#tried something new but the edges looks a bit rough on the shadows but ive spent too long on it lol dont look at it too close 😬😬

[notchesandbullets]

Saving Her (Ojiro Mashirao x Wolf!Reader)

A/N: dedicated to the anon who wanted me to write a oneshot about ojiro giving the reader a gift, this fanfic is for you 💖💖 this is incredibly self-indulgent and ive been working on it for over a month now. its almost done but i’ll post what i have so far, i hope you like it!!

Contains reluctant Aizawa to soft Dadzawa, annoying brother Shinsou, pure Eri-chan, bakugou's notorious cursing, sweet and innocent fluff between reader-chan and Ojiro. First friend Ojiro to best friend and then lover. Featuring the rest of Class 1-A and them acting like hooligans.

Part 1: Crashing into Ojiro, Room Competition, meeting Class 1-A and Aizawa, who has some bad news for you when you’re discovered.

Word Count: 7k 

The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the busy city of Musutafu.

Ojiro had planned on taking Tokoyami with him, but his friend was still in the middle of unpacking as he was leaving.

He was on the way back to the dorms from the grocery store with a bag of ingredients and sweets as per Sato's request. It was a bit longer of a walking distance since he was so used to coming from his house and would take some getting used to, now that Heights Alliance was his home.

The streets weren't any busier than usual, but when he saw something flicker out of the corner of his eyes off to the side, he couldn't help but feel as though something was wrong.

Maybe it was his hero blood or something stronger but he didn't waste any time diving into action.

As he rounded the corner, his eyes widened as someone crashed into him, nearly toppling him over. He caught his balance just in time, steadying the person that had collided into his chest but not before he saw it.

Blood matting down your hair had his heart dropping in horror. You were trembling in his arms, positively terrified and it didn't take long to figure out what the cause of your stress was when two more figures slinked out of the shadows.

Ojiro acted quickly, using his tail to whisk the two of you higher until you were out of sight. He curled his arms tightly but carefully around your waist, making sure that you wouldn't fall.

Thanks to Ectoplasm's guidance, he had refined his skills and learned how to be unpredictable.

It wasn't until you two were safely on top of the nearest roof did he loosen his grip. Leaning over the edge cautiously, he watched the strangers bolt off in opposite directions, presumably to look for you. He was pretty sure they didn't see him take you away but he wasn't completely certain. Pulling back, he released you from his hold. But he didn't take any offense to the way you practically flew from his touch.

He could see it in your eyes. Fear as deep as yours shouldn't ever be allowed to get that far, for anyone.

You hugged your trembling body with your arms, desperately willing the anxiety to die down so that you could think straight. All you could think about was running. Far, far away where no one could get to you.

"Ah... sorry to take you away so suddenly like that, but it looked like you seemed to be in trouble." Ojiro apologized.

His sheepish tone made you finally break out of your thoughts and for a moment, the two of you didn't say anything, both of you enamored with the other as you got a proper look.

He didn't think he had ever seen anyone as beautiful as you before. Round orbs blinking up at him curiously, your fuzzy ears perched on top of your head perked up as you met his gaze, bushy tail twitching behind you.

As for you, your mouth dried at the sight of your savior. His golden hair and kind smile made your heart skip a beat for reasons unknown to you. You couldn't stop your tail from thumping excitedly against the rooftop when you saw his tail.

It was much bigger and looked much stronger than yours was and you couldn't stop from bounding over to it eagerly, stretching out a tentative hand to touch it.

But you halted at the last second and recoiled, expecting to be punished for your behavior.

Ojiro frowned, taking notice of your trepidation and offered you an encouraging smile. "It's okay, you can touch it if you'd like."

He lifted his tail slightly, inviting your curiosity forth and a bit nervously, you reached out your hand once again. A wide smile split your features as you felt the soft, short fur underneath, your other hand going up to pet your ears, as if to compare the softness.

Ojiro couldn't help but match your smile at that, finding it adorable. Tucking his legs underneath him so that you could still play with his tail, he breached the topic sensitively.

"What's your name?" He asked quietly. "Who were those guys that were after you?"

At first, you seized up and for a minute there, he was worried he went about asking you the wrong way. But a deep sigh left your lungs and testing the waters, you timidly introduced yourself and began to explain in a concise way, your current situation.

You honestly weren't entirely sure how you got there.

But one bad thing after another landed you in a pretty rough neighborhood notorious for Quirk Traffickers. They looked for people with unique abilities that would sell well on the black market. People paid a lot of money to own those they deemed exotic, particularly kids and teens with quirks that had an effect on their physical appearance.

You were no exception, having been cursed with an extremely rare wolf quirk. All it ever brought you was trouble.

You had heard that quirks were hereditary but yours definitely wasn't. You don't know which ancestor it came from when it appeared out of the blue.

Tiny fangs, fluffy ears and a tail emerged one day. But your excitement of discovering it was short-lived when you were abandoned by your parents the very next day. They had found it disgusting.

Young and innocent, you wandered the streets, not sure what you were supposed to do. That's when they caught you.

You bounced from one owner to another, never staying in one place for very long. You had been brought back to their base of operations in Japan, your last master less than satisfied with you since all you did was hide out of fear of everyone, lashing out when he tried to approach you.

You may or may not have bitten a guest when they tried to touch your ears.

Back in your homeland, that's when you saw your opening.

You didn't know what propelled your legs to start running from the men but pretty soon you were out of breath and out of options. Alone in the alleyway, but not for long, you frantically scanned for an escape route.

And that's when you crashed into him.

A shadow fell over Ojiro's face as he heard you explain your past, hands balling into fists at his sides. He wouldn't stand behind while someone was tormenting you. No hero would allow something like this to continue.

Coming to his decision instantly, he stood up, extending a hand out to you.

"Y/N, will you come with me?" He asked, gaze unwavering. "I think I know where you'll be safe, at least for now."

You paused, skeptical. "I-I... I don't know."

He squatted down beside you, patting your head gently. If there was more time, he would've been more patient but he couldn't help but feel uneasy the longer you guys stayed out in the open. Even if you were out of sight, a rooftop wasn't a permanent place for you to hide out in.

Your eyes went wide but you didn't shrink away. You didn't know why. Anytime someone reached for your head, they always had this glint in their eyes, but this time, he looked desperate.

Desperate for you to believe him.

"You must have a hard time trusting people after all you've been through." Ojiro empathized before urgency seeped into his tone. "I really don't want to leave you alone. My sensei might be able to help you but only if you come with me."

You still didn't look entirely convinced but he didn't blame you.

"If you don't like what he says, then you don't have to listen." Ojiro reassured you easily. "No one's going to force you to do anything. You can make your own choice but let me at least give you more options."

That was what finally made you drop your guard, still wary but choosing to trust him for now. After all, he did save you earlier.

You put your hand in his, cheeks warming as he squeezed it slightly.

"Okay."

The two of you traveled to Heights Alliance, the dormitory for Class 1-A of UA High School. He immediately found his teacher, Aizawa, and told him of your circumstances. The man's rough and rugged appearance caused fear to flash through you but only for an instant.

He concealed it well but he seemed kind. Not outwardly like Ojiro, but it was enough to reassure you for now.

All throughout Ojiro's explanation, you hid behind his broad back, shivering at the way his tail curled around your waist to keep you close to him.

It was weird. It didn't feel restricting like you expected it to, it almost felt protective. You kind of liked it. You giggled as the furry tip of his tail tickled your nose playfully and you batted at it, eyes shining as you momentarily forgot where you were.

Aizawa was silent as his student finished explaining why he had a wolf girl attached to his side, scratching the back of his neck as he racked his brain to come up with a solution that wouldn't land you back in that same place again but also without compromising the safety of his students.

Since you were an orphan and a minor, the police would most likely take you to an orphanage, in which case the people looking for you would certainly find you. Aizawa called Principal Nezu and got permission from him to house you at the dorms until the threat hanging over your head was dealt with by the authorities.

You blinked when he asked you if you wanted to stay with them for the time being while they ironed out all the details and see what could be done for a more permanent residence but accepted his offer with a shy and grateful smile.

Then was the matter of actually carrying it out.

The two wanted to settle you in a room of your own but your ears flattened against your head in distress at the suggestion so they quickly dropped that idea.

Aizawa ran a hand tiredly through his hair, unsure of how to resolve this when you clearly were in danger but didn't want to be left alone. The less people that knew of your whereabouts the better and even though he knew Yaoyorozu would probably do a good job looking after you, you clung to Ojiro's side like glue.

You seemed the most comfortable with him and he figured they could use that for now.

Needless to say, Ojiro was surprised when Aizawa suggested he take care of you until the man could figure out a way to accommodate you without you having an anxiety attack but he readily agreed with a slight blush on his face.

He just wanted you to be safe and happy and he was stunned that his sensei trusted him enough to be responsible for you.

Aizawa promptly handed him a small first-aid kit to take care of the blood smeared on your forehead after ensuring that it wasn't anything serious. It was just a slight nick, shallow enough not to need any stitches since it would heal relatively quickly. He told him to clean it before it got infected and his student nodded seriously.

"You can count on me, Aizawa-sensei!!" Ojiro said, bowing respectfully to thank him for all he had done before leaving.

With Ojiro guiding the way, the two of you snuck through the back door and up into his room for you to get settled in. The other students in his class were bustling around the common floor, moving all their things into their respective rooms, hoping to get it done before dark.

It was loud and chaotic, or maybe that was just your sensitive ears picking up on it more. Curiosity peaked, you peeked around the corner after you ensured you were out of their sight, gaze falling on the activity going on below from the second floor.

Ojiro softly pointed each one of them out, telling you their names as they talked over each other.

"I can't believe we get to live together!!" Ashido exclaimed happily, doing a little dance in front of Hagakure and Uraraka. "This is so exciting!!"

"I can't believe my parents agreed to it!!" The invisible girl commented, undoubtedly puffing out her cheeks.

The red-haired and yellow-haired boys who were wrestling in the corner paused for a second to join in on the girls' conversation.

"Did you have a hard time convincing them?" Kirishima asked, only to be smacked upside the head by Kaminari. "Ow, what the heck man?!"

"Why are you asking such a dumb question?" The electric boy retorted, kicking up his feet and smirking. "She could've always just snuck out of the house if they said no. You know, invisibility quirk and all."

He leaped up with a yelp as something shocked him from behind, whirling around to glare at Jirou, who was twirling her earphone jack around a finger nonchalantly.

She sighed, retracting the other one from where she had send an electric pulse through him. "What an idiot."

Kaminari gripped his hair, nearly tearing it out in frustration. "That's what I'm saying!!"

Sero, who was passing by with a box full of his things, stopped and raised an eyebrow. "You know she's talking about you, right?"

"That's not true!!" Kaminari shouted incredulously.

"It's true." Jirou retorted flatly.

The others in the vicinity burst into laughter and you couldn't help but giggle a bit along with them, muffling the sound behind your hand in fear that they would catch you spying on them.

Ojiro's tail twined around your waist gently, steering you towards the elevators. "C'mon, this way."

That contraption alone was the most nerve-wracking thing you've experienced so far. Luckily, the ride wasn't long but that was the only upside. Your tail swished nervously behind you and you didn't relax until the door to his room on the third floor softly clicked closed behind you.

Ojiro breathed a sigh of relief, glancing up at you. You had made it without being spotted by anyone. Thankfully.

He didn't have many things, so moving in wasn't a problem for him and it didn't take too long. He was one of the first ones to finish, along with Shoji, and helped Sato unpack his things until his friend noticed he needed some more ingredients for the cake he wanted to make later on.

The plastic bag crinkled as he took out the snacks he had found while he was getting Sato more flour and sugar. Your nose twitched cutely and he had to refrain from poking your cheek, lest he scare you off.

Your tail was less frazzled now and he took it as a sign that you were getting accustomed to your surroundings.

His eyes softened as you took in his room, pawing at the neat collection of books on his desk before your attention flitted up to the high shelving above your head.

This time, Ojiro couldn't contain his fond smile as he reached over you to grab what you were longingly looking at.

Your eyes went wide as his chest pressed against your back, he easily reached it since he was taller than you. A small giraffe plushie landed in your hands not long after.

He tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled at you. "Cute, right?"

His little sister, Holly, gave it to him as a going-away present when he moved into the dorms. He missed her so much already but the presence of this little stuffed giraffe soothed his heart.

You held it so gently, as if you were scared you would destroy it.

"Yeah..." You trailed off quietly and he beamed.

It was his first time hearing your voice so unrestrained and free from the fear that gripped you earlier but nothing could have prepared him for how pure and precious it was. He ruffled your hair gently, being mindful of your fluffy ears and looking out for any signs you were uncomfortable with the affectionate gesture.

But his heart skipped a beat when you closed your eyes at his touch, clearly enjoying it and even going so far as to butt your head against his hand in a silent plea for more pets.

You flushed when he chuckled, obliging you for a minute longer until you were like putty in his hands.

The both of you jumped when a loud crash came from downstairs, accompanied by a flurry of enraged shouting and colorful insults even through the many floors. Ojiro casted a worried glance at you but all his concern melted away when a little giggle left your lips.

Relieved that you didn't seem to be too shaken by the noise, he offered the snacks he bought earlier, taking the package and ripping it open for you when you fumbled with it.

Thanking him quietly, you nibbled on the food gratefully. The flavors exploded in your mouth and you positively beamed, radiating the same pure energy you emitted earlier when you had spoken to him.

Ojiro maneuvered around you, finding what he was looking for pretty quickly.

You looked up curiously when he came back, shifting your weight on your knees, unsure of why he was holding a water bottle in your field of vision.

"I need to treat your cut, is that okay?" He asked, unscrewing the cap and pouring a little bit on the cloth he got from the first-aid kit. He didn't want to startle you, so he narrated what he was doing.

You nodded, setting down your half-eaten cookie carefully and brushed back your tangled hair as much as you could so that it wasn't in the way.

Your breath caught in your throat when he moved closer to you. He angled your chin up, gazing into your eyes as he wiped the blood away first to assess the damage done.

"It's going to sting a little bit." He murmured, preparing the antibiotic.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you gripped onto the lapels of his blazer, practically ripping it as your claws came out when he dabbed the cut. You whimpered in pain, tears leaking out of the corner of your eyes at how much it hurt.

Ojiro faltered, your whimper sending a spike straight through his heart and he hastened, not wanting you to be in pain any longer. But he was thorough, well aware that if he didn't do a good job now, there was a chance you would have to endure it again. As soon as he disinfected it, he applied a couple butterfly closures to aid the healing process.

It wasn't bleeding anymore and he sighed in relief.

You panted heavily when he was finally done. Rubbing your eyes furiously, you blinked through your blurry vision, frantically scanning the room as his warmth suddenly disappeared.

"Y/N-chan?"

The voice was close by but not close enough. Your breathing started to pick up, hands clammy and tail fluffed out. An obvious sign you were stressed.

"Y/N-chan!!"

This time, it was a lot closer and you sank back, relieved beyond belief as the familiar sensation of his tail encircling your waist returned.

You stammered out his name, blindly reaching for him.

"Where did you go?" Your whispered, fingers trembling uncontrollably as he pulled you into his chest.

"Just had to put away the bandages." He reassured you, concerned with how quickly you were to losing it. "Are you okay?"

Your ears flopped back and forth at how vigorously you nodded, as if you needed to convince him like your life depended on it and his mouth twisted into a small frown.

"You don't have to do that." He said, going to pet you once more, smiling in relief as your tail finally stopped lashing behind you.

"... 'm sorry." You mumbled sadly, clutching onto the front of his jacket.

"It's okay." Ojiro replied, stroking your hair to calm you down. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Just how much pain had you endured?

This time when he stood up, you were okay. Somehow comforted that he wasn't going to go anywhere anytime soon, you polished off your snack as he got something else from the closet.

"Here."

You perked up at the sight of the blue hoodie in his outstretched hand.

Ojiro laughed at your expression of awe as you accepted it and ran your fingers over the material. "You seemed cold so how about you hang onto this for now?"

It was one of his lounging hoodies that he didn't wear too often but it was rather warm and would hopefully stop you from shivering. That tattered dress you were wearing looked like it was about to go any second. He didn't want to know how weak your immune system was to be freezing cold in the middle of August.

You beamed happily, bowing repeatedly. "Thank you, Ojiro-san!!"

It had gotten stuck over your head when you tried to pull it down though and with a muffled squeak that gained his attention, he tugged down the hem, smiling when your ears and flushed face popped through.

Just when I thought she couldn't get any cuter... He thought to himself as you began to run around the room, climbing on anything and everything once he told you that he didn't mind.

His clothes swallowed your smaller frame and he found it incredibly endearing with the way you would flap your arms around, claiming you had sweater paws. It fell just above your knees, keeping it modest.

He steered you away from the balcony for now, wanting you to stay where he could keep an eye on you.

After a few more hours of you getting adjusted, you had tuckered yourself out and curled up into a ball on the floor at the foot of his bed.

Ojiro frowned once he noticed you taking a nap on the hard surface, abandoning his studying at his desk to take you in his arms and placing you in his bed.

You stirred, heavy eyelids struggling to open as you croaked out, "W-What? Ojiro-san, what's going on??"

"You can't sleep on the floor, Y/N-chan." He chided lightly. "It's not good for your back."

Sleepy haze diminishing, you bolted upright, nearly smacking him in the face when you realized where he had put you.

"I can't sleep in your bed!!" You burst out incredulously.

Ojiro hushed you, worriedly glancing at the door as if his friends would come barging in without any warning but luckily they didn't. He didn't put it past them but this was one time where he didn't want them to do that.

He tried to ease you back down but you wouldn't obey.

"Don't worry, the sheets are new." He reassured.

His eyebrow furrowed when you shook your head violently from side to side, wondering what you were so worked up about. You tried to climb out and he let you but didn't let you go too far.

"What's wrong?" He asked quickly, the possibility that he had offended you coming to light. "I didn't mean to—"

"I'm not allowed to!!" You suddenly blurted out.

He did a double take and you looked over his shoulder, your eyes darting everywhere else besides him.

Crouching down to your level, he soothed you gently. "Hey, it's okay. What do you mean you're not allowed to?"

You absentmindedly picked at the wound closures on your forehead, swallowing thickly when he took your hand in his to prevent you from messing with the bandages.

"Y/N-chan?" He prompted.

Your mutter was so quiet he had to strain himself to hear you right and when he did, he asked you to repeat it because by All Might was his blood boiling if he heard you correctly.

You gulped, intimidated by the brazen anger in his eyes, fiddling with the hem of his hoodie.

"They said we're animals and called us dirty. We're not supposed to sleep where humans do." With each word, you got quieter until his face was right in front of yours. "They were right... weren't they?"

Squeaking as you got engulfed in a hug, you tensed up and he broke it, apologizing profusely.

"I'm sorry, I just," He ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. "They couldn't be more wrong."

He didn't touch you but he didn't need to for you to feel his warm presence extending out towards you and covering you in the most love you've experienced since your parents left.

"You might have an animal quirk but you're human just like the rest of us and don't deserve to be treated any less than that by anyone." He emphasized, then pounded a fist to his chest. "From now on, I'll look out for you and show you what it's like to be treated like an equal, as a friend, if you'll let me."

Ojiro held out his hand. "Deal?"

You sniffled, unbelievably moved by his kindness after only knowing you for less than a day. "Deal."

You sealed it with a handshake and he gestured to the rumpled bed behind him.

Waving his hand grandly, he proclaimed, "Your napping space awaits."

He internally winced at how corny that sounded but hearing your laughter ring in the air more than made up for it. As he helped you settle beneath the covers, he reassured you constantly but patiently that you really were allowed to sleep in a bed and no, you weren't bothering him or being a burden.

After that, you couldn't fall asleep right away and he really didn't want to study anymore so the two of you talked.

He told you about his family, how he got into UA, stuttering nervously a couple of times only to shoot you a grateful smile when you didn't judge or make fun of him. He told you about his little sister, a cute, precious little girl who was growing up faster than he liked to admit. Retelling and entertaining you with stories of his classmates and their adventures, his tail flicked up excitedly when you started to chime in with experiences of your own.

Things you could remember from your past. Foods you liked, hobbies you had, friends you liked to play with, and he listened attentively through it all. When you started to drift off, you sleepily mumbled offhandedly how you liked it when he patted your head or rubbed your ears.

And you especially liked it when he would hug you with his tail.

Ojiro just smiled softly, tucking the blanket around you before brushing the hair away from your face. You looked so peaceful. He got to his feet and stretched his arms over his head, jaw dropping in surprise when his gaze landed on the bag discarded on the floor. He had completely forgotten about that.

Shaking your shoulder to rouse you from your tranquil state, he whispered apologies when you finally opened your eyes.

"I'm so sorry I woke you up but I have to go to Sato-kun's room really quick to give him the flour and sugar I bought earlier, okay?" He rushed out, tripping over his words to get it out faster so that you could go back to sleep.

"Can't I go with you?" You mumbled, still half asleep.

Ojiro shook his head, remembering what Aizawa said about exposure. Sure, he trusted his classmates but there was a big difference between what he wanted and what was logical. Your chances were better off with the less that people knew you of your whereabouts so he refused, even though it nearly broke his heart when you trained your wide orbs on him.

Pushing out your bottom lip slightly, tears collected at the corner of your eyes. "You don't want me there?"

He was quick to kneel down by your side, unable to stop himself from pressing his forehead to your temple in a desperate attempt to make the sadness in your voice fade away.

"No, no, princess, it's not that at all." The pet name slipped out faster than he could stop it but he didn't even stop. "You're safer here for right now. And I'll only be gone for a minute."

He rubbed the back of your hand with his thumb. "Okay?"

You mustered up a wobbly smile for him. "Okay..."

He wanted to text Sato to come to his room to pick it up so that he wouldn't have to leave you but that would stir up questions, especially since he wouldn't allow his friend inside and that would undoubtedly create a mayhem within his peers at what he was hiding. For aspiring heroes, they were still teenagers after all. And they loved to bug each other like it, too.

Ojiro sighed as he forced himself to detach from you, tucking the blanket securely around you before he stepped quietly out the door.

For once in his life, he kind of wished he wasn't living with his classmates.

After he left, you tried to quell the anxiety and insecurities. Twisting and turning, your mind raced, spiraling out of control. He didn't abandon you, he was just returning something to his friend. He would be back soon. He promised you.

But as the minutes ticked by, it felt like hours and you couldn't wait any longer. Throwing off the covers, your legs shook as you stepped towards the door. However, you froze in place and your ears twitched, picking up the sounds faster than the average human which normally would've given you an advantage but you couldn't move in time.

The door flew open with a bang, slamming into the wall and making you jump nearly five feet into the air. On the other side stood the girl with pink hair and skin that you had seen earlier, along with the electric boy and a few others you didn't recognize.

You shrunk back as the group exploded into chaos, directing questions towards you faster than you could process or fend off on your own. Your panic rose as they flooded in, clutching your hands tightly to your chest at the overwhelming amount of people in the cramped space.

Then, your eyes widened as someone shouted frantically for them to move, shouldering his way through until he came to you. You willed your feet to move but they wouldn't obey no matter how hard you tried, your body still frozen in fear. It didn't matter though because he reached you within seconds.

"Guys, seriously, back off!!" Ojiro shouted above the clamor, his tail pulling you close and tucked you under his arm. "You're scaring her!!"

At the strain in his usually light tone, his friends started to quiet down one by one and he turned his full attention on you.

"You okay?" He murmured, cradling your jaw and inspecting your face for any hint that you might've been hurt.

You didn't say anything, just threw your arms around him and brushed your nose against the crook of his neck, scenting him. His warm scent eased you and brought you back down bit by bit until your feet were planted firmly on the ground.

Even though he had no clue what you were doing, it was making the tension wound in your body disappear fast so he didn't have any issues with it. But his breath hitched as a soft rumble emitted from the back of your throat in contentment, squeezing you once before letting you go. He didn't detach his tail from you though, using it as a wall to keep his overeager friends from coming too close.

Ojiro let you do what you needed in that moment and in the minutes that followed, his friends began peppering you with questions. He let you keep your face nuzzled into his chest as you shyly answered them but he answered for you whenever you hesitated so that you wouldn't be put in an uncomfortable position of refusing them.

He had already seen what you were like when something that was normal for them went against what was ingrained into you and his arms curled around you tighter in an effort to protect you.

You were thankful for him taking most of the pressure off of you, timidly straying from his side when he encouraged you to talk to the girls a little bit more. You warmed up to them much faster than the rest, your eyes brightening up excitedly when they told you there was a girl among their friend group who had a frog quirk.

He sighed as Yaoyorozu and Ashido led you away from the boys with the rest of the girls in tow to go to a space where the environment would be better for you. Feeling bad that the secret had gotten out already, he winced as he thought of the penalty he would face once he told Aizawa.

Kaminari smirked, leaning against the doorframe after you exited. "Man, where have you been hiding her?"

Ojiro shot him a look that told him to keep quiet, not in the mood for playing around. "That's not funny."

"C'mon man, we're just teasing." Kirishima added on, not picking up on the tense energy of the room. "You could've at least told us you had a girlfriend, she's really cute."

"If not a little shy." Sero grinned, elbowing him in the ribs teasingly. "Don't worry, it's not like we're going to steal her away or anything."

"You should not have a girl in your room, Ojiro!!" Iida declared, chopping his hands in the air to emphasize his point despite the inconsiderate snickering occurring on the other side of the room by the three of them. "It is not appropriate!!"

Shoji, Sato and Koda all elected to remain silent, studying their friend's shadowed expression as their other classmates relentlessly teased him.

Forehead creasing in annoyance at the continuous jabs, Ojiro blurted out, "Guys, stop!! It's not something to joke about!!"

He sank to the floor, head in his hands and for the first time since they burst in, the guys finally took notice of the way his shoulders shook and how anxiety seemed to roll off of him in waves.

"She's in real danger." Ojiro told them quietly. "There are bad people looking for her so you guys can't talk about her, alright?"

"Please." He begged, not caring how desperate he sounded.

All he wanted was for you to be safe. All he wanted was for you to live the life you had been robbed of without having to look over your shoulder to see if someone was following you or not.

Shoji uncrossed his duplicate arms, stance broadening. "We won't."

"Yeah," Kirishima inserted, rubbing the back of his neck, ashamed of his behavior earlier. "Sorry man, had no idea."

Scattered apologies followed his and reluctantly, Ojiro raised his head, mouth set in a determined line. He didn't answer too many questions about your situation, wanting to keep as much of it as he could private until he knew how you felt about telling them and stood up. Now that damage control had been dealt with, all that was left was to tell Aizawa.

Piece of cake.

Back with the girls, you were dragged back to the elevators to get to the girls' side. Since Jirou's was the closest, you guys went there. Your expression filled with awe at the many instruments that hung on the walls, wanting to touch them but you didn't want to get in trouble so you kept your hands stiffly by your sides.

Ashido enthusiastically led you to the plushiest spot on the floor and for a second, you were reminded of the little stuffed giraffe Ojiro let you play with when he caught you looking at it. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips and you jumped when the girls squealed.

"Who are you thinking about?" Ashido pried, eyes glimmering with mischief. "It's Ojiro-kun, isn't it?!"

Your mouth opened and closed, unable to form a response to that. You covered your ears when she shrieked excitedly, taking your silence as your answer and dancing around the room.

"Mina-chan, calm down, you're a little too loud." Yaoyorozu told her gently before reaching over to pat your shoulder. "Where did you come from?"

Mouth parting in shock at how blatant she was being, you twiddled with the strings of Ojiro's hoodie. "Um, well, they told me that my breed is mixed so I don't sell as well as a purebred but I'm fast and—"

"Oh goodness no!!" Ashido interrupted, eyes widened in horror and if you looked around you would've seen all the other girls wearing that exact same expression. "That's not what she meant!!"

Tilting your head to the side clueless, you frowned. "It's not?"

"No!!" Yaoyorozu exclaimed, horrified by what you had to have been through to respond like that on instinct. "I meant how did you get in the dormitory, in Ojiro-san's room nonetheless!!"

"Ah, well... that, um... I—" You cut off your stammering with a frustrated sigh. "I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to tell you."

"That's okay." Uraraka reassured you easily.

Her energy reminded you of Ojiro.

"Is it true that you're in danger?" Jirou spoke up for the first time since the gang of girls invaded her room.

Your jaw dropped in shock but your expression cleared when she waved her earjacks around pointedly. That must've been how she could hear and judging by the timing of her question, you concluded that Ojiro must have been the one talking about your circumstances. And since you didn't feel like he would knowingly put you into danger, you told them what you told him.

Their expressions crumbled before you, losing all semblance of their happy-go-lucky personalities as disbelief took over.

Yaoyorozu's eyes filled with tears. "You had to endure all of that alone?"

"That's horrible!!" Ashido cried out.

"I'm so sorry!!" Uraraka and Hagakure shouted simultaneously.

"I can't imagine what that must've been like." Jirou said, her eyes sad. "You're here now though, so Aizawa-sensei must've given you permission."

You nodded, knees tucked under you as you gripped the hem of the blue sweatshirt. "Yes, but it was only supposed to be a temporary solution and no one else was supposed to find out."

Hesitating, you gulped. "If... If this gets out, I—"

"Don't worry, Y/N-chan!!" Ashido exclaimed, shooting to her feet and pumping her fist in the air. "We'll definitely protect you."

Jirou nodded, fueled by her friend. "Yeah!!"

"You can count on us!!" Hagakure jumped up beside her.

"They won't be able to touch you anymore now that you've got us!!" Yaoyorozu declared determinedly.

"Let's go!!" Uraraka cheered. "Plus Ultra!!"

You burst into sobs at their overwhelming support despite only having just met them and the girls crowded around you in the best group hug you've ever received.

After that emotional roller coaster, they were going to bring you back to Ojiro's room since that's where you wanted to stay for the night but they heard your stomach growling and collectively decided to feed you with whatever they could find in the kitchen.

Yaoyorozu was pretty sure there was some leftover pizza that the guys had bought earlier that day.

Your protests fell on deaf ears as Ashido and Uraraka dragged you all the way there, Jirou trailing behind as Yaoyorozu and Hagakure ran ahead.

"You don't want your own room?" Jirou questioned when they finally released you.

You shook your head. "I... I don't really like being alone and Ojiro-san is my first friend I've had in a long time, so I... I trust him."

She nodded understandingly. "I get it."

"That is soooo cute!!" Hagakure swooned, balancing several boxes of various packaged Japanese snacks in her arms.

You blushed beet red, flushing further when the girls cooed at how cute you were. Pulling the collar of the hoodie up to hide your smile, you pleaded for them to stop embarrassing you. Tea kettle whistling on the stove as Yaoyorozu prepared some jasmine tea, Uraraka brought out the pizza box she had just found from the industrial-sized fridge, handing it to you after heating it up.

"Isn't this someone's food?" You questioned, not touching it. You didn't want to eat it if it belonged to someone.

Jirou pushed it towards you encouragingly with her earphone jack, smirking. "Trust me, Kaminari won't miss it."

You decided to take her word for it.

You had barely finished half a slice when the front door opened and the chilly night air blew inside. Turning around, you hopped off of the stool you were perched on and ran to Ojiro, who had an extremely exhausted Aizawa in tow.

Ojiro caught you easily, wrapping his tail around you out of instinct. It was getting to be a habit by now.

"Are you okay?" He asked as he checked you over.

You giggled, prying his hands away from their dutiful inspection. "I'm okay."

He breathed a sigh of relief but the two of you stiffened when Aizawa cleared his throat from behind him.

"As much as I don't want to interrupt whatever that is," He droned monotonously. "This has gotten a lot more serious."

You shared a worried look with Ojiro and gasped when his tail tightened around your waist ever so slightly.

"You can't stay here." Aizawa told you, fixating his eyes on the students who moved to object, more flooding in as their sensei's voice carried clearly. "You need to come with me, I'll find you a place to stay for the night."

Taglist: @katsukis-sad-angel​

[foulserpent]

only human

long character analysis + fan fiction hybrid involving critically acclaimed worst best game of all time The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion! martin is in a mental and emotional hell! ned and martin resolving unresolved sexual tension after like, 100000 false starts! being mentally ill with the bro’s! "fluffy" ending!

cw: brief depiction of violence, ptsd, implications of past relationship based trauma, borderline explicit but not really sexy sexual content (nothing p*rnographic but 18+ pls)

On some nights, Martin was in hell.

The world was on a slow death march towards ruin outside the walls, this much he knew. Not even the strongest fortification could shield him from it. Every night from his gilded cage, he heard the screams, breathed the foul smoke and burning flesh and disemboweled gut, see the daedra drag the near-dead into the shadows to be torn apart, still crying out as they were devoured. His hands wet with blood, shaking in vain as his healing failed him and the survivors were pulled apart by their own wounds. The long walk out of the doomed Kvatch, past swarming flies and hundreds of blank eyes looking into the unforgiving sun. The revelation that all this was for him.

On the worst of these nights, staring into the ceiling of Cloud Ruler Temple as the sun began to creep over the horizon, he would wish he had just died.

This time last year, he was on track to live out the rest of his days in obscurity. Probably in Kvatch, probably remaining a priest, where the only weight on his shoulders was giving people their assurances that the Divines would look out for them and hoping he would finally taste truth in these words. It would be better than this. Those who held the reigns of the Empire were even more deluded than he'd thought, if they believed that his noble blood would divinely grant understanding of what to do, some inborn ability to keep collected and strong and sane trapped here as his friends faced death at his behest.

He would be called "lord", shone and polished as a commodity, loved and utterly devoted to, and never, never known. His feelings did not matter. This message had been thoroughly beaten into him. None of it mattered to whatever hand kept him guarded as preciously as the helpless king on the chessboard, behind a line of pawns to the sacrifice. Xikeel bringing him little gifts from gods-know-where (some teeth, a ring, a few spoons), slithering down from the rafters to visit him in the late night hours. One of the blades- bewildered - walking in on them dancing, without rhythm or music.

Long conversations with Ned, who would never treat him like an emperor, who barely even seemed to want to be there but had become doggedly devoted to Xikeel and himself. Bringing him wine, face softened into a smile in anticipation of an evening sitting outside in comfortable, quiet company. Tired and spiteful, but so warm.

He did not know when his feelings had turned to want. There was never an astonished realization, no moment that had changed everything. The first time he consciously acknowledged it was not as a revelation, but as an observation. Ned had cut his hand, a simple, foolish mistake that left Martin wearily healing him, in spite of the bosmer’s protests. Martin had held onto his hand longer than the spell needed, feeling the pulse in his fingers and wanting to entwine him in his own. Wanting to pull him in closer. Noticing that he wanted this, and noticing that it did not surprise him.

It was one of many things to think about, significantly less distressing than every other aspect of his current existence to say the least. He wondered if it was the day he had returned from his nigh-suicidal mission to cheat a god, haggard and shirt bloodied and yet with the softest eyes Martin had seen in the man, cracking a weak smile (a flash of teeth) that said "I've done it, and I hope you can forgive me". He wondered if it was Ned's unwavering devotion to leaving his shirt half-unbuttoned, the burn tearing through his chest on display like a trophy. The necklace would fall across the older man's breast while he laughed and joked about stupid things with Martin as if they were old friends. He was not above simple things.

Perhaps this was a test of the temperance he had spent years cultivating, hollowing out a part of himself to nurture the seed. After all, he had not been with anyone for a long time.

---

He had loathed the existence of the arena in Kvatch, drawing in men and women from all around in what amounted to mass suicide. There was little honor in it, just desperate people consuming themselves for just to grasp a thread of glory, dying in the mud as the crowd roared.  But Martin was only human. He had found himself looking on the men as they passed through town, all muscle and scars and fiercely alive. He had found himself drawn to one who had come into the temple for a blessing of protection. The man never said why, though Martin knew where he was bound. It was never hard to tell.

The man was tall and rather handsome, with a muscular frame and dark hair and looking to be only a few years younger than himself, (this had to be around when he was forty-one or forty-two. Had it been that long?). They'd spoke first as strangers do, running through the motions of a blessing under a thick smoke of incense and flowers burnt in offering to the Dragon. Martin averted his gaze from the sword at the man's hip as he prepared the oil. Its hilt glittered in iron filigree and unmistakable rust of dried blood struck gold by the afternoon's dying light. His eyes wandered to the man's face instead, moving to begin the anointment. The dark haired man swiped his tongue over his lips and glanced away, and Martin's heartbeat spiked.

For gods sakes.

The man talked compulsively, glancing around as if something stalked him in the shadows between the stained-glass-light. Martin had silently hoped he would grow bored with the old priest and be on his way, if only so that he'd have time to himself to contemplate what the hell was wrong with him. So, naturally, the man kept talking long after the ritual was complete and the candles extinguished. About where he had come from, (all the way from High Rock, it turned out), the unusual rains lately, family. Partners. Lovers. The conversation turned here, and had fallen with such a speed that he barely realized what was happening. The man had found Martin beautiful, and Martin, exhausted with penitence and enthralled by the stranger and aching to just be human again, had found himself quietly slipping out with him.

Martin's home was truly tiny when occupied by two, an unfamiliar claustrophobia that was quickly dragged into the mire and drowned in a little too much wine. It was cheap and burned his throat with its sweetness, but he didn't care. They'd stumbled and fallen into his bed.

"For good luck," the man had said, as they kissed rough and far too clumsy.

"For good luck," Martin had kissed into the man's neck.

The man was a bit fumbling, all muscles and scars and fierceness. No matter how close their bodies pressed, no matter the grip Martin had - his fingers marking new trails over a scarred back -  there was that distance. Two magnets repelling, even as they forced themselves together. These men going to their deaths couldn't be touched. And neither could he, no matter how he tried. There weren't even the barest roots of love here. Just body on body, flesh on flesh. It wasn't bad, though. Martin was only human.

He didn't know what to say in the morning, as the man collected his belongings to go off to the fight. "Good luck," Martin said again, feeling stupid. The man had said "thank you" with his eyes distant. He bent down and out the door, and walked out into the humid morning air, leaving Martin with a strange emptiness in his gut. He never saw him again.

It shouldn't have impacted him so badly. He'd had a one-night stand that was, frankly, pretty good. He'd given another man some comfort, something above and beyond his duty as the Priest-Healer-Penitent. It wasn't really against any vows. His lungs still breathed the smoke of offerings to the Dragon, a shrine to Dibella was dutifully kept at the foot of his bed and given a clumsy offering before the main event. He had not fallen back into the snares of that damned daedra. It wasn't a betrayal of those he'd lost. So why was he guilty?

---

And yet here he was now, on the precipice yet again. Really, he was long into the fall.

Him and one-of-two Heroes of Kvatch had slept together for a week now. Nothing more than the sharing of a bed and body heat, their day to day lives much the same as the world crumbled around him. They had kissed a few days ago, slightly dizzy with wine and the memory returning only in a haze. They'd kissed again the night before, sober and beyond any deniability as the bosmer was making his way out on errand. Ned had blushed and flicked his ears back, leaving him with a soft smile and a quiet "See you," as he slipped into the night.

Now, Martin found himself kneeling as if in prayer at the foot of his bed, his companion sitting up before him. Ned was half naked, body all muscle and scars and an exhaustion that ran far deeper than that. Martin had been healing a wound on his stomach- sliced open by a nasty (and thankfully, poorly aimed) dagger. The Mythic Dawn long since knew what he looked like, though they had hardly been this bold before now. They stalked the base of the mountains like jackals at the edge of a kill, waiting for an opening to lunge in and tear off some scrap of flesh. Ned hadn't wanted to talk about this one. His hands shook as he'd taken off his bloodstained clothes, and he scoured them with a washcloth long after they were clean.

"I'm fine." He had said. "I'm just tired."

Martin was tired too. That first night together, he had this romantic notion that being held by his friend would keep away the nightmares. They had come as they did most nights, crawling out of the depths of his subconscious with the worst of him they could offer. He'd woken up, breathing hard as terror dripped down his body. There was one difference. There was a warmth pressed to his back, and it breathed a half-snore as it moved in closer, nuzzled into his trembling neck. Ned hadn't woken. He had just wrapped Martin up into strong arms, and settled back into a deep sleep. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but even as the last traces of the nightmare pulled out its spurs, Martin felt safe. All he wanted was to return the favor.

Now, Martin leaned to kissed the gash across Ned's chest, the one that the man would wake up in terror clutching at, eyes somewhere far away and breathing hard. He trailed kisses down the line of skin warped by fire and blade, and Ned laughed. "I can barely feel it."

"Really?" The sword and its burns had probably damaged a nerve. Or done something worse, something that cut deeper. It was a daedric weapon after all. Martin would later ask where exactly he had sensation, to see if anything could be done about it. Later, perhaps. Now, he was tired of being the Priest-Healer-Penitent.

He leaned back in, close but just out of reach. His lips hovered down over the soft hair down his middle, making a glancing contact below the wounds. Even there, the skin seemed to have been broken and healed many times over a long life. How could someone live like that?  He kissed him, just below the lower scar.

"How about here?"

"S'better"

Ned was definitely feeling something. The man's breath caught just slightly at the touch. He overcorrected, shifting in his seat a little and clearing his throat. Uncrossing his legs. Martin moved further down, just a little past his navel, laying another kiss on the recently healed wound. He wanted nothing more than to taste - touch the man before him, and to wake up with no guilt, no loneliness- he kissed him again.

"Or here?"

"Little better," the man's tone was flirtatious. "I mean, it'd be lot more sensation if you went just a bit low...er."

Ned had trailed off in the last word and froze at his own indiscretion. He was tensed like one with a hand raised against him, expecting a blow. As if he could have misinterpreted where this moment could go, alone and naked with his friend kneeling before him. As if Martin would be mad.

"Sorry, I didn't mean-uh." Ned flailed, pulling his knees shut.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'd like to, if you would."

Ned's breath hitched. He looked utterly bewildered.

"OH- yeah, sure? Uh- Yes. Yeah." He sputtered.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment that lasted an eternity. Neither man dared to even take a breath. Ned cracked the tiniest fraction of a smile.

They both laughed, pulling apart. The tension had snapped, and the ache in his gut relented, put itself to the side. Martin hoisted himself back up onto the bed, sitting to his friend's side with a chaste several inches between them.

"It's... Been a while." Martin sighed. "Look at me, acting all nervous."

"Me too man, me too." Ned laughed, covering the blush on his face and utterly failing to hide the red of his ears. "’Promise I'm not usually like this, I have no friggin' idea what my problem is."

"Well, this'll just have to do." Martin made a show of shrugging and frowning in mock-resignation.

Ned let out a 'ha!' and leaned back, all muscles now relaxed as he smiled up at his companion. His words and smile were casual, but he was looking at Martin with such soft eyes, as if this tired old man was the damn moons and stars.

"Can I kiss you?" Martin asked.

Ned nodded.

He leaned over him, and went in for another kiss. And another. This time, it was as if a dam had burst. All lips and tongue and teeth and breath and hands moving on skin with a practiced clumsiness that spoke to years of experience, and spoke to one treading a ground that was brand new and wonderful for it.

As they pulled apart, Ned smiled and squeezed Martin's hands, and he squeezed back. They guided each other downward.

Now, Martin's lips were at a precipice below deniability. His hands held ready at the man's waist, a few fingers interwoven with his, beyond caring if their palms sweat or if their arms shook. He looked up to meet Ned's gaze, who cracked a smile and looked away, threading his other hand into Martin's hair in spite of his sheepishness.  

"Can I keep going?" Martin asked.

"Yeah," Ned answered, still smiling. Eyes closed. "Please."

Ned's thumb brushed his cheek, a gentle encouragement. A 'thank you'.

And he kissed him.

[shannygoatgruff]

The World Over - Part IV

a/n: Sorry it’s taken me so long to update this. I’m a slow writer with some things and I hit a bit of a stumbling block...however, I think I’m past it now. Hope you enjoy!

Catch Up Here

Part IV - The Nameless Girl & The Faithless Priest

It had only been three years since she left Winterfell with her father and sister, yet Arya Stark felt like she had aged twenty. The corruption in King’s Landing, all of the bloodshed she had seen on the King’s Road and all that she had endured in the House of Black and White had managed to turn her youthful spirit into something that she no longer recognized. This thing, this person she was becoming, was not someone she liked very much. This new version of herself had become detached, cold, and guarded.  How she longed for the days when she was once the impish little girl of the North.

Still every bit as impulsive as before, Arya now knew how to hone her skills. Through her various teachers, fighting instructors and learning to survive while traveling through Westeros, she had learned how to watch and stalk her prey, strategize, and wait for the opportune moment to attack. Arya Stark was no longer the wily, hotheaded, passionate, little girl; she was now patient, dangerous, killer that harbored a penchant for revenge. 

Arya sat alone on the beach, away from the camp of Wildlings. Annoyed with their crude language, grunts, and stares, she longed for time to herself. She needed to plan how she was going to escape them and leave Braavos for good. There were still many names on her list to cross off, but her work in this city was over. She had learned all she could from the Many-Faced God and it was time to put that knowledge into action, but not in Braavos. The God of Death had plans for her spread his teachings throughout Westeros and she would need to move soon if she was going kill Cersei Lannister and eventually get back to Jon, on the Wall.  

Feeling the warm breeze on her face, she looked up at the setting sun and rising moon. Now, she found it hard to image the Westeros skyline with two moons, when as a child she could see it so clearly in her mind’s eye. Her imagination must have been just one more thing that coming south robbed her of – leaving Winterfell had already taken so much from her; her family, her home, herself. Why not her imagination? 

Arya closed her eyes against the breeze and the sound of the waves crashing. Toes buried deep in the sand, she lifted her head toward the sky and tried to reclaim some of her childhood memories. She could almost put herself back in her childhood nursery with her siblings, seated on the floor between Bran and Robb while Rickon sat on Sansa’s lap. She could hear Old Nan’s voice recounting the tale of the famed two moons of Westeros, “One day there were two moons in the sky, but one wandered too close to the sun and cracked from the heat. A thousand, thousand dragons poured forth and drank the fire of the sun. That is why dragons breathe flame. One day the other moon will kiss the sun too, and then it will crack and the dragons will return.”

When Old Nan would talk, all of the Stark children were left on the edge of their seats.

Arya actually felt goosebumps on her skin at the thought, the same way she did as a child remembering the tale. How exciting that all seemed…fire breathing dragons. All of the children thought that was the best story they had ever heard, except for Sansa, who thought it was utterly preposterous. “That’s not true at all. Dragons come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. That is just some made-up tale from the tribes beyond the Narrow Sea,” Sansa had corrected their Nursemaid.

Arya had rolled her eyes at her older sister and throwing a wooden toy at her that nearly missed hitting Rickon. That stunt had caused Sansa to tattle, because Sansa always tattled, and Arya had bolted upright and chased her older sister around the grounds of Winterfell at breakneck speed. If Sansa would have just taken back what she said about dragon stories being stupid and for boys, and that Arya was a boy for liking such ridiculous legends, then she wouldn’t have gotten chased.  

She felt her lips turn up into a smile when she remembered hearing that her mother was looking for her antics of running around the grounds like a banshee. In an attempt to hide from her mother, she ran to the stables to find protection in her brother, Jon. Together, they hid in a haystack looking at the sky talking about the dragons and the two moons of Westeros. As the sky started to darken from light to dark blue and the twinkling stars began to dot the black, Arya looked over at her brother and asked if he thought the stars were the eyes of the dragons that had died before them.  

Jon simply shrugged and mussed her hair, to which she gave him the biggest hug a girl of eight could give her big brother. Jon didn’t make fun of her or tease her too badly. He listened to her and let her dream. He encouraged her and gave her courage. He let her imagine and be wild. Jon believed in her.

If things were only as simple as believing in dragons being born of the moon and hiding from her mother in the hay with Jon.  

Jon. How she missed her eldest brother. Jon Snow was the one person in all of the Seven Kingdoms that understood her. He got her even more than her father did. Always her ally Jon felt more to her like her real sibling than a half-brother. Parentage or station be damned, he understood what it was like to be an outsider and never once treated her like she couldn’t be anything in the world that she wanted to be. 

Arya could feel herself cringe at the words coming from Septa Mordane’s lips as she would stand over Arya pointing her finger at her in disapproval, “No matter the House, the role of the Lady remains the same. It is a Lady’s must learn needlework – being able to embroider your House’s sigil is a skill that will be left up to you and ladies-in-waiting. Straight lines are imperative. Imagine your husband’s banners marching off to war and with an unrecognizable sigil. Really, Arya, I expect more from a Lady Stark of Winterfell.”  

Well, who wanted to be a Lady?

As a Lady, her duty would be to have her father match her to a Lord or Steward of a prestigious house to secure an alliance. She would be expected to bear her husband many children, boys, gods be good, that would carry on her husband’s house’s name so they may be strong wardens and banner-men if ever called on by their Liege Lord or the by the King, himself. Where was the honor in that?

Arya would have rather been swallowed up by dragon fire than have to endure that. Sansa was the one that was interested in all of that stupid stuff. She was the one that wanted to be married to a dumb prince, that would leave her to go off to battle while she sat at home sewing him a flag with their House sigil on it. Arya had always imagined herself being in the battle fighting side by side with the prince.

As the wind shifted Arya’s head turned slowly at the sounds coming from her left. The fine grains of white and gold sand began to carry on the breeze causing her to squint to avoid getting it in her eye. Hands in the sand, she carefully felt around for something, anything, sharp to use as a weapon. The blond Wildling had taken Needle from her leaving her virtually defenseless. If she were going to protect herself from a threat, she was going to have to rely on her cunning to do so. She would need to devise a plan to get back her blade and away from these people to carry out her mission.

Heavy ropes bound his hands and feet making it even harder to walk on the sand. He was hungry, thirsty, and felt as though his limbs were about to give out at any second. His left eye was swollen shut, it was sure to have an infection from the wound he had sustained during the shipwreck and he was sure that his right shoulder was dislocated by the awkward way his arm hung lower than his left. But, he would not show any signs of pain. He would not give them the satisfaction. 

Holding his head high he smirked as he was forcefully pushed toward the group of men sitting by the fire. With a smirk on his face, Heahmund Bishop of Sherborne gave a mocking bow toward the man sitting in the middle, “Heathen King.”

Ivar smiled pleasantly at his prisoner, “Bishop Heahmund! What a welcomed surprise.” He let his eyes sweep over the man’s appearance and shook his head at his injuries, “You don’t look well. Having a rough time?” Ivar returned his gaze to the fire and resumed poking it with a stick, “It seems as if your god has forsaken you, yet again. While my gods…they continue to show me favor.” 

Bishop Heahmund blinked intense blue eyes before raising his bound hands to his forehead to swat at a sand fly buzzing near his face, “Forsaken me?”

“Yes. Your god has delivered you back to me – brought you all this way, mostly unharmed, through storms and shipwreck, miles from home only to end up here,” Ivar waved his hand around the beach to signify their unknown land, “on this beach as my slave once again.” Raising his water skin to his lips and taking a long slow drink, he made a show of wiping the cold liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, “It seems I’m his favorite son now, Bishop. Not you.” 

Heahmund ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips at the sight of the skin of water. He had to still himself from lurching forward and pulling the pouch from the heathen’s hands. He could almost feel the cool liquid in his mouth, soothing his dry burning throat, but he wouldn’t move. No matter how much his body ached for water, he wouldn’t give the heathen the satisfaction. Instead, the bishop stood tall and looked around the meager camp unimpressed, “And it seems to me, heathen, that the Lord God is punishing you for all of your sins. Your army is scarce, ships in ruin. You hardly have enough food or supplies to care for those in your company. Yet you believe that you are favored? It is your hubris… “

“Enough!” Ivar’s voice carried down the beach causing Arya to turn toward the noise. He let a low chuckle escape his lips, “Take the Christian over to the remains of the ships and tie him up there. I have not decided his fate, yet.” He looked over to Hvitserk who was holding the Bishop under his good arm, ready to take him to his new spot on the beach. “Fetch the slave girl to look at his wounds.”

Heahmund smiled and ducked his head in a bow at Ivar before being yanked off in a direction away from the camp. Letting his eyes roam around the Viking’s meager base he made note of weaknesses in their defenses, and possible escape routes. Once he was settled he would have more time to watch and plan how he would once again get away from the heathen horde. 

Arya watched silently as the blonde Wildling led the new prisoner over to the wreckage and tied him to the mast of a ship. Where did these people come from? Everything she had witnessed from them went against everything she had ever been told about their kind. They traveled by ship, they had prisoners…were not they supposed to be nomads that traveled through snow-covered mountains on foot? Didn’t they kill everything in their path? Why would they take a bound prisoner and tie him to a ship? Was this man special? A deserter perhaps? Wouldn’t that be more reason to kill him? 

She was roused from her musings as the blond man quietly approached her stopping just short of where she sat to look out at the ocean. He didn’t say anything to her, instead, he breathed in the salt air and released it slowly. He squatted next to her and ran his hands over the sand, picking up pebbles before he stood and tried to skim them over the rolling tides. 

“You need to heal the Bishop,” Hvitserk said flinging his first pebble against the rolling water, knowing this was a futile exercise, but happy to have something to do other than look at the girl. Talking to her was frustrating. He couldn’t understand her, and she did not attempt to try to understand him. The more patient he tried to be in communicating with her, the more stubborn she seemed. “He has a cut on his head.”

Arya turned to him with furrowed brows and blinked, “Where’s my sword?” 

“I think his arm may be broken.” Hvitserk finished touching his arm in an attempt to try a different means of communication with the native peasant. “Ivar wants you to fix the Christian Priest – who knows why. And it is time to check on Ubbe. Then you may eat,” he rested his hand on the hilt of his broadsword as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. 

Arya smiled, “Yes, my sword, Needle. I want it back.” She slowly started to stand, wiping the sand off of her legs and hands. “It is very important to me,” she placed her hand over her heart, “It’s mine and I want it back.” 

Hvitserk looked at her stance and tilted his head slightly. He raised his hand to his chest and lifted his chin, “Hvitserk,” he dipped his head in her direction for her to repeat her name. Whatever she had said before was too many words for him to try to pick out which one had been her name.

Arya rolled her eyes. What he mocking her or trying to tell her the location of her sword? All she needed him to do was to take her to it. She folded her arms against her chest and looked toward the camp, “Where is Needle?” She spoke slower and louder for the Wildling to understand her.

“Nee-del?” He nodded in her direction with a smile. He pointed to his chest again and dipped his head, “Hvitserk.” When the slave didn’t respond, he shook his head in frustration. “Never mind,” he gently turned her around by the shoulder and headed her around in the direction of the campfire. “Come, you need to see about Heahmund, then check on Ubbe.”

Bishop Heahmund was silent as the two figures approached him from further down the beach. Trying to hide the disdain in his face at the sight of one of the sons of Ragnar, he let his gaze fall on the small girl that accompanied him. She was unfamiliar to him, but judging from her look she was no one of import; probably the slave the heathen Ivar spoke of, though she did not have the look of a Northmen.

“Nee-del,” Hvitserk said turning to Arya, “Bishop Heahmund is a prisoner. Tend to his wounds.”

Upon hearing the name of her sword, Arya looked back at the blond man in front of her, “Yes. Needle. Where is my sword?”

Bishop Heahmund looked at the child quizzically, holding his head a slight angle. The language she spoke was odd, but he thought he was able to pick out a word or two. What she spoke reminded him of Latin, Frankish and a Romanian language he had studied some time ago. “My sword?”

Arya turned to face the priest, her eyes growing large in hope. “Do you speak the common tongue?” she asked, praying to the old gods and the new that he did. Already twelve moons had past and she still knew little to nothing about the people whose company she kept. She didn’t know if they were friend or foe. She hadn’t yet decided when she left if she should add the one that didn’t walk to her list, or if she should leave them in peace. More importantly, she needed to know if they had heard any news on her brother Jon Snow at the Wall. 

Kneeling beside the bishop, Arya stretched her fingers toward his arm and watched as he pulled back his shoulder with pride. This movement received him a swift kick in the boot from the blond Wildling, “Are you always such a shit?” Arya yelled, turning her head toward Hvitserk, “This man is hurt and you’re kicking him.”

Heahmund let out a soft laugh as he licked his dry lips. He raised his hand to signal that he was fine. He thoughtfully planned out how to form the words he wanted to say to her, mixing the languages that hers most resembled. He could only hope that she would be able to understand him, “Yes, he is. He is a heathen and has no compassion in his black heart.”

Arya looked at the dark-haired prisoner and considered his words. His words didn’t mean much, they sounded more like a toddler learning to speak. His sentence structure was off, and some of the words did not make much sense, but there was still enough there that she was able to piece together what he was trying to say, “You can understand me?” She watched intently as he thought about what she asked and then nodded slowly. Excitedly, she sat up on her knees and placed her hands on her lap, leaning forward to grill him, “Are you all Wildlings from North of the Wall? How did you end up in Braavos? Have you heard any news of the Knights Watch or what’s going on in the North? What about the Lannisters?”

“You can speak to the slave?” Heahmund watched as Hvitserk pulled the slave girl to her feet. Instead of answering the other man, he remained impassive, looking out at the ocean. “Answer me, Christian!” Cutting his eyes up and to the left, the priest smiled before gently bowing his head and saying prayers of thanksgiving to God. Not only had he been spared from drowning in the storm, but he had been brought to a camp where there was someone with whom he could communicate. If the heathens couldn’t talk to her that was not his concern. 

“Until you feel like being more cooperative, your wounds will have to tend themselves,” Hvitserk said roughly pulling the slave girl away toward the fire where the others sat, no doubt to tell Ivar that the Bishop could communicate with their captive. 

Heahmund sat uncomfortably against the mast watching the dying embers of the fire. Judging from the placement of the moon in the sky, it was still the small hours of the morning. The Viking encampment was quiet with only a few warriors on patrol. His hands were bound awkwardly, mostly due to the dislocation in his shoulder and the pain in his eye was unbearable, but he would not complain. These small pains were his penance for being weak of body and spirit. 

During the storm that brought the ship to this island, there had been times when he had doubted that God would see him through and he had been ready to give up and surrender to death. Instead of praying and believing in God’s plan, he allowed weak thoughts to enter his mind and for the briefest moment, he had almost considered calling on Odin or Thor to calm the storms so that the ship would not capsize. 

How could he, a priest, a bishop even, fathom asking a false god for help? He wasn’t a man that feared easily and could not recount another time when he felt desperate. Even still a truly devout man would never consider calling on a savior other than his own. Here he was a warrior for God, and there he was acting like one of the scared sheep in his flock instead of the shepherd.  

A warrior for God – that was an oxymoron. The Gospels of the New Testament, devoted to the miracles of the Son of God, the Lord Jesus Christ, explained how He came to the world as the Lamb of God to die for cleansing men of all sin. It was because Jesus paid the ultimate sacrifice man’s sins were forgiven and he could live life eternal in Heaven with the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. The miracle of Jesus’s birth, life, death, and resurrection is what put an end to God’s display of wrath toward mankind. 

Learning these lessons in seminary, and being one of the few that could read the Holy Bible, Heahmund, Bishop of Sherborne fully understood the Word of God. But, the part he could never fully wrap his mind around was why he could never put down the desire to raise a sword and follow the Word. When Rome came to him and told him they wanted him to be a warrior priest, he should have refused, citing that an all-powerful God could raise and destroy an entire nation in a blink of an eye did not need men to raise an army in His name. Or that Jesus, in the New Testament, was a peaceful man and never raised arms. So why, would God need soldiers? But, he didn’t question. He answered the call without hesitation. He picked up his Bible and his sword and pretended not to see the hypocrisy.

But he kept quiet because otherwise, he would have to admit to himself how much he liked the art of war. There was something about being the first one on the battlefield that made him feel powerful. When he commanded an army, he felt more of a sense of purpose than he ever felt leading a church. He would much rather take a life than say a prayer to try to save someone’s immortal soul. Heahmund was born to kill – doing so for God, just seemed like a worthy cause.

He wasn’t a pious man, he was killing machine. He was a captain that needed an army and what better army to fight for than God’s? If that meant that he had to spend time in seminary and study the teachings of the church, he didn’t mind. Men like him, that had a certain, proclivity for the finer things in life, found that the cloth provided him with all that head desired. The church provided him food, shelter, land, station, respect, wealth, and though he would never outwardly admit it, women. 

He liked hearing the sound of the blade tear through the soft flesh of a man’s neck. He liked the feel of his steal as it so easily pierced a through a soldier’s belly. He enjoyed the irony smell of dirt and blood that carried on the breeze in the morning, the day after a fight as they walked the battlefield looking for survivors. He even enjoyed watching his fellow soldiers as they mercifully put wounded warriors out of their misery as they scoured the grounds. While he preferred the adrenaline-driven feel of battle, watching a blade pierce through a squirming body and the life force slowly leak out was always a welcomed sight. 

But he was nothing like the heathens. He was righteous. Though a God-fearing man, he was not religious, even though he was a priest. Birth order and circumstance forced him into a life of the cloth. Being born the youngest son of Lord Harrowing it was his birthright to join the church, just as it was his eldest brother Hannud to inherit their father’s land and title and his other brother, Harlund, to apprentice for a King’s Knight. Although he would have been more suited for the knighthood, Heahmund understood the importance of duty, and his duty demanded that he follow God and the church, no matter what he wanted personally. 

If he were honest with himself, Heahmund would admit that his love of war far overshadowed his love of God. But, as a good Christian and most importantly a priest he had to make everything in his life about the concept of God. His flock wouldn’t know or care if he didn’t fully believe, only if he could make them believe. As long as they believed that he could save their immortal souls that were what was important. It didn’t matter that he was committing sins of his own by bedding every attractive woman in town – he would convince her that she could pray to the Virgin for forgiveness. Nor did it matter that he committed atrocities when he fought – he did all of these things in God’s name. 

So why did he hate the Northmen so much? Everything they did out in the open, were the things he did in the dark and repented to God for in shame. Why should those Godless men have the right to live the way that he was meant to, if only he were so brave, and who were they to tell him that he wasn’t brave? What moral code did they live by? They didn’t believe in duty. They didn’t know what it was like to have to give up everything you wanted because it was what was expected of you. Heathens didn’t have a duty, and because of that, they lived in chaos. All of their chaos led to…freedom. 

Too much of this freedom made these heathen Vikings think they could do whatever, whenever they pleased; take from whomever they saw fit. They had no rules. No governance. They needed law and order. They needed God. They were lawless, loveless men without a moral compass. And prisoner or not, he would be that morality for these poor sinners or kill them all.

@a-mess-of-fandoms​ @oddsnendsfanfics​ @waiting4inspiration​ @simsadventures​ @inforapound​ @dreamlesswonder86​, @cornishdawn-blog​ @naaladareia​, @alexa4040​ @naaladareia​; @youbloodymadgenius​ @ivarthebloodyking​ @xbellaxcarolinax​

[blues-fandom-bullshit]

'Normal' Meetings

Mono (Classic/Tale)- Will most likely happen when he's checking in on you during the night, or curious as to who he now has to protect in a state different then saving your ass from an animalistic werewolf.

You turned to look out the window, surprised for two reasons.

The first being it was already dark out. Had time really passed that much since you had put all your furniture in and had finally finsihed fully furnishing everything in your new house?

The second being the male peering through with wide, shocked sockets staring back at you, upside down, hanging off the side if the porch.

Then.. He fell..

After the momentary shock of what happened, you rushed outside to see if he was okay, and why he was peering into your house.

Mono now sat in the porch, rubbing his skull from the impact, before he jumped up.

"Are you okay? Are you alri-"

"Don't freak out human! I'm-"

You both cut each other off.

"Y-you go fi-" "No- you-" You both stammered to each other.

You gestured to him after a moment, to which he sighed.

"Human, I am a gargoyle. My name is Mono and I guard this house, its land, and now you." 'Mono' stated in a deep, raspy tone, before kneeling. Depsite his calm exterior, he was freaking out internally.

Humans weren't supposed to know he was alive, especially not on the first night.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, New Master." Mono said, his sudden sweet and polite tone sounding forced and too much effort put in.

The sudden title had you taken aback.

"You don't need to address me! I'm Name. Please, call me such." You responded, trying to ease the tense air as the slight shift in the gargoyle before you.

He raised his head, his sockets narrowed some as if he was studying your features for deciet. He was so uses to human supremacy. This was new..

"Please, just.. Is your head okay?" You asked, offering a smile. "And, thanks for saving me the other night.."

Maybe.. Maybe Mono could trust this human.

Talie (Puff/Tale)- Will more than likely be during a visit to the lake to unclog the water system behind the house and in the woods.

As you walked calmly through the trees, you couldn't help but feel eyes on you. It was.. Probably an animal! Yeah..

Upon reaching the lake, you sighed some, admiring the clear water with the small fish swimming around. Now just to figure how you could get to the water pump without much hassle.

Soon, you were waist deep in the water, wading towards the pipe cover in the muddy grounding when you suddenly noticed the water getting darker from more than just dirt.. Or rather a shadow looming over you in the now dark water.

A yell left your mouth as something wrapped around your waist and yanked you back.

"Human! Human! It's Okay!" A voice called, a pair of hands being placed in your shoulders as you were turned around to take in the sight of whoever now held you.

Your eyes widened as the large creature processed in your mind.

A large skeleton with a soft, sweet face with sharp canines.

Glancing down, you found orange tentacles wrapped around your waist.

Your mouth fell open as the skeleton was quick to start talking about before you screamed.

"Human! It's Okay! I Am Just Trying To Help!" He said quickly, swiftly pulling anither tentacle out of the water to reveal a snapping turtle in his grasp.

"You Were Only A Few Feet From Them And I Didn't Want You Losing A Toe!" He stated quickly, watching your expression go from shocked horror to scared realization.

He quickly put the turtle back into the water for them to swim baxk down stream.

Then, the skeleton released you.

"Human! I Can Finally See You! I'm Talie! The Great Talie!" He introduced, sticking out a hand eagerly for you to shake, as if kraken skeletons were an everyday occurrence to be caught by.

"N-Name.." You said back after a moment, regaining yourself as you shook his hand nervously.

"Well, Name, Do You Need Help?" Talie asked with a bright grin.

Envei (Berry/Swap)- After meeting two skeletons in such a close time, you decides to cool off in another pond, stripping from your outer clothing to a swimming suit.

As you got into the water, you relaxes around, wading and walking through the water for a while as you sughed happily.. Only for something to brush your legs as you jumped back.

A.. Another skeleton slowly emerged from the water, peeking his nasal up from the water as he stared at you with bright blue eyes.

You could see, on the sides of his head, were fins. Oh no.. Another one.. A.. Merman?

Before you could say anything, you found the skeleton sunk down into the pond, before suddenly appearing in front of you with an incredulous expression.

Before you could even breathe, the monster had let out a loud laugh as he placed his webbed hand onto your shoulders and waist, suddenly lifting you with and spinning you around like childhood friends.

You let out a yell which caught his attention, him setting you down with a bright smile.

"S-Sorry Human! I Can't Control Myself! You're The First I've Seen Of Your Species In A While And Now I Can Talk To You In Person! Gosh, You're Much More Attractive Up Close." He stated, getting closer to you, smirking to reveal his sharp teeth.

"Oh! My Manners!" He suddenly whispered to himself, backing up as his smirk turned to a grin.

"I'm Envei!" He introduced, quirking a brow encouragingly to your hesitance.

"...Are.. Are you a mermaid?" You couldn't help yourself. He was.. Intriguing?

"No. If I Was, I'd Be A Merman. I'm A Siren." He corrected, his tail swishing under the water eagerly. At your more concerned face, he quickly switched to reassurance. "But Don't Worry, I Don't Like Human! I Prefer Animals And Plants!" His voice was upbeat, but a but nervous as he fiddled some with his scarf.

"Name." You finally said after a moment, watching as he perked up some curiously. "That's my name, Envei."

This was the start of a long matches of water games and scares.

Taif (Stretch/Swap)- Will mostly occur when you're needing to go into the woods, wanting to gather some berries or something for a snack. However, that note was stuck in your head.

"A....Al?" You called, watching for a long moment, feeling stupid as you peered into the trees ahead as if something would happen.

Sighing some, you let the thought slip from your mind and prepared to take a step.

"Human! No!" A voice called, reaching for you and pulling you back before you could go into the vegetation.

Turning around, you saw another skeleton. This.. Wasn't as much as a shock since you'd figured out probably all of who you met that first night a week ago were skeletons.

"Never go that way! That's to Domni and Vipers caves." The skeleton stated, sockets wide and voice a bit frantic. Then, he processed your shocked expression as he realized he was still holding your shoulders tightly and quickly recoiled back.

"S-sorry.." He apologized, cradling his hands to his chest as he looked away, as if in shame.

After a moment, you regained yourself enough to talk. "Are you.. Al?" You ask softly, the skeleton glancing at you as he lifted his head some, and nodded. Offering him a small smile, you extended your hand.

"Name. It's a pleasure to meet you, Al."

'Al' was hesitant, before shaking your hand as he visibly relaxed.

"So, what're we looking for?" He asked, turning towards a different part of the forest.

Something felt off about him.. Like he wasn't telling the truth, but he held no malicious aura to him..

Domni (Red/Fell)- Oh boy.. There is no subtlety. He openly goes to your house to just straight up talk to you like you've been friends for a lifetime.

You were just chilling at you place, when you heard knocking on the door. That's.. Odd.. No one lives around here, and you hadn't ordered anything..

Maybe it was Mono, or Al? But, why would either of them need you?

Approaching the door, you hesitated a moment, before grabbing a hold of the doorknob. As soon as you started twisting, the door was pushed open and someone pushed into your house.

"Ah, so yer da human that pissed off my brother? Hah! Good one! Haven't seen 'im so mad since Undyne tried to take the guard position again!"

Okay, who was this jackass?

He pushed his way into your house to just start talking as if he hadn't just shoved his giant ass into someone else's house.

As you were about to say something, you froze at seeing his large wings and tail.

How the hell did you get into this situation? You asked yourself, the reality of the situation hitting you. Monsters aren't supposed to be real.. They're supposed to be myths.. Stories.. Tales..

Now you're surrounded by, as far as you could tell, about ten? All of which hadn't seemed to want to you around.. Except Talie and Envei, but even they seemed dangerous at some points.

Maybe it'd be better if you started packing now.. You honestly just wanted to get away from the city and stress, but got thrown into a fantasy world of hiding monster men.

"..an...-Hum... Human!" A voice boomed, you suddenly breaking from your thoughts to see the dragon character in your face, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed. "You alive in that head of yours?"

You blinked a bit, before jumping back as he snorted some from your momentary surprise.

"Yer a weird one." He commented, before chugging a.. Bottle of mustard?

"Hypocrite.." You muttered, to which he stopped drinking the condiment and eyed you as if in offense.

"What ya say?" He asked, words a bit incoherent some from yellow substance in his mouth.

"H-...Hypocrite." You repeated, getting a spurt of courage. "Hypocrite."

He scoffed in mock offense. "An' tell me how?"

Ugh, his voice was so annoying! Even if it was deep, with a rough edge and a brooklyn accent.. No! He was a major dick! "Firstly, you come into my house without permission, then take my stuff, and proceed to insult me. All within five minutes."

This actually seemed to get to him, him opening his mouth slightly as his sockets opened some as he seemed to visibly process his words.

His lips then curled up into a grin as he started laughing as if you'd said the worlds funniest joke. "I like ya human! Names Domni." He stated, grinning wider to shoe off his sharp teeth and golden tooth.

You crossed your arms at him, unimpressed with him as he looked around a bit. "What?" He asked, completely oblivious to your annoyance.

After a moment, you sighed and shook your head. "Name.."

Viper (Edge/Fell)- He.. He was forced to apologize to you genuinely by Domni after his brother had hung around you for while two weeks.

"I DON'T WANT TO! GET YOUR FLITHY HANDS OFF OF ME! SANS YOU ABSOLITE LIZARD!" A loud voice screeched out front from your house.

You were currently behind your house, talking with Talie and Envei at the lake at the back of your house. The boys sighed, parting goodbye with you as you left the water, them seeming to recognize the voice.

You'd been swimming to relax in the hot weather. The perk about living far off in the woods in near solitude? You could walk around in just a swimsuit without a Karen yelling at you or having the fear anyone would be watching.

As you rounded the house, wrapping a towel around your shoulders, you caught sight of Domni flying off. Quirking a brow some, your gaze landed on the half skeleton throwing a hissy fit as he waved his arms up and down angrily.

"YOU GODDAMNED, ABSOLUTE SWINE! I'LL KI..LL...YOu.. sans.." His, rather loud, voice fell to a whisper as his own gaze landed on your form.

His face flushed a nice shade of crimson as his pinprick trailed down your body, watching water slide down your skin.

During this, you took in the sight of his large snake lower half. Ruby red with black scales speckled here and there. Was that.. A pink underbelly?

Unlike him, you hand the decency not to state for too long. After a moment, you rose your hand to cough awkwardly into it as he finally shook himself from his trance.

"HUMAN! I AM THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE VIPER! MY BROTHER HAS BROUGHT ME HERE TO APOLOGIZE FOR TRYING TO ATTACK YOU. HOWEVER, I REFUSE AND HE CANNOT MAKE ME!" He declared, crossing his arms and looking away as his blush started to die down.

Watching him a moment, you outstretched your hand. "Name." You said simply, which made him gaknced at you and then do a double take.

"EXCUSE ME?" He asked, trying, and failing, to mask his tone of confusion.

"Name," You restated. "That's my name, Viper." You shook your hand some, as if to bring his attention back to it as he slowly pulled his own from his pouting and shook yours.

With that, you moved passed him and towards your door.

"HUMAN! WAIT!" He called as you opened the door. "TOMORROW. MIDDAY. JOIN ME FOR SOME TEA." He.. Offered? Ordered? Either way, he was too intimidating to say no.

Centri (Black/SwapFell R)- You ended up meeting him after your tea meeting with Viper, actually.

Walking back from Vipers cave den at the base of the cliffside when something straight up duve bombed you to the ground.

"GOD DAMMIT! IT'S YOU AGAIN! ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED?!" A loud voice yelled at you, making you wince some from the vokume as the weight got off you.

Sitting forward, you were greeted by Feathers, the guy who pushed that very weird skeleton off of you that first night.

"WELL?" He squawked, eyeing you like an upset parent, including crossing his arms as his wings folded behind him.

"I-I.. U-uh-um.." You stammered, looking down. He sighed, pulling you to your feet.

"ARE YOU CURIOUS, COURAGOUS, OR JUST PLAIN STUPUD?" He asked, before continuing without waiting. "NO HUMAN IN THEIR RIGHT MIND WOULD CONSCIOUSLY AND WILLINGLY STAY IN THIS FOREST! I WOULD HAVE EXPECTED HUMANS TO HAVE SOME SENSE, BUT AP-" "Thank you." "-LY YOU- .....WHAT?"

"Thank you." You repeated.

He stared at you a moment, slow to processing this.

"For saving me that night," You elaborated. "I might of died if it weren't for you."

This made a deep blush rise to the surface of his face as his sockets widened and he stammered. Did his wings just puff up?

After he regained himself seeing you laugh a bit, smiling some, he crosses his arms and looked to the side with his sockets closed. "O-OF COURSE! I COULDN'T LET AN I-IDIOT HUMAN LIKE YOURSELF DIE! YOU'VE DONE NOTHING WRONG SO FAR."

Was that a compliment? An insult? Was everyone here confusing?

Monsters were supposed to be evil and bloodthirsty.. Well, Viper did try to kill you..

"IT WAS YOUR FAULT." His voice echoed in your head.

He then dropped his stubbornness in his stroked ego and stuck out a hand. "CENTRI. THE GREAT HARPY CENTRI."

Harpy? Weren't harpies all female? And were their wings attatched to their arms? Why were you questioning? Everything was weird and confusing here.

"Name." You responded.

Centri scoffed. "What?" You asked.

"NO TITLE? *SIGH* YOU HUMANS AREN'T ANY FUN. THE MARVELOUS NAME? THE AMUSING NAME? NOTHING?"

You gave him an odd look. "Those make me sound like a kids show magician." You commented, which made him laugh some.

"THE AMUSING NAME IT IS."

"W-what?"

Relib (Mutt/SwapFell R)- Most likely the only -partially normal- one of the group when it comes to meeting him.

You really needed a chill day..

Talie and Envei were constantly trying to get you to explore the far ends of the forest with them. Taif and Mono.. Were pretty chill. But those reptile brothers were constantly on your ass about doing something, agreeing with one and not the other, deciding who's right and who's wrong, who woukd hang at with you at one day and the other.

They were exhausting, and it was hard for you to say no to them, especially being new neighbors.

So, when you heard a knock on the door, you groaned some, sinking into your chair before the sound of the knock and outside processed. Quiet. Both of them. The knock was shaky, quiet, and the sound from your porch was.. Silent.

Standing, you approached the door and slowly opened it, revealing a.. Tall skeleton monster.

Gee, really narrows that down. But, this one had.. Two tails? And.. Ears? Was that a gypsy outfit?

The monster, upon realizing the door wss open, squeaked some as he straightened his posture. His fave was also flushed a rusty color..

"Hello?" You said after a moment, which made him jolt some before thrusting a thermos your way.

"H-here! Coffee!"

Taking the thermos, since there was seemingly no other option. "Thanks..?" What a strange fellow..

After you two stood there a moment, he finally seemes to break his awkward and tense shell. "I'm Relib!" He stated, pushing his hand to you to shake, which you did.

"Name," You replied, watching as he visibly relaxed.

"S-sorry.. I-its just.. I haven't seen anyone new around here in.. A while.." He managed out through a quiet voice as he fiddled with his hands, looking down at them. Aw.. His ears even folded down..

"It's fine, Relib. Why not come in?" You offered, to which he seemed surprised, before shaking nodding and giving a small smile.

Inten (Crooks/Horror)- Probably the most energetic out of all of them. And the most sudden heart attack you've ever had from shock.

You had just been walking in the forest, exploring, when suddenly you were in the arms of someone with wind rushing passed you.

Disoriented, you ended up looking down.. Only to see forest hundreds of yards below..

Squeaking, you clung onto whiever had you tightly as you finally processed them laughing and cheering.

"I've Caught A Human! Yes! Human!" The male voice cheered down to you, making you look up from clinging to him as he processed your scared look and his excited expression left to concern then sympathy as he.. Dive bombed down towards the ground before opening his large, black wings and flying through the trees.

"Better Human?" He asked, to which you nodded some, body tense from the stranger that just picked you up and took you so far high you felt like death and swooped down and carried you away.

It was then he came to his senses. "Oh! My Apologies, Human! I Could Have Thought Ren Had Killed You The Other Night.. Oh Well, Must Have Been Someone Else." His words.. Did not appease your spinning mind.

"Oh! I'm Inten! The Great Inten!" He introduced, landing on the forest floor as he switched to holding you bridal style instead of by the waust to his body. "So, Human. What Shall We Call You?"

"N-Name.." You manage, still dizzy from the suddeness of what's happened.

"Name.. Hm.. I Like It! Now. Would You Like Some Cookies?"

Ren (Axe/Horror)- It's.. Unconventional..

You honestly just wanted a calm night.. A relaxing weekend.. But every night a large creature was peering through the windows, scratching at doors or even trying to scale walls.

It was terrifying to say the least. And Mono just told you to stay inside and ignore it. It wasn't anything that could break in.

It always seemed like he was lying.. He said before he was to protect the land and the grounds owner, but he seemed to just tell you moments too late or just half hearted advice of safety, like he couldn't care if you died or not.

Then again you were a grown person and that was just anorher unnecessary chore added to his.

Well, after a few night you decides to hang out in the oorch and just admire the stars above from the porch. You never saw them in the city, and it was mesmerizing. Maybe that's why you nearly screamed at the creeping figure slowly climbing over the side of your porches banister and closing in on you.

Instinctively, you bolted for the door, but that snapped the large, large creature from their trance and pouncing on you as a scream tore from your throat.

This was it.. You were a deadman.. A goner..

Well.. Not exactly.

As you bid the world farewell, you felt a face pressed into your neck, giving in because there was no way this amount of strength could be broken from.

Well.. Death wasn't exactly in the near future.

Yes, a face was buried in between your neck and shoulder and a massive weight was on you, but.. No teeth sunk in, or claws drew lines down your body.

Instead, you heard a deep inhale and the weight of whoever was on you lessened as they relaxed.

Your fave flushed as your mouth released a squeak as a tongue licmed at your skin and a fluffy mass swept over your legs, which made a deep.. Purr? Growl? Chuckle..? Escape the beings throat as boney hands grabbed your shoulders as whoever this was sat up and held your -in comparison- tiny figure to their chest.

Looking up, you saw it was the same skeleton that attacked you up on the cliff side the first night, skull opening and all.

At seeing you look up to his face, a small grin broke across his face and his large eyelight softened as he nuzzled his nasal into your head.

Only seconds later did you see Mono, Al, Viper, Domni, and Inten appearing in the clearing with varying looks of concern on their faces that quickly melted to shock at your state.

A small human wrapped in the bulky arms of one of- scratch that! The most dangerous and unstable monster in these forests that seemed to just melt from that normally snarling and absolutely feral werewolf.

When you reached towards your friend group as a silent plea for help, Al stepping forward with immediately made the skeleton holding you snap his hesd up as his single eae folded back and he bared his sharp teeth while tightening his already strong grip around you, threatening anyone that got closer.

Al got the message and tool two steps back, which made the wolf holding you turn away some.

"Brother!" Inten suddenly gasped, as if processing finally what's happened. "What Are You Doing?" He asked, partially exasperated as he approaches the living prison holding your frame without a hostile wanting this time.

When Inten tries to reach for you, his brother only tugged you away and wrapped his large around around you more while hunching over, before lifting his shirt and pushing you into his ribcage and even zipping up the puffy jacket he wore to ensure your stuck.

"Brother! You Can't Just Keep That Human!" Inten scolded lightly, his vocie muffled by the barriers.

It was pretty warm in here.. And oddly comfortable.. But.. A red light illuminated the area. Looking up, a floating heart was above, cracked. Something told you not to touch the heart at all.

"HUMAN! WE'LL GET YOU OUT SOON!" Vipers loud vocie called from afar.

"We'll Have To Wait All Night Now.." Inten huffed.

"Dammit Ren.." Mono's voice came, a harsh, barely mutter.

Well.. Lets say when you woke up, a whining and desperate werewolf was searching for you while Mono secured windows and doors.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer III: Blood Joy

I faced my friends for what could be the last time.

“You’ll let us know if anything happens?” Johann said. 

I looked him in the eyes. “You’ll know before anyone else.”

Chisei had finally sent me the photo of Erii’s hospital room. It was 8 pm in the evening an hour before my scheduled shift. Lu Mingfei had joined us in the Takamagahara I’d hugged him for a long time. But now, I was leaving.

Chisei could very well kill me. Tachibana could be lying in wait. But this was the beginning of what could be our best chance to get out of here.

Johann stepped forward and gave me a lingering kiss, the back of his gloved hand running down my cheek. “Be careful.”

I nodded, my emotions rising in my throat, rendering me speechless. I stepped away from him, glancing at the picture of my phone, orienting myself to face the correct direction and closing my eyes. Erii’s room seemed imaginary at first, then solidified into a sort of semi-reality that told me that the path to teleport was clear and correct. I stepped forward and vanished into the dark.

Three seconds later, I stepped out of the shadow.

The Takamagahara suite was replaced by the woman’s bedroom covered in exquisite paintings and smelling of sandalwood. The sight of my friends was replaced by a potentially very dangerous person. Chisei startled as I appeared suddenly in the blink of an eye. His hand unconsciously went to the hilt of his sword, but then relaxed as I didn’t move.

I smiled and waved, hiding my slamming heartbeat. “Hello!”

He took a breath to relieve his own nerves.

I looked at Erii. She’d been sedated at my request. She was hooked up to what appeared to be a modified IV. One tube was siphoning away her blood and running it through a machine that collected a blue-black fluid in a canister before returning it to her body. The fluid in the machine gave off an eerie feeling. I stared at it, hairs standing on end.

Chisei crossed his arms. I cleared my throat and looked at her with dragon eyes.

Even with the treatment, her body was in what I could only describe as a process similar to oxidation. She was in constant exposure to high levels of dragon DNA that spread like fire and rust and would start to eat away at her the moment she got off the machine. This dragon blood would need to be burned away, cauterized by my speaking spirit. And it would hurt.

“She’s well sedated?” I asked.

He nodded.

I sat down at the side of her bed. “Wow... I’ve never seen it... this powerful. Well... actually I take that back.” I blinked away the dragon eyes. “Do you have a syringe?”

“What are you planning to do?” He asked.

“Give her an injection of my blood as a primer. It’s hard to explain but my speaking feels like a pushing, a throwing back of the dragonblood. Right now, hers has a momentum that is hard to push back against. The injection will give me a boost that will make things easier.”

He turned to a small rolling cabinet and found a few syringes. I watched him, relaxing a bit more. He was serious-faced. I could tell he cared a lot about his sister. He was upset and didn’t want to talk. He had reason.

He handed me three syringes and I accepted them. “I’m not really versed in drawing my own blood. Can you do it?”

He sat next to me as I held out my arm. His hands were rough in the same places as Johann’s. I could feel myself start to blush and mentally kicked myself. I shyly avoided his eyes. I told myself to stop it. But I couldn’t stop it.

I was happy to see him. The same happiness I imagined feeling when I hadn’t seen a friend in a long time.

He tapped on my arm to find the vein and I tried not to flinch. I watched my blood fill the hollow glass tube. He removed the needle and handed it back to me. 

There was a thing called Blood Cry, the inherited loneliness that one feels as a hybrid in a human world. But being with Chisei, I felt something different, a strong desire for trust. A kinship. I wanted to be with him no matter what the danger.

I felt the same way with Lu Mingfei. What would be the opposite of Blood Cry? I wondered.

I turned to Erii. “Can you inject it into her?”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “I did the same to Johann Chu. So I know it works.”

He raised his eyes to me at that, but then lowered them and took Erii’s arm.

The heart monitor showed a quickening in her pulse after the injection. Chisei moved aside. I took her hand. In my father’s language, I spoke the words ‘Release’ and felt my Spirit howl against her dragon blood like a strong wind against a cloud. It pushed and twisted against it, hobbling it, confining it, dampening it.

Erii’s mouth opened and she gasped.

I closed my eyes and spoke again. “Release.”

This time, the combination of my blood and the speaking spirit started a cascading and collapsing of her corruption. The tide had turned. The corroding influences were brought to heel as her human DNA was bolstered by my Spirit manipulation to be just as strong as the dragon blood in her.

I opened my eyes. “Okay. I’m done.”

I looked at him. “She’s going to be really sore when she wakes up. But she won’t descend into a monster any more. However... she’s about halfway there still. She’ll still need to be careful not to use her Soul Skill too much or she’ll relapse.”

Chisei’s shoulders relaxed, his head lowered. He seemed to be a man lost, a bewildered. 

“It’s really over, Chisei. She won’t ... have to do this any more.” I gestured to the machines. When he still didn’t respond, I asked, “What is it?”

“I found something, in a Kabuki theater where Ruri Kazama was hiding out.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photo. It was clearly him, a boldfaced young man and another one with a softer, kinder expression. “Oh! It’s you and your brother!”

Chisei continued to stare at me and I stared right back. “How did you know he was my brother?” He asked in a soft whisper.

“I used my speaking spirit to subdue him when he tried to kidnap me. He’s the one who told me about the village in the mountains. Where he used to live. He told me you were his brother. I saw his memories. It was about a year ago....” My voice trailed off in confusion. “I thought you knew Ruri... was your brother... he told me he was your brother...” I repeated, growing more bewildered.

He didn’t answer.

“You know I was wondering why you asked me about Ruri on the call. I guess this explains that.”

We were silent a moment. “Can you take me to that village?” He asked.

“Yeah! I still remember the way. Erii will be okay.”  I held out my hand to him.

He took it. 

“It’s going to feel very dark and cold for about three seconds. Don’t let go.” I closed my eyes and focused on the room that Ruri Kazama had showed me. We disappeared. We reappeared in the pitch black and the rain and part of me panicked, wondering if I had gone back in time to the night of the Raid. But no, it was just that there was a hole in the roof of the room now and water was pouring inside.

“The Earthquake must have damaged it.” Chisei said, pulling me out of the rain. We looked outside. The town appeared like something out of a horror movie, with collapsed buildings, rubble and debris strewn all over. I looked up at him. This place used to be his home, but his face was expressionless. “There’s something I need to show you.”

We stepped outside, heedless of the steady rain and the mud. “This town was built around a Shrine. We rarely got any visitors outside monks and tourists. So it was quiet.”

“Ruri Kazama’s real name is Chime Gen. He’s the second son of the Gen clan. Chime had a talent for the dances and the etiquette. So he seemed to be destined to care for this shrine after the death of the original priest. But... he died.”

“I never mentioned his name to anyone. I never told anyone about this place. The only person who knows about it is Tachibana. When I saw the news about the performance at the theater, as soon as I saw the pictures, I knew it was him.”

He continued to walk again until we came to a clearing. A raised stone circle was in the middle of the plaza. A couple of crows sitting on it squawked at us, flying away on dark wings. He strode forward. It was a well, covered with a padlocked metal lid. “It looks like its never been opened...”

Chisei wasn’t speaking to me. He was in his own thoughts. I hung back in silence.

He drew his sword and neatly severed the lock in a single stroke. I flinched as a piece of it landed near me. A warning reminder. I took  a step away, realizing I may have made a mistake.

 He pulled the lid away and peered down, his eyes flashing yellow, using his dragon sight in the dark. Even from this distance a gasoline smell came from it. Chisei took a lighter and shone inside.

I didn’t know what he was looking at. Something told me I didn’t want to know..

He dropped the lighter in and it ignited the fumes inside, the light of the flames illuminating his grim expression. I gathered my arms about myself, shivering. He mumbled himself. “He filled the well with fuel. He knew I would come back.”

“What happened?” I asked.

We’d been standing outside so long even his trench coat was soaked. “Years ago, I joined the Execution Bureau of the Japan Division with the intention of clearing the unstable hybrids from it. They were multiplying rapidly and the crimes they were committing were getting more and more brazen. It wasn’t long before these same murders were being committed right here. Several of the victims were friends of mine.” He sat at the edge of the burning well.

I wanted to approach, but I was too scared.

“The murders shocked the entirety of Japan. Because it was so close to home, I was ... especially eager to get back here and take care of the perpetrator. It was a perfect time for the murderer to strike again. He targeted very young girls. And it was the time of year of Miko Matsuri, where girls from the city visit the country to experience old Japanese culture.”

“One girl in the crowd was especially beautiful and I followed her, thinking she would be the likely target. When night fell she and a group of other girls gathered together to have some ... fun with witchcraft. The girl was singing an ancient song in a beautiful voice as part of a ritual. Her dance was hypnotic. The girls... they were entranced and so was I.”

“Then I realized... the smoke. There were drugs in the building.” He looked up at me. “That beautiful girl started taking the other girls and kissing them. The other girls started kissing each other... and then... I saw the blood coming out of the mouth of one who had been kissed by the singer.”

The fire was starting to lick it way up to the top of the well, smoke was curling out of it.

“She’d been killed by a blade in the beautiful girl’s mouth.”

My hand moved to my throat and I cringed.

“That’s when I realized the girl I thought would be the victim was the murderer. She wasn’t even a girl. She was a man. I ran into the building sword held high, but he was faster. He used an innocent girl as a shield. I killed her instead. But I got close enough to recognize him. He was my brother. That’s why... he was killing the people I knew. Because they were the people who trusted him. We had the same classmates.”

“I knew exactly where to find him. A hiding spot only he and I knew. When I got there, I saw the bodies of my classmates turned into wax figures, wearing kabuki costumes. I caught him in the act, with the body of his most recent victim. Part of me wanted to run, but... I was there because I needed to save the next victims.”

“So I just called his name. When he turned around, it was like he was ... waking from a dream. He was surprised to see me. He walked up to me... as if to hug me.”

My mouth opened. “You... you killed him.”

He nodded once. “Right... his last words were... you came back..”

He turned back to the burning well. “You can’t imagine Carli. That’s why you keep insisting that things will be different with whatever Herzog has created now with us. You keep hoping that the end will work out someway. That your Soul Skill will save you and I from the heartache of having to kill the ones we love, to save the ones we love. I... already know what’s going to happen...”

My eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot imagine,” I snarled.

My strong response made him sit up.

“Lu Mingfei, someone dearly love, had to kill my mother right in front of me after she turned servitor. So don’t tell me that I’m naive. I’m not.”

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. “Where I come from.... there were children like me who grew up and had successful careers. And there were children like me who grew up and were killed in gangs. Or were found killed as prostitutes or... were murderers themselves and ended up in prison before they were eighteen.”

“I’m just not willing to stand in judgement based on my prior experience. I’m telling you not to as well.”

Chisei sighed, frustrated. “We have no idea what Herzog has created. It will take years for Cassell to reverse engineer his research to even guess what he’s done!” Chisei stood up. “You’re risking your friend’s lives if you take them back with you!”

“No, I’m not! I have a friend. Isaac Comemnus, the heir of the company who sold me in the first place! He can tell us what Herzog did... and maybe how to fix if needed.”

He looked away from me. I took another step back, wondering if he was going to attack me. “You’re making a mistake.” He said.

“Did you intend to kill me if I didn’t agree with you? Because I’ll leave you here,” I threatened.

“No... I thought you’d see things my way. History will repeat itself Carli. But... we have an agreement. And... you did save Erii.”

“So you’re not going to stab me and throw me down the well?” I asked.

“No.”

“I’m glad. I really like you. But there’s nothing I can say to you to make you feel better. We’re just going to have to be patient and see how things work out.” I approached him carefully, ready to leap away at any moment. “Let’s go back, Chisei.”

I finally got close enough to hesitantly curl my hand around his. I paused, tense, shaking, barely able to speak out of fear. “I have to close my eyes for this to work. Please don’t hurt me.” My voice broke.

“We’re back to where we were before?” He looked at me with sad eyes.

Looking at them, part of me wanted me to relax. I leaned my head against his arm, closed my eyes, and visualized Erii’s room. “Not quite.”

[cupcakemolotov]

Go Where You Go

Written for @goldcaught, @thetourguidebarbie and @candycolamorgan who love this trope. I’ve been trying to write it for ages in a mafia setting BUT FOR ONCE my muse decided nah, we’re going to roll this as solid AH. This is 100% SFW and is mostly sweet and fluffy. Can’t think of anything that needs a warning other than the fluff?

Caroline recognized the smell of the hospital before she registered anything else. Hazily wondering if she’d fallen asleep in the break room again, she blinked open her eyes and tried to understand what she was looking at. She was definitely in one of slightly less uncomfortable hospital beds, and one of the nurses had clearly brought her extra blankets. 

It was the loud beeping of machines and the pulse monitor on her finger told her that she was definitely not in the break room. The chill from the IV bag definitely sucked as much as she remembered from her last bout with food poisoning. But the biggest clue was the man sitting across from her with his eyes closed. 

Her step-brother wasn’t part of her usual hospital experience. Blinking hard to make sure he didn’t disappear, Caroline cleared her throat. “Klaus?”

His head lowered immediately from where it had been tipped back. He looked tired, the faint start of shadows beneath his eyes matching the days growth of beard he usually kept to much neater stubble. His clothing was disarrayed and didn’t quite match, as if he’d pulled everything on in a hurry, though she spotted a bag at his feet. 

“Caroline. How are you feeling, love?”

Bewildered, she shifted her weight and immediately regretted the decision to move. Her right ankle hurt, though in a weird distant way. Glancing down at the end of the bed, she frowned. Was her foot in a sling? 

Finally recognizing the haze of pain killers for what they were, she looked back to Klaus and blinked hard. “What happened?”

“I was told things might be a bit fuzzy. You apparently took quite a knock to the head.” His eyes were sympathetic. “I’m supposed to ask what you remember before giving you details.”

She glared at his words and the curve of his mouth tilted at the edge. Huffing, Caroline tried to remember specific details. “Yesterday was Tuesday. We operate on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Our last patient’s procedure took longer than anticipated.” Caroline paused, and then frowned. “I took a Uber home.”

A hint of ire crossed his eyes but quickly disappeared. She appreciated his restraint. It was a fight they’d had before. None of her step-family seemed to appreciate that she was on a strict budget and would be for another two years. She was not spending thousands of dollars a year on a car service. Most of them had been smart enough to drop the subject after she’d shut Elijah down, but Klaus was stubborn. 

“The Uber didn’t make it,” Klaus finally filled in once it was clear she was done talking. “We had a bit of inclement weather come through yesterday. There was just enough sleet to make the roads slippery. I imagine you didn’t notice if you were in a procedure for several hours.”

Caroline pulled a face. “They moved the pick up zone to a different location in a garage. I didn’t even look outside, it’s been freezing for days.”

Klaus nodded. “My understanding is the other driver had just received his license; he over corrected.”

“Is he okay?”

“A tad traumatized though uninjured.” His face made it clear just how much sympathy he didn’t have for the boy. 

Caroline worked her lip between her teeth and tried to remember the events he described. Finally, shaking her head, she sighed. “I don’t remember the wreck.”

He nodded. “I’m sure someone will do a concussion test on you once they know you’re awake. You’re going to be here for a bit I’m afraid.”

She grimaced. “Is my chart close by? What’s the damage?”

Klaus gave her a long look. “I’m told doctors make terrible patients. Particularly surgeons.”

“I’ve completed five of my seven years of residency, after acing four years of med school,” she pointed out reasonably. “I can read a chart, Klaus. Have they scheduled an x-ray for my ankle? It definitely feels like something that needs to be looked at if they haven’t. Moving it was not awesome.”

Both of his brows lifted even as his mouth tightened at her admittance of it hurting. “You operate on brains, love. Not ankles. Let the doctors who have finished their schooling do their job.”

She scowled, carefully shifting into a more comfortable position. She knew that look. He was determined to be stubborn. “Why are you here exactly?”

“Ah, now that’s a bit of a story.” His fingers folded across his lean abdomen, and Klaus leaned back with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Rebekah called me sometime in the early hours of the morning in quite the panic. You can imagine my surprise when she insisted that I make my way to the hospital. She was quite insistent that you were a patient instead of a doctor.”

“Rebekah?” Caroline repeated, brows furrowing. “Isn’t she in Milan?”

“Rome this week.”

That sounded about right. “So why did she call? Bonnie is my emergency contact.”

The flicker of emotion she had seen earlier was back and she didn’t know what to make of it. “So I was made aware.”

Squinting, she frowned at him. “Klaus. Seriously? Details.”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth and his shoulders finally seemed to loosen. “Your friend Bonnie called Rebekah. She is apparently on a business trip and not in the city, and whatever details were given to her were apparently not adequate.”

“Oh no.”

The gleam behind his gaze shifted to amusement. “While I appreciate why you’ve chosen not to make Bekah your emergency contact, you should perhaps consider adding her to your list. When she was unable to get additional information out of your nursing staff, she called me. Frantic and certain you were dying. You’re lucky I’m the only one stateside currently.”

She tried to disappear under the blankets. “Please tell me you’re the only one she called.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Caroline pressed her face into her pillow and groaned. “Noooo.”

“Hmm, yes.” Klaus said with a hint of laughter in his voice. “Finn put his foot down on the plane fetching Rebekah and Kol, as he is currently using it. Coming home would ruin his plans, though I’m sure Sage will sure will send a lovely bouquet of flowers.”

She groaned again, shoving her overly warm face into her pillow. There was a creak of a chair, and then Klaus’ warm hand curled around hers. “Caroline.”

She peaked at him, and a dimple creased his cheek. “Elijah and I both agree that having Kol and Rebekah around will just make matters worse. He’ll handle their dramatics. You, on the other hand, will have to deal with me.”

Underneath the rush of embarrassment from his teasing, her heart started to pound. Behind her, the heart monitor sped up and Klaus glanced at it with a curious expression. “It’s not that bad, love.”

Caroling snorted and pressed her free hand to burning cheek. “Says you. I miss being an only child. How long did it take you to charm your way past the staff? How did you even get in here? I’m pretty sure we aren’t in visiting hours.”

His smile was abrupt and dimpled, and something tightened in her chest. Her lips part but a loud crash in the hallway had his head swiveling, and it briefly gave her a chance to study his face. Of all her inherited family, Klaus was the one she struggled with the most. Mostly because she never actually managed to look at him as a brother, and no matter how she tried to ignore it, there was a spark of chemistry there that never went away. 

It helped that he hadn’t been around when she’d been trying to acclimate to his family. 

Her mom had married Mikael the spring of her sophomore year of high school. At the time, the custody agreement had her spending her summers with Liz and the school year with Bill. So Caroline hadn’t been around for the dramatics of their meeting - her mom had written the visiting recently widowed businessman a ticket for speeding, and he’d asked her to dinner. 

Shockingly, Liz had said yes. 

And while Caroline had approved the hallmark romance, she hadn’t liked the Mikaelson children’s suspicions about her mom. Her new step-dad had been loaded, and though there was a prenup in place, it’d been clear his kids had viewed Liz as a gold digger. She’d gritted her teeth because while Mikael was overbearing and not particularly kind to his older children, he’d been besotted with her mom. 

Since she’d spent her summers with her mom, she’d moved into Mikael’s giant house once they’d gotten back from their honeymoon. It had been her, her mom, her new step-dad and three of his five kids. That first summer post-wedding has been rough for everyone. Rebekah had hated no longer being the only girl, Kol had been a little shit, and Elijah has loomed like a silent specter of judgement. Finn, thankfully, had declined coming home from his fancy English University. 

Caroline had learned to adjust to a sort of territorial Cold War with Steven’s daughter, she thought she could handle the new family. At least at her new place she didn’t have to share a bathroom. But Rebekah and Kol were dramatic and nosey, and having a younger brother was not something she enjoyed. At all. Her summer plan for cramming in college credits in the peace and quiet had evaporated, the staff kept trying to clean her spotless bathroom, and Kol thought his pranks were funny. She’d gone back to school vowing to hate all of them to her grave. 

But not before she’d eked out a little revenge on her own. Her mom had called her when she’d landed in Atlanta and conveyed her disappointment that they’d had to shave Kol’s head, but Caroline hadn’t cared. He’d deserved it. And if he’d thought she’d be over his dickery by the time she got back, he’d been very mistaken. 

But Klaus hadn’t been around for any of that. He was a half-brother to Mikael’s kids, and when Esther had died, his Dad, Ansel, had wrangled custody. Both Rebekah and Kol had seemed bitter about it, but she had noted that both got regulars texts from him. It had been a few years before she’d met him properly, which likely contributed to her lack of familial feelings for him.

Sometimes she still wasn’t sure how she started to care about the Mikaelsons. They were all trust fund babies who were usually was missing the common sense God gave children, but she loved them anyway. But those first two summers, such a thing had seemed impossible. 

But then her mom had gotten sick. 

Not wanting to dredge up those memories, Caroline glanced down at his hand still covering her own and her lips curved at the sight of paint streaked across his knuckles. “I thought you’d sworn off painting until you recovered from the last gallery.”

“I had an idea or two that wouldn’t leave me alone,” he responded vaguely. “The curse of a muse, I’m afraid.”

She snorted and let her eyes close. “Rebekah will murder you if you end up painting through Christmas again.”

“So says the surgeon who keeps volunteering to cover the holiday shifts for her fellow residents. Avoiding us?”

Her eyes popped open. “What?”

His fingers slid through hers when she would have pulled back, squeezing lightly. “While you were asleep I had a number of very concerned junior residents who all wanted to assure me that they’d cover your shifts until you are back on your feet. They all drew straws to see who would take over the holiday dates this year, since your upcoming surgery will leave you unable to cover this year.”

“Surgery?” Caroline yelped, fingers tightening on his. “Klaus, where is my chart?”

“I’m sure the doctors will explain everything when they come in,” Klaus said without a hint of remorse. “Your minions were all quite concerned.”

She dug her nails into the back of his hand. “Why did they even talk to you about this? I don’t have you on any of my paperwork. They so know better.”

His smile was slow and satisfied. “One of them recognized me from some pictures on your phone from the night of my gallery. She wanted to know if we were dating.”

She refused to blush. The picture he was speaking of had been one that Rebekah had taken of them and sent her the next day with several pointed emojis. Something about the way Klaus had been looking at her, the placement of his hand on her hip, had left her breathless when she’d seen it the next day. 

“I’m going to murder them.”

His laugh was soft and his expression was fond as he studied her disgruntled face. “So are you avoiding us, then?”

“It’s not avoiding when no one is here,” she pointed out in exasperation, tugging on his hand. “Christmas isn’t exactly your family's favorite holiday.”

Mikael’s first wife, Esther, and their younger brother Henrik, had been killed in a car crash on Christmas Eve. It had not been a cheerful holiday for the family since. Caroline grimaced a little and supposed she could let Rebekah’s dramatics of her recent accident go under those circumstances. Another holiday car accident was going to be hard on her sister. There was a lot of squish under the bitch. 

“Be as that may…” Klaus started, and she cut him off. 

“My mom was married to Mikael for less than four years before she passed. I didn’t like any of you for years. I’m still iffy on how Rebekah and I become friends, much less family. With Mikael gone, there isn’t much reason for you lot to stick around.”

Klaus tipped his head, studying her. “In this family, liking each other isn't necessarily a prerequisite, as you know. And I don’t recall you ever asking us if we have plans. Particularly since you moved back to Chicago to start you residency. Strange, since we are so close together.”

She blinked at him. “Should I have? Finn only tolerates me because I never ask for money. Can you imagine his face if I rang him up and asked him what the plans were for him and Sage over Christmas? Actually, you know what? Maybe I should do it. He’s been a dick to Kol lately.”

“Finn is a pillock.”

“He really is,” she agreed. “I kept hoping getting laid regularly would pull that stick out of his ass but it didn’t.” 

Klaus’ lips pressed together in a clear struggle to fight a smile. “Kol has expressed a similar sentiment, if I recall. Directly to Finn.”

“I bet that went well,” Caroline muttered, gaze brightening. “I’m sorry to have missed it.”

“You do dodge us.”

“Ha!” Caroline said at his droll tone. “You’re just jealous I have better excuses than you. Elijah stopped trying to talk me into his get together after I fell asleep on his couch after a nightmare shift and missed dinner entirely. I’m pretty sure he only invited me then because he has some weird sense of obligation.”

His look was amused. “And to think Elijah likes you. Can’t say the same for the rest of us, he’s made a comment or two that makes it clear he only tolerated our antics.”

She snorted. “Sure. And even if he does, can you imagine Christmas with Elijah? He had a dress code for everything. I don’t have the energy for the kind of outfit with he’d require for Christmas dinner. He’d want fancy footwear with a pretty dress and I just want my comfy Christmas pajamas. Last year I ordered in Chinese and ate out of the cartons for three days. Does he know what good take out looks like?”

“He isn’t quite that bad.”

Catoline rolled her eyes. “The last time he caught me watching hallmark romances, I could feel him radiating his disapproval on the other side of the mausoleum he calls a home.”

Klaus blinked. “He let you near the remote? He hides it now, because of Kol.”

“Apple TV.” She waved her hand. “As if it was hard to figure out. And for the rest of your siblings? Last I heard from Kol he was sleeping his way through culinary school and ignoring my warnings about gonorrhea being a superbug. I honestly cannot believe people actively touch him, but whatever. And Bekah? We both know we won’t see hide nor hair of her until she’s finished rage shopping after what’s his name had the audacity to break up with her before the holiday season.”

Her face darkened as she realized she was going to miss being Rebekah’s wingman for the upcoming parties. She would be determined to be seen this year, looking particularly hot, and whatever his name was would have a lot of regrets very soon.  While she would welcome the rest, she’d been toying with an idea or two to make him regret his choices. 

Oh well. Maybe she’d drag Enzo along to one of their parties once she was back on her feet. He seemed to like Rebekah and a little harmless flirting might brighten her day. 

Klaus’ expression had turned speculative. “And me? What box have you conveniently put me into?”

She bit her lip, trying to find the words to describe Klaus. Her first real memory of I him had been at her mom’s funeral. He’d sat next to her, warm and silent while his siblings had crowded around Mikael. She’d appreciated that. 

She had appreciated it again five years later when he’d sat with her at her dad’s funeral. By then, she and Rebekah had somehow become friends and not just step-sisters. They’d ended up at the same university, abd Caroline thought Rebekah would pretend she didn’t exist. 

She hadn’t. And somewhere in those four years of her undergrad, she’d started thinking of Rebekah, and sometimes Kol, as family. Actually having a quasi sister she liked had been weird. 

So when Rebekah had dragged her two favorite brothers with her to the Bill’s service, Caroline hadn’t been surprised. There was a lot of squish under Rebekah’s bitch. That the Mikaelson siblings had stayed after the service and helped her sort her Dad’s things, acting as a barrier against Steven’s grief and his daughter’s icy anger? It’d been nice. 

And after that, she’d stopped fighting them so hard on family dinners. Rebekah and Kol took turns bribing her into attending anyway, and she did like Elijah for all her complaints about his stuffiness. Even Finn’s attitude had become far more tolerable when she’d gotten into her residency of choice, but Klaus?

Klaus was the brother Rebekah drunk dialed to complain about her terrible dates from Caroline’s couch while refusing to drink a glass of water. He was the one who quietly glowered when she refused to get a car service instead of an Uber after late night shifts at her hospital. He was a little mean, exasperated at her most of the time and he had a with a truly terrible sense of humor. But sometimes the way he looked at her left her skin prickling. She thought about him in his suit at his art gallery, his hands and his lips, a little too often to be sisterly. 

Klaus was dangerous to her sanity, and letting him know that was probably playing with fire. If she let him in and it went badly, holidays were going to be a nightmare. But she was starting to wonder if it was worth the risk. 

“We’re friends,” she said slowly, finally answering his question. “Kind of.”

His thumb ran across her knuckles, but the hint of heat in his gaze left her pulse thudding. “Of a sort,” he agreed slowly.

“And you’re usually not here,” Caroline continued as if the motion of his hand hadn’t shifted to something more like a caress. “But hey, I’m sure I can find super tacky pajamas in your size if you’re feeling left out.”

“Your concern is noted,” Klaus said dryly, but there was something satisfied about his expression as he leaned back, fingers still tangled with hers. “But I’m sure I’ll live without your idea if tacky pajamas.”

“I might do it anyway,” she threatened. His expression was unimpressed, and she struggled to hold in a laugh. Shifting her weight, she winced as her ankle throbbed with the motion. 

Glancing at his watch, Klaus tipped his head as he clearly considered what he wanted to say. “The nurses should be here in another half hour or so for your next dose of meds. I’m expecting the on call doctor half an hour after that.”

She tugged at his hand, gaze narrowing. “Why do you expect him?”

He met her gaze steadily, dimple peeking from one cheek as his lips curved. “I spoke to him earlier.”

Caroline spluttered. “Klaus!”

He held up his free hand. “You were unconscious. Other than a brief discussion of what to expect in terms of pain management, they didn’t have much to offer at the time. Your ankle is a bit of a mess, sweetheart. It’s likely to need surgery, but you can quiz the doctor on those details once he arrives.”

She closed her eyes and tried to calculate what that meant for her residency and groaned. “God dammit.”

“It’ll work out. I have no doubt you’ll talk your bosses into what you need,” Klaus said soothingly, clearly understanding why she was upset. “You’re nothing if not persuasive.”

Caroine cracked a smile. “Thanks.”

He made a low noise of agreement and studied her face. “I’d like you to think about temporarily staying with either Rebekah or me once you’re out of here.”

“What? No!”

“Caroline,” he said patiently. “The elevator in your building has needed repairs twice in the last year, and Rebekah has been known to take the stairs to avoid using them. You’re on the seventh floor and she’s never met a sensible pair of shoes she has liked in her life. We have doorman who can assist with anything you need brought in, and your mobility will be limited. Think about it.”

She pressed her lips together tightly for a long moment before nodding. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Klaus murmured. Finally releasing her hand, he leaned over and dug through the bag at his feet. He came up with an iPad and offered it to her. “Your phone hasn’t been recovered, but this should tide you over for a bit. If you’re eyes start hurting, put it down. No need to aggravate that possible conclusion.”

Smiling brightly at his bribe, she took it before fumbling with the remote to adjust the bed so she could comfortably sit up. Her ankle was heavily wrapped and she knew the discussion coming would be a fun one, and she really was sore,but it wasn’t the conversation bouncing around the back of her mind. Glancing at Klaus from the corner of her eye, she let herself look at him. 

Rumpled, tired and a lot scruffy, she wanted to smooth his curls in a decidedly non-sisterly way. 

After a moment, his gaze caught hers in question and she shook her head. Turning to one of the game apps she knew Klaus despised, something warm filled her chest. She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to be able to avoid whatever was growing between her and Klaus forever. 

And for the first time, she was looking forward to seeing what that could mean. 

[bosspigeon]

How about one of those "I thought I lost you" moments (with hugs? kisses?) for Hawthorn and Ortega? Either one can be the hurt one but thorny boy letting himself reveal his worry for Ortega would be Very Nice.

Hellebore disappears with the sound of sirens.

He gives Ortega a long, long look where he lies half-conscious on the grey shore. His tattered cape drips on the algae-covered rocks, his eerie white eyes flickering over the Ranger’s battered body with… well, it’s impossible to tell even when you’re not waterlogged and rattled (not to mention broken in a few places) from falling a couple dozen stories into freezing water, but it almost feels like pity.

But he looks. And he looks. And he keeps looking until the sirens are too close to ignore, and he silently melts into the creeping shadows thrown by the lights of the bridge far above them, the blue and red of police responding to the chaos, and the city beyond. But the weight of that eerie gaze lingers until the medics find him and shuffle him off to the hospital for treatment.

And when Hellebore disappears, Hawthorn appears. There’s a significant amount of time between the two events, of course. He’s got to be treated for shock first, probably hypothermia as well, they’ve got to set two or three bones at least, and that’s not to mention the collection of lacerations and bruises that may not be just skin-deep. It’s almost two in the morning when he’s finally left to his own devices, as much as he can be while plugged into half a dozen monitoring machines and IV drips.

It takes him a while to even realize he’s not alone, but Hawthorn’s always been quiet. Subtle. Not like grandiose, theatrical Hellebore, with his monstrous mask and rumbling voice and wicked laugh.

He jerks out of his light doze suddenly, a few hours later. He’s not sure why. Hawthorn doesn’t make a sound when he enters the room, doesn’t so much as creak the door, and doesn’t say a word once he’s in. There’s just a moment of not being aware of him, and then he is, just like that. Ortega suspects there’s a part of him that’s just attuned to Hawthorn when he’s near.

But there he is, hiding his eerie black eyes behind dark sunglasses, looking at Ortega lying half-conscious in bed, beaten and exhausted. There’s a blotchy purple bruise along his jawbone. His lip is split but it’s scabbed over already. Ortega’s mind flashes back to the solid punch he landed when he’d managed to surprise Hellebore earlier, snapping his head around. There’s a matching bruise on his ribs where Hellebore got even, snarling in his face and ramming a fist into him with the force of a fucking truck.

Ortega sits up as much as he can (a few machines around him beeping in protest of his accelerated heart rate, the tug on his IVs) and Hawthorn still doesn’t say anything.

He just looks. And he looks. And he keeps looking until Ortega clears his throat and says, low and rough and just a little bit wry, “Saw the news, huh?” (Plausible deniability, for both of them, his traitorous brain whispers.)

Hawthorn looks away. He looks so small, like a shadow smeared against the stark white wall in his oversized sweater and dark jeans. For once, his hair looks carefully groomed, shiny slightly-damp curls clinging to his forehead. “Yeah,” he rasps. He swallows audibly and frowns. His hands are wedged into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. He’s always been fidgety, but he tries to hide it, like every other “sign of weakness” he’s ever forced down or choked back. “I thought… You were…” He makes a noise deep in his throat, and bites down on it before it can slip past his clenched teeth.“Didn’t expect Shadowfell to show up,” Ortega grunts. “Must have some serious beef with Hellebore.”

Hawthorn’s fingers curl tight, his scraped knuckles turning pale. “He’s a fucking animal that needs to be put down,” he snarls, and his voice goes low and rough with anger. No– anger is too gentle a word. That’s barely-restrained fury boiling under his skin. That’s a not-so-subtle promise that Ortega forces himself not to think about too hard, which is thankfully pretty easy with his head swimming from medication.

He tries to lighten the mood, because of course he does. Can’t help being who he is, even when he should keep his mouth shut. “I mean, to be fair, Hellebore’s pretty damned feral himself.”

He can’t see Hawthorn’s eyes, but the corners of his mouth tighten, plush lips pressing together. His clenched fists tremble. He doesn’t say anything, only looks towards the big window that faces out over the city. He can see the bridge from here, spirals of dark smoke still curling up from the smoldering cables and towards the sky. It’s got to be six or seven in the morning by this point, sunlight just barely breaking through the dense cloud cover.

“I thought he’d killed you,” Hawthorn rasps. He doesn’t look away from the window, staring out over the sprawl with an expression Ortega can’t even hope to read. “I saw you… I saw you go down. I saw you hit the water. And I was so sure you were…” He chokes and cuts off with a frustrated snarl that can barely be considered human, and for a moment (completely unprompted, he forces himself to think, really out of nowhere) he wonders how much of Hellebore’s beastly snarls and eerie howls are synthetic and how much come from the rage of the person inside the armor.

Hawthorn shoves his glasses up into his hair and rubs angrily at his eyes with his knuckles, clenching his teeth so hard his temple visibly throbs. “Fuck,” he hisses.

“Hey,” Ortega calls gently. “Come here.”

Hawthorn freezes like a startled animal, and slowly turns to look at Ortega again. His endless black eyes are shining, red-rimmed. He looks like he’s been crying for hours. Ortega wisely keeps that thought to himself.

Ortega shifts over, patting the bed at his side. “Come on. I don’t bite.” He grins, and he knows he probably looks like roadkill right now, but he still tries to look as charming as possible.

Slowly, Hawthorn crosses the room like a sullen ghost. His boots make almost no sound on the linoleum floor. He sits down gingerly, like his body aches under his thick, dark clothes. Ortega feels a throb of guilt in his gut, so he’s very, very gentle (for his sake as much as his friend’s) when he slips an arm around Hawthorn’s waist, settling his hand over the slightly concave curve of his belly. Hawthorn’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t shift away. He feels more corporeal now, like a person and not a specter, and Ortega can’t help but be relieved to touch him, like he needs reassurance even after so many months of (admittedly stilted) conversation and sporadic contact and frantic, clandestine kisses neither of them talk about that Hawthorn is really alive, and not just some cruel figment of his imagination.

The throb in his gut returns, but this time he thinks it’s just the ugly bruise there, rather than guilt. Other than the usual low-grade background guilt that he’s dealt with ever since the funeral, of course.

God, he’s tired. He rests his head against Hawthorn’s, smelling anise and black coffee. Hawthorn goes stiff for a split second before his body relaxes, and his hand slips over Ortega’s knee and clutches it through the blankets like a lifeline, audibly forcing himself to calm his breathing.

Ortega can practically hear him cursing himself, like he did back when he was Sidestep, furiously working over a heavy bag in the gym and muttering “weak, weak, weak” fiercely under his breath before he realized Ortega was watching him.

“Stop,” Hawthorn chokes out, snapping him out of the memory. His voice is strained, almost pleading. “Just stop. I’m not… He’s dead, and he’s going to stay dead.”

Ortega winces. Hawthorn always told him he thought entirely too loud, as he did literally everything else. Too loud. He supposes he always loved Hawthorn too loud too.

“Stop,” Hawthorn begs, his voice cracking. His glasses are still pushed up into his hair, and Ortega watches the tear slide down his cheek and drip off his chin in profile. “Please.”

“I can’t,” Ortega tells him, tightening his jaw and tilting up his chin. Challengingly honest, even broken down in a hospital bed and helpless as a newborn. “I don’t know how.”

Hawthorn make a noise, somewhere between a sob and a growl, and furiously rubs at his face with his sleeve. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck.”

“Not until I heal up a bit,” Ortega quips weakly. He can’t help himself, desperate to bring some levity back into a situation that is far too close to… something.

Hawthorn chokes, almost doubling over. The look he gives Ortega from the corner of his eye is scalding, but… he was always strangely addicted to that sort of burn. He only smiles crookedly in response, and eventually the glare fades into something softer, almost… considering?

He almost chokes on his tongue when Hawthorn straightens up, leans in, and kisses him. It’s only once, quick but firm, and before Ortega can do anything– grab him and kiss him back, or maybe just plead pathetically for more than a little peck– he’s pushing himself up off the bed and putting his glasses back over his eyes. The only hint of emotion left visible is the faint redness to his nose and cheeks, and the surprisingly soft quirk of his mouth.

“I have to go,” he says brusquely. He turns and heads to the door, but pauses with his hand on the knob, while Ortega is still stunned speechless. He glances over his shoulder, taking a deep, fortifying breath. “Try not to do anything stupid until you heal up a bit.”

And then he’s gone, silent as always, and for a dazed moment Ortega wonders if he was ever actually there at all. But his lips still tingle a bit, where Hawthorn’s pressed to them, and when his hand brushes the sheet where he was sitting, it’s still warm.

He’s still in the hospital, two days later, when he turns on the news just in time to see Hellebore holding Shadowfell by his neck and dangling him over the edge of a building. There’s no audio under the news achor’s voiceover, but Shadowfell is visibly struggling. His mask is cracked open, and the camera angle changes, showing one wide, frightened eye as he scrabbles at the clawed gauntlet wrapped around his throat.

And then Hellebore drops him.

Ortega’s breath hitches, and holds until the next segment assures the viewers that Shadowfell is alive, if badly injured, and will be transported to a maximum security hospital where he will be treated until he is recovered enough to be transferred to prison. The hunt for Hellebore and the investigation into what caused the altercation is still underway.

They discharge him that evening, with appointments for physical therapy and a warning not to do anything too strenuous for a few weeks, as well as paperwork to be signed by Steel. He’s more restless than he is sore, two days bedridden leaving him rattling with nervous energy that feels like sparks under his skin.

And almost the second his foot hits the curb, his phone chirps at him. He checks it distractedly, keeping one eye out for a cab to hail, and doesn’t recognize the number.

But he does recognize the name of the diner in the message preview window. His heart judders in his ribcage, and he almost trips into traffic.

He hails his cab, and instead of heading back to the Rangers headquarters, he gives the driver the name of the diner in the message, which has no signature, no indication of who it could possibly have come from. But Ortega knows. He knows, in spite of Steel’s sharp voice in his head telling him he could be walking into a trap, and immediately upon being discharged from the hospital to boot. He ignores the logical part of his brain, and instead, he heads straight for a rinky-dink nowhere diner with his heart pounding.

And Hawthorn is there, of course. A smudge of black he spots from the corner of his eye, tucked into the furthest booth from the door, staring at him silently, as if waiting to be noticed.

With a smile and a wave, Ortega heads right for him, sits down, and then all he can think to say is a breathless, inane little, “Hey.”

“You came straight here? After just getting out of the hospital?” Hawthorn asks incredulously.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Steel’s not going to be happy.”

“I know.” Ortega can’t stop smiling, and Hawthorn is looking more and more as if he thinks he’s completely lost his mind. “I missed you,” he adds helpfully, earnestly, as if Hawthorn can’t read his intentions easily enough.

Hawthorn’s cheeks redden just a bit, barely noticeable with his complexion, and his mouth does that little pinchy thing it does when he’s trying not to smile. Ortega hasn’t seen the pinchy thing in years.

“Shut up,” Hawthorn grumbles, ducking his head and sipping from his mug to hide his face.

“I didn’t say anything,” Ortega offers, still grinning like a loon. “Nothing at all.”

“You don’t have to,” Hawthorn sighs, tapping the mug with his fingers. Softer, looking up so that Ortega can just see the fan of his lashes above the black lenses of his glasses, he adds, “You never have to.”

This is a bad idea. A terrible idea, and he knows it. And he knows Hawthorn knows it, but neither of them seem able to care at this point. He doesn’t need to be a telepath to know that. But when Ortega reaches slowly across the table to peel one hand from the mug and lace their fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.

[avanalae]

Skyfire

Title: Skyfire Fandoms: Batman (Preboot) & Katekyo Hitman Reborn  Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne,  mentioned Alfred Pennyworth Rating: Gen Pairings: None but you can see whatever you want in this ;) Warnings: mentioned but pretty blatant child abuse, angst and self-doubt, happy ending~  Wordcount: 5,383

_____

Tim has always been cold. Perhaps not outwardly, but inside. His heart feels frozen, like he is shattered, feels as if he's empty and the cold has crept into the crevasses left behind. 

He's missing something but he doesn't know what.

It tears him apart as a child. He struggles to make connections with other children. He fumbles and struggles, only getting such excellent grades through sacrifices and because he knows the consequences of not doing so.

He doesn't remember the last time his parents hugged him and he's actually fine with that. His father's arms were always weak and uncertain, giving him a feeling of passivity and discomfort. He doesn't like his hugs. Now, his mother…?

Janet Drake doesn't hug. She consumes, encapsulates. Her hugs are warm, a strange warmth that makes something in his soul cry out. But that warmth has a piercing edge to it, an edge that cuts at him at every touch. It burns and freezes and something in him hates it and that only makes it more aggressive. 

So as he grows he becomes more distant. It's not hard, what with all the trips they go on. But he becomes lonelier than ever.

He remembers one year. It was fall, the start of a new school year. He'd made a friend and there was something building in him, lightening his heart when they were around. He was so happy.

They came home from their latest trip and he knew he'd done something wrong when he looked into his mother's eyes. He just didn't know what.

They talked and caught each other up, Jack doing most of the talking. He couldn't help but brighten a bit when he started talking about his new friend. But a few sentences in he knew he'd made a mistake. 

Mother never showed her anger. That's what made it so terrifying. But Tim could see it - could see it in her eyes. 

A few days later his friend and their family had disappeared. Gone, left to chase a new job and move states. The school was sad about it for a while but Tim felt broken.

Something in him shattered and he couldn't find the pieces to put himself back together. 

So he didn't. 

And life went on.

_

Bruce is… hard to describe. He covers the city of Gotham under his proverbial wing and is fiercely protective of it. Of all the residents within, no matter their moral status. He drifts from day to day, finding better ways to strengthen himself and to improve the lives of his people. He's like a cloud covering the city, everywhere at once in some ways and always watching.

_

Dick is refreshing. His sunny and friendly personality draws people in and his kind and enjoyable words and mannerisms keep them there. He's like a soothing wind on a hot day calming and fortifying all at once. 

_

Jason. Jason is a storm - a forest fire, a flash flood, a hurricane. He burns, he smokes, he flares, he's there and he won't let anyone ignore him or forget him. He is kind but rough around the edges, a scruffy street boy hiding a heart of gold. When he goes out in a blaze of fire Tim despairs but finds it oddly appropriate.

_

Stephanie is attractive. She pulls attention to herself, all eyes upon her, and that makes Tim nervous. It's how she gets into such terrible situations with far too much frequency for Tim's comfort. She pulls him in, too, and his cold heart burns but it breaks once again when she's gone.

_

Cassandra is quiet. So quiet and calm. She's vicious, though. She was raised by Cain, after all, so it's to be expected. She hides in the shadows, dances through them. She avoids enemies with the finesse of a cat stalking its prey. When he's with her he feels like he sees more around them than he's seen before, his running mind is pulled in by hers and he calms. It’s easy with her because others see what she wants them to see.

_

Damian is a demon. No, he tries to put that aside. He is young and Talia was not good to him. How is he supposed to know better when that's all he's known? Because he can see it, he can see the gentle star hiding behind his loud, cruel words. He watches as his small hands treat animals with the greatest kindness. He sees his hands create and bring mere paper to life. He hides behind that terrible mask that is expected of him - except that it isn't and he desperately wants to free him from it.

_

Tim has always been unusually perceptive. If there's one thing his teachers notice aside from his intelligence, it's that. He knows many things. He sees and extrapolates and just knows instinctively what to do in certain situations 

It’s what kept him safe on the streets when he was following Batman and Robin. It has helped him more times in his career as a vigilante than he can count. This is one of those times.

Batman and Robin ran into Red Hood on a case, interrupting each other in handling the situation. The situation escalated when a certain villain arrived on the scene. When he heard from Oracle what happened, he knew. His mind screamed and he bolted towards their location.

It was the Joker. Because of course it was. Things are going terribly and Tim starts to panic. Then his body goes cold as the Joker points something at Jason and he leaps -

"No!"

They collide and Tim gasps in agony as the bullet tears through his armor into his side. He screams as something starts to burn inside him. There's something in the bullet - something terrible and it hurts it hurts it hurts but his very soul accepts it gleefully even if his body doesn't. 

He doesn't register anything except the burning, soul-wrenching pain. Not Joker's laughter. Not Bruce and Jason slamming their fists into the villain at the same time. Not Damian grabbing him by his suit and yelling. 

He's writhing, something's building in the air. It builds and builds until something gives and he screams, hands tearing at his chest uselessly before he's restrained by someone or something, not that he can register it.

His very soul feels like it's ripping the ever-present coldness away and he burns. He feels like he's on fire, burning away into nothing. It's terrible and all-consuming until-

There's a flash of red behind his eyes and there it is, a strand of red fire streaking through him to his heart and latching on. He's burning but there - oh, there - he's not alone. Warm, he's so warm and the red has tied itself to him and he whole-heartedly accepts. Drags it in, curling up in its familiarity and its fire.

He thinks he's stopped screaming, but he still can't move. Everything is dark except the orange-gold of his heart and the blazing red now connected to it. He is probably being taken somewhere. He thinks he's being carried. He wraps himself in red when he spies hostile, uncertain yellow and fearful, wrathful violet. He reaches out to sooth and feels their shock and surprise. But that's the last thing he remembers as everything fades away.

_

"-bound. We don't know how long, possibly his whole life."

"Oh god, really?"

"More than likely. The outburst nearly leveled the-"

He fades back out. 

_

There's someone holding his hand and it feels so right he wonders where it's been all his life. He struggles to open his eyes but it's a losing battle.

"Hey, it's okay Tim. You're safe."

I know, he wants to say. I know because you are here.

A thumb runs across his knuckles and he fades out again.

_

"Do you think he would… That he'd…" The voice groans in frustration, "Why is he so eager to accept me?"

"It's Timmy, Dami. I'm not that surprised though now I know more about the reason behind it." A huff, "though I guess the question still has some merit."

Blue and yellow. He wonders where red is before he sleeps.

_

He feels consciousness returning but it's a slow process. He's only aware that he's warm, at first, which in itself is unusual. Then he's comfortable. Then he feels a hand on his. It's much larger than his own, he notices.

"Come back to us, Tim." A voice murmurs so desperately that he tries. It's a struggle but at some point he opens his eyes just a crack. Its dim in the room but still bright enough to be uncomfortable.

He feels movement and there's a noise at his side. He shifts, and the hand on his tightens. "It's time to wake up, Tim."

"Br'c?" he manages a rasp.

"Yes Tim, it's me. You're at the manor in your room." Bruce's other hand comes up to rest on his forehead. He runs his thumb across skin, "Let's wake up now, if you can."

“I…” he sighs, half inquiry and half resignation.

Bruce runs his hand through his hair and he relaxes. “You’ve been out for about a week. You’re in your room in the manor.”

He stares at Bruce for a moment when he can open his eyes a bit more. “Y’r p’rpl.”

“What?” Bruce blinks, “Purple…? Oh.” He sighs and returns to petting Tim’s hair. “All in time, Tim. We will fill you in when you’re more awake.”

Speaking of being awake, Tim feels like he’s fading again. He tries to stay awake, tries to blink but his eyes don’t open back up. He wants to know, though.

“Hush, Tim. Rest. We’ll be here.”

As he falls asleep, he breathes out, “Jay…” The grip on his hand tightens.

_

Finally, after a few more close encounters with consciousness, he finds himself to really be awake. 

And no one is near. 

He can’t bring himself to sit up but he can at least survey his surroundings. It is his room though there are a few additions. There are remotes by his bed and he presumes at least one of them is some sort of call button but he doesn’t know. And IV drip is set up, connecting the saline bag to his left hand, the side away from the door. There are two comfy chairs set up on the other side. There’s even a table between them and on it is a steaming mug. 

So someone has left just a bit ago and plans on returning. He wonders who it is. 

His hand comes up to rest on his chest, as if to feel the warmth that burns inside him. He can feel it anyway, from the tips of his toes to his scalp. He feels warmer than he ever has before.

He sighs, reveling in it. Then startles when the door opens. 

It’s-

Jason.

Something in him aches and he finds himself reaching out before he can think about it. Jason notices and instead of mocking him or jeering as expected he nearly vaults over the chairs to his bedside and grabs his hands.

“Jay- Jay- Jason- Jason-”

“Shh, shh. Hey babybird,” Jason mutters soothingly, “Hey, I’m right here. You’re fine. I’m here.”

“Jay…” Tim sighs, something in him calming, “What… What happened?”

Jason pets his right hand, thumb running across the inside of his wrist as he gently maneuvers the other to rest at his side. 

“Well, first of all Bruce fucked up. But that’s not unusual.” Tim rasps out a chuckle and Jason grins. “There’s not just regular ol’ humans and metas in this world, Tim. Even regular ol’ humans have access to a certain power. A power based in our souls.” 

Tim gives a slow blink, trying to show his incredulousness and Jason laughs, “Yeah, I know. It is unusual, though, because it takes a near death experience and a strong will to live to draw it out usually.”

“Ah,” Tim concedes. “That… expl’ns things.”

Jason hums and makes circles in Tim’s wrist. “So, everybody has access to this power, but it comes in… let’s say different varieties. They are called flames and there are seven different shades. Sky, storm, cloud, rain, lightning, sun, and mist. Some are more rare than others but the rarest of all are skies.”

Tim feels Jason’s other hand start to play with his, but he’s too focused on the man and his words. 

“Skies are… everything. They have a special ability called harmonization and it can bring elements together with the sky as the center. They are strong and capable and many other things and that makes them dangerous. So many times a sky will be…” Jason clears his throat, “They’ll be in bad situations due to circumstances out of their control. People will try to control them, take advantage of them, blackmail them… It’s a terrible thing. But having a sky is most any flame user’s dream.” Jason looks almost wistful and he finally makes eye contact with Tim, who is starting to get the picture. “You… You’re a sky, Tim. A sky who… who was bound and hidden away.”

“Oh,” Tim sighs out, not sure how to react. It’ll likely take time to come to terms with it. He looks at Jason, who seems to have a hard time looking away from their hands. “You’re red. Do you have flames?”

Jason looks up and blinks in surprise at that. “Red? You can see them?”

“Mm.”

“I… hm. Have you always seen these colors?” Tim hums out a negative. “Okay, so a recent development. I’m, uh, I’m a storm. Storms have the, uh, the power of… Disintegration. That’s the name of it but it’s more complicated. Same with the other elements, they all have different abilities.”

Tim closes his eyes and just enjoys the attention and Jason’s voice. He’s uncertain, obviously, but Tim doesn’t really know why. He’s probably missing something. Hopefully Jason will mention it.

“Like I said earlier, skies have the power of harmonization and can draw in other elements, usually just six others, one of each type. Once they are bonded, nothing short of disaster or complete rejection can break it.” Jason is nervous, so obviously nervous so Tim turns his hand until their palms touch. He stutters out a breath. “I… when Joker shot you, the compound in it activated your flames and sent them into turmoil. I… I reached out to you as an anchor and you accepted me... “ Jason’s voice fades at that. 

Tim opens his eyes again and watches as Jason finds his words. 

“You just, you grabbed me and pulled me in with no hesitation and I…” He clears his throat, “We… We bonded. So I’m your storm. If you want me. If… I know we’ve had a rocky relationship. I understand if you want to- to-” Jason looks close to tears at this and it’s distressing so Tim twines his fingers through Jason’s and holds his hand. Jason swallows and stops talking.

“Thank you, Jay.”

Jason lets out a shuddering sigh and he brings their entwined hands up to rest his cheek against the back of Tim’s hand.

“Thank you.”

_

The next one to visit is Cass. She doesn’t move to wake Jason, who is sleeping with his head on his crossed arms, leaning onto the bed. It can’t be comfortable but Tim hadn’t wanted to wake him.

She smiles at him, coming to stand at his side. “Good?”

He smiles back a slightly more tired smile, “Jason explained a lot. I think I get most of it.”

Cass nods, then holds out her hand, “Can I be next?”

Tim blinks and looks to her hand, not demanding or hesitant, just there for Tim to accept or reject. He looks at her. “You’re indigo. Mist, right?” She nods, not moving her hand. He smiles more widely at that and reaches for her. “You’re the only one for the job, Cass.”

Their hands connect and they reach out, meeting in the middle as their flames curl together. He tugs and pulls a bit of her into his heart, holding her there. Adding a strand of indigo to his orange-gold inferno in his chest. He tugs her forward a bit so he can reach her from where he’s sitting propped up against the headboard.

He kisses her cheek and she kisses his, their hands clasped. They seperate enough to look at each other once again and they smile.

“Welcome home, Cass.”

“I am yours.”

Indigo burns in his soul of orange fire. 

_

He finds out that his flames have already claimed his family in a sense. While bound, they still fought and managed to “mark” them in a way. So with his flames free and if the other person is willing, the connection between them is instantaneous. Tim doesn’t push, would never push, but oh he wishes they would come to him. 

He wants them all so badly. 

_

Stephanie had been the next one to bond. They talked about it first, Tim making sure she knew he wouldn’t force it, resulting in several eye-rolls. 

“I know, Tim.”

“I just…”

Stephanie sighs loudly to stop him before looking down at her lap and twiddling her thumbs. She’s seated on the side of Tim’s bed, with Tim leaning against the headboard. He’s off bedrest officially but he still gets tired too easily. Tim Drake-Wayne is making careful appearances but Red Robin hasn’t been back on the streets yet.

“I never thought I’d have a sky, you know. I never thought that… That the option would be there. Staring me in the face, even.” She huffs out a bitter laugh. “I’m just the daughter of some criminal, worthless and with nothing to offer.” Tim tries to sit up to protest but stops on a choke when she raises her hand to stop him. 

“I know, Boy Wonder. But you can’t fix that way of thinking very quick.” With a quieter sigh she brings her hand back down to her lap. “I just… me? I’m not the best lightning out there, you know. There are plenty stronger out there that you could have. Stronger and better and just… more compatible. I just don’t want you to make a mistake.”

Tim stares at her for a while before leaning forward and reaching out to take one of her hands in his. She still doesn’t look up.

“Steph, we didn’t work out as girl and boyfriend. True. That may be because my flames were bound or just that we work better as friends. But we’ll never find out if we don’t try.” Tim rubs the inside of her wrist with his thumb like Jason did to him. “I don’t want another lightning. I want Stephanie. I want you.”

His other hand comes up to wipe away the quiet tears that fall fast from scrunched eyes. Her nose is running and her lip is trembling and there’s a softness in his heart when he sees it. It’s uncomfortable in this position but he leans forward to press a short kiss to her forehead. 

“Will you be my lightning? Be a part of my family? Be mine?”

She nods and sobs and her green fire joins the others, burning bright.

_

Things are going well, for sure. Jason and Stephanie spend a lot of time in educating him about flames and going over its relationship to the criminal and the civilian worlds, how flames affect superheroes and so on. Cass helps him learn how to access his flames, not how to manipulate - not yet, just to access. 

His ability to see flames is very unusual but not unheard of, and Tim wonders if it’s one of the reasons his mother sealed his flames. He knows it was his mother and he can accept it to an extent now.

It will be a long while before he’s over it, however. 

_

He hadn’t expected Dick to come around very easily. He hadn’t, to an extent, but after a few weeks he came back to the manor after some time away. 

It’s like he came in, dropped his things, and came straight to Tim from the looks of it. It surprises him. He sets his book down next to him on the table next to the comfortable sofa in the library. It’s a good thing he does because Dick strides over, falls onto the couch, and drags Tim onto his lap. He laughs at Tim’s helpless yelp and wraps him up in a tight hug. 

Tim melts.

Now with his flames unbound he can feel the tranquility and happiness that Dick practically projects more clearly. He’d felt it before but never understood it and now… Oh how Tim yearns. He sighs and relaxes impossibly more into Dick’s hold as the older man rubs his cheek against the top of his head.

They spend perhaps a half hour there, content and comfortable. Finally Tim can wait no more. 

“Why did you leave?”

Dick twitches and his tranquility seems to stutter. Tim doesn’t move and gives Dick time. He relaxes eventually and sighs into Tim’s hair. 

“I was scared. I…” Dick lifts a hand and runs it through Tim’s hair. “I’ve never considered having a sky before. I didn’t like the idea of being tied down in any way.”

Tim waits, trying to be patient when all he wants to do is protest. It’s like the situation with Stephanie and he hates that they feel this way. Wants them to know he’d do anything for them, even let them go.

Though he’s sure he’d break again, he’d let them go if they asked.

Dick must read something in his silence. “But you’re not like that, are you, Timmy? I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. You’re my baby brother and I shouldn’t have run off like that. It’s something we should talk about and I was just putting it off.”

Tim looks up as Dick shifts them until Tim’s sitting on his lap and they’re facing each other. “So Tim, What are you thinking?”

Tim takes Dick’s hands into his - it’s becoming a thing, he thinks, holding their hands - and holds them gently. He interlocks their fingers, “I want this. I want you as my family, as my rain. But I will not force you. If you come, I’ll be here ready and waiting.”

Dick smiles so softly at him that Tim can’t help but feel shy. They both tighten their grips and they chuckle together at that. 

“You’ll wait?” Tim hums and nods. Dick takes a deep breath and it comes back out in a whoosh. “Well you don’t have to.” Tim blinks and Dick raises their locked hands to his lips and smiles against them. 

With a sudden move Dick frees his hands and locks his arms around Tim once again, pulling him tight. “If you will have me, I will come.” 

And blue ties into his soul with the others, fitting in just right.

_

Damian is a little ball of conflicted rage. Tim does his best to not treat him much differently, though he is more patient. Damian doesn't know what to do with this.

It's the process of months of time and acknowledgement and patience before Tim can approach Damian without risking his neck. It helps in some ways when Damian walks in on him with one of his bonded. It makes him upset often in the beginning but patience wins out.

More often than not Tim invited Damian to spend time with him and whoever is with him at the moment. With Cass it's either spent sparring or doing each other's hair (it took a long while for Damian to be comfortable with that). Stephanie chats to fill the silence, not expecting answers but acknowledging them when they come. Jason teases and talks sometimes, but mostly drags them off to watch movies or read. Dick, of course, is all for cuddle time. Things mix up when Tim is with more than one of them, too, so there's always something happening.

So slowly they get Damian to open up and Tim is so happy with that. He loves the moments that Damian initiates interaction. His favorite things to do involve being creative or logical. Puzzles, drawing, things like that. Tim can't draw for the life of him but he tries for Damian.

One day he comes to Tim when he's alone. Tim smiles from where he's reading a case file on his tablet at the kitchen counter, mug of coffee at his elbow. "Hey, Damian."

"Good afternoon." Damian settles next to him on another barstool. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm doing well." And he is. He's fully recovered and is adjusting very well to his flames. Time Drake is out along with Red Robin. Things are wonderful now that he's warm and busy. He's not over certain things yet but he is hesitant to get counseling. "Things have been rather quiet lately, haven't they?"

Damian nods firmly, "Indeed. It has, perhaps, been too quiet."

Tim hums, mostly in agreement. It's hard after all these years to not expect the other shoe to drop at some point. "Here's hoping things don't escalate." Tim raises his coffee mug and takes a sip of lukewarm coffee.

They sit in silence for a bit, Tim on his tablet and Damian seemingly staring into space. Then Damian speaks up and hope starts to bloom in Tim's heart.

"Why do you reach out to me?"

Tim plays down the tablet and slides it forward enough to be out of the way. He doesnt turn fully to Damian but he makes sure his attention is fully on the young boy. "In what sense are you speaking of?"

Damian huffs and mutters, "All of them. Why spend time befriending me at all?"

Tim taps a finger on his arm. "Why shouldn't I?"

The boy practically emits waves of frustration. "Timothy, I tried to kill you! Multiple times!"

"Ah, yes." Tim props up his arms and rests his head in his hands."I don't blame you, is all."

"What?" Damian exclaims.

"I don't. Not really. You were thrust into an unfamiliar environment that you didn't know how to react to with a whole bunch of people taking up your father's attention." Tim's arms fall down to rest crossed on the counter again as he turns his head to look at Damian. You were well trained and you could wield a sword better than emotions and it was obvious."

"I-" Damian starts but it fades on his tongue. Damian has mellowed. He's still rather vicious but it's much more restrained. 

Tim looks away again, admiring the backsplash of the kitchen counter. "So no. I don't blame you and if I don't blame you, why shouldn't I give you a chance?"

There's another bit of silence but Tim merely sips at his coffee instead of going back to the tablet. This is a pivotal moment.

"That… that explains some things but you've been ready to accept me for years. Why?" Damian sounds so insecure and Tim's having flashbacks and is trying to keep his hands from grabbing Damian's.

"Believe it or not, I thought this way even before the… incident. So I've always been ready." Tim smiles, "There's not anyone else I'd want."

He tightens the cross of his arms to extend his left hand far enough to be an invitation. "I'm not gonna push, Dami. But I'll be here if you want me."

Damian looks up, a determined look on his face. "I swear to be the sun to your sky for as long as you'll have me."

Tim smiles softly, "Always, Dami."

Damian takes his hand and yellow streaks in to take its place among his family.

_

Tim had known the moment he learned of his bond to his family that Bruce was never going to approach him about it, if he approached Tim at all.

He's always been a stubborn ass even in the best of times.

Apparently it's a bit of a cloud trait.

But Tim has Alfred on his side.

_

"So, Bruce," Tim taps the pointer against his palm. "You're probably not wondering why I have you here."

Bruce is tied to a chair, drugged just enough to remain conscious but unable to move. Alfred had drugged his coffee and Jason and Dick helped move and secure him. They are standing to the side behind the chair, hiding smiles.

He whips the pointer to the side, the tip smacking against the projector screen to point at the title of his presentation.

The title is "Get Your Head Out of Your Ass."

It was Jason's idea.

He picks up the clicker and changes the slide. It's an outline. "First off I'm going to talk about how I'm not going to force you into bonding, which is different than drugging you to get you to listen to me." Bruce manages a scowl. Tim merely taps the points on the screen as he mentions them. "Then we'll talk about compatibility, then how just because you hate yourself doesn't mean your be bad for me. Then we'll go on to the benefits and downsides of a bond in the field and out of costume and the options we would have in public if we bonded."

Tim smiles at Bruce, "There are a few other little things I'll mention but I'll try not to be too long. We only have so much time, after all.

_

He makes it through the presentation before Bruce can escape so he counts that as a win. Now all Tim has to do is wait for it to digest while making subtle references and motions that will remind Bruce of their conversation.

He thinks it's going pretty well. Sometimes Tim will tap something against his palm and Bruce will flinch minutely. It's rather amusing.

What's not amusing is that it still takes Bruce three weeks to get the hint and approach him.

He looks grumpy when he walks up to Tim in the garden but he's not scowling so Tim is pleased. He just hopes Bruce didn't prepare some speech about how it wouldn't work.

He did. Of course. Tim glares his most frightful and unimpressed glare and Bruce shuts up. He nods in approval and gestures for Bruce to sit down on the grass with him. 

Once they're comfortable, Tim speaks up. "Stop fighting it Bruce. I understand your hesitancy but I can't condone it. If you really don't want the bond I won't force you, but…" Tim looks straight at Bruce, "You've never once said you don't want to bond."

Bruce's eyes widen just a bit as he realizes it. He hasn't.

Tim smiles morosely, "I've had enough time to gain some confidence in myself, Bruce, and I know what I want. I want my cloud to come home."

Bruce fights for words and Tim can see the denial on his face. So he scoots a bit until they're sitting face-to-face, cross-legged. He grabs Bruce's hands in his significantly smaller ones. 

"Don't turn away from me, B. Please. I need you just as you need me. I just want to make it official." He tightens his grip on his hands. "But this is it, Bruce. It's either yes or no right now because I can't allow this anymore. You're only driving yourself down and I don't want to be a burden to you. So say no and that will be the end of it. I'll leave you alone."

Bruce is staring at him, his hands trembling so lightly that Tim can barely feel it.

"Yes or no?"

"Yes. Please." Bruce closes his eyes and bows his head over their hands, bringing them up to press the back of Tim's against his forehead. "I- Yes."

Tim feels a wave of relief so great that he almost burst into tears. He tilts his head forward to rest his forehead against the top of Bruce's head. "Bruce, thank you."

He pulls back again, nudging Bruce until he's looking up again, watery eyes meeting.

"Be mine?"

"Forever."

Tim gently pulls violet into his heart.

_

There's a rainbow in his soul and he's never been better.

[lumiereswig]

Forgotten

What if the Enchantress came one day late? What if the staff weren’t nearby when the curse was cast? What if Adam found himself alone when turned into a Beast?  “The prince [was] forgotten by the world, for the enchantress had erased all memory of them from the minds of the people they loved….” Inspired by this savagely sad post of @batbobsession‘s. (Repost, and slightly rewritten from last time.)

Part I: Not A Care in the World

The ball was flawless. In the garden, the roses continued to reach to the sky, and the storm brushed away; the lights shut off in the palace, one by one, and the music faded to silence. The prince went to bed with one or two or three pretty women he wouldn’t care for by the next day. Up in his room, Lumiere popped open a bottle of champagne.

Plumette, lighting the candles by the bed, grinned at him over the flames. He laughed and raised his glass.

“Another sublime night, ça va, mon amour?” The door creaks and in come Mrs. Potts, Cogsworth, Chapeau, the visiting musicians. The word has quickly spread that Lumiere and Plumette are serving leftover croquembouche in their room; the staff find places to sit, glasses to drink from, hands to join and caress. Mrs. Potts, in a rocking chair, smiles and holds a sleeping Chip.

“How many parties has it been now?”

Cogsworth is counting on his fingers. “Thirty years’ worth at least…..no, forty. Lord, I can’t keep track of the time.”

“He’s turning just like his father—the prince’s father was like this, too,” Mrs. Potts explains to the musicians, who know nothing about the palace or its politics. They nod and move closer to each other on the bed. “We don’t know what he’d do without us. He’ll be fine, though; we try not to intervene. D’you only have wine up here, Lumiere? I could use a cup of tea.”

“If you cannot take a little sparkling wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” laughs Lumiere, and she swipes at his arms and makes him laugh. He eases into a seat between Cogsworth and Plumette and throws his arms around them.

“Think how long it has been!” he says. “Forty years for you, Cogsworth, but most of my life for mine. Why, I came here as a teenager—imagine me, only a little older than Chip! Fresh out of Paris and still reeking of the apothecary shop.” He grimaces, thinking of his father’s dusty store in a side-street of the city. He had fled, then, looking for the glamor his missed; in his room in Paris he had practiced dance steps, reveled in fashion, adopted the graceful movements of the court as rebellion against the bourgeois facts of an ordinary existence. He had come to this palace, and he had lit into life; dancing and feasting and glowing like gold made Lumiere’s heart sing.

“We met in this palace, do you remember, mon trésor?” Plumette is close in his arms; her scent—fresh and light, like candy and macarons—right beside him. “I was only fourteen, and I loved you right away.”

“I loved you before I met you,” murmurs Lumiere. “I could never forget.”

“Well, that’s quite enough of that,” says Cogsworth, perhaps a bit too loudly. The two lovers had forgotten how close he was to their embrace. “To bed, to bed! Tomorrow we have another morning—and so many mornings after that, to care for the prince and these grounds. We can save affection for another day.”

Lumiere sighs loudly, but the staff agree to part for the night. They hug and kiss and wave goodnight—Cogsworth studiously looking the other way as Plumette makes no indication of moving back to her own room—and the lights go out. The humans of the castle sleep.

Part II: Selfish and Unkind

The next day is their day off. It is their one day off in the year. Adam would frequently wish to deny them of it; it is too much for him to imagine coping alone for one day, though he never puts it in such vulnerable terms. Instead, he just has a foul temper about it.

“And you’ll be back tonight, seven sharp.”

“Oui, maître.”

“And the kitchens have been stocked? Or have you forgotten that, too, in your delight to run away?”

“Non, maître.”

“You know, this is an incredible liberty. Most princes wouldn’t let their staff go prancing off to—I don’t know, what do you do in the village, drink beer and talk about swine? Pfft. I would just stay, if I were you.”

“….non, maître.”

“Fine. Get out.”

They are gone all too quickly. Adam stands in the lonely, empty halls. If he stands in the tower, he can see them weaving their way through the forest and down to the village, to spend their day in the company of each other, in Lumiere and Plumette’s case, or with loved ones, in the case of Mrs. Potts. No matter what, all the servants have each other. And Adam has nobody.

He adjusts his wig, tosses a curl. He doesn’t care. They’re all uncaring fools. He debates his options for the day: spending it in the library sounds the best, but  he could also search around the palace, try to find some mistake in its keeping to yell at them about when they got back….after all, at least when he yelled they looked at him.

Searching for the mistake it was, then. Adam trotted off, his heels slick against the polished floors, the sun shining bright.

Part III: All Those Precious Days

In the village, Lumiere kisses Plumette, his lips as warm on hers as the sun is right behind their heads. She is feather-light beside him; watching her dance to a tune of her own making, Lumiere is hot with twenty years of memories. Remember her smile when he set the table for the first time, and made the knives and forks flip like acrobats? Remember when he helped her with her hair, after it rained, and she was his best friend and so fair beside him, while he untied the knots and tried to coax out a curl? His life is beautiful with Plumette—and Plumette, smiling back at him, is more beautiful than his life.

Chip runs ahead of Mrs. Potts, calling for his papa. Jean Potts, emerging from his home, waves joyously at the staff now flooding the village. Really, Villeneuve is not big enough to support so huge a gathering—but it is only one day, after all, as the staff step out of the palace and spend a day in the sun. They stretch their limbs and visit the shops, and sit on the stoops and talk. Lumiere is dazzling in his yellow palace coat against the dingy brown of the steps. Plumette is the loveliest girl in the village. Cogsworth checks the clocktower’s time against his own. And at 6:45, by his watch, they prepare to go back to the palace.

In Adam’s tower, he hears the knock. Angry at having been left alone—angry at being abandoned—angry at everything, Adam slams open the door and sees an old crone.

6:55. Lumiere is running late, as usual. He was regaling Tom and Dick with a lavish description of the ball he is planning. Cogsworth groans at the delay.

The crone offers a rose. Payment for a night’s rest; there is an oncoming storm. Rain coming in.

“Fireworks! And flowers on every table! And dancers from Vienna—the glories of a courtly life, gentlemen, you must come join us—”

“Lumiere! The night grows old.”

The crone grows young.

6:59. “We were meant to be there minutes ago! The Prince is all alone in the palace, now, and it’s our fault. We must get back, or there will be hell to pay—”

The Enchantress sets her curse. The piper must be paid. There must be punishment—

7:00. The curse strikes; a fleeting darkness on the village, a lasting one on the palace. The palace, the palace…the palace…..

………..the palace?

What palace? The villagers do not remember. And the staff, caught among them, do not either. There is silence, and darkness, and sleep.

Part IV: Little Town

Belle wakes up to a jolt in the road, and the rough wool blanket on her face, and the smell of cheese and paint and horse and wind clinging to her skin. She rubs her eyes and tries to wipe away the sleep. They’re in the wagon, again, and Maurice is hunched up in the bench, encouraging Philippe to trot faster. The contents of Belle’s entire life are jammed in around her, a moving nest of drawings and gear-boxes and packets of cabbage-seed.

“That town didn’t work out, either?”

“Plague,” says Maurice, and his eyes shadow, and he watches the road more closely. Of course. How many times has Belle woken up this way, the town she thought they’d live in forever far behind, her father just in front, the wagon rattling beneath her as Maurice fled the city sickness from one town to another. Lilles, Reims, Amiens: each one tainted by plague, each one not safe enough for Maurice and his daughter. No home lasted long enough.

“And where does this road go?” Belle’s eyes adjust to the dawn—they are passing a forest, and coming through a field, now, and fields lead to country villages, and villages mean homes, at least for a while. Perhaps this one would be small enough and safe enough to hide them for a while.

“Villeneuve,” says Maurice. “I chose it by chance. I hope they have room for an inventor.”

“Two inventors,” says Belle, and Maurice smiles.

“Yes, two, always two.”

They get to the town just after market-time, and Maurice busies himself finding the local priest to inquire after empty houses. Belle, tucked in the wagon, looks out on a quiet village going through the endless routine of a Saturday market: the milliner batting a sheet out the window, the potter’s wife brushing off her stoop, the sound of an untuned violin drifting from the open tavern doors. People haggle and argue and, somewhere, something breaks.

And Belle’s eyes flicker through the crowd, a puzzle cutting across her heart.

“Why are there so many people?” Belle asks, when Maurice comes back with happy news of an empty house, recently abandoned, just at the edge of the village.

“Mm?”

“People. Why are there so many of them? I know it was just market-time, but there are enough people in these streets to account for a city—let alone this little town!”

“I expect the city is just off on winter holiday,” says Maurice, absent-mindedly, trying to work out the details of keys and locks. “So they’re all just living in this one for now. Come give me a hand with these boxes—thank you.”

Belle’s heart won’t stop wondering, even as she unpacks music-boxes and arranges her father’s paints by the window. She saw all the people in that market. And she sees them now—watching her and her father, peeking on the edges of the streets and peeping through windows. But no one comes to help. With the market done, the town is quiet, and a little gloomy in the afternoon light.

By mid day, Belle and her father are halfway done unpacking. Maurice sits on a box and wipes his forehead.

“Do you know what I forgot to pack?” he says. “Beef. And bread. And….well, anything edible, really. You wouldn’t have remembered, would you?”

“Papa, I was asleep. I couldn’t remember anything.”

“True, true.” Her father’s hands brush in front of his sad, blue eyes. “Might you go out and find some, Belle? There must be someone selling bread. And butter. And possibly jam?”

Belle is already at the door with her basket. “You rest your eyes, papa. I’ll be right back.”

Part V: Every Day Like the One Before

Now that she is out, Belle takes the chance to look around. She takes her time going through the streets. On her left, the clock tower chimes. On her right, houses line the streets like soldiers. A cluster of girls giggle across the market square. Somewhere, a tea kettle screams. Belle stops to form her opinion of her new hometown.

Villeneuve is ordinary, in the extreme. Dusty to a fault. Dull, and cross, and tired—and absolutely not the start of any great adventure, like she’s always wished for. Just an overcrowded little place stuck in some meadow-grass that everyone has forgotten about.

Nothing of note will ever happen in Villeneuve. As far as anyone can remember, nothing ever has.

And as she thinks that, a puff of smoke blows into her face and sends her thoughts flying.

“Pardon my intrusion, mademoiselle,” says a voice to her right. Belle looks, and sees nothing, and then looks down and sees a peasant sitting on the stoop of the potter’s house. He is smoking a pipe, and puffing the smoke, and his eyes are closed, and his limbs lie around him as if lifeless.

“You are Parisian,” she says. She caught it in his voice.

“Oui, mademoiselle,” he says. A tiny, delicate gesture from his long fingers; it is a surprisingly sophisticated movement for a man in a yellow peasant’s vest, with candle wax creased in the dirt between his fingernails. “Or at least, once I was. Now I live in Villeneuve.”

It is an oddly empty statement, thinks Belle, and his colorless tone doesn’t help. She can’t see his face, here in the shadows, and can’t tell quite if he’s joking.

“I was an apothecary’s son,” adds the man.

“And are you still an apothecary?”

“I am nothing now,” says the man, in a flash of vehemence so sharp it is like seeing a flame in the middle of the forest. He looks up to her—his face broad, and white; and it is an empty face, and beyond the fire in his words there is nothing there at all. It is as if someone washed out all his color, and left him only with his yellow vest. 

“I am Lumiere,” he says, and sadness rests inside his eyes.

Part VI: Full of Little People

He welcomes her to the stoop with the flick of a wrist and a tiny nod with the pipe, though he doesn’t seem to really care if she stays or goes. He is still curling smoke, and for one quick moment Belle wonders if it might be foolish to share a stoop with the village’s homeless philosopher. And yet…there’s a kind of warmth, there, buried beneath the village dirt and the lifeless limbs.

She sits. He offers her the pipe. She refuses. He smokes in silence.

They are silent for a long, long time.

“So what brings you to Villeneuve?” the man asks, at last, as he refills his pipe.

“My father,” she says. “We were fleeing plague. And I need to buy some bread, and maybe a little venison—we only had time to pack our books, so we don’t have anything to eat, yet.”

Beside her, Lumiere laughs. It sounds as if he hasn’t laughed for quite some time.

“I knew someone once who treasured books that way as well,” he says, and a smile drifts across his face, homeless. Something in him is sparking up at the story: dim, and faint, but laughing. “He once made me read the whole Odyssey—”

“You’ve read the Odyssey?!” Belle has never gotten the chance. It hasn’t been translated out of the Greek.

“Non, non, mademoiselle, it was read to me. Sorceresses turning people to pigs, and the lily-eaters forgetting their homes, and Penelope undoing the days until her husband returns—such nonsense.” The spark goes out abruptly, and he returns to his smoke and shadow. “I do not remember the rest of the story.”

How on earth did he get someone to read him the Odyssey, translating it fresh out of the Greek as he goes? In no apothecary’s street has Belle ever seen a sight such as that. The book is too rare to have come to Villeneuve. And yet….

“How did you come to Villeneuve?” she asks.

“I suppose I thought I’d find employment,” he says, and suddenly Belle is frightened.

Deeply, deeply frightened. Not of the man on the stoop—she has never seen anyone more harmless, to be quite honest; he is such an empty man, with such silent, lifeless limbs—but of the thing inside his eyes when he speaks of his past. It is Other—a thing not rooted in a Parisian background, or the empty face, or the subdued soul. It is a large streak of gray inside the man’s blue eyes, a gray empty and unnatural and as hollow as cold ice. Staring at his eyes, Belle finds herself clutching her arms with fear.

“Ah! Mon ami!” yells Lumiere, waving into the village, and the feeling passes. Yet his eyes remain so empty, even as he smiles at the man in the brown coat who just came out of the clock tower.

“Shh, shh, she doesn’t know I’m out,” says the man, and he reaches into his coat and pulls out a bottle of dandelion wine, already uncorked. He passes it to Lumiere in a swift gesture. It is obvious to Belle that this is a practiced ritual, the sharing of the secret wine. She makes room for the clocktower-keeper, and he sits on her other side.

“Mademoiselle, my venerable friend, Monsieur Cogsworth. You will find him delightful company, as well as an excellent source for half-bad wine.”

“Better than a source of all-bad whining, like some of us,” grumps the man. His nose is red, and his coat is plain and unadorned besides his golden pocketwatch. “You must pardon Lumiere, Miss—”

“Belle! I am Belle. You are English?”

“Mm, yes—suppose you still hear it—never gotten the grasp of the damned accent.”

“Oh là là, he acts as if the French accent is difficult,” says Lumiere, puffing smoke, and Belle laughs between the two of them. She is happy that at least there are two friendly souls in this village—grumpy ones, yes, ones with little to recommend them; a drunkard and a smoker, crouched on a village stoop—but friendly ones, at least, with something kind between them.

“And you keep the clocktower?”

“Tic toc,” says Cogsworth. He drinks the wine a bit too fast. “Used to have a career as a diplomat, don’t you know—but I suppose that...that I wanted to settle down, or some such thing.” He looks at Belle, vaguely, and a chill snakes down her spine. His eyes are gray-streaked too.

“Cogsworth,” screams someone, across the square, and he is up and moving faster than Belle would have believed. He mutters one word—“Clothilde,” as if that is explanation enough—and disappears back to his clocks.

Lumiere holds the wine bottle he left behind, weighing it carelessly with one hand, his movements listless. He has not taken one more sip before the shutters over the stoop bang open.

“Lumiere! What are you doing there?” calls a woman from the window. Beside Belle, Lumiere rolls his eyes and looks, shamefaced, up to the sound.

“Get off my stoop!” yells the woman. “D’you have wine down there, Lumiere?“

“If you cannot take a little cheap wine, get yourself to bed, grandmother,” calls Lumiere.

“Off with you, now—not on my stoop—begging your pardon, miss—town drunkards, the both of them. Welcome to Villeneueve,” and the woman slams the window.

“Who was that?” The woman’s face was sharp as a shard.

“Mrs. Potts, the crockery-man’s wife,” says Lumiere, and takes a large gulp of the wine. “I barely know her. Thank God.”

Part VII: In The Midst of All This Sorrow

While Lumiere drinks and smokes, Belle watches him and watches this village. There is something very strange, here—gaps in memory, gaps in the storyteller’s story. Lumiere spoke brilliantly, eloquently, about a Greek translation he could not remember—and yet his own life is unknown, an impossible one of an apothecary’s son, with no knowledge of the apothecary himself, coming to a distant village and then doing nothing for twenty years. And Cogsworth, too, a diplomat—

“Surely you do something here?” It’s rude, but she can’t help it.

“What could I do, mademoiselle? I have no skills for Villeneuve. I cannot herd sheep. I cannot shoot cows. I am useless.” His beautiful hands gesture again, pointlessly, to the swine and chickens and village dust surrounding them.

“You must have something that Villeneuve needs. Why, my father is an artist! And an inventor! If this village can have that, it can have…whatever you do.”

“I do nothing, mademoiselle,” he says, again, and his foot traces a dance step against the dirt, and then is quiet again. “Nothing on nothing, everyday, mademoiselle. Forevermore.”

“Then why do you stay here?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are following nothing across the square.

“Why do you stay, Lumiere?”

His hand on her arm is sudden and swift and shocks her. If she thought she saw a flicker before, it is nothing to the blaze that has shot up in his eyes now—almost dimming the gray, almost catching it out in a sudden sparkle.

“She is why, mademoiselle.”

He was not looking at nothing before. Turning, Belle sees what he was following: the entrance of a flock of ladies into the square, a giggling squadron of petticoats and primped hair. Three of the girls are dressed almost identically in pink, and they are pretty enough—but the fourth one, dressed all in white, covered in stray feathers from the gaggle of geese she tends, is beautiful. Even plucking feathers from her hair, and leaning against her goose-girl’s staff, she is the most beautiful woman Belle has ever seen.

“I have never dared to speak to her,” whispers Lumiere, and she is drawn back to his face. It was so empty, before, but now it is flickering fast—with hope, and love, and despair. “She would never love a hopeless idiot. But Plumette makes me so weak, I could never be strong….”

“You’ve never spoken?”

“Non! How could I dare? She is flawless.”

“Twenty years you’ve lived here, and you’ve never even spoken?!”

“C’est la vie,” says Lumiere, and the light goes out as he stares hopelessly after her. “She would never look at me. She probably loves the same one as the rest of them…”

There is a sound of hoof-beats approaching the square. “What one as the rest of them?”

Lumiere cannot sink into the steps any further. “If you want venison, mademoiselle, that is who to get it from.”

It feels like an explosion into the square. The minute the man in red rides in, there is a crow of praise from every window— “he returns!” “Ey, ey! Gaston! Bonjour!”—a sweep of giggling from the girls across the square. The iron-shod hooves slam against the cobblestones, and the quiet of Villeneuve falls apart. The conquering hero comes.

“Make a lane! Make a lane!” Somebody rides beside Gaston. There is no need to make a lane—there is nobody in the square—yet the fanfare goes on. The man in red throws a fresh-dead deer onto the cobblestones; the town applauds.

“He’s just a man. I don’t see what they’re on about,” says Belle.

Lumiere puffs his pipe. “Don’t tell the other girls you said that,” he says. “As a matter of fact, don’t tell me either. I don’t need his attention today—”

“Ah, the village idiot!” Gaston is already on them. His lackey is right behind him. “Drunk, again, old friend?”

“You are not my friend,” says Lumiere, but low. His eyes don’t meet Gaston’s. He has drawn further into the shadow.

“Oh, I am not your ‘mohnaaahmii’?” Gaston is mocking Lumiere’s Parisian accent; the whole square laughs beside him.

“It’s two words, not one,” Lumiere says, lower still. “If you cannot charm with rapier wit, do not hit me with your dull bullets.”

The blow is swift and immediate, and Belle draws back as Lumiere’s jaw hits against the wall. His hand is slow in reaching up to the wound. Even in pain, his eyes don’t quite focus. Like the wine, it is evident this is a practiced ritual.

“He was right about ‘mon ami,’” says the lackey, faintly. “We’ll work on the  grammar.”

“Who needs it?! It certainly hasn’t gotten this prancing fool anywhere,” says Gaston. “Dancing and manners! In Villeneuve! Coward. Storyteller. Lily liver.”

“Leave him alone,” says Belle. Storyteller. Lily liver. Like the lily-eaters in the Odyssey. Lumiere knows the Odyssey, Lumiere welcomed her to the stoop; Lumiere is the village idiot, and an empty soul, and a useless one, and still: “Even if he is nothing—and he isn’t—he’s my friend. Leave him alone. Whoever you are, he’s better than you!”

The square is instantly silent. Beside her, Lumiere murmurs “foolish, foolish” into his hands.

“You’re…new,” says Gaston.

“Leave him alone.” Belle is fearless.

“Of course, mademoiselle,” and Gaston is so instantly full of smiles it is like a coin flipped. “I look forward to seeing more of you.”

Belle just looks at him. He is the first man in Villeneuve without a streak of gray inside his eyes.

“Mark my words, though—this man has no one in this town.” Lumiere, dark in the shadows, cringes beside her as Gaston speaks. “Only a lonely dreamer. Nothing more than a village punching-bag, is he, LeFou? He only lives to serve!” He is mocking the accent again.

“He doesn’t serve you,” says Belle. “And he’s not alone.”

No one in the village backs her up. Across the square, the girls in pink frown. The one in white has let her eyes drop: in shyness, or shame, or second-hand embarrassment, Belle can’t tell.

Gaston rides off, the village cheering. (though a little less proudly than before.) Lumiere’s jaw is fine—a black bruise against the cleft chin, one of many she did not see before—and he waves her away.

“Please tell me he does not do that every day,” she says.

“I don’t remember,” says Lumiere, “but if he did it every day, I think I might be dead. It has only been a decade or two, eh? Go home, mademoiselle. Don’t come back for dreamers.”

The Other thing inside his eyes has deepened. There is almost no blue at all. The apothecary’s son, with nothing in his days besides shame and smoke, leans back up on his stoop. A cold wind blows through the square, black and blue, and Belle’s hands clench from the cold.

There is something wrong in Villeneuve. And how she longs to find it out.

Part VIII: Not Whole Without A Soul

It’s a week later, and Belle is off to see Lumiere again. He does, in fact, live somewhere besides other people’s stoops—a rundown shed, apparently, tucked behind the meadow, though she’s not gotten to visit it. He says, with a small, quiet joke, that it’s not fit for company until he can hang a chandelier.

She’s almost reached his usual stoop when the rain hits. She puts her apron over her head, but it’s no good; there are sheets of tattered rain across the village, and her hair is soaked in moments.

“Come in, girl, come in! Out of the cold, and the wet—oh, aren’t you a vision—of damp—”

Outlined by the light of an open door, she sees the potter’s wife. Mrs. Potts’ rough hands take Belle and pull her into the kitchen before she can think.

“Th-thank you. That was kind of you.” She is dripping all over the floor. Mrs. Potts sees her and slides a tea-tray beneath her feet, to catch the wet.

“Come on, dear, let’s sit you by the fire—we’ll get you a cup of tea—there, dear. By the chair.”

Belle curls gratefully onto the bench by the fire, and Mrs. Potts turns to her table to prepare the drinks. And something moves in the soot of the dark fire place, almost like it’s alive—

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have moved…I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“There, now, Chip, move on,” says Mrs. Potts, and the soot-covered thing turns into a little boy, cheeky and smiling. He waves at Belle before running away. His clothes smell of tea: chamomile, lavender, earl gray.

“My boy,” the woman explains, and hands Belle a cup. “His father’s out, now, but he’ll be back soon. We’ve lived here together in this house for twenty years.” She laughs at some joke that isn’t there. “He made these cups, and he sells the porcelain��you’ve seen him in the market?”

Belle nods. She likes Jean Potts well enough. He does not belittle the village’s drunks and nobodies, though he does seem frightened of them. He has never mocked her for visiting Lumiere and Cogsworth on their stoop in the sun.

“I don’t know why you choose to speak with those tramps,” says Mrs. Potts, as if she reads her thoughts as easy as tea-leaves. “You seem a nice enough young lady to be with the other girls, not with those two…..though Mr. Cogsworth is fine, in his way—but I’d stay away from that one, young lady.”

“Why?” Belle watches her as she prepares the tea. Mrs. Potts keeps bumping into the table; for all her twenty years inside this kitchen, she has to think twice before she moves. Her hands flick between jars of raisins and flour, and she sidesteps around nothing. It as if she expects a different kitchen, thinks Belle, a kitchen quite different from this small country stove—but twenty years sit there, solid as truth, on the table that has never moved.

“What’s he been telling you out there?” Crunch: Mrs. Potts reached for almonds, not sugar. She puts the tin back hurriedly, cringing, and grabs for the other jar. Her eyes watch her hands, as if checking her own habit.s

“That he came to Villeneuve many years ago, and hasn’t worked much since,” says Belle. “Small jobs, the occasional village fete—but he doesn’t know how to do anything too useful to the village. So he sits in the sun.” She doesn’t mention the beautiful goose-girl he waits for. She doesn’t mention that she can’t find out what he waits for, nor Cogsworth either, in this lonely village beside the empty woods.

Mrs. Potts nods, judgement for Lumiere clear on her face. Belle finds the blood rushing to her face.

“But he’s so much more than just—just a stoop-dweller! He comes from Paris. He tells stories! He is warm,” says Belle, and she stares defiantly into Mrs. Potts’ eyes.

Gasps, and draws back. Mrs. Potts’ eyes are two different shades of gray.

Mrs. Potts blinks, and the gray ripples, and the older woman sighs and smooths Belle’s hands.

“I know, dear. I am sure he might be. I’ve never spoken to him much, myself. But you have to understand—he doesn’t belong in this village. He doesn’t belong.”

She moves around to sit by Belle, but she runs into the table first.

“There are stories about him—stories he doesn’t like to tell. Oh, I know, I seem like an outsider here too, with my English accent and—” She laughs and waves hands around her frazzled hair, and loses the path of the sentence. “But young one, you’ve got to look out—we don’t know who his father is, we don’t know—”

“How long have you lived here?” Belle tries not to phrase it as a challenge. Mrs. Potts means well—she lets soaked artists’ daughters out of the rain, after all—but the sharp shards in her voice have no place with her soft hands, and her boy, and the tea now boiling over on a stove she’s forgotten the place of.

“Twenty years, dear, just here in this house.” Mrs. Potts sits back and smiles at her. “Do you know, I used to look kindly on those Parisian types myself, before I came to Villeneuve; I’d never met one, but I thought I might work for—there, now, you don’t care about that. I’m not a working woman, ear. I’m all cooped up,” and she laughs, again, in a faded voice, like there’s a joke she’s just forgotten.

The swirl of gray steeps in the woman’s eyes.

Part IX: Here’s a Thought, Perhaps

“I don’t understand.” Belle slams her books down on the kitchen table. Maurice looks up from a new trinket—a music box molded off the design of a ballroom; it sounds charming, though he hasn’t put in any dancers yet—and catches how tan she’s gotten from sitting on sunny stoops. They’ve lived here in Villeneuve for several weeks, now; he’s happy she’s settling in.

“More books from Pere Robert, I see,” he says mildly. Belle fidgets with Sleeping Beauty like its pages are a problem to be solved, opening and closing the story of the sleeping palace that stood for a hundred years.

“Yes, they’re lovely, but....Papa, this town makes no sense.”

“Very few things do.” He smiles and puts aside his music box. “What’s enchanting you now, my darling?”

“Papa, this is a little village, isn’t it?”

“That’s why I chose it. Does that trouble you, my dear?”

“No. I like the people, I’m making friends with some of them, I never thought I would....” She trails off. Most people in most towns think she’s odd; that’s why she turned to books, because they had people in them that didn’t laugh at her—well, that and the books had worlds she was longing to explore, far out of the realm of her little towns and cities and gossiping market squares. But here in Villeneuve, in this town just like any other, she’d somehow managed to find a few souls who didn’t mind her oddness—who loved her for it, in fact; who seemed to find in her something they found familiar, something that reminded them of someone they had all loved once. Why, just today, Cogsworth had been talking of this young man he knew, whose golden hair always got loose from his ribbon and fell all over his shoulder, just like hers did....but then he’d forgotten about it, and when she asked him about where she could find him in the village, he’d blinked and asked her if she meant Gaston.

Of course she didn’t mean Gaston. She meant Cogsworth’s young man with the golden hair, and Lumiere’s old friend who quoted Shakespeare in the bath, and the boy Mrs. Potts had watched before she had Chip, the boy who had wanted to wear blue every day for a year. Everyone had a story that came and went and that they never told again: even the silent milliner’s son, playing his violin in the tavern for a few coins, would play a tune about someone no one could name. But Belle could never find all these missing people, no matter where she looked.

“For a little village, there are spots missing,” she says. “And I’ve been talking to people left and right, and there are some things that just seem so odd. Did you know that Madame de Garderobe and Maestro Cadenza came here, a few years ago? World-famous musicians! What were they doing here? They said they got lost on the way to Edinburgh, but they were coming from London. How could they get so lost?”

“That is strange.”

“They played a concert for the villagers, apparently, but no one really remembers it, or they won’t talk about it. It’s as if they’re all hiding something, or realy afraid of something.”

“They might be afraid of that big red galoot, whatever his name is,” suggests Maurice. “You know the one, stepped on our cabbages the other day.”

“Ugh.” Belle hisses out a breath. “He treats them so badly—though they treat each other badly, too. Mrs. Potts doesn’t trust Lumiere, but will never tell me why. They could be friends, if they tried to know each other.”

“You think so well of the world,” says Maurice, softening as he looks at his daughter. “You would believe a rose could lose its thorns if you tried hard enough.”

“It’s not that I believe in change. I believe in...in whatever this is.” Belle throws her hands in the air. “Helping people, fixing what’s broken. There’s something broken here, papa.”

“Mm.” Maurice looks back to his trinket—its melody tinkering out, slow and charming, across his wooden desk. “Do you know, dear, I find the gears of this little castle don’t work right when you have them all apart.”

Belle raises an eyebrow. “Papa?”

“This bit here, it will just sit useless unless I fasten it to another—and I need wire, here, and you know how I’m always losing my screws. Now, if I just rest all the pieces here on the table, like so many soundless, useless objects, we’d never hear that music-box chime, would we?”

“Is this...is this a lesson?” A smile cracks over Belle’s face, slow and steady. “You haven’t instructed me on making music boxes in years, papa.”

“Well, no, not since you got the hang of it...but it still makes me happy to see those gears turn in your head, my girl.”

She’s out the door before he’s finished speaking, eyes alight with a new idea, and she lets it slam behind her, a cold wind blowing through the house as she goes. Maurice’s sketches and drawings and parts tumble over the tabletop, and he turns back to his music-box, paintbrush in hand, ready to work.

Now, if he can just think what sorts of people belong in a ballroom.

Part X: And Almost Kind

“Lumiere! Lumiere.” Belle scatters to a stop, her hair already all undone from its braid. Her friend is leaning up against the clocktower, half in its shadow, his brown and yellow peasants’ garb too big for his lanky frame. He barely looks up to see her; his eyes are caught in the white feathers drifting across the square, and the girl trying to pull them from her curly hair.

“Lumiere, please focus. Look, I have an idea.”

“Mm?” One hand is trailing out a dance melody across the clocktower’s stone. Only the sound of the hunting horn—far away, now, but promising a violent return in short order from the local hero—rallies him out of his trance. “Mademoiselle. You were saying?”

“Can I come visit your shed?”

“Pardonez-moi?” Alarm knocks out the last vestiges of dreaming in his blue eyes. The grey streaks pulse to a rhythm of their own, frightened and jumpy in contrast to the waltz his fingers still trace. “Mademoiselle! You—you cannot, it is no home for....”

“I’ll bring food. And we’ll sing, all right? We’ll have a party. A dinner party!”

“A...dinner party?” He’s still hesitant, but Belle catches that spark of excitement before he can snuff it out.

“What is dinner without a little music?” She grins at him. “Come on, Lumiere, you must have thrown a party at least once in your life.”

“I.........” He’s somehow gone even whiter from the premise.

“And I know just who to invite. Hop along, tout-de-suite—” she slaughters the accent, but it gets him smiling, a little, under those sad blue eyes. “We’re going to be needing extra chairs.”

He bows to her, his yellow vest flapping around him, and just for a second Belle imagines that auburn hair and those elegant white hands somewhere far, far away from Villeneuve. And then he’s up, and off, and before he trips over a sheep he looks almost debonair.

“Right.” Belle straightens her apron, touches the copy of The Knights of The Round Table she’s slipped into her pocket for luck. She has quite a few people to talk to before sundown, and she wants to be brave.

Part XI: Prepare and Serve With Flair

“Is this it?” The shed in front of them is tiny, and mouldering, and right on the edge of the meadow. The only signs it’s lived in are the cracks of candelight seeping out the boarded-up windows and the rusty door.

“It’s shabby enough.” Cogsworth hoists the picnic basket higher. “I still say this is a bad idea.”

“Twenty years you’ve lived here, and you’ve never had dinner with your best friend?”

“And rightly, too,” says Mrs. Potts. “Belle, if I stay here an hour we’ll all be shocked. I don’t like the man, I’ve told you so.”

“Just try it, please? I spent all day cooking this. Or trying to, anyway,” Belle adds, staring down at the burnt contents of her basket with a grimace. Before the others can say anything else, she runs up to the door and knocks.

It falls over, rust winning over old metal.

“Mr. Chapeau, come along, this is dreadful,” says Mrs. Potts, nearly turning back to the village.

“No, no, wait! Lumiere? Lumiere, we’re here.” Belle steps through. Cautiously, the others follow.

Every surface of the tiny shed glows with candelight. In his eagerness to pull off an effect, Lumiere has decked every corner with wax and wicks and glowing golden light; candles drip down chair backs, off iron sconces, across the bare wood of the little table he’s laid. It’s ghastly, but warm, and Belle notices that every table setting—chipped and mismatched though the cups and plates are—is laid out exactly as a courtly table, multiple forks and all.

“We’ve brought food! If it’s edible, which is as yet in doubt. And you know Cogsworth, of course, and Mrs. Potts.”

“Welcome,” says Lumiere flatly. Mrs. Potts rolls her eyes and conspicuously wipes the spots off the silverware with her skirt.

“And this is Chapeau.” Belle shows in the silent violin player. “He’s friends with Pere Robert. Oh, and—”

Lumiere almost drops the wine Cogsworth brought. He’s staring just past Belle, where the dark, starry sky outlines the girl still standing in his doorway.

Lumiere chokes out a string of wordless syllables. His hands don’t quite know what to do. Plumette, for her part, looks like shyness brought to life. She tries a clumsy curtsy and nearly falls; Lumiere catches her, just in time, and they stare for far too long at their own hands on each other’s shoulders.

Belle pretends not to notice them as she lays out all she’s brought: a simple barley soup, a badly sunken cheese souffle, a cream tart that now just looks like gray stuff. Chapeau helps her serve, holding the plates like he’s done this a thousand times before—though he assures her he hasn’t; that his whole life is Villeneuve and his mother’s loud and lonely hatshop. 

Slowly, everyone sips their drinks (poor Lumiere—he’d set out two glasses for each place, as if they had white wine as well as red—poor village idiot, out of place as ever); slowly, they start to talk, breaking bread and sharing plates of butter. Their host is useless for most of the meal, staring blankly at Plumette as she stares back at him; they sit uncomfortably close, for strangers, and Belle sees how jumpy all the hands and feet at this table are: all longing to get out, to twitch away from this strange warmth and company. Lumiere’s hands are shaking near Plumete’s.

But food and wine and after-hours chatting has its charms, and slowly people unfurl like flowers after winter: Mrs. Potts going rosy-cheeked as she tells of Chip’s latest antics, Chapeau miming the schoolmaster’s upturned snout for a delighted Cogsworth, Belle sharing her latest book and finding people somehow interested. Conversation flows out, golden in the waning night, and midnight passes with no notice.

“What of you, Plumette? Where do you come from?” Belle leans over Cogsworth, and tries to act as though she doesn’t see Lumiere’s hands shaking as he timidly puts a roll on the goosegirl’s plate.

“Paris,” says Plumette, and Lumiere’s hands waver like a flame in a storm, “I traveled here, mademoiselle, when I was very young—years and years ago. And I stayed here, oh, I can’t imagine why....”

There’s a stroke of gray in the big brown eyes. Belle tries to hide her fear.

“And this is all I’m good at,” and Plumette sighs, and brushes another feather from her hair. “I once dreamed of great romance, of fairytales—but how could it be otherwise? I am a goosegirl in a village. No great love will ever come to me.” And she stares bitterly downward, not seeing the place setting arranged with so much love.

But then Cogsworth drops his watch in the wine, and Mrs. Potts is laughing so hard she almost cries, and Chapeau fiddles and Lumiere and Plumette clap along (although they refuse to dance).

They part cheerfully, just as the first rays of the sun start stepping gently over the valley. Lumiere, white as a sheet, plucks up his guttering courage and kisses Plumette’s hand; she blushes as vivid as a robin’s chest, and runs so fast back to her cottage she practically flies. (Lumiere, blushing too, nearly sets himself on fire as he reels into his bed.) Cogsworth stretches and yawns, remarking  on the time; Mrs. Potts helps to pack the baskets, and follows Belle out the door.

“You see?” says Belle, leading the way back to the sleeping village. “That wasn’t so bad, Mrs. Potts.”

“No, well....” Her face, so softened and happy just a moment ago, seizes up into harsh lines as if she’s been caught doing wrong. “And I wouldn’t turn down the sight of doing it again, and perhaps bringing Chip along too. You have a good heart, poppet.”

“But...?” They still stand in darkness, here where their paths part. Belle holds her basket close, her books still resting on top.

“We’ve been set in our ways for twenty years, luv. It would take a miracle, or twenty years back that we will never have, to make us into what you dream of. I’ll try for your sake, dear, really I will, but I would never hold that lot of them dear to my heart.”

She trudges back to the village, and Belle watches her go. She hugs her books and basket to her chest, planning and puzzling away at the village with no hope.

“Keep putting the pieces together,” she whispers to herself. “Keep putting the pieces together.”

[memoriesofkpop]

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ALTERNATE ENDING PART 1

BTS’s Yoongi x Reader

Genre: Angst; drama

This continues from the end of Part 1 !!

Part 1 of Series

--- 

“I’ve got to find her. Now,” Yoongi said right as he burst through the door. The others turned to look at him. “Who’s coming with me?”

“Look. Yoongi. I know you’re worried and you want to make up, but you’re an IDOL. Remember? You can’t just go walking around everywhere. You’re going to get mobbed.”

“Then we’ll have them help look for her!” Yoongi said, his voice rising.

“Listen to yourself!”

“I am! I need to find her! Before it gets dark! Please...help me find her….not for me, but for her. I need to know she is safe…”

The boys sent one another worried glances before sighing and grabbing a hat.

“Fine...someone call Manager Sejin and tell him what happened.”

---

The room was frigid and stunk of a musty smell with a hint of iron. A rough piece of cloth kept most of her view dark. From what she could tell by looking down towards her nose through the small gap, the floor was gray and there seemed to be minimal light by the way she could barely see her clothes. She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by a piece of cloth that was shoved in her mouth. She tried to spit it out but it appears that there was another piece of cloth that secured it to her head. As her head became more clear, she attempted to move her hands and feet. Tied. Of course. There was a slight sound of plastic hitting metal. Unsure of what it was, she moved cautiously. Luckily, her hands were tied using rope and with the right amount of twisting...and tugging.... She was able to slip one hand out even though she felt like the rope was ripping off her skin. Easily freeing her other hand, she carefully held on to the rope in case it made a thud as it fell.

Carefully, she placed the rope onto her lap and ripped the cloth from her eyes and face. She let her eyes adjust to the grim room stained with blood. Panic in her rose as she quickly reached down to untie her legs. She paused when she saw a shadow of a tall figure. She swiftly turned to look behind her. That was when she realized there was an IV drip that towered over her. Her eyes followed the long plastic tube down to the needle into her arm. Why hadn’t she noticed earlier? Taking a breath to calm herself, she looked around.

The small room was empty except for her. Just like she imagined, it was lit by one small light bulb that hung above her head. The whole room was gray-- cement?  The stale air was cold despite being confined in the tight room.

With a quick motion, she removed the Needle from her arm and pressed her new small wound with her fingers in case she would bleed.

Carefully, she stood up, wobbling a bit when she first stood up, barely able to control her body. How long had she been here?

She glanced at her raw hands before she began to scan the walls for an opening, feeling the coldness of the walls on her fingertips.

As she neared the the darker side of the room, her fingers brushed gently over a dip. Immediately she paused.

This must be a door! Her nimble fingers went back to the small imperfection between concrete and she traced the crack as far up as she could reach. She placed one hand against the line and the other carefully felt for any signs of possible escape. A small Ting went off as her hand hit a cold metal. Bingo.

As carefully as possible, she turned the knob and tried pulling on the door. No luck. She tried pushing on the door as well, staying as quiet as possible. Locked. She turned around, looking back at where she had started when her eyes caught onto something that shined ever so slightly in the dim light. The needle. She raced for the small object and removed it from the IV successfully. She made her way back and immediately jammed the needle into what felt like the keyhole. Click.  

Ever so slightly, the door creaked open, only to be met with the same dull light and cement walls. However, her eyes did not focus on the light. Instead, her eyes fell upon something she never had expected.

---

“We’re looking for this girl, have you seen her?” Yoongi asked a random couple, holding up his phone to them. They gave him a strange look before walking away.

“Have you seen her?” he tried again, this time, to a group of what appeared to be high school boys. A few shook their head as they continued to walk away.

“Excuse me. Have you seen this woman?” Yoongi asked an older couple. They completely ignored his existence. He sighed as he continued to work through the cold weather. His mask, glasses, and hat provided him minimal warmth but warmth nonetheless.

“He’s been at this for hours. I’m worried about him,” Jimin whispered to Jin, watching from the side. The elder nodded. They had stopped asking around after the first couple hours dragged by. No one has seen her. Yoongi had refused to stop, even refusing to take a break for food nor a sip of anything.

Yoongi, on the edge of a complete mental breakdown, trudged back to the other boys. Day had turned into night and less people were acknowledging him.

“Let’s go home for today yeah? We will ask around with her friends again to see if any of them have seen her, yeah?” RM asked Yoongi gently. The male did not move from his spot nor did his lips ever part. “It’s getting late and there’s nothing else we can do today. She just might not want to talk to you yet.”

Without a reply from Yoongi, RM sighed and stood up. The rest of the group followed the leaders’ actions. Together, they guided the defeated Yoongi back home.

---

“Oh my god,” Y/N whispered to herself as she pushed the door further open carefully. She ran towards the two laying figures against the back wall, barely visible. She rushed to check their pulses and to see if they were breathing. Their dirty clothes and thin frail bodies showcased their long imprisonment. Tears began to form in Y/N’s eyes as she carefully brushed the hair out of one of the young girl’s small face. They both couldn’t have been older than 7 or 8.

“Sweetie. Hey. Darling,” she said, trying to be quiet as she woke the girl on the left. Her eyes slowly peeled open as her weak body shifted slightly. “Oh thank god. Sweetie, can you tell me where we are?” Y/N ask cautiously in a whisper.

The young girl didn’t move nor speak. She simply just stared back at her. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay,” she continued before checking on the other girl.

The second immediately tried to move away from Y/N but was blocked by the wall when they made eye contact. She was covered in bruises as her thin arms clutched onto a worn down stuffed animal. The young girl glanced at the other girl beside her and wrapped a protective arm around them.

Y/N’s heart sank at the scene that unfolded before her.

“I’m going to get us out of here, okay?” Y/N said softly, glancing around the room.

“W-where are we going this time?” the girl asked, stuttering out of fear.

“Did they move you before?” Y/N asked, turning her attention back to the pair. The girl nodded.

“Can you tell me who moved you?”

“...that man with the long line across his eye...and the one with the dark markings on his hands…” she whispered.

Y/N thought for a moment before speaking once more.

“Do you remember what it looks like outside?” She asked sweetly. The young girl nodded. Hope sparked inside of Y/N.

“Do you think you can draw it out for me?”

The girl gave her a questioning look.

“Like this,” Y/N said, placing her pointer finger against the cold floor and dragging it gently on top of the gray concrete. The young girl nodded as she began to draw out the room followed by hallways. By the time she was done, Y/N had gathered that there were numerous doors lined up throughout multiple hallways, and that this young girl had never left the building, just the room.

Her mind was racing, trying desperately to find a way through a place she had never seen.

Just then, the sound of footsteps grew louder and the sound of the doorknob rattling echoed through the barren room. All three turned to face the sound out of instinct. They watched as the door creaked open, letting a stream of light flood the room.

---

Hours had turned into days. Days had turned into a total of two weeks.

“She’s been officially missing for 11 days now,” Yoongi whispered, mainly to himself, but Jimin couldn’t help but overhear.

“Hyung, stop counting the days. It’s not helping. The police are on the case,” Jimin said softly, placing a firm hand on his hyung’s shoulders.

“She’s been gone for so long? Have you read about the cases of missing people? The longer it takes to find them, the smaller the chance of them returning!” he exclaimed, voice rising.

“I know you’re worried but there isn’t anything for us to do now. We’ve tried more flyers, searches, everything. All we can do now is wait,” Jimin said.

“You don’t understand! She-”

“Hyung, she was our friend too. You’re not in this al-”

“Is.”

“...what?”

“Is. She IS our friend too. You said WAS. She’s not someone I will leave in the past,” Yoongi stated, glaring at the younger boy.

“I didn’t mean it like that...She’s precious to us too...but you need to check yourself and your bad attitude towards this whole thing because it is not helping at all,” stated Jimin before walking away into another room before things got messy. Yoongi watched him walk, remembering how she had stormed out on him too.

His whole world was falling apart and he was struggling to keep the pieces together with his bare two hands.

“Come home…” he said softly into the air, knowing she would never hear him.

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3   Part 2 and 3 Text Format Alternate Ending: Part 1 Part 2

[kpopfanfictrash]

Cannot

A GUARDIAN ONE SHOT

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / Baekhyun (POV)

Rating / Genre: PG-13 / Fantasy!AU

Word Count: 3,246

Summary: Part of Kpopfanfictrash’s POV Game. Guardian, Parts IV - X. When Baekhyun’s feelings changed towards Y/N.

Baekhyun has been following you for several blocks now.

Several blocks, watching you wander in and out of alleyways. Staring at your phone, then at the buildings. Every now and then you hold your the device overhead – which is when Baekhyun realizes you have no cell service.

He snorts. Of course not.

When you spin in a circle, Baekhyun nearly leaves the shadows. Nearly revealing himself, before the dark-haired man steps from thin air. Recoiling slightly, Baekhyun slips back. He watches you, eyes narrowing as the man leads you quickly away. The two of you are arguing, bickering before suddenly, you smile. Throwing your head back to laugh – and then you’re gone. Around the corner and out of sight.

Baekhyun steps onto sidewalk, yawning. He rolls his neck, considering his options. He should return to the Altorium. His orders were specific: try and find you. Determine your location, your existence. Now that he has, Baekhyun should return to base and report to Lorian.

For some reason though, he doesn't do this. For some reason, Baekhyun takes a step forward. Moving until he stands quietly at the mouth of the alley. Staring out into the courtyard, where your Guardian trains you.

He’s helping you control your powers. Baekhyun runs a hand through scarlet hair, letting his shoulder fall against the brick wall. He toys with the silencer at his belt, considering attacking right now. Lorian would consider that an unnecessary risk, though. That’s because the man, the one training you – is Kim Jongdae.

Flipping open his phone, Baekhyun compares the photo to the man before him. Jongdae is one of the most notorious Guardians of the age and Baekhyun smirks, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He traces a finger gently over his belt. Baekhyun would love nothing more than to go head to head with Jongdae. He’s always trying to prove himself, trying to prove he’s worthy of the Altorium and he’s always wanted to fight a Guardian. One of those demon angels, fallen from Heaven.

Lorian never lets him, though. Instead Baekhyun chases down shedim after shedim - maybe the occasional rogue neph or two. Never a Guardian. Never someone to actually test Baekhyun’s boundaries.

Baekhyun wants to prove himself worthy, wants to gain admiration from the Council. Not just the begrudging respect, the vague sense of fear he currently has. Baekhyun is considered something of an outsider, mainly because he’s one of Lorian’s. One of the strange children handed over at birth, to be raised into an elite fighting sqaud. Of course, the reason others are wary is because Baekhyun is now one of the only ones left.

Your voice cuts through the quad, dragging Baekhyun back to reality. You’re yelling, something about Jongdae being unhelpful and Baekhyun nearly laughs out loud. He’s so busy trying to keep a straight face that he nearly misses what’s happening beneath your hands.

Then he sees. Holy shit.

Baekhyun’s eyesight jumps, narrowing in on the fountain before you. The water is frozen mid-air and upon realizing this, Baekhyun’s blood runs cold. He doesn’t move, keeping scarily still as you lean down to inspect the faucet.

You seem just as awed as he is, exhaling to say, “Cool.”

Baekhyun watches your expression turn from annoyed to something different. Something wondrous, awed – the look transforms you. Before this, Baekhyun thought you attractive. Attractive in the same way a poisonous frog is attractive. Colorful on the outside, warning of deadliness within.

Now, though - you look beautiful.

Unable to stop himself, Baekhyun takes a lazy step forward. “Very,” he murmurs, as your head snaps up.

The fallen is singing.

Baekhyun sits, perched on the Ferris wheel above you. He wraps both hands around the frame, staring out at the carnival while Jongdae’s voice rises. The melody of the song is sweet – hauntingly so, and Baekhyun doesn’t know why, but it hurts his chest. His mouth is dry, limbs weak and Baekhyun swallows around all the things he cannot say. The things he cannot feel, cannot want – as his gaze drifts to the carriage below.

He needs to end this. Needs to end this now, take you back to the Altorium. Lorian expects it, the Council expects it of him. They want you for interrogation - god knows why. Baekhyun can’t help but feel uneasy about that. You’re annoying, sure. Loud, and full of too much power for your own good but Baekhyun has never seen you be cruel.

He’s followed you for weeks now, tracing your every move and what he’s seen has been surprising. You’re on a first name basis with your coffee store owner. You call your sister once a day. You call your father once a week, though your expression twists to discomfort every time you do.

You don’t have many friends, Baekhyun understands that. The ones you do though, you’re very loyal to. You’re smart – unnervingly so. While you may be a bit anti-social, you never fail to give when it counts. There was one night when Baekhyun snuck in your window and scrolled through your search engine. There was a reason at the time – trying to find your class schedule? – but all Baekhyun found were news articles, petitions for various social causes and the Amazon Smile page.

He sat in your chair for longer than he would like to admit, confused by his findings. Just as he sits here now, staring at the winter sky and wishing he didn’t feel so divided.

Down below, the song stops.

Now is his chance. Unscrewing a cord from around his belt, Baekhyun drops himself over the edge. Slinging from one carriage to the next before sliding through the door. He lands in a crouch, hair blowing about his face as he looks upwards – and freezes.

Jongdae is kissing you. He’s bent forward, hands laced in your hair, tilting your face to his. Your body is pressed tightly to his and you look – blissful. Baekhyun stares, for longer than he should. A knot forms, one he frantically tries to push aside.

“Ahem,” Baekhyun coughs, forcing himself to stand.

The van hits another bump, and you struggle to keep upright. Your gaze keeps moving, darting to the windows, to Baekhyun. The metal door, to Baekhyun. To your feet, hands, the front of the car –

Baekhyun raises both eyebrows. “What are you doing.”

“Listening.”

“For what?”

“A sound that’s not you,” you retort, continuing to scan.

Baekhyun wants to laugh. Would laugh, except it’s been so long and he doesn’t quite remember how. Instead he slouches, fighting back a grin while scanning your body. “Ouch,” he smirks. “I guess this means you no longer find me pretty?”

Freezing in place, you blink at him as Baekhyun’s smile widens. You think he’s pretty. Your confession caused an odd reaction in him – almost like a fluttering. When you look at him now, your eyes are wide with fear. Before he can stop himself, Baekhyun finds himself wishing he could comfort you.

“I was delirious,” you blush. “I didn’t mean it.”

Baekhyun just smiles. “I’ve heard people are at their most truthful under the influence.”

“Not me,” you state, shaking your head. The van hits another sharp bump, shifting Baekhyun in his seat. “I tend to say things like the sky is green. Or apples are fuzzy.”

“Well.” Baekhyun tries and fails to keep a straight face. “Apples are fuzzy. If they’re molding.”

There – your face twitches. It’s quick, but your amusement was there.

Then your eyes narrow. “Just forget I said anything.”

Baekhyun sits up straight. “Mm,” he stops, pretending to think about it. “I don’t believe I can, Princess.”

You groan, looking away. “Princess? Not that again.”

Baekhyun’s lip quirks. “It just suits you so well.”

Your gaze snaps to his. “Why?” you demand, leaning forward. The handcuffs strain at your shoulders – it can’t be comfortable that way, but you do it anyways. So near now that the top of your knees brush his.

Baekhyun swallows, staring. He can’t admit the truth. The truth is, he called you princess once on a whim - on accident. Your face was so pretty, the way you held yourself so graceful that truthfully, Baekhyun just felt you were above him. Even now, Baekhyun can think of a million things to say. None of which are appropriate. None of which make any sense to him.

The van hits another pothole, lurching you sideways. “Ow,” you grunt.

Baekhyun forces himself to smile, pretending to think of other things. “See?” he asks, raising a brow. “That’s why. A true princess, unaccustomed to roughness.”

A small huff passes your lips. “Whatever,” you grumble, shutting your eyes. “I don’t care. It’s not like I can change your mind.”

Baekhyun stares at you, curious for just a second. If there’s one thing he understands, it’s people expecting him to be something he’s not. For a moment his stomach sinks, wondering if he’s doing the same to you. Putting you in a box, assuming you’re one way when you’re really another.

Baekhyun looks back down. Truthfully, you aren’t like the other Nephilim he’s encountered. Every single neph Lorian sent him to was a hateful thing. Consumed by power, obsessed with themselves. They thought Nephilim better than humans, better than Baekhyun, better than God, even. You don’t seem like that to him.

Then Baekhyun swallows, pushing these doubts aside. He has a job to do – he has humanity to protect. He cannot let himself be swayed by your appearance of innocence. Shifting in his seat, the handcuffs clink behind him. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Baekhyun says softly. “At the end of the day, I don’t see you as human. At the end of the day, I’m tasked with destroying you.”

Quietly, slowly – your knee withdraws from his.

The bag is ripped quickly from Baekhyun’s head.

His hair falls messily forward and he tries to flick it away, but his hands are tied too tightly behind his back. Not just with handcuffs but rope – Baekhyun feels the metal fibers, cutting into him every time he moves. Baekhyun’s ankles are tied as well, lashed firmly to the chair and making it impossible to get any sense of bearing.

Baekhyun looks up to meet his captor’s eyes. It’s a woman, one Baekhyun doesn’t recognize. Her hair is blonde, cut into a bob which ends just above her shoulders. She smiles serenely back at him, her gaze eerily focused. Almost as though she doesn’t see the guards on either side of him.

“Welcome,” the woman smiles. “How kind of you to join us, Baekhyun.”

Baekhyun swallows. “How do you know my name?”

“We know many things,” she murmurs, stepping back to pull out a tablet. The woman taps on the keyboard, keeping her gaze down. “We’ve been listening to your wires for some time. You, and your friend,” she adds, nodding sideways.

Baekhyun turns his head. What he sees churns his stomach. A glass wall, likely a one-way mirror because in the next room is you, and you don’t seem to notice him at all. You’re slumped in a metal chair, handcuffs attached to your seat. You’re still, motionless but for the rise and fall of your chest.

Tearing his gaze away, Baekhyun looks back to his kidnapper. She called you his friend, which means she doesn’t know. If she did, she wouldn’t have made the mistake of calling him your friend.

Baekhyun smiles, showing teeth. “Oh?” he asks. “But if you know everything already, why am I in an interrogation room?” Because that’s what this is, of course. There are similar ones in the Altorium. In those though, Baekhyun has never been on this side of the chair.

The woman’s smile doesn’t falter. “Mr. Byun.” She takes a step closer to abruptly fist her hand in his hair, yanking his head back to slam against the headrest. “I believe I am the one asking the questions tonight.”

Baekhyun’s eyes narrow, glaring back at her. He can’t think of a way out. Not with this metal around his wrists, around his ankles and the three guards who watch him carefully. Not with this room so far inside a governmental facility, so deep in there’s no way Baekhyun would make it out without getting shot.

From the corner of one eye he sees thin, white mist entering the room. The woman’s gaze follows and, upon seeing this, she smirks. 

“A little treat,” the woman says, taking a step backwards. Her hand falls from Baekhyun’s hair, letting him thud against the chair. “It weakens your powers, makes it rather difficult to escape.”

With a start, Baekhyun understands.

She thinks he’s Nephilim. She thinks he’s one of you, thinks you’re his friend – and Baekhyun nearly laughs out loud. He could stop this all right now. He could tell this woman that they’re on the same side, that they both want you gone – but then, when Baekhyun tries to speak, nothing comes out.

He freezes, looking over at you. If he gives you up, tells them exactly what you are – it’s all over. They won’t kill you, not at first. They’ll keep you here, torture you, experiment with you. The thought makes Baekhyun’s insides harden. They’ll take samples, they’ll prod and they’ll poke until they find whatever it is they’re looking for. You’re half-angel. Invaluable, and if Baekhyun admits to them what you are – they’ll never let you go.

Baekhyun swallows. His orders are simple: bring you to the Altorium alive. Not carry you there in a body bag.

Slowly, Baekhyun lowers his head to the chair. He meets the woman’s gaze, telling himself that the only reason he’s doing this is because of his orders. This has nothing to do with the way you make him feel. Nor the pain lancing through him, at the thought of even causing you harm.

“What first?” Baekhyun murmurs, cocking his head. “You ask me questions, I refuse to answer and then you starve or torture me?”

The woman’s gaze hardens.

“Because,” Baekhyun grins. “I have to say that sounds a lot like my childhood. So much so, it’s hard for that be a threat.”

The woman doesn’t seem amused. “I have questions,” she murmurs, as though unable to hear the rest of Baekhyun’s babble. “Not for you though, I think. For her.”

With that, she turns. Striding quickly towards the door – not saying a word as Baekhyun stares. The sounds of the room fade, once he realizes what she means.

In the midst of all this, the woman stops. Pausing to look at him with a brittle smile. “We’ll see if you’re more willing to talk after.”

The door slams shut and Baekhyun starts to panic, bile rising while the three remaining guards surround him. Dragging him to the window, ignoring both his straining and attempts to escape. The cords are tight around him, keeping him still while the woman enters your cell.

The glass is soundproof, enough so that Baekhyun can’t hear what you’re saying. Only watch. Watch, as the woman questions. Watch, as you respond. Baekhyun doesn’t know what you say, only that it doesn’t take long before things go south. Baekhyun sees the woman’s expression twitch, sees her frustration grow as you continue to evade her answers.

Baekhyun sees when the mist enters, sees you choke and realizes it must be Devil’s Ivy. Which makes no sense – since that’s a gas the Altorium uses. Why would it be here, now? Given your reaction though, it can’t be anything but. Baekhyun has seen many Nephilim fall victim to this before.

And then the woman presses a button.

You scream, a silent gesture, due to the thick glass between you. It twists your face, contorting your body and Baekhyun recognizes electrocution. Shock therapy, and Baekhyun is suddenly no longer in control of himself. His anger is blinding, wrapping his body as a noise leaves his lips.

The guards barely have time to react. Baekhyun jumps, sweeping his chair sideways. One guard crashes into the next – both flung aside by Baekhyun’s blow. The third moves but Baekhyun has already thrust himself backwards. Landing on top of his chair to break it – wincing, as white shards of wood slice his skin.

He rolls, barely managing to stand before he must duck. The guard’s fist whistles through air – slamming into the wall behind him. The guard curses and Baekhyun winces at the crunching noise his fist makes before darting sideways. Energy returning, already thrumming as he throws himself against the window.

Nothing happens.

The woman presses the button once more. You scream, twisting in your seat. Baekhyun throws his body again. Shoulder slamming into the glass, ramming over and over, but you don’t hear. You can’t hear. The glass between you is bulletproof and Baekhyun is only human. He throws his body until, slightly dazed, he registers a crack in the glass.

Then hands wrap around him from behind.

And darkness falls.

Baekhyun must be losing it. Must be, since he no longer knows what he is anymore. No longer knows who he is, anymore. Isn’t that always the question? It’s actions which reveal who you truly are. Actions, which prove yourself to the world.

Baekhyun stood in that bathroom, beside you. Not even a foot away while your hands were in his hair. Cleaning him, helping him – but why? Baekhyun has killed Nephilim like you. Well, that’s not entirely true. Baekhyun has killed Nephilim, but never like you.

No one is like you.

Baekhyun turns his head. You’re not looking, staring up at a drop of water on the ceiling. Your lips are parted, attention rapt. Your legs beneath you and he thinks that you look small. Small and vulnerable – Baekhyun’s body tightens at that sight, the memory of them hurting you returning.

When he saw that – Baekhyun shudders, unable to think any further. He looks up at the ceiling, closing his eyes. “I just want you to understand,” he says, so softly. “Why we can’t be friends.”

His hands tremble, and Baekhyun forces himself to be still. This is wrong. Wrong, for him to feel protective of you. To not want to hurt you, to want to get to know you. Baekhyun wants to tell you everything, to hear everything you have to say.

He wants to sit beside you. Have you lean on him, run his hands through your hair and so, Baekhyun laces his fingers tightly together. Physically stopping himself from moving. You’re his enemy, you’re dangerous. He absolutely cannot think this way.

Baekhyun says you can’t be friends aloud, more to remind himself of this than anything else.

“Baekhyun.”

He opens both eyes. “Yes?”

You exhale, the sound as nervous as he feels. “I don’t know what to say.”

There’s a long pause, one in which Baekhyun turns to look at you.

“Half the time I feel like I’m in control, but half the time I feel like I’m drowning. One second I want to save the world, the next I want to burn it.”

Your words are quiet, serious and though Baekhyun’s eyes widen, he doesn’t look away.

“Right here though. Right now.” You pause, taking a deep breath. “I feel human.”

Staring back, Baekhyun feels something inside him cracking. Something changing and it terrifies him when he opens his mouth and says, “Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that you’re not.”

[Kpopfanfictrash’s POV Game Master List]

[Guardian Master List]

[justira]

STORY STARTERS MEME

Rules: List the first lines of your last 15 stories. See if there are any patterns. Then tag 10 of your favourite authors!

@petite-neko tagged me, and I have never been tagged for anything before in my life. But, uh, sure, let’s do this!

I definitely do not know 10 writers on tumblr because I am very terrible at doing The Tumblrs and also I mostly talk to artists on here? But why not, let’s tag my partner in crime @sevdrag; @wordsdear, who I know writes; and @kaizokunohime, who doesn’t write prose but does write story ideas/prompts, and I’d like to see how those do with this meme.

I have no idea what is meant by “first lines” here? The first sentence? The first block of text until whitespace? idek, I tried to keep it reasonable. This is in reverse chrono order, so first story is most recent.

1. Acclimating

[One Piece — Law/Luffy, Law & Strawhats — E, 31.3K ]

Law probably should have seen this coming. It wasn't his splintered self-worth that made him avoid things like this (and what business of anyone's was it, anyway, if he lived for Cora-san's memory? He'd been living on borrowed time for over a decade, and every step he'd taken since then had drawn him closer to a confrontation he expected (hoped) he wouldn't survive). But his utter lack of interest in making himself likable because there was nothing much to like certainly helped cut down on complications. Or, it usually did. The standard rules did not seem to apply to Strawhat. Black Leg had warned him, although, all things considered, that shouldn't have been necessary. 

2. A Slow and Vicious Hemorrhage

[BBC Sherlock / Hannibal Movies — Holmes/Watson — M, 5.5K, WIP]

The air gets heavier, down here, cooler and tinged with inescapable subterranean damp. John breathes it in, steadily; it doesn't particularly unnerve him. It reeks of institution and he's had practice enough with those. It's not calming, precisely, but it's familiar. It's all familiar. It's all fine.

It is.

His hand tightens on the two case files. It doesn't stop the tremor, but he rubs his thumb across the labels, the rough reality of them, already thoroughly ragged from the flicks and scrapes and polishing and various pointless attritions of dozens of fingers, despite the very recent dates stamped on both of them. Two dates, two names. Neither name belongs to Sherlock Holmes.

3. Swimming Lessons

[Final Fantasy X — Auron/Braska/Jecht — T, 1K ]

Auron sputtered as Jecht dunked him under the water again. He came up for air, gasping, to hear Braska rebuke Jecht. "Jecht, he can't swim." Braska's tone was just this side of sharp, showing that Jecht was testing his patience; good, as he had surely tested Auron's. Auron clawed his hair out of his face where it had escaped his tail. Jecht was already too far away to shove. Braska floated over to him, touched his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

4. This Stolen Interstice

[Dragon Age: Origins — Duncan/Teagan — M, 8K]

The Grey Warden came during the harvest. The field Teagan was working was cradled in one of Rainesfere's rolling valleys; trees rose high on all sides, crowning the surrounding hills and wind-murmuring to each other as the harvesters worked. The air was thick with dust and chaff and the smell of fallen leaves, just edging into cold. That hint of crispness settled pleasantly on Teagan's skin as he worked amidst the slice and whisper of sickles and threshing, the barking of dogs weaving through the rhythmic sounds — no laughing children, not during the harvest, as all but babes were put to work at some task or another. He found one such child suddenly in his path — Rogher's youngest. Deliah? That must be it.

"What is it, Deliah?" Teagan wiped his brow as he stood, stretched his back.

"There's a man to see you," the girl mumbled, shy before her bann. "Mama says he's a Grey Warden."

The words spilled a chill down his back, much harsher than the gentle bite in the air. Darkspawn, here?

5. The Storm That Sweeps So Quiet

[Final Fantasy Tactics — Alma/Tietra — T, 1.2K]

Alma's spine aches. She has been bowed over this tome for entirely too long. Study is normally a pleasure, particularly the histories or the great tales of the Church, but this day she set aside to get through an endless dissertation on courtly graces. Studious as Alma may normally be, her heart is not in this. Today, the floor is distractingly hard beneath her folded skirts, even with the spare cushion. Her bodice itches unreasonably. Behind her, Tietra's quiet breathing and quieter warmth brush down Alma's back; she had persuaded her friend to take the window seat and regrets it not one bit, discomfort or no. It's not Tietra's fault that Lord Haverell's text drones so. Outside, the sunshine drips between tumultuous clouds; the air is heavy and moist, and the clouds tower high. It is not a day for study, not at all.

She runs her finger down the rich vellum of the page and listens to its smooth whisper. Behind her, she hears Tietra shift, the soft sigh of fabric and the rougher-edged rasp of pages rubbing together. Well, if Tietra feels it too...

6. So let it out and let it in

[Supernatural — Castiel & Mary, Castiel & Dean, Castiel & Sam — G, 5.1K]

"Jay Bird Family Special," the waitress announces, clear and cheery above the lunchtime clinks and conversation buzzing through the diner. She tips Mary a wink. Mary grins back as Heather sets the giant platter in front of her, gently intercepting baby Dean's hand going straight for the steak. "Your man running late?"

"Course not!" John pops up behind Heather. He's breathless under a thin sheen of sweat, his face all smiles and engine grease, and Mary could not want to touch that handsome curve of jaw more.

Instead, she puts a mild growl of threat in her voice, not even trying to cover the laughter crowding up alongside it. "If you think you're getting those paws anywhere near my food or my son—"

7.  And Under Sky, the Shelter

[Final Fantasy Tactics — Ramza & Rapha, Marach, Mustadio, Agrias  — G, 1.4K]

The hill cups gently around a lee; pebbles gather in the shadow where the wind abandoned them, making for a stony bed, but it will serve well enough for their purposes. Ramza, at least, is tired enough to collapse where he stands. He watches Agrias survey the site and thinks dully about what to do if it does not meet her standards of defensibility. It is well that she nods in approval, as he had not managed to think of any alternatives. The weariness runs too deep in his bones, leeching at thought, at care. It frightens him, distantly. So many have ceased to care, it seems. He rouses himself with a shake that feels like trying to shift mountains.

Tired to numbness or no, camp must be made, the birds cared for. The birds and — his teeth tug at his lip as his glance lands on Rapha and Marach, hovering at the edges of the group — the people. The tasks have been long apportioned, but in their ever growing and shrinking company, they reassign the routine often enough. It is just that he is too tired tonight to think on it.

8. There the Bones of Us May Lie

[Final Fantasy XII — Ashe/Balthier — T, 2.5K]

The hollow starlight sinks into ashen softness before her as she boards the Strahl; the hungry roar of the Cataract is hushed, made muted and metallic. It is like sinking into water, reversed. The quiet is the same, the sense of distance, but as she ascends there is no persistent buoyancy, no insistent upward press. Weight seems to sink down on her instead, settling deeper about her shoulders like a mantle.

It's familiar.

The silence of the ship eats her sigh, giving back nothing. And that, too is familiar — comforting, even, to have no wraiths answering those unmeant nighttime summons. The Occuria's illusion of Rasler is shattered, and Vaan isn't here to haunt her either, sleeping below with the others; Ashe is alone if not exactly unfettered. It is beyond her, just now, to judge whether that is better, and that is, in any case, irrelevant. There is little point in dwelling on it, now.

9. Best Hand

[Ace Attorney — Apollo & Trucy, Phoenix — G, 0.5K]

Apollo eyed the backs of Mr. Wright's cards. Wright kept them low, hands resting easy and relaxed on the table — Trucy was just the opposite, her fan of cards held up in front of her face, casting conspiratorial glances over the top. Hiding her smile. Trucy had something; Apollo'd figured that much out. Not as good as his own hand, though, he was sure of it.

(Now if only...)

He looked back at Wright. Nothing to see. Nothing to sense; bracelet quiet and loose on his wrist. (Damn! It's not just that he used Trucy for the games, he's impossible to read anyway!) Apollo resisted gritting his teeth.

10. Eclipse

[Final Fantasy IV — Kain/Cecil, Kain/Rosa, Cecil/Rosa, Kain/Cecil/Rosa — G, 1.5K]

In the old forgotten passageways beneath Baron Castle the walls exhale ghosts like vaporous winter breath: a fine spice on a hunt for treasure, harmless old haunts that feather around them as they creep down the halls with their stolen torch, their voices a nervous-laughing titter of echoes.

When the revenant comes Kain's blood freezes and he sees the panicked bloom of Rosa's untutored magic, shielding them; Kain's lips parting in awe and breathlessness as they flee.

But as they tumble back down the halls, to light and safety and a likely spanking, it is Cecil who clutches his hand.

11. Where Memory Rests

[Thief: Deadly Shadows — Garrett, The Shalebridge Cradle — G, 2.3K]

Thick exhales of steam crowd the night air, damp on your skin, as you make your way through the noise and shadows of the City. Grit has gathered close to the walls where you walk, giving the soft sound of your steps a rougher edge. Your fingers trail where a gas arrow once crystallized: a pipe carrying hot air hisses quietly at the leak. Magic lies thick in the air since the Final Glyph, dispersed and unformed. You can feel it in your hand. It washes across the red new scar like warm breath, like the air trickling from the pipe. The elemental crystals form faster, now, and someone harvested this one before you.

It doesn't matter. You have other things on your mind tonight.

And besides, you can always get it back.

12. the silent fulcrum in the interstice

[Kingdom Hearts — Kairi & Riku & Sora, Kairi & Naminé — G, 1.2K]

It begins with her hands: she plunges them into the place where earth meets sea meets sky. The light falls fragile across the grains, soft contrast to their coarse texture against her palms, her bare knees. The damp sand is heavy in her palms and something stirs in her as she pauses, hands suspended, full of infinite possibilities: This is how worlds are created, she thinks. Memories, falling like sand, like stars, like snow (where does she remember snow from?); she pauses, hands suspended, full of infinite worlds.

She can't remember the last time she did this, or maybe she never stopped: this is where she sat and stitched together a star, a promise; this is where she stood and watched the horizon and waited, or tried to remember what she was waiting for. The sand is heavy in her hands, and she wonders if this is any different, or if it is all reconstruction and remembering.

This is how worlds are created, and she sinks her fingers into the sand.

13. Same As It Never Was (cowritten with @sevdrag)

[Final Fantasy VIII — Rinoa/Squall, Laguna/Squall, Quistis/Rinoa, Kiros/Laguna, Quistis/Rinoa/Squall — E, 72K, WIP]

“I’m sorry, Commander, sir,” the waiter said over Squall's shoulder, “but we don’t have that particular vintage — our sincere apologies. Can I recommend another bottle — on the house, of course?”

Squall tried not to grit his teeth— too hard, anyway, because they were already grinding a little at the waiter’s placating, admiring, sorry-to-your-famous-personage-please-be-kind tone. He glanced up. Rinoa was smiling at him, that smile of hers that carried beaming wattage like a Thundaga to the chest, and even though it still made his heart skip a beat he could read in it what neither of them was saying: her hesitation playing across her face, the tense strain of her smile even as his own lips quirked back in response.

“Not a problem,” he said, aware that his voice was gruff and sounded irritated; maybe everyone would assume he was aggravated about the wine.

14. Coward Heart

[Final Fantasy X — Auron & Braska & JechtI — G, 3.6K]

The caves cast light back at them, fractured reflections and the rock's own native glow: the water was still and star-littered, pinpricks of light beneath a surface so motionless that Auron could barely tell where water ended and the pressing dark of the caverns began. All the light should have illumed the air, but the icy breath of the place seemed nearly solid, swallowing the light before it could reveal more than it hid. Auron had drawn his sword long ago, its rasp loud and echo-inhaled. Even the fiends glowed, here, great gelid flans with galaxies glittering inside them, dissolving into pyreflies like gentle novas.

Auron's gaze slid to Braska. In the gloaming, Braska's eyes seemed wide and white, his robes silver-edged black, all the careful distinctions of colour — red, for mourning; purple, for hope; blue, for seas and skies — lost in the half-light. Jecht was a suffocated flame beside him, the leaping fish on his sarong like the empty spaces between licks of fire as he shrugged off the wool-lined jacket Braska had finally convinced him to wear.

15. Disconnect

[Final Fantasy VIII / Kingdom Hearts — Maleficent & Squall — G, 3.7K]

He opens his eyes to the sight of water falling up. The spray coats his face, his clothes— he tries to sit up and make sure Lionheart is dry in its sheath and realizes that everything, everywhere, hurts.

(Rinoa.)

He makes it to his feet, checks on Lionheart. The gunblade survived the trip, maybe in better shape than Squall had. He flexes his hands, staring at them. They still feel numb. (Did it hurt you like this? Your magic?) His spells are gone, eaten up by the trip from Traverse Town. He hadn't counted on this exhaustion. (Yeah, and Cid had said it was impossible and called me an idiot. Whatever.)

It doesn't matter. He heaves himself away from the rocks he'd been leaning on, and starts climbing.

Analysis, I guess?

Okay well the immediate thing I notice is that I used the word "interstice" twice in this set of titles and that's just mortifying.

Decent mix of fandoms! 14 fandoms counting crossovers, although 8 were Final Fantasy of some kind.

I counted 6 past tense intros (though one of those fics switches to present tense halfway through, which is 15K words past the opening lines), and 9 present tense ones. That's a 2:3 ratio of past to present, and I actually had never realized I wrote in present tense this much. In the grand scheme of fiction writing, past tense is heavily more common so I guess this sample puts me in the... minority? I find present tense more immediate. I rarely actively CONSIDER which tense to use, I just start writing in whatever FEELS right for the idea. The first story where I actively considered tense was "Acclimating", the most recent story on here. Whoops >.>

Also I don't tend to open with dialogue. For short fics (less than 10K) I tend to write mostly in order, and I find writing dialogue difficult, so I tend to kind of "settle in" with a story by writing description first, and only after I'm properly settled try some dialogue. There were only 4 stories with dialogue in the opening lines here, and only 2 that actually had dialogue as the first thing in the story.

Fewer em dashes than I expected, as I know I overuse those. But not, apparently, in the opening lines. I wait until the reader is settled in/committed before pulling that shit on them.

I seem to vary between starting in the middle of things vs. doing a bit of setup. I couldn't really pin numbers to this one, as it's a bit more nebulous. For example the very first sentence of "This Stolen Interstice" (that word again, shoot me now) is in medias res, but then I back up to a bit of scene-setting. So who even knows!

Anyway, this was a fun exercise!

[whitesilverandmercury]

So you remember that bit towards the beginning of the Odyssey where Telemachus decides to go look for his dad and heads off to Pylos to see Nestor, with Athena doing her cross-dressing act? And there's that whole "“let Telemachus, king Odysseus' son, sleep at the palace now, on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade, with Prince Pisistratus close beside him there” intimate friends thing and then they go to Sparta? Something with that? Any fandom you like. Please and thank-you.

fic prompts ☆ fuck me up here

disclaimers: don’town, don’t ownrating: ehhh T? nothing explicit, sort of fluffypairing: kh, akurokua/n: for @paraklausithyro – ancient Greek AU // Let Telemachus,king Odysseus’ son, sleep at the palace now, on a corded bed inside the echoingcolonnade, with Prince Pisistratus close beside him there. // so liketimeline is definitely not 100% accurate and there are plenty creativeliberties but you get the point lmao

peaches and cream. 

i.

Roxas does not remember his father, or the start of the war,whenever it was the war actually started. What he remembers is a house that toosoon did not feel empty anymore, cool floors and shuttered windows threadingthe light, the humming of the waves on the crags at night like the humming ofhis mother as she strokes his hair to put him to sleep, curled up in her bedwith his back against her warm, shifting bosom. Sweet smell of sun on earth.Purple shadow of Mt. Neion. What he does remember is visitors who were notafter his mother’s hand in remarriage — visitors, now and again, to the rockycountry-man island, and one of these visitors a younger son of a lord alsostolen away by the fighting at Troy.

It was before news of the war’s end had reached them, andRoxas cannot remember why they came,up, all the way up from Messenia, but he remembers the son — the strongshoulders for a boy, maybe five years older than himself. Tall, too, with thesun-kissed skin of the Messenian coast but the clear, sharp cat eyes and deepred hair of Thrace. Roxas will not know the strangeness of this until he isolder. What he remembers is watching wide-eyed and wondering from around hismother’s leg, fingers curled in the fine fall of her clothes, as the boy andhis brothers rough housed in the outer courtyard, their laughter and squeakingshouts bouncing off marble and dust. What he remembers is the flash of clear,cool green eyes, fast and piercing as a strike to the earth from gloriouslightning-bringing Zeus. Hovering on him. Noticing him after he’d snuck awayfrom his mother’s knee, to peek out from the faded colonnade along the yard.Shooting away again, to an older brother who wrestles him to the ground in aburst of limbs and strangled half-laughter.

ii.

Axel remembers being excited to go north again, to therugged backwater island. There is a widow there, and two of his brothers are atcontest of who can win her hand. The estate is good; never mind the location.As Axel remembers, the woman is beautiful, blonde and blue-eyed, and she onlyhas one son, an easy opponent for his brothers considering he is still a child.

Yes, she has a son, and he is also blond and blue-eyed, witha heart-shaped face and uncertain mouth, a dance of freckles across his cheeksfrom the sun, kisses from Helios, eyes like a stormy sky. Axel remembers himfrom the first trip, lonely prince of this isolated island; he remembers himfrom this trip, and the way the shadows of the colonnade fall over him inribbons as he made his way with a shoddy play bow and hip-quiver of arrows, agraduation from childhood slingshot, Axel supposed. Axel hid behind one of themarble columns and just as the country prince was passing, he jumped out with shouldersdrawn and hands in claws, like a mountain beast ready to pounce.

“Ah!” he cries, aiming not to scare, only to startle theboy, playful like a kitten.

The boy doesn’t rear back but he does stop short, eyeswidening just a bit, flutter of lashes as he blinks as if to clear his visionof a double take. “What?” he mumbles.

Axel wilts, but laughs nonetheless. “The Nemean lion,” he says.He reaches out and tousles the boy’s mess of dirty blond hair as if they arefriends.

“Right.” The boy takes the touch a moment, before leaningaway like a cat highly selective of love. Still, he looks up at Axel with thosebig, wondering eyes like he is used to being friends with people who don’t askif he wishes to be friends. “Because of Herakles. Your father knew him.”

“Yes,” Axel says. “And my grandfather brought hisvengeance.”  

The boy — Roxas, Axel remembers finally remembering the name— stares at him a moment, before he stirs with a little breath and anotherflicker of the eyes and he says shyly, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Axel bristles, heat flooding his face like falling asleepoutside in the warm noontime. He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious. “Becauseyou’re beautiful,” he says after a moment, not quite sure how else to explainit. “And I want to protect it. I think you should be mine.”

Roxas’ brow dimples; his nose wrinkles like he’s tastedsomething sour. “Your what?”

“My boy,” Axel replies resolutely, inclining his chin.Roxas’ chin lifts, too, as he laughs and laughs, and the sound is as pleasingas the dance of rain on the soft earth.

“You’re not old enough to say that to me yet!” he giggles,and Axel softens in a warm grin, a smile with teeth, because the light onRoxas’ face makes his heart swell.

iii.

Roxas remembers a few years later the way the red-haired boystartled him on the upper balcony, where he’d thought himself skillfully hiddento spy on the men at court trying so very hard to win over his mother’s favor.

“You look heartbroken,” the red-haired boy said, cat-eyedprince of Pylos, son of the Gerenian horseman, leaning against the wall withone hip cocked and ankles crossed at a pedestal foot. Lovely but slightly dustychiton, hand embroidery, scarlet wool that paled in comparison to hisdark-rooted hair — which he’d been combing through with his fingers, as ifirritated by its stubborn cowlicks. He is less a boy now than that intermediarynot-man, his shoulders just slightly broader, no longer spindly but lean,marble-smooth muscles and curves.  

Roxas remembers how flustered he’d been, blushing andstuttering. Not to be caught peeking, but because he’d been very excited to seethe boy again. He remembers wanting to mumble something along the lines of,“And who are you to come into my father’s house remarking on the suitors whothink he’s dead?” But he doesn’t, because he cannot speak; his tongue failshim, and his eyes hang on the older boy’s lips, mesmerized by their shape andtheir softness. The way his knuckles have hardened. The cut of his thighmuscles into his knee. And he remembers the boy saying he wanted to be his suitor, and Roxas thinks, if the boywants to kiss him, he’d let him, but there’s still not enough age between themfor it to count as something other than a childhood curiosity —

The boy’s green eyes have deepened and sharpened, eyes likea lion, he the grandson of the man who brought the vengeance of the Lion-Slayerhimself. And as the silence spins on between them, those green cat eyes prompt,Go on. Say something. But Roxasdoesn’t, so the boy does.

“Peaches and cream,” he murmurs.

Roxas’ brow knots. “What?”

“Peaches and cream.” The boy shrugs. “This is what thepirates said to twice-born Dionysus, his skin is like peaches and cream,unburnt by the sun and pale from hunting.”

Roxas is tense, on edge, a breath snared on his lower lip. Peaches and cream. Is this what he makesthe boy think of? Shy, flattered fire burns in his cheeks; he is embarrassed byhow much stock he places in the boy’s attention, cowed by how much it means tohim to be noticed. The boy seems just as embarrassed by his own interest,confused as to why it is still there. Words hang between them unspoken likemorning dew on a hyacinth —

“And the pirates tried to force themselves on him, did theynot?” Roxas finally mumbles.

The boy nods slowly. “They did.”

“But you wouldn’t,” Roxas says flatly, and it is both astatement and a question. The boy’s eyes burn into him, sear straight to hisbones. Roxas clears his throat. “Are you waiting for me?” he murmurs after amoment. He asks two questions. He asks: Areyou wanting to waste time together today? He asks: Do you still think I’m beautiful?

The boy says nothing. They stare at each other, a frictionbetween them tightening, tightening like a string on a lyre, a note ready to beplucked.

Roxas remembers a man calling from below then: “Axel!” Tutor,perhaps. Attendant. Weary of babysitting. The red-haired boy heaved a grandsigh and disappeared around the corner, following his name.

Axel, Roxasmouthed, letting the feel of the name settle on his tongue so he can swallow it.

iv.

Axel — his name is Axel, a prince of Pylos, grandson of aman who brought the vengeance of the Lion-Slayer, son of a great man who foughtat Troy, and six years later he is still bronzed by the sun in the softest,heat-sweet of ways, hair braided loosely over his shoulder and a chillinglyperceptive side-glancing air about him that must have gone hard against thegrain in his boyhood training at Sparta. He is quiet as on the shore blackbulls are sacrificed to Poseidon, as at a cool and colorful court his fatherpasses the honeyed wine for libations to the small party of unexpected guests.The smoke of the sacrifice is hearty; the two-handled cup glints gold inlamplight like the fires outside; Roxas, young only son of Ithaca’s lord, thewar general whose name is already legendary, sits with all the expected gracethough there is something about it that is all his own. All the years that havepassed since Axel last saw him have distilled into a crystal coldness that isnot emotionless, merely a quiet edge like ice — beautiful, and fragile, and atonce dangerous. Lithe and languid as a nymph is he, slim but not spindly, withivory skin and hair gold in the low light, honey in the sun, his eyes still astormy blue. He seemed spectacular and beautiful like a bastard of Zeus whenAxel first met him years ago. He seems now to be just as special, and Axelcannot bring himself to stop looking at him. It quickens his blood. Causes hisheart to stutter. He does not know why. He thinks, I was a child then. He thinks, Heis so beautiful. He thinks, I cannotbelieve I still want him and he knows it is a foolish fantasy, but —

Grey-haired and grey-eyed, Axel’s father, King of Pylos,Argonaut, urges graciously, “Please, let the prince sleep at the palacetonight, share the room with my son as is only fitting for such a guest, son ofIthaca’s king.”  

Axel looks up with a flicker of the eyes, up and away fromthe knife with which he fiddles in his lap, a tiny little thing, precious tohim, pulled from the leather strap at his hip. He waits for his father’s eyes;his father doesn’t meet them. What does he mean, in offering as much? That heexpects something of Axel — that he has caught the way Axel has been sneakinglooks at Roxas this entire time, that his father wants to guide them to eachother like this is some embarrassing version of an arranged marriage, reputationsat stake for Axel’s unmarried negligence —

Axel’s gaze slides over to the little grouping of guests.Finally, Roxas is looking at him, big blue eyes hovering in that keen andwondering way of his.

v.

The room is a cramped but lovely corner within a greatercolonnade, and feels pretentious for its obvious mere practicality — Ioniccolumns and paint blue as the summer sky, marble floors faded but soft fromyears of whispering footsteps. The walls, colored by scenes of godly greatness;the scent of frankincense and bay laurel lingers, lamp oil, something sharp andmetallic. It is a balmy night but there is a lovely breeze, and the shuttereddoors are wide open for it, drapes hanging heavy but parted for moonlight topool on the floors.

They don’t really talk. They are men now. The corded bedshifts as they retire, and they fall asleep with backs turned.

Roxas dreams of his mother and when he stirs a bit in thequietest hours of the night, they are facing each other, and his fingers havecurled on the naked skin of Axel’s chest. He blushes; he is afraid to move fora moment, afraid to breathe, lest he wake the lion and be caught nestled upinto him. But even if he weren’t afraid, he wouldn’t move, because he is lostin the lines and the shapes of Axel’s face, gawking up at him through theshadows of sleepy eyes. The moonlight falls across Axel’s face; his hairtickles Roxas’ nose. His chest rises and falls slowly, steadily, below curledfingers. You’re beautiful. I want to protect you. Are you waiting for me? And Roxasshifts; their legs are somehow tangled, too. He cranes, slowly, and he cantaste his heart in his throat as his breath dusts Axel’s mouth. He hesitates.The smell of Axel’s hair and skin fills his head. He parts his lips, hoping toat least brush against the other pair, taste wine, perhaps, taste his skin,feel the petal softness —

Axel tips his chin just so, catching Roxas’ mouth in his,and it is deliberate, and it is conscious, and Axel’s eyes flicker open halfwayfor one of those piercing, cat-eyed glances as the short, soft kiss fades awayagain into the simple dusting of skin. He was awake, Roxas realizes. He chokeson a breath. He wants to say, It was adream. He wants to say, Didn’t meanto. What he does say is, “Did you wait for me?”

Axel looks startled for a moment, guilty, flustered — andthen he curls in a smile, softened at the edges by a warmth for which Roxasfeels responsible, for which he is embarrassed in a lovely way, for which hesmiles stupidly himself and wishes he could hide the joy he takes in it.

The happy smile on Roxas’ face crumbles into happy,breathless laughter as Axel kisses up his face to his ear and his fingers crawldown Roxas’ sides to graze the small of his back, graze his hips, follow his thigh,body arched to the touch. There is something easy about it — Eros knows norules but to join men like them with the lovely ease of brotherhood. The happybreathless laughter stutters into a string of happy breathless sighs, and Axelwhispers, “Peaches and cream.”  

 end.

[fantasticpeep]

Touch of Gravity

Dedicated to: @newtandtinainsidethesuitcase and @newt-loves-tina

Ship: Newtina (aF)

Prompt: Gah, I’m just winging it. Ive never seen the movies and I didn’t know they existed until, like, two and a half months ago.

Crossover: Alien (Covenant) and Jupiter (Ascending) AND a bit of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!

Word Count: 1,924

Warning: lONG AS HELL… AND KINDA SMUTTY

Author’s Note: HellOOOOO from your infamous Hufflepuff! I’m just coming back to life from the dead to writing again, so this is just a little pick me up. So, enjoy the really crappy and choppy writing, peeps! 💛

PS… If any of the plot of any movie I somehow included on here is incorrect, educate me. Seriously, I want to learn. 🙏🏼

He hungered for wealth, popularity, power, and sin, for all he ever devoted for in life was to keep his pain and scars from the past he could not bare to remember by forcing all of the war and chaos to his people. Because, simply, his life could not afford the free price of love into the depths of his hollow heart.

For it’s he who believes that the throne of destruction and gold could bring him to the key of life that will fulfill his empty jar of what a true heart needs…

APPROX. 6 TRILLION EARTH MILES LATER…

Possibly one second of shut-eye, then-…

“GOLDSTEIN! UP ON YOUR FEET!”

The thunderous voice of Percival Graves, the solid color of a gloom gray of a man was taking his wake up calls to a whole new level, since he’s been the Head Auror of the Mystical Department. Outer space too, so practically, it’s a win-win for him. For Tina, on the other hand, the hard-working auror, with her dark mud knots on her stress-diven hair gave her even more hell than knots.

Poor Tina was simply sick of working underneath for Graves, but she didn’t have much of a choice. To find the unknown wizard, who apparently was considered as a “God” in space, could be a huge stepping stone for her career.

Sooner or later, she was on a castle that… Wasn’t quite a castle. It was more like a dungeon with odd architectural structures and designs. It was on a rather impressive landscape, but it seemed uneasy to Tina. She was searching through the area as other aurors hunted through the perimeters. Graves was way far ahead, for he had no time for “unexperiences amateurs and unskilled wastes of space”

But she simply had no time to rant about her boss of an ass. She set her mind off to find this evil dark lord and dashed through dark, yet majestic corriders and long, hollow halls; She broke down each lock and door, investigating through each chamber and cell in each tower. Running through the top of the grand, bronze staircase that led to the very top of the castle, she stopped on her feet to where her eyes met a rather large den.

There she stood. A glass window across from her viewed the whole kingdom below and beyond. The dirty mud-colored crystal floors shined blindly here and there and the middle of the den was alost practically empty, though all there was, in the gorgeous lair, lays a throne facing towards the glass. The gold molded and shaped into the frame of the royal throne glimmers proudly in the sun’s colorless rays. She takes one step…

Then another…

Then another…

Until…

A roar of a beast she doesn’t recognize blows her away off her feet and onto the floor. She frantically shuts her ears and her eyes to defend herself, but of course, that won’t do anything. Her dark, chestnut-colored wand was a couple feet too far from her, so she couldn’t reach her wand in time to give that monster a piece of her mind. So, with all she has around her, and with a strange, tube-like creature just prying around her, she yanks out a small dagger that was worn out and chipped on both ends. Tina stands on her fighting grounds and props her dagger into place.

“C'mon!”

She grips her dagger harder, her knuckles turning pale.

“FIGHT ME!

The slithering beast preps his battling ground, its glistening sapphire and amethyst eyes staring coldly deep into the depths of Tina’s soul. But she didn’t care; she was just as cold as she is to show who’s the real boss. The oversized reptile made a dash for Tina, its dangerously sharped beak charging for Tina, and she ran into battle as well. Her dangerous dagger pointed threateningly as the beast fiercely goes for the neck. They charged closer and closer to each other, ready to pound and kill. The beating adrenaline in both of their heavy hearts raved with mighty fiery and their eyes, contracted and bright. The shining dagger’s held high, coming down to the malicious beast’s fascinating scales, until…

“NO!”

Tina’s distracted! She turns over to see who’s voice protested as the beast swerved to the side and slammed it’s grand body against Tina’s, making her fly and crash back to the ground, her dagger now lost from her grip. The beast is frozen; calm. Its eyes laid on someone in the shadows; heavy and steady breaths escape from the beast as its master steps out of the dark. Tina watched the mysterious man sneak out of the shadows, realizing that it was the god who rules the whole kingdom.

She had to keep in mind that this man, standing in grace was the enemy, but, goddamn…

He was… Fine…

To summarize her thirst, she had to swallow to prevent drooling from the corner form her mouth. Before she could say anything, the brightly-colored, soft-gingered man walked with cotton in each of his steps as he sweetly babied his creature. His hands gestures with such sugar on the scales of the beast, which was apparently an Occamy based by what he whispers…

His head tapped on the Occamy’s meteor-sized head, his almond eyes gently shut and a thin line of a gentle, loving smile plastered on his face as he whispers honey-dipped bits and words to his “baby.” With each stroke from his roughly-edged, scar-ridden hands swimming through the skin of the Occamy, it was a motherly-child bond. You could view the muscular man expand his lips more and more as he feeds fatty affection and love to his child. Tina couldn’t look away as she, of course, checked the man out.

Aside from being hideously drenched in gold and metal clothing and accessories, the man was gorgeous. A six-pack successfully sculptured on the base of his stomach as it outlines the shadow of each pack from the ray. Veins and muscles popped out majestically like a professional-created pop-up book. And the jawline on the evil man, she couldn’t blink. But she shook her head and slapped her conscience back to reality.

“H-hey!”

The man looked in her direction, brows crooked in a coldly and annoyed manner. The Occamy was still mesmerized by his mother, but an eye was carefully watching poor Tina. She rose up to her feet, trying to seem tough. Her wand laid on the other side of the den and it wouldn’t reach her grasp in time to fight back. She’d be killed.

“Who–… W-who are you?! I know what sinister things you’ve done, and I’m taking you in for it!”

The lord stared for a second, flabbergasted from the sudden bravery from the weak woman standing in front of her. Then, he smiled; he chuckled as he looked away. He was amused by the pretty woman’s determination to “capture him” from his will. Interesting…

He walked from one side of the den to the other as he was being watched with each step. The Occamy disappeared elsewhere, so it was simply just him and Tina. His voice, then, began to fill the uncomfortable silence that dropped in the room heavily as he continued to stroll with ease and ego.

“Right… Well, forgive me if I didn’t introduce myself in a… Respectful manner. My darling Occamy can be quite protective of me, and I usually try to be a gentleman to… Unexpected invaders who DARE come to cross onto my royal grounds,” he looked at Tina for a second, meeting each other’s paths as he looked at Tina from head to toe, “and usually… When it comes to invaders like your… Buddies of yours… I show no mercy. I force upon them the pain of their consequences and feed off of their murderous screams…“

Tina breathed out, “You’re-… You are insane…”

The mysterious man chuckled, “Newt… Newton Artemis Fido Scamander…”

He look towards the auror’s direction. He was quite attracted to her, but he showed no emotion. He soon started walking towards her.

“I know you… You’re just simply an Auror… an auror of… MACUSA, I believe… Yes, I know you… and your life,” he was halfway from her, “I’ve been learning so much from you… You’re… incredibly fascinating and… Damn, you are so…Beautiful…”

Soon enough, he was eye to eye with her, the space between them was highly arousing. Tina tried to remember that this man did horrible things to many witches and wizards, but this Newt fellow was… Sensitive. Though Newt had something in mind. By getting Tina under his arms, he’ll have control of both worlds soon.

Newt crashed his lips into her’s, the movement between each other’s lips were rough and passionate. Tina couldn’t push away; she was enjoying this too much. The way how his tongue roams around, soft breaths escaping as they simultaneously try to catch some air. Tina dances along, fitting in together as she wraps her arms around his neck, her body extremely close to Newt’s. His hands sneaks around the back of Tina’s skin, moaning softly against her lips as he squeezes her tighter, feeling around for the hooks of her bra. Tina played along, her hands traveling to mess the tidy locks of his hair into what makes it look like a messy mop of bouncy, auburn curls. Until, Newt pushes her against the nearest wall, his body still against her’s. His lips traveled from her lips to the crook of her jawline. His fingers were greedy around her body, just like how he always was. Tina was shocked. She was going to be taken by the evil Scamander after all!

She pushed Newt off, pointing an accusing against against him as she growls, “I know what you’re doing…”

Her finger was pressed harshly against his bare chest as she threatens in a whisper close to his face, “You. Don’t. Own me.”

Soon enough, she snatched her wand from behind him and rounded up the other aurors and Percival up to the den. Newt was soon under arrest, his yummy, yet demonic look in his eye was kept on Tina as he was brought down to his knees and was brought to an arrest. Tina looked away, tidying up her appearance from the hot moment as Percival walks up to her with his muscular hands on his waist.

“Well done, Goldstein. How did you do it?”

She shrugged, a light shade of crimson appearing on her cheeks, “Just… The normal thing…”

She believed, as Newt was pushed out of the castle, that this would be the last she’ll see him. Not until later tonight, they wrapped up their… Sensual, unfinished business in Newt’s iron-bounded cell when everyone was gone and out of sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m sorry if that was rushed and sloppy! I had to get this out of the way before the school week begins again, but I promise you, it WILL be better! 💛

[dreadedjenocide]

Cherry walk

Usually i have fun little dreams where my brain does some fun self insertion fan fiction and good time are had by all but this one was kinda fucked up. Even I'm like, "what the fuck brain!" And my brain is like "idfk! Skcnrjxjndkaxjbdievfkd!!!" So this dream had Captain fucking American and Thor god of poptarts and great hair trying to hunt down and stop 'me' who was some super human type with shifting powers. No one knew what my powers where because i had a bunch but my main goal was to get this scientist who successfully cloned things to help me bring back my son. Who had been murdered in WW2, in my arms, while we where gunned down by Nazis. Yes, WW2, my dream self was fighting in WW2 against the Nazis as a spy type but i was eventually captured and with other female spys and prisoners i was forced to go on a "cherry walk",(BTW ive never heard this term before but my dream self knew and so did Cap) In the dream a Cherry walk is being tied to a truck or other mode of transportation and forced to run until you collapsed so you would be too tired to fight off the soldiers when they raped you because Nazis are lazy. To make it more fun for them sometimes the women would be forced to hold a small piece of fruit between their legs and promised to be left untouched if they could hold the fruit. No one could, but they would take bets on who could hold on to it the longest and torment the ones who couldn't saying they wanted to be raped because they dropped the cherry sooner than the others. So after my cherry walks and when they got bored with me i was thrown into one of the camps where some how i still grew a baby inside me. I wanted it to die, i cried and screamed at it wanting it out but when it finally came out, instead of dropping it down an empty well i fell in love with him. I loved my son and protected him the best i could until the day they lined us up to be gunned down, i tried to sheild my toddlers body with my own but the bullets passed through me, and the American soldier trying to add to protecting my boy. I remember death and waking up covered in dirt and blood still holding my child, i was dead, i had died, i remember the bullets ripping through my body but hours later i was up and screaming in a pile of dead bodies with my dead son in my arms. Its was night and the camp empty because the nazis moved on to run from the end of the war. Much of those years where a haze because i wandered around for weeks with my child, and became a ghost to some. I put my babies bones tiny coffin and went on a flying rampage to hunt down Nazis. I was able to smell the blood on them, in a sense i was much like a vampire, but not a traditional vampire. No garlic, or stakes in the heart could stop me. I had a reflection and could move in the sun unhindered. It was just bright AF. So back to modern times, I'm more than a bit crazy because of my obsession with my sons bones, and being killed in so many ways over the years. Kind of takes a toll mentally. Thor and Cap stop me from taking the scientists i need but they cant stop me from taking the things i need but while im hunting down what i need, the grown children and grandchildren of my victims (nazis) hunt me and find my babies coffin. Thor and Cap fight with me and when they take my prize i snarl and walk to the edge of a building and jump falling through a shadow and disappearing. Back in my lair i talk to my sons coffin about how excited i am that i will see him soon but go mad when i find its empty and find a note with a nazi style logo (the kids started their own group to avenge their parents, how cute and ironic) so i kinda go insane and this time come to Thor and Cap trying to ask for help but Thor reacts by attacking swinging his hammer at me because the last time we fought things got really rough. Like half a building falling on us rough, but i catch his hammer. Stopping his swing and snatching it away, he stumbles back in shock and Nat (who was called in) whispers too loud "Oh, shit." Im a bit of a mad mess, rambling in German, French and Spanish, crying and waving around Mjölnir like it was a paper fan. All the while the windows rattle and walls crack, Nat is desperately trying to translate but all she can really get from me is: "THEY took my son, they took his bones, my son, hes gone, he'll be scared, they will hurt him, the children of the fallen have taken my son!" Cap is slowly trying to approach me at this point hes shirtless and kind of still bloody from our last fight (thank you brain 😄) Hes trying to calm me but hes backing me into a corner unknowingly because Thor is also creeping up. I start panicking and screaming, Nat pushes back Thor and is trying to speak to me in German but scream and throw an accusing finger at her half asking half claiming 'Nazi' at her. She spoke Russian at me telling she was a spy long ago, and points to Steve saying American, Captain America. I stop flailing around and clawing at the wall's long enough to ask him why he didnt save us from the camps, (i dont remember the name of the place where this character died) where was he? I sobbed in french telling him about the American who died trying to sheild me and my son and he replies back in French that he was fighting a different side of the war, and was frozen by the time they started shutting down the camps. Thor looks confused but Nat looks impressed with Steve and he sits on the floor with crossed legs and i sit across from him as he calms me down speaking in French. Nat is quietly translating to Thor and the scientist and the scientist looks heart broken suddenly. Steve promises me that they will help me get back my son but asks my to sit while he talks with his team. They go over my potential threat but outside of scaring a bunch of people i didn't hurt anyone and i didnt destroy anything until they showed up. (My dream POV is of them talking and me in the background playing with the hammer getting bored and wandering off) The scientist sadly explains that i might go crazy again because with the age of the bones its unlikely or rather, impossible that he would be able to clone anything because the DNA has to be fresh. He claims that he would feel more comfortable if they befriended me and could keep me calm because my powers are spooky and im unpredictable. Their conversation is interrupted when they hear a man screaming followed by others screaming and the sounds of chaos. They run to the sounds and they find me standing over Bucky as he lay writhing on the floor with blood shooting from his arm stump and me holding whats left of his robot arm. I also have blood dripping from my mouth and i look to Steve and say in an eerily calm voice; "He was broken..." Bucky screams in pain on the floor but no one can move in to help, there seems to be a force feild around us. Steve is desperately trying to get to his friend but its Nat who sees whats actually happening. Bucky is in so much pain because hes regrowing his lost arm. Much like in the birth scene in Hellraiser its piece by piece and not baby arm to adult arm. Steve can only watch horrified as meat attached to bone and new skin grows in. I hold Bucky in my arms singing to him, as this new pink arm twitches and lays limp at his side but soon starts to move at his command. He calms as the pain dies down and Steve and the others are able to move in. Steve is in shock and Bucky is crying with joy as he touches his new arm. Nat looks at me and asks what i am, i say i dont know but i know what she wants to be. Reflexively her hand touches her lower belly for a less then half a second but its enough. So this team of a Russian spy, a super soldier, a super assassin and a god track down nazi descendants to help me get back the bones of my son. They set a trap for me not knowing i wasn't alone to some how take my immortality for themselves and become man kinds better or something, Steves eyes where rolling really hard because he was so sick of this master race crap. Some how these people got it in their head that my sons bones where the source of my power and thought they could control me or steal my power through them. They crushed up his bones into a powder all save for his skull and ingested it. Realizing what they had done i collapsed leaving the rest to fight off these stupid wanna be occultist as i had a melt down. They kept the wanna be nazis away from me until i spoke again "You took my son..." Steve was the first to notice this, the shadows moved out of sync with the people. Bucky looked nervous suddenly and the air became thick and heavy. Time seemed to slow down and my eyes glowed red, my fingers grew out long black claws and i started to look less human. Seems that my transformation was triggered by losing the one part of me that kept me human. My son, dead or not, was my humanity that kept whatever had brought me back from coming out completely. I rose from the ground floating above it roaring out in some unknown voice that i would not spare one drop of blood but also taking their souls as well. The leader of this group panicking grabbed Davids skull (my son) and tried to call power from it or control me with it, trying anything as his followers screamed around him and where pulled into the liquid like blackness that surrounded me like a tentacled monster. Steve and the others where trying to kinda protect the other nazi group members but also mostly trying to stay out of the way. I pulled the leader closer as he clawed terrified at the ground trying to save himself dropping Davids skull on the way and i leaned in super close to him and told him how much he looked like his father, the one who laughed as he gunned down sick and helpless people. This one didnt die laughing but screaming as we did years ago. Nat gets my attention calling out to me, shes holding Davids skull in her arms like you would craddle a child. She speaks calmly to me, saying its over, and David wants to go home. I let out a sad almost laughing sigh and say, he doesnt want anything, hes dead. The air gets less heavy, and i say it again that hes dead and he can never come back. This time Bucky speaks up, saying that i can still love him but i have to let him go and i dont have to be consumed by revenge any more. As they talk me down i lose my demon like appearance and float back down but still look very vampirish. I fall to my knees and cry taking the skull from Nat and she puts her arm around me and Bucky actually moves into the other side putting his new arm around me as well and holding my hand. I just cry. Steve also has the urge to comfort me but holds off and asks Thor if hes ever seen anything like that before. Thor is very silent and shakes his head no, heard stories maybe, but long ago. The dream jumps to us having a funeral for my David and a proper grave. Bucky is holding my right hand, fingers interlaced with mine, and on my left is Steve also holding my but hand palm to palm, Nat is between him and Thor holding both their hands the same way. I say he would like it here. My mannerisms seem more controlled and less manic and crazy as i was before. I say my final goodbye to David and walk away. As we walk in silence for a few minutes Nat smirks says "So Thor, how crazy was it that she stopped your hammer and waved it around like a toy?" She needles Thor leaning into him and wrapping her arm around his. Steve smirks and Bucky looks confused and looks at me wide eyed. Thor replies, "It was a desperate time, obviously Mjölnir was responding to the distress of a mother in need... there is no greater pain than a parent worried for their child." Nat and Bucky nod, saying 'obviously' and Steve offers "Well, a parent in distress would be considered worthy to wield it, to save a child, thats worthy right?" Bucky leans over, holding my hand still "Uh, not to be mean, but you technically arent really human... not any more." I nod in agreement, "Technically, undead. Technically, hes correct. The best kind of correct." Thor still looks unsure but smiles through it while Nat laughs and we all walk arm in arm or hand in hand. Still not sure if i was really a vampire or demon or just some witch thing that drank and ate blood and souls. I know Bucky had my blood and having that bond made him feel close to me because through that exchange he was able to know my life. I tasted his blood to know him when i ripped out the last of the robot arm. Still not sure how that exchange came up. He was in his tube thing, not like he was in the kitchen making a sandwich. "Hey you want to grow back your old arm by consuming my blood?" "Golly! Do i ever!" Pretty sure thats not how it went. My dreams are fun not professionally written.

[splat-dragon]

One day when you're big and strong You will be a king ~My Lullaby, Suzanne Pleshette

 She grew, and She learned.

 From the day in which She saw The Ones That Whined again, She learned more and more.

 She barely slept. The moment She was returned to Her cell, She collapsed and slept, often without even taking the time to curl up and rest Her head on Her tail. Her Handlers had Her slipping skins, as She’d taken to calling it, with no other name for it, running the same tests with Her covered in fur as they’d just done with Her in Her skins.

 She sprinted on treadmills, over and over, had to run as fast as She could or be flung to the ground, and even Her fastest wasn’t enough more often than not. Running was easier, She had found, when She could drop onto all four of Her paws, but She was not always allowed to, had to wait for that command, a barked Chetyre! before She was allowed to drop down and stretch out, straining Her muscles in a way that satisfied Her in a way She couldn’t put words to, scratching some sort of deep-down itch. Other times, She’d be made to leap up at an abrupt call of Dva!, remaining in Her furs as She continued to sprint on Her hind paws—other times, though, there’d be a call of Kozha! and She’d have to struggle to make the change as She continued to run, bones changing shape and length, fur retreating into flesh, paws turning to feet as She reared up and continued to run—it was hard, but the punishment for failing…

 was not something She wanted to think about. She’d suffered it before, and went through all pains not to suffer it again.

She learned new things.

 The treadmills turned into jumps, both with Her furs and without. She was made to leap over ‘rocks’, massive gray things that were hard and rough to the touch and hurt Her palms, sprinting across the room from rock to rock as the weapons shot at Her, stinging pains punching where She’d failed to dodge them in time. Though the rocks hurt Her palms, if She crouched behind them, and was careful to make sure Her tail was behind them too, the hurts couldn’t get to Her, She came to learn.

 She learned to climb the walls, to find little dents that She could dig Her fingers into and lean Her weight into, until finally She was on a perch. Learned to leap down and come up in a roll so as to not break a leg, had learned how to run and shift through the pains of broken legs and ankles from those lessons. Learned a great many things, many of which She didn’t have names for, but came to Her naturally after a time, and She couldn’t imagine how She’d lived without it before.

Her Handlers firmly believed in learning by doing.

 She encountered water for the first time the day She learned how to swim.

 Her whole life, She’d been fed and watered through a slurry fed to Her in a bottle, shoved at Her and taken away shortly after so She would gulp it down. So when She was led into a room with a massive pool, She had no idea what She was looking at. It was scentless, no matter how much She smelled the air, and moved around for no reason.

 Unceremoniously, She was grabbed tight by the nape of Her neck, and flung through the air. She didn’t even have a chance to yelp before She was in the water, sinking like a stone. Her limbs flailed helplessly, and without meaning to She inhaled, swallowing water into Her lungs. Her Handlers watched her from above, their faces rippling, and She had no expectations that they’d help Her—they’d never done so before, so why would they start now?

 Her feet slammed against the bottom of the pool, and She kicked off, coughing violently as Her head broke the surface. She flailed, awkwardly managing to make it to the edge and clasping it with Her hands, hauling Herself up and choking up the water She had swallowed. A Handler approached, and before She could react She was being flung in again.

Again, and again, She was flung into the water. And over and over She struggled, barely managing to make it to the surface, Her flailing becoming more and more natural each time. Finally Her Handlers hauled Her back to Her room for the night.

 The next morning, She was brought to the pool that, while She was not allowed to hate, She very much hated, and was commanded Mekh!, slipping skins reluctantly, eyeing the pool with shiny yellow eyes, staying on two legs, having not been commanded Chetyre! finding Herself scooped up (She stood almost as tall as Her Handlers in Her furs) and flung into the water.

 While She’d learned to swim the day before, at least somewhat, swimming covered in fur was a completely different beast. It grew heavy, and pulled Her down, though She was more buoyant and came to the surface more easily. Her fingers were shorter, more stubby and Her hands more round, but swimming came more easily and before She knew it was at the edge of the pool. She hauled Herself out, instinctively bracing Herself as She shook out Her dripping fur, finding Herself flung back in before She was even done.

 As they had the day before, Her Handlers threw Her in, over and over, watching as She struggled to the surface, slowly improving until it came to Her almost as easily as breathing. Finally, they scooped Her off the floor by Her nape, commanding Kozha! and reluctantly She obeyed, shivering violently as Her teeth chattered together, but She had learned never to show discomfort and so stood tall, ears perked as always and tail at rest.

 The next day, She was brought in to find a fake Handler on the floor. It was red, with no clothing or hair or facial features, and no scent She could discern. The wall flickered, and though She twitched Her ears She didn’t react otherwise, instead watching as a pool appeared, Handlers of different ages splashing around inside, seeming to enjoy it. As She watched, one with grey hair began to move like She did when climbing although, of course, made no progress, seeing as they were climbing nothing but air. He began to bob up and down, mouth dipping beneath the water, head lolling back before he vanished beneath the water. Another Handler, a woman with red hair, dove in, coming up with him in her arms, hauling him to the edge.

 The pool disappeared, Her ears twitched—She’d never seen anything like this before!—and She could see the grey-haired Handler from an angle, limp and unmoving, the red-haired one kneeling over him. She lowered her head next to the person’s mouth, listening for something, before leaning back and staring at his chest, then pressing her fingers to his wrist.

 The Handler sat back, placing one of her palms on the center of the other’s chest, putting her other hand on top of it. She pressed his chest again and again, many times, before looking him over again. Tilting the man’s head back, she pinched his nose, then blew into it—She could see his chest rise. Pulling back, the woman began to shove against his chest again, before repeating. Finally, the man lurched and started coughing, and the woman tilted him on his side as water spilled from his mouth.

She had no idea what was happening, but Her Handlers always had a reason for something.

 So She wasn’t too surprised when, after throwing the strange-red-Handler into the water, She was commanded Spasaniye! and flung into the water. She stretched out, grabbing the strange-red-Handler by a strange arm, kicking off the ground and coughing as She broke the surface, flinging it roughly over the edge before clambering out after it.

 What had the Handler done after this? Her memory was fantastic, and She was incredible for Her age, but Her files had Her down as four years old, so Her memory was not good enough as to remember everything of the video. Her ears twitched back, leaning Her head to put the ear atop Her head near its face. What She was supposed to hear, She didn’t know, but She had followed through the motions and so leaned back, fumbling Her hands together against the Handler’s chest and pressing down over and over until

 sharp, familiar burning pain that started at Her side, radiating through Her. Her teeth clenched together, and She bit down a yelp—what had She done wrong? But She shook it off, and tried again, pressing harder with each pump, flinching and expecting pain when there was a loud click with each press, something depressing deep enough that Her hands dipped into the red of the Handler, but She must have been doing it right as the Handlers stood back and watched.

 She went through the same motions as the red-haired Handler had when She thought She’d done enough compressions (She’d never been taught to count—She got the impression that She was much smarter than Her Handlers thought), tilting the Handler’s head back and pressing Her mouth to the hole where their mouth should have been, exhaling as much as She could before She had to draw back to breathe, pumping over and over and over before breathing into them, until finally She was called off.

 How many times She woke to this training, She didn’t know. But by the time they stopped, She was diving into the water before the -ive! had finished leaving Her Handler’s throat, and knew how many compressions to do before breathing—though not with counting, it had become muscle memory.

When She met someone other than Her Handler’s again, they were like The Ones Who Whined.

 She’d been led into the same room as before, four walls and little else, and the Handler-that-broke-The-Rules stood tall not far from the rest of the Handlers, not hiding in the shadows as he had done before. His ice blue eyes looked Her over, before moving to Her Handlers, though he never moved from where he stood, hands loose at his sides, face as blank as the strange-red-Handler’s had been though he had eyes and a nose.

 She feared him, for good reason, and so turned Her attention to The Other. They were staring Her down, lips peeled back from their teeth, and while they looked almost exactly like a small Handler their teeth looked as needles.

 Before She could do anything else, the leash was unclasped from Her collar, The Other released as well, and twin calls of Ubiystvo! had them moving, lunging towards each other. She snarled, ducking to the side, but they grabbed Her tail and bit, and She twisted, slamming Her fist into the side of their face. They yipped, releasing Her tail, and they fell to the ground in a tangle of snapping milk-teeth and puppy-growls, flailing chubby-fists and spilled blood.

 The Other was larger, but She was faster, and though She received a painful bite to Her wrist She slammed Her fist into their nose, feeling it shatter with a satisfying crunch. They squealed and jolted back, shaking their head from side to side, and She lurched up to follow, peeling Her lips back to bare Her fangs. She tried to punch The Other’s face again, but they managed to catch Her fingers in their mouth, biting down with an agonizing crunch. She couldn’t even manage a scream, instead lurching forward and sinking Her teeth into their ears and shaking, desperate to get them to let Her go.

 When they finally managed to yank free, still screaming shrilly, their ear stayed behind, still clutched in Her teeth.

The Other slammed their feet into the ground, thrashing and screaming, and the command of Ubiystvo! was still loud in Her ears. They were weak, distracted and downed, and She still remembered sinking Her fangs into the throat of The One That Was Still, remembered the red-metal hot on her tongue. She was in Her skins, not Her furs, but Her teeth, while not as sharp, were still sharp, so She spat out the ear and lunged, straddling the screaming Other.

 She remembered grabbing the head of the strange-red-Handler and yanking it back, how the throat had been bared, and She couldn’t grab The Other’s head the same way, as they were down an ear, so She tangled Her fingers in their long, curly hair and yanked , revealing the throbbing live-vein at the base of their throat. Her ears twitched, listening for a command to stop, but there wasn’t one, and without a heartbeat of hesitation leaned down, spreading Her jaws wide and snapping it closed around their throat, feeling the vein crunch and give way, spilling their life-blood into Her mouth, holding on tight as they gurgled and thrashed beneath Her, but didn’t let go until they were still.

She was called back to Her Handlers, and found the-Handler-that-broke-The-Rules staring Her down as the others conversed amongst themselves in that nonsense that She was slowly coming to understand, but for the most part tuned out—they never addressed Her, and so it didn’t matter.

That day She earned a name.

 That day she became The Asset.