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archonanqi · 3 years

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fragile as dust / 12 - smile

a/n: Please let me know if you’d like to be added to a taglist for this story. Thank you all for the kind comments! ;-; @fishyfish-y @writingmi @just-some-stars @kawaiitinybunny @juhlydrawsblog @cherryvane @kaenyas @loadingrat

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ch 11 | dreameater

For a minute or so, you stared at the dragon’s tooth. Reached out to touch it, every scratch and indentation on its smooth surface exactly the same as you remembered. You ran your finger around the blackened, charred ring around it, remembering how you had plunged the tooth into the blazing shield of fire, how the Abyss Mage had screamed.

You winced at the memory of the past… day? Two days? You weren’t sure how long you had slept, and each time you tried to call upon any memories, your head hurt terribly.

“Zhongli,” you barely managed to whisper.

As though he had been waiting just outside your room, the door swung open almost immediately. Zhongli strode in, though the relief you felt at his presence was quickly overshadowed by the fear of what you’d done, of how he might punish you for it. “Hansi,” he said, voice carefully composed as always, but you had known him just long enough to pick out a slightly different note of— worry? “You slept for two days.”

“Oh no, I missed work,” you deadpanned, desperate to dredge even the smallest of smiles from Zhongli. Zhongli’s frown didn’t even quaver. The very idea of Zhongli being annoyed at you sent chills down your spine. Just then, a memory came back to you, and suddenly, you were desperate for something else. “OH— work… Xiangling—!” You tried to throw back the covers to stand up, but the sudden movement sent hot and cold chills through your veins and almost sent you retching over the side of the bed.

“When you mentioned Qingxin,” Zhongli said. “I knew at once that she wasn’t bringing you to Cuijie. That girl knows the flora and fauna of Liyue almost better than I.” You remembered his slight unease the morning you left, that odd exchange that you thought nothing more of.

Of course, Zhongli would have known the whole time; how foolish of you to think you could keep anything from his calculating gaze.

“But what reason would she have had to lie?” Zhongli continued, “and so, though I did not want to intrude upon your expedition, I paid Jueyun Karst a visit with Chef Mao when you two did not return. We found her halfway up the mountain.”

“Is she— is she okay now?” You could barely bear to hear the answer, “I need to go and see her.”

“I don’t believe you’ll be able to go anywhere in your current state,” These were stronger words than you’d ever heard Zhongli utter at you, and it finally snapped you out of your haze of panic. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you noticed his stiff posture, his slightly furrowed brow, and felt a pang of guilt. You had acknowledged that he might worry over your disappearance, but not to such a degree.

“If it puts you at ease,” Zhongli started, “I visited Xiangling this morning. Dr. Baizhu personally saw to her, and she is well on her way to recovery. She was similarly distraught about you, and she mentioned that you tried to hold off the monster on your own for her sake. Is this true?”

You nodded.

“Admirable,” Zhongli said, and you noted that his voice had not lost its edge, “if not extremely rash. You could not have known what a powerful artifact the tooth was, though it is partly my fault for not explaining it to you. If I had not shown up when I did—”

You blurted the first thing you were sure of. “I’m sorry for putting you in danger.”

Zhongli let out an audible breath, and shook his head. When he next spoke, his voice was tinged in disbelief. “To think that after everything, that’s your takeaway from this? What you and Xiangling did was incredibly dangerous. I believe that I’ve made more than clear to you, how dangerous Jueyun Karst is to mortals.”

“I’m sorry,” you said again, the guilt rearing its head in the pits of your stomach..

Sighing softly, Zhongli held your gaze. “Though, I also miscalculated. Xiangling would have been able to handle no less than a Mitachurl; perhaps even a Lawachurl, but these intelligent creatures — Abyss Mages? It’s quite troubling that they’ve begun to appear in Liyue, so soon after Rex Lapis’ departure.”

“Did you kill it?” You couldn’t help but ask, though you already knew the answer.

Zhongli fixed his unflinching gaze on you. “Yes.”

You had already held the evidence of its death in your hands — there was no way the creature had given up the dragon’s tooth without a fight — but still, the truth was like a slap to the face. You had scarcely been able to escape from it with your life, and yet Zhongli... You glanced him up and down. Zhongli didn’t look so much as shaken from the confrontation.

“It was a hazard to Liyue. And it had threatened you,” he added, taking your awe for confusion. “Similar monsters have been growing in rank and number… Even the Adepti are on high guard, it seems, if Mountain— if one of them has started trapping civilians. Though Xiangling can fight, I’m afraid that the situation may be too much for you to handle right now. I would ask that you limit your ventures to Liyue Harbor—”

You couldn’t stand the heavy tension of the room, couldn’t bear the thought that Zhongli might be angry at you. He had made no move to approach you, standing his usual, respectable distance away from your bedside, but anger— anger always meant someone got hurt, and usually, it was you.

Quickly, you opened your mouth to swear that yes, yes of course, anything you want, I’ll never leave again, but Zhongli held up his hand to stop you. “Think carefully before making any promises to me. Are you content with staying within the harbor for the rest of your life, Hansi?”

You hesitated. He was right. Going on ingredient hunts and seeing the beautiful mountains of Liyue had been the time of your life. You wanted to go further, wider. To see every bit that the world had to offer. And more than anything, you wanted to do it— with Zhongli.

“I will ask you one last time, then,” Zhongli said, “ do you wish to learn how to fight ?”

You couldn’t help but glance at the drawer where your Vision was, quickly dragging your gaze back to him and hoping he had not noticed. You swallowed. Yes, yes , you did. And what better teacher for your Geo Vision than Zhongli?

He had just saved your life. The least you could do was trust him with it.

Before you could respond, you were interrupted by a loud rapping at the front door.

“Just a moment, please,” Zhongli called in response. When he turned back, his expression had softened. “I… may have been too harsh. I hope you can understand that my words are borne only from concern for your well-being. How are you feeling?”

Like you had just been hit over the head with a large wooden pole, but the last thing you wanted to do was worry Zhongli more. “A lot better than two nights ago,” you smiled, hoping to ease his concern, but it came out a little more like a grimace.

“I see. You had quite a fever last night, so I requested a home visit from Bubu Pharmacy. It looks like they’re finally here. Please wait a moment.” It seemed as though Zhongli was back to his usual self, sweeping out of the room in all his regal valor. You heard him open the front door and greet whomever was there. A doctor? You grimaced at the thought of some strange man touching your body. But for Zhongli’s peace of mind, you would endure.

Finally, Zhongli returned. You looked around for the doctor— then down. A young girl, whose brow reached around Zhongli’s knees, wobbled in, holding a basket that seemed to weigh more than herself. Under her little hat was tucked a paper talisman; the kind you’d find plastered on the dead.

“Hello. Qiqi is a zombie,” she said by way of introduction. “Nice to meet you.”

—-

You stared at her, then Zhongli, wondering why he had just let a literal child wander into his house.

At the bewilderment on your face, Zhongli stepped in to explain. “Qiqi is from Bubu Pharmacy. She is indeed a zombie, though her story is perhaps one better told another time. Rest assured that she is more than qualified to treat any mortal illness. Qiqi, this is whom I was telling you about. I believe she might have a fever—”

“This room is cold,” Qiqi murmured, siddling closer to your bedside. She dug around in her basket and produced a waterskin. “Good for Qiqi, not good for a fever. Please close the window and fill this with hot water.”

“Of course,” Zhongli nodded, rushing to comply. After he left, Qiqi merely continued like she had not just ordered Zhongli around in his own house. The way she peered at you was so intent that it made you squirm, and each time she put her hand against your skin, it was so cold that you could barely resist, out of politeness, the urge to jump.

“How did you get sick.” Qiqi asked. For a moment, her voice was so monotone that you hadn’t realized it was a question. You scrambled to answer, cheeks flushing warm.

“I was… climbing a tall mountain and got caught in the rain.”

“Hmm,” she said, “not good. Bring an umbrella next time.”

“I will,” you promised quickly, watching as she produced a large wad of paper from her basket — how many things did she have in there? — and began scribbling, just as Zhongli returned with a filled waterskin and a glass of warm water. The warmth of the glass against your skin was heavenly, and you quietly sipped the drink while waiting for Qiqi to finish her writing.

“Mr. Zhongli,” she said, tugging at his sleeve for his attention. Zhongli all but bent down to meet her at eye level. “Mr. Zhongli’s wife will be okay.”

It was all you could do to keep the water inside your mouth when you choked.

“Hansi is my friend,” Zhongli corrected, gently.

Qiqi peered up at Zhongli, then at you — wrapped in what were clearly three layers of his clothing — then back at Zhongli. “Mr. Zhongli’s friend will be okay,” she amended, rifling so furiously through her papers that you were worried she would tear the pages. “She must rest for...three days. And eat wet things.” The girl squinted more closely at her notebook. “Hm. No. I meant, drink more fluids,” she amended, going right back to her scribbling. You peeked at it, but couldn’t understand a word she had written — was she drawing a flower?

Finally, she ripped the page off with surprising gusto and handed it to Zhongli, who had to once again bend down to reach her little hands. “Here is a prescription for huang’lian medicine. For the fever.” The little girl said, thumbing through her pages. “I can also prescribe Windwheel Aster syrup. But Windwheel Asters can only be found in… Mondstadt... It can cost a lot.”

“How much?”

Qiqi went completely still as she thought about it. It was a little unnerving. At last, she reached a conclusion. “One million mora.”

To your horror, Zhongli nodded. “That is acceptable,” he said. “Please give us three bottles.” You didn’t even know what to begin to say to that — you knew already that he was hopeless when it came to haggling, but three million mora was an unthinkable amount. And more ridiculously, spent on someone like you? Before you could protest, Qiqi shook her head.

“No. I will not charge Mr. Zhongli so much. Three thousand mora will be fine.”

“Won’t you get into trouble with Dr. Baizhu, my dear Qiqi?” Zhongli asked.

“Hm. I don’t care what Baizhu says,” Qiqi frowned, “Mr. Zhongli has helped me many times.”

“Well then, I will accept your offer of generosity. On behalf of Wangsheng Funeral’s accountants, thank you, Qiqi.”

“I will also prescribe... gu’fen . It will help her wrist recover faster... Oh, no.” Qiqi sighed so heavily her little body shook. “Never mind. We are out of bones.”

“ Gu’fen - powdered bones?” Zhongli asked. “What kind do you need?”

“Geovishap will work best, although hatchlings will also be okay.”

“Very well,” Zhongli said, heading for the door without a moment’s hesitation. “Please give me a few minutes.”

“Two will be enough,” Qiqi called after him, barely lifting her gaze from her notebook.

You heard the front door open and shut. “Did he—” you glanced at Qiqi, then out the window, where the unmistakable silhouette of Zhongli was striding off towards the mountains north of the harbor. You knew what Geovishaps were, Zhongli had told you of their story: descendants of the King of Dragons that had long been sealed beneath the earth by Rex Lapis. “Did Mr. Zhongli just leave to go hunt vishap bones? Is he safe?”

“Yes. He is strong,” Qiqi stated matter-of-factly. “Mr. Zhongli could not fulfill his contract… for Cocomilk… So Mr. Zhongli helps when Qiqi gather herbs... in Jueyun Karst.”

Cocomilk? Zhongli had… fudged a contract? You wanted to ask her to elaborate, but another tidbit of information caught your attention. It was undeniable, then, that Zhongli could come and go safely within Jueyun Karst. You shuddered as you remembered how overwhelmingly powerful the Adepti had been. How could Zhongli willingly set foot in there, and how can he do so unharmed? A distant memory arose, something about him… karst crawlers… protection?

Qiqi was tapping on your leg for attention, so you quickly shook yourself free of your ponderings. You could revisit them later. “Sorry. Yes, Qiqi?”

“I asked,” Qiqi said, “do you need contraceptive medicine? I can prescribe...”

“ What ?”

“Please do not be alarmed,” Qiqi said calmly, severely misunderstanding your almost-scream. “This is part of life. As a pharmacist of Bubu Pharmacy, I am able to prescribe—”

“No,” you said quickly, very quickly, “No, we really are just friends.” The word tasted sweet on your tongue. Friend — Zhongli’s friend.

“Hm, okay,” Qiqi responded, blinking upwards at you with clear magenta eyes, and though there was no inflection in her tone, you could almost hear the incredulity. “Where did you get these injuries?”

You debated lying, but she was looking up at you with such seriousness that you couldn’t find it in yourself to. “Mount Hulao,” you admit with a hint of remorse. “I went there with a friend… we both got badly hurt. It was a bad idea. I don’t remember much, other than that.”

“Baizhu was called to treat Miss Xiangling yesterday. She was your friend?” Qiqi thoughtfully waited for you to nod. “You were… also sealed in the amber? It can cause memory loss. Sweetflower tea will help... with the headaches.”

You wanted to ask how she knew about the headaches, how she knew about the amber, but the look in her eyes was answer enough. For the adepti to harm such a small child— in the pits of your stomach, you felt such a hot surge of anger that you surprised yourself. Qiqi’s small hands rested on yours, her big, earnest eyes staring right into you.

“Hmm,” she repeated, “not good. Bring Mr. Zhongli next time.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “I will,” you promised once more, jokingly. “Though I’m not sure how I’ll fit all that muscle into my backpack—” You trailed off at the inquisitive look on Qiqi’s face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just friends,” she commented shortly.

“We are just friends!” you cried, stopping yourself quickly as you heard the front door swing open. A few minutes, just as Zhongli had promised. And slung over his back was a sizable sack, bulging with what you knew were dozens of bones.

“Two was enough,” Qiqi murmured as Zhongli placed the sack before her. There was no way the girl was lugging that back to the pharmacy , you thought, just as Qiqi carefully lifted it with one hand. By the Archons, what were they feeding the pharmacists at Bubu?

“I thought it would be best to err on the safe side,” Zhongli replied, “please do put any leftovers to good use at the pharmacy. And also,” he said, pulling out a vibrant strand of violetgrass from his coat, “this is for you, my dear Qiqi.”

Qiqi’s expression did not waver, but you thought that she looked just a little pleased as Zhongli tucked the flowers into her hat.

“Okay.” Qiqi said, handing Zhongli the last pieces of paper from her notebook. “Please come and collect your prescriptions tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you, Qiqi,” Zhongli answered, helping to hold the door open as the girl wobbled her way back out as unsteadily as when she came. “Have a good evening.” When he returned to stand by your bedside, you carefully eyed him. There was a smear of dirt on his left sleeve, but otherwise, it looked like he had just returned from a walk at the harbor — not from battle.

“Are you hurt, Mr. Zhongli?” You asked.

“Hmm?” He blinked, then absently said, “ah. The Geovishaps? Not at all. They are quite easy to combat, once you learn of their weaknesses.” You wondered how many he’d fought; how many things he had killed in his life, that fighting ferocious monsters was barely an ordeal of note for him.

More importantly, he had done it for you. Had been willing to pay three million Mora for your well-being. You found yourself blinking back tears once again; you would not let anyone see you cry.

“Thank you, Mr. Zhongli.” You said, and you hoped that he would understand all that you meant by it.

“Of course, Hansi. Though, before I forget, I do have a question,” he said, reaching into his coat and producing a chunk of Cor Lapis, “when I found you at Mount Hulao, you were gripping this like your life depended on it. Is this what you went there for? Why?”

Oh. The flush in your cheeks burned red hot, and you scrambled for a lie — any lie. Nothing came to mind. Finally, under his scrutinizing gaze, you withered and told him the foolish truth with slumped shoulders: “it was meant to be a gift for you, Mr. Zhongli. It’s probably… it’s probably nothing compared to the one from your friend.” You could barely lift your head to look him in the eye, and you were vaguely aware that you had begun to ramble. “But it’s the only one I could find. I ended up causing you more trouble in the end, I’m sorry.”

“Goodness,” Zhongli said, his voice thick with emotion for the first time that you’d heard. You glanced at him in surprise, but his face betrayed nothing as always.

Zhongli held the Cor Lapis up to the light, looking at it carefully. After a terribly long pause, his gaze fell back on you. “This is one of the clearest, most luminous pieces of Lapis I’ve seen in my life. Thank you for going to such lengths to get me this, Hansi.”

Your relief at his lack of anger and your pride at his praise was nothing, absolutely nothing compared to the way your heart fluttered warmly at the bright smile on his face.

“Though of course, I would have appreciated such a precious gift regardless.” Zhongli continued, walking to the door. “Now, I must ask that you rest for a little while, as per Qiqi’s orders. Will you be alright alone? Please call my name if you need anything at all—”

You were only half-listening. It wasn’t fair, how his smile could wrench the air right out of your lungs.

—-

A memory:

“There it is again, that infamous frown,” the young woman waved her hands, her billowing sleeves whipping about in the howling gales of Qingyun Peak. “Why do you never smile, Morax?”

“What is there to smile about?” he asked truthfully, because he had long since stopped trying to decipher her odd mannerisms. Below them, underneath the clouds, the war raged on.

“What is there to—?” She exhaled in exaggerated exasperation, throwing her arms out to the wind. “The birds in the trees! The clouds in the sky! It didn’t rain today for the first time in weeks, so we made it all the way up here to watch the sunset! Do none of these things mean anything to you?”

“Yet when night falls, we will once again have to fight.” His fingers twitched around empty space, every moment he wasn’t holding his polearm — at her request — almost painful. He detested being in this form, but it was cold in the mountains, and his adepti form would do little to help him with temperature regulation. “We should return soon. I hear that Osial has been rallying his forces for another attack, and we were barely able to fend off the last one.”

She sighed, and he knew that meant he had disappointed her — though he did not know how.

“Morax,” she breathed, barely audible over the wind. “What will it take to make you smile? Tell me, and I’ll do it. A contract. That’s the only kind of thing you understand, right?”

That, he did. “When the war is over,” he answered. She was leaning precariously over the edge of the cliff, and it brought about some strange, foreign feeling deep in his gut — something different to the wounds and scars he was used to. “And our people are safe from the threat of strife and war.”

A brief pause. She showed no sign of getting down from where she was standing, and in fact, had gotten on her tiptoes. “You might fall,” he warned.

“You promise? You promise that once the war is over, you’ll try to smile more?”

“You have my word,” he swore. He did not understand her intentions even a little, but promises? Those he knew better than life itself. Something so trivial as a smile seemed scarcely worthy of a contract. But it seemed important to her, and so he would honor it. “You should step away from the edge. You might fall,” he repeated.

“Oh, but you’ll catch me, won’t you?” Her pale hair whipped about in the wind, framing a wide, bright grin. There was a twinkle in her eye that he, unfortunately, knew all too well.

“Guizhong, don’t—“ he said, rushing forward, but it was too late. She tipped backwards, disappearing into the clouds below, just as his arms closed around empty wind. Muttering a series of ancient curses he thanked the heavens that Ganyu wasn’t here to hear, he leapt after her.

The transformation always hurt a little, though after meeting Guizhong (and her incomprehensible insistence that he stay in human form when in front of human children) he changed forms so often that he barely even noticed anymore. He relished the sting as lithic claws, scales and fangs tore their way out of his deplorably soft human flesh— and then, he was free to rip through the clouds and wind. Frightening and powerful, as he should be.

As he had to be.

It was not hard to locate Guizhong, especially not with the way she’d gleefully screamed all the way down. He angled himself right under her, bracing for the impact, and she landed squarely on his back with an exhilarated squeak.

“Wasn’t that fun, Morax?” She clambered up towards his head as they tore through the skies. He could feel each of her warm fingers gripping his horns tightly. “No? Still no smile?”

“What?” He growled. “You could have died.”

“You wouldn’t have let that happen,” she waved it off, “though you did let me hit a few more trees than necessary on the way down, didn’t you?”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Fine,” he could hear the pout in her voice. “When the war ends, I want to see a huuuuge smile from you, alright?”

“I already gave you my word.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Well, that is, if I’m there to see it,” she laughed lightly. “Not everyone is as big and strong and scary as you, Morax.”

There it was again, that feeling — a dull blade that pressed deep into his lungs, his stomach, his heart. Fear? No. The God of War and Contracts did not know fear.

“Of course you will. We will both be there to see this to its end.”

—-

At the end of the war, when he finally felt the searing power of the divine settle within him, Morax stood alone.

Mountains of bodies, bones picked clean by birds and sinew laid to claim by beasts, surrounded him for as far as the eye could see.

Guizhong was not among them, for she had been killed years and years ago.

He felt his lip curl into — something. It fell a little short of a smile.

—-

Outside of your room, Zhongli leaned his head against the cool wood of the doorframe, and steadied his breathing. Carefully, he placed back into his coat the Cor Lapis that you had gotten him; that you had almost died trying to get him.

How ironic, that even after exactly three thousand, seven hundred and twelve years, two months and eighteen days, he still found himself scrambling to protect someone who seemed to lack all sense of self preservation, and who surprised him to no end.

Guizhong had not been strong enough to fend off those who sought to claim her life, but you could be — if only you’d show him what you were hiding in the drawers by your bed. He could feel its resonance, each time he entered your room — the Vision he had given you; a reminder of the strength that you could use, to fight back, to protect yourself.

Guizhong had not been strong enough.

A breath in, a breath out. Zhongli closed his eyes.

He would not make the same mistake again.

#zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli fanfic #genshin #genshin fanfic #fragile as dust #my writing #anqi writes

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remember-to-be-gentle · 3 years

Note

what about reader summoning a demon in desperation after losing their job but they summon the wrong one? (Enji? Madara? Dabi? Miruko? Up to u it could be any1)

I made a header for this fic because it kept getting buried in my drafts also this fic is for you demon tail fuckers.

Subject: BNHA, Demon!Dabi aka Touya Todoroki

Title: How Much Does a Pound of Flesh Cost? (NSFW, fem reader)

Trigger Warning: Murder, demon summoning, workplace harassment, non con, cannibalism, loss of virginity/bad women’s anatomy, tail penetration, blood, crying, reader is in pain multiple times

You couldn’t take it anymore. The harassment, the taunting, the rumors. HR didn’t help and God knew if your lazy as hell boss was going to so much as glance in the direction of your problems. So you’d had to turn to other means.

It was a last resort, you’d told yourself that over and over again, only to be used if there was no other option. You couldn’t leave the job, it paid too well and no where would hire someone who quit after just three months on the job. Wiping tears out of your eyes, you drew the last parts of the upside pentagram on your hardwood floors, the chalk coming off in puffy chunks.

The upside down pentagram was ugly, no lines straight or even, but it should work, after all, summoning a demon didn’t require artistic talent, just desire. You grabbed the demon summoning book you’d gotten off Amazon and flipped to the page you’d bookmarked with sticky tabs and dried tears. In broken Latin and probably the worst accent ever, you read the words you’d only spoken in your fantasies and closed your eyes.

There was power in them, you could tell, though you weren’t sure exactly how much power would come from them. And just as quickly as the power had built, it crashed. Terrified your eyes shot open, fear gripping your heart. Had you failed? Did you really fail in your final attempt to save yourself?

And then you saw it.

Him.

The demon in the circle.

He smirked at you from where he laid in the chalk, hair so dark red it was black, eyes blue as the hottest part of the flame, skin either charred in patches or pale and smooth, staples keeping it all together. Two bull-like horns grew from his head and a long devil’s tail whipped about behind him. “Hey, doll,” he said, “what can I do you for?”

You’d prepared yourself for this. Demons were tricky with their words and quick to act, it was best to find out what they wanted before you told them why they were summoned. “Tell me what I have to pay first.”

“Doll,” he groaned, his body rising like a rag doll. His head flopped forward, those burning blue eyes zeroing in on you, “I can’t bill you if you don’t tell me what you want.”

Shit, maybe you didn’t have the edge you thought you did. You swallowed and said, “I want... I want to make my coworkers suffer like they made me suffer. I want them to hurt—on the inside! I don’t want to see them bleed out or anything...”

The demon made a rumbling noise, your apartment shaking with him, picture frames rattling and furniture shaking. “You wish for them experience the same pain you did, pain that’s on the inside...” He drifted closer to you, an electric aura of malice surrounding him, “And you don’t want to see them bleed. Tricky, tricky.” His tail whipped again. “I think I would like my price to be...” He stopped right in front of you and smiled wide, showing off sharp canines built for tearing flesh, “My price will be your mucous.”

You blinked. “My mucous?”

He whipped his tail again, the tip of it suddenly right at your nose. “If you agree to the terms then eat of my flesh and your will shall become mine.”

“Wait,” your mind was steal reeling from his price and now he wanted you bite his tail off? The book hadn’t said anything about this.

“Every second you hesitate,” the demon growled, “is another second of your torment. Eat and be fulfilled.”

“Fine, okay.” He really wasn’t giving you time to think about this. You opened your mouth and he thrust in his tail, hard, the tip making it halfway down your throat, choking you for as heat crowded your face. For several swollen seconds you stayed there choking on his tail before instinct had you slamming your teeth down.

The tail snapped apart easily, the taste of pig skin a ghost on your tongue as the tail dropped down your esophagus and into your stomach. The weight of your deal hung heavily in your belly.

Heat erupted from your stomach, the taste of smoke overpowering your senses, burning your nose until you collapsed on the floor gasping for breath. Tears spilled over down your cheeks, carrying with it the sensation of burning, as if you’d been consumed in hellfire. The weight of the demon’s tail vanished.

When you finally caught your breath, you saw the demon was gone, leaving no trace behind except for the chalk circle that had been reshaped to read D̦̠̝̻̱̦̮̲̫̅̃́͂̈́͢͝͞Ȧ̸̧̫̠̦̬̞͛̽͐͆͜͝B̵̝̼̗̠̺̳̓̈͌͊̔͊́̀͞I̵͎͔͔͍̫͛̊̏͘͜͠.

*******************************************************************************************

With no idea when the demon would come back for his payment, you were left with no choice but to go to work. Your stomach twisted in terrorized knots. You didn’t want to confront them, look them in the eye and know that their hatred wouldn’t vanish without demonic intervention, but you’d used all your sick days and your rent wouldn’t pay itself.

The building was empty, which wasn’t unusual this early in the morning, though it concerned you the security guards weren’t in their places. You got into the elevator and took a deep breath. Alright,

You slowly entered the office and noticed first the silence. No fingers clacking keyboards. No rising bubbles from the water cooler. No idle chatter. No one seated in their cubicle. Nothing. Not even security making their rounds.

As you walked through the maze of cubicles, a terrible stench invaded your nostrils, making your stomach twist. It was coming from the board room. You slowly made your way over, bile lapping at the back of your throat with each step closer, nausea swelling in your skull until you were dizzy. The carpet had claw marks coming from all over the office, as if something had been dragged away. Some cubicle walls were smashed or broken. You kept walking toward the smell.

And then you saw it.

Inside the glass meeting room, surrounding the large wooden table, were all your coworkers. Not a single one of them so much as twitched, their skin was purple and blotchy, nearly black in some spots. Internal bleeding, you recognized immediately, they’d either been beaten so bad their organs ruptured or something inside them had been torn them apart. Either way you needed to get out of—

“Hey doll,” Dabi the demon slithered out from the shadows, his voice making the room rumble like he had in your house, “like what I’ve done with the place?”

You stared at him in horror. “You... you did this?”

“I did,” he floated toward the table, newly regrown tail whipping behind him, “and it was fun, too. Its been a while since I’ve been asked to kill without leaving a trace. You’re a surprisingly naughty girl.”

“No! I didn’t want you to kill them! I wanted them to hurt like I did—”

“Doll.” His voice terrorized you and forced you still, a demonic force so dark and ugly that your nearly vomitted. “You asked me to hurt them like they hurt you. You understand I can’t make them feel anything that isn’t...” He ran a blue fingernail over one of your coworkers darkened faces, “physical.” He wrapped his tail around their throat, shaking their head back and forth. “So I did what you asked, I made them hurt without letting them bleed out. All the bleeding is internal, where it’s supposed to be, and just like you requested.”

“No, no, you should have said something if that was the case! I didn’t want anyone to die!”

“But then you wouldn’t have taken my deal,” he pouted, releasing your coworker to approach you, still floating, “and then I wouldn’t have gotten paid. Besides, didn’t they hurt you so badly you wanted to die? You summoned a demon to hurt them after all, and even agreed to pay my price.”

His payment that’s right it was... mucous. “Why do you want mucous, anyway?”

He ran a hand down your nose and then hooked his finger into your nostril, forcing you to look up at him. Sharp pain erupted in your skin but the deadly look in his eye made you keep quiet. “Did you think this is what I wanted? Oh no, you poor silly, little thing. I don’t know a soul would have use for your disgusting boogers.” His tail whipped forward and slid into your pants, ungraciously rubbing against your slit, “This is the mucous I want. Your hymen.”

You tried to step away but Dabi hooked his fingers deeper, pulling up and making you scream from the pain. "You tricked me! I didn't agree to this!"

Dabi chuckled darkly. "Next time ask clarifying questions, babe." He sharply removed his fingers, letting you fall on the floor. He didn't let you catch your breath, grabbing you by the back of your shirt and throwing you on the table.

Your head hit the solid wood first, hard, marking your teeth rattle and skull bounce, the rest of your body forcing you to slide to the end of the table. A groan escaped your throat and when you tried to sit up, your face was just inches from your dead boss's. You shrieked and tried to scramble away, but Dabi pinned you down, one hand on your back, the other yanking your pants off. “Stop!” You screamed, “This isn’t what I wanted!”

You felt his tail circle your entrance, the tapered point pressing into your clit until you squirmed. It pulled your panties aside and felt the slick that had gathered, far too much for just rubbing your slit. It must have been some kind of demon magic that got him what he wanted faster. “This isn’t about what you want anymore,” he sneered in your ear, “your request is fulfilled, now pay up.” His tail slid inside you, suddenly much larger than you remembered seeing or swallowing, stretching out your insides as the tapered point met your cervix.

But it kept growing.

The tail’s girth continued to swell inside you, breaking your tight rings of untouched muscle as your core clenched around it. No matter how much you wanted to hate it, it felt good all the way inside you, reaching parts of you that had remained clean until now, and then the pain kicked in again.

The discomfort before had been an uncomfortable adjustment, slightly itchy if anything, but now it was searing, your insides feeling like they’d been torn apart and gutted. You shrieked, nails digging into the wood of the table. You swung your hips back and forth as if that would make him remove his tail but it only made the tip press harder against your cervix.

Dabi shoved your hips back down against the table. “Relax, I’m almost done.”

Each swell of his tail was excruciating, tears welling up in your eyes from the pain.

It seemed to reach a maximum painful girth, stuck inside you as your insides twisted. And faster than it had grown, his tail shrunk back down to normal and slid out of you. You could feel blood following after, dripping out of your entrance and onto the board meeting table.

Dabi started to lift himself up and you thought he was done, contract complete, but you heard him unzip his pants and before you could process exactly what was coming next, something new pressed inside you. It didn’t hurt as much as the tail, but it was much hotter, pushing all the way inside you until something warm and squishy pressed against your clit. Your sore insides itched and clung at the object, making you whimper. “This,” Dabi groaned, “is your tip.”

He pulled back and slammed back in, your torn core making you see stars from the sharp pain. His dick. He’d put this demon fucking dick inside you. You screamed and tried to thrash, but Dabi was so much bigger than you. So much stronger. All you really ended up doing was humping his cock and crying.

He simply ignored you and pumped roughly into you, his heavy balls slamming against your clit with each downstroke. You kept crying and thrashing and Dabi must have gotten annoyed with you because he growled, “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. Just stay still and let me take what I want.”

You choked out a sob, failing at swallowing the tears that slid down your cheeks and onto the table. With your boss’s dead eyes staring into you, you did your best to ignore the rough thrusting of the demon you’d sold your virginity to. You’d paid for revenge and lost far more than you’d bargained for.

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ethereaiin · 3 years

Text

Stigma | genshin impact

synopsis; Despite the numerous attempts to end each other's lives, one thing is for sure; you're the only person he could truthfully call his rival.

features; you and scaramouche

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Fighting her was always interesting.

Whether he was taking it seriously or dueling her just for fun, there was never a time when his fellow Harbinger hadn’t tried her absolute best to bring him down. He could feel it in each swing of her sword; the determination to beat him burned almost as brightly as the cracked pyro vision dangling against her hip.

There was never a clear winner when it came to their duels and he would have it no other way. Her constant calls to challenge him kept him from feeling the boredom the lack of any action brought and ruining it now proved to be nothing short of disadvantageous for him. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he never had it easy in facing her. While her technique was nothing too remarkable, it was the strength behind her every hit that had him reeling and struggling to deal the final blow against her.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d get rid of her eventually. The moment she can no longer entertain him is when he’d finally kill her. It was bound to happen soon, no matter how much her strength appalled him.

“Scara!” The shortened call of his name exclusively used by the tenth Harbinger caught his attention and with a tightened frown he turns to face her.

She stands before him, a grin spread across her face and eyes bright with a look of unique hunger. Although she approaches him casually as if she were greeting a friend, the slight flex of her arms exposed by her revealing blouse and the twitch of her fingers suggest otherwise. He knew better than to take her relaxed demeanor for granted. Beneath her cheerful exterior lied a wolf in hiding. The moment he let his guard down would lay claim to his end.

“Ready for round two?” Her eyes twinkle with a certain look that has him slightly on edge. Usually, he wasn’t one who’d refuse a fight especially with someone he considered strong enough to entertain him, but the expression she wore suggested she had something hidden up her sleeve, and if there was anything he hated more than boredom it was being taken by surprise.

With a frown still marring his delicate features, he fully turned towards her with navy eyes hardened into a withering glare. Most people, especially those beneath him, would have visibly flinched or even lower their gaze yet the girl standing before him was never one to back down. Instead, her grin grew wider and the excitement she felt at finally garnering his full attention showed itself in the form of flickering flames licking the ground she stood upon.

Her uncontrollable power was yet another thing that made fighting her all the more fun. Unlike most vision holders, she was never one who overly relied on her elemental abilities, and instead, it was her own personal strength that won many of her duels. It was impressive, to say the least, to not only gain the attention of the Tsaritsa but to become one of her eleven faithful Harbingers without the reliance on a vision. Though all of this was not something he’d never be willing to admit aloud.

Her hand raises from her side and only a second passes before the length of her arm engulfs in flames and her favored sword appears in her grip. Her grin never fades and instead grows when she noticed the moment she armed herself so had he.

“So you were expecting me.” An amused laugh escapes her lips as she twirls the sword in her hand to assume a familiar stance. “To think you actually enjoy our little fights.”

Instead of saying anything, he merely scoffed with a look that suggested spending any time with her was utterly repulsive. And it was, at least that’s what he thought before he found himself almost impatiently awaiting the moment she’d appear in front of him to demand a fight. When weeks passed without her showing up even once he felt an odd sense of unease and even slight disappointment. Now that she was here before him once again, those muddled feelings seemingly disappeared and his current expression was a betrayal of what he truly felt.

“Instead of wasting so much time talking, how about you actually try and beat me?”

At his words and the smug quirk of his lips, she snarls before quickly throwing herself at him. Her sword is raised, silver edge emblazoned in a glowing crimson that signals an incoming blast, and just as it is about to strike his shoulder, a crackling vine of violet electro deflects it. Though she doesn’t back away from him like he had expected her to and instead she takes him by surprise and raises her non-dominant hand, engulfed in orange-red flames, in an attempt to deck him across his face. He grunts, his lips slightly agape from her surprise attack, as he twisted away from her and out of her range.

Despite his quick reflexes, the heat of the explosion could still be felt against his cheek and even the pyro vision holder herself was affected by her own ability. Her hair was slightly singed and the right side of her face was reddened from the tiny licks of fire that managed to touch her skin. Though she didn’t appear all too bothered with her failure to land a hit and simply gritted her teeth. Her hand, the one she tried to use to hit him with during her initial attack, was charred; the skin blistered and torn from the uncontrollable intensity of her flames. It looked painful, and the thought of her hurting herself to get to him made him momentarily hesitate in his attack.

Her own vision was turned against her which subsequently made her abilities dangerous not only to those she attacked, but to herself as well. For a moment he wondered just how far she was willing to go to prove herself.

At her side, he could see her injured hand tremble slightly though it’s quickly stopped when she visibly clenches it. When his eyes meet her own, her gaze is hardened into a fierce glare and her lips were pulled into a tight frown.

“Scaramouche,” She starts, and among the use of his full name her tone is also missing the characteristic cheer that he had become so used to her addressing him with. “Today’s the day we’ll finally put an end to these duels.”

“One of us will emerge as the clear victor. . . and the strongest.” She continues and as her puzzling words continue to spew from frowning lips, her sword once again glows with crimson flames. “No matter what I don’t want you to hold back, even if that means you killing me.”

He wasn’t used to this side of her. Her overly serious expression lacked any of the excitement he was more accustomed to seeing on her face and with the added dread of her words he couldn’t help but stare at her as if what she said was the most outrageous thing in the world. The flash of shock that crossed his face was quickly obscured behind his glower and with more resolve than he possessed during previous fights, he readied himself to attack.

The day he anticipated from the start has finally arrived. He knew their fights, no matter how entertaining they were, would eventually come to an end. Although he expected it to be on his terms rather than her own. For him, things felt too unfinished to call it a satisfying end. Her death now wouldn’t give him that sense of achievement he anticipated when he defeated her.

“Do you honestly think I care about killing you?”

His words were purposely spoken in a cold tone to distance himself from his internal unease. There should have been no hesitation, he knew that, and yet that was all he could come up with to explain deliberately stalling their fight with talking.

Why did he not want to kill her when he was once so eager to in the past?

“That’s too bad,” A smile rose to her lips though it appeared far too somber to be created out of her usual joy. “I. . . thought we were closer than that.”

There’s a moment her smile persists before her eyes flutter shut and the flames running along the edge of her sword continuously grow in intensity until spiels of fire fell off the sword to the melted snow beneath her feet. The heat was almost unbearable from the little distance he stood away from her and he couldn’t even begin to imagine just how painful it had to have been to her who stood directly next to it. Yet she looked completely unbothered as if there were nothing at all that could slow her resolve.

Her chest rises and falls with a deep exhale and before he could even blink, she’s charging at him once more with steely eyes and unbroken determination. It felt as if the world slowed to a halt. The chilly breeze of the frigid mountaintop they stood upon seemingly faded from existence, all he could feel was the heat of her flame; the fire of her will. She was never one he could ignore as he did with those he saw as beneath him. No matter how much he attempted to get away from her, she was always there to force herself into his life and into the small world he confined himself to. Despite his intense dislike for all things that stray from his interest in conflict, he found that blazing fire of hers to be beautiful.

The sharp clang of her sword colliding with his electric barrier disturbed the silence of the mountain before being shortly followed by a decimating explosion. The force was enough to knock him off his feet and noticing there was not a follow-up attack to his obvious falter, he knew it had to have been the same for her, if not worse. He winces slightly at the prickling sensation that climbs the length of his arms and legs. The dark marks that stain his porcelain skin is an indicator of her fire’s strength and for it to have even pierced through his shield meant that she must have suffered even greater injuries than his own.

The melted snow beneath the palms of his hands does little to soothe his burns and as he looks around the small clearing he sees that her fire overtook much of the area. The enclosing trees around them were set ablaze and the blanket of snow that covered the ground was effectively melted in a perfect circle in proximity to their clash. The ends of his clothes were singed and his hat lied strewn behind him, yet despite his disheveled appearance his gaze couldn’t help but focus on finding the familiar figure of the pyro vision holder.

Ash, emitted from the trees around him, obscured his vision and the smell of smoke was heavy in the air. He scanned the area before him with an unfamiliar sense of anxiousness and when he finally spotted her collapsed figure a bit of distance away from where he landed, he had to keep himself from breathing a sigh of relief. Never had he ever felt such trepidation in regards to the safety of someone he once considered to be nothing more than a nuisance. Though the thought of her earlier attack, the obvious fierce strength she put in both her fire and strike; he knew there was a chance she would not survive it. She was more than aware of her unique predicament regarding her vision and the repercussions it had on her, yet she was still willing to put herself at risk in order to do what? Kill him? End the rivalry they had once and for all?

At his side, his fist clenched in anger at not only himself but at the unconscious girl who lied inches away from his approaching form. Sure, at first it might have been fun to push her to the edge; to see how far she was willing to prove herself to him after his continuous jabs at her lack of control over her own power. He thought of her as pathetic when he first heard of her. For a pyro vision holder to not even be able to summon their own flames was unheard of and for that very same person to join the high ranks as a Fatui Harbinger only made him question the very organization he joined. Though he quickly learned there was a lot more to her than the fact that she was unable to use her damaged vision correctly.

She was strong. Not only in a literal sense, but her willpower was insanely resolute. No matter what he said or the injuries he caused her, she wouldn’t back down not even when he clearly prevailed over her with his electro abilities. Throughout Teyvat it was relatively accepted that vision holders were favored by the gods and therefore blessed with abilities that made them almost superhuman, so for her to have that part of her denied and still exist as someone he couldn’t refute the strength of; he couldn’t help but feel nothing other than impressed with her.

These were things he could never say to her aloud and though he couldn’t allow himself to be honest with her, the thought of her death only continued to heighten that incomplete feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t allow her to die and although he couldn’t completely understand his own reasoning, he knew it wouldn’t bring him satisfaction for her to die by her own hand rather than his.

Once he makes it to her side, he finds her eyes hazily focusing on him as he kneels beside her fallen form. Her hair is fanned out behind her head, the color deeply contrasting the white snow beneath her and her skin is paler than he remembers. Burns as well as scars mar her face caused from the earlier explosion and the clothes she wears is ripped and singed, exposing her skin to the frigid temperatures of the mountaintop.

“It looks like I failed, huh?” She breathes a mirthless laugh and hissing through her clenched teeth, she manages to sit herself up. “Going all out like that wasn’t my greatest idea. . .”

"It was foolish." He agrees and his frown returns to display his disapproval of her risky move. "You were close to killing yourself."

"That was the point. If I couldn't kill you I was hoping my fire would do the job." She explains as her eyes flit across his face for any signs of aggression, though he masks his expression well behind a glare. "There's no reward without some risk. Obviously my plan didn't work out too well anyway."

Noticing the slight sway of her body, he reaches out towards her, his arm stretching across her back to rest his hand against her shoulder as a means of support. She glances up at him, her brows creased and mouth agape. Her confusion is apparent on her face though he pays her little mind and instead his attention is taken by the shattered remains of her pyro vision.

“It’s. . . broken?”

Her voice is once again in a different tone than what he was used to and her expression was nothing short of what he could only describe as true despair. While she was never the best at controlling her flames, especially after the initial damage her vision took, now that it was completely destroyed; it meant she no longer possessed the ability to even call forth the pyro archon’s fire. Usually, the visions were meant to be indestructible; unable to be destroyed by normal means, yet at her side he could clearly see the crimson shards of her once glowing vision.

He wondered if this meant she was no longer recognized by the pyro archon.

“Well, it was only a matter of time before that happened.”

When he glances back at her, she’s no longer wearing a sorrowful look. Her eyes weren’t as bright as they once were and the light smile she wore on her face wasn’t at all convincing. He couldn’t understand why she would want to conceal her true feelings towards the loss of her vision when it was clear that she never anticipated it. He lightly squeezes her shoulder, forcing her to look away from her broken vision to meet his gaze.

“We’ll get you another one.”

His words are to the point, rough and spoken without too much thought. Yet it attracts her attention and something akin to hope glimmers in her eyes that distinctly reminds him of the light he remembered them once holding.

“We. . .? I-” She pauses for a moment. “Don’t you want to kill me? Why would you help me?”

Logically, it was the opportune time to finish her off and declare himself the winner of this little duel once and for all, yet the idea lacked appeal. To kill her now felt as if he were robbing himself of something he couldn’t quite comprehend and nothing bothered him more than not knowing something. With some time he hoped he could find the answer to his hesitation when it came to her and maybe along the way their rivalry could reach a satisfying end.

“If I kill you, I’d rather it be on equal terms. There’s no fun in ending you in this pathetic state.”

She laughs, a cough interrupting her half way though her smile persists even through her small fit. “Of course you’d say something like that, Scara.”

He purposely looks away from her grinning face, the small flutter felt in his chest adding onto his confusion. Where he was once certain of his hate towards her, he no longer knew what it was he exactly felt. It wasn’t hate, he was sure of that now that the idea of even sharing the same space as her didn’t repulse him, but it wasn’t as if he liked her either. For now, he could only think of her as nothing more than neutral. Someone he didn’t hate, nor like, but tolerated. She was his rival and for the time being that would be the title that best encompassed her existence to him.

She was a person strong enough to be worthy of his respect. Nothing more, nothing less.

His hand that rested on her shoulder lowers to her waist, grasping it as he lifted himself up along with her. He could feel her burned hand gripping his clothes and in a sense he could also feel the trust she was beginning to place into him. Bit by bit, he was sure their relationship would change and soon enough he’d know just what these odd feelings towards her meant.

Even if the pyro archon abandoned her, he wouldn’t. Not until he got the answers he sought and the fight he wanted from her.

“Once you’re all healed up we’ve got pyro visions to hunt.”

#x reader #xreader #reader insert #female reader #reader insert fanfiction #genshin impact #genshin scaramouche #scaramouche #genshin impact scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #reader is not the traveler #reader is not lumine #pyro vision! reader #enemies to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers #one shot #writing #my writing #genshin impact fanfiction

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 3 years

Text

Ours

Extremely late and I’m EXTREMELY sorry!😭 @bluboothalassophile happy belated EVERYTHING! And just thank you so much for being the incredible friend that you are!!!! 🥰You know what this is 😏and I hope you enjoy because this is the first of three parts. Three just seemed to fit... I had a ton of fun writing it and hopefully it’s not rubbish.

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It took time and patience with an unpracticed key guided by an unsteady grip. A petite, pale girl caught her lip between her teeth, a tiny grunt escaping as she finagled with the door.

"Raven, is that you?"

But she was starting to get used to this.

There was a concluding click as the key's metal ridge caught the groove in the last lock of the six panel apartment door. When it opened, in wandered a wearied Raven Roth.

And Raven would have liked to think she wandered in gracefully, but she knew she was dragging. It was impossible not to while wearing shoes so abhorrently impractical they should have been illegal. So violent was the aching in her heels, that by the final stretch of half-block, they were nearly numbed. Gods and her back—it was practically killing her.

If she was being honest, Raven felt like something one of those city sweeping trucks scraped off the sidewalk at four-thirty in the morning. One could only hope she didn't look like it.

"Roy," Raven winced, eyelids squeezing shut as she spoke. "I'm alive—but barely."

"Jay?" Roy called out from somewhere in the foreground. "Where are you?"

As expected a low, disembodied grunt ushered out in lieu of a response.

"Didn't you hear—Raven's back!"

The door slid closed and a gust of air entered the foyer behind her, carrying with it the heady notes of brown sugar, nutmeg, and melted butter. And like a Pavlovian response, she forgot the discomfort and led herself up by the nose. Spine straightening, legs lifting, then posture rising. It was like her whole being had been revitalized in an instant. Who knew the promise of a home-cooked meal could do that? A wistful smile steered into her face as Raven thought about how evenings after work used to transpire.

Weeks ago, one foot in the door usually meant bra optional. And flattening into a decompression on the couch was a non-negotiable.

Needless to say, a welcome like this one would never not catch her off guard.

"Something smells like you've outdone yourself again," Raven spoke loudly over the faint sounds of sizzling, curiously craning her neck and sniffing the air distractedly.

And then Roy appeared. He was peering out into the foyer, red hair bleeding out against the backdrop of a white walled interior. "Dinner will be ready soon," he supplied and beamed at her. The brightness faded in increments as his deep pine eyes floated downward and he took what she was holding.

"Again?"

"Yep." Raven gave a single solemn nod and Roy let out a dramatic sigh.

"But it's Friday. Those bastards..." he muttered in disbelief and Raven smirked. Suddenly, he inclined his head toward the other room and inhaled suspiciously. "Do you...smell that?" Roy went rigid in realization. "It smells like I forgot the flip."

"It smells like...that one's Jason's," Raven corrected.

Red eyebrows raised, clearly impressed. "Right." He marched back briskly toward the kitchen, only pausing to point at the heavy bag full of file folders teetering on her shoulder. "You'll have to tell me and Jaybird all about...that."

"Yes, please." Raven let out a huff, lower lip quivering. "You're an angel..." Roy winked at the pout topped by pleading purple and disappeared.

"The irony," a low drawl called from just around the corner. "Are you always such a sight for sore eyes?"

It was Jason walking over with arms out as wide as his grin. Even without the sarcasm, his aura and footsteps were distinct—a dead giveaway. They were oddly as heavy as they were silent.

"Whoa…" he looked as concerned as Roy had moments ago. "Or are you just sore?" Strong, steady hands removed her bag from her shoulder. "That's better." Raven rolled her stiff arm muscles.

It was a relief, to hand off her burden for a moment, to no longer be dragged down by the weight of her work—and the world.

"How was our day?" he pressed like a man who knew the answer.

"Rough—and long..."

Quickly Jason knelt down, hand reaching out for her calf. "I've got you, Princess." And Raven placed a balancing hand on his shoulder while he undid her shoes, a grateful half-smile stitching across her face.

"Come, come."

He took her hand, twirling her around past the living room to deposit her right onto a stool next to the island. "Sit. Harper's making crepes." Jason pulled her stool close and spun it around, so he was faced with the back of her.

"Take it from me, they'll help with the tension. Of course... I also believe in a hands-on approach." Jason then cracked his knuckles—mostly for effect, because boy did he know what he was doing. His hands slid up her arms, to her shoulders and worked them over, then dug into the surrounding muscles with his fingers and kneaded hard with his thumbs.

"Mmm..." Raven's tension began to ebb and wane. "Well, that helps a little..." Jason turned up the pressure a few more degrees while his breath grew heated on her neck.

Aroma clouds were wafting around their heads, while Roy flipped another crepe in slow motion. And in an instant, Raven was transported to some sort variant of a Jason and Roy spa she didn't know she needed.

"Okay, that helps a lot." And she moaned in spite of herself. All her stress was melting away, turning into liquid and evaporating off of her, faster than the French butter Roy was melting on the stove. He tilted the bright red crepe pan in all directions, getting an even gloss of sweet, golden goodness in every crevice. And Jason's hands continued to manipulate each one of hers, until all the tightness in her upper body unknotted itself.

"Hmm, where else—where else? Ah." Jason's rough hands took hold of the chevron patterned lace covering her ankles and he began to massage away. "Did I tell you, how much I like these stockings?"

Raven seemed not to hear him. "Harder," she whispered. His knuckle pounded gently down her arches, then ground fixedly into her heel and, painstakingly along the sides. By the time he took her other foot into his lap, she was practically cooing. "Did I tell you how good you are at that?" The tip of Jason's tongue edged over the corner of his smile.

Gods.

"That really is a shame..." he said and Raven lifted her head towards him in question. "About your day? How rough and hard it was..." His hand was lowering, slowing, but lingering. "Normally when you put those two adjectives together... It could be a good thing."

"Okay...!" Roy had come over suddenly with his spatula proffering a piece of crepe, still steaming hot from the pan. "I'm testing something out tonight, so I've added a special ingredient to this batch."

"Oh good. Raven did have one of those days. She could use some..." Jason pantomimed a flippant gesture. It could have been taking a long drag or it could have been—

"Not that kind... A different kind of special..." Roy shot Jason and Raven a long once over. Something in the way he said special made the air around them begin to bristle with titillation, anticipation. "A few drops of...lavender extract..." His voice dropped another octave. And he began to blow on the bite while Raven and Jason watched his full lips. It seemed cooling the steam from the crepe had an opposite and equal reaction. As if each breath was fanning the flames rising between them, like a bellow into charred embers in the hearth of a fireplace.

"Let me know what you think of it." Gently, he fed her piece from his fingers and Jason leaned his face close to hers, like he was attempting to steal it straight from her lips. Just before the point of contact, Roy clicked his tongue playfully.

Almost like he was calling him off.

"If you want some you'll have to wait." Dazedly, Raven blinked at Roy. He shook his head of chin length crimson hair, half of it was up in a bun with the rest hanging in his face. "I'll be back with the rest." Teasingly, Roy waved the spatula like a stake to ward off his dark-haired, undead roommate.

"Jason..." The brunette inched nearer to her at the sound of his name. She kicked his stool with her foot so it swiveled further away. Ultimately, it only caused him to move even closer. "Aren't we in rare form tonight?" she sighed.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Jason insisted bemusedly, doing his best to appear impassive. "I'm always like this." He examined her wrist with his forefinger and thumb. "As for you... That office of yours must be working you damn near to the bone. Did you somehow manage to get tinier, Raven?" The left corner of his lips curled up.

She tore it away and glared at him, aghast. "Insufferable, patronizing," Raven muttered under her breath, nursing her wounded forearm. "Ass."

"But this ass speaks the truth," he raised an eyebrow loftily. "If you would just join our firm..."

"Your firm?" Purple orbs narrowed to slits. "Just because you guys are mercenaries for hire—"

"Mmm... We really prefer the term 'vigilantes,'" Jason punctuated with air quotes. "Actually, from a branding perspective, it's Heroes for Hire™—Roy's got a whole...thing..."

"Whatever you're calling your 'backwoods operation'." Raven's air quotes didn't disguise the disdain in her voice. "The point is, I like my non-profit just fine... And I am not tiny."

"Alriiight." Roy arrived with a huge ceramic serving dish full of crepes with powdered sugar dusted on top. "Eat them while they're hot. Raven..." He slid a plate over to her. "Eat up."

"I thought I would always get the first bite," Jason teased. Then quickly lunged forward, stopping short of Roy's smirk, hip cocked toward his. "What've you got for me, Harps?"

On a delay, the redhead drew back, as if he just remembered Raven was in the room. "Don't be greedy, Jay," he said at last.

The ebony haired man, raised an eyebrow, but began to unload fresh food onto his plate. Once every inch of real estate was covered in crepe, Jason started to attack with his fork.

"So, when have I ever been greedy?"

Was that besides the fact that his plate was loaded up with most of the food the archer had just cooked? And besides the fact that he hadn't really helped?

But then... neither had Raven. Unless licking the batter and 'testing out' a crepe or two counted.

"Well, Raven's barely eaten a crepe and you're drifting into seconds. Where's your hospitality? Shouldn't you share with our guest?"

"I can be hospitable..." He chuckled. "I'd rather just...share our guest."

Roy shot him a warning glare on his way back to the stove. Jason shrugged before closing in another crepe and filling his mouth with another forkful.

"You're amazing," Raven deadpanned.

"Aren't I? But I've got nothing on the food. I have to say, this is the best batch by far," he announced. "Roy, do you have any more of those blueberries you got from the farmer's market over the weekend?" Jason started to smirk at Raven. "Or strawberries? I know how much you enjoy them."

"Try the table," Roy yelled over his shoulder, mild irritation edged in his tone.

"Well..." Raven shrugged, her expression coy as she reached over for the blue container. "They are in season..." There were few things that could enhance Roy's crepes, except fresh berries. Raven puffed out her cheeks as she rifled through an almost empty berry basket. "And... there are only three left... You sure helped yourself," she accused heavily under her breath.

"I didn't see your name on them," Jason returned. "So it was fair game, like anything else in this apartment."

Raven folded her arms. "I thought Roy got them for me, didn't you Roy?" He glanced up at her as he moved around the open kitchen.

"Sorry, we're low, Rae," Roy said regrettably. "I should have picked up more. You'd think after a couple weeks, I wouldn't still be acclimating to having an additional mouth to feed. What can I say?"

"Yes, we're very sorry." Jason pinched her stocking-clad leg, eliciting a gasp.

Raven cut knife-sharp purple eyes at him before the redhead came around to her stool. Roy wiped a hand across the words Banging Redheads & Banging Brunches printed in a large black font on the apron.

Probably a Christmas gift.

And one for which Jason must have been responsible.

He ruffled the purple strands at Raven's crown with his spatula free hand. "I hope that's okay."

"Don't be ridiculous." She brushed the strings fastening the charcoal colored apron and tugged. "Now go take that off and come eat with us." Roy planted a kiss on the top of her head, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

"Hmm...I guess I could have blueberries..." Raven mused. "Now that I think about it, they'd really compliment the lavender. I don't know that strawberries would in the same way."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Jason took a small sip from his cup, eyes trained on her through the glass. "Or have you ever considered...both?"

With a startling scowl, Raven looked up from the melted whipped cream atop the remaining crepes on the granite counter. "Have you ever considered why I like Roy more?" She retorted. "It's this."

"Really?" And Raven pushed his stupidly handsome, smirking face away from her own. "Little bird, don't tease," Jason moaned, dragging out the last syllable. "I promise to be good, I'll share—I certainly don't mind sharing with Roy." She rolled her eyes, popping a blueberry in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

Jason was mostly euphemism on a good day, but this was different. He'd been dropping these odd hints all week. But Raven told herself it was another unexpected caveat about living here. She didn't think she should breach the subject or even read too much into them.

After all, she was only crashing with Jason and Roy for a little while longer.

This was purely temporary, until the super in her building got around to fixing the circulation unit in her water closet of a studio. Or that was what she told herself at first. She was quickly growing accustomed to the perks of living with them.

Being spoiled was... Well, it was nothing short of wonderful.

Gone were the days of scrounging up sad boxes of cereal for breakfast, schlepping together leftover takeout for lunch, or unearthing bags of nearly expired popcorn for dinner. Roy and Jason worked out a ton and ensured their fridge was always stocked. Even on the off-chance that it rained and the farmer's market wasn't open in the park so they could do locally-sourced organic.

That, and they could actually cook.

At a moment's notice, Roy could whip up an amazing French toast, or a hearty stew. If they were feeling wild he'd make them breakfast for dinner or vice versa. Even Jason's most experimental chili recipe could be redeemed by a few generous grates of cheese or a dollop of sour cream.

And clearly business was great, because their apartment was fantastic. It was spacious, but had all these homey touches, like a handcrafted breakfast nook Roy and Jason built together.

But tangible things aside, Raven found she actually didn't mind the company. So gone were the days of being alone.

The moments where he wasn't an insufferable tease, Jason loved attending their two person book-club. They talked books, trashy to classic and everything in between, often punctuated by an impromptu neck or foot rub.

When Roy wasn't working out, planning a job, or doling out heaps of domesticity onto her and Jason, he was a hopeless romantic. He reinvigorated Raven's secret love of rom-coms. But he also liked to learn from her. So he played chess, scrabble, even backgammon, and once in a while they were able to rope in Jason for monopoly. Roy was a very graceful loser at board games, but he was amazing when he got his hands around a deck of cards. And Raven was finding, she had a lot to learn from him.

But Raven's favorite nights were the ones where they could all just be. Listening to something old or indie in the background and talking until the three of them simply passed out.

The apartment just felt full—of fun, of food, of friends. Of laughter and love.

It was a wonderful life, but it was a shame it wasn't her life. Raven was a realist, she knew she'd have to go back.

But for now, she was going to enjoy every single second of it.

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vegalocity · 3 years

Text

Reunited (Red Groom AU)

This is the part where you guys realize i'm not going in chronological order and am probably just gonna do the scenes i like

but like who cares right that just means we're skipping to the good stuff

Also i combined the battle of wits and the Reuniting scene bc this is my AU and i do what i want

In a cruel turn of fate, when the Spider Queen stood alone between him and his most hated foe, the Red Prince wished he still had either the large blue fellow or the dragon with them still. At least the two of them were slightly more amenable to him. And maybe while they couldn't be persuaded to take these wretched restraining cuffs from his wrists they at least were better conversational partners than the half mad Spider Queen.

Tethered to the spider woman as he was at the time, when she began to mutter aloud to herself about trying to lose the Monkey King over a secret way, he had no choice but to follow as she dragged him off of the forest path and into a clearing. He'd assumed she'd gone mad, but before he could voice such opinions she'd spun a quick web and used it to blind and gag him. She'd activated the damned cuffs and finding himself unable to move on his own, he could only comply.

He could rely on naught but his hearing as the Spider Queen dragged him across the open plain and forced him to sit upon what felt to be a long felled tree trunk. He heard her arrange things with the shift and clang of cloth and metal, and soon enough he heard approaching footsteps.

One of her pointed legs pressed up underneath him, the tip just grazing where his chin met his neck.

“So, Monkey King, it's down to you and I once again.” She purred and he let out a shout of rage at finally finally being so close to the monkey who'd taken away his everything but unable to move or even look upon the face of that wretched foe.

“-By all means if you want the prince dead, come closer.” The point of the Spider Queen's leg pressed a little harder against him.

“Give me a moment, let me explain-” The Monkey King started, tense and rough and possessing none of the cocky lit his father had described it as in the stories he'd heard-

“There's nothing to explain!” The Spider Queen crowed. “You're trying to kidnap what I've rightfully stolen!”

“Per...haps an arrangement can be reached?” Why did the Monkey King even want him enough to not have grown bored and moved on? Some sort of assumed loyalty to his father? As if he'd go anywhere with the monster that had taken his-

No. Stop. Stop thinking about it, now's not the time.

The Spider Queen thought so too, he felt a small prick on his neck as she broke the skin there just a bit he let out a muffled yelp in surprise as she grabbed his arm for better leverage. “There will be none. And if you do not wish to bring a corpse back to his family you will remain where you are.”

The Monkey King's voice wavered, and for a moment it sounded afraid... and almost familiar-... No. don't you dare compare him to the monkey who killed him.

“Well... if no arrangement can be made, this is quite the impasse we've reached.”

“I would say so. If you went about swinging that staff I'd likely be squashed flat, yet if you dared do so your prize's blood will stain the soil before you finished the swing. Your brawn is unparalleled 'Great Sage' But so is my intelligence.”

“You're that smart, hm?”

“Whose the one holding the prize, Monkey King?” She gripped his arm tighter.

“Well, In that case how about a battle of wits?” There was that cocky lit. No doubt the Monkey had a trick up his sleeve to take care of the Spider Queen-

“For the prince?”

-and then if he could just play nice for long enough to get him to remove these damned restraining cuffs he could-

“To the Death?”

-he could charge at the simian with every ounce of pain and rage he'd built up in the past two years and turn him to ash and whatever smoldering stone he was made from that remained stone yet.

“I accept.”

He just had to be patient a little longer.

“Wonderful! Pour the wine, please?”

This would possibly be his greatest test of resolve yet. He heard the Monkey's footsteps approaching and as the creature drew near he smelled of peaches and the wind, and-...

Had- Had he stolen some of his beloved's clothes?!

His senses were stronger than an average humans and without his sight his other senses were sharpening and he could swear he smelled the distinct scent of-...of-....don't say his name don't even think it you don't have the time to be hysterical right now

-He didn't think he was CAPABLE of hating the Monkey King even more than he already did and yet here he was. His rage mounting and seething beneath his skin.

He heard the clack and pour as the wine sloshed into what were apparently two cups between his captor and his enemy.

“Smell this, but don't touch it.”

“This smells of nothing.”

“It's called Iocane powder. It has no smell, taste or distinctive texture but it can kill a demon in no time flat.”

“Hm.”

“Now it can't kill ME per se, but even I'm not fully immune to it. It'll put me into a sleep like death for a solid week, which is about as close to dead as I can get anyway.”

“Ahhh I see where you're going with this.”

There was another pause, and the sound of the two cups clinking as they were moved about.

“There. Which cup as the poison within? You select which you'll take, we both drink. And from there we see who has the custody of the prince, and who is dead.”

The Spider Queen laughed and released her hold on his arm to clap in her amusement.

“Truly? We both drink the wine and see who keels over? How delightful! You were never this collected with your gambits before, Great Sage! Truly I can only divine which cup is poisoned from what I know of you, Monkey King.” the Monkey King sucked in a breath and She laughed.

“I suppose the real question is how does the Monkey King go about when he plans on tricking people? Does he poison his own goblet or his enemies?”

Then the Spider Queen began on some long, painfully winded, tirade about what she'd divined about the Monkey King based on his reputation and what she'd gleaned from his behavior, and he honestly could not care about her backwards thought process one whit. He simply wished for this to be over and either make plans to return to this palace when the Great Sage was in his sleep like death and char him to a crisp or wait for the Spider Queen to fall dead and convince the Monkey King to free him so he may do the job himself.

“You're trying to confuse me into giving something away aren't you?”

“You'd LOVE that wouldn't you Monkey King? I know which goblet has the poison in it you great fool.”

“Then choose! Geez, this is boring me!”

“You'll see whose embarrassed soon enou- What in the world could that be?”

“What? Where?” Did.... Did the Monkey King really just fall for the 'look behind you' gambit? “I see nothing.”

...Really?

“I could have sworn I saw something- oh nevermind I suppose. Now, a toast. I select my own cup.”

“Very well.” the two cups clacked together dully.

“You chose wrong.” The Monkey King chortled, only to be cut off by the Spider Queen's cackle.

“You only BELIEVE I chose wrong! How humorous! The great and mighty Monkey King so easily duped!” the Spider Queen cackled “I switched our glasses as you were turned around Monkey King! You've fallen for one of the greatest blunders of them all! The Greatest of course being to never invade the far north nearing winter, but slightly less well known, is to never bet against a Spider when death is on the line!”

The Spider Queen laughed for a time longer before her laughter started to slowly dissolve into a coughing fit. Her hand scrabbled along his arm as she searched for purchase- and then fell away.

The Monkey King approached him and he most certainly HAD stolen the clothes of his beloved with the scent that clung there still—and oh how he'd wished he'd still have a remnant of him to remember with in his timeless eon of grief—and the sheer unbridled unfairness that his killer was allowed something that he so desperately had craved made him furious.

The Monkey King removed the webbing around his eyes first and he blinked in the sudden sunlight. The dark mask and head wrapping the Monkey King wore obscured the majority of his face and he found himself so full of rage at the idea of the wretched stone monkey being so close to him that once the webbing was torn from his mouth his first instinct had been to spit in his face.

He hadn't, but it had been a close call.

“....All that caterwauling and you knew you'd poisoned your own cup the whole time.”

“They were both poisoned, highness.” The Monkey King stated stiffly. “Iocane powder only works on demons and I'm immune to everything but what can kill an immortal... so you may not want to touch either of those cups yourself.”

The Monkey King reached for his bindings and he held his breath as he gave the shackles an experimental tug. The golden bands shuddered and tightened against his wrists. “What nature of binding are these?”

...just play nice, just until they're broken...“I'm not familiar with them myself, but they blast my own fire back onto me should I try to summon it, and tighten upon attempted removal.” Come on... if anyone could break them before they lopped his hands off it would be the Monkey King... and he'd thank him by giving him just what he deserves....

“Sounds like a stolen artifact from the heavenly court or something, you're probably stuck in those things until we return to Flower Fruit Mountain.”

“...Excuse me?”

“Well I know very little about the surrounding area, how short a time it's been since I've returned to the world, and if I remember correctly this mercenary group said themselves they were hired by your fiance, So we should probably assume his palace is hostile territory, and to send you home would surely double our journey time before we can be assured of safety. It's far safer to head back to my own mountain and send word to your home from there.”

No...No no no no That was not allowed. He got to his feet—in such a rush the Monkey King stumbled back in surprise—and couldn't hold on to his temper any longer.

“I will no nowhere with you! You- You absolute-! I- I can't even find the words to DESCRIBE how deeply my hatred runs for you!” The Monkey King flinched back in surprise, before huffing.

“Well you don't have much of a choice, do you? I can't remove those restraints short of chopping your hands off and the sun is due to set soon; How long do you think you'll last in the wild without your fire power? Far as I see it, You either return with me to my mountain, or leave as powerless as a human without even a weapon by your side and hope to make it back home on your own before you're either eaten or slaughtered.”

Red Son growled under his breath, but when the Monkey King gestured for him to follow, he did.

They made it to the outer side of a mountain, a steep decline into the valley off on their side and in the center of the valley lie a dark and tangled forest.

“We can rest here for a time-”

“I refuse to put my guard down around you, ape.” The Monkey King bristled.

“Would you mind terribly to indulge me as to why you've decided to detest your own savior, highness?”

The horrid monkey should know what he's done- “You killed the love of my life”

And then the bastard had the gall to remain unshaken “Maybe I did. I've killed a lot of people since getting free.” The Monkey strode forward and began to circle him, like a predator toying with its prey.

Red Son decided he wouldn't need his fire to attack this creature. Sure he may die within moments, but his rage would at least let him one punch before his skull was split open-

“Tell me, who was this 'love' of yours? Another prince like yourself?” The Monkey King leaned in. “Rich? Cutthroat? Bossy?”

Of all the disrespectful- “He worked in an Inn when I knew him! He was poor!” He rounded on the disgraceful simian yet the killer before him wasn't his focus. “I didn't care about his wealth!”

He couldn't think on him or he'd fall to pieces and-

He couldn't-

“I never cared about that.”

The memory of gentle laughter echoing in his ear, the bright excitement and bounce in his step, those elegant yet calloused hands and he had to stop this right here because the Monkey King wasn't ALLOWED to see him so vulnerable-

“He was perfect in every way...”

Yet now that the memory was in his head again it wasn't going away. And he found his heart aching as deeply as it was during his period of mourning.

The shimmer of adoration when he'd simply glanced at him briefly and known his heart; the embarrassed way his gaze had darted away when he'd later confronted him on his discovered feelings, the warm, bright joy when he'd told him his feelings were returned-

“...With eyes like the space between the stars...” His voice had grown weaker, barely a murmur as the memories reclaimed their long repressed spot in his mind.

Xiaotian... his face, his voice, His passion and energy and-

And the tired look on the Inkeep's husband's face when he'd informed him of their son's death-

-The eager excited look on his face as he'd eagerly listen to Red Son talk about his projects, always listening even if he didn't understand.

The feeling of the floor falling out from under him and and a million horrible noises and feelings mounting up in his throat and chest but restraining it just long enough to find somewhere to be alone

-The energy in his voice as he talked about his art, looking for all the world like his greatest pleasure in the world was taking a brush into his hand and immortalizing the world around him into inks and papers.

Kneeling in the grove of trees for hours screaming his rage and sobbing his despair until a stranger had finally found him.

-The stories he loved to hear and tell in turn, entire body going into his storytelling as he gestured and enacted and faked fights

Night after sleepless night tirelessly working trying to—needing to—just stop thinking else he'd be able to do nothing but wish the world itself had died when Xiaotian had so at least the sun would stop rising and the birds would stop singing and the servants would stop bringing him meals he didn't have the appetite for and he could just work and work until his body finally collapsed in on itself and the light of his forge would go out blanketing the world in eternal darkness like it deserved to be after the greatest light of them all was extinguished.

-one picture, just one, given to him the one time he'd returned to the town by the Inkeep, stating in a gruff, tired voice that he may as well keep it. A figure done up in coals, his own visage of that one beautiful night they'd had together, the paper folded and held in a secret pocket right over his heart where it remained forevermore.

That final goodbye, Xiaotian pressing a feather light kiss to his knuckles as though still trying to be respectful to a prince. And he couldn't suppress the laughter at such a overly fancy action so once his chuckles had subsided he'd pulled him into a proper kiss. And they'd both known it would be some time before they'd see eachother, so they made it a proper goodbye-

But he hadn't thought it would be the last time he'd ever see him alive.

If he'd known... all the things he would have said, all the pleas to keep him there with him in the little town just beyond the palace. To- To move him into the palace, and yes his parent's wouldn't approve of a peasant for a husband, but he'd have no other and eventually they'd come around to it. Especially after they actually MET him and knew the kind of man he was-

But he didn't. And Xiaotian was dead-

He was dead at the hands of someone he'd admired and loved the stories of.

And his rage returned. The fire burned beneath his skin and begged to be let loose but he had to keep a lid on it to keep the cuffs from bouncing his power back onto himself and burning away like an effigy of love and loss.

“He was staying in the village you burned to the ground when you left your traveling group.” his voice was low, as calm as he could possibly make it, if he went any louder he would begin screaming, he knew it. “The one you ensured none would live to tell about beyond your former friends-”

“'Friends' is such a heavy word. My 'traveling compatriots' perhaps would work better.” The Monkey King interrupted him -He interrupted him! “And I mean I couldn't afford to show any mercy while I was leaving them behind! If people thought the Monkey King had gone soft after his five hundred year imprisonment nobody would respect him! Then it's nothing but work work work to rebuild that reputation!”

“Are you mocking me?! You destroy my everything and you have the gall to mock my pain?!”

“Oh, Life is pain highness.” He couldn't see the Monkey King's eyes but he was sure they were mockingly rolling in his self-assured life knowledge. “Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is just selling you something.”

Then he looked off to the side, and he was so tempted to just charge the Monkey, see how far he could go before he was struck back. See how far his rage could carry him alone. He twisted the restraining cuffs on his wrists, they tightened, he grit his teeth at the squeeze.

“You know, I think I remember this inkeep boy of yours. I separated from my former group about... what, two years ago was it?”

...You know he'd thought that if the Monkey King did remember Xiaotian it would give him some sense of catharsis. That his love had at least made an impression on the great fool, and was not just some faceless passerby, but...

It didn't.

“Does it bother you to know?”

“I'll not give you the satisfaction of hearing any more of my thoughts on the matter.”

“Well, he died well if that's any consolation.” The Monkey King was peering at him through the mask. “No bribe attempts with those meager savings, no blubbering. He pleaded his case to me only the once.” he looked away, seemingly lost in the memory, head tilted upward as though to help him remember. “He said 'Please... I need to live'...Not a lot of people say 'please' and mean it highness, so it gave me pause.”

“I asked him what was worth sparing him over, and I remember this, he said 'True Love'” His chest felt tight...

He reached up a hand and pressed it against his collarbone to try and alleviate the pressure, he could practically see it, the village up in flames, the Monkey King in this same hideous black outfit, his staff already stained with blood, and his precious, darling, beloved Noodle Boy kneeling in the dirt, blood seeping down his face from a cut somewhere on his head, and pleading just for a moment. And-

True love...

“He then went on to describe a gentlemen of great intelligence and deep passion; I can only assume he meant you...Have to say, I'm surprised you're not grateful to me destroying him when I did.”

His mind stuttered to a stop, his entire train of thought completely derailed as the Monkey King spoke.

“...What?”

“You know, before he could see the kind of person you really are.”

His control snapped in half, his fire sprung forth, the golden bands shuddered and the flames erupted out only for a moment before being bounced back onto him. The heat of his own fury scalding him until the pain made him stop. The Monkey King took a half step forward but Red Son made SURE he kept his distance with his glare alone.

“And what, pray tell, kind of person am I?!”

It seemed like he'd finally pissed off the Monkey King. Good. His shoulders tensed and those long canines bared, as though ready to tear into him. “He was really stuck on the idea that you were the faithful sort, highness. That no matter what, yours wasn't the kind of heart that could be swayed! He was so sure that you would wait for him-”

Wait- why was that what had angered him?

“-So tell me, when you learned of your 'love's death did you start accepting suitors the next day or did you wait a full week out of respect for the dead?!”

His hand went flying before he even thought about it, he should have punched him; if that was his only shot in he should have punched him, but his reflexes had decided the action for him and instead his palm was out and he'd slapped him instead.

“How dare you?! You mocked me once see if you live to do it again!”

But he wasn't thinking about that, he wasn't thinking about anything beyond the pain that had gone from a dull ache to white hot in his chest, the absolute blinding rage and the sting of tears welling in his eyes from the sheer tidal wave of anger and despair.

“I DIED THAT DAY”

The tears turned to steam the second they left his eyes, smoldering trails out of either, just barely able to vent that little bit of flame into the world without hurting him but he didn't care if the proof of his despair was made obvious by it or not.

He didn't care about any of it. He didn't care he couldn't summon a single plume of fire or how completely eclipsed his ability was by the Monkey King's without it, and possibly even with his it. He only cared about making him pay. He pounced on the monkey when he seemed stunned by his vehemence.

The scuffle was brief but he DID get another hit in before he was pinned. This time it was a real punch, and it was just as satisfying as he'd hoped it would be.

But too soon was he pinned, The monkey pressing his front to the ground, a knee between his shoulder blades and his hands held together against the small of his back.

He let out a shout of rage, not even bothering to try and give any more words, no more words were necessary.

“Calm down! You need to listen-!”

The steam was clouding his eyes so greatly he was nearly blind with it, his fire was trying to come out unbidden to throw off his opponent, the scalding agony rippling through his body proof of such. But he was numb to it beyond it fueling his anger even further; maybe if he just burnt hot enough he could melt the cuffs right off of him. Everything was hurting, his clothes were going to be a holey mess, but he could smell cooking meat and he could only hope it was the monkey above him. He HAD to burn the Monkey King first. Even if he was immolated himself in the process!

“The only thing I'd like to listen to is your demise! You-! You wretched ape! You heartless horsekeeper! You took my everything you don't deserve the breath you stole from his lungs!” His own lungs ached, was it through holding back sobs? Was he experiencing smoke inhalation for the first time? He couldn't tell.

The pressure was off of his back and his hands were released, he made a blind swipe to try and right himself but his arms wouldn't obey him, and at that realization the pain finally kicked in.

The world went fuzzy at the edges, then dark at the edges. Until he could only see a small spot in front of him and the rest of his sight was naught but a haze of black.

Then everything was black-

It was probably his own flesh he could smell burning-

There was rapid muttering above him-

How embarrassing if this was what did him in, revenge in his grasp and he was too eager to kill the Monkey King right there he let cursed jewelry trick him into offing himself-

Someone was sobbing, was it him? He didn't think he had enough breath in his lungs for that-

The pain was going away, did that mean he was dying-

He tried to open his eyes, but he was still face down in the dirt and could only manage one, the former grassland around him was still smoldering from his fire as it eased back into focus, his breathing was ragged, and at some point his skin had stopped burning so hot, he felt cold.

The pain had eased but hadn't vanished, but the shock was still heavy in his system as he couldn't respond when he felt a pair of arms lift him up and pull him against a hard yet warm surface.

Dark fabric met his eye, and...he knew who this person was, didn't he? At some point in the writhing pain he'd forgotten just what he was doing here, mind going blank for everything but the burning sensation. But whoever they were they felt familiar. Their arms wrapped around his torso like they belonged there, as though the two of them were made to be like this.

The next thing that processed was the sound. His ear was pressed to the person's torso and he could hear the rabbit flutter of a panicked heartbeat. But nonetheless there was something... familiar about it. And alongside the heartbeat there was the vibration of words in the stranger's chest, but these he couldn't quite make out as their face was pressed against the top of his head, buried in his hair and making the words indecipherable.

It was then that his mind finally re-engaged and he realized that it was the Monkey King holding him so tenderly. His anger felt muted by the cold cold blanket of shock, but he still struggled in his grasp to pull away, if only to try and make sense of what was going on. If the Monkey King had such judgmental and inaccurate views of a man he'd never met before now, why was he doing this?

The Monkey King held him tight and he felt the shake of his shoulders as he was pressed even closer. Why was he shaking? He shifted again and this time found his face pressed against the dark fur of the Monkey's neck.

But it... felt off... it didn't feel real. It felt more like fabric with an illusion placed over it than it did actual fur...

The smell of burning flesh finally faded from his nose and was replaced with-

…What?

No that- that wasn't possible, he'd stolen Xiaotian's clothes sure but his face was pressed to the Monkey King's neck, that can't be his scent that can't be-

His arms were still aching as he reached up and found the knot tying the dark mask and headscarf around him. Both fabrics fluttered away and with them came a puff of a cloud of smoke, a shapeshifting form dissolving around him.

And he was pressed against a very human body.

This- this could still be a trap, this could be some sort of illusion to pacify him, so he wouldn't ask any more questions, so he'd just lose himself entirely-

The human—the alive human—clutching to him tightened his grip and he could finally make out the words he was muttering

“I'm so sorry never do that again you scared me to death I'm sorry I'm sorry-”

The cocky lit in his voice was gone and it sounded so achingly familiar without it, and the feeling and the scent and it- it couldn't be....

It had to be

It was a struggle, his arms still felt heavy from the echoes of pain and the numbness of realization, but he pulled away just enough to properly look at him and-

Oh...

Like the space between the stars...

“Xiaotian...”

He was crying, just beginning to pull himself together now. Pulling an arm off of him to scrub at that beautiful face. Those enchanting eyes he'd thought he'd never see again darted away from him and he wanted to protest at not being allowed to simply look at him after... after EVERYTHING... but he couldn't find breath in his lungs.

“I think your fiance's been tracking us- I hear horses. Can you walk?”

He tried to respond, he really did, but he found himself spellbound by the sound of his voice, just as he remembered it without the false persona twisting it until the point it had become unrecognizable.

“Red Son?” he shuddered at the sound of his own name being spoken by that voice again. So many emotions and memories, the hole in his chest finally being filled, and knowing without a shadow of a doubt this time he wouldn't let anything part them again still leaving him stunned. The fire was gone from his skin and finally, finally he felt one emotion beat the others and bubble up to the surface.

Red Son started to laugh. Tears bubbling up and sliding down his cheeks as true, overwhelming joy engulfed him. His arms ached and felt stiff from the burns he'd laid onto them but he pulled them around Xiaotian's shoulders all the same and squeezed with every ounce of strength that remained in his body.

“You're alive...” he wasn't sure if his laughter had turned to sobbing or if the two had simply mixed together but his breath was hitching and the tears wouldn't stop. “If you wanted I could fly”

Those arms pulled around him again and now he could truly appreciate just how easily the both of them fit together.

“I- I still don't understand, why did you accept the proposal if you still loved me?” Xiaotian's voice was a whisper against his shoulder, and he didn't want to think any more of his family's decisions and his hopeless acceptance, yet-

“My parents decided it, and what else could I have done?” he paused for breath “You were dead.”

Xiaotian responded with such conviction he had no choice but to instantly believe him:

“Death can't stop true love; it can only delay it for awhile.”

His lips were rougher than he remembered, but Red Son had no complaints upon kissing them again.

#Spicynoodleshipping #MK Red Son #Qi Xiaotian #MK Spider Queen #Spider queen dies :( sorry bout that #tw death #Red groom AU #vega writes stories too #Princess bride AU #Monkie Kid #LMK #Lego Monkie Kid

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soliloquiums · 3 years

Text

You find him under a bench in Berlin, more skeleton than man. It is 1955. It is winter. It is the post war era. Behind every dingy, squalid corridor you're bound to find a hundred of them, the left over almost-corpses that god just wasn't kind enough to kill. Haunted by a memory of a Germany that just doesn't exist anymore with charcoal padded under their eyes, limbs trebling from one two many needles. You're sure that if you pulled that ratty, dark blue coat sleeve you'd find his similarly pockmarked with cowardice. Still, something draws you in closer, a shiver, something about him seems heavier, denser, like his very body extends with gravity. A planetary mass. His neck snaps up in a lightening motion and he smiles, his mouth a crooked line that resembled a mountain you swear you've seen in the horizon, somewhere in the east. Beggars aren't allowed to be this beautiful. You shudder. And you take him home.

To your surprise, his skin is deceptively smooth. Like untouched snow after a blizzard- and you search him thoroughly, almost desperately, during your intimate moments, for some sort of mark, some sort of human imperfection. He allows you, absently, as if he’s been through this before, and strokes your hair as his mind wanders into places you know you will never reach. But that comes after, first, you seat him on the rim of your bathtub. He is listless, almost bored, as you wipe the river of blood off his shoulder. There’s no entrance wound, exit wound, no highway crossing where it could come from and after 20 minutes of frantic scrubbing, his hand grips yours. “It’s not mine,” he tells you gently, with that same crocked smile, eyes a circle of glowing blue like the hottest kind of fire, and you pretend not to notice as a very, very fresh red droplet runs down your porcelain bathtub and streaks red onto the tile. There’s not enough of him and there’s too much. After a week, his presence on the couch, skeleton hands gripping a book or remote seems commonplace. His place at your dinner table, the second pair of shoes thrown carelessly next to your orderly ones. The permanent, watery brown stain on your granite countertop where he'd spilled tea and that neither of you bothered to clean up. He is an indelible and yet insignificant mark. Most days, it's nice, quaint, the gentle buzz from the television every time you come back home, his coarse laugh punctuating a mediocre sitcom joke, the way he threatens bodily violence on inanimate objects for refusing to bend to his will. Other times, he is something just north of uncanny valley. He is wearing human skin. Sometimes, at night, he doesn't seem to be breathing and every few weeks, for a second at a time, you'd swear his eyes flashed a macabre red. Two months in and he still doesn’t have his own clothes. Doesn’t have his own closet. You offer to take him shopping, to empty out another shelf but he only shakes his head gently, pityingly, “I don’t own things.” You’re not sure if he’s crazy or if he’s one of those communist philosophy types. You’re not sure if you’d care if he was. You press your lips together. Don’t say anything about how his old clothes seemed to have vanished from the laundry altogether. Three months in and you don’t know his last name. You ask once, casually, assuming that a man abandoned to the snow wouldn’t care much for family anyways. (You can relate, your strict, catholic mother and even stricter pastor father are tucked far away somewhere in a mountain village in Saarland. Out of sight and out of mind.) But he says nothing, or smiles in that whimsically gentle way of his, or stares blankly as if he isn’t sure what a last name is. Sometimes he carefully grasps your hands and kisses you as a distraction and in those moments you’re sure you could live without knowing. Sometimes, you see his gaze catch on the window and you know he is somewhere else. Doesn’t feel like he was ever here in the first place, a ghost boy that floats around your apartment and gives you frigid smiles in place of actual conversation. Once, he lays awake in bed with you and asks if you will remember him on your deathbed with an earnest that makes you want to climb out of bed and vomit. His eyes flash blood and pin you to the bed. Yes, you say, without really understanding why, yes even when you are gone I will remember you always even in the smallest things even when there is nothing more to remember. His eyes go back to blue and you drift off into dreams about an achingly vast field with no horizon and crooked mountains shaped like a smile All at once you are disastrously, cripplingly in love. Falling from a cliff. You try every method in the book to ground him. You bring him flowers in the middle of winter, you buy him books, watches, a cell phone, wine, chocolates, a car. You clean up your act, work out, pen him love letters in the candle light when you think he’s sleeping, insist on cooking the food you think he likes. You drive her to parks. A cottage by the sea, take him to every pretty place in Germany that might even slightly interest him. Cologne, Dresden, Munich, Heidelberg, Watzmann, Brocken. You He dismissed every material gift with an apologetic shake of the head, almost disappointed you don’t understand. His fingers wrap around your wrist and you can feel the cold from his skin drip into yours as he pulls you close, whispering gently, a reminder, “I do not own things.” And I cannot be owned, without saying. The places, however, slaps him out of despondency. He puts a hand to an oak tree in a park in Heidelberg and tells you, absently, his voice drenched in memories, “Someone I loved is buried here.” He sees things you do not. He stares at abandoned buildings with a remorse and vindication you do not understand. There is a tragedy under the bridges, in every lake, that he seems intimate with. In cologne, he strikes a match and lights up a car at 9:43 pm. The pretentious, red thing goes up in smoke a carcass of metal and charred leather seats. He is seething with rage and you don’t touch him because you know he’d burn you if you did but you watch. In rapture and fear. He seems to consider doing the same to the house, but doesn’t. It feels empty, the motion, like the brace before firing a gun. Except there’s no bullets. You watch as the dancing flames reflect on his face, still perfect as soot begins to gather like dark butterflies. “Why?” You ask, sacrilegiously. Breaking the silence of that distinctly consecrated night. Even the stars seem to be holding their breath. “Personal despair could never be desperate enough," he tells you, watching as the smoke gathered and swirled off into the open night sky. A translation of pain, “When tragedy happens, it needs to pass down the line, like a disease. There is an innate sin in the blood of some people.” Like most things, this escapes your comprehension entirely, and all you can focus on, even when the police sirens start blaring, is how beautifully the red reflects off his irises. He gives you a wayward grin. Like he’s done this before- and he has, you know he had- as he grasps your hand with a grip that for once feels real and solid as he darts the other way, dragging you along behind him in this mad dash. He laughs, the sound beautiful and loud and perfect, like church bells or sermon. Something holy, pure. You’re just sane enough to stop your ethereal, cackling lover from veering into oncoming traffic. He looks at you were a eerie intensity that makes you stammer an apology, an apology that he quickly cuts off as he pushes you against exposed brick and crushes his lips to yours. Your tongue flooding with the taste of him, a musky wilderness. There’s a sigh, somewhere, and even though you’ve had sex this feels like the most heart trending thing you’ve ever done in your life. You tremble. Your arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer, as if forevermore. As if drinking god. It’s enough to make you forget that it’s the 50s and that you’re both boys and that if any police officer caught the way his fingers were tenderly, tenderly brushing against your cheek, both of you would be carted off to jail for a decade but you don't care, really you don't, for the first time you feel as if you know him. Gilbert. Your Gilbert. - When the story ends, you're on the floor and the coolness of his skin seems to finally have crawled inside you, making a home amongst your other fragile, human organs. He stands above you with his red eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He mumbled something about this before, in the beginning, about what it would be like once you knew, what the pain would feel like. A sigh from him and you know without looking that all the stars outside the glass have blinked out, that every single other person in the apartment besides you and Him have gone still, paused or maybe dead. Maybe it was the whole street, the country, a few million bodies and still, how can it said to have mattered? "Ignorance isn't safety," He quietly tells your quaking form, in some something that could've been kindness, "Tell me, how many poor weeds have you stepped on, unthinkingly, in your lifetime?" The clock doesn't tick but you can feel the universe moving, entropy. You can feel the vastness of it, remember those dreams with out any horizons in sight and the knowledge weighs down on you like a million bowling balls. "You promised to remember me," He reminds you, his voice still quiet but brimming with an emotion that hasn't quiet come to a boil, "We had more than this." All of Germany shifts slightly, as if moving in its sleep, and the stars blink back, your breath releases. "If I've hurt you," he begins, but shakes his head, stumbling over words that he knows you won't ever really understand, won't forgive him if he lets you know. Resignation, tinged: resentment, "You'll go on living just fine." You look up at him once, I love you, your look says, but he does not look back. The door closes. There are no footsteps down the hall.

#aph #prussia #x reader #hws prussia #prussia x reader #mine #hetalia #long post #mlm #male!reader #50s #internalised homophobia #exestential crisis #??? idk bro #i wrote this at 4 am dont @ me

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the-last-cuddlebender · 3 years

Text

When Aang Was

When Aang was hurting, he became a walking wound. His reflection turned into a stranger. His smiles got a bit bigger—his magician’s one-liner to hide his slight-of-hand—, but he couldn’t keep himself above water forever. Even he sometimes forgot that he lost everything and everyone, and forgetting turned remembering into daggers through each of his lungs. It stole his air—his element, his last connection to them.

...the Gaang have a few things to say about that.

And Aang’s family would be damned if they let him bleed alone.

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A/N: The Gaang will walk backwards into hell if it means they can give Aang a hug when he needs one. This was HIGHLY inspired by this beautiful photoset by @imreallyhereforkataang💕 because Yin and Yang make me soft for the airbean I stg. (also special thanks to @demigodseameg16‘s fic request for putting orphan!Aang on my mind!) (also, also, this is my first time writing Mai so ya-hoooo)

Rating: T

Words: 5,074

ArchiveOfOurOwn (AO3)

***************************************

When Aang was happy, he talked really fast. His master’s tattoos lost meaning. He tripped over his own feet—graceless but playful—and laughed like giggles were more vital than breathing.

He was an airborne contagion that no one could escape. His family were patient zero, and, almost four years after the war, his quest for world domination was nearly complete. Peace was proven with the smiles he nurtured in others, and his empire of friends and friendly acquaintances circled the globe a dozen times over.

Their symptoms of Aang were chronic—their cheeks always hurt, their middles never stopped aching, he hid their breath behind hurdles of giggles and slap-fights about the absurd...

The list went on and on, just like the peel of his laugh and the warm feeling he left in his wake.

If only the world could see him when he curled up like a cat in its favorite sunny spot every time he lounged across the fuddy-duddy Firelord’s lap. If only the world could see him when Suki caught him using her good makeup—the expensive kind she saved for formal occasions—and the monstrosities he made of his and Sokka’s faces. If only the world could see him when he sent messages to Sokka saying they were from Toph demanding a rematch of whatever they were practicing lately.

Mai didn’t exactly help. She graded his antics with a rubric and gave him feedback, to boot. She refined his nonsense like a blade on a grindstone for greater impact and outcome every time.

The world definitely saw him when he and his lifeline went out in public. He guided Katara down an invisible red carpet every time, and he announced his befuddled Moon’s presence without having to say a single word. He adored getting her flustered—his Mighty Katara—and seeing the beautiful color she turned into. He especially loved the sharp smacks she swatted his shoulder with. He adored her puffed cheeks and her face’s valiant attempts to scowl at him. She hid in his arms from something that wasn’t embarrassment, and Aang kissed her hair at another mission accomplished.

But even if they were ever ‘cured’ of him, his family knew they would never be rid of him. Aang was a master of his craft. His hugs were blue ink, his understanding was his steady hand, and his shoulder to lean or to cry on was a thousand fine needles. His tattoos were unseen but brighter than the sunset’s reflection when the Ocean was in a good mood.

To the world, he was a cure, but, to his family, he was a vice. Neither his better half nor his siblings could shake his grip on them, no matter how hard they rolled their eyes and shooed him away. He saw their pursed lips and grumpy looks as something they wore and that he could take off of them. He found the cracks in their armor like he was a thief turning lock tumblers, and he dug his hands into where they hid their joy.

He was a purple pentapus in airbender robes clinging to their arms, their legs, and their backs. He was their goofy little brother and their grinning parasite, and they wouldn’t have him any other way.

They loved his smile, despite how badly it crippled them. His joy was so second nature that his good feelings became as essential as Mother Nature. The flowers weren’t pretty if Aang wasn’t smiling. He was their greatest weakness—the biggest, happiest, dorkiest chink in their armor.

May the Spirits help the next person who tried to kill him.

Katara would not be held back a second time.

Toph would find someone who needed some punishment if she was left out of ‘the fun’ again.

(Sokka tracked the bastard down, and Suki caught him without—just barely without—snuffing him out)

(Zuko held Aang’s head in his lap while Katara patched up what was broken and tugged his bleeding spirit back into him)

(None of them knew what to do when his fever hit critical. He started talking to people—children, mentors...family—who had been dead for over a century. The six of them were worse than lost when their seventh begged for his old family to talk back to him. He was sorry. He was so, so sorry. He missed them so much—please, he missed them and he missed home so much—)

(When Aang was conscious two days later, Mai sat him down and taught him all that he didn’t want to know but all that he needed to learn about poisons)

...

Four years of healing were four years of silly smiles and cozy camp-outs in the Palace courtyard. Four years of new family were four years of new brothers and sisters discovering, together, what family really meant.

Four years of new family were four Fall seasons where and when nothing (seemingly) happened. Four years and four seasons of dead and dying things came and went like they were never there.

Four Fall seasons became four bundles of dead branches burned between Summer and Winter. A pile of ashes became a memory barely remembered and a nightmare never forgotten.

Four years and four fires were four times he slipped away, unseen, from the anniversary of the war that they ended. Four times he slipped away were four times left by himself with a feeling that was worse than alone.

Four temples and four Fall seasons were nothing more than marks on a map and a calendar.

In the room that Aang used to call his in the home that he used to call theirs was where he kept all of the ‘counts’. At first, he marked the things they missed, just tallies and names on the wall.

Four years and four Fall seasons meant four-thousand names and smudged scribbles of forgotten faces and places they might have thought were pretty. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking and what was left of his heart wouldn’t stop breaking as he carved chalky tattoos, like unhealed scars, into the wall—the one with the window overlooking the places where he struggled to remember playing before.

He didn’t know he was forgetting them until he started having trouble remembering them. The tallies were lives lost, the dashes were shadows without faces, and the names of his family—the names of his old family…—decorated the head of the bed that he used to call his.

He left them notes like they could read them and asked them questions like they might respond.

Four years and four Fall seasons meant nothing to him. He lost everything and everyone in the blink of an eye.

Aang tried not to stay at the temple, especially if he was alone. Thinking alone was dangerous. His thoughts were wild and threatened to burn him.

He made the mistake, once, of walking past the hidden hall that he and his friends—his old family...—used when they sewed chaos into the weave of their home. The hall was stuffed with fond memories but so poorly constructed—so narrow—that it only allowed enough room for a one-way direction to and from the outside.

It was a charred hole with a sooty-black throat that greedily swallowed his shadow. The blackened stone was melted—glassy—and smelled like the instinct to run.

It wasn’t until Aang got back to his family—his new family…—that he imagined his newest nightmare.

It wasn’t his new family’s fault. They weren’t the ones on the festival ride just to his left and screaming into his ear.

Aang’s empty stomach turned inside-out, and he dry-heaved so hard that he couldn’t breathe. It was a strange feeling, struggling for air, having his element all around him but kept just out of his reach.

Those few seconds of breathlessness turned the ground black and the sky into dirt, but someone caught him before his knees buckled. Someone else was patting him from head to toe with tender touches that left no part of him unturned.

His family were worried sick—sicker than he felt. They asked him in a million different ways and in a million concerned voices if he was okay.

Aang struggled to smile for them. It took him four or so tries to get it right. He couldn’t do anything about his shaking, though.

“Can...Can we go home, now?” He whispered his trembling words like they were secrets never meant to be said aloud. He looked at them like a wounded animal limping back to its master—a stray tucking its tail but crawling closer, desperate, with a broken smile peace-offering and a fit of flinches at any sharp sound. The beating was inevitable, but he pleaded for the chance to feel something soft before he was kicked again. He leaned into Katara’s hand, and he flinched and pressed harder when she was warm and real and didn’t move away from him.

He was their goofy little brother and their grinning parasite.

Aang fought his struggle to smile for them, and he trusted his big brother to carry the whole of his weight. Zuko was warm and familiar, and his gentle squeeze was a promise to not let go; Katara’s worried touches and soft kisses were safe, and she swarmed around Aang like a mobile shield.

Aang sensed their tensing. They were his family, after all. He always had two fingers on their happiness’ pulse.

Their questions were a distressed tidal wave.

He didn’t stop smiling even when he closed his eyes.

He couldn’t tell if the hushed voices he heard were from his new family in front of him or from his old family behind him. Aang remembered...

Aang rearranged his lips into what he remembered a smile felt like.

“Please? C’n we...Can we g-go home?” He opened one eye and found both of Katara’s waiting for him. She was horrified and concerned to tears, and she wasn’t the only one.

Aang almost sighed. His strength was bleeding out of him along with everything else. He struggled to keep smiling for her, and he struggled even harder to keep his eyes open. He flinched from the kicks that were their heartbroken looks, but he tried to give them a reason to smile.

Zuko was really warm, though. And Katara’s hands felt really nice on Aang’s face.

The flame of his consciousness flickered—a candle left out in the rain.

“Please, K’tara?” He spoke without meaning to. It was an impulse, an instinct. It was the orphan and the last airbender crawling through the carnage and finally having a spot on the stage to speak.

Cold sweat beaded his brow, and frozen shivers shook his insides. He just wanted to go home, wherever or whenever that was. Everything was too blurry. He couldn’t remember anymore.

Even his new family’s faces were blurry, now, and Aang’s element was torn out of him when his first choke on everything and everyone he lost freed the Oceans behind his eyes.

He just wanted to go home...

“...Please?”

Aang’s voice was the last of him to break, and his family all flinched like they could feel it. His shattered pieces fell all at once and shredded everything he knew and loved.

He curled his fingers into Zuko’s robe to keep himself above water. He shook like something dead about to be churned to ash and carried away—a forgotten memory—on an indifferent passing breeze.

...

When Aang was scared, he talked too fast. His sunshine-warm smile lost meaning. He hugged like he was trying to hold onto something, and he laughed a sound that rang hollow—distorted—like an echo returning from far away.

Toph was the first to notice. His heartbeat was...off. He acted like he was surprised by their group hugs, but the evidence of feeling anything was only skin-deep.

Aang was never happy. He didn’t get happy, either. Aang was happy. He and the word meant the same feeling like how the sun would always mean warmth.

Katara noticed it next—nearly in the same moment. She had no seismic sense, but his kiss wasn’t laden with giggles and his heart didn’t try to beat out of his chest to get to hers when she hugged him.

Suki saw it but didn’t tell the others. She was an elite warrior trained for years in the art of stealth. Aang was the White Dragon and White Lotus tile all in one, but he had a terrible poker face.

Five years marked the start of a new quartet and the shedding of all things old to welcome all things new. They knew Aang loved the festival of the anniversary of the war that they ended, but something was different this time.

Sokka’s instincts saw it coming. Zuko’s hearing picked up on it, too.

Toph won him a prize—a plate of pastries trying to be fruit cakes. Aang greedily ate them and said that he loved them.

His shoulders shook and said that he missed them.

His lip trembled and said that they scared him.

Suki touched between his shoulders and guided him towards something called ‘volleyball’. It was a three-on-three game.

None of them realized until they picked teams that Aang was no longer with them.

It was a three-on-three game.

There were seven in their family.

Mai cursed and cut the net before it could become a fire hazard, and she was barely fast enough to save the netting from turning to kindling when Zuko pulled his hair and charred the sand.

They found him an hour later by following the echoing huffs of Appa’s soft sounds.

Appa held him like he had to chase and pin him down, but Aang held him back like he could never hold on tight enough.

…

Hawky was a master navigator and a tool of military purpose.

Hawky was also distracted when he stopped in the Fire Nation Palace on his way to Aang’s room.

Hawky had never seen a turtleduck before. He was domestic and curious even though the mother turtleduck chased him off like he was a massive predator.

And that was exactly how Sokka found his old bird—soaked and waddling for his life.

There was a message in his pack.

Toph threw open her door to find whoever was about to die from such a fast heartbeat just as Sokka ran past, grabbed her, and sprinted them to the others.

Toph would have fought him if she wasn’t so confused.

Sokka didn’t cry that hard even at that time of year when some girl name Yue had to go away.

…

Hey, Gyatso!

I guess it’s been a hundred years, huh? That’s so weird to think about.

I’ve been meditating just like you taught me. Well, I think I’m doing it right. It’s hard to tell, anymore. I sit in front of the mirror to correct my stance, but it hasn’t felt right in a long time. It’s okay, though! I’ll figure something out. I’m sure there’s a prayer statue in one of the temples that’s still in one piece. I could always check in the mountains, too, but I don’t I can’t I’ll try to check the temples again, first.

A good friend told me yo the Air No all of the Guru Pathik said you’re not really gone, and I believe him.

It’s cold today. It rained, before, so new plants should be growing soon. You would really like it here.

Do you I I miss you. I try not to, but Guru Pathik said to let my emotions flow. He’s gone with you, though. It’s been two years, now.

I wish he He left befor Could you give him a hug from me when you see him?

I hope you don’t miss me, Gyatso. Missing people hurts a lot. I really hope you’re happy, Gyatso. I really, really do.

Please, please, please, don’t miss me.

I miss loved love you!

…

Hey, Gyatso

I have more family, now! You’d really like them. Katara could beat you at Pai Sho, for sure. I tried to show them how you swirled the gooey center of the fruit pies, but I don’t think I did it quite right. It’s hard to tell. I tried it a few times in the mirror, but, when I remember you doing it, I can’t see your hands anymore.

I’m trying, though! I’m trying!

Toph helped rebuild the statues in the temple. I don’t really know how, though. Mai and Zuko convinced me to stay with them and teach the schools how to host a dance while the others left on Appa.

The statues look great. They look almost life-like.

It’s been a hundred years, huh? I try not to That’s so weird to think about.

I can’t thi I don’t kno Please don’t miss me, Gyatso. I’ll write to you more so you don’t miss me. I promise. It’ll be okay.

I can’t s Please, please, please, don’t miss me, okay? Please?

I loved y

My fathe

I loved you, Gy

…

Wet scars like blood splatters littered the letters by the dozens and made Aang’s handwriting nearly illegible.

Katara couldn’t make herself read any more.

She was the last one to break.

Sokka had been the first.

The second she sat next to where their family cocooned him on the bed, he hugged her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling.

She had seen her brother cry before.

But Katara had never seen Sokka weep.

Missing fathers and fathers missing were scars that never quite closed.

Katara choked on years lost and years alone, and she barely felt their family huddle around them, blanketing them, protecting them from what they couldn’t see.

Sokka’s hand left his grip on her to search for someone who wasn’t there. Katara beat him to it, though. Her empty hands pawed her brother’s back and were only mildly tamed by Suki’s tighter hug.

Aang...

The worst part was the helplessness. It wasn’t like they could bring back the dead.

The second worst part was the guilt. He had been alone even when he was right with them.

The third worst part was admitting that they couldn’t heal him. He needed something stronger than stitches to mend his heart.

Sokka tensed and tried to get up with that bullheaded air of setting his mind on something, but he only collapsed further into Katara’s arms. Zuko held them tighter and hushed the both of them. He tried to distract them with a strategy or a plan of what to do.

“...What can we do, Zuko?”

Zuko shut his mouth. Suki held them tighter. Toph sniffled and fisted Sokka’s and Katara’s shirts.

In the too-far-off distance, Appa groaned a series of soft sounds.

They all paused. They all broke.

Suki was the last to start weeping.

…

Clumps. The beast was easy enough to track.

Appa recognized Mai well enough to remember Aang being happy—trusting her—when he hung upside-down from her shoulders and laughed that happy sound that made Appa’s world of no bison feel full of new life.

He let her pass but not without groaning a hurried list of what she had to do to help his buddy.

Mai patted Appa’s nose.

Aang was a pathetic bundle of orange in the far corner of the cave. He was a mountain breaking apart, but his tumbling boulders didn’t make a single sound. His words were cut. His voice was obsolete. He pressed himself into the wall like he might get to something better if only he could come out of the other side.

Mai was a shark fin cutting through still water, and she sunk to a seat right beside him. The ground was cold and damp, but he burned so hot that she could feel the licks of his fever from here.

Her sitting down was the placing of a needle onto a spinning record, and his sounds of sorrow finally broke free of him. They bubbled in his throat like blood threatening to drown him, and he coughed when the instinct to survive overrode his waning will to keep breathing.

Mai closed her eyes and emptied her lungs. She touched the bare skin of his back. He flinched like she had struck him, but he didn’t duck away from her.

Mai let her presence fill his silence. Even he didn’t know what he needed, but she kept doing what seemed to be working. Her hand rode the waves of his choked sounds in long, looping circles that lasted as long as the time it took to take two breathes.

His hiccups dulled to whimpers. His sniffles quieted to shivers. He dug his nails out of his arms and scowled like he was struggling to remember.

The apex of her hand’s circle was his inhale, the bottom of the arch guided his air out. She unwound him in every way and through every layer until he released himself and uncurled enough to show some of the yellow of his robes.

Aang bobbed his head like a metronome.

Mai kept scratching long, looping circles on his back.

He huddled into himself with a ghostly small smile and a barely-there hug, and Mai would have startled if she was a weaker woman.

Aang started to hum.

His vibrato was something within him thinning and threatening to break.

When he started to sing, that thing within him frayed.

It broke when he got to the upturned chorus. It was supposed to be a happy song.

Mai hugged her knees with one arm and scratched his back with the other—keeping him alive like a broken music box from a hundred years ago that lost its key and was fighting fate from becoming obsolete.

…

Aang wore his smile like it was something he could take off.

The Blind Bandit ripped it off of him.

The Blue Spirit broke it in half.

The Kyoshi Warrior tossed it into the fire.

The Painted Lady threw its ashes away.

The Swordsman melted it down and forged it into something protective.

The Dangerous Lady kept its daggers in her sleeves and dared someone to hurt him again.

...

Toph sat across from him and didn’t let him be alone.

Zuko walked past his room to remind him that there was a way out.

Suki brought him books with pictures to show him how to feel again.

Katara was his shadow, his shield, and his favorite dancing partner, coaxing his smile to come out and play with hers.

Sokka told him jokes and laughed hard enough for both of them.

(Mai sat with him and listened to everything she didn’t need to know but everything she wanted to learn about his loss.)

...

When Aang was loved, he couldn’t talk fast enough. His past and his future lost meaning. All that mattered was his family right in front of him and the smiles that bellied their every feeling.

They were tattoos that he could never wash off, not that he would ever, ever try.

Five years of wanting were five Fall seasons of feeling lost. Five Fall seasons of searching were five Fall seasons of feeling alone.

Five friends and one love were six members of his second family.

Two brothers a foot taller and three sisters twice as strong as him meant Aang rarely won when they wrestled.

Sokka was safe and familiar as he sat on Aang’s back. Katara shoved him off. Toph laughed and took his place.

Aang walked, almost skipping—so giddy that he was going to spill over—next to them. They went slow on purpose to stretch out the precious journey home, but he didn’t mind. He told them all about his first family and everything he loved about them.

“—it, Zuko! He rode a dragon, once, too! Oh, Katara, you wouldn’t believe—“

Five years and five seasons of dead and dying things meant nothing to them. They almost lost him in the blink of an eye, and they wouldn’t look away ever again.

They were each a stretch of ink tattooed around his heart. They were stronger than stitches. They were a part of him.

They shooed him away so they could pull him closer, and their smiles were challenges to the size of his own.

...

When Aang was hugged, all he knew was love. All of his wants and needs lost meaning. Everything that mattered to him was everyone who held him, and everyone who held him were always there for him before Aang even knew that he needed them.

Their hugs were surprises like finding out the dead were alive.

They surprised him every time. He flinched, however, like he had never done before.

He was trying, though. He was trying.

Him missing family and family missing him were scars that would always be tender.

Tender was okay, though.

The secret was the gooey center.

“...Sometimes...life is like this...t-this dark tunnel,” he told his swallowed shadow, “...C’n’t see the light...but if...if you just keep going...”

His family were already in the prayer field. They looked at him with faces armed with smiles and arms loaded with hugs.

Sokka waved and said something he shouldn’t have and that, even though it made their family laugh, compelled Katara to shove him into the fountain.

The water was cold.

Sokka screamed.

Aang froze for a small century. He didn’t breathe for a longer eternity.

...And then Aang laughed.

And Aang cried.

And Aang laughed so hard that he cried.

All Aang cared about were the arms now around him, and all he knew were their soft words spoken over and over.

“We love you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Sokka, you’re a dumbass.”

“Oh, shut up.”

The muted smack of a backhand sounded too much like Mai’s for it to be anyone else’s.

Aang laughed a little harder.

He didn’t want to go home, anymore. Home was a memory. Memories couldn’t feel like this.

In their arms, he was finally where he was meant to be.

In their arms, Aang was happy.

In their arms was what home should be.

And when they held him tighter, Aang never felt more wanted in his entire life.

...

And when next Aang needed to speak with him, he found a way.

“Hey, Gyatso,” Aang said, speaking to the person in the mirror who was once a boy, then the Avatar, and now a young man trying to make himself into something that his memories would be proud of. “Did you miss me? You won’t believe this, but Katara lost to me at Pai Sho this morning. She got me back with the fruit pie, though. It even had sea prunes in it...”

Aang talked some more, and he talked fast. The breeze wound into and through the folds of his robes like it was a lounging cat curling into the warm rooms of a new home and new favorite sunny spot. He smiled something brighter than joy and welcomed the windy hugs that could always hold him just tight enough.

When Aang talked to his father, his master’s tattoos lost meaning. The tattoo Gyatso had left behind was so bright that Aang’s eyes watered if he looked thought about it too much.

He talked and talked and cried and talked until he left himself breathless.

It was a strange feeling, being breathless.

His element was suspended away from him, but nothing felt out of his reach.

A body or two (or three) threw themselves at his door.

“Twinkletoes!”

“You better not have my lipstick again! I bought you your own for a reason!”

“Hurry up, Avatar, we’re going to be late!”

Aang laughed just as the—the wall opened?

Katara lassoed his neck with her arms and threatened to kill him with a kiss that yanked him above the clouds and dropped him into free-fall.

“What...” He blinked. “...I mean I...I-I mean I don’t...” He turned a color and temperature that made Katara smile like he hadn’t seen her do in far too long of a time. “...What do I have to do to get another?”

“Ugh.” Mai rolled her eyes and pointed down the wide hall of the secret passage. “Just don’t do anything stupid. And don’t be late for the fireworks.”

Aang smirked something evil, and Katara couldn’t help but smile.

The firelilies only looked pretty when Aang had two dozen in one hand and her hand in his other. He kissed her knuckles, offered his arm, and escorted her down the invisible red carpet. She hid her face in his arm and trusted him to keep her from walking into anything.

He laughed.

His empire breathed a sigh of relief.

The anniversary of the new world they built was familiar, but none of them felt home until they met together on the hill.

And nothing felt right until their sickness started acting up again.

“Aang! Get back here!”

“Aw, c’mon, Sifu Hotman! Where’s your sense of fun?”

None of them realized the fireworks were over until the sky got a bit darker and it was time to go home.

Aang was tired. And when Aang was tired, he dragged his feet and spoke in slurred songs. His lyrics found every lost feeling and forgotten meaning. They were long lists of pretty names and precious things, tender to the touch and still healing.

He was tired, happy, and teary-eyed as he sang a diary-entry of their day to the breeze dancing around them.

Four seasons were six loves and two families that would never let him slip away into the season of dead and dying things.

He was their goofy little brother and their grinning parasite. He was a candle left out in the rain.

So they built a fort around him. And they hugged him like they could never hold him tight enough.

And when Aang was at peace, he didn’t say a word. Words were meaningless. They were a constraint. They only meant a certain something.

So he laughed.

And he laughed.

He laughed even when his family cried, and he laughed harder when they learned to laugh with him.

Six years of found family were six years of found love.

And all six members of his family would never—never—let him Fall again.

***************************************

79 notes · View notes

vulturhythm · 4 years

Text

until the blue ocean turns green - part one

There’s a man with golden eyes who sits beside Jaskier’s sea sometimes.

His hair is the silver of the seafoam, and it glows in the moonlight, when it isn’t made red with blood.

It’s red with blood quite often.

His eyes are like the coastal wolves’, bright and cunning.

Sometimes they’re black.

He comes to the shoreline now and then, at least once or twice in a moon cycle.

When he comes, he sits on a fallen tree, one that Jaskier remembers being struck by lightning many cycles before. Half of it is charred black, and the rest is saltwater pale, gnarled with age.

He sits on the fallen rock, and he merely… sits. Jaskier watches him from behind a rock far out in the water, watches him watch the waves.

The sea is usually calm, only ever riled by storms. Jaskier suspects that’s part of why he enjoys watching.

The sea isn’t fickle and upset like rivers and streams, and it’s a sight prettier than lakes, Jaskier likes to think.

Not that he’s seen many lakes - it’s hard to get to them. Rivers have a habit of becoming too narrow or shallow before he can reach a lake, so he’s stuck with tales from the gulls.

It’s from the gulls that Jaskier learns more of the man.

He learns that his name is Geralt, and that he rides a horse he calls Roach.

He learns that Geralt kills creatures like him for coin.

Jaskier knows coin - he’s heard travelers on the shore talking about it, sailors above water talking about it… the gulls tell him it’s currency, like the seashells where he comes from.

The gulls tell him that humans love coin, and Jaskier thinks them foolish for it, because the most seashells can buy down below is passage from one sea to the next, only sometimes the harpies and the selkies don’t honor the toll, and they sic a shark on you, and you make it away bleeding and poor, without ever getting where you meant to go, and you’re alive, but you’re missing half a fin off your beautiful, beautiful tail -

Well.

The gulls tell him the man is something called a witcher, and they tell him he’s right - the witcher always looks sad.

- -

Jaskier isn’t sure how many cylces pass with Geralt sitting at his shoreline.

“Months,” the gulls correct him, over and over, but Jaskier tells them, quite flippantly, that the merfolk measure by the moon, and they ruffle their feathers, and squawk at him but give up quickly enough.

Geralt comes to his shore wounded one night.

It’s the scent of blood that draws Jaskier up from the sea floor, away from the counting of his shells (he hopes, perhaps, he can buy his way up the northern river, the one guarded by the meanest of the sirens and the toughest of the sharks, and follow Geralt into the mainland).

He’s made a habit of lingering close to the shore when nightfall draws near, just in case his witcher comes.

Tonight, his witcher is hurt.

Watching from behind his stone, Jaskier feels his heart ache at the sight.

Geralt moves with caution, with obvious care, and he moves with one hand pressed to his side, and in the moonlight, Jaskier sees, quite clearly, the blood on his beautiful hands.

His heart aches.

Geralt remains for hours, staring out at the waves. Jaskier isn’t even sure he knows what his gaze is upon - he looks lost, and he looks sad.

He always looks sad.

Nearly a year passes before the sadness begins to fade.

“He’s in love,” proclaim the gulls, and something within Jaskier snarls. “He’s met a woman.”

Primarily, Jaskire believes them wrong.

The sadness is merely fading - it isn’t gone.

Two cycles later, Jaskier has enough for the northern river toll.

He has enough, and the harpies take the shells he hands them in the seaweed bundle, and he shudders at the sight of their wicked talons and human faces, and he swims past them as they sneer.

The gulls, flying overhead, keep watch.

Harpies aren’t known to honor their word, and the sharks circling down below look awfully hungry.

He makes it less than a ship’s length ahead before he feels the water shift, feels it ripple with the motion of something drawing near - drawing near too fast for him to get away.

He makes it out alive.

Only barely.

His tail is bitten deep, meat exposed, nearly to the bone. The fins along the sides are torn, and the fan at the end, the beautiful fan he’s adored his entire lifetime, is ragged now, ragged and bloody and raw.

Deep blue scales are flaking off his tail and arms, glistening as they drift away.

If his kind could cry, Jaskier’s tears would be blending with his blood in the water.

He bleeds silver, like the unicorns of the land.

Coiled into the side of his stone below the sea, Jaskier watches as it rises to the surface, glistening there in the moonlight. It clouds up and fades away soon, and yet, still he bleeds.

Geralt does not come that night, nor the next.

Still he bleeds.

Jaskier grows weak.

Without food to eat or plants to bind his tail, he bleeds, and he grows weak.

He bleeds, and he grows weak, and his grip on the rock is lost.

The sea fades to black as he drifts upward, toward the moon hanging low in the sky.

His heart aches.

He wakes up numb.

He wakes up numb, with the night air on his skin.

He wakes up numb, and he wakes up with the night air on his skin, and he wakes up with a hand on his chest.

Jaskier's world is foggy when he opens his eyes, but he manages it regardless, and for a moment, he only stares, because that's...

That's a pair of eyes overhead, and they're -

they're yellow.

They're yellow, and they're sad.

"Geralt?" he breathes, and those sad, sad eyes go wide...

... and Jaskier sinks back into darkness, Geralt's voice deep and rough and low and like home in his ears.

"How?"

He wakes up next when the sun is in the sky.

This time, he can feel water lapping against his sides, cool and comforting and familiar.

He breathes in deep, opens his eyes and blinks at the glare of the day.

It takes a moment for the rest of his senses to return.

He's resting in a little tide pool, deep enough to submerge his tail, his lower torso. Another second passes before he realizes he's laid across one of the rocks at the pool's edge, head propped on his folded arms. There's a damp towel laid across his back, lessening the heat of the sun.

Jaskier groans as he tries to move, pushing himself up on his arms to glance around. He knows this tide pool - it's not that far from where he surfaces to observe his witcher at night. Confusion knots his brow when he glances down and sees what appears to be an animal hide laid across the rock, cushioning his slumber.

"Don't move too much."

He jerks in ill-concealed surprise, finally looking up, and -

he goes still.

Geralt is seated nearby, crosslegged on a mostly-flat rock at the outer edge of the tide pool. He's watching him, golden eyes locked with deep blue, and Jaskier cannot breathe.

He can't breathe, because he is beautiful.

"What attacked you?" asks the witcher, and he speaks softly, as though he's trying to keep the merman from shying away from - from him, from the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, feels the gills along his throat tremble, looks past Geralt to where his red mare is standing still in the sand. "Sharks," he replies at last.

Geralt hums, low, and that's that. He moves with a heavy sigh, motioning for Jaskier to look back, down at his tail.

He obeys.

His tail is bound in white cloth, stained murky platinum with his blood. Geralt had taken obvious care, binding the fins along the sides as gently as possible. Jaskier moves cautiously, giving his tail an experimental sway, and he grimaces at the pain, but it lets him look at the fan at the end, resting in the sand.

Still ruined.

"There's nothing I can do," comes Geralt's voice, and he sounds apologetically resigned. Jaskier nods, tries not to let his face fall. "I treated everything with potions, the wounds should heal in time - they'll scar, and I'm afraid the fins might not regrow, but you won't feel the damage. Your, ah... the fan, though..."

Jaskier is having trouble following along, the majority of his attention devoted to the sound of Geralt's voice, rather than the words.

He catches just enough to know that his fan is lost.

Part of him - that vain, bitter part - hurts with the knowledge.

"Thank you," he says at last, his voice just as soft.

Geralt is quiet, but when Jaskier looks back at him, he nods, golden eyes on his tail.

Geralt comes back for him every day for - four, five months?

(Geralt calls them months, like the gulls, and so, finally, Jaskier gave up.)

Jaskier stays in the tide pool for the first bit of that time.

Eventually, Geralt begins to lift him from the stony area, sets him down in the ocean proper, lets him sink below and soak.

He keeps his arms around him the entire time, refusing to let him strain his tail.

When Geralt returns him to the tide pool, he always re-soaks the cloth draped over him, the deer hide laid out beneath him, and offers whatever food he's brought along.

Human food is... intriguing.

Jaskier develops quite the taste for rabbit.

Every couple of days, Geralt changes out the bandages, reapplies the potions he carries hanging off a belt.

It's very nearly maddening, Geralt's touch so gentle and caring on his scales.

Never once does he touch his skin, not with his palms.

Only ever with his arms, strong and torturous around his chest to support him in the shallows.

Jaskier yearns for his touch.

Geralt tells him stories, every day.

At first, it's extremely grudging.

Jaskier coaxes tales of slaying selkiemore and drowners and cockatrice and banshees from his witcher, and for the first couple of weeks, it's an agonizing process.

Geralt doesn't like talking about himself.

When Jaskier reminds him that he's the only source of entertainment available to a virtually bedridden merman, he becomes less reluctant.

A little.

One day, Jaskier asks if he's ever slain merfolk.

Geralt doesn't answer at first. He merely looks at him, and there's sadness in his eyes, just as profound as ever.

He nearly laughs - a low, weary exhale - and turns his head away.

"I won't kill you," is all he says, at last.

Jaskier believes him.

They play games, sometimes.

Well, Jaskier invents the games, and Geralt tolerates them, at best.

They play "count the seagulls" and "hide the seashell" and "braid your hair," only it's difficult to count the gulls when they always fly away in a rush as soon as they get wind of the fun, and there's only so many places to hide the seashell where Jaskier can reach it from his confinement, and Geralt's hair is the only hair long enough to braid, and he takes it with...

With...

Well.

He takes it.

Jaskier sings to him, most of the time.

He sings him the songs of his kind, and he sings him the songs he's heard from the sailors going by above, and he sings him the songs he's learned from the travelers at his shore.

Geralt teaches him some of his own kind - well, the human kind.

Drinking songs, he calls them.

Jaskier decides he loves them.

Geralt tells him about the woman, eventually.

Her name is Yennefer, and Jaskier loathes her immediately.

She's a sorceress - something like the sea witches Jaskier's kind fears.

They met while Geralt was after a djinn - he won't explain why, not even when Jaskier cocks his head to the side and causes Geralt to derail in an attempt to explain. He doesn't even notice that Jaskier is stalling.

One day, Jaskier asks if he loves her.

Geralt doesn't answer, not then.

Two days later, out of nowhere, Jaskier cradled in his arms so he can enjoy the sea, he says, "No. I don't."

Jaskier decides he loves him.

It's a long while before Geralt removes the bandages to reveal healed wounds.

There's raised lines of new flesh where there had once been deep gouges, and Jaskier's scales have grown back a brighter, truer blue, standing out against the deep shade of the rest.

The fins are intact, only the smallest notches in the edges indicating their trauma.

As for the fan, the wide, flowing, beautiful, gossamer, ghostly fan Jaskier had prided himself upon his entire life...

The edges of the bites are healed, no longer raw and sensitive to the sting of the sea, but the bites themselves are still apparent.

His fan is ruined.

Laying there in the tide pool, propped on his elbows to survey his tail, Jaskier wishes he could cry.

He lifts his tail, thwacks it against the water, feels no remorse when he splashes Geralt in the process.

Geralt doesn't seem to care.

Not about the water, at least.

It's as Jaskier's about to hit the surface once more that Geralt reaches for him, props a hand against the backside of his tail, holds him firm and meets his gaze.

Jaskier goes still.

His chest is heaving, fear and shame and pain clogging his throat, and he wishes he could cry, but he can't, and so he doesn't.

He stares back at Geralt, stares back at those wolf-gold eyes, stares at him until he lets his tail go slack. The weight of it is no doubt immense, but Geralt supports it like nothing, lays it down gently in the water and sets his hand on the underside instead.

"I'm sorry," he says aloud, smoothing his hand along his scales, down and down and down until he's tracing along the edges of the fan, of the ruined fan, once Jaskier's pride and joy... he traces the edges, and he watches his own hand, and he says, "I tried to save it."

Jaskier doesn't answer.

He's too busy trying to breathe.

Geralt sets him back in the sea that night, tells him to try swimming close to shore, stick close by, rest if he needs, he'll be back the next day...

Jaskier merely nods.

When Geralt pulls away, his fingertips graze across Jaskier's skin, across the point where scales fade into flesh along the v of his waist.

He shudders.

Geralt goes rigid, and yet he doesn't say a word.

He eases him into the sea, says goodnight, waits on horseback until Jaskier dips below the surface and doesn't rise again to leave.

Jaskier comes back when his scent has worn thin.

He floats there, near the tide pool, until his newfound strength begins to wane.

He falls asleep resting against the stones at the rim of the tide pool, Geralt's scent hanging heavy in the air.

Geralt doesn't come back until nightfall the next day, but he brings food, so Jaskier can't fault him.

His tail isn't powerful enough yet to drive him deep below and back home just yet, and the seaweed and crustaceans near the shore are nowhere near as satisfying.

Geralt sits crosslegged in the sand, watches with attentive eyes as Jaskier ducks and dives and whirls...

... as Jaskier shows off, twists and arches and writhes, lets what's left of his fan splay in the water in the closest thing to a mating dance he's ever fucking done, and he's always winded by the time he surfaces again, and Geralt...

... Geralt doesn't care.

He makes Jaskier come closer, wades out far enough to feel over his tail, over his fins, making sure they aren't strained and raw and split open.

They aren't, but maybe Jaskier plays up his exertion, if for nothing else than to have Geralt carry him back into the tide pool, sit down at the edge and knead into the muscles of his tail until it takes everything within him not to moan aloud.

This continues for another week.

Geralt is always watchful, golden eyes following Jaskier through the water so he doesn't grow weak, and at the end of every night, he carries him to the pool, massages the nonexistent ache from his tail and lets Jaskier sing.

One night, Jaskier asks if he likes his singing.

His witcher looks him in the eyes then, just for a moment, and looks away, the faintest of smiles on his face.

He doesn't answer, but Jaskier gloats regardless.

One night, Geralt comes looking... almost happy.

He tells Jaskier he's found Yennefer again.

(Jaskier didn't realize that she was lost, let alone worthy of finding.)

She's moved on, living in another town, in another kingdom. Geralt had gotten word from a traveling merchant, one he's known for years.

Jaskier should be happy for him.

He knows he should.

He knows this, and yet, when Geralt looks at him more closely, asks him what's wrong, he spits out, "Do you love her?"

Geralt goes still.

He's standing at the very edge of the tide, arms crossed.

Jaskier is floating just far enough out that the sand brushes his chest when he settles lower in the water, close enough to talk to his witcher with ease.

"Do you love her?" he repeats.

Geralt's jaw tightens, and he starts to speak, and when he does, it's a low and frustrated snarl.

"I knew her first."

Jaskier's tail hits the surface of the water with enough force to send a ripple through the current, to send a wave toward the shore, lapping at Geralt's boots.

"Jaskier, you can't leave the water, you know you can't - "

"There has to be a way, you see magic all day long, Geralt - "

"I'm not taking you from your home - "

"I haven't seen my home in months!" he nearly screams, and his voice is raw and wrecked and honest, and it hurts to yell, and it hurts to breathe, and, "I haven't gone back below since I met you, Geralt, you have to know that, you are my home!"

Geralt falls silent then.

Jaskier's voice gives out as he cuts himself off, and he falls quiet, and he waits, and he trembles there in the water, his witcher out of reach.

When Geralt speaks again, it's with his eyes averted, and he sounds...

"No. I don't love her, but I can't love you."

He turns away, and Jaskier starts to protest, to call out, to beg for him to stay - but his throat is dry, and so he says nothing.

He stays there, motionless in the water, and watches as Geralt mounts up on his mare and walks away.

He stays there until the sun is rising in the eastern sky.

He stays there until the daylight wears away at his skin and his head is pounding with the atmospheric heat.

He stays there until he grows weak.

He grows weak, and he turns away, sinks below the surface, dives down, down, down... down until the water is dark and he doesn't know if the shadows just beyond his reach are creatures come to kill or merely rock formations lurking in the void.

His heart aches, and he wishes he could cry.

The gulls tell him Geralt has moved on, farther north.

They tell him he's accompanied by a woman with hair as black as the abyss, a woman who heals his wounds with magic and keeps him warm at night.

Jaskier looks to the ruined fan at the end of his tail, to the fresh and brighter scales that mark Geralt's care.

He looks to the ruined fan, and he doesn't say a word.

The gulls tell him Geralt travels alone now.

They tell him that he left the woman in a kingdom called Cintra, and they tell him he's angry now, angry and just as sorrowful as ever.

Some bitter part of his heart is glad.

They tell him they've lost track of Geralt.

It's been years.

It's been years, and still, Jaskier waits close to the shore.

Geralt's scent has long since worn off the stones where they used to sit together, where they used to talk and laugh and sing and play... where Jaskier fell for the man with wolf-gold eyes and seafoam-pale hair.

His heart aches.

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #jaskier x geralt #dandelion x geralt #mermaid au #angst #request #blue waters verse

961 notes · View notes

marril96 · 4 years

Text

Extremely Cuddly, Shockingly Soft and Lovely

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: After helping the Winchesters out with a case, Rowena is being unusually affectionate.

A/N: Based on this prompt by my lovely friend @impala-1979

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

Of all the ways Rowena could have greeted you, the last thing you expected was a bone-crushing hug. You'd barely said, "Hi," cut off halfway through by her arms around you, squeezing the life out of you. As if it had been months since you'd last seen her as opposed to mere days.

You didn't complain, though, instead returning the hug and squeezing back just as hard. She was warm in your arms. So tiny, so fragile, yes strong beyond belief.

"Well, hello there," you said, breaking into a grin, surprised but welcoming of the strange greeting.

Rowena wasn't a hugger. Or rather, she wasn't much of an initiator. She enjoyed a good cuddle, but she had to be prompted into it. Making the first step was beneath her, though, a few rare times, she allowed herself to snuggle in unprompted.

She'd gone to help Sam and Dean on a case a few days ago, and you were already missing her. The home was empty without her. The bed you shared cold, lifeless. Your body lacking hers to warm up with, to feel safe, at home.

You'd texted and video chatted countless times, but it wasn't the same. Nothing beat having her in your arms, safe and sound.

A part of you regretted not going with her. She'd made it more than clear that you were welcome to accompany her, just like all those times before. Against your heart's wishes, you'd opted not to. It was a fairly simple case, after all. An out of control witch. Nothing the three of them couldn't handle on their own.

You'd regretted that decision the moment the door had closed behind her on her way out.

Codependence wasn't healthy; you were more than aware of that. But still.

But still.

Now that you had her with you, you never wanted to let her go again.

To your utmost surprise, Rowena seemed to share the sentiment.

"Are you okay, baby?" you asked, baffled by the way she clung to you. So tight, a koala clinging to a tree branch. "Did something happen?"

She nuzzled your chest like an overly affectionate cat. "Everything is fine." Her voice was soft, lovely. Cotton candy and silk mixed into one. You wanted to melt in it.

You didn't buy it, but you let it go. Who were you to look gift hugs in the mouth?

"I missed you," you whispered, kissing her hair.

"I missed you, too, darling." She tightened her grip, Pressing her face against your chest.

You enjoyed the moment too much to chastise her for ruining your shirt. Makeup could be washed off. It wasn't every day that your girl initiated affection — to this degree, no less. A dirty shirt was a more than fair price to pay.

As the two of you settled in the living room to talk about her travels, Rowena remained by your side. Literally glued to you, as if you were bound at the hip. As she talked of tracking down the witch and killing her, her head was on your shoulder, one hand firmly in yours, fingers twined in an almost unbreakable knot.

When she got up to make tea, she dragged you with her to the kitchen, one hand on the kettle and the other holding yours. Gripping it with impossible strength so that you couldn't break away.

Your questions if something bad had happened had gone unanswered.

Maybe she'd remembered Lucifer again. Maybe something had triggered her — again, like many times before — along the way, and she didn't want to be alone like she was that day in May of 2017 when he showed up and messed her up for life. When, following a meaningless argument, you'd left to blow off some steam, and had returned to a bloodbath and a charred corpse in the middle of the hotel room.

Maybe she wanted to make sure that you were here. That, this time around, you wouldn't leave. That she wasn't alone.

You didn't have the heart to take it away from her.

So you remained at her side. You allowed her to drag you around the house, to cling to you as she sat beside you. Even when she squeezed too tight and it was hard to breathe, you didn't say a word.

Let her have her fantasy. Let her have her feeling of safety. You'd promised her, after she'd healed, that you would never leave her again, and you intended to make good on it.

Besides, it felt nice to have her so close. It felt nice to snuggle up without having to coax her into it. To, for once in your life, not have to be the instigator. Rowena was affectionate; she loved cuddles and snuggles. She loved kisses and nuzzles and sweet promises of love. Not once did you doubt that she loved you the same way you loved her. She was just different. More closed off, due to her background.

But, gods, you enjoyed this open side of her immensely. However short it may be, you decided to make the most of it.

"I love you, Y/N."

She'd said it multiple times over the last few hours, and you'd returned each one. It was music to your ears, a lullaby you could fall asleep to every night.

Whatever had happened must have shaken her. But she was safe now. That was all that mattered. She would never be unsafe again, not while she was with you. Not while you could wrap her in your embrace and nuzzle her hair and tell her you loved her over and over again, for as long as she was willing to listen. For as long as she was willing to say it back.

To your great surprise, Rowena insisted on making dinner. Your favorite, she said. She would make it exactly as you liked it.

Blinking twice, three times, four, to make sure you hadn't been transported to an alternate reality without noticing, you asked, "Since when do you cook?"

"Can't I treat my girlfriend to a lovely homemade meal every once in a while?" she said, looking through cupboards for the kitchenware. Sorting the items she needed on the island, neatly and in order as she did when she worked on potions.

It was more like once in every few years, but you decided not to comment. Who were you to say no to a homemade meal? It was surely better, much more intimate, than being treated to restaurant dinners (which you always welcomed. Rowena had impeccable taste, and she never failed to impress).

"Okay," you said, still baffled by her behavior. Was she truly shaken up by something, or was something else going on?

Your heart jumped, nervous tingles slipping down the back of your neck like an army of angry ants. Had you forgotten an important date? An anniversary of some sort?

You cleared your throat. Mentally prepared yourself for the ire she would unleash on you for forgetting whatever it was that had taken place on this day. In your defense, you'd never been the best with days. Hopefully, Rowena would take that into consideration before she obliterated you. "Are-are we celebrating something? Did I forget something again?"

Rowena laughed, a sweet, delicious melody. Harmless. "I'm just making you dinner, Y/N." You breathed out in relief, muscles springing free of tension that had strung them stiff. "You're acting as if I never do anything nice for you."

You shrugged, because she didn't. Not like this. She didn't cuddle so much. She didn't make the first move. She didn't tell you she loved you so frequently, so earnestly. She didn't make you dinner from scratch and act like it was the most normal thing in the world.

None of this was normal.

It both scared and intrigued you.

Rowena pouted and, walking over, pressed her forehead to your chest like an injured, attention-starved kitten.

Your heart just about exploded with guilt, with regret that ate at you like acid. "I didn't mean it like that," you said, rubbing her back in the gentlest of circles. What had gotten into her today?

She looked up at you. Narrowed her eyes as if in thought. "I may forgive you if you kiss me."

Seriously? Since when did she ask for a kiss instead of taking it? Since when did she bury her face into your shirt and pout until she got what she wanted?

That was usually your tactic.

"You drive a hard bargain," you teased, cupping her cheeks into your palms with utmost tenderness and laying a kiss, soft as silk, to her forehead. Then one to the tip of her nose, and another, the cherry on top, on her lips.

"Good girl," Rowena said, and, with a flash of a smile, went back to work on dinner. "You're forgiven. For now." She winked.

"You're mean," you told her.

"Me?" she clasped a hand over her heart dramatically. "Never."

Right. She was Miss Goody Two-Shoes. As if. You chuckled.

"Why would I be mean when I love you?"

So she kept saying. You never tired of hearing it, no matter how strange it was. How unlike her.

"To assert dominance?" you joked.

She raised an eyebrow. You blew her a raspberry.

"Mature, darling."

You gave a shrug. "That's just me saying I love you back."

Rowena grinned, and walked over for another kiss. As if she needed the assurance. As if she needed to feel you, to touch you, to make sure you meant it. As if, otherwise, it would all be a lie. You gave in to it because why wouldn't you? Strange as it was, it cost you nothing. When she got over whatever it was she was going through, she would go back to normal. For now, you decided to enjoy this needy, clingy side of her.

The meal turned out incredible. Rowena, by her own choice, wasn't a cook, but when she put her mind to it, she could whip out incredible food. As magical as the potions she always made. Just as crafty, just as professional.

She marveled in your praise as you ate, and pulled you into an embrace as you finished, beaming like the sun on a summer afternoon. Beautiful and bright, without a cloud in sight.

"I really loved it," you said, kissing her cheek to emphasize it. "You should cook more often."

"I shall cook for you every day," Rowena vowed.

You highly doubted that, but you went along with it. "Think you could make filet mignon tomorrow?"

She looked you in the eyes, serious as a storm. "The best you've ever had."

"Deal."

She caressed your scalp. "Why don't you sit here and relax while I clean up?"

You looked at her as if she'd suddenly grown a second head. Since when did she volunteer to clean up? Since when did she look so gleeful at the mere thought of it? Last time she was home, she rolled her eyes all the way through, complaining that there wasn't a spell to speed up the process and vowing to create her own. Tonight was supposed to be your turn to do it. "For real?"

"Aye. Let the food settle, won't you?" She patted your stomach affectionately and started gathering the dirty dishes.

You blinked, baffled. Sure this had to be some sort of a joke, though she appeared one hundred percent serious.

"Okay…" you said, unsure, though you tried not to dwell on it. You were no fan of chores, either.

As she cleared out the table and wiped it, thoroughly, with a cloth, she kissed your forehead, then committed to doing the dishes. Every now and again, she would throw a glance at you, making sure you were still where she'd left you. Making sure you hadn't left.

You were growing to enjoy this side of her. It was odd and different and it would surely not last for more than a few days, at most, but it was sweet. She was sweet; sugary, to a level most people would find disgusting, but you reveled in. You just hoped she eventually told you what was going on. A change like this, you deserved to know the reason for.

A sudden vibrating sound startled you. Your phone, abandoned on the coffee table, was buzzing, the screen flashing as bright as a lamp. Grabbing it, you were surprised to see it was Sam who was calling. You sighed, frustrated. What had happened now? Did the Winchesters need Rowena — again? If so, why didn't they call her? You doubted they wanted your help. Who went to the student when they could go straight to the teacher?

"Hello," you said, uncertain.

"Hey, Y/N." Sam was polite. Friendly as always. You were no fan of hunters, but you appreciated it. Out of them all, he seemed like the most trustworthy. "Has Rowena gotten home?"

"Yup. Hours ago."

Rowena raised an eyebrow. You shot her a smile, prompting her to keep on washing plates.

Sam breathed out loudly. Was that relief you were detecting? "She okay?"

Uh oh. "Is there a reason she shouldn't be?"

"I—"

"We need you to check her pockets," Dean cut in. No nonsense, straight to the point as always.

"Why?" you asked.

"Has she been acting weird?"

Weird would be an understatement. Heart jumping with concern, you said, "Well, I mean, she…" She's been cuddly as an attention-hungry kitten. You cleared your throat. "She's been a bit… odd."

It wasn't something bad, was it?

Cold chills slid down the back of your neck, thin and prickly as needles.

Was it?!

"Check her pockets," Dean told you. "She might be cursed. Jack was acting weird all day, and we just found a hex bag in his pocket."

Cursed? Rowena could be cursed?

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit!

It was obvious, now that you thought about it. Of course she was cursed. Why else would she glue herself to you as if you were conjoined twins? Why else would she volunteer to make dinner for no special occasion — your favorite, at that — and insist that she do the dishes? Why else would she be so fucking squishy?

"On it. Thanks for letting me know."

As soon as you hung up, you were on your feet, heart racing, concern rising. Please, don't be a bad one, you prayed to any deity willing to listen. Please, please, please. The witch they'd faced was powerful, Rowena had told you. Dangerous. Sadistic. A radical change of behavior in her victims was certainly just the beginning.

You had no intention to see how it ended. Enough time had passed already. Hopefully, you'd managed to catch on to it in time, before something serious — something cruel, deadly — took effect.

"A friend?" Rowena inquired, raising a curious eyebrow.

"Sam and Dean."

"Ah. Checking up on me, are they?"

She had no idea.

As you got close, she did what she'd been doing all day and threw her arms around you. You sank into the embrace, let her curl around you like a piece of a puzzle perfectly nesting into place. Your hands slid down to her hips, felt for the pockets of her dress pants. Fingers slithered in as soon as they found them.

Your right fingertip brushed against a rough fabric, and relief instantly flooded you, a welcome, much needed high. Grabbing the small pouch, you threw it down. Swiftly, forcefully, as if it were poison deadly to the touch.

"What are you—" Rowena's eyes trailed yours, widening at the sight of the hex bag. Tiny. The color of rust. Almost harmless, lying all alone, abandoned, on the floor.

You spat, "Ignis." Fire.

The bag instantly burst into flames. Bright and orange, they devoured it, ate it from the inside out like acid, until it was nothing but a pile of ash. Fragile. Easily scattered. Powerless.

Rowena stared at it. She did nothing, said nothing, just stared at the grayish-black remains of the hex bag. Her arms were limp at her sides. Lips tight in an unreadable line.

"Rowena?" you said, concerned. "You okay?"

No reaction. No acknowledgement.

Nothing.

"Baby?"

She swallowed.

You reached for her hand, only to be pushed away. The rejection stung like a slap to the face.

Was this the aftermath of the curse? Was she shaken up about being snapped out of it so suddenly?

"Rowena, sweetie—"

"I was cursed." Her voice was cold. Distant.

"Yup. Sam and Dean said Jack was cursed, and they wanted me to check your pockets, to make sure."

Good thing they did, otherwise… Something would have happened. Something bad. You didn't know what, but you could guarantee it was nothing good. Evil witches didn't hex people who were after them mildly. Rowena, a former evil witch herself, would know that better than anyone.

"But you're okay now," you said. "Right?"

She gave a nod.

At least there was that.

A moment passed in silence, then Rowena uttered, "You didn't notice."

"What?"

"I wasn't myself, and you didn't notice."

Was that offense in her tone?

"It's not like that," you said, guilt lacing your words. "I just figured you were going through some stuff."

She stared at you, incredulous. "Like being cursed?"

She was offended. She was mad.

Shit. You swallowed. "Well…"

Thinking of it now, it was obvious. She hadn't been herself. Had been acting too different, too strange. Too unlike the woman you'd gotten to know in the past six years.

Rowena gasped. Dramatic. Exaggerated. Over the top. Her usual style. You sighed, mentally preparing yourself for the blow up. Here we go.

"How could you not notice? It was right in your bloody face!" she exclaimed in that tone that both intimidated and intrigued you, the one veteran theater actresses would envy. "Do I look like a bloody attention whore?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

She scowled as if you'd insulted her. Which, to be fair, you probably had. Raising her forefinger threateningly (not that you were truly afraid.She could be intimidating, but you never feared her), in your face, she snapped, "Don't be a smartarse!"

You shrugged, nonchalant. She was dramatic. You were a smartass. Some things were just facts.

"You liked it, didn't you?"

"What?"

"You liked me slobbering all over you like a diseased cat and waiting on you hand and foot." She crossed her arms. Her expression softened, mellowed into something you couldn't quite put your finger on. Something… sad.

Was that what she thought? That you didn't notice her being cursed because you enjoyed taking advantage of her? That you jumped at the chance?

It was your turn to be offended. "I can't believe you just said that."

"What am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to know me better than that."

"You are supposed to know me, as well, and look how that turned out."

Seriously? She was going there? You supposed you shouldn't be surprised; when Rowena kicked, she aimed for the lowest area. Not just because of her height.

"I thought something triggered you while you were working the case!" you exclaimed. "I didn't wanna say anything because I figured you just wanted to cuddle for a day or two, and you'd be back to normal. It's happened in the past!"

You didn't want to bring it up, but if she was going to be a bitch, you might as well make her face the truth. You felt bad for not noticing. Felt guilty. But there have been times, in the past, when she remembered Lucifer, and all she needed was some love, some sense of safety for a little while until the fear subsided. The two of you never talked about it; you'd had a consensus, a wordless agreement to let it happen.

So you let it happen.

It was harmless, usually. Just some cuddles and kisses. How were you to know a curse would make her exhibit the same symptoms?

Rowena had the decency to look ashamed. Eyes falling to her feet, avoiding yours for as much as they could, she said, "I know I'm not the most affectionate person."

"Are you kidding? You're the cuddliest witch I know!" She leveled you with a stare that threatened murder. You grinned. She rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. I admit, it was nice to see you take more of an initiative, but I don't think there's anything… lacking with the way you usually are. I wouldn't have you any other way."

She cracked a small smile. "Sap."

"You made me do it!" you accused jokingly.

She sighed. "What am I going to do with you?"

"How about a hug?" She gave you a look, one of those she reserved for when you did something incredibly stupid and she had no words to encompass it. "Please?"

"Maybe a small one," she relented after a moment of thought.

Giggling, you threw your arms around her and squeezed as hard as you could.

"Y/N!" Rowena protested.

"I can't help it!" you said, ecstatic. "You're just so squishy!"

"And you're mean!" she whined.

You could live with that.

She pouted for a few seconds before returning the hug and nestling comfortably against you, exactly where she belonged. Safe and sound and, most important of all, content. Happy, though she would never say it out loud.

"Say, Rowena..." you said, uncertain how to best approach the issue. "About that filet mignon you promised…"

"Don't even think about it."

You figured as much.

But it was okay. Because she was okay. She was unharmed. Herself. Yours, exactly as she was, with all her sides, good and bad.

Overly affectionate or not, she would always be your girl. There wasn't a single thing she could do to make you love her less. Laughter, tears, joy, grief, happiness, fear; you'd been through it all, and hadn't regretted a thing. Would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

But… damn, you were really looking forward to that filet mignon.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @hellbentredhead @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @theeasterbilby @midnight-lestrange @osterhagen @impala-1979 @gracib16 @feelsandotps

#rowena #rowena macleod #spn #supernatural #spn family #rowena x reader #rowena macleod x reader #my fics #fanfiction

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fragmentedink-archived · 3 years

Text

Hell to Pay: Chapter Fifty-Two

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, IX, IX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XVIIII, XXX, XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX, XL, XLI, XLII, XLIII, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, XLX, LI

cowritten by @lux-scriptum

A/N: Hey everybody!!! It’s been a hot minute. We’ve been busy lately between work and life and all that fun stuff but here’s a new chapter <3

A/N: So we’re changing a lil bit up, and adding more characters, specifically the gods as we’ve been doing more world building lately. These Gods are also from my own WIP, but have also found their way here!

“I just don’t understand why you need specific wood from a specific place for the crib,” Lev muttered, splashing the water with his foot as he watched Nik paddle around. Nik still wore a large shirt even in the pool, as if Lev and Cameron didn’t know he was pregnant.

"Well, Lev," Nik said. "Not all of us are okay with using hand-me-downs from four hundred years ago. Some of us like new shiny things for new shiny parasites- I say with love- and besides, its native to Tullum. It's home; at least as close to home as I'll likely get."

Lev huffed. “I didn’t mean that you had to get hand-me-downs, if you don’t want to. But I figured asking for wood specific to a region of angel territory when neither of us can go to retrieve it... It’s just a big fuss to make, I guess.” He braced his hands on the side of the pool, leaning forward a bit. “I don’t- Cameron had lots of very pretty options, is all, I guess.”

Nik arched a brow, eyeing him dryly. "And where, exactly, do you think some of those woods come from, Levant?"

Lev hesitated. “I assumed demonic territory?” he finally said, very unsure of the answer now.

Nik splashed Lev with enough force Lev was drenched, spluttering. Before he could think of how to respond, Cameron popped Lev gently on the back of his head. Lev hadn’t even noticed Cameron approach.

As Lev looked up, Cameron simply said, “Come inside. Biela requires your presence. Both of you.”

Lev stood, looking back to Nik, who was hauling himself out of the pool. Since Nik had already soaked him, Lev tucked himself against Nik’s side as they went inside.

Biela was standing in the kitchen. Without looking at them, she simply said, “Take a seat.”

Lev peeled away and settled in a chair, but Nik folded his arms over his stomach, which was beginning to show by that point, and said, "And why should-"

Cameron sliced Nik a look. "Nikolas, sit the fuck down."

At those cold words, Nik promptly sat on the nearest stool without another word.

Lev reached for Nik’s hand. Something told him he would not like whatever Biela had to say. Nik’s fingers tightened around his briefly as they waited for Biela to speak.

Biela fixed her dark gaze on Nik first. “I’m assuming you are keeping the fetus.”

It wasn’t a brief squeeze this time. “Why?” Nik asked sharply.

“Nik,” Lev said softly.

Biela held up a hand in Lev’s direction. “Because I'm also assuming you'd want to know the magic used to bring your boyfriend back from the dead poisoned my lands and is killing countless children. That's why."

Cold washed over Lev, colder than the death that he knew still tugged at his bones. “What?” he blurted, barely a whisper.

"You," Biela said, squarely looking Lev in the eye, "And your cousin and that witch played with forces beyond your control and decided to poison my lands with your greed because you just couldn't leave death well enough alone. I figured since your mate is currently pregnant, that you might want to know what is happening to the infants being born. Much like Nik's infant soon enough."

Lev risked swinging his attention to Cameron, eyes wide. He knew he was digging his nails into Nik’s hand as he searched Cameron’s expression, but for the most part it was unreadable, the usual shrouded calculation flickering in his eyes. Lev looked back to Biela after a moment.

“I didn’t know,” he finally said, voice small.

“Clearly not. You seem to know nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Lev said, finally shifting his attention to Nik. “I’m sorry.”

The blood had drained from Nik’s face. “You’re lying,” he said, the words a harsh counterpoint to Lev’s whispered apology.

"And why would I lie about such a thing?"

"Because you despise me, and you loathe Lev and want any excuse to put Lev back in the ground."

Biela’s mouth curled in a non-smile. "If I was going to put your precious Lev back where he belonged, I'd do so without needing such a cruel lie. I'd just do it."

Lev tugged on Nik’s hand. “Nik,” he said, a warning in his tone this time. “She’s right.”

Tears of anger welled in Nik's eyes. "This is bullshit. This is absolute bullshit. I just decided to keep the thing. Now you're telling me it'll die anyways?"

Greif coiled alongside the fear and guilt. “You didn’t have to tell us,” Lev said to Biela. “Thank you,” he added, before tugging at Nik again. “We’ll figure it out, Nik. You- you could stay with Nate, couldn’t you?”

Nik's mouth pressed into a thin line. "But this is my home," he said, voice breaking.

Steadily, Biela said, "Not every child has been born dead or scarred. Perhaps your blood will… protect it in some way. Healing it."

Lev pressed his face to Nik’s shoulder. “You should talk to Ash. Or Sazra. Both of them.”

Nik stood abruptly. “I’m going to bed,” he muttered, as if it wasn’t midafternoon. Lev watched him go in silence, his heart aching.

Only once he was gone did Lev look back to Biela. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Is there anything I can do?” He meant it, knew she’d read that in his mind, and hoped it meant... something. Though he doubted it did.

Biela leaned against her palms, black hair slipping over her shoulder. "What do you think you can do? You and your cousin offer your pretty apologies while countless are dead like a few well placed 'sorries' will give parents their young once more. I highly doubt putting you back where you belong would solve it, and as I promised your cousin, I wouldn't. You will live with your actions and you will think about how this has affected my kingdom. And you will think about how my mercy has been the only thing keeping you with a home. Not even your own people want you. And now, you're a mass murderer to my people. That is what you can do."

Her words hurt, as they were meant to, he was sure, but he heard no untruth. “I would never assume that an apology would fix anything,” he promised carefully. “I will never forget the cost; I promise. But-” He hesitated. “I know most demons don’t appreciate an angels healing. I have the magic to spare, if it is ever useful. I understand that- it’s not- it’s all I can offer.”

Biela arched a brow. "I'll keep it in mind. If there's something to make you useful, I'll look into it. It's the least you can do."

“It is,” Lev agreed, grief leaking into his tone despite himself. “Thank you,” he added again, before lowering his gaze to the ground. Any more, he thought, and he might say too much.

"And you're not even crying," Biela noted. "An improvement." She straightened, readying to leave. "I'll return for our check up. I expect you to behave in the meantime."

On her way out, Cameron dipped his head in a reverent bow.

Lev waited until her footsteps faded before he looked to Cameron. “What are we going to do?” he asked.

All Cameron said was, "Survive."

-----

After nearly a week of Amara seemingly dodging every appointment Ash tried setting up with her, Ash decidedly went to see Nik so he didn't hunt her down and wring her neck. It seemed like the better alternative.

It was Lev who answered the door. Hesitantly, Lev asked, "Am I allowed to talk to you?"

"Well," Ash said, looking over Lev’s head, "if you weren't, you'd be a little too late now. Where's Nik?"

Lev flushed, cheeks going a blotchy gold. “In bed,” he said, sounding sad. “I’m assuming you heard, then.”

Ash blinked. "Heard what? I just needed to check on him. Did something happen to Nik?" He asked, shouldering his way past Lev. "Is he alright?"

“Oh.” Lev seemed to hesitate. “Fine. Nik is. I think. I mean, he is, but-” His voice got smaller and smaller. “Whatever Cyrus did to bring me back- the magic- infants are dying. Not making it to birth. Biela told us a few days ago. I assumed that’s why you were here. I thought Nik had taken my advice.”

At that Ash halted in place and whirled on him, face leeched white with horror and rage. "Wanna run that by me again?"

Lev flinched away. “The magic poisoned the lands,” he whispered. “The children are dying because I came back."

"I-." Ash inhaled sharply. "I told you. I told every single one of you not to do it. I hope you're fucking happy with yourself," he snapped, jabbing him in the chest. "None of you selfish assholes would listen to me and children are dead for it." Ash whirled back around and stormed his way to Nik's bedroom. "And now I need to make sure another one doesn't die because of everyone's bad choices."

Nik jolted up when Ash burned the door in place to stalk inside. He didn't give Nik a moment to speak before he started doing what he did best. "Have you been keeping everything down? Any fevers or anything beyond the usual normal pregnancy stuff?"

Nik blinked blankly at him. "How the hell am I supposed to know? Because I'm an omega? I-"

"My mistake," Ash said. "I shouldn't have asked you. Lev, has everything been normal with Niks pregnancy so far?"

Lev hovered in the charred doorway. “Other than morning sickness that Cameron and I have been keeping an eye on, everything seems fine. I didn’t think to ask Biela how the- what was happening to the parents. I was- it was a shock.”

"Oh I'm sure," he said, shortly. He turned his full focus back on Nik. "Is there any way I can convince you to come home at least until the baby is born?" When Nik shook his head, Ash sighed. "Right. Well, at least meet me for appointments every few days in Liwen. That way you get exposure outside of Demonic Lands as well as getting a better look in my office?"

Nik sat up on his elbow and watched him warily. “Papi doesn’t want me coming home, Ash.”

Ash rolled his eyes and eyed the bruising still fading from Nik’s neck. “Hm. Well. I don’t think your father is going to get to say much of anything when I hold just as much, if not more power and sway than he does. Besides, you’re not stepping foot anywhere near him, especially when you’re pregnant. I’m sure Nate would have my head. Or at the very least try.”

Nik didn’t so much as crack a smile. “I don’t want to go home.”

Ash sighed loudly. “Alright, fine then.” When Lev tried scooting his way past to Nik, Ash shoved his face away. “Move it, I’m dealing with my patient, Lev.” When Lev huffed Ash looked pointedly at him. “If that’s too much to ask,” he suggested, “then perhaps you can see yourself outside while we talk.”

Lev’s only response was making a face. “I think I’m going to go see what Cameron’s making for dinner.”

When Lev left, Ash turned his sole focus back to Nik who was still looking rather tired. “You gotta let me help,” he said. “We both know I’m the best you’re going to get when it comes to your health.”

“Dunno. Sazra seems to know plenty.”

“Sazra hasn’t seen the light of day in well over a thousand years. That,” he said, “and from what you’ve told me, Sazra also wants to string you up by your balls. Your physiology is different from demons and as great as a healer I’m sure she is, I am your healer and I’m not trusting a demon to take care of you when I’ve known you for the last nineteen years.”

Nik waved him off. “Figure it out, Ash. I don’t want to leave.”

“Because of Lev?” Ash asked, pointedly.

“And if it is?” Nik shot back.

“Then you’re making stupid choices for your baby.”

Nik almost looked like Ash hit him. Ash tried to reel back from that very poor choice of words, but even if he was successful at it, he still didn’t regret them. It was the truth especially when there were millions of infants dead because Ash didn’t stop Amara or Cyrus and now Nik was in the line of fire for his own inactions. “Look,” Ash warned, “if you won’t come back then I’m moving in here and I will make everyone who lives in this house as miserable as physically possible.”

“Like Cameron would let you.“

Ash scoffed. “You think I’m afraid of Wonder Bread Cameron? I get what I want and what I currently want won’t come back with me.”

Nik’s brows shot up at that, but before he could say anything Lev came slinking his way back into the room. “Mami’s actually in charge of dinner tonight so Cameron’s in his office. He looks kinda grumpy.”

“Surprise of surprises, I’m sure,” Ash said. He looked back to Nik. “So what is it, you coming with me voluntarily or am I moving in here against all of your wills?” When Nik stared at him in stony silence, Ash took that as answer enough. He got up from the bed and shouldered his way past Lev.

----

Ash was still being cranky, and Nik was still in bed. Lev wasn’t stupid enough enough to bother Cameron again, and so when he heard Eden waking up from her afternoon nap he decided to go pick her up before she upset the whole house with her fussing.

Even if he was supposed to be limiting how much he picked her up.

After some well placed smacks for not getting to her soon enough, Eden buried her face in his shoulder with a half-awake growl. Lev gave her a little bounce and settled in the rocking chair, toy in hand to offer her when she bothered to lift her head.

Only when several minutes had passed did Eden finish her little sniffle-growls and take the stuffed bear. Within seconds the ear was detached.

Lev sighed as he fished it out of her mouth. Eden took the chance to sink her little teeth into his finger, hard enough to draw blood. Before Lev could pull away, Eden gave a pleased shriek, little nails digging into his hand to keep him there. Despite the surprising amount of strength the toddler had, he managed to get free, in time for Ash to stick his head in the room, eyes glowing enough of a bright green that Lev was quite sure Ash was seeing just fine.

“I just can't seem to leave you alone for five minutes without you nearly getting killed by demons,” Ash grumbled.

Lev shrugged, catching Eden’s little hand before she could smack him again. “Hitting isn’t nice, bitty girl.”

She simply screeched in his face, and then thunked her forehead on his shoulder, giggling.

Lev looked up at Ash. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said as Eden took her bear back and began the gruesome work of beheading it. “Well, I mean- I wasn’t sure how to because I wasn’t sure if we were allowed to talk, and then you needed to check on Nik, and-” He paused, blinking hard. “Rambling. Sorry. I’m trying to work on that. I remembered things, about when I was dead.” He pressed a kiss to Eden’s head to buy himself some time to order his thoughts, and then went on. “I met Nature. During that time I was hesitating. And they talked to me.”

“Oh? And you didn’t bother to tell me this sooner?”

Lev winced. From what he’d gathered from the conversation with Nature, the link between Ash and the god ran deeper than Lev had ever realized. Not that Lev had ever really paid attention to it. He’d never been particularly close to Nature himself; he was starting to regret not trying to forge a connection with the only god the angels had. Maybe his magic would have been easier to access, stronger even, if he had.

“I didn’t remember for a long time,” he finally said to Ash. “But I do now, so I’m telling you.”

It’d been an intense conversation, for sure. He could see a lot of Ash in Nature. Or maybe there was a lot of Nature in Ash. Lev wasn’t too sure how the mechanics of it worked. Nature had all but berated him for dragging his feet. Just from past experience they knew if the spell failed it’d have unimaginable consequences, and Lev now knew just how bad it could have been.

“I promised them I would be the last resurrection,” he told Ash. “And I said if that failed, that I’d help take some of the- the punishment you suffered. It’s not fair for you to be in that much pain on your own.”

“Ya think?” Ash snipped.

Lev took a small breath, and then replied calmly, “I really am sorry, Ash. It was the least I could do, I thought.”

Ash rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Tell me everything you talked about.”

“A lot of it was... kind of scolding. About trying to come back,” Lev admitted. “And telling me there were going to be consequences either way. They laid out exactly what you went through while not stopping us.” Lev cleared his throat. “I- that's when I offered. To help shoulder the pain.” After tucking his cheek against Edens hair, he held up a hand, weaving his shadows through his fingers with ease. “I think that might be why my magic is stronger. I was going to try to- to find more ways to connect with them, but I’ll have to wait until I can go back to angelic territory now, I think.”

“Why? There’s temples here.”

“Oh. I didn’t-” He stopped, frowned. “I don’t know much about demons and the gods-” He sighed this time. “I’m still on house arrest. I’m not allowed to leave until Biela deems me not a security risk.”

Ash lifted a brow. “Aren’t you in a relationship with a demon?”

“We’ve never had a conversation about religion, Ash,” Lev said with an even deeper frown. “I don’t think Cameron’s particularly religious. I guess I could ask him about the demonic gods. All I know is that they’re where demons get their magic, like we do from Nature.”

“They have a name, you know,” Ash said. Lev couldn’t figure out if he sounded irritated or tired. “It’s Asmi.”

Lev flushed. “I- I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He cleared his throat, and said more firmly, “No one really calls them by their name, but I should- I should have asked.”

“Probably,” Ash said drily. “And technically they’re not even the god of nature.”

Lev stood up, bouncing Eden on his hip. “They aren’t?” He asked. “That’s what we were taught in primary school, I’m sorry.”

“Primary school?” Ash said. If Lev didn’t know better, he was teasing him now. Crankily, sure, but still.

Rather than dignify that with an answer, Lev gave up and let a very wiggly Eden down to crawl around the nursery.

“Asmi is the god of balance,” Ash finally said. “They’re tied to the earth. Anything falls out of balance, and we’re all affected. That’s probably where the angels got nature from.”

“Makes sense why the teachers simplified it like that, I suppose,” Lev replied. “If it’s- if it’s not too much trouble, could you teach me more, whenever you get the chance?”

“Sure. Looks like I’m rooming with you for the foreseeable future anyway.”

“Thank you,” Lev said, smiling at Ash. He didn’t get one in return, but considering the amount of pain Ash had gone through in the past several months because of Lev, he didn’t blame Ash. Not one bit.

~~~

There was only so much of Nik’s day being spent in bed Lev could stand before he felt restless himself. Even taking care of Eden couldn’t shake his inherent need to be a busy body. So when it occurred to him that Nik had not yet actually celebrated his pregnancy, he decided it was high time something good be associated with Nik’s pregnancy.

After all, it was tradition.

Lev waited until Eden was down for her nap to corner Cameron and Ash in the kitchen. “I think Nik deserves a baby shower,” he said without preamble. “And I think we should throw him one.”

“Of course you do,” Cameron said, not even looking up from the meat he was searing in a skillet.

Lev looked expectantly at Ash, who just gave a shrug. “Might as well get him out of that foul mood of his.”

“He’s no reason to be happy about what’s going on,” Lev replied reasonably. When Ash narrowed his eyes at Lev, the lack of a glow to his green gaze letting Lev know he wasn’t actually able to see him right now, Lev was quick to add, “So I want to... give him some happier memories about this pregnancy. He’s so miserable right now and all he’s gotten is bad news. A party will cheer him up and maybe give him something to look forward to.”

“Are you suggesting he isn’t looking forward to the several horrendous hours of labor to push that fetus out?” Cameron asked, flicking a look Lev’s way.

Lev blinked. “Well. No, I doubt that. But. The after? Holding the baby? I don’t think he’s thought that far. He’s just stressed and worried.”

“That was sarcasm, Levant,” Ash pointed out.

“Oh.” Lev rubbed his nose. “Um. Well. I do think it’s a good idea.”

“Alright. Fine. I’m sure we can have something set up this weekend.”

“Thank you,” Lev said to Cameron, looking pleased. Up until he realized... “Who can we invite”?”

“Well, that is indeed the question, isn’t it?” Ash mused.

“Can Nate be invited?”

“I sure hope so, Nate practically raised him,” Ash said dryly.

Lev grimaced at him, knowing very well he couldn’t see it. “Yes, but- am I allowed to be there if he is?”

“I think it’ll be fine, especially if Bay is with him.”

After considering that, Lev gave a small nod. “Okay. Can I help plan for it, Cameron?”

“I suppose,” Cameron said.

Lev gave a small hum. “Ocean themed? To match the nursery?”

“Sure,” Cameron said, with the same amount of indifference as before.

This time Lev huffed at Cameron. “I’m going to go see if Mami wants to help,” he said, knowing it was a little petty.

“You do that,” Cameron said.

As Lev... well, even he could admit he was flouncing off a bit, Ash followed. Lev took that as a silent agreement to actually participate in the planning.

---

Darius found himself in Cyrus’ office with a mug of tea in front of him and Cyrus across from him with his own coffee. Even if Darius couldn’t drink the tea, he did appreciate the gesture. It would be nice to be able to drink tea once more.

“Why Cameron?” Cyrus asked, not in an accusatory way, but genuine curiosity.

“Why not Cameron?” Darius asked, splaying his brown fingers along the desk.

Cyrus gave a shrug as he continued to flip through his notes, coffee seemingly forgotten. “He’s not exactly the sort most people seem to be attached to. Outside yourself, Nikolas, and Levant, of course. Most others seem frightened more than anything.”

“I don’t see why,” Darius said. “Cameron’s never been frightening to me.”

“Perhaps it's the amount of people he’s tortured and killed,” Cyrus pointed out mildly. He looked up briefly. “I mean no offense, I simply want to understand.”

Darius thought on that, and he thought on the boy he had known when he was alive. And he thought on the hell that was unleashed upon Cameron once it was found that Darius had died at Cameron’s own hand. And then he said, “Perhaps. Though, I do not judge a person by their occupation. One could say Sorin has killed his own fair share of people, no?”

Cyrus looked over at Sorin, who was curled up as a cat on a pile of papers, orange tail twitching against his white flank as he dozed. “He did,” Cyrus agreed. “And he retired. But you made your point. I see where you’re coming from.” He looked back to Darius. “The war made a monster out of many people. But something tells me the war is not what happened to Cameron.”

“Just a different kind of war,” Darius sighed. He traced along one of his rings. “Have you come up with a solution that would not let Cameron die in the process?” Even if Darius was quite sure Cameron wouldn’t blink at the idea of giving his own life to right this particular wrong- even when the last five hundred years had Cameron’s story of survival written in betrayal and blood.

“I considered just... any life. But- that doesn’t seem a fair trade,” Cyrus sighed, running his own ringed fingers over his face. “I’m not willing to attempt the spell without certainty. The cost of failure is too high, and it’s your only chance.”

“Of course,” Darius said. “I do not take any of this lightly. I am very grateful to you, Cyrus.”

Cyrus gave a small smile, though his face was tired. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “Not until after I guarantee this will work.” He propped his chin in his hand. “It’s starting to look like there’s no way for me to be sure what is an acceptable trade, unless I speak with Nature themself.” Cyrus paused. “Which would be difficult, because I’ve never tried to form any sort of connection with Nature before. I didn’t get the education most witches do from their covens, and I was learning so much about the practical side that it slipped my mind.”

“Well,” Darius said, “I am sure there is no time like the present to get acquainted with your god.” Something Cameron, too, was unable to do. “Asmi seems… sturdy.”

Cyrus hummed. “Sturdy. Concrete. Something like that. I think.” He tapped his cheek. “I have no idea how to go about it, though.”

“I could reach out,” Darius offered. “Seeing as how I’m in the same realm as they are. And there’s less risk to you if I were to approach them first.”

Cyrus considered that. “That would... be very helpful, actually,” he mused. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Though perhaps after I take a nap.”

Tagging: @incandescent-creativity @solangelo3088 @lil-miss-red @halstudies @littleyellowdinosaur @caelisis @idreamonpaper

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #wip boost #hell to pay #original writing #ch: cameron #ch: darius #ch: nik #ch: biela

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snarkymonkeyprime · 3 years

Text

Xerynn doesn’t care for Jac’s inability to understand his place in the world.

Also, this was a prompt of “jealousy” from @magic-ramen after she’d had a shitty day (sorry it took so long, babe!) <3<3<3

Any other day, Xerynn likely would have ignored the news report. Besides, it was information he’d already been well aware of. He’d known the moment Lillian had died. And how. That her death was reported, however, was more of consequence.

Xerynn never did concern himself with being known. Given the fragile nature of mortals, they tended to make their own conclusions regarding why a defense attorney from Portland also appeared to be criminally connected and eerily similar to supposed paternal relations. However, that did not mean he enjoyed the attention. It was nothing to sway the minds of police but given the option, he would much rather not have to expend the energy to do so.

He scowled at the article on his laptop. And when that attention came from tools better used in other situations, he grew doubly irritated.

He tapped a button under his desk.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Lusk,” he began, “do contact Mr. Sayer and inform him he’s required at my office. Sooner rather than later,” he finished.

“Certainly, Mr. Warrgott.”

He sat back, tapping his index fingers against his lips. He would never have this kind of complication with Natalie. Nor Kai, bizarre as that was to admit. His brow furrowed. For as much of a mouth as that man had on him, he held enough sense to know not to cross Xerynn in a way that created impact. It was abundantly clear, however, that his latest acquisition had not yet come to that realization.

He lifted his chin, glancing toward the ornate doors of his office. Across Portland, he could sense Jac’s intention towards his office, proving that Natalie was once again prompt. The emotions there were the same as he’d felt the first day he’d noted the assassin; arrogance, confidence, desire, violence.

Initially, he’d found it amusing that Jac still wore the veil and refused to see Xerynn’s godhood. The idea that someone as steeped in blood and violence, who’s inclination rarely wavered from sadism, could refuse to believe in old, primal gods was charming in its way.

Now it was frustrating.

Less than half an hour later, Jac sauntered into his office, unbuttoning his peacoat as he moved. “You rang?”

“Sit.”

Jac paused, one eyebrow lifted. He smirked as he slipped out of his coat, turning to hang it on the coatrack near the door. “Uh, oh; someone’s in trouble,” he teased.

Not rising to the comment, he turned his laptop, aiming the article at Jac. “It appears that Ms. Rogers met with an accident last night.”

Jac didn’t look at the article, only kept his gaze with Xerynn’s, grinning all the while. “Aw, what a shame. She seemed awfully friendly with you the night before. My condolences.”

The laptop shut with a thud. “I do recall you seemed quite focused on her as well that night. Perhaps I should be extending the same,” he drawled. He steepled his fingers. “Shame indeed; she was quite useful.”

“Was she?” Jac shrugged. “She was a pop culture blogger; she was probably at the gala because she’d shagged someone more important.”

Xerynn smiled then, the air around them growing still as his power curled along the windows and the shuttered door. “That so?” He pushed back, rising. Jac’s eyes stayed on him but the smile had faded. Xerynn smoothed his suit coat and slowly moved out from behind his desk. He stopped within arm’s length of Jac, hands folded neatly before him. “Jac.” His power shifted, surging through the room, lights flickering around them. “Jac, Jac, Jac,” he chided.

The assassin’s brow furrowed but he stayed quiet.

Xerynn stepped close and lifted Jac’s chin. “I’d suggest marking your territory elsewhere in the future. Dare to piss on my property again and you’ll lack the ability to do so.” He let go and lifted his brows, the lamp behind him popping, the expensive porcelain shattering and tumbling to the floor. “Have we an accord?”

Jac craned around Xerynn, frowning at the broken lamp. “Guess they don’t make them like they used to, hm?”

Oh, I see. You believe you still retain control. Xerynn grinned then, lips drawing back, teeth bared. Before him, Jac tensed as he shifted back.

“If I deign to employ another, you will accept that.” His grin grew, reshaping his jaw as it widened. “If, by chance, you decide your opinion matters more?” He leaned down, teeth splitting from his jaw, razor-sharp and brilliant. His voice boomed through the room, pictures rattling against the wall, glass trophies sending shards tumbling to the floor.

“I’d advise you to retain said opinions unless I require them.” He read confusion in Jac’s eyes as the man obviously struggled to reconcile with Xerynn’s horrific appearance.

“She . . . was useless,” he managed, voice rough.

“Do recall that I required her there.” The skin around his jaw split farther, bone elongating, the rage of war twisting his visage into that of a charred dragon. Darkness crowded around them as he pulled Jac into his realm, drawing him into that same darkness he appeared to crave so much. “You insult me with your petty actions,” he stated, words hissing out with strings of fire and smoke.

Again, he read the discomfiture in Jac’s mortal eyes. The man wanted so badly to believe he retained all control. That he alone directed his life and path. That life and death were so neat and tidy in his blood-soaked world.

Xerynn laughed then, the sound a clash of stone and steel. “You are more the fool, Jac Sayer,” he warned. “Understand that I alone now own your soul. That I decide when you will move. When you will speak.” He leaned close, those hazel eyes muddy with desperate turmoil. “You are a tool, Mr. Sayer. You will stay sheathed until I decide.”

With a snap, the light returned and they were once more standing in his office, pictures hanging neatly, trophies gleaming under bright lights.

Jac blinked, frowning as he tried not to glance around. But even so, Xerynn heard his rapid heart. The swirl of thoughts as he tried to rationalize what he’d experienced.

Shame. You would be so much more useful without the veil. A failing, certainly. One that Xerynn hoped would correct itself sooner, rather than later. He could force the tearing of the veil but unfortunately, it often left mortals more useless given it tended to overwhelm their fragile minds. Jac’s was already poisoned enough of its own; no need to encourage further degradation.

He shifted in his chair, clearing his throat as he smoothed his shirt sleeves. “So. Done with my punishment?” he rasped.

Xerynn’s eyes narrowed. Still so haughty. Had it been Kai, he would have left it there and ordered him out. For all his insolence, Kai was by far the most accomplished Servitor he’d retained. He allowed the man a long lead. Jac, however, clearly needed more restraint.

“If I find that you have allowed your baser thoughts to interfere with my business again, our working relationship will be severed.”

Jac laughed then. “Oh, please. You’d never find anyone half as good as me.” He preened and winked at Xerynn. “I’m one-of-a-kind.”

Mortals and their egos. So trying. Xerynn didn’t rise to the comment. He watched as Jac removed a gun from a well-used under-arm holster, checking the clip and letting it hang loose from his hand. He tilted his head at the action. “Is that meant to frighten me?”

Jac’s amusement tempered, his mouth struggling to hold his cocky grin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he purred, lifting the gun slightly.

Xerynn’s hand snapped out, grabbing Jac’s wrist and yanking the man to his feet, the gun falling with a thud to the floor in the process. “You think yourself untouchable?” he mused.

The assassin swallowed but continued his attempt of controlling the situation. “You wouldn’t have employed me otherwise,” he pointed out.

Xerynn tutted sharply. “You, my boy, are not the marvel you consider yourself.” He began to walk, pushing Jac back, the man struggling to keep his feet as Xerynn clasped his wrist. The bones beneath his fingers creaked and he knew, with a single additional squeeze, he could shatter that fragile framework. He could rid himself of Jac in a moment, reduce him to nothing but skin and organs.

But the man was useful. He was violent and effective. And there was no doubt the man was pleasurable to use. Recalling that, he shifted his grip to Jac’s neck as he slammed him into the door to his office. The sudden boom would likely require an apology gift for Ms. Lusk. A small matter.

He leaned in, whispering low, Jac’s pulse rapid and hot under his fingers. “You are unique, Mr. Sayer,” he began. “But there will always be another: stronger, faster, far more obedient.” He tightened his fingers, the air bubbling under his grip. “Do not encourage me to locate them.”

Xerynn straightened, careful to retain his grip on Jac’s throat. He recognized swirls of anger and arousal in the deep hazel. He smirked then, amused again that even near death, the man’s mind remained on its singular track.

Even as he struggled to remain conscious, Jac lifted his chin, smug as ever. “If you tried to get rid of me,” he forced out, “I’d only kill the idiot you wasted time on.”

It was almost amusing, in truth. That Jac thought himself so highly prized. Xerynn certainly hadn’t dissuaded him from the idea in the beginning; after all, he needed a confident assassin in his employ. To do otherwise would be asking to be questioned by authorities at every turn. But now it grew tiresome. Mortals and their afflictions had long been a bore for Xerynn. And he certainly didn’t need to deal with the jealous moods of a killer.

Xerynn didn’t smile. “And who is to say you would even be alive to attempt it?”

For the first time, he saw the assassin’s confidence slip. A shadow of uncertainty across his face. Enough to know the words hit home.

“Tell me, Jac,” Xerynn hissed, feeding his power outward. “What is it that you see?” He tightened his fingers around Jac’s throat, knowing he could crush the man in a breath if he wished. It would be simpler, to be fair. Jac was rapidly proving to be more trouble than he was worth. Yet, it was rare for Xerynn to find such an exquisite weapon amongst the mortals. He loathed washing his hands of such a find so quickly.

Jac’s swallow moved rigidly past his fingers. “A reliable client.” The words were barely there but Xerynn heard them all the same.

“Client.” Xerynn grinned. He caught a thread of doubt in Jac’s eyes, his power once more manifesting in that moment. His fingers brightened, gleaming like steel. Threads of crimson began to bead along Jac’s neck, dripping along paling skin.

“Oh, my dear boy,” he breathed, “I am so much more.” Skin split further under his bladed fingers, runnels of fluid warm and sticky against them. “I am what you crave. Without me, you are nothing.” He leaned in, licking Jac’s ear, catching the strain of his heart and air. “Were I to be undone, your very existence would lack purpose.” He pitched his voice lower. “Do not believe you know what I require. You will never kill without my direction. Do so again, and yours will be the last blood you feel through your fingers.”

The beat of the heart under his fingers slowed, growing sluggish. The blood was thicker now, leaving the man’s crisp, white shirt sodden and dark. He let go then, snapping his fingers.

Jac’s neck was whole again, his shirt unmarred. The assassin grabbed for his throat, eyes wide. He stared at Xerynn, once more struggling to understand.

Xerynn raised an eyebrow. “Have we an accord?” he asked again, voice low and cold.

The man swallowed and straightened, holding Xerynn’s gaze. “Understood,” he remarked, the arrogance long gone from his voice. He tugged on the collar of his shirt, a fine tremor on his fingers. “Anything more, Mr. Warrgott?”

Xerynn smirked then. He reached out and stroked Jac’s cheek, cupping his chin. “I have no targets for you as of now.” He swiped the warm, lower lip with his thumb. “Be at my home in one hour; I have a better use for you tonight.”

The cocky light returned and Jac opened his mouth, sucking Xerynn’s thumb in. “Of course, Mr. Warrgott,” he purred. “I’m at your disposal.”

“You would do well to remember that, Mr. Sayer.”

#hhnf #xerynn warrgott #jac priddy sayer #blood #violence #body horror

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katsukikitten · 4 years

Text

Pizza Night

A/N since 1am is an appropriate time to post. Here have some smut

You kick your heels off the second you get in the door, setting down your work laptop and keys onto the entry table with an angry sigh.

As you make your way further into your house you shed of your stuffy suit jacket before taking off your bra without taking off your shirt with a grace only a woman knows.

"Much better." You hum, tossing it onto the back of the couch. Turning on some soothing music before opening the fridge, spying the chicken quickly. You had promised to make dinner tonight before your man got home.

See cooking wasn't your best skill BUT you always kept your word.

Plus you'd been practicing, trying so hard to hone your skill because your boyfriend always cooked depsite his 12 hour shifts. Even making you meals ahead of time durning his 24 hour shifts. Paired with a sticky note of his angry writing telling you EXACTLY how to heat it best.

Guilt ate you alive although he told you countless times he *enjoyed* cooking for you, *loved* it really. So you took to your phone, scrolled through endless recipes on pinterest before you found the perfect one.

You had only made it once before using Kirishima as a Guinea pig. He had enjoyed it, although it was burnt. He walked you through how to cook it another two times before you finally could make it on your own.

It all started out normally but of course since you were making it for your favorite hot head things were starting to go astray.

Your pan was hot, butter melted like Kirishima had showed you but for whatever reason today some of the meat was not sitting in the pan correctly, charring the middle as the ends became neglected.

You lunged for your phone in a panic, video calling the only man who could help your right now. He picks up on the third ring with a yawn

"Eji! Help!" You cry, "Bakugou will be home soon!"

Time is lost to you as Kirishima instructs you to start over, music still softly playing in the living room but loud enough you do not hear the front door open and close.

Bakugou enters with a grunt, pushing off his combat boots toe to heel. Eager to get out of his hero suit, shower, feed you and maybe fuck.

His eyes spy your work jacket before they roll heavily. He takes the black garment with angry hands as he hangs it onto the coat rack behind the door.

He goes to shout at you for always leaving your jacket on the damned couch before he hears the low tones of a man's voice coming from the kitchen. The ash blonde freezes in place, rigid as he strains to listen.

He steps closer to the kitchen, not daring to turn down the mood music that floats out of the speaker.

"Kirishima I'm so nervous. Nnnngggnnn." He hears your whining better now that he's closer. Whining that sounds too close to when you're over stimulated, cheeks flushed with arousal. He narrows his eyes, telling himself that maybe it's a phone call. Maybe it's a mistake, until he spies one of his favorite work bras you have. A lacy nude thing that he's gotten in plenty of break time bathroom selfies via text just to tease him.

"Ah Kirishima it won't fit!" Another whine.

"Calm down, it'll fit. Just relax and readjust." Kirishima's voice soothes, causing Bakugou to see red as another sinful whine floats down the hall. He rushes into the kitchen, not even bothering to take off his gauntlets as he is hoping to catch you two in the act.

Or at least the act he thinks the two of you are in.

Deep down he is hurt, heartbroken over the fact that you've been sleeping around.

And with his best friend worst yet.

Or at least now his ex best friend.

"IMMA FUCKING KILL YOU KIRISHIMA EIJIROU!" He rounds the corner with popping hands, thinking better than to fill his gauntlets to unleash. Eyes looking for that damned red head.

But instead they fall on you, as you're the only body standing in the kitchen, hand clutched to your heart. It is then that scarlet eyes discover your phone. Propped up facing towards you and the now half burning half raw meal as Kirishima blinks on the glass with wide eyes.

"Baby...?" You ask softly as he huffs, eyes darting around the room before he lunges towards the phone.

"She'll call you back later." He snarls, tapping the glass trying his hardest not to break the screen. He drops his bulky gauntlets, tossing them onto the dining room table.

"Bakugou what are you....?" But he doesn't let you finish, pushing you into the counter, slamming both hands down to trap you.

Silence settles over the two of you as he stares angrily into your eyes.

"Bakugou?" You prompt softly for his hands to find your hips and squeeze until it hurts. You half wonder if there will be bruises by the time he is done.

"I seriously fucking thought I was going to walk in here and see you in a compromising position, *whining* like a brat to another man." He growls darkly leaning closer to your face.

"Suki...." You see the anger smolder in his eyes but you cannot help yourself, "What kind of compromising position?"

His eyes flash a dangerous warning that quickly becomes a promising threat as he turns you around, pushing you harshly onto the counter. One hand is holding you down by the nape of your neck while the other grips tightly onto your hips. He bucks into you causing the edge of the counter to bite into your belly as you try to keep the moan from your mouth.

"Like that little brat." He snarls harshly in your ear, when he sees your cheeks heat he nibbles on your ear, "I see you like it when I'm jealous huh?"

You don't answer although the truth is yes, just a little.

"Do you think Kirishima would pin you like this brat?" He grips tightly on the column of your neck, you feel him harden against your ass as he dominates you.

But often times one does not realize that it is the sub who controls the dom through strategic reactions. A devilsih smirk dances across your lips as you answer faster than you can talk yourself out of it.

"Yes, sir I think he would." Bakugou stills behind you, he knows bait when its presented.

What he should do is press his cock against you a final time and deny you both cumming and the ability to give him pleasure as his little fucking brat.

He decides in a fraction of a second that he is going to make you regret those words. His strong hand pins yours behind your back pressing you harshly into the counter as his toned arm comes into your vision grabbing a utensil from the marble holder.

Your eyes widen as he snatches the wooden spatula with three little slats that will be sure to leave odd welts. He places the handle of the spatula in his mouth as you wiggle to break free while his free hand rips away your skirt to reveal a nude laced thong that matches that abandoned bra so well.

"Oh and who did you wear these for?" He asks holding the utensil just above your ass, "Were you expecting your boss to explore?"

You don't answer, still squirming beneath his steely grip.

"Ah the cat has your tongue now huh kitten?" He brings the spatula up high just for it to kiss your ass with a ringing sound, "See I don't think Kirishima would be rough enough for you."

You let out a moany yelp before he brings the spatula back down again, your core heats as does your cheeks as you enjoy the punishment he brings.

"That's for calling another man with no bra on where he could clearly see the outline of your nipple ring." He growls, striking again and then again, "This is for using your damn breathy whine with him that you know drives me wild brat."

Then he brings it down a final time as you soak through the thin fabric, juices beginning to collect along your thick thighs.

"This is for is for the innuendos that made me think to find you like this little kitten."

You moan again, wondering how big the welts will be or if your cheeks are bruised as he tosses the improtu instrument onto the counter where you can see. The handle is charged and splintered from his grip, the sight of it makes your core clench as you think of him holding back. He smooths his heated hand over his new markings before he gives it a final smack with his bare palm.

Face leaning down low to give it the smallest kiss, his eyes catching onto your overly noticeable arousal.

"Tch. You really are a slut huh? So wet and from being *punished* too." He growls, fingers slipping past the fabric to find your swollen bud, he runs his fingers up your length before settling in on a brutal pace. Your hips buck against him, legs quivering as he begins to bring you up to the best high, your moans come out loud and breathy as he pushes you impossibly further onto the counter top, the edge pressing deeper into your solar plexus.

"So close to cumming already? We can't have that can we? Only good kittens get to cum." He slows just a tad before hearing you up again. Your moans climb higher as the coil in your stomach tightens. Just as it is about to spring he removes his hand completely as you whine in response.

"Bakugou that's..." You don't get to finish before his hand is gripping onto your hair, pulling you up quickly.

"That's not how a good kitten would address me." He growls, before his mouth finds the tender flesh on your throat. Kissing, sucking and biting every moan from you he can as you continue to grow slicker.

"Aaahh. I'm....I'm sorry, Bakugou-sama." He bites back his groan when you answer. His mind flashing back to you in a similar outfit you wore today the first time he met you.

A tight skirt and blouse, a tailored jacket but you must have worn only a bralette that day because all he could see was the outline of your right nipple ring. Winking at him, teasing him from the beginning hinting at the brat that you are. He thought of many dirty things he wanted to do to you.

He never thought they would actually happen, let alone you actually love him.

He slips his hand to give that nipple ring a tug to which you moan before he steps back, removing his hands from your wrists.

"Hands on the counter." He snarls as he takes you in, purplish welts bloom on your ass, making you that much more alluring. Instead of listening what do you do?

You try to pretend that you are in charge, getting up and turning to face him. The glare he serves you is hotter than any fire as he looks down at you, lip pulled slightly away from teeth. You look away as you speak.

"I don't think you're being fair denying me my..." Is all you get out before you catch his eyes again. You gulp as his gaze is now too intense, too heated and dominate to oppose. Suddenly the floor is much more interesting than your boyfriend. A deadly hand grabs onto your chin, he tilts you this way and that trying to catch your eye. Finally you glance at his face before looking away once more.

"I thought you were braver than that little kitten. But you can't even look me in the eye." He moves his hand to your throat as your knees weaken, "Pathetic."

All you can see is his smile as he squeezes, careful to avoid your larynx before he sends you into dizzying sub space. It washes over your body slowly, as if dipping yourself underwater. Your eyes flutter, body relaxes into his touch as many emotions flood your system at once while you engage fight or flight.

Your breathing is short and ragged before he let's go tilting your chin upwards to face him. He looks you over, assessing to make sure he does not need to stop this sudden session he has initiated. When you blink slowly up at him he continues his ravishing. Grip tightening as he leans in, lips hovering over yours before they are devoured.

Harsh kisses, tongues fighting as you gasp for air during it all. Happily giving in to his will before his mouth is at your ear.

"Now be a good kitten and do what you are told. Turn around and place your hands on the counter." You do as you're told, even wiggling your ass as some of your brat swims to the surface. Only to be swatted down by a sharp slap to your ass.

You hear the glorious sound of his belt coming undone before his hardened member is resting on your clit. Try to move for friction only for your hips to be crushed by strong hands. After a moment too long he runs himself up and down you. Before resting at your entrance.

"Please Bakugou-sama. Please." You whine, aching need driving you wild as you wait for him to plunge hilt deep. He slams himself into you and you whimper more than eager for the fucking that is to come.

But he hardly moves, smiling down at you as you look over his shoulder expectant. Bakugou knows he can wait you out. He knows in no time you'll be a needy mess, asking for pleasure. Telling him who owns you all without his asking.

Moments pass as he remains unmoving depsite your whining, clenching and even sad attempts at bucking. His smile becomes deadly as he pulls his final trick to send you buck wild. He twitches his dick and watches you unfold.

Trying so hard to fuck yourself on his dick as he holds your hips, only allowing you to get maybe a half an inch's movement before you slam your hands onto the counter in a huff.

"Sama. I'm going to get real bratty soon!" You voice raises an octive only for him to twitch again, "Please Kirishima wouldn't do this."

He slams your face down into the counter as he leans over you.

"What exactly wouldn't he do kitten?" His voice is dark and deadly, you need to be careful with your answer. You've pissed him off and pushed him too much to where he's left a session before. Leaving you high and dry.

Sure you could make yourself cum fast and hard but there was nothing compared to the edging Bakugou could do.

Plus it's always a harder cum with him.

"He would never be able to fuck me this good. Sama. Or have me beg like you can Sama." You cry out, still aching for the friction. He must not be satisfied with your answer as he keeps his hand on your neck.

"Maybe you should call him right now since the two of you are such good friends."

"But...you're..."

"I'm what? I'm using you to warm my cock. Call him, if you can manage to keep a normal conversation for three minutes while I'm in you then I'll forgive your disobedience and allow you to cum." He passes you your phone, unlocking it to dial Kirishima's number. He waits for you to hit the little green reciever.

"Better hit it before I do or I'll make you tell him who you belong too." He snarls as you fumble with your phone. You go to place it to your ear only for Bakugou to grab onto it. Placing the call on speaker while setting the phone close to you.

"Y/N? Are you and Bakugou okay?" His voice is laced with worry, you go to open your mouth only for Bakugou to pull all the way out just to slam into you again. You scrape the wood on the counter top to keep from crying out.

"Y..yes Kirishima. It was just a misunderstanding." Your respond as Bakugou slams into you again. Causing your eyes to flutter and making you miss everything Kirishima said.

Bakugou cocks his eyebrow awaiting your rebutle before you croak out.

"I'm sorry Eji-san. Can you repeat that my reception kinda sucks."

"I was just asking how dinner turned out but now I'm wondering if there is even a kitchen still standing." He laughs as you look over the burnt meal.

Bakugou ruts into you now with a steady pace. Sure to keep it slow enough that skin would not slap too loudly. You're beginning to lose the ability to think rationally as his fingers tease your needy bud.

"Ah well I'm.." You pause, swallowing a moan whole, "I'm surprised it's still standing too."

The conversation bounces back and forth as you struggle to keep quiet. You watch the timer as it steadily climbs closer to that beloved three minute mark before Bakugou finally gives you some mercy.

"Y/N, get off the phone. We still have to figure out dinner no thanks to you Shitty hair."

"Hey man I was just trying to help." He laughs, "Pizza is always a good alternative! Bye Y/N and Bakugou it was just a miss understanding. Bye friends!"

You barely have time to end the call before Bakugou is now mercilessly pounding into you, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in the small kitchen melding in nicely with the sounds of your moans and his groans.

He pulls on your hair as he hits into you just right, the coil in your stomach returns as you think of him fucking you during your phone call, of his hands around your throat and the thought of him filling you up has you starting to see stars.

"S...sa...sama." You can barely speak with how nicely he is pounding into you, "I was good right?"

"Are you asking to cum?" He snarls, thrusts beginning to turn sloppy as he pulls on your hair. You nod slightly to which he delights, "You may come but you better scream who you belong to."

He increases the intensity and pace to help send you over the edge. You're screaming as he fucks into you, clenching around him as he sends you into yet another back to back.

All the while your voice goes horse with his name stumbling from your lips.

After your third crescendo he finally allows himself release, more sloppy thrusts as you mewl and moan beneath him. His eyes linger to your perfectly bruised ass, all the way up to your flushed cheeks before he begins to spill his seed within you, burying himself deep within you as he does.

The two of you pant for a moment before he flips you over to plant a searing kiss onto your lips.

"You're okay my kitten?" He asks tenderly as you nod. He notices the abandoned monstrosity that you called dinner, "You tried cooking for me?"

You want to burst into tears over your failure but instead you cling to him for comfort as you again nod softly. He laughs before planting a kiss onto your forehead.

"Thank you baby. It's the thought that counts. But if you have to rely on someone else to help rely on me since I'm the best damn cook there is." He teases wrapping strong arms around you, "Now let's order pizza like shitty hair said. Maybe if you're good I'll make you dessert after."

#bakugo smut #bakugou smut #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x fem reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha fanfiction #bnha fic #bnha smut

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myheartrevealedocs · 3 years

Text

Untouchable Ch 21: Elephant’s Memory (S3E16)

Warnings: murder, mentions of terrorism, mentions of drugs and addiction

Ch 20 | Ch 22

~ ~ ~

“I’m proud of you,” Spencer said, speaking up for the first time on their drive.

“You’re proud of me?” she asked, startled.

“Yes,” he argued. “Look at you! You’ve got a car now. Twenty-four years old, teaching two college classes and working for the FBI.”

“I’m more proud of you!” she shot back. “A full year sober! I can’t imagine how difficult it has been for you.”

“Thank you for coming with me.” Spencer sunk slightly in the passenger seat.

After the death of Ryan Phillips in front of the two of them, Spencer had been struggling with his cravings again. He hadn’t relapsed, of course, but he was plagued by nightmares and a lack of motivation. When he admitted this to Lydia, she’d suggested he look up some support meetings nearby. Tonight was going to be his first time attending the Beltway Clean Cops group.

“I’m more than happy to come along!”

The two of them sat in the back of the room, listening calmly to different people talk about their situations. Spencer had just gotten the courage to take the stage when Lydia got a text from Hotch.

Briefing in 30. Can’t get ahold of Reid. Please tell him.

Lydia dropped her head into her hands. Could it not wait just a few more moments? He had barely started speaking aloud and Lydia could see him trying to ignore the buzzing phone in his pocket.

“Hi. Uh… My name’s, uh, Spencer, and I’m uh… I don’t really know what I am.”

“Hello Spencer,” the crowd greeted.

“This is my- This is my first meeting,” he sputtered, his eyes locking with Lydia’s every few seconds. “I guess I, uh… I know I had a… a problem with Dilaudid, but… I stopped. My girlfriend helped me to stop about a year ago. I thought it was over, but recently I’ve really been… your literature uses the term ‘craving’. It started about a month ago. A- A suspect was murdered in front of me. A kid. And I thought that I could save that kid, but I couldn’t, and… Sorry.” He pulled out his phone, rejecting another call from their boss. “I’ve seen a lot of that stuff before, but for some reason that kid’s face is really, uh… stuck in my brain. You know? It’s really- I can’t… And I want to forget… about him. And I just want to escape.”

Once again, he pulled his phone from his pocket and stepped away from the microphone, mumbling his apologies. Lydia got up and ran around to the side door to follow him out.

“I’m sorry,” she said as they met up and started walking to the car. “I didn’t want to interrupt you-”

“It’s fine,” he breezed. “Let’s just… get this over with.”

~ ~ ~

“Sorry we’re late,” Spencer announced as he and Lydia jogged into the conference room..

“Do I want to know what you two were up to?” Morgan teased.

Lydia was quick to cover Spencer’s secret for him. “You sound as if going to the movies is scandalous.”

“Movies, hm?” Rossi joined. “Tell us what the movie was about.”

“Wouldn’t know. We didn’t get to finish it.”

Both boys gave the couple a look. Spencer started to shrink in his seat, but Lydia kept up her stance, not wanting them to push for anymore answers.

“I know it’s late,” Hotch interrupted. “I know we’re tired, but we’ve got two dead cops.”

“Alright.” JJ opened up the file in front of her and continued briefing the team, pointing to what looked to be a massive house fire displayed on the scene. “The resident, Rod Norris, was DOA. They’re still trying to ID the remains of the second victim, whom they believe is his 16-year-old daughter Jordan. From the condition of the remains, she would have had to have been inside the house, close to the source of the blast.”

“Clearly they used the bombing to set the officers up for an ambush,” Emily noted.

Spencer nodded. “It’s a well-established terrorist tactic. The first wave takes out civilians, the second wave takes out first responders.”

“The locals are thinking terrorism?” Morgan asked. “In West Bune, Texas?”

JJ nodded. “Not exactly a tier-one target, but DHS did issue a terror alert for the border states yesterday, just due to the timing and nature of the attacks.”

As the team argued about the chances of this being an actual terrorist attack, Lydia looked over her file. An explosive went off in Rod Norris’s house, and when two cops arrived on the scene, they were shot. Hotch probably wanted her working on identifying the explosive and seeing if there is any evidence to recover from the house.

Simple enough.

~ ~ ~

“The blast was localized here,” Lydia announced as she walked onto the scene. “The room was sealed off. There’s plastic and duct tape on the doors and windows.”

“Cordite,” Rossi added as he smelled something on the ground. “Gunpowder.”

Reid was looking through his file. “Yeah. They found a dozen canisters, it says.”

Rossi and Prentiss put their heads together, determining where Jordan and Rod were standing when the explosion happened. Lydia ran her fingers over the door frames. Whoever set this up wouldn’t need to clean up their evidence. There was no way she could recover anything out of the pile of ashes that used to be the Norris house.

“They didn’t care about the rest of the house,” Spencer said, more to Lydia than the others. “The whole thing’s designed to focus the blast on whoever came through that door.”

“If that’s true, something had to trigger the blast,” she reasoned.

Emily held up a charred box of cigarettes. “Rod Norris was a smoker.”

Lydia glanced at the floor where all the gunpowder had been set. Drop a hot cigarette on that? Kaboom.

“I’ve been working with you profilers long enough to know that no terrorist is going to watch Rod Norris long enough to know that he was going to enter through this door and be smoking a cigarette at a specific time,” Lydia replied. “This is too personal.”

~ ~ ~

The more they learned, the more the case reeked of personal problems.

Their unsub was a boy named Owen Savage. His father was one of the responding officers on the Norris scene. He’d staged the explosion to kill Jordan Norris’s dad and look like Jordan had died too. Then, when his father showed up, he shot him and his partner. They were pretty sure that Jordan wasn’t a part of the murders and was either a hostage or was completely unaware of the situation. She had been dating Owen for a long time, so it was likely she had agreed to leave with him, without checking in with her father.

Lydia had been talking with Garcia about the teens’ families when she saw Spencer storm away out of the corner of her eye. He had just… left.

Finishing up her conversation, she ran over to Hotch.

“Did you send Spencer away?”

“Have you seen how he’s been acting?” Hotch snapped.

She wasn’t surprised to hear that Spencer was moody. Leaving that meeting so suddenly was hard for him and he was still dealing with Ryan Phillips’s death. Working on another teen-involved case was probably not helping.

“Lydia, you two promised-”

“This isn’t a relationship thing!” she defended before he could say anything else. “He’s dealing with something else. The only reason I’m involved is because he told me about it. Please just…”

“Talk to him,” Hotch ordered. “His passive aggressive attitude is going to get him into trouble. The town’s already pissed we’re here.”

Lydia nodded, switching topics. “I heard that Officer Lett’s wife freaked out on you guys earlier. I’m sorry.”

“The police are under a lot of pressure to find who did this. They don’t need some angsty teen from the FBI telling them they’re stupid as well.”

She blinked. “He called someone stupid?”

“Talk to him,” Hotch repeated, ignoring her question.

“Yes, sir.”

~ ~ ~

“Has she calmed yet?” Lydia asked Emily.

They had been able to get in contact with Jordan Norris and tell her about what Owen had done, convincing her to run away from him and join them in the station, but she still didn’t fully trust them. It’d taken much persuasion and a lot of promises not to hurt Owen for her to give up where he was hiding. And now she was sobbing, half in fear, half in shame, in one of the private rooms in the station.

“No,” Emily replied, bluntly, on her way to get the girl another cup of water. “Did you hear from Hotch?”

Lydia nodded. “Owen wasn’t at the ranch. He left a note, I guess, about returning his mother’s necklace.”

Emily simply shrugged. “He can’t have gotten far. I’m sure the rest of the team will find him.”

She walked back to the grieving girl, who JJ was currently comforting, leaving Lydia alone in the bullpen of the station. That is, until Spencer came rushing in, brushing past her to get to their evidence boards.

“Spencer?” she called, already on his heels. “Why are you back?”

“They think he’s going to his mother’s grave,” he breathed, yanking a photo from the board and then looking around for Jordan.

“Isn’t he?” she demanded, seeing that the picture he had grabbed was the photo of Owen’s mother that he kept on his laptop. She was smiling, pointing to her necklace, which said ‘Hope’.

Hotch had assumed by Owen’s note that Owen was taking that necklace to his mother’s grave, as a way of ‘giving it back’ to her. But when Spencer interrupted Jordan and JJ’s conversation, throwing the photo in the young girl’s face, Lydia understood what he was thinking.

“He was gone when we got to the ranch. I want to save his life, but I need to ask you a question. This necklace-- he gave it to you?”

He spoke so fast, it was hard to differentiate between sentences, but Jordan took a second to process what he had said, then nodded. “I left it at the ranch.”

“He’s coming here,” Spencer said, already on his way out of the station.

Lydia jumped in front of him, already holding up a hand to stop him. “He’s going to do everything he can to get to Jordan.”

“I can’t let him do this, Lydia,” he hissed, trying to push past her. “It’s a suicide mission. I won’t let him die.”

“I know this is hard for you,” she told him, still maintaining eye contact to keep him in place. “But I can’t let you do this alone. Tell me the plan, and we walk out together.”

He glanced at the door, clearly anxious to leave before Owen got there. But his eyes were somewhat relieved to tell her what he was going to do. “Leave your gun. He wants to go down shooting. If we don’t have weapons, he has no reason to kill us. The only thing he wants more than death, is to apologize to Jordan so… I have to make it clear that that’s still an option.”

Lydia was already pulling her gun from its holster, setting it down on the desk beside her. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He nodded, sternly, and unarmed, the two of them walked out of the station, side by side.

The sun was unbearable outside. The two of them could barely see Owen’s dark figure approaching down the block, but the shotgun across his chest was hard to miss. Lydia’s hands were already up, her palms facing outwards. Spencer followed suit as the boy saw them approaching and aimed his weapon in their direction.

“Reid!” Prentiss screamed, leaving the station just in time to watch them walk into danger. “Ambers!”

The two of them ignored her, Spencer stepping forward to speak. “Owen, we don’t have guns on us. My name is Spencer, this is Lydia, we’re with the FBI, and we’re here to help you.”

“Yeah?” he cried. “I need you to stay back.”

There were tires squealing behind them and Lydia finally glanced behind her to see a black SUV with Rossi, Morgan, and Hotch inside pull up behind them. As Spencer continued, they threw open the doors and positioned themselves behind them, guns at the ready.

“I know the only reason you joined the wrestling team was for your father. I know that he blamed you for what happened-”

“Stay back! Right where you are!”

“-I also know the only reason you killed Rod Norris and Kyle Borden was to protect Jordan. I know the harder you tried, the worse it got, and it felt like everyone just stood there watching you suffer, and not a single person even tried to help.”

“They didn’t,” Owen sobbed. “They didn’t.”

“I know you want to escape… and forget. Believe me when I say I know… I know exactly how that feels.”

Lydia, listened to him speak. This case with Owen was really hard for him. She knew that he was dealing with cravings, but the way he spoke to Owen made her think it was something more. She’d never imagined that highschool was easy for Spencer. He was only 12 at the time. But there was clearly something specific on his mind.

Lydia kept glancing back so that she could position herself between Owen and the rest of the team. Hotch was going to kill her later. She was certain of it. But she was convinced that they were more likely to shoot Owen than Owen was likely to shoot her or Spencer. And for Spencer’s sake, she’d do anything to keep Owen from dying.

“Owen, there’s so much more for you out there,” Lydia finally spoke up.

“No. No, I’m already dead.”

“You aren’t dead,” she promised. “If you die, you’re going to leave Jordan. And right now, she’s in the station begging us not to hurt you.”

“You don’t want to leave her like your mother left you,” Spencer agreed.

“Ok.” Owen’s head shook wildly, trying to keep the upper hand on the situation. “Bring her to me. Bring her outside.”

“I can’t bring her outside,” Spencer quickly told him. “But, if you put the gun down, I swear to god, I’ll take you to her. I promise, nobody will hurt you. You’ll say goodbye to her, and you’ll give her the necklace. Alright? So what do you say? Let’s put the gun down. Let’s go inside.”

Lydia could see the battle in Owen’s mind, so she added, “Owen, Jordan loves you so much. If not for your sake, come in peacefully for hers. She’s been through so much, don’t let her live with this on her conscience as well.”

Finally, he nodded, reaching underneath his overcoat and taking the strap of the shotgun off his shoulder. Pointing it away, he stepped forward and put the weapon softly on the ground.

Now that he was unarmed, Lydia stepped to the side and let the team see Owen, his arms already above his head.

“They have to cuff you now, Owen,” Lydia told him calmly, trying to maintain eye contact with him so he didn’t see all the FBI agents running towards him and freak out. Spencer moved the gun aside and stepped up next to her. “You did so good, Owen. I know this is scary, but just stay calm. I promise we’re taking you to Jordan right now.”

“You two okay?” Morgan asked as he grabbed Owen's arms and locked them behind his back.

Spencer nodded, patting the boy down and pulling a knife from his belt as well as his mother’s necklace. “We’re fine.”

Lydia turned and finally made eye contact with Hotch. A very, very pissed off Hotch.

~ ~ ~

The night had hit fast and the whole plane was quiet. Lydia leaned into Spencer’s shoulder, her mind drifting with everything that had happened on the case. As much as she had to be worried about, her mind kept coming back to the same point: despite how stressed he was, Spencer told her the plan. He let her come with him. And that said volumes about the trust between the two of them. She knew that. She could see it so clearly now.

The strong connection she felt to him in the moment, couldn’t even be broken when Hotch sat down across from the two of them, his face a state of unwavering seriousness.

“You two knowingly jeopardize your lives and the lives of others. I should fire you both.”

Reid bit down on his lip nervously. “You have to understand that this was entirely my idea, sir.”

“Ambers?” Hotch addressed. “Do you believe Reid deserves the blame for this?”

“No, sir.”

Despite his clear anger, Lydia knew that Hotch wasn’t going to fire them. In fact, she doubted they’d get much punishment at all. He was good at understanding the intentions of his team.

He looked at Spencer again. “You’re the smartest kid in the room, but you’re not the only one in that room. You pull something like this again, don’t expect lenience from me. The same goes for you, Lydia. Am I clear?”

Spencer nodded immediately, “Yes, sir,” with Lydia following suit.

“It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you,” Spencer added.

“What were you thinking?”

Lydia dropped her hand over her boyfriend’s and waited patiently for him to answer. She may have followed him into the line of fire, but in the end, it was his decision, which would have happened with or without her.

“I was thinking that that would have been the second time a kid died in front of me.”

“You’re keeping score.” Hotch shook his head in warning. “Just like Owen.”

“It was my turn to save one,” Spencer joked, without much of the humor.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“It should.”

Lydia listened intently to their conversation. This was obviously a talk the Spence needed to have with his boss on his own. They both needed to address the death of Ryan Phillips.

“I know it’s painful when the person you identify with is the bad guy,” Hotch told him and Spencer’s eyes fell to his intertwined fingers with Lydia.

“What does that make me?”

“Good at the job.” For the first time that night, there seemed to be a hint of a smile on his face.

Lydia leaned back onto her boyfriend’s shoulder as the unit chief stood up, but he continued to speak to them as he stepped into the walkway of the jet.

“I know it’s none of my business, but when we land, I think you should go and catch the rest of that movie.”

Lydia almost stupidly asked him what he was referring to, forgetting all about the cover she had set up for them at the beginning of the case to excuse their tardiness.

“He has to know that was a lie,” Spencer mumbled into her hair.

“No doubt,” she agreed. “But I think he knows that whatever it was was important to the two of us. That’s all that really matters, right?”

“Right,” he whispered, tiredly drifting off against her side.

Tags: @kris-stuff, @wooya1224, @arthurmorrgans, @anotherr-fine-mess, @eddysocs

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 15/?

Part 14

I suppose it was clever of you, to send this one specifically. I have never been too fond of his kind. Too... volatile, if you'll excuse the little joke.

But I'll move on. I'm a grown woman, and I know perfectly well when I've lost a battle. It isn't even that big of a tangle in the grand scheme of things, now that I think about it.

And see, that's exactly what I wanted to talk about, Jon. How would you say it?

Statement of Anabelle Cane, regarding inevitability.

"So... where did you find her?" Tim asks, as he walks around a corner. It opens to a long corridor, with tasteful hardwood floors and sensible faded ochre walls. There's a little table by the wall anywhere between five and a hundred steps in, right below a mirror that's usually round, but sometimes is triangular or square. Right now it's eight-sided, and Tim looks into it to fix his hair- and his face. The latter melts a little if he's not paying attention, but is easy enough to mold back into shape.

"Roaming the tunnels. She was a bit lost. Everyone is, down there." Helen's voice echoes all around him, and his headache gets the slightest bit worse. There's no telling how long he's been here for, but at least in her corridors he can pretend the confusion is only a side effect of Helen around him.

"So you thought it would be a good idea to make her into dinner." There's a single cobweb stretched between the little table's legs, and Tim presses a finger to it like he's done to the others, watching it curl and shrivel as it chars to nothing. "Or were you actually trying to get her out and throw her at us?"

"Burn a couple more of those, and I might be able to tell you." Helen's voice is clearer now. Bitter. Tim nods grimly.

"I'm going to need you to let me out somewhere else."

"Better if you don't say the name, I think." Helen sighs. "Keep walking."

So Tim does. There's still plenty to be confused about. The Desolation rages inside him, feeding from the raw loss burning a hole through his chest

Sasha's dead.

No, he corrects himself. She's been dead for a while now, years. The thing Jon killed was just that; a monster, no matter how many times Tim called it Sasha's name. No matter how many times Tim found himself loving it.

The fire at his core burns a bit hotter.

He keeps trying to tell himself he was loving the memory of Sasha and not the beast, but is there really any memory left of her? Logically speaking -ugh, he sounds like Jon-, he knows there have to be. He knew Sasha -loved Sasha- long before the table came, but when he tries to conjure them, all he sees is the long-limbed thing, the ghost of its touch on Tim's skin sending shocks of nausea through his stomach.

"If you're going to puke, please wait until I let you out."

"Feeling vindictive, aren't we?" Tim composes a smirk even as he takes a deep breath to fend the nausea off, leaning heavily against the little table. His reflection on the half moon-shaped mirror looks decrepit with exhaustion.

"Aren't you?" Helen asks, and Tim's knuckles whiten around the table's edges.

There was a spiderweb on that table, and there's another on Jon's lighter.

"You have no idea."

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

Calling the fog is easier now.

Tim hasn't been home in a while, and Gerry hasn't sought him out either after he lashed out at him. Which is... what he wanted, he supposes.

It's much better to work like this, now that even Peter has opted for leaving him alone. Without interruptions, without the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Lately, he has started to suspect even the Eye's gaze slips off of him at times.

It makes him wonder if Jon can still See him. If he even tries anymore.

There's probably no answer to that question that could make him feel... something, not anymore. Martin shakes his head, hoping to dislodge the thought and go back to his work. There's things to do, including a new statement to record that Peter must've slipped in before he arrived. He's getting close to being done with this, at least.

Will there be anything left of him once he doesn't need to be lonely?

Will there be anyone left who cares?

All he can see when he tries to look into his future is the comforting, cool embrace of the fog. It's not a surprise, not really. Fear has ever been a constant in Martin's life.

A tape recorder clicks to life by his elbow, and Martin sighs. "Yes, alright. I'll just... Martin Blackwood, assistant to Peter Lukas, Head of the Magnus Institute. Recording statement... what is it? 0131305..."

The feeling is... odd, he decides after he goes through Judith O'Neill's statement barely giving the words a thought, as fast as he can without mangling it, because the sound of his own voice is grating to his ears.

"It's... I know I should feel guilty, you know?" he asks the tape recorder, resting his chin on his hand. "I mean, this is this person's worst moment, that she trusted us with, to preserve and protect. And- and I'm just trying to get it over with."

Click. Martin feels his lips curl into a small smile. Who knew he could still do that?

"Yes, I guess so. But it still doesn't feel like I'm doing enough. Not that it ever has, but still..." He sighs.

It doesn't really matter, does it? All Jon and Gerry need is the information, not his thoughts on it, not his- just the facts. That's what they want, and- and since he finished this quickly enough, he should be able to sneak down into the Archives and drop the tape at his old desk before Gerry can try to come get it.

He doesn't have to see the hurt on his face when he sends him away again.

The door to the office closes silently behind him as he steps into the corridor to start the way down to the Archives, and he's immediately assaulted with the pressing sensation of other people's existence. Martin doesn't quite Know about every person in the Institute, but he can feel their presence like one would feel the heat from standing too close to a fire; a warning to get away, before you end up burned. Luckily for everyone, life in the Institute seems to be contained at the upper levels, the building completely silent once he reaches the bottom floor.

The old break room calls to him like a siren at sea, but Martin ignores it. There's nothing for him there anymore, other than a brightly painted mug pushed to the back of the cupboard to be forgotten, like the painful memory of the times when there were no fears of monsters, and the biggest worry in Martin's mind was a fake resume.

This is why he hates coming down here, he thinks with a sigh. It's just... logically, he knows they were never going to stay that way, planning birthday parties and getting to know each other, the little Archive team. He knows they were doomed the moment they signed their transfer to their new department. But still... Better times, less complicated, and- there's a woman there.

More importantly, a woman he doesn't recognize. She's tall and dark skinned, with tightly curled hair pulled into a bun at the top of her head, her sharp, deep brown eyes examining what Martin recognizes with a muted sense of alarm as a scorch mark shaped like footsteps on the polished hardwood floor.

"Excuse me? You can't be here." Martin says after a deep breath. The tape recorder in his hand clicks on again; great, now Jon is going to hear him chasing away his meal. "Did you come to give a statement? I'm afraid we're not taking new ones at the moment."

There's a pang of nausea at the lie, but Martin ignores it. If he can keep one more person from tangling in with this-

"I gave it a while ago. Haven't been too afraid ever since." The woman shrugs after turning to face him. She's wearing a black tank top with a stylized ghost on it, that Martin would once have smiled at. "I'm only waiting for Melanie. You're Martin?"

He blinks. "You... know me?"

The woman's lips twitch. "Jon talked a lot about you while he was staying at my house."

Martin frowns in confusion, until it all clicks in his mind. The ghost, the statement, Melanie, Jon. The fact that he couldn't feel her at all before practically running into her.

"Huh. I- I didn't know Melanie-Georgie and Jon-Georgie were the same person." Martin feels the air around him cool a little more when he gives her a second, evaluating look. She's beautiful, and she looks confident and calm even in this place of terror. Jon... Jon really has a type, Martin thinks as his mind conjures the image of a pair of blue-green eyes glaring up at Peter in defiance.

"Small world and all that." Georgie shrugs. She frowns then, after she gives him a once-over of her own and apparently finds him lacking. Which is... not ideal, probably, but Martin can't bring himself to care. "Are you alright?"

"I am. Thank you." Martin looks away, because her eyes are nothing like Jon's asides from being a similar dark brown in color, but Martin finds himself thinking of them anyways. "Could I ask you to let Jon know I left this here? Or- or Gerry. He'll do too."

He can feel Georgie's eyes on him for another, unbearably long minute, before she speaks again. "Why don't you tell them yourself?"

"I'm- we're not really... talking. Not anymore." He's aware he doesn't owe her an explanation, but it's... why lie to a stranger, specially one that doesn't care?

"Ah." Georgie's gaze falls for a moment, before she lifts it back to Martin's face. "Could I ask why? Jon speaks very well of you. And from what Melanie tells me-"

"Actually, I'd rather you didn't." Martin cuts in. There's a pang of irritation at his stomach, and he feels the Lonely receding just the slightest bit. Not good, not- "With all due respect, it's none of your business, or Melanie's. Or anyone's, really."

Georgie's eyebrows climb up her forehead. "Wow. Okay. I'm sorry, I suppose. I just thought-"

"You don't know me." Martin says it more for himself than for her. She doesn't know him, and she'll forget him the moment he walks away. The so-called "concern" in her voice is just that, a misguided attempt motivated by-

"Well no, but Jon cares for you." She shrugs.

"Jon cares too much, that's the problem." Didn't he hear Tim complain about that years ago, angry and drunk against Jon's desk with Melanie slumped on his side in a similar state? Jon doesn't care until he does, and then you can't tell which one is worse.

Georgie's eyes are still digging into him, so intense Martin has to remind himself she has nothing to do with the Watcher.

"I think it usually ends worse for the ones that care for Jon, actually." And she arches an eyebrow in a gesture Martin has seen Jon made countless times. It's funny, how people pick up traits from the ones they love. He wonders which one of them had the gesture originally, and which one took it in and made it their own.

Has he picked up anything from Jon? The way he pushes his glasses up his nose, or holds his cup of tea? It's... that would be nice, he thinks. That even when he goes into the Lonely, when he's no longer capable of loving Jon -if he still is-, there will be a part of him that remains.

He also wonders if Jon has picked up anything from him, but the thought is cold and faded. Martin has always been on the sidelines, easy enough to forget once you get him out of your way. What would Jon even take?

"-tin?" Georgie's voice reaches him faintly, distorted.

"Maybe." There's a strange echo to his own words, and he can see the wisps of fog curling around him. "But it's good that people care for him anyways."

"What-"

"It's nice to know he won't be alone."

Georgie takes a step towards him, but stops short a second after, as her eyes glaze over for a beat. Her brow furrows in confusion, and she looks around the bullpen, her gaze sliding off of Martin.

"Okay, I'm ready, sorry I- Georgie?" Melanie asks as she comes into the room, frowning when Georgie continues to look around the office. "What's wrong?"

"I... nothing, I guess." Georgie's eyes are still confused. "I just- I could swear I was talking to someone."

Melanie gives the room a once-over of her own and Martin holds his breath, but she doesn't notice him either. Good.

"Huh." Melanie hums in thought for a moment, before her eyes turn mischievous and her lips curl into a grin. "Maybe it was a g-g-g-ghost? I know a pretty girl that does a podcast about that, you should tell her the story."

Georgie huffs a chuckle then, her encounter with Martin already forgotten. "I think I know the one. With the cute girlfriend, right?"

"That's her. Bad taste in food and men, amazing taste in women." Melanie hooks her arm through Georgie's, a pleased, slightly flushed smile on her face as she pulls Georgie towards the door. "Let's go?"

"I- hm. I think I was supposed to tell Jon something." Georgie hesitates a little at the threshold, and Martin's heart skips a bit.

"Ugh, just text him. You'll make his day."

"Don't be mean." Georgie smiles.

"I can live with you on his side or with Gerry on his side, please don't ask me to do both, I'm not strong enough."

Georgie laughs, the sound growing fainter as the door closes and they walk away, leaving Martin behind.

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

Tim stumbles out the door, his head protesting as his body tries to adjust to the change in perspective, which is most definitely not aided by him immediately rolling down half a flight of stairs.

"Would it have killed you to find a something at floor level instead?" Tim grumbles, rubbing at his bruised shin.

"If you find one that's not sealed, feel free to let me know." Helen says dryly, pulling her door closed as Tim glares up at her. "Good luck, dear!"

Tim rolls his eyes, and when he's focused them on the door again it's back to being an old, dusty window through which he can just barely see the street below.

Fine. This is amazing.

A single thread of spider silk pulls at his elbow, and Tim huffs a dry, humorless cackle.

"Done with subtlety, aren't you?" The thread is trying to tug him upstairs, so Tim burns it off before starting in the opposite way.

He can feel the Web trying to wrap itself around him, to obscure his mind and concern him with matters that will take him out of here. Where is Martin? Is he alright? What if he was in Helen's corridors for so long that everyone's gone?

Tim chuckles at the thought as he comes to a stop before a door sealed shut with cobwebs.

Who else could he lose? Sasha's dead, and so is the thing that tricked him into loving it. Danny's gone, his death successfully -but so unsatisfactorily- avenged. Martin continues to slip through his fingers no matter how much he tries, and-

"Just spit it out." Tim freezes when he recognizes his voice, static-y and grainy with the whirr of a tape recorder as background.

"You're not planning on coming back." Jon's voice has the finality of a goodbye, and Tim realizes abruptly that he remembers this conversation. He didn't realize it was being recorded at the time, or he wouldn't sound nearly as put together.

Tim-on-tape laughs, so ugly, so angry that Tim-in-the-flesh flinches.

"That's rich. Do you care now? That's called guilt, Boss"

"Tim-"

"Don't. Stew on it, for all I care. You deserve it."

A sigh, long and tired, before a weak, broken voice.

"I'm so sorry, Tim..."

Tim lets out a sigh of his own, mouthing his next word.

"Good."

Steps crunching on gravel, as Tim walks back into the cheap motel and leaves Jon alone with his thoughts.

It's no wonder the Desolation chose him, all that burning anger boiling just under his skin, the taste of ash on his tongue, the finger pressed down on the trigger to call on destruction like a well-trained dog. So convinced that Jon, who he'd loved so much and who cast him aside without so much as an explanation, was the cause of all his anger. So eager to make him suffer just the same.

"Is that really all you got?!" he shouts out, and his breath comes out in puffs of steam that leave Tim's nostrils burning with the scent of guilt. "Mistress of manipulation, and all you have for me is 'you were angry and a douche'? Because guess what? I still am!"

His hand burns its imprint all the way down to the wood, as the cobwebs shrivel away.

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

I suppose it was clever of you, to send this one specifically. I have never been too fond of his kind. Too... volatile, if you'll excuse the little joke.

But I'll move on. I'm a grown woman, and I know perfectly well when I've lost a battle. It isn't even that big of a tangle in the grand scheme of things, now that I think about it.

And see, that's exactly what I wanted to talk about, Jon. How would you say it?

Statement of Anabelle Cane, regarding inevitability.

Was that good? Did it do something for you?

See, I'm ever so good to you, dear. I know you're on a little 'diet', but one fresh statement can't be too much, can it? Just a single taste, you've been behaving so properly for your team...

But I've strayed from my point again. I do that sometimes, you know? It's a bit hard to focus on a single thing, when everything is so intricately connected! Try following a thread in the weave of a tapestry, see how long it takes you to lose track of it in the big, beautiful picture.

No, what I wanted to talk about, how did I put it? Inevitability?

You're familiar with that, aren't you, Jon? How running and running away only ever brings you back to where you're supposed to be.

I learned of it the first time I ran away from my family home. I had all these grandiose dreams, coming back artfully smeared in dirt, perhaps with a nasty-looking, but perfectly applied gash to my arm or leg, and I would never have to ask for anything again. I would be Anabelle, lost and returned, the greatest treasure my family could ask for.

The house already danced to the beat I drummed, but I wanted more. I wanted things to go my way before I even had to orchestrate them. I wanted things to land on my web, and strangle themselves to death trying to pull themselves out.

It was a good plan, for a nine years old.

I could tell you about the woman, I suppose. Young, and emaciated and lost, weaving herself into a tapestry she could not see, so desperate to feel something that she didn't notice when the syringes began overflowing with many-legged things that scurried and ran through her veins much more effective in soothing her pain and fear than the heroin ever was.

I could tell you how I ran. How I climbed back up my window before my older sister even noticed I was ever missing. How I shook that sleepless night, seeing crawling shadows everywhere, feeling the pinprick of their legs on my skin. I thought the woman was a demon that was sent to scare me into being a nice little girl, to correct me from the nasty schemes I orchestrated to get others in trouble.

You would know, wouldn't you, Jon? The incredible lengths to which a child's mind can go to try and rationalize an encounter like ours.

And it worked, I suppose. For years, I stopped manipulating, I stopped weaving. The urge was still there, and the ability of course. It was almost as though I could see the threads connecting every occurrence with the outcome I wanted, just waiting for me to pull on it the right way. But I didn't. I had seen my punishment, and I would be good, I told myself.

Didn't you do something similar, when you found my little book? You were adorable.

But you see, even though we both tried to run, to break free of the path we were meant to take, we both ended up exactly where we were needed. Don't hate me too much for pulling your strings, dear, just remember there's a bigger puppeteer out there.

And please, don't take this as some sort of grim reminder -everything is always grim with you, isn't it Jon?- that free will is a lie, and we are all just chess pieces moving across a board. That is not what I mean at all!

Free will is a beautiful thing, and so satisfying to have. You specifically have a will of iron, Jon, and that is a high compliment, coming from me. The twists and turns I've had to send you in just make sure you had what you needed to survive! And all just because you were too stubborn to take the path the Eye set for you.

But that is exactly what the beauty of an ineluctable plan is, just to come back to the original subject of my statement. Knowing that your every movement, your every choice is already factored in the grand scheme of things. I find it soothing, don't you? Knowing that no matter how far you stray from the path, you cannot truly ruin anything.

Look at your dear friend. An unwanted variable in my plan for sure, but apparently not to the Mother's one, since I ended up talking to you after all. Perhaps a little earlier or later than I originally should have, but things worked out in the end. They always do.

Perhaps all the players must, at some point, take a look around, and see if they're not standing on a checkered board themselves. I can think of some people specifically, but it wouldn't do to ruin the surprise.

Now, how do you close these things? Your charming little catchphrase… ah, of course.

Statement ends.

"I- you found this?" Jon's voice is a bit shaky as he finally looks up from the paper, and the tape recorder clicks to a stop on its own. "Were you looking for it?"

Tim shrugs. "Not really."

"But then- Tim, why were you at Hill-"

"It's none of your business, alright?" Tim rolls his eyes. "Maybe I just decided I really fucking hate spiders."

After listening to that, he definitely does.

Jon's arachnophobia has never been a secret, but he guesses it makes a lot more sense now. A lot of things do.

He doesn't like any of them.

"Tim-"

"I'm going to leave now."

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

"Tim said you were full of spiderwebs." Jon's voice is calm, quiet.

Helen tilts her head. "Aren't we all?" She asks. It's not in her nature to give straight answers.

"I'm starting to think so." Jon gives a sigh.

It's a fun little tableau they make, each on one side of the desk, between them a tape recorder with a bit of tape still left, a sheet of paper next to it.

"This is how we met," Helen hums thoughtfully. There is no map on the paper, and the statement in the recorder is not hers -about her-, but it still feels painfully, exquisitely familiar. "Back when we were both human."

Jon lets out a little huff of air, like her words are somehow a surprise for him, who could Know it all. "Do you remember how that felt like?"

Helen smiles, feeling her lips curl in on themselves dozens of times. "Do you?"

"A little, at times." Jon lays a hand on the desk, and Helen sees the recorder practically click on and vibrate with the need to go to him. Funny little things. "More, lately. I... having everyone helps."

"That doesn't bode too well for Martin."

"I- it doesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me."

Helen tilts her head, when Jon's eyes fix on her. They don't have the lovely green glow they take when he uses his powers, and they look... sad.

It's not an emotion the Distortion knows how to deal with, because the Distortion shouldn't be dealing with feelings anyways. It's even more puzzling to have it aimed at her.

The part of her that is still Helen -is that all of her? Is that any of her?- feels a pang of grim satisfaction. "Is that what this is, then? Making amends?"

Jon shakes his head slowly, sadly. How can a man exude so much melancholy? Is that what happens, when you care so much?

"Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it." He pushes the tape recorder towards her, with a tired smile. "I hear you collect them?"

"Only until it's time." Still, Helen cradles the recorder in her hands. Such a curious thing.

"Time for what?"

"I don't know." Helen shrugs at an angle that should not be quite possible for shoulder joints to give. "Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?"

He gives a little, choked up laugh. "You'll have to be a bit more specific."

"All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?"

Why should they?

Why should they strive to stay human, when that's the very thing that was ripped from them? Why-

"I think... Because I want to be contained." Jon gives his desk a little thoughtful frown, before looking up at her again. "If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one in my own terms."

"How noble of you." Helen arches an eyebrow, and Jon's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile.

"Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left."

"Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end?" Helen lifts the tape recorder to tuck it in the pocket of her blazer. "The grand scheme of things, and all that?"

"It matters to me."

"So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?"

Jon shakes his head, his lips moving around words he can't quite put together. It's almost a bad joke, the Archivist, tongue-tied.

"If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon." He says in the end. "I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me. It can't take who I am."

"Bit boring, isn't it? Not changing at all, ever?"

"...Yes, I suppose you of all people might find it so."

"Can I still keep the tape?" she asks, clicking the stop button to make the funny little thing sleep again.

Jon sighs. "It's yours."

Helen smiles. "Just until it's time. Cheers, Jon, good luck on your moral crusade."

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

Corruption statements always leave behind a stale, sickly aftertaste. It's not too surprising really, but lately Jon has started to dislike them even more.

It's the way this entity tries to disguise itself as love, as the natural progression of devotion into indiscriminate consumption, parasitism, destruction.

Everything that love isn't supposed to be, everything that-

The Eye pulls urgently at his mind, and Jon is dragged out of his reverie by the sudden Knowledge of sharp blades and singing blood.

Jon sighs, before diving into his desk drawer to pull out his mobile.

"Yeah, I think, um-" the door to his office opens and closes behind him, and Jon's heart races as he tries to force the next words out. "I think you should probably get down h-"

The phone is yanked from his hand, and Jon vaguely registers the sound of the call clicking to an end, far more focused on the edge of the knife that comes to rest against his throat. Right over Daisy's scar, like it's one of those 'cut here' lines, and the thought is much funnier than it should be.

"Hello, lad." Trevor Herbert's breath is musty and bitter, and Jon sighs. This is fine, this is- all he needs is for one of them to get distracted. He broke Breekon before, and Not Sasha too. This is his home terrain, he can-

"Miss us?" Julia's long-nailed, almost clawed hand grips his shoulder tightly and forces him back on his chair. "We have some things to discuss, it looks like," she says, and though her voice is pleasant enough, Jon can hear the underlying growl under it.

"If you give us the right answers, maybe we won't have to check if you're still human enough to bleed." Trevor smirks. Jon looks up at the old man, but everything in him is telling him to keep quiet, to wait for an opening. Hunters are not to be taken lightly, much less as a pack.

"You've got something of ours." Julia stabs a knife of her own right through Barbara Mullen-Jones' statement. "Took it right from under our noses."

"After we saved you from that Stranger puppet and gave you all the information you needed. Very rude to steal our biggest resource." Trevor presses the blade a bit tighter to his neck, but Jon couldn't care less about it anymore.

How could he have been so stupid? He'd thought they were here for him, why come to the Archives if not to kill the Archivist? Something hot and dark and angry starts brewing in his stomach.

"Gerry wasn't yours," he snarls. "You had no right to-" the knife presses deeper, and Jon's mouth snaps shut more out of the Eye's self preservation sense than his own, his mind still reeling with the memory of the pained ghost that asked him for a smoke, just a shadow of the man he-

"You heard that, Julia?" Trevor cackles." 'Gerry'!"

"Seems like you've gotten pretty chummy." Julia leans over, her mouth curled in a sardonic smile. "Pull dear Gerry out every now and then for a tasty statement, don't you?"

Jon's eyes narrow as he tries to ignore the pang of guilt in his stomach. Of course he feeds from Gerry, but it's- he's not like them.

"Where is it?" Trevor snaps at his silence, giving him a shake. The knife breaks skin, not enough to bleed but enough so that Jon feels the sting.

"I set him free." And Gerry came back to him, he's Jon's now, and they are not taking him again.

"You what?" Julia grabs him by the shirt, pulling him up to his feet. Jon comes gladly, his chin held high and holding Julia's gaze. He can see the Hunt in her eyes, but Jon finds that he's not too intimidated, not after Daisy, and definitely not when Gerry's life is on the line.

"You wasted your time coming here." Jon says simply.

"Aren't you feeling ballsy today?" Julia gives him a hard shove, and Jon topples back on his chair. "But we didn't. We can at least get rid of another mouthy monster before we go. You want the honors, old man?"

Trevor shifts his grip on the handle of the knife, a wide, lupine grin spreading over his face. "Don't mind if I do." Jon's lips twitch into a smile, and the two hunters scowl.

"Get away from him." Daisy snarls from the open door to Jon's office, and Trevor and Julia snap around to face her.

"Who- ah. Got yourself a guard dog, didn't you?" Trevor laughs. "Smart bastard."

"More of a lapdog. She's scrawny, isn't she?" Julia goes for a mocking, dismissive tone, but Jon sees the stiffness in her limbs, and the nervous twitch of a muscle on her jaw.

Jon looks at Daisy, and he realizes for the first time just how sickly she looks. The lean frame that wrapped around him in the Buried now appears emaciated, and though Jon can See the boiling presence with too many teeth trying to burst out of her skin, there's no denying what abstaining from the Hunt has done to her.

"Malnourished, more like. Haven't tasted blood in a while, have you?" Trevor asks. "This one will die nicely; you could come with your kind instead."

"Or I could hunt you instead." Daisy takes a step forward, and Jon Sees the hunter boiling even closer to the surface.

"Don't." Julia say simply, when Daisy makes to take another step. Her hand digs into Jon's hair, pulling back to expose his neck. "Or I'll kill your library rat."

"You can try. You better hope you're faster than me, though." Daisy's voice devolves into a low growl, and Julia responds in kind. Trevor says nothing, merely watching the two women face off.

"Do you really think you can take us both?" She asks, tightening her grip in Jon's hair. "You're weak."

"Are you willing to bet your daddy's life on it?" Daisy bares her teeth.

"I'm not her father," Trevor says sullenly, and Jon snorts.

"Are you sure?" Jon asks, and Julia yanks roughly on his head.

"Shut up, I'll-"

"Let's go." Trevor interrupts. Jon gives him a quick glance, an old wolf that has learned to pick his battles.

"Old man-"

"There's no rush. Plenty of monsters to go around, too." Trevor gives Daisy a grin that she responds to with another growl. "Good luck guarding them all."

Julia gives another snarl, letting go of Jon's hair with a harsh shove that has Daisy flinching forward, before she and Trevor make for the door. Daisy stands there like a statue, and Jon feels the tension in the air rising with every passing second, until Trevor and Julia seem to decide to just go around her.

Their stomping footsteps grow fainter and fainter in the distance, Daisy crouches to the floor, her entire frame shaking.

Jon shoots from his chair. "Daisy? Are you-"

"Don't touch me," Daisy snarls, startling Jon. He pulls back the hand he was about to lay on her shoulder.

"Daisy. Listen to me." Jon kneels before her. "Just-"

"They're not gone yet. They're- I could find them. I could take them down." Daisy's shoulders shake even harder, and Jon forces himself to not flinch back.

"The- remember what you said, Daisy. Don't listen to the blood..."

"...Listen to the quiet," Daisy responds after what feels like an eternity. Jon carefully lays his hand on her arm, right above the spot where her nails are digging into her skin. She leans into it, and Jon wraps his other arm around her.

"It's- you're wasting away." Jon squeezes her shoulders, muttering into her hair. "You need to-"

"I'm not going back to that." Very slowly, one of Daisy's arms comes to return the hug.

"Daisy-"

"I hurt people, Jon. You know I did. I almost killed you-"

Jon squeezes harder, as the Eye drops flash after flash into his mind. The last moment of all the people -all beings- whose last view was the Hunt-distorted face of Daisy Tonner. "That was not you. That was the Hunt."

"We're the same."

"No, you're not!" Jon snaps. "You're- it's different, Daisy. You are different. What you were before-"

"I was a monster." Daisy's voice holds a special sort of fragility, and Jon tightens his grip as much as he can.

"There are worse things to be."

They stay there for what feels like hours, until both their breathings slow down, until Daisy's shoulders stop shaking with the urge to chase, and her nails are no longer digging into Jon's shoulder.

"So... did something happen here, or is this just something you two do for fun?" Tim's voice comes from the still open door, and Daisy whips up so abruptly that Jon is just thrown back in a tangle of limbs. "Whoa, tense."

"Tim-" Jon clears his throat as he climbs to his feet. "This is not a good time."

"When is it anymore?" Tim arches an eyebrow. "So?"

"It's noth-" Jon stops himself, sighing at Tim's unimpressed, guarded look. He chooses to trust. It doesn't matter that Tim doesn't trust him back, he- there's a reason for that, and Jon has to live with it. Maybe forever, now. "The hunters came by. Daisy scared them off."

"Top dog, I like it." Tim smirks at Daisy's answering scoff, before turning to face Jon again. "Did they come for you?"

"No, they-" Jon freezes, Trevor's last sardonic remark ringing in his head like a bell.

They're gone. They're gone, and they- Daisy was able to track him down to Michael Crew's house before she even knew the Hunt was in her. Trevor and Julia are both experienced hunters, and they came here for-

Jon shoots out the door, shoving his way past Tim and ignoring Daisy's concerned call, and hers and Tim's footsteps behind him as he rushes up the stairs and out of the institute.

He knows the way to follow like a bird flying South for Winter, a thread of steel pulling at his very core as buildings and street signs rush past the edge of his vision. He doesn't know how long he's ran for, his lungs burn and his legs are tired, -Jon has never been an athlete- but he's getting closer and-

Jon turns a corner and slams against something solid and soft and warm, bouncing back with a huff before his mind registers the concerned blue-green eyes looking down at him, and the shouting in his head comes to a halt.

"You're alright," are the first words Jon can form coherently.

"I- am?" Gerry arches an eyebrow, and Jon laughs with relief before throwing his arms around him. "Jon?" Gerry asks, an arm coming to rest over his shoulders, a hand behind his head.

"Huh, you were right. I owe you a drink I guess." Melanie says, her voice both dry and unimpressed, and Jon flinches back from Gerry's embrace like he's been burned. She rolls her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Of course they were together, they're hunting, how could he have forgotten?

"I- the- at the Institute-" Jon sputters. Melanie's not with the Slaughter anymore, but she wouldn't have let Gerry face the hunters alone. His face starts heating up as the uselessness of his mad dash through the city rains down on him.

"Jon, what happened?" Gerry asks, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Is anyone- shit!" Gerry yanks him and Melanie out of the way, throwing the three of them against the wall just as Tim and Daisy turn the corner at full speed.

"We're here!" Melanie calls out calmly, and the two of them skid a few feet before turning back to face them.

"What the fuck, Jon?!" Tim exclaims, steam shooting from his lips as he pants. Daisy eyes him in a way that makes it fairly clear she's thinking something along the same lines, and Jon wishes for nothing more than the earth to open up and swallow him whole. Again.

"Uh- yes, I can-"

"Explain why you made us run all the way to Chelsea?!" Tim shouts again.

"Stop yelling at him!" Daisy snarls. She looks considerably better than she did at the Institute, and Jon wonders if chasing after him did something for her. "Jon?"

Jon darts a look around, trying to gauge the general mood. Tim is, of course, furious. Both Gerry and Daisy are giving him mixed looks of worry and confusion, and Melanie seems to be enjoying his predicament.

"I- they were looking for him," Jon mutters, growing more and more embarrassed as Daisy and Tim start to connect the dots.

Daisy sighs. "You though of calling me on the phone, but not him?"

Oh. That's- Gerry does have a phone that he usually has with him.

"I... wasn't really thinking."

"You're kidding me." Tim groans, and immediately turns to the street to start hailing a cab down. "You're paying for my ride back, you asshole."

"Uh... can I ask what this is about?" Gerry leans down to whisper in his ear. Jon exhales, the relief at finding Gerry alive and well still swelling in his chest.

"At home. Please?"

Gerry's brow furrows, but he eventually nods. "At home, then." And he presses a kiss to Jon's temple.

Jon, who is most definitely not used to public displays of affection, freezes on his spot. His face burns even more when he hears Melanie groan as well, before she begins to walk away.

"Tim, can I ride with you? I don't want to stay any more."

"Be my guest. Maybe we can convince the driver to charge him by the passenger. Daisy, you coming?"

Jon sighs and steps away from Gerry, pulling his wallet out when a cab rolls to a stop before Melanie and Tim. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The idea of four walls and a door as a sanctuary is laughable in the world they move in, but home is home, and it's more about a feeling than it is about a space.

"Please don't go after them." Jon's voice is almost too quiet in the thick darkness of the room, but Gerry can taste the desperate intensity in the words just as clearly as if they'd been pressed to his lips.

"Why would I?" he asks, like the thought wasn't the first thing on his mind as soon as Jon ended his tale. It's not like he can pay them back for what they did to him, keeping him from his rest just to use him, but fuck it would be satisfying.

"Gerry."

It's the emotions poured in it rather than the name, what makes Gerry feel like the breath has been punched out of him.

It's heavy with a sort of devotion Gerry's never been on the receiving end of, but that he's tasted in Jon's words before, sweetening Martin's name like a breathless prayer.

It's new.

It's terrifying.

It's intoxicating.

"Say my name again."

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

"Won't you look at that." The voice that reaches Gerry's ears when he climbs the last step out of the Archives makes Gerry freeze on his spot.

He's heard it a thousand times before, reading his last, most intimate moments like they were a particularly boring instruction manual, tearing him from the painful, burning dormancy of the book for another round of questioning.

"That sneaky bastard." Julia shakes her head with a disbelieving cackle. "Dear Gerard, long time no see. Sorry, it's 'Gerry' now, isn't it?" She was always the one asking the questions, impatient and snappy whenever Gerry took too long to answer.

Gerry snorts, his mouth twitching into a smile. These two are opportunistic hunters if he's ever seen any, a pair of hyenas looking for lonely prey.

"This is very convenient, you know?" Gerry cracks his neck. He's never killed hunters before; Gertrude always thought they were better left alone, since they usually went after other avatars. It's just fitting that Gerry's always been good at learning on the fly. "I promised Jon I wouldn't go looking for you. Didn't say anything about what would happen if you found me."

"Oh, you promised him? How sweet." Julia smirks as she moves, her eyes glued to him as she flanks him. "How did he get you like this, huh? You were much more useful when you were pocket-sized, let's go back to that."

"I hate to disappoint." Gerry focuses on her. She's younger, faster than Trevor. Her neck is also very thin, and he Knows she favors her right side, and forgets to watch her legs. It's just a matter of getting a good kick in-

"Let's just kill him. He's no good to us like this, and who knows what he is now." Trevor is at his other side, no doubt giving him the same evaluation he just gave Julia. "One less monster."

"Oh yes, that's your whole thing, isn't it?" Gerry arches an eyebrow. "Pretending you're doing this to save people, and not because you're just another pair of hungry dogs."

"Better than just playing house with the monsters, if you ask me. How's dear sweet Jon?"

"Doesn't it worry you?" Gerry ignores Julia's taunts, looking at Trevor instead. That always did irk her when she interrogated him. "She doesn't have the best track record with parents, if I were you, I'd be concerned about ending like Robert Montauk."

That does it.

Julia launches at him with a roar, and Gerry has barely enough time to plant his feet to catch her- before a burst of fog shoots out of nowhere between them and Julia skids to a stop inches from touching it.

"I'm going to have to ask you two to leave the premises, please." The three of them freeze as the fog dissipates, leaving behind only Martin's grey, cold-eyed form. Gerry feels his mind kicking into overdrive because this is bad in so many levels. First and foremost, Martin and the hunters are in the same place at the same time, and that's less than ideal. Then there is the fact that Martin just came out of the Lonely, and-

"Who the hell are you?" Julia goes to push Martin aside, pulling her hand back as if burned when it goes right through him. "What-"

"Out." Martin says, his eyes hard behind his glasses. "Unless you want to wait for the others, in which case feel free to stay, they should be here soon."

Gerry smirks at the nervous look that passes between the two. Of course they wouldn't like to be the outnumbered ones.

"Remember how you used to ask me about the monsters? I'll give you a freebie, for old time's sake," he says, stepping forward to stand next to Martin. "You don't want to wait."

"Real cute." Julia bares her teeth at him, and Trevor narrows his eyes. She then whips around on her heel and walks towards the door, only stopping for long enough for Trevor to reach her, and Gerry watches them go with a bitter smile.

The doors closing after them is almost deafening in the silence left behind. Out the corner of his eye Gerry can see Martin start fidgeting, and he takes a deep, calming breath before turning to face him. It's alright. Martin is- he's here, he just has to pull him back.

"Did you really call anyone else?" Gerry asks.

Martin rolls his eyes, and Gerry notices with a pang of guilt that they're a cool, muted gray, despite the interaction. "Of course not. But I had to get them out, and I heard Tim say that Daisy alone was enough to send them running. Figured the idea of more people would only be more effective."

"I could've taken them," Gerry shrugs. Then, and his voice has grown a bit weaker, "I didn't know you could go into the Lonely now."

Martin looks down at the fog rolling around him like he's seeing it for the first time. "Hm. I didn't notice I was in, actually."

"That's- Martin, that's worse." Gerry grimaces. Martin is still human -as far as he can See- but only barely so.

"Is it?" Martin asks, and his contour is starting to blur and fade again, like a mirror fogging up. "Stay here today, will you? I'm sure Jon will be happy to have you."

"Martin, please-"

But he's gone.

Gerry stares for a moment at the spot he disappeared on, but eventually he gives a long, defeated sigh as he starts the way back down the stairs to the Archives.

Sending the hunters running no longer feels like a victory.

#jongerrymartin #jongerry #gerrymartin #illicio #vit writes

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