#that I’m not useless. that all this suffering and beating my head against the wall had some worth to it

[malachitezmeyka]

I spent an hour and a half staring at my google doc and ended up with no newly typed words and the overwhelming urge to tear my own hair out

[hazelfoureyes]

HAZELLLL OH BOY DO I HAVE A GOOD IDEAAAA

OKOK so what if doe! Reader is with vox and readers in heat right right????

But vox can't help reader break it (he's been trying for hours)

So he has to call alastor to help you since he's the only deer vox knows of

Oh my goddd

Hohoho good night awquar 💖

Cucking Vox

「warnings/promises: Vox x Female doe reader, Alastor x female doe reader, smut, Cucking the TV man, knotting, heat, pussy flooded, Alastor says “good girl”, hell is heaven now, you’re engaged but meh, drones were not made for this, Breeding???, humilation of the flat headed prince, Vox loves you, but your pussy love Alastor」

Minors I stg! DNI!

It had been all morning. He didn’t mind the stamina required, but his love was still suffering. Nothing was satiating your needs, even when he went out of his way to transform his typically human male prick into something more akin to the wider based cock you needed …. It was still not enough.

As you laid supine and open, the artificial knot full and stuck in you, the whines didn’t stop. It didn’t have the heat your cunt knew a proper mate would have. His load was too small, your womb quivering in need with every pathetic release he buried in you. A real knot would pulse with the heart rate of the buck claiming you. 

“Nothing?” Vox’s voice was high and worried. 

“I mean… it’s something.” Grumbled into a pillow. You ground against him but it was useless to calm your burning walls. Ever hour that passed without being properly fucked became torturous. 

“What does it feel like? Not getting, ya know,” suddenly he felt shy, voicing the thing he was lacking, “knotted.”

You considered sparing him the truth but your animal brain said it before your human one could stop it, “It hurts. It feels like my pussy is on fire. Do you know how sometimes the roof of your mouth itches and you can’t scratch it? That. For fucking hours.”

Seeing you in pain hurt him, deeper than he could handle. How could he have so much money and power and feel so worthless for you now?

Did he truly have no resources? No recourse? No remedy? 

As he watched your large doe ears press back into your skull, the solution came to him.

“One minute babe, you just…” Vox halted as you rolled on your side, fingers coming to your center to have some friction, “Keep doing that…”

· · ─────── ·📺📻· ─────── · ·

When the drone approached his patio table,  he didn’t look up. 

When Vox’s voice crackled through the small speaker, he didn’t look up.

When the question, “How much for you to fuck my fiancée?” was shouted at him, he admittedly choked a little on his coffee and finally acknowledged the device.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Alastor set the mug down to keep from breaking it in his hand.

“To humiliate me.”

A beat.

A hum.

A twirl of his staff.

“Well in that case, for free!”

Vox blinked twice as he stared at the monitor, “Wait, really?”

Alastor mulled it over seriously now. Did he want to have sex right now? No, not really. Did the idea of making Vox’s future wife scream his name sound hilarious? Yes absolutely. 

He shrugged, getting up from his chair as the drone spun around him, “Shit, I didn’t expect you to agree.”

“So you don’t want me to bed your gal?” Alastor smiled, “Then I’m definitely in.”

Vox chewed on a claw, “Fuck! Fine just get down here. And I don’t owe you any favors for this, so don’t even fucking ask.”

“Oh Vox, favors? You’re hardly the one I’d go to when in need. You’re not even the first Vee I’d approach! Ha!”

Before he could crash the drone directly into that smug face, he heard your whimpers from the bedroom down the hall and paused. 

“Just”, Vox cradled his screen in his hands, “hurry up.”

It became immediately clear why his former partner had called him of all people when Alastor exited the elevator into Vox’s personal floor.

The living quarters were swimming in the heady scent of arousal. Specifically, a doe. 

Alastor rolled his eyes, of course Vox found one of the few other deer demons in the pride ring to marry.

“Ooh, you are in a pickle, huh?” He leaned against the door frame, taking in the sight of the overlord rubbing your back as you groaned. His eyes fell immediately to the downturned tail above your bare cheeks. “Poor thing.” He cooed.

You couldn’t find the will to turn your head to look. A growled, “Voxy?”

“He’s here to help, babe.” His hands sped up their massaging swirls.

“Who, exactly?”

“Alastor! The radio demon. A plea-,” He began but couldn’t finish. 

Vox laughed nervously, “He’s a deer demon! Like you!” 

“You grabbed a random deer demon off the street to-,”

“No! Not at all! Though, admittedly, the only other deer demon I know.” As you made a noise of disapproval, he added, “He’s an overlord! An old pal, even.”

You heard the strange man guffaw. Finally, you rolled over to lay eyes on the supposed cavalry your beau had summoned.

Oh. 

“Hmm.” Something in you unspoken yet still demanding made you roll into your back and drop your knees open. 

He hadn’t anticipated a fellow deer in heat. Vox had offered him more than just fucking his girl, it turned out. Alastor had come mostly expecting to laugh in Vox’s face as a second best humiliation and head to cannibal town, but seeing how Vox was so desperately in love, well, how could he say no? What more delicious of a meal could exist than splitting open Vox’s ego while splitting open his doe with the same effort.

Still on the bed, Vox felt the air shift as he stood between Alastor and you. 

“Well, I uh, guess I’ll leave you two to it.” His screen flashed a pink haze of embarrassment.

“Oh? Abandoning her already?” With a snap and a flourish of his fingers, a plush reading chair materialized on the opposite side of the bed. “Take a seat, old chum.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

Alastor loosened his bowtie, “You’d really leave your vulnerable and needy betrothed all alone with a man? Tsk tsk.”

Vox laughed, “You’re not a man.”

“Ooh, correct.” Alastor reached the bed, undoing his belt, “I’m a buck, right little one?” When his hand reached out and slid down your calf you trembled. Even his skin on yours felt different than Vox’s. “Now take a seat.”

His flat face turned to you, who could only nod as a long claw dragged down your shin.

Vox settled into his chair and crossed his arms. He wanted to say something snotty about how he would make more money on his cell during the little romp than Alastor could dream of, but the sound of Alastor’s zipper made his throat close.

“I’ll need a little assistance to catch up to you, sweetheart. Mind lending me a hand?” Alastor rested his knees on either side of your thighs,  body hovering over you as he knelt.

You briefly considered arguing, but as his other hand pulled his still soft cock from his pants and the scent of him hit your heightened senses, you found your body sitting up. Your hand went into his as he placed it around himself. His fist around yours as he showed you how to stroke him.

“Is that really necessary?” Vox’s voice seemed to glitch.

“Of course! I’m only capable of knotting when in rut. And a rut can only be triggered by a doe in heat. I’ll need her touch and scent to … get the show started, so to speak.” Alastor’s hand left yours, index finger coming to lift your chin. The first eye contact of the evening, funnily enough coming after skin met skin. 

Deep red eyes shone down on you behind a widening smile, “Good girl. I’ll take care of you.”

“You’re obnoxious.” You slurred, a second wave of his uniquely virile musk rolling off his heated crotch. “Good girl? You just met me you….Old timey…”, the lights in your brain shut off, “fuck. Fuck.” Your mind was a blank piece of paper, the word ‘breed’ scrawled haphazardly as your hand felt the weight of his erection. 

Vox had never seen you make that face, nor your eyes lose focus and dilate quite like that either. He couldn’t help but glance at the thick appendage in your fist.

A look shot to his own lap, he hadn’t considered girth into the equation… 

Your mouth opened, saliva pooling in your cheeks as you brought him to your lips. Alastor’s hand snaked back to grab you by the hair and gently keep you off of him, not needing someone’s spit slathered on his skin. 

“Okay now-“ As Vox interjected Alastor’s hand sat still on your head.

“I’ll allow it.” The radio demon had a change of heart at the upset tone of his former friend.

Your tongue blanketed your bottom lip to welcome Alastor in, cheeks hollowing from the size of him alone. Why did he taste like that? Like someone you should only view from your knees? A power to his sweat that made your pussy clench. 

Just a few bobs of your head and he was pulling you off, the job done when Vox seemed to slouch back into the chair in resignation. Large and warm hands guided you onto your back and then onto your right side. Your line of sight was your husband-to-be, claws digging into the fabric of his summoned chair.

It was nice to be handled in your heat. To have strong hands move you around your bed as they wanted you, that alone nearly distracted you from the throbbing of your pussy now showing behind your thighs. Alastor lifted your left leg and used it to pull you to him, a wanton whimper from you when he lined up.

His chuckle was more than annoying, but you were in no position to argue. The sound of impatient tapping momentarily took your focus away; Vox’s foot hitting the tile floor. Your eyes followed up his body to meet his stare just in time for you to let out a loud, shakey gasp. Another came before you could catch your breath, the stretch burning as Alastor pressed in.

He began small incessant thrusts, your slick lubricating his intrusion with each withdrawal.

Vox watched entranced as your body seemed to melt into the bed with every snap of the deer man’s hips. You had spent the morning tense and sweating, so to see you so lax and comfortable was momentarily reassuring. But as your head lolled back with Alastor bottoming out, a flame of jealousy began to roar in sincerity. 

“Fuck,” you tried to keep the commentary down to spare your love, but you could feel your walls spreading around Alastor in a way you’d been praying for since you woke up aroused and pained. When he was fully sheathed you had to grip your pillow to keep from rolling onto your back and spreading yourself wider for him. The baser part of your brain urging you to give yourself over to the more-than-suitable mate. 

“You sweet doe, you’re burning up inside. And so swollen. Feeling better?” Alastor said it with such a clear voice you wondered how he was unaffected by your twitching pussy. 

With a nod you buried your face into the pillow clenched in your fists. His thrusts slowed. “Yes,” you ground out. The rhythm picked up again.

“Better than Vox could manage?” He side eyed Vox.

Your left foot came up and pushed at his chin, “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Hmm, afraid I can’t do both,” Alastor pulled out entirely, lower head rubbing side to side as he spread his own precum along your folds. 

Closing your eyes to not see Vox, you mumbled, “Yes.” He wrapped his arms around your left leg for leverage and thrust back into you with a single push. With a shift of his hips his cock hit against your g-spot with every entry. Your breaths quickly devolved into raspy gasps.

You felt a rush of slick as your body responded to the stimulation. The sound of Alastor’s cock sliding in and out of your arousal reached Vox despite being a ways away from the bed. The previous flame in his chest began to lower. Watching your body rock along with the obscene sounds of you being fucked was having an unexpected effect on him. With a gulp he let his hand rest on his lap, a gentle pressure as he palmed his growing erection.

The deep reach of the radio demon’s cock churning up your insides was felt by you and seen by Vox.

“You’re doing so well, dear. Look how wet you’ve gotten.” One hand came down to run past your clit, “I promise to have you dripping.” He turned his head fully to Vox now, “That’s why I’m here, after all. To breed you.” Vox opened his mouth to shout when Alastor rolled you onto your stomach. The curve of his dick resumed hitting your inner spot, wide cock dragging against every inch of your walls. A pleasured cry, your pillow lost. Bringing your legs up and out you let instincts take over.

The yell died in Vox’s throat. His hand shifted to rubbing his cock through his pants. “Are you done yet?” He saw the swelling bulge at the base of Alastor’s own cock.

You didn’t hear the question, only processing sticky flesh slapping together and your own loud moans.

“My knot needs to be bigger. I want to make sure I plug her up well.” Alastor knew he could finish now but he just needed a few more moments of fucking with the overlord. His eyes came to watch himself disappear into your seemingly too small hole, “Is that what you want? To be stuffed with my knot?” 

You vaguely registered his gaze had moved from where you two connected up to your face. A hand coming to tug at your tail and grip it from the base tore an answer from you, “Please. Please, Please.”

“Do you remember my name in that brain fog?” He took both ankles now and pushed your legs as wide open as they’d reach.

Vox could see the shine on Alastor’s growing knot as he seemed to push more and more in with each thrust. His palm felt the slight damp of his precum soaking through his pants.

He had a name? Right. Yes he had a name. You dug through the mess of your thoughts, an empty room of smoke and sensations, and found it. “Alastor. Alastor please!” Vox had entirely disappeared, it was just the thick cocked buck pounding into you in your bed now. 

“Aww, that’s a good doe. And are you ready for my knot?” Your legs struggled in his grip as you attempted to thrust back onto him to take all he had for you. He hummed, hips slowly as he fought back the pending release, “But you’re still so tight… did Vox even try to fuck you?” 

Vox cried out a small, “Oh, come on. Jackass.” It didn’t stop his hand though. He couldn’t argue Alastor was thicker than he was, even his knot seemed unfairly large.

“Fuck you,” you managed, stomach muscles tightening and drawing your body toward him as the pleasure ratcheted up by leaps and bounds. 

Alastor pulled out entirely again, releasing your legs. The whimper you let out momentarily softened Vox’s cock. “I’m sorrrrry,” you pouted, “Come baaaack.” You thought you would cry, as soon as he was out of your cunt the painful throb was creeping back in. You needed his skin on yours. His body in yours. 

You were rolled onto your stomach, his hands wrapping around to pick you up by the hips. On all fours, he sunk back in. “Shh,” big palms stroke down your back, “don’t forget to breath, sweetheart.” Your body was meant to take a knot during heat and you knew you were capable of taking it, but a small panic made you crawl up the bed as the large, throbbing bulb threatened to tear the delicate skin of your opening. Those same powerful hands you praised before now dug fingers into your hips and held you still. Bruises he hoped Vox would have to see for days. 

A small sob as he mercifully forced the rest of himself in with one harsh thrust, his crotch finally coming into contact with your ass. Again, without thinking, you pulled away and saw stars. It took just a second though for your brain to flood your body with the feel good chemicals it had been withholding all day. The pulsing knot vibrating against your puffy g-spit, wide cock head just barely breaching your cervix and flooding your womb and walls with thick cum; it was everything you needed. Your vision went white as your orgasm made your thighs give out, body going limp entirely.

Vox knew very well what it meant as your entire body trembled, hips stuck against Alastor as the rest of you went boneless.

Alastor took a deep breath. It was oddly refreshing, a form of stress relief he hadn’t considered before. Long claws made barely there lines up and down your thighs.

Pressing his chest into your back, he carefully grabbed your body and rolled you onto your side again to face Vox, him still behind you.

Vox stood up, saw the tenting of his pants and sat back down, throwing one left over the other, “Well! That’s finally done with. You can get the fuck out as soon as your freak penis goes back to normal.”

Alastor laughed, your mind entirely having checked out in your blissful state. Your stupid and content smile spread wide as his body shook slightly behind you. He propped himself up on his elbow to look at Vox.

“You went through all the trouble of finding one of the few other deer demons in hell to replace me, yet didn’t bother to learn about her biology.” His grin morphed into a smirk so wide his black gums were showing, “Heats last several days, Voxy.”

༻Masterlist༺

Added July 15th Luci x GN!Angel reader - Yes (Continuation of Lucifer x GN!AngelReader (fic based on Griftwood by ghost))

Added July 14th A Very Hazbin Happy Birthday imagine (Alastor, Luci, Angel, Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Vox, Valentino)

˖ ݁𖥔.Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult.𖥔 ݁ ˖

@eris-norwega @reath-solia

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @moonmark98

, @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog ,

@thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies ,

@howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , , @fizzled-phoenix , @whateverlololo

, @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 @watereddownmilk , @bontensbabygirl

, @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain ,

@harley2223-blog , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima a ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby ,

@dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 ,

@star-kujo-platinum @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @rubyninja1 , @simphornies

,

[ribbonmiku]

do y’all wanna hear something so super awesome?

so im trying to get in touch with a case worker thorugh a community mental health center to help me apply for ssi/disability, because i’ve already been denied twice, and it’s become clear that the system is so complicated that i need someone who’s job it is to help. to access him, i need to see one of their therapists, who only has availability for me once every 6 weeks. after our second session she said she’d email the case worker and that he would contact me in a month. i guess she didnt, or he didnt, because that never happened.

third session, it’s been over three months now that i’ve been trying to see the fucking case worker. i ask her again. she says she’ll email him and it’ll be two weeks. and then he actually calls. yay! but, oh, it turns out, when my therapist emailed the case worker requesting help for me with ssi/disability, she didnt tell him about my autism or adhd or nvld or anything at all. she JUST told him about my ptsd. i dont understand how that happens. i dont understand how that happens.

meanwhile, though all this waiting and beating my head against the wall trying to get help, im having to suffer through some of the worst therapy of my life, because im not allowed to see another therapist while seeing her, and seeing one of the the community mental health center’s own therapists is a required, but useless gateway to the services i actually need. but she’s not only completely and totally unequipped to handle my complex trauma and actually be a therapist for me, she apparently cant even do the one thing i actually need her to do. im so mad. im so demoralized. this sucks. in our most recent session the last thing she said, after a session of my talking about my hopelessness in the face of an uncaring system, was “i’m sorry i coulnd’t be more helpful.” and i comforted her.

oh, wanna hear something else awesome? we were only hold with the food stamps office for like two more hours after i made this post before we had to give up and decided to try again in the morning

ain’t the system grand??????? :)))))

brb throwing myself into a lake because the phonecall trials aren’t over yet and its taking everything to beat back a panic attack 💕💕💕💕💕

[imagine-darksiders]

A gentle touch.

[Strife/Reader]

Summary: Set three years after humanity is resurrected. Strife shows up unannounced in your bedroom in the middle of the night, which would have been rude enough without him getting blood all over your cream-coloured carpet.

Tags: Blood, injury, PTSD, knife, protective Strife, whump, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, sharing a bed ;), bandages and cleaning wounds, how not to administer first aid.

-----

You have the apocalypse to thank for turning you into such a light-sleeper. 

Even though the nights of sleeping with one eye open are far behind you and Earth is back on the road to a long and arduous recovery, you'll still jolt awake if your unconscious mind hears something scuttle beneath the floorboards of your freshly-restored home, and God forbid a tree branch should happen to scratch at the bedroom window...

Waking up with the feeling that your heart is three beats from bursting right out of your chest is exhausting, to say the least. And it isn't just you who suffers from the onset of hyper-vigilance.

It was a decidedly cruel consequence that the resurrected humans were able to recall their lives before the end of the world. Crueller still, they woke up to remember exactly how and where they eventually kicked the bucket, and of course, nobody knew that a significant chunk of time had passed at all since the end of the world and its rebirth.

They thought they were still in danger.

In one moment, all they knew was immense and excruciating pain, and then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, they woke up again, screaming and writhing in the echoes of phantom pain that had occurred almost a century ago.

Three years down the line since ‘The Great Waking,’ and there isn’t a human alive who could claim that they’ve slept through an uninterrupted night.

------

The alarm clock on your bedside table has just ticked over to read '2:36am' when your eyes suddenly snap open and you fling yourself upright in bed, your spine ramrod straight and your ears ringing with a sharp, tinny note.

It isn’t a nightmare that wakes you. At least, not this time.

Worse.

It’s a sound.

An out-of-the-ordinary sound that isn't in keeping with the normal ambiance of your bedroom.

But where...? 

....It's coming from your window.

Tired eyes swivel to the curtains whilst your hand immediately flies out to blindly fumble with the drawer of your bedside table. Once your fingers find the cold, metal handle, you rip it open and plunge your hand inside, rummaging around until you feel the reassuring grip of your most precious possession.

Your trusty bread knife. Serrated edge, nine inch blade, perfect for cutting slices of toast in the morning and for tearing through the toughened hide of a hungry demon.

Peace between the Universe’s species had been declared once humanity was fully introduced to the connected realms, a decision that suited a vast majority of Creation. Hell, however, had offered up a fair amount of opposition to the notion before eventually conceding and agreeing – albeit begrudgingly – to honour the peace treaty alongside angels, makers, undead and the rest.

Even demon-kind knew not to incur the wrath of humanity's strongest and most ferocious protectors, the Horsemen.

But... there are always exceptions to the rule. Some demons just... hadn't gotten the memo.

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had tried to make an assassination attempt on humanity’s envoy.

Heart in your throat, you grasp the knife securely in your dominant hand and peer through the darkness towards the window. 

Only a sliver of moonlight peeps through a tiny gap in the curtains. In another blink, the light suddenly disappears, and you know better than to assume that the moon has simply ducked behind a cloud. 

Something is standing at your window, blocking out the light.

You think you might actually be sick when you hear the sound again, claws scraping on wood – a sound you know all too well – well enough to send your head spinning into a panic.

Swallowing back the nausea in your throat, you brace yourself, instincts flicking between running for the door and knowing never to turn your back on a demon.

Sadly, the decision is swiftly taken out of your hands. Through the darkness and the deafening roar of blood rushing through your ears, you can make out the distinct sound of your window sliding slowly open.

The knife is a comforting weight in your hand. But it’s less than useless if you don’t calm down and try to remember the lessons that Death has taught you. If the eldest Horseman were here, he’d probably have berated you seven ways to Sunday by now for freezing up and missing an opportunity to better prepare yourself for an attack.

A dark silhouette pushes the fluttering fabric of your curtains aside and pulls itself halfway into your bedroom. 

Whatever it is, it’s big.

Breath catching in your throat, you clasp a handful of your duvet and get ready to fling it at the intruder as a distraction, hoping that it’ll be enough to buy you a precious few seconds to gain the upper hand. You've learned that humans are inherently weaker than demons, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned from Death, it’s that strength isn’t necessarily the deciding factor in any battle. You still have your wits. You only hope the demon has less.

Two luminous, golden eyes turn in your direction and you press yourself backwards into the headboard.

Several seconds drag by in perfect silence.

Then... 

“Hey.”

And just like, that tension leaves your body like a balloon deflating of air and you heave the loudest sigh you can muster, dropping the bread knife into your lap.

“Damn it, Strife! You about gave me a heart attack!”

With a 'whump,' you flop back against your pillows and take a second to breathe whilst one of the Four Horsemen drags himself the rest of the way through your bedroom window.

Strife.

It's only Strife...

Whilst certainly a dangerous being in his own right, you know you have nothing to fear from the Horseman who had all but appointed himself as your friend three, long years ago, all in an attempt to irritate his brother, Death, of course.

At least, at first.

Death was the one who pulled you from the dying Earth and preserved your life-force as you journeyed together on a quest to resurrect humanity, but after he made the jump to introduce you to his 'little' siblings, it had been Strife who'd taken a particular shine to you, and it had everything to do with a compatible, if terrible sense of humour.

That first meeting sparked what was sure to be an interesting friendship between the pair of you.

-----

“So, my brother went and got himself a human, huh?” Strife had teased, pointedly ignoring the withering look he received from Death to add, “Gotta say, I'm impressed, Kid. Didn't think anyone would have the inclination to willingly travel with my brother. But then, I guess...” He trailed off and you could almost see the smirk growing under his mask. “Deathperate times and all that, huh?”

At once, his siblings all groaned out varying noises of disapproval. Fury, the loudest, cocked her hip and shot Strife a frosty glower. “You are singlehandedly ruining our reputation, brother."

“She's right, you know,” you spoke up, trying not to flinch when all eyes snapped onto you once more, “That pun was pretty deadful.”

The brief, startled second of silence was soon blasted apart when Strife threw his head back and barked out a triumphant laugh, while Death slowly turned to look at you, utterly betrayed.

“Ha!” Strife's eyes positively gleamed with mischief, “You're right, human. Guess I should'a considered the reapercussions of a joke like that, huh?”

“I ought to have known introducing you two would be a mistake,” the eldest Horseman grumbled, earning a sympathetic look from War.

“Sorry, Death,” you said with a perfectly straight face, “You want us to get out of your scythe so you don’t have to look at us anymore?”

Strife had howled.

Death, however, merely heaved a long-suffering sigh. Fury's eyes all but rolled into the back of her skull and War just stood there, struggling to keep his lips from twitching at their corners.

And you had looked around at all of them, a little proud and blissfully unaware of what you'd just unwittingly signed yourself up for.

You'd had Strife's attention from that day on.

-----

Shaking off the fond memory, you tiredly will your mind back to the matter at hand.

You reach across your bed and drop the knife back into the drawer before leaning down and skirting your fingers over the wall in search of a switch. The next moment, there's a 'click!' and the room is illuminated by clustered fairy lights that you've draped around your ceiling, forcing you to squint blearily against the intrusion of light as Strife hauls his leg into your room.

“Honestly. How many times have I told you to use the door?”

“S'locked,” he grunts.

You're in the midst of rubbing your eyes to try and stimulate a little life back into your bones, so you miss the way he stumbles a few steps away from the wall and presses a gauntleted hand to his abdomen. 

“Yeah, it’s locked because it's-” You take a quick glance at the clock next to you. “-Two thirty in the morning! Strife, I’m supposed to be up at six to meet Ulthane! What do you need so badly that you'd-... Hey.. Are.. are you okay?”

At last taking a long, hard look, it suddenly occurs to you that the Horseman is... not entirely himself.

He's hunched over, his shoulders pulled in around his neck and his chest rising and falling in long, languid motions. The tattered cowl he wears around his neck hangs loose around his collarbones and it faces the very real threat of slipping off to the floor. At last, your eyes drop to the hand that's clamped over the left side of his abdomen and you blurt out a startled gasp.

In the paltry, pink glow of your fairy lights, you spot an unmistakably crimson liquid dribbling between his fingers, starkly contrasted against the steel-grey colour of his armour.

The next few seconds pass in a blur as you frantically begin kicking off your duvet and scramble out of bed, flying across the room to the Horseman's side.

“Strife! What'd you do!?”

“Oh, that's real sweet,” the Nephilim chuckles wryly whilst he collapses back against the wall and slides down it with a strained grunt, “Why're you – ung... assuming it's something I did?”

Without missing a beat, you snap, “This would hardly be the first time you got hurt because you're a wise-cracking jokester with a big mouth! Now tell me who you pissed off?!”

You drop onto your knees next to him and reach out, fingers hovering tentatively above his stomach. With your focus directed away from his helm, Strife doesn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dart from left to right before they settle back on the top of your head.

“Ah, it was... just some demon, caught me slackin', that's all,” he shrugs, letting you carefully grasp his wrist and lift it away from his torso.

At once, fresh blood gushes from a deep gouge cut into in the dark, leather under-skin he wears beneath his cuirass and you yelp, slapping a hand over your mouth in abject horror.

The sound draws Strife's gaze to you and once he spots the shocked despair on your face, he gives himself a mental kick.

He hadn't meant to... He... doesn't like it when you’re scared because of him.

"Hey, no, no – I'm okay!” he rushes to reassure you, “Don't worry about this. I've had worse!”

“That's not the point, Strife!” you argue, dropping his wrist and carding your hands through your hair, “You're hurt now! And I don't – there's so much blood, and you-” Cutting yourself off, you squeeze your eyes shut and inhale deeply through your nose, willing your pulse to ease so that you can rationally address this situation. 

Another lesson Death had taught you - stay calm in a crisis. Panic kills.

Releasing a long, hard breath, you peel your eyes open again and nod, jaw set. “Okay. All right. I need to.. I need water. A-and I need to see the wound.”

The interrogation can come after you've dealt with... this.

“There's a bowl and flannel in my bathroom,” you announce, getting to your unsteady feet and gesturing towards Strife's cuirass, “Think you can get that off so I can have a look?”

Huffing out a breath of laughter, the Horseman winks at you suggestively and drawls, “An' here I was doin' things the hard way to get your attention. You know, you didn't have to wait till I got myself gutted before you asked me to take my armour off in your chambers.”

A wise-cracking flirt with a big mouth.

As exasperating as he is though, you don't mind it in the slightest.

This is your usual rapport, after all. A friendly back and forth interlaced with the occasional, flirtatious comment. At first, Strife had only initiated it because it drove an over-protective Death up the wall. The eldest Horseman had almost threatened to 'remove Strife's libido' until you'd up and flirted right back, distressing the old reaper even further.

It's funny. It's innocent. But right now, it's reassuring, if only somewhat, that Strife is behaving just like his shameless, old self.

Besides, you can give back as much as you get.

“Well, I had to wait for a good enough excuse,” you retort, “Couldn't come on too strong and risk scaring you off, now could I?”

In response, Strife just chuckles fondly and watches you turn and speed away to your ensuite, oblivious to the warm, soft glow radiating from his eyes.

In less than a minute, you're briskly striding back into the room, a dripping flannel in one hand and a bowl in the other, and he suddenly remembers that you'd asked him to remove his cuirass.

Mission failed.

But you don't even bat an eyelid to find it still in place, assuming that the Horseman can't get at the catches on the sides in his current state. 

In one, smooth motion, you drop down beside him once more and set the cloth and bowl nearby. “Here, let me help..”

The Horseman's pulse sputters when your tiny fingers reach around his torso and fumble with the buckles and straps that keep his armour securely in place. It doesn't pass his notice that your hands are trembling.

“Hey,” he calls, catching your eye for a moment before you go right back to fiddling with the cuirass, “This is nothin’, you know that, right?”

You only press your lips together and hum, clearly skeptical.

You're working fast and in almost no time at all, the straps have been released and you carefully take the Nephilim's broad shoulder, giving it a tug, guiding him to lean away from the walls so that you can start to peel the bulky armour off.

“Nng, hang on,” he mutters.

Reluctantly, you sit back to let him tug his chest piece loose before he simply drops it onto the carpet next to his legs with a dull 'clang.'

Exposed to the soft glow of your lights, your eyes are instantly drawn to the gaping wound that stretches in a horizontal line across the left side of his abdomen. It seems that something really has tried - and nearly succeeded - to gut him. Several inches long and goodness knows how deep, even against the iron-grey colour of his skin, the gash is alarmingly obvious and the blood far, far too noticeable for your liking. It still comes as something of a shock to learn that the Horsemen, barring Death, can actually bleed.

Wordlessly, you pick up the flannel and wring it out into the bowl of water, wondering if he'll mind that you didn't wait for the tap to get warm before you soaked it. It shouldn't surprise you that the Horseman doesn't protest or even flinch when you gently press the wet cloth to the bloodied skin around his wound, nowhere near the gash itself, not until you've cleared away some of the mess around it and determined its real depth.

You don't notice that his eyelids flutter closed once you press the cloth to his skin, nor do you see when their golden light fluctuates in contentment as the fingertips of your other hand press gently to his stomach, the pressure barely enough for him to feel, but enough to keep you steady whilst you daub at his drying blood.

It takes a formidable effort to suppress the shudder that nearly races up his spine. This is the first time he's felt your skin against his without a single piece of armour standing between you.

Creator, you're so soft! Just like he always imagined you would be.

“Jeezus, Strife,” you whistle, abruptly snatching his focus away from the soothing strokes of your silky fingers,“You've made a real mess of yourself. Why on Earth didn't you just go straight to Death? I thought he was the best healer in your family.”

The warm skin underneath your fingertips jumps as the Horseman puffs out a quick laugh, gazing dopily at your temple whilst you wipe at the edges of his wound with small, careful touches. 

“He is,” Strife readily agrees, “But the moody bastard wouldn't be nearly as gentle with me as you are.”

You blow an unimpressed huff from your nose and glance up at him in time to catch his lazy wink. “I can always press harder if you like?”

“Nah.” The Horseman settles himself more heavily against the wall, knocking his skull back against it and mumbling, “Just keep touchin' me all gentle like that. S'nice...”

Quite abruptly, the chatty Nephilim goes silent and the glow from his eyes that had illuminated your face only moments ago suddenly disappears.

“Strife?”

He doesn't respond.

“Hey, Cowboy! Don't you fall asleep on me, you hear?”

There's a long stretch of silence, then, “Won't,” he mumbles, cracking one eyelid open to peer down at you.

Harrumphing, you promptly turn back to the gash in his stomach and wipe the last of the dried blood off his skin, still far from clean, but at the very least, better than it had been.

“Right,” you declare, pulling away to stand up and drawing a decidedly petulant whine from the Horseman on your bedroom floor. “I'm gonna go get the first aid kit from downstairs.”

There’s a shift in his expression and something that hinges on alarm suddenly whistles through his blood.

“I won’t be long,” you promise, "Be right – Hey, woah! What're you doing!?”

Darting forwards, you hastily place your hands on each of Strife's broad shoulders, trying to push him back down as he grabs the window sill behind him and begins hauling himself up to his feet.

“What's it look like ‘m doing?” he answers gruffly, slouching forwards as if the weight of his own head is too much to keep aloft, “Comin’ with you”

Sputtering out a few, incredulous noises, you try to make him see sense. “I’ll bring the first aid kit to you! You need to rest! It's bad enough that you already climbed in through my second storey window!”

But Strife, stubborn as a mule and much, much stronger than you, isn't deterred by your protests. Grunting, he curls one arm over his stomach and takes a step forwards, ducking beneath your light fixture and standing to his full, imposing height.

Even with three years of companionship behind you, you’re still frequently taken aback at how effortlessly the Horseman can make you feel small and fragile when you stand close to him.

Knowing full well that you’ll never be able to force him down again, you allow your hands to slip from his shoulders and fall against your sides like lead weights. You aren’t sure why he’s suddenly so hellbent on following you, downstairs, of all places, but you don’t dwell on it, especially given that you’re far more preoccupied with the fresh blood that has already begun trickling out of his wound to replace the stains you’ve painstakingly cleaned away.

Puffing out your cheeks, you raise a hand and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Strife, please sit down?” You aren’t so proud that you won’t resort to begging, tired as you are and exasperated with his obstinate behaviour. “I’m worried about you...”

All at once, the Horseman stiffens. ‘Oh, now she’s fighting dirty,’ he muses to himself.

Gradually, you lift your eyes to meet his and try your very best to glare up at him, pinning him down with all the stern authority you can muster. For several, slow heartbeats, the Nephilim peers right back at you and you’re almost certain that you’ll lose this battle of wills, which is why it comes as such a shock when his fiery gaze falters, wavering slightly before it promptly drops to the floor near your feet.

It's... rare for Strife to be looked at by someone who isn't ashamed to show that they worry about him.

But the way you're looking at him now? Hell, the way you've been looking at him since he clambered through your bedroom window? You're practically broadcasting your concern.

Strife just... isn't used to seeing that. So he glances down instead, finding the fibres of your carpet particularly exhilarating tonight. Slowly, begrudgingly, he sinks down to sit on the edge of your bed, heavy enough that the frame creaks and groans under the weight of a fully grown Nephilim and he has to hold back a contented sigh at the softness beneath his legs.

From the corner of an eye, he can see that your jaw is hanging ajar and remains so until you give yourself a little shake and throw him a satisfied nod. “Thank you,” you huff before turning on your heel and striding purposefully from the room.

Strife listens raptly to your footsteps disappearing down the staircase, unaware that his hands have curled into tight fists around your duvet.

'It's fine,' he assuages the insistent voice at the back of his head, 'She's fine.'

He took care of the threat. That demon asshole isn't coming after his friend.

You’re only downstairs. He can already hear you pushing open the door to your little kitchen whilst the rest of his senses remain trained on the sounds and smells of the night.

It isn't as though something bad might happen just because his eyes aren't fixed upon you...

Frankly, he thinks he’s being more than generous to allow a full, Earth minute to pass as he taps his heel impatiently against the side of your bed.

Didn’t you say you’d be right back?

...

“Fuck it...”

-------

Perhaps, in hindsight, keeping your first aid kit on the top of the fridge hadn’t been one of your brightest ideas, given that you need a chair to reach it. Then again, securing immediate access to bandages and plasters hadn’t exactly been on the forefront of your mind when you were rebuilding your old home from the ruins it had been left in.

With a grunt, you drop your rickety kitchen chair next to the fridge and clamber up onto the seat. “I have got to find a better place for you,” you grumble at an apathetic first aid kit that sits gathering dust near the wall. Stretching your arm out, you manage to snag it by the handle and drag it towards you-

“The hell're you doing!?”

The violent jolt that shoots through you like lightening nearly sends you toppling off the chair. You let out a yelp, just barely catching yourself on the fridge with your free hand before you whip about to see none other than Strife silhouetted in the kitchen doorway.

“Wh- the hell are you doing!?” you retort, knitting your brows into a frown and clutching the first aid kit against your heaving chest, “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

The Horseman’s glowing eyes are fixed unsettlingly on the chair beneath your feet and rather than answer the question, he ducks under the doorframe and thunders towards you in a few, short strides, leaving you with no time to protest before he suddenly sweeps you up off the chair and into his arms, caging you against a solid chest.

At once, you begin to struggle. “Strife! Your wound! Put me down, you'll hurt yourself!”

But the Nephilim is hardly paying attention. His glare lingers on the flimsy, wooden chair legs for a moment before he flicks his gaze towards the large window above your sink, noting with no small degree of distaste that it isn't even shut.

It’s like you’re inviting danger in.

If you had any idea of the fate he and his siblings are currently trying to protect you from, you might just try a little harder to take better care of yourself.

“Hey!” you continue to protest against his hold but manage to refrain from jostling about too much, mindful of his injury. “For god's sake! What's gotten into you?!”

He offers little more than a noncommittal grunt in response and begins trailing back towards the staircase, casting brief glances at the french doors leading out onto your patio.

'Structural weakness,' he registers, 'Perfect point of entry for anything smaller than a Trauma...'

Shaking his head, he turns sideways to fit you through the kitchen door and takes the stairs up to your room.

After a second, he lowers his eyes to meet yours and finds himself meeting a highly unimpressed scowl. “What?” he asks, the very picture of innocence.

Raising your brows, you snap, “Don't you 'what' me! The hell is all this about? I told you to stay put!”

“You were takin' too long,” he shrugs.

“Too long!?” Indignant, you flick your wrist and rap the first aid kit against his collar bone, “I was gone a minute, max! If you were so worried about me taking too long to fix you up, then why are you moving around and making your injury worse!?”

The light of Strife's golden gaze dims and he turns his head away, staring up towards the top of the stairs and your bedroom door beyond. “S'not me m' worried about,” he mumbles.

It's such an about-face from his usual demeanour that you can do little but blink dumbly up at him and fall still against his chest, your mouth hanging agape.

In silence, the Horseman ducks through the door into your room and sidles over to the bed where, hesitantly, he lowers you down until you're sitting safely on the edge.

In the next moment however, just as Strife drops heavily onto the bed next to you, you slip away and settle on the floor instead, placing the first aid kit beside his boots and fumbling with the latches.

Despite blowing out a rough grumble of disapproval that sounds entirely too much like War for his liking, he lets you go.

Chewing on your lip, you stare at the contents for a moment before snatching up a pack of antiseptic wipes, tearing one out and bringing it up to his stomach.

“You want to tell me why you just exacerbated your injury to rescue me from my kitchen chair?” you ask him, adding as an afterthought, “This might sting a bit..”

When he doesn't reply, you glance up and quirk a brow at the underside of his chin, only to catch him peering back at you from behind heavy-lidded eyes. Then, with a weary sigh, he sags forwards and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck, looking sheepish, of all things.

Unable to dispel your frown, you blindly begin brushing the wipe underneath his bleeding wound.

He doesn't even wince.

Strife tips his helm towards the bedroom window and slumps further backwards into your mattress, seeming so entirely out of place amidst the colourful duvet cover and frilly cushions.

“Okay,” he mutters, “I uh, I got a confession to make.”

Interest piqued, you make an acknowledging sound at the back of your throat and return your attention to his abdomen.

“Death didn't want us to tell you about this,” he continues quietly whilst you toss the now ruined wipe over your shoulder and pull out a fresh one, “And, to be honest, neither did I. We didn't want you to have to worry, y'know?”

You don't know. And you nearly ask him what you should be worrying about, but you soon let your mouth fall shut and settle for humming curiously instead, trusting that he'll tell you soon enough anyway.

There's a long pause, during which you find the courage to bring your fingers close to the edges of his wound and immediately have to withhold a gag when the motion sends another spout of blood oozing from the cut and dribbling down your wrist.

After a moment, Strife huffs and forges ahead, “Course, War and Fury did want to tell you-”

He's stalling, you realise belatedly.

“-War thinks you have every right to know. And Fury said there's nothin' for you to worry about anyway, cause we've got your back.”

“Fury said that?” you ask distractedly, dropping the wipe and rummaging around for a gauze pad. In response, Strife exhales, a tiny, hidden smile creeping onto his lips. “Fury says a lot of stuff about you that you don't know about.”

Gently, you unroll the gauze and press it against his wound. “Wow, you sure that's your sister?  Sounds like she might've been body snatched.”

“Ha!” The Horseman suddenly throws his head back. “Well, if she has been replaced, I sure as shit ain't going lookin' for the original. This Fury is... she's...”

He pauses, tipping his head in thought before eventually settling on, “She's learning.”

You blow out a long, impressed whistle and he nods his agreement, adding, “Yeah, s'weird for all of us too.”

The room lapses into silence once again as you stretch the gauze across Strife's abdomen and mutter, “Hold this,” before your hands are retreating and the Horseman's slide down to keep the bandage in place.

Reaching into the box once more, you take some bandages and begin to unfurl them gingerly over the top of the gauze. “Not hurting you, am I?”

You miss the soft expression he aims at the top of your head. “Never.”

You're more than aware that he probably won't tell you you've hurt him even if you were to stick your fingers in the wound twist them.

“Sooo~....?” you prompt.

Peering down at you, Strife cocks his head to one side and echoes, “Soooo?”

“What did Fury and War think I should know?”

“Oh. Right...” His reluctance is as painfully obvious as a slap to the face but you're slightly more focused on plunging your hand back into the first aid kit and rooting around for a roll of adhesive tape.

He observes you for a moment, growing more and more certain that despite your curiosity, you aren’t actually paying a great deal of attention to his words. Quite abruptly, he asks, “You listening?”

Emitting little more than a vague hum, you finally snag the tape and run your fingernail along the smooth surface, searching for the ever-elusive end.

“You sure?” Strife grunts skeptically, “Kid, this is kind of important.”

Without missing a beat, you nod your chin towards his injury and reply, “Yeah, well, you're kind of important too, buddy.”

Oh.

Oh, that's...

Strife wracks his brain, trying to pluck an appropriate response from amidst his tumbling thoughts. Part of him wants to scoff – of course he's important! He's Strife! The best, damn marksman who ever walked the realms of existence.

But then, there's another part of him that lurks deep behind the walls of hubris and brass he's been building meticulously for centuries, and it gives a little leap at the sound of your words, delighted beyond measure.

Averting his gaze, Strife lets out a chuckle. “You're getting soft.”

“Ah, I've always been soft.”

His heart thrums. “Wasn't talkin' about you, kid.”

You shoot him a smirk as you stick a piece of tape over the bandages covering his injury. “Well, if you're talking about yourself, then you're wrong again. You aren't getting soft. You've always been soft.”

The Horseman mutters something incoherent, but it's his distinct lack of an articulate response that speaks volumes to your ears.

The slight pressure of your fingers as they prod at the tape with tentative care leaves him mourning the centuries he's gone without knowing such a gentle touch. Rolling his eyes down to you, his smile droops and he sighs, sagging forwards to rest his elbows on his knees just as you attempt to place another strip of tape.

“Strife!” you complain, leaning back, “I need to put more tape on!”

He merely blinks at you languidly and says, “Later. I want you concentratin' on me right now.”

“I've been concentrating on you all night,” you huff, though you eventually concede and sit back on your haunches, peering up at the Horseman expectantly.

Studying your face for another moment, he breathes a long sigh and gestures to his stomach. "I told you a demon did this..."

“Uh huh...”

Solemnly, Strife continues, “So more specifically, it was a Shadow Caster. Been on her trail for a couple of weeks now. Finally caught up with her on some farmlands west of the city...” 

“Okay?” you nod, digesting the information, “And why were you on her trail?”

He hesitates, flicking his eyes between you and the window a few times before he quietly admits, “She was comin’ after one of my friends...”

“Who?”

The look he throws you is so pointed, you suddenly feel like a fool for missing the obvious.

“Ah.” Understanding, you slowly nod your head.

“Yup.”

“But, she's dead now, right?” You gesture to his wound. “You came straight here after killing her.”

Strife's eyes darken further and each time they try to land on your face, they seem to slide right off again and drop to the carpet. “Uh, yeah. She's dead.”

You heave a sigh. “She wasn't the only one who's after me.”

“... No..”

“I see.” Inhaling long and slow through your nose, you tip your head back and slap your hands on your thighs, rubbing at them anxiously as you gaze around the room. “So, do we know how many there are?”

The Horseman eyes you for several, silent seconds. Eventually though, he speaks up. “Got wind of a small group of about four of 'em. Demons mostly, one undead. You and I've got a mutual... uh, friend, who's been keeping his ears to the ground, and he reckons they’re aiming to provoke another war between Hell and Earth by killin' the human envoy.”

“Wow. Talk about sore losers,” you scoff humourlessly, “So, who is this mutual friend?”

Some of the tension bleeds out of Strife's posture once he notices that you haven't immediately flown into a panic. “C'mon kid,” he snorts, “You know I can't expose my source. He doesn't want you know that he cares about you. Thinks you might start askin' for discounts if you thought he was getting' soft.”

“Discounts, huh?” Your lips quirk up at their edges and Strife smacks a palm over his mask in mock distress.

“Ah, hell, I gave it away, didn't I?”

“I bet his name rhymes with Shmulgrim, doesn't it?” you laugh.

Chuckling, Strife leans back on his hands again and replies, “Hey, you came to that conclusion on your own. Technically, I never told you who my source was.”

With the atmosphere in your bedroom gradually becoming lighter and lighter, you follow the Horseman's lead and relax backwards onto your hands, stealing a surreptitious glance at the bandages adhered to his torso.

It's no longer as surprising as it used to be that Vulgrim is invested in the well-being of his 'valuable asset.' The Horsemen are perhaps his best clients, hence the vested interest in keeping himself in their good graces by looking out for their human ward.

Shaking your head with a knowing smirk, you push yourself up onto your feet and glance down at yourself, brushing off your pyjama shorts, only to grimace when your hands do nothing but smear Strife's blood all over the fabric.

“Sorry... for the mess.”

You raise your head at the sound of the Horseman's voice and find him glowering down at the stains he's dripped onto your carpet, his eyes hooded and glum.

Heaving a sigh that you hope conveys both exasperation and affection, you reach out and place your comparatively tiny hand on his shoulder to give the pauldron a reassuring squeeze, drawing his gaze back up to your face. “I don't care about the mess, Strife” you tell him matter-of-factly, “The carpet's just here to stop my feet getting cold in the morning. You're my best friend.”

Ever so slowly, his luminous eyes grow wide with wonder and he lets his jaw drop open to speak, but before he manages to utter a soft, 'what?' you give his shoulder a friendly jostle and add, “So long as you're okay, pal, that's the main thing. Now...”

Trailing off, you move back around the bed and let your fingers slide off the Horseman's arm, stepping up to the bedside table containing your pyjamas, oblivious to how swiftly and easily you've just swept the rug out from underneath Strife's feet. He twists himself around on your mattress to watch you, his eyes as wide as than dinner plates.

Did you mean to say... best?

He – well, he always knew that you considered him a friend! Hell, he'd even go so far as to say the two of you are close friends.

But best?

Best implies that there's nobody – nobody – that you hold in higher regard than him...

'How did I miss that!?' his psyche all but screams at him, 'When the Hell did I get so important!?”

You aren't even looking at him, too busy rummaging through your drawers, as if you have no idea that you've just pulled his heart right out of his chest and now you have it cradled in the palms of your hands.

You could crush the life out of him with hardly a word.

“So, you never did say!” you call out to him as you duck into your ensuite bathroom and flick the light on, hiding yourself from view whilst you change, “How does the master of marksmanship get tagged by a Shadowcaster in the first place? You’re not usually the type to get up close and personal. That’s more War’s thing, right?”

All at once, the threats that demon witch had made against you ring like klaxons in Strife’s head and he has to make a conscious effort to ignore his instinct to leap off the bed and barge into the bathroom just to be sure you’re safe. He hears the shuffling of fabric against skin as you pull off the bloodied shorts and begin to pull on the new ones.

Grinding his teeth, he spits out, “She just.. got me mad, is all. Made me wanna have the satisfaction of wringing her neck with my bare hands instead of filling her with bullets.”

“Wait, seriously?” Your silhouette suddenly appears in the bathroom doorway and and strife glances up, briefly enraptured by the halo of light glowing at your back. A fellow human might have likened you to an angel. Strife, however, knows that none of the feathery bastards could hold a candle to you. 

Garbed in clean shorts that smell distinctly of you, and not copper, you step out into your bedroom. “How’d a demon manage to make you mad? You’re like, the champ of not getting mad. It’s like your superpower.”

“Yeah, well..” he mutters, turning his helm away, “This time, she went too far.”

You’re quiet as you flop down onto the bed next to him, your eyes flicking between his downturned head to the fists that are clenched like vices at his sides, metal claws gripping fistfuls of your duvet so tightly, you’re worried he might end up poking holes in the cover.

Whatever had been said to him must have been bad if he’s this riled up.

Biting your lip, you let out a pensive hum and lean backwards, your fingers brushing over a soft lump near the headboard. At once, your eyes grow wide and your lips stretch into a sly grin as your hand closes over something fluffy and familiar.

Strife is still busy stewing when he’s suddenly brought out of his thoughts by a face that’s shoved promptly into his line of sight. He blinks, drawing his head away to properly see what you’re holding up in front of him.

He can’t contain a chuckle once he realises that it’s none other than your old, toy horse, dangling in front of him with its little, black ears flopping forwards to cover a pair of button eyes.

Allowing a smile to grace the edge of his mouth, the Horseman wordlessly relaxes his grasp on your duvet in favour of reaching out to gently take the soft toy out of your hands, lowering it down into his lap.

“I thought David Hasselhoof might make you feel better,” you tell him, bumping your shoulder against his companionably.

The Nephilim simply smiles, stroking his palm over the horse’s fuzzy mane.

“Hey, Strife?” 

“Mmm?”

You fiddle with your fingernail for a moment, dropping your eyes to the bed and taking a breath before you ask, “What did the demon say that made you so angry?”

It isn’t as though you want to pry. But having your friend turn up at your house in the dead of night with his stomach torn open warrants a couple of questions, in your honest opinion.

The Horseman’s brows knit together underneath his helm and he shifts slightly, twisting away from you further until you can’t even see the lights of his eyes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost dare to say that he looks shy. An impossibility, frankly.

When he speaks, his voice is gentle, a far cry from the normal, strident tone you’re used to hearing. “She, uh, she might’ve made a couple of threats about you.. Bad ones.” 

You wait for him to elaborate, but for some time, he doesn’t utter another word, prompting you to ask, “And?”

You very nearly reel backwards into your headboard when Strife whips around to face you. “And?!” he echoes, incredulous, “The Hell d’you mean ‘and?’ Isn’t that enough of a reason?!”

Taken aback, you lift your hands in a placating gesture and stammer, “Woah! I - I just meant... Well, it’s not like I haven’t been threatened before? Just seems like a weird thing for you to get so angry about.”

Without warning, the enormous Nephilim lurches to his feet, the cuddly horse left to tumble, forgotten out of his lap. “Did you not hear me?” he snaps, “She. Threatened. You!”

“A-and that... made you mad?”

“Did - Of course it did!” he all but howls, his voice cracking as it raises in pitch, “She made me listen to all the god damn, sick things she wanted to do to you when she found you! She said - she said, I’d never see you again!” Roughly, he drags his clawed fingertips through his spiky, black hair and exclaims, “Next thing I know, I’m droppin’ Redemption and Mercy, I’ve got her heart in my fist and I’m... I’m...” 

He trails off, knocked out of stride by his own admission. You remain silent, pressed up against your head board with the blankets clutched to your chest.

When he notices you staring up at him, small and wary amongst the sheets, the frustration saps from him like water circling the drain. “So... so yeah,” he huffs, his shoulders slumping and a great wave of shame crashing over him, “I got a little mad! I got a little pissed off. Cause I didn’t like hearin’ someone say they were gonna hurt my friend.”

And with that, he just... deflates, not unlike a punctured tyre. All the hot air inside him is dispelled with every heave of his mighty chest whilst he peers down at you, feeling the weight of your stare upon him. 

Guilt leaves a sour taste in his mouth, rancid and acidic.

You look so.. 

...scared.

Sometimes Strife forgets that to you, he’s an unassailable figure from biblical legend, a bringer of the end days and an ancient gunman with a body count higher than there are grains of sand on the earth. Of course you’re going to be scared of him when he’s raising his voice at you and towering over you like this. And all because he’d had the life scared out of him in the first place.

“I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to -” The words die on his lips and he sighs, defeatedly casting his eye over towards your bedroom window. He doesn’t want to leave you, not without knowing that his siblings have dealt with the remaining threats to your life. But... “I’ll just.. I’ll go.”

Turning his back on you, the Horseman bends to retrieve his discarded cuirass and takes a step towards the window, but a voice, thin as the cobwebs in the corner of your room, stops him in his tracks.

“Strife.” 

The Horseman doesn’t move. he just stares at the darkness through your curtains.

Minutes pass without another word said between you. He remains stubbornly silent, hardly daring to breathe let alone respond to his name, until eventually, he hears a soft huff and rustling behind him.

Footsteps pad across the room and your scent grows stronger as you draw near, wafting over him like an intoxicating aroma before your hand places itself into his palm and he instinctively curls his fingers around it, shuddering at the feel of your soft skin pressed like silk against his roughened hide.

Your tiny, fragile hand... Creator, he really is just a beast standing next to you, isn’t he? The last time he felt this monstrous was..

No. Strife abruptly slams the shutters of his mind down around any thoughts of the Animus. Now is not the time to let dredge up old memories.

Luckily, your voice breaks through the haze and keeps him grounded. “Come on, big guy. Stay here, please?"

“You want me to stay?” he chokes out a laugh, “Even after I scared you?”

“Scared me? What?” It’s your turn to sound confused. “You didn’t scare me Strife, you shocked me. I’ve never seen you this serious before.” 

The Horseman half turns to face you, giving you a glimpse of his warm, golden eyes. “And, I’ve never had a best friend before.” he admits slowly, hearing a soft intake of breath behind him.

“Wait?... I’m your best friend?”

With your hand still in his, Strife steps around slowly to face you, shooting you a quizzical glance. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I don’t exactly have a plethora of friends to choose from, so the competition isn’t that fie- Oof!”

He’s violently interrupted by a soft, squishy body colliding with his. 

You fling your arms around the stunned Horseman’s waist and bury your face into his chest, momentarily forgetting about his injury. Strife, meanwhile, has to employ every molecule of willpower he owns to refrain from flinching, fearing that you’ll let go if he does. He can’t ignore how high his heart just jumped at the feeling of you pressed against him, nor the way his soul soars after realising that you still trust him enough to get this close. 

It’s something that both he and his siblings are all having to get used to, these impromptu hugs. 

Fury had almost flipped you over her shoulder and onto the ground the first time you came at her with your arms open wide, assuming you were going in for an attack. 

War had pulled the most remarkable face, a mixture of alarm and wary delight that caused Strife to keel over in hysterics when you threw your arms around his broad stomach.

Death... Well, Strife hadn’t been around to witness your first hug with his oldest brother, but he imagines it must have been like hugging a block of cold stone.

And Strife? Well, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the first hug you gave him. It was so tight and comfortable, and for all of a moment, the only things that existed were the two of you. Inside the binding circle of your arms, his troubles couldn’t touch him, the anguish of his sins took a backseat and he became convinced that he could live happily and peacefully until the end of time trapped in your silent embrace.

The sentiment hasn’t dulled with frequency either. Every hug he receives is as powerful and intoxicating as the last. 

This one is no different. 

Strife's large, thickset arms carefully raise to your delicate back and shoulders, where he simply folds himself around you, pushing the nose of his helm into your soft, messy hair and drawing in a long, deep breath, earning your snort of amusement.

“You a big fan of coconut, then?”

“Is that what that smell is?” he mumbles, feeling the world settle around him as his eyes slip shut, “S'different from last time...”

“...Setting aside the fact that you remember what my hair smelled like last time we hugged.. I ran out of apple shampoo.”

“Mmm.” He trails off, humming into your hair, a sound that rumbles straight through you and leaves the top of your head tingling.

It takes your brain another few seconds to recall the injury on his torso.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss, leaning back and instantly finding your progress blocked by the Horseman's sturdy forearms. “I'm sorry, I didn't think -”

“- Eh, s'fine,” he cuts you off.

“It's not! I forgot, you need to be resting it!”

Strife grumbles his displeasure when you suddenly become very wriggly. “Strife, let go. You should be resting, not standing.”

Cracking one eye open, he roves his gaze over towards your bed. “Resting, huh? ��. Not a bad idea.”

Without warning, he stoops down, and for the second time tonight, you find yourself suddenly swept up off your feet, bleating out a garbled squawk of alarm. “Stop picking me up! You'll start bleeding again!”

Smirking to himself, the Horseman takes two, loping steps towards your bed and lowers you down amongst the folds of the duvet, taking great pleasure in crawling over the top of you to get to the other side, armour and all. It isn't the first time he's rested in your bed, usually following a long night of playing your video games and catching up on all the human things he's been missing out on, and it likely won't be the last.

The bed springs creak despondently as he lifts his corner of the duvet and flops heavily onto his side next to you, grinning at the unimpressed glare you're shooting him.

“I like your bed,” he announces, burrowing himself deeper beneath the duvet, “You got a lot of pillows. And-”

His hand rustles beneath the covers for a moment before he winks... and slowly draws out David Hasselhoof, wiggling him back and forth in front of your eyes. “There's room for a threesome.”

“Oh my god. Goodnight, Strife!” Your lips quiver until you give in and crack a genuine smile, grabbing a pillow and whapping it softly down onto his helm. You get no resistance from the Horseman at all in retaliation. He merely lays there with his head hidden, black tufts of hair sticking out from behind your pillow as his shoulders bounce around a throaty chuckle.

Leaving him where he is, you roll over, turn off the fairy lights and plunge your bedroom into cozy, unassailable darkness.

A thick silence falls over the two of you, and the back of your neck begins to prickle, sensing without a shadow of a doubt that the Horseman's eyes are open and watching you. Sure enough, you peel your eyelids apart and find that your far wall is faintly illuminated by the golden light that emanates from his gaze.

Rolling your eyes, you resign yourself to a long night of fighting for your covers and kicking a wriggling Horseman back over onto his own side of the bed. And yet... if it's him, if it's Strife, it most likely won’t bother you in the slightest.

The alarm clock on your bedside table steadily ticks over to the three o'clock mark and you finally feel sleep crawl up behind your eyes. Just as you think you might nod off, however, the bed shakes ever so slightly, and behind you, there's the sound of shuffling sheets. It stops just as suddenly as it starts and you snort, chalking it up to a certain, restless Horseman trying to get used to the human-sized bed.

Several more minutes pass.

The shuffling starts up again, then it stops.

The same thing happens again a few more minutes later and your eyes snap open when something cool and solid nudges gently into the back of your head and you hear a quiet sniff before the whole bed shudders as the enormous Horseman laying upon it releases a monstrously low rumble of contentment.

-----

Strife leaves his helm right behind you all night, not that you'd know until the morning however, when you jerk awake to your bedroom door suddenly slamming open and Death thundering inside. He takes one look at his brother laying at your back and promptly begins a lecture that you're fairly certain will be the favoured topic of neighbourhood gossip for some time to come.

[dreamescapeswriting]

Unrequited Love ~ HHJ [Request]

WORD COUNT: 3.9K

PAIRING: Hyunjin x GN!Reader (If there are any mistakes please tell me so I can change them 🥰♥)

Terms: Mx - Used as a replacement for Mr/Mrs/Sir/Ma’am

GENRE: AU, Hanahkai AU, friends to lovers, angst, fluffy, pining, 

A/N: You guys know how much I love AU’s so I had so much fun with this!! 

Hanahkai Disease: This is a fictional disease where the victim coughs up flower petals when they’re in one-sided love. It ends when the love returns (Can’t be a strong friendship, only romantic feelings) or the victim will die. The disease can be surgically removed but the feelings for the crush will be gone.

Unrequited love. Something that had been written about in all forms for almost 5500 years. There were always the stories of the person finally getting the one they truly wanted. Beating the Unrequited love and overcoming everything to be with the one you loved. This would be fine and dandy if you had a normal crush on someone and weren't like Hyunjin.

Hyunjin had something different about him, something that he'd never heard about until he'd been online researching for hours. Hanahkai Disease. Besides all of the troll accounts talking about how the disease wasn't "real" there were so many other articles and medical documents to back it up. The one thing that stuck out to Hyunjin the most about it all was that it could kill him. From anywhere from 2-3 weeks or 18 months. Being told you had anywhere between 2-3 weeks and 18 months to live was never anything good.

All of this because he had a stupid crush on somebody. His lungs were filled with roses that would gradually get bigger until they rendered his breathing useless. All he could do whenever he thought about his crush or even spoke to her for too long was cough up flowers into his hands or if he could make it, a bathroom.

"What's on your mind? You've got that weird look in your eyes." Your voice broke Hyunjin out of his daydream and he turned to look at you. Blushing a little as he realises he was spacing out in the middle of your study date. 

The two of you were sitting in the back of the college library trying to cram for an upcoming test but his mind was elsewhere. What was the point in studying when he knew he was going to die? There was no way Sooyoung was going to like him back. 

Waving your hand in front of his face again he looked at you nervously. There was clearly something bothering him and it wasn't the study material. Hyunjin could take this test four times over in his sleep if he really wanted to.

"I want to tell you something but you have to promise me that you won't laugh." Putting your pen down on the table you looked at him. 

Whatever it was, was clearly serious. Hyunjin had never been so serious about something before and you'd known him almost your whole life. 

The pair of you had been best friends since you moved to his neighbourhood when you were six. Growing up together, going to the same schools until you both attended the same college.

"What is it?" You questioned softly as he looked at you. The idea of telling you about the disease toying in his head. The fact that he had been dealing with this alone for the last three months was beginning to bother him and he knew he could tell you anything.

There wasn't a single thing in the world that you would ever judge him for. You were the one person he knew he could count on for anything and the same was for you with him.

"Have you heard of Hanahkai disesase?" The name rang a bell and you began to think about it.

"I think-"

"The rare disease that some people get when they're in one-sided love?" You nodded at him. You'd heard about it a lot. Super rare, hardly heard of really. Doctors had done all of the research that they could on it. It could be surgically removed but it all risked permanent damage to the lungs and it would cost forgetting the person you were in love with altogether,

"I have it," The world seemed to stop spinning as you stared at your best friend. Laughing a little you shook your head, there was no way he had it. 

"What do you mean you have it?" You questioned a little harshly as you stared at him. All thoughts of studying going out of your head as you stared at your best friend.

"I mean, I have it. What else could that mean?" He snapped a little angrily at you, you leant back against the chair shaking your head. Letting it sink in that he had this disease as well as was in love with someone and hadn't told you about it. 

The two of you told each other everything.

Or so you thought. Why hadn’t he told you he was in love with someone? Or that he suffered from this in the first place? When did the two of you begin to keep secrets from one another?

"You can't...I mean who do you have a crush on?" Racking your brain you tried to think of someone Hyunjin had mentioned even briefly but there was nothing. Nothing and no one that you could think of that he would have a crush on.

"Sooyoung," 

"Sooyoung?" You looked behind him down a couple of tables to see her sitting there. 

Sitting at one of the rounded tables as she did nothing but brush her hair and look pretty. There was no denying that she was gorgeous but you never thought Hyunjin would go for someone like her.

Someone so perfect.

Jet black hair perfectly straight, wearing designer clothes and always had boys surrounded her. Waiting on her hands and knees as if she was some kind of queen. The whole college seemed to fall in love with her. 

"Sooyoung?" You questioned again, a little more unimpressed this time. Hyunjin could already tell you hated the fact that it was Sooyoung of all people and so did he. It wasn't as if he wanted to feel this way about her.

"I'm telling you because I want your help," Help? What did he want you to do? Go up and tell her that if she didn't love him back your best friend was going to die?

"What am I meant to do?" You questioned leaning forward a little to see what his plan was for all of this.

"You're good at this, tell me what girls like." You blinked at him

"What on earth makes you think I'm good at this? I know what girls like but Sooyoung isn't like every other girl...She's a different breed." The woman had exquisite taste and clearly liked things differently from those around her.

"Will you help me at least get her attention," Smirking at him you nodded. Getting her attention was going to be easy enough.

"Sure." Picking up the rubber from the table you launched it across the room hitting one of the boys in the head before it dropped down in front of Sooyoung. 

Gasping a little she looked down at it and then around the room to figure out who had thrown it but you'd already turned to Hyunjin.

"Fetch." You mumbled to him watching as he glared at you. 

Oh if looks could kill. 

"Sorry, my friend is stressed." He whispered as he bent down in front of Sooyoung. Their eyes locking as she giggled at him, reaching down to touch his long dark-brown hair. It was always the hair that people fell in love with first. Smirking a little you were glad you had french-braided one side and put it into a ponytail.  

"Cute," She whispered as she twirled a strand of his hair around her delicate fingers. Instantly Hyunjin felt his throat beginning to clog up with petals so he smiled before calmly walking to the door. Frowning as you watched him you waited to see what he was doing. Before you could even get up he was racing down the corridors to find the nearest bathroom.

"Sorry, he's a little shy...Here," You scrambled to write down his number on a random post-it and gave it to Sooyoung. Her eyes were wide as she looked from you to the door, 

"Shy? Around me?" You nodded gently ignoring the weird looks you were gaining from the boys around her. 

"I'll text him," She whispered as she began punching the numbers into her phone.

Hurrying after Hyunjin you stood outside the bathroom looking at him as you held your bag and his. The colour had drained from his face as he stood there. Hair messy and petals were strewn about all over the place.

"Here," You reached up to take a petal out of his hair and smiled sadly at him. The last thing you ever wanted was for Hyunjin to be in pain. You knew how badly this thing could be. 

"I'll help you...She has your number," You nudged him softly and he began to blush a little as he looked at you. He was thankful he had you to help him through all of this.

"Thank you," He breathed out bringing you into a tight hug as you whined that he was hurting you. 

"We can go to my dorm, I'll do your hair and we can begin planning how to get the girl to love you back." You promised him as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder beginning to walk with you towards the exit of the campus.

"First things first you're going to have to talk to her without...Coughing up flowers in front of her..." Turning to look at him from the other side of your dorm room you raised an eyebrow. You didn't know the ins and outs of how it all worked so you were going to need his help with it all.

"Is there a way you can control it?" He shrugged his shoulders as he sat on the floor against your bed. There wasn't much he knew about it either. He'd never tried to control it, all he knew was when he was around her his lungs filled with rose petals until he coughed them up. Even when he thought about her too hard it could sometimes bring some flowers up.

"I'm not sure," He whispered playing with the teddy he'd gotten you for your birthday while you began writing down on a large whiteboard on your wall. 

Learn to control coughing up. You were going to treat this as though it was some kind of study material. Have all of the facts laid out in front of you before you tried to find a solution to it.

"We need to learn what her favourite flowers are, what snacks she likes, then you're going to slowly woo her." Hyunjin stared up at you with a raised eyebrow. Not believing for one second that he had just heard you use the term "woo her".

"Woo her? What are we? 91?" He mumbled sarcastically only for a chocolate button to be thrown against his head. Your aim was impeccable. 

"Did you or did you not want my help?" You questioned as you stared over at him. Hand resting on your hip as you tilted your head to the side.

"Yes, Mx!" He fake saluted watching as you began to write her name, getting ready to list things she did and didn't like underneath it. Hyunjin thought back on all of the times he'd seen her getting gifts from people. Remembering the way she reacted to each of them.

"She likes sunflowers and roses together, I've seen her get them from one of the jocks before a game." He looked up at you.

"Sunflowers and roses," You mumbled as you wrote them on the board in green ink.

"We can get some from the store tomorrow morning." You told him as you turned to look at him. The thought of losing your best friend to something like this was eating you up inside but you were going to be strong for him. 

The look on his face made you feel bad about teasing him earlier in the day. All he wanted to do was get help and you had been a little mean about it.

"I promise I'll do everything I can Hyunjin." You said sweetly as you walked over to the bed, sitting behind him on the bed as he sat on the floor. You ran your fingers through his hair and began to braid it. Something he found extremely relaxing whenever he was stressing too much over something.

"I don't deserve you Y/n." He hummed as you began to french-braid the sides once again before joining them together in a ponytail at the back of his head. Just as it had been that morning when he came to get it done.

"I don't know how I can repay you," He added on as he looked at your whiteboard of information. If anyone came in now it would look as though you were stalking Sooyoung but of course that wasn't what you were doing.

"With food, comics and helping me cram for tests." You told him as you smirked, patting the top of his head as you got up from the bed.

"I'll go and order some pizza...We can talk pick-up lines and dates while we eat." He nodded watching as you left the room leaving him to overthink everything. Groaning when he felt the pressure of the petals begin to build as his thoughts went to Sooyoung.

As time began to progress the only thing that seemed to be happening was Hyunjin was getting worse. It seemed as though no matter what happened with Sooyoung nothing was going to happen. The flower petals began to grow in size and he felt sick almost all of the time.

"Maybe she'll never love me back," He said to you as you sat in a small cafe together. Sharing a plate of chips as you spoke about his date with Sooyoung that he had just gotten back from. He'd taken her ice skating since it was one of her favourite things to do but nothing else happened. They held hands around the ice skating rink and that was all.  

"It can take time," You reminded him, waving a chip in front of his mouth until he took it from you. 

"It's been three months...I have six months to make her fall in love with me." The never-ending ticking time bomb.

"Do-able." You were trying to remain as positive about all of this as possible. You never wanted to lose your best friend. 

"She has too many guys after her. There's no way I can do this Y/n." He put his head down onto the table and you reached around to run your fingers through his hair. Tears beginning to build up in your eyes at the thought of him giving up on this so easily. It wasn't like Hyunjin to just give up on anything.

"Give it a chance Hyunjin...Please." It came out as a beg but you didn't care. There was no way you were going to let your best friend give up on this and accept that some kind of disease was going to kill him. The plea didn't go unnoticed as he looked up at you, eyes bloodshot as he was on the verge of tears. 

He'd been researching the surgery without telling you. Deciding that it was probably easier for him to go through that than try and force somebody into loving him. It was dangerous and irreversible.

"One more month," He mumbled sitting up and back against the booth seat. Laying his head against the wall and looking at you.

"Want to practice date talk?" You questioned. He nodded at you and you smiled before going back into your dating impersonation. The two of you had been doing this whenever you went out to eat or ate at the dorm so that he could get used to it. 

"Come and sit next to me, whenever we eat together she sits beside me." You nodding sliding out of your side of the booth and into his. His arm wrapped around your waist and you seemed to freeze. A weird tightness began to grow in your chest and stomach but you ignored it. Turning to him and feeding him a chip while looking at him. Hyunjin leant down and bit into the chip slowly. It was the first thing he'd eaten all day and he was thankful you were with him to eat with. 

"Talk to me as if I was Sooyoung," You grumbled at him as you looked down at the plate. Suddenly losing all sense of appetite the longer you stared at it. 

One month came and went as though it was on fast-forward. You barely remembered anything that Hyunjin had planned for his time with Sooyoung. All you knew was that he was giving up. Telling you that all of this had been a waste of time for him.

"Hyunjin you can't do this," Your voice heightened as you looked at him. Reaching your hands out to touch him as he began packing up clothes into his bag. The moment he told you that he was going through with the surgery you panicked. There were so many horror stories surrounding the procedure.

"I've already booked it," He mumbled at you, moving away from your grasp to collect more clothes from his wardrobe. 

The two of you were in his dorm room that night when he decided to drop the bomb on you that he was going to have the surgery. 

"It's experimental! Something could go wrong," You whimpered as you stood in front of his wardrobe. Blocking him from getting inside. There was no way you were going to let him go through with something so idiotic that could kill him or leave him with no memories.

"It's worth it to not feel like this! To not die!" He yelled at you as you moved out of the way. Watching him as he began to shove clothes into a bag instead of folding them. There was no way you were going to be able to change his mind but you were going to try. 

"So you're just going to leave? What about exams?" You questioned as you tried not to bring the focus on why you needed him to stay around.

"I don't see a reason for staying, I'll get the surgery and be back in time for exams." He grumbled not looking at you as he reached into the back of his wardrobe for shoes.

"Hyunjin you have five months-" 

"She's in love with someone else! She's dating someone else so there is no help for me. Don't you get that!?" He yelled as he cut you off. Turning to face you, he was red in the fact of anger and his eyes were tearing up. 

Pushing past you he walked towards his bed, putting his bag down as he began to pack his study material up. If he was going to be stuck in a hospital he might as well make the time useful. 

"You think that you're the only person in the world that has that disease?!" You yelled back at him. Not meaning to snap and sound as angry as you did but you had enough.

"I'm not going to sit around and wait for the flowers to kill me." He grumbled keeping his back to you. 

"I'm not saying that! I'm saying give it time...M-maybe you'll fall in love with someone else." You were grasping at straws and he knew that as well as you did.

"You sound pathetic. There is no one else Y/n. There will never be someone else." He said in hushed tones as he flicked through some of his notebooks. Debating to take them with him or not. 

"Never?"

"No. Never," He mumbled at you.

"But I love you," Your chest swelled and you could feel yourself beginning to sweat as you finally told him. 

The months you had been helping him with Sooyoung you had begun to fall more and more in love with him. The fake dates you would have didn't help as you only fell harder for someone you knew would never like you back.

"Yeah but friendship love isn't enough to cure it!" He yelled slamming his book down onto his desk. Taking in deep breathes as he tried to calm himself down. He knew you were trying to help but nothing you had done was working. 

"You asked for my help-"

"Now I'm telling you to back off." He came across so cold you felt as though ice began to run down your back. Your chest burnt as you put off the cough that was itching to come out. Holding your hand over your mouth you let out a tiny cough. Wincing as you felt the petals fall down into your hands. Three white-budding roses sitting in your hand, large enough that you knew you didn't have much time left. Hyunjin didn't even notice you coughing as he rushed to put everything away into a bag.

"Call me when you've decided to get over this." You mumbled as you left his room. Dropping the petals into the bin by his front door before you left.

As Hyunjin was about to leave the dorms he went to through away his rubbish when he saw the flowers. They weren't his since his seemed to be a little more than two petals at the moment. These looked as though they were just beginning to grow larger. None of the boys was home which only meant that they could have been yours,. 

"Y/n." He breathed out as he looked at his phone. Hitting your name to call you but there was no answer. It just rang and rang. 

You stared at the phone while it lit up. There was no use talking to him when he was going to go through with the surgery no matter what.

"Call me when you get this, I need to talk to you." The message rang out as you deleted it. Walking to the kitchen to get something to eat but nothing seemed good to you. Everything you thought about eating made your stomach churn. Nothing had seemed appealing to you for months.

After a few days of staying in your dorm and ignoring Hyunjin, you began to feel the need for fresh air. There was no use in hauling yourself up inside of the dorms all day. You had no idea how much time you had left so you needed to do something with it.

Swinging the door open you almost screamed seeing Hyunjin standing. His hand raised as if he was about to knock on the door right before you answered it. 

"Did you get the surgery?" You questioned harshly as he stared at you. His eyes fixed on your face as he said nothing in response to you.

"Hyunjin?" Instead of responding he grabbed you close to him and kissed you roughly. The breath felt as though it was knocked right out of your chest as you collided with him. Your hands pushing into his long hair as he pushed you into the apartment. Holding you close to him as he ran his fingers up and down your back. Needing to feel every inch of you as close to him as possible. Tears rolled down your cheeks until you both could taste them. 

"H-Hyunjin." You breathed out as you both pulled away only to rest your foreheads on one another. Neither of you wanted to be apart for any longer than you had to be.

"I love you," He breathed out as he held your hand in his, squeezing them softly. 

"I love you too," You hiccuped through the tears, sniffling as little as he pulled you into his chest. Resting his chin on your head as you both stood there together.

 Another month passed both of you scared that the flowers would begin to come up again but they hadn't. Not once had you coughed up a petal, bud or a whole flower. Your appetite had come back and Hyunjin was feeling better than he ever had. The two of you had beaten the Unrequited love and overcoming everything to be with one another. 

Tagline: @minholuvs @taestannie @sw33tnight @acciocriativity @mwitsmejk @taeechwitaa​ @justbangtanthingz​ @stillwithlix​

[robininthelabyrinth]

I saw you mention this in one of your posts and this sounds like a swell idea! Something where JGY figures out that NHS is The Scary One before he touches a hair on NMJ’s head. :D

on ao3

When his father said that someone ought to get rid of Nie Mingjue, that he was in their way, that he would never stop, Jin Guangyao’s first thought was about the Song of Clarity that Lan Xichen was teaching him – and the Song of Turmoil, that he’d taught himself in one of his secret visits to the Lan sect library. He’d long ago noticed the similarities between the two tunes, one to help and the other to harm; it wasn’t similar enough to fool anyone skilled in music, of course, much less in musical cultivation, but Nie Mingjue rather infamously wasn’t.

His second thought was: let’s wait and see.

Perhaps it was only that it had been a very long day, and Jin Guangyao was tired, feeling unusually surly and dissatisfied. But it occurred to him that it wouldn’t do his father any harm to have to actually ask for something from him, rather than merely hint at it and have Jin Guangyao run to do it for him before he even finished the sentence – a rather unpleasant comparison had been made between Jin Guangyao and a poodle earlier that day, and he was still sore.

So yes.

Let’s wait and see.

-

Waiting was not, it seemed, paying off.

His father’s hinting had grown all the more intense, although he had not yet actually asked, and as for Nie Mingjue...

Nie Mingjue had promised to try to trust him again, Jin Guangyao thought to himself with a sigh, but most days it seemed that the only thing he trusted was that Jin Guangyao was up to something.

He scolded and he scowled and he questioned, always looking for loopholes and tricks hidden behind every word and gesture, never giving him the benefit of the doubt on a single thing. Jin Guangyao thought nostalgically back to the days when Nie Mingjue would simply present him with a problem that needed taking care of and tell him to deal with it as he saw fit, trusting not only in his competence in dealing with it but also in his judgment of how things ought to be resolved.

They said that trust was like a priceless porcelain vase: once shattered, it would never be whole again, even if it was repaired.

Jin Guangyao supposed that he deserved it for letting himself get caught like that.  An amateur’s mistake, but you only needed one of those to ruin everything.

But if it couldn’t be fixed…

He was just contemplating the Song of Turmoil again as he walked through the halls of the Unclean Realm when Nie Huaisang unexpectedly tackled him around the waist, making him Jin Guangyao stagger back and nearly fall – poor cultivator or no, Nie Huaisang had some heft to him, and plenty of muscle from years of running from his brother’s attempts to make him train.

“You have to help me, san-ge!” Nie Huaisang said, eyes wide and pathetic in such a patently unauthentic way that Jin Guangyao had an immediate stabbing feeling of empathy, an affliction he almost never suffered from. What a little scoundrel you are, he thought, not without fondness. “Da-ge’s on my case again. Scolding and scowling and trying to catch me in some sort of trick – and I would never play a trick on him, never - not in a million years -”

It occurred to Jin Guangyao that perhaps Nie Mingjue really did treat him as a younger brother, and it was only that he’d incorrectly assumed that he’d be treated as being somewhat more capable than the man’s actual younger brother.

Who was, he conceded, probably equally untrustworthy when it came to the likelihood of playing tricks on his too-earnest older brother, even if the tricks Nie Huaisang generally played were significantly lower in both quality and importance than his own…

“Huaisang! Where are you – ah, Meng Yao. What are you doing here?” Nie Mingjue asked, blinking at him. “Anything urgent?”

“Ah – no?” Jin Guangyao said. “I came to play for you, da-ge, you remember – er-ge said –”

“Right, of course,” Nie Mingjue said, in the tones of a man who had completely forgotten. “Could I borrow you for something else while you’re here? Perhaps Huaisang will learn better if it’s not just me.”

“Of course, da-ge,” Jin Guangyao said. It was always better to do someone a favor than the other way around, to better use it later, and Nie Mingjue almost never asked him for anything. “What are you trying to teach him?”

“How to run a sect,” Nie Mingjue said, lifting Nie Huaisang by the waist. “No, Huaisang,” he added when the younger man whined. “You do not get a choice.”

With that said, he lifted the younger man above his head – Nie Huaisang, as mentioned, was not light, but Nie Mingjue didn’t seem to notice – and walked back towards his office.

Jin Guangyao followed, torn between wondering if this was the reason that the ceilings in the Unclean Realm were all so high and being unable to keep himself from doing the math: Nie Huaisang weighed more than Jin Guangyao did, being both heavier and thicker around the middle, so if it was Jin Guangyao that Nie Mingjue was holding, it could be estimated that he could hold him up for at least an hour, and even longer if he was braced against something convenient such as a wall –

He shook his head to rid himself of the useless thoughts. He would need all his cunning about him if he was going to embark on the difficult mission of trying to get Nie Huaisang to actually learn something, especially something as boring as sect management.

Questions of assassination were, comparatively, much easier.

-

The problem, Jin Guangyao discovered, was not, as he’d suspected, in keeping Nie Huaisang’s attention.

It was in everything else.

“ – and the sect leader is now requesting assistance,” Nie Mingjue concluded his summary of the situation behind the letter that they had received, laying out both the actual content of the letter, the implications behind it, and the background necessary to make a decision so efficiently that Jin Guangyao lost his head for a moment and imagined what life would be like if he could hire Nie Mingjue as his deputy. His life would be so much easier. “How do you respond?”

Nie Huaisang heaved a sigh. “That’s obvious!”

It was. The request was far more than this particular sect really deserved, given its past behavior (rather despicable) and the moderately high chance that they were simply trying to get the Nie sect to pay for benefits that would later go to themselves or, at best, the Jiang sect, but granting the request would not seriously damage the Nie sect’s coffers and would lay the groundwork for a better relationship in the future –

“We write a letter that heavily hints about what we know that the sect leader did in the past, expressing our concern and indicating that we received the information from the Jiang sect in a moment of indiscretion,” Nie Huaisang said happily. “He’ll be so distraught at the thought of potential blackmail from them that he’ll beg us for assistance, and we’ll be able to extract additional benefits before finally agreeing to –”

“No, Huaisang,” Nie Mingjue said, even as Jin Guangyao boggled at the sheer wretched cleverness of the idea. It would work perfectly to isolate the other party through their own paranoia, leaving them feeling that they had no other way out but to throw themselves on the Nie sect’s mercy – there wasn’t a limit to what could be extracted that way. “If he’s so untrustworthy as all that, we don’t actually want him, do we? He’ll just betray us next time he can. No, we write to him the way we would anyone who wasn’t our dependent and lay out our terms, free and clear; if he wants better ones, he knows what to do.”

“People don’t have to be trustworthy to be useful, da-ge,” Nie Huaisang whined, and the infantile tone of his voice very nearly disguised the fact that he was saying something incredibly insightful. Not at all something Jin Guangyao would have expected to come out of the mouth of one of the Nie sect, much less Nie Huaisang, the most useless of them all. “They don’t even have to know they’re being used to be useful! I can think of at least three ways we could use –”

“The answer is no. Besides, I thought you liked Sect Leader Jiang?”

“Yes, but he’s far too direct to be dealing with someone like this – think of it as us ridding him of a pest! We could –”

“Huaisang.”

Nie Huaisang sighed.

-

“ – but if you would only consider what we could achieve with just a little bit of bribery –”

“Huaisang.”

“But it’s such a small amount! I could do it with my own pocket money!”

“Huaisang.”

“Ugh, fine, have it your way, we’ll just ask, I guess…”

-

“Oh, wow, that’s a tough one. Uh…murder?”

“Huaisang!”

“What?! It was a reasonable guess!”

“It was not a reasonable guess!”

“We wouldn’t let anyone know that we were the ones that – I’m making it worse, aren’t I?”

“Yes, Huaisang. You’re making it worse.”

-

“I’m guessing the answer isn’t going to be blackmail?”

“That’s correct.”

“And not it’s bribery, either.”

“No.”

“Definitely not beating him up…”

“Huaisang, are you trying to get the answer by process of elimination?”

“It’s a valid strategy to figure out the answers to test questions!”

“This isn’t a test question, it’s real life!”

“No, it’s a test, because if it was real life, I could use blackmail.”

-

“…you know what,” Nie Huaisang said after a couple of moments of serious contemplation. “I actually have no idea what I’d do in that situation. San-ge? Can I have an assist?”

Jin Guangyao had managed, over the past shichen or so, to get ahold of himself. He shrugged apologetically. “I must admit that I’m at a loss myself. It seems like an especially tricky situation.”

The situation in question involved the crimes of an extremely well-connected individual, with interests from all over the cultivation world deep in his pockets; he would be a difficult man to cross. Moreover, he was well known for his perfidy, rendering blackmail useless, and well-off enough to make bribes pointless; mere intimidation was also out, given his connections – he’d already gone through a “trial”, if it could be described as such, and he’d only used it to cleanse himself. In such a situation, Jin Guangyao would probably hang back out of caution, seeking further information and hoping that an appropriate situation would appear that he could take advantage, but Nie Mingjue had specified that there was a time limit involved…

Nie Mingjue groaned. “You’re both overthinking it: for once, murder is the right answer.”

“Wait, it is?” Jin Guangyao asked, staring at him blankly. “I mean - what exactly do you mean, murder?”

“The man slaughtered children in broad daylight! The evidence is unquestionable and undeniable; he should be executed immediately.”

“But – his connections –”

“That’s why there’s a time limit,” Nie Mingjue said, rolling his eyes on both of them. “If you do it quickly enough, it gets attributed to the hair-trigger Nie temper going out of control and everyone treats it like a casualty in the face of a force of nature – the same way you’d shrug off the death of someone who got in the way of a hurricane or tsunami.”

“Oh,” Nie Huaisang said. “I see.”

Jin Guangyao envied him: he most certainly did not see. Since when was outright murder a possible weapon in the Nie sect’s diplomatic arsenal?

“Speaking of which, I’ve already delayed long enough, trying to teach you something,” Nie Mingjue added. “Huaisang, can you host Meng Yao for dinner? I’ll be back later this evening.”

“Of course, da-ge! Count on me!”

Nie Mingjue nodded at them both and strode out without another word.

“…where is he going?” Jin Guangyao asked.

“Presumably to go murder someone,” Nie Huaisang said, as if it were obvious, and then laughed, presumably at Jin Guangyao’s expression. “He always makes me practice with real questions, you know, though he does save them up if he can.”

“That wasn’t what I was surprised about,” Jin Guangyao admitted, because he’d already figured out – possibly for the first time – that Nie Huaisang almost certainly already knew what he was like under the smile. “It’s just…murder? Really? Da-ge?”

“Da-ge’s righteous, not kind,” Nie Huaisang said with a shrug. “Leave questions of mercy to the Lan sect! Here we believe that showing excess mercy to evildoers is itself committing a harm to their victims…ah, well, let’s not talk about it, shall we? If we do, I’ll just get another headache from trying to figure out the line between what I’m allowed to do and what I’m not allowed to do.”

“You know perfectly well what you’re allowed to do,” Jin Guangyao said, deliberately keeping his voice light rather than accusing. “You just want your brother to be a bit more open-minded.”

“He won’t be.” Nie Huaisang’s voice was fond. “He’s willing to pull those sorts of tricks when he has to – our exculpated murderer is an excellent example – but he’s never going to understand why anyone would pull a nasty trick if they had another choice…it’s just the way he is.”

He laughed, taking out his fan – a new one, Jin Guangyao observed – and lightly nudged Jin Guangyao in the side even as he hid his smile behind it.

“It’s fine, though,” he said. “Isn’t that why he has people like us?”

“Yes,” Jin Guangyao said, following Nie Huaisang to the dinner table, thoughts running through his mind. The Song of Turmoil – it would still work, more than likely, because Nie Mingjue would let him play it for him and him alone, and even Nie Huaisang needed clay to build bricks. But if he did it, and Nie Huaisang ever found out…

He thought that he might not like being Nie Huaisang’s opponent. 

He wasn’t sure which one of them would win and which would lose, of course, and he rather thought he’d bet on himself, but in all honesty he wouldn’t like to try. 

“In fact,” he said casually, “Huaisang, if you don’t mind, I have another situation that I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts on.”

“Not another one,” Nie Huaisang whined, but his eyes narrowed in blatant curiosity. “But all right, all right, just one more. Only for you, san-ge, and only because I like you so much.”

Jin Guangyao smiled. “I appreciate it. Now, for the situation: assume there are two sect leaders, and one of them wishes to eliminate the other through underhanded means…”

-

“Murder, I think,” Nie Huaisang said thoughtfully. “No – most definitely murder. There is no other path forward. The only question is, I suppose: how much do you want your father to suffer during the process?”

Jin Guangyao smiled.

It was so nice to work with people that understood.

[darthzero22]

Hi idk if your taking requests but i just thought it would be really cute if Crosshair had a really happy/bubbly/positive girlfriend, but one day he sees her REALLY upset and its beacuse some person hurt her and Cross gets PISSED, because he's never seen her upset before and wants whoever hurt her to pay

Hi! I hope you have a nice day! I will open request later, I don't know when, but I will 😊

But I loved your idea, anon! I'm inspired now, so here you go. I hope it's what you wanted, or looks like it.

Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Crosshair, a serious, cold, distant man with a crude personality, fell in love with you, a woman who always sees the positive side of everything. He doesn't remember you ever getting upset, whenever you could you smiled. That would change and he wouldn't take it very well.

Warning: strong language

You and your squad had landed on a planet to get fuel and repair the Marauder after that complicated mission. You went into the city to get a couple of things Tech needed for the ship, and Crosshair had seen you leave the ship with a smile on your face, but when you came back you didn't have that beautiful smile. 

You were upset, very upset. 

You didn't want to talk to him, in fact you didn't want him to know, but he could instantly see that something or someone was upsetting you.

The door to your room opens. Crosshair enters to find you sitting on the edge of your bed with your head down. Something wasn't right, he had never seen you like this, and he felt his stomach clench at the sight of you in that mood.

“Mesh’la"

"Hey, Cross..."

"What happened?”

“I don't know what you're talking about"

“Don't try to hide it from me” he rests one knee on the floor in front of you, to face you.

“I'm not hiding anything from you, really"

"I don't believe you"

"I..."

“Look at me” he grabs your chin gently.

You lift your face to look at him, and Crosshair is surprised. That beautiful smile that characterized you was gone, and now there were only sad and wet eyes as tears wanted to come out, but you did not allow it.

“Is it bad to help people, Cross?” you were suffering all those negative emotions. Anger, sadness and disappointment. “Is it wrong to want to help someone?”

“It depends on the situation"

"I am beginning to believe that..."

"What happened? I need to know”

He starts to get angry because he suspected someone had hurt you.

“When I was returning to the ship, the owner of this port needed help with some boxes that fell on the floor and I helped him, but...”

“But? Mesh’la, come on. I need to know what else happened”

“I accidentally knocked over a box and whatever was inside broke. I don't know what it was, possibly droid parts or something? I was really sorry… I wanted to help him again because I was really sorry, but he yelled at me saying that if I was so bad at helping, then don't help him anymore… and practically pushed me away”

That man pushed you? That guy dared to lay a finger on you? Crosshair felt his blood boiling more and more.

“He… Don't tell me he dared to push you” he grits his teeth, feeling increasingly pissed off.

“Yes… He even called me useless and pathetic. I... I've never been called that before, especially when I tried to help…”

That was disappointment and anger because you couldn't believe that there were such ungrateful people, and sadness because that man humiliated you in public. That man didn't care that you had helped him before, because at the slightest and simple mistake you made he treated you like a useless and pathetic woman.

You didn't want to cry because you were aware that bad things happen, but it hit you hard because you were treated like garbage when you simply wanted to help. Crosshair frowns, you've never seen him so pissed off. He squeezed the bed sheets with his hand, as he had them resting on the edge on either side of you.

“It's silly, I know…"

"Mesh'la"

"I know some people are ungrateful, but I've never been treated like this before...”

Crosshair was about to say something, but he couldn't because you hugged him by wrapping your arms around his neck, as he was still in front of you. He rests a hand on your back and I could feel you start to tremble.

“People turned to look at me and judge me…” you rested your eyes on his shoulder.

"Mesh'la"

Your shortness of breath made another horrible sensation appear in him.

"You're not... crying, are you?" his tone of voice indicated fear and concern.

Yes, you were crying. Crosshair took that very personally, something in his heart hurt. You were his girlfriend, the most important person in his life. You were always in a good mood, you always found it easy to smile, but now you only cried out of anger and sadness. Now it was hard for you to smile. He had never seen you like this before, which made the pain in his heart increase.

“He pushed you, insulted you and also humiliated you… all because you tried to help him”

"I guess..."

Crosshair hugged you back, while thinking of a thousand ways to make that guy pay for what he did. You were so beautiful, unique in this galaxy that someone dared to hurt you, and above all to prevent you from smiling again. He was stroking your back in an attempt to reassure you, and while he was succeeding, it wasn't enough.

"I'm going to kill that guy"

“Cross…"

Before you could stop him, Crosshair stands up and leaves the room. To say he was pissed was an understatement to describe how he was. He exits the ship, meeting Tech who was surprised to see him.

“Where are you going, Crosshair? We have to take off now”

Crosshair simply ignored Tech and with his eyes found the ungrateful man who hurt you from a distance. That man was just tidying up those damn boxes, so he walks over there. He was clenching his fists, it was very likely that he would beat him up, and you got out of the Marauder too to stop him. You didn't want him to get in trouble because of you.

“Hey, you!”

The man turns around when he hears that, and raises an eyebrow as he sees the tall, angry figure of Crosshair approaching him.

“Yeah? Do you need something...?”

Crosshair didn't let him finish speaking because he punched him in the nose so hard that he managed to knock him to the ground. He did not even give him time to recover because he grabbed him by his clothes in the neck area, and forced him to get up and slam him against the wall. That man had blood coming out of his nose.

“What the…?!”

“Shut up! You think you're brave for humiliating my girlfriend?” Crosshair's eyes showed nothing but fury.

“Your girlfriend…?"

"Yeah. That beautiful woman who dared to help a scumbag like you"

"Oh! I don't know what she told you, but it wasn't like that! She broke…”

“Wait. You dare to call her a liar?!”

“No, no…!"

"You are ungrateful!"

"If you don't let go, I'm going to call the authorities!”

“She helped you, you piece of shit. She helped your disgusting ass when she didn't have to! And you dared to push her? You humiliated her!"

“Please, I didn't mean to treat her like that!”

“You made her cry. You have no idea how pissed off I am... A punch will be the least of your problems”

“No!”

Crosshair was going to punch him again, harder than the first, but a hand grabbing his shoulder stops him. That hand was yours, so he lowers his fist.

“There is no need for this!”

“He hurt you! It is more than necessary”

“I don't want you to get in trouble because of me!"

"I don't care"

"Please... Let that guy go”

Seeing those sad eyes of yours convinced him, even though he didn't want to. Crosshair sighs, but before letting go of the man, he knees him in the crotch, and then the guy falls to the ground in pain from the blow. No one dares to mess with you, that message was more than clear.

"You deserve worse, you idiot"

"Stop..." you grab his hand. "Let's go back to the ship"

You begin to walk back to the ship, but before Crosshair kicks one of the guy's many boxes causing it to fall, and therefore whatever was inside to break.

"I'm a little better now, just a little" he said.

"Was all that necessary?

"He hurt you, he had to pay. No one makes my girlfriend cry"

Even though you didn't quite agree with the violence Crosshair used, it made you feel better to know that he really cared about you. You knew he didn't like public affection, so you waited until you were alone back in your ship's room to hug him. He reciprocates the hug by placing a hand on your back, and you rested your face on his shoulder.

"You could have gotten into a lot of trouble..."

"I told you, I didn't care"

"Cross..."

"Nothing you can say will change my mind. You always find it easy to smile, and then to see you like this..." he sighs. "I wanted to make him pay"

"Cross, the reason I always smile is because of you... You make me smile"

Well, Crosshair didn't expect that. A blush appears on his cheeks, he even frowns, but you feel him hug you a little tighter now.

"I hate to see you sad and to see you cry.... You have no idea how much"

"I am much better now... and thanks to you" you raise your head to look at him, and finally smile.

There was the smile that he loved, even though he loved everything about you. Crosshair brings a hand to your face and strokes one cheek with his thumb, then strokes your lower lip.

"No one will ever hurt you again, I promise" he said.

"I know..."

You give him a kiss on the corner of his lips, but he wanted something more, so he moves his face and they make you kiss each other on the mouth. You knew that with him you felt safe, loved, and above all he was the reason for your happiness. To Crosshair you were his life, so if someone dared to hurt you, it was as if someone would hurt him. He wasn't going to let them hurt you again, he wasn't going to let anyone take that smile away from you.

[bloomyagi]

bewitched (m)

summary: bakugou has always loved you.

pairings: bakugou katsuki x f!reader, hawks x f!reader (nsfw)

genre: characters are aged up, 20+, pro heroes au

warnings: allusions to cheating, angst, porn w/ lots of feelings, shower sex, kinda subby bakugou, he’s basically lovesick n soft for u, keigo is a good birdie, he would never do this irl

length: 3,518

notes: hello! my first bnha fic, please be kind <3 please let me know what you think! i’ve been so obsessed w/ jjk & bnha recently skdjkjf. send help 

.

.

.

It comes down softly at first. The droplets whispering against windshields, ghosting across bare arms, a trick of the light. Then a pause, like the darkening clouds are reconsidering their decisions. There is no wind, no anger in the way it pelts down, darkens the concrete. Like resignation, like relief. It soaks bone, sends most civilians packing as they duck under awnings and flee into shops in anticipation of a short-lived flare.

But it is summer, and the rain is welcome as a remedy against the oppressive heat. Many onlookers merely move their belongings closer to avoid the stream, gaze out glass windows longingly. Some find inspiration, others find peace.

You stand in the middle of it all, drenched and unmoving as you watch your lover wrap his arms around his secretary, and you wonder whose mood this pathetic fallacy is expected to reflect as you look across to meet familiar eyes.

He, too, mirrors your stance. Clothes sodden, yet the nature of its designs only lends to plaster themselves closer to his skin. His irises are that bright, burning red. He is not fizzling, heated against the affair before him. Instead, his gaze is trained on you.

There is no fury, no sadness, no emptiness. His gaze is not hollow, it is instead strangely warm. Your chest squeezes, tightening in the way you experience when you read a novel laced in tragedy, that welling feeling of anguish and sorrow.

His hands are shoved in his pockets, and though his eyes remain fastened to you, he makes no step to move closer.

The sky lightens, a thin streak of sun peering through in a solitary beam. The sounds seem to press close again, like a bubble popping in your ear.

The summer storm is tempered as quickly as it appeared, the sound of life—laughter, the splashing of sneakers drowning in newly formed puddles—and the lingering smell of renewed earth and the chirping of birds as they shake off their wings to take flight.

Water drips silently down the pair of gorgeous wings before you. They flutter briefly, flicking off the thin layer that pooled on its surface, before unfurling to fold over her. He pulls her closer, separating only every so often to breathe.

Shameless, is all you think plainly. And you are—ashamed. That feeling catches you by surprise, breath caught in your throat as the feeling expands, takes root in your lungs. It is that hindsight, that disappointment—at yourself—that has you lowering your eyes.

He is still looking at you, even as someone squeals and a crowd gathers, pushing and shoving to press close, stays rooted to his spot, watching you, even as the couple finally break apart, dishevelled—she adjusts her pencil skirt, re-buttons her blouse; he runs a hand through his golden locks, fixes his half-open shirt—and Hawks’ chuckle rings across the street, one arm braced around her waist as he signs autographs and takes photos. She is glowing beside him, all smiles and shrill laughter. Her nails, perfectly manicured and sharp, digs into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. He likes it.

You stifle a dry laugh. Turning on your heel, you disappear into the thickening crowd.

He himself is being pawed at, hands fawning at his exposed arms, clutching at him like he is fresh off the conveyer belt.

He waits until he can no longer discern your retreating figure before bearing a half-smile at the crowd. He takes the pen that is shoved into his face, and he begins signing autographs.

.

.

.

Time and experience have tempered his constitution. He has accepted his flaws, worked on them until he could proudly stand on the same stage as his—friends. Because that is what they are—these people that have helped him grow, comforted his trauma, stayed with him despite it all. What else could he call them but the very things they are—they are the pillar of his strength. Because of you, I learned I could be strong for the things I care about.

He is not number one. He has no need for such a title, no need for such a goal anymore. He is no longer the brash, easily angered teenager that charged for the strongest.

“I don’t care what they call me, what rank I am, or what they think of me. I only want the power to protect these people. That’s it.” He thinks back to your words.

You are not often solemn. You laughed a lot, the slow-appearing crinkles to the corner of your eyes a physical testament to your innate joy. You liked to take delight in the ordinary things. Perhaps that is what drew him to you—that strength. To shoulder the burden of your chosen role in this society, to have the bravery to smile amongst the suffering.

There was always an unbidden heat that surged in his chest when he thought of you. That odd feeling of a knot tying itself in his stomach when his skin brushed yours. When you fell from the height of a skyscraper, half-conscious from defeating a new breed of nomu, his heart stuttered and leapt in halting beats to throat as he split from his team, their screams for you ringing in his ears, the rush of badump-badump closing in rapidly, pushing his beaten body to its limits, faster, faster, faster—please! Who was he praying to at the time? He was begging anyone who was listening to give him that push—the gap was too big, you were too far, he was too tired, too useless, too broken—he slammed into you with enough force to compel blood up his throat.

He spat it to the side quickly, not bothering to wipe himself clean before he turned to you. The first thing he registered was warmth. You were limp in his hold, on the edge of passing out, exhaustion lining every curve of your face. Your lips quirked, eyes closed.

“Hurts like hell,” you slurred. “Falling from heaven.”

He stared at you, blinking the blood from his lashes.

And then he threw his back and laughed. It was a full-bodied, uproarish laughter. The type that rumbled from his chest. He shook, though he was careful not to jostle you, and you managed a quiet chuckle.

The adrenaline faded from his body, and he hiccupped as he slumped onto the concrete beam behind him. The ice receded from his veins.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he murmured. It was a quiet plea. Don’t do that ever again, is what he really wanted to say, but how could he? This was the occupational hazard of your shared line of work. This was the risk. His eyes burned, half-lidded as he held you closer.

You couldn’t lift a single limb on your body, so you lean into him.

“No promises.”

It was enough. Your voice was raspy, drained, but there was a sincere lilt to it.

He wanted to say something more, then, but first responders arrived and whisked you separate ways before he could gather his thoughts.

He regrets it, to this day. Perhaps if he had said something then, said something sooner, the scene would have played out differently.

He does not have many regrets, have long resolved to move on from his past and mistakes. “What a useless emotion,” you once told him. “Don’t wallow. Mourn and move on. Do better. That’s what you owe. That is what you are owed.”

But this—this he will always regret.

.

.

.

He finds you on the roof of your penthouse.

“I like it. Being able to see everything from up here.” The first time he’d peered over the edge, he’d been enlisted for furniture rearranging. You handed him a beer, beckoning him over, jerking your head to the scenery below. And it was—breathtaking. You were breathtaking. He hadn’t even bothered to entertain a cursory glance. It was summer then, too, and the evening breeze was light as it brushed your locks back. Lights began to flicker as the sun dipped lower into the horizon. He briefly considered making a similar move.

But moving was a hassle, only further proven by the efforts of today, so he dismissed the thought quickly, taking another swig. He was sweaty, a layer of grime a film over his skin from the manual labour he’d been voluntold for most of the afternoon. It was petty work compared to his—their—day job, but it was still a strangely refreshing workout.

“What are you feeling?” His steps are muted, voice faint. It carries on the back of a shallow gust.

You don’t spare him a look, staring into the distance. You’re sitting, one leg thrown casually over the ledge, the other pulled to your stomach. He’d made an off-hand comment once about adding some railings, but you’d rolled your eyes and pushed him playfully.

Pussy, you called. He chuckled. Like we don’t experience enough life-threatening dangers on a regular basis, he snarked.

All the more reason, then, you shot back. He fell silent then, the pulsing in his throat returning.

He could never really read you. Eyes are the window to the soul. He scoffs internally. Whoever said that must’ve known it was a load of bullshit. Your eyes never said anything. But his—his said everything he couldn’t, and more.

You hum. “Would it be cliché if I said I wasn’t surprised, only disappointed?”

“No.”

“Then I’m disappointed. I had hoped, I suppose, that he would choose differently.”

He tastes the words that I would be enough between, and the sigh of to change him that escapes your lips.

“You knew who he was when you went into this,” he says quietly. No judgement—he is not reminding you of your poor decisions, rather striking a conversation in the same manner one would inquire about the weather.

Quant, you think. And a few years ago, you would have added out of character. But now it is not so—he has grown into himself well.

You tilt your head back. He leans against the wall, arms crossed across that well-built chest of his, shirt straining against the muscle. He’s so tall now—so much taller than anyone had expected him to be. That wild, unruly blond hair of his has remained the same, appearing spiky but soft to the touch. And his eyes—they are gentle but retain the ferocity he is well-known for.

“Yes,” you say after a while. “That is why I am not surprised. But these feelings won’t just disappear overnight because of this.”

He’s quiet for a while, those crimson orbs of his trailing over your expression. You don’t know what he finds, but he must understand your position because he nods.

“I’ll wait for you.”

This—this is a surprise. Somehow, he always manages to surprise you.

“After all this time?” You ask softly.

“Always,” he says quietly.

He leaves, and when you return to the house, you pick up the keys he left on your counter. Twirling them on one finger, you smile to yourself.

Thank you. You know he knows.

.

.

.

“I tried to be the person you wanted me to be,” he says.

“I tried, I really did. But this is who I am, who they made me. I can’t change. I’m sorry,” he says.

He says a lot more, you think, but you’ve long since stopped listening. He knows these are only flimsy barriers that excuse his behaviour. He knows he is not this person. He is not broken, he is worthy of much, much more. He just needs to believe it. They took everything from him. That is what he thinks, how he lives. Like he has no real purpose.

Instead, he is stopped, wings flaring as you reach for him. You smell familiar, and that ache in his heart deepens. He will forever regret losing you, but you deserve more. He is not good for you, and he is not your responsibility. His growth is his obligation. Perhaps, when he is ready, he will find you again.

But by then, he thinks, burying his face into your shoulder, you will have already chosen differently.

“I love you, baby bird. I will always love you,” he presses these words against your neck in a soft whisper, voice cracking, like a prayer, he tries to sear his truth into your skin. He tastes salt on his tongue.

And, between it all, he traces I’m sorry.

You squeeze him once.

You know.

.

.

.

“Hey.”

You’re uncharacteristically shy, cheeks puffing in that sweet smile of yours.

That sharp, familiar warmth blooms in his chest at the sight of you perched on the arm of his leather couch. You look comfortable, relaxed, like you—belonged here, his mind supplies helpfully.

He steps out of his boots, unbuckling his support items and setting them on the counter to clean later. He’s a little worse for wear tonight, shoulders tight from chasing rogue villains the past few hours. The tension seeps away steadily, though, the longer he drinks you in.

You look good. You always look good. Gorgeous, even more so when you’re tired and dirty, covered in blood and dust and debris. It’s been so long since you patrolled together, pulled to opposite ends of the city the past few months.

“Hey,” he says back.

“Shower?” You take his hand.

He trails behind you, nearly tripping over in his haste to follow, failing to register your words in time. This must be a dream, he decides. And he will play along, as he always does in these fits of delirium. He will hold you and have you and love you in ways he cannot begin to describe, and then he will lose you as dawn breaks and he wakes to an empty bed. But he falls anyway, does it over and over until he feels like he will go insane from the sheer longing. He is addicted to you.

You haven’t spoken, not really, since that night on the rooftop. So you, being here, without any prior warning, touching him, smiling at him, leading him to his fucking shower—this must be a dream, right?

You push open the door to his bathroom. It’s big, he’s always been meticulous about his health, and enjoys his fair share of long soaks and hot showers.

He realizes a beat too late that you’re undressing him. He exhales sharply when you tug his shirt off, but before he could say anything, you murmur, “You smell like caramel. You always do. It’s just a little stronger than usual.”

“Oh.” He sounds a little breathless, a little strangled. Unlike him, but he has never really been anything but himself with you. He’s still discovering new sides to himself, it seems.

Oddly enough, he’s the farthest thing from embarrassed as he steps out of his pants and boxers. He’s flushed, but the heat that floods his veins is nothing short of delicious. It makes his head spin, makes him lean into your touch.

You strip quickly, tossing your costume fabric aside his for laundry. He sucks in an audible breath at the sight of your nude body. Beautiful, he wants to say, but the words are stuck in his throat, and he reaches out with a shaky hand to thumb the smear of grease on your cheek.

You smile, pushing open the frosted glass doors and pull him inside.

The temperature is perfect. He likes it hot on days like today, muscles relaxing as the water washes away his fatigue.

“You know me so well,” he says.

You push him under the stream, water cascading between the two of you. His locks flatten under the pressure, falling over his eyes. You run a hand through his hair, pushing it back as you press yourself flush against him.

“Yes,” you answer. “I do.”

And then you kiss him. A low purring echoes through the space. Ah, it’s me, some part of him thinks absently. He opens his mouth instantly, tongue lapping at yours, arms coming around to hold you close. He can distinctly feel the way your perked nipples rub against his pectorals. He can taste you. And you are sweet, so sweet and the lewd sounds of your make out reverberating in the room so vividly he knows this is not, in fact, a mere conjuration of imagination after all.

He loathes to part from you, but he does. His fingers dig into your waist, anchoring him to reality. He looks at you searchingly, beseechingly. If you are here, you can only be here for one reason.

“I’m sorry I took so long. I’m sorry, I know it must’ve been painful. I’m here now, I promise I’ll never leave again,” you say, cupping his cheek.

His breath catches. His eyes flutter shut.

“You promise?” He sounds so small, so weak. Vulnerable. He would’ve hated that, once, but he is no longer that person. Today, he can accept he is weak for you. Always has been. And that’s okay, he thinks. He doesn’t have to be strong all the time.

“Yes. I promise, Katsuki.” You press your forehead against him, standing on your tippy toes.

He kisses you again, swallows your dreamy sigh, one hand on the back of your head, the other crushing your body against his. He wants you close, needs you close. Needs to feel you, this is real, right?

“Yes,” you whisper, and he realizes belatedly that he spoke aloud. “This is real. I’m here. I’m right in front of you.” You take his hand and press it against your upper rib cage, where your heart beats. Fast, like the wings of a hummingbird.

He can’t help it. He takes you against the wall, so pent up from years of pining he can hardly think, rutting into you like a teenager in heat, feeling like he’s a virgin again, every trace of your skin so new, he maps them out first with his eyes, then his hands and mouth. He slows down when you call his name in a haze of pleasure, takes the time to worship you, find what makes you tick, watches your expression raptly as he rolls his hips, as he tweaks your nipples, palms your ass, litters a necklace of freshly bloomed violets on your collarbone.

He’s panting your name, you’re murmuring praises in his ear, tugging at his locks and biting down on his shoulder and he cums so hard his vision whitens.

The two of you slide down, his legs giving out in the aftershocks, until he’s sitting on the floor of his shower and you’re curled up on his lap.

The water is—miraculously—still hot.

You lay there for a while, and he catches his breath between lazy kisses, enjoying the way your hands roam his chest languidly.

Finally, he stands, letting you down reluctantly to actually clean yourselves. You giggle at the pout that forms when your feet touch the ground once more.

You wash his hair, massaging methodically as he dips his head back to let the foam drain. He takes great pleasure in this, at the way you spread a generous amount of body wash on your palms and begin scrubbing the grime from his skin.

He jolts forward, letting out a low groan as you squeeze his flaccid cock teasingly. He glances away, eyes half-lidded, at the heated look you give him when his cock hardens immediately.

“You underestimate how easily you turn me on,” he says plainly. Not a hint of embarrassment. And why should he be? You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I love it,” you murmur.

You rinse him off before turning. His length presses against your ass, but he makes no move to seek anything further, focused on washing you.

Satisfied, he turns off the water.

You step out, toweling each other off. He pulls you to him, inhaling deeply. He likes that you smell like him now.

.

.

.

Afterwards, you are tucked in close, covers pulled up and he’s buried his face in your chest, bare legs tangled.

Perhaps it’s the novelty, the feeling of finally, but you can’t get enough of one another. You wake each other multiple times throughout the night, clawing at each other, ripping his boxers and your—his—shirt from each other until you were pressed tightly together, bare, a thin sheen of sweet already coating your bodies.

A thin strip of moonlight peeks through the cream curtains. He gazes up at you, thinks everything in his life has been leading up to this moment. That warmth swelling again, as it always does, so intense it has him arching his back. You touch his cheek, smiling. Something lands on the side of his pillow. Ah. You lean down, lips warm as they kiss away his tears.

“I love you, Katsuki.”

He closes his eyes.

Thank you.

[wistfulcynic]

that song only you can hear

So I think we’ve all seen this prompt making the rounds. It couldn’t be more Lieutenant Duckling if it had been designed with them in mind. 

Here’s my take on it. 

AO3

-

The two men met in the middle of the council chamber with a matched pair of elegant bows and a solemn exchange of Your Majesties. Formalities thus observed and ceremonially dispatched, they broke into jovial smiles, gripping each other’s forearms and clapping one another on the back. They were far more similar than different, these men—roughly of a height and with the same breadth to their shoulders, the same twinkle of humour in their eyes and the lines on their faces fallen in the same warm places. One had far more of those lines, being a good brace of decades older—as attested as well by the grey in his hair—but were it not for that they may have been brothers.

“How is your wife?” inquired the younger of the two. “And your, er”—the hesitation was brief, barely noticeable—“your daughter?” He regarded his companion intently. “I trust she is eager to see this negotiation concluded?” 

“Ah,” replied the elder man, his smile faltering only slightly. “She is indeed, as is her mother. They are in the princess’s chambers even now, preparing.” 

--

“No,” Emma hissed, wrenching herself free from her mother’s grip and ripping the delicate pale-pink dress from her hands. “I will not participate in this farce and you cannot make me!” She flung the dress to the floor and barely restrained herself from jumping up and down upon it like a child. 

“I am your mother,” Snow replied coolly, “and your queen, and so by the power of two separate authorities I can, in fact, make you.” 

Emma’s fists clenched and her nostrils flared. “You’ll have to drug me then,” she snarled, “or tie me up or compel me with magic because there is no way in any of the seven hells that I will accept this willingly.” 

Snow folded her arms across her chest. “We’ll see about that.” 

--

“And your brother?” asked the elder man. “Is he is as keen to be wed as my daughter?” 

“Oh, indeed he is,” said the younger man with a bright smile that hardly appeared false at all. “Rarely has he anticipated anything more eagerly.” 

--

In a single, slick move Killian snatched the dagger from Smee’s belt, spun around and pressed its tip beneath the chin of his erstwhile companion and friend. “How dare you, Smee?” he demanded in a silky hiss. “You know how I feel about this farce of an arrangement. You are the only one who knew, the only one I told of where I meant to go. You betrayed me, and I will see that you suffer for it!” 

“Killian!” Both he and Smee turned to see Nemo in the doorway, scowling at the scene before him. “No murder on your wedding day,” he admonished. “And you might also want to consider wearing pants.” Nemo raised an eyebrow as he surveyed the prince’s naked form. “Best not to put the cart before the horse, as it were, and I imagine the chapel gets rather chilly at this time of year.”

--

“Excellent, excellent.” The elder man clapped his hands together. “So when can we, er, expect the prince to arrive?” 

“I’m sure he’ll be here any moment,” replied the younger as his eyes darted to the southern doors. “And the princess?” 

“Oh yes.” The elder man’s eyes returned to his companion after glancing, ever so briefly, at the eastern doors. “Any moment.” 

--

“Mother, please,” Emma begged. Defiance was getting her nowhere, it was time to employ pathos. She folded her hands together and looked imploringly at Snow. “Would you truly force me into marriage? With a man I’ve never met? Some useless, limp-dicked—” 

“Emma!” 

“—lump of a prince who will hate that I can best him at swordplay and that I ride astride—” pathos, Emma, pathos! “—and who doesn’t love me!” She widened her eyes and allowed them to fill with tears. “You always said I could marry the man I loved, Mama. You promised.” 

--

They exchanged wide and confident smiles and held eye contact perhaps a heartbeat too long before looking away to focus on their respective doorways. 

--

“Nemo, I’m surprised at you.” Killian resisted the urge to cover himself and instead puffed out his chest. “Smee has always been a snivelling rat of a man, but I never would have imagined you might turn on me like this.” 

Nemo fixed him with a deadly I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed look. “It’s not turning on you to want to see you married, lad.” 

“Happily married, perhaps,” retorted Killian. “Otherwise it’s just shackles by another name. You really want to see me chained for life to some faint-hearted, twee little princess, who will while away her time in needlework and—and flower arranging, and never utter a word worth hearing in all her days?” 

“Rather harsh, Killian, when you’ve not even met the girl.” 

“I’ve met more than enough of her type,” Killian sneered. “And I’m not having it. I’m not marrying someone I don’t love.” 

--

Doorways that remained resolutely shut, obliging the men to meet each other’s eyes again. They exchanged another set of smiles, the elder drumming his fingers on the sleeve of his doublet while the younger tapped a rhythmless beat with his toe on the floor.

Minutes passed, marked by the resonant tick of the grandfather clock set back against the wall. 

The elder man cleared his throat. “Lovely weather we’ve been having,” he remarked. 

“Oh yes,” the younger agreed, relieved to have the silence broken. “So sunny.” 

--

“Emma, of course I want to see you wed to someone who loves you!” Snow exclaimed. “And whom you love in return.” She approached her daughter and gently brushed a lock of hair back from her face. “But sweetie, we have introduced you to every eligible man within a hundred miles and you’ve shown no inclination for any of them. And we need this alliance with Windhaven, as you well know.”

Emma huffed and pulled away, turning her back and closing her eyes, wishing she could close her ears as well. Blue eyes gazed at her from behind her eyelids, warm and admiring, and a cocky grin flashed. 

“But that doesn’t mean you won’t find love!” persisted Snow. “I have heard nothing but exemplary reports about Prince Killian. He is said to be intelligent and good humoured. And handsome.” 

“Pah,” scoffed Emma. Blue eyes, roguish smile. Hair that fell across his forehead just so…

“Perhaps, in time, love between you two may grow.” 

Emma shook her head, willing the memories away. “It won’t.” 

“But how can you know, my darling, unless you try?”

--

“Bright sunshine,” expounded the elder man. “Good for, er, the flowers!” 

--

“Killian, love is not always some grand, romantic adventure.” Nemo plucked the silk dressing gown from Smee’s grasp and handed it to Killian, who grudgingly slipped it on, then placed his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Sometimes it’s a slow, sweet thing that grows between life companions. Princess Emma is said to be beautiful and kind, and sharp-witted enough to challenge even you. Surely you could at least give her a chance?” 

Killian swallowed hard and shook his head. Bright laughter rang through his memory and his hand flexed in response, closing on empty air and not the soft gold hair it longed to touch again. “I couldn’t,” he croaked. “It wouldn’t be fair.” To her. Or to her. 

Nemo’s expression hardened. “Well life, as the philosophers say, is rarely fair. You’ll just have to learn to deal with that. And to trust that your brother and I know rather more than you do both of fairness and of love.”

--

“Oh yes, flowers love the sunshine.” The younger man groped about for something more to say, anything he could think of with a horticultural gist. “They love the rain, too, I’m told. Both are good for, er, growing things.” 

--

“How do I know I can’t love him?” Emma choked, turning round again. The tears in her eyes were real now, and threatening to fall. “Because I’ve already met the only man I could possibly love!” 

“They call me Hook,” he said, with far too confident a smirk for a man with a dagger at his throat. 

“Oh?” she inquired sweetly. “And why do they call you that?” 

“I don’t know, lass. Perhaps because I can do this.” 

“What?” gasped Snow. “Who?” 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that!” Emma dashed the tears from her eyes and stomped to her window, glaring out at the thick forest below. “He’s no one you would consider suitable! He’s a bandit I met in the forest.”

In a flash of movement he spun on his heel, hooking his leg around hers as he did and knocking her off-balance. The dagger fell from her grasp as she stumbled and he snatched it from the air, spinning it round to hold it against her throat as his arm caught her firmly round her waist and his eyes met hers.

 “One of that group of men you were travelling with?” cried Snow. 

“Yes.” 

“But you were only with them a few weeks!” 

“It was long enough. Longer than you knew Father before you were wed.” 

“That was diff—” 

“Don’t tell me it was different!” Emma snapped. “I know it was different! But it hardly matters now.” She braced her hands against the windowsill as memories of Hook’s touch ghosted across her skin. “When the palace guards found me they captured him as well and—” her voice broke “—he’s in the dungeons even as we speak, even as you’re forcing me marry someone else when all I want to do is run to him!” 

“Emma, he’s not in the dungeons,” said Snow carefully, coming up behind her daughter to place a hand upon her arm. “All the men who were with you when you were discovered—they all escaped.” 

--

“Very true,” agreed the elder man, solemnly. “Very true. Sunshine and rain both is what you need.”

The clock ticked. 

“Do you get rain?” asked the elder man. “In, er, Windhaven?” 

“Erm. We do, yes,” the younger man replied. “Some.” 

--

“You think because you’re older, because Liam is older, that you know more of love than I?” Killian scoffed. “When have you been in love? When has he?” 

“When have you?” retorted Nemo. 

Her eyes were moss green, sharp and defiant. She glared at him, unflinching, and he found he could not look away.

“What’s your name, lass?” he murmured. 

For the space of a heartbeat he thought she wouldn’t reply, but then she breathed, “Swan. You can call me Swan.”

“Now,” snapped Killian. “Right now, at this very moment, I am in love with the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever known. No princess could hold a bloody candle to her, and—make no mistake on this point, Nemo—I will marry no one else.” 

“Indeed? And where did you meet this paragon of femininity, if I may inquire?”

“She was among the men I joined up with in the forest.” 

--

“Ah!” cried the elder man, his smile widening as the eastern doors swung open. “Here she—oh.” His face fell when a page entered the room, an embarrassed flush in his cheeks. He passed a scroll to the elder man just as, from the southern entrance, another page appeared to hand one to the younger man as well. 

--

Emma spun round to face her mother, eyes glistening with tears but wide with hope. “He’s free?” she whispered. “He got away!” 

“Is this why you’ve been trying to sneak into the dungeons?” asked Snow, with a hint of reluctant amusement in her voice. “Lancelot’s had to triple the guard down there.”

Emma tossed her head but not before her mother caught the pleased hint of a smile. “I told you,” she said. “The man I love. The only one I’ll marry.” 

They met in secret, or tried to—Emma was certain Robin at least must know about their trysts. Mulan surely did, but despite her friend’s frowning stares and thinly-veiled remarks about the foolishness of forming attachments that went beyond those of warm companionship, Emma could not help herself. Hook’s touch lit a fire in her and she craved the flames; every moment she wasn’t with him felt wasted. He seemed to feel the same for he was always snatching her away to steal a kiss behind a tree, always angling to sit beside her around the fire so their fingers might brush, innocently of course, as they passed around the wineskin. 

Snow’s eyes were full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, Emma, truly,” she said. “If we had known earlier, then perhaps… but your father has already made the arrangements with Windhaven—” 

“He can un-make them then!” 

“—to break his promise now would be an act of war.” 

“Arghhh!” Emma shrieked. “Men and their wars!” 

Fair, thought Snow. Aloud she said, “At least your love is free. Take what comfort you can from that.” Cold comfort she knew, but her hands, at present, were tied. 

Emma sniffed, then nodded. “He’s free,” she repeated. “That does actually help. I—I suppose I always knew there was no hope of a future for us.” 

--

The elder man read his missive with a scowl then looked up to find the younger one still reading his, with a similar expression. Each made an effort to smooth the temper from his features, but the elder man’s voice still held an edge when he remarked “It seems she’ll be another few minutes.” 

“He as well,” replied the younger man. 

A beat of uncomfortable silence passed, marked by three ticks of the clock, then the younger man remarked, “We do get rain in Windhaven but of course the most common weather feature is the, well, the wind.” 

“Of course,” said the elder man. 

--

“She was living among a band of brigands in the forest?” said Nemo. “A woman?” 

“She wasn’t the only one,” protested Killian, thinking of Mulan. There had been something different about Swan, though—for all her courage and daring and skill with a sword, there had been hints that she was unaccustomed to such a rough and ready lifestyle. 

“What are those?” she demanded, wrinkling her nose. Killian laughed, wishing he could kiss it. Her nose was adorable when she laughed, even more so when she scowled. 

“Squirrels,” replied Robin, as though it were obvious. “Their meat is tough but flavoursome. We’ll stew them for a few hours and they’ll be grand. But first”—he held out the squirrels, dangling by their tails—“someone needs to skin and gut them.” 

“Skin and—” Swan gulped, her skin gone faintly green. Killian gave her arm a pat, though he’d far rather hug her.  

“Come along, Swan, we’ll do it together,” he said. He’d been on enough camping trips with Liam to know how to prepare a squirrel. She flashed him a grateful smile, missing the knowing smirk on Robin’s face. Killian returned a scowl. 

“Just remember they need to stew for several hours,” Robin said. “And we will be wanting to eat sometime tonight.” 

“Nevertheless,” said Nemo, “not exactly a suitable wife for a prince. You have your duty as the heir to consider.” 

“If Liam would do his bloody duty I wouldn’t be the heir,” grumbled Killian. “If he likes this princess so much he should marry her.” 

“The king is in negotiations with the Queen of Arendelle, as you know perfectly well,” replied Nemo mildly. “A union between them would secure the border between our countries for the first time in two centuries. That is his duty, and his priority. What is yours?” 

--

“Likewise, I would assume,” said the younger man, “that in Misthaven you get quite a lot of, ah, mist?” 

“We do,” agreed the elder man. “From the mountains and from the sea.” 

“A double misting, you might say,” blurted the younger man, who then caught himself in horror. “That is, I meant—” 

The elder man held tight to his composure. “It is quite a lot of mist,” he remarked gruffly. 

The younger man released a slow breath. “It is at that,” he replied. 

--

“Will you come, then, and meet Prince Killian?” asked Snow. “I promise you that if you truly cannot see a chance at happiness with him then I will find a way to have the marriage annulled. But you must promise to give him a genuine chance, Emma.” 

Emma took her mother’s hands and looked in her eyes. “You swear to me that if I truly do not wish to stay married to him I won’t have to?” 

“If you swear to me that you will genuinely try.” 

It wasn’t long before they abandoned the pretence. It was too difficult to maintain amongst such a small group, and the pleasure of being able to touch each other openly, sit snuggled up before the fire and curl together as they slept—this was far greater than the thrill of secrecy. Each night they would bed down as far from the others as they dared and spend long hours exchanging confidences and gentle touches, long, lingering kisses that set the fire raging within Emma and left Hook panting, forehead pressed to hers and eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to contain himself. 

She didn’t want his restraint, all but begged him to abandon it, but he would not be moved. 

“Not on a forest floor,” he murmured, with a dozen men and bloody Mulan ten feet away. One day we will have a bed, love, a large, soft, private one, and all the time in the world to enjoy it together.” His eyes were so soft, his smile tremulous, his chivalry so unexpected from a bandit such as he. “I promise you, my Swan.” 

Her false name in his beloved voice made her heart ache, but she forced herself to return his smile. “Promise?” 

“On my life,” he breathed, pulling her close. “On my life.” 

Emma squeezed her mother’s hands to quell the aching in her chest. Had he known then, as she had, how impossible that promise was? Even as he made it, had he known it could never be kept? 

Somehow she felt certain he had, and that the knowledge had broken his heart. 

She released Snow’s hands and pressed her own against her heart. “All right,” she said. “I swear it.” 

--

“Mist is, I imagine, also good for flowers?” the younger man ventured. “Rather like rain only less, er… rainy.” 

“I don’t believe I ever thought of it like that before,” the elder man remarked. “We do have a lot of flowers in Misthaven but it doesn’t necessarily follow that those two things are related.” 

“It might be an interesting field of, um, scientific inquiry,” said the younger man, looking as though he wished he could stop talking but wasn’t certain how to go about it. “For your… university? You have a university, I believe?” 

“We do,” confirmed the elder man. “I will be sure to inquire about the relationship between mist and flowers when next I meet with its Chancellor. Perhaps you would care to be informed of his conclusions?” 

“Oh, yes,” said the younger man weakly. “That would be fascinating.” 

“I’ll be sure to send his report on to you,” said the elder man. 

--

“Obviously,” Killian growled, “my priority is Windhaven. As it has to be.” 

“As it has to be,” Nemo agreed. 

“But I cannot—there is only so much I have to give, Nemo. My heart is taken; all I can offer a wife is my respect and my honour, and I cannot pretend to more than that.” 

“I greatly doubt any pretence will be necessary,” Nemo observed. “The princess is doing this for duty as well. But I’m confident that you, as many, many others before you, will manage to come to a satisfactory arrangement. You’re both reasonable people, on the whole.” 

Killian held Swan as she slept, his own eyes heavy but unwilling to shut them and sleep away even a moment of his precious time with her. She was tucked against his chest, snoring gently, a bubble of drool just at the corner of her mouth. 

She was beautiful. 

He stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers, tracing the outline of the bone then down her jaw and to the enchanting divot in her chin that he never passed up an opportunity to kiss. He kissed it now and she mumbled something in her sleep, shifting to press closer to him. He tightened his arms. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

He hadn’t meant to say it, knew he shouldn’t say it, wasn’t free to say it. He wasn’t free to feel it either, though, and yet he did. Oh, how he did. 

Her eyes blinked open and she smiled a sleepy smile. “I love you too,” she whispered. 

“Have you been—were you just pretending to be asleep!” he accused, teasing to conceal his aching joy at her confession. 

“Sometimes I pretend,” she said softly, “so that you’ll hold me the way you only do when you think I won’t remember it.” 

He kissed her then, and held her so tightly he feared he might crush her but she merely squeezed him back, her kiss as desperate as his own. He wished he’d never have to let her go.

But he knew, even then, that he did. 

“And what if we can’t?” 

“Can’t what?” Nemo frowned. 

“Come to a satisfactory arrangement. What if after a certain time has passed we find that we despise each other and a life spent together could only bring misery to us both? What then?” 

Nemo sighed. “In that, I must say highly unlikely event, the king and I would find a way to annul the marriage and cancel the contract.” 

Killian looked at him sharply. “You would?” 

“If you were truly miserable then yes, of course we would.” Nemo’s expression softened, into a fondness he rarely allowed himself to show. “Above all else, we love you.” 

Killian drew a deep breath and released it slowly. “Very well then,” he said. “Let’s go meet this princess.” 

--

The eastern doors opened again and both men’s heads swivelled hopefully to face it. Two pairs of broad shoulders slumped in relief and two grateful sighs were exhaled as Princess Emma came through them on her mother’s arm, trailed closely by the sturdy and inescapable figure of Lancelot. The princess took her place behind her father, head held high, though no one observing her could fail to notice her red-rimmed eyes, or the white-knuckled grip of the queen’s hand on her arm. 

Moments later the southern doors swung open to admit Prince Killian, flanked by his brother’s most trusted adviser Captain Nemo and the royal valet William Smee. He stalked into the chamber with no expression on his face but eyes that flashed with frustrated anger—that is until they fell upon the princess. 

Killian froze, and Nemo and Smee stumbled as he came to a dead halt several steps away from where he was meant to go. All eyes in the room turned to him with varying expressions of surprise and annoyance—including Emma’s. Hers blinked and then widened and her lips fell open in a tiny gasp. Blue clashed with green and a silent conversation was held, communicating more in that split second than the two men had in their twenty minutes of stilted discourse.

The clock ticked once, then Killian squared his shoulders and began to walk again, as though he’d never stopped. He took his place behind his brother with eyes still flashing, though with a rather different emotion now. As she observed him, the corners of Emma’s lips twitched. 

No one noticed. 

--

The raid came so quickly even the Merry Men were taken by surprise. One moment they were asleep and the next the Royal Guard were there, dragging them from their bedrolls and disarming them before they had even come fully awake. Rough hands tore a shrieking Swan from Killian’s arms and two more held him fast; though he fought with all his might he could not break free of their grasp. Frantically he kicked at the legs of the man who held him, a stout brute of a fellow who refused to topple but finally loosed his grip enough for Killian to wrench himself free and dart away. The camp was in chaos and he spun round madly in search of Swan, calling for her, and then he heard a sound that turned his blood to ice. 

Swan’s voice, crying his name. 

“Hook!” she screamed and he followed the sound to see her fighting like a hellcat against the clutches of a man with night-dark skin and muscles that themselves had muscles. Desperate fear gripped him and he fought like a feral thing, charging blindly through the melee in pursuit of her. 

“Swan!” he bellowed, but he was too late. The man swung onto a horse with her flung over his shoulder and galloped off, leaving Killian in despair and too distraught to notice as another group of men descended and different hands grabbed hold of him and he was bundled away—too distraught to even feel surprise when he found himself in Windhaven’s royal carriage with Nemo there to greet him wearing a stern frown that masked, for the first time in Killian’s memory, reluctant admiration. 

--

“All right, let’s get this o—er, let us conclude the negotiations,” said the elder man. “Now that we are all, finally, present.” He cast his gaze about the room, making eye contact with all those present, then nodded at the court scribe. 

“We are met here today to conclude negotiations and solemnise the contract of marriage between Princess Emma of Misthaven and Prince Killian of Windhaven,” the scribe intoned, indicating the scroll that lay unrolled upon the council table. “Terms of said contract have been agreed by Their Majesties King David of Misthaven and King Liam of Windhaven.” 

The elder and younger man acknowledged one another with a nod. 

“Said contract has been read,” the scribe continued, “and the terms agreed by both relevant parties and given that there are no objections—” 

“Wait!” interrupted a voice. “I have an objection.” 

All eyes turned to Princess Emma—including Prince Killian’s, his wide with surprise. 

“Emma,” muttered Snow under her breath. 

“I would like the contract to be amended,” declared Emma, ignoring her mother, “to prohibit Prince Killian from eating hedge-onions with every meal.”

“Hedge-onions?” her father choked. 

Emma batted her eyelashes. “I could not dream of entering into a marriage with a man who insisted on constantly eating hedge-onions.” 

Prince Killian blinked, then his lip twitched as he replied. “Hedge-onions are very healthful, as everyone knows.” 

“They smell hideous.” 

“The smell is easily neutralised by chewing parsley.” 

“Hmph,” said Emma, tossing her hair. “That’s what someone who eats hedge-onions would think.” 

The rapt attention of the room focused again on Killian. The moment stretched (tick, tick) and then he gave a nod. “Very well,” he conceded. “No hedge-onions.” 

“Erm, good,” said King David, as the scribe hastily amended the contract. “Now, if we might—” 

“Provided, that is, that Princess Emma agrees that should her feet ever become cold in the night she will put on a pair of bloody socks or warm them by the fire, and not on another person’s bare skin.” 

“What?” bellowed David as Liam shot his brother a dagger glare. 

“What?” echoed Killian, blinking innocently. “I’m sensitive to cold, you see, and I don’t think I could stand to be married to someone who insisted on using me as her own personal stove.” 

Princess Emma muttered something under her breath. It was hard to make out the words, but they sounded very much like sensitive to cold, my ass. 

Aloud she said, “Fine. I’ll wear socks. To bed, because that’s so sex—” 

“Emma!” Snow hissed, and across the room Killian’s eyes danced with mirth. 

“If there are no further objections,” huffed David, as the scribe frantically attempted to translate ‘no cold feet in bed’ into proper royal legalese, “perhaps we might sign this damn—er this contract.” 

“No objections,” said Killian. 

“No objections,” echoed Emma. 

David gave them each a stern look then accepted a pen from the scribe and signed his name at the bottom of the contract with a flourish. The scribe passed the pen to Liam, who then did the same. 

“The contract of marriage is now official,” intoned the scribe, “and the nuptials may proceed as planned. I believe the wedding is to be held in the palace chapel in, er, ten minutes’ time.” 

“That’s correct,” David confirmed, but before he could suggest they all adjourn thereto and take their places, Killian’s voice piped up again. 

“There’s just one thing I’d like to do before the wedding, if I may,” he said. David turned and regarded his future son-in-law with trepidation. He dearly hoped there would be no more talk of nighttime activities or bare skin. 

“What is it?” he asked warily. 

“Only this.” 

Killian shrugged Nemo’s hand from where it rested on his shoulder and strode across the room. Emma pulled free from her mother’s grip and darted forward to meet him halfway. They near-collided in a tangle of limbs as he caught her up tight in his arms and she clutched at the lapels of his coat to pull his lips to hers. 

Varying degrees of concern, confusion, alarm and amusement played across the faces of those who observed as the affianced couple shared a fiery kiss that lasted for many, many ticks of the grandfather clock. When at last they broke apart it was only to rest their foreheads together and exchange wide and glorious smiles. 

“Hook,” Emma breathed. 

Killian brushed her nose with his. “Swan.” 

“How could it be you?” she demanded. 

“How could it be you?” he countered. 

“I don’t know,” she laughed. “I don’t care. Let’s get married. Now, before they change their minds.” 

The elder man and the younger exchanged identical pained expressions. 

“Aye, lass,” murmured Killian in his bride’s ear. “Good call.” 

“Mmm,” replied Emma. “And then once that is done, I do believe someone owes me all the time in the world with him and a large, soft, private bed.” 

Killian laughed and kissed her again, then offered her his arm. “Lead the way, my love,” he said. 

—

@thisonesatellite​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @katie-dub​ @kmomof4​ @mariakov81​ @stahlop​ @courtorderedcake​ @captain-emmajones​ @shireness-says​ @killianjones-twopointoh​​ @optomisticgirl​ @spartanguard​ @teamhook​

[yannowhatigiveup]

My One And Only - Chapter 16

Previous | Next | Master List

Chapter 16! When I have new chapters, I post it on Wattpad first then here then on AO3 as fast as I can. I watched Gang of Secrets yesterday, I fangirled greatly.

Adrien hoped that Ladybug wasn't too injured, she's far too valuable and important to be lost, especially at the beginning of, what looks like, Hawkmoth's new rise of power.

"Something tells me things are about to get a lot more serious from here on out"

————————————————————

"-ngel, Angel it's time to wake up" Marinette's eyes fluttered open at the sound of Damian's soft voice. She lifted her head off of his chest and sat up next to him, the green-eyed boy nuzzled her neck much like a cat. "Sorry for waking you but I do not wish to have your sleep schedule destroyed"

The girl giggled. "Kinda ironic that the true user of the miraculous of destruction doesn't want to have my sleep schedule destroyed" Then she shrugged. "Well I suppose you can't destroy something that's already destroyed"

"You should really get a full 8-hour sleep at least once a week" Damian grumbled as Marinette got up from the bed.

"Tell that to my cup of depresso- I mean espresso" she jokingly replied.

"In all seriousness, though" the green-eyed boy got up to sit in one of the armchairs in his hotel room. "How will you create a new team of heroes and who will you choose to uphold this responsibility?"

"Simple," she took a sip from her coffee, leaning on the wall. "I'll give each new member a miraculous, the first to join should be Adrien Agreste"

"The model?"

"Yep" the bluenette replied, popping the 'p'. "Believe it or not he was Chat Noir"

Damian raised one of his eyebrows. "They do seem quite different at first glance"

"I know right! Anyway, like I said, he was Chat Noir and he admitted to believing he was not the true owner of the miraculous. Though he might not think things through all the time, he's willing to listen and he's a good fighter"

"Admitting to that must have taken a lot of courage. He is attentive and skilled in combat" the black-haired boy hummed. "He sounds like an adequate addition to the team you are forming"

"You're just as important in this team as I am, Dami" Marinette reminded before putting a finger on her chin and thinking thoughtfully. "I was thinking maybe giving him the dog miraculous would work best"

Plagg scoffed. "The kid's gonna go from a cat to a dog eh? I know he doesn't make the wise decisions all the time but-"

Marinette rolled her eyes and continued as if Plagg hadn't said anything. "What's the power of the Dog miraculous, Tikki?"

"The Dog miraculous has the power of Location, it's ability is to retrieve and identify where any object or person is. The ability can locate them, hold them in place, bring them to the holder and/or rescue them possible captivity" Tikki stated, floating over to smack Plagg on the back of his head.

Marinette mumbled incoherently before humming thoughtfully. "I also think we should bring Alya into the team"

"Césaire? I understand she is your reporter now but what other significance does she have?" Damian questioned, trying not to offend his girlfriend's best friend.

"She's the first one other than Chat and I to join the heroes, she was Rena Rouge"

"Ah I see so you want to bring Rena Rouge back?"

The bluenette nodded as the green-eyed boy stood up from where he was sitting.

"Wanna come with me to get the miracle box?"

"Sure just... give me a minute" Marinette tilted her head in confusion as Damian went towards one of his cases and pulled, what looked like, a training mannequin. She watched as he then drew his katana and slashed at the poor mannequin, it was obliterated. The bluenette winced when the pieces hit the floor while Plagg barked a laugh.

"Now that's destruction" The black kwami then flew up to the boy and rested on his head. "Good job, kid"

Marinette giggled as he rolled his eyes and put his katana back. "In all honesty, I thought you were going to do a lot more damage in the battle. I'm surprised you're not that angry"

"Oh I am" Damian replied calmly. "Enormously so, I have just merely bottled my anger. If even the smallest ounce of it were to escape then, well, I don't think Hawkmoth would like a powerful Akuma whose only goal is to see him suffer"

The bluenette walked up to the angry vigilante, wrapped both of her arms on his left and rested her head on his shoulder. "No I don't think he would" she giggled as Damian kissed her temple. "You can use all that pent up anger in training later. For now, let's go get the miracle box"

"Lead the way, Angel"

~~~

The couple were on their way when Marinette heard a familiar voice, one that wasn't a friendly voice. She quickly pulled Damian and herself out of sight, leaning flat against the wall to safely ease drop.

"Is it true that you know the world-renowned chef Wang Cheng?" An unidentifiable voice asked.

"Yep! He actually gave me Master Class cooking sessions, that's how I've become an amazing chef myself!" The others awed at Lila's lies, Marinette felt her anger bubble, no one takes her Great Uncle's success and uses it for their own personal gain. "Actually, I was the one who helped him create his recipe for his signature dish"

"Oh my gosh, really?!"

"Yeah! I didn't help that much, he did most of the work" Lila's voice faded into the distance, Marinette was grateful that she didn't have to listen to the brunette anymore but she was also worried, 'How many lives is she willing to ruin just for popularity?'

The bluenette turned to glance at her boyfriend, only to be met with a visibly angry expression still looking at where they last saw the brunette. Marinette opened her mouth to start conversation but Damian beat her to it.

"Who does she think she is? Disrespecting Cheng Shifu in that manner" The green-eyed boy snarled. Marinette blinked in surprise.

"You know Cheng Shifu?"

Damian then looked at her, almost offendedly. "Of course! He is not just a chef, Cheng Shifu is an artist. We went to a grand opening of one of his five-star restaurants, arguably the place I was served the most exquisite food throughout my entire existence" He placed a finger on his chin in thought. "The best dish I was served had to be his signature recipe, Celestial Soup. Though, I think the name has changed to Marine-"

He paused and looked at his girlfriend's smug face, he presumed his face appeared to have an epiphany. This thought was confirmed when Marinette's giggles turned into proper laughter.

"No..."

"Yes" she giggled, resting her forehead on his shoulder. "He's my maternal great-uncle"

"My god, your mother must be an excellent cook then"

"Yep! She's the best! Now come on, to my house!" Marinette dragged Damian towards the bakery and use her keys to open the front door. His eyes diverted to a wrapped package of cupcakes. "Oh that's for Nadja, she'll come by to pick it up in a few minutes" She then gestured for him to follow her. They both went up through the trapdoor and to Marinette's room.

Damian knew that his angel's favourite colour was pink so he presumed her room was drowned in said colour, when he entered he was greeted by the splash of rose as expected but he was also greeted with many rolls of fabric. It wasn't a messy mess per se, more of an organized and pretty one. It correlated with Marinette quite well in his opinion. The green-eyed boy sat on the girl's chaise as she brought a spotted box out of one of her drawers. Box in hand, Marinette sat next to Damian and pressed a button, opening one of the cabinets and out of the cabinet appeared a new kwami.

"Hello, Great Guardian" The kwami began. "Do you need my help?"

"Hello Barkk, there's really no need to address me so formally" Marinette replied to Barkk, fidgeting her fingers. "And yes, I believe it's time for you to get a permanent holder"

"Really? Great! But what happened for you to make this decision?" The kwami noticed how Marinette flinched at the question and flew closer. The kwami gasped. "Nooroo's energy... did Hawkmoth do something?"

"He did" The sudden appearance of Damian's sharp voice made the Kwami rise slightly.

"Who-"

"Lover-boy over here is my true chosen, Barkk" Plagg and Tikki appeared through the floor after eating downstairs.

"Hmm, he does seem to have your energy"

"Yes Barkk, Damian is the true user of the Black Cat miraculous. He's also my boyfriend" Marinette's cheeks were dusted with the lightest shade of pink, they grew deeper in colour as Damian pressed his lips against her skin. "We were thinking of having Adrien use your miraculous and Alya using Trixx's miraculous" The bluenette stated, half-glaring at the green-eyed boy for getting her flustered.

"I think he'll be a great fit for the Dog miraculous" Barkk replied, happy to have a new permanent holder.

"Alright!" Marinette took the collar necklace from the compartment, followed by the necklace. The bluenette turned to face Damian, the collar necklace in her palm. "You can give Adrien his new miraculous, I'll go find Alya and we meet at the Eiffel Tower. It'll save time"

"But shouldn't you give the miraculous? Considering you are the guardian after all" he questioned.

The bluenette shook her head. "Its a good way to get to know each other because, well, you'll technically be my partner meaning that you're one of the leaders of this new team. You need to know who you're working with and you need to trust them to save your life, if it were to come to that"

Damian slowly nodded, reaching for the collar necklace. "Meet you at the Eiffel Tower then"

~~~

A certain blonde was strolling down an empty street in Paris, in sun was setting and it was deathly quiet. Luckily, his schedule was cleared for the whole day. However, had no idea how to spend his last few hours of freedom. Usually he would go out as Chat Noir and jump from rooftop to rooftop. But he wasn't Chat anymore. Adrien winced at the reminder of the events that occurred early that day, he felt so useless. Thank god for Noir. 'That is his name right? He's incredibly attractive, the hero has only showed up once and he's giving me a run for my money' Adrien couldn't help the flash of red that appeared on his face before pushing it down completely. 'If Kagami talked to me the way he normally sounds then...'

His train of thoughts stopped when a figure landed in front of him. His first instinct was to get into a protective stance, which he did, but he recognised the figure as Noir, the mysterious hero that saved Ladybug earlier, so he dropped his stance.

"Hi Noir, what can I do for you?" Adrien questioned trying to act poised when he knew the only suave one here was Noir himself. He was totally not fanboying over the new hero, no way.

"Adrien Agreste" The black cat-themed hero began. "I'm sure you are aware of the... predicament that occurred earlier today, considering the fact that you were a witness of the whole ordeal"

"Yeah..." Adrien tried to look at anything other than Noir, but he sighed as he failed.

"Knowing that Hawkmoth has had an increase in power, Ladybug and I have come to the joint decision to have other permanent holders and form a team of superheroes." Noir looked at the blonde straight in the eye.

"And you want me to be a part of the team?" The blonde's eyes widened as Noir nodded.

"You were Ladybug's first choice"

"I- really?" Adrien stuttered out in disbelief, 'She still wants me to have a miraculous? Even though I couldn't do anything today?'

"You were Chat Noir, my predecessor, were you not? I have a lot to live up to" Though Adrien couldn't see most of the hero's face, he could see his eyes and the encouragement that shone through. "Do you wish to help us?"

"Absolutely" the blonde wasted no time in confirming.

Noir nodded and pulled out a box. "Adrien Agreste, this is the dog miraculous of Location. Ladybug has entrusted me to entrust this miraculous to you, you shall use it for the greater good. Can we trust you?"

Adrien carefully took the box and nodded with determination. He opened the box and, similarly with Plagg, a small peach-colored glowing orb spun around him. When the light died down, a dog kwami was facing him. "Hello, Adrien. My name is Barkk. To transform say: 'Barkk, to the rescue!'" He out the collar around his neck.

"Barkk, to the rescue!" The blonde was engulfed in peach-colored light, leaving a new superhero when it died down. Adrien now stood in a brown suit with a white belly reaching up to his neck, white boots, white gloves, brown floppy dog ears that contrasted well with his blonde hair. He also had a short, brown, metallic tail that which on command, would appear in his hand as a boomerang-shaped weapon. The blonde found out that it could be pulled apart into two separate rods and that with a flick of the wrist, the boomerang could snap into place like a baton, similar with his staff as Chat Noir. "Pawsome!"

Noir nodded. "It would be best if we head to the Eiffel Tower as soon as possible, Ladybug and Rena Rouge are probably waiting for us" The cat-themed hero then used his staff to propel himself in the direction of the city's landmark, Adrien followed closely, his new powers allowed him to jump like Rena. Sure enough, both heroes arrived on the building where two heroine's were waiting.

"I was wondering when you were going to get here" Ladybug's voice rang out, stepping out from the shadows. Noir had transformed and left before Ladybug had but now he wished he was there to see it.

The spotted heroine's suit had changed greatly. The top part of her suit had changed to black, running down her arms fading to the familiar red. The bottom part of her suit remained the same red with black spots but she had matte-black along the bottom part of her legs, mimicking boots. The long ribbons in her hair remained the same except they faded to black at the tips. Noir looked away to stop his cheeks from getting any redder than they already were.

"Something wrong, Minou?" She asked teasingly.

"Tt, of course not"

Ladybug giggled while Rena and the dog-themed hero exchanged knowing glances. The spotted heroine turned to Adrien and gestured for him to introduce himself.

"Oh, I'm Le Chien"

"Well, Le Chien, Rena, Noir, we have some training we need to do"

~~~

By the end of their patrol and training session, Le Chien was exhausted. He bid the other heroes farewell and detransformed. Giving Barkk a sugar biscuit, which honestly smelt a lot better than Camember, Adrien ran down the Seine, hoping to meet up with two people in particular. Said figures appeared in the distance and when he was closer enough, Adrien pushed himself in between the two and placed one arm over each shoulder.

"Hey you two, what's up?" Adrien asked.

"We just wanted to watch the sunset" Kagami answered, "Right Luka?"

"Yes, the sky is very beautiful at sunset" The guitarist answered. Suddenly all three of their phones chimed. "Chloe's inviting us for a sleepover at the hotel"

"Did she say who would be there?" The bluenette asked.

"She invited us, Alya, Nino couldn't make it, Marinette and... Damian? Do you know who that is?" Luka looked between the blonde and the bluenette.

"No, never heard the name before" Adrien's oblivious self replied.

Kagami hummed, both boys looked at her in confusion. "You'll find out who he is later and before you ask, I know who he is. Now let's go get the things necessary for this sleepover"

~~~

When the trio arrived at Chloe's door, they were greeted by both the blonde herself and Alya.

"Hi Chloe, Hi Alya" Luka greeted the two.

"Just come on in already, the movie's about to start!" Chloe walked away from the door to sit on a space on her sofa out of the current view of the two bluenettes and blonde.

"What movie are we watching?" Kagami asked, entering the room first.

"Une Petite Frayeur, it was premiered just last week" Alya replied, "I don't know what the genre is yet, Chloe is refusing to tell" The brunette with glasses led them to the sofa, the coffee table decked out in snacks.

"Please don't tell me it's a horror movie" a soft voice whined.

"Oh, hi Marinette! We-" Adrien stopped mid sentence when he noticed Marinette sitting next to an unfamiliar figure. He walked up to the both of them and when he got close enough, he started spluttering. After a good minute, he managed to say words. "This man isn't doing anything yet he's a better model than me! You are waytoo attractive for your own good. Y-you're illegally attractive! I'm gonna have to take your good-looking license away"

Adrien held out his hand much like a police officer, one of Damian's eye brows shot up in amusement while Marinette giggled at the display. The bluenette looked Adrien in the eye, wrapped her arms around her boyfriend. "No" she deadpanned.

"Adrien, Luka, Kagami" Marinette got the other two's attention. "This is Damian, my boyfriend"

"Pleasure to finally meet you, Damian" Kagami held out her hand which the green-eyed boy took.

"Likewise"

"Wait you two know each other?" Adrien asked, his mind thinking of many different things at once.

"That explain's why Melody's music has changed"

"Alright enough chit-chat, let's watch the movie already!" Chloe cut in through the conversation.

"What genre is it?" Marinette timidly asked.

Chloe looked straight into the bluenette's eyes and smirked. "Horror"

~~~

Luckily the film wasn't that scary, well actually it was but the teens were busy arguing about how stupid and unrealistic the plot was.

"The murderer manages to get from point A to point B going at legit 2 kilometers per hour before the main protagonist, who just so happens to be sprinting, and they're insisting that they're human?!"

"Now you understand my frustration!"

"Well... he could've been running off-camera...?!"

"Well that wasn't implied!"

The rest of the sleepover was relatively quiet, at around midnight most of them had fallen asleep. If Alya, who were awake, managed to get a picture of Marinette cuddled in Damian's arms while they were asleep, the couple wouldn't know.

All but Chloe left in the morning after breakfast, Kitty Section would be practicing on the Liberty and Kagami came to watch. Alya would be on a date with Nino and Chloe was going to spend time with her parents, leaving Damian and Marinette free for the day. They decided just to spend the rest of their free time at Marinette's house, she had some commissions she needed to finish and Damian wanted to paint on her balcony.

When Marinette went up to her balcony through her trapdoor, she saw Damian sitting on the floor with some watercolour paint next to him. The bluenette had never been able to master using watercolours but she loved the way the paint looked. Peering over his shoulder, Marinette saw a realistic piece of the Notre Dame Cathedral and the air nearly escaped her, it was incredibly detailed. From the piece of artwork itself, the bluenette envisioned many pieces she could create and rushed to her sketchbook so her ideas could be on paper.

In the end, Damian gave the artwork to her so she could get inspiration whenever she wanted. He kissed her goodbye, since she had school the next day, and went back to the hotel.

~~~

"Marinette! You're going to be late!" Tikki's voice echoed in the bluenette's ears.

"Oh! Thanks Tikki!" Marinette shot out of bed, got changed, grabbed a croissant and rushed out the bakery, eating the croissant on her way. Alya was there waiting as usual.

"Hey girl!" The reporter called out after noticing her best friend, the bluenette waved back.

"Hey Alya!"

"Wow, this is probably the first time you've been early in a long time!" Marinette huffed while they both went to their lockers.

They found the room empty when the two arrived, making it easier to converse. As Alya was about to mention the photo she took of Marinette and the green-eyed boy, the bluenette winced, clutching her chest. The reporter rushed to her best friend's side but the blue-eyed girl ran to the bathroom, Alya followed not far behind. When the girl entered, she found Marinette in front of the sink, double-over with tears of pain threatening to spill. Not knowing what else to do, Alya went over to inspect where Marinette's hand was clutching, presuming that was the source of her pain. It was in the space of her curves, 'Isn't that the...' Alya gasped and looked at Marinette. It was so obvious, why hadn't she seen it sooner?

"Marinette?"

The bluenette looked at her best friend with a look that told her to continue.

.

.

.

"...You're Ladybug, aren't you?"

———

Taglist: @little-bluestar,@miracleofadisaster,@frieddonutsweets,@jjmjjktth,@genderfluidmoma,@starlit-dreaming,@icerosecrystal,@lolieg,@kashlyn,@mochegato,@eggadoodle,@walkingthroughonautopilot,@toodaloo-kangaroo,@lady-bee-fechin

[calumxkisses]

The One That Got Away | c.h.

pairing: calum hood x reader

genre: angst (again)

summary: part two of ‘Take My Breath Away’.

a/n: hello everyone! here I am with part two! I’m going through a lot lately, my mental health is not the best and writing an angst sequel seemed to be the best choice. I’m sorry, I promise I’ll write some fluff next! 

song for this part: the one that got away

♡♡♡ 

Smiling faces and dancing bodies were moving all around you, everything seemed to move too fast and too slow at the same time, making your head spin even more. Your breathing was getting more and more heavy and the tears flooded your eyes, to the point that you were seeing everything blurry.

“Take my hand.” Someone whispered close to you, inviting you to grab their hand. You didn’t recognize the voice but it was the only thing that seemed to be able to save you from that situation, so you grabbed it and, trying not to collide with the bodies in the crowd, you followed the body of the one who could only be an angel.

The evening wind hit your face as soon as you stepped outside, causing you to feel shivering all over your body and you cursed yourself for not wearing something heavier and more suitable for such a cold night. 

“Are you feeling better?” The voice spoke again. With all that confusion you didn't even have time to see who helped you. So you looked up and a pair of big green eyes was staring at you intently, with a hint of concern hidden behind the irises. His black hair was now messy and several tufts kept falling on his face, soon pulled back by his hand.

“Ashton, I-” Words made it hard to get out of your mouth, not that you had much to say. A second before you were dancing with Sierra, a taste of tequila in your mouth and a hint of a smile on your lips, and the next second Calum was on his knees, with a ring in his hand and a broken heart just a few steps away from him.

“Sierra went to grab some water. I didn't know anything, I swear, he didn’t tell us anything.” He spoke quickly, each word accompanied by a shorter sigh. Panic took possession of his every single cell, and the worry in his eyes was increasing by the second.

Calum had made a marriage proposal. He had looked for a ring for her, had asked her father's hand and dropped to one knee, on his birthday, to propose.

He loved her, everyone knew that, but you never expected his intentions to be so serious. You never imagined someone else would be standing in front of him, ready to scream 'Yes!' and to hug what you considered your soul mate.

On the other hand you should have expected it. Calum had confessed to you his intentions, or at least tried, a few months ago, before she interrupted you. You were lucky to have had the chance to talk to him, a fortune that had become less and less present after Crystal and Michael's wedding.

Not because you walked away, your heart was broken but it was still beating hard for the boy, and you needed to have him by your side, but because he didn't reciprocate that need. He no longer had the need to share his life with you, because it was now she who controlled how much he drank at parties, who consoled him during the darkest nights and who made him tea on the coldest afternoons.

“How’s she doing?” You heard Sierra ask Ashton, and only then you realized that you were lost in your thoughts.

“He proposed to her.” It was the only thing you managed to say, even though thousands of thoughts continued to float in your mind.

“I’m so sorry.” Sierra simply said, her hand on your shaking arm and her eyes carefully watching you, ready to hold you as soon as you collapsed.

But you didn’t collapse, not at that moment at least. Seconds earlier you were on the verge of a panic attack, with a broken heart and a mix of emotions that gave you a headache. Now, however, you no longer felt anything. 

Sure, a sense of sadness accompanied your every single breath, but you didn't feel anything so strong anymore.

What was left to do? By now you had lost everything.

Friday was no longer your movie night. You no longer spent nights with him star gazing after too many drinks. You no longer had to imagine a scenario in your head where you confessed your love to him - because it no longer needed. Calum was no longer yours.

Had him ever been? Once you would have said yes, you would have sworn that that bound you two had was too unique and strong to be experienced by anyone else. But looking back, in the middle of the night of that January 25th, the truth seemed to make its way through all those lies you had always convinced yourself: Calum and you had a good relationship, useless to deny it, but he didn't feel the same. He didn't feel butterflies in his stomach when he heard you laugh, he didn't smile at the sight of your smile and he had found someone who probably understood a little more about astrology.

"Sweetheart.." Ashton whispered, too worried about the thoughts you were getting lost in. He knew about the bad places your mind went and he knew very well that his best friend, no matter how hard he tried, was the only one who could come and get you back.

"I'm fine." You simply said, because you felt better, but you didn't know if the worst was over or if a tornado was preparing to overwhelm you.

"You don't have to lie, you can be honest with us. We are your friends, we are here to help you." Sierra looked at you carefully as she whispered words of comfort, ready to pick up your pieces if needed. Her hand was soft on your face as she tried to bring a few strands of hair behind your ears so that she could read your eyes.

"It was unexpected and I don't want to lie and say that I'm happy, but I'm fine." You kept convincing yourself. But a little voice, deep in your head, kept repeating Calum's words and you were sure that, shortly thereafter, you would explode. 

Maybe you weren't fine, the complete absence of emotion was wrong and you knew something was going to happen. A desperate cry, a furious scream, a leap into the freezing hotel pool, whatever reaction was preparing your body had to be hidden from your friends. You were in pain, sure, and you were going to suffer even more in the days to come, but they didn't have to miss such a happy moment just because you fell in love with the wrong guy.

Ashton smiled trying to convince himself of the words that had just come out of your mouth, but he didn't believe you and even Sienna didn't seem to have bought your lie.

But they knew, deep in their hearts, that pushing you to talk about it wouldn't do you any good. 

A deep sigh escaped Sierra's lips and, giving you a light pat on the back, she gestured for the door. "Do you want to go back in? It's cold out here and everyone is probably wondering what happened to you." Her words came gently out of her mouth, too worried that a harder tone would break you.

"I think I'll stay out here a little longer. Thanks for everything, I love you." You whispered, sitting on the ground and leaning your back against the wall.

Ashton gave you a kiss on the head before looking at you one last time to make sure you were okay. Sierra did the same before going back inside, followed by the black-haired boy.

Being alone was certainly not the best idea and you certainly would have preferred to have another shot of tequila dancing to some song you didn't know the name of, but you needed to breathe, to take a moment for yourself.

What will you do now? Certainly your plans didn't include Calum before, but they seemed to belong to a different you now. To a carefree, happy you, ready to take on the world. 

But now it all seemed so different, a single moment made you a different person, with an uncertain future that certainly couldn't be in Los Angeles anymore. Your friends were here, and so was your life, but you couldn't stand and watch someone else be happy next to Calum.

For a brief moment, you blamed yourself for everything. It was your fault that you hadn't acted, but it wasn't the time to continue digging your own grave.

"What are you doing here, doll?" He whispered and he didn't need to see your face to know that something was wrong.

This was one of your favorite things about him: he could read you better than anyone else. You didn't need to talk to know what you were going through and often he knew what you were feeling before you even knew it. 

Like that time when Michael jokingly made a comment about how you were dressed to go to a party. You were very proud of the choice of your outfit and you were convinced that those words didn't hurt you, but Calum knew that your big heart was paying attention to everything and he ended up spending the rest of the night telling you that you were beautiful, reminding you that especially when you lingered looking at the other girls' dresses.

Quickly you ran a hand under your eyes trying to eliminate any possible trace left by your tears before answering him with a lie.

"I'm just getting some air, that's all." You prayed that Calum would believe the lie and go back inside so he wouldn't make the situation worse.

"Then I'll keep you company." And there was no way to stop him. In the blink of an eye, Calum was sitting next to you, with his knees bent and his arms resting on them and the jacket he had been wearing divinely a few minutes before was now resting on your shoulders, protecting you from the cold.

"Thanks." you whispered without even looking into his eyes, you didn’t have the courage to show him all your vulnerability.

Calum noticed, as he had noticed your absence as soon as he got up after the proposal. It had seemed odd not seeing you again and seeing Ashton and Sierra running out with you, but he wasn't surprised. 

He knew that something was wrong, he realized how your eyes didn’t shine anymore and how you no longer smiled in his presence. And he missed it. He missed laughing with you, going on a walk with you through the crowded streets, he missed seeing you busy cooking his favorite dishes, and he missed seeing you cry for movies. He missed you.

He knew that he had neglected you, that he had abandoned you, he had realized that he had locked himself in his little bubble of love and left you to suffer outside, watching his perfect world as yours collapsed.

He couldn't understand how things ended, he didn't want to admit his mistakes because then it would all be real, the crack in your friendship would become too big and definitive and he didn't want it.

There was no longer the couple that everyone expected to see drunk together, there was no longer the chemistry that had distinguished you for years and Calum knew you were sad, he had noticed, but he didn't know why and this was hurting him, not because you didn't open up to him, but because he hadn't been able to understand for himself what was happening to you. He read you like a book, as always, but he didn't understand the words he read, not anymore.

"What is going on?" He whispered and mentally cursed himself for asking. He shouldn't have asked, he should have understood.

And for the first time, you felt you had to tell him. By now he had made the proposal, he couldn't go back, but you knew you had to tell him.

For yourself, because you would have removed a huge weight from your heart and for what your friendship had been, based on mutual trust.

And for the first time in your life you used all your courage, a courage you didn't even use to defend your friend from the bully in second grade, and you opened your mouth.

“I love you.” You simply said, knowing of the enormous act of selfishness you were committing. He was having a nice night and you just ruined it with your confession. The guilt made its way into your body, but it was too late now.

Calum had heard loud and clear and the words kept repeating themselves in his mind. He must have known that from the way you had acted when he told you about his girlfriend, when you stared at her from afar at parties and from the way you left at Michael's wedding.

“I love you but you love her.” You repeated. The words came out by themselves, he didn't answer and the silence worsened your mood. It was the only thing you were able to say. 

Calum didn't know what to answer. He felt great affection for you, but love? Love was something else, you taught him that. Love was what he felt for the girl who was waiting for him inside, with a ring on her finger and tears of joy in her eyes.

Calum didn't know what to say. No words would have been adequate, no words would have comforted you but a lie, but he had always told you the truth and he wanted to keep doing it.

"I'm sorry."

"Everyone keeps repeating it, you know?"

"I'm sorry because I care about you but not like you care about me and I don't want to break your heart." And he believed what he said. He loved you, he was ready to face the whole world for you, he would climb the steepest mountain to see you happy and he would break the leg of anyone who hurt you. But he didn't love you as you deserved, he didn't love you as you loved him.

"I know, Calum, that's okay. I don't want to lie to you and say I'm fine, but maybe one day I'll be better. I see how she makes you happy, I see that you love her and I'm happy that your heart is able to feel love. It'll be okay. "

You didn't know if those words were reassuring Calum or you, but you had to convince yourself. You had to believe it was going to be okay, that it was just another broken heart, that Calum wasn't your soul mate. It hurt to know he wasn't yours forever, but it would be okay.

"I don't want to say anything cliche but I want to tell you that you will find someone too. You will love someone more than you love me now. There will be someone who will know how much sugar you like in your coffee, what are your favorite books and that will bring you flowers when you are sad... it won't be me, but it will make you happy just the same. And I will be there, you know? Ready to accompany you to the altar if necessary. I will always be by your side. I know we are no longer as close as before, I'm sorry, but I'll always be there for you, okay?” 

It hurt to hear that, but Calum was right. There would have been someone else for you, but it wouldn't have been him. And it was enough for that night. 

Calum was trying to make you feel better, to sweeten your broken heart, not to make you lose the same hopes he had lost for so long. And you were grateful, deeply grateful, but the pain in your chest was returning and you knew it was going to stay there for a while, too long to be comforted by the very person whose party kept going behind the wall you were leaning on. 

"That's the problem, it won't be you. It will seem stupid, but I always thought we would end up together, in my head it was all planned: sooner or later it would happen, you would confess your feelings to me in some place of ours, like in the park downstairs on a summer evening, or after an adrenaline-filled concert or under a starry sky, at the party of someone we don't know. It was all so simple, wasn't it? I was so convinced you would be my one, that I didn't pay attention to what was really going on. And then you fell in love, but not with me. You opened your heart, but not to mine.“ 

In the distance, a song was playing. You didn't recognize the song, not even the singer, but you were sure it was a sad song and a little wry laugh came from your lips. What a coincidence, you thought. Someone else has suffered as much as you and has found themselves writing your emotions on a paper, accompanied by a sad melody and it was playing now, now that you were going through the same. 

You took a deep breath and continued. 

“And I want to scream at you, tell myself that it's your fault... but it's not. What is your fault? None, you fell in love, and it's beautiful. Feelings are not commanded, we cannot decide who to love Calum. You have not decided to love her as I have not chosen to fall in love with you. It happened, though, and that's okay." 

Calum kept silent, your words repeated in the silence of that cold night but no words seemed enough. What should he have answered you? You were right. He hadn't chosen to fall in love with her, otherwise he would have chosen you. The only one capable of always loving him, in joy and pain, in health and in sickness. And he had imagined where to confess his love, he had thought of the ideal place in which to express his feelings, but not you.

There were too many words pending, too many unspoken confessions and too many feelings at stake. You wanted to tell him how happy it made you to have him around, how you loved the way he paid attention to details, how he made you feel loved, accepted, appreciated. And how you loved the way he ran his hand through his curls, the way he cared if his old neighbor had enough sugar and the way he brought you melted ice cream, because he'd driven all over town to find your favorite flavor, ending up getting lost in an unknown street.

There were too many things you had to tell him, things that perhaps he deserved to know. But you couldn't do it, not anymore. Your selfish moment had to stop, because it wasn't right to ruin that special night, you had done it enough already.

"I think I'm going home, I'm sorry but I need it. I wish you happiness Calum, really." You said getting up and wiping the dirt off your dress. Calum sat there, his gaze fixed on you. His mouth opened for a moment, as if to say something, but then closed immediately.

"I know and I know I won't see you for a while. If you don't come to the wedding I'll understand, but I'd love you to come. You're still my best friend, you know, right?" In that instant, Calum felt something in his chest, a pain he hadn't felt in a while. He knew how everything would go and he didn't want to lose you. He loved you, but he knew things were going to be different now.

"You are still my best friend, Calum and I love you, even if you are a loser." You said with a smile on your lips, but one tear escaped your eyes, and another, and before you knew it, you started crying.

For the first time, Calum didn’t hold you. He didn’t stand up and whispered sweet words to you as tears flooded your face. There was nothing to do this time, he couldn't help you and there was nothing that made him suffer more than knowing that he would no longer be the one who would go through everything with you. 

Would you have remained friends? Probably, but everything was different now and nothing would be the same as before, like when you read each other’s mind, like when you spent whole afternoons cuddling Duke and listening to old songs.

"Don't be a stranger, okay?" He whispered looking into your eyes and a tear also fell on his face. He wiped it with his hand quickly so you wouldn't see how he was suffering too, he didn't want to make it more difficult, but you noticed it and your heart tightened a little. After all, he cared and you knew he always would.

"Okay." You reached down to hug him one last time, for a few more minutes. He returned the gesture, holding you tightly.

And for the last time, you picked up the pieces of your heart and walked away, leaving the curly boy who took your heart, who protected it, who kept it warm, safe.... but who had taken too much care of it and ended up breaking it.

Calum watched you go, turn the corner and leave his life and something broke inside him too, because for once, he wasn't the one who left and he wasn't ready to let you go.

Maybe if he had used different words, you would have stayed. If he had thought carefully about his life, his future, he would have seen you by his side, ready to conquer the world with him.

Would that have been right?

"Calum?" A soft female voice whispered behind him as the door to the outside opened.

And in that moment he realized that it wasn't going to be right, that you didn't deserve to suffer further and that your heart needed to beat again, to be happy… even if he wasn't the reason why.

And so Calum got up, wiped the dirt off his pants, kissed the lips of his now fiancè and went back inside, and while everyone was having fun, he couldn't help but think of you.

In another life, maybe, you would be his girl,

You’d keep all your promises, you against the world.

In another life, he would make you stay,

So he wouldn't have to say that you were the one that got away.

The one that got away.

-

[docholligay]

Ghost Story

Sometimes I can do things for me, as a treat!! Total universe is here for timeline

Pharah was a woman of action. When Mercy did not know what to do or say, she would pray, and while Pharah wished she had the sort of faith that could give her that strength, the only religion she had ever bent to was that of order. This was what she could do. She could clean Tracer’s nails. She could comb her hair. She could wash and dress her, and ready her to be cremated. 

Others had offered, but Pharah had insisted. It would be too much for Emily and Winston, who had cared so much for her in the last months of her life. They should be permitted to simply mourn. Mercy had done the autopsy, sent out the samples to try to learn something from all this, and that had been enough to expect from her. Her family was preparing everything for her funeral. The rest of the Overwatch team had duties Pharah had assigned to them. 

She would have said all of these were the reasons she had chosen to do it, but there was also the matter of care. Pharah knew that few people had her sense of perfection, her sense of drive and completion, and so it was only Pharah that could be trusted to make sure that her body was properly prepared. It was a duty, something she owed Tracer, to make sure her final appearance in this world was a correct one. 

She smoothed the front of Tracer’s shirt. Mercy’s work had been exceptionally neat and careful, even for her, and the stitches had been so tightly spaced and small, with transparent thread, her own labor of love, that you would have been forgiven for not knowing Tracer had been autopsied at all. Pharah looked at Tracer, dressed in the clothes Emily had given Pharah, washed and straightened and ready for the coffin in the corner, a cheap wooden thing Tracer had purchased herself. 

She considered a moment. Something was wrong. She nodded as it came to her, and reached down, ruffling her hand through Tracer’s too-straight hair, letting the cowlicks fly up. 

“You won.” She looked down at Tracer’s body, “I saved your life once, and you saved my life twice. You died with the greater score. Congratulations.” 

“Saved your life once, Fareeha, in a bleeding miserable patch of desert outside Cairo. Not that I ‘ate winning, mind, but its the principle of the bloody thing.” 

Pharah stepped back in what was nearly a stumble, and looked at the body in front of her. It had not stirred, still cold, and grey, the cheekbones still too sharp and sunken, eyes closed, breath still, heart stopped.

“God, but I look bloody awful,” Pharah’s entire body stiffened at the sound of it, the clear, bouncing impossibility of it, “Not to say as you didn’t do your best, Fareeha, but, you know, cor, blimey, and what the ‘ell..” A giggle. 

“I have not slept well in days,” Pharah said, closing her eyes and breathing deeply, “I have been stressed. I have been jailed. Lena was close to me. I have been thinking of nothing but her.” 

“And I am sorry about that, love,” Out of the corner of Pharah’s eye, a motion at her side, “But I suppose it would ‘ave been the same if it were this week or a year from now, right? Right.” The question she always asked and answered. “Sides all that, if Ang was telling the truth, and of course Ang always tells the truth, about these sorts of things, it would have been a bit of a rough go, dying that way. Maybe would have been worse memories, than me just sort of….” Pharah looked to her as she made a fluttering gesture, “fading away in Win’s arms.” She grinned. “Fareeha?” Her eyes widened. 

“You are,” she took a breath,”  a hallucination.”  

“Right,” Tracer nodded, “you're speaking English because you don’t think I can ‘ear you. Makes sense.” 

Pharah looked at her, and down at her body, and back to her. The Tracer in front of her had round, pink apples back in her cheeks, her eyes were clear and bright with no sign of pain in them, and her voice chirped and popped with joy. The blue RAF shirt she wore fit her neatly, all that muscle that had gone from the body in front of her apparently restored, and her tan corduroy pants wrinkled and straightened as she rocked on her heels. 

The effect was so perfect that tears prickled in Pharah’s eyes. Her brain was a cruel thing. 

“Oh, it’s all right, you big ol Turkish delight!” The hallucination swatted at her, and then launched herself onto the edge of the table where her body lay, dangling her feet, “We all die, don’t we?  I always did rush things, a bit. But I’m alright now, nothing to worry about, love.” 

Pharah stared down at the body, unmoving even as the unmistakable feel of her filled the room. She is dead, Fareeha. You were there when she took her last breath. You carried her body up here. You slipped off her wedding ring and gave it to Emily. Lena Oxton is dead. 

“I am hallucinating.” Pharah said it like a prayer, letting it ring out against the walls. 

“No you ain’t, love.” Tracer barely missed a beat. “Wish you’d all ‘ave let me just ‘ave me body dumped out the door. Seems a waste, this, even after all I saved doing it meself.” She jumped off the table and scampered around to Pharah’s other side. “‘Ave you always been able to see ghosts, Fareeha? You never did tell me that! Leave it to you, ‘ave a secret like that. I’ve nothing like that. Me thumb’s double jointed, I suppose.” She giggled and bounced, flashing a bright smile. 

Pharah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Rest. All she needed was rest. And still, these mantras being true, a tear sprung from her eye, and rolled down her cheek. 

“Oh God Fareeha, but I ‘ate seeing you cry. I’m only dead, love, and you’d be surprised--”

“I am not sad that you are dead.” She said, the words barely coming out. 

Tracer gave a bark of a laugh. “Wasn’t expecting that. Bit ‘arsh, love, bit ‘arsh.” 

“I am sad,” she gave another slow, deep breath and opened her eyes, “Because when I imagine you this way,” she indicated to her side but did not look there, “I am reminded of how very sick you became. I never told you this, when you were alive. I will not burden you with it.” 

Tracer paused for a moment, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “All right love, all right, but,” She dashed around to the far side of the table where body lay, facing Pharah, “‘Allucination is all I am, right? So it’s only you talking to yourself, not burdening me with nothing, innit? And maybe you’ll feel a bit better, saying whatever it is.” 

Pharah looked at Tracer, whose eyes flicked around Pharah’s face, waiting. She had a point. To refuse to say this to Tracer meant she gave her hallucination power. Her hallucination was not real, and it was only a way to cope with the loss, and so she would only be putting in words what she already knew. 

Yes. This was the most logical path. 

“Watching you deteriorate was one of the most painful things I have ever experienced.” Pharah nodded. “Seeing you be taken, slowly. It hurt.” 

Tracer’s voice was soft, and her eyes were warm. “Could ‘ave told me, love.” 

Pharah huffed and shook her head. “Yes, I should have told you how bad your dying, your suffering, your struggle,  made me feel. That is a very responsible thing to do.” 

“Oh ease up, Amari,” Tracer rolled her eyes, “Talked about it with Win. With Ang. Ang cried, even, god but she felt so guilty. Wish I could tell her it wasn’t ‘er fault, and she did all by me, I mean, I did tell her that, but again, right? And you and me are friends. You ‘elped me, Fareeha, and I’s feeling useless, right? Might ‘ave been something I could have reassured you over, felt better. “ 

“Why would I complain to you about something that is my fault?” She looked bad down at Tracer’s body, somehow seeing her dead easier than the firework in front of her. 

“I do ‘ave to say that discovering you’ve been Moira O'Deodorant all this bloody time is a bit of a shock, love.” 

 Pharah turned away from the table, and put her hands behind her back, pacing just a little bit away, eyes flicking to the coffin now and again. 

“Do you remember when we were captured? And tortured?” 

“No, Fareeha,” came the annoyed chirp behind her, “completely bloody forgot about the most painful experience of me life, that ended up killing me, slipped me bloody mind, it did.” 

“My mind does a very good impression of you.” Pharah shook her head and tried to take a soothing breath. “You drew her anger. You needled at her, you annoyed her. You made her furious, and so she did not hurt me as badly as she did you.” 

“Alright,” she walked up next to Pharah, arms crossed, “What were you meant to do then? Die as well?” 

“I could have saved you,” The tears choked in her throat again, the painful guilt that had run through her mind with every one of Tracer’s struggles, her spasms and seizures and suffering, “If I had been faster with my tongue--” 

Tracer laughed. “Right, love, and if I was 190 centimeters, then. Fareeha,” She put her hand on Pharah’s elbow, and Pharah swore it felt warm, “I did what I did because I wanted to do it. You couldn’t ‘ave saved me, love, anymore than Ang could. Moira’d had it out for me for a bloody decade. Would have all ended the same, but,” she smiled, “I got to save you. And when things were ‘ard, I thought of that. She was going to kill me one way or the other, and you can count on that, but now I know Overwatch is in good ‘ands. Your ‘ands.” 

“Still--” 

Tracer put her hands on her hips and stood in front of her. “What you’re saying is you wish it was me felt guilty, instead of you? Not very kind of you, Fareeha, I’d be bloody miserable in your position, so you’re saving me a bit of trouble by ‘aving me die instead.” 

Pharah looked at her, letting the tears fall quietly. 

“I will miss you.” 

“Suspect you ‘aven’t seen the last of me,” she stood on her tip toes and wiped a tear from Pharah’s cheek, “Thank you, for ‘elping with me. This, but also, the washing, the cooking, everything, when I was poorly. For ‘elping Win and Em. I love you too, Fareeha.” 

“You can’t really be here.”

“Doesn’t matter, love, if I’m ‘ere or not. Makes you feel a bit better, seeing me, and let’s not worry too much about me reality. I’m ‘ere for now.” 

Pharah nodded, took a deep breath, and turned around, lifting the light body into her arms, and laid the shell of what had been a strange and wonderful friend into the unstained, plain little coffin. 

She chuckled as she stood up. “You spared every expense on this.” 

“Bloody fucking right I did, you see how much a casket is? To be set on fire?  That’s a shipping crate, it is, bought it online, ‘ad it shipped to the ‘ouse.” 

Pharah roared with laughter. There was no one like Lena, in this world, and if imagining her kept her here a little longer, well, maybe she would allow herself a little belief.

[diabolik-sai]

A/N: So someone requested a Shu scenario about his s/o comforting him after a nightmare, and this started out as a short drabble that just got longer and longer until it turned into this, so. . . Here we go! I really do love this boy~ Warnings: some descriptions of gore, panic attacks, PTSD

Shu groaned as his eyes slowly drifted open, the blurry but familiar image of the manor’s ceiling coming into his view. As he groggily moved to rub the sleep out of his eyes, he realized that he had fallen asleep in his school uniform on the couch. Four years ago this wouldn’t have been an especially strange scenario for the vampire, but now he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t fallen asleep in bed with his arms wrapped around you.

He chuckled a bit to himself. Who would have thought he would come to be so attached to a mere human? His past self would have mocked him, but it was true. Somehow you had managed to take a step into his world when no one else would, or rather, when he wouldn’t let anyone else do so.

If there was one thing Shu Sakamaki knew himself to be good at it was keeping people at a distance. Over the centuries it just came naturally to him. It wasn’t as if he had no people skills, he simply preferred not to use them. No one was worth the time or energy, and at first he wrote you off into that same category.

Oh, how you proved him wrong.

Somehow, you were just as stubborn as you were compassionate- Impossibly patient, and with a level of empathy he could never achieve or understand. You could have run away at any time, it wasn’t like he was trying to stop you back then. But you didn’t. You stayed; for some unfathomable reason you chose to be by his side.

Eventually it was more than just your blood that he craved. It was your laughter, your presence, your smile- the very essence of your being. It felt like you were a drug that allowed him to feel for the first time in a long while.

Shu resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his own thoughts. Since when had he gotten so damn sentimental? You must be rubbing off on him. . .

He was snapped out of his thoughts as a familiar scent wafted through the air. He turned to face who he knew was the source and sure enough, there you were, standing in the doorway with a fresh cup of tea and that unwavering smile on your face.

“Ah, he lives,” you grinned, shifting your weight from the doorframe as you stepped into the living room.

“Been a while since you’ve slept on the couch,” you said, arching a brow, “Did I get mad at you for something? I can’t remember.”

“Hilarious,” Shu deadpanned, although you caught the telltale trace of a smirk on his lips, “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t remind you.”

He propped himself up, moving into a sitting position on the couch. As he turned back to you he noticed you staring at him.

“What?” He asked.

“This is good,” you said, almost to yourself.

“What are you on about?” He chuckled, shaking his head at your antics.

“This,” you said, gesturing around you with your hands. When the level of confusion on Shu’s face remained the same you stifled a laugh.

“Us,” you elaborated, smiling down at him.

For a while Shu didn’t know how to respond to that. The love between you two was mostly unspoken but not unfelt. It simply wasn’t the way either of you typically showed your affection. Such a bold statement from you about your relationship caught him off guard, even after all these years.

You stalled for a moment, staring absentmindedly at the living room wall, your back facing your lover.

“But I have to wonder,” you pondered aloud, “Will it always be like this?”

The clank of porcelain rang out in the room as you placed your tea cup onto the mantle.

“What do you mean?” Shu asked, his tone still light but with a slight edge of caution.

You turned over your shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly, crossing the room in a few confident strides.

“You’ve always been there for me, Shu,” you said, a hand coming up to caress his cheek, “Even if you didn’t know it, you’ve always been there.”

Shu stiffened a bit under your touch. Somehow it felt foreign. You were abnormally cold. . .

Suddenly, your hands jot out, grabbing his wrists on either side of his body in a vice grip. His eyes widened as he struggled against your grasp, impossibly steadfast as that reassuring smile turned sinister on your features.

“But what if you weren’t?” You asked innocently, cocking your head to the side as your grip tightened painfully, your nails digging into the flesh of his wrists leaving weeping, red crescents in their wake.

“What if this manor were to burst into flames?” You wondered aloud. As if your words were coming alive the smell of smoke began to fill the room, and it suddenly occurred to him that you had lit the fireplace behind you.

Every instinct in Shu’s mind told him to move, to run, but it was as if he wasn’t in control of his own limbs. It felt as though every nerve in his body was screaming as a flicker of vermillion spilled out onto the carpet.

“You want to run, don’t you?” You grinned, your tone of voice sickeningly sweet and unfit for the words leaving your lips, “So what if you did? Don’t you want to know what would happen?”

Shu grit his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter as the flames wove through the carpet towards you. You smiled at him, not letting up on your grasp for a second as you leaned down to speak into his ear.

“You’d only make it to the edge of the courtyard before your guilt caught up with you,” you whispered. Chills racked Shu’s spine as you continued. “Then you’d go into shock- frozen, like a useless little rag doll, and you’d be forced to watch me burn. You’d be safe, though. Far enough to not be hurt yourself, but close enough to watch my skin bubble like the water in a squealing tea kettle. To see my hair turn to white hot ash and my eyes liquify and ooze out of their sockets.”

His eyes widened in horror as the flames reached the edge of your nightgown, creeping up your legs until they reached your torso. You only smiled down at him, the flames traveling down the sleeves of your dress towards him. Shu’s hands went numb from your grip as he watched, unable to do anything. He felt like he was suffocating, and any words he tried to choke out died in his throat.

The next time he blinked, you were suddenly off of him, standing in the middle of the living room that was now entirely engulfed in flames, and just like that, your chilling, unfazed expression shifted to fear and panic.

”Shu?” Your eyes widened as you looked down at your flame covered dress, “What is this? What’s happening?!”

Your hands shook as you tired and failed to put the fire out, looking for something, anything to help you until your eyes landed on Shu, and for the first time in centuries he felt pure, unadulterated terror.

He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. As he looked down he found a pitch black hand covering his mouth. It was burnt to a crisp, some of the dying embers still ignited in its charcoal fingers. Another pair of burned hands reached out and grabbed hold of his feet, keeping him in place.

“Shu, please!” You pleaded, tears streaming down your face as the fire singed your skin, “It hurts, make it stop, please!”

He desperately struggled against the hands but every movement he made only caused more to appear, grabbing onto his limbs, his clothes, his hair- hundreds of tiny, burning hands holding him back against the couch, forcing him to watch you suffer.

You collapsed on the floor with a choked sob. Your voice was raw from screaming as your face became contorted in pain. In a last feeble attempt to call for help you reached out to him, your skin practically melting off your body.

Shu managed to break one of his arms free from the grasp of the charred hands that covered the rest of his body, trying desperately to reach you. The smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses and he fought the urge to retch as he watched his own outstretched hand turn to cinders in front of him.

“Shu!”

He flinched as another one of your anguished screams ripped through the air.

No, no, no, no, no, no-

“Stop,” he choked out, his voice breaking as he pleaded with whatever force of Hell was causing this.

“Shu!”

“Stop, STOP!”

“Shu!”

The vampire jolted straight out of bed with a strangled cry, gasping for breath. His eyes were blown wide with mania as they darted around the room, first to the unlit fireplace and then immediately to you.

“Shu?” You asked groggily, moving to turn the lights on, “What is it?”

You hadn’t seen him like this in a long time. His nightmares used to be relentless, an every night occurrence. But in the past few years you’d been with him they’d become less and less frequent until he slept peacefully through the night. But this seemed much worse than what you’d seen before.

It pained you to see him like this. You knew how vivid his nightmares could be- they were no ordinary dreams.

“Shu-“

You gasped as he suddenly gripped your wrist, staring intensely into your eyes as if he was searching for something but didn’t know what. You ignored the pain as his hold on you tightened.

You knew what his dream must have been about.

You steadied your free hand as much as you could, moving your body so you were facing your lover. You carefully wove your hand into his soft blonde locks, pulling him into a hug. You could feel the rapid beating of his heart; how each breath caught in his throat just before he held it, trying to get it under control before gasping in another intake of air.

“I’m here,” you said softly, your heart clenching as Shu let out a shudder of a breath.

You stayed that way until you felt his breathing even out and you pulled away to look into his azure eyes.

“I’m always going to be right here, Shu,” you said, meaning every word.

“No, you won’t,” he said, his voice coarse.

Your eyes widened slightly in the dimly lit room, taken aback.

“Yes, I will-“

“Then you shouldn’t,” he said coldly.

The look on his face startled you. For just a moment you caught a glimpse of the steely, indifferent exterior you’d broken down over the years, and it scared you that it was still there- still a part of him, albeit a learned one.

“Have you forgotten you’re just a human?” He scoffed, “the only thing humans can be relied upon to do is die- It’s the only certain thing.”

His words were harsh, but his touch changed from the desperate, steel grip he’d used on you only moments ago. He held you as if you were made of glass, like if he held you too tightly you would break but if he let go you’d disappear into smoke.

He was so terrified of losing you. For so long he was told that he was cursed. That he destroyed everything and anyone close to him, and he believed it. The proof was in his past, what reason would he have to believe you would be safe from him?

Your gaze softened as you brought your hands up to cup his face, breaking his mental spiral of negative thought.

“Then don’t let me die,” you said, to his surprise, “turn me.”

Your words seemed to echo in Shu’s mind while he tried to process them.

“Turn me into a vampire,” you repeated, not a trace of doubt in your voice.

“You don’t know what that means, not really,” Shu said quietly, “To live forever. . . To watch everything and everyone you know fester and rot around you while you stay the same. . . Don’t you understand? You’re throwing away any hope for a normal human life.”

“I think I did that the second I walked into this manor,” you grinned.

“I’m serious,” Shu said, his voice raising, “this isn’t a joke, (Y/n). Why would you honestly throw your normal life away? Why wouldn’t you run? Why. . .”

As he trailed off you knew what he was really asking.

Why the hell would you stay with him?

“I wasn’t joking, Shu,” you said, “I threw away any chance for a normal life a long time ago. The second I stepped foot in this house I knew that. The first time you fed from me I knew that. The first time we made love I knew that. Nothing’s changed, Shu. At least, the way I feel about you hasn’t. . . I love you.”

Conflict swirled in Shu’s mind. Part of him wanted you to leave, to just forget everything about him and this manor and be safe somewhere; you could live out a boring, normal life like humans were meant to- far away from him. You would go to university, meet some business major with a stable job and get married on the beach. Have kids who grow up and make you proud and give you grandchildren who you love and protect until you eventually pass in your sleep from old age. If it meant you would be safe. . .

He looked up at you, sighing deeply as he saw the unwavering expression on your face. No. . . That kind of life, that wasn’t who you were. . .

He pressed his forehead to yours, an unspoken response to your earlier declaration of love.

“Are you sure?” Shu stared into your eyes, looking for any trace of uncertainty, but found none.

“Yes,” you said, so soft a whisper Shu thought he might have imagined it.

“Give yourself to me, Shu Sakamaki,” you said, kissing him gently before bringing your wrist up to his fangs,

“Give yourself to me as I’ve given myself to you, for eternity.”

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 28)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Sooo, second part of today’s update! Thank you for reading, hope you enjoy!

There were two chapters uploaded today, find the previous one here

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​​ @heavenly1927​​ @toe-vind-ek-jou​​ @xbellaxcarolinax​​ @pieces-by-me​​ @angelofthorr​​ @samsationalwilson​​ @peachyboneless​​ @1950schick​​ @punkrocknpearls​​ @ietss​​ @psych0crybaby​​ @revolution-starter​​

You never would have thought your husband to be one for repetition, for predictability.

But he’s been following the same pattern with the knife in his hand for a while now. The knife embedded on the wood of the table and quickly snatched back, one, two times. He spins the round-handled knife on his finger three times. Back to the table.

“That sound is maddening.” You quip, because you cannot help yourself.

“You still have the one I gave you, don’t you?” Ivar asks, and yet doesn’t stop the infuriating pattern. Knife on wood, knife on wood, one, two, three spins.

“Of course I do,” You reply after a moment, slightly affronted. You know it is foolish sentimentality, it was from the beginning, but you wouldn’t lose something that was gifted to you. “It was a gift.”

“Stithulf still bears the scar,” He comments, faint smile on his lips, what looks like pride curving his mouth. “You earned it.”

The Völva’s eyes set on you even if she pretends to be focused elsewhere, a knowing smile, the smile of someone that knows the ways of the Gods, curving her lips, “Every gift comes after dedication.”

“Every gift is earned.” You retort easily, but a part of you is still trying to venture past that strange fog of otherworldliness that clings to the wise woman’s words in your memories.

Another repetition. And another. You are in half a mind to say something, but instead you put your hand over his, stopping the movement and making his eyes meet your own.

A small smile, a movement of your wrist, and you make him drop his hold on the knife in exchange for holding your hand.

You only say his name, quietly, calmly, and wait for him to speak.

“Strepshire.” Is all Ivar says, and you frown.

His eyes are set stubbornly on the wooden table before him, and his hand twitches under the hold of yours, the pull to reach for the knife, to return to the maddening repetition obvious.

The knowledge that it was a nervous gesture combined with his tense stance makes you realize whatever nonchalance Ivar has about himself right now is but a lie.

“Yes?” You ask, quietly even if you are alone. This is the first time he has spoken of war or strategy with you outside of the room where he and his soldiers meet, so you cannot help it when your mind starts searching frantically for an answer as to why.

“Ubbe will leave soon to intercept Stithulf’s path to the city, but it seems…” He grimaces for a moment, a furrow in his nose, a press of his lips into a line, “convenient that he moves so carelessly now that he looks certain we are not coming after him directly.” The words are rough, like they are pulled from his lips painfully, one by one. It makes you wonder when was the last time Ivar went to someone that wasn’t one of his brothers for counsel, or the last time he had someone to listen to him.

“You think he is one step ahead, that there’s paths he can take that would leave your brother’s forces vulnerable. Like the paths you took when leading the Great Army through Wessex.” You finish, offering him a small smile when his surprised gaze lifts to meet yours.

“You studied our strategies?” He says, but he is not angry, nor irritated. You could almost swear he is proud.

You shrug in response.

“You interest me,” You say, and after a moment of enjoying the rare almost genuine smile that teases at his lips, you rest your arm on the table, your chin in your hand and ready yourself to listen. “So, tell me.”

He does.

Ivar tells you of what he thinks the Saxons may try to do, of what he would do in their place. He tells you of the countless ways his mind conjures up to take the city if he were in Stithulf’s place, ways he believes the Saxon can think of and move before he can react.

He talks and you listen, for so long that the moon makes quite a trek across the skies and Ivar’s voice grows a little hoarse.

“We need to move for that city. It is bad enough the Saxons have footing so close to our land,” Ivar growls, hand tightening over yours and controlled ire in his voice, “If they manage to get the kind of army Stithulf has in past those walls…”

“It begs for an invasion,” You finish for him, nodding, “And yet even if time is crucial, you agreed to give Hvitserk those two weeks to try for an advantage.” You point out quietly, eyes searching his. Ivar merely shrugs his shoulders and furrows his lips in response.

“I know my brother. He is up to something.”

Quietly, you say, “You did good by him earlier. He is very loyal to you, Ivar, and he loves you,” It is a very minuscule change that your words bring forth in the King, but you still notice the compulsive frown of his brows, the almost unwilling tightening of his mouth into a line. So, you ask, “You doubt it?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but remains otherwise still under your touch. There’s a grimace in his face that is to speak for nonchalance, but there’s a hint of something real and untapped in his pale eyes.

“None of the people here love me,” He explains simply, causing a frown to mar your features. After a breath of silence, Ivar cocks his head to the side and starts again, “You were the leader of the Greeks. They loved you, didn’t they?”

You take your hand from his, crossing your arms over your chest before you acquiesce with a nod, “My people loved me, yes. But you haven’t been King for long, it may take time. The people here can grow to love you.”

He insists with a shake of his head, gaze far away and a combination of desperation and despair taking over his expression.

“These people have known me since my birth,” Ivar explains, and beneath his words lies a special kind of anger, an anger maybe just his, an anger born out of years on end of pain and uncertainty, “I spent most of my life crawling around in the dirt, having to look up at everyone, like I was always kneeling in front of them. And even if I’m King now, they all see less than a man in me. What kind of Viking cannot even walk properly?”

You look into his pale eyes, a thousand insecurities, a thousand furies, a thousand pains written in them; and you cannot help the pang of protectiveness that takes over you.

A man almost double your size, who delights himself in death and suffering, who could kill you before you even knew it. But still, like you saw in those first few weeks, a man that hid under a cruel second skin made out of the scars of his past, a man that sometimes looks like he wants to give but does not know how to do anything but take.

And the part of you that is gentle and soft makes you want to hold each and every fragile part of him tight, to make him believe what you already know when you look at him; and the part of you that you shouldn’t allow to breathe whispers that he ought to make them pay for the mistake of underestimating him, with iron and blood.

Instead of giving voice to either, you offer, “You conquered regardless, it shouldn’t matter.”

“But it does matter!” Ivar exclaims, standing up from the table fast enough that the chair scratches against the wood of the floor. His stance falters at the quick movement, forcing him to steady himself with the hand on the table. He turns his back to you, but you still hear the waver in his words when he continues, low and almost manic, “You weren’t here, you…you don’t know. I’m nothing without these damn things, and none of the people here will forget it, no matter what I do. They will never see me as n-normal; they won’t see anything other than the useless cripple.”

His last words leave his lips like a snarl, and it is with a growl that he angrily throws the crutch at his side away from him. He still stands, his braces allow him to do so, and you watch frozen in place as his shoulders rise and fall with quick, livid breaths.

You stand up as well, heart beating in your ears and breaking in your chest, and although you want to approach him you hesitate to do so.

Instead, you try quietly, “Ivar…”

When he turns to face you, he looks lost, his pale eyes wide. Like long ago, he seems staggered at what he just voiced, taken aback by the vulnerability he showed once it is too late to keep you from being a witness to it.

And, like before, you only step closer, keeping your gaze on his and trying to stand strong against the storm that are him and his thoughts.

After a breath of hesitation, Ivar whispers, “I want to be like them, I-I want the people of Kattegat to love me, like they love Ubbe, like they once loved father,” His brow furrows and rises simultaneously, a futile attempt to recover the mask, and his glistening eyes look away from yours when he huffs a breath and breathes, “But they…they never will, will they? No one will ever see anything other than a half-man when they look at me,” The anger returns to his tone, and his lips curve once again into the familiar snarl, “I’d rather have them fear me.”

You remain silent for a few moments, trying to think on what to say, how to approach him. Were he any other man, were you not so unmoored by him and his warmth, were you stronger; and you would cross the distance between you, wrap your arms around his waist and rest your head on his chest, offer him the support, the comfort, he craves.

“My father was Spartan, a people much like yours, valuing warfare like no others,” You start quietly, toying with the amulet at your neck, the one he gifted your mother. “He used to say when a leader is loved, the enemy may only come from outside; while if one is feared or hated, the enemies will be both foreign and the people at his side.”

Ivar grunts in response, face twisted in a snarl for a moment as he looks away.

“I know how to deal with enemies.” He grits out at the end, and you hear the words he doesn’t say: I don’t know how to deal with a people that loves me.

And you should have known before, you realize. He chose to make you his wife against your own wishes, risking your scorn, your hate, because asking you to stay would mean he’d be left vulnerable to rejection. He chose to have you as an enemy at his side than to ask for you to be a wife, because for him it is easier to deal with enemies, to fight and be cruel, than it is to deal with allies, to trust and love.

The part of you kept alive like a powerful yet powerless sapling fighting against the strength of winter, that part that is trusting and gentle and kind, that part that is foolish and catches you admiring him with a stupid smile when he is not looking…that part wants to go to him, to take his face between your palms and…

But you can’t, so you walk to the abandoned crutch on the floor by one of the tables, and with more sureness in your steps than you feel, you approach the Viking, who watched your every move with intensity behind his gaze and now eyes you warily.

“Let them see you.” You state, extending your hand and offering him the crutch again. Ivar clenches his jaw, nose furrowed in the beginning of a snarl, and his eyes never stray from yours.

“What are you on about, woman?” He growls, but you refuse to back down, and move your hand again, bringing attention to the object you hold.

“You want them to love you, you want to show them you are more than what they think you are,” You say with no little certainty. Being hated is easy for a man like him, and it is not what he wants, you are sure. When Ivar still won’t take the crutch back in his hand, you grab his hand yourself and put his fingers over the worn wood. He tenses up, if at your touch or the reminder, you don’t know, but he still remains silent, eyes on yours. Even if angry, even if guarded, you see in his pale gaze that he listens. He always does, even when he pretends he doesn’t. With determination, you whisper, “Show them. It is not a weakness and they will not see it a such when you prove to them of such. The same will, the same determination, the same intellect that went into achieving all you have achieved; turn that into deeds for yo-…our people.”

“I am King, I will not grovel before them.” Ivar grows back, shaking his head.

You have a feeling that, King or not, he would not grovel for anything or before anyone. Still, you offer your advice,

“You won’t have to. Just…rule for them, not over them. There’s no secret,” You answer around a smile, because even if you have no idea how to be the Anassa your people want you to be, you know how you earned their love and admiration. Your voice is almost a whisper, and you hope he sees you don’t mean just in matters of ruling when you say, “But one cannot get without giving in return.”

You offer a barely-there shrug of your shoulders when he remains silent, looking up into his eyes.

“You have answers to everything, don’t you?” He quips, a hint of genuine irritation in his voice that only makes your stupid heart grow fonder.

“Oh, no. I just improvise with good results,” You laugh quietly, one of your hands treacherously going up and toying with one of the buckles of the armor on his chest, “I believe in you, Ivar, I know you can do anything you set your mind to. I-If I can, I want to be by your side when you do.”

He leans, maybe sways, maybe stumbles, closer to you, towering over you with soft eyes. Ivar’s mouth curves slightly, almost miraculously, on a small, genuine smile.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think the Gods sent you to me.”

You have never seen his expression as soft as it is now as he gazes at you, lips curved and slightly parted, a little bit of color in his ears and the top of his cheeks, eyes so unbearably open and vulnerable.

You lift your hand from its place by his heart, and in the brief moment you can pretend there’s not a world past him, you allow your fingers to trace the side of his face, to stop on the scar on his cheekbone that you’ve been drawn to since that first day.

You both pretend not to notice Ivar jump slightly at your touch, just like you both pretend your eyes don’t threaten to flutter shut when he presses his brow against yours.

His expression sends a pang of fear, and excitement, and…something to your heart, and you wish you could be brave and do what your heart begs you to, but instead you lift your eyebrows in sardonic question.

“With all the ways we drive each other mad, you think the Gods fated this?” You ask around a smile of your own, genuine and a little scared, because you cannot help it.

Ivar shrugs in response, blinking slowly, “I have heard stranger tales.”

____

I’m just blue-balling everyone at this point, characters and readers, and I wish I could say that I’m sorry. They are gettin there, I just enjoy slow burn too much lol

Thank you for reading, I hope you liked this chapter! I would love to hear your thoughts on this one!! Thank you, I love you all!!!

[lluvguts]

Cool Blue ; Chapter Four

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

hold you here, my loveliest friend

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

☽ warnings: none

☽ fic masterlist

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

The air in Alberto's room was stuffy and filled with the uneasy smell of the sweat his bare skin on the sheets left after a fitful sleep. He flung an arm from the blankets to fiddle with the window latch until his sluggish muscles threw it back and open, letting fresh ocean air inside.

He opened his eyes. His face was covered by the white bedsheet like a dead man or just a boy realizing his mistakes much too late and he quickly threw that off of him, too.  With the window open and the bottom of the frame just inches from Alberto's nose, nothing stopped the sunlight streaming across his feverish skin in beams and the shadow of the white chipped frame to cast a thin shadow as relief to his sleepy eyes.

The sleep was thick in his green eyes, as he suffered through an uncomfortable dreamless night spent mostly staring at the ceiling with Luca's face burning a hole behind his eyelids.

Oh, God. Luca.

A quick glance at the nightstand was all it took. The polaroid photos were undeniably there. Their white corners, their colored reflections in the daylight. Making those feelings from the night before stir again.

"Alberto? Are you awake yet?" Massimo had his hand splayed flat to the door and knocked.

He jumped at the sound of his father's voice behind the door. Alberto cursed himself for not having a clock in his room, even though he was fervent on the opinion that they were useless and dumb and didn't look nearly as stunning as the sun overhead to tell the time. But now, with the sky streaming in and more worried knocks sounding through the thin walls, Alberto ran a hand through his hair and guessed it was nearing noon. Why hadn't Massimo woken him at dawn with Giulia, to begin the day's tasks? It wasn't like him to allow Alberto to sleep in...

Alberto rolled out from the sweaty confines of his bed and stood, wobbly, to respond.

"Uh, yeah, Papa? Sorry, was I supposed to be up earlier?" He said as he went to the door to open it for Massimo. He saw his father, fully dressed and looking hesitant while Alberto was still in his pair of thin cotton shorts and an equal expression of confusion.

Massimo swapped his worried frown for a quick smile, and affectionately ran his hand across the top of Alberto's messy curls.

"It's okay, son. I figured you, uh," His hand fell back to his side, fidgety, uneasy. "...Needed the rest."

"Yeah..." Alberto let out a high, nervous laugh. His voice was still groggy and dry from sleep, coming out sounding wrong. He coughed, only making their already thick silence even thicker, then stared up at Massimo. He desperately needed a glass of water and maybe a shirt just to top things off.

"Why don't we...uh..." Massimo tried again, searching for the right things to say in the wooden floorboards. "...Have breakfast? Go get dressed and I'll start the coffee."

"Okay," Alberto placed one of his feet behind the other, still standing there awkwardly. Wasn't it a little late for breakfast?

Machiavelli slipped through the gap in the door as Alberto closed it, unprompted, and left Massimo to get the coffee grinder. He sighed against the door frame, scooping up Machi though the cat had his protests.

"Santa Mozzarella..." He breathed, burying his sunburned nose into Machiavelli's neck. The phrase reminded him immediately of Giulia and he smiled around the cat's fur.

He carried Machi in one arm as he, in his dazed, barely awake state, yanked open dresser drawers looking for a shirt and, finding none to his liking, slammed them half-shut.

His head felt too heavy to teeter above the rest of his body, like all of the empty dreams he'd had that night were really just static filling up his brain. The cat growled at the sharp sound of the dresser, and equally at Alberto's annoyance so early in the morning.

"What am I gonna do, huh?" Alberto set the Machiavelli down on his bed and pulled on a customary tank top. Machi burrowed into his sheets, letting out all sorts of odd noises.

He growled deep as he sniffed the bed, then pawed angrily at Alberto's pillow, looking so cross at the linen for no apparent reason until it clicked.

"I know you smell him," Alberto bent down and stroked Machi's raised fur to calm him down. "I can't get it off."

The cat glared at Alberto out of the corners of his orb-like yellow eyes. He continued to paw and swipe at the pillow, hissing and huffing the whole time.

"That's Luca," Alberto kept his voice low and pointed at his bedsheets. "What you're smelling? Yeah. That's all sea monster."

Machi blinked slowly and stopped for a moment. His tail had been lashing wrinkles into the sheets but it hovered, flickering his interest. Then he returned full force to his havoc and dug his claws into the mattress.

Sighing, Alberto left the cat to destroy his bedsheets and went into the kitchen. Massimo was humming gently a tune Alberto didn't know with his back turned, the coffee maker grumbling and gurgling to his right while he sliced oranges with his hand. He had a cookbook propped to one side of the orange to steady it as he brought the knife down.

Alberto stepped in to help him, pulling the book away and holding the half of the orange.

"There," Alberto said, smiling.

Massimo chuckled and handed Alberto the knife. "Thanks. How about you cut the rest of these up for us, and I'll pour the coffee?"

"Sounds good to me."

Massimo shuffled around Alberto in the small kitchen space, grabbing coffee mugs off nailed-in hooks and pouring out generous amounts into both of their espresso cups.

Alberto tried to focus on cutting up the fruit but he was still stuck on the fact that Massimo, who woke up with the sun and couldn't spare a moment to rest, let him sleep through the early-morning fishing?

But Massimo broke the silence before he could ask. He slid one cup over to Alberto, then pat his back, motioning for the dining table.

"Listen, figlio. I already did the fishing for the morning. All we'll have to do is check the nets in a few hours."

Alberto arranged the orange and grapefruit wedges into little rows on his plate, then bit his lip and re-arranged them. "I figured that much."

Massimo grunted and took one of his oranges. "Do you know why we're sitting here, Alberto?"

"Uh...no?" He said in that annoying high keen again, unable to keep his voice level. He really didn't know why Massimo wasted his own time doing all of the work himself...just to have a late breakfast with him? Was he in trouble?

"Am I in trouble for something, Papa?" Alberto voiced his internal worry. The grapefruit flesh he'd torn from the rind was splayed flat and bitter on his tongue.

"Oh, no. Of course not." He smiled through his moustache, a bit of citrus juice clinging to the bottom of it. "I just wanted to tell you that I understand. And that I'm here for you."

He blinked. "Understand what?"

Massimo didn't miss a beat--even though Alberto knew that under the table his hand was clenched. "I understand that...you're getting older, and as you get older there are some...changes, and that's okay. You don't have to tell me about her unless you're ready."

Alberto inhaled the espresso wrong and he felt it burn through his nostrils. He coughed harshly, holding one hand to his throat and spluttered. "What?"

Getting older? Changes? Most of all, girl? Was he walking around blindfolded? He might have only been born with one arm...but he certainly had two fully-functioning eyes.

Massimo put his hand back on the table and took his mug, dainty in his large grip. "I should have seen the signs a long time ago. Never home...the weird smell...how nervous you are at dinner...I see it now, Alberto. So, tell me about her, yeah?"

Alberto paled. With Massimo, there was no way around this. What he said was final, so if he thought Alberto had a female love interest, then he had a female love interest.

"I...uh, she's--" Alberto took another scalding swig of coffee to distract himself. He felt a blush creep up, in the least delicate way possible, on his cheeks. "She's really great."

"What's her name?" Massimo picked at the fruit on the table, eyes flickering from the plate to his squirrelly son.

"Lucia!" Alberto blurted out, chest tight. Massimo barked out a hearty laugh and squeezed Alberto's trembling hand across the table.

"Don't be nervous, my boy! This is great news! And what does she look like?"

He felt like a fish out of water, which made him think of Luca, which made his cheeks redden, so he was stuck with his lips parted, completely stunned.

"She um...has really pretty...uh, eyes?" Alberto tried.

Massimo's dark gaze sparkled with joy for his son and his hold on Alberto's knuckles tightened. "That's okay, Alberto. Don't worry. I won't tease you over your lovely Lucia..."

Oh, God. Alberto gulped and scanned the room for something, anything to look at other than Massimo. The orange rinds. The coffee stain on the napkin from a previous breakfast. Giulia's sock left balled up in the corner by the humming ice box.

"...We'll have to meet her!" Massimo laughed. He'd been talking while Alberto was panicking, and his green eyes widened in horror as he took in the words.

"Oh, I don't think that's the best idea--"

"Nonsense!" Massimo stood from the table, collecting their plates. "Any girl who likes mio figlio will have to meet the rest of the Marcovaldo family! But, Alberto,"

He set the plates down again in his burst of excitement, leaning with serious eyes and a serious, but equally scary hard set of his mouth. "You two aren't...you know--"

If there were more espresso to drink in Alberto's mug, he would have gratefully choked on it.

"--Because if you are, son, I should know about it."

Was this nightmare ever going to end?

"T-That's okay Papa, because that's never g-going to happen!" Alberto almost shouted.

"Oh, I wouldn't say never. It all will happen in it's own time--"

"May I be excused...?" Alberto glanced up wildly at his father, blushing and sweating and hating every additional second this conversation lasted. "Please? I...I have to get something in town! Flowers!" What was he thinking? "Uh...yeah! Flowers for Luca--Lucia!"

"Oh, well..." Massimo straightened up, some of his cheeriness dampened. "Okay. Be sure to grab some for the house too, yes?"

Alberto made a beeline for his bedroom. "Yes, Papa."

"Girls love roses, Alberto. Get her some roses."

"Roses! Got it," Alberto cataloged that information away into his brain for never-use. He felt unexplainable guilt for stringing Massimo on like that, but what else was there to do? Try and convince him that, just like he was born missing an arm, Alberto was born attracted to something....different? And, just as daunting, being made another way didn't mean it was wrong?....Right?

Machi peeked his head out of the mound he'd created of Alberto's sheets, mewling when he examined the worry that creased his brow. He grabbed his wallet on the nightstand, making a pointed effort to avoid looking at the photos. Knowing they were there made him acknowledge the fact that whatever he was feeling was there, too. It was real. He was real.

"Yeah, Yeah. Soak it up while you can," Alberto waved an arm at Machiavelli now curled up around Luca's smell, then shut the door. "Little traitor."

/ / /

With the sun rising higher in the sky, it was the perfect time to sit outside the thin streets of Portorosso to smile and relax--unless you were Alberto. Who, after finding a bouquet of wildflowers for the kitchen window at the negozio di fiori, was sitting in a patio chair overlooking the fountain with his knees pulled to his chest. The flowers sat on the circular table next to him, catching the sun's warmth and sparkling through the clear plastic they were wrapped in. Alberto sighed and let the side of his cheek rest on one knee, twiddling with the metal holes grated into the table. A finger brushed the thin petals, muttering to himself and replaying the conversation he'd had with Massimo for the last hour. He didn't want to admit it, but he missed Luca. Maybe after he dropped off the flowers at home he could go see him again.

"Waiting for your special someone?"

Alberto jumped and sat upright, looking at the shadow that had intermingled with the honeycomb of the patio table, then back up at the voice. It was an older woman, who despite the heat had a thick shawl draped along her shoulders, smiling around greying brown hair.

The woman was fixed on Alberto with a knowing glance at the flowers.

"Oh! Uh--yes, signora." He dug one hand nervously into the back of his hair. The streets were next to empty a half-second ago...

She reached down to take Alberto's hand. "Signora Aragosta."

"Alberto Marcovaldo," He shook her hand, surprised by her skin unmarred by sun or wrinkles, and the thin sheen of sweat that beaded on her knuckles. Signora Aragosta let out a small laugh, still bent down to stare at Alberto.

She sniffed the air, dark eyes flickering around at the buildings behind him.

"How long have you known the sea folk?" She asked him in a hushed voice, covering the side of her mouth with the shawl so as not to draw any attention to herself.

"S-Sea folk?" Alberto leaned back in his chair, not at all enjoying where this was going. Did she work with Ercole's parents? Did she somehow find Luca...?

She tapped Alberto's bare shoulder, freckled and tanned. "Don't think you can fool me, sweetheart. I could smell him on you from a mile away."

"You...can? Is it really that, uh, obvious?" Alberto whispered back while gaping at the old woman. "And how did you--you know it's a him?"

Signora Aragosta giggled to herself. "Relax, boy. To everyone else," She ironically gestured to the empty street. "The scent is just regular old fish. The smell of a male's scales is much stronger, more potent. Not as sweet as a female's...But I'm a bit surprised that I've found it again, after all these years."

"Found what again?" Alberto couldn't help but ask, knowing it was private but this woman had decided to share anyway.

She kept her gaze low and ruminative, looking to the flowers as she spoke. "I almost forgot what they smelled like, so strong it burns your nose, no?" She laughed a bit and playfully flicked her own nose. "I miss her every day."

"Your own...friend?" Alberto said carefully.

Signora Aragosta steeled herself and tipped up her chin, looking stern. But perhaps all Alberto did was mistake her graveness for grief. "My wife."

"And she's? You're--?" Alberto couldn't get the words out he was so startled by this news.

"Oh, hush. I'll just tell you," She pulled out the chair opposite him and settled in.

[hitaka5ever]

Having some trouble thinking where to continue this conversation between Hux and Mitaka for my trans!Mitaka fic. If anyone wants to bounce some ideas my way, feel free (you'll be credited)

Warnings: Rape mention, genitalia mention

Story link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29693235/chapters/73016826

Mitaka’s Perspective:

Mitaka didn’t know how long he was out for, but when he saw Hux sitting in his desk chair, staring intently at his datapad, he figured it had been a few hours since his panic attack. For a moment, he forgot why he had had one, but it gradually came back and he felt a light tightness in his chest. He remembered Collins beating up on him, calling him slurs, and then Kylo Ren showing up to put a stop to the mad man before he could cause even worse damage. Mitaka was lucky to be alive.

“Hux?”

Looking up from the datapad, Hux smiled when he saw Mitaka awake. He set the pad down before moving the chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore.”

Mitaka closed his eyes when Hux reached for his face, feeling bits of hair getting pushed back from his forehead.

“You suffered a terrible attack, so I’m not surprised. You did well to protect your face.”

Mitaka attempted to sit up when Hux sat back, his ribs aching. “What happened to...C-Collins?” Mitaka wrapped his arm around his middle as he leaned back against his wall, looking at Hux. “All I remember is his back breaking-”

“He was thrown out into space after I ordered Kylo Ren to get rid of him.”

Mitaka’s mouth fell open in shock. “Wh-What?! You didn’t even attempt to get him rehabilitated?!”

Hux snorted. “Firstly, it would have been a waste of time and resources to have him healed, which is what I put in my deceased report to satisfy the organization. Secondly, that is what happens to any member, sans Kylo Ren of course, of the First Order that dares to hurt their own. Collins should have considered the consequences before using you for his own personal gain. Rapists aren’t welcome in my society, anyway.”

Mitaka was impressed at how casual Hux was about all of this. He had had a man murdered because of one man’s safety? Since when did Hux give a damn about that?

“I’m sorry, I just- I had no idea you felt that way.”

It was Hux’s turn to look surprised. “Do I really seem so cold to all of you?”

Mitaka looked sheepish then. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume...” Hux hummed softly before grabbing his datapad and looking at it again. Mitaka blinked, curiosity blossoming within him. Well, if Mitaka was willing to tell Hux about himself, maybe Hux would be willing to reciprocate. “It has just occurred to me that I...really don’t know much about you, personally speaking,” he tried carefully, in case Hux wasn’t interested in such things.

Mitaka’s head tilted ever so slightly when Hux paused and glanced at him from the corner of his eye. After a few seconds, he closed down the pad again, set it aside, and straightened up to look at Mitaka.

“What would you like to know?”

Mitaka felt something new start to form in his belly at that. He hadn’t really considered some questions to ask in case Hux did decide to talk to him. “Well, I told you about my beginnings, maybe you can tell me what it was like for, you, to grow up? I mean, your father is well known enough to all of us, but-”

Hux shook his head. “As far as I’m concerned, that man isn’t family.”

“How come?”

“Let’s just say he might not have done what Collins had, but he was still a piece of shit regardless.” Mitaka’s cheeks reddened slightly, having never heard Hux swear before, let alone speak ill about a powerful, rich man. “My father was known for following his family’s rules, but he tended to be a bit careless when it came to his sexual relations. He ended up impregnating a servant of his family’s estate, who gave birth to me.”

Mitaka grimaced. “Sheezus.”

“Oh, but it gets worse. To protect his reputation, he disposed of her after I was born and I never got to meet her. I don’t even know her name. As far as I know, she’s dead, which is what I was told when I was old enough to understand adult concepts. Not long after that, I was sent off to the Academy, where I was expected to be absolutely perfect in my studies and exams. The only area of expertise my father knew I would be useless in was combat and strength due to how thin and gangly I’ve been my whole life. I made the conscious decision to prove him wrong, but over time I found I did it for myself instead. I refused my father’s influence and his help eventually as well. And ever since, I’ve thrived to be the best for myself, not anyone else. Then, once I became General, I disowned my father.”

Mitaka smiled softly. “I’m sure he didn’t take that very well.”

“Oh he was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

“Only when it’s necessary.” Mitaka nodded. “What about your parents? Do they know and accept that you are a man?”

Mitaka nodded. “My mother knows and accepts me, along with my siblings. I don’t remember much about my father since he left not long after my youngest sister, who is twenty-five, was born. He was gone before I knew I was born in the wrong body, so he never knew. He could be dead for all I know.”

There was a long time of silence when neither of them knew what to ask or say next. Mitaka kept thinking back to all that had happened that day, still unable to believe that he was finally able to tell someone his secret without facing negative repercussions. Hux hadn’t pushed him into explaining anything, had accepted who he was, and was willing to learn all that he could about Mitaka being a man when he hadn’t been born as one. It was almost...sweet.

“You seem to have something on your mind...?” Mitaka heard Hux inquire cautiously.

Perking up, Mitaka appeared slightly sheepish. “Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about earlier and how understanding you have been about all of this.”

“Well I’m certainly trying my best,” Hux said with a small smile. “I may not fully understand what it’s like to be the opposite of what you were born as, but, scientifically speaking, I understand enough. I would like to know more, however.”

“About?”

“For example, is it natural to be this way? We know of plants that can alter their sex on a whim, but you’re not a plant.”

Mitaka shook his head. “It’s not so much about my sex, but my gender, that matters. Obviously, biologically, I was born female, but since I believe I should’ve been born male, I got rid of what I could of my biological sex in order to appear as masculine as I can be to others. Obviously if there was a medical procedure that gave me a penis and scrotum, I would be exactly as I know I should be. But I’ve settled with everyone thinking I was born a man at this point.”