#she had wanted the man with the bat tattoo found so he could never harm another girl

[majimassqueaktoy]

Part of me loves that Makoto was compassionate, that she had a good heart even to the point of not seeing the use in Oda dying at the hands of Shibusawa, more senseless violence that would only beget violence... but then there's another part of me that thinks about how sweet little unassuming Makoto Makimura asked the man who was meant to be her assassin to bring her the heads of the men who killed her brother. The Makoto who ran into Kamurocho alone, still barely able to see, intent on vengeance. Who said right to the faces of those men that she wanted them dead- Only that would be just payment for the torment they'd caused... and I can't help but to wonder if her telling Oda to live, to come with her and Kiryu back to Kamurocho, back toTachibana- hadn't been an act of compassion at all.

[cellsshapedlikestars]

So Jon and Sansa both see a crime being commited and become prime witnesses to arrest this big crime mastermind (Petyr? Or maybe Tywin?) and they have to go to witness protection... Only witness protection makes them pretend to be a married couple when they actually don't know each other. Does that sparkle something in that brilliant brain of yours as a prompt?

Look I'm in a Mood™ today and wrote this in a weird fugue state so don't @ meeeeee. I also like barely edited this so who knows if it makes sense, and grammar? I barely know her.

Also, I don’t really know how to do trigger warning tags, so this is my warning that there are vague mentions of blood/gore/violence.

.

.

Sometimes when she wakes up, she forgets.

But then she looks around the room that isn't her room and she has to tell herself that it is. This is her room. This is her home. That is her husband downstairs making breakfast.

(And sometimes she wakes up unable to breathe, the dreams are so real; the blood and brains and pieces of skull spraying the wall in front of her, the sounds of men pleading for their lives. The strong arm wrapped around her, one hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, the only thing that kept her still and quiet and hidden under the desk, the only reason she's alive. He's downstairs making breakfast.)

….

If there was ever a place to get lost, she thinks, it's here.

She stares out the window of her house, the same as every other house on the street. Row after row of identical houses. Neighborhoods of them, the suburbs stretching on forever. They've been here for two months and she doesn't even know her neighbor's names. The one across the street is Edmond, she thinks. Maybe. Edmure? No, if it were Edmure, she would remember, because of-

(But Alayne Stone doesn't have an Uncle Edmure.)

“I'm headed out.”

She turns to look at her husband.

“Have a good day,” she calls, just like she does every day. She watches him walk out to their nondescript grey sedan, just like he does every day. He backs it out of the driveway, then drives west, towards the main road.

…

They don't talk about before.

He is Aemon Stone. They met in college, in a geography course that they both almost failed, and they fell in love. They just got married and moved here - not that any of their neighbors have asked, so she's only had to tell that story to her new coworkers at the craft store.

They're trying to start a family.

(Jon, she thinks his name is, she remembers the agents calling him that, before they were handed folders with their new lives inside. But Jon is not her husband. Aemon is.)

…

Sometimes she likes to think she's a hero, giving up her whole world just to take down the bad guy. She's a hero, a martyr, the protagonist of her own daydreams. Her actions will save the lives of countless others.

(The reality is that she had no choice. They gave her one, technically, she doesn't have to testify against Petyr Baelish, but they all knew there was no choice. If she stayed, he would've found her. He would have killed her and anyone she could have possibly told about what she saw. She knows Aemon had no choice, either, and sometimes she wonders what he gave up. But they don't talk about before.)

…

She tries not to let her mind wander too much, but it's hard not to. Her life is routine. Mundane. She makes friends with her coworkers but she can't – she won't– let them get too close.

The problem with all her free, mundane time is that it gives her space to think – gives her time to regret.

She remembers that weekend, remembers thinking what harm could it do? Remembers thinking the bachelorette party sounded so fun. Remembers taking cash out to play the slot machines, ordering drink after drink until she felt numb.

It all goes a bit fuzzy after that. No matter how hard she tries, she can never remember how she got into the back halls of the casino, to the places where guests aren't allowed. She remembers a strange man kissing her, large, with scarring across his face, who told her that a pretty bird like her shouldn't be back here and demanded a kiss as payment. She remembers running, running, running.

If only she hadn't run.

If she hadn't run, she wouldn't have found herself in that room. She wouldn't have heard the door opening, turned around to see him, watched his face twist in horror when he saw her. He wouldn't have had to tell her get down, hide.

She remembers not being able to move, frozen to the spot at the sight of the gun at his hip. She remembers the way he'd pulled her down under the desk, one arm around her waist to keep her still, one hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, just in time, just before the door opened again.

(And she remembers the men who came in right after, the gruff where the fuck did Rivers get to?)

…

She's seen the tattoo.

(She doesn't think she was supposed to. Aemon Stone shouldn't have a tattoo.)

They try not to get in each other's way – he works days, she works closings. She sleeps in the master bed, he sleeps in a guest room down the hall. He wakes up early and makes breakfast and leaves her a plate. She eats while he goes for a run. But every once in a while...

That day he'd been coming back from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist. She's never upstairs when he takes a shower, but she had gotten the urge to read, for the first time in months, and had gone up to grab one of the books that came with the house when she ran into him in the hall.

And there, on his chest, right above his heart, the mockingbird tattoo.

(Aemon Stone is her husband. He is not one of them.)

(But Jon Snow was.)

…

She probably should be scared, but she can never find it in her to be. Their handlers wouldn't have put them in the same house if they thought he'd hurt her.

(He's the reason she's alive. His arm around her waist, his hand over her mouth. Get down. Hide.)

…

Sometimes she wants to ask – why?

Why did he hide her?

Why is he here?

He was one of them, there's a tattoo on his chest that proves it.

Why did he save her? Give up everything for her to live?

…

She slips, once.

She's at work, in the break room, heating up a mug of soup in their tiny, low watt microwave. The break room TV is on, the news is playing, and then he's there.

Petyr Baelish, donating a giant check to an orphanage. Everyone's clapping and cheering him on and all she can hear are the screams of two men, pleading for their lives. Begging Petyr Baelish to stop. (They had wives and children and their screams echo in her head and-)

“Alayne?” her coworker, Myranda, shakes her arm. “I think your food's done?”

She's shaking so hard that the soup sloshes over the side of her mug and she apologizes as she cleans it up and Myranda asks if she's sick or something. She has to go home early because she vomits into the break room trash can.

At home, Aemon is watching football on TV and he's surprised when she comes home early. All he says is, “everything ok?” and she knows what he's asking.

“Everything's ok,” she tells him and he nods and she goes upstairs.

They don't talk about the past, but they don't talk about the present, either.

(And they definitely don't talk about the future.)

…

There's one time she doesn't wake up confused or breathless.

She wakes up screaming.

In her dream, he finds her. In her dream, Petyr Baelish walks around the desk and bends down and reaches under and pulls her out. In her dream, he tortures her like he did those men. In her dream, he puts a gun to her head, just like he did-

She wakes up screaming.

The door to her room slams open and she takes a gasping breath and looks up at her husband, standing in the doorway with a baseball bat in his hand. His hair is wild and his eyes are wide as they search her room and she tries to tell him it's all in her head but she can't make her voice work. When she tries, the words just come out as a small sob and she watches his tensed shoulders relax and he sets down the baseball bat.

She curls into herself and cries into her bent knees – for her dreams and her fears and the knowledge that this might never end. It's a choking, clawing abyss in her chest that's been growing as the days and weeks and months slide by – that she will never see her family again. She'll never eat mom's cooking or hear her dad yell at the TV when his team loses or see Robb's infectious smile or argue with Arya or talk about philosophy with Bran or watch one of Rickon's basketball games. She'll never get to play with Lady again.

She has kept them locked away inside her, tried to forget about them because Alayne Stone doesn't have a family.

The bed dips and she lets out another gasping sob as she feels an arm settle around her shoulders. “Alayne,” he says, and then again. Again and again, until - “Sansa.”

“I'm not Sansa,” she whispers when she finally looks up.

“Sometimes you need to be,” he says, his voice is steady and he brings one hand up to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. “It's hard, not everyone can just change who they are. Especially not like this.”

“You say that like you're some expert,” she sniffs, wiping at her cheeks now that her tears have slowed. She feels like a mess – her eyes feel hot and puffy, her nose feels raw, her throat is sore, but she also feels more human than she has in months.

He hesitates, seems to think hard about something before - “Aemon Stone isn't the first person I've had to become.” She jerks back a bit, but she doesn't pull away.

(He saved her life.)

“Who else?”

“Before this, I was Aegon Rivers.”

“I thought your name was Jon Snow? That's what they called you.”

“Jon Snow,” he says, voice low and soothing and she feels herself relax, settles into the warmth of his arms a bit more, “is a federal agent who went undercover with the Mockingbirds two years ago.”

She looks at him, then – really looks at him. At his grey eyes and his long face and his black hair wild from sleep, at the scar that runs through his eyebrow and the dark stubble that he meticulously shaves off every morning.

“Jon Snow fits you better,” she tells him.

“And Sansa Stark fits you.”

“I'm not Sansa Stark anymore,” she reminds him again, feeling her voice waver, though she thought she was past it. “This was just a bad dream, I promise I'll do better.”

“Like I said, sometimes it's hard,” he tells her. “And sometimes it's easy to forget who you are.”

“Is it for you?” she asks. He doesn't answer, but she thinks he doesn't need to, she can see it in him and she wonders how much of Jon Snow he remembers. Two years is a long time to be someone else. “I don't...” her voice breaks and she has to drop into a whisper. “I don't want to forget them. I know I have to-”

“What if,” he cuts in when her words fail her completely, “what if we're Jon Snow and Sansa Stark here?”

“They told us we-”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I don't mean... not in the house. Not during the day. But how about, once a week, at night, when it's just us, when the rest of the world is sleeping – I'll come in here and just for an hour, we can remember.”

The words make her ache and she nods and looks over at her clock. One hour – one hour to remember who she is and where she comes from. One hour to talk about anything and everything – about the past and the present and the future. It's not a lot and it's a risk and against the rules, but-

“Yes. Please.”

He nods and looks a bit grim and she wonders, once again – why? She doesn't think he wants to talk about Jon Snow. He's doing it for her – he's saving her life again and she still doesn't know why. Maybe she'll find out, some day.

“Ok,” he breathes, like he's jumping off the deep end, “Sansa Stark – what's your favorite color?”

[wish-that-i-was-buckys-girl]

Hey! I just discovered your blog and I was wondering if you'd be okay doing a Lance tucker x reader where they get in an argument but it has a fluffy ending where they're closer than they were before? Maybe they confess their feelings to each other? I totally understand if you're not able or comfortable to write this.

Merry Christmas! 🎄🤶🎅🌲🎁

Authors Notes: Hey! I hope this is something similar to what you were looking for. They’re expressing their feelings in some way, just maybe not the way you’d think. I hope you like it!

Lance Tucker x Reader

Warnings: Arguing, swearing, insinuation of possible cheating, and some downright shitty friends.

Word Count: 3K

Trouble in Paradise

(Not my gif)

_______________________________________________

It was New Year’s Eve. The year had been stressful to say the least but even worse, Lance’s buddies were coming over for a party. It’s not that you didn’t like his friends. Well, it was that. You didn’t like them. Ever since you and Lance got together three years ago, they have done nothing but try to convince him to date hotter women. “Date” being a loose term.

Overheard conversations during football games and dart/pool games and the basement went something like this.

“Oh, come on Lance you saw the chicks you used to pull. They were smokin’. Why don’t you just live again? Or better yet, you don’t even have to break up with her! Just, you know, tell her you got competitions and when she doesn’t suspect it, book a couple hotel rooms. What’s the harm?”

“Lance, buddy, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you don’t exactly have a trophy wife. Aren’t you the one with the gold medal? Shouldn’t you be looking for a gold medal wife instead of a bronze one?”

“I like her Lance, I really do, but remember that Victoria’s Secret model you hooked up with regularly like 5 years ago? What was her name... uh... Serenity! Yeah, why don’t you give her a call. You guys seemed to really click.”

The worst part of it all was they never really got to know you. They brushed past you while you cooked some food for them in the kitchen. You and Lance took turns cooking but somehow you always found that you were cooking when his friends were coming over. You had never really put much thought into it, until tonight.

“Honey! I’m home from the gym!”

You were making taco dip, guacamole, homemade Mac and cheese, and Buffalo chicken dip for the big party. You ordered pizzas, subs, and other sides to top it off. You never knew how much 8 men could eat, until you started cooking for 8 men.

Lance came up behind you and gave you a sweet kiss on the cheek as he wrapped his arms around your waist. “How’s my pretty girl doing?”

“Fine, I guess.”

You both knew you weren’t fine.

Lance sighs loudly. “Angel, what is wrong? You know I just want to help you.”

“We can talk about it later. Right now, I just want to get in my cooking zone and not think about anything.”

Lance puts his hands on his hips and stares at you authoritatively.

“Well, I’m gonna go quick grab a shower and come back down to help you finish cooking before the boys come.”

“Sounds good” you said with a half-smile. You were dreading tonight.

_______________________________________________

True to his word, Lance came down and helped you finish cooking the rest of the food. It remained quiet for most of the time you spent together. Lance could feel the tension in the air but didn’t want to ask again if anything was wrong before the party. It was New Year’s Eve, he was supposed to be celebrating with his friends, not trying to start a fight with you.

You were infuriated Lance didn’t bother to ask you why you were so upset. You always felt second to his friends, why is that? The first year you were dating it wasn’t like that. You were the center of attention in all regards, you didn’t want to be, but he treated you like the only girl in the world. Now?

“Hey babe I’m going out with the guys I’ll see you tomorrow.” You knew full well he would drunkenly slip under the covers at 3AM. Why was he out so late? What was he doing?

“Sweetheart the guys are coming over to play pool do you mind ordering us some pizzas?” Why couldn’t he do it himself?

You really did not mind that Lance had friends. You encouraged him to hang out with them even though they said horrible things about you, but enough was enough. There’s hanging out with your friends, and there’s being with your friends 24/7, leaving your girlfriend to stay home and watch movies by herself.

After you finished cooking you went upstairs to the bedroom to watch a movie. By yourself.

Surprise, surprise.

You heard the front door open for the first time tonight. You wondered if any of the guys would bring over their girlfriends or “hot dates.” You didn’t know if that would relieve your stress or infuriate you even more. If they did bring someone, they wouldn’t be so focused on it being a “boys’ night.” However, if they did bring someone, why couldn’t you come downstairs to hang out with them?

You heard a slap of hands exchanged and what you assumed to be a half hug after it.

The men continued to pile in around 8PM. Some of them brought a date, but others didn’t. However, you noticed one of the guys brought two girls. Why would he do that?

You decided to put on some nice clothes to go downstairs. Other men were bringing their dates, and this was your house. You deserve to celebrate too.

You worked your way down to the basement, wanting to spend time with your definitely above average looking boyfriend. You were so happy to call him yours, even though he frustrated you to no end sometimes. From what you overhear, he never sticks up for you.

You strutted over him and placed your hand on his back gently. He quickly turns around, angry almost and begins to say something “I told you I don’t want.... oh, hi baby.”

You looked at him confused. What was that about?

“Hi... what’s uh, what’s going on?”

“Oh nothin’. Just Evan and I got into it earlier about something and I thought he was coming to bother me about it again. But then I turn around to see your pretty face and that doesn’t even matter.”

He brings you in for a tight hug and rests his chin on your head. You loved him. You loved him so much.

Out of nowhere Evan comes up behind you, noticeably drunk, the scent of liquor oozing off of him. There’s a girl attached to his right arm. She’s tall, slender, and blonde. You thought she was too attractive for Evan, until he started to speak.

“Lance, meet my girl Lindsay here. She’s really interested in you and wants to talk to you about your gold medal.”

You can’t say this never happened. You were used to women throwing themselves at Lance. You were always so proud to call Lance yours, but other women wanted that opportunity as well. It got so bad to the point where women would send random lewd photos to his work email to gain his attention. It never worked thank god. Every time you saw pictures like that you got suspicious, but every message read “don’t you want to see what you’re missing out on?” or something to that degree. Lance was always patient and kind with you about it, knowing you were easily frustrated and cautious of him because you knew what he was like before. However, you knew he wouldn’t cheat on you, and he always has an explanation if he thought you were ever worried.

“Excuse me?” You said looking at Evan.

“Come on Y/N. Let the man have a little fun.” Evan retorted.

“This isn’t letting him have ‘a little fun.’ Letting him have ‘a little fun’ is hosting this party, not you trying to actively encourage him to cheat on me, right in front of me no less.”

Lindsay sneers at you. “Who are you? Get in line sister. Evan told me I would get to talk to him.”

You raise your eyebrows in disbelief.

“I don’t know if I have to spell it out for you, if you can even spell, but I’m his girlfriend.”

“Y/N come on baby it’s not that big of a deal. She just wants to talk to me about my gold medal that’s all.”

“The gold medal you won in the Olympics or the one tattooed around your dick Lance?”

“I’ll only talk to her about the one I won in the Olympics and you know that.”

You had had it. You were so incredibly tired of Lance never sticking up for you when it came to situations like this. You never threw a fit when his friends would make stupid remarks, but this was the last straw.

“I don’t care anymore Lance! Talk to her about your dick tattoo. Hell, let her even see your dick tattoo close up while she’s sucking you off. I’m done.”

Without giving him a second glance. you turned on your heel and walked upstairs to grab your car keys.

Lance sprinted up the stairs after you, shouting your name. You didn’t care. You ran to the garage and hit the button to open the door. Lance thought you went to your room, so he sprinted to the third floor thinking you were there. He finally realized you were actually leaving when he heard the start of your car. He saw you back out of the driveway like a bat out of hell, and all he could do was watch from the window.

_______________________________________________

You drove to the nearest diner, hoping they would be open even though it was New Year’s Eve. Thankfully, they were. You always comforted yourself with food when shit like this happened. Who doesn’t love food? You can’t say that entirely though. You also tended to starve yourself in situations like this as well. Neither coping mechanism was healthy, but it got you through it.

You ordered a breakfast meal, quickly glancing at your phone to see if anyone had texted you.

24 missed calls from Lance❤️🥇

You knew he was worried about you, but you weren’t ready to call him back yet. You knew he couldn’t come searching for you either, all of his friends still being inside, waiting for the ball to drop. This was going to be the first year you and Lance wouldn’t kiss at midnight, all because of his stupid friends who hate you for no reason.

You ate your meal as you saw Ryan Seacrest introduce one artist after another on the television.

The clock was nearing midnight. You didn’t seem to care. You contemplated going to your friend’s house, knowing they would gladly accept you and support you, especially when they knew how much of an ass Lance’s friends could be. You decided against it, not wanting to bother anyone.

You glanced at your phone again.

28 missed calls from Lance❤️🥇

Not only that, but it had looked like he texted you as well.

“Where are you going???”

“Y/N???”

“Baby come back here please I’m very upset and I want to talk”

“Baby please come back and talk to me.”

And about 15 other messages similar to those.

You were heartbroken. You wanted to go home, but you knew you needed to stand your ground.

As the many thousands of people in NYC count down to the New Year you sat and ate your bacon and pancakes.

Lance saw all of his buddies laughing and having a good time. He couldn’t have a good time until he knew you were safe and that he would have everything fixed. He knew he fucked up big time, but he thought you were overreacting to the extreme. Was it really that bad you needed to leave right away?

His annoyance throughout the night grew as Lindsay began to pester him about his interests.

“Lindsay, I don’t know how to tell you this in a nice way, so I won’t. I have a girlfriend. She’s the sexiest, smartest, and sweetest woman on this planet, and that’s all that matters to me. Now please, go bother Johnny or somethin’.”

Lindsay didn’t like that. So much so, she dumped her whole glass of whiskey on his brand-new Nike shoes. He didn’t care she was upset. All he cared about was you.

Evan came back up to Lance for the last time of the night.

“Heyyuh pal. I didn’t mean to make your lady run out on ya.”

“But you did Evan. You fucking idiot, you stupid fucking fucker. You ruined this night for not only me, but my girl who is probably out sobbing to her friends about how much of a shit boyfriend I am. And you know what? I don’t blame her. I deserve it.”

“C’mon man don’t be so *burp* hard on yourself. Hey, at least you can go have fun with Lindsay eh?” He says while wiggling his eyebrows.

Lance was fuming. “Evan if you don’t get the fuck out of my face, I’m going to floor you in about 6 seconds.”

Evan held up his hands and backed away, finally getting the hint he was becoming a nuisance to not only Lance, but the party itself.

He listened to all of his friends count down to the new year in a drunken haze. He slouched over the home bar, drinking himself into a stupor with his seventh gin and tonic. He didn’t care about any of the calories he was consuming. He didn’t care about anything. He knew he wouldn’t have his Angel to hold and kiss into the new year. He wanted nothing more for this night to just end.

_______________________________________________

You snuck back into the house around 4AM, hoping Lance wasn’t awake. You drove around for hours after the ball dropped, the diner closing at 1AM anyways. You listened to 80’s music, calming yourself down. Music always helped you meditate.

As you slowly closed the door you saw Lance sitting miserably in his recliner. He was no longer drunk. Just incredibly depressed.

He turned to look at the door, hoping that the door opening and closing wasn’t just some sleep induced hallucination. As soon as he realized it was you, he jolted up and ran to give you a hug. You stuck your arm out before he could reach you.

He looked devastated.

“I want to talk Lance. I-”

“No, no I fucked up. Let me do this. I have been shit. I have been absolute and utter fucking garbage to you when it comes to my friends. I let them talk to me like I’m still a bachelor. I know you overhear the things they say, and it hurts you. And I let them do that. I don’t know why. I have no reason. It was so fucking stupid of me. You have to know I don’t want any other woman on this planet. You’re my day and my night. I would be lost in this depressing ass place of a world if it wasn’t for you my sweet Angel. My beacon of light.” He stopped his rant briefly to cup your face and stare into your eyes lovingly.

“It all stops here. No more stupid guy shit. You’re my number one and you deserve to be treated that way. If any of my friends continues to disrespect my baby, they’re out. I don’t care who they are and how long they’ve been around. You’re my baby. You’re the only thing that matters.

It felt like a weight had just been lifted off of your chest. You loved him. You really did.

He pulled you in for the tightest hug that he could have possibly ever given. He kisses the top of your forehead for what seems like a hundred times.

You look up to him while he’s still embracing you.

“I like Johnny. Johnny can stay.” You say with a smile.

“Keeping Storm it is, got it.” He returned with a smile.

A lightbulb goes on in Lance’s head. “Oh! Come here, come here, come here. I saved this for you.”

You follow him into the living room, your hand wrapped in his. He flicks through the TV menu, clicking to find the recording from earlier.

It was the ball drop.

“I recorded this for us. I didn’t want to miss kissing my baby into the new year.” He said with a smile.

“Lance Tucker, you are the sweetest man alive, do you know that?”

“C’mon, you know I’m still an asshole. I just have my moments.” He says with an eyeroll.

You slapped his chest playfully as you both slightly laughed.

As the seconds ticked down to midnight for the second time of the night, Lance stared into your eyes with the most love you have ever felt from a person.

“10!”

“Where did you even go anyways?”

“9!”

“Our spot.”

“8!”

I’m gonna take you on the best date there ever was. Just you wait.”

“7!”

“I’ll be counting on that Tucker. A promise is a promise.”

“6!”

“I’m really good at keeping promises.”

“5!”

“Oh really? Just like that time you promised to give me a castle made out of gold?”

“4!”

“You’re still getting that y’know.”

“3!”

“What other promises have you kept huh?”

“2!”

“I promised to love you forever. And I always will.”

“1!”

“I love you too, Lance.”

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

He kissed you with a ferocity you didn’t know existed. He took your bottom lip into his mouth and held it there for what seemed like forever. Forever was okay though, as long as you were with him.

Lance finally broke the kiss, pulling away softly and cupping your face in his left hand. He whispered.

“Check your cardigan pocket.”

You looked confused. He knew you would be. You felt a tiny box in you right hand pocket. It was covered in felt. You slowly pulled it out to see that it was a ring box. You opened it and it had a ring pop inside.

“Ha-ha. Very funny Tuc-”

You looked down to see Lance on one knee. Holding the most beautiful ring you had ever seen in your life.

“I’m going to love you forever, Y/N. Will you marry me?”

You were stunned.

“...Yes.... oh my god, YES!”

He smiled, standing up and wrapping his arms around you as fast as he could.

“I’ll love you forever too, Lance.”

[aries-writingblog]

Stay With Me (2)

Summary: James Buchanan Barnes had never looked at himself as a family guy. He never even thought of it until she came around, flipping his world inside out. Bucky likes trouble and this girl? Well, she seems to invite chaos to dinner.

Pairing: Mob! Bucky Barnes x OC! Alex Grant

Chapter Word Count: 1898

Chapter Warnings: Language, mentions of violence, actual violence (one little hit, nothing big)

A/N: This is an OC story but I try to make them with the least amount of physical description as necessary. The pronouns used are feminine for the character.

“Hey, Alex- you’ve got another package on the front porch.” Wanda announced, walking through the door with Peter and Pietro in tow. The woman groaned, pressing her head to the kitchen island countertop.

“Again?” Alex asked, she looked over to Peter. “It’s the third time in two weeks- are you telling your boss the supplies we need?” Peter’s eyes widened and he shook his head. For the past two weeks, three unmarked packages arrived on Alex’s doorstep. The first just had some essentials for wood working- stain, paint, putty, a couple of new carving knives. The second had been similar- then she read back over a receipt as she was balancing her cheque book, noting the exact same products were present in the boxes. She could only imagine what was in the next one.

And she absolutely refused to change hardware stores- the workers were always so kind to her and the youth that typically dropped by- most of them attending the annual auctions to show support. More than once, they banded together and presented the group with a donation- which prompted Alex to make holiday cookies for the store employees every year. So, no- she would not give up on her family simply because of one idiotic, stupid rich criminal, who seemed hell bent on forcing his way into her life.

“What makes you think they’re from Bucky?” He asked, snatching a drink from her fridge. Pietro grunted, jumping up and sitting on the island, leaning over to Alex.

“If he’s giving you free shit, I wouldn’t complain.” He commented, tugging at her hair gently. Alex looked up, cocking an eyebrow at the teen. “Wring that fucker dry.”

“Pietro.” Wanda scolded, slapping her brother’s arm. “I don’t blame you, Alex. He’s a shady character, with even shadier money.”

“Okay, why are two teens giving me advice, right now? Shouldn’t you be... I don’t know, cleaning your rooms or something?” She snipped, pushing Pietro off the countertop. “People eat here, get your ass off.”

“I’m serious, Alex.” Pietro stopped her, gazing at her. She stopped pushing, meeting his electric blue eyes. “It would help with some of the expenses here. You know that.”

“We aren’t broke. You are, dickhead.” Alex shoved him down the hallway. “Now go- I need laundry in five minutes or your ass is grass.”

Wanda laughed, following her brother down the hallway. The two had been orphaned kids when Alex found them. They were on the streets, trying to survive. Pietro had been caught stealing from a grocery store, Alex stepped in and apologized for his behavior. The, at the time, nine year old played along and then told Alex their situation. She immediately offered them a place in her home. Pietro had accepted, trusting her fully. Wanda had been suspicious but eventually warmed up to her. They’d lived together for six years, the teens would have their sixteenth birthday in a few months. Every time Pietro or Wanda offered to help out and get a job, she turned them down.

“I make plenty of money at the hospital. You’re only kids now, enjoy your time as kids.” She’d tell them.

“They’re right, you know.” Peter supplied, tossing his backpack to the floor. “He may make dirty money but he has plenty of it. If he’s blowing it on you- what’s the problem?” Alex scoffed, swallowing her last bite of cookie.

“The problem is that you don’t live here, Pete. Why are you always here?” She passed the last of the dessert over to Peter.

“Aunt May is working night shift again and I told her I would stay with you so she wouldn’t worry.” He explained, trying to talk around a mouthful of cookie. He swallowed, taking another swig of his drink. “Plus, Pietro and I have a science report due tomorrow and we haven’t started it yet.” Alex took a deep, calming breath, closing her eyes.

“That’s great, Peter. But I’m also working night shift this week. So, you’ll be here by yourselves.” Alex stood up, stretching her back out. “Don’t burn my house down.”

“Sure thing.” He beamed at her, a chuckle falling from her lips as she started up the stairs.

Alex quickly got dressed for work, pulling on her scrubs. She made sure she had her ID badge, clipping it to her pocket. She then stopped by Pietro and Wanda’s rooms to double check if the clothes were picked up. On her way down the stairs, she heard quiet whispering from the teens.

“- what’s the harm in a date with the guy?” Pietro asked. Wanda sighed, Alex could almost picture her pressing her fingers to her temples in annoyance.

“So what she doesn’t want to date anyone? Just let it go, Pietro. And no one said anything about her dating Bucky, Peter just said that he has an interest in her. And sending random gifts isn’t gonna win that woman over, trust me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, do you know something?” Peter asked. Alex stopped on the steps, curious to hear what Wanda was going to spill to the group.

“Well... here’s the thing. In the back of Alex’s closet, there’s a-“ Wanda stopped, turning around and greeting Alex with a sheepish grin. “Oh, hi Alex.”

“Kids...” she narrowed her eyes, skirting around the group and going into the laundry room. There was a pause before three pairs of feet scurried after her.

“Can we order pizza tonight?” Pietro batted his eyelashes at her, giving his signature pouting smile. She returned the smile, mocking him.

“Pizza in the freezer. And stop going into my closet, Wanda.”

“In my defense, you told me I could borrow that top a few weeks ago and it fell off the hanger. So, was I really in your closet?” She asked, narrowing her eyes. Alex cocked an eyebrow and continued the laundry.

“What would you do, if hypothetically Mr. Barnes was like really interested in you?” Peter asked her, leaning over the washing machine.

“Peter.” She sighed. “I’m not dating your boss. End of story.” She started the machine before turning to Wanda. “Pizza’s in the freezer, keep an eye on it while it’s baking. Don’t let strangers into the house and keep an eye on your brother and Peter. Keep the laundry going and don’t work with any of the auction stuff until I get home. I don’t want any of you showing up at the hospital, wounded. Got it?”

Wanda nodded, repeating everything back to her. Alex grabbed her phone and keys, tucking them into her pockets. She hugged Wanda goodbye, ruffling Pietro‘s hair, before going out. She passed by the large box on the porch, groaning. She pushed it over to the edge of the porch, kicking it for good measure. Then, she got into her car and started to the hospital.

~~~~~~

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Bucky.” Steve advised, crossing his arms. He’d been slightly pissed all day, as soon as Bucky told him of the plan. Sam laughed, watching the buildings out of the window. Bucky groaned, throwing his head back onto the headrest.

“I’m just gonna ask if she got the deliveries. That’s it. No flirting, no banter, nothing. Zilch. Just a question.” Bucky reviewed, once again.

“But in practice, the deliveries are flirting tactics.” Steve pointed out, rolling his eyes. “She threatened to shoot you if you came back, Bucky. Leave it alone.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Bucky griped, cutting his eyes over to Steve. “You never give me shit for anything- girls in clubs, you’ve seen me beat guys senseless, shoot people, more questionable things than being interested in a woman.”

“She’s a woman who has her life together, man. Don’t pull her into this life.” Steve sighed, causing Bucky to shut his mouth. The SUV pulled to a stop in front of the house. Bucky unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out, slamming the door behind him. He jaunted up the steps and rapped his knuckles against the door. When it opened, he saw a teenaged boy with bleach white hair behind it.

“Can I help you?” He asked. He didn’t let the door open further than his shoulders. It was excusable. A strange, tattooed man at seven thirty standing on the porch of a woman who threatened to kill him. Bucky flashed a bright smile.

“Is Alex around, kid?” He asked, glancing over and spying the box still sitting unopened on the porch. “Ah... she hasn’t opened them?”

“You’re Bucky Barnes?” He asked, ticking an eyebrow up. Bucky nodded, reaching a hand out to shake hands. Pietro didn’t reciprocate, keeping the door tucked to him. Alex trained these kids well. “Well, thanks for the shit but Alex said she didn’t really want it.”

“Pietro, you left the oven-“ A girl with red hair stopped in her tracks. “What’s going on?”

“This is Barnes.” Pietro looked back at her.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Barnes!” Peter peeked his head around Pietro, opening the door wider. Pietro grumbled something but stood back a little to accommodate for the other boy. “What are you doing here?” Bucky silently sent a thanks to any deity currently listening in. Peter he could work with, the other two kids weren’t gonna give him the time of day. Much like Alex.

“Alex around?” He asked, trying to peek into the house further. Pietro shifted, blocking his view. He crossed his arms, scowling at the bulky mass of a man standing on their porch.

“No- she’s at work-“

“Peter!” The girl hissed, slapping a hand over his mouth. “Shut up!” She turned to Bucky again. “Listen, mister, we don’t want your gifts or you loitering on our porch. We’ve found Jesus, don’t need your depression pamphlet, and we don’t want any of your fucking cookies. Our mom doesn’t condone talking to strangers. Good day, sir.” She slammed the door in his face, the audible sound of several locks clicking.

“Wanda- what the fuck! He could kill you, you know that right?” One of the boys shrilled on the opposite side of the door. Bucky stood in shock- mom? Alex definitely did not look old enough to have two fifteen year olds.

“Oh please, as if. That’ll look real good to Alex, wouldn’t it? He won’t touch either of us.”

Bucky turned and jogged down the steps back to the car. When he opened the door, Sam was doubled over, laughing so hard he was crying. Steve was watching with a ‘I told you so’ smile.

“Alright, you’ve had your laughs.” He grumbled. Shoving his way into the car. Sam snickered, straightening up and looking over at the man.

“That little girl kicked your ass!” He burst out laughing again, pounding his fist on his knee. Bucky mimicked Sam’s words mockingly as he began a search on his phone.

“Whatever.” He breathed out, looking up to the driver. “Saint Quincy’s Hospital, Davis.” The driver nodded, starting the car.

“Why are we going to a hospital?” Steve asked, mirth in his voice. Sam began wiping the laughter from his face, sniffling. Bucky turned to Steve, unbuckling his seat belt.

“Punch me in the face.” He instructed, unbuttoning the top buttons on his shirt. Steve raised an eyebrow, cocking his head. Sam turned, serious again.

“Now, wait a minute-“ Sam was interrupted by Steve throwing a punch directly into Bucky’s nose. Bucky doubled over, holding his now bleeding nose. His eyes watered, stomach rolling.

“Shit!”

[thrillsxchills]

{TW} Orion is obviously one of my more demented children and his whole life is a trigger warning, so please avoid reading this if your triggers contain the following -- depression, abandonment, hallucinations, drugs, violence, substances abuse, blood, abuse/mental & physical, bullying, self harm+un-alive thoughts, dissociating. (That’s a lot & i’m sorry but Orion has a HISTORY.)

Orion is my first and oldest baby I’ve had. He’s developed A LOT over the years, but for the new members I’m going to start all the way from the beginning so enjoy this looong ride. People like Z and Ali remember big bad old orion, that was something 😅

(tw; about death)Orion was an odd kid growing up, he had an usual obsession with death and creepy things. Cemetery's, bugs, and the supernatural. It was hard to make friends with other kids because of his unusual interests and the fact that his family was high class and his father wouldn’t let Orion associate himself with ‘poor people’.

(tw: family abuse) Orion hated and still hates his father with a passion. Nothing Orion ever did impressed his father. He rarely took interest in his one and only son. He only seemed to show up to physically abuse Orion over the smallest things. Orion’s only friend as a child was his mother, she was literally his saving grace.

{tw: abandonment/dissociating) Orion’s mother Cora is sweet and angelic like. However from his father's abuse she became numb and seemed to dissociate often. But Orion still took comfort in his mother's arms. Until one day his mother couldn’t take it anymore. While she wanted to take her son with her, she couldn’t. Orion’s dad’s family was the one with all the money. Cora had nothing to her name. If she took Orion he wouldn’t have a home or all the opportunities that money offered. So she left and it took everything she had left to do it.

(tw: abuse) Once Cora left the picture Orion’s fathers abuse only became worse. Taking out his wifes disappearance out on Orion. Screaming at the top of the lungs asking where Cora was. Orion didn’t know, he was just as clueless as his father but he didn’t believe him.

(tw: substance abuse) that’s when Orion started using drinking and smoking as a coping mechanism from a young age. He’d smoke any chance he got hiding the buds in his dresser drawer and his whiskey bottles in the boxes of his old shoes. It was his only escape from his shitty reality and his father.

(tw: reason for living) that all changed when Jakob Skellington came into the picture. They met at school and formed a quick lasting bond. Orion confided all his secrets and hobbies within Jakob and the boy never judged him. Orion finally found a best friend and a reason for staying alive at that point in time. Problem was their families had a long lasting feud over something stupid. So the two were banned from seeing each other. That didn’t stop them however. The two would sneak to each others house in the middle of the night or sneak off to hang out at Hallow Falls cemetery.

(tw: abandonment/bullying) however the friendship didn’t last long as intended. Because Jack was Orion’s only friend he became possessive over their relationship. Especially when Serena & Zeke entered the picture. They were getting to close to Jakob and Orion hated it. He began to loathe the two. So Orion did the only thing he knew how to do which is what he learned from his father. He began to bully Serena and Zeke to the point that Jack had to step in and defend Zeke and Serena. This felt like a betrayal to Orion. So Orion made an ultimatum. It was him or the two friends Jack barely knew. Jack chose them and Orion has held a resentment ever since. Quickly turning to the Teague's and using them to bully Zeke and Serena through them.

(tw: violence/blood/ suicidal thoughts) now entering his high school years Orion felt abandoned. He had no one but himself. Sure he had the Teagues but he felt that friendship was only extended because they did his bidding in exchange for things. Orion began skipping school more, starting fights for the hell of it. A couple of those fights he almost couldn’t walk away from him. Leaving his body beaten and bloodied in the back ally. Tiffani & Hallie nursed him back to health. But that didn’t stop him. He continued to get black out drunk and start fights. He wanted to feel something/and nothing all at the same time. He wanted to die.

(tw: substance abuse /hallucinations) Orion really thought he was going to die, he was drinking so much that he barely hanging onto his acceptance into Walt by a thread. His father kept bribing the school with money to keep him enrolled. He was known to students as the boogie man/feared by most people except a girl named Hallie. She tried to get him to be a better person. Which it didn’t happen all at once, it was slow. But once Orion realized all the people who had been hurt by his actions. his reality soon came crashing down. He began hearing things. like actual voices talking him. telling him that he was worthless, that he couldn’t be anything more than a monster. he could barely sleep without drinking himself to sleep. he even sought out a pastor to see if his soul was worth redeeming. Here is a self para about that time [SELF PARA HERE] Here is another self para about reuniting with his mother and standing up to his father. [READ HERE] read at viewers own discretion.!

(tw: trauma) It took time but he began to heal from his trauma. Does that mean he’s a better man now? Not exactly, but he knows how to control his temper and not to completely act on his impulsive anger issues that were handed down from his father. He’s not bad, but he’s not good either. He’s reunited with his mother and already forgiven her. He didn’t hesitate that was his mom after all. Him and his father only meet up if they have too after having their showdown a couple of years ago, which is how Orion prefers it anyway. Certain things still trigger Orion but for the most part he’s charming as hell but still intimidating as fuck. He only gets his  hands dirty when he needs too.

OKAY! So that’s a lot and that’s the best I can summarize about my boys development over the last six years! Now for some light hearted head canons,yeah? I think I need therapy from writing all that.

(tw: smoking) you will never see Orion without a cigarette in his hand/mouth. from a young age smoking became a comfort. he doesn’t need it as much as he did back then but its more of a security thing now.

he has a lucky lighter he won from a bar fight. it’s a red zippo lighter in the shape of two pieces of dice. Snake eye’s to be exact.

because of his interest in bugs and reptiles he has a black snake tattoo the looks like its wrapped around his forearm. looks something like this [IMAGE HERE] 

Older Orion has a small tattoo on each of his fingers representing his children. A bat for Axel, Nova is a star, Sage for Sage (but looks more like a flower), and the moon for Draco.

Orion enjoys being isolated/alone that’s when he feels most like himself. despite his background Orion does quite  well in social situations. he adapts to new environments easily and can be quite charming if you’re on his good side.

Orion prefers the more expensive liquor since that's what he grew up with but his favorite and comfort drink is whiskey with ice.

When Orion is alone he enjoys reading/learning about new topics. He’s well educated but most people don’t experience that side of him.

he hates the holidays, for obvious reasons. doesn’t mind Halloween though.

he has a hate/love relationship with the Teague siblings. Logan annoys the hell outta of him, Beckham is stand-offish and Sadie is the only one he truly gets along with. But deep down their Orion’s only friends and he appreciates them. Will he tell them that? Not until hell freezes over.

Orion’s zodiac sign is Sagittarius

Orion doesn’t keep up with his casino daily- the assets yes, but the actual place no. However he does show up every once in awhile to cheat people out of their money. What can i say he’s a gamblin man.

.Spoken Word/Singing is Orion’s favorite music genre. he’ll go to the grave denying that but he relates to a lot of the bands like la dispute, hobo johnson, front porch step. But he enjoys most kind of music. His most recently played song is Self Care by Mac Miller. [LISTEN HERE]

Now when it comes to Sadie Teague things are different. She’s the only person that really challenges him. He admires her perseverance and her will to do things on her own. Their relationship is complicated. Friends? Friends with Benefits? But his feelings are starting to get intertwined, but how to express feelings he’s never felt before?

favorite color is red

Vitani also intrigues him/she’s not annoying like regular happy go lucky people. He enjoys her company, maybe he’ll ask if she needs a job at the casino.

[juju-on-that-yeet]

Hopelessly Devoted to You

Summary: Yancy’s in love with his best friend. He already knows it won’t work between them, so he keeps his building crush buried deep. That is, until he admits it by accident. Warnings: None Characters: Yancy, Illinois, Yandereplier shows up a bit

Tags: @peribloke @tired-eldritchhorror @crithechaotic @letsrevitup

Read on AO3

Enjoy!

~

All things considered, living at Ego Inc. is a pretty sweet deal, even compared to Happy Trails Penitentiary. Not having a set schedule took some getting used to, but Yancy finds he enjoys being able to eat whenever he wants, to sleep in as late as he wants, or stay up late doing…pretty much anything.

That’s a good thing about Ego Inc.: There’s so much to do here that Yancy never has to step a foot outside the place, much to his relief. Freedom is intimidating, and unlike Captain Magnum and Illinois, Yancy doesn’t have any inclination for adventure beyond the four walls in which he lives. Here, he doesn’t have to leave the house to get something to eat, work out, or even record a song or dance on a stage.

Another great thing about Ego Inc., perhaps the best part: The other egos. Yancy was wary at first of all these new people, but it didn’t take him long to realize that they’re all misfits and oddballs just as his prison family was. He and MarkBop took a shine to each other over their shared love of song, and Yancy managed to convince Wilford and Bim to let him perform on the studio stage. All three had been impressed with Yancy’s singing and dancing chops, and Yancy’s spent too long surrounded by thugs and criminals to be intimidated by Wilford, so he gets along with them well. He found a friend in Yandere, too, after he challenged Yandere to a brawl and was promptly beaten into a pulp. He likes Yandere’s chutzpah and Yandere likes his, and the two quickly became metaphorical and literal partners in crime. Google Chrome became a friend too, or at least something close to it, just by proximity. His anger doesn’t faze Yancy; he's got his own problems with anger and he’s met plenty of angry people back in prison. He's found that they can be pretty swell if one looks past the rough edges.

There’s only a few egos who Yancy doesn’t much care for. Silver Shepherd is nice enough, but he’s too much of a goody-two-shoes for Yancy’s style. Darkiplier creeps him out, and Yancy bristles at his authority the same way he did at Warden Murderslaughter’s. Dr. Iplier reminds him too much of a parent, coddling and saccharine and way too gentle, and Yancy’s already made it clear that he’s not interested in that kind of family here (somehow the way Yandere babies him and calls him “Yan-Yan” and lavishes physical affection on him feels different).

There’s egos he thinks are okay, egos he’d rather avoid but can’t say he dislikes, and egos he doesn’t have much of an opinion on. But there’s only one that he can’t say he knows how to feel about at all.

And that person, strangely enough, is Illinois.

By all accounts, he should have a solid opinion. The two of them plus Captain Magnum came to Ego Inc. as a package deal, a trio of musketeers, on the tail end of a whirlwind adventure. Yancy certainly has an opinion of Magnum; he’s an awesome guy and great fun to be around, and helped show Yancy the value of freedom as the group traversed the globe. He looked out for Yancy when Illinois got too caught up in the thrill of adventure to watch out for his friends, and was the first to notice when Yancy started to bristle at the nomadic life they were living with the desire to be inside four walls again. Despite the good company Yancy’s found at Ego Inc., he still considers Magnum one of his best and truest friends.

But then, there’s Illinois.

Or Lio, as most of the egos have taken to calling him. Their opinion of him is as mixed as Yancy’s; half the group seems to have fallen for his charm, or at least likes him well enough. The other half bristles as his flirty personality and finds him irritating. Hell, the whole reason Yancy picked a fight with Yandere was because Yandere decked Lio after Lio blew a kiss at him. Yancy's managed to keep Lio in Yandere’s good graces as he's befriended him, assuring him that Lio means no harm. But at the same time, Yancy can see why some people dislike Lio so much.

He’s arrogant, cocky, self-absorbed, reckless…

Passionate…

Hard-working…

Gold-hearted…

Handsome…

Perfect.

Therein lies the problem.

“Don’t miss me too much,” Lio quips before he leaves for another jungle trek or spelunking trip.

“Like what you see?” Lio jokes when he comes back with ripped clothes from near-misses with traps.

“Did you finally fall in love with me?” Lio asks with a cheeky grin whenever Yancy does something particularly thoughtful for him.

“Oh, sure,” Yancy replies with a laugh.

“Yes,” he thinks, earnest and hurting.

He’s in love with Lio. He has been for a while.

He can’t stand it.

He knows Lio, he knows his issues with commitment. He knows about the partners of his that have come and gone, some who were killed on adventures, some who were scared off by the dangerous lifestyle. He remembers talking with Lio about Dark’s rule to avoid forming relationships with humans, romantic or otherwise.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Lio had sighed, “I do my best work alone, after all. It’s about time I stopped breaking hearts.”

Yancy had rolled his eyes and teased him, and inside he’d cringed. If only Lio knew.

Yancy knows from experience that he has a bad habit of falling hard and fast. It never really takes much; his standards aren’t exactly high, having spent so long surrounded by criminals.

His first love at Happy Trails was a blonde waif of a woman, jailed for shoplifting. She had a dazzling smile and the skill to snag apples from the cafeteria right under the noses of the guards, and that was all Yancy had needed to fall for her. They had a whirlwind romance that ended a few months later when she made parole. She came to see Yancy the first two visitation Sundays, and on the second, said she wouldn’t be coming back. She’d moved on with normal life, was trying to do better, and coming around to Happy Trails and carrying on a relationship with a convicted murderer wouldn’t do her any favors. Yancy had swallowed sobs as he wished her the best.

His last love at the prison was a dark-haired man in for drug trafficking, tall and nearly as broad as Magnum, but clean-shaven and absolutely covered in tattoos. He had an artistic soul, just like Yancy, and it drew them together right away. Yancy still remembers spending long nights dancing his fingers along the man’s many tattoos under the fluorescent lights of his cell. He was around much longer than the woman, and when he was finally released, he didn’t bother visiting even once. It took three months of visitation Sundays for Yancy to give up on him.

In between those two, there were plenty of others, and Yancy remembers them all, remembers every little piece of his heart they took with him. The prisoners not in Yancy’s group called him all sorts of unsavory names behind his back regarding the number of partners he’d had. Yancy doesn’t consider himself promiscuous, though it wouldn’t be so bad if he was. Maybe if he was only in it for the physical side of things, it wouldn’t hurt so bad when they left.

Because they always left.

And Yancy has no doubt that if he ever confessed to Lio that Lio would end up leaving, too. If he accepted Yancy’s affections then there’s no way it would last, not with the ghosts of a hundred failed relationships on both their backs. More likely, though, Lio would reject him, and Yancy would lose an incredible friend.

For all of Lio’s faults, for all his self-importance and too-high self-confidence, he’s still a good person. He supports Yancy’s passion as enthusiastically as he does his own, providing insightful critique when Yancy needs it and cheering on every performance. He defends Yancy to others when he gets in trouble, and doesn’t bat an eye at Yancy’s past crimes or current anger issues. He knows how to keep a secret, and Yancy trusts him enough to tell him his fears, his worries about living in this big building that isn’t a prison, the way freedom feels like pressure after so long without. Lio trusts him, too, and can be unflinchingly honest about his own fear of commitment and his petraphobia from years of dodging boulders. Under all the bravado is a truly charming man, someone kind and considerate and strong and beautiful –

“Get it together, Yancy. Quit thinkin’ about it.”

Fortunately, Yancy is a performer, which means he can be a damn good actor when he tries. And he tries so hard around Lio, swallows every feeling and prick in his heart deep into himself. They build and build, but Yancy keeps them locked up tight.

He does let it slip to Yandere once, though.

“Oh my gosh, you’re in love with Lio??” Yandere asks, squealing with excitement. “Tell me everything! How long have you known? Does he know? When are you gonna tell him?”

“Woah, hey!” Yancy cries, trying to placate Yandere’s excitement. “Look, I haven’t told him nothin’, and I ain’t gonna.”

“What!? Why not??” Yandere gasps with a pout.

“Because it don’t…” Yancy sighs. “It don’t matter. He ain’t gonna like me back. He’s got his whole thing about commitment, y’know.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Yandere’s eyes go starry. “But maybe he could change his ways for the right person, you could make him a better person –”

“It don’t work that way, Yan,” Yancy interrupts. “It’s a nice thought, but love don’t fix people. All the relationships I had in prison didn’t fix nobody.”

Yandere pouts again.

“But you two would be so cute together!” he exclaims, “You should at least tell him, get it off your chest! I can be your wingman, we could –”

“No!” Yancy shouts, then reigns himself in. “No, I’m not tellin’ Lio. And youse gotta swear you won’t, neithers.”

“Okay, Yan-kun,” Yandere says, concerned and bummed but not wanting to upset Yancy further. “But I’ll help you if you ever change your mind.”

Yancy isn’t surprised by Yandere’s reaction. He’s a truer romantic than Yancy ever could be, that’s for sure. Yancy may not have a clue what possessed him to fall for Darkiplier of all people, but he has to admit that they seem happy together, that they treat each other well. Yandere is, well, a yandere: He’s captivated by love, obsessed with it, he believes in happy endings and rom-coms and riding away on a white horse together.

Yancy’s a romantic, too, but he’s a realist. He’s been around the block too many times to believe in the power of love like Yandere does. Yancy knows that love can’t fix people, it can’t smooth over flaws, it can’t dull rough edges. Sometimes love can motivate people to do better, to be better (Yancy’s seen that, too), but it can’t change who people are.

Loving Lio won’t make him less of a heart-breaker. Confessing to Lio won’t make him more likely to love Yancy back.

So Yancy keeps it bottled up.

He keeps hanging out with Lio, of course, because Lio’s still his friend and he could never stay away for long. He still listens to Lio’s stories of adventure, still bounces song and choreography ideas off of him, still spends days with Lio and Magnum, too, just like old times before the group found Ego Inc., back when Yancy was too distracted by constant activity to think about his crush. He likes the change of pace at Ego Inc., but it means he can’t always stay up into the wee hours of the morning laughing with Lio and Magnum, nor can he always cause trouble with Yandere and Chrome all night.

Inevitably Yancy ends up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wrestling with own thoughts. He’ll give himself whiplash pushing Lio out of his mind only to catch himself thinking of him minutes later. When Yancy falls asleep, he dreams of Lio, dreams of slow-dancing with him to quiet showtunes, dreams of holding onto his broad shoulders as Lio’s hands lightly hold his waist, dreams of moving his hands across Lio’s shoulders and up his neck to cup his cheeks, dreams of Lio flashing his classic heart-stopping grin as Yancy’s fingers trace his cheekbones, dreams of leaning in as Lio tugs him closer, dreams of their lips coming together –

Yancy wakes up and showers in freezing water for the next thirty minutes, waiting for the heat in his blood to cool, the heat that makes him want to finish the dream in his mind, the heat that makes him want to punch holes into his bedroom wall.

Thank goodness, at least, for the soundproofing. He’d asked for it when he first got his room, partly for the sake of the others and partly for his own privacy. Yancy has a habit of singing out his feelings, and he prefers a place to do it without anyone listening in.

“You know I'm just a fool who's willing, to sit around and wait for you,” he sings to himself quietly, under the roar of water in the shower.

“But, baby, can't you see, there's nothing else for me to do?” he sings as he gets dressed, words muffled as he pulls a white t-shirt over his head.

“I'm hopelessly devoted to you,” he sings as he hesitates by the door, knowing that he’s about to face Lio once more, and push everything down once again.

It’s not just the lovelorn sadness that’s getting harder to hold back. It’s the anger. The frustrated, impotent rage that he sometimes feels toward Lio for being such an oblivious, heart-breaking flirt. But more often he’s angry at himself, angry for torturing himself, angry he can’t just see Lio as a friend and get over it, angry that he has to hide so much of himself away day in and day out. Yancy hates it, because he’s gotten a lot better about his anger, lately. His outbursts have been much less frequent since he left Happy Trails, and the one he does have are much milder, much shorter. But anger is building in him like it never has before, right alongside the aching lovelorn pining filling up his heart.

He’s not in Happy Trails anymore. This is a prison of his own making, and it’s far worse than any amount of time in solitary Warden Murderslaughter could’ve given him.

He looks at Lio and he wants to kiss him.

No, he wants to punch him in the throat.

“Say it now, say it now, explain to me,” he sings to his bedroom ceiling, “Why this happens every time, give me any kind of sign, ’cause I just can't walk away…”

Lio laughs, and Yancy wishes he could listen forever.

He knocks his head against his bedroom wall until he stops thinking about it.

“Why beat your handsome brow?” he asks himself, “Nothing changes, nothing changes, nothing changes, anyhow.”

Lio brushes dust off his hat with strong, calloused hands that would feel so good in Yancy’s hair.

“Stop it, stop it, it ain’t happenin’, Yancy, get a grip!!”

“I love him, but every day I’m learning,” he shouts into his bathroom mirror, “All my life, I’ve only been pretending!”

When Lio hugs him, as he does sometimes, his whole mind and body stop working, and Yancy remembers the feeling of his arms for the rest of the day.

He screams his throat raw at night, throws the heaviest book on his shelf at the wall.

“My head is saying, “Fool, forget him,”” he gasps, “My heart is saying, “Don’t let go, hold on ‘till the end.””

He sits in the middle of his bedroom floor. There’s a dent in the wall. How long has it been since he last did something like that in anger?

“And that's what I intend to do,” he whispers, as quiet as he can manage, “I’m hopelessly devoted to you.”

The dam is doomed to burst.

After all the acting and hiding and swallowing feelings, Yancy blows his own cover in a single thoughtless moment, completely by accident.

Him and Lio are hanging out like usual. Magnum has gone off to who knows where, leaving Yancy and Lio on the floor of Lio’s bedroom, there to better take in Lio’s latest additions to his geode collection. The conversation’s moved on from the geodes, but they’re still sitting on the floor, laughing and goofing around.

“Dark really hates when Mags goes out sailing,” Lio chuckles, “I guess because he’s too conspicuous.”

“As much I don’t like the guy, he’s got a point,” Yancy points out, “Don’t think most folks make prost’etics outta tree trunks anymores.”

“And that’s the last thing people tend to notice,” Lio laughs, “After the beard, the scar, the accent, the way he’s as big as three men put together…”

“Youse think he’d be mad at us for talkin’ ‘bout him like this?”

“Nah, he’d take it all as a compliment. The man likes to be seen.”

“And you don’t?” Yancy raises an eyebrow.

“I never said that I don’t,” Lio chuckles, “Only that Magnum does.”

“Sounds a bit hypocritical s’all I’m sayin’.”

“Well, can you blame me for wanting to be seen?” Lio winks, and Yancy swears he can hear a whip crack in the air. “I mean, I am very handsome.”

“Very fulla youse-self, more like.” Yancy flicks him in the nose.

“Hey!” Lio sputters, and Yancy laughs. “Don’t act like you don’t get it. It’s only a matter of time before you fall for my effortless charm.”

“Is it really “effortless” if youse such a try-hard all the time?” Yancy asks wryly. “‘Sides, I already have.”

It comes out without him thinking, just another line of banter. His throat dries up.

“Did I really just say that?”

“Oh, have you now?” Lio chuckles. He’s still acting playful. He thinks Yancy was kidding. It’s not too late, this is salvageable.

“C’mon Yancy, play along! Flick him in the nose again and say “in your dreams” or somethin’! Don’t just sit there!”

But Yancy’s throat is still dry. This is different than a simple “oh, sure” or sarcastic “I’m swooning,” this is a true admission. Of guilt, of love, of everything Yancy’s been working so hard to hide. His brain screams at him to speak but he can’t make his voice come out. He knows it must show on his face; he can feel his blood running cold, feel how his smile has fallen away, feel how wide his eyes are. Lio doesn’t notice right away, he laughs at himself, at Yancy’s statement, but then he meets Yancy’s eyes and takes in his expression. There’s a futile hope that he won’t make the connection, but how could he not? Lio’s no idiot.

“Yancy, are you okay? What –”

Lio realizes. His eyes go as wide as Yancy’s. Shock floods his face like Yancy has never seen before. He wants to crawl away and die.

“Yancy, buddy,” Lio gasps, “That…that bit about falling for me, that…that was a joke, right?”

Lio knows it wasn’t. That much is clear. But if Yancy can just pretend, if he can try to play it off, then he and Lio never have to address it. They’ll never have to talk about it again. Things can go back to normal. Lio wants to save face, his own and Yancy’s. Yancy only has to say the word.

But he can’t. He’s spent too long denying it to himself, spent too long pretending. He can’t make himself do it any longer. He wants to keep denying, he has to, but he can’t play it off. His heart is too tired. His voice is too weak. He can’t hide anymore.

Watching Lio’s face is like watching a car wreck in slow motion. Yancy watches his confession settle into Lio’s mind, watches Lio realize that Yancy won’t take it back. His face fills with panic, his skin pales a few shades. Yancy thinks they must be twins, both pale and moon-eyed in their paralyzing shock. Lio opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. He’s speechless. Yancy’s never seen that happen before.

“Yancy…” Lio starts. Regret, sorrow, pity, fear. It all plays across his face. He settles for strained, uncomfortable guilt as he struggles for words. “Yancy, I’m…I’m sorry.” He looks away, then back at Yancy again. “I don’t…” He sighs, a quiet huff out of his nose. “I don’t.”

This is the outcome Yancy knew would happen. This is the outcome Yancy feared. This is the thing that kept his mouth shut all this time. This is the thing he saw in his nightmares.

He can feel his heart split all the way down the center, twisting and knotting up in his chest. There’s knots in his throat, too, so lumpy and painful and aching that Yancy fears Lio can see them. He’s sure Lio can see the tears starting to cloud Yancy’s eyes.

“Oh,” Yancy manages, “I mean…yeah.”

He’s not surprised. He knew this would happen.

“That’s why you tried to hide it in the first place, you fucking genius, you moron, you huge goddamn stupid piece of worthless unlovable –”

Yancy gets up from the floor, fleetingly glad that this didn’t happen in his own room. He doubts he’d have the stomach to kick Lio out.

“I’m…I’ll just go,” he manages, voice choked with barely-restrained sobs.

“Yan –”

“Bye.”

“Yan!”

Yancy stops, hand on the door, knob already turned. He tells himself not to look back, but why start listening to himself now? Lio has stood up, too, staring after him with some mix of worry and terror on his face.

“Yan, how…how long?” His voice is layered with pity, and it makes Yancy’s heart start burning.

“It don’t matter.”

He opens the door and runs off. Lio doesn’t call after him, he doesn’t follow.

Yancy storms into his room seeing red, nothing but red, filtered through ugly tears. The moment the door slams shut they pour out in a howl.

“It’s ruined. I ruined it. I just lost my best friend.”

The lump in his throat bursts, sobs shoot out of him without his control. His body is torn between collapsing where it stands and storming around the room.

“He knows now, he knows. He knows how much I want him, he knows I’ve wanted him for a long time. He knows everything.”

His body makes its choice.

Yancy picks up his desk chair and heaves it across the room with a roar.

He punches holes into the wall. He kicks his bedframe so hard he leaves a dent. He throws books. He tears up music sheets. He only ever pauses to wipe tears out of his eyes when he can’t see enough to keep destroying. He never stops screaming. He never stops cursing himself inside. He never stops telling himself off for destroying his friendship with Lio. He never stops yelling at himself for letting his biggest secret go.

Unfortunately, though his room is soundproof, some sound can still leak out if it’s loud enough.

“Yancy, what’s going on??” cries Yandere from outside Yancy’s door. He must be here to hang out with Yancy. To watch a movie? To tear up the town? Who knows? Who cares?

“Go away!!” Yancy screams. He doesn’t recognize the sound of his own voice, hoarse from shouting and warped from rage.

“What the hell are you doing in there!?” Yandere shrieks, alarmed by the venom in Yancy’s voice. Yancy doesn’t care. He slams his hand against his bedroom door, feeling a sick glimmer of satisfaction when Yandere yelps from the other side.

“I ain’t gonna tell you again!” Yancy roars, slamming the door again, both hands this time. “Get! Lost!!”

He turns away, anger unabated. He still can’t see through the red in his vision. Through the ever-falling tears. He hates this sadness. He hates this feeling. He hates his own stupidity, his own big mouth. He keeps wrecking his room, putting holes in the wall. He hears nothing from outside for a long moment, and thinks Yandere’s finally left him alone.

Until he hears a loud thud from his door, then another, then the door slams open as Yandere kicks it in.

Yancy whirls on him, and he catches Yandere’s determination falter. Yancy’s been good about managing his anger until now, Yandere’s never seen this before. They’re each at a standstill. But it only lasts a moment before Yandere furrows his brow again and approaches Yancy.

“The fuck’s he doin’ here, breakin’ into my room!? Can’t he let me grieve in peace??”

“Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re so mad about, but –”

Crack!

Yancy punches Yandere without thinking about it. He’s only angry. Angry to lose his privacy. Angry to have his space intruded on. Quick as a flash, Yandere reaches out to grab Yancy’s wrists. Yancy pulls but can’t pull free. Yandere snaps up his head to glare at him, eyes burning red. His grip on Yancy tightens, tightens. A bruise is already blooming across his cheek, a thin line of blood sneaks past his lips.

All at once, Yancy comes back to himself.

“What did you do!? You just punched Yandere! Youse already lost one friend today, what’ll you do if you lose another?? You’re gonna get abandoned again!!”

The red leaks out of Yancy’s vision. He blinks, gasps.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice weak and raspy and already wet with fresh tears, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t thinking, please, I’m sorry –” He drops to his knees, blood rushing in his ears. “Don’t leave, don’t leave, I’m sorry, don’t leave me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” His words trail off as he starts to sob, aching and loud and painful like he did when he first ran into his room.

He can hardly see Yandere through his tears, but he can see the red in his eyes fade away as Yancy begs before him. Yandere may not know anger like Yancy’s, but he knows fear of rejection, he knows fear of abandonment. He lets go of Yancy’s wrists.

“Yan-kun, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he gasps, like he’s in pain, too. He kneels down to Yancy’s level to hug him. “It’s okay, you’re my friend, Yan-kun, I’m not going anywhere.” Yancy hugs Yandere back, as tight as he can, as Yandere rubs his back. “What happened, Yan-Yan? What’s got you so upset?”

Yancy only bawls harder in response, burrowing into Yandere’s arms so hard that he stumbles, falling back to sit on the floor. Yancy curls up in Yandere’s lap, wailing into his neck, and Yandere holds him, stroking his hair and trying to soothe him. They sit there in Yancy’s ruined room, curled over Yancy’s ruined heart.

Yancy keeps crying. He can’t forget any of it. He can’t forget his haphazard confession, he can’t forget Lio’s shock and embarrassment and guilt and pity, he can’t forget his own beating heart, still thumping for Lio after everything. He can’t forget the friend he’s lost, the lover he wished he could’ve had. He weeps because it’s over, it’s well and truly over.

He cannot sing for tears, but song haunts him anyway, it rings in his mind as keen as his beleaguered heart beats:

But now there's nowhere to hide,

Since you pushed my love aside,

I'm out of my head,

Hopelessly devoted to you.

[in-tua-deep]

How do you think things would have changed if Five has come back even younger than in canon? Like if he came back as 7 or 8 or even younger? Also, I love your writing. You’re an amazing writer and I love reading your stuff.

first of all that would be hilarious because as much as media has tricked you into thinking older child actors (who are easier to work with) are younger (I mean case in point, Five is supposed to be thirteen but the actor is fifteen and those two years can make a big difference at that age) or animated movies can’t decide on a size for their character, but for real seven-year-olds in real life are BABIES

that’s like. the equivalent of a second grader?? I think i was about to go into year three living in the netherlands. I thought the year six kids were ancient. I didn’t care about bodily harm and would just hurl myself into cartwheels and handstands (nowadays not so much)

That was about the age I was losing teeth for the Very First Time and also the age I almost gave myself a concussion playing on the playground equipment (I blacked out and woke up in the nurses office lmao) and I thought the singing talents of Sandy from Hamtaro were the greatest in the world (the twirling ribbon song was formative for me)

seven was also the age for me that i realized that romance was The Worst because my best friend george decided that the pulling pigtails version of bugging me was a sure fire way to get my attention or something like that. but like,, george and me had chicken pox together. we pretended we were cheetahs in our treetop bunkbed nest together (we had a very loose grasp of the difference between cheetahs and jaguars and other big cats, admittedly). He was my best friend he didn’t need to pull my hair or anything rip

like can you even IMAGINE if five came back as a second grader?? yeah like maybe someone would serve thirteen-year-old Five black coffee but no one is going to just hand this baby child anything with caffeine are you kidding me

his feet wouldn’t even be able to reach the peDALS OF THE CAR

wow this would inconvenience him so much

i can’t even find a picture of my brother that young smh but here’s him and me when he was? probably about nine or ten and I was actually probably about six and smiling with a closed mouth to hide the fact that i was missing teeth or something smh

that is TWO WHOLE BABIES right there i’m just genuinely dying at the thought of Five popping out and he’s just. a gradeschooler. that suit would have been swimming on him and he’s got little chubby cheeks built to absorb shock and whatever atrocious child haircut he had at that age 

(i have posted before about my genuine shock that five was ten in the comics. ten!! that’s a whole baby! a child! W H A T)

but?? does he pop up from jumping through his portal and look in the mirror and find that he’s missing some teeth? Can he whistle air through the gaps? i’m just picturing seven-year-old five getting socked in the face and losing some teeth or something and diego is right there to patronizingly tell him that it’s okay they’re probably just baby teeth and five is about to punch diego’s teeth out in a second if he keeps that up by jove

imagine five jumping and standing on the counter and he still can’t reach the marshmallows because they’re on the top shelf of the cupboard do you know how angry that would make him?? he would have about 60% less time for his siblings bullshit than normal because his small stature can only hold so much emotion at any one time and he has decided to go with seething rage for the foreseeable future

can you imagine how difficult that would be for Allison though?? Five at thirteen was bad but Five-at-around-Claire’s-age??? a billion times worse and she’s probably going to either be super avoidant because it’s painful or full on protective mama bear

it would definitely change a lot of plot stuff because i mean. no one’s going to let this tiny child drive. he can’t reach the pedals, duh. however, he might persuade one of the siblings (diego and klaus, probably) to drive him to griddy’s instead? Because with the options being “so help me i will walk there myself. alone. at night. as a small and innocent looking child” and driving him and keeping him company i think the latter wins out

(i’d nix griddy’s altogether but i’m way too invested in hazel and agnes getting together tbh)

hey wait does being that young mean that five doesn’t have his umbrella tattoo?? huh. well regardless if diego and klaus accompany him then the plot point of agnes telling the assassin squad about the tattoo can still happen so i guess it’s a moot point

but honestly the drama of having this tiny child just. completely annihilate the hit squad is hilarious to me, and it would also hit home the fact that hey! five might be telling the truth about everything and isn’t messed up by time travel! i mean whomst the fuck else would walk into a room and zero in on the seven-year-old no one else knows exists or is assumed dead by literally the whole ass world (and even if they didn’t he’s supposed to be 29) and demand he come with them and shit like man

Klaus: hey five what do you have

Five, stabbing his own arm to take the tracking device out: a knife

Diego: NO

other fun points include: the siblings bodily picking five up and five behaving like a very aggressive small breed of dog while simultaneously being super touch-starved and secretly appreciating being carried but would never admit it (whilst sober that is)

either they kept the old uniforms and five wears that or they have to scrounge up whatever they can find which means that five is dressed in some of claire’s clothes allison found stuffed in the bottom of her suitcase until they can go shopping and i’m not sure which is better tbh

hazel and cha-cha assuming that five is actually either diego or klaus bc those were the two adults in the coffee shop with the umbrella tattoo and eventually being confronted with the fact that their legendary adversary is a gradeschooler

five just being. so tired. all the time. my bedtime at seven years old was probably like. 8:30PM. kids need a lot of sleep!! so just five trying to keep himself awake because he has important stuff to do!! but doing the nod and bob because he can’t keep his eyes open

the trying-to-be-helpful but mildly-condescending strangers who stop five or talk down to him increase by tenfold. Teenagers out an about on the street along? eh. a seven-year-old? five is going to get so many concerns “where are your parents, sweetheart?” that he IS going to snap and kill a well meaning middle aged woman in the middle of the street

in a similar note the number of people who assume that he is the child of whatever sibling he happens to be in proximity to also increases tenfold and five does Not Appreciate This (and neither do half the siblings tbh bc now they have to pretend that they are responsible for this tiny feral child)

“FUCK” five says, loudly, prompting gasps from the delicate natured passerbys. 

“you can’t fucking say that, dude, you’re like. a baby.” klaus says, equally loudly and making everyone in earshot 70% more scandalized

“I am not associated with them” diego informs the masses with an edge of desperation

luther is just. so massive next to this tiny version of five. he could hold him in like, one hand. and maybe luther at one point was really good with kids but with his new body he’s awkward and it’s very sad

no one bats an eye at child Five toting an Entire Half of a Mannequin that is probably as big as he is around. Billy’s kid is currently emotionally attached to a brick he found in the alley behind his school. Gertie’s granddaughter refuses to leave the house without an old sock filled with pebbles tucked under her arm. Gary’s stepkid found a piece of driftwood on the beach and now it’s in their bed every night. Kids are weird and at least Five’s has a face for him to talk to i guess??

instead of luther threatening dolores he just looks at five with this gun that is way too big for him to have a hold of really and just. reaches out and scoops five up under his armpits and he’s just furiously wiggling and growling and luther is like “nope not putting you down until we agree that murder is not a solution”

every interaction with the handler is probably about 112% more creepy honestly but also what about the job?? either five a) gets an appropriately child sized desk like the ones you find in an actual gradeschool or b) he gets some kind of boosterseat for his chair and just has to sit at this desk that is comically oversized for him

the squad go to a restaurant and the server brings over the menus and hands five a children’s menu. without a word klaus just plucks it from five’s hands and substitutes it for his own because they have been kicked out of six whole restaurants and he is willing to eat the children’s chicken nugget meal if he had to god damn it

the apocalypse doesn’t happen because vanya is literally incapable of hurting a grade schooler right in front of her regardless of how pissed off at her family in general she is. that is a whole child. vanya works with children for her job. she can’t hurt an entire child in front of her?? like she can destroy the world and all the abstract children but this one child right in front of her? who is also her long lost brother and former sole confidant as children who wasn’t there for any of the general bullshit she just went through?? not so much

but like. even after the stop the apocalypse there’s still the issue of what to do with this entire child. like at least as a teenager five would be able to be somewhat independent but seven-year-old five can’t reach the sink to wash his hands without a step stool 

just the squad coming together to look after five without quite letting five know that’s what they’re doing because they don’t want to wake up to a knife in their chest or anything smh

five and claire meet and become an unstoppable duo of terror. patrick is an actually competent parent who is so exhausted 24/7 from raising his daughter that he just accepts five immediately because?? his brother-in-law being a time travelling 58-year-old in the body of a grade schooler who is partially feral from over forty years alone and probably has untreated ptsd? okay might as well happen

patrick “i didn’t trust allison with a child and yet i still trust her way more than the rest of you so i’m going to schedule five a doctor’s appointment or something because god knows he’s probably not up to date on his vaccinations and he’s hanging around claire and i doubt any of y’all even thought about that” hargreeves

the hargreeves all go to an amusement park as a family bonding activity. the mistake becomes clear when it’s revealed that five is too short to go on half the rides. the resulting meltdown gets them all kicked out and Diego just has five tossed over his shoulder still hurling insults at the ride attendant as they hoof it out of there

the family has to figure out everywhere they can go within walking distance because there’s still a cold war going on between allison and five over whether he has to be in a booster seat for any car rides or not

it’s basically just shenanigans with the family and five trying to figure out how to coexist and compromise and also look after one another when it’s been every man for themself pretty much all their lives

[gemmaheart]

The Killer Snake

Damian Wayne x Female Reader

Summary

Reader is a assassin for the Black Cobra, an ally to the League of Assassins. At the age of 15, she is the best killer the Black Cobra has. What will happen when a young bird comes face to face with this elusive murderer?

Warning: Talk of killing/death

Writer’s Notes: This will be multipart if you want or we can leave it here please comment if you want more. I can’t take very much credit for this writing as I got inspiration from many other fanfics (Not all DC). Also please excuse all grammar/punctuation mistakes, English is my first (only) language, I’m just not good with it in written form.

KEY:

y/n means your first name

y/l/n means your last name

y/n/m means your name on missions

h/c means hair color

e/c means eye color

f/c means favorite color

Narrators point of view

It was another boring day at the Wayne Manor for Damian. Titus was asleep after having played for a few hours. Dick was off in Bludhaven, probably with his girlfriend, Cory. His father was at work, he had complained about having board meetings all day. So with nothing else to do, Damian went down to the cave to train. Once he got into it he was so focused that he had gone four hours without stopping. Not wanting to wear himself out before patrol tonight, he put his equipment away and went up to the kitchen. Alfred was currently making dinner. His father would be home soon then. “What are you preparing, Pennyworth” Damian asked. Alfred, rolling his eyes replied (Insert fancy dinner foods here) as sarcastically as possible. Damian elected to ignore that sarcasm as starting a verbal fight with the butler was a sure way to lose his patrol privileges. “Very good” he replied “Sounds wonderful” he quickly added. Just then Bruce entered the house looking exhausted from his many meetings of the day. Damian was told to set the table for the three while Bruce got into something more comfortable for the remainder of the day. Dinner was quiet, as usual for the three men. It’s what was to come after that Damian was interested in. Suited up in his Robin uniform he waited for Bruce. They where soon in the Bat-mobile zooming through the streets of Gotham. They meet up with Commissioner Gordon on the GCPD roof. Tonight there was a big drug shipment coming into port, Black Masks operation. It was suppose to be simple. Take down the guards, stop the drugs from getting into Gotham. Nothing was simple in Gotham however. When the dynamic duo arrived at the East Docks there was a full blown gang war occurring. Black Mask and the Falcones were fighting for dominance, an even match. (Not sure how to write a fight scene for this, SORRY) After a long fight against two crime bosses and their many goons, Batman and Robin are able to get the upper hand. Chasing the crime lords off and stopping the drugs from getting onto the streets, Bruce and Damian report to Gordon,do a lap around the city, and head home for some well deserved rest.

Somewhere in the Arabian Desert

Another mission, another person to kill. Y/N receives her orders, her target was Robin better known as Damian al Ghul, now Wayne. This mission was assigned by the leader of the League of Assassins herself, Talia al Ghul, Damians mother. She sees her son as soft, his father teaching him to not kill his enemies as he was originally told. Ten years of training wasted, a son ruined by Bruce Waynes rules and morales. No more than a kill mission for y/n/m. At the age of 15, y/n y/l/n was a true assassin. With more than 200 kills under her belt, she was a prize among the Black Cobra, reserved for truly challenging targets. But before all this glory she was nothing. No home, no family, no anything. The Black Cobra toke her in, trained her to be a killer, gave her a purpose. She was loyal to them, owed them her life. She has never failed a mission. Now, y/n was off to Gotham City, to take yet another life in the name of the Black Cobra.

Several days later in Gotham

The Wayne’s where having a charity gala tonight. At their mansion, with at least 350 people, and y/n would be one of them. At her age she needed someone to go as her guardian, the man was named Henry Garcia, a wealthy man from Star City, with ties to the Black Cobra. He owed them for a supply of weaponry gone missing last month, this was his ticket. With Henry, y/n could get into the mansion to spy on her target without suspicion. Not that there would be much anyway, she was young, pretty, and his age so no one would question her watching the boy. She watched him for the entire gala, learning about him. For instance, he was introverted, not talking to anyone and keeping to himself. He had found a corner and not really left it all night. Men talked about business deals and future plans. Women gossiped about the latest scandals and raves over the others dresses, shoes, and accessories. Some people danced, most drank, some tried to do both. Damian just looked on, a frown on his face, clearly not happy to be here. All the while y/n studying him, collecting anything that could be useful for later. At the end of the gala Henry and y/n walked out, no one the wiser of what had happened, why Damian was being watched by the beautiful h/c in the f/c dress.

Two nights later on patrol

Damians point of view

The night was calm, the rain lightly falling from above, cleaning the air of the wretched pollution. Father and I had separated to cover more ground, he toke the East and I the West. There are warehouses along the river, all supposed to be empty but one had lights on, dim but noticeable. I radio father on the comms, telling him my location, and that I was going to look around stealthily. He agreed with that plan and said he would be there as soon as he could. With the conformation to enter, I went in through the roof, landing on a path above the main floor. It seemed there was nothing but as I continued to look around from above I spotted a man tied to a chair. I quickly recognize him as a man from our resent gala, Mark something. I see about ten people on the other side of the expansive warehouse. I alert Father of this development as the men move to interrogate the businessman. They want money and supplies his company makes, he refuses, they threaten him but he says nothing. They look at each other, seem to have a conversation with their eyes because a few seconds later, one of the men puts a gun to Marks head and pull the trigger. I make a decision, giving myself away to take the men out. It was easy, he was an easy target. I comm Batman to inform him of the news but I miss his response as I notice something on one of the men I toke out, a tattoo of a cobra. “Oh shit” i say, louder than necessary. Father is asking what it was that I found. I can’t answer as just then I get blind sided. (Still can’t write fight scenes. Just imagine two assassins fighting it out) It’s a girl about my age. This is a shock but I push that away fast. She runs at me and I pull out my sword. The sound of metal clashing can be heard through the whole building, she’s fast and strong. I manage to deflect most of the blows and jabs directed at me and deal some damage in return. Eventually she has me pinned to the floor, strangling me. As I loose air and start to black out, she lets out a scream of pain, Batman has arrived and planted a batarang in her shoulder. I’m dizzy from air lose but from what I can see from my spot on the cold, concrete floor she is a excellent fighter, keeping pace with Father. I notice she wears a simple suit with little to no armor, made to be flexible, much like Graysons. She is slim with long h/c hair tied back in a high ponytail, with a mask covering her face. She can’t fight forever though and soon lands back by my side, a sword to my throat and speaks, calmly, almost quietly, “Don’t move, that’s it, just stand right there” “Let me leave without hinderance and Robin here can avoid further harm” Father returns with “And if I don’t” the girl laughs “Oh I believe you will, his life is of value to you, not sure why though, he can’t fight worth shit” she looks to me, speaks to me but Father can hear it “We will meet again Damian, and I won’t be going easy on you” “How do you know my name” I manage to stutter out. Her answer is simple “The Black Cobra knows everything, thought you knew that Mister al Ghul” and with that she collects her now conscious men, walks past the dead body still tied to the chair and out the front doors like nothing ever happened.

[breziarchive]

aight aight finally, majimako flowershop au for grimmnoir_ on twitter. this one was tough for me because i, am not very good, at fluff, and as such, there is blood, and violence, and eventual murder in this. WHOOPS!

valentine’s day boogaloo - guidelines - ko-fi - majimako zine

((Requests are closed, ko-fis are still extremely appreciated and I BELIEVE this is the last day to preorder the Majimako zine!!))

~~

Curiosity drew him to the flower shop. Majima was not a gentle guy, and any appreciation he held for this sort of business was superficial at best. Even the cute girl that tended to the storefront only earned a glance or two from him—until he noticed that she used her hands, a lot. So much so that he started to realize that she wouldn’t ever look someone in the eye even if seemed she attempted to do so. His answer finally came late one night when he wandered during a smoke break to see her close up the shop. She left with a cane in hand to scan the streets.

The next day Majima decided to talk to the blind girl.

The flowers were arranged until they were as tall as he was, their leaves and petals dangling to brush his forehead as he felt like he entered a secret grove in the concrete jungle. The girl was watering them, touching the soil with her bare hands and letting the droplets run down her wrists once it was properly soaked. She surprised him, turning and greeting before he said anything.

“Ya scared me,” he laughed a little. She seemed a tad sheepish.

“Your shoes, do they have metal on them?”

Majima looked down, “Yah. Did that give me away?”

She smiled and nodded.

Makoto was her name. She was sweet. Genuine, but casual. He barely learned anything of her personal life beyond how she lived with her blindness—what her favorite radio shows were, how she navigated the scents and textures of the flowers to find the right ones for the customer. Arranging and color coordination was left up to her supervisor, a big burly man who gave Majima a strange stare every time he swung by. But for all the information she told him he still felt there was something missing, something he couldn’t know.

~~

“Majima-san?” she asked once, tracing the soft edges of a lily. He tilted his head then hummed to let her know he was listening, “Why do you come by the shop?

He wanted to tell her he was no stranger to blindness, at least on one side. But what was he going to say? That the reason he had started talking to her was because he felt they had something in common from the start? It felt selfish and rude, so his mind raced to come up with something instead. As he stumbled over his own mutters, Makoto continued.

“It’s just…,” she mused, closing a thumb over the tip of the lily’s petal, “You just let me talk, then you leave. And…,”

“Ah,” he said, dumb and awkward and offering no answer.

“Well,” Makoto frowned, “You’ve never told me I’m pretty,”

Majima choked on the cigarette he had been chewing on (and not smoking out of courtesy for both her and the plants) and beat his chest with his fist to regain his breath. Her wide, unfocused eyes turned towards him in shock and concern, but he managed to start sputtering to assuage her attention.

“Sh-Should I have?” his voice cracked. Makoto blinked.

“N-No, but, when men come around, that’s usually what they say,” she offered, then her voice fell to a place Majima wasn’t sure he could reach, “That’s what they all say.”

“Shit,” Majima heard her voice but chose to ignore it for both their sakes, “Well, y’are. Does that slot me in with the men now?”

Makoto laughed—no, giggled, a sound that Majima realized he hadn’t heard before and was mortified when his chest tightened like it wanted to hear more.

“Are you trying to be a man, Majima-san?” she asked. He huffed, smirking.

“Well, from what ya said, I ain’t so sure anymore. What should I be?”

“I think...being Majima-san suits you best,” she answered. His chest tightened again. Not that she had any idea, but hearing those words, in the exact way she said them...It was a sentiment he hadn’t entertained in a very long time, if ever. She shook her head, though, pushing the tightness away in light of paying attention to her.

“But you haven’t answered my question. Why watch a blind girl water plants for half an hour every day?”

He fell quiet, tapping the metal toe of his shoe on the floor. She was listening to the sound over the sloshing of water in the can, he could tell just by the way she tilted her head.

“Promise you’ll still respect me in the mornin’?” he asked. Makoto giggled again. Goddamnit. He couldn’t look at her like this, and thus turned his blind side to her, “I uh. Well. My sight ain’t so great either. Great big hole in my face. Must be why yer boss gives me the evil eye so much, I look more like a snake than a prince,”

Makoto went silent with shock, barely realizing the soil she was watering was overflowing until water dripped to the floor. Jerking the watering can away, she dipped her fingers into the soil, prodding until she begrudgingly accepted her mistake with a curt sigh. Majima turned to watch as she rubbed leftover grains of soil between her fingers, thinking hard.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said, “What happened?”

Majima frowned. That wasn’t her business, not because he didn’t really want to tell her but more because telling her would let her know too much. That he had asked about red flowers once because he had been looking at his tattoo the previous night, that he had been yakuza and was only in this town because of the crimes he had committed. Crimes that even other yakuza would frown upon.

“Don’t really think that’s a good topic of convo,” he muttered. Makoto hummed, closing her eyes and bringing her soiled hand to her chest.

“I see.”

The sound of the city bled through to them in the aisles of flowers in their quiet. Somewhere in the back her boss shuffled paperwork. A group of young girls ogled at flowers outside that their dream boyfriends would get them if only they were allowed to date.

“But you know,” Makoto raised the watering can and moved on to the next lily, “Snakes aren’t all bad,”

“Haw?”

“They eat insects, small rodents, things that can really harm flowers and gardens if left unchecked,” she supplied with a smile. Majima stood dumbfounded.

“Oh. I ain’t one fer flowers, much,”

“That much is clear!” she laughed, “But maybe you scare away all the men who want to tell me I’m pretty,”

“That so?” he eyed the street. Makoto nodded, then offered him the watering can to help her with the plants beyond her reach.

~~

The big man was tending the flowershop the next day, greeting Majima in such a loud and jovial way he almost stepped back from the force of it. Swept up into his booming conversation, Majima found he did not have a polite way to leave as he talked about this and that and every little damn thing that could drag a conversation on for far too long, leading him farther and farther back into the shop just to keep up. Makoto was sick that day, he explained, so it was up to him for storefront work. Fine. But he just wished he could leave now, instead of being strung along an asinine chain of anecdotes.

Out of nowhere the man spun around and grabbed his wrist. Majima yelped, raising a fist to beat him off as he pulled the sleeve of his shirt up.

The man narrowed his eyes at his bare arm, then let him go.

“Tell me. Ya got a tat?” Gone was the booming joy, replaced with a dark and serious tone. Majima kept his fist raised, pulling back on defense.

“What of it?” he growled.

“You yakuza?”

“No,” Majima answered, “What’s it to ya?”

The man frowned, looking off to the side, “Makoto ain’t sick. Not properly. She just couldn’t sleep.”

“Haw?”

“Thinkin’ bout you. Thinkin’ bout herself. Did she ever tell you why she’s blind?”

Majima didn’t shake his head lest he take his eye off this man for one second, “No. Never asked,”

The man nodded, “Some head on yer shoulders, then.”

That’s when Majima learned everything. The bat tattoo, her recent past, the blindness, and the man—Lee’s—rescue operation. The grip of a blind girl that led to him fathering her when she had no one else to turn to. Lee let her run the flower shop as he did paperwork—that is to say, he was running every attempt he could to track the bastard down. No, he hadn’t really thought it was Majima, but knowing his connections and Makoto’s fondness of him, it was time to recruit him to help.

In all honesty, Majima couldn’t do much. He knew a tattoo artist in the area that could maybe point to someone, if he had been the one to give the tattoo. It was worth a shot.

But in the meantime, Lee was going to be gone for three days.

Majima agreed to keep checking up on her while he was gone.

~~

She was fine both days he stopped by. A little more distant than usual, and he was more awkward now that he knew but couldn’t exactly say he knew. It was possible Lee told her that Majima now knew everything, or maybe even moreso she had asked Lee to tell him. But it wasn’t just something he could spring out in the open, especially if a real customer wanted to stop by. He put his focus on being cordial and sweet, touching the soil where she did to feel what she felt as she talked and he listened, as they always did. He still felt the soil on his fingers even when he washed the dirt away from his fingernails to prepare for work.

The paper of the cigarette felt foreign for the first time in his life, and Majima found himself wandering on his smoke break again.

He wanted to see her again. It was a strange thought that he initially figured to be selfish, but as his feet took him to the flower shop something different brewed in his gut. Queasiness, dread, unease—he didn’t know why, but it certainly made his pace quicker until he rounded the corner to the little back street. Most of her flowers had been pulled back into the shop for the night.

But the gate wasn’t closed.

Hurrying to the door, Majima found himself crouching lower to the ground as he cautiously swung it open. Maybe it was a late customer. Maybe she was just having trouble without Lee’s help.

Maybe.

Until he heard plants topple, pots, shatter, and her mortified scream of terror muffled by god knows what.

Before he knew it, his instinct drew his dagger from behind his back and Majima plunged into the dark flower shop.

“Stop!” Makoto pleaded with her attacker, “Stop, stop, no!!”

“Wish I could explain,” the man said in a voice that was far too smooth to just be some random assailant, “But it’s a long story. So long, Xiao Qiao.”

Before she could ask, her mouth was covered again no doubt to conceal any final screams. Majima’s eye widened in the dark and before he knew it the dagger sliced in front of him. The man holding Makoto buckled with an unholy wail as the small of his back opened up. Crumpling to the ground, Makoto scuttled along, cutting her hands on shards of pots as she blindly fled for safety. Words of comfort and encouragement beat in the back of Majima’s mind to call out to her.

Instead, a hideous screech emanated from his throat and he plunged into fury, dagger meeting tonfa in the low light as the man fought back. Blows glanced off of Majima, no doubt bruising and hurting but he couldn’t feel any of it, focused solely on the coward who’d dare attack a blind girl when she was alone. Blood was soon everywhere, though whether what he tasted on his lips was his own or otherwise Majima couldn’t tell. All he could sense over the brawl was Makoto’s feet scraping along the floor as she cowered.

It ended with a grand whimper. The dagger thrust into the attacker’s ribs, robbing him of air in a short, horrified second before he began to sputter and choke. Majima panted, long legs straddling the body like a spider crab and shoulders heaving as more and more senses came into focus. Makoto stifled her weeping in an unseen corner of the shop. As hair from his ponytail dangled in his vision he finally came to, grabbing the left wrist of the fading attacker.

Though it was hard to see in the light, he could just make out the outline of wings on his arm.

Fuckin’ rat in the garden.

Majima stood up.

Blood, black in the low light, dripped from whatever plants were still standing. Soil covered the floor, silencing the metal tap of his shoes as he picked his way around, sliding shards of pots away as he followed Makoto’s cries. When it was abundantly clear he had found her, she gathered her dwindling courage and called out.

“Wh-Who is it?!”

Majima paused, some paces in front of her.

“Who’s there?”

Throat raw from more than just screeching, Majima forewent words and simply tapped his toe on the tile, shaking dirt off to the sound of metal.

“M-Majima-san?” she whispered. He approached and dropped to his knees, laying the dagger on the ground before taking her hands in his, “A-Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Ain’t ya supposed to be home?” he countered softly. Makoto shook her head, pulling their hands to her brow as her breath hitched.

“Lee-san told me, he had found a lead,” Makoto blubbered, “He may have found someone with a bat tattoo,  so he left. But if he was here, then that means—,”

“It don’t mean nothin’,” Majima said firmly, “Lee ain’t boutta go down so easy. I’m sure he’ll come back an’ give me hell for tearin’ up the shop.”

Makoto’s wide dark eyes shone with tears as she looked at him, somehow meeting his only eye.

“Is...is he…,”

“He is,” Majima murmured, “He ain’t hurtin’ anyone anymore,”

Makoto tucked her chin and her hands trembled in Majima’s hold.

“He called me by a name that...he shouldn’t have, no one should know,”

He cocked his head, “Who would know?”

She went quiet for a long time, trembling all over. Then, as if overcome with exhaustion, she pushed away from the corner and into his chest. Majima started, shocked, and didn’t respond until it was quite awkward to do so.

“Stay with me?” she whispered, frightened and bleak.

“’Course,” he finally wrapped his arms around her, “I ain’t leavin’.”

She relaxed in his hold and murmured against his shirt, “Thank you.”

[virginiacreepervine]

A body washed up on Bell Isle this morning. Average height, average build. White guy with pierced ears, a few tattoos, shoulder length hair. Wouldn’t stand out in a Richmond crowd. Calloused hands and the slight beer gut suggest a blue collar job...in fact, he was a plumber. He was my brother. In a sense. People always looked at us funny when I told them; there’s no resemblance whatsoever, and we’re clearly pretty close in age. When you’ve been close with someone for twenty years, I figure you’re either family, or lovers, and our parents being married would’ve made the latter more than a little awkward. People hate it when I make that joke, makes ‘em real uncomfortable, but hey, that just makes it funnier for me.  The cops are ruling it a suicide on account of him being full of liquor, with no other wounds to speak of, and my idiot mother admitted he had a history of self harm. Now I know the guy had some troubles earlier in life, but getting drunk, driving to a bridge and throwing himself off? Not his style. Dude was impatient, and I’ve had to take guns from him before. Drowning is too slow, especially in that part of the river this time of year. Dude could have stood up and stumbled to drunken safety, right next to the moonshine distillery. Shouldn’t he have broken something in a fall like that? People tell me denial is just part of the grieving process, but I know bullshit when I smell it. My grandpa has a farm.  Steph is just beside herself. Literally. Ever since that accident with truck filled with ooze of dubious origin she’s had a double inches from her at all times. It doesn’t speak and it isn’t fully corporeal, but its there, standing, mimicking Steph’s expressions and movements. She’s real easy to see driving down the street too, but people learned to deal with it. Anyway, she’s (they’re?) in my bar, saying she believes me. I tell her what everyone tells me, its the grief, but she says that he hadn’t drank anything that night. More importantly, he fell asleep on top of her and she would’ve noticed if he moved. That’s not what I’ve heard, but I didn’t say that out loud. What kind of guy would tell a grieving widow her deceased husband was hung like a field mouse? Don’t answer that, I know. He was my brother though, so I couldn’t bring myself to shit on him, lest his angry ghost fuck up my bar. “So,” I muttered, “what do you want me to do about it? The fuzz had their say, case closed. This ain’t a mystery I can solve. What do I look like, Scooby Doo? Don’t answer that.”  “No, asshole, you don’t look like a fucking cartoon dog. But I know when weird shit happens, you’re the guy to talk to.” She starts crying something fierce before continuing. “That’s what Mike always said at least” “Alright, fuck you. First of all, Scoobert Doobert is a legend, beloved by all, and I will not have you reducing his existence to ‘cartoon dog’ in my establishment. Second, how DARE you come at me while I grieve, trying to use my dead brother’s name to guilt trip me into something.” We stared at each other a long while. She’s crying, I’m crying, it’s a mess. I don’t know if it was the grief or the extreme need to get this crying woman (women?) out of my bar before the usual drunks start wandering in, but I caved. “Fine. Fuck it, fine. Let me make sure I have the facts straight; Y’all do the deed, he passes out on top of you. Next, he gets up and has a little drink, drives down Belvedere and parks by the memorial center, and jumps off a bridge.” “Yeah, but we know that last part didn’t happen, I would’ve noticed him move.” “Okay, fine, but that just makes it sound like you did it. How long until you woke up and noticed he wasn’t there?” She doesn’t look happy at that one. I’m a real charmer, I know. She goes on. “Around 11 A.M., when I got the call about...” she drifts off, starts crying again. Either a great actress killed my brother, or she’s trying really hard to keep it together. Her double hovers by, a mourning mirror making me feel even worse about not trying harder sooner. I interrupt, eager to get this over with. “And what time did you fall asleep?” A solid minute later, she wipes away the snot and tears. How come its always snot? Really makes a person feel worse about themselves when a booger is sliding down their face with the tears. “Oh, about ten p.m.” “You laid there for thirteen hours and still think you would’ve noticed? I’ll level with you, this whole thing seems fishier by the minute. You’re wrong, or lying, but I’m gonna be a fool and believe you for his sake. Go home and get some rest, I’m gonna head out and ask a few questions.” She thanks me and heads out, leaving a trail of tears and snot in her wake. I call my staff, tell them not to come in tonight. After the final “Fuck you, I need my hours!”, I head into the storage closet where I keep my “Closed on account of Some Bullshit” sign, grab it and walk towards the door to hang it up. Only I don’t. There’s someone behind the bar, and they’re naked. “Not again,” I think, before  getting a closer look at the creep. There he is, tiny pecker and all. My brother.

“Man if you’re gonna haunt me could you at least haunt me with some clothes on? I don’t need ghost pubes around the joint if a health inspector shows up. Don’t you dead assholes usually have, like, some rags or a sheet or something?” Much to my annoyance, he responds. “Nah, the sheets look too much like the KKK getup. Makes people uncomfortable.” A startling realization. Old timey ghosts are super racist. Also, he’s very clearly alive. Ghosts ain’t got much of a sense of humor. “You asshole, you’re fucking alive?! Tell ya what, after I whip your naked ass, you’re gonna call everyone and apologize. This is ridiculous.” The supposedly dead streaker backs into the shelf behind the bar, hands up. In a shaky, scared voice he says “N-no, you can’t. No one can know I’m alive! I got people after me, Conner, I had to fake my death.” I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard that I’m sure I’ve left a bruise. “Fuckin’ okay, what the hell was the body they found?” “I had that hoodoo woman that was always screaming at people on Broad Street hook me up with a little something. You don’t know what its made of, but the people at the morgue are gonna be in for a surprise tomorrow.” I don’t ask any questions about that part, everyone knows that old bat had some weird shit going on. “Sure, but whoever is after you is gonna find out too. Now to the important question, why in the fuck are you naked in my bar?” “I put my clothes on the thing so it’d look authentic, then I creeped in here through that back window you always forget to lock.” “So,” I start, pinching the bridge of my nose again. “You managed to creep two and a half miles in the dead of night, through downtown Richmond? And no one saw you?”  “Oh some people saw me. I’m just too fast, the cops could never catch me.” As he explains, I hang the sign up. Can’t have some poor customer catch me arguing with a naked ghost, would really hurt the business. Then, I lay into him for a good twenty minutes about what a moron he is, as this plan is garbage from start to finish, almost like some hack writer couldn’t think of anything better. I also hand him some clothes I keep in storage in a bin labeled “lost and found”, as if anyone ever comes looking for the stuff. You’d be amazed at the shit people leave lying around here and never come looking for. Clothes, wallets, a weird book with a lock on it that I haven’t had the balls to crack open yet. Sometimes guns, sometimes pictures of people I’ve never seen. All doomed to life in a closet. He tells me the people after him are part of the same gang I ran with as a teenager, the Pale Horse Motorcycle Club. That makes things less complicated. I’d talk to John, the boss of the gang, and get it all sorted out. That asshole owes me a few times over anyway. I let the dead prick use a few padded bras from the lost and found (seriously, who in the fuck leaves those on the ground and how didn’t I notice?) for a pillow and let him rest. My apartment is only a few blocks down the street, so I walk on home. I open the door and notice something feels off. The place is smoky, which isn’t super out of the ordinary, but the smell is way worse than normal. I take a deep breath and place the heavy, cloying scent as cigar smoke. “Look,” I say to the black abyss that is my home this time of night, “if you’re that guy from the other night, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. You just seemed like you’re into freakier shit than I can deal with.” The person in my armchair strikes a match. I catch a few features; Bushy black beard, oily tan skin, glasses. “Hey John, thought you’d be stopping by. Didn’t have to-” “I did have to. You know we’re all about imagery. Now sit down, lets talk.” Instead of humoring him, I pull a knife on him. This isn’t some Hollywood picture, can’t take any chances. Mistake on my end though, as the last thing I remember of that night is getting hit in the head, hard, and feeling my carpet rush up to meet me.

[fabianbutler]

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"Obviously, Scott has compared Max bikes btt usadas and I as far as contractually, but the number continues to rise every year," said Arrieta, who's on a historic run over his last 26 starts. I stayed on International Drive which was one of the yank's average roads that we in the UK would call a motorway. She unhesitatingly confessed that she had run away, and that a friend had paid her passage. It was the sort of pain that drove men mad, and it could not be endured for long. “We should remain here until the weather breaks,” said Ser Ormund Wylde, a cadaverous old knight whose nature gave the lie to his name. A coppersmith had fashioned her a suit of burnished rings to wear to war. Of Akron Volleyball Kali Barber Pacific Uni. “Yes, I love him as though I were mad,” she answered, turning pale as though in bodily pain. Q: I am a male 60 years old and weight 185 lbs., never smoked, get plenty of exercise and for the last year I have been experiencing numbness in the middle of right foot. Concurrent with the Perseids meteor shower and Calici di Stelle, an Italy wide wine event that marks the occasion, piazza San Lorenzo hosts a dance and dinner party after a morning parade.

[cedarmoons]

you had me

so in the update, lucio tells mc: “was it you? the one who broke [asra] for me?” which, first of all, WHAT. my brain immediately went to angst, and spawned this. finally.... i can continue to fulfill my destiny of writing angst for each and every fandom i enter..... burningelmo.gif

asra/mc, pregame speculation, but also some character building for my witchy bab ziah, and an opportunity to practice more arcana characterizations. warnings for lucio being an asshole and (conjured, not actual) self-harm.

prompt lists || tip jar

She always has sage and jasmine and frankincense burning in the shop, these days, to better purify the air and strengthen the protective spells around the shop. She draws wards and runes around the house’s doorways and windowsills, and prepares protective and healing charms for customers desperate to buy them. Yet nothing shakes the sense of foreboding that lingers like a heavy, cold cape draped over her shoulders.

The plague claims more and more every day. It is not a physical disease, but something from another realm, and she does not know how to combat it.

Asra had waited until the new moon to visit his friend, Muriel, the gladiator they had rescued from the Coliseum. She had drawn upon his body various sigils of protection with sacred salt water mixed with dragonlily ink herself, so she knows that he will be safe. Still, she worries. If he contracts the plague, he will be far from her healing waters, far from Tiamat’s diminishing power, and his familiar—still so small and new to this world—will not be strong enough to alert her to any danger he finds himself in.

She does not realize she is gnawing at her thumbnail until the sharp clack of her teeth biting through the nail pierces the air. She lowers her hand at once and closing her eyes, inhaling deeply, allowing the incense to fill her lungs and calm her, though it takes several long breaths before her mind begins to settle. She senses movement and when she opens her eyes, Tiamat is sitting atop the small saltwater fountain Ziah had constructed for her, watching her with bright blue eyes.

The water wyrm had once been as large as this room, had once been strong enough to power her movement with magic, floating through the air as easily as she had swum through the ocean she so loved. But that had been long ago. Ziah gets up with a sigh and crosses the room, cupping her hands in front of her. Tiamat crawls into her hands and curls up into a circle, barely filling her palms.

He will be well, Tiamat assures, lifting her head and brushing her scaled snout against Ziah’s cheek. You worry too much.

“Oh? And yet you scolded me for my distance not so long ago,” Ziah replies, lifting her hands so that Tiamat may move to rest atop her shoulder. “He has grown on me.”

Grown on you! Pah! Are you so blind to your own feelings, child?

She is far too old to blush, but she allows herself a small smile as she begins to rearrange the jars that rest behind the counter. Powdered bat’s milk, pickled newt eyes, preserved wyvern honey from the Blood Mountain…

The door opens, the bell ringing alongside the silent wards audible only to her ears. Ziah returns the jar of wyvern honey and turns to face the customer, silencing the wards with a gesture hidden behind her back.

The visitor is a man she knows well—pale, and blond, with tattoos under his eyes that distinguish him as a member of one of the southern war tribes. She does not kneel or curtsey or do anything except stare at him. “My Lord Count,” she says. “What brings you to a humble apothecary’s shop?”

Lucio hums, lowering his golden hand to rest lightly atop a display case—he had worn the claws, this time, she notes. At her silent urging, Tiamat crawls down the back of her neck, burrowing into her hair. Her braid will shield the lump. Lucio drags a single golden claw over the glass, the sound high-pitched and squealing, but Ziah does not flinch. She extends a hand behind her, and the water in the scrying bowl across the room begins to tremble, quickly forming into something semi-solid and ready to answer her call.

“You know, there were rumors of this little shop,” he drawls, observing everything in the room but her. He stops in front of the fountain that serves as Tiamat’s home, and it takes everything within her not to tense. His cloak is entirely made of white fur, and it swirls around his ankles, which are clad in golden, heeled boots. “Rumors that you were just a little fortune-teller, or an apothecary, or a midwife—depended on who you talked to, really. But you’re more than that, aren’t you?” He turns, eyes narrowed as he takes in her long, braided hair that falls down to her hip. “I can taste the magic in this little shop.”

He takes a step toward her. Tiamat burrows further into her hair, but Ziah remains silent. Lucio’s lips quirk up into some cruel facsimile of a smile. “You’re the one who took my Scourge from me, aren’t you?” he asks, taking another step forward, then another, until they are almost chest-to-chest. Ziah is taller than him, she realizes, even with the heeled boots he wears.

“I do not know of whom you speak, my Lord Count,” she says.

“That is what I mean,” he hisses. “No one remembers him anymore! You took him from me and I can’t even get him back! He was my gladiator, my property—you had no right to steal him from me.”

“My Lord Count, I do not know what you speak of,” she says, again. He searches her face but cannot detect her lie. She is too old, and too practiced, for such slips.

“Then it was that little orphan boy you took under your wing?” he asks, lips curling away to bare his teeth at her. “Perhaps I should be hunting him down instead.”

Ziah clenches her jaw and Lucio grins, something animalistic and dark in his eyes. “Ah, there we go,” he says. “Found something.” He chucks her under the chin with his golden claws, and she jerks away, nose wrinkling. “So tell me, little witch, why haven’t you gone to the palace?” He turns away, examining more of the shop’s magical wares. His claws tap against the glass, hard enough that small cracks spiderweb through it. Ziah turns her body as he starts to circle her, keeping him within her sight at all times. “We’ve opened our doors to everyone trying to find a cure for this plague. A witch of your talent—and your apprentice’s—would be welcome.”

“I have not the slightest idea how to cure the plague, my Lord Count.”

“Well, obviously, no one does. That’s the point of coming to the palace,” he says, annoyance shadowing his features. “Maybe you just need some proper motivation? Maybe—your familiar? The little water dragon on your back?”

How did he—?

Feeling her heart begin to race, she twists her wrist behind her back, and the water across the room begins to lift itself from the scrying bowl.

“You know, my tribe had legends about the Siluri,” he tells her. This time, when he steps forward, she steps back. “They were the fiercest warriors ever seen, their raids and heroes the stuff of legends. Even Prakra feared them, back before it was an empire. They never cut their hair unless they lost a battle, did you know? Scalping a Siluri was considered a great achievement. But then the tribe just... disappeared. Do you know what happened to them?”

His eyes linger on her face, waiting for a reaction. Ziah does not give him one, even as she turns her wrist and the water begins to lift itself from the scrying bowl behind him. “I do not, my Lord Count.”

It seems to be the answer he was expecting. “One night, each and every Siluri was slaughtered by a little blue-haired Prakran slave girl who could control water—but that was three hundred years ago.”

When he grabs her throat, the movement far too sudden for her to counter, age old instincts flare up in her. With a snarl, Ziah lifts her foot and plants it into his unprotected stomach, kicking as hard as she can. Lucio wheezes, releasing her, and she lands on her feet. With several short, sharp fluid movements, the water bursts from the scrying bowl to rush towards Lucio, knocking him flat against the wall and icing over, pinning him to the stone in a wall of ice. Ziah calls back some liquid water and it crystallizes into an icy spear in the palm of her hand, one she levels at his throat.

Lucio only laughs, baring his teeth. His eyes are bloodshot, she notes—but no, there is too much red to be simple exhaustion. He speaks before she can think of it further.

“Fucking hells, it’s true,” he says, wheezing. His canines gleam in the gas lamp’s light as he grins at her, energized by the violence. “I didn’t think it was, when I first saw you—but holy shit.” Ziah takes a deep breath through her nose and presses the spear forward, letting it prick his throat, letting the blood trickle down his skin, staining the pale flesh red.

It would be so easy to make his blood burn. So easy.

“If I don’t walk out of this shop within the hour,” Lucio sneers, “my guards will barge in and kill you. They’ll burn down this shop. And then they’ll hunt down that apprentice of yours and kill him too. So if you want to keep your hide, little witch, you’ll let me go.”

Ziah clenches her jaw and pulls away, turning her spear into a harmless orb of water that floats above her hand. The ice stays, pinning him to the wall.

He says, with a savage smile, “Or maybe—maybe I don’t need you. There are plenty of rumors about your apprentice, too, you know. Rumors that he is growing more powerful than you. Maybe he’s the one who needs proper motivation.”

“You will not touch him,” she snarls.

“I’m the Count, you idiot, I can do whatever I want.” As if to prove his point, his shoulder flexes and the ice restraining his golden arm shatters. He drives his metal fist into the blocks around his other hand and feet, and within moments is standing before her, a savage leer on his face. This close, she can see that her suspicions are correct—the red around his irises are not faint, or from exhaustion, but deep crimson and too obvious to ignore.

“You have the plague,” she breathes.

His features contort, silver-and-scarlet eyes flashing in anger, and he half-snarls at her. “Oh, you are smart. Yes, I have the plague. And if you don’t want your little apprentice to end up mysteriously infected with it, or your little familiar ending up dead, you’re going to do what I want.”

Ziah grits her teeth. “Which is what, exactly?”

“You’re going to go to the Lazaret. I don’t care if you get infected or not, but you’re going to make your little apprentice think you have the plague. That’ll make him come crawling to the palace, hmm? I don’t need you both—I just need one competent magician there. That should be enough to find a cure, don’t you think?”

“Magic will not save you, Lucio,” she says. “This plague is not something that can be cured. By anything.”

“I don’t believe you, little witch. So here is what will happen. If you’re not in the Lazaret by sunset tomorrow,” Lucio threatens, eyes narrowed, “your apprentice will be there in your place, and I will make sure he actually has this incurable plague. So… think about my offer.” He seizes her braid in his golden hand and leans up toward her, sneering. Ziah tenses, fighting age-old instincts that tell her to run, to fight, to hide. “And let me tell you—for that little stunt you pulled earlier, when the time comes, I will be the one to personally cut off your hair.”

He releases her and offers a charming grin as he steps back, the grin he feeds the masses whenever he throws open the palace or hosts festivals or a match at the Coliseum. “And who knows? Maybe threatening you will be enough to get my beloved Scourge returned to me.”

Ziah stares at the swish of Lucio’s cape as he turns on his heel and strides out the door. Once he is gone and the guards have disappeared, she collapses, chest heaving. Tiamat skitters up her back to rest on her neck, nuzzling her scaled body against Ziah’s throat. He is bluffing, she says.

“He is not,” Ziah whispers. “He will do it. He will hurt Asra, and Muriel—”

Unless I do what he wants.

She lets herself break down. Lets the tears course down her cheeks to stain the wood, ignoring the fact that she has not wept in many, many years. She lets the frankincense and sage burn her lungs, lets her body curl into itself until her forehead touches the floor, a mockery of the prayers she had once believed in, so many years ago. Tiamat says nothing as she curls around the front of Ziah’s neck, too small to wrap herself around fully. Her silence betrays her thoughts: that she, too, thinks there is nothing to be done.

If she ignores Lucio, Lucio will harm Asra. She knows that Tiamat will be safe so long as she is by her side, but Asra… she closes her eyes, thinking of how it could happen: a drugged drink, a kidnapping in the shadows of a back alley, guards arriving at their doorstop to drag him away.

Or she could go into the forest, right now, take Asra, and run and never look back.

But Tiamat would not be near saltwater. And Muriel would be alone.

And if she were in the Lazaret, she would be next to the ocean, which had been blocked off for months since the plague first appeared in Vesuvia. Tiamat could regain some of her lost strength, and she could attempt to heal the sick—attempt to find her own cure for this otherworldly plague. And Asra and Muriel would be safe from Lucio.

It does not take long for her to make her decision. She takes a slow, steady breath, closing her eyes as she inhales, lungs expanding until they strain. And then she rises and gets to work.

The first are the wards by the front door. She destroys them in controlled doses, silencing the explosions so the neighbors do not come running. The broken wards leave notes of warning energies in the air, a clear alarm to any sensitive to magic. Asra will sense it the moment he turns onto the street. When enough of them are broken, she returns to the shop and turns on the tap for a short moment, just enough to get a handful of water. She hardens it into a block of ice and slams it into one of the display cases, sending glass shards across the floor. She knocks a few of the cheaper materials to the floor, but leaves the wyvern honey intact.

She goes into the garden behind the shop and burns the parcels she’d specially crafted for customers, meant to prevent or ease the symptoms of plague, charms of protection and healing and comfort. The smell of rare and precious herbs wafts up in smoke and is carried away by the blaze.

But it is the illusions that hurt her the most. They are powerful, more powerful than Asra has ever seen from her—too powerful for him to detect as a falsehood. He is still learning, her young love, but she knows his potential. Perhaps if this had happened five years from now, ten, he would have known her façade for what it was.

Oh, she wishes she could see what he will become. She longs for it.

She whisper-sings an ancient mourning song, one from her girlhood, as she opens a vial of pig’s blood and dips her fingers in it, drawing thin lines over her arms, her side, her face. Where her fingers go, an illusion of split-open skin, knife wounds and scratches follow, as realistic as any true wound—illusions that will heal themselves in reaction to any kind of magic. She sits in front of a mirror and dabs pig’s blood on her eyelids, imaging the splash of scarlet in the Count’s eyes—and when she opens her eyes, the sclera are stained with splashes of red, thin tendrils of scarlet branching out from a matching corona around her iris.

She lifts what is left in the bottle with a gesture, manipulating the water within the blood to spread out and soak into the floorboards, carefully controlled puddles that will resemble an attack. When it is done, she corks the bottle and returns it to its hideaway place, tucked behind a grimoire on her short bookshelf.

It is nearly sunset by the time she lies down, rolling over onto her side, draping one arm over her body. Tiamat rests on her neck, curling up into a tight circle. She knows what part she must play.

This will break him, she tells Ziah.

“I know,” Ziah whispers. Her own heart, which she had guarded so selfishly until the day she met him, throbs hard beneath her breast, and she wonders if she had somehow made it bleed as well.

Asra arrives just after dark. She hears him sprinting down the alley, shouting her name, hears him skid to a stop in front of the shop. She forces herself to stay limp and pliant as he steps over the dark threshold, even as she hears his breaths come in great, shaking gasps. “Mizi!” he calls, but the next moment his breath hitches, and his voice breaks as he whispers: “Mizi?”

The shop suddenly glows in a pale, warm light—light enough to see the blood around her body, the wounds on her arms, the destroyed shop. A sob rips from his throat, and he is suddenly kneeling beside her, gathering her into his arms. Ziah blinks open her eyes, letting her lips part as she stares up at him. Asra’s hands glow with healing magic, just as she’d known they would, and the illusions begin to fade, wounds closing up as realistically as if they truly existed.

He cannot tell the difference. But he would have, had they had more time, had she been a better teacher.

The light in the shop shows the panic in his eyes, and her heart breaks for him. She swallows hard, lifting a hand—weakly—to brush the pads of her fingers down one cheek. His gaze meets hers, and his expression crumples as he sees the red in her sclera.

“Mizi,” he says, and his voice breaks. “No. No, nonono, please—”

“A mob broke into the shop,” she whispers, her voice low, dry and rasping. “They stole the charms against the plague. I could not stop them.”

“No,” he says again, and lowers his forehead to her collarbone, shoulders hunched and shaking. He clutches at her as he weeps, his body rocking. She holds him to her, fingers buried in his thick moon-colored hair, and lifts her gaze to the doorway, where a group of curious onlookers have gathered. She knows the light must reflect the conjured red in her eyes, for a multitude of them gasp, and she hears the word “plague” murmured among them. One bystander starts running down the street.

Asra hears them too. He lifts his head, features twisted into a grieving snarl she has never seen on his face before and makes her miss his smile. He shouts: “Leave us!”

The force of his grief wells up like a wave, pushing the onlookers onto the street. They scatter, the spell of watching their embrace broken, supplanted by fear of plague. He turns back to her, breath hitching, his purple eyes gleaming in the soft pale light.

“Asra,” she whispers. “Asra, it’s all right.”

“No.” He swallows audibly, turning into her touch when she palms his cheek. “No, I’ll—I’ll take you somewhere, somewhere north, somewhere far away from here. I’ll take care of you, Mizi, I promise, we can leave Vesuvia and forget them all—”

She lets him babble useless promises and instead holds him, trying to commit to memory the feeling of his touch. She knows how the sick are treated at the Lazaret—isolated and left to die, their bodies burned in pits. She strokes his hair, saying nothing, letting him hold her and weep until his eyes are dry and puffy and sore, and his voice fails him. Even then, he does not move, his body curled into hers like a sunflower bends for the faint rays of the dying sun.

They hold each other until the plague doctor arrives, his bleached mask and black cloak concealing all features except his deep, curly red hair. Asra holds her tighter, resisting as the doctor kneels before them and attempts to pull him away. “You’re risking yourself to exposure,” the doctor says, and he sounds gentle even through the mask. “You’re only making it harder. We can help her at the Lazaret.”

“No, you can’t,” Asra snaps, eyes narrowing. “There is no cure for—” His expression crashes, and he looks back down at her. “There is no cure,” he repeats, quieter. She brushes the wet skin under his eyes with her thumbs, cradling his face between her hands.

“Asra, let me go,” she murmurs to him. He shakes his head, a low, panicked noise escaping him, reminding her how painfully, beautifully young he is. So she sighs, and lifts her head up, slowly, lethargically, as someone who had just survived a vicious attack would, and presses her lips to the corner of his mouth. He goes still, only pulling back to look at her with wide eyes.

“The palace may help you find a cure,” the doctor offers. “I’ve been going there, myself, though I admit I haven’t had much luck.”

Asra doesn’t even acknowledge him. He smoothes back the baby hairs at her temples and swallows hard. “I’ll go,” he whispers. “I’ll find something.” Her heart aches in her chest, twisted tight, as if it is straining for him. His thumb brushes over her cheek. “I promise.”

I know you will try, she thinks, almost says, but she does not want to be cruel to him. So she only offers him a soft smile, doing her best to hide her grief. Tiamat slithers down the back of her neck and burrows in Ziah’s hair, hiding herself from the doctor’s glassy, red-tinted gaze. Ziah drops her gaze down to Faust, still small enough to nestle unseen on Asra’s shoulder, still new and fragile. She will grow larger, she knows—maybe even larger than Tiamat, when she was at her healthiest, her most powerful.

“Take care of him,” she whispers, and Faust flicks her tongue out, sending waves of reassurance toward her. Ziah swallows and lets her hands fall away, turning her face toward the plague doctor. This time when the doctor reaches for Ziah, Asra lets her go, his expression wretched and heartbroken. Tear tracks still shine on his cheek, and she watches him press a hand to his chest. The doctor slides his hands under her body, lifting her against his broad chest, and Ziah turns her face away from Asra, closing her eyes and resting her head against the doctor’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says. Ziah squeezes her eyes shut, refusing to look at Asra, even when she hears him follow them out into the street, even when she feels his eyes on her.

She does not need to look back to know she has broken him.

She knows he loves her. He knows he loves her. Yet they do not speak of it, not for years and years of knowing each other. Not until one day as he is brushing her hair, brown fingers working through deep blue strands, humming a Vesuvian sea shanty under his breath. She watches his reflection work, her gaze lingering on his smile, soft and distant.

“You should not love me,” she says at last, once his sea shanty ends. Asra looks up, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror. Like lepidolite, deep purple with a thousand thousand flecks of silver and pale violet.

“And why is that?” He’s still smiling, still loose and calm from a good night’s sleep. They had been together in his dream, so he’d told her. They’d been doves, exploring the world, flying over stormy oceans and hissing deserts and emerald jungles.

“Because I will break your heart,” she informs him, even as her own heart throbs under her breast. “Some way or another.”

He laughs, long and loud, the cheerful pfhahahah she has come to adore. He grins at her, afterward, eyes crinkling in the corners until they are almost closed. His dimples are shadows etched into his cheeks. He sets the brush aside and leans forward, kissing her shoulder.

“You?” he asks, still grinning, still young and foolish and somehow, impossibly, utterly in love with her. “Break my heart? Never.”

[noctemusfic]

☵ Pride | rated : G

A Supernatural (CW show) AU Fan Fiction by Silvi Henna (Noctemus). Can also be read on: @AO3

Characters/Pairing: Ruby, Sam Winchester, Sam/Ruby Notes:

Part 2 of Moments Like These series.

// Betaed by Kezzie_du. Thank you.

Summary: Another scene ficlett to MLT.

☵ Pride - 1/1

If Dean could, so could Sam.

☳ ☼ ☳

Things had been going well, which on its own should have put Sam on edge. Because when had that ever happened to a Winchester? Still, Sam found himself in a pretty good mood which he could admit was a rare happening. But things were going well.

So yeah, he's been threatened by angels, got a little bit disillusioned in the man upstairs and all his crowd which he guessed was a good excuse as any to be down and low but Dean was beginning to open up to him and, for the first time in a long time, he felt like he had his brother back again.

He wasn't a fool to believe that Dean was telling him everything. If anything, he seemed to have more secrets than ever but Sam still felt like Dean was slowly coming back to him and that made a smile grow on his face.

He probably looked like a fool with the grin seemingly stuck on his face if Dean's expression was anything to go by but Sam thought, fuck that.

He wasn't going to let that get him down. Things had calmed down once again that it finally felt like they could take a breather or two, so naturally – in Sam's mind – Dean was wanting to once again go out and score, though Dean had been a little less tacky about that. Dean had said he wanted to get back into the swing of things as he seemed to have the notion he was out of practice.

Sam doubted anyone as prolific Dean was could ever go stale, regardless of where he'd been.

Sam was all for it, giving him thumbs up and all – another point where Dean had looked at him funny – but of course Sam wasn't going to bitch if it meant that it bought Dean some time to put his mind somewhere else but the fucked up life they led, and the little fact that for all intents and purposes Dean wasn't going to be able to get rid of Ruby.

There was nothing like a good lay to put the mind in a pleasant buzz for a while which was why Sam was currently finding himself outside of Ruby's motel, her having made the wise decision to house herself somewhere else.

If Dean could, so could Sam.

Wiping the grin off his face – it wouldn't do to put her off the mood right off the bat – Sam willed the door unlocked, and wasn't that a neat little trick, and stepped in.

All his plans, however, came crashing down at what he found in the room. Or more precisely, what he didn't find. Where the hell was Ruby?

Looking around the room Sam could see her bag as always shoved against the wall, her clothes thrown about in disarray making his fingers itch in a desire to neat things up. She was one messy demon.

But no Ruby.

There was a half-eaten burrito on the dresser and as Sam picked it up, he saw the stale grease and knew it'd been there a while.

The feeling growing in his stomach, no no. He was most definitely not worried.

Before he could call out a familiar sound reached him from his left. Familiar, yes – he remembers Dean doing the exact same noises when he had the bad case of the runs – but it was odd to hear that in the room that Ruby was supposed to occupy.

He did have the right room, right? Turning around taking in the items he breathed a sigh of relief when indeed those did belong to Ruby.

Hearing the garbled up sound again, curiosity took a firm hold of him and he turned towards the bathroom.

Opening the door open he peered inside. His eyes widened when bent over the toilet was Ruby, her back arching as she hurled into the bowl.

Nasty, ugly sounds that made Sam shudder in sympathy.

Toeing the door open further he called out, "Ruby."

Ruby whimpered and hunched in on herself. "Go away."

"What on earth happened?" Sam asked ignoring her plea as he stepped into the bathroom.

"Go away; I don't want you to see me like this." The words were garbled up as she was taken over by convulsion and she dry-retched into the toilet again. Sam understood her well enough though.

Looking around he saw a pair of wet jeans lying across the tub. Turning around he was surprised to meet with onyx eyes that in spite of its inhumanness was still able to transmit pure misery.

"I gather you're not feeling well," Sam stated as he watches her grab a bottle of water and take some gulps. He grimaced. The taste can't be good.

Having followed his line of sight to her pants drawing attention to the fact she was in her panties she said, "I had an accident."

"Accident how?" Sam asked. Ruby grimaced before she was forced over the bowl once again, the body rejecting the water.

"Oh, OH. I didn't even know you could still do that," he said as he flinched at a particularly violent attack.

Ruby slumped down on the cold tile, her pale skin looking almost grey in the bathroom light.

Settling her arm against the rim of the toilet she flushed with the other one and settled her head against it blinking blearily at Sam, her onyx eyes going back to the familiar brown.

"The body is still alive, Sam. Where do you think all that I eat end up?"

Sam shuddered, "I didn't need to get that mental image."

"We don't usually stay in one body long enough for that to be an issue or we let the host deal with it but I'm driving solo here. I think I ate something bad."

"The burrito out there?"

Ruby shrugged.

"You're a demon Ruby," Sam said as he folded himself against the edge of the tub shoving the wet jeans further away.

"Jeez, thanks for that intel. I never would have guessed."

Sam rolled his eyes. "What I meant is, aren't you suppose to be immune? Or at least have a bigger tolerance to some stomach bug? Or even better, heal?"

"I don't know. I've tried." Ruby whined as she rubbed her stomach. Suddenly she went up on her knees again and bent over the bowl her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge. Sam could hear her groan, "Oh fuck, I'm gonna die."

Sighing, Sam leaned forwards and gathered her hair to keep it from harm's way, his nose crinkling at the smell wafting up from the toilet. His hand rubbed gently at her back and held her as she slumped back her head burrowing into his chest.

Reaching over to the edge of the tub Sam managed to grab the small washcloth and one-handed open the crane and wet it. Turning it off he wrung the thing out the best he could. Showing it to Ruby he waited for her to take it. She just blinked, lying slumped against him. Sighing he took a better hold of it and passed it over her face.

She whimpered, "Have mercy, just kill me."

Shaking his head he gathered her and stood up. She moaned at the sudden shift and clung to his shirt. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

Walking out of the bathroom he moved her over to the bed ripping off the covers, the clothes that had been on it finding a new home on the floor. Ruby groaned again as she was put onto the mattress.

Turning to the bathroom again he grabbed the wastebasket and settled it next to the bed. Settling on the edge of the bed he watched as Ruby curled on her side. Not exactly how he'd envisioned the evening.

He gently rubbed her as she trembled. She was wrecked with nausea and in spite of a few false alarms, she didn't throw up again. Sam had her drink a few sips of water every once in a while, not the mouthful she'd been taking, and it seemed to work as slowly she upgraded from feeling death warmed over to simply dying.

After a not so false alarm, Sam found himself with a lapful of Ruby as she snared the shirt in her hands pleading. "Please, let me in. I promise I'll be good. Just until this is over."

She looked pitiful, utterly miserable and maybe it made him a bastard but he found this whole situation rather amusing. A sick demon, who'd have thought?

Sam shook his head his hand rubbing circles on her back, "One, there is no way in hell I'll let you piggyback on me, and two, even if I wanted to I wouldn't be able to do it."

Pushing her so that he could reach the neckline of his shirt he tugged it down.

"Remember this?" The swirling tattoo could clearly be seen.

"Aww," she whined as she settled her head against his chest.

"I guess you'll just have to stick it out."

"You could try to not sound so smug."

Sam shrugged, his lips curling up. "What can I say, welcome to getting a taste of what being human is."

"I remember being human, I didn't say I wanted to be one." Ruby pouted as she let Sam push her to lie down again. Sam shook his head. Letting his knuckles grace her cheek before brushing her hair back he said quietly. "Maybe. Still, there are no words I can say that'll describe how much I hate being possessed."

Ruby closed her eyes. She had forgotten. How very stupid of her.

"I'm sorry," she found herself saying.

"What for?"

"I don't know. For everything I guess. For what happened. For this." Curling in on herself, Ruby sighed as she looked up at Sam. At his indication, she scooted over to make more room for him.

"I guess you had some specific ideas for coming over. This kind of puts a damper on those now, doesn't it?"

Sam shrugged, "For now. This isn't bound to last forever. But I gotta tell you, finding you with food poisoning, now that's something I'd-"

"Hush you."

Sam grinned. Toeing off his shoes, he stood up and shrugged off his jacket, letting it drop on the floor. Standing up he stepped over Ruby to plump next to her not feeling remorseful at all at her groan.

Unbuckling his belt he pulled it loose and let it join with the rest of the items on the floor. Folding his arms behind his head, crossing his ankles he looked over at her as she carefully moved to face him. "That'll teach you to eat healthier, now won't it?"

"Oh, for crying out loud," she exclaimed, annoyed, as she thumped him. Sam laughed, his hands going down to hover over where she hit him and rolled out of her reach before setting back in his original position.

"I'm just saying," he said.

Ruby shook her head before settling down letting the quiet even breathing next to her lull her to a fretful rest, her body fighting against the bacteria that had decided to make her body their battleground.

There were just some things she needed to let nature run its course, it seemed. Not that she hadn't tried to deal with it her own way but apparently there were just some things her demonic nature was not able to tackle.

Sometimes she thought the universe was conspiring against them. Like devils and angels weren't enough. Because really, did Sam really have to be there to see this? She had her pride after all.

The end.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters portrayed herein. This is for fan enjoyment only and no profit gained nor sought.

[godswritingfreak]

Beneath the Sultantree

Verse: Final Fantasy XIV Characters: Logan Holden, Cherise Holden, Thancred, Nanamo Ul Namo Reminder that everything I post from now on will also live on AO3! You can find a link to this story here!

“What kind of noble could this Lilira be to get this many people out looking for her?” Cherise wondered out loud as soon as they were out of earshot of Papashan.

Logan glanced over his shoulder to double check the aging Lalafell couldn't, in fact, hear them, before replying. “No idea. I think he's still hiding something, but I don't think it's anything bad…”

“Yeah, I got the same feeling. What's the Sultantree anyway?”

Logan shrugged. “No idea. Haven't heard of it until now. But I'm guessing it's that one.”

He pointed ahead, to the south, and there was a singular, tall tree jutting out from a rocky area a ways away. Few trees were as noticeable across Thanalan’s deserts, so the guess was good enough for Cherise, and the twins headed off.

“So, still not talking about your jail time with the stranger you ran into?” Logan asked, making conversation as they walked.

“She ran into me, and no, because it's not worth talking about,” she all but spat back. Still sour about it apparently. “What about you and this Miqo’te that keeps dragging you off? What's that about?”

The look Cherise gave him made him blush slightly. “N-Nothing! Not that! She just. I dunno. Likes dragging me around? I don't mind I guess, helps me get used to the area, and she seems to know it better than I do…”

“Uh huh,” Cherise replied flatly. “Just be careful okay? I don't trust her…”

“I have my linkpearl, and you don't trust anyone.”

“Linkpearls are not infallible, and it seems like a safe assumption from what I can tell from this place.”

“Plus you might get overnight jail time if you trust the wrong person?”

“No, I'm just wary of young, attractive, female Miqo’te in a place like this around my doe-eyed little-”

“-I was born first!-”

“-brother!”

“So what, you think she's a-”

“Shh!” Cherise cut her brother's words off suddenly.

Logan blinked in surprise and a quick glance at his sister made it obvious she was listening intently. He paused to listen himself and heard what she must've heard. A muttering to one's self, not far, and the Sultantree was very close now. The twins shared glances, and then took off for the tree.

“Seriously though I'm taller too, what makes me little?”

“Your maturity level.”

He stuck his tongue out at her, and Cherise just raised an eyebrow in return. Logan put his tongue back in his mouth.

They rounded the pile of rocks surrounding the Sultantree and found a pink-clad Lalafell dressed in what looked more like commoner clothing than something befitting a noble. Logan wondered if that wasn't the point. The Lalafell stood at the sound of their approaching footsteps, and turned to look at them.

“Show yourself!” She shouted suddenly.

Logan jumped, realizing that she wasn't looking at them, but past them. He turned to look behind him and saw a tall, white-haired man he hadn't noticed before. Cherise seemed unsurprised at his appearance, and Logan noticed her hands were by the knuckles on her hips.

“As you command, O Lilira,” the man said easily, sauntering forward, ignoring the twins. “Forgive my selfish desire to assure your safety.”

Lilira glared at him. “I don't recall requesting an escort! Simply pretend we never met and continue on your way!”

Logan leaned over to his sister. “So… they’re okay then?” He whispered.

Cherise shrugged but relaxed. “I guess.”

He shook his head. “We both know I can do no such thing. It isn't safe for you here alone,” he pleaded. “It isn't safe for anyone - not with this aetheric disturbance… it's as if the dead are watching us…”

Logan suddenly shivered. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it now, or actually feeling what the man was describing. He glanced over and saw Cherise’s eyes darting around as if looking for a threat. So it wasn’t just him, then.

“And I'd prefer not to join them. If it's all the same to you,” the man continued, going from serious to sarcastic in record time.

Finally the man turned to the twins. “And you two must be the ones Papashan mentioned. Congratulations on finding our elusive young charge.”

Finally getting a good look at him, Logan saw that he had two very standout features, aside from his white hair. First was a tattoo on his neck, a symbol of some sort he didn't recognize. The second was a strange device, almost like large goggles, that was attached to a forearm. Logan got the sense that he was the kind of person who always knew more about a situation than he let on, and it bugged him. It was always something Logan was bad at, and something Cherise was good at. At least he trusted Cherise.

“You'll have to forgive Her Impetuousness. What she lacks in discipline she makes up for in stubbornness,” he apologized, before continuing with an offer. “You should return with us. The stationmaster will be eager to thank Lady Lilira’s protector in person.”

Logan was sure he heard Cherise scoff under her breath, and wondered now if they had, indeed, found her, or if this man had been shadowing her all along.

Still, Logan opened his mouth to reply in the positive when a sudden, horrible screech rebounded among the rocks. All four of them looked up, and Logan’s eyes widened when he saw a dark, bat-winged creature flying above them. It had long, spindly arms and legs, but only a pair of claws at the end of each limb. It’s face was beaked, had two ugly jutting horns on its head, and eyes that glowed a sickly gold. It swooped around from behind the rocks, coming to a hover just outside the tiny valley, and shrieked a challenge at the group once more.

In a flash, Cherise had her knuckles out and was immediately in a combat-ready stance. Logan did his best but ended up fumbling with his buckler, but eventually got it off his back and his sword out of its sheathe. The man, however, calmly stood forward, standing between the creature and Lilira.

“Alas, the stationmaster will have to wait,” his voice was as calm as his stature, despite the horrific creature in front of them. “Dear Lilira, for my sake, please stay out of harm’s way.”

She nodded, and quickly retreated to the back of the valley, hunkering down by the Sultantree.

Next, the man stepped forward to be next to Logan and Cherise. “As for you, dear friends - for Lilira’s sake - please stay in harm’s way!”

Both twins rolled their eyes as he dashed forward, meeting another screech from the monster - whatever it was - with a drawn blade. He engaged the monster in battle, deflecting a claw before swiping at it with his sword.

He jumped away from the next swipe and looked at the twins over his shoulder. “Well, come on! Let’s attend to our uninvited guest!’

Logan glanced at Cherise, who nodded to him, then the pair took off after the monster. Cherise went all the way around to make strikes from behind, the monster clawing and beating its wings at her, but she dodged around them. Logan took up a flanking position, warding off swipes directed at him as well. The mysterious man, however, occupied most of the monster’s attention, as he seemed the most experienced of the three. He practically danced around the unfamiliar beast, and Logan quickly realized the man must’ve been an accomplished fighter of some sort.

Certainly unlike himself. He felt his arms going weak from the effort of blocking the batting wings, as well as the fright in fighting something that looked like a living twisted nightmare. What glances he could spare showed Cherise having seemingly no problem pummeling it, but Logan felt his knees shake, feeling like he may fall over at any moment.

“Oh great, it brought friends!”

The call from the stranger had Logan jerking his head around, and he saw two, smaller versions of the monster swoop out from behind a nearby tree. Logan’s distraction cost him, as the monster’s wing buffeted him, sending him flying through the air and rolling through the craggy dirt.

“Stay close if you want me to heal you!”

“Yeah thanks I’ll just…” Logan muttered to himself, devolving into wordless grumbles as he got back to his feet.

Cherise had disengaged from the larger monster, and was working on one of the smaller ones by the time Logan was standing and moving back to the fray. She was having more issues with these, as they were smaller and faster, and not distracted by the white-haired man. Their claws raked at her shoulders, back and hair. Logan suddenly put on speed, charging with a shout as he batted one of the monsters away with his shield. With the opening, Cherise quickly one-two punched the other, giving both the twins some breathing room. They squared up next to each other, each one taking a smaller beast. Logan moved in first, slicing at one, but hitting it only with the side of his blade. Cherise swung a punch at the other, missing, but following up with a second that impacted it right on the side of the head. It spun away, still hovering but dazed. As she charged after it, Logan swiped again at his, this time the blade slicing across it. It cried out in pain and fell to the ground, where it began melting away to nothing.

Logan looked up from it with disgust to see Cherise backhanding her monster out of the air as well. It hit a rock nearby and simply splattered across it before melting away similarly. Logan was starting to feel a little sick, both from the heat of the desert, the sight of splattering monsters, and the fear that continued to eat and twist in his stomach. His knees felt weak, and his arms numb, and it had arguably been only a minute or two. While training had been rough, and while Logan had battled against many pests and beasts surrounding Ul’dah, this was the first time he’d faced true life or death combat. As that realization settled on him, he suddenly felt like he might really throw up.

“You okay?” Cherise asked, placing her hand on his back just a little more forceful than necessary.

Logan shook his head. “I-I don’t know, we could… this is…” He swallowed.

Cherise frowned at him. “Look, I know this isn’t exactly your thing, I know you want to just go home, but if we don’t do this, people will get hurt,” he followed her gaze to the man, still fighting the original creature, and to Lilira, still hiding behind the rocks. “If you don’t want to hurt them then don’t, just give me an opening, keep me safe and I’ll do the rest!”

Logan nodded. “Yeah, okay, that works, I-I can do that.”

“Good, because here comes more!”

Sure enough another pair of the voidsent creatures swooped down. Logan took a deep settling breath, and let his sister’s words sink into place of their life or death situation. He forced himself to remember the training he’d been given, and how to use that in conjunction with others. When he let the breath out, he felt steady, ready.

Cherise was already moving, engaging the voidsent. Logan charged after her, then past her, taking a swing at one of the voidsent, then spinning and throwing out his shield arm to try and bash the other. Both attacks missed, but they got the attention of the voidsent. Cherise immediately pounded on their exposed flanks, and one of the monsters wobbled off a little, dazed. Logan took another swing at the remaining engaged monster, but his blade was batted aside. Cherise came in again, and so Logan spun off the momentum of his deflected blade, stepped off to the side, and swung again. This kept his sister in the voidsent’s blind spot, so he never saw the flurry of blows coming. When it felt them, it spun to rake at the offender, but Logan stabbed it in the back, a sharp, unnatural cry of pain coming from its mouth, before it dropped to the ground and began to dissolve. The remaining beast saw its fallen comrade and shrieked, a piercing cry that made both twins wince. It charged Logan, but it never even made it close. Cherise leapt into the air and, with a spin, kicked it square in the head. A loud crack followed the impact, and the monster was half gone by the time it hit the ground.

No further reinforcements seemed incoming, so, after a brief glance and reassurance towards each other, Logan and Cherise turned back to the larger beast. The white-haired man seemed relieved that the beast was now once more distracted, and the three of them began an all out attack. The man lead the charge, moving in and slashing away, distracting it so Cherise could strike heavy blows, and by the time it turned to face her, Logan was in her place, sword and shield deflecting its counter attacks. Finally the man found an opening, and, moving faster than even Cherise, darted in and sunk his sword deep into the chest of the monster.

The voidsent gurgled, fell to the ground, and just like the others, slowly melted away.

“Good show!” The man exclaimed, sheathing his blade. “I must say, I wasn’t quite expecting all that much from either of you, but I am impressed. Not many can stare down voidsent like that and simply walk away. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a noble to check in on...”

He turned from the twins and walked back towards the Sultantree, and Lilira. Cherise looked after him and shrugged at Logan before following. Logan took a look back at the still dissipating stain of the voidsent, but just before turning to follow the others, a sparkle caught his eye. On the ground between him and the voidsent was a pure blue crystal. He hadn’t noticed it before, and wondered where it had come from. From the voidsent itself maybe? What little he knew of magic told him it may have been a focus for summoning the beast, an energy source or something. He walked over to it and bent to pick it up, intending to show it to Cherise and the stranger, maybe they could tell more about what it was. As soon as his fingers brushed the crystal however, his vision went white.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself floating in nothingness, similar to the visions he’d had back home. But this time a bright magical circle appeared around him, glyphs and designs all floating under his feet for a few yalms in every direction, perfectly symmetrical. In the middle portion of the ring, six circles stood completely empty. Floating between his hands in front of him was the crystal. It began to glow, as did one of the circles, then suddenly both the circle and the crystal flashed. Logan’s sight went white again, and once more the words from his visions echoed in his mind.

“Hear… Feel… Think…”

Blackness surrounded him, not even the light aetherical currents to help him orient himself in this world. He looked around but saw nothing. Then a sudden roar of noise above him. He looked up and saw roiling storm clouds, grey, but glowing every brighter orange and yellow as it reached the center of the storm. Streaks of flame spat forth, shooting past him, but they illuminated nothing but himself. Again, his vision went white.

Again, he reopened his eyes and found once more the aetherical currents in the void, joined by what looked like stars. But instead of standing on a surface of nothingness, Logan found himself floating freely, as though flying. Not only that, but he seemed to be glowing!

“Crystal bearer…”

It was the same voice as before, but this time seemed to be actually speaking to him, instead of just echoing the same words as before. Ahead of him was a very large crystal, as large as he but much more jagged and random than the smooth clean cut crystal he’d found on the ground. It began to float towards him, and, as soon as Logan thought about moving towards it in return, found he was already floating to meet it.

“I am Hydaelyn. All made one.”

The voice this time did not echo through Logan’s mind, but from the crystal itself. He said nothing, unsure of how to handle the situation, though he found it curious the crystal named itself after the very world he lived on.

“A Light there once was that shone throughout this realm… yet it hath since grown dim. And as it hath faltered, so hath Darkness risen up in its stead, presaging an end to life. For the sake of all, I beseech thee: deliver us from this fate! The power to banish the Darkness dwelleth in the Crystals of Light. Journey forth and lay claim to them.”

At this point more crystals had begun to appear, similar in cut though varying in shape and size. They began to float around Logan, and as he watched them spin, he looked back forward and suddenly a crystal larger than any building he had ever seen in Limsa Lominsa or Ul’dah had appeared before him. The smaller crystals were now spinning around it, and Logan found himself completely entranced by the sight.

“By thy deeds shall the Crystals reveal themselves to thee. Only believe, for the Light liveth in thy heart.”

A sense pulled Logan’s sight away from the crystal, and to his side, in the distance, he saw another figure, also glowing, making it hard to make them out clearly. A woman, maybe? A man, though what race he could not tell, suddenly flew right past him, also aglow. They were like shooting stars, visible for but the briefest of moments before disappearing in the distance. He felt an urge to join them, to help with whatever it was they were so intent on. And so he did, his glow burning brighter and he found himself shooting off to join the other stars as they began to surround the crystal. A sun appeared bright and warm above the crystal, and it drew Logan in.

“Go now, my child, and shine thy Light on all creation.”

Yes, that was what he wanted to do, what felt right. He continued towards the light, and one more time, his vision went white.

“Logan!” Cherise called out, though she sounded so distant. “Logan, wake up!” That sounded yet closer. “Don’t make me hit you!”

That sounded as though she were screaming in his ear. Logan’s eyes snapped open and he took a deep breath. “W-What? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong!? You just passed out on the ground! What in the hells do you think is wrong!?” Cherise scolded, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ow! Let go, help me up!” Logan complained, realizing that yes, indeed, he was flat on the ground.

Cherise scowled but stood up, extending a hand for her brother to help him up. He took it and got back to his feet, brushing the dust off his pants.

“Ah, coming around now?” The man from before commented, glancing over at the twins.

Logan blinked, feeling confused. How long had he been out? It can’t have been long, everyone was about right where he’d left them, the sun was still shining. Strange. Whatever that… vision had been had felt like hours.

“Would you mind telling me what that was!?” Lilira suddenly demanded of the man.

“If I only knew! A voidsent, but as for what kind, exactly, I know not,” he answered calmly.

Lilira seemed quite disturbed by this news and shook her head. “A voidsent? Here? But how?”

The man seemed equally disturbed, and Logan wondered what they were all thinking. “The question isn’t ‘how’, but ‘who’. We’re not dealing with bookless bandits.” The man glanced over at Logan. “I don’t suppose the answer came to you in a dream?”

It sounded like a joke, but Logan was tempted to answer with what he saw. But maybe that was best saved for when there weren’t a pair of complete strangers nearby.

“You passed out on the spot just a moment ago, too much aether, no doubt,” he continued with a shrug, moving on from his attempted joke.

Logan hesitated for just a moment, but then produced the crystal he’d found. “What about this?” He asked.

The man put a hand to his chin. “Interesting… I hadn’t considered a crystal…” The man paused then suddenly exclaimed. “But of course! This changes everything!”

Logan, Cherise and Lilira were all silent and staring at the man until he snapped out of his reverie, and noticed them all. “Oh, just thinking aloud! At any rate, we haven’t a moment to spare. I must return and report this at once. I leave Lady Lilira in your capable hands.” Lilira scoffed. “How dare you pass me about like a swaddled babe! I shall return and tell them myself!”

And with that Lilira stormed off, leaving the other three behind.

“As you wish, Your Impetuousness!” The man called after her with a shrug, before turning back to the twins. “I suspect we shall meet again before long. Until then, do try and stay awake!”

With a wave, the man also took his leave of the twins, finally leaving them alone. Logan looked over at Cherise, who was still scowling.

“Keep making that face, it might stay that way,” Logan said flatly.

He got a punch to the shoulder for his trouble. “Shut up, I was worried. What happened to you anyway?”

Logan took a moment to recall the vision, it was still very fresh in his mind, not dwindling like a dream, more like a memory. He told Cherise about what he’d seen, but she just sighed and shook her head.

“I don’t know, I think maybe you hit your head,” she said.

“But we just fought a voidsent!” Logan insisted. “Something’s going on, Cherise. Something big. The visions from before led us here, and this was the same sort of thing, isn’t this exactly what we came here to find? More clues to whatever those visions were? This is it!”

Cherise shrugged. “And did it tell you what to do next?”

“Well…” Logan tried to find an argument. “No, I guess not. But she did say that thing about deeds.”

“Great, so, our only hint is for you to keep… helping people?” Cherise asked. “You didn’t just make that up to have an excuse to keep helping that Miqo’te did you?”

Logan groaned loudly and started walking away. “Let’s just go find Papashan.”

He knew something was happening, something bad. But why was he the one being charged with stopping it? What was one man against such a darkness that the crystal - Hydaelyn - had described? What had he gotten himself into?

[shieldoflegend]

Beneath the Sultantree

“What kind of noble could this Lilira be to get this many people out looking for her?” Cherise wondered out loud as soon as they were out of earshot of Papashan.

Logan glanced over his shoulder to double check the aging Lalafell couldn't, in fact, hear them, before replying. “No idea. I think he's still hiding something, but I don't think it's anything bad…”

“Yeah, I got the same feeling. What's the Sultantree anyway?”

Logan shrugged. “No idea. Haven't heard of it until now. But I'm guessing it's that one.”

He pointed ahead, to the south, and there was a singular, tall tree jutting out from a rocky area a ways away. Few trees were as noticeable across Thanalan’s deserts, so the guess was good enough for Cherise, and the twins headed off.

“So, still not talking about your jail time with the stranger you ran into?” Logan asked, making conversation as they walked.

“She ran into me, and no, because it's not worth talking about,” she all but spat back. Still sour about it apparently. “What about you and this Miqo’te that keeps dragging you off? What's that about?”

The look Cherise gave him made him blush slightly. “N-Nothing! Not that! She just. I dunno. Likes dragging me around? I don't mind I guess, helps me get used to the area, and she seems to know it better than I do…”

“Uh huh,” Cherise replied flatly. “Just be careful okay? I don't trust her…”

“I have my linkpearl, and you don't trust anyone.”

“Linkpearls are not infallible, and it seems like a safe assumption from what I can tell from this place.”

“Plus you might get overnight jail time if you trust the wrong person?”

“No, I'm just wary of young, attractive, female Miqo’te in a place like this around my doe-eyed little-”

“-I was born first!-”

“-brother!”

“So what, you think she's a-”

“Shh!” Cherise cut her brother's words off suddenly.

Logan blinked in surprise and a quick glance at his sister made it obvious she was listening intently. He paused to listen himself and heard what she must've heard. A muttering to one's self, not far, and the Sultantree was very close now. The twins shared glances, and then took off for the tree.

“Seriously though I'm taller too, what makes me little?”

“Your maturity level.”

He stuck his tongue out at her, and Cherise just raised an eyebrow in return. Logan put his tongue back in his mouth.

They rounded the pile of rocks surrounding the Sultantree and found a pink-clad Lalafell dressed in what looked more like commoner clothing than something befitting a noble. Logan wondered if that wasn't the point. The Lalafell stood at the sound of their approaching footsteps, and turned to look at them.

“Show yourself!” She shouted suddenly.

Logan jumped, realizing that she wasn't looking at them, but past them. He turned to look behind him and saw a tall, white-haired man he hadn't noticed before. Cherise seemed unsurprised at his appearance, and Logan noticed her hands were by the knuckles on her hips.

“As you command, O Lilira,” the man said easily, sauntering forward, ignoring the twins. “Forgive my selfish desire to assure your safety.”

Lilira glared at him. “I don't recall requesting an escort! Simply pretend we never met and continue on your way!”

Logan leaned over to his sister. “So… they’re okay then?” He whispered.

Cherise shrugged but relaxed. “I guess.”

He shook his head. “We both know I can do no such thing. It isn't safe for you here alone,” he pleaded. “It isn't safe for anyone - not with this aetheric disturbance… it's as if the dead are watching us…”

Logan suddenly shivered. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it now, or actually feeling what the man was describing. He glanced over and saw Cherise’s eyes darting around as if looking for a threat. So it wasn’t just him, then.

“And I'd prefer not to join them. If it's all the same to you,” the man continued, going from serious to sarcastic in record time.

Finally the man turned to the twins. “And you two must be the ones Papashan mentioned. Congratulations on finding our elusive young charge.”

Finally getting a good look at him, Logan saw that he had two very standout features, aside from his white hair. First was a tattoo on his neck, a symbol of some sort he didn't recognize. The second was a strange device, almost like large goggles, that was attached to a forearm. Logan got the sense that he was the kind of person who always knew more about a situation than he let on, and it bugged him. It was always something Logan was bad at, and something Cherise was good at. At least he trusted Cherise.

“You'll have to forgive Her Impetuousness. What she lacks in discipline she makes up for in stubbornness,” he apologized, before continuing with an offer. “You should return with us. The stationmaster will be eager to thank Lady Lilira’s protector in person.”

Logan was sure he heard Cherise scoff under her breath, and wondered now if they had, indeed, found her, or if this man had been shadowing her all along.

Still, Logan opened his mouth to reply in the positive when a sudden, horrible screech rebounded among the rocks. All four of them looked up, and Logan’s eyes widened when he saw a dark, bat-winged creature flying above them. It had long, spindly arms and legs, but only a pair of claws at the end of each limb. It’s face was beaked, had two ugly jutting horns on its head, and eyes that glowed a sickly gold. It swooped around from behind the rocks, coming to a hover just outside the tiny valley, and shrieked a challenge at the group once more.

In a flash, Cherise had her knuckles out and was immediately in a combat-ready stance. Logan did his best but ended up fumbling with his buckler, but eventually got it off his back and his sword out of its sheathe. The man, however, calmly stood forward, standing between the creature and Lilira.

“Alas, the stationmaster will have to wait,” his voice was as calm as his stature, despite the horrific creature in front of them. “Dear Lilira, for my sake, please stay out of harm’s way.”

She nodded, and quickly retreated to the back of the valley, hunkering down by the Sultantree.

Next, the man stepped forward to be next to Logan and Cherise. “As for you, dear friends - for Lilira’s sake - please stay in harm’s way!”

Both twins rolled their eyes as he dashed forward, meeting another screech from the monster - whatever it was - with a drawn blade. He engaged the monster in battle, deflecting a claw before swiping at it with his sword.

He jumped away from the next swipe and looked at the twins over his shoulder. “Well, come on! Let’s attend to our uninvited guest!’

Logan glanced at Cherise, who nodded to him, then the pair took off after the monster. Cherise went all the way around to make strikes from behind, the monster clawing and beating its wings at her, but she dodged around them. Logan took up a flanking position, warding off swipes directed at him as well. The mysterious man, however, occupied most of the monster’s attention, as he seemed the most experienced of the three. He practically danced around the unfamiliar beast, and Logan quickly realized the man must’ve been an accomplished fighter of some sort.

Certainly unlike himself. He felt his arms going weak from the effort of blocking the batting wings, as well as the fright in fighting something that looked like a living twisted nightmare. What glances he could spare showed Cherise having seemingly no problem pummeling it, but Logan felt his knees shake, feeling like he may fall over at any moment.

“Oh great, it brought friends!”

The call from the stranger had Logan jerking his head around, and he saw two, smaller versions of the monster swoop out from behind a nearby tree. Logan’s distraction cost him, as the monster’s wing buffeted him, sending him flying through the air and rolling through the craggy dirt.

“Stay close if you want me to heal you!”

“Yeah thanks I’ll just…” Logan muttered to himself, devolving into wordless grumbles as he got back to his feet.

Cherise had disengaged from the larger monster, and was working on one of the smaller ones by the time Logan was standing and moving back to the fray. She was having more issues with these, as they were smaller and faster, and not distracted by the white-haired man. Their claws raked at her shoulders, back and hair. Logan suddenly put on speed, charging with a shout as he batted one of the monsters away with his shield. With the opening, Cherise quickly one-two punched the other, giving both the twins some breathing room. They squared up next to each other, each one taking a smaller beast. Logan moved in first, slicing at one, but hitting it only with the side of his blade. Cherise swung a punch at the other, missing, but following up with a second that impacted it right on the side of the head. It spun away, still hovering but dazed. As she charged after it, Logan swiped again at his, this time the blade slicing across it. It cried out in pain and fell to the ground, where it began melting away to nothing.

Logan looked up from it with disgust to see Cherise backhanding her monster out of the air as well. It hit a rock nearby and simply splattered across it before melting away similarly. Logan was starting to feel a little sick, both from the heat of the desert, the sight of splattering monsters, and the fear that continued to eat and twist in his stomach. His knees felt weak, and his arms numb, and it had arguably been only a minute or two. While training had been rough, and while Logan had battled against many pests and beasts surrounding Ul’dah, this was the first time he’d faced true life or death combat. As that realization settled on him, he suddenly felt like he might really throw up.

“You okay?” Cherise asked, placing her hand on his back just a little more forceful than necessary.

Logan shook his head. “I-I don’t know, we could… this is…” He swallowed.

Cherise frowned at him. “Look, I know this isn’t exactly your thing, I know you want to just go home, but if we don’t do this, people will get hurt,” he followed her gaze to the man, still fighting the original creature, and to Lilira, still hiding behind the rocks. “If you don’t want to hurt them then don’t, just give me an opening, keep me safe and I’ll do the rest!”

Logan nodded. “Yeah, okay, that works, I-I can do that.”

“Good, because here comes more!”

Sure enough another pair of the voidsent creatures swooped down. Logan took a deep settling breath, and let his sister’s words sink into place of their life or death situation. He forced himself to remember the training he’d been given, and how to use that in conjunction with others. When he let the breath out, he felt steady, ready.

Cherise was already moving, engaging the voidsent. Logan charged after her, then past her, taking a swing at one of the voidsent, then spinning and throwing out his shield arm to try and bash the other. Both attacks missed, but they got the attention of the voidsent. Cherise immediately pounded on their exposed flanks, and one of the monsters wobbled off a little, dazed. Logan took another swing at the remaining engaged monster, but his blade was batted aside. Cherise came in again, and so Logan spun off the momentum of his deflected blade, stepped off to the side, and swung again. This kept his sister in the voidsent’s blind spot, so he never saw the flurry of blows coming. When it felt them, it spun to rake at the offender, but Logan stabbed it in the back, a sharp, unnatural cry of pain coming from its mouth, before it dropped to the ground and began to dissolve. The remaining beast saw its fallen comrade and shrieked, a piercing cry that made both twins wince. It charged Logan, but it never even made it close. Cherise leapt into the air and, with a spin, kicked it square in the head. A loud crack followed the impact, and the monster was half gone by the time it hit the ground.

No further reinforcements seemed incoming, so, after a brief glance and reassurance towards each other, Logan and Cherise turned back to the larger beast. The white-haired man seemed relieved that the beast was now once more distracted, and the three of them began an all out attack. The man lead the charge, moving in and slashing away, distracting it so Cherise could strike heavy blows, and by the time it turned to face her, Logan was in her place, sword and shield deflecting its counter attacks. Finally the man found an opening, and, moving faster than even Cherise, darted in and sunk his sword deep into the chest of the monster.

The voidsent gurgled, fell to the ground, and just like the others, slowly melted away.

“Good show!” The man exclaimed, sheathing his blade. “I must say, I wasn’t quite expecting all that much from either of you, but I am impressed. Not many can stare down voidsent like that and simply walk away. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a noble to check in on...”

He turned from the twins and walked back towards the Sultantree, and Lilira. Cherise looked after him and shrugged at Logan before following. Logan took a look back at the still dissipating stain of the voidsent, but just before turning to follow the others, a sparkle caught his eye. On the ground between him and the voidsent was a pure blue crystal. He hadn’t noticed it before, and wondered where it had come from. From the voidsent itself maybe? What little he knew of magic told him it may have been a focus for summoning the beast, an energy source or something. He walked over to it and bent to pick it up, intending to show it to Cherise and the stranger, maybe they could tell more about what it was. As soon as his fingers brushed the crystal however, his vision went white.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself floating in nothingness, similar to the visions he’d had back home. But this time a bright magical circle appeared around him, glyphs and designs all floating under his feet for a few yalms in every direction, perfectly symmetrical. In the middle portion of the ring, six circles stood completely empty. Floating between his hands in front of him was the crystal. It began to glow, as did one of the circles, then suddenly both the circle and the crystal flashed. Logan’s sight went white again, and once more the words from his visions echoed in his mind.

“Hear… Feel… Think…”

Blackness surrounded him, not even the light aetherical currents to help him orient himself in this world. He looked around but saw nothing. Then a sudden roar of noise above him. He looked up and saw roiling storm clouds, grey, but glowing every brighter orange and yellow as it reached the center of the storm. Streaks of flame spat forth, shooting past him, but they illuminated nothing but himself. Again, his vision went white.

Again, he reopened his eyes and found once more the aetherical currents in the void, joined by what looked like stars. But instead of standing on a surface of nothingness, Logan found himself floating freely, as though flying. Not only that, but he seemed to be glowing!

“Crystal bearer…”

It was the same voice as before, but this time seemed to be actually speaking to him, instead of just echoing the same words as before. Ahead of him was a very large crystal, as large as he but much more jagged and random than the smooth clean cut crystal he’d found on the ground. It began to float towards him, and, as soon as Logan thought about moving towards it in return, found he was already floating to meet it.

“I am Hydaelyn. All made one.”

The voice this time did not echo through Logan’s mind, but from the crystal itself. He said nothing, unsure of how to handle the situation, though he found it curious the crystal named itself after the very world he lived on.

“A Light there once was that shone throughout this realm… yet it hath since grown dim. And as it hath faltered, so hath Darkness risen up in its stead, presaging an end to life. For the sake of all, I beseech thee: deliver us from this fate! The power to banish the Darkness dwelleth in the Crystals of Light. Journey forth and lay claim to them.”

At this point more crystals had begun to appear, similar in cut though varying in shape and size. They began to float around Logan, and as he watched them spin, he looked back forward and suddenly a crystal larger than any building he had ever seen in Limsa Lominsa or Ul’dah had appeared before him. The smaller crystals were now spinning around it, and Logan found himself completely entranced by the sight.

“By thy deeds shall the Crystals reveal themselves to thee. Only believe, for the Light liveth in thy heart.”

A sense pulled Logan’s sight away from the crystal, and to his side, in the distance, he saw another figure, also glowing, making it hard to make them out clearly. A woman, maybe? A man, though what race he could not tell, suddenly flew right past him, also aglow. They were like shooting stars, visible for but the briefest of moments before disappearing in the distance. He felt an urge to join them, to help with whatever it was they were so intent on. And so he did, his glow burning brighter and he found himself shooting off to join the other stars as they began to surround the crystal. A sun appeared bright and warm above the crystal, and it drew Logan in.

“Go now, my child, and shine thy Light on all creation.”

Yes, that was what he wanted to do, what felt right. He continued towards the light, and one more time, his vision went white.

“Logan!” Cherise called out, though she sounded so distant. “Logan, wake up!” That sounded yet closer. “Don’t make me hit you!”

That sounded as though she were screaming in his ear. Logan’s eyes snapped open and he took a deep breath. “W-What? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong!? You just passed out on the ground! What in the hells do you think is wrong!?” Cherise scolded, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ow! Let go, help me up!” Logan complained, realizing that yes, indeed, he was flat on the ground.

Cherise scowled but stood up, extending a hand for her brother to help him up. He took it and got back to his feet, brushing the dust off his pants.

“Ah, coming around now?” The man from before commented, glancing over at the twins.

Logan blinked, feeling confused. How long had he been out? It can’t have been long, everyone was about right where he’d left them, the sun was still shining. Strange. Whatever that… vision had been had felt like hours.

“Would you mind telling me what that was!?” Lilira suddenly demanded of the man.

“If I only knew! A voidsent, but as for what kind, exactly, I know not,” he answered calmly.

Lilira seemed quite disturbed by this news and shook her head. “A voidsent? Here? But how?”

The man seemed equally disturbed, and Logan wondered what they were all thinking. “The question isn’t ‘how’, but ‘who’. We’re not dealing with bookless bandits.” The man glanced over at Logan. “I don’t suppose the answer came to you in a dream?”

It sounded like a joke, but Logan was tempted to answer with what he saw. But maybe that was best saved for when there weren’t a pair of complete strangers nearby.

“You passed out on the spot just a moment ago, too much aether, no doubt,” he continued with a shrug, moving on from his attempted joke.

Logan hesitated for just a moment, but then produced the crystal he’d found. “What about this?” He asked.

The man put a hand to his chin. “Interesting… I hadn’t considered a crystal…” The man paused then suddenly exclaimed. “But of course! This changes everything!”

Logan, Cherise and Lilira were all silent and staring at the man until he snapped out of his reverie, and noticed them all. “Oh, just thinking aloud! At any rate, we haven’t a moment to spare. I must return and report this at once. I leave Lady Lilira in your capable hands.” Lilira scoffed. “How dare you pass me about like a swaddled babe! I shall return and tell them myself!”

And with that Lilira stormed off, leaving the other three behind.

“As you wish, Your Impetuousness!” The man called after her with a shrug, before turning back to the twins. “I suspect we shall meet again before long. Until then, do try and stay awake!”

With a wave, the man also took his leave of the twins, finally leaving them alone. Logan looked over at Cherise, who was still scowling.

“Keep making that face, it might stay that way,” Logan said flatly.

He got a punch to the shoulder for his trouble. “Shut up, I was worried. What happened to you anyway?”

Logan took a moment to recall the vision, it was still very fresh in his mind, not dwindling like a dream, more like a memory. He told Cherise about what he’d seen, but she just sighed and shook her head.

“I don’t know, I think maybe you hit your head,” she said.

“But we just fought a voidsent!” Logan insisted. “Something’s going on, Cherise. Something big. The visions from before led us here, and this was the same sort of thing, isn’t this exactly what we came here to find? More clues to whatever those visions were? This is it!”

Cherise shrugged. “And did it tell you what to do next?”

“Well…” Logan tried to find an argument. “No, I guess not. But she did say that thing about deeds.”

“Great, so, our only hint is for you to keep… helping people?” Cherise asked. “You didn’t just make that up to have an excuse to keep helping that Miqo’te did you?”

Logan groaned loudly and started walking away. “Let’s just go find Papashan.”

He knew something was happening, something bad. But why was he the one being charged with stopping it? What was one man against such a darkness that the crystal - Hydaelyn - had described? What had he gotten himself into?

[promptbomb]

Ink and Paint : Chapter 2

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader Previous Chapters:  One Word Count: 1,593  Prompt: You came to Los Santos to pursue a dream of becoming a tattoo artist. Things haven’t quite worked out as you planned and now you find yourself working a graveyard shift at Pandemonium Ink. Things are typically quiet, that is until one of the cities most infamous criminals come through the door. 

The ringing of your phone coincides with breaking news interrupting your binge of San Andreas Diners and Dives.

You mute the tv just as a headline crawls across the bottom of the screen, Del Perro Freeway Car Chase, but you’re more focused on your brother’s name flashing on the caller id and the gnawing you feel in your stomach as you reluctantly answer. The conversation follows a pretty standard format; a greeting, small talk about each other’s lives, until ultimately asking if you had talked to your mom recently. He knew that you hadn’t of course, he lived at home after all, and you were sure your mom was hovering around him, waiting for a chance to sneak herself into the conversation.

The relationship between you and your mother was strained, more so since you moved to Los Santos. She had never approved of your interest in art and had only tolerated you working for your uncle’s parlor because you had told her you were saving up money to enroll in online courses for Medical Coding. Boy, she angry when she found out the truth. She had done everything, save locking you in the basement, to keep you from leaving. You knew that she probably had good intentions, but she was absolutely lousy in trying to show them.

When you hear her asking your brother to hand her the phone you make an excuse that you’re late for work and hang up. At least it wasn’t completely untrue, you had agreed to take on a last-minute late shift at one of your part time jobs, a little sandwich stands named Ruth’s. It didn’t pay well but the tips were decent enough and the owner, a little old lady who the stand was named after, was very sweet, almost a pseudo mother figure, who never failed to send you home with a nice meal when she thought you were looking a little thin.

Ruth was there when you showed up, her short stature barely visible over the counter and no doubt recovering from the lunch rush. It looked like a good day, at least that’s what you gather by all the fry baskets and plastic cups left on the tables outside the stand. Instinctively, you bust them down, tossing the trash into the bin as you call out to Ruth to draw her attention away from a small black and white tv balanced on the counter. “What you watching there?”

“Oh, the news.” That figures, after all, the only channels she got on that antique were local. “They’re talking about that car chase from earlier.”

“I saw something about that when I was getting ready.” You say as you tie an apron around your waist, walking up to look over her shoulder at the grainy picture. You see the chief police talking at a podium with about a dozen microphones shoved into his face. He didn’t appear to be happy. “I take it that they didn’t catch them.”

She brushes you away with a playful flick of a towel, “What? Those morons? They couldn’t catch a cold.” You snicker and she continues. “You know, back when Augustus and I first came here it was such a lovely city.”

“When was that again?”

“Watch it,” she says and shakes a crooked finger at your playful rib. “You may not believe it but this used to be a city of dreams. You didn’t even have to lock your doors.”

You had heard it all before. Los Santos certainly had its problems with crime, but what big city didn’t? The pristine utopia that Ruth often described was no doubt tainted by nostalgia, but it was cute to watch her reminisce about old times. “I don’t know, a little dirt gives the city personality at least.”

“Personality? You think those delinquents running the streets have an inkling of personality? They’re just running around, causing chaos. At least the criminals in my day had some class and kept their dealings behind closed doors.”

“Well, I’m sure the cities finest will catch up with them next time,” you say as you catch a glimpse of one of the mugshots, a dapper looking mustached man, before she turns off the tv as a new customer walks up.

You opt to stay with Ruth until closing, helping her clean up and shut down just as it begins to get dark. You made enough with tips to splurge on a cab, it would give you some extra time to clean up before heading to Pandemonium. Yet, despite your earnest protest, Ruth splurges on the ride for you as thanks for coming in on short notice and for staying later than you expected to. The ride from Ruth’s to your apartment building is a short one and, along the way, you’re surprised when you get a call, from Pandemonium no less.

“Yo.” Bruno’s deep voice bellows as you answer. Bruno was one of the daytime artists and typically who you interacted with the most between shifts, a sort of changing of the guards as he chucked the keys at you and reminded you to lock up the safe. The fact that he was calling was extremely rare.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Yeah. Someone called and asked for yous. Yous specifically.” Your brow quirks, he sounds almost as surprised as you are. “Said yous guys had a consultation a couple weeks ago.”

Your mind races through your memory like a Rolodex, trying to remember. A couple weeks ago? A consultation? Nothing comes to mind. Nothing except- “Oooh. Huh.”

“What’s that?” Bruno asks.

“Nothing. Just, this one guy did come in but we...we couldn’t come to an agreement. It wasn’t even that much of a consultation.”

“Well, if it’s the same guy yous must have made some sort of impression. Said he was coming by tonight.” Great. You hadn’t really thought about that awkward encounter since it had happened. With the way he stormed out you just assumed that was the end of it. “Yous remember what he wanted, yeah?”

“I think so, yeah. Thanks for the heads up. I’ll try to make it in a little earlier to set up.” Bruno grumbles a farewell and your conversation ends a few minutes shy of the cab pulling up to your apartments.

A quick shower and a change of clothes and you’re sitting on the couch sketching. Roses. You remember that he wanted roses, a memorial for a friend. But that was all. You didn’t have a clue where he wanted the tattoo placed, what style, if he wanted color or black and gray. Maybe he didn’t want anything at all. You realize you could be doing a bunch of work for no reason if he simply wanted to come in and show you a tattoo he got someplace else as a means to remind you of your poor customer service. You don’t regret it, though. You still stand by what you said.

You toss your sketchbook on the table in defeat; there was no point in trying to draw something before you even knew what he wanted. You lay back on the couch and glance at the tv, seeing that they’re still talking about the care chase this morning, or at least that’s what you assume as you see the same dapper looking mustache man mugshot from earlier on screen morph into a full lineup of several wanted criminals.

That’s when you see him.

Disheveled hair, ripped jacket, a face completely smeared in paint, yet the recollection of those blue eyes washes over you like a bucket of ice water. Stunned, you roll off the couch and into the floor, nearly missing cracking your head against the table before managing to get to your feet to draw closer to the tv screen. There was no mistaking it. The man in the mugshot, labeled only with an alias of Vagabond, was the same man that you had talked to. The same man you had pissed off. The same man that was coming to see you tonight.

“Shiiiiit.”

Logic told you that no one would call ahead to let you know they were coming if they intended to do you harm. At least that’s what you had to tell yourself in some way of psyching yourself up to go to work. You no sooner get through the door before Bruno and a couple of other artists are on their way out. If you didn’t think Bruno would laugh in your face if you asked him to stay you might have asked. Fat chance he’d be of any help if things turned sour. Even if he believed you he’d be more likely to call the cops and the thought of getting in any deeper than what you already were was none too appealing.

So you settle on running business as usual. If anything the element of surprise was off the table and if you felt threatened, well, that’s what the baseball bat was for. Still, the waiting game had your stomach in knots. You had no idea when the Vagabond was going to show up, or what mood he would be in for that matter. You had to admire his moxie, though; instead of laying low after a high profile car chase he’s out, living like it was just an everyday occurrence. Well, you suppose it could easily be madness as much as it could be moxie.

The hours tick away and you actually have to shake yourself awake when you hear the door open.