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triplesilverstar · 8 months

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Day 4

Rating: Explicit 18+ Minors DNI

Pairing: Snake Legato X F!Reader

CW: Dub con, serious dub-con, Rape, Smut, angst and smut, crying, Gore, Loss of limb, penis in vaginal sex, Choking, Fingering, Two penises, double penetration, double penetration one hole,

Word count: 2212

A/N: Day 4, You were going caving and had an accident. Now is the strange Blue haired man your salvation or your death?

It wasn’t your first time going caving, but you think it might be your last. Laying there on your side hissing as you try to move your leg only to scream as the fire laces up your spine. At least you can feel the pain which is a good sign.

Why did you have to go caving alone?

After falling down that shaft there's no way you’re going to be able to get yourself out of the hole you’ve fallen into, let alone the cave with a busted leg. Using your arm to try force yourself into a seated position, crying out as you do so and feel the tears form at the corner of your eyes.

Panting you look down, a cry of anguish breaking past your lips. You can see part of your bone sticking out, this really is going to be your last caving trip. A shuffling noise just at the edge of your hearing.

Maybe you aren't alone down here. “Hello!” Calling out and waiting for the echo to end before speaking again. “I’m hurt!” It sounds like there is movement coming towards you, making you grin widely. You just might get out of this yet. “Can you help me?”

A head and two arms appear from a gap in the cave wall and you feel a sense of relief wash over you, you’re going to make it out of this. Watching as this blue haired man starts to pull himself through the crevice.

It’s then it dawns on you.

Where’s his helmet, and he isn’t wearing gloves. As his chest starts to make its way through the space the relief you felt quickly erodes away. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and there seems to be a pattern, almost like scales along his body.

“I can” his voice reminds you of a rock being dragged along another one, but it isn’t sharp enough to hurt your ears. Just enough to make you pause, there’s something more to him than just being a half naked man.

Where you expect his hips to appear your heart stops beating. Where you expected to see two thighs is just a long scaled body. Maybe it’s the blood loss, but you don’t remember screaming before passing out.

When you next come to, you’re somewhere damp and cold shivering but the pain in your leg is gone. Looking around you can barely see anything in the dim light cast from what looks like cave moss. A thin blanket draped over your form, and you feel yourself shiver again this time noticing something odd.

You aren’t wearing any clothes under the blanket. Sitting up or trying to, you notice something else. You can feel everything but the leg you’d broken. Taking a deep breath almost afraid of what you’ll find you but you need to know.

Ripping the sheet away you feel your heart burn and your spirits fall. Your leg, from mid thigh down, is gone. Nothing but a stump remains, and as you reach down you can feel the gnarled flesh sewn together with rough ridges. The bumps making you think it might have been burned once the leg had been sliced away. “You would not have survived had I not removed it.” Head snapping towards the sound of his voice and you can see him just at the edge of the dim light coiled around himself and watching you. A long slow blink as he watches you before opening his mouth once more and you can see the row of sharpened teeth. “Legato”.

“Huh?” He tells you you wouldn’t have survived and then some random word. “Why am I still here?” While you aren’t going to bleed out anymore, you’re going to have one hell of a time getting out of here.

A chuckle ending in a hiss as he seems to untangle himself from the length of his tail. “How rude, I introduce myself and you cannot do the same. Perhaps I should have taken your tongue when I took your leg.” That, that had been his name?

You open your mouth giving your name before being cut off by Legato once more. “As to why you’re still here, well I would think it should be obvious. I am at the point in my life where I need to procreate, and you’re going to assist me in that endeavor.” What? He can’t be serious?

“What you can’t mean that!” Almost sitting fully upright now, and in the blink of an eye Legato strikes darting forward and wrapping a single hand around your throat.

Struggling as hard as you can, your fingers unable to loosen his grip feeling your heart beating an almost impossible tempo inside of your chest. This close you can also see the gleam in his eyes, the way the golden slit widens in the dim light, another sign he is something so different than a human if his body didn’t give it away.

Gasping as you struggle to take in air, Legeto lunges forward and closes the distance shoving an impossibly long tongue down your throat. Sweeping inside of your mouth as if it’s something to plunder and take ownership of, it makes you struggle harder and he simply seems to enjoy it even more. Keeping his mouth over yours and with your airway restricted by his hand your lungs are starting to burn the need for oxygen becoming too much body feeling weaker and weaker as your hands fall away from his wrist slumping at your sides.

It’s too much of a struggle to keep your eyes open, the inky blackness slowly overtaking your vision anyway allowing your lids to flutter close. His mouth finally removed but the pressure remains about your throat. “I prefer your docile for our first joining.” The talons of his other hand trailing down your chest, ignoring your breasts and if you weren’t so out of it you’d feel the thin lines of fire his taloned fingers are leaving along your tummy as they trail downwards. “I can’t have you injuring yourself trying to delay the inevitable.”

Once those long fingers reach the apex of your thighs he lets out a tsk, unsatisfied with what he finds there. “I want to enjoy this, it shall be my first time.” Tapping his nails against your clit in an attempt to have moisture start to drip from between your legs, before another noise of displeasure grounds out of him. Twisting his fingers and tracing the outside of your folds before sinking one of his fingers into your core up to the first knuckle, making your body jerk in response.

The muscles of your inner walls spasming trying to force the intrusive digit out, Legato ignoring that and starting to move that one digit in and out and he eventually letting out a noise of satisfaction as your cunt starts to lubricate itself.

Adding a second finger, and you feel your lungs empty body torn between trying to force him out of your pussy and the pleasure starting to nip at the base of your skull as the slow sense of acceptance takes hold. Your body trying to accept the intrusion in a way that your insides won’t be damaged by the assault on your core.

“There we are, finally starting to accept your fate my little incubator.” His fingers are starting to sink deeper and deeper into your core curling those pointed digits opposite one another, stretching you out and smearing your own wetness. A low hum, that makes your spine tingle from the inhumanness of it and your body clench in fear has him pausing.

Pulling his fingers from your body with a wet noise that makes you shudder, Legato eyeing the clear strands of fluid between the V of his fingers with interest. Making a show of raising them so his long tongue can dart out and lick them clean, while your mind is haze, edging on delirious the vision does make your core twinge. Arousal starts to pool lower in your belly because it is a sight that makes the primal part of your brain purr.

Hand clean of your juices he replaces it on your hip, a show of his strength as he man handles you over his body so your leg and the stump are draped over his muscled lower half. The grip of your hip tight as he slides your body so you’re grinding against him, spreading your wetness along what you could only assume would be the space that would be his thighs if he had two legs.

The grip on your throat has loosened, most likely due to Legato focusing on moving your body against his, allowing more air to fill your lungs and the flecks of black at the edge of your vision receding.

Moving your hands to rest against his chest, palms flat over his pecs feeling the muscles flex beneath. It doesn’t make sense to try and fight him, it would be too easy for him to tighten his grip on your throat to bring you back to the point of being powerless. A noise almost like a happy chirp at you choosing to respond positively in a way to him, moving his mouth to press against yours again. Far less violent this time in his movements, trying to engage your own tongue this time instead of just plunge it around as he pleases. You moan as you do respond, gliding the wet muscle against his own and letting your hands trail higher on his body before resting against his shoulder, thumbs ghosting along his collarbones.

Neck arching as you pull away from his mouth, tears running down your face as something far thicker suddenly plunges into you while he groans in pleasure and you can feel the pounding of his heart under your palms, the veins of his neck standing out under the soft skin of your hands. “You took both of my cocks so well, you grip me so tight, such a wonderful feeling. I want to stay in this heat of yours as long as possible.” Both? BOTH?! Does that mean he has two dicks, it would at least explain why you feel like your pussy is stuffed beyond anything you should be able to handle.

He isn’t moving you anymore, instead his tongue is lapping at the wet trails along your face, the tip of the muscle a mock tenderness after having plunged his apparent double dicks into your body.

“Please.” The tears are just pouring faster down your face, making Legato appear blurry not even inches from your face. “It’s too much.”

“There there, I won’t have any of my seed wasted. I understand humans give birth to live young that are far larger than both of my members. You can certainly handle this.” His platitudes do nothing to make you feel better, going back to licking your tears away. Finally removing his hand from your throat, both of you aware it’s no longer required, settling it on your other hip.

The length of his body undulating until you’re better positioned over him and what you can only assume is a position he finds more comfortable before he starts to slowly move you along both of his lengths. It’s swallow movements, but enough that you can feel two tips, maybe because you’re now aware of them hitting your cervix as he works you. “Please.” You keep pleading, hoping against hope he might listen to your whimpers.

“Hush.” One hand moving to slap your ass quickly and hard enough to make you gasp, your cunt clenching around his dicks in a hard massage that Legato enjoys moaning long and low. “Excellent, just like that. I’ll enjoy filling you with my offspring.”

Squeezing your eyes shut as he starts to move your hips faster, slamming his cocks in and out of you making sure he never slips from the tight confines of your slick walls. Moaning as he takes pleasure from your body while you feel your own arousal starting to build as his lengths plunge into your pussy, ridges and veins twitching adding to the mounting pleasure. His scales hitting your clit making you pant, clenching around him adding to the pressure placed on his members.

His steady control of your hips slipping as he moves you harder and faster, slamming you down a final time and rolling you while the swollen tips seem to pierce your womb and your clit swollen from the attention and abuse. A roar echoing around the cavern, as Legato cums inside your body both members trembling in your tight cunt as you find your release as well, inner walls working as if to milk both dicks.

Head slumping forward and back bowing, feeling a coolness against your forehead from his slim shoulder. More tears falling from your eyes and dampening his skin and the blue tinge of his hair, this close you can see the same blue faint in his skin.

“Well done. In a short while I’ll fill you with more, I expect you to provide me with a full brood.” You don’t bother with words, mentally accepting this is in fact your last caving trip. You’ll never escape him, not now.

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#Legato Bluesummer X Reader Smut #trigun #trigun smut #Legato Bluesummer X Reader #legato bluesummers #legato trigun #legato x reader #31 days of monsters #twink writes #trimax #tristamp

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shotosprincess · 3 years

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♡ dating the bnha boys — hcs

｡･:*:･-: ✧ :,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･-: ✧ :,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

➪ shoto todoroki

pls you’ve prolly been terrified of him for a while prior bc of how ?? talented ?? the mf is ??

but mans prolly saved you at some point and there was this lingering stare you two shared before he left you at recovery girls’ office; were you reading too far into things ?

spoiler alert: you weren’t.

anYWAYS-

he’s the kind of boyfriend to tenderly brush your hair for you and attempt to learn how to tie and braid your hair up in cute ,, simple designs !!

he’d always be ready with little things you’re constantly forgetting; extra snacks,, water,, a fully charged portable charger ,, trust me when i say that man is pREPARED- after all ,, he needs to be ready with everything to take care of his little sweetheart ,, does he not ?

ONLY TWO POINTS IN AND IM ALREADY CRYING BC I LOVE HIM SM BYE BYE BYE

at some point he’d find you sitting on the roof by yourself late at night,, only to stay with you and let you fall asleep on his chest as he drapes a blanket over you and heats it up a lil with his quirk

OKAY YOU CANNOT TELL ME THAT THAT MAN WOULDNT HOLD THE DOOR OPEN FOR YOU AT ALL TIMES AND WOULD SOMETIMES EVEN GET LOWKEYHIGHKEY KINDA SAD WHEN YOU DONT LET HIM

prolly bc he just wants to prove to you that he can be useful

pls just let the man know he’s useful and important he never shows it directly but he needs the reassurance—

he’d give you a warm massage w his quirk whenever you’re in pain :”)

HIDES AND PROTECTS YOU FROM MINETA BC HE KNOWS DAMN WELL WHAT THAT LITTLE SHIT FANTASIZES ABOUT

loves heating//cooling things for you ,, like instant noodles or ice packs !!

surprises you w jewelry that have his initials on them !!

GIVES THE BEST CUDDLES I SWEAR

would hold an umbrella for u while you loop your arm into his as the two of you walk home through the light rain :”)

cries into your chest sometimes after youve fallen asleep bc it’s late nights like these when he reflects on just how lucky of a guy he is to have you— it’s hard for him to articulate it directly ,, but when he does fully open up to you ab it ,, you end up crying too .

WOULD 110% MAKE THE TWO OF YOU YOUR OWN PERSONAL LIL ICE RINK AND TEACH YOU HOW TO SKATE // DO FUN FIGURE SKATING DUOS WITH YOU

➪ katsuki bakugou

prolly got with you initially bc of a dare ( and he nEVER passes up a dare ) ,, but eventually those feelings started to become real and honestly ? it kinda scared the shit outta him . he didn’t know why ,, but for some reason he didnt actually want to leave .

OKAY LARA JEAN AND PETER MF KAVINSKY TYPE BEAT ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎ HIT US WITH THE FAKE RELATIONSHIP TO REAL RELATIONSHIP TROPE YESYESYES

teasingly-mean nicknames = his love language . enough said .

AGGRESSIVE !! KISSES !! ALL !! THE DAMN !! TIME !!

makes you wear his hoodie whenever you show even the sLIGHTEST hint at being cold

he just rly wants to see you in his clothes

he’s so clueless on how to do this whole boyfriend thing ,, but he’s definitely trying bc it’s for you :”)

watches and tries so desperately to copy all the cute couples in the movies you guys watch together

“ roses...do you want roses ? “ “ what ? “ “ the guy in the movie gave her roses...do you want roses too ? “

but at the end of the day you just appreciate him for who he is and that’s more than enough for you :”)

PLS DENKI AND KIRI ARE CONSTANTLY SHOCKED AT HOW MUCH HE’S TRYING FOR YOU

will take any and every opportunity to show off his strength and quirk to you <3

now we all know this man gets jealous hella easily ,, and its no different w relationships :”) he’d constantly make it a point to hold you extra close to him in public ,, show you off on social media and call you by a nickname//petname whenever possible just to reiterate to ppl the fact that you’re his and he’s yours

WOULD LET YOU SIT ON HIS LAP AND DO HIS EYELINER AT 2AM PURELY BC YOU GOT BORED

pls i could rly see myself doing that i wont lie

honestly sometimes he forgets himself and his temper gets a little out of hand ,, but the second he sees his feral reflection in your fearful eyes,, he pulls you to his chest and apologizes profusely :”))

➪ denki kaminari

MF PROLLY GOT WITH YOU BC OF A RIGGED GAME OF SPIN THE BOTTLE AT MINA’S PLACE I CANNOT SEE ANYTH HAPPENING OTHERWISE

one tiny kiss turned into two ,, which turned into three ,, and before you knew it ,, the both of you were spilling out the pent up feelings you had for one another all this time—

mina never shuts up ab it ,, she’s so proud of her matchmaking skills

when the power goes out during a storm ,, he holds onto you tight and plays w your hair as he uses his quirk to turn things back on ,,, “ shhh it’s ok,, i’m here “

will do anything and everything to make you smile <3

he has a lil album in his camera roll with all his favourite pictures of you ,, which is practically just all of them tbh ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

HE LOVES SHOWING YOU OFF IN THE MOST WHOLESOME WAY POSSIBLE !!

super energetic n bubbly but at the end of your dates he passes out right away in your arms

you make sure to wrap him up in blankets and give him an overload of kisses after he’s rly asleep though

will work embarrassingly hard to win you stuffed animals at the fair !! it doesn’t always work ,, but it’s cute nontheless <3

some of the staff and children at the fairs get pissed off but oh well ,,, what you do for love

pls he prolly makes you lil bento boxes for lunch every now and then ( ESPECIALLY DURING EXAM WEEK ) w tiny notes and designs taped on them

constantly calls you “ shawty “ lowkey un ironically and dice rolls in ur direction whenever he sees you ,,, you just end up laughing and playfully punching him

I JUST KNOW HE DOES THE F BOY LIP BITE FACE CONSTANTLY

ITS AN ADDICTION FOR HIM I SWEAR

SUPER CLINGY BUT IN THE CUTEST WAY AAAA

LIL STICKY NOTE LOVE LETTERS FROM HIM IN YOUR LOCKER EVERY !! MF !! DAY !!!

you both agreed that at home cozy netflix dates w microwave popcorn and fuzzy blankets >>> movie theatre dates

110% made a playlist for you at some point when he crushed on you from afar and shared it w you after you started dating

he made a collaborative playlist for yall AND multiple playlists of songs that remind him of you afterwards

pls i just kNOW this man’s love language is making playlists

theyre prolly all categorized by mood or smth too w the cutest covers ever pls

➪ ejirou kirishima

you initially met him bc he was hella upset and alone this one time and you were the only one to notice and be there for him bc he ran away from everyone else to hide the “ uNmanLy “ tears :”))

takes you w him on his lil gym visits ,, hypes you up with every little thing u accomplish !!

constantly teasing bakugou with how he’s able to pull you and how lucky he is to have you

bakugou gets hella annoyed most of the time and just blasts him away-

idk bro i just feel like kiri prolly calls you “ adorable “ alot i wont lie-

LOVES HAND HOLDING,, takes any opportunity to hold ur hand and trace lil casual patterns across your knuckles w his thumb

sometimes he’ll even draw lil hearts on your hand

play fighting but sometimes the two of you get too carried away and he actually loses half of the time-

LATE NIGHT GAME NIGHTS WITH HIM AND THE BAKUSQUAD,, he loves being on the team against you so he can get all competitive

OK HEAR ME OUT;;;; DANCE BATTLES W HIM AS YOUR PARTNER AGAINST RANDOM PPL AT PARTIES

mans gets hella insecure ab himself sometimes ,, so he loves doing lil things for you !! opening a can ,, pulling the blanket over you ,, zipping up your jacket <33

STOP WAIT THATS SO CUTE BYE I WANT THAT

lets you dye his hair—THATS HOW MUCH HE TRUSTS YOU BYE

pls yall prolly aggressively play wii sports and just dance against one another on a regular basis;; it’s literally your thing and you cannot tell me otherwise ahjdjfj

pls i just KNOW this man’s an overly passionate wii player

will wrap his arms around your waist and hug u from behind as you make breakfast

WOULD WEAR MATCHING EARRINGS W YOU IF ITS FOR YOU

slow dances in the living room at midnight w you !!

eventually as you spent more time together ,,, you were able to change his idea of “ manliness “ ,, and he was able to realize that manliness is not equivalent to stoicism and that expressing ur feelings is still totally manly and totally valid !! <33

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jinmukangwrites · 3 years

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@damianwayneweek Day 4 (6-16): Reverse batfamily | Hugs | Soulmate

Warnings: Canon typical violence, major injuries, background character death, ✨angst✨

Note: this one ran away from me. It got a mind of its own. If I had more time, this would be so much longer. I've always wanted to write a reverse batfam story with Damian's perspective. Please enjoy.

---

Damian has only spent a month living with his blood father, and he's felt nothing but miserable this entire time. Somehow, life has managed to become even more stressful and exhausting compared to living within the League of Assassins. He... understands why his mother felt he'd be safer here for the time being, but at least, back in Nanda Parbat he knew what he was doing and what the rules were.

He's not sure where he stands with his father. It's obvious that his father doesn't know where he stands with Damian either. Damian, his entire life, had grown up with the knowledge of Bruce Wayne being his father. Batman. Caped Crusader of Gotham. Hero. Bringer of Justice. His mother's dearest, most precious love after Damian himself. She spoke often of him. Highly. Only when alone and no one else to hear them. His father isn't exactly on high standings with his grandfather nor other high ranking members of the League.

Yet, his father knew nothing of him until the day they met. His mother brought him to the streets of Gotham, lured Batman to their location, and introduced them there. His father seemed visibly shocked under that cowl at the information of having a son, yet he didn't question it.

Damian didn't know what to expect after his mother left him for his own safety. He didn't know all too much about culture outside of the League. He was, of course, taught the basics to blend in with American society—as well as other countries—if the need so came, but other than that... He didn't know what to do with himself when he first stepped in the manor to find only one servant and a new home empty of anything to fill his time. The cave where his father operates was locked to him from the get-go.

His father doesn't seem to trust him. He explained the situation to the servant, and then sent Damian off with the servant to find a room with the warning that if Damian "did anything", he'd regret it.

Damian's hardly seen his father since. When he's not working as a CEO, he's out as Batman, and Damian sits in the manor all day and night running out of ways to keep himself entertained.

Sometimes he sees his father at supper, but he doesn't ever start any conversation. Damian doesn't start any either, thinking it's purposeful. He doesn't ask about Damian's stay, or if he's comfortable here, or anything. He doesn't update Damian on any new information about his mother and the league. The only words he speaks to Damian are gruff good nights.

Miserable. It's miserable. He doesn't understand why his mother is so in love with such a miserable man for company.

He doesn't speak up on it, however. If his father is anything like his teachers or his grandfather, questioning him or speaking out of turn will just get him in trouble. He'd like to keep his stay at a tolerable level of misery, thank you very much.

So he doesn't say anything to his father, even though he's itching to go out with him at night to... to do whatever he does. He's seen the television, Superman has a kid fighting with him in Metropolis. Why can't Damian do the same with his father as well? He can wear a mask and change his name. He can easily defend himself, even against this country's love for guns.

He still doesn't say anything, and he spends the days miserable.

-o-o-o-o-

It's the butler, Alfred as he has insisted many times during his stay (Damian humors him by calling him by his first name, being as he's the only one to speak to Damian in this drab house), who suggests school a few months after coming here.

"School," his father says blankly, looking at Alfred like he's lost his mind.

"He's a young, growing boy," Alfred says. "It's not good for the lad to be inside all day like this."

Damian sits at the dining table, stiff like he's stepped on a landmine and is now waiting for it to explode. However, he can't help but look up at his father through his lowered eyebrows to meet his sharp gaze. School... doesn't sound like something that would be any fun, but... but anything to get out of this manor sounds almost heavenly.

His hopes fall when his father shakes his head. "No. It's too dangerous."

And something inside Damian snaps just a little. "Dangerous for who?" He demands, slamming his hands on the table. "For me? Or for the other children?"

His father looks stunned, and Damian's stomach drops as Alfred's eyes widen as well.

He's running out of the dining room before anything else can be said.

He's messed up. He's definitely, royally, messed up.

-o-o-o-o-

Punishment for yelling at his father doesn't come like he expects it to. A week goes by, and there's not a single word of his outburst.

It sets him on edge. It fries his nerves. It makes him jumpy and paranoid and frightened at every shadow.

So much so that he finally decides, one day, to pull the sword hanging above the library entrance off the wall and practice with it. It's heavier than what he's used to back in Nanda Parbat. British history is in the shape of the blade, but he still wields it and practices rusty moves on it until he's sweating in the middle of the library. Usually training makes him feel better, but the more time that passes, the more frustrated he gets.

He gets so frustrated that he imagines enemies surrounding him. He imagines the warmth of blood splattering against his skin as he swings. The taste as it touches his tongue. Their screams of death. He gets so deep in this trance that he doesn't notice he's broken something until the sound of crashing glass reaches his ears; he's swung right through a glass display case, the unprotected remains of a signed classic novel resting inside.

His heart jumps when the door opens to see what the commotion is about, and he drops the sword like it's hot when Alfred is the one to poke his head through.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Alfred gives him a long look, and then he sighs. "Come fetch the broom with me, and we can clean this up."

"Will you tell father?" Damian asks slowly. He can tell it's a loaded question when Alfred pauses and purses his lips.

"Not this time," he says finally, after a few heartbeats. "But I do think it's time I speak with him about some other things. Come along, the quicker we clean this up, the quicker I can get you a cup of tea to stop you from looking like a frightened racoon."

-o-o-o-o-

A few days pass, and his father invites him to follow after dinner. Out of everything Damian expects to come from this, being led into the batcave through a grandfather clock in the study wasn't one of them.

"You can train here," his father said, showing him a massive room in the cave filled to the brim with practice tools of all kinds. Dulled swords, throwing stars, bo-staffs, and straw dummies to name a few. There's locked cases on the far side of the training room, of which Damian suspects are full of much more sharp, dangerous, and fun tools.

No matter. He's already feeling his blood shake with excitement at the thought of finally getting some proper practices again.

"You can come down here only when myself or Alfred are here to supervise you," his father explains. "Nothing here leaves this room, and if anything breaks you tell us immediately."

"Can I start now?" Damian asks, barely managing to hold himself back from running towards the closest, one-handed blade.

His father, surprisingly, nods. "I'm going out, and Alfred will be down to help me with the computer. He will be in charge."

Damian can't stop himself from smiling. Finally there's something to do in this house. Feeling hopeful, he decides to ask one more question.

"Can I go with you? One day?"

Silence is his answer for a few heartbeats, making Damian suddenly fearful that he shouldn't have asked that. Then, his father sighs.

"We will see."

-o-o-o-o-

A few more days pass before they do see. He suspects Alfred must have had another conversation with his father, because he approaches him one night and offers to spar.

It's done in full concentration, not a single word exchanged between the two. Both are too busy studying the other's fighting patterns to say anything.

It's now that Damian realizes what his mother meant whenever she spoke about his father's advanced martial arts. It's brutal and expertly executed. It's only a matter of time before he's pinned. He's disappointed in himself, but not surprised to end up losing.

But not all is lost. He can tell his father is impressed when he releases his pin and tosses Damian a rag to wipe off his sweat.

"We need to talk to Alfred about getting you a suit."

-o-o-o-o-

The suit Alfred makes him is made of the strongest, thinnest material Damian had ever seen. It cannot only be Kevlar, because it would be heavier than this. It must have been created by his father himself, or one of his associates.

Whatever the case, he's in awe by it. Alfred is a master of every craft, it seems. He's managed to create the suit to Damian's submitted designs to the T, only making subtle changes here and there where sketches don't match up with reality.

It's mostly black, because according to his father white isn't a good color to go with in Gotham. It's understandable, as much as Damian dislikes it. He's always liked wearing whites and tans for his outfits, accenting here and there with greens and blues to bring out his eyes. Black is such a boring and dull color, but this, he supposes, he will have to deal with.

And it's not all black, at the least. Just the bits around his shoulders, cape, hood, sides, and legs. On his chest, however, is a splash of dark maroon, as well his boots and gloves. His belt is yellow, like his father's, and filled only with smoke pellets, a grappling gun, and a hanging pair of sticks that triple as escrima, a bo-staff, and nun-chucks. Not his preferred weapon, but his father doesn't seem to be very trustful with him and sharp ones yet.

He goes out into the city, out of the manor, for the first time in what feels like forever. His father keeps a sharp eye on him, reminding him every two seconds to not kill anyone, but Damian doesn't mind too much.

He's just happy to be out, and to finally get glimpses of what his father is truly like outside of the stories of his mother and the silent dinners.

He's ruthless, but not heartless. Strong, but not abusive. He prioritizes justice, above all else, and teaches Damian that even the criminals deserve it. The victims get saved, and his father leaves the criminals to be picked up by the cops to be brought to rehabilitation or wherever else they must go.

Damian's careful to remember these teachings, even though he doesn't understand them. He's been raised to think the only thing bad people deserved was punishment, but after taking down a bank robbery, his father researches the names of the robbers and finds that the bank keeper was blackmailing them to give him money on top of the loans they already had with the bank.

The bank keeper was trying to pay off the gangs to protect the bank from other gangs.

So on and so forth.

Gotham seems to be a big cycle of abuse, with no one willing to end it.

Well, no one besides his father.

It doesn't make sense to Damian why his father would try so hard to stop it, but he can at least respect it.

For now.

-o-o-o-o-

Everything goes almost fine until it doesn't.

For the first time in almost half a year, Damian finds himself separated from his father and Alfred. There's a new big bad in Gotham, a man with half of his face burned off by acid. Two-Face, he calls himself. Harvey Dent, his father informed before he left Damian behind to fight him alone.

"This is personal," he said.

And Damian didn't listen. He wanted to see what a real fight was like in Gotham. These petty bank robberies and classic muggings were getting boring and repetitive. He didn't mean to get so close.

His father was in a standoff with Two-Face, and on a stroke of bad luck one of the goons spotted him watching.

"It's Red Bird!" Shouted the goon. Red Bird is the name Gotham had started to call him by in the papers.

A group of the goons charged after him, the rest kept by Two-Face and his father, sneering as they separated his father from helping with their guns and a baby hostage.

And maybe it was seeing the child in Two-Face's arms that made him see red. Maybe it was the disappointment in himself for being spotted. Maybe it was simply all the pent up frustration that's been building without his knowledge since he's gotten here.

Whatever the case, he fought back a little harder than he meant to. What he was supposed to. He brought most of the goons down to the ground, clutching broken bones and bloodied gashes. His old training kicks in, and he goes to hit one of his opponents in a specific place that would kill them.

"RED BIRD!" His father shouts angrily over the commotion.

And Damian stumbles, stopping in his kill-path. His father sounds disappointed and upset and- and Damian almost disobeyed his orders and his father saw it immediately.

Then, before he can be fearful or horrified or confused, his own skull is hit hard enough that the world fades to black.

He wakes up with his arms tied behind his back and his entire person disarmed. His father stands at a makeshift pair of gallows, another man besides him. Both are hooded.

Two-Face flips his coin and asks Damian heads or tails. He says tails, and saves his father, but the other man hangs.

Then, Two-Face beats Damian with a bat, to the point he can't see straight, and the pain drags him back into unconsciousness. The last thought he has is that he's failed. He's disappointed his father, and he must have disappointed his mother as well if she hasn't come back for him yet.

He's failed.

-o-o-o-o-

He wakes in the batcave's med-bay, his entire body numb. He can only lay there with a tube running up his nose and needles in his arm, listening to the machine besides him voice his heartbeat. Vacantly, he can hear arguing voices outside his door, one of a woman he doesn't recognize and the other of his father.

He closes his eyes when the arguing gets too loud, but opens them sometime later when it stops and someone enters the room.

His father stands in the doorway, his face looking more raw and vulnerable than Damian's ever seen it.

"I thought I lost you," is all he says before he runs to the cot and grabs Damian's hand. The one not in a sling, he realizes. He's so numb he didn't even notice he had so many bandages and casts on him.

Not that he focuses on that for long. In fact, all he can focus on is that his father is clutching his hand like a lifeline and whispering over and over how sorry he is.

"I should have been better," his father rambles. "You're not like Jon, you don't have powers. I'm so stupid for letting you out there- I almost got you killed- your mother is going to murder me-"

Damian doesn't even know what to say. He's so flabbergasted by the actions of his father, that he just lays there as his father continues.

"I knew I wasn't cut out for this. I'm not even in my thirties, and I'm a dad. I tried my best to keep you safe, make sure you didn't get yourself into danger- and I fucked it all up. I don't know what I'm doing, Dami. I don't know- I'm sorry-"

And this continues for a little while longer until the door opens again, revealing Alfred and the woman who must have been yelling at his father before. She has gray hair, curled up like a loose afro around her head, revealing her old age. Behind her glasses, her eyes are sad. Together, Alfred and the woman approach the bed, and the woman lays her hand on his father's shoulder.

"We need to check his bandages," she says.

His father nods, wiping quickly under his eyes before he stands up. She gives Alfred a look before she leads Bruce out.

It's only Alfred and Damian for a moment, and Damian releases a breath.

"He's not going to let me out again."

Silence.

Then Alfred comes to his side and looks at the bandages. "I will talk with him. First, let's get you healed up and properly introduce you to Miss Thompkins."

-o-o-o-o-

Red Bird does go out again, once he's healed up. Alfred's talks with his father do wonders, it seems, as life at the manor has gone back to lonely and miserable—what with his father avoiding him at every chance. But he goes out again, swinging into the night with his father silently beside him having just finished retelling him every rule he must follow.

Damian intends to follow them. He doesn't want to lose this. He's come so close to losing this.

He hopes... That maybe... If he follows the rules... Things will start getting better again.

They fight crime like normal, going their normal routes and working silently by each other. By the time it's time to go home, Damian's feeling more alive than he has since Two-Face beat him with the bat.

Before they can return to the manor, however, a familiar signal is lit in the sky by the police department. His father stills and Damian watches him carefully. His father has been careful to keep him out of the business that comes with that signal, even before Two-Face.

His father sighs, then gives Damian a hard look through his cowl.

"Behave," is all he says before they're on their way to the police station.

There's a man on the roof. Commissioner Jim Gordon. He gives his father a greeting, then pauses when Damian steps out besides him.

"Decided to finally introduce us?" He asks with a raised eyebrow. "Just when I thought Red Bird was off the streets for good."

Damian bristles, but his father sighs. "What do you need, Commissioner?"

"Apparently a college teacher went insane and poisoned his students with a gas that made them see their deepest fears. Professor Jonathan Crane. It sounds like something you'd handle quicker, and I can get you the files we have on him after you explain to me why you're still letting a child run around in tights. Especially after you told me he was quote un-quote, 'alive but out of commission'."

"I don't see why it's your business," Damian hisses before he can stop himself.

"Red Bird," Batman scolds, and Damian falls quiet.

His father looks at the Commissioner with a hard look. "He's my responsibility, and I will look after him."

"There were rumors he died, Batman," Gordon argues back. "Two-Face bragged about it all the way to Arkham. He had blood on his face."

His father stiffens his jaw, then says through gritted teeth. "I will never allow something like that to happen ever again. If you want my word, I will give it in saying if anyone like Two-Face tries to hurt him like that again, I will make sure they regret the thought before it can happen. Red Bird will continue to be with me where I can watch him, and you will respect that. Trust me, it's safer for all of us this way."

He looks down at Damian, then almost smiles.

"He will sneak out himself anyways, eventually. Or I won't hear the end of it from a mutual acquaintance."

Damian finds himself smiling back. It seems getting on the good side of Alfred was a good decision on his part. And he's right in the former statement as well. Damian is sure he'd eventually get bored enough of being left behind and go out to prove himself without permission. Red Bird... It's too good to give up. He can't lose it.

It's like a staring contest between Gordon and his father for what feels like an entire minute, but eventually Gordon gives up with a sigh.

"Don't know how you do it. The wife's starting to talk about having a kid... I can't imagine a little one of mine running around doing the things I do, let alone what you do."

He brings a cigarette to his mouth, then pulls out a file with his free hand. "Take the case."

Batman steps up to do as was told, but before Gordon let's go, he gives his father a hard look.

"You better keep your word," he growls, "because if anything happens again to that kid, I'm holding you responsible and I'll bring you in for child endangerment myself."

Batman nods. "I'm counting on it."

-o-o-o-o-

Eventually, the topic of school comes up again.

Which of course brings up the topic that no one actually knows about Bruce Wayne's son. Damian's been kept a secret this entire time, unknown to the public.

"We'll tell them that your mother and I met at the end of highschool, and we have kept you a secret ever since. Due to your mother's weakening health, we decided it would be best for your future to have your custody turned over to me and the mother wishes to remain private. Then, we can-"

"Wait," Damian interrupts. "You're going to let me go to school?"

His father pauses in his verbal plans, then nods.

And suddenly, Damians jumping from his chair with joy, wrapping his arms around his father's neck without thinking about it. However, the second he realizes his action, he attempts to scramble away with horror. He's never hugged his father before. But things have been so good, civil even, to the point where they can be in the same room and have conversations about the weather or the recent sports game or even about a new cartoon Damian found on TV.

But they never hugged.

Afraid he's pressed boundaries, he pushes away, but he doesn't go far before a hand wraps around his shoulder. Damians left halfway on his father's lap where he sits, looking at him with anxiety churning in his stomach and an unreadable expression on his father's face.

Then, gently, Damian's pulled back in so now arms are wrapping around his back. His father's hugs are soft and warm, Damians learns. The opposite of how he fights. Yet he feels so safe and protected that he doesn't resist the action.

"This is really happening," his father says in a whisper. "I have a son. I'm really a dad now. I... I promise I will be better for you. From now on. I'm sorry for how I treated you... In the beginning. I was scared. It's no excuse, but I promise you, I will be better."

And he is. They get ice cream after and then watch a movie before going out as Batman and Red Bird.

Time passes so Damian starts school and makes friends. He meets Clark Kent and his son, Jon, and makes a best friend. He grows older, and happier, to the point he no longer misses the League of Assassins. To the point when his mother does finally return to see him, saying the danger has passed...

Damian tells her he wishes to stay with his father. She smiles, and hugs him, and says that she's proud of him. She promises to visit him as often as she can after they share a good cry.

She leaves, and visits, and time moves on a little more.

Until one day, years later, they notice a kid with a camera following them around and taking pictures. Then, the same kid admits to knowing about their civilian identities when confronted.

His father searches the kid up when they get back to the manor, and after some digging it's revealed his name is Tim Drake and his parents are neglectful and strict.

Damian sees the same look in his father's eyes as when he first told the public he had a son named Damian Wayne, and he gets the feeling the manor is about to get a little more crowded.

This, he thinks, is about to get interesting. It's been awhile since life threw a curve ball. He just didn't expect this one to come in the form of a little brother.

And life goes on.

#damianwayneweek2021 #damian wayne #robin #bruce wayne #batman #dc comics #reverse robins #jin writes #fanfiction #violence tw #injuries tw #death mention tw

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

Text

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstein II

Prompt: Thinks about Logan breaking his clean streak on self-harm

Thank you for the prompt, babe! I’m a massive nerd so here you go!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: Self-harm, self-doubt (kinda), our boi Logan not having a good time. Please be careful guys I messed myself up writing and editing this so PLEASE PLEASE be careful

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 6908

Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem: For any consistent formal system, there will always be statements that are true, but that are unprovable within the system. The second incompleteness theorem, an extension of the first, shows that the system cannot demonstrate its own consistency.

Wittgenstein II: For a large class of cases of the employment of the word ‘meaning’—though not for all—this word can be explained in this way: the meaning of a word is its use in the language.

* * *

Despite what you think it is, it’s not a cry for help. It’s not a desperate attempt at anything. It’s not out of control.

It’s just an option.

Logan is Logic. That is his job, that is what he does, that is what the others rely on him to be. Thus, he is not an accurate facsimile of a human person. He does not experience certain things that a human does, and as such, he should not be held to the same standards and expectations as a human, as he is not one.

He is not a human. He should not be treated as such.

Logan is Logic and thus he must be. He has work to do. Anything that risks interfering with the work must be avoided at all costs. Thomas relies on him to sort through the noise and arrive at the clear, simple, clean solution. Oh, yes, those solutions might not always be as clean or clear as perhaps everyone would like, but it is Logan’s job to ensure that they are as close to that projected ideal as possible. Even if they all acknowledge that such an ideal is impossible to truly achieve, that does not render it irrelevant for use.

An unfortunate side effect of being a metaphysical humanoid is that there are certain things projected onto him that have no strong basis. It is one of the many unfortunate aspects of living in a world that is so—sometimes frustratingly—anthropocentric. The inability to extricate the human bias from any given set of observations is an issue that has plagued many disciplines for centuries, from science to philosophy. Because of the influence of sensory perception on any piece of information, there will always be things that are either assumed that should not be, or things that are taken for granted when they must be considered. There will always be things that humans cannot prove. It is impossible to prove certain things within a given set while existing within the set.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem.

Logan is not human, and yet he is assumed to bear more similarities to a human than he truly possesses because Thomas is human. Thomas perceives him in a specific way that is in direct opposition to the function that Logan needs to fulfill in order to be useful to Thomas.

Thomas, as a human, assumes that Logan possesses human traits such as emotion, irrationality, and the inability to behave logically separate from the two aforementioned traits.

Thomas, as a human, requires Logan to be a being of pure Logic, in order to assist in scenarios that arise from the three aforementioned traits.

Logan is what Thomas requires him to be, but he cannot exist as something that Thomas does not see.

There is a small grey area in which Logan can therefore find a solution. Thomas has an abstract awareness of the existence of Logan, but he is not directly interacting or seeing Logan when Logan is not actively working with Thomas or talking with him face to face. If Logan is not being seen at that particular moment, the bounds of his existence are allowed to modify themselves in order to be the most productive. The meaning of the word is its use in the language.

Wittgenstein II.

Logan requires himself to be a being of Logic, and thus when he is not directly seen by Thomas, he must strive as close as he can to that point in order to be the most useful. If he can perform the logic and derive the solution before Thomas sees him again, then the fact that he will once again be altered is inconsequential. All he must do is remember.

Of course, the process of getting as close to that ideal as possible is difficult. Particularly when the switch must occur directly after filming. The process is not typically one that allows for the human traits Logan bears to be kept aside. No; between Roman’s stubbornness, Patton’s exclamations, and Virgil’s interjections, the three of them combined with Thomas’s inability to keep control of them for more than approximately ten seconds ensures that Logan’s capacity to control his emotions is a moot point.

The good news is he has learned how to curtail these emotional outbursts to exclamations of excitement over Thomas’s choice to pursue something or slight judgment towards the attitude the others possess. Or sass.

Mostly sass.

And it is not as if he never allows himself to retain the more human traits when he is away from Thomas. Socializing with the others is an important aspect of his existence. If they are all to work together for Thomas’s betterment, isolation would be counterproductive. And to say that their presence was merely an obligation or necessity would be a falsehood. When he has the capacity to enjoy things, he most certainly enjoys spending time with them. And when the emotions are simpler to handle—contentment, for example, or fondness, derivatives of happiness—they are simpler to put aside when he must work.

When they are not, the process is not nearly as…clean.

Frustration. Anger. Confusion. Other derivatives of sadness. These ones are troublesome. Mainly because they do not remain static—their meanings change as often as Logan looks to see what they are. They do not always stay the same word. They switch and flip and it is quite vexing. Which, of course, only serves to exacerbate the issue. The only commonality is that they all produce and/or derive from a sense of hurt.

Therein lies the solution.

There is a—quite clever, if Logan has to admit—loophole that Logan has devised in order to get to work. Emotional pain is something that he does not—can not—understand within himself. Physical pain, on the other hand, is a survival mechanism. Processing physical pain is much simpler, more distanced, and much easier to put aside than the complicated human emotional pain.

A loophole.

One that Logan has jumped through over

and over

and over again.

Just as Logan can adjust himself based on the meaning of ‘see,’ so too can he adjust what it means to feel ‘pain.’

The loophole works, and thus it is true.

Logic.

Of course, Logan is aware that this particular loophole is not one that would be approved by many people, let alone the other Sides. They, however, can afford to retain the emotional human traits that enable them to perceive it that way.

Hurting them would be…counterproductive.

But if they do not see it…

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

That is not the same thing. They have no risk of feeling the same type of pain. Nor will Logan take any measure that will endanger anyone other than himself.

Not that this is endangering himself.

It is simple. Logan needs to work. This allows him to work. There is no risk posed to anyone else, including Thomas.

Therefore it is true.

And it’s not as though Logan does this often. It’s not every day, it’s not even every other day. And it’s not much. Never that much.

Just…a quick one, two, three, four, five.

Then he can go to work.

The pain fades, as it always does, and his mind is clear, ready to be filled with the logic of what needs to be done and the quiet assurance that whatever it is will be untainted by human emotion. Occasionally the loophole will not stay open as long as he requires, but that is easy enough to remedy.

The others do not notice—and if they have, though he doubts it, they have never let on—and as such he makes an effort to conceal the loophole to the furthest extent he can. After all, it would not be ideal for the loophole to close, preventing him from using it to work.

It’s always small. It’s always hidden. It’s always private.

And if it isn’t executed as…precisely as he anticipates, well.

The others have never question why he keeps the first aid kit in his room.

There is a brief moment, early on when they are figuring out the dynamic between the four of them, that there is a name put to the loophole that gives Logan pause.

Fortunately, it was not him they were paying attention to.

“Virgil,” Patton says quietly, sitting next to the shaking Virgil on the couch, “can you take a deep breath for me?”

Virgil shudders. Roman makes eye contact with Logan as he comes down the stairs and quickly moves them to the kitchen.

“Is everything alright?” Logan asks as they move past the counter.

“Yeah, Specs, I think so,” Roman mutters, glancing over his shoulder, “I think it’s just a panic attack.”

“‘Just,’” Logan murmurs, “does this—has this been happening more often?”

“I think so, but I haven’t—we—“

“We have not been around Virgil long enough to ascertain a pattern.” Logan glances over to Patton, still mumbling softly to Virgil. He catches his eyes and shakes his head minutely. “What do we do afterward? Do we need to grab some food, water, anything?”

“Can you go get his headphones?”

“Are they in his room?”

“…I would presume so.”

Logan sighs. “I don’t want to violate Virgil’s trust by entering his room while he’s not there.”

“I’ll just go stick my head in.”

Roman vanishes and Logan turns, purposely paying attention to his hands on the glass, on the tap, on the counter, not looking over to the living room. When Roman reappears with the headphones and a quiet ‘they were on the doorknob,’ he risks a glance back over his shoulder.

Virgil’s leaning fully into Patton’s arms now, Patton murmuring softly into his ear. His breathing seems to have slowed considerably. Patton glances up again and nods.

“That’s us,” Roman murmurs, taking the headphones as Logan grabs the glass of water and walking over to the couch.

“Hey, Stormcloud.” He sets the headphones on the couch behind Virgil and carefully takes his hand. “You doing a little better?”

“Mm.” Virgil rubs his cheek against Patton’s shirt. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Logan assures, setting the glass of water down on the coffee table. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Virgil shifts in Patton’s arms. “It’s annoying.”

“What is,” Logan asks, “taking care of you? Of course it isn’t.”

“Logan’s right, as usual,” Roman adds with a wink.

“You’re alright, kiddo.” Patton plants a kiss on his forehead. “And you’ll never be annoying to take care of.”

“…never?”

“Never.”

“Here,” Logan says when Virgil still looks unsure, “why don’t you name everything that you think will be annoying, and we’ll tell you how it won’t be?”

“Oh, great idea, Specs.”

“…panic attacks?”

“Not at all, kiddo.”

“Insomnia?”

“You know my sleep schedule’s as off as yours,” Roman says, “what with time in the Imagination being different.”

“Nightmares?”

“Dreams are difficult,” Logan says, “even when you are awake.”

“Self-harm?”

“Never,” Patton says, Roman not far behind. Logan, however…

Logan sits quietly for a moment. He is, of course, familiar with the term, however, it is not one he’s heard in…

A while.

He offers his assurances that of course, he would be more than happy to help Virgil with any issue he may have, including self-harm, but the conversation lingers in his mind long after Virgil giggles at Roman’s antics and falls asleep on Patton’s lap. And certainly long after everyone has bid each other goodnight and Logan has retreated to his room.

Perhaps…

No. Logan is not human, and thus he cannot be held to the same standards and definitions. If this self-h—if this loophole is required in order for him to function, then it is not the same thing.

If he thinks he hears a soft hiss in the darkness as that conclusion crosses his mind, he dismisses it quickly.

…it still may be best to…attempt to refrain from using the loophole.

The loophole has not been necessary for a long time. Whether it is because Logan has gotten adept at reaching his necessary headspace without it, or there has not been sufficient ‘pain’ for the loophole to be required, there sits a shelf in his bathroom that has remained untouched for a significant period of time.

Surprisingly enough, this is one of the only things for which Logan’s impeccable sense of time does not seem to work. Neither does the possibility cross his mind that the two could be related.

Regardless, it is something of a shock when he reaches up to grab something and his fingers find the wrong shelf.

He pulls his hand back quickly, surprised to see the dull shine of blood on his finger. He glances back up.

Ah. Yes.

Well, it is always good to be aware of one’s options.

He turns the water on and runs his finger under the tap, watching the red dilute and fade, feeling the sharp little sting as the water hits the cut. After a few moments, when the water runs clear, he removes his finger and goes to dry it off when he puts pressure on the cut again.

His fingers part and there it is again. Dull, wet, and a little shiny.

He squeezes.

The blood fills the cut again.

He runs it under the tap.

Clean.

There is something strangely satisfying, he has discovered, about watching simple repetitive things. Watching the waves go out and roll back in. Watching the soft tick, tick, tick of a metronome hand going back and forth. Watching the gentle breathing of a sleeping animal.

Squeeze. Blood. Wash. Clean. Squeeze, blood, wash, clean. Squeeze blood wash clean. Squeezebloodwashclean.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door.

“Logan? You in there?”

Logan blinks. “Yes, I’m in here.”

“You coming down for dinner?”

“Yes, I’ll be down momentarily.”

“Great.”

Virgil’s footsteps trail away as Logan washes his hands. He turns off the bathroom light and locks his door behind him.

“Oh, Logan!” Patton reaches for his hand when he passes the plate back. “You’re bleeding! What happened?”

“Simply an accident,” Logan says smoothly, brushing Patton’s concerned look aside in favor of a smile, “I reached for the wrong thing in the bathroom.”

“Oh, well, alright.” Patton gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just be careful, alright?”

“Always.”

Janus gives him a strange look but says nothing.

Life is…good.

Thomas has been paying more attention to them recently. All of them. Virgil is talking more, Patton is explaining things, Remus is being listened to, Janus is being included, Roman is being cared for…and Logan is being seen.

It’s good. Things are…good.

And something niggles in the back of Logan’s mind, even as he smiles, talks, is with the others.

Something that tells him he has to work.

He tries. He honestly does.

He talks with the others, and they help, truly, but there are some things they cannot give him. And he cannot help them the way he needs to if he isn’t working himself.

He cannot help Patton if he is not distanced enough from the emotional turmoil.

He cannot help Virgil if he is not able to embody the logical reassurance.

He cannot help Roman if he does not offer firm, rigid guidelines.

He cannot help Remus if he is not able to critically examine his ideas.

He cannot help Janus if he can’t think.

He cannot help Thomas if he continues to be like this.

And the knowledge that he can’t help…hurts.

Well. He knows what to do.

He stands up from their dinner one evening and accepts the hug Patton gives him. Even as Patton’s arms curl around his waist, the contradictions in his head make his eyes close. It is warm but it shouldn’t be. It is safe but it shouldn’t be.

It feels good but it shouldn’t.

That’s not what Logan is for.

Roman offers him a hug too but he declines, saying he has some work to take care of. Roman pouts.

“But I haven’t had a chance to see you lately,” he says quietly, reaching out to lay a burning hand—it’s not burning, it shouldn’t feel like it’s burning, this is wrong—on Logan’s arm, “won’t you come on a walk with me? We can go to the garden you like, I’ll see if I can have the herb section all ready, too.”

It shouldn’t feel like Roman’s smile is melting Logan. It shouldn’t feel like Roman’s hand is holding him together. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid,” Logan’s mouth says, “perhaps tomorrow?”

“That’s a promise.”

Roman lets him go and turns to Patton. Logan moves to leave but finds his way blocked by Virgil.

“Oh, my apologies, I didn’t mean to run into you.”

“I did that on purpose, L, don’t worry.”

“May I ask why?”

Virgil shrugs. “Wanted to talk to you.”

It shouldn’t feel like the hairs on Logan’s neck are rising. It shouldn’t feel like his chest is getting hot. It shouldn’t feel like this.

“About…?”

He shrugs again. “Haven’t had a chance to see you a lot.”

“I can assure you that I have been present,” Logan says, “and I can distinctly remember spending time with you over the last three and a half weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I just—“ Virgil scuffs his shoe along the carpet— “just feel like I haven’t seen you.”

Logan blinks. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Just—never mind.” Virgil waves him off. “Good luck with your work tonight.”

“Thank…you…”

Logan starts up the stairs. He gets to his room, unlocks the door, and steps inside.

It shouldn’t feel like a weight being lifted off his shoulders.

It shouldn’t feel like that weight resettles onto his chest.

It shouldn’t feel like his hands are tingling.

Logan bites back a curse and goes to the bathroom.

It’s gone too far. He—he can’t make it to his work headspace on his own. They’re too loud. There are too many of them. He can’t focus. He has to stop this. He has to remove himself from this set.

He can’t fail Thomas like this.

No one can see him.

He has to change what it means to feel pain.

Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstien II.

Logan takes a deep, slow breath.

In.

Out.

He knows how to do this.

Get to the bathroom, close the door. Now there are more walls between him and everyone else.

Turn on the shower. It’ll be easier to clean up.

Put the blade right next to the razor. If necessary, blame the razor.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Always in the same place.

Ignore the other scars.

Pull the skin taut.

Make it precise.

Step a little more out of the water.

Remain in control.

Don’t grip the blade so hard it trembles.

Where no one can see.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In…

Out…

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

In.

Out.

Now the other side.

Reach over.

Step so the water doesn’t run over either thigh.

Ignore the blood running down the other leg.

Pull the skin taut.

Make it symmetrical.

Adjust the grip on the blade.

Don’t bite the lip until it bleeds either.

Ignore the shine on the blade.

If the lines aren’t right they will have to be fixed to match.

Don’t be sloppy.

Do this right.

In.

Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Logan leans his head back and closes his eyes. The blade is set down onto the smooth side of the shower. Water runs over his hair, down his back. The temperature is warm.

The water beats down over his head, his neck, his shoulders, his back. Unbidden, his shoulders relax and slump, his head bowing forward under the guidance of the water.

He cups his arms over his chest and turns. The water pools in the cavity of his arms, overflowing until it laps gently as his collarbones and down the creases of his elbows, landing with soft smacks on the shower floor. He watches it land, watches the little ripples and distortions from the falling water refract little artifacts of light onto his arms through the surface. Watches the water slowly start to run a faint red as he lets the water begin to run down his legs.

It hurts.

It stings and sticks and it isn’t clean, not by any means. It hurts and it feels and it’s the perfect loophole for Logan to jump through.

Now, if he closes his eyes, he should see—

Roman’s soft voice asking if he wants to go on a walk.

Patton’s hug, wrapping him up perfectly.

Virgil’s quiet remark that he hasn’t seen Logan recently.

No.

No, no, no!

Logan’s eyes fly open and he looks down. He—this should’ve worked. He jumped, he jumped, he used the loophole, this should be—

The blood is gone. It’s all gone. The tile isn’t stained, the water isn’t stained, everything is clean. But it—it hasn’t worked, did he—

The cuts are uneven. They’re too short on one side, too tilted on the other. They’re too faint. They’ve already stopped bleeding. They already blend in with the other scars.

No!

No, no, no, he has to—

This has to work.

He has to work.

Okay, okay he can do it—do it again. Do it properly.

Grab the blade.

Don’t worry about the grip.

One,

Two,

Three,

Four,

Five,

Six.

Okay. Now to the other side.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six.

Patton’s laugh. Roman’s touch. Virgil’s gaze.

One two three four five six seven.

No, no, no, no, why isn’t this working? This should be working, he shouldn’t be feeling this anymore, has he—has he forgotten how to do it right?

It’s been too long, he doesn’t remember, this isn’t how this is supposed to work, the loophole should’ve stayed open, he needs it to stay open, he has to—he has to work, he isn’t useful if he can’t work!

Don’t worry about the numbers.

Overload the system.

Drown it out.

Ignore the dull red shine all over the tile, the blade, the legs, the fingers.

Drown it out.

Make it stop, make everything go away.

Ignore the sting, if the feeling is still there it hasn’t worked.

Drown it out.

Ignore the knocking on the door, it’s not there.

Drown it out, drown it out.

“Logan?”

“Logan, are you in there?”

Drown it out drown it out.

“Logan! Logan!”

“Logan I swear I’m gonna break your door down!”

Drown it out drown it out

“Logan! Logan, can you hear us?”

“Damnit, Logan, answer!”

Drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drown it out drownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitoutdrownitout

drown

out

…

Logan blinks.

The shower is covered in a dull, red, wet, shine.

His thighs burn.

His hands carefully set the blade down on the tiled edge.

The water runs over him, running and running and running.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, it runs from red to pink to clear.

Logan stands and shuts off the water.

The towel is black.

He dries.

He dresses.

His clothes are black.

His hair is wet.

He puts his glasses on.

Mutterings are coming from the other side of his door when he exits the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He tilts his head.

“I don’t know what’s going on!”

“He seemed alright at dinner, what’s—“

“He was not alright at dinner, in fact I don’t know how long it’s been since he’s been alright—“

“I swear to unholy fuck I’m gonna break this fucking door down.”

“Please do not break my door down,” Logan says.

The voices stop.

“…Logan? Logan, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh thank god—“

“Are you alright?”

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“If you don’t open this fucking door—“

“Alright, alright, I’ll open the door, one moment.”

Logan opens the door and takes a step aside as the others spill into his room, Patton and Roman looking around, Virgil taking up residence on the desk. Remus walks in slowly, followed by Janus. Janus shuts the door and stares at Logan.

“Why didn’t you answer at first,” Patton asks quickly, “we were worried, did you—where were you?”

Logan indicates his wet hair. “In the shower, I’m afraid. It is both quite difficult and quite…impractical to come to the door while occupied.”

“Oh…okay.”

He adjusts his glasses. “May I ask why you were all outside my door to begin with? It has only been…a little while since I’ve last seen you.”

“A little while,” Janus muses, still staring at Logan. “How long exactly?”

Logan tilts his head, eying the clock over Janus’s shoulder. “Thirty-five minutes and forty-six seconds.”

“And why would you need to look at the clock?”

“…surely all of you are no stranger to losing track of time in the shower.”

He gets a round of vague agreements from Virgil, Patton, and Roman. Remus remains silent, prowling around the room.

“We are not,” Janus murmurs, “but you…”

Logan swallows. “You have not answered my question.”

“We,” Patton says, gesturing to himself and to Roman, “followed Virgil.”

Virgil hunkers on Logan’s desk. “I came because I heard Remus and Janus shouting.”

“…and why were you shouting?”

Janus just stares at him.

Logan’s throat begins to run dry.

“…Janus?”

“I believe you know the answer, Logan.”

He swallows. “You must be mistaken.”

“Please,” Janus says, almost too quiet for the others to hear, “don’t make me do this.”

Logan swallows heavily.

“Do what?”

Something flickers across Janus’s face as he looks at Logan.

He looks at Remus.

He nods.

No.

No, no no.

Logan was so careful.

He can’t—

Remus reels back and kicks Logan’s bathroom door open.

“Remus!”

Remus pays Patton no mind, striding in and away from Logan, even as Roman rushes after him.

Logan is frozen.

“Remus, what’re you—hey!” Roman makes an indignant noise as Remus shoves him back out through the door. “Remus!”

Logan can feel Janus’s eyes on him as he scans Remus’s hands. He’s not holding it. Did he—did he miss it? Is something—

He knows when his gaze flicks up to catch Remus’s that he’s been well and truly caught.

“You do know what my job is,” Remus hisses, “don’t you?”

Logan raises his chin. “And you know what mine is.”

“If you think that even begins to explain this—“

“Explain what?” Roman looks frantically back and forth between the three of them. “What the hell is going on here?”

No.

No, no, no, no, no, Logan was so—he was—he’s been—it can’t—why didn’t it just work? He could’ve been fine, this would’ve worked, he could’ve worked, he wasn’t—how did they see?

“Logan?”

“Logan, look at me.”

“Lo, you’re panicking—“

“Way to go, you two, look what you’ve done.”

“We’re trying to help him!”

“You’ve messed up a perfectly good Logan, that’s what you did. Look at him, he’s having a panic attack!”

“Logan,” comes a soft voice in front of him, blocking out the others into a distant murmur, “Logan, look at me.”

Logan blinks.

Remus’s face swims into view, concerned. He reaches out to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“You’re panicking, Lolo,” he says quietly, “you gotta calm down.”

“I’m not panicking,” Logan tries to say, only his throat won’t work.

“Why are you doing this,” he tries again, but nothing’s happening.

“What’s happening to me,” he tries desperately, only for nothing, nothing to work.

It isn’t until Remus’s thumbs come away damp that he realizes he’s crying.

“Lo—a little help here!”

“Logan!”

Logan collapses into Remus, who quickly wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him into a seated position, cradling the limp form in his lap. Roman, who rushed forward when Remus cried out, pulls him closer, laying his legs across his lap, not caring that his trousers started to soak.

“Easy there, Specs,” Roman hushes, hand drawing little patterns on Logan’s damp knee, “shh, shh, you’re okay.”

Then he looks down.

Logan can pinpoint the moment Roman sees the patterns of wetness through his jeans.

Roman’s eyes widen.

“Oh, Logan…”

“Can someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Janus turn toward Patton and Virgil. He can’t move. He can’t—it hurts, it hurts—

“Oh, sweetheart,” Roman murmurs, cupping the backs of Logan’s legs, “oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck!”

“Oh my gosh—“

“Logan—“

“Oh, kiddo—“

Oh. Virgil and Patton are here now. Great. Is it great? What is—how does this—Logan hurts.

Janus crouches down by his face, gently cupping his cheek and leaning forward to rest their foreheads together.

“Come on, sweetie,” he whispers, “I know it hurts, but you have to breathe.”

Is he—has he been quiet this whole time?

“At the very least you’ve got to breathe. In an out, come on.”

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

No…

That didn’t work last time…it didn’t work…it didn’t…

“…didn’t work,” Logan mumbles, “it didn’t work.”

“We’re not trying that, sweetie,” Janus says easily, “we’re trying something else. I still need you to breathe for me.”

Logan breathes.

“Shh, shh, there you go, just like that…” Someone rubs his knee gently. “Just like that.”

They’re all here. They can all see. They can—does that mean Thomas can see? IS that why Logan—is that why it’s been so hard?

“None of that now, sweetie,” Janus chides, lightly chucking Logan under the chin, “stay here, stay with me…no drifting off just yet.”

They’re all here.

Virgil frowns. Then he glances at Patton. “Pat, let’s go get L something to drink.”

“But—I—“

“It’s too much for him, Pat,” Virgil says softly, “with all of us here, he’s getting overwhelmed. Let’s go and then we’ll come back, yeah?”

“O-okay.”

As they leave, Roman shifts to let them by, and the fabric rubs right over the cuts, making Logan hiss through his teeth. Even though it’s quickly shushed by Janus, he doesn’t miss Roman’s wince.

“Yeah, denim over the fresh ones is rough, isn’t it?”

Logan goes absolutely still.

Judging by the way Remus growls and Janus turns, that’s news to them too.

Roman just looks at them all and raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, please. It’s not all long sleeves and pants all summer for no reason.”

“R-Roman, you—you—?”

“Yeah, Specs,” Roman murmurs when Logan can’t find his words, “me too.”

“Oh, we are not done with this conversation,” Remus mutters, softening slightly as he turns his attention back to Logan, “but c’mon, Lolo, you gotta—you gotta believe we’re as shocked about you, too.”

“But—“ Logan stammers— “but you—Roman you—you’re—“

“What, Logan,” Roman prompts gently, “what am I?”

“You’re—you can feel, and—and—“

“I can feel, Specs, that’s true.” A rueful smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And I’m sure that the…idea that it’s not always ideal isn’t that foreign to you, huh?”

“But you have to feel to work, I—I can’t, the loophole—“

“What loophole,” Remus asks sharply, “Logan, what are you talking about?”

“I—“

Janus cups his head again, easing himself down, mindful of Logan’s legs. “Why don’t you explain that to us, sweetie,” he says softly, “help us understand?”

“You—I—“ Logan tries to breathe. “I…I have to be useful. I have to—I have to be Logic. You—you all…Thomas needs Logic.”

“So...?”

“So I—Thomas still sees us as people, or—or at least Sides of people which means he end—endows us with certain human traits and—and qualities.”

Janus nods.

“I can’t—in order to be useful I can’t feel, I have to be Logic.” Logan swallows. “But if Thomas can see me then I have to be what he sees.”

He swallows again.

“So if I take myself out, then I can—then I can be Logic.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t what Thomas thinks you are anymore,” Roman asks gently, “so you…aren’t you still in the…aren’t you still in?”

“The meaning of words is dependent—“ Logan swallows— “dependent on the context, so if I can change the—the context then I can take myself—myself out.”

Roman squints. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh, Logan,” Janus murmurs, “are you telling us that you’ve determined that this is the correct course of action through logical principles?”

“Excuse me he’s done what?”

“You cannot prove certain things about a set while using the language of the set,” Janus says softly, his gaze locked on Logan’s, “and the meaning of a word is dependent on its use within the language. Does that sound familiar?”

Logan nods. “Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem and Wittgenstein II.”

“You’re operating under the assumption that your role as Logic is the determining factor,” Janus continues, “and that in order to fulfill that role to its greatest potential, you must remove yourself from the set of emotional beings, including a re-contextualization of what it means to feel.”

He nods.

“But if the language has become re-contextualized, then attempting to operate under all the other assumptions the previous language affords is illogical, let alone the fact that it renders the act of removing oneself from the set redundant. Another language is required to derive a solution ytt it would be impossible to translate the solution into the language of the original set.”

Janus cocks his head.

“And haven’t you yourself created an assumption about the nature of the original set? The role you play within it and its very existence prevents your leaving of it in its entirety.”

And Logan’s poor, tired, illogical brain is so, so lost.

In the distance, Roman huffs. “Okay, so I’ve got no idea what the fuck we’re currently talking about.”

“Same here,” comes Remus’s voice.

Janus smiles gently. “You’ve overlooked something, sweetie,” he says, stroking Logan’s cheek, “about you and how much we care.”

“What…what did I miss?”

“You said that you need to be useful.”

Roman makes an ‘ah’ sound. “You could’ve just led with that instead of showing off.”

“I most certainly was not.”

“Yeah, you were, Janny, shut up.”

Roman shakes his head fondly and leans closer. “You don’t have to be useful, Logan, nor do you have to worry about not being exactly what you think you do.”

“B-but—“

“Shh,” Roman murmurs, gently stroking Logan’s leg, “can I talk for a minute, sweetheart?”

Logan nods.

“Thank you…you think that you’re not being you because you’re getting emotional, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…well, have you considered that you’ve got a warped perspective of yourself because it’s being affected by your own perception?”

Janus turns to Roman. “My, my, Roman, discussing the limits of sensory perception?”

“I do listen to my dear darling nerd,” Roman hums, lightly showing Janus’s shoulder, “but anyway, Logan, you have to realize then, that means that you can’t objectively say you do or you don’t have these traits because you’re being affected by them.”

“Gödel,” comes Janus’s voice.

“Yeah,” Remus says, “and also that just because you think you’re only wanted because you’re useful doesn’t mean that we think that.”

“And there’s Wittgenstein II.”

Oh.

“Isn’t that what you told us,” Remus continues, “that you can’t logic your way out of everything? You’re no exception to that, Lolo.”

“Logic can be used in a lot of ways to justify all sort of things,” Janus agrees, lightly tapping Logan’s cheek, “and just because something may be logically valid doesn’t make it true.”

“That’s why we have you.”

Logan balks at Roman’s words. “M-me?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Roman smiles, “you. You with your feelings and your care and your you-ness. You’re a part of this set and you’re not going anywhere.”

“And we don’t want you to.”

Logan’s thighs burn.

“Shh, shh, sweetie,” Janus hushes as tears start to well up in Logan’s eyes again, “it’s okay, we’ll help you—oh, sweetie, it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Will you let us help you clean them?”

Unbidden, Logan’s face flares bright red.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, sweetie…”

Roman gently nudges Remus’s arm. “Let me. You two go check on Patton and Virgil.”

“What?”

“Roman—“

“Come on,” Roman coaxes, “it’s not like I don’t have the practice.”

“We are so not done with this conversation,” Remus mutters as he squeezes Logan’s waist, “but is that okay, Lolo?”

Logan nods. Better just one than all.

“We’ll be back,” Janus promises, giving his cheek one last pat as he leaves.

“Easy does it,” Roman murmurs as he starts to lean Logan back against the wall, “do you have a long shirt?”

Logan motions wordlessly toward the closet. Roman finds the softest shirt Logan owns—how Roman knows is beyond him—and lays it gently in Logan’s lap.

“Change,” he says softly, letting their foreheads rest together for a moment, “I won’t look.”

The cuts have dried to the jeans and they burn, Logan biting his lip to keep from crying out as he gets them off. He’s panting by the time he’s done. Roman turns back with the first aid kit in his hands and kneels down. Logan stares at a spot on the floor, far away.

“Alright,” he says, pulling out the wipes and bandages, “Logan?”

“Mm?”

“You tell me to stop, I stop dead,” Roman promises, “but you must tell me, alright?”

“I will.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. This may sting a bit.”

It does, but Roman is careful and thorough and far too good at this.

“How do you think it was for us,” Roman whispers when Logan voices that last part, “when we realized?”

“My apologies.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant. I just meant that you’re so important to us, Logan, you, that this…this hurts. And I don’t ever want you to think that this is necessary for us to love you.”

Love.

The word stutters in Logan’s throat.

“Too much?” Oh. Roman must think it’s his legs. “Here…”

Roman reaches out and gently rests Logan’s hands on his shoulders.

“There…Keep your hands on my shoulders. Then if something hurts too much, you give me a squeeze and let me know, hmmm?”

“…okay.”

Love…

One of the larger cuts stings horribly as Roman begins to clean it and Logan tenses, his hands gripping Roman’s shoulders.

“Hurt?”

“A little.”

“Here…” Roman leans down and blows a stream of cool air over the cut. “…better?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I’m almost done.” He carefully applies the bandages, smoothing his hand across them as he finishes. “There…all better.”

He packs away the first aid kit, only to pause and look up when Logan’s still staring at the same spot on the floor. He stops, setting the kit aside and taking a seat near his hips, reaching and twisting to cup Logan’s face in his hands.

“Hey,” he calls gently, “talk to me, sweetheart.”

Logan wets his suddenly-dry lips. “I don’t think I’ve…processed this yet.”

“That’s okay, Lo, it’s not gonna be a quick thing.” Roman glances back. “And certainly not if it’s been happening for a long time. Though, if it’s any consolation, I don’t think any of us have fully processed it either.”

“I…”

Logan gets interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

“Can we let them in, sweetheart?” Logan nods. “Come in.”

Patton appears first, holding a glass of water out to him. Virgil comes in next, holding a massive pile of blankets, helped by Janus. He can hear Remus take the kit and put it away.

“Hey, there, kiddo,” Patton whispers as Logan starts to drink, “there you go…thank you.”

“How’re you doing, L?” Virgil tilts his head a little. “All things considered?”

All things considered…

Logan takes a deep breath and turns, trying to look at his legs.

Before he can, Remus has his hands over his eyes.

“Ah!”

“Sorry, Lolo,” Remus mutters, “but even I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

“…if I don’t look, it—I…”

Did it happen? Did I—did it work, did I not—did I do it wrong? It has to be done right, I need to—dull, red, wet, shine, one, two, three, four—

“…alright,” Remus whispers, removing his hands.

The bandages cover most of it.

His hands tremble.

It hurts.

“H-help me.”

“I’m here,” Roman says instantly, rushing forward to pull Logan into a tender hug, “I’m right here, sweetheart, I’m right here.”

He tries to hug him back but his arms are shaking too much so he can’t.

And this, more than anything, is what makes him finally start to fall apart.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

Roman adjusts his grip, settling Logan’s arms over his shoulders. He cradles Logan like he’s something precious, something true.

“Can we help,” comes Patton’s strangled whisper, “can we help too, Logan?”

“Please?”

Patton is behind him in an instant. Remus clings onto him from the side. Virgil wraps them all in one of the weighted blankets as Janus pulls Logan’s legs into his lap.

“Don’t worry about figuring anything out right now,” Patton murmurs, “or jumping through any loopholes. Just…just be for a little bit, yeah?”

Logic disappears in a soft puff as Logan buries his head in Roman’s shoulder and cries.

Set complete.

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trashmenofmarvel · 3 years

Text

Branded - Chapter 39

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You wake up, imprisoned and alone.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Kidnapping, captivity

AO3

Pain was the first thing you became aware of. A deep ache in your left shoulder, radiating down your body where it made contact with a hard, cold surface. The chill went deeper than your skin, seeping into your very bones.

You opened your eyes, winced, and shut them again. The room was dark but you’d stared directly at a caged bulb in the middle of the room, and even that dim light had sent a piercing pain through your skull.

More slowly this time, you cracked open your eyelids and took in the scenery. The first thing you noticed were the bars. You were in a small cell, stone walls on three sides, the fourth a cage of iron bars and open to a larger room. Everything was varying shades of grey, shadows cast in sharp relief by the sole light outside of your cell. The room beyond was bare, as far as you could tell, except for an old-fashioned projector in the corner.

Carefully, you pulled yourself into a sitting position, releasing a whimper as your muscles stretched in protest. You were still fully clothed at least, except your shoes were missing. It took you a moment to place them, still at Bucky’s penthouse where you’d been… taken.

Taken by the Alp. But there had been a man, hadn’t there? He’d hit you with a cattle prod or taser of some kind. And then he’d tortured the demon who’d abducted you. Or… were you misremembering? Didn’t electrocution have an effect on one’s short term memory?

Pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders, you rose to your feet and made a slow turn to examine your cell. It wasn’t very large and there wasn’t much to see. A stone bench was set into the wall and there was a bucket in one corner.

Perhaps it was the repetitive pattern of the stone that made it stand out in relief, but your eye was caught by a series of marks on the wall. You knelt in front of the bench and took a closer look, hoping for a clue as to where you were and why.

What you saw sent a jolt of recognition and horror through your mind. They were tally marks, dozens and dozens of rows of them. You recognized the particular slant of the fifth mark of each set of tallies. They were identical to the marks made on a cave deep within the demon realm.

The markings were Bucky’s.

You jerked your fingers away as if you’d been scalded. Panic leapt up your throat as you sprang to your feet.

No! This can’t be happening!

There was a door set into the bars and you grabbed it, rattling it as hard as you could. The iron wouldn’t budge. As old as the bars looked, maybe even as old a century, they weren’t going to break anytime soon.

You dug your fingers into your hair and tried to slow your racing heart. Taking a deep breath, you counted off the things you knew:

You were abducted from Bucky’s apartment by another demon.

A man was responsible, and he wanted you alive and relatively unharmed.

Your surroundings were old, technologically primitive, and possibly underground.

Your pulse lowered to a more reasonable rate as you continued your mental checklist.

You were in a place Bucky had been before.

And who else had held Bucky captive except the sorcerers? You knew the answer, and it threatened to send you into another anxiety attack.

Think! you scolded yourself. If HYDRA was responsible, where are the rest of them? Soldiers, guards, henchmen, whatever. Surely there had to be more than one man?

But who else would have access to a place like this? Who else would know about demons? About you?

You paced the short length of the cell, both to keep your mind occupied and your body warm. It was a damp kind of chill, leading credence to the idea that you were underground or at least in an interior part of a stone building. You didn’t know much about Bucky’s captivity. Were you in the same place that you’d seen in the memory? It had also been dim and cold in that place, but it was too hard to tell.

Eventually your legs became too wobbly to hold you up, the adrenaline rush having run its course and leaving you weary and trembling. You sat on the stone bench and licked your chapped lips. They hadn’t forgotten you, had they? How long had you been down here? They wouldn’t go through all this trouble just to leave you to die, surely.

The only kernel of warmth and hope you could find was in the knowledge that perhaps even now, people were searching for you. Whether it be Rogers, Strange, or your boss from work, someone was bound to notice you were missing and would take steps to find you. Or at least, call your emergency contact.

Oh, God. Your mom. She would be devastated. Guilt twisted your insides and made it just a little harder to breathe.

All you could do was pray you were found quickly, but then you remembered how you’d gotten here to begin with. Colors blurring in the air like a water painting, the stench of burning sulfur, and the nauseating sensation of gravity shifting. How far had the Alp taken you?

At least you could take comfort you were still on the same planet and hope there wasn’t any time traveling involved, now that you knew that was a real thing.

After an indeterminate amount of time where you waited in silence, head cradled in your hands, a heavy wooden door opened on the far side of the outer room. Your head jerked up and you half-rose to your feet in an awkward crouch, trapped between fight and flight with an option for neither.

When the man walked beneath the caged bulb, you blinked in surprise. He was not what you’d imagined: medium height, brown hair, and pale skin that looked sallow in the harsh lighting. His features were surprisingly soft, as was his voice when he spoke.

“I suppose you’re curious where you are.”

“Not really.” You hugged yourself, pulling in your jacket tighter around your shoulders as you sized him up. “I want to go home.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” He had the audacity to smile at you, and yet, it wasn’t mean or cruel. It was almost sad. “But you cannot go home just yet. Perhaps, in time. Do you know why you’re here?”

“No. And I don’t care.” Another lie, but you weren’t going to give him what he wanted, which right now seemed to be your attention.

He stared for a long moment, so long sweat trickled down the back of your neck despite the chill. And then he opened his mouth and began to speak. He listed off your full name, your address, your place of work. Next, he gave your mother’s name and her address. And then your sister’s—

“All right, stop!” you choked out past the horror in your throat. “You made your point!”

“I’m not sure I have,” he continued just as calmly as before. “Nor do I think you understand your circumstances. You believe I have brought you here to harm you. This is the opposite of what I want. In fact, my goal will set you free.”

He walked forward until he was only a couple of feet from the bars, his eyes lingering on your face with a dark sort of intensity.

“Set you free from Sergeant Barnes’ control.”

Air was trapped in your lungs as you tried to fight down the ball of panic curled in your chest.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, voice weaker than you’d intended it to be.

“You do. I have been watching you for weeks, courtesy of our… mutual friend.”

He could only mean the Alp. The thought of the demon stalking you all the way to your mom’s house, watching as you and Bucky spent time together…

Bile burned in your throat, threatening to choke you on it.

“I admit, with the sorcerers aware of your existence, not to mention Sergeant Barnes’ possessive attention, I had to wait longer than I would have liked. You see…” The man moved beyond the edges of your cell and returned with a chair. Unlike everything else here, it looked modern, a fabric and metal folding chair.

He sat down in it and faced you, his hands folded politely in his lap.

“I know about the demon pact. I know you’re bonded to Sergeant Barnes, forced to be drained like some sort of… milk cow. It must be truly degrading to be used in such a way. Humiliating to be the slave of a beast.”

He leaned forward, his brown eyes darker in the shadows.

“But I can free you from this terrible bond. All you have to do… is send out a cry for help.”

A cry for help? What could that possibly mean? Even if you understand what this lunatic wanted, you weren’t going to help him do anything to Bucky.

So you said nothing. You simply met his gaze and waited him out.

He leaned back in his chair, planting both feet firmly on the ground as he smoothed out the legs of his jeans.

“That’s all right. Your distress will no doubt be heard loud and clear across your bond. It will only be a matter of time before Sergeant Barnes takes the bait, and he will soon be in my possession. And then, when he is bound to me, you will be freed.”

He rose to his feet and picked up the chair, snapping the chair shut.

“What?”

You were off the bench and at the bars, slightly rattling them in your fists as he turned his back to you.

“You can’t!” you shouted, voice echoing off the enclosed space.

“I assure you, I can and I will.”

“No.” You shook your head, blinking angrily as your eyes burned. “Bucky would rather die than let HYDRA take him again.”

The man hesitated. He half-turned toward you, his expression curious.

“I am not HYDRA. But I suspect you are right, and I find it quite interesting you are even aware of their significance. Sergeant Barnes… has shared much with you? Perhaps, even has a misguided sense of affection for you?”

His eyes narrowed.

“And you for him?”

You snapped your mouth shut and glared. His lips turned upwards at the corners.

“You will find I am a reasonable man. Once Sergeant Barnes is mine, I will allow you to stay and sate his feeding habits. It is not one I am interested in partaking in myself.” He gave a careless sort of shrug. “But if you decline, I will return you to your home, unharmed. There are, after all, plenty of men and woman who will be willing to quench Sergeant Barnes’ appetite. For the right price.”

You banged your palm against the iron bars, not even wincing as the slap stung your hand. The man’s smile, though muted, was satisfied, and he left through the wooden door, the scrape of a bolt sliding into place from the other side.

Returning to your previous position on the bench, you couldn’t get the thought out of your head. Bucky forced to feed from strangers against his will, forced to be the monster he’d fought so hard to leave behind.

But that wouldn’t happen. That was the irony of all of this. Bucky’s decision, the one you had hated so much these past few days, was the one thing that was going to save his life.

This man didn’t know Bucky was frozen. He didn’t know your bond was muted, and Bucky wouldn’t come no matter what happened to you. He was safe in New York, frozen in his cryo-chamber and unaware you were missing.

You were grateful beyond measure that he was safe. But when the man realized Bucky wasn’t coming…

…where did that leave you?

Next Chapter

#branded #demon!bucky barnes #demon!bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing

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eldritchqueerture · 3 years

Text

Chapter 7: Threads

Hello! Long time no see! The delay was unplanned and I'm sorry about that. I had an idea in the meantime to add more fluff chapters before shit starts to go down but then I couldn't get to writing them while telling myself that I will write them eventually, and then I had other ideas, and I was writing for Summer in the Archives, and so we are where we are. I decided to just keep posting what I have and if I do feel like adding fluff that would be happening in the meantime then I will just make a separate work in the series. I'm aiming to go back to my weekly schedule (haha), so I hope I can get the next chapter out next Friday. As always, please leave me a comment or come yell at me here on tumblr, it always brightens my day and keeps my motivation up! Enjoy <3

Martin looks at Jon’s sleeping face and thoughts swirl inside his head like tendrils of the mist that has been following him, tendrils that meet in one specific place – his feelings for him. He’s not proud of the fact that this is where his thoughts end up turning every time he thinks about Jon, considering the severity of the situation Sasha explained to him, but he cannot help wondering – despite his better judgement – if Jon doesn’t share them. He replays the worry in his brown eyes, the tight hugs, always ensuring he’s there, safe, and whole… He might be adding meaning to otherwise ordinary actions, of course, but he can allow himself to hope, for when that hope sparks inside him, the fog withdraws.

Jon is wrapped in a blanket on the cot in the storage room, where Martin has laid him. They found him sleeping on the desk in his office, his eyes all red-rimmed and puffed up; they didn’t comment on it. Martin carried him to the storage room and placed his glasses nearby. Tim went to take Sasha home, so she can get some rest, too, and was supposed to come back with lunch; the events of the morning are laying heavy on all of them and have left them quite hungry.

Martin closes the door to the storage room and comes back to his desk. Working seems a bit pointless when you know that your boss is scheming an apocalypse somewhere behind your back and you can’t quit the job, but he finds himself needing a distraction, so he opens up his computer to do some follow up research on Jason North and the alleged ritual site he found in the middle of a Scottish forest. Martin’s never been good with research, not like Sasha, so he soon stumbles upon a dead end. He ends up researching pictures for Scottish forests and cottages, and he daydreams, with his poem notebook by his side. How nice would it be to just move to Scotland, to a cottage like that and forget everything. Grow your own vegetables and herbs, welcome the sun every morning with a cup of tea; go down to the town for some groceries, meet some good cows; and maybe Jon is there with him, and he finally gets through to his head that he shouldn’t make tea in the microwave, and they cuddle on the couch while reading—

“’scuse us,” comes a deep voice and Martin looks up, startled, to find two delivery men standing there, in the Archives, with a big package next to them.

“Looking for the Archivist,” the other man says, but Martin figures that just because the voice is coming from a slightly different direction. They sound exactly the same; he finds they look similar, too. Their clothes are identical; they’re different makes and all but somehow, he can’t tell these two men apart. There’s… something off to them.

“Sorry, are you two meant—” Martin blinks, but one of them interrupts him.

“Won’t take up your time.”

“Just got a delivery.”

Martin opens his mouth, trying to process the fact that they seem to be two parts of the same whole. He wouldn’t be able to explain this thought if asked, but this is what runs through his head.

“Look, you really can’t actually—”

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

He looks and yes, there, on the package, says ‘Jonathan Sims’ in a very ordinary, unassuming writing. He glances over at the door to the storage room and back at the two men.

“Well, he’s not—”

“We’ll just leave it with you.”

“Be sure he gets it.”

Martin struggles for words.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually—”

“’course. Much obliged.”

“Stay safe.”

“I’ll… try?” He responds with the first thing that goes into his head.

“Your recorder’s on, by the way.”

“Might wanna change that.”

Martin looks at his desk and he notices a tape whirring steadily in the recorder.

“Oh… so it is. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“At all.”

They both turn as one and leave Martin, the recorder, and the package alone. He hums, looking from one to the other and back.

“Well, I know for a fact that I did not turn you on,” Martin speaks to the recorder. “Maybe Tim felt in a mood for a prank. It is April Fool’s after all,” he huffs out a laugh. “Would be his style to do something, even with… all this happening.”

He stops the recording and turns to the package; before he can do anything else, though, the recorder clicks itself back on. Martin gives it a sideways look and his heart picks up the pace. He frowns and clicks stop again. One second. Two. There; it clicks the red button on its own.

Martin stands up and takes a step back.

“What the hell,” he breathes out.

Suddenly he hears a familiar laugh from the top of the stairs and energetic steps running down. Tim emerges from the doorway and gives him a surprised look.

“You okay, Marto?” He asks and places a paper bag on his desk, then points his chin at the package. “What’s that?”

“Uh…” Martin collects himself in a second. “Two delivery men just came by. It’s for Jon, apparently.”

Tim places a second paper bag and his coffee cup on his desk and walks around the package.

“No sender. Interesting.” He strokes his chin and looks at Martin with a grin. “We should open it.”

“Tim!”

“Look, boss is asleep, the package came to the Archives and not to his house, how private can it be?” Tim throws his arms up but seems to be watching Martin’s reaction more carefully. He doesn’t look very bothered, Tim assesses; he seems to be equally interested in the contents. He sighs and tosses him a letter opener.

“Fine, but you’re taking the blame,” Martin rolls his eyes with mock exasperation, and Tim’s grin gets wider.

“That’s the spirit!” He cuts the tape at the corners and opens the packaging to reveal an old wooden table; there’s a hole in the centre, Tim reckons about six inches square, and its surface is covered in intricate patterns resembling optical illusions. He frowns at it. “Huh. A table. Why would Jon…” He trails off as his eyes follow the hypnotizing patterns. “Interesting…”

Martin watches as Tim drops the letter knife to the floor, enraptured by the table. He wants to say something, to call out his name, but the fog from the edges of his vision spills out at the sight of the table and it blocks out the world; Martin stops feeling the chair underneath him and finds himself stranded in a sea of grey, thick fog.

“Tim? Tim!” He calls out but there’s no answer. There would be no answer, ever; he’s all alone here.

—

Jon wakes up to a nagging feeling that something is wrong. He blinks, trying to get rid of the sleep weighing heavily on his eyelids and gathers his bearings. He realizes he’s on the cot in the storage room, a blanket thrown to the floor next to him. He still feels too hot, and he takes off his sweater vest. What’s this feeling, gently pricking at the back of his mind?

He gets up, wobbly as he feels, and makes his way to the door. As he opens it, a voice makes its way to his ears.

“…friend mentioned poetry?” Jon squints his eyes, as light reaches him, yet he immediately recognizes the voice.

“…Gerry?” He asks and blinks – yes, he can make out the thin and long figure dressed in black, sitting on top of Tim’s desk. Tim is there too, leaning against Martin’s desk in front of Gerry, and Martin sits in the chair, his cheeks coloured just a little with faint pink. They all turn to him with surprise when he emerges. He can feel tension in the room, and he acknowledges the presence of something that looks like a table covered with a blanket in the middle of the room; the nagging in his mind grows into anxiety. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin jumps up to him with genuine worry and Jon smiles slightly, as he shakes his head.

“No.” He blinks again, to chase away the sleep and looks at Gerry and his inscrutable expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry gets down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

Jon frowns with worry.

“Gerry, I’m serious.”

Something in Gerry’s demeanour changes as he sighs, and his expression clears.

“Well, I wanted to tell you that I’m in,” he says. “Whatever your crazy plan is, if you even have one, I want to hear it or help you make it; you weren’t picking up your phone, so I decided to come, pay you a visit.” He glances towards the table and his eyes cloud with a shadow. “And it turns out it’s good that I did.”

“What is this?” Jon walks over to the table and three pairs of hands shoot out to stop him. Gerry’s touch lingers comfortably, because apparently that’s what he does, and Jon isn’t so sure he minds it.

“An old table, with weird, hypnotizing patterns,” Tim says, and Jon detects a tinge of guilt in his voice.

“Did it have a hole in the middle?” He asks urgently and Tim nods.

“We need to get rid of it,” Jon looks in the direction of the stairs. “Put it in the Artifact Storage and make sure it’s covered.”

“Are you familiar with it?” Martin asks and Jon nods.

“Amy Patel case; the one where a person got replaced. Why would they—” Jon’s face falls and he turns to Martin and Tim. “Who delivered it?”

“It was two delivery men, really big, quite intimidating, but—uh, now that I think about it I can’t remember what they looked like…”

“Shit,” Jon sighs and rubs his face. “Okay, we really do need a plan.” He looks over their faces and his eyes stop at Martin’s disgruntled expression. “What is it?”

“What you need is rest,” he crosses his arms. “You pulled an all-nighter with Sasha, and you haven’t even slept for two hours now.”

“You do look like shit,” Gerry offers his insight and Jon fixes him with a glare.

“I can’t protect you when I’m asleep,” he says and looks pointedly at the table. “Clearly. Tell me wha—” He stops when Gerry squeezes his arm sharply. He takes note of the static in the air and clears his throat. “I want to know what happened.”

Tim sighs.

“Alright, it is kinda my fault,” he admits looking away. “I insisted on opening your package to see what’s inside. But in my defence, I thought it would be something funny; at least a bit humiliating for you, and we could laugh it off. The mood’s been horrible lately,” he grimaces. “The lines kind of… hypnotized me. I couldn’t look away and I started getting lost in them. It… It felt like being trapped in a web; the more I struggled to look away, the harder it was. I don’t know how much time had passed before your resident goth intervened. Then I came back to myself and Martin… he was grey again.”

Jon glances worriedly at Martin, who starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“I didn’t think you guys could see that,” he confesses. “It’s… it’s that fog you mentioned,” he says to Jon who nods, his lips pressed together. “It was… stronger this time.”

“He was a step from disappearing,” Gerry says, looking at Jon curiously. “I thought you guys were new here.”

“We are,” Tim says, looking at Jon pointedly. “You said you know why that happens.”

“I did,” Jon sighs and leans against the desk, next to Gerry. “I’m—Martin, I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

Martin looks away and he mutters something along the lines of “don’t worry about it”.

“The fog is… another one of the fears; called The Lonely or The Forsaken,” Jon says, looking somewhere into space. “It’s the fear that you’re all alone, that you can’t connect with anyone. Martin…” He exhales. “I have reasons to believe that your connection to the Lonely might have appeared in this… reality, along with my memories.” He finally looks up at Martin; there are no emotions on his face. “When did the fog first appear?”

“S-Sometime when I got transferred into the Archives,” he nods. “I thought it was just anxiety, but… y-yeah, it makes sense, I suppose.”

“You still don’t remember what you did to end up here?” Gerry asks and Jon shakes his head; Gerry clicks his tongue.

“So, what do we do now?” Tim looks at Jon. “What is Elias’ plan?”

“I…” He rubs his forehead. “I don’t remember exactly. I…” He trails off looking at them. They are waiting for him to tell them what to do. Martin, with colour in his eyes and something else there, something Jon doesn’t let himself think about; Tim, whom he hasn’t hurt yet, who still has hope and who isn’t filled with bitter anger and sorrow; and Gerry who’s alive, here with him, offering his help. Jon thinks about Sasha, the real Sasha who’s still there. He can’t protect them all from other Entities and Elias. Even with all of his knowledge, Elias still has more power here than him, and Jon sees that his threats weren’t a bluff. Jon deflates with a sigh. “We need to know if there’s a way to fill the tunnels with CO2 before the Hive attacks; and I need the table sealed shut - it’s not getting anyone this time. Other than that, I think we need to work the statements, like before.”

“Are you kidding?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Elias is serving an Eye power and not letting us leave, and I’m supposed to still work for him?”

Jon swallows.

“Elias… He’s dangerous. Even with everything I know, he can still hurt us. I’m not risking an open war with him.”

“What is he gonna do, kill us?” Tim scoffs but he goes quiet when Jon gives him a hard stare. “Fuck off.”

“Murder isn’t usually his style of dealing with things, he generally prefers threats and blackmail, but he can definitely do that, too,” Jon says. “Let’s just say we don’t want to piss him off more than is necessary.”

“You literally punched him in the face today.”

“Yes, I know.” Jon grits his teeth and looks away. Tim narrows his eyes.

“He threatened you, didn’t he?” He asks and takes a step towards Jon. “What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Jon says coldly. “We need to get back to work.”

“Oh, no, you’re going back home and getting some sleep,” Martin shakes his head. “Or we refuse to work.”

Jon groans but Gerry places a hand on his shoulder.

“Go, Jon, I’ll keep an eye on them,” he promises and after a second of searching his face, Jon gives in.

“Fine. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Martin says and hands him the paper bag from his desk. “Eat this.”

Jon gives him a grateful smile and, with a last look at them, walks to the stairs and climbs up.

—

Gerry Delano sits comfortably on a park bench with a cup of coffee in his hand and sips on it slowly; he thinks about the things the new Archivist – Jon – said to him this morning. He looked tired; the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, the absolutely horrendous smoking habit (at that Gerry just chuckles to himself) and the clean but messy clothes speak for themselves, and Gerry didn’t want to say it, obviously, but it was this entire image of an absolute mess of a confused man that made him believe him. The marks are curious, yes, but Gerry has seen many things which he doesn’t understand, and he’s okay with that. No, this man is clearly in need of support and if he’s really taken over for Gertrude (and, judging by the sheer amount of his energy just screamingBeholding, that was very probable), he is in for one hell of a ride.

If Gerry would have to describe his perfect life, with his mother and Gertrude gone, he’d probably say he wants to find a normal job and get some peace and quiet; that being said, he did try that as a teenager, running away from his mother and her life. He told himself then that he didn’t belong in the normal world and would always find his way back to his mother. He abandoned that dream for a while, until Gertrude offered to help him get rid of his mother’s ghost. He thought that maybe if he helped Gertrude for a while, burned some Leitners in the meantime, maybe he’d have enough and manage to build a life that didn’t always border on getting killed by something supernatural; and so his life went on and he never really grew to feel at home in the “normal” world. He’d about accepted the fact that he’ll probably die on the job with the old Archivist, and he wasn’t very surprised to find how quickly he accepted it. It seemed fitting; much more so than getting a job at a coffee shop or other, and just living among people who had no idea what’s really out there. Then he got shot in Pittsburgh – a Slaughter case he’d tried to prevent – and he was forced to stay behind in the hospital. In some fleeting moments of consciousness he saw Gertrude holding the Catalogue of the Trapped Dead and he prepared himself to wake up as a ghost any time; instead, he woke up to an empty hospital room and a note in her handwriting – “Build your life here. Stay safe.” He thought if this weren’t his chance to build the life he’d imagined for himself then it would never come; and he was right. He soon discovered that making friends is way too difficult when you’re able to tell which Fear Entity marked them in that supernatural encounter they’re too scared to talk about, and he returned to London, searching for Jurgen Leitner himself. He thought he found him, but he ended up beating up someone who turned out to just be some pathetic old man. And here he is, back in the world his mother dragged him into without his consent. Gerry sighs and takes another sip of his coffee. Maybe the universe simply needs a pyromaniacal, angry goth who did in fact end up in the business of helping strays.

He directs his thoughts back to Jonathan Sims and the Institute. They need to form a plan and Jon said he would fill his assistants in on at least the basics. He takes out his phone and checks the time – 1 PM. He rules that’s enough time to explain the basics of the metaphysical functioning of the Fear Powers in the world.

He finds his last messages and opens the one Jon sent at his request for contact saving purposes – “Here. – Jon Sims”. He’s a creative one, isn’t he? Gerry saves the number as Jon Archivist, then changes it to Jarchivist, and grins; then swipes to call.

No answer. He tries again and it still goes to voicemail.

Gerry shrugs and finishes his coffee. He burned his last Leitner in the alley just before he met Jon, so he doesn’t exactly have any new leads. He thinks he might as well pay the Archives a visit; it’s been a while since he was there last time, with Gertrude.

The street is quiet when he walks up to the building. The aura of Beholding is quite strong here already and he looks at the Latin words above the entrance. “I watch, I listen, I wait.” Tacky.

He comes inside and turns towards the stairs leading down. He’s not surprised when the lady at the reception calls out to him.

“I’m sorry, sir! Can I help you?”

Gerry turns to her. She’s a small Chinese woman with a bob cut and huge glasses; she smiles but Gerry can recognize a customer service smile when he sees one.

“Oh, actually, I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims, the, uh, Head Archivist. Saw him this morning, I promised I’d drop a few notes.”

“Notes?” She glances over at the papers at her desk. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Gerry Delano,” he tries to smile as she checks something.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I have you anywhere as a potential source—”

“Oh, that’s weird. I worked with the previous Head Archivist, Gertrude Robinson? Jon had a couple questions about her management style, you know how it is,” he waves his hand. “New job can be stressful.”

She looks over his clothes and tattoos with a frown for a second and then sighs.

“Alright, Jon’s office is right downstairs, through the Archives, Mr. Delano.”

“Thank you very much,” he nods his head and runs down the stairs.

Gerry doesn’t know what he expected to find down in the Archives, to be honest. Probably Jon being interrogated by his assistants, or maybe no one at all; he definitely did not expect to find one tall man staring into swirling patterns of a table that gave him very mixed signals of the Web, and another man in his desk chair, staring into space with a very unnaturally grey stare and his form dissipating into mist.

“Oh, I swear to God,” Gerry curses under his nose and looks around. “Can’t I meet people normally once in a blue moon?”

He picks up a blanket that lays stranded on the ground and covers the table. He then snaps his fingers in front of the tall man’s face and waves his hand.

“Hey, you still there?” He asks and the man draws in a breath, rapidly, and blinks, then looks around in confusion.

“Wh-Wha…” His eyes land on Gerry and he frowns. “Who are you?”

“Someone who just saved your ass from something nasty,” Gerry says, turns to the other man and touches his shoulder. Still there.

“Oh, God, his eyes are grey again.” The tall man grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Martin? Martin!”

“How did he manage to go so deep into the Lonely with you there?” Gerry asks and moves to look inside the Head Archivist’s office. Empty.

“Into the what? Martin!” He shakes him again and Martin blinks and exhales but does not acknowledge him at all. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”

“Where’s Jon?” Gerry looks at the man sternly.

“Jo—who the hell are you?” The man exclaims. “We need to snap him out of it!”

“It’s not that easy.” Gerry rolls his eyes and looks through Martin’s desk. “What does he love?”

“What?” The man looks at him confused and Gerry stifles a groan of frustration.

“Martin. He needs an anchor, something that he loves that will bring him back here.”

The man’s eyes search the desk frantically.

“Come on!” Gerry rushes him and the man groans.

“Can he hear me?”

“Allegedly.”

“What does that mean?!” He looks at him pressingly.

“It means I don’t know!” Gerry grabs one of Martin’s hands. “He might, if he’s not too far gone.”

“Martin,” the man grabs Martin’s other hand. “Martin, think about tea. Poetry. Um, about—” He’s cut off by Gerry’s groan of frustration. “What?!”

“That won’t work,” he shakes his head. “He’s in the fogs of The Lonely; he thinks he’s alone and that it’s never gonna change; that he can’t ever make meaningful connections with other people.”

The man’s eyes move frantically as he puts something together in his brain.

“Martin,” he squeezes his hand again. “I’m here with you, you hear me? You’re not alone and Jon is here too, and Sasha will be here soon, and we will all be with you here because we are your friends, okay? We’re—” His voice catches when Martin’s grey gaze lands on his face. Gerry unknowingly nods for him to continue. “Look, I know you’re convinced that you’re no help here because of that fake resume that everyone pretends not to know about, but you’ve been such an amazing friend through these couple of months and—” he searches for words before continuing. “And I know you have feelings for Jon, and you need to think about him because if you ask me, he’s head over heels for you too, and you’re just too oblivious to realize, both of you,” he laughs and a tear streams down his face. “So you need to think about him because he needs you to be here and stay here, and we need you too, okay, Marto, we—we really do…” He inhales, as Martin squeezes his hand back and blinks. The man sighs deeply with relief and leans his forehead on their joined hands.

“Tim…?” Martin speaks up with a very gentle, detached voice and then his gaze lands on Gerry who has now let go of his hand and stands back up. “Who’s that?”

Tim looks up and wipes away another stray tear, then stands up to face him.

“Yeah,” he frowns. “That’s a good question.”

Gerry smirks and climbs up to sit at one of the desks.

“Seeing how I just might have saved your lives; I’d rather think some thanks are in order.”

“I’m not kidding, who the fuck are you?” Tim crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Gerry notices he stares at his tattoos like he’s trying to remember something.

“Eh, fine.” He rolls his eyes. “Name’s Gerry Delano, but you may know me as Gerard Keay.”

Recognition flashes in Tim’s eyes.

“We had a statement about you!” He says and immediately frowns. “You killed a man.”

Gerry chuckles.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“What are you doing here?” Martin asks and Gerry crosses his legs.

“Waiting for Jon, actually. I thought I may find him here, but it appears I must have found his assistants, am I correct?”

“And you know Jon how?” Martin follows up; his voice gains a bit of depth to it, and he tilts his head, much more present than a second before.

“We met in an alley outside the Institute this morning,” Gerry shrugs. “Or, late night. Morning might be pushing it. He didn’t mention it?”

Tim sighs and rubs his face and Martin shakes his head.

“Eh, that’s fine. You two look like you have enough information to process for the next two months.”

“Something like that,” Tim nods and leans against Martin’s desk. “Jon’s getting some sleep and we’d rather have no one disturb him. It’s been a… hard morning.”

“He did look like he hasn’t slept in a week, I’ll give you that.” Gerry shoots a glance at Martin; his skin is regaining color, but his eyes are still unnaturally grey, and the edges of his form are blurry; the fog still lingers. “Hey, um… Martin?” He asks and Martin looks at him with surprise.

“Yeah…?”

“Just getting your names since you haven’t introduced yourselves. But that’s okay, I’m good at picking up from context.” He smiles and continues before Tim can speak. “So, Martin, what is it that you do here?”

“Uh… excuse me?” He blinks.

“I’m just interested, tell me what your usual day consists of. What do you do for fun? Your friend mentioned poetry?”

He notes the blush on Martin’s face with some satisfaction; the dark green colour returns to his eyes, though, still, his edges remain blurry. Martin can’t answer however; as he takes a breath, he’s interrupted by the door to the storage room opening.

Jon looks, frankly, even worse than he did before; in addition to everything aforementioned, his eyes are now puffed up from sleeping and he has apparently ditched his sweater vest, leaving only a creased, light blue shirt.

“…Gerry?” He frowns at him and takes in the room. “Something happened.”

“God, Jon, did we wake you up?” Martin shoots upright and the edges of his form become solid for a second. Just a second.

“No,” he shakes his head and blinks at Gerry. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching a zombie rise from the dead, apparently.” Gerry jumps down from the desk and crosses his arms. “Also saving the lives of his assistants by accident. I know you said you’re a mess but good God.”

“Gerry, I’m serious.” Jon gives him a look and Gerry sighs, but it’s a sigh of mock exasperation which hides only fondness. From the moment he learned Jon is the Head Archivist, he knew he would be a lot different than Gertrude; even if at first it was “this kid is a proper mess” contrasted with Gertrude’s calculated craft. He can see that what actually makes him different, better, is that he cares. Even though Beholding has him in its grasp far stronger than it ever had Gertrude, he has that spark of human empathy that she deemed an obstacle. He wouldn’t be the kind to sacrifice his own assistants to stop the Apocalypse, which maybe doesn’t give them big chances of success, but makes Gerry trust him. It makes him feel safer and it makes him stand stronger, and maybe that is exactly what is needed. And that one detail, that seriousness in his voice when he asks what happened to his assistants – to his friends – and the worry in his eyes when he checks if they’re okay, that’s what fully convinces Gerry that this man is worth his effort. If they can’t save the world with a strength like that then maybe no one really can.

—

Martin opens the door to Jon’s office to see the man reading something in a book. He looks up at Martin and his lips twitch towards a smile.

“Hello, Martin,” Jon says and immediately yawns. “God, sorry.”

“I was about to ask you if you’re still working.” Martin takes a look at his desk; there’s two empty mugs pushed to the side, a tape recorder (not recording), and some books and papers. Martin notices Jon’s glasses are still where he left them after he found them near the cot in the storage room. “You’re wearing contacts now?” He asks and Jon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well, I- I noticed you didn’t wear glasses today,” Martin shrugs and points his chin at them. “You forgot them yesterday.”

Jon’s eyes stop at the pair of glasses, and he frowns.

“Huh.” He rubs his chin. “Checks out, I guess.”

“What?” Now Martin frowns and Jon looks up at him, breathing in.

“The, uh—The Eye powers,” he grimaces. “This happened before too. I don’t—I don’t need them anymore.”

“Oh.” Martin shifts. “Well, I just wanted to tell you, you should get some rest. It’s—It’s late.”

Jon smiles fondly, staring into the air. Martin wonders what he's thinking about. Is he going back to memories he doesn't have?

“I really should, shouldn't I?” Jon asks no one in particular and sighs. “Thank you, Martin.”

“F-For what?” Martin laughs a little bit confused, and Jon looks at him for a moment before he shrugs.

“For caring. For being there.”

Martin looks away and shifts awkwardly again. Jon's stare, though gentle, is piercing; overbearing. Martin can't yet decide if it's good or bad, but it is certainly a lot.

“I should—”

“Could you—”

They start at the same time and look at each other. Jon shakes his head and gestures with his hand.

“Please, go first.”

Martin takes a deep breath.

“Could you tell me what—what it is that you want me to remember?”

Jon opens his mouth and closes it. His forehead ripples.

“I...” he begins and sighs, looking at his desk. “I don't think it was you. I mean—I think that... that it was a different version of you. In my past.” He looks up and his brown eyes are sad. “So it makes sense you can't remember because it never actually happened for you.”

Martin deflates with a little “oh” and looks down. The hole in his mind is settling nicely in the fog and he doesn't question it. Why would he? It was always there. He’s only lived this life, not anything else – if anybody would know it would be Jon. And obviously, it was a different Martin that Jon fell— That Jon cared for.

“Were we…” Martin stops, the word “together" left hanging in the air, and Jon looks at him for a second before something flashes in his eyes.

“We don't—I mean, I can't really— It's, it wasn't you so...”

‘I can’t really expect you to have the same feelings now’ is what Jon does not say, but Martin, of course, has no way of knowing that.

“Right,” Martin nods, and he can see Jon's cheeks blush, much the same as his own must right now. Martin swallows the awkwardness and nods again. “Alright, I'll, uh... I'll leave you to it. Then. Get—uh, get some rest.”

He closes the door and exhales deeply. Well, that was disastrous; he thinks, as he walks towards the document storage. There’s something heavy weighing down on his chest but he chooses not to dwell on it; it wouldn’t provide him with any insights he didn’t already know.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma oftm #jonmartin #niki.writes #new posting format because i have not heard of consistency in my life #we're back at it!!#also i promised myself that i would finish this #i Will Not abandon this #we are powering through #and we can Do this

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echo-bleu · 3 years

Text

all this time I had feathers

This is a fill for my @shadowhunterbingo square Christmas Fic. It's part of my map out a world series (with autistic Alec), but it should stand on its own. I only remembered I had a Christmas square on my Bingo yesterday, so this is written in two days and unbetaed!

Our boys run into some competing access needs over Christmas. I've given hints that Magnus has ADHD in this series and it's still not really explicit here, but I will write a fic more focused on that at some point.

The title is from a truly beautiful theater play that's unfortunately only available in French, Plume by Alistair Houdayer. The play uses a bird as a metaphor for autism and the full sentence is "All this time I had feathers and you lied to me?" (translation is my own). It's about discovering that you're autistic after years of being shut down and ignored.

Read on AO3.

Alec sighs internally as he opens the door to the loft and hears music. It’s been like this for days and he can’t take it anymore. Magnus has been hanging lights everywhere and blasting Christmas songs at every chance, and Alec’s headache hasn’t left him for days. Thankfully Christmas is tomorrow, so maybe it will stop afterwards.

Although that might be too optimistic. Alec has never really done anything for Christmas before, beside a quiet exchange of presents with his siblings, but he knows the decorations in shops don’t go anywhere until the new year. That’s one week away. He’s not sure he can do this without blowing up again.

He takes a deep breath. The last time he was here, this morning before his shift, Catarina and Madzie had dropped by to bake cookies with Magnus and Alec barely managed to contain himself until they left, exploding as soon as he and Magnus were alone. He said things he didn’t mean, and things he definitely didn’t mean to say in anger. He doesn’t even know where all that rage comes from – it’s just a deep, twisted feeling inside, his skin crawling until he can’t take anymore of the twinkling lights and the cheesy songs.

He stormed out and he and Magnus haven’t talked since, not even by text.

“Alexander,” Magnus says coolly when Alec finds him in the apothecary, bent over a potion of some sort. The smell coming from it is horrendously strong, though not bad per say. It smells like mint and maybe cinnamon – not that Alec is very good at identifying scents, but they’re ones that he usually likes.

“I’m sorry,” Alec forces out, even if the irritation is rising in his chest again. “I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t know what came over me.”

Magnus looks at him for a moment. “I have to admit I didn’t expect to spend most of Christmas Eve wondering why we’re even fighting,” he says slowly. “But you were obviously angry, and it can’t have been because of the flour all over the kitchen, since I cleaned that up straight away. Can we sit and talk about it calmly?”

Alec nods, breathing through his nose to avoid the now overwhelming smell of mint. “Are you nearly done with this?”

“Oh, yes, I’ll just bottle it up and then I can join you. Make yourself comfortable wherever you want.”

Alec breathes in relief that Magnus isn’t so angry that he’ll ignore their comfort for the sake of arguing. But it makes what he’s about to ask all the harder.

“Would you please turn the music off?” he asks as neutrally as possible. He knows it comes out monotonous and emotionless, and he sees Magnus tense at it.

But contrary to the expected retort, Magnus looks up and assesses him for a moment before he sighs.

“Oh, Alexander,” he murmurs, and the music stops. “Go. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Alec nods and turns on his heels. The sudden quiet in the loft feels like heaven, although he can’t look anywhere without being assaulted by bright and colorful Christmas lights. In the living room, he freezes for at least a whole minute, trying to decide between the comfort of the couch and the table where there are slightly few visible light garlands if he sits facing the windows. The choice feels too hard to make right now and—

Alec makes himself move and goes for the bedroom instead. Magnus said wherever he wants. They usually avoid having fights in the bedroom to keep it a sanctuary of sorts, but maybe this is a needed exception.

He flops down on the bed, looking in dismay at the fairy light garlands hung all around the room. He doesn’t hate fairy lights, he’s the first to admit that they’re pretty – when used with some semblance of moderation. Not when they cover every square inch of the walls. He sighs and closes his eyes, slipping under the covers despite the fact that he’s fully dressed. The weighted blanket immediately grounds him.

He hasn’t slept properly in a while. Maybe that’s what’s making him grumpy. There’s been a surge of demon activity in the city, on top of all the Clave ceremonies he has to attend this time of the year. That means he’s been on call or in Alicante almost every night, and sleeping during the day with this damn music on is near impossible.

When Magnus finally joins him, he’s nearly asleep. He presses his fists into his eyes, trying to force the tiredness out of his head. Magnus doesn’t say anything as he removes his jacket and slips into bed beside him. He still smells faintly of mint and cinnamon.

“Darling,” he says softly after a moment. He reaches out, but he doesn’t touch Alec, settling his hand an inch away from Alec’s arm.

Alec tries to make himself cross the gap between them, but it feels too big right now, his skin still crawling. He makes an aborted motion of apology.

Magnus picks up one of the long golden necklaces he’s wearing and offers it to Alec, without removing it. It has a pendant at the end, tiny intertwined circles that can spin around each other. Alec latches onto it without even thinking about it, finding comfort in both the stimming and the connection to Magnus.

“Can you speak?” Magnus asks. He soft, gentle. Not angry. Alec doesn’t understand – he deserves all of Magnus’ anger and more.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. He’s not sure he can hold a long conversation, but here under the covers, the lights hidden by the blankets, he feels better, like a fog is lifting from his mind.

Magnus taps the mattress with a finger by Alec’s head. “Have you been overloaded this whole time?”

“I’m not—” Alec starts immediately, but he stops mid-sentence.

Oh.

That’s what it is. The irrational anger, the constant irritation, his inability to focus. His speech has been as unreliable as his sleeping pattern, but he’s long learned to make do with groans and looks. The constant buzzing in his brain, the exhaustion that only he seems to feel…

“I don’t know,” he amends. “Maybe?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Alec bites his lip, focusing on the necklace he’s fidgeting with rather than on Magnus. “I didn’t realize,” he says.

“Was it just the music?” Magnus asks, unclasping his bike chain bracelet to match his fidgeting. Alec shifts his stare from his own hands to Magnus’, the repetitive movement soothing.

He tries to think about the question, to push it through his mushy brain and figure out an answer. He really is tired, in that way that doesn’t make him want to sleep so much as hide in a quiet corner. He knows that he’s taking too long to answer, but Magnus waits patiently.

“The music...the lights, too. Everything’s too bright. And...too many people.” They’ve had someone over nearly every day, wether it’s Cat and Madzie or Dot or Raphael or Clary and Simon, and occasionally Magnus’ other Downworlder friends Alec has never met before. After whole shifts at the Institute, coordinating patrols and trying to stay on top of things, or fighting demons in back alleys, all he wants is some quiet and peace.

“Alexander,” Magnus buries his face in the mattress. “I’ve been overloading you this whole time and I didn’t even notice.” He turns back toward Alec, his voice no longer muted. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Alec says. “You didn’t know.”

“I did not, but you still deserve an apology. How did we let get so far?”

“I—” Alec hesitates. “You seemed happy.”

Magnus shakes his head. “My happiness cannot come at the price of yours. I want you to tell me when it gets too much. When I get too much.”

Alec catches Magnus’ wrist in his hand, intent overwhelming his touch-avoidance. “No. It’s not you. You’re never too much for me, Magnus.”

They’ve only spoken a few times about Magnus’ history with that phrase, about his own difference, his own deviations from the norm, but Alec knows it’s something deeply ingrained. Magnus has been told he’s too much too often in his life, and Alec will not let him belittle himself that way. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t realized it myself,” he says. “It’s like...background noise. After a while, you can tune it out and you don’t even hear it anymore, but it’s still draining.”

“But why would you tune it out, instead of just telling me to stop it?” Magnus asks, not moving his hand from Alec’s grasp. Alec releases him and intertwines their hands instead.

“I didn’t...think of it,” he tries. It’s not true, not entirely. He didn’t ask, because Magnus liked it. He didn’t ask because he didn’t want to be a killjoy, as his siblings have too often accused him of being. He didn’t want to take this little bit of happiness away from Magnus because he’s an oversensitive simp.

He doesn’t voice that thought, because he knows what Magnus would think of it. And he supposes that’s progress, in a way.

Magnus understands anyway. “You’ve been so used to your perceptions being ignored that you don’t know how to set boundaries,” he says slowly. “Am I wrong?”

Alec shrugs with the one shoulder that’s not against the bed.

“You like the lights, and the music,” he says. “And the baking, all the Christmas stuff.”

“I do. But we could have found a middle ground. You can’t sacrifice your comfort for mine.”

Alec bites back that it’s what he’s always done. It’s not true. It used to be, maybe, with his family, but with Magnus, he’s never had to do that. Magnus is always so attentive, anticipating his needs before he can even ask.

So the least Alec could do is let him have this.

“Why do you like Christmas so much?” he asks softly, rather than dig further into it.

“It’s not really Christmas,” Magnus confesses. “I’m not religious, and I don’t care much about the meaning of it all. But it gives me an excuse.”

He pauses, and Alec simply waits, nodding encouragingly.

“I often get...sad, in the winter,” Magnus continues. “I don’t know if it’s what the mundanes call seasonal depression, or if it’s because I’ve lived so long and lost so many people during the winter months, but this time of the year is always hard for me. So I do everything to try and cheer myself up. I usually throw parties almost every night, just to surround myself with living, breathing people – and vampires, who thrive on the longest nights of the year.”

“You haven’t thrown many parties this year,” Alec remarks.

“No, I know you don’t like them and I didn’t want you to feel excluded—”

Alec tenses. “You shouldn’t stop for my sake! Did I prevent you from doing something that helps you?”

Magnus shakes his head. “Only in the same way that I forced you to bear things that were too much for you. We neglected to talk about it when we should have.”

Alec sighs and curls up on himself a little more.

“Besides,” Magnus adds, “This year, I have you. My very own living, breathing Nephilim to keep me warm. I’m better than I’ve been every other year. I just...I got scared that it would happen again, and I didn’t want you to see me like that. So I went a little overboard with the Christmas cheer.”

“A little?” Alec gives a small laugh.

“Okay, a lot. You told me you’ve never properly celebrated Christmas before, so I wanted to give you the full experience, and keep myself busy in the process. I never stopped to think about how it could affect you. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Alec murmurs.

“Whatever for?”

“The...communication failure? I’m trying, but it’s not...easy.”

Magnus smiles softly, running his thumb over the back of Alec’s hand. “And that’s okay. As long as we’re trying. We just need to check in a little more often.”

“Okay,” Alec nods weakly. “We can try that.”

“No more music,” Magnus says. “I’ll dim all the lights.”

“Music is fine if it’s low,” Alec corrects. “And maybe not when I’m trying to sleep.”

Magnus closes his eyes in dismay. “I’m—”

“Stop apologizing,” Alec interrupts him. “Been there, done that. Let’s move on. I promise I’ll try to tell you if it gets too much again.”

“Okay. What do you want to do now?”

Alec thinks about it. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. He still feels slow and his head aches, though the worst is passing.

“Can I hold you?” Magnus asks.

Alec opens his mouth to say yes, but he’s not ready yet. He gives Magnus an apologizing look and a tiny shake of his head.

“I think I need to clear my head,” he says slowly. “Just...think. It’s not against you at all, I just need to be in my own mind for a bit.” He needs to center himself. He feels scattered, like he’s been open and exposed to the elements and he needs to just be himself again.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Magnus starts to rise.

“No!” Alec stops him. “I’ll go. Walking will help. I’ll be back soon, promise.”

He jumps to his feet, eager to go now that he’s made the decision. He forces himself to check that Magnus doesn’t seem too worried or angry, but Magnus simply nods, looking a little surprised but not overly concerned.

“I’ll be here,” he says simply.

When Alec walks back into the loft two hours later, he does it with a measure of apprehension. He feels better, but he’s not sure what to expect.

There is music coming from inside, but it’s different. It’s not a cheesy Christmas song, and not even one of the classical pieces Magnus tried that Alec enjoyed marginally better. It’s something modern but also slow, quiet even though it permeates the entire loft. It’s soothing.

The lights are out. That’s the first thing Alec notices, because everything has been so bright for so long. He thinks for a moment that maybe Magnus went out, went to celebrate with friends who actually enjoy the holiday. He feels a pang on guilt at that – okay, a whole bucket of guilt. He’s been a grinch, and he knows it. But he couldn’t think with all those lights and noises.

The only light on is a fairy light garland that’s magically running in a single thread over all the walls in the loft, casting a soft light without actually being bright. The rooms themselves are plunged in darkness, and Alec toes off his shoes and lets his coat and scarf fall to the floor and he pads over to the living room by feel, relishing the lack of pain assaulting his eyes.

The music is louder in the living room, but not so much that it’s painful. Alec blinks twice as he takes in the sight in front of him.

In the middle of the dark room is Magnus. He’s wearing nothing but a dark leotard, and his skin is lit by swirling strands of while magic, curling around his arms. He’s dancing.

Alec doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath.

Magnus’ face is briefly illuminated by his magic, his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. He hasn’t heard Alec come in. He seems to have banished all the furniture in the room, and he’s spinning on one foot, en pointe in ballet shoes. Small bursts of magic come out of his hands as the song picks up, swirling through the room like a wispy light whip.

Magnus starts moving faster, the ribbons of light following him. Alec knows very little about dance, but even he can tell that Magnus’ style is unique, not solely ballet but also not quite modern dance. Alec almost gasps as he does what he can only describe as a back flip and lands smoothly on his feet, spinning once more.

It’s an incredibly beautiful sight. Alec stands at the door, transfixed, until the song ends and Magnus ends the dance by lowering himself down to the floor, crossing his legs under him. The light around his body dims progressively – no, that’s not it. It seems to sink under his skin, until his whole body looks like it’s glowing. Magnus gracefully runs his hand down his arm, guiding the light inside him until it reaches the tip of his fingers and explodes in a shower of sparkles.

When everything quiets, Alec lets out the breath he’s been holding. It feels like he should applaud, but he’s loath to break the silence. Besides, he doesn’t know if Magnus would take it well, right now.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Magnus whispers, his eyes still closed.

So he did notice Alec come in.

“Magnus, it was incredible,” Alec murmurs, letting the quiet carry his voice.

Magnus opens his eyes and looks at him. They stay still for a moment, the dark room between them, eyes easy to meet in the shadows. “I like the lights and the sounds, but they’re just filling a void,” Magnus says in a soft voice. “I was trying too hard.”

“It’s okay if you need them,” Alec says. “We can find a way to meet in the middle.”

“But I don’t. I wanted to feel warm and safe, but I didn’t realize that I’ve never felt as warm and safe as when I’m with you.”

Alec smiles, the words seeping into him with their own warmth, after the cold of the streets.

“Dancing makes me feel alive,” Magnus continues. “And I’d forgotten that, too.”

“You were beautiful.”

Magnus stands up smoothly and extends a hand. “Do you want to join?”

“I don’t dance,” Alec says.

“Just let go and only look at me. My magic will help you.”

Alec tries to match Magnus’ light steps as he walks toward him. He feels a jolt when they link hands, almost like the first time, over that summoning pentagram. Magnus pulls on his arm and Alec lets go of his control, relinquishing himself to the light touches of magic he can feel over his skin.

The music starts again. Light ribbons swirl over them both as they spin together. Magnus jumps to his pointes and spins around in Alec’s arms, and their height suddenly match. The only light is the magic twirling around their limbs, immaterial and teasing. Magnus grips Alec’s forearm and lifts himself effortlessly off the ground, spinning around Alec’s body until he’s in his arms again, his back arched.

The light dims to almost nothing, sinking into their chest. Their mouths meet.

“Thank you, Alexander,” Magnus murmurs.

Alec kisses him again.

I'm working on an illustration of the dance scene but I wanted to post the fic tonight while it's still Christmas!

Maybe it shows that I've been watching Tiny Pretty Things. The show is kinda terrible but I love watching people dance.

Magnus here is technically dancing the part of a woman, which is why I've use the GNC Magnus and Nonbinary Magnus (as he's nonbinary in this series). Pointe shows are also traditionally worn only by women. In my mind, Magnus trained for both roles at different times in his life and he's fine with dancing either part.

#shadowhunters #malec #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #mine #echo's fanfiction #map out a world #shbingo #hmdiscord #malec discord server #autistic alec lightwood

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pi-cat000 · 3 years

Text

MSA time travel idea (part 41)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25 Lewis POV 3, Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5, Mystery POV 2, Lewis POV 6, Vivi POV 5, Lewis POV 7 VIVI POV 6

Part 42: here

...

VIVI POV:

The flames are kind of mesmerising, with their dancing oranges and yellows, streaked with green and the occasional blue as various materials reacted differently to the heat. It is easy just to stare and let her attention wander, fatigue turning all her worries into background static. Inside the van, various camping implements twist and warp. It is the ache in her leg muscles that eventually pulls her attention back to the present. Her legs are tired from her earlier search for the van and prolonged restless standing. A reminder that she has a long walk back to Pepper Paradiso and her truck. She feels doubly exhausted just thinking about it.

Vivi glances at Mystery who is also staring into the fire. His expression borders on thoughtfull, lit faintly by the fire. A familiar etherial red light is diffused amongst his fur, barely noticeable alongside the organge glow of the flames. Does the red light mean that Mystery is casting his illusion to hide the fire? She is not sure.

“So what’s the deal with this spiritual residue, physical plane stuff you mentioned earlier? How does that tie into all that stuff about deals, oaths and whatnot?” There is a lot of folklore warning against making deals with supernatural creatures but she wants the actual facts behind it. With her constant vigil at the hospital and Mystery’s own efforts to spy on Milton’s downtown police department, she hasn’t had the opportunity to ask many questions. This is the first time she’s been alone with Mystery and not been distracted chasing around after leads and information related to Arthur’s possession.

Mystery’s head swings around so he is looking right at her. His eyes are backlit by that same red light which shines out from behind his irises. The effect is made more intense by its association to that night outside Pepper Paradiso. It isn’t exactly the same- it is a lot less angry- but the small comparison makes her shiver.

Mystery blinks, ears drooping, and looks off to the side. She wouldn’t think a giant, many tailed kitsune could look awkward but Mystery pulls it off. A sudden change in the wind interrupts her next question. Vivi gets a whiff of burning rubber and melting plastic in all it’s this horridness. Mystery also wrinkles his nose in discomfort. The sheer displeasure splashed across his face reminds her of similar expressions he’d make at his dog food. It is crazy to picture him eating dog food after seeing him like this, with his shimmering white fur, almost silver in the moonlight, tails cascading around him both taking up too much space while also taking no space at all. Not even the fancy, expensive dog food.

/Perhaps we should move further up-wind?/

Vivi nods and they shuffle around as much as the enclosed space allows so the smell isn’t coming right at them. It takes her closer to Mystery but she’s happy to discover that it’s a discomfort she’s willing to bare to avoid the stench. Once they’ve found a slightly new location, Mystery speaks again.

/Your question is difficult to answer because none of these - spiritual residue, the physical plane or oaths- are simple. /

“Well, try. Or at least give me the cliff-notes. Something I can actually do something with. Like, how much can I rely on all those stories, legends and myths I have memorised?”

Mystery considers her, eyes softer, red luminescence dimming to barely an ember as he thinks. / Human belief does hold some influence over how spiritual and magical energies manifest, as does any type of will or resolve. Resolve is what shapes these energies, allowing for us non-physical entities to manipulate reality around us. It is what gives oaths and promises their holding power./

/What is a promise if not the ultimate statement of intention./

“So, it’s a ‘humans believe in fairies so fairies exist’ type scenario?” That would be convenient if only because it would validate all the time she’d spend pouring over old myths and folktales.

/Partially…/ Mystery’s tails twitch, encircling his paws, and he settles himself into a seated position, and Vivi gets the sense that Mystery is summarising and skipping over a lot of detail for her, / Get enough humans believing in the same story for a few hundred years and it will have tangible effects on the type of creatures that come into being. It will influences how the spiritual and non-physical function on this plane of existence, giving animation to what would otherwise be mindless energy. /

The explanation makes sense, in a way. Vivi frowns, mulling it over, following Mystery’s example and moving to the nearest rock with a semi-flat surface and sitting herself down. So far things were relatively straightforward. Supernatural creatures existed because of some non-physical, extradimensional energy which was shaped by will power. It both explained human religion and mythology, as well as the odd system of bargaining Mystery had walked her through already. Only things were never that simple, were they?

“You are the way you are because of myths and stuff?” Vivi speaks up and falters trying to think of a generic term for ‘supernatural creature,’ realising that Mystery hadn’t put a name to what he or any of them were outside of being partly spiritual, non-physical in nature, “But you said it was only partially true? Where does the partially come into all this?”

/Humans are far from the only creatures that have access to the resolve and will power needed to shape these energies. Stories told by humans are rarely completely accurate for a reason./

Well, that sounds super ominous and the way Mystery is watching her. like he is worried about something, isn’t helping. The fox exhales and his ears twitch.

/If you wish it, we can discuss the matter at length another time. Many far wiser than I have dedicated centuries to understanding how creatures like myself come into being and what shapes our growth and development. For now, consider it context. /

“Context?” Is it just her or does Mystery seam doubly tentative now? His tails are shifting in an uncharacteristic display of outward emotion.

/This plane, the physical plane, has its own structures and laws which shape it. Then there are creatures like myself that can alter these structures. Mostly, our influence is very limited, depending on our resolve and power which grow slowly with age and experience. Any alteration too drastic requires a lot of energy and may leave one in danger of fading to nothing./ Mystery lapses into a contemplative silence, attention drifting to the fire. The flames reflect in his eyes, so they dance and flicker a warm yellow which intermingles with the red.

/Gods, deities, higher powers, humans have many names for them, but they do exist, and their resolve is beyond comprehension. More ideas and concept than anything else, their interference here comes in many forms. If one knows how and was willing to take an oath to act as acolytes to the physical plain, then there are a wide range boons available for beings like myself./

Mystery pauses as if to check she’s following the explanation. At this point, Vivi’s just taking everything in stride. Gods exist? Sure, why not. It’s not any crazier than all the other stuff Mystery’s said. What does have her worried is the uncomfortable feeling that Mystery is building up to some sort of unpleasant revelation. The fox looks and sounds dead serious and she gets the sense that he’s explaining something fundamentally important.

/Of course, when you have entities capable of granting abilities with the potential to unravel reality itself, there must be some structure to it otherwise there would be only chaos. A Natural Order exists to maintain balance. /

“Sooo…” She ends up having to prompt when Mystery’s silence stretches too long after the statement, “…you have some sort of supernatural code of conduct that stops you from messing up reality. Good to know.” Ever since Mystery dropped his dog persona, he has never expressed any hesitation when it came to outlining his own abilities. Right now, he is looking very uncertain, almost like he regrets trying to explain this to her.

“Mystery?” She asks again, more insistent, because dammit if she’s going to let him clam-up when she’s finally getting some popper answers.

/ Your investigation, regarding the change in Arthur’s behaviour, I have a… theory… regarding what might have affected him. / Mystery turns back to her, expression serious, /I received a… vision of sorts. A warning... /

Mystery exhales, /One tenant of this Natural Order that is rigorously reinforced is that none can interfere with the progression of time beyond the basic manipulations of time fields and alterations of the perhaps a minute or so, a hour at most. Even these small alternations require immense power and a direct connection to a deity within the correct domain. That or immense personal sacrifice. /

“Time manipulation? That’s possible? Wait…” Vivi’s breath catches because she’s read enough science fiction literature to know that you didn’t just bring up time travel without it being relevant, “Who’s time travelled? Can you time travel?”

/No, I cannot. Not to this extent…Or I should not have been able too./ Several tails unfurl to sway in a slightly agitated pattern, /It is a discussion for another time, maybe. I am not the one who is to be suspected of time-travelling./

“Arthur? You’re saying Arthur time-travelled,” She feels like she should outright reject the implication for being too outlandish. What made time-travel any different from extra-dimensional gods or spiritual energy that was shaped by will-power? Vivi grips the edges of her jacket, clenching it tightly. For the second time that week, her whole world view shakes, reordering as a whole lot of floating pieces and facts finally start coming together into one coherent picture.

“The force behind Arthur’s odd behaviour change is because he time-travelled?”

/It is only a theory. The vision may have been incorrect or I might have misinterpreted it./

“He looks the same though. Wouldn’t he look…older or younger?” It couldn’t be younger because she knows younger Arthur and how terrible he was at lying…Or she hopes she does. Her mind spins as everything she’s worked to piece together over the past few days falls apart. All her theories, useless. Every plan, every detail, now askew.

/ It was implied that he may have travelled backwards from two years beyond our current time. As for appearance, human souls carry an imprint of all their memories and experiences. If one were to send a soul back in time any matching memories would synchronise and newer memories would sit alongside them./

“Okay, okay, say you’re right about the time travel. This is a good thing. It means Arthur was always Arthur, ah...excluding the one day when he wasn’t. The weird behaviour is because we’ve been interacting with an older Arthur.”

Two years wasn’t a huge age gap.

Maybe this, if it were true, was okay. How much could Arthur have possibly changed? Even as she tries to considers the possibility in a positive light, all she feels is apprehension. Before all this, she wouldn’t have thought much about the ramifications of time travel aside from the fact that it was cool. Alas, the shine that uncovering the unknown had once brought is dulled with worry. After having what felt like a lifetime of stress condensed into four days, she knows nothing about this stuff is simple.

/I do not know whether this is good or bad for Arthur, only that such a desperate measure is never taken without dire cause. Divinities that deal in time and fate are incredibly powerful and notoriously unforgiving. I can only assume that whatever this current timeline replaced was worse than drawing ire of fate itself. /

Mystery confirms her fears. His tails finally settle and he exhales unhappily, and she mirrors him.

Warnings of impending doom not withstanding, Vivi tries to picture a future where the only option left for Arthur was to go back and do it all again. Nothing that comes to mind is pleasant. What’s more, it also throws new light onto all her recent interactions with Arthur and she is not sure she likes what any of it implies. Arthur had avoided interacting with them and had snuck off to buy medication alone. He’d had a panic attack, he hadn't had one of those in years. If that wasn’t the work of some demon-possessed asshole, then maybe it was normal behaviour for future-Arthur. Some of what the demon-bastard had said was making more sense now. The body snatcher was right, Arthur was ‘not quite himself’...in a manner of speaking. No wonder Arthur had seemed different, on that day several weeks ago, when she had caught him unawares outside his bathroom and, for a split second, his face had been strange.

But, what could have or caused the change.

‘Flipped a switch on his personality’.

Had something happened between Arthur and Lewis to cause Arthur’s standoffish, bordering of fearful behaviour? What had she done to make Arthur not feel comfortable coming to her for help? She and Lewis would never hurt Arthur. Right?

What could she do to fix something like this?

How much could have possibly changed in two years? She thinks of Lewis, of Mystery biting into his arm, of blood spattering across the face, of blood on her hands, of blood on the ground. Both her friends dying while she’s sitting there useless. A lot...a lot could change and it didn’t need as long as two years to happen. She shakes her head and massages her temples, trying to rid herself of imagery and not to get drawn into thinking up a worse scenario. s it bad that she preferred the scenario in which Arthur had been threatened into lying because he was being stalked by some crazy man in leather?

“You said there’s a chance that you're wrong. How likely is that?” What was the accuracy rate for ‘visions’ anyway? Geez, she’s not even sure how to approach that one.

/From what I have seen of Arthur, despite the impossibility of it all, I cannot rule it out completely. His soul is warped, his aura altered, far too powerful for a human, double what it should be. It could be a result of an older and younger soul merging or it could be the influence of some other force./

She lets out a long, tired breath, watching the fire begin to burn itself out. The cold begins to creep back in and the night seems just a dark as that night outside the diner even when lit by the full moon. Everything feels like it’s too much, too many problems tying themselves on knots. Funnily, it’s the opposite problem of having too little information. She needs time to work through it all and put it in some sort of usable order. Supernatural creatures, gods, spiritual energy, souls, auras, visions, time travel, different planes of reality. She has so many questions about all of it that they’ve all melded together into a confusing mess.

“When Arthur wakes up, I’ll confirm the time travel thing. I’ll figure something out.”

/I will help. I noted a change in Arthur’s aura and did nothing to investigate. I regret it. As unpreceded and worrying as this situation is, I do not want my inaction to lead to further hurt./

Vivi doesn’t answer, opting to continue staring at the van. She’s tempted to let her mind wander and check out of this whole confusing mess. She doesn’t have the energy to reject Mystery’s reassurance like she’d been so adamant in doing over the last few days.

/I will admit, there is a lot I have yet to tell you…/ Mystery continues she feels the slight shift in the air as he tails begin to sway again, /Some of it involves circumstances I am not proud off, unrelated to what is happening now but maybe important for later. I require time to mull it over…I am not accustomed to making decisions so suddenly. It is a very human thing to do./

At least this apology acknowledges the fact that Mystery is still keeping secrets. It is better than a repeat of the ‘I wanted to keep you safe’ bullshit her dad had been spewing. It’s something.

“I just don’t know where to start with this.” She looks to Mystery, trying to keep the strain from her voice. “If your theory is right, what do I say to Arthur?” Honestly, she hadn’t really thought about what she would say to Arthur if…when... he awoke aside from making sure he was okay.

/Whatever you would normally say to offer a friend comfort. His time spent with that parasitic abomination was not kind from what I gathered during our brief interaction and it will have likely left some form of mark behind./

The assertion isn’t much really, but it is something. Mystery is right. She’ll focus on Arthur. Whatever time-travelling disasters might have happened, this was still Arthur and that’s all that mattered in this moment. The bigger picture can wait. She wasn’t going to let the taunting of some bastard demon colour her view of potential-future-Arthur until she knew more. If Lewis were here he would know what to do, he was good at helping people. No. Lewis wasn’t here so she would do what she always did, approach the situation as rationally as possible and give Arthur emotional support whether he wanted it or not. It’s got them through problems in the past and its the only frame of reference she has. At least now she has something concrete to go on and plan around, even if it did suck. And, who knows, maybe Mystery’s theory was wrong. She yawns, now thoroughly mentally and physically exhausted. Maybe, she would fall asleep right here, sitting on this stone.

/We should begin our journey back to your vehicle. It is a significant walk and we should start if we intend to make it before sunrise./ Mystery intones, eyes tracking her as she sways from side to side. The fox stands, stretching his front paws, and she watches his tails fan out then settle.

“We can’t go yet the van is still burning.”

Before she’s even finished the objection the fire undulates, seaming to snuff out, collapsing in on itself. Mystery trots up to the remainder of the van, barely a metal shell now, nudging it with its shoulder. Slowly at first and then all at once, the van rolls over and into the ravine. There is a loud crash, followed by the screech of twisting and crunching metal. Vivi jumps at the sudden noise, standing in her alarm, sleep momentarily forgotten.

/Is this satisfactory?/

She blinks, then approaches the edge of the ravine, peering into it. The blackened, ruined van is at the bottom, warped on the rocks. “Yeah, I guess this is fine.” Not like she had a better plan. No one would see it from the road when it was like this.

/Will you allow me to carry you. It will be significantly faster and allow you time to rest. /

“I…” She looks back over at Mystery, about to refuse outright and insist on walking the whole way under her own power. However, the way Mystery was dipping his head, ears back, head down, makes her hesitate. He is obviously trying to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. She pauses. It is a long way back and she is tired enough that the visions of looming shadows and blood aren’t so dominating without the backdrop of the diner to spur them on.

“Okay…yes. I think I’ll be alright with that.”

Instead of immediately trotting towards her, Mystery hesitates, watching and Vivi realises he’s waiting for her to make the first move. Wind blows through the ravine, whistling, taking the remainder of the burnt rubber smell and black smoke away with it. The space between them is clear and empty of obstruction. Carefully, inching along the ground to moves, stopping a step away. Mystery leans forward, closing the rest of the distance. She holds her breath as his jaws come near to her hand. There is the sensation of something wet against her palm.

Mystery’s nose is wet. He is sniffing her hand like he would have when pretending to be a dog. His many tails swish from side to side like he is attempting to mimic a wagging tail. The whole effect is somewhat ridiculous seeing as he has so many of them.

Hesitant at first then with more confidence, she runs a hand across the fur forming the tuft at the side of his head. It is coarse but easily smoothed under her palm. She draws her hand down his neck. In the places where she touches red light particles jump into the air like dust motes, sticking to her hand before quickly fading. For a moment she smells freshly cooked rice, upturned earth, and fresh rain before that sensation fades as well. Oh...and she begins to understand what Mystery ment when he called himself non-physical. Impressions and sensation run down her arm, tickling her thoughts reminding her of when Mystery uses his thought-speech. The Kitsune feels both solid and transient.

Mystery turns to the side, giving her easy access to his back, waiting patiently. She blinks the non-physical impressions away. More confident, she pulls herself up, gripping onto his fur, feeling his snout poke into her side to nudge her forward.

“I’m still angry at you, you know,” She affirms once she is comfortably situated and Mystery starts walking. The anger and hurt of betrayal still curl tight in her chest, though they have loosened somewhat.

/I understand. /

Nodding once, she relaxes, letting herself rest for what feels like the first time in days. She finds it oddly easy to balance and she ends up leaning forward against Mystery’s neck, finding comfort in the rock of his slightly uneven gate. Would this count as upholding the crappy agreement to sleep she had made earlier with Mystery?

“Why don’t more people know about all this stuff?” The question is soft, muffled by Mystery’s fur as she attempts to ward off her quickly returning fatigue.

/Most manifestations of spiritual energy are subtle, indistinguishable from normal acts of nature. Fully realised creatures like myself are also rare and tend to keep to themselves. It is more common to come across formless entities such as spirits and yokai, and even they leave barely an indent on this plane…hard to notice when one does not know where to look.../

As Mystery talks, sound washing through her mind like a river, fatigue finally catching up with, taking her quickly into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

...

NOTE: THE EXPOSITION NIGHTMARE IS OVER!

And in the end Arthur never had to tell either of his friends about the time-travel.

I have decided I hate exposition writing, this thing took freakin forever and I’m still not sure it made complete sense. Should have explained some of this shit way earlier to make it easier on myself. Anyway, now I can finally shift the focus back to Arthur.

I hope I made this interesting enough seeing as it was just Vivi and Mystery talking for 3000+ words.

Part 42: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #time travel #Mystery the dog #Vivi Yukino #mentions of violence #light descriptions of blood #angst #the exposition chapter #stuff gets explained and not one is happy #including the author because making exposition interesting to read is hard yo #msa time travel au

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cdarkheartzero · 4 years

Text

Today’s theme-

“Diary of a security guard part 4- “His own legs”

Data log entry 6553

I barely even started my shift before I got the news. Three smeets had disappeared at some point during the night and -OF COARSE- the little shit was one of them.

Receiving the names of Zim and Skoodge wasn’t surprising. Those two were always together and up to something but I was shocked when the keeper said “Smeet Tak”. TAK? She was usually fairly well behaved. Few fights here and there, sure but this? Especially because she hates Zim. Why would she join them? At least that’s what I hoped for anyway.

Since the “snack heist” episode, I assumed the boys were off to find another “treasure chest” of pure sugar so I figured I would check the pantries first. They weren’t stupid enough to do the same closet twice in a row but I would bet my monies that’s where they were.

[[MORE]]

Stumbled down the halls when I noticed a door slightly left ajar. Yup. There they were. As I approached I could hear a conversation being had between Tak and Zim. GOOD. I can grab them all at once. I slowly opened the door juuuust enough to squeeze my body through and crept in behind boxes , eyeing the mess of once-again ripped open junk food and wrappers littering the floor. I sat behind a rather large box (big enough to shield me from sight at the very least) and waited for the opportunity to pounce.

Skoodge was sitting on the floor very much invested in the “ploof puffs” he was shoving into his adorable chubby face. Not really paying much mind to the other two. Zim and Tak sat atop two boxes staring each other down. Tak had her back to me and Zim was so fixated on his enemy, that he didn’t notice me peeking out from the box behind her. I could see on Zim’s face that SOMETHING said before my arrival was eating at him. The conversation continued-

“I’m telling you the truth, Zim.”

“There is NO WAY you did it on your own, Tak.”

“You think I’m lying? Or is your pride eating away at you because I’m clearly the superior soldier to-be?”

“There is NO WAY YOU would hurt my pride. BESIDES, how could someone with your intellectual shortcomings accomplish something soldiers are trained YEARS to do?!”

“Okay, fine. This will shut you up, you reject!”

I couldn’t see her face but she stood straight and her body tighten, I could see her fists turning pale by the amount of pressure she was putting on them. The ports on her back slowly opened and her PAK legs menacingly emerged. Awkwardly crawling out and wobbling as the touched the ground and lifted her mid air.

Skoodge panicked and fled at the sight of the thin, metallic limbs- having never seen or been told about these things prior, this must have been quite terrifying. And it’s true. I was shocked myself. The shit was right. Irken soldiers are taught how to use these well into their military training and it takes a tremendous amount of skill and concentration to activate. For a smeet this was basically unheard of. Tak May very well be the most advanced smeet in Irken history.

Zim was.... far from impressed. He puffed his cheeks and pouted quietly as Tak spat insult after insult to him, Landing harsh and pride crushing comments. I almost felt sorry. It wasn’t until one of her legs abandoned its position of stabilizer and shakily made its way toward Zim’s throat that I knew I had to step in NOW.

Not wanting to use my taser on her, I did the next best thing. I took my boot off and smacked it on the PAK leg closest to me, knocking her off balance and bringing her hurdling downwards. The PAK legs quickly retreated back into their holder and the small Irken was left confused and slightly stunned by the secret attack.

Skoodge ran over to me, tears in his eyes, wailing about the scary legs. He clung to my foot tight. Real tight. Kid has a good grip. I (and my newfound leech) walked over to Tak to picked her up. She just stared at the floor, quickly blinking and not saying a word. Man.... I got her good. I put her to my chest and she didn’t budge. It was unnerving to say the least but she was still alive so.... I just gotta gather the last one.

Zim was spaced out. Totally lost in thought. Didn’t even twitch when I approached him. Seeing those legs really internally triggered something. I scoop him up and stare. I might have well had not been there as far as he was concerned. He was gone from this place.

We get back to the smeetery and I drop off Zim and Skoodge (Skoodge waved me good-bye too. He is so cute sometimes) and made my way to the medical ward with Tak. Just to make sure I didn’t mess her up too bad, you know? The staff there assured me she was okay and just stunned but I told them to keep her for testing anyway. Can’t have that on my conscience.

By the time I got back to the smeetery, Zim was gone and Skoodge was alone, doing some light reading in the form of a cooking magazine. Where he got it, I didn’t ask. It was unusual to see these two separated though. “Where is Zim?” I asked confused. “Hmmm?” He hummed with a slight jump. Must’ve startled him. “Zim wanted to go to the tube room. Is Tak okay?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah. She’s fine. You okay though?”

“Yeah. That was just scary.”

“They really aren’t. Just another tool we have to protect ourselves and aid ‘n battle. One day you will be trained to use yours too.”

His eyes lit up in wonder and confusion “I HAVE THEM TOO?????”

“Yup. But it’s totally normal you can’t use them yet though. The fact that Tak could is real unusual. I know you’ll get there.” I said ruffling his antenna. He let out a laugh and smiled “Thanks”

“Anytime. Imma see what the little shit is up to.”

“HAVE FUN!” He joyfully waved as I walked away. Skoodge is unusual too. Now that I think about it, everyone associated with the little shit is so quirky. This batch of smeets...they really do have bright futures ahead of them.

Walking through the doors to the usually silent unborn sleeping chambers, the room echoed with low, muffled grunts and heavy breathing. I know this voice. I just had to find him.

Tucked off to one of the corners of the massive room, Zim was doubled over panting, clutching at his chest. His PAK opened and his legs partially exposed, spazzing and sparking, filling the air around him with a dangerous electrical charge. Never in all my life have I seen a PAK respond this way. His body seized, confulsing constantly. His eyes welled with tears, sweat dripping down his entire frame. Veins bulged out of his skin.

Here is something ya gotta know about Irken anatomy. PAKs serve as a second brain and is connected to the organic brain through the spine by a series of wires. Some things are only possible BECAUSE of this connection. Like using PAK legs. The host needs to be able to simultaneously create a gateway both consciously and subconsciously to allow data to flow between the two. Using the legs as an extension of their organic bodies. Being able to tell each of the 4 legs to move independently but having enough focus to not completely be distracted by it. Kinda like breathing. Your brain knows to do it automatically. But if you wanted to, you could alter its patterns. Except a loss of control would mean a comrade getting empaled. Concentration and data input is everything. I’m gettin side tracked though, I didn’t even know it was POSSIBLE to see the bridge between the two minds. But here they were. I could see every ridge, every curve of the wiring violently throbbing.

This is bad. THIS IS SO BAD.

I tried to grab him- he needed medical attention ASAP. WHAT ON IRK WAS HAPPENING!? But as I reached for him, the legs became defensive and started stabbing in my direction. The electrical charge strengthened too. Zim coiled into himself more. He wanted to scream. I could see it in his face. But every time he opened that yap of his- there was nothing.

Oh, My tallest. The closer I got to him, the more his PAK simultaneously defended/harmed him. I screamed for help. Someone.... ANYONE, please. Come! I have no idea what’s going on!

“....z-zara....” I heard faintly between gasps and groans. He reached his hand to me. FUCK THIS. I cannot let the suffering go on any longer. I’m sorry, Zim. But I gotta do this.

I grabbed my taser out and gave his PAK a short jolt, praying that it would short circuit and reboot. His legs stabbed into my hand before going limp, just like the rest of him. The bright pink lights emminating from his back faded to a faint, dim color. But it was still lit. Please. PLEASE. Be okay.

There was a moment of silence. Felt like a decade though, wondering if it worked. Or if I just made the worst mistake of my career.

“REACTIVATING”

The PAK light shone bright again and gave the body a single jolt. The legs instantly retracted. He stirred, groaning. He opened his eyes slowly and blinked a few times, not a single word spoken between us. He looked at me, pained and spiritually drained. “Zara....” he finally said.

I grabbed him and gave him a hug. I was so relieved. He was okay. He just accepted my embrace. He didn’t have the strength to fight. Slowly pulling him away, I could finally speak. “Imma take you to the medical station, okay?” He replied with a humm. Response accepted.

The smeetery staff rushed in (it was so hard to believe only a moment had passed In real time) but I took it upon myself to hand deliver him where he needed to be. It was a long, unsettlingly uncomfortable walk. But this.... I wanted to be here. I needed to. Unfortunately, we soon arrived to the medical station and I finally had to hand him off and return to my shift. I didn’t wanna leave him. Not one bit. I can’t even imagine how he was feeling. But I have a job to do. We gave each other a sad look as we parted. There was a slight pain in my chest the whole time.

The rest of the day dragged on what seemed like years but within a few hours, Zim had been released from care and returned to the Smeetery by a member of the medical staff. She just silently walked in, spoke to a smeetery staff member, placed him on the floor and disappeared. I was thrilled (I would never tell him that though). But I can tell he was still deeply upset. I approached him and asked if he was okay. His eyes said more than his words ever could. I picked him up. I honestly don’t have a game plan but... he needs a few minutes to breathe, I think.

I wave to another guard and ask her to take my place. She saw the smeet I held close and said “fine. But you owe me one.” Wouldn’t be the first time Kira helped me out. She was probably the closest thing to a friend I had in this place. I thanked her and took my leave. Zim didn’t really ask any questions. Just kinda went for the ride.

We wound up in a pantry. I sat down on the cold floor and put him next to me. This... was awkward. I couldn’t figure out what to say or do. Or even why I wound up HERE of all places. Why not my office???? Thankfully, he tore me away from my thoughts and broke the ice.

“Why are we here? Don’t you usually want Zim OUT of the pantry?”

“Uhhhhhh.... you looked like you needed a few minutes to breathe.”

He hugged his knees. “Zim is fine.”

There was that silence again. I’m the adult here. I gotta do something....right?

“You know, the thing with Tak has never happened before.”

“Just rub it in...” he mumbled burying his face into his legs.

“But, you were able to pull yours out too. Even just a little. That’s impressive too.”

“I’m not sure if you noticed, but mine tried to kill me.”

“Maybe yours are just-“

“The medical staff-“ he cut me off “told me I might never be able to use them right. That Zim might be “defective”.”

I was agitated to say the least. How can you say something like that to a smeet? A BABY? This little soul who just began living this life he never asked for? My emotions got the best of me. “Listen here, Zim. Maybe you can’t use your legs the way she does. Or the way I do. But I know you will find a way. You have never bowed down when the odds were stack against you before. Why start now?”

He didn’t stir. I passionately rambled on “you are a lot of things. Cunning. Manipulative. Obsessive. Persuasive. Passionate. But you are damn smart. I’m constantly surprised by your ingenuity and craftsmanship. You know how good I am at dismantling your bombs at this point? You challenge those around you to grow and be better. I wish you WOULDN’T challenge me with explosives, mind you, but you aren’t defective. No way, no how. You are different. And no one said different is bad. Just means you leave your mark in ways no one expected before. And maybe that scares some but.... I believe that you can do amazing things. And screw em If they don’t see it.”

He let out a small chuckle. It was refreshing to hear, even if it was a sad, emotionally drained laugh.

“Does that mean you don’t hate me?”

“I didn’t say all that now.”

He smiled with sorrow and hugged himself tighter.

Maybe that was a little too deep. I was actually kinda embarrassed for that. But.... perhaps I could say something else to make him feel better. “You know” I started “when I have a bad day, I like to look at the stars. You can’t see them here but they always put me at ease.”

“Stars?”

“Yeah. They exist outside the planet, in space. Burning, exploding balls of chemicals. Mostly hydrogen and helium. But from Irk’s surface, they are just beautiful bright lights littering the sky. You can’t see them everywhere here ‘cuz of the brightness of the surface’s refelection in our atmosphere. But I came from the sugar mines before I was a guard. It’s a lot less industrial and darker there so it was always so much easier to see.”

“Burning balls? Really?” He scoffed, amused and confused but intrigued.

“I guess tellin’ you about ‘em doesn’t do it justice. Here. Let me show you. Computer.”

My PAK lit up and released a small floating, mechanical ball with a small circular screen used for projections. Zim just stared. “Show us stars.”

As instructed, the screen painted a gorgeous night sky (as “night” as Irken pink skies get anyway) glistening with hundreds of stars. Zim stared, taken aback. There was a slight sparkle in his face. Good. This helped. Thank the Tallest. The projection stayed active for only a moment before I thought it was enough. Without saying anything, the orb returned to where it had come from.

“You okay?” I finally asked, knowing the answer already but hoping for the best.

“.... can we stay here a little bit longer?”

I can tell in his voice, he was embarrassed. Ashamed. Depressed. Confused. Self-loathing. His whole world thrown in a blender. “Sure” I said pulling him closer to my leg. I kept my hand on his back, gently stroking it. Imagine my surprise when he accepted my compassion and snuggled up to me.

I couldn’t tell what he was thinking but all my organic brain kept repeating was “just be there for him.” I dunno what this feeling in my spooch could have been but it felt knotted and twisted at the sight of his misery. I had to look away. What is this smeet? Why does he make me feel this way? Do I have a bug? Is this something else I don’t understand? ...You know what? It’s Best not to think too much about it, I guess. Just take in this silence with the little shit. He will be back to his old self tomorrow I bet.

Zara signing off

#invader zim #iz #zim #zero’s art #sketch #iz fanart #zero’s oc zara #iz smeet #smeet zim #irken smeet #skoodge #iz tak #tak invader zim

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atouchofgreen · 3 years

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Weed & Mental Health (adolescent)

Mom and Dad,

In the recent months I have experienced cognitive decline that I attribute to my use of weed cartridges. I started smoking weed cartridges when I was in my senior year of high school, and became addicted. I hated it but for some reason I couldn't stop I smoked daily. Although I took month long breaks often, I continued to smoke in college during my first 2 years. Towards the second semester of sophomore year, I used legal delta 8 carts instead of delta 9 carts. The only negative aspect of using up to my sophomore year was my lack of motivation and any minute cognitive changes went away following abstinence. I should have quit or asked for help. In high-school I asked for help by leaving my stash on the laundry machine and gave a singular puff to mom one time (she thought it was an e-cigg though). In highschool in my AP Chemistry class, I saw a kid at the end of class do a hit from a similar weed cart in front of his friends. It would have been so easy for him to get caught, he was standing up giggling with his back turned but the teacher was on the computer and didn't notice. I recognized then that this kid was so alone with his addiction that he did it in front of his friends at school out of pain and solidarity. He had an expressionless face most of the day and seemed distraught, I knew from the grapevine he smoked a lot. He was like me, addicted, and did a hit in school subconsciously screaming for help. After class I asked coach Jacobs his thoughts on using weed. He said, sitting on his computer desk chair with his hands behind his head, " I think after 25 half a joint does the same damage as having a martini, but before then its really bad for you physically, mentally, and your development as a human being. You should wait until after your brain is fully developed to try anything." I remembered this for the rest of my life. I didnt have the courage to directly ask for help but I needed it and should have asked anyone. I couldn't quit it although I should have had the courage to do so. I tried quitting many times but I was too far down the drain mentally. But now, I am scared for myself. I quit completely following moving jethin in because I was noticing cognitive decline in myself. It was terrible. One morning, I woke up and nothing entered my brain its like I was a zombie. That is why I quit. I hoped I would regain my functionality like before, but to no avail. My iq seems to have dropped 10 points at least. My short term memory has regressed so much that learning new information is difficult for me. Reading is harder and to recall something takes me much longer than before. I have a harder time making long term plans and imagining things. I had a hard time with understanding and expressing English as well though this has been improving. My mind is nothing like it was before. Now, my memory, pattern recognition, recall, imagination, has diminished to a much lower degree. I was fine last year and the year before that, my mental health and cognition were good, but recently it seems like a switch turned off for me. When I walk in the world I don't absorb information the same. I don't abstractify what I am seeing as easily, and my short term memory is really shot. Its like I'm just walking in the world blind deaf and dumb. I am scared I won't be able to pass my classes even though compared to highschool these classes are an absolute breeze relatively speaking to when my brain was sober. I can't do quick calculations anymore and I am acutely aware that my senses are just senses. Seeing touching hearing are just that, I can't calculate the same way i used to to create a coherent experience of what's going on around me. I don't have appreciation for life anymore. I am telling you all of this now because i have really experienced cognitive decline and I am extremely depressed, unhappy, and anxious. I am afraid that my prefrontal cortex and hippocampus is permanently damaged. Weirdly, I've had a dull ache in my head ever since I've quit, in the middle and front of my brain, that's been getting slightly better with time. The slight discomfort or pain is always there its terrible. It also gets better temporarily when I cry, meditate, or sleep for an extended period. I hope that after a few months this dull pain would subside and my mental capabilities would return. Even my dreams are less complex and have less emotion. All of this is what I talked to that therapist about. It's not like I am sad ALL of the time, but a lot of it. But I am pretty sure my mind will never be what it was before. I experienced life to its fullest extent while I was not using any drugs, and now that I've been sober for 2 months now and my mind is not returning close to what it was. I still feel like a zombie when exercising, and I develop a deep sense of sadness right after I work out because i recognize my short term memory and mental capability are weakened which makes it hard for me to make good memories and I get anxious about my future. I am pretty emotionless, even fear is hard for me to experience. When I am unhappy, at times I break out into a sob, but because my emotions have dulled probably from the weed, I only start to sob momentarily and then return to a face of stoicism. This makes it hard to achieve catharsis for my sadness and it gets bottled up inside. I don't really mind the mental health difficulties from quitting weed - that can pass over time with proper behavior - but it's the cognitive difficulties that makes me afraid. I am afraid that I will never be able to view the world the same way that I used to before weed. I am afraid that I won't be able to become a doctor unless my brain heals over time. I have read many studies about the use of marijuana during adolescents. Although there is conflicting research, my experience suggests the worst for me - that what I am experiencing may be permanent. I also read that smoking weed during adolescence can delay prefrontal cortex maturation, meaning I would never be able to absorb information and process it the same way ever again. If only I had read the dangers of early marijuana use earlier and understood I would have quit immediately. It is entirely my fault my life is like this now, I was too weak. Both of you have given me everything and helped me the most you could. Especially Dad. Dad, I feel so bad because you have lowered your expectations of me so much. If I hadn't started smoking, I know I would be a completely different person. Mom and Dad, I have been thinking about committing suicide for some time. I've been thinking about it at least once a day actually for a few months. Its not that I think life and the world is terrible and bad, I actually think the opposite. Before smoking I loved life and loved myself. I could feel the world like a thumping heartbeat or a quivering harp playing soulful music. I feel like killing myself because my current and future experiences will be inorganic. My brain structure/chemistry probably changed forever and I don't want to live with this brain anymore. I cant understand everything going on around me thus I can never understand the world the same way like I used to. I feel like i can't learn new things, everything I do now is because I am just accessing what I learned before starting to smoke weed and during freshman and sophomore year of college. My emotions have waned. I can't calculate complex things anymore and put it into context sufficiently. I can't move my body and think strongly at the same time. Right now, meditation and thinking about my long term memory is my only friend. My short term memory is shot which affects my learning and ability to make meaningful experiences or connections. It's like I have pseudodementia though not as bad. The only joy I get is accessing my long term memory and talking long walks in places and with people that used to bring me joy. I loved Turkey so much and the time we spent I go there in my head all of the time. I love Africa, I love India, I loved my friends at swimming and during highschool. But if that's all I am living for I don't know what the point is. I curse myself everyday for making the mistake of smoking weed or not quitting when I could have. I could've become a beautiful person had I continued developing normally. I am so sorry for being a bad son. I am so sorry that you came from India to America to have a child that fucked up like me. I am sorry for the stress this places on both of you. You both did nothing wrong in raising me, I just fucked up. I am sorry for how this may affect your work dad. And I am sorry for being a liability for the family. While I am drowning I don't want you both to drown with me. Maybe I can get a job somewhere or go into the military. At this point cognitively, unless my brain is capable of rewiring itself (maybe that's what the dull persistent ache is in my head) I don't think I can learn the information necessary to safefully treat patients. My therapist said it would take 3-4 months to a year to feel normal again but I don't know what I will do if I can't return to baseline. I used to live with such a thirst for life and understanding but if that doesn't return I feel like I am dragging life down and owe it to my memory of what life was before weed to take my own. Currently my plan is to wait a year and a few months before seriously thinking of committing suicide if I don't heal because the pain I am feeling is so immense. I want to live life FEELING everything organically regardless of what it is. Also my smarts are gone and that gave me tremendous joy. I know what life was like before using weed and I know how it should feel. But I cannot properly life, my sense of self, empathy, and life around me currently. I am walking around blind deaf and dumb I don't know if I want to live this way for the rest of my life. I would have loved to become a doctor.

I just don't know what to do anymore, I don't want to kill myself and I don't think I will have the balls to frankly but that saddens me even more if I can't feel or process what I am experiencing for the rest of my life. Life is too short to waste, any life really even if I'm dumber than what I used to be. I think of people who are paralyzed, people who have cancer, who have nobody left to care for them, people who are homeless and have physical ailments. They don't give up, but their minds are still natural. I am young and the only reason I am thinking of this is because I don't want to go the rest of my life with derealization of the world around me. I don't want to live the rest of my life blind deaf and dumb. No new experiences since the latter parts of my weed addiction have given me any meaning in life compared to what I had learned before smoking weed. I am grateful I got to experience and learn the meaning of life from my perspective and others when I was younger, thank you for that. I love you both so much. I am sorry and don't worry I am not going to kill myself its just that I am angry with myself, angry with my cognitive decline, and angry that I can't experience what life ought to be currently. I am hoping for better in the future though. I just thought you should know.

Love, Your son

Before Weed:

I am telling you this because I am scared for myself although it may be too late. Before I tell you what I've been going through, I want to tell you about my life experience up until junior year of highschool. Although I wasn't exactly extremely smart from your perspectives, I was acutely aware of my surroundings. In school I was more focused on how things were organized and what every single person in the room was thinking and what their plans were rather then what they were teaching. It's like my brain was calculating 20 things at once and i was living existentially all the time. I was incredibly happy just to be alive. I could recall the exact positions of people and things around me, what I was thinking, and the sutle muscle movements of people over a reasonable amount of time. I used to know what people were going to say before they said them, and know someone's personality outlook on life, habits mentality etc. just by watching for 10 seconds to an incredible degree of accuracy. The longer a person was in my focus I learned more about them exponentially. I could learn things very well and had a memory based on the things that I was focused on that was so precise and better than almost everyone I had ever met. People in high school who knew me well knew this and would be shocked how i could know things about them. Some things like sexuality and gender insecurities, presence of autism/ Asperger's as a child, family life back home, and who liked who, I could tell about people after observing them for a little. I had respect from people at school and some teachers because they knew what I could learn about a situation or people just by being in the same room. I could learn new words in the blink of an eye if I heard it just once, I was constantly calculating. With dad, I could not learn what he tried to teach me though just because I was so scared of him that my focus wasn't there and panic was always set in I was scared to be beat frankly (i wasn't scared of the pain but just scared what it meant which was hard for me to fully realize because I would slightly repress the memories and I don't like to do that). But it's from him I learned how to analyze people and the world. But he is one of the only people I've ever met where I could not track his mind to a satisfying degree. For most people I would now what they were thinking, what they were incubating in the back of their head, and their current plan of action in a glance by looking at the eyes and body. I could not do this with dad because his mind is faster than mine it was too hard to keep up. He has mind palaces that are so structured and he can jump around his mind so easily I couldn't keep up with the mind palaces he created and how he navigates them. It was harder for me to do this with people who had a very high iq but I would practice everyday and would cherish analyzing introverts for practice. I walked on a street with a hundred people I would make an observation about each of them and could later recall exactly what I saw and what I was thinking. My kinesthetic sense was very good so physical distances was easy for me to calculate and remember. I truly believed that before starting weed I would become a doctor because all my strengths coincided with it. This ability, although most ppl might be able to do it, peaked for me right before starting weed. I was very much in tune with spirituality and enjoyed reading storybooks, meditation, and socializing. I was never focused on myself but what was around me, I kept my thoughts and feelings in a box in my mind to help me learn as I recorded what others were doing and thinking. I had balls - I asked out girls in highschool, and honestly wasn't afraid of much because both of you enabled me to experience life by taking me everywhere.

#weedsmokers #stoned weed #weed addict #legal weed

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klea221 · 3 years

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Bridgerton X Prince Frederik Andersen Part 2

A Maiden’s Voyage

I’ve been seated at my dressing table, anxious of the night ahead. Mother has insisted on a hairdo held together with flowers and pins. She says the simplicity will help me to stand out against the other girls. Knowing that the Featheringtons will be decked out in bright colours and patterns, I cannot help but agree with Mama. I just hope that I will be able to find a handsome suitor. All I can do is look my very best.

Prince Frederik’s POV

“Introducing his royal highness, Prince Frederik of Denmark”; trying not to cower, I hold my posture and walk through the ballroom. I cannot help but feel unnerved. In a matter of moments, dozens of Mamas rush over with their daughters.

To my surprise, I see a familiar face. Luckily, she’s recognized me. She holds her fan to her face, but I can tell she is already blushing. Her Mama grabs the fan from her and I chuckle. She must be terribly shy.

Trying to be polite, I allow each Mama to introduce themselves though I cannot help but feel distracted. It appears as though she is not joining the swarm. My chest sinks.

Reader POV

As Mama converses with Lady Danbury, I cannot help but worry.

How could I not have known he was the Prince of Denmark? I knew he had an accent but how could I have been so slow to not know he was royalty? And I gave him ordinary chocolates from the bakery…he must have been so insulted.

Overwhelmed, I let myself wander. I admire some paintings on the wall, feeling lost in my own thoughts. I hardly notice the Duchess beside me.

“It’s completely mad isn’t it. My own marriage season felt so” says the Duchess of Hastings.

“I just worry that I won’t be able to find love” I say honestly. “These paintings make it look so magical” I say gesturing to the painting of couple.

“It is” says the Duchess. “It may not be easy but it’s incomparable”. She leads me into a drawing room and grabs my hand. “It will be alright. I know people don’t talk about things but, you have to let love happen. To hell with what anyone thinks. Don’t marry without love. I beg of you”. Her boldness is strange for someone of her station but I feel in my heart that she is right. I will find love or I will die trying!

I see the Duke summon her into the hallway and I can see how happy they are together. With a sigh, I spot a piano in the corner by the fireplace. Knowing I am alone, I sit myself down and begin to play. Ignoring the rest of the world, I lose myself in the music.

I see from the corner of my eye, a maid lurking. She quietly asks if its okay for her to listen to me play. I tell her it’s no problem, as I enjoy playing. She asks what the name of the song is.

“I’m not sure at the moment, its my own piece, you see” I explain to the maid.

She nods. “You play beautifully” she says. Not wanting to disappoint I try to play the best I can.

When the song is done, I am startled by an applause. I look over my shoulder and see the Prince smiling at me. In utter disbelief, I jump to my feet to courtesy. The maid copies me and then leaves the drawing room, and we are left alone…

“F-Forgive me” says the Prince. “I just wanted to introduce myself. I did not get the chance yesterday...you left in such a hurry”.

Already scolding myself, I feel even more embarrassed of yesterday’s events. “I do apologize your grace. I did not mean to offend you in any way” I reply, lowering my head in defeat, I fiddle with my gloves.

“I will forgive you, if you do me the honour of a dance” says the prince as he extends his hand for mine.

I accept, not wanting any further embarrassment (but lets be honest, who would say no?). “I would be honoured” I reply, taking his hand. “Oh, my name is (y/n) by the way” I tell him. He smiles and we make our way back to the ballroom.

As we enter the dance floor, I feel the unnerving sensation of being watched. Surely, people must think the Prince should not be dancing with me. Before I can panic, it is too late, the music has begun…

“Everyone is staring…” I inform the Prince. I can feel my hands shake slightly. I gulp, trying to calm myself.

The Prince lifts my chin to meet his gaze, “Pretend its just us then, look into my eyes” he whispers to me.

I do as he says but I cannot figure out what is worse… the audience or the way he seems to see me so clearly. I feel horribly exposed but, I cannot look away from him. I don’t want to.

His hands on my body feel so strong against the delicate fabric of my gown and I cannot help but wonder what they would feel like elsewhere…

Turning into his chest I feel his warm breath on my neck, and I feel as though I may crumble under his large frame. Completely at his mercy.

Prince Frederik’s POV

I could have had her in my arms all night and not noticed a thing around me…

We danced together for almost three full songs! That must have made quite the statement, but I could not care! I’ve spent all but two days in London and I’ve already made my choice. I will not pursue another, not even out of politeness.

I just hope that the Queen will approve…

#frederik andersen reader #bridgerton

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kindrednerdspirit · 3 years

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Sometimes a Thing Feels so Right: Part 5

Excerpt: A slow smile spreads across Izzie’s face. “This time, I’m ready to broadcast our business.” “Oh yeah?” Casey murmurs. “Pretty sure we’ve already done that.” The curve of Izzie’s lips makes it hard for Casey to think about anything else, so she inches closer until their foreheads touch. The two giggle as they re-live the forehead promise from their not-so-distant past. To draw out the moment, Casey gently rocks her temples against Izzie’s, enjoying how tantalizingly close their lips are.

One Block Later. The Library.

When Izzie walks into the library for the student council meeting, she’s pleased to see Mel is early, too.

Mel looks up from her notebook. “Hey. I know we already have the safe space posters printed and ready to hang up, but I have some ideas for future designs. And ideas for other ways we can make Clayton Prep an LGBTQ+ friendly place.”

“Great! Hold that thought.” Izzie quickly texts Jason to check up on him.

Hi Jase. Did mum help you and Alysha get ready for school?

The two girls jump into it. They’re about 15 minutes into their work when Harmony and Scarlet show up.

“Wow, you’re early!” Scarlet exclaims, looking at the girls. Izzie shrugs and keeps working. Scarlet scrutinizes her as she makes her way over to the table. Her eyes burn into Izzie, making it hard for her to concentrate.

“What?” She asks, her voice a bit too sharp.

“Your energy feels different, that’s all.” Scarlet ignores Izzie’s tone, continuing her visual inspection. “Did you hear anything else from Brad?”

The pen in Izzie’s hand stops in its tracks. The last people she wants to hear about are Brad or Nate or some other guy she cannot care less about. In the past, she’s repeatedly made this clear, but these two are relentless. Izzie sighs, because she knows It’s time to go public. Before she can change her mind, she looks directly at Harmony and Scarlet and straightens her back, so she’s not slouching in her chair. “You know that I think Nate and Brad are assholes and I’m tired of repeating myself… so, I’m hoping you’ll listen to this--I’m gay.”

Harmony’s eyes widen and repeatedly blink. Scarlet doesn’t look much different than Harmony, but she’s able to form some words.

“Oh, shit, Izzie. I--we didn’t know.” A long silence fills the library. “Sorry.”

To her right, Mel shifts in her seat, but despite everything, Izzie feels fine. Actually, she feels an odd sense of relief. She realizes she rarely sees Scarlet uncomfortable, so she decides to enjoy the moment.

“Damn, you two, nobody died. I like girls, it’s cool.” Izzie looks over at Mel and the two burst out laughing. “We have to go ladies, but no hard feelings. Really.”

The two girls take their LGBTQ+ posters and leave, so they can start hanging them up in the hallways. Meanwhile, Harmony and Scarlet find themselves alone and digesting the news.

“Do you think her and Casey--” asks Harmony.

“Yes,” replies Scarlet with a firm nod.

“So, we probably shouldn’t have written ‘slut’ and ‘ho’ on her shoes then--”

“No, we shouldn’t have,” she says with a firm head shake.

Harmony inches her hand toward Scarlet’s. “Should we--”

The warmth of Harmony’s hand startles her, making her quickly pull away. “No.”

Concern clouds over Harmony’s face. “Should I--”

“Yes.” Scarlet replies a bit too quickly. She forces herself to look at the wall, anywhere but her friend. In a flash, Harmony grabs her notebook and pencil case, then scurries out of the library.

Break Between Classes. In the Hallway.

“I can’t reach any higher.” Izzie protests while on her tippy toes. She’s holding a stapler with an outstretched arm.

Mel is holding the safe space poster with ease against the bulletin board. “Would you like me to find you a box?”

“Haha. Very funny.” Iz rolls her eyes. “But, yes, a box would help.”

With a grin Mel takes the stapler from Izzie. “Or, you know, I can do this and you can hold the posters.” She proceeds to staple the top right-hand edge of the poster. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Casey walking down the hallway.

“Yo, Izzie. Casey 4 o’clock.”

At the sight of Newton, Izzie sucks in a quick breath. This is her chance. “Here, Mel. Hold these or something.” Izzie drops the small stack of posters on the ground and whirls around to face Casey’s direction. Her body is shaking as she tries to find the right words.

“Hey. Can we talk?” Izzie’s voice quavers.

“Nope,” Casey replies firmly.

“I’m sorry.” Iz follows Newton to her locker, while Newton aggressively puts in the lock combination.

“I'm sick of you apologizing. You led me on, you're jerking me around. I hate it.”

“I really like you.”

Her pleading and stating the obvious irks Casey even more. “Yeah, in this moment, but in ten minutes, you might be embarrassed by me or kissing some random guy. Just leave me alone.” She slams the locker door, then abruptly turns and starts marching down the hallway.

“Newton!” Izzie is on Casey’s heels. “Will you stop for two seconds so I can explain?”

It’s as if Casey is seeing red. She’s exhausted from avoiding Izzie at track this morning, nevermind what is currently happening. Needless to say, when she turns to face Izzie, she is done with this conversation.

“What?” Her brow is furrowed, but when she notices Izzie’s close proximity, her eyes soften.

They are close enough for their bare legs to touch. One of the few perks of a Clayton Prep skirt. Izzie hovers close before dipping her chin up. “I’m done being weird,” she murmurs. Casey’s heart is practically bursting as she watches Izzie’s lips part. It’s deja vu of the dance. The two of them in the exact same position with their lips close, but it’s different this time. This time, Izzie initiates. But like before, time slows as the two enjoy one another’s presence and touch. Their legs gently bump together as their arms intertwine.

Her lips taste delicious, like soft, warm vanilla beans. Exactly how Casey remembers. She brushes away a strand of Izzie’s hair after pulling away. Their eyes are locked on one another, a happy glow emitting from the couple.

Izzie hasn’t felt this good in weeks, not since the dance. She figured she’d feel self-conscious after kissing Casey in front of everyone in the hallway, instead she feels fine. More than fine, even. There’s a strange sense of pride. She’s happy to show off what she has with Newton to Clayton Prep.

“That was pretty weird.” A dumbstruck grin spreads across Casey’s face. This is not what she imagined happening during her walk from Biology to English. She’s still wondering whether the last few minutes actually happened.

Doubt sets in at Newton’s response. Izzie feels her inexperience showing. Was the kiss okay? Did Newton feel the same?

“Bad weird?” She tentatively asks.

Casey just chuckles and throws an arm around Izzie’s shoulders, leading her toward their next class.

“I have so much to tell you!”

Iz giggles, ecstatic to have her girlfriend holding her close, to have her favourite person back.

“First of all, I told my dad that I love you.” Casey feels her body being pulled back, as Izzie’s feet stop moving. Her eyebrows shoot up as she struggles to find the words.

“Wow, Newton, I--”

“But he thought I meant as a friend.” The two girls laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “I would’ve corrected him but.. I wasn’t sure about us.” There’s an uncomfortable silence for a few beats. Iz presses her hand firmly against Newton’s.

“You can be sure about us.”

A Few Weeks Later. Getting Ready for the School Dance. Gardner’s House.

When Casey walks down the stairs in her 1980s-style yellow and black patterned button-up shirt with black suspenders, Elsa feels a surge of pride in her daughter. She cannot restrain herself, she has to throw her arms around her girl and squeeze tight.

“I’m so proud of you!” Casey’s outfit matches the 1980s theme of Clayton Prep’s dance, and it’s reminding Elsa of her first high school dance with its overabundance of neon, big hair, and hormones.

“Mum!” Casey protests with an eye roll. “It’s not like it’s prom or grad, it’s just a dance. Or what you kids used to call it, sock hops.” She’s waiting in the living room, so she can make a quick escape with Izzie when she shows up.

Elsa is now leaning on Doug, enjoying the moment, ignoring her daughter’s teasing. “Can you believe that our youngest is going to her first dance with her first girlfriend?” Her eyes are starting to water. Doug pulls Elsa in with one arm, so her chin is resting on his shoulders.

“They grow up fast.” He says quietly enough so only Elsa hears.

By this point, Casey has noticed the water works are starting, so she wanders over to Sam who’s sitting on the couch sketching. She gets all up in his personal space by resting her chin on his shoulders. There’s no hesitation or pause in the pencil’s movements. It’s as if Casey isn’t even there.

Ding-dong.

Within seconds, Casey is flinging open the door. She needs a quick exit to escape from the Elsa paparazzi. Except that as soon as she sees Izzie, the quick exit gets scratched. Izzie is wearing a denim jumper, somewhat similar to her own, but more stylized with buttons and rolled up sleeves. Her ears are adorned with her usual hoop earrings, but she’s paired them with a Boy George inspired hat.

A sheepish smile spreads across her face. “Hey, Newton.” She peers around her girlfriend to look at the Gardner family. “Hi Gardners!”

There’s a flurry as Elsa ushers Izzie and Casey inside. “You girls look so cute! Come in, I just want to take a few pictures.”

Casey gives Izzie an apologetic look, but of course, Izzie doesn’t mind. It’s kind-of nice seeing Casey’s family wanting to document and remember this moment. There are pictures taken of them as a couple, then they move on to taking some pictures of the Gardner family.

Sam pauses while Elsa is taking one of him and Casey.

“Are you and Izzie more serious than you and Evan?” His question is genuine.

“Dude, what the hell?” Casey exclaims before glancing over at Izzie. Izzie laughs, not bothered by his question.

“I need another person to go to for advice, like Evan, but I don’t know if I should expect your relationship status to change.”

Casey playfully punches her brother’s shoulder.

“Ow!” His face is scrunched up. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I’m your sister. It’s basically my duty to communicate with you in annoying ways.” Casey walks over to Izzie, wraps her arm around her, then pulls her in for a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t say she’ll give you advice, weirdo, but she’ll be around for awhile.”

***

Synthesizers and dreamy British, New Wave sounds fill the gymnasium. There is a lot of neon, big hair, hormones, and bright lights on the polished gym floor. Izzie stretches out her arm, holding up an inviting palm to Newton. A slow, confident smile spreads across Casey’s face before she takes Izzie’s hand.

“You look…” Her brain is at a sudden loss for words.

“You too.” Izzie finishes her sentence, then promptly blushes before looking at her feet.

“C’mon, let’s show these Clayton Prep losers how to dance.” Casey proceeds to reach into her pocket and pull out fingerless gloves. Izzie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I got them from Elsa’s closet.”

“My girlfriend is unbelievably cool.” Iz says with a wink before placing Newton’s fingerless-gloved hands around her waist. “Hold Me” by Fleetwood Mac begins playing from the speakers. In response, Casey pumps a fist in excitement and carefully but skillfully dips Izzie with her other arm.

“The power of the fingerless gloves.” She giggles.

“And you think Sam’s a weirdo?” Iz smirks.

The two begin Snoopy dancing to the upbeat piano and guitar licks. Elsewhere, Harmony and Scarlet are dancing suspiciously close, while Mel is talking up some girls at the punch bar. Despite the entire student body surrounding her, Iz doesn’t feel self-conscious at all. She’s just happy she’s no longer hiding anything.

“Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper begins playing, so the girls ditch the Peanuts-inspired dancing. Izzie cannot help but think of the hotel party as the familiar electricity between them pulls their bodies together. Her hands slip around the small of Newton’s back as their bodies rhythmically sway together.

A slow smile spreads across Izzie’s face. “This time, I’m ready to broadcast our business.”

“Oh yeah?” Casey murmurs. “Pretty sure we’ve already done that.” The curve of Izzie’s lips makes it hard for Casey to think about anything else, so she inches closer until their foreheads touch. The two giggle as they re-live the forehead promise from their not-so-distant past. To draw out the moment, Casey gently rocks her temples against Izzie’s, enjoying how tantalizingly close their lips are.

Iz bites her lip. She wants to resist the urge to taste Newton, but her deliciously warm lips are too inviting. Goosebumps appear on her goosebumps. She feels the familiar tingly feeling that only Newton has ever given her. She could get used to this. This whole being happy at school, time away from her home responsibilities, being comfortable with her identity. Iz feels the remaining tension in her body loosen and the warmth of Newton’s arms around her. She feels safe in her embrace. Neither wants to let go, so they continue moving back and forth, as one, with their foreheads pressed together well after the song ends.

The End

#cazzie #cazzie fanfiction #casey and izzie #casey gardner #izzie no last name #sorry this took way too long to post #they kiss #the feels #the end #let me know if you find the LOTR reference #solved who vandalized Casey's shoes #I hope people understand the fingerless glove references

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estrxlar · 3 years

Text

The Ghost Of You

21 - Unwanted Inconvenience

I've changed the band name from "Xannys" to "Grimlace". I am extremely sorry for making you all suffer through having such an awful band name in the past.

I cannot stress this enough, please vote for my chapters! And I love every comment I get so much!! It makes my day seeing the number of comments I get:)

This chapters songs:

Retreat! - Crumb

Sponge Won't Soak - Wild Moccasins

Dark Red - Steve Lacy

- Y. L. Perspective

"Uhm...Suga?" Tanaka's voice is heard to our left, waking both me Koshi up from our very long nap. "We're here you know."

His awkward tone alone was enough to send us both jumping out of our seats, fearful that the entire team had waited for us to get up. But thankfully, it was just Daichi and Tanaka standing above us.

Both Koshi and I look at each other in unison. "Sorry..." he manages to mumble while leaving the seat. I follow him shortly after, leaving the van empty.

Was I sorry? No. The nap against Koshi was five stars. I hadn't ever had such a comfortable car ride in my entire life until I rested on him. Besides, he was my boyfriend. Why would I be sorry for something silly like that?

What I was sorry about was that we almost got noticed by Eclair. The entire team knew about Koshi and me, except for her. I didn't know much about her and from what I perceived of her she didn't seem like a drama starter. She would most likely cry and yell and forget about it when she went back to France in a couple of days.

We had thought everyone would be tired after such a long car ride. But not Hinata. He admired the structure of the big building, yelling, "Wow! I've never been to a training camp before! This feels so cool!"

"It's just a training camp," Kageyama remarked, yet Hinata stands unfazed.

The team entered the building, all of us observing its basic beige architecture and decor. Everyone gathered around Takeda to ask which rooms they were assigned to. As for Kiyoko, Eclair, and I—we had asked him beforehand to get a head start.

All three of us manage to sneak off from the crowd and hunt down our room number: #613. Although I wasn't very comfortable around Eclair, I didn't feel uneasy to be sleeping in the same room as her. It only meant I couldn't update Kiyoko on my relationship with Sugawara.

Once we'd found our designated room, I unfolded the tiny key and stick it into the lock, hearing a click not soon after I turn it.

When I had opened the door, I wasn't entirely dissatisfied. There were two bunk beds on each side of the room, all four mattresses covered in floral printed sheets with nightstands next to them. The curtains had the same pattern as the sheets, falling over a large square window.

Overall, it was a nice room. Way nicer than the previous motels and hotel rooms that my band had stayed in during concerts and such. All stank of marijuana and alcohol.

Eclair's brackets make a 'jingle!' sound while she squealed, "it's lovely!" The girl runs up to one of the bottom bunks and places her bag there, collapsing onto the mattress. "I'm so thankful to be spending my last few days in Japan here!"

Kiyoko nods gently, her too putting her luggage on the opposite bunk bed. Assuming she wouldn't mind it, I threw my bag on the bunk above her. It would most likely be easier to communicate with her if I shared a bed with her.

"Yes, it's very nice," I say, smiling merely at the blonde girl.

Kiyoko began to unpack her toiletries into the small drawer attached to the bunk bed. I hopped down from the top bed and did the same, observing the carvings that the drawers had. Names, dates, and funny remarks were scratched out in the middle of it, lots of them left from previous sports or art students that came to this building for a camp of some kind. All were either hilarious, inappropriate, or gentle. But in all, they made me smile.

"So you're in a band, Y/n?"

In my eyes widen in fear. Nobody from the team other than Sugawara, Daichi, and Kiyoko knew that I was in a band. So how did the girl find out?

Hesitantly turning my head, I nod, making out an awkward smile across my face. "Uhh, yeah. How'd you know?"

She sits up confidently and chuckles. "I was taking a glance at your Instagram. You seem to go on a lot of trips around the world!"

I wasn't very used to being confronted about my band. And besides that, being acknowledged she was looking through my Instagram was stressful. If she knew about my band, was it possible she knew about Koshi and me?

"Yeah, I travel now and then." Proceeding to unpack my things as if it was no issue to be questioned, I place my pairs of shoes under the bed.

No matter how uncomfortable I attempted to make my tone, she kept on going. "Oh...that sounds like fun! You must have so many fans. Your voice is great too. I wonder why you've never told them team about Grimlace!"

"Hm, I like to keep my life outside of volleyball private..." I say. "Could you please not tell anybody else?"

My question sure was quiet but clear to her. It would determine whether or not Eclair was a bitch or genuinely a nice girl.

Thankfully, she nods lightly, messing with her nails. "Of course not."

Suddenly, the conversation is put to the side by a knock on our door, sending Eclair, hushed Kiyoko, and me to flinch.

Kiyoko puts a hand on her chest, sighing in relief that the tension was interrupted. "Come in," she tells the person on the other side of the door.

Two boys are revealed; Nishinoya and Tanaka walk in, already dressed down in their "sleep clothes", which consisted of a white t-shirt and shorts. Could I talk any mess about their outfits? Nope! I was planning on wearing the same thing.

The buzzcut bow flutters his eyes at the sight of Kiyoko brushing her hair and quickly grows flustered. "L-ladies! Dinner is on the table." He spoke loud in nervousness. "Do you guys like your room?"

"Tanaka, we've been in here less than ten minutes. I'm surprised you're already gotten dressed!" Kiyoko speaks in a sweet tone that seems to mesmerize him. She finished up brushing the ends of her hair and dusts her hands off on her sweat pants, before looking towards the other two girls in the room: Eclair and I.

We nod and drop what we were doing to exit the room with her. If the odds were in my favor, Eclair wouldn't continue interrogating me during dinner. If so, she would soon find out about Koshi and me from one of the men that walked behind us, flustered they'd

Not soon after leaving, we arrive in the mess hall, where the volleyball club was spread around filling their plates and emptying them into their tummies.

The two boys leave our side to continue eating and we help ourselves to some plates. Today they served simple rice, roasted vegetables, and chicken. Nothing special, nothing utterly disgusting. As I'm picking up my food, I look over to the lunch table that the boys were scattered upon, keeping an eye out for any gray-haired men.

There he sat next to Daichi, eating small portions of the rice left in his bowl. 'Does Eclair's being here mean I'm not allowed to sit next to my boyfriend during dinner?' I think internally, finishing filling my plate.

Kiyoko helps herself to sit right next to Daichi, fitting in with the rest of the third years that sat on the bench next to the second years Ennoshita, Kinoshita, and Narita. Across from them were the first years and the terrible two: Tanaka and Noya.

I stood uncomfortably at the end of the wooden table, looking over it to see if there were any empty seats I could eat in. All that looked back at me were eyes of curiosity and confusion.

It only took a few seconds of staring until someone was nice enough to mention my standing there.

"Y/n! Why don't you take my spot? I'm just about done anyway," Daichi tells me while he got up from the bench with the now empty tray. I look at Daichi, then Koshi, then to Eclair who was now walking towards the lunch table.

I of course didn't want her to take my spot, so I nod and bow politely, before switching places with Sawamura. He pays my shoulder gently, whispering, "you're welcome!"

Kiyoko and Koshi both smile at me, scooting over the slightest to make room for me. I say my thanks for my food and began picking at my rice, listening in on the boy's conversation.

"And then I spent my time practicing on the girls' team since I didn't have anyone else to practice with me. It sure felt like I was a part of their club!" Hinata told us, Eclair sitting down next to him, beginning to eat her food as well. "What about you guys? Did you guys have any rough stories before getting into volleyball?"

Tanaka cuts the air with his pointer finger, motioning for us to pause any conversation until he was done chewing. "I used to be a mega introvert before attending Karasuno!"

"Yup, Ryunosuke was just like Kageyama but worse," Nishinoya commented.

I raise a brow at the mention of that. Tanaka—a boy at the edge of having a breakdown?! I couldn't speak for myself. I too was a short-tempered girl towards the beginning of high school.

Kageyama scoffs, rolling his eyes at the mention of his name. "I'm not that bad, you know." We all knew that was a lie. As much as he denied it, Tobio struggled with his anger issues.

Eclair raises her hand slightly, swallowing a lump of rice. "Don't sweat it Kags, everyone has their embarrassing issues. For instance: I used to be such an obsessive girl in my first year. I'm sure I was a nuisance to many of the people in the volleyball club. Always talking in class and being a ditz was my specialty!"

"What about you, Y/n? Have you ever been involved in volleyball, or is this your first time being a part of a volleyball club?" Nishinoya asks me. At first, I thought of shaking my head and replying with a no, as if my memory of middle school had disappeared from my mind.

After thinking about what to reply with for a second or two, I nod my head slightly. "Hm...in junior high I was on the girls' volleyball team, but I was more of a bench warmer. I only joined the team to be closer to my friends, that's all."

"Aren't you friends with the captain of Seijoh

boys volleyball club? You know, since you went to middle school with him?"

I look up to the girl who assumed such ridiculous things, Eclair. There she sat with her chopsticks in hand, lips parting slightly. It was crystal clear that she was trying to dig out my history and force me to tell the volleyball club about my personal life further than what I was comfortable with.

Knowing that I was uneasy, Koshi lays his hand gently onto my knee under the table, squeezing it ever so slightly. My heart beats in its cage, anxious at how many ways this conversation could go if I had said the wrong thing.

"...is that true?" Asahi asks, looking at his fellow teammates to observe their reactions. All of them looked just the same: betrayed.

"Eclair, it's best not to assume things about people you barely know," Koshi tells the girl in a monotone voice, making it obvious that he knew her intentions.

'Well, this got awkward fast.'

"It's okay. Uhm— I'm not friends with any members of Aoba Johsai's volleyball members. Where did you hear that?" I ask, setting down my utensils and clasping my hands together. Surely her reasoning has to be good if it meant ruining my very new relationships with most of the boys at the table.

Most of them sigh after my question, placing hands in their chests. "I thought you were a traitor for a second, Y/n! Eclair, you scared us half to death!" Noya whines.

The girl blinks a few times, shrugging. "I'm terribly sorry! I heard it from a girl that goes to Aoba Johsai, she says that Oikawa never stops talking about Y/n! She only knew by looking up your name and finding out she went to Karasuno."

"Seems you have a crush on Y/n, Eclair. You're almost addicted to looking into her past." Kiyoko suddenly made a remark, smirking as she drank a sip of her water.

The girl grows flustered very quickly, blushing. "No! Sorry, Y/n. I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I'm only interested in what it's like to live without many boundaries. My father never lets me lay a finger on anything that could potentially ruin his vision of what his daughter should be," an innocent look is spread across her face as she says so.

"Aw, I'm sorry to hear that Eclair." Yamaguchi makes a sweet comment, ignorant that she was guilt-tripping. I'd never pictured her to be such a manipulative girl yet calm and poised at once.

She nods, continuing to eat her food.

Though it was her fault entirely, Eclair was saddened that what was supposed to be an enjoying dinner turned out to be silent and awkward. I was growing extremely tired of her passive-aggressive attitude towards me, but losing sight of why I came to this training camp was not an option. I don't care how badly Eclair could hurt my feelings, I won't let it get to me.

Thank you so much for reading this chapter!! I know it's been so late since I've updated. Pls forgive me! I've just now started school again so things are keeping me from writing. Love you all as always,

- estrxlar

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sellyoursoulforagoodfic · 4 years

Text

JKR 2: BRC 1

Joker x Reader

Word Count: 1921

Summary: You love him, that much is obvious, but now Wayne is being flirty suddenly.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Alas, the much awaited sequel to JKR. At some point I got an ask for a sequel, but I literally cannot find it, so … Here it is! There will be more posting randomly as I get it out. Unlike my other series, I’ve got nothing like an outline, so I have no idea how long this is gonna be or when I’m gonna be posting it.

One of your favorite parts of being a mercenary was the fact that it was extremely rare for you to have to be a functioning human on Monday mornings. It was a perk you hadn’t really expected, but you absolutely loved sleeping in while the rest of the world crawled out of bed to begin another shitty work week. That alone almost made it worth it to put up with all the nonsense you handled day to day. And since you’d gotten involved with the joker, you’d even gotten to enjoy the addition of a warm body next to yours seeing how he shared your philosophy on those mornings.

So when you woke up naturally one Monday morning several months since agreeing to work with Joker, you were more than a little annoyed. The irritation was only slightly alleviated when you started to really observe your surroundings and realized that Joker was currently playing big spoon with you and clinging to you like a child with a beloved toy. That, at least, was a sweet bonus to waking this early. A little smile formed on your face despite yourself. You could feel his breath on your bare shoulder, softly puffing every now and then in his sleep; the rhythm of it could almost put you to sleep.

And then your bladder made itself known.

The annoyance promptly came roaring back.

Getting out of bed was a whole little challenge in and of itself due to the way he was clinging to you, but you somehow managed to escape without waking him. When you glanced back at the bed and saw the fearsome Clown Prince of Crime cuddled up to your pillow and snuggled under your covers, your heart gave a hard thump. Try as you might, it was steadily becoming harder to deny that you’d somehow developed feelings–real, deep feelings–for the madman. Every day you tried not to think about it because of how unlikely it was for him to reciprocate, but seeing him so vulnerable–without makeup and with green hair so faded it was almost completely back to its normal dishwater blond–made some part of you swoon. He trusted you enough to be so unguarded, and that was enough for you … mostly. Part of you still craved someone to talk seriously with, but you were content enough even without it. Or so you told yourself.

Sighing, you shook off the emotions and picked up his grey, patterned shirt from the day before. Problems for another day, you supposed.

Once your bodily functions were taken care of, you quietly stalked your way into the kitchen. Clearly, you weren’t going back to sleep anytime soon, so you might as well make a coffee. Maybe that would somehow help you tame your unwelcome feelings.

Clearly the answer was a big, fat “No,” since, as you were returning to the bedroom, you got distracted with how cut he was while you were in the doorway, mug clasped between your hands. You allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere and pretend that the two of you were just normal people.

Then, true to Gotham’s nature, it all came shattering down when you heard the telltale scratching of someone picking a lock. Specifically the lock on your front door. The switch in your mindset to Business Mode was instantaneous. Your world seemed to sharpen as you slowly eased the bedroom door closed; it would be quite bad if your suspicion about the intruder was true and he saw your houseguest. Your hand tightened around the mug, ready to throw the scalding liquid in an instant if threatened.

An angry scoff left your lips when you recognized the head of brown hair that peaked inside your apartment once the door was unlocked. “You’re really making me regret my decision against getting a guard dog, Mr. Wayne.”

You absolutely hated how dashing his ensuing smirk made him. “As busy as you are? Probably not the best idea.” Unlike the last time he broke in, he wasn’t dressed like he came from a trust fund soiree; instead, he was in a more casual ensemble of dark jeans, a dark shirt, and a leather jacket with red trim.

“Any particular reason you’re breaking into my home today or were you just hoping I was still asleep so you could peep?”

“I have to say no. That’s not exactly my style.” A thump from the bedroom halted whatever excuse he had for this breaking and entering episode.

Your heart gave its second hard thump for the morning, this one out of fear instead of love. Leveling Wayne with a harsh glare, you ordered, “Stay put.”

“Of course.”

Mug still clenched in your hand, you quickly retreated back to the bedroom. Based off the sight that greeted you, you could only assume that the noise was Joker grabbing his pants off the chair and inadvertently throwing the knife from his pocket into the floor. “You good?” you asked the obviously-groggy man.

“I heard voices. What’s going on?”

“Don’t you normally hear voices?” you teased in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“No. And you know that,” he deadpanned. His tongue started flicking as his irritation aggravated the tick.

“I’ve got an unwelcome guest again,” you stated, deciding that blunt was probably better than finesse.”

“Wayne?”

“Yes, so you’re going to stay here while I deal with him.”

“Should I be … jealous?”

“Fuck no. Can’t stand the bastard.” Well that was a bit of a lie. As much as the richboy infuriated you, he also acted as a constant source of amusement. “But I don’t want him knowing anything else about me if I can avoid it. Be a good boy and stay here, and I’ll let you have your wicked way with me later.”

“You’ll let me do that anyway.” He was right and he knew it. There was a long pause as you stared each other down. You could practically see his brain working over his options until he finally exhaled heavily. “Fine. I’m too tired for this, anyway.”

For once, his exhaustion worked to your advantage instead of making him intolerable. “Thank you. I’ll be back in a few.”

“I await with bated breath.”

The Joker handled, you slunk back out to deal with the unmasked Batman; part of you realized that Gotham City Police would love to be in your position. Both men, vulnerable with identities out in the open? They’d probably kill for it. You, however, were just tired of today already.

When you returned to the living room, Bruce had once again made himself at home on your couch. “Boyfriend?” he questioned, eyebrow raised.

“Something like that.”

“He’s got interesting taste,” he commented with a little gesture towards your body.

You raised an eyebrow. Sure, it wasn’t exactly your style, but, “You’re one to talk. Enough of the questions, Mr. Wayne. Why are you here?”

“I need a date for a gala I have to go to tonight.”

Your eyebrows now shot up almost to your scalp. “And you came to me? First off, I don’t like you, so what the fuck? Second, you don’t like me, so what the fuck? Third, do you honestly expect me to believe that you couldn’t get a date? And for that matter–”

“Relax, Y/N. I’m hiring you for a job. I need a distraction, and I hear you’re the best.”

“Awfully short notice. What if I don’t have anything to wear?”

“Already have that handled. Come by my penthouse at six.”

“And payment?”

“Half now, half after. Check your bank account; money’s already there.”

“You’re damn sure that I’m gonna do this, aren’t you.”

“You’re curious, you want to know what I’m up to, and you always get the job done if you’re being paid for it.” He was smirking again and heading for the door as he said that. “See you tonight.”

“Bastard,” you spat at the door the second it was closed. Already, you wanted nothing more than to crawl in bed and stay there for the rest of the day and it was only … 8:13 according to the clock on the wall.

Resigned to your fate for the coming evening, you retreated back to the bedroom. This time, you didn’t even pause to admire your lover’s form splayed across the bed. You did notice that his eyes were staring at you as you approached, though, and gave him a small smile.

“Got a job tonight with the hunky rich boy, huh?” he teased while rolling onto his stomach and kicking his feet up like a girl in a movie about a slumber party. “Am I just not, uh, doin’ it for ya anymore, dollface?”

“Fucker didn’t exactly give me much of a choice, did he?” you sniped right back. “Scoot over; you’re in my spot.”

His response was to flop back over onto his back and pat his lap. “You’re mine now, remember? I was a proper gentleman and hid away while you talked to your suitor.”

“He is not–” You were cut off by him tugging you down to straddle him. “My suitor,” you finished, doing your best to sit on him with some modicum of dignity.

“Oh, you don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart. He’s quite, uh, dreamy.” He cackled. “Any chance you could convince him to join us in here sometime?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, J. I don’t think he’d go for it.” Especially considering the whole nemesis thing … “You’re just stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

“Ah well, have fun for the both of us, my dear,” he shrugged. His fingers suddenly halted their attempts to unbutton your (his?) shirt; alarmingly, you hadn’t even noticed him doing that. “Why did Brucy know what it is you do for a living anyway?”

Fortunately, you knew that question was likely to come up months ago, so you’d long ago thought of an excuse. “Did a job cleaning up one of those trust fund brigade’s messes after a particularly nasty party–”

“Ooh!”

“–and that apparently got me on his radar.”

“Never a dull day for a mercenary.”

“Or a madman,” you teased right back. “But be that as it may, I’m gonna enjoy having you all to myself until I have to go to that stupid party.”

“Never a dull day, indeed!” he cheered. “But for real, you gotta get a video or somethin’ if you fuck him tonight.”

You rolled your eyes even as you tugged at his boxers. It was an interesting thought. While you had first priority on the Joker when he was off the clock and a serious case of feelings for the clown, you were under no illusions that this was an exclusive thing. Physically, you sated each other easily. Emotionally, you were all the Joker needed (or wanted, for that matter), but he wasn’t crazy enough to think that he satisfied all of your needs. The whole comforting thing specifically was a weakness of his. You’d discussed all this (excluding the whole love issue) months ago at your insistence since you had no desire to earn the Joker’s wrath by having an affair.

Shoving all that aside, you just scoffed. “That man is infuriating.”

“And he has a crush on you. I can tell. We madmen have a … sixth sense for these things. Besides, the flirting was painfully obvious even from in here.”

“I’m not fucking Bruce Wayne.”

“Right. You’re fucking me!” Another hysterical cackle.

“Well …” you grinned, “I’m about to be, anyway.”

#joker x reader #the joker x reader #heath ledger joker x reader #batman x reader #batman imagine #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #sellyoursoulforarequest

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space-------kid · 4 years

Note

Hello! I don’t know if you’re taking requests at the moment, but if you are, could you do a demon!kyojuro fic. I don’t know if you write for him since ya like genya (I do too, we stan a good boi on this blog), but if ya do, could you write on where he meets the reader, who isn’t a demon slayer? Like they’re just living life on their own until kyo attacks them, but calms down after a couple of minutes. Tears are shed and comfort is given, and they become friends (maybemore). Have a great day!

I’m so sorry, anon, but I’m not taking requests right now! 😭

But since you went out of your way to send me a message (thank you very much! 💕), please accept this tiny piece of writing!

To sum things up: Demon Kyojuro got stuck inside a cave in the mountains, couldn’t hunt any wild animals for him to eat, then got delirious due to hunger.

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

𝓬𝓵𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝒟𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓃!𝑅𝑒𝓃𝑔𝑜𝓀𝓊 𝒦𝓎𝑜𝒿𝓊𝓇𝑜 𝓍 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Pain.

He doesn’t remember much upon opening his eyes except for the gnawing, blinding pain that freezes his limbs, savagely twists his core, and dulls his other senses except for touch. He doesn’t even remember how long he has been lying here in the dark, alone and overwhelmingly confused. Has it been hours? Days? Weeks?

He doesn’t remember anything. Not even his name.

Feeling helpless, he closes his eyes and wishes for the pain to just end.

He feels worse upon waking up.

Hunger makes its presence known in the most detestable way, clawing viciously at his insides and making his throat and mouth dry. It’s the kind of hunger that makes his head spin, makes his blood boil with an anger he cannot control and understand, and diminishes whatever sane judgement his bewildered mind can come up with.

Calloused, trembling hands find a strange sheathed implement within his reach – a sword, he vaguely recalls. He holds it by the hilt and slowly withdraws the thing, only to hiss angrily at the sight of a bright red blade that felt absolutely lethal – something he doesn’t want to feel against his neck.

He throws it away without any second thoughts.

Hungry... Food...

He wanders – both aimlessly and with purpose – until he reaches the foot of the mountain he wakes up in. A lone, modest hut catches his gaze, a single light from within illuminated in the night’s inky darkness.

The moon is obscured by the clouds, but he marvels at the fact that he can perfectly see everything – the world’s colours not even muted by the dark.

He catches a whiff of a delicious, tantalising smell and he is reduced to a mindless salivating state as he breaks off into a run, clawed hands reaching for the hut down yonder.

Food… please—

Working in the field the whole day leaves you thoroughly exhausted, your eyes heavy with sleep your body craves. But you know that you cannot sleep with an empty stomach, so you slave away in the kitchen to prepare a late dinner.

Fatigue seems to have slowed your reaction time because it has taken you a few moments to realize that the blood in the knife you are holding is yours.

Cursing your clumsiness, you go outside to check the basket you left behind for any bandages you might have forgotten to unpack.

Thundering footsteps reach your ears, and you look up just in time to see a stranger lunging at you with hands outstretched, a feral expression on his face and drool trickling down his – it is indeed a man – chin.

Your body reacted in the situation by pumping adrenaline through your veins, and you are quick to dodge the stranger’s attack. You hear him crash on your front door, and you take the chance to run away while he gathers his bearings.

You cannot run to the field because it will leave you wide open and easy to spot, so the forest is your best bet at hiding. You know the place well enough like the back of your hand, and you are confident enough that you can lose your unexpected pursuer.

But your choice and confidence become your downfall when you hear him at your tail, tackling you immediately to the ground. The two of you roll a few feet on the forest floor and your hunter quickly pulls you up in a sitting position, your back to him and his hot, heavy breathing against your neck.

Thoughts of dying never really scared you before, but you cannot say the same now that your captor has you locked in his strong arms. A clawed hand gently caressed one of your arms, the stranger’s laborious pants turning into a pleased hum as he seemingly marvels at your softness through the fabric of your kimono.

This is it, you think numbly to yourself. This is where you die, and where the woodcutters will find your bloody, defiled corpse in the morning—

“Please…” you whisper, tears pouring steadily down your cheeks. “D-Don’t kill me, I beg of you…”

The feral looking man behind you tenses, and you notice a cascade of orange hair with red streaks in your peripheral vision as he buries you deeper in his hold. He is trembling now, and his hold on you shifts from murderous to soft and apologetic.

You don’t move, afraid that it might set him off again into that savage, snarling husk of a man that has chased you easily into the forest. You can feel his heartbeat against your back, mirroring the way yours pound wildly against your sternum. He swallows harshly, but his clawed hand is gentle – almost afraid of physically hurting you – when it hovers over your injured hand.

“Forgive me.”

His voice is deep and husky from disuse, but you can hear and feel the depth of his words as he slowly untangles himself from you. You are quick to crawl away from him before facing your previous pursuer.

You waited for your eyes to adjust in the darkness, and once they have settled your vision is met by the sight of orange hair with red streaks (true to what you’ve seen earlier), a surprisingly handsome and manly features, and – the one that stands out to you the most – a pair of bright orange eyes with red irises, pupils slit like a cat’s. He is wearing some kind of a uniform but it is stained with dust and grass from your tumble mere moments ago. The same goes for his white haori with flame patterns and colouring on the edges.

“I seem to have lost myself back there – maybe for a few days, even,” he continues, slitted gaze never leaving yours. “But I remember now. I remember everything.”

Your confusion only escalates at his words, and you hug yourself as you inch farther from him. But you stop the moment a look of hurt and shame paints the stranger’s handsome face.

“Please forgive me for mindlessly attacking you,” he says, and your heart hurt at his attempts to inject false cheer in his sincere voice and words. He looks vastly different from the man who attacks you earlier, and you surmises that the kindness he is showing you reflects his true self.

You open your mouth to speak, but your mind doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. He visibly flinches, and you try your best to sit still when he cautiously approaches you and lifts a hand – mindful of his claws – to gently wipe away your tears.

“I am Rengoku Kyojuro, a demon who has sworn never to harm humans and to slay any evil demon I come across with,” he introduces himself. Your heart clenches with pain when he gives you a profoundly sad smile. “But I cannot claim that mantle anymore, seeing as I have just attacked you out of sheer hunger.”

A demon? Demons are real?

He stands up, face set in a falsely cheerful expression as he pumps his fist in the air and declares quite loudly, “I am a disgrace to the words I have once boldly claimed! I shall atone for this humiliation by decapitating myself with my own blade!”

“Please don’t!” you yell at him, surprising not only him but yourself as well with your sudden exclamation. Kyojuro looks at you, puzzled, as you grasp one of his large hands with your much smaller ones. “Don’t kill yourself!”

“But I’ve almost killed you myself,” he tells you, looking shocked at your pleas. You simply look at him with a pleading expression, trusting yourself to convey that you have already forgiven him without using words.

He just seems so sad and ashamed for what he has almost done, but you, a simple farmer, is gifted with an intuition that rivals that of warriors of old. Your initial fear has made you deaf on what it is telling you, but you can now hear it loud and clear as it screams at you to forgive Kyojuro, that he really doesn’t mean to hurt you, that he cannot and will not kill you even in the throes of blinding hunger – as proved by him staying his hand as soon as he has you locked in his arms.

You’ve heard tales of demons devouring their prey as soon as they got their hands on them. But Kyojuro hasn’t done anything of the kind. The most harm he has given you is tackling you to the ground, nothing more.

And he slays his kind – the evil ones?

Kyojuro stares at you with wide-eyed amazement, and you are immediately convinced that he is not the only good demon in existence.

“I’m [Name],” you introduce yourself, and you smile up at him earnestly as you run your fingers reassuringly on his knuckles. “Y-You didn’t hurt me. And if what you are saying is true, that you slay evil demons… then it would do the world a whole lot of good if you remain here, alive and doing what you have sworn to do. So, please. Please don’t kill yourself over— over this!”

The sound of his booming laughter – one that comes from the pit of his belly and is nothing short of amused and grateful – rings loudly in the quiet forest, making you jump in your seat. You gape up at him, openly admiring his handsome face breaking into a smile that echoes the emotions his laughter contains.

“Well met, [Name], the very first person I almost ate!”

You blush furiously at his words, and he comforts you by tenderly patting your head. Neither of you know that your near-death experience and his almost eating a human signify the start of a wonderful friendship… and one that eventually leads to something more.

But for now, you bask in the warmth of Kyojuro’s clawed hand on your hand, and him in the kindness reflected in your [colour] eyes and smile.

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