#i only broke down sobbing twice while i drew this so i will consider that a win

[transphilza]

i love you technoblade

[starks-hero]

His Last Vow

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Request: Hey! I just adore your writings, thank you for existing. ❤ I watched Sherlock 4x01 yesterday, and I just can't get over what happened there. I'm truly afraid what will happen next... So I thought if you could write a fic about this episode. I mean something like this: after all what happened in the Aquarium, S. goes home to Y/N, his girlfriend, totally fallen apart, trembling, then he starts like... and destroying everything at home, and Y/N tries to soothe him, crying, fluff etc. THANK YOUUU <3 - anonymous

Summary: You can't stop Sherlock from falling apart, but you can certainly help pick up the pieces.

Word Count: 1,725

Warnings: lots of angst with some compensating fluff, a very brief mention of Sherlock's drug use, Spoilers for 4x01

“Come on, pick up!” You yelled as Sherlock's phone once again went straight to voicemail. You'd been trying to get through to him for over an hour and your worry was slowly melting into frustration.

It had been a few hours since he'd left the flat to ‘think without any distractions’, but you didn't take into account that he'd be gone this long. You knew this case meant more to him than most, especially considering it concerned Mary, which made you all the more worried.

You tried calling him once more, but when you were greeted with the same blunt voicemail, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

Grabbing your coat, you pulled Mary's number up on your phone. You attempted to calm your anxious mind by telling yourself that Sherlock had probably just dragged John off on some side case. And if anyone was going to know where the boys were, it was Mary.

Just as you pressed ‘call’ and opened the door to leave, you were greeted by the familiar sound of footsteps on the stairs. You sighed in relief.

“Where have you been? I was starting to get-,” Your voice died down in your throat when Sherlock entered the flat.

His chest was heaving and his body trembled, his cheeks were stained with tears and his eyes resembled those of a scared child. He looked completely distraught.

“Sherlock?” Your voice was timid as he entered the flat. You studied him carefully before reaching out for his hand. You stopped a few inches short. Sherlock's gloved hand, along with the once white sleeve of his shirt was now stained in a dark crimson red. Your heart fell out of your chest when you realised what it was. Blood.

“Sherlock,” your voice wavered. “What happened?”

You didn't receive a reply. Sherlock's back was to you, but you could still clearly see his struggle to breathe as his shoulders tensed. He pulled off his gloves slowly, hands shaking.

The room was deathly quiet. And then it wasn't. Whatever had happened, whatever Sherlock was feeling, whatever he had pent up inside came out all at once in a blind rage.

One sweep of his arm sent several books and heaps of paper flying from the desk, he brought his fist down on the tables top so hard you swore you heard the wood splinter. Several more books were pulled from the bookcase and not even the sentiment Sherlock held for his skull was enough to stop the youngest Holmes from picking up the human remain and chucking it across the room. His rage continued to the kitchen as the table was completely overturned, any unfortunate glass or cutlery that had been left on its surface shattering into ceramic shards as they met the cold floor. One of the cupboards was almost completely taken off its hinges. And through all of this, Sherlock cried.

You watched on in shock, frozen to the spot as you watched Sherlock destroy anything he came in contact with. No matter how much your mind yelled at you to do something, to move and comfort the man you loved, the horror kept you glued to the spot. Whatever had happened, had destroyed Sherlock entirely. You weren't entirely sure you'd be capable of dealing with it.

You were pulled from your frozen state as Sherlock turned his anger to the flat door. His fist connected with the wood. Once, twice, over and over. The timber was splintering and Sherlock's knuckles were bloodied, but he didn't stop. He just kept going, his strangled shouts tearing at your heart.

“Sherlock,” You approached him slowly but with unfaltering trust. Despite the violence you'd just witnessed unfold in the flat, you weren't afraid of Sherlock, not for a second.

“Hey, hey-,” Your hand brushed his shoulder but it didn't lessen his assault on the door. “Sherlock, stop it.”

Blood was flowing freely from his knuckles down his fingers in bright crimson lines.

“Stop it!”

Grabbing hold of his shoulder and forcibly pulling him away from the abused piece of wood. He struggled against you, attempting to push you away, but despite being taller and stronger than you, you managed to hold your ground against him. (The bloodied hand, sprained wrist and potentially broken fingers weren't playing in his favour.)

“Let me go!” Sherlock's tone was heart-wrenching, his voice hoarse from the shouting he'd done moments before. His vocal cords were spent. “Let me go!” He continued to struggle against you. His voice no longer resembled that of the stoic, detective you'd fallen for, but of a terrified child that had witnessed something they shouldn't have. “Let me-”

Sherlock's harrowing shouts broke into distressed sobs. He stopped fighting and allowed himself to collapse against you. The tears dampened your skin as Sherlock buried himself into the crook of your neck.

Sherlock's legs gave way and he was sent to the ground, you went with him. He clutched onto you for dear life, fingers clutching at your shoulders so tightly you could feel his nails digging into your skin. He was holding you so closely against him it was beginning to constrict your ability to breathe. But you didn't complain. You just kept running your hand through his hair and doing your best to soothe him.

You had never seen him in such a state. In fact, you'd never seen anyone in such a state. Everything you'd been through with Sherlock, the cases, the drugs, all of it and you'd never seen an outburst that could even begin to compare to the magnitude of the one you'd just witnessed.

“Sherlock,” you managed after a while, your own voice trembling slightly. “What happened?”

His voice wavered, sobs wracking his body. You ran your hand through his hair again.

“Hey, look at me,” your hand gently caressed his cheek and wiped away stray tears, your thumb catching them as they continued to fall. “It's okay, whatever happened, it's okay. Just talk to me, Sherlock.” You masterfully hid your worry beneath a gentle tone as you urged him to continue.

Sherlock swallowed down a rising sob and managed to choke out a somewhat coherent answer.

“Mary,” he cried. “She's dead.”

Your heart stopped beating for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. Tears formed in your eyes as the world shattered around you at the revelation. When you finally exhaled, reality hit.

Sherlock broke again and this time, you broke with him.

You cried into Sherlock's shoulder. You cried for Mary, your best friend. You cried for John, who'd lost his wife and for little Rosie, who'd lost her mother. You weren't quite sure just how long you spent weeping, all you could hear was the same two words playing on repeat in your mind. ‘She’s dead’.

You were only pulled back to what was left of your reality by the sound of Sherlock's distraught voice.

“It's-It's my fault!” Sherlock cried and you swore you'd never heard anyone sound so broken. “I killed her.”

“Sherlock,” you tried, expression falling when he flinched away from your touch. “Sherlock, please.” You carefully slipped your hand into his and he grasped onto it like a lifeline. “Listen to me. You didn't kill her. Mary, she-” you couldn't find the words to finish.

You knew Sherlock was lying, you may not have known the whole story yet but you knew Sherlock hadn't killed Mary. But he was blaming himself, and you couldn't allow him carry that kind of weight.

“It's going to be okay, I promise. We'll- we'll figure it out.”

You knew your words were empty. Mary was dead. The life you'd known yesterday was gone. It wasn't going to be okay, not for a long time if ever. But you needed to say something, anything, to help ease the heartache you were both feeling. You had to be strong, for him.

“I promised,” Sherlock's voice had been reduced to a whimper. “I- I promised I'd keep her safe.”

Having no other empty promises to offer, you did the only thing your distressed mind would allow. You pulled Sherlock against you and held him close. He sobbed into your shoulder, completely inconsolable.

“It's okay,” you comforted, holding the pieces together as Sherlock broke in your arms. “It's okay, I'm here.”

You glanced around the wreckage of the flat. Both your belongings were strewn along the floor, mostly in pieces. But none of that mattered, not now. At the moment there was only one broken thing you were focused on fixing.

Wordlessly, you stood. Sherlock's hold on you tightened, almost as if he feared you were leaving him. But a comforting hand grasping his own eased his worries. You pulled him to his feet and together, navigated across the treacherous kitchen floor that was covered in broken glass.

You pulled the first aid kit from the cupboard and Sherlock caught on, obediently seating himself in one of the chairs that had remained standing during his outburst.

Your fingers gently caught Sherlock's wrist and drew his hand close to you. First, you washed away the blood and then pressed the disinfectant wipe to his knuckles. Sherlock didn't react.

You sniffled as you worked, wiping at your eyes. Sherlock made no comment, his own tears were yet to stop. Focusing on Sherlock's injury and the task at hand was currently the only thing stopping you from breaking again.

You dried the wound and bandaged it up, not that it was necessarily needed, but it was something to focus on.

When you finished tending to the injury, you didn't let go of Sherlock's hand. You sat together for a moment, the silence deafening.

You glanced at him through blurred vision. His eyes reflected what you were both feeling. You were both broken. Mary, your best friend, was gone and the family you'd both found had been torn apart.

Sherlock pulled you into him, his strong hold suggesting that he didn't plan on letting go anytime soon. You held him just as tightly.

You sat together amidst the wreckage, mourning both Mary and the life you'd both had just hours earlier. You'd both lost your best friend and you knew the fallout would be unimaginable. But for now, you had each other, and you hoped that would be enough to make it through what was to come.

~~~~~~

Forever tag list: @miraclesoflove​ @bakerstreethound​ @kealohilani-tepise

Sherlock tag list: @fanfictionsilove​ @quentawewe​ @andreasworlsboring101​ @starrykitn​  @doozywoozy​ @xxinvisiblexx​ @the-worst-critic​ @Jellyfishbeansontoast @Xhz17x

[captainderyn]

The Things We Regret the Most

Summary: Cullen has long got out of the habit of holding regrets. But failing to seperate Tucdela from her role as Inquisitor when she needed him to the most, and almost losing her to the Anchor because of it, still sticks with him all these years later.

--

(Ferelden; unknown year post 9:44)

Long term regrets were not something that Cullen clung to. He learned long ago, back in Ferelden’s Circle and twice over in Kirkwall, that if he did not learn to forgive himself for some things then he would simply collapse beneath their weight. Regrets needed to be acknowledged, yes. Changes needed to be made in accordance. But then they were allowed to fall away so that new regrets may take their place. It was an ever persisting cycle. 

Failing to separate Tucdela from the Inquisitor when it mattered most...that had dug its claws into his shoulders and refused to be shaken, even now. 

It crept upon him in the quietest of moments. In bed at night, when Tucdela was pressed against his side and softly snoring into his shoulder, it plagued his waking thoughts. 

Even in peaceful times, sitting in front of the hearth, he would look at Tucdela bouncing their daughter in her lap with a bright smile, and a twinge of what she could have avoided had he just opened his eyes would twist deep in his gut. How much suffering she could have been spared if duty had been set aside for a moment.

He hadn’t been able to sleep beside her for weeks without waking in a cold sweat hearing her screams echoing in his ears, or without turning over to check that she was still peacefully slumbering and not covered in her own blood. Running his hands across her skin in simple pleasure had become unthinkable for far too long after the Exalted Council--each new scar his fingers would touch screamed at him that it could have been avoided. 

-- 

(The Exalted Council; 9:44 Dragon)

The moment Tucdela’s saint-like patience and clear-headed kindness with her advisors faltered, alarm bells should have been sent ringing in Cullen’s head. 

The Inquisitor remained unnaturally quiet as he, Leliana, and Josephine bickered back and forth over the details of the Exalted Council, staring hard at the wall. Tucdela had never been one to contribute to strategic talks, she claimed it was out of her wheelhouse and she was much better at listening and learning rather than forcing in a baseless opinion. Yet this silence reigned differently, far less contemplative and far more volatile. 

Her eyes narrowed suddenly, her mouth twisting in a hard line. 

“Everyone, enough!” she snapped, voice tearing through their argument like barbed claws. Surprised enough by the vitriol in her voice, they all faltered and stared at her. She glared back, green eyes unnaturally bright as though she was running a fever. Her cheeks were flushed red too, Cullen noted with a spike of worry worming its way into his mind. Far redder than her usual flush. 

“What’s the point?” Tucdela continued. “All they ever are is angry! We save Orlais, they’re angry. We save Fereldan, and they’re angry. We save the whole fucking world and they’re! still! Angry!” she broke off with a cry, bucking over on herself.

She stumbled, going to a knee and clutching at the edge of the table to keep herself on her feet. Her teeth ground together hard enough that he could see her jaw jumping. 

Cullen reached for her, but she batted his hand away with a sharp, “Don’t!”

He hovered, hands half poised to help without making a move to touch her. The last time he had seen her this agitated, if there had ever been such a point, was far from memory.

She took several ragged breaths, the mark pulsing a sickly green. The spike of worry drove painful through his chest again when he saw the green tendrils following the veins up her arm. 

As if feeling his gaze, Tucdela tucked her arm close to herself, steadied her breath and stood. 

All the acid had drained from her voice. Fear and a deep, deep pain weighed it down instead, 

“And now it’s all going to end. It’s all going to fall apart again. So what are we trying to do, exactly?” 

Shaking her head she added, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m just--this is a lot.” she looked around at them, eyes lingering on Cullen. Although her words addressed them all, it felt as though extra emphasis went to him, “I’m alright. I think I’ll just go rest a bit before the meetings tonight, if that is okay?” 

“Of course, Inquisitor.” Josephine said carefully. “We will send for you if anything urgent calls. You need your strength.” 

And then she was gone, slipping through the door and closing it softly behind her with slumped shoulders and a heavy gait. 

An uneasy silence fell across the advisors. 

“I should go after her.” Cullen said, eyes fixed on the door. 

“No,” Leliana said firmly. “She’ll be alright. We need you here--we need a plan.” 

Like a fool, Cullen stayed, tearing his eyes away from the door. Claw number one dug its way into his shoulder. 

Hours slipped by until he was able to tear himself away from his work for a moment. Tucdela was curled on top of the plush Orlesian duvet when he crept into their shared quarters. A pillow was clutched close to her chest, a trick he knew she had started to smother the ever present figure of the Anchor. 

Her eyelids twitched as he tiptoed over, caught in a restless and fitful sleep. He was just here to make sure she was alright, he had told himself. Leliana and Josephine still required his help and he was lucky that his leash had been slackened enough to make it out here. And yet something still drew him to sink onto the edge of the bed and run his hand down her shoulder. 

Heat radiated from her even with the cool air coming in through the open window, her cheeks still heavily flushed.

Just as he began to pull away she caught at his hand, eyes cracking open to heavy slits. The Anchor had made them bright, Fade green. Two twin pools of the Breach itself sunken into tired circles. 

“Are you alright?” he whispered and she gave a small, sleepy nod. 

She ran her fingers over his knuckles, drawing her hand up to tug at his wrist, “Stay here?” 

Every part of him said that yes, he’d stay, except for his mouth, which froze on the words. The missive that had been shoved into his hands on his way over burned in his pocket and Leliana’s sharp demand that he only be gone a short while tugged at his mind. 

Wrapping his fingers around hers, he pulled her hand from his wrist and pressed a kiss to the digits. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her burning forehead, wincing as he murmured, “I’ll be back soon.” 

“Okay…” she breathed out, burying her face back in the pillow. Before he closed the door on his way out, he looked over his shoulder once more and watched her shoulders shudder. It may just have been a breath, or perhaps a pain response from the Anchor. 

Looking back on it, nothing could convince him it hadn’t been a silent sob that he had chosen to miss. He should have laid down next to her, drawn her close, and held her then. 

But he didn’t. 

They say that with halla, they don’t show their suffering until it becomes near unbearable. Even with the Anchor pulsing worse and worse with the stress of all Thedas on her shoulders, she rarely showed how deeply her pain ran. 

Only one other time did Tucdela break down enough to show her cracks.

Laying together in bed, away from prying eyes and preying duties, another surge struck the Anchor. Tucdela curled in on herself with a cry and lay shuddering for several minutes. Green veins pulsed all the way up her arm. When Cullen finally massaged her rigid limbs out of the fetal position, tears were streaking down her cheeks. 

He pulled her close, pressed a kiss to the top of her head and continued to run his hand from her shoulder to her hip as another tremor shook her. 

The Maker damned mark...they’d considered it so useful without once considering the consequences. How often had they, no, even he, sent her out to close Rifts or fight demons? How many times had his urging brought her one step closer to this moment? It was all what-ifs and past mistakes and yet still a soft, “I’m sorry,” still slipped from his lips. 

“Vhenan,” Tucdela rasped, her eyes still closed. “You’re thinking too much again.” 

“I won’t let you go.” Another slip of the tongue and Cullen silently cursed himself. What did he mean? He wasn’t going to let her free from his embrace, or he wasn’t going to let the mark kill her? 

She took it as the latter, a soft, mirthless laugh escaping her, “I don’t want to die.” she admitted and his heart stopped beating all together. “But it’s not up to you, or me. It’s out of our control.” 

A chill spread through him, peppering goosebumps across his skin. He pressed tighter to her. 

The quiet resignation made it sound as though she was prepared to die. Not ready, no, no one was ever truly ready to die, but accepting that that was to be her fate. 

“We can still find something.” he said adamantly. Only for her to hum in acknowledgement, but not agreement. 

“You can’t fight ancient magic.” she said simply, and ended the conversation there. 

He’d never know and never asked if she’d had a gut feeling of what was going to happen when she departed with Varric, Dorian, and Bull the next day, or if she’d simply made an unfortunately accurate comment. 

But he knew that he should have held her closer that night, kissed her harder that morning, and begged the Maker with more fevor to bring her back safely. 

It felt like years from when the party departed after the qunari and when the scout burst through the doors with their first sign of news. 

Perhaps not the first sign, Leliana had slipped in moments prior looking a little ill. Cullen had simply written it off as worry, just as the rest of them felt. 

“Commander!” the scout addressed him, and Cullen rocked to his feet. The missive from Baraneth Theirin addressing the Inquisitor fell to the side. It wouldn’t be picked up again or read for several days.  “The Inquisitor’s party is returning.”

Leliana and Josephine both looked up from their work, sharing a concerned look. 

“And,” Josephine prompted, “Were they successful?” 

Silence, uncomfortable and stretching until Cullen snapped, “Well? Report!” 

The scout sank their teeth into their lip, forcing the words out, “I don’t know, Lady Ambassador, Commander.” 

All three advisors burst out with questions at once until the scout scrambled back, cowering against the door. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” 

“What happened?” 

“Is the Inquisitor alright? Varric, Dorian? Bull?” 

A deadly pause fell after the last question fell from Josephine’s lips. Hearts dropped to the floor, breaths caught at the lack of immediate answer. 

“Well, where are they!?” The scout flinched away from Cullen’s voice and perhaps he would have apologized if he hadn’t been caught on the agonized expression the scout wore. The look of someone with bad news to bear that they had no desire to deliver.  

Cold dread flowed through him. 

“As far as I am aware, the Inquisitor’s party all arrived safely.” 

“And the Inquisitor?” his voice shook. He had heard hedged replies, given them himself to agonized families of fallen templars and soldiers alike. This scout couldn’t, wouldn’t, look him in the eyes and tell him that Tucdela had fallen, so close to the end of the line. This was supposed to be when they wrapped things up, stepped away from it all, and finally found their future. 

They had promised that to each other, under the eyes of the Maker and the Dalish Pantheon both only days ago. 

“Tell me what happened to the Inquisitor!” Cullen demanded, voice breaking. The scout floundered, finally giving him a hopeless look. 

“Commander, I don’t know. The Iron Bull carried her back and that’s the most I saw.” 

Before his mind fully caught up to his feet, Cullen was pushing past the scout and into the halls. It is without shame that he can admit he ran to the courtyard, pushing past curious staff members until he broke into the crowd. 

Nobility were clustered in the courtyard, shrieking and babbling with their kerchiefs over mouths and eyes. Mages and healers were trying to shoulder their way through, shouts lost in the general din. 

“Everybody, leave!” Cullen roared, truly the Lion of Ferelden. “This is an Inquisition matter and Inquisition matter alone!” 

Whether it was his shout, or Inquisition forces moving in to control the crowd, or even just the understanding that that was not an order to be defied, the crowd began to part. 

He shouldered through, breaking through to the spectacle they all stared at. The party that had accompanied Tucdela gathered together off to the side, none the worse for wear it seemed on the outside. Varric stared somewhere in the distance, eyes determinedly unfocused and vacant from the chaos and panic around him. Dorian paced in the small square of room he had, first hovering over his mouth looking one wrong step away from being sick. 

Only Bull broke away from them, striding over to Cullen. His hand fell hard on Cullen’s shoulder, keeping him from walking further. While Cullen thought to protest, bile instead of words rose in his throat when he saw that Bull’s armor was slicked with blood. The hand that fell on Cullen’s shoulder was coated with it. 

“That’s not--” he gasped out. 

“I don’t think you want to be here, Commander.” Bull said gently, but firmly. “You want to wait elsewhere.” 

Already shaking his head, Cullen gaped and closed his mouth repeatedly before finding anything to say first. “Where--is that--is she?” 

“She went dead--” Bull cleared his throat, reassessing his words, “She went silent on our way back, I don’t know any more than that.” 

Cullen’s legs went to jelly and it felt as though Bull’s hand was the only thing keeping him from toppling forward. He stared at the mages and healers clustered not far away, just not realizing that they had to be surrounding her. 

A shuddering breath shook his whole frame and Bull tightened his grip on Cullen’s shoulder, “Commander, I highly suggest you go elsewhere and wait for news.” 

Wait until they declare it. Was what Bull was really saying. Wait until they clean the battle and death from her and make her presentable for grief. 

It was only meant with the well meaning of someone who had seen too much death firsthand, but Cullen wouldn’t budge. The ground may have gone out from under him, but his feet were someone still rooted to this very spot. 

The last thing he’d done was press a kiss to her forehead and tell her to be safe. That couldn’t be the last memory he had to hold on to her, was it? 

A clamor rose from the healers, a series of shouts and hand waving that broke Cullen partially from his trance. 

The wall of bodies broke momentarily, revealing Tucdela half hoisted between two healers onto a stretcher. She lay limp, her head lolling towards Cullen and Bull. Her eyes were open but unseeing, entirely overtaken by a green glow. Blood trailed from her nose and mouth and dripped in a near steady stream from the arm that bore the Anchor. 

Cullen’s stomach rolled, the threat of being sick rising over him again. This was it, she was gone...the Anchor had taken her away and-- 

And he stumbled after the healers, catching one on the shoulder. She whipped around, eyes frenzied. She was one of the Inquisition’s healers and her eyes softened slightly when she saw that it was Cullen. 

“Is she…” Cullen couldn’t even get the word out, but the healer understood him well enough. 

“She’s breathing, for now.” she said shortly. “But don’t let that get your hopes up, Commander.” 

“Can I see her, can I help?” he asked, pleaded really. 

The healer was already shaking her head, “It’s best you let us work.” she said. “But if you must you may wait outside.” 

Like a lost stray, Cullen trailed behind them until they reached her quarters. The heavy door was slammed in his face and he sank to the ground next to it, leaning against the wall. 

He had left Tucdela one two many times to abandon her now. If he was to be here when she passed instead of woke, then that would be his punishment for only seeing the Inquisitor.

Clasping his hands in front of him, Cullen bent his head and prayed to the Maker. 

His knuckles turned white as an agonized wail rose from the room next to him. It rose again and again, until Cullen wasn’t so sure the Maker could even hear him. After all, did the Maker hear prayers from the remnants of battlefields, when only the screams of the wounded and dying remained? 

---

He was there for her as soon as the healers opened the door to him. He sank to the bed next to her, wrapped his arms as close to around her as he dared, and rested his head against her chest just to hear the beating of her heart. It thrummed its steady beat, moment after moment, waylaying the fear in his own heart that it would cease to beat. 

The bandages were rough against his cheek. It felt strange for his left hand to meet her side instead of her arm. Her arm was a small price to pay for her life; that was what the healers had said, what he secretly thought. 

Tucdela herself might not think the same. Dread clouded his thoughts for when she would wake up, an archer waking from death’s door to find that one of the tools most necessary to her craft ripped away from her. 

But at least she would wake up. 

And when she did, Cullen determined, awake once again in the long, fitful night to make sure that she was still breathing and to rhythmically check her bandages just to give himself something to do, taking her for granted was never going to be a mistake he made again. 

[mai-sau]

“Please don’t hide from me.” for Russigon (also welcome to the server!)

THANK U FOR WAITING THIS LONG THIS TOOK A WHOLE FOREVER AND A HALF AFHUJKGHNWISGHNLK I had a lot of fun writing this one!! Thank you for prompting (and thank you for the welcome!!), and I hope you enjoy!

Prompt: “Please don’t hide from me.”

It had started out simple enough, really. Maedhros had been resting in Mithrim for a time; his wounds healed as best they would, his kingship passed over to Fingolfin as smoothly as it could, and he was back to attending to business as often as he should. Which is to say: at all hours of the day.

And life went on. It was laughably simple, how easily the days passed. Here, time did not eke out like a sluggish wound for the sheer malice of such a thing. Elves rushed by him in their daily duties, councils convened and dismissed, and the dawns came and went. And Maedhros oversaw these elves, participated in those councils, and welcomed the dawns in the shadow of nightmares.

It was simple enough, really.

Throughout it all, Fingon was a blessing. During the day, he offered both precious wells of laughter and quiet companionship. When he wasn’t off conducting his own duties, he would come find Maedhros in the library (as he often was in his free time, the fuzzy silence of wooden shelves and crisp pages a balm to his nerves) and they would pass hours leafing through tomes, chatting in hushed tones, or simply gazing out the arching windows to the city below. 

Maedhros liked staring into the lake most of all, content to watch the sunset gleam and glimmer across its surface. Maedhros thought he was quite adept at the art of staring and mind-wandering, after decades chained up on that accursed cliff, or left waiting for the next torture as his body smeared a stone cold floor ruddy red -

Well. It was simple enough.

And at nights, Fingon would hold him close through his bitter nightmares, whispering sweet assurances that he was safe, he was in Hithlum, he was cherished. Occasionally it was Maedhros who did the holding, his beloved awaking with a terrible shiver that would not cease until long after the sun warmed the skies. Those nights were far worse, in Maedhros’ opinion.

But they went on, and they kept living, and the days kept passing by. It was easy.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with a simple touch. An act of comfort even, which made Maedhros all the more sickened by his own foul reaction. In one of their councils, someone had mentioned the pressing need to discuss the captive elves of Angband, their mind turning, and what it meant for Hithlum’s defenses to have such lethal weapons hidden as friendly faces; under the table, Fingon reached out a hand to grasp Maedhros’ own. 

Why he did Maedhros could not entirely say, perhaps it was to ease any distress at the mention of captivity, perhaps it was to soften the blow of indirect suspicion. All he did know was that as soon as Fingon’s hand - the same hand that had stroked his shaking side on the back of Thorondor, had steadied his spoon when Maedhros was still early and frail in his healing, had flipped the worn pages of their books for the evening - closed around his own, Maedhros was repulsed. 

He tamped the feeling down as swiftly as possible, trying to ignore the prickle of panic that raced through his veins pulsing out from that one point of contact. Nonetheless, for all his effort he could not relax the sudden tension in his body. Fingon had surely felt it, hand in his own. He gave him a concerned glance before squeezing even tighter, likely assuming Maedhros’ distress sprung from the topic of conversation. Maedhros felt the vague urge to vomit.

Afterwards, he was furious with himself. How dare he be disgusted with Fingon’s touch? Fingon, who had done nothing at all to warrant such distress. 

Nothing, except - Maedhros considered, before banishing the thought with such grief and guilt that for the rest of the day he carried around the heavy burden of tears not allowed to fall. He would not allow them to. How dare he weep over such ungrateful self pity - there were far greater things -

But it kept happening: whether a squeezed hand at another council meeting, a gentle hand in his as they made their way to dinner, or even a soft hand laid over his own in the silence of the library, Maedhros felt the same rapid revulsion flood his senses. 

To make matters more confusing, he did not feel like this at every touch he received; perhaps he could have reasoned to himself it was only a shadow of the pain endured in Angband. But Maedhros realized with growing dismay that it was only Fingon’s touch, and only upon his hand.

You know, a treacherous, sad voice reminded him. You know why.

I do, Maedhros thought with no small amount of self loathing. And that is why I must do better.

Fingon, clever as he was, caught on quickly enough.

“Nelyo?” he asked, after another ruined attempt at comfort in the library. He had reached out his hand to rub his thumb across the back of Maedhros’, only for Maedhros to tense as taut as a bowstring once again. And once again, Fingon slowly drew his hand back, brow furrowing as he turned to face Maedhros fully.

“Yes?”

Fingon seemed hesitant, unsure. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am. I’m here, aren’t I?” Maedhros tried to tease with a grin he knew was half-hearted at best.

“Yes, it’s just…” Fingon bit his lip, before something set in his eyes, and he continued on without hesitation. “Sometimes, you seem to recoil at my touch. Would you prefer I not, from now on? Touch you, that is. It’s alright if you do.”

“No!” Maedhros blurted. Immediately, he quieted his voice at Fingon’s widened eyes and the sound of his own harsh echo through the library - empty as it was - but the nervous twinge remained in his tone. “No, I adore your touch. Losing it - I could not bear such a thing.”

“But Maedhros,” Fingon said. “When I do, you tense so horribly and get the most strained look on your face. Please, I don’t wish to cause you harm or remind you of anything unpleasant.”

“You’re not,” Maedhros lied. “It’s just me. My body endured many… stresses, in Angband. These are just the shadows of the Enemy, nothing more.”

Fingon was silent for a moment. Eventually, he dropped his gaze to the table between them, its surface laden with books of all shapes and sizes that they had been exploring together. With a start, Maedhros saw his eyes begin to glisten, and he looked ashamed. 

“Are you sure,” Fingon said, voice thick. “That it is only the shadows of the Enemy you feel?”

“What do you mean?” Maedhros asked wearily, knowing damn well what he meant.

“Nelyo,” Fingon choked out. “You only hurt when I touch your hand.”

And with this, Fingon burst into tears. Flushed with an entirely new panic at the sight, Maedhros rushed to embrace him. Enveloped in his arms, voice low despite their solitude in the library at this time of the evening, Fingon cried tender apologies into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry Nelyo, I’m so sorry, if there were any other way, if I could have just broken those damn chains, I’m so sorry -”

Maedhros shushed him, though he felt his own throat grow tight. Guilt crept up his chest.  “Shh, love, you did everything you could. I would be dead if not for your wise decision. You saved me. You brought me home. I love you, and do not blame you one bit. It’s just my own body’s confusion - I am the one who should be sorry, to be so ungrateful -”

Fingon hiccuped and drew back. “Ungrateful?” He asked, incredulous. “Nelyo, I cut off your hand.”

“To save my life!” Maedhros cried. “If it weren’t for you, I would be dead. I begged you to kill me, and still you saved me.”

Fingon’s eyes softened. “Dearest, that doesn’t change the fact that you were hurt.”

“But I understand why,” Maedhros insisted, the frustration of these past weeks spilling out of him. “I understand why, and it was the kindest hurt given to me in those wretched mountains, so why do I only suffer their shadow in dreams, but my body can’t accept the one person who hurt me to help me?”

Wiping at his stinging eyes, Maedhros trembled. He felt wetness on his knuckles, rushing down his cheeks. “I don’t understand why!”

It was Fingon’s turn to reach out as if to embrace him, before his arms faltered midair. “Nelyo - I - can I hold you?”

“Yes,” Maedhros sobbed. “Just please don’t touch my hand I’m so sorry.”

“Of course,” Fingon murmured, and wrapped him tight in a hug. Slow as honey, he stroked Maedhros’ hair, letting his fingernails glide across his scalp and spine. How long they stayed like this Maedhros couldn’t tell, but after a while his tears began to dry and his body became his own again.

“My dear Nelyo,” Fingon said, long after he had quieted. He still ran his hand soothingly through his hair, down his back, and up again. “You are allowed to feel this way, as awful as I imagine it must be. I know you are loving, and grateful, and trying your best. I still hurt you, in a very permanent way at that, and it’s natural for your body to recognize it. It’s ok to be afraid.”

Maedhros breathed in deep, once, twice, like he would during heavy nights. He sighed against Fingon’s shoulder, clad in the smooth cerulean silks of his evening robes. There was a wet patch staining the silk. “This body can be such a bastard.”

“But it is your body, so I love it all the same.” Fingon assured. Slowly, Maedhros drew back, and saw a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. “As I love the bastard that inhabits it.” he teased.

Maedhros snorted. “As always, dearest, I regret to inform you of your dreadful taste.”

Fingon broke into a full grin. “Why, of course. And I regret to inform you that I simply do not care.” 

His face grew solemn again, and he reached a hand up to caress his cheek. Maedhros leaned into the touch. He let his eyes flutter shut. 

“I do love you, you know?” He heard Fingon’s quiet voice. “Love you as the kind, resilient ner you are. You are more than precious to me.”

Maedhros opened his eyes, locking his gaze with the dark eyes of his beloved. “I know. As I love the bravest ner I’ve ever met. So full of courage, to love so wholly.” Saying this, he kissed his palm.

Fingon smiled, radiant and warm. Rising from his seat at the table, he began to gather the books into organized piles. “Well then, it’s getting quite late. I’d say it’s about time for bed, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Maedhros said, and rose to tidy up their books with him. “Oh, can we take this one on gardening back to our room? There was a bit on lissuin I wanted to finish before I forget.” 

“Certainly,” Fingon said, and set it aside. “Nelyo?”

“Yes?”

“I know it doesn’t happen all the time, but… would it be okay if I asked, before I touched you? And if you ever would feel more comfortable if I did not touch you at all, you can always tell me, even if it’s just certain areas or - or -” Fingon paused in his book arrangements, grasping for words. “Just - please don’t hide from me, love. I want you to tell me. I want you to get what you need, even if it’s space.”

Maedhros felt his throat tighten again, though his heart was far brighter this time. “Of course,” he answered. “Thank you.”

The slow, content smile returned to Fingon’s face. Together, they finished organizing the books and gathered them up in their arms to return at the reshelving cart by the great entrance doors.

“There now,” Maedhros said, dropping the hefty tomes down on the cart. “That was simple enough, wasn’t it?”

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Life After Snowpiercer: One Problem at a Time

Summary- Curtis x Y/N. You and Curtis reunite, deal with some issues in the valley and reconnect 2 of the groups. Tension between you and Curtis. Warnings- Violence

Word Count- 5.3k

Chapter 6 / Masterlist

The firing from above was surprising, You and Johanna witnessed Wilfords old guard squad shout out in alarm and close ranks retreating. Johanna lowered the rifle, and breathed out hard enough to flip the hair that fell in her eyes back. “I dont know who it is... but they are pushing them back.” You sneak a peek out to see if you can catch sight of anyone, but thats when you hear the cry of alarm behind you, and you pull back, disappearing inside. Following your name being cried out, you see where someone got a ricochet. It had luckily lost some of its momentum, but still embedded enough to cause blood to blossom all over there shoulder and clutch at it to stop the bleeding. 

“Shit” You try to drag the man into the nearest light without making yourselves possible targets. “Shirt off... Whats your name?” You ask as you maneuver him, grabbing the hem of his shirt and start to pull it over his head. 

He grunted as you lifted the shirt over his head. “Mickey... we was trying to get the kids into the back once we heard the firing started, but not fast enough apparently.” His eyes watered a bit, but other then that, he stayed perfectly still. 

“Yea it got pretty dicey there for a bit. Does anyone have a knife?” You start hold out your hand till someone shoves a military grade blade into it and you start cutting off pieces of clothing off one of his shirts, and directing him to sit down, so you at least didnt have to go to your tip toes to dig out the shard. “Okay Mickey, Im gonna be as quick as I can, promise. Just please dont move.” 

“No worries Miss, I can handle it.” He took a deep breath and nodded in affirmation that he was ready. Lets get this done, you coached yourself, never actually having removed anything like this. Your head tilted and the tip of your tongue stuck out as you started to use the tip to wedge along one side. Mickey was true to his word and stayed still, allowing you to dig further into his flesh till THERE, the tip slid underneath and you could pop it out “Got it!” 

Wadding the piece of cloth against the seeping wound, you are careful not to touch anything as his blood was all over your hands. “Be right back, keep the pressure on it.” John stepped in to monitor him as you make your way back to Johanna who was looking through the scope up at the cliff. “Son of a bitch, hes gonna do it....” 

“Safe to go out and scrub my hands you think, and do what?” You question as you look over her shoulder, and Johanna drops the scope to look without the assistance to the top of the cliff. “This bastard, hes gonna jump down., OH HELL THERE HE GOES!” This is when you lean out and your jaw drops. 

Curtis pulled back the rifle when he thought he saw you, holding his breath, hoping for another glance, anything to confirm it was you he saw. Rolling away from the edge, and up to his feet, he paced the edge for a moment. “I gotta get down there now, do we have any rope?” He asked the person closest to him, the man shaking his head and asking another nearby. Resounding negatives sounded, and Curtis just didnt have the time to search the train cars for any. Looking over the edge, he studied the way down, noticing small juts of ice build up on what he guessed were ledges, he formed an idea. Was it crazy? Most likely, but what the fuck. Sliding the rifle strap over his shoulder, he held it out to anyone close by. “Give me an axe, Im gonna need you all to cover me while I make my way to the train car.” 

The man whom he had asked for rope earlier looked down the side as if studying what Curtis had been looking at, frowning for a moment in thought, then his eyes widened. “Man you cant.” 

Curtis didnt even pause as he hefted the axe, checking it was one with the sharper blades, and swung it around in a loop once, twice, three times to loosen his good arm. “Man I am.” 

“Thats could be a damn suicide jump. Your gonna break your legs, even with the deeper snow at the bottom, you have no clue whats down there!.” 

Curtis shifted to the edge, turning his body so that his good side holding the axe would be close to the cliff wall. “Yea well, I might not know what, but I know who is down there, and who knows when those fuckers will be back.” 

CURTIS EVERETT, I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DIE, YOU AND ME BUDDY, WERE THROUGH. 

No were not, and I will be fine, trust me. 

Trust you? Fucken hell Curtis your lucky I do. 

Thats my girl. 

And it seemed like he just stepped off the edge, plunging the axe into the snow and ice on the side, it slowed him down slightly in his descent, and he was able to steer himself enough to land on the ledge he was aiming for. For all of five seconds. 

It gave out from under him “Oh shit” he exclaimed as he dropped down, trying to smash the axe head back into the side, it finally went in, but he just sped up more, bouncing off the wall once in a while, fuck his ribs. Well they are definitely broken now if they werent before, and all around him white rolls of snow started shifting, and racing down with him. Soon it was enough to be considered an avalanche, and he landed heavily at the bottom, a dumping of snow landing on top of him. 

You jumped out of the train, with Johanna leaning out trying to catch you and stop you from taking off. But you rolled out of her grip. “Y/N! Come back, its not safe!” But damn it, you werent paying attention to anything but Curtis falling down the side of the cliff. HE JUMPED! THAT BASTARD JUMPED, GOD DAMN IT CURTIS! you screamed internally as you plowed your way through snow almost to your knees, falling every now and then, and struggling to get up, the whole time your panicked mutters of “nonononono” filled a bit of the silence after the snow crashed on top of itself at the bottom. By the time you reached the cliff face, all around you was just white swirls where the snow had yet to properly settle. “Curtis! Where are you?” You yelled out, looking all around you, but nothing, just white. Unsettled wisps blowing in your face. 

“Come on baby, answer me” your voice is starting to panic as you start searching under you, for anything Curtis shaped. If hes trapped under the snow, hes going to suffocate, sobs of fear escaping, and tears brimming your vision. You plunge your arms into what looks like the deepest snowbank and dig like your life depended on it. It did, it did depend on it. Why was he so fucken stupid? Jumping off a cliff, god damn you Curtis, if you leave me alone here... Your wheezing, completely unaware he had come up behind you, and in true Curtis fashion, he grasped your hips and swung you around. Shocked, your looking up at those familiar blue eyes, adrenaline had blown his pupils wide with the rush, and he to is panting, clumps of ice and snow in his beard and his whole face is red where it had been covered in snow. For seconds your just staring at him, but then, you let him have it. 

Your fist comes against his chest in a rage, bouncing off his pecks, and your just raging at this point. “what the fucken hell Curtis, you could have DIED! You idiot! Died, dead, gone, no more, do you hear me?!” He allowed it for a bit, but then he caught your hands and drew you in as the sobs of fear broke from you, struggling in his hold and grabbing his face, that damn face you love so damn much it hurt, one you were so scared for and mad at and just beyond relieved to have back because you were hurting all over and wanted to sink into his arms and be told that it was gonna be okay, that damn face. You crashed your lips against his, kissing him fiercly and possessively, only breaking apart when the loss of air burned your lungs and your head swam with dizziness. 

“Dont you ever do something like that again! God your such an Idiot, I love you” your forehead leaning against his, and his eyes looked in yours and you could see that he would again without question, and before he could say that, you nip his lip softly to keep him quiet and roam your hands over his chest and pull back. You werent allowed to go to far, as he yanked you back  in, his own hands searching you for anything out of the norm, cupping your face and placing a softer, but no less desired kiss on your lips “I wasnt going to leave you down here baby, I thought Ive lost you endless times over the past few days. I knew I saw you. I had to get down here. Especially with those fuckers coming for you.” 

Your hands slide into his coat, and that familiar warmth starts to seep into your burning cold fingertips and his oversized hands wipe your face dry, kissing across the cheeks and your nose to calm you down, leaning his forehead once more against yours. “You couldnt ask me to leave my girl here and not to to get to you, right?” And with that, your anger dissipates much like the remaining snow crystals in the air that swirl near you, your combined heat melting them away. Relief floods you and you sigh, leaning into him, God I need you so damn much. His arms enclose you and for the first time in days your okay. 

“All of it, they said they were just toying with you the entire time.” You breath out and pull back enough to look at him. “Did you get all the way there? I assumed so once the train derailed.” 

Curtis was going to have to tell her all that happened, and that was the big news about her brother, in that he was dreading. Not that her brother was alive, but what they twisted the man into. He nodded, and decided it would have to be later, once they were safely settled, could he break the news to her then. “Yes, we lost good people.... but they got me to the front, got me to Wilford. Come on, we have to get out of sight. I have a few people up top to cover us.” You didnt inquire anymore at the moment, following along in his footsteps as best as possible, your hand still fisted in his, loathe to let it go. You could easily see he was hurting, the way he took jagged steps. But you woudnt know more till he would really let you look him over No guns had to be fired, and maybe there luck was turning around. 

Johanna had the gun trained on Curtis till You stepped around him and waved your hand that it was okay, and she pulled back. As you two approached, Curtis climbed inside and held out his hand, greeting her with a thanks. “Damn glad Y/N had you with her Johanna.” She nodded her your welcome and turned to you. 

“If your planning on moving anyone, theres a couple who are beat up pretty bad. Your friend Sara is definitely suffering from blood loss, and we got to relocate a few shoulders.” Hearing the women discuss the injuries, Curtis was relieved it wasnt anything worst. But as he caught sight of the survivors, he knew why. There must be more casualties then survivors. They were a weary bunch, the kids all huddled together, sleeping or whispering to themselves, adults wandering back and forth unable to relax, some leaning back against the wall, holding there arm or shoulder from where it came out of joint in the fall. “Has anyone been able to go through the cars?” Curtis asked as you came up beside him. 

“No, once we landed, I got the kids to gather supplies, and then the guards tried to collect us. We bolted right out and headed to the cliff face. Others followed us. Paul told me that his cart had usable food in it and thats as far as we've been able to plan ahead." John came up to join them, listening in and introducing himself to Curtis.

"Probably would have either went into the other cars today, see if anyone survived the night or tried to find a way up. These are all the back end cars.... Short of the protein blocks, no other usable supplies. Old threadbare blankets, maybe some clothing." John mentioned, leaving Curtis nodding in agreement. He was right, all the usable supplies were in the front, they went through several freezer carts of beef and chicken, a garden cart, a bit of live stock in another, even an oversized tank that might still have usable food in it, he was sure once the train derailed any heating system went off, and it might all be frozen solid. And then not even mentioning supplies such as medicine and other goods. As Wilford mentioned before, it was an entire enclosed ecosystem. One that Curtis ripped wide open now.

"Theres a group up there waiting for us... The last of the tail enders and a few others, simple fact is we gotta move everyone up. Safer for us to be in a group then spread out, especially with Wilfords old buddies.” Curtis said that last part sarcastically, and you glanced at Curtis. 

“Well we cant climb up the way you came down, especially with people like Sara. Someones got to find a trail if there are any” 

So it was decided a couple would go look along the cliff face, see if there was a reasonable way up, John volunteered along with another man. They bundled up as best they could, blankets draped over there shoulders and they warily started along the trail you and Curtis made earlier. Now onto the next issue, You knew you should have taken care of the out of joint patients, more things like clothing was needed, some of these people were shivering with blue lips and fingertips. Fuck what a disaster. All of it. A hand came to your back and Curtis slipped up behind you as you watched the two men continue down your trail. You leaned back into his chest, and closed your eyes for a minute. Letting everything just go still inside you, just having him back eased you a bit. 

“We will be okay babygirl, get them all up and continue on our way.” His fingers brushed aside your hair laying against your neck and he dipped his head to kiss the curve, his lips soft brushes along the length. You enjoyed the sensation for a few moments, familiar and warming. But then enclosed when his hand moved to settle on your stomach and hold you in close, your breathing hitches. Why? Whats wrong? And you fight out of the haze clouding your mind, and pushing his hand back and away, turning to face Curtis. “We probably better get to those patients. Help me with them?” You brush past him and head into the back, frowning at yourself for how you just reacted, knowing exactly what it was, but admitting it was an entirely different story.

Curtis was surprised when you pulled away, about to stop you and ask what that was, but it had been hell for the past few days, so it would be understandable if you werent yourself. Following along with you, you were talking to Sara, who Curtis vaguely recognized from the back end. Lifting the rag she had used to keep pressed against her shoulder. “Im sorry I didnt get this out sooner Sara, but I got to now.” Another mistake, you think to yourself. There is a bit of redness and streaks blooming around it. Fuck why didnt you take care of this last night. With the way she was shot, you were sure there might be more then just a slug embedded in there. “Come on, lets go in the light.” You two go forward and as you pass Curtis, you encourage her to continue where Johanna was perched in the doorway, watching. 

“Curtis we definitely need more clothing, something for at least the kids to wrap up in. They will freeze with what they have now out there.” Your almost reach out to touch him, then pull back, stuffing your hands in your sleeves instead. 

“Yup, we will get it. Work on Sara and the others, we will be back soon.” He didnt push to touch you or share affection, but you tugged him back and placed a speedily kiss on his lips last minute. A ‘im sorry’ for earlier for yourself, he flashed you look that spoke volumes, then spun away and his voice boomed “Listen up, you... you... and you, were gonna be hitting up some of these cars... you....” Walking away, you felt more in control now, hearing him take control and having a plan in place. Sara was sitting with Johanna, looking exhausted, but holding a conversation. 

Withdrawing the knife you used earlier, you have Sara sit in the light, Johanna lowers back to her earlier spot, the rifle hanging out the door to keep watch. Bringing her shirt down enough to take a look at the wound, you sigh. “Like with Mickey, this is gonna hurt like a bitch. And I gotta make sure nothing is left in there.” Sara nodded and once more you dug for the bullet. Sara hunched a bit and did her best to stay still, a gasp escaping once in a while, but overall when she slouched forward into Johanna, you knew she passed out. Good, make this easier. 

“Sorry, let me just finish this and we can move her” You state and Johanna nods, moving to cradle the woman while you hear a plink! to the bullet falling out, and a few more pokes and prods, the blood seeping down, hesitant but hopeful that will finish cleaning the wound. “Okay, think shes good.” You use the rag she was earlier to put pressure on it and once it seemed to stop bleeding so much, you two move her, already Sara was stirring much to your satisfaction. “Just hang out here a bit, m’kay?” A nod and wince as she puts the rag back to be sure it wouldnt start bleeding. 

Then you went through the rest, relocating joints, checking nicks and cuts. A few people you found out had busted ribs, one had a arm that should be put in a splint, but there simply was no way to do so. “Just... keep it close to your body and dont move it. It will heal, in time.” Putting together a make shift sling with a shirt someone volunteered. Just as you were finishing up, Curtis and a few others returned, arms bundled in clothing, and as you two dispersed them among people, and bundling the kids up, you quietly ask him. 

“Was there alot.... of people... ?” 

“Yea baby, more then I thought there would be. Some of them, its hard to tell if it was before or after the crash.” He passed off a jacket to someone and looked at you. “Then there were others that just.... Its a lot.” 

You didnt push him, ask where he was going with that sentence, you had an idea of what it meant, and you didnt even want to have him have to explain his choice. People dont always survive. 

He continued, handing off the last item, and turning to you. “We only went through a few, but we cant wait any longer. And I found where those guards were hanging out, They have been collecting supplies in the further cars, as much as could be had” 

You swallow a bit, and keep yourself busy with the thought of them. “Where are they now?” 

“I dont know, they wandered away from the cars at some point. Im assuming they didnt have a aim on them up above and they werent coming back around to us.” Curtis shook his head as they started getting people up, moving them forward. “But if they do... “ Curtis rumbled softly under his breath. You pause and rest your hand against his back, inside dreading the coming conversation. He was already so on edge to them being out there. Johanna called then to you two, and John ducked back inside. “Well we found what looks like an animal trail. Goes right up along the side, and looks like its well used. Do you think... theres really something alive out there?” 

A shrug and nod from you “Were still alive, right? We can only guess as to what survived after the freeze.” 

It was painfully slow, John and Adam, as you come to find out what the other mans name was, led the group, you stayed with the kids, and helped Sara as much as she was able to stand, behind you were more of the adults, including Curtis and Johanna who were making sure no one fell behind. When you finally crested the top, you stepped off to the side, huffing with exertion, the people who had remained at the top cars were helping others inside or near some fires they all were able to start, clearly they had been busy while you all were coming up out of the valley. Curtis came up beside you, a groan of his own as his hand pressed against his left side. “Lets get inside babes, then we can take a break. We all need one.” 

Sara was collected and helped to where the other people were recovering, and Tam rushed up to the two of you once you entered the car “Hey, I got the kids, Edgar is sitting up already, and his back is looking much better.” You look confused for a moment, and Curtis shakes his head at you. “I will explain later. Thanks Tam, if everyones set, were going to go settle in somewhere for the night.” Assured that everything would be handled, Curtis led you away, these were similar to the tail end car, just with windows. Curtis was quick to find you two a empty bottom bunk. You crawled in first, and leaned against the wall, your head tipping back. Fuck you were so tired, and he semi collapsed next to you in a similar fashion. 

You turn just your head to look at him, and smile when you see hes doing the same thing. There hadnt been any chance to really just be with one another since reuniting and you reach your hand out, weaving your fingers with his. “Hey.... Thank you for keeping your promise and coming back to me.” 

He sat up a bit more and let go of your hand, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you in close, placing a kiss to your forehead, whispering. “Im sorry for leaving you like that babygirl. All I could think of was keeping you safe.” You put your hand against his mouth. 

“Handsome its fine, I know why you did it. Tell me what happened.” You inquired, and Curtis fell into how he pushed the group through each car, the ones they found that was possible to find supplies and food in for them, how the bridge claimed so many of them, one of whom he thought was Edgar, but that wasnt the case. How Nam wanted to blow open the side, jump from the train when he wouldnt open that final door, and this is where he stalled. He had to tell her. All of it. Her brother, his arm... he managed to keep it hidden this whole time, the pain a background noise at this point. 

“Babygirl come here, I just... need to hold you. I really thought I lost you.” He hauled you into his lap, and you tensed up momentarily when his arm circled around you, rubbing your lower back and side. But this was Curtis, you were safe. Under his hand you finally relaxed, and your head rested on his shoulder, he started in on the next part of his story. The rumble of his chest lulled you, while you listened. Wilford offered a deal, and Curtis admitted that he considered it. You lifted your head and looked at him. “You wouldnt have been able to live with yourself” He nodded, and leaned forward to kiss your lips softly. “Your right, I would have become everything I hated. Baby, this next part, you got to listen to me. Okay? the whole part before any questions.” 

“Curtis what is it?” Your brow furrows with concern at his words. 

“Matt, your brother... Hes alive, and he still is. I left him back at the front.” 

Your silent for a moment, and he could see your mind racing, processing his words. 

“Hes still alive... Matts still here.” And the joy that crossed your face broke Curtis heart because fuck he was going to have to tell you just how far gone he was, that there wasnt the compassionate little boy anymore. But a man with cold resolve and placed himself above the others, for he was the prodigy.  

“Baby, he isnt who you think he is, not anymore.” Curtis hands captured your face to make you pay attention to him. “Wilford trained him to be his successor, brainwashed. He has no compassion for any of the people, were something to control.”

“What? No Curtis, he loved us, He wouldnt forget, unless he thinks I let him go.” Your thoughts are spinning out of control, just what Curtis didnt want. You pull back from him then “He cant be that bad, I mean, Once I explain all that was going on, he will see.” A saddened look crossed Curtis face, reaching out to draw you back to him. 

“Baby we can try... but they were using our kids to run the train, put them right into the engine, and afterwards... Executed if they served no more purpose. Under his order, he was set on killing Yona, Nam and I if I didnt agree to there terms.” He couldnt even bring up the way your brother talked about you, the callousness of his words in discussing you, whom loved him more then yourself. 

“No... he wouldnt have been okay with it.” Your breathing grows more rapid and Curtis rubs your arms to comfort you. 

“I know baby, Im sorry... “ He was doing everything he could to calm you, but it was only setting you off worst. Again you pulled away from him, drawing your legs up and hugging around your knees, what are you not telling him? The only time you pulled away was the weeks after Matt was taken and you withdrew into yourself. “Y/N? Talk to me please?” He wants to reach for you, but you’ve just drawn yourself off, quiet as you stare ahead. 

Matt wouldnt, Curtis must have misunderstood what happened. He did what he had to to survive, the conclusions you drew. “You said hes still alive? You had to leave him behind, is he safe?” 

His hand dropped to his lap, studying you even as you waited for an answer. “He was safe when I left him and Claude. I was told you went over a damn cliff, I honestly had no other concerns.” His tone slightly clipped, and you can see where hes holding it together under a great strain. You unfold yourself, and return into his hold, feeling him once more relax being able to rest his hand on you. 

“They had Timmy, in the engine. Whatever they did to him, he was so unhuman acting. Robotic, he wouldnt come out once Nam and I secured the room.” He shifted you and this is the first time you see the tangled mess of his arm when he slid his sleeve up, deep laceration that have scabbed over criss crossing where the gears tore in, but they were still great tears, all of it swollen, and throbbing looking. “Fucken hell Curtis” You cuss as you finish rolling his sleeve up to look at it. “Youve been like this the whole time? Baby you need medicine in case of infection.” So tenderly you inspected it, you seemed more like yourself now, your mind distracted. 

Curtis remained still as you went to roll the sleeve back down, and was gnawing on your bottom lip. “God damn handsome, im so sorry.” Your hands went to his face, feeling for any kind of fever, and giving a small smile when he turned into your palm and nipped the center, kissing your fingertips before letting his head once more fall back against the wall. “You seem to not be fighting off an infection though. But I will feel better once we can secure some stuff from the medic car.” You shift to his other side so you dont risk touching his arm, rubbing your hand along the back of his neck. For now you both go quiet, just being together. This time his hand slides along the inside of your thigh, just resting warmly there. You can feel yourself drifting off, and finally he says softly. 

“We should get some sleep” He shifted off the wall, and laid down for the first time in days, waiting with a lifted arm for you to do as you always do, curl in against his chest. Which you did, you always did, and stretching out, scooting over till his arm rested over your hip, he tugged you in the rest of the way. His body is hard against your back, and his beard scratches lightly behind your neck as he placed kisses there. Nothing sexual, just a bit of intimacy after such a long time apart. You cant help but tense up, which he notices when you dont sink into him, how your breathing doesnt soften after a few minutes, and he wants to ask you, make you spill whatever it is your holding inside. But he doesnt, he just stays by your side, his hand moving to slide under your shirts and gently let it rest against the softness of your stomach. Wide awake until finally he hears you release a soft snore, a true testament to your exhaustion. 

You laid there, your fingers curled into the ticking of the blanket your laying on, your heart a quick flash patter, escape escape escape, this was fucking CURTIS. How could you feel that hot heat of panic flushing your body or that your throat was squeezing air through a straw. You waited, waited for him to tighten his arm around you as he usually did or sprawl you across his chest when he rolled to his back, but he stayed still behind you, and the tension between you two just built. I should tell him, but how can I? For whatever reason, it shamed you that you couldnt fight them off. Finally his fingers just splayed against your stomach where he worked his hand under your shirts and loosely held you. After a while, you couldnt help it anymore, falling asleep. Fuck those men for doing this to you. 

@curtisbbq​ @what-is-your-plan-today​ @p8tn0lish​ @jtargaryen18​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​ @official-and-unstable-satan​ @thatweirdwalangpake​

[mamabearcatfanfics]

Teaser for The Ronin

New blog, who dis? Hey, it’s Dani aka BearPlusCat, and this is now my writing blog. I’ll be reblogging all my writing over on my regular blog too, but if you’re just wanting the fanfics, and only the fanfics, this will be the place to come. Eventually I’ll put all the links to my already posted work on here too, so they’re easy to find.

I had wanted to celebrate the new blog with the next chapter of The Ronin, but it’s going a little slower than I wanted. So, I thought you might all like a little teaser, where Sango is everyone’s Big Sister.

The Ronin - Teaser Scene from Part Four

Sango began her walk back to Kaede’s hut with a sigh. Shippou was saying goodbye to his friends and would then be on his way back for dinner, but she hadn’t been able to find Inuyasha or Miroku at all. She could tell Kagome was worried about Inuyasha’s absence; she had been jumpy and anxious all afternoon, so whatever had happened last night had really upset her. Maybe she could try to coax whatever happened out of Kagome this evening, after she’d had eaten. 

She rounded the corner of the path that led to Kaede’s only to have Kagome nearly knock into her as she ran past. 

“Kagome? Kagome!”

Kagome kept going, head down as she sprinted towards the river, and Sango lost sight of her as the twisting dirt path took Kagome in behind the trees and out of her sight. Before Sango could even turn to follow, Inuyasha barreled into her, grabbing her arm to stop her being knocked to the ground. 

His nose twitched frantically. “Sango, did Kagome go this way?” His head was already turned in the direction she’d taken. 

“Yes, it looks like she’s headed to the river.” Sango narrowed her eyes at him, then poked him in the chest with a stiff forefinger. “What did you do, baka?! She looked really upset!”

Inuyasha huffed angrily, ignoring her question. He had already turned to continue his chase after Kagome, but then he stopped. Sango was taken aback at his suddenly serious expression. 

“Sango, you’re a woman.”

“Your powers of observation grow stronger everyday Inuyasha”, Sango said dryly. 

He growled angrily. “Shut up! I mean… Kagome, she’s upset about… and I don’t… she just might need to talk to a woman Sango, after what happened last night”, stuttered Inuyasha. He was avoiding her gaze, eyes and ears lowered. 

“Oh no!” Sango’s hand reached up to cover her mouth in horror.

His voice was almost a whisper. “I went back to her mother’s house to get her new clothes and soap to wash with, because I thought it might make her feel better, and get rid of…”, his fist clenched around the hilt of his Tessaiga and his jaw bunched. He let out a deep breath. “Anyway, it made her upset. I thought I was bein’ helpful, but I made her cry. That’s the last thing I wanted.”

“I’ll go” she breathed. No wonder Kagome was so anxious and upset. No wonder Inuyasha was beside himself. She hesitantly reached out a hand and placed it gently on his forearm. “Inuyasha, I need you to tell me. Was Kagome raped?” She ignored his deep low growl and gnashing teeth, and waited patiently for his answer. If she was going to comfort her friend, she needed as much information as possible so she didn’t say the wrong thing. She would not walk into this blind.

“She says no”, he ground out after a few moments. “But that fuckin’ bastard touched her. I can still smell him, even after takin’ her to a hot spring this morning after we got away. And she said there was a woman too, a brothel owner.” His ears flicked toward the river. “Sango, go! She’s… she’s cryin’.”

“It will be okay, Inuyasha”, Sango said softly, her heart twisting a little at the broken look on Inuyasha’s face. “We’ll help her through this.” And she took off at a run towards the river, unheeding of the white and red shadow following close behind.

The scene below her nearly broke her heart. Kagome was sobbing, crouched naked in the water where the river ran deep enough to cover her thighs. Her hands were frantically scrubbing at herself with the soap, her usually pale skin reddened by the cold river and the friction of her fingers. 

Sango slid down the embankment, kicking off her zori before wading out into the water.

“Kagome, stop! It’s okay”, she called out, trying to keep her voice calm.

Kagome kept scrubbing. “No, you don’t understand!” she sobbed. “Inuyasha, he could still smell him. I could tell. He wouldn’t come near me. He won’t come near me until the smell is gone. What if I can’t get rid of it Sango? I don’t think I could bear it if he kept away.”

Sango’s hands reached out to gently grab Kagome’s shaking hands and keep them still. She averted her eyes from the livid fingerprint sized bruising on Kagome’s breasts, and kept her eyes on her face. “I don’t think there’s anything alive or dead that would keep Inuyasha away from you Kagome.”

“You didn’t see!” Kagome moaned. “You didn’t see the way he wouldn’t look at me. He was holding his breath Sango, like he couldn’t stand to smell me.” She slumped into the water, her shoulders shaking as Sango cradled her wet body against hers. “There was a man last night. He knocked Inuyasha out, and dragged us both back to his village. I tried so hard to fight that man off Sango, but I’m not as strong as you are. And then he was hurting Inuyasha. He was beating him up while he was unconscious, while he was human. I was so frightened for him, I thought the man was going to kill him. I would have done anything to keep him safe, even let him… but I didn’t want that. I didn’t want it.”

Sango drew in a deep breath. She knew reacting to the stranger’s unwanted scent on Kagome’s body wasn’t entirely Inuyasha’s fault, but he was such a baka to let her see his revulsion when she didn’t understand! She stroked Kagome’s damp tangled hair. 

“It’s going to be okay Kagome. Will you let me wash your hair for you?” Kagome had washed Sango’s hair for her on occasion with her modern soap in a bottle, and Sango had found the experience very relaxing. She hoped it would help Kagome calm down before they talked about what had happened.

Kagome nodded, hiccuping back her tears, and Sango retrieved the bottles from the red backpack on the bank of the river. Resting the bottles on a handy rock close by to where Kagome was still slumped in the river, she poured a palmful of the sweet smelling soap into her hand, smiling at Kagome’s gentle sigh when Sango’s fingers stroked against her scalp, working the slippery shampoo into a lather.

Kagome seemed calmer now the frantic scrubbing with the bar of soap had stopped, and her previous sobs were now sniffs and broken sighs. Sango knew Inuyasha had to be somewhere close, to keep a watch on Kagome. There was no way that he would leave Kagome unprotected after what had happened, especially not when he’d heard her crying. 

As she massaged the shampoo into Kagome’s long dark locks, she thought about Kagome and Inuyasha’s interactions over the last few months. It was very clear to both her and Miroku that there were strong feelings between the pair. They’d both been keeping an eye on things, ready to tease a little on occasion, but also ready and willing to encourage the growing attraction between their friends. 

They’d both noticed the words of praise, the deliberate touches and shared blushes. Sango had even seen Kagome tweak his ears once or twice and she��d had to stifle her giggles at the sudden redness of Inuyasha’s cheeks. And despite his verbal complaints, it was amusing to watch Inuyasha bend over backwards to make sure Kagome’s every need was met. Not to mention the way that he carried her around to ensure that his scent was covering both her and her backpack completely. And who could forget his aggressiveness towards Kouga anytime he put his hands on Kagome. 

Sango nodded to herself. She needed to clear this misunderstanding up for them. It wasn’t Kagome’s fault she had no knowledge about youkai, and it wasn’t entirely Inuyasha’s either. It was pretty clear the big baka didn’t know what was going on himself, which was no surprise considering his isolation from other youkai as a young child.

“Hey Kagome, has Inuyasha ever explained anything to you about how youkai use scent?” she asked gently as she massaged the last bits of shampoo into her hair.

Kagome sniffed. “Uh, no, not really. I mean I know he has an excellent sense of smell, and he uses it for tracking. It’s saved all of us at one time or another. It’s pretty amazing how he can do that.”

Sango grinned despite her current empathy for Kagome’s situation, her fingers coaxing Kagome to lean back and dip her hair into the water so she could rinse the shampoo. She’d just heard a rustle in the branches close by, and she was pretty sure the slight movement had been caused by a puffed up inuhanyou reacting to the praise of his intended. Time for big sister Sango to push these two pining lovebirds a little closer together and help ease the hurt over what she was sure was a misunderstanding.

“That is true, Inuyasha is an excellent tracker. But I was talking about scent marking.”

Kagome stiffened. “Like dogs do when they pee on things? Sango, surely you’re not suggesting that…”

Sango couldn’t hold back the cackle of laughter that escaped. “No, no, not like that!” She reached for the conditioner and began gently combing it through Kagome’s hair with her fingers, being sure to ease out any tangles. “My father taught us that everyone, both human and youkai, has a signature scent. A base scent which alters slightly based on emotions and health. We humans don’t use our sense of smell like that, but to a youkai, this personal scent is vital. Any possessions of importance will always be covered in their scent, to signify ownership to other youkai, but it goes further than that. If a youkai found someone that they considered as a potential mate, someone they cared for very much, then they would want them to wear their scent too, at every opportunity.” Sango’s voice took on a slightly teasing tone. “Why, they might even go so far as to carry them around to ensure that person were covered in it.”

Kagome stiffened under Sango’s gentle touch, and a loud thud came from the trees behind them. Sango’s mouth twisted in her effort to contain a sudden burst of laughter, and she continued talking as if she had noticed neither the noise or Kagome’s tension. 

“And it works both ways – that person’s scent would be important to them also. It would help to calm them if they were upset or angry. Even if they were at the point of losing control, their intended’s scent could bring them back. And helping their loved one wash away the scent of pain, upset, or injury is the role of a mate - it creates a loving bond between them to be only covered in the scent of the other.”

“Do… all youkai… do this?” asked Kagome hesitantly.

“As far as I know”, said Sango. “It would be something that would be taught at a young age, I think - learning the combined scent of their parents as the ‘family’ smell of safety. But also, I’m pretty sure it would be instinctive - even if a youkai had never been taught about scent marking as a child, they would still want their intended to be covered in their scent.”

“What if… that person smelt like someone else. Would it make them angry?” 

Kagome’s voice was shaky, and Sango made her answer very clear, leaning forward to wrap her arms around Kagome’s shoulders. 

“I am certain that their anger would only be directed at the person who had wronged their loved one, not their intended themselves. Their only wish would be to help them, to get rid of the scent of fear and upset, to make them feel loved. And they would want their loved one’s scent free of the other person’s scent to derive comfort from them, because they would also be upset.”

She coaxed Kagome back to rinse the conditioner from her hair. “Let’s get you dry and into some clean clothes. If you feel ready to talk about what happened, I’m happy to listen, always.”

Kagome pulled on clean underwear, and a soft pair of pants and a shirt that Sango recognised as one she often wore to bed. She sat behind her, drying Kagome’s hair with a towel as Kagome told her everything that had happened the previous night, and then right up until she’d run out of Kaede’s hut. Sango was quiet for a moment. 

“Kagome, I’m so sorry for what happened. But you should also be very proud. You did everything you could; you knew you didn’t have the physical strength to fight back, so you used your mind.” Sango’s voice grew very stern and clipped. “It sounds like this man has done this more than once, and will keep preying on those weaker than himself. I know that Inuyasha will want to go back to avenge you, and to tell you the truth, this man deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

Kagome sighed. “I know he deserves to be punished, but Inuyasha going to kill him just because of revenge doesn’t sit right with me”, she said softly. “I know I won’t be able to talk him out of it either - the only reason he didn’t go back right away was because he wanted to take care of me. I wish I was stronger. Sometimes I feel like he must be so tired of looking out for me. He was so angry, Sango.” Kagome’s eyes filled with tears, which slowly spilled down her cheeks, and she briskly scrubbed them away with the heel of her hand.

“Kagome, Inuyasha isn’t mad at you”, she said softly, braiding Kagome’s damp hair in a long plait down her back. “He’s probably feeling very guilty about not being able to protect you, and afraid of losing control - even I could feel his youki flaring this afternoon when we first saw you. I’m just guessing, but I think he has a lot of instincts he doesn’t quite understand, because he had no one to teach him, apart from Myoga. Inuyoukai are very protective by nature.”

“You really don’t think he’s angry at me?”

“No.” Sango helped Kagome to her feet. “He got the clothes for you, and the bathing things, because he thought you might want them. Yes, he was being a baka about the scent, but I think you should forgive him, because he didn’t mean it the way you thought he did. He just wanted to make you feel better, that’s all.”

Kagome’s bottom lip quivered. “And I ran away.”

“You ran away, but I’m sure he understands Kagome.” A rustling in the bushes nearby had them both turning their heads. Inuyasha slowly stepped out from the shadows, his eyes averted from both of them. 

“Oh good!”, smiled Sango. “Inuyasha can walk you back Kagome. I’ll go on ahead and make sure there’s still stew left for the two of you. Shippou seems to be going through a growth spurt at the moment - he’s getting too greedy for his own good.” 

She brushed past Inuyasha, whispering “be gentle” to him as she walked back towards the village. She had done the best she could for them. Now they needed to sort the rest out for themselves.

[chasseurdeloup-retired]

Faetal Facts || Deirdre and Kaden

LOCATION: Strawford Park TIMING: Before the full moon nonsense PARTIES: @deathduty and @chasseurdeloup SUMMARY: How to care for your banshee 101

The last person Kaden wanted to stop by and see was Deirdre. His car was all packed and ready for him to just go straight to the woods after this. Spend some time in nature, just him and Abel, away from fucking everyone. Figure out what the fuck he wanted to do. But before he got to do that, he had questions. Lots of questions. Questions about fae and banshees that he knew Regan couldn’t answer, not if she wouldn’t admit there was no fixing this. It occurred to him that meeting a banshee who hated him in a graveyard probably wasn’t this best idea but he was too tired to care or argue. “Deirdre,” he said as he saw her standing on the crest of a hill in between headstones. Part of him considered just walking away. Maybe it was better if he didn’t know. Instead he huffed out a small sight and leaned against one of the taller monuments, not meeting her eye to eye just yet. “I know. About--” He still couldn’t say it out loud. Not yet, not to her. Tears were already pricking his eyes thinking about it. Shit. He didn’t want her to see him this fucking vulnerable already. Too late. He knew they mentioned being there sober, but he was getting the feeling that flask he’d brought with him was the only smart decision he’d made today.

Between two graves, at the top of a hill, Deirdre looked out over Strawford; gravestones that marked the land in even rows and columns. There was a peace in the space between them, a peace Deirdre once knew much better--a peace she missed. The sight of Kaden approaching her broke the serenity, and she had to hold back a laugh. She would have thought he’d learned his lesson about approaching Deirdre while she had higher ground. Was a being pushed down a hill so much different from a flight of stairs? But in seeing the pain that tore across his features, she felt an odd pang of sympathy. And with it, she held her joke. Her own eyes were red, and ringed with a lack of sleep. She didn’t look much better than he did, which was an insulting enough thought. “About…?” Deirdre tilted her head. “I know Morgan told you about…” She trailed off, that couldn’t have been what was bothering him. “Cigarette?” She held out her hand. “I know you smoke. Do you happen to have one? For me. I mean. I want one. First. And then you go explain why you look like a dejected dog.”

His brow furrowed as she mentioned Morgan. Huh Kaden thought it would be obvious. “Yeah, I know about that, too.” He reached into his jacket pocket for the pack he had on him, pushed past the flask for them. “I meant about Regan. I know.” He pulled out two cigarettes, one for her and one for him. “Dejected dog? You’re going soft on me.” He took a quick look over at her. “Look a little rough yourself.” He’d ask why but that would involve caring. A heavy breath escaped from his lips as he shook his head slightly. This was fucking surreal. All of it. “Anyway. Banshee, right? She, uh… showed me the wings.” He could feel his throat choking as he held out the light for her. Was that the first time he said it aloud? Probably. After she took it, he shuffled the pack back into its home inside his pocket and fumbled around before fishing out the lighter. God, he had so many things he wanted to know but he needed a little longer before he could bring himself to speak them. He lit his own cigarette before handing her the lighter. Drew in a deep breath of nicotine, held it, and then slowly let it out. It helped. A little. Guess she had good ideas sometimes. “I guess it’s pretty obvious how little I know about them. Uh, you. ...her.”

Deirdre took the cigarette, holding it curiously in her hand. Though she had smoked once or twice before, the very things were an affront to her family and heritage. Deirdre, your lungs are a gift, she could almost hear her mother’s voice, your body is not your own. “I’m going soft. Period.” She replied bitterly, sticking the cigarette in her mouth and waiting for him to fetch the lighter. Her mother would hate this, her mother would hate a lot of things. “Regan…” she breathed, taking the lighter as he finally offered it over, lighting her cigarette before she handed it back. She drew in a slow breath, and expelled it even slower. “Yes, banshee. Congratulations on finally learning what half this town seems to already know. If the death-appreciation, Irish heritage and cold skin couldn’t help you, I’m so happy those wings did.” She made no efforts to mask her distaste. She had tried to break them up, she had tried to avoid this outcome and most of all she had tried to tell Regan who she was. Now, just as she predicted, someone had come back to grovel for information...except it wasn’t who she expected it to be. “What do you want, Kaden? Did you come here to ask me questions about banshees? So you could...what? Hurt her?” Deirdre paused, “help her?”

There was the smug attitude Kaden hated so much. It would have almost been comforting if it wasn’t so fucking annoying. “You’re right. I’m an idiot. By all means tell me something I don’t fucking know.” He kicked a small pebble near his foot and watched it roll down the hill. She had to know as much as he did just how desperately he didn’t want to see the signs; didn’t want to put the pieces together. Then again, maybe not. She thought so little of him. “Hurt her?” he spat, turning to look at her. He huffed and shook his head. “You’re smarter than that. If I wanted to hurt her, I would have done it already. I wouldn’t be bothering with you.” He bit the inside of his lip to hold back tears at the word help. Fucking help her. He’d tried. And he’d failed at that just as much as he failed at living up to his duty to rid the world of supernaturals. Maybe more. “I don’t think I can help her. I mean, I wish-- I tried.” A lump formed in the back of his throat. He tried to push away the image of her on the floor sobbing the other night. “I just need to understand. What she is. If I--” If he what? Wanted to try to be with her? He still wasn’t sure that was possible. But he wasn’t about to weigh the options without any understanding of what he was getting into. He sniffed. He wasn’t completely sure what he was asking anymore. “Look, I don’t know what I want to do yet. That’s why I’m here. But I’m not going to hurt her.”

Then she was laughing suddenly, she couldn’t help it. There was something about this that was so pathetically familiar and Deirdre couldn’t help but to laugh. So he did love her. Deirdre could tell he hadn’t hurt Regan by the lack of Blanche screaming in her inbox. And the only answer as to why was that funny word ‘love’. Horrible thing. Poor, pathetic, Kaden, victim to feelings he probably didn’t think existed---feelings he probably didn’t think he deserved to have. Why was that so familiar? She took a slow drag of her cigarette. “Information doesn’t come for free, Kady.” She whistled out smoke from her nose. “If you want me to talk, I want a promise first and...as it happens…” Her arrogance fell, her body, a victim to love itself, conceded. “I want you to promise not to physically harm Regan and…” she swallowed, “...not to hurt Morgan either. Not to...go tell Alain what she is so he can---” the thought alone rendered a sob through her. She brought the cigarette to her lips again. His conundrum was the same because she’d gone through it too, was going through it still. “Are you sure? You know you can’t love someone if you think they’re a monster, Kaden. And you know that if you choose this, choose to go back, help her--love her--whatever it is...in some way...you turn your back on what you were raised to be. And it’s good, in a way, but life becomes a lot more complicated than ‘supernatural bad, human good’.” Deirdre sighed, “I ask you, Kaden, that if you really want to talk to me about what banshees are, and if you truly have no intentions to harm Regan...then you understand what you’re doing. What you’d be admitting to me. To yourself. Is it something you’re prepared to do?”

The laughter stung, even if it was coming from Deirdre, one of the single last people whose opinion on him he carried in any sort of regard. Kaden pushed it away with another slow puff of smoke from his cigarette. Of course she wanted a fucking promise. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted her. He was about to throw the light to the ground and stomp off when he caught a glance of her, vulnerable, breaking... and talking about Morgan? His brow ceased, trying to put the pieces together. Morgan protecting Deirdre; Deirdre protecting her. He knew they’d both mentioned girlfriends. Could it be? His head tilted slowly as he looked at her, and then his head shook a moment. “You fell for a human.” He huffed out a laugh and took a long draw of smoke. “That’s funny. Granted I guess that’s not the case anymore but still. Funny. I thought fae hated humans. Correct me if I’m wrong. That’s been happening a lot lately. Wouldn’t take it personally.” He let out a deep breath. “I’m not making you those promises, though. I don’t need your shitty fae magic to give me nausea at the thought of hurting Regan or killing what I assume is your girlfriend. That happens all by itself. Cause I fucked up.” He really wished he could find the moment he’d started caring and just nip that in the bud then and there. “I don’t plan on telling Alain. Or any other slayer. So long as I don’t see her going on a full on rampage eating brains in the streets. I don’t want to lose my friend. Can you just trust that?”

One last breath and the cigarette was already down to the filter. Kaden threw the butt to the ground and stomped it out beneath his heel. At the word “love” he froze, heel twisted halfway out. Love? That was-- big word. Huge word. A word he hadn’t let himself think let alone dare speak out loud. He felt a pit drop in his stomach. Love. Commitment. That was all so foreign to him. He hadn’t even let himself consider if that’s what he wanted, what he was doing, let alone rejecting it. What the fuck did love even feel like? Did it lead to this much fucking pain? Putain, maybe he didn’t want that. And here he was all the same. “I, uh… you said love, I don’t-- I don’t know…” Fuck he was going to need another cigarette if that’s how this was going to go. Or the flask. “Look I haven’t even told that’s what it-- I mean if that’s how I f--” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “If I’m saying that word, the first person who’s hearing it is Regan, not you.” Yeah time for another fucking cigarette. “But yeah, I know what it means. Really fucking do. My mother-- her ghost. She made that damn clear the other night.” Not that he needed her to, he'd know either way.

Deirdre flinched, she stared back at him with wide eyes and a tense jaw. It wasn’t much of a secret, but logic meant nothing to the kind of panic it set in her. She turned her gaze, finding more peace in the less judgemental blades of grass. So he figured that out quicker than he could realize his girlfriend was a banshee? “And you fell for a so-called monster. But if there’s anyone who knows something about failure in this way...it’s me, Kaden. Believe it or not, I tried not to like her as much as I could.” And yet she still did, and while Kaden didn’t know Regan was fae, a relationship itself must have been a violation of duty too--. She lifted her head up. “How can I trust you?” Her voice turned soft and her eyes pleading. His expression wasn’t particularly dishonest, but that hardly mattered. “You’re right about fae, about fae like me, at least. We don’t like humans. We don’t trust them. One guess which type we trust the least.” She turned back to the grass, expelling another stream of smoke. She left the cursed thing burning between her fingers for a moment. “I don’t want to lose her again, lose the only thing I can say without question has been good in my life…” she sighed, “I think you can understand the feeling.” A promise would have been nice, would have calmed the fear that curled around her insides. She should have known better than to be granted that one gift from a human like Kaden.

She watched him stomp his cigarette, leaving the butt there. Strange how a man so uncaring about the world could love; strange that he could crush a cigarette under his feet and leave the remains there to mar the earth but not admit he loved a woman. “Whatever it is,” Deirdre took a slow drag of hers, nearly done, clearly more savored than Kaden’s, “you have a choice to make. And if some part of you thinks you can still be the good hunter you were born to and love a monster by all accounts you should hate...you’re wrong. You have to make your choice, Kaden. It’s not too late to go run back, pretend like the fae seduced you with her wiles. Isn’t that what fae do? No one would blame you. Your mother might be happy enough to go off to the otherside. Finally, her son is the hunter he’s meant to be.” She paused, “or you could go chase the thing that makes you happy, you can figure out how to reconcile your past with the future you want. You go tell Regan that her wings are beautiful--because I’m sure they are. You tell her that whatever is happening to her, you’re okay with it. Maybe you get her to understand that she’s not human, and you show her that’s okay. But you can’t do any of that if you still think she’s some creature. You know that, Kaden. She won’t appreciate all that you’d be giving up to be with her properly, no one will. They don’t really understand what it’s like to be born one way, and find you want to live in another.” She crushed her cigarette against a gravestone, holding the litter in her hand. “You were meant to be alone. We both were. That’s the kind of thing we were born to do. But you’re happy with her...and you can have a life that isn’t so lonely anymore. You can be more than the murderer you were born to be. But that starts here, starts with accepting I’m not a monster either. If you’re prepared to do that, Kaden. If you understand what I’m saying…you may ask me whatever you’d like.” She paused, “I’m sorry about your mother. At least you’re just disappointing a ghost.”

It was hard not to just bristle up and dismiss everything she was saying, not listen. Kaden told himself that was because it wasn’t what she was saying, it was who was saying it. Every part of him still wanted to just push her words away out of his mind. He came here for what he thought was simple information on banshees that he hoped could help him make a better, clearer decision. Instead he was getting this. Finding out they might have similarities. It felt wholly wrong. But somehow she just kept hitting the nail on the head about him. It was harder and harder to deny. He lit his second cigarette and thought for a moment. How could she trust him?  Fair enough question. He barely trusted her. But he didn’t want his decisions to be bound by fae magic. That-- it felt wrong. Like they weren’t his anymore. And he wasn’t here to make Deirdre feel better. “Well, Morgan was stupid enough to trust me,” he said, his voice smaller. “And she read me like an open book. So maybe trust your girlfriend’s judgement,” he said with a small shrug. It was strange to admit some of these people in this town might have a better idea on who he was than he did but somehow it just kept happening.

And as she kept talking, it happened all over again. It was like she was voicing his inner thoughts. Every single one of them. Out loud and so painfully real that way. She had a point. Kaden could just cut and run. Call this a failed experiment. But the thought of that cut him to the core. That meant never spending time with Regan the same way ever again. Maybe never getting to feel that small slice of happiness he felt around her. Then again, that was still tenuous, wasn’t it? Wings were hardly the last hurdle they had to jump. And of fucking course Deirdre thought they were beautiful. He wondered if she had her own, hidden behind a glamour. It was strange to think as human as she looked standing next to him, that might not be her true form. But he was so sure there was nothing more Regan had to hide from him. Maybe not. That uncertainty still made his stomach drop. But still, he was having so much trouble conjuring ways to make that matter. Her eyes flashed into his mind, the last time he’d looked at them. Still her, after all that. Was it worth giving that up for a calling that kept cracking at the seams every time he turned around? He took a deep draw of the nicotine, let it out slow and steady, mulling her words over in his head. “You really think we get to be happy?” It wasn’t something he’d ever really considered so much because he’d tricked himself into thinking that he had been. This whole time. He knew who he was, what he did, and that was fine. Killing monsters was all the satisfaction he needed in life. That had been happiness. Until he opened the door to alternate possibilities and everything got more complicated. As evidenced by the fact he was standing in a cemetery talking to a banshee about his fae girlfriend who didn’t think she was fae. Putain.  “I… I think I understand, though. I just, I need to know. The scream? I’ve always been told it causes death. I-- If…” If he knew Regan was a threat to humanity, that, god it would hurt. But he had to know. He had to. He could sacrifice some morals for selfish reasons but the line had to be drawn somewhere. “But like I said, my track record for what I’ve gotten right and wrong seems to be stacking up lately in favor of fucking incorrect. So you tell me. Do banshees really bring death and pain in their fucking wake? How doomed am I?”

“She’s stupid enough to trust a lot of things. I imagine that’s how hope works. But she’s been wrong before, she died that way.” Deirdre breathed, closing her eyes. She’d first gotten lost talking to Morgan over how stupid she thought her judgements were, and bold-faced, Morgan told her that she didn’t care--that there was nothing else for her to do but hold on to those stupid judgements. “I was a stupid judgement too.” She opened her eyes and smiled gently. “How kind of you to turn that around. I wouldn’t be trusting her, I’d be trusting you. You and I both know how wrong hope can be. You won’t give me a promise; that’s fine. Understand your life is forfeit if something happens to her. I don’t care how much Regan likes you, I won’t let you live if you prove Morgan wrong.” And unlike threats of the past, there was no anger held in her words, no hint of a joke that only she found funny---she meant every word with her heart just as true as her love was. She held her hand out, “give me another cigarette.” If she was committing acts of treason, it felt right to defile the temple of her lungs again. “People like us? I didn’t. I told Morgan as such over and over again, and she said we had to be born for more than that. That people were alive to do more than break. All I know is that I am happy with her, I can’t deny that. And you are happy with Regan. That---” She gestured haphazardly. “--other stuff isn’t...isn’t happiness like this. I know. I told myself it was too. A purpose, maybe, but it’s not a happy one. It can’t be, if the truth is you’re happier the moments you’re not doing it---the moments you feel like you’re worth more than the carnage you were born into.”

And Deirdre couldn’t help the laugh that left her again as he asked his question. Wasn’t it funny how hunters did that? Did they have to tell themselves these people they killed were monsters just so they could sleep at night? Did they have to invent tales of evil just to make it fair? “No. We don’t. We’re seers, that’s it. We see death before it occurs, we scream when fate has made its call. We do not cause it.” Deirdre shook her head, “she’ll never harm anyone more than some hearing damage and whatever flying glass does.” She purposely neglected to explain how powerful the scream could be, and the breadth of effects it could cause--in this case, as much as she hated it, it was probably better to up-sell how benign they could be. “We’re drawn to death, sometimes to places it has not yet touched. I couldn’t tell you if some part of me liking Morgan had to do with her eventually dying, it becomes hard to separate. We do not carry anything with us, Kaden. Moths to a flame, that’s all we really are.” She broke out into a lopsided smile, “aren’t we all a little doomed though? If you die early, it won’t be Regan’s fault. And for this, you’ll just have to be stupid enough to trust me.”

Oddly enough, Kaden didn’t have too much trouble believing that what he’d been told about banshees had been more than a little colored. His family was far more versed in beasts first, vampires and the undead second, and fae fell to the wayside, left for the warren families to study and deal with. He knew the broad strokes but details, well, clearly those were fuzzy. Still, part of it almost felt like she was trying to comfort him, ease into the idea that maybe this was fine. Then again, he glanced over and remembered who he was talking to. Right, she wasn’t about to sugar coat shit for him. At least he could trust that. He gave her a contemplative nod as he let out another puff of smoke, it was all he could manage after all that. She was the expert after all. “She’ll know though, won’t she?” It just hit him, then and there. They’d both know, wouldn’t they? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know that. Ever. Guess it was too fucking late for that. Putain. “But, uh, why is this-- I thought you were born fae. You can’t become one. Why didn’t iron-- I mean, I tested. When we first started dating. And her skin, pulse, you know. And I know she didn’t always have wings. It changed. After… How?”  

“Hm. She’ll know, I suppose. She might not be trained enough to properly decipher it, but she’ll know. I’ll know, and I’ll replay your death happily in my head.” Deirdre smiled, for once, intending her words of his (fortunate) end to be light-hearted. Not that she could be sure she came across that way. “We are. She was still promise-binding and stealing names every which way...but fae grow into their traits. For most, this simply takes age. For banshees, there are a certain set of circumstances that trigger it.” And Kaden was a fool if he thought Deirdre would suddenly spill coveted banshee secrets to him---even if some were probably in every warden book out there. “It happened to me when I was eight.” A fact she normally held with such pride, she now spoke matter-of-factly. “I’ll let you take a guess what causes it. But she is a full banshee now, there’s no going back for her. No way to get rid of her wings, no way to warm her skin or make her heart beat any faster or stop the way iron suddenly burns.” Deirdre sighed, “the only thing that’ll really help her now is accepting she’s not human. And you Kaden, have to be prepared to tell her that doesn’t make her...lesser.” Something he really couldn’t do if he still thought of them as monsters. He wouldn’t lie to her twice, would he? “Anything else?” She asked.  

“Hope it’s at least entertaining for you.” Some things never changed. Small comfort in that, he guessed. Still, his brow creased as Kaden tried to get a clearer picture of the puzzle, connect the dots he didn’t want to piece together before now. The name stealing, promise scares she’d had, of course it had been her. Blaming Deirdre, the mimes, it had been easier. And safer. Not unlike that promise bind she wanted earlier. There was no doubt what had triggered Regan’s change, though. The death of her father. It had to be. The timing, even he’d figured that one out long before he was willing to admit the truth. For a moment, he wanted to tell Deirdre he was sorry. Ask if it was hard for her, too, when it happened. Something about her, though, it felt like she took pity about as well as he did. Nothing pissed him off more than that look people gave him when they found out about his childhood and how much it differed from theirs. Like they were better than him. So he let it lie. And listened.  

Tears pricked his eyes as she confirmed everything Kaden already knew. “Yeah. I-- I know. She’s not--” His “human” girlfriend was gone. Forever. Not that she ever was. Stil, it hurt knowing how much he wanted it not to be true. Knowing how much she wanted it not to be true. Knowing she’d never feel warm next to him ever again, he’d always have to wonder if she was still breathing in the middle of night. And he had a feeling he knew what caused the lightbulb casualties now. He bit the inside of his lip as the lump in his throat returned. “That’s uh... That was the main thing. I wanted to...” He swallowed back the new wave of hurt. “Thanks. For. You know. I just, I couldn’t… Not without knowing how it all...”

“Oh, It will be,” Deirdre grinned. Though, the happy expression didn’t last. She glanced over at him curiously, he seemed...not as happy about confirming his girlfriend was a banshee as Deirdre would be. But she could understand some part of it, she thought. Morgan had gone from human to zombie. The differences between them laid in the fact Deirdre never saw one as better than the other--she wouldn’t allow herself to. How cruel would that be? Weighing pros and cons when the simple truth that she loved Morgan was more than enough. It didn’t matter, exactly, what she was. The difference between them had to be that: she fell in love knowing who Morgan was, completely, facing the fact she was human and accepting that she loved her despite it. She took no space to mourn, knowing it didn’t matter in the end; Morgan would always be Morgan. Deirdre let silence wash between them, giving Kaden his space to mourn where she couldn’t. “Regardless of what you think about the cold skin and the slow pulse…” she frowned, “you can’t let her think it’s terrible, Kaden. You--what if she hated herself? You wouldn’t---You can’t want that for her. Regardless of what you think. It’s not...it’s not all bad, being this way. It’s good. It can be good. It can be even better if you’re there with her.” She sighed again, looking out over the horizon. “You’re welcome, Kaden. You know, I’d recommend you swing by that supernatural sex store...” Deirdre turned back to him and smirked. “I’ve heard some things about banshee gags.”

[alma-berry]

Kit’s Secret Fire Message #20

Masterlist

Kit lead the way out of the bright corridor with a confidence he didn’t feel. He knew they were scraping borrowed time, that they probably had only a few seconds before the demons could find them and the children they were trying to protect. The group was trapped inside the Malachi Configuration, but Kit preferred not to risk the chance of the demons will find a way to get past that obstacle.

After only a few long strides, he and Ty found themselves in a wide hall. The ceiling was higher than in any other part of the cave, arched upwards, like a strange and foreign dome placed inside the underground labyrinth. The temperature was unbearably high, and Kit ignored the slow trickle of sweat running down his spine. It wasn’t a surprise, considering the enormous pillar of fire, blazing in the middle of the room. Kit could feel Ty tense next to him, but they had no time to hesitate. Over thirty demons circled the fire, swaying from side to side in absolute silence. The image was almost religious in its familiarity, like ancient paintings Kit had seen in the old books his father kept in their LA home.

He had never seen such a large group of demons, it wasn’t what they had expected, but Kit didn’t feel afraid, he almost couldn’t. The grounding sound of Ty’s breathing filled him with a certainty he knew was probably recklessly dangerous. They were only two Shadowhunters, and Kit sometimes felt like he wasn’t even fully qualified to count as one himself.. but as he looked at the fire, rising high above the demons and scorching the ceiling into a darkened blackness, he felt the steady pull of his blood guiding him forward.

Ty’s hand found his and squeezed hard for half a heartbeat, before both men sprang forward, their seraph blades slicing the smoke like lightning bolts hitting the sand.

In front, the swaying circle of Moloch demons rose a thick layer of black smoke that glided rapidly towards them.

“Kit-“ Ty’s voice hitched as multiple pairs of burning yellow eyes formed all across the wall of smoke that tried to encircle them.

“Yeah yeah, goddamn Iblis demons. I hate Iblis demons. They totally ruined bonfires for me after- Ouch!”

Kit pierced the nearest demon to him with annoyance.

“I don’t appreciate your attitude”, he called as he threw himself in front of another demon, whirling his seraph blade into the gap between the demon’s eyes.

“You,” he panted, “are the reason why midnight picnics” he dropped to the ground, “are no longer allowed in our household”. His blade sank into its target and the air around him cleared.

“Are you always this chatty while fighting?” Ty mused.

Kit unleashed a mischievous smile and said, “only when I’m in a mood”.

“Which mood?” Ty straightened and drew another seraph blade from his belt in a long, smooth movement.

Kit grinned wickedly and whispered, “Guess”.

The circle of Moloch demons was starting to slowly break apart as they realized their line of defense failed to guard them.

“We have to stop them from raising the greater demon. He won’t be able to fully come to this world without the sacrifice but that doesn’t mean he won’t be able to do some serious damage”.

Kit nodded in silent agreement.

He drew a longsword that was strapped to his back and held it out to Ty.

“You’re almost out of seraph blades, take it.”

Ty didn’t look at him but accepted the sword, their fingers brushed and the lightest spark of white light passed between them. Kit drew his hand quickly, not knowing if Ty saw or felt it, but sure that he didn’t want to explain himself even if he did.

The fire crackled loudly and Kit ran straight towards the circle of demons, his heart turning heavily inside his chest.

Ty was right behind him, dancing between the flames like he was made of shadows.

Throughout Kit’s short shadowhunting career, he usually fought alone. Jem came along at the beginning, be it from worry or a simple show of support. But it wasn’t long until Kit had asked him to cut back with the babysitting. He had to try to manage himself alone… and he did. He was quick and efficient, but his habit of chatting while fighting was a result of solitude more than it was of his good mood. He fought alongside Jace more times than he honestly cared to, and Simon was always fun in a fight. He was chatty like Kit, and being near him made him feel less like he had to try so hard to be like them, like other Shadowhunters. But as much as Simon was fun and Jace was unbearable, they both had a parabatai. That meant they never fully gave themselves to fighting with Kit. It was always just a pinch of what they had with their chosen partners, and Kit couldn’t not know that.

Fighting alongside Ty felt like flying.

They found the perfect balance of high and low between them. Ty was skipping between the demons like he was climbing a rock on the beach. His hands expertly slicing off one head while he aimed a kick to the back of another.

In the meanwhile, Kit was on the ground, dodging their bursts of fire and sharp claws. He was pretty sure he got the worst end of the deal, seeing how his gear was already drenched in ichor and that disgusting oil those demons were partly made of, but the position abled him to get rid of their formless lower bodies.

Between their joint efforts, they managed to kill every single one of the demons before the fire lost any of its hight.

Ty reached out a hand and pulled Kit to his feet. They surveyed the liquid mess around them, chests still heaving from effort and excitement.

Kit couldn’t hold it in any longer, he turned to face Ty, his body practically vibrating with bursts of adrenaline.

“This was the most fun I’ve had in weeks!” Kit blurted out.

“You were incredible, Ty. You jumped between them so fast, like they were stairs!”

He debated himself whether or not he should compare Ty to Spiderman, but he wasn’t sure it was the right time to explain who he was in case Ty didn’t know him. And in that case - if Ty would even understand it was made to be a compliment, or just look at him like he was insane.

“You moved like the wind, it was amazing.”

Kit took a hesitant step towards him, memorizing the way the tiny flecks of light from the fire made Ty’s skin shine like glittering ivory.

“You were amazing.”

It was barely audible, Kit wasn’t sure he’d even said it. The words got caught between his lips when Ty reached for him, pulling him closer and harder without an ounce of hesitation.

He framed Kit’s face between his hands and leaned his forehead to his. They breathed each other’s air, tasted the sweet anticipation of lips on lips, of words left unsaid.

Kit linked his fingers behind the nape of Ty’s neck and tried to remember why he was fighting this for so long. He came up with absolutely nothing.

Ty’s skin was fever hot where he touched him, running hungry fingers from Kit’s cheeks to his neck, lingering at the pulse point, as if trying to commend the way it pounded against his palm to his memory.

“So were you, Kit”, Ty’s soft voice made him shiver down to his bones. The feeling grew stronger and this time Kit could recognize it before it reached his palms. He untangled his fingers from Ty’s neck and tried to step back, forcefully detaching his eyes from Ty’s face.

In response, Ty fastened his grip on Kit.

“No, Kit.. don’t pull back from me again.” Ty’s voice was a low plead.

“Ty, please... I-“ he was shaking from the effort of controlling himself, but as he looked up at Ty’s face, his expression changed from pained to panicked before he could find words to explain.

A flare of light washed them, turning Ty’s eyes to liquid flames. He grabbed Kit’s shoulder and shoved him behind him, screaming “Kit, look out!”.

In books, people always described these kinds of situations as if rolled in slow motion right in front of their eyes. Like a second, stretched into an uncountable, infinite moment, where every movement sharpened into a forced clarity.

Kit only wished this was the case, maybe then he could have responded. He would have moved, fast and sharp like a well-aimed arrow. He could have pulled Ty down, move to shield the person that had always been the one precious dream that he never deserved to have.

But the cruel slap of reality was the familiar raw pain in his heart. A massive ball of fire blurred his line of vision and shot straight to Ty’s chest. The strength of the blow made Ty fall back, his knees buckled from under him and Kit could barely catch him before his head hit the ground.

“No, no no no” Kit was on him in a heartbeat, his stele already marking an Iratze on his burnt skin.

Kit heard the demons before he saw them, and the seraph blade in his hand came to life with the ferocity of his anger. He leaped to his feet and sliced through the air, called the name of an angel and sank the white blade once, twice, three times until the only sound he could hear was the thunder of his throbbing heart.

He ran back to Ty, and a sob of relief broke away from his mouth in the sight of the black tune that still marked his skin.

“Ty, look at me. You’re okay, you’re going to be okay.”

Kit scanned the burnt material of Ty’s gear, looking for any sign of injury. To his relief, the gear took most of the impact, and whatever gotten through to Ty’s skin was already healing. The impact of the blow was what knocked Ty off, but Kit could see him struggling to stay conscious.

Kit touched his face, smearing ash and splashes of blood across the hills of his cheekbones.

Ever since they met again, Kit could barely allow himself to look at Ty for more than a few stolen moments. The fear of hurting him was stronger than his own needs, than his own ragged, treacherous Heart.

But Ty had been hurt, now, and not by him. Kit had tried to protect Ty from him but failed to do it when the danger came from the outside. He failed as a Shadowhunter.

Kit buried his face in Ty’s hair and tried to match the rhythm of their heartbeats.

“I said I’m never leaving you again, Ty. It goes both ways. I’m never letting you go either.”

His voice sounded muffled but Ty didn’t seem to hear him. His eyes were closed.

The silence became too thick for Kit to stomach. He lifted his gaze towards the fire and wasn’t surprised to see dark figures approaching them from behind it.

He laid Ty’s head gently on the floor and got to his feet. He was down to one dagger, barely bigger than the one Jace gave him three years ago. He didn’t know if it would do, but he had no intention of letting any of them near Ty again.

He would do whatever is necessary to keep him safe, no matter the cost.

This time, summoning his power was almost easy, like he always knew how to do it.

He thought of Ty holding him on the roof of the London institute, whispering a promise to his ear; “Breath. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere”.

He let that promise guide him through the darkness of his own mind, and reached for the light.

His left hand glowed a pearly white, startling in front of the vibrant colors in the pillar of fire in front of him.

Kit clenched his fist and kept it close to the side of his body. It was the only true weapon he had left, and he wasn’t about to give it away so fast.

Seven demons glided around the fire, circling it like a swarm of ants. Kit crouched and readied his body. He won’t have endless attempts, the energy that pulsed through his body was overwhelmingly strong now, but he knew from the little experience he had that he would be drained out of it soon after.

Kit needed to be precise so he will have enough strength to get Ty and the kids to safety.

He took one last breath and started uncurling his fingers one after the other. He only managed two before a deafening noise came from behind him. He barely managed to close back his fist before Adam and Carl burst into the room, their seraph blades blazing high in the thick air.

Kit was never happier to see that bastard.

Without a single word, they gathered beside him, and Adam handed him one of the Adamas made blades. Kit didn’t even try to keep his voice low, he screamed “Sanvi” and charged towards the group of demons.

The three of them made short work of the demons, but it seemed like more kept coming from behind the flames. Kit couldn’t believe it took so long to see that.

“It’s the fire, it’s calling them somehow!” Kit shouted.

“Isn’t it supposed to summon their higher demon?” Adam answered while dodging a ball of fire one of the demons spat his way.

“Yeah, that’s what we thought. But I don’t think that’s the only thing it does.”

Kit severed the demon‘s head with a neat blow. “You’re welcomed, by the way”.

“Fine, let’s put out the fire and get out of here” Carl gave an irritated shove to his opponent and sliced his way towards the fire.

“Wait, how are you gonna do that? You’re not Aquaman!” Kit called after him.

Adam reached his side and paused, confused.

“Whose Aquaman?”

Carl reached the fire and surveyed its size for a moment, then took off his gear jacket and started pounding the flames.

Kit stifled a snore but gave Carl the benefit of the doubt. As it turned out, the method was quite effective.

Kit considered helping him when he caught sight of something lurking right behind Carl’s back, illuminated by the last remains of the fire.

“Damn it” he muttered and ran to take care of it. Carl hardly noticed until the demon was practically on him, but this time Kit was faster.

He threw himself in front of Carl, shoving him into the last wisps of fire, and sank his blade deep into the revolting figure in front of him.

Carl fell on his back, but the force of Kit’s push made him slide a few feet backward. He took away with him the last of the flames, and in that instant, a loud crack came from the top of the dome.

Kit straightened his back and turned to face a rain of massive rocks, pouring in on them from the ceiling.

Ty, his heart skipped several beats while he searched his limp figure in the vast darkness of the room.

Ty is still there, unconscious. He had to get to him, he had to-

A massive rock fell in front of him, blocking his way and nearly crushing him to death.

“Kit!” Adam’s panicked voice echoed through the thundering sound of the cave collapsing.

“Kit where are you?”

Kit tried to run across the rock when two more fell right in front of it. He tried to climb one of them, and could almost see three figures near the entrance.

Kit ran as fast as he could, trying to duck the flood of rocks that enveloped him. He could barely cross half of the distance to them when what seemed to be a massive chunk of the ceiling fell behind him. The impact of the fall through him off his feet and he crashed on another enormous bolder.

The pain at his shoulder punched the breath out of him, and he could barely hear the others calling for him anymore.

He tried to lift himself to his feet, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Kit took a desperate breath and tried to climb the rock only with his hands.

His shoulder burned with agony, but Ty was at the other side of that rock, and Kit had promised him he will never leave him again.

A shadow of an old vow rang through his head with every breath he struggled to take, and he finally reached the top of the stone.

Adam’s face was white with relief for a fleeting second before a scream escaped his mouth.

“Kit! Above you!”

He had less than a second to react, and he rolled back to the ground as a pile of rocks crashed at the exact place He fell from.

Kit held his hand close to his abdomen, trying to minimize the movement of his shoulder, but he couldn’t make his legs hold his weight.

He looked at his left hand and knew with a sinking feeling in his gut that he had only one chance left.

“Go, Adam! Go now! Make Ty open the configuration, take the Kids and leave before you get buried alive!”

A burst of angry comments came from where their direction, but Kit couldn’t hear it.

He could barely hear a thing. Not the loud embrace of stones, not the Centurions pleading voices, not even his own heart.

He leaned against the boulder and carefully spread his hands on his knees, palms up. Kit watched them for a second longer before he let go of his control, and gave in to the sweet pull of the light.

He closed his eyes so he won’t know when it’s over, and listened to the same four words, again and again. He whispered them, the only promise that ever mattered. The one that no one ever kept, but that he would rather die than to break.

He whispered to the grey eyes in his memory, flames dancing on his pale, beautiful face. Fire burning between their lips.

“To never being parted”.

[bamby0304]

Apple of my Eye- Ch.22

Series Masterlist

Summary: When Sam and Dean were pulled back into their world, you were left behind. Stuck in the hustle bustle of Hollywood life, you have no choice but to play along, leaving almost all of your old life behind. Seven years later, when a rip in time and space opens up, you are finally able to go home… but you don’t go alone.

Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Violence.

Bamby

The three of you had managed to sneak into a car on the ship. You were lying along the back seat with Jody, while Donna was in the front. It was a tight squeeze, but your choices were limited.

Outside, the monsters were snarling, searching for you all. Every time they moved towards the car they would hit it, causing the rust bucket to shake and creak. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying not to make a sound, and preying they would ease up and continue their search somewhere else so you could escape.

“If we make a run for the truck, we’re dead,” Donna noted, keeping her voice low.

“If we stay here we’re dead,” Jody countered.

“Alrighty then.”

Suddenly the car began to shake as one of the things jumped on the roof of the car.

Donna was quick to move, lifting her gun up to shoot at the ceiling. Unfortunately the drew the attention of another monster, who slammed itself against the door you were leaning on.

“Get down!” Jody yelled as she aimed her gun at the window above your head.

Before she could shoot, however, before she could shoot a bright glow came from above your head, along with heat against the door.

Turning, you managed to see the monster just before it ran off… on fire.

Climbing out of the car, confused, the three of you looked by the entrance of the ship and spotted Alex, Kaia and Claire- who was carrying a flamethrower.

“I called, you didn’t answer. We worried.” Claire shrugged.

“Where’s the other one?” Donna asked, adjusting her hold on her gun.

“It probably bolted,” Claire noted. Looking you up and down, she reached into the back of her pants and pulled out a gun, here.

Reaching out, you took the gun with a short nod. “Thanks.”

As Claire put the flame thrower down her attention was caught by the buzzing from the portal upstairs. Looking over her shoulder, she spotted the glowing light. “Is that the door?”

“Claire,” Jody started, but before she could say anything else Claire was already running, with Kaia right behind her. “Claire! Claire, please wait! Oh hell.” Sighing, she followed her daughter.

As the others went to the portal, the rest of you stayed downstairs to deal with whatever might be still lingering.

The sound of one of the creatures screeching caught all of your attention then.

“Oh there he is.” Donna turned in the direction of the creature. “Hiya buddy.” Before she could take a shot, however, more monsters appeared.

You did a quick count and felt your stomach drop. “I’m seeing at least six, Donna.”

She nodded tightly. “Upstairs. Move.”

Not needing to be told twice, you and Alex started for the stairs and run up, knowing Donna wasn’t too far behind.

“Jody! A little help,” Donna called as she hurried up to the next level. “Jody!”

Making it to the top of the stairs, you and Alex waited until Donna passed before you reached for a heavy metal cabinet and pushed it down the stairs.

“Let’s go!” you called, hurrying further into the ship.

As you made it to an open room, Jody came around the corner and joined your little group. Claire and Kaia weren’t with her.

“They’re gone?” Donna asked.

The only answer she got was a small nod from Jody. As much as she didn’t want to let Claire go after the brothers, she knew her options were very limited. She did was she had to… but that didn’t make it any easier.

“Okay, anything gets in here we take it down,” Jody noted, aiming her gun at the only way in and out of the room.

Your hands shook as you did the same, raising your gun to get ready.

“Hey.” You looked to Donna who smiled at you. “You got this. We’re gonna be okay, and you’re gonna get back to your little girl.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, tightening your hold on your gun. “We’ve got this.”

Down the hall, you could hear the snarls of the monsters getting closer.

“Alright girls,” Jody looked to each of you, “let’s go to work.”

...

You weren’t sure how many of those things had charged into the room, but somehow you’d all managed to keep them at bay. Whether by killing them, or wounding them enough to scare them away, you’d all managed to fight them off.

A burst of bright light behind you, coming from the adjoining room, caught your attention. It drew your eyes from the only way in and out of the room you were in, and subsequently the next room.

“No!” Claire cried out.

Neither you or Jody hesitated before you ran to the next room. She needed to check on her daughter… you needed to see if she’d failed or succeeded.

Hurrying around the corner, you came to a stop a sudden stop.

Jody ran to her daughter as she lay on the floor, crying, reaching out towards the spot where the portal had been moments ago. Standing a few feets from them… were Sam and Dean.

“Oh thank God!” Without a second thought, and without wasting another moment, you ran towards Dean.

He was quick to react, catching you as you threw yourself at him. With your arms around his neck, and legs around his hips, you crashed your lips against his and cried.

Kissing you back, he held you close, snaking his arms around your waist to hold you against him. The moment was a little inappropriate considering everything else going on, but it was needed. You’d been so worried you were never going to see him again, now that you had him in your grasp you never wanted to let him go again.

“I love you,” you breathed against his lips. “God, I love you.”

Carding his fingers through your hair, he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss.

A second passed before he suddenly pulled back. “Dakota-”

“She’s okay,” Alex reassured him as she and Donna rounded the corner. “She’s with Patience.”

Dropping back down to the ground, you looked over at Jody as she held onto her sobbing child. It broke your heart to see Claire so hurt… but it reminded you that your own daughter needed you.

“We should go…”

Jody nodded, understanding. “We’ll meet you back at my place. We just…” Her eyes dropped to Claire. “We need a moment.”

As you offered her a sympathetic smile, you felt Dean slip his hand into yours. Looking up at him, you knew it was time to go. He needed to see Dakota just as much as you needed to see her.

…

Arriving back at Jody’s, you got to work cleaning up after the monsters. They’d thoroughly trashed the place, breaking a lot of her furniture.

Patience had did as you asked and had kept driving, but that meant it was going to take awhile before she got back into town. Dean was on edge, trying to help out but too worried about Dakota. It had been too long, he needed to make sure she was okay.

Jody and the others made it back before Patience. The sheriff thanked you for all the work you’d already done on her house, before the rest of them quickly joined you and the brothers.

When you heard the sound of another car pulling up outside, everything slowed.

Dean moved first, practically running out the front door. You and Sam weren’t too far behind, making it outside just in time to see the moment Dakota spotted him. What happened next shocked everyone.

“Daddy!” A wide smile spread across Dakota’s face before she sprinted across the lawn.

Getting to his knees, Dean opened his arms as she threw herself at him. He pulled her close, holding the back of her head to him as he buried his face in her neck and let out a relieved breath.

Your feet moved on their own, leading you to the two of them as they embraced.

Seeing you approaching, Dakota pulled back to smile up at you. “Are the monsters all gone?”

“For now, yeah.” You nodded. She looked so proud then… but there was just one thing you didn’t quite understand. “Dakota… what did you call Dean?”

Pausing, she looked down sheepishly as she shrugged. “Daddy…”

“How-”

“I wasn’t asleep in the car, Mummy. I heard what you told Aunt Jody.”

Your heart swelled. Not only did she see the Winchesters as family, and the bunker as home, but everything else was falling into place, too.

“Can we go home, now?” she asked, looking down at Dean. “We still need to eat pie and talk about my day at school.”

He chuckled, nodding. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”

Bamby

[fullmetalscullyy]

royai week day 3: flashover

rated: t | words: 2278

read on ao3

flashover: the near-simultaneous ignition of most of the directly exposed combustible material in an enclosed area. a flashover occurs when all of the combustible materials in a room or compartment reach their ignition temperatures at the same time.

Without a word shared between them the two officers moved through the darkened warehouse completely in sync. No sounds were made except from their boots hitting the concrete floor. Shouts sounded from distant rooms, directing the two towards that location. Roy Mustang signalled with one hand without looking at his partner, stating he would open the door and Riza Mustang would enter afterwards, storming the room with her gun raised. She’d already let off three shots as they’d moved, incapacitating three men without a second thought. Her expression never strayed from the cold fury that Roy also wore, a mirror of his wife, and with good reason.

Roy kicked the door open with all his might, channelling all his anger and fury into that movement. He would have been surprised when the rickety old thing was knocked off its hinges, hanging on by the top one only, but other things were occupying his mind. Riza stormed in a second later, popping off two shots before the men in the room had even turned.

“Get down!” Roy ordered, lifting his hand poised to snap. Cold eyes calculated the room, picking out the number of men still standing. Riza was already taking down those who had moved to retaliate, but Roy saw as the remaining men lifted their hands in surrender, the eyes above their bandanas wide with fear. “Amestrian Military. Get down on the ground, now!”

A few complied, except for one standing over the Mustang’s target for infiltrating this warehouse. Roy glared at him, daring the man to make a movement. Oh, how he wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill them all for what they’d done. His anger was a beast raging inside of him, beating against his chest and clouding his vision. Roy was so close to giving in to it and letting this unrestrained emotion tear into these people and hurt them they way they’d hurt him and Riza.

But he couldn’t. Not in front of his son.

The boy whimpered from his spot on the floor. His eyes were as wide as saucers, skipping between his mother and father both in relief and desperation. Roy’s vision went red as he saw the bruise on his face and the rope tying his ankles together. His arms were pulled behind his back, no doubt restrained with rope too.

“Maes?” Riza called to him, voice even and controlled, ever the soldier. Without looking at her Roy knew her fury matched his. Riza was terrifying when she was truly angry. He’d only ever heard it, walking through those tunnels underneath Central years ago, but he’d never seen it. And while he hated to see her this way, Roy didn’t blame her. These bastards had taken their son and Roy wouldn’t stop her if she decided to tear them limb from limb with her bare hands. “Are you all right?”

The man standing over their son tightened his grip, levelling his gun. Riza fired and Roy snapped at the same time, the former hitting his shoulder to knock him down while Roy’s flames burned the weapon from his hands. With an anguished cry he fell to the floor, landing heavily on his back.

“Maes?” Riza barked, her anger leaking through. She was becoming desperate. She needed an answer from their son, needed confirmation that he was okay.

“I… I’m –”

“Get back!” one of the men cried, lunging for Maes. The boy’s eyes widened once more as a knife was pressed to his throat. “Stay back!”

Roy didn’t even know what happened. It was like he lost control of his body and another entity took over when his son’s panicked eyes desperately called to his. He’d just been pushed to breaking point and this was the result. Instead of the cold fury a calmness overtook him. He lifted his hand and snapped without a thought, flames erupting over the man’s arm. The knife clattered to the floor as he cried out. Roy was careful though and made sure nothing touched Maes. At the same time, Riza fired her gun, both attacks in sync, and she hit the kidnapper’s shoulder. It was uncanny how alike they were, especially in this situation.

Maes rolled away in horror, shuffling towards his parents as the man burned in front of his eyes, screams of agony filling the room. To his right, Riza looked on and made no move to stop her husband.

“Dad…” Maes whispered in horror. He was too far gone to think about how he was burning someone alive in front of his child. He didn’t need to see this. Roy was so lost in his anger, his pain, and his grief that he didn’t think about how after Ishval he’d promised himself and the woman beside him he’d never use his alchemy for something like this again.

But these bastards had kidnapped his son. He was beyond reason. Roy had vowed he’d rain fire and brimstone down upon them when they came face-to-face.

Roy knew both he and Riza were losing their grip on reality as they searched for Maes. They’d lived at the office for the last week, ever since he’d been taken. Maes had been kidnapped on his way home from school. It was neither of their faults, but both shouldered the blame.

The others were extremely concerned. When Havoc had told them both to go home, his own frustration leaking through as he yelled at them to take care of themselves for Maes’ sake, their glares had stopped him short. Because, how could they rest when their son was out there, alone, afraid, and possibly dead at the hands of men and women who wanted to hurt the General and the Captain? Havoc should know that, but he didn’t understand. None of them did. After that incident the search continued, but the rest of the team kept their distance from the couple. They were spiralling into a very bad place and Havoc had tried to help them, but their grief and fury created a cocktail of emotion that was difficult to break free from.

It even reached the point where they would argue with each other. Little things had them snapping at the other, almost insinuating blaming them for their son’s abduction. The words were never said but the implication was there. Roy hated it but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Not when Riza was glaring at him angrily.

Their relationship was straining. They both knew that.

However, when the moment arrived that they found Maes’ location they were an unstoppable team. They moved fluidly together. Words were unnecessary because they both knew the other’s next move. They were both dead set on finding their son and would cut down anyone who tried to stop them or hurt their boy.

“Dad, stop!” Maes shouted, backing up and hitting his father’s legs. Roy eventually tore his gaze away to look down into his son’s terrified eyes. Something snapped within him and that calmness left him, leaving a burning in his chest as he realised he was scaring Maes. Roy snapped again, removing the oxygen from around the kidnapper, leaving the fire to go out and him to slump over, unconscious.

After that show of power, the other men shut up and went willingly.

Maes shouting at Roy to stop broke through his haze of anger. Blinking twice he looked down at his son but Riza enveloped him in a tight hug and drew those black eyes away from Roy.

The rest of the team entered the room, weapons raised and trained on the remaining men. They were arrested and escorted from the room without a word to the two parents. Havoc shot Roy a look as he passed the final time but continued on his way. Roy knew that look. He wasn’t happy with how the situation had been handled, however it wasn’t just Roy who’d been on the warpath, Riza had been too.

A problem for another day.

“Mum,” Maes whimpered, clutching onto his mother, burying his face in her military jacket. Riza had removed the ties from his wrists and hadn’t had the chance to remove the others because Maes had thrown his arms around his mother.

“It’s all right, Maes, we’re here,” she soothed. Something lanced through Roy’s chest at her words. Their son had watched his mother kill someone and his father burn a man alive. They’d been relentless and Roy felt ashamed that they’d been so furious they hadn’t even considered that.

What happened in Ishval haunted them to this day, over twenty-five years later. They’d both vowed they would atone for it but today – in front of their son – they’d almost stooped back to that level. Roy could use the excuse that their son had been taken and they would do anything to get him back, but he didn’t need to go that low and needlessly kill. The men would be punished for their crimes. Roy had taken enough lives with his alchemy. He didn’t need to take anymore.

And Roy had never wanted Maes to see them in action.

Maes knew what happened in Ishval. Both he and Riza had sat down and explained everything to him when he was ten. As part of the new education criteria Roy had introduced in order to educate the future on what happened there, Maes would find out in high school. They’d told him two years prior to when he would learn it, to give him warning and allow him to process it. They also explained everything that had happened with the late Fuhrer Bradley, but the story of the homunculi wouldn’t be taught in schools. That would instil fear and may give others the idea to try it somewhere down the line. No, those involved in Mustang’s coup on the Promised Day had all agreed to leave that part out.

Their son had been hurt and confused at first. His parents were good people, how could they have done such a thing? He’d even run away from home to Havoc and Catalina’s house, leaving the two of them petrified. Maes had refused to come home. Both parents were distraught but there was nothing they could do. It was what they deserved after everything they’d done, they reasoned as they held each other in their despair.

It took a conversation with Edward Elric to coax Maes back home. The ten-year-old had run into his parent’s arms, sobbing about how sorry he was. Ed had just nodded and left them to it, returning a few hours later when Maes had fallen asleep on the couch with Riza, both exhausted after crying for most of the time. Roy was exhausted too, but he’d forced himself to remain awake. He didn’t get to rest after everything he’d done, all the pain he’d caused. When Ed returned, he told Roy that they’d both chatted, and Ed had explained to Maes everything they’d given up after Ishval. Their lives, their happiness, their personal future in order to atone for what they’d done. Ed told Maes everything that had happened on the Promised Day, how his mother had almost died and how his father was forced to open the gate at the hands of Fuhrer Bradley and lost his sight. Apparently, that was enough to bring their son home and hear them out.

“I’m sorry,” Maes whispered into her jacket. “I didn’t mean to –”

“It’s all right,” Riza reassured him, rubbing circles on his back. “It wasn’t your fault. These were bad people who wanted to hurt your father and I.” Roy’s chest tightened as he noticed Maes stiffen at the mention of him. “It was not your fault,” Riza stressed, holding him tighter.

Remaining silent, Roy kneeled and gently removed the ties from his ankles. He resigned himself to the fact that Maes would always fear him after today.

That was something Roy had always feared.

After the ties were released Maes moved away from Riza and threw his arms around his father’s neck. Roy was surprised, his eyes meeting Riza’s. There were so many emotions on her face that it was hard to pick out just one. Relief and happiness that their son was okay and alive had replaced the rage that had graced her features only moments ago. However, there was a hint of sadness, grief, and shame mixed in there too. She too was ashamed of how she’d acted in front of their son. They’d both been pushed to their limit and had reacted accordingly. The whole week their fuse had been getting shorter and shorter, their moods and emotions volatile. When they arrived at the warehouse they had combusted together, and all bets were off. Entering this room and seeing that their son had been injured pushed them over the edge, reaching boiling point, the pair erupting into a rage that knew no bounds, and wanting to hurt these men in every way possible to make them pay for what they’d done.

Riza nodded at him, giving Roy’s hand a quick squeeze. Roy wrapped his son in his arms tightly, burying his face in his dirty t-shirt. Roy didn’t care because Maes was alive and he was safe now.

Both he and Riza had a lot of things to talk about and deal with in the aftermath of this week, but right now, Maes was all right and that was all that mattered.

[cherryjuicegf]

Wraith

A/N: So this is the last chapter. Thanks to my friend @melle93 i added a scene i hadn't thought of at first (the one with the girl), I really liked writing it in the end just like the rest of the chapter. The story was angsty from the beginning but I think the end is satisfactory. Thanks for reading it, I consider it one of my best works and I would appreciate an opinion for the whole. And finally, enjoy!

chapter 6

Chapter 7th

Last Bottle: The Morning

The morning breeze fondled him tenderly as he exited the café and for some moments he felt better, his mind cleared and he heaved a deep sigh, letting the cool air fill his lungs. He shivered. The wind was touching his face so gently, he thought of those two cold hands that once gave him the life he had lost. It was not a dream, not even close. Yet, who would believe him. A ghost. He was a ghost himself, he had always been. Out of this world, only living because someone decided he had to. And now he was given the chance to go. But, for once after so long, he was afraid. He couldn't leave, not like that. Not while he knew he would be alone up there, more than he was now, because nobody would wait for him. Who would? His friends? No way. Not now that he had taken Jehan away from them, only to leave him alone again in his fate. Who would? Enjolras? He chuckled on the verge of tears. Why should he wait for him? His beautiful angel, he waited for so long, suffered so quietly, fighted even when he knew there was no battle to fight anymore, tried even when he knew everything was over. Too strong, too kind. He didn't deserve him, he never did, to be touched by an angel. He wouldn't wait anymore, he could tell, no matter how much he loved him. 'I will never leave you'. It was a promise he knew he wouldn't keep. And Enjolras didn't have to do so either. 'He died for you'. Oh, Enjolras loved him too much, too goddamn much. And he still couldn't see the why.

The streets were empty, it was still early and there were hardly any souls out. It was cold. The sky was almost cleared from the dark clouds of the storm as the sun was shinning higher and higher, its rays being reflected on the water puddles the rain had left on the pavements, like a traveller whose dirty boots left footprints in its passing. These puddles were puddles of blood once. He remembered it. He knew that street like the palm of his hand. Every wall, every broken window. A deep sigh escaped his lips and he looked around in melancholy. He was lost. He didn't recognize himself anymore. A man who hated his life, who hated himself, who hated every single step he had the privilege to take on earth. The next road was crowded, people normally doing their morning activities or tidying up the mess of the night storm. He stopped for a moment and glanced back at the road he was walking before. No one dared to go there, as if there was a curse floating in the air, as if the souls of the dead were twirling around and screaming, thus haunting the dreams of anyone with the courage to step on its blood-painted pavement. He swallowed slightly and chuckled, bitterness filling his heart. Who remembered them? Who thanked them for sacrificing their lives in order to achieve a better future? No one. They didn't even step on the street they fell, even for a sign of gratitude. Cowards. Nothing could ever be the same. Not even himself. He took a deep, shaky breath and continued his way home, walking with his head bowed, a stranger among strangers, a dead among the living.

His feet led him in front of a white building on the next street. He hadn't been there in a long time. He felt he had to see it one last time, only to leave with all the memories locked on the apartment of the second floor. He thought he heard a laughter, but he was not surprised once more. His mind was playing games yet he didn't wait for him to turn up. He wouldn't anymore. He wiped abruptly some tears that dared to flood his eyes.

"He's not coming back, is he?"

A low, sweet voice made him turn his head to see a little girl standing near him with her dark eyes nailing him like daggers. He swallowed.

"No...", he mumbled hesitantly. "No, he's not..."

The girl shook her head with a sad smile and lowered her look. He peered at her for some moments. She was around six or seven years old yet seemed younger, weak as she was. Her long, brunet hair were falling tangled on her shoulders, her clothes were nothing more than a ragged dress and a coat twice the size of her body. He had seen her again, he remembered now, he had seen Enjolras talking to her many times yet he never mentioned her. Yet how could he know. He was too modest to believe he meant so much to somebody. But for a girl who had no one, he probably had been the only family she ever had. And he was not coming back.

She made to leave with her head bowed. She had nothing to wait for now. But he couldn't let her. He had to do something. That's what Enjolras would want him to do. That's what he wanted to do.

"What's your name?"

The girl looked at him with her eyes sparkling for a second. She raised her eyebrows.

"Élise."

He grinned kindly and kneeled so as to be in the same height.

"I'm Grantaire."

A timid smiled was curved on her lips and she reached her hand for a handshake. She had made a friend. He chuckled and took her thin hand into his. Then searched at his pockets, finding some coins that he couldn't remember since when were there and gave them to her.

"Take those", he said and Élise held the coins tightly in her hand fearing she would lose them, her eyes brightening with joy and gratitude. He smiled and then remained silent for a moment. He still couldn't leave her. She would be alone again. She didn't deserve to be alone too. A thought flashed his mind.

"If you ever need anything, go to 48 Rue Royale. Will you remember?"

"Yes! Yes, I will remember!", she exclaimed and turned to leave but stood and glanced at him with a grin that made her look as beautiful as she ought to be. "Thank you!"

Then she ran away. He stayed still watching her fending off. He could do nothing less. He knew Jehan would always be a good company, even when he had nobody himself. His smile faded.

The house seemed darker than the others from the end of the street, as if the rays of the sun embraced every other building except for it. He swallowed and shook his head. It had been a whole night, yet guilt broke his exhausted heart. He had no place there anymore, his feet instinctively moving forward to the doorstep and he stood there for some seconds, his eyes fixed on the wooden door as if he was sleeping. The shutters were wide open despite being still early, only for the sun to enter and finally bring some joy. But the sun itself seemed to refuse. He pushed the door slowly, yet without achieving to avoid the intense crackling. Jehan flounced on the couch, his sleep interrupted anyway and his sleepy eyes flew straight to Grantaire still standing at the doorstep, waiting for something that would never come. He sighed and rubbed his face, his lips curving a tired smile his red form insomnia eyes were verifying.

"Hey..."

His voice, hoarse, sounded empty in an emptier room. Grantaire made some steps inside without closing the door and looked around him. Home. It should feel like home now. But it didn't. He saw some flowers on the ledge under the window, beautifully placed inside an empty bottle as the sun danced around their petals. Oh, he didn't need that kind of home anymore. His home was far away from here now. He swallowed. Jehan moaned softly and sighed, clearing his throat.

"Are you okay?", he asked abstractly and made to stand up when his eyes met Grantaire's, and he froze. Silence fell, a silence that chocked them both. Grantaire was staring at his friend breathless, his hands trembling slightly, his green eyes starting to tear. Oh, dear God, he was so innocent and caring and kind, he didn't deserve to be treated like that. He didn't deserve to stay alone. Yet he would. And it was his fault, it was his fault once more. Because he saved him. He made him suffer the pain of loss without even supporting him. Shame of him that he treated his own friend this way.

And then his look flew on his hands. Pale, delicate hands with blue veins marking their white, gripping anxiously on the blanets, his fingers shaking. He remembered Enjolras' hands. Cold hands desperately grasping on his vest moments before all life was drained from them like demons sucking their youth. And he understood. It was Enjolras. It had always been Enjolras. This intangible ghost that always had his back, those two hands that were never getting warm again, still clinching on him, never letting go. And by losing this, he became unable to treat anyone that was not him the right way. Oh, God, he was a monster. A monster who lived instead of the angels.

Jehan breathed shortly without taking his eyes of his friend, who had turned all pale. He tried to smile, he couldn't. He had never seen him like that. He had been drunk, desperate, lost in his grief and nightmares, but not like that. Not like now that his face seemed so deformed by pain that he might had difficulty in recognizing him, now that his eyes were so red and swollen and dried out of life as if the previous night had been deadlied than that of the barricade. Yet he could see the difference. Because now he was dead too. He swallowed and made some steps, his lips parted in shock, almost afraid to approach closer.

"Grant... Grantaire?..."

His voice was distant, dreaded. Grantaire shivered. His heart was beating fast, he felt it out of control. Tears were flowing down his face. Suddenly a sob escaped his lips and he made to come closer, yet Jehan instinctively drew back, regretting each of his loath steps as he saw Grantaire's eyebrows lining a deep, confused frown on his forehead. But it didn't take much to realize. Of course. He was a monster. He was a ghost.

His lips curved slightly in a sad, exhausted smile and he exhaled, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry...", he whispered, his voice hardly coming out, trembling in pain. "I'm so sorry..."

And he stared at Jehan for a moment, his hand hesitantly raising only to touch him one last time. But Jehan, bewildered, unable to utter a word, was looking at his friend with eyes wide open, flooding with tears that couldn't fall. His lips moved weakly but no sound came out. He hadn't to. Grantaire let his hand fall and bowed his head. Jehan was right anyway. His steps led him to his room as Jehan's eyes followed, fixed on his back, quietly yearning for him to turn around. But he wouldn't. He didn't dare to face him again. His guilt was enough.

The door was closed behind him. The room seemed dark to him, despite the windows being open. Suddenly his breath became short and his eyes immediately fell on a bottle filled with wine on a table. One last bottle. It would kill him anyway, it had done so already. He approached staggering. His fingers touched the cold glass that caused him shudders. And he saw him again. Standing in the light, waiting. What was he waiting for? His heart was failing him. His lips touched the bottle. One last bottle. And he was still waiting. Waiting for his promise. A promise he couldn't keep. The wine quenched his throat, his breath was cut for a moment. He leaned on the table, his feet hardly supporting him. Guilt, sorrow, pain. Love. The bottle fell on the floor shattered, the wine flowed around his feet. Oh, he couldn't go. He couldn't go like that. He wouldn't rest. Yet his voice came out weak, forced, hoarse. Pleading.

"Forgive me...", the light became brighter. "Please..."

He wouldn't be heard. He never would. He closed his eyes shut, tears started falling down his face. His breath felt a weight on his shoulders he had to get rid of. His knees bended. He didn't want to go. His feet couldn't support him anymore. Darkness. Pain. A cry escaped his lungs along with his last breath, as if he took his sorrow in death with him.

And suddenly, he saw blue. Blue, like the colour of the sea. There had only been one sea for him to get lost in all his life. The sea of Enjolras's eyes. He felt his body resting, as if we was laying on a bed. And he was. A bouncy bed with white sheets, not as silky as the pale hands resting on them. He knew those hands. He had held them more times than he could remember. He knew that breath. Light, sometimes seemed forced, it was barely heard. The sunbeams were shining around him. Oh, it was not him. It was the angel that layed beside him. Dear God, could such things be. He was dreaming. And he would be dreaming forever on.

The blue eyes smiled at him. Ecstasy filled his tortured heart. He raised his hand, still afraid, timidly cupping the rosy cheek that gleamed under the sun. He touched him. After all that pain and corruption, he finally touched him. Oh, he was waiting for no promise, he never did. He was waiting for him. And he held back a sob, a sob of happiness.

"Oh, my Angel!"

He recognized his voice the moment he found himself. Enjolras laughed. He laughed so childishly and innocently that suddenly he was more beautiful than ever. And then he got to talk and for a moment Grantaire trembled. He would say it. "Hello". Heartbreaking, doubtful, lifeless. He had to say it. He always did. Yet Enjolras spoke, his voice angelic, joyful, in the verge of tears that could finally fall. Redemption. Grantaire rejoiced.

"Goodmorning, my love."

Finally. Finally, it was morning. And it was definitely good.

Jehan heard the cry. Then a thud. He shivered. It was over. The sorrow, the pain, the illusions. Over. Everything was over. Sleepless nights of despair, days with no sun. A sudden urge made him rush to the door of the room, but he stood at the touch of the cold, metallic handle. The shudders ran marathons down his spine. He was afraid. Afraid of watching something he had been pretending he didn't for a long time. Watching the last close person he almost had on earth gone at last, it terrified him more than death itself. He felt helpless. Lost. His fingertips were groping the handle. He sighed.

The room was showered in light that blinded his eyes the moment he made to step in. He felt his bare feet getting wet and he lowered his look to see the red wine furrowing the floor. Grantaire's body was discerned under the window across him, but he didn't dare to approach, not even to close his green eyes that seemed more alive than ever under the sunlight reflected on them. His heart fluttered. God, he had not seen him happier, even now, that he could not see him at all. He knew. He knew that his friend finally got what he deserved, finally died for what he yearned to die for. Love. 'Enjolras', he thought as he stared in awe. He shook his head and smiled slightly. They would be together now and for eternity. They would be happy.

And then, for a moment, the smile was gone and the room seemed darker than ever. He was alone. For that one moment, he was alone. A memory flashed in his mind. Words he remembered just right, words he would never forget. He looked around him. Dear God...

*

"Please don't... don't leave me alone..."

Grantaire smiled sadly.

"Do you believe in ghosts, Jehan?"

He raised his eyebrows confused and nodded hesitantly without taking his eyes off his friend. Grantaire chuckled silently and nodded.

"Then you will never be alone."

*

For that one moment, he was alone. Then he closed the door.

The End.

[veliseraptor]

Your fanfic my body's made of shell is amazing and I've read it so many times it's not funny. I was wondering if you'd ever consider doing a version from Thor's POV? I'd love to know what was going through his mind while finding out that Loki is still alive.

hey here have a completely unedited mess!!! 

better to love than to have and to hold, companion to this fic, thor pov, 3.4k because I am incapable of self control

Thanos was gone.

And with him, half the universe.

In Wakanda, Thor folded to the ground as the last thing that had been holding him up was ripped away, and he was left only with the crushing weight of his losses.

**

None of them really knew what to do.

There was the general feeling that they ought to do something, but what that could be - it was too big, Thor thought. Too much. They hadn't stopped Thanos. They didn't know where he was, to avenge the lives he'd stolen. They were frozen. They were drowning.

Three days after Thanos had achieved his goal and cracked the world in two, and Thor sat at the top of Warrior Falls, staring at nothing and wondering, a little, why he had bothered to rise this morning at all.

The kimoyo beads on his wrist - a gift Thor had done nothing to deserve - lit up with a message. It was the newly crowned queen; so young, and already carrying so much grief, Thor thought unhappily.

"Yes," he said, to indicate he was listening.

"Thor," Shuri said, and in that one word Thor heard her tension and unease and was immediately on alert. "Come to my lab. Right away."

"What," Thor started to ask, but she had already closed the connection, looking over her shoulder at something behind her. Thor didn't really need more information than that, though. He didn't know the princess well, but she wouldn't react like this, or contact him so urgently, for a trifle. Which meant that there was trouble. A part of Thor wondered wearily how much more trouble there could be, but he knew that the truth was 'always more.' If his life of late had shown him anything, it was that.

He made his way back down from the mountains toward Birnin Zana (empty, so empty, and too quiet) and from there to Shuri's lab. He'd been there before, in the early aftermath, when they'd been trying desperately to perform triage on a universe that was bleeding out. He'd been there since. He and the young princess had both lost a brother. And she now knew the burden of ruling a decimated people. Thor only wished there was more solace he could offer her.

The door in didn't open automatically at his approach. Thor paused, and he could hear raised voices inside - Okoye, it sounded like, her voice sharp, dangerous, attacked, don't know. He tapped lightly and it fell silent.

A moment later the door opened and Shuri looked up at him, her expression somber. Thor tensed. "What is it," he asked, and she opened her mouth, then closed it and stepped back.

"He just - appeared," she said lowly. "Inside our borders. The Dora Milaje found him, and when they told me...I thought maybe..."

Thor heard himself make a sound - a low moan, wounded-animal sound. It was Loki, lying there, his body still and limp as the last time Thor had seen him, held him, cheek pressed to his unmoving chest. His eyes were closed now rather than open and staring, which seemed like a mercy, at least, but Thor still wavered, his stomach lurching into his throat. At least, a part of him thought, at least his body hadn't been torn apart in space, he deserved, at least, the honor of a proper burning.

"Thor," Shuri said, some urgency in her voice, "he's not dead."

Thor's head whipped around. "What?" He said. Shuri gestured and Thor looked back at Loki, taking in the details he'd missed at first. The fact that he was limp rather than stiff as a corpse gone cold, and as he drew closer, scarcely daring to believe, the very slight rise and fall of his chest. Thor's inhale hurt and came out as a helpless sob, and he could not even feel ashamed.

"He was conscious for a while after the Dora Milaje found him," Shuri said. "Lashed out at them - they're not seriously harmed," she added quickly. "I think he did more harm to himself panicking than he did to them. He's been unconscious since." She paused. "His neck..."

The awful, soul-rending crack echoed in Thor's ears. He didn't take his eyes off Loki. Knowing that he lived somehow made the livid bruises ringing his throat all the more hideous; he could see now, though, the force field that cradled his head and neck, keeping both aligned. "I know," Thor said hoarsely. If Loki was alive - he should be healing. Except - maybe there wasn't enough left in him to both survive and mend himself. "Can you...fix it?"

"Yes," Shuri said. "It's...bad, but it could be worse. I'll need to call in a proper doctor, though, and I..." she hesitated. "I'm sorry to ask this, but...is it likely that he will survive? Because if not...there are so many of my people who need help, and I have a duty to them."

Thor's first reaction was rage: how dare you, how dare you place the lives of humans above my brother's, but a moment later he was ashamed. And besides...he laid a trembling hand on Loki's forehead. His skin felt damp with sweat and too warm, but it was the sweat and warmth of the living. "He will," Thor said. "If Loki has come this far..."

All this time, a part of him thought. Days, Loki had been alive, and in pain, and alone. How had he even managed to come here? How much strength had he expended that he couldn't spare?

"May I stay?" He asked.

"Yes," Shuri said at once. "Yes, of course. And I'll...I'll find a doctor with the right experience."

"Thank you," Thor said, hushed. He still could not look away from Loki. He moved his hand to rest against his cheek, careful not to jostle his head.

He couldn't move away. It felt like if he did, if he took even a step back, Loki would be gone.

Thor did make himself move eventually, but only to find a chair for himself so he could sit beside Loki and hold his hand, fingers resting over the pulse in his wrist, slow and weak but there, there, there.

**

Loki remained still as death until the doctor came to examine him. The moment she touched him to test mobility, his eyes snapped open and he made a horrible snarling sound. His magic lashed out even more violently, sending the doctor skidding across the floor; Loki tried to claw himself upright, but the second his head lifted away from the field that had been supporting him, he screamed and collapsed back down. His breathing was harsh and noisy, whistling in and out of his lungs as he panted.

Thor bent over Loki, his eyes open but unseeing, eyelids fluttering. He looked so afraid, and Thor’s heart ached. "Loki," he said, trying to keep his voice calm. "It's me. It's Thor. Do you hear me? You're safe now." Loki's eyes rolled with unreasoning terror and he shuddered in seizure-like spasms, seemingly unaware that Thor was there at all. Before too long, though, and without responding, he seemed to exhaust himself back into unconsciousness.

The doctor, for her part, picked herself up off the floor and refused to come any closer.

"It isn't his fault," Thor protested, but he couldn't truly blame her. She hadn't been seriously hurt, but she could have been. He bent his head forward, looking down at Loki. Was it his imagination, or did his head look more askew on his neck, that wrongness to the angle more pronounced?

Shuri forced him out, her expression tight. "I'm going to try to make a better brace," she said. "While we figure out what to do." Thor walked outside in a daze, thoughts and feelings a hopelessly tangled muddle.

Loki was alive, he told himself. Right now, that was all that mattered.

"Thor," he heard, and looked up to see Steve jogging toward him. "I heard something had happened--" The fear - the dread - was naked on his face. His friend had aged, in Thor's absence - the burdens he bore grown heavier. Thor supposed that was true for them all. For a moment he considered lying - it was nothing, everything is fine - but...

"It's Loki," he said. The confusion on Steve's face made him add, "he's alive."

"You said..."

"That Thanos killed him? I thought he had. He--" Thor swallowed, and made himself go on. "Strangled him. And broke his neck. I held his body and I was certain--" He'd been certain on Svartalfheim, too. No more resurrections, Thanos had said, and Thor felt a surge of spiteful pleasure: you were wrong. You underestimated him.

"Somehow," Thor managed, at length, "he survived. And made his way here."

"Here," Steve said, glancing past Thor like he thought Loki would appear. It occurred to Thor belatedly that perhaps his friends would not find this such welcome news. That perhaps his friends might resent that Thor had been given this gift, and those they loved were still lost.

"Yes," he said. "Though he is not...he is still wounded."

Steve's face was blank for a long moment before he dropped it into his hands. "God," he said. Thor waited, and Steve looked up, finally. "I'm glad," he said. "I'm glad for you. And if there's, I don't know, anything I can do to help, anything you need...it'd be nice to be able to do something." His lips twisted in a wry smile that didn't move the rest of his face.

Steve's acceptance made Thor sad more than it relieved him. "Thank you," he said. "If there is anything...I'll let you know."

**

Thor left Loki very seldom over the next days. Shuri designed, as she’d said, a new brace for Loki’s neck that was more solid than the force field and was apparently able to ease some of Loki’s pain. Thor asked twice more for someone who would work on Loki, but after the third failure Shuri put her foot down. "I can't ask people to put themselves in danger when it's not helping," she said flatly.

"Are you giving up, then?" Thor demanded, his temper heating, but she held her ground.

"No," she said. "I'm working on it. Or - having it worked on." She looked, for just a moment, unbearably tired, and then visibly straightened. Too old for her age, Thor thought. "Hopefully we'll have something soon that can make it so we can help him without him attacking us."

Thor glanced unhappily over at Loki. "How soon?"

"I don't know," Shuri said. "I can't just help you. My people need..." Her voice faltered a little, but she caught herself.

"I know," Thor said, shame creeping into his heart. "I know how great a burden you bear. And I am grateful, impossibly grateful, that you are helping me at all. I only ask because--"

Something caught Thor's attention and he paused, frowning, though at first he couldn't have said why. Loki, he thought, and looked toward him, realizing that the rasp of his breathing had changed rhythms

"Loki?" Thor said carefully.

Loki took a rattling breath and jerked, his left hand flying up to the new brace around his throat and clawing at it. Before Thor could reach him, his hand glowed green and the brace simply dissolved under his hands.

Loki's howl of pain cut Thor to the quick. He grabbed Loki's wrists and held them. "Hold still, Loki," he said. "You need to - it's meant to help. You're hurting yourself."

Loki went still all at once, ceasing even to breathe. Thor jerked his head at the Dora Milaje by the door, keeping his gaze on Loki; his eyes were wide open but unfocused. When the fresh brace closed around his neck, he started shaking; Thor thought of Thanos's hand on Loki's throat and his grip on Loki's arms tightened. "It's all right," he made himself say. "Stay calm."

Loki opened his mouth like he was going to speak, but all that came out was a horrible rasp. Thor took a deep, uneven breath. "If I let go," he said, "you have to leave the brace alone."

Loki's eyes seemed to clear a little, his eyebrows pulling together. Thor tried to give him an encouraging smile, though he wasn't sure how well it worked. It didn't seem to soothe Loki, at any rate, his breathing picking up again, rasping in and out. His right arm twitched and Loki's face spasmed, a sound like a whine squeezed out of him.

"It's all right," Thor tried. "I'm here." He couldn't tell if it mattered. Loki didn't really seem to relax. Thor kept his hold on his wrists, wary of the possibility that Loki might try again to remove the brace, as he turned to look at Shuri. A real doctor, she said. Reminding him again that this was temporary. That she could keep Loki stable but not heal him. That if they could not find the means to keep Loki from hurting those trying to help, it was possible he wouldn't recover.

He let go slowly after Shuri left. "Thor," Loki said, his voice almost unrecognizable as his. "You're - alive."

Thor's breath exploded out of him and he almost buckled. "So are you," he said, pressing a hand to Loki's chest where he could feel his heart. "So are you." He wanted to weep, to clutch Loki to his chest and hold him there - but he was all too aware that he was far more likely to hurt than help.

Every word out of Loki's mouth made Thor want to wince. His voice didn't sound like his - hoarse, rasping. An audible reminder of what had happened, and of the pain that Loki was feeling now. But at least he was awake, and coherent. He looked at Thor with a kind of desperate hunger that made Thor ache. Like he was as afraid that Thor might vanish as Thor was that Loki would.

When Loki dropped off again, he hadn't asked about Thanos, or what had happened. In truth, Thor was relieved. That wasn't a conversation he thought either of them was ready to have. Not now. When Loki was well.

**

You'll be here? Loki had asked, when Thor had asked if he was willing to try again with the doctors. Speaking still sounded like it hurt, and there was something agonizingly raw in his voice and his face, in the way he asked. Scared, young.

Yes, Thor had said. I'll be here. As though his presence had ever been enough. And yet Loki still asked.

Within moments of being given the drug Wakanda’s scientists had crafted, Loki was awake, aware, but unable to so much as clench a fist. Almost immediately his breathing turned quick and ragged: the sound of oncoming panic. Thor put his hands on Loki's shoulders and pressed down lightly. "Easy, brother," he said. "It's all right."

Knowing what it would be, expecting that it would hurt, and hoping that hurt now would mean less later, wasn't the same as watching it happen.

Wakanda's healers were far more advanced than any of the other doctors Thor had seen on Midgard, but they still had to cut into Loki's flesh to reach and set the bones of his spine. No tension tightened Loki's body as flesh parted under the knife, but he made a small pained noise. Thor shushed him, his stomach turning. They had been able to manage this much, but anesthetic and painkillers had been deemed too dangerous to experiment with by the doctors. Which meant this was going to hurt.

"I'm here, Loki," he said, hoping it would help. "I'm right here, it's going to be over soon."

It wasn't. Or at least, it seemed like an eternity. Loki started screaming when they reached bone, a sound that cut Thor through, his every instinct screaming at him to throw the doctors out, to rip them away from Loki and end the pain they were causing him. He held himself back with gritted teeth, bending down to murmur in Loki's ear, desperate attempts at comfort that Loki didn't seem able to hear.

Eventually, enough was enough, and Thor breathed a sigh of relief when Loki cut off, either mind or body apparently unable to take any more.

Thor couldn't actually watch the doing of it. The work of pressing Loki's vertebrae back into line, the intimate reminder of how close Loki had brushed to death. He looked away, though he left his hands on Loki's shoulders until it was done, like his unconscious brother might feel them there.

"He should stay still and resting for a while yet," the head doctor said, looking a little shaken. "And leave the brace on." She hesitated. "Someone will need to remove the stitches--"

"I can," Thor said firmly. "I have experience with it. And you have - too much to see to." She seemed grateful, if Thor wasn't mistaken, and nodded.

Soon he was alone, with Loki still unconscious. Was it Thor's imagination, or did his color look better? Was his breathing coming a little easier? He scarcely dared hope, and yet it crept up on him anyways.

**

Thor remembered clearly the first time Loki had been seriously injured. They'd been playing Frost Giant and Asgardian, with Thor playing the former and Loki the latter. Roaring ferociously about how he was going to eat Loki when he caught him, Thor pursued Loki with what he hoped was his most fearsome expression, Loki's nimbleness and speed barely keeping him out of Thor's reach. Suddenly, he'd bent his path, bolting for a tree, and climbed it like a squirrel. Thor had started up it after him, scrambling for purchase as Loki climbed higher, laughing.

"You can't catch me!" He'd said, looking back as he reached up, grasping for the next branch up. Thor saw it about to happen and reached himself, like he could catch Loki from below, stop him from falling. (As he had, centuries later, when Loki hung over the void and let go.)

Loki did fall. And landed with a sound like a branch snapping underfoot.

Thor hadn't bothered to climb back down, just jumping to the ground and rushing over to Loki, who was sitting up and staring at his arm bending the wrong way with wide eyes. It seemed to take him several moments to register the pain and started crying.

"It's all right," Thor had said, almost frantically. "Loki, it's all right, come with me, let's just go to the healers and, and they'll fix it. Here, take my hand and squeeze as hard as you want."

Loki had looked at him, gasping between sobs, and said only, "Thor," something plaintive in it, like he thought Thor could make everything better. He couldn't, he knew that even then, knew it looking at Loki's arm that he couldn't fix. But he wanted to, so badly it hurt. Wanted to live up to that look on Loki's face: the belief, the faith, like Thor was his hero.

Here they were now, a long way from then, and looking at Loki lying in repose Thor felt that need again. To make everything better.

Loki still did not know about Thanos's victory. Thor would have to tell him, sooner or later - sooner would be better. But he didn't want to. Didn't want Loki to know how badly he had failed - not just at stopping the Titan, but at avenging Loki, Heimdall, their people. That he'd been within a breath of finishing it, and had not. Had needed the satisfaction of looking in Thanos's eyes as he died, and for that--

For that, this.

What would Loki think of him? Thor told himself it did not matter. That what mattered was Loki's being here. But Loki was all that was left, and Thor did not want to bear his scorn, his anger, his disappointment.

He shoved the dark thoughts away, focusing instead on what was good. Loki, here. The bruises at last fading, his breathing easier, color a little better. Mending. Not well, but mending.

Norns, he was exhausted. Thor couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. Perhaps if he just closed his eyes for a little...

He dreamed of Loki laughing, scrambling up the tree, reaching for a branch that wasn't there. This time, Thor caught him. This time, Loki didn't fall.

[dragonfics]

Reclaiming

Ship: Spicyhoney

Tags: Hurt/comfort, mild angst, implied past abuse, fluff, light smut, heavy kissing, biting, marking, implied sexual content, Halloween costumes, cuddling

Warnings: Implied past abuse (Honeyvenom), mild angst (mostly hurt/comfort)

___________________________________________________

Follow up to these (though it can also act as a standalone):

Part 1 (contains non-con)

Part 2

This was initially supposed to be a lighthearted Halloween fic with adorable costumes and happy times. Instead, I ended up with this. (It’s honestly not that bad, mostly comfort). So, here you go. My (very late) contribution to Halloween. Slightly NSFW, but not explicit.

Read on AO3

OR

Below the cut

Edge pulled his silk pants up and fastened the buckle. He sat on the corner of his bed to tie the laces of his leather boots, then draped his cloak around his shoulders, fastening the clasp. It fell gracefully down his back, billowing out behind him when he walked. Satisfied with his attire, he studied his reflection in the mirror above his dresser. He ran a finger over the sharp tips of his teeth, realising sheepishly that make up was completely unnecessary for this costume. Rus would be sure to have a thing or two to say about that.

Straightening the lace of his blouse, he headed down the hall to Rus’s ‘bedroom’—used in the loosest manner. Rus spent more time in Edge’s bed than his own. This room was more of a temporary storage facility for his clothes. Edge lifted his fist and rapped softly on the door. “Rus, are you ready to go?” he asked, entering the room. Rus quickly glanced up from the mirror, and a smile broke across his face. Seeing him smile always made Edge’s soul warm. He really didn’t do it often enough.

“where’s your costume, count dracula?” Rus asked.

Ah. As expected. Edge tilted his head. “Ha ha.” He studied Rus. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Rus’s smile faded and he looked down. “eh, you know. never really been much for dressing up.” Edge had known Rus for years, and he knew very well that that wasn’t even slightly true. Shaking his head, Rus walked towards the door, avoiding eye contact. “we going?”

Edge placed a hand on his shoulder, and he stopped. “Rus. Talk to me.”

“about what?” Rus asked, feigning misunderstanding. “the party? i hear there’s going to be a clown. but the spooky version.” He fidgeted, looking away.

Edge squeezed his shoulder and gave him a steady look. “We can stay in.”

“no.” Rus kept his gaze averted, shaking Edge’s hand off. “we were invited. we should go.”

“The invitation isn’t an obligation.”

“they’re—” Rus swallowed, the magic between his vertebrae dim. “they’re y—our f-friends.” His voice broke on the word and his jaw went tight, face scrunching up. Edge held him by the shoulders and guided him onto the bed. He kept an arm around him while Rus buried his face in his hands and cried. Edge waited, silent.

When his sobbing settled, Rus wiped his tears away with the back of his hand. His jaw was trembling, and Edge could tell he wanted to say something. “What is it, love?” he asked gently. “What’s on your mind?”

Rus shook his head. “i—can’t.”

“You can talk to me,” Edge said patiently. “Always. You can tell me anything. You know I only want to support you.”

Rus clenched his teeth and more tears began to fall. “they never—none of them ever—none of them knew. or—or wanted to know. they didn’t…” He took a sharp breath. “sometimes i wonder if they did know. if they just… didn’t care.”

Edge didn’t know what to say. He frowned and held Rus tight. “my brother,” Rus continued. “my own brother—was friends with… with him. and he didn’t—how could he not have known!” Rus’s breath shook—there was anger beneath the hurt.

Edge swallowed and nodded. He remembered having the same thoughts when Rus was still with Razz. He didn’t want to tell Rus that he’d seen the looks his brother had given him when Rus couldn’t see. The pity in his eyes. The guilt.

Rus turned and pressed his face into Edge’s shoulder. “you… you were the only one. the only one who ever gave a fuck about me.”

Edge stroked the back of his neck. “You have a lot of people who care about you, Rus.”

“then why? why didn’t any of them do anything?” Rus’s fists were tangled in Edge’s shirt, shaking. Edge didn’t know how to answer. So he held Rus, and let him cry.

When his sobs had faded to soft hiccoughs, Edge drew back and looked at him. “How about we stay in tonight? Put on some crappy horror movie and eat popcorn?” Rus considered, biting his tongue, then nodded and leaned into Edge’s chest again. Edge held him close, patting his back. Once again, Rus began to sob. “That’s it, love,” Edge murmured. “Let it out. I’ve got you. Just let go.”

****

Rus climbed onto the couch next to Edge with a bowl of popcorn. They’d both changed into their pyjamas—Edge opting for his smartest black silk ones—all the better to remain true to the Halloween theme. Rus studied him. “still in costume?”

Edge gave him a deadpan look. “It was funnier the first time.”

“nah, that joke ages like a fine wine. and i know you’re laughing on the inside. besides,” he said, grinning, “you make a very sexy vampire.”

The compliment startled Edge—and clearly, Rus too. He went a light shade of gold and quickly looked away. “um. you can press play,” he said. Edge started the movie, and Rus shovelled and handful of popcorn into his mouth, staring pointedly at the TV.

Years ago, Edge and Rus had slept together. Frequently. Rus calling Edge sexy wasn’t exactly new. Except… now it was different. In the months Rus had been here, Edge had felt the return of feelings long past. Only they had never really been gone he’d never stopped loving Rus not to this day—

Then Rus had kissed him, and Edge had known he wasn’t the only one. They often shared Edge’s bed. Often cuddled. Kissed. Made out. Hell, there’d even been a bit of grinding once or twice. But… never anything—anything more. Edge wanted it. He did. But he wasn’t sure if Rus was ready. Wasn’t sure if he was ready. Fuck. It should have been simple. They’d done this before. Plenty of times. It should have been easy. But… it wasn’t.

Edge sat with his hands folded in his lap while they watched the movie. Something about a group of teenage humans camping in the woods, telling ghost stories around a campfire while unknown terrors watched them from the trees. He wasn’t paying much attention.

Beside him, Rus had his knees drawn up and held to his chest. He was looking at the screen with wide eyes. Edge reached out and touched his arm. He flinched and yelped. “fuck, edgelord. don’t do that!”

Edge smirked. “Afraid of the monster in the woods?”

Rus gave a dignified sniff. “no. i just don’t like being jump scared.” He turned his attention back to the screen, holding himself tighter. Edge didn’t. He couldn’t take his eyes off Rus. He itched to reach out—

“edge, you know you don’t have to ask.”

“Yes,” Edge said quietly. “I do.”

Rus looked at him, smiling faintly. “so ask.”

Sighing, Edge reached his arm out. “May I?” Rus nodded and Edge placed his arm around Rus’s shoulders. Rus pushed himself into Edge’s embrace and Edge held him, watching the movie.

But he could tell Rus was no longer paying attention to what was on the screen. His fingers were wandering over the back of Edge’s hand and across his hip. He reached for the remote and turned the volume of the TV to a low background hum. He pressed his face against Edge’s jaw, his breaths soft. “edge…” His voice was a whisper. “kiss me. please.”

Edge inhaled and turned, catching Rus’s face in both his hands. He kissed him deeply and Rus reciprocated, leaning back while Edge pushed his tongue into his mouth. Slowly, Edge broke away and swallowed. He held Rus in his arms, and didn’t move.

Rus sighed. “stop it.”

Edge pulled away at once. “I’m sorr—”

Rus groaned. “no,” he said, grabbing his hands again. “don’t stop that.”

Edge blinked at him. “I—”

“i want you to stop holding back,” Rus said. “stop being so afraid. stop treating me like i’m going to break if you so much as mention the word sex around me.”

Edge opened his mouth. Then shut it. He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“no, none of that. stop apologising to me when you haven’t done anything wrong.”

Edge lifted a brow bone. “Anything I am allowed to do, your majesty?”

“you’re allowed to kiss me,” Rus said. He pulled Edge’s face down and slipped his tongue into his mouth. Edge sighed into him and stroked his jaw. Rus broke away, taking Edge’s hand in his own. “you’re allowed to touch me.” He guided Edge’s hand to his hip—then his pelvis. Edge’s soul fluttered when he felt warm magic beneath his palm.

He inhaled, closing his eyes. “Rus…”

Rus pulled Edge onto him, crushing their bodies together. Edge clung to him and stared. “you’re allowed to want me,” Rus breathed.

Exhaling, Edge gave in. He pressed himself into Rus and kissed him hard. Rus moaned softly beneath him and ground his hips into Edge. Edge couldn’t keep his hands off Rus. He reached beneath his shirt and pinched his ribs, tracing every inch of smooth bone. He kissed his jaw, his neck, licking the bone softly.

Rus gasped and clutched to him. “say i’m yours.”

Edge pulled back. “What?”

Rus was flushed. His eyes darted away as he spoke. “tell me that i… belong to you,” he whispered faintly. “please.” Seconds ticked by and Edge didn’t move, still staring down at him. Rus squeezed his sockets shut. “i—i’m sorry. i didn’t mean—you don’t—”

“You’re mine.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Edge felt heat gathering in his mana lines, rushing downward, all the way through him. Rus was staring at him, magic tangible and warm between his joints. “You’re mine, Rus,” Edge repeated. “You belong to me.”

He pulled the collar of Rus’s nightshirt down to give himself access to his clavicle. Old scars that wouldn’t heal bruised the bone like ugly reminders. Rus tried to push Edge’s hand away and pull his shirt back over them but Edge held firm. “don’t…” Rus whimpered. “don’t look.”

“You’re mine,” Edge reaffirmed. “And I love every part of you.”

There were tears in Rus’s sockets. He shook his head, his jaw quivering. “i’m... damaged.”

“Then let me fix you.” Edge breathed against Rus’s neck, then trailed down. He took Rus’s collarbone into his mouth, then bit down, slowly. Rus moaned quietly, then louder as Edge’s teeth sunk deep, replacing the marks there with his own. He could taste Rus’s marrow in his mouth, and groaned against him, licking the wound.

Rus was panting. He stared up at Edge as he drew back, and swallowed, magic rushing towards the fresh bite mark. Edge licked the magic and marrow from his teeth and studied his mark on Rus. Deep satisfaction hummed through him, his magic growing hot.

“edge,” Rus breathed. “holy—i…” A short burst of laughter left him. “fuck. you really do make a sexy vampire.” Edge shook his head and sighed. Rus shrugged. “like fine wine, i told you.”

Edge tried to glare, but he was smiling. “That was okay? You liked it?”

Rus sat up and cupped Edge’s face, tracing the tip of one of his teeth. “i loved it.”

“Good,” Edge said, pushing Rus back into the sofa. “Because I’m not done with you yet.” He pressed a light, but grazing kiss to Rus’s neck, and felt him shudder.

****

Thunder rumbled outside, and rain rattled against the windows. Edge could feel magic pulsing through Rus, still warm with the heat of their lovemaking. Their bodies were bare and pressed together. Edge traced Rus’s bones while he slept.

Bites decorated his shoulders and neck. Some gentle, loving—some deep, passionate. They marked Rus’s bones, and they were all his own. Edge may have been the one who had left them there, but Rus was the one who had asked for them. They were his.

Edge closed his eyes and breathed Rus in, letting himself bask in this moment of perfection.

[elfnerdherder]

Ill Intentions: Chapter 20

[Read on Ao3] [Join My Patreon!]

A special thanks to my patrons, that saw like 4 drafts/progress posts of this before it finally was finished: @jenacar @evertonem @frostyleegraham @kenobi-is-king @starlit-catastrophe @sylarana @frostylicker Mendacious Bean, Superlurk, Duhaunt6, and Cecily! <3

Chapter 20: The Climactic Reveal

A/N: This is being posted via a chromebook, and as such copying and pasting has somehow obliterated my indents and spaces between the paragraphs. I fixed it on Ao3 but don’t have the time here, sadly! Depending on how it views on your webpage, you may want to just click the link for Ao3 sadly. Thank you for understanding!

Hannibal didn’t see things the way that many other people did. He saw the way a mother’s hands shook as she fought to open her Xanax bottle, baby sleeping peacefully in the stroller. He saw the depression in the lines of a businessman’s face as he joked and laughed with colleagues during lunch. He saw the dips and sways of an alcoholic’s stumble, fumbling for car keys he’d pickpocketed off of them so that they couldn’t make a fool of themselves. He often missed some of the tics and twitches of those considered normal; time gave him a better understanding of it, though, so that he could mimic and relate to them. He often missed the meaning behind things like ‘empathize with him,’ or ‘I can’t hurt him because I care too much.’ He tried to see those aspects of people, but oftentimes it was difficult to relate. He didn’t care much for most people. They were easy to dissect, a series of chemical responses in the brain that was first a primitive reaction, then something more nuanced.

Now, death was another matter. He didn’t particularly enjoy thinking of the first times he witnessed death; that was too raw and painful a thing to bear, so cruel and contradictory to everything Hannibal knew to be true about society and the strict rules of it. Time after such a jarring horror as that had given him enough understandings and skills with a scalpel to observe that societal rules were only as good as the people that kept them. Despite all of this, death was one of Hannibal’s most favorite of things. He observed it as often as he could. Made notes of some of the most perfect of ways to consume people. Consumption was the only true way to understand, and Hannibal wished to understand everything that suited his fancy. One way or another. One could partake in many, many ways, you see. Death was consumed through his hands, his knives. The taste, then, was victory laced with a good, strong bourbon. Sometimes, death was sipped through envious lips, savored like spices and mulled over. That paired with an aged merlot, and savored before a fire lit for ambiance. Sometimes, death was all within the eyes, something so poignant and raw that it stayed deep within the recesses of Hannibal’s memory for long after, playing and replaying and replaying without ceasing. Those people were interesting to him, and he sought them out afterwards, to visit. In that moment, fighting Tobias Budge for his life, Hannibal seeing Will burst through his door oddly tasted like Coq Au Vin. He’d likely find a chardonnay to enjoy with it, something that left an oaken taste for long after on the tip of the tongue. Seeing Tobias strangling Hannibal made something within Will’s expression shift, change. Hannibal noted the exact moment that Will Graham’s eyes seemed to almost fade; what took place instead was something he’d been waiting for, something he’d been hungry to see since that moment in the alleyway when the man that had appeared so weak and drunk suddenly looked otherwise. Then, he charged. Will was slighter than both Tobias and Hannibal, but he hit like a concrete wall and took them tumbling over the coffee table. The wire was loosened from Hannibal’s neck; he gulped in a breath and wriggled out from the tangle of limbs. Things like pain were irrelevant when he had decided that something ought to be done about Tobias Budge. He took in another breath, mind racing rather that focus on the blood oozing from furious wounds. He’d hoped that Will would have pieced it together sooner rather than Tobias ultimately ambushing him in his own office –he’d wondered about maybe Will deciding to kill Tobias on his own. Whatever his thoughts were, they were nothing compared to what he was currently witnessing. Somehow, the truth was all the better for Hannibal having not guessed it. Will stood and dragged Tobias Budge to his feet, striking twice; his lip was a snarl as his knuckles broke flesh. Before Tobias could quite get his footing, Will struck once more, a rough slap to his ear, likely bursting the drum. Tobias howled, and Will grabbed him by the shoulders, throwing him back until he was stumbling towards the couch, grappling for the wire that’d slipped from his hands. Will tackled him over the couch, snarling something in a guttural voice that Hannibal had only heard once from him before. Yes. There was a scream, a stifled grunt. Something cracked, and someone sobbed. Silence. What followed after was a decadent silence, and Hannibal tasted death once more. Quiet enough he heard the tremor of his breath, felt the humidity of the air on his cheeks. It stayed like that for several minutes. When the man stood up, Hannibal tracked his movements. He somehow looked bigger, stronger. Rather than the slouch and curved spine of a writer not used to much else but causing his own scoliosis and struggling for the perfect metaphor, he stood with a straight back and shoulders set, and the way that he spit Tobias Budge’s ear out of his mouth would stay with Hannibal long after, filed away within the many rooms of his memory palace to remember so long as he lived. He stared at Hannibal, head tilted slightly as he considered him. Unwilling to break the quiet, sacred as it somehow was, Hannibal could only watch as the man picked his way over to him with careful deliberation, squatting down so that they were eye level, staring at one another. His eyes were flat, ungiving. Devoid of the sort of expressions that Will’s normally held. “Dr. Lecter,” he said slowly. His voice was rough, the exact same tone that Hannibal had first heard so long ago, when he’d stood at the mouth of the alley and debated killing the rude man from the bar. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure of speaking with?” “I’m Francis. Francis Dolarhyde.” “I’ve tried to meet you before, Francis,” Hannibal murmured. “I know.” “You were disinterested?” “Unnecessary.” His tongue stuttered over his ‘S’s, and a scowl grooved deep into the lines on his face. “Do you only take control when Will’s life is on the line?” Hannibal wondered. “He lives, and I live. He wanted a protector, a Great Red Dragon. He got me.” Hannibal pondered this, and he stood to his feet, brushing dust off of his suit jacket with care. In truth, his heart beat steadily, but it was a steady surety of just where he’d gotten after so much careful planning. Things were going wonderfully well. “How old are you, Francis?” Hannibal asked. Francis tilted his head, crooked like a dragon might. A Great, Red Dragon. “I am beyond a realm of age. I exist as a weapon, a thing to be used. Age does not affect me as it does you.” “How many times have you come out?” Francis righted the chair that’d fallen over, and he sat down in it. Hannibal took the chair across from him, and he ignored the wretched sight of his toppled bookcases and the ripped painting, a favorite of his. It’d been gifted to him from Jack Crawford after careful insight to an interesting case of Existential Crisis. “Once, after his dad died. Once, after a shitty home that fed us nothing but corn puffs and Mac N Cheese. Once, when some idiot tried to stab us. Once, when some idiot tried to slit you.” Hannibal licked dry lips. He watched Francis track the motion, gaze alert to any movement. He was…flawed. His cleft palate, his enormous stature that seemed to take up so much space. His movements were predatory, what Hannibal imagined a child would suppose a dragon to do when trapped within the skin of a man. A child, hurting. He wondered when Will had to dream of such protectors. “How many people have you killed, Francis?” Francis smiled, cold and cruel. “Three, now. I thought three before, but you said the addict’s alive.” “He’s alive,” Hannibal agreed amiably. He considered Francis, stiff and as taut as a hair-trigger. “Did he create you to do the things that he was too afraid to do?” “No,” Francis said slowly. His brow drew down, and he stared off to the corner. “Do you suppose –” “Are you going to try and kill us, Dr. Lecter?” Francis asked, and he glanced back to Hannibal. Hannibal thought to maybe wet his throat with a glass of water, but it was just across the room to his desk. The thought of moving, of breaking the spell of conversation around them with something so petty as needing a drink, was appalling. Hannibal held just as still as the man across from him, more than aware of the line they were walking, toeing the whisper between life and death. “Is it you or Will that entertains the worry? Or is it a shared thing?” “Apart from his mental space, we don’t share much at all.” “Then it is your worry?” Francis shook his head, but it was an uncertain motion. “I’m a better killer than you,” he said. “They’d never find the body.” “Do you suppose I’d mount you in some grotesque fashion?” Hannibal wanted to laugh, but he held in the impulse. He didn’t suppose Francis shared the same dark humor as Will did. “I wonder if you’d think of it as beautiful, if you could be around to see it after.” “You’d elevate him,” Francis said after some thought. “He’d appreciate it, but that is because he is foolish.” “Not you, though,” Hannibal observed. “While he wondered at your metaphors, I’d wonder at our death.” “Then you are his practicality?” “I am his violence.” Hannibal couldn’t resist, drawn as he was to the way Will’s face looked absolutely nothing like Will’s face. It was him, but somehow not, some form that was altogether different and wholly interesting. “And what am I to him?” “I think you’re a puzzle to him. But he’s finally figured it out. Do you think you’ll be special then, Dr. Lecter?” Hannibal had wondered much the same, in the short time he’d studied Will Graham. Would Will Graham still be interesting after he’d peeled back every layer and devoured every inch of his inspiration? After he consumed his words, his spirit, his soul, would he still continue to inspire, to ignite some sense of purpose within him that’d first even provoked Hannibal to begin this wildly spontaneous dance with the public world and the FBI? “Do you hold his darkness in, Francis?” Hannibal questioned. “Or do you let it spread, relentless, encompassing everything like an oil spill?” “His darkness is his own,” Francis hissed, leaning in. “I am merely the fist behind his wrath. I do what he will not because he will not Become that sort of person. The killer.” “But he already has,” Hannibal reminded him. He softened his voice. “In making you, however long ago it was that he did, he put his wrath within you and let you kill for him. Whether his own hand, or the hand of you, both of you coincide within Will Graham. You are the same. Perhaps his subconscious is cruel to him because of that, because some part of him is well aware of the capacity he has for violence, considering however long ago it was that his trauma created you to be violent for him.” Francis held still, as if poised to strike. “He made some part of himself able to live with the idea of having taken a life,” Hannibal realized. “Because he knows his empathy would destroy him at the thought. But not…but not you.” “I carry what he cannot,” he snarled. “His cruelty,” Hannibal realized, delighted. “You carry his cruelty, therefore he can acknowledge his violence without having to entirely touch it.” Some part of Francis contorted, shifted, at that and he let out a snarl, horrible and fierce before he looked back to Hannibal, livid. Livid, and yet…tired. Something in him was fading, fading, and Hannibal could only witness, enraptured. He did not let out a great bellow; Francis Dolarhyde slipped into an unconscious state quietly, with the sort of dignity Hannibal hadn’t necessarily expected. After some thought, he conceded that perhaps it could be expected. A Great, Red Dragon wouldn’t cause such a scene as to scream and roar as they faded back into themselves. Perhaps a snarl, something small and dangerous. It was a tantalizing thought. Hannibal sat poised just on the edge of the leather chair across from Will Graham for some time, thinking. With each new thought, a new door appeared within his mind palace, the place in which he locked away all precious thoughts he’d surely regret losing. - Will woke with the sloppy crashing of waves of consciousness. They crested over him, relentless, then caved away beneath his resistance. Something inside of him wanted to sleep, to push away the persistent urges to open his eyes, open his eyes, open his eyes… He opened his eyes and sat up, dismayed, within Hannibal Lecter’s study. “You have two suitcases currently taking up space within a derelict automobile,” Lecter said, strolling into the office. “Were you planning on running away with me, Will?” Will stiffened, and he took careful stock of the office around him, muscles taut. Everything was in a horrific disarray, the coffee table decimated as though someone had tackled it to the floor. Books were scattered from where a bookcase had toppled over, and one of the stands that’d housed a brass sculpture was broken on the dented floor. Real brass, then. Real brass, a real dent, and Will quite suddenly had a very real problem. “What happened?” he asked. “Tobias Budge happened,” Hannibal said gravely. Will didn’t see Tobias Budge, nor did he see any evidence necessarily of him having been there –a break-in? His mind leapt, dizzied, and he felt somehow drunk from it, like he’d consumed a lot of whiskey in a short amount of time. He looked around, then had to lean back in his chair to stave off of a rush of vertigo so strong he wondered if he’d vomit. A break in because… “He was the Maestro,” Will realized. He looked to Hannibal who was currently burning something in the fireplace –it took much too long for Will to realize that that’s exactly what he was doing –and continued, “you and your damn favor…” Do you think he’s going to escalate his crimes if you don’t give him the attention he’s seeking? “It’s a gift,” Hannibal said, and he turned back to the fireplace. “A gift,” Will scoffed. Once his legs felt sturdy under him, he stood and walked over to watch him burn what appear to be a stack of files. The corner of the one on top read ‘Brown, Ha—’ “Yes, a gift. I thought to give it to Jack Crawford, since he surely would be too overcome to try and hunt two serial killers as opposed to one. A gift to you, as well, if you want to see it that way.” Hannibal glanced to Will out of the corner of his eye, and his lip quirked ever-so-slightly. “And am I the one giving him the gift when he takes me to the safehouse?” Will wondered. Somewhat of a joke, somewhat of a test. He was more than aware of the heat just in front of him from the fire that slowly grew with each stack of files, but he was also hyper-aware of the heat just beside him, close enough to lean into, close enough to touch. Something was stirring inside of him, seeing the file and the name curling and greying to ash. Although tired, aching like after a particularly violent fight, his mind was jumping, quick bursts as he began to see more and more of the room: the suitcase by the door, the purposeful care of all of the books on what shelves left standing turned around the wrong way, and the empty spaces where surely important books and documents used to be. His throat was parched. His watch, surprisingly, didn’t beep to remind him to drink water. He wondered if some part of him was dreaming, but no; he was very much awake. “Only if you want to be,” Hannibal replied. He tossed the next stack of files into the fire, and he smiled wanly. “Your prints are everywhere, here. You could carry the story of your survival, as well as an eye witness account right to Crawford’s lap. You’d be a hero doing something like that.” “Jack can’t wear his wedding band again until he finds you,” said Will, and he thought of the stripe of pale skin, how it stood out so much now that Will knew the truth of it. “I wonder if that makes you more curious than concerned,” Hannibal said, and he turned to face Will squarely, hands clasped behind his back. “You who only engaged with me because you wanted to have fun.” “No,” Will rebuked kindly, and something was twisting just behind the thickness and density of his ribs. He wondered if Molly had gotten the letter yet, or if Beverly had, too; he wondered if right now Freddie was cursing him as they went over the edits for his final words to the column ‘Will Intentions,’ or if Charlie was thinking of ways to attempt to entice him back to Tattler News. He wondered if Abigail was panicking yet, if she was waiting for a sign or a call that could never come because Will was many things, but cruelty towards the innocent wasn’t one of his strong suits. “You said you wanted to be my friend,” Will reminded him, looking over to him. Hannibal smiled, and it made his eyes shine bright in the firelight. It transformed his face, made him appear less predatory than he ever had before. “I did.” “I am missing gaps of my memory,” Will said, tracking the movements of his face. “Oh?” Hannibal’s expression didn’t shift the slightest. Will smiled, and maybe it was the disarming way in which it felt utterly genuine despite what they were doing, the things they were saying. Hannibal’s perfectly calm poker face remained perfectly calm, but something about it felt all of a sudden rather rehearsed, like he’d had to think on it for awhile before settling on expression such as that. “Can I trust you, Hannibal?” he asked. It felt dangerous, saying it like that. “Such a question poses its own challenges, don’t you think?” Hannibal replied. His expression remained the same. “Because I’m trusting you to honestly tell me whether or not you’re trustworthy.” “Yes, that.” Silence, save the devouring of perfectly flammable paper. Will licked his lips and tried again. “I’d like for you to read something later,” he said, looking back to the fire. “I think I’ve gotten it into its final editing stage.” “A bout of inspiration?” Hannibal asked, and somehow he was much closer than before. Will kept staring at the fire, and suddenly he wasn’t thinking of Beverly or Molly or Freddie or even Abigail, confused and probably scared as she was. He wasn’t even thinking of their dance with words, how somehow they could share so much yet standing side-by-side now Will wasn’t quite sure where to even begin. “Yes.” “Are serial killers your muse, Mr. Graham?” Hannibal wondered, and he lifted a hand just close enough to ghost along his shirt. It brushed just shy of his throat, and he shifted close enough that Will could smell the scent of his cologne, something oaky and expensive. “…Yes,” Will replied, and it sounded an awful lot like a confession. When he turned to Hannibal, he was surprised at the lack of space between them, intimate. “You wouldn’t know, but I waited by the clock tower each day waiting to see how long it took for you to arrive,” Hannibal revealed. It was honest, genuine, and it somehow balanced Will’s confession with his candor. “I worried perhaps I’d misunderstood you completely. I wondered if you were so clever.” “Someone like you would more than likely enjoy building walls up to see if someone is clever enough to either tear them down or climb over them,” Will scoffed, but it was light. He felt oddly…light. “Then I assume you have another letter to write, for Jack Crawford,” Hannibal decided, and he dipped down and put his mouth remarkably close to Will’s. “As you’ll only continue to have inspiration for your works by coming along with me.” Will held his breath, and he nodded. He grabbed the bastard by the curve of his lapels, and he hauled him in , thinking of the way he’d held him in the dark at the gala, the heat of his body as he whispered ugly things in his ear. “You’ll tell me what I’ve forgotten and why,” he warned Hannibal, soft enough he wondered if he’d even spoke. “After our more pressing situation is over. You’ll tell me.” That close, Hannibal looked mildly amusing; his eyes crossed slightly as he looked at Will’s mouth, then lifted his gaze so that they were staring one another in the eye, the most direct eye contact they’d held since the moment when Hannibal first sent him a letter asking if he had wanted to play a game. “Then we have a deal,” Hannibal murmured, and he closed the distance between them, arms wrapped tight around Will’s waist. His mouth made Will think of things much like warm hands, cool Spring mornings, and sealing a deal with the devil by the giving of a kiss. - Beverly Katz cornered them at the Texaco twenty miles out of Baltimore where they were gassing up at the farthest back pump. She had a gun on them, and it’d never occurred to Will that Beverly would have ever hunted him down with a gun. Let alone hunted him down at all. “You know, I wondered the last time we talked that you were maybe going to do something irrational,” Beverly said conversationally, poised at the back of their sedan. They’d stolen it –Hannibal had stolen it. Will had wondered over the theft, the desperate and afraid person stuck finding the empty parking spot the next morning, and the large but revealing furry head set with care in the back seat. “Beverly –” “Then, I thought, ‘he’s not that stupid’,” she continued. Despite her blasé tone, her arms were stiff and unyielding as she kept the gun poised on Hannibal. Hannibal, for everything, had all appearances of a mildly unrumpled and wholly bemused individual. He took her lack of shooting him immediately in great stride, and he seemed content, when Will looked at him, to allow him to continue reaching out to her. “How’d you find me?” “I’ve been following you around since the night after the gala!” Beverly snapped, and her mouth thinned to a flat, crooked line across the bottom of her face. It was her favorite feature, she’d once boasted. A crooked smile. Made all the boys at the bar nervous. Will went very, very still. “Yeah,” she said, and her eyes darkened. Will supposed that most of the trouble –should he live through the encounter –would be the fact that he’d be stuck remembering that expression for as long as he lived. “Yeah, I know that you broke into his house. I know you knew about this long, long before all of your bull shit excuses.” She may have been a writer, but confrontation wasn’t necessarily Beverly’s forte. Like Will, left in the aftermath of her reveal, the punch in the gut that left him suddenly guessing everything took far too much for him to recover from. She stared at him, Will stared back. He sucked in a breath and thought of the night he’d first asked her to come along, when he’d treated himself to top shelf liquor and she’d promised to help him kick Freddie Lounds’ ass. “We need to kill her,” Hannibal said lightly, just beside Will. “No.” The fact that Will spoke at the same time as Beverly didn’t soften her to him. Her glare was fixed between the two of them, switching periodically as her suspicion rose and lowered respectively. “You have a letter waiting for you at home,” Will said. “Oh, is that why you don’t want to kill me?” “He’s spared your life before, you know,” Hannibal interjected. “At the gala, he informed me that you were not part of our game.” “Funny, I’m feeling a bit played here, Will,” Beverly said pointedly. “Did you see the blood on my shirt?” Will asked. Beverly smiled thinly. It somehow didn’t suit her. “You think you can hide a stain like that? The moment you sat down in the car, I saw some of it. You’ve been lying to me for a long time, Will.” Will nodded slowly. Something was scalding hot on his tongue, and it felt an awful lot like a confession. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt.” “You are sometimes so full of shit,” Beverly hissed. “You think I haven’t called the cops and the FBI? Do you think friendship is keeping you alive right now?” “Beverly –” “You’ll lower your gun, or you’ll have to take a nap,” a familiar man said, and Will stared gaping awe as the homeless man from the alleyway strolled up behind Beverly with a pistol cocked lazily at his hip. “And I don’t mean the cat-kind.” Abigail Hobbs skirted around him, although if she had a gun Will couldn’t quite see. She was determined not to look at Will, it seemed, as she stationed herself just behind Hannibal, luggage bag at her side. “I thought I’d stalled her long enough,” she groused. “That wasn’t funny,” Beverly said, turning her head to glance back at the homeless man. She lowered her gun to the ground and lifted her hands out to the side. “You’re not shooting her,” Will said, although he couldn’t be sure if he was sayign that to Hannibal or to the man behind her. “She’s going home unharmed.” “Fuck you, Will,” Beverly snarled. “I didn’t entirely fuck you over, you know,” Will replied, and he motioned back towards the city and where she likely had a very important package waiting at the house. “Go home, Beverly. Your front page awaits you.” There was something chilling in the way she didn’t break eye contact, even as she backed up just enough to skirt around the homeless man. She climbed into her car, and maybe the pistol hadn’t been a personal token to her because she didn’t try to negotiate for it. Will stooped down, picked it up, and checked the safety. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said hollowly, and he jabbed towards Hannibal hollowly. “You’ve got some fucking explaining to do.” “Fuck you,” the homeless man said cheerfully.

[ohthatbunnygirl]

What I love about your fics is how you're not afraid to write some "dark" stuff. And you have a flair for debauchery that is just my jam. It's not exactly a prompt, but I'd love something involving Asshole!Kylo who is in love with Rey, and Rey who wants him back but plays hard to get lol

This is the best kind of praise!

Dear anon, I’m honestly delighted that you appreciate my stuff since dark debauchery is obviously my jam too. It means a lot that ya’ll like anything I write, and so I drummed up this little drabble for you, and for the earlier anon (who probably will not quite like the turn of the events but maybe will), and for @dvrksister who offered prompt advice that I was soooo down for. 

A super filthy drabble with an asshole Kylo, a dance with Poe, and a war-ravaged leader pulled in too many directions.

                                          __________

Yet again it’s a rough day in a long string of rough days. Despite the submission of thousands at his feet, it appeared that ruling wasn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

Ruling wasn’t anything he wanted at all.

Months after his failure to abandon the First Order with Rey at his side the invisible feeling of a crown only tightened around Kylo’s curls. Day in and day out, that squeeze intensified, and Rey hated that she experienced that suffocation down the bond. The pressure, and him, and him, and him.

“Good, you should feel bad,” Rey mentally mocked across their connection, baring her teeth.“You should suffer. You should burn.”

Delighting in her flash of malice, Kylo’s fingers splayed against the shower wall: a predator extending his claws as his free fingers drifted lower. Smoothing down his wet, muscular chest, he traced the taut skin that she remembered too well. Teasing all the way to the length so gorgeously heavy between his thighs.

“I only burn for you,” Kylo growled, stroking up. “Come and find me again so we can see who suffers- who begs.”

Bitterness mixed with want flooded into Rey’s body, and turning on her side in her bed didn’t change the image. As sure as Rey were in the same room, she watched the salacious glide of his closed fist up and down his thick shaft. Working himself into obscene steel, relieving the strain of his life with her grunted name on his lips. Crudely telling her what he’d do if she were there with him and Rey sat up in her bed.

Knuckles gone white against the sheets.

Pulse racing.

Livid that he’ll abuse himself again to innocent images of her drenched in the rain that he’s turned sordid, but more angry at herself that sometimes she’s joined in. Touched herself in tandem. Unburdened her shoulders from the increasing weight of endless obligations, lightening the load with rapid finger flicks. Selfishly transported away from expectations, and having only him to thank for the tawdry peace.

It’s addictive to join as they do.

It’s also equally as destructive as any known poison.

But he’s back again to give Rey her fix, and gripping her head in her hands, she groaned out her misery. Tugging her hair as he tugged. Overwhelmed with the guilt of pleasing someone who everybody expects her to kill, but not kicking him out either. Smearing pre-cum pearls along his cock, a less troubled Kylo breathed harder and harder. Getting off as he felt her emotions gnarl. Turned on that the roles that they play aren’t easy for her either, and all the more sadistically pleased that Rey still hasn’t confessed to anybody that she knows which planet his ship lingers near.

I know why you haven’t told them what you learned during our last visit, pretty pet.

You’d miss me.

This.

Licking the wall in place of her cheek, he rutted faster into his grip.

Flesh met flesh as the butcher of galaxies chased his full body high, and the louder he moaned, the more Rey shook her head. Looking away from the frantic debasement, she called him names under her breath. Putting on an act of hating him above the shoulders even as she soaked the slip of satin between her legs.

“Show me,” Kylo ordered, panting against the tile. “Show me what I’ve earned.”

Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t, Rey tilted her hips up. Following through though she was a leader, the last hope of the galaxy. The damned beacon of good with shaking knees and toes curled for her enemy. Hating herself for doing it, but parting her legs so he could see the sheen against her skin. Possibly even smell the proof of her arousal as her fingers inched closer to claim her own pleasure before a knock at Rey’s door had her scrambling out of her bunk.

“Kriff-” Rey gasped, not bothering with pants on the way to the door.” Sliding the metal open a couple inches with shaking hands, she then croaked out, “What is it?”

“We’ve found him,” Poe announced, unleashing a toothy smile.

Despite his clear excitement, Rey’s brow pinched in confusion. “Who?”

“Ren.”

“Where?”

“The Ryloth system.”

Where nothing before could slow the hammering heartbeats in Rey’s chest, Poe’s news did the trick. Her blood slowed to sludge. Every inch of her world going from smooth to skipping against the needle when she considered meeting up with him again, and Rey’s hand collapsed against the control buttons along the wall. Accidentally opening the door wider, she stood barely clothed in shocked silence until repeating, Y-You found Ren?”

Taking the opening as an invitation, Poe breezed by Rey. Chuckling as he unbuttoned the top of his collar, revealing the dangling necklace with a ring on his chest that he hoped to have her wear one day. “Yeah, the cocky bastard should hire less conspicuous supply freighters.”

“It’s almost like I wanted them to find me,” Kylo mused, continuing to pump his hand up and down, and Rey’s eyes widened twice after first forgetting that he was in the room and then sensing that Poe couldn’t see him.

“We strike in the morning if that’s okay with you.” Sitting on the end of Rey’s bed, Poe couldn’t stop grinning. “It’s insane to think about that, isn’t it? I mean, we’ve waited so long to have him, and now we got him.”

“Send him to me,” Kylo purred, accelerating his strokes. “Send him so that I may send back his handsome head all wrapped up for you.”

No!

Mistaking her decisive head shake for uncertainty, Poe’s smile faltered. “It’s good intel,” he assured her, dark eyes glittering.  “I know that it’s hard to believe, but it’s our best shot in months.”

“A shot they’ll miss,” Kylo’s gravelly laugh broke into a guttural moan.

One then two then too many droplets dribbled down her thigh, and Rey cringed over Kylo finally finding his end when rubbing it in. All it took was a splash of her panic for him to climax, and to splash her in turn. Leaving a filthy, wet reminder sliding down her skin to punctuate his point that they worked better together without any pesky armies or morals in the way.

Rubbing her legs together to smear his stain off of her, Rey couldn’t meet Poe’s eyes.

This is awful.

I’m awful.

What kind of monster enjoys any part of this?

They were friends. At one point, she’d never thought to have a single friend let alone many, but the hotshot pilot and Rey were friends. You don’t go through what they went through without forming a bond. You can’t possibly face death again and again and win without joining a part of your soul together to one of the few that understands, and his humor and bravery didn’t hurt the situation. As any woman- and even some men- on the ship could tell you, Poe Dameron was a lethal combination of charming, confident, and talented. Depending on the day, he could be a hero or even a death sentence to the pilots he leads, but he was also the kind of guy who’d grab Rey for an impromptu dance in the hangar on the worst days. Reminding her with his easy smile and effortless moves what it was they hoped to save.

“Don’t go,” she whimpered, and the crack in her voice made Poe’s chin jerk up to take in her appearance. For the first time since barging in, his grin slipped. Many had noticed Rey’s figure thinning over the past few months, the haunted look lingering in her hazel eyes. They all assumed that it was mourning for Finn, for Leia, for the thousands they lost. On some days, Poe figured that she was only hungry for the end of the fighting, and he wasn’t wrong. More than anything, Rey needed a rest. She was exhausted, pulled thin in too many directions, and Poe blamed that for the disheveled hair, the pale cheeks damp that he mistook for teary. Everything about her appearance shouted out that something was off with Rey, and when she stood there in her underwear and tank top he made the mistake of assuming her fragile as opposed to what she knew she really was.

A bold traitor.

A shameless libertine.

A lovesick general who couldn’t pull the trigger.

Pushing his palms down against the squeaky mattress, Poe got up to his feet again. Reaching out for Rey, he drew her in closer. Strong arms banding around her slender waist, offering comfort, and all the while completely unaware that another man’s affection dripped on her toes. Clueless that each step towards him splattered her skin with Kylo as Poe did his best to improve Rey’s spirits. Thinking that he could fix her with another slow dance. Naively believing that some of her inner battles could be so easily conquered by somebody who couldn’t possibly fathom the warring darkness in her.

Knowing her, but not knowing her at all.

Resting her head on his shoulder, she let Poe comfort her. Step by step allowing him to assume that he could sooth whatever troubled her with another elegant spin. Dredging up a small smile for him, she hoped that the boost to confidence might help him in the battles of her making. Let him believe for a while that they were on the same team- no conflict in her heart- and when he left the room Rey pressed her forehead to the door with a low sob.

The tears coming fast, quick, and uselessly.

The shame already nipping at her heels even before she felt his leather glove skim down her spine.

“Go away,” she gasped, rolling her lips in. “I don’t want this.”

Placing a small kiss on each shoulder, Kylo hummed against her skin.“You’re only upset because you know that he’s not your path.” Dragging his teeth down to her hips, he licked between bites. “Mmm, it would be easier to desire someone so simple, but that’s not you, Rey. You grew up in filth. You wouldn’t know what to do with something so pure if you had it.”

Clapping a hand against her mouth, Rey sobbed harder.

“But you’re worth more than him,” Kylo continued. Resting his gloved hand against the base of her spine, he slowly bent her over. “Oh, you’re precious, but you’ll never want easy. You’ve fought too hard and too long to have anything handed to you. Hating me is the most fun you have all day, and that’s why it’s okay to admit it because the universe didn’t join us together so he could fulfill you with a cock still warm from the last bed he jumped into.”

As much as her mouth twisted in disgust, Rey couldn’t flat out reject that the universe didn’t devise a plan for them. Many Admirals, Commanders, and Super Leaders had failed to sway this endless war one way or another, but always Kylo and Rey remained at the center of the struggle. The heirs apparent to the light and dark feud but bound together, bonded by a tie that cared nothing about the inconvenience.  

Quieting her cries, Rey glared over her shoulder. “You don’t know anything about Poe.”

“Tsk,” Kylo gripped her hips possessively, tender with a dig of his nails. “You forget that I’ve been in his head. I know all about Dameron. All his fears that wouldn’t even make you blink, all his insecure weakness.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Snapping her hips back to let her feel his hardened erection, Kylo tsked again. “Now why would I be jealous when I know that you’re mine, pet?”

“Because he’s here and you’re not,” Rey spat out, lip curled up.  

Fighting him where she could, she lost anyway. All at once, the sound of his zipper going down filled the room, and Rey whipped her head back towards the door. Breathing out heavily, she flushed. He’d obviously dressed so that she could feel the scratchy fibers against her skin, listen to the mouthwatering sound of leather sliding through belt loops. Smell his masculine cologne mixed with the freshly laundered uniform. The plan was to taunt her with every sense, and she clenched her jaw in aggravated understanding. Yes, her tormenter dressed to grab control again, and she refused to meet his eyes. She wouldn’t give him sight- not yet.

Hiding the eagerness in her gaze, she masked the want building with every touch- the thrills rippling down her skin that came from hearing him call her his. Ever since their initial hand-holding, Rey frequently wondered about who acted as the host in this symbiotic relationship. One could easily assume that it was Kylo Ren in control, but Rey wasn’t so sure when he knew every dirty way to please her. Answering her each time she needed him without knowing it, and he was the one on his knees that very morning doing her bidding.

“How shall I prove how very here I am?” Kylo snarled, voice sharp as he softly grazed her inner thighs and up. Sliding her underwear down, playing with extremes. Stroking a finger then two in and out mercilessly around the wet from earlier, burying his seed deep in her with words and touch. “Will you accept it when I fuck you?”

“Uhh-”

“Is that what you want, precious thing?”

Groaning against the door, Rey nodded.

The end of denying him having arrived.

The beginning of fulfilling her now commencing.

Shifting forward, Kylo entered her with a hard thrust.

Answering her prayers and fears, he slowly impaled his little martyr. Quickening the back and forth with every stroke. Stretching her around his girth until the door shook and Rey choked on his name. Words lost, everything lost when it felt this good, this wrong, this all-consuming.

“Please,” she gasped, carving her nails into the door. “Please-”

Shoving his hand between her thighs, Kylo Ren gave her what she needed.

Swirling around her clit in sloppy perfect circles, slicking leather until even closing her eyes couldn’t hide the stars.

With an arch of her back, she cried out through her orgasm. Putty in his hands while breathlessly repeating his name. Hopelessly soft and sweet for him, but he wasn’t anywhere close to done with her yet. Spinning Rey around, Kylo yanked her thigh up to his hip before plunging back inside of her. Face to face. Smacking her back against the door with each savage thrust, fucking her raw and relentless when she gave in and sucked on his throat. Marking him. Licking where nobody could see this symbol of good gone bad. Shaking already on the edge of a fresh wave of passion that she didn’t believe possible, but she was tensing around his cock. Close again, feeling her stomach tightening before Kylo slowed while staring at where they joined together. “Tell me what time you’ll launch them tomorrow.”

“Kylo-”

“Tell me,” he ordered, ripping off her tank strap. Smacking, pinching, and torturing how she wanted him to. Rough with her softest parts, making her mewl for him to go harder. “Tell me what time you’ll send Poe and the others.”

Closing her eyes, Rey whined. “I-I can’t”

Drawing her nipple between his teeth, Kylo purred against her flesh, “I’ll have them all crash into each other- all of our troubles gone like that. Only you, me, and this left,” he lapped at her, biting down. “Both sides gone so I can feel your tight cunt all day long, work only for all your sounds. Stars above…mmm, tell me when.”

Writhing in his grip, the truth came as they both did.

“Eight,” Rey whimpered, claiming his lips for the most selfish kiss in her life. “I’ll send them at eight.”

[silverfootstepswrites]

title Runaways summary What are we even running for anymore? pairing itasaku, tobisaku, hot messes

Part i | Part ii | Part iii | Part iv | Part v | Part vi | Part vii | Part viii | Part ix | Part x | Part xi | Part xii | Part xiii | Part xiv | Part xv | Part xvi | Part xvii | Part xviii | Part xix | Part xx | Part xxi | Part xxii | Part xxiii | Part xxiv | Part xxv (here) | Part xxvi | Part xxvii | Part xxviii | Part xxix | Part xxx | Part xxxi | Part xxxii | Part xxxiii | Part xxxiv | Part xxxv | Part xxxvi | Part xxxvii| Part xxxviii | Part xxxix | Part XL (it ends here)

The tip of her tongue tingled as she sat. The too-hot coffee steaming away in her grasp. Paper sleeve rough against her palms. 

“This better be good,” Sakura said, letting the steam bathe her face. Her gaze swept the quiet coffee shop. Heads bent over laptops. What looked like a couple touching feet on a date. Only the occasional hiss of the espresso machine broke the peace. 

“Busy night?” chuckled Rock. White teeth gleaming. His bandaged hands resting against the tabletop. Sakura eyed the swelling of his knuckles without comment. Eyes flickering back up to his face. 

“What gave it away?” she answered, finally letting her frown drop. Palm against her neck, she leaned in closer. She pushed her coffee towards him.

“Ah, there she is,” Rock remarked, eyes squinting into half-moons. “You hadn’t come to train for so long. I was starting to think you were mad at me or something.” He took the coffee. Opening up the plastic lid, he blew. The black, black coffee steaming and rippling.

“I’ve been a little preoccupied... Sifu Might would have me in a headlock if he heard me say that,” she answered, leaning her elbow on the table. Rock continued to blow on the coffee. He paused for a second, smiling again.

“He would make you run laps up and down Victoria Peak,” Rock agreed. Fondness tinging his words. He made a satisfied noise as he pushed the coffee back over to her. He leaned back in his chair, watching Sakura take a tentative second sip. 

“So... you know I don’t like getting involved with your problems,” Rock said, picking his words carefully. Sakura’s eyes narrowed. She put the coffee down. Lifted her chin. Searching his expression.

“Tell me.”

“Fai Tsai came to me about a week ago. Begging for me to hide him,” Rock said. And then he added, “Said you were going to kill him if you caught him.”

“Oh,” Sakura said. She went to take another sip of her coffee. Rock leaned forward. Hand grabbing her wrist before she could touch the cup again. She had almost forgotten how fast he could be.

“Are you?” demanded Rock. 

Sakura locked eyes with him.

“Do you believe Fai Tsai?” she asked him. Rock swallowed. His adam’s apple bobbing. 

“I’m asking you, Jing-Mei,” Rock insisted. But Sakura smirked. 

“You already know that it’s true. Why bother asking me, Rock?” she sighed, pulling free from his grip. She took another sip of her coffee, eyes wandering again. Rock bent his head, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Are you hiding him?” Sakura then asked. 

Rock shook his head. “By the time I reached back out to him, he was gone.” 

Sakura got to her feet. The metal legs of her chair screeching against the tile. She fluffed her fingers through her hair. The humidity hadn’t been kind to it since she had returned to Hong Kong. And all the while, Rock stared up at her. His eyes dark and sad. She could see the disappointment as clear as day. She was used to that by now.

“What would Sifu say?” he asked. His voice so quiet, she barely heard it.

For a moment, she really did consider it. That broad smile. His ridiculous bowl cut. His inspirational yet rambling speeches about harnessing the energies of youth. And then she remembered his blood painting the pavement. Gurgling out of his mouth. Kabuto standing at the top of the building, staring down at the mess below. His hands shaking as she grabbed him by the front of the shirt.

“I didn’t mean to! It was an accident!” he blubbered over and over again.

The smell of incense at Sifu’s funeral. The warmth of his hand as he clapped her on the shoulder. How he would point at the stars and name them randomly. Laughing from his stomach when she doubted him for the millionth time.

“It doesn’t matter if it was an accident! He’s dead because of YOU,” she remembered screaming. Pummeling him with her fists. Sobbing as she fell to her knees. Kabuto’s blood smearing over her knuckles. His tears and blood mixing down his cheekbone. 

“Sifu can’t say anything because he’s dead, Rock. You should know that since you were at his funeral too,” Sakura finally uttered. She reached out, ruffled his black hair. He didn’t say anything to her as she walked out of the cafe. Into the light mist of rain that had begun to coat the city.

Tobirama called late that night. As she stood on the roof of one of the many buildings she owned. She couldn’t even remember when she had bought this one. She could see a shadow shift in one of the windows across the street. She waved. Sai grumbled about being spotted so easily again through the earpiece.  And Zabuza angled the umbrella so that the scattered rain wouldn’t drip onto her shoes. 

“Aunt Cheng wouldn’t spot you if you weren’t so shit at hiding,” Zabuza muttered in return.

“Boys,” Sakura sighed. 

“Sorry,” they said in unison. She could see Sai duck behind the tripod set up in the window. She raised her binoculars to her eyes. Staring over the edge of the building, down into a narrow alley a couple buildings over. The night vision setting tinged everything green. Someone stood hunched behind a dumpster, glancing from his phone to the quiet streets. 

“He’s late,” Sakura remarked. She lowered the binoculars and handed them to Zabuza. He took a look too.

“Red Eyes Chiu is always late because he’s always hungover,” Sai remarked. 

“No. The guy’s clean. He says it’s because he never gets enough sleep,” Tenten corrected him.  

“Smart dealers never dip into their stash. It’s the only way to keep a level head,” Sakura agreed.

“What if he doesn’t show, Aunt Cheng? We’re just going off of rumors that Red Eyes was spotted doing business around here,” Zabuza asked, returning the binoculars. Sakura glanced at him. He held her gaze.

“I wouldn’t call the observations of some junkies the most reliable source,” he added. And Sakura nodded.

“This could be a bust. But Red Eyes being missing is putting a lot of stress on the 24K. Tobirama and Kabuto are pissy enough as is without being short a dealer,” Sakura stated. She heard Tenten and Sai snicker together in agreement. And then she added, “The faster we figure this out, the better for all of us. I’m not waiting until the HKPD finds him floating in Victoria Harbor.”

The earpieces fell silent. Sakura reached into her coat for her lighter. As she stood burning her last cigarette in the box, her phone lit up.

Zabuza’s eyes slid across the screen. His eyebrow rose. 

“Maybe he’s calling to say that he’s killed some puppies,” he remarked. Sakura smacked him in the shoulder. He didn’t even flinch. She clicked her tongue as she answered.

“Wei?”

“Jing-Meiii,” he drawled. 

Sakura let out a heavy sigh. She lowered the phone, pressing it to her shoulder. 

“Go get my car,” she whispered to Zabuza. He handed her the umbrella before he ran off in the rain. His wet shoes slapping down the concrete stairs. She lifted the phone back to her ear. Wedged it between her cheek and shoulder.

“Where are you?” she demanded. 

She peered through the binoculars. Someone appeared at the other end of the alley. Her eyes flew to the window across the street.

“He’s taking pictures, Boss,” Tenten buzzed into her ear before she could say anything to them. 

“Victor...Victor Ho’s...” Tobirama slurred into her other ear.

“Victor Ho’s bar, huh? It’s rare for you to be so shitfaced. Something good happen?” Sakura queried, keeping her tone light.

There was a long pause on the other end. She could still hear the faint voices and music in the background. And then she heard him gulp something down. The sound of a glass hitting the counter hard.

“It’s... that day, you know,” Tobirama said.

It took a moment for the pieces to come together. Mid-December. The smile slipped off her face. 

“...M’hou yi si. I didn’t realize,” she apologized. 

She watched the men in the alley. One opened up a duffel bag. The other revealed the contents of a briefcase. The binoculars let her see the neat stacks of cash lined up inside. One of the men grabbed one of the stacks of cash. And then another. He began gesticulating wildly with the money, shoving his companion in the chest.

“Ah. Looks like someone’s short on cash,” Tenten observed.

“Or maybe he hid something in the briefcase to make it look like there was more money,” Sai suggested.

And then Tenten hissed “diu” when gunfire peppered the air. 

“Boss,” Zabuza said into her earpiece.

Sakura turned away from the alley in time to see her car pull up out front. She hurried down the stairs back into the building, hand gripping the metal railing. And she could hear Tobirama breathing on the other side as she climbed down and down- all the way to the ground floor. Her heels echoing back twice against the concrete floors and walls.

“Mei,” Tobirama called. 

Sakura stopped. Jaw clenching. And then she kept walking. Straight out of the building. Zabuza got out of driver’s seat. He took the umbrella from her, holding it over her as she climbed in. 

“Watch over things for me tonight,” Sakura said. Zabuza nodded before he shut the door for her. 

“Mei,” Tobirama called again. Softer, this time.

“...Don’t call me that,” sighed Sakura. She leaned back. Head resting against the leather seat. The engine purring softly beneath her. She drew in a deep breath as she shifted the car into gear. 

“Stay where you are,” Sakura told him. She hung up before she pulled the car out onto the street. 

When she showed up at the bar several minutes later, Tobirama sat slumped. Cheek against the top of the bar. Silver rings gleaming in the low light. Victor nodded at her as she walked in. The haze of cigar smoke and the stink of beer clogged her nose. 

“Need help, Aunt Cheng?” one of the patrons asked her. 

Sakura didn’t respond as she pulled Tobirama’s arm over her shoulder. 

“Get up, you idiot,” she grumbled as she hauled him to his feet. Tobirama stumbled, but he came along. Eyes squinting half-open. She managed drag him all the way to her car. Shoving his body into the passenger seat. And just because the sensor would beep the whole ride, she buckled his seatbelt too. Shoving his heavy arm out of the way. As she settled into the driver’s seat, she saw that his eyes were closed.

“Drunk old man,” she muttered as she started the car.

“...’m not old,” he mumbled in return.

“Shut up,” Sakura snapped as she pulled onto the highway. 

She kept her eyes focused on the road. Both hands clenching the steering wheel. The ruby on her pointer finger caught the light every once in awhile. Sending little twinkles into the corner of her eye. She exhaled through her nostrils. 

“It’s been another year, huh?” she said after a while. Construction on one side of the road slowed things down. She waited to merge into traffic.

“Yeah,” Tobirama sighed. 

“You told me once... a long time ago... he was your younger brother?” she then asked. Keeping her gaze far from him. She heard him rub his hand across his face.

“...How old was he?” Sakura queried. 

“17.”

She had glimpsed a photo a few times. In the corner of Hashirama’s office. An old, wooden frame. Four brothers standing shoulder-to-shoulder. 

Kawarama had been the eldest Senju brother. But he had been known better as Scarface. Charismatic and strong. He had been gathering a small following in Kennedy Town when he was stabbed to death in front of a nightclub by jealous rivals. Hashirama had told her the story once, his face like granite. He and Tobirama had been just teenagers when he had died. And he never said so, but Sakura suspected that Kawarama’s death had been what had pushed Hashirama and Tobirama into this life too.

Hashirama refused to talk about Itama, though. His eyes going icy at the mere mention of that name. 

She remembered Tobirama spilling the details one blustery night. Many years ago. When the ink from her koi tattoo was still healing. His breath reeking of whiskey just like this. 

Tobirama put his feet up on the coffee table. Sakura sat on the other end of the sofa, staring down into her own glass. 

“Is this the whiskey I bought you?” she suddenly demanded. She reached for the bottle to squint at the dusty label. 

“It is!” she laughed. And as she collapsed back on the sofa, a hiss slipped out between her teeth. She sat back up, glaring at the sofa. Tobirama eyed her without comment. He leaned over to refill her glass, pushed it into her hands.

“It’s going to be sore for at least another week. Better suck it up,” he told her. Sakura made a face at him even as she took another sip. 

“I’m a Red Pole too now. Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid,” she growled. Tobirama raised his hands in defeat.

“Yeah, yeah, Madam Red Pole. Like we shit gold or something,” drawled Tobirama. And then he smirked. And the expression was so rare that Sakura found herself staring a little too long. He caught her, and the stare morphed back into a frown.

“What?” he demanded. Sakura scowled back.

“You know, you always go around looking like you smell shit. Would it kill you to smile a little?” she criticized. And for some odd reason, he snorted. 

“You sound like my little brother,” remarked Tobirama. Something in her voice stopped Sakura from being snarky. This was the first time Tobirama had ever brought him up before. She leaned forward a little, both hands around her glass. 

“I didn’t know you had a little brother,” she said, cautious. Watching his face to gauge his reaction. She was getting better at that. Reading those subtle shifts in his stony expressions. 

Tobirama closed his eyes. Eyebrows relaxing.

“Itama was always such a clumsy kid. Goh go was always scolding him,” Tobirama recalled, head lolling back. His cheeks and ears a little red. 

Sakura bit her tongue. She didn’t want to shatter this strange moment. But she was dying to know. And like he could read her mind, Tobirama opened his eyes. 

“The police shot him right in front of me. Because they mixed him up with someone else. They shot a kid,” he said. His voice startlingly clear. 

And then, Tobirama sniffed. He rubbed at his face, turning away. But not fast enough. She glimpsed the tear glittering its way down his cheek. 

Sakura set her glass down on the coffee table. When she closed her fingers around his, he resisted for a moment. Then let her set it aside too.

She crawled into his lap. Hands smoothing over his cheeks. Stubble prickling against her palms. The stink of booze washing over her as he exhaled. She stared into those red-rimmed eyes. At all the hurt pooling deep in that gaze. 

Sakura kissed him. Pulling his hands to set them on her waist. She pulled the tie out of her hair, letting it spill over them. The whiskey numbing her lips as she kissed him again. The tips of her fingers fuzzy. And then the slide of his fingers up her back. Her flinching as they grazed the edge of her healing tattoo. The black koi with that unblinking eye. 

The rest of that night was a little hazy. What she could remember with certainty was the way his fingers tightened on her thighs. The tired creak of the bed that punctuated each of their movements. And how she woke early in the morning, before even the sun had risen. Throat dry and mouth even drier as she got up to find her clothes. 

“I called you a taxi,” he told her. His expression flat again as he watched her pull on her jeans. The ugly bruises on her legs disappearing beneath the denim. 

“Thanks,” she replied. She buttoned up her shirt. Straightening her collar and the cuffs. 

“...Jing-Mei,” Tobirama said. And she finally stopped looking for her purse and looked at him instead. She smiled with her mouth.

“Don’t look at me like that. You didn’t do anything wrong,” she told him. And then she spotted her purse in the corner. She slung it over her shoulder, peeking inside to check for all her belongings. She looked at him again.

“I have a headache already. Maybe the next time I buy you a gift, I’ll get you wine instead,” Sakura said. Tobirama frowned.

“I don’t like wine, Jing-Mei.”

“I don’t care.”

Sakura dropped Tobirama onto his bed. Huffing, she sat down at the foot of the mattress. Rubbing at her shoulder. He was a lot heavier than he looked.

“You asshole. I’m too old for this shit. Next time I’ll just dump you in the nearest alley,” she threatened. But there was no response. She wondered if he had fallen asleep. When she twisted around to check, she saw that his eyes were wide open. He lay on his side, just staring.

“Are you going to throw up?” she asked.

“Maybe later,” he answered.

Sakura got up. Straightening her shirt as she moved to check her hair in the mirror.

“You know, have you ever thought about talking to Hashirama about this? It was his brother too,” Sakura suggested. She fixed her part. Brushed a stray eyelash away. In the mirror, she could see Tobirama close his eyes, shaking his head.

“You know goh go. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to think about him.”

“Hm... I wonder,” Sakura responded. 

And when she turned, Tobirama kept his eyes closed. But she knew he wasn’t sleeping. Not with his face pinched up like that. Scowling. He was listening.

“Hashirama probably is thinking about it. I think that’s probably why he went out and made his own family. And probably why he tries so hard to talk to his kid, even if she hates him,” she pointed out. She turned the lights out as she walked out of the room. When she closed the door of the apartment behind her, she thought she heard Tobirama running to the bathroom to vomit.

Tenten called her as she got off the elevator. Sakura stepped into the lobby, squinting against the absurd chandelier dangling from the ceiling. 

“So, it was Red Eyes. We picked him up and brought him to the hospital. He’s shot in the stomach pretty bad but doesn’t seem like he’ll die,” she reported. Sakura could hear the chatter of voices and ringing phones in the background. 

“What about the other guy?” Sakura questioned. She walked to the corner, to where she had illegally parked her car. There was a cop trying to print her a ticket. But when he saw her pink hair, his eyes went wide. He shredded up the ticket and stuffed it into his pocket. He bowed before he scrambled to get back into his own vehicle. 

“We have him too. He’s in surgery right now. Hopefully he won’t die and we can get something out of him too,” Tenten told her. 

“Good. Keep me updated. I want guards at their doors. I want eyes and ears on every entrance to that hospital,” Sakura instructed.

“You got it, Boss,” Tenten said before she hung up. 

Sakura sat in her car. Staring straight ahead. It had stopped raining at some point as she dragged Tobirama into his apartment. The windshield was still covered in moisture. Sirens wailed in the distance. Even at this late hour, there were still people on the streets. Stumbling in and out of clubs and bars. Their glittering clothes askew. Raucous laughter filling the air.

Sakura watched them all. Suddenly feeling so exhausted as their lives intersected for that one moment.  

She called Itachi.

The clock on her dashboard read 2:22 am.

It was unsurprising when he didn’t answer. It was past 3 in the morning in Tokyo. No sane person would still be awake. Tossing her phone aside, she started the car and began the drive home.

As she pulled into the parking garage below her building, her phone rang. ‘Kumicho’ flashed across the car console.

“Hello?”

“Sorry. I was asleep,” Itachi said. His voice still scratchy. And then he asked, “Sakura?”

She blinked a few times. The corners of her eyes stinging. 

“Itachi.”

“Yes?”

“What do you like about me?” she demanded.

There was a pause. 

“Well… off the top of my head, right now? Probably your need to call me at 3 in the morning and ask me what I like about you,” he replied after some thought.

“I’m serious,” she snapped. He chuckled.

“So am I. You’re thinking about me. At 3 am. I’m happy.”

Sakura didn’t know what to say in response. She glared down at the steering wheel. 

“Do you miss me?” he then asked her.

“No,” she retorted. Voice flat. 

“You do…” Itachi said, sounding a little amazed. Sakura considered breaking her phone just so she wouldn’t have to endure the rest of this humiliating conversation. She didn’t even understand why she had called him in the first place. But her hand stilled when she heard his next words.

“I miss you too.”

Sakura leaned forward, forehead against the steering wheel. She stared at her phone sitting in her lap.

“You sound tired. Get some sleep, Sakura. I’ll call you later,” Itachi promised. Sakura closed her eyes.

“You will?” she heard herself say. Sounding like some little kid. And she didn’t really care anymore that she did.

“I will,” he replied.

Part i | Part ii | Part iii | Part iv | Part v | Part vi | Part vii | Part viii | Part ix | Part x | Part xi | Part xii | Part xiii | Part xiv | Part xv | Part xvi | Part xvii | Part xviii | Part xix | Part xx | Part xxi | Part xxii | Part xxiii | Part xxiv | Part xxv (here) | Part xxvi | Part xxvii | Part xxviii | Part xxix | Part xxx | Part xxxi | Part xxxii | Part xxxiii | Part xxxiv | Part xxxv | Part xxxvi | Part xxxvii| Part xxxviii | Part xxxix | Part XL (it ends here)