#it was also the last time Talon let his mother see him cry

[writerfae]

The sound of childhood lost

His mother’s singing had always been one of Talon’s favorite sounds.

When he was younger he heard it a lot, grew up with the soothing melody of her voice.

It was beautiful, just like his mother was. Joyful. Gentle. Calming.

His mother’s singing moved everyone, always calming a younger Talon down when he cried, always making his sister Sera smile.

It even managed to soften the usually stern expression on his father’s face, tender tunes smoothing the rough edges of his guarded heart.

Talon could’ve listened to her sing for hours without getting tired of it.

And his mother sang often, back when he was younger.

She loved to do it, for it reminded her of home. Of her childhood back in a house filled with melodies, of the hours she spent making music with her siblings.

With one of them in particular.

Kieran was his mother’s favorite brother, had been ever since they were children. And Talon, too, had loved his uncle dearly. There were times where he had felt closer to him than to his own father.

It was him who introduced Talon to the violin:

Playing for him when he was but a little baby, gifting him his very own violin for his fifth birthday and teaching him some of his favorite compositions when Talon had shown a talent for handling the instrument.

He always insisted that Talon had a special gift, that he was even better than Kieran himself.

This claim had filled Talon with pride, but secretly he had always disagreed.

No one played the violin quite like his uncle did. No one made people weep, made them smile or laugh or dance with their music like him.

Like his mother’s voice, Kieran playing the violin was one of Talon’s favorite sounds.

And combined, he adored it even more.

Whenever Kieran came to visit them, him and Talon’s mother would play music. And Talon had loved it.

Together, the two made for a melody that was quite enchanting, an harmony unlike any other.

The harmony of two siblings that loved making music - and loved each other.

It was the sound of his childhood.

Until one day, the music stopped. Kieran died, sudden and unexpected.

And with the death of her beloved brother, his mother’s singing went silent.

***

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[thedragonnerd]

Rayaari headcanon - let us be sad with some angst and hurt/comfort

(inspired by a lovely anon)

With the rebirth of Kumandra and the return of their lost loved ones, everyone tries to sweep away the last six years, in a desperate attempt to move on with their lives and not waste any more time dwelling on the past.

But the scars, both physical and mental, still remain, and trauma endured cannot simply be washed away. There is a disconnect between people now - especially between those who had to endure the threat of Druuns hanging over their heads for years, and those who have awoken to a new world and changed people.

The most heart-wrenching discovery for Raya is that she doesn't always know what to say to her own Ba. It's been so long since they spent a lot of time together, and she is a very different person now compared to the 12-year-old little girl he threw into the water. Sometimes, she's worried he won't like the person she has become.

She also has more arguments with him than before, especially whenever he treats her more like a small child than the young woman she is today, who has survived hardship he never wanted her to experience. They don't always see eye-to-eye with each other regarding trade, politics and what is best for Heart, with his optimism and her realism clashing. If they don't resolve their disagreement quickly, Namaari will find Raya crying softly in their bedroom; she hates fighting with her Ba.

Raya sometimes sees children from her past, who were turned to stone in the original Druun attack and been frozen in time until now. It feels a lifetime ago that she was the right age to play with them, and when she sees them laughing and playing games, she wonders was I ever really that young?

She carries a weapon on her at all times, unable to shake off the feeling that something might go wrong. She learnt this the hard way when she was thirteen: a market deal in Talon had gone wrong, and she was attacked by two large men when she was only a child and without a weapon or knowledge how to fight back. Her ability to run fast had saved her that day. Since then, she has vowed never to be caught weaponless again.

One morning when Namaari tries to wake her, she accidentally pulls a knife, holding it up to Namaari's neck. Raya is almost sick with the idea that she could have seriously injured Namaari just through instinct, but Namaari just holds her hands until she calms down, rubbing her thumb back and forth. 'I trust you with my life,' she tells Raya.

Raya also still has moments where waves of anger wash over her, striking her unawares and in an uncontrollable manner. One time, Namaari makes an innocuous comment about Benja that sets Raya off, words of anger and blame falling from her lips with malicious intent. She feels awful after having done it - she never meant for Namaari to become the target of her bad emotions that day, and she can see how far it sets back their fledgling relationship. Namaari spirals into several days of guilt before they reconcile again.

For Namaari sees the trauma Raya carries, and can't help but feel responsible. She adds this to the weight of the guilt she has already carried for the past six years, and then bottles it up inside, with the opinion that she doesn't deserve Raya's sympathy, or indeed sympathy from anyone.

She has been raised to place the safety of her people before herself, growing to accept and embrace the risk to her own life every time she had to go out on a mission beyond the Fang borders and into Druun territory. It is something she has always been willing to do if it means keeping the rest of Fang safe, and in this new, safer world it is difficult to shake off these feelings of self-sacrifice being a worthy endeavour.

Indeed, she sometimes thinks that it would have been nobler to have turned to stone herself at some point over the years, but she is also too pragmatic to believe that would absolve her of her sins.

Her way of trying to atone therefore is to help as many people as possible now. Her self-sacrificing thoughts are channeled into working herself to exhaustion, as she tries to juggle fixing Fang's city and palace, expanding her citizen's homes back out into their previously Druun-infested lands, and offering up her services to any of the other lands who need extra support in rebuilding.

All of this responsibility and guilt weighs her down enough that she sometimes gets hit with extreme panic attacks. She manages to get herself to a private location the first few times it happens, but then it strikes in the middle of a sparring session with Raya, and she just sinks to the floor and covers her face with her hands.

She can faintly hear Raya asking 'what's wrong?' and feels a hand being placed on her trembling shoulder. She opens her mouth to tell Raya to go away, but instead chokes out 'Please stay?' It is the first time she has managed to ask for help.

Both of them have scars scattered across their bodies, each with a different story to tell, and some even caused by the other person. Raya is concerned at first that Namaari will find hers ugly, but Namaari soon puts those fears to rest by peppering them with tiny kisses. A couple of Namaari's old injuries give her trouble still, so Raya returns the favour by giving her massages when the pain behind those scars grows too much.

Trauma and loss is not a new concept to either of them, even before the arrival of the Druuns. At night, sometimes Raya sings a song that she can remember her mother using as a lullaby. Namaari doesn't like to discuss her father, but occasionally, safe in the dark, she will mention a story about an adventure they had together.

Over a long period of time, they are both able to release themselves of some of their fears and traumas; others, they learn to live with, or learn how to help the other cope. The most important thing, they find, is being together through it all.

[lepusrufus]

Double edged scalpel ch.6

ch.1 ch.2 ch.3 ch.4 ch.5

Summary: It's backstory time!

Mandatory warning since this is not a usual thing on my blog so I think a separate warning would be useful, there will be talk of past abuse and alcohol abuse.

----

"Wakey wakey," came the gruff voice from just outside her bedroom door.

It was slightly muffled but more than enough to make her jolt awake, muscle memory taking over the remnants of sleep. She only had one minute to be out the door. It was more than enough though, her routine perfected over years. Get out of bed. Put socks on. Get shoes. Grab the duffel bag. She slept dressed anyways, ready to go at any time.

Or not?

Where were her clothes?

Nevermind that she had time to put something on. Just grab a shirt and pants from the dresser.

Hurried steps took her over the plush carpet. Wasn't it supposed to be a solid grey? Had her mother swapped it for one of their fancier rugs?

That didn't matter right now. Clothes. She needed clothes. When she got to her dresser she stood there, frowning at the bookshelf that now took its place. She didn't even remember acquiring the tomes in front of her, most of them old and with unfamiliar trinkets surrounding them. That's not how her bedroom was arranged. Why wasn't anything in its place? Was Alex playing a prank on her? No, he wouldn't do that.

Time was almost up and she needed some goddamn clothes and to get out and her head was starting to spin-

"Nicole?"

Her eyes snapped back to the bed she had so hastily vacated, Cassandra looking at her concerned.

From the room's entrance came another familiar voice. Bela. "I only wanted to let you know that Daniela wants to go for a hunt tomorrow." Her eyes were averted and as soon as the words left her lips, she turned and shut the door behind her, not waiting for an answer from her sister.

Confusion mixed in with dizziness, but Nicole let out a quiet oh when she fully realized where she was. Cassandra's bedroom. They came here last night and fell asleep. And she was only wearing underwear.

She went to sit on the edge of the bed, head resting in her hands to try alleviate the fog in her brain. She probably looked like hell, but that was the least of her concerns right now.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Came the uncharacteristically soft voice of Cassandra, who had moved from her spot under the blankets and was gently rubbing her back.

"Uh, nothing," Nicole replied, as if she didn't look ready to puke.

Cassandra only pursed her lips and frowned. "You looked like you simultaneously saw a ghost and were ready to fight a ghost."

She swallowed thickly and forced out a laugh. "Oh are we at "tragic backstory" relationship level now?" It was at best a pathetic attempt to change the subject and at worst annoying.

When she looked back at the brunette she was still frowning, but not in annoyance. Her golden eyes sparked with concern, scrutinizing the redhead's face and body language for any clue as to what was wrong. It sent a pang of guilt through Nicole's chest. She took a deep breath and leaned back into Cassandra's touch, trying to collect her thoughts. Where does one even begin to explain this whole mess?

"Have you ever wondered why I came here? To the village?"

"...Not really," she admitted.

Nicole took another deep breath, pulling the words from her mouth as if she were pulling out teeth with pliers.

"My dad, he…he had a bit of a weird business. We never knew the details of it, he never told any of us and we knew better than to snoop, but I do know it had something to do with drugs and was highly illegal."

Staying in one place proved itself a pesky little task, so Nicole stood up and started to collect her clothes from the floor and started dressing. Cassandra instead remained in the same spot, listening intently.

"With a job like that you make enemies by default. And that made him paranoid beyond belief. When me and Alex, my older brother, were children it wasn't that bad. Worst thing he would do was lock our bedroom doors and refuse to let us attend public school."

She narrowed her eyes at a wall, still not wanting to meet Cassandra's gaze. Now that she said it out loud, not that bad sounded pretty bad too. Whatever.

"It started going downhill when I was around…" She pursed her lips, trying to make her brain put together some semblance of a timeline. "Twelve. Yeah twelve. He came bursting into our bedrooms at 2 a.m. saying that someone with a gun had gotten into our house and wanted to kill us. We were mortified. I remember my mom holding me and Alex in the backseat crying while my dad drove us to his secluded cabin in the woods."

"And that became a habit of his. He'd have us do these drills every once in a while and then scream at us if we didn't do everything in under a minute."

"That's so fucking stupid," Cassandra spat, golden eyes gleaming with anger.

Nicole started pacing back and forth, desperate for a distraction. "Oh I know. And after a few years of this I made sure to tell him exactly how much I thought it was bullshit."

Finally coming to terms with the lack of something to do while she talked, Nicole gave up and went back to the bed. She sat down by Cassandra's side, though still avoiding her eyes.

"Do you know what getting punched in the face feels like?"

Cassandra's expression contorted into a disgusted grimace. With the hand not on Nicole's back rubbing comforting circles, she dug talons into the soft fabric of a blanket. She didn't really have an answer because frankly she didn't know. Her body reacted very differently to physical harm and the few that could hurt her wouldn't go for a stupid punch to the face. Nicole kept on talking though, not really looking for an answer.

"That shut me up for a bit. Key word a bit. When he woke me up on the night before an important test I was pissed. I just thought fuck it and went upstairs to the library. It took him around twenty minutes to find me and when he did… Well, I regretted some life choices."

"I was so done with being there in that house. Though thankfully my parents went on a business trip the next day and Alex was at a friend's for the weekend. I had the whole house to myself and decided to grab one of my mom's vintage wines and just spend the evening on the couch drinking. And that's how I became an alcoholic at the ripe old age of fifteen." She let out a humorless chuckle at the end.

That day was a blur in her mind. The only thing that she vividly remembered was Alex coming home early and finding her blackout drunk on the couch. At the end of the day though, they were both in the same boat. He just grabbed the bottle from her and started to sip away at the remaining wine. Laughing at each other's hangover the next day was the most fun they'd had in ages so it became a habit for the both of them. Every once in a while they'd go into the wine cellar, pick out a bottle and then go drink it in the attic while they pretended their problems didn't exist. It continued well into their college years. Nicole was barely able to recall doing anything during her years in med school that wasn't being drunk or studying.

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. That's not where she meant to go with the story. Cassandra placing a gentle kiss on her shoulder brought her enough comfort to try and wrap it up.

"I guess in a sick ironic way my dad was right in the end though," she subconsciously shifted closer to the brunette and she wasted no time in loosely wrapping her arms around Nicole's waist.

"I was three weeks away from completing my residency when I came home from the lab, only to find my mom in a puddle of blood on the living room floor. My brother was in a similar state in his bedroom. My dad was nowhere to be found but I didn't care. It was his fault," she swallowed the lump in her throat and felt tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

"I just grabbed my documents and a duffle bag with some clothes and ran. Booked the first flight to Romania to come stay at my grandparents'. Oh except they know what my dad is all about! Told me I had an hour to get some rest and be out of their house as they didn't want any trouble with my dad's people."

"I did grab a fuck ton of my dad's cash though so at least hotels weren't an issue," her words were coming out chocked, occasionally interrupted by sniffles. She rapidly whipped a hand across her face. "Have you ever been to Braşov? Old part of the city is quite lovely."

Cassandra grimaced. She didn't want to interrupt, but seeing Nicole in such a state made something in her unbeating heart ache. She gently wiped the trail of tears from her cheeks and placed a kiss on her temple from where she was sitting half behind Nicole. Then, with the softest voice she could muster, "And how did you meet Duke?"

Nicole's eyes widened slightly, apparently having forgotten that detail.

"Oh I stumbled upon his shop one day. I thought he was selling some neat stuff and he was nice so I kept coming back. One thing led to another and when I found out about a place off the map where no one gets in or out without help I thought it would be the perfect place to hide from the people trying to put a bullet through my head." Then she winced slightly. "I was also mildly tipsy when I made that decision."

Cassandra looked a little incredulous. "And he just brought you here?"

"I paid him."

Cassandra's expression turned to what could only be described as disappointed but not surprised. Then her attention went back on the redhead, glossy eyes fixated on the floor. To say she sucked at comforting others was an understatement. Daniela was far more well versed in the art of making others not feel miserable but she was nothing if not stubborn enough to try.

"Listen," she shifted to sit in front of her, hand placed gently on a wet cheek. "If anyone ever dares come near you with the intention of harming you, I'll make them regret every life choice that led them there. You're safe here." She may not be great with her words, but if Cassandra excelled in anything, it was keeping her loved ones safe. Loved one huh.

Nicole leaned into her touch, finally meeting Cassandra's eyes. There was a gentle kind of determination in her golden gaze, accompanied by a fiery rage that, for once in her life, brought comfort as opposed to terror. It came with the knowledge that it wasn't directed at her but at whoever may want to harm her.

She didn't doubt her words. Instead she shifted closer, face nuzzled in the crook of Cassandra's neck and, barely above a whisper, said: "Thank you."

[onbeinganangel]

warmup ficlet for @the-starryknight! she picked 'i know we’re not together but i might die today so i’m going to kiss you just in case there is no later' from this wee list of kisses and asked me to drarry it up and I rubbed my hands together in glee knowing fully well i was about to put together a hell of an angst sandwich

not beta'd, not edited, just angst with a happy ending directly from my heart to yours! (cw: some canon-style mentions of blood, violence, injury and also kind of patient/healer relationship)

damned if you do it and damned if you don’t

(draco/harry, 1.8k)

Draco had pictured it so often throughout his life he sometimes couldn’t honestly believe he had made it all the way to twenty-seven.

He remembers saying it after being thrown on his arse by the family Abraxan. He’d been very little, then. Five or six, maybe. He’d cried, big fat tears running down his face, and when his Mother finally managed to pull his tiny fists down and stop him from hiding his crying behind them, he’d announced, “Maman, I am dying.” She had assured him he very much wasn’t. They’d had scones with big heaped spoonfuls of clotted cream and raspberry jam in the garden and he’d soon forgotten about his fall.

A few years later, he fell off his broom and straight into the lake. Dobby had spelled him dry to avoid him getting in trouble and he was still heaving, coughing up water and panicking when he told the Elf, “Dobby, I am dying.”

Then there was the incident at Hogwarts. He still felt the sharp talons on his skin way after the hippogriff was far, far away, as he bled, holding onto the gashes on his arm and announced to the whole class, “I am dying, it’s killed me!”

Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, it was more constant. It was the heavy burn of the Mark settling on his arm, it was the feeling of all his organs lighting up in pain and his bones breaking under Crucio after Crucio, it was the sounds of Nagini slithering outside his bedroom door at night, the sickening thud of death, the unsettling screaming, his aunt’s shrill nails-on-chalkboard voice, Greyback’s growls. A neverending chant of “I am dying, I am dying, I am dying, I am dying” inside his head.

It was confiding in a ghost, it was crying because the fear of failure was so intense he reckons he would have preferred to be dead then, it was the only person he believed was actually kind and pure and incapable of willingly inflicting pain on anyone slashing him open and leaving him for dead on a bathroom floor. Draco had looked at Snape, murmuring spell after spell over him, and he’d whispered, “I am dying.”

It was learning how to be numb, how to not feel, how to keep everyone out of his mind and away from his thoughts, it was the paralysing terror of crawling around in the shadows, the bone-deep dread of dropping leftover bread rolls on the floor by the bars on the dungeon and kicking them swiftly into the other side, where they kept his classmates. It was sneaking a blanket or two down and saying to himself, “If they find out…”

It was the persistent horror of knowing you don’t believe in what you’re doing and knowing you’re damned if you do it and damned if you don’t. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, Draco would lie in his bed at night — his own at home, his own in the dorms, Pansy’s in the girls’ dorms when it got bad, and he would say it to himself, hoping it would become true, “I am dying.”

But he hadn’t. Despite all odds, Draco is happy. Twenty-seven. He’s got friends, a flat, a job he loves and he’s good at. He’s no longer spat at on the streets. He survived, he made amends, he managed it all. Most of all, he had managed not to die.

Until now, that is. This time he’s pretty certain he won’t be afforded such luck. He feels the curse hit him square on the chest. It’s his own fault, really, for not realising there was someone already in the room he entered. He’d been too busy throwing a rather flourished Incarcerous across the room at the two potions dealers he’d been running after for the past five minutes to notice the third man.

Draco is falling backwards before he has time to even think about anything, his wand clanking noisily seconds before he joins it on the floor.

Then: “Incarcerous.” He hears it — muffled but there. And after, “Fuck, Draco.”

He’s way too familiar with the way his Auror partner works not to know it’s him when the strong arms wrap around him and pull him up. “Oh, Merlin,” he hears. His eyes flutter back open for a couple of seconds and he can tell he was right, even if it’s all blurry: red robes, orange hair, worried blue eyes.

Fear. “I am dying,” he thinks. “Harry,” he says.

“You’re gonna see Harry alright,” Ron says. “He’s gonna have words about having to heal you again,” it’s almost like a joke. Like a Ronald-typical joke. But there’s an edge of worry there. There’s panic. Ronald doesn’t panic.

And it dawns on him. Draco tries to look down but it’s all red. The burgundy of his robes, the sticky dark red of drying blood on his hands and the fresh and vivid blood still pouring out of his chest. He’s not gonna make it to St. Mungo’s, he’s never going to make it to Harry.

“I am dying,” he says, and Ron makes a noise that can only be described as half agony, half agreement.

It smells like St. Mungo’s when he wakes up thinking “I am dying.” Very faintly, he hears the same voice he always hears in his dreams. Maybe he is dead. The voice never sounds like this in his dreams, though: disembodied, frantic, quick. Draco catches half words, half sentences, half conversations that don’t make sense. A different voice is saying “just do it” and “you’re powerful enough” and “sod protocol” and “I am his partner, I brought him here.” The voice from his dreams responds with things like “unstable” and “I don’t know” and “can you please try” and a “I can’t get in touch with her” and “not without consent forms” and a louder, angry “he’s not going to d—“

Draco tries to move towards the voice.

“Draco!” Says the first voice and three pairs of feet come towards him.

“Don’t try to open your eyes, don’t try to talk, don’t try to move, okay? We have stopped the bleeding for now, but we’re still trying to reverse the curse.”

“Harry.” His Harry.

“Yes, hello. We have got to stop meeting like this.”

“I am dying,” Draco croaks out.

“I won’t let you.”

Draco wants to speak. He wants to say “I am dying, I don’t want to die without telling you,” but he has no strength. His thoughts are going faster than the newest Firebolt as he hears Harry tell whoever else is in the room (Ron?) to leave. He wonders if this is it. This what they show you in the films: your life flashing before your eyes right before you die. He thinks of Harry shaking his hand after his Auror graduation ceremony. “Well done, Malfoy,” he’d said. He thinks of that first time he’d been invited over to Ron and Hermione’s, a few weeks after he became Ron’s partner, and Harry had laughed at his stories, lips wine-red and plump, eyes kind like he’d never expected. He thinks of every moment of almost in between them, every moment where Draco considered blurting it out, saying what was on his mind. The Christmas Gala as he towered over Harry and fixed the little chain on his robes for him, and that night at that dingy club for Hermione’s birthday where they’d stared at each other for forty minutes and when Draco had decided he couldn’t take it anymore, he found out that Harry had left. Or just last month when they’d gone out to buy a housewarming present for Luna and ended up eating leftovers on Harry’s sofa, exhausted from people and walking. There are too many. Too many instances of hesitation, too many “nearly-but-not-quites.”

And he’ll die and won’t ever get the chance to tell him, to kiss his handsome, stupid, precious face, and it aches — it hurts almost as much as that spot just to the left of his breastbone where the Curse had hit, where he was profusely bleeding not long ago.

“Closer,” he manages, very quietly.

Harry approaches, but not close enough, not even close enough for Draco to grab at him.

“Cl— clos—uh—closer,” he tries again.

And Harry’s right there, by his bed and he looks beautiful in his Healer robes (unheard of, really) and Draco is blinking his view into a sharper focus and listing all the things he knows he loves, the things he doesn’t want to forget: the white-ish storm of a scar that slashes through Harry’s eyebrow, the shiny (shinier than usual?) green eyes, the touch of stubble, the slightly crooked nose, the lips — oh, the lips, plump and sweet looking and Draco will never get to find out just how sweet. And then, he has to do it. Because if he’s going to die anyway, he may as well use his last breath on this.

He pushes himself off the pillow slightly and his hand pulls Harry’s green robes closer until their lips meet, clumsily and hard — Harry not expecting it, Draco waning from the efforts of pulling Harry closer, but Draco will die knowing he’s kissed Harry. And if there’s no later, at least he’s done it. At least Harry knows.

“Stop. You’ll hurt yourself,” Harry says, and pushes him back down. Gently, like everything he does.

“But—“

“I know, darling. Me too.”

Darling? Harry… too?

“I’m going to heal you, okay? I’m going to heal you and we’ll do that again. I’ll take you to dinner, or brunch, I know you like brunch. Or just coffee. We’ll go to the pictures. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll go flying. We’ll go clubbing and I’ll dance with you, I promise I will, and I’ll let you tell me how bad I am. I’ll find you a copy of that book you were talking about with Hermione, no matter how much it costs. I’ll throw my name around if I have to, okay? And we’re going to do that again, properly. When I’m not your healer and you’re not hurting. I’m going to heal you now, you just—“ he stops, then, breathing wild and panicked.

Then, a small sob. A kiss to his forehead. Draco doesn’t remember closing his eyes.

“You just hold on, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

And Draco would cry if he had the strength, he would say yes to all those plans and more, but he focuses on the feeling of Harry’s magic sinking into his body like and he holds on, just like he was told to. He holds on, even if he doesn’t know exactly to what. And he thinks maybe he’ll get lucky again, and he’ll stop picturing himself dead like he’s been doing his whole life. Harry’s magic feels like love, like poetry, like cascading words of affection whispered into the space between his ribs, it feels like hope. And Draco holds on and thinks to himself, as loud as a thought can go, “I am not dying.”

[all-that-tmnt-jazz]

I thought of this idea and was curious if you’d be able to do head cannons on it because your writing is amazing— how would the turtles react to having a human S/O that can turn into a mutant whenever they please?

Ooh I like this one!!

Warnings: Swearing.

Incarnation: Bayverse

Extra Info: The mutant the reader can turn into will be different for each turtle- don’t worry, I’ll explain each one.

Leo:

So, your mutation never really came up in conversation

However, it only came up because you had (accidentally) been dragged into a fight with the Foot Clan

You and Leo had been on a date when Donnie had reported Foot Clan activity not far from your apartment

He tried to convince you to lock yourself inside, but you figured it would be a good time to reveal yourself

So, you managed to be dragged into the fight a few blocks away, joined by Raph, Donnie, and Mikey

You watch the boys struggle. You want to help, but you also want to wait for the perfect time

So you wait until you’re being cornered by four Foot Clan soldiers, and the brothers are busy

Perfect.

One of the Foot Clan soldiers tries to throw a small knife at you…

And you caught it.

“Shouldn’t have done that.”

You throw the knife back and hit the soldier

Using the distraction, you turn

The next time the soldiers look at you, wings have sprouted from your back, your eyes have gotten much larger, talons had grown from your fingertips and through your shoes, and your legs had gotten longer to a scary extent.

You are a half-human half-owl mutant.

“It’s showtime.”

You jumped off of the ground and immediately grabbed two of the three soldiers that had tried to attack you

You flew up above the city, not afraid to press your talons into their skin

You unashamedly flung the two Foot Clan soldiers into the Hudson, then watched them struggle as the current pulled them

You went back to the alleyway where the turtles were, watching from far above as they were continuing to fight the Foot Clan soldiers.

It was like they didn’t notice.

You dove down into the alley and pulled up at the last second, grabbing Foot Clan soldiers as you went.

You dropped them into the Hudson as well

You went back to the turtles, who had retreated to the rooftops to converse about what jus happened.

You were able to grab Leo and brought him many, many blocks away, and he was fighting the entire time

You put him down and landed in front of him- it was weird being taller than him for once…

You turned back, and he gasped.

“Y/N… That was… You?”

You nodded.

“I figured I should tell you at some point but it never came up in conversation.”

He just looked at you, unsure of what to think

He pulled you to his plastron and held you, then pulled your chin up gently

“You’re fucking amazing.”

Raph:

Raph always noticed you looking at him

Especially since oftentimes, you would be looking sad

You knew you had to tell him at some point, but it hurt your heart too much

You had gotten cursed and your lifespan became elongated

Also known as semi-immortal

And Raph was not

You’re body has been 18 for years, but you’re actually nearing your 30s

That was why you had been so against getting into a relationship

You denied him every time he asked you, until the day he turned 19- just to be sure

That was three years ago, and you started seeing signs that he wanted to propose

And you were proven right, one night at dinner

It was just you and him at the Lair- he had talked his brothers into leaving him behind while going on patrol this night

Things were going well, yes, but you knew the reason why he wanted to be alone with you

“Y/N, I’ve loved you for years. I want to be your for the rest of my life, if you’ll let me be in the rest of yours.”

You started crying.

He smiled, thinking they were happy tears

“Raph, I… I don’t know.”

His face dropped, but he nodded

“It’s okay, Darling. You aren’t ready, and I shouldn’t-”

“I’m not mortal, Raph.”

There was a long silence between you two

You tried to stop crying

“I’m semi-immortal, Raph. I… I got cursed years ago. I stop aging and will die eventually, just later than you because my life span will be longer… Much longer… Maybe even by centuries, I don’t know…”

He just stared at you, confused, and almost hurt

The only noise was your crying

You didn’t know what to do

Raph kneeled on the ground in front of you, all possible hurt gone from his face

“Y/N, how old are you really?”

“Um… 29. I’ve been physically 18 for-”

“11 years?” Raph asked you, shocked.

You could only nod.

“That’s why you kept saying no- it felt wrong to you.”

You nodded again. 

He hugged you. You tensed, but soon relaxed into him when you realized he wouldn’t be letting go

“Is there anything you can control?”

“I… Just… Yeah.”

“May I ask what it is?”

You hiccupped- you had a bad feeling of where this was going.

“Age manipulation…”

“What?”

“Age manipulation. I can accelerate or reverse the age of organisms and non-living objects…”

You knew the lightbulb went off in his head the moment you said it

He let go of the hug, but remained holding your shoulders

“Raph, I know what your thinking, but no! It can backfire and you-”

“I don’t care-”

“You could forget memories, people, places. You could forget your brothers, even me!”

There’s another long silence

You see the light drain slowly from his eyes

You shrugged his hands from your shoulders and put your face in your hands

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have let it come this far…”

He hugged you again, pulling you off of your chair to put you in his lap

“You’re worth that risk, Y/N.”

“Raph, your brothers-”

“I can’t forget them- I have too many scars and too many memories to forget those assholes.”

You chuckled dryly. 

“I’m sorry for not telling you.”

“It’s okay. You were scared… I know it’s easy to be scared when you have such a big secret to hide.”

You nodded against his plastron and snuggled as close as you could

“I love you, Raph,” you tell him. “I really do.”

“I love you forever.”

You smiled- genuinely.

“Then, yes.”

“Yes?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

“To your proposal. I’m saying yes.”

He held you even tighter

Donnie:

Despite loving Donnie with your whole heart, it was hard to be around him while he was in his lab

He had so many thoughts running through his head, it was hard to keep track

So, you often spent your time in the kitchen, talking to you deceased mother

You possess telepathic powers, and you are also a necromancer

You can hear thoughts and speak to the dead after a freak accident you witnessed in your mother’s lab years ago

It was the accident that killed her, but you didn’t know that until your father told you to prepare for her funeral

That was five years before you met Donnie

You were 17 when you met him four years ago, and had been dating for three of them.

You had been able to control it when you were 17, but then when you met Donnie, you had to re-learn

You had never met someone who thinks so much, and so loudly

You can listen to the thoughts of his brothers, too, and you find Leo’s is the most entertaining

(You’ve never heard him physically swear, but his mind is like a sailor)

But Donnie’s is the one who overwhelms you.

“Y/N, you need to tell him,” you mother says to you. “I can tell he’s starting to feel bad- you keep leaving without explanation.”

“I know, Ma. I just-”

“Y/N, who are you talking to?”

You’re heart stopped for a moment. You slowly looked at the doorway, where Donnie loomed

He was totally confused

Thoughts ran through his head

Are they okay? Is something wrong? Maybe they’re just talking to themself. Yeah-

“You’re wrong.” you say to him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. I still heard what you were thinking.”

“I’m sorry- you heard what I was thinking?”

You glanced at your mother, who had moved to stand next to Donnie

She nodded before disappearing

“I possess telepathic powers, and I’m a necromancer. I was talking to my mom- about telling you, actually.”

Donnie looks at you, shocked

His thoughts were louder than ever and were moving faster than you had ever heard

You covered your ears and closed your eyes- like that would help

He noticed this, and realization

They way I think is like someone screaming in your ear as loud as possible?

He thinks, knowing you were listening

“Yeah. I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, not moving

He approached you, but you didn’t see.

That’s why you leave the lab so suddenly sometimes? It gets overwhelming?

You nod.

He gently removes your hands from your ears and you finally look up at him

He smiles at you, almost guilty

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Don. You can’t help it.”

He takes you into his arms and holds you close

“Thank you for telling me, Y/N. Is there anything I can do?”

Mikey:

Okay, your mutation isn’t too spectacular

But it’s a mutation nonetheless

You were a test subject of the first recreation of mutagen that Shredder ordered Sacks and Stockman to make

But the Shredder and Sacks soon realized you wanted to rebel

Besides, your body was having different effects than they had hoped

So, they released you

And you went to the police

But did they believe you? No.

But a few years later, you saw Shredder fall. You saw Sacks get arrested.

Oh, now the NYPD listens

And when the man who “saved New York” was revealed, you immediately could tell he didn’t

“The Falcon” was a fake- you were surprised that everyone believe his story

Then two more years go by, and Shredder escapes prison, and then a “threat from the sky” tried to attack

But it was stopped- supposedly by “The Falcon” again

But this time, you knew it couldn’t have been him

A week after the incident, you saw a police escort heading toward Lower Manhattan

So, you followed.

Well, hitched a ride on the back of one of the trucks- which was easy in your mutant form

You hid when they stopped, then followed the path the officers made to a boat

In your mutant form, they let you onto the boat without question

Then, you saw the things that actually saved the city, proving your point

They were four turtle-human mutants- like yourself, but different animals. Obviously.

As the boat started to leave the docks, you approached the turtles, only you knowing that you shared their status as mutants

The one wearing an orange bandana immediately started cooing at you, picking you up off of the ground

“What a cute kitty… Leo, can we keep it?” he asked the turtle with the blue bandana

“We don’t know where it’s been, Mikey,” Leo had said.

So the one holding me is Mikey…

Mikey holds you the entire boat ride- and you don’t like to mention that you loved the way he pet you

Yup. you are a house cat. Specifically, a calico Turkish Angora

So, you followed Mikey off of the boat, and he kept smiling down at you as he walked

You soon realized you were at the Statue of Liberty

You saw that most- if not the entire police force of New York was gathered, as well as the Falcon, a woman from Channel Six named April, and some Ragamuffin Hockey Player-Turned-Police Officer

Then you saw Chief Vincent standing at a podium as she started speaking about the turtles who stood next to her

She thanked them for their bravery and service to this city and gave them Keys to the City

After a while of talking, she approached them to have a small group conversation for a moment

Then, she let them into the Statue of Liberty, and let them go into the statue’s torch

You followed them, of course

After the turtle’s celebration amongst themselves, you made your presence known by rubbing against Mikey’s leg

He squatted and greeted you, petting you

You soon backed away, though, and walked to the other side of the torch

You knew he followed, so, before he caught up, you turned into your human form

When he saw you, he screamed

The others immediately rushed over, and were shocked

“Hi. I’m the cat you were petting earlier,” you said- rather casually

“How? You’re a- person!” Donatello said- you had heard Chief Vincent say his name

“Yeah, I’m a person who got screwed over by Sacks and Stockman. I got mutated just before he got arrested.”

There was a long silence.

“Prove it,” Raphael demanded.

You turned into your mutant form and sat. You licked your paw, then looked up at Raphael, who had gone pale

All of them had gone pale, really, except Mikey

“Woah- you’re kinda like us, then?” Mikey asked.

You turned back and agreed.

“Awesome, dude!”

That was nearly five years ago now. Now, you and Mikey are dating, and have been for three and a half years

You never knew you’d meet your best friends because of the mutation you had wanted so badly to hate

[highfaelucien]

Babysitting the Heir - An Inner Circle Fic

Repost from 2016 (god I’m old) that I redrafted bc it’s cute and wholesome af. And after all the salt and angst I have provided, I felt it was only fair to bring some fluff to the table.

Title: Babysitting the Heir

Summary: Azriel and Mor babysit Feyre and Rhys’ young son, Nyx, so the two of them can have a little time to themselves. He ends up taking quite a strong liking to Az... Fluff, pure fluff.  

Teaser:  ‘The moment he slips into Azriel’s arms again he pillows his head calmly against his chest and settles completely, gazing up at him with big, innocent eyes.

Mor grins.’

Notes: No content warnings to speak of. Originally posted in 2016. Rewritten to update with (some) current canon, but also with some of my own additions, like happily queerplatonic Moriel. Because I can. And because this shit is adorable.

AO3: Link

“Be good for Aunt Mor, okay?” Feyre says, dipping forwards to kiss her son's forehead. “Does he understand the concept of ‘good’ yet?” Mor chirps conversationally. 

Tilting her body she shifts in place and adjusts Nyx in her arms to allow Rhys to kiss him goodbye as well. “Why don’t you debate that with him this evening over some fine wine, Mor?” Rhys drawls. 

The soft smile on his lips is very patently for his son; the words dripping with sarcasm very obviously for his cousin. Irritated by the baby balanced in her arms and her resulting lack of free hands with which to offer her cousin some obscene gesture, she makes do with snapping at him. “Why don’t you take a long walk off a very short balcony. Without wings. You sardonic pri-“ “We,” Feyre interrupts pointedly as Rhys starts smirking in a way that would have forced Mor to hand Nyx back to his mother so she could do something about it, “Are leaving,” she announces. 

Grabbing her still obnoxiously smiling mate by his upper arm she begins to firmly drag him away from Mor before serious damage is done to his pretty face. 

“Now,” Feyre adds in a slightly threatening growl as Rhys looks more than ready to continue bickering. “Thank you for this, Mor!” Feyre calls over her shoulder as she frog-marches Rhys to the door at the other end of the corridor. 

“And you Az,” she adds with a smile and a wave, both hello and goodbye, tossed in the shadowsinger’s direction as he drifts serenely down the stairs to see what all the fuss is about in the hall. Mor lifts Nyx’s little hand with her first two fingers and has him wave goodbye to her parents while Az presses quiet kiss to her temple. His eyes fix on the baby in her arms with an air that suggests he’s seriously considering the possibility he might suddenly explode at any moment. “I’m going to the roof to train for a little while,” he murmurs quietly into her hair, his voice smooth and cool as ever. She nods, softly kissing the top of Nyx’s head, “We’ll be fine,” she says, shooing her partner upstairs, suppressing her eye roll with difficulty as she does so. “I’ll give you a shout if we need anything.”

Az nods his agreement then retreats silently back the way he had come leaving Mor to take Nyx into the living room alone. It’s not surprising. He does this every time they babysit for anyone. She knows that he’s more uncomfortable than the rest of them around any of the children, even if he secretly dotes on them, and she’s never pushed him into keeping her company unless she’s overwhelmed on her own. Which doesn’t happen often; usually only when Elain and Lucien’s twins are staying with them. Two years older than Nyx and already holy terrors in their own right. She chuckles to herself at the thought. She and Nyx have a nice afternoon that involves nothing more strenuous for Mor than setting him on her knee, holding his hands and bouncing him up and down until he giggles. 

“Your parents are going to have so much fun when you start flying,” she teases as his small wings furl and unfurl excitedly. After an hour or so a servant interrupts politely to ask Mor if she could deal with something that’s arisen from some Court of Nightmares emissaries staying with them.

Nodding, Mor apologises to Nyx before gently popping him into the cot in front of the large floor to ceiling windows. Then she turns and hollers up the stairs for Azriel. He appears in moments and she stands on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek and give him her most winning smile, which immediately makes him look nervous. As it should.  

“Would you keep an eye on Nyx for me?” she asks him, nuzzling affectionately against his taut chest. “I have to deal with the idiots from the Court of Nightmares. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes or so.” Azriel frowns at this. 

Mor sighs. “He’s a baby not a bogge, Az,” she reminds him, thinking that he’d probably rather tackle the latter on his own. She keeps that to herself however, looking beseechingly up at him. “Are you sure?” he deadpans, looking down at her, hazel eyes glittering. Mor beams and presses a hasty kiss to his lips that catches more cheek than mouth in her hurry as she darts for the door. “I won’t be long, thanks!” she’s calling over her shoulder at him, without him ever having quite agreed to this plan of hers. Then she winnows from the house and Az sighs; though he’s unable to entirely banish the small, affectionate smile that tugs at the corner of his lips in response to her. Padding into the room he gathers up the toys strewn around the room from earlier, wondering both how they ended up with so many and also how Mor had managed to scatter them so widely around the room in such a short space of time. He shakes his head slightly as he fishes one out from underneath the breakfast table, eyes twinkling at the whirlwind that is his Morrigan as he does so. He’s just setting everything back into the box in the corner when Nyx starts crying. Wincing at the sound he pads tentatively towards his cot, his wails increasing in volume with every moment. 

Crouching down he gently rubs his tummy with his hand to soothe him. Trying not to cringe at the sight of the twisted, burned flesh touching the young child. Gentle hushing has no effect on him whatsoever and when his cries could more accurately be described as howling Azriel finally decides there’s nothing else for it. 

Standing he tentatively reaches down into the crib and scoops him up into his arms. He’s held him before, naturally – neither Mor nor Feyre gave him any choice in the matter when he was born and continued to coax him into it afterwards – but it still feels...wrong somehow. His rough, scarred hands, hard with the calluses from his training are stained with more blood than he cares to remember. They were shaped to hold blades and handle the violent killing power that burns in his blue siphons, not children. He’s never been entirely comfortable with something so small and precious and fragile entrusted to his battered arms. Morrigan was one thing, but the little one... Slowly, he starts bouncing Nyx in his arms, the way Mor does to get him to quiet down. This plus the fact that he’s holding the child close to him seems to help. 

He still sniffles faintly but he’s stopped screaming as though he’s trying to bring the place down at least. After a few minutes of gentle rocking and soothing murmuring he settles against his broad chest. “You were just being dramatic because you wanted some attention, weren’t you, little one?” Azriel muses quietly to him. 

Mor, he’s noted, seems to talk away to him. all the time. Regardless of whether he understands, it's something he appears to like, so Azriel continues.

“That’s your father’s fault,” he informs him placidly.  A broad smile spreads across his face as though he’s understood what he’s said and Az can’t help his own smile at the sight of it.

Nyx bats happily at his cheek, searching and grabbing at every bit of him he can reach from his arms. 

Then the little fingers start to grab at his wings and he tenses, blinking down at him. “No, no,” he says in alarm as one small hand grips tightly onto the hooked, pointed talon at the crest of his wing and the other just grabs at whatever other part of it he can reach. “That’s not- No! Nyx, please-“ he tries hopelessly.

Prising his surprisingly strong grip off of him gently while still keeping one arm locked tightly around him proves to be near impossible. 

He wonders vaguely if all children his age have such stubborn, iron grips or if this is a trait he can thank his mother for. 

“Nyx-“ he pleads hopelessly as his small, nails dig into a sensitive spot of the membrane of his wing. A low, throaty chuckle interrupts his helpless floundering and he looks up to see Mor leaning artfully against one of the broad wooden pillars in the room. He’s rarely seen her looking so amused. “He’s one, Az,” she smirks at him, seeming to find his current predicament immensely amusing. “You can’t reason with him.” “Would you please-“ He gestures mutely for her to take Nyx back and somehow have him release his hold on him. Still laughing, her warm eyes dancing with merriment, Mor steps forwards at last and obliges him.

She scoops Nyx smoothly into her arms, detaching him from Azriel’s wing with ease. 

Azriel shakes out his wings with relief and tucks them very firmly against his back. More so than he usually would. Something that's not missed by Mor, who gives him a wicked grin that has him groaning. 

"Poor baby," she croons, voice playful and teasing. 

Az gives her a half-hearted scowl in answer, starting to tidy the room again.

Mor's voice returns to normal as she kisses Nyx’s head and chuckles, “Wait ‘til we tell Uncle Cassian that all he has to do to bring the fearsome shadowsinger to his knees is not let go of his wing.”

Az shoots her a playful growl at the remark and Mor laughs again. Nyx, who had taken fairly well to being handed from one to the other of them like a solstice gift, had merely reached behind Mor to find something else to occupy himself.

While being obviously displeased by her lack of wings, he soon seems to decide that grabbing fistfuls of Mor’s beautiful golden hair will do just as well. 

As Mor begins to carry him away from Azriel, however, he starts fussing again, his large, striking violet eyes fixed firmly on the retreating form of Az. Arching an eyebrow Mor wanders experimentally back to him and Nyx immediately reaches out for Az again, little fists grabbing the air insistently. 

He blinks in surprise as he continues to squirm and fuss in Mor’s arms until she hands him over and coaxes him to take him again.

The moment she slips into Azriel’s arms again he pillows his head calmly against his chest and settles completely, gazing up at him with big, innocent eyes. Mor grins.  “No,” he protests feebly, looking from one to the other of them and knowing he’s beaten long before he gets out, “No, Mor, I don’t want-“ She pats his shoulder consolingly, ruining the effect by laughing through it. “You can’t say no to your future High Lord, Az,” she trills, grinning broadly at him as Az blinks down at the baby nestled peacefully in his arms. “Mor, I,” he stumbles, looking down at her again, fear gripping him as he says, “What if I drop him? What if I hurt him?” He’s being as gentle and as careful with him as he can but... “You won’t,” Mor says, the laughter instantly easing from her voice as it drops, becoming even and soothing. “Come on,” she says, tenderly hooking her fingers between his forearm and Nyx’s soft, warm body and leading him over towards the comfortable couches by the fire. Patiently, Mor shows him different ways of holding Nyx to help him become more comfortable with the babe and stop him worrying about dropping or hurting him somehow. 

To his credit, the little one is incredibly patient with being pushed and pulled into various different positions and doesn’t seem to mind as long as Azriel is doing most of the holding.

He snorts when Mor mentions he’s lucky he decided to discover this new side to himself with the very placid Nyx rather than the twins. Neither would have been nearly as accommodating of all this poking and prodding. When Nyx finally does seem to tire of training Azriel in how to deal with him and starts to become fussy again, Mor heads to the kitchen and brings back a bottle for him to feed him. 

She watches the two of them fondly as Nyx sucks contentedly at the warm milk, his big violet eyes blinking serenely up at them both. 

Az smiles down at her the whole while, his scarred hands cradling him gently. When he looks up and catches the faint gleam in Mor’s eye he carefully slides an arm around her shoulders and gathers her in against him. With a faint, contented hum he presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. Nyx successfully keeps Az in thrall all night. Each time he tries to leave him for more than a few minutes he makes his displeasure about his departure known to most of Velaris. “

You’re a devious little one,” he murmurs softly to him, after the third or fourth instance of this, tickling his tummy as Mor did, and watching him giggle happily in his lap. “That’s Rhys’s fault too.” Mor smirks. “What else was Rhys’s fault?” she enquires playfully, arching a golden eyebrow and plastering a wicked grin across her lips. Azriel smiles faintly. 

“His flare for drama and need for constant attention,” he responds simply. Mor tips back her head and howls with laughter at that, so loudly that Nyx blinks at her and nuzzles in against his chest, alarmed by this outburst. Azriel gives her a gentle nudge to coax her to stop for the babe’s sake and she desists. “Well he’s clearly fond of you.” Mor observes, looking down at the small, placid bundle in his arms. “That level of sense can only come from his mother.” Az chuckles at that and the shadows that flit around him gather around his chest at the sound. “Do that again,” Mor says suddenly, her head tilted slightly to the side as she peers down at Nyx. “What?” Az asks, confused, not aware that he’d been doing anything more than absently rocking Nyx back and forth in his arms, something that seemed to soothe him “With the shadows,” Mor says and he tightens at the mention but she shakes her head, “Make them gather around your chest again,” she instructs and he obliges her uncertainly. At once, one of Nyx’s little hands shoots out, trying to grab them. Blinking in pleasant surprise, Az coaxes the shadows a little closer. He had deliberately kept them light, something that was never hard with Mor around, and away from Nyx in case he scared him. But he seems oddly transfixed by them. Again he reaches out, trying to grab at them, his little fists closing over air. Azriel starts to make them dart around him in little bursts and he keeps swiping for them, like a cat chasing a mouse, until he’s giggling wildly and Mor is laughing beside him at the sight. 

Cautiously, Azriel reaches down and brushes Nyx’s soft pale skin with his shadows. His eyes go wide and his whole body stills. He repeats the gesture and he begins to laugh again as he tickles her with them.

Mor beams with delight, the unreserved joy on her face more intoxicating to him than a bottle of faerie wine at the Solstice. As the evening begins to draw to a close, both Mor and Nyx fall asleep on top of Azriel. Nyx sprawls flat against his chest. Meanwhile Mor presses in against his side, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her legs curled up under her as she presses in against him. 

Azriel smiles quietly at the sight of both of them, one hand underneath Nyx to keep him supported, the other trailing absently through Morrigan’s golden curls, absently stroking them and soothing her in her sleep. That’s the position that Feyre and Rhys find them in when they knock on the door and Azriel calls for them to come in several hours later. 

Feyre smiles at the sight of them and hurries over to Azriel. She leans down and trails her fingers through Nyx’s soft, downy black hair. Mor stirs at the arrival of Feyre and Rhys and stretches away from Azriel like a cat, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and smiling dozily around at the scene. Azriel gets carefully to his feet and very gently hands Nyx to Rhys who soothes him almost instantly with a few quiet words when he wakes in response to all of the movement around him. 

“That’s typical of Aunt Morrigan, isn’t it?” Rhys murmurs to Nyx, grinning at Mor over his son’s head. “Falling asleep and leaving poor Uncle Az to do all the work and cover for her.” Mor looses a rough growl at him and Az hastily snakes a hand around her waist, tugging her gently to his side and pressing a calming kiss to the top of her head while she glowers good naturedly at her smirking cousin.

“Well if that’s how you feel, cousin,” she says loftily, all anger suddenly smoothed away by a thought, which should only ever be read as concerning, “You won’t need to ask me to babysit when you want a date night again. You can just ask Az to do it all by himself, since he’s done ‘all the work’.” 

Az felt himself pale at that, in spite of himself. Something his brother must note, because he quickly cuffs Mor on the back and says, “I don’t know what I’d ever do without you, cousin.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mor mutters under her breath, and Az gives her another small squeeze and a smile. “Was everything all right?” Feyre asks, looking between them, fondly stroking Nyx’s cheek as she moves to stand beside Rhys. “Everything was fine,” Azriel says smoothy, giving her a soft smile that instantly seems to reassure her. “Thank you again for having him,” she says, leaning forwards and embracing Mor then kissing Az’s cheek. They both assure them it was no problem and they’d be happy to do it again. Once Feyre and Rhys have left the two of them tidy up then flop down onto the couch. Mor immediately settles herself in Azriel’s lap, sprawling across him as though he’s a cushion. Az waits patiently for her to make herself comfortable and then settle down against him. Her smaller, more delicate form melts easily against his as she drapes her arms lazily around his chest. “So,” she says, a clear smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, “You’ll be happy to help me the next time we babysit for Feyre and Rhys?” He smiles faintly “Feyre and Rhys?” He says, arching an eyebrow and lightly tapping her nose, “Yes,” he agrees, “Not Elain and Lucien.” He clarifies with a shudder at the thought of facing the twins alone. Mor laughs again and burrows affectionately in against him.  “It’s okay,” she promises him, arching up to press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, “We’ll tackle the two of them together.” 

Azriel just wraps his arms around her, lightly kissing the top of her head and humming contentedly, closing his eyes. He’s asleep with his arms around her in minutes.

[tcstu]

January’s Honorable Mentions

This month’s piece generated some incredible stories. I chose this work of art believing there were numerous tales buried within it, and I was not disappointed. Each entry took a completely different perspective on what is happening in this scene. If you enjoy one of the Honorable Mentions below, please let the writer know. I’m sure they would love to hear from you.

As a reminder, I celebrated the new year by featuring one of my favorite artists, @hydraart​​. If you’ve been following this contest, you may remember that this artist was also featured in January of 2019 and 2020. This seems to now be a New Year’s tradition, and I am happy to be able to continue it this year. If you would like to see the pieces previously featured by this artist, you can view them here:

January 2020

May 2019

January 2019

The piece for this month was titled, “Hide and Seek.” Here it is along with the Honorable Mentions for this month:

(These entries are listed in the order they were received and do not reflect a system of ranking.)

Untitled

Written by: @emilyelizabethfowl​

Ten

She couldn’t tell whether the breeze she felt came from nature or from Its wings.

Nine

At least she didn’t have to worry about the smell betraying her hiding spot.

Eight

Sound, however, was a different matter entirely.

Seven

But her legs were starting to feel numb…

Six

It certainly wouldn’t hurt to move them, just a little, would it?

Five

Just a teeny tiny little bit…

Four

Slowly, carefully, she stretched her left leg.

Three

Then, bringing it back, she stretched out her right one.

Two

But she did it too fast, too carelessly.

One

Losing balance, she fell down. Her elbow knocked into the giant sheet of metal she was hiding under, the sound carrying far.  

Zero

Barely seconds later, giant talons dented the metal, ripping it away easily.

Found you!

Aw, shucks.

She stood up, turning to face the creature.

“Best three out of five?” she offered.

It’s already past your bedtime. A deal is a deal.

Ah well. It was worth a try. She climbed the creature’s back, clinging tightly to the feathers longer than she was tall.

She’d win their next game for sure!

“Eleanor And The Great Bird”

Written by: @evanthenerd83​

“Do not move,” Eleanor whispers to herself, thin frame curled inward.

The flapping of wings drowns out her panicked breathing. Dust swirls around. Bits and pieces rain down, and they sound like bullet casings striking metal.

Eleanor could recognize the sound anywhere. It is as familiar as her grandfather’s wartime movies. Black and white visions of the dead.

“Do not move,” Eleanor reminds herself, eyes scanning the words scratched into the steel.

The great bird passes overhead, and the entire shard shakes with its might. She bites her lip. A moment of terrible silence.

It is circling around. Coming back.

“Do… not… move,” Eleanor repeats, unaware that it doesn’t matter.

The shelter is just a jagged piece of roof. It isn’t big enough to hide her, not all of her. Not her shadow.

And unfortunately, the sun is burning in her direction.

The great bird has locked on.

The great bird makes one last turn…

Sit Com

Created by @daalseth​ ( Doug Aalseth )

"Ma!!" came the anguished cry.

"What is it?" replied his mother, her voice drenched in fatigue.

"Billy smashed up my 172 scale model Medieval Human Village."

"Now Tommy..."

"It wasn't me," shouted Billy. "I wouldn't do nothing with your stupid model."

"Yes it was," shouted Tommy waving his wing at the table. "That's your feather laying right there."

"Nuh-huh."

"Uh-huh."

"Nuh-huh."

Their mother rubbed a talon against her throbbing forehead. It was going to be a long day. Maybe it was time to just kick the little bastards out of the nest? She looked at the two chicks arguing. "No," she said softly, "I'll give it one more day."

“Whatever It Takes”

Written by: @winterrose42​

I dug my fingers deep into the ground as I curled tighter into myself, squeezing my eyes shut in a vain effort to concentrate. This had to work- in the end it’s all I could do, whatever God that’s left forgive me. I could feel the beast looming impossibly large behind me, breath wuffing over the ruined plains like winds before a storm. A low growl thundered from its throat and I dug harder even as my fingernails protested and bent from the dirt being shoved underneath them. I couldn’t fail. I had to find them, and to do that I needed to make it out alive. To do that…

I felt it suddenly, claws slicing easily into the dirt deep enough that I’m sure someone could make a bomb shelter of it later. The tips of its heavy wings brushed the uneven ground, dragging stone and steel along as they swayed in rest. Feeling the pull of its head was the worst; it had seen me that much I knew, darting from toppled building to ruined tower to hastily put up shelter as  fast as my legs could carry me had not been fast enough. It’s great shriek had nearly deafened me as it shook the earth landing just a few yards away from where I had crouched. The few warriors who had gathered to head off the beast- they all knew in their hearts they hadn’t a chance of making it.

That’s what I kept telling myself as the beast’s arm raised and came crashing down to sweep away fallen debris and lean to steel sheets and scattered weapons, armor and men alike, leaving them to try and bury themselves yet again. Collect their wits and reorganize perhaps. I couldn’t afford to give them that chance. Setting everything in motion the wings swept back, the arms came up, the eyes focused forward, sharp beak opening wide with vocal chords straining to make its signature call- and so it was done.

All at once I severed the connection, feeling impossibly small and weak and useless once again as the ground shook like an earthquake with the speed at which the beast fell, screaming its indignation at being puppeted for as long as it had, intelligent eyes snapping forward to those running for better cover, myself sitting still and forgotten for the moment in light of more easily accessed prey. I covered my ears and closed my eyes, whispering out a prayer of forgiveness to carry on the artificial wind for those who cared to hear it.

Eventually the shaking ceased, noise quieted, beast placated if only for a moment making it possible to crawl out and stand up though I dared not turn around. Sticking to the irrational belief that my imagined carnage was worse and therefore I was absolved of blame I squared my shoulders and turned west.

I had survived and would continue to do so through whatever means necessary. I would survive. And I would find them.

Maran-do

Written by: @spoldhamindieauthor​ (S.P. Oldham)

Maran huddled beneath the toppled roof of a ruined dwelling, sitting now upon the ground, broken and battered. All of the buildings in this tiny hamlet told a similar story; one of destruction and wrath.

Maran heaved a silent sigh. He had sent out Maran-do, his mind partner, when the day was still bright, her task to bring down anyone he had not dispatched. Very few would be daring enough to try to evade her. It would take a remarkable being indeed to slip past Maran-do unnoticed, avoiding her wicked talons. He had never known it happen yet.

Maran-do hung in the air now like a dark, oppressive shadow. She had been the foretelling of death for so many souls, Maran had long since stopped counting.

He had never imagined she would foretell his own death, too. Maran frowned, trying to recall such a thing happening before. What could possibly cause a mind-partner to turn upon its host? It was unheard of.

He knew the tiniest movement would be enough to alert her to his whereabouts. Resisting the urge to break cover and run, Maran struggled with ordering his thoughts. That was the biggest problem. Maran-do was inside his head as well as outside it. She knew his own mind better than he knew it himself.

How could he possibly escape? Wherever he went, Maran-do would go with him. Why had she turned on him? In a rare moment of self-pity, Maran gave a sniff.

It was enough. He could feel the air outside shifting, darkness looming over his hiding place like an unstoppable, oncoming storm. For the briefest instant, Maran felt the terror and utter helplessness so many had known before.

A large talon tapped impatiently before him. Inside his head, the words ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are’ blossomed into life like clouds of puffed smoke, Maran-do taunting him with his own phrase.

“Why?” Maran breathed, “Why do you turn upon me?”

More words of smoke, ‘I am to be mind-partner to a greater one than you, little Maran,’ using the childhood endearment, ‘Your mind is weak. You take much pleasure from death and killing. I belong to a greater mind than yours,’ she repeated.

She raised her foot. Maran flinched as, above him, the beams and planks of the rough wooden roof began to splinter. Instinctively he crouched, making himself smaller, as if he could avoid being crushed.

He had just enough time to wonder how she could survive without his mind to host her. Then he was gone; snuffed out like a bare candle in a blizzard.

Maran-do stretched her wings, letting out a silent shriek as her head turned to the west. A new host awaited her, a new name forming in her mind even as she rose from the earth. A path of flight was shown to her fathomless mind, stretching like an umbilical cord across the skies.

Maran was dead.

So was Maran-do.

Tethered

Written by: @wildler

I heard the spirits before I saw them—their strangled moans carrying through the smoke-stained air. Carys whinnied beneath me, her ears twitching in all directions.

“Easy girl,” I murmured, stroking her neck. “Only a little further. Should be the next clearing.”

The sound continued, growing stronger as we pushed closer to where the village was rumoured to be. I tugged the hood of my cloak from my head, sweat sticking my hair to my neck. It seemed my limited healing skills had arrived too late to be of use—but my other skills—well, perhaps I would return to the king with something more substantial than rumours at last.

We entered the clearing, the devastation hitting me like a sword to the gut. Homes had been scalped, gutted and burned. Their charred remains left crumbling into the earth. Spirits inhabited the ruins. Flickers of human outlines that cried out as they relived their violent, final moments of existence. Their fear keeping them tethered to this plane.

I dismounted Carys and pressed my hands to the ground, shuddering as the sweat on my neck turned cold. A haze of panic blanketed the site like thick smoke, making it impossible to get a sense of the events leading to its ruin. I sank my fingers into the soil and focused my will, trying again.

Sounds and smells came rushing at me, distorted screams on a hot jet of air. My eyes sprang open to find the spirits staring in eerie silence, their gaze passing right through me to something on the horizon.

I heard the presence before I saw it—a monstrous shriek carried on a blast of flame.  It was an end too terrifying and binding to escape.

And so, I relive it again.

[hideawayintheimaginationworld]

If your still accepting story request and don't plan on writing this in one of your stories, maybe Night reuniting with Mike?

“You're my brother...”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Daniel—”

“I don’t answer to that name.”

“Then what do you answer to? Please tell me.”

Nightmarionne sighed. He never thought, his brother, or rather, the man who use to his brother was pleading for answers.

“Nightmarionne.”

“Why that name?”

“I didn’t want to be who I was anymore. Accept it.”

“I will... I will... but listen to me.”

“There is nothing to listen to Michael, this discussion is over.”

Michael grabbed his hand, “No! It's not!!” He realised how cold and bony his hand was, he looked at Nightmarionne in his cold blacken eyes, trying to see if he could actually see his brother in there, but he found nothing.

“I made an irreversible mistake... I killed you and now you're.... you’re this.”

“The proper word Old Man Consequences said was a Reaper.”

Michael's world has crashed before him, he thought his brother had been dead for years but he was here... standing in front of him... taller than him, “This is my fault...” He muttered.

“You were responsible for the events that led to my death, but you aren’t responsible for my death,” Nightmarionne said in response.

Michael frowned, “That makes zero sense... I never imagined you'd be like this...”

“What? Be like what? A monster?” Nightmarionne asked him showing him his taloned hands to emphasise his point. He was use to being called a monster, he didn’t wear the title with honour it was more like a label... a burden in a sense.

Michael gently shoved aside his hand, “No... not a monster... you speak with such little emotion... it's like you're apathetic or something... and it's creepy.”

Nightmarionne knew that already, his voice only sounded demonic but it was void of any real emotion. The only real emotion Nightmarionne felt was rage, and it was almost always explosive, as he had seen a man abusing a dog and immediately allowed Plushtrap to attack him in retaliation.

“It's like you really died on that day.”

“I did,” Nightmarionne answered, “Michael, I am not really your brother... I am the shell of who he once was... I can’t remember my mother... I was created from tragedy, agony... I can’t feel any real pain, Michael... I feel my head bleed sometimes...I can’t be your brother because I’m dead. Your brother is dead Michael. You must accept it,” Nightmarionne turned and walked away.

Michael shook his head, he felt himself cry for the first time in years, his brother was slipping away again, he thought about the last day in the hospital, a day he had nightmares about, a day he also died inside, with him being crushed with the realisation that he killed him.

“NO!!” Nightmarionne was stopped by Michael, who threw his arms around his waist to stop him, Michael noticed his whole body overall felt like a skeleton, as he just felt his spine... no meat or fat. Just a tall curved spine that held him up like a mannequin.

Nightmarionne looked down, towering over Michael but seeing him full on crying like a child.

“I won’t lose you again!! I spent so long believing it was my fault! I tried to end my life so many times because you weren’t there anymore! The guilt was killing me, Daniel!!” Michael sobbed.

Nightmarionne snapped.

“I KNOW YOU TRIED! I WAS ALWAYS THERE!!”

Michael froze, still crying, he truly did look like a child. A child who had just been told off by their parents.

“W-What do you mean... you were always there??” Michael asked confused.

Nightmarionne tried to push him away but Michael still hung on tightly, “I watched you... for years... I saw William beating the crap out of you...” Nightmarionne answered, “There were so many times I wanted to kill William myself but something always told me he'd get his comeuppance someday... I saw the fear in your eyes... I watched you mourn... ever wondered why your nightmares abruptly stopped?”

Michael shook his head.

“It was me, Nightmare was preying on you, like how he did to Alec many years later... like how he did to Millie... Sarah... he even tapped into Lefty trying to scare him by showing him what he feared most, which is losing the kids he'd tried so hard to protect... Nightmare weaponised your guilt and regret.”

“But if you did that... then there must be a part of you that doesn’t want me hurt... why have you never come back...?”

Nightmarionne shook his head, “Because... I can’t die... I would have to watch you die... I would suffer watching you die... the thought kills me.”

“So you don’t want to develop any emotional attachments??” Michael asked, “Because you think you'd lose them?”

“You taught me unintentionally that life can be easily stolen in a few moments...” Nightmarionne pushed him off, “Why grow fond of something if it will inevitably die? Especially when you would never be able die yourself.”

“You aren’t living Daniel... if you would be human again at this very moment, would you immediately stay here?” Michael asked.

“I would,” Nightmarionne honestly answered.

“So this immortality is the only thing that stops you??” Michael questioned.

“I hate how people dress up immortality like a paradise... it's hell... a punishment... walking through a long street, watching people come and go, as they are born then die... Immortality is a punishment to condemn permanent loneliness... the best part about being human is living the sweet moments... my life is a circle that never ends... I can’t even get a puppy... I would be too sad when it dies.”

“How about I get a puppy and you can play with it?” Michael suggested.

“No. Michael. No.”

Michael stammered for a response then said “Y-You are only dead because of me! I want to make it up to you! I want to be the older brother you deserve!”

“Then do what I ask Michael...” Nightmarionne lend down his body and his eyes were lined up with Michael's blue eyes.

“Walk away,” Nightmarionne said, seeing Michael's face turn to heartbreak, “Walk out of my life Michael... go enjoy your life with Sammy... with everyone... your brother is dead... you accepted that...”

“I only accepted it because I thought you were dead... but you aren’t!!”

“Why can’t you just fucking forget me?”

Michael wanted to sob again, but he immediately got an idea, “I use to self-harm... but I covered it with this...” Michael showed his arm, Nightmarionne saw the tattoo on his arm, he had seen it many times, it was a little plush Fredbear with a Foxy animatronic holding his hand, taking him somewhere, with words above it that said “Even when I’m gone, The Love in My Heart will Never End. I Love You Both, My Little Boys, Take Care of Each Other Always.”

Nightmarionne suddenly remembered that.

His mother.

It was the final thing she said to them ever.

He had desperately tried to remember her.

Even now he couldn’t recall her name or her face.

He just remembered that.

That had disturbed something in him. Something broken shifted.

He noticed the tattoos were obviously covering self-harm scars, Nightmarionne had seen him self harm at one point and just let it be, not wanting to get involved in family stuff ever again.

Nightmarionne traced a finger over where he saw one of the scars, “You are better than me.”

“Why?”

“Because people won’t run from you.”

“Well, I’m not running from you.”

“Not even when I show this?” Nightmarionne asked, his lower face immediately tore in half, Michael saw the wall of teeth in front of him, Nightmarionne then slowly opened his mouth to show he had more than one row of sharp teeth in his mouth.

His face then came back together, he had a normal mouth, he was waiting for Michael to give an answer.

“When you consider your hair already makes you look like a demon... it doesn’t bother me... I mean we have a bunch of things, that we've both seen, killer clown robots, body-swapping robots, and the weird kid.”

“You’re just saying that Michael.”

“I’m saying it because you are my brother.”

“Yes, I am.”

[branwellburrito]

untitled thomastair one shot

ok i was supposed to study and instead i wrote this. that’s fine.

also, english isn’t my first language so please please!! let me know if i made mistakes

word count: 2258

“Lightwood!” shouted Alastair. “Behind you!”

Thomas quickly turned around, killing the demon behind him with the broadsword, drenched in ichore, between his hands. Without a word he turned again to face the other monster.

Alastair often forgot how fast Lightwood could be. “By the Angel…” muttered under his breath, while, without looking away from Thomas’ broad shoulders, he killed another demon with his spear. I get distracted too easily, he thought. These patrols with Lightwood will get me killed one day. 

He turned his back to the other boy, walking slightly toward him. He hit a demon close to him, failing to kill it when, once again, he saw a shadow moving quickly, too quickly, from the corner of the alley toward Thomas. 

Without thinking Alastair turned his back to the wounded demon. His spear left swiftly his fingers and hit the head of the new creature, not before he felt a piercing pain in his right leg and collapsed to the ground screaming.

Thomas killed the demon he was fighting with, turned around and threw his bolas around the wounded monster’s talons, pulling it away from Alastair. He killed it with a single blow of his sword.

“Alastair! Why did you give your back to that thing?” shouted Thomas, hurrying toward the other Shadowhunter. “By the Angel…” said, looking at the bleeding wound. 

“There was… a… demon…” tried to say Alastair.

Thomas took his stele and quickly traced many iratze on the leg. “This isn’t working. We have to go to the Institute. Can you get up?”

Alastair grasped Thomas’ hand and tried to raise on his healthy leg. The moment he tried to use the other leg he had to stifle another scream. The pain was spreading quickly on the whole leg and it made his head spin. “I can’t… put my… weight… on it…”

“I’ll help you” said Thomas, holding him on the shoulders.

Alastair moaned and held with all his strength on Thomas who tried to lift him by putting a hand on his waist. Alastair managed to limp a few steps but they were moving too slowly.

“This isn’t working” said Thomas, suddenly sliding a hand under Alastair’s legs and holding him close to his chest. Alastair held on to his shoulder, surprised, while Thomas ran toward their carriage. 

He closed his eyes and put his forehead on the hollow between Thomas’ neck and chest. He thought that he had never been that close to him and that he wanted to get even closer, but that was probably the venom and the pain talking. It had become hard to focus and he let his thoughts wander. 

Between a difficult breath and the other he remembered himself saying to someone I’ve loved you since Paris. He couldn’t remember who… Who was the person he had said that to? Suddenly his mind filled with the Louvre’s colours, the theaters, the streets of Paris and the Eiffel Tower gleaming in the night.

“We’re almost there” murmured Thomas, close to Alastair’s ear. The sound of his voice brought back visions of Paris and all of them were full of Thomas. Thomas in the Louvre, talking about arts. Thomas telling him about his tattoo. Thomas telling him about his year in Spain. Thomas that had been so far from him and was now so close, all muscles, breaths and heartbeat under his arms. 

He now remembered the look he gave him at Cordelia and James’ engagement party. Alastair felt his heart sink, heaved by panic and sense of guilt and focused so hard on trying not to cry.

That was the last thing he could remember.

—

Alastair woke up in one of the beds in the Institute infirmary. The light coming from the windows told him it must have been morning. He rubbed his eyes, trying to drive away the drowsiness, and saw a spot of red hair close to him.

“Layla,” tried to say, his mouth dry.

Alastair heard a sudden sound coming from the other side of the room and saw Thomas getting up from the edge of another bed. Without uttering a word he walked toward Cordelia and delicately shook her shoulder, waking her up. Then he left the room.

“Alastair,” said Cordelia, noticing his brother finally awake, who was trying to sit. She left him no time to ask himself if he had just imagined Thomas. “You’re awake!” I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine now” replied Alastair, trying to reach a glass of water on the nightstand. “What happened? After I got here.”

“Thomas came here, screaming. He was asking for the Silent Brothers. Your wound wasn’t deep but the demon’s venom was making it much worse. The Silent Brothers came here very quickly, removed the venom and healed the wound. They gave you some herbs to sleep and they said you should be able to walk by this evening.” She paused. “You’ve been lucky. Thomas brought you here incredibly fast.” She gave him a kiss on his forehead. “You should rest now.”

When his sister was almost on the door he called her again. “Thomas… did he…? Did he stay here all night?”

“Of course. Sleep, Alastair.”

—

That very evening Alastair could walk easily and Cordelia brought him home. The Institute felt empty, except for Mr. Herondale and Mrs. Gray, who had wanted to make sure he was really healing, before letting him go. 

Alastair couldn’t stop thinking that he didn’t meet anyone because everybody hated him. He felt his own chest choke under the familiar weight of his guilt. But if that was true and everybody hated him, how come Thomas had stayed with him the whole night?

The road home was very quiet. Alastair only hoped to have the chance to go to bed and read something to distract himself. 

When they got home he and Cordelia parted on the front door and Alastair moved toward the stairs that led to his bedroom. 

He suddenly stopped when he saw a person sitting on the first steps, his head in his hands. Thomas.

Thomas had heard him come. He had dark circles under the eyes that Alastair had never seen on his face. “Alastair,” he said. “Your… your mother let me in. I was waiting for you.”

Alastair didn’t say anything. He was too tired to try guessing what Thomas was doing on his stairs.

“I wanted to thank you, for last evening…”

“I should be the thankful one” Alastair interrupted him.

“I was talking about that demon behind my back.”

“It seems the bare minimum.”

“You got hurt trying to help me,” replied Thomas. “I understood later how you got that wound. You saved my life twice in less than two minutes. I owe you.”

“I’d say we’re even, now.”

There was a moment of silence. Alastair took some time to observe Thomas’ eyes moving around the room. 

“Is there anything else?”

Why do I always seem so rude? I didn’t want to sound rude.

“Actually there is. When… when I brought you to the carriage you were muttering stuff. I thought it was the venom or the pain…”

Alastair felt himself go pale, remembering his own thoughts when he was so close to Thomas. Did he really speak out loud? “What did I say?”

“I’ve loved you since Paris.”

Those words coming out of Thomas' mouth made his heart beat faster but Alastair could remembered himself thinking it the night before. He remembered asking himself who that phrase was meant for, who was the one he told it to. He knew now it had been Charles. He bit his lip and looked away. He didn’t really want to have that conversation. 

He tried to get over Thomas on the steps but Thomas got up and held his hand. Alastair froze, feeling his soft fingertip on the inside of his wrist. He knew he could feel his furious heartbeat. 

“I’m not forcing you to answer that… I just want to make sure you’re fine.”

Why do you care? 

Alastair got rid of Thomas’ hand. Now, standing on the first steps of the stair he could look him straight into his eyes. When was the last time I could look at him in the eyes?

“Thomas…” he tried to say. But how was he going to explain what Paris meant to him? When he had said to Charles I’ve loved you since Paris he had thought it was true. He had thought he was sure of his own feelings. It had taken him some time to understand that it wasn’t Charles he was in love with, but Paris. Paris because it was the city where he actually got to see Thomas for the first time. He had heard him talk about arts, he had heard him talk about himself and his hopes, while he fell in love with the city of lights and its possibilities. 

“Alastair,” Thomas stopped him, holding his face between his hands. Alastair felt so tiny in front of his gaze and under his touch.

“In some way I was talking about you. About Paris.” said suddenly. “Not that it matters. You hate me. You’re right.”

Thomas sighed, letting his hands fall on the other’s neck. Alastair’s skin was burning, didn’t he notice? “I… I don’t hate you. I can’t bring myself to hate you. I was mad at you, I thought that… I thought you were a different kind of person. I was disappointed, I think. I had thought to see good in you and I feared I had been wrong. Now I know you’re much more.”

Thomas got on the first step, getting closer to Alastair who stepped higher. 

“I was a horrible person. And there isn’t a day I don’t think about it and there isnt’ a day I don’t regret everything I’ve done. I don’t deserve your forgiveness because I helped you in a battle. It doesn’t change what I’ve done.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Thomas’ hands climbed back on his face and his fingers were close to his hair, stroking them. Every nerve in Alastair’s body shouted at him to forget everything and let Thomas touch him. 

His eyes slid on Thomas’ face. He remembered what he had thought in his pain the evening before. He had thought Thomas was all muscles, breath and heartbeat because pain had made him close his eyes and that was all that he had seen.

But now he had his eyes wide open and he was seeing him like it was the first time, like it was Paris all over again. He let his eyes follow the shape of his jaw, the color of his eyes, the shape of his lips, the muscles hiding below his shirt, the shape of his lips. 

Thomas got another step higher but now Alastair didn’t move away. He threw his head back, because now Thomas was taller than him, even if he was a step lower. He threw his head back to meet Thomas’ face looking down at him. The shape of his lips.

Without really knowing what was happening they got closer and closer and now they were kissing, gently and slowly. 

Alastair lifted his hands on Thomas’ face while Thomas held him on his waist.

Suddenly Thomas turned him around, pushing his back against the wall while the kisses got less and less delicate and Alastair could hear him moaning against his lips and neck.

They kissed for a long time while Alastair kept thinking that it wasn’t enough. At the same time he knew his heart was close to bursting out of his chest and still it wasn’t enough. 

Thomas started to stroke Alastair’s cheekbones while they slowly got away from each other. His fingers are better than kisses, thought Alastair.

They looked at each other for a moment before Alastair suddenly asked: “Why did you stay in the infirmary the whole night?”

“I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”

“Cordelia was there.”

Thomas hesitated. “I know. But after she got there I couldn’t find the strength to leave. I kept thinking you were in that bed because of me…”

“I was in that bed thanks to you. There’s a difference.”

“I knew I wasn’t going to sleep and I really didn’t want you to wake up when Cordelia was sleeping...” he kept going, moving his fingers.

“You didn’t have to worry that much,” said Alastair softly, thinking of him, beside him the whole night.

“I think I should probably go, you have to rest” said Thomas, suddenly embarrassed, moving away from him.

Alastair lost his balance and hit his wounded leg on the steps. He cursed under his breath.

“By the Angel, I’m such an idiot.” Once again he lifted Alastair very quickly and held him close. “Your room is upstairs?”

Alastair didn’t trust himself to speak and simply nodded while the other brought him like the night before and his heartbeat was pounding in his ears. When they got to his bedroom Thomas left him on his bed and walked toward the door.

“Wait” said Alastair softly. “Stay here.”

“I thought we agreed you needed rest.”

“I thought we agreed I can rest even if you’re here.”

Thomas turned and Alastair could see a tiny smile on his lips.

“I guess you’re right” said, sitting on the bed and holding tightly his hand.

That night they slept in a hug after they had kissed again and again.

The kisses weren’t enough to lighten the weight of guilt on Alastair’s chest, but they were enough to make him sleep peacefully. He knew he was far from forgiveness but he felt, between Thomas’ arms, that he was getting closer.

[ahatintimepieces]

Oh my~ two song drabbles in the morning? What an early treat! If you’re still doing them, how about „You’ll be in my Heart“ from Phil Collins? A fluff classic and perfect for a cute little story~! Take all the time you need though!

I’m so glad to hear it! And omg yesss. I wrote this kind of quickly and hope it’s okay! It’s... long :’D I got carried away.

The ghost read in his chair. It was a new book he had nabbed from his latest victim. Not the kind of material he usually read but it was fine to pass the time. He had a lot of time in the afterlife. And yet, the past year had been one of the longest he had to endure.

Frustratingly, everything was fine. The forest was safe. The fire spirits didn’t come around too often. The queen was staying in her manor. The subconites sluffed off more than they worked. It was dang near perfect. But there was an absence. One that left him feeling sluggish and unmotivated most days. It took a couple months to admit, but with a heaviness in his chest unbecoming a weightless spirit, he missed the kid.

She just… left. Brushed him away with a broom. He supposed he understood. She had a home to get back to, but… no. He was certain any hopes he had that she would want to… well… stay was just his own selfish desires.

Grimacing he remembered the unsigned documents he had offered to try to get her to stay. They were still filed away by their BFF contract. He let out a sigh, trying to let go. It was what she wanted. It didn’t do him any good to linger in what was lost and gone.

It was just so easy for ghosts to do.

After turning a few pages, a splash came from the shallow pool around his tree. He didn’t look up. It was probably one of his minions and he wanted to finish reading a sentence while footsteps tapped into the opening of his tree.

A pause. Silence.

Snatcher finished his page before realizing maybe something was wrong. Tearing his golden gaze from the page, his usual smile dropped with his jaw. Hesitant blue eyes stared back at him.

“Kid?” His voice was strained. She nodded, her lips in a tight line as she clutched the corner of her cape in her hands.

“Hi,” she whispered tightly, looking down and shuffling on her feet.

He snapped his book shut and she jumped at the sound. Feeling a little guilty for startling her, but too caught up in his own pounding pulse to adequately respond he gripped the armrest with one of his talons.

Could she be back because—No! He inwardly scowled at himself, stopping the thought in its tracks. She did not come back because she missed him. Right? He had to act cool, calm, collected. Conceal. Don’t feel. All that ice queen jazz.

Leaning back, he summoned a smirk as he folded his talons together.

“Lose more of your hourglasses? Or did you want to try your hand at more contracts?”

Keeping her gaze low, she kept fiddling with her cape.

“A-actually.” She cleared her throat. “I was hoping to—landmyshiphere.” She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for a cold laugh or angry retort.

“You what,” he questioned, bewildered.

“Land my ship,” she said a little slower. “I… I was thinking… there was a lot I still wanted to do on this planet. A-and Subcon seemed as good a place as any…”

“What about your home?” Snatcher tilted his head, suddenly fretting over her planet’s well-being. He swallowed his feelings, shaking his head slightly. He hated that he cared so much.

“Hmm?” She paused before sighing. “It’s just—I went back and they—well—” she trailed off, slumping.

“You aren’t in trouble, are you?” He growled, ready to tear into the fool who could have caused her crestfallen features.

“No,” she said quickly. “I guess… I just felt… like they barely cared when I got back.” Her small fingers tightened around her cape, wrinkling it. “They just kept giving me more missions and I… I just felt… bad… all the time.” Her brows furrowed as she seemed to struggle with what she wanted to say. “They probably haven’t even noticed I left.”

“So, your plan was just to camp out in a haunted forest on a distant planet?” Snatcher raised an eyebrow with his golden mouth in a tight line, barely highlighting his fangs. “Why not Mafia town? They at least have markets and food. Nothing can really grow here.” Not anything edible at least.

“Well,” she offered with a nervous smile, “my BFF is here.” A moment passed and her small smile fell. “Snatcher?”

His talons were pressed tightly together as he kept his features frozen. Inwardly, he was short-circuiting. Did that mean what he thought it meant? She wanted to stay with him? It was almost too much to hope for; his heart ached as he tried to stifle the rising elation. He thought about the unsigned document. The one he had drafted meticulously and never had the chance to properly give her a chance to read through it. But… now…

“Park your ship here?” He cleared his throat and straightened, feigning a nonchalant air as he snapped his talons and summoned the document. “Well, let’s see, that’s a big favor to ask.” She squirmed a little and he cleared his throat again, trying to dispel his nerves. “If you want to park here, that’s just like saying the forest is as good as your home and I can’t just let anyone live here. So, tell you what, if you sign this paper and agree to everything it entails, I’ll let you live here and come and go as you please.”

The paper flew over to her and into her hands and a feathered pen appeared nearby. Immediately, her head snapped up with wide eyes.

“A-adoption papers?”

“I mean if you dislike it—" he fumbled, dreading the slightly panicked look in her eyes. But before he could finish his sentence, she grabbed the pen and signed at the dotted line. He blinked, almost in a daze as he waved a pointed talon and stamped his seal on the document. The document floated back to him and his chest swelled as he scanned it.

“That seals the deal, Kiddo. The forest is yours to roam freely—”

Sniffling caused him to pause.

“Kid?” He snapped his fingers, filing the adoption papers safely away before flying over to her as she wiped fruitlessly at her eyes.

“S-so I can c-call you dad, now?” She choked out with shaking shoulders.

“Yeah,” Snatcher said, rather ineloquently for a lawyer ghost who was also once a prince. She cried harder and Snatcher held out his arms, hesitating. Finally, he tentatively scooped her up and she looked up at him with wide, watery eyes.

“You’re safe now,” Snatcher promised, brushing her light brown bangs from her eyes. She blinked up at him and sniffled. His heart leapt to his throat as he thought of a song his mother always used to sing. It had been so long… and he wasn’t sure it would soothe the kid like he hoped… but if she wanted him to be her dad as much as he wanted her to be his daughter… he could try.

“Come, stop your crying,” he lowered his voice into a gentle cadence, brushing one of her tears away with a soft talon. “It will be alright. Just take my hand,” he held out his talon and she grabbed onto it, hugging it against her small stature. He couldn’t keep his smile out of his tone. “Hold it tight.

“I will protect you,” he continued softly, floating back to settle down in his chair, “From all around you. I will be here. Don’t you cry.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her head against his mane as she hugged his hand. Her tears began to dry.

“For one so small, you seem so strong,” he continued as she drifted. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, focusing on the words. “My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm. This bond between us, can’t be broken.” His voice wavered a little as he held the last note, either from lack of practice or from the lump in his throat. “I will be here. Don’t you cry.”

He shifted, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Her head readjusted on his shoulder. Her small fingers linked with his, their palms clasped together.

“’Cause you’ll be in my heart,” he sang, tapping his toes lightly in time to the cadence. Wait—He glanced down, mildly surprised he had shifted without thinking. His human hand was wrapped tightly with hers, and she leaned against the puffy, purple sleeve on his shoulder. His laced boots stretched up past his knees and she perched comfortably in his lap.

“Yes,” he continued, his voice soft as he examined himself for a moment before sighing and, instead, focusing on hugging his daughter close, “you’ll be in my heart. From this day on, Now and forever more.”

“I love you, Dad,” she whispered, keeping her eyes closed as a contented smile bloomed across her features.

“And I love you, Kiddo,” he whispered back, leaning down and pressing his forehead against hers. He sang a little longer, waiting until her breathing stilled and sleep and sweet dreams lulled her senses. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and muttered, “You’ll be here in my heart, always.”

[kmomof4]

Chosen, Protected, & Saved Ch. 3

We made it!!! It’s the final chapter of Chosen, Protected, & Saved for the @captainswanmoviemarathon​!!! Thank you all for the trust you placed in me after last weeks cliffhanger. Everything gets tied up in this chapter, happy ending ahoy, and I hope y'all enjoy it!!! Thank you so much for coming along on this ride with me!! I’d love to know what you think!!

All the love and hugs to @profdanglaisstuff​ and @hollyethecurious​ for their beta services, brainstorming sessions, and encouragement!! Thank you so much, ladies!!! This fic wouldn't be here without either of you!!! *MWAH* 😘

Summary: A little boy with the Heart of the Truest Believer. Demonic forces will stop at nothing to possess it. It’s up to Killian Jones, PI to find him and save him before it’s too late.

Rating: T

Words: 4253 of 18.4K

Tags: Inspired by The Golden Child, Kidnapping, Magic, Minor Character Death, Temporary Major Character Death, True Loves Kiss

ao3 fic link ch link Prologue on Tumblr Ch1 on Tumblr Ch2 on Tumblr

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Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

Ch. 3

Killian finally came to a stop in front of a warehouse near Boston harbor in the early hours of the morning. Even traveling down state roads and the interstate in the middle of the night, he lost count of the number of frenzied honks he heard as Bubo flew only about fifteen feet above the road and about that same distance in front of him. It made it wonderfully convenient to not have to worry about losing him.

Now that he was here, he scanned the building in front of him, taking note of the surroundings. The large, imposing structure reminded him of the slasher flicks he used to watch as a teenager. The kind of places that the audience groaned or shouted at the hero to not go in. A chill tried to work its way down his spine. He put a firm lid on it reminding himself that he had to find Henry and bring him home. Going in with no foreknowledge of this particular building or backup, it was important for him to identify potential hiding places, entrances and exits, security cameras and the like. It was times like these that he thanked God for the experience he gained as a beat cop then detective with the Boston PD before he left the force and struck out on his own as a PI. That background would surely be useful in getting to Henry.

Not seeing anything that stood out, and making a mental note of where Bubo had flown up to the building and disappeared, he checked that his piece was ready to rock in case of trouble and got out of his car. Securing the Glock in the shoulder holster he wore, he crouched in the shadow of the vehicle before he ran the fifteen or so feet to the side of the structure. Turning toward the lone door, he could feel the dark magic covering it. He could almost see the magic, even in the darkness, a slightly shimmering cascade that he hesitated to touch. Pushing back his exhaustion and gathering his courage, he reached out to touch the door and was amazed when his hand passed right through the magical barrier. The dark magic chilled him to the bone, but he turned the knob and found it unlocked. He figured the Dark One must not be too concerned about anyone getting past his magic.

As he opened the door, something oddly familiar awoke just under his skin. A humming that was strangely comforting. He remembered feeling something like it in the split second before his magic saved Emma underneath the cathedral the night before. Could it be my magic? Closing the door behind him, he took care to stay in the shadows. The main space of the warehouse was completely empty, but he didn’t want to risk being seen by any cameras that might be hidden by the shadows near the top of the building. He stayed by the wall and made his way around to where the offices appeared to be on the other side. As he got closer, the humming became a full fledged vibration. A rustle from up above drew his attention as Bubo flew down. He held his arm out like he’d seen raptor trainers do and Bubo landed neatly on his offered limb. He wasn’t prepared for the sharp talons though, as they pierced the leather of his jacket. It was all he could do to limit the scream that wanted to emerge to a loud pain-filled hiss. His magic started to crackle at the ends of his fingers as he continued stealthily toward the offices. Bubo was not thrilled with the magic sparking so close to where he sat, so he took off again.

Killian finally came to the first office, but as he peered in through the open door, he saw nothing of interest. As he moved toward the second, lightning started to spark from his hands. Killian inhaled sharply as he saw that the door was closed and the sheen of more magic caught his eye. Henry was obviously being held inside. The disquiet he felt in his spirit only intensified as he got closer to the door. For someone who was so desperate to keep him away from Henry and this case, there was a disconcerting lack of trouble actually getting to the boy. Killian pulled his gun out. He wasn’t sure it’d be terribly effective against the Dark One, if he also happened to be in the office, but it certainly helped him feel better. Not quite so vulnerable. He may have his own magic, but he didn’t have the first idea of how to use it, especially not in a situation like this.

He looked in the window of the door to the office. On the other side of the room, he could see a small boy asleep on the floor, covered by nothing but his own clothing. Killian’s heart nearly broke before an anger he had never known completely overtook him. He held his left hand up to the door, and a surge of blue magic completely obliterated the magical shield and destroyed the door as well. The jarring racket was enough of a shock without the startled cry both from Henry and the other boy in the room. Killian hadn’t noticed the teenaged guard asleep on the plush sofa behind the desk when he looked through the window. Another surge of rage filled him at the mistreatment Henry had suffered at the hands of the Dark One and his teenaged cohorts. Before he could even think, another surge of magic pulsed from his open left hand toward the youth. He still held the Glock in his right, but in a corner of his mind, he was glad it was magic going off and not the gun. The teen was thrown back on the sofa and was completely frozen, rendered impotent in thwarting their escape.

Killian replaced the gun in his holster and approached Henry as Bubo flew in. “Bubo!” Henry cried. Bubo landed on the floor before him and turned his head to look at Killian. Henry looked up at the man standing in the doorway. Something about him seemed familiar, though he couldn’t tell what.

“Henry?” Killian asked. Henry nodded. “I’m Killian and I’m here to take you home. Will you come with me?”

Henry nodded and stood up. “I know,” he said.

Killian tilted his head, puzzled. “You know?”

“Yeah. Bubo told me.” He held his wrist out. “Can you take this off, please? It stops me from using my magic. I can’t remove it, but someone else can.”

“Sure,” Killian replied. He reached under the black cuff on the boy’s wrist and pulled it off. He held his hand out and Henry took it as they walked toward the door. Before they got there, however, a chill came over Killian that meant only one thing. He stopped and looked down at the little boy whose eyes shone with absolute trust as he looked back at him.

“We’ve got to get out of here quick, Henry,” Killian said. “He’s coming,” he looked back at the door, “if he’s not here already.”

At that moment, a purple cloud of smoke enveloped him and Henry and the next moment, they were back at Regina’s.

“Regina!” Henry cried, running into her outstretched arms.

“Henry!” she exclaimed, “I’m so glad you’re safe!” She held him close and Killian’s eyes filled with tears at the sight.

Regina looked up at him and mouthed a silent “thank you” as she continued rocking the boy back and forth. She released him and held him away from her as she quickly scanned him for any signs of injury.

Henry’s eyes sparkled with happiness as he turned back to Killian. “Killian saved me.”

A watery smile split Regina’s face. “I know,” she exclaimed, “I was watching him. And you were right, Killian,” she continued, looking up at him. “The Dark One was there. He was just outside the office. I didn’t want to risk a confrontation with him, so I just brought you back myself.” She turned her eyes back upon Henry. “Henry,” she said, softly, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Killian suddenly remembered the events from earlier in the night and it was all he could do to remain on his feet instead of collapsing to his knees in despair. He’d been so focused on finding and getting Henry, that Emma’s death had been pushed to the back of his mind. Now it came back to the forefront and all he wanted to do was curl into a ball until his complete and utter heartbreak eased enough for him to go on. His jaw clenched and his eyes filled with fresh tears as Regina took Henry’s hand in her own and led him from the room.

They climbed the stairs to the bedroom he and Emma had shared the night before. She was laid out on the bed looking so peaceful he could almost believe she simply slept. Henry stared at his mother.

“Mama?” he said, in a trembling voice. He took a step toward her.

“The Dark One came last night to get the dagger, Henry. Before Killian came for you,” Regina whispered. “He and your mama fought hard, but the Dark One killed her before I could intervene. I’m so sorry, Henry.” Regina choked back a sob as Henry moved toward his mother. “But, there is a way to save her.”

Killian’s head turned sharply towards Regina. “What?”

“Killian,” she began, wiping away her own tears, “there is no doubt in my mind that you share a bond with Emma. A bond that I’ve never actually seen before, although I’ve heard tales...” She took a deep breath. “When you got back here last night, you were both so tired that there was no time to talk about what happened when you went after the dagger. But I could see the remnants of the magic you used while you were gone surrounding you. And as I said when we were talking about your magic, it would have only come to the surface in a moment of extreme emotional upheaval. Whether that was fear, love, joy, or sadness. Can you tell me what happened to trigger it?”

Killian’s agitation increased at her question. Why was she asking him this? What did his magic have to do with anything? Especially when there was a possibility that Emma could be saved. They were wasting time!

Regina’s eyes bored into his as she made a placating motion with her hand. “I know this seems random. But please believe me when I say, it truly isn’t. My question has everything to do with saving Emma.”

Killian swallowed hard and looked down at Henry’s face. The little boy nodded at him, encouraging him to trust Regina and answer the question.

“We were underneath the cathedral, but hadn’t made it yet to the chamber of the dagger under Stonehenge,” he whispered, haltingly. “A teenager… kind of gangly, blonde headed, thin as a scarecrow, came at us with a sword.” He shook his head as the details came back to him. “Some kind of black, thick substance coated the tip. I would have guessed it was tar. But why would someone put tar on a sword?” He shook his head again, cutting off his rambling. “Anyway, he was coming for her and I threw my arm out to try and push her back out of his way. I remember feeling a tingling just before my magic shot out and sent him flying across the chamber.” He bowed his head in shame. “His head cracked against a column.” He swallowed hard. “I’ve never been responsible for the death of someone that young.”

“You’re sure he was dead?” Regina asked, her heart hurting for him.

“When it happened, we couldn’t stop. We had to keep going. But when we came back and he still hadn’t moved, I checked his pulse.” His eyes looked haunted, but his story confirmed her earlier thoughts. The manifestation of his magic at that time and under those circumstances told her that their bond was indeed True Love.

“You can save Emma, Killian,” she asserted.

Killian’s eyes widened. If the situation wasn’t so serious, she would almost laugh.

“How?”

“You saw how the Dark One removed Emma’s heart and crushed it.” He nodded. “Magic users can remove hearts. I can remove yours, split it, and put one half inside each of your chests. You have True Love for her, and that True Love should bring her back.”

“True Love,” Killian breathed, completely overwhelmed. He never knew that such a thing existed. But it would certainly explain the connection he felt with her and how and why he fell in love with her so quickly. Not to mention the way he felt about Henry, a little boy that he had met literally minutes ago. He shook his head again. He didn’t even have to think. “Do it,” he demanded.

Regina held her hand up and tilted her head to the side in warning. “There are risks that you should know about.”

“I don’t care about any risks,” he assured her, vehemently. “If it will save Emma, it’s worth it.” He looked down at the woman he loved on the bed. “She is worth everything,” he whispered.

The sun was rising and the bedroom was flooded with the morning light. Henry raised his hand to Killian’s heart. His palm glowed a vibrant gold color. A soothing warmth filled him. “You’ll save my mama, Killian.”

Killian nodded. “I will indeed, lad.” He looked at Regina again. “Do it.”

Regina placed her hand on his chest. She stared into his eyes, deadly serious before she pushed her hand into his chest cavity. The pain stole Killian’s breath, but he looked over at Emma on the bed and endured it as he felt Regina’s fingers close around his heart and pull it out. He caught his breath and beheld the glowing heart now in the palm of Regina’s hand. He looked back at Emma on the bed, and while he could still feel his love for her, it was muted. Regina looked back up at him.

“When your heart is no longer inside your body, all your emotions will be dulled. They’ll be restored as soon as it’s back where it belongs.”

Killian nodded. “This is going to hurt. Are you ready?” Regina asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” he replied.

Regina placed her other hand over his heart and twisted. A pain far worse than being shot burst through him and his knees buckled. He landed on all fours on the floor and looked back up. Both of Regina’s hands now held a piece of his heart. She knelt before him and placed her right hand at his chest again. She pushed into his empty chest cavity and he took a deep cleansing breath as the agony subsided.

“Can’t say as that’s something I’d ever want to repeat, love,” he quipped.

Regina let out a small laugh. “I should hope not.” She rose with him and turned to Emma on the bed.

She moved quickly and pushed her other hand into Emma’s chest. Everyone held their breath as they waited. When about twenty seconds had passed with no movement from Emma, Regina’s brow furrowed and panic started to rear its ugly head in his mind. Henry turned to Regina.

“What’s wrong? Why isn’t she waking up?”

At that moment, the bone chilling cold of the same dark magic that he had encountered just a short time ago came over Killian. He turned wide, alarmed eyes at Regina who stared at him with equal apprehension.

“He’s here,” they stated, together.

Regina waved her hand and the dagger appeared in her hand. She handed it to Killian.

“This is the only thing that can destroy him.” Regina’s eyes were wide with dread as she gave him last minute instructions. “As the Chosen One, it falls to you. As long as you hold it, you are master of the dagger. He can’t summon it to himself. Don’t lose your grip on it, whatever you do!”

Killian nodded. Regina continued as they all ran downstairs. “You may be untrained in magic, Killian, but your love for Emma has made you powerful. Use it! Magic is emotion. Keep your love for Emma at the front of your mind, and you can defeat him. Stay inside, Henry,” Regina said, turning to the boy. Henry nodded and he and Regina ran onto the back lawn where the Dark One waited for them.

“Ahhh,” he gloated, “You’ve brought me my dagger! How considerate of you!” He waved his hand and they were both frozen in place. Terror filled him as the demon strolled toward him. When he was so close that he could smell the fire and brimstone emanating from him, he felt the same sensation that he had just experienced at Regina’s hand.

The Dark One stood before him with his half a heart glowing in his hand.

“Interesting,” the demon cooed. “Only half a heart. Where is the other half?” he asked, speculatively, “Could it possibly be in the chest of your Twue Wuv?” he singsonged. He looked back at Killian and cackled. “But where is she? She’s not here, is she?” He got right in Killian’s face with such a face of gloating triumph that Killian felt sick. “No True Love’s Kiss, then? Awww, and that’s the only thing that can save her, isn’t it? Since it’s your heart, only your True Love’s Kiss will do.” Killian’s eyes grew wide as the beast’s statement registered in his panic. “But if I crush your heart,” he squeezed slightly, the pain overwhelming Killian, stealing his breath, “you can’t very well share True Love’s Kiss with her, can you?”

Rage filled Killian and if he could have spit in the creature’s face, he would have. But at least he knew why Emma hadn’t come back when Regina placed his heart in her chest. The kiss, his kiss, was needed to bring her back to him.

“Fortunately for you,” the Dark One continued, “I can’t crush your heart as long as you hold my dagger. But I can hold your heart. For as long as necessary. I can leave you right here, frozen, until your death returns my dagger to me. But, I don’t want to wait that long.” He shrugged, in studied casualness. “So how about a trade? I give you back your heart so you can save your lady love, and you give me my dagger. The Dark One never breaks a deal, so you have nothing to fear and boy is obviously well protected, for now.” He sneered in Regina’s direction. “Do we have a deal?”

Killian’s brain worked furiously. It was an impossible choice. By releasing the dagger, the chances of being able to destroy him shrunk exponentially, plus, he was giving the monster exactly what he wanted, bringing him one step closer to being able to harm Henry. A very large step. But, he would be able to save Emma and surely, between the three of them, they could protect Henry. If he refused, the Dark One would simply hold his heart until his death returned the dagger to the demon and Emma would remain as she was, forever.

He cut his eyes toward Regina, her own eyes wide with realization. He tried to convey how sorry he was in his gaze before he turned his eyes back on the demon in front of him.

“I’m going to partially lift the freezing spell I’ve got on you now and you can give me your answer.”

Killian’s mouth and hand holding the dagger were suddenly free.

“Fine,” he gritted out. “You have a deal. My heart for your dagger.” He opened his hand and the dagger fell to the ground. The Dark One giggled and picked the dagger up from the ground. He looked back at Killian.

“A pleasure doing business with you, dearie,” he chortled as he all but punched his heart back into his chest. As soon as he had done so, he was enveloped in a cloud of grey smoke and disappeared.

The enchantment holding them frozen disappeared with him. Killian collapsed to the ground and Henry ran out of the house toward them.

“True Love’s Kiss, Killian,” he cried. “When you give Mama True Love’s Kiss, you’ll save her!” Regina ran over to him as he struggled back to his feet.

“Aye, lad,” he replied, somewhat out of breath from his ordeal, “Let’s go give it a try.”

At that moment, the Dark One again appeared in the yard, this time just behind Henry. He had not gone far and was simply waiting for Henry to leave the house so that he could strike. Regina screamed as Killian jumped in between the Dark One and Henry and tackled the demon. Regina grabbed Henry and ran for the safety of the house.

They crashed to the ground and the Dark One lost his grip on the dagger. As they rolled, each trying to gain the upper hand, Killian remembered what Regina had told him on the way down. That his love for Emma made him powerful and that if he kept his love for her at the front of his mind, he could defeat the monster.

Killian closed his eyes and let the love he had for Emma fill him completely. He pictured the dagger in his hand and the same moment, felt the instrument in his grip. His fist curled around it and he pulled the hilt toward his chest, the blade tilted slightly upward. The Dark One was on top of him now, their faces so close together that Killian could see the madness in his enemy’s eyes and then the grimace that crossed his lips as he felt the dagger pierce flesh.

The demon went limp on top of him. Killian pushed the dead weight off only to find the dagger buried in the Dark One’s chest. A dark swirling cloud poured out of the wound and coalesced around the dagger. After a few moments, the cloud, the dagger, and the Dark One, his unseeing eyes staring toward the rising sun, seemed to fold in on themselves, until with a pop, they were gone.

Killian got back to his feet and looked to where Regina and Henry had made it inside the house. He ran toward them as Henry barreled out the back door toward him. He caught him in his arms and spun him around, laughing at the little boy’s exuberance.

“You killed him,” Henry shouted.

“I did, indeed, my boy,” he said. “You’re safe now. He can’t ever hurt you again.”

“Thank God for that,” Regina agreed, hugging them both.

Killian held them both in his arms for a few moments, relishing the fact that they were all alive and safe. All except one. He looked back at Henry as he set him on the ground. “Let’s go save your Mama, shall we Henry?”

“Yeah!” Henry shouted, taking off for the house again. Killian and Regina followed him into the house and up to the bedroom where Emma still lay.

Killian entered the room after Regina and Henry. The morning light completely filled the room now and Emma seemed to be surrounded by a gold shroud spun from pure light. He had never beheld anything so breathtakingly beautiful. Everything faded from the periphery as he moved toward her. His heart raced in his chest and his breathing hitched as he beheld her. His True Love. He knelt beside the bed and took one of her hands in his own. His thumb rubbed over her knuckles as he leaned over her and pressed his lips to her own. It took only a moment before a rainbow burst fell over them and Emma took a breath and opened her eyes.

“Killian,” she breathed. Killian’s face split in the biggest smile he’d ever worn.

“Swan,” he exclaimed, gathering her in his arms, tears of joy filling his eyes.

She hugged him back just as fiercely before they were interrupted by Henry’s enthusiastic “Mama!” before he launched himself toward her from where Regina had held him near the door.

“Henry!” She caught him up in her arms, hugging him tightly. “I’m so glad you’re safe! I was so worried!”

“I know, Mama,” he exclaimed, “Killian saved me! And he saved you, too!” Emma looked back at him, pure love shining out of her eyes. He scratched behind his ear until he finally looked back at her. “He’s your True Love, Mama! He saved you with True Love’s Kiss! That means he’s gonna stay here with us!” Henry spoke a mile a minute in his unbridled enthusiasm. “Right, Killian?” Henry turned back toward him, expectantly.

“With your mother’s permission, lad, I’d like that very much.”

Emma beamed as she held out her hand for Killian to take. “I think we can handle that.”

Killian grinned widely as he took her proffered hand and bent over to kiss her again.

It didn’t take long for Killian to move his PI practice to Storybrooke where he courted Emma properly, much to the sheriff’s dismay. A year later, Killian and Emma were married, and a year after that, Henry had a baby sister to show off.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End

~*~*~

Thank you all for all your love for me and this fic!!! I’d love to know what you thought!!!

[thedragonnerd]

Rayaari headcanon - travel through the emotions with tears

(inspired by this lovely anon)

Tears of sorrow and pain

Raya is so young when she loses her mother, that the concept of death is difficult for her to understand. The reality doesn't strike her until bedtime, when she slowly begins to realize that Ma will never again be there to sing her a lullaby, or hug her fear of the monsters away. Benja is unable to stop the tears for hours, as Raya screams and cries and hits her small fists on the bed. Finally, she upsets herself so much she throws up, and her crying trails off to quiet whimpers instead. For months afterwards, Benja and Raya both dread bedtime, for this is when sorrow hits the hardest for her.

Namaari is nine when her Ba dies. Death is not an unknown concept for her, unfortunately. She has already begun to see its cold grasp ensnaring Fang citizens as famine begins to sweep the lands. But nothing can prepare her for the news the young soldier delivers of her Ba's accident, nor the expression on Ma's face when they both realize he won't be coming home. She doesn't cry for the first week after his death, and people whisper about how stoic and brave she's being. In reality, she is too shocked and numb to demonstrate any further emotions, until one night she awakens to find Ma has crawled into bed next to her, hugging her close in her sleep. Hot tears fall down her cheek, and she burrows into her mother's embrace as she cries silently.

After the Druun return, after she loses her Ba, Raya finds herself scared and all alone in the world, besides faithful Tuk Tuk. During the day, she wraps herself in false bravado, learning how to be a confident young woman instead of an easy mark for people with questionable motives. She employs a 'fake it until she makes it' approach to life, and it carries her through well enough...except at night. At night, she can't help but remember both her parents, and in the darkness she softly sings her mother's lullaby to soothe herself as the tears fall.

When the magnitude of what she has done by trying to take the Dragon Gem hits Namaari, she is horrified with herself. She cries quietly at night for weeks on end, reluctant to talk to anyone about her guilt. And then one day, she wakes up and decides she has no right to cry over it – she should step up and be responsible for her own actions instead, and be the best leader she can be. For several years after that moment, she refuses to let herself cry. Then one scouting mission, she loses her first soldier to the Druun, watching him turn to stone over her shoulder as they flee. She manages to hold it together as she tells his family how brave he had been; then, she goes to the kitchen, stealing as much rice wine as she can carry. She hides with her serlots, drunkenly crying into their soft fur until she can barely breathe. After that, she allows herself to cry sometimes, but only ever when alone.

The first time Raya visits Talon, she is fourteen and half-starving. The market place is loud and confusing, but it’s also full of food and wonderful scents. Unfortunately, she has no jade pieces and the soldiers patrolling the stalls do not seem like people with whom she should risk get into trouble. She almost walks away instead of trying to buy anything, but her stomach cramps just at that moment, and she almost gasps in pain. It breaks her heart, but she slowly hands over a ring of gold in order to buy some food – the only thing she has with her that belonged to her mother. ‘You know, that vendor scammed you,’ a young boy tells her with a snort, as she walks away. ‘You should have gotten far more product for the worth of the ring.’ The food tastes like ashes in her mouth after that, and hot tears slip down her cheeks as she tries to choke down the rest of her dinner.

Namaari’s scouting party is ambushed, not by the Druun, but by angry citizens from Spine. She loses good people that day, watching in horror as they are overwhelmed by Spine’s army, still acting as good soldiers trying to protect their Princess until the end. The last warrior screams at her to run, and even though it is against her instincts, she turns and flees into the forest, not even stopping when a sharp pain pierces her side - an arrow hitting its mark. She collapses some distance later, crying in pain and fear. For the first time, she fears she will die alone, bleeding out amongst the trees. Then she remembers her mother, remembers her duties and the promises she made to herself, and staggers upright. Her serlot finds her as she slowly makes her way forwards, and when she finally manges to crawl onto her back, they take off towards Fang.

‘You’re a traitor to your people,’ someone snaps at Raya, as she tries to mediate between two disagreeing Heart citizens. ‘You try to tell us what to do, but you’re a Princess who doesn’t even know half of her own culture. Too busy cavorting with binturis from Fang and other lands to bother with your own.’ She can feel the tears coming on as the words cut deep into all the fears she has about herself – how she isn’t a good leader, how she lost so many years where she should have learnt about Heart and her role as Princess. A hand lands on her shoulder squeezing gently, yet the voice behind its owner is cutting. ‘Gentlemen, I suggest you leave now before you make me do something I regret,’ Namaari says, and when the men depart angrily, silence falls. Namaari doesn’t say anything at first, drawing Raya into an embrace instead. ‘You’re a better leader than they could hope to be,’ she whispers into Raya’s hair, kissing her head gently. Raya clings to her tightly, arms wrapped around her waist.

‘You’re not welcome here, binturi,’ comes the accusation thrown into her face, and Namaari flinches, much to her own disgust. The celebratory gathering is supposed to be for all the lands to come together, but she can understand Fang not being so warmly welcomed. She is trying though, trying to atone for her mistakes, and after a long day of talking herself into having the confidence to attend, she is now just feeling overwhelmed with their cutting remarks. She simply nods and tries to walk away while hiding her face, but Raya is already pushing past her, getting into the personal space of the other women with a snarl. ‘She’s more welcome here than you currently,’ she growls. Then she spins around, holds out an arm gallantly to Namaari with a smile, and says ‘shall we?’ with a wink. Namaari links their arms, and they walk away with their heads held high.

Tears of laughter and joy

There is something charming and fun in watching Sisu learn more about people and their odd behaviours. Namaari is still slightly in awe of dragons in general, but she finds it easier the more she spends time with Sisu and watches her do ridiculous things. Sisu often brings Tong, Boun and even Noi along to visit Raya, and Namaari loves this time especially, because Raya will go and join in on the fun, laughing at her friends’ antics until tears stream down her face. Namaari sits and watches them with a smile, until Raya runs over and grabs her by the hand, dragging her over to the group.

Raya likes to think she is excellently athletic and nimble on her feet, and to a certain extent this is true. Unfortunately, she has a rather clumsy side to her also, and she spectacularly demonstrates this in front of Namaari by mistake. She is trying to demonstrate how smooth her mounts and dismounts from Tuk Tuk’s saddle are, and even goes so far as to try and show off by standing up on his back. And yet, she slips sideways instead, arms windmilling in the air before she drops onto the floor. ‘Are you alright?’ Namaari calls, and as soon as Raya answers in the affirmative, she can hear a cackle of laughter. Namaari is laughing so hard that there are tears shining in her eyes, and Raya can’t feel too embarrassed by her tumble when it brings Namaari such joy.

At the end of a very long day of Council meetings, Raya wants nothing more than to escape the political grandstanding and disappear into the night instead of staying for dinner. She manages to grab some food from the kitchen before it is even brought out for the guests, and then steals Namaari herself as company. They sit under the stars, enjoying their picnic and complaining about the day. Namaari does a wonderful impersonation of the most annoying Councilor in the meeting, and Raya startles into loud laughter at how realistic it is. Soon they are lying next to each other, giggling loudly until they are both crying from laughter.

Namaari kisses Raya for the first time during a sparring session. They are fighting in a casual manner for once, not trying to be highly competitive as usual, but preferring to shoot as many teasing remarks towards the other as punches, enjoying the moment. Raya manages to pin Namaari down on the ground, leaning forwards slightly to highlight her triumphant and teasing expression, and instead sees Namaari staring up at her with a soft smile. Namaari brings both hands up to slide her fingers through Raya’s hair, drawing her down until their lips are touching softly. Raya feels tears welling up behind her eyes at she feels the love emanating from Namaari.

Raya proposes after two years of dating and several days of angsting over whether she has the correct words to say or the correct proposal gifts. But when it comes to the moment, she forgets everything, and just blurts out ‘I love you. Marry me?’ Namaari stares at her in shock for a moment, before stepping forward to kiss Raya. ‘Yes, yes of course,’ she says, her voice shaking from her emotions. Raya cups her cheeks in both hands, gently wiping away her tears before they kiss again.

When they marry, neither of them can get through their vows without some tears of happiness. No-one judges them for it though – most of their family and friends are crying also.

[warriors-swappedfates-au]

The Hawk

It was a sunny day despite leaf-fall’s usually cloudy skies. Mistlekit was playing with her brother, Snowkit. Bramblekit and Tawnykit, who were the two’s denmates, had stated that Snowkit was hard to play with due to his deafness, and ended up gravitating towards their older half-siblings, Lynxpaw and Swiftpaw, instead. 

While she wouldn’t admit it, it annoyed her to no end; it wasn’t Snowkit’s fault he was deaf! Plus, Speckletail, Fireheart and Cinderpelt were all three working on making sign-speak and making it mandatory to learn, which made the she-kit excited.

The two’s mother exited the nursery, Fireheart and Cinderpelt not far behind. Tawnykit and Bramblekit were busy talking to Dappletail, their grandmother, in the elders’ den, who was likely telling them a story of some sort, meaning that she and Snowkit currently had the nursery to themselves; they much preferred playing outside, though.

Just then, an ear-splitting caw came from the skies. Mistlekit’s whiskers turned back and her ears were far to the side, the pupils in her hazel eyes dilating. She turned to the nursery, where Speckletail and the others clearly heard the cry.

“Bramblekit, Tawnykit!” Goldenflower yowled from across the camp. The kits peeked out of the elders’ den just before the caw came again; Mistlekit overcame her fear just enough to look up and see the hawk flying through the skies above, closer and closer to the camp.

“Mistlekit, Snowkit, get inside!” Speckletail exclaimed. The she-kit obeyed her mother’s command, but Snowkit was playing naively, looking confused as to why his sister had left.

Everything seemed to slow down as Bramblekit and Tanwykit entered the nursery. The hawk swooped down…

And grabbed Snowkit with its talons.

The tom looked shocked into silence, otherwise Mistlekit knew he’d have striked or something of the sort. Some warriors had peeked out of their den moments prior, and while the hawk was still close to the ground, Brackenfur raced out of the den and attempted to attack the large bird before being shook off onto the ground.

“Snowkit!” their mother cried, tears in her eyes as the hawk flew away, Snowkit in its grasp.

“I’m going after it,” Brackenfur’s mew was angry, though the she-kit knew it wasn’t directed towards anyone in particular.

“Me and Lynxie are going too,” Swiftpaw’s voice came, as he and his sister approached.

“Me too!” Brightpaw exclaimed, bounding toward her brother. “I know how much he means to you and Cinderpelt, and I want to make sure he’s safe as much as anyone else in the Clan!”

The tom gave a nod, kinking his tail over back in a motion Mistlekit - and Snowkit too, she hoped - knew meant follow me.

The commotion in the Clan was great, and despite her immense worry, Speckletail was distracted by making sure everyone was alright as much as Cinderpelt and everyone else. The hawk hadn’t harmed anyone, it seemed, but it still caused a shock, and Mistlekit assumed the medicine cat was just giving poppy seeds or whatever other herbs were needed to calm shock were given.

In the chaos, Mistlekit knew that she had to find her brother, alongside the small patrol; yes, Speckletail would be mad at her, but Lynxpaw and Swiftpaw would surely honor her bravery.

Opening her jaws to get a whiff of the territory, she smelled Brackenfur’s familiar, bland scent and Brightpaw’s sweet honey scent. Giving a look back at the camp to make sure no one would notice her disappearance, she slipped away, following the patrol’s path intently.

                                                        *     *     *

Mistlekit came to a stop when she heard Brackenfur and the others discussing amongst themselves.

“What do hawks smell like?” Swiftpaw, I think…

“Well normally they eat mice, voles, squirrels, that sort of stuff, and their pelts end up smelling like a mesh of the blood and their fresh-kill,” Brackenfur’s voice was clear to her as he added, “one of the few things Graystripe taught me, he said he learned it from Lionheart.”

“Well I don’t smell hawk, but I think I smell a ThunderClan cat,” Lynxpaw’s mew was clear as well, “I can’t tell who…”

“Where’s it coming from?” came Brightpaw’s voice in a question. Mistlekit couldn’t see out of the bushes, but she guessed that the tortoiseshell pointed in her direction, because the group’s pawsteps approached her hiding spot.

“Mistlekit?” Brackenfur asked, pushing the bushes to the side. “What are you doing out of camp?”

“Snowkit is my brother,” she growled, sounding more hostile than intended, “even if I’m not an apprentice, I’m helping to find him if it's the last thing I do!”

The warrior gave her a look that was stern, amused and prideful all at the same time before Lynxpaw walked over to their friend.

“You okay Mistle?” he asked, worry in her amber eyes, which made Mistlekit feel odd, in a way.

“Yeah!” she squeaked. “Have you found Snowkit’s trail yet?”

“No,” Brightpaw said with a sigh, before gasping and whirling around to face Mistlekit, “Mistlekit, if you found us, surely you’re a good tracker, right?”

“Cloudpaw’s probably still better,” the gray tabby muttered. In all honesty, it was true. Cloudpaw was the best tracker in the Clan, perhaps due to his time spent in Twolegplace or something of the sort making him used to the abundance of scents and picking them out. To Mistlekit, it all came to her at once, though she was still able to pick them out… sometimes, at least.

“Cloudpaw is a good tracker, but he’s gotten training and you, well, haven’t,” Swiftpaw pointed out, flicking his tail a bit, “plus you know Snowkit’s scent better than any of us.”

“I guess you are right,” Mistlekit mewed, thinking. I do know Snowy’s scent well, but we’re cats, for StarClan’s sake! Our whiskers mean we have more enhanced senses or something along those lines. We’re good at identifying scents! But now I wonder why Twolegs and birds don’t have whiskers… she shook herself out of her distracted thoughts, looking up at Swiftpaw, “yeah, you’re right!”

She took a sniff and opened her jaws in order to internalize it, before kinking her tail over back and hopping along, following her brother’s scent, which was, in this case, meshed with that of the prey on the fresh-kill pile.

The trail began to smell less and less like fresh-kill as they continued, and Mistlekit felt her tail prick up and bend at the end in excitement as she quietly chirruped to herself. Snowkit was close, she was sure!

The scent got more and more clear until it was as close as the patrol following her.

“Snowkit?” she called before mentally berating herself. Dummy, he’s deaf! … well surely that just means his sense of smell and eyesight are better, right-

“Mistlekit?”

The way it sounded stranger then how a normal cat spoke made it clear to Mistlekit that it was her brother as the white tom in question peeked around the corner, blue eyes shining as he saw his sister.

“Snowy!” she exclaimed, bounding over and tackling him, tail up in excitement. Knowing that Snowkit could at least somewhat tell what cats were saying, she added, speaking slowly, “How did you get away?”

Snowkit paused a second before beginning to speak, Mistlekit having to assist a bit. “When I was grabbed by the big bird I was shocked for a bit-”

“A heartbeat?” Mistlekit asked. Snowkit nodded before he continued.

“But then I bit him and he flew away. I managed to land on my paws and was just wandering, trying to find ThunderClan,” he finished.

“You’re better at talking then I thought,” Swiftpaw mewed, getting headbutted by his sibling, “hey!”

“He’s improved,” Mistlekit smiled, “plus Mommy, Fireheart and Cinderpelt are all three working on making a sign-speak!”

“Sign-speak?” Brightpaw asked, curious.

“It uses tail signals and that sorta stuff so cats can communicate with deaf cats and so mute cats can communicate with others,” she explained, “that’s what Mommy told me at least. She also said that StarClan tries to keep cats from being mute and deaf and blind and that kinda stuff but isn’t that successful all the time.”

“Can we get back to camp now?” Snowkit asked. “I’m tired and wanna sleep.”

“We’re becoming apprentices soon, remember?” his sister asked, to which he nodded, smiling.

“I hope you’ll be my mentor!” he exclaimed, flicking his tail at Brackenfur, who chuckled.

“Come on, you two,” he smiled, “let’s get back to camp. Your mom’s probably worried sick.”

With that, the two made their way back to camp with the patrol. Mistlekit felt a strange feeling, ominous in a way…

As if it wasn’t intended to be like this.

But she paid it no mind.

[thefoulbeast]

Monstrum Malum (Evil Monster)

It’s finally october!! U know what that means!! Aoextober!! I’ve been waiting to be able to post this hahhhahahaa… some good ole soft horror in the spirit of the month of scary… I’ll also put it up on ao3 soon…

Characters: Todou Saburota, That demon he had at first, Todou Homare (mentioned). Contents: Violence & gore, monsters, memory manipulation, surrealism (or is it derealisation? basically we got some weird stuff going on), elements of horror. Rating: Teen & up. Word count: 2 888.

__________

It’s all a little fuzzy, this far back in his memories…

According to family tradition, Saburota receives his temptaint at ten years old. It’s scary beyond belief – the sudden grotesque presences that await him at every turn.

There’s a thick black snake on the teacher’s desk that watches him, a cat with two heads and three tails and no skin that doesn’t meow as much as it yells, spidery, shadowy hands that wave at him from dark corners and alleyways, always beckoning closer in silent invitation.

The horrible sounds of screaming and crying at night he can’t drown out no matter what he tries to do.

He doesn’t understand how his father and brothers and – everyone, really- can just ignore it all, can just pretend like it’s all normal and okay.

Though, he supposes it’s not too implausible – their ability to ignore things is quite remarkable. One time they pretended he didn’t exist for a whole week – and honestly, he’d been questioning his existence himself by the end of it.

But the problem is these… demons. These ghosts and spectres that follow him and distract him and terrify him.

Saburota tries to focus on the page in front of him – a test in maths that he’s writing in pencil because his pen is bleeding red blood – an ever-growing puddle over the surface of his desk that never reaches his papers and drips over the edge with quiet plips.

The numbers in the problems tilt and tumble and his hands are tingling. But if he focuses just so- if he can keep them in his mind long enough, he can do this.

Pit-pat… Pit-pat…

The blood drips steadily down onto the floor. No one else notices it.

–

“Oh, come now! You’ll get used to it,” his aunt says when she sees him flinch back from a dark mass that covers the floor like a living carpet, undulating and scintillating and breathing.

She walks right over it, and the black sticks to the heels of her shiny beige pumps like tar – but she doesn’t even seem to notice-

“Come on, Saburota, let’s go,” she pulls him by the arm, stronger than he can dig his heels into the ground. The black thing is unpleasantly soft under his feet. He feels it writhe.

“Don’t be so obstinate, we’ll be late to the opera!” she huffs, exasperated, “Honestly, you’d think a boy your age would have some manners.”

The black clings to the bottom of their soles without end even after they’ve crossed all of it and are out on the street, spreading out from every point of contact their shoes make with the ground, melting together to form a winding, snakelike path.

“What show are we going to see?” he asks cautiously, trying to distract himself.

“Three dead men and the devil, of course” she answers haughtily, “Why, Saburota, it’s as if you’re trying to irritate me on purpose! You’re the one who wanted to go!”

He did?

“Oh, I remember now!” he says, but it’s a lie, it’s his mouth moving on its own, “I hope it’s as good as the reviews promise!” he says again, a giddy edge to the words- but they’re not his words.

“It will be,” his aunt answers with a mysterious sort of smile, her hand tightening around his wrist.

–

Saburota’s hiding under the bed, curled up in the dark. It seems like no matter how much he shrinks down; he still feels watched, still feels threatened. Feels like he’s not alone, like there’s something else inside him.

The door opens and footsteps make their way over to the bed – but they’re sharp, like knocking wood on wood, and so loud.

Saburota holds his breath when hooves come into view right in front of him. Fear is like a bird trapped in his chest, raging desperately against the bars of his ribs.

Whatever it is climbs up on his bed with an ominous sqeak of the springs and a decidedly animal huff.

“Oh, you’re already in bed, honey?” the voice of his mother speaks from the doorway. She all but floats over soundlessly. Her skin is deathly pale and dry beneath the hem of her nightgown.

“I’m scared, mommy,” the thing says in a voice that’s nowhere near Saburota’s own. “I think there’s a monster under my bed.”

“Monsters don’t exist, silly,” she coos, “but I’ll look and make sure for you, alright?”

She gets down on all fours and peers beneath the bed. Her unseeing eyes look straight at and through Saburota. Her face is as pale and bloodless as her feet and hands, a greenish-blueish tinge to her lips and eyelids.

“There’s nothing here, honey,” she says in her beautiful, sonorous voice. Her smile reveals her teeth that look much longer and sharper now that the gums have dried out and shrunk back.

Then she rises again and says, “Now, will you be a good boy and sleep? We have a busy day tomorrow. You need to be ready to do what has to be done.” She kisses the thing sweetly goodnight before leaving, footsteps as soundless as when she entered. The door closes behind her, and so disappears that last bit of illumination the room had.

The darkness left behind feels like it’s eating Saburota whole, encompassing him in a tight and claustrophobic space. He reaches out to prove the feeling wrong, but the darkness is smooth and solid against his hand, pushing up against it with incrementally increasing force.

“You don’t have much time left down there, do you?” the thing up on the bed asks, soft and sleepy. It yawns. “You know, God can’t see you anymore, and neither can most other things.”

The darkness pushes up against his skin, too tight to move, too tight to breathe.

–

They’re in the main hall. A soft record plays in the background, a gentle but somber croon accompanied by a saxophone and a cello.

“You know they don’t exist,” the shadow sitting across from Saburota at the dinner table says, “right?”

It’s gesturing at his family, where they’re chatting amongst themselves as they eat. At the other, farther end of the table – it’s farther than usual. The table is as long as the room as opposed to taking up just the center.

There are so many empty seats. So many set plates, untouched. Like there’s supposed to be a banquet, but no one’s shown up.

Saburota stares down at his plate. The soup is black and thick, and there’s the smooth off-white surface of a bone peeking out from beneath the surface.

He’s not particularly hungry.

“You’re wrong,” he tells the shadow quietly ad he pushes the plate away, and the damn thing laughs in response. It’s fuzzy and translucent, and smears in Saburota’s vision when it moves.

“Oh, my bad!” the shadow chortles and picks up a knife, and twirls it around the fingers of its hand; the gleaming facets of the blade catch red and orange lights from some strange and unknown source, “You’re the one who doesn’t exist, I meant to say. Easy mistake to make.”

Saburota feels goose bumps break out over his body. A cold gust of wind whistles over the edge of his collar, ruffling the back of his hair. He places one of his palms protectively over his nape, feeling unsafe.

The room is colourless now, and his family sounds all muffled - and the shadow is gone. He shivers, then takes a fortifying breath and reaches for the spoon again, hand trembling minutely.

Saburota lifts a spoonful of the simple noodle soup to his mouth hesitantly. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything wrong with it, but… he’s just got this nagging worry that something isn’t right.

–

“I see right through you,” the creature says hotly in his ear, “you’re little more than smoke - a miasma leaking through the cracks of the skin you wear.”

Saburota stares at it through the mirror. It’s taller than him, wider than him, has horns like an ibex and hands like eagle claws, poised up in the air, talons glinting menacingly.

“Poor little Saburota,” it hisses, leaning in even closer, snake tongue peeking through its teeth on the ‘s’. “So damaged and twisted that no one could ever like you. You empty little puppet, you pathetic fucking piece of shit.”

Saburota shrugs at its words. They sound about right. It’s what he’s heard all his life, what he’s thought all his life. A truth confirmed over and over.

“You should bite them back for making you,” it says with a beastly leer, talons wrapping around his shoulders and digging in, drawing blood in small beads, “Make them regret your existence. Teach them what it means to hurt. You want to. You need to. I’ll help you. I’ll make you strong, I’ll make you dangerous.”

There’s a certain desperation to the thing’s words.

“Maybe someday,” Saburota murmurs, stepping forwards - out of the creature’s embrace towards the sink, heedless of the shallow wounds left behind by the drag of its talons. He needs to brush his teeth and get to bed.

The bathroom darkens and the walls and floor wobble dangerously, like light broken on the edge of water, like matter passing through the planes of a prism and coming out wrong.

“You’re ready,” the creature wails, upset at his coy evasions of what needs to be done.

“No, I’m-“ he stammers. God, everything here looks so fake it makes him nauseous. He needs to- he needs to set himself straight. Needs to recalibrate.

”I’m not ripe yet,” Saburota says gently, cautiously - looking at the beast without turning, eyes dark like the sky on the night of a new moon.

–

Father’s saying something to him. He looks angry. He’s gesticulating like crazy.

Saburota can’t hear it. The sound’s muted. Pure silence.

No, not pure… there’s something whispering in his ear. It takes a moment for him to understand what it’s saying…

Saburota feels a smile spread out over his face at the promises of violence, bloodshed, nasty ugly retribution-

The world seems sharper somehow. Like it’s come into focus after being blurry and vague for his entire life.

Saburota looks at his hands. He’s got claws – mean, nasty looking things, the kind that maim and rip and rend. When did that happen?

The little whispering voice giggles in his ear. I’ll give you this. I’ll give you this if you just let me-

–

“I’ve been cultivating you for years,” the thing says, looking down at him from its full height. The creature is menacing, attention catching, terrifying. “You’d be nothing without me. You’d be small and powerless and pathetic.”

Its arms wrap around his shoulders covetously, possessively. The talons sink into the flesh of Saburota’s deltoids like a butcher’s knife sinks into a hunk of meat.

“You’re all mine,” the thing whispers, opening its maw to reveal row upon dizzying row of teeth arranged in a beautiful rosette. Saburota touches a tooth and pricks his finger.

Blood red. Drops on the floor. He smears them with the toe of his shoe and suddenly realises.

Oh, what a clever thing. Had him really going for a while.

“No, I’m not,” Saburota says, something in his voice dark but… whistful and dreamy. “You did nice this time, I’ll give you that. Too bad you’re so slow with it all,” he says, and reality shifts.

Well, the not-reality shifts. Saburota’s holding the thing – a squirming little creature with a long leathery tail, smaller than ever and…

And perfect for eating.

–

He’s not afraid anymore. Despite the thing’s attempts – this particular memory remains unchanged, remains his fully. So far.

There’s carnage all around – his family, the house staff – mutilated sacks of meat, strewn about carelessly, all carved up and bled out.

Saburota can taste it – the metallic tang of something raw clinging to his palate, the edges of his teeth.

He knows what he did. He knows how he did it. But… he’d been too excited, too in-the-moment about it. It’s all a red haze in hindsight.

“Well, this was easier than expected,” he says, all light and happy and unburdened.

“You finally did it,” Homare says as she watches him from the top of the stairs, her face a blank mask.

“You’re free now,” Saburota says with a wide grin, “This power could be yours too, Homare.”

It slips off his tongue like a well-oiled phrase. This isn’t the first time he’s said this.

“Why won’t you let me out, Saburota?” she says in someone else’s voice. Shadows cling to her, making her larger and darker than what she is. The beast is here again, messing with his mind and senses. “Why must you deny me so? You can’t hold me down forever. I will claw my way out.”

The house is dark and crawling with black shapes and bugs the size of rats. Saburota feels his mood sour. That’s not right, that’s not what she really said.

Homare’s walking down the stairs towards him, heedless of the gore she steps in, looking at him like she wants him to burst open like an over-tense bulla.

“Kill yourself, Saburota, you worthless fucking heap,” the thing says, even if it’s Homare’s lips that move, “Getting all cocky and full of yourself. You will regret it. I will make you regret it.”

Saburota smiles lazily, “You’re just throwing a tantrum because I’m stronger than you. Tsk-tsk. You’d think that demons had more class than that.”

Saburota flicks open the zippo in his hand, and the smell of buthane hits him above the wet smell of fresh guts. His hands are shaking, his heart is racing. There’s a cacophonous screaming in his head above it all.

“Let me out, Saburota,” the thing says through Homare’s lips, low and thunderous and so angry, “Let me out and let me in for real.”

Saburota flicks the wheel and sparks the flame, looking right into Homare’s eyes where he sees it looking at him.

He drops the zippo carelessly, ignoring the beast’s words. This – all of this is his.

And he’s going to burn it all down.

–

Saburota wakes with a jolt that has the water sloshing against the sides of the tub. He’d dozed off again.

The nightmarish pictures of his dream fizzle out into the subconscious part of his brain. The phantasms are creeping upwards again, seeking to dig their claws into his more recent memories.

He sighs tiredly, rubbing a palm over his face. It had taken him too long to notice. Next time the demon might get him for good. He rests a palm over his stomach where he feels it like a hot, familiar weight in his gut. So small, so stubborn, so bothersome.

Saburota can’t remember his childhood clearly anymore, not the way it really was. His recollections are all twisted and maimed, cut up and pasted together into tid-bit horror stories and fantastical exaggerations, much like the dream had been.

It comes with being a demon eater. There’s a certain cost, a sacrifice he has to make in the form of his memories and occasionally, his personality. One can only hold on to darkness for so long until it grabs back.

Saburota barely ever sleeps anymore. Whenever he dreams, the distortions get worse and feel more real.

Realistically, he knows there wasn’t a dead man lying on the table and singing at Homare’s tenth birthday party… he knows that his mother died in childbirth when she had her last pregnancy, that he’d never heard her voice and had only ever seen her in pictures… but he can remember these delusions so very vividly it’s kind of scary.

“Your brain’s rotting…” He tells himself in a low voice. Then, he chuckles,” Heh, who knows if what’s left is even you anymore…” He pauses, moving his hand through the water, watching it slosh against the sides of the tub.

He’s awake, sure, but he still feels like he’s dreaming, like this isn’t reality. Another chuckle, a little more self-deprecating, “Good thing that won’t matter soon enough.”

Saburota sinks lower into the water so that his nose just above the surface. The water’s lukewarm now, so it doesn’t seep into his bones and muscles the way he wishes it would.

He’ll get out in a minute and get dressed and do things, but for now he just… ruminates. On what he is. On what he’s done.

He doesn’t regret his choices, but… sometimes he wonders what life would be like if he was… more normal. If he’d never clashed with his family the way he had… if he’d just…

Well, whatever. Those thoughts don’t lead anywhere.

He’s made it this far – that’s the only thing that matters. He just needs to pull through and do his part in getting the phoenix for the Illuminati. He’s been planning it for years now, sowing doubt and trust in the right places, and it’s finally so close he can taste it.

That’s his purpose now. That’s what’s important. He has a goal and a purpose, and he is needed. With that much, he’s satisfied.

As long as he does what he needs to do for the Illuminati, for The Commander, what happens to him afterwards doesn’t really matter…

[huilian]

Statera

AO3

Characters: Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne

Summary:  Moments in time, where Damian discovered who Dick Grayson is

A/N:  i finally finished this! i had to rewrite this like, four times because i keep losing my draft. oh well.... thanks to @caramelmachete for beta-ing this fic!!!! hope you enjoy it!

***

Damian always loved tinkering with something. Being able to build his own technologies showed that he had enough skill to do so, so Mother did not discourage it. Sometimes she even brought Damian things to tinker with. 

It was also one of the only activities approved by Mother that was fun. 

There was one rule that Damian knew, however. One rule that has been drilled into him ever since he could remember. Mother’s permission is critical. There was nothing that Damian did that was not pre-approved by his Mother. If he breaks that rule, well, there are only two options. One, Damian was commended for his extraordinary thinking. Two, he was punished because what he did was not acceptable to Mother. 

Mother may approve of his tinkering, but Damian did not live with Mother anymore.

It was almost involuntary. When he drove the Batmobile, the mechanics of the car astounded him. It was years beyond all the vehicles that the League possesses. After Pennyworth repaired it after a crash, it stood there, almost inviting Damian to tinker with it. Damian had been almost helpless to its call. 

He really should have known better. Mother would never tolerate this kind of behavior. Damian was getting reckless by being in Gotham. 

Damian had opened up the Batmobile while Grayson was at work. He had planned on only opening it up and closing it again, just a peek on the pinnacle of engineering that is the Batmobile. But then Damian started thinking about ways to improve the already impressive car. To make it more efficient would require tools and understanding of physics that Damian did not yet possess. To make it more aerodynamic would threaten its structural integrity. To make it more powerful would also require tools and understanding of physics that Damian did not yet possess. 

Oh! Father had a blueprint for making the car fly, hadn’t he? Damian remembered seeing it somewhere in the cave. He had been entranced with it, before. A car, flying! It was almost surreal, had Damian not known that Father was capable of making that a reality. 

A simple search on the computer yielded the blueprints for making the Batmobile fly. After that, Damian could not resist the call. There were the blueprints and the tools, and the car that Damian could make better than it was before. 

When Damian realized that Grayson was standing behind him, he panicked. The Batmobile was still stripped down to its parts, and Damian was standing in the middle of it all. Damian had forgotten the one rule he had grown up with. Never do anything without Mother’s permission. Except now, with him being in Gotham and with Father being… gone, it was Grayson’s permission he should have sought. 

This Batmobile was the one Father had used before. Grayson might not wish for anything in it to be modified. Damian did not know whether Grayson approved of him tinkering or not. 

Damian froze. He decided that he would not cry. He was an al Ghul and a Wayne and Robin to boot. He would not cry. No matter what happens, Damian would bear the punishments Grayson deemed appropriate, and he would not cry. 

Grayson did not seem mad. He seemed to be regarding Damian’s work intently, taking the piece that Damian had finished and viewing it from different angles. Throughout it all, Grayson made no sound. Damian did not know if it was something Grayson just did, or if Damian was slacking in observing his environment. He did not hear Grayson come into the Cave, after all. 

(With Mother, not noticing her presence would have merited him another punishment on top of the one he would have got for acting without permission.)

What if Grayson found his work subpar? That would merit another punishment. If Damian had dared disobey Mother, he better make sure that what he did is satisfactory, at the very least. If he did this with Mother, and his work with the vehicle was subpar, it would have been inexcusable. 

Mother would have given him so much more training. Mother preferred to punish Damian by lessons, experiences Damian would dislike but was still ultimately useful. Grandfather was fond of physical pain. Damian did not know what punishment was by Grayson’s standards, but whatever it was, he would get himself through it. He always did. 

“Did you do this?” Grayson signed. 

“Yes,” Damian said. He really should stop here, but he continued. “Flight would have been very useful in combat situations, Grayson. Why has it not been implemented into the Batmobile? Father must have…” 

“Stop.” A chopping movement from Grayson’s hand. Damian could not contain his flinch. It seemed that his rambling had not been appreciated by Grayson. 

(Damian would not cry. He would not.) 

Grayson saw the flinch. He must have. But instead of getting even angrier, Grayson relaxed his entire body. Damian did not understand.

Grayson signed something that Pennyworth told him was his name. It used to irritate him, to have a name given to him by this ingrate of a circus brat, of a failed Talon, but now it brought him comfort. If Grayson was still signing his name and not fingerspelling it, he was not angry. Damian had learned that distinction early on. The first sign that Grayson is angry at someone is when he fingerspelled their name. 

“This is amazing.” Grayson smiled. 

“Really?” 

Grayson nodded. “Are you using Bruce’s blueprints?”

“Yes. I adapted some of it to better improve the car’s maneuverability, but Father’s blueprints are serving as my base.” 

Grayson walked over to the bench that held the blueprints while Damian worked. “Are you making adjustments for the exhaust system? I don’t think this exhaust system can handle all the additions you put up.”

No, Damian had not. He hadn’t reached that part yet, hadn’t considered the exhaust system yet. He was too focused on maneuverability that he forgot that adding power would also require adapting the exhaust system to work better. “I…,” Damian considered lying. It would not work. “No. Not yet.” 

Damian waited for the punishment. He’s failing again, failing to consider all angles. Amateur mistake. He was too excited to work on maneuverability that he forgot about everything else. 

Damian had accumulated punishment after punishment in just the short time he was here, but why wouldn’t Grayson do anything about it? Was he waiting, luring Damian to a sense of security only to then burn that sense of security? 

Grayson lifted his hands. Damian braced for a hit. 

The hit never came. 

Instead, Grayson signed something that Damian didn’t recognize. Grayson must have sensed Damian’s confusion, because he then spelled, “T-O-R-Q-U-E-W-R-E-N-C-H,” then he repeated the sign that Damian did not recognize before. 

Grayson thought that Damian was confused about the sign. He was, but that was not what Damian was truly confused about. Grayson waited for a moment, then repeated the spelling, slower this time. 

That brought Damian out of his confusion. Grayson was asking for a torque wrench? Was he going to join Damian in working with the Batmobile? 

“I understood what you said, Grayson,” Damian said. He almost blurted out what he truly wanted to say, but he reined himself in at the last moment. If Grayson wasn’t going to punish him yet, Damian was not going to ask for it and risk making it worse. Of course, Grayson could be testing Damian, testing how much failure could Damian recognize before he knew he had to be punished, but Damian could not see the man being as cruel as that. 

Grayson waited with his hands outstretched. Oh. He was still waiting for the torque wrench. Damian gave it to him, and then returned to what he himself was doing. If Grayson wished to work on the Batmobile too, who was Damian to question it. 

They worked for a while, together, but separately -- Damian with his maneuvering system and Grayson with his exhaust system -- until suddenly, Grayson asked, “Do you think you can finish this before we move to the Bunker?”

Grayson had spoken to Damian about that a couple days prior. Apparently they were moving their base of operations to the Wayne Tower, at the center of the city proper. It was a strategic move. Moving to the Wayne Tower would mean less time in transport, but Damian suspected there were other reasons that caused Grayson to move. Father worked from this Cave for years, after all. Damian did not ask, because contrary to popular belief, he did possess a modicum of propriety. “Yes. I think I could,” Damian said. It was a challenge, even if it was phased as a question. Damian would rise above all challenges Grayson could give him, and it would prove to Grayson that Damian was the best. 

Grayson just smiled. “Good. Now come on, let’s go shower. We stink.” He then put the tools he had been using back to the toolbox, wiped his hands, and ruffled Damian’s hair. 

Damian could agree with taking a shower. He had, after all, spent almost the whole day tinkering with the Batmobile, and his clothes were stained with sweat, grease, and other unidentifiable things. He could not agree with the hair ruffling. “What was that for, Grayson?” Damian demanded. 

Grayson just laughed his way to the showers. 

*

After the showers, Damian couldn’t take it anymore. He had racked up enough failures throughout the day to warrant punishment, surely. Mother would have made sure of that. The combination of exhaustion after a day of working at the Batmobile and the sense of calmness that came after a shower made Damian’s mind to mouth filter off enough that he actually asked, “Are you going to punish me?”

Damian regretted the words as soon as they were out. Grayson, still putting on clothes after his own shower, froze. The calm, almost relaxed atmosphere tensed immediately. 

Grayson turned around slowly. Very slowly. Damian, for the third time today, braced for a hit. And for the third time today, the hit did not come. 

Grayson walked towards Damian, still moving very slowly. He stopped, then crouched down, also still moving slowly. Damian could not look at him, but he also could not take it anymore. The..., the carefulness of Grayson’s movement. But maybe this was punishment in and of itself. Keeping Damian on his toes, forcing him to be hyper-aware of all his actions. “Well?” Damian asked again, after Grayson had crouched in front of him. Damian kept his eyes trained on his feet. “Are you going to punish me?” 

Grayson signed something. Damian could not see what it was. Damian did not want to see what it was. 

A sigh escaped Grayson. A hand gently lifting Damian’s chin, coaxing him to look up. Damian was used to people forcing him to do something he did not want to. Normally he could outlast them by sheer stubbornness, no matter how rough they were to him. But somehow, this gentle touch from Grayson unraveled him thoroughly, because Damian let his gaze be pulled towards Grayson. 

Once Damian looked at Grayson however, Damian knew. Grayson understood. Grayson understood what Damian meant. Grayson had lived it himself. 

It was not by Father’s hands. Damian knew that much before Father had… gone. But now that Damian knew Grayson understood, his refusal to punish Damian perplexed Damian even more. Didn’t the man know what sort of results that system produced? 

“That will not happen here, Damian,” Grayson signed. “Whatever you think you deserve to be punished for, it doesn’t work that way here.” 

“So there will be no punishment? For anything? What sort of operations are you building, Grayson?” Damian knew he shouldn’t push. Damian knew he should be thankful that there would be no punishment today, and left it at that. But he can’t. Grayson was very confusing. He knew the system, and he knew that the system works, but he’s saying that it was not like that here? Damian needs to know. 

“We’ll have a very long conversation about what sorts of things will get you punished, and what kinds of punishment those actions entails. But whatever you were thinking before, Damian?” Grayson’s eyes clouded. That look again. The look that tells Damian Grayson understood. “That will not happen here.” 

And despite everything, Damian believed him. 

***

Damian was silent while stripping off his costume. He might have put on his usual chatter when riding back from that confrontation with the damned Pyg, but here, now, in the relative safety of the Bunker, Damian found himself unable to keep his shield up. He had failed, before. He had promised a girl and then failed to deliver on that promise. 

Would Grayson also fail to keep his promise of not punishing him? 

Grayson said the girl must have gotten out. Damian didn’t truly fail, then, because the girl managed to get out of that place. But Damian had promised the girl that he would get her out, and he simply left her to fight Pyg. A fight that he needed Grayson’s help to finish. 

What did that say about him? He had given his word that he will not kill anymore, but then he also failed in protecting people. What good was he now?

A touch on his shoulders. Damian looked up, startled, only to find Grayson’s concerned face hovering near him. “Are you alright?” 

Was he alright? Before he could think about it more, however, old instincts came out, and he gritted out, “Yes.” 

Grayson simply looked at him. What was it about that look that made Damian so helpless? Grayson didn’t even look threatening. 

“No,” Damian eventually said. There was no point in answering otherwise. Grayson would know. Grayson always knows. 

“It’s about the girl, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” 

“Want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

Grayson smiled. “Will I get something other than monosyllabic answers out of you tonight?” The movement was light, but there was an undercurrent of … something in Grayson’s smile. 

Damian considered answering in a full sentence, just to annoy Grayson, but he really didn’t feel like doing so. The fight had taken more out of him than he thought. “No,” he finally answered. 

“Can I say something anyways?” 

Damian wanted to say no. He wanted to storm off and reject Grayson’s attempts at… something. Instead, what actually came out of his mouth was, “Fine.” 

Grayson’s face turned kind. Was that right? Yes. It was kindness, Damian was sure of it. 

“Sometimes we can’t save everyone, Damian. You have to learn to live with that. Even,” and here Grayson does a sign he can’t recognize, “can’t save everyone.” 

“I know that!” Damian almost shouted out. 

Grayson ignored him. “I know how you’re feeling right now. I wish I could say it gets easier, but it doesn’t. So you learn to live with it. And you try to do better next time. She got out, remember?” 

“I know that!” If the first one was shouted out angrily, then this one was choked out. He should be better than this. He’s Robin. 

This time Grayson stopped. “Then why are you so angry?” 

“Because I promised her I would get her out!” The tears almost came out, but Damian pushed it down. He’s Damian Wayne, he’s an al Ghul, he’s the heir to the Demon, he’s Robin. He would not cry over this stupid mistake. 

Grayson seemed to think otherwise. He pulled Damian close, hugged him, even, and stayed there. Eventually, as hard as Damian tried not to, the tears fell out. “I … promised her… I would get her out!” Damian said between gasps of breath. “And then… I didn’t. What did that ... say about me… Grayson?” 

Grayson pulled apart. Damian knew that he did that because Damian needed to see him to be able to understand what he’s saying, but it still felt like a loss. 

“It says that you’re a hero, Damian. Because even in the middle of everything, you still thought about getting her out. That makes you a hero, okay?” 

Damian wanted to believe Grayson’s words so much, he did. He couldn’t quite believe that though. Damian nodded anyways. 

“Grayson?” Damian said. The man hummed his acknowledgement. “What does this,” he repeated the sign he didn’t recognize before, “mean?” 

Grayson smiled at him, more real this time than the one before. He spelled out, “S-U-P-E-R-M-A-N.”

“Ah. The alien Father was so fond of.” 

“Yeah, kiddo.” 

“... Do you really mean that? What you said earlier?”

“I meant every word of it, Damian.” 

***

It was a day like any other. Grayson went to what could charitably be called work, while Damian was left at the Penthouse to do what could charitably be called schoolwork. Then, Grayson returned, and they came down to the Bunker to suit up for patrol. 

After patrol ended (much too early for Damian’s tastes), they were supposed to be training. It was an acceptable routine for Damian. School, patrol, then training. But strangely, that night, Grayson did not lead Damian to any of the training facilities, from the sparring ring to the computer where Grayson usually ran simulations for Damian to solve. No. Grayson led Damian into a room full of… was that trapeze equipment? How had Damian missed an entire room of trapeze equipment? 

Grayson was, for lack of better word, jittery next to him. He gave Damian a smile so wide it should have been fake (somehow, when it was Grayson who did it, it was as true as the sun), and then signed, “I thought you might want to try this? Learn trapeze, I mean.”

This was a test. Of course. How foolish Damian was, thinking that the tests ended when he had left Mother’s doorstep. Grayson might have promised no punishment, but he did not promise no tests. Batman and Robin were the best, and so Damian would have to be the best too. That was the only reasonable explanation. Nobody asked Damian if he wanted to learn something. They simply gave the information to him and expected him to learn it. To excel in it. Mother did. Grandfather did. Father did. 

So this was a test. It has to be. Only Damian could not figure out what was going to be tested. Was this about Damian’s ability to learn new things? Was this about his knowledge of Grayson? Was this about his focus on the mission? 

If this was Mother, Damian would refuse. Trapeze has nothing to do with the mission. Acrobatics are very useful on the field, it allows Damian to move unhindered, but trapeze is another thing entirely. Damian could see no use of it in his mission to be Batman. 

With that, Damian has decided, and he said, “No.” 

Grayson’s smile faded in an instant. It left only hollow eyes, nothing like Damian had seen before. All the energy that always seemed to be buzzing underneath Grayson’s skin disappeared. 

“Okay,” Grayson signed. Only that. Then he went out of the room. 

Has Damian miscalculated? No. Impossible. He did what Robin, what Batman was supposed to do. Focus on the mission. If Grayson forgot about that, it was none of his business. 

*

It was Pennyworth who came to Damian in his room, hours later. That seemed significant, but Damian could not figure out why. 

“Master Damian. May I have a word?” 

Damian scoffed. “Even if I say you may not, you will say it anyway, Pennyworth.” He would. Damian had learned that much throughout his stay with the man. The question was asked out of politeness than an actual question. 

Pennyworth nodded. “That is wise, Master Damian.” 

“Well?” 

“I believe that today Master Dick offered to teach you the trapeze. And I also believe that you refused that offer.” 

Was this another test? Was Grayson not satisfied with the previous one, that he sent Pennyworth here to test him again? 

“What is the matter with that, Pennyworth?” Damian finally asked. 

Pennyworth sighed. “Master Dick had gone through a … difficult childhood, shall we say. You know that. The trapeze is one of the few things that the Court did not take away from him. It was one of the last things he had from his time with his parents.” 

Damian stood up. “I know that, Pennyworth! Get to the point!” Damian felt a chill through his body. He did know that. Grayson and Pennyworth had said all of that already. What was the matter? Why did both Grayson and Pennyworth make such a big deal over it? 

“That was not all, Master Damian. Please, sit back down.” 

The butler’s tone was kind enough, but Damian knew it broke no argument. Pennyworth waited until Damian had sat back down, then continued. “Teaching the trapeze is how Master Dick connects his new family with his old one. He taught it at some point to every single person he considered family. Master Bruce, Miss Barbara, Master Jason, Master Tim, Miss Cassandra, myself, and his closest friends.” 

Oh. Oh. 

“Teaching you the trapeze is his way of showing you that he considers you family.” 

Damian had miscalculated. Badly. 

“Are you certain of this, Pennyworth?” 

“Yes, Master Damian. I am quite certain.” 

Damian looked down to his lap for a moment, then looked back up to Pennyworth. He had to fix this. If trapeze was Grayson’s way of showing Damian that they are family, then, earlier that night, Damian had just blatantly rejected Grayson’s offer of becoming family. 

Months ago, Damian couldn’t care less. He was not there to become family to the other children of his father. He was there to succeed Father. Nothing more, nothing less. But now, well, now Grayson has somehow made Damian care about him. 

Damian had to fix this. Fast. 

“How do I fix this, Pennyworth?” 

“Well, Master Damian,” Damian could almost hear the smile in the butler’s words, even if Pennyworth would never do such a mundane thing as smile, “I believe you should ask to be taught.” 

*

Damian found Grayson working. Of course. He would not expect any less. 

Damian had to play this right. He had already offended Grayson by dismissing his offer of family. He would not offend Grayson furthermore by being callous about this. 

“Grayson?” Damian finally settled on asking. He would base his next actions on Grayson’s reactions. 

(If Grayson did not react… No. Grayson will react.) 

Grayson did not turn to meet Damian, as he always did before. But he stopped typing, at the very least. It was something. 

“I…” Who knew that this could be so hard? It was not as if the next words out of his mouth might push Grayson away forever. “I have reconsidered your offer. I would like to learn the trapeze, if you are still willing to teach it to me.” 

That got Grayson to turn towards Damian. The smile was still missing, but at least Grayson’s eyes were not hollow. Progress. 

“Do you want to learn?” Grayson asked. 

Without hesitation, Damian said, “Yes.” 

The answer brought a smile to Grayson’s face. Small, yes, but it was a start. 

*

“Who ratted me out? Alfred?” Grayson asked, after they had geared up and climbed the trapeze rig. 

“Nobody ratted anything to me, Grayson. Are you losing your mind?” 

Grayson snorted. “Nah. Just trying to distract you from this.” 

“Distract me from what?” 

A smile. Then the bastard pushed Damian down from the platform. He had made sure that Damian was grasping the bar properly, but still. The bastard pushed Damian down from the platform. Alone. 

If Damian was laughing all the way down, well, that was between him and Grayson only, wasn’t it? 

(Besides, he was not just laughing all the way down. He laughed throughout the whole lesson, and even more after that. Damian could not recall when he last laughed that much, if that occasion even existed. The experience was something Damian would not balk at experiencing again.) 

***

Sometimes, when the city wasn’t as chaotic as it could have been, when it seemed that they could actually have a handle on the situation, Grayson and Damian could spend hours just being in Grayson’s room. It was not often. More often than not, Grayson would be too busy from being Batman and all that entails from that and trying to get a handle on Hush and the Wayne Enterprises, to be able to take a few minutes off of his day. More often than not, Damian would be too proud to seek comfort from this man who claimed to be his brother. So these moments, where Grayson and Damian could just be, were rare. And Damian treasured every single second of it. 

In the rare occurrence when Grayson actually finished everything he meant to do that day, he would lay down on his bed, tired from all his responsibilities. When Damian could swallow his pride enough, he would join him. (Sometimes Damian wouldn’t not because he was too proud to do so, but because he was afraid that the mere sight of him would remind Grayson of the abundance of responsibilities he had now. After all, Damian knew very well that he was one of those responsibilities Grayson had taken upon his shoulders when Father had.. gone.) 

In those moments, Damian felt safe. 

How absurd was it, that he felt safe with a broken man, when he could not feel safe in the company of his own mother and grandfather? How absurd was it, that he felt safer inside this admittedly secure room than inside one of his mother’s compounds, where every single person there was sworn to protect him? How absurd was that? 

Damian usually slept in those moments. He was never a deep sleeper. His training with the League had made him aware even in sleep. Being left, alone, in an unfamiliar country with unfamiliar people had not done any favors for his sleep. But with Grayson, in those moments, the infamous Canary could unleash her cry inside the room and Damian wouldn’t have woken up. 

He knew he was safe. Grayson himself never slept. As tired as he was, whenever Damian joined him in his bed, Grayson always kept himself awake. He rarely even moved. The only way to describe it was that Grayson kept watch. It perplexed Damian. He could take care of himself. But Grayson always, always kept watch in those moments. It was as if he knew that Damian couldn’t completely relax if there was no one keeping watch. And so Grayson kept watch. Like a bird. 

Like an owl. 

(If pressed, Damian would admit that the reason he felt safe with Grayson was that he knew that Grayson would never hurt him. Not intentionally, anyways. He made that promise months ago. Damian kept waiting for Grayson to break that promise, to hurt him anyways, but he never did. Damian allowed himself to believe that Grayson was telling the truth.

Damian knew perfectly well that Grayson was able to hurt him in other, unintentional ways. His promise could only extend so far. Damian knew that. Mother made sure that Damian knew that. Sometimes Damian cared. Sometimes he didn’t.) 

***

Every breath was painful. Damian knew it could have been worse. The bullet could have pierced his uniform, and then instead of just cracked ribs, Damian could have a collapsing lung. But it was hard to feel grateful when every breath felt like fire. 

He should have seen the bullet coming. He should have dodged that bullet. He should have forced himself to fight through the pain and help Grayson anyways. But it had been too long since Damian had to fight through this much pain. Sloppy. Weak. 

And so, after he incapacitated the man who shot him, Damian could only sit down in the alley, just watching Grayson fight. He should be helping Grayson, instead of just sitting like some helpless child. It was not the first time he had been shot. The bullet didn’t even pierce his skin. 

Weak. 

Damian could hear the sounds of the fight winding down. It seemed Grayson finished it shortly after Damian was shot. Good. Damian didn’t want to have to stand up and fight again. 

Weak. 

A hand touched Damian’s face. He looked up to see the emotionless cowl staring down at him. Was Grayson mad? Would he be punished for letting himself get shot? 

No. Grayson had promised. Months ago. He hadn’t broken that promise. Yet. What if this was the time he broke it? 

Grayson made the field sign for hurt. Damian nodded, not wanting to speak when just breathing already hurt. 

Would Grayson force him to continue patrolling through the pain? Damian could do it, but he didn’t want to. It had been so long since he had to continue being functional even through the pain. He didn’t want to. 

Damian waited for the order to stand up, to continue anyway, to brush off the pain, but it didn’t come. Instead, Grayson called the Batmobile. He lifted Damian, so very gently, but it still jostled Damian’s ribs. Damian hissed in pain. 

Grayson mouthed, “Sorry.” Why wasn’t he signing? Oh. Both his hands were full with Damian. Damian tried to stand up, only for Grayson to adjust his grip so that Damian couldn’t. 

Okay then. Damian let himself be carried by his older brother. It was safe, those hands. He didn’t even realize when Grayson gently strapped him inside the Batmobile. 

*

Damian woke up to the sound of Grayson pacing. Grayson must have been very worked up. Normally, Damian wouldn’t even be able to hear Grayson moving, much less be woken up by it.

“Sorry,” Grayson smiled sheepishly. “I’ll be quiet.”

“It’s fine, Grayson,” Damian said. “I’m up anyways.” 

“Are you feeling okay?” 

“No, I was shot,” Damian said. He meant it to be sarcastic, because getting shot is basically an occupational hazard at this point. Besides, Grayson knew about his training at the League. A shot that didn’t even pierce the skin was not worth mentioning. 

Grayson apparently missed that memo, because he started to sign frantically. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t good enough. I’m so sorry, Damian.” 

Damian frowned. “I was joking, Grayson. It’s fine. It’s just a few cracked ribs.” 

“Bruised.” 

Ah. It wasn’t as bad as Damian thought. It made his inability to keep fighting much more shameful, though, because bruised ribs were not even worthy of a mention back at the League. “See? It’s fine. Bruised ribs are practically nothing.” 

“You were shot, Damian.” 

“And it didn’t go through. I’m fine, Grayson.” 

“It was so close to your,” and here Grayson signed his name.

“It was close to me? I don’t understand, Grayson. I was shot, yes.” 

Grayson froze. His face did a complicated thing before going blank, something Damian now knew meant that he was pushing his emotions away for later. It would have been admirable at the League, but why did Damian hate it now, when it was Grayson who did it? 

“H-E-A-R-T.” 

“Pardon?” It couldn’t be. Damian must have seen it wrong. 

“It was so close to your H-E-A-R-T.” After he spelled it, Grayson signed Damian’s name again. Only it couldn’t be, because that sign meant heart. So it couldn’t be Damian’s name, because, because. 

Grayson named Damian ‘heart’. 

“What?” 

“Do you want me to change it?” Grayson looked away. His face was still blank, but his eyes were sad. 

Heart. Grayson named Damian ‘heart.’ Was this why it was always Pennyworth who explained his injuries to him? Did Grayson not want Damian to know what his name meant? 

“D-A-M-I-A-N,” Grayson spelled out his name. Was he angry? He only ever spelled out Damian’s name when he was angry. Only, the usual sign for his name apparently meant heart. And Grayson was… “Do you want me to change it?” 

Did Damian want Grayson to change the name? He should, anyone who knows ASL would instantly know about Grayson’s weak spot. He didn’t even want to be Grayson’s weak spot. 

But he found himself not wanting to. He wanted the name. So he said, “No.” 

The smile that adorned Grayson’s face made the entire fiasco worth it. 

***

After he and Grayson had stormed into Mother’s base, Damian stood next to Grayson back in the bunker as he typed reports into the Batcomputer. 

Damian waited for Grayson to start the conversation, but nothing seemed to be coming from him, so Damian had to start then. “Why me?” he asked. “You could have had Drake be your Robin. He was practically begging for it.” 

Grayson hummed. 

“Grayson. Why me?” 

Grayson finally looked away from the report he had been typing. “Because you’re you,” he signed. 

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re you, Damian.”

“So?”

Grayson sighed. He turned his chair around, facing Damian. “You need Robin. And I need you.” Grayson shrugged. “That’s all there is.”

“No,” Damian shook his head, “that can’t be it. Drake could have been Robin.” Damian remembered all too well the sensation of his body moving without his control. Of his body moving to hurt Grayson. All because he had been returned to Mother after he was shot during that altercation with Red Hood and Scarlet. Mother, never the one to throw away opportunities, had planted a machine in Damian’s spine and used it to control Damian’s actions. After all, it was why they had stormed her base in the first place. “Maybe better. He wouldn’t have allowed himself to get shot. He was right about Father, after all.” 

Damian forced himself to look at Grayson. To face whatever judgment Grayson would give him without flinching. He had failed, after all. He had allowed himself to be shot. It was his fault that Mother was able to make a tool of his body. 

Grayson put his hand on Damian’s cheek. Damian steeled himself for the worst. At the very least, his actions merited a slap from those hands. (Those hands that had cared for him much more than anyone else in this world, Mother included. Grayson had promised, way back in the beginning, that he would never punish Damian like that. Grayson had never broken that promise before. Damian kept waiting for him to break it.). 

At worst, this was the last act of kindness Grayson would ever give him. 

The slap did not come. Grayson’s hand retreated, causing Damian to follow it before he remembered himself. He would not give Grayson even more things to be disappointed in.

“Being Robin saved me.” The hand was only retreated to sign with, not because of anything Damian had done. Damian suppressed a sigh of relief. “I hoped it would save you too.”

“But why?” Damian couldn’t stop himself from asking. He knew he should stop, before he gave Grayson even more reasons to throw him out. He had cut ties with Mother earlier today. He did not need Grayson, the only person left who cared for him, to throw him out too. But he needed to know. “It would have been easier with him. You did not have to train him anymore. He knows you, have been your Robin before. You told me that. Why me?” 

“Tim needed to be his own hero. I can’t be his Batman.”

“Bullshit. You can. He was ready to let you be his Batman. Even if that’s true, you didn’t have to take me in. You didn’t have to make me Robin. Why, Grayson?” 

This was it. Grayson was finally going to realize that Damian is a failure and he was going to kick Damian out. Damian felt his spine, the spine that Mother had implanted machines on, stiffen. 

“Because you’re you, Damian,” Grayson signed.

Damian did not understand. What kind of answer was that? Taking someone in, training them, caring for them, simply because they are themselves? Damian knew he was not an easy nor agreeable child. Damian knew that by keeping him, Grayson had sacrificed so much. But he still did it, because, because Damian was … Damian? 

“I don’t understand,” Damian said. 

“Maybe it’s because you’re Bruce’s son. Maybe it’s because you don’t have anywhere else to go. Letting you go back to Talia was not an option, as you know now.” A twist of displeasure on Grayson’s lips. Some misplaced sense of charity then, or a sense of obligation to Father. Damian could work with that. He was about to say that he did not need charity when Grayson continued. “Maybe it’s because I saw myself in you.”

Oh. Damian stopped. That was unexpected. 

If Grayson had said it a few months earlier, Damian would have raged. How dare he equate Damian’s own superior upbringing with his time with the Court of Owls? But now, after what Mother had done, Damian was starting to doubt about the so-called superiority of his upbringing. After all, if Mother could implant that machine into Damian’s spine, was she any better than the Court? Not to mention the clone of himself that Mother was making. 

His destiny, Mother had said. But it was not his destiny, was it? It was the destiny Mother had wanted for him. As if Damian was nothing but a pawn to be played with in her plans. 

Grayson had a destiny too, from the Court of Owls. Damian knew that. Mother had played with him like the Court of Owls had played with Grayson. 

Grayson smiled sadly at Damian. Damian could see from his face that Grayson knew Damian had understood what he meant. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” Grayson signed. 

Grayson had rejected the Court. By being Robin, by being Nightwing, and now, by being Batman. From what Damian knew about the Court of Owls, it should not have been possible for a Talon to live in defiance of the Court. Except Grayson escaped. Except Grayson was courtless, and he was here. 

Damian was born, no, he was made, designed to be an assassin. He was designed to fulfill Mother’s plans, and so he was designed to thrive within the League of Assassins. Mother had made that abundantly clear with the clone she was making. Months in Gotham, under Grayson’s tutelage, had shown Damian how ill-suited he was to live outside the League. Except, hours earlier, Damian had stood in front of his mother, and rejected her. Rejected the League. An enemy of the House of al Ghul, Mother had said. 

What would he be, without the League behind him? There had never been a member of the League that left. They were all killed immediately. Damian was the first person to leave the League without being killed where he stands. It was uncharted territory, now. 

But was it, really? There’s Grayson in front of him. It was not uncharted territory as long as Grayson was there. Grayson would help him. 

So Damian nodded, and said, “Yes. We’re quite the pair.” 

A courtless talon, and a leagueless assassin. Two things that should never have existed in the first place. 

Batman and Robin. 

***

“You want to return to Nightwing.” 

Grayson, still with the damned bandage on his head, turned around to meet Damian. He had his smile on. Damian didn’t like that. 

“You were ready to… to throw away Batman just like that!” Grayson still had his smile on. Damian wanted to wash that smile off his face. “What about us?” 

“I didn’t, though. I’m still Batman.” 

“Only because Father had that Batman Incorporated idea,” Damian refused to be calmed down so quickly. “You would have, wouldn’t you? Give Father back Batman, just like that.” 

“He is Batman, Damian.” Damian usually liked it when someone is rational and able to argue their points calmly. He didn’t like it now, when Grayson turned that to him. 

“What about us, Grayson?” Damian shouted out. When no reply appeared to come, Damian said again, softly this time, “What about us?” 

“I’m still Batman, Damian. This is not about Batman and Robin, not really, right?” 

Damian hated it when Grayson figured him out. He sighed. “You… You want to become Nightwing again.” He stopped there, not wanting to say it out loud. Somehow, saying it out loud would make it tangible, make it real. Grayson waited patiently, though, so Damian continued. “Is it, is it because Nightwing… doesn’t have a partner?” 

Doesn’t have me. That was what Damian actually meant, but he couldn’t bear to say that. The answer might still be yes. 

“Damian. I want to be Nightwing because it’s mine. Batman was Bruce’s first. It has nothing to do with you.” 

Damian looked up at Grayson. He knew, now that his father was back, Grayson no longer had any obligation towards him whatsoever. “Nothing to do… with me?” There were multiple meanings underneath that question. Am I still your partner? Am I still your Robin? Do you still want me? 

“You’re mine. Yeah?” 

Just like all those months ago, when Grayson told Damian that there will be no League-like punishment here, Damian believed him. It worked both ways, after all. Grayson was also his. “Okay,” he said. 

***

[xxpadfootxx]

🐾Night Terrors & New Beginnings - Part 1 (Dragons & Heroes)🐾

Summary: Izuku Midoriya had never seen a dragon in his life, only pictures. All dragon attacks were nullified in the media so as to avoid any panic within large cities, and so he had not even seen a dragon on video. That was why he had absolutely no clue what to do when he found himself staring into the intense depths of a dragon’s eyes

A/N: So I know this sounds like a weird concept but I’ve come to really enjoy writing this series. It’s an HTTYD & MHA crossover fic. I know it sounds weird but people seemed to like it on my ao3 so I’ll post it here too just to see what you guys think. More one shots are on the way tho for those who don’t care for this series. Either way, I’m gonna keep posting more chapters and see what you guys think. I promise I tried to make sure it didn’t become hectic or crazy by smashing these two concepts together, but we’ll see what you guys think! I also would like to point out that I wrote the beginning of this story AGES ago, so I apologize ahead of time for the decrease in writing quality and possible grmatical errors. Hope you enjoy!

~~~

Dragons were rare. Or at least, dragons seemed rare since they did not reveal themselves too often. They were dangerous, vicious and bloodthirsty creatures that preyed on those who did not pay attention, the innocent who did not look above them when going for a walk. Deaths caused by dragons did not happen too often in the city anymore because of the large number of dragon hunters who protected the cities from the blazing fire and sharp talons of the beasts but they did happen every once in a while when a dragon escaped from behind bars or managed to pick off a person from the edge of a town or city. Despite the significant research done and the statistics to support that information, Izuku Midoriya had never seen a dragon in his life, only pictures. All dragon attacks were nullified in the media so as to avoid any panic within large cities, and so he had not even seen a dragon on video. That was why he had absolutely no clue what to do when he found himself staring into the intense depths of a dragon’s eyes.

Izuku’s head hurt and his arms were sore from the rigorous training he had just done with All Might. Ever since he had gotten into UA, Izuku had done daily training sessions with All Might so as to improve his use with One for All, going to either Dagoba Beach where he had cleaned all of the trash, or moving to a peaceful clearing in the woods on the other side of town to spar with the great Symbol of Peace. He had been getting better, using his new physical strength from their pre-spar exercise routine, but he was still no match for All Might. He sighed to himself and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. All Might had offered him a ride home after their harsh training session but Izuku figured that walking would do him good and had taken the scenic route back towards his home. The trees around him swayed in the breeze and the birds chirped over his head merrily. Izuku paused in a clearing and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet smell of the late spring air. He smelled the slight watery smell of the creek that lay nearby. He smelled the sweet scent of flowers and relished in the feeling of the sun on his face. He took one last deep breath before he started to walk again. The smells were pleasant, the flowers, the creek, the sun, the grass, the blood…

Izuku jolted to a halt, his step faltering to the point of almost making him fall over. He sniffed the air again, unsure if he smelled it correctly. Fear crept up his spine as he took in that metallic scent once again. That was definitely blood, and it was strong wherever it was. Izuku wanted to keep walking down the pretty pathway through the woods. He wanted to make it home before dinner so that he would not worry his mother. He wanted to do anything but investigate, but his legs were plotting against him. He felt as if he could no longer control his body as it turned him and forced him to pad through the tall grasses, straying away from the path, to see what was going on. He walked for a little while, the trees around him closing in on him, forming narrow lines. The grass was shorter here and the sun was beginning to become blotted out by the thick canopy of trees above him. He shivered as a chill set in, and he wanted nothing more than to turn back, to find the sun and the safety of the path, but his legs once again ignored his brain and continued to trek deep into the woods. The smell of blood was really strong now, he placed the hem of his shirt over his nose and mouth to avoid choking on the stench. Finally, he broke through the last row of trees and peered into a large clearing. The clearing normally would have been beautiful, short grass that was dappled with shadows on the corners but bright and sunny in the center with a glittering creek running through the center, gleaming in the lowering sun. Izuku may have even admired its natural perfection had the situation been different. But it wasn’t. The clearing was covered in blood, the grass was soaked with it, stained a deep red. There were no bodies but Izuku noticed some of the blood that dripped slowly from the branch of a nearby tree. But that was not even the worst part.

In the center of the clearing was a dragon.

Izuku sucked in a terrified breath and fumbled to reach for the knife that he kept at his hip. He was not normally one to carry a knife, but his mother had been worried about him wandering around on his own now that he was going UA and had given him a pocket knife for his birthday. It wasn’t much and he was worried that it wouldn’t even penetrate the pelt of a dragon, but it was all that he had. His hand shook as he held the knife aloft, his whole body tense and waiting for the creature to pounce on him and add him to the bloody stew in the clearing. He could see the creature looking at him, its eyes wide and its cat-like pupils narrowed into slits. Izuku tried to calm his breathing, he was probably with the most dangerous animal on the planet, if he panicked, he was dead.

His eyes darted around the clearing as he tried to piece together a plan, anything to help him in this situation. He did not know why the dragon had not attacked him yet, but he could not assume that he was safe just because the creature was lying on its side. He had no idea what species of a dragon it was and he could not judge whether it was a hunting tactic or whether it was just tired and full. His fingers tightened on the knife and Izuku locked eyes with the beast. He would fight. He knew he couldn’t win but he just had to try, for the sake of the people who he assumed did not leave this clearing and for the sake of those who had helped him to become who he was now. He stood up straighter and took one shaky step into the clearing. The dragon lifted the corner of its lip in a half snarl and let out a cross between a growl and a pained groan. Izuku froze, the knife shaking so badly in his hand that he could barely keep ahold of it, and waited in a half-crouched position for the beast to leap out at him with its claws outstretched and flames billowing out of its mouth. The dragon lifted its head slightly, watching him with wide eyes before letting its head fall back to the ground with a muffled thump.

Izuku let out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding. His legs felt like jello but he forced himself to take another step, and then another. The dragon did not even react this time, its head remaining on the ground and its eyes closing. The dragon did nothing. Even though most of its body was obscured by a large boulder, Izuku could tell that its whole body was limp. It was vulnerable, maybe it was exhausted from killing the people in the clearing. Izuku decided that this was his chance to kill the beast and escape with his life and the justice of the dead who did not manage to kill the dragon. With a loud battle cry, Izuku launched forward, the knife thrust in front of him, running at the dragon with all of the strength he could muster. The dragon again did not react and merely turned its head away with a sigh. Izuku rounded the boulder and raised his arm to bring down the knife when the sight of the creature’s body caused him to freeze in place.

The dragon was lying on its side with its legs, tail, and wings bound by firm ropes with hooks on the ends that sank into its flesh on its chest and lower back. Its back leg was twisted horribly in the wrong direction and one of its wings was obviously broken at the curve, a shiny white bone sticking out of the top like a white knife. Scars and open wounds crisscrossed over the dragon’s body like a grotesque map, including an enormous gash that was leaking blood all over the meadow ground, and one of the dragon’s eyes was swollen shut with three long claw marks that started a little bit above the eyelid, went over the eyelid and ended a few centimeters below the eye. Izuku stood with his mouth agape, the knife held aloft in a shaking hand as he took in the sight of the dragon. He tried to tell himself that the dragon deserved this, that the beast was a killer and it had been restrained to avoid any more bloodshed. But when looking at the sad creature before him, something that was probably gorgeous and proud once, he couldn’t bring himself to blame it. If it had killed the people, Izuku reasoned that it must have either been following its instinct to eat when hungry or it was trying to protect itself. He realized that he had allowed his hands to bring the knife down to his head, resting it there as he stood over the beast, thinking. He shook his head and raised the knife again, closing his eyes and leaning back to fling the knife down.

The dragon suddenly let out a pained whine. Izuku’s eyes flew open and he looked down at the dragon in shock. It sounded exactly like an injured puppy. His breathing sped up and he tried to raise the knife again, but he suddenly dropped it. He heard it clang against the stone behind him and Izuku had to force himself to keep from running away as fast as possible. He ran his hands through his hair and looked at the dragon in the eye once more. His hand flew up to his mouth and he couldn’t stop himself from falling backward a few steps as he looked into the creature’s eyes. The pupils were wide now so that the dragon looked almost cute and a single tear was trailing down its face. Conflicted feelings coursed through Izuku as he looked at the pitiful beast, he wanted to kill it or run away but the hero side of him also wanted to stay and help it. He stood and stared for a little while, allowing his eyes to rove over the dragon’s wounds before he finally made a decision. A decision, that he did not know would change his life forever.

Trying and failing to keep his hands steady, Izuku leaned down with the pocket knife and pressed it to the dragon’s side. The dragon let out another agonized whine before closing its eyes and tilting its head to a more comfortable position on the grass. Izuku took a deep breath and whispered to the dragon.

“Please don’t kill me.”

Then, with a swift jerk of his arm, Izuku sliced his knife through the thinner threads of the rope. The dragon’s eyes snapped open and it took everything in Izuku’s power to remain by its side and continue to cut the rope that was looped over its midnight black scales. He placed the knife against another rope and jerked his arm again, fighting against the tough material until it gave way to his actions. Finally, the last rope was cut and everything fell loose, slipping down the dragon’s legs and pooling on the meadow floor. Izuku put his hands up and flinched, his eyes closed as he waited for the dragon to pounce on him now that it was free. His whole body was shaking and his breathing was so fast-paced that he thought he might pass out. He waited, but no attack came. He opened his eyes just a crack to see that the dragon had shuffled its legs around so that it was able to tuck them underneath its chest but it had made no move to actually stand. Its back leg was still horribly twisted and the hooks from the rope were still lodged in the dragon’s chest and back. Izuku lowered his hands slowly and peered at the dragon. The dragon watched him as well with its lips pulled back into a slight snarl. Neither moved.

That was when the voice echoed loudly throughout the woods. The dragon sat up as high as it could without standing to peer over Izuku’s shoulder and Izuku jumped in surprise at the noise.

“Oh yes sir, it is over here!”

“You don’t think it is already gone?”

“It may have injured a lot of our men, but it was pretty tied up and it was wounded to the point of barely remaining conscious. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was out cold.”

“Let's hope so, that would make things so much easier.”

The voices started to get louder as their owners got closer to the clearing. They were laughing and joking loudly as they walked. Izuku wanted to be excited that help was on the way, but he couldn’t help feeling as if these people were not the right kind of help. The dragon beside him started trying to move, lifting its wings with a grimace and scrambling to get its legs underneath it. It only took a few more minutes for the men to break through the ring of trees and enter the clearing. Almost as if the men were poisonous, the dragon who had been struggling just moments before, landed on the ground with a sickening crunch. The beast just allowed itself to crash to the forest floor and laid there limply, like a dead dog.

The men stopped laughing and looked at Izuku, their smiles fading as they eyed him and the limp dragon beside him. Nobody spoke. Izuku wanted to stand or walk or at least move but his body refused to cooperate. He sat still, his knife hovering in the air over his leg, dripping with dragon’s blood onto his pant leg. The men looked from Izuku’s face to the bloody knife, their eyes widening and smoldering. Finally, one of the men took a step closer and cleared his throat.

“What is your name, boy?”

Izuku knew better than to answer with his real name and forced himself to quickly throw back the first name that came to mind.

“Tamaki Atari.”

“What are you doing here, Atari?”

Izuku gulped and slowly wiped the dragon’s blood from his knife onto his pant leg.

“I smelled a strong tang of blood and came to see if everyone was okay.” Izuku glanced around nervously. “I was shocked by what I found.”

The man looked back to his friend and dipped his head in a slight curt nod that Izuku almost missed.

“Of course you were, I am so sorry for what you have found here, that feral beast came and attacked our men out of the blue when we were camping. You must be troubled and scared, come on we can take you home.” The man held out his hand and smiled warmly at Izuku, so warmly that it was almost convincing enough to make him go to the man. 

Almost.

“It’s alright, I can walk home myself,” Izuku said, forcing himself to his wobbly feet. He managed to steady himself and face the men but he never dropped the knife.

“No really, boy. We don’t want you getting hurt, do we?”

“I’m alright, I know my way home.” Izuku tried to steady his shaking hand but he couldn’t stop the little tremors from trailing up and down his arms.

“You need to come with us.” The man said, now dropping his warm persona to replace it with a cold demeanor, topped with a venomous grin.

“No, I can’t do that,” Izuku said, shaking his head.

“If you can kill a Night Fury then you can walk a little way with us.”

Izuku felt his jaw drop but he didn’t care. He could understand how they assessed the situation and connected the dots so that he seemed like a dragon killer but it surprised him nonetheless. He just couldn’t see how he, Izuku Midoriya, could be seen as someone to kill something as strong, powerful, and dangerous as a dragon. Even though he had buffed up a little bit with the training from All Might, he just couldn’t see himself as a dragon hunter.

“No, no, no, it's not what you think! I didn’t kill this dragon! I found it like this!”

“Why is your knife covered in blood then?”

“I used it to cut off the ropes.”

The men both sighed and looked at each other in furious annoyance.

“So you are one of those people, huh?”

“Those people?”

“The people who think that killing dragons is wrong and inhumane. The people who think that we should treat dragons like dogs and take care of them. Make a sanctuary for them.” The man’s face scrunched up with disgust. “It’s completely delusional.”

“I know nothing about dragons, I do not have an opinion,” Izuku said quickly. “I just saw a dragon that was mostly dead and I thought that I could do it a final service by just releasing its bonds. It was too weak to do anything but lay on the grass and bleed.”

The men looked at each other once more before turning back to Izuku, their eyes lit with a furious flame.

“First, you kill the one thing that would have made us the richest men on Earth, and then you lie to us with this dragon wellness bullshit.” The man speaking pulled out a long sword that Izuku had not noticed had been strapped on his back and hidden beneath his shabby cloak.

“DO YOU REALIZE HOW MUCH YOU HAVE COST US, BOY!?” The man suddenly screamed, running at Izuku with the sword held aloft.

“YOU THINK YOU ARE SUCH A HERO DON’T YOU? YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!”

Izuku covered his face with his hands and flinched as the man bolted at him with a shocking speed that rivaled that of Iida’s speed. Izuku guessed that the man’s quirk was at work. Even if he had had full control of One for All there was no way he would have been able to dodge him. That is why when Izuku did not feel the sudden burn of the sword thrusting through him, he felt confused. He opened one eye tentatively and peered through his fingers, almost afraid of what he would see. His eyes widened in shock and it took everything he had to avoid tripping backward in surprise. Standing in front of him, holding the sword in its teeth was the dragon. Izuku was sure that the beast had been barely able to even lift its head let alone jump up and run in front of a flying sword. But here it was, snarling at the men while holding the sword in its mouth, the man’s arm still holding onto the hilt. He released the hilt of the sword with a choked gasp and scrambled away from the dragon with a laugh that sounded almost hysterical.

“So you are alive,” The man said with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “I am so happy to see that.”

The dragon dropped the sword where it hit the soft earth with a wet squelch, landing in the mud and the blood that soaked the clearing. Everything was silent. Even the birds had gone quiet as the dragon and the men stared at each other. Then, quick as lightning, one of the men swung around and snatched a long iron whip from out of his bag. He held it aloft and allowed it to uncoil, pooling on the forest floor with a sound like pebbles rolling down a cliffside. The dragon let out a vicious snarl that seemed to shake the forest to its core and raised its broken wings, its teeth bared. Despite having his vision partly obscured by the large black wings of the dragon, he could still see the man with the whip. The man rattled the chain twice and clucked with his tongue.

At first, Izuku thought that the man was trying to subdue the dragon with those actions and noises but suddenly, about twenty men broke through the tree line and rushed into the clearing, weapons raised. A group of the men even brought out a large metal cage that was filled with spikes on all of the sides both inside and outside. Izuku froze, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t understand why this dragon was so valuable and yet so tortured. He didn’t understand why the most deadly creature on the planet was fighting to protect him. And he didn’t understand why he got involved. The only thing he did understand was his sense of justice as all of the hero lessons from All Might came flooding into his brain all at once. Izuku did not even think before pushing the dragon’s wing back and ducking underneath it. He did not think as he ignored the dragon’s warning growl at him and he did not think when he used his own body to cover the dragon. He faced away from the dragon and hovered his right hand over its panther-like head while his left hand hovered over its side, palms down. He held his head high and did not think as the quarry of men rushed both him and the dragon.

As the men got closer, Izuku leaned back so as to provide even more of his minimal protection, placing his right hand right on the dragon’s head above the eyes but below the ears. He felt the dragon’s surprisingly soft scales despite their strength and felt the little fin-like scales that ran up the length of the dragon’s face from just above the nostrils to a little way before the base of the ears. He felt the dragon’s mix of warm and cool scales, the strange mix of temperatures flooding into his fingertips like touching an ice cube doused in salt. That was when his hand suddenly flared with heat and pain. Izuku could not contain the scream that managed to rise out of his throat. He heard the dragon roar in pain and even though his brain started to go hazy with a mess of thoughts, one thing was clear:

He had done the right thing.