#i think ad patches are stupid but these are tolerable

[gerritcole-coded]

Alright they got an ad patch unfortunately but it's not too big and it doesn't look too out of place so I guess it's fine

[animeyanderelover]

May I please have prompt 127 with Grell? Hope that's ok?! Thank you for always answering my requests!

That prompt honestly just suits her so well, I can’t😂.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, clinginess, obsessiveness, kidnapping, blood

Prompt 127: “I would bleed out if you tell me you like the color red.”

"Why exactly do I have to clean always the mess up you make during such missions? How did this even happen?!" Your voice sounded more shrill than usual, slight panic visible in your voice whilst trying to patch up the wound on Grell's shoulder, besmirching yourself with her blood in the process. You were no professional in this, having not the knowledge or experience how to properly sew a wound and you knew that Grell had a higher endurance, meaning she wouldn't die on blood loss. But you had wanted to help nevertheless, having panicked slightly when she had limped through the door, blood smearing her clothes and leaving a path behind you would have to clean later on if you didn't want the whole house to reek of blood.

"It was nothing too much to worry about darling. I just got in a little fight with someone and I let my guard down for a second." You raised your eyebrow slightly. "And with whom exactly did you get into a fight? A human can't have caused this damage on a grim reaper. So that must mean that you fought against another supernatural creature. Question now is which one. Do you want to tell me the reason why as well?"

A grim look crossed Grell's face for a moment, looking upset when recalling the incident that had caused her all the blood loss. "Well?", you asked, giving her a prompting look to encourage her before going back to observing her wound, trying to figure out how you were supposed to patch the wound after having somewhat cleaned it up. "You know, I can deduce this a bit judging from this wound. Were you attacked from a grim reaper's death scythe or something like this?"

"He started it!", Grell quickly defended herself, jerking a bit up in the process and making you nearly hit her in the wrong spot. "Hey! Sit still or else I'll end up sewing the wrong place. I already have troubles finding out how to even patch this!", you snapped, leading her to quickly sitting back in her earlier position.

"Did you get in troubles with William?", you continued questioning her, doing in your head a small simultation on how you would do any moment now finally mend that bleeding deep cut of hers. "No, I didn't! I said that he was the one who started it. He got punished instead of me and was raken his death scythe." You gave her a surprised look, blinking shocked. "...Wait, so this time you really were innocent?!"

"Of course I was! Why do you sound so surprised?", Grell complained, pouting slightly hurt. "Well...How do I say this?", you started, searching for the right words to explain it to her without ending up insulting her. "You're a bit more...quick-tempered and spirited?, you suggested, feeling like those words would come over as more positive.

"So I could have died back then on blood loss and you would have thought it was my fault for even doing so, am I right?", Grell started, sounding suddenly all too dramatic. "I am just being misunderstood in here. I really didn't do this time anything wrong. All I did was trying to talk with him before he suddenly started throwing his death scythe after me. It seems like he had a bad day and wanted me to shut up when all I did was trying to have a polite conversation with him. My feelings were hurt and at the very least you could be a bit more friendly because I might die here."

"Oh, come one! You won't die on this. The worst that might happen is you feeling dizzy and somewhat hazy due to all the blood that you have already lost! But that's all! Don't be such a drama queen! I'll fix you up! I'll try at least...Do you think that you can tolerate the pain?" It was kind of an unnecessary question, she had told you stories where she had been thrown through walls and hadn't looked affected so this was a ridiculous question which you noticed by the 'why are you even asking' look in her eyes. "Forget it. That was a stupid question. Still, sit still or else I'll end up piercing that thing by accident somewhere where we don't want to have it."

Your hands were slightly shaking, you were after all pretty nervous since you had never done it before. But it was either you finally closing the cut or accepting having her bleeding for a whole lot longer until her body would heal itself which you didn't want to wait for because it would only dirty the house even more than already. She would definitely help you later on scrubbing all the blood from the floor.

"You look sexy whilst being so concentrated.", you heard her chirping, her body moving a bit in the process which made you barely prevent yourself from ramming the needle with the threat in your own hand. "Grell?", you asked after calming down from the small shock. "Yes?", she replied. "Shut up whilst I'm flicking you together. I have to concentrate and your job is to sit still. No moving, no speaking, preferably no breathing. Just be like a stone. Do nothing."

"You want me to stop breathing? So mean.", she whined out, but after seeing the look with the silent message 'just do it', she let out a small huff before sucking in one last gasp of her and then completely stopping to move. "See? You can do it ans it isn't like you will die instantly. Let me just hurry up a bit."

You hadn't even gloves on, making all of this a bit gross since your hands were already stained with Grell's blood and the smell and close sight of it wasn't very great to look at either, but you had never been someone who was shaken up easily and life with the grim reaper had definitely hardened you up a lot.

For the biggest part you managed to not show your nervousness, though the slight trembling of your hands and your bloody and sweaty palms might have given it away that you had no idea what you were doing, the only knowledge you did possess was having read books about how to do it and having watched someone doing it once before, though it hadn't been on a human. But it was better than walking in on this completely blindly and whilst it ended up being a bit inexpertly, you still felt proud because for a starter it was still pretty good, but that was of course only your opinion.

You let out a small sigh, wanting to wipe your forehead before stopping abruptly, remembering just what exactly you had sticking on your whole body. You would have to take a thoroughly shower afterwards.

"Can I breathe again?", you suddenly heard Grell asking with a pressed voice, reminding you that she had hold her breath for the last four minutes, probably even longer. Respect, you didn't know if you could do that in such a situation. "Oh yes. Feel free to do what you want."

She gasped loudly, grabbing your shoulders in the process and just breathing a few times deeply in and out before straightening up and bending her head in an attempt to take a look at the freshly stitched wound. "Does it look daft?", she asked you.

"What the...? Grell, it isn't supposed to look like a work of art, not when I did it. It's just to stop the bleeding.", you quickly scolded her, tidying up all the tools and the many soaked towels and tissues you had used to clean all the blood from her wound. "And I'm sure you wouldn't want that to happen, right? Bleeding out in this house. But it seems like in the end everything went fine, the blood loss doesn't seem to have had an affect on you.", you added, feeling actually a bit relieved that she hadn't experienced any sort of dizzyness or shock from all of this.

You glaned with a heavy sigh down on yourself, examining just how terrible you really looked, blood smeared all over your face, your arms, clothes and even the tip of your hairs hadn't been spared. Someone would need to spend the next few hours in the bathroom to scrub and clean themselves thoroughly and severly up, you didn't plan on reeking like a wandering bloob bag.

"I look pretty bad.", you mumbled out, shaking your hands a bit in hopes of getting some of the still liquid blood off, though you knew you should hurry before it would start to dry. "I think you look gorgeous, covered in all my blood like this. Red suits you."

You stiffened up when hearing her saying this, although you weren't surprised hearing something like this coming from her. "Do you have to say this after I just patched you up? It makes it sound like you would have actually wanted to continuously lose blood just so I could be covered in your blood. And you wouldn't do that...right?" Why had you to ask this? She would surely not be that risky with her love for you, would she?

Grell put her fingertips on her chest, with the other gesturing at you. (y/n), I would bleed out if you tell me you like the color red."

...You shouldn't have asked this. For a few seconds you were quiet, thinking about how to give an answer to that question before just humming, deciding to leave this without any comment that could lead to her saying more stuff like this. You were for a short moment thinking if she had perhaps after all gotten a bit confused after losing that much of her blood, but with her it was hard to tell. You were sure she would be fine either way, making up your mind to just finally take a bath with a lot of soap.

"Are you taking a bath now?", Grell queried when seeing you walking towards the bathroom. "Obviously.", you replied, slowly gesturing at your currently eerie-looking figure, dry and still fresh blood mixing everywhere on your body. You were sure if you would walk like this at night through the forest and would cross paths with someone, they would run away crying and screaming. You looked like you had just murdered someone.

"Great! Can I come with you?"

"...Let me think. No."

"Why not? I could help you with cleaning you up from all the blood."

"I surely won't let you see me naked Grell! And you need to go easy on yourself now, especially with that freshly sewed shoulder of yours!"

"...I can use my other arm to scrub you up."

"Grell! No means no!"

"Fine then. I just wanted to help you. You could sometimes be a bit more polite with me."

"I politely decline.", you told her before finally disappearing, locking out of caution the door. You didn't know how effective a 'no' would be with her. You knew her overzealousness too well.

[nalgenewhore]

dream of me

rowan x lorcan, regency era au, word count: 1963

Rowan is not surprised when a battered, bloodied hand appears on his windowsill. 

He calmly stands from his reading chair and puts the leather-bound tome on the small end table. A candle burns steadily in its wrought holder, wax beads melting down it. Rowan picks it up and carries it with him as he walks. 

A large body pushes itself up and heaves itself over the ledge. Lorcan’s hair is falling from the sloppy bun he’s shoved it into. The dark strands cling to his temples and the sides of his cheeks, raindrops falling down his face as it splits into a golden type of grin, “Evening, pretty boy.” 

“Do you not know how to tell time, Lorcan?” Rowan asks casually. “It’s far past evening.” 

A slight groan leaves Lorcan’s lips as he swings his leg over the windowsill and nimbly lands on the spot of hardwood before the thick carpet. Rowan used to have the carpet flush with the wall, but when Lorcan’s midnight drop-ins became frequent, Rowan quickly became tired of him trailing mud on it, so he moved the carpet for Lorcan to have a designated area. 

Rowan sees the way Lorcan leans to the side and the way his arm is loosely wrapped around his waist. He sighs through his nose and waves the other boy to his bed, “Sit down. I’ll take care of those ribs.” 

“There’s nothing-” Lorcan hisses through his teeth, “-nothing wrong with my ribs, Whitethorn.” He toes his dirty boots off and limps to the messy bed. The old frame creaks under his weight and Lorcan tries to hide his sigh of relief, but Rowan hears it all the same. 

“Your clothes are soaking, Lorcan. You should change before you catch a cold,” Rowan says, refusing to look at Lorcan. The young duke abhors the fact that his pale cheeks blush, giving himself away at the thought of a shirtless Lorcan. Rowan busies himself by gathering the necessary medical fixings for Lorcan’s injuries. 

It must’ve gone wrong, he thinks. Lorcan spends his nights breaking into the rich’s homes, stealing whatever he can. For a few weeks, he lets the town have its little fit and then, he offers his deductive skills to unearth whichever priceless treasure he’s kept hidden away. 

They pay handsomely for his services. It humours Rowan, to keep his mouth shut and laugh quietly at them all. From the moment Lorcan emerged as the city’s up and coming investigator, Rowan knew there was something the young man hadn’t told them. And his suspicions had been confirmed on that fateful night, when Lorcan had mistaken the Whitethorn residence for the Havilliard’s. That night, he pushed Rowan up against the bookcase in the library, a wicked dagger at his throat. His wild eyes searched Rowan’s until they calmed and he stepped back. I know you won’t tell anyone, Master Whitethorn. Keep this between us, will you?

Obviously, Rowan agreed, though he made Lorcan swear to him that the Whitethorn mansion would never be a target. He added that Lorcan would come to him for help, whenever he so needed it, and Lorcan had done so ever since. 

“Rowan. Rowan. Rowan,” Lorcan says, waving his hand in Rowan’s face. “Are you alright? Are you tired?” 

“Of course I am tired, Lorcan,” Rowan snaps, tersely putting down the gauze and soft cloths. “I am made to wait up for you every night and patch you up, only to have you ruin my work the night after!” 

The thief’s dark eyes widen and when he opens his mouth to respond, nothing comes out. Rowan stares at him for a moment, willing his gaze to stay on Lorcan’s face and not notice the way his loose cotton shirt sticks to the chiseled planes of his chest from the rain. 

When he still does not speak, Rowan scoffs and picks up the wooden bowl. “I’ve got to fetch some hot water. Do not move.” He stalks into his bathing chamber, where he’s kept a bucket of boiled water. He boiled it earlier in the evening, meaning it was the perfect temperature after it sat for a few hours. 

Rowan’s frown does not fade as he fills the bowl and puts the cotton cloths into the steaming water. He carries it back with him and sees Lorcan carefully pulling his shirt off. His entire left side, from hip to shoulder, is covered by dark purple and violent red bruising. Rowan’s breath hitches in his throat and he forgets that he is angry with Lorcan. 

He rushes to the bed and puts the water bowl down, his hands light over Lorcan’s tender body. Despite the delicateness with which Rowan treats him, Lorcan still bites his lip to muffle the sound of his groan and his eyes screw shut. 

Lorcan pants, “Are you going to help me or continue to prod me, Whitethorn. I’ve- fuck, I’ve broken them.” The skin above his heart tap-taps with its frantic beat. 

“If you wish to be rude and uncooperative, you are free to leave,” Rowan says drily. He picks up the strips of gauze, “Lift your arms. Your ribs need wrapping.” Lorcan complies, groaning again when the motion causes him pain. “Would you stand, too?” 

Again, Lorcan does as he’s told. He stands between Rowan’s spread legs, probably closer than is necessary or considered appropriate. Rowan doesn’t mind. In fact, he would like Lorcan closer, would like their bodies pressed together, would like to know if they fit as well as he thinks they do. 

Neither speaks as Rowan snugly wraps the gauze around Lorcan’s middle. He doesn’t do it too tightly, knowing that if Lorcan cannot breathe normally, his lungs could catch an infection, like pneumonia. “What happened tonight, Lorcan?” 

“I learned that the Perringtons had left for a month and broke in for the skull of Erawan,” Lorcan says, his voice low, nearly too quiet to be heard above the soothing pitter-patter of rain. “They came back early, just two days ago. Apparently Adarlan is not agreeable this time of year.” 

Rowan snorts and tucks the ends of the bandage away. “What a shame.” He stands and gasps softly when he becomes near nose-to-nose with Lorcan. He’s so close he can differentiate the browns and onyxes in Lorcan’s depthless irises. 

They share a breath for a moment, Lorcan’s full lips so close to ghosting over Rowan’s. “You- you should s-sit,” Rowan stammers out, that same damned blush blooming across his cheekbones. “Rest, you have been injured.”

Lorcan nods, silent, and lifts his hand to tuck a curl of Rowan’s light hair behind his ear, “Yes.” 

Rowan moves so that Lorcan can sit again. He takes the spot next to Lorcan, and tucks a leg beneath him so he can face Lorcan. They all but refuse to speak as Rowan cleans the wounds on Lorcan’s face, his heart splintering at the long cut, indicative of a knife, slashing down Lorcan’s face. He breathes tremulously, his fingers shaking.

Rowan tenderly takes care of Lorcan's wounds and is powerless to stop the tears from lining his eyes. He hates this, seeing the boy his heart and soul belong to, so battered and bruised. So hurt, he can hardly breathe without pain. 

Every night, it becomes more difficult to stand. He wishes every morning that he does not see Lorcan again, that he’s left, run away to the countryside like he once drunkenly admitted to dreaming of, without a note or a farewell. It’s a foolish hope of Rowan’s, really, but he’d rather be foolish than face reality. 

“You are crying,” Lorcan notes. Rowan realises his cheeks are wet with tears. “Why are you crying, Rowan?” 

Surely he must be joking, Rowan thinks. Surely no one is that dense. Surely Lorcan knows it’s all for him. “You are playing a trick on me,” Rowan says, dumbfounded. “You truly cannot be this stupid, Lorcan.” 

The dark boy frowns, pulling back, “I am not stupid. I want to know why you are crying. It is not you that has been injured. What pain are you feeling?” 

“You are stupid,” Rowan insists, tossing the cloth to the side. “You are the stupidest boy I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing, Lorcan Salvaterre.” 

Lorcan frowns harder, his temper flaring in those eyes of his, the ones Rowan dreams of. “Stop calling me stupid, Rowan. I cannot help you if I do not know what is the matter!” 

Rowan stands, his arms flung out wide, “I hate caring for you! I hate, with a burning passion, caring for you.” 

Hurt flashes across Lorcan’s face and it stays there. Normally, anger would be all too quick to follow, but his grave features remain drenched in agony. “How could- then why- what have I- I do not understand,” Lorcan says, his words shaking. “Why are you saying this to me? Why would you say that to me?”

“Because I hate it when you are hurt, Lorcan,” Rowan spits, too far gone in his rage to notice the beginnings of understanding in Lorcan’s gaze. “I hate it when you climb through my window and I hate it when I have to patch you up and I hate it when you return to the gutter, just to repeat this all over again.” 

“Ro–” 

“You told me you once despised this life. You told me that one day, you would leave and run to the country and never once look back.” Rowan swallows as tears roll down his cheeks. He sits down once more and, with such care and adoration, takes Lorcan’s face in his hands, “I pray for that day to come every night, so I do not have to see the boy I love hurt again.” 

Rowan tips his forehead against Lorcan’s and whispers, “I love you, Lorcan. You… have my heart and my soul and whatever it is that makes me whole. And if you keep-” he chokes for a moment, his eyes falling shut, “-if you keep being hurt and showing up at my window, battered halfway to death, I will shatter into a thousand pieces that can never be put back again.” 

“You love me?” Lorcan asks, his words light with wonderment and golden, golden hope. “You- you love me?” 

“Yes,” Rowan breathes, confessing his most twisted secret. “With all that I am and all that I will ever be, Lorcan.” 

“Ro,” Lorcan murmurs, his hand lifting to the curve of Rowan’s neck. “Rowan, open your eyes. Please… look at me, my darling.” 

Rowan’s hummingbird heart flutters and trips over itself. He’s never been anyone’s darling and how lucky is he, to be Lorcan’s, the only person he will ever love and the only person he will ever tolerate. He opens his eyes, quietly searching Lorcan’s. “What is it,” he asks, barely above a whisper. 

“I have loved you for years,” Lorcan tells him. “There is nothing in this god-forsaken life I want to take with me to the next one, save for you, Rowan. I love you, most ardently.” 

The two boys smile softly at each other, twin spots of pink on their cheeks. It is Rowan who closes the distance between them first, pressing his rosy lips against Lorcan’s mouth and stealing his air. Rowan’s hands slip around Lorcan’s neck as Lorcan pulls him closer, mindless of the hurt in his body that pains at every movement. 

They kiss slowly, they hold each other so closely, like the other is the most precious thing to them, like the other’s love and touch is the only thing they shall need in life. 

And maybe it is. Maybe that’s all they’ve ever needed.

an: they deserve this and i deserve this so i was self indulgent and did what i wanted again <3 enjoy darlings 

@mythicaitt​ @ladyverena​ @empress-ofbloodshed​ @ladywitchling​ @darklesmylove​ @shyvioletcat​ @the-regal-warrior​ @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @thewayshedreamed​ @sassyhobbits @tswaney17

[gerbiloftriumph]

The Silence Between Snowflakes

(also on ao3) ~ 7/8 - The Ice Queen

~*~*~

Rosella wanted to be the first down the tunnel, and she was annoyed that Number One insisted on taking the lead. “I rescued you,” she said. “I’ve got this.”

“Even still, Princess. Should something attack, then you shall be able to step in and rescue me, instead of the other way ‘round,” No1 said. “You’ve already proven you’re quite good at that.”

“Well. I suppose that’s right,” she said, glumly. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it sounded a bit like No1 was hiding a grin behind his helmet.

The lower they descended, the louder the clanging sounds got, and the less well-defined the walls became. At some point they’d passed beyond dungeon carved blocks into what felt like either natural caves or something that had been scraped out by hand tools. The guards spread out a bit behind Rosella, watching their backs carefully, hands on swords, ready to defend at a moment’s notice. They weren’t going to be caught flatfooted again, not now that they knew what they were facing.

No1 threw out a hand, a gesture to stop, and Rosella almost walked into him. She frowned, about to complain, when she realized they’d reached the end of the corridor, into a cave that swooped out around them. The Daventry team huddled against the wall, peering around the corner.

It appeared to be a tidy little mining operation. There were a large number of rock goblins with shovels and picks carving out huge chunks of snow and ice, widening the tunnel into twice, thrice its size. They were yanking stalactites from walls, shoveling huge and heavy snowman-ready globs of snow into hampers and wheelbarrows. Another team was pushing the snow laden carts up a huge ramp, feet slipping and sliding as they strained beneath the load, vanishing around a corner but probably going some distance up into the castle, while others with empty carts were sliding back into line, waiting for a fresh fill.

Graham always kept her away from the goblins. Rosella stood on her toes, as far out into the tunnel as she dared. The chance to finally see some of this species up close probably wouldn’t come again. No1 cautiously held his arm in front of her, keeping her back, and she leaned against it, inspecting the activity before them. She was eager, longing to get closer. She remembered the stories, the famous tale of the prison with its glittering fungi and be-costumed captors.

But these goblins just looked tired, not at all pouncy and fun like Graham described. They dragged their shovels along the ground between snow piles, picks rattling off walls in shaky hands. A small number of ice guards stalked among them, criticizing work, directing steps, keeping the work moving at a flurry. One of the goblins had simply stopped and was pouting in the middle of the floor, leaning against its shovel and not working. Rosella watched an ice guard march up behind it and backhand the little creature, yelling at it in that odd backwards language, and the goblin scrambled away, its tattered leather slippers failing to find any purchase on the slick floor.

“What are they doing?” No3 whispered.

“Nothing good, I’d bet,” No2 said.

No1 was glaring. “I have a suspicion,” he said. “A blizzard, from a central point. And here’s the central point’s starting point.”

“That’s what I said, nothing good,” No2 repeated.

No1 shot him a stern glance.

Rosella watched. The hampers’ wheels skittered over slick patches on the floor, and the goblins kept losing their footing, falling against the hampers and sending them spinning across the floor. They scrambled after the carts, crying out in their gravely language, while the ice guards made no movement to help. Icicles stacked like firewood logs clattered and rang against each other, accompanied by the click of guards’ feet on the floor and the scrape of shovels.

The ice curse was turning Daventry into fuel to take, to crush and chip apart, to feed to the castle. To keep the ice curse going. To keep the weather cold. To make more ice. To feed the castle. These working goblins, a likely recent addition, increased the intensity of the resulting weather, increased the power of the castle. Suffocating countries under snow as the castle traveled. Including Daventry.

“We should put a stop to it,” she declared.

“Pardon?” No1 drew back a little to look at her.

“We should stop them.”

“M’Lady,” No1 said, “I do not believe this is an operation we”—he glanced over his shoulder to confirm he still had everyone—“seven can safely control.” At least he counted her in the ranks, Rosella thought. That was more than he’d done in the past.

“We’ve already spent half the day in a cell,” Kyle added cheerfully.

“You’re defenders of the crown,” Rosella said. “And I’m the crown. And I might just need defending.” She started to step forward. A few steps more and she’d be in the mine.

No1 and No2 had known her all her life and could anticipate every silly too-tall-tree-climbing/too-high-cliff-jumping/too-deep-river-swimming/too-big-opponent-fighting move she could make. They both reached out and grabbed her arms and pulled her back instantly, fluidly, without hesitation. “Princess Rosella, please. Direct action is not the right idea here.”

She couldn’t beat either of them in the Battle of Wits board game, either.

“Oh, all right, fine, not that way,” she grumbled. “Fine. But I still say this needs stopping. You know Daventry can’t survive much more snow.”

“I agree. But I count six ice guards and at least thirty goblins. We would be able to take care of the guards if they were alone, but certainly not the others.”

The others. The goblins. Rosella sagged. This wasn’t what she’d hoped to see after her dad’s stories. He’d described them as being so vibrant. Violent and lazy, but clever in their own ways, and eternally creative. These goblins were slow, exhausted. Instead of fairy tale costumes they wore scarves and mittens, and even still she could tell they were shivering. In normal times, they probably burrowed deep in winter to stay cozy warm.

She watched the one that had been slapped picking through ice chips on the floor, throwing them up onto a cart. It kept its head low, slyly eying the ice guards, before ducking out of sight behind the cart and slumping down, curled up with its arms wrapped around its knees. It miserably huffed a little cloud of air, sulking. It was close enough to the Daventry team that Rosella suspected she could have easily called out to it without being heard by anyone else.

“I do have an idea,” she said, very slowly, trying not to scare the shreds of her thought away like the concept was wispy and delicate and easily shredded.

“Not running in swords blazing.”

“No, not that.” And she told them what she’d thought of.

“That’s just as risky, Rosella. If not more so,” No1 said sternly.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rosella said, watching the little goblin behind the cart. It had decided it was safe enough and alone enough to pop off its helmet, revealing huge drooping ears pierced with iron bangles and a scrambly tangle of black hair, and it was rubbing its eyes and wiping its drippy button nose on its arm. “I think he would like to hear a good story right about now. We simply need to convince him to come over here to hear it.”

~*~*~*~

The throne room in Daventry’s castle was warm and comfortable. Rich tapestries hung along the walls, and the carpet leading up to the throne itself was the plushest the castle had to offer. Huge twisting metal candelabrums illuminated the corners and gave the whole place a soft glow.

The throne room of the ice palace was the opposite: freezing and unwelcoming, with light that danced through the reflective walls until it was a bitter sort of bluish white, almost clinical. It had tapestries, yes, but frozen ones, arching down from the high, high ceiling. Torches cast cold flames. The throne was the most ostentatious thing Graham had ever seen, huge shafts of ice sticking out from it like piercing thorns.

Currently, the throne was unoccupied. The ice guards pushed Graham and Alexander forward anyway, depositing them in front of the empty chair. Graham supposed they were meant to wait for the owner of this castle to swoop in and make a tremendous entrance.

The throne wasn’t completely empty, Graham realized after a moment. A black cat preened there, lounging on a cushion. Cats often looked smug, but this one had a certain glowering triumphant nastiness to it. That was probably just its face, though. Graham liked cats, as a general rule. Their no-nonsense purrrrsonality was sort of endearing. A cat may look at a king, as the old saying went, and no one could tell it otherwise. He was fond of that sassy, adventurous spirit.

Alexander, though, was petrified. He was staring at the cat with open faced fear, and Graham wondered if the young man was dreadfully allergic. Maybe someone on Valanice’s side of the family? No one on Graham’s side had allergies. He tried to speak words of encouragement, but instead of comfort, another voice said, “Ahh, the brat returns, dressed in fancy airs and still short of decent manners. Moron.”

And that was Manannan’s voice.

Graham stepped back, startled, into the ice guard standing behind him, staring at...at the cat.

“And his idiot high and mighty father, too!” said the cat. Said the cat. “Now, this is too lucky. I wasn’t expecting you, Graham. The whole family, here! And I didn’t even have to do anything but show up and open the doors!”

Graham’s heart sank. Manannan knew Valanice and Rosella were here. He’d feared as much. He glanced around, nervous he’d see them tied and silent somewhere, but the room was empty other than the ice guards lining the walls, watching them.

“Manny?” he said, warily, staring hard at the cat, certain it was a trick.

“In the fur,” the cat confirmed, and he flicked his tail. “Of all the curses, I suppose this one makes being in an ice castle the most tolerable. You, Graham, look half frozen. That stupid cloak not warm enough for you?”

He ignored the cat, looking at his son instead. “Alexander, when you said ‘couldn’t do much more than scratch.’ Back when you first came home. Did you...do this?”

Alexander nodded mutely, staring at the cat, clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Manny interrupted. “Your brat doesn’t understand boundaries. I tried to beat some sense into him, but that awful Cracker curiosity, ugh. Couldn’t hit that out of him with a thousand switches. Not that Mordack and I didn’t try. Well. Mordack didn’t try, after I ordered him. I found more...compelling methods to try and shake that abundant curiosity, right, Gwydion?”

“Don’t call him that,” Graham snapped, the anger blazing up again.

“He’s been Gwydion so much longer than he has Alexander,” the cat purred. “It’s his name. The greatest gift I gave him, birthday to birthday. You weren’t even there to celebrate a single one, Graham. My dear little Gwydion. It suits you much better, you know. Alexander is so stuffy and spoiled sounding. Not at all reflective of the hard work you used to do so well.”

“He will never be Gwydion again,” Graham said.

“Graham. You weren’t there. You didn’t raise him. Your opinions just don’t matter. In fact, I’d rather like it if you stopped talking.” Manny nodded sharply to the ice guards, and one of them clamped a hard hand over Graham’s mouth, yanking him back and pinning him, pulling him up on his toes to keep him off balance and helpless.

The king grabbed at the ice hand with his good arm, struggling, pulling, feeling the cold in his cheeks, in his teeth, but the guard was as sturdy as a glacier. He clung to the guard’s wrist, but he could do nothing. It was like being held by a marble statue.

“Isn’t that so much nicer?” Manny said, after a minute of watching Graham struggle uselessly with frightful glee. “This conversation should be between you and me, Gwydion. You’re the reason I’m here, you know. You’re the reason I bothered to come back to this drainwater ditch of a country. Daventry, ha. Piddling and useless in the scheme of the world. I’d moved on to greater countries. Llewdor has so much more to offer.

“I couldn’t imagine anything better to do to Graham than watch him destroy his own country through misplaced grief while I was privileged to raise you. Once I knew you were properly ready for it,” (beaten into utter submission, Graham thought miserably), “I was going to teach you magic. I was going to use your anger and loss and funnel it. You didn’t need to steal my magic. I was going to give it to you freely, and then I was going to set you on Daventry. It was going to be yours to rule, Gwydion. I was going to give you all the rights and power, and you would have been so much happier with my guidance. We all would have been happier. Me, with Llewdor, and you, with Daventry. We would have made it something great.”

Manny flicked his tail irately, “But you got bored, didn’t you, Gwydion. Perhaps my lessons weren’t good enough. You wanted to learn magic on your own. This curse is bad enough—what else did you steal from me? Gywdion, you’ll never be a good ruler if you steal things.”

Graham made a muffled protest behind the ice guard’s hand, which Manny ignored.

“There is still a chance, Gwydion,” Manny said. “If you return me to a human form, we could go back to Llewdor. You’ve begun your magic training already, even if it was by your own power, but you show incredible aptitude for it. My training, austerity and precision, has sharpened your mind and made it receptive. I have molded you perfectly for this.”

Again, Graham complained, and again, Manny ignored him.

“This cat curse,” he continued, “is very impressive magic. I haven’t been able to figure out its counter, despite all my searching. But I’m sure you have an answer. I had to seek you out. You took the spell book with you—did you bring it here to Daventry? I must have it. I must have you reset this. Mordack doesn’t have any magic. I suppose that’s my fault for not teaching him anything, and I can’t teach him anything in this shape, but you, you clever observant twerp must have learned from watching me. Gwydion, you must fix this.”

Alexander said nothing.

“I have been forced to call upon the services of the lady of this castle for assistance,” Manny continued. “But I’m afraid she can’t restore. She only seems to have ice-based skills, which doesn’t help me. I don’t want her to freeze Daventry solid, Gwydion, at least not at this exact moment. I want you to have a reward at the end of all of this. But if you do nothing, then I can do nothing, and the castle will remain here, and the snow will get deeper, and I’m afraid that your citizens, your Feys and your...oh, I suppose the Hobblepots are probably dead by now, aren’t they? Not even those bats could live forever, and good riddance. Well. The rest of the citizens would soon join them. It would be a pretty poor country, then, boy.”

Graham said, “Mmnhff!”

Alexander said nothing.

“I can have her move the castle away,” Manny continued. “She can go away, and we can be at peace together in Llewdor again. You needn’t be a slave, now—not that you were in the first place,” he added, thoughtfully. “You were a servant, learning patience and perfectionism. And now you’ve learned enough to move to apprenticeship.

“But if you don’t help me, Gwydion, I think she will have to leave the castle here. I’m sure by now the kingdom is struggling under the snow—but when the spring comes and it never melts, what then? What will the little lanes of the town look like? The farms? All that...ah...” he hesitated, apparently looking for something a peasant might like, “farmland?”

Gwydion said nothing.

Manny waited, tail thumping the cushion impatiently. In other shapes, he probably had a decent face for gambling, but that tail was giving away all his thoughts.

“Perhaps you need to think about it,” he said, after a very, very long pause. “But I don’t think there’s enough time for that, Gwydion. I’m sorry you’re so slow, so thick, can’t make easy choices—I can’t improve the speed of your mind, as much as I would love to. Perhaps that’s something we can work on together in Llewdor.” Somehow, Graham could hear the promise of rope and nails and various vile potions in that sentence. “But maybe we can do something else? Perhaps your father could convince you? He should try, of his own power, before I add my own pressure. Although, Graham, you should know...I do really want to add my own pressure. Specifically, to you. As a method of persuading your son, of course, no other reason.”

He nodded to the guard, and the weight on Graham’s mouth eased. The guard let go, stepped back, and Graham sagged, rubbing his mouth with his good hand. The chill from the ice creature had settled deep into his bones, and he felt his knees threatening to give out. He would have fallen, but the guard caught him again, supported him. Graham clutched at his bad arm, the dizziness only growing stronger with the persistent cold.

The cat’s face twisted into as like a frown as its features could get. “You weren’t held that long,” Manny said, suspiciously. “You’re very pale, Graham. Is something wrong?”

“No,” Graham said.

“What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing,” Graham snapped, shifting his weight so that his cloak fell forward, hiding his entire right side.

“Then you wouldn’t be holding it like that. What’s wrong? Something painful, I hope. I want to see,” he ordered. The ice guard shifted its grip from support to captivity again, yanked Graham's arm forward—Graham yelped involuntarily, and they all heard ice crackle as his shoulder straightened, that same strange ice-in-lemonade sound his fingers had made earlier with Valanice—and the guard ripped Graham’s gloves off, revealing one ordinary hand and one clear, blue, sculpture-like hand. The digits were as inflexible as icicles, and the wrist and elbow were completely locked in place. It caught the light, reflecting chilly shadows across Graham’s chest. The ice guard released Graham’s arm after showing it to Manny, and Graham, breathing raggedly, the pain only adding to his dizziness, cradled the cursed arm close, leaning into the guard and hating his helplessness.

“Oh,” Manny said, and startled cackling. “Ohhh, look at you. And is that it there, too, spreading up your neck?”

Graham’s good hand immediately reached to check, and the look that crossed his face as his fingers brushed the hard blue surface just barely visible above the collar of his cowl made Manny curl up on the throne with peals of shrieking laughter. His tail thumped a terrible beat.

“That’s excellent!” Manny leapt down and padded near Graham—not near enough that he risked getting kicked. He inspected the ice. “That looks like the same curse the dear lady of the castle suffers, but it’s spreading so much faster. You’ll be surprised to know this wasn’t my idea, although I rather wish it had been. Look how stiff your fingers are! You, if you’ll pardon the petty little joke made at your dreadful sense of humor’s expense, are becoming a pop-sicle. I do wonder if it’s survivable if it’s spreading so quickly.”

“I came here to find a way to lift it,” Graham muttered through gritted teeth, trying to coax his stiffening shoulder back so that he might hold it more comfortably.

“Aaaah. What a pointless waste of time. There isn’t.”

Graham said nothing.

“Every pitiful second you have left must be purrfectly agonizing,” Manny said. “How delightful. I do wonder how fast it spreads. Perhaps we should pause” (paws, Graham thought, automatically) “this conversation and reconvene in a few hours to see the changes. For scientific reasons, of course. Gwydion, consider this lesson one: we shall evaluate the speed of this curse, dissect it, and then increase its power.” He barked an order, sharp and odd in his cat’s throat, and the ice guards again clamped their hands tight on Graham and Gwydion’s arms.

Before the ice guards could start hauling them out, though, a door near the throne opened and the queen of the castle swept in, her icy skirt skating over the floor. Her dress’s train twinkled behind her, little ice specks arrayed like diamonds. She looked over Graham and Gwydion with a practiced royal haughtiness, and said, “Cat, you did not tell me we had other guests. There are so many visitors to my castle today, and I fear I am being an impolite host with my attention so divided.” She flicked a hand lazily at the ice guards, and they instantly released their captives, though they did not step away.

Graham realized he was staring. Her voice had an odd resonance to it, like it was laced with an echo from the deepest, coldest cavern, but he knew that voice nevertheless. Her face was sharply lined, frozen with clear blue ice in the same way that his arm was transforming, but flexible, with features that he knew without a doubt. Her high cheeks and button nose and large eyes were features that couldn’t be hidden even under a veneer of magic.

“Valanice,” he breathed, blinking at her.

“Pardon, sir, but do you address me?” the queen asked, her voice cold as a blizzard.

“Valanice,” he repeated, louder.

He remembered. A castle, walking through the clouds. Warm blankets and pillows banked up in piles near the cooking fire to stave off the chill. Two princesses sharing the same regal name and the same trapped fate, doomed to wander until true love broke an antiquated curse. Cuddled together around a book, around a puzzle, laughing together while he tried to make pancakes.

One princess in particular lounging in a sunny patch with her chin propped on her hands as she told stories, one princess in particular slapping down the winning card in a game with exaggerated triumph, one princess in particular dancing in the starlight and the reflective glow of the spell holding them all captive. A dear friend who had slowly drifted away once they had all escaped, had cut herself off, had stopped answering their letters.

A dear friend who, Graham suddenly realized, had been still trapped by one curse even as they escaped another.

“Valanice!” Graham stepped forward. The guard behind him raised its hand ever so slightly, to catch him and drag him back again should he act aggressively.

“I’m afraid, sir, you may have me confused with another, somehow,” the ice queen said. She tossed her snow white hair over her shoulder, her blue crown glittering on her brow. “That is the name of my other guest. It is a delightful name, though. I do feel rather fond of it. I wanted to speak with her, but Cat said we both ought to rest before enjoying an official audience.”

“V-Valanice,” Graham said, uncertainly, pressing down panic starting to bubble in his chest. His queen, his wife, his Valanice, locked away in some freezing room awaiting ‘hospitality.’ With Manny as host, that probably meant something very nasty. “What have you done to her?”

“Let her sleep, of course. Cat said she must be worn out after coming all the way to my home. She was so exhausted, she could not keep her feet when we met. She couldn’t even finish the lovely tea Cat ordered for her, so I told her we would speak later and left her to her rooms.”

Graham had a pretty good idea what sort of tea Valanice had been given. Probably forced to drink at knifepoint. Chamomile almost certainly was not involved. He could only hope that the wizard, in this be-clawed shape, couldn’t craft any more of that rare but potent hypnosis powder. “Manny, if she’s hurt, you are going to pay.”

“A good night’s sleep helps us all,” the cat said. “I should like you to sleep, too.” Never had an innocuous sentence been spoken with such venom and threat.

“’Tis true,” the ice queen said, and she gracefully settled into her throne. “My name, sir, is Queen Icebella, and I welcome you to my home. May you find it a warming balm on your soul after your travels, for I fear that my home is very far from civilized parts. You may introduce yourself and your ward.”

“You know me,” Graham said. “You know me very well already.”

She frowned, her imperious expression frostier than ever. “I find that impossible, sir. We have not met.”

“I am King Graham, ruler of Daventry, and you are Princess Valanice of Kolyma, and we have traveled together in the past, together with my wife Valanice, whom you have drugged and locked up somewhere. Valanice, please! You must remember me! Remember her!”

“I do not take kindly to presumptions and liars,” Icebella said sharply. “You must be king of a very poor country indeed, unless you are lying about that as well and have stolen airs for yourself.”

Stolen airs. Stolen heirs. Stolen lives.

“Valanice,” he began again.

“My name, Graham,” she snapped, biting out his name with no trace of remembrance, not a hint of warmth, “is Queen Icebella, and I do not tolerate impertinence.” She looked like she wanted to strike him down, beginning to rise out of her throne with all the unstoppability of a glacier.

“My sweet lady,” Manny cooed, breaking her focus so easily, drawing it back to himself. He padded back to the dais and leapt onto the throne arm, tail swishing gently against her wrist. “Do not waste your temper on rabble. He certainly is not worth your effort. You are intended for better, dear Icebella.”

“Dear Cat, you are always so wise,” Icebella said, and she gently stroked the silky black fur, her frozen fingers catching the light. “This audience goes poorly.”

“My Queen, I was going to have these two ruffians removed until their tempers are more refined. I thought a brief stay in one of the guest rooms would relax them; I suspect they are as tired as your other guest. And then, perhaps, we can all meet together with manners befitting royalty. Although, perhaps, these two are entirely unmannered. It may be best, My Queen, if you did not have to look at them again. They can be removed permanently if you command it. I shall have the guards remove them from your sight, esteemed lady. Guards!”

“No, Cat, wait,” she said, raising a hand. “Permanently? I find that displeasing. We have so few guests. I do wish to speak with them and learn of what they have seen outside.”

“My Queen, if you desire that, we may. However, they are very unrefined. Another guest would be better. These two should be escorted away and replaced with someone more appropriate for your level of royalty. Guards!”

“No, Cat, I rather do want to hear more from them. The one in red is annoying, but interesting. If he believes himself a king, he may have some information for me about his country that I should like to know. Do not have them permanently removed.”

Manny’s face twisted and his tail thumped hard as some unconscious sign of his displeasure at being overruled, at having his sly manipulations ignored, although Icebella didn’t notice as she was too busy studying Graham. He said, voice tight with politeness, “As My Queen commands. They shall return for a brief audience with you later, after they have rested. Guards.” The order was flat and bored and disappointed sounding.

“Graham,” Icebella mused, blissfully ignorant of Manny’s irritation. “It is a nice enough sounding name. Pleasing. I should enjoy your company as a guest in my home, but next time we speak, do not anger nor insult me, or I shall indeed lose my temper, and that is unbefitting. In a few hours, Cat, I should like to set the appointment, and I look forward to it. Do see to it, my friend. You are so good at commanding my guards to work quickly and precisely.” She spoke with pure open honesty, not a trace of irony or sarcasm. And with that, she left the room, skirts ringing as decorative ice droplets dripping from the fabric clattered against each other.

[babiekeiji]

“Because…” he said quietly, looking at his desk, “because people want to remember what it’s like to be young? And in love?” — Rainbow Rowell, Eleanor and Park

All I’ve Ever Wanted

the tsukishima kei addition to A Heart’s A Heavy Burden. masterlist

warnings angst angstt, cursing, hospital setting but very vaguely described, memory loss-ish (does that count as a warning?)

pairing tsukishima kei x reader

a/n eek this seems more like a shitpost tbh haha omg, but please !! enjoy this lik tsukki angst..i kinda touched more on tsukishima’s emotional senses on this one, so if tsukki turns out a lil ooc i’m sorry !! n e ways, enjoy!! ur comments r very much appreciated <3

taglist @miyulovestowrite @hqprotectionsquad @savemesteeb @the-black-birb @alexa360b34st @hqkeiji @bb-noya (send an ask to be added to the taglist!)

— ♥️ —

“If you are the moon, Tsukishima,” you say tenderly, lacing your fingers in the gaps between his, your touch soft, warm, and loving—everything he’s ever needed, really—and Kei thinks his life’s never really going to get more romantic than this, “Then I am the sun.”

“How so?” He whispers as he asks; which is weird, because though nobody else is in the room except the two of you, the moment feels intimate enough that anything loud could ruin it in an instant.

“I’ll always be right behind you,” you say against his lips, closing your eyes and saying before you call them again into a sweet kiss, “That way, you’ll shine the brightest...”

...is what you said years ago.

He still remembers the way you said it; your voice soft and sultry, maybe even tired, eyes halfway closed, naked, with every inch of your body pressed up against his. He remembers what it was like to love and to be loved by you, and he wishes he could hold on to what bittersweet memories he had left of it.

But holding on to them makes him feel like he’s holding on to the stem of a rose; all while the rose stays so beautiful, so red and fresh, his hands are bleeding out through holes by the puncture of its thorns. I can bear it, he thinks, I’ll get through this for us.

There’s only so much pain he can handle before he has to let go.

Kei wishes it won’t ever have to come to that—no, he wants to believe it won’t come to that point. But no matter how tightly you hold on, the rope will burn your palms if you keep slipping.

He’s not stupid—Kei knows that it’s important that he’s by your side, but he’s so, so tired—he’s starting to lose hope for the two of you. He reasons, just to remind himself to be strong, that this is just a rough patch for the both of you, or that this will pass in the blink of an eye. If he could only try harder...help you remember what it was like to be in love, to live happily with his unbearable behavior (that only you seemed to tolerate)...he wants to try harder.

He visits you again today, at the same time as he did yesterday, and the day before.

“Hey,” he says softly as he enters your room, and the sight of you staring at nothing is enough to make his heart shatter into pieces.

You blink and break out of your trance; you straighten your back and smile at him. “Hey,” you greet, and for a minute he’s happy again, “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” he says, closing the door behind him gently as he approaches you. “I’m always back.”

“Were you here yesterday?”

He tries so hard not to cry.

“Yeah...yeah,” tears well up in his eyes as his voice cracks, but Kei keeps his head down so you don’t notice. “I was here. Right beside you.”

“What did we do yesterday?”

“We...” he spaces out for a second, but shakes himself as if he’s getting rid of his dark thoughts, “We were looking at photos of you. Baby pictures.”

You smile weakly, and Kei doesn’t know whether he wants to cry or smile back. “I’m sure we had fun.”

“We did.”

You’re staring again, but this time, right at him. He finds it hard to believe the same eyes that looked at him with so much emotion—be it anger, annoyance, or love—looked at him now with a foreign familiarity, like a word that’s on the tip of your tongue, or a sentence missing one important word. You blink slowly but don’t break eye contact, and even if just a bit, your eyes form crescents at the smile that reaches your cheeks.

He wishes he could see you smiling without being sad.

“I hope to remember, Tsukishima...I’m trying my best.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Even still. I wish I could remember faster...”

“Don’t force yourself to do that.”

Your next words hit him like a train running a hundred miles an hour, “I know you’re tired, Kei.”

He tries not too seem apprehensive; but the way you turn away from him when he freezes tells him he came off otherwise. “I..I’m not tired?” He tries to convince you, but he figures he doesn’t sound so. “I’m not tired of you. I won’t ever be.”

You shake your head and keep your eyes to your fidgeting hands. “You don’t have to keep doing this. It must be so taxing for you to come back and find out I’ve forgotten everything we did the last time you were here.”

“I don’t care if it’s so tiring as long as it’s a little step to helping you remember,” He says. “I love you. You know that.”

“I do.”

He pulls out a picture from his bag, one he had specifically printed just for you, framed in hopes you’ll keep it on your nightstand. It’s a picture of you lying on the snow, cheeks flushed red, snowflakes dotting your eyelashes as you smile. “You remember this?” He asks as he hands you the picture. You hold it in your hands hesitantly, running your thumb over the smooth glass that goes over your face. “We went back to Miyagi. This was our first Christmas together.”

You sniffle. He knows you’re about to cry, so he crawls up next to you on the bed and holds you close, cradling your head between his neck. “I’m sorry,” you choke as you clench the back of his shirt, and he can’t help but shed a few tears as he holds you closer, “I’m sorry I forget—I’m so sorry, Kei.”

It’s at moments like these Kei relives the broken glass shards of life, much like the ones from his broken windshield, that pierce through him even deeper than any knife can go. When he holds you close, he remembers—this is not the same person he used to love.

And the thought in itself is enough to shatter his very being to pieces.

The only person he loved, the only one who could tolerate his constant mood swings, the only only person who he could really love, trust, and adore behind closed doors...gone. Just like that.

Everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed, all taken from his clutch at the blink of an eye.

He rubs small circles in between your shoulder blades, in the middle of your back, hoping you remember that at the very least. “Do you remember this?” He asks, his voice nasal and stuffy from crying, “You loved it when I touched you here. It comforted you.”

You sob, and that is all that it takes for Tsukishima to understand that the answer was an ugly, hideous no.

“Please don’t give up on me, Tsukishima,” you say in between cries, and his heart breaks into two, “You’re all I have left to remember.”

He’s crying—you both are—and the pain feels just as agonizing as it did the first time. Like an open wound being opened deeper, deeper with exactly what hurt you, then buried in a sea of salt—the pain is long, hard, and fucking miserable.

“I won’t,” he replies in all sincerity, “I’ll be right here for you.”

“Do you remember how we fell in love?”

He blinks away his tears. “No,” he replies, “It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment we both knew we loved each other.”

“Well, then, do you remember how you fell in love with me?”

He swallows his tears for the nth time that day. “I...” he says, “I do; we were fighting about something so small that day.”

“And then?”

“I don’t remember how we got into that fight,” he sighs, “All I remember was that you were able to put me in my place—and that was how I knew; because every other person who’s tried always made me feel bad, but when you put me in my place it made me feel like i could do better, improve, for you.”

From then on it was only silence, and the soft whirring of all the machines and the air conditioning of the hospital. Tsukishima feels your fingers trace the dip of his spine, fingertips skimming up and down his back. Your movements become languid and slow; you must be falling asleep, he thinks. and he’s happy he gets this one moment of serenity, no matter how ephemeral it may be.

He’s holding you close—the you that he’s familiar with, the one he knows won’t think he’s a stranger when he wakes, and it almost feels to good to be true. He falls asleep with you in his arms, on a cramped, less-than-comfortable hospital bed; but if this is what it takes to get to you again, he’ll go through this and a whole lot more over a thousand nights just for you.

He remembers, in the worst way possible,, that all good things must come to an end, and that all he’s ever wanted was being snatched away from him all over again.

You wake up, frantic, and utter a sentence only three words long.

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 122: The Centaur and the Sneak

At first they all thought they landed outside again, which would have been a welcome relief considering the last time they'd been in open air it had not been a good night. This little clearing was dappled with light, the tree canopy just enough shade for them all to breath in the fresh air dancing about, the floor was soft spring grass that was at least a more tolerable landing than most places.

Peter knew better first though, as he seemed to have knocked over a wastepaper bin. Sirius had landed upside down against a stump, so he spotted a door for what it was instead of an oddly shaped bit of wood through a gap in the trees, and went over to pull it curiously, though it refused to open.

"Guess we're in Firenze's classroom," James said excitedly, twisting this way and that in the light, it really had been too long since they'd just lounged out by the lake. Even the last bit of fresh air they'd really had without having to worry about Moony had been a miserable time up in the owlery.

He waited only a moment more to appraise Evans one last time, but she was brushing furiously at her face and trying to pretend like nothing was wrong, and he could respect that. He summoned the book to him, and declared the chapter title.

Remus gave a slow, sarcastic clap at how proud he seemed of himself. "Congratulations Prongs, even Sirius could have made that leap in logic."

"I think calling it a leap is too kind," Peter grinned, "more like a hop."

Regulus busted out laughing in surprise, and he wasn't the only one. James and Sirius exchanged a fond smile as even Alice and Longbottom got a snicker at their expense, only Evans seemed to be trying to repress her smile, and she really wasn't trying that hard.

"I do wonder who the sneak will be though," Sirius said loudly with an exaggerated eyeroll for his 'hurt' feelings. "Maybe Harry? He can be pretty sneaky when he likes."

"You've won the last two bets, I'm certainly not going against you," Peter raised his hands up in surrender.

"A miracle in itself really, your luck must be changing for the better Padfoot," Remus grinned.

"I've got all the luck I need Moony," Sirius proudly declared.

James didn't even want to start reading as he watched, the book held loosely in one hand as he lazed back against a tree. He could have thrown himself to the ground and closed his eyes, and it really would be like none of this had even happened, they were all just laughing and ribbing at each other like old times.

Then Regulus came over and asked Peter for one of those sandwiches, and Sirius got that shifty look back in place and retreated slightly. It was better than him going and picking a fight like James would have thought he'd do by now, so even he couldn't deny things really were changing.

Someone finally cleared their throat impatiently, and he sighed deeply and sheepishly went back to the book, mostly aware there wasn't a real bathroom in here so he couldn't pretend this would go on forever.

It only took a quick conversation from Parvati and Lavender before Harry was being brought in here, and the place was pointlessly described again, but he read about Firenze with honest curiosity. Of the few centaurs they'd bothered to talk to in the forest, it was never very long, let alone getting on a first name basis with them.

"I was shocked there even were centaurs in the Forbidden Forest," Longbottom said casually enough. Not so loud as if he expected everyone to listen, but not quietly either, just chatting with Alice. "This really does sound unprecedented. I've read about them, and it's so rare for them to talk to humans really, let alone what's now going on at Hogwarts."

"I think we've all had more than enough of what he's read," Sirius huffed behind him, grabbing Remus' wrist and pulling him to the back of the classroom nearly out of sight. He knew he shouldn't now, but this wasn't an impulse he'd try to stop even when James did know, and it's not like he was going to have that conversation here. It could only be a good thing to keep Moony out of a fight as well, and otherwise distracted, he assured himself.*

James sighed in exhaustion but let the two leave, it probably was best to put some distance there, even if Longbottom actually looked apologetic for a moment. That was new at least, but clearly their plan to seem more approachable to the others was at least going to be put on hold, if not trashed all together, considering recent events.

The lesson itself wasn't really that interesting, the same nonsense Trelawney had been going on about, but now even Firenze was instructing that this was all theoretical and unpredictable. At least he was honest about his hogwash.

Sirius seemed to at least like the idea though and had to jump nearly twice his height, but finally caught a low hanging branch, and when he came down with it, they were now all glinting in starlight instead.

James made a chuffed noise at the idiot and repositioned to get the book in some better light so he could keep going.

The end of the class came with some sort of new details on Hagrid's issue this year, and he'd saved this centaur from his own heard in the meantime. He sighed and glanced back, but Sirius and Remus were now completely hidden in shadows, and Peter and Regulus were having their own whispered conversation about Hagrid's newest 'attempt.'

He could have joined them, it's not like there was anything really stopping him, just the odd idea in general of talking to Sirius' little brother. He hadn't even known the kid existed until his sorting, and Sirius had not spoken a word about him sense. James had some questions about him, but none he could bring himself asking of either, especially not now. He chanced a glance at Evans again, but she was clearly still in no mood to talk to anyone. She'd sat herself in a patch of sun, but even now that it was stars shining down she just kept fidgeting with her hair, her knees still to her chest. At least it hid her red rimmed eyes better.

When he tried to keep going and talk just turned to OWL's, he pushed away his misgivings. This was just getting ridiculous, and James Potter did not mope. He strode over and plopped himself down beside the two as Peter was saying, "and it was this gray centaur with a beard as long as Dumbledore's, and we'd caught him at a bad time cleaning his hooves so he was really short with us and-"

"That's the centaur story you went with?" James scoffed at him. "How about the time we saw this pinto one that must have been out hunting, and when he spotted Moony, he shot an arrow at him; and I do mean Moony. So he growls a warning and rears up right, all eight feet of him, and-"

"Excuse you," Regulus scowled. "It's sort of rude to be interrupting one story with another, isn't it?"

James scowled right back. "You'd know all about etiquette."

Peter cleared his throat softly and gave James a beseeching look, and he huffed. He didn't understand why Peter was clearly trying to hide a smile, maybe Sirius' little brothers idiocies was rubbing off on him. "It was a boring story," he added petulantly. He'd never gotten to tell any werewolf stories before, and this one involved both, why should Peter get all the fun?

He didn't want to pick another fight with Wormtail though, especially not over something so stupid, so took his obvious hint of eyeing the book and kept going.

At least their coming OWL's weren't forced into his consciousness long, as instead talk turned to Dumbledore's Army, and Harry teaching them all the Patronus charm!

"I've meant to yell at you about this for ages," Evans' voice sounded a little shotty, but it got better as she easily directed at him with that old irritated tone again. "You lot lied! All four of you can produce a patronus, can't you!" Nobody really wanted to be reminded of their time in Azkaban enough to bring it up before now.

"Yep," James' tone reached an impressive level of smug as he looked at her. "There's been studies done on the correlation of animagus' and patronus' and we all did them before hand to see. Would have been pointless doing all that work just to not get any good animals from the bunch."

"I've never heard that," Regulus sounded genuinely curious as he looked from him to Peter.

"McGonagall got us onto the idea," Peter nodded, "we were asking her some questions about the whole thing and if there was any way to tell-"

"As subtly as possible of course," he interrupted with a smirk.

Peter rolled his eyes but kept going, "and she mentioned it, seemed happy to actually have a reason for us hanging back in class for once without issuing a detention."

"That's really cool," Regulus actually grinned, and he didn't look half as pompous as usual while doing so. He got to his feet, took the precious time to brush the grass from his pants, but drew his wand and tried again.

Like before though, it came out very bright and solid, but still vanished before it could solidify. Regulus huffed in frustration and glared at his wand like it had done him a great personal harm.

"It really does take a lot of practice and concentration, not just one burst of energy," Peter happily coached. "You have to really feel the happy emotion you're going for, and keep it in mind for a long stretch of time-"

"We only did it around dementors that one time," James uneasily agreed, "and that was the hardest it's ever been. It still took us months of effort."

Regulus still looked annoyed every time James spoke even when he was agreeing with Peter now, but the other three all gave it goes again, with the same results as last time to all of their agitation.

Remus and Sirius finally came back over to grace them with their presence much to his relief. They looked like they'd been chasing each other around back there, a twig was even stuck in Sirius' hair and they looked a little flushed even in the dim lighting, but when they saw what was going on they looked almost pleased enough not to go running off again.

Sirius made his dog appear with pride, and it went bounding around everyone just as smug as its castor, even darting right through Longbottom before stopping at his feet once more before vanishing.

Remus just rolled his eyes at the display and quickly asked him to keep going, though James understood why, Moony hated showing off his wolf patronus and he didn't want anyone to ask for it.

As several students guardian animal was described, Regulus leaned very close to Peter so Potter couldn't hear and whispered, "if you don't tell him to stop that, he never will."

"He doesn't mean anything by it," Peter sighed. His heart stumbled unevenly though as he thought about it again, it had only started annoying him recently, he was used to not getting a word in edge wise with those two loud mouthed idiots, but if he did just keep letting them do it would the resentment return?

They all stopped their own little tasks as if a dementor had showed up anyways though, when Dobby came in and delivered the news they'd all feared since the beginning. She knew.

Alice and Frank sat up abruptly, their wands in hand and an almost terrifying look in place. Harry had gone so long without a detention, and the mark had still been mentioned to be on his hand. Would they now forever have to picture Neville the same? He'd been doing so well, they didn't even get to hear what his animal would be!

Lily scowled and wished for the millionth time she could blow that woman up as Harry had once done to Marge and send her into the stratosphere, they were learning for crying out loud! And now these kids were running for the lives!

James looked as if he were reading the death of a dear friend as his son was forced to abandon his group and make a run for it, but not fast enough. He couldn't sit still as Umbridge began hauling him off, though at least it was to the headmasters office rather than her own for another round of torture.

He was pacing in frustration and kept kicking a nearby bush on his path as he went through the rest of the other unexpected guests to this, the Minister and Percy were back! Along with two aurors?! Just what was going to happen to his son, were they really going to haul him off to Azkaban for this!

At least one of them was Kingsley, and Mcgonagall was there too, it couldn't be that bad, right?

It got almost that bad. They couldn't even laugh at the expense of the girl.

"I found our sneak," Sirius said viciously as Marietta was dragged in, James was almost in a flying temper for Harry having no way to talk himself out of this because someone in his group ratted him out.

Then he winced at his own choice of phrase and glanced at Peter, who was ducking low and trying to pretend he wasn't even there even as his fists kept tensing up in frustration for this situation same as them.

The Marauders were all trying to move past that instance now, but it was of some comfort to Sirius if Peter did still blame himself. He just wasn't sure how to tell him it was okay to forgive, but not forget, he was still working on that himself.

Remus was distracted enough though when Dumbledore got a new animal association, a scapegoat! What was he doing, pinning the whole thing on himself? He half wished James was just making all this up as Marietta began actually confirming the story, and Fudge sent Percy off to get orders ready to send Albus Dumbledore to Azkaban!

Dumbledore at least kept his head better than James was, who kept cursing fluently at this in between reading to nobodies protest, as he dispatched anyone who dared raise a wand against him, made one last cryptic remark to Harry about those merlin-awful occlumency lessons, and left in style.

HPHPHPHPHP

The others aren't ever going to be able to do patronus' in fic, I'm really not trying to make these guys all elite students who can do anything and the DA was apparently practicing since January to get this far, it's mid-March in the books when this happens, so here's what I imagine their patronus' would have been-

Lily- Adder Snake/ Until she fell in love with James, then the Doe

Alice- Elephant/ Thesteral

Frank- Kangaroo Mouse/ Thesteral

Regulus- Lion (think Scar)

Personal headcanon on top of these headcanon picks, none of their patronuses' would have taken shape even if they had been practicing long enough to do them, because they're all in the most in between moments of their life. Their animal can't form, because they're not even sure of who they are right now.

Last thing of note, I imagine Neville's is a honey badger. Let me know your thoughts on all of these, especially if you disagree and imagined different animals for any of them!

* The excluded scene will appear in a separate post

[kazbrkker]

Chapter 8: Second Chances

Chapter summary: Aftermaths of the Wolf’s escape & two painfully, oblivious pining idiots. 

Warnings: mention of stitches, old scars. (3502 words)

28 October 2019, 2330 "Alexis" and "Alex" | Codename Aces CIA with SAS and Urzik militia Sakhra, Urzikstan

    "Stop moving," Alia grumbled exasperatedly for the fifth time. Her nimble fingers were supposed to make stitching up Alexis' gnarly forehead gash easy—if she could stay still. Then again, nobody could sit still through that without anaesthetic.

Begging for a distraction, Alexis' teeth scraped against her pale lips and her fingernails subconsciously dup deeper into Farah's arm with every stitch.

"I don't know why you do this without painkillers," Alia mumbled absentmindedly, every movement meticulous. It went unanswered, for Alexis refused to supply the 16-year-old with more horror. A few more stitches later, the young girl leaned back and smiled.

Thank Heavens. High pain tolerance, sure, but needles... Alexis was wise enough to stay far away.

Alexis' impatiently patted the medical gauze, nodding at the decent patch-up. Of course the Marines had professional medics on deck, but when Alexis awoke, she felt responsible for Alia's red-rimmed eyes and loud sniffles. So, pain be damned.

Alia scowled, swatting her nosy hand, "No! Do you want an infection?"

"I am older than you," Alexis reminded.

"Yes. More stupid too."

Bewildered, her neck craned towards Farah, jaw-slacked at the commander's blatant shrug in agreement. Overwhelmed by the thunderous support, "This is a mutiny of some sorts..."

"Uh-oh, your boyfriend is coming," the young girl loudly announced. Her accusation reeled stares from closer bystanders.

Heat found its way to Alexis' cheeks, spreading under Farah and Alia's teasing grins. Dizziness soon trickled in, forcing her to blink rapidly in an attempt to concentrate past the nasty headache. "Alex is not my boyfriend."

"Did I say it was Alex?"

Farah huffed, bumping fists with the younger. The conniving duo displayed megawatt smiles when Alex and Kyle came into hearing distances. Holding a box of ration packs, Kyle gestured for them to take their pick. That knocked their smugness off.

Alex plopped beside her, eating out of his rations. "Tell me you feel better," he more than demanded, giving her battered state a once-over. His eyes lingered on her forehead.

"Am I supposed to lie?"

A shadow flickered past his face, "Should I bench you?"

"Yes, if you wish to die in your sleep," her quick movements to snatch away his wristwatch communicator intensified the pain. "Although blunt force trauma is not as deadly as this headache."

"Crack another joke and I'll deliver you to Price," Alex threatened at her lightheartedness. Though his menace soon faltered at her radiant grin.

"Boss is not in a good mood," Kyle chimed in.

"Mutiny..." Alexis mumbled. "Fine, no more jokes about concussions."

The group chatted about their game plan for tomorrow when a rude growling stomach sounded. It certainly didn't go unnoticed by Alex, who willingly gave up his rations. Packaged pasta had never tasted better, she mumbled gratefully, "Have I ever told you how amazing you are?"

Alex laughed, "Now I know you hit your head too hard."

"Would you be open to the idea of getting matching injuries?"

"Are you flirting with me?"

"No, it's just in season," Alexis shook her head, bemused. "Shut up and eat your veggies, you're giving me another headache."

The scorching look of triumph was clear in Farah and Alia's expressions and for the same reason, she purposefully evaded their eyes.

"I thought the CIA frowned upon dating in the circle?" Kyle asked casually.

The unexpectable question forced her to choke, coughing loud enough to render someone patting her back. Alexis flushed at his concern, aware of the stutter in his pats. Both CIA agents were red, and boy, were Farah and Alia having a field day.

Alexis prayed her face was the usual controlled indifference. This wasn't the first time someone mislabelled their friendship, so why was this suddenly a big deal? "Yup. They hate it."

Kyle's lips formed an 'o' upon realisation, "Sorry, I thought you two were..."

Alex cleared his throat, "That's a popular opinion."

"Maybe everybody has a point. You did call her baby–" Alia cheekily added.

You little...

Alexis gently slapped a hurried palm against her mouth, muffling the jocular giggles from the young woman. It didn't stop her from cheekily winking at the group. Other than the two in cynosure, the others wore matching grins.

Perhaps they were playing matchmakers, but right now, her priority was to dig herself a hole.

From the unreadable look on Alex's face, he felt the same. When Alia tried to wrestle out of her grips, she thought the reddish hue on his face was a figment of her imagination. Yet if it wasn't, he sure didn't spare her the glory with this knowledge, as his head swiftly lowered to observe the hardwood floor panels.

Witnessing him this taciturn was a rare sight. Before she could entertain her illusions that maybe her friends were onto something, Price yelled for Kyle.

The tension in the air snapped.

"Get some rest. We need energy to catch the Wolf tomorrow," Farah gave a friendly side hug, saving Alex from Alia's nagging reminders about her stitches. He replied with a salute.

And then there were two.

"She's awfully like you," Alex smiled. Spitfire personality, dauntless and stubborn.

"Hopefully not, I'm a horrible person," she joked wearily, eyes losing in a battle against the slurry languor that washed over her. Coupled with the splitting headache, she wrangled between climbing upstairs to find a bed or staying here. The latter almost won until she was hoisted up.

"Don't bother, you're not walking," came Alex's reply and she obliged. When she reopened her eyes, Alex had already sat her down a bed to unlace her boots. She carelessly slithered her sweaty top off her skin.

They squeezed into a tightly-confined shower, sighing in bliss as warm cascades of water enveloped them, splashing the warfare away. Her arms looped contentedly around Alex's neck as he started to wash her blood-crusted hair, careful to shield her head wound.

"Hi," Alex wore a suspicious smile.

She sighed, "Here we go."

"Damn right. You have an immaculate talent for making people worried."

"Why thank you..."

Goosebumps raised as he silkened down her arms, tracing the red streaks clearly shaped from her nails. The way his dark eyes fastened on her made her heartstrings twitch nervously, "You could have died."

She laughed humourlessly. "You think too little of me."

"I'm serious, never do that again. You run into anything you can't handle..."

"I had him under control," she retorted.

"Clearly not enough."

"The bastard got to me. My fault, okay? I messed up. I don't need another reminder," she snapped, and the hands in her hair stopped. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Sure you did," he nodded, not in the slightest offended. The fact that someone managed to one-up her caught his attention instead, "What did he say?"

Now Alexis suspected he could read minds. "Why did you think he said something?"

"Call it a hunch."

Alexis sighed, not fond to revisit her failure. "Alex..."

That was her warning, and he took it. "Just saying, I've never seen Price that worried."

She closed her eyes and shook her head dismissively, "He's just annoyed he'll have to answer to Maddox and Forbes. I'm a prized possession."

The cubicle echoed with their laughs.

Alex worked past the scars that littered her body, leaving trails of soap bubbles. He could pinpoint them with his eyes closed, yet with today's new additions, he had more to commit to memory. His thumb brushed over a spot on her upper right thigh, smirking at the slight shudder he induced but more so at the memory.

Was she nervous?

Hearing Alexis' hoarse voice confirmed his suspicions, "Remember this?"

"'course, you took a bullet for me," Alex said, still glazing over the raised bump.

August 2016, Brazil. 30 grand bounty over their heads. They played a dangerous game of cat and mouse with the entire city. A mercenary almost tore through his kneecaps until she knocked him out of the line of fire.

A charming smirk reappeared, "Few things say "I love you" like a bullet to a non-essential area."

She snorted, punching his chest. Cloudy mist floated around them, the water was too hot, almost scorching. Or maybe it was his warmth, she guessed. Her mind was foggy, only thinking how much endurance she had to not bask in the feeling of his coarse hands.

Then again, she was a soldier. Willpower was all she got.

Maybe not, her hormones decided. As hard as she tried to toss the raunchy thoughts, Alex made it difficult. Especially his arms... she was a real sucker for strong arms. The temperature was sweltering and with their bare bodies practically pressed together was not aiding.

"Switch," was all she said before she forcefully flipped them, leaving her under the running water—hoping it would clear her mind. Hasty fingers weaved in his wet hair, her turn to bathe him.

"Nasty scar," she picked up their conversation, "Scares people away."

"Maybe you should revaluate your definitions of a partner," Alex scoffed, "Scars are god damn sexy."

"In theory, I must be sexy as hell."

Hm. You have no idea.

The bullet scrap on her arm healed nicely by now—still an open wound, though it no longer hurt when she raised her arms. Useful to know, as she foamed his hair. Her gaze traced the numerous tattoos across Alex's body, eventually landing on his chest.

Her favourite tattoo of his—a butterfly.

Butterflies are the universe's proof that second chances exist, this stuck with her ever since she read that somewhere in a digest.

A similar tattoo rested along the sides of her ribcage, accompanied by an eye on top of it. The idea struck her when she finally made Lieutenant. It felt symbolic, a parting gift to her old life.

She always had a sneaking suspicion Alex wanted a matching tattoo but was too afraid or embarrassed to say it. He'd chat her ears off about parallel tattoos, as if she didn't pick up on it. So it was no surprise when one day, he suddenly showed up with a butterfly stuck on his chest.

It was a sweet gesture and thus made her way more resolute to not jeopardise their friendship. Tattoos were sacred to a man like Alex, who never stood a chance against Command. He'd make sure to find something he loved in every location he went, and inked it. His way of establishing control over his job—by remembering parts of the good.

Her finger skimmed past his butterfly before grabbing the showerhead to drown his hair clean. They were two people engrossed in good memories among warfare. And it felt liberating.

That was until she noticed he was looking at the prominent area on her chest.

Burnt flesh, the size of his palms, staring back at them.

The entire atmosphere shifted. A shiver of glacial magnitude rushed from her toes and her heart sank. The scar's jaggedness made her feel even more self-conscious.

Hot poker on her skin, an iron branding from the mob. If she closed her eyes, she could envision the exact scene. Fear not, if the mental baggage wasn't enough, there was a physical one.

"You deserve the best, you know that?" She didn't know which irked her more, the sympathy in his tone, or that he placed her on a pedestal.

I'm damaged goods, the thought fed her demons. So why do I deserve the best?

She peered at the man in front of her, every word earnest. He'd say it a million times and yet she wouldn't believe him.

Perhaps it was the head injury or hormones, but her eyes soon welled up with tears. Within seconds, what started out as small sniffs transformed into full streaks of tears. The tears blended into the stream of falling water but it was unmistakable.

The sight broke Alex's heart. Shattered it, really.

Silently, Alex switched off the faucet and dressed her. Every step jerked new tears that stained his bareback. At her quiet sobs, he berated what an idiot he was for reminding her.

The contact of soft mattress made her flinch. With tear-stained eyes, she gaped at the man who Omar Sulaman promised to kill and it almost made her whimper pathetically.

The malice thoughts stopped whispering when warm touch on her face descended her back to reality.

Alex.

"Yeah?" She hadn't realised she said it out loud.

"Stay with me," she implored. His head was already nodding, but it didn't satisfy her.

A hand shot out anxiously, "No, not this. You can't ever die on me." Her sudden request puzzled him. "Promise me."

"I promise," he said. "What happened, Alexan– Alexis?" Her birth name sat heavily on the tip of his tongue, almost escaping in his concern.

Over time, she'd built a reasonable resilience from Alex's relentless questionings, yet today her defenses lowered. "Back there... He said he'd kill you, he'll make me watch," she swallowed the rising bile. "And I let him go... Fuck."

Alexis felt like an utter failure. Not only did she fail to extract information about the stolen gas, but more people would suffer as a result of the Wolf's escape.

Losing the usual silver lining from her interrogations made her dangerously close to spiral out of control. In her mind, she unjustly tortured a man. And it was vile—even if that man was Omar Sulaman. Now, she found the line between her and her torturers blurred.

Though she didn't specify, Alex placed two and two together. "The Wolf?"

She merely nodded, still gripping his arm painfully like he'd slip away. The desperation her pleads carried haunted him.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," He saw red, only able to suppress his anger by making this promise. Without hesitation, he levelled their faces together, mumbling reassurance of I'm not going anywhere.

In the moonlight, Alex could still see the faint tint of pink that stained her nose—he compared it to the pink chrysanthemums he saw earlier today. How could anyone still look this enchanting while sobbing was a mystery to him, though he was staring right at the answer.

She never ceased to amaze him.

"I'm with you, okay? Always." This sentence never lost its genuineness. He'd do anything for her—the world begins and ends where she says so.

She felt his lips move against her ear, and her racing heart slowly composed itself from his assurance. Losing composure was uncommon for her, but even in this exception, she was sagacious enough to know the air between them had long changed.

Refusing to play host to her desire, her head stay lowered. She opted to wipe her tears and joked about how she didn't want his ghost to haunt her, hoping a distraction would alleviate her pounding heart.

Despite her prayers, Alex tilted her chin upwards to meet him, "Never happening."

They were so close. "Even when you're a ghost?"

"Mhm. I'm pretty hard to shake."

"You'd definitely be one of those annoying ghosts... With no sense of boundaries."

The magnetic allure of her lips called to him. On its own accord, his thumb ghosted ever so slightly over her parted lips, stealing a sharp breath from them both. They were dead silent.

And something in Alex warned him to reduce his voice to a whisper, afraid that he might scare this moment away, "Boundaries... You want it...?"

Everything was electrified. His touch, his gaze. Alexis worked hard not to crumble under his intense stare.

Then it happened, his gaze fell on her lips. She definitely didn't imagine that.

"Do you?" she deflected. Mildly embarrassed that her voice had the abraded texture of stone against stone.

Even when her lungs screamed for air, Alexis still forgot to breathe. She was busy listening to the angel and the devil warring inside her, pleading to her rationality. It was clear which side won when she closed her eyes.

Her world was pitch black. Senses put into overdrive. The touch along her jawline felt like it burned. She thought if this was what being set on fire felt like, she'd gladly pay the price.

His breath fanned across her nose. And then their noses touched.

Alexis felt horrible for her overworking heart, rapidly pumping oxygen to her brain—she certainly dared not to breathe, terrified to screw this up. Maybe there was a screeching voice inside her head, but it was fogged by her desires.

Tingles rushed through her when his lips brushed her own, the velvety feeling of it already so addictive. Alexis closed her eyes, waiting for the impact, and then–

A sharp knock forced them both apart.

She almost got whiplash from how fast she turned to the door, making her clutch her head in pain. The silhouette of Kyle Garrick stood in front of them, head still bowed while reading a prescription off a medicine tube.

"Nero- no, Neosporin," he cluelessly recited. "Antibiotic cream." When Kyle finally raised his head, a look of doubt crossed his face upon the flustered duo.

He awkwardly tossed the tube to Alex. "Okay... Weird vibe. Alia said to apply it or else."

"Thanks, Garrick," Alexis grimaced at her slightly pitchy voice, "Um. Get some rest, yeah?"

"Mhm. As you were..."

The door closed after him. Tensed at the shuffling sounds behind her, her brain replayed the scene much to her protest.

"Still want me to stay?" Alex said in a low voice. She hadn't realised she was still staring at the empty doorway.

What was that? She never loathed her noisy thoughts more than this moment. Oh fucking fuck, shit. I'm so stupid.

No... Why am I embarrassed? He initiated the stupid kiss! She reasoned, digging for some form of consolation to find the courage to snap around, preparing herself for what might come next. But she wasn't expecting the smug smile he so proudly wore. She then wondered if she should feel relieved or nervous.

But as a wave of dizziness forced her to grab a handful of bedsheets, she inwardly spoke gratitude that she didn't have to decide.

What was this? What were they, really? Too many questions and too little answers.

"Come on, it's past your bedtime," Alex pulled her back into the bed and started to administer the medication on her cheek wounds. Today was already a heck of a day, and with the soothing circles rubbed into her skin, she surrendered to her tiredness.

"Night..."

Upon her steady breathing, Alex tossed the tube across the room and it landed accurately on his vest with a soft thud. His finger outlined a path from her forehead and hovered hesitantly above her lips. The very same one he should have already felt.

Thanks, Garrick.

A frustrated sigh escaped him, loud enough to make Alexis nuzzle deeper into him, an arm draped over his waist.

He laid back down, replaying their scenes from earlier. A bolt of lightning might as well strike him now—maybe that would explain the bursting feeling in his chest.

"Wow," he mouthed in realisation. "I'm a damn idiot."

Years ago when she tipsily ended up on his doorstep desperate for him to take the pain away, he willingly obliged. No denials that he had the biggest selfish reason to say yes.

Fuck, it was a strange feeling to finally get all that he dreamt of. That night, he was too busy planning a confession in his head to sleep. But by dawn, the demons inside him questioned if he truly deserved someone like Alexis.

Someone like her? For him? It was too good to be true. His mind raced with the "What ifs?"

"What if our jobs clashed?"

"What if I put her in danger?"

"What fucking if the long distance fucks everything up?"

Their friendship would be in shreds. And she was one of the– the most important person in his life. No way would he lose her.

So he pushed her away—looked her in the eyes and lied. For Heaven's sakes, he wanted to punch himself. And he knew he made the right decision because when their friendship took a hit for a few weeks, the loneliness was unparalleled.

He didn't want to feel that way again. Ever.

Alex might have kept their friendship, but at the cost of everything. He liked to picture how different things would have been, if not for his cowardice. He thought about it frequent enough to imprint a permanent gnaw in his heart.

Now, here it was. A bloody second chance. His second chance.

Alex peered down to the butterfly tattoo on his bare chest, smiling. The universe's proof, alright, he whispered, "Gotcha."

The night ended with Alex falling into dreams of the woman he loved.

‧͙⁺˚*·༓

a/n:        they're such stupid fools... & omg i hate this chapter so much idek. btw what do yall think alexis’ real name is?

taglist: @flyboidameron​​ @wanderlustgiant​​ (wanna be tagged? lmk!)

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 26

Read on AO3.  Part 25 here. Part 27 here.

Summary: You're not sure what Ren is thinking. You're not sure what you're thinking, either.

Words: 2900

Warnings: Handmaid’s Tale AU

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: I feel like every time I try to write this fic, I'm just... like... "Oh, let's try an action scene. Oh, let's try to write a party. Oh, let's fuckin', uh, inject some attempt at connection and emotion"? I don't know, haha. Reply down below if you think Anna be doin' too much.

That being said, the support and engagement I receive from y'all truly makes my day and week and life better. Every single comment is so special to me, I don't take any of it for granted. I feel so lucky and love y'all so much. Thank you! <3

The Knight stepped forward as you crossed the gate, a black wall of carbon and fabric, the pointed red cross on the breast of his cape the only break in the shadow. “Commander Ren requests your presence.”

You stopped, tossing a glance over the masked man before nodding. An escort wasn’t typical--not for you, anyway. “Well. Lead the way.”

The Knights Templar had been patrolling Kylo Ren’s property since before he’d returned from the hospital. After he’d called them to Snoke’s to alter the scene, his home had been monitored by at least three of them at any given time. One had gone with you when you were questioned by the Eyes--thanks to Christine’s report that a guard had killed Commander Snoke, you’d been given the benefit of the doubt and released in silence. A good thing, too, since otherwise they might have discovered the suspiciously bloody handprints on your tits.

Today, you spotted two of the Knights at the front gate and two posted at the side-yards--meaning the last two were in the back. You’d only ever seen all six the first day they’d arrived.

He turned, the flutter of his cape revealing the rifle strapped across his torso, and marched up the driveway, past Ren’s Audi, guiding you into the home. The bag in your hand seemed just ounces heavier as you trailed him, heart fluttering at the thought of seeing your Commander. It’d been over a week since you’d spoken. Your last conversation hadn’t gone well.

In a way, it’d been almost a relief on your poor body as it recovered from the concussion, the welts, the hickeys, the scabs on your knees and back. Even your cunt was grateful for a breather--you hadn’t realized what several days of being constantly, aggressively fucked by Kylo Ren’s massive dick had done for your pain tolerance.

That being the case, you would’ve been lying if you said that you hadn’t spent the days since your last tryst remembering the taste of copper on his tongue, the slickened slip of blood on your clit, how he’d looked coated in crimson under the summer sun as the heat of victory, of unity had pumped through you both. That connection had cracked open your ribs, lead your foolish heart to slaughter with the promise of security in your Commander’s arms. You weren’t delusional to believe that he wanted you as more than his Handmaid--no, the delusion had been the belief that he’d ever see you as his equal.

The Knight led you through the home, and you dropped off your bag in the kitchen--Emma and Rose were clattering away, and you heard Johana’s voice, a needle in your ears.

“No, no, don’t be stupid. Those don’t go there. Emma, will you start the tomato salad for the bruschetta, already? We need at least three different hors d'oeuvres--do you want to be shipped off to the Colonies?”

“Ms. Johana, please, I’m just now--”

“Get to work.”

You frowned. It sounded as if they were preparing for something, but what it could be, you didn’t know. The thought of another dinner party made your stomach roil.

The doors to Kylo Ren’s den were closed when you arrived--the Knight pushed one open, standing solid as he waited for you to enter. Glancing between him and the floor, head bowed, you passed through, and the door shut behind you.

In the light of the day, Ren seemed significantly less suffocating--but no less heady, no less beguiling. He leaned back in his chair, dressed in an open white linen shirt that revealed a ridiculously tempting patch of clavicle. Documents sprawled out in front of him, a fountain pen in his hand. His eyes were dark, full lips pursed as he watched you enter, following your footsteps and swaying skirts as you sat across from him. The bandages were gone, now, and you saw his scar, a pretty pink thread that stretched from his brow to his neck. He swallowed, and the line of it shifted with the motion of his throat. Your fingers itched, wanting to trace it.

“It’s been over a week.”

“So it has.”

You felt more awkward than indignant--you and Ren had plenty of ideological spats, but you’d typically resolved those arguments using your tongues for a completely different purpose. Now, he was solidifying his hold on Gilead as the Lead Commander, and his extended absence from your life had frustrated the tear you’d made in your relationship. Speaking with him now felt like taking a nail file to your teeth.

Gesturing over your shoulder, you said, “Is the Knight Templar really necessary?”

Ren glanced at the closed door, then to you. “You fail to understand how precarious a transition of power can be.”

“But for me?”

He blinked, gaze drifting to the papers, a slow breath gathering and leaving his chest through his nose. “I will ensure that nothing will ever happen to or harm you while you are in this home.” His eyes drilled you to your seat. “Or in my presence.”

“Oh.” Heat tingled your cheeks. “I see.”

The awkwardness refused to cease. It was like cotton, clogging the channels of communication. In the silence, Ren continued to review and add notations to the forms on his desk--they looked to be bylaws or something similar--so you decided to occupy your hands, too. You sat forward, snagged a pen, a piece of scrap paper he’d discarded to the side, and began to doodle. Even before Gilead, you’d never been particularly skilled with art, but your hands had rusted from years of being denied the ability to hold a pen. It felt unwieldy, the lines you made wriggled like worms across the page.

“Anyway.” You started to sketch what you hoped appeared like vines--they were shaky, trembling strands with misshapen blobs for leaves. “Why did you ask me here?”

He considered you for a moment, watched you draw. “Last time we spoke,” he said, “you said there was nothing I could do to make your existence as a Handmaid bearable.” He paused as you tried to create another stem of vines. “I disagree.”

You sighed, not bothering to meet his gaze. “Unless you can destroy Gilead, it never will be.”

“You could be my advisor.” His voice was soft, but certain. “Help me create a new order.”

A pause--you were frustrated with the way these leaves were turning out, anyway--and you glanced up at him, brow cocked. “How could I possibly advise you?”

Ren took his own pen and placed it to your paper. “I want to know your thoughts.” The ink spilled in a gorgeous, swooping arc as he drew a single stem and leaf. “Lead with your wrist.” A tiny, teasing smirk quirked the corner of his lip. “You offer critique so freely otherwise. Wouldn’t it behoove me to make use of it?”

You made another attempt, starting a new stem, guiding your pen across the paper as Ren had suggested. “I don’t want to be around the Council as your Handmaid advisor.” Half of you was playing along. The other half was traitorously curious.

“Then you’d be the advisor in my home.”

“No thank you.” The pen slipped as you added sloppy detail. You sighed. “That isn’t an equal.”

“Then you’d come with me.” He flicked tiny veins into the leaf he drew. “Use simple lines.”

“Well, I don’t want to do that.” You tried to imitate his movement, but your motor skills were clunky, unfinessed. “Any other awful offer you’re willing to make me?”

“You could sleep in my bed.”

Everything paused--your hands, your breath, your thoughts. You couldn’t think to move.

“And still wear this uniform.”

“No.”

You exhaled, your gaze traveled from his strong hands, up the thick muscles of his arms, past the sheen of skin at his chest and neck, landing on his own eyes. Streams of sunlight cast amber irises in gilded vulnerability, the constant void in his pupils filled now with something present and deep, a trench of new, tender need. He was seeking you, inviting you to a forbidden place you’d never dreamed you’d go--the technicalities seemed distant and secondary to the urgent ache you’d felt for his company. He swallowed again. The scar bulged.

But Johana, clinging to meaning. But the Resistance, whom you’d avoided since the coup. But the other Handmaids, languishing in the beds of their Commanders against their will. The thought of waking up in Kylo Ren’s arms filled you with a warmth that nearly choked you, scorched your heart with its heat. That warmth was drowned, almost immediately, in a blizzard of dreadful reality. You could never be his equal. He didn’t even know your name.

Wetting your lips, you started a new bundle of vines in the corner of the page. “Do you ever feel empty?” you asked. “Lost?”

For a moment, Ren didn’t respond, only followed your fingers as they worked to pull the image in your mind to life. Then he moved, pushing his fountain pen on the paper, working in the corner opposite of yours, whirling tapered black lines into an abstract plant design. You glimpsed his work with a bizarre pang of jealousy, but you continued, scrawling your best imitation into your own space. It felt easy to talk, like this, focused on your busy hands.

“You know,” you said, “the only thing that’s made me feel alive in the past three years is being with you.” You looped one of the stems to the middle of the page, adding a couple of ugly, thick-veined leaves. “But maybe before that, too. I don’t know. When you do stuff like this, it makes me feel worse. “

He swiftly swirled a long, naked vine. It came close to touching one of yours. “Worse.”

“Have you ever known something was wrong…” You weren’t sure how to finish the sentence. More and more stems piled up in your corner, encroaching on his work. “Have you known something was wrong, but felt like… the only way you can even think about taking your next breath is if you do it?”

Ren stopped. The pen bled a fat daub into the paper. When you looked up, his mouth was parted. He was gazing into you.

“Yes.”

Your eyes were chained to his, your breath hollow in your chest, fingers withering with weakness, your pen tumbling from your grip.

“And have you--have you felt like doing the right thing… but knew that it would be impossible?”

He wasn’t breathing, either--he was only staring, memorizing something.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Always.”

You blinked and wet your lips, wondering how he could survive with the same constant, crushing pain on his chest and in his mind. Ren regarded you in stillness, an awakened honesty pulsing between you.

“How do you live?” you asked. “I… It feels like I’m…”

“Dying.”

“Yes.” You sat forward, nodding. “Yes. Dying. Like… my actions don’t even matter. Like I don’t even…”

He broke from your gaze, scanning the piece you’d both created, your vines reaching desperately for each other from the corners, separated by empty white space. “Have a choice.”

“Yes.” The heat of understanding burned through you. “How do you do it?”

Ren glanced up, the severity in his stare shrouding him in shadow. “I destroy it.”

Air stuck in your throat. “What?”

“Until it is nothing.” His face betrayed no emotion. “I destroy it.”

Perhaps that’s where you differed. You hadn’t tried to destroy that feeling. You’d tipped headfirst into it, choked on it, allowed it to consume you. Underneath its weight, you’d suffocated, starving for respite that didn’t exist.

“That’s how being with you makes me feel.”

His chest fell, air escaping his nose. “Yet you were there.”

“What?”

Ren took your hand in his, led you to pick up your pen, curling his long fingers around yours. His grip brought you refuge, its firm warmth guiding you through slow, sweeping motions until you’d grown a beautiful shoot of vines on the page. Throat tight, you watched his face under a new lens, his features now in soft focus, skin kissed by light, hair shifting over his cheeks.

“You could’ve run. Let me die.” His hold tightened, sparks shooting between your skin as he led you through darting veins in a leaf. “You didn’t.”

Words wouldn’t leave. You could only sit as he released you, allowed you to admire your collaboration. His side of the page had branched into a bloom of abstruse lines, black rivers running through the paper, not entirely vines, but precise and pretty all the same. Your side was less complex, crafted with a child’s hand, but a clear attempt at plantlife--thin, shaky stems snaking from the corner, ovals tacked on as leaves. Then there was the patch you’d drawn together. That part filled the center, entirely different from your creation and his own, a gorgeous weave of coiled fronds that crawled to three-dimensional life.

A shiver rippled up your spine. You met his eyes for the hundredth time, but drowned in them as if it was the first.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, not sure what you were referring to, anymore.

Ren’s lashes fluttered at his cheeks. His lips seemed pinker. “Practice, little bird.” After a moment, he drew a deep breath. “Johana’s hosting a party this evening. For my installation.” He pushed the pens to the side. “I left a dress in your room. I want you to wear it.”

Your heart seized, and you shook your head. “What?” you asked. “A dress?”

“Yes.” His face fell in a mask of disinterest. “You’d said last time we spoke you wanted more than what you have.”

“But…” Johana. The Council. The other Commanders. “Everyone else…”

“Gilead will bend to my design.” He sniffed, folding the drawing and placing it in his desk. “You’re part of that design.”

Heat flooded your face. “Oh.”

There was that feeling again--the same one that burgeoned between you, twisted you in its temptation, that robbed you of rationality. The one Ren sought to destroy, the one that you wanted to surrender to. You despised him. And you couldn’t wait to wear whatever stupid fucking dress he’d picked for you.

“Vic,” Ren called out. The door opened, the Knight stepped through. “Escort her to her room.”

Nodding, you stood, heading toward the door. Before you crossed the threshold, you glanced at him a final time. He was watching you.

“I’ll see you this evening.”

You swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

It was strange, walking the halls with a silent usher--and having him wait until you closed yourself in your room was even stranger. You stood, waiting for the Knight’s footsteps to descend the staircase before you ran to your tiny dresser, tearing open the drawers to reveal the dress Ren had hidden there. Hands shaking, face hot, you grabbed it and shook it out, flipping it under your scrutiny.

It was still conservative--a high neck, long sleeves. But the fabric was a soft, pink chiffon, draped to the waist, a design that would skim your figure, but not reveal it. Round fabric buttons concealed the collar, cutting through a window of gauzy lace. You twirled it, admiring the flutter of the hem, imagining how it would feel on your skin. The longer you stared, the shorter your breath became, mind swarmed with thought. How would it feel, to walk through the home wearing this, to feel the brush of something over than starchy cotton at your ankles? How would your Commander react, seeing you in it? Fire stormed your skin, made your thighs squeeze together at the mere thought of him gazing at you, mesmerized, captivated--

Why did this excite you, when you were still his property? Perhaps it was that promise of respite, this dress your brief gasp of air before you would be plunged back into a sea of misery. Or perhaps it was the way he’d looked at you, the sincerity in his eyes, the throb in your pulse that lingered from his hand around yours.

His reaction was one thing, though. What about everyone else?

Knowing you’d be a Handmaid out of uniform sent your heart into your throat, had you considering tossing the damn dress out of your window and burying yourself in your sheets. It wouldn’t just be Ren seeing you--it’d be his Wife, his colleagues, his would-be supporters. The fact that you’d be wearing this flowy, hispy thing in front of all of them inspired a rush of unearned horror through your head, so thick you could swim in it. Yet your status in society could hardly sink any lower. Other than scandal, what response did you truly have to fear?

After all, there was another feeling, too, a burbling bubble at the base of your brain.

Vindication.

Yes, you were special, you were more than a Handmaid, and while you were still stuck on this awful hell-rock, you’d prove it to them. You’d prove it to them all.

Tossing the dress on the bed, you wrung out your arms, ears aflame. Outside, birds twittered in chorus, their song an echo of the melody in your chest:

Hopeful. Jubilant. Naive.

[calitraditionalism]

Arc Two: Chapter Twelve

(AO3 counterpart here.)

It was a lovely day, all things considered. The thick patch of clouds had drifted off overnight, and the air was cool in the shade and pleasantly warm in the sun. The stones of the Clast camp were not hot yet, just sitting at a comfortable enough level of heat to stand and rest on. Aside from an argument between a native and one of Redheart’s followers, the camp was peaceful. Cats were sitting together and swapping conversation topics or gently batting each other after a dark remark. Beetlefoot watched a black apprentice chase and wrestle with a white one, saw Mistface stretched out and asleep against a sunny wall, listened in to Darkpelt coaching Littlepaw on retorts, much to Laurelclaw and Flyfang’s horror.

“That is entirely too bad of a swear for her to learn,” Flyfang was saying, trying to sound outraged and very poorly masking her amusement.

“It’s nice and effective, though, isn’t it?” Darkpelt replied, cheerful as ever. “That’ll stop any cat in their tracks.”

“Darkpelt, she’s an apprentice,” Laurelclaw protested. “Can’t she just use other words?”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Littlepaw tilted her head towards Darkpelt, who nodded approvingly. “Shouldn’t I learn all about language?”

“And I can’t exactly teach her how to hunt or fight,” Darkpelt added. “This is all I can give to our next generation.”

Laurelclaw, looking scandalized, muttered something, and the trio of mollies burst out laughing, to which he looked even more scandalized – though, like Flyfang, he was visibly on the brink of admitting that whatever he said was funny.

Beetlefoot, sitting in the shade by himself, just on the outer rim of the settlement, glared at the ground, tail twitching. How this whole “making friends” thing came so easily to everyone else was beyond him. Even Mistface, who hated talking to anyone but his family, had no trouble charming whoever he wanted to. Beetlefoot had caught Snowshine looking at him multiple times this past week, and besides her, Greyleaf had been more willing to take breaks and spend time with his brother. And Greyleaf himself – even with that nervousness, he was speaking to strangers and his Clast charges with increasing ease.

Beetlefoot just didn’t get it.

To be fair to himself, he had grown up in the Brae family, known as the hyper-conservative, reclusive and hostile gang of rumored inbreeding problems, all the way in the pine forest on the mountain to the east. They were not inclined to kindness nor socialization. He wasn’t given proper lessons on doing anything but scowling and getting out of places as fast as physically possible once he was old enough.

Still, from what he had heard, Flyfang was from the Marish, who weren’t much better, and she came out fine. It seemed like everyone else had some simple understanding of casual interaction except him.

He did his best to ignore a stab of an emotion he didn’t want to name, but knew what to call it entirely too well, that tightened his throat and gnawed at his ribcage.

In the Fleet, he had expected to at least find comrades who could tolerate his awkward presence for a while, but even there he was an outcast. The worst part was that it wasn’t even actively malicious – they were all just disinterested in him. He didn’t know how to talk to anyone and they didn’t teach him.

So here he was, in this constant state of sitting alone and being stuck with his stupid thoughts.

Aggressively, he shook his head. Enough of this internal bemoaning. He could find something to do that wasn’t whinging. Maybe he could visit Nettlecloud.

He stood up, unaware of his tail lashing once or twice, then turned around and stalked away along the wall of the house. When he got to the corner, he stepped away and started on a long circle around the settlement. He made himself straighten up and keep his tail still, and he decided to walk instead of trot. He didn’t know if he had much eagerness to go at a fast speed for once.

He passed several houses and the paths splitting them up. No cats were in the shade or even close to the edge of camp. He supposed that was good.

It turned out to be very good, because on a house set back just a little farther than the others, he overheard Redheart’s voice. Immediately, he stopped and crouched, using a hunter’s stalk to get closer to a small crack in the wall that seemed to go all the way through the stone and let voices carry. He settled there, ears perked.

“…with Coyotebite and Brightblaze on the second one,” Redheart said.

“That still leaves Bluetpetal and her kits,” Greyleaf replied. “And Ryestripe, if he does decide to come with us. He’s been saying he might change his mind.”

“Right…” Redheart hummed quietly in thought. “Peregrinefang did say something similar to me. If she agrees, she can protect them on the way. Perhaps I should go with them instead and split the first group up a little.”

“Maybe.” Greyleaf sounded like he was thinking too. “We really should get a look at the edge of the border ourselves. I heard what Thistletooth said, and he described it in great detail, I know, but it’d be better for morale if we can say with certainty what lies ahead.”

“And more cats would be inclined to follow us out,” Redheart agreed. “Still, there’s a lot to do here. I can’t find a good time to leave for that long of a trek.”

“Hm.”

There was a pause – a very heavy one – and Beetlefoot waited patiently for the conversation to continue.

It was Greyleaf who broke the silence. “Have you talked to the Runagate recently?”

Beetlefoot froze in place.

“They might know more, is all,” Greyleaf continued, voice low but perfectly calm – casual, even. “They’re always by the border, right?”

“I haven’t spoken with them recently,” Redheart said. “But you’re right. I’ll have to see if I can contact them tonight.”

The sound of a thick-furred tail swishing on the floor, and Greyleaf’s voice dropped down so quietly that Beetlefoot had to strain to hear. “They need to be more careful. I saw them at dawn today, walking around the stream. We got lucky that no one else was up.”

Redheart sighed. “I’ll tell them, if they come to me. Now is not the time to be seen.”

Silence again. This time, it went for so long that Beetlefoot finally crept away, every hair on his back bristling. He started on his walk again, now at his usual brisk trot with his tail bristled and lashing on its own. He was very thankful that no one was around to see him.

The conversation swirled in his head at record speed, coming to the end of it over and over, and he still had trouble grasping it.

It was one thing to be stupid enough to leave the Territory, and one thing to bring cats along to potentially starve and die in the outside world. It was another to be speaking with a demon, and invite it so close to a huge colony of innocents.

Beetlefoot had never been sure if the Runagate was real. Some part of him had always been afraid of it, much as one would be afraid of the blurred things on the edge of their eyesight, but he had not seen proof of its existence for himself. He wanted to make up an excuse – say that Redheart and Greyleaf were hallucinating, or lying to themselves. But the way they spoke of it, like it was a friend…

Beetlefoot picked up his pace. His tail started switching back and forth.

He couldn’t talk to Darkpelt about it yet. She was in the middle of the clearing and talking with cats who were not a part of this mission. Pulling her away to explain what he had just heard would very easily be seen as suspicious. Laurelclaw wouldn’t be much help – kind as he was, Beetlefoot could see him getting frightened and blowing their cover by acting afraid around Greyleaf and Redheart.

That left Mistface, then.

This was not going to go well.

Beetlefoot started looking through the paths between the houses, trying to find Mistface without stepping into clear view and possibly calling attention to himself (loathe as he was to admit it, he was quite alarmed and a bit frightened, and he knew it was showing on his face). The instant he caught sight of a pale grey pile of fluff, he jerked sideways and almost ran up to the tom.

“Mistface,” he hissed. When he didn’t get an immediate response, he prodded Mistface’s shoulder. “Wake up! This is important! And keep your voice down.”

Mistface attended to both orders, his irritation vanishing and replacing itself with concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Beetlefoot’s ears slicked back. “I’m not the one you should be saying that to.”

Mistface’s eyes roamed over him, the concern growing a little more. “What’s happened?”

Beetlefoot looked behind him, ahead of Mistface, and around them. No one was nearby. His claws unconsciously scraped at the stone under his feet.

“I’ve just overheard something your brother said,” he said. “And you are not going to like it.”

[sylvanfreckles]

Where Do You Think You’re Going (Whumptober 2020)

Serious warnings for physical, mental, emotional, and verbal abuse. Food is also used to control someone. John Winchester is not a nice person.

This is written new for Whumptober 2020, but is technically a prequel to the Whumptober 2018 fic I’ve been writing (Time for Whump, Boys - Chapter Four)

Summary: (set before season one) "But there was something about tonight, something about the endless hunger and fear and pain and loneliness that just broke him down." When Sam leaves for Stanford, Dean is left alone to face the rage that has overcome their father.

The carpet in the hotel room was thin, like a piece of felt glued to concrete instead of anything with actual cushion or padding. The walls were unyielding, the stained paper a testament to the years this place had been left to rot. The heater barely spluttered out enough warm air to keep the temperature tolerable.

Dean sat against the wall, knees hugged to his chest, staring up at the ceiling and trying to will himself to fall asleep. He didn't want to look down at the pair of double beds. One held their gear from the last hunt...the other held Dad.

It was his own fault, anyway. If he hadn't screwed up on the hunt, if he hadn't almost let the thing get away, if he hadn't taken so much time to do one simple task he could have been curled up in a bed right now instead of exiled to sit on the floor. Fitting punishment, Dad said, and Dad had to be right, right? John Winchester was quite possibly the best hunter in the country, and if he said Dean screwed up and needed to be taught a lesson, again, then Dean would shut up and learn it.

He stared blearily at the clock. Sometimes he wished things could just go back to the way they were, back before Sammy had left them, back before his dad was was so twisted up with rage. But that was useless. A pipe dream. Why would Sammy ever come back after Dean had driven him away? If he'd just done his freaking job, just looked after his brother, just done enough then Sammy wouldn't have left. His father wouldn't be so angry. They could be together, like before.

Dean flinched as he accidentally brushed a hand against his side. There was undoubtedly a set of nasty bruises forming there—though at least Dad hadn't been wearing his steel toe boots, so Dean's ribs weren't busted this time. His side was throbbing and hot to the touch, and despite the coolness of the wound he longed to get a cold compress.

The ice bucket was right there, on the little hotel dresser. He was encouraged to treat his own wounds—hell, expected to treat his own wounds. It wouldn't count as discipline if Dad patched him up after every punishment, after all.

He had long ago given up on trying to get Dad to stop. For a while he'd thought that maybe it was just a phase, maybe if Dad got all the anger and grief out they could go back to the way things were. Every punch or kick, every blow of the belt across Dean's back—they were all supposed to be steps back to normalcy. Somehow, though, the well of rage inside John Winchester just never seemed to end. It wasn't getting better as time passed, it was getting worse.

Or...or he was getting worse. Maybe that was it. Maybe he just hadn't noticed how poorly he was performing in hunts these days, all because he was too selfish to think beyond himself. He hadn't tried hard enough to keep Sammy with the family, and he obviously wasn't trying hard enough now to be any real help to Dad.

Dean quietly climbed to his feet. The ice machine wasn't too far away, so he wouldn't even need his shoes for the short trip. Dad made a noise in his sleep when Dean picked up the bucket, but it seemed like the older man was still deeply asleep. That was when Dean saw the handful of change John had left on the dresser next to the ice bucket.

He hesitated. He hadn't eaten anything for dinner—hadn't been allowed dinner, food wasn't so plentiful they could just waste it if he wasn't pulling his weight. It had seemed all right at the time, with the fading adrenaline from the hunt, the burn of humiliation as his father outlined everything he'd done wrong, then the pain of discipline he hadn't had much appetite then. But now...now Dean's stomach rumbled at the thought of food. There was a vending machine next to the ice machine. Surely Dad wouldn't miss a dollar or two. Just for a granola bar, not anything as extravagant as candy. He'd even eat it outside so the rustle of the wrapper wouldn't wake his father.

He carefully picked through the change on the dresser. One dollar and fifty cents, that would be more than enough for a granola bar from the vending machine. He could eat it right there, while the ice bucket was filling up. That wouldn't even take any extra time.

Dean had slipped the change into his pocket and had just put his hand to the door when a gruff voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Where do you think you're going?” John's voice was thick with sleep, whiskey, and anger.

Dean swallowed. “Just to get s-some ice,” he replied, holding up the ice bucket.

John made an angry sound, practically a growl deep in his throat, and threw back the blankets to stalk over to Dean. “You were running,” he said.

“No, sir,” Dean shrank back against the door, ice bucket held in front of him like a shield. “J-just ice. You said-”

“Don't tell me what I said!” John roared. He snatched the ice bucket away from Dean and hurled it across the room, then tangled his fingers in the collar of his son's shirt to slam him against the door. The hand dug into the small of Dean's back, no doubt adding to the bruising there. “You're lying to me.”

Dean shook his head frantically. Lying was wrong, almost as bad as screwing up on a hunt. Lying was what made your brother leave and your father angry. “I'm not,” he protested weakly.

Dad backhanded him, adding to the bruises on his face from earlier. “Pockets,” John hissed.

With trembling hands Dean pulled out the change he'd taken. The quarters and nickels winked accusingly in the faint light of the hotel room. It was stupid. He shouldn't have taken it. He'd just been so hungry.

Dad grabbed his wrist and wrenched his hand up to study the money more closely. “So you're stealing again.”

He broke down. “I'm sorry,” he whispered as Dad wrenched his hand even higher, until his wrist was screaming under the strain. “I was just hungry.”

“Hungry?” John's eyes were cold, unreadable. “Fine.” He released Dean, the change scattering around the room, and stalked over to the trash can that sat between the beds. Dean knew what he was getting, but that didn't make his stomach revolt any less when John shoved the half-eaten burger at him. “Eat, then, Dean. Eat if you're hungry.”

It had been sitting there over twenty-four hours now. When Dad had brought it in it had been a juicy bacon cheeseburger, the kind that Dean used to crave. John had eaten most of that burger, and what was left was a greasy, congealed mess in a soggy bun. Dad had left it sitting out while they were getting information, and when they'd come back to the hotel to prepare for the hunt he'd torn a strip off of Dean for not making sure the leftovers were properly refrigerated.

There was no excuse. He should have seen it, should have paid more attention to what his father was eating and if there was anything leftover. If he'd put it away like he should, his dad might have something better than a half-rotten burger to offer him now.

“I thought you were hungry,” John said. His voice was dark and rough with anger. “Were you lying?”

Dean swallowed. He could try to stomach the burger, and probably be punished again for wasting food when it came back up. Or...or he could skip that discomfort and face his punishment for lying. Again. Obviously he wasn't hungry enough if he was turning his nose up to food his father was offering him.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, not daring to look John in the eye.

With a growl, his father held the remains of the burger closer to Dean's face and squeezed it until the rancid grease ran out between his fingers. “You're sneaking out in the middle of the night,” the older man began. “Stealing from me. Lying to me. Refusing the food I provide. Am I forgetting anything?”

Dean shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. Why hadn't he just gotten the ice? Dad might have let him get the ice. If he hadn't taken the change, he wouldn't have sparked so much anger in the older man.

“Shirt off,” John commanded. He wiped his greasy hand on the hotel comforter and starting sliding his belt through the loops in his pants. “On your knees.”

He was already complying. It was harder to pull his T-shirt off with how sore his ribs were, but he managed to do it before his father strode over to help him. If he made Dad tear his T-shirt taking it off that would just be wasting more resources...it was bad enough he couldn't even build enough muscle to wear the same size clothes as his father. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, folding over to offer the best surface area for his father to work with.

John was always thorough, brutal, and efficient. He knew exactly how many blows would leave his son bleeding, shaken, and on the brink of passing out without actually beating him unconscious. Dean was fighting down the nausea from the pain—and nausea on an empty stomach just wasn't fair—when his father finally stopped and tossed the belt aside.

“Pack up,” John sneered. “We're leaving in an hour.”

Dean blinked up at him. “N-now?”

“I ain't getting back to sleep after this, boy!” John roared. Dean flinched back, expecting another blow. When it didn't come he risked another glance up, to see his father sitting down on the edge of his bed to pull his boots on. “Need to head to Riddle next. Tonight was a shitshow, but at least I found the sons of bitches.”

Dean nodded, keeping his eyes on the floor again. He flinched when John's booted feet hit the floor. “One hour,” the older man warned before stalking out the door, keys in hand.

With shaking hands, Dean followed his father's orders. The weapons had to be reassembled and packed away, ammo stored in the right cases, evidence of their presence scrubbed away. He pulled his own meager possessions out of the dresser to stuff in his tattered duffle bag and hesitated when he found his old phone.

John didn't know about it—well, he probably did, and just didn't care as long as Dean didn't use it. He'd kept it in hopes that Sammy might call or text, but his little brother had shown no interest in keeping contact.

But there was something about tonight, something about the endless hunger and fear and pain and loneliness that just broke him down. Without really knowing what he was doing, Dean punched in the only number he had to contact his brother.

The phone rang a couple of times, and Dean was about to put it away when the call finally connected. “Hello?

It was Sam. He sounded raspy with sleep and a little irritated at being woken up, but it was Sam.

Shaking, Dean held the phone a little closer to his ear and squeezed his eyes shut. “S-Sammy?”

[mythical-song-wolf]

MCSM: My Warrior’s Tale 2

First Next

“Reuben! Where are you buddy?” Jesse calls out to the dark and empty forest. Monsters should be coming out soon, she needs to find him fast.

She checks the well, a patch of grass that contains a chicken, a drift of pigs that don’t contain Reuben, and finds Reuben’s burnt costume that he somehow removed.

Eventually, she finds him in a farther patch of grass, shaking.

“Reuben! There you are! Want a carrot?” Reuben happily steps out of his hiding place to devore the offering, “I’m so happy to see you, now let’s get out of here and meet up with the others at Endercon.”

Reuben oinks in distress and she turns to find two zombies approaching them. They run until they’re cornered and she fights to defend them both. She tells Reuben to run when she feels her stone sword about to break.

Thank goodness Petra came in just as her sword broke and guided her to a cave.

“I wanna show you something.”

“Sure, and thanks for the save, Petra.”

“No problem.”

“Where does this cave even lead to? A mine, clearly but I’m guessing there’s a few other exits?”

“Yeah, there’s an exit that should get us back to town,” Petra pauses, humming and eyeing her for something, “Weird.”

“What?” Jesse asks, blinking innocently.

“No offence but I was expecting you to be a bit more scared by this dimly lit tunnel, you always came off as sort of a wimp these past few years.”

She rolls her eyes, “It’s not my first time in a cave, Petra.”

“Yeah, but have you ever seen—” She pulls it out— “A Wither Skull?”

Jesse blinks before an awed smile forms on her face, “Whoa...”

Petra smirks, “Fresh from the Nether.”

“That’s insanely cool, Petra! Those can be a surprisingly rare thing to get from those stupid things.”

“Tell me about it,” Petra groans, before putting it away, “There’s this guy I’m meeting up at Endercon who’ll trade me a diamond for it.”

“Hm... Something about this I don’t trust.”

Petra rolls her eyes, “Relax, I got this.”

“I don’t doubt that, but, one, you should be asking for more than one diamond for something that rare. Especially with how tough it is to find a Nether Fortress to find them and how rare of a drop it is. And, two, you know how you need Wither Skulls to make a Wither?”

“You’re worried he might make a Wither?”

“Yeah, for all we could know he could have all the skulls he needs with yours getting added in. He might summon it at Endercon.”

“Or... Ms. Worrywart, this could be the first or second skull he’s getting and he plans on fighting the Wither after it. Again, relax Jesse, I’ve got this,” She repeats, placing a hand on Jesse’s shoulder.

“Alright, I trust you,” She says halfheartedly.

“You know, you could come with me if you’re so concerned about this deal. I won’t mind a little backup.”

“Yeah... I think I will.”

The two of them pass by a crafting table that Petra gestures for Jesse to use.

“I’ve got some cobble and sticks in that chest, you can make yourself a new sword since your last one broke.”

“Thanks.”

She grabs the sticks, leaving the cobble, and crafts an Iron Sword. She slashes it through the air for a bit. Now this is more like it.

“You sure you know how to use that thing? Iron is a pretty big step up from wood and stone.”

“Yes, Petra, I do. Besides,” She says, throwing a smirk at her, “If I’m going to back you up later, a better weapon might be needed.”

~~~~~~

Once they exit the tunnel, they see fireworks lighting up Endercon.

“I can’t believe it, we won.”

“Congrats Jesse.”

“It’s about time we beat the Ocelots for once.”

Petra chuckles, “I’ll say. But why didn’t you join them?”

“Hm?”

“Lukas and the Ocelots, I mean. Lukas formed his little gang around a year or so after you arrived in town. I know you two were friends before that, what happened?”

“Well, I was going through some stuff and I met Axel and Olivia. Lukas is cool with them but the rest of the Ocelots weren’t and I wasn’t going to tolerate that. Since our two groups didn’t get along we didn’t have much reason to hang out as much. Well, outside of helping you on the odd occasion.”

“I never did thank you two for helping me get all those Emeralds,” Petra chuckles, “I remember that every time a bat flew too close you would practically screech!”

“Listen, I don’t want them touching me!” Jesse shudders at the thought, “They’re like the winged rats of the night.”

“Creepers!” Petra points out, before turning to find Zombies at the other end of the bridge, “We’re surrounded! There are too many of them!”

“Jump!” Jesse grabs Petra's arm and throws both of them off the bridge into the lake below, “You okay?”

“Yeah, this water’s cold but that’s better than getting blown up.”

~~~~~~

Jesse and Petra meet up with Axel and Olivia, celebrating their victory. Before the two pairs separate so Jesse can accompany Petra on her deal.

Meanwhile, in another section of Endercon. Aiden is absolutely furious.

“Why are you breaking up with me?!”

“Because, as of far too often recently, you’ve been nothing but an utter douchebag, Aiden! We’ve all told you to get that temper of yours under control but you never listened!”

“Fine! Fine! We’re over, but so are the Ocelots because I’m leaving!”

“Fine! We don’t need you anyway, right guys?” Lukas looks between Gill and Maya, who glance at each other fearfully before shifting away from Lukas to Aiden.

Aiden smirks, taking off the Ocelots Jacket and throwing it into the trash and walking away, with Gill and Maya tailing behind him.

Lukas sighs, running a hand through his hair and walks to the crowd and passes by a butcher who’s about to execute a pig with a dark spot on its back— Reuben.

“Excuse me,” Lukas starts, gaining the Butcher’s attention, “Where did you find that pig if I may ask?”

“It ran in here from the forest. What’s it to you kid?”

“Ah. Well, that’s my friend’s pig, so I can have him back?”

“Depends, what’re you offering in turn?”

“I have some iron and sticks to make an Iron Axe, instead of using that stone one.”

“Hm... I’ll take it.”

Lukas places the items on the counter and walks away with Reuben, “I’m guessing you and Jesse found each other?”

He oinks happily before making a sad noise. Lukas looks up at the sky.

“It is getting dark, I hope she made it back here okay.”

Reuben nods, making a sad but hopeful sound.

~~~~~

Jesse knew it. She knew that guy couldn’t be trusted, thankfully she got Petra to stay with her instead of checking other alleys because she doesn’t think she would’ve handled a conversation with the dude without potentially drawing her sword.

Now that guy scammed Petra out of her diamond, and anyone who’s anyone here should know you don’t mess with Petra. Petra heads off to the entrance while Jesse runs off to the various booths. With that many people it’ll be easy for him to hide.

But Jesse is shoved into someone as the crowd rushes to see Gabriel coming in.

“Sorry—”

“It’s okay—”

“Lukas!” She says, wide-eyed and happy to see her friend.

“Jesse!” He replies with a bright smile, before Reuben oinks and jumps before her.

She gasps, “Reuben!” She hugs her friend, “I’m so glad you’re safe! Did Lukas find you?”

“I did, but technically a Butcher found him first,” He replies, too casually for her comfort.

“Oh?” She says, her tone dripping with a hidden edge and venom.

“I traded him some iron and sticks for Reuben.”

She blinks several times, “Oh, oh, you- you didn’t have to. Thank you.”

He waves it off, “Don’t worry about it, you’re my friend.”

“Yeah, yeah...” She glances around, awkwardly, “So... where are the other Ocelots?”

Lukas coughs— well, more like choke on air, “Oh, the Ocelots disbanded due to... conflicting interests.”

She eyes him for a moment, but he avoids her gaze so she drops it, “Have you seen a creepy guy with long hair and beard? He scammed Petra out of a diamond and now she’s on the hunt for him.”

Lukas winces, “That guy is either nuts or has a death wish to do that to Petra of all people. I haven’t seen anyone like that but I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Thanks, and thank you again for saving Reuben’s life.”

Jesse and Reuben walk away and come by Axel and Olivia who report nothing about who she’s looking for. This is going to be a long night.

[feferipeixes]

Like Dust

Jay has had barely a minute's rest since she started working in the cobalt mines. Life isn't easy for her or her loved ones. She doesn't know she's a Mizar, nor has she ever heard of a demon called Alcor.

But her wife's getting out of the hospital today. Maybe things can still turn out alright.

People were asking for more of the Mizar from “Five more decades, please”. Hope you enjoy!

Thanks to @toothpastecanyon and @luxforest for beta reading!

(See the most updated version on AO3!)

===

“Sorry, your card could not be recognized.”

Jay gritted her teeth. “Listen you stupid thing, this card worked five minutes ago when the cashier at the flower store told me my account was double overdrawn. But now that I’m trying to deposit my paycheck it’s mysteriously broken?”

The machine blinked -- a little green light completely devoid of personality but which still managed to mock Jay and everything she stood for. There was a whir, and her card slipped out through the slot like a kitten’s tongue. She pushed it back in with both hands and pounded in her PIN code again.

“Sorry, your card could not be recognized.”

“Fine,” Jay grumbled. “I’ll just go inside and give it to a real person. There goes five credits in ‘manual processing’ fees! I hope you’re happy!”

The light blinked again, red this time. It ejected the card again and Jay snatched it moodily. There was a noise that sounded like a cough, and the paycheck stuck out of another slot. She grabbed that too, gave it a little yank, and the paper tore in half.

“Seriously?” she yelled. “Have a heart, you heartless machine! I didn’t slave away in the cobalt mine all day not to get paid for it!”

She punched the machine, and then yelped in pain because it was made out of metal and her fist was only made out of weak flesh. She flapped her hand around until the pain was a little more tolerable, then slumped against the machine and slid to the floor.

“I’m going to have to go back to the mine now and get a new check,” she mumbled to no one in particular. “Biveluse’s gonna go nuts at me. He’ll say I’m lying. I guarantee I get a pay cut for this. Ugh.”

Something in her pocket vibrated. She pulled out her phone. A calendar reminder entitled “SHE’S FREEEE” flashed back at her.

Jay bit her lip. “No time.” She’d have to figure something else out — she didn’t want to be late and keep Akko waiting. She wrenched the other half of the check from the machine, and started off toward the hospital.

---

“Akko!” Jay cried. “I’m here to spring you from the evil hospital!”

There was a giggle from the other side of the curtain, and Akko’s wonderful voice fluttered through. “It’s not really springing if they’re discharging me, is it?”

Jay’s heart swelled at the sound of her voice. “Yeah, well, they were keeping you locked up! You can’t convince me otherwise! I’m here to rescue you, let’s go!”

Akko giggled again. “Give me a minute, sweetheart, they’re taking out the IV and I know how much you hate needles.”

“Oof, yeah, thanks!”

Jay turned away, leaned on the doorframe, and whistled for a couple of minutes. She watched a nursebot rumble down the dimly-lit hallway, occasionally bumping into a crate or an IV stand. Her face contorted in amusement, but she forced herself not to laugh — it wasn’t really funny that the hospital had to keep the lights low to save money.

She turned back when she heard the curtain move, and found herself nose-to-nose with Akko. “Ahh! Surprise attack!” she yelped playfully before giving her wife a kiss.

Akko smiled, and then craned her neck to look around Jay. “Where are Sunil and Evan? Are they waiting in the hallway?”

Jay frowned. “Well… Sunil’s visiting his parents — you know how they won’t take no for an answer — and Evan’s in Anglyvin visiting his other other girlfriend — you remember Ylaia, right? She got injured in combat.”

Akko looked down. “Oh. I guess they won’t be around for a while, then.”

Jay shifted awkwardly. “They both send their love, though! And besides, I was thinking it’d be nice to do something just the two of us, yknow?”

Akko lifted her head, and though she was smiling now, Jay could still see traces of disappointment in her face. “That sounds great. Let me just change out of this hospital gown and we can go, alright?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Soon, the two of them had left the building and were walking down the main road. It was late evening, and quite dark out at that point. The streetlights provided a serene ambiance, and the street was practically devoid of cars and other people. Jay could just make out the top of the spaceport over a ridge in the distance, and there was a low roar as a ship took off into the sky.

“So, where are we going?” Akko asked, breaking the silence.

Jay fidgeted. “Well… I was planning a surprise date for us after you got out of the hospital. But the fu- fricking ATM ate my paycheck, so I kinda came up with something a little more budget.”

They turned off the road, and headed into an open field. The streetlights faded away behind them as they walked, and soon they only had the starlight to guide them.

Jay stopped. “Alright. Surprise!” She gestured to a patch of grass, where a couple of pillows lay. A cup with flowers in it rested between them, which Jay picked up and presented to Akko. “For you, m’lady.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” Akko sniffed the flowers, and visibly suppressed a gag.

Jay deflated a bit. “Yeah, uh, they’re nothing fancy. I kinda got them by the side of the road.”

“They’re lovely,” Akko kissed Jay on the cheek, prompting the latter to blush. “Thanks for arranging this.”

The two of them laid down on the grass, hand-in-hand, looking straight up into the star-speckled night. They were quiet for a few minutes. Jay hoped that Akko was enjoying the view, because internally she was still on edge thinking about her paycheck, about next month’s rent, about Akko’s hospital bills…

Then she saw something that immediately quieted those thoughts. Up above, quite far out, there was an arc cut into the dark backdrop of the night. A shooting star.

"We're gonna be there, someday."

Akko shifted beside her. "Say what?"

Jay smiled, and pointed up at the shooting star. "I had a dream. A few months ago. We were up there. Not in a UL craft -- actually riding a shooting star.”

Akko laughed gently -- the sweetest sound in the whole world, one that made Jay feel like she was melting into the ground. "We were up there, huh?"

“Yeah! Did you know they're not actually stars, they’re big chunks of ice?”

Akko propped herself up on one elbow. “Is that so?”

“It's true, I read that once!” Jay continued excitedly. “When a shooting star goes near an actual star, it heats up, so it’s melting super slowly as it flies through space. The pretty trail it leaves behind is mostly dust that comes loose as it’s melting.”

Akko nodded along as Jay was talking. “Mmhmm.”

“It’s so cool to think about! You wouldn’t think it but their beauty comes from the fact that they’re constantly crumbling. It’s just so wild that there are these big space rocks that smear themselves across the sky with no purpose other than for us to watch."

"That is pretty neat. Sounds cold if it's made out of ice, though.” Akko rolled over on her stomach. “What was I wearing? I have to make sure I'm prepared for when it happens."

Jay grinned -- and then faltered. "Uhhh well… Actually, I'm not sure what you were wearing. I can't really picture what you were doing exactly. But I know you were there, because I was there, and what in the world would I be doing up sightseeing in space without my lovely wife?"

Akko snorted. "What about Evan and Sunil? Were they there?"

"I don't think so, but come on, Evan’s afraid of heights, there’s no way he’d come with us. Besides,” she added, frowning, “maybe this was an only-married-people-allowed trip.”

“Still pissed that they don’t want to get married?”

Jay scrunched up her face. “I don’t get it. They say they love us. What’s the point of not making it official?”

“Sunil’s parents don’t know he’s polyam, remember? He’s really afraid to tell them. Besides, he’s said he’s not ready for the commitment. Evan’s probably the same.”

“Why not? What are they waiting for? It’s not like -” (she squeezed Akko’s hand) “i-it’s not like there’s all the time in the world.”

Akko was silent. Jay rolled onto her side and studied her wife’s face. It was still the same face she’d fallen in love with when they’d met five years earlier, but it had aged prematurely. There were lines tracing her features, her cheeks were shallow, and her eyes looked so, so tired. She felt a pang of guilt at saying that — it probably wasn’t something Akko particularly wanted to think about right now.

“Hang on, I think I'm remembering what you were doing in my dream." Jay sat up and rubbed her temples. "There was someone there who felt like family -- that must've been you. But I think I was kind of annoyed at you in the dream -- you must've dropped my toothbrush in the toilet again.”

"Hey!" Akko sat up and playfully slapped Jay's leg. "That happened once!"

Jay snickered. "Your outfit's coming back to me now… You were wearing a suit -- real snazzy but like ridiculously retro. And you had a top hat — I could tell we were in low gravity because it kept floating off your head."

"Wow, really? That doesn't sound like me at all." Akko looked down at the faded sundress she was wearing, and tried to smooth out a wrinkle with her hand. "And I don't know how future me is affording an old fashioned suit."

"Maybe it’s not your usual style, but you'd look beautiful in literally anything.”

Akko chuckled, but it had less volume to it than before. Her hand slipped out of Jay’s, and she started twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Yeah?” she asked, after a pause. “Even with my hair starting to fall out?”

Jay frowned and sat up. She reached for Akko’s hand and pulled it away from her head, causing the strand of hair to snap off. Akko looked away, but Jay watched it fall, fluttering briefly in the air. Then the breeze caught it and it dissolved, scattering away like dust.

“Yeah,” Jay breathed. “You’ll always be beautiful to me. Your hair is gorgeous, but it’s not what makes you beautiful — nothing can take that away from you.” Her jaw set. “And… and if you decided that you wanted a vintage suit, I wouldn’t stop until I could get you one. No matter the cost.”

Akko looked back at Jay, her eyes visibly wet but a smile on her face. She kissed Jay again, and laid on her back. “I hope your dream comes true. It sounds nice.”

Jay just watched her for a bit, and then laid back down herself. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a buzzing noise, louder and closer than the chirping of the bugs. Jay frowned, and pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket. A calendar reminder flashed back at her and she groaned.

“Something wrong?” Akko asked.

Jay was silent for a moment, and then stood up. “No… well yeah… I’ve gotta go back to the mine to get a new paycheck from Biveluse before he leaves, and I can’t wait until tomorrow because PoIfeg is being an as- a butthead about the utilities bill.”

Akko nodded. “That’s rough. How about I come with you? I need to talk to Biveluse anyway and see if I can come back to work.”

Jay blinked. “What? Y-you just got out of the hospital. You’re doing chemo. You can’t work!”

“I have to, sweetheart. You, Sunil, and Evan combined don’t make enough money to cover rent, food, and my chemo. It’s not ideal, but I have to.”

For a moment, Jay could only gape. Then she balled her hands into fists and started trembling in anger. “This f- this h-... this fucking sucks!”

Akko stood up and embraced her wife. “I know,” she murmured. “I know.”

Jay let herself be hugged but didn’t return the favor. She looked up, and glimpsed the shooting star again. A memory floated back to her of her mother, long ago, telling her that people used to make wishes on shooting stars. She turned this idea over in her mind, nodded a little, and made a wish. She wished she didn’t have to be constantly afraid; wished that there would be an end to the instability plaguing her life. She wished there was someone like a guardian angel looking out for her and her loved ones — someone who’d make sure they were all safe and happy.

She knew it was nonsense, really. She knew these hopes were just like dust in the sky — pretty but ephemeral. She took one last look at the star, then linked hands with Akko, and headed off toward the cobalt mine.

(Millions of miles away, on a hunk of ice hurtling through space, a demon lay resting on his back. A distant thought prodded him in the head, and his eyes flickered open briefly in surprise. Who could be reaching him out here? He sighed, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes once again. Just five more decades, please. Then he’d look into it.)

(AO3 link)

[emdythewriter]

Let me be your shield | chapter five (Elriel)

“Can you hand me the peonies?”

“Which ones are those?”

“The ones your about to step on!” Elain shrieked halting her bodyguard in his place as he turned to see the flowers that were dangerously close to his feet. They hadn’t taken as long as Azriel had expected at the store seeing as she already seemed to have an idea of what she wanted the garden to look like. He picked up the container of peonies and handed them to her, then moved away from the other plants she had yet to put in soil.

Azriel found an empty patch of grass that he chose to sit down in, watching Elain get her hands dirty. She looked blissfully happy, like she was blocking out the rest of the world and only focusing on the flowers she was making a home for. She looked like she had found something good in the darkness. His phone buzzed in the pocket of his jeans.

I need you to come to the office.

The text was from Rhys who sounded like he was trying to be professional. Something was wrong Az thought as he read the text once more before typing a response.

Everything okay?

I’m trying to save your ass so please listen to me for once.

I’m not Cassian.

Just get here.

I’ll leave now.

“Everything okay?” Elain asked having noticed his mood shift. All day Azriel had been smiling and laughing as she shopped and rambled about her passion. Now he was frowning and looking down at his phone, therefore she knew something had to be wrong.

“Rhys just needs me to come to the office,” her bodyguard said as he stood up, brushing the grass and dirt his jeans had collected from sitting on the ground.

“Right now?” Elain said getting up as well. She brushed the dirt from her hands onto her apron though there was still dirt on her face, which caused Azriel to smile.

“I won’t be long and you can just call if you need me,” he said before opening the back gate and heading for the SUV he kept parked out front. The office was towards the center of the city whereas the townhouse Elain lived in was on the outskirts. He knew it would be awhile before he was back and she probably did too, but neither had chosen to acknowledge the fact that he was lying.

The bad part about the distance between each location was that Azriel had plenty of time to think over what this could possibly be about. It could be as simple as Rhys wanting to catch up with his brother, but he highly doubted that. It could be as bad as him being reassigned to another sister’s detail, most likely Feyre if it was Rhys’s choice. Azriel hoped that wasn’t the option though, he didn’t want to say goodbye to Elain.

When he made it to the city there was an open spot right in front of the building, so he took it. Easily Azriel parked the SUV and then headed in through the rotating glass door. The elevator was just opening when he made it there, finding his fit in the crowd he pressed the button for the floor Rhys’s office was located on.

He didn’t bother knocking when he made it to the office, if Az ended up walking in on something it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Luckily for him he only found Rhys and Cassian talking. The conversation halted immediately when his brothers noticed him in the doorway.

“Did you call me here just to chat?” Azriel asked as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. He took up the seat next to Cassian, one of the leather chairs Rhys had placed in front of his wooden desk that he currently sat behind. The office was nice, filled with bookcases on both sides and a giant open window behind the desk, the kind you see in movies. Feyre had definitely decorated the space.

“More like to lecture you,” Cassian said.

“Lecture me?” Azriel wasn’t aware that he had done anything to be lectured about.

“Lucien Vanserra came to my office this morning,” Rhys started causing Azriel to roll his eyes. He had a feeling he knew where this conversation was headed now. Lucien knew the three brothers personally, having all grown up and gone to the same boarding school together. They all tolerated each other but Lucien always had it out for Azriel for reasons still unknown.

“What does he want this time?” he asked leaning back in his chair and propping his feet out in front of him, getting comfortable.

“He said you’re getting too close to Elain,” Rhys said leaning back in his own chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Isn’t that the point of my job?” Azriel asked. If Lucien wanted to deal with the consequences of him not protecting Elain than he didn’t understand the threat on his girlfriend’s family all too well.

“Lucien says it’s to the point of being inappropriate,” Cassian added using air quotation marks around the word inappropriate, telling Azriel neither of his brothers believed the other male was telling the truth. In fact Az had a feeling Lucien was just jealous for whatever twisted reason.

“I thought he left this morning anyways,” he said remembering how Elain had told him about her boyfriend’s text this morning.

“Either he lied or came to me before his flight left,” Rhys answered. “I’m not keeping tabs on the guy.”

“Sometimes I wish you would,” Cassian inputted. “If you had we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“What mess is that exactly?” Azriel asked realizing he still wasn’t sure why he had been called here.

“Lucien believes you’re trying to sleep with Elain.” He busted out laughing at Rhys’s words. They weren’t laughing so he knew it was true, which only seemed to make Az laugh harder. It was the most comical thing he had ever heard, and to think that was the whole reason for this meeting in the first place. Azriel had nothing to worry about after all.

“That’s stupid,” he said when he fianlly caught his breath. “We’re friends.”

“Lucien doesn’t believe that,” Cassian said.

“Tell him to ask Elain before he goes running if he doesn’t believe me, which he won’t,” Azriel replied.

“What do you mean?” Rhys asked noticing the way his brother had phrased his words.

“Lucien left Elain a text telling her that he would be gone a few days on a last minute business trip or whatever,” Az explained crossing his arms over his chest. “She said it sounded like he was running from her.”

“Idiot,” Cassian scoffed. “You don’t put distance between you when you’re having trouble that just makes things worse.” Both of his brothers knew he was speaking from experience. At the start of their relationship Cassian had made a mistake and he thought some time apart would make things better, in the end he almost lost Nesta to a darkness she was starting to call friend. He hadn’t made the same choice since.

“He’s going to lose her,” Rhys added an understanding shadowing his eyes. He had almost lost Feyre to another man, Lucien’s best friend.

“I’ll keep some distance if that’s what he wants but it’s up to him to do the rest,” Azriel said. Rhys nodded and with that he left the office, closing the door behind him on his way out. When he made it to his SUV he pulled out his phone and texted Elain.

I’m going to have to take care of a few things, call me if you need me.

Be safe :)

Azriel smiled down at the text on his phone. He shook his head and set it in the cupholder before pulling out of the space and onto the busy streets. He headed in the direction of a place he hadn’t been in some time, a place he almost thought he would never go back to.

___

Elain instantly felt sad when she read the text Azriel had sent her. She didn’t know what it was but something bugged her about the text, about the whole reason he had to go into the office in the first place. She didn’t like that feeling.

Now she was alone in the townhouse. Lucien was away working, Azriel was running errands, Feyre was at the studio teaching a class, and she had a feeling Nesta too entrapped in a book to pay attention to her phone. Elain wished at that moment more than anything that she was better at making friends. Wished that she was normal and not famous because of her father, it would make it easier for her to make true friends.

Elain had tried making friends throughout school but each time they always backstabbed her. Each one wanted something from her, the popularity, the lead role in her father's next movie, the boy that Elain was currently crushing on. There was a never ending list.

She decided to take a shower and clean up from gardening. She started stripping the moment she entered her bedroom, letting her apron, jeans and shirt fall into a heap on the floor. When she got to the bathroom she turned on the water to warm, because no one can stand a cold shower, and took her underwear off before stepping in.

Showering allowed Elain to think and right now she was thinking off things she could do to pass the time. She thought of going out but she didn’t want to wait for a temp bodyguard, guess that also meant she was ordering in for dinner. She thought about watching a movie or starting a new show, but she didn’t watch enough TV to know what was good. She was out of ideas.

When Elain was thoroughly cleaned she rinsed off and headed for her closet to change. She pulled on an old shirt of Lucien’s that was a simple green and then a pair of black pajama shorts. She pulled her hair up to keep it out of her face and because she didn’t feel like brushing the tangles out of it right now.

She thought about checking in with Nuala and Cerridwen while she was in the showere thinking, but they had just gotten back in town and most likely wanted to catch up with their families. Elain grabbed a book off the shelf in her bedroom and curled up on the window seat. The book was one Nesta had given her a few months ago but she hadn’t gotten around to reading it yet. It was a romance of course because her sister loved the genre. It was about a pair of friends that had been denying their feelings for the other since the day they met and now were starting to step over that line.

Elain had read a good bit by the time her phone started ringing. Having left it on the bed she was forced to save her place and get up to answer it. Not looking at the caller ID she answered it on the third ring “hello?”

“Hey babe,” Lucien. Elain wasn’t in the brightest of moods when it came to her boyfriend and his behavior recently. She didn’t hang up just yet though, hoping that he was calling to apologize.

“I’m mad at you,” she said in response to his greeting. There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, like he expected this reaction. And what girlfriend wouldn’t react the same way she was?

“I’m sorry, I was going to tell you in person but it was last minute and I didn’t want to wake you up,” of course he was going to use that excuse.

“I don’t accept your apology,” Elain said, walking around the bedroom they shared as she waited for him to form a new excuse, or better apology.

“I’m not surprised you are an Archeron.” Over the years her family had gained the reputation for being thick skinned and considering the things they had gone through in the public eye, Elain could see why.

“I would’ve been fine with you waking me up.”

“I know and I promise to make it up to you when I get home.”

“Only a few days right?”

“Yes, I’ll be home before you know it.” Elain thought is over. What could she make Lucien do as an apology? He was in the palm of her hand and she would use that to her advantage as much as possible.

“We’re going on a date when you get back, a nice one.” Last time they had gone out Lucien took her to some promotion event to meet some guy he hoped to work with in the future. Dinner had been drive thru at some fast food chain.

“Wherever you want to go,” Lucien promised and Elain knew he was sincere based off the tone of his voice.

“I want to go dancing too,” she added before she could talk herself out of the idea once again. She had wanted to go to the dance club that opened in the city since they had the grand opening a few months back. Feyre was always telling her how wonderful it was and how much she would love it. Now was the time to ask because Lucien couldn’t say no.

“Dancing?” Lucien said curiously and with a hint of teasing. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

“Well I really want to go and you said anything I want.” He chuckled on the other line and Elain knew he was smiling, just the thought made her smile as well. She loved the fact she could make the people she cared about and loved happy just like they did her.

“It’s a date,” Lucien said and she smiled even brighter. Finally after so long they were doing something they both wanted, it was starting to feel like the old days before the media interfered.

“How has your trip been so far,” Elain asked after concluding her little celebration. She walked over to the window seat and took her place up once more.

“Just a bunch of meetings today nothing too interesting,” Lucien said and she knew there was a shrug paired with the words.

“There’s got to be.” Elain teased but he hardly ever shared the juicy stuff with her, though she wished he would.

“I’m sure your day was far more interesting.” She sighed knowing that was as far as she was getting with Lucien about his day. He hated talking about himself.

“I started a garden in the backyard,” she told him smiling at the fun her and Azriel had putting it together. She should check in on him before going to bed. “I also started that book Nesta gave me months ago.”

“Which one?” Lucien asked knowing that Elain had been given a stack of books by her sister. Usually every month there was a new pile of books she had to find a home for.

“It’s about to best friends finally acknowledging their feelings for the other, it’s good so far.”

“If Nesta gave it to you I have no doubt.” Her sister was very good at picking out the right books. She had picked out a few for Lucien to read while he was on long flights. “I have to go babe I have an early day tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Elain said slightly disappointed.

“I love you.”

“Love you too,” and then they both hung up at the same time. Elain stared at her phone for a moment before clicking on the messaging app. She pulled up Azriel’s contact and typed a simple and to the point text.

Finish all your errands?

As she tucked herself into bed Elain’s phone buzzed on her nightstand. It was Az. Turning off her lamp she picked up the device and read the new message.

Yes, you need anything?

Nope just wanted to check in. my day’s been boring without you.

Was that flirting? Elain thought it over but stopped when her phone buzzed in her hand again. They were friends so it shouldn’t matter on how she had phrased the text, as long as Lucien didn’t see it.

Sorry to hear that. We can do something fun tomorrow.

You picking?

It would be my turn since gardening was yours.

So was the Farmers market

Guess I have a few events to plan.

I’ll let you get to it then. Goodnight Azriel.

Goodnight Elain.

With that she curled up under her covers and fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Tag list:

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[aconitemare]

[jaydick] Before That, And Colder

Chapter Three

Previous Chapter

AO3

A large mirror — a looking glass — or so it seemed to me — now stood where it had not been before. As I walked toward it in terror I saw my own form, all spotted with blood, its face white, advancing to meet me with a weak and uncertain step. 

  Four knocks sound at the door, quick and heavy, impatient: Suzie Su. Jason glances up from his book, a collection of Poe’s works mailed to him from Wayne Enterprises, Office of Bruce Wayne, C.E.O. It’s no library book — an expensive collectible, probably, judging by the silver-edged pages, embossed cover, and massive size. Jason is more tolerable of this gift, however, compared to the first edition volumes of Great Expectations sitting in a box in his bedroom closet. Sometimes he has the urge to bring them outside, douse them in kerosene, and roast marshmallows over them. He once got as far as unearthing the box and running his hand gently over the topmost volume, registering its rough texture beneath his weathered palm, before he lost his momentum and tucked the box away again. 

“What is it?” he calls out. The doorknob jiggles. “It’s locked,” he drawls, tipping his chair back a little with his toes. Upside down, he looks out the wall-to-wall windows behind him. The final dredges of sunlight bruise the Atlantic Ocean purple. 

Suzie Su kicks the door futilely. “No kidding,” she gripes. 

Jason sits back upright. He shifts the paperweight off his open book, moves to close it, and is promptly reminded of the photos spread across the desk. They’re why he had begun reading. He had grabbed a book off his shelf and slammed it down, burying the bodies. Now, dead boys stare up at him, their dark hair rusted with blood and their hollow bones crunched. They look like crows, like a murder, infused with tragedy and beating broken wings. 

“What do you want?” he asks roughly, eyes transfixed but mouth still — as always, he knows — moving ahead of him. He needs to get these out of his sight or he’ll lose his mind. 

“Well, it’s not a social call,” replies Suzie Su. 

“Be right there,” promises Jason. He shoves the photos into the book, crushing his doppelgangers between the final pages of William Wilson. Then he bats the book away, towards the corner of his desk for later.

Jason unlocks and opens the door to reveal Suzie Su in a plain, button-down shirt damp with sweat. It pools beneath her pits like dolphin fins halfway down her sides. He raises an eyebrow. “What, no little black dress?”

 “You don’t pay me to be beautiful, ass,” says Suzie Su, brushing past Jason into his office. 

“Shit, am I supposed to be paying you?” he jokes, watching her over his shoulder. He’s about to follow when James darkens his doorway next. James is less sweaty but sporting a badly busted lip. Of course, the interesting part is the man he’s got wrapped in his arms with a potato sack over his head. 

Jason spreads his palms in delight. “Oh, good, you’ve found someone for the internship,” he says with cheer. He cocks his head to check around James’ hulking form. “Any other incapacitated applicants? No?” He sighs and shakes his head remorsefully. “Low turnout.”

James just stares at him, unamused. Probably sour over the punch Potato Sack got in. “Let me in, please,” he says. Jason courteously steps aside, closing the door behind him. James immediately releases Potato Sack, who sags to his knees and leans against James’ leg for half a second before regaining his balance. He’s more conscious than Jason would have thought for a bound and gagged kidnap victim. 

Jason points at him. “Who’s the fool? He just come from the county fair’s three-legged race?” he inquires. Potato Sack is dressed nicely; his outfit is a tad disheveled, but there’s no blood or sweat on him, at least not from the neck down. His peachy pocket square is halfway out his paisley blazer. The cuffs are folded to his elbows, exposing muscular, nicely tanned forearms. 

Suzie Su flops into one of Jason’s chairs, the white leather one with too much cushion. “The sack came straight out of Big Guy’s car. I don’t even know,” she remarks. She sounds tired despite being uninjured, like she might’ve chased Potato Sack all the way here. 

Jason contemplates making a Karate Kid reference, something about chasing chickens, when James chimes in. “We can’t have suspicious figures knowing where your office is,” he justifies. “Especially right now with the — photographs,” he finishes, visibly uncomfortable.

Jason shrugs and shakes his head in amused mystification. “A suspicious figure?” he repeats, making a “so what?” gesture with his hand. “Is that all he is?”

James grimaces. “Not all. He’s weirdly… agile. Freakishly quick.”

Suzie Su laughs, a husky and wheezing sound in her current state. “Agile is right. He pirouetted James right in the face.” Pirouette, Jason thinks. The word spins into his mind, a flurry of movement, and then neatly halts on a striking thought. Jason turns his attention to the well-dressed man on his knees. 

Meanwhile, James is sending Suzie Su a glare across the room. “It was a roundhouse kick,” he corrects as if the name affords him more dignity. “Just a really spinny one. I don’t think he was actually even on the ground — ”

Impatient, Jason rips the sack off the man’s head. His jaw clenches so tightly he’s aware of the ache. Dick is noticeably unharmed, except for perhaps a small patch of dirt accentuating his sharp right cheekbone. His hair is in disarray, silky strands breaking from what once must have been perfectly molded curls to fall smoothly into his alert blue eyes. He looks more like a pampered socialite returning from a joyride with the windows down than a hostage. Dick blows a rich black lock of hair out of his eyes and gives a toothy grin that positively dazzles. “Hiya, Hood. Fancy seeing you here,” he greets and, for added impertinence, he even winks at Jason.

Claustrophobia looms over Jason’s back like an invisible but palpable enemy, breathing down his neck, crowding him against Dick and Bruce and Tim. He never should have contacted Tim, this was the respect they showed, the audacity. He has a flash of himself yanking Dick up by the throat and dangling him out a window, letting him drop to the icy ocean. Then he sees Dick’s golden face turn cold, eyes white and face pale, and the horrifying vision is gone just as fast. 

“Everybody out,” Jason orders. He feels stiff, his spine stiff, his voice stiff. He’s still staring at Dick, the smiling piece of work. Suzie Su stands up and lumbers towards the door, but James lingers. 

“Is he one of your, you know,” James starts out. He brings his fingers to his head and Jason knows he’s about to form little bat ears, but fortunately, James drops his hands to his side instead. James swallows dryly. “I’ll be outside.”

“Yeah, way outside,” Jason agrees sharply. “Outside the casino, if you can.”

Dick watches the two of them with glass-blown eyes. He smiles cheekily at James and says, “Maybe you can keep an eye on the parking lot, make sure no one touches Hood’s bike.”

James narrows his eyes at Dick but says nothing more. He turns around and stalks out the door, trailing after Suzie Su. “The door, ” Jason adds, mildly amused when James grabs the doorknob and slams the door shut. “Touchy,” Jason tuts. 

Dick springs to his feet and begins undoing the knot around his wrists. Jason just barely resists shoving him back to the floor. “What the hell, Dick!” he shouts. “What happened to the fucking parking lot!” he demands, waving his arms. 

Dick’s wrists come free, the rope falling to his feet in one final and fluid motion. “I got lost,” Dick says. He smoothes out his shirt, which draws Jason’s eyes properly to how the pink highlights the rosy warmth of his skin tone. He looks good.  

“Oh, my god,” Jason mutters, turning away from Dick and pinching the bridge of his nose. There’s tension building there, a volcanic tension Jason is always pushing down, keeping dormant. Stupid, stupid, letting the Bat in. He can only blame himself because if he blames Dick he’s going to go on a rampage, and anyway, holding the bats accountable has never worked for him before. 

“You know what,” he says after a moment wherein Dick wisely stays silent, “it’s my fault,” he informs, holding his palms up in surrender. “I, despite many opportunities to learn from my mistakes, entrusted your hegemonistic troupe with private information and somehow expected you to respect my rules.” Jason holds a hand over his heart and leans forward in apology, causing Dick to have to tilt his chin slightly upward. Jason stares intently at him, going for venomous sincerity as he says, “This is on me for thinking what I said matters to any of you psychos.”

Jason watches Dick blink owlishly at him. He’s still in Dick’s space, waiting for a response, when finally Dick smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “Woo!” he says, wiping his forehead, “Glad we got that over with! Very mature of you, Hood,” he chirps, stepping around Jason. Jason imagines grabbing him by the neck and holding him in place, pinning him still like one might do to a butterfly that lingers too long for safety. Jason does not do that.

Dick begins rooting through his desk, wiggling drawers to find they’re locked and checking beneath his Poe book like he’s in a clue game. Jason can’t help but release a weary sigh. Jason begins, “Would rather you just let me die, if we’re being hon — ”

“By the way, what you say does matter,” Dick abruptly interjects, looking up from another locked drawer to stare Jason down. Dick’s hair has fallen into his eyes again, providing a thin buffer between their gazes. Jason awkwardly shifts his weight and suspects, with some bitterness, that the terms of the mission have just switched hands. Then Dick is pushing his bangs out of his face and wrestling his curls out of their mold. “It’s just that your life matters more,” he explains, and the whole line is just so nonchalantly sentimental, so easily spoken, that Jason wants to throw them both out a window. At least Dick has stopped staring at him, and he looks like slightly less of a prick now that his hair is closer to its naturally relaxed wave. 

“The curls make you look gay,” Jason informs, trying not to pout like he’s sixteen again and Nightwing is refusing to partner up with him on a case. 

Dick smirks. “Those who live in glass casinos, Jay,” he retorts. “Feel like unlocking any of these for me?” he asks.

Jason crosses his arms. “Not particularly, no,” he replies, shaking his head. 

Dick twists his lips in irritation before, apparently, moving on, expression blasé. “That’s fine,” he dismisses. “What’s not fine is that security of yours,” he adds, unimpressed, as he scoops the Poe collection into his hands. Jason’s heart seizes in his chest.

“Hey!” he protests, marching towards Dick and reaching for the book. Dick’s shoulder cuts between them, blocking Jason off. 

“Your bruisers couldn’t land a real hit on me — and they just take me to you without, apparently, informing you ahead of time?” Dick criticizes. He’s sifting through the silvery pages now, fanning them with his thumb. “What if I had been your stalker? What then? They deliver me unto you where I’m free to shoot you point-blank?”

Stalker, Jason thinks, is a tad dramatic. “What, they didn’t pat you down?” he asks, already knowing they did. James is too paranoid not to and Suzie Su knows who lines her pockets. 

Dick purses his lips unhappily. The overall effect is charming against Jason’s will; it’s a beautiful mouth, full and fair, and easily admired when idle. But then his lips are framing around words, as they frequently are, and Jason has to focus. “Well, technically, yes, they checked me for weapons,” Dick admits. He holds a finger up and points at Jason’s chest. “But there are other ways of killing you.”

Jason pats his chest and then holds out his arms like wings. “And yet I am not dead. Security seems just fine to me.”

Dick’s expression sobers. Jason can barely keep up with Dick’s emotive face, the ups and downs of his duel humor and sincerity. “You’re not dead because there’s been no attempt. You’re the endgame and these boys are just,” language fails Dick here. 

“Pit stops?” Jason offers, raising both his eyebrows. Dick clearly doesn’t appreciate his word choice, because his brows knit and he turns his fine cheek further away from Jason. He wants to keep pushing, though, so he says, “How about appetizers?”

Dick has reached the end of the book, but before Jason can feel relief, he starts fanning the pages again. “Sure,” Dick concedes, albeit moodily. 

Jason leans against his deck and watches Dick flip through. He considers ripping the book out of his hands, but he doesn’t know if it’s worth the trouble, so he holds back and drums his fingers against the edge of the table, letting his anxiety bleed out through his tips. 

“Appetizer makes sense,” Jason proposes. “Sociopath like him, he likes to whet his hunger when he can, but he’ll never be full,” he explains, almost absently, his mind drifting away from the office and towards the ocean facing him, and across that ocean, too, all the way to his return to Gotham. He remembers his own hunger. 

He hears Dick slap a page down. Jason doesn’t bother looking; he knows Dick found the photographs. A tiny sigh escapes from Dick beside him. Jason glances at him from the corner of his eye, sees Dick tapping his fingers against a face, communing with some boy’s preserved pain. Jason looks away.

“Except he’s not ‘whetting’ anything,” Dick says. “These kids aren’t for his benefit. They’re for yours.” 

“None of these kids died,” offers Jason, partly as an agreement with Dick’s point, partly just to remind himself. They’re all alive. They’re breathing. They didn’t lose everything. 

Dick hikes himself up on the desk and sets the book down in his lap, legs pretzeled. The white slacks curve keenly around his thighs. “Makes sense for a reenactment, which the assailant’s going for. You didn’t die, after all.”

Jason’s jaw flexes. “I did.”

Dick does not respond, which Jason is grateful for. Having the photos open, their bodies inspected while he stands off to the side, is such a keen breach of privacy. He feels it like a direct violation, yet he knows better than to snatch the evidence from Dick’s hands. Dick always comes bounding back after a rebuttal, Exhibit A: this whole thing. The only way Dick would be gentler is if he needed to be, and Jason refuses to give him a reason. 

After a minute, Dick breaches the silence. “Full discretion?” he says. 

Jason hangs his head and braces himself. He’s never noticed before, but there are tiny fishes painted onto the ceiling. “Yeah?” he asks, figuring Dick is seeking permission, or whatever. 

“I watched the tapes.”

That gets Jason’s attention. He faces Dick whose fingers rest on the open pages, whose brow is furrowed in what must be guilt or nervousness. Jason opens his mouth, closes it, and then shakes his head. “What tapes, Dick?”

Dick taps his index finger on the first kid: Terry Weind. The name he learned from a news report the same day his picture was stuck to his bike. No pictures were released to the public, but Vale spared few details in her verbal description. Jason didn’t have to do much digging for the boy’s identity. He had shown up at the hospital with flowers, telling Terry’s mother that he was just a concerned citizen. He also told her that Gotham’s heart went out to her son, that there was a community right outside that hospital room, even if it felt the only souls around were her and her son’s. He hopes she believes it better than he does. 

“B has had Park Row Memorial recorded around the clock for years. He has — every one of the attacks on camera. We watched them while he was prepping me for this case.” Dick says this like it’s a confession and Jason has the power to pardon him. 

Jason nearly scoffs. “Yeah, well, it’s your job,” he says instead. If he was stronger, Jason would hold this breach of privacy against him. He would take advantage of the one aspect in all of this that Dick appears penitent for. He should be sorry. Dick got to watch not just three kids brutally beaten, exploited helplessly, he got to watch Jason. Jason had to experience his death completely alone and now he had to experience it again on a stage. Neither Bruce nor Dick were there for him as partners, but they are here as an audience. Jason’s grave has been violated by more than just a hooded figure in an alleyway, but Jason does not have the energy to be judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t have the energy to give Dick what he wants.  

“So, what’s the plan?” asks Jason, propping his elbows on the desk. Dick doesn’t answer, so Jason says, “You must have one since you went to all the trouble of getting James to deliver you personally to my office like a sack of potatoes.”

“Who keeps a potato sack on them, by the way?” Dick asks. Jason shrugs. “That’s just weird,” Dick comments. 

“Yeah, he’s kind of weird,” Jason agrees. “But so is everyone in your corner. Those who live in glass batcaves should not throw batarangs?” he asks, irony lacing his words.

“Wingdings, actually,” Dick corrects, which reminds Jason of the Microsoft font and he wonders if Dick’s stupidity is contagious. He’d hate to start calling his guns ‘bat-barrels’ or ‘Times New Hoodlum.’ “Also, the plan might just take place in the aforementioned glass house,” Dick adds. 

Jason shakes his head. “You’ve lost me.”

Dick sighs, the perfect picture of put-upon. Jason knows where this is headed: he’s the unreasonable one here, somehow, despite arriving by car like a normal person instead of on a suspicious person list. “Your hired muscle isn’t the best,” Dick begins with an insult, so Jason knows it’s going downhill from here. “Bunker’s observational skills are decent, but not up to par. Your ‘James’ is sloppy. And the, uh,” Dick licks his lips here, “ lady — insulted you about five times between the budget interrogation and the bumpy ride to your office. Wherever her loyalties lie, they’re not with you.”

Jason groans dramatically and pushes off his desk. He reclaims his book from Dick’s lap, closing it shut and walking towards the whale-shaped bookshelf mounted on a non-windowed wall. “Su’s loyalties lie with her money, and her money lies with me,” Jason refutes. He gently slides the book between a copy of The Orphan Master’s Son and Hamlet. “You tell me where a man gets his corn-pone, and I’ll tell you what his opinions are. Mark Twain,” Jason cites.

Dick watches him from his seat on the desk. His lips are pressed in wry amusement, although the amusement may be wishful thinking on Jason’s part. He’d like to say he put something on Dick’s lips, and humor is good enough. “Yes,” says Dick flatly, “that sounds familiar, thank you. But money only goes so far when another pocket reaches farther. Me, telling you she’s bad news,” he cites himself. 

“Alright, fine,” Jason says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. He moves them so his jacket fans out in a textile shrug. “Tell me then — Suzie Su the figure you caught on tape? I assume it’s only a figure and not a clear profile since you’re sitting on my desk like it’s your college dorm bed and not out there apprehending my so-called stalker.”

“So-called because they are stalking you, Jason,” Dick says gravely. 

“Thanks for the clarity, dickhead, the situation could’ve been really lost on me. Almost forgot I’m the Case of the Month.”

“Sorry,” says Dick, wincing. 

“Ugh,” Jason says, hanging his head back with the burden of Dick’s personality. The confession-booth sincerity might be ingratiating if Dick wasn’t as oppressively righteous as an Elf on the Shelf. 

“And no,” Dick resumes, “the figure is definitely not Suzie Su. Average height, it looks like, although he’s — bent, most of the time, so it’s guesswork. His frame is neither slim nor broad.”

Jason laughs. “Really? That’s the best you got? Not tall, not short, not big, not small?”

“Well, he’s wearing a hoodie, which obscures a lot of their physique,” explains Dick. He raises his eyebrows then, a questioning movement, and glances out the windows. The room has crisped to an orange color without Jason noticing. In a few minutes, the sunlight will be directly in Dick’s eyes, and then shortly afterward night will fall. “Specifically, he was wearing loose-fitting denim jeans, black combat boots, and a red pull-over with the hood up,” Dick describes. 

The last revelation pulls a clownish ribbon of laughter from Jason. It’s a nervous one, which must be obvious to Dick, but he can’t help it. The laugh bubbles in his chest, acidic, and pops on his tongue with acerbic heat. “I bet,” is all he says. 

Dick musters a half-smile and says, “Points for theme?”

Jason snorts. “Yeah, sure, he can get all the points for theme. But why?” he asks. “What the hell is this theme? He’s dressed himself like me to kill me. Am I killing myself? Is that the idea? Is he saying it was all my fault, that I got myself killed?” 

Jason envisions himself as he is now, face veiled in red, bring metal down on Robin. The warehouse builds itself around the nightmare, boxes stacking atop boxes, men milling about indifferently, and then running out. Except that it’s not the warehouse, it’s Crime Alley, and the walls collapse revealing narrow city streets. The Joker falls away and Batman stands in his place. Jason looks down, expecting a bloody crowbar, but he holds in his grip a simple, slightly rusted tire iron. Both are red though, in the end, aren’t they?

Jason flexes his empty fingers. The floor beneath him is plush, white carpet that’s been bleached more times than he can count. “Why Park Row?” he asks.

Dick’s voice is muted, almost hesitant, actually, or perhaps just attempting to hush and soothe. “It could be coincidence. Park Row is conveniently vacant, especially at night, and he wouldn’t know there were cameras watching,” Dick speculates. He approaches the next possibility more tentatively. “Or he might know what Park Row means to you, to Robin. He could even be showing off how much he knows.”

Jason blanches. “He knows a fucking lot then.”

Dick does inventory: “If Park Row is coincidental, he wouldn’t necessarily know you as Jason Todd. He would just know that the Red Hood was Robin and that the Joker killed — ”

Jason cuts him off. “With a crowbar, he got it to the exact weapon .”

The weapon troubles Dick as well, Jason can track the rumination on his face. The crowbar is specific, purposeful, and not common knowledge. The details of Jason Todd’s untimely death were not released to the public — and as far as his other identity went, Robins may change but they don’t die. “Bruce has a theory about that,” Dick shares. 

“Oh, yeah?” Jason asks. He can’t keep the sarcasm from entering his voice. Rationally, he knows Bruce can help him and that’s why he’s willing to work with him. But also, what aspect of Jason’s life hasn’t Bruce analyzed through a microscope, poured into a beaker to see if it would blow up, and uploaded for his future reference? What aspect of any of their lives has Bruce not thought through for them?

“Joker, or someone who worked with him that day,” Dick supplies. “They would know about the crowbar, and if it’s the Joker, he makes almost everything Batman does his business, he might even know about the cameras. He could be taunting B by making him watch.” 

What a theory it is, too. Jason starts laughing until Dick trails off and asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jason says, holding up his hands in mock apology. He pretends to wipe away a tear. “That is just some crazy narcissistic bullshit. I’m getting the photos of these mutilated kids and he’s the reason why?”

Dick must know Jason has a point because he flounders briefly before restarting. “Maybe not the reason, but logically Batman is connected. I know it doesn’t feel, I don’t know, satisfying, but it’s the only plausible theory so far. The Joker’s games almost always lead back to him. He used you to get at Batman, it’s at least worth considering how Bruce might factor into — ” 

Jason holds up a hand to shut Dick up before he loses his patience. “So, none of this is about me?”

Dick’s expression turns confused. “That’s not what I’m saying. I know this is about you.”

“But my death wasn’t,” Jason practically spits. He shrugs, tries to play this casually, but he wants to upend the desk Dick is still sitting on. He’s overcome with the suspicion that everything in this room is a prop to Dick, a piece to a gameboard he’s playing with Bruce alone. The both of them are entitled to waltz in with some half-baked disguise, lounge on his furniture, look through his books, watch his death over and over again. Jason himself is just another clue.

“You can say it,” Jason encourages, “I died for Bruce. It was never about me, it was always his war and I,” Jason pauses for the right words and when they arrive, the anger building up in him blows away. “I was just a good soldier.” 

Dick’s eyes don’t sharpen with recognition; they cloud over with it. Jason repeats the plaque’s inscription in the Batcave: A good soldier. It shines, encased in gold, commemorating Jason’s death while in defiance of his life. Here, in this conversation, it is soaked in venom. Jason doesn’t mean it as an attack; nonetheless, Dick shifts physically away as if to hide the bite mark. 

Jason takes a fortifying breath. This isn’t where the conversation is going, he vows. “This isn’t the Joker and this isn’t Batman’s case,” he says steadily enough. Dick has slid from the desk and finally stands, his gaze level with Jason’s. Jason gestures broadly, indicating everything around them that Jason has built for himself the past few years. “ This isn’t Bruce’s life and I’m not about to give him mine again.”

Jason thinks he’s made his point. He just wishes Dick didn’t look like he had slapped him. “No one expects that,” he assures before amending with a tiny frown, “I don’t expect that. I won’t speak for Bruce.”

“That’ll be a first,” Jason replies wryly. 

Dick actually laughs, kind of, more of a huff but it’s not without humor. “That’s fair, I suppose. I know everyone thinks I’m his champion, but I try to support everyone in our bat-themed infantry. Family, or so I like to call it. I defend you, too, Jay. I hope you know that. I guess he just seems to need me in his corner the most. Or maybe his corner is where I’m used to being, I don’t know, either way — it was just his theory and I thought it was worth sticking to the wall.”

Jason’s impulse is to criticize half of what Dick just said, but he leaves it be. Dick may be here for Bruce, but more importantly, they’re both here for the case. “I get it. But it’s a theory for Batman, not for Red Hood. I know Bruce is already halfway to commandeering the case and you’re here as a favor to him because we infamously don’t get along, but if you’re going to work with me, you gotta respect what I’ve got going on. Because whoever this person is, they’re not going to all this effort over the Joker or Batman. I’m not a soldier caught in their crossfire this time around. They know me as Robin and as Red Hood. This is very, very personal.”

Dick’s eyes drift to Jason’s bookshelf. He’s thinking of the pictures and how these kids were hurt because of Jason. Jason is, too. Dick folds himself across his chest and nods. “You’re right, you’re right. This is your case.” When Dick looks back at him, his face is intense. “I am here for you, not him. Well, I’d like to think we’re all in this together and so in a way I’m here for both of you, but. I don’t see this as a favor to him. Just so we’re clear.”

Jason breaks their gaze before he can accidentally believe him. When Jason became Robin, Dick avoided him because he was upset with Bruce. When Jason became Red Hood, Dick chased after him because he wanted to help Bruce. And when Dick faked his own death and told Jason nothing, it was because of Bruce. Why Dick wants to expand their relationship now is beyond him, but he’ll take help where he can get it. 

Besides, he does like the idea of Dick leaving Bruce’s corner for his. If Jason plays his cards right, Bruce’s plan for a middleman could backfire with Dick not apprising him of every time Jason’s nose twitches. Even Dick can’t resist a mission in Gotham without the Bat breathing down his neck. 

“Good,” Jason finally says after moments of Dick patiently awaiting the reception of his little olive branch. “Well, if it’s not a favor to him, then you won’t care that one of my caveats is keeping B on a strict need-to-know basis.”

Dick furrows his brow. “Define ‘need-to-know.’”

“Uhh, unless I say, ‘hey, Bruce needs to know this,’ he doesn’t need to know this.”

“Bruce is a good resource, Jay,” Dick insists. “You’re important to him, believe it or not, he’ll want to know everything is developing safely and efficiently.”

Jason cocks his head left and right like an unbalanced scale. “Yeah, well, I don’t want what he wants and it’s my case.”

Dick purses his lips thoughtfully. His forehead relaxes as does so, and it occurs to Jason that Dick is actually quite expressive. He can see the reluctance fall off his face, track the movement of thoughts across his gray-blue eyes. It’s strange to think that this man with all these open emotions and mercurial playfulness was raised by Bruce and his shadows. “Okay,” Dick eventually says, somewhat pensively, “what do you want?”

It’s an honest question, not rhetorical in the slightest, and that catches Jason off guard. He isn’t equipped to answer it. Jason knows what he doesn’t want, but that’s easier. He’s learned not to want things. He remembers wanting immensely in the life before this one. Jason is more careful now. If he was reckless, he would say he wants Dick here. He likes that Dick has all but literally chased him down to give him that help. He might want Dick to keep chasing him. He wants to be found, to be saved. But Jason knows from experience that those wishes don’t come true. 

“I want you to leave the Bat out of it,” Jason reiterates. He says it because it’s easier, and on the outside wanting an absence is like wanting nothing at all. But it is a want secretly, a real one, because he wants to know if Dick is chasing him like he suspects, or if he’s holding a scalpel behind his back, ready to scrape off a sample of Jason and deliver it to Bruce. 

Dick doesn’t roll his eyes or argue. In fact, he doesn’t react to the sarcasm Jason had safely wrapped his answer in at all. Instead, he breathes in through his nose, inhaling the terms and conditions, and then breathes them out through his mouth, fully processed. “Within reason,” he acquiesces. It’s not enough and Jason is about to say so when Dick holds up a hand. “I will not contact him without telling you first. And if he sends me anything about the case, I’ll forward the information right away,” he modifies.

That’s another fear to pile onto Jason’s plate. Dick doesn’t even plan on Bruce being forthcoming about whatever he might find on Jason’s rogue. “Yeah, Dick, details are kind of life-or-death here!” he exclaims, utterly bewildered. “I would freaking hope you don’t let Bruce hijack my case.”

Dick has the social graces to look contrite, although Jason knows he’s no different from any of the bats when it comes to secrets. They’re all hard-pressed to feel real guilt over things as petty to them as privacy. Boundaries, like all obstacles, are easily circumvented with a just cause and some zipline. 

Once Dick’s done pretending he’s sorry with his face, he sticks out a hand. “Our case,” he offers.

Jason laughs quietly. “Nah, but sure,” he agrees, shaking Dick’s hand. Then he leans back and crosses his arm, shifting his weight to one leg. “I guess the only thing left to sort out is for you to meet the in-laws.”

Dick tilts his head. “In-laws?” he repeats curiously.

“The Outlaws,” Jason specifies as Dick nods and makes an “ah” sound. “Or what’s left of them at least,” he says. 

Dick finds his way back to Jason’s desk and hikes himself up. He begins swinging his legs like a child. “I think I already did meet them. What did you call them? Sweaty Su and Fat Lip?”

Jason doesn’t think he’s heard Dick roast nearly enough people to be satisfied. “Yeah,” he says, grinning despite himself. He really should defend them, they’re all he’s got at the moment, but also they suck. “You should call them that to their faces, they’ll love it.”

Dick points at him and winks like the two of them are onto something. And maybe they are. 

[melon3x]

You pushed ME away

“Do you even regret it Virge? Doing the one thing you promised never to do? Throwing us away like last week's garbage and replacing us with some new and shiny versions? Do you even feel a hint of remorse for leaving us behind?” A distant airy voice sneers into the dark room with venom, leaving Virgil to bolt upright in fear. He looks around frantically, searching for the slimy yellow eyes he knew all too well. He reaches for the purple and black plaid lamp that Patton got him, desperately trying to fill the evasive room with light. All his hand hit was the smooth surface of his sleek black bedside table. 

“You said not even death could break us apart. In it till the very end. So why did you decide to rip our hearts out with your bare hands and eat them?” Another greasy voice slithers into the room, poisoning his head with memories that brought him nothing but pain and sadness. He stumbles out of his bed, leaving the only safe place he had right now. The light switch was only twelve steps forward and two to the right.  Panic was starting to fully set in, his breathing was becoming erratic, his heart was thumping so loudly he was surprised the others couldn’t hear it.

    Light blares through the room, blinding the anxious man momentarily. After the temporary blindness leaves him, his breath is taken away from him when two figures step into the middle of the room. Only inches away from his face, far too close for him to even ration his way through it. 

Narrowing his brown hues, he steps back and crosses his arms, hissing when the two step towards him.

“You should know that doesn’t affect us Virge~” Remus teases, causing the tightness in his chest to squeeze harder, leaving him weak of breath. It felt too much like the old times, the achingly warm moments the three shared before everything went to shit. When Deceit use to be a mother hen and all of Remus’s humor and jokes were only either about octopi or toilets.

Fist clenching tightly he glares knives into the two sides, just wishing they would leave him alone.

“What do you want?” Virgil grits out, getting a snort from Deceit. Remus responds by smiling childishly, pulling a pair of glossy eyes out of his pocket and pushing them into his eye sockets, spitting his regular eyes out. Once his ‘puppy dog eyes’ were in place he clasps his hands together, sticking his butt out into the air for extra effect.

“We want you to come back to us!” Virgil feels rage wrap around his anxious heart. He uncrosses his arms and huffs out a few rage filled grunts.

“Why would I go back? You two were the ones who pushed me away! You were the ones who forced me to start appearing before Thomas! You filled my head with burning hatred! Only watched as I started to break down! You weren’t there when I needed you the most! They were! Patton actually gave me words of encouragement instead of those debilitating words you always threw my way when I made a mistake! Roman actually knows when to stop mocking me, Unlike you Remus. Logan helps me get through all of my irrational fears logicall, unlike what you did Deceit. I haven’t felt happier in years, I feel like I actually belong! So like Hell am I going to go back to people who left me to drown in my own despair.” He was only a decibel away from full out screaming, but that didn’t deter him. All the rage he felt towards the two in front of him was pouring out, leaving him with each word he spat and every tear that streamed down his face sporadically. Deciet’s smug face was washed away, replaced with one filled with resentment and disbelief.

“Do you honestly think you belong with them? You were and always will be, a ‘dark’ side Virgil. They don’t love you, they only put up with you because if they didn’t you would be an even bigger burden. You cause Thomas harm, that’s all that you ever do. That’s all that you will do. You aren’t a ‘Light’ side Anxiety. You belong with us, We’re your family, not them. Stop playing this stupid game of make beleive and come home already.” He seethes out, his mask of smugness fitting back onto his face like a glove when he notices all the doubt and self-hatred that swirled through Anxiety’s troubled chocolate hues. Everything in the room starts to flicker and distort, all bending to the unraveled emotions seeping out of the short male. The shadows in the room grow taller, warping into monsters that usually laid underneath your bed. The shadows under the pale man’s eyes grow stronger, eclipsing into a strong raven black. His eyes were glowing, brimming with tears and rage.

“GET.OUT!” Virgil roars, forcing the two slimy men two dissipate into the shadows. Falling to the ground, Anxiety grips his hair harshly, uncaring when he feels a few of his hair follicles rip away from his scalp. He was gasping for air, trying his best to logic his way out of the sea of self-doubt. Attempting to block out the overwhelming voices that only seemed to grow louder.

‘They’re right, Thomas doesn’t need me.’

‘I’m a burden.’

‘All I do is hurt everyone I love.’

‘Maybe I should just go ba-’

“Kiddo?” A familiar and safe voice breaks through the wall of hurtful thoughts, bringing the brunette back down to earth. With a shaky breath, Virgil tilts his head upwards, staring into Patton’s concerned milk chocolate hues with his own teary dark brown ones. Behind Morality stood Logan, Roman, and Thomas, All three who were also showing concern for him. He looks back to the ground, shame coursing through him as a loud sob forces its way past his lips.

    Patton gets onto his knees, snaking his arms onto the crying males waist, pulling him into a reassuring hug. Virgil doesn’t hesitate in hugging the quirky man back, resting his head in his neck as he continues to cry and attempt to breath. Thomas is quick to rush over and initiate a group hug. Roman joins the hug, throwing away his front in order to comfort a dear friend of his. Logan walks over, crouching so he was on level with everyone else. Placing a comforting hand on Virgil’s shoulder, Logan starts whispering weird and useless facts, knowing that Anxiety usually like to either note the facts for later or try and start a debate with the logical side.

    They all stay like that for a while, the only noises being from Patton, who was whispering encouraging words, Logan, who was now going on a rant about flat earthers, and Virgil himself, who was slowly but surely quieting down from his intense crying session. A few more minutes go by before finally his sobs turn into gasps for air which then turn into sniffles. He doesn’t pull his head away from Patton’s neck, wanting the hug to last for a few more minutes.

“What happened Virgil?” He hears Thomas ask, tensing up from the intruding memories, Virgil simply shakes his head, letting them know that he didn’t want to talk about it right then.

“How about, we talk about it later. Instead we should go and have a Disney movie marathon with some popcorn and hot chocolate, tea for Logan of course, how does that sound?” Patton offers, getting a nod from Virgil, two excited cheers from Thomas and Roman, and a ‘That sounds tolerable.’ from Logan. Anxiety pulls away from the group hug reluctantly, taking the offered hand from Morality. The five make their way towards the living area, talking and joking like normal, still aware of the tense and somber mood but unwilling in allowing it to dampen their spirits. Virgil stays silent for the most part, only adding his two cents in here and there.

‘They don’t see me as a burden...do they?’ He thinks, stopping suddenly from the sad and doubt filling thought. Patton notices immediately and stops, tilting his head in confusion as he watches a horde of emotions flash across his dark strange son’s face.

“Virge? Everything okay buddy?” The silly dad of the group asks, catching everyone’s attention immediately as they crash to a halt and turned to stare at the dark edgy side with caring apprehension. Anxiety looks at the four men he’s grown hopelessly attached to and starts to tear up, his face twisting with distress.

‘Y-You guys aren’t just faking it right? Do you guys really care for me? I am a burden? Am I just causing you pain? Do you really love me?’ He just wanted to ask all these questions, but he didn’t want to have them get angry at him. He doesn’t want this little slice of make believe to end just yet.

“Can ...Can we watch the Black Cauldron first?” Hesitation in his voice, instantly he picks up on the undesirable emotions that everyone seemed to try and fail to hide. Patton was the first to snap out of it, a soft heart-filled smile on his face.

“Sure thing, Kiddo.” Virgil feels relief, no real reason why, he just finally relaxes. When the conversations start to lull back in, Virgil take apart of them more, jabbing at Princy playfully while also getting into friendly debates with Logan. A small harmless argument breaks out between him and Thomas over stuff that was happening in his life, which was instantly stopped by ‘The look’ only Patton could conjure up.

    This light-hearted mood goes on for hours, bringing Virgil’s spirit up as he stares at the sleeping faces of everyone he now considers family. A pair of yellow eyes appear in the corner, watching Anxiety with a smug look. The MCR loving man just stares into the snake like eyes before flipping him off, closing his eyes in defiance as he falls asleep surrounded by a family that does care for him.

He ignores the confliction that rises in his chest when he walks into his room the next day and a stuffed black cat with one emerald green button eye, lays on the middle of his bed, purple patched ears and tail standing out like a sore thumb.

(He also tries his best to not be embarrassed when everyone finds out the cat’s name is Snuggles.)

[kenzieam]

The Reaper and the Vixen - Chapter Three (Eric X Fox)

Rating: M

Genre: Drama, Angst, Language

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Will Eric finally be able to show Fox how he feels?

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The morning sunlight flickered through the tree branches outside the window, creating a fluttering, wavering shadow over the bed. Eric groaned as the light hit his face and rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head and kicking his foot irritably when the sheets tangled around it. He was hung-over, he could already tell. His head throbbed in time with his heart and his mouth was parched, tasting faintly of bourbon.

He’d been stupid last night, drinking way more than usual and then blowing off the club’s concern when he’d decided to drive himself home. Courting his President’s rage, Four had plucked the bike keys deftly from Eric’s hands, herding the belligerent and growling man into his own truck and driving the big baby home. Eric faintly remembered grumbling as he leaned his head against the passenger window, mixing his half-hearted threats of kicking Four’s ass with genuinely mystified heartbreak over Fox’s continued aloofness.  

Rarely did Eric lose control like this, but Four understood his pain and listened quietly, giving sporadic advice to the heartbreak and mild agreement to the ass-kicking threats, knowing Eric didn’t really mean them, and even if he did, he was too damn drunk right now to coordinate any form of attack.

Something needed to give. Eric couldn’t continue like this, lusting and yearning after Fox, especially if she wasn’t going to reciprocate. He needed to know why she kept avoiding him, why she ignored the certain, dizzying attraction between them, why fear flickered in her eyes around him. Something must have happened to her, but no one knew what, and if she wasn’t willing to tell Tris, she certainly wouldn’t open up to Eric.

His heart ached when he thought of Fox and what they could have if she’d only give him a chance, it wouldn’t even be a stretch to say his soul hurt. She filled his dreams and his thoughts constantly, the notion of finally being able to touch her, draw her into his arms and satisfy the desperate hurt that almost crippled him was fixing to steal his sanity; it certainly was already driving him to drink. Eric wanted to give Fox the world, he would give anything for the chance to show her how he felt about her.

Turning the shower just short of scalding Eric stepped under the spray, hissing in discomfort but tolerating it to distract him from the agony of his thoughts. He needed to stop by the clubhouse and apologize to his brothers for his behaviour last night, find Four and thank him then figure out just what the fuck he was going to do about Fox. All signs and common sense pointed to him just dropping this, forcing himself to let go, stop thinking about this earthbound goddess that had completely captured him body, mind and soul. But he couldn’t, god help him, he couldn’t let go. Not yet, maybe not ever.

Exiting the shower Eric rubbed at his jaw, contemplated skipping the razor then grabbing it anyway, began to shave off the stubble darkening his jaw; his thoughts drifted again, thoughts of Fox tracing a delicate fingertip along his chin, her thumb soft along his lips before he pulled her close for a breath-taking, soul-stealing kiss. His cock hardened instantly, making him grimace and shift his feet. He had a near constant case of blue balls and no desire to satisfy his need with anyone but a certain redheaded fox. He was going to fucking explode soon.

Coffee was all Eric could stomach right now, and he swallowed a quick cup before leaving. The giant trees in his yard shaded most of it, and his bike was parked in one of the largest patches of shadow, so it was a nice surprise to feel the full power of the sun when he started out on the road. His sunglasses kept the worst of the rusty hang-over daggers from stabbing through his eyes and he rolled his shoulders, enjoying the rumble of his bike, the momentary peace it brought him. He contemplated just continuing past the clubhouse, continuing down the highway until he felt like stopping, wherever that may be, but he turned onto the lane and, after a half-mile, through the gates. The Hessians were an established club, many years in business, and the clubhouse was large, isolated and well-protected. The previous presidents had worked hard to maintain peace with rival clubs, but the clubhouse was fully capable of a complete lock-down, with plentiful food and survival stores on the grounds. At full capacity, they could survive upwards of two weeks in total isolation, but fortunately had not had to exercises this for years.

Eric breathed a slightly unsteady sigh as he parked, kicking the stand and leaning his bike. It was Saturday morning and many of the brothers were here, certainly all the ones that had witnessed Eric’s tantrum last night. Sunday morning was Church, not the religious kind but the weekly club meeting held in the Chapel, where club bunnies and old ladies weren’t allowed.

He paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The clubhouse was rustic but clean, well-maintained and renovated, divided into different areas to accommodate the brothers and their families. There was even a playroom off to the side for the littlest munchkins. Walking to the bar Eric asked a surprised Sky for an ice water when she leaned towards him, accepted the glass with a small smile. A game of poker was going on and Eric wandered over in that direction, pausing by Dropkick’s shoulder and wincing at his cards before settling in an empty chair.

“Hey boss.”

“Reaper, how you feeling?”

“You as hung-over as you look, hoss?”

Eric rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Sorry about that brothers, I was a mess last night.”

“Ain’t seen you like that in a long time, cuz. That girl’s got you all wound up.”

“Yeah,” Eric agreed. “Can’t get her off my mind.”

“You gotta figure that out before you break man, you can’t be like this all the time, it ain’t healthy.”

Eric shifted uncomfortably. His brothers were right, and it was only concern that made them say this, but it didn’t make it easy to hear.

“Well, look who's back from the dead!” Four chirped, slapping Eric half-teasingly, half-seriously in the back of the head. He dropped noisily into the chair beside him and leaned back, taking a loud gulp from his beer. “You still fixing to kick my ‘annoying-ass’ ass, Reaper?”

“Sorry Tobe, I own you for taking care of me last night. Peace?” He held up his fist.

Four grinned and bumped. “Damn right you owe me, now get your ass down to the tattoo shop.”

“Huh?”

“Tris took Evan on some playschool trip and Fox is down at the shop working. Go talk to her before you drive yourself completely batshit, or worse, me.”

Eric hesitated, jumping slightly when Four leaned forward abruptly and slapped his knee, hard. “Git, goddammit!’

*****************************************************************************************************************************************************

The door jingled as Eric pushed it open and he winced at the sound. The shop was empty, and Eric hadn’t seen Beasley’s old bike outside, but Fox’s sleek SUV was parked in the shade. Quiet swamp rock played over the speakers.

“Coming!” A voice called from the back. Fox appeared a moment later, freezing when she saw who it was, a pained frown twisted her pouty lips.

Although her reaction stung, Eric forged ahead. “You free for a tattoo?”

Fox shifted in surprise, not expecting his question. He hadn’t been by the shop since Fox had arrived in town and she’d assumed he either went elsewhere or didn’t want more ink. She glanced around, smiling wryly at the empty shop.

“Yeah, I think I can work you in.” She cleared her throat, obviously intent on maintaining a professional air and startled Eric out of his thoughts.

He had been drinking in the sight of her. Dressed in dark grey skinny jeans and a white tank top with cropped black vest she looked every inch a biker’s old lady, whether she knew it or not. The only variation was her hot pink flip-flops, exposing a black polish pedicure.

She waited, looking more nervous by the moment, running her hand through her hair, hanging loose in an auburn mane down her back.

“Uh, yeah.” Eric jolted, remembering where they were. “I was wondering if you could give me some new ink.”

“Okay.” Fox pulled over a rolling stool and sat, gesturing for Eric to take another and grabbed a large sketch pad. “What were you thinking?”

To be honest, Eric didn’t have a fucking clue; he hadn’t thought beyond coming by and trying to talk. Getting a tattoo would certainly keep them in proximity for awhile, and maybe Eric would finally be able to get through her walls, find out if she burned for him the way he did for her.

“A fox.” Inspiration hit suddenly. “Here, on my forearm.” Most of Eric’s left forearm was bare, save for the date he patched into The Hessians in roman numerals on his wrist.

“A fox?”

Eric’s heart began to hammer. Had he just pushed too far? Out of everything, he’d had to choose a fox? Well, he had to go with it now. “Yeah, a simple one, right here. I want it to look like just a sketch, just lines.”

Fox frowned and Eric waited nervously. Would she tell him to fuck off? After a moment she started drawing and Eric relaxed. For a long moment the only sound was the pencil scratching the paper, then Fox held the sketch up. “Like this?”

Eric exhaled, a smile tugging at his lips. Considering he’d not had a clue even two minutes ago about what he was even talking about, Fox managed to sketch exactly what he now wanted. “Yes, maybe a little thicker lines though, more....”

“Masculine?” Fox asked quietly, skilfully tracing the lines again.

“Yeah,” Eric murmured, transfixed by the way Fox’s hair trailed off her shoulder as she leaned over her sketch pad, the way she nibbled her bottom lip in concentration.

“No one could ever mistake you for anything but,” Fox muttered, barely audible.

“What?”

“It’s ready,” Fox replied, avoiding Eric’s eyes. She stood and walked to the light table to trace her design on carbon paper. Glancing at Eric she pointed to a nearby cushioned chair. “Sit over there, I just have to set up.”

Eric watched her, relaxing back into the chair, his eyes following Fox as she worked. Her fingers were light and nimble as she assembled her tattoo gun and she was efficient as she poured the dye caps and gathered gauze. Opening a large sterile cleaning wipe she turned to face Eric and he held out his arm for her to wash. She leaned forward, studying his skin closer for a beat before reaching for and unwrapping a disposable razor.

“Just a few hairs,” she said quietly, barely skimming his skin. Eric’s breath caught as she gently ran her fingers along his forearm, checking for hair she’d missed. Fox startled slightly, having dropped into her professional mindset and honestly forgetting who she was touching. Her cheeks flushed faintly as she reached for a second wipe, smoothed it across Eric’s arm then spread a light lotion.

Eric was no stranger to tattoos, but there was something captivating about Fox working, beyond his obvious attraction to her. She truly enjoyed tattooing, and it was evident in her attention to detail, the way she seemed able to let go of everything else and focus. Eric ached to reach up and caress her cheek, see that enchanting gaze turn to him. She smoothed the tracing paper down then gently peeled it off.

“Look okay?”

Eric glanced down, took a moment to really study the tattoo. It was the perfect size, the perfect placement.

“Perfect.”

Fox blushed again and busied herself with pulling on sterile gloves. Picking up the gun she smirked sheepishly, “I didn’t even ask you, all black and grey, right? No color.”

“No color.”

Fox nodded and took a deep breath. “You ready?”

Eric nodded, leaning his head back as Fox began. The sting was almost a comfort, a reprieve from the tactile energy he seemed to share with Fox, and the buzzing of the gun was a welcome white noise. Eric found himself drifting off, lost in the sensations of Fox seated so close, touching his skin as she worked. An unknown amount of time later he realized she’d stopped and Eric opened his eyes, lifted his head to see Fox looking uncomfortably at him, that adorable flush back on her cheeks.

He looked down, “are you done?” It didn’t look done.

Fox shook her head, cleared her throat nervously. “I’m still getting back into tattoos, I’ve been away for a few months. I’m not confident working upside down like this, I don’t want to mess up any of the lines.”

Eric waited, cocking a brow in confusion. Was she saying she wanted to stop?

Fox sighed, clearly nervous about what she was about to suggest and Eric gave her a tentative smile of encouragement.

“It would help if I could see the tattoo right side up.”

Eric glanced down. The fox was sitting with it’s feet facing Eric’s elbow, it’s head towards his wrist; for Fox to see it right side up she’d have to place her body right in front of Eric, her back almost to his chest, and continue that way. His heart started to pound in his chest, surely she didn’t mean that, it would goddamn well kill him to have her that close to him.

“Yeah,” Fox whispered, reading his thoughts. “I don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable, but I’d really like to do my best work.”

“Um, okay,” Eric fought to control his breathing, wondered if Fox could hear the racing of his heart. He sat back, eyes widening as Fox swiveled on the stool, pushing herself backwards towards him. He bit his lip, fighting for control as Fox pushed closer still and clenched his right fist to keep from reaching up to touch Fox and pull her the rest of way against him. She was close enough now that he could feel the static electricity between them, all he needed to do was lean forwards just a bit and he could nuzzle into her neck.  

Fox bent forwards, began working again and Eric let his eyes rove over her. Fox had a tattoo on her left shoulder, a minimalist phoenix, beak opened, screaming in defiance and Eric had to fight to keep from tracing his fingertip along the lines, to stop from laving his tongue along her velvet skin. Without conscious intent, his body was leaning forwards, moving closer to Fox like a moth drawn to flame and he shuddered as his chin brushed her shoulder.

Fox jumped slightly, pausing in her work and Eric froze, waiting. After a long moment she continued and Eric looked down as she worked, focusing on watching her hand to try and distract him from the heat of her body. He watched as she shaded the final small bit, then drew the gauze along his arm one more time to wipe the last of the excess ink off. Eric couldn’t hold back any longer and surrendered to his desperation, turning his head towards Fox’s throat. His lips trembled and he exhaled raggedly as his lips brushed her tender skin and he felt Fox freeze against him.

“Eric-”

“Fox, I can’t stop myself anymore,” Eric groaned, his voice threadbare. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to wait until Fox had finished and he couldn’t wait any longer. “Jesus baby, you have no idea how much I want you.”

Fox sighed, chewing on her bottom lip. She didn’t speak and Eric brushed her throat again, pressing a lingering, despairing kiss to her skin. If she rejected him now he would break apart, shatter into a thousand heartbroken pieces.

“Please, Fox. Baby just give me a chance.” His mouth trembled and he nipped faintly at her pulse point, relishing the goosebumps it rose on her neck.

Letting out her breath in a rush Fox turned her head towards Eric and their lips brushed together. A visceral shock shot through Eric and he deepened the kiss instantly, white-hot desire flaring through him. Fox whimpered against him, pressing harder, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek and Eric groaned, shuddering with relief and barely leashed lust.

Fighting for control Eric pulled away, rested his forehead to Fox’s and just panted for a minute, trying to calm his racing heart. His body was on fire, screaming for her. Fox trembled against Eric, her breaths harsh and rapid. Her hand was warm against his cheek and he leaned his head into her palm, eyes shut, not yet ready to open them.

Fox gently skimmed her thumb along Eric’s bottom lip and he languidly opened his eyes to gaze at her, a lazy, contented grin pulling at his lips. He was riding on an unbelievable high right now, Fox had finally let him kiss her, but as the silence dragged on fear and anxiety replaced his euphoria and Eric shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to speak first and maybe scaring Fox into permanent silence. He didn’t even notice he was chewing his bottom lip nervously as he waited, as Fox looked down, her hair curtaining her face. He could almost hear her thinking. Just as he was about to combust with mingled lust and panic did Fox finally raise her head. Tears streaked her cheeks and Eric rumbled in distress, thumbing the tears away gently. He hadn’t wanted to make her cry.

“Give you a chance?” Fox whispered.

Exhaling hard Eric nodded slowly. “Please, I’d never hurt you, I’m..... fuck baby, I’m hooked. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Fox looked away but Eric’s hand on her cheek gently drew her back. He waited, lips parted on harsh exhales, heart pounding. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if Fox said no. He would respect her decision and leave quietly, but once he physically left the shop he didn’t know which monster would burst from his soul to rampage and roar.

Swallowing hard Fox finally whispered, her voice tentative. “Dinner?”

Sagging with relief and elation Eric couldn’t stop a huge grin. “Yeah, of course baby. You want to go out? Or I’ll make something?”

The adorable flush was back. “I’d rather not go out, would you cook?”

“Sure,” Eric’s heart was a galloping mess, excitement and anticipation prickling his skin. “What do you want? I can make a decent spaghetti? A movie after?” He felt like a keyed up teenager again, practically vibrating with exhilaration.

Fox’s smile, although still tentative, widened slightly at Eric’s enthusiasm. “Can I bring anything?”

“Just you. Seven o’clock work?”

“Okay.”