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batarella · 3 years

Text

3 birds 1 stone - RED

Never has he smiled for so many days, happiness without condition, love so pure, a life that no longer was filled of days he’d have to survive, and was now a life he wanted remember, love, and live.

WORDS: 7791 WARNINGS: Sexual Content, Mentions of Trauma

MASTERLIST | 3 BIRDS 1 STONE MASTERLIST | BLUE | YELLOW

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“I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

- Great Expectations, Charles Dickens

You:

“Y/N?”

On peaceful days should there be chaos to be expected. With peace does not come promise. A flower with blooming red petals would eventually wilt, despite all else telling it not to. That same blooming flower would die the same from other natural, unnatural causes, like a wind too strong for it to hold onto its stem or a butterfly that came too late for its pollen.

But when peace was current, something you could see right before you knowing it wasn’t to last, it wasn’t much because of the artist you were why you’d resort to capturing that peace onto your canvas and make it last forever.

Two artists, that was. Someone joined you in your endeavor that day. Not so much of a student as he were a companion. An equal, perhaps.

Damian didn’t let his squinting eyes from where he placed the tiniest round brush on, the fabric that turned blue at his touch. You merely hummed at his call of your name and didn’t look to him as well.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

Two easels set up at the manor’s back porch angled just right for most of the city skyline to be seen. It was far too small to be the focus, but everything else, the valleys that surrounded it, the actual forests going against the concrete ones, if you managed to get it right, you might want to keep this one for yourself.

Your thoughts complete left all that matter, however, when Damian asked you, “It’s a question about sex. More than one actually.”

“Oh.”

Not what you thought.

You might have had a lymph node in your neck, but still you nodded.

“Alright then. What do you want to know?”

He was painting the clouds. Didn’t even look the slightest bit uncomfortable. Good, you guessed.

“How old am I supposed to be before having it?”

Some wordless mutter rolled out your tongue at that. Eventually, the answer just came right out of you.

“Other than being of age, it really depends if you’re emotionally ready for it, Damian. If you know you’re not ready, nothing should push you to do it.”

“How do I know when I’m ready?”

That same calmness, the one that steadied your often shaking hands, allowed you to create the perfect cone for one of the hilltops at the horizon. You marveled over it for a while.

“When your doubts are encompassed with everything else,” you said. “When you know about what comes after.”

A dimming yellow sun, over at the far end. It was that sun, you told yourself, that was making those words fall of your lips. And not at all this series of resurfacing memories.

“When you meet the right person,” you told him.

You saw from your side eye how that remark made Damian stop with his brush. He set it onto its holder, placed his hands on his knees. “Other people don’t wait for that last one,” he said. “Do they?”

“It’s always different for a lot of people. Sometimes, they could only ever do it with people they love. Sometimes, it doesn’t even matter.”

“When I have sex with someo-“

You gave him a dirty look.

“When I’m a lot older,” he scoffed. “And I want to engage in the act of coitus.”

“Coitus?”

“How do I know they’re right? They’re the right person at that moment, then suddenly the next, they’re not.”

You reached over his easel to grab his brush, handing it back as you pointed at a raven that landed on one of the trees. It urged him to continue.

“You ask yourself then. If things won’t go the way you’d have wanted with that someone, would you regret ever doing it with them at all?”

“Obviously,” he snorted. “I wouldn’t want to waste my time.”

A bright smile, just as you settled the green of the wilting grass. Not so much was it green as it were this brownish orange, with it still cold enough for you to wear a sweater this uncomfortable when you’d have wanted your hands free.

“Is it really this…” he did some kind of motion with his hands. “…milestone in your life that’s supposed to be so important?”

“Wow, you’re really asking the right questions here, kid.”

That nickname made him snarl, back to his canvas. It took you a while, having to look to the sky for some kind of answer that wasn’t going to mess his head for the rest of his life.

“I used to think it wasn’t,” you said. “Sometimes, it’s only as important as you make it. It’s all up to what you believe.”

You turned your brush over just the right circle, which made of the red petals of a rose on one of the bushes that first greeted the day after months of a long winter.

Then there was this sinking. Something within.

“But your first time, at least. It should be with someone you love,” you said. “You’ll find that a lot of things will be easier for you.”

He seemed satisfied with that. Thankfully. He didn’t look so traumatized just yet.

Then he asked you one that no longer was so easy to think about.

“Was your first time with someone you loved?”

And you thought, with how everything suddenly weighed, not just your head or your hands but the whirring air, the leaves that danced along to it, the flowers still so young into their bloom, the misty clouds, the light, the brush on your hand and the paint on its tip.

What wasn’t so heavy, that is, was your voice.

Because if anything surprised you that day, more than the questions and the apparent peace, was how easily the answer came out of you.

Easy, because it was true.

And it was true, because when you lied, your clammy hands would be stuck to your back, shaking just as much as your eyes would be frantic and searching for something that wasn’t there.

But your voice was as light as your hands were calm and dry, your eyes fixated on the beautiful sight of the city and nothing else.

“Yes,” you said. And with it, came a smile that lasted for days.

Jason:

Two thousand dollars sounded a lot more inviting after a failed drug raid, not so much after the seeing all the evening gowns and diamonds and Bruce using his almighty charm with investors in sharp-needled stilettoes.

He did not, for his own sanity’s sake, want to sit through any of it, not even for a whole inheritance from the enterprise. Nope. Not even ten million dollars was worth putting on this god-awful suit poking through his neck like a knife, a jacket supposed to fit but had popped off one of the buttons, and of course, his hair. Swept back. Ruled over by mounds of gel and whatever it was the rest of his brothers had on. They all looked like elves in a Christmas workshop assembly line with the red tie over his chest.

Whatever trouble would happen, they’d call him. Now that they’ve blocked off his room, however, he came to not much resort.

The manor’s pool, to his luck, was unguarded. Unused for the last few months, but still clean.

Whatever silence was, and whatever silence could be, it was just that when he shut the door behind him, not bothering to latch on the lock, and turned on one of the lights, the purple and blue ones that shone from underneath the pool’s floor, like some magical lake that would speak to him in rhymes, maybe hand him a sword floating on a lily pad, but not even that was enough to impress him. As if anything impresses him still.

He stood by the poolside, hands in his suit pockets. Audibly he cursed that he forgot to bring a cigarette pack, but even that thought didn’t last long enough to bother him too much.

Jason stood there, right by the water, and watched the lights change like they told much of a story.

Something. Anything, to intrigue him.

Anything to make him feel again, to interest him, to cry out to him and actually hold his attention long enough for it to not be whisked away from his mind by his own hands because thinking or feeling was too much work.

But even those very lights, that didn’t seem so bright at all, were silent. The same silence for so many months.

He wanted noise. He wanted to hear again. But nothing, nothing was loud enough for him anymore. Someone could be screaming into his head and so much of it would disperse before it even reaches his ears at all, much less his brain. It wasn’t that he was being dumb, though that would be quite the reason.

But it was that nothing was bright enough anymore.

No one was attractive, or intriguing, or entertaining. Not by a mile.

Nothing. He cared about nothing.

Everything, all except her.

And it had to be just that, no room so bright, no smile so true, then when it was with her.

He hated the truth, perhaps just as much as he hated the rest of the world. The only thing he didn’t hate was someone he couldn’t even be with, much less love. But here he was.

Some noise from the door he came in from. He should have locked it. Now someone else was here.

More so did he wish that when he turned and saw who it was.

“Here?” Y/N’s shoes against the empty ground. That, he heard. Fuck him. “Really?”

“They closed off my room.”

She looked really pretty, lipstick on her already red lips, jumpsuit dragging along the tiles and her hair down her back. And she didn’t stop walking until she was right by his side, much to his dismay. Still, he didn’t move. Though god forbid he allow himself another look after the first one.

“You’re just gonna stand here and stare at the water?”

“Better than that shitshow outside.”

“Every party’s a shitshow for you.”

“Finally, one of you caught on.” He shifted his arms as if he had a drink he was holding, which he didn’t. He needed one badly.

“Then why accept the job?” she shrugged. “You could have just said no.”

He didn’t expect her to look at the water like it were at all interesting.

But suddenly, the lights from underneath didn’t seem so dull anymore.

Because even having to swim through the lavas of literal hell, I’d leave the comforts of isolation if it means you’d be anywhere within the room.

“Two thousand dollars,” he said.

“Ah.”

Everything did get easier to understand, once he stopped with the moping and the denial and actually allowed that stupid little voice he hated to speak up loud enough so he’d listen to it.

“Maybe you’re right,” she laughed. “The water actually is a lot more interesting.”

Right then, he allowed himself a second, subtle look. At her face. The thin straps over her shoulders that laid so well against her skin. Her hair she’d purposely made unruly but still styled enough to be classy.

The next thing to notice were her hands. They weren’t shaking, though they weren’t unmoving either. Her thumbs were rubbing over the backs of her palms, much like fidgeting her fingers would as if she were nervous. But there shouldn’t be anything to be nervous about. Nothing he could see, at that.

But after a look at her hands, it was her eyes that told him the whole story of her trailing thoughts, thoughts that maybe she didn’t know about as well.

Three years since she’s last stepped into a pool, since she’s felt that much water around her, dance along every bit of her skin when she’d push through the waves and move about as if she were floating, or flying, suspended from the ground and not have a string to hold her up.

She wanted to. He could see that. But it was doubtful that she’d admit to that. She’d never admit to that, not when it would only cause so much disappointment when she’ll ultimately cower away.

But her wanting to swim made him want to swim.

Some first step. To have someone to help her. He could be that someone.

Not even thinking for himself anymore. Jason was off to the benches at the side, and had taken off his tie and slid it off his neck.

“What are you doing?” she asked, just as he took off his suit jacket.

“I’m going in.”

She looked at him like she would to a troll that had climbed out of the sewers, though it wasn’t much out of disgust as it would be of disbelief. At least, he hoped it was. That wasn’t even to matter. He’d taken off his dress shirt before he even realized what he was doing at all.

Not something he’d do so suddenly, but then again, some of the most stupid things he’s ever done the past year were all for her sake. This didn’t surprise him at the least, not even the fact that the more rational part of him was watching him move like some hamster in a wheel stupidly trying to run away.

“You’re gonna swim?”

He unbuckled his belt. “Mind turning around?”

Her eyes flashed wide open, and she did as told.

Jason took off his pants, his shoes, everything save for his boxers. This wasn’t so stupid. It shouldn’t be.

He stepped into the pool, one foot first, then he slid in. He wanted to feel the cold. He wanted it to go against his heat and make him feel something and actually overwhelm him. And it was just that, that very feeling he’d long craved, when he spread his arms and let the water seep into his flesh.

Then he found himself smiling, just as he looked up and caught Y/N watching him do all that, lips between her teeth and beaming back so wonderfully bright, every part of him ached for that sight to last so much longer.

He sat back, waved through the water, inviting her even when he wasn’t asking her, telling her that this is all okay, that she was ready.

A million voices were screaming at him that none of this added up to just about every thought he could muster, that it wasn’t in him to just jump into the water, half naked and alone with the woman he loved. So many asking him what the hell he was doing, that all this was going to scare her away.

But it was, in fact, in him to know what went on in her head, as she longingly looked at the pool like it were so much more than that. It was in him to know that there’s so many more steps in this staircase of healing, to being that very person she’d sought out to be, away from the incident, who she no longer was, and never has been.

Jason swam over to the side of the pool, at the side where she stood.

And with that, a smile so beautiful, she crouched over and set her legs to the side so she could sit on the ground. Her hand was too near from where he laid his arms, but he didn’t reach for it. He just watched as the droplets that fell from his skin onto the ground nipped at her fingers.

“Is it cold?”

His voice was low and husky. “Yeah…”

“Is it nice?”

Jason looked to the wall behind her and laughed. “The water’s great.”

She hummed.

Her hands. Something about them. He couldn’t look away. Like they were so much more than her soft fingers and her gentle touch. With his chin buried onto his folded arms, he kept looking.

Not from her hands that were reluctantly reaching for the water’s surface, shy, bashful even, like it would sting her if she inched too close. Y/N stretched out her fingers and touched it, enough to drench just the tip of it, then she twirled it about to create wonderful ripples that waved to his body.

Jason reached over to hold her wrist, stopped just in case she were to pull away, but she didn’t pull away.

Y/N’s eyes were on him, just as silent and curious, and he felt her relax.

He led her hand further into the water, deeper, colder. He felt the hair on her skin stand, bumps over her pores. She was breathless, over something so small. He pulled gently enough until the water reached up to her elbow.

Then the smile he earned out of her, the love he so wanted to earn as well, it was all he could see, with her toying with the water and swerving it about. Right then, he could hear everything. The droplets that danced, the splashes against their skin, her subtle laughter, her teeth over her lips. He heard it all, and it was beautiful, so much more than songs or tunes played by the most skilled hands over piano keys.

If he could just let himself watch her, for longer than he hoped, he’d fall deeper in love than the depths he’d already fallen into, and had tried, relentlessly, to escape from, but couldn’t. Denial didn’t help much, but neither did admittance. He was stuck. And if only things weren’t so hard, he wouldn’t dare complain. Not when that very woman he loved was this beautiful.

She drew her hand away, her other one soothing the damp skin and ruining her jumpsuit with the water, which she didn’t even care about.

He wasn’t even thinking anymore. His heart open and his mind shut off. From how she sat, her ankle was exposed, and it was close enough to the water to feel the splatters but not enough to get wet.

Still, without a word, Jason cupped his hand, drew a bit of water up to the surface.

Then he played those drops right onto her skin, close to her feet where her shoes were strapped around. She clenched her toes at the cold, but she seemed to have liked it. He did it again, the droplets falling from his fingers, until her skin was stiff from the air so cold with it drenched.

That’s when she sighed, went on to stare at the little waves he’d created.

“I want to go in.”

He backed away from the pool side, waved his arms about to show her further that it was safe, and wonderful. Then he nodded at her. “If you think you’re ready…”

He saw her throat hitch, but it wasn’t out of doubt.

“I’m ready.”

He didn’t even have to try so hard to show her that everything she was going through, right then, he knew every second of what it was like. His face was soft, his look on her was soft, every bit of him had to be soft for this to be easy on her.

Then things weren’t so soft anymore when she started pulling down her straps from her shoulders. He gulped.

“Could you uh,” she twirled her finger around, motioning that he turn the other way. He did.

It was, both to his fortune and of not, that the wall in front of him was a mirror, reflecting all that went on behind his back. Everything in him stopped, even the blood down his every vein, and with that he watched as she exposed her temple of a body, one he’d worshipped and cherished and made feel every ounce of a sensation there could be, and continue to dream about even with her no longer being there.

But she was here now.

You:

The hardest to take off weren’t the straps on your shoes.

But all you ever had to know, was that the one you were with, the one you were hopelessly in love with, was there to help you through all of this.

“Do you, uh,” Jason coughed. “Need some help with that?”

You knew he was watching. If you actually didn’t want him to watch, you would have gone to the other side of the pool and took off your clothes where there wasn’t a mirror in front.

“Yeah,” you said.

As his eyes laid on you, relaxed, calm, just as you remembered he once watched your body so bare, with just a strapless bra over your chest and seamless panties, what contrasted the very cold that stemmed from the water was the burn underneath your flesh, the burn in your chest, the burn on your face and every nerve ending there was. Every nerve ending.

Suddenly you were limbless when he swam over to you, right in front from where you sat at the poolside, and his fingers were on the skin of your thighs, both of them. The water from his skin, falling and absorbing into your own. A sensation in itself.

You unlatched your leg, and he pulled it off and set it to your side.

Now, you were bare.

Jason was looking up at your eyes, however, and not at anything else. Not at the parts so incomplete. Not on places so ugly. As if you were so beautiful. And from that look alone, you started to believe that you were.

One at a time.

With his hands held out, you let him take your right leg, the one covered in burns and healed stitches, but still with toes and skin at all, and carefully, laid it into the water.

It was cold. Colder than even ice. But god, was it so heavenly.

Now, the other.

Jason, from what you could tell, tried not to look nervous just as you were, but you both smiled, and that was all there is to it to make you step into that very threshold once so frightening.

Your left leg, ending just three inches below your knee, dipped into the water’s surface.

You were here.

You were free.

You could feel the cold, the water, the waves, and the rush up to your head.

“Take your time,” Jason breathed, and his voice was all the more wonderful with everything else you could feel.

Any more, and the tears might start to defy your efforts.

He was as gentle as you knew him to be, and with that, it urged you on. You wanted to be the freest version of yourself. You wanted to be in the water with him, and hold him.

“Jason-“

“I’m here.”

You slid off the poolside, and he was there to hold you up before you could even think to move. His warm hands were so different from how cold the water was, but as equally burning as the heat that spurred everywhere else. They held your waist, and you did not want them to move away at all.

“It’s okay,” he said, with his grip still strong. “I’ll let go only if you tell me to.”

So you didn’t tell him to.

Your hands, already they found their ways resting on top of his shoulders, holding onto him a lot firmer than you actually needed to. Your right leg touched the floor. Your left one waved about in the water. You looked down. They were there. They were alright. They didn’t sting, nor hurt, nor did you feel so exposed that you’d never want to step into any light again.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you frantically nodded, still looking down at the prettiest lights that shone beneath you and Jason’s feet.

You were laughing. “This is so great…”

“It is…”

With you so distracted marveling over the water, he thought you wouldn’t notice if his hands rubbed over your waist, circled them tighter, enough for his fingers to rest delicately on your spine. He was holding you so tenderly, yet you could feel how much he was holding back. And you just went on pretending not to notice.

“I want to go there.”

You pointed at the middle of the pool, where the lights were centered on, littered about to form this spiral that stretched out like a firework that burst into the sky.

“Alright,” said Jason. “Hold on, okay?”

You nodded, and again that wonderful sensory outburst that were supposed to overwhelm you, but didn’t, when Jason led you both to the center of the pool, the waves flowing against your flesh and skin. Oh, was it so beautiful. The water, touching your every bit, it was so much more than you remembered, and so much better than you’d have imagined.

As you reached that very center, and with you having to take in both the feel of this flight, the breath that had escaped you, the lights, ones you had to watch from afar, were now beneath and around you, like you stood right in the core of a star that exploded, a supernova, right at the flares and the burst of light and sound, just as it was on your flesh.

You were swimming on stars, on clouds, on a bed of petals so sweet. You were afloat in this wonderous space, the sun so close but not burning you with its light. There were tears. Wonderous tears. Ones you couldn’t hold back with your heart in full and your chest in this tug that pulled it in all directions. You splayed your arms out, and tilted your head back, enough for your hair to be dipped into the water. And you closed your eyes. Everything. Everything. This was everything.

You looked back up, and no one, not even the moon itself in the midst of a dark sky, had ever looked at you the way Jason did.

Oh god, how you loved him.

Then that music, one that was playing so sweetly the moment you stepped in, it blurred out when you circled your arms around his strong neck.

He kept with his promise and went on to keep holding you so close, closer, until your chest met his so solid, all the cold from the once freezing water was whisked away.

Fingers tangled onto his hair, breaths battling as they met in the space in between, a space that shouldn’t have been there at all. His own hands trailed down to your hips, further down until it made you jolt.

Then your legs were around him. You were flying, so high up in the sky not even the clouds would reach you.

He pushed back your hair.

You didn’t know at what point your lips had met, your warmth uniting into one, single flame, but everything was so much of the speed of a moving picture, that none of time, nothing of the sort that wasn’t him and him alone, ever even mattered anymore.

Jason:

What was it called, when something unfolded before you, and everything happened so fast even when you’d try to make it slow, flashed into this bright, white light, and suddenly you couldn’t move, nor say anything to protest?

That wasn’t even much to think about anymore.

Everything was paced, so slow, slow enough that he could feel every movement she made, every flick of her fingers, every sound that escaped her lips. It heightened to so much more than it actually was. Those months, where he no longer felt even just a splinter, now all those feelings collapsed into the now.

He was kissing the world, his world, and so much of her beauty manifested into this glorious flow. He was hungry, digging into her skin as if there were more to be undone. His lips were no different. Over her lips, her jaw, her neck, licking over her shoulder and back over to her lips where she tasted the sweetest.

She did not hold back either, and he didn’t want her to. She pulled on his hair enough to make it hurt and so perfect was that pain, the growl that came out of him so animalistic, even more so did he starve. Starve for her. He wanted to taste every bit of her.

And so he did, pushing her to the edge of the pool and turning her around so no longer could anything restrict his shaking touch, on every part of her that would spark a fire engulf larger than the one within his chest. He pushed himself inside her, over and over until it hurt.

He couldn’t hold back, couldn’t hide behind this mask of gentleness any longer. For that same gentleness and touches so soft, only could be when his efforts to conceal what his desires truly manifested into, and it comes with deep want, so much lust, fire that burns, skin being drawn in red by the hungriest nails and teeth that dug into flesh. His hips started to hurt, so did his hands. It was starting to hurt her, too, with there being marks on just about every sweet spot there was. But it was just those marks that pushed them both further into fulfillment.

His name, Jason, the most beautiful thing to ever escape her lips, his hands holding her still, holding her neck and squeezing just enough to let her know that only he could ever give her that perfect mix of pain and gratification so immense, that only he could touch her and make it last, and for the whole of the night, his name was the only thing she could ever cry out.

You:

Oh.

Oh, was it all so wonderful.

The strain, the pull of every muscle, the purple marks on your neck, the bruises on your hips, the aches down your cunt, and every bit inside you, still with the many releases, bursts of avalanches and numbs that faltered into lingering buzzes, and eventually this humming that continued like some song you couldn’t remember. Wonderful. Magical. Even if you could think straight, which you couldn’t do much with what happened, you couldn’t describe it with enough justice.

You’ve never slept so well in so long, your head up far beyond the clouds, into space and the stars above, the gas giants that make you even lighter. With not even gravity to pull you down, you were soaring up above.

In some idealistic perfection, a world without the cruelties you knew all too well, it would be that you’d wake up, satisfied at that, to a bed that wasn’t empty, next to a man you loved whose body was filled with the deepest scars, and that would have been the end to the story and all else, the chaos most especially, would cease.

But as it were as cruel as it were kind enough to grant you that moment of bliss, you woke up, still with the sky so dark, and your arm outstretched for a naked body no longer there, but instead you found that very body already with his clothes on, moving as quiet as he possibly could outside the bed.

“Jason?” you sighed, then you sat up holding the thin sheet up to your chest.

Jason was startled. Wasn’t expecting to wake you. Or that, he was trying not to.

“Why are you up?” he asked. He was in a hurry.

And his face, from what you could read, it told you everything you needed to know.

“Are you leaving?”

Again? You wanted to say.

But even if you did, his response wouldn’t have changed. For the better, that is. Because he didn’t have much a response at all.

“Go back to bed.”

“What’s going on-“

“I’m sorry.”

He zipped up his pants, put on his jacket and just like that he was headed for the door.

His face was too grim and blank for him to leave with intention to come back. His hands were too fast reaching for the door. His voice, too low as if he were hiding something from eventually spilling. No. He was leaving. And he wouldn’t want to be found. Not after that look he just gave you before he opened the door.

You took all the sheets and reached for his shoulder. Already, you were shattered. Already, the weight had befallen, on your arms and your chest. He was so stiff that even to just turn, it was hard for him to do.

But you held his face, really held him so he wouldn’t dare pull away. The air had been sucked out of that very room and so much of your body would have broken apart, fallen to the ground and no one would be there to pick them up.

“You don’t have to leave,” you whispered, pushing your forehead against his so your breaths would meet again. “Please, be with me-“

“Y/N -“

“What did I do?” You met his eyes.

“Nothing. Please. We’ll talk about this later-“

“When?”

He sounded so solid, so unaccepting of anything to be hurled at him.

“I have to go-“

“You’re not coming back, are you?“

“I said we’ll talk about this.”

“Don’t walk away from me-“

He didn’t even let you finish.

He was strong, and he never used that against you. But that time, he did. He grabbed you by the wrists and pulled you off him. In less time than you would have hoped, he was gone.

The man you wanted. The one you loved. The one you chose.

Wouldn’t choose you.

Another of the hurt, that descent, when you’ve slipped into this hole so familiar yet the pain wasn’t something to get used to. Tears on the sheets, broken, so many of them spilling out of you and onto the floor, your skin, the bed.

You can’t shatter again. You can’t break any more.

This was the choice you made. No one told you it was all going to be easy. That all this would be handed over just as you called the moment you wanted it. No. Not with him.

Go after him.

Tell him everything.

Go after him.

You grabbed everything you got, put on your clothes and rushed out that door before you were even fully awake enough for your eyes to adjust to the light. Straight down the stairs, out into the garage where you knew Jason parked his bike. He wasn’t there. He already left.

So you took one of the keys that were hung on the wall, started up one of Bruce’s many cars and drove out of that manor.

You weren’t going to let go. You’d chase him if you had to.

You knew this would happen, the moment you realized you loved this asshole. You saw this coming. And you were prepared.

You were as fast as if you flew, if you were no heavier than a speck, a particle that would let even the flap of a butterfly’s wings change its course and move so fast, no one would have seen it.

You called him. As you drove and reached the city, you did not stop calling. Five. Six. Ten times. He didn’t answer.

Once you reached his apartment, seeing that his bike wasn’t where he’d parked it, you called again.

At the fifteenth call, he picked up.

“Jason, for the love of god-“

Your hands were shaking as it held the wheel, and nothing, not even the rain pattering onto the windshield would have calmed you. Everything happened just as fast as the rest of the night went on. And here you were, at the end, and you tripped just as you saw that very end of the dark tunnel.

“Y/N…” he said. And his voice a lot softer than it had been just then.

“Please, just talk to me.”

“We’ll talk. I promise you, we will-“

“I want to talk to you now-“

“You think you know what you want,” he said. “But you don’t. Give it time. You’ll change your mind.”

You slammed your fists against the wheel and the horn blew under the impact.

“You said you’d never make decisions for me-“

“If this is your decision, you need me to make it for you.”

So close. So close to driving away and leave him for the rest of forever.

But it wasn’t close enough.

You turned to the screen right by the car’s dashboard, pressed onto the button to turn on Bruce’s many trackers. There was a red dot.

‘No,’ you whispered. ‘No, you won’t.’

Jason:

“I’m sorry…” he pleaded. “I’m so sorry… but I promise you. Everything will get better.”

Up a rooftop, where he thought she’d never find him. It was hard to ignore the quake in his voice, his hands, how every word he spoke was like driving a knife down his throat, neck, and chest.

“No,” she screamed, and her cries hurt more than that very knife ever would. “It won’t. You’re a coward. What are you gonna do? Leave for another four months?”

“That’s not true.”

“Tell me it is!”

“Y/N.”

He let the skyline distract him, the buildings that soared up, higher than he could ever stand, then locked his eyes onto one of them so they wouldn’t defy him and break apart.

“Whatever it is you think is going on, it isn’t. I already told you how I felt. Why didn’t you just lis-“

Of course, she’d find him.

To be frank, even if it were one of the other safe houses he’s picked that wasn’t on any map of the city, she was bound to find him. He left her at Wayne Manor, for fuck’s sake.

The minute he heard her footsteps, coming in from entryway, he stopped talking, breathing even, and put his phone down. Trackers. Of course. Bruce had five of them on him at least.

He turned around.

“You actually fucking followed me-“

“Why?”

She wore the same thing from that night, the same suit he’d lustfully watched her take off, straps down those very shoulders, baring herself. Her hair, up in this beautiful mess, makeup no longer there and her face beautifully bare. Still a sight, she was, a sight he no longer wanted to get lost in.

“Why is this so hard for you-“

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?“

“Because, I-“

Every word out of him, a fire that couldn’t be put out. Flames uncontrollable, and his breath nothing but encouraging winds.

“Because you’re gonna wake up one day and realize I’m not any of my brothers… I was the one who never stood a chance,” he said. “No one would think you’d want me, out of the many other things you could have had. One day, you’re gonna realize that I’m not what you wanted-“

“I love you-“

God, it was everything he ever wanted to hear.

“You had Dick and Tim. They’ve loved you for so long… And you’re actually choosing the one guy who doesn’t?“

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?”

Another step forward from her. Another step back from him. He can’t stand too close or all this would be as close to the world’s slowest, most painful death.

“Nothing could have pointed you to me. Everything was telling you to-“

“For fuck’s sake, stop listening to everything else and just listen to me.”

A struggle at that.

But he’s never been so cold.

It wasn’t even from the wind from such a height, if there were any at all. But he was shivering, his teeth were gritting. Everything he said, he didn’t even mean. And all the more was it excruciating to hear himself say it all.

But he could listen. Even if it’d hurt. He’ll listen.

She was crying. To just reach over and hold her hand. He couldn’t even do that.

“Three years ago,” she whispered into the cold night air. “I was at the manor. Two weeks out of the hospital. I was just learning how to walk again but that day was hard on me. I couldn’t make a step. I was on my bed, and I was just staring at the ceiling because I couldn’t get out of it.”

It pained him all the more, when he knew nothing of what was to come to him, that all this was going to catch him before he’d even realize what it was.

“You never visit me at the manor but that day, you were there. I don’t even remember what for, but you stopped by and you caught me reading A Christmas Carol because it was the one book in my room that I actually liked. Because I couldn’t go down to the library and get more, and I didn��t want to ask from anyone.

“We ended up talking about Dickens. I didn’t know shit, but I remember you talking about him like he was your uncle and I just listened to you. I told you I liked reading his books. You said you’d bring me more when you’d come back. Three days later, you did. You got me Great Expectations.”

Great Expectations.

Why can’t he remember this?

“You left, and I read it that same night. That’s when I found a quote that you highlighted.”

Jason took a step back, away from her.

“I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.”

Everything. Everything that devastated, all suddenly came to place.

“The book was new. Store bought. The tag was still there. You bought it for me a day after you visited. Then you read it yourself and highlighted that quote.”

“How did you-“

“Remember that?”

She ignored the streaks down her skin, the droplets that fell down her neck.

“It was just a quote,” she shrugged. “It easily could have been nothing… but if I think of it differently now, it all makes so much sense.”

If he took another step back, he’d fall over the ledge.

He should have done that, now that she had walked close enough for him to get so lost into her face.

“If you loved me then,” you whispered. “Did you even know about it?”

This. This was worse than a fall.

He closed his eyes and everything fell through. The tears. The sobs. Everything. Because he did love her then. He’s always loved her since. But to admit it was close to writing his own death sentence.

This. This was death. And he’d happily jump back into that abyss.

“I didn’t want to believe it…”

You:

You reached for his face and for once, he welcomed it.

“If you tell me to leave right now,” you swallowed. “I’ll leave. I’ll never look for you again.”

Even if it hurts, even if I’ll have to live without you. If it’s what you want, I’ll let you go.

His hands found your wrists but it was to hold you, not to pry you away.

“Do you love me?”

It wasn’t in his words.

It was how he said yes that made you soar past the birds and the thin air from above.

It was when he finally took a step forward, to hold you in place, to keep you from falling apart and keep you so close, that acceptance of what truly went on, the love you’ve long known about and continued to believe in, even when he didn’t believe in it himself. It was there. It was what moved you. You could have fallen in from one of the many spaces above and still, you would end up in his arms.

“Of course, I do…“

Just as the sun rose, to greet you both into this morning anew. So new a life, waiting for you to come welcome it. And you welcomed it with the widest arms. He kissed you, so tender and real. Up where the city could see you, where you wanted to be seen, only to be with him.

Epilogue

Jason:

One box would have been enough for his clothes. He didn’t have much anyway. But as it turns out, leather jackets aren’t exactly as compact as he’d liked.

“Where do you want me to put these?!”

She was in the bathroom. He saw her peak her head out from the door to look at the jacket he was holding up.

“I set up a new closet for you!” she cried out, then she went back to brushing her teeth. “It’s beside mine!”

“Got it!”

He took the boxes of clothes, set it just outside the closet which he’ll definitely get into after he deals with everything else. Moving wasn’t something he liked doing, even when he’s moved around a single city so much before his lease would have allowed him to.

But, this new apartment, her apartment, covered in paint and canvases and rags all over the place that nipped at his neat freakiness he’d soon have to overcome, he might actually stick around.

“What about this!?”

He held up his box of books.

“I emptied a shelf for you, too! It’s next to my sketchbooks.”

“Sketchbooks, sketchbooks…”

Her sketchbooks were all over the fucking place.

He found that shelf, at least. Just enough for all his books. That is, if the paint cans above wouldn’t collapse.

“Do you clean up even just a little?”

“Shut up. It’s organized mess.”

“It’s always organized mess with you artists…”

“What?!”

“Nothing!”

She stepped out the bathroom, in nothing more than just a thin shirt and pajama shorts, then she watched him fumble with the last of his boxes.

“And, uh,” he coughed. “Can I put these somewhere?”

The look on her face, playfully annoyed as it was pleasantly unsurprised, she wanted to laugh that he’d resorted to storing his whole arsenal of weapons in a single cardboard box.

“That floorboard over there,” she pointed. “I loosened it up for you.”

“You’re a doll, pretty bird.” Jason put the box on the floor, ran up to her and grabbed her by her thighs, hoisting her whole thrashing body up his shoulder.

Her screams turned to laughter, then he spun her around, slammed her into her own bed like it was a wrestling ring and held her down with a headlock.

Everything he’s ever thought how this would have ended wasn’t so much of a fraction of how it went. Never has he smiled for so many days, happiness without condition, love so pure, a life that no longer was filled of days he’d have to survive, and was now a life he wanted remember, love, and live.

This was how it ended.

And he never wanted it to end.

-----

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thiefswathe · 3 years

Text

#FFxivWrite 2021 Prompt #1 // Foster

' Steady, now. Take aim. '

It is just him and the stag — alone together in the dense green of the Twelveswood. The Keeper boy's ears swivel and turn around him, listening out as his leonine tail steadies and stills. He's balanced. Quiet.

'You've practiced this. Y'know what to do.'

The air is so thick with fog, he can hear the wood of the arrows clinking together inside the loose quiver as he draws back his arm. The season was deep in autumn. Still lush in its verdant, but now the leaves had begun to turn to bright yellows and oranges. The cold was settling in. Food was getting harder to find.

'You've almost got it, Co'to. Just a little more...'

Eyes bright as moonlight left the steady gait of the stag scavenging for his own meal. Instead, they looked to the creek, the glinting water from what few beams of sunlight broke through the trees. He needs to focus! Antelope was fleet of foot, Da told him. How many stripes had this one had? One, two...

'— now!' And he feels his fingers loose on the bowstring.

A miss.

The prominent horns of a great stag turned and met eyes with the boy long enough to sense the danger, and he's gone. Long gone, leaving behind the tremble of a half-eaten shrub.

A heavy hand comes to ruffle the grey hair of the small kit holding the bow. The arrow… what arrow? It hardly made it but a few fulms away, veering off to the left. The boy had been hungry, distracted, but now...?

A boy was angry.

"That's not fair! You distracted me!" He shoves the figure behind him. Once. Twice! And with his ears back and tail lashing, he growls— "I could've HAD it this time —could've HAD IT!!!"

"Yea — ? Then why didn't you?" The quirk of a grey brow lifts as he peers down at the child. "Th'Shroud's full of distractions. And every time, you always fail. Wonder why that is..." No point in standing around wondering. The figure turns, tugging the front of the boy's tunic.

"Come. We'll miss th'caravan if we wait too long..."

"— Co'a !!!"

The young man stopped and turned back to witness the boy throwing the bow down onto the ground. Oh. Oh, this ought to be good. The older clanskeeper crosses his arms, "—throwin' a fit, are we?" A short breath draws inward, and he can smell the smoke of the campfires growing weaker. They must have been put out, meaning they wouldn't have much time. The hunt was never meant to take this long, anyhow.

But a child like this one cares not for the essence of timeliness. In fact, he's resolute in consuming every last bit of it. The young Keeper then threw his quiver from off his shoulder, handmade arrows scattering as he kicked them in defiance. Hard.

"Keep at it. Go on. You'll earn yer marks behavin' no less like a foolish tickwomp, for sure! How proud our mother'll be..."

"I hate you. You're always PICKIN' on me!"

"Am not!" He’s almost offended. Almost. "I'm tryin' to help you."

A low growl, the stomp of an angry foot. "Gobshite! You're doin' it jus' t'be mean! Jus’ like you always do!" And now an angry boy is picking up an angry-looking rock.

But the older Miqo'te was not afraid. Nor was he impressed. Amused, though? Amusement brings a laugh. Louder now when the boy rears his arm back with the intent to toss it. The young man who had aimed to be his target had seen over twenty summers and more than a few spats of combat and this angry little boy-child expects him to be afraid of a rock? A grey mark, proud and adorning his face, tattooed stretched across his cheek. And he calls attention to it with the tap of a finger.

"Y'want your marks, Nico'to, you'll need to earn 'em. Ain't not a soul born in our clan who hasn't. Y'think I do it just so I can pick on you? Quite wrong you are." But Nico'a won't explain why. Not today. Gesturing to the strewn arrows. "Come… we'll practice again next time we make camp. New lands, new game." The hour was getting late anyhow. "Pick those up. Can't afford to waste 'em."

Whether the boy followed or not... well, he had to, didn't he? Couldn't risk being left behind. He tried to defy, tried to stand his ground, but Co'to stood there long enough to drop the rock, begrudgingly lifting his bow and the bundle of arrows to stuff back into his quiver, kicking up the mud that had left his footprints before following his brother into the grass.

They weren't too far off from their camp, but the trees in this part of the Shroud were so dense that it would be as if nightfall had come by the time they arrived. The ashen boy eventually caught up with his elder brother, who laughed once more, now putting an arm around him— "Little brother..."

...Only to have it shoved off. "Don't touch me," the boy hisses. Though he may be small, a boy is fierce, and his words are bitter like poison.

“Be angry all you like Co'to, but if our father saw you actin' a fool, he's not gonna take you to hunt. Now just imagine what our mother'll say, then..."

"I don't care."

"You will...~"

"—Will not!"

"I promise you. You will." And he means it, stopping dead in his tracks and kneeling down to better meet the boy, eye to eye, on his level. He turned Co'to by his bony shoulders to better face him. This was serious now, his ears falling back. "You have to. Ma said that we have to focus on gettin' our lands back if we have any chance at takin' back th'South. That means we won't be goin' on anymore hunts with Da. No more trips to Coerthas. No more ceremonies or childishness. No more whimsy, Co'to. You have t'grow up for a while now. We're in conflict with our enemies, you understand?"

Oh yes. The boy understands. Better than most his age. Having a Matriarch for a mother meant that the world's weight held heaviest a burden to the family she leads. So, as angry as the boy wanted to be, his head falls, ears wilting. Co'a didn't need to see that his expression had softened beyond that mess of unruly grey as he turned his head away from him. But these boys were not weak, nor did they hide. So Co'a was there to bring those eyes right back.

"Say it. Say it true. What's got you so angry?"

A small sigh, "... Do we really need to leave? This territory is unclaimed, ain't it? Why can't we just make it ours?"

"Because it's not home." And it's not unclaimed. "Y'know this..."

"No, I don't! I barely remember home. I just remember it burning."

"—And if we don't stop moving, the Trappers will just burn us out of this place, too. Same as last time." And the one before that. Co'a would have been surprised if Co'to could recall the wetlands or the great lake. Unfortunately, such was the case for most of the younger children. Clan Tjahaar had not held territory in the South in so many Turns; it was becoming something of a far-off distant memory. Even for him and his eldest sisters.

But that was soon about to change. The elder brother drew in a breath, releasing the somber expression he wore, "Y'didn't get the childhood I had. All this moving and poachin'. It's not how it's supposed to be. So that's why I have to be tough on you. And I'm only tough on you because there's still a chance that you can someday."

Co'a rises, lifting Co'to so that they could move quickly as one. Another moon and the boy would be eight. He was getting too big to carry like this. They spent the remaining trip in silence, cautious in their journey back to where the camp had been established.

But they wouldn't get far before the pair would need to hide. The sound of a movement not far from them sent the Keeper pair to the ground. Co'a kept the kit tucked safely against his broad chest. Ears up, mouths quiet.

It's a language that neither of them knew, but only one could recognize. Co'a raised his head to peer up above the grass. They hadn't been seen. Not yet. A soft rumble in his throat, the purr of Huntspeak, "[It's the enemy...]"

"[Trappers?]"

"[No. Garlean...]" Enemy of the Wood. He very quietly rests his brother to the ground, letting him move out from under him to see the soldier in the distance. It's faint, but he's there. "See him?"

Co'to had to follow his brother's finger as he pointed, but sure enough, he could see. They found themselves spying upon a patrolman. Adorned in fancy clothes and a sword on his back. Red. He stands out far clearer than any stag with all that unnatural red and black.

Was this another test...? Nico'to was already drawing an arrow from his quiver. "I can hit him from here—!"

"—Don't." A fast hand brings that bow back down. Co'a kept his eyes searching. So soon as the patrolman turned his back, the boys continued to move through the tall grass. "Your arrows won't pierce anything more than a stag's hide. Besides, there could be others. We must return an' inform Ma—"

The hefty stomp of a large boot as they left the grass brought Co'a to realize that he had missed two imperials who now stood before him and his kit brother. Well...

"...Shite." So much for a lesson in distractions. With no time to react, he slowly the older Keeper raised his hands in mock surrender as the soldiers began speaking. Neither of them could understand, not like they could understand much of what either of the boys could say, either.

But wasting no time once Co'to was on his feet, Nico'a stood with him, snatching up his bow and a handful of arrows, and it is with fierceness and immediate reflex of a Keeper bowmaster that he draws back, letting loose one deadly arrow after the next. He's aiming for the nearest open space as they draw out their weapons — finding it high on the soldiers' throats.

"Run, Nico'to! Run!!"

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #entry 1 #cw violence #late to post my entry but here it is!

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eldritcharchive · 3 years

Text

Reviving a Wilted Flower

Relationships: Apprentice/Muriel (The Arcana), Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana)

Characters: The Devil, Asra (The Arcana), The Magician - Character, Apprentice (The Arcana), Muriel (The Arcana)

Tags: Lucio Route - Reversed Ending (The Arcana), Muriel Route (The Arcana), Past Apprentice/Asra (The Arcana), Mentioned Apprentice/Lucio, Nonbinary Apprentice (The Arcana), Male Pronouns for Asra (The Arcana). Trials, Alternate Universe, in the sense that Asra is seeing other routes, Jealousy

Summary: The Magician shows Asra a few potential consequences of his actions before setting the terms to resurrect Safflower, Asra's beloved apprentice. What he sees is not pleasant and dredges up the worst parts of his soul.

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

"You are certain?"

Asra scowled - he'd been asked this question many times, and the answer was always the same. That, and he'd told The Magician this already, in no uncertain terms.

"Yes, gods, why does everyone doubt me?" Asra growled. "Safflower… their life is worth everything; I'm willing to pay the price."

"It's not that I doubt you, little magician," the Fox said slowly, "it's just that this decision. It affects them drastically and they are not exactly here to agree to your terms."

Asra quirked his brow. "My… terms? But…"

"You have hopes, do you not?" The Magician said with a smirk, chuckling when Asra's face turned a bright red. "But their life is theirs alone. And they will not remember a time before tonight. Can you live with who they might become?"

"What do you mean?"

The Fox sighed. "Perhaps it will be best to show you," he said softly, "there are… other paths you and your Safflower have taken."

The world around them shifted - they no longer sat at Lucio's table, but stood in a blood red desert. The air was hot, bitterly dry, and Asra found himself gasping, bringing large gulps of acrid air into his lungs. The Devil's realm. The Magician stood beside him, and curled his hand around Asra's.

"Stay with me - The Devil would not dare harm me, but you?" The Magician sighed. "Well. You'll see."

Asra found himself pulled along - he wasn't sure what to expect, really, but is Saff was *here*... that didn't bode well. The stroll was long; longer, Asra suspected, than The Magician expected. They passed the same patch of dunes for a third time when the Fox growled, trapping Asra's hand in a death-grip.

"Gods damned… I'm here for a visit alone," he hissed into the empty space. "A trial for this magician."

" A trial, you say? Intriguing." The Devil's voice rang in Asra's head, different now from the one he was used to hearing during readings. This sounded more… more like…

The Devil appeared before them, draped in sheer, black silks that flared out around their legs in an ankle-length skirt. Their red eyes stared down at Asra with a spark of unbridled glee.

"S-Saff?" Asra felt his face go cold as the Devil grinned.

"Oh, this is delightful ," The Devil - Safflower - said, a grin ripping itself across their face. They hooked a finger under Asra's chin forcing him to meet their eyes. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you, little Asra? Not unlike my little magician, though he carries far more regrets." Asra swallowed; his fingers shook against the Magician's palm. Safflower released his face and stood - horns erupted from their temple adding a good half-foot to their height, with a smaller pair framing their face.

"What happened?"

The Devil barked a laugh. "Oh, if only I hadn't sent Lucio out on something important . He'd enjoy this."

Asra bristled. Lucio?

Safflower tsk ed. "This was my doing. My choice, Asra, and mine alone. It saved the realms, which I'm told was the point." They scoffed, rolling their eyes at the idea. An awkward silence fell upon the three before Safflower grinned and knelt to Asra's eye level. When he glared back at them, they laughed low and deep.

"Oh, that face. So determined ," Safflower said, tone suffused with condescension. "I was weak , too weak to protect any of you. Everyone was right to call me Fool. " They sneered and gestured to the world around them. "But look - the realms are stable and everyone lived. And yet those achievements go tragically underappreciated."

The Magician cleared his throat and Safflower turned their gaze to Asra's guide. They grinned before turning back to Asra.

"I hope you find everything to your liking," The Devil jeered before vanishing. Asra shuddered. " I hope you don't come to regret your choices, little Asra."

Visions flashed in Asra's mind - Lucio commanding armies of vicious demons, conquering nations under the flag of The Devil. Oh, they stayed in their realm but there was no question they leveraged every connection in their power to make things worse. Vesuvia was in ruins, and the token resistance was run by Julian, Asra, Muriel and the few allies they could find.

It was wretched, and yet Asra ached most for Safflower. There must have been no other choice. Still…

" Lucio? " He muttered, incredulous. The Magician shrugged.

"In this universe, Safflower tried everything to save the world, only to die in the process," he said. Asra blanched at the thought. "The only chance they had, the realms had, was to merge with the devil. Lucio was the only one who could go through with making that happen."

Asra scoffed. "Figures he'd be so short sighted," he said under his breath. Again, the Magician shrugged.

"It did save the world, in a sense," he said solemnly. "And somehow, they're still better than our Devil." Asra was sure he wasn't supposed to hear that, but he scowled anyway. The Magician raised an eyebrow. "Simply an observation. Now."

The Magician snapped and the world shifted once more, swirling around the two mages until they stood in a familiar forest. Or, sort of familiar - this was definitely the forest near Vesuvia but it was… warmer. More welcoming.

Asra let go of The Magician's hand and narrowed his eyes at him. "What," he demanded, "was that meant to tell me?"

The Magician blinked. "I told you," he said softly, "you and Saffron have walked many paths. That… is the end of one of them. If you go through with this deal, they could make choices that lead to… well. The destruction of what you know as Safflower. And Vesuvia."

Asra huffed, folding his arms in front of his chest and clawing at his forearms. His guide looked at him expectantly.

"If that… if that is what they chose, I…" Asra paused. The destruction of Vesuvia for one life? Still… that Saff was far from guaranteed. And if it truly was their decision, who was Asra to stand in their way. "I would still go through with it, even if we end up… there."

"Right, well, I want to show you another path before we shake on it," the Major Arcana said. "Come." He walked confidently through the forest, the trees bending away from the Magician as he moved. Asra hesitantly followed, taking note of the differences around him - no protective charms hung from the branches around them, despite being so near…

"Muriel!"

The Magician stopped at the edge of the clearing near Muriel's hut, holding up a hand in front of Asra. They weren't to interact with this universe, clearly. Asra's eyes settled on Safflower, standing in the doorway of Muriel's hut. They looked… well, alive. Their freckled, fawn-brown skin flushed a warm coral in the warm sun, their unnatural orange eyes bright with laughter. Saff was draped in a luxurious red shawl (definitely Nadia's doing) over his usual embroidered blue tunic.

Muriel broke through the trees opposite Asra and the Arcana. He looked… good . He was dressed - dressed! - in a clean linen shirt and brilliant, embroidered green jacket with colorful belts cinched at his waist. He carried a few rolled tapestries on his shoulder and a basket of baked goods from… from the market. In Vesuvia. Safflower smiled brightly, a heartening sight compared to the twisted glee of The Devil. Muriel smiled back. A warmth wormed its way into Asra's chest - his best friend and his apprentice were happy. Why was this part of the trial?

Muriel set the tapestries and basket of food down on a bench outside of the hut. (It looked… larger, now that Asra focused on it.) Saff held out their arms and Muriel gathered them up against his chest and squeezed.

"Missed you," Muriel murmured into Safflower's soft brown hair. Saff chuckled.

"Missed you, too," they said, smiling up at Muriel before leaning up and…

Oh.

The kiss is chaste and sweet and, for a moment, Asra felt light. He'd never imagined he'd see Muriel this happy. But when the Magician's curious eye landed on Asra, the witch felt something truly dark stirring in him.

Mine, it shrieked, and clutched at Asra's chest.

Safflower's expression shifted, and they looked toward the edge of the forest.

"What is it?" Muriel asked, his brow furrowed as he followed Safflower's sight line. He hand hovered over a quarterstaff strapped to his back. Saff sighed.

"It's nothing. I felt… I thought I felt Asra out there," they said. "But it's passed."

"I just saw Asra in town," Muriel grumbled, reluctantly leaving his quarterstaff at his back. "He's fine."

Safflower smiled. "Good. We should go see him later," they said with a firm nod. "Now, tell me about your visit south." They snagged the basket of baked goods and ushered Muriel inside, tapestries, quarterstaff, fine clothes and all, leaving their audience in the subtle silence of the forest.

Asra warred with himself. He was overjoyed; he felt like he was going to be violently ill. The person he loved most in this world and his only close friend were very much in love - he could feel it radiating through the forest around them. Muriel shared his home with them. And still there beat a darkness in his chest, it's rhythm of mine, mine, mine hissed between his ribs.

The Magician looked at Asra expectantly; they were sat once again at Lucio's table. Asra coughed and swallowed around his gross jealousy.

"What are the terms?" He asked, voice unwavering. The Magician smiled.

"To bring them back, I require half of your heart," he said plainly before glancing upwards for a moment, lost in thought. Asra could be patient, at least, he told himself he could. His bouncing leg said otherwise. "And your word they will be free to choose their own path."

Asra hummed, thinking of the black tendrils of jealousy that ripped into him. It was ugly, that envy, those possessive claws - was that what drove him to this? His desire to possess Saff?

No . Asra thought back to his conversation with Eyre, his convictions. He loved Safflower with his whole being - and he would accept how Safflower felt. About him and the others. They wouldn't be his Safflower if he forced them into a particular shape, just to suit his fancy. He would wrestle with his demons on his own, and he would win. Eventually.

Asra sighed and held out his hand. "You have a deal, Magician."

The Fox smiled, and Asra lost consciousness.

#the arcana #gideon writes #asra alnazar #major arcana #stupid deals stupid choices #lucio route spoilers #muriel route spoilers #muriel #lucio #the apprentice #oc: safflower of vasuvia #muriel x apprentice #asra x apprentice #apprentice x lucio #lots going on in very few words

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brutal-nemesis · 4 years

Text

EoS: Wrong Door

LORD I finally finished this boi. I’m excited to finally share “real” whump with y’all :D Please let me know if you have any LoreTM questions!

←Previous - Masterlist - Next→

Ingredients: hand/arm nailing & gore (idk how bad b/c I’m desensitized af so just be careful yeah?), barbed wire, paralyzation, dehumanization, restraints, needles, acid

Three, two, one, pull. Three, two, one-clink! The chain holding his right arm finally snapped. Jairus had finally freed both of his arms from the chains holding them up thanks to the unnatural strength of his draconic left arm. He wasn’t able to get the metal cuffs off his wrists, but he could at least take the weight off his aching shoulders and sit down instead of kneeling upright. Now all that was left was the collar leather strap around his neck. Like hell he was wearing that thing any longer than he needed to. Instead of breaking the chain, he used the claws on his left hand to slice through the leather. It took a few tries and he scratched his neck in multiple places, but it was worth it to get that thing off him.

He was finally able to stand up, a little unsteady after kneeling for so long. There wasn’t anything else in the room, not even the rest of his clothes, since all he was left with were his shorts. He wasn’t exactly embarrassed to be without a shirt, but the fact that Einn or one of her underlings had removed it while he was unconscious was infuriating. He’d make them pay once he got his spear back. He had to focus on finding it and escaping for now. Revenge could wait.

The door wasn’t even locked. This is almost too easy, Jairus thought, and then was immediately proven wrong as he peered outside. Down the hall, two wrath demons and a greed demon were rushing towards him, alerted by the sounds of the chains breaking. Without a second thought, Jairus turned and bolted towards the door at the other end of the hall. If he had his lance, he could kill them easily, but without it, he couldn’t even use his lightning magic. To make matters worse, he was terrified of greed demons, and seeing one scampering towards him on its short, stubby legs with its four unnaturally long arms reaching out made his bottled-up fear come bursting out. He almost slammed into the door, wrenching it open and diving inside without thinking. He slammed the door shut and locked it behind him, then stopped to rest his head against it and catch his breath. He couldn’t rest long, he had to…

A sudden, sharp pain emanated from the back of his neck. He tried to reach up and identify the source, but he couldn’t move all of a sudden. Jairus collapsed to the ground as his legs gave out, and he found himself staring up into the coal-black eyes of a pride demon. Setting down the needle, the white demon that had rendered him powerless shouted over its comrades’ relentless pounding on the door, “Quiet, worms! Everything worked out as expected.” It reached over and unlocked the door. “Get in here and help me, this stuff doesn’t last long.” The other demons came into the room as the pride demon reached down and yanked Jairus up by his hair. “So eager to start, aren’t we? Don’t worry, all of us are as excited as you.” It sneered at Jairus’s expressionless face, before letting Jairus’s head fall back to the ground with a hard thunk. Jairus tried to move, tried to fight, but his body wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t lose again, he was the dragon hybrid, dammit. There was no way that this was happening.

There was no way, even as the other demons came in and lifted him onto the wooden table in the middle of the room (that greed demon’s awful hands all over him). There was no way, even as they removed the broken restraints and chained him to the table. There was no way, even as a crumpled rag was shoved between his teeth. There was no way, until he felt something sharp in his left palm. His eyes, the only part of him that would work, rolled over to see a giant metal spike, dripping with a liquid that burned his scales, that one of the wrath demons was pushing down into his dragon hand. Terror ran through him like lightning, he didn’t want this, he didn’t want this-

DING. The feeling of the metal driving through his flesh caused a cry to echo in his throat, the only reaction his limp body could give. DING. He could feel the bones in his hand breaking as the nail was driven deeper. DING. Each whack of the hammer hurt more than the last, which he didn’t even think was possible. DING. The nail had pushed all the way through his hand now, biting into the table and widening the hole in his palm. DING. Why did they have to keep hitting it? DING. Their laughing faces swam in front of his eyes. DING. He could feel his cries humming in his throat, trapped behind the gag. DING. Was this his punishment for running off by himself and leaving his friends behind? For thinking he could defeat Einn without them?

The hammering had stopped. He didn’t want to, but he had to open his eyes and look. Once he did, he really wished he hadn’t. There was something sickening about the sight of the nail sticking out of his hand. He fought the urge to throw up, which would be doubly unpleasant since the gag in his mouth meant it had nowhere to go. The pride demon leaned over him, a wicked grin showing off its fangs, “We’re going to make certain that you can never move that cursed arm of yours ever again. Let any hope of escape die along with your sanity.” He turned to the greed demon as he unscrewed a medium-sized bottle. “Get the soul-muting band.”

“The fun part’s finally here then, Zariel?” The greed demon said as it reached one of its four long arms to the instrument-laden table by the wall and grabbed a metal band set with a dark green gemstone.

“Indeed it is.” Once the band was secured around Jairus’s upper right arm, Zariel began to pour the contents of the bottle over his nailed-down left arm. It didn’t exactly hurt his scales, but Jairus felt them softening, and the pain came once they began to crack and the acid came into contact with the skin underneath. Liquid fire was seeping into his flesh, every cracked scale allowing more and more of it to burn him. He bit down on the rag in his mouth, almost grateful that it silenced his cries.

Jairus’s draconic features always healed quickly thanks to the bond between his soul and the lightning dragon one that had been fused to it. But the band seemed to be blocking that connection, preventing his corroded scales and burned skin from repairing themselves. His arm was left damaged, with its black scales dissolving and cracking, showing patches of the bright yellow skin lightning dragons possessed, mottled with orange-red burns.

The greed demon then handed Zariel a long, thin knife, brandishing its own in two of its hands. “Let’s ruin this damned arm of yours now, shall we?” Zariel purred. The knife slid through his acid scorched scales with frightening ease, hitting bone before Jairus had properly registered the pain. He gasped into the gag as the blade continued along his bone, peeling off the flesh of his arm in one bloody strip. No, no, he couldn’t look any more. Couldn’t watch as his ruined black scales gave way to the pinkish white of a bone drenched in his blood. Couldn’t look at the wicked grins of the demons carving him up. But he could feel. Feel the knife gliding so effortlessly through his muscle that the pain started out as a quiet whispering before ramping up to a full-bodied scream. Feel the cold air wrapping itself around the bone, a sensation that isn’t supposed to be felt, swirling up and up around and everywhere.

Then there was nothing left of his arm save for his hand, still pinned to the table with a jagged spike, and some flesh around his shoulder. The rest was all gone, just frail human bones with bits of muscle clinging to them here and there. And he couldn’t help but stare. His flesh always grew back, it did, but no matter how much we willed it to heal, it wouldn’t. Zariel leaned over him, a devilish smirk on its face. “You think that’s the worst of it, worm? You’re in for a treat.” He brandished a coiled mass of...was that barbed wire?

Yes, yes it was, and it was being wrapped around his left arm now. It wasn’t painful since there were really no nerves left, but he could feel the echoes of the metal scraping against his bones as it was wound around and around. And he hated, hated that feeling, especially knowing how much it was going to hurt once his arm came back (it was coming back, right?). But when they removed the band and his flesh began to regrow, he almost wished it wouldn’t.

Healing always came with a horrible itching pain that made his flesh feel like it was being stretched out, and having it push into the barbed wire and wrap around it added sharp, scraping pain to the mix. It was like the time it had healed around a piece of broken glass but magnified to a maddening degree. It felt like his arm was being pulled and stabbed and scraped and there were thousands of insects crawling all over it itched it hurt oh god it hurt make it stop-

And then everything went dark.

When he came to, she was standing over him. Her green eyes lit up the moment she saw he was awake.

“Well there you are, little hybrid. I heard you’re still harboring delusions about escaping. Let’s rectify that, shall we?”

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mercurypilgrim · 4 years

Note

‘ aw, did i hurt your wittle feelings? ’ Prompt please! ^^

Ven’fir was used to poor odds.

He was used to being on the defensive, hissing and spitting at whoever had decided to take a potshot at him this time.

He bit down the urge to curse as he moved a little too slow and the training blade caught his arm, the burning plasma scorching his skin.

With a grunt of effort, he groped for the Force and tugged, and the air shivered before one of his assailants was knocked off her feet, crashing to the floor of the training room with a grunt that sounded painful.

Sensing something coming at him from the side, he ducked low just in time to feel the buzz of another training blade pass over his head and, in a move that gained him a surprised cry from the man wielding the blade, tackled him.

Ven’fir had never been short or particularly twiggy, and he used his weight and size to his advantage as he sent them both crashing to the mats.

Force, he didn’t even have his blade.

It was lying off to the side, knocked from his hand in the first moment of the ambush, which was what this had been.

Some stuck-up prick had sent these acolytes at him, and he honestly had no idea why or even who.

He had made a lot of enemies and not many friends, and there were some out there who would see him dead or disgraced just because they didn’t like that fact that he was green.

Well, he thought grimly as he rolled with a punch to his face that made him see stars, that was fine.

He’d show them.

The next punch was coming his way and he rolled them over, using the confusion of his opponent to hand a solid headbutt that connected with a satisfying crunch. Scrambling out from the groaning acolyte who was trying to stem the slow of blood from his ruined nose, Ven’fir felt a pair of arms grab him from behind.

A stab of panic bloomed in his gut as he struggled, seeing the woman he had knocked off her feet earlier advancing on him with a sneer and her blade in her hands.

Summoning the Force, he opened his mouth to shout.

A hand closed over his face, and he thrashed, the Force dissipating under his shaky control.

With a snarl, he bit down hard.

A grunt from behind him was worth the taste of blood that filled his mouth, his sharp canine teeth puncturing deep into the soft flesh of a finger. He bit down again and felt something crunch. He heard an ear-piercing shriek and the arm holding him let go.

He wriggled out of the hold in time to throw himself to the side to avoid a scything blade, spitting blood out of his mouth as he came up in a crouch.

He was tired.

His eye was beginning to swell, and he was sure a finger was dislocated, and his breath hurt every time he breathed.

One opponent left, and she was a mean one.

She was a bruiser of a thing; all crimson tattoos and better-than-you sneer.

Her hair, once done up in an elaborate coif, was snarled ad tangled around her shoulders.

Ven’fir stretched out a hand in the direction of his blade, calling on the Force.

Her eyes widened and she surged forwards to stop him summoning his blade.

He opened his mouth and roared.

The wall of Force enhanced sound blew her off her feet and slammed her into the wall, where she stumbled and gave a grunt of pain, a spray of blood from her lips making him think he’d cracked a rib.

Ven’fir felt one knee buckle and staggered even as his blade came to his hand.

Fuck.

The woman stood again, looking very much worse for wear.

He was about to reach out for the Force again when the door opened and, in an almost comedic moment, everyone stopped.

The person in the doorway didn’t stay still for long.

The woman turned on him and raised her blade with intent to hurt when the newcomer darted forwards and, with brutal force, sank a fist into her sternum.

She crumpled, her blade falling to the floor.

How anticlimactic.

Ven’fir looked at the newcomer.

An acolyte like him, going by the hideous robes.

He was Mirialan, his white hair contrasting starkly with his green skin.

Hmm, pretty.

His eyes were wide and surprised, as though neatly dispatching a murderous acolyte hadn’t been on the agenda when he had walked in.

It probably hadn’t.

Ven’fir recognised him. Sommin, he thought his name was. A twitchy thing, but he had lasted a lot longer than most.

It was hard not to be aware of him, when the number of alien acolytes that lasted longer than a week was in the single digits.

He regarded the other acolyte warily, controlling his breathing.

“I suppose you want a thank you.” He ventured, keeping his senses keyed up in case one of the groaning acolytes decided to come at him again, or Sommin wasn’t there to help at all.

The other Sith looked baffled and uncomfortable. He kept staring at where Ven’fir’s mouth was smeared with blood.

“Uh, not necessary.” he murmured. “I… why were they attacking you?”

Ven’fir spat out another gobbet of blood, grimacing. Fury burned in his veins, his blood calling out for vengeance.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Crossing to the only acolyte conscious, the one he had headbutted having slipped into sweet release after the blow to the head Ven’fir had given him, he stood over the young man clutching his hand.

“You- you bit my fucking finger off!” the man howled, eyes bulging. Behind him, Sommin drew in an audible breath.

Ven’fir smiled, showing bloody teeth.

“Don’t be a baby,” he murmured, looming over him. “It’s hardly severed. You’ll still hold a lightsaber with that hand though.” He said sweetly, and the acolyte drew in a shuddering breath.

Ven’fir, as quick as he could, reached out and grabbed his wrist.

The acolyte started, but he held tight and placed a booted foot in the centre of his chest, forcing him back against the floor. He bent at the waist, keeping the arm taut.

“Now,” he said with a grin. “Tell me who sent you after me, or I take more fingers.”

The acolyte, face horrified, shook his head.

“I don’t know.” He assured, and Ven’fir tutted.

Behind him, Sommin made an aborted motion towards him.

“You’re not really going to-“ he started, cutting himself off. “Y-you can’t.”

Ven’fir ignored him and gripped the next finger.

Absently he noted that the ruined finger was well and truly mangled, his sharp teeth and strong bite having torn through flesh and crushed fragile bone.

And Imperials said aliens were physically inferior.

With a yank, there was a sickening crack and the acolyte wailed, the finger standing at an unnatural angle.

Sommin rushed forwards and grabbed Ven’fir’s shoulder.

He jumped, half turning and baring sharp teeth on instinct.

“Don’t touch me.” He spat, keyed up. Aware of the startled look on the other Mirialan’s face, he forced himself calmer. “Don’t sneak up on someone just out of combat, seriously.”

Sommin met his stare with huge orange eyes, his presence so tightly wound it was like brushing his mind over steel wool. It was a turmoil of feeling and emotion, but it was warm. There was a core of something light there that Ven’fir relaxed into before something sharp jabbed him in the senses and he withdrew before this strange acoloyte’s Force presence stung him again.

“Leave him alone.” Sommin warned, tone tense but firm.

Ven’fir blinked.

“He tried to kill me.” He said slowly, baffled. “I need to know on whose orders.”

Sommin looked supremely uncomfortable, but he wasn’t backing down.

“That’s torture.” He murmured, and Ven’fir didn’t get it.

“Yes?”

For a moment, the white haired Sith looked like he was floundering before he seemed to draw on some reserve of patience Ven’fir had to admit that he was impressed with.

“You’re just as bad as them, if you do this.” He said softly, and Ven’fir tilted his head.

“Yeah, probably.” He paused. “Aw, did I hurt your wittle feelings?” he mocked, annoyance sparking in his belly.

Sommin seemed to take a deep breath, and he squared his shoulders, refusing to give the reaction Ven’fir wanted.

“I won’t stop you if you continue but… you’ll only get yourself caught.” He said quietly, “And you owe me.”

Ven’fir paused.

“I didn’t need your help.” He bit out, displeased at having his actions dictated.

Sommin looked wary, but he wasn’t baking down.

That was impressive, considering Ven’fir was fairly sure he looked all kinds of awful right now.

“But you still got it.” The white-haired acolyte argued, seemingly trying not to fidget. He came off as uncomfortable simply existing in his own skin, but he shone bright in the Force and Ven’fir was impressed with his tenacity if not what he was applying it to. “You owe me.”

Ven’fir scoffed.

“And you want to waste your favour from me on this guy?” he asked incredulous.

Sommin averted his eyes but didn’t back down.

“I saved your life, and you’re not going to kill him, or you’ll be expelled.” He said quietly. “I’d say that’s only a half a favour cashed in.”

The sheer nerve of that made Ven’fir laugh so hard he had to drop the mangled hand he was holding.

He straightened and gave a startled Sommin a smile.

From how the other Mirialan looked alarmed, it wasn’t a nice one.

“You know what? Fine. You’re something else, Sommin Atlas.”

Sommin’s brow creased in concern, orange eyes widening.

“How do you know my name?” he asked, body tense.

Vne’fir shrugged, his fury dissipating in the face of amusement.

“You’re green, darling. As if I could miss you.” He teased. He cast his attention to the beaten acolyte at their feet. He crouched down and grabbed the man’s chin, forcing him to look up. He ignored the way Sommin tensed behind him.

“You owe him,” Ven’fir murmured to the terrified student. “Because I would have ruined every finger on that hand before starting on your other one. Thanks to him, you might hold a lightsaber again one day.”

Letting him go, he straightened and stepped away. His whole body ached, and his ribs were on fire, but he reached up to wrench his own finger back into place with a nasty pop. He grimaced at the stab of pain. That hurt.

He would figure out who was trying to kill him another day.

He turned to Sommin, who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

Ven’fir smirked, fascinated by this odd acolyte.

“Since I owe you,” he began, “It looks like you’ll be seeing a lot of more of me.”

Laughing at Sommin’s less than enthusiastic expression, he leaned over and pressed a bloody kiss to his cheek, feeling the other tense and almost bolt under his touch.

Backing off and leaving a smear of crimson on one tattooed cheek, Ven’fir grinned and wiped blood from the corner of his own mouth.

“Thanks for the save, darling. Lead the way.”

#swtor #star wars: the old republic #Sommin Atlas #Ven'fir #fanfiction #asks #I hope I got Sommin's character right!#I love him #OCs #Other People's OCs #mutuals OCS #Ven wasn't nice in his academy days #but sommin saved his ass #and he won't forget it #Sommin has a friend now if he likes it or not #snippets

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pandawritespoorly · 4 years

Text

With Time: Something Happened

Author’s Note: The doc for this is titled 'Drink some water you coward'. My friend needed to drink water but wouldn't, and I made a threat that I fulfilled. I won't say who I killed, but those of you who have been around long even may remember a tumblr post from long ago. (Heh heh, reblogged it to bring it back a few days ago)

Here's that story, which I can finally post now that With Time is over.

(Sorry for the angst. I'll post something fluffy soon.)

Summary: The team goes up against Hawkmoth, and something happens.

!!! Warnings: Character Death, Violence

It had been years. Years upon years of fighting against Hawkmoth. It had gotten bad enough that Adrien and Marinette had eventually needed to give their friends their miraculouses permanently.

It hadn’t been solely a bad thing of course. They’d been planning on doing it soon enough, but it’d happened sooner than they’d intended.

Of course, after spending a good six years - almost seven - Marinette and Adrien could not be ready for this day.

The final face off with Hawkmoth.

The man that had been terrorizing the heroes, the city, for years.

They’d tracked him down after learning of Mayura’s identity.

“How did I not know?” Chat Noir stares at the mansion he was raised in, “He’s my father! I grew up in the same building he was attacking the city from!”

“Adrien-” Ladybug begins.

“I’m supposed to be a hero! What kind of-”

“Adrien-” it’s Kit Mime this time, gripping his shoulder and turning the other boy to face him, “None of us blame you.”

“You should.”

“No, we shouldn’t. He kept it from the entire city, y’ couldn’t’ve known,” Tortue Verte cuts in.

“The entire city wasn’t living with him this whole time! For fuck’s sake, he attacked my school the most! He wasn’t even subtle!”

“Adrien, it’s not-” Honey Bee also tries to interrupt him.

“All those attacks where he or I was targeted! How could I not have realized-” gloved hands dig into blond hair, green eyes vacant.

“Chat-”

“My name literally means ‘dark butterfly’, I mean come on!”

“Adrien!” Ladybug snaps. She isn’t angry, just trying her best to reign him back in.

He pauses, taking a breath to steady himself.

“Kitten, none of us blame you,” Kit Mime keeps his own gloved hands on Chat Noir’s shoulders, “So you shouldn’t be blaming yourself.”

The hero looked doubtful, but didn’t respond.

“He’s right,” Ladybug comes to his side as well, hugging him tightly.

Doing so triggers a group hug among the heroes. There’s a lot of feelings towards what’s about to happen.

There’s a lot to process, but they didn’t have much time. They wanted to settle this as quickly as possible - both for Paris’ sake and to avoid Gabriel getting suspicious.

“Alright. Let’s go,” and Chat leads the charge into the house.

It’s time to end this.

---

Despite having hoped to take the man by surprise, he must have been clued in somehow. They burst into his lair to find it empty.

They tense, walking forward hesitantly and looking around cautiously.

“Where-” Honey begins to speak.

There’s a sound, quiet enough that only Kit and Chat hear it. They motion for silence and turn in the direction, night vision carefully scanning the area.

Honey Bee inhales sharply.

“This would be an ideal time to hand over your miraculouses.” a cold voice cuts through the silence.

The group turns to see Hawkmoth himself standing before them, sword drawn from his cane and pointed precariously near the heroine’s neck. She stands stiffly, hands raised slightly.

Low growls come from the two tallest boys, while Ladybug and Tortue shift to fighting positions.

“Give it up Gabriel,” Chat snarls.

“You’ve lost,” Kit Mime adds.

“It would seem I was correct to assume that Nathalie had been compromised,” the tip of the sword pushes further into Honey’s neck, and she tilts her head safely away.

“Gabriel Agreste, your reign of terror on Paris is over. Hand over your miraculous.” Ladybug holds out her hand, glaring at the monster before them.

“No. Not until I’ve completed my goal.”

“The consequences of any wish would be catastrophic. The world can’t afford your selfishness-”

“Selfish?!” The man roars, “You are the selfish ones! I only want what’s best for my family! What’s best for my son!” In his anger, he gestures carelessly and a pinprick of blood appears on Honey Bee’s neck as he speaks.

Chat Noir growls, snapping and swiping at the man, “What’s best for your son?! What’s best for your son?! How is terrorizing Paris supposed to help your son?!”

Taking the distraction, Honey Bee ducks and slides over to her other teammates. Tortue looks worriedly at her neck, but she smiles at him, “I’m fine,” she says quietly.

Kit Mime seems to disagree, scowling - a rare expression for him - and joining his friend in the barrage of attacks at the supervillain.

“Well,” Ladybug says, readying her yo-yo, “We do this like we always do…”

Honey Bee and Tortue Verte speak with her, readying their own weapons and dropping into offensive stances, “...together.”

The trio joins their teammates in the fight.

---

They didn’t think it was going to be this hard. Especially given that it was five to one.

Yet here they are. At least one and a half hours later, and the fight hadn’t gotten anywhere.

They’re exhausted.

Maybe it’s closer to two or three hours. None of them have really bothered to check the time, simply focussing on their goal, aiming to end this nightmare as soon as possible.

Hawkmoth swipes his sword at the spotted girl. She dances away to the best of her abilities, though she feels it makes contact anyways.

It wasn’t the first time, and she’d stopped checking once they’d all been false alarms.

Her suit is impenetrable after all.

This needed to end soon. The exhaustion of her team was palpable, but somehow Hawkmoth seemed fine.

Maybe he was just better at hiding it. Or he had more experience. The reason didn’t really matter to her anyways.

The team of five continues in their assault, their teamwork they’d built up on for the past five years shining through.

Still, it wasn’t a perfect art, and mistakes were bound to happen.

No one is quite sure how it happens, but the frenzy of movement halts when Hawkmoth wrenches Kit Mime toward him by the arm.

“Let him go,” Honey Bee growls.

“Give up your miraculouses.” It’s basically his mantra with how many times he’s said it now. He’s holding the fox hero to him tightly, gripping his neck from behind so that both miraculous holders are in clear sight.

“That’s not going to happen,” Chat repeats.

“This is your final warning,” Hawkmoth cautioned lowly, a hint of something in his voice.

He correctly takes their silent glares and battle stances as refusal.

The dark chamber is silent for a moment.

Five teenagers wait patiently for the next move.

A sickening crunch echoes through the room.

Even with most of them lacking night vision, their eyes have adjusted enough that they can see what happened.

Hawkmoth holds up Kit Mime by the neck, dangling the boy above the floor. The hero’s face is an unnatural color, and his feet kick uselessly at the floor, searching for traction.

His hands reach for the one that has crushed his throat, but the adult’s iron grip is too tight.

His teammates, friends, can only stand in horrified silence. The only sound is the ocaissonal scuffle of boots against the floor. The color that has appeared on his face is deepening, and his hands still claw at the one around his neck. His flute is on the floor, dropped in surprise when the moment came.

None of them are looking at any of that though.

It’s his eyes.

Kit- Claude’s eyes, normally bright and full of mirth are wide with fear.

Even through the worst attack, Kit Mime had been able to smile, keep things light and spirits up.

And now…

It’s when his eyes begin to glaze over, growing unfocused, that they break out of their trance.

Chat Noir’s and Honey Bee’s faces harden in resolve, both rushing forward.

Ladybug hears a furious ‘cataclysm’ and ‘venom’, which somewhat shakes her out of her oncoming attack. She can panic late, right now she has to…

What does she do?

Tortue isn’t doing well, hyperventilating beside her.

Kit Mime is still struggling in the villain’s grip, though his desperate kicks and gasps have become fainter, weaker.

The five of them couldn’t defeat Hawkmoth together, should she really let only two of them try alone? They need all the help they can get, right?

The heroine’s eyes dart back and forth, undecided. Comfort Tortue?

Help Chat and Honey with Kit?

Comfort Tortue?

Help Chat and Honey with K-

-it?

The moment of indecision costs her. In the time it takes Chat and Honey to cross the room, Hawkmoth grows impatient.

Tired of holding up the struggling boy, Hawkmoth tightens his grip on his sword, raises his hand, and runs it through the boy.

Honey and Chat can’t stop their momentum in time, Honey’s hand slides past the intended target, and she can’t pick herself off the floor, instead staring in horror at the scene above her.

The scene doesn’t last long.

Chat’s outstretched hand makes contact.

With an orange suit.

The darkness spreads like an inky disease across the brightly colored uniform. Shadowy tendrils make their way over it, spreading like a horrific wildfire and leaving nothing but ash and dust behind.

Chat Noir stares in terror at his gloved hand, now coated in dust that looked too soft for something so nauseating.

Reality chooses this moment to resume its normal speed. In comparison to the last eternal minute or two, everything feels like double speed.

Honey Bee manges to put together enough thoughts to hit her venomed hand to their foe’s leg, and stands to take the miraculous.

Chat hasn’t moved.

Tortue is barely breathing with how badly he’s panicking.

And Ladybug?

Ladybug defaults to her usual solution.

“Miraculous Ladybug.”

Claude’s body reappears right where it had been previously. He falls to the ground, the other heroes nearby follow him, too exhausted to do anything else.

After a moment they’re all far too aware of the fact that he isn’t breathing.

“Miraculous Ladybug.”

He remains still.

“Miraculous Ladybug.”

Nothing. She’s beginning to feel dizzy.

“Miraculous Ladybug.”

Why isn’t it working?

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

Why isn’t he coming back?!

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Miraculous Ladybug!!”

How had this happened?

“Miraculous Ladybug!!!”

She feels sick.

“MIRACULOUS LADYBUG!”

Still nothing.

Her shouts become a repetitive echo, ringing through the terrible chamber. What else can she do? She’s the leader. She’s the one who fixes everything.

So why isn’t everything fixed?! Of the team, she’s the only one still speaking. The only one still standing.

Until she isn’t anymore.

The others look up after her quiet, pleading calls go silent, soon followed by a thud.

Against a surface other than her bright red suit, the alarming amount of blood flowing from a distressingly large gash in her side is hard to miss.

---

When Felix walks into the hospital room he does not know what to expect. He had known they were going after Hawkmoth, so the fact that Adrien had sent him a text with nothing but the words ‘we’re here’ and the hospital’s address and a room number concerned him.

Still, he did not want to jump to conclusions.

Perhaps Hawkmoth had been critically injured.

He repeated that thought over and over because the alternative-

No, there is no alternative. Hawkmoth is injured and his friends are fine.

He loops that thought.

Hawkmoth is injured and his friends are fine.

Hawkmoth is injured and his friends-

He walks into the room, hearing the steady beeping of the heart monitor and turns to see…

Marinette in the bed. All manner of tubes and wires attached to her.

When he manages to rip his eyes away, his fears do not cease.

Adrien is staring at Marinette, though his eyes are far away.

Allegra is barely holding herself together.

And Allan…

Felix hadn’t seen that look on Allan’s face since- since-

Something is missing.

Someone is missing.

“Where is Claude?” He barely manages to keep his voice steady.

Those three words are all it takes.

The Allegra’s final threads snap and she loses the little composure she already had. She falls to her knees like beggar and sobs.

The look on Allan’s expression gets worse, and he stops breathing momentarily, and even afterwards his breaths are irregular.

Adrien is gripping Marinette’s hand like a lifeline, head buried in the sheets of the hospital bed as he sits beside it.

No one speaks.

The picture is becoming very clear, but Felix just will not accept it.

Surely Claude is just somewhere else.

Grabbing something perhaps?

Another sob from Allegra is all it takes to dash all his hopes. Anyone with half a mind can see the only answer to this question.

Something happened.

The mission went wrong.

Claude is gone.

---

I'm just going to leave this here. No more words from me.

Reminder: This is very much not canon to my With Time storyline.

16 notes · View notes

wincore · 5 years

Text

love, summer | dong sicheng

pairing: merman!sicheng x reader

words: 7.3k

genre: mermaid!au, fluff, some angst

warnings: mentions of nightmares and anxiety

a/n: my exams start next week and i really wanna complete a request by then but hnnnfhgf hear me out,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,merman sicheng is great,,,,,

You dreamt that the entire city was submerged in crystal clear water. The little glowing fishes swam over your bed, in and out through buildings and houses, over and under tree branches. As you tried to focus on your novel, the fishes tickled your arms and legs, blowing bubbles in front of you, beckoning you to leave your room, like they have something to show you, some secret to tell.

You climbed out your window for the first time in a long time, even if it was in a dream. You took one slow step after another, and soon you floated down to the soft, green grass. You let yourself be carried forward by the swarm of golden-orange fish as they joked and told you stories, trying to make their company much more enjoyable than they already were. You walked past the bus stop, greeting the old ladies going to the market, and finally down the stone steps, urged on by your marine companions.

They inevitably stopped at the edge of what was supposed to be the beach, if the city hadn’t been submerged in water. It still looked the same, except the water there was a darker, richer blue and you found yourself struggling to not dip your feet in it. Your eyes scanned the area; the rocks and fences were accompanied by painted fish, the sunlight streamed through the turquoise waters above and around you and the occasional jellyfish popped in to say hi. You seemed to be the only one there, and while the cold current felt refreshing all on your own, you missed the warm glow of the fishes already.

You walked further towards the ocean when you noticed the figure standing by the large pile of rocks you had labelled ‘the lion’ a long time ago due to its resemblance to the wild animal. You don’t know why but you found yourself being pulled towards the figure, although there was no current as far as you remember. As soon as you stopped, the boy turned to face you, a curious look on his face. The solid gold ink painted in fine lines across his cheeks, necks and shoulder blades gave him the appearance of someone special as much as the low-cut dress shirt tried to play him off as ordinary. His features were regal but his eyes were kind as they scanned you over, as if trying to comprehend your existence.

You smiled at the boy like you knew him. His expression remained unchanged as he stared back at you with wide eyes and parted lips, abruptly raising his arm to place it fondly on your cheek. The skies were still bright blue but you felt your chest constrict at the contact as the water around you suddenly turned against you. It seemed to darken; it choked you, filled your lungs that are not adapted to breathing underwater, and soon you open your eyes to your alarm clock flashing 4:00 AM in bright red.

Your heart still beats uncontrollably fast as you try to settle the panic that has risen your chest cavity. You try to think of anything but water—the treehouse in the local park, your mother’s favourite perfume, your neighbour’s golden retriever. You calm down eventually, sweeter and softer images slowly filling your mind. You look out your window to find a clear night sky and silence, and before the unnatural fear can settle in again, you shut your eyes and pull your blanket over you.

Despite waking up groggy and a little too close to noon for your liking, you help your mother with the errands (more like, you were forced to but it’s not like you have anything better to do). You race no one in particular as you run through the crowds to the local marketplace. You’ve grown used to avoiding bumping into people as you skip over steps, the uneven pavement adding a stumble to your movement. You say hello to the vendors and the people you already know, and while they understand your rush to buy the vegetables—you’ve always been this way—you yourself don’t know why you’re still in a hurry. You’ve been running since you were a child, and you haven’t stopped in quite a while.

It would have been a normal errand run for you had you not ran into the boy from your dream. His lips and jaw are still set into a regal expression, his hair is boyishly messy as if it’s just been dried and he moves as if he’s analysing the whole marketplace, each step calculated and each glance scrutinising. You think you’re blatantly staring at this point, but you can’t snap out of it either—every time he glances at a shop, or picks up a small item to look at, or lets the corner of his lips quirk upwards at the fruit-seller’s puppies guarding the fruits.

The boy finds your eyes in the crowd and freezes immediately. You make your way towards him, again as if drawn by a current but he shies away, running through the crowds and somewhere else till he’s out of sight. You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. Was he even real or have you started hallucinating in the summer heat?

There’s something about the boy, something that makes you unable to stop thinking about him—real or not. Was it the glint of the unknown in his eyes? Or was it his way of walking, each stride as graceful as a king? Was it the soft look of innocence painted across his cheeks? Or the pureness of his secret smiles?

You walk home at a slower pace, still lost in dreams and wonder. Your mother doesn’t appreciate you running into the house and dropping the groceries in the kitchen at lightning speed to run back outside. While you’re sure you’ll get an earful when you get home, you make your way past the bus stand, past the children’s park towards the silver beach.

It’s hotter than it was in your dream, but you’re used to it, appreciating the occasional breeze that graces your presence. There’s no particular reason as to why you came here. You don’t expect the boy to be here, but you came here on impulse anyway. The sunlight is almost always blinding in the afternoon, and you sit beside the lion, sighing in its shade and pat its rocks like they understand you, like they are alive in some way.

The afternoon is when you like the beach the most(other than at night), despite its heat. It’s relatively empty save the stray tourist here and there, and the songs of the seabirds and the waves lull you into your happy place, where you can be free and unafraid all at once. You used to run on the sand, struggling to land with a strong footing, you used to run every day to the beach, climbing over the fence. You used to run to laugh and be happy, to look cool to your friends when you won against them in a race. You don’t know why you still run so fast, but being an adult unable to catch up is a sadder fate than one would imagine.

You hear a sigh on the other side of the rock, and immediately perk up. With slow, silent movement you stand up and take a step forward to peek to the other side. An inaudible gasp escapes from your mouth, at the boy from your dreams present before you yet again. He wears a dark baseball cap, a new addition to his outfit from the marketplace, and you can’t see any recognizable expression on his face for you to discern.

In your excitement, you become rather insensitive to his sense of security, and run around the rock to try and greet him (you don’t know how yet but you think a ‘hi’ is a good start). But the suddenness of your action leads to a strangled noise emanating from his throat as he stumbles backward and lands on the soft sand. Realizing your inconsiderate proceedings, you feel a blush bloom across your face and crouch down in front of him.

“Sorry!” you begin, “I really am- I didn’t mean to do that.”

He stares at you with slightly wider eyes for a few quiet seconds before shaking his head.

“It’s okay.”

His voice is deeper than you expected, although it carries a melody you find familiar.

Finding no other way to improve the conversation, you introduce yourself. You’re suddenly a little conscious of how casual your attire is, shorts and an oversized t-shirt, while he’s dressed in a loose fitting, full-sleeved shirt somewhat resembling a Disney prince. When you ask him his name, he looks a little confused, tilting his head to one side with a blank expression.

“My name? My name is Sicheng.”

“Sicheng,” you repeat.

“Yes,” he nods.

“Do you come here often?” you ask, a smile playing on your lips.

He looks amused, a tiny light sparkling in his eyes as he responds, “Yes. I guess you can say that.”

Talking to Sicheng is easier than talking to people from your town. Although he acts like a tourist sometimes, there’s nothing remotely tourist-y about the way he thinks, about the way he talks of the ocean and the sand. Sometimes, it feels like he knows much more about your own secret place than you do. He talks slowly and carefully at first, with you continuing the conversation. But when you talk about the ocean like a friend, he perks up, listening intently and adding on with a excited tremor to his voice.

“You think it looks like a lion too?” you ask.

“No, a sea lion,” he insists.

You press your eyebrows together to think. Does it now?

“I’ve never seen a lion anyway,” Sicheng mutters when you don’t come up with a response.

“Neither have I, silly, but you must have seen pictures.”

Sicheng looks flustered before nodding rapidly, “O-Of course!”

The sand is still warm when the evening begins, and you gaze at the orange hues meddling with fading blues of the ocean, in peaceful silence. Sicheng breaks it, getting up suddenly, a look of panic etched across his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“I, uh, I have curfew.”

“Really?” you laugh. “How old are you?”

“Older than you for sure,” he shows his teeth in something of a grin before making a run for it over the sands, a hasty goodbye directed your way.

Sicheng’s disappearing figure reminds you that you, too, have a curfew and your mother will have your head soon.

You can’t sleep that night. The nightmares are strong and vivid, and they like to constrict your lungs, rob you of air every time you try closing your eyes. You throw off your blanket and sit up, unable to take it anymore.

Where else can you go in the middle of the night but the sea? The sea which has calmed you since you were a child, the sea which doesn’t ask questions unless you want it to, the sea that has been here since before you existed and which will be there long after you’re gone. This is the sea you come to every time your chest hurts, every time you need to keep breathing. You skip over the rocks till you land on the one furthest into the ocean. The waves crash against the boulders, splashes of water hitting you in sporadic seconds. You let your legs dangle over the edge, as you sit on a relatively flat surface of the giant rock.

The sea at night listens. You listen to its existence, and it listens to your heartbeat. You notice the moon swaying on the water, and involuntarily look up. If you could take in your breaths without worrying about the coming morning, you’d already have ventured far, far beyond the summer. You stand, wanting to feel the ocean breeze a little clearer, to laugh with the moon a little easier.

The dark blue night sky enchants you, charms you so much that you don’t notice your feet in the darkness. The moon and its lucent companions get blurry and before you can comprehend, you stumble and fall.

The thing about seawater is that it stings as much as it is cold. Your nose and throat burn as you’re relentlessly pushed and pulled in tug-of-war game that the sea plays with itself. You try grabbing a hold of the rocks but they’re too slippery, escaping your grasp each time but leaving you with flaring scratches. You’re about to give up—maybe your lungs were meant to be filled with water, after all, and you take one deep breath before trying to reach for a strong enough hold. You do get a hold of something this time, but it’s too soft, too moving to be rocks.

Glowing eyes scan yours and you don’t have enough time to react to it holding you by the waist as your consciousness slowly leaves you. The night gets darker at a rapid pace and the last thing you remember is a warmth pressed against your mouth.

You wake up in a place you had once had a glimpse of a long, long time ago. Or rather, it’s a place you think you’ve seen before because it looks like a hideout, a magic-scented cove from your fantasy novels. No, you can’t say you’ve ever been here. But the essence of it is familiar.

The rocks around you are mossy, and the sound of dripping water continues to echo through the cave-like area. Sunlight streams in through a place further off, and you think you can see a hint of bright green seaweed, dancing under the light. You’re not underwater, no. The pools scattered around your feet are deeper than they appear to be, sapphire blue and strangely inviting. The largest one is near the fields of submerged seaweed, lighter turquoise water swaying under the breeze. You inevitably walk towards it, steps slow but steady.

The sound of gushing water gets louder with every step you take, and you can finally see the small sets of waterfalls that have formed over the large pool. The sunlight is brighter yet, and it must be early morning because you can hear the rising cries of the seagulls. There’s some red sprinkled on the sand near the pool which you realize are baby crabs with delight, and you’re sure you spot the occasional rainbow scales of fish inside the waters.

Just when you’re about to turn the other way, you notice a startlingly familiar face gazing at the part of the sky that the rocks of the cliff allow you to see. He’s in the pool, mostly underwater, while his bare torso rests under the sun.

“S-Sicheng?!”

Sicheng snaps his head towards you, but instead of showing any hints of compassion, he sinks further underwater till the water reaches his nose.

“Sicheng,” you say, dodging the little crabs on your path, “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t come any closer!”

“Why?” you continue walking towards the pool while he drifts apart.

“Th-there’s, uh, piranhas! In the pool!”

“What?! Why are you inside then?”

Sicheng exposes his teeth with a click of dismay. The perfect set are only broken by the disproportionately large canines, and while they’re not large enough to poke out of his mouth, they still surprise you a bit.

“Sicheng,” you furrow your brows at him.

Sicheng sighs before propping himself up on a rock, his upper body exposed to you. You jump over to said rock and while you scrutinize him for whatever he may be hiding, he raises his full body onto the rock.

You’re so taken aback you almost fall into the pool. A pale yet somewhat iridescent fishtail stays attached to Sicheng’s lower body, sometimes shimmering with the colours of the rainbow when he moves at certain angles.

“A merman, yes,” Sicheng confirms before you can ask, shaking his head.

“Cool,” you whisper with eyes full of wonder.

“You don’t hate me?”

“What? Why should I?”

Sicheng scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “They always said the humans hated us. That’s why they throw their filth in here.”

“No, sweetie, that’s because humans are shit.”

Sicheng cracks a smile. “Don’t you want to get back?”

“Are you kidding me?” you say, creasing your brows. “No way!”

Sicheng offers to show you around his secret cove with a bashful smile. His tail disappears once he’s out of the water, and once again, he’s in the clothes you saw him in.

When you venture further into the faint darkness, you’re startled by the sudden loud echo of water dripping from an extreme height, no doubt. Sicheng steadies you by the shoulder, and when you smile at him as thanks, you don’t see the warmth of his cheeks in the darkness.

“Just a little further,” Sicheng’s voice comes from beside you.

And then you see it. The glass holds back the blue of the sea, and the life teeming behind it. Your jaw drops and you walk faster towards it, unaware of anything else, looking only at the brightly coloured anemones and the lively fish playing peek-a-boo. The other creatures on the seabed look prehistoric, like something out of a dinosaur book but they mind their own business, scouring the floor.

“My dad made this,” Sicheng says, waving towards the dimly lit glass. “I used to come here all the time.”

You nod, smiling, and press your fingertips against the glass. A turtle swims by, gently tapping its head against the glass and then swimming away. You wave at it, enamoured by its lazy yet jolly movement.

A sudden shuffling from the back of the trail causes the both of you to get alert. The shuffling turns into footsteps and a look of panic spreads across Sicheng’s face as he pulls you into a narrow trail, trying to keep from touching the damp rocks as much as possible. The footsteps eventually fade into a thick silence, full of anticipation, and Sicheng presses you further into a narrow crevasse, his breath hot on your cheek.

You hear voices after a few seconds, and you think Sicheng must recognize one of them because he tenses up, his breath hitching. In his fear, he leans further into you as if he can simply disappear from sight if he gets close enough—and you would be okay with it if it weren’t for lump in your throat and the goosebumps on your skin that had formed at the extreme proximity.

Sicheng lets out a deep breath when he’s sure the owner of the voices have left. He turns to look at your face, which is most certainly far too in his personal space and from what you can make out in the darkness, he suddenly feels warmer. Another thing you find out about Sicheng is that his eyes glow a dangerous yellow in the dark. They widen as if realizing your position only now and he stumbles forward, out into a more breathable area.

You follow him out and he mumbles a panicked ‘sorry!’ to which you shake your head.

“That was my dad,” Sicheng says, his voice low. “He’d kill me if he found I brought a human here.”

“Oh,” you barely respond, your voice meek, “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault,” he says, flashing a polite smile.

You walk to the glass again, the blue-painted light dancing and playing across Sicheng’s cheeks as he smiles at the turtles, a small dimple making its appearance. He turns to meet your gaze, and you don’t know why but your cheeks heat up, caught in the act of staring. He lets out an ‘ah!’ before walking closer and holding up your arms gingerly.

You see the red lines of swollen scratches stretching randomly across your skin as though a deranged man had made marks on a canvas with bright red paint. You hadn’t felt the pain up until now, but suddenly they burn. Before you can understand, Sicheng brings your palm to his mouth and breathes—a cold breath, as soothing as ice on a summer afternoon and you sigh in relief. He does that for all your scratches and cuts; from your knuckles to your elbows to your knees, and the pain subsides as fast as it had appeared.

You gaze at him in wonder. “You’re magical!”

“Yes, I thought the tail gave it away.”

“Don’t get snarky with me.”

Sicheng smiles, the pure kind where he beams all over.

When you glance at your arms again, your skin is fully healed and soft to touch. You make your way back, talking in hushed whispers (it’s mostly you asking about the underwater kingdom, and how cool it would be for sightseeing) and while Sicheng speaks, he doesn’t seem to be telling you everything you want to know.

Sicheng stops at the pool and you stare at his back, wondering why he stopped so suddenly.

When he turns around, his lips are pressed together and there’s a sharp intake of breath before he speaks. “How long can you hold your breath?”

You crease your brows, trying to respond with an answer. Well, in middle school, you could do it up to a little more than two minutes. You’re not very sure about now though; you don’t swim often.

“Seven minutes?”

“Seven?!” you repeat. “I couldn’t do that if I tried!”

Sicheng scrunches his eyebrows again, pressing his lips into a thin line till his cheeks puff out.

“W-well,” he begins, “to get out of the cove, you have to swim through that pool and…”

Sicheng trails off, the dilemma at hand getting obvious.

“Unless you want to climb,” he says, looking up at the rocky walls surrounding the pool that stretch far too high into the sky.

“Is there no other way?” you ask, suddenly scared.

“I don’t think you’d appreciate it,” he says.

You look at him as if to say ‘well, continue’ but he gulps and a somewhat embarrassed expression takes over.

“I’d have to kiss you,” he says, quieter.

Suddenly, an image flows back into your head from last night and you gasp before pointing an accusing finger at Sicheng. “You kissed me last night!”

He seems to get more embarrassed as he trips over his words, trying to explain. “Your- your lungs were failing! And I thought you’d- you’d die for sure I—”

“It’s okay,” you reassure quickly, trying to ignore the rising red in your cheeks.

“It’s okay?” he repeats.

You nod and take a step forward. Sicheng tries to compose himself as he gets closer to you and gingerly presses his lips to yours for a flash of a second. You barely register it, but the same icy feeling travels from your lips to your throat to lungs. By the time your head feels less dizzy, Sicheng is already in the water motioning for you to follow him.

Swimming without the fear of drowning is a different experience altogether. You make sure to say hello to all the fishes you pass, the hum of excitement in your chest leading you on. The sea is dark initially but as you swim up, the sunlight enters and you’re pulled towards it. The school of fish swirl around you and Sicheng, and you see him with a soft smile adorning his face, before he turns back to you.

You take your first breath at the surface of the familiar blue sea. Even when you reach the sand, Sicheng follows you, making sure you’re safe in every step. While you assure him you’re fine, he follows you all the way back home, waving you goodbye with a concerned, tight-lipped smile.

You visit Sicheng the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. Each day he brings a new sea creature you’ve never seen before in a sealed water bubble, with an excited grin tugging at his full lips. Each day you get to know more about him, not because he talks a lot but from the way he talks and the way he looks while talking. You’re at your own pace with him, not worrying about a nightmare anytime soon. Neither of you talk about the ‘kiss’ though and most of you is relieved to never bring it up again.

“This,” Sicheng says, “is a juvenile cowfish.”

It’s a little translucent fish, which tends to glow a soft violet and stares at you with black soulless eyes and puckered lips.

“You really like these creatures, don’t you?”

Sicheng nods, smiling while looking down. “I like those too,” he says, “Puppies.”

Your eyes widen when an idea strikes and you clasp your hands together. “You’re going to love Miss Wei’s puppies. She lives on the cliff, over there.”

You point at the hills that act as a continuation of the short cliffs by the ocean. It’s covered in dense forests but you’ve visited it enough times to know of the numerous cafes and bathhouses, and of course, the location of your elementary school teacher’s house. You used to visit her all the time, along with your childhood friends, to play in her yard and she didn’t mind one bit. She loved your energy bursting through her rooms and she still invites you over, although she’s retired. You visited her almost a month ago, before you found Sicheng, and you remember gleefully playing with her new puppies telling you to come join her again. It’s also a good excuse to go visit her, and have her infamous brownies.

Miss Wei’s house is a long way to trek, though, and you sit at a café midway to your destination. Sicheng pokes around with the menu, somewhat glaring at it before you open your mouth into an ‘o’ shape.

“You can’t read,” you state to him.

He nods and you take the opportunity to present to him your favourites.

“Tiramisu?” he asks, poking the delicacy with a fork. He cuts off a portion and places it in his mouth nonetheless and his eyes widen, a ‘wow’ escaping his lips.

You reach Miss Wei’s house after almost an hour of lugging yourself uphill, and you’re almost immediately engulfed by the puppies. The two of them wag their tails in uncontainable excitement and Sicheng lets out a timid, startled noise when they jump up on him.

You hear your name called out from the front door and Miss Wei stands there in her signature apron; she used to bake cookies for class, too, and she looks as jolly as ever, her skin pale but soft and her cheeks as red as apples. She rushes down the steps to greet you with the biggest smile before turning to Sicheng.

“Is this your boyfriend?”

You turn red without notice, not sure why the thought of Sicheng as your boyfriend makes you feel that way. You shake your head at whirlwind pace, and although Miss Wei responds with a ‘oh dear, my bad’, the glint in her eyes tells you that you’ve given yourself away.

Sicheng is well used to the puppies after a bit of running and stumbling around, and when you sit at the steps of the temple, Miss Wei tells you something you never expected her to say. You notice the marks of age on her skin; the wrinkles, the deep creases, especially when she’s grim. When she was your teacher, she seemed much happier, much more foolish, one would say. Her eyes follow Sicheng’s movement, a mirthless look on her face contrasting with Sicheng’s spikes of laughter.

You must never trust water.

You don’t forget what she says, not because of your attachment, but because they seem to hold a truth you’re missing. A truth you might never be able to grasp. It’s a little strange, though, to hear the words from someone who told you to smile and hold your head high every day.

The summer breeze brings back your teacher’s honey-sweet smile, and she asks, “Aren’t you going to visit the shrine?”

Of course, you had forgotten about the summer rituals. The goddess of the sea in her crown of seashells and shipwrecks, a heart as kind as nature allows and an unmoving yet sorrowful smile playing on her lips—that’s who you worship when the summer haze starts, that’s who you mutter your prayers too, in hopes that one day she might answer them.

Sicheng follows you up the stairs of the shrine happily, after having waved goodbye to Miss Wei and her enthusiastic puppies. He’s suddenly livelier than before, and you would think he’s in a different world altogether, with the lost smile on his face.

You’re sweating by the time you reach the top, and you wipe your brow cursing the heat as Sicheng steps from behind to stand beside you. You flash him a smile, still out of breath, and the returned smile playing on his pink lips make your flutter in a sudden motion.

The shrine in front of you stays inside a jasmine-scented building, the wooden posts holding up its tiled roof. The fragrance comes from the decorated jade bowl, with flowers and stray petals floating on its emerald waters and the small structure stands right in front of the two pillars signifying the entrance. The space inside isn’t too deep, but Sicheng freezes as soon as he sees the carved ivory face of the sea goddess, her eyes wide open in an undecipherable emotion and lips painted red. The colour produces a stark contrast with the bluish grey jewels on her forehead, and it might just describe the very essence of her being.

Ever since you were a child, you’ve heard stories of the feared yet loved deity—how she can swallow the largest, most intricate of ships if she deemed them unworthy, how she blesses the children born by the sea, how her smile has enough power to soak the city in light, and her wrath enough to claim all life on earth. She has a flow timed with the flow of life, and she is all things nature has to offer.

You especially found one particular story interesting, not because it was sweet or heart-warming but because of how unlikely it sounded. The sea goddess, in all her beauty and glory, regularly charmed the mortals and while she viewed them as nothing but passing lives, she still fell in love. She fell in love with a mortal man, and to make him immortal, she performed sacred rituals and raised tsunamis, but alas, it was never meant to be. Her children—children of the sea, with golden and silver and beautiful fishtails, and their children’s children lived on, and they are the ones who make her love unforgettable. Looking at Sicheng now, with his sculpted jaw and rosy lips, phoenix eyes and perfectly arched brows, you’re willing to believe that the goddess of the sea was truly as breath-taking as the stories claim her to be.

Sicheng’s discomfort doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You open your mouth to ask, but he stumbles around, unable to look any longer at the shrine.

The atmosphere turns damp as you walk back down the steps, back to the peachy sands of the seashore. Sicheng refuses to elaborate despite your obvious hints, and you grow restless with each passing second.

You absentmindedly make your way towards the lion, and breathe out before climbing it. Sicheng stands at the base for a few seconds until you usher him to follow suit. He complies, not very reluctant, and soon you’re sitting in silence under the coastal sunset.

“Sicheng,” you begin, “are you going to tell m—”

“I don’t know.”

You purse your lips at his haste. He notices it and sighs, a rather sorrowful expression overtaking his features.

“I…my mother…I hate my mother sometimes,” he says softly, “But I’m not allowed to say that.”

You stay quiet, waiting for an explanation. You understand his hesitance to say something personal and you wont force him, but he looks so burdened, you wish he’d let some of his stress go sometimes.

“Well,” he continues, “she’s the sea goddess you guys love so much.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

“My birth history…is a little…complicated.”

And so you let him elaborate; you wait patiently when his voice hitches, your ears tune in when he speaks without stop and you try to the understand the mess of a life the sea prince has. With a human father, who loved the sea so much he wished to be submerged in it for the rest of his life and was finally granted his wish, and a mother who literally descended from heaven, who barely has time for any of her children, even the one whom she claims to be special—Sicheng’s life certainly isn’t easy and you certainly can’t tell him that it’s okay. So you just listen, like you listen to the seashells, and the sound of the waves.

“She barely looks at me. Am I even her son?”

Sicheng sighs, exhausted from all the talking and you don’t know what comes over you but you run your fingers through his hair and gently pull his head down to rest on your shoulder. Sicheng sighs once more, but this one sounds more of relief and you smile to yourself.

The stars come out and you point out the ones you know to Sicheng, who turns his head sometimes and you feel his breath on your neck.

“My father worked so hard to be with the sea,” Sicheng mumbles, “If he finds me with a human, he won’t be very happy.”

Sicheng sits up straight as if he’s had a sudden revelation, and he turns to you with a determined look in his eyes. He leans in too fast for you to comprehend and places his mouth on yours, this time only a little longer, but pulls away nonetheless. Your ears turn hot and the beating of your heart is only amplified the longer you look at Sicheng’s wide-eyed expression.

“Sorry!” his voice has a sudden inflection. “I wanted to show you something, but it’s underwater so…”

Right. Of course. Kisses mean nothing to the children of the sea.

You nod, and he jumps off the rocks, waiting for you to follow. You walk behind him, the sand cool under your bare feet as you try to forget the lips of the sea prince on yours.

The warmth of the seawater almost makes you sigh but the sight of Sicheng in his most natural form makes you more so. Every ebb and flow of his movement mirror the sea itself and you can feel it in him, the beauty of life and its drift.

Sicheng holds your hand as he guides you through each tavern and cove till you reach a particularly dark area. But it isn’t dark for too long when you see the glowing green carpet of the ocean floor. The anemones pulsate with a sort of otherworldly light, changing colour with every blink and Sicheng motions at you to take a seat on the rocks just at the edge of the new world. Some fishes swim in and out, twirling and tumbling around in a happy dance and you beam at them, almost wanting to join them.

You don’t know how long you stay there, but it’s long enough for you to forget your life on land. It’s marks, however, come back soon as you notice the filth of humanity in the waters near the shore and your blood would boil if it weren’t for Sicheng reassuring you.

“It’s okay”, he smiled, unbothered. “We were all seafoam once and we will be seafoam again.”

When the ocean reclaims what is hers.

When you get back to the surface, you’re more comfortable in your skin than before and you let yourself hug Sicheng goodbye, ignoring the rush of blood to your face. There are a few warning signs going off in your head—this isn’t what’s meant to be, he’s only doing this to rebel, he might not even care for you. It accelerates your fears more so to think about Miss Wei and her words that stung a little, the seed of doubt planted in your head.

You can never trust water. You must never trust water. It is fluid, ever changing and cares only for its own survival, even if it means swallowing whole cities and drowning the innocent.

You elementary teacher was more than cynical that day, and you were left wondering how the ocean had broken her heart to such jagged pieces that they scarred so. It left you a bit shaken.

“Are you okay?” Sicheng asks when you’re lost in thought, and you snap yourself back to reality.

“Yeah,” you say, with your most supportive smile.

“Did you know the whales think they can reach the stars,” Sicheng says with a fond smile. “They only realize when they reach the surface. That the entire universe isn’t full of water. They’re never disheartened, though.”

“You can talk to fishes?”

“No, but I understand them.”

Sicheng tilts his head to look up at the stars and you admire his profile. A creature so elegant, so magical, so unreal—he’s there right beside you, talking to you as a friend, as if you’ve known each other for years. As if you’re equal, as if you deserve to be equal.

But you forget everything when Sicheng smiles at you, when he looks like an ordinary boy with ordinary problems. His hands are never cold to you, like he so complains and for once, you’d like to hold them without any restriction.

Sicheng tenses up when you reach out to stroke his cheek, and you’d be embarrassed by now if he didn’t come closer to you, relishing your touch. You’d be even more embarrassed for leaning in if he didn’t at the same time. But you feel his breath on your lips and it’s enough for you to complete the kiss—a different kiss than before. It’s slower, for one, and Sicheng laughs somewhere into the kiss, unable to contain himself.

“You can’t do that!” you laugh with him.

“I just,” he says in between laughs, “I never thought you’d kiss me.”

“Did you not want me to?”

“I did,” he says, a little more sombre, “I did so bad.”

And so, under the moon smiling on at you, you share your second, third, fourth kisses with the boy whose breath smells like the sea breeze.

Sicheng shifts uncomfortably under his father’s gaze. It isn’t everyday he’s called for a meeting and although he’s got the hang of princely duties by now, he’d be a little disgruntled to be crowned king anytime soon. It’s not like he has a terrible relationship with his father either, but right now, the grim look on him does not let Sicheng relax.

“A human,” his father says, and Sicheng tenses up. “After all I did to save you from a miserable life up above, you still do this.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Not like that?”

“Yes.” Sicheng’s voice has a tremor to it. “I couldn’t leave the sea even if I wanted to.”

“So you’re going to make them leave their home?”

“No,” Sicheng says, a little mortified that he might have to ask that of you. “I’ll let it go if…if they don’t want to.”

“And stay here heartbroken?” His voice has softer edge to it now.

“Are you giving me a choice?”

“You’re going to sit and you’re going to think,” he says, regaining his stern tone, “and if you’re still not fine after that, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

Sicheng nods, his heart heavy. What if you don’t even care that much, and he’s let himself fall? What if humans are truly as terrible as his teachers taught him? He’s never believed that, and he doesn’t think he will anytime soon. The dreams don’t lie, his teachers had said. But he does need to think, and he does need to sort out his own emotions. After all, a restricted life doesn’t call for much self-introspection.

When you don’t see Sicheng for a whole week, you panic a little. It’s also rained for three days straight, and you can’t stay at the beach for too long before the clouds gather up again to spill all their rage onto earth. The sea level has surged and although there’s a tsunami warning, you’re sure nothing too eventful will happen in this town of yours.

When you wake up to water at the entrance to your house, you’re proved wrong. It wasn’t exactly a tsunami, but a silent creeping of the sea level which no one can figure out yet.

Sicheng stands a few feet away, water up to his knees but without a tail like you’re used to seeing when he’s inside water. The golden lines painted across his face occasionally flicker alive before fading back into his normal skin tone. He grits his teeth and the scratches the back of his head like he’s guilty of something, and you wade towards him.

“Sicheng! What’s going on?” you say when you’re close enough.

“I need to talk to you,” he answers, his voice low and raspy. There are dark circles under his eyes and while his words send another bout of anxiety through you, you let him kiss you before you move further under the waters.

Sicheng sits beside you on top of the lion which is now mostly submerged except for the top part of it. He gulps twice before speaking.

“I dreamt of you,” he says, “I dreamt of you a long time ago.”

“I dreamt of you at the beginning of summer,” you state.

“I know. That’s the second time I dreamt of you.”

Sicheng purses his lips before running his fingers through his hair. You wait, breathless, as he comes up with some way to tell you whatever he has to say.

“We’re supposed to see our…our partners in our dreams,” he says, “My father panicked so much that he didn’t allow me on land till I was fifteen. Till I forgot about you.”

His father found out this time too, and that’s why you haven’t seen him all week, that’s why the sea’s been so disrupted the past three days. It doesn’t matter now, he says. He has the ocean on his side, he’s always had it on his side but he’s never realized that he deserves a happy ending. The sea goddess of luck and blessings, his mother dearest had a talk and if there’s one thing she’s done for her son except bring him to life, it’s giving him her blessings.

“Will you come with me?” he asks, “If I ask something so selfish, will you still...love me?”

Much to his apparent surprise, you nod, mumbling a ‘yes’. The sea’s been kinder to you, and you’ve never had it in you to part with it, never found the land interesting enough to explore. You’ve always been running, and you don’t mind at all now—leaving the running behind. Sicheng cups your face before pulling you into a deeper, fuller kiss and you feel a weight lift off your shoulders, sighing against his touch.

Sicheng places his forehead against yours, and whispers something that you’re too caught up in the moment to understand.

“You’re mine?” he asks, a little unsure, his eyes still wide. “You’re mine now? You can come with me?”

“Mhm,” you nod, a dizzying feeling taking over as you melt into his touch.

And just like Sicheng said, you’ll all be seafoam someday. But for now, you can live in his reality, in his endless ocean. You don’t think for one second that his palms are cold to touch for they warm you enough to make you keep them pressed against your cheek.

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raqnguyen · 3 years

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Chapter 2, Part 1

Air.

There was something terribly different with the air. It was sharper, thicker if air could be described by such a word. When Mono had first arrived at wherever-this-was, he thought that he was having trouble breathing because of his near-anxiety attack earlier. Instinctively, he went through his normal routine of deep breathing to calm down. That, as it turned out, made it worse.

Dizziness and nausea soon struck him after the first few deep but rapid inhales. Mono leaned against a nearby tree for support as his panic mounted. The ringing in his ear drowned out everything and made it even harder to think clearly.

Mono couldn’t figure out why breathing was this difficult. It felt like the times he lost control and started hyperventilating during a panic att– hyperventilating. He clenched his jaw and clamped his nose shut with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. His body occasionally shook as he tried to fight the urge to breathe and instead count to a hundred.

As he held his breath, the dizziness gradually subsided until it disappeared. The air here has more oxygen, he realized. Breathing in too much oxygen too quickly would result in feelings of disorientation and dizziness. As someone who often hyperventilated when feeling panicked, Mono was all too familiar with this fact. He carefully drew in breath again and found that, as long as they were shallow, he wouldn’t get lightheaded or dizzy. With his breathing kept in mind, Mono was finally able to take in his surroundings.

He was in a forest with trees that had bright green leaves. They were spaced far enough that he could comfortably walk between them with his arms outstretched but dense enough that seeing past the first few was impossible. Overhead he could make out the shape of the moon. It was a full moon, larger than any he had seen before. And while he couldn’t see the sun, the red-orange tint in the sky suggested that it was either sunrise or sunset.

Until now, he had held onto a small sliver of hope that he was in a stupidly vivid dream and had behaved accordingly. But to continue to do so would be foolish, dangerous even. No more jokes and no more banter; it was time to seriously consider his predicament. He was lost and had no food, water, or shelter. There wasn’t the slightest indication that other people lived nearby. Wait, he was in another world: the nearest civilization might not even be people. Uncertainty was the only thing he could be certain about.

At that moment, one of Mono’s favorite novels from his childhood came to mind. It was about a stranded boy who survives a plane crash with nothing but his clothes and the hatchet that his mom had gifted him before the flight. When trying to survive, the first thing the boy did was take inventory of everything he had. That, to Mono, seemed like a good place to start.

The only things Mono had were the clothes he slept in and the stone that Sojourn had given him. Mono pulled it out of his pocket to look at it. It was unnaturally warm to the touch and so white that all light seemed to reflect off of it like a mirror. Maybe it was actually glowing. Either way, he wasn’t going to risk using his only chance to go home for anything; it could be fragile. An unusable rock and some worn out clothes. Fantastic. Oh, and himself, Mono added. The most important thing, the novel had emphasized, was the fact that he had himself.

And since he only had himself, he had to think and come up with a plan. Right now civilization didn’t matter as much as finding the essentials. And while wandering around a mysterious forest was not an appealing option – especially if it was sunset and about to be night – Mono saw no sign of anything useful from where he was standing. He’d have to search for anything useful, so he picked a direction and began to walk.

Going bare feet didn’t bother Mono that much. The grassy dirt was soft and he had learned how to step carefully to avoid being hurt while shoeless during his time on the streets of LA. As he walked, Mono carefully scanned the area with his eyes and listened carefully to every sound with his ears. The forest was eerily quiet and that made him even more on edge. What really worried him more was passing over something that could help him or coming across a wild animal unwarned; he didn’t know what was in these woods and wasn’t very eager to find out.

Minutes passed into at least half an hour as Mono continued to walk. The air had grown colder overtime and the lighting dimmer. Of course it was a sunset. The wind had also begun to pick up, blowing from his right and rustling the leaves overhead. Eventually, the trees thinned and Mono could make out a large, steep hill through the foliage to his left. He stopped walking to consider the hill.

He hadn’t tried climbing the trees because he wasn’t confident in his abilities to safely get up and down. But now that he had a chance to get a better vantage point, it was tempting. Even if it was too dangerous to climb because of how steep it looked from here, he might be able to find something useful in the morning when he could see better. The hill could also potentially provide shelter and that was what he really needed at this point. The sun had almost completely set, and the night was only going to get colder. Mono shivered. At least the wind had temporarily stopped so it wasn’t as bad. Stop thinking about the hill for a moment, the wind had stopped. Mono shivered again and this time, it wasn’t from the temperature.

The wind, which had been steadily increasing, had suddenly stopped. The rustling to his right, which was supposed to be from the wind, had not. Something was near him and, judging by the occasional sounds, getting closer. What should he do? Most animals could outrun him and the act of running, he knew, would encourage many predators to treat him as prey and give chase. At the same time, he wasn’t very strong and wouldn’t be able to fight off anything bigger than a dog. As these thoughts flicked through his head, the wind started again and Mono could smell whatever was to his right for the first time. It was musty, like a wet dog. There was also a rusty, metallic smell that was familiar to Mono but he couldn’t place it for a moment. Oh, that was it: it was the smell of old, dried blood.

That realization sent Mono over the edge. He didn’t care about not being considered prey by whatever was watching him anymore. He just wanted to get as far away from it as possible. Without thinking, Mono turned left and ran for the hill. Behind him, like he feared, the thing began to give chase.

Mono didn’t dare look back to see what was chasing him in fear of tripping but he could hear it. It was definitely large, its uneven and lopsided strides loud and deep. It was also gaining on him because the steps were getting louder. Panicked, Mono tried running even faster. His breathing was no longer the controlled shallow breaths he had been keeping but deep inhales. Run, run, run, he told himself. Run. It was getting closer.

The extra oxygen in the air was helping him now. Mono wasn’t athletic by any means and instead only exercised to keep relatively healthy. But with the air here, he was able to run faster for a lot longer. The thing behind him also seemed to have issues gaining when Mono had to run around a tree or shrub, so he began to wrap around as many of them as he could as he kept going.

Run, run, run. Breathe in and breathe out as deep and quickly as possible. Try not to step too hard but it can’t be helped if you do. Humans had better stamina than most animals, right? Maybe he could run until it gave up. That thought was quickly thrown out the window as Mono heard the beast’s breathing. It was panting almost as hard as he was and seemed to convey a complete determination to catch its prey. To catch him.

As Mono was running, he had been steadily making his way towards the hill. Now, it loomed over him as he neared its base. The side facing him was steep, way too steep. At certain areas it was more like a cliff than a slope. Climbing it would be too difficult. Mono tried looking for a way around it to get more distance, but the hill was too wide and turning too sharply would mean that he’d get caught. Going up the hill was the only option.

The foot of the hill was sloped enough that Mono could run up several meters. He grit his teeth as his feet stepped on the tiny rocks that composed the gravelly slope’s surface. No stopping now, the thing was close behind. The next part of the slope was so vertical that Mono had to use both his hands and legs to ascend. At times he was crawling and other times climbing. Sometimes he slipped because of the rocks and he had to scramble to stop himself from falling far. Mono’s entire body shook from the exertion. He couldn’t go on much longer but it sounded like whatever was after him wasn’t able to climb much either. Looking up, he noticed a large stone which jutted out of the hill close by. He’d catch his breath there.

The left of the stone was a slope made of larger rocks. Mono began to climb it because it looked far more preferable to the other side which was extremely steep and covered in more tiny rocks. As he was about to reach the edge of his goal, one of the stones gave away under his foot and he stumbled, scraping his right knee. Righting himself, he reclimbed the portion that he slipped and managed to pull himself onto the stone. Without waiting to catch his breath, Mono turned around to finally see just what was chasing him.

Past half way from the base of the hill to where Mono was resting, there was a wolf. It wasn’t exactly a wolf, but that’s the first thing he could compare it to. Under the moonlight, its fur was incredibly dark and nearly blended in with the surroundings. It was huge, as big as a lion he’d seen at the zoo once. Unlike a lion, though, its head was more elongated and canine. The beast looked up and, upon realizing that Mono had turned around to look at it, snarled at him. It looked back at the hill to climb higher and get to its prey.

At first, Mono thought he was safe. He didn’t think an animal that heavy could climb the unstable path he himself had taken, and, as he kept watching the thing, Mono noticed that the beast was missing one of its front legs. Getting to him would be impossible.

Apparently the wolf-thing didn’t get the memo. It was surprisingly balanced on its three remaining limbs and was able to make jumps between larger rocks that seemed to ignore physics. The gap between it and Mono was closing. Terrified, Mono turned towards the hill. He needed to keep climbing to put more distance between him and the flying wolf.

Unfortunately, the rest of the way up the hill was no longer cliff-like; it was an actual cliff. If he wanted to continue, he’d have to climb the rest of the way. And climbing, no matter how desperate he felt, was not something he could do anymore. His arms were unbearably heavy and Mono knew that if he tried to use them, he’d fall for sure. He was trapped. His chest tightened even more and Mono’s breathing became erratic on top of rapid.

No, he needed to focus. Mono tried to regain control of his breathing and think of a plan. If he couldn’t get more distance between him and the wolf, then he’d prevent it from closing the distance already between them. With shaking arms, Mono picked up a nearby rock the size of his head. Walking to the edge of the jagged bolder he was resting on, Mono looked for the wolf. It was significantly closer now, only about a quarter of the original distance between them. Before the beast could see what he was doing, Mono raised the stone above his head and threw it as hard as he could.

The stone hit the wolf’s shoulder and knocked it off balance. It gave out a short yelp but quickly righted itself. Once more, it looked back up at Mono to snarl and then continued to climb. Mono ran back to grab another stone, and then another, but quickly realized that no matter how many he threw, the wolf was never going to be stopped from reaching him. It was too determined to be deterred and there were only so many smaller stones within arms reach anyways. He needed a new plan.

Up to this point, Mono had only been thinking about himself. He was weak, tired, thirsty, bleeding, hungry, and almost ready to just lay down and give up. He hadn’t thought about the beast’s perspective. After a lengthy chase and an uphill climb with only three legs, it had to have been as exhausted as he was. And since it was so determined to chase after him, it must have been desperate for food long before it had come across him. Mono could use that desperation, he realized.

Instead of randomly throwing stones at the wolf, Mono was now throwing them only when the wolf was attempting to climb the path that looked easier. Everytime it was about to jump, Mono would throw a stone to knock it off balance. Eventually, the beast began to take the harder, more unstable routes with looser stones. Now it had reached the area directly below Mono and had the options of reaching him from either the left or the right side. At first it tried to ascend using the right side, the slope made of larger stones that was less steep, but Mono threw more stones at it. At this range, he could throw more accurately and the stones were heavy enough to hurt the beast if he threw them at its face. Growling in frustration, the beast swapped to the side on Mono’s left. Perfect.

Mono stopped throwing stones and instead watched the wolf climb. The left side was the far steeper side and was covered in loose stones. He could hear the beast’s pants now as it got extremely close; it was as tired as he had hoped. When the wolf finally reached the large stone Mono was standing on, it didn’t try to jump at him or rush him. It simply moved one paw onto the platform to catch its breath and bared its fangs at Mono. That was when he struck.

Mono flung his right hand at the wolf. He wasn’t throwing a larger stone this time but rather dirt and many tinier yet jagged rocks. They hit the thing’s eyes and it yelped in surprise, closing its eyes to try to shake off the debris on its face. Mono quickly ran forward and kicked at the wolf’s leg before shoving it as hard as he could with his shoulder. The beast was heavy, so much so that he doubted he could have moved anything with this much mass on a normal day. But the wolf was on unstable footing and Mono was also extremely desperate. After the kick, Mono was able to push the beast off of the stone and make it lose balance. To his relief, it not only lost its balance but its footing, falling all the way down the slope.

As the beast fell, it hit many of the larger stones before continuing to roll down. It yelped out several more times in a higher, kreening tone. After several more tumbles, it hit the base of the hill and lay there for several moments. Mono held his breath as the beast tried to get up on its legs but could not. Every attempt resulted in it falling back over onto the side missing its leg. Each effort was also weaker than the last. At last, the damage seemed to catch up with the wolf. It was on its side and its attempts to stand up had stopped. Its legs twitched several times but eventually those, too, ceased. The thing gave one more shuddering breath before it stopped moving altogether.

Mono had done it. He’d stopped the beast.

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redrobin-detective · 6 years

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The Long Way Around 3

Welcome back and Happy New Year's Eve. It's Izuku's first day at Yuuei's General Education Department and, of course, it can't be easy. Still setting the scene, finally introducing my beloved OCs you've probably heard me mention. I got some pics of my cute kids to show off so those will be up later. Will probably post Four earlier than intended just to start progressing the plot more. Thank you for reading! I appreciate it!

Chapter Two <-- --> Chapter Four

Chapter Three: A Long Way to the Starting Line

Izuku was a mess as he ran through the halls of his new high school. His mom wouldn't stop hugging and congratulating him this morning which meant he'd just missed his train and had to wait for the later one. He wasn't late quite yet but he'd hoped for more time to explore the campus. If he was being honest, he'd wanted to scout out the hero students. Oh well there was time for that later, he slows as he approaches class 1-C.

He looks at his classroom with trepidation but also renewed courage. This is where his story begins. Just as Izuku was about to enter, the door screeches open and he finds himself on the ground as another kid runs into him. A bit dazed, Izuku looks with concern at the boy who'd toppled onto him.

He was about his size with very messy orange hair and bright red eyes but, more importantly, he was shaky, pale and looked like he was about to be sick. The boy scrambles to his feet and weaves his way down the hall, presumably towards the restroom.

"Oh god I can't do this, I absolutely can't do this. I can't-" Izuku winces at the sound of the kid losing his breakfast on the hallway floor. What a way to start the day, poor guy.

"Oh jeez, that doesn't sound good," a girl with dark purple hair tied in a tail says as she pokes her head out the door with concern. Next to her is another tall boy with fluffy brown hair and glowing green eyes. She looks down at him and it takes Izuku an extra second to notice the girl has no irises, only pure white sclera underneath her glasses. "Look at you, are you okay?" She holds out her hand to help Izuku to his feet.

"Your mom seems really sweet but you can't let her make you late every day," she says brightly once she lets go of his hand. Izuku just blinks at her. "Sorry, I'm Motome Ayame and my quirk is Past Vision, I can see up to an hour of anyone's past if I touch them," Motome explains with a small smile. Down the hall, the red haired boy has gotten to his feet and finally staggered into the restroom. "What's your name?"

"M-M-Midoriya Izuku," Izuku stammers, he was already a little off-kilter from the confrontation and now here he was talking to a girl! This isn't how he imagined his first day of high school would go.

"Nice to meet you," the brown haired boy says in a friendly, but distracted, voice. So distracted, he probably didn't even realize he'd spoken in English. Now that Izuku looks at him, he did seem like he had some Western features, perhaps he was mixed? "My name is Patrick Takamitsu, please call me Patrick, I'll catch up with you guys later. I want to make sure that kid is okay. Excuse me," Patrick says as squeezes past them to follow the redhead into the restroom.

"Anyway, welcome to class 1-C," Motome says with a shrug as she steps aside to let Izuku in the classroom. "We still have a few minutes before homeroom starts, I can introduce you to some people I was talking to earlier." She says in a way which feels unnatural even though it shouldn't be. Here, Izuku wasn't the quirkless freak who wants to be a hero against all odds. He was just another student with no ties to his middle school self.

"Yeah, sure, that'd be great. Thank you, Motome," she leads him over to a small group who smile and wave with acknowledgement as they walked over. Most of them were girls, he notes with a funny twisting feeling in his gut as he feels his face flush.

"This is Midoriya," Motome introduces to the small group of four crowding around a single desk. "He had an unfortunate run in with that poor kid on his way to the lavatory but Taka- uh Patrick went to go check up on him." Izuku smiles at the group and is pleased when they smile back. "Midoriya, this is Kiyoshi, Kaneki, Korudo and Taketsu."

"Kiyoshi Kokoro, class empath. Don't be so worried about people liking you Midoriya; I just met you and I like you just fine." A tiny girl with the pastel blue hair tied in a braid says brightly. The person standing next to Kiyoshi, a tall girl with soft brown deer ears, horns and tail sighs fondly and pats Kiyoshi's head.

"Don't mind her," the brown eyed girl says, "Koko-chan and I went to middle school together; she's always like that. She just says whatever she's thinking or feeling, even if it happens to be someone else's emotion." She looks down with a mock glare at Kiyoshi who grins before turning back to Izuku. "I'm Kaneki Shika by the way; it's a pleasure to meet you, Midoriya."

"I'm Korudo Dan," the only boy in the group with pale blond hair says with a proud smile. "I can control my body's temperature meaning I can not only survive in any environment but I can heat or chill my body. I may have failed the Heroics exam but I'm going to get transferred and become a great hero someday."

"and I'm Taketsu Akane, nice to meet you," says the dark haired girl sitting in the chair. "So is your quirk like Endeavor's son?" She was a big girl with a rounded face and wavy black hair falling over her shoulders held back by a red headband. "Can you form ice?" Taketsu asks.

"Well," Korudo says awkwardly.

"What about fire?" She continues.

"Not that either," Korudo answers testily, looking annoyed.

"Well what are you going to do? I think they want heroes who can do more than change their body temperature," Taketsu says with a smile but there's a teasing look in her dark red eyes.

"I still have a shot!" Korudo emphasizes. "The Todoroki kid has a natural advantage since his dad is the Number Two. Maybe I can't make ice or flame but I can still do stuff!" The girls begin to chuckle among themselves but Izuku finds he couldn't.

"I believe you," Izuku speaks up, calling everyone's attention back to him. He blushes a bit under the scrutiny but continues. "I-I mean, it is a pretty handy quirk from the sounds of it. Depending on how fast you could regulate your temperature and what adverse effects it had on your body, it could be very versatile. You could perform rescue operations to regions where other people wouldn't survive; you could warm up or cool down sick patients. I'm sure you could even come up with combat techniques that augment your quirk if you really worked at it." Izuku says, losing himself to his thoughts as he went through all the possibilities for a hero with Korudo's abilities.

"Hey, look out everyone; we've got a nerd in here." Another boy across the room with his hair styled in a tall pompadour says before letting out a loud nasally laugh. Izuku shuts his mouth on instinct from years of conditioning. He hates himself a bit for that, how easy it is to fall back into old, bad habits.

"Hey, don't listen to him Midoriya," Motome says, giving pompadour boy an empty-eyed glare that had the other boy turning away in discomfort.

"Yeah, that was amazing, Midoriya. Are you interested in Heroics too?" Taketsu asks with a smile that puts Izuku at ease. He nods shyly as she turns to address Korudo. "Sorry if I upset you, I was just teasing. Besides, I really don't have room to talk," she says a bit nervously. "I was interested in being a hero for a long time but I kind of gave that up."

"Well, I suppose you do have a point that I need to improve both my quirk and physical abilities if I want to transfer." Korudo sniffs, looking unhappy but unwilling to admit it. Korudo looks over at him and Izuku knows that Korudo was going to ask about his quirk. Luckily, Izuku was saved from that reveal by the classroom door opening revealing the biracial boy, Patrick, and the boy who'd been sick. Behind them comes one of the most terrifying men Izuku has ever seen.

Apparently the rest of the class agreed for they all freeze when the tall, dark-skinned man marches into the room. Izuku spots a few scars on his face but, more noticeably, his left hand ended at the wrist and three fingers on his right were partially amputated. Was he a hero? Or some kind of Yakuza boss?

"Good morning class, I am your homeroom teacher Chiura Hiro. Please take your seats," Sensei says in a quiet but stern voice that has the entire class seated and silent in a matter of seconds. "I will not waste your time or mine with meaningless pleasantries. Here is what you need to know: you will be on time every day for homeroom, you will be quiet unless I call on you and you will respect me and your classmates at all times. If you can follow these rules, then we will have a good working relationship," he stops and let the weight of his words sink in before continuing.

"Now opening ceremonies are about to start, we will walk there single file and, once that has concluded, you will change into your gym uniforms and we will conduct physical exams. I understand that your middle schools prevented you from using your quirks during these tests. Well, this is Yuuei and, even though you're in General Education, we still expect you to be able to manage your abilities. So you will be allowed to use your quirks within reason." A quick cheer bursts into air and is quickly silenced. Izuku gulps nervously. Use of quirks, huh, that was going to be tricky.

XxX

Even Yuuei can't make opening ceremonies interesting so Izuku spaces out for most of it as he frets over the upcoming physical exam. He'd hoped to have a little longer before his new classmates found out about his quirklessness. It probably wouldn't be as bad as it had been in middle school but just the few minutes talking to everyone this morning had been real nice. Izuku supposes it was better to get it over with than to keep living a lie. He winces as he remembers that he'd let slip that he was interested in applying for the Heroics department.

Great, they'll think he was useless and an idiot.

His pessimistic thoughts are briefly sidelined by the jaw-dropping announcement that All Might, the Number One Hero and everyone's favorite, All Might, would be teaching at Yuuei this year. Izuku can barely contain his excitement. He'd applied to Yuuei because it was the best hero school in the country but now his idol is going to be here too? Sure, he was probably only going to teach the hero students but Izuku might see him in the halls, hear that loud booming voice somewhere other than his tv.

Despite that bombshell of an announcement, the assembly ends on an awkward note when it became clear that hero class 1-A just, wasn't going to show up. He's not sure what happened there but the teachers look annoyed but not all that surprised. Izuku doesn't see Kaachan. His former friend had spent the last week of middle school announcing his acceptance into Yuuei's Heroics department so Izuku figures he must be with the absent 1-A.

soon, the whole class is dressed in their gym clothes and standing on one of Yuuei's many fields. Chiura-sensei paces calmly in front of them as they're lined up in class order. Maybe it was Izuku's nerves, but he feels like his teacher pauses a bit longer in front of him, as if sensing his weakness, before continuing.

"All right, we will be performing a variety of physical exercises today. This is just like you did in middle school but you will be allowed to use your quirks so long as you control them and use them only for the tests. At Yuuei, we believe in using all of our skills to reach our full potential. Is this clear?"

"Yes, Sensei," they all respond while Chiura-sensei nods with approval. He goes back to pacing with his mangled right hand holding his left stump behind his back.

"I suppose I should tell you a little about myself," he says in a steely calm voice that demands attention with its quiet assurance. "My quirk is Identification which means I can identify the quirk of anyone I look at and use that to compile basic strengths and weakness." Ah, so that was the reason Izuku got an extra look over. I'm still looking for it too, Sensei, Izuku thinks dryly.

"I joined the military right out of high school, became involved in special operations all across Japan and occasionally overseas. This," Sensei says, holding up his hands, "happened nearly 15 years ago during a mission. It cut my military career short but I found work within Hero Support. I have personally worked with many professionals heroes, including most of the ones on this campus, and yes, All Might himself. While I am not a hero; no one understands them better than me. So why am I teaching General Education?" He stops and stares them down with his pale golden eyes.

"Because I understand that the Heroics entrance exam is a load of bullcrap. Any idiot can smash a robot while talented students fall through the cracks. The General Education teachers serve as a checkpoint. I'm sure all of you at some point have dreamed of being a hero, but either due to failing the Heroics exam or lack of confidence, you ended up here. One of my jobs is to evaluate you, see if any of you are capable of transferring." Chiura-sensei stops and gives them one last appraising look, "so put your all into these exercises, your futures just might depend on it." He lets his words settle before giving them a quick nod. "You have five minutes to warm up and then we begin."

Izuku is all but shaking by the time his teacher finishes and why shouldn't he be? The man had looked right at them and said he was going to be the judge of whether or not they deserved to transfer. While it was common knowledge that students could move to the Heroics department, it wasn't something that happened very often. Izuku wonders if he's looking at one of the reasons why.

"Oh man, that was intense," Taketsu says, coming up beside him with a friendly but nervous grin. "Wanna stretch together? Exercises aren't exactly my strong suit and you look like you know what you're doing." Izuku was going to ask her what she meant when he realizes he had automatically started his normal warm-up regimen.

Taking a look around; Izuku notices most of the other students were awkwardly trying to figure out how to work their bodies and some weren't even trying at all. Strength training and martial arts has become such a cornerstone of his life that he forgot to factor in that most people probably don't have the same discipline.

"Yeah, sure, I'll show you what I do," Izuku says, walking Taketsu through some of his work-out. She was easy to talk to and the familiarity of his exercises quickly put him at ease as he explains the purposes of each stretch.

"You really are on top of this!" Taketsu huffs as she attempts to mimic his toe touch only to stop just past her knees. "What kind of quirk do you have to keep you in such good shape?"

"Um actually I'm quirkless," Izuku mutters, hoping she hadn't heard him. But the wide-eyed look in her eyes tells him that she had. "I uh hope that's okay," he says shyly

"Yeah, no, of course it's okay," she says quietly, as if Izuku were some kind of mythical creature she had only heard about but never seen. Taketsu shakes her head, "sorry, it's just a bit unexpected is all. You don't see many quirkless people these days. You said in homeroom you wanted to transfer to Heroics, right?"

"Yeah," Izuku admits with an embarrassed wince.

"Hey, I think that's great," she smiles revealing sharpened teeth. "I can't wait to see what you can do."

"Alright, if you're not ready now, you'll never be," Chiura-sensei announces, startling most of the class out of their small conversations. "We'll start with the 50 meter dash. First three in the class, come up and state your name, quirk and intention for study. You will perform the test and then the next group of three will do the same, is that clear?"

"Yes, Sensei," they parrot back as the first three began to gather up. An explosion rips through the air just then, stopping everyone in their tracks. Chiura-sensei frowns at them.

"We're not going to stop and gape every time one of the hero kids uses their quirks, now hurry into line." As the first three students line up, Izuku was trying to loosen up his muscles which had tensed up at the loud, and very familiar, sound.

According to the strength; Kaachan had to be on the other end of the school, in one of the aft fields probably. It was fine, he was just doing physical exams like Izuku was, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to be afraid of. But it's easier said than done. Still, he tamps down the rest of his fear while the first students line up and give their introductions.

Izuku's anxiety quickly leaves him as he gets the chance to observe his classmates. It makes him realize a few things. One, spending so much time reading up on heroes, Izuku sometimes forgets that not every quirk was combat suitable or even all that useful; such as the boy who kept tripping over his unnaturally growing hair. Another was that, as far as physical training was concerned, most of his classmates didn't have the strength or stamina suited for these tests. Despite being quirkless, it was clear Izuku was more suited for this kind of exercise than most of the other students.

"Next!" And now it was his turn; Korudo, Kiyoshi and himself stepped forward. He listens to them explain their quirks again; Korudo with Thermoregulation was set on Heroics while Kyoshi the empath wanted to be a teacher.

"M-my name is Midoriya Izuku and I uh I also would like to go into Heroics." He stops and searches for the only person he sort of knows which is Taketsu. She gives him a worried smile and two thumbs up, "and I don't have a quirk." Well, that was done with, now for the fallout. A loud laugh breaks through the crowd. It was the pompadour kid who was hunched over as he laughs.

"What kind of idiot thinks he can get into the Heroics without a quirk? That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." A few other of the kids chuckle nervously along with him but most glare or shift uncomfortably, probably too ashamed to openly mock Izuku.

"Kamoto," Chiura-sensei snaps which instantly silences Kamoto's merriment. The boy is upright with a startled look on his face as Sensei steps forward and gets right in his face. "I gave you three rules this morning: be in homeroom on time, be quiet while I speak and to respect me and your classmates at all times." He leans down further until he was nearly nose to nose with Kamoto.

"If you disrespect your classmates, you disrespect me. Now tell me boy, is that something you want to do?" Kamoto quickly shakes his head. Chiura-sensei stares him down a second longer before stepping back to address the entire class. "Every student here has earned their place here until they haven't. Likewise, every student has the potential to go beyond and I'm going to do my best to ensure each and every one of you gets there. Now, may we continue Kamoto or do you have anything else to add?"

"No, Sensei," Kamoto whispers, doing his best to shrink into his uniform.

"I'm getting old boy, speak up," Sensei says with an exaggerated grin that reminds Izuku of Rikimaru-shishou.

"No, Sensei!" Kamoto says much louder, his face twisted with fear and embarrassment. Appearing satisfied for now, Chiura-sensei turns back to their group with a much calmer demeanor.

"Alright, if you three are done, then get on over to start line. I'll let you know when to go," Sensei says, resetting his stopwatch. Izuku is too busy staring at his teacher.

He didn't know teachers could do that; his middle and primary school teachers had never bothered to stop any of the bullying Izuku endured as a kid which had been so much worse than what Kamoto had said. He can't properly think of a time when someone other than his mom stood up for him once they knew he was quirkless. Chiura-sensei gives him a look.

"Is there a problem, Midoriya?"

"N-no, Sensei!" Izuku pipes up, dashing over to the starting line where Kiyoshi and Korudo were already getting into position. Now that the worst was over, Izuku feels like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Kiyoshi wishes them both well, Korudo appears cocky and overconfident but Izuku is calm. He runs nearly 8 kilometers every day, a 50 meter dash would be nothing.

"Go!" And Izuku was off like a light. All too soon it was over but Izuku feels like he could keep running forever even while Kyoshi and Korudo wheezed. Sensei gives him an acknowledging nod.

"7.2 seconds, that's a full second better than the rest of you so far. Good work, Midoriya, I expect to see that same kind of performance in the rest of your tests. Next group line up, let's see if your quirks can stand up against training and discipline," Izuku lets out a breath as he steps back into line.

Once there, classmates are congratulating him and asking what else he could do. The attention was dizzying and Izuku simply nods at the people whispering at him, not trusting himself not to dissolve into tears if he opened his mouth. It wasn't Heroics but it was lightyears better than where he'd been. Izuku gives Taketsu an encouraging smile as she, Patrick and another boy step forward as the last group.

"Hey! I'm Patrick Takamitsu, please call me Patrick, I'm originally from the good ole US of America but my dad lives here so now I do too!" Patrick begins with a flourish as his skin began to brightly glow. "My quirk is Glow and, like many of my dear friends, I'm also aspiring for Heroics," he beams, literally, causing some of the other students to shield their eyes. Well, it wasn't the most exciting quirk but there were definitely applications with proper conditioning.

"And I'm Taketsu Akane, my quirk is Bloodspell which means I can manipulate my own blood and I uh," Taketsu pauses and considers herself before continuing, "I haven't decided what I'm doing yet." Finally, the last kid steps forward with a tired, but resolute look on his face.

"My name's Shinsou Hitoshi," he says quietly. "My quirk is brainwash and I'm going to be a hero." Not, trying, going to be. Izuku wishes he had that kind of confidence but with a quirk like that it was understandable. There were some hushed whispers behind him but Izuku couldn't make them out, but Shinsou's fists clench by his side. With all of the introductions done, the rest of the exercises seem to pass by quickly.

Classmates chatted more easily with one another, details were shared on quirks and personal history as they completed more and more trials. Back in middle school, Izuku used to be terrible at these things, always finishing near the end despite the lack of quirks involved. Since he started training with Rikimaru-shishou not long after school started, he'd never gotten to measure himself against his classmates.

The rest of the morning was spent completing the other activities but Izuku hardly felt tired. This was nothing compared to what he usually subjected himself to. They're given a few minutes to rest as the results are compiled. Izuku grins at Taketsu, lying red-faced and panting on the grass, she gives a half-hearted kick in his direction when she sees his smile. Kourdo was talking to Patrick, Kyoshi was leaned up against Kaneki's back and Motome had pulled out a book off to the side. For once, everything seems to be going right.

"Alright, line up. We're going to go over the results and then head back inside," Chiura-sensei orders.

The results were stunning to say the least. Izuku came first or close to first in nearly all of the activities as most of his classmates didn't have quirks that enhanced their physical abilities, moreover, it looks like most of them haven't undergone any sort of training. It's ironic in a way, Izuku was the only one in the class without some sort of special ability and yet he ended up with the second highest score of the class.

"Let this be a lesson to you all," Chiura-sensei says after he's announced the final scores. "Strength is not defined by your quirk, but by the discipline of your mind, body and soul. We have a couple of students who are actively pursuing the hero track, for those of you were are serious about that, I suggest you work on your performance and attitude. High school passes quickly, go beyond or go home. You have lunch for one hour and then regular classes will begin promptly at 1300, dismissed."

"That was amazing Midoriya!" Taketsu says, coming up to him with a bright smile that lights up her face. He blushes from head to toe looking at how cute she looks and stammers out an awkward thanks. "Would you be willing to train me?" she questions, pointing to herself. "I need to lose some of these hips, not to mention everywhere else too. What kind of training have you had?" She babbles as some of the others fall in line with them.

"Oh I've primarily trained with Jeet Kune Do with my master, but I worked with Aikido in middle school and have incorporated that into my style as well." Izuku lists off, feeling more comfortable in his element. "I've wanted to be a hero since I was a kid; I know I'm at a huge disadvantage without a quirk so I'm working on training my mind and body instead. Just because Yuuei hasn't graduated a quirkless hero doesn't mean it's impossible."

"That's incredible!" Taketsu says.

"That's insane," Korudo counters, the small group turns to look at him but he frowns and crosses his arms. "What? We were all thinking it," he sighs and runs his hand through his short hair and smiles slightly. "Still gotta admit you beat me fair and square in physical tests; even Taketsu beat me a couple of times and she's got 15 kg on me." Taketsu swats him on the arm.

"My point being, it's insane but Sensei is right, you can't write someone off before they get started and you've got a hell of a start. I'd be interested in working with you too, if you don't mind. I've got this amazing quirk but it doesn't mean much if I can't do anything with it." Izuku is touched by the friendly camaraderie and acceptance of his ambition despite how impossible it sounds.

"Yeah me too! We could make it a group thing!" Patrick says, leaning down to put his arms around Korudo and Izuku's shoulders. "We can be like a secret club! We can train together and get t-shirts and everything." He says, his face glowing a bit.

"Please don't touch me, Takamitsu," Korudo hums as he slips from Patrick's hold. "Midoriya, those things you were saying about my quirk in homeroom, can you read those back at me. I think you have some good ideas that I can work with. Of course, I'd be willing to help you with anything you needed in return."

"Come on, we can talk more over lunch, let's go before the hero kids take all the good stuff. All this exercise has made me hungry." Taketsu says, picking up her pace. The four of them were joking and laughing all the way to the cafeteria and Izuku had never felt so complete in his life.

For just being a stepping stone on his way to being a hero, the General Education department was pretty great too. When he goes home that night, and describes in detail the events of his day to his mom, he tells her that it feels like he's finally found somewhere he belongs, somewhere he can be himself for once. He tells her it's a place that can help him achieve his dream but also make him enjoy the journey getting there.

#fic: The Long Way Around #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha fics #my writing #I wrote this

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letmewritemylife · 4 years

Text

Where It All Began

I'm not afraid of the dark, dark, darkness in me. - Stitched Up Heart (Darkness)

A/N Thank me later

TRIGGER WARNINGS None

"Are you almost done?" The deep voice of a man breaks the almost total silence of the laboratory.

"Yes, sir. The machines are ready. We just need to wait for Mrs Blake's team to complete the serum for memory loss," a young woman answers, her hands clenching around the green binder.

The man grins in response. "It's been four years. Four years to finally solve the problem my father created, but now we're almost there, we've almost made it. I brought back home what my father had lost." He smiles while his monologue prints in his head, the young researcher nodding and pressing the documents harder against her chest, as to protect the secret written on them.

A blonde woman approaches the two, a strong floral scent invading their nostrils. "Feige, if you don't mind, I have to go," she says as her ice eyes study his face before throwing a quick glance to the scientist.

The man pays little to no attention to the blondie and her thick Russian accent, nodding and gesturing her a greeting. He doesn't even notice the same woman touching a few buttons on a machine as she passes by. He's too busy imagining his success to care.

The autumn wind is cold, the orange leaves on the sidewalk crunching under Katrina's boots. She crosses her arms on her chest as a couple of teens walks past her complaining about the terrible weather. She snorts. She was born in Russia, where 42°F didn't even classify as "slightly cold".

As she crosses the street, her mind goes to the messages she had left to the redhead Russian spy and, deep down, she hopes everything works out just fine and someone will soon be able to decipher them. She doesn't even want to think what would happen if her plan fails.

In Bleecker Street there's no one in sight. Katrina looks around herself, searching for the building she's looking for. Not that it was hard to recognize: the Sanctum Sanctorum can't be confused with any of the other townhouses in the street. She knocks on the door and waits for an answer, hoping the so called "Master of Mystic Arts" isn't as dumb as his hiding abilities suggest.

The Asian man who opens the door carefully studies her appearance, deciding whether he should let her in or not. "Are you looking for someone?" He finally asks.

She bites her bottom lip, surprised to feel tension growing inside of her. "I need to talk with a sorcerer called Doctor Strange. It's something extremely important."

The man looks behind himself, where Katrina suspects someone is suggesting him what to do. When he brings his gaze back to the spy, he nods, moving to the side to let her in. She's about to step in when the man stops her with an arm. "If you just need to talk, I'm sure you can leave your weapons here."

Katrina nods annoyed as she hands him her gun and knife. Maybe these sorcerers are not as stupid as she thought.

"Strange is in the room on your left," the man adds when he's sure the spy has no more firearms on her.

Katrina enters what looks like a living room, instantly hit by the strong sandalwood scent. The sorcerer is standing there in some blue robes and with a red cloak on his shoulders. To her great surprise, the piece of clothing moves on his own, as to study the guest. He turns to Katrina with his arms crossed on his chest, his hands covered in yellow gloves. "Hi, I'm Doctor Stephen Strange. How can I help you?"

The woman looks around herself for any possible threat before answering. "I don't need anything from you, but maybe you may need something from me."

Strange furrows his brows and gestures to a chair, inviting the woman to sit down. "What are you talking about, miss-?"

"I heard you worked against the Agency X," she cuts short, trying to avoid to say her name. "Lee won't need it," she thinks before sitting in front of the man.

The sorcerer's expression suddenly turns dark. "And you're wrong. It was… well… a friend of mine."

Katrina stares at him, her eyes full of pity and regret. If she had known what she was doing... "Doesn't matter. You protect this reality, don't you?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Amazing, 'cause the head of the Agency is now leading a project to break the walls between this dimension and another one. If you're interested, I can tell you everything I know, which is quite a lot."

The man looks at her right in the eyes, determined to keep his promise not to have any more contact with terrorists and spies of any kind. "So you work for them. And tell me, miss, why would you help me?"

Why? She doesn't even know it herself. Maybe because she's sorry, maybe because she was wrong all along, maybe because seeing others get back on their feet makes you feel like you can do it too. Or maybe she's just playing her role of double agent well enough to fool herself just like everyone else.

"It's none of your business. If you don't trust me, I'm leaving." She says, starting to get up. "I've played with people way more stubborn than you, Strange."

"No, wait!" He stretches out an arm to stop her. When he's sure she's not going anywhere, getting comfortable again on the chair, he lets out a breath. "Here we go again." "Tell me more about this thing."

Who knew death could be this boring? Spending eternity in a dark, empty place you know nothing about and that, for some reason you don't understand, is connected to how you were born. The only thing to ever happen is an occasional feeling of intense and long lasting pain, probably caused by the interaction between the Substance Y around and the Substance Y inside her body.

Lara closes her eyes again and inspires, laying with her back on the ground. She has no idea how much time has passed, she has no idea where she is, she has no idea if this torture she's through will ever end. She just hopes this is not how death is supposed to be: finding out many people she was close to are going through the same thing would hurt her too much.

She stares at what she considers the ceiling of a room that doesn't exist, its purple undertones glowing as unknown chemical reactions happen inside it. She raises an arm, feeling that what she thought was meters above her is actually much closer. Her fingers touch the cold stone-like substance and suddenly it disappears. Now it's further from her, out of her reach.

The only thing she has learned during this undefined time is that nothing is stable in the Dimension Z. What is close can suddenly become far and the other way around. What is cold can turn hot and what hurts when touched can start healing. No laws apply in this dimension. Gravity only exist if she wants it to. Matter can be created and destroyed. Everything she studied as a chemist doesn't work, no matter how convinced the teacher who taught it to her was.

She breathes in again. Air burns in her lungs as if it was fire. Her heart beats faster and as she closes her eyes she can feel it in her head, reminding her she's not dead, not completely. She's not dead, but she's not alive. She's in between. "Between what is matter and what is not." The words of the young scientist are still clear in her mind, even though the sound of his voice, of everyone's voice, was lost long before.

A thought crosses her mind. Is he still alive? Has he already died? Has everyone she sacrificed for died? She doesn't receive an answer, around her there's just the unnatural silence of that place, and she damns the universe for creating such a place and the entire human race for deceiving her that hell would have been warm and crowded.

Instead, hell is frozen, colder than anything Lara has ever experienced. And it's empty, silent, deadly silent. It's so silent that she can hear her hot breaths leaving her lungs and her blood running in her veins faster, adjusting to her unnatural heart rate.

And then she hears a sound, a subtle hiss, as something was tearing the walls she's surrounded by. In front of her, an opening appears, big and bright. Lara stares at it, having no idea what it is and hoping she's not just gone crazy.

Then she thinks that, whatever that portal is, it must lead her somewhere. How many dimensions actually exist? Thousands, millions, but all of them are better than that long, infinite agony of pain and silence. She doesn't even think about it and steps into the portal, falling down a white, luminous hole.

Her body crashes against something hard, a dark bookshelf full of books and photos, one of which ungracefully falls down and hits her right in the head. Lara doesn't have the time to massage her nape before a box full of documents, whose position had been made unstable by the witch's fall, tips on her, covering her in paper.

She swears under her breath as she sits up, inspecting the place, which looks quite familiar. She recognizes the blue bed, now covered in dust, the dark blinds, the books on the shelf above the bed, the floor board moved and roughly covered with the grey carpet. She recognizes everything, she recognizes her bedroom, her house, the same house she had left time before to move to Philadelphia.

She stands up and looks around herself, the cold wind creeping through the blinds. When she kneels beside the bed and moves the carpet, she finds the hiding place of her most precious belongings still untouched. The phone is turned off, her authentic documents are there, covered by dust but still there. She turns on her phone, staring at the notifications increasing. The clock on the screen is still showing the date "10th September 2019".

A loud noise comes from the living room, as if someone had broken into the house by forcing the door lock. She goes out in the hallway, calling her powers and carefully waiting for signs of another presence in the building. The floor creaks under her weight as she goes downstairs and she silently curses the old wood she's walking on.

She hears a voice, a deep voice that she immediately recognizes, asking: "Who's there?"

She rushes down the last wooden steps, her eyes opening wide when they meet the sight of Stephen Strange. "Stephen?" She stutters. He hasn't changed at all expect for the yellow gloves now covering his hands.

He parts his lips, but is unable to speak. He closes them and just stares at the witch who is now moving towards him.

Lara is about to say something, but is stopped by the sorcerer's arms suddenly wrapping around her in a tight hug. She shyly hugs him back, her arms around his neck, and she wonders if Stephen has started carrying around Substance Y because she can feel her heart beating faster and faster in her chest. It feels strange - no pun intended - having Stephen's warm breath on her neck and his face buried in her hair.

She doesn't know how much time passes before she speaks, maybe two minutes, maybe an hour. "Stephen, how- how much time has passed?" She says, no more used to the sound of her voice, as she steps away from the man.

"Four years… and a couple of months, I guess," he answers unsure, his eyes not moving from her face as if she could disappear any moment.

Lara freezes. Four years. She's been dead for four years. Now she's back, but… can she stay with Stephen? Is S.H.I.E.L.D. still looking for her? Does she have to live on the run again?

She's about to ask all of these things when the Cloak of Levitation tightly wraps itself around her, his soft fabric covering her body.

She giggles and turns her head to it. "You missed me too, didn't you?" The Cloak shakes as to nod and holds her waist tighter with his slaps.

"He particularly missed your fabric softener." Stephen smiles, earning a smirk by the witch.

"Douchebag," she whispers under her breath as she strokes the piece of clothing like a cat.

"HOW THE F*CK DID IT HAPPEN?" Jonas Feige's screams fill the room, rage painting his face red as he throws his hands up in the air.

A young man shyly steps forward. "We have no idea, sir. We operated the machines without noticing someone had changed the coordinates of the landing spot." His fingers, tightly laced together, are shaking.

Jonas moves back and forth across the room, shaking his head. "Thirty-five million dollars, four years of work and two head of department arrested for what? For you idiots not to notice someone had betrayed me?!"

The scientist swallows and stutters, trying in vain to explain himself, but a woman interrupts him.

"You promised us we'd get her back, Feige. We helped you kill your father, but you failed to complete your only task." She shoots daggers at him with her eyes, her words hinting severe punishments for traitors and incapable people.

Jonas is now the one who stutters, panicking under the woman's deadly gaze. "Don't worry, Houghton. We'll find the traitor, I swear, just give me time." He plays with the collar of his shirt out of tension, his head filling with the worst curses.

"Time, time, you always need time. Your father may have been weak, but you are incompetent." She answers raising her tone as she steps closer go him and points her finger to his chest. "Don't play with my patience, Feige. I will not hesitate to get rid of you if you do."

Jonas laughs anxiously, but suddenly stops when he reads anger on the woman's face. With a cough, he sits back at his desk. "We'll find the witch in no time, won't we?" He adds, looking at Katrina, who's casually standing by his side.

"Oh? Yeah, yeah, of course we will," the spy answers, suddenly waking up from her daydreaming session. "No, you won't, she's smarter than you." She lowers her brows. "Not that it's difficult."

As the room empties, Jonas stops Katrina from leaving, his eyes still set to the glass surface of the table. "Popova, I know I can trust you."

She crosses her arms on her chest. "What do you want me to do?"

He brings his gaze up to the door. "Find out who betrayed me, who betrayed us," he says, trying to convince himself he's the one in charge and not just a puppet in someone else's hands.

Katrina nods. "I will." "What an idiot."

She's about to leave, when Jonas calls her again. "Popova!"

She turns, afraid the man has finally connected neurons. "What?" She asks unkindly, a hand cautiously moving to the pocket where she keeps her gun.

He doesn't even look up at her, too busy playing with his pen. "Maybe ask Shinn where she has been today."

Katrina nods again. "Yes, he's definitely an idiot."

When Lara enters the Sanctum, she's surprised by how perfectly she remembered it. She's lost in her thoughts when she hears a voice.

"There must have been a lot of traffic for you to be so late." Her gaze meets Wong, standing by the door of the living room.

"Yeah, I probably should have called to warn you," she answers with a grin.

Wong just nods and pats her on the shoulder. "Missed you, Johnson."

"Missed you too." Lara turns her head to Stephen, who's freeing himself of the Cloak. "Now can you please explain me why you were in my house? Because according to your reaction I seriously doubt you knew I was there."

Stephen crosses his arms on his chest. "It's quite a long story. Let's just say that someone who's working for the Agency X knew about you and sent me there. She said the Agency was breaking the walls between this dimension and another one and the location she gave me was your house."

Lara bites her bottom lip as she stares at the floor, a confused expression on her face, then brings her eyes back to the sorcerer. "All this time I've been in a dimension called Dimension Z. I know the Agency has access to it because it's where the Substance Y I have in my blood comes from. Moreover, I came back here through a crack in the walls of said dimension, which could mean your friend was right. What I don't understand is... why? Why would they bring me back and tell you?"

Wong makes a few steps forward. "To be honest, I don't think they actually wanted us to know. There would be no reason, especially considering you're no longer wanted by S.H.I.E.L.D." He looks at Stephen. "That woman was too cautious to be supported by terrorists."

After a moment of silence, Wong brings his face back to Lara. "Maybe you still have friends among those agents, or maybe that woman just really hates the new boss."

Lara remains silent, trying to understand the logic behind the most recent events. Perhaps Wong is right, but she can't really think of anyone who could decide to help her. Why would someone risk so much to help her? She can't think of anyone who would… Then she realizes. I owe you one. She freezes. "Tell me, Wong, do you remember if this woman had some kind of accent?"

"You really should not drink that much coffee," the spy says looking up from her book.

The inventor shrugs. "And you really should mind your own business."

Natasha rolls her eyes at Tony, who's pouring himself his tenth (and most likely not last) cup of coffee.

"Miss Romanoff is right. Too high caffeine consumption can cause raised blood pressure, insomnia and anxiety, among other issues." Vision's robotic voice joins the conversation.

Tony steps away from the counter, a filled cup in his hands. "Whatever, but since Houdini is coming I would like not to fall asleep in the middle of his rambling." He takes a sip, ignoring his hand slightly shaking and Natasha's judging expression.

Sam looks up from his phone and turns to the inventor. "Now that you're mentioning it, what does he want from us?" He leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "I thought he was done with S.H.I.E.L.D after Lara's death."

"Yeah, about that..." Stephen says as he enters the room, his eyes studying every person in the room.

Everyone's attention quickly moves from the sorcerer's sudden arrival to the woman standing right next to him, who slightly tilts her head to the side as a hint of a smile forms on her lips.

"Hi, it's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Tony almost chokes on his coffee, spitting it back in the mug and coughing in his hand.

Steve inhales a sharp breath. "What the fu-"

"Language!" Bruce shouts at the super soldier, before turning his head back to Lara. "I'm sorry, how did you do that? I mean… dying and coming back… you know..."

Lara moves a stroke of hair behind her ear, a smirk creeping on her lips. "Who says I'm not just a ghost here to hunt you all 'till the end of your days?"

Tony laughs as he places his mug on the counter near the sink, then turns to Stephen. "I had no idea you could summon the deads, Merlin."

The man rolls his eyes at the nickname, tapping his fingers on his crossed arms, and Lara smirks, glad to see she's not the only one who enjoys torturing sorcerers.

Setting his eyes on the witch, Steve gets up from the couch he's been sitting on the whole time. "Last time someone I knew came back-"

She smiles. "Sorry, I don't have a knife with me." She pauses. "At the moment."

Bruce moves his gaze between the super soldier and the witch. "Can we please go back to my question? How did you get here?"

Crossing her arms on her chest, Lara sets her eyes on his face. "I have no idea. Absolutely nothing. Zero. The picture couldn't be more unclear."

Rhodey sets his eyes on her, casually leaning against a table. "Well, that's not bad."

Thor, who despite his brother's numerous deaths has not grown used to resurrections yet, smiles and pats Lara on the back. "I'm happy to see again, witch. Are you guys coming in or-?"

Two hours and an insane amount of drinks later, Lara is stifling a laugh at Natasha's last sarcastic comment on her dear captain. She catches Stephen staring down at her and smirks, resting her forearms on the counter.

She's finally back to normality, her own unconventional concept of normality, but pleasant nonetheless. A part of her doesn't even care how she got back and just wants to rest, to slow down once and for all, but Lara knows that she'd never be able to live without discovering the truth.

It's almost midnight and Lara is about to leave with Stephen, when Natasha calls her.

The two sit on the couch, away from the others, and Natasha tilts her head to the side. "You know, after you were gone… I took over your old project with the Agency X. I knew you cared a lot about it, so I didn't want it to be left uncompleted." She moves a stroke of hair behind her ear. "But I had no idea where to begin. Not until an unknown informer began sending me coordinates, projects, documents and all kind of things in the same way as you did. When I tried to contact them, I was sent in a visibly uninhabited flat in Boston and for a little time they never sent anything else."

The spy pauses to capture Lara's reaction and only continues when she gives her a sign to go on. "A couple of days ago, an Agency X base was found not far from Newark thanks to someone who claims to work for an organisation called "Iarna Rusă," but when I got there with Steve and Sam, everyone had already left. But we found this." She concludes, taking something out of her pocket and handing it to Lara.

It's a scrap of paper with a short sentence written in cyrillic letters (семья змей задушит тигра и орла, если дочь не искупит сына) and a long series of numbers (10091984-5562848).

Natasha concludes. "I hope this can help you somehow."

Lara smiles. "Thank you. A lot. For everything." She hugs her friend and gets up, heading to the sorcerer.

"Earthquake!"

Lara turns with a smirk, Tony putting his hand on her shoulder. "I hoped you had forgotten about that name, Stark."

He smiles for a second. "Never. Anyway, are you okay?" His eyes are set on hers, sincere concern written on his face.

Lara shrugs. "Yeah, shouldn't I?"

"You've been dead for years, that's some traumatic experience, I guess."

Lara smiles, gently freeing herself from his grip. "Don't worry. You'll have to do better than that to traumatize me."

The corner of his mouth turns upwards as he nods weakly and looks at the witch disappear through a golden portal.

#lara johnson #agata varano #scar #marvel #mcu #oc #writing #original character #mcu fiction #oc fiction #where it all began #stephen strange x original character

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writingonjorvik · 6 years

Text

The B Team Druids - Chapter 2 - Not Quite

Carrie curled her toes in the sand. Her towel tugged beneath her as she sat up for the thirteenth time in the last hour to check on Ash. The dapple pony was still lounging in the shade of the trees a few feet away, no halter or tie or paddock needed. Sure she would trot a few steps, but never run. Never bolted.

Setting her head back, Carrie shook her head. “Jorvegian horses are weird.” She couldn’t get over the loyalty in the horses to stay so close to their owners, or how the horses knew so well who their owners were. Particularly with a horse that had never been trained for trail riding. But it wasn’t just her horse, it was almost every horse she had seen. Justin had encouraged her to come back to Fort Pinta for her first weekend off to get used to Ash, both as a horse and a companion, but Carrie wasn’t sure she ever would. At least, not the unnatural bond Ash had already formed to stay so close.

Knight of Ashes was what she named the little Connemara, or Ash for short. Carrie doubted she’d ever compete with the pony, even if Ash was as fast as almost any other horse, but having a show name seemed like a fun thing to do. And Ash seemed like it the first time Carrie had said it.

Waves crashed nearby, but this little man-made bay had been dug out for tourists to enjoy the coast without the current. There was a lifeguard walking over a bridge that spanned the edge of the current free waters. A few swimmers were jumping off the diving boards that had been built on the fort side of the bay, others rode their horses up and jumped in. The spray at least couldn’t reach where Carrie was sunbathing.

Or trying to sunbathe. It wasn’t any distraction really, other than her nerves about Ash. Rather a restlessness she couldn’t shake off but couldn’t remember the origins of. Carrie sat up, scooping up a pile of sand into her palm and shifting it around. She looked out over the bay, to the silhouetted cliffs of the peninsula she’d learned was called South Hoof, and then the dark foothills in the valley of Mistfall.

Carrie shook her head, running a hand briefly through her hair. “This place is so weird.” All the rumors she had heard around Moorland and Fort Pinta about the former stable hand only confirmed that. Breaking into castles and tricking people passed roadblocks and chasing bees out of clock towers. There was no end of gossip about it, though with all of the odd stories, she wasn’t surprised a character like that would be the center of gossip. A regular local legend. Outside the stables Carrie found peace. Although this legendary helper filled her thoughts even here, so she wondered if she could really claim that.

Wrapping her arms around her legs, Carrie rested her head on her knees. It wasn’t homesickness, despite what she told everyone. It was that she didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing here. Maybe she was being harsh on herself after only a week. Maybe she should stop comparing herself to terribly adventurous old employees and just focus on doing her job, which she’d been told she was doing well.

She unwound her right hand and held it up. Something was strange here, something she couldn’t put her finger on. But she felt it. Whatever it was.

Something soft nudged her shoulder. Carrie looked up from her palm to see Ash standing over her, her mane falling over her eye. Carrie laughed, reaching up and resting Ash’s nose. “You’re pretty alright, even if you’re way too stealthy for a horse.”

The mare snorted, pressing her nose further into Carrie’s hand. After a moment, she pulled her head away, trotting back off to the copse she had been gazing before. The mare turned her back to Carrie, enjoying the soft shade and green grass likely covered in a nice salty spray.

Carrie shook her head as she watched Ash go, turning back to study the waves. When she faced the waves again though, she found something blocking the view. Someone, to be more precise, and they were staring her down.

One eye was blocked out by black hair, but Carrie could feel bother deep amber eyes burning into her. They were squatting right in front of her, inches from her face, with a neutral expression that was impossible to read. As Carrie started to scoot away, she noticed her invasive voyeur wearing a heavy leather jacket and a large orange scarf, hardly suiting clothes for even late summer, and certainly not on the beach.

“Um, can I help you?” she finally managed, pulling herself to the edge of her towel.

They were silent, still staring Carrie dead in the eyes. There was nothing Carrie could read off them, nothing she could guess at what had encouraged this stranger to get so close.

Finally, they spoke, “What is your Sign?”

“Um, Pisces?” Carrie answered, glancing towards Ash. She could probably outrun someone in a heavy leather jacket.

“No, your Sign,” they repeated emphatically, pointing to the sand. They began tracing out a number of sigils, all kinds of spirals and circles Carrie didn’t recognize, before gesturing again to the completed drawings. “Cannot read.”

Carrie felt for her phone as subtly as she could. “I didn’t ask for any kind of reading. Maybe you have the wrong person?” Carrie tried pointing out at the other beach goers, but the stranger grabbed Carrie by the hand immediately, pressing their palm against hers. A pulse raced down her arm, energy racing through like roots spreading out, running on and highlighting every nerve and muscle until it hit her elbow, when Carrie managed to pulled herself away.

She rolled over herself, stumbling backwards into the sand as she scrambled to her feet. The stranger continued squatting, fingers spread open from where Carrie’s hand had been a moment before. Carrie felt her heart pounding, fighting to break out of her chest. She pressed her hand over it, taking a few sharp breaths before demanding, “What did you do to me?”

The stranger slowly tilted their head, bangs covering one eye. “What is your Sign?” The words were strained, like it took a lot for the young lady to repeat them.

This place was getting weirder and weirder by the minute. Carrie looked over at Ash, who seemed content now to have a graze among the trees instead of sneaking over to Carrie’s aid. The mare wasn’t too far off, but now Carrie was worried she had some kind of curse on her arm.

“Eh, Raven, wha’ ya doin’ over dere?”

That caught the stranger’s attention. They turned towards the caller, a red-headed rider trotting up on a fuzzy chestnut not much bigger than Ash. An Icelandic, Carrie thought as the rider approached. “Ya’re no’ scarin’ anyone, I hope.”

Raven pointed in Carrie’s direction. The rider gave one look at Carrie, then turned back to Raven. “We’re lookin’ far anomalies, Raven, no’ for lasses. I’ll take ya to da city if dat’s wha’ ya’re after.” Leaning over her saddle horn, the rider said to Carrie, “Real sorry if she scared ya. Raven’s no’ bad, bu’ she don’ always remember boundaries.”

“It’s no problem,” Carrie replied, waving slightly. “I thought she was giving me some kind of reading, just kinda surprised to turn around and have someone trying to read your fortune or...whatever.” She laughed nervously, curling and uncurling her hands, as if it would protect her.

The rider swung out of her saddle, walking over towards Raven. “Wha’ she talkin’ abou’, Raven?”

“Blessed,” Raven stated, still pointing in Carrie’s direction.

Eyes going wide, the rider turned towards Carrie. A wide grin crossed her face before turning back to Raven. “Ah, really? Ain’t dat deadly. What Circle ya dink?”

Raven shook her head. “Can’t read.”

“Ya can’?” The rider pursed her lips. “Dere’s a problem, ein’i. Never easy, huh, Raven?” Raven shook her head, though the gesture seemed more of formality with the blank expression on her face. The rider shrugged and took two long strides in Carrie’s direction. “Bu’ we’re bein’ awful rude, no’ even introducin’ ourselves. De name’s Saoirse, and my friend here is Raven.” Saoirse extended her hand out towards Carrie, that devilish grin still on her face, a uncomfortably mischievous gleam in her bright blue eyes.

“Uh, Carrie,” she managed, loosely shaking Saoirse’s hand back. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about right now. I’m not, well, special? Or blessed, whatever you called it. If this is some kind of bit for money--”

Saoirse’s grip squeezed down like a bear. “Sure ya are. All of us are a bi’ special, in our own kinds of ways. Bu’ if Raven says ya’re blessed, den sure as Aideen’s ligh’ ya are. No trickin’ de healing hand of a Star Circle Druid.”

Was this the Jorvegian version of door to door salesmen? Or was this just some kind of weird religious group? Carrie’s stomach knotted itself. Hadn’t Mr. Moorland mentioned something about some kind of cult in the northern part of the county? Fort Pinta was only a short ride away from her home, why would that make this village so far off?

“Look, I respect your conviction for whatever faith you’ve got, but I’m not--” Carrie started, looking over her shoulder towards Ash. “--Not really interested.”

Saoirse turned back to Raven, then to Carrie. “Who do ya dink we are? We’re no’ salesmen, we’re just regular gals.”

“I-I didn’t mean any offense,” Carrie stammered, her eyes silently pleading for Ash to walk over. “I’m new to the area, I haven’t really been anywhere past Fort Pinta and Moorland, and I’ve just heard some rumors about an active religious group in the region.”

Leaning in towards her companion, Saoirse whispered not so quietly to Raven, “Ya heard of anyding like dis?” Raven shook her head, still watching Carrie. Saoirse stood up, shrugging. “I never heard of i’. Sorry dough. Raven and I would be happy to show ya around if ya’d like. Like to say we know the area pretty well.”

Carrie smiled as politely as she could stepping forward to grab her bag where it was laying in the sand. “I appreciate it, but I think I’m good.”

“No’ askin’ because of wha’ she said, I told ya we’re no’ salesmen,” Saoirse added, tipping her head towards Raven. “Jus’ offerin’ cause I remember movin’ here and no’ knowin’ a soul. Hate for ya to be lonely, ya sayin’ ya’re new here and all.”

“You’re not from here?” Carrie asked.

Saoirse rocked her head back, cackling. She reached over, grabbing Raven’s shoulder. “She asks if I’m from, ha! Do I sound like I’m from here?”

“I’m not familiar with the accents around here yet,” Carrie admitted, looking away as she made the confession.

“I like her, Raven,” Saoirse stated before walking over towards Carrie. Wrapping a hand around Carrie’s shoulders, she grinned. “Let us show you aroun’ sometime. No work, no blessed, none of dat. Just gals out having a deadly time.”

Carrie felt herself clenching as Saoirse wrapped around her, that tension still hanging between her introduction to the two. But as Saoirse’s draping arm pulled Carrie’s phone from her hand to put in a phone number, Carrie managed to smile. Over the top and just as ignorant of boundaries as Raven, but Saoirse was...pretty alright. And sometimes people trying to be friends wasn’t the worst thing to happen. She unlocked the screen, saying, “I really only have the weekends off.”

“Where ya workin’? Moorland?” Saoirse inquired. When Carrie nodded, Saoirse went on, “No’ to worry. We’ve go’ work too, bu’ ours tends to be a touch more flexible. I’ll keep in touch, nex’ weekend probably. Less ya’re up to a little adventure today? Shor’ ride up for really lethal view?” Saoirse raised an eyebrow, her smirk pushing her freckles even higher.

A small laugh escaped Carrie. “Uh, sure. Ash hasn’t done much riding today.”

Saoirse pressed Carrie’s phone back into her hand. “I like ya a lo’, Carrie. Ya’ve go’ that adventurous spiri’ in ya, good for dis place.” She lifted two fingers up to her lips, pausing for a moment. “Ya’ll probably wan’ to pull on someding warmer dough. Bi’ breezy where we’re headed.” After that, she cracked the loudest whistle Carrie had ever heard, proximity not helping for the volume.

As the ringing faded, Carrie looked down and realized she was still only in her one piece. She felt her face turn a touch pink, pulling out of Saoirse’s arms as she reached for her towel. “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

Carrie made her way over to the changing stalls, sending out one last look at Ash before she pulled the door to, wondering if she should just make an escape while her new friends were distracted. No, she figured, let’s give them a chance. She tugged her swimsuit off, and pulling her jeans back on. She pulled out a navy hoodie out of the bag, holding it up for a moment as she failed to recognize the design. Oh, that was right. She had bought this at the airport when she landed in Jorvik City, to deal with the surprisingly chilly summer evening. There was a small white harp printed on the front.

Tugging it on, Carrie felt the overpriced but exceptionally soft fabric rub against her skin, a little irritated from overexposure to the sun. She shoved her swimsuit and towel into her backpack and left the stall.

When she stepped out, Carrie couldn’t find her new friends anywhere. Saoirse and Raven had gone, along with Saoirse’s little Icelandic. Ash was trotting over towards Carrie, perhaps sensing Carrie’s readiness to leave at last. Scanning the beach again, Carrie felt her brow tighten. She wasn’t sure if it was a relief for them to be gone and their weird interest in her, or if she was disappointed to lose her first attempt at friends in Jorvik.

An ear splintering whistle sounded from above her. Carrie craned her head up towards the sunlight and the stone bridge she was desperately avoiding around Fort Pinta. Blocking the entirely flow of traffic was Saoirse on her furry chestnut and, more prominently, Raven on a black and white Shire. Saoirse waved, before tilting her head towards the other end of the bridge. Carrie just barely made out the directions before the two began trotting away out of sight. Carrie followed them for a moment before noticing a dirt path wound into the side of the hill near where Saoirse and Raven were riding.

Ash nudged Carrie’s shoulder, the mare snorting into her ear, stamping at the sand. Carrie turned back to Ash with a scowl. “What’s your hurry?” The mare pressed her nose further into Ash’s shoulder. Carrie pushed Ash lightly back. “Alright, alright, I’m dressed. Hold your--” Carrie’s lip twitched as she slung her backpack over her shoulders, holding the last word.

Carrie and Ash trotted up the slope to the main road where Saoirse and Raven were waiting. As they approached, Saoirse grinned. “Dat’s a nice little pony ya’ve go’ dere.”

Looking down, Carrie patted Ash’s neck. “Oh, um, thanks. This is Ash.” The mare tossed her head, her forelock parting at the head jostle.

“Ah, Ash, ya from the Isle too?” Saoirse asked the mare, cracking her head back after a moment as if the mare answered. Carrie turned away, leaving Saoirse to her conversation. Saoirse leaned forward over her saddle horn and scratched her fuzzy pony’s ears. “Dis is Copper. I go’ him because he matches my hair.”

Copper quivered, the little Icelandic almost priming to buck Saoirse off. Saoirse’s devilish smirk only widened, challenging the shaggy horse to try. She leaned back pointing to Raven’s hulking brute of a Shire. “And dis giant is Bloke.”

“Blook,” Raven corrected quietly. The Shire paced nervously, scraping his massive hoof softly over the dirt, though a hoof that size couldn’t avoid doing damage. Maybe it was just a few pebbles shifted, but it was enough for the gelding to press his ears back.

“So, um, where are we going?” Carrie asked, pressing Ash into a walk.

As Saoirse wheeled Copper around, she pointed to a tall ridge near the fork in the road between the fort and Moorland Stables. “Up dere.” Carrie craned her neck to see the top, the sun glaring down from beyond the stony crest. “Ya still up for i’?”

“It doesn’t look dangerous, so sure,” Carrie answered, trying not to sound nervous. It would be nice to get a good view of the land. Maybe she’d notice some more landmarks while she was out. She was certainly interested in riding over to Silverglade Village one of these days without needing to eat up all her data for directions. Did Google Maps offer horseback riding options?

“Interestin’ bar to se’,” Saoirse mused, bringing Copper up to a canter. She waved behind her towards Carrie and Raven, who was just asking Blook up into a walk. “Come on den! No time to waste!”

Saoirse rode on, her and Copper breaking into a gallop ahead of the slower riders. Carrie twisted to look up at Raven. “Didn’t you have a job today? Whatever it is you were doing when we met on the beach?”

“Can wait,” Raven answered briskly, like it was difficult for her speak. “Important.”

Carrie’s eyebrows climbed up, her mouth forming a question, but she stopped. Raven’s speech had been fairly stilted for someone her age. She knew it would be rude to ask, but nature curiosity took over. “Are you, um, speech impaired? Is that the right term for it? I-I know some sign if that would be easier--”

Raven’s head turned sharply towards Carrie, who shriveled back into her saddle at the look. It wasn’t a glare, it was void of emotion really, but it still made Carrie melt in embarrassment. What a stupid, stupid thing to ask a stranger. Not to mention incredibly rude. Carrie kept her eyes pointed at the ground, letting Ash navigate for her. Why in the world had she asked that?

“Price.”

Instinctively Carrie pulled her head up, but there was no way Raven would know her last name. Raven was looking ahead, towards where Saoirse and Copper had ridden off too. A sea breeze weaved its way through the ruined church beside them. Raven repeated, “Price. Not a real Star.” Her voice was strained, pained even, void of any readable emotion.

They’d wandered back into whatever conversation Raven and Saoirse had brought up back on the beach though, about stars and signs. Carrie turned away, not really sure how to respond. It hadn’t been her place to ask in the first place, and she didn’t know what to say about any of this sign-rune-magic business Saoirse and Raven were involved in. But at least she had a good reason to practice the little bit of sign that she knew. Not to mention she might have friends now, even if they were a little strange.

But surely it couldn’t be that bad. Sure, they were odd, but who wasn’t?

Saoirse was waiting for them at the base of the hill. When the two rode closer, the ginger rider’s signature smirk returned. “Glad ya could finally join me.”

“Nice ride,” Raven murmured from atop her mountain of a horse. Carrie tilted her head up briefly to look at Raven, but her companion showed no sign of commenting on their conversation.

Nervously, Carrie added, “Yeah, good day for a ride.”

“Nearly dere, hurry up,” Saoirse stated, asking Copper up the hill faster than Carrie would have been comfortable with on Ash. There looked like there was room for all three of them at the top, but it was going to be tight, particularly with Blook. The Shire didn’t look too keen to climb up the hill. Still, the view was probably going to be amazing. And it’s not like Ash was going to just run off a cliff.

As Carrie pulled Ash to a stop at the top, she sent a nervous glance towards Saoirse and Copper on her right, perched ever precariously on the ledge. The shadow of Blook fell over both of them, blotting out the sun, though the Shire wasn’t going to step up any further.

Saoirse had been right though, about the chill. From the peak of the high hill, the wind collided from rising up over the cliffs. It wasn’t even the highest point around them, Carrie could see mountains on the horizon. But Saoirse had been more right about the view. Carrie could see for miles. The fort was a yellowy blob on the horizon, Moorland to her right beyond the hills and trees. From here she realized how little Moorland’s little valley was, how closed off it was from the rest of the world around it.

And beyond her, Carrie could see plains sprawling off in all directions until they were consumed by forests or mountains. She could see over some of the foothills, into dark woods or the beginnings of swaths of birch forests.

“Woah…” Carrie said, the breath knocked from her.

“No’ the bes’ view of de Soudern Silverglade County, but she’ll do,” Saoirse mused. “Wha’ do ya dink?”

“It’s beautiful,” Carrie answered, turning to her companions before returning to the view, almost guilty of it stealing her attention. It was like looking over a fantasy, at postcards or doctored images made real. This was all real. This place was real, and it was only a fraction of the whole country, of this county.

“Someone’s starstruck, eh, Raven?” Saoirse prodded, though Carrie barely noticed.

It was like something had woken up, something Carrie didn’t know how to place. Something that felt wild, and right, and-- ancient. Carrie’s eyes drifted down to the church to her left, and then further down from its perch. An open-faced mound pointed up towards the road, an interesting sight that she would have thought would have been marked. Some kind of burial mound. She had heard about those kinds of things being popular with Celtic and Nordic cultures, but they were supposed to be historical landmarks. This one looked untouched, open to anyone willing to wander into its maw.

But not empty.

Carrie found herself staring into that opening, ignoring whatever conversation was going on around her. It was entrancing, whatever it was, but she didn’t know why. She just felt like someone was going to step out from that doorway.

Ancient.

A pressure washed over Carrie, like nothing she had ever felt. Her chest tightened, like two hands were pushing into her chest, beneath her chest, towards her lungs.

Wild.

Her heart was pounding, her lungs reaching for air, her hair all on end. Her body was in full panic, suddenly onset by this pressure, yet her mind was calm, out of control of her physical response. She was trapped instead herself, and yet, not. Her eyes somehow saw further and further into that cavern the long she stared into it.

Waiting.

Waiting for who though? For what? What did it want with her now? Was it the source of this pressure, the mound itself, or something inside? Her mind drifted further and further into that maw, further and further from her body. She was falling out of herself, pulled away by that pressure. Did Raven and Saoirse even notice this?

Carrie pulled herself from the maw, turning back to look at Saoirse. She turned, and for a moment, she wasn’t looking at Saoirse. She was looking at the side of the hill, at Raven and Saoirse and Ash at the top of it.

And herself plummeting down.

The sight snapped Carrie back to the present. To the fall. The very real fall from her saddle towards the stones below the cliff. The fall was twenty, thirty feet, though there was no cushion to the hard ground. Carrie felt her breath catching in her throat, a scream lodged there, unable to escape or let air in.

She hit something, hard. It collided into her from the side, throwing her off bouncing towards the ground. But that long series of scratches and bruises and broken bones never came. The long slide over the ground never happened.

As the numbness of the shock began to fade, Carrie felt something holding her, something not nearly as hard as the ground, but still firm. Still shaking, she started to come to, the haze over her mind fading. Saoirse was bent over her, breathing hard, a guilty expression eeking out between hard gasps. Overhead, Carrie could see gray clouds, storm clouds that had rolled in from nowhere. Static filled the air, coarse around her, pulsed around Saoirse.

“Are ya ok?” Saoirse asked through ragged breath.

“I-I-I--” Carrie shook her head, taking a deep gulp as she tried to process what had happened. “Wh-what happened?” She could feel her body suddenly catching up, suddenly remembering the fall, her body falling faint. Panic started to set in.

A hand pressed over her forehead, Raven leaning over from behind. A sense of calm passing over her, reaching out like vines as the feeling grew and blossomed. Carrie’s breathing eased, the memories collected themselves in their contorted order back in Carrie’s mind. Raven slowly eased her hand from Carrie’s forehead, hand still near as Carrie rested on the hill for a moment longer.

“This wasn’t just to go on a trail ride, was it?” Carrie asked. She wanted to feel sick or mad or something about this, but she couldn’t. Maybe that was for the best right now, to not feel whatever raw feeling wanted to drag itself out of her.

Saoirse looked away, the gray clouds bristling above them. She shook her head, breathing harder. “No’ quite.”

#sso #star stable #star stable online #woj writing #the b team druids

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spiritmoon23 · 7 years

Text

You (A Rusame Halloween Special)

Disclaimer: This is an interactive horror story, meaning that it will be told as though you are the main character. There is the potential for things to become graphic, either to you or the other characters. Please keep this in mind as you read. May include bodily harm, however there will be no sexual scenes. Also, this is one of the very few horror-themed stories I’ve written, so the scare quality may not be the best. Nonetheless, I’d like to thank you for reading and hope you enjoy it! Note: This will definitely look/feel best if you have your night setting turned on (black background and white text)

You wake up in a cold, dark room, bound to a chair with thick, course ropes. You gaze around the room groggily, trying to get your eyes to focus on your surroundings.

Your head feels like it’s full of cotton, and your limbs tingle softly, reminding you of a serious hangover after an all-night bender. You groan to yourself.

As you start to wake up more and your head begins to clear, you notice that there’s a small line of light on the floor a few feet in front of you, faint illumination leaking into the room under what you presume to be a door. Not enough to be able to see by, but just enough that the pressing darkness doesn’t feel so crushing.

You sit there, in the solitary silence, and try to figure out how you got into this predicament. Slowly, you run through the events of the night before.

You’d decided to take a break from putting together a presentation for some work function or another, probably for training the new hires, so you’d gone to the bar a few blocks away from your apartment complex.

The bright pink and green neon signs was harsh on your eyes and tinted your skin orange. While you sat at the bar sipping brandy from a glass, a blond man with red glasses and a sweet smile came and sat down next to you.

By this time in the night, you were already drunk, so the details were starting to get hazy quickly. You remember that he’d bought you a drink, said a few things that made you laugh, and then… then…

You struggle to try to remember anything past this point. All that stands out to you is how much you seemed to naturally trust him.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the handle of the door jiggling, then turning, then the door creaks ope slowly.

A man steps into the room with you, shutting the door behind himself and flicking on the overhead light. The sudden illumination sends a sharp pain through your eyes, and you close them tightly against it. The person chuckles low in his throat. It sounds kind of familiar to you, but not enough for you really to work out who.

Slowly, your eyes begin to adjust, and you can make out a man with bright red glasses, blond hair, and a blindingly white smile. “You’re awake?” he seems to ask you. He comes closer and tilts your face up to the light. “Good! I was hopinh I’d get to play with you a bit before Master Vanya gets home.” You wonder who he’s talking about, and what exactly he means by ‘master’. You can’t find your voice to ask. “Oh, your eyes are so pretty. I’ll have to make sure I ask if I can keep them.”

He chuckles again and steps away from you now. You meet his eyes, and notice the way they seem to almost vibrate, like there’s something wrong with him, but you can’t place what. The situation finally hits you, and you start to tremble in your confines. You grip the edge of the arms of your chair to try to steady your hands. He looks down at you and starts rubbing his hands together, as though he’s planning something.

“Master Ivan will be home soon…” He leans over you, shadows casting over his face. He nips at you and you instinctively flinch away, making him grin. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?” he asks mockingly, already knowing the answer.

“Who are you?” you manage to get out. Your voice is hoarse with fear. “What do you want from me?”

“The name’s Al,” he drawls, “And it’s nothing personal, really. You just happened to be drunk enough to trust me when I went out earlier. Really, you aren’t even supposed to be here! But I thought my Vanya would like a nice surprise, don’t you? But until he gets here,” you feel something cold, sharp, trace a trail down your throat, stopping at the collar of your shirt, “I want to play.”

The sharp thing tugs down harder, and the fabric of your shirt gives way. And you are painfully, acutely aware of every single thread severing.

You begin to panic once more as, yet again, your still-drugged brain tries to catch itself up to speed. You’re tied to a chair, in a room with only one exit, with a very dangerous man with a very sharp object. And there’s no way for you to get out.

Your breathing quickens as the thing continues to travel down your body, going lower and lower and-

It’s gone. You’d shut your eyes again at some point, so you open them tentatively, one at a time. You can’t see the man- Al- standing in front of you anymore. You turn your attention to what remains of your shirt. The fabric is roughly torn down the middle, stretched in some places and already frayed in others. Your skin is raised and irritated along a jagged line down the middle of your stomach. The sting is starting to hit you, so you whimper and try to move yourself into a more comfortable position, but just making it worse in the process.

A hand digs into your hair and pulls sharply back, making you cry out from the new bolt of pain jolting down your spine. Another hand covers your mouth. It’s hard to breath now, and you begin to struggle against him. He laughs at your vain attempts, then pulls on your hair harder. At this point, the pressure on your throat from the angle of your head alone would be enough to keep the air out of your lungs; the hand is only still there to serve as another, useless reminder of who has control here. God, it feels like he’s going to rip your whole head off…

Tears make tracks down your face, blurring your vision and cooling small parts of your heated skin. You still can’t breath. The overwhelming fear makes your core cold. Your body stills under his hands. And you can’t breath. Your vision starts to go black and fuzzy around the edges.

And you still can’t breath.

The door in front of you opens, and he releases you, leaving you to pitch forward coughing. Your lungs burn and your whole upper body hurts now.

Your tormenter and the newcomer meet in front of you, but you don’t sit up to look at them. Al roughly grabs you by your jaw, forcing your face up to the light. Your eyes meet unnatural purple ones, seemingly glowing in the dim lighting.

“Don’t be rude,” he almost sings, “The master of the house stands before you.” The second man smiles. His eyes leave you, and you feel released in a different way than before; more unsettling. So much so that you almost sigh in relief.

The man, now that you can have a good look at him, is strikingly pale. His skin is milky, his hair is silver and fluffy, almost like snow, and his eyes; you’ve never seen anything remotely like it before. Pale purple to match the rest of him.

He steps into Al, running a hand through his hair and bowing his head to kiss down his neck slowly, pausing in a few places before moving on. But, you notice that every time he pulls away blood starts to trickle down Al’s skin.

Another bolt of fear strikes through you. That… that’s not normal, you think, watching the horrific show. The pale man speaks, shaking you out of your fixated stupor, in a voice with a higher pitch than expected.

“Who is this in my house, mishka?”

Al rolls his head to the side lazily. “I brought you home a new playing as a surprise. I played with it a little beforehand, I hope you don’t mind.”

You go white. They’re not going to let you go. Al closes his eyes and tilts his face to the ceiling dreamily. You can only stare in terrorized confusion.

Something touches you and your body jolts, shaking the chair and tensing against your bonds. The man smiles at you; although it feels far more like a predator baring it’s teeth at cornered prey. They’re white, impossibly so, like he bleaches them regularly, and unnaturally sharp.

Something inside of you seems to awaken, something primal that knows nothing but terror, and not for the first time your mind screams at you to run. But you can’t move. Youre eyes open wide as he leans very close to you.

He mutters something in a language you don’t understand, then, quietly, “I am, indeed, very happy with this surprise.”

Everything is cold when his teeth puncture your skin, then all is black.

#rusame #amerus #there was gonna be more but i didnt have time to add them in #my writing #hetalia halloween

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mldrgrl · 7 years

Text

Do You?

by: mldgrl Rated: PG-13 Happy Hanella Sunday everyone

Time seemed to be moving unbearably slow for Stella. Alone in the guest house, ready and waiting, she paced in front of the bed, unconsciously smoothing down the front of her dress every so often. She didn’t know what was taking so long. She could tell by the shadows in the room and the way the light hit the windows at the back of the main house that the sun had begun to set and that meant that Fish should have been here by now to collect her.

Finally, there was a series of fast raps at the door and she hurried to open it. Fish stood grinning in a white polo shirt and khaki pants, holding a small Tiffany gift bag up near his face with his other hand behind his back.

“For the bride,” Fish said, presenting the Tiffany bag to Stella. “As per instructions from the groom, read the card first.”

Stella slipped a card out from inside the bag and opened it up. The card itself was plain white with her name written in gold calligraphy across the front. Hank’s clipped and crisp handwriting was on the inside.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something Stella blue…

There were two boxes inside the bag and she pulled the Tiffany box out first and untied the white ribbon. A pair of diamond earrings were nestled into the cotton lining. They were platinum, the cluster of diamonds set like eight-point stars or flowers. A placard was taped inside the lid. Something new.

Stella hadn’t thought much about jewelry. She didn’t wear it much to begin with and it never even occurred to her to wear any. Hank probably knew that when he bought them. They were small and unobtrusive, just how she liked it. Before she opened the other box, she took a moment to put them on.

The second box was white and a little larger than the other. It wasn’t tied or sealed in any way like the other, but inside was a black velvet pouch and another placard inside the lid. This was my great-grandmothers and you’re borrowing it from Becca.

Stella opened the pouch and poured a silver pendant out into her palm. The chain looked fairly new, but the pendant itself was a bit tarnished with age. The pendant was round with a thin filigree design around the edges with an embossed tree branch and leaves floating across the upper midsection.

Fish held the Tiffany bag while Stella hooked the necklace. The chain was short so that the pendant rested just below the hollow of her throat. She touched it lightly wanting to turn around and look in the mirror at it, but stopped herself when Fish took the hand that had been hiding behind his back out and brandished a bouquet of six blue-grey roses, the color of which she’d never seen on a rose before, tied with a white ribbon.

“Your something blue,” Fish said.

Something Stella blue…

A girlish flush of heat swept through Stella as she took the flowers. Just when she thought she was immune to sappy, romantic gestures, she surprised herself by feeling the sentimentality it so acutely.

Fish put the little Tiffany bag on the dresser for her and gave her his arm. She felt a sudden pang of sadness that her father wasn’t here to do this for her as she slipped her hand to the inside curve of Fish’s elbow. Not that she agreed with the concept of being given away to a groom, but for the once in a lifetime moments, she’d always wished her father could be there.

“Number one,” Fish said. “I have to tell you you look wicked frickin’ stunning.”

“Thank you.”

“And I have to ask, do you have any special requests?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know the traditional mumbo jumbo is out, but is there something you’d like me to say or that you want to say before I send you off to marital bliss?”

“Did Hank make any special requests?”

“Oh, now I can’t tell ya that.” He winked at her and gave her a smile.

“None I can think of.”

“You ready, then?”

“I’m ready.”

“Good, so answer me this,” Fish said, leading her out the door. “A boat sinks and every single person is killed. Who survives?”

“Married couples.”

“You got smarts for days, you know that? I’ll never stump ya.”

“Keep trying,” she said, squeezing his arm just a little. She liked his riddles.

Stella lifted her eyes to the trees as Fish walked her down a little path made of stepping stones behind the guest house. She had thought they would be doing this in the little gathering spot by the pool, but they were heading into the woods. She was mildly disappointed. One of the reasons she’d wanted to be married at sunset was that she so vividly recalled standing with Hank at the observatory and watching the sky melt from blue and pink to peach and orange to grey and black. She knew he wouldn’t be convinced to have their wedding in LA, but she’d at least wanted to recapture that feeling of having ended a day with someone and knowing she would start the morning with them as well.

The trees broke suddenly and they were standing one what looked like the edge of a golf course. The grass was well-trimmed and an unnatural shade of bright green. It was slightly hilly, but open to a westward view. The sun was just above the treetops in the distance, casting a golden glow in the wispy clouds that hung low in the fading light. A few crickets had tentatively started to chirp nearby.

There was no one else there. Stella let her hand drop from Fish’s arm and looked around. She hadn’t expected to arrive first.

“Where…” she said. “I assumed he would be here already.”

“Um,” Fish answered, pulling out his phone from his pocket. “They were supposed to be right behind me heading down when I went to get you. Let me text Karebear.”

Before he made it through his text, they both turned as they heard Karen’s voice through the grove of trees behind them. “Oh, dammit,” she said, emerging from the wooded area. Even in a black peasant skirt and tank top, she looked elegant. “I was trying to stop you.”

“Thought you guys were right behind me,” Fish said.

“We were, we were!” Karen threw one hand up in exasperation. She had something rolled up and tucked under her other arm. “But, you know, someone had to second guess his attire for the umpteenth time.”

“That frickin’ chowderhead,” Fish said.

Stella’s brows pulled together as she frowned slightly. They had talked about what Hank was going to wear a few weeks ago when he’d asked if she wanted him to pull the monkey suit out of mothballs. He rarely dressed up; only when attending formal events with her. She would rather he be himself, and she told him so. She hoped he hadn’t had a change of heart about it. Good as he looked in formal attire, she still preferred him casual and relaxed.

“Here.” Karen unfurled what she had under her arm. It was a thin rubber mat. “I told them traipsing down to the country club was going to be a nightmare in heels. Where do you want to stand?”

Stella was accustomed to being in a lot of nightmare places in heels and this wasn’t one of them. “The view is lovely,” she said, scanning the immediate area for the best position, which he thought might be at the edge of the green where the light still fell. “Here.”

The grass was soft and spongy where Karen set up the little mat for her. It was definitely easier to stand on its unyielding surface than letting her shoes sink into the earth.

“Oh, well look who decided to show up,” Fish said. “Lucky you, Moody, we were just going to marry your lady off to the first yo-yo to drive by in a golf cart.”

Stella looked up from adjusting her stance at where Hank was coming out of the woods holding Becca’s hand. Her chest tightened and her heart knocked wildly against her breastplate. He had on dark jeans and a black t-shirt under his leather jacket, looking every bit like the Hank Moody she first met at the hotel bar in London. His jaw was stubbled with five o’clock shadow that she’d only recently noticed had begun to come in a salt and pepper shade.

They locked eyes and Hank dropped Becca’s hand to rush forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her soundly. Stella couldn’t help but press herself against him and take a handful of his shirt at his chest. His cologne was strong enough to have been freshly applied and when he pulled away she could still smell him on her.

“Hey, now,” Fish said. “We haven’t got to the kiss the bride part of this yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Hank whispered to her again, his neck bent and forehead resting against hers. “You look like a fucking dream. I couldn’t help myself.”

Stella tipped her head back and then reached up to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his mouth with her thumb. She ran a knuckle down the crease above her upper lip, afraid he’d smudged her as well, but Hank shook his head lightly.

“It’s perfect,” he said to her.

“All right, break it up, break it up,” Fish said. “Let’s see if we can’t get you two hitched before we lose all daylight.”

Hank backed up a little and took Stella’s hand. She put the roses up to her face for a moment to breathe them in. The petals were soft and cool against her cheeks. She hadn’t noticed before, when she then gave the bouquet for Becca to hold, that her soon-to-be stepdaughter was wearing a short-sleeved dress a dark shade of purple. It was the first time she’d seen her in a dress and it made her look even smaller and younger than she already did.

“You look beautiful,” Stella told her.

“So do you.” Becca smiled. The leather band and compass were still on her wrist.

Stella gave Hank her other hand and though it was hard to tear her eyes away from his, she turned her head to look at Fish so they could start.

“Dearly beloved,” Fish said, dramatically, and then laughed at the horrified look on Hank’s face. “Just fuckin’ with ya, Moody.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Hank said.

“Karebear, Beckster,” Fish said. “Thank you for being witnesses to today’s events. I’m only gonna ask if you do, and you do, and as long as you both say yes, we’ll be done. But, Hank asked to say something before that, so Moody, take it away.”

Stella swallowed and looked at Hank. He brushed his thumbs across her knuckles in reassurance. They’d agreed not to write any vows and not knowing what he was up to made her a little wary.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Hank said. “I had this whole thing I wanted to say. I mean, I wrote a Pultizer prize winning essay about you. Nobel Peace prize winning, even. My words were so poignant, they could’ve fucking cured cancer. Honestly. But, I tore it all up because I knew you wouldn’t like me to publicly declare each and every reason why I love you. I think you know, anyway. And I think I know, because we’re both here and this is happening. So, let me just promise you one thing. This doesn’t change things. I loved you yesterday. I love you today. And I’m going to love you tomorrow.”

Hank let go of one of Stella’s hands and reached up to her face to put his hand on her cheek. He left it there for just a few moments and then took her hand again and turned his head to look at Fish.

“Okay,” Hank said. “Go ahead.”

“Wait,” Stella said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Hank’s face. He turned back to her with his brows raised. She glanced at Fish and then at Becca and Karen. Becca had tears in her eyes and Karen had her arms around Becca’s shoulders, hugging her from behind.

“Stella?” Hank asked.

“I want to say something.” She looked up and met his eyes. It took her a moment to wet her lips and swallow. “I promise that wherever we go from here, I will hold your hand.”

Hank took a deep breath and squeezed her hands as he smiled. She squeezed back and returned his smile. Eventually, she looked at Fish and nodded.

“Stella, do you have Hank’s ring?” Fish asked.

Stella let go of Hank’s hands and reached into the hidden pocket of her dress to pull get his ring. Hank gave her his left hand and she slid it onto his fourth finger. He looked at Becca when she was finished and Becca handed him Stella’s ring, which he slid onto her finger and then clasped her hand to his chest.

“Sherlock, do you take Watson as your husband and thereby the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet?” Fish asked.

It took a moment to register what Fish had said, but Stella closed her eyes and released a quiet laugh through her nose. She dipped her head before she opened them and then raised her brow at Fish.

“Was that one of his special requests?” she asked.

Fish grinned and shrugged. Hank gave her an innocent smile, but the sparkle in his eye was obvious.

“I do,” Stella said.

“Hank, you lucky SOB, do you take Stella as your wife?”

“Fuck yes, I do,” Hank answered.

“And I just want to say, from the bottom of my heart, it is my great honor to be part of this special day. And, by the power invested in me by the state of Connecticut and ordain yourself dot com, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Hank wasted no time in cupping the back of Stella’s head and pulling her to him. His mouth was on hers in the next instant, their tongues colliding and twisting together like the impatient and needy way they used to kiss back when they still lived on separate continents and weeks would pass between physical contact. She whimpered a little when Hank moved his hands down to squeeze her hips, but she was well aware they weren’t alone and had to put a stop to this before they got carried away.

As soon as Stella broke their kiss and stepped back, Becca handed her the bouquet and then was between them, hugging her. She wrapped one arm around Becca and tilted her head as Karen bent to kiss her cheek. Fish was shaking Hank’s hand and grinning. Hank pulled away and wrapped one arm around Stella and the other around Becca. Stella could tell from his sigh that he was content. She looked up at him and he told her with his smile that he wanted to keep the two most important things in the world to him in his arms just a little longer.

The light was fading quickly. In the distance, the treetops were now black silhouettes against a yellow and grey backdrop. Only a tiny sliver of yellow sun peeked up above the trees.

“Well,” Fish said, clapping his hands once and then rubbing them together. “Steaks are marinating in the fridge. Let’s go fire up the barbeque!”

Karen rolled her eyes a little, but laughed when Fish grabbed her around the waist and peppered her cheeks with kisses as he walked her towards the path back to the house. Becca let go of Stella and slipped out from under Hank’s arm to follow.

“Grab the mat,” Karen called to Becca over her shoulder.

Becca stopped and pivoted back towards Hank and Stella. Stella stepped off the little mat and Becca scooped it up and then hurried to join Karen and Fish. Before they disappeared, Stella saw Fish take the mat from Becca and put his hand on her shoulder.

“We did it,” Hank said, when they were alone.

“We did,” she agreed.

“Think we have time for a little honeymoon action before we’re called to dinner?”

“I would like to change. It’d be a shame for the dress to be ruined by a splash of marinade.”

Hank ran his hands down the back of her shoulders to her hips and leaned into her. “I think I’ve found something I like you in even more than your uniform.”

She made a slight humming noise and then raised up to kiss his jaw. “I think you’ll like what’s under it even more,” she murmured into his ear before slipping her hand in his and taking him towards the woods.

The End

#i wrote this #hanella #hank/stella #FINALLY

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