time and deadlines.

“Ryuu.” It’s a palpable hit when their eyes meet. Everything else about him might change, but that gaze, so wide and thoughtful-- that never does.

Until now. One moment they spark, a fire lit behind blue glass, and the next...

It gutters, his gaze slipping away.

“Shirayuki.” His voice is so much deeper than in her memory, so much older. And colder too. “Excuse me, Lady Shirayuki. Is there something you need?”

“No.” She clings to the doorway, too aware of how fine her dress is, of how little it belongs in this place, his sanctum sanctorum. How little she belong here, now. “I saw a card you wrote to the consort, and I...wanted to see you.”

“A card?” His eyebrows twitch; she can no longer tell if it’s in surprise or confusion, not on this stranger’s face. “Ah. The powder for her migraines. Did you want some as well?”

“No, I’m-- I’m well.” It feels like a lie, even as she says it. It wouldn’t have, only hours ago. “I just...I’m here for you.”

His knuckles blanch where he grips his pencil. “Well, you’ve seen me. I trust you know your way out.”

You’re too late, too late, the roses say, their sing-song jangling in her ears. I’ve been hidden away for so long, and even now I cannot find him. The betrayal in their voice is thick when they ask, How could you forget us, your flower and your boy, when we have always grown together?

“Ryuu.” It leaves her lips cracked, broken; her mouth no longer knows how to form the shape that calls to him. “I know it’s been...a while, but please don’t think that I didn’t want to-- that I wasn’t thinking about you. I just...”

His pencil pauses on the page, but he does not speak. He just looks at her, the way he would at a stranger, and this room is suddenly a desert and ocean both, too far and deep to go by foot alone.

Still, there is nothing she will not brave, not for him. “It was hard to come,” she admits. “I’m not allowed in the gardens, and I’m not allowed to take patients. Coming here, watching everyone working the way I always have...”

It would have been like watching someone eat a feast while she was starving.

His eyes soften, even if they don’t precisely thaw. “I know that you’re marrying the prince, and that you don’t have time for m--” his lips press tight-- “this. I’m not upset because you’ve set your career aside.”

“But you are...” Her words limp as she says them, wounded fawns searching of an elusive mother. “You are upset.”

His hands flex as he places them on the wood, utterly silent. “I knew...” he breathes, so harsh it scrapes her own throat too. “I knew you’d have to give things up--important things. But...”

Ryuu had always spoken slowly, thoughtfully. But still, these moments when he meant what he said, when he composed rather than conversed-- it had never taken him to long to tell her what he meant. He trusted her, knew that even if his words came out garbled or his message was lost in a sea of ellipses, she would salvage it, gluing it back together with his intention.

So when he sits silent, it wounds her almost as much as his words.

At last his gaze lifts again from his work, but the glare he fixes on her-- “But I never thought you’d let one of them be Obi.”

Her mouth works, but the well from which she draws her reason is empty, leaving only pain in its wake.

“I didn’t...I didn’t let him leave,” she murmurs, more wind than whisper. “He never told me he was going. He just left without even...”

Saying goodbye. As if all these years had meant nothing at all.

“There’s a guardsman,” she says instead, her voice trembling toward something approaching even. “He said he saw Obi leave with--” a woman-- “someone.”

Ryuu grunts.

“He ran off with Torou, once.” She wants the words to come easy, but each one emerges from her trembling, the way her fingers are against her skirts. “On the way back from Tanbarun. That’s...that’s probably what this is. An old friend that needs help, and then he’ll come right back--.”

“He won’t.”

Each breath is a stab, deep in her chest. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stands; a production with how much of him there is now. Cautiously, his hand extends, a fist hovering over the knotted wood of his desk.

It takes all her courage to take the first step, and all of it again to take the next. On and on until she’s crossed the room, hand outstretched, quivering beneath his own.

His palm opens, and into hers falls...a seed. Tiny. Blue. As clear as glass.

“An orbia seed?” Shirayuki lifts it up to the light, the plumule a hazy bead nestled in its luminous cotyledon. It’s impossible to tell by sight, but still, she’s sure-- it would germinate, if she planted it. “I was collecting these before we left.”

“I know.”

“It’s funny,” she murmurs, a smile lifting her mouth. “I never did find a blue one.”

“I know.” His explanation comes in fits and starts, a path never worn in the telling. “I had one. I gave it to Obi.”

“You...?” The thought catches in the light, just like the seed between her fingers. “Oh. Oh. But...” Her mouth curls, a silent question: why?

“I don’t know. I thought he might...” Ryuu’s shoulders twitch, as narrow as Obi’s when he first blew in with the wind. Before he settled into the man he became. “When he was ready...”

Of course. Her hand closes tight around the seed. Obi had what she needed all along. And she’d never known, not until...

Not until he was gone. “Where--?”

“I found it on my desk.” Ryuu’s fingers flex, falling by his side. “The morning after he left.”

Where did he go? the little girl asks, desperation choking her as surely as her tears. Where can I find him?

How should I know? the roses reply, thorns in their words as well as their stems. You are the one who left me buried under the ground. How could I watch him when you let us be trapped together?

“Did you...” Her mouth works, cutting itself against her question. “Did you tell Zen’s men, when they came? Do they know that he...?”

Said goodbye, she cannot say, to someone at least.

“No.” Ryuu blinks, his eyes as round and innocent and blue as ever. “They never did. Come by I mean.”

This is not the first time we have spoken of betrayal, is it? Of the wound that never heals, the jagged cut that scabs over only to be ripped open anew. The injury that teaches one to be wary, lest one be inflicted again.

But that is only after the wound is made. When it is first done...

Well, it is strange how long a heart can bear a blade through it without ever feeling the killing stroke.

“You are thinking,” Haruka remarks, with no small amount of disapproval. “I can tell.”

Shirayuki blinks down at her place setting, expecting to see broth dripped across the tablecloth, or perhaps the edge of her sleeve dipped in yolk, maybe even her tea dribbling over the edge of her cup--

But there is nothing. The white linen is pristine beneath her gold-rimmed plate, her sleeves and elbows tucked up and off the table, and if anything, her beverages of choice are picturesque in their vessels, juice beading with moisture and tea gently steaming. “What am I doing wrong?”

It, historically, has been the wrong question to ask the marquis, sure to send him into a silent huff that will stretch from first course to fifth, disapproval deepening with each sorbet. In his vaunted opinion, the fact her inexperience might cause her to trespass the unspoken rules of good manners is bad enough, but to not know precisely when and how it was done-- now that was truly unforgivable.

However, today he merely settles back in his seat, rubbing his fingers against the cloth tucked over his lap, and fixes her with his unerring gaze. She doesn’t shrink beneath it; oh no, instead something in her chest shifts, almost as if-- as if it grows.

His lips twitch, just the slightest upward tremor. “Nothing.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, stymied. “Then how did you know?”

A single, noble arch lifts. “Because you have never once stopped.”

It is to the tiger-lily the little girl turns, after the roses. They are a pompous flower, no doubt, as proud and self-important as any big cat, but despite their bluster, they are honest. The noblest flower in this garden, hearty and constant, and though they sniff when she kneels down upon their bed, dirtying her hem, they listen.

Have you seen him? she asks, heart lodged tight in her throat. Have you seen my precious boy?

“So what is it,” Haruka murmurs into his glass, “that has you so engrossed, young lady?”

Her lips press together, teeth plucking at the scar. “You told me once that I should know who is my ally, and who is my-- Zen’s.”

The rim has hardly touched his lips, but Haruka sets down the crystal, hands folding behind his plate. “I did.”

“But those are not the one two options, are they.” It’s not a question, not anymore. “Sometimes they may seem to be one or the other, or both at the same time, but really-- it’s their own, isn’t it? Everyone is just trying to do what they think best.”

“That is...” The marquis takes in a steady breath. “A very mature way to see a frustrating problem.”

“The consort has said that she is my friend,” she says slowly, each word shaken loose from her heart. “But she is also lying to me.”

“Is she?”

Haruka, she had said once, these long skirts tangled around her legs, binding fast as any chain, he’s hard to read.

Is he? Zen’s hand was cold against hers, like touching marble. Izana’s had been the same so many years ago; she wonders if it might be a problem with their circulation, perhaps passed down from a parent, but this doesn’t seem the time to ask about his mother’s medical history. He’s always seemed clear as crystal to me.

Though, he continues, mouth set in a rueful grin. After a childhood of lectures, maybe it’s easier. I can tell how stupid he thinks I am just from the degree of his eyebrows.

His brow is furrowed now, a tight knot over the bridge of his nose. There’s no angle, no lift, and Shirayuki isn’t quite sure what that might say about his perception of her intelligence. If it were anyone else, she might even call it concern.

“Is she lying to you,” he asks, posing it like Lata when he wants to ask something particularly perverse as a rhetorical. “Or are you not asking the right questions?”

Her fingers clench tight on her lap, linen rucking up between her fingers. She likes this far less than Lata’s. “Your Grace...”

Now his brows raise, shock stark on his face, “Yes, Miss Shirayuki?”

“Do you...?” The words stick in her mouth; to ask them is to admit defeat. No-- distrust. That the best interests everyone has been working towards are not her own. “Do you know where Obi is?”

I have seen no precious boy, the tiger lily trumpets, as proud as ever. Only a little girl loved by all who see her. How lucky she is to garner such attention!

I care not for me, the little girls mutters, impatient. Where do you think he has gone?

Away, away. The flower bobs beneath its own self-importance. He has been taken away. Down and gone and buried with the roses. Perhaps you are the better for it.

“No.” It’s the truth; he wouldn’t bother to lie to her. “As of now, his location is unknown, even to the king himself.”

She licks her lips, nails biting into her thigh. The orbia seed burns a hole in her hip. “Are they looking for him?”

A shadow ripples over his face, gone before she can follow it to its source. “Someone might be.”

“I mean Zen,” she clarifies. “Or Izana.”

“I know,” he replies, voice impossibly gentle from such a forbidding mouth. “I think we’re ready for the next course, don’t you?”

Innocence and ignorance, truth and illusion, trust and betrayal-- we have meditated upon each, as if they are but separate concepts that can be held to the light and have each facet revealed in turn. But surely you seen that they have all brought us here, to this part, to this singular place: a knife buried in a breast, a garden made into a cage. A girl in each, who has finally seen the truth beneath the illusion.

We should rejoice, should we not? For these girls who might free themselves, might heal themselves? But yet you do not, do you? For you know the trick of it:

A wound does not truly begin to bleed until the blade is removed. And a girl like this--

Ah, her hand is already at the hilt.

For once, Shirayuki is relieved that it is her round-faced guard that awaits her and not a more experienced one. Or worse yet, Kiki, who would anticipate her before she could get a word in edgewise.

But luck is on her side; this dear boy springs from his place on the wall, every muscle tense with anticipation, quivering to do his duty, and she-- she is ready to take advantage of it.

“Ready, my lady?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a hound eager to be given his leash. “It’s off to the ballroom next, isn’t it? With Master--?”

“Not today,” Shirayuki informs him swiftly. “I need you to take me to the king.”

The color leaches from his face. “The...the k-king?”

She nods, tight, officious. The sort Lady Mihoko gave her maids; the sort that belonged alongside a command obeyed.

“But, my lady...” He shuffles on his feet, loath to disappoint her. “Don’t you need an appointment to see His Majesty? I don’t think you can just go right in and--”

She’s already walked past him, chin held high. “He’ll see me.”

It may seem humble before the dawn, its petals as rumpled as bedsheets, drawn over its head like a child-- but when the sun casts its fiery crown over the garden, it is the convolvulus that is ascendant. It needs no dazzling pattern, no fanciful pinwheel of petal and sepal to make itself stand above its floral brethren, but only purity of color. For there is no other here that is so purely white, that has a color so simply blue. The tiger lily might roar among the plots, but it is to the convolvulus it bends, when it rises from its nightly slumber.

The little girl watches as the sleep falls from its petals, witness to its splendor. What, it asks, ruffling its delicate mane, could have made you seek me out, girl?

There is a not-insignificant portion of her life that has been spent waiting; not in the way of most of her colleagues-- for water to boil, or a titration to drip, or even for a letter of acceptance to arrive-- but for men with nothing else to recommend them but birth to decide they’re bored enough to receive the royal pharmacist. Shidan had called it fundraising and Kazaha glad-handing, but Shirayuki can admit now, as she flies past Izana’s steward, leaving him and her guard in her wake, what it really is:

Insulting.

The view always arrests her when she enters the royal solar, and this morning is no different; the sun setting, finishing its bright arc through the sky, but the angle of it, with the windows as they are-- it sets the king’s hair alight, a halo burning.

A target, she names grimly; and she the arrow. With his steward calling her name behind her, she takes a determined step toward him.

“Have you not heard then?” Izana asks, hardly bothering to look up from his papers. “I already approved your request to be excused from dinner.”

Shirayuki hauls up short, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” His brows raise, as does his gaze, already bored. “My brother already spoke about at length this morning. So if you seek to move me as well, please note that I have already stepped aside.”

“I...” She blinks. “I wasn’t here for that.”

Interest sparks in his eyes, quick as a struck match. “Then by all means, scold away. At least--” his mouth quirks, too amused-- “I assume that is your intention, marching into my office unannounced as you are.”

“Forgive me.” The steward presses a hand to his heaving breast. “Mistress Shirayuki--”

“It a force of nature,” his master replies, mouth curling like parchment corners. “So I have often had occasion to find out. You may leave us.”

“Your Majesty--” Izana merely lifts his brows, and the man stutters to a stop. “Of course. As you wish.”

“Now,” he hums as the doors close. “Just which wind sent this storm spinning into my office?”

Bound here you might be, but I know the trick of this place, the girl says, kneeing at the bed’s edge. What roots grow here touch the roots of all the morning’s glory. And you who wake with the sun-- you keep the closest watch on the horizon.

If there are any in the garden who know of my precious boy, she continues, the breeze rippling the convolvulus’s ruff. It would be you. So tell me, please...have you see him?

“It’s Obi,” she admits, heat stinging her cheeks. “I want to know the, er, status of the search.”

Izana blinks.

Oh, how kind it would be if this confusion was feigned, if it were all just a show to drag out her loyalties; to force her to admit that even if Zen was her heart, she could not turn her back on her home. That this was simply another moment where she would show him that friendship was strength, and the walls he erected himself were merely a folly.

But there is no smug satisfaction buoying his words when he asks, “The search? Didn’t Sir Obi leave my brother’s employ months ago? The beginning of the summer, I believe--”

“He didn’t quit,” Shirayuki insists, even as the seed weighs heavy between her skirts. “He disappeared, and Zen said he had put men out to search for him.”

A flower has no face, but the girl need no smile, no hooded eyes to discern the sorrowful bent of its stem.

I am but the morning’s glory, the convolvulus sighs, and when the night comes, I fold myself tight. Your boy does not pass me in my waking hours, so perhaps it is that he travels in the night.

But what does that mean? asks the girl. Why would he only travel at night? He is but a boy, a boy, and he walks in day.

The convolvulus is quiet, swaying in the garden’s eternal summer. I do not know, he admits. I do not know at all.

“Ah.” His eyes soften, no longer the unrelenting velvet of the night, but the waves of deep water, and Shirayuki finally has cause to find out: to experience Izana’s pity is a thousand times worse than his disdain. “I am not privy to the movement of my brother’s men, so long as I do not need them in attendance. He must not have put in his last report...”

“Please.” Her hand flies up between them, earning her an incredulous lift of a brow. “It only makes it worse that you are being decent about it.”

His laugh surprises her. “So you’d like me to gloat?”

“No.” Her breath saws out of her, great heaves that shake her shoulders. “I want you to grant me leave to find him.”

“You?” His brows raise, even his eyes widen, but to his credit, he does not ask, but what could you do? Instead his mask settles back over his face without a ripple, the king staring out from behind it. “It would be a waste. I have heard from your tutors that you are making good progress. Lady Mihoko even ventured to say you might make a passable princess, if you pushed out an heir fast enough.”

Her mouth twitches. Only yesterday, she would have nearly fainted with relief, but today-- “What praise.”

There’s a stern tilt to his mouth, a forbidding set to his eyebrows; if she didn’t know any better, Shirayuki would call it concern. “As I recall, our agreement did address this.”

“Then you mean...?”

“Yes.” He nods, splaying his palms across his desk, almost as if he were bracing himself. “If you leave the palace grounds, you forfeit your chance to be the one at my brother’s side. A princess leaves such things in the hands of her guardsmen--” his mouth twitches-- “and her husband.”

You want her to go, do you not? Even now you quiver at the edge of your seat, begging this little girl to open her eyes, to keep them open, to see through the illusion and run as fast as she can. You want her to leave the garden, to break through the last of this enchantment and leave safety behind.

But tell me, what would you do, with the knife quivering it in your chest? To forget it is to live with the pain. To remove it is to be free.

An easy choice, you might say. Who could live with a blade in their breast? Ah, but do not forget:

There is no way to know if the wound is fatal until the knife is removed.

“There is something I wonder, Mistress Shirayuki.”

His musings shatter the brittle silence between them; that fragile bulwark that has kept her in his skin. Now that it’s gone, she trembles, every muscle in her body fighting the urge to cross the king’s study and shake him until decency falls it.

A hopeless quest if there ever was one. “Is there something else you could possibly say to me?”

She says it sweetly; most would hear only that-- the tone rather than the content. But Izana has not sat so long on his father’s throne by being that sort of man; no, his mouth curls, amused.

“No. It’s only...” he hums, gaze lifting from his paper. “I wonder when you started to think Obi left.”

Then what do you know? the girl says, anger and bile rising in her tone. What good are you?

A flower cannot smile, but she feels teeth when it replies, I know that it will cost you, and cost you dear.

Izana might as well have struck her. Shirayuki rocks back on her heels, only just catching herself before she trips over her own hem. “I-I...what do you...?”

“When you came in here, you first talked as you had before.” Long fingers knit beneath his chin, though he does not deign to rest on them, not alert as he is. A cat before a kill, still toying with with the prey between his paws. “You insisted on his disappearance-- the implication being, of course, that you deny his own agency in his departure. Kidnapping or coercion, one might say.”

She cannot see its teeth, but Shirayuki isn’t so foolish to believe there is no trap. “Y-yes..”

“But now you come to me and ask after my men.” His mouth quirks. “You ask for my permission.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” she asks, fingers clenching in her skirts. “A princess wouldn’t depart without the approval of her liege.”

“Of course.” He waves a hand, as if all those rules she spent late nights learning mean nothing at all, as if they were worth less than the paper on which they had been printed. “A princess would. But you, Miss Shirayuki, you--” his eyes spark, the way she only saw that night in Lilias as he closed the gates-- “you jump from windows. You follow a flower into a cave. If you truly believed your companion in danger, I doubt there is a single promise that would keep you by my side.”

She cannot breathe, let alone hazard an answer. Not when even a flutter of an eyelash could give her away.

“Which begs the question, doesn’t it?” His gaze fixes her to where she stand, pins through a moth’s wings. “Just what reason would make him leave?”

Me? the girl cries, already thinking of her lovely red shoes, of the boat they bought her down the river. Why me?

Because my dear, the convolulus hums. It is your fault that he has left.

The doors swing open, and the steward steps inside, sparing her an infuriatingly smug glance. “Sir Lowen, Your Majesty.”

“A moment,” the king tells him, “Mistress Shirayuki and I are nearly done her.”

The man nods. “I will tell him to await your will.”

Shirayuki blinks. “What--?” It’s trial to catch her breath, to make her heart stop pounding in her breast. “What is Mitsuhide doing here?”

“You need an escort to your dinner, do you not? I thought he would be the most palatable option for you.” Izana fixes her with a meaningful look. “I do hope you find your answers, Mistress Shirayuki.”

You don’t know me. Obi’s gaze is raw in her memory, too gold. You don’t know anything about me.

You know how he is. Zen’s smile curls at the edges, brittle, like parchment pasted to vellum. Obi has always come back on his own before.

Zen will take care of it. Mitsuhide won’t meet her gaze. I’m sure Obi will be back any day now.

“Don’t worry.” It’s a miracle that the words don’t catch between her teeth, the way she’s clenching them. “I will.”

A hand wraps around a hilt. A breath shudders. And with one, swift tug--

The blade moves but an inch.

#obiyukiweek21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #All That Remains #snow queen au #ans #YET ANOTHER CHAPTER #WHERE I DO NOT REACH THE END OF THIS PART #it's coming guys #really it is...#...one day....#but at least you get this small glimmer of hope #FOR NOW

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