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gallickingun · 4 years ago

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last chance || b.k.

SUMMARY: After All Might’s demise at the hands of an unlikely hero-turned-villain, the world unfurls into chaos. Villains run rampant, heroes are dying in the streets, and you are left with a rowdy group of renegades to seek out the legendary Ground Zero, a vigilante that you’ve only encountered through ghost stories. After narrowing down his sightings to one central location, you are sent out to beseech him for help, if he even truly exists in the first place.

PAIRING: Apocalyptic Pro Hero!Bakugou x Renegade!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: language, violence, smut, etc. WORD COUNT: 7.3k+

FOREWORD: For all intents and purposes, we’re going to pretend that All Might hasn’t lost his power, even after handing it off to Deku!

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

Author’s Note: This is my submission for the bnharem nsfw collab, apocalypse edition! I was shocked that I was able to snag Bakugou on my first round of collaboration, and I’m so stoked to read all of the other fics! The masterlist can be found HERE. This might feel a little OOC, but hopefully it makes sense by the end. It is an AU after all.

“The Symbol of Peace is dead.”

You pull the bandana further up around your mouth and nose, the ash in the air seeping into your lungs, clouding your vision as the debris strains your breathing. Your ankles ache, mile after mile threatening to grind your bones to dust.

“It would seem we never knew the true power of All Might’s quirk, now known as One for All.”

A thickness swells up in your throat, your eyes blurring with tears, and yet you keep walking. You push through the thickets of overgrown foliage, slashing away with the machete you usually keep tucked against your hip. Crying will do nothing to help you, not now. Tears are for the weak.

“He had passed on his power to a successor, a young student named Midoriya Izuku.”

The darkness of night helps to hide you from those who want you slain where you stand. Your black clothing keeps you but a shadow amongst the trees, concealing your identity to anyone who might gaze upon the horizon. Even though you are alone, your mission keeps you company.

“The young boy became an amazing Pro Hero, climbing the charts quite fast once graduating from Yuuei High. And then, something happened.”

You grit your teeth when you see your destination ahead – a large cliff, covered in moss and dense, lush kudzu. There is a cave carved into the side of it, hardly able to be seen from the distance with which you are currently separated from it. And yet, you’ve been dreaming about this place for years, ever since the overture.

“It would seem that young Midoriya Izuku, also known as Deku, has killed the Symbol of Peace.

All Might is dead.”

The weight of the world settles on your shoulders at the memory of the news broadcast. It is like this new path you’ve gone down has formed you into some sort of Atlas, a woman in charge of holding the world together from the shadows, as if it may fall apart if you falter for even the slightest of moments. Your knees ache and your back is slick with sweat, but somehow you manage to shoulder the burden and keep walking, galaxies treading in your wake.

After all, finding Ground Zero is your responsibility.

“We need him.”

You brush your hair from your eyes, looking down at the map strewn out in tatters on the tabletop, “No one has seen him, not really. He’s practically a myth, a legend. Even if he’s real, what makes you think he’ll help us?”

The redhead beside you slams his fists together, the echoing sound of stone impacting stone reverberating in the room. You wince at the sharpness of it, but combined with the determined expression rooted within his features, you feel a renewed sense of purpose settled into your spine. You straighten up, curling your hands to fists, and match his manifestation of conviction with a grit of your teeth and tilt of your head.

“You’re right, Kirishima,” you point to the central location on the map, the one you’ve been investigating for what feels like years, “Ground Zero will be there. And I’m going to convince him to help us.”

The stone bites into your blunt nails, drawing blood that makes it even more difficult to scale the side of the structure. You knew this would come, so the makeshift climbing gear strapped to your waist keeps you secure as you continue to lower yourself down.

At the mouth of the cave, you see a small overhang, just far enough past the opening for you to land. Once you’ve gotten close enough that you know you won’t fall to your death into whatever disastrous demise may greet you thousands of feet below, you drop onto the ledge. Your knees wobble, ankles turned at just the right angle that they absorb most of your fall.

The opening of the cavern is dark; ominous smoke leaking from the front of it, furling around in midair. Your body shudders, a chill sending a fresh wave of goosebumps over your skin, and for a moment you wonder if you should retreat.

Kirishima’s crimson eyes, hard set and piercing, are all you can see when you close your eyes. His voice rings in your ears, reminding you that this is what you must do, you have to find Ground Zero. He is the only one capable of taking down Deku.

You swallow, bracing your spine and curling your fists, forcing yourself to take the first step forward. There is a curtain of vines separating the inside of the cave from you. You reach forward, curling your fingers around the thick, verdant tendrils, and push them to the sides so you may walk through.

Every single nerve within your body vibrates with the knowledge that you may die here in this cave, alone and forgotten. Your lower lip wobbles, but you stamp down the negative emotions and rather channel them into something akin to confidence. Once you’ve passed through to the other side, you release the vines and find yourself shrouded in darkness.

It takes a moment, but your eyes adjust eventually. You can make out the walls of the cave, glistening and jagged, and you use the reach of your arms to press against the rocky surface, guiding yourself further down the winding path. It is strange when you feel a substance much more powdery beneath your touch, and when you pull your hand away to smell it, the scent reminds you of soot.

Sweat rolls down your spine, tickling your skin, but you do not have the patience nor the ability to redirect your attention to it, for fear of what might happen when you refocus to something less important. You hold your breath, trying to listen as best you can for any and all sounds echoing within the walls of the cave, but all you hear is quiet.

Your imagination begins to wander as you take each step, furthering the horrific ends you’ve conjured up for yourself within the confines of your mind. The chill of the cave in tandem with your sweat creates steam from your body, rising high and bringing forth a bout of humidity that gives your lungs more difficulty.

Turning a corner, you feel the air begin to get warmer. You force yourself to take short breaths, bringing oxygen to flow back through your blood as it rushes through you, thundering in your ears. The sound does little to quell the panic rising in your throat, like a billow of smoke suffocating you as it rolls through your body.

Fear grips your heart when you hear the first sound.

You stop, turning your feet in case you need to bolt in the opposite direction. Your eyes are widened, pupils dilated in the dark to try and accommodate. It does not repeat itself, but rather alters, when you hear it again.

“Tch.”

The human-like nature of the sound brings about a whole new level of anxiety, lightning strikes underneath your skin as reality settles in. You lick at your lips, the dryness of your mouth ever present when you prepare yourself for a speech. You continue down the cave pathway, the faint glow of orange beginning to color the walls, giving you more light to see your feet in front of you.

Eventually you are able to stumble through the cavern on your own now, without the guide of your hands on the rock on either side of you. Shallow breaths fill your lungs, erratic breathing making your shoulders shake in anticipation. You lick at the seams of your gums, begging your mind to call forth a beautiful string of words that will convince this legendary vigilante to once again rise up, with the backing of your renegade fighters, to take down the villainous once-hero Deku.

You come up on the furthermost part of the cave, the base of it opening up and rounding out to provide the hideaway with a spacious enough cavity to serve as a living space.

Your eyes are drawn to every inch of the room, starting with the wall where weapons are strung up like trophies. Chiseled into the stone are hollows in the shape of guns and knives and grenades, acting like shelving for the tools of destruction. Beneath it is the fire pit, burning high with flames, licking up at the air and peeling away what little oxygen remains. You find it harder to breathe here, mostly in part to the depth of the cave and the ongoing fire, stealing the breath from your very lungs.

Then your eyes find him, his back to you, settled on a log that will most likely be used for firewood at a later date. Your tongue feels like a sandbag in your mouth and you can’t force yourself to produce enough saliva to make up for the smoke in your throat.

And then he rises.

He is every bit as beautiful as they said he would be in all of the stories. Tales of bulging muscle and tall stature, hands that save the world with each flex of his knuckles, scars littering his body like a map, or like veins of pain running through slabs of chiseled marble.

He turns, and his eyes seem familiar.

You take a hesitant step forward, captivate by his serious stare. The rivulets of crimson and amber swirling in his irises make you want to drown in a lake of fire, burned at the stake for the sake of his cause. Your body cannot resist him, so you draw closer, further into the heat, begging yourself to become a slave to it so long as it means you can continue to find him in the flames.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You are fumbling for words when he speaks again, “You’re wasting my time, baka. I’m not sure what about the sight of a secluded, secret cave gave you the idea to waltz in here like you own the damned place, but I’m kind of busy. So leave.”

The way your eyes roam around his abode, settling on each small space and dissecting it for everything that it is worth, unsettles him. He steps closer to you, blocking your vision with his wide shoulders.

“It doesn’t look like you’re very busy.”

The words are blurted from your mouth with little forethought, but they have you both reeling, your hands slapped over your lips as if you could take them back with simple action. The man stood in front of you shifts into some sort of attack position, hands curled into fists and the air begins to smell sickly sweet.

“Fucking bitch,” he bites the words as they exit his teeth, narrowing his eyes to you until they are but slits, “Get the hell out!”

“No, no!” You are flailing now, the impending doom of your failure to bring him back with you turning your stomach into knots. You shake your head, reaching out to press your hands to his chest, “Listen, please, you are Ground Zero, are you not?”

The sound of his own name echoing in the cave gives him pause. He tilts his head, ashen locks falling over his line of sight. You notice his head is buzzed at the base, nothing but blonde stubble left behind, however the top of his head is covered with pale locks of spike hair, as if he himself is a bomb ready to be blown at all times.

“I don’t know who the hell told you where to find me, but I’m not the guy you’re looking for.” He smacks your hands away with the back of his wrist, turning to stalk back to the fire. Once he settles on his stump again, he pulls another skewer of meat from a pack off to the side, rotating it over the fire to begin roasting it.

All you can think is how much of a let down this entire trip has been. You have walked for miles, for days, in order to hunt him down. You have hidden in jungles and abandoned buildings, and almost been caught by several villains with quirks you almost could not overpower on your own.

“Kirishima spoke so highly of you,” your voice is faraway, like you are on another plane of existence, looking down on him from above, “I thought you’d be more heroic than this.”

At the sound of your friend’s name, the man’s head tilts, eyes shifting as he looks over his shoulder at you, “Kirishima? Eijirou?”

“Y-You know Kiri?”

You take a cautious step forward, unsure of whether he believes Kirishima to be a friend or a foe. His eyes are lost, somewhere between here and there, unable to focus on any one thing as he rolls the name around on his tongue, tasting the distant memories there while they play out against the cavern walls for only his eyes to see.

“Kirishima was my-” he pauses, gritting his teeth together as his knuckles turn white around the skewer, “…he was my friend.”

The man stands to his feet, discarding the half-cooked slab of meat into the fire, “If Kirishima sent you, then things must be bad.”

You nod, striding forward until you are just close enough that his body heat is intoxicating, and the scent from earlier, the one that makes your head spin with saccharine promises, fills your nostrils until you cannot make out anything else.

“We need your help,” you say, voice wavering in the middle, “Deku has started to search for every hero, every renegade, and he’s murdering them. I came to bring you back to the rest of those who are still fighting. You are a legend, if we have your help, there’s no way we’ll lose.”

A wry smirk adorns his mouth, quirking his lips upward, “Kid, I don’t know who told you I was a legend, or that I’d be of any help, but I’m out here for a reason.”

“Just come back with me,” you plead, resisting the desire to wrap your fists around his tank and pull, “we need you.”

There is a hesitant look in his vermilion irises, something that tells you he is still hiding something. But, he straightens his spine anyway, a deep breath puffing out his chest, “I always did like to kick Deku’s ass.”

You cannot contain the beaming smile on your face, even when you turn on your heels to begin walking out of the cave and back to the light.

Which keeps you from seeing the dejected look in his eyes.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

Weeks of planning the perfect attack have brought you and Ground Zero closer.

Although now you know him as Bakugou Katsuki.

When he first reunited with Kirishima, and his presence was made known to your rag-tag team, you were shaken at the realization that legends are people too. Even in his vigilante times, Bakugou still held that same spark that lit his flame throughout the duration of his time at Yuuei, much of which he spent with Kirishima by his side.

“Holy shit, man!” Kirishima reaches around his shoulders for a hug, which Bakugou hardly reciprocates, “I can’t believe Ground Zero is you!”

There are moments where you catch his gaze lingering on you – when you are cooking dinner, when you chop firewood – and of course your eyes find him too. He trains shirtless most of the time, body on display as the sweat rolls down his body. His knuckles are bruised and his body is battered, and yet he continues to get up every day and start all over again.

You do note that you have not seen him use his quirk, not since he arrived at your renegade hideaway. It seems to be in reverie of everything going on, but from what you remember, Bakugou Katsuki was not a shy man, never one to keep himself from the spotlight. It is why he is the only one who pushed himself hard enough to compete with Deku, and to stay as his rival.

When you ask Kirishima, he just shrugs it off, “He probably doesn’t want any attention. Would you, if you felt like you had run away when the world needed another hero?”

So you co-exist. He near you, and you near him. Always orbiting, but never colliding.

There are times where you allow your affections to slip. When you’re passing him by, a gentle palm on his hip to alert him of your presence. When he reaches above you to pull a weapon off the shelf, his hand finds purchase at the base of your spine, as if steadying himself even though he is one of the sturdiest men you have ever seen.

There is a moment, a drunken haze, that leads you to believe he might even kiss you, however it is gone before it has the ability to flower into anything more.

Time passes, months that feel like years, of tracking and sleuthing and killing. There is murder on both sides, and you have both suffered losses.

One night he finds you, sitting on the beach, your tears glittering like starlight on your cheeks.

“This is war,” he says, squatting in the sand, “none of us is innocent.”

You sniffle, rubbing your arm against your face to rid it of your transgressions, “And what about those who want to be?”

Bakugou reaches forward, a careful palm gliding over your cheek as a new bout of tears springs forth like a leak. You can’t see the sad smile on his face through your tears, your vision glassy and clouded, and he is thankful that you cannot spot his weakness. He brushes the tears away and turns your head with the gentle flick of his wrist, “We’ll get there when we get there.”

You want to crumble, to falter and fall into a million shards of glass, and he knows this. He must, because there’s no way that the pressure of the lives of the rest of the world does not eat away at one’s soul until there is nothing but barren earth left. You circle your hand around his wrist, leaning your cheek into his palm so you can feel the heat of him and find comfort in his touch.

“What if we never get there?”

You can’t look at him, not when your scars are on display. Your heart wrenches in your chest and the pain is like a thousand cuts littered across your body until you are nothing but bleeding wounds. In your mind, you’ve succumbed to the sea of red, drowning in it, choking on it.

Bakugou does a strange thing then. He presses his other palm to your waist, drawing you forward so he can kiss the smooth skin of your forehead, “Don’t be an idiot.”

And then he turns to leave.

Your forehead burns like a blister with the echo of his affections.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

The time finally comes.

After months of research and loss, there is a plan.

“We know where he’s hiding,” Kirishima points to a central location on the map, releasing a breath as he looks up to Bakugou, “the guards will change shift at midnight, and that’s when you’ll attack. We’ll be on the ground to distract any other, smaller threats, but we’re counting on you to take him down in the end.”

Bakugou shoves Kirishima, but he falters himself, eyes unable to focus on any one thing, “I know, idiot. You didn’t bring me all the way out here to take my victory from me.”

You smile at the scene, catching his gaze as he turns to look back at the rest of the room. There is a crack in his armor when he sees you, confidence melting into something else, another emotion you can’t quite pin down. And you’re not sure if you really want to.

The rest of the meeting is all logistics, something you have already heard a dozen times, so you find yourself wandering along the coastline, the night air washing like a balm over you, sea salt in your lungs when you breathe. Your feet are barely in the water, but enough for it to lap up around your ankles with foam when the waves crest to shore. You hold yourself around the middle, as if you might be able to keep your broken pieces from shattering if you squeeze tightly enough.

Tears of salt match that of the ocean as the droplets roll down your cheeks, hanging on your jaw until they are too weighty, and then they fall into the seawater, melded together as if they belong. Your fingers ache, digging into your biceps to give yourself some sort of anchor while you watch the moon and stars shift in the night sky.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The words are reminiscent of the first time you met, all those months ago. They make you smile, a gentle huff of a laugh escaping your lips, even if the gesture does not quite reach your eyes. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, arms still wrapped around your torso, the jagged edges of your soul sinking in deeper the more you try to hide your faltering pieces.

“Thinking,” you answer quietly, soft voice almost overwhelmed by the waves.

Bakugou is drawn in closer, as if you are the sea, a siren calling to him from the beyond, and he strides forward until he is parallel with you. His eyes watch the waves, but the pull is to you, and he can only resist for so long.

“It’s just Deku,” he is trying to reassure you, reaching out to rest his palm on your neck, sifting fingers through the hair at the nape of it. “I won’t lose to him, not again.”

This brings your attention to his eyes, your body turning so you can approach him head-on, fear wracking your body like a storm. You gaze up at him, jaw quivering under the stress of your teeth grinding against one another, “Why did he do it?”

His hand glides from your neck to your jaw, tilting your eyes upward so you cannot look away from him, in spite of how difficult this conversation might be to have. He has not spoken of his childhood rival for what feels like an eternity; airing out his burdened confessions is but a foreign concept. He would rather keep them bottled away within the cage of his ribs, until the poison slowly dredges through his veins and he can fall away into some deep sleep brought on by death.

“No one could have expected it,” Bakugou starts, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as he speaks, like the ministrations may give him the groundwork to have the conversation, “but One for All had too many wielders, had grown too powerful. Deku’s body couldn’t contain it and still stay sane.”

Bakugou looks frustrated, his brow tugged so his forehead wrinkles. You reach up to brush your thumb over the creased skin, “I’ve heard the stories. That the call to power was too strong, and he never told anyone because he was afraid of being weak.”

“Izuku has never been weak.”

His voice is ragged, as if glass has been lodged into his throat to inhibit his speech. Bakugou turns his head so you cannot see the emotion welling up in his eyes, “All Might should have seen it, but by the time he caught it, Deku had already gone mad. He snapped All Might’s neck on live television, the fucking bastard.”

The heaviness of the situation sits on your shoulders and you wonder if Bakugou has ever felt the burden of Atlas; you recall the significant burden weighing you down when you were first sent to retrieve him. Your mortal body wanted to crumble beneath the importance of your mission, you can’t even begin to fathom the overwhelming guilt he must be riddled with every day from the moment he wakes until he falls asleep.

“Then he came after the rest of us, one-by-one. Todoroki was next, then Uraraka.” Bakugou swallows the thick, pent-up emotion settled in his throat like barbed wire. He steels his gaze, even though it is only focused on the moon. “Kirishima was able to take a group of heroes and hide out when Deku came for me.”

You recall the fight like a movie playing on the backs of your eyelids. Bakugou and Deku fighting head to head, lightning and explosions igniting the swirling storm the unfurled around them. Pouring rain and debris flying, small tornados brought on by the use of Deku’s quirk, destroying the nearby buildings until there was nothing left.

Bakugou’s voice is heady, hands fallen from your face as if he no longer deserves to touch you. He takes a step backward, the roaring of the ocean giving him a pause, as if he were listening to the water for some sort of encouragement to continue his tale, to keep fighting.

You can’t help but wonder if losing the proverbial fight against Deku has tarnished his soul much deeper than he would ever admit, if his body has been at war with itself for years, unable to choose a side, unable to relent.

“I fought him for what felt like hours. Whatever One for All had done to him, corrupted his mind, broken his spirit,” Bakugou shakes his head, a snarl on his lips, “that wasn’t Deku that I was fighting. That was someone else.”

His breath hitches, “I-I’m not sure what the fuck possessed him to do what he did next, but he took-”

Bakugou’s throat bobs and his eyes flit from you to the water, unable to look at you in the face as he gnaws on his lower lip. The words must be too harsh, a pain running much further than skin deep. You know that his soul must be bruised, the very core of him broken beyond recognition.

“Took what, Katsuki?” you ask gently, reaching to tug his chin back so he is looking down at you, “You can tell me.”

Bakugou’s breathing is labored, quick, a mixture of frustration and anguish pressing down on his throat like a pair of hands, encasing his esophagus in a tight grip. He shakes his head, “He, uh- he let me go.”

It sounds disingenuous coming from his mouth, as if he’s forcing a lie through his teeth, his voice grating against his gums like metal. You reach out to touch his arm, but he sloughs you off with a quick movement, taking a step and pushing you further. Tears glisten in his eyes, but he does not let them fall; he cannot lose the battle with his body too. He looks up to the moon and lets loose a feral growl, crumbling to his knees and digging his hands into the wet sand, like tearing into it might provide him some sort of release.

“And then I tucked my fucking tail and I ran. Like a goddamn coward.” Bakugou’s jaw is rippling when he snaps his attention to you, eyes ablaze with red fire, “And that’s the hero you all claim to have needed. I wasn’t a hero, I was a fucking pussy. I was weak.”

Bakugou rises from the water, a murderous glare in his eyes, “And now I’m done being weak. I’m going to finish what I couldn’t before, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

You have let him vent his personal failures into the air, but now it is your turn to speak. Circling your fingers around his wrists, you pull yourself closer to him, as if the two of you are bound by an invisible thread.

“You’re not going alone,” you tell him, voice sure. You stand rooted in the ground, feet dug deep in the sand, “I won’t let you.”

He rolls his eyes, blowing a breath out of his nose, “And you think I’ll let you? No fucking way.”

The words sit on your tongue, burning like embers, syllables you’ve been stoking for months as you’ve grown closer to him. Your body rises up on your toes on instinct alone, eyelashes fluttering shut as you take him in one last time. You grit your teeth and a breath shudders from your lungs, shattering your heart like glass.

Your fingers traipse up his torso, climbing over the mounds of muscle that he has worked so hard to perfect. You feel the heat of tears well up in the back of your eyes, your vision blurred as you try to memorize everything about him in the short time you have left. When your palms reach his cheeks, fingertips dancing against warm, tanned skin, you can’t help but to tug yourself closer.

He can barely protest before you have melded your mouth to his, arching your back so your chest is flush with the broad plane of muscle in front of you. Bakugou hesitates, but just as you are about to pull away and profusely apologize, his arms snake around your waist to yank you closer. Your hips roll into his reflexively, finding the hardened length of his cock almost instantly.

Bakugou’s kiss is bruising, a heated ferocity driving him forward to part your lips at the seams, delving his tongue between your teeth at the first chance he receives. You moan at his affections, your hands threading through his hair, pinkies finding the stubble of his undercut while the others sift between blonde locks.

Tears are pushed from your eyelids, and he feels them against his cheeks as he kisses you. Bakugou slips his hands under the thin fabric of your tattered shirt, warmth spreading from the base of your spine outward to every extremity.

“I won’t lose you,” you manage between breaths, forcing the words out despite the possibility of his rejection.

Bakugou does not stop loitering affection over you like it were his job just because you show a moment of vulnerability. Rather, he’s spurred on by the admission, his hands digging deeper into your muscles now, most likely leaving bruises in their wake, and his teeth and tongue are merciless on your mouth.

The palms of his hands slowly drift down until he has cupped your thighs, his body folded just enough to give him a better angle to pull you up into the air. You hold in a squeal, unwilling to alert the rest of the camp, quickly wrapping your legs around his waist.

He breaks the kiss as oxygen begs his airways to open up once more, heaving breaths making his chest expand with sharp inhales. Through gasping breaths, he shakes his head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

You’re not sure how best to beg him to take you for all you’re worth here on the beach, but somehow you must silently communicate it, because he finds a secluded place and lays you down there, your back dug into the ground, but you are rather uncaring to it all. Your hands can’t find enough of him, insatiable in your efforts to map him out to memory, burning the impression of him into your mind so you may never lose him, even if something tragic were to part the two of you forever.

Bakugou’s fingers make quick work of the button of your shorts, delving his hand inside to brush at the bare folds of your core, already slick with arousal. He chuckles, nudging his nose over your neck, “Prepared for this, were you?”

A laugh is cut short by a whine, his teeth sinking into your jugular, sucking harshly on the skin there. Your hands find his shoulders, blunt nails bludgeoning the skin of his shoulders so he is seething into your body, curses flying from his lips as if they might brand your flesh if he whispers them hotly enough.

You whimper his name as he sheathes his fingers within you, two knuckles stretching your inner walls, scissored fingers making you throw your head back. Your body does not feel like your own, every wanton moan and twitch of your muscles in response to his salacious ministrations, reactions that you cannot fight, even if you wanted to.

Giving in, you reach down desperately, clawing your nails at the waistband of his cargo pants, uncaring as to how you get your palm underneath his underwear. Bakugou uses the hand not buried in your pussy to grab you by the wrist, pinning your hand over your head.

“You’re a needy little slut, hah?” Bakugou tightens his grip and speeds up his pace, earning him a wriggle from your body as you try to fight back. He smirks, teeth and gums on full display as he glowers down at you, “Don’t you worry, baby, I’m gonna give you my cock. Be patient.”

You whine in response, tilting your head to try and capture his lips again. Bakugou finds you halfway, his mouth parted so you can begin mapping out the curves of his teeth with your tongue. You kiss him as if your life may depend on it, like the time you are sharing may end at any moment.

You kiss him like he may die tomorrow.

There is fervor and passion and admiration conveyed with each smacking of your lips, your noses brushing when you try to angle yourselves to become closer. All the while, his middle and fourth fingers are working you forward into the throws of pleasure, lightning striking your core whenever his fingers brush up against your glutinous walls in just the right manner.

“Katsuki, please,” you beg of him, dragging your nails over the corded muscle of his shoulders. You can feel yourself slipping already, the impending doom of what is to come giving your body more urgency.

Bakugou growls when he feels your cunt clamp around his fingers, the thought of his cock within your tight hole making him dick twitch. You buck up when the head of his length brushes your thigh in his arousal, seeking him out despite the fullness you already feel from his digits pumping up into your heat.

Your whole body is shaking with the threat of your impending orgasm on the horizon, brought on by his disastrous fingers urging you forward. You cry out for him, wanton and begging as you pant his name repeatedly, rocking your hips with the rhythm of his fingers. Bakugou’s eyes roam your body as he leans back from you, gaze immediately drawn to the bounce of your plush chest. With each thrust of his fingers, your body quivers, and he knows he won’t be able to last apart from you for much longer, regardless.

As his fingers slowly peel from you, a whine tears your chest wide open. Tears drip down over your cheeks, a mixture of emotion and erotica giving the sound much more conviction. Bakugou feels the reverberations of your voice in his chest, stirring him to brush your silken slick along the length of his cock, pumping his shaft a few times before repositioning himself above you.

Bakugou rolls his wrist so the tip of his dick butterflies your pussy lips. You pant at the exhilaration of it all, your cunt fluttering as he pulls himself away from you only to bring it all back. His teasing strokes make your head spin, eyes barely able to peel open to look up at him. Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, and Bakugou leans forward to tug the muscle between his teeth, earning him an animalistic howl from the back of your throat.

The plea from you gives him the last push he needs to rut forward and claim you in one fatal stroke.

Your hands sink into him like hooks, eyes screwed shut as he starts to suck on your tongue. Bakugou’s breath spills over you like a wash of heat, sending a shudder down your spine. He uses his hands to grip you by the thighs, yanking you closer so your hips are flush as he sinks all the way into you all over again.

“Ka-” you can barely make a sound with the way his mouth has destroyed yours, suffocating you until you are lightheaded with the thought of him. As you struggle beneath him, Bakugou releases you in favor of leaning back to watch as his cock separates your walls and fills your cunt until it stretches to fit his thick girth.

You are a blubbering mess the moment he allows you space to breathe. Your hands can’t find enough of him to paint with your touch, nails dragging thin, angry red lines into his thighs, and your throat only knows how to say his name.

“Good girl,” he chuckles, watching you come undone beneath him, “I can’t wait to feel you come all over my cock.”

His dick is rutting into you at an impeccable pace, the tip of his cock brushing against your walls as he twitches from your tight pussy. Bakugou digs his fingers into the skin of your thighs, likely bruising them with the intensity of his grip, pushing your knees back until they are pressed against your chest so he can fuck into you from above.

You lick your lips, thin rivulets of drool seeping out of the corners of your mouth, “Please, Bakugou, I-I wanna come.”

The desire to rip your arousal from you until you cannot speak in full sentences gives him a fiery drive, his hips slamming into your ass as filthy words fall from his lips. You can feel his cock bottoming out within your cunt, thickening with each stroke of his hips as he grows closer to the end himself. You beg for his spend, for him to coat you until you are dripping with his seed, the mixture of your arousal and his pre seeping from your lips and furthering the wet sounds that echo whenever his balls slap against your ass.

“You wanna come on my cock, yeah?” he asks, voice dithering the longer he’s within you. You are begging him now, your back arched forward so you can seek him out with wide eyes and pleading palms. He soaks in the affections, your hands on his face and in his hair, your lips finding purchase on whatever part of his body you can reach.

A snarl makes his throat shake and, if possible, he rips into your even further, growling voice speaking into your ear as you fall back against the ground at the sheer force of his hips, “Then fucking come, slut.”

His words are all you need to push you into the next plane of existence, where a shattering orgasm racks your body. You convulse around his cock, the newfound tightness as you milk your own release pushing him over the crest as well. He drives his cock as deep into you as he can, your hips flush at the juxtaposition of your sex as he spurts up into your core. You feel the heat of his release, the twitch of his cock, and your limbs grow numb from effort.

Bakugou leans forward so he is balancing himself on his forearms, nosing over the swell of your chest and the column of your neck, small, chaste kisses littered over your skin like stars. He sighs, nudging your collarbone, “You’re not coming with me tomorrow. I won’t lose you too.”

Your heart sings at his admission, and your spirit wants to argue, but when he kisses you again, you can’t find it within yourself to tell him otherwise.

*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*

“All right, man,” Kirishima claps him on the back, leaning against the brick wall of the alleyway.

You can tell that there is much more he wants to say, but Bakugou has never had much patience for any sort of sappy confession, so all that passes between them is a nod of understanding. You, on the other hand, are careless in your affection, launching yourself forward to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth, uncaring for the onlookers unbeknownst to your time together.

When you pull away, there are tears in your eyes, but you force the words between your teeth regardless, “Don’t die on me.”

Bakugou’s eyes are sad, holding such a dark color in his usually bright irises, “A real hero always comes out on top, no matter what.”

Usually it is said with much conviction, but this time, it sounds like he is trying to convince himself more so than anyone else. Your hands palm over his face, committing him to memory one last time before he turns his back to you, headed towards the end of the line, unknowing as to which side he may end up on this time.

As soon as he steps out onto the pavement, he’s greeted with the familiar laughter of an old friend.

“Oi, Kacchan. It’s been too long.”

Your heart leaps into your throat and Kirishima has to hold you back, hidden away in the shadows. You look at him over your shoulder, eyes blown wide as your pupils swallow your irises, “H-He was supposed to be alone.”

The look in Kirishima’s eyes is haunting, a desolate gaze turned on his best friend. He tightens his jaw and breathes heavily through his nostrils, an answer never given as he watches on in horror at the scene in front of him unfolding.

“I thought I told you to get lost,” Deku speaks, voice confusingly innocent despite the feral look in his eyes. A cackle parts his lips and you’ve never seen Bakugou this quiet during a fight, “But, then again, wouldn’t a fight between the All Mighty Deku and a Quirkless Kacchan be entertaining?”

Your whole world turns sideways.

Bakugou’s words from the very beginning replay on loop in your mind as your breathing corrupts your own lungs, shattered and shaking as your body coats itself in sweat.

His breath hitches, “I-I’m not sure what the fuck possessed him to do what he did next, but he took-”

“Took what, Katsuki?” you ask gently, reaching to tug his chin back so he is looking down at you, “You can tell me.”

Bakugou Katsuki is quirkless.

Now more than ever you want to dart out into the street, to throw yourself down like a sacrificial lamb for the slaughter. Whatever it takes to keep Katsuki safe. Tears blur your vision and anger scars your heart, marring up the organ until you cannot feel it beating within your own chest.

Bakugou turns his head, vermilion eyes seeking you out in the darkness of the alleyway. He smiles, for the first time in full, and offers you one final look at his body completely intact before he returns his gaze to his childhood rival, hands turning to fists at his sides as he gets into his fighting position.

“So pathetic, Kacchan.” Deku looks Bakugou in the eyes as he ignites his quirk, green lightning dancing around as a storm begins to brew.

He holds up his hands, palms open-faced as his skin crackles, the sweet smell of saccharine turning to ash in the air. Colors of orange and yellow cast frightening shadows along the length of the street, a familiar power exploding on the cusp of Deku’s fingers.

“And now you die.”

a/n: i don’t think that went how anyone thought it would! it’s a lot different from anything i’ve ever done, and i’m not fully happy with it. but thank you for reading, if you got this far!!

#bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou smut #bnha x reader #bnha smut #morgan writes bnha #my writing #bnharem #server collab #bnharem server collab

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kumeko · 4 years ago

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A/N: For the Pandora Hearts Reverse Big Bang! My partner Hadrian drew an adorable piece of the three of them sleeping together and I wanted to write a fluffy AU for that (look, I really need a world where Lacie and Oswald live).

…

At twenty, Gilbert Nightray was used to plans going awry. It was par the course when it came to the mischievous Oz Vessalius. Despite being childhood friends for over 15 years, the only thing Gil could predict about Oz was that his suggestions never went as expected. Toss in the ever-hungry Alice, and well, there really was no point in planning, just preparing. Luckily, that was something Gil was good at. Every time they went off on an adventure, he packed a bag full of first aid kits, healing potions, and enough supplies to last a week.

However, even he couldn’t have predicted the situation they were in. As they raced through the forest, Gil glanced over his shoulder to confirm that yes, a giant elephant-sized boar was chasing them. He pressed a hand against his hat to keep it from flying off.

“Why are we running?” Oz asked breathlessly, just barely managing to keep apace. His physical strength wasn’t great on his best days, and after he’d been cursed…well, what little muscle he’d gained in the past ten years was gone.

“Why do you think?” Gil snapped, his trench coat flapping behind him as he leapt over an overgrown root. Behind him the boar angrily snapped his head at an offending tree, skewering it with his horns. Wood splintered from the onslaught and Gil paled—that could have easily been them. That could still be them.

“We could just fight it!” Oz argued, his green eyes glowing slightly as he started to summon his magic.

“Your magic isn’t what it used to be,” Gil argued, resisting the urge to tuck him under his arm like a ball and just sprint out. He probably could. Oz was ten now, not twenty, and as tiny as he was, he’d be easy to carry.

“I want to eat him,” Alice announced, her eyes taking on a more rabbit-like appearance.

“Aren’t rabbits supposed to be herbivores?” Gil immediately whacked the back of her head. Maybe he should just tuck both of them under his arm—two ten-year-olds couldn’t be that heavy, right? “We’re only barely ahead of that thing because the forest’s slowing it down.”

“But he could be tasty,” Alice protested, glancing over her shoulder. She licked her lips in anticipation.

“Why is it always food for you?” Gil grumbled. Honestly, Alice’s first approach to everything was bite first, ask questions later.

“Because meat is king,” she declared triumphantly. Why was that her answer to everything? Her physical strength was far greater than Oz’s, no matter what age. Gil wished it wasn’t; he’d rather hear her wheeze and pant than be forced to listen to whatever stupid inane thought crossed her mind.

“And you’re too weak too fight,” Gil pointed out, feeling a headache forming. He had medicine for that. “You guys are younger, you can’t act like you normally do! You,” he turned to Oz, “Don’t have the magical reserves. And you,” he directed his glare at Alice, “Can’t fight like you used to.”

Alice’s cheeks puffed, the sign of an impending sulk and Gil’s headache worsened. Oz frowned. “We could still fight it.”

“Didn’t you promise Oscar you’d stay out of trouble?” Gil pleaded, ducking an overly tall branch. While the boar was slower, he hadn’t stopped. Every step caused a tremor and it was a miracle none of them had fallen over yet.

“But—” Oz whined.

“And Lacie—” Gil cut himself off immediately; it was always a mistake to bring up Alice’s mother. She was even wilder than her daughter. A better tack was her overprotective uncle. “Oswald? Did you agree to be careful for him?”

“Booo,” Alice pouted as she hopped over a stone. “I can fight.”

The earth shook behind them. Gil barked, “Not against that!”

And then, before they could protest, he grabbed their hands. If he had to drag them to safety, he would.

-x-

“I think we’re getting close,” Alice muttered, sniffing the air as she lifted a branch with a hand. While she hadn’t fully transformed into her rabbit form, her red eyes and long, claw-like fingers gave her an inhuman look.

Gil could never get used to her partial transformations. Full transformations were fine, he could handle giant, bow-tied rabbits and short, ill-tempered women. Actually, considering how much Alice ate, it was amazing that she’d never grown taller, that even at twenty she couldn’t reach higher than his chest. Pulling his gun out of its holster, he asked, “Are you sure?”

“What do you mean, am I sure?” Irate, she glared at him. It was more annoying than intimidating. “My nose is better than yours.”

“Only if you’re actually using it properly and not smelling meat like last time,” he whispered back, trying to keep his voice down. “You’re a rabbit, how does that work?”

Alice snorted. “Meat is king.”

Gil stared at her. She’d said that with utter confidence, as though those three words explained everything. In fact, she’d been so matter-of-factly about it that for a minute, he’d doubted himself. That maybe he was the one ignorant to the ways of the world.

On his right, Oz snickered as he drew his sword. The metal looked dull in the dim light. “She got you there.”

That was enough to snap him out of it. “That doesn’t explain anything!”

“It explains everything,” she retorted, hands on her hips, her quarry all but forgotten. “What more do you need?”

Gil knew he ought to be the bigger person. They had a guild mission, after all, and that came before any petty differences between them. If Alice wanted to act like a child, like she often did, he shouldn’t stoop to her level. No, he should finish securing the pixie they’d been hunting for days, saving a village from its mischief, ensuring that his standing in the ranks didn’t—

“If your head wasn’t made of seaweed, you’d understand,” she added with a presumptuous sniff.

Gil forced his lips into a tight smile, resisting the urge to react. There’s no point in arguing with her, he reminded himself. Be the adult.

“Where is the pixie?” he asked through gritted teeth. The sooner they finished with this, the sooner they’d go back.

“Over there,” Oz replied, whistling softly as he peeked through the brush. “I think he’s asleep.”

“That’s good.” Gil brightened at this one speck of good news. “Is there anyone—”

Before he looked, before he even finished his sentence, Oz pointed at the pixie. “Alice, go!”

Without hesitation, Alice ran forward, transforming into a giant rabbit as she did. There was a large scythe in her hands now, pulled out from whatever pocket dimension she’d left it in. “Just stay there and watch,” she ordered before disappearing into the foliage.

Gil’s jaw dropped. “Oz!”

“Come on, Gil!” Oz grabbed his hand, smiling innocently. Almost all of their misadventures had started with that smile. “We can’t let her have all the fun!”

“Why do you always do this?” Gil hissed, not sure how he’d force them to understand this one, common sense idea. “We should have to plan first!”

He followed anyways—he’d never been able to say no to Oz, and he doubted he’d ever will. They were almost the same height, with Oz slightly shorter despite all of the milk he drank. There was something comforting about the back of his head, of that golden hair, and maybe it was that for all of the trouble they’d gotten into over the years, they’d always ended up fine at the end of it. Oz was strangely reliable.

“It’s just a pixie,” Oz scoffed, trotting quickly after Alice. “She’s going to catch it before we get there.”

In hindsight, those were famous last words. As soon as they made it past a particularly thick tree, pushing through the branches to reach a small clearing, they found Alice in the center. She slammed down her scythe at a pixie that was almost half her size. The creature had iridescent wings that fluttered quickly as he dodged her attack.

“That’s a big pixie,” Oz muttered. He held his sword loosely. “I don’t think the cage we got is big enough for him.”

“Me neither…” Gil frowned, pulling out his gun and several enchanted bullets. “Maybe we can knock him out.”

Alice struck again, her scythe almost cleaving the creature in two. Which would have solved the transportation issue but luckily the pixie parried her attack. It almost knocked her off balance and she flipped backwards to stabilize herself. Legs tense, she prepared to strike again when the pixie shot her with a green bolt of magic.

Smoke filled the air and Gil’s eyes widened as she disappeared. “Alice!”

“Alice!” Oz yelled as he charged through the smoke to get to her.

“I’m fine.” Alice coughed, still hidden by the smoke.

The pixie cackled and Gil cocked his gun, looking for their enemy. It was time they took this battle seriously. Trees lined their small clearing, leaving many places to hide if the pixie headed for the shadows. Craning his head left and right, he couldn’t find their target.

The smoke drifted past him slowly, dissipating as the gentle wind blew, and Gil glanced at where he’d last seen Alice. As the air cleared, he couldn’t find a big, stocky humanoid rabbit.

Instead, he saw a small, child-sized rabbit. While it was dressed in Alice’s clothes, they were far too big for the rabbit, and they hung off it loosely.

Oz stood in front of the rabbit, his lips parted in surprise. “Alice?”

The rabbit’s ears twitched, and she looked up at him. “Why are you so big?”

“Did he shrink you?” Gil asked, wishing he had his brother’s skills in magic identification.

“Shrink?” Alice stood stock still, looking from Oz to Gil to the trees. If she didn’t have black fur, he was certain she’d be pale as a ghost. She tried to pick up her now too-heavy scythe, the handle oversized in her hands, before dropping it in horror. “WHAT HAPPENED?”

“Oh wow!” Oz crouched in front of her, recovering from his shock entirely. Reaching forward, he rubbed her ears. “You’re so cute now!”

“I’m not cute, I’m terrifying,” Alice retorted, growling slightly. She didn’t pull away from his touch though and Gil stored that info away to taunt her with later.

“Of course you are,” Oz cooed.

From the corner of his eyes, Gil saw something move. He spun on his heel, gun raised, finger on the trigger. There was the pixie, hovering in the air, another green bolt in his fingers.

“Watch out!” Gil shouted, already squeezing the trigger.

BANG! A bullet pierced through the air. As it reached the pixie, it transformed into a net, entangling the prankster.

Jerking back in surprise, the pixie released its bolt. The green energy arced through the air before hitting Oz square in the back. Another burst of smoke filled the area.

“Oz!” Gil shouted, racing forward to knock out the pixie before he could do anymore damage.

“Wow, that tickled,” Oz replied, coughing slightly. After a moment, he swore. “Shit.”

Oz rarely swore openly, and Gil swallowed as he turned to where his best friend stood. The air had cleared now, leaving behind a blonde child. His cloak hung loosely on his frame, almost slipping off his shoulders. His sword, now too heavy for him, fell out of his hands with a clatter.

“You’re a kid,” Gil stated, realization dawning.

Alice transformed back into her human form, confirming his fears: she looked like a kid too. With a smug smirk, she wrapped an arm around Oz, ignoring how her clothes almost fell off her. “Ha, who’s the cute one now?”

-x-

Gil groaned as he leaned against the hard wall of the crevice they were hiding in. No matter how many times he thought about how they ended up in this situation, it felt ridiculous.

“I think we’re safe now,” Oz whispered, poking his head out of their hole. Gil almost jerked him in reflexively. In the bright afternoon light, Oz was hard to miss.

“I can’t smell him anymore,” Alice muttered, sulking as she crouched in the back of the small cave. With a stick, she drew pictures of pork chops and ham on the dirt ground.

“Good.” Gil sighed, relaxing against the wall. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath but settled for sitting on the ground. These days, he felt more babysitter than adventurer. His nerves couldn’t take much more of this. “Next time I say run, run.”

Oz pouted. “I still think we could have taken it,” he muttered.

Gil gave him a tired look. “Oz.”

“But that’s not why we’re here,” Oz admitted, which was as close to an apology as he’d get. Crouching in front of Gil, he reached up to ruffle his hair. “Good job!”

“I’m not the stupid rabbit,” Gil muttered, looking away. Yet he didn’t pull away and maybe that was something he and Alice had in common.

Unfortunately.

Oz chuckled, letting go and stepping back. “Alright, let’s finish our mission! I want to be tall again! I want to bully Gil properly again!”

“Don’t bully me,” Gil grumbled half-heartedly, trying not to smile.

“I want meat!” Alice chimed in. Gil wasn’t sure if she hadn’t followed the conversation or if she just didn’t care about it.

Oz looked at him expectedly and Gil sighed. Standing up now, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I want to stop worrying about you two.”

“Oh, Gil.” Oz chuckled, though he looked touched. Standing up, he beamed at him, no malice in his voice. “You’ll always worry about us.”

The truth in his words cut deep and Gil flushed. Coughing into his hand, he looked away. “I want to worry about you less.”

Oz bumped into him lightly and nodded. “Alright, then we just have to find those berries, right?”

“Yeah, Break said you just had to eat them and you should turn back to normal…” Gil trailed off. As reliable as his mentor was, he was also the kind of liar who’d take advantage of the situation to play a prank or run an experiment. There was a reason he and Oz got along; they were far too alike and Gil wished he could have stopped them from meeting. “It’ll work, right?”

Alice growled at Break’s name and looked around quickly. Suspiciously, she lifted a rock, squinting at the dirt beneath it. “He’s not here?”

“Of course not, or we’d have just fought that boar,” Gil scoffed, rolling his eyes. This whole mission would have gone better if they’d just brought one other person. How he ever let Oz talk him into coming here without backup, Gil couldn’t explain.

“Nothing to it then.” Oz stretched his arms above his head, looking oddly refreshed. “We’ll just have to get those berries. They’re at the top of the mountain, right?”

As usual, Alice thought with her stomach. “I hope they’re yummy.”

“Maybe we should take a couple extra with us,” Oz suggested, rubbing his chin. He scowled. “I can’t believe the pixie couldn’t just turn us back.”

Gil slouched over slightly. “I should have caught him sooner.”

“And I probably should have listened to you earlier.” Oz reached up to pat him on the back. “Still, it’s kinda fun pretending to be my own love-child.”

That was the first Gil heard about it. Aghast, he stared down at his friend. “Your what?”

“Sec-ret love child,” Oz repeated slowly. Chuckling, he walked over to Alice and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “By the way, I told all the maids that she’s yours.”

“Mine?” Gil screeched, forgetting all about the boar, the berries, or even the need to hide. He almost fell backwards and leaned against the wall for support.

Alice grabbed Oz’s collar. “I’m what?”

“The maids think it’s cute?” Oz weakly warbled, realizing a little too late that maybe he shouldn’t have admitted this in a cave in the middle of nowhere.

They should start making their way up the mountain. They should be quiet. They should conserve their strength.

Gil stepped out of the cave for a breath of fresh air, ignoring the ruckus behind him. Oz could wait a few minutes before getting saved.

-x-

Hilariously, by the time they reached top of the mountain, Oz’s worst injuries were still from the cave. The rest of the trip had been as eventful as their first few minutes in the forest—as weak as Oz and Alice were now, their only options were to run and hide from monsters.

Unfortunately, on this mountain this meant a lot of running and hiding. Gil’s arms were sore from dragging Alice away; she honestly thought she could take on every beast they met and Gil didn’t have nearly enough healing magic to prove her wrong.

As they reached a plateau on the top, a large field filled with wildflowers, Gil was too exhausted to do anything more than just collapse. He stared up at the night sky, surprised. The afternoon felt like it had only been minutes ago, and yet there the stars were, twinkling above. “Is this it?”

“I hope so.” A worn Oz lay down on the long grasses next to him, sounding as ragged as Gil felt. For all of his adventuring, his stamina had always been terrible. “We just need to find the berries now, right?”

“And then make it back down.” Gil covered his eyes with the back of his hand and took a deep breath. A sickly-sweet scent filled his lungs and he coughed. “That’s strong.”

“It’s disgusting.” Next to him, Oz wrinkled his nose. Despite his affection for sweets, he didn’t like the cloying scent either. “What are these flowers?”

“Not sure.” Gil looked to his right, at the flower brushing his cheek. It had a dark lilac colour, barely visible in the moonlight. Neon blue spots dotted the petals, giving the plant an eerie look. Something about it tickled his memory as he slowly sat up. “Where have I seen that before?”

“A book?” Oz guessed flippantly. Lifting his head, he scanned their surroundings. “Where’s Alice?”

“Hmm?” Still focused on the flower, he glanced around haphazardly. The field was penned with trees, though they were so far out he couldn’t make out their individual shapes. “Maybe in the forest? Or by the bushes?”

“Alice?” Oz called out, scrambling to his feet despite his aching limbs. There wasn’t a response, just the wind through the trees, and he yelled again, “ALICE!”

This time, a small voice called out. Gil couldn’t make out the words. To their left, a small figure dashed toward them, growing bigger until he could make out Alice’s bright grin. “Oz!”

“There you are!” Oz relaxed. Clasping his hands behind him, he acted as though he hadn’t been worried seconds ago. “Where’d you go?”

“To the berries of course.” Alice snorted, holding out her right hand to reveal a small pile of the very berries they were looking for. “Unlike you lazy bones, I can get the job done.”

For once, Gil was too tired to argue. He merely plucked on, inspecting it. It was a bright yellow, like the sun, and the leaves had an oval-like shape outlined with prickly points. All in all, it looked just like the ones Break had shown him before. Begrudgingly, he praised her. “Good job.”

Alice lit up. “It was a good job, right?”

She beamed happily at him before leaning forward expectantly. Gil sighed and reached out, patting her head. “That’s what I said.”

She bounced on her feet before she stood up straight once more. “Now we can get big again!”

Oz gingerly took one berry from her hand, eyeing it thoughtfully. “These are the right ones, right?”

“Gil just said they were,” Alice pouted, her cheeks puffing up like a chipmunk.

“If I die, I’m haunting you,” Oz muttered before swallowing the berry. He scowled. “That’s even sweeter.”

“It’s like honey,” Alice added, utterly enamoured. She ate another one before Gil could stop her.

“Hey, wait!” Gil snatched the rest of the berries out of her hand. A few were crushed between his fingers, their delicious juices dripping down his fingers. His raised his hand out of her reach. “You don’t know what eating more could do to you.”

“But it tastes so good,” Alice grumbled, jumping up to grab the sweet treat. When it was obvious that she couldn’t reach, she stomped on his foot.

“Ouch!” Gil glared at her, stepping back. “You stupid rabbit—”

“Seaweed head—” Alice growled back.

“Nothing’s happening,” Oz interrupted smoothly, frowning. He looked at his hands. “I’m not getting taller.” He paused. “Or older.”

“Why in that order—” Gil shook his head, focusing on the actual issue. He glanced at Alice, who still couldn’t reach his chest, let alone his shoulders. “Alice isn’t either.”

“That’s strange…” Oz sat down once more, plucking a flower and twirling it between his fingers. “Maybe it takes time?”

“Or maybe you have to sleep…” Gil trailed off, realization dawning. Crouching, he inspected the flowers once more before covering his mouth. “Cover your mouths!”

It was too late. He heard a soft thud, followed by another, and he found both Alice and Oz passed out. His own vision was going dark and he silently swore before collapsing as well.

-x-

“They’re so cute,” Lacie cooed, tucking a lock behind her ear as she stared down at her daughter and her friends. The trio were curled up together, instinctively seeking each other even when unconscious. “I need a picture.”

“Lacie,” Oswald murmured, giving her a baleful look as he crouched next to Alice. They were breathing at least. “We need to take them back.”

“Do we?” Lacie sighed, pouting slightly as she knelt next to Oz. Her puffy dress spread around her like a mushroom. She gently pushed his hair out of his face. “They look so peaceful.”

Break poked Gil’s cheeks, chuckling. It was obvious they were master and apprentice; their uniforms were far too similar to claim otherwise. “They do. We should draw on their faces.”

That stopped Oswald and he looked at Break, his expression blank. “What?”

“It’ll be fun!” Break chuckled, glancing at the field around them. In the day, the flowers were closed, the air crisp and clean. “It’ll be a punishment for not bringing us with them. And for entering this field at night. They should have known better.”

“Yep.” Lacie nodded sagely, already pulling out a marker from her purse. “These flowers’ scents are like a sleeping spell. They should have remembered.”

“None of them paid attention to my lessons.” Break raised a sleeve and wiped an imaginary tear.

“Or my training.” Lacie hunched forward, sighing sadly.

Already hoisting Alice in his arms, Oswald looked back and forth between the pair. They both looked at him with watery eyes and he flinched. “I guess…”

And just like that, they both grinned, pulling out markers from who-knows-where. “Great!” Lacie chirped, drawing a spiral on Oz’s cheek.

“He’ll never forget,” Break chimed in, giving Gilbert glasses and a mustache.

Oswald held Alice tighter. Maybe he should just save her and run.

#pandora hearts #oz vessalius #gilbert nightray #alice #oswald baskerville #lacie baskerville #xerxes break #fanfic

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spoon-writes · 4 years ago

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Ends of the Earth | Chapter 4

Fandom: The Mandalorian

Pairing: Mando x OC

Read on FFN or AO3

Summary: When Sinead's husband is ripped from her, she escapes the Hutt Empire and goes on a quest to find him. Since being a runaway slave in the Outer Rim isn't exactly easy, she makes the Mandalorian an offer he can't refuse and soon they travel across the galaxy, looking for her missing husband.

Chapter index

Chapter 4 - The Ruins

The Razor Crest descended on Siskeen and soared over the emerald jungle, scanners working to find a place they might be able to land in the sea of green.

Sinead felt it in her body when they entered Hutt space. Old and new fears mingled and turned into a hard knot in the pit of her stomach, making her body slump and turn in on itself. She had it on good authority that the Hutts thought she died with Slezza, but one could never be too sure when it came to remaining free.

Somewhere in the knot of fear was a small flicker of hope. She doubted Kyen was there because when had she ever been that lucky, but if she found just a tiny trace of him, it'd all be worth it.

She took a deep breath and tried to relax. The last time she'd tried going near Siskeen she'd almost been discovered by a passing ship bearing Hutt colors and sent back to the palace. This was the closest she'd been to Kyen in over five years.

The child cooed, and Sinead looked at him in his improvised seat. He reached out after her, and Sinead leaned across the gap to let him grab on to her finger. As she watched him examine a button on her sleeve, a little tension seeped out of her body. There was a glimpse of pink as he stuck his tiny tongue out in concentration, managing to wedge a stubby finger under the button.

Sinead pulled her arm back before he could tear it off. "You are a force of destruction," She told the kid solemnly, who giggled and reached for the button. Sinead dodged his hand and pulled on the brown robe he was wearing, a couple of sizes too big by the look of it. "How'd you feel if I started pulling off all the buttons on your clothes, hm?"

The child babbled.

"That's right, you're not wearing any buttons. Foiled again."

Mando cleared his throat, and Sinead straightened up. She'd almost forgotten him, quiet as he was.

"The scanners picked up a structure to the north." He turned the ship slightly, and soon it flew over a great lake, which was the only body of water they'd seen since descending on the planet; everything else was an impenetrable wall of green.

On the monitor, there was indeed a little blip in the middle of the jungle.

"Is it a settlement?" She leaned forward to get a better look.

Mando flicked a row of switches. "Mhm. Five klicks due west."

"You think it's the Hutts?"

"I don't know. Let's see."

The ship touched down in a clearing a good hour from the settlement, far enough away that they wouldn't be spotted coming. Metal groaned as shock absorbers struggled with keeping the ship in one piece.

It was clear the clearing had been made by sentients; it was a perfect circle carved out of the trees, and it didn't look like there had been anyone for some time.

As the ramp opened, a blast of hot and humid air hit Sinead, making sweat break out under her clothes. The air tasted thick and earthy, and an unknown animal screeched in the distance.

Sinead stretched as she reached the ground and looked up at the blue sky. A formation of birds made their way across, small dots in the distance. The forest teemed with life.

She already missed the coolness of space, the smell of metal and stardust. Here everything smelled old and rotten as if the ghosts of long-gone fruits still hung in the air.

As she came to terms with being back in a murky hell, the Mandalorian was busy trying to get the kid to stay in the ship, but every time the little green child would waddle after him, grunting in a decidedly offended way and trying to keep up his long strides.

"No," Mando said, grabbing the kid and placing him back in the ship. "It's too dangerous."

Sinead turned her head to hide her smile.

The kid wailed as the ramp started to rise and it halted for a second before becoming stuck with a grinding sound. His ears were flat against his head, face scrunched in a pout. Mando sighed and turned his helmeted face towards the sky.

"Why don’t you just bring him along?" Sinead said after getting her facial muscles under control. "We're just checking out the place, right?"

The Mandalorian glanced at her before looking back at the kid, whose ears started to perk up again. He sighed deeply before pressing a button on his wrist, making the ramp go back down. The kid babbled excitedly as the Mando grabbed him and went back into the ship, coming out a few minutes later with the child in a sling strapped to his chest.

Sinead scratched her nose to once again hide the smile that threatened to break out on her face, but Mando wasn't fooled. He rolled his shoulders and grunted a "c'mon."

The ground outside the careful circle was covered in dense undergrowth that slowed them down as they made their way to the settlement. Vines hung from the trees in suffocating loops, and thick roots broke through the ground and formed treacherous holes that just waited for someone careless enough to step in it. Strange animal calls filled the air, and high above them, the green canopy rustled as small monkey-looking creatures watched the three of them struggle their way over a fallen tree, so old that it was completely covered in moss and ferns.

Sinead discarded her outer jacket, tying it around her waist and drawing a hand across her sweaty forehead. The humidity made it feel like she was breathing in soup, and her shirt clung to her back. She wondered if the Mandalorian was struggling in the heat, but if he did, he didn't show it. The kid seemed fine, his head swirling around to take everything in.

After a few paces, the ship disappeared, and everything was in a shade of green or brown. Sinead followed Mando, trusting that he knew the way through the overgrown hell. Once she found Kyen, settling down on a jungle planet was out of the question.

As Mando squeezed between two trees, a wet leaf swung back and smacked Sinead in the face. She broke it off with a snarl. "I hate this," She said through gritted teeth, squeezing past the trees that were slick with moisture. "Why did someone bother making a clearing if they didn't make a path as well?"

"Just walk."

Sinead scowled at the Mandalorian's back and bit back a retort that sounded whiny even to her. Her feet sank into the soft ground with every step, making the trudge even slower. She felt like she was back on Nal-Hutta, an experience she’d rather not think about.

She scoured her mind for anything to distract from the fact that they were slogging through a murky hellhole.

"You ship, it’s Old Republic?" She asked after they edged around a black pool, the still water perfectly reflecting the tree crowns above them. She wondered what kind of monsters lurked beneath the surface. They had to be pretty terrible to live in a place like this.

"Save your energy for walking."

Sinead made a face. "It's either this or I start flinging curses left and right, and since there's a child present ..."

The Mandalorian glanced back at her, and Sinead could feel the heat of his gaze.

"It's too old to be New Republic and not enough of an eyesore to be Empire," Sinead said and ducked under a low-hanging vine.

They stopped as Mando made sure they were heading in the right direction. Sinead had all but given up getting an answer when he said so quietly that it was nearly swallowed by the jungle, "it's Mandalorian."

"Makes sense I didn't recognize it, I've never been. How is it?"

He didn't answer. Of course.

Sinead barrelled on. "I met a Mandalorian once. She was extra security back when the Meram sector was overrun with pirates. I heard they're mostly gone now, but you couldn't swing a dead tooka without hitting one back then. It didn't take long before word spread, and we were mostly left alone. She did not fuck around."

The Mandalorian made a sound that might have been an agreement.

"Expensive, though I guess not as expensive as you."

Mando cleared a rocky outcropping, and Sinead was surprised when he turned and offered his hand to help her over. The kid swung around and cooed happily when he saw her.

"How do you even know about the Nau'orar?" he asked once they were back on the spongy ground. The forest opened a bit, making it possible to walk side by side.

"I only know what I overheard, that it’s an old Mandalorian weapon. Why, do you know more about it?”

The silence that met her could cut glass.

Sinead scratched a mosquito bite on the back of her neck. “You know, under any other circumstance, I would’ve returned it to Mandalore.”

He glanced at her. "How generous of you."

"Don't give me that," She said, shooting him a look. "You'd do the same thing."

"I wouldn't wait five years."

Sinead's hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm, making them both stop in their tracks. He tensed up, staring at her until she let him go.

"You have no idea what I've been through the last five years," Sinead said hotly, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it even. "Or before that. You have no right to judge me, bounty hunter." She stalked past him in the general direction of where they were headed. Her anger surprised even herself; heat flushed through her body that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The Mandalorian followed behind her, keeping some distance between them. The child cooed now and again, but a tense silence had fallen between the two adults.

Slowly, the terrain rose up in a gentle slope, the ground becoming drier and lose with each step, the trees thinned out, sunlight filtering through the leaves.

Sinead reached the edge first, out of breath and now wholly drenched in sweat. Below, the ground dropped away abruptly into a caldera that stretched almost a kilometer across, which was dotted with ancient ruins, grey pillars rising from the earth like jagged bones. The jungle grew between the pillars, trees and great big fronds rustled in the wind. A large structure stood in the middle, taller than the caldera's edge, a pyramid made of the same stone as the pillars. The top had caved in, and big cracks stretched across the surface. Sinead's breath caught in her throat. Looking at it hurt her eyes like trying to stare directly into the sun.

Mando came up beside her, his shoulders heaving, and Sinead was glad to see that she wasn't the only one winded from the trek. The kid chirped when he saw the caldera in all its glory.

Mando scanned the area below with a compact scope. "Doesn't look like anyone's home. I see scorch marks on the walls. Signs of fighting."

"Any bodies?"

"No, this looks old. There’re some crates by the main building, doesn't look like it's been touched in a long time."

They were too far away to see anything with the naked eye, so Sinead just had to take his word for it.

"We should check it out.”

Mando lowered the scope and seemed to weigh the options. He looked up at the sun, which had reached its apex and was slowly descending towards the horizon. "We stay out of sight. If anyone's there, do not engage, got it?"

"Got it."

Stairs cut into the stone led into the caldera, the steps worn smooth and slippery by centuries of feet, and Sinead had to grip hold of the slimy rope attached to the cliffside so she wouldn't careen over the edge.

As they descended into the caldera, the sounds of the jungle faded; ever since they stepped out of the ship, there had been the sounds of hundreds of critters moving through the undergrowth, of monkeys calling to each other, and birds swooping across the sky, but now they were replaced by a low and insistent hum that reverberated between the rocky walls.

"Do you-"

"I hear it. Stay alert."

They reached the bottom of the caldera, and the sound got louder, caught somewhere between the buzz of an angry swarm of bees and a distant bird screech. The high cliff walls acted as a funnel, trapping the wind and sending it into a wild spin with the giant pyramid at the center.

Sinead looked around, her brows furrowed. Save for the wind that bounced between the walls, there was no movement at all. No birds, no bugs, no ants crossing the ground in a straight line. As they descended into the caldera, they were cut off from the rest of the galaxy.

"What is that? I've never heard wind make a sound like that," Sinead said, her voice sounding weak.

"Just stay close." Mando pulled his blaster and held it at his side, his head going side to side as he scanned the ground.

The kid whimpered and sank further into the sling until only the tip of his ears were visible.

Sinead reached out and patted the kid gently on the head, his sparse hair tickling her hand. "I don't like it either."

The child cooed in response but stayed in the relative safety of the sling.

As they went further into the caldera, the buzzing died down, but the silence that emerged in its place was almost worse. They moved slowly, staying on a faint path that wove between trees but always in the direction of the pyramid. As they came closer, it became clear that it was a temple of sorts, abandoned a long time ago.

The pillars that looked so much like bones from the caldera's edge were much larger as they came closer. Strange shapes had been carved into the stone, most of it had been worn away by wind and the passing of time.

"You ever seen anything like this before?" Sinead said, moving closer to the Mandalorian. The blaster was heavy in her hand and she felt eyes on her from every direction.

"No.”

The trees fell away abruptly, and they reached the foot of the temple, where charred debris and broken droids littered the ground.

"It must've happened some time ago," Sinead said, bending down to examine a security droid with a hole straight through its main circuits. "I wonder who attacked them."

Mando rooted through a small pile of debris, standing up holding a piece of blackened armor.

“New Republic,” he said, showing Sinead the sigil imprinted on the plasteel before throwing it aside.

“Of course. I guess they raided this place after the Empire fell. I wonder when exactly.”

Something caught Sinead's eyes and she weaved through the battlefield. Half hidden behind a fallen pillar, a cluster of cages stacked haphazardly was in the process of being reclaimed by the jungle; vines snaked through the bars like tentacles.

Sinead grabbed a ropy vine, but no matter how much she pulled, it wouldn't budge. Still, there was no mistaking it.

"I know these types of cages," she said, turning to the Mandalorian. "The Hutts use them to transport their captives."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." She glanced at the cages. "I'm sure."

This day was just lousy with rotten reminders of things best left in the past.

Mando looked up at the ruin towering above them, the sunlight reflecting on his helmet. "They're long gone by now."

Sinead looked up at the temple with unease. This close, it looked dark and malicious, a void in the greenery where sunlight didn't reach.

"There might be clues in there, leads to follow. We can't just go flying blindly through the galaxy, hoping to trip over Kyen on the way." She could feel his indecision as he looked down at the kid. "Look," she said, pressing a hand to her damp forehead, "you can stay out here while I search the place, okay? Won't take long."

She was halfway up the stairs when the Mandalorian came up beside her, the set of his shoulders betraying just how on edge he was. Wordlessly, they continued to the top.

... ... ... ... ...

Din didn't like this place. The further they went towards the temple, the surer he was that this was a bad idea. An underlying menace grew with each footstep, and the child seemingly felt the same way, as Din saw two dark eyes staring up at him, the little face etched in a frown.

"Is he okay?"

Din looked at Sinead, her hair plastered to her face and neck.

"The kid, I mean." She nodded towards the sling.

"I think so. He doesn't like this place."

"That makes two of us."

They reached the top of the stairs, and Din turned to look across the caldera. Up here, it almost seemed peaceful.

As Din and Sinead passed under the great stone arch, the temperature dropped in an instant, making Sinead's breath crystallize in front of her. She shuddered and pulled on her jacket.

"It shouldn't be this cold in here."

"No."

Din scanned the area, but his sensors didn’t pick up any movement. They found themselves in an antechamber that led into a large atrium where the same strange symbols on the pillars were carved into the wall.

The smell of mildew and rot was overwhelming and thick moss grew on old and broken furniture. Their footsteps echoed between the stone walls.

Inside, the signs of battle were even more apparent. Plasteel cases and wooden tables had been used as improvised cover, their surfaces covered with scorch marks. The ceiling had caved in, littering the ground with debris. A lone droid slumped against an overturned table, its armor plate torn apart by blaster bolts.

The entrance was the only light source, only reaching a few meters into the ruin. Din attached a torch to the side of his helmet. The moving light made the shadows twist and turn.

A set of stairs led down into the bowls of the ruins. Din threw out an arm to stop Sinead in her tracks.

“We don’t know what might be down there,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Be careful.”

Sinead pressed her lips together in a thin line and nodded once. Din lowered his arm and let her pass, following her deeper into the temple.

The air went even staler the further they went, the stairs winding down until they were deep in the ground. Din’s breathing was loud in his ears.

At the bottom, another antechamber opened into a bigger hall, exactly like the one above. The difference here was it was clear that a great deal of people had lived there for quite some time; two long tables stood in the middle surrounded by chairs in various states of disarray. Half-empty bottles piled up on the tables or lay dusty and forgotten on the floor. At least one of them was broken, and the contents had long since evaporated. Containers filled with scrap metal lined the walls.

“Looks like they had to leave in a hurry,” Sinead said, grabbing a bottle from a table and peering at the label. "They'd never leave Kowakian rum behind unless it was absolutely life or death." A small cloud of dust rose when she placed the bottle back on the table.

“C’mon,” Din said and turned down one of the two solitary corridors that led away from the chamber. He walked slowly, watching for any movement in the gloom while keeping an eye on the kid, who silently watched him from his little cocoon.

They hadn’t gone more than a few paces before Sinead drew in a sharp breath. Rows of cells stretched into the darkness, no bigger than the cockpit in the Razor Crest. It would take a thermal grenade to get through the thick walls, and if they did, the occupants would suffocate under a mountain of dirt and rubble.

“These are new,” Din said, examining the bars that made up one side of the cells. Made of durasteel and outfitted with electronic locks, they looked wholly out of place in the damp dungeon.

“So the Hutts found an abandoned ruin and made it their own. Nobody ever said they weren’t crafty.” Sinead grabbed hold of the bars and tugged on it. “Impressive.”

Din watched Sinead from the corner of his eyes, keeping some distance. Her jaw was set and her dark eyes seemed bright in the low light.

“Look for a convor carved into one of the walls,” Sinead said before sensing his confusion and adding, “we agreed that if we ever got separated, we’d leave a sign for the other to find.”

“And that sign is a convor?”

Sinead’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, well, neither one of us knows how to draw a Sarlacc."

Continuing down the corridor, they strained their eyes in the dim light to look for any sign of a convor.

Farther ahead, there was a steady drip of water and a new kind of dampness snuck in under his armor. This was a dismal place, even by prison standards. Being frozen in carbonite was preferable to this.

“What do you think this used to be? Before the Hutts took over.”

“Probably a prison.”

Sinead huffed. “I can see that. Who do you think it was meant to imprison?”

Din sighed. He just wanted to get this over with. “I don’t know.”

“You’re quite the talker, you know that?”

They walked on in silence.

Suddenly, Sinead rushed forward, and Din raised his blaster, turning slightly to shield the child.

"Look!" She put her hand through the bars of the nearest cell, pointing to the far wall where an oval had been scratched into the wall. If he put his head to the side and squinted, it could charitably resemble a bird. “He’s been here,” she breathed, her eyes fixed on the convor. She pulled on the door, but it didn’t budge.

Din realized with mounting horror that her eyes were filling with tears, and he looked away, unsure of what to say.

He left her alone, wandering farther down the corridor, wanting to give her some semblance of privacy. Besides, he had no idea how to comfort a crying woman; comforting the kid was hard enough.

Now and again, the cells were broken up by archways that led into small rooms, most of them caved in and the rest empty. Din looked in every room, but when the Hutts cleared out, they did so without leaving anything useful behind.

Up ahead, a noise cut through the darkness.

Din froze and turned to shield the child, his free hand going up to turn off the flashlight, leaving them in the pitch black.

Carefully, Din snuck along the wall, pressing a protective hand to the child, who hadn’t made a sound since they entered the ruin. As he got closer, the noise turned into a low whirr.

Soft light shone through an archway, painting the opposite wall golden. Din leaned against the stone wall out of sight, and he heard whatever making the sound moving around in the alcove.

Blaster at the ready, he stepped into the light and pulled the trigger.

A droid collapsed in a cloud of dust, a smoking hole in its head.

Further down the corridor, Sinead swore, and Din heard her splash through shallow puddles as she ran toward him.

“What the fuck happened?” She looked at the droid. “Did you shoot that? We could’ve used it!”

Din’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. He didn't want to spend a moment more than he had to trapped in here.

Sinead blew out a long breath as she looked around the room. “They must’ve forgotten this one.” Her eyes were red, but otherwise, she looked composed. “A shame we can’t take it with us.” She glared at him.

“I don’t want any droids on the ship.”

“Right. And I’m sure if I ask why you’re just gonna ignore me.”

Din did just that, shifting some rubble with his foot but found nothing but rotted wood and ancient cloth that looked like it would crumble if exposed to direct sunlight.

There was a sound of groaning metal, and Din turned to see Sinead trying to pry the droid’s chest plate apart with nothing but a small knife and determination.

“What are you doing?”

Sinead glanced at him. “I’m trying to find the memory bank since you would rather shoot first and ask questions later.” She stuck out the tip of her tongue as she worked.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“At least I’m doing something."

She managed to get the knife under the plate and wrench it up, making the metal shoot away with a clank.

Din kept his distance as she shifted through the droid's innards, looking for the memory bank.

The child moved for the first time in what felt like hours, and a small green hand appeared from the sling. He reached out, and Din let him grab one of his fingers. The contact, even through his glove, comforted him. The kid’s dark eyes looked at him, unblinking, in a way that made Din feel like he could see right through his helmet.

Sinead let out a sound of triumph, and the kid let go of Din’s hand.

She held up a small black box, fraying wires trailing after it. “I got it,” she said, getting up. “Now we just gotta find someone who knows how to extract the data. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Let’s go.” Din gave the child a small pat on the head before moving towards the door, stepping over the droid with its wires spread across the floor like black entrails.

When they emerged out in the world, the sun hovered a few inches above the horizon, bathing the jungle in a golden light.

He took a deep breath, trying to dispel the stale, dusty air from his lungs. The ruins felt like a presence behind them, trailing after as they returned to the ship.

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#the mandalorian #din djarin #the mandalorian x oc #mando x oc #din x oc #din djarin x oc #fanfiction #ends of the earth #oc: sinead

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twilights-800-cats · 5 years ago

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<< Allegiances || Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4 || From the Beginning >>

Chapter 3

Mistyfoot wished for rain as she shook humidity from her pelt. Heat clung in the air like a burr, especially in the evening. It was making patrolling harder for ThunderClan – to beat the heat Tinystar ordered patrols only in the early morning and late evening and reports indicated that, in the past two days, every Clan was doing something similar.

“We’ll have to take water from the river at this rate,” muttered Mistyfoot. “The stream in the training hollow has all but dried.”

Oakheart flicked his ear. “I know,” he mused. “I’ll have to talk with Tinystar about it.”

Their patrol was small, and Mistyfoot was glad for it. She enjoyed padding along ThunderClan’s well-worn trails with her father. It reminded her of times when Oakheart would take her and her littermates out of camp as kits, to explore some of the forest beyond the ravine – only now it was just Mistyfoot and Oakheart and, of course, Shrewpaw.

Mistyfoot’s apprentice was stalking a bird not far away. The two warriors paused to let him practice – even if he didn’t catch it, it wasn’t as if the heat wave was hurting ThunderClan’s prey pile. Every creature was out searching for easy water sources, and that made them vulnerable.

“He’s picked up bird stalking very easily,” Mistyfoot pointed out, looking at Shrewpaw’s form.

Oakheart nodded. “That’s one area you always had trouble,” he pointed out.

Mistyfoot flicked her ear. “Father!” she huffed, embarrassment pricking her pelt. But in the end, bird stalking was a hard one to master, and Mistyfoot was proud of her apprentice. Birds had the pesky problem of taking flight right when a hunter was about to pounce, unlike shrews or voles or rabbits.

There was a shuffle in the leaf litter, and a grunt of satisfaction. Mistyfoot peered through the undergrowth. Shrewpaw had made his catch, and was proudly padding towards them. The tang of blood touched the air.

“Good catch!” Mistyfoot praised.

Shrewpaw put his catch down. “I smelled another,” he mewed. “Can I go after it?” He looked between the two warriors, eyes sparkling with adrenaline.

“Go on,” Mistyfoot told him. “Be sure to catch up with us afterward!”

“Thanks!” Shrewpaw’s tail curled over his back. He slipped off the trail and back into the overgrown undergrowth.

Mistyfoot lost sight of him, but could hear him rustling in the ferns not far away. Oakheart’s whiskers twitched and he began to pad along the trail. Mistyfoot followed.

“You’re a good teacher to Shrewpaw,” Oakheart mewed. “I’m proud of you.”

Mistyfoot blinked gratefully at Oakheart. “Thank you,” she meowed, a warm feeling spreading in her chest. “That means a lot.”

Oakheart’s tail flicked her shoulder. “You’re well on your way to taking my place,” he purred.

Mistyfoot fluffed up her fur, feeling flustered at the idea. “I-I don’t want to take your place!”

Oakheart didn’t seem offended. His eyes sparkled as he looked at his daughter. “I’m not the youngest cat in the forest, Mistyfoot. I don’t catch birds like I used to. Someone is going to have to take my place.”

Mistyfoot turned her eyes to her paws. “I’m not experienced enough yet,” she mumbled. The thought of her father growing old made her heart ache. Oakheart had always been there, throughout everything – losing Mosspaw, watching Stonepaw go, through all of the bullying and prejudice that Mistyfoot faced as a kit and apprentice… The idea of him disappearing from her life sooner rather than later made Mistyfoot deeply sad, and frightened of the loneliness that would inevitably follow.

What would she do without him?

A sharp cry pierced the forest. A flock of birds screeched in response, filling the air with the sound of their wings.

“What was that?” Oakheart breathed.

Mistyfoot froze, tail fluffed as fear struck her. “That was Shrewpaw!” she screeched, rushing past her father.

Undergrowth tugged at her pelt and ferns slapped Mistyfoot in the face as she tore through the forest, blowing past ThunderClan’s usual trails. Oakheart panted behind her. Another cry pierced the air – not Shrewpaw, but another cat, and closer. Mistyfoot put on speed, narrowly avoiding hazardous roots in her path thanks to muscle memory.

“They’re at Snakerocks!” Oakheart meowed, lengthening his stride to run shoulder to shoulder with Mistyfoot. His eyes flashed. “The badger!”

Mistyfoot’s heart beat in her ears while her stomach flipped over. “Is there a patrol there?” she panted, leaping over a thin-trunked tree that had fallen over leaf-bare.

Oakheart landed with a grunt, but did not slow his pace. “We’ve sent scouts to figure out a way to – hah – lure the badger out,” he meowed, panting, “but we haven’t attacked it yet.”

Mistyfoot bristled with alarm. If the badger was still there… Oh no, she thought, thinking back to Sorreltail’s warrior ceremony two days ago. Nightpaw and Shrewpaw, talking about taking on the badger… Oh StarClan, no!

Snakerocks loomed through the forest, and Mistyfoot and Oakheart had to skid to a stop. Oakheart coughed into some ferns, heat and effort making him wheeze. Mistyfoot’s pelt clung to her body, feeling heavier than a boulder – but she loped up to the edge of Snakerocks and peered through the fern fronds.

The tumble of boulders, overgrown with vines and lichen, stank of badger. Mistyfoot tried not to gag. The stones were often the home for snakes, which liked to hide in the cracks and crevices – but there were a small collection of caves formed by the stones, too, which often hid larger predators. Including the dogs my mother… Bluestar… tried to use to kill ThunderClan.

That was long ago now, but it seemed like Snakerocks was never free of trouble.

Shrewpaw was backed up against one of the stones, bristling to the ends of his fur. The badger was looming over him, snuffling and snarling, scratching at the rocks with her claws. Mistyfoot was, for a moment, stunned – Shrewpaw had a clear avenue of escape. He could easily outrun that badger. Why was he staying?

Movement in the shadows caught Mistyfoot’s eye. A small black shape was crouched inside a cracked, hollowed out old log. She saw the white tip of his tail trembling.

Nightpaw!

“Nightpaw is here,” Mistyfoot hissed.

Oakheart, now beside her, bristled. “I’ll distract the badger – you get the apprentices out of here.”

Mistyfoot had no time to protest. Oakheart flung himself into the fray, screeching to get the creature’s attention. Mistyfoot followed, her pads scraping against the stony earth.

The badger shifted, confused. She lashed out with a forepaw and almost took Shrewpaw’s muzzle with her long claws. Shrewpaw flinched and lashed out himself, catching his claws in her bristling fur.

Mistyfoot opened her jaws to warn Shrewpaw, but the badger let out an annoyed howl and whipped around. One of her broad paws slapped Shrewpaw aside. The small cat bounced off of one of the stones and lay still on the earth.

“Shrewpaw!” screeched Mistyfoot, panic shooting through her limbs.

“Get Nightpaw!” Oakheart yowled, his voice forcing its way into Mistyfoot’s head. “Now!”

Mistyfoot turned her head away from Oakheart as he faced the badger, snarling and bristling. She found Nightpaw in the hollow log easily – there was a tang of blood in the air, and only one eye met hers.

“What happened?” she hissed.

Nightpaw crawled out of the log, trembling. There was a cut above one of his eyes – nothing life threatening, but bleeding quite a bit. “I-I was hunting with Dustpelt!” he panted. “I-I saw a shrew run this way a-and…”

“And you followed?!” snapped Mistyfoot. “What were you thinking?”

Nightpaw flinched. “I got turned around and ended up here by accident,” he insisted, “I swear by StarClan!”

Mistyfoot had no idea whether or not Nightpaw was telling the truth, but she had no time to figure it out. “Get in the ferns and stay put,” she ordered.

Nightpaw didn’t argue, for once. He fled, tail tucked, leaving little spatters of blood behind him. Mistyfoot whirled around and leaped back into the fray, claws unsheathed, moving through all she knew about fighting badgers from her days as Tinystar’s apprentice.

Oakheart was tired, clearly, his eyes glassy with pain. Mistyfoot saw a cut down her father’s side and winced, feeling fear and fury well up in her all at once as she faced the black-and-gray creature.

“She’s fierce,” Oakheart wheezed. “Be careful.”

Mistyfoot nodded. A badger’s sight would be just as keen as a cats’ in the growing dark.

The badger lumbered forward, growling low in its throat. Mistyfoot hissed and lashed out, catching her claws on the badger’s nose. Blood welled up on the badger’s striped muzzle, and Mistyfoot felt a flash of satisfaction.

Oakheart snarled and tried to shuffle to the side, tail lashing. The badger caught sight of him, however, and swung her head to snap her jaws. Mistyfoot saw her teeth catch her father’s leg, and heard a snapping noise. Oakheart let out a bellow of pain.

Mistyfoot yowled in fury and leaped, digging her claws into the badger’s pelt. Tinystar’s training flitted through her mind, cut with panic and fury. The badger whirled, turning in circles, trying to dislodge Mistyfoot.

Adrenaline pumped through her veins as Mistyfoot clung. Snakerocks spun all around her, threatening to make her ill – still she clung, knowing that sooner or later something had to make the badger stop. Endurance was all she had.

StarClan help us! She thought.

As if in answer to her prayers, a yowl rose into the growing darkness. “ThunderClan, attack!”

Through the flailing of the badger Mistyfoot spotted Dustpelt, Snowstep, Swiftfoot, and Cloudtail streaming into Snakerocks, claws unsheathed and tails bristling. A whole patrol!

The badger stopped, stunned by all the newcomers. Mistyfoot slithered off of the badger’s side, trembling and feeling weak and dizzy from the cloying smells of badger and blood.

Snowstep and Swiftfoot flanked the badger quickly, snapping at her heels. Dustpelt and Cloudtail charged at her headlong, screeching in fury. Terrified, the badger scrambled backwards, crawling desperately over the rocks to escape. Snowstep and Swiftfoot followed, with Cloudtail snapping at her tail.

“Get them out of here!” snapped Dustpelt.

Mistyfoot nodded, still dazed. She watched Dustpelt follow his patrol through the undergrowth before she staggered to her paws, shaking her head to clear it. The adrenaline was fading and clarity was returning – and along with exhaustion, the panic returned.

Shrewpaw! Oakheart!

Her father was closer. He’d dragged himself towards a rock, grunting in pain as he lay in the undergrowth. Blood oozed from his leg and side and his eyes were glazed. Mistyfoot buried her nose in his pelt and began cleaning his wounds with a shaky muzzle.

Oakheart hissed in pain. “I’ll be fine,” he gasped. “Where’s Shrewpaw?”

White hot panic shot through Mistyfoot. She raised her head, her eyes darting from rock to rock, trying to find where Shrewpaw had landed. The sound he’d made when he hit the stone… Oh StarClan, please let him be alive!

A dark shape moved through the area, and for a moment Mistyfoot wondered if the badger had returned – but a flash of white betrayed Nightpaw once again. The small tom was crawling between the stones, and Mistyfoot’s eye followed him until he slumped down beside a dark, sodden brown shape.

Shrewpaw.

Mistyfoot stumbled over to her apprentice. “Shrewpaw?” she asked hesitantly.

Nothing.

Nightpaw buried his muzzle into Shrewpaw’s ruff. “He’s not breathing,” the small apprentice whispered. “Oh StarClan… it’s…”

It’s all my fault, Mistyfoot thought numbly, sinking to her belly. She pressed her muzzle into Shrewpaw’s fur. He was still as the stone he’d slammed against, and growing just as cold. Only his fur stirred, and that was with Mistyfoot’s own ragged gasps.

All of her energy drained out of her until she felt cold, exposed, and utterly defeated. She slumped against Shrewpaw’s body and let out a wail.

#tb au #tb midnight #:')

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comfreycompost · 4 years ago

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The Enigma of Wilderland

20 minutes south of Whitianga lies an anarchist community called Wilderland. Pine trees stud the gravel road, which is not council maintained and winds for two kilometres past several other farms. Pine tree roots have a symbiotic relationship with fly agaric mushrooms (Amanita muscaria), and as I walk up the road one winter night shortly after lockdown it is almost as if the toadstools are guiding the way. As strange as it sounds, it feels as though I am following some sort of Hansel and Gretel crumbs into fairyland.

[Caption: Amanita muscaria at Wilderland]

Every so often a handpainted sign reads “WiLDERLAND,” with an arrow pointing the way. A lot of people get lost finding it for the first time, and I am no exception. I am walking the road because I had taken a wrong turn and got my 1992 Toyota Starlet hatchback stuck in a farmer’s muddy field during a rainstorm.

[Caption: The long and winding road]

Wilderland is an example of a self-sufficient community, of which there are many in Aotearoa. The difference is, while most such communities are closed, anyone can go to Wilderland. All you have to do is apply on their website and commit to a full month of work (unpaid, of course). New intakes arrive every second Sunday. With the exception of a handful of long-term residents, the 20-30 people living at Wilderland at any given time are always changing. If you are serious about learning how to be self-sufficient, or just curious to see if it is really possible, you can go to Wilderland and see how it’s done.

In 1956, the land on the property that became Wilderland was abandoned by its owner. A long-term resident called Ken, who is in his 60s, tells me that the reason was that the land was too difficult to farm. The original farmhouse still stands on the property, although it has been condemned by the council. Ken tells me that a family of six used to live there before it was abandoned 65 years ago. Today, the house is thoroughly overgrown with jasmine and stands in the middle of a forest. One needs a machete to cut through the jasmine into the house, and inside there are only two items: a 30-year-old newspaper and a picture book, Grandma McGarvey Goes to the Zoo.

[Caption: The original farmhouse]

In October, 1964, Dan and Edith Hansen purchased the disused block of land (roughly 170 acres) on the Whitianga Estuary and founded Wilderland. At the time, it was one of Aotearoa’s only organic farms. Before he died, Dan Hansen donated the land to the Wilderland Trust, meaning no actual person owns the land. The Wilderland Trust is a registered charity in Aotearoa and the farm holds the Organic Certification. There is a lot of accountability that goes along with all of that which is taken quite seriously. For example, drugs and alcohol are not allowed.

The farm is collectively managed by trustees and the long-term residents, each of whom have voting rights. Anarchism as a philosophy is generally misunderstood: far from lawlessness, it is actually a highly organised system where power is decentralised and given to the community to make their own decisions on anything that affects them directly. At Wilderland, there are multiple meetings every week, discussions ranging from who should be allowed to stay, how money should be spent, what produce (if any) should be sold, what projects should be prioritised, whether the cat should have a bell on his collar to prevent native bird casualties, and so on. Everything is voted on. There is always work to do and everyone has their own pet projects. Conflict is natural, but it is reduced compared to a typical eco-village, because no one actually has their own financial resources tied up in the community.

In January, 2017, a fire destroyed about 25 acres of forest and four houses that were on the property. “We've managed to save more homes than we lost, but I feel very sorry for everyone from that community... there's not much left,” a rural firefighter was quoted as saying at the time. In the aftermath, 4000 new trees were planted to begin the recovery process but many long-term residents left. Wilderland has faced many challenges in its long history, and it is something of a miracle that it still exists when most of the other 1960s communes failed. One can read about the history of Wilderland in detail in one of the many postgraduate theses that have been written about it, or on their website, so I will focus mainly on my experience. The fire is worth mentioning, though.

On my first day, I am inducted with the rest of the newbies. The visitor host, Khan (named after Genghis), shows us around. We are shown the various gardens, the orchards, the buildings, the compost toilets. The tour ends with us planting some spring onions outside the main hall. The community hall is a rustic, rectangular structure containing a kitchen (vegetarian only), extensive library, musical instruments, personal lockers, couches, tables, and art supplies. Food is cooked using a wood burner oven, which also heats the hot water for the shower. The fire is lit at 7 am and usually burns until past 9 pm. Herbs are hung upside down next to the fire to dry, destined to be brewed in tea or sold at the roadside stall on State Highway 25.

[Caption: Herbs drying in the community hall]

My accomodation is a metal shed which contains a bunk bed (long-term residents live in the houses, visitors sleep in cabins or tents or vehicles). I share the shed with a 22-year-old Australian man named Bryce. Over the month we live together, we become good friends. The shed is crawling with cockroaches and it becomes part of our nightly ritual to evict as many of them as possible using a jar. As soon as they are thrown outside they start coming back in through cracks in the walls. Cockroaches like to crawl on you during the night, and I regularly wake up in the night and turn on my torch to find myself surrounded. At times like these I simply read until the sun comes up and I can get out of bed. By week four, the sleep deprivation is really getting to me.

[Caption: A compost toilet and a cabin for sleeping (left to right)]

Every weekday morning at 8 am we meet in the community hall for porridge and the morning meeting. The main purpose of the morning meeting is to decide who will do what jobs that day. The work is varied and interesting, involving much more than just gardening: there is building and maintenance work, roads to be fixed, community lunch to be cooked (using food foraged from the gardens), a roadside stall to be manned, administration to be done, firewood to be chopped. Planting and harvesting is planned based on the phases of the moon and the solstices and such. At 1.30 pm every day, a massive bell outside the hall is rung by whoever made lunch that day and everyone finishes their work and eats together.

My first experience of the “lunch circle” is a bit of a culture shock. Everyone forms a circle and holds hands. Thankfulness is expressed. “Thank you for helping me today in the Dolphin Beds,” says one hippie to his helper that day. “Thanks for brushing your teeth,” says another to his girlfriend who stands slightly outside of the circle, brushing her teeth. Then announcements are made, and finally, when everyone simultaneously senses the moment is right, hands are lifted with a universal cry of “WOOOOO!” Then lunch is served. After what is sometimes up to five minutes of someone sweating into my hands, I always have to scurry off to wash my hands before lunch, so I am always last in line.

[Caption: The kitchen and the table where food is served]

The food is always incredibly good. Eating a diet of mainly fresh and seasonal produce is highly beneficial for physical health, and it gets me thinking about food — its effects on the mind, body, and spirit. Food is one of the most important needs of the human animal, after water but before shelter and fire. After a few weeks of eating food grown on the land I am living on, I begin to understand something J.R.R. Tolkein once allegedly said, according to C.S. Lewis:

❝ Tolkien once remarked to me that the feeling about home must have been quite different in the days when the family had fed on the produce of the same few miles of country for six generations, and that perhaps this was why they saw nymphs in the fountains and dryads in the wood — they were not mistaken for there was in a sense a real, not metaphorical connection between them and the countryside. What had been earth and air and later corn, and later still bread, really was in them. We of course who live on a standardised international diet — you may have had Canadian flour, English meat, Scotch oatmeal, African oranges, and Australian wine today — are really artificial beings and have no connection, save in sentiment, with any place on earth. We are synthetic men, uprooted. The strength of the hills is not ours. ❞

Time passes differently at Wilderland. It takes me about two weeks to adjust to the rhythm and the silence. In the afternoons after work I bathe in the rock pools or kayak in the estuary or try to learn a dusty accordian in the hall or do any number of other wholesome activities. Poetry club happens on Wednesdays. Every second Thursday is pizza night (cooked in the outdoor woodfire pizza oven). Every Friday night is Meat Club — a group of meat enthusiasts pitch in for some sausages and steaks from the Whitianga butcher and cook it outside on a fire far away from the hall, paired with lots of cheap red wine (another contraband). On the weekends everyone does their own thing — I spend mine exploring.

It is worth mentioning the stars. Being treated to blazing constellations every night with no sound but the morepork feels like a massive privilege. But it shouldn’t be. For thousands of years, humans looked to the stars to find meaning and our general lack of ability to do that nowadays is one reason why we are so spiritually impoverished. Bright stars are an innate human need and light pollution has taken that away from us.

As a layperson, my understanding of permaculture increases slowly. One day, I am working with Khan and he says something that connects a lot of dots for me. “Permaculture gardens are like tiny forests. There are tall things and short things and things that exist mainly underground. There is a throbbing animal and insect life and there is mycelium, a brain that connects everything like the internet. There is biodiversity. There are bees. And everything works together in the same way as a forest.”

[Caption: The Dolphin Beds — apparently a dolphin was buried here once]

[Caption: Hina Hina, where a famous battle took place in the 1860s]

On my first Friday morning, I have another culture shock. One of the strange traditions in this place is to have a “Dialogue” every Friday morning from 9 am until 10 am before work. In theory the Dialogue is an open platform where anything can be discussed, in reality though the main topics that get discussed at the Dialogue are “What is the Dialogue?” and “Why don’t we replace the Dialogue with x?” No one really knows what it is for. Newbies are thrown in the deep end and long-term residents regard it as sacred and any attempt to abolish or replace it as subterfuge. Emotions run high. People storming out is common, crying is common, and cigarettes are smoked afterwards.

[Footnote: Like any isolated community, Wilderland has its own unique politics. I adopted the renegade view of “Dialogue Abolitionist.” I suggested that a much healthier way of purging the tension of the group would be to have a fight club, but this was not well-received.]

It is my last day. Apparently I can’t just leave. Everyone gives me a hug; I am the recipient of several group hugs. A jar of local honey is pressed into my hands, entreaties are made for me to return. I realise that like the plants I helped to cultivate, I have roots here now.

[Caption: Saying goodbye]

What is Wilderland? Is it a hippie commune? An eco-village? A cult? It is none of those things, really. I see it as more of an educational community. It models self-sufficiency, although it is partially reliant on the outside world. It models anarchism on a micro level. It teaches the patience of permaculture to a world drowning in Roundup. Most of it all, it clearly demonstrates what is possible. It is no secret that dairy farms are causing Aotearoa excessive droughts. Importing and exporting and transporting food exacerbates the climate crisis and makes us reliant on the global economy (which as Covid has shown, is frighteningly fragile). Wilderland proves that things could be better. For 56 years, Wilderland has represented a choice — the possibility of a better world where nature is worshipped and humans have freedom.

[Caption: Scarecrows]

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pinknerdpanda · 7 years ago

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Heaven Sent - Part 1

Word Count: 2,226

Characters: Y/n, Arabella (OFC), Castiel, Dean (Mentioned), Sam (Mentioned)

Warnings: Snark, Heaven-Induced Insanity, Language, Angst if you squint

A/N: This is Part 1 of a mini-series I wrote for @ellen-reincarnated1967’s “Andi’s Back in the Game” challenge. Beta’d by @hannahindie and @wheresthekillswitch who also helped me to brainstorm and nail down exactly where I wanted to go. Thank you both so very much!

Tags are at the bottom - please send me an ASK if you would like to be added (or removed).

Heaven Sent Part 1

“Please state your name, rank, and classification.”

“My name is…”

“A little closer to the microphone, please,” Arabella interrupted.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes and leaned forward before speaking again.

“My name is y/n, guardian, first class.” I kept my tone light and conversational. She nodded once, jotting down notes and continued.

“And why are you here today, y/n?” She smiled one of those painted-on, forced smiles and I did my best to play nice. It’s not like I had a lot of options at this point.

I took a deep breath. “I am here today because the human in my charge died.”

“And can you explain the circumstances regarding the death?” She surveyed me from over the top of her thin, rectangular reading glasses. I consciously worked to unclench my jaw; she already knew.

“Yes, it was the result of a hellhound attack, brought on by a contract forged between said human,” I cringed, unable to speak his name, “and a crossroads demon.”

The scratching sound of her pen against paper filled the small, sterile room. She glanced up “And do you understand the necessity of this hearing?”

“And as governed by HARP: Human/Angel Relations Protocol, section 39, paragraph B, subsection D52b, any guardian unable to prevent such deals from occurring is thereby subject to a performance review and official hearing.”

“Thank you, y/n. Can you state for the record, please, the name of the human previously in your care?” She was enjoying this a little too much for my liking.

I leaned forward again, gritted my teeth and strained to keep the disdain from my voice. “His name was Dean Winchester.”

-----

“Probation, Castiel. Probation!” I angrily snapped the twig I’d been holding into a dozen smaller pieces as I spoke. “I was the best at my job. The best! And that self-absorbed, self-righteous, obstinate ape, Winchester, ruined everything.” I looked at my brother and the strikingly blue eyes belonging to his vessel studied me carefully.

“The Winchesters are vital to the plan,” Castiel’s voice was low and unnervingly calm. “We all have our orders.”

I groaned and tossed the sticks under the bench we sat on. “He made his choice. Not me; him! But I’m the one being punished for it.”

“He did go to hell, y/n,” Castiel tilted his head to one side. “I’d say he’s getting his fair share of punishment for his decisions.”

“Serves him right. And all to save that overgrown scab of a brother.”

He sighed. “For as much as I have enjoyed observing humans over the millennia; watching them change and grow from single cell organisms to complex beings with brains capable of achieving the unimaginable…” his words trailed off as he stared into the distance. “I don’t think I will ever fully understand why they do the things that they do.” He looked at me then, the faintest glimmer of empathy shadowing his face. “So what now for you?”

I couldn’t help but to chuckle, mirthlessly. “Vocational rehabilitation. I have to complete a minimum of 6 months of classes, though Arabella has already determined that I must complete 9-12 months due to the severity of my offense. It’s times like this that I really question management.”

The look on Castiel’s face was pure righteous fury and his blue eyes burned brightly. “Who are we to question the will of God, y/n?”

“Who says that any of this was God’s will!? Management? Let’s see, Uriel, Zachariah? Well they are about as believable as that whole ‘Moon Landing’ thing in the 60’s,” I stood. I knew that’s one point of contention that Castiel and I would never be quite able to reconcile and I regretted having said anything to begin with. “I need to go, Castiel, or Arabella will hunt me down in ways that are utterly unfathomable.”

Castiel opened his mouth to speak but I left in a flutter of wings before he could get a word out.

-----

I would like to say that the months that followed at the HARP Facility were full of insightful training and useful information culminating in a clearer understanding of how I could be a more effective Guardian to future humans in my care. I’d like to, but as that would be a lie and would therefore lengthen my sentence, I can’t.

I can, however, say that if there was any benefit to be gleaned from the experience, it would be further confirmation that I truly was the best in my field. And while it was somewhat comforting to realize my name and reputation preceded me in this place, my peers’ open bewilderment at my presence among them only worked to cement my extreme resentment toward the eldest Winchester. My notoriety also proved to be somewhat polarizing as most of the other angels seemed to give me a wide berth. In all my centuries of existence, I’d never experienced loneliness.

Castiel came to visit me once a month. He gave me updates on his garrison and news from Earth. Having walked among the humans for so long, being separated from them now felt as though my left wing was missing. Though our time together came to an end more quickly than I would have liked, the promise of his return gave me something to look forward to each month.

Until, one day, he didn’t show up.

It had been a particularly difficult time at the facility as the news of my offense had spread amongst the other residents. The murmurs of stunned admiration had turned to mocking whispers and the isolation from my peers became increasingly apparent, though now for a different reason entirely. Counting down the days until Castiel’s arrival had been the only thing keeping me sane. He’d always had a way of comforting me in a way that few others could.

I could hear the low din of laughter and whispered jokes at my expense as I’d made my way to the courtyard and found our usual bench unoccupied. I was early, but I was happy to wait for him. I watched as the other angels’ visitors arrived, observing their interaction with those who’d made the journey to see them. After hours of being rooted to the same spot, with no sign of Castiel or his tan trench coat in sight, the realization that he wouldn’t be coming hit me.

It wasn’t painful as I’d expected. It felt more like nothing; like all emotion and feeling had been struck from my being and I just simply was. I returned to my bunk, barely aware of any movement on my part, much less the open taunts of those around me.

In this place, the frequency to the “angel-radio,” as it is so often referred to, was shut off to the outside world. I had no way of knowing if Castiel was alive or dead. Neither option was comforting. If he was dead, then I’d lost the one true friend I’d had. But if he was alive and had just chosen not to visit, then the result was the same: I truly had no one.

When I said that looking forward to Castiel’s visits is what had kept me sane, it was not an exaggeration. After that day, when I’d waited in vain for him to arrive, I began a slow decent into madness. I could feel myself coming undone at the seams. Where I’d previously been able to at least maintain a straight face during my group trainings, I found I was no longer able to keep my face neutral when the HARP Approved Counselor said something particularly infuriating. After a while, my verbal filter failed.

I don’t know exactly what I said, but I remember referring to his lack of functioning genitalia and insinuating that his alleged “wisdom” equated to something just below that of a fortune cookie. I later wondered if he’d known exactly what any of that meant or if it was just the blatant insubordination that got me sent into solitary confinement. Really it didn’t matter. All I knew was that one minute I was standing on top of the desk, berating a superior and the next, he was gone, as was the room and the other few dozen angel who’d been staring at me wide-eyed while dodging splatters of spit as I’d ranted and raved.

For as long as I’d existed in this universe, my head had been filled with the chaotic, but comforting chatter of my fellow angels. Even at HARP, with the signal limited to only those who’d had the misfortune of ending up here, there’d been a constant buzz echoing in my ears. But when they said solitary confinement, they hadn’t just been referring to my physical separation; my voice was the only one I could hear and the silence was almost overwhelming.

It was hard to gage how long I was away. A counselor checked on my at regular intervals that I assumed to be daily, but for all I knew it could have been weekly. A lack of biological timekeeping will do that to you. Whatever the frequency, I’d gotten good at timing them.

It was a brief encounter; there would be a loud click and a thin beam of light would crawl across the floor as the door slowly crept open, a counselor would poke their head in the door and nod curtly before sliding the door closed again. It grew apparent that they were required to lay eyes on me regularly. At first I would ask as many questions as I could manage before the door slammed shut again; where was I? How long would I have to stay locked away? Where’s Castiel? They never spoke so eventually I just stared at them blankly as they entered. After a while I started feigning death or exhaustion and allowed my vessel’s body to fall completely limp. Then, just as I knew the counselor’s eyes had fallen on me, I would jerk my head up and shriek. The looks on their faces; they were so alarmed. Every time! Even now it makes me giggle thinking about it.

One day I’d planned a spectacularly gnarly attack. I’d learned that, while my powers remained weak, I was still able to heal my vessel from minor cuts and abrasions. I’d managed to slice a decent sized gash in the palm of my hand and, before healing myself, had spattered an impressively gruesome amount of blood in one corner of my cell and doused the front of my shirt to mimic a stab-wound. I laid there for what felt like days, pretending to have been brutally murdered, but the door never opened.

I went to examine the door. Tentatively at first. I pressed my ear to the cool metal and strained to hear any sign of footsteps or wings flapping. The silence was so thick it made me want to scream, just to hear something; anything. I opened my mouth and unleashed the most ear splitting, gut wrenching shriek I could muster. I screamed for every frustration, every disappointment, every snide comment and side-eye from the other angels, Castiel abandoning me and even Dean Winchester - may he roast in the depths of hell; I screamed until my throat was raw and my lungs burned. It reverberated off of the four walls and the metal door and made my ears want to bleed until at last it was again replaced with silence.

I kicked the door as hard as I could, a loud metallic thud competed briefly for attention before fading into oblivion. Over and over I rained down kicks and punches until my knuckles were a bloody, ragged mess. As I stepped back and shook my head to regain some level of concentration before I healed my hands and started again, I noticed the barest sliver of light on the floor near my feet. It was so thin it could have been a strand of golden hair, but it was there. I allowed my gaze to travel up the length of the strand and that’s when I saw the crack in the door.

Although I would like to take credit and say it was my intrepid and vicious attack on the door that had caused it to slide open a fraction of a millimeter, it was not. A solid, seven inch thick door made of the same metal used to craft angel blades is more than one angry and generally insane angel can defeat. I weighed my options for a moment. I decided it was worth whatever risks I’d just pseudo-considered and carefully slid the heavy door back. The hall was empty and the same silence I’d grown accustomed to in the cell greeted me here too. Although, now outside the confines of my home-sweet-cell, the broken sound of angel-radio trickled once again through my brain.

The sound was like static from a distant FM station, but I caught a few words. Castiel...Hell…Vessel...saved…thousands…decimated. Whatever was going on, it was huge and somehow, I’d been forgotten in the midst of it. I didn’t, for one second, consider the repercussions of my next actions; of how much grace I may or not have possessed at the time or even exactly what my endgame was. I only knew it was now or never and I fled.

Read Part 2 here

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writingandchocolatemilk · 7 years ago

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The Largest Sort of Dividing Line

Anonymous said : I wish you would write a fic where Spain and Romano are just getting to see each other again after WW2 and it's really emotional because it's been so long.

Ye okey

On AO3. On FFn.

It wasn't dead, liked he had imagined it to be.

Sure, there was the abandoned, skeletal remains of vineyards, poles sticking into the air with nothing but weeds at the base. The barns with missing rooftops, shingles crunching underfoot. Burned out tanks, abandoned carts on the side of the dirt road, long since picked cleaned by scavengers.

But it was lush and green, even if it was crabgrass. The wind was cool and clear this early into summer, and each hill Antonio crested revealed even more farmland beyond.

Antonio knew he had found Lovino's farm when he stumbled upon a cow grazing. Antonio patted her hide as he passed, following her path through the grass until he found Lovino, ripping out weeds with his hands.

"Lovino?" Antonio said.

Lovino jolted away from his work, staring up at Antonio.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Antonio blinked and looked around. "I, ah—"

Lovino stood. "No, seriously, what the fuck are you doing? You think I need this? You think I need you?"

Antonio held up his hands in surrender. "I misunderstood."

Lovino scoffed. "I left you in the middle of the night, gave you no town to find me at, and sailed off the next morning. You couldn't pick up, oh, I don't know, any context clues? Use some common sense?"

Oh. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh seems like an understatement. You don't think I would have written you if I wanted to talk to you?" Lovino's face was sunburned, and he was thinner than the last time Antonio had seen him. Tired, too.

"You can't read," Antonio began.

Lovino's eyes widened and his eyes snapped to the weeds at Antonio's feet. "I could have figured it out. I'm not an idiot…" He glanced up. "I can't do this, Antonio. Not right now, not ever. Never again."

"I'm here to work!" Antonio smiled. "No, really, I am. The bar went—well, it's out of businesses, and I've heard things are going well in Italy and I—I can work, I'm not afraid to. Are you weeding? I can weed."

Antonio crouched and began to tug at the weeds, and he managed to pull out one before Lovino was squatting next to him. Lovino grabbed Antonio's wrist with rough fingers.

"You don't know how to weed." Lovino tossed Antonio's hand away like it had burned him. "You're leaving the roots in; the fucking things will grow back. You're not a farmer."

Antonio's knee brushed against Lovino's. Lovino stood.

"Go to town, Antonio. Go north. There's no work here."

Antonio patted the ground. "Well, I'm on the farm, and I'd like to work on the farm, so I think that makes me a farmer."

"No, it makes you an idiot."

Antonio shrugged. "So I've been told."

"I can't pay you."

Antonio shrugged again. "I'm working for room and board."

Lovino rolled his eyes, but there, in the corner of his mouth, was a smile. "Like I have food."

"You have a cow."

Lovino ran a hand over his face and looked around his field. He wasn't wearing any gloves, and from where Antonio was sitting, he could see the scrapes and bruises, the blisters on his palms, caked in mud though they were. Lovino finally looked back at him.

"We can't kill Sofia. Alright, asshole, you can stay. But you're not sleeping in my house, and you do what I tell you when I tell you. Don't expect food, don't expect much sleep." Lovino sat next to Antonio. "You dig the dirt away from the roots, then pull. Make sure you get everything or they'll grow back."

"Yes, sir." Antonio smiled. "I've missed you."

Lovino grunted. "Get to work."

…

The boat was the biggest thing Antonio had ever seen. It towered over the city, a fortress of gun and metal. Every time it rolled into port, it brought the stench of gunpower with it.

Still, a customer was a customer.

Antonio balanced the sign on his lap, writing out the night's specials. Cigarettes with an S, beer in English, he knew it was close enough to the Italian, gin in Spanish, even though the word was shorter in Italian.

A man walked over, still in uniform. "You speak Italian? You sell cigarettes?" he asked haltingly in Spanish.

Antonio looked up and smiled. "I speak enough Italian." He pulled out his own pack and offered one. "Here."

The sailor grabbed one without hesitation, lighting it up immediately. "Where'd you learn Italian?"

Antonio shrugged. "Around. It's useful to get people to come. There are a lot of common words."

The Italian nodded. "Where'd you learn to write?"

"My father. He wanted me to be educated." At the Italian's confusion: "Wanted me to go to school. But I pick it up from here or there. I know some Yiddish, too."

"What's Yiddish?"

Antonio casually wrote the prices on the board. "The Jews speak it."

The Italian nodded. "Do you own the bar?"

"I won half of it gambling." Antonio rested his chin in his hand. "Lots of questions. You're not a spy, are you?"

"A what?"

"I don't know the word in Italian. The secret police?"

The Italian laughed. "No, I'm a sailor. I won't arrest you. I just wanted a cigarette."

Antonio smiled. "You have a nice laugh." The Italian's face immediately grew stormy. "You should come by and have a drink tonight. It'll be busy, but I can talk. I'm Antonio."

"Lovino."

Lovino held his hand out, and Antonio shook it. The Italian's hand was sweaty, and Antonio saw his fingers tremble when he took his hand back.

"Will I see you tonight?"

Lovino shrugged. "No."

…

Antonio was perched precariously on the roof of the barn, hammering back all the shingles he had found scattered around. Lovino had told him to use two per shingle, but there was a storm brewing overhead, and Antonio was pretty sure he was going to be hammering them back into place tomorrow.

Antonio sat up and stretched his shoulders. It was darker than Antonio had realized—later than he had realized. Where was Lovino?

He looked around, seeing over the tops of the overgrown olive trees he was usually submerged in. There, on the dirt road, three figures and a cow. Antonio hoped for good news, but why would Lovino bring them back to the farm?

Antonio swung his legs off the roof and lowered himself off, hanging on by the tips of his fingers, and then landed neatly. He brought the hammer, jogging in the direction of the figures. The olive trees rustled in the breeze, and Antonio heard the soft pats of raindrops on the leaves, the smell of rain.

Antonio slowed when he heard voices.

"Fuck off," Lovino snapped.

"Give us the cow, Vargas."

"Look, I'll get you the money in two months at the latest. Once she gets pregnant again, I can milk her and sell it, or just give you the milk, but—"

There was a sound of scuffling. Someone fell; Antonio heard the impact of him on the ground, the sharp exhale of breath. Sofia mooed.

Antonio burst out of the tree line, took in Lovino on the ground, and ran at the nearest man. The man held up a hand, but Antonio struck low on the thigh. The man crumpled to the ground, muscles cramping at the sudden impact.

"Jesus Christ!" the other man jerked away. "Who the hell are you?"

Antonio smiled. "I'm Antonio."

Lovino scrambled to his knees and held his hands up. "Antonio, sweet Mother put the hammer down!" Blood dripped from his nose onto his shirt.

Antonio lowered the hammer.

The second man was helping the first up. "You have two months, Vargas!" he yelled over his shoulder, hauling his friend down the road.

Antonio watched them until they disappeared from view around a bend in the road. Just like that, it was done. Obviously not ones for a fair fight. Most bullies weren't.

Lovino stayed on the ground, face in his hands. "My God," he breathed, "I need someone to knock up my cow."

Antonio crouched next to him. "Are you alright?" He took Lovino's hands away from his nose, trying to assess the damage.

Lovino shoved Antonio's hands away. "I'm fine. I didn't—I didn't think they were going to punch me. Caught me off guard, is all." He wiped away some blood and looked at his hand. "Jesus." His voice shook.

"Who were they?" Antonio stood and offered his hand.

Lovino took it and Antonio helped him up. "No one. Well, they… They own the fucking farm. It's my grandfather's but they…" Lovino sighed. "Claimed it was theirs and I had to buy it back from them. Or, well."

Antonio looked down the road after the men. "Are they from here?"

"No," Lovino spat. "The north."

"I could tell from their accent." Antonio fetched Sofia's rope. "We could kill them."

"No." Lovino cleared his throat. "No, that's… No. No point. It'd just cause us more trouble down the road. Or, well, me. I'm the one who…" He blew air through his lips.

They walked slowly back to the house, Sofia occasionally shaking her head to clear the raindrops from her ears. Lovino tilted his head up for the rain to wash away the blood.

"I only used two nails," Antonio said.

Lovino looked over at him. "What?"

"For the shingles." Antonio pointed at the barn. "Like you said. We still ran out, but it'll keep out the rain well enough."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, thank you." Lovino sucked in air through his teeth. "You… You don't have to sleep in the barn. Anymore."

Antonio grinned.

"At least until it stops raining," Lovino added quickly.

"Of course."

…

Antonio was too drunk to see the clock. Tell what time it was. Both. He poured another shot for Lovino, one for himself.

"What's a farm like?" he slurred.

Lovino grinned. "A what?"

"You know. The… plants."

Lovino laughed. "Hot. Hard work." He said something in Italian Antonio didn't know. "Cows."

"Saw cows again."

"Cows."

Antonio closed his eyes. "What a glorious word. Beautiful. No one speaks Italian like the Italians."

"I'll say. I'm so sick of hearing you Spaniards fuck it up." Lovino leaned forward, eyes unfocused. "Though, I guess yours isn't terrible. Not the worst I've heard."

"I could teach you Spanish, you know." Antonio took another sip of his drink, grimacing. "It's practically the same, except for the big words. And small words."

Lovino snorted when he laughed. "Not the same."

The bar was practically empty this late. A few patrons were passed out. A few drunkenly gambling, speaking in different languages. The candles burned low. Lovino's eyes were the brightest things in the gloom.

Antonio shifted, his fingers brushing against Lovino's, casually. Ever so casually. Lovino glanced down, eyebrow raised.

"Come back tomorrow," Antonio whispered, leaning closer. "I'll teach you some Spanish."

…

Antonio's eyes opened to the dark. He blinked a couple of times, trying to figure what time it was. He rolled to his left to ask Lovino if he was up.

There was a gentle sob.

"Lovino?"

The sound immediately stopped.

"Lovino, are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." Much to Lovino's credit, his voice was steady. "Go back to sleep. You have another few hours to sleep."

Antonio sat up. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just, stupid—fucking—just nothing, okay? I just…" There was a sharp intake of breath, hitching.

Antonio stood, slowly, and shuffled over to Lovino's bed. He sat down slowly. Lovino was silent from the other end of the bed.

"They used to pick them off in the water," Lovino whimpered. "If we sank a boat. They would… they'd swim and yell up at us. We used to shoot at them." His voice became muffled. "I'm going to hell."

"No, Lovino—"

"I am! I'm already in hell! I'm in debt to—to—even my fucking brother left! My only family left in the entire world left me! The war haunts me everywhere I go! Even in my head! Especially in my fucking head!" He coughed while he sobbed. "And you! Every time I look at you I—I'm going to hell!"

Antonio lunged forward and pulled Lovino into a hug. Lovino stiffened in his arms, started to pull away, and then gave in, pushing his face into the crook of Antonio's neck. Lovino smelled like old sweat and hay. His hands on Antonio felt rough.

"You could see their blood in the water," Lovino said into Antonio's neck. "Bodies float when they're dead. I see them."

…

Lovino was drunk with Antonio in the back room. It was noon. Lovino didn't seem like he had any mind to stop drinking any time soon.

Antonio watched him, sitting opposite in the ground. Lovino had taken off the top of his uniform and had it wrapped around his waist. Bottles surrounded him like a shrine. His face was sunburned, and he swayed whenever he stood to get another drink—his sea legs.

"Lovino," Antonio said. "Why are you here?"

Lovino looked at him, eyes unfocused. "We're not supposed to. Spain is neutral."

"I mean…" Antonio searched for the words. "Why are you in the military?"

"Oh." Lovino took a sip. "I was drafted."

"Why didn't you run away?"

Lovino looked away and shrugged. "I don't know. I was afraid. They… There was this other boy. In my village. He tried to run for the Resistance. They shot him in the square." Lovino stared at the bottle in his hand.

Antonio crawled across the floor to sit next to Lovino. Their arms pressed against one another, their sides. Antonio could hear his heartbeat in his ears, watched Lovino's profile, the blush creeping up his neck.

"My brother," Lovino said, "he was so mad. But only because my grandfather was. He didn't understand everything, I don't think. After all, what could I do? I can't fight off all of Italy because… Well, just because."

"What was your brother's name?"

"Feliciano." Lovino's mouth softened from its hard line. "I miss him. He ran away after I was drafted. I haven't heard from him since."

"Did…" Antonio looked at the door, unsure of who was listening.

"Maybe." Lovino shrugged one shoulder.

Antonio rested his hand on Lovino's wrist. Their legs touched. "My father is a tradesman. He traded to the Axis, so I left my house and came here. I like it, I like the coast. I like the people."

Lovino looked at him. "Do you like me?"

Some historical stuff:

Italy's Navy was one of its most successful military branches in WWII.

Spain originally tried to join the Axis Powers, but was denied. It became neutral when the Allies began to turn the tide of the war. However, it traded regularly with the Axis, and maintained normal trading with the Allies.

It's not inconceivable that Spain would allow an Italian warship to dock in its waters, especially early in the war. At least, that's what I'm saying for this story lol.

After the war, Italy actually had one of the fastest growing economies in Europe… if you lived in the northern part of the country. There was a mass migration of people from the rural, southern areas to the cities.

If you continued to try and farm the land, good luck competing against the huge, aristocratic farms. Most small farms were no longer self-sufficient, and debt plagued the venture. Most farmers became laborers for larger farms.

#spamano #aph spamano #APH Spain #aph romano #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia fanfic #Antonio Fernandez Carriedo #lovino vargas #writing

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inkytsuki · 7 years ago

Text

since i can’t get into fictionpress here is chapter 5 of illusine

In case you haven’t read chapters 1-4 it can be found here

tell me what you think please!!!

Chapter 5 The sun was warm on Amber's face. She didn't dare open her eyes yet, as all night she'd been either unable to or too scared to move. She didn't know if her attacker was around or not, or even if he was awake, but she didn't dare do anything other than feign sleep the entire night, for fear that he may do worse to her upon awaking. As far as she could tell, she was laying on her back, just on the ground. She could hear the crackling of a fire nearby, still more than embers, but she didn't know if it was being tended to. However this was not a charade she could keep up forever. She was no sleeping beauty, cursed with eternal slumber. No, soon she would have to wake up and face the person who had dragged her from Kish. A foot nudged her. "Gettup," a gruff voice mumbled, obviously irritated that she had not woken up yet. "I know you've got narcolepsy but you're just being ridiculous at this point, Illusine." She felt all the color drain from her face and she slowly opened her eyes to find a tall man with dark eyes glaring down at her. His dark hair was overgrown and messy, falling down into his face as he looked down at her. "Up," he ordered. "We've got ground to cover." She sat up slowly, clearly confused. "To go where? I'm not going anywhere with you. Take me back to my camp this instant." He plopped down on a stump he had dragged by the fire, pulling out an apple and a knife before cutting a piece off and putting it in his mouth, chewing it thoroughly before he looked up at her. "Oh, you were serious?" he said upon seeing her face. "I'm not taking you back, and don't even think about leaving because you don't know where you are." "You're one of them, aren't you? One of Xaladar's men. Just like before." He blew air out of his nose in amusement. "No, not anymore, at least. You can be sure of that." "Then you should have left me with Kish." "Mikish?" He let out a full belly laugh at her. "Yeah, try again, sweetcheeks. That would be one of Xaladar's men. He almost had you too. You're weakminded. Or dumb. Or both." She grunted, gritting her teeth together. "Who do you think you are anyway?" "Luke Cromwell, nice to meet you," he said not looking up from his apple as he cut another piece off. "I'm taking you back home." Her eyes widened in fear. "No. Absolutely not." "You don't get a say. I'm allowed to take you in by any means necessary. So we can do this the easy way, or the 'I-tie-you-up-and-drag-you' way. Your choice." He looked up, punctuating with a humorless smile. "I don't know you, or trust you, and I'm not going back. I can't." He put his lips out in a pout, "But you trusted little Kish so easily." He stood, striding over to her, grabbing her chin, forcing her to make eye contact with him. "What's so different about me?" She jerked away from him, taking a few steps back. He smelled of burning wood, dirt, and pine. Not exactly pleasant or unpleasant. "Come on, Illusine. Let's get going." He slung a bag over his shoulder from the ground where he was standing. "I want to go the castle," she said defiantly. "I'm not going anywhere until I've learned to control my powers." "I don't have time for this," he chided. "The castle is the last place you want to go as weak as you are right now. There'd be no chance for any of us." He rubbed his neck in frustration. She continued glaring at him, her feet rooted to the ground. "We've got a six day walk back." "I'm not going." He rolled his eyes. Amber couldn't help but notice the square of his jaw as he tightened it, his masseter jumping in irritation with her. "Fine then. You can stay lost in these fucking woods. Not my problem." He started mumbling to himself and started walking off. "Don't leave me here!" she called, chasing after him. "You really are naive." "Don't call me naive. I don't have another choice." She was absolutely fuming. She was all turned around and she had no idea how far away from Kish he had dragged her. He rolled his eyes. "If you had any brains in that skull of yours you wouldn't be going off with strange men. Especially Kish, though I guess that wasn't all your fault. He probably persuaded you a little." "Persuaded me?" she asked, unsure of exactly what he meant by that. "Kish can read minds and manipulate people's thoughts. But I guess he didn't tell you that, did he?" Amber's cheeks rushed with blood. "You're just saying that to get me to come with you." "You're already following me," he pointed out. Her face grew even redder, and she felt like steam must have been coming out of her ears. "Me and Kish are friends." "Kish doesn't have friends, Illusine." "Amber. My name is Amber." "Your name is Illusine as far as I'm concerned. Now hurry up. We've gotta get going. You're not going to that castle. And that's the end of it." She huffed. "Take me back right now! Kish killed those men...they were Xaladar's men. They were coming to take me and he saved my life." He suddenly turned on his heels, taking strides toward her, an angry twitch in his brow. She took several steps back, finding herself pressed against a tree with him trapping her between the two of them. "Those men were with me. They were friends." She swallowed thickly. "Just because you've got some little crush on Mikish--" "I do not have a crush on Kish," she said almost too quickly. He smirked then, the look of resentment toward her still lingering on his face as he took another step toward her now dangerously close. "Are you sure?" She swallowed again, nodding, her legs wobbling slightly. She took in his smell again, now that it was stronger, almost intoxicating. Pine and smoke, like a signal fire. "Look at me," he said. He took her jaw in one of his hands a little more roughly than expected, not that she had expected him to touch her at all and her eyes shyly looked up between her lashes. His face was dangerously close to hers. "If you wanna survive out here, you need to listen to someone who is actually trying to help you. Not get you killed." She nodded slowly, unable to speak. "A girl like you doesn't need to be out here alone either. I'm not taking you back to your death, so you need to follow me." "I..." she tried, "I don't know if I can trust you. If I couldn't trust Kish, what makes you any different?" He chuckled darkly. "You shouldn't. You're smartening up already." She clenched her jaw. "I'm not an idiot." He quirked a brow at her, pushing himself back off the tree he had her trapped against. "Somehow you've failed to prove otherwise." Amber felt her eyes begin to sting. "We aren't going anywhere right now. Luke, was it? I can't go anywhere until I've learned how to use my powers and I don't know how to." "That's why I'm taking you back home. Where people can help." "I wanna be with people like me! I don't want to be treated like some science experiment. I want to go to that castle." "And go right to Xaladar? Go right to the man who is trying to kill you? I'm telling you now that there was never a plan to try to train you or help you in anyway. Keeping you weak and unable to fight is the only way that Xaladar would be able to defeat you and right now, if you walk into that castle everything that depends on you is over in an instant." Amber fumed. "Then why would Kish teach me how to fly? I can do that." Luke quirked a brow, and then chuckled. -- Luke looked Amber over really for the first time, trying to keep a smirk off his face. Of course. Of course Kish had developed a little crush on her. She was adorable, even with dirt smudged all over her face and her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was precious, in more ways than she knew. But never safe with Kish, no matter what his feelings for her were. Luke almost envied him knowing what was going through her head; he wanted to know what she was thinking right now. It had to be something chaotic and confused by the look in her eyes. He found his eyes drifting lower, really taking her in. He bit his lip. Kish definitely had bent the rules for her. He couldn't hold back the smirk now. "What are you smirking at?" Amber growled at him, bringing him back to the conversation they were in the middle of. He shook his head. "I was just thinking that it makes since that Kish would teach you something. He probably likes you. And it would make you trust him. But he's not equipped to teach you how to control all of your powers. He was still walking you to a death sentence, sweetcheeks." "I still don't understand how you expect me to trust you under the circumstances. No offense, but you kidnapped me," she hissed at him. It just made his smirk widen. "If you keep looking at the situation like that me and you are never going to get anywhere." She rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated with him. "That's kind of the idea here. I don't want to go anywhere with you." "Stay here then. Let the exposure get you. I'll just say I never found you. That I was too late." He shrugged. "I'm here for my own reasons, just like Kish. The only thing that I have to do is look for you and if I find you, convince you to come back to the city and actually learn how to control your powers." "What are your reasons?" she asked, almost timidly. Luke rolled his eyes. "They're personal. I don't much feel like sharing them with someone I just met." Her eyes hardened. "Tell me. And I might consider going with you. Might." He sighed. "I'm a criminal, okay? But a skilled one. If I get you back to the city, I get a pardon." "Pardon from what?" His eyes sharpened right back at her, his voice finally dropping to a serious tone. "Treason." -- Kish awoke later than usual, exhausted from the exertion he had put on his body the day before. His limbs felt heavy, even now. He rubbed his eyes, which seemed to want to stick shut. He had no idea how long he had been out, but from the way the sun was hitting the roof of the tent, it had to be noon at least by now. He let out a heavy sigh, forcing himself up. Amber wasn't in the tent either, he assumed because she had awakened before him and had decided to let him rest, a thoughtful notion. He could honestly sleep for much longer; he hadn't had to exert himself that much since his training. Training had been absolutely grueling. Xaladar had expected so much of him from the very beginning. He sighed at the thought of it. The headaches had been more intense than any pain than he had ever felt, much more akin to the feeling as a bone breaks, throbbing and shooting behind his eyes. He stretched his brain like a muscle, learning to do much more than just listen to thoughts; he had learned to control thoughs and push himself from the ground. He had learned how to move and break objects without lifting a finger, how to sense people from far away. These tasks seemed so easy to him now, but in the beginning they had been so painful. The praise he so craved from Xaladar hardly came either, not unless he pushed himself to the point where he was unable to move from bed the next day because of the pain in his head. But when the praise did come, it felt more amazing than anything he had felt in years. Kish had never been particularly intelligent and he lacked any proper education; he knew what each letter was, but he could hardly read, and yet he was praised for the power that his mind possessed, an ability that intelligence had been unable to surpass. Kish knew the answer to any situation, he could predict any reaction, and he could manipulate anyone. Kish always felt that it was more power than he would ever know what to do with, but with Xaladar's guidance, things became clear. Or at least they were clear before. Things were much foggier since he'd actually met the target he had trained so long to take on. He didn't understand why he felt the way he did either. He had only known Amber for a few days, but she was the opposite of the way that Xaladar told him that she would be. She was kind and funny, not cruel and stoic, or even selfish as he had described Illusine. Xaladar seemed to know everything about who he was, but Amber had no memory of being Illusine. She was still the same girl that had dreamt of nothing more than reaching the surface world and finally getting to decide on the life she would live. He admired that so much about her, that even though she had been bestowed a huge responsibility, she still wanted to make her own way. It was such a shame that she was going to have to die so young. Kish stretched once more, rolling his neck with several audible cracks. He had to get up, regardless of how he felt; he had slept far too long. He unzipped the tent, the sunlight now glaring through the opening, and crawled out, smoothing his hair once he'd gained his balance. Immediately, he noticed something that he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't noticed before. It was dead silent. "Amber?" He said, his heart rate picking up suddenly. No response. "Amber!" This time he yelled, but to no avail. There was, once again, no response. Kish felt his eyes began to water, the anger overtaking him. What had happened? What had he missed while he was asleep? He kicked the tent, knocking a peg out of the ground. "Shit!" he yelled, immediately thrusting his body into the air. He looked around, yelling her name a few more times, but she was not even in range of him hearing her. He didn't even know which direction to start flying in. Xaladar would never forgive him for losing Illusine, not after everything was going off without a hitch. He realized that there was no way she would have wandered off or ran away; she was far too wary of the woods to do that. Suddenly it dawned on him. The traitor. Shit.

#original writing #original content #original characters #illusine

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