#they’ve got years to work on their shit and heal together | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starsstuddedsky · 6 months ago

Text

Needles and Knives

red hood!jeno x doctor!reader

...

“Don’t you dare die,” you say, gripping the scalpel.

“Already did that,” Jeno mutters, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t agree with me.”

...

summary: Jeno’s plans never included you yet somehow you worm your way into his life. Being a vigilante isn’t easy - but neither is loving one.

genre: angst except i can’t stop them from making jokes so like fun angst. little bits of fluff here and there

warnings: gore, mentions of death, violence, cursing

wc: 16k

a/n: dc fans i am so sorry. my knowledge of these characters comes from wikipedia. medical workers i am so sorry. the medicine in this is NOT accurate. if ur neither maybe you can fully enjoy this fic. i hope you do :) this is as proofread as its going to get..... as always i appreciate any sort of feedback you can give. i hope this story leaves you as delusional about jeno as i am <3

Not for the first time, you open the door to your apartment to find a man covered in blood on your couch. At least he managed to keep it off the floors this time.

You can just see the back of his head from the doorway, black hair sticking up from where he slouches on the couch. The head seems to be intact, which is a bit of a relief—being a surgical intern means you’ve become numb to gore, but not fully immune to the nastiness of patching up a tear in his scalp.

“Still alive?” You ask as you kick off your shoes. Your feet ache from standing for the past eight hours.

Jeno huffs a humorless laugh. “More or less.” He twists to look at you, holding up a very sad looking plant. “Which is more than I can say for this poor thing.”

You drop your bag behind the couch and cross to stand in front of him, his head swiveling to follow you. He sets the dead succulents down on the side table. The tuft of white that hangs over his forehead bounces with the movement, stark against the rest of his black hair.

His shirt is already off, discarded to the side. At work, you’ve become just as numb to bodies as you have to gore. You haven’t quite managed that with Jeno despite seeing him shirtless on the regular since he seems to find himself covered in blood on your couch at least once a week. Still, you can’t really be blamed for being a little flustered when he looks like… Well, that. He’s got more abs than ribs and broad shoulders that give way to thick arms of pure muscle. But you can never truly ogle because he inevitably is covered in too much blood for you to ignore.

“I think I just popped the stitches,” he says, referring to the wound on his stomach that is once again bleeding. “No new shit. I think.”

“I don’t think that’s actually any better,” you say. “You know we usually tell patients to refrain from strenuous activity after they’ve been stitched up.” You retrieve the medical bag you definitely don’t keep stocked from the supply closet at Gotham City Hospital.

“They usually get pain meds, too,” Jeno grumbles, even though he’s never once complained about the actual pain of being stitched back together.

You kneel in front of him, focusing on what was once a deep gash. He showed up with it a couple days ago, spewing more blood than he physically should be able to produce. It’s already half healed, though the new stitches will still help.

“They usually aren’t getting blood on my couch either,” you say. “We can do this all day.”

Jeno doesn’t answer, staying quiet long enough for you to peek at him and make sure he hasn’t passed out from some injury you don’t know about. Instead you find his dark eyes, filled with an intensity that wasn’t there when you were children. You still find it hard to believe the kid that walked with you to school every day for three years has grown up into this—all hard lines and guarded expressions. Every time you look into those eyes you are reminded how little you know about him.

Here’s what you do know: Jeno and his family disappeared when you were twelve. Vanished in the middle of the school year, leaving the house next to yours half full of their belongings in the flight. And then you didn’t see him for another twelve years, long enough for you to graduate high school, and then college, and then med school. Long enough for you to get a prestigious internship in the surgical program at Gotham City Hospital, which had you moving three states over into an apartment you had to rent without even doing a walkthrough. It’s this apartment—the one that he sits in now—that brought Jeno back to you. Again, he’s become the boy next door, though you still can’t reconcile your memories of the little boy with this man, who never smiles. You barely recognized him. But he recognized you, and even though he didn’t seem all that interested in having friends, he found out you were a med student and just happened to need stitches. And then he needed help with a broken wrist. And then a black eye. And then, and then.

It didn’t take you long to figure out he’s Red Hood, one of the newer vigilantes of Gotham City. Or, more accurately, it didn’t take you long to figure out he’s a vigilante. It did take a while to figure out Red Hood, but his eyes eventually gave it away. One look told you he’s cold on the inside. One look told you he’s a killer.

(Plus you’ve seen the now-iconic leather jacket hanging in his entryway.)

But though you can’t call his eyes warm now, they aren’t cold either. He regards you with a softness you’ve never seen before, or maybe just never noticed. You duck your head and turn back to the stitches.

“If you pull these again, you’ll be sewing them up yourself,” you mutter.

“Well, how else am I supposed to see you?” Jeno asks. “You only ever make time for me when I’m bleeding.” Despite his earlier complaints, he doesn’t flinch as you begin the sutures. In fact, he doesn’t show any sign that he’s even noticed.

You roll your eyes. “That's because I took an oath. Something about saving lives, and something about ‘no matter how much I want to take a hot shower and pass out for the next twelve hours, I’m legally obligated to keep my weird neighbor alive when he shows up begging for help.’”

“Who said anything about begging?”

You pause, needle in hand. “I can leave you like this, you know. You can finish it yourself if you really want to.” And you know he can. You’ve seen the scars. So many scars, which tell the story he hasn’t told you: the oldest on his forearm, perfectly straight, the result of a real surgery; the thick ones on his back that look like they were never stitched up; the cut on his arm that looks like it tore through muscle yet was carefully stitched up; the scar on the back of his neck that looks like it should have broken his neck; and the angry red scar on his left knee that he said he stitched up himself a couple months before you moved in next door.

You open your mouth to tell him he’s really on his own now, but Jeno says, “I guess I can beg.”

You pause, then say. “That’s just terrible.” You have to look away so you continue the stitches. “You can do way better than that.”

“Oh, YN, great saver of lives,” Jeno says, “please do me the great honor of stitching me up. Again.”

You hum. “Better but still room for improvement.”

“I would die without you. I would get on my knees if I could. Please, please, do not stop stitching me up.”

You grin at him and almost get a smile back, his eyes truly warm. You take it as a win—or at least a vast improvement from how he was two months ago. You finish the stitches, sitting up straight.

“I don’t suppose you’ll sit still long enough to let these actually heal, will you?” Not that you know how long that is. You noticed a while back that most of his injuries heal far faster than they should. He shouldn’t need to come to you for minor injuries yet he does, over and over again. It doesn’t make any sense, but as long as he keeps showing up on your couch, you’ll keep taking care of him.

Jeno looks at you like he wants to say something but isn’t sure if he should. Maybe this is it. He’ll finally tell you exactly how he gets his scars. How he became the Red Hood.

Instead, he says, “Nah, probably not.”

You sit back on the couch beside him, sighing. “I watched a seven hour surgery today, and you know what I learned?”

“Hm?” He turns, cheek resting on the couch. For a moment you see the boy again, cast in gold from the afternoon sunlight. You can just picture his smile, the way his whole face melts into a gooey happiness. You blink and he’s gone.

“Surgeons are dicks,” you blurt out, forgetting what you were going to say. “They never want to believe patients, and I get it, sometimes they’re annoying and think they know best, but this girl came in three months ago complaining about pain and Dr. Park called her a junkie. She came back in today and collapsed in the waiting room because he never actually examined her.

“She was having a heart attack, and if he just listened the first time, it might have been salvageable, but the second one ripped her heart to shreds. Dr. Nakamoto said he’d never seen someone survive a heart that looked like that.”

“But she did survive?” Jeno asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “For now. She needs a heart transplant, though, so it’s a waiting game.”

He nods.

“I don’t get why Dr. Park or any of the other doctors couldn’t run a simple EKG. It’s not difficult and it would have saved her life but they took one look at her and assumed she was a junkie,” you say, “and I can’t even complain about it because Dr. Lee will just say some shit like ‘medical decisions are more difficult than you think’ because that’s easier than actually checking if his surgical team gives a shit about their patients beyond death rates.”

You sigh. “The worst part is, they aren’t even bad doctors. They know the medicine, and the procedures they can do—it’s really incredible. I don’t know, sometimes I worry you can only be good at medicine or good with patients, and it’s impossible to be both.”

“You really think that?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “I’m just tired.”

Jeno nods, letting silence settle between you. It’s far too comfortable to just sit with him like this, a peaceful solidarity you’ve only ever felt with him. You won’t give it meaning, won’t think about it any more than another afternoon on the couch together. That’s all this is.

“I should take a shower,” you say.

“I should get back to my place,” Jeno says. Neither of you move.

Lee Jeno doesn’t consider himself to be consumed with rage, despite what the headlines say. Yeah, the mask is intense, but he doesn’t use it to incite fear among all those who look upon his face. He just needed to keep his face hidden from Bruce (and, as much as it pains him to admit Bruce might be right about anything, he can’t deny that keeping his identity hidden is ultimately the right move).

He tosses the magazine on his desk. He’s got to stop reading the tabloids. They’re rotting his brain. But somehow they’re the only reliable source on the current crop of Joker’s little worshippers. Jeno still can’t believe it took him six months to realize the ads were calling for new recruits to the cult.

He feels the pit of anger, deep in his stomach, writhing at the thought of that man. Revenge would be too kind. Jeno will take him down, no matter what.

Maybe he’s a little consumed with rage.

But he can’t ignore the recent distractions. He’s spent the past week sitting behind the computer doing whatever investigative work he can, any excuse to avoid pulling the stitches again. You really didn’t seem like you were joking about making him do it next time, and it was a bitch to stitch up his knee on his own. The angle alone would make his ribs pretty much impossible.

Jeno sighs, tapping on his keyboard to bring the computer to life. Three monitors light up, the far left screen featuring the feeds of all the security cameras that show the apartment building that he very legally tapped into. The far right screen shows three different news feeds, local to Gotham, national news, and an international broadcast, volume off, subtitles on. The middle screen remains blank, ready for him to pull up whatever information he needs.

Hunt Joker. Get revenge.

It was simple when he first got his memories back. Those were his only goals. But then he had to train, become a better fighter, establish some sort of half-life in the city–which meant figuring out how to pay rent, which meant figuring out which billionaires he could reasonably steal from without them noticing. He admits it’s foolish to have Wayne Enterprises on the top of the list, but the bastard owes him.

Six months passed by before he finally set this place and a couple other safe houses up. And then another six passed, and Jeno is still no closer to revenge. He is supposed to be better than before, but all he’s done is steal some lunch money from people too rich to notice and take down a couple men who liked to pick on the weak. He hates that he did more in tights than he’s done becoming Red Hood.

He let his life become too simple. Day after day of hunting criminals and keeping them from hurting anyone ever again. It was freeing, no debriefings with idiots that would tell him that he should have acted differently—should have acted with more mercy. He makes his own decisions and no one is there to judge him. It’s proof he never needed anyone, even if hunting Joker is taking a little longer than it would if he had Wayne Enterprise resources.

And then you showed up.

He leans back in the chair, the joint squeaking. Jeno still doesn’t know what to make of you popping back into his life. He hasn’t been the kid you knew for so long he almost forgot about him. That kid died the day his parents yanked him out of school and moved to Gotham city. His parents worked back breaking shifts in one of the factories, while Jeno lasted a month in school before he realized he could stop going and no one would care. He learned how to survive Gotham quickly, and pretty soon he thrived. He barely even noticed when his parents died.

You bring back memories of suburbs and eating ice cream before it could melt onto his hand. He remembers this one time you were walking back home after school and you tripped and skinned your knee. There was so much blood, Jeno freaked out and thought he’d have to carry you (which he definitely couldn’t do back then), but you just stood up and gritted your teeth and walked all the way back. It didn’t surprise him at all to find out you’re a doctor now, not when you were always so hardcore.

It came in handy pretty quick, too, though he’ll at least admit to himself that his powers probably won’t let him die. It just turned into a routine for him, a nice way to end his day (though his work “day” generally ends at dawn).

But nice is for a boy that doesn’t exist, not for the justice he seeks. He can’t keep pretending to be someone he isn’t, and someone as smart as you can’t keep pretending to believe his lies. He focuses on the security feed, watching a dark sedan roll past.

He can keep avoiding you. It would be easy to clear out of here, especially when you spend most of your time at the hospital anyways. He could do it now—you’re in the middle of one of those endless shifts where you sleep in the hospital. You complain so much about being exhausted that he doubts you’d notice that he left, at least for a month. You’re not friends with him, Jeno doesn’t have friends. You just took an oath to save lives, and he forced you to save him. You wouldn’t even miss him.

But even as he contemplates it, he knows he can’t do it to you again. Even if all you are is the person that patches him up every other night, you deserve some explanation. A goodbye.

Rain begins to fall, slow at first, then a steady patter, the gentle wind strong enough to send the rain against the window.

He hears the truck engine rattling down the street before it finally comes into view on the top left camera. Strange, the bottom right camera covers the opposite side of the street but shows nothing. He keeps an eye on the truck, which rattles by, frowning at the bottom right screen.

Not just an empty street. Though the sky is dark in the background, the pavement and sidewalk are still dry. Jeno curses, getting to his feet and grabbing his belt. He loads the pistols, clipping on the extra ammo to his belt alongside the gadgets while keeping an eye on the other cameras, trying to see if he missed anything else. Two more screens play on a loop, the transition more obvious with the rain. He pulls on the mask, grateful he made it waterproof. His jacket is last, riddled with holes he never had the time to sew back together. He keeps his knife in his right hand, checking the cameras a final time—all showing empty loops—before ducking out the window onto the fire escape.

The jacket is thick enough to keep the rain from actually soaking him, but the cold seeps through. It brings an ache to his bones, an empty feeling like his body doesn’t quite belong to him. He presses a hand to his heart, the pressure bringing a new ache that reminds his body his heart still beats.

He jumps the rest of the way down from the fire escape, landing in a puddle of water that splashes beneath his boots, sending water up to his knees. He needs eyes on the situation. Ideally he’d go to the roof, but there’s too much daylight to be out in the open like that, turning him into a sitting duck. He opts for the alleyways instead, looping around the back of the building to where he can see the street without being seen. Whatever is going on, he needs to drive the action away from his place.

He scans the road, settling on the dark sedan parked in front of the corner store. It wasn’t on the security camera feed when he left, and as he watches, two tall men with dark hoods pulled over their heads slip out of the back seat. They approach the apartment building with the confidence of residents, though Jeno can tell from here they don’t. He memorized his neighbors a long time ago, but even if he hadn’t, Jeno has seen enough gangs to know bruisers when he sees them.

But who do they belong to? Who knows where Jeno lives? The people he’s been skimming from? He hasn’t been stealing enough to warrant this kind of a response. No, his life as Jeno couldn’t have attracted these men.

So it’s Red Hood? Anyone that knows about Red Hood should know better than to send two goons that could be taken out this easily. Jeno switches the knife to his left hand and pulls out a pistol, turning off the safety and cocking the hammer.

Before he can squeeze the trigger, he senses something, the rain behind him falling on something other than pavement. He drops to the ground and rolls until his back is against the wall and a dumpster protects his front. A bullet buries itself into the pavement where he had been standing a moment ago.

He moves again, vaulting over the dumpster, catching the man holding a pistol at the end of the alley by surprise. Still in the air, Jeno squeezes the trigger, hitting the man in the stomach. He lands on his feet and crosses the alley in two quick strides to kick the man as he falls. His hood falls off as he lands on his back, revealing an assuming face. Like the other men, Jeno has never seen him before.

Jeno kicks the gun out of his hand and snatches it from the pavement, slipping it into one of the extra holsters on his belt. He glances between the front of the building and the back. The two goons out front had to have heard the noise, which means he doesn’t have much time before they make it to the alley. But he’s got no idea what might be around the other corner.

He crosses back to the dumpster, keeping an eye on the man behind him as he waits. The man at the other end groans but doesn’t call out for his buddies. Rain overflows from the gutters, falling in spurts rather than droplets. Thirty seconds pass and Jeno only hears the rain. Are they waiting for him? Circling around to trap him between them?

He adjusts his grip on the knife in his left hand, holding it so that the blade is nearest to his pinky finger, his thumb wrapped around the bottom of the base. He keeps the blade facing out, stepping to the front of the apartment building. Instinct guides him to the left, giving him enough time to block the bat with his right arm, sending a shock up his shoulder.

He steps closer, letting the man—one of the goons from before—pull the bat back for another swing. Jeno swings the knife up, catching the man’s jacket but missing blood. He drops the knife and twists, turning so that the man is behind him and ducking to catch the arm still swinging the bat and flip the man over using his momentum and the bigger man’s weight. He hits the pavement hard, sending water splashing all over Jeno.

The second man catches up from the other end of the alley, firing wild shots that don’t come close to hitting him but force Jeno to step back. Jeno pulls a throwing star from his belt, sending it cutting through the air to knock the gun out of the man’s hand. With his right hand, he takes a shot at the man struggling to get off the ground, catching him in the back. He falls again and this time he doesn’t move.

The second man charges out of the alley, the throwing star gone from his hand, though it still drips blood. He has a crowbar in his other hand, like these guys want to be stereotypical goons. He moves about as well as the other man, all power and zero agility. Jeno dodges him easily, letting him take a couple swings before he shoots him in the head. The man drops a couple steps away from his buddy.

Jeno glances around but the dark sedan has left. No one else ventures out to investigate—probably because Jeno still holds a gun. He retrieves his knife and the throwing star, going back to the first man that he shot who still groans at the end of the alley. Blood mixes with the iridescent swirls of run off, red overtaking the blended greens and purples.

He kneels on his chest. Rain falls on the back of his mask“Who sent you?”

The man gurgles a laugh. “What’s it to you?”

Jeno pushes his knee a little harder. “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck you,” the man says. He tries to spit but the mix of blood and saliva ends up splattering on his own face. The man suddenly turns, moving with more strength than Jeno expected. At the same time that Jeno points his gun at the man’s head, the man pulls a gun from inside his coat, pressing it straight into Jeno’s stomach. Neither of them hesitate to pull the trigger.

Caution tape is up in the alley next to your apartment, but the rain seems to have washed away any sign of the crimes committed. It pounds into your head relentlessly, soaking you through your coat.

Though you’ve been living here less than a year, Gotham’s reputation has held true. Working in the hospital has given you even more experience with the diversity of types of people the city attracts—good, bad, and everything in between. You even worked on a guy who apparently turned out to be a Batman villain a few months ago.

Between working at the hospital and living in the city in general, you’ve gotten used to dissociating crime scenes with the sense that you’re actually in danger. Besides, you live next door to a vigilante. Who are you to say this is even a crime scene?

You don’t think anything of it until you open your apartment door and catch the unfortunately familiar scent of blood. Wind and rain crash through the open window, pulling your stumbling feet forward to find the source of the blood.

Jeno didn’t make it to the couch this time. He lies just inside the windowsill, barely sitting up with his back against the wall. One hand clutches his stomach, red blood spilling over the black shirt. His head hangs low, hair soaked by that rain that still falls on him through the open window. The red mask sits in his other hand.

For a scary moment, he doesn’t move.

You drop your bag, rushing to him. You can’t stop your voice from shaking. “Jeno?”

He groans when you shake his arm. “Ow.”

You curse as you slam the window shut and lay him out on his side, keeping his hand over the wound until you can get a better gauge on what it is. “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

He doesn’t answer, only groaning as you try to reach your medical bag while keeping pressure on the wound. You finally get it to the ground, pulling out the scissors and slicing through the shirt so that you can see the wound—a gaping hole framed by bullet fragments where his stomach should be.

“Fuck.” He needs a hospital, a surgeon that’s done more than assist on an appendectomy, but you can’t bring yourself to dial 911. It would bring too many questions on Jeno, who has clearly avoided hospitals for a reason. And he came to you. He trusts you, even if you don’t trust yourself. You have to save him, if only because you’re the only option.

You set out the equipment, spraying them with alcohol to sterilize them and get ready to cut.

“Don’t you dare die,” you say, gripping the scalpel.

“Already did that,” Jeno mutters, eyes fluttering. “Didn’t agree with me.”

You gape at him but he seems to have slipped back into unconsciousness. You force yourself to look back at the bullet hole. You can only yell at him if he’s alive, so you push away the thoughts and get to work, replacing any insecurity with arrogant belief that you know what you’re doing.

Death is nothing like falling asleep. For one thing, it fucking hurts. Jeno supposes the method might have played a factor. He used to think getting shot point blank might be better than being beaten for hours and then blown up (he now has the experience to decidedly answer that question: marginally better). But death itself. It hurts.

And resurrection? All the pain of death with none of the peaceful end. Jeno remembers crawling out of the ground, forcing his muscles to work even though his body still suffered from the wounds that killed him.

But it was the pain that forced him to keep moving, the pain that still fuels him now, a never ending ache deep inside that no time will heal.

Joker may have held the bat, but Batman didn’t stop him. He never stopped him. Jeno remembers the look on his face, the shadowed glimpse of it that he could see. He remembers dying, hearing the Joker cackle, and Batman calling out to him—calling him Robin.

He remembers the pain. Pain he can live with. Pain makes him who he is. He can’t let go of the pain, not when it is all that he is.

But the pain ebbs away when you’re around. And for the life of him he can’t convince himself that it’s a bad thing.

You manage to get Jeno into your bed after you finish patching him up—which was six grueling hours of pulling bullet fragments from the hole and praying he didn’t bleed out. No one should have been able to survive the amount of blood that seeped out of him but by some miracle (though maybe it’s a curse), his heart keeps pumping.

He woke up just long enough to let you sling an arm under his shoulders and half carry him into the bed. You spent the entire time praying he wouldn’t pull apart the stitches and bleed out for real, but it seems like luck was finally on your side.

You should get up. You should clean up the blood, or at least wash it from your hands. You can only find the energy to drag your armchair next to the bed and sit beside him. His chest rises and falls with even breaths.

Still alive, for now.

He mumbles again, voice too low to make out any words. His eyes flutter but remain closed. Does a man like him dream?

“What happened to you?” Your voice cracks. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t show any sign that he can hear you. “You disappear for weeks at a time. You rarely show up when you aren’t bleeding. But you never talk about it, and you don’t smile anymore. I don’t think I know you anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.”

You managed to hold back your tears, push all the emotions away to keep him alive but they come flooding back now. Tears spill over as you watch him breathe.

“Your heart keeps beating but are you really alive?” You ask.

He doesn’t answer.

You moved to Gotham in August. The heat was so bad that crime rates were down–making it miserable to carry box after box up two flights of stairs since the building didn't have an elevator. You’d only been here twice before, both times on school trips, never on your own.

But your friends all live back in your college town, and your parents were busy dealing with a lawsuit against your neighbor for the mailbox war, so you were stuck moving on your own—which wasn’t all that terrible since the apartment came half furnished. Still, you had to figure out a way to get a mattress up the stairs, along with a car full of clothes and all the rest of your belongings. Between the heat and the prospect of stairs, you weren’t exactly stoked about living in the city.

Two trips had you wheezing for air, leaning outside your door to catch your breath. The door to the apartment next to yours swung open. You hoped someone wasn’t already complaining about the noise you were making. Instead a tall, broad shouldered man stepped out, wearing a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants.

He turned around, revealing cold eyes and a face that looked like it spent most of its time frowning. But behind it all something familiar called to you, buried deep behind the bitter front. You remembered a boy who cried because he stubbed his toes, a boy who would fight you to make a wish on every dandelion that lined the sidewalk on the walk home.

He froze, a tiny frown in his brow. “YN?”

“Jeno?”

You set down the tote, stepping around it to get a better look at him. Your eyes jumped between his, trying to decipher the hardness behind them. Though it had been over ten years, you still thought of the sweet boy who lived next door often, always wondering what happened to him.

It seemed that the years had not been kind to him. Though he grew taller and filled out considerably, he had an emptiness behind his eyes, the kind that comes from too much hurt. He looked like it had been years since he last smiled. He barely seemed to react to you, guarding every expression as if you could be some sort of threat.

“You’re taller,” you finally said.

“It has been a while,” he said.

“I think ten years qualifies as more than a while,” you said.

He just nodded. “You’ve moved here?”

“Just today,” you said, gesturing to the boxes.

“You’re on your own?”

You shrugged. “My parents are bringing a load later in the week, so it’s really not that much stuff.” You paused but Jeno didn’t run away, so you figured it was safe to ask, “How long have you been living here?”

“In Gotham since I left.” He pauses, eyes flicking between yours. For a moment you think he’ll tell you everything. Then he says, “Here specifically, only about six months.”

You should have asked. Maybe it would have made things simpler, maybe you wouldn’t be dancing between fantasy and reality, balancing a tedious act of ignorance.

Instead you asked him if he’d help you move your mattress and what the pizza delivery situation was like.

Jeno wakes up sometime in the middle of the night. You snap awake from your dozing as he shifts.

“Sit still,” you say. “I don’t think I can put you back together if you fall apart this time.”

Jeno blinks. Even in the darkness you can see eyes are still glazed over in confusion.

“You were shot,” you explain. “Point blank from the looks of it.”

“Ah,” he says. His soft voice carries in the quiet hours of the night. “That’s what hurts.”

“Never make me do that again.” Your voice shakes despite your best attempts to steady it. The tears from earlier try to weasel their way back out of your eyes. “You should have died.”

He reaches out, except he really must be feeling weak because his hand barely makes it to the edge of the bed before it hangs limp.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles. “Didn’t want to get shot.”

You blink back the tears as anger courses its way through you. “I don’t think anybody gets shot on purpose,” you snap.

He tries to snort but it ends up sounding like a short exhale through his nose. “Fair enough.”

“I’m not a good enough doctor for all of this,” you say. “This isn’t a hospital. I don’t have sterile equipment, or a blood bank, or an extra set of hands, I mean, if anything worse happens, you could be in real danger and there’s nothing I could do about it, and I can’t—” You pause, taking a deep breath. “I don’t like when I have to admit I can’t do something, but with you, it feels like that’s all I can do.”

“You saved my life,” he says. “It doesn’t really feel like you couldn’t do it.”

“It was a pretty fucking close call,” you say. “Gunshot wounds aren’t particularly easy, and you had to go and get shot in the stomach.”

He shifts, hand running over his torso beneath the blanket. “I didn't pop the stitches, though,” he says. “I gotta get some points for that.”

You glare at him, though he probably can’t see it in the darkness. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to be serious.”

“So am I,” he says, “it was not easy. I sat still for two full days. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done that?”

Ask. Get a real answer from him. Stop shying away from who he really is. You have to talk about it.

“Well, get used to it,” you say. “You’re staying in this bed. I don’t care if I have to tie you down.”

Jeno actually smiles. It’s been far too long since you’ve seen that smile, softening the hard lines and curling his face into something sweet. “I could be into that,” he jokes.

And maybe it’s because there are blood stains on your shirt that will never come out and you haven’t slept in about thirty hours and you came far too close to losing the only person you really care about, but you laugh. “Just shut up and get some rest.”

“You should rest too,” Jeno says. “You look terrible.”

“Yeah, well it’s your fault,” you say.

He pauses then says, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well, don’t apologize.” You sniffle. “It’s harder to be mad at you.”

He smiles again, and you can’t even pretend to be mad at him anymore. It’s too hard on your heart, which has been through far too much for any more lies. You smile back at him.

After a day, Jeno can walk around on his own. You called out sick from work, despite his insistence that he’d be fine on his own. He had to bribe you to convince you to sleep on the couch, since you would barely let him go to the bathroom, let alone move back to his own room. He won’t complain too much, though. He forgot how nice it is to wake up to someone.

He sways on his feet, holding a hand up to stop you from helping him. He forces even breaths, determined to make it to the couch without any help.

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat for the thousandth time.

“I told you I’m fine,” he grunts. Two more steps and he’s there. He takes a deep breath, ignoring the way his entire lower half screams at him. One more step.

He collapses onto the couch more than anything, but he makes it. He lets himself slouch a little, head resting against the back of the couch. How many times has he sat here like this? So many hours spent waiting for you, watching the sun inch across the room. But most of the time it’s been like this—you at the opposite end, always a cushion separating him from you.

The fake wooden floor is stained deep red, pooled around where he laid while you worked on him. He wonders what would have happened if you weren’t there. When he first came back he thought he was invincible, and his healing has saved him from a lot–but he’s never truly put it to the test. Could he have survived without you?

His mask still sits where he pulled it off underneath the windowsill. He peeks at you from the corner of his eyes, your head turned towards it. Say something.

You stare at the mask, clearing your throat. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for that shitty costume,” you say. “You don’t even have armor.”

“YN,” Jeno says but you refuse to look at him.

“Seriously, walking around dressed like a vigilante is going to get you killed.”

“YN. You know it’s not a costume.”

“What, you made it yourself? That’s even worse, I mean, it’s one thing to dress up like these guys but trying to be one of them, that’s just plain stupid. I can’t believe—”

Jeno shifts to the center cushion and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, forcing you to look at him. “I am one of them.”

He lets go of your wrist and watches you process the words, trying to figure out any other meaning. Your eyes dart between his, panicked and desperate. For whatever reason, you don’t want to admit it, and it’s been fine. But Jeno is tired of feeling like he’s lying to you.

“I know,” you finally say, sighing and looking away again. He hates that it feels like he’s let you down. But he won’t apologize for who he is.

“Why didn’t you ever ask about what happened after I left?” He asks.

You’re quiet for a long moment. “I think I was afraid. It didn’t take long to realize what you were—or at least that you were wrapped up in something twisted—and then it was obvious whatever happened to you here wasn’t good, and I wasn’t sure if I should know that.”

Jeno nods, gaze traveling to the window. He can see some scattered rooftops, mostly shorter residential buildings of the area. Farther in the distance, skyscrapers stick out. He’s spent more years in this city than not, grown to love it like family. But unlike family, the city doesn’t love him back. It’s not capable of it. No matter how much of his blood lines the streets, Jeno will only ever be one of millions that call the city home.

Yes, what happened to him here wasn’t good. But it wasn’t all bad, and it’s not over yet. He won’t give up on the city just because of the past.

And there’s you now. He has these moments where his heart beats so hard it feels like his chest will burst in the good way. He no longer ceases to exist when he isn’t fighting. Jeno worms his way back into reality, not separate from Red Hood, but no longer overshadowed by him.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think these past couple weeks,” Jeno says. “Time to figure out what I want. For the longest time, it was revenge. It didn’t matter how I got it, how many people had to die. I would avenge myself no matter what.

“And then you came into my life, and I would catch myself wondering what would have happened if I could have stayed back then, how different my life would be. I even wondered what would happen if I took off the mask, permanently.

“But this is all I know how to be, and, I think even when I get my revenge, I won’t be able to leave this life behind.” He pauses, tilting his head away from the window and waiting until you meet his eyes. “I don’t want to die again. I don't want to live this miserable half life where all I think about is getting back at the people who wronged me. I want to live, and when I’m with you, I feel alive.”

You stare at him, eyes adorably wide. Maybe he's been a little too good at keeping his feelings hidden. It’s alright. He can wait for you to work it all out. It’s not like he’s got anywhere to be.

“I like being with you,” he says. “I like who I am when I’m around you, and I like you. I mean, you’re stubborn and you always have to have the last word.” He smiles at your bewildered eyes. “But you care so much, not just about me, or your patients, but about everyone, and everything.

“Like your little houseplants that keep dying no matter what you do. I mean, it’s hilarious that you can save my life but you can’t keep a succulent alive. Or the way you talk about the street cats, and even the rats. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had sympathy for the cockroaches.” He finally manages to cut the rambling off. For a long moment you’re too quiet, and he begins to feel the inklings of fear worming its way up his stomach.

“I don’t know about that,” you finally say, voice soft. “I think they might be radioactive here.”

He waits but you don’t say anything else. He knows he shouldn’t ask, that he already has his answer. Still, he can’t help it. “That’s all you have to say?”

Your eyes slide to the floor. “I… I don’t know.”

“You feel something,” he says, reaching a tentative hand out to rest on top of yours. You freeze beneath him, eyes darting between his hand and his eyes like you can’t decide which you’re scared of more.

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” he pleads. “Tell me you feel at least a fraction of the way I do.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “I do care about you,” you begin slowly, “I care about you too much. You have this life, and I know you need it, and I want you to have everything that you want, I just don’t think I can be a part of it when it inevitably destroys you.”

He squeezes your hand. “It won’t destroy me,” he says, “I won’t let it.”

“You died.” Your voice shakes. “I don’t think I could handle that.”

“I won’t let that happen again!” Jeno says. “Things are different now, I’m not the same person I was when I died.”

He won’t die again. He’s sure of it, not just because he’s learned from his mistakes but because he has something else to live for now. He has more than the family that pushed him to be more than he could, he has his own life, goals outside of revenge. But grounding it all is you, the first person he thinks of, always. He won’t die when it would hurt you this much.

“Even if you could promise that, it’s not enough.” You look away from him. “I don’t want to die either, and it seems like that’s inevitable around people like you. The loved ones always die first.”

He opens his mouth to say he would never let that happen but the words die in his throat. He can’t guarantee that, and one look at you proves even if he could it wouldn’t matter. It’s not enough.

“I think I love you,” he whispers.

You smile sadly. “I think I love you too. I wish it was that simple.”

He sighs, resting his head against the couch cushion. “I don’t suppose supreme embarrassment is a good enough reason to let me go back to my own apartment, is it?”

He watches you purse your lips out of the corner of his eye. He pretends not to see the tears threatening to spill over.

“I have to go back to work,” you say, voice steady. “I suppose sleeping in your own bed won’t be a problem.” You turn stern. “As long as you swear you’ll actually rest.”

Jeno winces. “I don’t think I can do anything else.”

“And yet you will,” you say. Jeno knows it’s worthless to argue, especially when he really can’t promise he won’t do anything. He goes where he’s needed.

But until then, he’s perfectly happy to wallow in the embarrassment of getting shot and shot down.

(please enjoy a brief interlude until i figure out how to fix thing shitshow)

The city always smells cleaner after a good storm. You enjoy walking to work, though the piercing wail of sirens makes it harder to appreciate the way the city almost smells like spring. Green has returned, sprouts of grass and early flowers blooming. You can walk and breathe and pretend like your heart isn’t dragging along behind you.

Jeno haunts you. You dared to check on him before leaving and found he has reverted back to the one word answers and solemn expressions, a shadow of a person. He barely even looks at you, and you can’t even blame him. You’ve done more than break his heart; you can bear the consequences of doing so.

Because it doesn’t really matter. He will keep getting hurt and you will keep patching him up. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.

Even if you can’t stop dreaming about him.

An ambulance wails past, turning into the hospital. You try your best to push the Jeno thoughts away, preparing yourself for the inevitably grueling day. You push open the doors, the security guards now familiar. You smile at them, the movement of the muscles feeling foreign, and take the elevators to the fourth floor, heading to the locker room for the surgical interns.

You’ve barely changed into your scrubs when Jaemin appears.

“Wow,” he says, biting into an apple. “You look terrible.”

You glare at him. “You look worse. How long have you been here?”

He shrugs. “I got a whole six hours of sleep in an on-call room, so I’m actually doing great. You, on the other hand, look like you spent the two days fighting guys who wear pinstripe suits and call their henchmen goons.” He eyes you for a moment. “And you lost.”

“That’s pretty much how I feel,” you say. “Though I still think you act like the criminals in this city are cartoon villains.”

“The aquarium was attacked by a crocodile-man last week and the guy that stopped him cosplays as a bat,” Jaemin says. “I don’t know how you take any of this seriously.”

It helps when you have a melodramatic version of the bat guy bleeding out on your couch every other week, you think.

“I don’t know, being afraid for my life helps,” you say.

“Oh the crocodile guy just wanted to free his people,” Jaemin waves his hand. “He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”

“His name is Killer Croc.”

“Semantics,” Jaemin says. “But seriously, you’re okay? Nothing happened?”

You shrug. “I just haven’t gotten enough sleep, I’ll be fine. Why are you acting so weird?”

“You haven’t heard?” Jaemin asks. “Dr. Moon and Dr. Jung were both attacked three days ago. Dr. Jung is in the ICU and Dr. Moon is still missing.”

“What happened?”

“Police don’t really know yet,” Jaemin says, “but it’s connected. These big guys in suits with these weird black hoods were seen around both of their places before the attacks. They found Jaehyun in his apartment, beaten pretty bad, he’s been in a coma ever since.”

“Wow,” you say. You’ve worked with both of them quite a bit. You spent a week learning about skin grafts with Dr. Moon, a star plastic surgeon. Jaehyun gave you an extra shower curtain when you mentioned you tore yours when a cockroach crawled up your shower brain while you were in it. They’re both good, nice people, not the type to get involved in trouble—definitely not trouble like this.

“Is Jaehyun going to be okay?”

Jaemin purses his lips and shrugs. “Still not sure. He had some pretty serious injuries, most of which were patched up but apparently he had some bad head trauma. They called in the Lee Taemin from Central.”

“You didn’t shit your pants meeting your hero?”

“YN,” Jaemin says sharply, “a good friend of mine was in the hospital, and the best neurosurgeon in the country, the guy I will one day convince to be my mentor, was called in to save his life. Of course I was shitting my pants.”

“Did you get to meet him?”

“I thought it would be weird to introduce myself to him, but I did happen to visit Jaehyun while he stopped by, and happened to mention I wanted to pursue neuro when he asked.”

“And?”

“And he said it was a smart decision. Or said only the smartest thrive. He’s very confusing.”

“So basically you’re obsessed?”

“Yep.”

You lean against the metal lockers, letting the cold press against the back of your neck. You think about Jaehyun, hooked up to machines with a whole team of doctors, including a star doctor, all working to keep him alive. How long will it be before that’s Jeno, except no machines, no team, just you? How long before you won’t be enough?

Jeno has discovered all there is to know about his ceiling. There’s eleven cracks, tiny fissures in the paint that’s at least ten years old. The color is off white, not cream, though in the corner above the door, they did a touch up with a paint that has slightly more blue. He can tell what time it is from the angle of the light coming through the window.

He’s beginning to run out of things to learn.

He misses you, so much. He wonders what your ceiling looks like, if it’s got its own little galaxy of cracks. He misses sitting on your couch, knowing that he’d see you soon.

He can’t remember the last time he got out of bed, and he can’t even blame it on the gunshot wound. He's not fully recovered, but he doesn’t need to lay in bed all day. He should be up and moving, keeping himself in shape, or at least hunting down the guys who attacked him. All he managed to do was set up an alert with the license plate of the car he saw, feeding it through all the security cameras he could get access to.

But otherwise he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling.

Getting this dejected over a rejection makes him feel like a teenager—not that he ever went through this during his teenage years. He can put on the mask and be Red Hood, but Jeno? He doesn’t know how to be Jeno alone, he doesn’t want to learn. He had his parents when he was younger, then Bruce, and Dick, and the family that began to grow among them. Despite all he used to whine, he’s never truly been alone.

Will he be alone now? Will Jeno even exist without the people around him to keep him going? Or will he truly become Red Hood, letting the man behind the mask cease to exist.

He knows what Bruce would say. The mask can’t exist without the man. But Bruce is the reason he put a mask on in the first place. He can philosophize all day long, it’s his fault Jeno ever died. He doesn’t have to listen to the man’s words.

Jeno rests his hand over the wound. He hardly feels the ridge where the stitches are. He wonders how the wound will scar.

It doesn’t make any sense but even though his body heals unnaturally fast, the scars remain. It’s like his body remembers dying and wants to remind him—even though he came back once and he’s stronger than ever before—he’s still human.

And there’s nothing more human than a broken heart. He should be grateful it’s only metaphorical.

Jeno sighs. The worst part is he knows how dramatic he’s being. But it’s only been 28 hours. He can allow himself a little bit of time for the dramatics. Bruce takes like a month off when a civilian dies under his watch.

He pulls his blanket closer, wondering if it’s too far to put on some music—something loud, maybe.

Instead he hears a ding, a notification from his computer. He sits up a little too fast, feeling a tug on his stitches, though they don’t fall apart.

He can’t spare too much thought to them, not when his screen lights up with feed from a security camera, zoomed in to show the license plate of a dark sedan, the numbers he remembers. It rolls past, camera shifting down the block as Jeno drops into his chair, typing rapidly until the screen zooms out. The larger screen reveals the sedan is one of many, traveling in a line together.

He sets up the second monitor to plot their movements across the city, a bright red line tracing the few turns they take.

The windows of each car are tinted, concealing those within. But, with his previous encounter, it’s safe to assume there’s plenty of hired muscle in the six cars. It could be anywhere between fifteen and thirty men, headed this way.

He watches them draw closer, tapping his finger on the desk. They caught him by surprise last time. On a good day, he wouldn’t sweat odds this bad, but it’s not a good day. He can still feel his insides healing.

It’ll be a tough fight, but he’s planned for this. He’ll rig the place, take down as many as he can and get to one of the other safe houses.

The Jeno that lived here will disappear. And it will be for the best.

He changes into his suit, moving as fast as he can without hurting himself. He stuffs as many weapons as he can into his pockets, his belt weighing extra heavy around his waist.

Then he gets to work on the bomb. A smaller explosive, more of a popper than a true bomb, but enough to take out his computer and all of the evidence he’s left behind here.

He wonders if the police will come. Will they question you? Surely someone has noticed he spends a lot of time with you. You’d never give him up, but would you defend him? Would you go on television, tell the world Red Hood is just a man? You’d look good on television.

You wouldn’t though. You wouldn’t say a word, not to the cops, not to anyone.

He’s really going to miss you.

He checks the map. Still five blocks away. Except… The cameras first picked up the sedans in the upper east part of the city, by the Sprang River. They mostly traveled west from there, they’re still north of him.

They stop at a light, just two blocks away. He watches, waiting for them to turn.

The sedans roll straight ahead, passing the apartment. He frowns, staring at the screen but the cars keep going, one block, two, and then they pull to a stop.

Jeno curses, grabbing the keys to his bike. It was never about him.

The sun peeks through the windows of the hospital, the only sign time passes. The setting sun casts the parking lot in gold, making even the ugliest cars shine. You pause to peek outside, for once not in a rush. You have to scrub in with Dr. Qian in twenty minutes, but until then, you have a rare moment of freedom.

Because you’re standing at the window, you see the exact moment the cars pull up. They form a line, like a row of beetles, stopping in front of the entrance, blocking the parked cars. As soon as they roll to a stop, the doors fly open, men streaming out all wearing black hoods. They line up in front of the car closest to the entrance, whose doors had remained closed since stopping. The driver exits first, another hooded man, though considerably smaller than the rest. He opens the door to the backseat, head bowed low.

The man in the backseat takes his time. Pale hands peek out of the carefully fitted suit, the only open skin you can see. He steps out from the car and the line of men bend into sharp bows. He closes the door and you finally get a full look at him: from the suit to his shoes, he wears all black, but most striking is the black mask that covers his face. It melts into his suit, keeping every inch of his skin hidden save for his hands.

He must say something, because the men straighten and vanish from your view, streaming into the hospital.

Is it too late to alert security? There has to be twenty men, and with how Jaehyun looks, you doubt they’ll be able to hold them off. 911, then? It’ll take the cops forever to respond, and it’s too late. They’re already here.

You could call him. He’d come.

Despite all your instincts screaming at you to hide, you turn around. The lobby is packed with the final rush of visitors, and 9-to-5 staff getting ready to leave for the day. It’ll be safer to pack in with them than be caught on your own, and maybe you can warn security before mass panic breaks out. You rush down the hall to the large open space in the front of the hospital.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but everything feels too normal. A father holds his child’s hand as they walk to the bathroom. A nurse whispers furiously into her phone. An elderly couple hold hands, clipboards to the side of them. You scan the small crowd, looking for a security guard.

Instead you find a brute of a man, black hood tipping back as he raises a gun above his head and fires it a couple times.

“Everybody quiet!” He growls. “On the ground!”

You drop into a squat, hands automatically coming above your head as screams echo. Someone yanks on your coat, knocking you off balance. Your heart nearly stops but it’s just Jaemin pulling you to sit beside him with a wall at your back instead of the open hallway.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You slide into a seated position, back against the wall. Jaemin crouches next to you, keeping one hand on the wheelchair of the patient he must have been with before all of this. You peek at him and recognize him as Yoon Jeonghan, the guy that got hit by a truck while biking. He looks like he’s trying to decide if he’s included in the “on the ground” order.

The goons pick on a couple people, shoving them to the ground.

“Hands above your heads!” One of them orders, pointing his gun at random. You raise your hands again, Jaemin following more reluctantly.

Ten minutes pass as goons escort people from all over the hospital, the lobby quickly becoming packed. Half the patients are in wheelchairs, clinging to IV drips while the doctors and nurses glare at the men. Finally, it seems they have collected everybody, and a quiet tension falls over the room.

Then the man in the black mask strolls in.

“What’s the saying?” He asks, muffled voice carrying in the open space. “If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.” He clasps his hands behind his back, strolling along, peeking at the cowering hostages.

“He doesn’t have a pinstripe suit,” Jaemin whispers.

“I don’t even think he’ll call the henchmen goons,” you whisper back.

Jaemin shakes his head. He’d probably tsk if he didn’t think it would get you both killed.

“I bet they’ll still beat us up,” you whisper.

“If you don’t shut up, they definitely will,” Jeonghan mutters.

Jaemin rolls his eyes and makes a face at you. You bite back a smile. You’ve tempted fate enough.

“The name you all will know me by is Black Mask,” he announces.

This time you can’t help the smile, turning away from Jaemin to prevent yourself from laughing out loud. Even Jeonghan mutters, “Very creative.”

“I have a list, you see,” Black Mask continues, “people that owe me. They know what they’ve done. I promise if your name is not on that list and you don’t make a fuss, no harm will come to you. I’m a reasonable man.”

Reasonable men don’t play dress up and shoot up hospitals, but you figure he’s due for a dramatic speech. At least he’s explaining why he’s here.

Black Mask pauses in front of one of the nurses—Shotaro, a good nurse who you’ve worked with several times. He grabs him by the shoulder, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“This one,” Black Mask announces, waving at his goons to pick Shotaro up. They half drag him away as Black Mask continues to make his way through the crowd.

“This is more efficient, you know,” he says. “I’ve tried other methods, but there were some complications. So, I thought to myself, if you’re all in one place, why not just go to the source?” He points at another nurse, Sehun, but Dr. Bae steps in front of him. Black Mask pauses, tilting his head to peer at her before gesturing to the goons to drag them both away. Dr. Bae puts up a fight, trying to twist out of their grip, but one of the men tosses her over his shoulder and carries her out. Sehun follows, stumbling behind.

Dr. Moon, Jaehyun, Shotaro, Sehun, and Dr. Bae, though it seems like she wasn’t originally a target. All good, hard workers, not the type to make mistakes, definitely not collectively. You watch as Black Mask creeps closer and closer.

You’ve worked with all of them. Only a few months ago, a case of a man with terrible burns on his face. Your blood runs cold as Black Mask stops in front of you. You stand up, a heartbeat before he points.

“You,” Black Mask says, venom seeping into his voice. “You owe me.”

“I remember you,” you say, keeping your voice soft.

“You remember what you did to me,” he says.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, “and neither did anyone else in this hospital.”

He raises a hand and smacks you, and before you can react, two of his men grab your arms, dragging you away whether your feet move or not. You try to think of something witty or smart, but all you can think is how much you don’t want to die.

They take you to the stairs, carrying you up two flights of stairs before depositing you in an empty patient room. One of the men stays with you, guarding the door, while the other vanishes.

You glare at the man, face stinging. Jeno would tell you not to provoke a psychopath.

But Jeno’s not here. You shouldn’t want him to be, because even if he could be here, he would only get himself hurt, and you won’t be responsible for causing him any more pain.

He said he loved you, even after all he’s been through. He wasn’t afraid.

You don’t want Jeno here, not to save the day. But it’d be nice to apologize to him. And if there was only one person you could say goodbye to before you died, you’d want it to be Jeno.

Maybe you do want Jeno to save the day. Just so you can apologize. Just so you can tell him you were wrong. Just so you can finally admit the truth.

Jeno’s bike screeches to a stop a block away from the hospital. He parks it in an alley, covering it with a tarp and trusting that the locks will prevent anyone from stealing it. He hopes he’s swiped it from the impound lot enough times for the police to leave it alone too.

He climbs to the roof of the nearest building, moving painfully slow, between the pull of the stitches and the exhaustion of healing such a large wound. But from here he can see the line of black cars in front of the hospital, the setting sun reflecting on the metal, making it difficult to see. He switches to infrared, the mask buzzing a couple times before picking up on the mass of bodies in the main lobby. Majority of the building is far too empty for a place of medicine.

From his memory of studying the schematics on an off day, he remembers the west facing wing houses the operating rooms, which explains why the infrared picks up a couple small masses. But with the rest of the hospital empty, the four rooms on the third floor stand out. Each holds two bodies, one significantly larger than the other.

That’s where he’ll start.

A better fighter would get a better gauge of the situation. Maybe spend more time determining which are civilians and which are hostiles, or figure out exactly where they’re holding people. But Jeno has always worked best flying by the seat of his pants. He still doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but these must be the hostages important enough to separate from the main group.

It would be safest if you were on the first floor, just one of many in the crowd, but the selfish part of Jeno wants you to be where he can see you. Where he can save you.

He can’t waste any more time. He shoots the grappling gun, pulling on it to build momentum even faster and angle himself directly at the window. It shatters beneath his feet, and he tucks into a tight ball, rolling once before springing onto his feet. He ducks as the big man swings a crowbar at him, wincing at the sharp pain near his stomach. He takes a quick strike with his knife, slashing up across the stomach first, then across the throat, finally driving the knife into the man’s heart. He crumples to the ground and doesn’t move.

Jeno pulls the blade out, wiping the blood from the knife on his pants and sheathing it. He turns around to find a figure in a white lab coat, cowering in the corner of the room, hands over their head, glass shards scattered around them.

He crouches down in front of you, brushing the glass off your shoulder. You peek up at him, eyes softening as you recognize him even though you’ve never seen him in the mask before. There’s a small cut on your cheek. His thumb moves on its own, swiping at the blood and doing nothing but spread more on your face.

“Are you okay?” Jeno asks. The modulator of the mask twists his voice into an unrecognizable beast. It’s perfect for protecting his identity and intimidating low lives, not so great for comforting the scared victims. Maybe he should tweak that part of the suit, make it adjustable. But you don’t flinch, standing up and shaking the rest of the glass off.

“I’m fine,” you say. “How did you get here so fast?”

“These are the same guys that shot me,” Jeno says. “I had a tracker out on the car, which led me here.”

“Sionis,” you say. Jeno frowns. He knows that name.

“Roman Sionis, that’s the guy doing all of this,” you explain. “He was a patient three months ago, really bad damage to his face. He’s targeting the team responsible for his care, doctors, nurses, everyone he blames for what happened to his face.”

“Which includes you,” Jeno says.

You nod, eyes tight. “Which means they weren’t after you when you got shot.”

“Hey,” Jeno says. “I’m fine. You patched me up, and I’ve got the super healing, so if either of us was going to get shot, I’d rather it be me. It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” you say, though you don’t sound like you believe it. “Should you really be jumping through windows, though?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t pull the stitches. I swear.”

You purse your lips but let it go. He wishes you would just say what you’re thinking but you look away from him, glancing at the door.

“They took three more of us up here, and they probably know you’re here by now.”

Jeno nods. Resolve the situation, then talk.

“I’m going to clear out the rooms one at a time,” he says, “then work my way downstairs.” He unholsters a gun, handing it to you. You raise an eyebrow.

“I’ve never used one of these.” You reluctantly take the gun out of his hands.

“Point and squeeze the trigger,” he says. “It’s semi-automatic, you don’t have to do anything to reload. If they’re close enough you won’t even have to aim.” He forms your hands around the gun, teasing your fingers into the right position and turning off the safety. He lets his hands linger, waiting for your eyes to meet his, though he remembers a moment later that the mask conceals them.

“Get the rest of the hostages and stay together,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He forces himself to let go of your hands but doesn’t step away yet.

He should say something else. Maybe apologize for what he said. Take it back. But he meant every word of it, even if you did too. He’s said all he can, and if that’s still not enough then at least you’re still alive.

“Go save the day,” you finally say. “Then… I’ll see you after.”

He nods, turning away and striding to the door, stepping over the body. “Wait for me to clear the rest of them, then get the hostages out of here.”

He pulls the door closed behind him, trusting that you will be fine on your own. He doesn’t have time to worry, ducking to dodge the knife that flies toward him. He doesn’t let the man get a second chance, sprinting as fast as he can and burying his knife in the man’s heart. He’s turning a second later, using the man’s body as a shield against the second man in the hall, who doesn’t hesitate to fire a couple shots. Jeno throws the first man’s body on him, his knife following quickly after, burying itself in the man’s forehead.

Like always, his pains melt away when he’s fighting. He barely feels the tug of the stitches, or the exhaustion he felt earlier. This body was made to kill, and that’s what he’ll do.

He ducks into the room next to yours, knocking the guard to the floor and stabbing him. The hostage, a woman wearing a white lab coat, stands.

“Wait here,” he says. “I’ll clear the rest of this hall. Don’t go outside unless you want to get shot.”

She nods slowly.

Jeno clears the other two rooms similarly, quick and far too easy. He hesitates at the stairwell. He should clear the rest of the civilians if he wants to resolve things quickly, but it feels wrong to leave these hostages to you—you were a hostage yourself only a few minutes ago. But it’s irrational. He knows you’re capable of protecting yourself, and smart enough not to get yourself killed. He has to trust you and do his job. You were the one that told him to save the day.

He doesn’t bother with the stairs, jumping in the open space between the flights and using his grappling hook to control his fall. If he wasn’t hurt, he’d just drop the three stories, but it’s only a little slower this way. He retracts the hook with a button and sticks it back into his belt, pulling out his knives.

He makes it halfway down the hall before he sees the first figure, raising his knife on instinct. He drops it a moment later, picking out the scrubs from here. The nurse sprints past him, barely glancing at him. More and more people follow, until a stream of people flood the hall. They part around him, allowing Jeno to make it to the lobby as it clears. Only a few people remain, mostly patients that struggle to move on their own and the people that stayed behind to protect them.

Where is Sionis? Where are all of his men? Even in the flood of people, they would have stood out. Did they hear the commotion upstairs and run? One of the men fired his gun a couple times, maybe they went to investigate.

No, they wouldn’t have let the hostages go if that were the case. He curses himself for not trusting his instincts, turning around to get back to the stairs, but the hallway is still blocked by all the people clamoring to leave.

It takes painfully long to get to a stairwell, but he finally makes it. That’s when he hears the gunshot—different from the pops before, no this is a sound he recognizes. This is his gun.

You wait until the hallway is quiet, peeking out the window for good measure. Nothing moves, the bodies on the floor limp. Blood pools around the three, puddles bright against the white tiles. You wait for another heart beat, holding your breath but the only movement comes from the blood, trickling down the hall.

The door creaks open beneath your fingers. It feels like your footsteps echo as you hurry to the closest door. You make it to the first door, hand on the doorknob when you hear it—footsteps echoing from the stairwell, the opposite side of where Jeno left. They thunder up the stairs, at least ten men.

You open the door a crack, whispering a sharp, “Stay hidden!”

You don’t give whoever is behind the door a chance to argue, closing the door and sprinting to the stairwell as fast as you can. You hear a shout just as you cross into the stairwell, sprinting forward. You take one step toward the descending flight but see dark heads bobbing in the space between the stairs. You curse, turning and heading up.

Shit, shit, shit. You can only go up. The men from the other end of the hall burst into the stairwell, your heart sending another shot of adrenaline through your body and pushing you to take steps three at a time. Even as you feel your body working harder than ever before, you know it won’t last. You have to find somewhere to hide.

You burst onto the fifth floor, cringing as the door slams against the wall. No chance they missed that.

You run as far as you dare, ducking into a storage closet and curling into a ball in the farthest corner, hiding behind a wall of bedpans. You shove a hand over your mouth, trying to cover your heaving breaths. Bile rises in your throat as the sprinting catches up to you but you swallow hard, closing your eyes and praying.

Jeno’s gun rests in your other hand. The cold metal helps calm you down, your breathing evening out as you hear a door bang open. A moment later then there’s another bang. You hear footsteps in the hall, then another. They must be checking room by room.

You’re about halfway down the hall, maybe five rooms in. You don’t have much time.

You raise the gun, letting go of your mouth to hold it with both hands. Your finger drops to the trigger. Point and squeeze, Jeno said. You can do that. You aim it at the door, bracing your arm on your knees to keep them from shaking.

You flinch at the next bang, feeling the wall shake. They’re in the room right next to you. They trash the room, sending vibrations through the floor, until it suddenly stops.

You’ll have to move fast, you can’t give them any chance.

Light cascades around as the door is thrown open. You squeeze the trigger, keeping the gun aimed at the large mass in front of you. There’s a loud bang and the gun slams your shoulder back but the man stumbles backward. You squeeze the trigger again and this time he goes down.

A second man dodges the falling body, taking a step inside but you squeeze the trigger again and again and again and he falls too.

Shit, how many shots was that? You clench your teeth but they seemed to have learned the lesson for the moment—nobody follows.

“Alright, that’s enough fun.” You recognize Sionis’ voice from behind the mask this time. “Come out on your own or get dragged out. Your choice.”

“I’d really rather stay here,” you say, voice shaking. You force yourself to your feet.

“Fun way it is,” Black Mask says. This time two men push their way through, one blocking the other. You shoot and it hits the front man in the shoulder but he doesn’t go down. You squeeze the trigger again but nothing happens.

You throw the gun at him, hoping to catch him in the head but he just knocks it away. You start pulling things from the shelves, throwing as hard as you can. It does nothing to stop them, grabbing you by the arms and heaving you off your feet. You twist and kick and try to bite but they don’t seem to notice. They hold you up in front of Black Mask in the middle of the hallway.

“You are a feisty one,” he muses, watching you thrash.

“Let me go,” you say. You try to growl but it comes out more like pathetic begging.

“I’d like you to calm down a bit,” he says.

You open your mouth to tell him to fuck off but apparently that was some sort of signal because one of the men raises a fist and brings it down hard on the top of your head.

It sends jitters down your spine as your teeth clang together. You blink tears away, your head lolling forward a little. The floor blurs beneath you—no it’s your eyes, struggling to focus.

“Now, on with business,” Black Mask says, clasping gloved hands together. “I—”

You nearly fall to the floor as one of the men holding you—the one you shot in the shoulder—falls to the ground. You tilt backward as the second man goes down but a tight hand around your arm yanks you backward.

Black Mask pulls you into a patient room, the bed pushed against the wall next to the bathroom. He pulls you away from the door until your back is against the window. He keeps his hand tight around your arm, pressing something hard and cold against the side of your head. Your brain still reels from the hit but you don’t have to think hard to figure out it’s a gun.

There are a few shouts from the hallway but it falls quiet quickly. Only one pair of boots echo in the hall, solemn footsteps that pause by the door. Then Jeno appears in the doorway.

Blood splatters cover the shirt, concealing the bat motif. It seeps into his leather jacket, though Jeno himself seems to be unscathed. He holds a gun in one hand and his knife in the other.

“That’s close enough,” Black Mask says when he tries to step inside.

Jeno’s mask covers his eyes, but if it didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d be glaring. “Let the innocent go. Settle this like an adult.”

“Innocent?” Black Mask cackles. “Sure, I’ll let the innocent go. I already did that.” He grips your arm tighter, pressing the gun harder into the side of your head. “But this one isn’t innocent.”

He taps on the mask. “I don’t wear this for fun, I’m sure you know. But I’m not like you. I don’t hide to protect myself or my loved ones—I don’t even have loved ones, and you know why? Because this idiot and the idiots at this hospital don’t know how to do a simple facial repair!”

“They were third degree burns, you’re lucky to have a face,” you say.

“Shut up!” Black Mask screams, shoving you. Jeno takes a step forward but freezes when Black Mask turns back to him.

“One more step and you’ll be cleaning some brains off your mask!” He takes a breath, lowering his voice. “I’ll be the first to tell you, that’s no easy task.”

“Let the hostage go.” Jeno sounds cold through the modulator.

“And you’ll let me go?” Black Mask huffs a short laugh. “I don’t think so. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Then you know what will happen if you pull that trigger.”

“Leave now and I’ll leave this one alive,” Black Mask says.

“What, half mad after you spend a few hours with your tools?” Jeno says. “Your reputation precedes you, too.”

Black Mask sighs. “Then it seems I have no choice.” The gun presses hard against your head.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Black Mask says. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for the shot but the pressure on the side of your head vanishes.

There’s a loud bang, and for a moment you’re sure you’ve died, but then you feel a hard shove on your chest. Your legs hit the wall but it’s not enough to stop you from tumbling out the window, nothing but air beneath you.

You barely raise your arms out before something tackles into you, an arm wrapping around your waist. You wrap your arms and legs around whatever they find, clinging like a baby monkey to Jeno’s side.

He raises the other arm, shooting the grappling hook and pulling hard. You snap in the air, swinging up higher than you had fallen until you’ve crested the roof.

“I got you,” Jeno says, arm wrapped so tightly around you you’re crushed against his side.

He takes all the weight as you fall onto the roof, bracing the landing with his legs, somehow remaining upright.

You can only cling to him, waiting for your brain to sort out what happened. You aren’t dead. Black Mask threw you out the window. Jeno caught you. You repeat the words over and over in your head until they almost make sense.

“We’re back on solid ground,” Jeno says.

“Mhm.” You don’t let go, keeping your arms tight around his neck.

“You’re safe now,” he says.

“I know.”

He pauses. “You can let go.”

“Not ready yet.”

“Okay.”

For a long moment all you can hear is the pounding of your heart. It lessens and you start to hear tires screeching on pavement down below, people shouting, sirens wailing in the distance.

“Black Mask is getting away,” you say.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jeno says. “I’ll get him when I get him.” His hand ghosts over your back. “All that matters is you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you say. “Physically fine, at least. Just trying to sort out my head.”

He hums, second arm wrapping around you in a true hug. You let yourself linger in the moment, breathing in the sharp scent of blood on his jacket. It smears against your scrubs as you press closer to him, turning them slimy against your skin. The jacket hides the warmth of his body, a hard layer separating you from him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You lean back, letting go of his neck to rest your hands against the side of his mask. Whatever it’s made out of is hard, a thin metal that curves around his features yet doesn’t bend beneath your fingers. It doesn’t look anything like Jeno, the pale eyes concealing the most human part of him. He reaches up, pulling the mask off.

Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead, which is creased with concern. His eyes flit between yours, dark and full of everything. For too long when you first ran into him, he would look at you with cold emptiness. Though you can’t read everything behind them now, he doesn’t bury all his feelings. He lets them shine through.

“It’s not your fault,” you begin, letting your hands fall to his shoulders. “Too much has happened, and that guy hit my head, and I thought I was going to die, so it’s hard to tell what I want to say. What I’ve been meaning to say.” You take a deep breath, looking at his forehead instead of his eyes, at the white streak of hair that clings to his forehead. “But if I don’t say it now, I think I’ll chicken out and never say it.

“I’m kind of a coward,” you say. “I don’t want to get hurt—I mean, like, don’t let anybody anywhere near my heart to keep it safe, and it works. I’ll find an excuse, any excuse to push them away.

“I did it to you. Yeah, I don’t want to die, and I don’t want to think about you dying because it always sends me into a spiral, but those were all excuses. It doesn’t matter that you wear that mask. That doesn’t change anything, and I won’t hide behind it anymore.

“I love you,” you say, “so much. So much that it’s making me brave. I don't want to be a coward anymore. I want to love you. I’m sorry it took me so long, but I love you, I really, really do.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything for a long moment, looking back and forth between your eyes. He doesn’t frown or smile, his face a mask itself.

“Oh,” he says.

“Apparently near death experiences lead to radical reflections and revaluations of life values.”

And then he smiles, a real smile that curls his eyes and sends your stomach hurtling in somersaults. He presses his forehead against yours, your hands still resting on his shoulders.

“Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault,” you say. You brush his cheek with your thumb. “Save your applogies for real fuck ups.”

He snorts. “Think there’s going to be a lot of those?”

“Somehow I think I’m going to get stood up a lot,” you say. “It’s okay, though. That’s just what happens when you date a superhero.”

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “I’m no superhero.”

You kiss his nose. “Whatever you want to call it. But you’re a good man, Lee Jeno, through and through.”

Jeno brushes his lips against yours, barely a kiss. He moves hesitantly, like he’s scared you’ll crumble in his hands.

Well, you’re not going to die, he made sure of that. You are here and alive, and so is he. You grip the neckline of his jacket, pulling him into a crushing kiss. You press your lips harder against his and his arms tighten around you, finally kissing you back.

It’s terrifying, how much you trust him. Like jumping off a cliff and knowing he’ll catch you—which basically he just did—you have to let go of the fear. Even when his arms are wrapped around you and you can feel him with every atom, it isn’t easy—a part of you will always want to run away, protect yourself. But you’re done running. Jeno put a gun in your hand and told you to fight. You can do that for him—for yourself.

You will hold onto him and you will love him and he will do the same for you. It’s all you can do.

Bonus:

Jeno doesn’t know how you slept on this armchair. The back is stiff against his back and he can’t hang his legs off the side without the arms cutting into the back of his knees. He can tuck his head against the wing but it leaves his neck at an awkward angle.

It’s for the best, though, since he needs to stay awake anyway. He shifts the chair until it’s against the side of the bed and sets his legs back on the edge of the bed, crossing one over the other and resting his elbows on the armrest. You raise your eyebrows at his feet but don’t tell him to move. He’ll give it a good twenty minutes before he tries to sit on the bed. He wonders if you’ll kick him out if he just asks outright if he can curl up next to you. Better to ease into it.

You look radiant, wearing a big t-shirt curled under the blankets. Your lips curl into a little smile every time you catch him looking at you (which is pretty much always).

“I’m going to invest in a big ass taser,” you say, still listing out your plan to keep yourself safe. “And some heavy duty pepper spray.”

“I can teach you how to shoot a gun,” Jeno offers.

You make a face, nose scrunching.

“No?”

You shake your head slowly. “No thank you. My arms hurt.”

“How about some hand-to-hand?” He asks.

“Are you going to be able to keep your hands to yourself?”

“What are you talking about?”

You look pointedly at his hand, which has found yours, fingers tapping on your knuckles. Huh, he didn’t realize he was doing that. He raises both hands, holding them up like a criminal waiting to be arrested.

“My bad,” he says, setting them in his lap. Your bottom lip juts out for a second but you’re too proud to ask him to hold it again. He bites back a smile at the little war behind your eyes.

“How’s your head?” He asks.

“Concussed,” you say flatly.

“You want to sleep?” He asks.

“Not yet,” you say. You finally concede, reaching out a hand for him. He puts his feet down, slipping out of the chair to sit on the edge of the bed, clasping his hand over yours. Your shoulder rests against his hip. You blink up at him.

“What?” He asks. “Is this okay?”

You nod slowly, studying him with piercing eyes. He gets the feeling you see right through him, so he turns his gaze to your intertwined fingers.

“What did you think of me when you first saw me? When you moved here, I mean,” he asks.

You pause for a long moment. “Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were unemployed for at least two months.”

Jeno snorts.

“I mean pretty much every time I knocked you were wearing sweats and half the time you looked like you had just woken up!”

Jeno scratches the back of his head with his free hand. “I don’t wear sweats that often.”

You pause for a moment and he doesn’t dare peek at your face. “When you asked me to sew up your scalp, I figured it was either vigilante or something worse, and then I saw Red Hood on the news and I just knew.”

He looks at you, head tilted down to see the top of your head. “Really?”

“It looks like you,” you say. You pause before adding, “Plus you’ve got that leather jacket hanging in your entryway. What’s up with that, by the way?”

“What?”

“Your ‘suit.’ A leather jacket and cargo pants?”

“They’re functional,” he says.

“Your name is Red Hood and you don’t even have a hood. It’s a mask.”

“Well a hood doesn’t exactly protect you,” he says, “and it strikes fear into my enemies.”

You snort. “Does the black t-shirt help with that?”

“Yeah, I can’t defend that one,” he says. “It’s cheap and easy.”

“No wonder you died,” you say.

“I take personal offense at that,” Jeno says.

You yawn. “Okay buddy.” You scoot over a little. “Just lay down already.”

Jeno grins, shifting to pull the covers up and slide his legs down them. He stretches out, rolling as close as he dares to you. His arm hovers over you until you shake your head and pull it over your waist, shifting until he all but lays on top of you. Your shoulder presses against his chest, his head resting on the same pillow only a breath away from you.

“If you wanted to cuddle you could have just asked,” you say.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You turn your head to meet his eyes, nose brushing against his. He could melt into your eyes, so warm and full of a happiness he hardly recognizes. He hopes he looks a fraction as happy as you do—and he hopes you know it’s only a fraction of how he feels.

He didn’t think he’d ever feel happy again. Even if he finally got his revenge on Joker and Batman, it would be bittersweet at best, the end goal of a bitter fight that started when he dragged himself out of that grave.

But he is happy. It’s the warmth that courses through every fiber of his body, the way his heart pounds every time he looks at you, the hope he feels when he thinks of the “after.”

“You know it’s been years since the last time I smiled?” He says.

“Yeah, I could tell.” Your eyes soften impossibly more. You rest your hand against his cheek again, fingers soft and careful as they trace the lines of his smile. They work their way to his lips, ghosting over the soft skin.

“I think that part is over,” Jeno says. “Hating the world.” He presses a kiss on your thumb. “I’d like to be happier now.

“Red Hood is a part of who I am, and it always will be. But Jeno is too, and I won’t let go of that.” He tightens his arm. “I’d like to hold onto you, too, though.”

You grin. “I’d like that too.” You press a short kiss to his lips. “But my head hurts and right now I’d really just like to go to bed.”

Jeno nods, shifting away only to turn off the lamp on your bedside table. He curls back around you, tucking his head against your neck and pulling you as close to him as he can. He is Jeno, he is Red Hood, and he isn’t alone anymore.

thank you for reading!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated

#🌟 stars galaxy #nct #nct dream #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct reader #nct fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct dream fluff #nct fluff #nct dream angst #nct angst #jeno x reader #reader x jeno #lee jeno #lee jeno x reader #jeno fluff #jeno angst

199 notes · View notes

roll-for-gaslight · 4 months ago

Text

we are a lighthouse

Summary: A late night with the bad kids where they finally unpack some things that have been weighing them down.

A/N: this started as a drabble where the kids cuddle and evolved into... this! Hope you enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57798592

-----

It’s been a long night. Well, it was a long day, and a long night on top of it. The Bad Kids stumble together into Mordred Manor at almost three in the morning, as tangled up in each other as they always are. Riz is curled around Gorgug’s shoulders, mumbling all of the clues he has yet to write down so that he doesn’t forget them. Fig and Fabian are leaning on each other heavily, the Infaethable Bass and Fandrangor clanging noisily against each other as they talk through the highlights of the fight. Adaine is on Kristen’s back, the latter still casting the last of her healing spells to help them all be a little more comfortable. They don’t discuss sleeping arrangements, and no one bothers to try to separate. Adaine summons air mephits to carry various blankets and pillows down from her tower, while Fig dimension doors to her room and right back. As the boys start to arrange everything, Kristen goes into the kitchen to grab an armload of water bottles for everyone and some ibuprofen out of the medicine cabinet.

There are several moments of shuffling around, everyone helping to finish their makeshift bed and getting comfortable. Fabian collapses into it first with a dramatic flourish and a low, tired groan.

“I never want to move again,” he complains, only for Riz and Adaine to immediately force him to adjust as they lie down as well. Riz curls into a ball (ha) on his left facing away from Fabian and in towards the group, tail snaking out to wrap around his leg. Adaine is on Riz’s other side, curling around him until she can rest her head on Fabian’s chest. She grumbles a complaint as he shifts onto his side to face them instead, letting her head rest on his arm and tangling his right hand into Riz’s hair.

Gorgug is the next to go down, reaching over to grab Fabian’s free hand from behind Adaine but ultimately leaving plenty of space for the final two party members to climb in between them. Fig makes good use of the space by sprawling almost sideways across Gorgug, her legs tangling with Adaine’s despite the space between them. Kristen joins the knot of girls in the middle after only a few more seconds, laying sideways like Fig and resting her head on Gorgug’s stomach. Fig’s arm slides around her waist, and Fabian groans slightly at the feeling of her accidental kicking.

“Kristen, if your cold as fuck feet touch me again I’m cutting them off,” he murmurs, and Fig giggles into her shoulder. Riz shushes him.

“Stop complaining, she got Ray of Frost-ed earlier, you can suffer.” he grumbles, and now Gorgug is laughing too, then Adaine as Fabian lets out an affronted noise. He mutters one more complaint, then Kristen giggles as she kicks him gently again. He shoots her a glare before everyone finally settles; they’re silent, but no one is asleep. There are several long seconds like that. Then—

“So, what did you guys see in the forest?” Fig asks, voice as sure as it always is but softer than they’ve ever heard it. It’s a tone she reserves for them, her parents, and, more recently, Ayda Aguefort. It comes in at the moments they need it most, usually alongside a bardic inspiration to lift them out of their lowest points. Adaine hears it in the middle of her panic attacks, while Fabian remembers hearing it that night on Leviathan.

It makes sense, of course, that they would have to talk about the Nightmare forest eventually. It even makes sense that Fig would be the one to decide it was time to do so, always unable to keep herself from addressing the elephant in the room.

What’s surprising is that Fabian answers first.

“Chungledown Bim said he was going to shit in my mouth, and the sexy rat from freshman year was chasing me. Cassandra said Chungledown was just actually there, which really fucks me up.” he admits, and there another moment of silence.

“He’s never going to touch you,” Riz says the words with such absolute conviction they can’t be anything but true.

Adaine’s eyes, against all odds, flash blue-white. The air grows tense for a few seconds as she arches upward, then Gorgug catches her head as she falls back again. “Mini-prophecy. He’ll never touch you again, Fabian.” she says confidently, and the whole room lets out a sigh of relief. There’s a slight lull before she continues. “I saw this weird phantasmagorical circus nightmare. Biz from the AV club was there, and he had me in an… orb, like what I was in in Fallinel, or maybe it was more like a palimpsest. I just kept leaning into the fear until I found my parents. The rest of it you guys already know.”

Kristen frowns. “God he was so shitty. Congrats on killing your dad, though, I don’t know if I ever told you that.”

“Thanks,” Adaine says as soft chuckles echo throughout the group at Kristen’s words. Fabian, possible the only one in the group who can understand the complex emotions that come with killing your own parent, pulls his hand away from Gorgug’s to gently run it through Adaine’s hair. He’s not usually much of a physical affection type of person, but it’s something Cathilda does for him when he’s sick or upset. She leans into it with a small, soft smile.

Gorgug is the next to speak up, voice as gentle and steadfast as always. “I went up against a sphinx that told me how stupid I am, then a tunnel that kept getting smaller and smaller until I got stuck for a while. I’m not even sure how I got out, I just… I just kept going.” he says, and as he says those final two words, an echo of the private sentiment that never quite reached his friends’ ears, a soft blanket of magic settles over the group. Those who are sensitive to it shiver, Fig’s tail flicking as her eyes zero in on Gorgug.

“Gorgug, did you just use magic?” she asks, and his eyebrow furrow in confusion, reluctantly propping himself up on his elbows.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says.

Fabian sits up as well, a spark of something in his eyes. “No, I’ve felt that before. In the forest. I thought all hope was lost, but then I had this moment where it was like I just knew everything was going to be okay again.”

Everyone starts talking over each other at once, sharing similar moments from their time in the forest. It happened five times for each of them, and that makes for easy math. Since Gorgug is the only lead they have, they start there. It takes minimal prodding before Gorgug bashfully shares his theory.

“I thought, just maybe, that some of us might end up crossing over the same paths if we were all headed to the center of the forest. When I made it to the other side of the tunnel, I felt really scared and alone. I didn’t want any of you guys to feel that way, so I used a trick my parents taught me to record an enchanted message on a rock so that you would know you were going in the right direction,” he explains softly.

Adaine carefully clears her throat before speaking. “What was the message?”

“It’s Gorgug, keep going.”

The magic that settles over them is stronger this time, rejuvenating and relaxing them all at the same time. Everyone settles back into their same positions as before, muscles relaxing despite the strain from the intense fight earlier in the day. It’s silent for a long stretch, but they all know the conversation isn’t over. Fig and Riz are just waiting each other out.

To everyone’s surprise, Riz breaks first. “I know what I did in the forest, just running away without warning, wasn’t fair to you guys. It was just the scariest thing I could think of, just rushing in without a plan or backup, so I thought it would help me find Kristen. After that, I saw Baron, the creepy skeleton boy who kidnapped me and claimed to be my romance partner.” He sighs quietly, “He forced me to come to terms with something that I’ve been meaning to tell you guys for a while; I’m aromantic. I’m not getting my kisses in because I don’t care about kisses, and I don’t want to date anyone.”

There’s a split second where everyone is still processing the information before— “RIZ!” Kristen sits bolt upright and yanks him into a hug that rivals the strength of Ragh’s bear hugs. ”I’m so glad you’re officially queer, you so have to join the GSA with me and Ragh! It’s really great, and we have other a-spec people in there too! And other people who are still new to the community, so it won’t be too overwhelming or anything,” she rambles.

Riz laughs softly, hugging her back as the other bad kids also get up to hug the two of them. It lasts several long moments before they all resettle, a mess of squirming limbs and too-sharp elbows in all the wrong places. For how graceful most of them seem while in combat, they all sink to Kristen’s level of dexterity in softer moments like these, enjoying the playfulness that comes along with it.

Fig buries her head in the crook of Kristen’s neck, holding her tighter than before. Grogug brings his spare hand down to rest a heavy hand on the back of her hair, gently carding his fingers through the mess that is her post-battle unbrushed hair. He pulls some remaining bits of rubble from it, and he sees the moment Adaine casts prestidigitation to clean them both up.

“I’m scared,” Fig starts softly, tone so fragile it feels like she could shatter at any moment. Kristen wraps her arms more securely around her waist. “I’m scared that if I tell you guys what I was really thinking about in that moment, you’ll hate me.”

“We could never hate you,” Riz responds immediately.

“You’re our best friend, and we’ve seen you at your best and your worst. We’re not going to think any less of you for what was on your mind at one of the scariest moments in all of our lives,” Adaine assures her.

Kristen nudges Fig’s horns with her own forehead until the other girl looks up at her. “If you don’t want to share, you don’t have to. I’ll still love you no matter what you say, though.”

It takes Fig several more long moments to finally speak again. “I was so focused on how much of a fuck up I had been the whole adventure. I kept thinking about the horrible things I did to my dad and to Riz, and how my whole mess with Hell had messed with our timeline. I felt like an imposter, like I didn’t deserve to be around you guys. I saw another version of me, and it was like I disappeared and she replaced me, except she was actually cool. She knew exactly what to do, she was helpful, she seemed like she had a plan immediately. She’s the version of myself I’ve always projected out to others and she’s a lie.” she says.

Kristen nods slowly, giving Fig a small smile. “I think you’re awesome just the way you are. You’re one of the nicest, coolest people I’ve ever known,” she says sincerely.

Gorgug nods in agreement. “Without you, I never would have been able to figure out how to be an artificer and a barbarian. It really came down to that moment where you encouraged me to pick up drumming. When you saw me having a hard time, you went out of your way to talk to me and help me even though you didn’t have to.”

“On the first day of school, before you even knew my name, you saw me having a panic attack and tried to take the fall for a stupid thing I did to get me out of trouble. It was the coolest thing I’d ever seen anyone do, and the kindest anyone had ever been to me at that point in my life,” Adaine admits softly, and FIg feels her heart grow warm as her friends reassure her. The final traces of the magic from earlier remains as just a gentle tingling on their skin, and after a few beats Kristen starts giggling.

“We get to tell Aguefort he was wrong,” she points out, much to everyone else's confusion. “He thinks chronomancy is the greatest magic of all and one time he told me that love isn’t magic. We just proved that it can be.”

21 notes · View notes

a-dumb-sarcastic-bisexual · 8 months ago

Text

More Clone Wars headcanons that I keep basing off me and my family cause where else am I gonna get inspo from

Both Anakin and Ahsoka try to keep their shared space as clean as possible

Whenever they’re home and have free time after a long mission they’ll go around and pick up messes and they’ve got a somewhat decent system going until they get to the dishes that’s when war breaks out

Normally people switch between who loads and who unloads but most of the time it just falls on Ahsoka to do both and she’s tried literally everything to get him to do the dishes

She’s made a chore chart, she’s let the dishes pile so high they’re at risk of all falling out, and she’s ratted him at to Obi-Wan but nothing works except giving him a challenge

One day out of the blue she said something like “Last one to scale the wall washes the dishes when we get home!”

And here’s the thing they’ve been doing these competitions for years so she knows he’s more than down

Rex claims he’s never seen two people climb a wall faster in his life “They were like a blur” is something he mumbled after the two probably broke the galaxies record

Ahsoka won by pure determination alone her sore arms and scraped-up hands would be worth it when she got home and wouldn't have to do the dishes

Even tho their shared space is relatively clean Anakin’s room is like a death trap

Random clothing items are strewn all over the floor and pieces of droids are scattered among them the first time Ahsoka walked into the room she almost ate shit twice and if it wasn’t for her training she would have hit the floor the second she stepped inside

It’s a genuine miracle that he’s able to navigate this landmine of crap especially cause he doesn’t have night vision like she does

Ever since I heard Ahsoka growl that one time I’ve been imagining her doing rottie rumbles (which just means she growls when she’s happy look it up it’s adorable)

The first time it happened was when Ahsoka and Anakin were watching a movie and they fell asleep

He woke up basically on top of her and heard quiet rumbling coming from the togruta he quickly got off cause he thought he was hurting her and she woke up confused he asked if she was in pain and all she said was that was the best she had slept in a while

The next time was when the two had to share a bed with Obi-Wan it ended up working in their favor cause the planet they were on was freezing

She started to growl again but the two men were 1. Too tired to move and 2. Kind of curious why she was growling

When nothing changed and she didn’t seem to be exuding any kind of pain or stress they stayed

After a couple of times Anakin and Obi-Wan managed to calm down this instinctual part of themselves that told them to back up when something growls

The first time Padme witnessed it was during a big old group hug between her, her husband Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka

She almost gave it to that instinct if it wasn’t for Anakin and Obi-Wan's calm demeanor

Honestly it’s kind of become a telltale sign of who’s close to Ahsoka cause most people that she’s comfortable with know the difference between her happy grumbles and the growls that mean she wants to tear someones face off

Both Anakin and Ahsoka hate going to the med bay and the halls of healing or any place that’s got a person with medical training and tools to poke and prod them

And the healers hate them for it because most of the time the last thing they want to do is chase down a Jedi and his padawan as they’re bleeding out

So most of them banned together to give the duo a pretty extensive first aid kit and teach them both how to use it

Because for some kriffing reason they’re okay with being poked and prodded at if it isn’t a medical professional

The duo also participates in a decent amount of first aid training which has saved both of them and many other's so no one complains when they skip out on kind of important duties for those classes

As someone who has a lot of older siblings who I’m not related to so it wasn’t uncommon for people to tell me how attractive my siblings were

So I’m just imagining the other padawans telling Ahsoka how lucky she is to have Anakin as a mentor and while they’re complimenting him she notices a lot of those comments were centered around his age and his looks

At one point she’s sick of it and just straight up confronts them about it and they turn around and go “Well don’t you agree?” she alternates between being hunched over laughing and hunched over gagging

Anakin finds her a little while later still stuck in this sick cycle surrounded by a group of concerned padawans

He tries to get her help cause she’s kinda freaking him out but she stops him and just guides them both away because she knows if he shows more protective older brother energy the padawans are gonna be even more weird

Literally everyone is too scared to mention Ahsoka’s physical appearance around Anakin

But there have been a couple of times when he’s on an off-world mission and witnessed some dumb kids pushing their friends in her direction because it’s obvious they think she’s pretty

God forbid they catch a glimpse of him while it’s happening tho cause they walk away shaking like a leaf

He doesn’t think Ahsoka noticed and even if she did he distracted her with boba and ice cream because she can never turn that combo down

#star wars #the clone wars #star wars clone wars #star wars headcanons #anakin skywalker #ahsoka tano #obi wan kenobi #padmé amidala #snips and skyguy #disaster siblings #day fifty million of trying to convince my sister we're Anakin and Ahsoka #because we are and she knows it she's just in denial #it's so close to star wars day #and i'm so fucking excited #i'm not kidding when I say this is basically a holiday for me and my family #it's like Christmas or new years #like bro is up there #i'm like actually stimming while writing that #bro i've been waiting all year

33 notes · View notes

sombersummerskies · 11 months ago

Text

A Champion's Love: Chapter 18

Chapter 18: The Prince's Protector Word Count: 5274 CW: Blood

Want all the chapters? -> Masterlist

~~~ <> ~~~

“Shit!” you curse loudly, quickly moving so that you’re kneeling by Sidon’s side.

‘Gotta work quickly,’ you think to yourself, attempting to move him so that he’s laid flat on his back and you can more easily examine his wounds.

He had various stab wounds littered across his torso and arms. Spear wounds. Cuts and scars and bruises decorated his body in a messy array of black and blue patches.

With a grimace, you place your palms upon his chest and stomach, ignoring the blood and open cuts as you search for the brunt of the damage. You realize that you’re hyperventilating, and you attempt to calm yourself as you try and perform this healing task.

Tears begin to sting at your eyes again as you will Mipha’s Grace to activate. ‘C’mon, c’mon, why won’t it work,’ you frantically wonder, hands shaking as you desperately try and work.

‘Calm down _____,’ you think to yourself, ‘you’ve done this before. You can’t heal if you’re panicking. Think, think, what helps you heal?’

You attempt to steady your racing heart, breathing in deeply through your nose and letting out deep sighs. You slow your train of thought, focusing on the one thing that seems to help you when it’s time to heal: Sidon.

It was just like Mipha had explained to you all those years ago. You had to focus on what matters most.

You think back to when you first met him, how he guided you through awful weather and monster camps to bring you to his home; the first time you met with he and his father and were gifted the Zora armor; working alongside Sidon to tame Ruta and board the Divine Beast; being healed with the palace; penning each other letters for weeks before your battle with Calamity Ganon; working with him during his trials to become pilot-

Falling for him.

Your nerves feel like they’re on fire as your hands glow blue - the brightest blue they’ve ever been. You gasp, keeping your palms pressed flat against him as you work your healing powers.

You watch as the small cuts and bruises fade away, and the large stab wounds begin to close up and seal with your aid. It takes mere moments, and aside from the blood stains, tattered sash, and scuffed armor bands he looks perfectly normal.

The glow of your palms fades away, and you lean over to press your ear against his chest. You hear the subtle beating of his heart and breathe a shaky sigh of relief, pulling away to look back at Bazz and Zelda.

“He’s going to be just fine, I’ve healed his wounds but we’ve got to get him back to the Domain to make sure he’s hydrated and has a meal as soon as he wakes up,” you announce, “Bazz, come help me carry him, he’s too heavy for me to pick up alone.”

The captain nods and quickly rushes over, and together you take either of the prince’s arms and hoist him up, carrying him between the two of you.

Zelda, meanwhile, has quite the shocked expression on her face.

“You just kissed!” she exclaims, quickly picking up the journals and books she’d brought along with her.

You smile and roll your eyes at her, “yes, I know, you can squeal about it all you want once we get Sidon back safe and sound.”

…

It took a few hours, and a lot of difficult terrain traversing, but you eventually returned to the palace around midday. As soon as the four of you stepped onto the Great Zora Bridge, a guard came running up to you. Dunma, who’d been watching over the entrance to the palace.

“Go get the nurses and tell them to wait for us outside the prince’s bedchambers, tell them that he’s been healed and is not in critical danger but has been unconscious for some hours,” Bazz instructs her.

With a quick nod and a salute she runs ahead.

You continue to walk Sidon into the castle together, and as you carry him through the plaza and into the corridors of the palace, you catch the attention of many of the Zora. They gather around but don’t crowd the way, whispering amongst one another and staring in confusion.

“What do you think happened to Prince Sidon?”

“What happened with the Hylian Champion?”

“Where did they go?”

“Does King Dorephan know?”

“Shouldn’t Bazz and _____ have kept him safe?”

With a huff, you block them all out. Right now you need to focus on making sure Sidon gets to his room safe and sound.

Once you do arrive at his bedchambers, one of the palace nurses is there to usher you inside. She instructs you to lay the prince down in his pool of water, and you do so gently. Both you and Bazz carefully lower Sidon into the pool, submerging his body in the cool water.

As you step away from the pool, you turn back to see the nurse looking back at you with an expectant look.

“Ahem,” she clears her throat, “I’ll have to request all three of you exit the room as I check Prince Sidon’s vitals.”

“Of course!” Zelda quickly perks up, grasping your arm as well as the captain’s and ushering you both out of the prince’s room.

The three of you quickly walk out, and the nurse shuts the door behind you. Letting out a shaky, nervous sigh, you lean against the wall and cross your arms. You lose track of how many minutes pass as you all anxiously wait, and it’s hard to ignore the curious stares you get from palace staff who occasionally walk by.

Shutting your eyes, you attempt to soothe your nerves. ‘He’s fine. I know he’s fine, I healed him. He’ll be alright,’ you think to yourself, tapping your foot somewhat impatiently.

Finally, the door is pulled open and the nurse greets you, allowing you back inside the bedchambers. You smile upon seeing that Sidon has been made comfortable, with multiple towels folded beneath his head as a makeshift pillow.

“You performed Mipha’s Grace on him, right Lady _____?”

The nurse’s question catches you off guard and you whip your head around to face her. “Yes,” you reply quickly, nervously fidgeting with your silver armband.

“Then by all accounts, he should be fine, his body will just need time to rest. We’ll just have to make sure that once he’s awake he’s given a meal and plenty of water to drink. I only wonder, do you have any idea what was so strenuous to cause him to pass out like this?”

Zelda, Bazz, and you all shake your heads no. “We assume that he’d entered into the Divine Beast as part of his trial. He was inside of it for hours, and once he returned he was quite battered and bruised. _____ was quick to heal him, but he went unconscious right afterward. We never got the chance to learn what happened to him,” the princess explains.

The nurse hums, “very well, when he awakes we can ask. Now, for the three of you, I suggest you find ways to occupy your time. It will do you no good to wait by the prince’s side, he very well could take days to wake up.”

Then, she excuses herself, bidding you all a goodbye before walking out of the room with a flourish.

“Well… I need to report to the rest of my guards, inform them of what’s happened to the prince,” Bazz sighs, “I’ll break the news to King Dorephan and the council as well, though I wouldn’t be surprised if the gossip in the palace has reached them already.”

With a bow to the princess and a wave to you, he leaves.

A silence hangs in the air, broken only by Zelda turning to look at you.

“The council will likely want to speak with us as well. I can go upstairs to the throne room and stall for time if you’d like,” she suggests.

You quirk an eyebrow, “why would you need to stall for time.”

She smiles knowingly, “I can stall for time so you can stay here by his side. He did the same for you, you know. Just the other day after the incident with the Lizalfos. I’ll give you as much time as I can, yes?”

You feel tears prick at your eyes and quickly nod your head, “y-yeah, thanks.”

She bids a quick goodbye before she walks out of the room, shutting the chamber door as she does.

It’s quiet, aside from the quiet trickling of water coming from the pool the prince is laid down in. Sighing shakily, you remove the Master Sword’s scabbard from your back, setting it down before loosening the Zora armor as well.

You’re lost in thought as you move to sit down besides the pool. ‘He waited for me all those days? Hylia… I don’t deserve his kindness, he’s far too good to me. I’ll have to thank him once he’s awake.’

The stone flooring is cool as you get situated on it. You grab a towel from the pile of many and lean on it, turning it into a soft spot to rest your elbows as you look over at the resting prince. His chest raises softly as he takes in a shallow breath, before he softly breathes out and it returns to normal. You press your fingers against his neck and curiously feel for his pulse- it’s slower than normal, but it’s there.

Gingerly, you lift your hand and gently caress his face, running your thumb across his cheekbone. It gives you a chance to admire him, not like you didn’t do it quite often already. His skin was soft despite being smooth scales layered upon one another. You hadn’t noticed before that his red scales were slightly rougher than the rest, giving him a textured but natural armor.

You hum, gaze flitting down to his silver bands that still decorated his arms and neck. ‘Let’s get him comfortable,’ you think to yourself, gently lifting his arm out of the pool of water and slowly undoing the cuffs and buckles. You start with his right wrist, then his left, then his plumed headpiece.

You unravel his sash from around his chest, grimacing at the tattered and blood-stained blue fabric. You twist the fabric, squeezing all the water out before placing it to the side. Then you move to the bands around his neck, moving as carefully as you can to not disrupt the way he’s been laid out by the nurse.

Once all his cuffs and armor pieces have been removed (save for the two on his ankles, but those are too far down in the pool of water for you to reach without fully submerging yourself), you stand and walk over to the prince’s table and set them down. You keep the blue sash in your hand though, running the fabric through your fingers as you sit down besides the arched window and examine it.

Attempting to ignore Sidon’s blood, you lift the cloth up to the light and take a closer look at the damage. ‘Even if he’s knocked out, maybe I can figure out what did this to him,’ you wonder, rubbing your thumb over the cuts. The edges of the fabric where it’s been sliced are singed, as though they were seared.

“It must’ve been a weapon with additive properties,” you whisper aloud, “a flaming sword or spear… or some kind of guardian weaponry.”

With a furrowed brow, you turn to look back at the sleeping prince in his pool. “What in the name of Hylia could have done this to you?” you murmur sadly, “and you barely survived. What did this to you?”

“Lady _____? You’re requested immediately by King Dorephan and the council,” a voice outside the chamber door says, presumably a member of staff.

“Right away!” you call back, setting the sash down.

You jump us, grabbing the Master Sword and securing its sheath around your torso before dashing out of the prince’s bedroom.

There’s a pale green Zora awaiting you in the hallway. “Champion, they’ve gathered in the council room, it’s just below the throne room. Princess Zelda and Captain Bazz are there as well, though the elders of the council did demand your presence,” she explains, walking beside you as you head up the staircase.

“Alright, thanks for letting me know,” you reply, giving her a soft smile, “I was expecting them to call me up eventually anyways.”

You bound up the rest of the steps, walking down the corridors before finding yourself outside an archway that would lead you into the councilroom. Already you hear multiple loud voices and inwardly groan, mentally preparing yourself to be berated by the elders.

You round the corner of the archway and are met with a tense sight.

A long silver table is in the middle of the room with King Dorephan sitting at one end and both Bazz and Zelda standing at the other. On the sides of the table are the elders of the king’s council, you easily recognize Muzu who’s sat at Dorephan’s right side but none of the others are familiar to you.

The king lifts his head and smiles once you walk in, but you can see the stressed expression he’s attempting to mask. “Hylian Champion, please approach the council,” he says loudly, voice booming out and silencing all others in the room.

You swallow nervously and nod, walking over and standing besides the princess.

“Now, Lady _____, please tell us what occurred regarding the prince’s sudden injury. We’ve heard from both Princess Zelda and our Captain Bazz, and though I assume your recounting will be similar if not the same, for brevity’s sake the council would like to hear your version as well,” he explains.

With a nod and an anxious clearing of your throat, you begin, “well, once we’d informed King Dorephan the four of us set out into the upper lands to see what was causing the divine beast to give us a glowing point on our map. Upon arriving there was a voice coming from Ruta itself, calling Sidon to it. It took the emblems Sidon had collected during his trials, and then took him within the Divine Beast as well-”

Before you can continue, one of the councilmen interrupts.

“And none of you did anything to stop this?”

You falter, “n-no, we didn’t have a chance to do anything-”

“One would think that having the Hylian Champion and the captain of the guard would afford us the peace of mind to know that the prince will always be safe,” another council member says.

Your brow furrows as you grow frustrated, “you don’t understand, it was out of our hands- we had no control-”

“Perhaps Captain Bazz isn’t as prepared as we thought to protect the heir to the Zora throne,” another member mutters.

“Now wait just a second-” Bazz attempts to argue back, visible anger on his face at this comment.

“It’s simply dishonorable that we had such a poor show in front of the princess herself,” a member sighs.

Zelda steps up besides you to speak up, “really now, I don’t believe there’s any reason to doubt them. They did the best they could, I saw this myself-”

“Hasn’t the Hylian Champion inherited Lady Mipha’s healing powers? So why has the prince been asleep for as long as he has?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides while you attempt to remain calm, “I did everything I could’ve, if it wasn’t for me he would’ve bled out by the time we brought him back to the domain!”

“If you and the captain were competent enough in your sworn duties he would never have been so injured in the first place!”

Tears prick at your eyes. You’ve never been so infuriated.

“I would put my LIFE on the line for him! None of you know what you’re talking about, none of you were even THERE!” you scream, visibly shaking where you stand.

One of the elders in the council scoffs and rolls his eyes at you, “if the Hylian Champion cannot stay emotionally composed, I do not understand how we can expect her to work alongside our guard in a safe and productive manner.”

You’re furious. You slam your fist on the table, jolting everyone around you, “I cannot believe you would accuse me of not putting every FIBER of energy I have into protecting him! I have no idea what he experienced in that final trial, but I can assure you if I had the chance to volunteer in his place I would have!

“You do not understand the horror I felt inside of me seeing him battered this morning. He collapsed at MY feet! I WAS THE ONE WHO HEALED HIM! I would do ANYTHING for him, because-”

You stop yourself in your tracks. Your voice is wavering and there’s tears spilling down your cheeks. Your throat aches from both the screams and sobs that’d racked it in your sudden emotional outburst.

You feel Zelda’s hand on your shoulder and take in a deep, shaky breath.

Unfortunately, your outcry does nothing to sway the council, half of whom ignore your pleas and return to bickering amongst themselves about how incompetent they perceive you and Bazz to be.

Neither the captain nor the princess can get a word in edgewise, and your head starts to spin from all the yelling across the room.

“ENOUGH!” a new voice suddenly booms, louder than all else.

You know that voice.

Immediately you spin on your heels, not able to help the smile on your face at the sight of a familiar red Zora. He was still bare of all his bands of body adornments, you assumed he’d just woken up and came searching for the rest of you immediately.

You’re thrilled to see him up and walking.

He, however, doesn’t look as happy as you do. In fact, he looks rather upset.

“I cannot believe the words I am hearing,” he begins, walking towards the table, “the council does not even wait for me to awake before having this discussion? Instead you jump to blame my most faithful captain of the guard and the ever-skilled Hylian Champion. I will not tolerate the way you’re speaking to either of them, nor the way you belittle Princess Zelda’s opinion as well.”

“B-but Prince Sidon, they did not protect you-” one councilman peeps up, but is immediately shut down.

“You say that because you know not of the context,” he sternly states, “I will tell the story of what happened to me last night. When I was brought inside of the Divine Beast, a voice had explained to me that I was within a realm of memories. The only weaponry I had with me was my own sister’s Lightscale Trident. “I was facing a beast which I only recognized from the champion’s own descriptions. It was called Waterblight Ganon, and it was the same creature which killed Mipha all those years ago. I quickly realized that I was reliving her last moments. I was fighting the battle which killed her, and that was my final trial. “I made it out alive, but just barely. If it weren’t for _____ I would not be standing here right now, so I will not allow you all to slander her. There was nothing she, Bazz, or even Princess Zelda could have done to aid me. It was entirely out of their control, and my trial to face.”

You’re shaken after hearing his story. He had to face Waterblight Ganon with only the Lightscale Trident. ‘His wounds… the singed tatters in the sash, the warning about memories before he was taken away,’ you think to yourself, ‘it all makes sense now. He had to endure all of that?’

The air in the room is tense and uncomfortable. A few of the councilmen avert their gazes, turning away in guilt.

Muzu stands and clears his throat, “ahem. Clearly the council will need to discuss this further. Lady _____ and Captain Bazz, I apologize on behalf of all the council members for their behavior today.”

Muzu speaks distastefully of the other elders. You’re happy to at least have him on your side.

King Dorephan shifts so he’s sitting forward, “thank you all for your presence here. Now that my son is awake I’d like to speak with him privately. Council, you’re dismissed.”

All the elders of the council nod and bid their goodbyes to the king before briskly walking out of the room (at least as briskly as an older Zora can move).

You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand and move to start walking out of the room as well, but are stopped by Dorephan.

“Hylian Champion, may I ask that you remain as well? I’d like to ask something of you,” he announces.

You exchange a glance with Zelda, who smiles at you and nods. She and Bazz walk side by side out of the meeting room, whispering a quiet conversation. You listen to their footsteps fade away until you’re left alone with Sidon and the king.

“Father, how could you allow the council to speak like that?” Sidon asked, stepping up to the silver table to stand beside you.

Dorephan lets out a deep sigh as he sits back, “you know as well as I do that the council is entitled to their opinions, as paranoid as they may be.”

“But they were wrong, me standing in this room is proof enough of that,” the prince quickly retorts.

“My son, they were scared. As was I,” the king continues, and Sidon turns his gaze down to the floor, “I know you’re smart enough to piece together just how the council was feeling, it reminded them all of-”

“Mipha,” you interrupt, wide eyed at the revelation.

King Dorephan nods, “precisely. While I do not agree with what the elders were saying, I do understand where their emotions come from. However I can wholeheartedly say that I am indebted to you, Hylian Champion. Were it not for your presence, Prince Sidon would no longer be here with us.”

You blush, smiling at the king, “oh, o-of course. It’s my duty to protect those in need, I was simply doing what I must-”

Dorephan speaks up though, “I’m sure of this, Lady _____. However, I do have a favor I’d like to ask. While I am by no means unsure of my son’s capabilities as a warrior, I know from experience that being made a Divine Beast’s pilot is a dangerous endeavor. The Calamity may not be returning, but if Sidon were to become a champion he’d be leaving Zora’s Domain far more frequently.

“I am unsure that I’ll consistently have our own guard equipped to travel with the prince. Now, I know that it is your sworn duty to protect the princess, I’d like to ask that you extend that protection to Sidon as well.”

You’re quick to nod your head, bowing to the king as you do, “of course, King Dorephan. It would be my honor, I’ll do all I can.”

He chuckles, and you glance up to see Sidon looking down at you with a faint blue blush dusting his cheeks.

“The two of you are free to go. I have diplomatic duties to attend to,” Dorephan states, “and son, please take some time to rest. _____ may have healed you, but a battle such as the one you described takes a mental toll as well. I’ll waive any meetings you had scheduled for the time being.”

“Yes father,” the prince replies, bowing his head before turning back to you, “shall we be going?”

“Certainly,” you say with a grin.

The Zora prince extends his arm to you, and you loop your own arm through it before you exit the meeting room as a pair. Once in the hallway though, you look up at him sternly.

“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” you ask with concern.

The prince visibly falters, and you know you’ve caught him, “well, no, but I was in a rush to find you and-”

“Oh no no no, you nearly died, c’mon, we’re going to the kitchens and I’m having the cooks make you the biggest meal of your life,” you interrupt him, dragging him through the corridors and ignoring his protests.

…

Some hours later, you find yourself in Sidon’s bedchambers, with a full stomach after a large dinner and a content smile on your face. Either from the king’s or the council’s orders, the palace servants had brought in a considerable amount of cushions and blankets for the prince to rest upon as he recovered- and you were taking advantage of this.

You’d discarded your armor and set the Master Sword aside, leaving you in a long tunic and some rather comfortable trousers. Using blankets, you snuggled up in a pile of cushions, listening to Sidon as he told you details of his battle with Waterblight Ganon.

“It was unlike anything I’d ever faced. In all my years of battle, I’d never dealt with a foe such as he,” he recounts, “his spear was quite the unique weapon though. Perhaps we can commission one of those Sheikah scientists you’ve told me about into making a similar one.”

You giggle, “that’d probably be Robbie’s area of expertise. He’s the one who made the ancient arrows for me, his laboratory is in the Akkala region, wayyyyy up north. I’m sure if I described the spear to him he’d like to make something similar, just on a much smaller scale.”

He nodded along, before jumping back into describing the battle. You hummed as you listened, but soon found yourself spacing out as other thoughts clouded your mind.

The kiss… you’d been too preoccupied most of the day to properly think back to it, but now that it was just the two of you it wouldn’t leave your mind. You lift your hand to your face, absentmindedly brushing your fingers over your lips as you think back to that split moment.

The way he’d grabbed you and spun you around, the look in his eyes when they met yours, the feeling of his lips against your own.

“... __? _____? Little one?”

Your eyes snap back to Sidon, who’s looking down at you with concern.

“Are you alright?” he asks, yellow eyes staring back into your own.

Your cheeks feel flushed as you stammer out a response, “y-yeah, just lost in thought.”

“And what may those thoughts be?” he replies with a cheeky smile.

Your blush intensifies. “W-well, I may have been thinking… about um… what happened when you returned from Ruta. Before you went unconscious,” you explain.

Sidon merely looks at you with confusion, “... what did occur? I have little memory of anything that followed me defeating Waterblight Ganon.”

… oh.

“You… you don’t remember?” you ask with a nervous giggle.

The prince shakes his head.

You clear your throat and avert your gaze, “well, ahem, um… when you returned from the final trial, you sort of… well… you picked me up and you… you kissed me.”

When you hear no reply from Sidon, you force yourself to look up at him, only to see his face is covered in a deep blue blush and his eyes are wide.

“I… I did what, little one?” he mumbles, in shock.

“... you kissed me,” you repeat, unable to ignore the way your cheeks are burning as you admit it.

“_____, I’m so sor-” he begins, but you immediately cut him off.

“Don’t!” you start, much louder than you’d intended, “d-don’t… apologize. I’m not mad about it- I, heh, I certainly didn’t dislike it-”

He cuts you off as well, “but it was not right of me to do so, I never had your permission, I never courted you-”

“Sidon you literally gave me a hickey and I never stopped you!” you exclaim, tugging down the collar of your tunic to prove a point, “I… if I didn’t want you to kiss me I wouldn’t have let… this, whatever this is get to the point it’s gotten to.”

A tense silence falls over both of you. It’s awkward. You hate it.

The prince is the first one to speak up.

“I simply… think it is shameful of myself. Our first kiss and I was not even in the state of mind to remember it happening,” he sighs, “and I say first kiss with the assumption that you’ll allow me more, even without the proper courting procedure.”

You can’t help but laugh about his concerns of being able to kiss you again. Looking up at him, you pat the blanket beside you, “c’mere, big guy. If you’re so worried about kissing and courting… why don’t you start now?”

His expression goes blank before a mischievous grin plays on his lips. Before you’re able to react, he dives into the cushions, swooping you up into his arms as he maneuvers around. Flustered, you giggle as you’re held tight against his chest, realizing that now he’s laying on his back with you snuggled up on top of him.

Your face is pressed close into the crook of his neck as you get over your small fit of giggles, and your hand that’s splayed across his chest can feel the thumping of his heart beat. Both of his hands are on your waist and, even though you have the leverage of being on top, you still feel dwarfed in size compared to him.

“Your heart’s beating very quickly,” you murmur, your hot breath bouncing off of him.

“So is your’s, little one,” he replies, and you shiver, feeling the way his voice rumbles through your whole body.

You’re reminded of your dream from the other night.

But this is real. This is oh, so real.

Curious, you lift your head, and doing so makes it so your faces are mere centimeters apart.

Your eyes meet, and you take a chance to let your gaze flick down to his lips. When you look up again it appears as though he’d done the same.

“Little one… may I…” he asks quietly, in a whisper just barely audible, meant for you and you alone.

You don’t even take the time to give a verbal response.

You close your eyes and tilt your head forward, pressing your lips against his soft one’s and relishing in the moment.

They meld together perfectly, and the hand you’d placed on his chest moves up to hold his face instead. His grip on your waist tightens and you feel your heart skip a beat within you.

It doesn’t last very long, and you pull back just slightly to catch a breath. When your eyes flutter open, you’re staring into his bright yellow ones, and you’re starstruck.

“Well, if it’s any consolation, you’re a much better kisser when you’re not battered and on the verge of passing out,” you mumble with a little giggle, face dusted in blush.

This earns a hearty chuckle out of the prince, who grasps you even tighter in his arms before pulling you in for another kiss.

You don’t know how many hours pass, for the rest of the night is consumed by you and Sidon exchanging kisses and shy touches. Just for once, it’s only the two of you. No diplomatic duties, no trials, no shrines, no imminent danger.

Just you and Sidon. And you couldn’t ask for more.

~~~ <> ~~~

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

#botw #breath of the wild #totk #tears of the kingdom #loz #fanfic #x reader #reader insert #female reader #prince sidon #prince sidon x reader #sidon x reader

13 notes · View notes

duhragonball · 1 year ago

Text

Dragon Ball Super manga ch.81-83

Yeah, that’ll happen.

All right, so the Heeters tricked Granolah into fighting Goku and Vegeta, when in fact they were the real enemy the whole time. During the fight, they ripped off Granolah’s idea to just use the Dragon Balls to wish for ultimate power, and they made their own top fighter, Gas, the strongest warrior in the universe.

Granolah had been holding his own against Gas, despite being in second place, but once Gas got his shit together he quickly beat Granolah down, breaking his arms, hurting his eyes, and now Elec has shot him for good measure.

You know, it seems kind of weird how Granolah was the literal strongest warrior in the universe only a few chapters ago, and now that he’s #2, any rando with a gun and put a hole in him. And by “kind of weird”, I don’t mean “unusual”, because that’s how the power scaling in Dragon Ball has worked from the beginning. For decades now, fans have understood the top of the pecking order to be very clearly defined. It used to be Vegito and Super Buu at the top of the scale, and these days it’s pretty much Whis and Beerus if you don’t count deities from other universes. All the arguments fans have are always about the lower tiers. Is Ultimate Gohan stronger than Super Saiyan 3 Goku? Where’s base Vegito go on that list? Stuff like that. And it’s fuzzy because once you stop being a top dog in this franchise, it sort of stops mattering, and any dope with a gun can kill you.

All right, so Granolah’s down, and Gas had used some sort of power on Goku and Vegeta to immobilize them, so Vegeta gives his power to Goku to give them a fighting chance. Goku keeps Gas busy so Monaito can heal Granolah, but there’s not much he can do against Gas. At first he’s livid over the way the Heeters seemed to kill Granolah, but then he tries to quell his emotions so he can use Ultra Instinct. Gas doesn’t get it and neither do I. Neither does Goku, as we’ll soon see.

So this all started because the Heeters have been using Granolah for decades, and now they’ve decided he’s become a threat. But Gas doesn’t really care about Granolah anymore. He wants Goku, because he just learned that Goku is the son of Bardock, the Saiyan who rescued Granolah and Monaito during the sack of Planet Cereal. At that time, Bardock and Gas fought, and Gas wants to avenge that loss. But Goku has no memory of his father, and Gas is frustrated that it just isn’t the same. Goku doesn’t even comprehend who he is, so Gas dismisses him as a threat.

So they do a bunch of cool shit where Gas telekinetically throws trains through the air, but he’s just toying with Goku, and Goku’s just stalling for time. At last, he uses Instant Transmission to take Gas to another planet altogether, which gives Monaito a clear shot to heal Granolah.

This brings us to Chapter 82, where Goku keeps teleporting across the universe, hopping from planet to planet and daring Gas to chase him. Apparently, when you wish to become the strongest warrior in the universe, the Dragon Balls will give you teleportation powers, possibly superior to Goku’s Instant Transmission. But Gas only just got this ability, while Goku’s been practicing it for over fifteen years. He can’t hope to go toe-to-toe with Gas, but this way, he has the initiative.

Anyway, this leads to a quick tour of the galaxy, as Goku leads Gas to characters like Jaco, the Galactic King, and Monaka, who is apparently delivering space manure to the middle of nowhere for some reason.

We also stop at the Galactic Prison, because most of the stops on this trip are just places we saw in the Moro Saga, which is kind of weak, honestly. The recaptured prisoners recognize Gas and start talking about how he wet his pants once, which Gas can’t actually deny. I had to read this and now so do you.

At last, Goku lures Gas to wherever Whis happens to be, and then he just nopes right back to Planet Cereal, leaving Gas completely bewildered. This way, Goku can return to keep the other Heeters from killing Monaito and Granolah, and it’ll take a while for Gas to return to the battlefield.

So the gang head back to Monaito’s house to regroup. Oatmeel drives them, because Oatmeel can transform into a little pit-droid from Phantom Menace. On the way, Goku gets a call from Whis, who slipped a communication device on Goku during their brief interaction. He informs Goku that Gas is already heading back to Cereal, and this time he’s just flying through space at incredible speed instead of using Instant Transmission. His ETA is 20 minutes, which... isn’t that about how fast Whis can travel through space? It’s about 26 minutes from Earth to Beerus’ planet, so is Gas on Whis’ level now? Then again, Whis can’t do Instant Transmission.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that Whis asks Goku how his Ultra Instinct training is going, and Goku admits he can’t seem to get the hang of calming his emotions the way Whis does. Whis isn’t surprised, since he’s an Angel and Goku’s not. They’re fundamentally different beings, so it doesn’t make sense for them both to use Ultra Instinct the same way.

And this was where Goku’s been missing the point of Whis’ lessons. He thought he had to be more like Whis to master UI, but Whis was trying to tell him that he can’t be more like Whis, so Goku will have to master UI in his own unique way. Fundamentally, Goku has to understand himself, not imitate someone else.

And this may also be what Vegeta was doing wrong with Ultra Ego as well. When he lost to Granolah, he lamented that he couldn’t apply Beerus’ teachings to their fullest, because Vegeta couldn’t be as callous as a God of Destruction. Well of course he can’t, because he’s not a God of Destruction. Beerus knew that, but he taught Vegeta anyway, because he had a feeling that Vegeta could learn to master the training in his own way.

Early into this arc, it started to feel like Goku and Vegeta were becoming proxies for Whis and Beerus. Beerus gave Vegeta one of those earrings he wears to signify Vegeta as a being who can wield Hakai energy, and Whis wrote his name on Goku’s shirt again, like he did in Resurrection F. And we just saw Goku get worked up into a classic Super Saiyan rage when Elec shot Granolah, but then he calmed himself down because he didn’t want that righteous fury to get in the way of his best technique. It all seemed very out of character for Goku and Vegeta, and now we learn in this chapter that this was by design. They were trying too hard to imitate their masters, and now they’re finally realizing where they went wrong.

So there’s still a few minutes to prepare for Gas, but Monaito’s healing abilities aren’t fast enough to get Granolah back in the game. Instead, he shows Goku something Bardock left behind on Planet Cereal: his scouter, which had been damaged during his own fight with Gas. Monaito suggests that it might contain recordings from the Bardock/Gas fight, which could give them a lead on how to beat Gas today. That seems like a stretch, but whatever. Maybe Monaito understood Whis’ riddle about “understanding yourself” better than Goku did.

Anyway, the scouter is damaged, but Oatmeel can read the files and play back the audio, and Goku hears his father’s voice for the first time as he tells Monaito to take kid Granolah away from the battle. He specifically tells him to “stay alive”, and that awakens something in Goku, as he seems to finally remember the moment when Bardock shot him into space as a baby. Bardock told Goku to stay alive, and I guess hearing the same words in the same voice are enough to bring back those memories.

Then we get a flashback to the Bardock/Gas fight. Then, as now, Gas transformed to get the advantage. Monaito couldn’t convince Bardock to withdraw, so instead he pulled out the Dragon Balls and tried to wish for Bardock to be teleported to his home planet. The trick is that the Dragon had to ask Bardock’s permission first, and Bardock refused, because of his SAYIN’ PRIDE and such.

Monaito can’t convince Bardock to abandon the battle, so he finally jumps in to save Bardock when he gets in over his head, and then he passes out, which is why Monaito doesn’t remember this part of the fight. Bardock makes the babyface comeback and wrecks Gas’ shit, and when Gas asks him what could possibly motivate him so much, Bardock tells him that the only thing going through his mind is the pursuit of victory, and he wins.

Then Elec shows up to pick up his baby brother and he hints to Bardock about Frieza’s plans to wipe out the Saiyans. At first I was annoyed that Elec would know anything about this, since at this point in the timeline, I’m not sure Frieza himself had made any hard decisions. But Elec is an intel junkie, so he’s probably heard plenty of rumors and it’s like I said before, you don’t need to have psychic foresight to predict that Frieza would destroy the Planet Vegeta.

What is a little weird is how Elec makes a joke about Bardock needing to watch out for meteor strikes, a little call-forward to the lie Frieza spread to cover up his crime. Except that hasn’t happened yet, so how would Elec know to make such a reference...? Unless Frieza has done this sort of thing before and used the same meteor story. Maybe Elec knows what’s going to happen to the Saiyans because it already happened to his own home planet... Food for thought.

Anyway, Elec shoots Bardock but he gets called away to deal with Frieza, so he can’t be bothered to make sure Bardock actually died. Monaito also survived his injuries, and they both recovered. And I think that covers the flashback part of this arc. So we now know how Bardock beat Gas, but does that help Goku and Vegeta in any way? We shall see...

#dragon ball #dragon ball super manga #2023dbapocryphaliveblog #granolah #goku #vegeta #bardock #monaito #gas #elec #macki #oil #monaka

20 notes · View notes

cloakedsparrow · 2 years ago

Text

“Don’t worry, you still got me. I guess nothing’s changed” & “I heard you became an agent” aka another Resident Evil headcanon/rant

Damnation is my favorite Resident Evil film. Not just because it’s awesome but also because I feel like we get the most insight into Leon as a character in it.

He’s usually ‘on’ in some way when we see him. He’s usually either protecting someone, keeping a civilian (or fake civilian) calm/safe, or with people he can’t really trust (like Benford) or doesn’t know if he can trust yet (like Helena). But his interactions with Hunnigan, JD, and Buddy/Sasha in that film are different. He’s very raw and open. And hurt. And tired. And hungry. He really lets them (and us) know how he feels about everything. It might just be the best characterization we get from any character in this franchise.

As part of this unusual expression of feelings, he makes the title quote before hanging up on Hunnigan at the end of the film. He seems upset. He starts to storm out of the hotel room he’s in before taking a breath and walking out with a little more control. Considering that he’s on furlough during that film and then part of the DSO in the next game, I always figured the ‘I guess nothing’s changed’ line meant that Benford pulled his shit again, using something to make Leon feel he had to join the DSO. Initially, I figured it was something to do with Buddy/Sasha. After all, we do see him returning to his life as a teacher at the end, despite having kidnapped and nearly murdered a US citizen during the film.

But then In RE6 we learn that Sherry Birkin is a DSO agent who answers directly to Simmons. This strikes me as weird for several reasons.

He’s her adopted father. Wouldn’t there be a conflict of interests to him being her CO?

As unlikely as it would be irl, we keep being told that the DSO answers directly to the president, so why is she an exception?

She’s a BOW who has been kept very sheltered/protected up to this point. When, where, and how was she safely trained?

Then I thought of that part of Damnation.

What if making Sherry an agent was what got Leon to sign on? As the most experienced agent with the most successful BOW related cases under his belt, Leon would be the natural choice for all the really crazy/dangerous assignments after joining the DSO. If he were to refuse to join though, then an agent with no experience but the ability to heal rapidly would probably be a top contender for such assignments. Leon taking the position would mean protecting her all over again and that’s something Benford knows works.

I’ve never subscribed to the fan-theory that Sherry is basically Leon’s daughter. I’ve always seen it as more of an unbalanced brother-sister relationship. Leon gave everything to protect her (from Umbrella, from the US government, from a life as a lab rat, from foster care) but he was nine years older than her and busy saving the world. She specifically refers to him as the person who saved her in Raccoon City rather than just someone she can trust or has known over half her life when Jake questions her about trusting Leon in RE6. She ultimately trusts him over her adopted father, so they definitely know each other still, but it doesn’t seem like they’ve spent lot of time together.

There’s also the way he says he heard she became an agent. It’s very...stilted. Like he’s trying not to give away too much or is maybe not too happy about that but knows it’s not his place to say anything. It’s all very much like a big brother who went off to live his life when a much younger sibling was still growing up at home. There’s trust, respect, and caring there, but only one seems caught up with the other’s life.

About that ‘not giving away to much’ thought: Leon is caring and initially trusting, but he’s also smart and has seen some serious shit. He wouldn’t have signed away his freedom to guarantee Sherry’s safety without wanting some sort of evidence that she was truly being taken care of in exchange. He’s probably been given regular reports on her, both from Simmons and from Claire. He probably has files of childhood photos and drawings, copies of medical reports/report cards, and random reports on her interests going back to when she was twelve. He probably has video of her home ballet pageants or piano recitals or whatever she was into at any given point in her childhood.

But would Sherry know about any of that? She knows who Leon is, of course. She remembers him saving her in Raccoon City and has probably heard about him from Claire, just like she heard all about Chris from her. However, no one knows how Benford ‘recruited’ Leon. Would it have been more beneficial to Benford to let Leon see her or to keep them separated so his only way of learning about her was through Benford? And what about Simmons? He agreed to take responsibility for Sherry, would he have wanted Leon potentially butting in while he saw to that responsibility?

I’d like to think Leon made sure he got to see her sometimes, but it sounds like such visitations would have been rare. With Claire able to verify whatever the reports said about Sherry, would Leon feel the need to push to see her all that often? If he was given the choice of him being able to see Sherry or Claire, I would bet he’d let Claire see her.

That means Leon would have to say something like ‘I heard you became an agent’ because at this point, they don’t have time for a full explanation, assuming he’d even be comfortable giving one. Without context, it might seem odd or even creepy for her to find out just how much he’s been keeping track of her life if she doesn’t know she was basically a hostage used to guarantee his service for years.

It kind of makes me wish we’d gotten that version of RE7 with Leon and Sherry working together. Maybe they’ll use it for a future game, like a Revelations type title that takes place in-between existing games/films. It would be interesting to see what their relationship is now that Benford isn’t around anymore.

TLDR: Headcanon that Benford let Sherry apply to be an agent of the DSO in order to force Leon to join after Damnation. Simmons probably agreed under the condition that Sherry reports to him instead of Benford. Leon has been getting reports on his surrogate little sister/instrument of coercion for years but she doesn’t know that.

#Resident Evil #headcanons #rant #theory #thoughts #observations #Leon S Kennedy #Sherry Birkin #Adam Benford #Damnation #RE6 #DSO #video games #tldr at end #surrogate siblings

21 notes · View notes

stargazeraldroth · 1 year ago

Note

First of all! This is very late, I’m super sorry about that- I had some stuff going on (work, feeling under the weather, etc), but! I have returned!!!

MSMAMSKS THERES SO MUCH TO GIN LORE THOUGH- But! Starting with the basics, the largely known version of Gin (and the one I’m mainly focusing on!) is actually a continuation of the original Hotarubitale AU- As a brief summary, Gin was a baby very close to death, his version of Gaster took him into the forest of monsters and remade him into a skeleton (I believe monsters and spirits are one and the same, here?), he met his version of Frisk when they got lost in the woods and led them out, they slowly develop some form of relationship, eventually years later he dies after touching a human child he mistook as a monster pretending to be a human.

The Gin associated with Ink comes to life here! Basically, he becomes a ghost who watches over his version of Frisk, only for Error to attack the AU. In the process of trying to stop him, he earned that massive crack in his skull, and Ink intervened after that to drive Error off and whisk Gin to the Omega Timeline with Core Frisk.

It’s… A Lot to explain, from there, and it’s been a while since I’ve done an in depth look, so I might be wrong- And I don’t think I could adequately do it justice (the siiversans blog has a summary page of the plot, though, as a sort of sparknotes!), but basically “shit goes wrong, Gin has a surprise brother (hello, Papyrus!), anons cause shit to go wrong again, people are brought back to life temporarily and shit is somewhat fixed??? Bonding happens, OH GOD SHIT IS WRONG AGAIN AND GIN IS DEAD-“

As a summary of Gin and Ink’s relationship… Well, for starters, Ink promised Gin safety and protection, and they’re very dear friends- Trying to describe the dynamic is kinda tough for me, but I’d say… Soft? People around them would say they should kiss apparently (they were! Very good friends!), and they have a sort of playful, carefree air to them, I think. They never got together in the direct canon because they never confessed before Gin died, but they were happy together. There’s a lot of unspoken regrets, there, and unvoiced love that I think would hurt Ink for a long, long time after the fact.

I! Don’t know!!! Aaahhh I’m just soft for them-

Moving on though!!! I could certainly see him having both, though rejection sensitive dysphoria is more applicable here, you’re right.

Cross is Ink’s Emotional Support Guard and Ink is Cross’s Emotional Support Artist. That’s it that’s the dynamic they’ve got going on. I like to imagine they try and blanket burrito each other when they’ve healed a bit. It’s just funny to me.

Truly, we fall into many of the same holes. I also have no idea what the fuck I’m doing, ever, at any given point in time. Whose bright idea was it to make me an adult?!? Either way, Error trying to cheer Ink up with puppets is really fucking cute, love that sort of thing- And even if he’s awkward about it! I think Ink would appreciate it! Error, his main rival, using one of his hobbies that involves creation to cheer him out, however begrudgingly, would be heartwarming, in a sort of way, you know?

Aaahhh, I didn’t mean, like, “Error is a god” is annoying! More like… When people make him Good and Flawless and functionally elevate him to the level of a “God That Does No Wrong” scenario, you know? I’m a sucker for actual god (but still flawed) Error! It just. Peeves me when his actual, manbaby and not-a-good-person (at least conventionally) personality is wiped out in favor of making him our Lord and Savior and Ink the Scum of the Earth, like you said. And! I don’t believe it’s changed, and he does, if I’m remembering correctly, destroy AUs because, in his eyes, they’re glitches and abominations- Corrupted copies of the original that shouldn’t be hear, in his opinion. Like, I’ve legitimately seen people characterize Ink as having a god complex, and I’m like… Guys, Error is Right There. Either way, I’m with you- People should write what they want! They can interpret as they please. I just, uh, wish that wasn’t a total misinterpretation of one character at the expense of my comfort character. Come on, guys, Ink doesn’t deserve that.

AJZAKJNZ I’LL BE QUICK ABOUT IT AND GIVE A SHORT SUMMARY I PROMISE- If you’re still interested, lemme know! But! Basically, it’s Forced God of Destruction, with unwilling Error and all… At first. Because really, why would whoever assigns these jobs make someone eternal duty something they try to escape from? So he destroys reluctantly at first… And then with a bit more of an open mind and rationalization, because this is- Surprisingly fun? Half of these guys are assholes anyways, or living in their own personal hell, so really, he’s doing them a favor. They should be thanking him! He’s basically a god- Hell, he is a god! And he just gets more and more into it, into his role- Starts being more haphazard and careless, and suddenly the inhabitants of the AUs are even being given the dignity of peaceful, painless deaths- It’s terror and pain and a glitched skeleton laughing like a madman as his tears their souls apart.

He gets far, far too enthusiastic about it, is what I’m saying. So much so that the Balance starts to… Tilt, a bit- Or a lot. Because Ink, meanwhile (also a god), had been careful to not inspire/create (depending on whether he’s actually a creator or a protector here) too much- Especially since creation takes so much longer. The Balance was an important, delicate thing, after all, and difficult to fix.

If I keep going, I’ll never shut up- Just! Error going too far, too fast- And Ink having to clean up after him and fix things! I’m very passionate about this!!!

Hhh Broomie I’m sorry!!! I’ll just. Pretend Core or Cross picked it up. Ink is already suffering so much, he needs a break.

Shattered and Blue probably treat him like a plush toy that talks, let’s be real. Poor Ink is pretty much carted around and placed (forced) next to or between them to “cuddle” and shit. They don’t want him to feel sad! And if Shattered has to hold him down with tentacles… Well, they’ll get him to see things their way eventually, they’re sure!

They’re the “why are you running” meme. That’s it, that’s them.

Nightmare’s the deadpan snarker of a narrator we’d need to get through the suffering that this AU would bring, huh.

OHHHHHHH I'M FINALLY HERE! I've been getting put through the washing machine by schoolwork, especially that treacherous subject... math. But! I'm back now! I've also just been extremely lazy and stuff.

Dammit Error. You always, ALWAYS come in and ruin people's happy lives with your need for destruction and annihilation! I still love you, my glitchy manbaby, but please. Just once. Just stop. Honestly, my brain's not processing everything after a long day of mathematics, but it's shoveling in that Ink angst pretty well. Do I have a problem? Nooo... do I need therapy? Maaaaaybe... but that's not important!

I like how I knew next to nothing about Gin's lore or his dynamic with Ink, yet I still included him in my Food Fantasy AU. And the best part is that his counterpart in that AU is based solely off the mask I saw him with like.... once??? I don't know.

Cross and Ink are mutual support buddies and I love that for them.

While it is adorable to think about Error trying to put on an awkward puppet show for Ink to cheer him up, I can't help but imagine that he might... not be the greatest? I mean that he might use a Dream and/or Blue puppet to try and cheer him up, but that might just make him even sadder because those are puppet versions of his best friends.

This. This is exactly how I feel whenever I come across one of those stories that does little more than just flip the roles. As in, the Bad Sanses are actually misunderstood babies who aren't at fault for what they've done and the Star Sanses are the Scum of the Earth, toxic, and the worst people to have ever lived. The concept of making the Stars secretly evil and all could be interesting, I think it has a lot of potential when used properly! But the idea has been largely ruined for me by a lot of stuff that just feels one-dimensional, you know? I don't care if people use the idea, I've personally written things that the majority would disagree with, I can only encourage people to add more depth to the characters; if the Stars are going to be the actual evil, then why are they evil? What are their motives? This is especially important for a character like Dream, who is the embodiment of all positive feelings. If the Bad Sanses are the actual good guys, then how/why do they deserve redemption? Why are they actually good? A lot of people use the Balance as an excuse, but the Murder Trio (and Cross, if he's there) is exempt from that- those three aren't relevant to the Balance. So that really only applies to Error and Nightmare, and while Error doesn't really have many other options, Nightmare technically does. There are ways to cause negativity other than murder, guys. If they're still going to use the murder route and stuff, then what makes them the good guys? What makes them deserve that reveal/acknowledgment that they're misunderstood?

Another important thing to consider is that the Bad Sanses aren't entitled to forgiveness, especially Error and Nightmare. Like yes, Error was (presumably) forced to destroy AUs for the Balance, but that doesn't erase the consequences of his destruction. That doesn't erase the fact that the Omega Timeline is FULL of people/characters who escaped from their destroyed worlds, who lost their homes and their families. Nor does the necessity of his role make those same people magically forgive him. Can they be understanding of his position? Certainly. Do they have to immediately forgive Error? No! In fact, they don't have to forgive him at all! The Bad Sanses aren't entitled to forgiveness just because they're secretly the good guys. ESPECIALLY if they're still having the Murder Trio commit murder to spread negativity, when there are known alternatives.

Anyway, moving on from that little rant. I am so sorry for talking your ear off and I hope nobody gets too offended by what I said, I just get really into this stuff. Can I just say- I absolutely love how you have Ink be aware of the Balance! So many FGOD AUs have it to where Ink either has no clue about the Balance or doesn't believe it exists, and I'm like??? Why??? He's literally the Protector of the AUs, if anyone would know about the Balance, it would be him! It's literally crucial to his role to protect the AUs, they'll fall apart without it! My personal headcanon for my own stuff is that Error's actually the one who didn't believe in the Balance (harmony between destruction and creation? A Truce? Even if it really does exist, ignoring the Balance only benefits him! Get outta here with your pacifist BS, Ink!) and Ink just can't stress it enough to him lol.

ANON TELL ME AS MUCH AS YOU'D LIKE- you can always send it in a separate ask if you'd like! That way you can focus on just your AU and not have to worry about the ask being too long!

I like how this went from "Ink gets isekaied back to his unfinished AU" to "Oh shi- SAVE THE BRUSH!"

Man, you're right- they probably treat him as some kind of glorified teddy bear at this point (ngl I actually have a headcanon that Ink is a surprisingly wonderful cuddle buddy). He's usually good with cuddling and physical affection, but this is just... no! Let him go!

It's been too long. I forget what that was responding to.

Nightmare as the narrator of this AU is perfect. I never knew I needed this in my head.

#underverse au #yandere underverse au #platonic yandere dream sans #platonic yandere blue sans #anonymous asks #again i'm so sorry this is late anon

7 notes · View notes

brownfrogs · 1 year ago

Note

I haven't really thought much about Overwatch for a hot minute (hyperfixations do be like that 😔), but RE: that other anon, how exactly is Yeehan toxic? Like, they barely interact in the game and most likely don't even know about each other in canon- how can you come to that conclusion? Even if it's not exactly my favourite ship for either of them, I don't see how one could say it's unhealthy or Problematic™ unless you like. specifically write them out to be an unhealthy couple

(Also, feel free to ignore this if you don't want to answer for whatever reason! I'm not trying to stir up discourse, I'm just genuinely curious)

I wouldn’t blame prev anon’s interpretation bc I did make a post saying that Spuriken is a healthier ship a while back. So I’m sure that’s why they’re framing it like that. But to be fair to myself, it was a few years ago so I have matured with my thoughts. So, I am redacting my previous statement.

Just cause a ship could be a healthy relationship, doesn’t make it inherently better than any other ship. Shipping unhealthy or toxic ships doesn’t inherently make you a bad person [throws confetti in the air]

I mostly find it ironic out of all the things I’ve said this is the thing they’ve been holding onto. (Back then I even referred to myself as a garbage man for preferring Yeehan, so it was a v unserious post to me) I’m sure I’ve said more contradicting things bc that is simply the nature of being human on the internet!! We grow and change and that’s okay.

As for why I thought Yeehan was not as healthy in the first place, I was mostly going off the fact that Hanzo’s voicelines are very harsh and antagonistic towards most ppl. The voicelines they do have together, he can be very standoffish towards Cole. At Hanzo’s core, he is simply just an asshole LMAO. So I’m sure any relationship Hanzo possibly could get in too, “realistically” there would be a lot of of baggage that needs to be waded through. And the same with Cole, that drinking problem stems from somewhere. He’s got shit to work on too. Add them together, and it could be an extremely volatile mix. They could make each other worse.

Or not. And that’s where the fun potential lies. At least for me it is. You can also skip all that and simply have them have fun silly shenanigans together.

While Genji has already gone through a healing journey and is pretty mellowed out. So I’m sure, he would be better at the whole relationship thing haha. But that changes whether if we’re in Blackwatch era. Whatever he and Cole could possibly have had during this time, I would def not call it healthy LMAO. But again, that’s just me.

Anyways, this was fun. I honestly don’t mind discourse, as long as we all have level heads about it! 🫱🏾‍🫲🏽

#this is esp ironic since im goin thru a toxic situationship with them and i oop-#mel answers asks #ill tag this #fandom wank //#just so ppl can know its not that serious and can ignore this if wanted #new hanzo fans are so lucky. he has hobbies now LOL #so hes less of a dickhead

7 notes · View notes

localamblongus · 10 months ago

Note

Gotta ask, since I’m assuming Branch’s hair would not be healed by the time Brozone gets back together, how would the bros react to what happened to him? I already imagine “You’re half of me now” Poppy is more protective over Branch than canon Poppy, so I can see the bros being horrified at the state of their baby brother’s trauma.

I hadn’t actually thought much beyond the first movie, but you’ve opened floodgates and now I can’t stop thinking about it. I imagine by band together his hair would have healed but still been fairly short and choppy (Branch wouldn’t let anyone near it with a sharp object for a long while) JD would probably miss this entirely cononcially he steamrolls most of Branch’s conversations with him so I doubt he’d give much thought to hair changes. Maybe even the others too as they’ve all got drastically different hairstyle to what they had as kids, and Branch wouldn’t be telling them shit. But I do think Branch’s trauma over the trollstice events would linger more obviously and between his weird caution around his hair and nerves around the larger species like the islanders and ofc the rageons being more prominent they’d pick up on something having happened with it in the past, just not exactly what. Same as him being grey ig, there’s hints and stories but he’s not going to tell them outright.

Oh the wonderful angst opportunities of Bruce working in a restaurant with his wife and other big folk would be very fun to explore. And ofc I adore protective Poppy, and I imagine her more protective side coming out more against the brothers, they are in for a long long talk.

I also like to think post band together Clay and Branch could potentially bond over hair damage, as there’s no way the putt putt’s have healthy hair that’s some serious frizz.

as for reactions when they do find out:

Clay would be horrified but probably to least likely to react drastically, considering he’s lived with putt putt and feared the worst of Bergens for years. JD brimming with guilt, this guy is an untapped vat of it. He’s probably had some hair accidents on the trail and knows the pain it must have been, combined with the whole kidnapped and betrayed thing yeah he’s feeling that big brother failure right in the guts.

Not sure about Floyd , but probably something similiar. Lots of hugs and offers to talk and listen, none of which I think branch would take up but he appreciates the gesture.

Bruce would probably freak out, dad mode overprotection. Eventually he’s chill out but not until he’s stocked and read up on every medical and healing text he can, and offered up any and all things he can think of that would help Branch’s hair grow back healthy and the same as before it was chopped.

anyways I hope this somewhat answers your ask, I got a bit rambly over it at the end!

#thanks for the ask!#dreamworks trolls #my fic

6 notes · View notes

evilbonehag · 1 year ago

Text

Outlast AU: Normal Fucking People! EdVal friendship stupidity lets go-

(Warning for mentions of sexual assault for backstory reasons yk)

(Normal Fucking People is what I’ve lovingly named my slice of life Outlast AU where all the characters are haunt actors who scare people for a living)

• They bonded initially over loving horror and performance- they share details about their characters to each other that no one else knows. Their work at the Mount Massive/Temple Gate haunts originally got them talking and now they each realize how deeply their own lives and traumas affect the characters they play

• the weird kind of friendship where one of them is extremely put together and the other is always a fucking mess so it almost seems unfair (but it switches constantly because Eddie may be a homeowner but despite Val never having any money she is usually on the listening end when he’s got something to vent about and this is Often)

• Give the rancid vibes of a toxic couple (Constant gross pet names from Eddie, constant innuendos from Val, she likes to sit on his lap at parties and it weirds people out, they’re always hanging out and talking shit about people they hate etc etc)

• Really though, they’re each healing in their own way, its just a LOT. Val escaped an abusive Christian upbringing, Eddie has cpstd from childhood sexual abuse and they’ve each lived for 30-40 years and are JUST NOW trying to undo it all

• seriously Eddie didn’t even admit to himself that he was gay until a few months ago. Val suspected the whole time and definitely poked him about it and BOY would he get upset.

• meanwhile Eddie is a terrible great wingman for Val who is currently dealing with her giant gay crush on Marta. he’s just trying to learn how to not be overtly terrifying to be around (Hes WEIRDLY friendly. Marta hates this.)

• Eddie used to be visibly uncomfortable with being seen with Val in public in her goth-satanist-punk-what-have-you getup but they found the solution was not, in fact, to get Val to tone it down, but to get Eddie into wearing vintage. So now they’re getting into looking weird in public together, slowly but surely, and they’re quite the pair

•Eddie follows Val’s blog but he doesn’t have the attention span to Read All of That (Val writes essay-length blog posts and journals for fun, mostly about horror, sexuality, religion, human beings, etc.)

• Val is really well read and really good at talking. She has been able to get Eddie to listen to her musings very often when they smoke together

• it took Val a surprising amount of effort to get Eddie to be okay with getting high and he was a huge baby about it the first time they tried

• Eddie’s transition from “Can you please leave the spiked dog collar at home” to “Your tights need more holes in them, let me get the scissors-”

• Eddie has an oldies/musical theatre playlist for the car but Val hates upbeat showtunes more than anything. Eddie gives her rides everywhere so he’s been making it a challenge to find her something she’d like (“If I can imagine a kick-line to it, it’s trash, Ed”)

• The amount of crying and screaming these two do around each other. There was a period of their friendship where they were consistently talking each other down from things. Val is still grappling with shame around sexuality despite outwardly being very sex-positive, and Eddie has so much trouble trusting people and releasing control for fear of being assaulted again. They’re okay with being very raw and unfiltered around each other in ways they can’t be with anyone else

• “Did you see Rick at the haunt last night?”

“Fuck Rick.”

“Yeah, fuck Rick.”

#bonehagramblin #trying to be more okay with posting my silly AU stuff #outlast #eddie gluskin #val outlast #my children #I love their stupid gay problematic friendship too much

5 notes · View notes

rabbivole · 2 years ago

Photo

mujtama commune, 5501, starting population of 6

i’ve gone back to trying to do a hundred-pawn colony challenge. ‘challenge’ isn’t really the right word here because i have an unholy number of mods that make this a lot easier, but regardless, my goal is to grow to 100 pawns. i cheated to start with ‘tunneler’ as my first meme

some strategies for making this work:

-an underground tunneler fort is considerably easier than an outdoor base. whenever an outdoor base grows, securing it gets harder; that’s more walls you have to build. an underground base can keep growing and be naturally sealed off from threats, other than bugs. and bugs are bad, but vastly more manageable than raid threats. additionally, underground bases are absolute shitholes for quite a while, which can be an issue for mood management but helps keep your wealth low

-additionally, an underground base on a map that is mostly mountain means i can play on a larger map that still has less ‘active’ surface area, which helps framerate. and i’m going to need all the performance help i can get

-ideology abuse. nutrient paste is the only way we’re keeping this many people fed, and setting cannibalism/insect meat both to ‘acceptable’ adds more calorie sources to the pool. i also have a nutrient paste mod that makes it pipeable to however many dispensers you want all over the base, so the dining room doesn’t have to be literally in the food processing zone

-i tend to like giving people their own bedrooms. this is not viable for a 100-pawn colony. barracks abuse makes this possible (if you shove enough furniture and statues into a communal bedroom, it counteracts the penalty for not having a private bedroom). bedrooms are limited to royals and people who are married. technically you can build a double bed and couples will still fuck nasty in the middle of a barracks, but i don’t care for that

-i have turned down ‘chance for instant death on down’ to 0%, because otherwise the game will make it difficult to capture raiders after a certain point. i also have rituals set to give me a chance at a random recruit

various events of year 1

i have the Auronya mod race installed. they’re cat people and they’re frankly the best cat people available; the art for them is great and they’re adorable while still being taken mostly seriously. however i have so many fucking mods installed at this point that they’re pretty rare. so i tried to guarantee myself some cats by putting a husband-and-wife couple in my starting 6.

the problem is that i fucked up doing the character editing to make them married or even in a relationship and then didn’t notice. so my very first ritual gave me a recruit who was cowher’s girlfriend.

not only that, but cowher’s girlfriend that was doomed to die

luciferium is an extremely rare and expensive drug that i definitely didn’t have. without it, she soon goes into a coma, then dies after about 30 days. so i had her help mine out some of the base before she inevitably ate shit. through an unbelievable stretch of luck, they got engaged and then married shortly before she went into a coma, though there was nowhere to do the wedding other than atop the pile of garbage in a dank hole in the ground

then she laid in a coma for over a month before eventually dying. i thought about euthanizing her but i think that would have been an even worse mood penalty for everyone. i had to keep him mining to maintain the ‘passion for my work’ buff so he didn’t go nuts

weirdly enough, he and tamryn got together without my prompting shortly afterwards. and it turns out time heals all wounds. having sex 8 times is equivalent to your wife dying. a game after david cage’s heart

they’ve now had a beautiful daughter together. here’s to many more

#rimvole #it feels polite to keep a tag for very long posts that most people do not care about

2 notes · View notes

thehomebodydiaries · 8 months ago

Text

i’m exhausted. i feel like i haven’t really had any alone time for like a month, but i’ve also been having increasingly disturbing thoughts when i am left to ponder alone. and people wonder why i need to be stoned all the time.

retail therapy is scary, though. i’ve recently recalled how much i love to read (escapism is a hell of a mistress), so i’ve spent way more money than i should’ve this past week. quite a stress point, tbh, but i’m justifying it because i was out celebrating my third year anniversary with my boyfriend. we happened to celebrate on free comic book day, so we went to acme comics and i was expecting, like, two free comics. but when we walked through the door, there was a girl to the right with a table holding stacks of plastic bags all filled with like sixteen comics, and she just held out a bag and said, “free comic books?” to which i responded, “yes please!” and then i proceeded to spend $80 on more comics, one of which is old man logan. for those of you who don’t know, it’s a comic that was actually intended to be a standalone, but there have since been additions, and this is the comic that inspired the movie logan. it depicts wolverine as an old man with his healing capabilities slowing down tremendously; the world’s supervillains have banded together like the heroes do, but because there are more villains than heroes, they’ve killed the vast majority of heroes: captain america, iron man, thor, daredevil… it’s a really depressing comic book, honestly, but it’s amazing all the same.

this is random and irrelevant but my favorite fnaf character has changed from fun time foxy to puppet - i adore her and want a life sized version of her to put on my couch. she reminds me of a d&d character that i created in my homebrew world; his name is face and he’s a sentient wooden puppet that’s like five feet tall and has no facial features so he wears a mask and speaks telepathically to people, but is entirely silent until he trusts someone enough to know his secret.

i also got a cute new cup and an all black sanrio cinnabon stuffie that looks perfect on my bed, plus several books that i should not have bought because they’re expensive. i’ve been writing a lot this week too! my ability to get everything i write at work is hindered though because i can’t access certain things from home or my phone because my phone is way too old and won’t updated to the necessary versions to download certain apps. so i’m trying to brainstorm while i’m at work and actually write while i’m at home… but with two or three hours in between breaks, i have a lot of ideas, and remembering all of them is difficult. i might have to convince my boss to send them to me somehow… although i have to admit i’d be a little shy about him potentially reading it. i don’t think he’s much of a reader, and i think he’s kind enough to not read it if i asked him not to. idk, we’ll see.

holy shit palworld is way harder than any pokemon game i have ever played, but it is so addicting. speaking of video games, i’ve been really wanting to make a save file for the sims 4, so that might be something i do during a stream. i think i might try to stream on the weekends, but i’ve gotta redo quite a few things and make sure everything is good to go. i know exactly who i’d want as moderators for when they are necessary, but i would be lying if i said i wasn’t really nervous about streaming. i know i don’t want to use my camera just yet, and i don’t exactly have money for a v-tube artist right now, but i have been meaning to look at artists i would like to hire when i do have more disposable income. this imposter syndrome is just… a huge obstacle. if i can learn to cope with it or overcome it, i’ll be unstoppable. but it’s so much deeper than my meds can reach, and it’s so difficult to find the energy to fight something so rooted in my being.

alright, i didn’t mean for it to get that dark, but… i did say i’ve been having increasingly darker thoughts lately. and rants like that are exactly why i started this blog to begin with. i am learning how to love myself and give myself the life i deserve.

1 note · View note

vizthedatum · 11 months ago

Text

It’s weird but I do feel lighter today, in many ways.

—

Yesterday, the ultrasound physically and emotionally hurt. I am still processing the last two months - and why all this had to happen the way it did.

I still wonder if there was a chance I was pregnant and lost it? Always in the back of my mind unfortunately. I don’t know. I know what I experienced was real - I know that my logic with how I chose to handle testing was sound - I know that I absolutely need support from people I’m dating and close friends (and while I got the latter and from my gf, I didn’t get the emotional support I needed from my ex - and that’s ok, we aren’t together, and they don’t need to strain themselves - it’s just not what I can handle, I expect way more emotional maturity and support so I don’t fall into despair).

But yeah the ultrasound hurt a lot physically - both when they did the external lower abdominal ultrasound and the transvaginal ultrasound (internal). I’m so sore. Medical procedures take such huge toll. It’s so frustrating because I haven’t really been in pain when I’ve had penetrative sex recently - or when I masturbate. Sex has been so much less painful the past whole year, and I’ve been so grateful. My sex life is getting better all the time, and now that I’m able to orgasm more consistently again, I feel like I have a better relationship with it. (I do still crave things but it doesn’t feel so pressing as it used to)

But medical penetration and procedures? It’s so much pain blah. Probably because I’m tense due to the setting and past trauma.

I’m still waiting to hear back from my doctor.

We did a bunch of bloodwork and still need to review all that. My ovaries seem fine - I still remember when one of them was stuck to my stomach and they had to pull it down during my endo surgery, meh. I do not think they saw cysts yesterday but I’m waiting for the full report to come in.

—

And also the maintenance person for my apartment reassured me that I don’t have mice because of how I keep my home - we found a big hole at the back of my stove where they’ve likely come in from. He sealed a bunch of possible places, and he consoled me. So grateful.

—

And I had my first therapy session with a queer, neurodivergent, and poly therapist this morning!!! First sessions are always tough because it’s intake and history building, but I get good vibes already. I’m so hopeful.

—

I also had a very good friend hangout yesterday during and after my ultrasound. She’s one of my best friends in the city, and she (among many friends) validated all the stupid shit I’ve been through. And how far I’ve come. And we bonded and caught up. And ate cake haha.

—

Life seems to be falling more into place. Things don’t feel like they’re on fire. I’m getting a lot of stuff on my to do list done. I’m taking care of myself and resting a bunch. I’m doing better than ever and am not even on a bunch of prescription meds!! Dang.

Work is going well and I’m more on top of things than ever. I have a lot of clarity, and I also know that I’m GOOD at what I do - in the sense of: I have a lot of knowledge and skill in my field of expertise, and I know I worked hard for that. I don’t need to be surprised at being good at math and statistics anymore lol.

But sigh, there are still more to do but things are getting better all the time.

And they will - I have to have hope for that. All the things I want, the healing… it will all come with time and persistent effort/growth.

#post processing #ultrasound #pelvic floor conditions #healing #trauma #mice issue #neurodivergence #love #queer #self love #prose #thoughts #journaling

0 notes

anyoneseenadam · 3 years ago

Text

Healing

pairing: Azriel x reader (acotar)

warnings: TW - sexual assault, rape, objectification and implications of abuse, smut, consensual sex, azriel is a sweetie and rhys is a good bestie

a/n: first of all PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS!!! i’m really proud of this fic but I don’t want to trigger or upset anyone, that being said it isn’t too graphic but still. Anyway I hope u enjoy, this took me three days lmao <333

based on: this and this

—————————————————————————-

You had your first less than savoury encounter with men when you had barely turned nine. Your body still hadn’t finished forming, but you were growing, and your body was gaining some semblance of shape as you did. It wasn’t much – just a whistle from across the street – but for a second your heart seized up with fear, and in the next you almost felt giddy. A man thought you were beautiful.

You felt like a princess that day – felt the way you had when the boy from your class had kissed your cheek, still too young to process the intentions behind that single whistle. But you didn’t care – someone wanted you.

When you got your first period at twelve – even more changed. Your body felt new, and you didn’t feel comfortable in the changes. Your old clothes didn’t fit and now your mother forced you into tighter corsets for those long, long dinners you had to attend. Your parents were respected Fae in the Hewn City – nobles who liked to drink and smoke and throw extravagant balls. And with your new body you could no longer simply hide in the corner or climb through secret passages with your friends – muddying your dresses.

Now you had to smile when men hugged you slightly too long, laugh when they commented on how much you had grown up, sit pretty and pristine with an old mans hand loitering to close to your rear for hours as you watched your parents drink away their troubles.

By the time you were fifteen you were used to the constant attention, your beauty not uncommon where you lived but still doted on often. Unaware of their desire for your youth, your naivety. The women never offering a helping hand but instead glaring down high skewed noses as their husbands slurred into your ears – still in shock that a pretty, young thing like you was all alone at this party.

When you were sixteen you decided to change that – kissing an alright looking boy at a party and telling him exactly what he wanted to hear so he would kiss you back. He stayed when you didn’t protest as he pulled you to the bathroom and pushed you to your knees. And for this small request, the greasy hands on your body at balls and dinners or any other social gathering halved – now only the truly self-righteous felt they could touch you still.

The only problem was you truly did love the boy you had chosen. He had faults yes, but he was kind – he brought you flowers and kissed your cheek. But he also spoke over you, forced you into silence and took what he wanted. And he always wanted the same thing.

If anything it was his father’s fault. The military commander never leaving room for debate when he argues with his wife – and sons only become what they see in their fathers.

Your father had left with a younger woman a few months after your fourteenth birthday, and you hadn’t seen him since – only heard stories of him galivanting around the autumn court from your classmates. You could see the distaste your mum held you in as she realised she would have to stick around to look after you, not yet old enough to be married. Then Amarantha had taken hold of the country and that possibility had been thrown out the window anyway.

Weirdly enough not that much changed in your life when she took power, the only major difference was that now you had to block out screams before going to sleep and even they had become like white noise. You still drank with your friends on Friday nights, went out with your boyfriend on Saturdays and slept the pain away on Sundays. Your weekdays consisted of school, dinners, balls and whatever more your mother could throw together to appease the high queen.

That and the high lord of the night court had started making appearances at the events your mother threw. He was a cruel man standing so proudly at the queen’s side – but you saw something flickering in his eyes whenever people spoke, complimenting his power and rule. You saw what you felt as you laughed at compliments and lingering touches – you saw pain, but more importantly you saw anger. And right now you could use anger.

During one ball you watched him leave, taking an odd route – not the one that would help him escape the loud music but instead a long winding corridor leading to a series of smaller rooms. Without thought you peeled away from your company, muttering excuses and went after him – grabbing a bottle of wine as you did.

You found him reclining in an empty room and knocked on the door gently. He cracked open an eye – slow like a cat – and beckoned you in. You moved to perch next to him, leaning back with a straight back and letting your head loll slightly as you took a swig of the dark red wine, before passing him the bottle.

“You looked like you could use a drink,” you smiled, eyes focused on his sharp jaw as he held the bottle to his mouth with a laugh.

“One way of putting it,” he smiled. The two of you sat in silence for several minutes as you took in his beauty, his looks plus mannerisms all made him seem like a wild cat - a panther trapped underground.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, and you raised a hand to trace that sharp jaw. But instead of devouring you as any lesser man would’ve, he brushed your hand away and held it tightly in his larger one. “That’s not gonna happen, you’re what sixteen?”

“Almost seventeen,” you said, cheekily. He laughed but shook his head, squeezing your hand before releasing it.

“You’re still a child,” he said matter-of-factly, and you scoffed, stealing your wine back to drink again.

“Yeah well that’s usually a selling point,” your voice was sad, but you didn’t dare let your eyes stray from his – refusing to show fear, “And you’re so nice to me, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

He laughed as you pouted, “You practice this in the mirror or something?”

“Usually works in three seconds,” you confess, and he whistles under his breath, “Men are rather easy to manipulate when they’ve been trying to get into your skirts since your first bleed.”

“And you wonder why I’m not about to take advantage of you,” he laughed, and you smiled – a real smile, or real enough. “Plus I don’t think your little boyfriend would be pleased.”

“Eh, he’s never pleased - I don’t think this could make him worse.” Rhysand took the wine back and frowned.

“Does he hurt you?” his voice was sincere but the laugh you let out was not.

“Don’t all men,” he swore, and you laughed again, “Yet you foil my plan to make you fall in love with me and whisk me away to the moon.”

He laughed, but his eyes darkened with deep sadness you were sure you would never understand, “I think we both no that even I could not do that, but I might be able to crush your fly.”

“Little boyfriend? Fly? You really don’t like him do you?” you laughed, head lighter already.

“I don’t like any man who thinks they can hurt women,” he said, frowning when he realised through your passing back and forth there was no wine left.

“Shit that took us like five minutes,” you complained, and he laughed, waving his hand lightly as several more bottles appeared before you – you grinned as you grabbed another.

“So any friends with weaker moral backbones that I could marry?” you asked with a laugh, and he smiled at you.

“I’m sure I could find someone,” he leaned back again. You smiled – finally happy that one night might pass in the company of a decent man.

Soon, you’d find it would be more than one night, a close friendship quickly blossoming between you and the high lord. All your friends were convinced you were sleeping together but true to his word he didn’t touch you, and by the time you surpassed the age of eighteen you didn’t want him to. But that didn’t stop other men.

After a particularly bad argument with your boyfriend that had left you with a handprint on your left cheek you had broken up with him – sending away his apologies and flowers, smart enough to see he didn’t hold the mental capacity to change.

Plus you were beautiful and young, you could certainly do better. And you soon did – rich men who liked to buy you jewellery, and fine clothes, men who enjoyed literature and art and spending time with you.

And at the start of each relationship, for a few blissful seconds you would believe in their pure intentions. But then a hand would drift from your lower back to your ass, or the gentle kiss that followed a necklace would shift from your mouth to your breasts. Not one of them wanted to wait until you were comfortable, so you made yourself comfortable.

You pictured pretty, strong men were holding you down and making you feel something, slipping your own hand between your legs and they penetrated you to try and replicate what you were sure a lover’s touch must feel like. And as always – after the first time- they stopped asking for permission, you were their toy, so you no longer had choice over that part of yourself.

But through nice guys and bad boys, for fifty years you had Rhysand who was a friend – who treated you with respect and finally let you talk, let you breathe.

In the end he was the one who found you, in the backroom of a party – drunk and undressed. You were weeping, curled in a ball with your attackers’ seed dripping out of you, bruises decorating your bare skin. When he turned you over with his comforting hands he found your nose dripping red and the vibrant lipstick you wore smudged.

He helped you sit up and redress, took you home and stood outside the bathroom while you scrubbed yourself clean in scalding water – still unsteady on your feet. You changed into a nightgown silently and neither of you said a word when you crawled into bed next to each other, crying in your best friends’ arms as he tried to console you.

When you woke up, he was gone with just a scribbled message about Amarantha and the name of a healer he trusted. But you just placed it back down, turning onto your back and staring at the ceiling as hot tears ran into your hairline.

You barely ate anything for the days following your assault – fighting with your mother more when you rarely saw her and subsequently breaking it off with your current boyfriend. You had thrown his hands off you when he tried to touch you and the screaming match that followed ended your relationship.

Your bond with Rhysand grew only closer however as you spent nights drinking in candlelight, talking about anything and everything until you were sure he knew every inch of your soul and you his.

“You know what I’m going to do as soon as she’s gone,” you whispered one night as you stared at the twinkling lights you had hung on your bedroom roof to imitate stars.

“What?” Rhys had asked, never letting his eyes leave the ‘stars’ which he had laughed at and then proceeded to rearrange to make them more accurate. To which you threw a pillow at his head.

“Find a hill, or a pier, or a large pit or anything and scream into it until my throat bleeds.” You said and he laughed, the bed beneath you rumbling.

“Consider me on board.” He joked as you sat up to perch at your vanity – smudging the sharp eyeliner you wore with a small brush and applying some red lipstick.

“Wanna go out?” you asked him, and he sat up to with a small, sad smile.

“Can’t.” you understood his implication and frowned.

“I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t gutted me yet,” you tried to lighten the mood, but his face darkened slightly when he joked back.

“Oh she wants to, I’m telling her any information you give me about citizens, so she doesn’t.” He said, ruffling your hair as he stood to leave.

“That’s fair, I’ll keep an ear out,” you smiled, squeezing his hand gently before he left.

Things changed when Feyre Archeron appeared, you saw the way your friend watched her and realised you might be competing for his attention soon, but you were happy for him. Until he brought her to that first party – drugged and barely dressed. You felt the bile rise in your throat as you pushed down memories of yourself in such a similar position, and while you knew he would never hurt her – he was still a man. And you were foolish to believe for all those years that he was a man who would realise this was wrong.

Making polite excuses you left the party, picking up the tails of your dress as you all but raced home – ditching the dress and closing the blinds tightly as you made yourself food in your underwear. The sick feeling in your throat spreading through your chest and stomach as you ate, abandoning your meal halfway for a book and large sweater. And when he knocked on your door that night, desperate to tell you all about her – all about the human girl who he was sure could be his mate, you pretended to be asleep.

You barely spoke to him the whole time she was there, unable to look him in the eyes when she was so clearly out of it – and the feeling only grew when the next morning she would have all eyes on her. You understood that feeling. You instead spent parties flirting with Tarquin, the young high lord who was only a few years your senior or warding off marriage invitations with laughs and carefully placed words.

Rhys would sometimes catch your eyes – furrowing his eyebrows at you when you avoided his gaze, the sick feeling never really leaving. But it wasn’t until you watched Tamlin slay Amarantha with a smile that he tried to speak to you again. Feyre was Fae and leaving with her betrothed and Rhysand had just confirmed they were mates – and never had he needed his best friend quiet like he did now.

You were sitting when he found you, head in your palms and blood dusting the skirts of your dress. You had been sitting near Amarantha when it happened. You looked up when he neared, smiling sadly as he sat next to you.

“Want to go home?” he asked you quietly and you scoffed, standing, and moving to leave quickly. He followed after you, grabbing your arm as you wrenched it out of his grip with more ferocity than he had ever seen from you.

“Don’t touch me,” he held his hands up, backing away to give you space as you got your breathing under control.

“What did I do?” he asked – smart enough to not presume anything.

“How could you think it was okay, after what happened?” your voice was quiet again, and so sad.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he implored, stepping slightly closer again. You raised your eyes to meet his and he understood, the darkness you carried in your eyes shining through – the memories that resurfaced in those dark moments. “I’m sorry, let me explain please.”

You let him hold your arm softly as he winnowed the two of you to your house where you sat down heavy and tired.

“I did it because she needed out of that cell, but I saw what they did to you and you’re a fae woman, she’s… she was human. So it meant that no one else would touch her.” He tried to explain, “And she wouldn’t want to remember.”

“That’s a horrible thing to do Rhys.” You stated and he hung his head low, “How in anyway was that helping her, to get her out you could’ve snuck her here or just take her to a ball and let her dress normally.”

“I’m sorry, I just knew this would’ve been the safest option,” he grabbed your hand again and squeezed it like he did all those years ago, “It’s over, we can go home.”

“I am home,” you laughed bitterly, gesturing to your house.

“No, you’re coming out of this city – we’re putting it behind us.” He stood and held out a hand.

“I know you’re trying to be dramatic and all, but I have to pack – and think.” You said and he laughed.

“Take your time,” he said, sitting back to wait for you, “And I know it might take you a while to forgive me, but I’ll wait.”

You had left soon after, as he revealed his city to you. Winnowing to a house where two beautiful women stood at the door, strong winged men appearing next to them almost instantly – all sharing the same tear-eyed look. Well, all asides from a short, dark-haired woman who simply smiled.

The men you presumed were Azriel and Cassian barrelled towards Rhysand, attacking him in the most violent hug you had ever witnessed. Mor followed soon after and Amren simply offered him a curt nod, to which he bowed slightly with a cheeky smile.

Cassian turned to look at you and everyone followed suit, you straightened up – not wanting to cower under their gazes.

“And this, this is (y/n).” Rhysand said, placing a hand on your elbow, “She’s the only reason I survived under the mountain.”

You smiled at him, annoyed still – but you still held so much love for him in your heart. You looked away when Cassian approached and wrapped you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground slightly.

When he released you he looked you dead in the eye, “I am forever in your service.”

“Cassian let go of the poor girl,” Mor exclaimed behind him, and you giggled, looking to Rhys for support.

“Forgot to tell you he’s a hugger,” he shrugged, and you shoved his shoulder.

“Oh did you!” you laughed.

“Gotta get used to it, you’re part of the team now,” Cassian slung an arm around your shoulder as he guided you inside, “which means lots of hugs and long talks about emotions.”

“Don’t steal my best friend Cassian,” Rhys jabbed at his brother as you all moved to sit inside around a long table.

“He already had I’m afraid, can’t reverse love like ours,” you joined in, patting Cassian’s hand as he punched the air in victory, Rhysand feigning pain as he dramatically collapsed into his chair – a hand over his heart.

When you were finally seated you caught Azriel’s gaze, his eyes locked on you – having watched you interact with his family for less than five minutes and already completely enamoured. You smiled softly when you caught his gaze and he grinned at you, no words passing.

Later that evening – after too many drinks, you found yourself alone on a balcony you found, drinking in the fresh air greedily after all those years underground. You didn’t realise he was there until he was next to you – silent on his feet, his shadows a cool chill passing over your shoulders.

You tilted your head to look at him, in awe of his beauty. Not even Rhysand had awed you as much as this man was, his beauty unparalleled by anyone you had met before. He turned his gaze down to you as well, fighting the urge to reach out and touch you as he watched you move with such elegant curiosity.

“We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced,” you smiled, lifting your hand delicately, “I’m (y/n).”

He met your hand halfway, lifting it to his mouth with perfectly poised and trained grace. “Azriel,” his voice was deep, gruff – and sent chills through you quickly. But when he moved your hand from his mouth you held on, the sparks flowing through you telling you all you needed to know. He similarly made no move to let go.

“Are we? I don’t really know how any of this works,” you laughed nervously but he smiled so warmly and tugged you slightly closer to him with the hand you were still clutching.

“You’re my mate princess,” he said, voice rough from disuse. You smiled widely, eyes forming tears as your gaze never strayed from him – finally getting one person who would truly love you, not your body – but you. He tugged your hand gently and you followed him inside, smiling and love drunk.

“We should probably go to the house of wind,” his voice was quiet as you furrowed your eyebrows at him.

“Me and Cassian have to share a room here, the bed are singles.” You smiled and laughed – irrevocably happy.

“Yeah maybe not,” you said, and he held your hand softly as he walked you to the front door, passed his past out friends, Rhys cracking an eye open when you walked past him, and you turned when he tugged your skirt gently.

You okay? He asked in your mind, and you smiled at him.

I’m perfect, why? You replied as he closed his eyes again, clearly too tired to hold them open - Azriel moving to retrieve your coats.

Just don’t feel pressured into doing anything you’re not ready for, Azriel is understanding he won’t get angry. A sort of cold feeling settled on your shoulders when you realised why Azriel wanted that extra privacy.

Shit forgot I had to do that you joked but Rhysand felt the stress growing, however before he could reply Azriel was by your side again and you were waving him goodbye, your smile tight lipped.

Honestly, you trusted Rhysand when he said that Azriel would understand – but so far you had yet to meet a man who truly respected the boundaries you set, a man who would truly wait. Azriel met your eyes in silent questions before scooping you into his arms, flying high above the house as you squealed in his arms, clinging tightly to his neck, and shutting your eyes tightly as you soared above the vibrant city.

He felt you tense as you neared the house, swooping lower in order to land on the large balcony attached to his room. He placed you on shaky legs gently and looked down to smile at you again – heart so full of love and peace.

Not only was his brother returned to him in one piece, but along beside him came you. His mate. His mate.

You caught his gaze and gave him a tight-lipped smile, terrified for history to repeat itself. You wanted to talk to him and know him – you didn’t want him to learn to love your body instead of you. And you were truly afraid to be touched again, you hadn’t been with a man since you were raped – fear stopping you before they could get close and walls slamming up if they tried.

“Are you okay?” Azriel’s voice was dripping with concern – genuine concern, and the way he said it made tears well up in your eyes. His own instantly widened as he sensed the sadness and fear rolling of you in waves, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as you sobbed into his chest. “Oh sweetheart we don’t have to do anything, c’mon lets go sit down.”

He guided you through the glass doors and sat you down gently on the bed, holding you gently and coaxing you through your breakdown. Once your breathing had calmed slightly and you had pulled out of his embrace, wiping your tears harshly with the butt of your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered quietly, terrified to anger your mate when you��ve only just found him.

“It’s okay darling, what’s wrong – did I do something? You’re not terrified of heights are you?” he asked, and you laughed softly, a smile growing on his face as his worries eased slightly.

“No, that was fun,” he grabbed your hand in his scarred ones and you gripped it tightly.

“Then what was it?” you looked into those beautiful, worried eyes and let out an exhale – bottom lip quivering.

“I just don’t think I can – I can’t do that tonight.” You whispered the words lowly, afraid of his reaction as you clung like a child to his hand.

“Hey, that’s okay – we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready,” he smiled, worries easing. You still wanted to be with him, just not in that way yet – and he could wait. He would wait a million years if you asked.

“Even if I’m not ready for a while?” You asked, and he held your face in his hands gently – looking into your tear-filled, defeated eyes.

“I would wait forever and then some – I have already waited so long to meet you, I’m sure I can last longer, especially if you’re next to me.” Your smile was so sad when you met his eyes.

“I’ve been told that before,” Azriel just pulled you closer to him with a cheeky grin.

“And were any of them your mate?”

“No,” you smiled at him again and he thought his heart was going to combust.

“Well then, I love to prove people wrong.” You buried your head into his chest as his arms came around you once more, “Would you like to sleep here, or would you like your own room?”

“Here is fine, I like the way you make me feel,” you said quietly, tugging on the bond experimentally. Azriel just smiled and tugged back.

“That works for me, I’ll get you a change of clothes.” He moved to stand but you stopped him – tugging on the dress shirt he wore.

“I want this,” you grinned cheekily up at him, and he laughed, but undid the buttons and pulled it off anyway – turning around to let you change in peace. When he turned back around you were looking up at him with wide eyes – looking impossibly cute in his shirt.

“It has holes in the back,” you complained, and he laughed, sitting down to tug off his trousers before sliding under the covers as you scrambled to lay in his arms.

“Well I do have wings,” he cemented his point by letting one drape over your shoulders as you sighed in content.

“Really, I hadn’t noticed,” you deadpanned quietly, burrowed deep under his arms and the covers. His chest rumbled with the silent laugh as he pressed a kiss into your hairline.

The next morning he awoke to you laying on his chest, tracing the scars on the backs of his hands with a delicately pointed finger. He stared in wonder, and you must have felt his gaze because you turned your head to meet his eyes, face still puffy from sleep. As you whispered to him that morning, your chin resting on his chest as you gazed up at him until he rose to get your morning drinks. Barely daring to leave for more than a few seconds. And when he returned he was so glad he did – welcoming the sight of you curled up under his sheets with a shy smile and tired eyes.

“Do we have to do anything today?” you asked as you sipped your drink slowly, Azriel’s’ arm tight and secure around your waist.

“Nope,” he said, delighted at the prospect, “I just want to be with you and my family.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

True to his word, for the next few weeks that past, you and Azriel didn’t progress past slow, occasional kisses and lingering touches. But before either of those he was always searching your eyes – asking permission. And you truly fell in love with him during those weeks.

He was caring and consistent – never promising anything he couldn’t bring. And he cared for you, he cared for you past your body and looks. He wanted to be with you for an eternity.

One night, while you lay together, speaking lowly and listening to the rain fall outside your room – a glass door cracked open, you decided you were ready. You pressed closer to him, your lips meeting his own in a kiss more passionate than you had previously shared.

He followed your lead with just as much passion, but when you crawled into his lap he pulled away slightly.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you,” he asked quietly, hands coming to rest on your hips.

“I’m sure, I love you and I want to be with you.” You told him sincerely, “But I haven’t been with anyone in a few years so I’m a little out of practice.”

You giggled nervously but he furrowed his eyebrows, “But you told me about your boyfriends?”

“Yeah but I – stopped dating about five years ago.” You tried to explain quickly, old nerves being brought up, but Azriel pulled you closer and as always his touch calmed you.

“Can I ask why?” he watched you drop your head a little as you breathed slowly – determined to not let your fear rise, you would probably end up telling him anyway so you might as well get it over with.

“I was raped.” You stated and his grip on your hips tightened slightly as he swore.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” he started but you stopped him with a sharp glaze.

“You don’t need to apologise, it happened and it’s over now.” He could practically feel you pull away, so he loosened his grip on your hips and instead brought his arms up to hold you against his chest.

“Who did it?” he asked, voice dark and dangerous. You muttered a name lowly – under your breath – and he pocketed in the darkest corners of his mind for later. His shadows itching to tear the man apart.

“Look (y/n), if you’re ready I am more than happy to oblige but I need to know you’re really ready, I will wait as long as you need.” You pulled away from his chest and kissed him gently.

“I’m ready, I trust you,” he smiled up at you from where you perched on his lap and you giggled and he flipped you over, laying between your legs with a feral grin.

He made you cum three times with his mouth and those beautiful, beautiful hands alone – more than you had ever experienced with a man and he hadn’t even received any pleasure yet. Except from the pleasure of watching his perfect mate fall apart on his sheets, over and over.

And when he lay over you, your legs pushed up and wrapped around his waist, and his forearms on either side of your head – he would later swear he had never felt more complete.

“I’m here with you remember, will be the whole time.” He assured you, voice soft as he lined himself up and you smiled.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, and he pushed in slowly, filling every part of you and pushing against every spot you didn’t know you had. You swore under your breath when he bottomed out, the slight pain quickly being reduced to please as he dropped his head into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” you felt shivers run through your body at his gruff voice and smiled, moaning when he began to move.

He pulled his head from where it hid in your neck and watched as you closed your eyes – head thrown back with a smile – and his hips bucked, desperately trying to control himself as he watched you arch your back.

“Shit Az, you’re so big,” you moaned loudly, unaware of the trance you had pulled your mate into.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered with a harsh thrust, a hand coming to stroke down your face as you opened your eyes to meet his, “So perfect.”

You felt as if your heart was going to burst from the love that filled it as you reached up to kiss him softly – conveying every word, every thought, through that kiss. When you pulled away you were nearing your end, the sensations building in you without the need of a fantasy or your own hand.

You moaned his name, gripping his shoulders tightly as one hand instinctively moved to stroke down his wing. He shuddered above you with a loud groan – his thrusts speeding up as he to neared release, yours hips surely bruising from the force of his own.

“C’mon baby, need to feel you, need to know you’re mine.” His words ignited something in your stomach, and you clung tighter to him, kissing his sharp jaw as you smiled.

“I’m yours Azriel, now and forever.” Your gentle words pushed him over the edge and his skilful fingers dipping between your thighs brought you down with him. The two of you crying out at the sensations you shared as a growing need to never let him go consumed you.

He collapsed on top of you soon after and he intertwined your fingers with his own as your breathing evened out. He slipped out of you, and you smiled up at him as he sat up, rolling off your body and laying to the side while you came to rest your head on his firm chest. He brought his spare hand upwards – twirling strands of your hair slightly as you rested in silence. After a few minutes, you clambered into his lap and kissed him firmly as he pulled you impossibly close.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, and he felt his heart swell with gratitude to the world for giving him an angel that would willingly hold his hand and guide him out of the darkness.

“I am so in love with you,” he whispered back, and you giggled, a hand moving slowly to stroke him as you felt him harden beneath you again.

“Hmm, is that so?” you whispered.

Azriel, who had started pressing light kisses into your neck, nipped you gently, making you squeal, “What were you saying darling?”

“That I am also deeply, and unequivocally in love with you.” You replied and he rolled his eyes.

“Just putting me to shame with your big words.” He muttered and you giggled – crawling down his body.

“I’m sure I could make it up to you.”

#acofas #acotar #azriel #acomaf #azriel x reader #acowar #acofs #acosf

467 notes · View notes