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cdroloisms · 3 years ago

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take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi)

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete.

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now.

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news.

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright.

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now.

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots.

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine.

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?)

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all.

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen.

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it.

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs.

“Michael!”

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air.

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!”

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves.

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands.

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly.

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?”

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.”

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice.

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices.

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return.

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest.

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all?

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands.

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team.

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs.

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!”

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation.

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return.

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak.

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?”

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time.

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?”

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?”

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in.

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?”

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud.

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.”

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.”

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter.

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.”

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream.

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for.

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena.

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops.

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again.

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!”

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up.

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge.

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway.

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.”

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.”

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out.

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best.

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail.

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly.

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.”

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions-

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?”

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut.

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps.

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well.

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to.

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before.

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“Like you did that much.”

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye.

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs.

“Fair.”

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow.

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future.

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever.

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team.

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits.

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?”

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they?

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body.

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well?

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further.

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him.

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own.

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?”

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words.

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?”

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.”

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?”

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red.

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?”

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome.

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break.

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain.

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.”

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own.

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake.

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point.

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.”

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.”

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time.

Keep your head down.

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.”

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race.

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!”

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.”

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again.

“Thanks, guys.”

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings.

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?”

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.”

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs.

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?”

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back.

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?”

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!”

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition.

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down.

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it.

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap.

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter.

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder.

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own.

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it.

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off.

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off.

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak.

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod.

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams, watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team -

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena.

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?”

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners.

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route.

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out.

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused.

“Gottem.”

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting.

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them.

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby.

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?”

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective.

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second -

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!”

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own.

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue.

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

The smile slips off his face.

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on.

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what?

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply.

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all.

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it.

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity.

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all.

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow.

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down.

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red.

---

“What the hell was that?”

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence.

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?”

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes.

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-”

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?”

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter.

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-”

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?”

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?”

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features.

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.”

“...liar.”

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down.

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward.

“Quackity!”

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-”

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops.

“LET’S GO!”

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows.

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time.

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself-

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.”

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?”

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.”

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder.

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp.

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention.

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.”

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..”

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.”

“Thanks for everything, Scott.”

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.”

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing.

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?”

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?”

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.”

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him.

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.”

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached.

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.”

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.”

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure.

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?”

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head.

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.”

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly.

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.”

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.”

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life.

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.”

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow.

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?”

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !!#long post

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sweet-dreamins · 4 years ago

Text

careless (f+a)

○ pairing: pro hero! katsuki bakugou x gn! reader, pro hero! reader, established relationship

○ word count: 3.5k

○ summary: after a successful battle you’re confused when katsuki isn’t happy for you, in fact he’s furious. shouldn’t he be proud of you?

○ content: a bit angsty, a bit fluffy, hurt/comfort, mention of cuts and blood

○ a/n: i rewrote this like 4 times lol but here it is!! (i may come back nd edit bc passive voice) feedback is appreciated, enjoy!

You and Bakugou were partners, but you weren’t partners. Sure, you were lovers in the nighttime, but on the field? Yeah, no thanks. The two of you had only partnered up a few times, and that was more than enough for you. Before even entering the field, you were hesitant that he’d let himself get distracted by you and you were right, just not for the reasons you think.

The dynamic shifted juuuust a little too much for your liking. One of the most...memorable times was when you were up against one of the more powerful villains. Anytime the villain would make a move towards you before you could even retaliate, Bakugou would slip in front of you- even going as far as to shove you back. To others watching, it seemed as if he was falling back into his attention-seeking habits or that it was so romantic that he put your safety over his, but you knew better (or at least you thought you did).

After that fight, you two had quite the shouting match in the ER afterward. Until he dragged the two of you home, insisting he was more than capable of taking care of the both of you. That, and his publicist was this close to having another conniption after hearing about your rather loud discussion….that the whole hospital heard.

You knew Katsuki only acted that way out of love and concern for you. You know that he sees you as strong. So, why did it still feel so demeaning? Why did it feel like he didn’t, maybe still doesn’t, see you as strong enough?

Even though after your discussion, you had decided to not do hero work together, the little voice in the back of your head wasn’t erased. Creeping in concluding that you were nothing but a pity fuck. The skewed, brutal honesty of the public never failed to make the little voice louder.

You did your best to not let it get to you, you really did. You ignored the tabloids and told your friends you didn’t want them telling you about the articles they had read. But this past week was just atrocious. Katsuki and you had gone on a coffee date, knowing that he was going to be swamped this week, trying to make up for crammed schedules. The paparazzi managed to find you-instantly getting into your personal space, effectively cutting your date short.

By the time you had got back to your apartment, the pictures were already released and practically everywhere. Katsuki tried distracting you by making you dinner and it was wonderful. But you stayed up that night reading every single headline, article, and comment about the two of you. Drowning yourself in the criticism as the voice began to get louder and louder.

Of course, you would never say it out loud, but since then you had been itching for a fight with a real villain. Somebody who can do some proper damage, somebody strong. Any kind of opportunity where you could prove your strength, show everyone that they’re wrong about you. That you’re good enough for Katsuki, that you’re strong enough to be a hero- that you are enough. And finally, finally, finally, the chance came.

You did wonderfully. The fight had dragged on for a while, long enough for reporters to arrive and commentate on the rest of it. Everyone could see how well that you handled everything, all the footage establishing your reputation.

Once the adrenaline from the fight had subsided, the ache in your body started seeping into your bones. Cuts that had been littered across your skin felt as though they had started glowing red, the cool night air kissing them. You still managed to put on a brave face for the crowd afterward, relief and joy filling your heart as the cheers far outweighed the jeers.

You let their praises wash over you, relishing the fact the little voice in your head had been silenced. Their words seeping into through your wounds, momentarily numbing the burning pain. Your heart was no longer squeezed by apprehension, finally at ease knowing that they believed in you, in your worth. As you gave your last interview and waved to the crowd, you made your way over to the ambulance.

His foot was practically tapping the ground at the speed of light, you were surprised he hadn’t made an indent in the concrete already. Katsuki stood there, arms crossed with a scowl on his face, furrowed brow, and glaring eyes. You didn’t know whether it was the exhaustion or if the night was that cold, but you could’ve sworn there was steam coming off of him.

He had arrived pretty late to the scene, coming from the other side of the city, but the footage of you was everywhere. Katsuki had seen the majority of the fight and despite not saying anything, it was obvious that he did not like what he saw. The lights from the ambulance bathed the two of you in red light. Strong arms envelop you in a firm but gentle hug. You close your eyes and breathe him in. You stand there in silence for a little while, simply basking in each other’s presence.

He leans down to mumble in a gruff voice, lips brushing against your ear,

“I already talked to the EMTs, we’re going home now.”

Although Katsuki had EMT training from when he was younger, only on rare occasions did he fully take patching you up into his own hands. Yes, he was always breathing down the neck of the poor medic who had the misfortune of having you as a patient, but typically he had enough self-control to let them do their job.

You were grateful to have privacy, but his reaction was off-putting to say the very least. He should be proud of you, right? That you handled everything so well, he should be congratulating you, right? So...why does he look like he’s two seconds away from grinding his teeth to dust?

The car ride to your apartment is as silent as the grave, thick tension weighing down the surrounding air, making your tongue heavy in your mouth. Katsuki’s knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel, not once sparing you a glance. Nearly all the lingering adrenaline from the fight and buzz from the crowd has faded, irritation and pain taking place.

Why the hell is he mad at me right now? He has no right or reason to be mad at me. Everything turned out fine!

As the city lights flutter past the window, you sit in the passenger stewing in confusion and anger. Wracking your brain trying to come up with a logical reason as to why he’s mad at you. Once you arrive at your apartment, you wait to hear the telltale slam of the front door, preparing to cringe- but it never comes.

Instead, Katsuki gently shuts the door behind him.

Oh. So he’s in that kind of mood.

Over time, you came to learn that there were levels to Katsuki’s anger. Everyone else in his life had been on the receiving end of his knee jerk reaction at some point. Yelling and slamming down everything he could get his hands on. But tonight, the type of anger in front of you. Only a few people had been privy to. The kind he has the force of an inferno behind it but is trying to channel it into a few million candles. The kind he wants to be careful with his words, spending every passing second trying to remove the barbs from his tongue, so as not to get it wrong.

Before you could get pulled back into your head, a large warm hand pressing at the small of your back kept you tethered to reality. Katsuki gently guided you to the bathroom, wordlessly turning on the shower, a silent signal for you to get undressed. The tension from the car had followed you into the apartment, a dark cloud, about to storm at any moment.

You slip into the shower, drinking in the way the water washes away the dirt and grime of the day. The peace is short-lived, the warm water trickling into your open wounds, your entire body stinging slightly. Peeking past the curtain, you see Katsuki rummaging through the closet for supplies. After he sets everything on the counter, he steps out to grab clothes.

Snatching the soap bar, you scrub your body down as quickly as possible, whimpers of pain involuntarily falling from your mouth. You had waited until Katsuki left, not wanting him to hear you crying out. Frantically blinking away your blurry vision, you finish washing up and wrap yourself in a fluffy towel, taking deep breaths. How are you going to keep it together?

In your shared bedroom, Katsuki was grabbing you a change of clothes while grumbling to himself. After throwing on a tank top and sweatpants, he paces back and forth with a scowl, running a hand through his hair. Trying to untangle the scribbles piling up in his brain, he takes a deep breath and looks into the mirror. He knows he needs to tread carefully, to get his words across in the best way possible. What you need right now isn’t yelling or anger, it’s honesty and support. He doesn’t want his anger to get in the way of what truly matters, repeating it over and over in his head,

I love you, and I care about you. I love you, and I care about you.

He makes his way back to the bathroom, clothes in hand, to see you standing there wrapped up tight in a fluffy towel. The precious sight in front of him squeezes his heart, making it a little hard to breathe. Here, in the safety of your apartment, you let yourself be a little more vulnerable and he loves it, wants more of it. But once you notice him walk in, you stand up a little straighter, wiping away the teary expression on your face. He grits his teeth at this but says nothing, reminding himself to keep it together.

You finish drying off and put on the clothes he brought you, one of his shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. Even though he’s standing right in front of you, being enveloped by his scent is still comforting. He leans against the counter, waiting for you to jump onto the space next to him, reminding himself one more time,

I love you, and I care about you.

He finally opens his mouth to say,

“That was really stupid of you.”

No response.

“You could’ve gotten seriously hurt, you realize that, right?”

Silence.

“You could’ve bled out and died.”

You spit back, “But I didn’t right? I’m still here, aren’t I? So it doesn’t matter.”

Katsuki grits his teeth, huffing through his nose, growling out,

“It doesn’t matter?”

“No, no it doesn’t because I’m fine. Everything else turned out fine, so who cares?”

You were certain you were right, no doubt about it! He was overreacting about this and it was honestly the last thing you needed tonight, so you had less patience than usual.

He snaps his jaw shut, opting for the silent treatment again with a scowl on his face. Katsuki douses a cotton pad in alcohol and swipes it across one of your cuts.

You yelp in pain and surprise, sucking breath in through your teeth, snatching his wrist. You shoot him a glare, at first he’s ready to glare right back, but once he meets your gaze he softens. That’s what you do to him. You’ve given him a safe space to be soft, to be loving- to be vulnerable. This is why this cuts him up inside so much more, he knows that you’re in pain, that you’ve been in pain for the past week. But every time he would ask, you brushed it off, adamant on shouldering it by yourself. He was even angrier at himself for not pushing harder, if he had you might not have pushed yourself tonight.

You were his safe space and your reluctance to be vulnerable with him, had him doubting himself. Was he not enough for you? Did you not think he could be your safe space? He had beat himself up over this, which added another layer of frustration that had to take the backseat tonight.

He continues working diligently in silence, repeating the process with the same care for every single cut. Rubbing alcohol, bacitracin, a bandaid, and then smoothing over it with his rough fingertips. Repeatedly, gently tracing plain patterns over the material, soothing the both of you. If the circumstances were different, he would’ve littered butterfly kisses over every single one. The amount of self-control that he was showing was unfathomable.

Katsuki was inches away from exploding, pulling his brain in endless directions between figuring out how to get through to you, wanting to just tactlessly spill his guts, and longing to smother you in frantic love. You were nearing eruption as well, desperately wanting him to say something, anything at all, but you also didn’t want to hear a single word of his lecturing. You also wanted nothing more but to hug him, to cling to him because fuck, tonight was terrifying but you couldn’t let him know that-you had to stick to your guns.

Both of you were stubborn as all get out, a trait that you both loved and hated in one another. Neither of you wants to be the first to give in, and yet desperately pray the other will. Here together, in your bathroom, and yet worlds apart, lost in your thoughts. You were unceremoniously dragged back to the moment in front of you by fear.

Whether Katsuki did it on purpose, he had left the worst cut for last. It was the biggest one, crimson and angry, your anxiety building as he prepared to clean it. You had handled the stinging of the rest of the cuts fairly well, this one was going to be your breaking point.

His warm, rough hands wrap around your thigh, lightly squeezing it to steady you.

“Wait! Please.”

Your hand shot out to wrap around his wrist, your brain still catching up to your outburst. He immediately stopped in his tracks, looking up at you and feeling his heart shatter when he saw your eyes. Pleading, looking for mercy in him, and full of fear. As soft as he could muster,

“Hey, hey it’s not going to be that bad, promise.” He carefully watches as you nervously chew on your bottom lip. He raises his large hand to gently cup your face, you instinctively lean into the warmth of his palm. A new, unfamiliar voice pipes up in the back of your head as you get lost in his carmine eyes.

Let go.You’re safe here.

You let go of his wrist to place your hand on top of his bigger one, absentmindedly stroking.

“Just take a deep breath, okay? It’ll be over before you know it.”

Drawing in a shaky breath, you nod and try to relax as he moves his hand back to your thigh. He gingerly wipes the cut, the alcohol instantly seeping in and burning. You cry out in pain, begging him to stop, but he doesn’t listen. He tries to be quick but still efficient, wanting to lessen your pain. He places a large bandaid on it, smoothing it down, and finally, finally, gives in and presses the lightest butterfly kiss on top.

Fuck.

Your bottom lip is poking out, quivering as you do your best to swallow the sob clawing its way up your throat. Angrily rubbing away the tears that escape, you let out a trembling sigh, still trying to get a hold of yourself. Balling your hands into fists on your thighs, you sniffle and bite your lip so it’ll stop its ridiculous shaking. You instinctively berate yourself for how you’re reacting.

You should be stronger than this. What is wrong with you?

The new, sweeter, softer voice comes back to say,

But it’s okay. Because it’s him.

Because it’s him. Because he’s the one who is fixing you, who is choosing to fix you. To be here with you, to choose you, and to love you. And maybe it is okay that you’re ‘weak’ in front of him. It’s safe here. Maybe you were wrong an-

“Do you understand why I’m mad at you?” His voice rumbles out, interrupting your thoughts.

“I-I don’t- honestly, no not really, I did nothing wrong tonight” You try not to roll your eyes at how watery and shaky your voice sounds. Katsuki sets his jaw and slowly breathes in and out of his nose, almost like a bull getting ready to charge.

“How am I going to get this through your head?” He mutters to himself, you roll your eyes in return and give him a pointed look. You know that you shouldn’t be getting riled up, but the exhaustion is sapping away your patience. Logically you know that you should just stop with the retorts, listen to him, and yet,

“Well? Are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me or am I just supposed to be a mind-reader?”

That was the last straw.

“I don’t know how or why you can’t see this,” he starts slowly, mulling over his thoughts, “but the way you handled tonight was...it was...you shouldn’t have pushed yourself that hard.”

“But every-”

“I don’t care that everything else turned out fine!” He raises his voice momentarily, forcing himself to come back down, “I’m not mad that you took care of everything else, I’m mad that you didn’t take care of yourself.” Ruby eyes search your face for any sign of understanding.

“It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks,” he notices how your eyes widen, realizing that he knew your feelings all along. You were mistaken for thinking you ever needed to handle it by yourself.

“You are already strong and you don’t have to prove that to anyone. You don’t owe anyone shit, you don’t need to push yourself to the point of breaking just to show that you can make it there.” He slips his warm, coarse hands into your softer ones, gripping tightly. He leans forward to put his forehead against yours,

“I need you. I need you in my life, and I need you to take care of yourself.” Desperation seeps into his voice, begging you to give yourself the love you deserve. Quietly, he adds,

“For my sake, at least, don’t be careless, dumbass.” He pulls back slightly to look at you, eyes glassy and full of pain. He doesn’t say anything else, letting his words float around in your head. You laughably admit to yourself,

He’s right. I am a dumbass.

Your face is wet with tears, salty drops still haven’t stopped cascading down your skin. You were being foolish, but you didn’t want to admit it, letting your pride suffocate you. You’re sniffling nonstop but still trying to keep your cries as tucked away as possible, your whole body shaking with stifled sobs. He lets go of your hands to cup your face, thumbs wiping away fresh tears.

“You can let it out, you know. You let me.”

You throw your arms around him, clutching him, afraid that he’ll float away from you. Keeping him in a tight, tight, tight embrace, hands collecting handfuls of his shirt. Like a broken record, repeating over and over again, strangled, I’m sorry’s. He hums in response, rubbing circles on your back as he holds you. Unbeknownst to you, he’s thankful you can’t see his tears that manage to slip out, knowing you would only cry harder.

The two of you stay like that until your sobs have subsided. He pulls away, wiping away the rest of your tears and holding your face again. You stare into each other’s tired and bloodshot eyes.

“I don’t want you to be careless anymore. I don’t want you to feel like you have to prove yourself to anyone. I want you to see what I already know, what is already true. You are more than enough, you are more than strong enough, and I need you to see that. Okay?”

Nodding, you whisper,

“I know,” You bite your lip and nod again.

“I know.”

Sometime later, after cuddles and soft voices, you lay in bed, wrapped up in fluffy blankets. Rubbing at the gauze around your arm, you stare at the ceiling, ruminating on what Katsuki said.

He’s right. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone, especially not to assholes who don’t even know me. Next time that I want to be reckless, I’ll just think of him. The one who loves me and knows me.

You close your eyes and smile to yourself.

The one who knows I’m strong.

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imagine-nation20 · 3 years ago

Text

Sunshine and The Art of Picking Your Battles

Summary: “I wasn’t planning on rescuing anyone today, but it looks like my plans just changed.”

Requested By: Anon

Request: “I wasn’t planning on rescuing anyone today, but it looks like my plans just changed.” for Jason Todd (with the reader being kidnapped by any villain you want)

A/N: Jason Todd will forever and always be the best robin and I will not take criticism. Also I love writing established relationship with superheroes where one doesn’t know the other is a vigilante, so enjoy some reader having no sense of self preservation, and Jason outing himself as the red hood.

~~~

You hated Gotham. Or rather, you hated the criminal underbelly of Gotham, which wasn’t so much an underbelly as it was a very obvious toupee on the top of the head of the city. Gotham was built on crime, and it would probably crumble under the weight of crime. Most people who lived there were either involved in crime, or involved in the vigilante justice served by the masked crusaders.

Running a bar in Gotham was bad, running a bar in the crummy part of Gotham was worse. That is, if you could claim any part of Gotham wasn’t crummy.

Still, it was a better job than some of the other options. Who could blame the owner of the place appointing you manager and fucking off to his apartment in the only part of Gotham that could afford working deadbolts.

So it was no wonder that you got jumped on your way home after a particularly grueling shift.

Three men dressed in suits too nice for the area. It was pretty much common sense to learn some form of self defense if you were going to live in a city like Gotham, however, three against one wasn’t exactly fair odds.

They tied your wrists, dropped a bag over your head, and then hit you with something heavy and blunt that was probably going to leave permanent damage.

Waking up was a headache, to say the least. Your head pounded like a drum, the blood rushing through your ears sounding like the waves against the harbor. Or maybe that really was the harbor.

It didn’t really matter, because you had a bigger problem to worry about than whether or not the ‘whooshing’ in your ear was blood or water.

A man, dressed in an expensive suit, stood a few feet away. His head was covered in the dark, slightly shiny material of a mask, shaped like a skull. Beady eyes peered through, staring you down.

“So, what is a bartender like yourself doing associating with the Red Hood?” Roman Sionis was easily recognizable, and his identity was not a secret to the citizens of the city. He seemed almost proud to lord the fact that everyone knew who he was, but couldn’t put him away for anything tangible.

Unless of course that person was Batman or one of his many disciples.

“What the fuck are you on about?” You slurred. You cursed yourself internally for your inability to keep your mouth shut. Most of the time you were okay, but you were tired, and in pain, and this was the third time this week you had been assaulted, so you were over it. Criminals and crime lords were a dime a dozen, and despite his very intimidating reputation, you could not care less about Black Mask.

He laughed, and it almost sounded genuine, “I’m talking about the fact that I have on good word that Red Hood has been in your shitty little bar almost every night for the past week.”

You were going to kill Kallista.

You avoided associating with vigilantes, but your coworker, and the woman who worked most night to day shifts, was known for giving vigilantes free drinks when they dropped in. Now, it seemed you had been mistaken for her. Serves you right for having the audacity to pick up her shift when she was sick.

You had seen a few of them drop in on your way out, but never Red Hood. She probably told him not to catch you, since you would have reemed her for it. Red Hood wasn’t a criminal, but he was known for incurring their wrath like no one else, and that usually ended up in situations like this.

Yes, Kallista was going to die… so long as you made it out of this.

“Listen pal,” you started, glancing around the room for a way out. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You weren’t a bad friend, and you certainly weren’t going to sick Roman Sionis on your friend. Even if she did get you in this situation in the first place.

“Don’t fucking lie to me!” He yelled, taking quick steps towards you. You winced back, hearing the flick of a switchblade, and feeling the cold press against your cheek.

“Listen, if I was associating with the Red Hood, I would have told you by now.”

“For some reason, I just don’t believe you.”

“Well well well, look what the cat dragged in,” A voice echoed through the warehouse. From above, you could see the familiar brown leather jacket, and bright red helmet of the Red Hood. He was reclined against a support beam, legs dangling off the one he was sitting on. “I’m going to be honest with you, I wasn’t planning on rescuing anyone today, but it looks like my plans just changed.”

Hopping down from the beam, he landed, knees bent, feet light. It was almost impressive, the way he could silently drop. If you weren’t so tired, you might have taken the time to marvel at the way his pants bunched and stretched. Kallista was right after all, there was a certain appeal to the vigilantes in uniform.

Roman shifted around you, knife going to your neck. You took in a sharp breath, glaring at the Red Hood as he faltered in his pace.

“Take another step and she dies,”

“I was gonna say thanks for coming, Hood,” You glared, “but you’ve kinda made the situation worse.”

You could almost see the tick of annoyance through the mask. His fists clenching slightly, he grumbled, “This is the thanks I get?”

“I’ll thank you when I don’t have a knife to my jugular.”

Black Mask tightened his grip on you, knife digging in a slight bit. You didn’t think it had pierced skin yet, but you couldn’t be sure.

The next few seconds seemed to go by in an instant. The shattering of glass, the whizzing of something through the air, the knife nicked your neck, then was gone, and so was the grip of Roman Sionis.

Red Hood moved towards you, gloved hands untying the ropes that kept you bound to the chair. You looked to the side, seeing Black Mask passed out on the ground, a strange arrow sticking to the outside of his helmet. You could have sworn you saw little strings of electricity still moving over the black material.

The masked vigilante hoisted you from the chair, his arms slipping behind your back and beneath your knees.

“Seriously?” You deadpanned, “I can walk, you know. My legs aren’t broken.”

It didn’t seem like he cared, as he scoffed, “I still haven’t heard a thank you.”

“I didn’t think heroes were so egotistical.”

“Not really a hero, sunshine,” you could hear the smile in his voice, even through the strange effect his helmet gave off. You went stiff at the name.

Jason faltered mid step, and you knew you had him. Spewing a flurry of curses, you wriggled out of his hold and onto the gravel below. The rocks bit into your skin, and Jason moved to crouch and help, but you were already up and slapping at his arm.

“You son of a bitch, Jason,” you whisper shouted, “you’re so stupid. How long have you been the- no, I don’t want to know.”

“Sunshine-”

“Don’t you sunshine me, Todd,” you growled, “You didn’t think to tell me you were a fucking vigilante? And moreover, you were getting free drinks from my coworker while she ranted to me about your thighs?”

“What?” Jason asked, shaking his head. “No, no, I wasn’t… I was looking out for you! I was trying to make sure you got home safe! What about my thighs?”

You paused, mouth hanging open. You hadn’t known Jason for very long. He had come in during one of your shifts with a busted lip and a dazzling smile, and left with your number and the promise of a date. You should have guessed back then, if you were being honest, but you believed him when he said he had gotten jumped. Maybe he had been telling the truth, just not the whole truth.

Stalling so that you didn’t give in to his guilty look so easily, you glanced around. So it had been the ocean you were hearing. You turned back around, trying and failing to hold the vicious glare.

“You better have a ride back to my apartment, cause we are about to have a long talk about impulse control, honesty, and the art of picking battles.”

“You sound like my dad.”

Silence.

“OH MY GOD IS BRUCE WAYNE-”

#Jason Todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd oneshot #jason todd fanfiction #dc

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winterscaptain · 4 years ago

Text

permanent.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: just in case you missed it, i published a family tree for the hotchners! at this point, jack is married to bella and living in d.c. she’s a journalist for the washington division at the new york times and is generally pretty awesome. as always, lemme know what you think!

words: 3.1k warnings: language, hospital setting, canon-typical injury

summary: “write your injuries in dust, your benefits in marble” - benjamin franklin. au!december 2035

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

“Come on, Soph! Go, baby, go!”

Your daughter is a vision. She streaks across the field, her green and yellow uniform almost melding with the grass as she keeps control of the ball. You can’t see her face too clearly, but you know she’s scanning the field with the same intensity you see in Aaron’s face beside you.

Isaac plops down on the bench behind you, home from Los Angeles for winter break. “How’s she doing?”

Aaron half-turns his head, keeping his eyes on the field. “Going for a hat trick - if she makes it, it’ll be her third this season.”

“Excellent.”

Caroline, down the field with her choir group, lounges happily between the legs of one of her friends, eating popcorn. When she sees you looking, she waves at you.

You wave back for a moment before your attention’s caught by a collective gasp and Aaron’s hand shoots to your forearm. You turn back to the field, but you missed it.

Everyone’s moving and you don’t know why.

With shocking agility for his age, Aaron all but leaps down the bleachers and onto the field. Your eyes search for Soph, but there are too many people on the field, all of a sudden.

Caroline’s standing on the seat of the bleachers, her friends steadying her with their hands on her arms and ankles.

There’s a hand, soft and scared on your shoulder. “Mom?”

You open your arms, and your nearly-grown son ducks under it, curling into you as you stand. “Do you want your earbuds?”

You feel him nod and you pull them out of your bag. His trembling quiets a little after he fits them in his ears.

There’s a clamber, and Caroline appears at your side. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching.”

She exhales, shaky and worried. “Where’s Dad?”

“On the field.”

But where?

You find Aaron, his salt-and-pepper hair stark in the autumn light. He’s talking to the referee, his brows low.

You hear sirens.

+++

“Oh, hey! What’s up, Mom?”

You almost hate to ruin his mood.

“Jack, honey, can you get down to the house at any point tonight?”

You try not to grip the handle above the car door too tightly as Aaron races through the suburban streets, following the ambulance. Soph was definitely lucid when they loaded her up, but definitely in a lot of pain.

“Ye - Yeah...Why?”

“Soph’s headed to the ER - something happened on the soccer pitch today and her knee…” You shake your head. “I dunno. Her knee looks really bad.”

“Fuck. Okay.” You hear him shuffle around and click his mouse - checking his schedule. “I can get down there after my last meeting at four - I’m headed there in a few minutes, but won’t be able to swing any earlier. I’d cancel it, but it’s literally SecDef and the Joint Chiefs and -”

“That’s fine - I just need someone at the house with the kids until one of us can get back. Elliot’s at baseball practice until six and I’m not sure if -”

“I’ll be there. I’ll get El and then I’ll swing by for Isaac and Caro if they’re still with y’all down there.”

You glance over at Aaron and nod. He heaves a sigh of relief and mouths Thank you.

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Yeah. See you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

+++

When you’re finally allowed in to see Sophia, her eyes are red and puffy with tears. Her right leg is braced and elevated at the knee.

Her doctor explains the situation - dislocated knee and splintered patella with a torn meniscus and ACL. “This kind of traumatic knee injury poses a couple of issues…”

He explains that the rehabilitation and surgery needs for both the ACL and meniscus are exceedingly different, and “It’s entirely possible Miss Sophia will experience permanent joint damage. However, we won’t know that until we have an orthopaedic surgeon look at it tomorrow.”

“What about sports? Can I still play?” Soph tries to sit up farther, but Aaron’s arm shoots out, locking her against the bed across her shoulders.

The doctor looks hesitant, and it’s all she needs to burst into tears again. Aaron moves, sitting on the side of the bed and wrapping her up in his arms. He looks over her head at you and your lower lip disappears into your mouth as you meet his gaze.

You shift your attention to your other children sitting patiently behind you.

Caroline’s practically bit her nails to the quick - her hands looking more and more like her Aunt Emily’s as the moments pass.

Isaac’s been sitting in the wide windowsill for the entire afternoon, his headphones on, staring out the window, his mouth tight and fingers tearing into the foam stress ball you keep in your purse.

We’ll need another one of those. Or five.

You get a phone call, and you step out. “Hey, Jack.”

“Hey. Just got Elliot. We’re headed over to the hospital now. How’s she doing?”

You sigh and press a hand to your forehead.

“Oh, shit. That bad?” He asks.

You don’t comment on his tell pickup. It’s in his blood, at this point. “Yeah. She’s definitely out for the rest of the season, and we’re looking at some long-term stuff, too.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey! I’m still here and she’s gonna kick your ass if you keep swearing in front of me, dude.” Elliot shouts from the back and it almost makes you smile.

“I’m actually inclined to agree with you, Jack. We’ve got a dislocated and splintered patella in addition to a torn meniscus and ACL. It’s going to be a long rehab.”

You hear a deep sigh into the bluetooth system in Jack’s car. “Well, I’ll stay here for the duration.”

“No, no honey it’s alright. Your dad is home full-time and you’ve got a huge project reaching critical stages. Your room is all ready for you, but you really don’t have to hang around if you can’t manage the drive every day. And Bella -”

“Bells is looped in. She’s fine. She’s more than happy to tag out if we need to. Her deadlines are really loose right now what with the whole ‘nothing going on in Arlington’ thing this week. She’s heartbroken for Soph and wants to help where she can.”

“Alright.”

“Hey,” He huffs, sounding a lot like his dad. “I’ll let you go. I’ll text when I’m outside.”

“Okay. Thanks, bud.”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Anytime.”

+++

Sophia’s sleeping when Alice and Hank come to visit later in the evening. Aaron went home a couple hours after Jack, planning to tag out with you later so you could get some sleep in your own bed before work tomorrow.

Alice immediately embraces you, all but falling into your lap as you hold her. She’s shaking.

“Is she okay?”

You push her back, smoothing some wayward edges at her hairline. “She will be.”

Alice’s dark eyes fill with tears, and you brush them off her cheeks as they fall.

“She’ll need your help, though. It’s gonna be a long time before we figure out what’s permanent and what’s not.”

Alice nods and retreats, sitting in the plastic chair by Soph’s side, folding her arms on the mattress and laying her head on them. “Hey, Sofa,” she whispers, though Soph can’t hear her.

“I haven’t heard that one in a while,” you tell her. Sofa is a nickname Derek gave Sophia when she was little. No big meaning to it, but it stuck.

You wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed there all night.

Hank lingers by the door. In the shadow of the room, you could easily mistake him for Derek, but that concerned pull at the corners of his eyes screams Savannah.

Eventually, he crosses the room and sits on the little lounger beside you.

He takes your hand and you kiss his knuckles. “I bet this isn’t how you wanted to spend your winter break, huh?”

A little laugh leaves him. “Maybe not, but little Miss Thing over here dragged me out the door before I could get two words in edgewise.” He gestures vaguely toward Alice and you actually smile.

“Yeah. In my experience, Morgan women don’t fuck around.”

“You got that right,” comes a voice from the doorway. It’s Savannah, fresh off her shift and still in her white coat and scrubs. She scours over Sophia’s charts and checks on her before sitting on your other side.

“Do you want the bad news or the good-but-also-kind-of-bad news?” She asks, almost inaudible. You glance up at Soph but Savannah shakes her head. “She’s out - those pain meds will leave this entire visit a blur.”

You sigh. “Fine. Hit me with the bad shit.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Savannah rests her elbows on her knees. “I’ve seen a knee injury like this exactly once before. No matter what you do, they can’t and don’t always heal right. She could need a mobility device permanently, even after she’s healed, and I can tell you now she won’t play again.”

That’s okay. She’s okay.

Better soccer goes than her life.

Soccer is her life.

You only know that Alice can hear everything when her shoulders start to shake. She doesn’t make any noise as she cries. She’s like her dad that way. Hank stands and places a hand between her shoulder blades, but says nothing.

“Is that the worst of it?”

Savannah nods. “Yeah.” She takes a breath. “The kinda good news is that she’ll be totally fine no matter what obstacles she may run into. She’s tough. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a Hotchner.”

She snorts. “Hell, I watched you bounce back from crazy life-threatening shit with a quip and a grin.”

You raise your eyebrows and shrug. “I do what I can.”

+++

Caroline curls into her father’s side, her double bed big enough to manage the both of them. It feels a lot like when she was little - she’d have nightmares or couldn’t fall asleep and Aaron would come and sit with her until her breath was even and slow.

“Dad?”

“Mhmm?”

“What’s Soph gonna do about college?” Caroline’s voice is small, nearly smothered in Aaron’s shirt. “She already has scouting offers and stuff.”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I’m not sure. We’ll all have to figure it out together, won’t we?”

+++

Aaron steps into the room, closing the sliding glass door behind him. Alice, just as you predicted, snoozes next to Sophia, her head pillowed on her arms. Sophia’s upper body almost arcs around her and she managed to snag one of Alice’s hands in her adjustment.

Those two…

Maybe he won’t escape the inevitable after all.

Morgan-Hotchner? Hotchner-Morgan?

He really only ever prepared to lose his name with Caroline. Soph always seemed far too… herself to take on a new one.

We’ll see.

You’re asleep in the pull-out chair, your brow drawn and arms crossed over your chest. He approaches you as quietly as he can, putting his go bag down and sitting beside you.

Much to his chagrin, you startle awake.

“Sorry,” he says in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.” Talking through your yawn, you add, “Just had a weird dream is all.”

Aaron pulls you close and you relent, tucking into his side with a hand pressed to his chest.

“Did Savannah come by?” He asks.

You nod.

“What did she say?”

You sniff a little, more from the antiseptic smell than any emotional response - that will come later. “Soph won’t be able to play again unless fuckin’ divine intervention or some shit comes along and fixes her knee from scratch, but she’ll be able to move around just fine with a cane or brace or something after a while.”

Aaron can only imagine it now - fits and righteous anger about getting around the house, watching games from the bench - the list could go on forever. “She’ll hate that.”

You hum in agreement. “Just another parenting challenge. Already have the rest of the gamut covered neurodevelopmentally, so we were bound to get a physical challenge at some point.”

“Never more than we can handle.”

Shaking your head, you note, “This one just might do us in.”

+++

“I swear to God, if I see you in the office at all this week I’m gonna smash your kneecaps in.” Emily pauses. “Sorry. Too soon?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You laugh a little and Soph sits up, her brow asking a question.

You answer, pulling the phone away from your mouth. “Your Aunt Emily told me she’d smash my kneecaps if she saw me at the federal building this week.”

Soph snorts. “Nice. We could match.”

You reach over and tweak her nose. “We already match.”

“Hey.” Emily grabs your attention again and you put your cell back to your ear. “I’m serious. I don’t want you to be here. Stay home for Soph right now and I’ll sign off on it and turn everything in for you.”

You roll your eyes. “I can’t believe you turned into Rossi, Miss I’m Past Retirement Age But Twisted the Bureaus Arm to Let Me Work Myself to Death.”

She laughs and hangs up, leaving you and Sophia alone again in the hospital room. She tucks back into her Jello, taking bites that are way too big.

“How are you feeling, bug?” You brush her cheekbone with your thumb and she shrugs.

“Can you hand me my headband?”

You reach over and dig around in her back until you find the wide swatch of colorful fabric. She takes it from you and shoves it over her head, pushing her hair back with practiced ease.

She’s just like her dad.

What? Loyal?

Yeah. But also chronically avoidant.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She huffs, playing with her fingers. “I’m fine. I think.” Her breath is shaky. “I can’t really tell with all the meds I’m on, but it feels… really bad.”

When she looks over at you again, her eyes are glassy, tearful. “I know I can’t play again, maybe not even run.”

You reach out for her hand, but don’t say anything.

“Momma…” She pauses, looking down at her blanket. “Momma, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I feel like I only know how to play soccer. I don’t know how - I don’t know if I want to do anything else. I’ve never thought about it before.”

You run your thumb over her knuckles. “Soph, you can do so much. You have a great strategic mind - you think in these big, creative webs. It’s such an asset.”

“Don’t profile me.”

“I’m not profiling you, baby,” you tell her with a smile. “I just know that about you because you’re my daughter.”

Her mouth twists. “Right.” She looks down when her phone buzzes.

“Who is it?”

The corners of her lips tip up. “It’s Alice. She’s asking me if I want anything from the drive thru.”

You mirror her little smile. “That’s nice of her.”

“Yeah.”

+++

“Alright so you have twenty nuggets, large fries,” Alice digs around in the bag, taking things out as she speaks. “And… a vanilla milkshake.”

“God, I love you.” Sophia wraps her hand around Alice's head and pulls her close, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Alice laughs, deep from her chest. “Shit, Soph, if all I have to do to secure your love is get you crap chicken, sign me up.”

“You could get damn close.”

Aaron watches the girls sit beside each other in the bed, taking turns dipping their nuggets in the sauce. They’ve always been this way, exchanging barbs and affection in equal measure. Symbiotic in the extreme, one is never far from the other.

You’re home, getting everyone else in bed and settled for the evening. Isabella drove in a night early - Jack’s headed back to D.C. apartment for a series of days-long meetings at the Pentagon regarding his latest project.

Aaron’s excited to see her. It’s been a helluva thing to see his son married, even more surreal to know and love his son’s wife like his own daughters.

His phone rings.

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, Bella.”

Sophia looks over at the mention of her sister-in-law, and Alice looks beside herself with delight. As well as being a hit among the parents, Bella’s a winner with the kids, too.

Some days, Caroline likes her more than she likes Jack.

“Hey, Pops. Want to tag out?”

“Sure. I’ll switch with you. How long do you want to be here?”

He can almost hear her shrug. “Eh. I’ll spend the night. My column isn’t due until the end of the week and I’ve got it covered. Don’t need to work, don’t really need to sleep. Win-win.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. I’ll be there in twenty.”

She hangs up before Aaron can respond, so he just pockets his phone and takes the loss. Sophia, after taking a sip of her milkshake, asks. “Is Bella here all night?”

“Yeah, bug. She’ll be here.”

Soph and Alice share a look.

+++

“Well, Bella has more patience than I do,” Aaron says, dropping his go bag at the bedroom door. “She’s stuck with H&M for the rest of the night at the hospital.”

You laugh, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m glad the girls have company, and fun company, at that.”

“Fair enough.”

The two of you quiet for a moment, and you tuck further under his arm, placing your hand over his heart.

“Aaron?”

His hand traces up and down your back, slow and steady. “Yeah?”

“What can we do for her? She sounded so… defeated today.”

And it’s true. You’ve never seen Soph like that, even at her lowest. If you were honest, it scared you a little.

“We can be her parents. That’s all. And she’ll figure something out. If she needs to take a gap year, she’ll manage. She and Alice can search for programs together.” He sighs before he continues, leaning back to look at you.

“All we can do is ask her what she needs and support her as best we can.”

+++

tagging: @avengersbau @ambicaos @angelsbabey @arganfics @averyhotchner @bwbatta @capricorngf @cevanswhre @crazyshannonigans @criminalsmarts @deagibs @forgottenword @genevievedarcygranger @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @hurricanejjareau @joanofarkansass @kelstark @kerrswriting @little-blue-fishie @lotties-journey-abroad @mandylove1000 @missdowntonabbey @mrs-dr-reid @pan-pride-12 @popped-weasels @quillvine @qvid-pro-qvo @reidingmelodies @reids-mismatchedsocks @roses-and-grasses @shesbiochem4 @ssahotchnerr @ssaic-jareau @ssareidbby @starsandasteroids @stxrrywildflower @sunflowersandotherthings @sunshine-em @teamhappyme @this-broken-band-girl @ughitsbaby @unicorn-bitch @venusbarnes @violet-amxthyst @word-scribbless @writefasttalkevenfaster @zizzlekwum @iconicc @avatarkorraswife @mooneylupinblack @ssworldofsw @nuvoleincielo @kaemarie23 @violentvulgarvolatile @abschaffer2 @ellyhotchner @rousethemouse @baumarvel @reidtomestyles @dreamsonthewall @jhiddles03 @willlemonheadsupremacy @infinity1321 @messyhairday-me @itsalwaysb33nyou @finnologys @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @hothothotchner @happyvol7 @ssa-holmes @mac99martin @ssahotchner99 @triangularroses @vagabond-ing @itsmytimetoodream @magic_in_the_eyes_of_the_beholder

#aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #criminal minds #tali talks cm #tali writes fanfiction #a joyful future #a joyful future fanfic

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crown-anon · 4 years ago

Text

@hearts1ck my beloved

November 1st

CW: explicit; more CWs under the cut

format: one-shot

people: GeorgeNotFound

pronouns: he/him; reader has male anatomy; more specifics under the cut

edited 14 March 2021

anonymous asked

consider. okay. CONSIDER. consider masochist george. okay?? okay. okay LISTEN.

I think I have a problem with gimmicks also. because. because. ever since strawberry milk george, I. I have not stopped thinking about strawberry flavored lube. because! listen okay hear me out.

(this is absolutely 110% a response to discovering that you share a birthday with him. what of it?)

I know everyone likes pillow princess george and. that's okay. that's FINE. these are not mutually exclusive.

george looking up at you with The LookTM wearing some pink strawberry milk lingerie. not even lingerie really! just something cute like that

& him being like. "I know you love me 👉👈 but I need you to fuck me like you don't"

so I was. thinking. that brat george is the exact kind of person to say (playfully & consensually) "but I don't wanna give you head, I just wanna fuck >:(" after you've got him worked up, maybe from teasing him throughout the day, or edging him a little. but you still need some type of lube. so you go to apply the first bottle you see and he's pink when he asks you "😳 is that ... strawberry ... ?" and you're confused like ??? bro you just asked me to fuck you into next week why're you interested in the flavored lube

but. but listen. he would get so enthusiastic about it. at first it's just "maybe I can stand to eat them out just a little bit before ..." and then after you come the first time it devolves really, really quickly into the need to just. take care of you. and it stretches on until you've come three or four times, and you're still shaking, and he's just. completely gone in subspace

hmm ... george climbing up onto your lap when he's done with you, going in to give you a kiss, and he tastes like strawberry. and he ends up moaning right into your mouth because he's been so horny but so? understimulated?? that he outright jumps as soon as his dick grazes your thigh. it would only take a couple stuttery grinds before he's finishing on both of your stomachs

and he's just so cute when comes, or when he bites down on your shoulder to keep himself quiet. and it's your birthdays. so, you decide you'll give him a reason to cry. and he'll finally get put in his place! it's a win-win for both of you!!

istg every time I send you an ask I discover something new about myself. you. you have made a dreamteam simp out of me. I am but a shell of the man I once was. I think I should thank you? [👑]

hearts1ck

i say this nearly every time you send stuff in but...... by god you own my soul. all of it. this – i – first of all, the implications of masochist george losing his fucking mind when you’re rough with him? guhhhfjklgjgf. and ,..d,,f,,, ,, ,, george in pink lingerie. i. i . a... pink satin slip maybe or .... ohghfd; oh my god those. that cat panty/bra set. im ascending im losing my brain as i type this i cannot –

okay im back on earth. he’d get into that rhythm and settle like liquid while he gets to work on you, and his subspace face is so self-satisfied and nearly smug so he’s just having the time of his life,,, and he makes such a loud noise when his dick twitches against your thigh and maybe... JUST MAYBE he whimpers extra watery when you drag his hips to grind against where you’re wet and dripping/your spent cock as if he’s the one who’d get overstimulated by it. when he finally leans away, eyelids heavy, you gently fit your hand over his jaw and ask, “did you even ask? it’s one thing to come without permission, but not even caring to ask? georgie, i might just be offended,” and he whines “green”s against your neck before you even check-in

and because u made it abt both of our birthdays ,,,, spanks for each year we’ve been alive methinks ??? and then the scratch down his ass gets him hard again and he’s so embarrassed by it, ,,, , ,, ,, ,, ,, ,

also thank god you’ve joined the george boat. i’m so proud of myself for hopefully being part of the reason you got dragged over here HJFKDHSKD

#👑 anon #(my beloved) #keep #anon thoughts: george #redsick #SHAWTY WANT THE WHOLE CREW SHAWTY BAD

as soon as you said birthday spanks I decided I had to write more about this. and I was going to leave more snippets in your askbox like the fucking gremlin creature I am, but then my thoughts started. actually having structure? and then I started writing it. and I tried to do homework and write on study breaks only but. I just kept coming back to this. this is the polar opposite of writer's block. I think I'm cursed or something. so here I am rushing to finish this so that I may rest in peace!!

yes I've been writing nonstop since I sent you that ask. what of it. what the fuck of it.

when I said I discover something new about myself every time we interact, I. I'm serious. I think I might be insane or something. I'm way too sadistic. you'll see. what the fuck is this? what the fuck did I just write??

this would have done so much critical psychic damage if I had posted it on November 1st in real life, but mental illness says I can't let my horny thoughts rattle around in my brain for that long. so!! it's you guys's problem now xoxoxo

I'm not fucking proofreading this. love you though 💗

I did end up proofreading actually. oops! looks like posting at 23:00 isn't always a good idea.

November 1st

CW: explicit, anal (kind of vague), bondage (collar + leash), corruption, domspace (I think??), edging, handjob, humiliation, masochism, oral, praise, sadism, spanking, subspace, swearing. I call George a whore and a slut at least once. and also, George calls yellow at one point. this one kind of surprised me so just. Be Careful. I cannot believe I wrote this. I don't know where this came from.

format: one-shot

people: GeorgeNotFound

pronouns: he/him; I use the word "sir;" reader has male anatomy; I use the words "cock," "dick," and "head;" reader can ejaculate

—

dawn shines through drawn curtains, illuminating the tile floor and your robed figure reflecting off it. batter sizzles in the skillet as you flip the last pancake over. this side looks golden brown, like honeycomb or caramelized sugar. that delicious, freshly-baked fragrance mingles with scented candles. it's perfect, you smile. he's going to love it.

you lift the pancake with a spatula, stacking it on top of the others on his plate. you bring it to his seat at the table, along with the butter, the syrup, the honey, the jam…and you go to pour him a drink.

"hey baby," you greet warmly to the sleepyhead rubbing his eyes in the entryway, still clinging to a pillow. his hair's a mess, only wearing socks and a sweatshirt that reaches down past his thighs. you reckon he'd only just crawled out of bed.

"morning…" he yawns, stumbling past you to take his seat.

"milk?" you ask, he only nods. "did you sleep okay?"

he hums affirmatively. "I…can we…"

one track mind, you joke inwardly. but you don't blame him. "of course," you open the fridge.

you hear him pause. "…is it too early for that?"

"no, no!" you give him a lighthearted laugh. "I kind of expected it, to be honest…I want it, too."

he's silent under the noise of you rummaging through the fridge. "I—"

"sorry—it looks like all we have is strawberry milk. is that alright?"

"yeah…yeah, that's alright. I…actually…wanted to try something new." you shut the fridge, he's fidgeting in his seat.

"hit me with it," your expression is gentle. you pass his cup off to him, but he holds his hand over yours a little too long, looking up at you.

"fuck me like you hate me."

you don't know if it's hearing him swear, or the way he said it so calmly, or how he closed his eyes and swallowed hard before his tone could dip down into something lower. but like a match in an torrent of gasoline, suddenly you're burning up.

you only realize you're staring when he bites his lip and looks down. you start to say something, but the words don't form.

he laughs nonthreateningly, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "is that a yes?"

you laugh with him. "I…yes, absolutely yes." you turn back around to make your own stack of pancakes. "you should eat first, though."

"what?" he teases. "will I need the energy?"

you smile. "yeah. I think you will." you can practically feel him open his mouth in protest, but he stays silent after that.

and it stays mostly silent while you cook your pancakes. you hear the clinking of his fork on his plate, but it isn't very disruptive. it sounds like he's hurrying to finish his food.

when you go back to the table with your own platter, he's already done eating. he's red down to his neck, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt, looking at you expectantly. you spot a pair of tassels peeking out from under it, just below his hip bones. is that…

he pulls the hem up just a bit, holding your gaze. he smiles, apparently satisfied watching your face heat up.

"I—you should go…go get ready," you manage. he gets up before you even finish your sentence, only stopping to give you a quick kiss on the cheek.

except it isn't quick, when he slides his hand down to rest firmly on your collar, and leans in to trail kisses down your neck. "a-and leave that on," you stutter.

he pauses, just under your jaw. "leave what on?" he murmurs.

your breath catches, you shut your eyes. "whatever the fuck it is you're wearing under there."

he's hardly grazing your skin, but you can feel how hot he is next to you. it takes all of your willpower not to shiver.

he pulls back quickly, only his hand lingering. "I don't know what you're talking about." and just like that, he disappears into your bedroom.

you reach up a hand tentatively to your collar, hot to the touch. I'm in way too deep, you decide, and force yourself to take a bite of your food despite your nerves.

—

"that," you hiss. "that fucking outfit. that."

"oh, this?" he bites his lip, hooking his thumb in the keyhole. "this's just what I went to bed in last night."

"fuck you. we both know that isn't true."

he tugs gently on his top, pulling it a little to the side. "what's the big deal? can't I wear something special for my birthday?"

"it's special, all right," and you leave it at that, opting instead to slot between his legs where he sits waiting on the edge of the bed. you bring up a hand to cup his jaw, brushing your thumb across his cheek. you'll never get enough of the way he looks at you, like you're intoxicating.

…? you frown.

"is something…missing?" he perks up instantly at "missing."

"what…?" he chooses his words carefully.

"the collar—your collar. where is it?" you turn away to start going through your bedside table, but the way his lips quirk up into a sly smile isn't lost on you.

that's lube…that's a vibrator…where the fuck is it…? "w-what collar?" he stumbles over his words.

your mind jumps to say, the collar that came with that outfit, or I know you know what I'm talking about, but you won't give him the satisfaction. you decide to speak a little darker, only a firm "George." you hear him swallow.

"w-well," his voice is shaky, "you only told me to leave on whatever I was wearing under my shirt. and…I wasn't wearing that collar at breakfast…s-so technically…"

you stop looking immediately. you turn to take him in, legs crossed, stance confident, but expression showing uncertainty. you can see the regret on his face. "get up." he takes a shallow breath. "get up."

"I'm—"

"don't I'm sorry me," you snap. "you look for your fucking collar on your own."

he slips off the bed, looking ashamed, but starts digging through the drawer all the same. "I really am sorry," he murmurs. you take his place sitting on the bed. he finds what he's looking for rather quickly: a simple white leather collar with a bell, and a leash. he hands them off to you shyly. "um, here…"

"good boy," you praise. "kneel."

he shuts his eyes and does as he's told. you can see the bliss wash over his face just at being ordered around. his lips part a little as he lets out a heavy breath. if only I knew what this would do to him, you muse, I'd have done this ages ago.

you fasten the collar, revelling in how he shivers at the gentle sensation of cold leather hanging around his neck. you leave it a little bit loose, but still comfortable, and hook the leash in its place. he sits obediently still on his knees, looking deep in thought.

"Oh, I know what I'm gonna do to you," you bait. "how old are you today?"

"mmm. twenty-five." he looks down.

you smile, holding tight onto the leash. "I'm gonna edge you. twenty-five times."

he flinches away immediately, yet hums in pleasant surprise when the leash snaps taught. the bell jingles stiffly. "no way. that's way too much."

"I think you should've thought about that before you wore that to breakfast," you decide, tugging a little. he's caught off-guard and stumbles forward, stopping himself by leaving a clumsy pair of kisses on the inside of your thigh. the metal and leather feel refreshingly cool against your feverish skin. "we've got all day, baby."

you expect to hear some kind of protest, you're crazy. or a playful taunt, I'm better off doing this by myself. but he knits his brows and openly moans at the thought. "all day…" he repeats.

he looks up at you, almost pleading, and you can hear the resignation in his voice when he whispers "alright."

"get up here," you command. "on top of me." as he climbs up into your lap, a little too eagerly, you add, "and take your dick out."

you shrug your robe off your shoulders while he's working on his panties, and without thinking, you ask, "color?"

he stops, leaving his head poking cutely over the waistband. he looks up at you again. "…what?"

"um…color," you explain. "like, how are you doing? is this okay? I don't actually want to hurt you. uhhh…green means good, yellow means slow down, and red means stop."

he stifles a laugh. "you're such a nerd. I'm okay."

"alright." you blush a little. "we can stop whenever you need to. this is for you…" you think of something horribly unsexy to say. "…birthday boy."

now he's really laughing, with his whole body. you think the way it makes his collar jingle is cute. "oh my god. shut up. just shut up," his expression turns serious, and he drops to a whisper, "and fuck me."

that got you hot again. you pull him by the leash into a kiss, you bite his lip, you eat him up. and you grab the both of you together with your other hand, you moan in tandem. you can feel how you took him by surprise in the way he twitches under your thumb, the way he leans into you with his whole body. you part from the kiss and he leans back on his heels, panting hard, holding on to your shoulders for support. you can feel him shaking a little.

when you move your hand all the way up the first time, you squeeze both of your heads gently, and he practically falls into you. muffled in the crook of your neck, he begs, "god, do that again."

so you do. again. and again. what was a string of stuttered breaths turns into a single broken moan as you jerk the both of you off. when you think you're getting close, you let go of yourself to focus all your attention on him.

"fuck, sir," he whines—hahaha, that sir made your cock leak a little. he shut his eyes tight. "I-I-I think—I think I'm—"

just like that, you stop, and he goes slack, practically laying on you. but he doesn't grind back, or even move to touch himself. that won't last very long.

you let him come back down, knowing edging takes a lot out of you; maybe even more so than actually coming does. slowly but surely, his breathing steadies. you rub between his shoulderblades affectionately, still trying to ground yourself, too.

once you've found your voice again, you question, "are you gonna count for me?"

he makes a sound against your skin, somewhere between excitement and fear. "…o-one." you revel in how fucked-out he sounds already.

"one what?" you prod.

he seems at a loss, like he's forgotten himself, what he said. after a minute or two of pondering, he catches on. "…sir."

it's your turn to moan. your dick jumps at the honorific, still mostly untouched against your stomach. "good boy." and you dive back in. twenty-four to go.

—

it's noon. you're working on nineteen. and your partner's getting much more…expressive. he's started biting his hand to keep himself quiet, but he's still…

"I-I—oh fuck, I'm—fuck, I-I'm—I'm—" he whimpers through his teeth. and he yelps, whole body shaking, bell jingling incessantly, when he comes all over your hand and stomach.

you take your hand off him immediately, and this time he does try to reach down, ride through it, but you grab both his wrists to stop him. he grinds down uselessly against your thigh and your dick. although you're still hard, and only a hairline trigger away from coming yourself, it doesn't stop you from keeping this brat in line. you only bite your lip and close your eyes.

he leans his forehead against yours, moving in to give you a kiss, but you push him away.

"did you never learn how to fucking count?" you growl.

he winces. "I-I-I-I'm…I'm sorry—"

you scowl at your hand, covered in come. "here, slut," you raise it up to his lips. "clean this off for me."

he tears up a little, but takes your fingers into his mouth all the same. pretty quickly, though, he spits them back out.

"it doesn't taste good…" he complains.

"oh? oh, it doesn't?" you mock. "but it felt good, when you came without my permission, like a cheap fucking whore."

a couple of tears spill over, roll down his cheeks, yet he says nothing, only moving back in to lap his come off your hand. you can see it in his expression that he's not very happy about it, but he doesn't protest further.

"is this good enough, sir?" he asks, when it seems that he's gotten it all. it looks clean enough, you agree. you grab him by the chin, hooking your thumb in his mouth. you don't even have to tell him to suck.

"you come without my approval again, and it's over. you can go back to playing minecraft—or what-the-fuck-ever—with your friends for your birthday. do you want to sleep on the couch, Georgie?"

if he wasn't crying before, he's definitely crying now. he doesn't shake his head, but he circles your fingertip with his tongue enthusiastically, as if to say, I'll be good, I'll be good this time, looking up at you doe-eyed.

"bend over for me," you demand. "across my lap."

he does so immediately. he slips a little bit while he's changing positions, you hear the bell ring, and he scrambles to correct himself. he settles with his ankles crossed and his head in his hands, propping himself up on his elbows. you feel a little bad, you admit, but you won't budge; he has a safeword, you trust that he'll use it.

"let's try that again," your tone softens. "I want you to count for me, okay?"

he nods.

you pull his panties to the side, pause briefly, and bring down your hand with a satisfying smack.

"ohhhhhh—" he moans, jolting a little. "—holy shit, did you just spank me?"

your stomach drops, you go to rub him gently where you just hit him. "is that okay—?"

"it's hot, it's so hot, fuck," he shifts in your lap. "um, sorry…one."

seriously, something about hearing him swear awakens something in you, every time. you're fired up. you spank him again.

"mmm—two…" is he…? "three…"

you pause to massage his ass again, and to speak. "you're…you're hard again, aren't you?"

you didn't even spank him yet, but he lets out a moan. "fuck, I—I just. I want you. I want this. so, so much."

you wonder if this is actually the same George who was fidgeting with his pillow in the dining room this morning.

"you're so bad, getting turned on by something like this," you tease. he only moans in response.

"four—five—six—seven…" he chokes out. "it's starting to sting…"

you take a break, kneading the skin where your angry red handprint is starting to take shape.

"eight…nine…but god, it hurts so good…" he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "ten…"

at ten, you linger for a moment, holding a handful of his ass. "does it?"

"yes—yesyesyes," he buries his face in the pillow, and shivers. "fuck, eleven…twelve…"

you pull his panties down to his knees, and switch sides. he lifts his hips up, so I can reach him better, you guess. you don't miss the telltale glint of a butt plug, but you'll get to that later.

"thirteen—fourteen—fifteen—sixteen," he moans between slaps. he's gripping the pillowcase so hard his knuckles are white.

in this new position, the way he jumps with every hit makes his cock brush against yours just right. fuck, you're still hard from earlier. this time you're the one who whimpers.

"seventeen, eighteen," he pauses, breathless. you pull gently on his leash, he arches his back and moans, "n-nineteen." his bell jingles.

he grinds down, just for a moment, and the friction is delicious. you're a little dizzy, you think you might've thrust back. you both sigh at the feeling.

"…t-twenty…see? I-I can count…I'm a good boy…I'm good for you…aren't I?"

"you are," you murmur, but you aren't sure he hears you. "you're so good…"

"twenty-one—twenty-two…I-I feel like I haven't done anything right today…twenty-three…"

"…George…?" you hear a muffled sob.

"twenty-four…" he mumbles.

"George?" you start to get concerned. he just keeps crying. "hey…" you whisper. you gently prompt him to turn him over; the pillow's a little wet. you pull the panties off all the way, and get him out of the bra, which had a little stray come on it. you help him sit up in your lap, and pull him into a hug.

"am I really just a whore…?" he asks brokenly.

"you've been so good for me, baby. you've done everything I've asked." you wipe his tears away with your thumb. "are you okay?"

"but I—" he coughs. "—I came too soon, I came without your permission…"

you kiss his hair, and hold him to your chest. "you've been so patient. I'm proud of you."

he finally wraps his arms around you. "I-I'm sorry."

"nonsense," you reassure. "your comfort takes priority. are you okay? color?"

"I…" he searches for the words. "I dunno. yellow? I…that hurt, I think. being…degraded?"

you comb through his hair with your fingers. "I understand. thank you for telling me. I love you."

—

you stay like that for a minute. you grab him a snack and a drink, but for the most part, you just enjoy each other's company, tangled-up together. you don't bother putting your clothes back on.

it's later in the evening. you're straddling him, peppering his shoulders with kisses, and he's giggling underneath you. he turns over to give you a short and sweet kiss.

"baby?" he says, looking expectantly.

"what is it?" you sit back on your heels.

he hesitates. "…I wanna keep going. from earlier."

you're serious again. "are you sure you're okay?" you grab his hand, bringing it up to kiss his fingertips. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm alright," he assures. "I remember you promising me an all-day thing, though."

you blush, a little surprised by his forwardness. "of course. I think…I…" you laugh. "I wanna fuck you."

"yeah?" he smiles, leaning up close. "show me how much."

you hold his jaw while you kiss him, biting his bottom lip between your teeth. he tastes like the coffee and cream you made him earlier. you feel his breath hitch. he reaches up to hold your shoulders.

you pull back. "hey, blow me first."

"what? why?" he giggled.

"it's been a couple hours, I'm not hard anymore," you coax. "I thought you liked taking orders?"

he cringed. "but come tastes gross!"

you slid off him and hopped off the bed, opening the drawer. "suit yourself. you get to watch me jack off, then."

"fine by me, I think you look good when you masturbate."

"ohhh, I forget, you're too blissed-out to pay attention to how I look when you're getting fucking owned."

"I am not!"

"you are too!" he sticks his tongue out at you.

you open the lid, pouring a little on your hand, a little on your cock. it's translucent pink, seems a little fragrant. you give yourself a couple of strokes with a sigh.

he's quiet for a second, then, shyly, "um…is that…strawberry flavored…?"

you bite your lip. "I thought you weren't gonna give me head?"

"I was just curious." it's a weak lie, but you say nothing.

your eyes are shut, but you can feel him moving around a bit on the bed, you hear his bell ring a couple times. you feel a hand on your thigh, so you decide to peek. and holy shit.

your partner's made his way to the floor, on his knees between your legs, holding his leash in his mouth, his fucking mouth, what the fuck. his thumb's rubbing circles on the inside of your thigh. the half-lidded look he's giving you should be criminal.

"you—I thought you said you wouldn't…" you can't find the words. you reach out and take the leash from his mouth. you see your hand shake in front of you.

"I'm just watching…" he whispers, looking up at you, mesmerized.

you're only able to get a couple of pumps in before he's joining you, hand over yours as you get yourself off. just the extra sensation of somebody else's touch is enough to make you bite back a moan.

"fuck—!" you jolt when he licks a stripe up the underside. he mouths over the head, jerking you off on his own now. you move to grip the sheets in one hand, his leash in the other. and you come without warning. you see it end up on his hand and your stomach before you shut your eyes tight.

he's quiet while you're coming down, just helping you ride it out, giving you kisses on your thighs. when you look back down at him, he's got two of his fingertips in his mouth, licking them clean. he stands up abruptly, it startles you a little. you see his bell ring. and he grabs you by the hips and leans down to your midriff.

"…I don't think I cleaned you off all the way earlier…" he breathes, and he starts to lap up the mess of his and your come that's been on you since this afternoon.

what the fuck. why is this so hot? why is he so hot? all too soon, your spent cock twitches in interest at your lover. he cups it with a hand, smiling against your tummy. you're so sensitive it hurts. you think you mean to say something, but nothing comes out.

"hmm…?" he bites his lip. "you still want some more?" all you can do is whine. at this point, you don't know if it's in protest or invitation.

you don't get the chance to find out either, because fuck, he's really going down on you now. you don't know what the fuck he's doing with his tongue, or where his gag reflex went, but at this rate you're gonna come again.

"George—George, baby, I—slow down, I-I'm—" you plead. his leash slips out of your hand, you tip your head back.

he swallows.

—

the last thing you remember is coming harder than you ever have in your life. you think you held him by his hair. you might've fucked his mouth a little. he's never let you come in his mouth before…fuck…

it's nighttime now. he's riding your thigh, got one of his legs slotted between yours. the friction between his knee and your overstimulated cock feels embarrassingly good. you're so dizzy, all you can articulate is a loud moan. you don't sound at all like you remember. his bell keeps ringing and ringing and ringing as he grinds against you.

he leans down, one arm holding your hip, the other keeping himself propped up. he bites your shoulder, hard, hard enough to bruise. he comes on both of your stomachs.

"George," you beg. you're losing your voice.

"mmmmmmsir," he slurs. "fuck me."

"George, I…" you don't know what you're saying. the end of your sentence turns into a whimper.

"you need me to get you hard again? you need me to rile you up?" he turns to kiss your jaw, feeling around for your dick. "like this?"

"George," you sound urgent, until he squeezes right around the head, and you forget what you were saying. you're pretty fucking close to forgetting who you are entirely.

he sits up on top of you, grinning. "love the way you say my name, sir."

that name. all it takes is the way he says that fucking name and you're ready to go again. you flip the two of you over, so that you're towering over him instead. "you still didn't. fucking. ask me. if you could come."

he giggles, a little crazed. he hooks his arms around his knees, hugging them to his chest.. "so what? so what? you gonna fuck me 'till I behave?"

"yes," you reach down, "I think I will." and you pull out the butt plug he (probably forgot he) had in all day.

"fuck—" he sobs. you watch his dick bob. precome drips into a pool on his stomach. "—green—green—so fucking green."

you're still sensitive from coming twice—you're pretty sure he is too. you lean down to give him a kiss, you moan into each other's mouths. he tastes like strawberries and his and your come. it is a little gross, you admit. but he's so tight and so fucking cute that you can't bring yourself to care. you part, and there's a line of salvia connecting the two of you.

"wait—" you say, but it comes out like a growl. "roll over."

he gets on his hands and knees, reaching back and spreading himself open for you. fuck.

you fuck him like that, holding the leash tight, loving the way he arches his back into the bed. the bell on his collar jingles incessantly.

you spank him, one last time.

"th-that's twenty-f-five—oh, fuck, sir," he growls, clinging on to the blankets for dear life.

you pin one of his hands in place and reach down to touch him. he starts laughing again.

"mmmmmmay I please come, sir? I—fuck—I'm so close, soclosesoclose," his breath stutters, you can hear the breaks in his voice. he buries his face in the blankets.

I'm close, you think, but the words don't make it out. "you're so good—you're so fucking good—come for me—fuck, come for me."

—

you're a mess. there's some drying solution of come and lube on your stomach. not to mention whatever the fuck's going on with your hair. your robe is discarded haphazardly on the floor. you think you've got a hickey, but you can't remember where.

actually, you're both a mess. he's also covered in come, sweat, and lube. he's got a red ring around his neck where you pulled him by the leash a little too hard. he's just covered in bruises. he clings to your arm, still fast asleep. you both passed out pretty quickly after…whatever that was, but you got back up a couple hours later. it doesn't look like he did, though.

actually, your whole bedroom is a mess. a blanket or two ended up discarded on the floor. there's an empty bottle of edible lube somewhere around here. your kitty lingerie set, still dirty, somehow ended up hanging in the closet. the first time you woke up you were both cuddling with a butt plug that you misplaced in the heat of the moment.

you don't think you've ever seen him like that. you can't even put it into words. you've never spanked him. he's never called you sir. you've never come in his mouth. he's never…begged for you like that before. you've never been so exhausted after coming that you both just, just fainted.

you feel lightheaded, and dead tired. you know you both must have gotten back up and gone at it at least a couple more times, but it's blurry, you can't remember. all you know is your vibrator's missing, and you feel…unusually empty, like you do the morning-after getting railed a little too hard.

last night…what the fuck happened last night?

you contemplate getting up, slipping your arm out of his embrace, pulling the covers back up around him, leaving to make breakfast. you're kind of disgusting, several hours after sex without cleaning up properly. you want to get yourselves some washcloths, maybe take shower together, or run him a bath. you know he's gotta be way more sore than you are.

you catch yourself staring, lost in thought; he just looks too cute when he's very clearly roughed up, but still sleeping soundly. and with the way he wanted…the way he needed you yesterday, you don't think he would want to wake up alone.

maybe it's okay if we sleep in a little longer.

you stroke his hair and whisper, "happy birthday, baby boy."

—

edited 14 March 2021

#limeade-zest #georgenotfound x reader #george x reader #george davidson x reader

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angelic-serenade · 5 years ago

Text

Alastor + disaster cook! S/O

headcanons

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

gif, original work and characters do not belong to me

you could not cook to save your life

any attempt at cooking would result in certain failure in the best case scenario and 5.4 magnitude earthquake damage in the worst

sure, you could make edible pasta and if you really put your best efforts into it, acceptable omelette too

but anything past that level of complexity was simply out of your league, a lost cause to put it mildly

don't you even think about making a cake, that shit's dangerous

as they say: as above so below

when you landed in Hell and found yourself joining the Happy Hotel soon after, you came to find out your culinary skills had not magically improved

which is quite ironic since Charlie had made you head chef of the hotel

the string of curses which had left your lips upon hearing the news had been legendary, even for Hell

you adored the demon princess with your whole heart (or whatever was left of it anyway), bUT REALLY CHARLIE? YOU DO NOT GIVE A GUN TO A CHILD AND EXPECT CASUALTIES NOT TO HAPPEN

at this point you were certain she was subconsciously auto-sabotaging

either way, you didn't have the heart to tell her no, so you decided to put your heart and soul into trying to learn how to properly cook, which didn't turn out to be the ideal choice of words since you were in Hell and your soul was probably rotten to the core

at least, nobody could say you hadn't tried your damn best

and hey! some days your cooking hadn't even been completely sickening

you decided to stick to easy, “safe” dishes though, you know, just to be sure

so pasta and eggs were definitely a thing

a constant and repetitive thing to be precise

you were trying your best, okay? nobody in your place with your limited set of skills would have taken the job, but you did and you deserved recognition for that feat alone

or a fucking donkey hat for your skyrocketing dumbness levels

things were not so bad at first

both Charlie and Vaggie were very supportive, each one of them in their own way - even though you had totally seen Charlie trying to swallow pure unadulterated fear that one time you had announced you wanted to try to cook something more elaborate

Angel Dust on the other hand... hadn't been as considerate as to lie to your face about what he thought of your cooking

"fuck me doll, this shit's disgusting"

*insert the I don't have friends they disappoint me vine here*

Vaggie had proceeded to give Angel quite the earful while Charlie tried her best to cheer you up

you went full hermit mode on them for two days after that

you were proud of yourself, handling criticism so well

anyway, the cycle kept repeating, with the only difference that most days Angel would grab something to eat outside of the hotel and join you during meals only to blankly stare at the plates and silvery

Charlie had tried to shield you from the truth, but you weren't that stupid

you respected Angel's choice, really, you did, and you had decided to be the bigger person among the two

that's why you began to put a lil bit of laxative into his portions whenever he decided to grace your efforts and actually eat your "disgusting cooking"

y’know just to spicy things up a little

at least now he had a valid reason to complain

with the whole fiasco on live TV and the sudden and suspicious appearence of the one and only Radio Demon at your doorstep, however, things started going haywire

Alastor's presence was eeirly demanding and unsettlingly charmimg at the same time

so it was only natural for you to gravitate the fuck away from him whenever you could

you always acted politely, greeting him whenever you bumped into him through the corridors of the hotel, but you only went as far as to appear courteous because you didn't want for him to go Hannibal Lecter on you. thanks, no thanks

“and what can you do my feminine fellow?”

“I can suck your dick!”

you had snorted a bit at that which immediately shifted the strawberry pimp's attention to yourself

“and what about you, pretty dame? I take it you're in charge of the kitchens around here?”

dressed in your chef attire, you were going to meekly answer him, but before you could, roaring laughter erupted in the room. it belonged to the one and only slutty spider you found oh so irritating

in the fraction of seconds, Alastor snapped his neck at an unnatural angle to stare at the spider with a strained smile on his face

needless to say, the cursed image would forever haunt your traumatized psyche

“hasn't your mother taught you it is rude to interrupt a conversation which you have no part in? that just won't do!”

static filled the air and you feared you were going to implode if the heavy pressure didn't lift off soon enough, so you decided to take action

“ugh... yes, I'm the head chef! but, well, I... could actually use some practice and proper training?”

you hated how uncertain you sounded, but Angel's comments and your own dissatisfaction with your culinary products made you quite self-conscious about your skills

“don't fret your pretty little head about it, my dear! I, for one, am a culinary connaisseur and wonderful chef, if I do say so myself. I'll be ecstatic to guide you through your training!”

how you'd be able to handle his booming voice during hours and hours of practice was your first and main concern, but you had never been one to refuse the chance to finally prove the people who had criticized you wrong *cough cough* Angel Dust

since that day, Alastor began to personally give you cooking lessons

he was exuberant and pretty sly when it came to veiled jabs about your dreadful cooking, but he really took his time to help you out

which you had been both grateful and suspicious about

“now, we can't have our future patrons starving to death, can we?”

he was strangely patient and an overall good teacher too (emphasis on overall)

he guided you step by step through each dish, simultaneously showing off his own flawless culinary skills

you hated that you daily found yourself boosting his already GIGANTIC ego, but you couldn't help it. you could only dream about reaching that level of artistry in cooking

he always came up with creative recipes to test your limits and cooked for you in order to make you more familiar with different tastes. his mother’s were your favorites, jambalaya being his one true specialty

he had blindfolded you once and proceeded to present you with various samples of spices, oilments and all kinds of food so that you could acquaint yourself with the smells and flavors of the ingredients and figure out yourself which ones would best suit a certain dish

saying you were hesitant at first was an understatement, because you know? being completely at the mercy of a sadistic serial killer who had terrorized the seven circles of hell? not even being able to see him? not on your bucket list

he had tried to ease your nervousness with the whole “if I wanted to hurt anyone here, I would have done so already” thing, but it was getting kind of old pretty fast

“if I had been one to play with fire, I'd have joined a circus”

he found your sense of humor as endearing your sheer presence

(when he rolled up his sleeves to cook, you felt like you could catch fire any minute, you were a slut for strong skinny arms)

yes, Alastor had always loved to show off his own impeccable skills but he unexpectedly found himself enjoying the moments spent in your company too

he relished in seeing you fail again and again, but he also admired the way you always managed to bring yourself back up to your feet each time

he had yet to fully understand if it was foolishness or stubbornness to guide your steps

either way, you turned out to be his favorite form of entertainment in the hotel!

no matter how many slights would he send your way, you'd always manage to find an appropriate remark that made his permanent smile stretch a little more in sheer amusement

“oh dear, this beef is so undercooked one could still hear the poor beast’s lament”

“the only noise I hear is the obnoxious ramblings of an arrogant boomer”

he wasn't technically a boomer but it was always so satisfying to irk him with terms he had no knowledge of

during your cooking lessons, when the only thing left to do with a dish was wait and pray for the best, you'd come to talk about everything and anything

he'd talk to you about his precious New Orleans as he remembered it and you'd fill him in on recent historical/social developments of your time

he always looked so taken when you shared with him that modern knowledge and it made you feel useful for a change

it was, dare you say it, almost adorable how he'd ask you countless questions about your home town, the catastrophes of the last century and had there been any other war since his death?

the topic switches almost made you dizzy though

once or twice, when the timing allowed, he'd even indulge in a musical show to pass time

on the days your mood soured because of a particularly complicated recipe or bad result, he'd drag you along and dance until you were so distracted by the absurdness of the circumstances that you forgot about your previous sadness

with time, his musical shows became more frequent as he realized you'd always offer him a genuine smile after his flashy performances

it was out of personal indulgence, not because he liked the way his music always seemed to cheer you up

he'd not been vocal about the way he tried to comfort you, but you were grateful nonetheless

the first time you managed to succesfully complete one of his complicated recipes, you had almost cried

“now, now deary, under my watchful eye, it was only a matter of time until you'd finally blossom into a fine cook!”

“Alastor can I... can I hug you?”

and how could he say no to such an adorable expression? he found himself stunned into silence, not being able to tell you yes either, therefore you slowly came closer as if trying not to scare a wild animal away

when Alastor passively stood before you, not moving away, you wrapped your arms around him

he really was such a dorky noodle

he didn't relax into the hug, but he kept still as you relished in the moment and let the pressure you had hoarded for months now loose

Alastor proceeded to show off your dish during dinner and even Angel Dust could do nothing but shut up and dig in

The all powerful Radio Demon was simply so proud of your progress - not that he doubted you'd prevail in the end, thanks to his expertise and guidance

from that moment onward things only got better and even if you didn't necessarily need Alastor's help anymore, neither of you ever mentioned going your separate ways

you were both secretly glad for the silent agreement

friendly banter and dad jokes were a daily occurrence and with your new-found confidence in the field, you'd always bite back showing off new delicious dishes instead than words

you still had trouble every now and then, but Alastor was always there to help you out

not that you'd ever hear the end of it if you actually asked him for help

��what was that, my darling? is the mightiest chef in Hell having trouble in Paradise?”

you had noticed however that he'd started sneaking glances your way more than usual lately and he also started following you around wherever you went in the hotel. he became your shadow both inside and outside of the kitchen

the attention soon became unnerving, even more so when you'd go in the kitchen only find a different flower on the counter each morning

you came to realize that Alastor's advances were rather old fashioned, but you would amuse the dork and yourself for a while before taking charge

gifts became an ordinary occurrence as well as praise and you preferred not to think about what praise could do to you when it came from Alastor

he enjoyed your reactions to his flattering words a little too much, he had to admit

you had had enough of his childish antics one day and you decided to finally put your plan into action

“Al, can you come here for one sec?”

he wasn't particularly fond of the nickname, but you just loved to get under his skin as much as he did when it came to you

“what can I do for you, my darling chef?”

“here, I have a gift for you”

he looked uncharacteristically unsure of what to do but slightly amused as well. in the end curiosity took the best of him and he finally decided to open the box you had handed to him rather unceremoniously

“what is this dear?”

the apron you had chosen was a perfect fit for your long boi

“read it, please”

“kiss the cook? well, if you ask me so nicely, I just might have to”

he then proceeded to peck your cheek and you swore you could have fainted right there and then by the sheer sweetness of the gesture

it hadn't exactly been what you had planned, but you weren't going to complain

your relationship was bound to be full of surprises apparently

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dudeandduchess · 5 years ago

Text

Giyuu x F!S/O: A Nightmare Come to Life (Angst, NSFW Scenario)

Summary: A one-sided love that turns even more tragic after a night spent together. Note: @biznichwrites and I are trying out an alternate reality collab fic, and this is the result. We have the same first half (which she wrote), and we divert into different endings. In Biz’s words, think of it as Yin and Yang. You can read Biz’s fluff-filled piece here. Word Count: 9,324

***

Warnings: Smut, Angst, Suicide, Depictions of Blood, Character Deaths, Love Triangles, Talks of the Afterlife

She had filled her head with pretty lies, thoughts of soft, fluffy things that tickled her stomach like butterflies. The sight of one of the few other water breath users - the pillar, in fact - brought a smile to her face. He was perfect for the role - eyes as blue as the ocean, steady like the waves, strong like a deep current, carving his own path like a river, yet calm like the water's surface at night.

What started as infatuation became a crush, leaving her whole world centered around him. Inside she knew she wouldn't grab his attention, even if she was one of a handful of slayers at the water estate. Their rarity made them all busy on missions, there wasn't much time to see each other in passing, so she treasured every moment spent in Giyuu's presence.

Despite their schedules, she tried to do more for him. The maintenance he had performed almost single handedly was spread among the both of them. Mending his uniforms when they were damaged, even his beloved haori once. Salmon was always stocked once she figured out it was his favorite, even going as far as to cook it just as he liked. That was a mistake on her part - his glowing smile pulled her in deeper.

Still she felt her heart ache over the months. No matter what she did he never spoke a word to her, not that he really spoke to anyone else. Had she done something to make him hate her?

The day she had given up on his heart came shortly after. It wasn't often she needed help or saving, but a lower moon was a bit beyond her hope to slay. She had kept neck and neck with it for some time, praying that a pillar would arrive to slay it before it ate her. Like written from a bad romance novel, her Pillar came just as she felt weak after hours of battling, his blade cutting through the neck of the lower moon with ease.

Her knight in shining armor, so to speak. He came to save her, specifically him. Her heart fluttered in joy, tears gathering in her eyes. Maybe he would be impressed that she managed to last so long, to stay alive and keep the moon busy until someone stronger arrived. Her breath hitched as she heard him inhale, as if to speak.

"He wasn't much trouble, you should have been able to slay him. If you're weak you should know not to challenge a moon." He hadn't spared a glance her way, simply flicking his sword to clear it of blood before sheathing it. Her heart broke as he walked on, leaving her to watch the mismatched haori on his back as the distance between them grew.

"Giyuu, you should try to get close to others! I know it's scary but there's plenty of people out there that are nicer than the way Shinobu makes it seem." Tanjirou smiled at the elder water slayer, urging Giyuu to connect to others the way they had, at the very least.

"I'm not sure about that. People don't like me." Giyuu sat with his legs pulled up by the bank of the river they stopped at.

"All you can do is try! Didn't you want to become friends with Sanemi?" Tanjirou wasn't going to let Giyuu escape this time, even if it meant some friendly pestering.

"Yeah, I think he likes ohagi so I was going to give him some." Giyuu stared into the distance, trying to imagine the violent man attempting to receive a gift.

"What about (Y/N)? She's been nice!" Tanjirou was hoping to point out anyone who had been kind to the pillar, at least someone who wasn't filled with malice.

"Who?" Giyuu's face went blank at the name, unable to recall who the name was attached to. "I quit remembering names of most slayers since they die so fast."

Tanjirou deflated at that, finding it sad for Giyuu to view life in such a bleak manner. It felt him grasping at straws to find the correct words to express himself as he thought of what to say next.

"You remembered me before I was a slayer! She survived a solo fight with a lower moon, I don't think she's dying any time soon, you know." Tanjirou hoped the other would understand what he was saying, at the very least.

"Oh… She didn't beat the moon, though." Giyuu, like a child that was done with the conversation, drew idly in the sand below them with a stick.

"Well we can work on the ohagi for Sanemi, how about that?"

Giyuu thought of the girl Tanjirou had mentioned. He didn't know what to make of it all - she had survived, which is what he was looking for in a friend, but she wouldn't have without help. At the same time neither would have Tanjirou. Perhaps he was being too critical, she was still alive and kicking to this day.

However he hadn't seen her much since then. Maybe she was training more? That was enough of an explanation for him. It wasn't unusual for the entire water estate to be empty with as few of the water breath users completed the final selection, much less survived long enough to rank high enough to live in the estate.

The next time he saw her, presumably after a mission as she was returning at dawn, he recognized her more than just a name. He bit his tongue, unsure what to say as he stood on the engawa staring at her tired body limping closer. The moment her eyes caught his she glanced away, turning towards another part of the estate to rest in.

He would have questioned it more, but occurrences like this weren't uncommon. People avoided him, that was normal. Yet the way she kept herself at a distance made him want to find out why she did such a thing. Why did she hide away from him?

His breath caught in his throat one morning, watching as she sat on the far end of the engawa in a simple yukata. She must be getting ready to sleep, given most slayers were nocturnal, but he thought she looked nice in the morning sun. Pretty even.

Months dragged along, her eyes never meeting his own. Yet he felt himself drawn to her. All the actions she had taken before - he hadn't forgotten them, but he hadn't fully appreciated them at the time either. She had done something for him without being asked with nothing in return. Someone that selfless couldn't be a bad person. He still felt a bit bitter with himself for being so critical with her, the same he felt with Tanjirou. Neither deserved that.

It wasn't until Murata and a few others had saved up a large sum of money to buy enough alcohol to drown all the demon slayers, that he had a chance to interact with her. The whole time he was tense, almost awkwardly staring at her the whole time.

"Earth to Giyuu, you there?" Really, Murata was the only one that talked to the pillar so freely, with the exception of Tanjirou. Having kept the pillar alive at one point gave him a bit of the right, so no one spoke of it.

"Hm?" Giyuu's head turned back to Murata, clearly not aware of anything he had just said.

"I was seeing if you were going to drink with us. We're celebrating a year of not losing any water breath users. I figured of anyone you'd want to join." Murata handed him a bottle, not really waiting for a response. Was it responsible for a pillar to drink? Not at all. Had they organized this with Kagaya in mind? Of course, they had consulted with him to make sure they could celebrate freely.

Giyuu stared at the bottle then back to Murata, eyes flickering between the two. "I've never drank before…"

"Now is a good time to start!" Murata laughed with a pat to the pillar shoulder before disappearing into a small bunch of slayers.

Giyuu had drank nearly half the bottle in the course of a few hours, but he didn't find himself relaxed. Rather he found himself in a flurry of emotions - sad remembering everyone he's lost, angry with himself for allowing his life to be ruined by both demons and his own mismanagement of his emotions, but most surprising of all he found himself jealous.

The only female slayer of the bunch was flirted with endlessly. Most of the less than classy lines were met by laughter by the slayers. He knew they were treating it as a joke, even when she pretended to be the man hitting on Murata pretending to be a woman, but he didn't like it. He rested knowing that it was all in fun, though.

His drunken eyes met hers, making her already flushed cheeks even more red than previously before she glanced away. He was happy she was mindful to wear hakama, least the drunk young men around them get any ideas.

"Murataaaaa, when are you gonna get a wife? You keep talking about settling down but you're doing a shit job at it." Her laughter was kind enough, even if she was poking fun.

"(Y/N)! You know I-I-I---! I'm trying! It's just difficult!" Murata floundered under the playful scrutiny before returning a rebuttal, "So when are you getting married (Y/N)?"

"You know I'm dying alone, don't ask dumb questions." She laughed, but the laughter joining her was awkward, quiet and confused. Technically she could pick any slayer and they'd say yes - just for a lack of women around them, especially ones that understood the nature of their jobs. A moment passed but no further comments or banter had been added to the conversation after her bleak comment. Her face heated realizing she had made a fool of herself, not that Murata was much better as he fumbled moving the conversation forward.

Giyuu watched as she tilted up the porcelain of her heated sake, taking in how her throat contracted as she gulped. Was it proper for her to drink like that? No. But it technically wasn't traditional for women to wield swords and hunt demons, so it wasn't like social protocol meant much to her anyway.

Almost silently she slipped away, padding over to her room at the far end of the estate. His eyes followed her movements, taking in the dejected way she looked. Was she broken-hearted? He didn't understand why, she was pretty in her own way, stronger than most gave her credit for, smart enough to stay alive. Maybe he was more fond of her than he let on.

After some time the men grew rowdy, playing games and raising their voices. Murata seemed to stop drinking after a certain point, clearly aware of his limits.

"Murata?" Said slayer turned his attention to Giyuu, almost surprised that he spoke. "Is there something wrong with (Y/N)? She left a bit ago."

"Oh… I made a mistake and brought up something I shouldn't have, she's probably just having some time to herself." Murata prayed the Pillar didn't press for more info, being one of the few she admitted the situation to. He was far too drunk to stop himself from slipping up.

"Is she sad?" The lower ranked slayer blinked at the question, taken aback at how simple it was.

"Yeah, she just has her ways of dealing with it - wait! Where are you going?" Giyuu stood, moving toward the woman's room without another word. Murata prayed it didn't make things worse.

The pillar stood outside her door, listening as her crying was muffled into hitched breaths and harsh inhales to quiet herself. He wasn't sure what he was doing with the alcohol in his system, but he slowly pushed the shoji open and closed it quietly behind him.

"Is there something wrong?" He was trying to be nice but the jump of surprise from her was clearly not the reaction he was searching for. Her hand rested above her heart in surprise before gripping the cloth in anguish.

"I'm fine. You can go back to the others." Her head tilted away, not meeting his eyes.

"I'm sure Murata didn't mean to upset you. Did something happen? Did you lose your fiancé?" It was the only explanation he could rationalize why she wouldn't take a spouse when she had her choice of men flirting with her earlier.

"I said I'm fine. Leave me alone." She flopped back down on her futon, facing away from him. He wished she didn't look so pretty or the light of the moon didn't accentuate the curves of her waist and hips. Despite her words he never left, she knew at the lack of sound her shoji made when open and shut.

Rather he shuffled closer, nowhere near as elegant as he usually moved. Still he slid his fingers into her hair, finding himself rationalizing the feel of her hair with the need to soothe her.

"I'm sure you could find a husband in the slayers if you're worried about that." He didn't like it, especially the thought of not being able to freely look at her and the risk of never being able to touch her again.

"I said my plan was to die alone, it's not that complicated."

"Why?"

"Men don't want a woman like me." Her words croaked from her throat and he could help but sink into the futon and pull her back to his chest. His nose was pressed to the back of her hair and he could bask in her scent.

"That's not true." The more of her he got, the greedier he became. He wanted to remind her that the other water breath users would marry her, but she clearly wasn't interested.

"You don't know that." He felt her back trembling as she held back her distress and he hugged her closer. "I'm covered in scars, I can barely fight and I'm a pitiful slayer, I don't have anything to my name but what I wear, I'm not pretty and dainty like other girls-"

Her hands covered her mouth. She was complaining to the very person that filled her with insecurities. Deep inside she wanted to hate him, but she couldn't. It didn't mean she wasn't bitter. Her love for him had soured, painting her into a corner of self-depreciation. She knew this wasn't him, this was some drunken version of the man likely looking to have a piece of her.

For what it was worth, she would let him. At least it would be the final chapter to the broken heart saga of her life.

"None of that is true."

"I don't need lies to make me feel better."

He was growing a bit frustrated. His hand gripped her waist, both keeping her still and holding her to him. He was painfully aware he could slide his hands lower to grip the curve of her hips or slide his hands upward to cup her breasts.

"You're pretty. A good slayer. You're good as you are." He couldn't think of anything more grand to say, not that he was eloquent with words anyway. He prayed she understood, but the pause in her response made fear eat at his chest. Had he said the wrong thing?

"...Did you want to sleep with me?" That was the only conclusion she could think of. He was drunk and needed a body that was willing. If he was into women she was the closest one, and considering she was the only one in the estate he had to act fast.

"Sleep with you?" His words were quiet, as if he was scared to say them loud enough.

"As in sex. Did you want to have sex with me?" She was only so bold because she was facing away from him. The alcohol and bitter feeling in her chest brought up the question, but she could never work up the nerve to ask if she was looking directly at him.

He buried his face against her neck weighing the options. She was drunk, but so was he. There was no way either should do this. At the same time he doubted the option would ever be available again, especially as his attraction to her grew.

"Yes…"

He hovered over her, pushing in deeply with a moan. Her eyes had shed so many tears through the night, even more when he undressed her, but he couldn't help but to find her more addicting than before.

"You're so warm, oh fuck…" His head rested against her shoulder as he found himself able to thrust into her depths. "You're so beautiful, so perfect."

He heard her crying harder, moans of pleasure breaking through her moans of agony. Long had passed the attempts to calm her tears, especially when she grew nervous when he saw her naked.

He never missed her whispers of self-depreciation, how she fought all compliments that slipped from his lips as he undressed her layer by layer. Even if she found herself disgusting he couldn't agree with her. Every scar he uncovered, every little imperfection his eyes found cemented his infatuation.

It was her, something so unique to only her. No one else could replicate every little aspect of her.

Yet he couldn't make her stop crying. Soft whispers of praise didn't just fall on def ears but only pushed her into further despair. Every kind thing he said only brought more tears.

He didn't miss how her hips canted into his, how her eyes grew hazy as pleasure set in - the way her lips trembled after he kissed her, the second of hope in her eyes before she turned her head away.

The soft hiccups between whimpers were never lost on him. They came at his every kiss and praise, every moment he touched her in a way she enjoyed. As if some part of her wanted to receive his adoration before becoming buried in negativity.

She couldn't deny it, either. Simply knowing he didn't despise her, or at least a part of her, both healed and hurt her. For a moment she had some value to him. She was someone worthy of his sole attention.

Rough hands graced her body, pushing her hair from her face before guiding down her neck to cup her breast, gently squeezing her nipples before tracing her scars down her torso. When he reached her hips one hand held firm while the other graced the area above where they were joined. He remembered in a haze that men had talked about women feeling good there. A clit? All he knew is that her legs tightened around his hips the moment his thumb grazed the tip of the bud.

Abusing such a sensitive spot to see her reactions was a bit cruel on his part, but he wanted to see her relieved of her tears. It was time she felt good - both in terms of sex and about herself. He basked in the moment he hands left her face to cling to the bedding below her.

Dipping down he kissed her lips again, taking in how she seemed to squeeze tighter at the simple piece of affection. Despite the fact she felt inferior he adored having her like this - seeing her broken, in a way no one else has seen before, and the ability to see her put back together again. The vulnerability neither showed the world, only shared with the other.

He shifted his hips, thrusting deeper than before. She clenched around him in ways that made him regret never considering doing this sooner. At the same time, he knew their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Their suffering was similar in a sense, they both could understand not having any value in themselves. Had he really been so blind to her all this time?

"You're so good." His head fell to her shoulder as his hips jerked into her warmth. The man felt elation when she gave in and clung to him. At first her hands were lightly touching, only loosely circling his back. Even if he wasn't sober he recognized enough of her reactions to make her react how he wanted.

Kisses were placed to her cheek and jaw as he tilted his head from her shoulder. Her breath shuttered, her nails timidly scratching his skin as her hold grew more firm.

He didn't expect her to orgasm from such simple affection but he couldn't explain why else her core felt as if it were milking his cock. Her arms and legs tightened around him, pulling him flush against her as her face buried into the curve of his neck.

It was welcoming to hear a cry of pleasure rather than anguish. The sound graced him, bringing him to climax shortly after her. Had he been sober he would have been more mindful of mindlessly cumming inside her without a second thought. For the moment he wanted to bask in the feeling. The afterglow of sex was only highlighted by the feeling on her nuzzling into his neck.

For a moment she accepted him. Someone liked him, even if he could still hear her hiccup as warm tears covered her cheeks again. He considered wiping her tears away but decided that he would rather let her hide against his chest. It was somewhere safe, where the judgements of the world that had brought her so low couldn't touch her.

Her heart throbbed at the feeling of him holding her close, even as they shifted to lay chest to chest on the futon. His cum dripping out to dirty her thighs wouldn't deter her for enjoying the moment. Regret and shame could come later, for now she wanted to accept just a grain on the validation he gave. Even if he regretted in the morning she wanted to savor the moment.

*** [Jen’s part starts here]

When morning came, Giyuu greeted it with a heavy heart and an even heavier head. Flashes of what he’d done the night before played in his mind; and with every memory that flickered in his mind’s eye, he felt his heart sink deeper and deeper into the pit that was his stomach.

It was true that he realized that he was fonder of (Y/n) than most, but he was in no way prepared to take on the responsibility of caring for someone else’s emotions. He could barely even keep himself in check, who was to say that he could help heal her broken heart?

Especially when he was the one whom had broken it in the first place.

There was nothing more that he wanted to do than to get out of that room before she woke up, but the sight of her curled up beneath the lilac blanket had him staying right where he was. The least he could do was tell it to her straight, instead of running away like a coward.

He had to tell her that what had happened between them was a mistake.

And that was how (Y/n) came to: seeing Giyuu sitting right next to her— with his clothes already on, and with his head in his hands, as if the weight of the world had been perched on his shoulders.

A small smile made its way onto her face as she sat upright— gripping the blanket tight to her naked chest, and gently laying a hand against his arm. Only, instead of welcoming her touch, the Pillar’s body tensed up.

She felt her heart sink at that, as her smile dissolved into a confused frown. Had she done something wrong? Was last night not good for him? Did he find her repulsive in the morning light? Those thoughts kept flitting around inside her head, weighing her emotions down even more than they were when her brain had been addled with so much alcohol.

Slowly, she retracted her hand away from him and moved to tuck the blanket beneath her arms— holding them up to cover her modesty, even though she knew that he’d already seen everything. There was just something about being around him at that moment that had her feeling so insecure of herself; like she’d known all along, no one would have found her appealing, least of all the Water Pillar.

Giyuu tried to reach into himself to find the right words to say, almost clinging on to the notion of spouting lies in his desperation to spare her feelings. But he couldn’t do that to her, not after he’d taken the last thing she had left to offer him, aside from his heart.

“Thank you for last night,” The young man began softly, and his words felt like a harsh slap to (Y/n)’s face. Because those words weren’t the words of love that she’d fantasized about; they were cold and flat, as if he was saying them out of politeness instead of sincerity.

She’d known that it was going to be impossible to make him fall in love with her; but it didn’t hurt any less to have him try to gently turn her down, just as he was doing at that moment. Everything in her wanted her to scream and rage, to make him do the impossible task of turning back time— if only so she could push him away.

Tears pricked the backs of her eyes, even though she tried so hard to keep herself from showing him any kind of reaction. Her chest grew even heavier with the silent expectations that she’d had for his next few words— mentally bracing herself for a spiel that was going to push her away from him for good.

“But last night… can’t happen again. It was never supposed to happen.”

Still, when he uttered the words, she couldn’t help but flinch and look down at her lap— where her hands were worrying the lilac-colored blanket between her fingertips. And, no matter how hard she tried to push back her tears, they still welled up in her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks in hot rivulets.

Words had eluded her, as all she could think about was Giyuu’s own sentence that more or less said that sleeping with her had been a mistake.

“I can’t be in a relationship with anyone right now; I won’t be good for you, nor will I be good for anyone else.”

(Y/n) pursed her lips at that, cutting off the sob that wanted to escape her lips, as his words burrowed themselves deep into her heart— cutting her deeper and deeper until she felt like there was nothing left inside her chest.

Instead of staying, however, Giyuu slowly got up from where he sat and made his way over to the door— pointedly avoiding looking at the crying woman, whom was barely holding herself together in his presence. “I’m sorry, (L/n). Please forget everything that happened last night.”

The slayer couldn’t even bring herself to look up at him, even well after he had closed the shoji quietly behind himself. Her entire body felt so helplessly broken and cold, numb down to the tips of her fingers, and easily fragile even as she moved to hug herself in an effort to hold herself together.

That was the last day she had ever talked to Giyuu, let alone even looked at him. It made for an awkward time around the Water Estate, so she had gotten in contact with the one person whom she knew she could count on to save her.

It was a desperate attempt to cling on to Sanemi, but it was all she could do when she had been backed into a corner with no other option. It was either she moved in with her childhood friend, or risked Giyuu finding out the secret that she so desperate wanted to keep from him.

She would not have acted so delicately in any other situation, but as time went on— she noticed that Giyuu had been coming back to the estate later and later; until he would be gone for days at a time with no word to anyone if he was out on a mission or on an errand.

The Pillar she had known was not like that at all, so it was a cause for suspicion.

(Y/n) had tried to avoid him as much as she could, but doing her old tasks of mending his uniform and haori, as well as washing his clothes had been hard to let go of— as everyone already had a routine that they had stuck to, and no one was willing to switch chores with her, unless she told them the real reason why she suddenly wanted to switch to doing kitchen tasks instead.

And in doing those tasks, she slowly found that his uniforms and haori were always newly mended, with the subtle signs of a feminine touch. But it wasn’t until she’d seen the embroidered heart on the sleeve of his haori that she’d arrived at the conclusion that he was seeing someone.

His words of how he couldn’t be in a relationship with anyone played in her mind, as a bitter laugh bubbled free from her lips— which was then followed by such quiet and breathless sobs that made her feel even sorrier for herself.

Because there she was, still in love with the same man whom had turned down her love and was adamant about not being in a relationship with her. Only to find out that he was seeing someone else; maybe even loved that someone.

That would explain why he was brooding less often on the rare days when he stayed in the estate, and would also explain why his overall aura seemed lighter than before.

Of course, it hurt, and she knew that she couldn’t keep turning a blind eye to it— not when his mere presence was an insult to her pain.

That was how she found herself moving in with Sanemi and telling him everything that had happened between her and Giyuu, before eventually coming clean with the fact that she was two months along with a baby— Giyuu’s baby, to be exact.

Sanemi had offered to take the child in as his own, and had even made hints of wanting to marry (Y/n)— all of which she had adamantly refused. Because she couldn’t do to anyone else what Giyuu had done to her, and that was use her.

“I can take care of you. No one would even dare to say anything if the baby doesn’t look like me, as long as I say that I’m the father,” Sanemi had insisted, cupping her face gently in his hands and wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Please, (Y/n)… let me take care of you.”

Little did she know that Sanemi’s words weren’t being said out of a false sense of duty, rather for something completely genuine and heartfelt. He felt for her what Giyuu never did, yet Sanemi was too hesitant to put any pressure on her— as he was ready to keep her in any way he could, rather than lose her altogether.

The Wind Pillar loved her too much to do that to her, so he lived most of their life keeping his own feelings to himself. It hurt to see her pine after a man who didn’t want her in the first place, and it hurt him even more when he found out that she had been used the way she had, so enough was enough.

He had wholeheartedly accepted her to move into the Wind Estate, ushering her to just leave her things at the Water Estate— all so she wouldn’t have to bear witness to more of Giyuu’s thinly concealed happiness.

It took everything in him not to throttle the Water Pillar the last time they’d had a meeting at the Demon Slayer headquarters, because that content expression on Giyuu’s face grated so badly on his nerves— especially since he always heard (Y/n)’s soft cries at night, when she thought that everyone was already asleep.

Even being near Giyuu made Sanemi’s hackles rise, because he believed that he shouldn’t be so content with his life— not when he had left (Y/n) hurting by herself. To add insult to injury, Giyuu hadn’t even asked anyone for (Y/n)’s whereabouts— which he had initially expected to happen.

But it appeared that Sanemi had expected too much, because it seemed that the other Pillar didn’t even care at all. He didn’t even give any indication that he was worried about (Y/n) at all; and that only angered Sanemi even more.

He would be damned if he even let Giyuu get a glimpse of (Y/n) or her child ever again. So, he swore to never let the Water Pillar close enough to hurt the person he loved the most; never again.

***

All the while, Giyuu felt like he was walking on cloud nine. For once in his life, he felt content and mildly happy in the arms of his lover. However, that contentedness could only last so long, until the thoughts of that night with (Y/n) played in his mind.

Every kiss and every touch plagued him when he was weakest, and the more that he dwelled on his guilt, the more that he felt empty inside; as if the happiness he felt showed its true nature by being fleeting and temporary.

He tried to mask it at first, pretending to keep up the act that nothing was bothering him— just like how he’d felt in the first few months with his lover. The words he’d said to (Y/n) the morning after had him shaking his head to get rid of them, and it was easy to ignore at first— until it had gotten up to the point where he couldn’t even have a moment’s peace without his words coming to gnaw at his conscience.

He knew that he’d done (Y/n) so much wrong by lying to her like that— by telling her that he wasn’t suited to be with anyone when, in reality, he just wasn’t ready to open his heart up to her; at least, not at the time. It was easier to open his heart up to someone who didn’t have a clue that demons existed— someone whom he knew he wouldn’t be able to lose, if he just kept them in the dark.

He had let his own irrational fears decide for him, but what was done had already been done— and he couldn’t take anything back.

His shame and guilt were the main reasons why he never sought her out, even though he had heard that she was living with Shinazugawa at that point.

Did he feel guilty? Yes. Was it taking its toll on his newfound relationship? Definitely.

Giyuu had gotten to the point where he couldn’t even close his eyes without seeing how broken (Y/n) was when he’d left her in her room.

And it wasn’t until he’d seen (Y/n) come back to the Water Estate with Shinazugawa that things had snapped into place for him. Jealousy stirred within his chest, especially when he saw the care and gentleness that the Wind Pillar treated her with— and he found himself wishing that it was him in his place.

The way that the silver-haired Pillar was acting towards her could have been construed as how a husband would act with a wife, and Giyuu found the thought of (Y/n) being married to his comrade leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

Still, he could only look on from outside her room, as they picked out the things that she wanted to take— namely: her family’s mementos.

And no matter how hard he tried to talk to her, Sanemi made a point to cut him off and take up all of her attention; leaving him feeling so unneeded and uselessly dismissed to the side, as if he didn’t even matter.

Giyuu couldn’t even say anything as they left with nothing but a small rucksack of the things she had wanted to bring— leaving her room in pretty much the same state as she had left it in, in the first place.

He’d tried to get a hold of her after that, sending her numerous letters via crow and always getting them sent back in an untouched state. All that was left for him to do was go and visit her at the Wind Estate, but he was saving that last desperate attempt for when he really needed it most.

But, not even his lover’s company was enough to keep his mind off of (Y/n); always seeing her face in his mind whenever he closed his eyes, and silently wishing that it was him that she had been talking to and softly smiling at on that day when she returned to his Estate.

He wished that he was Shinazugawa, all so he could have her in his arms again.

So, that was how he found himself ending things with his civilian lover; feeling horrible that he hadn’t felt as much guilt when ending things with her, as opposed to how he felt when he pushed (Y/n) away.

When he’d gotten back to his estate the morning after breaking things off with his lover, he found things much more silent than usual. There was no activity in any part of the grounds, and it seemed that there were no slayers in the house; even those who should have been asleep weren’t there.

It was as if his estate had suddenly become a ghost town.

And it was only in the afternoon, as he was sipping on his tea, that he found out exactly what the cause of everyone’s absence was.

Murata staggered into the house with his arms slung over two other slayers’ shoulders. His face was all red and blotchy, while his cheeks were marred with both fresh and dried tear tracks that had Giyuu setting his tea cup down and listening in to what was happening.

“I can’t believe that she’s gone,” Murata cried through a sob, shaking his head in disbelief as the two other men carried him through the halls— stopping right by the doors that led to the engawa, and bowing as a show of respect to Giyuu.

“Gone? Who?” The Pillar asked softly, feeling a tinge of uneasiness touch his chest as he waited in nervous anticipation for his subordinates’ answers.

However, the lower ranked slayers looked between each other before one of them spoke up, “It’s (L/n), Tomioka-sama. She was found dead last night… by seppuku.”

Giyuu felt as if his entire world had stopped at hearing the news. His entire body felt cold, and his heart had all but stopped beating inside his chest. Tears pricked the backs of his eyes, as he furrowed his eyebrows in bewildered confusion— and denial.

His heart, which he had held so carefully within himself, began to crack with every shaky exhale that passed from his lips. And he tried opening his mouth to speak, only to close it when no words would come out— until his own tears spilled over and ran down his face in hot rivulets.

He hadn’t wasted anymore time after that; instantly making his way towards the Wind Estate and getting there when dusk had long since bathed the world in darkness.

Lanterns lit up the path that led to the estate, where people were trickling out of the gates in either pairs of small groups. Most of them were expressing their pity towards the husband of the deceased, which confused Giyuu immensely; not to mention the fact that it harped on his nerves, as his jealousy reared its ugly head inside him.

“I heard that she was five months along. Poor child.”

He pushed past the thinning crowd, feeling his heart begin to race even more as reality slowly began to set in.

She really was gone.

And it was only when he reached the wake that had been set up in the backyard that the tears he’d thought had long run empty began to roll down his cheeks once more.

Flowers adorned each and every vacant space of the altar that (Y/n)’s body had been laid on; all of them in a creamy white color that seamlessly mirrored the kimono she wore. But it wasn’t the ornate kimono, or the grandiose display that caught Giyuu’s attention; it was the smaller, but not less ornate, kimono that had been laid over (Y/n)’s chest— with her hands cupped over it, as if protecting it from the world.

He felt the last bit of his heart wilt away at the sight of it, because a part of him just knew… that child was his; or, it had been.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I didn’t invite you.” A familiar voice snarled behind Giyuu, making him whirl around and meet Sanemi’s angry lilac eyes. They were more bloodshot than usual, and seemed puffy— as if he had just gotten done crying.

“I have a right to be here.”

“The fuck you do. You did this to her!” Sanemi yelled angrily, shoving the other Pillar with all the strength he could muster, and knocking him down onto the ground before the altar. At that point, more tear had overflowed from his eyes, and were dripping down his face; yet he made no move to wipe them away. “I loved her. I wanted to give her the world, but all she wanted was a bastard like you!”

The Wind Pillar lunged at Giyuu at that point, unmindful of the bewildered crowd around them as he reared his fist back and landed a solid punch to Giyuu’s face.

“You’re the reason she’s gone! You don’t deserve to fucking see her again!” Before he could throw another punch, Sanemi was pulled off of Giyuu by two pairs of strong arms— and when Giyuu looked up, it was to see both Gyōmei and Rengoku looking down at him with what he could only construe as pity.

Still, as his fellow Pillars pulled Sanemi away, he could still hear the other man’s cries of how he had never deserved to even look at (Y/n) in the first place.

Giyuu looked back at where (Y/n) laid, feeling shame envelope him more and more the longer he stared at her from his place on the ground. He didn’t even make a move to stand up, because he was so ashamed of what he had done to her.

And, for once, he agreed with Sanemi: he had never really deserved to even look at (Y/n) in the first place.

Still, the longer he looked at her body, the more he felt his guilt gnawing at him. The longer that he took her in, the more that he couldn’t keep himself from thinking just how much pain she had been in when she was dying.

He couldn’t help but think that she had suffered all of that pain, just so she could be free of him. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

***

To say that Giyuu felt tired was the understatement of the century. He was so torn and beat up, and missing one arm as he waited for death to consume him. He couldn’t even feel anything as he felt the last ounces of life drain away at his fingertips.

But, in his last moments, all that filled his mind were thoughts of (Y/n) and all of his regrets— as all of them had to do with her and their unborn child.

He knew that he shouldn’t have pushed her away like that; that things could have been different had he stayed and tried to open his heart up to her. He also knew that things would have been different— that he would have been happy in his final moments— had he tried to give (Y/n) the life that she deserved.

If he had just tried to love her back, instead of taking so long to realize the real extent of his feelings for her, then maybe— just maybe— he would have been fighting even harder to stay alive.

Images of what he thought their child would have looked like flickered in his mind; each one bringing more tears to his eyes than the last. He saw her holding their child, smiling at him so warmly as she welcomed him home— a thought that would never come true, because he had been the one who’d pushed her to end her own life.

And, in her death, all those dreams of the simple life they could have had as a family plagued him— as if it were an alternate reality that was playing in his mind whenever he found enough solace to fall asleep. In his dreams she was happy— greeting him so warmly at their own home after he came home from a mission.

But the part that made his heart ache the most were the images of a baby boy— with blue eyes, much like his— who would crawl on the floor just to get to him; clinging tightly to his hakama just so he could stand up on his own two feet and demand to be carried.

“Papa, up! Yuu miss papa!” The boy would cry out, almost close to tears as he looked up at Giyuu earnestly. And, like always, it would make the Water Pillar’s heart ache— because it was another reminder of what he could have had, but had chosen to let go of.

Happiness was within his grasp, yet he’d thrown it away out of fear. He’d cast (Y/n) aside and had never tried to make amends, so it was his own fault that she was gone.

She hadn’t wanted to be a burden to Sanemi, and she hadn’t wanted to beg for scraps of his affection— so she had done what she thought was necessary to free him and the Wind Pillar of any sort of obligation to her.

He’d only found that out after Shinazugawa had— reluctantly— given him a short letter that wasn’t even meant for his eyes. They were only meant for Sanemi, but the other pillar had wordlessly given him the piece of paper during one of their Pillar meetings, and had not spoken to him since.

A tourniquet had been wrapped around his wound, yet he still felt nothing as medics raced to patch him up as best as they could. He couldn’t even lift his head up, what with the heaviness of his thoughts weighing him down.

Giyuu could only let his head loll to the side as he took in the way that the only remaining Pillar— aside from him— had been wrapped tightly in bandages. But, he’d noticed, that he kept his right hand enclosed tightly around something.

The medics had tried to get him to let go of it, after they’d thought that he was already asleep— but were met with hostile glares and snarls that warned them to stay away from whatever he had been holding.

And it was only when Sanemi had already passed out that he saw what the other man had been tightly holding on to: it was the very necklace that (Y/n) had come back for that day at his estate. He’d seen it briefly when he had been waiting for her to wake up, and there was no mistaking it— it really was (Y/n)’s.

He felt his chest tighten at the sight of it, and part of him longed to reach out and claim it for himself; but another part of him— the more rational and conscientious side— had him stay right where he was.

After all, he was the reason that she was gone in the first place. Just like he was the reason that his sister had died, and also why Sabito had died.

And as he thought more about it, the more he realized that all he brought to others were pain and suffering— and death.

So maybe, dying at that moment was a fair price to pay for all the people he’d hurt in that lifetime. He could only hope to see his sister and Sabito briefly, or maybe even (Y/n), before he accepted his fate in hell.

BONUS:

Cold, icy fear gripped (Y/n)’s heart tightly; the pressure only getting heavier and heavier on her chest as she placed a shaky hand on top of her abdomen— ignoring the warm blood that had already soaked through her yukata, and was slowly pooling on the floor where she sat.

She couldn’t even lift her head with the shame she felt weighing down on her shoulders, because she had chosen the most cowardly way to go. It wasn’t what she had been raised to believe in, but it was the only form of escape she could think of.

Still she hoped, and prayed, that Sanemi would never resort to blaming himself for her decision to end it all; and that Giyuu would find it in himself to forgive her.

At the very thought of Giyuu, more broken sobs left her chapped lips— making her muscles contract, and agitating her self-inflicted wound even further. It hurt so much that she just wanted it to be over— that she just wanted to feel her life drain out of her at a faster pace— but she knew she deserved to feel all of the hurt that she could in her last few moments.

She deserved to suffer, not because she was taking the coward’s way out, but because she was taking an innocent life along with her.

Her hands moved to cup the small baby bump on her stomach, knowing that whatever life that had been in there was already gone— or already close to being gone. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her words repeated themselves over and over in her head— inevitably bringing her back to the moment when she had written the very same words, with shaky hands, on parchment; immortalizing them in a letter that she had addressed to Giyuu.

I loved you when I didn’t even love myself. And that was wrong of me. I’m so sorry, Giyuu.

More tears rolled down her cheeks, as her heartache doubled at the memory of writing the words down played in her mind. She could feel what was left of her soul slowly chipping away, with guilt and fear gnawing at it for having claimed to love a man that she knew would never even love her.

I’m sorry to the child that could have been; a broken mother, and a father who didn’t want it… I couldn’t do that to it. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, Giyuu.

Please, it’s all I ask… that in another lifetime, if you ever see me again, that you would not hate me for doing what I thought was best for you and the baby.

Maybe, in another life, in an alternate reality, we could have been happy… just not in this one.

Her head was beginning to spin with the blood loss, and she knew that it wouldn’t take long before she finally met her fate— so, with one last prayer, she asked the spirits of her deceased family members to take care of her child when she crossed over, and to look after Giyuu.

All because she knew that she would never be able to do it from hell.

“I’m so sorry,” were her last words to the life that had been inside her, before she slowly succumbed to her mortality.

And, when she came to, it was to a cold and desolate place that was filled with nothing but darkness. No matter where she looked, all she could see was pitch black.

Of course, she was afraid, but all of that fear vanished when she looked down at her arms and saw a tiny child that was swathed in a white blanket. Her breath caught in her throat, as guilt bubbled up inside her— lodging itself in her throat and making her tear up as she took in more and more of its features in the dim light trained on her.

With the lightest touch she could muster, she lifted her right hand up to the baby’s cheek and traced its smooth cheek— gasping softly when it opened its eyes and presented her with irises that were much like Giyuu’s blue ones.

“Hello, you must be (Y/n).” The soft and melodic voice had the young woman jumping in surprise— tightening her grip around her baby and holding him closer to her chest, as if to protect it from the stranger. And when she looked up, she was met with the face of two women— much more beautiful than her, and with presences so comforting that it made her want to hug them and cry in their arms. “I’m Tsutako. Tomioka Tsutako.”

(Y/n)’s eyes widened at that, as she knew that Giyuu had had an older sister once upon a time; someone he had never mentioned, but had been talked about within the lower ranks of the slayers— and it was, regretufully, how she knew.

“You might not remember me, but I’m Shizu…” The other woman whispered, smiling slightly all the while.

“I… you’re Sanemi’s mother. I remember,” (Y/n) admitted quietly, trying to hold back her tears as reality sank in: she really was in the afterlife. She’d died and brought her child along with her.

She didn’t even dare to ask why they were there; she already knew the reason. Her family’s spirits had ostracized her and didn’t even bother to show themselves to take her baby to heaven with them. It was a thought that stung her deeply, but she had no choice but to shoulder it and try to pretend that it wasn’t affecting her at all.

All so she could save face.

(Y/n)’s eyes flitted from one woman’s gaze to another, knowing full well whom she was supposed to go with, and what she was supposed to do. Yet, her limbs stayed frozen— wanting to hold on to her baby for a little longer, even though she knew that they didn’t have forever to stay in limbo.

She looked down once more at hers and Giyuu’s son, inhaling deeply as she brought him up to her face and pressed a kiss to his forehead; desperately fighting off the tears that had clouded her vision, and had begun to stream down her face in hot rivulets.

It felt like her heart was breaking all over again, as soon as she’d had a momentary taste of happiness.

“Please take care of him,” (Y/n) whispered, nuzzling the tip of her nose against her baby’s cheek and memorizing how he smelled like; as it was the first and last time that she was ever going to see him. “And please always tell him how much his mama would have loved him. And that she’s sorry for not giving him a chance to live.”

Her tears had dripped onto the now-sleeping baby’s face, which she wiped off with the tips of her fingers— right before hugging him close one last time; savoring every second that ticked by, before she reluctantly stepped towards Tsutako and handed him off to her.

“Your father would have adored you.” Giyuu’s older sister gave (Y/n) a sad smile at that, fully knowing what it was like to have to say goodbye to someone she loved, and held the swathed bundle close to her heart. “Does he have a name?”

“Yuu. His name is Yuu.”

#giyuu tomioka x reader #tomioka giyuu x reader #tomioka giyuu #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #demon slayer fanfic #demon slayer tomioka #demon slayer fanfiction #kny fanfiction #tomioka giyuu scenario #biz #jen writes

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imaginesmai · 5 years ago

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Peter Parker - Fuck you, Beck

Plot: You had been given strict orders, yet you couldn’t ignore Peter’s call for help, even if the boy was too stubborn to do so; and even if you can be the one needing help at the end.

At the team’s insistence, and as you father’s last will, you had tried. God, you really, really tried. You even told your mom to tell you to stay away – and she was one of maybe 3 people that could force you to do anything. But the moment the whole situation took a sharp left turn, and it seemed that Fury was willing to him fight hundreds of drones by himself – after your boyfriend was hit by a train?

Yeah, that was a solid ‘fuck you’ to the director, as your father had said.

Even your mother, who had been telling you to stay away and let him handle his problems, who had promised she would convince you not to get involved for the sake of Peter, was starting to threaten putting on the Rescue suit, and she didn’t like the Rescue suit. You were sure that if Tony was still alive the decision would have been taken a while ago, but you wanted to let him.

Because since the final battle, Peter had become distant. It didn’t matter if he assured you that he still loved you and wanted to be with you. Sometimes, you felt like your father’s memory would always haunt him when he looked at you. That was why you had let him go, that was why you thought it was a good idea for him to accomplish the mission without help, and that was why it took you so long to realize that he did need your help.

“Friday, how long?”

“29 minutes” the AI responded, and it always amazed you how your father could hear her with the wind rushing past him.

“Faster. Please”

“Of course, Miss Stark. May I remind you, that you cannot speak when you arrive. The cover is –“

“Yes, Fri. I remember”

The thing was, that Thaddeus Ross had strictly forbidden the Iron Man suit to be seen in the sky since your father’s death. Tony had already been a big problem for the man, and once the whole blip thing had been solved, Thaddeus had breathed down your necks until you had signed a document that promised to put down all the suits. Pepper, always the good woman, had insisted in letting a small division of suits for the protection, all automatics.

So that was what you were supposed you be, an automatic suit with no intelligent life that had to save your dumb boyfriend from a fight with drones.

London came into sight in a instant, and from up there you could see the destruction caused by Beck. The suit swayed dangerously as you lowered the speed, still not used to the armour. In fact, it was the third time you used it, because Tony had refused to put you in risk by using one.

But Peter was in danger, and you would do anything for him.

“Uh, you still there Friday?” you asked, not sure if the drones would interfere in any way.

“Always”

“How – how is Pete doing?”

“Karen is still in silent mode, but is reporting bruises and contusions, nothing fatal or severely damaging. However, it is advisable to get him to a hospital soon. His condition is not the best to be fighting Mr Beck, but he’s managing”

The thing was, that Karen was silent because of you, and you wanted to drown in a lake of guilt. Happy had called you when Peter entered the plane, and you had talked with him briefly. In that conversation, you had screamed, he had yelled and both had said things that you didn’t mean. Like, if he was more responsible he would have stopped it sooner. Or that you would probably disappoint your father with that attitude.

Your relationship hadn’t been the same, that was for sure, but if everything went good, you promised yourself to fix it before it was too late.

“Let me know if anything semi-critical occurs. Thanks”

By the corner of your eye, you saw Michelle and Ned running away with Happy. There was a boy you didn’t know with them, but you weren’t worried about them, because the bodyguard could hold a fight on his own, even against drones. People were screaming and running too, making it hard for you to focus on where you could land.

The idea of running away and saving Peter had been not second guessed, but now you started to realise why your mother preferred to use the Rescue Suit rather than you using Tony’s. Because your father saw the armour as a second skin, and even then, he had some difficulties moving around. You were new, being the air was cool, yet landing wasn’t going to be. You spotted a clean space between the top of the bridge and a fallen railing, so you decided that would be it.

The suit, however, decided otherwise.

It took you a while to stop fully, and you got the impression that you looked like a worm trying to escape from an apple. That the suit was too big meant you couldn’t calculate the distances well, so only one of your feet made it to the destination.

“Uh, Friday?” you called out for the AI, still holding yourself in the air. “Could you – could you steady me? Maybe?”

“I don’t think I understand your order” Friday’s voice came through the speaker. You were barely holding yourself up by the propulsors, one feet on the air.

“Yeah, sorry. Friday… can you, help me to get on the ground?” you asked, and as you did, you regretted it.

“Of course, miss Y/N. Protocol ‘old man needs his nap’ initiating.”

“No, wait – !”

Memories of Peter and you messing up with your father’s suit before the snap came back. He hadn’t really used since then, because he went with the nano one; so you couldn’t do anything as the protocol started, and you fell down to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

You were afraid, for a second, because you remembered you were in bridge and if you fell to the water you would be damned. The suit would be functioning again when it touched the ground, but you didn’t know when that would be.

If Peter ended up saving you instead, you swore you would drown yourself in the river, with suit and a chain.

The fall was cut short when the suit hit the edge a tunnel made of glass that you didn’t know existed. You weren’t aware that a hit with a suit of metal could hurt so much that it left you out of air, but it did. Miraculously, the glass didn’t break and you didn’t fall through, yet got stuck into a bit of embarrassing position.

Your head was facing one end of the bridge, one of your hands dangling from a broken glass and the other sprawled wide to the other side. Your legs were wide open, and you prayed to God that everything that you had screamed hadn’t been heard through the com.

“What the fuck is that?”

Moving as quick as a ton of metal let you, you rolled on your side and crunched on your knees, looking to where the voice came; and once more, your breath left your lungs.

Peter was in front of you, kneeling on the ground and with the worst appearance you had ever seen him. He had one of his eyes swollen shut, and the other was on its way. There was a trail of blood from his nose that dripped to the ground, and you observed in pain how it was slightly crooked. His lip, open, was bleeding too, and you didn’t bother in counting how many lacerations he had on his face. Ignoring how damn good he looked in the suit, you winced when you saw it open in different points.

He was holding his wrist protectively against his chest, almost curling around it, and you were tempted to drag Beck until he was kneeling and apologising.

“Is that – is that Iron Man?”

The faceplate of the ironman suit moved again, and a bunch of red screens appeared up when you saw Beck. He wasn’t what came to mind when you thought about a threat – if anything, it was the opposite. He was bruised to, but not as much as your boy.

If Friday hadn’t been son intelligent, your cover would have been blown up, because threats and insults flew through your mouth when you saw him. But none of them made it outside the suit; instead, Friday talked.

“This is ‘you messed with the wrong guy’ protocol” Friday talked, and the suit was in her control again. You sighed when she put you straight and relaxed against the metal. Never again. “If you’re hearing this, is because you’ve hurt one of Mr Stark kids, either Y/N, Morgan or Peter”

Beck looked as if he had seen a ghost, and since you didn’t have control of the suit anymore, it probably looked like; because it didn’t look like a messy octopus anymore. He backed away a few steps, and for the first time, you noticed the gun on his hand. He had a lose grip on it, but suddenly you got the whole picture; he had been threatening Peter with a gun, had pointed him with a gun.

Something you hadn’t felt since your father died took over, and you were aware of the possibility of losing Peter without apologizing. Of him dying not knowing you were proud of him, that you loved him.

You looked to Peter, who was already looking at you. That he had one eye closed didn’t let you read him like you usually did, but his eye bore into you through the metal. Friday talking became white noise in the background, and suddenly you were at the funeral again. Peter walking away without saying a word and avoiding you for weeks. That wasn’t how things were supposed to end.

If there was something that differentiated you from your father, was that you were much less talkative that him.

“ – so it might be of your best interest to –“

Friday stopped abruptly when you raised the hand of the suit and fired. Beck was thrown backwards, so far that he actually hit the other side of the bridge. Even Peter, who was busy looking at you, jumped at the sudden action. Everything was silent for a second, besides the screams and the buzz of your ears. You wished that, maybe, the next sound would be the sound of someone moving, or Friday alerting you from movement.

“No pulse detected. Threat eliminated”

The sight of the bridge became blurry, and you felt like the suit was closing around you. You had killed, without asking questions or knowing a man. You had killed because of a sudden outburst of anger, and there was a death corpse a few feet in front of you. You started breathing as if air was missing, and your body became lax in the suit. Friday had a brief second of release and then took control again. While you tried not to die from a panic attack inside the suit, Peter got up and walked closer to the suit.

The boy stepped up until he was face to chin with the suit, and squinted his eyes. There was nothing that could be seen from the outside; still, Peter didn’t move.

“Mr Stark would like to remind you to stay safe, Peter” Friday talked, although Peter wasn’t listening to hear really. Besides all the pain he was in, there was another fact that worried him. “There will always be a place for you at the Stark’s house, so if you’re still listening, please call any adult that might be of assistance in –“

“Friday?” Peter asked, hesitant. His voice was small and weak, almost like a breath. “Is there anyone inside the suit?”

“This is an automatic suit ready to protect, Peter” Friday started. “According to the deal with Thaddeus Ross, this is part of an elite of suits destinated to protect citizens”

“That’s not what I asked, Fri” Peter sighed.

It seemed as if wheels were turning inside Peter’s head. He alternated between looking at the faceplate and the arc reactor. You didn’t get to see the scrunching of his face that you thought of so adorable and cute, because you were too busy trying to get away from the suit. It didn’t let you move your arms, or feet, and the automatic mood didn’t let you flex the limbs. Besides, making an order to open the suit seemed like something impossible.

So you missed the few minutes that took Peter to understand that an automatic suit wouldn’t be making those quiet distress noises that he could hear with his super hearing. Once he realised, and made sure no one was around chocking to death, he proceeded wrap his arms around the suit neck.

“Peter, I have to warn you to step away. I’m not able to take you home, but can provide you someone to do so” Friday talked, but didn’t move and Peter practically hung from the suit’s neck. “Would you like me to call –“

Friday stopped talking as the suit fell to the ground, the parts failing apart in a mess of metal broken pieces. Peter thanked his lab sessions, and that Tony had taught him how to disable a suit in case someone used it against him.

He caught himself in his knees and hands, wincing when another hit was delivered to his body. He was sure that he had broken bones that he didn’t know existed.

Peter wasn’t surprised when your body followed next, and was ready to catch you and tuck you against his shoulder. You had curled into a ball around yourself, and was too busy breathing fresh air to notice Peter.

You weren’t as talkative as your father, but you had inherited the panic problem. You weren’t sure when it started; maybe the third time you were kidnapped or the fifth that someone tried to kill you, but they were frequent and bad. Killing someone for the first time was enough excuse to have one of those, you guessed.

So you didn’t really register your surroundings, not that Peter wasn’t supposed to be touching you or that the suit was not longer around you. Only that you had to calm yourself.

Peter didn’t say anything, just held you. He ended up rocking you lightly, having fallen onto his butt and wrapped around yourself as much as you around him. It didn’t worry him that someone would find him without the mask, or the destroyed Iron Man suit, because the place Beck had chosen to hide was pretty good. He only focused on not mimicking your state and keeping calm.

Finally, you stopped panicking. You untangled your head from Peter’s shoulder and his hand stopped caressing your head. He seemed to tense by the movement, but relaxed once you were face to face.

Close up, he looked even worse. His eye was red rimmed, there were bags under his eyes and his smile was the most fake thing you had seen on him. Still, he was trying not to sob himself out in front of you, so you smiled for the both of you.

“I’m sorry” you said, not wanting to wait another second. “I didn’t meant what you said, I’m so, so, proud of you. And you’re doing it amazing, I promise. You’re – you’re the best superhero ever, and I’m sorry I said those things. And that I didn’t try harder, because, uh, because I need you and –“

“I’m sorry too” he chuckled, cutting you off with a kiss. The hand that was still resting on the back of your head pulled you closer until you could crash your lips, and he squeezed his eye shut.

“How did you know?” you asked, once he let go. “That – that it wasn’t Friday”

“There is no way Friday let out that scream when falling over” Peter’s face softened. “And I could hear you. From inside the suit”

You hummed and, for a second, let yourself forget about the situation around you. Your head went back to where it belonged, to the space between Peter’s head and shoulder. You didn’t know who needed more, because Peter hugged you tighter and you heard a faint sob leave his lips.

“Thanks for saving me” he talked again, and chuckled wetly. “Although I must say your father managed the suit much better”

“Yeah, I think we’re even” you smiled and pressed your lips to his skin. You felt the gossebumps raise there, and you repeated the action. “Let’s not do this again. You’re coming with me to the lake house for a real vacation. And I don’t care what May says”

“She will be happy to have the apartment for herself and Happy” Peter joked.

Somewhere, far away, you heard the first sirens showing up. SHIELD would be there shortly, and you would have to face a very angry Thaddeus Ross in your way home. Not to talk about Peter, who probably had a bunch of explanations to give. Still, the moment was yours, and neither of you moved. You decided to keep solving the problem that had brought you to the situation itself.

“And you?” you asked, and felt as confident as when you were landing with the suit. “Will you be happy? If you, uh, come to the lake house? Because if you don’t feel like it it’s okay”

You felt rather than heard Peter sigh, and he pulled you back to look at you in the eyes. He looked far more relieved than before, and had a more real smile than before. The hand at the back of your head moved to cup your cheek, and rub its finger against your cheekbone.

“I’ve been kind of an ass” he chuckled and looked down, to where your legs were tangled together. “But that hasn’t changed, I’ll be happy wherever you are, because I kind of love your clumsy ass too much”

You smacked his shoulder minding possible injuries and leaned again for a kiss. It was slower, even if you didn’t have time to do so. In a minute, the rest of your problems would be knocking down your door and dragging you away from Peter.

But thankfully, it seemed like your bigger problem had fixed itself.

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illuminated-cowboy · 3 years ago

Text

Stag Serenade

Chapter 2

Wildfire

Arthur shoved his hand into the dirt, feeling absolutely nothing as he phased right through it. He pulled through, trying to dig up at least a small amount of the loose soil, but he couldn’t manage.

An idea occurred to him, maybe he couldn’t dig up his body, but if he could get to his body, maybe he could dig himself out?

He reached in again, attempting to pull himself through while not being able to push off anything. He just floated in place in the dirt, kicking his feet as he tried making sense of the physics of being a ghost.

He realized there weren’t any.

“Come on, there’s gotta be a way to do this.”

“Are you still trying to get to your body?” a disembodied, yet not unfamiliar, voice embarked.

Arthur groaned, knowing it was his immortal curser again, “Yes I’m still trying to get to my body, dumbass!”

“Here, I’ll make this a bit easier for you.” With the sound of a finger snap, Arthur found himself face to face with his own body, cold dirt surrounding his almost fresh corpse.

“There you are, you ugly fool.” Arthur rolled over and held his own hands, what was left of the right one at least. Like a glove, he slid himself in, relaxing until he felt a click, a bump, something. He really wasn’t sure how he’d know when he was truly back in his own body again.

“I’d like to warn you of something, Arthur.” The strange man’s voice called out again.

“And what might that be?”

“Once you’re in your body again, you will not be able to die. But, you will feel like you are dying.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Because so far feeling dead has just frustrating.”

“Just a warning. I felt like it would be wrong not to warn you.”

“Right, but you didn’t feel it would be wrong to offer a dumbass like me immortality only for me to think you were joking, did you?”

“Oh come on now, there are so many possibilities ahead of you. You could become the smartest man in the world by the time you’re 1000. You’ll witness firsthand all major events going forward, even the end of the world most likely!’

“Right. So how long until I-Argh!” A sudden jolt of pain made its way through Arthur’s body, his lungs felt crushed and scarred, his torn arm began bleeding heavily as every nerve began to gain feeling again and his heart started pumping his old cold blood throughout his veins.

“Fuck! You son of a bitch, fuck you!”

“Good, you made it before there was too much nerve damage. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Arthur fought against the uncomfortable feeling of dirt entering his nose and eyes, the earthy taste and unpleasant crunch filled his mouth as he screamed in agony. Realizing he could only use one arm, he reached up above his face, trying his best to angle himself in a way that he could lift himself up without packing the dirt down on his lower half.

I will kill that bastard if I get the chance, I will rip his fucking throat out for doing this to me. I just wanted to be dead already, fuck!

He felt himself moving upward, a positive result for sure. He felt a spiritual power surge through him, it helped him to keep going harder and harder despite feeling weak and exhausted.

Finally, he reached air with his hand. A couple more breaths and one final pull, and his head emerged, like a mangled newborn baby. He screamed and cursed at the world as he burst through, dragging his revived corpse away from his grave and over to a tree to rest. His arm was done for, once he had his strength back he’d have to cut it off completely.

He spit out particles of dirt and blew black snot from his nose, coughing up far more than blood in-between. He struggled to breathe, every breath felt like eternity and the satisfaction of an oxygenated lung was far from grasp. He looked to the moon to take his mind off the pain and misery he was feeling, it illuminated his dirty, dampened features and reflected off his eyes gloriously. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure he looked like a dead man walking.

Once he was sure he had hacked up every bit of dirt and blood left in his body, he reflected on the coming sunrise, realizing an entire day had passed since he had died. This was a sunrise he was never meant to see, and he wasn’t sure if that made him feel like a badass for cheating death, or a miserable man cursed to walk a world he was never intended to walk.

He finally felt recovered enough to rise to his feet, a dull ache radiating through his body and intensifying with every step. He wasn’t sure where he was even going, but he was sure if he walked long enough, he’d end up at a lake where he could wash up eventually.

He performed a dance of dragging his feet, groaning to himself, and taking large, unplanned steps in one direction or another. Sometimes he caught himself going in a small circle, and he’d have to recalibrate and jolt himself to the opposite direction.

The sun began to beam down on his dirt coated head, so he raised an arm up to shield the sun and happened to see the movement of an animal somewhere in the distance.

The whinny of a brown filly filled Arthur’s heart with a bit of relief, finally something besides a tree to stare at as he hobbled along.

As he approached the horse, he could make out a dark brown saddle on her back.

“Oh girl, please tell me your rider owns a bathhouse.”

The horse turned, noticing Arthur’s hobbling out of the corner of her eye. He reached out a hand and looked around for her owner, “Hello!” he called out as his hand touched the filly’s velvet nose.

She gave out a content snort at his presence, at least he knew that if her owner didn’t come around soon she’d likely be friendly enough to let a strange zombie man ride her.

A familiar voice called out from the woods, effeminate and soft, “is someone there?!”

“Yes ma’am,” Arthur looked around, unsure of where the voice was coming from and unable to put the name on his tongue, yet sure he had heard this voice before, “don’t be frightened by my appearance miss, I’ve been through one hell of a night.” His gaze settled on a woman approaching from the woods, a rifle in one hand and a dead rabbit slung over her shoulder.

She looked frightened and readied her rifle. “Who are you!?”

Arthur raised his hand and lifted a brow as he realized who the woman was, “Charlotte?”

She lowered her rifle and smiled in relief, “Arthur? What happened to you?!” She ran over to him excitedly, concern and worry overtaking her face as she realized just how torn up he was.

“Boy am I happy to see you.”

“I would say the same if your arm weren’t hanging off, what happened to you Arthur?” She gently touched just above the ripped section, trying not to let her shock overtake her ability to offer help.

“Wolves. Lots of ‘em.” Arthur chuckled painfully. “Only took one of ‘em to do this though.”

Charlotte cringed in second-hand pain. “Please, let me take you back home, you’ll die like this out here.”

“Kinda wish I did die, would hurt a hell of a lot less.” Charlotte shook her head, preferring to not think of her savior rather dying than being alive. She gently turned him towards her horse, assisting him up as much as she could before attaching her catch to the saddle and lifting herself up onto her filly.

Arthur held the woman gently with his living hand, steadying himself on the mare, “So, when did you get a horse?”

“I figured she was a necessity. Bought her in town one day, she’s been very loyal. Named her Wildfire.” The filly kicked up her hooves and began transporting her riders down the trail.

“She’ll be good to you til’ her last breath. My ol’ boy died about a day ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Was he ill?”

“No, no… It was, well, a rat. In a way.”

“A rat?”

Arthur tried looking for a way to describe what he meant without tainting her image of him. “I’m not a good man, Charlotte.”

“You keep saying that. But actions speak louder than words. And we are always our own worst critics.”

“It’s possible I have a chance to begin again,” he sighed, “but I’ve tried that so many times, always ends with someone getting hurt.”

“Well, you didn’t hurt me. You helped me, you saved my life. I will forever consider you my friend for that alone.”

“I was in with some bad guys. For a long time. The only ones who didn’t betray me in the end either died or left to make their lives better. And for that, I will never blame them. I should have left too.”

Charlotte slowly began to understand. “Well, it looks like you did leave. So now the question is, what will you do now?”

“I dun’ know.”

“Well, you can stay with me as long as you need to. I have an extra bed and you won’t be imposing.”

Arthur considered being stoic, denying her offer with something along the lines of “That’s alright Mrs. Balfour, I’ll get on just fine.” But instead, he sighed, and nodded to himself. “I think I could use the comfort of an indoor bed, thank you Charlotte.”

“I’m happy to hear it. I could use the company too. Maybe you can teach me some more survival skills as well!” She said cheerfully, looking behind her to catch a glance of the war-torn man. “Once you’re all fixed up, that is.”

The brown filly gave out a whinny as a fox crossed her path just a gallop away from the old cabin. Charlotte road her over to a fence post and dismounted, holding out a hand to assist Arthur down.

He chuckled as he oriented himself, attempting to first dismount alone. “In a normal world, I’d be helping you down, Mrs. Balfour.”

“Well, I’ve lost sight of whatever a normal world would be considered.”

With a shot of pain through his body, he winced, and grabbed for her hand reluctantly, trying not to fall or put too much pressure on the woman.

He tumbled down, buckling to his boots as Charlotte reached out to grab him, keeping him from falling far.

“This arm, Charlotte, it’s gotta come off.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened in response. “Shouldn’t a doctor make that determination?”

“Well, the last time I saw a doctor he told me I was dying, so I’d rather make the calls from here on out.” Charlotte wrapped an arm around him and assisted him as best she could, steadying him through every stumble and trip he endured as they made their way to the cabin.

“I don’t want you bleeding out on my watch.”

“I’ll be fine, Charlotte. I just need a good bath and a knife.”

She looked at him with pain in her eyes as she opened the door. “Well, if you think it’s for the best, I trust you.” She guided him inside to a chair, and he let out a moan of both pain and relief as he sat down.

“I feel like I could sleep forever, just right here.”

“I’m going to go get you a bucket of water and some soap and we can wash you up.” She gently patted his shoulder and grabbed a large wooden bucket by the door before heading outside to the well.

Arthur sat in silence for a moment, looking around her home. The home of a widow who, Arthur figured, was surely sufficient enough to have survived on her own.

Or maybe not. Maybe in another world, Arthur hadn’t helped her, hadn’t seen her when she needed him. And maybe nobody else had helped her either.

Maybe she was only alive because of him. The opposite of many, many people Arthur had come across in his life.

Arthur began undoing his shirt with his one good arm, getting down to the last button but finding it a struggle to actually get it off his shoulders, a mixture of pain and the lack of a second working arm being the culprit.

Charlotte walked back in; a bucket full of fresh water by her hip. “Oh, let me help you, Arthur.”

He leaned forward a tad, and she came around the backside of the chair, pulling as tenderly as she could at the blue button-up. One arm down, the healthy one at least. Coated in bruises but other than that, usable and strong.

His other arm was a different story, sticky blackened blood coating the ripped and worn fabric, she contemplated whether pulling it quickly was the right decision or pulling it slowly and possibly prolonging his pain.

He winced and turned away as she pulled it off, the blood pulling at his hair and torn skin. Fresh blood pooled on the floor in small amounts as she was careful to avoid touching the exposed flesh. Once it was off, he looked like half man, half bloodied beast.

“I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

“Hey, you didn’t attack me,” he mustered a grin as he took a good glance at his arm. The skin was completely torn away, the bone entirely dislocated from the rest of his skeleton, the forearm only hanging on by the thinnest strands of red threads, “I’d be real impressed if you did though.”

“Right. Well, I think you should get nice and clean before attempting major surgery on yourself.”

“Of course.”

Charlotte brushed her hair behind her ear before twiddling her thumbs for a second and asking, “do you need, help?”

“I do believe I might, but uh,” Arthur reached for the bucket with his good arm, “to save you the trauma, I’ll take care of the nasty bits later.”

Charlotte let out a relieved sigh. “I’ll go get something to scrub you with and a bar of soap.”

Arthur nodded in agreement. “Wouldn’t you rather we do this outside though?”

“It’s fine, I’ve been meaning to give the floor a good cleaning anyways.”

“Yeah but, this is gonna be a lot of blood and all, I don’t wanna-“

Charlotte came back from her room with a bar of soap, a hunting knife, and a couple towels. “I really don’t mind. It will be more comfortable for you in here.”

“Alright.”

Charlotte dunked the soap in the bucket, working the lather into a hand towel and taking Arthur’s good hand, rubbing the mixture up and down his arm.

Their eyes caught each other; hazel meeting blue. She refused to admit her heart skipped a beat at the sight, because despite his worn appearance and his dirt coated features, his eyes had so much more life in them than they did the last time they met.

She smiled, reaching a hand to gently touch his chin, pulling him slightly towards her as she gazed closer into those suddenly piercing eyes, “you’re healthy again, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You were sick when you were here last time.”

“Well, you cure one thing, you end up with a lost arm I guess.”

She chuckled as she released her tender grip and continued to clean him up, handing him the towel and reaching for a new one to wash his face with, dabbing it under his eyes and behind his ears before wetting down his untrimmed hair and scrubbing it between her fingers.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly happened? I know you said it was wolves but, you look like you were buried underground.”

“Do you want the truth or do you want a lie?”

“I would prefer the truth, but if you’d rather be creative and keep the details to yourself, I’m still curious.”

“Well, I got the shit kicked out of me, died. God or Satan or whatever, he told me I was immortal now, but my body got attacked by wolves. I got buried then had to claw out of my own grave with one arm.”

“My, you are quite creative. I’ll have to keep you around for story ideas from now on.”

He smiled, “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“You know, even on Cal’s deathbed he was still telling jokes too.”

He looked to her with awe. “Any man lucky enough to have you as their wife would die happily regardless of the circumstances.”

She grinned, her eyes almost tearing up. “That’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever been told.”

“It’s been a good long time since I’ve been treated to a nice bath as well.”

“This next side will probably sting.” She said as she grabbed another clean towel and came round to the destroyed arm.

“I’ve felt worse, do whatever you need to do.”

She squeezed the towel, dripping cool soapy water down into the open wound. Arthur groaned in pain, his chest tightening as his teeth gritted against the feeling. He turned away, appearing to physically try and remove himself from the troublesome arm.

“Fuck,” he muttered through his teeth, struggling against it but knowing it had to be done, “give me the knife.”

She continued to rub down the arm, “I’m not even nearly finished getting all the dirt off-”

“Whatever is in there is in there, get me the goddamn knife!”

The woman reached for the hunting knife she had grabbed earlier from the table behind her, handing it to Arthur in one swift motion.

“Get my belt and tie it around my arm, as tight as you can.”

She hurried in front of him, kneeling and undoing the brown leather belt from his hips. Wrapping it around his arm and pulling it as hard as she could manage, blood squirting from the bottom, Arthur held the knife tightly before making one final request, “you got any alcohol?”

“Um, I have some rum in the cabinet.”

“That’ll work.”

She nodded, running for the container, and bringing it back to him. He placed the bottle between his legs, popped the top off, and took as many swigs as he could until the numbing feeling kicked in.

“I’m gonna need your help here, darlin’.”

“Anything, Arthur. I’m right here with you.”

“I’m gonna need you to hold this arm here as high as you can.”

She blinked twice. “You need me… while you…”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t need you to but it’s gonna go a lot smoother if you do.”

“Okay.” She grasped his hand, cold deadened fingers between her own, and pulled the arm vertically, moving down to hold it by the length just before the wound.

Arthur stuffed a towel in his mouth, readied the knife, and began slicing into the flesh, screaming muffled into the towel as his entire body contracted in pain.

Charlotte held strong, looking away as blood splattered on her blue dress. With one final push, the arm came off, and the stump that remained poured with red liquid as Arthur tossed the knife and held the stub up as high as he could, pulling the belt tighter around it.

He spit out the towel onto the floor. “Candle!” he shouted, nodding to a candle that happened to be lit in the corner.

Charlotte dropped the arm and ran for the candle, handing it to her wilderness survival man without putting it out. He rubbed away as much of the blood as he could with a towel, then held the stump to the candle flame, trading his stinging pain for a burning pain.

The worst was over as he finished his self-surgery, laying back in the chair as Charlotte took the candle away. She returned to offer him more rum, to which he nodded and opened his mouth, silently begging that she pour it in and not stop.

With a bloodied arm on the floor, pools of suds and human liquids leaking from Arthur like a dripping pipe, he took one final moan and relaxed his eyes. “Thank you, Charlotte.”

“It’s no trouble,” she looked to the arm, the mess, the bloodied beautiful man in her chair, “I’ll go bury that in the back before it decomposes. Please, call for me if you need anything.”

And with that, Arthur was armless. He took one last look at the cold, bluish body part as Charlotte wrapped it with a towel and walked it out the door.

He picked up the rum and took another swig, the pain dulling his drunken state, yet still feeling the need to smile and say to himself, “I’m unarmed!” He giggled like a madman, trying to continue holding his brand-new stump above his arm, taking more sips in-between uncontrolled laughter, the majority of the rum dripping onto his beard and chest rather than his mouth.

By the time Charlotte returned, Arthur was far gone, flying high and performing a mixture of moaning in pain and giggling in pleasure.

“My angel!” He shouted at her. She took the bottle from his hand and rubbed some suds out of his hair.

“Do you want to keep bathing tonight or-”

“I will tell you,” he hiccupped and pointed a finger up, “what I want.”

Charlotte looked at him concernedly. “And what might that be?”

“I want for you to just give me the gentlest of kisses, right here,” he pointed to his forehead, “because women’s lips, they heal all wounds.”

She smiled, and kindly humored him, pressing her lips tenderly to his forehead. He pulled her close, his one good arm wrapping gently around her waist and pulling her in for a hug. She held his head under her breast, fingers trailing his cheek as she further indulged his desires for human touch.

“It’s been a while, darlin’.”

“Since?”

“Since I was loved.” He looked up at her, eyes looking even more pained than when he was cutting off his own arm. “I loved only so many women, and they didn’t love me, Charlotte. They used me, they used me and they left me when I couldn’t be what they needed. And that’s on me, I’m a horrible bastard.”

“No, Arthur, that’s on them honey.”

“No it ain’t, Charlotte. I hurt them bad, and I’d hurt you too if you got too close, but, I wanna be close to you. And I ain’t never wanna hurt you.”

“That’s enough of that,” she pulled away with kindness, holding his hand with both of her own in an effort to guide him somewhere to lay down, “come to bed, sleep this off and we’ll figure out the rest when you’re feeling better.”

He stumbled to his feet, holding her hands like they were precious jewels, looking at their every detail through his blurred, drunken vision, “I don’ wanna hurt you, Charlotte.”

“Don’t you worry about any of that right now, come with me.” She wrapped her arm around his back and assisted him into her guest bedroom, laying him down gently on the bed, holding his arm up and resting it on a pillow by his head.

She pulled out a blanket and laid it over his bare chest, keeping him warm for the rest ahead.

She kissed his forehead once more, wishing him a goodnight without words, then closing the door behind her to give him some privacy.

Arthur came in and out of a blacked-out state, desiring to go wander the halls and find Charlotte again to continue his self-deprecation, to show her and prove what an awful man he is, and why she would be right to toss him out and let him suffer. But she wasn’t going to do that, and he wondered if he really made such an impression on her that she would now trust him like this.

He could easily hurt her, maybe not physically but surely emotionally. That’s why Mary left him, right? He couldn’t change. He wasn’t redeemable.

But either she didn’t believe he would hurt her, or she didn’t care. Maybe she had been through the same pain as him, enough so that she didn’t care, just like he didn’t. Or at least, just like he kept trying to convince himself that he didn’t.

#fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #rdr fanfic #reddeadredemption fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption fanfic #arthur morgan

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pandoraborn · 4 years ago

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DAY 13 BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT. || oxygen mask. ||

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

So much for trying to print up ‘Missing’ posters for Erin. Between the printer jamming and the tea almost burning because of their worry, there are now four people in Henrik’s living room, most of them covered in blood. Jameson’s jumping to his feet, dropping his cup of lukewarm tea onto the carpet, spilling the liquid everywhere with his hands flailing, signing his confusion at a rapid pace. Henrik pauses briefly, wanting to demand answers, but the sight of Jackie unconscious and bleeding profusely has him already turning on his heel to storm off toward his lab. Priorities: Jackie first, everything else second.

It makes no difference if people show up by ambulance or portal, he’s going to ask no questions, he’s just going to bark orders for Amon to follow him down to the lab. Inside, he pulls a bed out and clears it for Amon to set Jackie down. Henrik gets to work, poking at Jackie and figuring out where all the injuries are. There’s hardly a spot on Jackie’s body that’s free of blood or any sort of marking, so Henrik mutters to himself in German as he rushes around, grabbing things he may need, or even may not need, but might find use in anyway.

As the sole medical staff present, he feels a burden he doesn’t like feeling, like Jackie’s fate is completely in his hands. It’s overwhelming, his mind racing with thoughts of trying to save Jackie and thoughts over Erin missing. Come to think of it, it hadn’t just been the kids going missing, Marvin and Jackie had turned up missing as well, and had been for a few days now. Henrik sucks in a few deep breaths as he tries to focus only on the task at hand.

One thing at a time.

He grabs his portable oxygen tank and drags it over. Placing the mask over Jackie’s face, Henrik makes sure it stays in place before rummaging through his cabinets for drugs, anesthetics, and anything else that’ll help numb the pain. He wishes he had better equipment to help stabilize Jackie’s breathing, because the flimsy mask is barely doing anything.

Don’t panic. Just focus.

His movements are methodical, calculated. He hasn’t realized he’s even stopped speaking completely as he drags the syringes and bottles back to Jackie’s side. Stitches. Surgery. Coma? Maybe. Probably needed.

Next is a blood bag. Jackie’s going to need a blood transfusion. He has the blood for it. Not a whole lot, but a couple of bags for Jackie’s blood type should be enough to help, until he can get more. The hero also needs stitches. Surgery might be needed, to reset and fix splintered bones. Henrik knows he has synthetic materials for that very purpose.

What he wants is a team.

No, no, no time. He grabs one syringe and fills it with an anesthetic. He’s going to have to put Jackie in a coma in order to do everything he wants to. He gets about halfway when Marvin jumps to his feet, cluing in on what Henrik’s doing.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Marvin protests. He gets up, as if to stop Henrik, but Chase throws an arm out to block him. “I can help-”

“Nein, Jackie needs medical attention. He’s suffered too much damage to his body. I need to put him in a coma, I need to perform surgery, I need to do so many things to heal him. Where were you?” His own voice is short, temper barely kept at bay. He’s not angry at Marvin, he’s angry at Jackie. He’s angry at himself. He’s angry at this entire situation in which he’s left out of the loop and has a child missing.

“I was with him!”

“No you weren’t,” Amon whispers. “You were outside your apartment.”

Marvin feels like his head is going to burst, along with his heart. Seeing his husband in critical condition, barely clinging to life already aches, but now that Amon is throwing digs at him, it’s even worse. Marvin is struggling to breathe as he tries to keep the tears at bay. “Jason...Jason he…”

“Enough. I do not need to know details,” Henrik snaps. “Jameson, please take all of them upstairs so I can tend to Jackie. I need to concentrate!” He leaves it unsaid that he’s not going to let them distract him; he refuses to lose Jackie right here when Jackie’s in his hands.

He washes his hands and puts gloves on, just as Jameson gently guides the other three out of the lab and back up the stairs. He watches them leave, before carefully injecting Jackie with the anesthesia, purposely giving him a higher dose than normal, to ensure he stays asleep for awhile. He knows Jackie can handle the dosage.

“I’m sorry for the coma, mein Freund. But I’d rather you not feel pain anymore.” He wipes his own eyes with his sleeve before grabbing all the tools needed to operate on Jackie to make sure he lives. On top of all this, he’s worried for Erin. All the kids have been missing for days, and Henrik and Jameson had no idea where everyone had gone off to. He feels like he missed something important, but hopefully Marvin can offer the missing pieces when Jackie’s stable.

Upstairs, it’s quiet. Marvin still feels like he’s going to burst, and no one’s looking at each other. Amon especially is avoiding his gaze, so Marvin just gets up and walks outside, a little relieved to see Jameson following him.

{I know you’re distressed over Jackie, Marvin. But we’re going to need answers.}

“I... Everything’s a mess, Jameson. The kids are still missing, Vin’s missing, Jackie’s dying, and I just. I feel alone and helpless. I don’t know who all is doing what anymore, and I can’t breathe.”

Jameson mulls those words over for a minute before shaking his head. {I’ll start off by reminding you you’re not alone. But I need more to go off of than that, please. Erin is my son too.}

Marvin sucks in a breath, dabbing at his eyes. He murmurs a quiet thank you when Jameson offers a handkerchief, and blows his nose into it. “Jason captured Jackie and me, held us captive. He spent the whole time torturing Jackie, and I managed to escape when Jason’s back was turned. I didn’t have enough time to grab Jackie too, and my hands were bound-”

{Yes, I can see the markings around your wrists, and I could see the condition Jackie was in. What about Erin? What about Nebula and Alphie?}

“We think Jason got them too. I don’t know. You can ask Amon too, he and Chase might know something.” Marvin winces when he realizes how bitter he sounds. Is he subconsciously mad at Amon for blaming him? Marvin doesn’t know anymore.

{Amon isn’t my concern right now, you are. You showed up covered in blood. It doesn’t matter if it’s Jackie’s blood, you’re clearly not handling things well right now. I’d like to help, and please don’t tell me I can’t.}

“No, you can help. I’m so used to-”

{You and Jackie being the protectors, I know. Henrik and I know how to fight as well. Maybe not as well as you, but we have our own ways of outsmarting an enemy. I would like to know who that enemy is. I’d like my son back.}

Marvin nods absently. “You’re right. You’re right, I’m so stupid.” He lets out a quiet sob, leaning against Jameson for comfort. Jameson wraps his arms around Marvin, giving him the comfort he clearly needs right now. They both remain silent as Marvin cries for a long while, letting most everything out. He’s not sure what scares him more: two people he loves losing faith in him, failing as a parent, or just feeling utterly helpless at this point. It’s too overwhelming.

{We’ll figure out everything together. We need to be a team now. Can you come back inside and tell us everything we need to know? I don’t want to lose more sleep over worry.}

Marvin nods and pulls away, dabbing at his eyes with a clean corner of the handkerchief. “Yeah, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

He falls quiet again as they head back inside, where he sits down again. The scene is much the same: with Amon and Chase sitting on the couch together. Chase is staring at the floor, playing with his hat, and Amon is purposely ignoring Marvin. Marvin sits down in a chair and slumps back, fighting the overwhelming urge to sleep. He hasn’t slept in days, he’s aware, but he knows if he tries now, he’ll fail.

{Start at the beginning, please.}

“Danielle has the kids somewhere,” Amon pipes up. He’s sitting up straighter, wings folded around his torso again. “At least, I think she does, or at the very least, played a role in taking them. One of her lackeys said as much when I was trying to escape out a collapsing building.

{Where was this building?}

“Middle of the city. She drugged me with something to make me vulnerable to smoke and debris, so I barely got out with my life. Jumped timelines to get Chase’s attention and help.”

{Ah, I was wondering.} Jameson manages a small smile. {It’s lovely to meet you, Chase. I do wish it was under better circumstances.}

“Likewise.” Chase returns the smile. “Amon took me back here and we ran into Marvin unconscious in front of his apartment. He had shackles around his wrists, so we took him inside. I had ‘ta saw them off.”

{Marvin, what happened when Jason had you?}

“He had Jackie and me locked up in some dungeon-esque room.” Marvin shrugs, letting his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling. He doesn’t do that forever, because he’ll still need to communicate with Jameson, after all. “He shackled me to the wall and kept me silent with a gag so I couldn’t perform magic on him. He spent the entire time torturing Jackie by poisoning him, shocking him, kicking him around. At one point, he made a taunt about the kids, so I assumed he had something to do with it.”

{That’s two different people who have a role in where our children have gone. Something doesn’t seem right here. Would they be working together?}

“Doubtful,” Chase says. “I don’t know this Jason, but I know Danielle, and she’s really calculating. If she’s working with someone, it’s because she’s drugged them into complacency.”

“Jason doesn’t seem like the type to let someone get that close to him,” Marvin points out. “Chase, is there anyone else from your timeline that Danielle might know? Or anything that might connect her to Jason?”

Chase hesitates, setting his hat back on his head. “There…is someone else.”

Amon nods. “It’s Cian. I didn’t get a great look at him, I only saw him from a distance. But I saw Vin with him.”

{Pardon, but who is Cian? Isn’t Vin-}

“Vin is Marvin, yeah,” Chase says. “Cian is a fae, but not like your average one.”

“Let me explain this,” Amon says sharply. “Think of your worst encounter with someone. Imagine them to be a fairy. Now this particular fairy doesn’t just steal your name or is averse to iron, he’s deadly and dangerous. He doesn’t care about petty tricks, he actively seeks to cause chaos and strife. Hell, wouldn’t put it past him to be influencing us right now, especially if he’s in this timeline.”

Jameson’s expression turns into a worried one. {This can’t be good. Isn’t there a way to stop him?}

“The best we can hope for is to try to find where he’s got Vin.”

“What if Vin is working for him too?” Marvin asks. “He was corrupted awhile ago.”

“No,” Chase snaps. “Vin’s smarter than that. I know my best friend, I know he’s not about to fall for some stupid demon or otherworldly creature’s stupid magic twice. No, if he’s with Cian, it’s not by choice.”

“So. Then we need to find where Cian might be. If we find Vin, we could probably find the kids, too.”

“If a dark fae wants to have his way, there’s only one place he’d store a prize for all eternity, and it’s not a place I want to think about going to.” Amon wrinkles his nose. “It’s going to be deadly and we need a ritual to open the portal.”

“You don’t mean-” Marvin lurches forward, mouth agape.

Amon nods. “Better get some sleep, Marvin. Eat some god damned food because you’re going to send me to Tír na nÓg.”

---

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#whumptober2020 #no.13 #oxygen mask #jse community #septic egos #fic #ego shipping #long post #miishae writes

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thebiasrekkers · 4 years ago

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Make It Right [BTS Mafia AU]

Plot: “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

Rating: NC-17 // NSFW

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC

Warnings: Graphic Violence (bloody violence), Heavy Language, Angst, Slow Burn, Smut

Previous Chapters: Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || Admin E’s WP || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 2,327

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AN: And here we go...

Chapter 57: Boy Meets Evil

“But in order to be free from this crime, it’s impossible to forget and give up.”

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

One Week Later Incheon – Sungui; Nam District South Korea

Hoseok and Seokjin stood side by side as they looked at the large, gray building in front of them. They parked their car at the end of the long road, surveying their surroundings. The morning sky was overcast and shrouded the landscape in hues of grays; desaturating everything. Autumn was already upon them and foliage that was once fully in bloom would soon begin singing their songs of lamentation as they died.

It was the season for beginnings to come to an end.

The old factory was worn from years of neglect. Rust spots were speckled over the iron and there were a few spider cracks along large windows on every side. Several other sedans were parked nearby, presumably Jade Fang members. Hoseok cast a critical eye over them, his gaze meeting Seokjin’s. They both nodded, stepping in sync as they approached the large metal double doors.

His hand went out to reach for the handle, pulling it open. The hinges screamed from abuse, crying for attention. The sound wailed through the expanse as the bottom portion of the door scraped along the concrete flooring. Seokjin followed closely as he entered, pulling the door closed behind him. The ambient noise of the city quickly transformed into that of a tomb.

Their footsteps echoed over the wide space. Hoseok took note of the many wooden crates that lined either walls, giving access to a variety of blind spots. The factory had a single floor that was one big open space. High above it, catwalks ran along the rafters all leading from the factory manager’s office: a metal cube suspended at one end of the warehouse. Abandoned shelf scaffolding broke up the empty space. Crates and pallets were strewn around, making decent hiding places.

He frowned when a few of Changkyun’s underlings looked at him suspiciously – each of them armed with bats, pipes, and knives. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he smirked while shaking his head. It was obvious that Changkyun didn’t trust him and that was fine. After the damage he’d caused, Hoseok couldn’t blame him for taking precautions against him.

Even if this was supposed to be a general meeting.

“Jin Hyung,” a voice called to them, causing both men to halt in their steps.

They looked over to the right where another portion of the factory broke off, seeing Wonho reveal himself. He flicked his tongue out over his lip ring, grinning like a man who’d just won a high stakes poker game. Hoseok slowly blinked as Seokjin situated himself to his right.

Wonho stopped just a few feet short from them. “I didn’t expect you to be here. I figured it would be Namjoon-ah like usual.”

Seokjin shrugged. “Yeah well, we’ve decided not to be so predictable.”

They watched him peer around them, as though he was expecting more people. “The others?”

“None of your business. Besides, he asked to meet me, did he not?”

Hoseok flicked some of his hair out of his eyes, watching the smirk on Wonho’s face grow a little more. There was a small flame of anger that continued to burn in his chest. But he didn’t say anything. He waited for Wonho to look at him, bowing his head in respect, before giving a gentle sigh.

“Where’s Changkyun-ah?”

Without breaking their gaze, Wonho raised his hand up and pointed toward the large metal stairwell that led to the manager’s office. Hoseok started to make his way to the stairwell, but stopped when Wonho side-stepped into his path. He cut his eyes at him, his brows knitting tightly. He was in no mood to play any sort of games right now. This was about business.

“Sorry Hoseok-ah,” he said, holding his hands up in a mock show of surrender, “gotta search you. Boss’s orders.”

Hoseok looked around at the armed men in the warehouse before meeting Wonho’s gaze. “…are you fuckin’ serious?”

Seokjin took a step forward but Hoseok held an arm out to stop him. He rolled his eyes, lifting his other arm so that Wonho could frisk him. No one moved, however, and this irritated him.

“Whatever. Let’s get this over with, huh? I don’t have all day.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, moving toward him.

It didn’t take long for Wonho to search him. The clothing he wore was loose-fitting around his torso while his pants were a slim fit. It made movement easier for him, but would have been obvious had he concealed anything on his person. After the search was finished, he stepped to the side to let Hoseok through. He heard Seokjin move only to take note of the sound of him being stopped. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Wonho was now impeding his brother’s path.

“Wonho-yah,” came Seokjin’s even tone, “move.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Jin Hyung. Hoseok-ah has to go on alone.” He grinned. “You can keep me company instead.”

“It’s okay, Jin Hyung,” reassured Hoseok, “I can handle it from here.”

Seokjin didn’t seem satisfied with this, but he shook his head. He knew there was no stopping Hoseok now that he was set to take care of things once and for all. This would be the last time they would have this altercation with their former brothers of the underworld. Timing was crucial.

Hoseok ascended the stairwell slowly, the iron steps rattling under him as he moved. Both hands were in his pockets as he walked, his eyes continuing to look at all the various angles of the factory warehouse. If he knew Changkyun as well as he thought he did, then his other upper-tiered members were scattered around outside. They would be on the lookout for anyone to try and shake things up.

But he already had an ace up his sleeve for that.

At the top of the stairs, the door to the office stood. To the left, a grated walkway led out over the floor, spreading into catwalks that sprawled the entire place. There was a small square window on the door smudged with dirt. He knocked loudly, the sound reverberating off the walls and bouncing back to hit his body in small tremors. When the door opened, it was Shownu standing in the doorway. They stood silently, almost gauging the other, before he shifted off to the side to allow him entrance. Once inside, Shownu exited the manager’s office and closed the door behind him.

Hoseok saw Changkyun nursing a cup of coffee from an electric kettle. The only furniture in the room were two heavy wooden tables. The rest of the office was bare; a thin slit of a window overlooking the warehouse floor. He watched him turn, smiling as he sipped from the mug. Changkyun held out the cup to Hoseok.

“Did you want me to make you a cup?”

“Are you repurposing this place?”

Changkyun snapped his fingers and pointed at him, a look of satisfaction clearly painted over his face. “Wow, you don’t miss a thing, do you Hyung?”

He shrugged, gesturing to the electric kettle with a simple tilt of his head.

“The market value for this place was decent. People need jobs and I just got my hands on a permit to start turning this into a mass shipping facility.”

“How long have you been working on this?”

He watched him hum, as if he really needed a moment to pause and think. “A few months now.”

“I see.”

“There’s money to be made, so why not make it?” He walked back over to the kettle where another mug sat on the table. “Did you want coffee or no?”

Sighing, Hoseok pulled the sleeve of his jacket back to look at his watch. “I thought we were here to talk business?”

“Always so serious,” he said, smiling, “you can relax. I won’t bite.”

“You killed my brothers and my sister-in-law,” came Hoseok’s slow response, “what the fuck did you expect?”

Changkyun clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth while shaking his head. “Oh, come on now. I already told you that this wasn’t personal.”

“You made it personal.”

“Wrong!” His voice boomed out over the small space. “I made a point.”

Hoseok scoffed. “Is that what you call it? A point?”

“Yes, I do.” He set the cup down on the table. “I warned you, Hyung, about how weak your defenses were when you left your power behind. The people around you were at risk the minute you decided to step into the light. Money and power talk and while money has done you some good, your lack of power exposed your neck to me.”

There was a pregnant pause that stretched between them. He wasn’t sure if Changkyun was waiting for him to respond to his statements, but there was nothing for him to say. Not yet. He wanted to hear everything his former brother had to unleash on him before he came out with a rebuttal of his own.

Changkyun moved away from the table, crossing the room to stand opposite of him. His back was now to the office window while Hoseok’s remained facing the door. They stared each other down; both attempting to read the other.

If looks could kill…

“Your business was with us, the Golden Jackals. You didn’t have to drag Eden into it. She had nothing to do with this.”

Changkyun waggled his finger at him. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“How?”

“Attacking just you would have seemed personal. That’s not my endgame. Eden was an unfortunate casualty, but she was also a necessary piece that you needed to lose in this game.”

A flash of burning outrage slashed across Hoseok’s chest. For him to refer to his sister-in-law as a mere “casualty” was about as much as he could stand. But instead of launching himself across the room to lay into him, he curled his hands into fists at his sides. He couldn’t let him get under his skin so soon. They’d only just started talking.

He took a breath, a seemingly vain attempt to dampen his anger.

“So,” Hoseok breathed, “you still think this is some kind of game, huh?”

“I do.” He grinned. “And I’ve won.”

Snorting, Hoseok folded his arms across his chest. “The game isn’t over, Changkyun-ah. I still haven’t given you the keys to my kingdom.”

He watched Changkyun’s mouth form into a small ‘O’ before it spread into an arrogant smirk. “And are you?”

“They’re not mine to give.”

“I beg to differ.” Changkyun took another step closer. “You held Yongsan and Gangnam in your hands for years. You controlled those territories in a way that the other district bosses can’t ignore. It won’t be as easy as a simple gang scuffle to settle things.”

Hoseok frowned. “And why not?”

“Because you made it that way.”

He couldn’t stop the incredulous laugh that slipped out of him. “So what? This is my responsibility?”

“It never stopped being your responsibility.” He closed the distance even further, reaching a hand to grasp at Hoseok’s shoulder. “Don’t you see that?”

For a while, all Hoseok could do was look back at him. This was the man he once considered a good friend; a brother. They had so many ideas for the future. Ideas to make things better. Back when everything made sense because life was simpler. Hoseok believed he could talk Changkyun into turning over a new leaf with him – of paving a road with clean hands and leaving the dirtiness of the underworld behind them. He thought that Changkyun was better suited for a life that didn’t involve crime, betrayal, and cruelty.

The hope for that began to dwindle the day Hoseok saw him murder the former Jade Fangs leader in cold blood.

It completely vanished when he cremated his family’s bodies.

“It’s still not too late, Hyung,” urged Changkyun gently, “you can still join me. Reclaim your territories and come back home. I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I already have.”

Hoseok sighed, closing his eyes and hanging his head slightly. “Changkyun-ah.” He lifted his head, eyelids fluttering as he opened them to meet the other man’s gaze. “I’m glad we had this talk. You’ve confirmed a few things for me.”

Changkyun canted his head slightly, his calm and welcoming expression melting into slight confusion. “What things?”

“That you haven’t changed. That you never will change.�� Hoseok smiled pityingly at him. “You’re incapable of it.”

He felt his hand sliding off his shoulder, dropping limply at his side as he frowned. He didn’t say anything, so Hoseok continued.

“You’ve always been so sneaky. Planning everything so that you are always five steps ahead of the person you’re trying to overtake. You’re good at playing the long game and that’s why you always think you’ve won. That you’ll never be beaten.”

“I have yet to be proven wrong.”

“I’m a thinker too. But there are better thinkers at my side. People who retraced months of your steps in the process of doing their research. People who are better at getting into your head than I am.” Hoseok gave a wide gesture to the empty office space around them. “People who knew about your plans for this warehouse days before my arrival.”

For the first time since their conversation began, Changkyun looked perturbed. Hoseok wasn’t in the business of pouring salt into wounds, but he was done playing nice. He was done giving warnings.

He was finishing this today.

Lowering his gaze, he looked at his watch one more time. His smile grew a little bit wider as he locked his eyes with Changkyun’s – relishing in the realization that slowly overtook his face.

“And those same people found out that you had the gas and electric rewired for the building before having it turned on.”

And then the world shook violently beneath their feet from the explosion downstairs.

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itsclydebitches · 5 years ago

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RWBY Recaps: “Gravity”

Good lord, folks. Buckle your seat-belts because we’ve got a lot to get through this episode. I think this is my longest recap to date, so settle in.

Episode Eleven’s “Gravity” starts out simple enough, focusing on the two fights we’d set up during “Out in the Open.” First up, Ironwood vs. Watts. Overall this fight does a really excellent job of showcasing their different fighting styles. Right from the start Watts is pointing his gun forward to take a clear shot at Ironwood, whereas Ironwood points his backwards to use as a surge of momentum.

He’s going to do this frequently throughout the battle, constantly using his gun to maneuver in the air, slow falls, regain his balance, and change directions, a much more complicated series of choices than the one-off shots we see Ruby use with her sniper rifle. This is partly because Ironwood seems to have a much larger supply of bullets---some sort of energy/dust ammo---than Watts does. His steampunk-esque gun holds only nineteen bullets, requiring him to keep track throughout the fight. Which is always a fun trope but sorry, Watts, you can’t compare to the king.

Thus, with limited weaponry available to him, Watts is forced to get creative with the arena itself. We see him manipulating gravity, shooting up columns of water and fire, and making use of his own pathways between platforms, all in an effort to throw Ironwood off and catch up unawares. However, Ironwood is, frankly, the much better fighter. He was right last week to assume he could handle Watts even though he sent three off to tackle Tyrian. He’s able to recover much more quickly and learns from any mistakes, as evidenced by his ability to hit Watts dead on while in the air the second time he takes out the gravity. When they come together in hand-to-hand Ironwood easily dominates, no doubt thanks not just to his military training and huntsmen lifestyle, but also in large part to his prosthetics which I would assume grant him more speed and power. Throughout the course of the fight we see Watts consistently take more damage to his aura and he’s unable to sense when Ironwood is sneaking up on him. After that little maneuver, Watts (presumably) grows reckless and lets off his last three or four shots in a random barrage. All of them miss.

This emphasis on emotion continues when they land back onto the main stage with Watts shouting, “You never appreciated my genius, James! You just stood atop it and called yourself a giant.” Oh, did Ironwood actually do something horrendous in the past? Is there something juicy that would explain---though not excuse---Watts’ turn towards villainy? Nah. He quickly follows that up with, “You chose that fat imbecile over me!” referring to Pietro. So... nice one, Watts. Crazy arrogance, willful ignorance of Pietro’s own, clear genius (anyone who can create Penny is no slouch), as well as a bit of fat-shamming on top of it all. No sympathy from me.

This moment emphasizes how unhinged Watts is becoming though as the fight turns against him. Even when he manages to setup a head shot Ironwood reveals, “You’re smart, but you’re not the only one who can count,” referencing that Watt’s emotions got the better of him, leading to him wasting his last bullet before it could be of real use.

...except not. I’ve got to admit, I was very pleased when all of this---or at least this particular moment---was merely a plan to get Ironwood to let his guard down. Watts is way too smart a character to be done in by the “You got too emotional and that made you sloppy” trope. So kudos there (even if it remains to be seen whether that Pietro comment was really his motivation, or just another part of the plan). Instead, he uses Ironwood’s confidence in his victory to trap him with the rings that control the arena, essentially pinning Ironwood’s non-prosthetic arm through the energy shields he’s been using. We can immediately see that the parts that have touched Ironwood already have horribly burned the skin.

And that ends up being Watt’s downfall. Not stupidity on his own part, but his lack of understanding of Ironwood himself. He assumes that this truly is a trap for him, rather than another sacrifice. After all, what fool would ruin their one remaining arm to stop him? Watts himself wouldn’t. Don’t pull, he cautions Ironwood, not “unless you’re hoping to add more metal to that body of yours.” Watts goes so far as to turn his back on Ironwood who then makes the sacrifice we all knew he would. One burned, useless arm later and he’s free.

I would like everyone to keep this moment in mind. Namely the utter devastation of it. I’d go so far as to say it’s as bad at Yang losing her arm in Volume 3. Despite seeing it bandaged later, Watts at least thinks it will be a complete loss if Ironwood sacrifices it. He’ll need to “add more metal,” AKA replace his arm, so though he obviously still has it in the following scenes, we don’t know if it will ever be functional again. Just as important, Ironwood had to choose to do that to himself. That wasn’t a horrific, but ultimately clean cut done in a moment of surprise. That was a conscious decision, a slow pull through all that pain, and then having to finish your fight immediately afterward. It’s a very different kind of psychological trauma, no better or worse than having someone take your arm from you by force. Throughout this volume I’ve seen a lot of fans being critical not only of Ironwood’s main decisions, but just his overall attitude as well. Too strict, too stern, doesn’t smile enough, yells sometimes, etc. basically associating someone who isn’t all sunshine and smiles with someone who is “bad.” Ignoring for the moment that we can say the same thing about many of our group---notably Yang---I have little doubt that I’ll see similar posts after this episode. Writings in the vein of, “Ironwood is unhinged! I can’t believe he yelled and hit his desk like that!” So everyone just keep this moment in mind and ask yourself how calm you’d be if you’d sacrificed your arm like that all of half an hour ago. And then found Salem’s calling card on your desk. And then came to the realization that the allies you trusted have been lying to you from the start. And then Salem herself appears to mock you. And then your city is about to be overrun. Basic summary of the rest of the episode: holy shit. So yeah. If Yang is allowed to be angry and upset after losing her arm, or just angry in general like she is in the later half of “Gravity,” I think we owe it to Ironwood to let him be angry too. I have a lot of feelings about the utter insanity he’s been forced through with little to no support and if he wants to take all that out by hitting his desk once, by god I’d say that’s a good coping strategy given the circumstances. Both the writing and the fans tend to erase trauma once you’ve passed age 25. The girls have every right to be upset, to break, to not trust people because they’ve been through a few months of hardship, but Ozpin isn’t allowed the same after a couple thousand years of that. We’re going to see the same hypocrisy later in this episode---the group can be upset about lies but Ironwood is not---and I’m hoping (against hope) that the fandom doesn’t make that worse by sweeping this injury under the rug. It’s horrific and absolutely has a bearing on his inability to keep his cool with the group immediately afterwards. We’ve long passed Ironwood owing them endless reassurances and calm responses.

Anyway, Ironwood still manages to finish the fight because his remaining arm is his robotic one, giving him the strength to easily drag and raise Watts into the air one-handed. He dangles him over the edge of the arena, announcing that he will “sacrifice whatever it takes to stop [Salem].” A clear bit of foreshadowing for his decision at the end of the episode. Watts responds that he hopes he does.

We then move to the Tyrian fight which, on the whole, I don’t think was done quite as well. Granted, there are a lot of enjoyable and badass moments. I like that Clover’s first act is to announce that Tyrian is under arrest, maintaining the law that Atlas (and Ironwood) works to uphold. It doesn’t matter that Tyrian is a crazy serial killer in league with an immortal sorceress hell-bent on destroying the world. Even crazy serial killers have rights and are given the option of surrendering, even when everyone present knows there’s exactly zero chance of that happening. It’s the principal of the thing and the ability to say, “We gave him a chance.” In a world overrun with inequality, this is a small but important attempt to level the field. If you do something wrong you face legal action and those rights are announced to you. Same for Tyrian. Same for Team RWBY. But we’ll get to that.

For now, we see Qrow attack first and like back in Volume Four he and Tyrian are pretty evenly matched. The tide doesn’t turn until Robyn and Clover come into play. Throughout this exchange we see a lot of cool combos among the three of them. Tyrian will block an incoming arrow with his tail only for Clover to snag it with his hook. Robyn can get another arrow to perfectly bounce off the walls and then Qrow’s scythe, hitting Tyrian dead on. Clover can dive between Tyrian’s legs, giving Qrow the opening he needs to attack. It is, as said, pretty badass... almost a little too badass. Personally, I would have appreciated them messing up once or twice. They’re all professionals, yes, but Qrow and Clover have only had one fight together. Robyn, meanwhile, wasn’t even allied with them until an hour ago. This is a situation where skills shouldn’t really trump, “We’re three very distinct people who don’t know each other’s fighting styles well, trying to attack one guy in very close quarters.” There should have been some screw-ups. Especially when we take semblances into account. What, are we supposed to assume here that Clover’s semblance just conveniently overrides Qrow’s? That no mistakes---let alone anything bad---will happen in this fight despite the fact that it’s an extreme parallel to Volume Four? That whole battle emphasized, “Don’t come closer!” because when people fight near Qrow bad shit happens. Now, he fights with two other people in a narrow alleyway and there’s not a single repercussion. Based on their travels looking for the geist, I don’t buy that Qrow’s semblance is just conveniently inactive while near Clover. Even if I did... that’s not a very good writing decision. To me, it’s just more evidence that Rooster Teeth doesn’t understand its own rules/doesn’t know what to do with an ability like Qrow’s. It causes problems only when they explicitly want it to. Then, miraculously, it’s no longer in effect.

Still, we’ll acknowledge that RWBY had a lot else it wanted to accomplish in this episode, so the need to power through this fight is somewhat justified. I personally would have had the entirety of this episode be the two battles---I was shocked when both ended just eight minutes in---but I’m obviously not the one writing the show. Thus, instead of an episode devoted to both the action and the emotion of confronting our two main villains this volume, Tyrian loses his cool after getting punched in the gut, manages to catch Robyn’s arrow in his teeth...

But it’s a bomb.

Down he goes. Fight’s done.

Which leads us into the second half of the episode. I want to preface this with a short acknowledgment before we go any further.

Did these last ten minutes give me what I’ve been looking for since the beginning of Volume Six? No. It’s easy to assume it did because all the pieces are there. Ironwood is finally angry about the secret keeping. The Ace Ops are criticizing the group left and right. Surely this is the “The group is capable of making mistakes and they should be called out for it!” that I wanted, right? Not really. For the simple reason that there is a massive difference between:

A story that acknowledges mistakes as mistakes. The characters either grow from this lesson or dig in their heels and are painted as being in the wrong for that decision.

and

A story that takes what the audience (me) perceives as mistakes and frames them as justified choices. The characters do not grow because they’re 100% sure they’re in the right and those who would criticize them are painted as in the wrong.

“Gravity” is so far into that second option I don’t think the series can come back from it. Does the group face criticism? Yes, but every single time the writing insists that it’s undeserved criticism. It paints the group as the underdogs facing unfair odds, rather than equals---with all the responsibility that comes with that---facing criticism that they need to own up to. Absolutely nothing in this second half implies that the group is going to learn from their mistakes because they, and the writing, still insists that they weren’t mistakes. Which is precisely what we’ve gotten before. Cordovin might criticism them, but Cordovin is in the wrong. Winter might criticism them, but Winter is in the wrong. Every time a character goes, “Hey, you shouldn’t have done this” the group responds with, “Yes we should have!” and the story backs them up. Yes, you should have attacked Argus. Yes, you should have stolen an airship. Yes, you should have lied to Ironwood and spilled the secret to Robyn. Yes, yes, yes. That’s the takeaway every single time. The group is never in the wrong. Others just think they are and those others are painted as cruel, militaristic, unhinged characters.

It’s not at all what I was looking for. Just more of the same.

So that’s the preface. In terms of what we actually get, Ironwood returns to his office with his arm bandaged and in a sling, carrying Watts’ bag, only to drop it when he sees the queen piece on his desk. He calls Winter asking, “Was anyone caught entering the school grounds while I was away?” and when she says no Ironwood has her race off to the Winter Maiden, unknowingly leading Cinder there in the process. “Now show me where you’ve been hiding her.”

We then cut to the group where the trouble begins. They’re not just curious about why Ironwood is recalling them with Mantle still in need of evacuation, they’re actively questioning it. This is the attitude I simply don’t understand. The group acts as if Ironwood is deliberately screwing everyone over when they know better. This is no longer the beginning of the volume where they thought he was some horrific dictator hell bent on destroying his own Kingdom. This is just an hour or so after, “We should tell Ironwood!” and the happy-go-lucky ‘We trust him now’ moment. Even less time after Ruby stared up at him in awe with, “He’s doing it.” They had reason to trust him before they even made it to Atlas. They were given even more reasons in the form of Ironwood sharing his secrets, early licenses, and being allowed to work on the tower. They then still waited until Ironwood was doing everything they wanted before giving him some of that trust back... but the moment he stops doing precisely what they want---we want to keep evacuating Mantle---he’s deemed suspicious again.

I mean seriously, is the group that dense? Are they incapable of thinking to themselves, “Wow, something must have happened if Ironwood is recalling us before evacuations are complete,” which is precisely the case. The scene tries to frame it as “Group Good” and “Ace Ops Blinding Obeying Orders Bad” but that aspect doesn’t even come into play. There’s nothing blind about it. It simply takes two seconds of critical thinking skills to realize that something really awful must have happened back at the Academy that trumps what you’re doing in Mantle. This is what I mean by the writing being biased. Before we even reach the fight in Ironwood’s office it’s trying to paint him as potentially cruel, potentially suspicious, potentially abandoning his people, look how worried our heroes are about this secret decision he’s made... when all that requires ignoring some really basic deduction in order to reach those assumptions. Remember that intelligence is a plot device in RWBY. If they want Ironwood forced to spill his secrets, he’ll randomly start talking about them in front of his enemies. If they want Ironwood painted as the villain, the group will randomly be incapable of realizing that maybe, just maybe, something went wrong on the home front and you’re needed there.

Things just get so much worse from then on. The group splits with JNR going off to find Oscar and, admittedly, I was shocked we got that at all. I mean yeah, it’s setup for the final reveal at the end of the episode, but the fact that anyone remembered Oscar was missing---let alone happily went off to find him---was still a surprise. So only Team RWBY heads back to Ironwood’s office where they find him (rightfully) panicking over the queen on his desk. Weiss tries to baby him, acting like he’s freaking out over nothing, when all these characters should recall precisely what Ironwood himself points out: the last time we saw this symbol it was a message that Beacon had fallen. He’s not paranoid here. He’s entirely justified in his panic. Ironwood likewise points out that they may have been duped into bringing thousands of people into Atlas as easy targets and Vine agrees, setting up that the Ace Ops are on Team Ironwood throughout the course of this conversation. Not out of blind loyalty, but because he’s right. That is a concern. That may be the plan. We do need to try and do something about that. Team RWBY, however, isn’t convinced.

That is, until Ruby realizes that the chess piece is made of black glass. Which means Cinder left it. Normally I’d congratulate her on that deduction---it is the one smart move we see Ruby pull this whole episode---but I just hate what follows. Namely that Ruby and Ruby alone controls her team’s opinions on a situation. Again. We saw it back in the snow, then again when Blake announced in the elevator that they’d do whatever she wanted. Team RWBY is the one who blindly follows their leader, not the Ace Ops, the only exception being Blake and Yang going rogue in regards to Robyn, but we see that hive-mind mindset here again. Ironwood brings up a good point? Nothing. Ace Ops support that point with more logic? Nothing. Ruby supports it? Oh, suddenly Weiss and Blake are taking this seriously. Suddenly Yang is fired up and ready to do whatever is necessary. Ruby controls the room. It’s only when she’s on board that her teammates decide this is worth getting riled up about.

Which, as I’ve said before, is a horrible way to write a diverse group. Especially when the writing is trying to paint the Ace Ops as mindless soldiers. For all their claims that they just have to follow orders, they’re the only ones parsing through this situation and coming to their own conclusions. It’s just that their conclusions do end up aligning with Ironwood’s which is the “bad” take in this scene. Team RWBY, however, waits until their leader makes a decision and then simply rides her cloak tails. The day that Blake, Yang, or Weiss legitimately disagree with Ruby---not a token “Are you sure we should keep secrets from Ironwood? We’re not actually challenging this. Just checking in”---is the day the writing will disagree with her. AKA, no time soon.

Blake tries to give some bland reassurance about them all being with Ironwood to which he responds, “Are you with me? How did Robyn know about the global communications tower?” Thank you! Thank you for giving us Ironwood’s characterization back and acknowledging that he has no reason to buy their generic ‘Got your back’ statements when everything they’ve done this volume has proven otherwise. They don’t support Ironwood, only themselves and their own teams. The minute he does something they don’t like he’s chucked under the bus. Too bad the writing doesn’t acknowledge any of this and instead continually paints the group as being justified in their decisions. It’s that hypocrisy again. When the group yells at Ozpin for keeping secrets we’re supposed to be on their side. When the Ace Ops yell at the group for keeping secrets we’re... still supposed to be on their side.

Weiss tries to diffuse the situation with “None of this matters right now!” which is real rich when they were just complaining about Ironwood not telling them why they were called back. They get to worry over that, but Ironwood isn’t allowed to worry about them outright betraying him? “Loyalty always matters!” he shouts back and he’s right. Why should Ironwood trust them to have his back in this crucial moment when they’ve never had it before? I’m already seeing more of this hypocrisy among the fandom. When Ozpin kept secrets and told lies the group was given a whole volume to be pissed about that and fans still, to this very day, insist that it hasn’t been enough time for them to get over it, to regain even a portion of that trust. But now that Ironwood has been lied to and betrayed in the same manner? People are annoyed that he’s not just shrugging it off. How dare you not get over in thirty seconds what our heroes got weeks to work through. His inability to just suck it up, as it were, is used to make him seem irrational here. I don’t see anyone, characters or fans alike, acknowledging that his anger is as righteous as the group’s was out in the snow. That there is the disconnect.

Of course, something has to break the tension. Drawn by all the fury and fear, a grimm pops out of Watts’ bag. A fail-safe for if he was defeated and captured. Salem immediately takes control of the grimm and kills it, using its form to appear before them. She reveals that it doesn’t matter that her men were captured. They were just there to “set the stage,” which they’ve done. Still doesn’t explain the random Penny side plot to my mind (seriously, why did the story bother to resurrect her when she has done nothing plot-wise or emotionally?), but whatever. Much more importantly, the stage is set for Salem herself. She’s approaching with the grimm army we saw her amassing which is... iffy.

First off, why? Why after a thousand years has she suddenly changed her MO from keeping to the sidelines to a full-on attack? Again, what’s the catalyst for that massive change? We don’t know. Meanwhile, from a writing perspective, I’m hesitant about having our Big Bad thrown into the mix before the finale. We know there are plenty of volumes left in this series, which automatically undermines any battle they might have with Salem. Will they win?? Of course not! Because RWBY isn’t over yet. Granted, this could all just be a ruse of some sort. Maybe Salem just wants them to think she’s approaching with an army, which would be much more up her alley in terms of long-distance manipulation. But if not... seriously, what’s the point of that?

Here’s hoping it’s a bluff.

Speaking of manipulation, we get a fantastically creepy moment where Salem tells Ironwood to “simply accept the futility of your situation” while smiling like a kind mother. That’s the Salem who is truly dangerous. Ironwood reaffirms that he won’t give up the relics and Ruby pips up with, “We don’t have to kill you to stop you.”

Hey wait. I’m gonna give you all another graphic.

This is Ozpin’s stance! This is his plan! His version of hope! We spent all of Volume Six having the cast beat on him for, “Omg Salem is immortal?!” and with the exception of Nora’s comment, no discussion of this in Volume Seven... but now suddenly Ruby is making this announcement? The group came to this revelation sometime off screen which we a) don’t get to see and b) once again created no scenario in the form of, “Wow! Ozpin was right all along! Maybe we should go talk to him...”

I’m just... wow. The number of times the writing takes what the group and the adults do, the exact same perspectives and decisions, and twists it so that the group comes out looking like heroes and the adults look like misguided, unhinged fools who need to be put in their place... I’m really over it at this point. And by extension the group themselves. Their characterizations have been so badly mangled at this point I legitimately don’t like them as people. I don’t care if they say they want to protect Mantle, or if they say they’ll support Ironwood, or if they say they’re unsure about their choices. All their actions claim otherwise.

Rather than grappling with the huge revelation that the group is apparently no longer obsessed with Salem’s immortality (or rather that Ruby isn’t. The rest of the group doesn’t actually matter. As established, they sync up with her beliefs the second she announces them), we return to Summer Rose. Salem goes, “Your mother said those words to me” and Ruby... loses it? What? I would have been 100% on board with this if we’d gotten it last Volume because then we saw Ruby losing her cool periodically. The smashed alcohol bottles. Chucking her scroll. Screaming at Qrow. That was all building to something. But then we had a year and roughly twelve episodes of normality. Ruby jumps into her fight with Cordovin and has been fine ever since. Hell, she’s been bubbly and confident, goofing off with Penny in one episode, then giving strong orders to her team in another. The one time we see her falter was in her conversation with Qrow and he reassured her completely that she was both doing the right thing and in no way comparable to Ozpin. Now, suddenly, one line from Salem and Ruby collapses? Full on incapacitated? I could buy the crying while still standing strong, I could buy a collapse if we’d kept her characterization going from Volume Six, but this kind of reaction in this context just felt so extreme. Doesn’t help that I really wasn’t sold on the voice acting here. Those cries sound less like devastated sobs and more like weird hiccups. Not to rag on Lindsay. On the whole I think she does a really excellent job as Ruby, it’s just this particular moment didn’t read right to me. I didn’t feel Ruby’s supposed grief here.

So that was... a lot for one line from Salem in a volume of otherwise confident and cool-headed Ruby. We also don’t see it amounting to anything, as per usual with RWBY’s writing. Ruby isn’t out of commission for the rest of the conversation or anything. She pops right back up after a second in Yang’s lap, just as confident and go-getting as before. There was no lead up to this and there are no consequences for the breakdown. Rooster Teeth honestly seems to think they can just chuck random things into the story---Ruby needs to show emotion at some point!---and then just leave it at that, entirely disconnected from everything else around it. Would we have known that Ruby just had her first breakdown of the series a minute later while once again betraying Ironwood? Nope.

Finally, this scene shows us again that the Argus battle was a bunch of nonsense. Ruby’s eyes nearly activate when she’s grieving for her mother, imagining---or perhaps seeing via Salem?---a sad Summer, not a smiling one. Just like her eyes activated while seeing Pyrrha die. Just like they activated when Blake was nearly killed by the Apathy. They activate now while thinking about her mother’s death. The montage of happy moments in lieu of the sad ones not working last volume was entirely out of place.

Salem finally leaves. Now everyone is panicking about this army. Elm points out that they’ll know if anything approaches. Vine checks and realizes that Watts took out their perimeter. Either that or Salem has already destroyed everyone and everything out there. It’s impossible to know. During all this Blake asks if the Amity tower is actually finished and we get more nonsense about how Ironwood is evil for telling a lie, but the group is always justified in telling theirs. The writing really tried to compare Ironwood telling Mantle---who I guarantee 100% does not care about whether a communications tower is finished while they’re getting attacked by grimm---a lie to lure out one of their biggest threats to Blake and Yang going behind Ironwood’s back to tell a potentially non-trustworthy outlaw about said tower, risking that the information would fall into the wrong hands and doom the project before it could be completed either way. Those are not in any way comparable situations, yet the writing really has Weiss going, “General Ironwood?” in a ‘How could you betray us like that?’ tone while Yang continues to look pissed.

And as if they didn’t know! How is this a personal betrayal? They were all helping to build that tower. Surely they’d know it it was that close to being done. Again, critical thinking skills, people. Anyone with two brain cells and their insider information should have looked at Ironwood’s announcement and gone, “Oh, that must be a bluff. Just a few days ago we were arguing about whether to continue taking resources from Mantle. No way is Amity ready. He’s going after Watts. Who is indeed the much bigger threat. Considering that he has control over the entirety of our technology and there’s literally no downside to telling Mantle about a finished tower when they’re getting devoured by grimm.” This is another, “But lying is wrong!” in the face of “But lying kept us alive...?”

Does everyone get what I’m saying here? How RWBY takes these situations and tries to paint them in an absolutely ridiculous light, expecting the audience to blindly accept this perspective despite everything else they’ve seen for themselves? Like, two episodes ago? I swear I’ve never encountered writing that treats its audience this badly. Scene after scene relies heavily on the viewer having no ability to think for themselves. Just accept that Ironwood is a horrible person for lying about the tower even though there are no repercussions for that and we JUST watched him defeating Watts as a result. Like, five minutes ago. That just happened. In this episode.

Ironwood then drops the bomb that Winter has gone off to claim the Maiden power. Interesting development. I wonder what that means exactly. Is she just going to lock herself away until the Maiden dies naturally? Do they have her on some sort of life support and is there an agreement to pull the plug if necessary? Are they going to use a machine similar to the one Pyrrha was in and try to force the change early? Or is this just a misleading comment and Winter is merely off to protect the Maiden, no intention of taking the power now? Who knows. We’ll have to wait until next episode to find out.

Ironwood likewise announces that the staff and the lamp need to be locked away now that they’re compromised, even though they’ve been compromised since they first saw Tyrian in Mantle. Insert another [this scenario is so stupid and contrived] explanation here. It’s made worse by Ruby’s childish “You said we could keep it.” Excuse me? What, did you think the lamp was your personal property now forever and always? Is Ruby really sitting there arguing that something Ironwood told her weeks ago trumps the obvious logic of putting the relic where it’s somewhere safe? That’s the characterization we’re going for, a leader who cares more about, ‘But you said we could have it!’ over the fate of the world? What even is this? The fact that Ironwood has to explain to them that the situation has changed just reinforces the group’s overall attitude. That is, one of arrogance and importance. They literally need to be told why putting the relic in a nearly impenetrable vault is better than letting them have it just because they want it. Plus, you know, they lied about the lamp from the start. So there’s that too.

Finally, Ironwood reveals that Amity was originally a plan of Ozpin’s but he didn’t push it far enough. Instead, he intends to use the staff to lift all of Atlas instead, hopefully taking two relics and a Maiden far out of Salem’s reach. Ruby wants to use the tower for its designed purpose instead, which is only a valid option in her mind because the writing was stupid last week. If there had actually been any logic there---if people had been allowed to react naturally and in a variety of ways to the Salem announcement, rather than a super convenient “Yeah! Let’s all work together!” across an entire, panicking city---she wouldn’t be quite so eager to tell the whole world. But we all know at this point that logic bends to the protagonists’ whims, so Ruby wants that same perfect ending across all of Remnant. She stands her ground, as does her team. Obviously.

Meanwhile, the Ace Ops aren’t just following Ironwood’s orders like the writing wants us to think via Harriet’s earlier comment. Rather, they’re each thinking through the situation for themselves and making very good points. If Salem has taken out our perimeter than we know our tech and people don’t stand a chance against this army. We just finished up the fight in Mantle and none of us are in a position to start another. Notably, Harriet brings this up, the one whose aura took a massive hit while nearly getting crushed underfoot. Vine points out that sometimes you have to lose a battle to win the war, but Team RWBY, to be blunt, simply doesn’t care.

I’ll be blunt myself here too: I don’t have an easy solution to this particular scenario. I don’t know what the “right” or the “wrong” choice is. Weighing starting a fight with VERY high stakes you’ll lose against abandoning the people of Mantle is just a straight up horrific decision. Like so much of what Ozpin faced, there is no clear-cut, good answer here. Do you stand by the people and risk the world, or work to save the world and doom the people? I don’t know and I do commend Rooster Teeth for writing a difficult choice... just not in giving each side the weight it deserves. Because as said, we’re meant to root for Team RWBY, always. Theirs is presented as the “right” choice every time, despite the fact that, as established, this is far from a black and white decision.

What frustrates me the most is when faced with all of these logical and very important considerations (we might not have backup, we’re in no position to fight, if Salem gets the relics and another Maiden the world is screwed) the group won’t even acknowledge these things. They’re so set in their own perspective they won’t even give these HUGE concerns the time of day. Rather, Yang shoots back, “You can’t just back down from a fight!”

That’s it. That’s the group’s problem in a single line.

This is what got Pyrrha killed.

It’s something the group should remember. She also insisted on fighting when she should have retreated and, since this was back during the days when characters actually faced consequences for their actions, it cost Pyrrha her life. Granted, going after Cinder was a truly useless endeavor. Pyrrha achieved nothing with her sacrifice. Here, Team RWBY hopes to save the people of Mantle, adding a clear justification for their insistence on fighting... but this is nevertheless indicative of that larger “punch it until it stops moving” mindset. It’s not that they decide to fight instead of retreating that’s the problem, it’s that to their mind fighting is the only option. Ever. This is what led to them attacking Cordovin and destroying Argus’ mech, drawing a massive grimm in the process. When faced with the option of backing down, Team RWBY doesn’t consider that an option at all. Which is heroic when up against an actual enemy, far less so when you’re facing an ally and the choice to fight has serious repercussions attached to it. Hell, the group doesn’t even consider compromises. They could have easily acknowledged that collecting the relics, the Maiden, and getting the staff to work on Atlas will take time. You do that while we focus on evacuating the rest of Mantle to the city. But no, even the concept of a compromise simply isn’t possible. You just always fight. Straight up. Anyone who suggests anything less isn’t a true huntsmen. “We’re loyal to the people!” Ruby shouts, as if “the people” doesn’t also include the rest of the world that Ironwood is trying to save and that they’re endangering by keeping the relics and Maiden within Salem’s reach.

That is one messed up perspective to tout in a story infused with the complex and the morally gray.

The real kicker though? Ruby’s ‘My way or the highway’ attitude obliterates a solution that fell straight into her lap. Jaune calls and says straight out that they have another situation. If Ruby had listened to her teammate for just three seconds they all would have learned about Oscar, thereby undermining Ironwood’s plan. He can’t keep the lamp safe if he doesn’t know where it is. You look for it while, again, we evacuate Mantle. Then we take everything out of Salem’s reach. Win-win. Instead, Ruby blasts her way through the situation. Literally, dodging Ironwood and hiding behind his desk shouting a highly bias version of his plan in the hopes of getting everyone on her side. And it works.

Because those like Clover don’t get to hear any of that context. Like how the perimeter is gone, there’s an army potentially coming, no one is in a position to fight, we’ve already lost a relic... they just here a Ruby’s version of events that paints Ironwood as the callous man Robyn thought he was---oh my god he’s abandoning Mantle for no good reason!---and people will react accordingly. Ruby likewise doesn’t care that shouting such information over all channels does things like, say, clue Tyrian into their plan. She just wants to do things her way, right now. Pausing to think (because thinking isn’t fighting) simply doesn’t happen.

I used to adore Ruby as a hero. Someone who was intrinsically good, hopeful, and wickedly clever in her ability to come out on top. Now she’s stubborn, arrogant, at times cruel, and charges in headfirst like her sister, refusing to consider any perspective other than her own. And her team endlessly supports that. The writing endlessly supports that. This isn’t our hero working through her flaws, but rather a flawed character that the writing refuses to acknowledge is flawed. When Ruby flies behind Ironwood’s desk the music rises triumphantly, just like it did when she attacked Cordovin’s mech. When Ironwood announces that they’re under arrest, Ruby spits back, “We won’t just let you take us” and we’re supposed to cheer.

Which brings us back to the question of whether the group really faced consequences here. Let me give you all a random, non-RWBY example of two scenes. Scenario One:

Parent: You punched her?

Teen: She insulted me!

Parent: I understand that, but that doesn’t mean you were justified in attacking her.

Teen: Oh, I was.

Parent: Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t, but you can’t solve all your problems that way.

Teen: I... I know that, okay. Back off. I just get so angry...

Parent: I know. We’re going to work on that. You’re grounded this weekend. We can discuss this more then.

Teen: [sighs] Fine.

vs. Scenario Two:

Parent: You punched her?

Teen: She insulted me!

Parent: I understand that, but that doesn’t mean you were justified in attacking her.

Teen: Oh, I was.

Parent: Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t, but you can’t solve all your problems that way.

Teen: Screw you! It worked didn’t it? I think a good punch goes a long way.

Parent: That’s not... okay look. You’re grounded this weekend so---

Teen: Like hell I am. [Proceeds to run off]

Teen: [Later to friend] ---and then she tried to ground me? Can you believe that?

Friend: Holy shit what an asshole.

If we put aside my own iffy dialogue for the moment, Scenario One acknowledges the complexity of the situation while likewise pointing out that the teen didn’t handle herself well. RWBY has achieved that here: the ethics of this scenario are acknowledged as complicated, but the group did things they shouldn’t have, as evidence by Ironwood’s anger and the Ace Ops’ criticism. However, Scenario One goes on to let the teen acknowledge that mistake, thereby validating it in the first place. A consequence is set, grounding, and they accept that, thereby further validating that their behavior needs work. They accept the consequence because both they and the writing acknowledge that the consequence is deserved. It takes what was previously two subjective stances---they say I’m wrong, I say I’m right---and encourages the audience to find the middle ground. Neither was totally wrong or right. The teen might be justified in some respects, but still made mistakes in others. She needs to improve.

RWBY, however, steers firmly into Scenario Two wherein the teen (Team RWBY) insists points blank that they never made mistakes in the first place, thereby encouraging the audience to question whether Ironwood and the Ace Ops (the parent) is right to be calling them out at all. We see no humility or guilt, only confidence. Ruby shouting “No!” at Cordovin when she’s told to surrender. Yang keeping silent after admitting that she and Blake told Robyn, not bothering to apologize or admit that this might have been a breech of trust. They challenge the validity of the claim that mistakes were made and by virtue of being protagonists encourage the audience to challenge it too. Finally, we see them reject the consequence because they will not admit that it’s deserved. The teen will not accept a grounding. Ruby: “We won’t just let you take us.” We’re then told by others that this rejection was warranted. The friend reinforces the view that the teen was right to run because that punishment is undeserved. The message is, “You never did anything wrong in the first place.” The plot of RWBY likewise reinforces the view that resisting Cordovin’s arrest was right by having her randomly let the group go. The consequence is replaced with a reward and, presumably, we’ll have a similar situation wherein the group either defeats the Ace Ops or is released by them. The consequences never take hold because the writing doesn’t think there should be consequences in the first place. Team RWBY isn’t going to be arrested here. They’re certainly not acknowledging that on some level they deserve to be. We didn’t see that humility while they were cuffed on the airship---that most basic acknowledgement of, “Did we make some mistakes? Could we have done something better? Is Ironwood right to be this mad?”---and there’s none of it now here, either. The tone is pure, “How dare you try and arrest us? We’re the good guys here!”

This remains as pro-protagonist as it has been the last two volumes. There are no consequences, only another hurdle for the group to overcome, painted as heroes for doing so. It’s Team RWBY vs. The Ace Ops and there’s no confusion about who we’re supposed to be rooting for. The Ace Ops because the group should rightly be stopped from hindering Ironwood’s attempts to keep the relics and a Maiden out of Salem’s hands, for their own lies and secret keeping that endangered them all this volume? Nope. It’s Team RWBY as the presumed heroes, facing off against soldiers who (supposedly) prioritize orders over what’s “right.”

And yeah, Oscar is gone. There are a number of dismantled robots and blaster fire in the room where Neo presumably took him. So unless they do a flashback we don’t get to see if/how Ozpin reacted to this initial attack. I hope they do provide a flashback because otherwise that’s another crucial scene of Oscar’s that happened off screen...

Can’t wait to see what else we’ll end up with next week! Until then, 💜

#rwby #rwby volume 7 #rwby volume 7 spoilers #rwby recaps #mymetas

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