#this was meant to be set between bloody knuckles and under the sky | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brat-tamer69 · 4 years ago

Text

Dead Branches and New Leaves

♡ Summary: Levi’s relationship with his son Eren reaches a new low, and Y/N is there to confront Levi in an effort to rebuild. Very much inspired by this picture and in response to this request.

Part Two TBA

♡ Notable Tags: AU, Married, Parenting, Levi x Fem!Reader, Broken family, daddy issues, argument, angst and over 3k words holy shit!

❥ Disclaimer: Levi and his actions in this are not intended to be perceived as anything other than him being emotionally unavailable. He lost his temper and it is acknowledged numerous times that he is remorseful. I would like to emphasize that he is not emotionally or verbally abusive but this content may be upsetting to some readers. Please use your own discretion if you are sensitive to the topics.

♡ Send requests here!

Levi’s head instinctively whipped around to face the house’s front entrance when the screen gritted against the doorframe’s track. If he was not mistaken, his son would come bounding into the house from the front yard to ask for yet another snack. And Levi would once again shave down a carrot and before handing it over so it could be crunched down in seconds. How the kid had the energy to take off and put on his rain boots so many times in such quick succession, Levi didn’t know. But Eren did thankfully understand that if not for that talent, his dad would rip him a new one for tracking mud onto the freshly mopped tile.

As if summoned by thought alone, the percussive pattern of little feet hitting the floors echoed, and the urgency in it suggested that he was running. Levi pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, trying to cling onto what felt like the last second of peace he might have since Eren was running.

“Dad! Dad!” the toddler addressed him shrilly.

“What is it, runt?” Levi sighed and rotated in his spot in front of the stove to face his son.

“I was playing outside, and- and there was a big boom in the sky! And- And I wasn’t scared at all,” he added matter-of-factly. “But there was a little kitty outside, and I think him was scared.”

Levi stared down at the boy, bemused by how he managed to squirm and point every which way during a ten-second-long story. He then shifted his gaze back in the direction of the screen door, praying that Eren had possessed enough sense to close it behind him on the way in as the heavy rain had been accompanied by wind all morning. Levi had bargained with Y/N to support his stance of keeping Eren indoors but, in exercise of her wonderful parenting strategy, she insisted it would be better for him to play outside and get used to the daunting nature of thunderstorms.

Well, it’s working, Levi noted as he circled around the “big boom” Eren pointedly mentioned he wasn’t scared of. Still, his concerns were loyal to the furry little pest that seemed to be taking shelter in his front yard. “It’s ‘he was scared’,” Levi corrected. “And that’s too bad. Maybe he’ll run off somewhere safe on his own.”

Eren deflated, his shoulders and his volume falling while the size of his eyes grew. “But what if he can’t, Dad? What if the rain gets him sick?”

“Then the rain gets him sick,” Levi shrugged. “Not everything is meant to survive in this kind of weather, Eren. Besides, he might already be sick if he’s out there hanging around our house.”

An indiscernible emotion flashed across Eren’s face and disappeared just as quickly Levi picked up on it. But before he could engage, Eren was sprinting away and to the front yard again.

“Whatever,” he mumbled to the likes of himself. One thing he’d learned since become a father was that the less he knew, the better. If Eren did do something drastic like fall into a puddle of mud or befriend a sickly cat, he would scale the mountain of mishap once he approached it. For now, he had his focus on finishing dinner just as he promised his wife he would, and that was all he had the mental energy to do.

Perhaps one too many moments passed where Levi worked on simmering his kimchi nabe in the quiet, the slightly gentler rain being the only noise in the background. As he replaced the lid to the pot, he seemed to simultaneously sink back into reality. The thunder had finally ebbed. Y/N was still working on hemming some of Eren’s new clothes…

And Eren. The damn toddler that was notorious for popping up for snacks and attention hadn’t reappeared once in the past twenty minutes. The thought made Levi’s mouth dry and his throat swell faster than they would if he’d have swallowed a handful of cotton rounds. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. A clenched fist still equipped with a ladle, Levi set a brisk stride toward the front yard where, if his nonexistent god had any mercy, Eren would still be playing in the rain.

During the walk, the rain, the shuffle of his house slippers against the tile, and every other noise slowly faded. All he had in his ears was the vivid imaginary scream of his wife as she found out her son went missing under his watch. And the image of Eren with teary eyes burdened by fear was not any kinder to his growing panic.

“Shit–” he spat.

“Momma said that’s a curse.”

Levi looked down at the origin of the voice, the relief he felt in seeing Eren standing in front of him in perfectly healthy condition lasting but a second. It was instantly replaced by rage. As the panic drained from his body, every inch of him became ignited by disgust, disappointment, grief and a slew of other emotions he was too angry to even process. The blankness in his mind caused by the adrenaline rush was being filled in by the stench of the sopping wet stray cat being held out in front of him. “Eren…” he seethed in a low voice. “What the hell is that?”

Eren chewed his lower lip in hesitation. Levi almost wrenched when the boy had the gall to hoist the rancid being up higher, as if his father wanted to inspect it. “It’s the kitty! See?” he answered in earnest. “It’s the kitty I told you about! I told him to go find a new house so he doesn’t get sick, but he didn’t want to! And his tummy is bleeding, too!”

A soaking wet, bloody, feral cat. Levi didn’t know if he should give in to the hysterical, exasperated laughter bubbling in the depths of his stomach or if falling to his knees and sobbing would free him from the chaos he felt. Helpless to his anger toward his own child, all he could do was touch his hand to his face in a feeble display of his emotion. The outwardly endless consequences to Eren bringing a bleeding cat inside the house started to appear in his mind one by one, each adding to the pressure he felt building underneath his temples.

“Daddy?” Eren squeaked.

Levi was so distracted by his inner turmoil that he hadn’t even realized the minutes of silence that passed between them. “Go put it outside and wash your hands. Now.”

By the particular tone of voice his father used, Eren knew better than than to disobey him—even a single casual command from Levi would normally be enough to move him. But after trading glances between his dad and the injured cat, Eren shook his head.

Levi was in disbelief. He could feel his heart racing with every ounce of searing blood it sent through his veins. His hand trembled as it gradually fell from his face to reveal a nearly crazed expression, his eyes opened as wide as they could go but his brows furrowed impossibly low over them. “Did you just shake your head at me, boy?”

“Uh, well, the- the kitty is scared and has blood on him,” Eren gulped. “H-He can’t stay outsi–”

“Put it outside. And the next time I have to repeat myself, I’ll put you and the damn cat out.”

A small gasp escaped Eren’s quivering lips, but he swallowed it quickly before tucking the cat underneath his arm and escaping out the front door in a flash. Levi sucked in a shuddered breath, only now noticing the thick, brown splatters of mud and the droplets of red that created a trail to the yard and soiled his previously spotless tile.

“What happened? Where’s Eren?” Y/N’s soft voice questioned as she paced into the kitchen. “I heard you raise your voice. What’s going on?”

The worry in his wife’s shaky words gave way to her equal distress if not for the hand gently laid over her heart. It was enough to draw the ire from Levi’s body. Like the bright red leaving the eye of a cooling stove, anger steadily seeped from parts of him he wasn’t even aware were tensed. His set jaw unclenched, he lowered his shoulders and his fingers loosened from their intense hold on the ladle.

“Eren,” Levi replied to his wife in a breath at long last.

“Eren what?” she urged, her pupils growing.

“Eren’s fine. He just brought a fucking dying cat into our house.”

Confusion distorted Y/N’s features while her eyes moved frantically across Levi’s face in search for some sort of unspoken answer. When she didn’t receive it, she whirled around with a small huff then grabbed a fistful of her skirts and hurried to the front yard.

By her reaction itself, Levi knew he was finished. Y/N’s kindness knew no bounds in even the most stressful situation. In circumstances where his own instinct would be to react first, his wife was guided by the purest ethics; she would comfort, ask questions then gather herself enough to find a solution. But her consideration skipped him this time, and it was because she was livid with him. Levi could tell that much.

Bending at the knee to retrieve the cleaning supplies from the cabinets, he expelled a wearied sigh. He figured there was no better way to postpone is annoyance with the situation than by losing himself in the pleasures of cleaning on his hands and knees. He forced himself to focus on the acrid scent of chemicals burning his nostrils instead of the gut-wrenching sobs he could hear once his wife opened the front door. He tried to remember which solution was best to polish the ivory colored tile, but god damn it, he couldn’t think when he saw Eren’s little body, defeated and dripping wet, shuffling down the hall. His knuckles blanched as he all but strangled the cloth, putting all his upper body strength into scrubbing away what little remained of the muddy footprints.

Y/N watched Levi in silence for a brief period, absorbing how pathetic he looked down on the floor, frantically erasing the nonexistent spots while his son cried himself to sleep in the other room. She didn’t know what possessed her, but her nails were starting to dig into her palms in effect of how hard she was trying to contain it. If not for the pitiful picture of her baby boy standing outside, wailing over the corpse of a cat, she might have been frightened; she had never felt this way about Levi. But today was different—for everyone.

Levi released his rag and sat back on his heels when the shadow of his wife fell over him. At the same time, a coldness that he was far from feeling fell over his eyes. He could only hope it would protect him even a little bit.

“What the hell did you do?” Y/N demanded of him through her teeth, her voice faulted by an emotional tremolo.

He rose to face her and swiped his palms over his apron. “I did what any parent would do if their kid brought in a dying cat from outside. I told him to put the vermin back where he found it and wash his hands.”

“You cursed at him,” she sneered. “And you threatened to put him out of the house if he didn’t listen to you. It’s raining!”

He tried to keep his voice leveled though his need to emphasize his point superseded the attempt. “Well, if he listened to me the first time, I wouldn’t have cursed. And he’s a smart kid– He knows I wasn’t going to put him out.”

Already jaded by the argument, Levi mentally readied himself for Y/N’s rebuttal. But it didn’t come. Instead, her open hand flashed across his line of peripheral vision, and if it weren’t for his unique reflexes, it would have left a bright red print on his left cheek. Overwhelmed by the sequence of events, Levi’s defenses fell. By putting his energy in holding his wife’s wrist tightly, just mere inches away from his face, he’d lost his composure. His mouth went dry as it fell slightly agape and his eyebrows were pressed upwards together in sheer astonishment.

“Y/N–”

“You bastard!” she cried, her tears leaking through her voice as well as onto her face. “Do you have any idea how scared and alone he felt, watching that cat die in the rain?! And to make things worse, you were punishing him for your selfish ass obsession with keeping the house clean!”

Levi’s eyes darted past his distraught wife and landed on Eren’s bedroom door, paranoid that his mother’s shrieks might wake him. “It wasn’t like that.”

Y/N shook her wrist in his hold defiantly. “Then explain it to me! Explain to me what the hell you wanted to do! What, were you scared of telling him he couldn’t keep it?”

“No, I wasn’t!” he growled back. “The first thing I told him to do was let the damn thing go. It was a dying cat, Y/N! That thing could have given him or any one of us all kinds of diseases with its filthy fur in seconds! What if it had bit him or scratched him?”

Y/N met her husband’s eyes squarely and stared into them for an unwavering minute. His volume had fallen off marginally by the end of his question. Her eyes narrowed as his softened. She caught him. Letting out a mirthless laugh, she finally ripped her wrist from his grip. “You didn’t even check if it did, so why are you bringing that up as if you actually care?” she whispered.

Shit. “He would have told me it did,” he answered then swallowed, not quite convinced of his answer himself.

“Don’t you get it? He doesn’t want to tell you anything, Levi. And he wouldn’t ever if he had the choice.” He braced himself as he noticed her hands balled at either side of her waist. “You’re so goddamn bent on policing him that you forget to parent him, and you’re nothing but an authoritarian that feeds him. Our son has the biggest heart, and by the way you treat him, he would never know that he got any of it from you because you act just like your father figure, not his.”

Levi prided himself on his steel-like aplomb. But if anyone could melt steel, it was Y/N and any selection of words that came from her heart. Often times, they were sweet—almost cloying as he felt he never deserved her praise. This time, they were filled with venom and provided a sensation no different than someone plunging a blade between his lungs. In fact, each of his breaths in following were shaky at best.

Y/N knew that Levi hated being likened to the weasel of a man that raised him almost as much as he hated the man himself. Still, she pressed on, resolved to defend Eren and put an end to the struggles he had with his dad. “You’re silent,” she pointed out. “Because you know it’s true. I’ve tried so many times to get you to understand, to be more gentle with Eren, and you just aren’t. Today would have been the perfect opportunity for you to bond with him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t even treat him like he was worth something. You didn’t reason with him. You didn’t listen, you didn’t explain the why’s or even make sure he wasn’t being hurt by what was happening. You just cursed at a child– My child for having empathy. And you let him sit out in the rain, grieving and crying alone.”

Nausea washed over Levi as the color drained from his face. He felt as though someone had tied an anchor to his lungs and allowed them to dangle precariously in his chest. Tears sprung to his eyes when he realized that the way Y/N described the evening’s events were simply how it happened for Eren. While Levi had been driven by his compulsion toward cleanliness, Eren was acting on his innocence. The child wasn’t hardened by and consequently numb to death like his father was. Eren only saw an injured animal, retrieved it then looked to his dad for help. And Levi had sent him away, practically abandoning him. Even if it was just for the moment that he’d lost his temper, the impact on Eren was irrevocable.

He started to fix his lips to apologize, but he knew the words would be insultingly inadequate given the circumstance. “What do you want me to do, Y/N?” he asked thickly.

By the time his words were out, it seemed an eternity had passed and Y/N already had most of her back to him. What he could see of her face was a perfect and painfully personal illustration of disillusionment. “I want you to stay here, with Eren.”

“What?” Levi felt his own voice sounded like a distant echo in the room.

“I can’t stand to look at you, to be perfectly honest. And you hurt Eren more than you’ll ever know. You need to fix this—all of it while he’s young or you’ll never have the relationship with him that I always wanted for the both of you.”

Y/N turned to walk away again, but in this instance, it felt more final. It was why Levi threw his hand out toward her as if it had any power to halt her from such a distance. “Now you stop right there,” he ground out, masking his misery with a roughness. “You can’t just leave after the shit you’ve said. So where the hell do you think you’re going?”

She paused, providing truth in her earlier statement by keeping her eyes trained on one of the pristinely cleaned tiles. “I’m going to say goodbye to Eren then going to my mom’s house. And if he’s not attached to you by the time I get back, then you can set up a new living arrangement with her.”

189 notes · View notes

lady-o-ren · 3 years ago

Text

Moonstruck

Chapter One (Here) // Chapter Two (Here)

Chapter Two

The wolf wasn't beneath the trees.

But his big feet make him easy to track, leading Claire and Caspian out of the wretched wood to a sea of wild hills that look like waves under the heavenly glow of the night sky. As they near two rolling mounds where the tracks drag against the earth, she sees a lonely crofter house nestled between them like a little boat, abandoned and shabby looking, but it's roof is still thatched and the stone walls still stand. Good enough really for a place to rest one's tired head.

Yet Claire wonders why a wolf would seek a place so out in the open.

Better yet why anyone would seek out a wolf.

"Because you're an absolute nutter, Beauchamp," says Claire to herself. " Or very possibly you're suffering a concussion."

Swinging a leg off Caspian, she tugs on his reins with a warning to stay put and gathers a deep fortifying breath before stepping into the shadow of the house where the door hangs open.

Inside, shafts of bright silvery light illuminate the room, seeping in through the only window. There are cobwebs and dead leaves strewn about the place, emptied of almost everything except for a wobbly looking table by the soot stained hearth and a stool that must've been made for a child tucked into the corner. . .

Opposite of the big red wolf, eyes bright as stars in the pale blue dark.

Claire's breath quickens and her pulse jumps at her throat but she manages to keep her voice steady. Somewhat.

"We still have that deal don't we? You restrain yourself from biting my head off and I don't shoot you between the eyes."

A miserable sound echoes from the wolf's maw and that's answer enough for Claire. The floorboards creak beneath her as she shuffles about the room, finding a bit of flint left behind from vagrants come and gone and makes a pleased and grateful sound when the sparse bits of wood in the hearth catch fire. She then kneels down in front of him, fist outstretched and shaking as she chants -

"Please don't bite me. Please don't bite me. . ."

It's only when Claire feels something hot and wet swipe against her knuckles does she realize her eyes have been shut and she recoils in surprise,flat on her arse with a shriek.

The wolf however snorts heartily.

“You're laughing at me aren't you?”

The corner of his long mouth quirks wryly as his bushy tail swings back and forth and Claire finds herself cracking a smile. The first of this very long and preposterous night.

"Well, a sense of humor must mean you have a heart after all. More so than Caspian anyways.”

And she hopes it means he isn't too badly injured.

Claire comes closer again and tentatively runs the back of her fingers against the wolf's broad crown, his dark copper fur soft against her skin, slanted eyes gone to slits. Encouraged now, she scratches behind his ears and the wolf makes a sound of pleasure from deep within his throat and drops his head onto her lap, sighing with heart filled contentment. She laughs softly with growing affection, her fingers finding their way underneath his great maw that makes his head upturn and tail to swish, swish.

"I don't care what you say you're a puppy and a sweet one too, aren't you?"

She then impulsively imparts a kiss atop his head and the wolf bumps his nose against her chin wanting another.

“Cheeky lad,” she murmurs warmly, but gives him another anyway.

However, she came here for a reason and that wasn't to cuddle a wolf.

Stroking her hand along his neck, that has him kicking out a long powerful hind leg, she says -

"I know I don't look it, but I know more than a thing or two about broken bones and gashes. Will you trust me to help you, even if it hurts?"

A beat passes before he licks at her wrist and she takes that as a show of trust and extricates herself from beneath the red wolf. Gently, she probes his back and ribs first and is amazed there's only a few marks from the bear, hardly deep at all. But then her hands pass over a crisscross of scars beneath his thick coat and her eyes meet his, searching.

“Someone's hunted you, haven't they?”

A frightful tremor crawls over him that grips at her heart and without thought she presses herself against him wishing she could ease whatever horror he was remembering.

“I hope you tore the bastard apart. Slowly. Bit by bit.”

His sides lightly shake and she knows it must be laughter.

Pushing her wayward curls behind her ear, Claire then touches him gingerly over his injured shoulder. The muscle is swollen and a part of her wonders if it's just a bad sprain. But she remembers that odd angle of his leg as he walked and how he nurses it close to himself now.

“If you were a man I'd set your shoulder and wrap it in a sling. I've done so before though it's no small feat. But I haven't so for an animal much less a bear-sized wolf . . .” She sighs. Upset with herself. Hand at her brow, the cut throbbing more so now. “There isn't much I can do without another pair of hands."

She looks helplessly at the wolf.

But there's no way for him to express to her that it's alright, he's suffered worse. And would gladly do so again and again if it meant keeping her from harm. This brown haired lass like no other woman he's ever seen before. Sae bonny and brave.

So he nuzzles her palm and mouths the soft skin like the puppy she says he is and feels his heart swell and the pain in his arm to cease when a smile softly graces her face lovelier than a moonbeam.

Aye, she was worth it.

Claire leaves him for a moment to settle Caspian for the night in the old byre behind the crofter house and comes back with blankets from the horse's saddleroll, a flask and a fold of her cloak full of bittie yarrow leaves she'd found growing between the stones.

The flask is filled with brandy (courtesy of her former betrothed) that she douses torn strips of her gown with to clean the wolf's wounds (murmuring sweet things as she does so knowing how sharply it stings) while the yarrow leaves are mashed between her teeth and applied carefully like a salve.

For his poor shoulder however, she says -

“I promise I'll figure out what to do in the morning. I owe it to you for saving me. Thank you by the way,” she softly adds, and scratches behind the wolf's ears as he likes until his eyes begin to droop and a long winded yawn escapes her mouth.

She's exhausted. Body bruised and aching from being tossed around like a ragdoll but she doesn't think she can sleep in a gown that's been slobbered and bloodied. So while the wolf is fast asleep, Claire undresses down to her chemise and stays and quickly wraps herself in one blanket while laying out the other for a makeshift bed, leaving her cloak to dry by the hearthfire.

Her ruined gown however she grasps in her hands.

No longer did it shine with promise.

No longer was she to be a bride.

At least not for him.

“The bloody two-faced fucking bastard,” Claire mutters angrily, tossing the damn garment across the floor to gather dust as a tear rolls down her chin. She then curls herself into a ball by the fire, shivering beneath the scratchy grey wool, and wrings her heart out of any lingering affection she's ever had for Frank Wolverton Randall by remembering the last moment she saw him.

That morning of their wedding behind the church. Swaying on his feet as he groped a woman she could've sworn was his cousin. And then keeled over, grasping his manhood right after she kneed him.

If only they hadn't been on sacred ground she would've kicked him too.

But just maybe he pissed himself.

Lost in that ever pleasing hopeful thought, Claire is startled to feel a deep huff of breath cloud down her neck like steam and looks up to see the red wolf looming above her.

"You absolute fool," she scolds, though it's spoken without bite as she sits up to cradle his face with both her hands. " You're only making things worse for that shoulder of yours."

The wolf doesn't care. He nuzzles her cheek where the brokenhearted tear had fallen, making a sad whimpering sound as he does so that endears him evermore to Claire's heart.

"No use arguing with a stubborn wolf is there?"

There isn't. He licks the side of her face making her softly giggle before plopping down beside her with a heavy thunk and Claire can do nothing more but sink down against him, his fur radiating a tender warmth that seeps into her tired bones.

Claire wakes with the morning light that floods the room and stings her eyes that immediately shutter close behind the back of her arm.

While embers have kept the room bearable, she knows the only reason she hasn't woken with a sniffle is because of the heavy, heated weight that engulfs her like a brushfire. Drowsily, she lets her hand wander to the furry head atop her chest that rises steadily with a deep inhale of smokey air and then strokes softly down until her palm oddly meets naked flesh. . .

Her eyes bolt open and through the sleepy blur she sees a stranger, big and naked draped across her, mumbling something hot-breathed and incoherent as he smothers his face between her breasts right before she screams.

#Outlander #outlander fic #outlander fanfiction #jamie x claire #moonstruck

63 notes · View notes

cinnamonrusts · 4 years ago

Text

together, we can make it out alive - 2

parts: 1

-- mentions of alcohol

your issues with leon flare up at the worst of times, and you have a trip down memory lane -f!reader

(gif not mine) tags: @ayamenimthiriel

⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚

"Lieutenant!" you cried out and hobbled to your superior's aid as he backed into a wall. His hand was pressed against his wound and he threw his head back in pain but shooed you away when you tried to support him as he slid down to the floor. "I'll be fine! I'll be fine!" he huffed out in his typical annoyed manner, despite nearing death. "Y-You two need to get out of here... alive," Branagh added. "What about you?" Leon asked. The injured man raised a bloody hand and pointed his index finger toward the male rookie, "You save yourself," he coughed several times, "That's an order!" He dropped his finger and dug into his shirt pocked, then fished out a small notebook with a brown cover. Branagh leaned forward to hand the notebook to Leon, "E-Elliot, an officer here believed that there was a secret way out of here."

Leon flipped through the blood soaked pages and he examined the drawings that this presumably deceased officer drafted as Branagh explained. "I'd come with you two, but I would just slow you down." the RPD Lieutenant had accepted his fate that he wouldn't be going anywhere. "[Y/N]", he called your name and looked into your eyes when they met. "You take care of yourself, officer. You're a good kid. It was a pleasure being your Lieutenant." his pale lips turned upward into a weak smile.

His attention then turned to Leon, "Kennedy. Despite this being my last moments as your superior, I have one request of you." his eyes stared into Leon's, "If you see one of those things -- uniform or not. You do not hesitate. Do not make my mistake, you hear me?" The male rookie accepted this request and promised to do everything he could to keep himself and you safe. Branagh gave each of you one last handshake before he barked at you to go.

You hesitated because you felt that there might be more that could be done, but Leon pulled you along with him. Getting to safety was now the priority.

Your cheeks grew warm and your cheeks felt sore from the smile that grew wider as Leon explained. "You're too nice to me, Leon. Even after I picked on you all the time during school." Earlier in the day the two of you had graduated from the police academy which was in a city far from both of your hometowns. Everyone in the graduating class decided to go to a local bar to celebrate the accomplishment you all achieved. Each of you had a story to tell and a lot of them were similar to yours.

"Kennedy! You sly son of a bitch," you curse as Leon handed you a white, rectangular cardboard box. Leon smiled with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "Open it," he whispered in your ear under the roar of the busy bar the two of you were seated in. When the lid was removed, the contents caused your eyes to sparkle in awe. Inside of the package was a silver bracelet with blue gemstones nestled in the center of each link. "I told you no gifts!" you yell at him and delivered a swift punch to his shoulder. Leon shrugged again, "I saw it at the mall, and it kinda just --- jumped out at me." he leaned over and his finger touched the jewelry, "I had to get it."

You were a girl from a midwestern city with big dreams of living it up in a city that was far-far away from Raccoon City's limits. The first few weeks of the police academy were rough, and you were skeptical if you wanted to continue on with it. You did not get along well with most of the other female recruits and struggled fitting in. That is until you met a swoopy haired male named Leon, who was paired with you one day and bonded.

Leon was still leaned in close and you could feel your heartbeat in your throat. Unsure if it was your emotions, the alcohol, or a mixture of both but you felt like your entire body was a bright shade of red. "Say cheese!" a female voice yelled out which drew both of your attention front and center. A classmate pointed a Polaroid in your direction and was ready to snap a picture. You set your gift down on the bar counter and threw your arms around Leon's neck, then pulled him in close. Leon slinked his arm around your waist and held his pint of beer in the air. After the bright flash of the camera, the classmate handed you the photo and went off to snap more pictures. You took the square paper and shook it several times in the air. As the photo started to develop, you noticed how happy the two of you looked. "Aw! Look how cute you are!" you point out Leon's cheeky smile and giggled several times. Your giggles grew louder and louder, then turned into several snorts.

Leon took you to his car and struggled with the lack of support for your weight. "You sure do handle your liquor better than me!" you giggled and poked his cheek several times. "Well, you also managed to get six shots of tequila into you before I drank my first beer." Leon leaned against the hood of his car and supported you with his knees. Your eyes first focused on his handsome face as you admired the way that he looked, and he did the same. You could feel your face grow red again, so you decided to change your attention to the darkened sky above. Leon's fingers grazed the skin of your arms which drew your attention back to him. His eyelids were half mast and he had a smile on his lips. "Leon, you're drunk, aren't you?" you ask, despite being heavily intoxicated yourself. "Maybe," he answers. He pulled you close to his body and you could feel his breath against your face. He kissed you and you kissed back. But when you pulled away from each other, you could see his moonstone eyes glow with the moonlight from above.

"I think you've had enough," Leon chuckled as he rested his hand on your shoulder but watched you guzzle down another shot of tequila. "Wait! Wait! I need the lime," you hurried a sucked on the sour citrus fruit and felt your face contort at the taste of the bitterness. "C'mon, missy," Leon took your arm and threw it around his shoulder to support your weight. But didn't expect it to be dead weight, because when you both stood, your body dropped like a stone to the floor with a thud. "Oh shit!" Leon cursed as he reached for your hand that flailed around in the air. "Are you okay?" he asked as he pulled you up, but you laughed uncontrollably. "I'll take that as a yes," he smiled and led you out of the building.

Leon's fingers continued to tickle your skin as they danced up your biceps to your collarbone, and his teeth pricked at your body simultaneously. His digits glided across your bone before they dropped to your exposed cleavage, you pulled away from him for a moment to get a breath of fresh air.

Leon was surprised when you did it. Your hand cupped his cheek and your eyebrows furrowed, "They're sending me back to Raccoon City," your happiness faded to a more somber mood. Leon took your hand in his and placed small kisses on each knuckle, "I'll come with you." Your instincts made you smile but your gut gave you a feeling that it was the alcohol talking and not the genuine Leon, which made you frown. "You always said you'd never want to live there," you finally spoke. "Yeah, but I didn't realize how I felt about you then." he continued to kiss your hand between words. You were almost certain now that it was the alcohol. "W-what?" your words stuttered.

You dribbled some hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton swap and attempted to get at Leon's wound from his open collar, but couldn't. "You're gonna have to take off your shirt." He nodded and slipped off his vest before he unbuttoned his shirt to slide it off. You could feel your hands tremble as you recalled the last time you saw him shirtless, but you snapped yourself out of it. This was no place to walk down memory lane. "This is going to suck, I'm sorry." you said as you placed the soaked cotton onto what looked like a bite wound. He jumped and cursed which caused a chuckle to bellow from your throat, "Okay Mr. Tough Cop Man, can't take a little peroxide. huh?" you joked. He didn't say anything beside a gruff under his breath. As you continued to clean his wound, you could feel your eyes take peeks at his chiseled torso, but mentally cursed yourself anytime you did. This seriously was not the place.

Leon stopped his kissing and now stared you in the eye, "I promise you that if I ever come to Raccoon City, I will tell you and we'll continue where we left off." He held out his pinky finger which linked with yours, "It's a pinky promise."

Leon pushed you behind him and took the lead down the hall. His gun and flashlight at the ready as the stillness of the night lingered in the abandoned station. As you followed him with your own weapon and light in hand, you noticed a wound on his trapezius and the fabric of his uniform still wet. "You should take care of that," you point it out. Leon hummed in confusion before he acknowledged the wound that you spoke of. He shook his head, "Don't worry about it." You ignored his words and pulled back on his shoulder, "Don't try to act like such a tough guy. We should do it before we carry on, there's some supplies in the locker room up ahead." You hobbled past him and lead him through the door. Leon closed the door behind you as you approached a locker and scrolled through the numbers to enter a code. "I always keep some supplies with my stuff, never know when you're going to need it." you ruffled through your bag and pulled out a first aid spray with some other supplies. "Should patch myself up too while we're at it." your finger pointed to a bench in front of you and told Leon to sit. "Shouldn't it be ladies first?" he asked as he sat and you responded with a, "Shut up."

"[Y/N], about the last few months... I- I meant to reach out, but...-" he attempted to explain himself but you stopped him mid sentence. "Now is not the time, Leon." you turned to leave but he pulled back again. "What if this is the last time we are able to talk? We could die as soon as we walk out that door!" he yelled. Your eyes narrowed as you gave him a moment to express himself, "I-I met this girl back at home. I just got wrapped up in all of it and cut off a lot of important people," he ran a hand down the front of his face. "That's why I didn't show up on time! We-we broke up, I drank too much, then slept in... God, if only I came here..." he trailed off in his guilt. You felt some sympathy for your former partner, "It's probably a good thing you didn't come on time." you explained to him the weird things that had been going on lately. The weird cannibalistic killings, how shifty the police chief was acting, and how everything spiraled out of control. "This isn't how I expected my first day..." Leon sighed into a closed fist.

"One last thing," you picked up a can of first aid spray and sprayed the entire area with the green mist. "All done." you patted him on the shoulder and allowed him to re-dress himself. You lifted your injured leg onto the bench to assess the damage that shard of glass did, as you looked closer at it you could see the raw flesh that resided under your skin. Ouch. When you grabbed the peroxide, your hand met with Leon's, "Here, let me help you," he offered but you smacked his hand away. "I got it." your voice was harsh and you continued to treat your wound. Once you were patched up, you shoved the remaining supplies into your hip pack, "I'll still be pretty slow but we should be fine." you took a few steps toward the door but Leon pulled you back.

You couldn't help but scoff, "How do you think I feel?! From what it seems like, my entire crew is dead! Then, "Mr. Rookie of the Year" strolls in from the shadows to save the day! I haven't seen you in years, Leon, years! You completely disappeared and then when I do finally see you, the fucking town is on fire!" you run a hand through your deranged hair, "I don't think I can do this." you lifted your pistol and pulled the hammer back to make sure it is loaded. "I should've just called in. Then, I could be miles away from this fucking place!" your anger came to a boil, "Then, you! How can you act so-so laid back! Ever since I met you! Always Mr. Cool Guy! This city is fucked!" Leon tried to hush your yelling before you attracted any unwanted visitors.

Your raised voice dropped to a louder whisper, "You promised me, Leon! You promised me that you would come back and when you did, you would tell me! You said we would continue what we started but no, I find out you're coming here by a fucking banner on the ceiling!" your finger pointed in the air. You closed your eyes as you decided on your next move, "I think you'll be better on your own." your hand turned the knob and you took a step out in the hall, "You think you can just come back here and act like everything is the same. Touch me like you did before -- I-," you don't turn around to face him, "I'll see you on the outside of this place." and left him with those words with a door slammed in his face.

#resident evil #resident evil 2 #resident evil fanfic #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #leon x reader #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #ao3 original

66 notes · View notes

mintseesaw · 4 years ago

Text

Aurora | 4

Pairing: general!jungkook x reader!princess x prince!jimin Genre: angst, fluff, historical au, forbidden love affair au Word count: 8.3k Warnings: themes of abduction and insurgence, imposing abortion as a punishment, story setting is heavily patriarchal // rating: 18+

translations of unfamiliar words will be provided below ^^

*unedited

masterlist

Previously...

“Did you miss me, Princess ________?” You heard him greet from behind. The sultry yet sweet tone of his voice, compelling you to face him as if your unwillingness to meet him so suddenly wasn’t there, anymore.

With a graceful turn, your solicitous expression caused by your unintended tryst last night gone in a flash tipping your chin forward to display a false confidence in front of the prince.

The amusement on his face widens, taking notice of the exceptional glow radiating from the princess. Have you been dolling yourself up just for him? The certain strangeness in the dark of your orbs igniting fire in him before he blinks and it vanishes, gone without a trace of acknowledgement from the weight of your stare.

He crosses the offending distance, smiling sweetly before he took hold of your hand and kisses your knuckles with an ardent gaze clashing against yours that harbor the coldness he had grown accustomed with.

“My lord,” an old man hurriedly attended to Jungkook just as he took an empty table without a word. Must be the owner of the stall. Uttering his request, the owner bobbed his head low before vanishing from his line of vision.

He was supposedly going to have breakfast with you after having tediously cooked the dishes, himself. The lack of light in your eyes and your dead enthusiasm had spoiled his appetite, and severely wounded his soul. Nothing could probably ease the ache sitting beneath his ribcage. Not when the intimacy he shared with you the night before and your cold treatment of him earlier painfully reverberated in his head like a roaring thunder in the sky.

You, giving him mixed signals, confused the hell out of his weak, young heart.

What am I supposed to do with you, Jagiya?

Perhaps, it was the uncertainty that was instigated by your emotions. That must have been the only reason.

Shortly after, the old man came back with an empty cup, pouring it full with rice wine from the bronze pitcher he brought with him. Jungkook mumbled an audible thanks before chugging down the alcohol like an angry man on his bad day.

“This isn’t something we both have a choice of.”

Your voice echoes in his head. A sweet, delicate voice that could easily slice his heart into two with your mere heartless words. A smirk made its way on his face, despite the amusement never reaching up his eyes.

There is nothing left to decide on because you’ll be with him in the end. He wouldn’t leave you, again. He wouldn’t lose his only chance he has to claim you as rightfully his. When he almost lost you back in the days you were young, right in his arms, before his eyes— it was the day he promised to show you what his heart truly desires. Whatever the cost may be.

He had never been that frantic in his life. Not even when he saw with his own eyes the deep cut in his arm gushing too much blood when he was young. Not when two poisonous arrows almost killed him in the battlefield.

When he stripped the covering off of the suspicious cart in search of any sign of you, the last thing he was expecting to see was your unconscious body, with your restrained arms and a piece of cloth stuffed in your mouth. With your aristocratic braids gone, he couldn’t see much of your face as your hair hung loose covering half of your face as your body lied down in a foetal position, as if you tried to make up with the little space the average sized cart provided which was filled dominantly by materials of what looked like rolls of linens of various colors.

He knew it was you.

Despite the filth covering your attire down to the skin of your bare hands, and your seemingly thinner frame, the mere sight of the body screams everything about you.

At the time, his younger self was almost sure he was going to explode at any moment from the excruciating constriction in his chest.

His eyes were livid while they scanned over the blood bathed bodies scattered around the cart that were slain by the sharp edges of his sword, looking for another sign of danger. When he was certain that none of the rebels on the ground were moving, he dropped his weapon.

“Princess!” He calls out, his bloody hands leaving imprints of the dirt-covered article of your hanbok as he shook your shoulders none too gently, desperate to wake you.

To no avail, you remain unconscious. The sight of you in a devastating state dreaded him. His younger self thought his world right there and then was collapsing, his surroundings slowing down and his gaze shrinking and focusing into you alone. Not even a pittance of fear shook him despite killing a group of rebels, none of the fact that he stood there alone fighting for his life did. None. Not until he pulled the bamboo mat off of the cart.

Where the fuck is that old man?

It’s been hours since Lord Min suddenly came up to his residence, forcing him out of his slumber at dawn without telling him the purpose of his abrupt disturbance.

When the scholar said he found another lead, Jungkook only took it lightly—not knowing it would turn out to be the key to finally locate you.

Lord Min led him to a trail behind a group of merchants who were supposed to exchange goods on the capital’s port with Mongolian merchants. When the suspicious group split into two directions— it left him and the scholar no option but to part ways as well. However, Jungkook insisted on following the merchants who particularly brought their supposed cart of goods.

As soon as he took his outer layer of robe to cover it on your shivering body, the morning breeze hits him mercilessly. Discreetly, he gathers you in his arms. As he sets you on his lap on the ground, he removes the cloth in your mouth, while pressing a trembling hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat.

“Your Highness,” he tried once more when he sensed a faint beating against your chest. His hands shuffle to remove the tie around your wrists.

“Come on… open your eyes for me, Princess.” He whispered desperately, tears freely rolling down on his cheeks without him ever noticing.

He gasped when he caught the slightest bit of movement from you. He thought he might have been hallucinating out of his desperation to see you alive. But then, you proved him wrong as your heavy eyelids slowly peeled open, before they closed shut, again.

“Your Highness! Please… do you hear me? Can you open your eyes again?”

You did, and with your slightly parted mouth, you drew a breath in heavily.

“W-Who are you?” you managed to rasp, almost inaudibly. However, he was too close not to miss what you said. Too close to be deemed righteous around the lady he desires. He didn’t care, because your cold body needed as much as heat from him. Nothing else mattered more to him than to save your life.

“It’s me, Jungkook. I am Prince Taehyung’s friend—“

“I-I… must… be dreaming,” you croaked in between dry, painful coughs.

“You’re not dreaming. Please, don’t talk. It's hurting you.” He chokes back a sob.

“Is this real? You finally noticed me,” you pause, only to breathe through your mouth once more. “I’m… tired, I want to rest,” you say without opening your eyes. But the moisture pooling out of your eyes meant one thing to him. You’ve been suffering from immense pain.

“No, no, no. Please, stay with me. Lord Min is coming to get us. He’ll be here soon,” he coos, not caring how he sounded a little more desperate, taking your cold hands up in his mouth to warm them up.

Jungkook continuously rocked your shivering body back and forth on his lap, never removing his eyes on you. He wanted to embrace you tight, cover you with his body to protect you from the horrible cold of the morning weather but he was afraid he would crush you.

He waited, waited and helplessly waited. Lord Min would come find him. That was what he reminded Jungkook as before they parted ways in the woods.

It was him and Lord Min who found you, even when the King had ordered a mass search for his missing daughter.

---

Although your disappearance was largely perceived as abduction, neither evidence nor eye witness was found to support the claim, hence stirring the urge to find you, himself. Roughly 10 days after you were last seen, not even a single trace of your whereabouts had been identified. Something was definitely off with the way the case was being handled. The lack of progress on the investigation drove the King in extreme desperation as well as the court in anguish due to the King’s adverse political decisions.

In spite of the rumors of insurgence spreading like a common gossip story in the villages surrounding the capital, the rumors fall on deaf ears in the court on the possibility that your disappearance was plotted by the rebel forces. As if the missing person was not a princess whom the rebels could use as a pawn to bend the King on his knees.

Jungkook spent most of his days in the capital, inside the gambling houses, pretending to play with men of all sorts of class. On some days, he visited the courtesan’s house capital marketplace under the disguise of an interested guest due to the rumors that some gisaengs, at the time, were avid followers of the insurgence. At nights, he pieced together the collective stories he tediously gathered during the day.

One day, he decided to make progress on his investigation, spying on a group of merchants trading with Jurchen merchants who were pretending under the guise of Mongolian heritage. It was Mina, a gisaeng whom he somehow befriended when his visits at the courtesan’s house had frequented, who shared her discovery of a Mongolian merchant accidentally revealing his identity when he fluently spoke a dialect she distinguished as her mother tongue since she was a Jurchen-born immigrant.

He didn’t find any suspicious or illegal goods being traded on the port nor could he confirm the real heritage of the merchants. However, on his way back to the capital, he was cornered by a man he recognized as one of the merchants in the port.

To his surprise, the merchant was strangely skilled enough to defeat him in a fight— scoring a severe cut on Jungkook’s side. He didn’t think the merchant would be merciful enough to let him live when Jungkook fell to the ground after what seemed like several minutes of intense sword-to-sword combat. Strangely enough, the merchant was forgiving and instead of ending the life out of him, the merchant took his time to scrutinize every item inside the satchel Jungkook brought with him. By then, he had already sensed that the man was anything but a mere trader.

Breathing heavily, he pressed his hand hard to his bloody waist as he watches the merchant curiously unfold a piece of hanji. It was the trade map he had drawn a few days ago, alongside the location where the camp can be found.

Jungkook knew it was over for him as he saw a glint of recognition in the eyes of the merchant.

After what seemed to be a long moment of silence, the merchant looks at him. “What is this map for?”

Jungkook laughed dryly and as his shoulders shook a little, a surge of pain shot in his core. He winces as the sensation doubled over his effort to make fun of the act the merchant was pulling in front of him.

“Are you one of them?”

If the merchant understood what he meant, he simply chose to ignore it. “I’m asking you a question, kid.”

“You’re one of them, are you not? I’m most certain you know what that map is.” Jungkook gritted through his teeth as the pain on his side intensified, spreading like a magma on his midriff.

By now, the merchant’s focus zeroed in on him. “You know about the camp? Who do you work for, kid?” The merchant interrogates, further. Though the man remained passive, Jungkook found it odd to notice the slightest bit of awe in the eyes of the strange man.

“You tell me, you act like you know my every activity.”

The merchant only raised an eyebrow. “Well, here’s the truth. I’m not a rebel. I’m not a merchant, either. I will help you if you tell me what you have gotten about the camp so far.”

Jungkook darted a glare at him. “As you can see, I’m heavily wounded, literally. You think I still care?”

“You’ll live,” the merchant dismisses nonchalantly, which made Jungkook scoff in disbelief.

“Look kid, I’m not going to kill you. But in exchange for your life, you’ll help me follow the movement.”

“It’s not like you gave me an option to decline.” Jungkook weakly contended.

The merchant effortlessly helped him up from the ground, “Come on, my grandfather is a physician. He’ll tend to your wound.”

Jungkook learned that the merchant who introduced himself as Lord Min turned out to be a scholar. He was writing a case relative to the alleged insurgence centering mostly in poor villages in the capital. Although he didn’t fully trust the scholar, sparing Jungkook his life was enough reason for him to disclose the true nature of his investigation to the scholar who was, at the time, penning colloquial stories about the insurgence.

Lord Min paused his scribbling, throwing a look of surprise at his new-found friend. “Did I hear you right? You believed the princess was abducted by the rebels?”

Jungkook only shrugged, already concluding what the scholar would say next. “It’s not the first time someone thought I was going crazy for telling them that.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I have been following the movement for months now,” Lord Min asserted, which prompted Jungkook to look back at him. “And since I heard about the sudden disappearance of the princess, it was the only theory I could come up with. Unless…” Lord Min trailed, taking notice of the interest glinting in Jungkook’s eyes.

“Unless?” Jungkook echoed expectantly.

Lord Min pretended to be in deep thought before adding up, “There is a lover involved.”

In disbelief, Jungkook threw a scornful look at him. “There’s no man in her life, I’m sure of that.” He remarked with conviction, folding his arms in his chest.

To his surprise, Lord Min hollered into fits of laughter, only severing the look of disdain on Jungkook’s expression. “For a young soldier like you, you seemed to be a little more concerned about the princess.” The older man remarked, meaningfully.

---

“Isn’t it too early to be drinking on your own, kid?” Taunts a voice, forcing him out of his reverie. With a lift of his head, his eyes landed on a commoner seemingly older than him adorned in a daffodil shade of a simple robe. Half of the man’s face was covered in conical shaped hat and just as the man tipped it high with his fingers, Jungkook immediately recognized the person standing across his table.

Your breath hitches on your throat as the warmth of his mouth sends tingles straight through your veins. With a subtle tug of your hand from his hold, the prince almost didn’t take your silent plea, not without his companion guard clearing their throat that snapped him out of daze.

If there’s particularly one thing that stood out to him aside from his aristocratic, --almost polished physical features, it was his forthright admission of his feelings on you. The was the he had made a move in regards to feelings. You appreciate the way he had not once tried to break into your boundaries for his satisfaction.

After what had happened, the least person you expected to see is him. The only man who had the guts to be with you despite the rumors that tainted your reputation. Guilt thrums heavily through your veins more than the throbbing of your muscles in your body.

Jimin deserves someone far better than what you can offer. Not with your heart, and most definitely not with your broken chastity.

“Your Excellency,” you greeted, tilting your head low in a subtle bow. Your eyes stayed firm on the ground, refusing to return his stare as you murmur, “I trust your journey has not been too much for you?”

You missed the way your concern roused a smile up on his flawless face or you would have flushed right away. “It was as expected. I am an impatient man, but it was worth the trouble now that my reward is standing in front of me.”

Taken aback at this teasing remark, your mouth unconsciously parted. You didn’t have the time to retract from the proximity he initiated just as he extended his arm, his palm meeting one of your cheeks as he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. The pad of his thumb feather lightly caresses the softness of your skin there.

The abruptness of his move left you immobile for a moment, the heat coming from his hand involuntarily eliciting goosebumps to come out on your covered arms.

“Have you been well, little flower? I couldn’t be at peace knowing your health is not in the best condition. I was a thread of breath away from forcing my way into your quarters just to check on you myself, but you may never forgive me for if I ever disrespect your privacy.”

“There’s nothing to worry of. Mayhaps... my body has not been reacting too kindly to the cold weather. I had since taken herbal teas to help me recover.” The lie glided smoothly out of your tongue, piercing your lower lip with your teeth to prevent yourself from throwing up out of disgust.

The way his head bobs up lightly made you believe he bought your excuse. “Very well. Will you allow me to accompany you?” He whispers, as if it’s possible to turn down a powerful man like him.

“Of course, Your Excellency.” The smile you plastered on your face was enough to conceal your fears for now.

At your answer, the court ladies immediately hurried towards the recreational area, pulling the wooden chairs for you and the prince to sit on.

You take the opportunity to pull back from his touch as an excuse to occupy one of the chairs.

Mimicking your move, he settled on a seat, one that was the closest to yours. He then motions a dismissive wave on the watchful eyes of his guards, giving him and the rest of the court ladies a silent order to leave you two alone. With a bow, everyone retreated back down onto the ground, obediently.

As he turns his attention back at you, he asks, “Do you like to tease me, Princess?”

“W-What do you mean?” Your stutter evoked a subtle grin to reappear on the corners of his mouth. While your insides are a mess, the delight shining in his eyes lets you know he couldn’t see right through your miserable heart.

The subtle smile on the corners of his mouth stretches wider, “You know I like it when you call me by my name.”

His teasing once again scores a twin stain on your cheeks. Although you remain placid with his remark, he didn’t miss the immediate rush of blood coloring your face that, in return, earned a smirk from him.

Blinking, you straightened your back. “Why are you not appropriately dressed for the season, Your Excellency?”

Prince Jimin beamed in your attempt of changing the subject, eyes glimmering in glee. “My attire is fine. Mayhaps, if you are concerned, I can put on another layer of thick robe.”

Quickly, you shake your head. “There’s no need for such if you don’t feel like the weather is too much for you. Winter has just begun and only a few weeks more before the weather becomes unbearable, especially for envoys like yourself.”

“I can only imagine how our departure would be like.”

“You chose to come to the kingdom during the winter. Is there something that’s urgent on your purpose not to delay it until the weather has calmed down?”

”The only urgent thing I found was to see you. Have I not made it clear from the beginning?”

You purse your lips, afraid to voice out your thoughts. On the other hand, Jimin was way too deep in the subject to notice the slightest bit of trouble reflecting in your eyes.

“I didn’t think any woman would stir my interest after having my heart broken when I was young. You know, my brother—the Emperor gifted me a marriage in exchange for my service in the military. I was supposed to leave the palace for a while to visit my bride. The Emperor halted my plan only to have me represent him on his behalf during the coronation of Queen Soheon. If I didn’t come here, I would have been married by now.”

Burying your trembling hands on your lap, you distracted yourself with the beauty of the winter blooms on the pond, swallowing the gasp that threatened to spill as an involuntary reaction. His revelation left a lasting impact on you. In your head, you could hear yourself screaming the truth in front of him. He shouldn’t be this infatuated over you.

“Perhaps, you are well enough to company out of the palace? You still owe me a tour to the capital.” The prince posits all too suddenly.

Swiftly, he stood up and offered a helping hand in front of you. The sun is barely out, concealed with the thick layers of clouds to which is a great opportunity to wander around in the marketplace. Your false confidence slowly faltering as seconds turn to minutes with his gaze sweeping on your whole length. You accepted his hand, granting his wish. It was the least you could do to make up for him travelling a thousand miles to see you.

The following day, an event is set to be held in Changdeok to pay tribute for army’s victory in defeating the rebel forces in one of the borders in Joseon. Hours earlier than the customary outset in the palace, the finishing touches on the day’s festivities have already been wrapped up by the court ladies even before the sun rises on the east.

Historically, the day held no significance to the royal court nor to any prominent military figure in the nation. However, some weeks prior to the present day, the king received a letter from the young general relative to the army’s arrival to the capital, hence, the sudden establishment of a dogam to organize a jinchan for the returning heroes from the northern border.

With the anticipated attendance of the royal family in the morning banquet, you were forced to rise at dawn to prepare for your participation for the festivity.

Shortly after the attendants have finished braiding your hair, your morning tea was served just before you are set to leave your quarters.

“There will be two more banquets after the event in the morning, Your Highness.” Hyowon, one of the court ladies attending to your daily nourishment answers when you absentmindedly voiced out your thought as she pours a tea on your cup.

Fortunately, you were not foolish enough to utter the name of the man who’s been haunting your dreams since time immemorial. She may only be a distant relative of Jungkook, but the same blood runs thick in their veins and you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of anyone, much less to anyone related to him.

You nodded, taking your cup and hold it up to your lips.

Traditionally, the nighttime festivity is said to be the most anticipated from all sorts of celebrations as the audience who are commonly from noble descent look forward on the performances of high-class entertainers. Jungkook is obligated to attend all the events for the day as one of the honorary guests of the jinchan.

The supposed banquet is going to be your first attendance in a political gathering ever since you were given the title of a gongju on your seventh birthday. The thought was making you uneasy in some way in case something unforeseen transpires during the celebration, that it would be denunciated by the curse you were forced to live with in your lifetime. However, the thought of him present in the same room with you brings more in disarray.

A court lady from the dogam came to escort you to the reception afterwards. And not long after the arrival of Queen, the massive doors of the dining hall flew opened, revealing the King as he enter the premises.

Perhaps, you would still have had a clear view on whole expanse of the dining hall if not for the ivory article covering the totality of the platform where you and the rest of the royal palace women.

Meals have been simultaneously served just as the King had announced the ceremonial toast indicating the beginning of the celebration. An instrumental piece played by the musicians proceeded after, keeping the atmosphere pleasantly solemn despite the audible chatters in the hall.

From your seat, you could only see the king’s back as he led the banquet—sitting at the head of the table while the rest of the state and military officials sat in two long sets of vertically-arranged sobans. Despite the barrier, it was not difficult for you to locate where the man of your thoughts was settled at just by the mere sight of his silhouette. There he was beside Prince Taehyung, seemingly fascinated with the performances on the center if not occupied with something Prince Taehyung was telling him.

You could never change the way you treated him so poorly, yesterday. Your hostility was uncalled for, but perhaps, it was enough to displease him enough to lose his interest in you.

“You are not eating your meal, Gongju. Are the dishes not to your liking?” Princess Consort Sooyoung asks. Unlike you, your sister-in-law seems to enjoy the sumptuous serving on the soban, as opposed to your lack of enthusiasm on the food.

“It’s not that. Perhaps, it was too early for me to consume anything solid after I had my morning the tea.”

You drag your hand up on the table, picking up the pair of chopsticks to nestle them in between your fingers. To ease her worry, you attempted to touch the sweet flavored delicacy among the servings.

The banquet progressed rather slowly. As hours passed by, your legs grew numb from the lack of physical movement. It didn’t help that the remnants of muscle aches from your intimacy with Jungkook still lingers. Your sister-in-law caught the discomfort in your expression.

“Gongju,” Princess Consort Sooyoung calls for your attention, once more.

Tearing your gaze away from Jungkook, you tilt your head on the side to meet her solicitous eyes.

“Is your breathing alright? I noticed your heaving has frequented.”

“Uhh...I’m alright, Bubuin.” You falter. Instinctively, your eyes flew back to where he was situated. Your sister-in-law followed the trail of your gaze, and it was only then that she had pieced together the reason.

She chuckles softly, “I thought you were having difficulty with your breathing.”

Your face incredibly flushed with her words.

She didn’t attempt to speak to you after that, seemingly distracted in one of the ceremonial performances of the banquet.

Three hours later, the first phase of the jinchan had finally come to conclude to your relief.

When it was your turn to be escorted out of the hall, you couldn’t help but skim your eyes across the expansive lot. Of course, the chances of running into him are very slim to none. Not only that he was in a rush to leave the reception, but he would also take the path on the west out of the palace while you would take the opposite direction to go back to your quarters.

You thought wrong. Because the moment you arrive at the entrance of the Gyeongbok, you catch on the back of his frame on the small stretch between the library and the tall concrete wall.

Your heart instantly jumped at the mere sight of him adorned on the same uniform he wore the day before. But something didn’t make sense. What is he doing in the main palace—hiding there right after the banquet has ended?

The court lady remained still behind you as you tried to build up the courage to approach him. Perhaps, apologize for your behavior yesterday. But then as he shifted on his feet, you caught a glimpse of a hanbok across him— appearing nothing like the clothing of any man. A lady.

“You have the freedom to choose any woman in your life.”

Your own words hurriedly came rushing back on you, nearly losing your footing when the weight on your chest grew heavier. You couldn’t breathe.

“Princess—” you jumped at the sound of a low baritone voice from behind, the same voice you’ve known by heart since you were little.

Sheepishly, you turned to face your brother, his forehead crumpled causing his eyebrows to meet into a line.

“You looked like you’ve seen an apparition,” Prince Taehyung jests, with his face remaining passive without a trace of playfulness despite his obvious teasing.

That’s because you did! You seethed, internally. With an ugly emotion slowly seeping through your veins, you find it difficult to display indifference as if something—someone was not putting you in an emotional distress.

“Your Excellency,” you greeted half-heartedly.

“You are aware about the luncheon tomorrow, right? I am expecting you in my courtyard, little flower.”

“Of course,” You briefly answered. His face finally stretched into a grin, ruffling your neatly braided hair before bidding a farewell.

When you spun back to peer at the spot where Jungkook and his female companion were standing— nothing. No one was there anymore. Jungkook is gone, and so is the lady he was with.

The scene remained etched in your brain the rest of your day. Being unable to stay still in the confines of your quarters, you decided to do readings in in the library.

You were alone, just like what you have asked to your attendants, with the exception of a guard outside. Shortly after going through the shelves in the House of Yi section, you once again stumbled upon a book of biographical sketches after secretly reading the book several years ago. The sight of it alone refreshes your memory of the things you have discovered written in the pages of the books—specifically about Princess Moyoung, your grandfather’s eldest sister who slowly died in the hands of her husband who was born from a fourth class family.

It was said to be the matter that pressured the next royal generations to marry off any king’s daughter to a yangban which was prohibited prior to the princess’ unfortunate case to avoid any arising political conflicts.

It was the same thought that bothered you even when you had gone back in your quarters, bathed, and dressed in your night robe. If your father were still living, would he insist on keeping you in the palace? Or would he allow your supposed matrimonial union with Jimin over one with Jungkook?

However, you understand that either selection is a sacrifice. Life is about losing something to gain something else. You know what will be taken from you if you were to possibly end up with Jungkook. But what could you have possibly gained if you were to lose the man who owns your soul? An extravagant life with the prince?

The ache in your heart has sat idly in your chest since this morning. Your time in the library seemed to have worsened your distress as pain starts to sear in your head.

You stood up. Your attendant mimicking your movement to smoothen the sleeves of your silk robe. “I do not wish to be followed,” you simply say. They crouched their upper body low, conveying a silent message of obedience.

As you pass through the L-shaped corridor leading to the outdoor of your quarters, the rectangular hallway making up the main pathway of the courtyard is eerily quiet and empty. With subtle luminance provided by the light torches on each post you passed by, it was just as exactly the way you expected Gyeongbok during this time around. The reason why you chose to be alone since no one else will run into your way this time of night.

However, at your third turn, just as you enter the borderline of the queen’s courtyard, you hear a distinct sound of door opening from afar followed by the heavy, collective footsteps ringing in the air. As the footsteps grew louder, you hurriedly ran to the side of the greenhouse to hide, afraid of being seen without a companion to look after your care.

“Your Majesty!”

You bite your lip as your heartbeat picks up at the sound of a male voice—assumingly the queen’s eunuch, as if in desperation to stop Her Majesty to wherever she intends to go at this hour.

You didn’t know how long you were hiding there at the side of the greenhouse but it wasn’t long enough for you to be able to hold your breath until the traces of the footsteps were fading.

When any sign of human sound was out of earshot, you finally heave a sigh out of relief, taking a solid peek through the corner of the wooden wall to confirm your guess. Considering the pathway clear and safe from any presence, you cautiously proceed back to your footpath.

Merely focused on either side of your vision, you failed to sense that someone was making their way onto your direction. Their presence became known only when your arm was snatched from behind and a calloused palm right away covered your mouth, losing your chance to call for help. Panic immediately surges through your veins, your shock causing you to freeze momentarily.

Even without having a single look at your perpetrator, the feel of his thick arm around your waist lets you know you don’t stand a chance against their immense built and incredible strength. Just as you recovered from your shock, you frantically squirmed about against their hold but the more you struggle, the tighter their arm gets around your waist, pulling you flushed against their body.

“Why is Lady Yi- being punished?” Demanded Queen Soheon the moment she stepped foot inside the King’s quarters.

King Namjoon sprang up to his feet to meet her half-way, concern stirring immediate in him at the sight of his wife, noting the way her voice unusually croaked and holding such heavy emotion. He silently curses, taking notice how upset she had seemed to be over the scandal the concubine had caused all to herself.

“Sit down, my love. You shouldn’t allow your emotions to run high, it’s not good for your condition.”

Queen Soheon is always calm and graceful no matter how grave the situation is. He had not once witnessed her lose her innate grace ever since he married her, with the exception of the times he was intimate with her.

“Why?” She repeated, her eyes burning with fire.

“My love—”

“Jeonha, please… stop with your sweet filters and answer me why you didn’t stop them from forcing her to drink the medicine?”

He sighs just as he attempted to place her in his embrace. To his dismay, she pulled a good amount of distance between them, clearly setting the line of her anger on the matter, right straight to him.

How can he possibly be sure you would never find this matter out when only a slip of a tongue can give her the idea of what transpired some hours ago.

“You know I cannot disrespect Halma-mama’s power when it comes to the women in the inner court.”

As the Grand Royal Dowager Queen holds the highest rank in the inner court, it would only be necessary to say his grandmother ordered the punishment, when in fact it was never her idea to impose a harsh discipline on the concubine. However, the appeal of the elders in the inner court to decide on the fate of her unlawful conceiving resulted in a consensus decision to abort the unborn child. Unless the queen is proven to be sterile, the inner court strictly prohibits the harem to carry a King’s child.

“She is carrying your child!”

He knows that, very well. But he wished his wife would refrain from carrying the weight of her emotions as it might put a toll on her health and consequently affect their unborn child. “Calm down,” King Namjoon prompted cautiously.

He could never forgive himself for failing to protect his unborn child from being stripped off the chance to live in a world where his/her father rules out a kingdom. Never in this lifetime and in the next would he ever learn to spare himself the forgiveness.

“You know, Lady Li and I are both with child. If I were not your queen, you’d simply allow them to get rid of my child, would you not?”

He reaches out, once more. “No, no. Of course, not. Not under my watch.”

But the queen was quick enough to retract from the close proximity.

Perhaps, he was right. He cannot have the power to overrule the inner court, but why does his words feel insincere? It made her suddenly fear for her own child’s life despite the position she holds. When her mother warned her about the sickening life in the palace and the doctrines in the inner court, she never thought it would come to this extent.

How can she look at his family and pretend everything is alright. One wrong move and might lose her child as well.

All too suddenly, she could feel herself slowly being overwhelmed with disgust, needing the urge to throw up.

She couldn’t stand being here, to see anyone just yet. She fixes a glare at her attendants, warning them not to follow her. Her eyes lingered on him for a second before she took a swift turn, exiting her way out of the vicinity.

With quick strides, he followed her trail, only to spin back around, skimming through each one of servants in his quarters.

“No one must follow me or the queen,” his eyes particularly burned at his eunuch. “Do you understand?” He glowered, not waiting for them to answer as he too disappeared into the halls of his royal residence.

When you felt their grasp loosening, you began thrashing out as fear dominated your senses. Even with their hand pressed firmly on your mouth, you could hear your own sobs croaking out of your throat. And as if your pellucid fear had triggered them to stiffen, their hold around your waist loosened. But the adrenaline running in your senses all vanished the moment they finally spoke.

“Jagiya.”

Your eyes went round, recognizing the owner of the voice. He lets his hand fall from your mouth.

”J-Jungkook?” you hesitated. While you remained flushed against his body, you couldn’t be sure of their identity.

Swiftly, he spun you around to confirm your assumption for yourself. The light torches were a little far where you two stood but there was no denying it was him, judging by the little features of his face you could make out through the help of the vibrant moon lighting up in the sky behind him.

Yet, his action had already shaken you up, feeling the loud beating of your heart. All of your emotional baggage rushing all at once, you couldn’t help but lash out to him, seeing his chest as a target to release all your frustrations.

“Why did you do that?! I thought I was being kidnapped,” you anguished, horror remained etched on your face.

He took all your hits without a fight as guilt all too sudden consumed him after realizing the effect of what he had done. “I’m sorry, Jagiya. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs, drying the moisture on the corners of your eyes with his thumbs. The moon was like a spotlight focused solely on yours, giving him the clear view of your weary face.

It wasn’t long before you calmed down. Now, all you feel is shame as your anger washes out of your system with every hit of your fist against his chest. Your head bobbed lower, “Just... don’t do that, again.”

Hearing him whisper a promise not to repeat the same mistake, you all but give him a curt nod, allowing the silence to fill in the moment.

Jungkook, once again, made you upset, the second time he had gotten himself close to you after his return to the capital. Must he keep making you in anguish just whenever he’s around you? It was wrong of him to catch your attention the way he had just done when he could’ve simply called you out to do it. But after seeing the queen and her maids passing by the same path you’re about to take, he didn’t want to make an unnecessary sound in case anyone’s lurking around without him seeing through the vicinity covered in almost pitch black.

He wondered why you seemed determined to go on your way despite going on around without a company.

“Where are you going—”

“What are you doing here—”

You stilled just as he was surprised to hear you spoke the same time he decided to break the silence.

“I saw you going out of your quarters.” He simply answered. It was true. He left the festive banquet at the east to randomly visit your residence. He knew it would be unnecessary to invite himself into the premises so he just stood there, particularly waiting for nothing to kill time before he leaves the palace.

But then he saw the outermost doors of your residence opening, revealing none other than the subject of his thoughts. Then the rest was history.

“W-What? Are you spying on me?”

“Spying?” He chuckles at your choice of your words. He would’ve honestly accepted stalking better. “The banquet’s getting too loud to my liking. I’d rather spend my time with you. Mayhaps, luck is finally on my side when I saw you just in time— going out.”

Hearing his words earned a scoff from you. Wasn't he just with a woman this morning? Not to mention, it was one of the reasons why you randomly sought the need to breathe in some fresh air on a cold, winter night.

“I guess if you’re not distracted with your prince, you would have immediately caught the sound of my footing. Where are you going, anyway? Will you go see him?”

Your mouth parted in disbelief, “You didn’t hear anything from me when you were the one hiding with a woman just this morning.”

Hiding with a woman? For a second, his forehead crumpled in thought, recalling his activities prior to this moment. He couldn’t seem to remember when he actually hid with a woman. He didn’t even talk to any woman earlier in the morning, except for a friend—

“Ahh,” He hums in understanding, “Jagi, I’m not hiding with Mina—”

“Mina?”

He recalls speaking with Mina after the latter who belonged to the group of gisaengs during the banquet who recognized him inside the reception and was only able to catch up after him at the entrance main palace. Mina enthusiastically dragged him behind the closest infrastructure to briefly speak to him in peace without potentially attracting an audience.

“I met her a long time ago. Jagiya—“

“Forget it,” you immediately dismissed, but with him not missing the way color bloomed on your cheeks. “It’s not my business to hold it against you. You’re free to do as you wish.”

Are you being serious? How can you think he can be possibly interested to another woman?

He tilts your chin up so he can see your pretty eyes, clearly. “What are you saying, Jagiya? I thought we’ve already established that I’m yours. Have I not?”

He heard no answer from you, but didn’t miss the subtle shake of your head.

“No?” He echoes, the frown on his face deepens. Still, you refused to speak nor return the heavy weight of his peer.

“Our lovemaking wasn’t enough, was it?” His sudden brought up to the matter which should never be spoken of made you dart your eyes back up at him. There it was again, the same emotions reflecting in your eyes the morning when you put a cold shoulder at him. He couldn’t quite decipher the signals you were giving him.

“Jungkook, we’re not together anymore.”

“Then would you rather be with the prince over me?”

You look away, even though you really wanted to give an answer.

“I haven’t seen your beautiful smile since I came back, Jagi. But you were smiling a lot around him. Gods, was I jealous when you showed him of such privilege I was deprived of.” He groans, slowly inching his face closer, as if testing your reaction to his advance.

He took your lack of withdrawal as a sign to keep going. Silently, you gave him the freedom to intrude your personal space.

“You saw us,” you murmur, confirming it to yourself more than throwing it as a question to him.

Your jaw went slack, shamelessly anticipating for his lips to touch yours. Closer. Until your noses bumping, his mouth a breath away from touching your plump lips. It almost happened. Almost. Because just as he shifts his head a centimeter forward, finally capturing your awaiting lips with his, a cry of protest loudly resonated through the air, echoing as the sound bounces back from the empty silence.

“Stop following me!” The voice was undoubtedly owned by a woman.

If Jungkook didn’t recognize the voice, you certainly did. Her voice was too familiar for you not to identify her as the Queen, forcing you to draw back from the proximity immediately. Once again, panic courses through you, rapidly consuming your senses as fear worsened your capability to think rationally in a situation such as this.

Your wide eyes stared back Jungkook in a silent plea.

It wasn’t clear to you how far she was from both of you, but the nearing claps of footsteps tells you the queen and whoever was following her are passing by behind the greenhouse. If they decided to take a turn right across where you two stood, they will certainly not miss the sight of you seemingly in a rendezvous with Jungkook.

“I said—Jeonha!”

You gasp, slapping a hand to your mouth, utterly stunned at what you just heard. Jeonha? Does that mean she was addressing her order to your brother?

“The K-King is here...” you stammer.

He hushed you, silently telling you to keep still as he cages you against the outer wall of the greenhouse, as if shielding you from any potential eyesight. He was too close as he let his head hang low just beside the shell of your ear. You could hear his heavy breathing, the warmth oozing naturally from his body seemed to calm your nerves in some way, nearly forgetting about the predicament both of you are in, nearly missing the silence lingering in the air.

Are they gone?

Despite your pellucid reaction, Jungkook seems not one bit shaken by the fact you two are a thread away from being seen together in the dark.

Suddenly, he shifted onto your left, breaking his manmade territory around you to move further away from where you two were supposed to be hiding.

“Jungkook!” you desperately called for his attention in a panicked whisper.

Nervously, you watch his back as he extends his neck to peep behind the greenhouse. It didn’t take him long before he whirled back around, and in a flash, grapples your wrist and dragged you into the opposite direction.

“Where are we going?”

Though Jungkook could hear the agitation in your tone, he ignored your question, averting his focus to hide you and make no sound at all. The couple turned out to be closer than he had guessed them to be.

Just as he stopped in front of the doors of the greenhouse, he heard you argue about his choice of hiding spot, but ignored you for the second time.

In a calculated shuffling on the rusted bar keeping the twin panel of doors closed, he flicked it up, allowing him to push one of the doors open. The firm grip of his fingers on your waist was all you could focus on as he urged you to enter inside the greenhouse. Carefully, he pushed the door back closed, dragging you with it as he pressed your back against the cold surface. His hands on both sides of your head as he rests his forehead against the door, just above your shoulder. You couldn’t see much of the view behind him because of the lack of light inside. But the moonlight seeping through the transparent roofing of the greenhouse was enough to give you the faintest possible light to make out the features of his frame.

“It was too quiet, isn’t it? I thought the queen and king were gone.”

“We were intruding them,” he simply replied.

“W-What?”

He shifted his head to the side and before you knew it, a pair of warm lips touched yours in fervor. Jungkook has never been this bold before to break your personal space nor touches without asking your permission.

Years without seeing him, you understand that he might have grown into a persona different from what you know of him. When you saw him that weary day after four years, you picked up a sense of strangeness in his aura. Perhaps, it is his confidence or the powerful aura he naturally emits that made you speechless.

Groaning as the feel of your mouth accelerated the temperature of his body, Jungkook deepens the kiss with his tongue pushing passed your parted lips.

The way he held you in place, with his hands on your face and his torso locking you firm against the door, you didn’t expect him to withdraw from the kiss so soon which resulted in a soft breathy whine to slip out of your throat.

“Perhaps that answered your question,” he says, picking up the teasing tone in his voice. Jungkook dipped his head lower, burying his head on the crook of your neck to press a warm, wet kiss on the same spot he bruised purple two nights ago.

grand royal dowager queen - spouse of a former king; presently the king’s grandmother Halma-mama - how the royal grandchildren address their grandmother gongju - title of a princess bubuin - title of princess consort (wife of a prince) gisaeng - female entertainer yangban - any nobleman holding a government position dogam - a committee/body authorized to organize a royal event jinchan - other term for royal banquet soban - other term for a traditional table used in joseon era hanji - other term for traditional korean paper Changdeok - East Palace Gyeongbok - Main Palace/main residence of the royal family

note: after posting 4 chapters of the series, im finally opening a tag list skskssksjsj hahaahaha if u lovelies want to be tagged in the future chapters, send me your url here.

247 notes · View notes

bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

Text

flour, sugar, salt

Words: 3.6k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Baking, Gentle Kissing, Light Angst, Safehouse Period, No Apocalypse, cooking and baking as love languages

Summary:

It had gone like this:

“Tell me something,” Jon said, leaning his head against the curve of Martin’s shoulder.

After a moment, Martin laced their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ve never had a birthday cake.”

----

Jon’s never baked before, but how much harder than cooking can it possibly be?

Things do not go well.

Read on Ao3

Or read below:

The cake is awful. There’s no getting around that, Jon thinks as he scowls at the misshapen lump of frosting in front of him, adorned with little yellow and blue candles that he’d found tucked in the meagre baking section of the village’s shop, right next to the boxed cake mix that Jon had hesitated in front of, his hand stalled halfway to the candles. Just add water! it had proclaimed cheerily, which in no way assured Jon that the resulting product would be anything close to edible. So, he’d retrieved the candles and moved on, collecting flour, sugar, baking powder, and the rest of the ingredients for the recipe. For beginners, it had said, and Jon had felt like a child, but he’d followed the steps anyway, doing everything exactly right.

Perhaps he should have just gone with the boxed mix. At least then the final product would have at least looked edible and not like something one would immediately toss into the bin, like Jon has half a mind to do. But the idea of not having a cake makes Jon’s stomach twist into knots, because he needs the cake. This whole thing is- is pointless without the cake, but the cake looks horrible, and—

And he’s completely forgotten to put the gołąbki in the oven. He does so now, trying to calm the shaking of his hands that is born more of frustration than anything. It really wouldn’t do to drop the main dish all over the lino, after all. Best not to ruin it more than he already has.

It had gone like this:

They’d been sitting on the couch, the flames of the fire licking at the brick edges of the fireplace as it eagerly consumed the new wood Martin had topped it off with just minutes earlier. The moment Martin had settled back onto the couch, Jon had resumed his position curled into his side, breathing a small sigh of satisfaction as warmth began to radiate throughout his body once again. Martin ran hot—hotter than Jon, anyway, whose fingers had a tendency to get so cold they burned when warmed between Martin’s hands—and the slight guilt at using Martin as his personal space heater had dissipated entirely at the small, contented noise Martin had made as he’d wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

It had been months since the Lonely, since those first few awkward weeks in the safehouse tucked away in the Scottish highlands where Jon hadn’t been sure if loved was to be taken at face value and Martin wasn’t sure if the little touches Jon gave him were just to stave off that creeping fog that still lingered in the blue-grey of his eyes and the white-streaked curls that mirrored Jon’s own. It had been even less time since Martin had opened the front door, an excuse about needing ‘a much thicker coat, it’s bloody freezing out there’ on his tongue, to find Jon gripping a sheet of official Institute paper in a white-knuckled grip. The words calmly spilling free from his lips were silenced only once he’d slumped bonelessly in Martin’s arms, Martin’s hand still clamped firmly over his mouth and twin tear tracks streaking down both of their faces.

The statement had gone up in flames easily and without fanfare, the small strands of smoke tickling the still-blue sky that, to Jon, seemed like the second most beautiful thing in the world.

Now, there’s just this: sitting curled next to the fire, and taking long walks even as the cold of February nips at the tips of their ears, and getting to know each other through fragments of stories and brushes of pinkies and whispered confessions.

“Tell me something,” Jon said, leaning his head against the curve of Martin’s shoulder and letting his eyes fall on Martin’s hands where they gripped the edges of a notebook, curling script decorating the pages in starts and stops and marred in places with crossed-out lines. They’d established a routine after Jon had admitted one night as they lay in bed, knees curled into his chest protectively, that sometimes what Peter Lukas had said in the Lonely still played on his mind. That they barely knew each other, and that the love Jon felt so potently in his chest and his lungs and his bones was based on nothing more than a construct, something he’d tricked himself into believing was real. It had been hard to think, even harder to say; Jon had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and had held his breath.

Martin’s hand had found his and squeezed it tight. “Tell me something, then,” Martin had said, a tentative smile on his lips. And so, Jon had.

Now, Jon’s hands were relaxed as he played absently with the cuff of Martin’s jumper sleeve. It was one of his favourites, a mustard-yellow one that was slightly oversized on Martin and consumed Jon entirely every time he managed to steal it from Martin’s side of the closet. Martin hummed and closed the notebook, turning his hand over and letting Jon’s hand rest against his palm; after a moment, he laced their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze.

“I’ve never had a birthday cake,” Martin said, sounding a bit wistful as he said it, and Jon leaned back slightly so he could see his face. Martin’s eyes were trained on the fire, and though his lips were still curled into a hint of a smile, his eyebrows folded inward in that way they did when an old wound itched just below the surface, stitched messily shut and stubbornly ignored even as it healed crooked and wrong. “At- at least not one of my own, that is, or- or that I can remember. I don’t know why I didn’t when I was younger, not really, but after Mum got sick, and my dad… well, birthdays just never really seemed all that important anymore, I guess? At least, Mum never seemed to want to celebrate.”

Martin let out a small laugh, the kind born from reflecting on a memory that was quite the opposite of humorous. “And by the time I was old enough to make one for myself, it all just seemed so… pointless, I suppose. You know, that time we went out for ice cream was the first time I’d even celebrated my birthday since I turned 21?” Under his breath, Martin said, “Though I’m not sure you could call buying myself a bottle of Moscato and drinking alone in my flat celebrating.” He drew in a shaky breath before giving Jon a small, embarrassed smile. Not too long ago, he probably would have stuttered out some sort of apology, like it was shameful for him to show the vulnerable parts of himself. Now, he simply said, “It was nice, I suppose. To have people who cared, even if it didn’t seem like it meant all that much at the time.”

Martin had that quietly sad look on his face, the one they both shared when thinking of the easy comfort of those first months in the archives, with Tim bright-eyed and smiling and telling jokes that Jon only understood half of the time and Sasha looking the way she had in the Polaroid Jon had found tucked away in the box of statements and cassette tapes Basira had delivered, clearly meant to be more salt in a wound that had been stitched closed before it had the chance to bleed. Jon squeezed Martin’s hand tighter, and when that didn’t seem enough, brought it to his lips and laid a soft kiss across the knuckles. “Yes,” Jon said softly, feeling that same sadness curling within his stomach and mingling with the beginnings of determination, a plan half-forming in his mind. “It suppose it was.”

It was going to be perfect. Martin had left some time ago to make the longer trip into Inverness to pick up the supplies they couldn’t get in the village, forehead creasing slightly at Jon’s fabricated excuse of ‘not feeling well’ and Jon’s subsequent refusal of Martin’s offer to stay behind and reschedule their trip to a time when Jon was feeling more up to it. Jon had practically pushed Martin out the front door, letting out a small breath of relief when he saw Daisy’s car—now ostensibly their car—trundle down the cratered dirt road and out of sight. He’d had all of the ingredients; he’d followed all of the instructions. It was supposed to be perfect.

At least the gołąbki turned out well, he thinks with a resigned sigh as he extracts the glass dish from the oven, setting it atop one of the electric hobs to cool. The cake sits in his periphery, almost mockingly; some of the frosting has sloughed off the top, leaving the chocolate pastry underneath starkly exposed.

It… it wouldn’t hurt to try to fix it, right? Just a little more frosting to patch up the hole.

Somehow, the middle of the cake ends up collapsing inward, taking a good portion of the candles with it. Christ, Jon can just picture his grandmother’s expression, the stern tilt of her eyebrows and the press of her mouth into a thin line that, thinking back on it, was really more amused than anything as she told him that no, five minutes was not long enough to properly cook chicken breasts in the oven, and no, he could not set the temperature to 260 degrees just to speed things along. She’d taught him how to mince garlic and to make Desi Ghee and to spice dishes without the need for measuring spoons, saying that he may as well put some of his anxious, restless energy to use and that the kitchen was as good a place as any.

The first time he’d cooked in the safehouse, a few days after they’d arrived, when Martin had sat shivering on the couch with his eyes iced over with fog, his stomach had knotted in worry that he wouldn’t remember how—that he’d neglected it for so long, subsisting off of ready meals and tea in the beginning and then mostly statements after a while, and that this knowledge was the kind of nice, wonderful thing he wouldn’t be allowed to keep. But the knife strokes had come easily, almost mindlessly, and he’d filled the kitchen with mindless chatter as he’d worked in the hopes that it would give Martin something to cling to until he could press a bowl of chicken dumpling soup into his hands and gently coax him to eat.

After that, Jon had taken to cooking most of their meals while Martin sat at the table and wrote with his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration, or stood behind Jon and wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his chin against Jon’s shoulder as he watched him work, or formed a pile of flour and sugar and spices into a bread or a pastry or some other lovely, doughy concoction that Jon just couldn’t understand. Because Martin could cook, yes, but he’d never really liked it, he’d mumbled into his pillow one night after Jon had whispered, “Tell me something.”

“It just reminds me of my Mum,” he’d said, voice small and quiet, and Jon had understood.

But baking seemed to come so easily to Martin, lighting up his face with a radiant joy that captivated Jon to the point where he’d burned several meals just staring at Martin while he worked, transforming the same ingredients into a myriad of different desserts that all tasted light and lovely on Jon’s tongue, even though he’d never been a fan of sweets. At least, not until Martin had pressed a raspberry-filled Paczki into his hand with a tentative smile. He’d made it seem so easy, and Jon had been sure that, at the very least, he could manage a birthday cake.

Clearly, he’d been wrong.

He’s halfway to the bin, having decided that having no cake at all is distinctly better than having the monstrosity of a cake that’s currently balanced precariously in his hands, when the front door swings open, bringing with it a rush of winter air that prickles goosebumps onto Jon’s skin and sends a flush to his cheeks. Though that may be only partly due to the chill.

“Hey,” Martin says, kicking the door closed behind him. His arms are laden with canvas bags of various patterns and designs, collected from a myriad of different shops over the past months, and he’s looking at the floor as he kicks off his boots so he doesn’t see the way Jon freezes halfway to the bin, the offending cake still suspended in front of him in the way one might hold a particularly offensive-smelling bag of rubbish. His muscles lock in indecision, and his mind is a mess of do I throw it away do I hide it oh Christ what do I do he’s going to hate it I have to get rid of it, and then Martin’s looking up from the floor and saying, “Are you feeling any—?”

His eyes alight on the cake, on the stricken expression on Jon’s face, and his sentence trails off into a small, “Oh.” He takes in the kitchen, which is still in a state of disarray because Jon thought he had more time, surely Martin said he’d be out until six. He says as much, because he’s really not sure what else to do.

“It’s quarter past,” Martin says, still staring at Jon with an unreadable expression that’s sending Jon’s stomach into a chaotic mess of nervous butterflies, and Jon’s eyes flick over to the clock above the oven. It does, in fact, read 18:14, and Jon feels his cheeks heat further.

“Ah.” He’s still holding the cake awkwardly in front of him, he realizes, so he pulls it closer to his chest, almost protectively. Martin’s eyes track its movement, and on reflex, Jon says, “I- ah, I made dinner? And, er. A cake as well.”

“Oh,” Martin says again, and Jon still can’t tell what he’s feeling. Not that he’s ever been good at that, but Martin has a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, which usually makes it easier.

Nerves loosen his tongue, and he begins to ramble. “I- I know we hadn’t really discussed it, and I- I didn’t want you to think that I forgot about your birthday—which is, ah, tomorrow, I know, but I- I suppose I thought it would be more of a surprise today, and we did make plans for tomorrow already, and you- you said you’d never had a birthday cake of your own, and you’re always baking for me, so I- I thought it might be nice to make something for you, and you always make it seem so easy, but it, ah, it didn’t quite—”

He shrugs helplessly and nods down at the cake, which is looking significantly more pathetic now that it’s under Martin’s scrutiny. “It’s a bit ruined,” he says, trying to convey within his words the entirety of the apologetic mess that’s been tying his stomach into knots. He stares at the floor, eyes fixating on Martin’s boots and the small puddle of water accumulating beneath them as the snow caked on the sides of them melts. The hot embarrassment that’s rapidly consuming him keeps his eyes cast firmly downward.

“Oh,” Martin says once more, and it’s a soft, tender noise that makes Jon’s gaze twitch upward. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the wet shine to Martin’s eyes, the open, vulnerable look on his face where the stunned mask has finally cracked. “Oh, Jon.”

Martin sets the bags on the floor and quickly crosses the room to where Jon’s stood. He takes the cake carefully out of Jon’s hands, despite Jon’s protests, and sets it on the counter like it’s something precious instead of the worst baking monstrosity Jon’s ever laid eyes on.

“Martin, what—?”

One of Martin’s hands is on Jon’s shoulder, the other carefully cupping his face. He pauses there for a moment, like he always does, giving Jon a chance to pull back. When Jon doesn’t, Martin leans in and kisses him.

It’s more insistent than usual, both of Martin’s hands coming up to rest on Jon’s face and thumbs running soft circles over the tops of his cheeks as he presses into him, swallowing Jon’s soft gasp as he pushes him back against the kitchen counter, narrowly avoiding the cake as he kisses him soundly. Jon’s arms come up to loop around Martin’s neck loosely, his fingers brushing against the curls at the nape of Martin’s neck, and the tension he’s been holding in his body for the last hour melts away under the gentle, rhythmic motion of Martin’s thumbs against his face and the little noises Martin’s making against his mouth.

When Martin pulls back some time later, his face is flushed a lovely shade of pink, and Jon realizes with a start that there are tear tracks running down his cheeks. He brings a hand to Martin’s face and rubs gently at the tears, his stomach twisting again ever so slightly in concern. “What’s wrong?” he says quietly, still breathless from the kissing.

Martin hiccups a laugh, small and disbelieving. “Nothing’s wrong, Jon. I- Christ, I’m just so- so happy.” He brings a hand up to grasp at the one Jon has on his face, squeezing it tightly before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the inside of Jon’s palm. “You made this for me?”

Jon blinks, once, before remembering the cake. His forehead creases in disappointment, directed entirely at himself. “Ah. Yes, that.” He glances at the cake, which looks just as appalling as it did before—possibly more so due to the fact that Jon’s elbow seems to have, at some point, jostled the cake after all, dislodging another section of frosting and quite a few candles along with it. “It was meant to look significantly more… edible.”

Martin lets out another laugh, this one with a bit more substance. “Jon, did you try it?”

Jon’s frown deepens. “I don’t follow.”

Martin disentangles himself from Jon, despite Jon’s small noise of protest, opens the cutlery drawer, and retrieves a fork. “How will we know if it’s edible or not until we try it?” he says with a smile that’s entirely too wide and excited at the prospect of eating a cake that looks like it was run over by a car.

“I really don’t think that’s—Martin!”

Martin carves off a section of cake, ignoring Jon’s protests to, “At least wait until after we eat.” He puts it in his mouth, and Jon braces himself for the inevitable disgust.

Martin hums, his eyes still crinkled with a hint of a smile even as he swallows and says, “It’s really not that bad, Jon.”

“Not that bad,” Jon echoes, glaring at the offending pastry and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Christ, this- this was supposed to be romantic.”

Martin’s hand finds Jon’s face again, turning his head gently until Jon meets his eyes. “It is,” Martin says softly, eyes full of something so tender it makes Jon melt. “It’s- Christ, I’m going to start crying again. In a good way,” he adds quickly, at Jon’s stricken expression. “You- you just—”

Martin pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes shining again with unshed tears, and he says in a small voice, “I love you so much, Jon. And I love that you did this for me. I know you hate it when people say that it’s the thought that counts, but—no, don’t give me that look, it really is. I’m not using it as an excuse to- to soften a criticism or anything, or to subtly say that I hate it. I love the cake, Jon, because I love you, and so it really doesn’t matter that it kind of looks like somebody stepped on it.”

That pulls a small giggle from Jon, entirely against his will and born mostly from the release of the knot of nerves that had reformed in the pit of his stomach. “God, it really does, doesn’t it?” He laughs again, more intentionally this time, and takes Martin’s hand in his, squeezing it tightly. “Well, I promise that the main course is significantly more palatable. It’s from that little recipe book you gave me—the one you picked up at the bookstore?”

“Oh!” Martin’s eyes brighten as they alight upon the glass dish still sitting on the hob. “You made gołąbki! Christ, I haven’t had that since I was a kid. My grandmother used to make it for holidays before she passed.” When Martin’s eyes meet Jon’s again, they’re full of such fondness that the Jon of a few months ago would have squirmed under the weight of it. Instead, he lets himself lean into it, feeling the flutter of his heart against his ribcage as Martin places another warm, achingly soft kiss against his lips. “Thank you, Jon,” he says, pulling back just enough that the words tickle against Jon’s skin. “I… just, thank you.”

Jon’s I love you is interrupted by the rumbling of Martin’s stomach, loud and insistent. Laughter splits Martin’s face into a wide smile, and he says, “I suppose we should eat, then.”

“I suppose so,” Jon says, feeling his own smile grow softer as Martin turns to the glass dish and begins to portion out the gołąbki.

Maybe they could bake together, he thinks as he sits across from Martin at the table, Martin’s foot reaching underneath and hooking around Jon’s ankle. Yes, that… that might be nice.

The cake ends up going into the bin after all. Though neither of them really seem to mind.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #the magnus archives fic #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #my fic #my writing #you know i realized that i forgot to post this on tumblr since it was anonymous for a week #better late than never i guess lol

105 notes · View notes

izupie · 4 years ago

Text

So recently I said that I would stop putting limits on myself as to what I’m writing - like, if I want to write it, and I have inspiration and motivation for it, I’ll Write It. (Despite hearing the moaning cries of my wip folder and beating it back with a broom)

So taking away my impulse control on writing stuff has resulted in me spending the last few hours writing whatever this is and I don’t even know where it’s going and yes I’m aware I have another werewolf Richie wip already and no I don’t know if I’m ever going to finish this, but please take it from my weary hands anyway

---------------

“So, hypothetically, say I had a… friend… who got bit by a dog-”

“-You got bit by a dog?”

“Wha- No, Eds, fuck- weren’t you listening? My friend got bit by a dog. Hypothetically.”

“Richie- I swear to- how fucking stupid do you think I am? When has that line ever worked for anyone ever?”

Richie peered into the tiny sink at the red still dripping down his fingers from the wound on his hand. There was a pile of bloodied tissues next to him and the wad he was currently pressing onto the bite really needed changing too. “Oh, shit,” Richie cursed loudly, as his cell phone nearly slid out of the gap that he’d wedged it in, between his shoulder and his ear.

“What?”

“I nearly lost my phone down the plane toilet.” He snorted a laugh. “Imagine someone’s walking around down there, minding their own business, and a phone drops out of the sky on them.”

“That’s not how plane toilets work!” Eddie’s voice was agitated and clipped, and Richie could listen to it all day. Even with the whole bleeding out into a tiny plastic sink thing.

“Aw, it’s not?”

“Of course not, dipshit, otherwise every time someone flushes it, it would just-” Eddie took a deep breath and Richie reached for a handful of new toilet paper to press onto his hand. “You’re distracting me. You need to apply pressure to the wound.”

“I am. I’m like, pressing a load of toilet paper on it. But it won’t stop bleeding.”

“It’s probably gonna get infected… shit, what if the dog had rabies, have you had a rabies shot in the last year?”

Richie opened his mouth.

“Of course you haven’t. Okay, just don’t think about rabies. Dog bites get infected easy because of all the bacteria in their mouths, so you need to wash it. That’ll encourage the bleeding, but you need to make sure the wound is clean. Then you’ve got to dry it and just keep the pressure on.”

It was soothing to hear Eddie’s voice in his ear, and despite the bite (that had started to feel like it was burning – that can’t be a good sign) Richie was always so happy to talk to him. He was hunched over a plane sink with his cell phone jammed onto his ear and piles of bloodied toilet paper around him, but he was smiling because he was talking to Eddie Kaspbrak and he was being a helpful but bossy little shit. God he’d got it bad. “Wash it, dry it, pressure,” Richie repeated, “aye, aye, cap’n doctor K.”

“As soon as I pick you up, we’re going straight to the hospital.”

Richie began following Eddie’s instructions as he ran his hand under the tap, wincing as the burning sensation increased and the red freely flowed down the drain.

“Wait a minute- if you’re already on the plane… how’d you get bitten by a dog?”

Richie grabbed a handful of clean, dry toilet paper and patted the wound gently, as he thought about how he was going to dance around a way of explaining what happened. “Uh…” Then he pressed down hard, applying as much pressure as he could, and hissed at the stab of pain.

“Hey, are you okay?” Eddie’s concern came loud and clear through the phone and it was so startling in its utter sincerity that it made Richie want to pour his goddamn heart out to him with an, ‘Well I got bit by a dog but that’s not the problem, I’m not okay because I’ve been so in love with you that it hurts since we were thirteen fucking years old.’

Instead Richie just nodded and realised that he wouldn’t be able to see that, so he said, “I just nodded.”

Eddie let out a huff and Richie smiled at the soft sound.

“God you’re so distracting-”

No, you’re so distracting.

“-but, really, how’d you get a dog bite on a plane, Rich? Did one bite you before you got on?”

And there was his out. He could agree to that, and it would be fine. Eddie would never know. (Though it would probably be a little hard to keep up the lie if he got any kind of magical related disease or curse or something, since he didn’t consider rabies to be a legitimate concern from a bite he received through some magical bullshit that he thought he had left behind a year ago.) But maybe he was tired of tying himself up in a web of lies all the time with Eddie, because he was always so careful to mask everything with a joke or a punchline. Didn’t he deserve as much honesty as he was willing to give sometimes – about this at least?

“Richie?”

And oh, there was the word that always brought him to his knees. The word he heard whispered on bloodied lips. Whimpered into a cave. Hands up to a blood-stained spike, piercing a chest – before waking up sobbing in his bed alone.

It was dead.

It was fucking dead. And Eddie was alive.

Richie took a deep breath, inflating his lungs as far as they could go, and let it all out at once. “I’ve been having dreams.”

“What?”

“The fucking- the Deadlights or whatever- when I was caught in them I… saw things.” Richie was gripping onto his wounded hand so hard his knuckles were white.

You died.

“And I’ve been having, I don’t know, some weird kind of messed up dreams on and off since then.”

For a moment Eddie didn’t reply and then it burst out of him in a pure unfiltered explosion of Kaspbrak rage through the phone, “You didn’t think to tell us this sooner? What if that means- like what if It isn’t really dead? ‘Messed up’ dreams? What kind of messed up? Richie, what the fuck- why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

(Richie could imagine the pacing and the hand movements that went with the ranting, but it didn’t make him feel any less guilty.)

“Well I mean, I’m coming to stay at your apartment for a couple of weeks, so like, at some point I’d have woken you up with the screaming or the sobbing, or the pathetic party of both at the same time, so it would probably have come up then…”

There was another long pause and Richie expected this to be because of Eddie rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“So anyway,” Richie continued, “I fell to sleep as soon as the plane took off.”

“Of course,” Eddie sighed.

Richie thought he sounded sad. But he supposed if he found out that Eddie was keeping a secret like that from him, he’d be pretty pissed off and upset about it too. (It’s not the only secret he’s keeping from Eddie, but it’s the only one he’s willing to ever let past his lips.)

“Well this dream started similarly to the others… but…” Richie hesitated, remembering what had set the dream off its usual course of watching Eddie die in that cave – he’d so very nearly told him that he loved him. It had been on the tip of his tongue, but he’d swallowed it down. Instead he’d told a weak joke and they’d both smiled, even though Eddie was bleeding out under his hands, and the whole dream had gone black. “There was a turtle,” he said eventually, remembering the darkness and the tiny point of light in it. “Which was weird.”

“You’re having magic dreams and the weird thing is that there was a turtle?”

“Well yeah, ‘cause there’s never been one there before. They tend to all go the same way.”

“So… the turtle bit you?”

“What, no. The turtle didn’t fucking bite me. Jesus. It turned into a dog, and the dog bit me.”

Richie could hear Eddie sit down.

“It was one of those tiny fluffy demon things. It told me I had to stop hiding who I am and…” Let myself be seen. “I don’t know, some other weird stuff, so I reached out to it and it fuckin’ bit me, man.”

“The… turtle… that turned into a… dog… and bit you… told you, that you had to stop hiding who you are?”

“Yep.” Richie snorted a laugh and lifted the toilet paper on his wound carefully, to peek underneath. The bleeding had stopped. He finally reached up to adjust his glasses and released his phone from the gap between his neck and shoulder to hold it up to his ear with his good hand. “But I’ve always been a Trashmouth, and I’ll always be a Trashmouth and I don’t think anyone can say that I don’t flaunt it on stage. I don’t hide anything.” Richie winced as soon as the words left his mouth, and he was glad that Eddie couldn’t see. He was in fact talking to the one person that he was hiding the most from. Maybe the turtle-dog had a point…

But their friendship meant everything to him, and to lose Eddie after just getting him back would destroy him.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to stay at the recently-divorced questionably-straight single-friend’s apartment that he had a lifetime’s long crush on, but when Eddie invited him over for a couple of weeks for a vacation there wasn’t a force on earth (or otherwise) that could have made him refuse.

(He really needed help.)

(But not the magic supernatural bullshit kind.)

“Okay,” Eddie said with a note of finality and decision, “okay, I’ll get in touch with Mike and see what he knows. Mike’s good with this kind of stuff, right? Or maybe Bev? She got caught in the Deadlights like you. Wait, didn’t Stan say he saw some weird Deadlights shit too? Though I’m not sure Stan would let me get past ‘Richie got bit by a dream dog’ before he hung up on me.”

Richie laughed as he felt a wave of affection crash through his chest. Eddie was clearly out of his comfort zone with anything involving magic again, but he was being practical and logical and making plans. He had always been, and continued to be, the bravest man Richie had ever known.

“Tell him I got bit by a magic pigeon and he might stick around long enough to hear a bit more.” He stuffed the bloodied toilet paper into the toilet and wiped around the sink to get rid of any traces of red.

Eddie’s voice softened, “How’s your hand?”

Richie turned his wounded hand over and examined the puncture marks – now just angry red indents. But they still burned. “It’s not so bad now,” he said, “bleeding has stopped. Thanks, doc.”

“Well, we’re still taking you straight to the hospital. I’m going to get in my car now and I’ll meet you at the airport as soon as you land. Just… stay awake for the rest of the journey, okay?”

Richie wondered if Eddie was really smiling, or if he was just doing a good job of imagining it in his voice. He smiled back anyway and ran his good hand through his messy hair. “You got it. See you soon, Eds.”

“Don’t call me-”

Richie chuckled as he pressed the button to flush the toilet and hung up the call.

#I had sooooo much fun writing their dialogue #Reddie #reddie fanfiction #werewolf richie #IT chapter 2 #richie x eddie #my fanfiction #I hope it shows how much fun I had writing this because it was honestly such a good time #IT stuff #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #I'm definitely uploading this to AO3 at some point #when it's not 1am

75 notes · View notes

danddymaro · 4 years ago

Text

To Have it All | Risotto Nero x Reader

Word Count : 2210

Thoughts are italics in quotations = ‘Example’

Flashbacks are in italics = Example

After the fight with Doppio/Boss | In what are his final moments Risotto Nero refuses to give in.

To have it all

"Ris..." (f/n) grunted, her sweet face looking both tired and aged by the pain and stress that coursed through her stilled body.

In fact, everything about her seemed drained, making his heart tighten, so much so, that he couldn't help but succumb to the stinging pain of the pesky, little pinpricks jabbing at his oddly colored eyes.

Warm, stray tears fell down the side of his face as he looked towards the (h/c) haired young woman, his glazed orbs glued to her barely breathing form, not wanting to miss a single breath.

With his scarlet irises attentively pointed to her, he forcibly moved his hand, desperately attempting to grasp at her chilled one in order to give her some sort of comfort, as meager as it may have been, pushing past his own sweltering pain to do so.

- He owed her that much, and it was the least he could do for her now.

After all, he'd failed, making their every effort of La Squadra feel futile, in turn, his will gone as his final move was met with even more disappointment. The boss had managed to slip through his fingers, and he cursed at the fact, moreso as he understood that the reason why she lay beside him in such a bloody heap was because of him.

To think, the same man that assured her they'd not only get their victory but also prosper had led his every member to their deaths.

"(f/n)..." He murmured, truly sorry, his voice weaved with a hurt that was pressed far beyond that of physical pain, "I'm sorry," He told her, feeling pathetic and helpless while silently crying.

For just a moment he saw her chest fall, (e/c) colored eyes closed at what he thought to be her final breath. However, before it could truly settle onto him that she was gone, she chuckled wearily, blinking up at the azure sky with fondness,

" D..Don..." she struggled to say, " You...You will be the Don," she said softly, her own eyes tearing as she continued to stare up at the bright sky, her (dark/light) orbs brainlessly following the sight of a few traveling birds, watching them soar freely.

"-Just like you said," she said with certainty, "Remember?" She asked, for just a fraction of a second, her (e/c) eyes having the lively glow to them they typically held.

"Yeah," She breathed as she lazily turned her head to him, "Just like we wanted," she added with a small smile delicately lifting the corners of her mouth.

'Because if anyone can do it...It's you, ' She thought with certainty, thinking the world of him.

" And I'll make sure of it," She said declared, her small smile growing into a triumphant grin. "So make us proud," She said to him, tightly shutting her eyes, forcing every bit of her into her final act of loyalty to her dear Capo.

He could then feel a friendly warmth spreading throughout his body, his eyes widening as he felt the familiar embrace shell over him, covering him from head to toe. It was eerily similar to the same one he'd been embraced by before, yet somehow stronger, and filled with much more purpose,

' This feels different,' He thought to himself with certainty, having become familiar to its former attentive care to know it.

- Whenever he'd come back harmed, she'd patch him back up, a soft smile present each and every time he found himself under her care.

Lovingly, she'd drag her hands over his torn, tanned skin, her sweet face glowing all the while, indicating that it wasn't just a sense of duty that urged her to aid him.

And it seemed as though it wasn't just a chore she had as an obligation.

There were a few times he could count that he actually needed the care, but even so, it meant the world to him because she always seemed so ambient in making him feel better, no matter what the situation was.

She always looked so happy to heal him, eager to make his life easier, his smile being all she could ask for in return.

It was all she ever asked as payment from him when it came to the personal treatment,

And of course, he always wondered ….Why?

"Because we're family Ris," She said rolling her eyes, a small smile coming into view as she answered him.

He wasn't the only one to ask, and she always had the same answer to give, as well as the same expression of serenity she presented during then.

She never lied, but she never told the whole truth either,

"...And I love you because you are a part of my family," She added, a little secret hidden within her words, one that was innocent and pure, all meant for the man that asked to know her reasoning.

"Really?" He asked her, eyeing her with narrowed eyes, just knowing that it wasn't the entire truth.

However, It wasn't like he didn't trust her, but for some odd reason unknown to him, he felt the need to dig further. He felt there was much more to that, and he pegged on, wanting to know why it seemed that it'd been her life's goal to make his life easier,

" Didn't you hear me?" She asked him, " I already told you why," She said with a little sigh, trying to look annoyed by all his questioning, but there was a little undertone of bashfulness that existed, causing his stomach to twist and turn, curtesy of the same strange reasoning behind his persistence.

'Why can't I just let it go,' He asked himself swallowing down hard as he watched her organize his paperwork, yet another thing he was grateful for.

'She already explained it. But it's as though I want to find another answer,'

Begrudgingly, he'd chosen to push it all aside, accepting with reluctance that perhaps he was thinking too much about it. However, there were also his snack breaks, the ones she'd set up for him through the day.

It was yet another thing he'd slowly come to question :

He rarely held an appetite to begin with, but despite that, she'd been faithful with her small, made-up schedule, knocking on his door with a plate of snacks, which included anything that would get his attention and give him a small craving.

And it came to a point that he expected it, feeling annoyed when she 'Forgot,'

"I thought you didn't want anything?" She asked cheekily, her eyes glowing with playfulness, and it just made him want to hide.

Sometimes it felt like he was playing a silly game with her, one that always left one of them stupidly tongue-tied and vulnerable.

'I hate it,' He told himself, swallowing hard, 'But it's familiar. It's...ours.' He added, happiness existing within his chest, living there and making itself known whenever he so much as thought of her.

- He'd always insisted there was no need to serve him, but when it came time to it, he would enjoy every bite.

"Just get me something," He muttered lowly, putting his chin on his knuckles as his propped-up elbow supported the weight. "Anything," he added, drawing his eyes away from her and the sweet, joyous grin she wore.

"Alright..."She sang, sounding triumphant and proud, quick to retrieve him the little meal she'd set aside for him earlier on.

'I'd never forget,' She thought to herself, shaking her head at just how bashful he looked while inadvertently admitting that he looked forward to the breaks.

He wanted an answer that would settle just why she was so quick to run to him to say their goodbyes when she knew he'd always come back.

It was yet another thing she'd gotten him accustomed to, enough so he made sure to stay long enough to catch her and not miss a chance at leaving without her blessing.

"Stay safe," she said softly, hesitantly taking a step towards him before she bit her lip, drawing back with a small shuffle instead. It happened each and every time, and after he left he felt a piece of him missing, a small bit of him residing there with her, anxious to become whole when he returned.

Unknown to her, he'd always stay just a minute longer, feet planted firmly on the ground right outside the closed door, not wanting to go.

Slowly, during the longer periods of time he was away he came to understand that after all the time they'd spent together, he got used to her, detesting having so much time wedged between them.

"- Don't," he gritted, watching the color dim from her (e/c) eyes.

"Stop it!" he ordered her, his voice raw with the power of his command.

Because he had nothing aside from her.

Before he'd been convinced he had nothing, wanting every bit of power that came with the sought out title he'd hoped to obtain, but now he could see the error of his ways, he understood that no bit of fortune had been as precious as her and his former team.

Her hands touched his stiff shoulders and it felt as though his body melted right at the contact, relaxed beneath her small, yet firm hands. Unwillingly, a small groan fell past his partially open mouth, reaching her ears and causing her to grin,

"Better?" She mused, having noticed how stressed he'd been earlier, knowing he needed just a small bit of comfort.

"Yeah," He muttered, feeling his knotted muscles un-tense, rolling his shoulders while his back lightly ached for her to reach his trouble spots with more ease.

Just outside of his slightly cracked door he could see the rest of his crew lounge, not doing anything in particular but sit around and banter with each other, which was pretty much a regular day occurrence when they hadn't been given any assignments.

A soft sigh drew out from his lips as slowly, a gentle smile lifted his features while for just a moment, everything felt at peace, just right and perfect in a sense.

"(F/n)" He said lowly.

It took all of his willpower to move, but slowly he did, his body rolling over hers, his arms trembling to support his body above hers,

"I can't have it all...not without you," He admitted, having had wanted to share his every bit of fortune with her.

- If there was anyone he wanted at his side, it was her.

"If you die...I die," He told her, and when the words fell onto her, he could see the tears begin to flood her eyes, falling heavier as she looked up at him and the sincerity swimming within his own glazed orbs.

'...Do I mean that much to you?' She wondered, her heart though faint, soaring.

She could no longer properly see him through the amount of wound-up tears falling from her eyes, but she could hear his strong, heaving breaths.

She could feel the warmth radiating from his body as well.

Furthermore, she could smell his scent, far past the heavy iron scent of both vibrant and rustic red clinging to their bodies and the ground alike, she could smell the sweet comforting scent of his body.

'I'm with you...' She thought to herself. 'I'm really here with you,' She added, ' And If this is the closest we were ever destined to be...Then I'll take it.

I'll take this final moment with you...'

"Risotto..." She said back, being left at a loss for words.

'I'd rather have this final moment be the one I eternally live in than exist in a world without you in it.

It's the reason why I'd rather die here to save you.

It's also why I kept myself at your side, despite all the fear I had while being At the boss's opposing end. ' She mused.

'I was fine with rotting here while you ascend.

But you want me to be with you right?

You want us to be together through it all, yes? ' She silently said to him, 'Then I'll give you just enough of me to stand by....and I'll trust in you to give us a future,' She said while lending him more strength, making sure to be left with just enough to stay breathing.

"Well be together...right?" She asked him, receiving a soft, comforting smile from him that swore it'd be what lay ahead,

"There's no other way," He told her, nodding.

It was then that his lips fell over hers, and far, deep within the mix of metallic bitterness lay a sweetness that made his slowly dying heart push forward, willed to stay alive so long as she continued to bask him in the same tender love and care she always did,

"I won't leave you to die here," He swore to her, intent on not letting her rot away.

'No...This Won't be our final goodbye,' He told himself, convincing himself that against all odds he'd strive forward. 'And I'll thank you for everything you've done. I'll repay you with just as much devotion.' He added,

' I'll hold you close....and I won't ever put you in harm's way,' He swore.

｢(#Φ益 Φo)∩ :

And then Giorno and his crew fucking come and heal them and they live happy cause they hunt down the bossu together and all is good and well cause it’s my AU where no sexy, big tiddie goth boys die.

(This includes Abba)

83 notes · View notes

mrneighbourlove · 4 years ago

Text

A King to a God: Chapter 1. Change in the Wind (Preview for Ganzine)

Preview and first chapter for my full entry for the @ganzine2020. What would happen to Ganondorf if he had won outright against Zelda and Link at the end of Ocarina of Time? How would the events and antagonist of Majora’s Mask effect him? Find out in “A King to a God”. I hope that you enjoy this first chapter and consider contributing towards the Zine and its charity to have early access to the full story. My favourite and best work yet I feel.

Lightning snapped against the blackened sky, illuminating the landscape in bursts of flashes. Fire crackled and spat wildly, shuddering with each step the mighty figure took. A roar thundered out, and clash of metal echoed far. Amidst this battlefield stood a man in green, battered and bloody. His courage was faltering. A princess stood not too far. Her wisdom unable to help her. And towering above the man, a monster with a red mane snarled down at him. His power burned and he felt victory beat like a drum. With one last swing, the beast threw his sword at the man in green. A sickening slice grated against the ground, the man falling to his hands and knees. A mighty roar filled the air, overtaking the scream of the princess. This day, Ganon, King of Darkness, had won.

His hand glowed with the Triforce of Power as he reached down to the boy known as Link. He could feel the boy’s life drain as he pulled the light from him. It was like a toggle being brought down when Ganon took the Triforce of Courage from Link. The Hylian’s heart stopped as soon as the Triforce transferred to the mighty King. Ganon felt a surge of strength flow through him. It appeared as if fate favoured him this day, as a beam of light struck him from behind. It burned his flesh, but due to the mighty magic of the Triforce of Courage, Ganon persevered against the magical attack. Raising an open hand, the King of Darkness opened fire a beam of malice at his attacker, entrapping Princess Zelda in a wave of pain.

The Princess’ body bled from the attack, as the darkness attacked her physically and mentally. She fought with all her will, but it was too late. Her body succumbed, and she felt the Triforce of Wisdom leave her. The King of Evil merely had to will the last of his treasure to him in her weakened state. Clenching his fist, Ganon felt the last piece of the Triforce enter his being. Waves of energy rippled through his body, and the King of Darkness felt a state of nirvana. After all his sacrifices, he finally felt true, unlimited power.

Zelda screamed in fury, using every fiber in her being to stand. Both hers and Link’s efforts couldn’t end like this. She’d drain her own lifeforce if it meant killing Ganon. Channeling all her spirit, she unleashed all the holy magic of the gods she could.

To Ganon, her effort was useless. He countered with his blast of darkness. His own newly acquired power was overwhelming, a surprise to even him, and his attack devastated Zelda, overcoming her final assault and erasing her from the world.

All that remained was the broken body of the boy in green, the seared scar lines in the earth of where the princess had once stood and standing in the middle of the battle field was Ganon, Master of the World.

The sages looked onward, but knew they could do nothing. They would need to evacuate before Ganon sent his minions into the sacred realm. Nabooru looked to what was once the man known as Ganondorf. Even if he took human form again, and took the title of Ganondorf, she knew that the darkness that was in Ganondorf’s soul had forever changed him. Gathering with the others, she and the rest of the sages decided to formulate a plan of resistance in order to give the world sanctuary from Ganon’s evil. With Zelda gone, they had lost their leader and the power needed to seal Ganon away.

Looking around, the mighty Ganon felt the air change. The only bloodlust he felt came from within him, but it was slowly dying down.

In his mind, the man and the beast conversed. The Beast promised unlimited power, so long as it remained in control. It’s malice and terrifying might could bring the world to its knees faster, in the name of Ganon. The man, still in control, gave it a thought, yet ultimately, decided against it. He would be the face of the world, and not this beast.

Squeezing his fist, the dark beast used the power of the Triforce and his body glowed with a powerful light. The silhouette of his form shrunk and, out from the blinding light, Ganondorf emerged anew.

He was surprised to still have his scars from previous battles, despite acquiring his complete power. With a clenched fist, Ganondorf took a deep breath and, following an exhale, his body relaxed. The King of the Gerudo looked to where Zelda stood her final ground. “A shame Zelda. You could have been my queen for this world had you shared my vision. You were formidable, but not wise enough in your scheming to defeat me.”

The man turned to the body of Link and judged his formidable adversary. “And you… well boy, you did well. I can relinquish a little pride to admit that you almost had me. But in the end, you fell. You were nothing but a kid after all, playing with toys too much for you. It was inevitable that you would die at my hands. My struggles far surpassed yours after all. And you lacked the vision to ever kill me.”

Ganondorf glanced back and forth between Link and where Zelda once was. “You had strength, and the princess held vision. But I was the one to have both. I was the one to be perfectly balanced… No.” The King looked down at his hand, watching the glow of the Triforce with a twinkle of pride in his eyes. “I wasn’t before. My mind was clouded with power. Now that I hold the last two pieces, I know what I must do. This world will find peace and prosperity under my singular rule.”

Ganondorf walked by the ruins of his destroyed tower. Perhaps a palace could be constructed to replace it. “First, I bring a final order to Hyrule. Then, I will march onto the world. They might call me King of Evil, but I am the King they will deserve.”

The King of Darkness lifted his hand and commanded the Triforce to enhance his magical might. With this new power he could raise entire armies of monsters to follow his command. From the shadows, Ganondorf willed into creation artificial Moblins and undead Stalfos. In time, he’d train legions of Darknuts and Iron Knuckles as his vanguard. Monsters and dragons would spread fear to his enemies. However, for now, these simple monsters would do.

“All of you, get to work on raising my palace anew. A king such as I will need a throne.” For now, Ganondorf lifted a stone slab from the earth to sit down upon. As his minions immediately set out to collect and carve away stone slabs, Ganondorf thought about what he wanted and why he had set out to acquire his power in the first place.

His people, the Gerudo, toiled in the desert. They had to steal just to survive the heat of the land in the day, and the blistering cold of the night. So why did a land like Hyrule, full of ungrateful slobs, have such comfort? It maddened Ganondorf, filling him with greed and envy. His enemies called him the King of Thieves, but he justified his actions well enough. He needed power, the kind of power that would raise him and his people to prosperity. And as he began his quest, he came to the most logical conclusion. The world needed a singular will, a being who would be willing to make others sacrifice to bring everyone together. By becoming King, he could make a world united under his protection. As King, he’d bring peace and security to people like the Gerudo. If any resisted, then they’d be wiped away, making room for only those who would accept his utopia.

The Goron, the Zora, and the Great Deku Tree had resisted seven years ago, what with them being blinded by their loyalty to the royal family. Had they simply given the spiritual stones to him, he’d have spared them. But instead they spat in the face of the Great Ganondorf. That was the last mistake they’d ever made. Feeding the Goron to a dragon had amused Ganondorf, similar to how he had fed crickets to the desert scorpions as a child. The Zora would remain frozen now that he had defeated the Princess and her little ‘hero’. As for the Kokiri, Ganondorf considered sending a horde of monsters to wipe them out. He carefully thought over the option, finally deciding the wiser course of action might be to give them one more chance as citizens of his new empire. The surviving Goron tribe, if they hadn’t grown a back bone, would become slaves. Every empire needs strong labour after all.

But his own people … Ganondorf winced just thinking about what to do with them. Nabooru, his second in command, was supposed to lead the Gerudo in his absence. Yet, she had stabbed him behind his back. He had caught her treachery over seven years ago, but her freedom at the hands of the hero had set her loose in the world and free to plot against him. How many of the other Gerudo could be wishing to see him fall? The king squeezed his hands on the cloth above his knees. Taking a deep breath, he shook his paranoia away. Even neglected, his people still adored him. Any negative feelings they’d have toward him would be erased once he moved them out of the desert. Nabooru was simply a virus, an isolated incident. A mistake of putting too much trust in one person, one that he’d never fall for again.

“I’m so tired…” Ganondorf gave a light chuckle. In the seven years looking for the Triforce, he had barely slept. Now, he felt like he could take a moment to breathe. Pulling himself slowly upright, Ganondorf decided his first course of action would be to raid the lost woods to secure wood for building supplies. He could at least build himself a new bed. For the time being, he’d settle his eyes on Kakariko Village. His minions would clear out the inhabitants so he could have a safe night’s sleep.

As Ganondorf slowly walked out of the ruins of his crumbled tower, he took note of the environment around him. The winds of Hyrule that he coveted were still. Why did the wind not blow in his direction this day, on the finality of his victory? Was fate not satisfied with him just yet?

The Sacred Grove was devastated. A group of Hylians made their last stand in defending the Kokiri and evacuating the defenseless. From all sides, monsters and spirits of evil intent swept through the undergrowth, overtaking all who fought against the enemies of the Great Ganondorf. They killed everyone from soldiers to civilians who came to aid the evacuation and bring comfort to the forest children.

One of those who escaped the carnage was a single Imp. The Skull Kid, the last of the Skull Children, rose from a pile of shrubbery. His head was aching like nothing he felt before. His feet shook as he tried to pick himself up. Why did everything hurt? How had he gotten here? What had happened to him? How could he -

Slowly, Skull Kid started to recall the events of the previous two weeks. He remembered finding Link’s body floating down a moat towards Zora river; the fairy boy who showed him kindness when only one other would. The Hylian kid had even gave him a new face to wear in the form of that cool skull mask. When Ganondorf first appeared and declared himself as King of Hyrule, no more fairies came from the Great Deku Tree. Skull Kid hadn’t seen any fairies nor Link for seven years. Link said he was going to put a stop to Ganondorf, that he was going to make up for the loss of those seven years. But now Link was dead.

With Link gone, Skull Kid remembered Saria telling him to keep an eye out for monsters. He didn’t want to, as a happy looking man was giving out masks to the Kokiri. It looked like fun and he wanted to join in. It was then that Skull Kid had been suddenly attacked by a Poe, which smashed its lantern against his head. If it wasn’t for the mask he wore taking the brunt of the force, his head would have cracked open instead. The Skull Kid heard the sounds of screaming in the distance before he lost his vision.

Skull Kid didn’t know what to do. His head wouldn’t stop hurting, and every time he reached with his hand to touch it, he felt a stickiness on his forehead. Why did his head feel wet and sticky? The imp stumbled past the hacked-up pieces of other Skull Children when he stopped in his tracks. Among the bodies was the still image of a girl with green hair. “S-saria? Saria, are you-!”

She only had one wound, a small red circle that stained her green sweater. A single spear thrust was what fate had dealt her for her ending on this earth. Her eyes were like a glass doll’s, looking longingly into the distance. Immediate guilt hit Skull Kid. He couldn’t protect the last good thing in this world that mattered to him. His friends were dead.

“Oh……… I guess you’re gone now.” Skull Kid reached out to feel her face. Cold. Someone as kind as her shouldn’t be so cold. His body started to shake as he felt emotion leak from his shattered heart. What was the point of living in a world like this? Ganondorf was going to take everything for himself. Make a world of cruelty. The world had shown him cruelty before Ganondorf had come along, so Skull Kid assumed it was only fitting.

A gust of wind from the north caught Skull Kid’s fragile attention. Feeling the cool air hurt his head wound. He needed a new ‘face’ now that the one Link had given him was gone. Stumbling away from Saria, he came across another body. The Happy Man who was giving away masks to the children laid dead on the forest floor. He had his giant backpack still on him, with masks thrown about everywhere around him. One of Skull Kid’s eyes grew dark as the liquid from his forehead dripped down over it.

Skull Kid wanted the perfect face. He wanted to put all his worries behind him. Going through the bag, he felt a pull towards something. Discarding the faces useless to him one after the other, the Skull Kid eventually found the perfect mask. Wiping away his eye to see, he looked into the eyes of a heart shaped mask. This was it. This was what he wanted. What’s more, he felt he needed it.

He carefully turned it around, and placed it on his head. The mask was a perfect fit. As soon as he put it on, Skull Kid giggled to himself. This giggle turned into a laugh. His mind was clear, and he knew exactly what he wanted. This cruel world took the things that mattered to him, and it wanted to give a monster like Ganondorf everything in return. Such a world didn’t deserve to exist, and Ganondorf deserved the suffering tenfold that Skull Kid had faced. The Mask’s eyes gave an eerie glow, and with the last of Skull Kid’s laughter, it vowed to give the King of Evil a new taste of terror.

#Ganzine #Ganondorf #Skull Kid #Majora's Mask #Mini Novel

11 notes · View notes

goodomensblog · 6 years ago

Text

A Love Like Moonlight

The Sequel to A Touch Like Sunlight. Though you don’t need to have read A Touch Like Sunlight to understand everything that’s happening here.

Warnings: violence, blood and injuries

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Faced with Gabriel, and Michael, and the inconceivable notion - the thought of his angel’s destruction at their cruel, merciless hands, the Hellfire coursing through his veins ceases it’s singing.

Instead, it screams.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. Burning - it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

Crowley can feel the glorious bite of fire - in his fingers, his arms, his mouth and throat. And when he turns to look upon Gabriel, Hellfire’s liquid heat flickers and pours like molten gold from his yellow eyes.

“You wanted justice, archangel?” Crowley spits, flames licking at his throat. When he smiles, they flicker, dancing between sharp, white teeth. “Shall we see if the fires of Hell can wipe the sins from your immortal soul?”

Or - the fic where Crowley fights a couple of Archangels

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

A Love Like Moonlight

After the apoca-wasn’t, time carries on - as time does. Days bleed into months, and months into years.

And through it all, Heaven and Hell remain unnervingly silent.

Crowley and Aziraphale sometimes catch sight of them - angels more often than demons. Not because the demons are any better at sneaking about; there are simply less of them sneaking (between the two, Heaven’s always been the more vengeful). But their watchers - whether angel or demon - don’t go so far as to speak. Rather, they observe - usually from some distance, dark gazes following. Watching.

Crowley and Aziraphale try not to think about them overmuch. After all, the body-swap should have convinced their respective sides of the angel and demon’s invulnerability to the two most deadly weapons in Heaven and Hell’s arsenals.

“Maybe we’re forgiven,” Aziraphale muses as he lifts a spoonful of fudge drenched sundae to his lips. He doesn’t sound as though he believes it.

Crowley definitely doesn’t believe it.

For a start, he’s a demon; Aziraphale’s about the only celestial being who seems interested in forgiving him that deficiency.

And as for Aziraphale - well, the archangels hadn’t seemed all that keen on forgiving or forgetting Aziraphale’s indiscretions when they’d, with tight lips and dark looks, released a disguised Crowley after Hellfire had failed to burn him.

“I certainly don’t relish the thought of real confrontation with them,” Aziraphale says, shifting in the restaurant’s cushioned seat.

“Who’s them?”

“Oh, I meant Heaven. Though I suppose-”

Taking a sip of dark, steaming coffee, Crowley waves. “Nah. I’m not worried about Hell. It’ll take them a few centuries at least to get that ball rolling. Took ‘em so long to kick off the whole Antichrist shindig, I’d begun to think it they’d changed their minds.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale muses, and a spoonful of sundae disappears.

“And as for Heaven - well, maybe it won’t come to that. You never know.”

“...perhaps,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can almost see the angel’s willful optimism warring with his intimate knowledge of archangels’ particular breed of wrath.

Sighing, Aziraphale taps a finger along the spoon’s edge before setting it and the half-eaten sundae aside.

Crowley’s sharp gaze follows the abandoned sundae as it’s pushed across the table. Aziraphale has laced his fingers together, and is staring ponderously down at the bleached white tablecloth.

“I don’t…” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley leans in.

“...enjoy confrontation,” the angel finishes with a twist of his lips.

“Well that’s fine,” Crowley says, and shifts his hand so that their fingers are touching.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch and his gaze flicks appreciatively up.

“But I’d fight,” Aziraphale says, and his hands slide across the table, knuckles bumping Crowley’s as he twists their fingers together. “If I had to. To protect us. The life we’ve made here.”

This, Crowley knows. It makes something in the depths of his very being burn; and it’s warm, flickering, and fragile.

The angel had, in the end, been willing to kill a child to rid the world of the Antichrist after all. He’d been ready to accept that black mark on his soul - being - whatever, to save Crowley, humanity, the world.

It was only Madame Tracy’s last second intervention which had spared him that.

Crowley regrets not taking up the gun on that rain soaked runway. Six thousand years spent rescuing Aziraphale from difficult choices - from sending a French executioner to his own beheading to bloodying his hands with the deaths of Nazi scum - and after all that he’d gone and asked Aziraphale to complete the darkest task of them all.

His angel won’t be put in that position again. Not if Crowley can help it.

“Don’t worry about all that, angel.”

“Well of course I worry,” Aziraphale says, giving him an affronted look.

“You’ve got me,” Crowley says, because he does, and Crowley likes to remind him of it.

His stiff posture softens. Squeezing Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale glances up. “I do. And you’ve got me. Always.”

Overcome, Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hands, pressing his lips to soft knuckles. When Aziraphale sighs and smiles, Crowley feels alight, effervescent, and disentangles a single hand to press the sundae back toward the angel.

“Go on then. Finish your ice cream.”

“Well. If you insist,” Aziraphale says, eyes flashing in quiet mirth, and picks up the spoon with a little twirl. Scooping a melting spoonful, he swallows it with a contented hum.

Chin perched on a fist, Crowley watches him, taking easy joy in the angel’s delight.

Nightingales stretch their wings and ready to fly south as soon as leaves fade from green to yellow - not knowing, nor particularly caring to understand the interminable feeling in their tiny fluttering hearts which commands them. In much the same way, Crowley doesn’t think overmuch about protecting Aziraphale from facing a choice like the one at Tadfield again. Nightingales fly south in the autumn, and Crowley will do near anything to keep Aziraphale from anguish.

If Gabriel - or any of the other archangels make a move against them, Aziraphale will not be forced to bear the burden of taking up arms against a fellow angel. Not if Crowley has anything to say about it.

Because he’s got a plan. A decently good one too, he likes to think.

They’re on their own now - isolated from both Heaven and Hell, but that doesn’t mean Crowley doesn’t occasionally keep in touch. He has a contact or two, under-the-table type connections, of course. But it’s enough for him to keep an ear to the ground with regard to what Hell is up to, and sometimes, by association - Heaven.

It’s how he hears, three days after his and Aziraphale’s lunch date, about the knife.

The London Natural History Museum is busy this time of year.

Crowley slips through the crowd, shoes squeaking on polished marble.

The lesser demon is nearby - Crowley can sense him. When Crowley finds him, it’s in the Rocks and Minerals wing, and he’s hunched, squinting down at a display.

“What have you got for me?” Crowley says, glancing around at the milling crowd.

“Did you know there’s islands of rocks that float?” Daeval says, pressing his spindly fingers over a black and white picture.

Sparing the demon a single, withering look, Crowley pulls him away from the display.

“You called me. What information do you have?”

The demon, a scrawny thing with bony shoulders and a head just slightly too large for its body, looks somewhat like a human child - at least on this plane. And as Crowley drags him away from the display, he whines.

“Oh for - you’re not actually a child!” Crowley hisses, dragging the demon outside.

Outside, Daeval recoils, squinting at the light.

“Spill. Now,” He says, stepping in, crowding the little bastard.

Spindly hands lift and the demon is snarling. “Give me a chance to get a word out!”

“I’m waiting.”

Flicking a rude gesture, the demon begins. “I hear that the angels are looking for something.”

“For what?”

“From what I hear, it’s a knife.”

“A knife?”

What would an angel want with a knife?

“Not just any knife. An ancient one. Way, way back, an angel gave it to some poor sod. Apparently, the knife got a bit tainted, you see, with a touch of murderous intent. Then it slipped down to our end for a while, and was eventually lost.”

“And?”

“See, it’s an angelic blade that went a bit dark. It’s, uh, well they say it can kill both demons and angels.”

Crowley stills. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. His heartbeat silences so that he might better think.

“It can do what.”

“Kill angels. Kill demons. Stab ‘em and-” he flings out his hands, making a dramatic whooshing noise. “Gone. Permanent like.”

Crowley braces a hand against the closest wall. When his fingers tremble, he grinds them into the stucco until they still.

“This knife. Where is it?”

“Dunno. Just heard that some angels were looking for it. Asking around. Probably don’t want us demons getting our hands on it again, is my guess.”

“I don’t pay you to guess.”

“Don’t pay me much at all actually…”

“Yeah, just shh-” Crowley waves the demon silent. Pressing a fist to his lips, he paces in a tight circle.

It could be nothing, he thinks. Maybe the angel’s are simply interested in keeping it out of Hell’s grasp. But he knows Heaven, and he knows the kind of angels which preside there. And they’re the type that won’t stand to leave things unfinished. Not after Aziraphale’s slight.

Divine justice is swift. And it is unyielding.

And there apparently exists a knife to do it’s bidding.

The angels believe Aziraphale is immune to Hellfire.

This knife would be the perfect solution.

“Have they found it?”

“Don’t know.”

The sky is cloudless, the sun is bright, and powerful archangels might have a knife capable of killing one of their own. Spitting a swear, Crowley closes his eyes. Fingers curling, he presses his hand over his face; his bruised knuckles press into the skin around his glasses.

Either they’ve found it - or they will soon.

Heaven is relentless in that way.

“Daeval. It’s time,” Crowley finally says. “See to the preparations. You have three days.”

“First of all, that’s a rush job. Are you gonna pay me-”

Snatching up the demon’s hand, Crowley squeezes. Power flows down his arm, tingling through his fingers and into the demon’s small hand.

“There,” Crowley mutters, “Enough for a few powerful miracles. Happy?”

The demon, drawing his hand back, flexes his fingers. He grins, sharp teeth gleaming. “Feels good.”

“Yeah, great. Awesome. Can you do it or not?”

“Oh I can do it. Might need to use up a couple of these demonic miracles to make it happen though.”

“Do the job and there’ll be more where that came from.”

“...probably don’t want to be giving too many of those away. Seeing as it sounds like you’re going to be squaring up with an angel.”

“I don’t pay you to speculate about my business either. Besides, you get me what I need and there won’t be any fighting.”

“Oh there’s always fighting.”

“We’ll see about that,” Crowley says and flicks a hand, “Get going.”

With a wink and a mocking salute, the lesser demon disappears.

Crowley sinks back, collapsing against the wall. Heaving a breath, he drags his fingers through his hair.

It’s a decent plan. Maybe even a good one.

It will work.

It has to.

The alternative is-

Well, the angels will likely have an angel and demon slaying weapon soon - if they don’t already.

The alternative doesn’t really bear thinking about.

Crowley goes home - and if he holds Aziraphale a little tighter when they curl together on Aziraphale’s old mattress, the angel doesn’t mention it.

- - -

Three days later, there is a soft rap upon Crowley’s apartment door.

He’d long ago moved his plants to Aziraphale’s shop. These days the apartment is mostly used for extra storage (not that they really need it) and an extra hide-out in case of emergencies. Recently however, Crowley has been using it as a private space to ready materials for the plan.

Strolling through the bleak, empty halls he closes his eyes, focusing on the presence outside the door.

A minor demon.

When he yanks it open, the Daeval looks up, his grimy boots shifting nervously over the floor. A dark sack dangles over his bony shoulder.

“You got it?”

The demon nods, and licking his lips, passes Crowley the bag.

It’s not heavy.

Pulling it open, he spares a glance inside.

“That’s it,” he breathes.

Looking up, he holds out a hand.

The demon, flexing his fingers, shifts on his feet. “...Crowley-”

Crowley’s hand curls closed. “What?”

The demon rubs a grimy hand over his face. Shaking his head, he says, “I think - I think Lord Beelzebub is supporting the angels? Somehow? It’s how I know, I mean - I heard talk. It was - um, I think it’s happening. Today.”

With a snap, Crowley is gone.

The bookshop materializes around him. Closing his eyes, Crowley spreads his awareness.

He feels Aziraphale - there, in the back.

No one else.

Crowley opens his eyes with a shaky breath.

He’s turning a cursory glance around the shop when he sees it.

The card, gold embossed and glittering, is on the floor below the mail slot.

Crowley bends.

A Heavenly summons; on it, is Aziraphale’s name, written in demanding, golden letters.

He thought they might try something like this. Aziraphale would be loathe to ignore a formal summons, Crowley knows. Even after all that’s happened.

Too forgiving for his own good.

Taking the summons, Crowley tucks it into his blazer.

“Crowley? Is that you?” Aziraphale calls from the back.

“Yeah,” Crowley says “Just had to stop back and grab something. Going now though.”

And then Aziraphale’s head is peering around the corner. “Where did you say you were going, dear?”

When the angel steps into the shop proper, he’s holding an open book in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. His round reading glasses have slipped down his nose.

“Just some errands,” Crowley shrugs, smiling through the bitter taste of the lie. “A few little temptations to keep the world out there properly interesting. Be back before you know it.”

“Please do keep them little. I know it’s not, technically speaking, my job any longer - but I still feel like I ought to bestow a blessing or two to balance it out.”

“Do my best, angel,” Crowley says, and turns, lifting the bag.

“What’s that?”

Crowley shrugs, every muscle in his body straining for nonchalance. “Just some goodies to, you know, help with the tempting. Harmless stuff.”

There is a soft click as the mug is set on Aziraphale’s desk. Crowley hears the book slide beside it.

“...Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is careful, “What’s wrong?”

Crowley shakes his head, not daring to look over his shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong, angel”

“You once told me that you’ve never lied - not to me,” Aziraphale halts and takes a breath. “Tell me that’s still true”

Crowley closes his eyes.

“What’s happened Crowley?”

Turning, Crowley sets the bag aside. He’s across the shop in three long strides. When he cups Aziraphale’s face, he feels Aziraphale’s hands sliding up his sides. And when he leans in, pressing their foreheads together, Aziraphale’s hands press over his chest, fingers twisting in the lapels of his blazer.

“Dear, your behavior is doing nothing to assuage my fears.”

“I know,” Crowley says, and bends, dragging an achingly slow kiss over the angel’s lips.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens, and Crowley presses him back.

When Aziraphale bumps against his desk, Crowley stops.

Stroking his thumbs over the angel’s cheeks, Crowley heaves a shuddering breath. And when he says, “Angel, you know I’d do anything for you; extinguish every star in the universe if you asked it of me,” it’s an attempt to convey to Aziraphale, some fraction of his feelings.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens on his coat.

“I’d never ask such a thing of you. I know how you love the stars.”

“I know.”

Crowley presses another slow, careful kiss against the angel’s lips, and as soon as the grip slackens on his blazer - steps back.

Aziraphale reaches out, stepping to follow - and jerks to a halt.

A preternatural stillness settles over the angel as, palm flat, he presses his hand to the invisible barrier between them.

“What is...Crowley-,” Aziraphale says, gaze flicking from Crowley, to the barrier - and then to the rug beneath his feet.

He kicks it back.

The circle had been neatly concealed. Now, the runes glow a deep, blackened red, and undulate, slithering round one another on the wood floor.

Aziraphale kneels, reaching a hand toward the runes. His knuckles bump against the barrier.

“These are...these are in blood,” Aziraphale looks up. He’s pale. “Demon blood. Crowley-”

“Yeah. It’s mine,” he says, and somehow, he didn’t quite imagine this part would hurt so much.

Aziraphale presses a bracing hand against the invisible wall between them, and Crowley can tell he’s realized. Aziraphale is smart. It won’t have taken him long to connect the dots.

“Crowley. Dear,” his voice is soft, forced calm. “Come now. Let me out. Whatever’s come up, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

“They mean to kill you angel.”

Aziraphale’s other hand is pressing against the barrier. “Yes, and if they mean to do that to me, what do you think they intend for you?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“If it’s a plan that involves leaving me here, it cannot be any good!” Aziraphale says, voice lifting. His eyes are flickering a bright, painful blue. “Let me out, Crowley. Let me out right now.”

“Can’t do that,” Crowley says, his throat dry.

The air within the circle has begun to whine. Aziraphale’s hands are pressed against the barrier, pale fingers splayed. He closes his eyes.

Licking his lips, Crowley spares a short glance at the glowing ruins.

Should hold.

The room trembles. Books topple from shelves and somewhere in the back, a painting slips off the wall.

Through it all, the circle remains.

Spent, Aziraphale sags against the invisible wall. His voice has gone ragged, and he looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Crowley, don’t you dare do this.”

Swallowing around the ache in his throat, Crowley grimaces and turns, reaching for the bag.

“Crowley - Crowley, come now. Darling, please.”

Crowley picks up the bag, and says, quiet. “Angels can’t leave the circle. And angels can’t enter. You’ll be safe inside.”

“Crowley-”

“The circle will fade in ten hours - just in case, uh - you know, I’m not back to let you out.”

“Crowley.”

And here the angel’s voice cracks, and it’s desperate, sharp as shattered glass.

This is a betrayal. That it’s done for the right reasons, doesn’t change the nature of the act. And Crowley can’t bring himself to look at the results of it. The sounds alone have nearly broken him.

Bracing the bag against his shoulder, Crowley stares - like the worst kind of coward - at the floor. “I do plan on surviving this and returning to you, angel,” he says, and swallows. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Crowley. Crowley,” the angel’s voice is a sharp, painful caress. “Look at me. Please, just stop this nonsense and look at me.”

“Sorry Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice is a rasp.

Fingers clenching around the bag, he wrenches open the door.

He steps into the sunlight.

“Crowley-”

Window panes shudder as the door slams at his back.

He hardly needs to think of the place he needs. He thoroughly investigated it over a year ago and has been back several times since. A single blink and his shoes are crunching over arid dirt and sand.

Crowley turns, surveying the shrub dusted desert.

Transporting himself here is a costly miracle, but if Daeval is correct, then there is little time to spare.

The sun sinks low on the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor pastels as Crowley inspects the area.

Satisfied, he nods and opens the black bag. From it, he draws out a small, onyx vase. Dropping the bag, he lifts the vase - and with a twist, removes the stopper.

When the stream of orange, crackling flames burst from the top, Crowley flicks a hand, drawing them round his finger. The fire wraps, slithering like a snake around the skin of his wrist, then up his sleeve. It climbs, flames caressing his skin, over his shoulder and then up his neck. Closing his eyes, Crowley breathes them in.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. Or - not gone, exactly. Crowley can feel the Hellfire, a delightful burn in his veins.

The thing about Hellfire is: much in the same way that angels can create holy water, demons can create Hellfire from your average everyday flames. But the act takes nothing short of a Herculean effort. And it’s much harder to do outside of Hell.

So if you happen to be stuck on the earthly plan, the best option by far is to have someone retrieve it for you.

Besides, even a little bit of Hellfire - so long as it’s in the hands of a talented demon, can go a very long way.

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley draws the gold embellished summons from his blazer. He’s begun drawing a roughly circular design in the sand when he remembers.

Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that.

With a snap and a wave, his form shifts. Black clothes give way to tans and whites. Crowley doesn’t need a mirror to know that his red hair his fading, and white curls are taking its place.

Another costly miracle.

But a crucial one.

Straightening Aziraphale’s jacket, Crowley nods.

“Right then.”

It’s not like he hasn’t performed this bit before.

Brandishing the summons with a flourish, he drops it at the center of the design he’s carved into the sand.

Sometimes these things can work in reverse. If you just -

He snaps and points.

And - nothing happens.

Grumbling, he toes the dirt, amending the designs. Then, bending, adjusts the summons.

Blowing a breath, he snaps again.

Bright light floods the earthen runes. And then, from the pastel sky, white light filters down to dry desert earth.

Folding his arms behind him, Crowley assumes Aziraphale’s straight-backed posture.

“Hello?” he calls, Aziraphale’s voice loud in the silent desert. “Anyone there?”

He waits a moment before circling the summons. Frowning, he studies the design.

All good there.

Completing the circle, he stops, hands on his hips.

“Excuse me-”

The circle ignites with a fwhoomp!

The Archangel Gabriel steps out from the light.

He’s wearing the same suit jacket, gray and pressed, that he was wearing when Crowley last had the displeasure of encountering him.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, lips curving in a thin, bitter smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough, I think,” Crowley answers, folding his hands in front of him as he’s seen Aziraphale do thousands of times before.

Gabriel huffs a breath. “No. I suppose not,” and lifting a brow, glances around. “Anyway, why are you here? We were expecting you to come to us.”

“Last time I visited Heaven, you forced me to walk into Hellfire,” Crowley replies, voice clipped.

Gabriel shrugs, tilting his head. “Fair.”

Adjusting his coat, the archangel steps out of the portal. “I thought you’d have your demon buddy with you. As backup, or something.” He glances around as he says it, as if he half expects Crowley to materialize from behind a shrub.

“I left him behind. In a safe place.” Licking his lips, Crowley purposefully hesitates, as if he’s reluctant to add, “I don’t trust you, Gabriel.”

He completes the act by shifting nervously, Aziraphale’s oxfords crunching over dry sand.

“Don’t trust me?” Gabriel says, tilting his head.

“Be honest. Please. Why are you here?”

“To enact divine justice.”

Stomach sick and sinking, Crowley closes his eyes. When he opens them, he holds Gabriel with a long, hard look.

“In this particular case, what does divine justice require?”

“Death,” is Gabriel’s quiet answer.

“Mine?”

“Yours, Aziraphale.”

Crowley shifts. Hellfire sings in his veins.

Not yet. Not yet, he commands it.

“Is this by God’s order? Or yours?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Does it matter? I’m an angel. I work for God. My justice is inherently divine.”

“You can’t kill me,” Crowley says, shaking his head.

And then Gabriel is chuckling. “We couldn’t. For quite a while. But things have changed.” Gabriel pulls a long, dark dagger from within his jacket.

The hilt looks to have been originally made of wood, though now it’s blackened and charred. The blade itself is a bright silver, but dark lines of corruption climb up the metal, like infection spreading from a wound.

Crowley watches the dagger as Gabriel passes it into his dominant hand.

“What do you hope to gain from this murder?”

“Not murder. My God!” He gapes, openly horrified. “Justice, Aziraphale. Come on, we’re not animals.”

“Right. Forgot.” Crowley can’t help the sneer.

“Now, how should we do this?”

“Please don’t,” Crowley says, pitching Aziraphale’s voice low.

“You made your choice, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, frowning. “These are the consequences.”

“Mercy,” Crowley whispers, and he hates how it sounds in Aziraphale’s voice. Swallowing, he forces out, “Gabriel, please.”

Gabriel stares, his purple gaze glowing bright enough to match the sky alight in dusk.

And then he’s blinking, grimacing as he shakes his head. “Ugh. Aziraphale. Don’t make me feel guilty about this. You betrayed Heaven. These are the rules.”

He flips the dagger in his hand.

It’s Crowley’s only warning.

White, radiant wings erupt from his back, and Gabriel pivots, his polished shoes sending sand flying as he surges forward, dagger lifted, poised to strike and -

He jerks to a stop.

He’s frozen, mid leap. He struggles to move, tendons bulging in his neck. His wide eyes turn on Crowley, and he bares his white, perfect teeth in an infuriated grimace.

“What is this?”

Crowley strolls toward him, Aziraphale’s features and clothes melting away.

“You failed the test, archangel,” Crowley says, taking no satisfaction in the sentence. Stepping around the demon, Crowley shifts a foot, dislodging sand. Dark designs catch the fading light.

They’d activated the second Gabriel stepped over them. When he’d chosen to kill Aziraphale.

“Release me, demon.”

Crowley is shaking his head, “If you’d forgiven him. If you’d just stopped this, I would have let you go.”

Solemn, Crowley unculrs his fingers. Hellfire ignites in his palm.

“Demon. Crowley - Crowley. Stay back!” Gabriel’s voice has turned high and panicked.

Crowley doesn’t like this. But he likes the idea of Aziraphale being harmed by Gabriel infinitely less.

He lifts his hand, Hellfire reflecting in his dark gaze. “You have your justice, archangel. I have mine.”

And then Gabriel is stuttering, “Michael! Michael!”

A flash of blindingly white light illuminates the desert; it’s immediately followed by the cacophonous crash of thunder.

The Archangel Michael stands at Crowley’s back, the ground smoking at her feet. Her hand is half lifted, poised to strike, and -

Frozen.

Her eyes flicker, looking desperately from Gabriel to Crowley as she strains to move.

Crowley tsks.

“Oh come on, you really thought I’d only lay one trap? I’ve had years Gabriel. This bloody desert is full of ‘em.”

Gabriel and Michael share a wide-eyed look.

“So you’re welcome to call as many angels as you want. They’ll all get stuck like flies on-”

Wait, what is it that flies get stuck on?

Crowley frowns, thinking. Hellfire flickers in his palm.

Gabriel grunts, straining in vain against the trap’s hold. When that doesn’t work, he starts to mutter.

“Hey. Hey. I could use some help here.”

Crowley turns toward the archangel, and when the Hellfire dances, eager, he soothes it with a breath.

Gabriel is groaning. “Don’t make me beg. Come on, you dick.” And then he’s deflating, closing his eyes. “Fine. Fine! Please help me!”

Michael is watching him with a sharp frown.

Crowley stares, “Who are you talking-”

A cold rumbling breaks the quiet night as dark mist gathers, pouring from beneath the earth.

“Oh fuck me,” Crowley manages, dragging his dark glasses off as the dry sand parts, and a dark-haired demon rises.

Lord Beelzebub sneers, turning a flat, disinterested look over the scene.

When their black gaze falls on Gabriel, they snap, “What.”

Gabriel’s eyes flick down. He meaningfully lifts his brows.

Beelzebub watches him with a blank stare.

“Break the damn trap!”

Crowley snaps a hand around his Hellfire, drawing it back as he rounds on Beelzebub. “Hey. Wait. No. No.”

Baring their teeth, Beelzebub snarls when Crowley takes a step too close. He instinctively hops back.

“We are not on the same side, Crowley. Not after what you did,” they hiss, and if eyes were capable of murder (There is actually a demon with that ability. Thankfully, it is not Beelzebub.), Crowley would surely be dead.

“Oh and you’re on what, the angel’s side now?”

“I’m on Hell’s side, you miserable excuse for a demon!”

“Alright. Good. Great,” Crowley says, “Then maybe you can, I don’t know, leave?”

Beelzebub frowns, looking from Crowley, to Michael, and then finally, Gabriel.

“I’ll owe you one?” Gabriel bares his teeth in a weak smile.

Pinching the bridge of their nose, Beelzebub heaves a deep sigh.

Crowley is shaking his head, the sharp burn of adrenaline already flooding his Earthly body. “Shit.”

Beelzebub spares Crowley a long, hard look. “There was a time when I would have mourned you, Crowley,” and then they’re turning, glaring at Gabriel. “You’ll owe me five. Asshole.” With a lazy flick, the traps surrounding them go up in smoke.

“Goodbye Crowley,” Beelzebub says without meeting his eyes.

Crowley watches, hands dangling at his sides, as the demon sinks smoothly back into the earth.

Polished leather shoes shift, crunching over dirt.

Crowley stills, tilting his head to observe Gabriel straightening up. The archangel rolls his neck as he adjusts his grip on the dagger.

At Crowley’s back, Michael roughly yanks her jacket into place. When she lifts a hand, a gleaming sword materializes in her open palm.

Crowley shifts so that he can watch them both as his mind furiously works to come up with something - anything to get him out of this mess.

Damn Beelzebub - again.

“Well,” Gabriel says, his voice flat. “That was a fun diversion, but I think it’s time we got on with our regularly scheduled programming. Don’t you think, Michael?”

“Yes. I want to leave.”

Gabriel nods, and turns to Crowley, gesturing with the dagger. “After we kill you - and make no mistake, we will kill you for this - we’re going to find Aziraphale and finish him. It’s important to me,” Gabriel says holding his gaze, “that you know this. I want you to die with the excruciating awareness of exactly how much you fucked up.”

The book shop is warded. And Aziraphale is still safe within the blood runes. He should be able to escape, even if the archangels are waiting for him. When the seal breaks, Aziraphale will have time enough for a quick miracle to get him far enough away to run.

But the image that follows, of Aziraphale fleeing - with no one and nothing in the wide globe willing - or powerful to help him (not nearly enough remains of Adam’s power to take on an archangel), is almost too painful to consider. And yet it’s impossible for Crowley not to picture those inevitable final moments, in which Aziraphale is eventually tracked down, surrounded by more angels than he can handle. When a dark, corrupted dagger of heaven’s own make is mercilessly driven into his kind, good heart.

Thinking about it makes Crowley burn.

Instead, it screams.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. Burning - it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

And just like that - the archangels attack.

The bursts of Hellish flame can be seen for miles. And the air on the flat desert screams, rent by the merciless cut of archangels’ wings.

Dagger and sword flash, cruel steel catching and reflecting Hellfire’s impossibly bright flame. Forged in Heavenly flame and cooled in holy water, the weapons were made for carving demon flesh from bone.

Crowley fights. He fights for his life; for Aziraphale’s.

Flanked by archangel’s, he uses every demonic trick he’s ever known.

When he is shoved to the ground, pinned beneath Gabriel’s hard hand and Michael’s boot, both Archangel’s are blackened, and in places, fire has singed through skin. Michael wobbles, the sword dangling loose in her grasp. Her free hand presses against her side. Between her fingers, golden blood spills.

A long score of singed flesh mars Gabriel’s cheek, and he’s lost the use of his scorched right leg.

The archangel’s hand trembles as he shoves Crowley down. And the earth cracks and splinters beneath the demon’s still smoldering wings.

Crowley gasps, and he can feel his ribs cracking beneath the angel’s hand. Hellfire churns within - he can feel it in his mouth and throat, but he can’t draw a breath; his head is spinning. From a wound at the back of his skull, dark blood streams, feeding dry earth. There are cuts along his arms as well, and a particularly deep one in his side that Crowley has decided he’d better not think about for long.

When Gabriel draws the dagger, pressing it’s silver tip to Crowley’s heaving chest, Crowley draws an agonized breath. Fire flickers behind his teeth, licking at his bleeding lips, but he’s spent - can no longer command it.

“Just do it Gabriel,” Michael says, shuddering as she redoubles the pressure on her wound. “I’m fading.”

Crowley stares up at Gabriel - into those unblinking purple eyes. There is a flicker of emotion there. Guilt, maybe. Or perhaps it’s mere annoyance, because Crowley watches Gabriel steel himself; and then the tip of the dagger is piercing skin.

Agony.

His guttural shout pierces the arid desert air.

The dagger is corrupted, but there’s more than enough holiness left to sear as it digs into Crowley’s flesh.

The Hellfire is burning, wild. Crowley feels it expanding, consuming as Gabriel readies to shove the dagger between his ribs.

And as Crowley stares up, flames caressing his lips, he suddenly knows what he must do.

The Hellfire is raging, eager, hungry. It’s a task to control it. Even for a demon.

It’s easy, however, to give in.

The fire expands, growing - consuming. Crowley tilts his head back as flames spill from his lips, his nose, his eyes. Hacking a weak laugh, he bares his teeth at the angels above him.

“Together then,” he says as Hellfire crawls out of his mouth, down the skin of his throat.

He’s completely let go. No longer Crowley. No longer demon. But a molten, hungry bomb.

“Gabriel!” Michael commands, “Do it! Now!”

Gabriel twists the dagger and -

Lighting cracks through the sky. When the screaming bolt strikes earth, white electricity splinters out, carving sizzling pathways through sand.

White, crackling electricity lights the figure in a pale glow.

There, Aziraphale stands, his jacket billowing and hair windblown.

No.

Crowley looks upon his angel, dread sinking into his battered bones.

Not here. Let him be anywhere but here.

Especially now, when Hellfire is seconds from razing desert, brush, stone.

Chest heaving, he focuses, straining to draw the Hellfire back. It’s like trying to catch air in his fist. With a ragged gasp he manages to get a hold on it, barely; and the fire is nowhere near subdued.

The noise has Aziraphale turning.

Gabriel’s attention is on Aziraphale. His white knuckles wrap around the ancient blade, it’s holy edge digging half an inch into demon flesh. All he has to do is press.

And Crowley is burning - fading. Nearly overcome.

As Aziraphale twists around, his eyes desperately searching the dark desert, Crowley watches his wide blue gaze look from Gabriel, to the dagger and Crowley’s broken figure beneath, and finally, finally to Crowley’s inflamed eyes. Aziraphale’s chest heaves - and then Crowley is gasping, fire leaking from his battered lips,

“Angel, fly.”

But Aziraphale isn’t flying, or running, or anything of the like.

Aziraphale’s hands have closed into fists; they tremble as he stares, brows lifting, skin creasing between them, as though he can’t quite believe what he is seeing.

Crowley shudders, chest heaving. Dark blood pools around the dagger, trickling down his skin.

“Angel,” Crowley begs.

Run.

Fly.

Anything - so long as you go far away from here.

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, and the silence that follows is the hollow rush before a wave folds, crashing over sand; it is the cringing anticipation the millisecond before a dropped glass shatters; the heavy eternity after lighting flashes through the heavens, when one holds their breath and waits for thunder.

The angel blinks and looks down at his hand. The flaming sword is there, settled in his open palm.

“Now, Gabriel,” Michael hisses, shaking. “Do it or I will.”

Crowley can feel Gabriel turn back to him, but Crowley has eyes for Aziraphale only. His angel has begun to glow.

Wind picks up, stirring sand and tearing through shrubs. Aziraphale stands at its center, untouched, as his eyes flicker with terrible brightness.

“You will not.”

The voice is Aziraphale’s - and it’s not. It is simultaneously close and distant, and it resonates, expanding to fill the space around them.

Gabriel’s shoulders lift and he stills. He and Michael share a glance.

“We were warned of this,” Michael whispers, wincing as she sinks to a knee. “We were supposed to kill him right away, Gabriel.”

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls, his voice low and commanding. “Remember yourself, angel!”

Aziraphale tilts his head. His wings slowly open, but there are more of them than there were before. And from the feathers, eyes blink. They are wide, and terrible, and stare out from infinite depths.

“Stand down, Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls. “Stand down and we will spare your demon.”

From Aziraphale’s eyes, blue light pours. And it’s expanding - filling his mouth, and rising - crackling and bright, it arcs through the air around him.

“You will spare him because it is right.”

Gabriel is shaking his head. “You don’t know that!”

“I know it,” Aziraphale says in that impossible voice.

He’s marvelous, and Crowley can’t look away.

The wind is howling and Aziraphale stands at its center, unmoved.

“We have to snap him out of this,” Michael says, and summoning strength, lifts her holy sword.

Crowley doesn’t realize she means to cleave his head from body until the flash of metal catches his eye.

The air screams, snapping as it is cut by too many angel wings.

A hand wraps around the blade, catching it before it can fall. From where Aziraphale’s fingers grip the gleaming metal, golden blood collects and drips. Crowley watches it stream down the angel’s arm. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes - all of them - are focused on Michael, where she stands, straight backed and trembling, before him. His flaming sword is pointed at her chest.

“Go home Michael,” Aziraphale commands, terrible and impossible. Reality seems to bend, warping around him. “Go home, else I be forced to end you where you stand.”

Michael shakes her head. She’s staring at him, eyes wide. “You don’t have that power, angel.”

Aziraphale’s fingers release her blade. He stares, almost disinterested, at the golden blood pooling in his palm. His brows draw together, and he speaks slowly, as if trying out the words. “I think I do.”

Glowing eyes flick up, and Michael takes a step back. Swallowing, she makes a single, sharp gesture and transports away with a pop.

Crowley stares up at Aziraphale, and he’s expending every ounce of his energy holding the Hellfire at bay. Aziraphale is - he’s beautiful and dreadful, and he’s become something powerful, otherworldly. But even with unfiltered, wrathful power radiating from his earthly form, Crowley fears what an explosion of Hellfire would do to Aziraphale at such close range.

The knife is pressing down - perhaps an unconscious action on Gabriel’s part, and Crowley gasps as the searing pain redoubles.

Aziraphale is on the archangel before the sound has fully left Crowley’s throat.

Wings snapping, he shoves Gabriel up and off Crowley.

When Gabriel, re-gripping the dagger, slashes out at Aziraphale, the angel sends the dagger flying with a flick. The blade spins, sinking hilt deep in sand.

Aziraphale stands between Gabriel and Crowley, every one of his glowing eyes glaring with burning brightness at the archangel.

“Okay, what the fuck Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks, and so too do the rest of the eyes.

“You mean to murder Crowley. And Aziraphale: Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Third person, really?”

When Aziraphale steps toward him, Gabriel hops back, and his palms are raised, placating.

“Okay, no. Not murder. This was supposed to be justice Aziraphale. You betrayed Heaven!”

Aziraphale hesitates, the crackling energy around him intensifies. His wings shiver.

“No,” he finally answers, distant. “It’s not...justice.”

“And you would know?”

Slowly, Aziraphale looks from Gabriel, then back to Crowley. Golden, ethereal blood drips, like tears from his eyes.

“Yes. I can hear Her.”

Gabriel physically staggers.

“No. No. That can’t - No one’s actually heard Her voice. Not since-”

“I hear Her now, Gabriel.” Aziraphale says, in that somber, distant tone, as though a part of his mind resides elsewhere. Liquid gold streams over Aziraphale’s jaw and down the curve of his neck.

Crowley has the horrified thought that this might be killing him.

“Aziraphale,” he rasps, hopelessly reaching. “Whatever it is you’re doing - you can stop now, angel. Rest.”

“Not yet,” Aziraphale says, looking to Gabriel.

When he lifts a hand, the archangel flinches, stepping into a fighting stance.

“You’re to be confined. Here. On Earth, Archangel Gabriel. Powerless. Like a human.”

“What?” Gabriel snaps.

“And here you will remain. Until you learn one very important lesson. The most important of them all.”

“What? No. What?”

“You, Archangel Gabriel, must learn true, selfless love.”

Gabriel gapes. “Oh come on! You can’t honestly expect me to believe-”

Aziraphale lifts a hand. A wide, impassive eye blinks upon his palm. Aziraphale flicks his wrist, and Gabriel is gone.

“I agree,” Aziraphale says, answering an unheard voice. “Los Angeles is a suitable punishment, I think.”

A fresh stream of angelic blood rolls down Aziraphale’s neck. This time, from his ears.

Crowley is sweating, unconstrained Hellfire burning him from the inside out. Groaning, he struggles to rise.

“Angel. Aziraphale. You’ve got to break the connection, love. Hang up,” Crowley coughs, gasping. “It’s hurting you.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together and he touches a hand to his neck. He blinks, staring blankly down at the blood.

“Oh.”

And he tilts his head, listening.

“Love? What about it? I don’t understand.”

And then the angel is staggering back, the glow around him slowly fading.

When Aziraphale turns, the light in his gaze has dimmed enough for Crowley to once again see his eyes. Gone is the aloof distance. And when Aziraphale looks to Crowley, his emotions flicker, devastatingly open across his face.

“Oh. Oh - Crowley!”

Aziraphale is dropping beside him, hands fluttering, as if afraid of harming Crowley further with his touch. The extra wings are still there. So are the eyes. And they all watch Crowley, Aziraphale’s agony mirrored in their inhuman stares.

When Aziraphale cradles his face, cool fingers gently brushing his bruised cheeks, Crowley sinks into the touch, closing his eyes.

But the Hellfire is pressing up. Impatient. Eager.

Eyes snapping open, Crowley presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Angel,” he says, stiffening in pain. “Angel, you need to leave. Hurry.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is sharp, afraid. “What’s happening to you?”

“Hellfire,” Crowley manages to gasp.

“But it’s - that - it can’t hurt you!”

Crowley heaves a deep breath and then another. He can’t seem to get enough air.

“I...did a bad thing angel. Unleashed the monster, if you will. Now...it won’t stand to be leashed again. Hellfire’s tricky that way.”

Aziraphale stares at him, horrified. “What?”

“It wants out. And it’s gonna go through my very being to get there.”

“Crowley. There has to be - I mean, there must be something-”

Crowley, shaking with the effort, grabs a fistful of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Don’t even know how you got here, but you need to leave. Now. I am not,” Crowley roughly shakes him, “going to let you burn with me.”

When Aziraphale doesn’t move, Crowley’s chest heaves.

“Angel please-”

“You left me behind,” Aziraphale hisses, cutting him off. “And now you expect me to leave you. Here? Like this?” His voice breaks.

Hearing it hurts - more than Crowley had previously thought possible.

Crowley slowly, agonizingly lifts a shaking hand. Gritting his teeth, he presses it against Aziraphale cheek, still damp with angelic blood.

“Angel. Angel. I’m so sorry.”

Eyes fluttering closed, Aziraphale leans into the touch.

“If - If we could do it over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, not a moment- save admitting my love for you sooner. What I wouldn’t give for more-”.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. All of them.

“Love,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Yes?”

And then Aziraphale is shaking his head, “No. It’s love. The thing that Gabriel needs to learn. What allowed me to hear the Almighty today. Love, Crowley.”

Crowley is trying to concentrate, he really is - but it’s taking nearly everything to hold the damned Hellfire back. And it’s a fight he’s rapidly losing.

“Aziraphale. Stop. Just listen,” he says, screwing his eyes closed. “You’ve got to go. I’m begging you.”

When Aziraphale’s soft fingers brush his face, Crowley flinches back.

“Angel-”

“We are going to discuss my anger at the dismal way you handled this situation later.”

Crowley swallows around the fire in his throat.

“There is no later, Aziraphale-”

When Aziraphale sets a finger against his lips, Crowley presses them desperately closed.

“Maybe there can be,” Aziraphale murmurs, kneeling over him. “At the very least, I’ve got to try.”

And then Aziraphale’s hands are cradling his jaw, thumbs stroking battered skin. One of his hands shifts back, gently lifting Crowley’s head.

When his fingers touch the wound there, Crowley’s lips part in an involuntary hiss. Molten fire spills down his jaw. Though it passes centimeters from Aziraphale’s skin, the angel doesn’t shift his hand.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, horrified. “Angel - what’re you-”

Aziraphale’s fingers press beneath Crowley’s jaw, tilting his head up.

Blue eyes glowing impossibly bright, Aziraphale says, “I love you. Wholly. Fully. Purely. With all of my being,” and presses his lips to Crowley’s.

Crowley jerks back, white hot panic roaring through him.

Flames are in Crowley’s throat, his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

Aziraphale’s flesh will burn. And then he’ll swallow the flame himself. Be consumed from the inside out.

But Aziraphale has a hand at the back of his head. His other grips Crowley’s jaw, and as Crowley gasps, too weak to shove him back, Aziraphale closes his eyes and deepens the kiss.

Crowley closes his eyes. Cowardly though it may be, he can’t bear to watch.

Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking a fumbling path over his cheek, and as Crowley shudders, Aziraphale kisses him again and again, deeply and unflinchingly.

Gasping, Aziraphale whispers, strained against his lips. “I love you. I love you with all of my being. I love you and nothing - no part of you - would ever harm me.” Another kiss, and he starts the mantra again.

This goes on, and Crowley can’t bear it because he’s waiting for Aziraphale’s voice to hitch, for his angel to begin to tremble as he’s devoured by hungry Hellfire. Crowley is so entirely, soul-consumingly destroyed by the idea of it, that it takes him a long moment to realize his cheeks are no longer hot, but wet.

It’s no longer Hellfire, but tears spilling from his eyes.

Blinking wet lashes, Crowley stares.

Before him, Aziraphale kneels. The glow in his blue eyes has faded, both the extra wings and the otherworldly eyes are gone, and the angel’s soft skin, lit by the pale moonlight, is unmarred. Gentle fingers brush the tears from Crowley’s cheeks, and the angel’s lips part in a wobbly smile.

“What - how - angel, what did you do?” Crowley sits up, and is amazed to find his body only protests with a dull ache. He glances down to see the lacerations in his skin have faded.

“I took the Hellfire.”

“You what?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and he presses his lips together. “I love you. More than anything,” he says, glancing up. “You love me too, and I told myself that no part of you - nothing from you, could ever hurt me.”

Crowley is reaching up, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands before the angel has even finished speaking. “Simple as that?”

Aziraphale shrugs, pressing his hands over Crowley’s. “Love is the simplest thing there is.”

At that, Crowley’s throat aches, and he feels uncomfortably like he might once again start crying. Dragging the angel closer, he presses his face into his shoulder. “M’really glad you’re okay.”

Aziraphale’s arms encircle him, and then his hands are clutching at the scorched shirt on Crowley’s back. “I’m glad you’re okay! Oh, Crowley, when you left and I was alone, there in the shop-”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Crowley draws his arms tighter around Aziraphale. “Angel, I - forgive me. I was only trying to-”

“Oh hush. It’s - well I can’t say it’s okay. I’m awfully angry about it still,” Aziraphale says, face pressed into Crowley’s neck. “But let’s discuss it later. Please.”

“Of course, angel. Anything,” Crowley says, leaning back to brush a kiss against his ear, then his jaw and his cheek.

Stroking a hand down Aziraphale’s neck, he wipes at the damp blood.

“Aziraphale - did you know you could talk to God?”

“Oh no, I had no idea! Though,” he hesitates, “I did do it once, I suppose. It was quite a while back, and I just assumed she occasionally had little chats with everyone.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Yes, well I know that now.”

“Well,” Crowley says, using his sleeve to wipe up the last of the blood. “That was a day. You ready to go home?”

“Oh yes please.”

Hand in hand they rise, stumbling to their feet.

“Should we fly?” Crowley asks, looking around at the empty desert. “I could miracle us, but I’ll need a moment to recharge.”

“I’m spent too, actually. I’m not sure I’ve even got the energy to fly, frankly.”

Lifting his wrist, Crowley squints down at his watch. “I think, ehhh - about 15 minutes should do. Until then, care for a moonlight walk?” He nods in a generally Easterly direction. “Home’s that way. Wouldn’t hurt to walk a bit of it.”

Smiling, Aziraphale takes his arm. “A walk sounds lovely.”

As they pass the dagger, Crowley gives it a kick. The blackened hilt skitters across the sand. The blade has disintegrated.

“You do that?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Possibly.”

Crowley nods and they continue on.

The broken, blackened hilt is an inanimate object, and so it cannot think, touch, smell, or hear, and it certainly cannot watch the angel and demon, walking arm-in-arm away from the battle scorched earth. If it could however, this is what it would have observed:

As they walk together, distance making them grow small, Crowley turns a sudden sharp look at the angel. “How did you get out from the circle, by the way?”

“Oh that? Your little demon friend stopped by looking for you. Apparently you owe him some demonic miracles? Anyway, I convinced him to wipe away a few runes.”

“My - wait - Daeval let you out?”

“He’s quite pleasant,” Aziraphale says, as they stroll away, their voices growing all the more quiet.

“He’s a little shit! I told him he was never to come to the bookshop.”

“I’ve already invited him to tea next Tuesday.”

“Angel, no.”

“Oh! And you can make those spinach-pastries. The ones I like so much. You will, won’t you?”

A long pause. Somewhere, an owl hoots in the darkness.

“...Fine. Okay, yes.”

“Oh lovely!”

The moon illuminates their figures - one light, the other dark, as they walk, leaning toward one another as if drawn by gravity. And when the one in black turns, replying with hushed words and a contented smile, distance and the sleeping desert at long last swallow their contented voices.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I’m thinking I might write an epilogue :)

Some of you asked to be tagged! I’m 100% positive I’ve missed some of you. If you were forgotten, sorry!

Tags:

@maacomics @dreamingof-stars @viper-official @moose-called-crowley @royalazy @a-girl-with-a-ponytail @missshadowpup @sugaredsundrop @younggayanddoingokay @theyreineffablyhuman @saratsuzukii @to-dance-among-stars-in-dreams @nitrostreak @boquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @vinylisthebestwaytolistentomusic @the-best-pilot-in-the-resistance

@fandomflier @buckybarnesandbowties @bread-potato @okionlywanttoreadforever @galaxytaker @kawaiiusagichansan @fieri-sentio-et-excrucior @ineffiblehusbands @keatsdumbfanbl9g @jim-jam-davis @falloutboyrocksmysocks @thesaltofcarthage @perfectlychiefbarbarian @bornonthesavage deamonia @sophiaissupsgay7 @movrings @thanksveryga @d0zack @nonredroses @stingerpicnic @rowboatanimeking @altean-aus @belleparanoia @alliemack30 @asilentcruellullaby @liliemsharpe @bouquetofjunk @mysticalhermitofdoom @strangelingincarnate @the-rainbow-witch @burning-bentley @loveharrington @carkiechu @justthebestaround @soulless-creature @i-dont-know-how-to-exist @totallysilvergirl @erisunderthemoon @thedoctorwillsaveus @yomikoreadsbooks @thatonewholikesalotofthings @ayanemoonlight @ladyhawknell @akavincent @sw1mmer-0 @mirrorstarweb @notreallylapa @agentlokii @singasongrightnow @pathwaybeyondexistence @eternallystarlight @onceuponadisembo @amidst-innumerable-stars @spacemonkeyeatingcookies @monochromatic-starlight @groot-omens @doublematch @somewhereinspacewheretimestops thekingofhelios muscial-prostitute-my-dear sararwen icyignorance redundantoxymorons nothing-toseehereatall macabre-fandoms annia316 thats-freaking-pantastic enby-crowley stitchinaride

NOTE: Tagging like this takes wayyy too long. So for future tagging, I’ll just have one list, and if you’re on it, I’ll tag you in everything. If you’d like to be on that list, send me an ask or a message or something. I’ll make a post about it as well.

#my writing #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #otp: ineffable #good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #fanfic #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable husbands fanfiction #fanfiction #go fic

4K notes · View notes

ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years ago

Text

Rise: Killan

The universe of Killan’s story belongs to @wildfaewhump. If you haven’t read their Iesin and Talvos or Pathverse stories, go! Go read! Read them or face my wrath. I have so much wrath to share.

CW: Referenced past torture, scarring, referenced dehumanization and briefly referenced pet whump, but this is not a piece about any of those things

Killan stopped, just at the edge of the rock along the riverbank, taking in a deep breath. The air was thin here, where the trees became scraggly pines that clung to rocky soil, hints of snowfall still littering the earth even this late in spring.

Leather boots covered his feet, he’d made them himself. It had taken forever to make the kill, tan the leather, cut it around his foot, sew it together. But he’d done it. Coated against the water, they kept his feet warm, but he wouldn’t have needed them, anyway.

He just never lost the habit of wanting to feign humanity, no matter how clear it was that he wasn’t human at all.

Not anymore.

Not a man.

Before, he couldn’t have stood here like this in just a shirt and pants without freezing. His fingertips should be blue, but when he looked down they were the same as always. Pale skin, roughened and scarred, but still skin - feeling only a faint chill. The dark talons on his right hand didn’t feel cold at all.

Killan lowered his eyes to look at them, clicking them together a little. The place where they’d been attached to the knuckles of his hands still held faint scarring where they’d been stitched on even as his bones blended, accepting with each addition parts that had been someone else’s body a little more easily.

Killan was so many people now, most of them fae. He was the only human left in his body but he could have told anyone who asked - cut his skin now and the blood ran pale, a pearlescent shimmer in what had once been a flat dark red when oxygen met wound.

Break a bone and find it hollowed inside, lighter weight easier for his wings to carry.

Make an incision along the wicked scar down his side and you’d find he lost a kidney and some ribs but gained other organs that weren’t there before. Killan would tell you - the wings were one life he stole, it took two for the eyes because the first set didn’t take, my hand was one along with some air sacs, the other air sacs and the lungs were another…

He was so many fae who should be alive, but instead there was only Killan Josta left to wear their parts, a child’s nightmare hiding under the bed, in the dark woods, a set of glowing eyes in the dark.

Not fae, either.

Watch Killan Josta open his eyes and see the pale color was replaced by a saturated, overwhelming blue, a black slit-pupil, eyes that would never sit in true comfort in his skin. They weren’t meant to be there. He still bled instead of crying.

Monster.

Hurt the creature and make it cry out in pain and hear two voices, two sets of vocal chords operating simultaneously, a shrieking fae scream alongside the lower human voice. Calon Nie had loved to hear both screams at once. So had the humans who had chained him down for entertainment.

Everyone was a monster, when given power over something new.

Everyone but... everyone but the ones who had saved him.

Buachaill del. Pretty boy.

Calon Nie’s pretty human, left alone to wander and stumble and plead, to make the mistake of asking for help. Captured, bought and sold, beaten and bled and sold and bought again, until there hadn’t been anything in Killan’s life but survival.

Until there had been no Killan left, that name held and hidden deep within himself. There had been only the creature, the monster, the pet the piece of fascinating conversation start the thing.

Not man or fae or boy or anything but organs and skin and wings to be bruised, broken, bloodied. Not even a favored animal.

Just a thing that knew how to keep living.

Raise your chin at the four-count whistle, hold up your hands at the three. Let them touch your talons, your wings, run their grubby fingers through the feathers you can never get clean. Feel the lash against the skin you were never meant to have for your own when you disobey. Fingers prodding and pressing at your scars. Chirp and trill for the men, the women, the children who call you the unnatural offspring of degeneracy when you were never that.

And it wouldn’t matter if you were, no one could deserve this. No one could earn this.

But this is life, this is all you’ll ever be, guard what’s left of you as deeply as you can and give them the mindless animal doing tricks for their coins, their hands, the promise that if you’re good it won’t last forever.

Feel the press of the muzzle keeping your jaw locked while you weep and beg to be seen as human again. See them lock up your voice and laugh when you try to speak and you can beg all you want, it won’t happen, they’ll never see you as a boy again.

It will never happen, and then one day…

One day, stop begging.

Slide away, into your own mind. Live for the moments where you’re fed for being good, the soft velvet of a horse nosing a carrot right out of your hand, the warmth of their breath curling up in winter stables with them. Curl up on straw and hold the chain around your neck and learn to stop crying.

Until he gives the five-count whistle.

Then you cry on cue.

Live for nothing but the hope that this day will end, because it has to, and then begin the next day living for the end of that one, too. Pray for the night because you are never alone until then.

Pray that it will one day end, and know that you are not praying for salvation, only darkness.

Until someone looks you in the eyes and takes a risk and you end up saved anyway.

Next to him, the river rushed by, swollen with a winter’s melt. The roar of water was deafening, and he couldn’t even imagine how loud it would be at the bottom of the waterfall, hundreds of feet below.

Somewhere further up there were fae courts hidden, deep inside the mountains. They didn’t want him either, but at least he wouldn’t be sold there. He wasn’t a curiosity to the fae, but an abomination, a warning, something to be feared. Something to be sent away as quickly as possible, but for all Calon Nie’s cruelty, it was only one fae that had held him captive and carved into his skin.

It had been a dozen of his fellow humans-

No. Not human anymore.

It had been a dozen or more humans who had bound his hands, forced muzzles on until he bled, sliced his skin to show the change in blood and marvel over his reddish tears, buried their hands in his feathers until he could not help but scream at the violation.

They loved to hear him scream.

Fae rejected him - but humans overwhelmed him.

Not fae either.

Killan looked down at his hands - fingers and talons, a madman’s puppet tossed aside, a piece of decoration in a human’s receiving hall, a pet kept hidden away until they tired of cutting him, a dirty slave for sale in the streets, keep him as a pet or the same way you keep a painting on the wall.

I promise you, messire, you’ve never seen anything like this! Show the man your hands, creature.

Even now, just remembering the whistle, Killan’s fingers twitched with unconscious need to obey.

The sun was rising, the sky a brilliant scattering of pink thrown up against the gathering clouds and a growing golden light finding its slow way along the world he could see below. The forest ran to the curve of the earth, and he could, with sharp fae eyes, see the smoke of chimneys in a village that would have taken him a day to climb down the mountain and walk to, but with wings…

Killan slowly flexed his wings out as wide as they would go, closing his eyes as his back straightened instinctively to balance the weight. The chill air ruffled along his reddish-brown feathers, a playful hint of breeze.

You know how to do this, the breeze whispered to him. You knew the moment he gave them to you.

He wasn’t meant to have them, but he did. They were blended into his back in a mass of scarring and changed bones, shoulder blades shifted out. On fae, the transition was seamless. On Killan, every inch of his skin told the story of screaming agony.

But the fae who had owned them was dead, along with every other one sacrificed to Calon Nie’s game. If they were anyone’s wings now, they were Killan’s.

I don’t have to be ashamed of what he did to me. I didn’t ask to be a monster.

The water burst from the confines of the earth next to him, tumbled and rolled into the air before it fell and fell and fell and crashed back down to earth below. Killan sighed softly, watching breath puff out before his face, and then turned away from the dawn.

He walked, step by silent step, back along the riverbank, watching the water running the other way, chasing the flight back down to ground. He stopped next to a thin pine tree, reaching out to touch the needles, crushing them between his fingers to release the scent, closing his eyes and breathing it in.

I didn’t ask to be this. It’s not my fault.

It’s not my fault I have new parts.

It’s not my fault I can fly.

Against his back, the breeze slipped around him again, dancing air that ran along the edges of feathers, beckoning. Beneath that, a faint shimmer of mystery. While fae and humans both looked away, Killan could call and have starsong reply, if only faintly, to his cries for help.

The mysteries recognized him as a mystery himself, not a monster. Not understood but not entirely turned away.

And he wasn’t alone, either. There were others out there who had been broken and bent to someone else’s will, who could see beyond the way he had been stitched together and know there was still a whole person inside.

Eitilt.

The breeze called again, and Killan stopped to look over his shoulder at the dawn. Farther than the sun’s light could reach, stars still shone, visible in the blue as brightly as they’d been in the black the night before.

Fly.

Killan took off running, back towards the cliffside, racing with his wings curved against his back and his feet pounding on rock. The roar of the river alongside felt like it ran with him right to the edge, where instead of stopping Killan flung himself out into space, the spray of water beside him.

Wings curved, he fell.

The air flew past his ears as he plummeted towards the earth, mysteries a song that wound around hollowed bones and filled the places inside him with air. The bottom of the waterfall came closer and closer, a frothing white spray where the water was wearing the earth down beneath dirt, beneath stone, to bedrock underneath it all.

Instinct told him things that human experience never could, and he let his body - bent and broken and twisted and remade, rebuilt, created by a fae who named himself Killan’s god - tell him when to stop.

Down and down and down and-

Now.

His wings snapped out, catching the breeze and slowing his descent, sending him forward instead of down and he trilled, beating wings heavily to head back up again. His back ached a little but he caught a current that helped carry him up, air that rested under his feathers like hands slipping around a small child to lift them up onto a mother’s hip to be carried.

The sky was not his mother, but she would be here to lift him where his own mam could not.

He burst upwards, spinning, breathing thin air as though he’d always been able to do so, human and fae lungs filtering every ounce of oxygen he needed in tandem. The sun warmed his face, and he closed his eyes against its touch. Sun on his face, stars at his back, Killan let the currents carry him a little further.

And then he dove again.

Fly.

He dropped like a stone, rushing downwards, spinning in the air before he snapped his wings out again and cut a hard left. Around him the air itself celebrated with him everything his broken body could still do, all the things he’d been given alongside what he had lost.

Sharp talons could tear apart a rabbit and defend him from attackers just as easily.

Rise.

Fae eyes saw far, farther than even the keenest human sight, and kept him safe. He could see in the dark, he could see them coming before they could see him.

Rise.

Hollowed bones let him fly, kept him lighter, along with the places added to him to hold air, to bring him higher and higher, to help him-

Rise.

Fae blood carried oxygen more easily, let him climb higher into the air, the currents under his feathers like a friend lifting him up. As high as he could go, not quite so high as a full-blooded fae but he felt the air thinning and thinning and the stars were ever closer, their song welcoming him even if the fae did not.

Ardu th’uas. Rise above.

He slowed, spinning in the air, letting starshine and sun wash all his ruined skin clean.

Leanh na realtai. Child of stars, you, too.

His heart stilled, here where the air was thinnest, with the question he never voiced. Even ruined, I am?

And every time, the certainty returns.

Even ruined, you are.

Iron and earth may be blind, but the stars see you.

Killan dropped again.

He spun with his wings pressed tightly, speeding to earth so fast the air was a scream and he couldn't find the breath to laugh. The forest below him, the sky above him, the sun and stars.

Killan Josta, as he was, should not exist.

He did, though, and in this moment with his wings snapping out to slow his descent, catching an air current that pulled him back around towards the mountains, he feels them.

Something like friends.

They were calling him back to the waterfall and the cliff and the camp in the woods where they will be waiting for him, the ones who saw beneath his skin to the boy still hiding under a monster, the man half-buried by cruelty but still trying to break free of its legacy.

They were waiting, with breakfast probably already ladled out for him.

First, though…

First Killan Josta, who had a name again, wanted to fly. One more time he climbed the currents, found the pockets of air to push him higher and higher and higher, until there was a half-breath of pause as high as his broken, remade body could go.

He let that pause draw out, listening to the stars whisper in human ears.

Sing, Killan Josta.

He trilled, a cry as much of gratitude as it was of joy, and wrapped his wings around himself to plummet to earth again.

Rise.

Killan fell, and fell and fell, and then just when he could fall no further without breaking on the earth, his feathers caught the air and he flew.

-----

Tagging Killan’s crew: @astrobly @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @slaintetowhump , @quirkykayleetam , @whumpallday , @whumppsychology, @doveotions, @broken-horn, @moose-teeth, @whumpfigure, @spiffythespook, @oceanthesarcasamfox, @whump-only(if you would like to be added to an OC’s tag list, please send your request via an ask! Those are easier for me to keep track of and I tend to lose requests in comments, reblogs, tags, or PMs!)

#trauma recovery #fantasy setting #fantasy whump #winged whumpee #wing whump #referenced torture #scarring #wildfaewhump's world #trauma recovery whump #killan is babey and saddest boy #wings #dehumanization reference #pet whump references #magical whump #magical setting #if you're thinking I wrote this to a single song #you are correct

92 notes · View notes

ffxiv-angora · 3 years ago

Text

Day 15: Thunderous

(As a note: this takes place just before the battle at Ghimlyt)

Rain hammered against old stone and thunder rumbled in the clouds above. Lightning streaked across the sky. The strong smell of petrichor was in the air.

Clearly, this was the best weather to train in.

Despite staying isolated on this small island of ruins, even Angora had heard the whispers of a coming battle. Another war. It never seemed to end. There was always another battle to fight in and lives were always lost. Tension with the Garleans had come to a head once again. Angora wasn’t about to miss out on the chance to crush some imperial soldiers under her boot. What else was there for her to do? Her search for any information on her family here in the Peaks had only led to dead ends. The battle would only serve as another distraction to keep her mind off of the unbearable weight of loss on her shoulders. Rhaj’ir’s death had only been 2 moons ago.

But all of this meant getting back into fighting shape. It’d been some time since she last needed to go hand-to-hand. Magic was easy! Her aether was as strong as ever. Now her the rest of her body just needed to catch up. She’d been developing her own style of combat and this battle would prove to be a suitable test run.

So here she was...taking out all her frustrations on an innocent root belonging to the massive tree that sprouted in the middle of these ruins. The roots twisted and tangled through crumbling walls almost as if the tree itself was willing this place to remain standing.

Angora only wore enough to keep herself reasonably covered. Her hair had even been cropped short to keep it out of the way. No armor or clawed gloves. She wanted to feel every bruise and gash. It helped ground her in a way. Even as her knuckles became bloodied and the fire she summoned in her hands licked their way up her forearms to form fresh burns. The rain was also no issue for the magical flames that persisted even in the downpour. Each rage-filled and fiery punch was timed so that her roars were drowned out by booming thunder. She didn’t need anyone discovering her location just yet.

Steam rose from the splintered tree root. Part of Angora wanted so badly to just set the whole tree aflame. Alas, the rain would foil her plan for the time being. She stumbled back a few steps, turning her face up to the rain. The cool droplets helped with soothing the burns on her hands and arms...and perhaps her temper as well. Another convenient thing about a storm is it was impossible to tell the difference between the rain itself and her tears.

The flashes of lightning dancing through the clouds gave her one last idea. One more hit before rest.

Angora took a slow, deep breath. The air around her began to crackle with electricity and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end despite the downpour. That electricity gathered in on the single point that was her raised hand. The lightning in the sky became more frequent and even struck all around the ruins. She lowers herself into a wider stance and waits. It’s only when the sting of the lightning magic swarming around her fist became unbearable that she finally struck. That tree root that had survived for so long exploded on impact, sending splinters of ancient wood in every direction. The resounding boom made Angora’s ears ring.

She was ready. She would have her revenge on the ones who stole her life, family, and fiancé from her.

#ffxiv #ffxivwrite2021 #ffxiv rp #ic things #Angora #This one gets a bonus picture because I found the perfect pose recently lol

3 notes · View notes

misstinfoilhat · 5 years ago

Note

Saw your prompt list and thought I'd drop a suggestion: Kakashi with "don't let them see me cry" - especially if it involves young team 7

I merged this with @selspeaks : Kakashi: Don't let them see you cry. Bonus points if Guy is in there somewhere annoying him

I tried my best to incorporate both of these!

Oh lord. I don’t even know what this story is. This went from angst to angstier, angstiest to dark af, to fluff, fluffier, fluffy mcfluffypants to what-the-fluff-even?

I don’t know. I hope you all like it though!

With a sharp intake of air, Kakashi shot up and leaped out of bed. The bedsheet caught on his feet and he tumbled, darted back up, and shot for the bathroom where he swiftly tugged his mask down and heaved alcoholic liquid into the bowl. Shaky hands grasped at the toilet firmly.

For two days, Kakashi had been unable to leave his apartment. In those 48 hours, less than four of them had been spent sleeping. The other 44, was tossing and turning, trying to relax his body and clear his mind, or, spent drinking an ungodly amount of sake, in the hopes of eventually pass out and catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

But nothing seemed to work.

When he felt himself being done extracting the meager contents of his stomach out, he flushed and closed the lid, but paused for a moment to inspect his hands.

His fingers were soft, long, delicate. Clean, unmarred, and milky. Not at all like a shinobi's. It was because Kakashi always wore gloves. He hated the appearance of those hands. They were hands that hurt people. That killed. Hands covered in blood.

Rin's blood.

Whenever he remembered that day, his hands would be covered in blood all over again. First, in short flashes. Coming and going in the blink of an eye.

Then, it didn't disappear. No matter how many times he'd blink at them.

That was when the washing started. Hours upon hours of scrubbing his hands raw. The blood never went away, and the more he scrubbed, the more it would bleed until he realized that it was his own blood that covered his hands and not Rin's.

This had been an occurring problem since that day, and it had only become worse once Minato, his last lifeline, had died.

Somewhere insides Kakashi's musings, there were knocks on his door.

Suddenly, it was like he woke back up. As if he had just now become aware of his surroundings. But, he knew he hadn't slept.

Confused, he stared down at the sink, the sponge he'd used, and his irritated skin. It had happened again.

The knocks on his door became more rapid, and a voice far, far away was yelling his name and Kakashi knew he should answer and knew he needed to stop cleaning his hands.

But he simply couldn't. Not before all his dirty skin had been peeled off. Not until it bled. It wasn't clean enough until there was nothing left at all!

Another voice joined in, yelling his name. The knocks were harder; like hail on your window during a storm. The voices pulled at Kakashi and he wished he could answer them, follow them instead, but he was sure that if he didn't get the blood away, these hands would hurt everything he loved. Everything that was left.

And, logically, he knew that he was the one controlling them. He knew they wouldn't go off on their own and hurt or kill anyone he didn't want them to kill.

But, what if?

What if the constant reminder of what he had done to Rin, how he failed to protect her, or save Obito and how he hadn't been enough to keep his father from committing suicide, would drive him mad?

Kakashi absently realized that the knocking had stopped, and the voices calling out for him had stilled. For some reason, he felt a bit sad about it. Like the intrusive yelling was something comforting and nice, not noisy and disruptive. It reminded him of something or someone.

Its absence left him in silence. A loud, strangling, ear-piercing silence accompanied only by the running tap and the scratching noise emitted between the cloth and his palms.

Why wasn't it going away?

The rubbing intensified. The motion was becoming stronger and more forceful, almost static, and it stung which was good because that meant that he was close to...

Close to what exactly?

Kakashi realized he was panting. Reality came back to him like a droplet falling from the sky. Cold, unavoidable, grey. Blinking, he gazed down at his sore, scratched-up hands. The one holding the rough sponge opened, letting the yellow foam fall into the sink. Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze up and peered into the mirror, where he met a horrid sight.

His face was unmasked in a twisted grimace. The long, angry scar he got the same day Obito died glowed as if it was laughing at him. Red, puffy, glazed eyes and charcoal orbs glistened dangerously.

And the sounds. The sounds had been his students, coming to look for him. They had to be worried about their sensei, now that he hadn't bothered showing up to practice in several days. It must have taken them a long time finding his apartment, and he had ignored them to indulge in whatever-the-fuck he had just done, the selfish jerk he was.

He stared intently at his reflection. The blood-shot eyes that met his glare were pitiful and made him furious. How long had he been standing here?

«Stop crying, you fool,» he sneered lowly, trying to keep the trembling in his chest away from his voice. His eyes squinted shut, chasing away unshed tears.

«I said...» A deep breath. «Stop... fucking crying-»

Someone kicked his door in as Kakashi's fists hit the mirror, shattering it into a million little pieces, dancing around him like flickering snowflakes.

«Kakashi!» an alarmed voice roared from the livingroom. Heavy footsteps moved quickly across the floor.

Kakashi hit the wall where the mirror had been, slicing his knuckles on the sharp left-over pieces and couldn't hold back his winch.

He was pathetic. Pathetic, sad, weak, and a horrible human being. He didn't deserve to live. Why did he get to live when Rin and Obito didn’t?

Two strong hands grabbed a tight hold on his shoulders and pulled him back. Kakashi whirled around, trying to tear away.

«Kakashi?» The voice was deep, Kakashi recognized it but couldn't focus. Feeble, bloodied fingers tried to pry off the larger, tan, callused ones that held him still, and Kakashi was unable to keep himself from thinking that they looked clean and felt an instant need to wash his hands again.

«Kakashi!»

He had made the voice angry. It sounder wrong like that and he knew he had fucked up, just like he always did and it probably wouldn't have happened if he had cleaned his hands---

«S-so much blood,» he mused in a whisper.

His head shot back.

For a moment, he sat there dumbly, unable to take in what had just happened. He rose a strangely painful hand to feel his heated, burning cheek but paused when he noticed the newly ripped flesh scattered across his scarred hands.

Turning them, observing all the healed crisscrossed marks and raw skin curiously, he wondered where the soft, unmarred hands from earlier had gone.

He felt the comforting touch on his shoulder return. Dark eyes looked up to meet two concerned beady eyes under a set of furiously bushy eyebrows.

«Gai? What...» Kakashi muttered perplexed but interrupted himself as he took in his surroundings. The shattered glass on the floor, the mess of soap and water, the bloodied streaks all across the bathroom. «It happened again.»

A sad smile tugged at Gai's lips and he nodded. “Yeah.”

«Oh, God,» Kakashi groaned agonizingly, curling in on himself and shrugging Gai's arm off.

«Shit!» The tears were back, and he struggled to contain them. He refused to let them fall. He couldn't let Gai see him cr---

«...kashi-sensei?»

The surprise of hearing that voice made him straighten his back, instinctively pulling up his mask before looking towards where the sound was coming from, where three heads appeared, lingering warily by the door.

«Were you attacked?» Naruto bellowed loudly as he noticed the state of the bathroom, looking over his shoulder for a possible intruder. His throwing arm itched eagerly by his side pouch.

«I guess you could say that,» Kakashi muttered to no one in particular.

«Don't worry, sensei! I'll get them!»

Naruto bounced off, but Sakura grabbed his jacket and held him back, shaking her head disapprovingly.

«Stop that, stupid.»

For a short while, there was silence once more. It was probably not more than a few seconds, but it ached like days, so Kakashi cleared his throat.

«I-I guess this looks a bit strange,» he drawled slowly and rubbed his neck, smearing the blood through his unruly silvery mane.

«Yes,» Sasuke answered immediately, folding his arms across his chest. The kid always looked suspicious, a bit like he always smelled a fart, which Kakashi bemusedly had thought once during training and proceeded to giggle himself silly as the preteens stared at him incomprehensively.

A bit like now.

They wanted an answer, he knew. Sympathized with it, even. But he had no idea how to give them one.

«I-» he started hesitantly, «I'm not sure how to explain this. And, I'm guessing that none of you would believe me if I came up with some silly story anyway. But I just...»

Again, that tight hold around his heart appeared. The heavy, painful, strangulating feeling of not being able to breathe. The same one he had years after his father passed and an even longer time after Obito and Rin died. It hurt more than a punch in the gut.

«Kakashi-sensei, are you...» Sakura asked just as Gai gently ushered them outside.

Kakashi wiped the streaming tears off his cheek with his sleeve when Gai returned. Kakashi didn't know what he said to them, but when he came back, it was without the kids.

«I am so sorry, Kakashi. I had no idea that this is what was happening. I should have asked them to stay at the training grounds while I went to check on you by myself.»

Kakashi, still seated on the floor with his knees pushed up to his chest, hiding his watering eyes with his hand, chuckled.

«No. You'd have to tie them up to prevent them from doing whatever they want to do anyway. And unless it's for the genin exams, I'm pretty sure you would be breaking some sort of code if you did that.»

«Actually, I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to tie a student down during the genin exams either,» Gai muttered perplexed. Kakashi simply stared back.

«Huh.»

Despite himself, Gai hummed a small laugh as he started rummaging through Kakashi's well-stocked medicine cabinet, pulling out disinfectants, gauze, and rolls of bandages.

«Let me see your hands,» Gai required softly, and Kakashi obeyed reluctantly, letting his right hand fall limply into Gai's giant palm.

«Several of these will require stitches,» Gai murmured patiently as he cleaned Kakashi's wounds.

«Maa, I'll do it later,» Kakashi waved him off while Gai rolled his eyes.

«No, you're not doing anything. I will take you to the doctor so it can be done properly. Not that half-assed quick-fix stuff you did in ANBU.»

Kakashi didn't dignify that with an answer. His half-assed quick-fix stuff had saved many lives, his own and Gai's included! Was everyone grateful? Yes! Were the wounds all horribly infected and disfigured after? Well, that wasn’t relevant!

«I really think you should see a doctor, dear rival,» Gai said with the slightest hint of his trademark energetic personality back.

«Jeez, fine. I'll go,» Kakashi sighed, but held his breath when he noticed how sad Gai seemed. Apparently, the energy that he had centered into his voice hadn't quite reached his eyes yet.

«Not for that. Well, that too. But for this,» Gai lifted Kakashi's hand up for a moment, indicating towards the wounds.

«I don't usually self-harm, Gai.»

«I know, that's not what I meant either. That OCD stuff that always happens after a bad mission. And those panic attacks- whatever it is- that you're experiencing. It's no good. You can't live like that. I worry that someday you're gonna...» Gai stopped himself from finishing that sentence.

Kakashi looked away in shame.

«Do like my father,» Kakashi whispered. «I know.»

Gai started bandaging up the right hand and silently asked for the left one once it was done. Kakashi didn't say anything as he offered it, placing it gently into the welcoming palm. They didn't talk while Gai kept working, and Kakashi's mind was running.

He could hardly remember what had happened. Was that how Sakumo had felt before he stabbed himself? Had he too gone into some strange psychosis and let his own self-hatred be in control? Was that what Kakashi was doing? He knew he wasn't in control, at least, he didn't think he was. And Kakashi truly didn't want to die by his own hands, let alone imagine what something like that would do to his students.

They had lost people in their lives too.

«I'll go to the doctor,» Kakashi croaked finally, watching Gai's expressive brows rise and curve excitedly, like an expressive labrador.

«Really?»

«Yes.»

«So I won't have to drag you there against your will?»

«What makes you think you even could-»

«Thank you!»

Gai threw himself at Kakashi, cotton balls with antiseptic flying and the bottle tilting, spilling half the fluid out. Strong arms wrapped around Kakashi's shoulders and pulled him into a tight bearhug, nearly knocking the breath out of him.

«I told you you didn't have to restraint and force me there,» Kakashi hummed in a mix of discomfort and relief before pulling away. Unwillingly, Gai let go and wiped a tear away from the creak of his eye.

Rustling from outside brought their attention away for a moment, before Gai hurried to wrap up Kakashi's other hand so they could check what the fuzz was about.

«Ngh, gah! Naruto! Your elbow is in my face!»

«Your shoulders muffled my ear! I couldn't hear anything!»

«That wasn't because of my shoulder, but from all the cotton you have for brains!»

«Will you two shut up? I'm trying to hear what they're talking abo- Ah!»

Gai dragged the door open, successfully making three noisy kids leaning towards it tumble onto the floor, laying there in a dazed heap for a moment before jolting back up.

«Kakashi-sensei? Are you okay now?» Naruto cried boastfully, jumping over to help Kakashi up from the floor. Kakashi ignored the gesture and pulled himself up, noting that he felt a slight hangover.

Good, he thought. At least I've sobered up.

«Better,» Kakashi replied truthfully, noticing how Sakura was eyeing his hands timidly. «I'm sorry for worrying you. That wasn't my intention.»

He smiled softly at her, and she seemed to perk up at that, so he decided to rest his hand on her head for a moment, just to see what it was like.

Two brightly pink cheeks beamed up at him, and in an instant, she was entangled around his torso, hugging him tight enough to rival Gai. Before Kakashi had even realized what was going on, Naruto had joined in, pressing himself to his other side while chubby, sunkissed hands grabbed at the fabric of Kakashi’s black shirt.

Sasuke stood ambivalent with his arms crossed, observing the ordeal with little to no interest, while Gai bawled his eyes out, leaping a few steps forward, ready to join in.

«Don't you dare,» Kakashi glared dangerously, and Gai turned in his step and switched his focus on Sasuke, deciding that no one should ever be left unhugged, and trapped the boy in a huge, forceful embrace, seemingly untouched by the violent death threats and obscenities spilling out of the boy.

As much as Kakashi was touch-avert and uncomfortable by affection, he recognized this as an important moment. Not only for him but for his students (it might not be for Sasuke; this particular moment, but in the long run, maybe) too.

Kakashi wouldn’t tell them the gritty details. They were unimportant, but mostly, he truly didn’t want to. But he realized one, really important thing.

What had made Minao a great teacher, was his heart. And a heart contained more than just strength. It also held love and hurt. Vulnerability.

Kakashi knew he wouldn’t change overnight. Maybe not ever.

But if this was even one step closer to being the man Minato would want as his son’s mentor, half the man Minato was, then, Kakashi would do whatever it took to become that man.

---

End

#whump community #whump fic #naruto #kakashi hatake #fanfic #fanfiction #request #whump bingo

26 notes · View notes