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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Note

Please say more abt how Martin fits the closed off trait I'm begging 👁👁

Okay, so I got a bit carried away with this and it got quite lengthy....

I've put a TLDR above the cut and the details, transcripts, and general discussion below the cut!

TLDR: Martin is at his core a closed-off character who keeps his vulnerable feelings hidden and close to his chest. He instead focuses on caring for others and considering their feelings above his own, particularly in the case of Jon, who he cares for (sometimes to the point of self-sacrifice) throughout the podcast. His arc with the Lonely in season four and his interactions with Jon in season five demonstrate this lack of emotional vulnerability, and it's really only during the moments he spends by himself that we get significant insight into Martin's emotional state and inner thoughts.

Martin, to me, is a character who is very used to hiding how he feels. He tends to care for others at the expense of himself, has low self-esteem, and has a predilection towards the Lonely, all of which go hand-in-hand with somebody who is very used to hiding their emotions--particularly the negative ones--because they either think they're not important or that they're inconvenient and inappropriate for the situation. On a textual level, that's probably due to growing up with a sick (and likely unsupportive) mother who he had to take care of, where there was 'no time' for his emotions to get in the way or for him to prioritize himself in any way, shape, or form.

Martin is self-destructive, dislikes moments of emotional vulnerability, and (I would argue) genuinely struggles when he doesn't have somebody else to prioritize over himself. (His mother at first, but as the series goes on, Jon settles comfortably into this role for him.) Additionally, the biggest way that we, the audience, know anything about Martin's emotional state is when he's alone and self-reflecting (such as in MAG 170 and 186 or when talking to the tapes) or when he's forced to talk about something vulnerable (such as when Jon confronted him about his CV).

We don't get much insight into Martin's character between seasons one and three (at least not as much as we get in four and five), but I find myself drawn to this bit in MAG 118, when Martin is talking to Elias:

MARTIN

So what? I don’t get to be angry? I don’t get to burn things? Just, just run around, making tea, while everyone else gets to actually have feelings?

I think two things are important to note here. The first is that Elias is surprised (or least intrigued) that Martin is acting in this way--specifically, acting on his emotions in such a dramatic way. (And given that Martin is doing this as a distraction, rather than actually acting out because of his own emotions, maybe he's right to be surprised.) The second is that this line very much implies that Martin doesn't talk about how he's feeling, not like 'everyone else' does. He doesn't talk about it, doesn't act on it--just 'runs around, making tea.' And when Melanie comes back in after Elias is done, Martin immediately focuses on the plan and whether it succeeded, ignoring Melanie when she asks if he's okay or not. He closes himself off, and as far as we know, doesn't talk about it at all after that.

And then Jon goes into his coma, and we reach season four.

Martin is incredibly closed-off during season four. He's self-isolating, self-sacrificial, and approaching a state of genuine emotional numbness by the time he's cast into the Lonely. There's a lot to unpack there, but I'm going to focus on a few main things, many of which can be drawn from this bit in MAG 158:

MARTIN

It’s not him! It’s not anybody. It’s just me. Always has been. I…

When I first came to you, I thought I had lost everything. Jon was dead, my mother was dead, the job I had put everything into trapped me into spreading evil and I… I really didn’t care what happened to me. I told myself I was trying to protect the others, but… honestly we didn’t even like each other. Maybe I just thought joining up with you would be a good way to get killed.

And then… Jon came back, and… and suddenly I had a reason I had to keep your attention on me. Make you feel in control so you didn’t take it out on him. And if that meant drifting further away, so what? I’d already grieved for him. And if it meant now saving him, it was worth it.

When you started talking about the Extinction, though… you had me actually, then, for a while. But then – (laughs sardonically) then, you tried to make me the hero. Tried to sell me on the idea that I was the only one who could stop it. And that I’ve never sat right with me. I mean, I mean, look – look at me, I’m not exactly a – a chosen one. But by then I was in too deep. So I played along. Waited to see what your end game was, and here we are.

Funny. Looks like I was right the first time. It’s probably still a good way to get killed?

This monologue is a big insight into Martin's thought process during this season, and I'm mostly going to focus on two parts: the self-sacrifice and the prioritization of Jon.

Self-sacrifice

There's quite a bit of discussion about Jon's self-sacrificial tendencies, but less so about Martin's, both in this season and in season five. In my opinion, Jon's self-sacrificial tendencies originate from (among other things) survivor's guilt from his traumatic childhood experience with Mr. Spider, his increasing belief that he's less than human, and the fact that he prioritizes the lives of others over his own. Martin's self-sacrificial tendencies, while very similar, come from the fact that he thinks he only has worth if he can help and care for someone else and the fact that he doesn't think he's important enough to live. (For example, he says in MAG 158 that he's 'not exactly a chosen one' and says in MAG 198 that he's 'not important enough to kill.')

It's a subtle difference between these two things, and I would argue that while Jon's tendencies are more rooted in the 'help' (ie, 'I want to help other people and I will sacrifice myself to do it'), Martin's tendencies are more rooted in the 'hurt' (ie, 'I will sacrifice myself and other people will be helped in the process'). There is, of course, overlap, and it's not a black-and-white distinction between the two, but ultimately, I think Martin is so used to prioritizing others' emotions and needs above his own that when he's left mostly alone as he is at the end of season three, with the only person left to hold onto being in a coma (possibly forever), he falls back into the same patterns of self-destruction and closed-offness, only without the 'help' to go along with the 'hurt' because there is nobody left to help (especially after his mother dies). Ultimately, he joins up with Peter because he thinks it 'would be a good way to get killed.'

Prioritization of Jon

But then Jon wakes up from his coma, and now Martin has justification for his self-sacrifice again, because he can protect Jon by continuing to work with Peter!

... Maybe.

Jon isn't harmed by Peter during season four, sure, but he does climb into the coffin and visits Ny-Ålesund and is tracked down by Julia and Trevor and struggles emotionally and morally with his own humanity and is hurt, in a way, by the distance Martin puts between them. And I hesitate to place blame for the apocalypse on anybody but Jonah, but if we're going to argue in-canon that Jon was responsible for the apocalypse (he wasn't, but that's not the point of this post), then Martin contributed to that blame and responsibility because it was his actions and decisions that ultimately drew Jon into the Lonely and resulted in him getting the 14th and final mark. (Again, I don't think Jon or Martin are at fault for the apocalypse, but if we were to blame Jon, we could blame Martin as well.) It was only after getting that mark that Jonah was able to use Jon to end the world, something that was hugely hurtful for Jon. So did Martin really protect Jon at all by staying away from him and continuing to work with Peter? Or was that just a convenient excuse to keep self-destructing?

Jon and Martin, in my opinion, had very similar arcs in season four. Martin was sinking further into the Lonely and Jon was sinking further into the Eye. We hear a lot more about Jon's emotional struggle with this given that he's the POV character, sure, but Jon also talks about this with other people. He talks about it to Helen (MAG 152):

JON

…

When does it stop?

HELEN

(impatient) What?

JON

The guilt. The misery. All the others I’ve met, they’ve been – cold, cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does the Eye (inhale) make me monstrous?

And to Daisy (MAG 136):

JON

My – (large sigh) My memories of the coma are not clear, but I know I made a choice; I made a choice to become… something else. Because I was afraid to die. But ever since then, I – I don’t know if I made the right decision; I’m stronger now, tougher, I can – (he cuts himself off) If I do die, now, or get sealed away somewhere forever? I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. And I don’t want to lose anyone else, so if I can maybe – stop that happening, and the only danger is to me, I – I’ll do it in a heartbeat; worst case scenario, the universe loses another monster.

But all we really get from Martin are the things he tells the tapes when he's alone and the monologue he gives in MAG 158. It makes sense that he wouldn't be as open, yes, given the nature of the Lonely, but I can't help but think of (MAG 154):

JON

The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it?

MARTIN

(no hesitation) You know, I think it always did.

Jon was always curious and hungry for knowledge; the Eye amplified it. Martin was always closed-off and isolated; the Lonely amplified that as well.

But then Jon pulls Martin out of the Lonely, they flee to the safehouse, and three weeks later, the apocalypse begins. Martin isn't as consumed by the Lonely as he was in season four, he's with Jon--the person he loves--for extended periods of time, and they're in an extremely stressful situation that's sure to be incredibly emotionally charged. There's a lot to be said about Jon's emotional vulnerability during season five and how Martin both pressures him for it and rejects it in different ways, but for the purposes of this post, I won't go too far into detail about the motivations behind how Jon is feeling and acting.

I will say, however, that in season five, Martin still continues to place a lot of focus on asking Jon how he's feeling, encouraging (or pressuring) him to share, and getting frustrated when Jon can't or doesn't (MAG 167):

MARTIN

Okay, so how exactly would you describe your current emotional state regarding all of this?

JON

I –

MARTIN

(overlapping) Go on, I’m all ears.

JON

I feel…

MARTIN

(go on) Mhm.

JON

(sigh) I feel… sad.

[Brief pause.] MARTIN

(flat) Sad.

JON

Very sad.

MARTIN

(*very* flat) Very sad.

[He sighs slightly as he says it. Their bags jangle.]

A few moments prior to this, Martin expresses displeasure that Jon is Knowing things about him, specifically pointing out his emotions (MAG 167):

MARTIN

It’s just – it’s weird knowing that you can know literally everything I think and feel. E-Especially since you’re not exactly the most open of people – emotionally, I mean.

I think Martin is making an effort to open up more to Jon. But I still think it's difficult for him to talk about how he feels so openly, and while he is completely in the right for not wanting Jon to Know things about him without his permission, I think it's interesting that the focus is on his feelings and that he brings up how Jon isn't emotionally open immediately after. It scares Martin to think that Jon could know, at any given moment, how he's feeling, and I think it's partially because he's not used to that level of vulnerability. He turns the focus on Jon, away from himself, and doesn't really make an effort to talk about how he's feeling about all of this, instead prioritizing Jon's feelings and mental state like he's grown comfortable with.

And when Martin bottles up his emotions--of which there are a lot, in such a stressful environment, they can explode out in hurtful ways:

MARTIN

(overlapping) I know! I know, okay, I just – (bracing exhale) Look, I j,just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever.

JON

Is that – a joke?

MARTIN

(a bit faster, a bit shaky) No, no, okay? I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!

I don't think Martin really thought about what he was saying when he told Jon, who has a large burn scar on his hand, that burn scars make him sick, and I don't think he meant it maliciously. But he'd spent the greater portion of the conversation talking around the fact that he didn't like burns and that was why he didn't want to go into the building, and so when it finally ended up coming out, it did so in an explosion of emotion rather than a conscious decision to share. Martin doesn't have a good handle on his emotions, and he doesn't have a good handle on sharing them.

(Is it too much for me to say that Martin was more emotionally vulnerable with himself in MAG 170 than he was with Jon when Jon finally found him?)

Throughout season five, Martin asks Jon questions, he expresses frustrations with Jon, he shows discomfort or fear at times, but for as much as Martin feels frustrated that Jon isn't talking about how he feels about their situation, Martin really isn't doing so either. The most he talks about his feelings is in MAG 170 and MAG 186, when he's by himself, and I remember MAG 186 in particular because before that, we really didn't know what Martin was thinking about for the majority of the season! And in this episode, we find out a lot of very important things about Martin's character. Like (MAG 186):

ALSO MARTIN

Look, I know what you know. Maybe I’m just a bit more… open about it.

Also-Martin acknowledges that Martin often doesn't say what he means and hides what he really feels, telling him that it's 'hard to be vulnerable,' and Martin is initially very resistant to the idea. And then, when Also-Martin suggests that Martin wants to stay so that he can be 'quietly sad,' we get (MAG 186):

MARTIN

We could talk to Jon about it.

ALSO MARTIN

We could. But we both know that loved ones make the worst therapists. They’re too wrapped up in trying to stop you hurting to actually help. But hey, we know all about that, am I right?

MARTIN

There’s nothing wrong with comforting people.

ALSO MARTIN

A cup of tea isn’t a resolution. At best it’s a… a plaster. At worst… a muzzle.

This is very interesting to me, because for all that Martin tries to help other people, he also believes that comfort doesn't always help and that you can't be your loved one's 'therapist.' I think this gives a lot of insight into why Martin doesn't share his emotions with the people he cares about, especially Jon; he doesn't want to put Jon in the position where he'll become his 'therapist,' and he doesn't necessarily think Jon can help. So instead, Martin just chooses not to be vulnerable at all, because he doesn't want to burden the people he cares about. But, when it's just him (MAG 186):

ALSO MARTIN

Don’t lie. You don’t need to. Not here. It’s just us.

He doesn't feel like he needs to pull his emotional punches. He can't accidentally hurt somebody or put them in an awkward position; it's just himself. But what's said to himself remains with himself, and (at least on tape), he doesn't discuss any of this with Jon. Not even the bit about, if it came down to it, Martin would have rather had Jon smite him than continue to rule over a domain. He goes right back to being closed-off around Jon, but now we, the audience, know what lies underneath, and how little of it reaches the surface.

In fact, the thing Martin's probably most vocal about is how Jon's feelings about himself bother him (MAG 199):

MARTIN

I guess that’s why it really bothers me, you know? I try, but I can’t actually imagine ever making a decision that I knew meant losing you.

And it… It hurts to know you can.

And I think he has a tendency to use anger and frustration to cover up hurt, shying away from the admission that something Jon's done has hurt him (an incredibly vulnerable thing) and instead relying on the less-vulnerable and more external anger to cover it. This is more speculation than true analysis, but I think that's a lot of what's happening in MAG 200, when he discovers that Jon has already assumed the position of the pupil and has, in Martin's eyes, broken his promise.

#tma #the magnus archives #martin blackwood #tma meta #jonathan sims #(because i do talk about jon a bit in this too)#i actually think martin isn't good with emotions at all #both his own and others'#i think he doesn't quite know what to do with them so he puts on a mask and defaults to things he knows will work #*thinks about the low empathy autistic martin high empathy autistic jon post with love in my heart*

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demonicheadcanons · 3 years

Note

Could I suggest the brothers reacting to MC confessing to them accidentally?

MC Confesses to the Obey Me! Brothers By Accident

AN: Cute prompt! Sorry I took so long to get to this, nonny! This post is romance based, so if you’re looking for something more platonic I’m sorry but this one’s not it ;u;

They’re literally almost all sleepy in these, I’m having a day where I find that really cute ^^”

Lucifer

Lucifer feels exhausted, half-dozing off at his desk when you walk in and poke him square on the forehead. It startles him enough that he sends you a harsh glare through his hair. You grin at him, and he responds only by scoffing and turning to the side, stretching his arms out. Well, he is grateful you woke him up to some degree - he has a lot of work to get done and has to remain focused.

But there’s something enchanting about how he looks and moves when he’s too tired and trusts you enough that he doesn’t feel the need to remain guarded. He’s graceful as always, but allowing someone to see him looking, for a lack of a better term, like his feathers were thoroughly ruffled and he was ready to turn in for the night, was a rare treat, and one sweet enough to crush your own walls.

By the time you realise you’ve just admitted to liking him aloud - something simple, but he knows what you mean when you say that maybe you like him a little too much, mumbled under your breath mindlessly - he’s already standing in front of you, leaning down to look you square in the face with an unreadable expression.

The corners of his mouth twitch up as he requests - or demands, its hard to tell - that you repeat what you just said. "I like you?" you say, although it sounds like a question, and he smiles and asks, "Are you sure? You don't sound it," with a teasing lilt to his voice.

You don't get to respond before he hums and straightens up, crossing his arms. "How much?" he asks, sitting against the front of his desk and watching you carefully.

"What do you mean, how much?" you sigh, frustrated. This proud man was getting on your nerves. Its not like confessing is easy, planned or not, and he had the gall to tease you about it?

"How much do you like me?" Lucifer's smile widens. When you don't respond, and you start to look somewhere on the edge of hurt, he sighs, rubs his eyes and stands up, tossing his pen unceremoniously onto the desk. He opens his arms and waits for you to walk into them, thoroughly confused by this entire interaction. "I like you too. I thought I'd get to confess first, but it seems you were so determined to beat me to it you did it without thinking."

You blush and glare up at him. That proud smile of his is softer around the edges now, and his hair is still just messy enough from where he's been running his hands through it whilst working that it makes your heart race. You lean into him, press your face against his chest, and release all your pent up emotions in a sigh. Lucifer responds with a chuckle, and he kisses the top of your head.

"Would you like some tea, my dear?"

[[Others under the read more!]]

Mammon

- You two tended to relax together. Things were stressful, it was hard being in a new world and Mammon had been the first to befriend you, even if he refused to admit how much he cared for you most of the time.

But he's tired now, and its a little different. He'd brought over a blanket again and he was on the floor of your room, where he tended to spend a lot more of his nights now, but also where he'd found a place for himself since the very beginning when you first arrived. He leans up on his elbow and looks up at you, and you watch him in turn from the bed. You'd just been talking about something or other but now he's simply grinning at you, something devilish and handsome, and you can't stop yourself.

"I really like you," you half-whisper, and then cover your mouth immediately as if you can stop him from hearing it, can stop the words from leaving and making their way to him. They don't, and he tilts his head, face slowly turning red.

"Huh? What'd you just say?" he asks, sitting up and staring at you. His eyebrows twitch down into a frown, and he looks puzzled, and almost a little bit hurt? "D'you mean it?"

Before you can respond, he barks out a laugh and lays down, staring at the ceiling and covering his face with one arm. “Ah, yeah. We’re friends, right? I like you too.”

You shake yourself out of your stupor to glare at him. “I don’t mean as friends, Mammon.”

He sits up again, looking offended. “What, so we’re not even friends now? Wow! Way to break it to me.”

“You-” you half-growl, before taking a deep breath. Your face is burning, and he’s maybe starting to piece things together, but you can’t stand any more of this. “I like you. I want to go on dates with you, and be your partner, and spend as much time with you as possible. I like seeing your smile when I wake up and knowing I have someone I can trust.”

His jaw drops open and he turns away, covering his face with one hand. “Gimme a second,” he mumbles, and when he looks back at you there are tears in his eyes and he’s grinning. “Of course. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with the Great Mammon!”

His voice catches, and then he’s laughing and crying and you scramble out of your bed to kneel next to him, startled and concerned. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and pulls you down on top of him.

“I like you too, MC.” He kisses the top of your head, watery giggles still rattling through his chest.

Leviathan

In all fairness, neither of you were expecting it. It was late, or maybe it was early? You could never really tell in the Devildom, and you didn’t want to move right now for fear of ruining the moment.

Levi was curled up against your side, eyes fluttering closed and then bolting open again as he tried to focus on whatever show he was supposed to be presenting to you. He’d been talking through a lot of it, and you still had the remote in one hand so you could pause it to listen to him properly each time without missing anything. After about an hour of that, he’d started to look tired, and then eventually flopped down against your side, defenseless and unworried, too tired to really process what he was doing.

Your other arm was wrapped around his shoulder, touch featherlight on his jacket for fear of startling him. He was cute, adorable even, and whilst you quite enjoyed seeing him flustered, it was nice to see Levi free of it as well, even if it was a spell only going to last until he woke up a little more.

That moment, as it were ought to, came quite soon. The episode was fading out and the outro music just starting to play when you mumbled, “God, I really do like you.”

Without warning, Levi sits bolt upright and headbutts you in the process, clinging onto his own head as he stares at you with wide eyes and a tomato-red face.

“H-h-huh?” he stutters, lowering one hand to cover his mouth. You fan at your own - he’d made you bite your tongue, and you were trying to process things when he started to mumble to himself at a mile a minute.

“There’s no way you could mean you like-like me right? I mean, I’m me. And you’re you. Why not one of my brothers, or even Lord Diavolo? He’s going to be the king soon! And-”

“Levi, please, one moment,” you groan. Your chin and mouth were sore and you needed a second, and even if you were planning to confess to him sooner or later it really wasn’t like this, and you didn’t need him denying your feelings so soon. You take a few deep breaths, waiting for the pain to subside a little. Levi helps; he hands you a cold can of something or other, purses his lips until they become nothing but a thin, worried line, and waits.

You start laughing soon after. “I do like you. You, Levi. And I know I could spend all day explaining why and you still wouldn’t accept it, so I’m just going to need you to trust me.” You look at him, nervous and already feeling thoroughly rejected, and smile. “You don’t need to return my feelings, but I hope you can accept them as the truth, at least.”

Levi tears up, and he nods, gripping the bottom of his jacket in both hands. His face takes on too many different expressions in those painfully silent moments, and then he opens his mouth, trying to force something out. You weren’t sure what to expect.

“I l-like you too, MC.” He sighs, clenches his hands tighter as he tries not to stammer too much through his words. “I... I...” He laughs, then, holds his head. “It hurts, so its not a dream, right?” His smile is small but glorious, and you can see his sharp teeth. “Yeah. I like you. And you l-like me?”

You take his face in your hands and laugh. “I like you.” He’s bright red but continues to grin anyway, and you poke at his cheeks with your thumb, smiling in kindness.

Satan

Satan is curled up in one of the few tidier parts of his room, and you sit somewhere close by, occasionally glancing up to look at him over a stack of books.

The mess had been more disturbing at first - there were books everywhere, and he definitely wouldn’t take kindly to you knocking down a stack or two of them. He wouldn’t lose his temper, not at you - he hadn’t in a long time, not since before you’d made a pact with him. And despite how awkward it was to try to find a little space big enough for you to sit in every time he requested you come to his room instead of the library or your own, it was nice having that place and knowing you fit there, with him and all of his precious books.

He chuckles and pulls you back to reality, and you’re glad he hadn’t caught you staring at him. You look down at your book and back up again in a weak attempt to cover up what you’d been doing, and Satan smiles all too knowingly, as he often did, and tips his book at you.

“Listen to this, MC,” he says, voice somewhere between cheeky and amused. He’d definitely caught you staring. You blush but tilt your head all the same, curious, and he continues. “It’s a human world story about an admirer who can only ever sneak glances at the person they admire over the top of books. How charming is that?” His bold smile was annoying and handsome at once.

“It’s daring of you to assume I was actually looking at you,” you grumble. “I was lost in my thoughts.”

“But you didn’t deny the admirer part, hmm?” Satan laughs. He doesn’t mean anything by it, isn’t really making assumptions. He’s just trying to poke at you a bit, trying to feel out your reactions so he can better guess at them in future ahead of time. He did that often, and it was something you were getting used to. But this time he was right, and it was a little bit different.

“I can’t deny what’s true,” you mumble at your book. It was quiet, and usually he’d be so engrossed in his own again that he wouldn’t hear you, but you don’t hear pages turning, can’t feel the aura Satan has when he’s thoroughly engrossed in something.

You look up at him and he’s still looking at you, puzzled smile and flushed cheeks catching you off guard. Oh no.

“Do you like me, MC?”

Satan sounds unsure, and you can only swallow and nod as if you weren’t admitting to something you’d planned to keep to yourself for so much longer. Maybe you’d have told him someday in the future, when you were long back in the human world and had met someone else, or were at least starting to get over your feelings. But no. You’d just gone and done it now, with books piled precariously on either side of you and the subject of your affections staring at you, dumbfounded, over an unsteady pile of them.

He absorbs your words slowly, and you know you can’t stand and rush out of there without knocking over enough books to piss him off, so you stay and wait. So what if he knew? Satan wouldn’t get mad about something like that, and he was respectful enough to just ignore it and get on with his life. If it were Lucifer, he might tease you about it, but Satan won’t. And if he reciprocated?..

“Ah, that’s good then,” he smiles, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. He lets out an airy laugh, and you can tell that as much as he’s trying to hide it, he really is feeling flustered. “I was never sure. But, hmm...” Satan clears his throat, looks at you and genuinely smiles now, showing you something deeper than the usual facade he put up to make himself appear like more than just his anger. “I like you too, so its quite convenient, isn’t it?”

You laugh, then, and a weight leaves your shoulders... only to bring on a new one. Your sudden movements topple one of the book piles beside you, and Satan lunges forward to try to catch some of them before they can hit you as you protect yourself with your arms.

When the last one falls, you hear Satan groan as he sits up and pushes the books off of the two of you. He looks around, grins, and then laughs before offering you a hand.

“Well, it was bound to happen eventually.” His emerald green eyes sparkle in the low light, just bright enough to read. “Shall we go out somewhere else? I’d love to take you on a date.”

Asmodeus

(Mildly suggestive at parts. Sorry ;u;)

It was a weekly tradition, to go to Asmo’s room and put on a face mask and relax. He gossiped, although it was harmless - there was no judgements passed on anyone - and you listened and offered insight on things. Asmo would show you whatever new makeup or perfume or clothes he’d gotten, would sometimes go for a full impromptu fashion show, or would rest his head on your thighs and let you run your fingers through his delightfully soft hair.

Today, it was the latter. You’d missed last week for some reason or other - Mammon had probably distracted you, or Lucifer dragged you off somewhere with him, not giving the chance for you to refuse. Sometimes the brothers did it intentionally; rather than setting up their own days to spend with you, they had decided to sabotage your days with Asmodeus instead. You were able to prevent it most of the time, to sneak off to his room or at least away from whoever was trying to draw your attention, but after missed weeks where you couldn’t find enough excuses or an escape route, Asmo tended to cling to you and not let go, begging for some affection. It felt best from you, he’d said once, and you were sure he was joking, because Asmo often commented about how he’d done much more with others in the past and surely you petting his hair and listening to him didn’t compare to that, right?

He opens his eyes now, and looks up at you from your lap. His eyes were always startling, because they were incredibly intense even if his powers didn’t work on you. They were beautiful, as well, much like the rest of him, and your gaze flutters away after a bit because you know they’ll draw you in and force you to admit to things you don’t feel ready to talk about yet.

Asmo chuckles, and you wind a hand through his hair and pull it slightly, frustrated. He pouts at you, face colouring, and you perhaps regret it.

“Don’t be a tease. You’ll ruin my hair if you pull at it like that,” Asmo whines. “I mean, of course I don’t mind that much, but-“

You cover his mouth and shush him, tutting as you put your hand back in his hair and played with a lock or two. Asmo only laughs again, and you can’t help but think how he’d only adore making you more and more flustered, and would even risk irritating you so long as he got to see you a blushing mess. He didn’t push too far, though - he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, and more than that he’d be left on his own with no one to run their fingers through his hair if you decided to leave because of it. Or, well - he could easily find someone willing to do so, but it wouldn’t be you, and that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?

He closes his eyes again and you feel it tug at your heart, something like a desire, but maybe more innocent than what he was used to drawing out of people. You pause, and Asmo opens his eyes to look up at you again, confused, and when met with that gaze, you can’t really hold it back the words that had been threatening to spill for weeks, now, and moreso on days like this when he was seeking delicate affections and smiled at you so beautifully it made your breath catch.

“I like you, Asmodeus,” you half-whisper, and you know he’s heard it because his eyes are wider now and you can see the yellow of his iris, and you half think to push him square off your lap and book it, but then he’s kneeling in front of you with a firm grip on your wrist.

Asmo’s mouth opens and closes, like he isn’t sure what to say. Something like ‘do you mean it?’ or ‘of course you like me, who doesn’t?’ or, maybe, ‘I like you too, love you even!’ Nothing comes out, everything jumbling together in his head. It was rare to see him at a loss for words, as he was a stickler for keeping his composure in almost any situation - it was attractive to be in control of your emotions, wasn’t it? But the silence was painful, and you weren’t sure what to make of it, because as much as Asmo’s mind was racing right now, you weren’t psychic. You couldn’t tell that he was trying to figure out the best way to confess.

Eventually, Asmo settles on doing something he knows how to do better than finding the perfect words for this. He leans forward, hesitates as if checking you were okay, and then kisses you. It’s soft and gentle and not nearly as deep as what he momentarily considered making it, but it’s just right for a confession. He pulls back only to kiss you again, and this time smiles against your mouth when you kiss him back. When you smile too, he throws his arms around your shoulders and laughs, burying his face against your neck and pressing light kisses against the skin there, too, although you can still feel him smiling too much to do it properly.

In the end, it’s not really said aloud, but you know what Asmo is trying to say. He likes you, too. And he is so, so incredibly happy.

Beelzebub

9 times out of 10, when you get the urge to go to the kitchen for some reason - to cook, to get a drink, or to get a snack - Beel can be found there. The main rooms in the house he goes between are the common room, where he spends time with his brothers, his own bedroom, and, of course, the kitchen. And lo and behold, here he is now, eating something you can’t actually recognise and talking to Belphie, who slumps against the counter, half-asleep, but offers you a tired smile when you enter the room.

Beel himself doesn’t notice your presence until Belphie stands up and stretches, looking between you and Beel pointedly. Maybe you had been obvious, or maybe it was because Belphie was actually quite sensitive to people’s emotions when he decided to be and when it involved Beel, but he would often leave you alone with his brother if you bumped into the two of them, as if he were trying to give you a chance. His knowing smirk as he passes you on the way out, mumbling a quiet and lazy goodbye, didn’t help.

“Ah, MC!” Beel beams, and your breath catches. Generally, Beel looked quite pissed off. It was just his resting expression, and you knew he was content or thinking about the next meal he’d have, or something like that. But when he smiled? If you didn’t think it might offend him, you would absolutely compare it to that of seeing an angel. His expression hid nothing, betrayed his delight, and he grinned every single time without fail whenever he greeted you, unless he was seeking you out because he’d had a disagreement with Belphie and needed support.

And now as he stands in the kitchen, unknown food in hand and delighted smile on his face, you consider telling him he’s beautiful. Not like Asmo, not in the same sense. But he truly was stunning, and you wanted him to wear his smile with pride for eternity. He deserved to be so happy, and it would be a nice treat for you, too, to be able to see that expression anytime you wanted. You might sell your soul for that much, you joke dryly to yourself.

Beel looks puzzled when you return from your thoughts, and you realise you haven’t even greeted him yet. Perhaps that was how Belphie had noticed.

“Beel!” you chirp, and you think maybe he grins wider when you say his name, although it’s hard to tell. You lean against the counter where Belphie had been resting. “Did you find something nice to eat?”

He nods enthusiastically, and then seems to consider something before he closes the fridge and stands beside you, resting against the counter too. “Do you want to try some?” he offers, and you can’t help but think that he really only offered food to you and to Belphie, and what did that mean? Did he love you as much as his brother, and was it in the same way, or something different like how you felt for him?

“Am I being selfish by liking you so much?” you think. Or rather, say. Out loud. For him to hear. Unfortunately.

Beel freezes, and his ears go bright red. “You-.. hmm? What do you mean?” he asks, and you can tell he’s looking for a specific answer in the hopeful way he looks at you, but you don’t know what it is. If you admit to liking him and he sees you as a sibling, wouldn’t that be awkward? But if you lied you’d have to carry that with you, too, and it would be hard to correct in future.

You sigh and take a deep breath, and look at him, speaking with whatever confidence you can muster. “I like you, Beel. Would you be interested in... dating me?” You think to tell him that it’s okay if not, it’s okay if he’s not interested or he doesn’t want things to chance, it’s alright if he doesn’t think of you like that. But you can’t bring yourself to, and it’s too late anyone to take back what you’ve said, and what’s the point in confessing only to shut yourself down and reject your own advances before he even gets a chance to?

As you wait, Beel’s face steadily gets redder, and he seems to be fumbling through his own thoughts as if he can’t find the right one, the right answer to this question. And, eventually, he nods, and that smile returns, and your head spins because these last few minutes had been too much to deal with and now you have this huge demon grinning at you as if you’d just handed him the sun with a kiss on the cheek and promised him the world, too, on top of it.

“I like you too, MC!” he beams, and sweeps you up into his arms, food forgotten for the moment. You’d panic if his grip wasn’t so firm, and if you weren’t so sure he would never even risk dropping you. Beel’s eyes twinkle and you think you see a spark of mischief peeking through his delight before he holds you tight to his chest and spins, and you can only hold on and listen to his laugh. You bury your face against him and laugh, too, and you feel as warm and bright as his smile.

Belphegor

(Mild spoilers for up to lesson 16 / 17)

Although you thought you would be able to suss out where Belphie would be - as Beel had his places, Belphie had his own; the planetarium if he couldn’t sleep, so he could look at the stars and think without being disturbed, or the library if he was scheming with Satan, or the attic if he wanted to sleep and wasn’t in his room - you found that it was actually more tricky than that.

You see, after being released from the attic where he’d been trapped for months, Belphie found himself seeking out his brothers on odd occasions. He’d do so anyway, before all this nonsense had occurred, but now there was more meaning behind it. He’d missed them, and he liked to curl up and play games or just fall asleep near one of them. Finding him on those days was almost impossible, because he could be anywhere.

You almost feel like giving up on it - the two of you had agreed to spend time together, but he was nowhere to be found and was probably off sleeping somewhere with no idea what time it was - and felt thoroughly dejected when you bumped into Lucifer, who was quietly leaving the music room, movements near silent and with a gentle and rare smile on his face. When he sees you it vanishes, goes back to his usual expression as if he’d just put on a mask, but you can tell he’s concerned because he puts a hand on your back and leads you down the corridor with him. He only stops at the end of it and leans down to quietly ask if you were feeling okay.

“I’ve been looking for Belphie and I can’t find him anywhere,” you mumble, automatically responding at a similar level to him. It felt like you were sharing a secret. “We were supposed to go on a walk together.”

Lucifer smiles, then. “Ah.” He tilts his head, and for a moment considers telling you it’s a shame he can’t help, but you look so dejected he can’t bring himself to do it. “Now that I think about it, he did mention something like that before he fell asleep in the music room. I didn’t want to wake him up, but he might not mind if it’s you.”

He chuckles quietly when you cheer up, thanking him before you rush off back down the corridor and open the doors of the music room. You see Belphie sleeping on one of the seats near the piano - he’d probably been listening to Lucifer play something or other, and had passed out in the middle of it all.

You can’t help but smile as you crouch down in front of him, pushing his hair away from over his eyes. As usual, he doesn’t even stir - you weren’t sure if he was a light sleeper or a heavy one because it seemed to vary by the day. but most of the time you could get away with little things like this without waking him. It makes you consider just letting him rest until dinner. You would still have time to go for a walk after, and it’s not like anything would change - there was no day and night in the Devildom. It would remain just as cold and dark as it always was. Any time would be the best time to go out, really.

Belphie shifts in his sleep, and you watch as his hair falls back over his face. You stifle a laugh as you push it away again, allowing yourself to run your fingers through his fringe slightly. His hair is soft, delightfully so, and he looks so peaceful and cute whilst sleeping that you absentmindedly let out a sigh.

“I like you, you know?” you mumble, only just stopping yourself from poking him in the forehead, because that would wake him up and it wouldn’t be a good idea to do so right now. “I really do.”

And, much to your horror, Belphie half smirks and opens one eye. You let go of his hair and sit back on your heels, startled, and he stretches and yawns.

“You’re awake,” you say, as if you were accusing him of something, and he laughs.

“Someone decided they wanted to play with my hair,” he grins, lopsided and with sleep still filling his voice, pitching it lower than usual. He clears his throat. “How could I not wake up? And just in time to hear you confess, too!”

Belphegor sits up and watches you cheerfully, and you pout at him. He liked to tease you, but this feels like it should be a forbidden topic. Something he shouldn’t poke and prod at you about.

“I wish you’d just pretend not to have heard it,” you grumble, but it only makes him smile more, and he tilts his head to one side, feigning confusion. Before he can ask why, or tease you more, you cut him off, focusing your gaze on the floor. “It hurts to be teased about this. If you don’t like me it’s okay, but please don’t make me regret liking you.”

“And who said I didn’t like you?”

You look up at him again, and he only sighs and gets up off the bench to kneel in front of you. He looks like he’s waiting for an answer, or waiting for something at least, but when you don’t respond, he pats you on the head and stands, holding out a hand.

“Don’t we have a date to go on? Get up off the floor, it’s dusty,” Belphie says. You take his hand and stand, and he pulls you closer to him, half hugging you as you walk. He was a pain to deal with and he knew it, but he was determined to prove himself worth the effort.

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beccascribbles · 4 years

Text

where atsumu is a notorious playboy and now he wants you

a/n - you won't believe how long i've been working on this and it's finally finished... anyway, just wanted to say a quick thank you for 700 followers! it means a lot! hope you enjoy this little atsumu fic

warnings - nsfw (sex, swearing), possibly a little angsty?, toxic relationship

word count - 4.1k

sequel ‘returning the favour’, where atsumu gets a taste of his own medicine

When your friends warned you away from him, you should have known he was bad news, should have known to avoid him, to shut down any conversation and walk away.

When a random girl approached you in the university library and warned you away from him, told you what he had done to her, how he ignored her feelings and hooked up with another girl in front of her, the alarm bells should have started to ring.

When the very thought of introducing him to your parents filled you with dread, you should have known any kind of relationship with him was impossible. Introducing a boyfriend to your parents was nerve-wracking, yes, but you had done it before and the most severe emotion you had felt then was nerves. It was nothing compared to the dread that curled in your belly at the mere thought of ever introducing him.

But Miya Atsumu pulled you in.

Despite all the warnings, you were blinded by his easy charm, the smirk that would pull at the corners of his lips as he teased you, how comfortable he looked in every situation, as if he knew the power he held over those around him. He attracted girls and boys like a moth to a flame. In fact, he burned so brightly it was inevitable that you would get hurt at some point, feel his scathing dismal like a punch to the chest.

Truthfully, you were not planning on falling for him, not even planning to interact with the new face in your lectures. He had attracted enough attention, and you, the ever focused and diligent student, could not afford the distraction. So, while others flocked to him, you initially kept a wide berth, hurrying from lectures with your books clutched to your chest to grab at seat at the library. It would be a lie to say he had not noticed you through the crowds. You were either the first to leave the lecture hall, or one of the only students to approach the professor after class to ask questions and gather some more information about the subject. He admired the dedication you had, your unwavering focus. At the same time, he wanted to be the reason that focus, that dedication, finally broke.

On the day he finally approached you, the weather had been unpleasant. Rain had attacked you the entire walk to class, the raincoat you had on a flimsy barrier. Coupled with the harsh wind that had been blowing, it was nearly impossible for the hood of your coat to cover your head, leaving you with the look of a drowned rat and a very disgruntled one at that. The rain had soaked through your backpack, leaving you with a dripping notebook. You had to be thankful that you had transferred all the sheets of paper you had written on into a binder that had kept the paper mercifully dry. So, as you had sought out a radiator to dry your things on, he had approached you, looking effortlessly handsome... and dry.

“Want to borrow some paper, sweetheart?” he asked, waving his dry notebook at you, his lips upturned in a grin. His stance was casual, but the way he angled his body blocked the class from your view and also cut off your potential escape route. Though the vocative grated at you, your parents had taught you to be polite. Despite the annoyance in the lines of your body, you managed to smile back at him.

“Actually, yes,” you replied, turning back to the radiator to begin draping your wet items on the heated surface. “That would be great. Thank you.”

With your back to him, you missed the way his mouth twisted into a smirk, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. You heard the rip of paper being pulled from a notebook, then felt his warm fingers circle your wrist. You turned to face him, momentarily stunned by the lack of distance between you. His warmth, coupled with the radiator at your back, heated up your body, dispelling the cold bite the rain had left behind.

“And your payment?”he questioned running the tip of his finger along your inner wrist. The feel of his rough skin tracing the soft surface sent a tingle running through you, a traitorous flare of heat to your cheeks.

“Payment?” you scoffed, reaching for the proffered paper. He released it without a struggle, but remained close to you. It would have been so simple to trace the planes of your face, to feel the heat on your cheeks build because of his touch. Instead, he sent a lazy smirk in your direction. It should have irked you, but you found it oddly attractive, the little quirk to his lips, the intensity in has honey brown gaze. “For some paper?”

“Nothing is free these days,” he stated, reaching behind him to pull his phone from his back pocket. It dangled nonchalantly from his grip as he held it out to you. You glanced at the phone, then up at him, at his lazy expression. The way he looked at you showed he tended to get his way. There was no possibility in his mind where you returned to your seat without typing his number into your phone. “Give me your number and I’ll message you when I want to collect. I'm sure you'll enjoy it just as much as me.”

He pressed the phone into your hand. It was already unlocked and opened on a contact page. Instead of immediately typing your contact information into his phone like he assumed you would, you glanced down at the phone screen and then up at him. "Sorry, but my phone number comes at a cost as well."

He let out a low hum, leaning in closer, close enough that your noses almost touched. His eyes stared into yours, appearing to commit the colour to memory. "And what cost is that?"

“If you let me return to my seat, you might find out,” you stated, peeking over his shoulder to see that the professor was powering up the slide show. You pushed against his shoulder, creating enough space for you to walk past. As you stepped around him, you slipped his phone into his trouser pocket. He turned to watch you walk away, the smirk still present on his face.

The next time he approached you, he had orchestrated it with an obsessive perfection. With the knowledge that you always rushed to the library after class finished, he had instructed a member of the class, one of his fangirls, to deliberately bump into you as you tried to make your exit. It was amusing in a sick way how easily the girl had bent to his will. One kiss and she was weak at the knees, begging him for more. The more he had promised would be done once she completed this small task for him.

So, it was with an almost sadistic smirk on his face that he watched as the girl shouldered into you roughly, causing you to stumble and scatter your belongings across the floor. If you had only got into the habit of packing your stuff away into your backpack before leaving, you could have avoided the smirking blonde, able to quickly right yourself and continue on your way. As fate would have it, it was the muscular arms of the blonde that steadied you, his fingers gripping greedily at your waist. Offering him a quick thank you, you pulled yourself from his grip, bending down to gather the items you had dropped. Just as he had planned, you were distracted and desperate to leave, so distracted you did not notice as he took your notebook from the floor and slipped it into the open bag hanging from his shoulder. And, like he presumed, you hurried from the room without sparing him a glance.

When he decided to ambush you, you were digging through your bag, mumbling quietly under your breath as you attempted to find your notebook. It had all your class notes in it that you needed to begin your essay. Letting out a huff, you shoved your bag away from you.

"Looking for this?" asked Atsumu, notebook dangling from his fingertips as he took in your distressed form. Leaning forward, you pulled it from his grip, flicking through the pages to confirm that this was indeed your notebook.

"Where did you find it?" you asked, placing it down on the table and resting your arms on top of it as you looked up at him.

"Is that any way to thank the person who returned your class notes?"

You gave him an exaggerated, friendly smile. "Thank you. Now where did you find it?"

"The floor," he stated, a smirk tugging at his lips with his next words. "After your fall, that's where all your belongings ended up."

"I know," you snapped before turning back to the work you had been in the process of beginning. Atsumu's tall figure still loomed over the desk, his hands gripping at the edge of the table as he leaned forward to force himself into your line of sight. Your eyes narrowed into a glare. "What do you want? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"I want to take you out." The words were simple, but said in such a pleasing honeyed tone that you felt the heat rush to your cheeks. He held your gaze, awaited your reply eagerly. He knew the effect he had on you, could see it working on you right before his eyes. There was no doubt in his mind that you would say yes.

"Take me out where?" you questioned, voice coming out whisper. Your warm breath fanned against his face, made him crave a sudden closing of space between you and the parting of your lips as he pressed his against them. Truth be told, he wanted to see you come undone.

His usual method would not work on you, that much he was certain of. If he proposed a club or a bar, you would likely scoff, pull away from him, refuse his offer to take you out on a date. A restaurant however, one with a fine wine menu coupled with good food would work quite well.

"A restaurant," he said. You raised an eyebrow at his lacklustre response, expecting a more surprising proposal from the young man. "One where I can fine dine and wine the shit out of you."

“Okay,” you shrugged, feigning some level of disinterest as you pushed him lightly by the shoulder to move him out of your personal bubble. You bent to reach for a pen as you spoke. “Tell me a time and place, and I’ll meet you there.”

Atsumu blinked, unsure if he had heard you correctly. Had you just said you wanted to meet at the restaurant? That would be difficult considering he had yet to decide on one, having made a mental note to ask Osamu for recommendations later on. Trying to hide his sudden unease, he gave you a smooth grin. “Why don’t you let me pick you up, sweetheart?”

That caused you to pause, your breath to catch in your throat, your heart to stutter. The way he spoke, that soft drawl, the smooth dulcet tone of voice, made you weak at the knees. If he addressed you with the same tone each time he spoke, you would have been putty in his hands by now. You swallowed, avoiding eye contact as you tapped your pen on the table, the motion more to soothe you, though it aggravated the others in the library to no end. “Fine.”

You ripped a page from your notebook, hurriedly scribbling down your address. You held out the paper to him, finally meeting his eyes again. “When were you thinking?”

“Friday at 8?”

“Sure,” you nodded. “See you then.”

And, that Friday, you found yourself holding up various outfits to yourself in the mirror only to discard them a moment later. They were never perfect, either too sultry or too innocent, too girly or too geared towards comfort. It was so dire you had reached the point of wishing that you had ordered those dresses you had browsed after agreeing to meet with him. Next day delivery would have meant they would have arrived on time, and you would have felt confident in them. However, you had talked yourself out of it, convincing yourself you had dresses worthy of a dinner with Atsumu. With a sigh, you picked up a dress you had discarded earlier. It was the best out of a bad bunch, and unfortunately the only one you thought you could get away with. Distantly, you wondered why you were trying so hard. That was just you trying to convince yourself you didn’t care. It would be foolish to lie to yourself. You cared because you were attracted to him, to his easy charm, his good looks.

Glancing in the mirror one more time, you smoothed down the material of the dress. It complimented you well, was a trusted favourite. It hugged your body in all the right ways, emphasising your shape in a way that was pleasing to the eye. You allowed yourself a small smile. You felt confident. It was a bonus that you figured Atsumu would enjoy the view.

Hearing the knock on your door, you grabbed your bag from the desk, checking it had everything you needed. Phone, keys and purse were all present inside. Then you went over to open the door. Framed by the dark word, dressed in a dark shirt and black jeans, Atsumu looked hot. His hair had been perfectly styled, a far cry from the messier style he favoured at university. His eyes ran up and down your body, lazily, as if he was stripping you with his eyes. He drawled, “Well, don’t you clean up nice. Makes me want to stay in instead of taking you out."

You gave him a playful glare, pushing against his chest lightly. He stepped backwards, you following him into the hallway. Turning away from him, you faced the door, locking it. Over your shoulder, you quipped, "If you think this date is ending in sex, you are very much mistaken."

Little did you know how wrong your statement was. You could blame it on the buzz of alcohol in your system from the wine but, to be honest, you were weak to Atsumu's charm. The way he purred your name had you weak. The feel of his fingers grazing your bare skin made you shiver. The feel of his lips moving languidly against your own sent jolts of pleasure through you.

"I'm going to ruin you," he breathed, breath hot against your ear as he nipped gently at the lobe, fingers teasing at the hem of your dress, slipping under the material. Those words, along with his actions, were your undoing.

Your hands tangled into his hair, gently tugging as you reconnected your lips, the kiss far more passionate, a bit more messy. It was easy for him to push you onto the bed, for you to instinctively hook your legs around his waist, holding him close to you. A low moan escaped your lips as he rolled his hips into you, feeling the hardness of his cock through the layers. Your dress was hiked up past your hips, the lace of your panties on full display. He pulled away to admire you, unhooking your legs from around his waist, spreading them open for him to admire the view. He let out an appreciative whistle. "Look at you. So desperate for me, sweetheart. Do you want me to fuck you? Do you want to feel my cock filling you up?"

You let out a soft moan. Your cheeks were flushed, breathing slightly laboured as you looked up at him. You were desperate for him. He could see all this, watched with smug satisfaction as your hand slipped into your wet panties and you began to play with yourself. "Why don't you take those off for me?"

Too lost in your need, you began to slip the fabric down your legs, slowly, teasingly. Atsumu watched with a playful glint in his eyes, hand moving to palm at his cock through his trousers. Not needing him to direct you, with the lace no longer blocking his view, you resumed your previous action, fingers circling your clit. As he watched, you pushed a finger into your wet entrance, watching as his eyes darkened. While you continued to pleasure yourself, he slipped his trousers off, then began to teasingly lower his boxes, watching your reaction. Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of his hardened cock, slit wet with pre-cum. With you watching, he wrapped his fists around it, beginning to stroke it. His head tilted back and a low groan escaped his throat. You moaned in response, inserting another finger inside, stretching yourself out for him.

"Fuck, y/n," he moaned. "Are you ready? Do you want my cock inside of you? Do you want to feel me thrusting into you? Because I want to feel you clench around me, for you to cum as I fuck you."

"Yes," you breathed, thumb rubbing harshly against your clit as you continued to push your fingers inside you harder, faster. "Please fuck me."

"Get on your hands and knees then, sweetheart," he commanded, watching as you removed your fingers from inside of you. And what a sight you were, back curved to provide him with the best view. He ran his hands appreciatively along the slope of your ass cheeks, giving them a playful slap. He leant over you, fingers finding the zip of your dress, his cock brushing against you. Now wasn't the time to tease you. He yanked the zipper down, the dress falling off your body, leaving you naked apart from your bra.

"Please just fuck me," you begged, pushing back against him as his fingers brushed the tops of your erect nipples hidden by your bra.

"So impatient," he said, voice low, a gruff edge to it that made you suck in a breath. The tip of his cock brushed against your clit, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. Teasingly, he waited, his cock head resting against your wet entrance. Each time you pushed back, he would pull slightly away, leaving you a whining mess. Just as you were about to beg, he pushed into you, his cock brushing against your inner walls as he slowly entered you. With a low groan, he sheathed himself fully inside you, his pelvis pressed against you.

Slowly at first, he began to rock into you, pulling out slightly before thrusting back in, working your pussy, getting you used to taking his cock. Each slow thrust caused you to moan, fingers clutching at the duvet.

"More," you whined, hips pushing back into him. He stilled, holding you close to him. You moved along his cock, grinding back against him as his hands tightened on you, stilling your movements.

"What was that?" he questioned, leaning down to press a kiss to the back of your neck. "You want me to fuck you into the mattress, is that it?"

"Yes," you declared, voice breathy as you let yourself droop forward, head resting against the soft material of the duvet. He pulled fully out of you, hand curling in the hair at the nape of your neck and pulling you upwards. Your back was flush against his chest, his other arm wrapped around you, fingers teasing at your clit as he thrust upwards into you again.

The sudden harsh thrust caused you to choke, head lolling against his shoulder. You were weak to him as he continued to thrust into you, losing yourself in the feeling of pleasure. The stimulation of your clit, coupled with the harsh thrusting, had you chasing your orgasm far sooner than you had expected, the pleasure slowly building up, a dam waiting to explode.

"Shit," you gasped as he pushed you forward onto the mattress, the position allowing him to push into you with more ease, the slap of his hips against your ass and your laboured breathing the only sound in the room. "Atsumu... I-I think I'm going to cum."

"Don't hold back," he grunted, feeling himself drawing closer. "Cum for me, sweetheart. Want to feel your walls fluttering around my cock."

"A-Atsumu."

His name was the only word able to escape your lips as a wave of pleasure hit you, finally sending you over the edge. He let out a pleased hum at the feel of your walls clenching around him, continuing to thrust into you as he chased his own release. He came with a low groan, releasing his hot seed into you, coating your walls. Slowly, he rocked gently into you before pulling out his slowly softening cock. You let out a low whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness, turning to face him with a small pout. He let out a soft chuckle, grabbing you by the chin and pulling you in for a long kiss, tongue tracing the inside of your mouth. Against your lips, he said, "I'm always up for round two."

You should have know one night wouldn't be enough to satiate your hunger for each other. Despite only having a sexual relationship, the two of you formed a friendship, if constant sexual teasing could be considered friendship. In the library, in class. Atsumu was insistent, his hands rarely kept to himself when he could so easily slip them into your warm panties. Occasionally, you would return the favour, palming him through his jeans. On a day when you had been feeling particularly adventurous, you had sucked him off in the library, relishing in the soft moans he would release, the way his hips would buck upwards as he attempted to push you down onto his cock further.

One day, he had turned to you, a completely innocent look on his face and stated, "You're the only girl I ever fuck now."

You had looked at him blankly as he had pulled you towards him, placing you on his lap, urging you to straddle him. His hands rested against the bare skin of your sides. "And?"

"I'd say we're pretty much exclusive."

Those words gave you some indication of where his train of thought was heading. Though you couldn't deny wanting to be in a relationship with him, you could hardly define what you did now as dating. You felt he was just using you and that had been the truth for as long as he had begun pursuing you.

"We're not even dating, Atsumu," you sighed. Just last week, he had gone on a date with another girl only to arrive at your dorm at the end of the night to fuck you instead of her.

"Why don't we change that?" he hummed, placing kisses along your jaw before connecting your lips in a searing kiss. His thumbs brushed against your rib cage as he kissed you harder. He was close enough to feel the way your heart picked up the pace, hammering against your chest. You pulled away slightly to look at him, to see the sincerity in his brown eyes.

"Okay," you agreed. "Let's change that."

Years later, you would look back on certain moments in your relationship with nothing but anger, mainly at yourself. The signs were clear from the moment you became official. Atsumu was a person who refused to be tied down. As soon as your relationship was defined, he lost interest, pulling away from you, treating you as nothing more than a means for pleasure. But, through it all, you still felt love for him, needing to be the thing that brought him that pleasure. That illusion shattered the moment you saw him with another girl, her legs wrapped around his waist as he kissed her with the passion he used to kiss you.

Though the illusion shattered, the desire for him did not. You would still open your door for him, still let him use you as you told yourself you were using him. You accepted the empty 'I love you' he would whisper as you fell asleep only to wake up to an empty bed.

You were a fool. But he must have known that. After all, only a fool could ever love him like you did.

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #hq x reader #hq imagines #atsumu miya #atsumu x reader #atsumu x y/n #haikyuu atsumu #hq smut #hq angst #haikyuu smut #atsumu smut

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tmngoose · 3 years

Text

Some Assembly Required: a Rottmnt story

Remember this post? Well, I decided to clean up what I had and show it to y’all. This was supposed to be a much longer story, but back when I was writing it, I jumped ship for a different fic I was working on and never came back OTL Characters: Donnie, Mikey, Raph, Leo, April, Shelldon, Draxum, Huginn & Muninn (albeit super brief) Tags: Lab accidents, fires, minor injuries, hurt/comfort, obscure UHF reference I won’t be uploading this to Ao3, so you can read it under the cut :U

For the longest time, Donnie dreamed of the perfect lab partner. Though Shelldon was an impeccable assistant, there were moments where Donnie longed to work side-by-side with another scientist. Someone with a thirst for knowledge! Someone who shared his passion for all things technical and methodical; a scientist, just like he considered himself to be!

To think Baron Draxum would be Donnie's long-awaited lab partner was not a scenario the Softshell had ever fathomed. Still, it was one he accepted with great enthusiasm.

Draxum and Donnie saw no reason to doubt their capabilities. However, the rest of the family remained wary whenever the two of them went off meddling in the lab. With April's help, Raph, Leo, and Mikey devised a strict set of guidelines to ensure Donnie and Draxum wouldn't get into too much trouble.

"Scoff!" Donnie threw the hefty packet of rules down at his feet, offended. "What do you take us for: a pair of unhinged Frankensteins? Y'know, it'd be nice if, just for once, you guys would have a little faith in our scientific endeavors!"

"It's not that we don't trust you guys," April explained, "It's just... you guys tend to get a little carried away with your projects, that's all!"

"What's that suppose to mean?"

"The last time Barry was in a lab, he created the Oozesquitos," April folded her arms, "And don't get me started about the time you messed with your brother's brains."

"Okay! I get it!" Donnie sighed. He picked up the packet of rules and flapped the dust out from its pages. "We won't get carried away: Todd scout's honor."

April smiled, "Thanks, Dee."

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse me, Draxum and I were just about to partake in our latest scientific acquisition: Professor Philo's Chemistry Set for the At-Home Scientist!" Donnie started off for his lab, tucking the packet into a compartment in his battle-shell.

April shook her head, smiling as she headed inside the living room, where the sounds of 8-bit gaming welcomed her. Raph and Mikey were too invested in whatever racing game they were playing to notice April.

"Soo, how'd it go?" Leo asked from his beanbag chair. "Is Donnie mad that we're afraid he'll bring Potatozilla into existence or what?"

"I say he handled it pretty well!" April plopped herself down in the recliner. "I told Donnie that we just wanted to make sure he and Draxum toned it down a bit, that's all."

"See? I told you he'd listen to April!" Mikey grinned smugly at Leo.

Leo rolled his eyes, "Whatever." He went back to scrolling his social feed on his phone, "I'll believe it when they don't create a giant mutant potato or somethin'."

"Be nice, Leo," April swung her legs over the armrest. "We've gotta have a little faith in 'em. Besides, I've never seen Donnie this happy since-"

KA-BOOOOOOM!!!

A powerful tremor shook the lair, taking everyone by surprise. The trinkets Splinter's 'Do Not Touch' cabinet rattled and shook, a few of the lighter items clattered to the floor. April held onto the armchair with Raph steadying it before it could topple over backward. Mikey hid inside of his shell out of reflex as Leo jumped to his feet, prepared to face whatever threat was upon them.

"Omigosh!" Mikey exclaimed, popping his head out of his shell. "What was that?!"

"You don't think DIGG's tryin' to take down the Kaufman Coliseum again?" Raph frowned, trying to rub the ringing out from his ears.

"Um, guys?" Leo sniffed the air, "Does anyone else smell something burning, or is that Raph's 'Taken-By-Surprise' stink?"

Raph sniffed at his underarm, "Nope. It's not me!"

April and Mikey took a moment to smell the air, their noses wrinkled at the familiar acrid odor of smoke.

And smoke could only mean one thing: something was on fire.

Oh no! Donnie! Barry! April's stomach dropped over the thought. She bolted out of the living room with Raph, Leo, and Mikey right behind her. "Please let it be a giant mutant potato!"

It wasn't a giant mutant potato.

By the time they entered the atrium, a thick cloud of smoke had spilled out from the mouth of Donnie's lab, billowing up into the rafters above. Although they couldn't see it, they could hear the fire roaring from deep within the lab.

"Mad Dogz!" Raph barked, "Initiate ‘Fire Safety Plan Alpha!’" “FSssPAH!” Mikey pronounced the acronym from the back of the group.

But before Raph could lead the rescue, Draxum leaped out from the smoke carrying Donnie in his arms; their matching lab coats singed. Shelldon flew out, not too far behind, with Huginn and Munnin holding onto his back.

"Barry!" April ran up to the soot-stained alchemist. "What happened?! I thought y'all we're gonna take things easy? Didn’t y’all read the packet?!"

"We were," Draxum rasped, passing Donnie's limp body into Raph's arms. "If it weren't for a pair of idle hands." He gave his gargoyles a sharp look while removing the safety goggles from his face, leaving clean rings around his eyes.

Munnin's wings sagged, "The instructions weren't joking when it said 'everything in this chemistry set is a fire hazard.'"

"Yeah, including the instructions," Huginn hung his head, "Our bad."

"So, how're we suppose to handle this whole situation?" Leo asked, gesturing to the raging inferno that was (formally) Donnie's lab.

"I'm on it, dudes!" Shelldon replied, concentrating on his emergency protocols hardwired into his drives.

The fire-alarm system blared to life. Then came the hissing of the sprinklers going off and the gush of extinguishing foam spraying deep within the lab. Slowly, the smoke was beginning to ease up, much to everyone's relief.

Slowly, Donnie began to stir, groaning as he slowly regained consciousness, "Ugh... what? M-my lab..." His confusion morphed into panic as he realized the severity of the situation. "My lab!!" He squirmed feebly in Raph's arms, mortified.

"Woah, take it easy," Raph held Donnie against him, firm enough to subdue him yet careful not to hurt him. "That chemistry set of yours nearly got you guys barbequed."

Donnie frowned, "No, you don't understand!" His eyes stung with tears as he thought of his life's work gone in a blaze of unsupervised stupidity. "Everything's ruined!"

"Hey, you don't know that for sure!" April gently touched Donnie's shoulder. "Besides, what's important is you're both okay!"

"April's right," Mikey agreed, clinging to Draxum's side, "We're glad y'all made it out safely. A little flambéed, but you get the idea."

"But my lab," Donnie emphasized.

"Lab shmab, we can worry about that later!" Leo nudged Draxum with his elbow. "For now, let's focus on getting you toasted marshmallows taken care of."

"Yeah, what Leo said!" Raph adjusted Donnie in his arms, heading for the bathroom where the first aid kit was kept. "Just you wait; maybe it's not as bad as you think!"

-x-

Raph's sense of judgment was always a mixed bag, and this time, he couldn't have been farther from the truth.

The lab was a smoldering mess, virtually unrecognizable to the Turtles, Draxum, and April. The walls were blackened, and the smell of burnt wiring and computer parts hung sourly in the air. Puddles of foam and water gathered in parts of the floor, adding to the disarray.

Donnie searched desperately for anything salvageable, but the prospects were slim to none. The bandaged Softshell approached the remnants of his workstation, absolutely gutted. He reached for what was once a prototype for a new battle shell, but it crumbled into ash in his hands.

"Alas, this must've been what it felt like to lose the Library of Alexandria," Donnie mourned poetically, sinking to his knees. Shelldon drifted up to his heartbroken creator, pressing his head against Donnie's side like the loyal drone he was.

"Okaaayyy, so it's a little charbroiled in here," Leo cringed. "But if anyone can fix this, it's you!"

"Do you have any idea how long that'll take me?" Donnie moaned, overwhelmed by the daunting task. "It took me years of refurbishing junk and computer parts, and now I have nothing! Zilch! Nada! No equipment, no materials, no anything!"

Donnie's outburst left the others speechless. They had seen him upset before, but nothing to this extent.

Quietly, Draxum approached Donatello, "As someone who has lost their life's work twice, I understand your plight," he said, joining the turtle on the floor. "However, unlike myself, you are fortunate not to face this endeavor alone. You have your friends, your brothers, and... your lab partner," Draxum looked off to the side, somewhat flustered by the sentimental mushiness his words implied.

"Draxibald's right, Donnie!" Mikey beamed. He was so proud of Barry for stepping up to the plate. He popped up in between them, slinging his arms over their shoulders, "You've got us to help you! We'll have your lab up and running in no time!"

Leo smiled, "Yeah, with you bossing us around, we can totally get the job done!"

"But a total rebuild of this scope requires a certain level of technological sophistication!" Donnie deflated, "So unless you know of any tech-savvy geniuses out there, I don't see how any of this is possible."

"Oh, I know a guy," April answered, "And I'm lookin' right at him~" She smiled at Donnie, who didn't know how to process the compliment. "Have a little faith in yourself, Dee!" Donnie blinked, stunned that his own words were used against him.

"Yeah, you said so yourself!” Raph joined in, “You and that big brain of yours built this lab out of nothin' but junk! If there's anyone who can build back better than ever, it's you! So whaddya say, Don?"

Donnie looked at Raph's hand extended out to him. He then glanced over at Leo, Mikey, and April, all eagerly awaiting his response. He turned to Draxum, who gave a curt nod.

Touched by the support of his family, Donnie wiped away a tear from the corner of his eye, "I say let's order some pizzas and chop-chop! Rome wasn't built in a day, people! We've got our work cut out for us!" He took Raph’s hand and was lifted up from the ground. Yes, Donnie supposed he could have a little faith in himself, and everyone else as well.

#rottmnt #tmngoosepost #abandoned fic #rottmnt fic #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt april #rottmnt draxum #rottmnt mikey #rottmnt raph #rottmnt leo #rottmnt shelldon #huginn and munnin #I was going through my old WIPs and decided to show y'all this one

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princeescaluswords · 3 years

Note

Why does the fairly well adjusted, kindhearted teenager with no training in using lethal force not use lethal force? Hmmm? Got you there, Scott fans!!!!!

Interesting observation. It’s like you watched the show!

Someone was talking to me, last night in fact, that they believe there’s a reason many fans don’t like Scott. They said that many parts of the fandom resent that the show, in its lead, rejected “their preferred narrative of worshiping inherited power and/or power attained through violence.” I can’t really argue with it. I tend to focus on the racial aspect of fandom dislike, yet I think that they’re interrelated. It’s not just that Scott rejects the possibility of succeeding through lethal violence, it’s that he rejects it when doing so is not offered to white characters.

There are white male characters in the show who not only possess the capacity for lethal violence, they employ it as often as they can, yet it’s never shown as a victory. Peter murders ten people, even criminals in police custody, even innocent people, even allies, even family members, and it’s never portrayed as triumphant. Even his executions of Jennifer and the Mute are portrayed as signs of incipient madness and bloody horror. Derek fails miserably at trying to kill people other than his own family member which brings him nothing put pain, and loses his replacement pack in the process. Matt is more successful, but his motivations are shown as rather pathetic deficiencies in his personality. Gerard keeps getting screwed by his own strategies. Stiles is almost destroyed by the lethal violence he grasps for in desperation.

To these parts of the audience, that’s not how it’s supposed to be. Think about other examples of supernatural shows on television: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, True Blood, The Vampire Diaries, the Originals, etc. Violence -- especially death in judgement -- is the prerogative of protagonists. In fact, one of the ways they mark the protagonist in these shows is the casualness of how they approach lethal violence. How many times did Buffy casually kill vampire extras like an afterthought? Don’t get me wrong, I love BTVS, but Buffy’s execution of vampires is ultimately reduced to something banal, like brushing her teeth.

Connected to this is a number of tropes that they love, especially that of aristocratic or superior white men -- deprived of their rightful place or recognition in the world -- conquering those who oppress them and punishing them, even killing them, and thus they reassert justice in the world. It’s literally written into the genetics of fiction that the hero kills the villain.

Yet, the audience has trouble remembering that the biggest victim -- though not the only victim -- of Season 1 is Scott McCall. He had a life -- not a great one, but not a bad one either -- he had hopes and dreams. He didn’t want to sit on the sidelines anymore, he wanted to play first line and he worked for it. His father was neglectful, but he had a great mom and a fantastic best friend.

When Peter chooses him to become his murder assistant, it all goes downhill from there. He lies to his mother. He stalks Stiles in the locker room and disappoints him repeatedly due to his lycanthropy. It threatens his relationship with Allison. Derek manipulates him and uses him to hunt and kill the alpha. Peter violates him and threatens his loved ones. The Argent parents’ whole purpose in life is to kill him. This injustice can’t be solved through lethal violence; this injustice is caused by lethal violence.

And yet, the audience gets confused when he tells Deucalion “I’m not like you. I don’t have to kill people.” It just doesn’t occur to them (the villains or parts of the fandom) that Scott simply doesn’t want to be forced to do to others what was done to him. People complain that he’s a hypocrite because he makes first line due to his werewolf abilities while disliking being a werewolf, as if he’s supposed to stop playing and focus on being the Hale Family’s newest servant in gratitude. Yeah, he gets power, but the cost is constantly too high, such as when Stiles compliments Erica’s appearance in Season 2, and Scott says “How good do you think she's gonna look with a wolfsbane bullet in her head?” Scott’s breaking the established script the audience expected, where he learns to relish his power over others. When Derek manipulates Scott into believing that he has to kill the alpha to be human again, Scott’s determination to do it is not presented as Scott’s decision to serve justice but as Scott’s desperation to make the nightmare end.

Yet it doesn’t end, does it? Do we ever see Scott have a season enjoying first line at all? Do you think he loved being a werewolf when he held Allison’s dead body in his arms or watched Kira join the Skin-walkers? When he used his supernatural hearing to listen to his mother cry or Dr. Geyer struggle to save her life? When he watched Derek fall from the ledge in the mall and think it was his fault? He rejected the capacity to do lethal violence to others as a way of reasserting justice in the world because he never saw the use of violence successfully restore anything. Peter’s defeat in Season 1 and 4 ended a nightmare -- it didn’t erase the monumental changes to his and his friend’s lives, the horror they lived through. Matt died miserably; Gerard died miserably; Jennifer died miserably; Derek gathered more pain into himself. No one lived happily ever after because they could kill the people who hurt them -- they just continued the cycle.

Scott’s development as a protagonist -- and, not coincidentally, his subversiveness as a character in an action-adventure show -- hinges on his increasing capability to employ lethal violence as a corrective, while constantly repudiating it as anything but an unfortunate and painful necessity. Do you notice that he never talks about or takes pride in the defeat of his enemies? Not Peter, not Derek, not Gerard, not Jennifer, not the Nogitsune, not Kate or Theo or The Beast or Douglas or the Anuk Ite. He defeats them and then he’s done. There’s no celebration of the defeat of the enemies, like Ewoks dancing while burning stormtrooper helmets at the end of Return of the Jedi. He employs violence when he has to, he regrets the necessity, but he doesn’t dwell on what they did to him. Instead, he has hope for Peter and Deucalion and Theo.

Why? Because the motivation to reassert justice in the world by punishing enemies - the privilege of other heroes - is what ruined his life in the first place. Lethal violence invaded his life and changed it, down to his very nature. He’s never going to treasure it. He’s never going to turn to it first. Why should he?

#scott mccall #scott mccall defense squad #teen wolf meta #teen wolf racism #fandom racism #brydeswhale

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solalunar-eclipse · 3 years

Text

SYCS - 1 Year Anniversary

Chapter title: Set In Stone

Word count: about 4000 words

Author’s Note: On July 26, 2020, I posted the first chapter of Scars You Can’t See. One year later, I’ve written five stories of varying lengths and am currently working on a sixth (wow)! My writing’s come a long way since then, and a lot of my improvement is thanks to everyone who encourages me to continue said writing, whether it’s through likes, reblogs, or comments. Thank you all so much for your support so far! :)

This is a rewrite of the very first chapter of SYCS, since the original could use a little fixing. Some important notes: I’ve edited a few parts of the story to be more in character, Chapter 2 starts in a different place after this updated version, and I’ve also fixed up chapter 13 because apparently I forgot to finish the motif I started?? Somehow??? At least I remembered eventually...

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the (revised) story!

Before, Shadow had always been able to just ignore what it meant to work for G.U.N.

He’d managed somehow to convince himself to brush aside the fact that the soldiers he worked with (had been coerced into working with) wore the same uniforms as those who killed Maria, his dear sister and first friend. To push away any idea that he couldn’t deal with serving the same organization that had once wanted him dead. (It was the only way to stay with his friends, of course he could deal.)

The same thing went for using guns during the Black Arms invasion- even though he’d had amnesia, he remembered enough that he’d needed to rely on adrenaline near constantly just to make it through those times. Despite this, he had still taken the better part of a month to recover afterwards.

His memories of that day were particularly fresh for a while.

Once the invasion had been successfully repelled, G.U.N. had hired him to work for them very rapidly, as a matter of fact. During the process, some of the people along the way strongly suggested that if the organization wasn’t able to keep an eye on him, then…well, then they’d be very displeased.

Shadow knew all too well that you did not want G.U.N. displeased with you.

The hybrid felt nothing but exhausted as these thoughts whirled through his head for the hundredth time. They’d only become a major problem recently, ever since the military organization had begun to require him to resume using guns on his missions. Every single time he touched one, the cold steel left his palms slick inside his gloves and made his head swim with flashes of memories too often repressed. Still, he had to use them- he’d be taken off missions entirely if he refused, and Shadow would never leave Rouge and Omega in the lurch like that.

However, his mental health had been growing ever worse these past few weeks as a result. He thought (hoped) he’d done a good job of hiding it from Rouge and Omega, but Shadow had been sparring with Sonic noticeably less. The hybrid had struggled with the idea of inflicting more violence on others in his spare time, and the hero had asked him about it several times, trying to figure out the reason for his sudden change in behavior.

Shadow shook his head, pushing his doubts and worries away just as he always had before. He couldn’t allow himself to become distracted by his thoughts- they might spill over into missions if he wasn’t careful. Forcing himself to focus on his schedule for the day and nothing else, he walked out of his room to take on whatever might come his way.

…

He was skating through the halls of an old, decrepit building (currently being used as a hideout by Eggman) on a mission. A robot stepped into his path.

Shadow hadn’t used his weapon yet on this assignment. He remembered the thinly veiled threat after his first refusal- we may have to remove you from missions if you cannot handle this responsibility- and felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

He shut his eyes, whipped out the firearm, and pulled the trigger. Flinching at the sound out of instinct, he refused to open his eyes until the gun was away, when he didn’t have to see it anymore. The robot lay on the ground, a smoking hole in its center. He tried to ignore the lingering sensation of the G.U.N. logo embossed on the handgrip in his palm.

Shadow felt the floor tilt for a moment under him before he regained his bearings.

He refused to look at the machine as he rushed by.

…

The exhausted hedgehog curled up in bed at night, unable to keep himself from hearing gunshots over and over and over. He fought against the memories of that day, refused to let them spill over into his thoughts.

Yet despite his best efforts, he knew he’d dream of it again tonight. He knew that he’d wake up screaming with her name in his mouth and the sight of blood still burned into his eyes. It had happened every night since he’d received the weapon.

Shadow swallowed down his fearful apprehension over what would come next. He forced himself to breathe deeply, to close his eyes, even though he wished to do the exact opposite. Dreams were not real. He could not let them hold power over him.

But still, he shivered as he tried to fall asleep.

…

He and Omega were standing in the center of a courtyard, broken badnik scrap lying all around them. This mission was supposed to be easy, just a simple in-and-out. Take out the bots, grab the intel, and go.

Rouge had asked them to cover for her as she searched for information in the abandoned computers alone. Shadow hadn’t liked the idea of leaving her alone but agreed grudgingly anyway.

He looked down at the firearm he held in his hands and tried his hardest not to cringe.

Flashes of memories threatened to surface again, of escape pods and gunshots and too much blood-

“Shadow.”

He jumped, not expecting Omega’s loud voice so suddenly.

“Yes, what is it?”

“You have been distracted for nearly ten minutes. Are you unwell?”

Shadow sighed, projecting a relaxed attitude. “Everything is fine. I was simply thinking.”

“About what?” Omega asked curiously.

“Nothing much.”

Silence descended upon the two again for a minute.

“Shadow.” the E-series robot repeated.

“What.” he snapped, sounding more irritated than he’d intended.

“Tell me what you were thinking about. You looked distressed.”

“I’m fine, alright?” Shadow insisted. “Just- forget it, Omega.”

Omega stepped closer. “Past experience has informed me that you tend to hide important thoughts from others. Therefore, I will assume that this is essential knowledge until proven otherwise.”

“It’s not important.”

The robot placed his hand on Shadow’s shoulder. The latter wouldn’t admit it, but the weight was comforting, in a way.

“This is not adequate proof. Do you not trust me, Shadow?”

He sighed. “I do trust you, Omega. You know that.”

“Then talk.” Omega’s processors whirred for a moment, before adding, “Please.”

The hybrid’s shoulders slumped- he knew his friend wouldn’t stop until he told the truth. “I was thinking, how weird is it, that I work for the same organization that ki-...caused my sister’s-” He paused on the word, fighting not to trip over his sentences. “-death and...attempted to cause mine. Among other things. And how now...I must use weapons like the ones that took her from me...to harm others.” He sighed, nearly worn out just from the effort of discussing that event’s existence.

Omega jerked away from him, startling Shadow. “G.U.N. is the organization that killed your sister?” he asked, sounding- if it were possible- shocked.

“And the one that locked me away in cryostasis for 50 years, yes.” Shadow said, feigning calm.

Omega made a staticky noise that sounded like a sharp exhale. “Shadow. Why did nobody tell me this before? And why in the name of Chaos do you still work here?”

Shadow looked away, hiding the bitterness in his expression. “Multiple reasons. One, the organization has somewhat cleaned up its act, as far as I can tell. Two, it wants to keep me under surveillance, since I am still ‘potentially dangerous’ to them...and consequences would be severe if I did not obey.”

He tapped his heel on the ground. “Also, it was one of the main avenues for us to become heroes. Unlike Sonic and his friends, we don’t have the luxury of fighting someone who wants us to know where they are. And you know we didn’t exactly have the best record with law enforcement beforehand.”

“Still.” Omega replied. “I am highly opposed to the concept of fighting in the name of such an organization. Have they at least apologized to you? Or admitted their wrongdoing?”

Shadow frowned, thinking. “No, actually, they never did.”

Why did he have to bring this up? There’s no point in talking about what’s past. Let’s just get over it and move on.

Omega looked down, his eyes dimming slightly. “Processing.”

He was still processing by the time Rouge arrived, and remained mostly silent for their exit, post-mission briefing and the entire ride home.

Once the three had gotten inside, Rouge faced the E-series robot. “Alright, what’s up with you? You’re never quiet, but you’ve barely said a word since I got back.”

“I am considering an important decision.” Omega said.

“Oh? And what might that be?” she asked, folding her arms.

“My potential resignation from the government organization known as G.U.N..”

“Wait, what?” Rouge gasped.

Shadow shouted out from the other room simultaneously. “Omega, what are you thinking?!”

“Current logic process is as follows: G.U.N. hurt one of the few decent people on this planet and my friend fifty years ago by murdering Maria Robotnik and many others aboard the ARK, as well as imprisoning him for said fifty years against his will. It has not apologized or shown remorse for those actions. Therefore, this organization clearly has no respect for Shadow, and therefore I refuse to aid them one moment longer.”

Shadow appeared at the robot’s side, placing a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Omega, but you don’t need to do that for me. I’m alright with this.”

(He was lying, of course.)

“Hold on a minute here, Omega’s got a point.” Rouge said pensively. “I started working here so I wouldn’t go to jail for stealing, but I’ve served my ‘sentence’ ages ago. Honestly, I kind of hate it there anyway? Like, nobody even respects us and it’s got way too much bureaucracy and too many outdated ideas. It’d be much better if it was just the three of us doing our own thing away from them, wouldn’t it?”

“Besides, hon, you’ve got to start standing up against those guys. I know you were going through a major existential crisis a while back when this all started, and that was the main thing you had to deal with. But now that you’ve started to figure everything out, it’s time to stop letting people treat you this way! We don’t have to give G.U.N. anything. They never helped you at all.”

“Agreed.” Omega said. “This organization does not deserve you- or any of us. They have wronged you, and though forgiveness is supposedly a ‘virtue’, it is likely so only when it is deserved.”

Shadow stared at the two of them. “That was...actually kind of philosophical for a minute. And convincing.” He huffed, frustrated, his hands curling into fists. “I just…how would I even go about dealing with my grievances with an entire military organization? I would need proof...and I don’t want to damage my standing with the government. G.U.N. can easily claim that I have gone rogue.”

He swallowed, trying to ignore the various insecurities at the corners of his mind. “I’m just...should I really be digging all of this up again? I’ve finally started to get over it…”

“Okay, so first of all, hon, you’d better not let G.U.N. walk all over you just because they can make up fake blackmail.” the bat insisted. “And second, you’re clearly not over it. Shadow...I can hear you when you wake up from your nightmares, you know. You deserve some kind of closure to help you, and if G.U.N. won’t give it to you, then you have to take it.

“Also, here’s another thing- how much worse would you feel if G.U.N. hurt someone else, and we had never said anything to warn anyone?”

Shadow stiffened, feeling ill again. The very idea was abhorrent. That another person’s Maria could be lost due to his silence...“That...that would be unimaginable….” he breathed.

“Exactly.” Rouge replied. “So, consider it.”

Shadow frowned. “I...I’ll keep it in mind. But we should at least see if they’ll do something first before we try to attack them. We might be able to convince them to make amends, after all. I mean, if we fight, we’ll be completely out of a job, and I don’t know if the funds from Club Rouge will be enough to keep us afloat- if we succeed. It’s too risky, at least for now.”

“If that’s what you want to do, then we can definitely stick with that to start.” the bat said. “I don’t know if I could’ve taken any of their apologies if it were me, but it’s not my life, it’s yours. So I’ll be right with you no matter what you decide to do, okay?”

“As will I.” Omega added, placing a hand on Shadow’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Rouge. Thanks, Omega.” the hybrid said, finally allowing relief to show on his face as he looked at his friends.

He couldn’t help but feel that with them by his side, everything would be alright.

…

They talked through most of the night about how to bring it up, what they would say, and even where they would sit to keep Shadow feeling as safe as he could. The hybrid had final veto power over anything the other two suggested, and he tried to keep the wording of the speech he’d give as controlled and polite as possible.

However, he tried not to bring up the “maybe G.U.N. still thinks I’m a weapon to be stored and used, not a person” topic during his proposal. Those insecurities could wait for another day.

They fell asleep late at night, all three in the same room- Shadow made a blanket nest on the floor, Omega plugged himself into the wall, and Rouge was on her bed.

Pleasantly enough, Shadow didn’t have any nightmares that night.

…

“You want us to do what?”

The head of the public relations department stood behind his desk, cutting a slightly dominating figure in front of the team in his room. Omega could easily detect an increased heart rate in Shadow. He was not betraying any nervousness externally, however, and the robot was impressed by his friend’s willpower.

The PR head sat down, and he gestured for Team Dark to do the same. However, since there were only two chairs in the room (as they had known), Omega remained standing. Among other things, it would allow him to more easily defend his friends should the talk go awry.

“I’m afraid we just can’t do that kind of thing...Shadow.” He said the last word like it was distasteful, like it didn’t belong in his mouth. (Or, perhaps, like he wanted to add a “Project” or “Experiment” to the front of it, but didn’t for fear of a missile to the face delivered by Omega.)

“Why not?” The hybrid asked. “Sir,” he forced himself to add politely. “Don’t you agree that it was wrong? That G.U.N.’s soldiers shouldn’t have done...what they did?”

“I am incredibly saddened that Miss Robotnik’s death occurred in the search for you, and that the head of G.U.N. at the time considered you unworthy of any basic living rights.” the PR leader said, sounding more than anything like he was reading a script off a teleprompter. “However, I am not going to make a public statement digging up something that happened fifty years ago.”

Rouge leaned forward in her chair furiously. “So you’re just going to pretend it never happened? What about the trauma Shadow experienced? What about the fact that this kind of thing could happen again?”

The leader looked at her coldly. “I can assure you that this is an isolated incident, and that such an occurrence has not happened before or since.”

“But you can't just-! Can’t we speak with the commander?” Rouge gasped, outraged.

“I can, and I will. And you know very well that the commander is taking a well-deserved vacation, and we are not to disturb him for any reason except an emergency. Now then. Did you have anything else you needed?” he said smugly.

Omega was so, so close to just arming the missile launcher anyway.

Shadow looked up at him carefully, clearly going over the words in his head. “Sir. May I respectfully ask why G.U.N. considered it necessary to arm me? I can apply lethal force if necessary in other manners.”

The PR head frowned. “Close quarters are not necessarily a safe space for you, Shadow. We need you alive, and if that means you’re farther back, then so be it.”

“But- me? Destroying with impunity? In such a cold, distant manner? That’s not what G.U.N. wants to see from me, I thought. And with my experiences, I really don’t think-”

The human folded his arms. “Don’t worry about thinking, just worry about completing your missions on time. And what’s past is past, right? Now then, I expect no more complaints from you three. This meeting is concluded.”

Shadow stood up stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

Rouge froze. “Wait, Shadow, you’re not just going to-”

“We’re leaving, Rouge. Now.” Shadow said firmly, but the two other members of Team Dark could hear the unsteadiness in his voice. Omega remained silent, but internally was playing a very nice simulation in which he repeatedly punched the head of the PR department.

Once they had exited the office and walked through the facility for a while, Shadow leaned heavily against a wall. “He’s not sorry at all.” he muttered. The robot didn’t need his sensors to tell that he was experiencing far too many negative feelings at once. It wasn’t healthy for organics to deal with all that all the time…

“Agreed.” Omega said. “I would not be surprised in the least if he was lying throughout all of it.”

Rouge sighed, before pulling an unresisting Shadow into a hug. “Honey, I’m...” She paused for a second. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that. You shouldn’t have to cope with people like that, ever.”

Shadow closed his eyes quietly and stood like that for a long time. Eventually, though, he spoke up. “.....I know what we have to do. I...I know we need to fight, like you said last night. I don’t feel ready, but just…it has to happen.”

Omega looked down at them both. “You two go out to the car. I will go and get your sister’s files myself while you take a few minutes, Shadow. I am bulletproof and the most likely to make it out unscathed, and if I need help I can call.”

Rouge rolled her shoulders briefly, her wings flexing. “Alright. I’ll be ready to get out of here the second you get in. Sound good?”

“Alright.” Omega agreed. “Let’s go.”

The robot marched down the halls, on a mission. He stopped first to gather everything from their office- or at least all of their personal items. They might need them later, after all. He placed them into his empty chest compartment (he hadn’t refilled on weaponry in a while) and moved on.

The lower levels of the G.U.N. facility were darker and less well-maintained. This was most likely on purpose, to keep people from wanting to go down there. Omega, however, did not fear the dark. He had a flashlight, and a hulking five-foot robot was usually enough to scare most creatures.

Thankfully, the guards stationed throughout these levels knew him, and simply stepped aside to let Omega pass. Quite a few of them were honestly nervous down there themselves, and barely even noticed him.

He noticed a small door marked ‘Records Room- Classified’ and knew he was in the right place. The door did not give him access, but that was alright. Rouge had hacked the system a while back and given herself the highest clearance possible...and now Omega had her spare card.

Once he was inside, he scanned the cabinets methodically until he found the file marked ‘Maria Robotnik’. Inside were papers detailing her death and her life. Everything one could have wanted to know about her was inside.

The red stamp on the front reading ‘Terminated’ was pretty ominous, and Omega briefly wondered if he would be able to remove it. He considered the possibility that Shadow would not be quite so pained upon seeing it if the stamp were gone.

It was unlikely, and so he moved on.

Omega exited the room, hoping that the guards in the security monitor room were slacking off. They often were, so he calculated at least a 70% chance of exiting the facility without incident. He placed the file inside his compartment and continued on.

Being a robot meant that he could not act nervous. Therefore, nobody questioned him as he walked through the halls and outside, where he saw Rouge talking to Shadow inside their black-and-red car.

The hybrid appeared to be rather panicked about the whole plan, so as Omega slid into the backseat, he placed his hand on his friend’s head for a brief moment. “Everything is going to be alright, Shadow. I promise you that.”

Shadow sighed and slumped back against the seat. “Let’s get out of here before someone notices what we did.”

Rouge pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of the tires and didn’t let the speedometer dip below fifty until they got home.

“Right.” she said, once they were all inside. “We’ll probably have G.U.N. beating down our door by tomorrow morning, so let’s make sure they don’t catch us still here by then. Omega, refill your weapons and pack us some clothes and stuff. Shadow, you just try and chill. I’m going to look over this file.”

As Rouge flipped through the pages, Shadow decided that he needed to see these for himself and walked over to stand behind her. Before long, though, he recoiled in shock upon seeing that when G.U.N. discussed Maria’s death, they justified it. Made it seem like Shadow was the villain. A monster. A weapon.

“Shadow?” the bat asked.

“...yes?”

“You know we can’t use this by itself, right? We need more proof. Like, video proof.” she said, sounding resigned.

“I know.” he said quietly, disappointed that so little had changed despite the fact that half a century and some new management had taken place.

Omega cursed out G.U.N. from the other room in response and came over to them, his eyes in their ‘angry’ shape. “We need to stop them now. This revolting organization does not deserve to spend another minute active anywhere on the planet.”

“Let’s get them, then.” Rouge hissed, clearly furious as well.

Shadow felt terribly apprehensive, but despite that, he agreed as well. “Then they won’t be able to hurt anyone else in the future.” he said, sounding more determined than he had in a while.

“You ready, guys?” the bat asked, holding out her hand in the midst of their little group.

Omega allowed his giant metal hand to hover over hers. “Always.”

Rouge looked at the hybrid. “You sure you’re up for this, hon?”

“Not entirely…” Shadow admitted, but took a deep breath and held out his hand too, allowing Rouge to guide his hand to Omega’s, just like she had so long ago. “...but I need to do it, and so I will.”

“Then we’ll expose them, Shadow.” she said confidently. “And we’ve totally got this, because we’re doing it together.”

And as they all clasped hands for a moment, before breaking off to head to the garage, Shadow felt like they really had a chance to succeed.

#scars you can't see #sol's fanfiction #shadow the hedgehog #rouge the bat #e 123 omega #i've actually had this saved for a while! i thought the anniversary would be a good time to post it :)#i went back and reread chapter 1 and was like '.......i could write this so much better now'#so here we are!#i especially didn't like how omega forced shadow's hand- i much prefer this one where it's a team agreement #shadow's still a little hesitant because of how it turned out the last time he went up against g.u.n.#but he knows he needs to do this for himself (and for others too)#i did still try and keep the general plot structure the same though- just improved it (hopefully)#either way i'm looking forward to another year of writing! it's been really cool so far :D #thanks as always for reading

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lizardkingeliot · 3 years

Text

So, do those of you currently reading time cast a spell on you (but you won’t forget me) remember that scene in chapter 4 where Quentin shows up for his tutoring session and Eliot says he wants to go to the edge of the campus and manipulate the magic of the wards so they can fly? You know... this one:

Only they never end up making it there because they start bickering the second they leave the library? Well, in the rough draft of this chapter I initially had this scene... ending very differently. And they also weren’t going to fly, they were going to... well. I think I’ll just let y’all read it for yourselves lmao. I think I talked about this a bit on twitter when I was working on the chapter so if it sounds familiar that’s probably why. ANYWAY. I have a ton of deleted scenes from this fic, most of which will never see the light of day, but I woke up this morning with the urge to share at least part of this one so... I guess that’s what I’m going to do.

This is super rough and unedited and honestly not up to my usual standards, but... you know. Rough drafts tend to be that way. It’s also all over the place in terms of tone and where they were at this point in the fic lmao. This might be bordering on crack honestly. Which is why I just scrapped the whole thing and went a different route in the final draft. Anyway. Shutting up now. This is about 2k words so I’m putting most of it under a cut...

—

Trudging across campus two paces behind Eliot, Quentin was stricken by the overwhelming feeling that he was trapped inside a dream. The eerie, quiet campus, lit only by the waning moon and a few dots of light spilling from the various student houses. He looked back over his shoulder, spotting the Cottage in the distance, the dim orange glow of the front bay window swimming in his vision like a boat lost at sea.

As they approached the outer edge of the grounds, Quentin could feel the magic of the wards, buzzing on the air like insects. Bone-deep reverberations, strains of music swelling from within. He’d never been out this far before. The line where Brakebills ended and the real world began. Where there was nothing but the boat house and the wind. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He breathed in deep, the scent of the Hudson rushing nearby filling his senses as Eliot came to a sudden halt in the dark.

“Here,” Eliot said. Quentin could only just barely make out the shape of his elegant fingers pointing just ahead. “Can you feel the energy? I guess the Naturalists come out here sometimes and use it to light their bongs.” He laughed, a sound that warmed Quentin underneath his jacket at once. “And occasionally singe their own eyebrows off in the process.”

Quentin looked back. They’d come out to a place that the light from the Cottage couldn’t reach. Eliot formed an orb between his hands and pinned it overhead, a grapefruit sized pendant of magic swaying gently in the breeze. He stepped into Quentin’s personal space, giving him the once over. Head-to-toe and back again, settling at last on Quentin’s eyes.

“So,” he said with a smirk. “Cavaleri Animation. My memory of the First Year curriculum is a little hazy, but they’ve dazzled you all with that one already, yes? Turning your marbles into little glass animals, you know the one.”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah, um… but Alice was the only one who could actually get hers to work.”

Swift and warm as a pulse, Eliot’s hand curled around the nape of Quentin’s neck. Heat spreading down the column of his spine like a flame catching a wick. Thumb teasing over burning flesh. Eliot’s lips ghosted over his ear, not quite touching. Still, Quentin swore he could feel his smile. “Well,” he said, soft and dark, “I’m here now. And you’re going to do it. And it’s going to work.”

Quentin’s hand was bunching up the back of Eliot’s cardigan. He didn’t know when that had happened. The hum of the magic was making him dizzy. For a moment, it was impossible to breathe. His body a tight line of tension and desire. Eliot pulled away and Quentin released his hold, staggering a little as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

“Um, okay…” Quentin ran a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt at centering himself. “Why, uh—why do we have to do that here? We could have just done that spell in the library.”

“Because,” Eliot said with a tip of his head, “I have a theory.”

“A theory?” Quentin frowned. “You brought me out here for a theory?”

“More of a hypothesis really,” Eliot said with a wave of his hand. “But I think it’s going to work.”

“Great,” Quentin said with an exasperated sigh. “Dicking around with unstable magic in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong.”

“Look, it’s going to be fun,” Eliot said with that casual little air of his. “And we probably won’t explode even if I’m wrong. So we really don’t have very much to lose.”

“Okay, I’m—” Quentin threw his hands up. “For fuck’s sake, El, can you just tell me what we’re actually doing out here?”

“We,” Eliot said very slowly, reaching inside his cardigan, pulling a sliver of magenta colored glass out of the pocket of his vest, and looking through it, “are going to tap into all that crazy energy and make your little glass marble friend into a very big animal friend and take it for a spin.” He passed the sliver of glass over to Quentin. “Take a look.”

Quentin stared at Eliot for a very long time before relenting. “You’re actually a crazy person, you know that?”

“I think you mean certified sorcerer genius, but I’ll take it.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Go on. It’s balls to the wall out here. So much energy we could power a fucking nuclear reactor and I doubt Henry would notice.”

Quentin looked through the glass, moving it from one eye over to the other. At first, it was impossible to make sense of what he was actually seeing. A latticework of stars. Billions of them it seemed, all bumping up against one another in a wild, cosmic dance. A galaxy of intersecting lines and patchwork patterns shimmering like the wings of a dragonfly. And every now and then, a spark. Popping off into the dark like fingers desperate for the night. Quentin handed the glass back to Eliot with a shake of his head.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Don’t be boring, Quentin,” Eliot said. It made Quentin’s chest ache with its normalcy. Like their past couldn’t touch them out here. Like out here with their bad ideas and their wild magic, maybe they could have some hope to start again. “But maybe… maybe don’t make anything that wants to bite our heads off.”

“Okay, so…” Quentin sighed with his whole chest. “To recap: you want to steal unstable magic from the wards of the school where we’re both currently students to make a giant glass animal that hopefully doesn’t swallow us whole so we can… take it for a ride?”

“Yes,” Eliot said, like it was the most obviously brilliant thing in the world. “Don’t make that face with your face. Tell me you’ve never wanted to ride a rhinoceros.”

“We are not riding a rhinoceros, Eliot. Absolutely not.”

“Well, okay…” Eliot’s hand on his nape again. Heat, fire, a five alarm blaze encircling his neck like a collar. “If you could ride on any animal, real or imaginary—”

“The Cozy Horse,” Quentin said without thinking, heart pounding like hoofbeats trapped inside his chest. “Um… it’s from the Fillory books, uh…”

Eliot laughed softly. “Okay.” His hand slid down to Quentin’s shoulder, gripping it possessively. “Tell me about... the Cozy Horse.”

“Um…” Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, took a breath, shook his head. Eliot’s hand was stroking up and down the expanse of his upper arm and shoulder, making everything go all fuzzy in his brain. “It’s just, uh… it’s this horse that Jane rode on. It’s, uh… really tall. Like a hundred feet. Like a clydesdale on steroids.”

“You won’t ride a rhinoceros but you’re perfectly fine with a horse that’s a hundred feet tall?”

Quentin turned his face upward, trapping himself in Eliot’s gaze. Sinking, flying, falling. Close enough to kiss if he only went up on his toes a little. Tucked inside the safety of his warmth. Quentin wanted to burn, to melt into a puddle at Eliot’s feet and slosh around like muck. “I…” Quentin swallowed. “I don’t think the Cozy Horse would hurt us. It’s basically a giant stuffed animal.”

Eliot grinned, gazing down at Quentin for a long beat before pulling away. “Okay then,” he said, taking a few steps down the path under their feet. “Show me Cozy Horse.”

Quentin reached into his pocket, knelt down, set the marble on the path. “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to… harness the magic of the wards.”

Eliot made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, peering through it with one eye. “Just leave that part to me,” he said absently. “Go on. Make your horse. And don’t say you can’t do it. We both know that you can.”

Quentin gazed up the long line of Eliot’s body. Eliot was fully focused on the wards. The sound of night, the crackle of magic. Quentin shivered under his jacket. His hands hovered over the marble, focusing his energy on prepping the glass for transformation with Dempsey's Silent Thermogenesis. Once molten, the marble could be manipulated into almost any shape he could imagine. For the Cozy Horse, Quentin didn’t have much to go on but the memory of a single illustration, and a few lines from The Wandering Dune, but he figured it would probably be simple enough. How hard could it be to imagine a draft horse the size of something straight out of the Cretaceous period?

Quentin twisted the glass under his fingers, so fully focused on his task he almost didn’t notice when Eliot began to move. When, suddenly, through the loop of Eliot’s fingers, a beam of sharp, frenzied magic began to focus on the animal he had half-formed with laser precision.

“You might wanna hurry,” Eliot said. “I don’t know how long I can hold this here.”

Quentin scowled in his direction, looping a bit of the molten glass into the shape of a tail. “You’re shit at communicating, you know that,” he spit, letting the gentle rage rising in his belly fuel his magic. “I thought cooperative magic was supposed to be, I don’t know… cooperative?”

Legs, hooves, the gentle slope of a hulking animal’s back. The wispy tendrils of a mane. Eliot was saying something that might have been a warning. Quentin was too focused on his creation to parse a single one of his words. The magic of the wards cracked like lightning. He could feel it in his hands. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, Quentin gave the beast that had come to life beneath his fingers a shimmering loop around the back of the neck that might have passed for reins if he squinted.

A single hoofbeat on the soft ground. The beam of magic stuttering through Eliot’s fingers died away, and he let out a tremendous sigh.

“Okay so... “ Quentin frowned, eyes flitting from the tiny glass horse up to Eliot’s face. “I don’t think this is going to—”

A flash, a pop, a tremendous wave of heat knocking the air from his lungs. Quentin shoved his body backward off the path and into the grass just as Eliot was running over. Kneeling down, using himself as a makeshift shield as he pushed Quentin further back away from the molten monstrosity shifting and morphing and doubling, tripling, quadrupling in size. A deep rumble, the tinkling of glass. Quentin peered over Eliot’s shoulder, his eyes moving up, up, up, trying to take in what it was he was actually seeing.

The glass horse shook out its mane, rearing up on its hind legs and down again with an earth-trembling thud. The distance from the ground to its shoulder must have been twenty feet. It had no eyes and no mouth, but Quentin swore he could feel its glassy stare boring into him. The light of the orb dangling overhead passed right through the center of its body. For a long moment, everything went perfectly still.

And then Eliot started to laugh. “Holy shit,” he said, his eyes wide as dinner plates when he turned his face to Quentin. “That is a big fucking horse.”

A laugh sputtered out from between Quentin’s lips. “Yeah, um… yeah. Fuck. It really is.”

Eliot’s body pressed right up against Quentin’s body when he turned, and leaned in, so close they were almost kissing. A pulse of heat passed between them. Quentin felt it in his chest like a second heart. “So,” Eliot said, a hand curling around Quentin’s cheek for a fleeting moment before pulling away. “You wanna take her for a spin?”

Quentin felt absolutely out of his mind. Hazy, his body a liminal space. “Yeah,” he said with a short, stuttering burst of laughter. “Yeah, why the fuck not.”

Unreality set in hard as they stood and cautiously approached. Up close, they might as well have been gazing upward at the hulking glass back of a dinosaur. The haphazard reins Quentin had created looped around the beast’s neck like a string of fairy lights.

“Um…” Quentin laughed, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear. “How the fuck are we even going to get on this thing?”

Eliot took his hand suddenly, threading their blood-warm fingers together. “Oh, Q,” he said with a full-faced grin, “we’re gonna fucking fly.”

#the magicians #queliot #otp: proof of concept #myfic #*margo hanson voice* that's not tonally consistent with the fic

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smolfoxbab · 3 years

Text

okay here’s the Narumitsu angst (with a happy ending)

its my blog and i get to choose the hyperfixation to post about

((1,830 words //tw for injury + blood// hope u enjoy!))

Phoenix Wright wasn’t the type of person to make enemies. At least, not on his own. His selfless nature and optimistic personality made him a likable man to be around, even if he was often clumsy and oblivious at times. However, being a defense attorney was a different circumstance, one that brought a certain set of unspoken dangers with it. In proving his client’s innocence, the guilty verdict was placed onto another. While most of these people posed no threat behind the bars of their sentences, there was no guarantee a grudge wouldn’t push them to seek vengeance.

Miles Edgeworth had plenty of experience with this concept already. He was a prosecutor-- The Demon Prosecutor. Among the death threats and various other attempts on his life, he was all too aware of the risks that came with his job. But he had learned to shoulder them, right alongside the other burdens he carried. He also knew that Phoenix didn’t consider these things, didn’t consider his own safety as much as he considered others. Concussed, tazed, nearly drowned and beaten to a pulp in an infamously deadly river... none of it seemed to phase him. He never slowed in his pursuit for protecting others, and that... that concerned Miles more than anything.

“You need to be more careful, Wright,” he had said once in passing after a trial where a guilty offender nearly wrung Phoenix by the neck, the defense attorney standing just a little too close when the verdict was handed down.

“One of these days something... serious, might happen to you, and you won’t be able to just laugh it off.”

Phoenix only flashed him that dopey grin and said, “I’ll be fine, Edgeworth. For an unlucky guy, I’m pretty lucky.”

Miles wanted to believe that, truly. The man seemed to get off easy in dire situations more often than not, so perhaps he had a point behind his foolish reasoning. Even so, his worry lingered. Luck always tended to run out at some point.

---

Then one afternoon, his phone rang. He had already been driving towards Phoenix’s office, having been called over earlier on the premise of having an “important discussion.” He’d left as quickly as he could, but the traffic seemed to determined to keep him from reaching his destination. It was slow, and he seemed to be hitting every red light possible. It was at one of these prolonged red lights, as he sat impatiently tapping the steering wheel, that a familiar tune sounded off in his pocket. Sighing, he slipped his phone out and checked the screen, not too surprised to see Phoenix was the one calling. Forgot to tell him something in the first call, most likely. He hit “answer” and brought the device up to his ear.

“What is it, Wright.”

There was a raspy breath on the other end before Phoenix spoke, his voice just as hoarse.

“M-Miles, I... I-I uh...”

Miles’ brow furrowed, and he found himself straightening in his seat, grip tightening on the phone.

“Wright? Is something wrong?”

There was another breath, followed by a rather nasty sounding cough. There was then a sound that could have been a laugh, if it wasn’t so strained.

“Ah... s-something like that... I w-was trying to call... hhhah... I guess it d-doesn’t mmmatter... a-are you almost... here?”

The light turned green, and Miles pressed on the gas. Harder than he should have, perhaps, but he was uneasy now.

“Yes, I am. What is it, Wright? What happened?”

There was a grunting sound, and the rustle of paper.

“W-well... fffunny story, ah... there was s-ssomeone at the door and it t-turns out it wasn’t... w-wasn’t you and ahm... shit-”

The hiss was sharp and pained. Miles turned a corner a bit too hastily, nearly catching a street sign as he swung around it. Before he could say anything, Phoenix continued.

“I’m not... I’m nnnot doing too hot, Miles... It’s getting... k-kind of hard to... focus...”

Miles clenched his jaw, trying to hold his composure. He was on the final stretch of road, he just had to get there.

“Stay with me, Wright. Stay on the phone. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah...” came the reply, but the strength in it was fading, “yeah... Miles...?”

“I’m here, Wright.”

He turned into the office parking lot as he said that, haphazardly parking and exiting the car in record time.

“.....what I w-wanted to... tell you... I... I love... you.”

Miles’ breath hitched as he ascended the steps. He would’ve have stopped completely if not for the adrenaline fueling his movement. A lump formed in his throat, which he heavily swallowed as he pressed on. Damn it, why now did he- Damn that man.

“J-Just hold on, Wright. I’m coming up on the door now. Wright? Wright?”

Silence filled the other end of the line as he approached the door, which sat unlocked and ajar. A red smear stained the door handle, while more splashes led across the floor and deeper inside. Miles only hesitated a moment before flinging the door open, rapidly searching the room for the other man. It didn’t take long.

The defense attorney was slumped against a bookshelf near his desk, various papers and books scattered around him, along with his still lit up phone. He wasn’t moving. Miles sucked in a breath as he practically slid to Phoenix’s side, one hand clasping his shoulder while the other went to check his pulse. Thankfully, he could still feel it, though it was weakening.

“Wright? ...Phoenix, can you hear me?”

He tried to get some kind of response, lightly shaking his shoulder, but got nothing. He shifted his gaze downward, where he couldn’t help but spot the dark stain soaking underneath his jacket. He lifted the blue fabric slightly, trying to get some assessment of the damage. It looked too wide a tear to be a gun wound. A stabbing seemed more likely.

“Damn it. Damn you,” Miles cursed under his breath, shucking his jacket off and moving to put pressure on the wound. He set to call the authorities at the same time, his now-shaking hand nearly dropping the phone entirely. He stared at the unconscious man before him as the phone rang, mumbling to himself before the responder picked up,

“If you die, you fool, I’ll... I’ll bring you back and kill you again myself.”

Emergency services responded quickly, and an ambulance was sent with haste. The police force arrived as well, with the ever-diligent Gumshoe heading the charge. Ever-diligent, and ever-emotional, as the detective seemed to blast through one emotion after the next while Phoenix was being prepped for the drive to the hospital. Miles was given the assurance as he boarded the ambulance himself that, no matter what, the culprit wouldn’t get away with it. In the tense silence of the ride that followed, Miles let that statement repeat in his head- let it hold him together. They wouldn’t get away with this. He would see to it personally... Once he was assured that Phoenix was going to make it out of this alive.

---

Several hours of absolutely nerve-wracking waiting in the hospital lobby followed after, but all well worth it when he was informed that Phoenix was in stable condition. That didn’t stop him from nearly throwing the recovery room door off its hinges upon arrival, however. He needed to see it for himself, confirm with his own eyes that the other was alive.

A tired smile greeted him from the bed.

“Hey Edgeworth...”

Miles stood in the doorway for a moment, silent and stiff. Then, slowly, he drew in a breath, let his shoulders relax, and stepped inside with the door closing behind him.

“Wright.”

Phoenix winced at the tone of Miles’ voice, like a child about to be lectured by his parent.

“Look, before you get m-”

“You are an absolute moron, Phoenix Wright. I mean really of all the idiotic- Not only do you call me as you’re bleeding out, rather than contact the authorities-”

Phoenix attempted to interject.

“To be fair I was actually trying to call the-”

But Miles didn’t let him finish.

“But then you have the gall to go and declare- to tell me that you- in such a dire circumstance you decide to claim-”

“Miles-”

“Not seconds before I walk in on what could have well been a murder scene- And what would I have done then? Knowing you had said such a thing before I could even have a chance to process it let alone-”

“Miles if... if you don’t feel the same I-”

“Reciprocate.”

Both of them fell silent then. Phoenix, slack-jawed and staring straight at Miles while the prosecutor locked his gaze to the floor, feeling the heat begin to burn in his cheeks. Phoenix blinked rapidly, beginning to flush a bit himself despite his currently paler complexion.

“Y-y-you mean you-”

Edgeworth huffed and turned towards him, closing the distance between himself and the bed before closing the distance between the two of them. It was an impulsive kiss, and not the one either of them imagined would be their first, but it was real. Phoenix was real, and still here, returning the kiss like it was the most natural thing in the world. A wince and a hiss broke the moment though, Phoenix pulling back to sink into the mattress he’d started to push off of. Miles pulled back hastily, rubbing at his arm with an awkward clearing of his throat.

“A-apologies, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no- my fault, really. And look I... I’m sorry for worrying you and... how I said that really wasn’t how I meant to go about it-”

Miles cut him off again before he could start losing himself in his rambling.

“I... I know, Wright. I would be far more concerned if your plan had been to confess to me by having a near death experience.”

Phoenix chuckled nervously and looked elsewhere, giving Miles the chance to take up the seat next to his bedside.

“Yeah that’s... a little far out there... even for me. But Miles, you really...?”

Phoenix looked back with a start as Miles took his hand, his grip cautious but protective. Miles attempted to play it off as if he was exasperated, rather than jumbled mess of feelings he was grappling with. The mess of feelings he had been grappling with for some time.

“Honestly, I would have thought just now made it clear enough, but. If I must say it to convince you. Yes, Phoenix. I... I love you, too.”

There was a pause, far too long yet far too short, before Phoenix smiled. Still tired at the edges, but warm and genuine.

“Okay then. I’m... I’m really glad to hear it isn’t just... I’m glad.”

Miles couldn’t help but smile faintly himself, gently squeezing the hand in his.

“...As am I. Now... why don’t you tell me how you got into this mess?”

#narumitsu #wrightworth #ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #My writing #fanfiction #*twiddles fingers*#idk if this is any good but

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giffingthingsss · 3 years

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J/C, C/7, and Me

Disclaimer: I am not necessarily a J/C shipper. I just have eyeballs and enjoy the show. Long ass post.

In the Beginning

Was a Janeway/Chakotay romantic plot baked in? I tend to think not. At least not at the very start. But this is pure speculation on my part.

If romance is your goal, then it’s much more interesting to have Chakotay not immediately being 100% supportive. (An AU where they never get lost and it’s just Janeway pursuing this Maquis leader and maybe eventually being persuaded and helping him, please.)

I think initially they were flirting with the idea of Janeway/Paris. The character of Tom was described as being a potential love interest for Janeway. That idea doesn’t seem to have made it past the character sketches, but you can see a trace element of it in the very beginning.

The writers played with a number of character combinations. A pretty natural chemistry was cropping up between Captain and First Officer. Little things were dropped into scripts. Performances certainly came across as interested, whether intended or not, who knows.

Ramping Up

Where before there were hints and moments, Resolutions kicks off a series of flashing red sirens.

From this episode on there would be declarations of... ‘you bring me true peace’, and ‘I’m frickin jealous, okay?’ and bawling declarations of ‘you can’t die!’ These developments are not in the shipper’s imagination. They’re building toward something. Clearly. Obviously. Said all the people with eyes.

For the first couple seasons, Janeway being engaged kind of kept this at bay. But now they’re fully playing with it.

Road Block

However, Kate Mulgrew (and maybe others, I dunno) was like, ‘sure. develop the relationship. but no sex. the first female captain isn’t going to be having booty calls in the ready room. not gonna happen. people are going to take this captain seriously.’

So they played with it here and there, but it could only go so far. Kate seemed to want the best of both worlds. A deep, complicated, growing relationship, that never tipped over into the sexual. Her focus was on getting the crew home.

Beltran flat out says (in one of the books I own that I don’t feel like digging out) that Chakotay was in love with her. But Beltran was getting frustrated. When Year of Hell came around, he apparently called up the writers and said, ‘how long is this guy gonna keep throwing himself at a woman who never reciprocates? it’s getting pathetic. either do something with these two or don’t.’

Loner Janeway

Along the way, I think Kate became enamored with the idea of the loneliness of command, the sacrifices it entails. Fell in love with the poignancy of it all.

This is not something that’s out of character for Janeway. Beyond the fact that in the beginning she was engaged, pairing off was a luxury she didn’t think the captain had. So any kind of romantic relationship she might pursue would have to start with her being broken out of that mindset.

That’s basically what Resolutions did. Once they finally pried Voyager out of her fingers, you could see a burgeoning love very clearly. But then Voyager came back. And with it her... resolutions.

Coulda Woulda Shoulda

If they had wanted to snip it and move on, they should have had that conflict between Janeway and Chakotay at some point. Perhaps after Beltran called them up and said, ‘hey. Make up your minds.’

Have the characters actually talk about it and reach a conclusion and there ya go. But maybe the writers just didn’t know wtf they wanted to do with it and wanted to leave their options open. And then did nothing at all.

Me, a Non-Shipper

Personally, I tend to agree with the Mulgrew side of things (and can also see why Beltran would be bored with the eternal holding pattern and not mind when they said ‘hey, you can kiss Jeri Ryan.’)

They developed the Tom/B’Elanna romance, which was great. We didn’t need non-stop romantic plots. I think the shippers could understand Kate’s reasoning and were willing to go with the slow burn...if the writers had actually sat down and decided that’s what they were doing. If only they hadn’t dropped the ball at the very end.

Here’s the thing: if you build up a relationship like that, you can’t be upset when people notice. And you can’t give up on it behind the scenes without telling the audience on screen. ‘There are some lines we never cross’ might have been an attempt, but was too late. And was certainly not closure. The audience deserved better.

C/7? WTF!?

Well, if you thought there was no build up for it, it’s because there wasn’t. If you felt like it was whirlwind and came out of nowhere, it’s because it was, and it did. Apparently even in the writer’s room.

Brannon Braga wanted Seven to die in the finale. He was writing her episodes to gear up for that. Human Error, the episode where Seven experiments with romantic ideas with a holographic Chakotay (with a kiss that was apparently the result of a dare Beltran made to Jeri), was written with Seven’s death in mind. It wasn’t supposed to be the opening salvo of an actual relationship.

I think Seven of Nine should have bit the dust. I think there had to be a real sacrifice for this crew getting home, a real blood sacrifice. Seven of Nine was, for me, designed to be a character that was gonna die tragically. I planned that.... There’s an episode called Human Error that I wrote...she's trying to feel emotions. She actually succeeds and then almost dies. She learns there’s a Borg implant, that if she becomes too human, it will kill her. And it was that moment in my mind that would set up the finale, where she realized she can’t live here, she can’t live there. And she dies getting her family home. - Brannon Braga

I’m glad they didn’t go that way for various reasons. I love Endgame as it is. But it’s interesting to know the thought process. They weren’t gearing up for romance, they were aiming for tragedy. At least Braga was.

Human Error was only about six episodes from the end. At the time of that writing, that's what was in at least his head.

Human Error was not written with an eye toward a C/7 future. Without that episode I doubt highly C/7 would have been a thing. And it wasn’t even written to make it a thing.

Endgame obviously didn't go that way. Janeway-palooza instead. So. What do we do now? What to do with Seven? And from here on, all I have is speculation.

Retooling

'Well, we've got this holodeck scenario from the episode we wrote when we were planning to kill her off that hints that she might like Chakotay. So. I guess we'll go with that.'

It appears to me that they retooled recently written story elements to fit their ending, to provide more motivation for that ending.

They picked the three people it would kill Janeway most to lose. Tuvok, obviously. An ongoing torment, visiting him every week. Seven dies (a remnant of plan A) and in a sense takes Chakotay with her.

This is all fuel for Admiral Janeway without making it about saving her lover (unless you’re a J/7 shipper, in which case, hog heaven).

When you think of it only in terms of ‘what can we do to make the finale work’, it’s not terrible. When you think of it in terms of seven preceding years, it doesn’t work at all. They got myopic.

In hindsight I think the writers could probably admit it was a mistake in terms of the show, and they should have resisted the urge to do something that was thrown together and jarring rather than nothing at all with Seven.

Gossip

Apparently neither Mulgrew or Beltran were opposed to C7 in the end. Maybe because they had at points been a bit frustrated with each other behind the scenes. Whether those frustrations were forefront in anyone’s mind at the time, idk.

I tend to think Kate really was over the idea of Janeway’s destiny having much to do with romance at all.

It is interesting that when Seven first arrived on the show, Kate specifically mentioned not wanting the writers to throw her with Chakotay. At that point perhaps feeling a tad possessive. Perhaps didn’t want him ‘sullied’ by the busty blonde.

But this was seasons in the past by the time the finale rolled around, and I doubt highly it had anything to do with anything. Who knows.

Me on Endgame

Personally, I'm glad Endgame was a Janeway palooza. I love 99% of Endgame. I’m glad it was about Janeway vs.Janeway vs. Borg Queen. I wouldn’t have wanted it to be about J/C either.

But if you’re not willing to go there, leave it then to the imagination. It's cruel to basically tell your audience that these two would be together if not for their delta quadrant circumstances, and then rip the rug from under them the second they get to the quadrant where this romance is supposed to be possible. Not cool, man. Not cool.

When I first saw Endgame (as a non-shipper with eyes) C/7 was jarring and weird. But I thought the scene where Seven was distancing herself was well acted and stirred up an emotion or two (even if it was a little histrionic, considering they'd just started dating). So I wasn’t throwing things at my television. Just confused.

I also basically dismissed their future relationship. They got home after like one date, not ten years of marriage. And now their lives will completely change. So I just kind of hand-waved it away. "It did its job for the episode, but the future's changed and they won't last. So whatever."

Headanons on Janeway’s romantic reasoning and original timeline reaction to C/7

Captain Janeway had no idea how long it would take to get back home. Obviously you hope for tomorrow, but it could be twenty years from now. She resigned herself to not pursue romance. Her sole purpose in life was to get the crew safely home.

So I speculate her reaction to C/7 would be quite stoic. She would recognize it’s not fair for him to just pine away, possibly forever. That she has made this choice and he shouldn't have to be alone because of it. Her being alone is just part of the price she must pay, the burden she must bear. Her own wants and needs must take a backseat. She has greater responsibilities.

In fact, I can see her encouraging C/7. She would see it as a form of selfless love. ‘It doesn’t matter that he’s with me; it matters that he’s happy.’ Of course feelings would rear their heads from time to time, but she would quickly corral them into that channel.

Lots of lovely internal martyrdom. She would make it her mission to make sure they were both okay and happy. A bit of a masochistic streak that she buries under a sense of nobility and sacrifice.

This is the kind of angle I think Mulgrew came to prefer. That lovely little tragic pang. She loves drama, if nothing else.

“It’s a lonely thing, but I’m gonna get this crew home.” - Kate Mulgrew

“You always made it hard for yourself. If there was a rocky path and a smooth one, you chose the rocky one every time.” - Coda

This is a woman with a lot of love to give. But finds herself, or perhaps unnecessarily forces herself, depending on your view, in a place where that’s not a possible life choice. So those instincts expand outward, enveloping them all. She finds fulfillment in the well-being of the crew and the ship as a whole.

Post Endgame

Their trip was shortened by a lot because of Endgame. The future is no longer written in stone. So the possibilities are endless, the sky’s the limit. And apparently Seven’s a lesbian (I haven’t seen it, but I hear tell). So. There ya go.

(She is crying here, btw. I never noticed before I did that episode and feel the need to point it out once again. Lest anyone else still not have noticed.)

If you actually read this whole thing, congratulations. Hopefully it made sense. I now continue with my rewatch and probably won’t talk much about this in the future. Unless something new comes up, I’ll just continue to be a non-shipper with eyeballs, enjoying whatever’s around.

#voyager things #long ass post #of fact and probably fiction #my best current take on what went down

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glimmerglanger · 4 years

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Whumptober2020 - Day 11

We continue onward with the oof!au (part 11). They’ve got a long road back to being alright, but they’re taking some of the first steps.

General Info: Post Order 66 Vader-Captures-Obi-Wan AU. Eventual happy(ish) ending. Past/eventual Codywan. Previous one-sided Vaderwan.

WARNINGS: Consideration of past injuries, past non-con, and past torture. Processing the loss of a limb. Fall-out from mind control. Emotional trauma.

No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED

Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood

Obi-Wan’s head hurt. Everything else, he noted, as he swam up through the dark of unconsciousness, hurt as well. He was long ago grown used to that; it barely registered, really, and he wished he’d stayed unconscious.

But something had woken him. Something besides the pain. He blinked his eyes open, expecting the gray walls of his cell, or, perhaps, if he were very unlucky, the inside of Anakin’s private chambers, a shudder moving through him as he took stock of his surroundings.

He blinked across at a gray wall, vaguely aware of voices and, impossibly, the hum of hyperdrive engines. For a long moment the world made no sense. He reflexively stretched out his senses with the Force, half-remembering that it wouldn’t do any good, that he was collared and--

Sensation slammed into his head, flowing through him, as though the Force had just been waiting for him to open a pathway. He felt -- so much -- too much -- all at once. Emotions swam up into him; anger and guilt and regret and hurt and --

Obi-Wan gulped for breath, letting the emotions flow through him, accepting them and letting them go, burning his nerves and leaving him shaking. He could have attempted to block them, to shield away from the feelings, but the touch of the Force was such a relief.

He’d thought, honestly, that Anakin would kill him before he ever felt the embrace of the Force, ever again. He could not bring himself to shy away from it, even though it hurt, shaded and full of agony, radiating from all around him. He remembered, distantly, throwing himself into it, in Anakin’s throne room, desperate to stop Anakin from hurting his men. Beyond that, things were blurry. Cody had - impossibly - been himself again, somehow.

Obi-Wan had thrown himself into a healing trance, feeling all the damage inside his body, trusting that Cody would get him out, and then he’d….gone away, for awhile. Pain brought him back.

He knew how to handle pain. He knew how to breathe through it, until the emotions became a sort of background hum, filling him but not disallowing other thought. He sipped at the air, blinking at a gray ceiling, focusing on untangling the snarl of the Force around him.

He was...surrounded by troopers. He knew their minds so well. The way their thoughts moved was familiar and comforting, even if they all felt unwell, as though they’d been broken and left in shattered pieces. His men were hurt, and the thought dug down into him, past the confusion and disorientation. His men were hurt; he had to help them.

He lurched to sitting, reaching up to grip at the side of his head, hissing as the movement pulled at the wounds scattered across his body. Something tugged at his arm and he looked down at the little I.V. tucked in at the curve of his right elbow. The only elbow he had left, he remembered, with a shivery, unpleasant feeling.

Obi-Wan glanced to his left arm, gut clenching as memory clawed into his head. Anakin had circled him, made him stand, staring into the faces of his men, made his stretch out his arm, purred, “This is only fair, isn’t it? Say it, Obi-Wan.”

And he had, because the alternative was worse.

Obi-Wan made himself look, really look, at all that remained of his left arm, and swallowed convulsively. The lightsaber had, at least, kept him from bleeding out. The scars around the abbreviated limb were thick and dark. He jerked his gaze away, taking stock of the pieces of him that remained, the I.V. coming out of his other arm.

The line led to a hanging bag of fluid. It was swaying, gently, from his movement. He was… sitting on a little medical bed. There was a medical droid, puttering around close to him, changing course to approach.

The walls were not terribly familiar, nothing he’d seen exactly before, but they reminded him of the set-up on the Negotiator, his fine ship, destroyed like so much else and-- He shook those thoughts aside.

He was… on a ship. He considered, with a shiver, that perhaps he had not hallucinated Cody crouching in front of him, promising that Anakin was dead, that they were getting out, all of them….

He rubbed at his head, hissing again as his fingers brushed bandages and the edge of stitches. He’d… been hurt, hit on the head. He recalled that, when he tried to focus. He’d been… fighting Anakin. Anakin, who had been so sure of the utter success of his plans, so sure that he’d found a way to keep Obi-Wan pinned right where he wanted....

Anakin had always been sloppy. Over-confident when he caught the briefest edge of success. Obi-Wan had tried to help him move past that, tried to offer him training and advice. He was grateful, all at once, that Anakin had never learned those lessons.

Obi-Wan scrubbed at his face and asked, as the droid rolled to a stop before him, his voice still a rasp - he wondered, absently, if he’d ever recover, “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I am?”

Cody had, obviously, carried him to the ship. Or perhaps he’d walked under his own power. His memories were a jumbled mess, confused by the head injury he’d taken. The droid chirped at him, irritably, something about his injuries and staying still.

Obi-Wan ignored it. Someone had tended to his wounds. He was bandaged across his chest and side, the smell of bacta heavy in his nose. The smell made his stomach twist, nauseatingly, associated with injuries, with laying in a cell, with wondering what Anakin would do to him next, and--

Obi-Wan swallowed bile, shaking his head.

He wanted to know what had happened. He had jumbled memories of talking to Cody, really Cody, not the other person who he’d been turned into. Cody had lifted him, hadn’t he? Held him with shaking hands? Hadn’t he?

Obi-Wan stretched out his thoughts again, working to maintain some level of control. He searched for Cody’s mind and got--a blur back. A presence, but dim and hurt. Unconscious. His heart tripped over, jerking unpleasantly in his chest, and he stood, ordering the droid, “Take this out,” and stretching out his arm.

The droid told him to get back on the bed and he scowled at it. He could probably figure out how to remove the I.V. with one hand, but it would take time, and he, abruptly, didn’t feel very patient. He grabbed the bag, instead.

He’d been wrapped in a blanket, which he appreciated. Someone had cleaned him up before patching him back together. He pulled the soft fabric up and around his shoulders as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, letting his legs dangle for a moment as dizziness and nausea moved through him.

He’d been to the healers often enough to know the vertigo was a sign he ought not try to stand. But… Well. He’d never been very good at doing what the healers wanted. He stood, with no free hands to brace on anything, and after a moment the room stopped spinning a bit.

The stilling of the room allowed him to notice that he’d stepped in something sticky. He blinked down, vision blurring for a moment. There was a… reddish smear on the ground. Dark. Tacky. He’d seen blood enough to recognize it out of hand, and followed the smear of it. It led towards one of the private med rooms, disappearing beyond it.

“Hello?” he repeated, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. He shuffled, carefully, over to the door. “Anyone?” Someone had bandaged his injuries, treated them as well as possible without a bacta tank. The troopers, he assumed. He could feel their minds, all around. Most of them seemed to be sleeping, a few very busy.

One such mind was close by, but not through the door with the smear of blood.

The mind behind that door was unconscious, not just asleep. Those two states felt different through the Force. Obi-Wan shivered, because, even unconscious he recognized the mind, the bright soul. Cody.

Obi-Wan ignored the busy minds, the sleeping minds, and the droid. He didn’t call out again. It hurt his throat to talk, and he didn’t want to disturb any of the sleepers around him. He pushed the door open with the Force and hesitated another moment, in the doorway

There were three little beds in the room. Only one was occupied. The trail of blood led right to it. Cody lay under the blankets, hooked up to wires and tubes, his brow furrowed even in unconsciousness, a little bandage on his brow. The shape of the blankets made it clear that there were more bandages beneath them, bulky and misshapen.

The cold of the hall seeped up through the soles of Obi-Wan’s feet, into his legs, leaving him shivering.

Obi-Wan rasped, “Force,” ignoring the pain in his throat, limping across the room to stop by the other side of Cody’s bed. He hooked the bag still attached to him to the hooks over Cody’s bed and reached out to press his fingers against Cody’s throat, fear crawling up his spine because Cody was so still, color bad, gone grayish, and even with the reassurance of the Force--

He had a pulse. Steady. Obi-Wan sagged, shifting, pulling fussily at the blanket over Cody’s chest, blinking his blurry eyes as a familiar voice from the doorway said, “He’s going to be fine.”

Obi-Wan blinked over at Bones and it was disorienting, seeing him standing there, with emotion on his face. Obi-Wan didn’t understand what happened. He kept waiting to wake up from this sweet, impossible dream. He asked, voice a whisper, “Are you sure?”

Bones’ mouth quirked up. He said, “I’m sure. He was gut shot. Liver damage. Lost a lot of blood. But he’ll recover. We’re built sturdy.” Bones took a step forward and said, “You’re not supposed to be out of bed, yet, General.” But he made no move to shoo Obi-Wan away.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “I feel much better.” Which was not the same as saying he felt well. “I suppose I have all of you to thank for that?” He tried to make his tone light, to get his voice closer to the way it used to sound, once upon a time.

He, apparently, didn’t succeed. Bones flinched, looking to the side, his hands bailing into fists as he said, “No, sir. You don’t need to thank us for anything.”

Obi-Wan blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden cut and snarl of Bones’ emotions. He swayed, bracing his hand on Cody’s bed, taking the wave of emotion like a blow, and-- and he released it, all of it, managing to say, “I don’t believe that. But I also...don’t know what happened.” He looked up, met Bones’ dark gaze.

Bones sighed and said, “Sir, you’re not much better off than him, you need to lay down and--”

“I can rest in here,” Obi-Wan insisted, tugging the blankets straight once more and carefully making his way around the bed. He sat, stubborn, in a chair by Cody’s, and looked up into Bones’ expression.

Bones grimaced. “Sir, I--”

“You’ll have to drag me away,” Obi-Wan said, calm, intending only to make his position clear, and flinched as Bones’ emotions contracted all at once, into horror and guilt and--

And by the time Obi-Wan swallowed down the nausea that had risen in his throat, wrestling with his own mind for control and achieving it after a moment, Bones had turned away to start gathering supplies.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, carefully, unsure why, exactly, his words had such an effect. He still wasn’t sure what had happened. Bones shook his head, once, a muscle in his jaw jumping, over and over.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Obi-Wan asked, gently, because he needed to know and because he wanted to distract Bones from the agony inside his own head, bleeding out of him with each instant. Bones hesitated. “How we got away, I mean? How you - you all got free?”

He’d known they were in there, his men. He’d been trying desperately to figure out how to free them. And, apparently, they’d gone ahead and done it themselves. Bones wouldn’t meet his eyes, as he said, “I’ll explain if you let me check you over without a fuss.”

And Obi-Wan could agree to that, resisting the urge to flinch away when Bones tugged the blanket open. He forced himself to relax, feet flat on the ground, and Bones looked over his skin, clearing his throat before he spoke, “There were...chips, in our heads, sir. Controlling what we did. I know that it took too long, but a few of us - the Commander, me. Crys. We managed to break them. We’ve been freeing the others.”

Pride and warmth spread through Obi-Wan’s chest as he leaned back against the chair. They were so brave, the troopers. So strong. He couldn’t imagine the difficulty of - of breaking the control of something in their own heads.

“Thank you,” he said, feeling Bones jerk to a stop again, “for freeing me, too.”

Bones said nothing, only breathed raggedly for a moment, horror and guilt radiating out of him again, and Obi-Wan did not understand what he’d said. He shifted a little, asking, “Bones, is--”

“This is going to hurt a little,” Bones said, cutting him off, voice thick and half-strangled as he lifted a bandage on Obi-Wan’s ribs. The pain was, comparatively, so minor that Obi-Wan barely noticed it. Bones had always had a soft touch, anyway.

“I’ve upset you,” Obi-Wan said, persisting, because he couldn’t - wouldn’t - ignore the pain of his men. “I’m sorry--”

“Don’t,” Bones gritted out, turning his shoulders away, curling his head down, sounding gutted. “Please, sir, don’t--don’t do that.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, watching his shoulders shake, even as his hands stayed steady. Obi-Wan sat there, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, as Bones gathered himself and busied his hands with the tangle of tubes around Cody, stepping back after a moment, his face still turned away, voice hoarse when he said, “You can stay in here, as long as you rest.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan said, automatically, and Bones nodded, stiffly, before turning and walking from the room.

Obi-Wan watched him go, feeling tired and battered, beaten inside his head. They all hurt, so much. He needed to help them, but--but it would have to wait, just a little while. He leaned back in the chair, wincing as it pulled on all the newly treated wounds across his body and some of the older hurts.

The burns on his back had healed, technically. They pulled, every time he tried to move, a constant reminder of what Anakin had done. He set the discomfort aside, and, after a long moment, leaned his head back, blinking at the ceiling, comforted by the awakened mind around him, but Cody, breathing steadily beside him.

He needed more answers about what had happened. And he needed to help his men. But that could all… wait. Just a little while. He lifted his hand, hesitantly, started to reach towards Cody’s bed and froze, because sitting still, with no one else to distract him, allowed memories to crawl up into his head.

And Obi-Wan had so many memories he didn’t want, of Cody gripping his legs, his hips, fingers digging in cruelly, mechanical and unfeeling. Before, years ago, he’d imagined what it might be like, to have Cody’s hands on his skin. To allow himself to be pulled close and held, and then--

He swallowed convulsively, and made himself stay where he was, made himself resist the urge to jerk away.

It hadn’t been Cody.

It hadn’t.

Just Anakin, finding another way to hurt him.

Obi-Wan dragged his mind away from the memories. Looking for balance in the Force and reaching the rest of the way out. It took only the work of a moment to find Cody’s hand on the bed. Obi-Wan curled fingers around his unnaturally cool skin - the troopers usually ran so hot - and closed his eyes.

He didn’t mean to pass out, but he must have. He woke to a surge of emotion through the Force, splintering down through his head, something bitter and sharp and all-consuming. He jerked to wakefulness, expecting alarms and the sounds of battle.

None of that seemed to be happening. Many of the minds around him were still resting. There was just Cody, who was--

Breathing raggedly, obviously awake. Obi-Wan blinked over at him, and found Cody staring down at the bed, at where Obi-Wan’s fingers were still curled around his palm. “You’re awake,” Obi-Wan said, barely above a whisper, relief coursing through him.

“What are you doing?” Cody asked, voice thick, almost choked. He felt--like too many different things, before he exerted some kind of terrible control on his emotions, dragging them back, holding them tight.

It was a stunning amount of control from someone without the Force, someone so badly injured. Cody’s emotions all but disappeared, leaving Obi-Wan reeling at the sudden loss, and unsure how he’d managed it.

He swallowed, blinking to try to steady himself, and shaking his arm, just a little. “You were hurt,” he said. “While saving me, I--Cody?”

Cody had flinched. Obi-Wan felt it, a roil of something deep and terrible moving through his emotions. He turned his face away, breathing hard, hand stiff under Obi-Wan’s touch, and… Oh. Oh, perhaps Obi-Wan should not have come into this room, should not have bothered him.

Perhaps, Obi-Wan considered, his men were - were not exactly happy to be reminded of his weakness. His inability to rescue them in a timely fashion, the amount of time it had taken him to - to realize they were even trapped in their minds. All his failures rose up in his head and he jerked his hand away, swallowing hard and blinking away the burning sting in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, quietly, “I’m terribly sorry. I’ll--”

“What?” Cody demanded, his voice low and ragged, he turned, and at least Obi-Wan could see his expression, could see it breaking behind the tight lines of control. “What the kriff are you sorry about?”

“I…” Obi-Wan blinked. He wondered what the right answer was and set the thought aside. Cody wasn’t Anakin. “I failed you, I know, I’ll just--Bones is--” He stood, because he knew he needed to make apologies, but he hurt, so much, inside.

“You didn’t fail anyone,” Cody ground out, and groaned, terribly, when he sat up and reached out, stopping an inch away from grabbing Obi-Wan’s arm, fingers stretched out, almost brushing skin. “You--what are you even talking about?”

Obi-Wan looked at Cody’s extended hand, memories sleeting through his head, lightning fast, there and gone. He swallowed and marshalled himself. “I did. I failed you all for years. I failed Trip and--”

“No,” Cody interrupted, swinging his legs off the bed, alarms chiming to life around them, reporting his movement to whatever medics might be around to hear. Obi-Wan could feel Bones’ tired thoughts, spiking with irritation at his frustrating patients. “You--”

And before he could say anything else the ship shuddered all over. Obi-Wan knew well enough what a ship coming out of hyperspace wrong felt like, and he held his breath, focusing on the distant hum of the engines, coming up through the deck. It continued, for just a moment, and then it stopped, completely.

A moment later the primary lighting in the infirmary failed. The ship lurched, throwing him forward against the bed - he reached out to steady himself with a left hand he didn’t have - and Cody swore, hand suddenly on his arm, holding tight and steady as the ship came to a jerking stop.

“Are you alright?” Cody asked there in the dark, as the emergency lighting came on, tinging everything with red. His emotions had lashed free, briefly, as the ship shook around them, concern and worry and guilt and--

“I’m fine,” Obi-Wan said, swallowing, resisting the urge to just lean into the touch. It had been...so long since anyone touched him with care, intentional kindness and concern. A selfish, needy part of him wanted to bask in it, but Cody hadn’t wanted to touch him, had been upset, and Obi-Wan wouldn’t take what he didn’t want to give.

The thought left the taste of vomit in his mouth. He shook his head. “I’ll go find out what’s happening, you stay--”

“Like kriffing hell,” Cody interrupted, and Obi-Wan would have protested further, but he didn’t have the energy for it. He stood, shivering a little - shocky, still, he knew - while Cody leveraged himself off of the mattress.

And, together, limping, they went to find out what had happened.

#whumptober2020 #no.10 #blood loss #trail of blood #clone wars #fic #past torture #past non-con #oof!au #my writing #codywan #please mind the warnings #everyone is hurt and everyone feels guilty

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writingsbychlo · 4 years

Text

stone walls (01) | void!stiles

word count; 15,462

summary; stiles is a witch for king Derek, and pretty evil. he’s given a test subject in the forms of a traitor from the Argent kingdom who was found stealing on their land. he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her.

notes; this is kind of a medieval/royalty au, and he’s not really a witch with magic, but in those times, his talents would have been considered witchcraft.

warnings; reference to abuse, torture, blood, gore, violence, sickness, near-death experiences, abduction, arson, sacrifice, murder.

There had once been a brightness that had shone in Stiles’ eyes. The same whiskey-brown colour that his mother’s had been, the same fair skin, speckled with moles and soft brown hair that could never quite seem to be tamed.

The burning of the Hale castle was heard of by every Kingdom known. The youngest prince had been betrothed to one of their princesses, and everything had seemed bright. Stiles remembered their home palace, it had been larger, and full of life. Soldiers had been buzzing around, and his favourite place had been the gardens, his mother had taken him to visit them on every journey they had taken before the wedding between Prince Derek and Princess Kate had been due to take place.

Two weeks before the ceremony was upon them, Kate had arrived in horse and carriage, his mother and father, both being part of the royal escort to welcome her, had been present as she made her way through the halls of her new home. That night, the walls had been scorching hot as flames curled up into the night sky, the screaming sounds of terror echoing out of every window, door and passageway in the castle.

Burns and scars still crawled along his father’s arms from where he had pulled a sleeping Stiles from his bed and raced through the halls to get him out. Stiles had tended to those injuries himself, with the limited medical knowledge he knew from what his mother had taught him, but the man had never been the same.

His mother hadn't been so lucky. The last memory he’d had of her was her lips pressing to his forehead as she tucked him into bed, promising she would teach him all about herbs and how to write with the curly signature he admired so much when he woke up in the morning. When the fires had finally stopped burning three days later, Kate had been gone, her belongings, her carriage, every trace that she had ever been there had vanished. It had rained for the entire day, thick plumes of smoke billowing up into the air and he had spent the day searching through the charred rubble until his fingers were burned and bleeding, his body covered in soot and ash as he coughed and screamed for his mother.

It was on that day that the hail kingdom had gone dark, a young Prince Derek crowned King at the tender age of seventeen as everything warm and bright within Stiles slipped away, as though it had gone up in flames with his mother and the Hale family who had protected them. That day, Stiles had grown dark, his young screams of revenge muffled as his father had held him close, but they had always stood true.

His studies no longer centred around healing and medicine, but instead around how to use his knowledge to his best possible advantage of harm. He wanted to know how to protect himself, not how to heal. He’d been defenceless and weak when he had lost his mother, and he wouldn’t let that happen again. The bright spark in his eyes had slipped away over the years, as he hid himself in the deepest darkest spots within the newly rebuilt castle he could find, perfecting his trade over the years, the darkness that had bloomed that day had grown, infecting every part of his soul until he’d truly earned his nicknames over the years, the Hale kingdom coming to know him as exactly what he was; Void.

Stiles grunted as deep footsteps echoed along the floor of the stone corridors outside of his chambers, a single brow arching as the heavy wood scraped against the stone tile as it was forced open by whoever had decided to bother him with their presence today. Placing down the small purple flowers he was in the process of wrapping in twine around the stems, he paused, waiting for the person to make their purpose known.

The angry face of his king met him, a snarl on his lips as he tossed forward the body in his grasp, the figure falling to the floor with a loud cry, a flurry of torn rags and messy hair meeting the floor, catching themselves on their hands and knees before rocking back to kneel, looking at their scraped and bleeding hands as they wiped them on the ripped dress hanging on their shoulders.

He glanced between the girl on the floor and the man who had delivered her, a bored look in his eyes, and he sighed as he gave in, rounding the collection of wooden desks he worked behind, his fingers flexing as he gripped his hands behind his back, coming to stand before his king. “Hmm, you brought me a gift?”

“I brought you a scrap of rags that I found in the woods, just on the border of the Argent kingdom. She was hiding up in the trees, I had to pull one of the hunting dogs off of her when she tried to run.” Stiles’ lips curled up at the story, a dark grin twisted on his features as he came to crouch before her, two of his spindly fingers hooking under her chin to direct her face up to his, and he scanned his eyes over her features, carefully.

“And what exactly is it that you would like me to do with her, your majesty?” Derek snarled at him as he spat the words, and Stiles simply smirked up at him, cocking a brow as the girl tore her face from his grasp, a chuckle spilling from him at her bravery as he stood back to his full height.

“I don’t care what you do, just make sure when she dies she sends a message to keep their spies off of my fucking land.” With that, the man was gone, a twist of fur and capes and the door was slamming shut as he left, leaving him in silence with the girl still sitting on the floor. Holding a hand out to her, she glanced wearily between his face and his hand, before slipping her own into it. The second he had a grip on her, he was yanking her roughly to her feet, a yelp leaving her as her arm jolted in its socket from the force of the pull, and she stumbled over her own feet as he dragged her across the room.

In the furthest corner, a grimy set of bars she hadn't quite noticed until now were slid open with a grating whine of rusted metal on metal, and shackles soon fastened tightly around one of her wrists, the cold metal soothing over her skin as she found the other being threaded through the bars of the wall.

Tugging at the restraints, her jaw fell open, and she stood idly in the small cell, looking around in the darkness. On unsteady feet, she raced back toward the barred door that was sliding closed, stopped only by the pull of the chain around her wrist as she approached them, and her captor stood over her carefully, grinning down at her as her hands came up, fingers curling around the metal as she watched him.

He expected her to put up a fight, to shake on the bars and scream for help, but instead, her eyes just watched him, scanning over his face, before flickering over the room, still as she took in the messy desktops he had, laden with books, plants, bowls and boxes.

“The shackles aren’t necessary, you know. I’m not going to run. I don’t think I could get very far if I tried.”

“Hm, and I would believe a word someone who was found travelling from the Argent Kingdom for what reason, exactly?” He growled, his own hands grasping the bars in anger and he shook them, the girl stumbling back in shock as she backed into the shadows, a wicked smile on his face as he watched fear take place in her body, his eyes narrowing on her barely visible form. “I lost everything because of your people. Everything!” His voice had risen from the usual eerie calmness it held to a loud roar, his chest heaving as he glared at the space she stood. “You have one purpose, and that is to serve as a walking blood bag that I can use to drain for experiments and sacrifices.”

With that, he spun on his heel, making his way back over his table, fingers dancing along the wood as he picked back up the purple flowers he had been working with, wrapping the thin strands of thread around the bases in clumps. The rattle of chain sounded in his ears, his jaw clenching at the sound and he flicked his eyes back over to the cage, watching as her messy head of hair came back into view, her eyes sweeping curiously over his work station, and he reached out, slamming closed the pages of the books he’d been reading from.

He’d been damned if she was getting any information on their Kingdom from him.

“They’ll dry faster if you press them first.”

His fingers stilled in their motions, the tight-binding around the gathered stems of his final bundle, his eyes flicking up to peer at the shadows, barely catching her movements within, but he could hear the rustle of the chains and fabric of her tattered clothes as she sunk to the ground, a deep sigh leaving her as she settled onto the stone. “Be quiet, or I’ll silence you myself, and you don’t want that.” Glancing between a set of heavy books and the plants in his hands, he shook his head, continuing on with the twine wrappings he had set off on.

It was quiet for a long time, and he had moved on from wrapping the purple flowers, having hung them in the window with rays of sun shining through in order for them to dry, having moved on to sitting in the comfortable seat across the room to read by the time you were speaking once again. He tuned you out, instead choosing to focus on tidying up the counter around him, his every nerve thrumming with the need to do something and he cleared his throat, working in his own mind as he popped the lids from the many glass jars lining the shelves, stuffing ground up herbs and dried flowers inside of each one, his nose scrunching up occasionally as they occasionally let out a smell he wasn’t as fond of, the scent hanging in the air and he could practically taste in in his mouth.

Your commentary had continued on, and he was growing irritated by your constant slew of questions, your commentary to each action and your little laughs to yourself as you cracked jokes that only you were finding funny, and he rolled his eyes, biting at the inside of his cheek as a threatening growl rumbled in his chest. “I thought I told you to be quiet, or else?”

“There’s not much you can do to me that hasn’t already been done.” You sighed, his body stilling for a second as he looked over at you, a single brow raised, but your attention wasn’t on him, instead, you were peering around his room, looking at anything you could see, presumably planning the best way for you to get out.

He was rather proud of his chambers, he took good care of them, and he’s carefully chosen where he would reside, in the furthest corners of the castle, the rooms being smaller but he enjoyed the distance he got from the others, not wanting to be easily found, and he smirked, knowing that there wasn’t a chance you would be able to find your way through the maze of corridors without knowing where to go. “I could cut out your fucking tongue.”

Your jaw snapped shut, your eyes finding his and widening as you looked at him, and he watched as you swallowed thickly, nodding as silence enveloped you both once again, and he scooped up a dish, taking your arm in his and pulling it harshly as your body slammed into the metal bars, wincing but staying quiet. Flicking up the blade of the knife he carried in his pocket, he placed the dish underneath your arm, pressing the blade firmly against your skin, dragging it across your arm as crimson red began to flow rapidly from the cut.

Your fist clenched as the muscles of your forearm tightened, rivers of blood dripping from your arms and collecting in the small wooden container, but you never flinched, your eyes cast downwards as you bit at your tongue, arm shaking slightly once he released you, and his brows raised as you continued to allow the blood to drip from your arm, gathering in the jar. “Good girl. Now keep your fucking mouth shut while I work, and consider this a warning.”

You didn’t speak again after that, and he was once again plunged back into his own silence, only the thoughts in his mind to keep him company as he busied himself, your presence almost slipping from him entirely, until you shuffled or took a particularly deep breath, once again reminding him that you sat locked in the cage in the corner of his room, the remnants of the old prison-cell serving him perfectly for this occasion.

That night, he had pushed a single thin blanket through the bars for you, no words spoken but your hand reached out to take it, dried blood still crusted tp your flesh, your skin inflamed in some patches where you had scratched it away in irritation, a simple ‘thank you’ being uttered, the gesture catching him off guard as his brows furrowed, merely humming in response as he moved around the room, blowing out all the candles until the room was in darkness.

He felt uncomfortable in his own bed that night, the sound of another person's breathing being something he was unfamiliar with, and his skin crawled as he felt crowded in. He’d made sure to move away to the furthest parts of the castle to be alone, and now he wasn’t, the thought sickening him as he rolled over, relaxing his tensed jaw as your own steady breathing lulled him into a more relaxed state, despite how much it made him feel unsettled.

With a final glance at the dark cage in the corner, he shut his eyes, burying his face into his pillow and tuning out the sounds around him.

Stiles wasn’t used to having company while he worked, and you liked to make your presence known. He wasn’t sure whether or not you knew you did it, but you tended to hum under your breath. Different tunes each day, and depending on your mood, they would be louder and happier ones or slower and quieter, more sombre melodies. There were many factors that would affect how you felt; they ranged from the weather to the quality of your own sleep, to reflections of his own mood, and even whether he would drain you that day.

He would be begrudging to admit that he somewhat enjoyed having the silence that normally surrounded him now filled with the subtle hums of tunes under your breath, and he had even caught you singing quietly to yourself a few times when he had returned, only for you to go quiet again, retreating back to the wordless forms of your songs when he closed the door, making his presence in the large bedroom known.

You often went quiet after the times he would drain you, the thick silence would drip back into the room for hours on end, and those hours seemed to drag on for days as he awaited the time that you would pick back up your filling of the quiet. You were a puzzle, you were something of an enigma and he didn’t quite understand.

You never tried to escape, he was dark and twisted and incredibly fucked up but he wasn’t used to having a prisoner and he wasn’t good at it. He left keys lying around and often got himself way too close to the cages, within reach where you could easily grab him and yet you never made a move. You had made yourself comfortable hidden in the shadows, your head resting on the wall as you snuggled against your mattress, a blanket he’d used to mop up dried blood when he was finished with you could now be found often sitting over your body and covering you, just enough to keep you warm.

You never even flinched, any time the blade met your skin, you were still as a rock, arm held out to him and face twisted away as your blood dripped into a bowl for his uses in spells and testing the effects of new ingredients, and your features hadn't once flickered to even show an ounce of pain. He used the same place, a gash on your arm that would barely close before he would use it again.

At some point, you had ventured out to press your cheek to the bar, watching as he worked, and it had unsettled him for a little while, until he paused long enough to observe you and realised that you weren’t making notes or observing him, searching for escape routes. Instead, you were just watching him work and taking an interest in his movements.

It wasn’t long after that when you began to ask questions, and while at first he had been irritated by the motion, he found himself becoming oddly fond of it. You asked good questions, you asked him about his passions and you were a surprisingly quick learner, and he found it rather beneficial to himself when he talked aloud to you because it only helped him to confirm things to himself. He was finding himself less and less angry with your presence, finding it easier to have another person around him for every minute of the day, because the more you spoke the larger the range of topics had become.

After simply asking him about what he was doing, you had moved on to asking him about his book collections and his flowers and herbs, to asking him about his passions for spellcasting and mixing, something between harm and health, and that had led him to ask you questions in return. You had told him your favourite books, and songs, and the way your mother had taught you how to knit and stitch when you were young, and that by the time you were eleven you could make your own gowns and dresses. You were deeper than he knew, and the more he found himself happier and more relaxed in your company was even more concerning for him, because he was tasked with killing you when the time came, you were a bargaining chip and a prisoner, and he wasn’t supposed to get close to you.

He wasn’t supposed to get close to anyone, because the last time he allowed himself to care, he lost it all.

The weeks were ticking by, faster than he could possibly imagine, more diaries getting fuller and fuller as he scribbled his notes and spells down, the worn leather growing weaker and lighter, the pages changing from crisp and pure to torn and weathered, scratched with ink stainings and splotches, taped down herbs and doodles to compliment them. He had been on a high with you, the drainings becoming less and less frequent as he tried to give you longer times to heal, because what had once been an easy task had begun to morph into something that made him feel slightly sick to his stomach each time he entered the dark cage to reopen the wound on your arm.

In the last couple of days, your questions had become less frequent, your humming quieter and raspy and your appearances at the cage door rarer by the hour. You were quiet, quieter than you had been in weeks, and he gave you space but was slightly frustrated. Not only at you for your sudden lack of interest but also in himself for being so bothered by it in the first place, because Stiles Stilinski didn’t get attached, he didn’t do feelings and emotions and he certainly didn’t have enough time to care about what others thought of him. Stiles Stilinski was void, and he liked it that way, and he was damned if any girl in a cage with pretty eyes and a sharp mind was going to change that.

“Stiles?” He was labouring over his workbench when you first spoke today, and his teeth ground together in irritation as his foul mood overlapped upon hearing you calling out to him, your voice droning on repeat in a low whine in his ears as he slammed down the book in his hands, your voice cutting off as he turned to look at you. Your hands were wrapped around the bars of the cage, your body leaning against the cool metal as he looked at you, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, his fists almost painful as his nails dug into his palms by his sides.

“What do you fucking want?” He hissed, your jaw dropping as you peered at him from within the shadows, and he knew he wasn’t angry at you, he was just in a bad mood, but you were an easy target for taking his anger at the day out on, the memory of losing his mother on this day all those years ago was flashing through his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a storm clouding his judgement.

“I don’t feel so good.”

“Boo fucking hoo. Get over it, I couldn’t care less that you’re feeling a little under the weather.” He scoffed, and you let out a low groan at his words, your head thumping against the bars as your head dropped against them and he rolled his eyes at your dramatics.

“No, I really don-”

“Shut the fuck up! Just be quiet, okay? I'm busy!” His temper bubbled over, and he heard you huff quietly, the silence settling over the room in uncomfortable tension before the chains wrapped around your wrists rattled, and you were slipping back into the shadows to rest in the corner of the cell, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.

Once he had calmed back down, he continued to shoot sly glances over to where he assumed you do be within the darkness, slight guilt clawing at his gut as you continued to sit in silence, but he rolled his eyes, knowing you would just be sulking in the corner because he had shouted at you. He worked quietly at his workspace, rearranging the jars on his shelf and relabelling those that had become worn and faded from all his use.

He refilled each glass container, the quiet in the room reminded him of before you had been delivered to him, and an unusual sense of loneliness was creeping into him as the tense silence continued to drag on. It wasn’t until quiet rapping came on the door that he sighed out in relief as he paced across the room in large and rapid footsteps, smirking at the trembling servant standing outside of his door, a tray of food held out to him as he accepted it, dismissing her with a mumble in thanks, the door slamming shut behind her as he relocked the bolts.

“Eat.” Placing the dish of broth down in front of the barred door, dropping a spoon to the floor beside it for you with a clatter as he took his own food across the room, sitting under the grated window as the final rays of the sun shone through across the large chair in the corner beneath it, the cushions warm from the heat and his book lay on the edge of the seat, and he settled down comfortably to read his book and enjoy his food.

He was barely ten pages in, halfway through his food as he looked up, expecting to hear some kind of comments about the meal, when he noticed that the dish was still sitting on the cold stone, wisps of steam waving into the air and dissipating as he sat before him, and he placed down his spoon, a growl on his lips as he ducked down the item in his hands to stare at the vacant spot for a moment.

“Eat your damn food, no wonder you feel bad. What use are you to me if you die before I can get any more blood out of you, hm?” The snarky comment left his lips before he could stop it, and he waited to hear your sarcastic retort, something telling him you were listening to him, and yet evidently, you were still ignoring him.

He wasn’t in the mood for your pathetic sulking, and so instead he chose to go back to his reading and his food, knowing that if you wanted to act like a child then he would surely let you. You would cave eventually and give in, this was the first meal you’d had in twenty-four hours and he knew how much you complained about him only giving you the one meal a day, and he hoped you’d get over it soon, because he was starting to miss your commentary on his every little action.

Your silence was making him feel more alone than he had in a long time.

By the time it was getting too dark for him to see the words printed on the pages, he gave up, the dishes long discarded and he had moved through another few chapters of his book, deeply enthralled in the story he had chosen, a chill sweeping through the room. Getting up, he checked the windows were all locked, before moving around the room and lighting the few torches, an orange glow lighting up the stone tiles of his room walls, and he set off on piling logs and kindling into the stone fireplace.

He watched as the flames curled up, a scowl on his face as the thick smoke disappeared up through the chimney as warmth began to spread through the room, and he lifted a metal safety grate over the exposed flames, unwilling to let the past repeat itself as he pridefully put all precautions in place.

Void spied the bowl of food still sitting by the cage doors, untouched as he glanced at it over at it. Steam was no longer curling up, and he frowned, moving to crouch by the door as he looked at it, even the spoon sitting in the same place it had landed all those hours ago. “I know you’re angry at me for shouting, but you need to eat!”

You didn't even shift, not even a grunt in response to his words and anger raced through his body once again, his jaw twitching and he scooped up the meal from the floor, uncaring toward its cold state as he swiped the collection of metal keys from his side counter, the bundle jingling loudly as he unlocked the door, sliding it out o the way with a loud clang as he growled at you.

“Fucking eat!”

He waited, your silhouette barely moving and he felt furious, dropping the bowl to the floor as some of the food sloshed over the edge of the dish, spilling out onto the tarmac and wasting the broth meal as you remained still, and he tipped his head back in a long groan, before stepping towards you and crouching down. You didn’t shift, even at his close proximity and he hummed in irritation, finger raising to swipe some hair from your face as your head hung low, and he gasped at the coolness of your skin under his touch, all anger seeping away as worry took over his body.

“I need you to say something now, okay?” His voice was shaking toward the end of his sentence, and he tipped back your head to rest against the cold stone walls, and he became eerily aware of just how cold it actually was within these walls, the darkness making it much chillier than the rest of the room was and your eyes stayed shut, and he squinted, unable to find movement in your shoulders or chest. “Now would be a great time for one of your stupid comments.”

His teasing went unheard, and he fumbled for the collection of keys, scooping them up and quickly undoing the chains around your wrists, his arms scooping you up under your legs and behind your back as he lifted you into his arms. Your body slumped into him, and his heart raced with panic as he removed you from the cell, cursing under his breath as you lay like dead-weight in his arms.

He dropped you down onto the bed, shaky fingers delicately brushing the hair the was glued to your clammy skin away from your face, his hands skimming along your body as he searched for anything to clue him in, the pale colour of your shining skin scaring him deeply as he looked at the deep purple rings around your eyes and the blue tint to your lips.

Dark red blood was staining the sleeve of your worn and ripped jacket, and his fingers hooked under the end, pushing it up your arm and grimacing as he took in the still running wound, white torn flesh from the place on your arm that he’d been taking blood from wasn’t healing, and your veins could no longer be seen under your skin, deflated around the purple and blue bruises, your skin gaining a yellow tint toward the edges before fading out into sickly white, skin even paler than his own.

He rushed around the room, gathering up bundles of supplies and medicines in his arms as he tried to think back on what his mother had taught him about healing all that time ago when she had still been with him. With a bowl of warm water beside him, he balanced it on the covers, dipping in a soft rag and wiping it gently over the dried blood trails on your arm, taking both the old and fresh blood from the wounds, dipping it back in the water and ringing it out carefully.

Once he could see the damaged flesh, he pinched it together, glad you were unconscious for it as he lifted the metal pin up to one of the flames on the torches around him. The tips of his fingers were burning slightly from the pain, but he held out until the tip of the pin was glowing orange, before bringing it away and waving it in the air as he rubbed his sore fingertips from the heat exposure.

Threading the needle carefully, he looked up at you, biting his lip and pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead, mumbling an apology into your skin and pinching the skin tightly as he focused on it, pushing the needle through the flesh and suppressing the churning of his gut and the desperate urge to wretch as he felt the needle pierce your flesh. He had never been good with needles, and yet he knew he had to keep going.

Weaving the thread through your skin was tortured for him, your muscles and nerves twitching under his touch as he did and he whispered the most soothing thing she could think of as he worked, despite knowing it was falling on deaf ears. Once he was done, he was careful to wrap it in soft fabric, pinning the bandages carefully and running his knuckles over it.

The skin around your wrists was raw and bruised from the heavy shackles he’d had you wearing, and he massaged the skin carefully, before picking up a fresh cloth and wiping the sweat, dirt and grime from your skin as he adjusted you into a more comfortable position. He took a spare blanket, hanging it between items of furniture as he warmed a blanket in front of the fire, taking a seat beside you on the mattress after he had cleared away all the sides and herbs he had used in his best bid to cure you.

He sat beside your bedside, your good hand clutched in his as he worried beside you, the blanket he had warmed up over the fire laying over your body, and he was happy to see the colour returning to your skin as your body warmed back up. His cheek had been resting on the edge of the mattress as he sat on the floor, his eyes just drifting shut when he felt your body twitch, his head snapping up and a second later your body jolted, a loud cry leaving your lips as you tried to bend your arm, and his hand closed over your wrist to hold it down as he leaned over you.

“Woah, woah, woah. Take it easy.” He mumbled, and you let out a pained sigh, your eyes watering as the pain shot through your body, and he bit on his lip, rubbing a hand over your shoulder as your bottom lip trembled.

“Shit, it hurts. It really fucking hurts.”

“Yeah, well, you should've told me before it got bad!” His voice was higher than usual as he spoke, and you fixed him with a cold glare, an odd sense of relief filling him as your attitude was coming back in droves already.

“I fucking tried!” You snapped, wincing as the movement rocked your body and you struggled to sit yourself up, allowing him to help you as he positioned a pillow behind your back, frowning as he thought back on the way he had acted all day, and his eyes avoided yours, but your hand landed on his upper arm as he adjusted the sheet around you. “Thanks, for helping me. For patching me up. Also, this blanket is really warm.”

“I hung it over the fire to bring your temperature up.” He sighed, shaking his head and sitting on the edge of the bed beside your legs. “I should have listened to you this morning. I didn’t realise how cold it was in there, and the state you were in.”

“S’okay. I am starving though, did I miss lunch?” His jaw dropped as he looked at you, a surprisingly genuine laugh leaving him as he studied you before he was nodding, motioning to the darkness outside of the windows and your eyes widened as though you only just came to realise the late hour the day had moved onto.

“I’ll get someone to bring you something to eat, alright? Take it easy.” You simply nodded at him, and he made his way to the main door, lifting heavy bolts and locks across the wood as he flagged down the nearest maid he could find, growling out his instructions as she nodded, fleeing the second he dismissed her, pride filling him upon knowing that even if you weren’t, at least some people were still scared of him. When he turned back to you, your fingers were picking at the loose threads of the blanket, your eyes locked on him already. “Can I keep this blanket?”

“No. It was my mother's and it lives on the chair. What do you need it for?” He tipped his head toward his favourite lounging place, a large and comfortable looking chair in the corner, worn but still plush-looking cushions sitting on the seat - the original resting place of the soft knitted piece - and your fingers stilled, smoothing over the surface as you shrugged at him, avoiding his gaze.

“Said it yourself, it gets cold in there. An extra blanket would be nice.”

He swallowed, glancing between the cell in the corner and your form sitting on the bed, tucked under all his cosy sheets and lit up by the warm light coming from the fire, the crackling of logs filling the room as he took quick steps over to you, taking a seat on his usual side of the large bed as a prominent gap formed between your two bodies. “No, no you’re not going back in there.” Your brows raised at him, and he made himself busy with other tasks to avoid having to acknowledge the way you were looking at him made him feel. “You’ll be out here with me, from now on.”

“That sounds.. nice.” He merely nodded in response, his back still turned to you as he struck up a match, lighting the candle on his bedside as a comfortable quiet fell over the pair of you, and now that you were awake and sitting beside him, he once again felt a little less alone in the world.

You were sicker for longer than he expected, and it worried him for a while when your condition showed no signs of improving. Your body could now be found curled up on the covers beside him, the two of you rigid as your backs faced away from one another at opposite sides of the bed.

You slept long hours, and often went so quiet in the night that he had to roll you over just so that he could check you were still breathing, and buy the mornings your arm would be brushing his as the two of you inched closer to the middle of the bed progressively during your unconscious states. You were tired, and sluggish, and for almost two weeks you never left the bed. Your skin grew paler and you grew weaker, and you didn’t eat as much of your meals as you used to, despite how much you insisted you were hungry. Deep bags hung under your eyes, the same pale and sunken look that he had gained himself after his mother had died, locking himself away as he refused to eat and go outside, and he had opened the curtains a lot and often helped your shuffle across the bed to sit on his side so that you could look out through the bars.

In the third week since he had removed you from your cage, you got up on your own, shuffling uncomfortably in your clothes and wrapping your arms around yourself self-consciously, surprising him as you made your way over to him with cautious steps, and he resisted the urge to rush over to you in a bid to help you walk better. You had requested a bath, and a chance to wash your clothes, in which he had graciously accepted both. A wing to his room in which you had never been in was shown to you as your arm looped through his, your shaky and weak fingers clinging to his arm as he guided you through and tried to suppress the urge to scoop you up into his arms and carry you, because he knew how badly you needed to regain your own ability to walk, even if you had nowhere to go.

You were still a prisoner, you were still just a bargaining chip, and he had to constantly remind himself of that, even if you now shared more than just his bedroom.

You had bathed, and he had given you sets of his own clothes to wear as he disposed of the torn and blood-soaked rags he had left you in since the day you had arrived with him. You were smiling to yourself when you reemerged, your hair still wet and dripping along the cloth you had wrapped yourself in as you snuggled down into his clothes, and he had helped you back into bed before checking on your arm. You had fallen asleep before he had even finished rewrapping it, the sleeves of his shirt falling over your palms as your other hand sat in a loose fist, clutched to your chest as your nose buried into your hand, breathing even and soft but stronger than it had been, and his cheeks had flared with a very subtle warmth that he hadn't experienced since he was a child.

That bath seemed to have been the trick, because the following morning you had been awake before he had been, colour seeping back into your skin as your fingers danced over the spines of the books on his bookcase, pulling some out and checking the titled, before adding them to a stack that had been growing on a stool beside you.

The collection was one that you quickly worked through, taking a seat in his chair when he wasn’t using it and reading under the warmth and light of the days sunrays, taking up in idle conversations with him when you found parts of books you particularly enjoyed, or things you needed to talk about, and when you grew bored of the tales, you would stand on the other side of the workbench and watch up close as he did his tasks.

A routine formed between the two of you, very quickly; a steady schedule that was quickly becoming uncomfortably comfortable for him. The mornings would be spent with the two of you eating breakfast together, a luxury you had teased him for lightly for a while as he had only allowed you one meal a day, to begin with, before he would leave you for his meetings and to go to the markets. You would read, and he would come back to find you deep in a new book from the shelf or snoozing in the chair with his mother's blanket tucked over you.

He bought you a notebook and quill almost two months in, because the afternoons had come to consist of you watching him work, handing up different pots as he taught you the names and uses of different things, he allowed you to help him in wrapping and grinding plants and flowers, topping up the bottles and boxes of ingredients lining his shelves, and your own book was quickly filling up much like his own, your handwriting quite the opposite to his, neat and swirling and eligible, as his own barely readable chicken scratch filled the pages.

He had worried at first, that he was going to return each morning and find you gone, find the room empty and the door hanging open from where you had smashed open the key lock and undone the bolts, or that you had climbed from the windows after pulling off the bars. He was waiting for the bubble to pop, for the day he would come back and find the room trashed, scratch marks on the door and a weapon in your hands as you tried to flee, and yet all you ever greeted him with when he returned was a barley present flick of your lips in a smile and a nod of your head, perhaps even a verbal greeting if you were in a particularly good mood.

You were becoming a part of his life that he found hard to ignore, hard to deny that he wouldn't miss when he eventually had to give you up, and the summer heat faded as he found himself growing closer to you.

Longer nights and shorter days brought fewer meetings or trips to the market and more time sealed away in his room as the temperatures dropped and your healing continued. Your arm was no longer red and inflamed, visible veins with blue and purple skin, but was instead back to its normal shade, a slightly raised patch of pinky-white pale skin with a red rim as a scar in the shape of a long slash found itself on your arm instead, and he often found himself racing it with a frown when you rolled your sleeves up to your elbows.

He never felt guilty, not in his sacrifices or killings, but this he had felt guilty for because even if nothing else, he was beginning to look at you more like a friend than anything else. During the conversations you filled the extra time with, the chats you shared deep into the night as candles flickered and blankets were wrapped around shoulders for heat, you had learned more about him than anybody else ever had, he’d unwittingly bared his soul to you.

He knew so much about you in return, like your favourite meals or your preference on the genre of books you liked to read, and yet he still felt like he knew nothing. The more he learned, the more questions he had, the mystery that you were was becoming more and more tangled as he went, and yet he enjoyed getting to know you, in a way he had never experienced before.

Stiles had friends, Scott and Derek and Lydia among them, he was used to having friends, but the more he awoke in the mornings to find your body almost pressed to his as your eyelashes fluttered against your cheeks, or the way your eyes connected with his and your smile was just soft enough to make him want to smile back, or the way it felt more right to have your body working beside his with quiet laughs and innocent brushes or arms and bodies then it did alone that made him realise this was soon becoming something more than friendship to him.

By the time the winter had rolled around your sickness had passed, and the chill of the season was setting in. He clenched his jaw, the chattering of your teeth and barely visible shaking of your body was irritating him, and he glanced across to the side of the bed you were laying on, your eyes closed as you hovered as close to the edge of the mattress as you could, huddled under the thin blankets as you clutched them to your chin.

You took a deep breath, and he watched for a moment as you calmed, rubbing at the red tip of your nose, before burying it in the covers and rubbing your hands together, and a growl left his lips as your shivering picked back up. “Your fucking teeth chattering is driving me insane!”

You managed to still your body, a muffled apology leaving you as you adjusted yourself under the sheets, and he let out a long sigh, placing his book down on his lap and reaching a hand out, patting at the vacant space between you both.

“Just fucking roll over before I get irritated.” He swiped his hand up, and you paused, before shuffling over in the bed and moving your body closer to him, letting out a satisfied sigh as you gained some warmth as you moved closer to the centre of the large bed. He leaned over, pulling the covers back up over your shoulder as you nuzzled down into the pillow, his fingers brushing your skin. “Shit, you really are cold.”

“Mhm.” Your eyes were squeezed shut, snapping open with a squeal as he scooped his hands underneath you, tugging you up until you were resting between his thighs, your cheek pressed to his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, picking his book back up. Your body was stiff and tense, uncomfortable against his own and he rolled his eyes, glancing down at you as you avoided his eyes.

“Oh, relax. I can’t concentrate with you shaking the bed with all your shivering, and the cold has never really bothered me, but I have a lot of body heat. I can’t have you getting sick again, so just go to sleep.” The aggressive tone he normally held was more of a struggle to get out now, and he huffed as you curled your arms around his body, getting yourself comfortable as you settled into him.

He let out the breath he was holding, his stomach sagging under you and his muscles relaxing as your body curled around his, an unfamiliar feeling settling in his gut at the feeling of having someone holding onto him so comfortably. He ran his fingers over your body beneath the covers, noting the tears and rips in the thin material, the same rags you had arrived in the day you’d been brought here to begin, and he could understand your problem with the cold.

Clearing his throat, he settled his hand on your hip, tucking it underneath the flimsy material of your top to stroke along your side and warm you up, the goosebumps that had been covering your body beginning to settle and disappear as you warmed up. “I’ll get you some warmer clothes tomorrow.”

Your face turned into his stomach more, a smile on your lips as you squeezed your arms around him, the silent thank you not going unnoticed, and the silence that enveloped the room hung heavy for a few minutes, the flicking of the pages as he thumbed them over with his one hand, the other still tucked under your shirt, tracing patterns into your skin absentmindedly as his natural tendency toward fiddling took over. It wasn’t until his fingers brushed over the collection of raised scars on your hips that he stilled, pressing down on the spot and you squirmed under him, swatting at his arm sleepily.

“I noticed these when I pulled you up from the floor all those months ago. What happened?” You snorted at him, cracking an eye open to look at him before you rolled over, propping your arms on his stomach, your chin resting on top of them as you looked at him. You were judging him for his lack of subtlety in the asking of the question, but instead of acknowledging that, he simply raised a brow, the frown on his face not moving. “Tell me.”

“Alright, alright. Pushy.” You muttered, rolling your eyes at him and he scowled at you, glaring at you for your attitude but you seemed unaffected by it. He continued to poke at the collection, running his fingers over the raised flesh, waiting for you to continue. It was a moment before you did, your bottom lip clenched between your teeth as you nibbled on it for a second, shaking your head and shrugging, before settling yourself back down into his chest, your eyes closing again. “It’s where Gerard would cut me.”

His fingers stilled, body tensing and eyebrows furrowing. He closed the book in his hand, discarding it quickly as he waited for you to say something else, elaborate or explain that it was a lie, but you seemed to just have accepted it without expecting him to question it. You let out a sudden groan as he moved you unexpectedly, your body curling in on itself as he ripped the covers from your form, a knee on either side of your legs as he lifted up your shirt to expose your hip, and he smoothed a thumb over the cluster of pinkish-purple marks. “But, there’s a lot?”

“Yeah.” You seemed to give in, sitting yourself up a little and looking down at the healed injuries, smirking proudly as you looked at them, but his eyes were narrowed on you as he waited. “He tried to carve the Argent ‘A’ into me when he first took my prisoner and I kicked him off. He didn’t like the fact that I ruined the symbol, so he added another cut every time I disobeyed him.”

Stiles wasn’t quite sure how to handle this information, the cogs in his mind spinning as he reeled at the idea of you locked in another cell, bleeding and tending to your own injuries after refusing to do whatever it was that he had wanted from you. “You weren’t born in the Argent Kingdom?”

“No. I was born here.” He almost felt as though he’d been winded as he looked up at you, your gaze questioning as you looked at him, your brows raised and you licked over your lips. “They took me prisoner when I was younger. My mother and father died, I didn’t have much to work from and I accidentally wound up on their land, stealing apples.” You were far from the person he had assumed you to be, his jaw hanging slightly slack, and he looked between your eyes and the scars on your hip in confusion.

He moved before he had thought about it, pressing a kiss to the bundle, your muscles twitching under him as he did and he moved between cuts, pressing a light kiss to each one, your hand coming down to thread into his hair carefully as he did, and he made sure to press his lips to each one before dragging your top back down, his hand tucked under the fabric, palm covering the scars as he blew out the candles still flickering, his body covering yours as he lay atop you, just enough to cover you without crushing you.

It was a moment before you moved, your hands pulling the covers back up and you timidly wrapped your arms around him, shuffling and clinging to him as you relished in the warmth he was providing you, your cheeks heated in the darkened room as his hands held you protectively to his body.

“Would you like to walk to the markets with me tomorrow?”

“Really?” You practically buzzed with excitement, rolling onto your side to grip onto him tighter as you peered at him in the dark, and he could still make out the grin on your face, and he had to suppress his chuckle at your excitement, choosing to simply nod in response as his eyes closed. “You’d take me out, even dressed like this?”

He frowned, shaking his head and inching closer to you until the tip of his nose was brushing your forehead. “We’re going out to get you new clothes. I need some new plants and jars, so we can pick those up too. Nobody will say anything to you.” You opened your mouth again to speak, and he groaned as he heard the intake of breath, your jaw snapping shut when he huffed. “Just go to sleep before I regret not being horrible to you.”

“You’re being nice to me.”

“No. I’m not nice, I’m just being less awful. There’s a difference.” He muttered, his fingers tightening their hold on your hip in warning of your arguing with him, and you didn’t speak, muffling the sound of amusement you made as you settled into sleep, and while the coldness had never bothered him before, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed the warmth you provided when your body was pressed up against his.

Neither of you ever bothered to speak about what had changed between the two of you, but it was clear that something had.

His touch lingered longer on your skin when he was around you now, and he was closer to your side whenever he possibly could be. The gap between you on the bed had quickly become nonexistent, the cold nights meaning he would hold you closer more often, and it had quickly become familiar to him to have your body pressed up to his during the night as your hands wrapped around his body and lips pressed to your hairline whilst your heart beat steadily against his chest, in a comfortable rhythm with his own.

As promised, he had walked you down to the marketplace the next day, the excitement on your face as he finally allowed you an escorted trip away from the room you’d been locked up in for half a year had almost made him smile, your arm looped through his as your unsteady almost skips took place beside his even and long strides. He had glared daggers at anyone that had sent you unusual looks, your body draped in the large material of his own clothes as you waited for new garments.

You had purchased a selection of loose-fitting pants and jumpers, skirts and even some dresses, the bundle building in your arms as you mumbled about not remembering the last time you’d actually had any new clothes of your own to wear, clutching them to your chest and waiting patiently as he moved between the other stalls and gathered the thinks he needed for himself. When you had returned home, he’d cleared a drawer in his dresser, for you to unpack them into, and the more you spent time with him, the more reluctant he was to let you go.

You were becoming more and more intertwined with his life, his shoulders felt lighter when he was talking to you, or able to watch you work, and when your chin would rest on his shoulder from behind as you watched him work, your arms looped around his waist as you tried to stay out of the way but still wished to observe. You made his bad days feel a little easier, when he was in a bad mood you were able to soothe him, his eyes closed as he sat back against the bed, face pushed into your neck and arms around your waist as you read aloud to him or told him about your own projects and what you had been up to.

He knew he should let you go, that he should stop letting the bond between you get so deep and meaningful. It kept him up on the occasional night, as he listened to your steady breathing and relished in the warmth of your body, that he was only going to end up hurting himself in the long run. He couldn't keep you prisoner forever, one day the king would come back for you, or he’d have to let you go himself and you’d run from him never to return. It only ended in him getting hurt, and yet he couldn't help but dig himself in deeper, drown in you a little more, because being around you was such a sweet taste in his mouth and he wanted to savour that, before it turned bitter and made him only the more darker, stormier, angrier version of himself that he would undoubtedly become when you left him.

He was closer to you than he should be, the urges bubbling up inside of himself making him feel like he had to hold himself back more and more, because you confused him. He liked it when your fingers scraped over his scalp as you played with his hair and the way he sometimes wanted to get even closer to you, to be in your face, his lips pressed to yours as your body wrapped around his entirely, the two of you practically becoming one. He didn’t like the guilt that came with that feeling, the anger at himself for being too scared to take it that final step and let himself become yours entirely, to claim you as his.

He was used to having fear from others, but he also wasn’t used to having love, and you supplied him with enough for him to suffocate in, and die happily. So, in order to gain as much as he possibly could before you were inevitably torn from his arms, he made the most of every touch you gave him, every second of time he got with you, and every time you’d let him brush his lips across your cheek or sweep loose hair behind your ear, or lace his fingers with your own on the nights the two of you would lay in bed, facing one another on the pillows and talking until the darkness passed on the sun was once again cracking across the horizon to signal in a new day.

Adjusting himself in the pillows, you shifted in his arms, his fingers stilling their movements from tracing patterns along your skin once again as he waited for you to get comfortable, and you eventually huffed out, trying to continue in you reading of the book before you were once again stopping as you looked up. Your arm was aching as you tried to hold yourself up to read the book, your thigh shifting from where it had been draped over one of Stiles’ legs as you leaned up, stretching your arms above your head as cracks and pops sounded, a relieved sigh leaving you.

“This isn't working. My neck hurts.”

He chuckled at your words, his hand dropping to smooth along your thigh through the cover as you sat up further, rolling your neck from side to side as your body adjusted from the awkward pose you had been in. “It was your idea to read in bed.”

“I know that.” You scoffed, his brows furrowing at your tone and he let out a warning growl, your eyes rolling at him and he pinched your thigh, your body jolting as you scowled and rubbed over the spot. “That was uncalled for.”

“You sassed me. Don’t sass me.” He watched as you swung a leg over his waist, a smirk curling on his lips as you settled yourself onto his upper thighs, balancing the book on his chest. His hands found your waist, tugging you up closer until you were seated in his lap, and he popped his legs up behind you, letting you lean back on his thighs for support. His hands slipped down to your mid-thighs, fingers digging into the supple flesh on either side as he squeezed gently. “Better?”

“Much, actually.” You wiggled in his lap, and he bit down on his lip to choke down the sound he wanted to release, your voice soon picking up again as you began to read to him. For a while, he was able to focus on the words you were saying, his eyes closed as he listened to you speak to him about the different ways to preserve and use herbs best. It wasn’t until you jumped in his lap, his eyes opening suddenly as you let out a small yell, the weight of the book sitting on his ribs being lifted as you held it up before him. “Look!”

“What am I looking at, dove?”

“This! It says you should press wolfsbane and then powder it, instead of hanging it to dry!” You looked at him pointedly, letting out a long sigh as you marked the page of the book before throwing it to your side, a cheeky grin on your lips as you leaned down. Poking at his chest, you made a proud noise in the back of your throat, and Stiles tried to ignore the way you were practically buzzing in his lap. “That’s what I told you! All the way back on the first day, when you locked me up in that cage over there!”

His lips dropped into a frown at the mention of the abandoned cell in the corner of the room, the thought of you in there again making his stomach twist with nausea. He huffed out at the thought, and you leaned in further, your chest almost pressed to his and you pinched at his cheek, your breath fanning over his face.

“Now, now, Void. Don’t pout.” You grinned, and he rolled his eyes, raining a hand to poke at your side as you teased him, and he swallowed thickly. Your mouth opened, presumably to make another snarky comment, the attitude and humour he hated to admit that he’d grown so fond of beginning to shine through again. Instead, though, the fingers pinching his cheeks flattened out, your hand smoothing around until your nails were scratching lightly in the short hairs at the back of his scalp, a sigh falling from his parted lips at the feeling.

Watching you carefully, his eyes dropped to your lips as you licked at them, before you were leaning into him, your lips pressing to his delicately, a barely present kiss being placed to his lips as you bumped your nose against his, the breath between you both sharing as you moved your lips with his in shaky rhythms. The tension fled from his body, his hands flying up to hold onto you, his fingers in your hair as he groaned lowly into your mouth.

He had been kissed before, but this kiss was different. This kiss was one that someone wanted to share with him, not one that was being given to him as maidens from around the palace threw themselves at him for one night to be able to say they tamed the darkness for a few hours. Your hands were cupping his cheeks, before smoothing down his shoulders to rest on his chest, your own body relaxing atop him as he pressed back with force.

He leaned back into the pillows, pulling you with him until your hair was framing around his face as you kissed him, his tongue snaking out to lick along your lower lip, a whine leaving you as he did. His tongue tangled with your own, your breathing becoming lighter as you panted above him and pride swelled in his chest at the needy way your hands scrunched into fists in the material of his shirt, nails scraping at his pecs through the fabric.

Teeth practically clashed, as the kiss moved from shy and experimental to heated and sloppy, fingers grasping as you both dragged in raspy breaths, your lips meshing together in a connection that was long overdue, feelings rushing to the surface as overwhelming arousal flooded through the both of you, the air around you heating up. Tilting his head to the side, he earned himself a deeper access to your mouth, relishing in the whimper you rewarded him with as his tongue travelled the inside of your mouth, memorising the feel of kissing you so intimately.

Your hips ground down into his, a grunt falling from his mouth as you did, the sound muffled between wet and smacking kisses as his cock twitched in the thin pants he wore to sleep in, your hips repeating the motion, and he couldn't hold back the thrust of his hips up into yours this time, a cry falling from your lips at the feeling. You pulled back, pushing yourself up with your hands spread on his torso and he chased your lips, propping himself up on his elbows as he followed you.

The complaint he was about to voice died in his throat as you used your new position to rock your core down against him more firmly. “Fuck, darling, you need to stop.” He mumbled, and he slid down from your face to gain a bruising grip on your hips, moving you to a halt as you became steady in his lap once again. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes wide as you peered at him cautiously, and a blush crawled up your cheeks. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you? Or at least, I was..” Your words trailed off in a whisper, your hands pulling back from the grip on his top so you could play with your fingers nervously, and he could feel your legs twitching around him as you considered bolting from your position, his hold tightening to keep you where you were.

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to?” You offered, and he ran a hand over his face, huffing at the way you were practically answering his questions with more questions, and he fixed you with a stern glare. The silence between the two of you hung thick and awkward in the air, your eyes leaving him as you squirmed in his hold, uncomfortable with his stare on you.

“Why did you kiss me?” He had taken on his deeper tone, the cold and menacing one that had always gotten him answers before now, and you sighed, your body practically deflating under his gaze as you let out an aggravated sound, dragging a hand through your hair.

“Because I wanted to! Because I like it when you start rambling about all your herbs and mixes when you’re working, and that you let me sleep in the bed with you, and that you let me read your books at night! You also have really nice lips!” Your words were near-shouted, and you crawled away from him, pushing his hands from you as a scowl took over your features. “I thought that would have a better outcome, but I’m getting the feeling I was wrong and that I’ve messed things up, so I think it’s about time I headed back into the corner an-”

A loud growl tore from him as he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, tugging you back onto the bed as you tried to stand up, and he rolled your body under his, caging you in with a hand either side of your head. “Don’t you dare fucking mention that. I told you that you sleep here with me now, where you belong.” Your eyes widened at the tone of his voice, and he smirked lowly, dipping his head down to press a kiss to the corner of your mouth, before kissing along your jaw and down your neck, two fingers on your chin gripping tightly as he tipped your head to the side, exposing your collarbone to him.

Nipping at the sensitive skin, he grinned as you moaned, finally letting the sound through when he found the sensitive patch of skin that made your back arch into his chest and your eyes slip shut. Sucking on the patch of skin, he made quick work of nibbling and licking at the patch, until a large red blemish appeared that would soon sink into an even larger purple bruise. “You’re giving me really mixed signals, here.”

Your words were slurred as you wiggled under his hold and he smirked, pulling back to look at you. Dipping his head down, he let one of his hands drift up to cup your cheek, his lips pressing to your own delicately, a sweet kiss being left on your lips as he bumped your nose aside, tilting his own head until he was letting his tongue dip out to meet yours between your parted lips, a slow and passionate exchange as you whimpered into his mouth, kissed breathless and flushed when he finally pulled back.

“That clears up nothing. But I’d really like to do it again.”

“I intend to keep doing that with you. A lot.” He whispered, rolling onto his side and shuffling up until he was buried back in the pillows, a satisfied smirk on his lips, and he wiped the edge of his mouth with his thumb, poking your side with his foot as you continued to pant and stare at the ceiling. “Get up here before I kick you from the bed.”

You scoffed at his warning, smacking idly at his foot as he nudged you, before rolling up onto your hands and knees, crawling along the bed and collapsing down beside him, his nose burying in your hair as your body pressed up to his side, the warmth from you spreading over his skin. Your leg came up to sit over his waist as your cheek pressed into his shoulder, and he stretched his head to the side for you as your lips tickled over his throat in feather-light kisses.

Dropping a hand to your thigh, he gripped tightly at the exposed skin that was revealed from your nightgown, a grunt leaving him as your lips worked sloppy to leave marks on his neck. He dared to trail his fingers up, searching for the edge of your gown and his fingers toyed with the material once he found it, subtly inching it up further, one of your hands sliding over his chest to lace into his hair. Tilting his head toward you with the hand on his cheek, you guided his lips back to your own, a satisfied hum sounding from him as he puckered his lips to return the affections.

Kicking your feet at the covers, you tried to inch them up your body, and he chuckled as you pulled away, yawning into his shoulder as you hid your face. Leaning over you, he placed the book on the side table, catching it just before it fell from the edge of the mattress. Taking the covers in his hand, he tugged them up over your figures, huffing as you placed a hand on his chest and forced him back down into the bed, your form slumping against him tiredly as you buried your face into his neck.

Running his hand over your back, he leaned to the side, blowing out the final candle keeping the room alight and plunging it into darkness, tiredness sweeping over him, too. The warmth you spread to his chest was now no longer just from your body pressed to his, but filled him internally as you curled up against him, a smile tilted on his lips as he nudged his nose into your hair, his eyes sliding shut.

That night, he slept with kiss-swollen lips and a slightly off-pace heart, skipping beats and pumping erratically as your legs tangled with his. His mind had been spinning for hours afterwards, balancing out the pros and cons of allowing himself to sink into the idea of being in a relationship with you. The former heavily outweighed the latter, and he was somewhere between irritated and amused at himself for it, the idea that he might actually be capable of having a normal concept like love or affection was foreign to him, and he let himself drift off in distraction when you subconsciously nudged your nose into the spot between his neck and his shoulder, your lips brushing his skin, and his arms had wrapped around you tighter as he let unconsciousness take him.

He noticed a considerable difference in you after that night, one that made his lips quirk into a cheeky look every time he thought about it, or studied the way you had begun to act. He was having a different kind of effect on you. His kisses had originally made you flushed and pink-cheeked, and now you teased him just as much as he teased you.

Your nervous hands that would sit on his cheeks or chest would now wander, tugging at his hair or scratching at his chest lightly, enough to make him shiver and growl as he held onto you tighter and pulled you in closer. Your once sealed and soft lips were now more kiss bitten and swollen, your tongues playing together in familiar patterns as you sucked on his lower lip and batted your eyes at him in ways that made him breathless and dizzy. You took up all of his time and thoughts, letting him spend his days laying over you on the bed as your neck became littered in purple marks from his teeth moving across them, and his lips sucking at the skin until he was satisfied with his print being on your flesh.

It never went too far, for the first time in his life he was enjoying something in moderation, he wasn’t rushing or struggling, but instead, he had faith that you didn’t want to run off anyway, that you wanted to be with him as much as he wanted to be with you, and so as the ice melted away in to spring and dead trees began to blossom once again, he found that he didn’t care if ting never went further than just your hips rocking up into his through layers of clothing as your mouths pressed together and you panted into one another's mouths, because what he had gained with you was more than physical, it was spiritual.

It wasn’t just the affectionate side of you that had changed, but the mental side too. You were becoming more and more like him with every passing day, you were learning enough from him that you’d even begun to make recommendations and suggestions during his work, mixing your own little recipes and he was incredibly proud of how far you were coming. It was like you were made for him, a perfectly twisted match to his dark soul, and the more he got to know you the more it became true.

You were a team, a unit, and the power of the two of you together far surpassed his power alone, even if it was simply that the feeling of no longer being alone made him more confident and sure in his own abilities than he ever had been before. He felt like the purpose of taking on a darker trait had finally come to light, long-buried and forgotten as he had gotten lost in the fear he inflicted onto others. He wanted this power, these abilities, that automatically instilled fear just at the mention of his name all as a method to protect someone, and now he had someone to protect.

He had someone to defend, to care for and shelter, and yet you were also able to take care of yourself. You were strong-willed and determined and sharp, you were a jagged piece that fit his own cracks and splinters without cutting either one of you, he had a partner in an attack and someone to channel his power toward. You gave him direction.

Days felt more meaningful, he had the time to take on new hobbies once he had someone to complete all of his work with, and he no longer felt useless and bored during the time he spent off, because he didn’t have a shrouded goal to work towards anymore, a hidden ulterior in his own mind that made him feel unaccomplished when he didn’t work. Instead, he was fully aware of everything he did and you made him feel better about himself, you made him feel like the best version of himself.

The only wrinkle in his joy, the only problem he had with his own joy was the knawing guilt he held every time he looked the front door tightly again, the way if you got too close to it his eyes would still flicker over to you untrustingly as he watched to see whether this was the moment you were going to bolt, and yet you never did. Now, he felt obligated to give you the benefit of the doubt, he felt like he owed it to you to try and give you freedom, because it was the last step he had to take before he could wholly, and completely believe that you were as invested in a future as him as he knew he was in having a future with you.

He was selfish, and insecure, and he just had to take the leap in giving you the choice to come back to him, to give you the ability to leave and live your life, and simply trust that at night you’d crawl back into bed beside him instead of leaving his bed colder than it has ever been before.

That moment of reckoning, that day in which he would give you a chance to make the decision for yourself came as a split-second decision on one of the days that the spring rain was just clearing up, warm and humid heat sitting int he air as dark clouds loomed overhead and blocked out some of the sun’s light, and yet it was still a bright and warm day, because you had woken up in a good mood and forced him to enjoy it too.

It had been quiet between you, only the flick of the pen across paper and your humming as you tinkered with different activities around the room as you had yet to decide what it was that you actually wanted or do was filling the silence, and he was more than content just sharing the space with you, occasionally looking up to watch as you move around. You had made the space your own as much as it was his, and his attention was torn between you, and the activity he had chosen for himself all those hours before.

He let out an indignant huff as you plucked the drawing pad from his hands, his fingers reaching out for it as you held it further out from your body, and he gave in, slumping back into the cushions lining the seat and shooting you a glare, his brows furrowed as he looked at you. “What do you want?”

“Well, fine.” You muttered, handing the pad back to him and crossing your arms, a pout on your lips as you looked at him and he smirked, taking the book from you and opening it back up to the page he was on, and you sighed, turning from him to walk away, his hand shooting out to grasp your wrist. Without looking up, he tugged you toward him, holding the book away from him as he made space for you to settle into his lap, his smirk only widening as you grinned, crawling into the seat and settling your legs across his own, your arms looping around his neck.

He adjusted the sketchbook to rest against your legs, his free arm sitting low on your waist as his fingers smoothed along your hip, your hands holding his face in your hands as you kissed at his cheek, his eye and nose scrunching up as you did. And the charcoal stilled on the paper as he waited. “I’m trying to draw.”

“Mhm, what are you drawing?” You continued to trace your lips along his skin, eventually giving in as you reached his neck, ending the exchanges with a final nip to his jaw before pulling back.

“You.” You straightened up, looking over at his drawing as you gasped with excitement, and he snickered at the way your body sagged in disappointment when you looked at the sketch, taking in the flowers on the paper. He looked at you carefully, and you placed a hand over his face, pushing him away from you, but you laughed as you did, and he grinned, biting playfully at the finger over his mouth. Instead, he lifted up the tattered paper bundle, holding it out to you and flipping through previous pages. “I normally draw you when you’re doing something.”

He held the book out to you, watching as you looked over the drawings carefully, your fingers brushing the edges of the paper and you smiled at him, handing the pad back to him. “You’re cute.” His lips pursed, and he raised up the block of charcoal in his hands, drawing a solid black line along your skin and you groaned out in irritation. “I take it back, you’re just annoying.”

“Don’t tell me I’m cute.”

“Why not?” You were teasing him, and he leaned up, capturing your lips with his in a slow kiss as he pulled you in closer to him. He teased his lips over yours, your hands coming up to hold his face once again as you tipped your head to the side, granting him deeper access as he sucked on your lower lip.

“I’m not cute, I’m fucking terrifying.” He argued, and you rested your cheek against the top of his head, a hum sounding from you.

“Are you planning to kill me?”

“No.”

“Are you planning to hurt and torture me?”

“No.” He spoke through gritted teeth, jaw clenched as he realised what you were getting at and instead he just shifted in the seat, dragging you down until your body was pressed up to his, your legs stretched out over the seat and your head resting on his shoulder so you were fully seated in his lap. He wrapped both of his arms around you, toying with the strings on the front of your dress, tugging on them until they fell loose, and you took a deep breath as the corset loosened. “I like you in dresses. They make you look-”

“Feminine?” Your mouth practically spat the word, but you let him undo the knots along the front, tugging at the stiff material until it was loose on your chest.

“I was going to say powerful.”

He scowled at you for your assumption that he would insult you, before he was inching his hands up your legs, taking the heavy skirt of your dress with him, a smirk on his lips as you allowed him to, his fingers skimming over soft flesh until they were sitting in the middle of your thigh, his nose trailing along the underside of your jaw, and you let out a happy sigh for him.

“You and I could do great things, you know.” He mumbled, lips latching onto the spot beneath your ear, sucking lazily on the skin as you squirmed under him, a gasp sounding out as you twisted in his arms the moment he began to nip and bite at the sensitive place, and he licked over the spot, a proud smile on his lips at the red mark showing up on your wet skin. “We could rule the fucking world.”

“Together?”

“Always.” He growled the word out, his lips smashing into yours as you mewled under him, parting your lips for him the second he sucked the lower one between his own, his tongue snaking out to tangle with yours. The wet muscles dragged together, a breathy moan slipping into his mouth and dying out as his mouth moved relentlessly against your own in heated patterns.

You shifted, a groan falling from his lips as you turned in his hold, your arms looping around his neck, your fingers moving to play with his hair and tug on the soft locks to tease him, handfuls of the hair woven between your fingers as he continued to kiss you sloppily, the sounds echoing around the room, and his fingers tightened their grasp on your thigh, anchoring you to him as you shared the passionate embrace.

When the burning for oxygen became too much, your mouth parted from his, your eyes still closed as you panted for breath, his own needy gasps washing over your lips each time, and your eyes only opened when you felt him run his thumb over your lips. He admired the swollen and darker colour of them, knowing he was the reason you looked quite so dishevelled, warmth bursting in his chest as he took in your flustered and flushed appearance, a small smile pulling on his lips when he backed away.

“Stop staring at me.”

“You look beautiful when you look all fucked out.” He grinned at you wickedly, your cheeks flooding with more heat as you laughed, standing up carefully and brushing the skirt your dress back into place, and he followed suit, his hands on your hips as he looked down at you, licking the pad of his thumb and smearing away the charcoal that was still present on your skin. Your face scrunched up as he did, a grimace forming, and you rubbed your palm over the skin roughly until the wet feeling was gone, the dark smudge disappearing too, red and irritated skin taking its place. “I need a new sketchpad, and some more candles.”

You looked up at him, nodding as you began to adjust the corset of your dress back into the correct place, and he lifted his hands from your hips to take the string between them, pulling tightly, your back straightening and a gasp sounding from your as the material clung around your torso. “Are we going to the markets, then?”

His gaze was focused on the intricate lacing across your torso, his fingers tugging on each strong carefully as he laced it back up, his eyes barely flicking up to yours for a second, but the edges of his lips pulled up in a barely present smirk. “No, I smell like soot and smoke, and I have some things to finish up.”

“Oh.” Your face fell, your eyebrows furrowing, and he tied the strings tight at the top of your breasts, the mounds swelling beneath the dress, his knuckles brushing against the plump flesh lightly as he retracted his hands, letting them smooth back over your sides.

“Why don’t you go and get them, and we can have a bath when you get back?”

Your eyes widened, your face splitting in a bright and beaming smile, and you were practically bouncing in your place as you watched him. “You want me to go alone?”

“Yes, but be quick, because it won’t take me long to find someone to heat water and fill the tub for us, and I’m not waiting for you if the water starts getting cold.” You nodded happily, and he took your hand in his, guiding you towards the large bolted door at the front of the room. His fingers stilled over the cold metal, doubting his movements for just a second as he glanced at you, before unlatching each bolt and lock individually, the heavy wood creaking as it fell open, and you peered out excitedly into the hallway.

You’d been out many times by his side, but he could practically sense the anticipation and excitement rolling off of you as you stared out at the castle corridors, and he dipped his head as he waited for you to be ready, his body warm and tingling as he took in the joy he had given you. Instead, he reached for the hooks, taking his favourite fur and draping it carefully over your shoulders, tucking it securely around you for warmth, and he let out a deep breath, his dark eyes finding yours.

“You know where you’re going?”

“Yes.” You nodded firmly, and he grinned, taking a small sack, the dirty material sitting in the palm of his hands as he took out a few coins, placing the cold metal into your palm and folding your fingers over it, holding your hand in his.

“This should be enough. If anything happens, if anything seems off, you find a guard. You ask for Scott, and tell them you’re under my protection, okay?”

“What if they think I’m lying?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nobody would optionally associate themselves with me, little dove.” Your free hand smoothed up to cup his cheek as he looked at you, eyes wide and skin warm under your touch as you stared at him, a look he had never quite seen in your eyes before shining through.

“I would.”

The simple words winded him, and he let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, nodding as he leaned into you, an arm wrapping around your waist to bring you flush up to his chest as he kissed you, deep and slow. There was no frantic need in this kiss, no lust or desire, just affection and longing, your lips sliding together in an intimate and meaningful exchange, your body buzzing with thrill under his hands as you looked forward to the trip.

“I’ll be back soon. A sketchpad and more candles.” You nodded to yourself as you confirmed your small list, and he let out a small hum, not quite trusting his voice as he choked down whatever emotions were bubbling up within him.

You turned towards the door, your body freezing in the entrance as you rocked on the balls of your feet, almost afraid to leave on your own, and despite his own worries about letting you out of his sight, he placed a hand on your lower back, feeling the way you relaxed into his touch, tension leaving your body as his he pushed you forward a little, taking your first step over the threshold, a small squeal leaving you. You turned, pressing a final kiss to his lips that he barely had time to return, before you were clenching the fist with the coins in, giving yourself an affirmative nod.

“Here I go.”

“Here you go.” He returned the words, slightly strangled in sound as he watched you step back, walking away from him as his touch left you, his hand falling back to rest at his side, and you turned your back to him, never once glancing over your shoulder as you bounded along the corridor quickly, disappearing from his sight once you rounded the corner.

A strange mix of pride, anxiety and longing churned in his gut, but despite it all, he smiled, closing the door and for the first time since he’d allowed you out of the cell, he left it unbolted, choosing instead to trust that you would come back to him, that you cared for him as much as he did for you.

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sleeplessincairo · 4 years

Text

[ dating bucky barnes would include: ]

warnings: a somewhat vague sexual outline and a few cusses

///

Him walking around with a notebook everywhere. Bucky got the idea from Steve when he saw him writing new things to his modern day to-do-list, so Bucky decided to do the same except fill his notebook up with his old memories instead; anything he could remember from his life before being The Winter Soldier. At first, there were only a few pages filled but as his life starting to include domestic and mundane-as well as a healthy environment-activities, he started having spontaneous and soon-to-be-frequent flashbacks that, later on, contributed to dozens of notebooks filled with not The Winter Soldier, not Prisoner #56898, not White-Wolf, but James Buchanan Barnes.

You never mentioned the notebook to Bucky nor asked to read it-Bucky was a private person, and you understood and respected that-but you still started carrying a pen with you, just in case he ever needed one.

At first, the notebook(s) was/were filled with solely memories of his past-No matter how insignificant. Whether it was that time the toilet got clogged in his shabby little apartment and had to stay with Steve and Sarah Rogers for a week because he couldn't afford a plumber or that time he lost his shoe in bar brawl and some swanky chrome-dome gave him a few bucks to buy some shoes and a sock without a hole in it. He wrote everything his mind could clearly grasp. But as the two of you got closer, he started filling it with memories he had with/of you because-even if he would never admit it-you made him feel right at home.

You may or may not have stolen his dog tags from the Smithsonian museum just as a reminder that even after all the pain, despair, manipulation, and torture he still managed to be the good person he was all those years ago. He was still James Barnes, local heartthrob that volunteered at the soup kitchen during his free time, that fought a war and lost an arm during the process, that dreamt of flying cars and a future without all fights and wars, that had a soft spot for a certain trouble-attracting boy whose heart was too big for his body.

“Jesus doll, I didn’t know I was dating a thief.” “Oh James, I thought you’d already realized that when I stole your heart from right under your nose.”

Bucky’s not big on talking or directly verbally professing his love, but that’s okay; His eyes tell you everything. There was always something about Bucky’s eyes that were so mesmerizing, so captivating, you could instantly tell how he was feeling. Before you, his eyes resembled a pale arctic blue that were as cold as glaciers-His eyes were hollowed and empty, scratched raw from any emotion but your growing presence thawed them out, they warmed through the cold exterior of what was once The Winter Soldier and reminded you that the hottest fires burn blue.

He does, however, reference quite a few interesting slang choices from the 40′s, which is his own little way of demonstrating verbal affection, ranging from calling you ‘Doll’ & ‘Sweetheart’ to calling you ‘The Cat’s Meow’ & ‘Butter and Egg Fly’

He’s never been very invested in hygiene. It never really was something important for him since he was in the Army and BO was a pretty normal thing, and then he became The Winter Soldier and HYDRA never exactly gave him a bathtub-Not that he was in the right mindset to to care about it anyway-So you usually have to remind him to shower everyday-Not that you mind, it would usually end with the both of you showering together and you having the opportunity to wash his hair yourself.

Soon enough, Bucky gets real invested in hygiene, he starts reading about self-care routines, exfoliating, conditioning, and gets completely hooked. Secretly, he does it because he likes the routine, something mundane and fixed to do to keep him busy.

You’re the only one that gets to call him James. Something about the way you say it warms his heart, he’d focus completely on the way your mouth moves as you say it-It reminded him of the way his mother would say his full name before busting his chops about coming home all dirty but then later ruffling his thick hair and offering a plate of strawberry jam sandwhiches, or how the word was always lurking in the dark corners of his mind like the silhouette of a ghost he couldn’t seem to recognize until you brought it to life.

Him always reaching out for your hand when he feels out-of-place, outside, or honestly just all the time because it helps him feel secure and grounded.

Steve third wheeling the both of you all the time. No seriously, literally all the time. He spends more time in the apartment you and Bucky share more than his own to the point where you and Bucky wonder if he actually has one.

Steve has a key to your place-Even though, the both of you never gave him a key in the first place-and has a habit of interrupting the both of you or walking in on the worst possible moments.

“Hey guys, what are ya doi-Oh...Sorry I didn't know-Buck, you don't need to throw-Jesus, okay, okay I’m going.”

“Who the hell does it look like I’m doing, Steve.”

Bucky being very insecure about his arm, he even refuses to touch you with that arm-Subconsciously, he’s afraid he’ll accidentally hurt you. At first, he only ever wears long-sleeved shirts and a glove even on the hottest days as if he’d somehow forget that there was a metallic limb under all the cotton, but slowly like molasses he starts accepting it. He starts wearing open finger gloves, then discarding the gloves, then wearing 3-quarter sleeves, then short-sleeved shirts, then sleeveless shirts, then finally feeling comfortable enough to take off his shirt in front of you which leads to a night filled with discarded clothing, the sounds of soft murmurs and reassurances, the rolling of each other’s names off each other tongues like a prayer, and the rustling of the blanket against the delicate movement of your intertwined bodies skin-on-skin, skin-on-metal as the both of you unravel thread by thread in each other’s arms.

Truth is, you love his metal arm, you love the way it’s cool against your warm cheek on hot summer nights, you love the splashes of light that kiss it every morning making it sparkle, you love the soft and soothing whirring noises it lets out breaking the silence in your room, you love it because it’s a part of him and God knows how much you love everything about this man.

Despite being the assassin that killed JFK, managed to get away with it, and mind boggle conspiracists for decades he’s a bit clumsy. He has a habit of accidentally breaking things and later on, not telling you about it.

"James Buchanan Barnes, I thought I developed super strength-and even asked Stark to do some tests on me, but apparently you just happened to forget to mention and explain why the fuck doors are falling off their hinges!"

Losing sleep with Bucky. He tends to have very frequent and graphic nightmares which leads to various panic attacks and the inability to sleep, and you're more than happy to stay up with him and comfort him. Sometimes you’d talk while he listened and watched the way your lips moved or the way the pony tail you had gone to bed with loosened and hundreds of strands escaped the grasp of the hair band or the way a yawn would escape your lips and your hand would momentarily rise to cover your mouth but get lazy halfway, other times you’d lay in each other’s arms in complete silence while you traced patterns on his chest and trail kisses across his skin.

You being his anchor. You holding him tightly and assuring him that he’s okay, that you're here, that you're real, that he’s out, that he’s safe, and many other tender 3-worded sentences uttered over and over again like a mantra until he’s murmuring them back into your chest.

Sometimes, when he has really bad nightmares and panic attacks you grab his notebook and start reading the memories out loud while you lay his head on your lap and run your hand through his hair in a calming manner until he calms down. It soon becomes a regular thing where you read him a memory before he goes to bed like a bedtime story.

Bucky Barnes is a man who was tortured and tormented for years, a man whose life was ripped right from his very arms along with his very own arm, a man who has gone through a long and unforgettable journey where he has learned to cope, grow, accept, and embrace himself and now he’s made it his mission to encourage and help others to do the same, whether they're struggling with their sexuality, amputation, mental illness, gender, or general self-acceptance.

You educated him about women’s rights because things are a lot different then in the 1940s; women are no longer obligated to get married, cater to a man’s every whim, have children, and other traditional gender roles. At first, Bucky’s very confused and doesn't understand why feminism is so important-I mean, lets face it, Bucky was raised in a traditional society and was later on manipulated to being a bloodthirsty assassin and now suddenly, he can think on his own and his life has turned completely upside down from thinking his own thoughts without HYDRA around to thinking past social constructs and norms so its normal for him to be a bit weary. However, you're there to explain thoroughly about how unjust society still is and how women may have won a few battles but still have a war to fight in a society where they are hyper-sexualized, mistreated, and controlled, and Bucky immediately thinks of Peggy Carter and how the men used to catcall her, how they raked her body with inappropriate stares, how she was ignored and seen as a pretty face, and then he finally understands.

Dozens of articles about mysterious beatings of assaulters around New York.

His metal arm is decorated with dozens of pins, magnets, and stickers of all the movements he supports. Oh man, you should see him during Women’s marches and Pride fairs, considering all the black he usually wears seeing him dressed in bright colors or a pink shirt that says ‘On Wednesdays, we destroy the patriarchy’. It’s a sight that truly belongs in the history books.

Bucky breaking hold of the toxic masculinity he was subjected to in the 1940s and advocating for men to be able to display their God-given emotions freely, to not feel obligated to put on a tough guy front, to telling boys its okay to cry, to feel, to act, to wear, and to be whomever they please to be.

Bucky visiting youth centers and giving advice and support to the kids there. Every kid he meets reminds him of Steve, whether its in their stubbornness, taste for trouble, lostness, or the glimmer of potential he sees in every single one of them. He remembers every single name of the teenager he meets and later on, uses them as a mantra whenever he’s undergoing a panic or anxiety attack as well as use SHIELD’s equipment to check up on them every once in a while.

Bucky going to children’s hospitals every week to cheer up the little kids there. He ends up being quite the inspiration and their ‘Favorite Superhero’ for the kids with amputations there and they end up being one of the very few people who are allowed to touch his metal arm. Something about the way their eyes shine with hope and their hands melt at the feeling of the metal warms his heart and his insecurities.

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skzsauce01 · 4 years

Text

In Fair Verona︱Chapter 11

Synopsis: Jisung knows he is the Romeo to your Juliet. He could wax poetry about you all throughout rehearsal and even a little after. Except Hwang Hyunjin is the one playing Romeo in the school play, not him. Jisung is just another tech crew member that you don’t know, but he’s determined to win your heart... by any means necessary.

Warning: violent thoughts; conspiracy to murder; actual murder

Word Count: 4.5k

Pairing: fem!reader x Jisung; fem!reader x Hyunjin

updates every Wednesday and Sunday @ 11 PM PST this is the end!︱chapter list

A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things.

Some shall be pardoned, and some punishèd.

For never was a story more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

With its stalks of purple-blue flowers, monkshood is undeniably a beautiful plant. Jisung tends to it every day, despite his mother’s insistence that she should be the one taking care of her gift. He merely shrugs, and by Thursday evening, the monkshood is sitting on his bedroom windowsill.

It’s all part of his plan, of course; Jisung has other intentions for the plant other than making the house look pretty. When his parents are soundly sleeping, Jisung clears his desk of homework and textbooks and brings over the potted monkshood. He double-gloves his hands and begins pulling out the flower. He almost feels sorry for doing so, but it’s going towards a greater cause. Once its roots are out of the soil, he puts them down on an old cutting board he found stashed in a kitchen cabinet. He picks up the fruit knife he bought yesterday and begins dicing the root as finely as he can. His desk light is dim, and he strains to see the tiny wisps.

Jisung smiles to himself as he continues his work. The sound of the knife against the wooden board is soothing to hear, and he’s pleased by his progress. He places all the bits into the mortar and pestle he stole from the chemistry stockroom, and he begins grinding it into a powder. He’s careful to not inhale any of the dust by tucking his nose into the collar of his shirt the entire time. He regrets not putting on a face mask before starting. The grinding process produces gravelly noises, and he pauses in fear of being caught. There’s no reason to worry when both his parents are heavy sleepers, but beads of sweat form at the nape of his neck anyway.

When he’s satisfied with the results, he carefully tips the powder into a vial identical to the one used by the play. It’s more than he needs, so he puts the extras into a ziploc bag. In order to hide the extreme bitterness of the root, he spoons some sugar — from his home kitchen, not stolen — into the vial as well. He rubs the extra grinded root around the lip of the vial, making sure that all of it is covered. He then caps and shakes it until it mixes into an unassuming light brown powder. Tomorrow he’ll complete the final steps of his potion making.

He wipes down everything around him, making sure to leave no trace of any of the monkshood. The plant is effectively dead now after his work, so he disposes it into a trash bag along with his stained gloves. If his mother asks about the flowers, he’ll say it died since he overwatered it. Then, bag in his hand, he creeps out to the garbage bins set out for trash service and drops it in.

It’s 3 AM, and he needs to wake up in three hours, but he doesn’t even feel close to tired. There’s a renewed sense of energy and purpose coursing through him. He spends the rest of the very early morning lying in bed instead of sleeping. It’s likely that he’ll regret it, but the adrenaline keeps him bright-eyed until the sunrise.

He’s nearly all prepared for the final showing of Romeo and Juliet.

—

However, before the final showing can begin, Jisung needs to get through the Saturday show. He leaves his own vial in his desk drawer and puts on his crew shirt over his hoodie. He arrives before the mandated call time, and like last week, certain actors are running lines while the scarce few members of the tech crew hang around in the back of the auditorium. Felix is demonstrating some kind of fancy footwork to Minho in the wide aisles, while Chan and Jeongin are watching with interest. He supposes that Minho’s alright, despite him being friends with Hyunjin. Speaking of Hyunjin, he or you are nowhere to be seen, so Jisung assumes the two of you are cuddling together somewhere.

Why, yes, he is still a little bitter. Not as much as monkshood root though.

As the time approaches 5:30, the rest of the crew arrives, and Minho has to return to the stage to rehearse the fight scene again. Chan’s the one who stays by the lobby doors to let crew members inside this time. You and Hyunjin eventually emerge from whatever dark corner you were cozying up in. Jisung heads backstage, and he’s essentially forced to watch the two of you flirt with each other while the other actors run lines. Hyunjin intertwines his fingers in yours, touching your knuckles and teasingly bringing them up to his lips. You take your hand back at the last second, only letting a ghost of kiss brush across your skin. It ends with strawberry red cheeks and shy laughter.

It’s a good thing that he didn’t bring the monkshood and sugar mixture with him. He would have replaced the prop with it in a heartbeat. He’s over you, he says to himself. Just in a different way.

The comms in his ears are noisy, and they grow noisier when the doors open. Audience members start coming in, and the countdown begins.

Soon, the main curtain goes up. The magic of the play — if there was even any to begin with — has died for Jisung, and he doesn’t pay too much attention to it anymore. He can hardly believe that he once compared you to the sun. Hyunjin has massively improved in the balcony scene, and you gaze lovingly at him, no acting required. A mess of emotions — envy, anger, disgust, possibly love — resurface, and Jisung snaps his eyes back to the gardening forum he was reading yesterday. He concentrates on the words on the screen.

Depolarization. Immediately. Burning. Paralysis. Asphyxia. Severe.

For most of the show, he is. When the death scene occurs, he fantasizes about the revised version that will be happening tomorrow night. He feels his spirits rise, and he replays the moment in his head over and over again. He doesn’t even realize the play ends until the lights go out and the audience starts cheering. He jerks out of his daydream and mockingly claps for the cast. You hold hands with Hyunjin and bow on stage, and the room grows louder. Hyunjin smiles at you, and before you can change your mind, you stand on your tippy toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. You bury your face in Hyunjin’s shoulder, while everyone goes wild. No one but Jisung has seen the two of you kiss off script before.

Jisung holds his own head in his hands, trying to stop his head from pounding. His whole body dissolves into shakes, and he’s angry at the reason why. He can’t have you, and the whole world seems to think you and Hyunjin are the perfect fit. He can’t take refuge in the restroom this time since there are bound to be people inside.

“Jisung?” Yugyeom asks. He gently touches his shoulder, and Jisung flinches. He takes his hand back. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bites out. “Just got a headache.”

“Oh. You want water or something?”

“I’ll get it myself.”

He rushes out of the auditorium and to a nearby water fountain. He drinks and drinks, water dripping from his chin and onto the linoleum floor, forming small puddles. He looks and feels like a feral animal. With the back of his hand, he wipes the lower half of his face.

Then with a straighter posture and a false aura of cheeriness, he heads to the back of the auditorium as he normally would. You and Hyunjin are missing, and he can only imagine what is happening between you two now — illicit kisses and possibly more. He sinks down into the cushy seat, willing it to swallow him. All everyone wants to do is talk about the curtain call.

“Ryujin was right,” Chan says. “He really is in love with her. Did you guys see the way he looked at her?”

Jeongin pretends to swoon. “They’re actually Romeo and Juliet.”

“You are paying attention to the play, right?” Ryujin says.

As anticipated, they banter over Jeongin’s poor word choice and semantics. Jisung sinks lower into his chair until only the top of his hair is showing. Changbin, sitting beside him, nudges him and gives him a look that says, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Headache,” he lies before changing the topic back to you and your love life. “You think they’ll last?”

Ryujin and Felix nod, Seungmin and Yugyeom shrug. No one explicitly says no. Jisung is disappointed in his friends and eager to prove them wrong.

A few actors come to return their mic packs, and you’re among them. You’re out of your costume and in a familiar hoodie. Jisung looks away, doing his best to remain calm. You look like you want to talk to him, but he injects himself into Changbin and Jeongin’s conversation, leaving no point of entry for you. You eventually give up, and you’re out of his sight soon enough. Hyunjin comes down the aisle minutes later and compliments Felix for his great work.

Hyunjin is closest to Felix out of everyone in the tech crew, but Jisung can’t help it. The question, “What about the rest of us?” bitterly slips out.

Hyunjin looks taken aback, but he nervously laughs it off and assures him that everyone else was just as good. The lighthearted atmosphere fades away and is replaced by an awkward tension. Luckily, Mr. Gi saves the day by announcing that it’s time for notes. Hyunjin scurries away, grateful to be out of that situation, and everyone else, Jisung included, is relieved that they can focus on something else.

After notes, Jisung doesn’t drive home immediately. He sits in his car, which is right behind Hyunjin’s. You’ve been letting Hyunjin drive you home recently, and he expects the same thing to happen tonight. He’s holding onto a tiny thread of hope that you will break up with your new boyfriend or come to an epiphany that Hyunjin is not the right person for you. If something like that does happen, he decides, he’ll change his plan and only target Hyunjin. This is truly your final chance to change your fate.

Nothing of the sort occurs. He watches from his rearview mirror as you get into the passenger seat of Hyunjin’s car. After Hyunjin himself gets in, he tugs at the collar of your — his? — hoodie and pulls you in. So, Jisung watches as your two silhouettes become one. Before he can spiral out of control, he starts his car, revving the engine as loudly as he can to try to break the two of you apart. He tears out of the parking lot before he sees what happens next.

It doesn’t matter though. It wouldn’t change anything.

—

Sunday. D-Day.

Sunlight streams in through his bedroom window, and when he checks his phone, it’s nearly 2 PM. He stayed up until four, waiting for the adrenaline to wear off. The melatonin he took before going to bed didn’t kick in until it was too late. Now he groans, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stretches until he hears all the bones in his spine pop. The rest of his morning, or rather afternoon, is standard. He rotates between feeling the effects of not enough sleep and being feverish of what’s to come. His heart skips beats every time he thinks about you and Hyunjin’s final scene together. He takes out the vial of monkshood from his desk drawer and gets to work.

Again with double-gloved hands, he carefully fills the vial with water from his bathroom sink. He counted the number of drops of green food coloring Yugyeom added last week, and he drops in the exact amount with the coloring he stole from the culinary classroom. Next he adds more powder around the rim and caps it shut. He shakes it, and the mixture turns into a sickly green. He then wipes the outside of his false vial before disposing of his gloves and tucking the container in his hoodie pocket. The cast and crew shirt he wears over it is bulky, and the lumps it forms conceals the bump made by the container. On his drive to school, he touches it with his free hand to ensure it’s still there.

He’s early again, so he sits with his unsuspecting and unassuming friends in the auditorium. He wants to swap and prepare the vials already, but he doesn’t want Yugyeom to dump them out by accident. For the next ten minutes, he endures Changbin’s complaints about math and the pterodactyl screeching from some minor characters on stage.

Before the tech run through begins, Jisung heads backstage and reorganizes the props in a haphazard fashion so that when Yugyeom sees the mess, Jisung can swoop in and offer to change out the water. Yugyeom gladly lets him take care of it.

Jisung does exactly that, and no one is none the wiser. Both the poison and Juliet’s sleeping potion are laying innocently on the prop table. He smiles at his deft work and cheerfully helps Yugyeom with the rest of the reorganization process.

“Thanks, Jisung,” he says as he sets the swords to the right side. There’s still a clutter of props around. “You’re a lifesaver.”

How ironic. However, he keeps his mouth shut about it. “No problem.”

“Yeah. It was all neat last night, too,” he laments.

Jisung fake sympathetically nods, and Yugyeom continually sighs. They fortunately finish before the doors open, and there’s even time left over for Jisung to pester Felix in the comms.

You and Hyunjin arrive backstage at the same time. Jisung mindlessly replies to the remarks from Felix as he watches the two of you out of the corner of his eye. Hyunjin is being more open about his affection, and you don’t seem to mind one bit. His arms are wrapped around your shoulders, his chin rests on top of your head. You’re babbling to Ryujin about something while your hands are holding onto Hyunjin’s forearms. Jisung’s almost numb to the feeling of anger at this point, and he looks elsewhere.

The lights go out, and the main curtain goes up for the final time. There’s thundering applause before the lights turn back on to reveal the chorus members on the stage. Jisung returns to his usual schedule of following instructions from his stage manager and floor chief and scrolling through his phone. He’s diligent that night, running on and off stage with set pieces. He sees you trying to approach him while waiting, but he pretends to be engrossed in whatever silly conversation is happening in the comms. You finally catch him off guard when you’re finishing up your costume change.

He gets up to drink water — he told Changbin beforehand — and you tap him on his arm. You’re barefoot, and your new shoes are lined up neatly by your feet.

“Hi, Jisung,” you nervously greet. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while now.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“I just wanted to apologize for being rude about not taking your hoodie a few nights ago,” you quietly say. You don’t even look at his face; your eyes are pinned to the wall. “You were trying to be nice, and I’m sorry for the way I acted. And…” The next part comes out in one rushed breath. “I’m sorry if I led you on. I never meant to do that. Hyunjin mentioned that he thought you were interested in me, and I just wanted to let you know that he and I are dating now.”

“Okay.”

“What do you mean ‘okay?’”

“I understand,” he says, though the monotone voice he uses indicates otherwise. “You didn’t lead on at all. We’re good.”

“Oh! That’s— that’s good!” you reply. You seem relieved, and a little bit of your usual sunny personality is back. “Are you going to District 9 after the show?”

The conversations you have with him always go back to two things: food or the play. He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I am. I gotta go.”

“Oh! Sorry!” You step to the side and let him pass.

At the water fountain, Jisung drinks an excessive amount of water, more and more liquid dripping down his chin. He imagines what it will be like when Hyunjin takes the last sip of his life. Will you notice him struggling to stay alive? Will you care? Or will you let the show go on and suffer the same fate yourself?

He heads back and broods in his seat. You have already forgotten about him and are whispering to Yuna about the upcoming scene. He turns the volume of his headset up and joins in on the chatter to forget about you. Jeongin is muttering about how he’s hungry already, and Chan mentions that he can buy something to eat during intermission. Jisung offers to buy him something if he can name the lead actors of the play. Jeongin sighs with exasperation, while everyone else snickers at the joke.

During intermission, Jisung buys a bag of chips from the concessions table and waits in the lobby with Jeongin as he eats. He has nothing better to do in that time.

“This is definitely worth being yelled by Ryujin all those times,” he remarks. “Want one?”

Jisung hasn’t been able to view chips the same way since the first day of rehearsal. He keeps seeing Hyunjin tossing the bag to you and you stupidly smiling at him. He only bought chips for Jeongin since it was the cheapest item available. A bit of anger bubbles inside him, but he tamps it down. “I’m good.”

Jeongin nods. He tips the bag back and catches all the crumbs on his tongue. He then crumples it up and tosses it in the trash can. “See you after the show.”

“Yeah. See you.”

Jisung, instead of waiting by the soundboard, goes backstage and waits with the rest of the floor crew. There’s a group of people — made of actors and tech crew members — playing Word Chains together. You’re sandwiched between Friar Lawrence and Yugyeom.

“Hey, Jisung. Wanna play?” you ask. You still seem a little scared of him based on the way you shrink, but you’re trying to play nice.

Jisung plasters on a false apologetic smile over the snarl that’s threatening to form. “The show’s going to start soon.”

A wave of murmurs breaks out, and everyone scrambles to get ready. Yugyeom goes to reorganize the props again, and you ask Ryujin to retie the ribbon in your hair. Jisung is mildly pleased by the chaos he has created.

Intermission ends, and the play resumes with Juliet meeting Paris. The death scene is only one act away, and it’s suddenly starting to sink in that tonight will be the last time he’ll ever see you walking, talking, speaking, breathing again. And you don’t even know it.

Something inside him relishes the power he holds over your life and Hyunjin’s as well. His fake smile transforms into a real one. Jisung rests his hands behind his head and counts down to the awaited scene. As each scene passes, his heart thumps louder and louder in anticipation.

Yugyeom hands Hyunjin the vial for the last scene, not knowing there is true poison swirling in the water. Hyunjin puts it in his pocket and walks onto stage on cue. Jisung can barely contain his excitement in the moments leading up to Hyunjin drinking the poison.

He lovingly cradles your face with his hand before bringing his lips to yours. It’s the final show, and Jisung supposes he wants to go out with a bang since he kisses you, deep and slow. There’s a mixture of sighs and gasps from the audience. Even a few of the tech crew members are shocked at his brazenness.

Then he brings out the poison, and the audience watches with bated breath as he brings it to his mouth. A preteen girl shouts, “Don’t do it!” and Jisung experiences heart palpitations before realizing that the message is not about the real poison. Hyunjin hesitates momentarily before swallowing, most likely surprised by the sudden flavor. Then he sharply inhales and clutches his chest. He barely gasps his last line before dropping dead. He falls back with a heavy thud. No one expects it to be real.

“Wow, he’s going all out for the last show,” Jisung hears Chan comment.

A wicked grin spreads across Jisung’s face. He imagines the burning sensation in his mouth followed by numbness. The confusion he must have felt! He must have regretted not listening to the girl. Did he assume that it was just some sick prank that would be over in a few minutes, or did he realize what was to come? Did he think of you and what your fate would be?

It doesn’t matter though. Hyunjin’s own lips, tainted with the monkhood powder, will be your downfall.

Even though you’re right by him, you don’t know of his death. You recite your lines, and every word you say about Romeo could very well be about Hyunjin.

Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. —

O churl, drunk all, and left no friendly drop

To help me after? I will kiss thy lips.

Haply some poison yet doth hang on them.

To make me die with a restorative.

You gently brush the stray locks of his hair from his forehead and lean down. It’s dead quiet, no background music or whispers from the audience. You kiss him slowly, letting the unknown poison reach you.

Thy lips are warm.

When Jisung catches a glimpse of your face, you look uncomfortable. The tingling effect from the monkshood is starting to make your lips swell, and you nervously lick them. Jisung chuckles to himself. Despite all the physical effects you’re feeling, you continue the scene like nothing’s wrong. You pick up the prop dagger and stab yourself, falling back like Hyunjin.

Though Juliet is supposed to be dead, Jisung can see your chest heaving as you struggle to breathe. His own heart is racing as he watches you dying in real time. Your fingers twitch and then falter as you reach out for Hyunjin to check if he’s alright. You must have realized that something is off. However, you can’t shout for help. He knows that your tongue and mouth have gone numb and that the shining light of positivity in you is hoping that it’s all a temporary experience. There’s more shallow gasps and then you stop fighting. Your chest stops moving, and Jisung can hear the sound of a heart rate monitor flatlining in his head.

The rush of euphoria he gets sends him over the edge. Love never made him feel this good. How helpless you must have felt when you could only stare at the lights above you and pray for the sweet release of death. Did you silently beg for the pain to stop, or did you ask for forgiveness?

Jisung lets out a shaky breath and holds his head in his hands. He’s done it. You and Hyunjin will no longer torment him anymore. His grin trembles, his jaw shakes, and he wants to laugh, to celebrate. The actors on stage continue like the two of you are still alive, unaware of the corpses right by their feet.

The lights go out one last time, and the audience erupts in cheers and applause. There’s a stampede of people rushing onto the stage for the curtain call. The rumble of footsteps does not disturb you or Hyunjin from your resting place. The cheery music Chan selected plays, and Jeongin turns the lights back on, revealing a crowd of people around you and Hyunjin, still lying on the floor.

Minho rolls his eyes and kicks at his friend with his foot, saying out loud, “Romeo! It’s me, Mercutio. You’re in heaven now.”

Everyone laughs, thinking it’s an elaborate joke they planned. Even in the comms, Mr. Gi asks, “Did you guys know they were going to do this?”

There’s a resounding chorus of “No.”

“Juliet, why don’t you kiss him awake?” Minho suggests when Hyunjin doesn’t move. Jisung is impressed by his improv skills.

Neither of you even twitch. The audience is eating it up and chanting, “Kiss him! Kiss him!” A few of the actors join in with Yuna being the loudest.

Yeji sighs when it becomes apparent that you aren’t going to stop. She bends down, breaking the immersion, and shakes you. “Hey, c’mon.” When you don’t move, she shakes you harder. “Y/N!”

“You too, Hyunjin,” Minho adds. He nudges him with his foot. “It’s not funny anymore.”

There’s panic in their voices, and no one knows if it’s still part of their mini sketch or not. Jisung glances at Changbin, who is also just as confused as everyone.

“Drama kids being drama kids?” he shrugs.

“I guess,” Jisung replies, hiding the sly note in his voice.

Then comes the revelation. Yeji’s stunned whisper comes over on the speakers: “She’s not breathing.”

For a second, there’s only the cheerful curtain call song. Then there’s chaos — people leaping out of their seats to leave, people too much in a state of stupor to do anything, people screaming, people rushing on stage to double-check. On the outside, he curses with Changbin and consoles Yugyeom who’s pale and looks like he’s ready to throw up. Jisung pretends to be in shock, but on the inside, he’s shouting with glee at the reaction to his handiwork. While Mr. Gi is frantically calling an ambulance, Minho quickly drops to his friend’s side and reports the same thing as Yeji: “He’s not breathing either.”

Another wave of panic hits the auditorium. Minho starts screaming at Hyunjin, begging him to wake up. Yuna has collapsed next to you, and she and Yeji are shaking you violently, pleading for you to stop whatever it is that you’re doing. Chan has the sense to turn off all the mics, so no one has to hear amplified banshee wails from everyone. At least one person faints, and Yugyeom runs to the restroom, one hand clasped around his mouth.

Jisung thinks it’s a glorious scene.

He was right though. You and Hyunjin are — sorry, were — the perfect actors for Juliet and Romeo. Like Shakespeare said:

All the world’s a stage;

And all the men and women merely players.

~ ad.gray

Thank you all for reading! I really didn’t expect the amount of attention this story received, and I hope you all enjoyed it. I know some of you were expecting a happy ending, but here on this blog, if it’s over 5k, someone’s probably going to die :P

Thank you to ad.gold who edited it all and made sure all the details were accurate! Sorry I forgot mic tape existed.

(Shameless self promo time) If you liked this story, you might like:

1000 Roses (ad.gray) - a theatre AU featuring stage manager Chan, lead actress Y/N, all fluff, and no murder; no connection to “In Fair Verona.”

Squirrel and Wife (ad.gold) - (to heal your heart) a fluffy royalty AU featuring princess Y/N and knight Jisung.

Magic Words (ad.gray) - (to heal your heart) if you want to see Hyunjin being resurrected; it’s fluff, I swear; no connection to “In Fair Verona.”

42nd Moon (ad.gold) - (if you’re a masochist and want to shatter your heart further) a werewolf and soulmate AU featuring Jisung and Hyunjin where there may be murder.

Apologies in Advances (ad.gray) - (if you liked getting your hopes up and being let down; the title is important) secret agent AU featuring Minho and Y/N who hate each other but are forced to go on a mission together.

#stray kids #skz #han jisung #hwang hyunjin #stray kids han #stray kids hyunjin #stray kids au #theatre au #high school au #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfiction #skz scenarios #skz imagines #skz fanfic #stray kids x reader #yandere #20200923

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stardust-walker · 3 years

Text

High Hopes

word count: 4014

Chapters: 1 2 3

Chapter 4

The weirdest thing is that a few months ago, Dove wouldn’t think that listening to kids running and playing would sound as sweet as it did.

A small chuckle escaped her as she sat on the steps leading into Dale’s RV. The horrified look on Glenn’s face as he stopped mid-greeting was just as amusing.

“Well. Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Dove squinted as she stood up and moved to stand next to him.

“When did they start tearing it apart,” Glenn frowned as he folded his arms in front of his chest.

Dove shrugged her shoulders, “’Bout a half an hour ago, I suppose.” She ran a hand through her dark hair as she turned her head slightly. Rick was finally awake again. Dove raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she greeted the newcomer. “Mornin’, Rick!”

“Go on! Tear it apart, you vultures.” Glenn scowled and shook his head. Dove couldn’t keep herself from letting out a snort of laughter.

“Generators need every drop of fuel they can get,” Dale stated matter-of-factly as he walked past them.

“He has a fair point. I’d rather have a shower than a fancy car,” Dove mumbled quietly.

“I thought I’d get to drive it another few days,” Glenn sighed.

Dove turned her head slightly as Rick responded, “Maybe we’ll get to steal another one someday.”

This new way of living sure was a hell of a thing when you had a sheriff encouraging grand theft auto.

Dove placed a comforting hand on Glenn’s shoulder, “Maybe an even nicer one! One that’s not going to send an alarm running for miles next time too.” Glenn just let out an annoyed sigh.

Glenn seemed to be resigned to the fact that his car was being torn apart by Jim. Dove patted his shoulder again as she watched him step forward to converse with the other man. Knowing him, he was still probably trying to talk about what a cool car it was to anyone who would listen.

A revving engine caught the attention of a few members of the camp as Shane pulled up. He announced, “Make sure to boil the water before use.”

Carol made her way over to Dove. “Too bad about Glenn’s car, huh?”

The response caught in Dove’s throat as a shrill scream erupted from the woods close by, followed by another voice screaming “Mom!!”

A panicked look was exchanged between the sisters for a moment and then they were both off. Carol screamed for Sophia and the relief was obvious on Dove’s face as the little girl broke through the trees with Carl hot on her heels.

Tiny arms wrapped themselves around her waist as Dove knelt quickly to survey her niece for any marks. “Are you alright, Soph? Nothing bit you?” Sophia shook her head quickly, only able to muster up a panicked whimper. Carol finally broke through the trees behind her and let out a relieved cry as Sophia released her aunt with a cry of, “Mommy!!”

Dove glanced around quickly before she pointed back towards camp. “Take them back now! I’m just gonna make sure everything’s alright!” Carol nodded her head and scooped Sophia up.

Lori, however, eyed her warily for a moment before the brunette disappeared into the tree line again.

As she broke through the trees she held back a hysterical laugh. They were just stood around the damn thing, beating it with sticks. So much for being evolved past a caveman brain.

Amy let out a disgusted groan as the walkers head was finally chopped off.

Dale muttered, “That’s the first one we’ve had out here.”

Jim replied, “They must be running out of food in the city.”

Dove looked over at Amy and Andrea. Both of the sisters were just looking on like a couple of deer in the headlights and she couldn’t blame them. She felt a little nauseous herself.

Branches snapped in the woods and all conversation stopped. Andrea put a protective arm around Amy and Dove took a slow step forward towards the men. Curiosity was a bitch of a thing, but she wanted to see what exactly was going to happen.

Her heart leapt into her throat and plummeted back to her stomach as Daryl Dixon came into view. Her eyes locked with Jim’s in a moment of panic before she quickly looked down at her feet. Honestly, she would rather have a walker run out of the woods right now than have to face the inevitable.

Daryl looked pissed already. Definitely a good sign for them. “That was my deer. Look at it! All gnawed on by this filthy, disease ridden, motherless, proxy bastard!”

Dale shook his head in disgust, “Now come on, son. That’s not helping anyone.”

Daryl’s temper flared up again as he stepped quickly over the walker, headed right for Dale. Dove took a quick step closer to Rick as she eyed the officer, trying to communicate that this was not a good sign. “What do you know about it, old man? Why don’t you take that stupid hat and go back to ‘on golden pond’?”

A surprised laugh, which was able to be quickly covered up as a cough escaped Dove’s lips. Glenn elbowed her slightly in the side and narrowed his eyes once he had her attention. The woman merely shrugged as she turned her attention back to the dead animal. Her stomach did begin to rumble at the thought of venison, or anything other than squirrels for that matter. A sigh left her lips as Shane stated, “I wouldn’t risk that.”

Daryl’s focus drifted to her, almost asking for another opinion. Dove shrugged her shoulders before she slipped her hands into her back pockets, “As good as it sounds, it’s too risky. We got kids to think about and what if they eat tainted meat? Get sick?”

Daryl sighed and shook his head, “Damn shame. I got a few squirrels though. ‘Bout a dozen or so. That’ll have to do.” The calmness in the air broke as the walker head at her feet started snapping its jaw again. Dove let out a startled shriek and stumbled back into Glenn as Daryl shot an arrow into it’s brain. “Gotta be the brain. Don’t ya’ know nothin?”

The focus of the group shifted again as Daryl stalked off towards camp. Dale looked startled, “I don’t see this going well.”

Shane removed the hat from his head as the group started to walk, Dove started to take longer strides to keep up with the two officers. She heard Shane mention Daryl’s name and spoke up.

“I think you guys really need to think about doing this,” Dove spoke, concern in her voice. “I think you oughta try and break it to him as gently as possible. People like him tend to react violently, plus he seems pretty hyped up from losing that deer.”

The two men kept moving, but Rick glanced over his shoulder at her. “What’d you do before this?”

“I was a therapist. Getting ready to work on my PhD. Why?”

She didn’t miss the look the two men exchanged and fell back a step. Glenn flinched as he heard Daryl yell for Merle. “This is gonna be a shit show,” Glenn sighed.

Dove shook her head as Shane stopped Daryl in his tracks. “Poor guy. I got money on Dixon, though. He’s a scrapper.” She whispered so only Glenn could hear. Glenn let out a nervous chuckle as the two of them came to a stop next to the Jeep.

“There was a problem in Atlanta.” Seriously, Dove thought, he’s going to drag it out like this? What a mess.

“He dead?” Dove gripped Glenn’s wrist a little tighter than she meant to as she took a step closer to him.

“We’re not sure.”

“He either is or he ain’t!” Dove couldn’t really blame him for being so angry. She could only imagine how mad she would be if it were Carol on that roof. She would probably be trying to kick the ass of anyone she could find.

“No easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it,” Rick stated as he finally took a step forward. What a time to play good cop, bad cop.

Rick introduced himself, only to be met with, “Rick Grimes, you got somethin’ you wanna tell me?”

“Your brother was a danger to us all. So I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal,” Rick finished. Damn, she had to admire how he got right to the point about it. “He’s still there.”

Daryl started pacing like a caged animal. “Hold on. Let me process this. You’re saying you handcuffed my brother to a roof and you left him there?” Daryl shouted. Dove could feel her pulse quickening as a million and one ways that she was trained to de-escalate someone this angry ran through her head. None of them seemed to make any sense right now under the heat from the burning Atlanta sun.

The next few seconds were a blur. Daryl yelled, Dove let out a startled yelp as the squirrels flew towards her, she stepped back closer to Glenn, and just like that, Daryl was on the ground. T-Dog stepped forward, shouting something about a knife. Dove took a few slow steps forward, eyes wide as saucers as she watched Shane bring him down in a chokehold after a few swings of a knife.

“Chokeholds illegal,” Daryl managed to choke out.

Shane sounded too comfortable with it for Dove’s liking. “Yeah, well, file a complaint.” Dove argued with herself internally as she watched Daryl keep struggling to be let go.

Rick knelt in front of the other two men, clearly trying to calm the situation down. “I’d like to have a calm discussion on this topic.”

Dove scowled as she squatted down between the two officers. “Not to tell you how to do your job, but it’s awful hard to have a calm discussion with a man whose air supply is being cut off,” she finished through gritted teeth.

Rick glanced at her and nodded before he turned back to Daryl, “You think we can manage that?”

The two officers nodded at each other and Dove stood up quickly as Daryl finally got released. She watched for a moment, still in shock about what just happened, when she saw Daryl still trying to catch his breath as he pointed at Shane. Dove turned quickly and placed a hand on Shane’s arm. “Just back up, man. Rick’s got it. You don’t need to be bad cop right now,” she pushed him back gently before she walked past the other two men, joining Lori by the steps to the RV.

“You good,” the other woman asked, her eyes not leaving the scene in front of her.

“Yeah just adrenaline rush. I’m fine,” Dove nodded as she brushed her hair out of her eyes. She turned her head slightly and met Carol’s worried gaze through the window of the RV. Dove held her hand up and nodded her head.

“It’s not Rick’s fault,” T-Dog interjected and suddenly the focus was on him. “I had the key. I dropped it.”

Daryl snapped again, “You couldn’t pick it up?”

“Well, I dropped it in a drain.” Dove couldn’t help but roll her eyes at this. This just sounded worse and worse the more they tried to explain it to him. At least no one was dead yet.

Her heart sank as she folded her arms in front of her chest, her focus shifted with everyone else’s as the men moved slowly around camp. She knew that Daryl and his brother were close but, shit. She didn’t expect to see him cry for even a second. One of her hands flew up to cover her mouth as she looked down at her feet.

She wasn’t surprised when Daryl shouted. “Hell with all y’all. Just tell me where he is so’s I can go get em.”

What truly shocked her was Lori. The older woman spoke up from her spot by the door at this. “He’ll show you. Won’t you?” She almost insisted with just her words as she locked eyes with her husband.

Dove was torn between following Lori back into the RV or following after Rick as the conflict came to a close. She, instead, chose to check on Carol and Sophia. Her steps were quiet as she walked up the steps to the RV. Dove slid into the seat at the table opposite of her family and reached a hand out to stroke Sophia’s arm. “Hey, bug. You were real brave out there today,” Dove spoke softly as Sophia lifted her head from her mother’s arms.

Sophia sniffled and rubbed her eyes before she looked between the two sisters. “I was really scared,” the young girl whispered.

Dove smiled a little and nodded her head. “I was too, bug. But you did the right thing by runnin like that. Hell, I don’t think either of us knew you could run that fast!” Carol chuckled softly at this as she stroked the young girl’s hair.

“She’s right, Sophia. You kept yourself safe. That was the right thing to do.” Carol kissed the top of her daughter’s forehead before she whispered for her to do something that sounded a lot like ‘go check on Carl’.

Dove drummed her fingers on the table as her thoughts raced through her head. Carol’s voice finally pulled her out of her own head. “You want to go with them, don’t you.” Carol stated in a hushed voice.

Dove’s eyes shot up. Her hazel eyes widened a little bit as she felt color rush to her cheeks. “I…I was thinking about it.”

Carol clicked her tongue and shook her head. “I don’t want my sister out there dyin’ for someone like Merle Dixon.” Her voice didn’t raise above a whisper, though she didn’t sound pleased at all.

Dove rolled her eyes at this. “That’s not what I was thinking of!”

“Then what were you…”

Dove cut her older sister off as she reached out and took her hand, “What if that was me up there, huh? Or you? Would you want me to just leave you up there like that to die?” Dove hissed. “It’s the right thing to do, Carol. Merle or not, it’s the right thing to do.”

Carol’s eyes widened slightly as she took in her sister’s words and nodded her head slowly. “If that’s what you want to do, I can’t stop you. But I just want you to be careful. I don’t want to be explaining to Sophia why her aunt isn’t around anymore.”

A small smirk graced Dove’s face as she squeezed Carol’s hand gently. “Oh please. I’m always careful.”

It was Carol’s turn to roll her eyes as Dove rose from her seat, kissed her older sister on the top of her head, and descended the stairs out of the RV.

Dove looked around camp before spotting Daryl by the fire. She took a long deep breath in through her nose and out through her mouth before trudging forward. “Hey, you alright?” Dumb question.

“What kinda stupid question is that,” Daryl snapped at her.

Dove raised both her hands in front of her, a tired expression on her face. “Right. Guess I deserved that, it was pretty fucking stupid huh.”

Daryl just stared at her for a moment. He had the type of eyes that made her uneasy sometimes; eyes that could stare right into your soul if you’d let them. “What do you want?”

Dove let out a heavy sigh as she watched Carol approach her laundry station out of the corner of her eye. She stood up a little straighter and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I wanna go with you and Rick. Try to bring back Merle. I figure the more people, the better. Plus, y’all might need someone to balance out all the testosterone in that car.”

Daryl stared at her again for a few seconds before scoffing at her. “Don’t need no one else out there, especially not you. Can you even shoot a gun?”

Dove grinded her teeth together as she nodded her head slowly. “Well, excuse me. I may not know how to shoot a gun but I am just as capable as Andrea and Jacqui and they go out into the city all the time! Give me a blunt object and I can take out any walker just as good as a gun, I bet.” Her hands were shaking as she unfolded her arms and shoved her hands in her pockets.

“Alright.” Daryl turned his attention from her.

Dove’s jaw almost dropped in shock as she stood still. “Excuse me?”

Daryl turned back to face her, eyes narrowed slightly. “You heard me, girl. You’re grown, you wanna go? Can’t stop ya. Just don’t expect to get your ass saved.”

“Oh don’t worry, I won’t,” a serene smile was on Dove’s face now.

Shane would definitely have to learn to hold his tongue if they were going to bring Merle back as he called Merle a “douchebag”.

Daryl pointed at the man, “Hey, you better watch what you say!”

Shane nodded his head all sincerely before uttering, “No no. Douchebag’s what I meant.”

Dove rolled her eyes and brought the palms of her hands up to rub her eyes, “Dear god what did I do to deserve this.”

Lori spoke up from her seat by what would be that night’s fire. “So what? You and Daryl, that’s your big plan?”

Carol eyed Dove for a moment before the group’s attention shifted to Glenn. “Oh come on!”

Rick spoke, “You know the way. You’ve been there before. In and out, no problem! You said so yourself.” He was right. Glenn wasn’t shy about telling everyone in the group how well he knew the city and he had dug his own grace.

“That’s just great. Now you’re gonna risk three men?” Shane scoffed.

T-Dog spoke up next, “Four.”

Daryl scoffed, “My day just gets better and better, don’t it?”

Dove rolled her eyes, “Might as well get this out of the way now and make it five.”

Dale glanced between them all and nodded his head. “That’s five.”

Shane shook his head and began to pace a little bit. “You’re putting every single one of us at risk. Just know that, Rick. C’mon. You saw that walker! It was here. It was in camp,” Shane lectured. “They come back, we need every able body we’ve got. We need em to protect camp.”

Rick nodded his head, “Sounds to me like what you need is more guns.”

Dove’s head was spinning. Sophia shuffled her feet as Dove walked over to them. She knelt in front of the girl, taking her hands in her as the others talked about the guns. “Now you listen to me, alright? I’m gonna be just fine! I promise. I always am. But I need you to promise me something too okay?”

Sophia nodded her head and listened intently. “I need you to look out for your mama until I get back, okay? Just make sure everything’s alright. Hold down the fort for me. Promise?” She released Sophia’s hands and held a pinky out to her.

Sophia locked her pinky with her aunt’s before she wrapped her arms around her neck in a hug. “Be safe.”

Dove kissed her niece on the forehead before standing up and brushing off her knees. “Be safe, Carol.” Dove hugged her sister tightly before she turned to see what was going on.

Dove lifted herself into the back of the van, her eyes were beginning to glaze over from boredom as she waited before she almost leapt out of her skin at the sound of a horn honking. From the driver’s seat, Glenn let out a startled shout as Daryl stepped on the horn again. “C’mon let’s go!”

Dove rubbed her temples and muttered to herself before placing a hand on the crowbar that she’d managed to sweet talk out of Jim. She would definitely have to make sure that she made it back now.

The young woman blew a kiss to her family as the door to the back of the van was slammed shut and they pulled away.

It was oddly silent on the way to the city. Dove positioned herself so she could see out the front windshield. “This is the first time I’ve left camp in the past two months.” She whispered to Glenn and Rick.

Rick turned his head, a sympathetic look on his face. “You might not want to look until we get there, then. Might be a bit of a shock. Trust me on that one.”

Dove took in the man’s words for a moment before she turned and faced the back of the van again.

Daryl finally spoke up for the first time since they started on the road. “He best be alright.”

T-Dog sighed. “The only thing that’s getting through that door is us. He’s fine.”

The van finally lurched to a stop and Glenn called back, “We walk from here.”

Dove groaned as she pulled herself to her feet and hopped out of the back of the van. “Oh shit, I’m getting old.” She mumbled to T-Dog as he hopped down next to her.

T-Dog shook his head at her. “You’re getting old? Just wait ‘til you hit 30.”

Dove laughed quietly as she took off down the train tracks after the rest of the group.

Rick paused as they stepped through a space in the gate that led from the tracks to the road. “Merle first or guns?”

Daryl snapped. “Merle! We ain’t even havin this conversation.”

Dove shook her head and motioned towards Daryl with her free hand, the other still tightly gripping the crowbar. “I’m with him on this. I mean a human life or ammo?”

Rick stared at both of them, clearly trying to keep his cool “We are having this conversation. You know the geography, it’s your call.” He turned to Glenn as the group began to walk.

“Merle’s closest. The guns would mean doubling back.” Glenn stated and Dove wasn’t sure if he was lying or not, but she was grateful for that nonetheless.

Her hazel eyes seemed to take in everything that had happened to Atlanta as they walked through the city. The city she had worked in and know so well was practically gone in a matter of weeks. It made her chest feel tight to see everything, but she knew she couldn’t stop moving.

She stepped lightly into the department store behind T-Dog and in front of Glenn as she went. She stopped, crowbar raised as a walker made it’s way through the aisles of the store. Daryl didn’t waste any time shooting the thing through the head.

Glenn moved forward and directed them to a staircase. It was a lot farther up than it looked, or maybe she was out of shape, but the steps were seeming to take their toll on her as they worked their way towards the roof.

The men reached the last landing as Dove rounded the corner just a few steps behind them. She took the last few steps slowly as she watched Daryl kick the door open after the chain was finally cut.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. She observed as she ran up the last few steps out onto the roof with the others. Merles Dixon was not a quiet man and he surely would’ve reacted to a door being kicked the fuck open.

Daryl’s screams for his brother turned into screams of panic. Dove’s heart dropped as she stepped out onto the roof behind Glenn and she saw it. A hand flew up to cover her mouth as she fought back the urge to vomit. Merle’s hand laid there on the ground next to a bloody hacksaw but Merle Dixon the man was gone.

@crossbowking

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #Daryl DIxon fic #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x oc #daryl x reader #carol peletier #The Walking Dead #twd fanfic #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction #my writing

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

Text

Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (10/16)

In which Obi-Wan’s day gets worse. And worse.

Zombie Savage AU | 3k | warnings for body horror, mention of sexual assault

Obi-Wan’s troopers are staying mostly out of sight, aside from the few of them doing key maintenance or still manning the helm to enable quick escape if necessary. He knows they disapprove of the fact that he’s leading Savage Opress, renegade Sith apprentice and apparent undead creature and slayer of uncounted of their brothers and two Jedi, onto their small reconnaissance spaceship. He can’t see them, but he can still feel the worrying glares.

He also knows it’s necessary.

Identifying Darth Sidious is of utmost priority.

For the war effort. For the Republic. For the Jedi Order. For Obi-Wan himself, who’s lost so much to the machinations of this Sith, from Qui-Gon a decade ago to friends and soldiers daily right now.

He doesn’t quite know what breaching into the zabrak’s head will entail, but Obi-Wan will be likely out of commission for some time, which should be much safer on the ship. Plus, they are going to leave Entralla anyway. Once they know who Sidious is, they’ll make for his location posthaste—with an optional detour to Coruscant, should he decide he needs reinforcement. If everyone’s already on board, it will speed up the process. And the zabrak isn’t currently hostile.

He’s following Obi-Wan onto the ship without another word, head slightly bowed and apparently incurious.

He follows him into a small unused cabin.

He stands there, unmoving except for the metal insectoids in his cheek.

“How do you want to do this?” Obi-Wan has always been a courteous host. Even facing the undead creature that watched Satine die, it’s hard to shake the instinct.

Opress glances around the room. Only the wriggling of his cables betrays his nerves—if that is what it means.

“You suggested this. I know the Jedi ways of entering a mind—” in theory, and it was never Obi-Wan’s focus of study, though as unexpectedly easy as interaction with the grunting and brutal Sith is turning out to be, he mustn’t expose any lack of surety without reason— “but I assume you know your own techniques for mindmelding. Your familiarity might make this easier.”

“The cot.” Opress pulls at it until it’s dead center in the small room, then strips off the bedding and tosses it into a corner. “This ship is not earthen, but at least it is currently touching the soil, even if it’s not the soil of… It should be darker here. Can you locate braziers?”

“No.” Open fire? Inside a spaceship cabin? It would take a skilled engineer an hour to even shut off the smoke alarms because they are so elementary for safety.

“Then the electric light will serve in its place,” Opress rumbles. It’s hard to work out whether he’s disappointed. “I will strip—” he touches his shoulder pad, the one that was a clone’s helmet an hour ago, and shies away as if burned— “I will lie down now. You will stand behind my head.”

Obi-Wan follows his direction. The earth, the fire, the dark, and their arrangement—it seems deeply ritualistic, and although the Sith tend towards the dramatic he’s never thought them this primitive. In a less dire situation, this would be interesting.

“You will raise your hands. I will close my eyes.”

From the vantage point right above the supine zabrak, Opress looks even more wretched than he appeared on the battlefield. Occasionally, Obi-Wan can see straight through one of the holes in his chest before thick wriggling cables block his view. The other’s filled with an emitter guard—with Opress’ saber’s emitter guard. His torso is well-covered with junkyard debris, and where skin peeks through armor or trash it only seems slightly discolored. The arms are a different matter: the left forearm is prosthetic, of course, dull and lifeless compared to the rest of him, and the upper arms are sore-ridden and blistering and shiny with blaster burns. There is a deep gash all the way lengthwise down his right forearm, stuffed with crap, and the skin at the edges is swollen and purpling black. Flecks of trash move across the gash restlessly like misshapen ants. Despite Savage Opress’ size, somehow, he looks small.

“And then?”

Ridiculously, Opress looks offended. He rumbles, “You do magic.”

“Magic?”

A deep sigh heaves Opress’ metal-studded chest. His brows bunch. He bites his lip. Then, he rumbles, almost monotonously, “I gave myself up for my brother. Brothers. I am here now, and I will not resist. Picture it. I gave myself up. I will not resist. I paid the price for his life. I offer myself for my brother. I am here, Mother, Your Weapon, and whatever Your magic—"

Obi-Wan almost chokes on his vomit. The acid settles, uncomfortably, in his esophagus. Hunts have been lean recently, and there’s not much more to bring up. What hunts—The acid resists being swallowed because he’s lying down. He’s flat on his back and it’s dark outside his closed eyelids and he is terrified. He can feel the musty air on his bare chest, and he wishes he had something to cover himself. Anything. Only this isn’t what he’s been brought here for, he knows, he will soon be bred and—he’s lucky he still has his skirt. It won’t be long now. Maybe She will accept his lack of experience, and despite the tales She will be gentle. Only some Sisters enjoy causing pain.

It won’t be long, he thinks, trying to swallow back bitter spittle, trying to even out his breaths, it won’t be long, and the green that flashes behind his eyelids and seeps deep into his bones is no more vivid than the stone under his back. It won’t be long. It won’t last. It won’t be long.

He sinks.

He—there was a purpose here. He had a purpose. He is… He is Jedi. He’s Obi-Wan.

He’s Obi-Wan, and he just entered this mind.

This isn’t real, or rather—

It isn’t now.

He needs to find out a way to navigate these memories. Find Sidious. Find the Sith’s face. The fate of the Republic depends upon it. He can’t dwell on these… revelations about Opress, disturbing though they are, for all their sake.

Sidious, Obi-Wan tries thinking. Darth Sidious.

He’s still on the slab.

Savage might not care enough about the other Sith, he decides. This seems like a traumatic memory. Maybe it’s easier to access these, and what did Savage say…? The monster slaughtered him. Killed his brother. Maul’s death.

Maul’s death, he thinks. Maul is dead. Maul gets dismembered. Maul—

The crib is the only thing upright in this room. All other scarce furnishings have been torn asunder, searched and searched and searched and turned over as if something could possibly hide under a thin strip of linen.

The crib is an altar, and he kneels before it. He’s been kneeling for days.

The crib is empty.

He failed.

The baby is gone.

No, that’s not what Obi-Wan needs. Maul is dead. Maul is—

Maul is everywhere here, suffusing the air, a green tether—

Maul is dead. Maul is dead.

“What have they done to you, brother?” Obi-Wan can feel his mouth form the syllables, mournful and hard. “How could anybody do this? Hurt you, brother?”

They left the cave the day before yesterday, and finally, finally the brother in the cargo hold gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep. Finally, finally he can inspect him, from the safety of the door’s window, in bright shiplight.

Maul is on the floor curled into a quarter circle, though it’s obvious he would have taken a fetal position if his body allowed it. His metal arachnid abdomen sticks straight down, awkwardly.

His horns are far overgrown and rough, making him look friendless and undignified, but that’s the least pressing issue.

He’s emaciated.

He only got a few tossed pouches of reconstituted spiced meat because eating too much after starving makes you sick, and he wolfed them down. He emptied the hydrosacks much more carefully, sticking his tongue into the opening after so as not to waste a single drop. Water must have been scarcer than food on Lotho Minor.

Food and drink, that’s all he could give Maul. It’s not all his brother needs: companionship, perhaps, solace and sanity, and above all healing and care. Whoever fitted his grotesque prosthetic held no love at all for Maul, for they did nothing to protect his flesh. Maul’s stomach skin is inflamed all over, in places even gangrenous or with open sores smearing pus and blood all over the floor. It’s a miracle he still lives. But he does.

Someone cut him in half and he lived and someone screwed a spider’s ass into him and he lived and someone cut him and he lived and someone screwed it in and he lived and some monster cut Savage’s little brother in half and—

Maul’s dead, Obi-Wan thinks. Maul’s dead. Maul’s dead.

He’s tiny and feverish, and Savage got him just a fortnight ago and it’s already going wrong, he’ll fail his baby brother and—

I didn’t know, Obi-Wan thinks. I didn’t. But I still need to find—

The crib is empty.

It swings, slightly, in the storms.

The body he wears is sobbing.

Maul’s dead.

Maul is worrying his lip thinking of his brother right this moment in the bright green air—this doesn’t feel like—he’s kneeling in his room, but even knowing he might be able to feel the force connection will not allow him to settle into meditation. Savage is in the grasp of Sidious. Savage has been in his grasp for weeks while Maul idled—this isn’t the Maul of these memories—and any liberation might come too late. If they succeed, which they won’t. But still, his brother—this is real. It’s not a memory. Maul’s alive—his brother survived and Maul tried so hard to keep him and—what did Maul do?!—

Focus. Sidious. Sidious’ face. Maul’s... injury?

He never thought there was anyone more powerful than his brother in the galaxy, and he was wrong. Simple hero worship, he was dimly aware, and gratitude and adoration, and he hadn’t followed Maul for his strength anyway, but still, sometimes, he’d glanced sideways and thought, You could wipe the floor with Master Dooku. If he wanted to electrocute me now, you’d kill him, because I’m with you now. I’m your apprentice. He hadn’t thought, you could take on the Mother. But he also hadn’t not thought it.

The twin disasters against Kenobi hadn’t changed his mind. Kenobi might have had the upper hand those times, but he still was a gnat. Hey what…

He’d thought that there was no-one more powerful than Maul, and he’d been happy. Maul would live. Maul’s alive. Obi-Wan just felt his presence but—

He’d thought that there was none more powerful than his brother.

And then, the monster came.

The monster who stole the toddler Savage should have raised and tortured him instead, who is just as supercilious and cruel and ugly as Savage suspected. He wears a heinous purple hood robe—he’s hiding his face but Obi-Wan needs to see it—and he just kills Miks and Jema. Maul, immediately and obviously terrified, tries to placate him with lies of servitude. Getting smashed against the wall hurts less than hearing Maul call the creep Master.

Distantly, Obi-Wan catalogues the fighting stances used by the body he’s inside and the two others, though focusing mostly on trying to get a clear view of Sidious’ face. That chin seems oddly familiar. Too familiar. Who is… The body—Savage—has other priorities, glancing back and again at Maul. Maul, who has to live. Maul’s unconscious now, and Savage won’t win, but maybe in his struggle and death he will buy enough time for his baby brother to get away—a blurred view of the face but it’s clear enough and—Maul has to get away—Palpatine—the monster whirls around—the Chancellor?!—and pain, pain—the Chancellor—pain—the Chancellor, Obi-Wan left Anakin so often alone with him and the Chancellor is the Sith Lord—pain—the—

Floor, far away, for a minute. Not long left. Only time for—a hand, grasping his, and Maul. Oh, Maul. Oh, brother.

“I am an unworthy apprentice,” ground out with the last of bis breaths. An apology. A goodbye, because he’s leaving Maul here with his old nightmare and if Savage were better, if he were just a little bit better, he could have protected… “I never—”

Maul doesn’t accept. His hand is hot against Savage’s mouth. Savage bites down on reflex and the green light rises—Obi-Wan’s seen too much of this light, what does it mean—the green light rises and Maul forces it deep into his brother, with his own body and his mind unheeding the brutality or material reality, while the vortex of magic swirls and swirls around them. Debris sticks like static to his skin—Obi-Wan can feel it and he can feel Maul giving in to anything that may grant power, and oh, Savage outside these memories is crafted and reinforced with trash and does that mean—the light pulls shrapnel and detritus left on the battlefield inside and forms—and Darth Maul forms an undead behemoth out of the almost-corpse of his brother.

Darth Maul did this.

A technobeast.

That’s what they are called, amalgamations of organic and machine matter.

Obi-Wan read of mechu-deru, and mechu-deru vitae, after the reappearance of dismembered Darth Maul when a sai tok should have ended him. A prosthetic lower body is within the remits of the eccentric darkside art of mechu-deru, but Savage the undead machinistic creature extends far beyond that and into sheer barbarism. Mechu-deru allows its practitioner to understand and influence inanimate and robotic constructs. On the lowest end…

The technobeast.

Metal and flesh intermixed to create a weaponized cyborg. A willing slave.

Darth Maul was willing to lobotomize his own brother.

He made a weapon of his brother.

That Maul could sink so…

And still, pervasively, poor Opress loves him.

Obi-Wan’s seen enough.

He’s seen the face of Darth Sidious—seen Palpatine—and he now knows the true depths of Maul’s depravity. He only has to wake up and inform the Jedi Council now. He must wake up.

He must wake—

A finger touches his forehead. It feels strange, as if his body had never before been touched. He opens his eyes in the dark musty Temple, and soon his eyes land on the Sister who won him. Who will breed him. He wraps his hand around Her neck, and distantly he is surprised both that he is angry—that he dares resist—and that his hand dwarfs her neck, but still he chokes Her and She begs, “Let me go,” but he won’t because he hates Her and then the Mother says, “Calmly, Sister,” and She repeats, “Let me go,” and he stops.

He stops.

Stops.

He stands up.

“Now, for the final test,” She who is Power says.

And They carry in a brother he thinks he should know and She who is Power orders him to kill the brother and, wrapping his hand around another neck and feeling like he should remember every single meal and every hunt and every night and every tear and every word and every laugh they ever shared, he does.

He kills the brother.

It’s Feral.

He killed Feral—

Obi-Wan sicks up his lunch. And his breakfast, for good measure.

“Did you find Sidious?” Opress rumbles from his cot.

He appears completely impassive, as if Obi-Wan hadn’t just seen him mourn the baby he lost and choke another of his brothers to death and skewered through the hearts by Darth Sidious—by Chancellor Palpatine, and they are doomed, doomed, how could this just slip by, how could Obi-Wan entrust his padawan to a monster for hours upon hours, how could the Republic just fall to his sway and if he commands Dooku then what does this mean for the war that has been destroying all of them for years—seen Opress killed by Sidious and then turned into a machine slave by Darth Maul, who’s meant to be Opress’ brother and Obi-Wan always assumed that he felt at least a modicum of comradeship for his kind, but if he’s ready to plumb these moral depths… Maul, who apparently, is also still alive.

It’s a bit much.

Obi-Wan feels faint. He pulls a chair out with the force and sits.

Opress, meanwhile, sits up on his cot. The cables on his chest wave and wrap tightly around him—a sickening testament to Darth Maul’s malice. They jitter. “You—recognized him?” Opress asks.

“I did,” Obi-Wan replies tonelessly. “It’s Supreme Chancellor Palpatine.”

“Good. Where does this Chancellor live?”

“Where does—” Obi-Wan doesn’t have the energy for this. “He lives on Coruscant.”

“Then let us go and kill him.”

“We can’t just kill the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic—” Something dawns upon Obi-Wan. He laughs hysterically. “You have no idea who that is, do you?”

“I don’t.” Savage Opress doesn’t appear any less buoyed by his gross ignorance. Maybe that is a result of the brain damage caused by Darth Maul’s ritual. “It doesn’t matter. I am the last weapon of the Mother. She resurrected me, and I shall avenge Her, and then I’ll die.”

Obi-Wan should probably tell him that Darth Maul used mechu-deru to enslave him and that’s why he’s an undead machine-contaminated monster now. He will. He will, soon, but his first duty is to the galaxy and the Jedi and the Republic, and Sidious is the most dire threat by far. He can’t afford the time to explain what he just found out to this hapless creature, and technobeasts according to the book were renowned for their power. Perhaps Opress will be instrumental in taking down the Sith Lord.

It’s not even deception. A lot of deception, anyway. Opress wants to kill Darth Sidious. That’s why he accosted Obi-Wan. The man killed him, after all. There’ll be time for truth later and—

The comm system whirrs alive. “General, we’re being boarded!”

It turns off, like there’s not even time for another missive.

Kriff.

Who could it be but Sidious?

Obi-Wan hasn’t even commed the Jedi Order.

And if he already found out then…

Obi-Wan sprints towards the door. Opress pushes himself off the cot. The air grows thicker, and thicker, and both keel over.

#savage opress #savage oppress #zombie savage au #dimtraces makes things

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