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autisticlancemcclain · 7 months

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Everything is burning.

For too long he doesn’t move. His limbs are leaden, pulled heavily to the ground, and his neck is too weak to keep up his head. Smoke curls in the air and settles sleepily into his lungs. Shredded metal and broken glass glint and shine under the full moonlight, and through his half-lidded eyes it looks like stars. Every inhale is laborious, but the churned earth feels shaped to the contours of his body, like a mattress designed specifically for him. He could close his eyes, just for a moment, and rest, recover from the strain of the crash before moving forward. It would be easier. Just a short rest, a moment to sleep, to heal.

Sounds of a forest surround him. A steady chirping that must be crickets, a hooting that can only be an owl. If he strains his ears farther, there’s the chittering of something scurrying up and down trees, and the heavier thumps of something bigger stomping about. Behind that, there are voices.

Shouting. And the bark of what has to be dogs, and the ever so faint revving of vehicles, slamming doors.

Get up, urges a voice in the back of his head. Get up now.

He tries to comply. He cracks open his eyes – when did he close them? – and hisses at the onslaught of light, of beams of searching torches and painful flashes of red and blue. All of a sudden he’s made aware of the flames inching closer to his legs, and the wing of his ship, torn off the body, pressing him into the ground.

“Not good,” he croaks, trying to wiggle his toes. Thankfully, he can, although movement reminds his body of itself, and the aches and pains start to come alive – his entire head pounds, and nausea coils around his stomach, and something burns and pulses in the meat of his calf.

But still he can move.

Forcing his arms to function, he grounds his hands under him, pushing upright. His body feels heavier than it has ever felt before; the task feels herculean. The unrest in his stomach becomes violent, swirling, and he has to stop before he’s even sitting upright, eyes stinging, teeth clenched, breathing deliberately and sharply through his nose until the nausea settles again. The world spins, when he’s finally sat upright, and he has to give himself a moment for that to pass, too, but the shouting voices and stomping feet get louder, and he knows he doesn’t have much time.

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, praying that Perseus and Ursa and Leo guide him. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

He curls his gloved fingers under the ruined edge of the wing, careful of the sharp shards of torn metal, and heaves, pushing and biting back a loud cry as the effort of freeing his legs tears something in his shoulders, hurts something in his back. The wing is heavy and he’s lucky he’s merely trapped under it rather than pinned; if the ground wasn’t supporting so much of its weight then the onus would be on his legs, and he’s sure he would lose them. His body is sorer than it has ever been in his life, and everything hurts, but he is grateful for that at least.

With the freeing of his legs comes the hard part. He doesn’t trust them to hold them, at least not at first, and he’s scared of what might happen if his brain tells them to move on their own. So he wraps his hands around his ankle and pulls, so his foot slides close to his rear and bends his knee, and does the same with the other, so he is sitting with his knees nearly pressed to his chest and his feet flat and steady on the floor.

“Okay,” he whispers again to himself, shaky this time. He bites off any other words, snapping his mouth shut, focusing on breathing. Okay. He braces his palms on the cracked and sparking remains of the control board the pushes with all his strength, steadying himself on wobbling legs and knocking knees. He holds himself steady, breath held in his lungs, for the count of fifteen ticks, carefully testing with his hands still steadying himself, the ability of his legs to hold him up.

Carefully, nervously, he lifts up his hands. He sways, for a moment, but manages to stay upright. On the high of that success he straightens to the best of his ability and surveys the smoking remains of his crashed ship. It’s not very salvageable. Scrap metal, maybe, but everything else…

He swallows. It has been two deca-phoebs since he left home. Six pheobs since he last passed a satellite up to date enough to talk to his family face-to-face. He hasn’t seen home in so long that sometimes he struggles to remember what it felt like to lie in his bed, not just the nest he built in the cab of his ship. The ship, with its purple glowing lights and well-worn buttons and weird old sounds and familiar walls is the only piece of home he has left. Maybe forever, now.

He shakes himself. The voices are closer, now, the barking of dogs closer still. He doesn’t have time to dwell. He forces himself to shift around some of the ruins, digging through cracked polymer and cracked glass to find anything salvageable and portable; anything he can find in under thirty ticks. He manages – thankfully – to find his pack, half-burned as it is, that he knows holds some clothes and supplies. He finds his comm, too, although it’s cracked clean in half. He brings it anyway.

His head swivels to the treeline as he hears a barked order that sounds like it’s barely out of eyesight. He has to go. He doesn’t have any more time.

Choking back tears from two different kind of pain, he stumbles his way out of the wreckage and sprints for the trees, as far away from the voices as he can manage. He only hopes that he’s not trailing blood – and that the humans aren’t faster than he is.

———

Keith grew up on stories of Earth.

His father told him hundreds. It’s like a hundred planets in one, he liked to say, and when Keith was young and still fit in the crook of his father’s arm he’d look at him with wide eyes and try to imagine it. Dozens of nations all trying to coexist in one space. All the culture and language you could ever dream of, naui jag-eun tamheomga, everywhere, at once.

When Keith was a kid he couldn’t get enough of it. When he was a teen he couldn’t, either; he’s never not been fascinated with the heritage he’s never shared with anyone he’s ever known. His bedtime stories were of scientific discoveries his father witnessed in real time, of athletic feats of which Keith could barely conceptualise. And when he ran out of real stories, he told Keith stories of thousands of years of myths, of gods and angels and monsters. And of course when Keith had the first inkling of an opportunity he packed a ship, kissed his mother goodbye, and flew off on a several hundred million lightyear journey, his field journal blank and begging to be filled and his father’s voice echoing in his head.

His father prepared him for everything. Keith knew every star on the journey, recognised the curve of every planet in the solar system. Upon sight of the Great Blue Dot he could barely contain his excitement, thrusters at full force.

His father told him everything. As far as Keith knew and has always known, his father knew everything.

His father didn’t tell him that the second his ship showed up on government scanners, he’d be shot out of the sky.

Keith found that one out the hard way.

———

There’s a light up ahead.

It’s yellowed, and old. The bulb has not been changed in a long time, and dead moths pile inside the class lamp cover. Cobwebs wrap delicately around the iron frame. The light seems out of place with the cottage it guards; not in appearance, but in liveliness: the cottage is dark and well-maintained. The ancient beckoning of the lamp post seems at odd with the sleepy youth of the red-bricked little house.

Keith is starting to get a little delirious, maybe.

Stumbling, he approaches the cottage. He has long since lost the voices and hunters, if that’s what they were, distracted no doubt by the remains of his ship. He hasn’t heard them in hours.

But the moon crests higher and higher overheard. And the torn flesh of his leg – cut deeply by a shard of shrapnel – bleeds sluggishly with no sign of stopping. And he is tired, and every step is harder, and the adrenaline only continues to fade, and the point in which he will no longer be able to go on is rapidly approaching.

And, most damning. Humans are pursuit predators. As far as he goes – if he is not sheltered, they will find him. Now or days from now, he cannot stay hidden.

He’d like to choose the terms in which he is discovered.

He forces himself to the cottage, injured leg dragging behind him, vision getting blurrier with every step, breaths getting shallower and shallower. The steps are real wood, cured and stained and worn, and Keith mourns for a moment that he is about to ruin them with the spill of his own blood and the tracked mud and grease on his clothes. His father wore a necklace, every day of his life, a leather cord with a rubbed-smooth charm of carved wood. In all the many planets Keith has visited, he has never seen real wood. Dried plant matter, in abundance, and every kind of polished stone, polymers created from nothing and glass melted from every kind of sand, but wood is, at least as far as anyone knows, completely unique to Earth. Keith has always been fascinated by it.

His strength leaves him at the door. Like his strings were cut, he falls to his knees with a heavy thud, and must claw his way close enough to knock. The tap of his fist against the worn green door is hardly loud enough to be audible, but it is all he has strength to do. He slumps against the doorframe and mentally apologises to whatever old lady lives in this house, because she is going to have the fright of her life seeing his corpse on her doorstep when she wakes up in the morning. That, or a trail of blood from where the people who shot him down are going to drag him away.

Either way, not good.

He’s sad, as he lay there dying. That is of course not a revolutionary feeling to have, but it’s of no consequence. He wishes he saw more of Earth. He wishes he got to stop at all the places his father talked about so fondly. He wishes he was able to tell his mother goodbye. He wishes, perhaps most urgently, that dying hurt less. He had been too shocked to hurt, when he first crashed, but it’s been hours now and his body won’t let him forget it. Everything hurts, and his throat is dry. He hates it when his throat is dry. The wooden doorframe digs into his back, at least, and it’s not a pleasant sensation but he reaches out and strokes the grain of the wooden door anyway, feeling the chipped away pent, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending he’s running his thumb around his father’s pendant.

The texture of the wood suddenly disappears, and his back hits the ground. His eyes flutter open, whole seconds after he is laid flat on the ground, and hovering above him is the blurry silhouette of a man glowing gold; curls of hair shining flinted silver in the bright light of the moon, stars dotting the apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose, mouth curved like the arm of the Milky Way, and eyes the deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul.

“Oh,” are Keith’s dying words, faint and echoing and awed. “Dad was wrong. Angels are real.”

———

The tips of cool, uncalloused fingers brushing under his hairline rouse him from slumber, frowning. Mom must be wearing – gloves? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s never seen her wear gloves before, even when he’s been sick. Her claws tear right through the fingers. It doesn’t make sense.

“Mom?” he murmurs, voice scratchy, trying and failing to force open his heavy, heavy eyelids.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers, not sounding like herself at all. She must be sick, too. “You’re still all fucked up. You need it.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrow. He wanted to talk to her. There was something he wanted to say to her. There’s something faint and muted pulling at the back of his mind; something about his mother, about talking, about pain and sleep and sorrow. He needs to wake up.

But he’s so tired. And his eyelids are so heavy. And sleep pulls, at every corner of his mind.

“Okay,” he sighs, and sinks back into it.

———

“Whatever the hell you are, you’ve made a mess of yourself. Dumbass.”

———

There are voices again. Arguing. Fear pricks at Keith’s veins, and it’s enough to propel him out of whatever blackness he’s been resting in, enough to force his eyes open. He squeezes them shut again on reflex, hissing at the onslaught of sunlight pouring in from the wide, open window, counting to three before opening them again under the shield of his hand.

He doesn’t recognise the room he’s in.

It’s strangely shaped. Almost cave-shaped, really, with rounded edges instead of sharp corners. Except the window is so big it bleeds light into every single crevice of the room, leaving no room for any cave-like impressions. The walls are painted with soft, muted murals, of hanging vines and falling leaves and ants marching a line on a tree. Dozens of shelves are filled with more rocks than Keith has ever seen in one place, even in his godfather’s labs and archives. The bed itself is huge, taking up half the room, enough so that Keith could sprawl if he pleased and not touch any edge. The comforter is huge and thick and almost stiflingly warm. The door is contrasting to the energy of the rest of the room, covered in vibrant stickers and sprawled in messages and almost graffiti-like lettering. It’s cracked open slightly, and through it Keith can hear two voices arguing: one stiff and demanding, the other angry and shrill.

“I have no idea what the hell you’re on about,” hisses the angry voice, defensive. “No one has shown up at my door. I’ve seen nothing strange. Everything is as normal as it always is. The only odd thing is the slew of trespassing assholes dressed in uniform who won’t leave me the fuck alone –”

Keith’s head lolls backwards, strength seeping out of his body. The sunlight is warm and smells good. The fear that had dragged him awake has ebbed, somewhat, because the voice – the angry voice – is protective. There is someone guarding Keith’s six.

He lets sleep swallow him again.

———

He dreams, finally, of flying on wings of hollow bones and stretched skin, and being shot out of the sky. And of a bright yellow canary, snatching him from his freefall and floating him gently to the earth.

———

“If you woke up soon I’d appreciate it, you know. I’m running out of excuses to buy saline bags. Shit is getting suspicious and if the local town thinks I’m a vampire trying to keep my personal bloodbag alive, I’m fucked.”

———

Keith awakes, finally and fully, in the middle of the night. A half moon shines bright into a bedroom that feels unnervingly familiar, like the watercolour memories from a dream. The cloudiness that’s been ever present in his head has finally faded, and the only thing rolling in his stomach is hunger. There’s still a heavy ache in his leg, but it’s manageable. It’s dark enough that his eyes don’t sting.

His mouth tastes like something died, then was revived, then shat on his tongue. It’s unpleasant.

Nervously, fully expecting a half-movement to crumble his body to dust, he peels back the disgustingly fluffy comforter, slowly pivoting his half-upright body until his feet are planted on the rug-covered floor. He rests there a moment, frankly a little breathless, but braces on palm on the nightstand and one on the bedspread and readies himself. Teeth grit in determination, he pushes, leaning on shaky arms until he trusts his legs to hold up his body.

They do. His one leg aches in a pain he’s only felt in Marmora training, but it holds him, and when he tests a tiny step forward, it holds him then, too.

Slowly, conscious of his space and his body, Keith inches forward.

It takes him longer than he would like to cross the minimal space between the bed and the door, but he does it, and he ignores the sardonic voice in his head that wants to do anything but celebrate. He rests again at the door frame, hand clutched at the top of it, stretched out in a way that feels unbelievably good (well, as stretched out as he can be with his head brushing the doorframe). His lips quirk up when he realises it’s made of wood, half-remembering his dying internal rambles. He wonders if building with wood is a common Earthen practice, or if whomever owns this cottage is just unbelievably wealthy. Maybe all Terrans are.

Once his breath has evened again and he thinks he’s good to go, Keith peeks down the hallway, nerves dancing down his spine. The two rooms branching off are dark and soundless, but there’s a small light on at the end of the hall where it opens up, and the soft sound of clinking glass. Someone is awake.

He closes his eyes, pulling back from the doorframe and closing his shaking hands into fists. “Just do it,” he whispers to himself. It’s not like they don’t know he’s here – someone has been keeping him alive, after all. He didn’t just recover – well, half-recover – from a massive crash by himself. That kind of thing kills a person, actually. “Stop stalling.”

Jaw set and shoulders square, Keith stalks forward. It’s hard to stalk with a heavy limp, but he thinks he manages. His cousin has always told him that power comes from audacity, and she has plenty, so. He should be fine so long as he emulates her, which he would rather crash from space again than admit but he does often.

He turns the corner at the end of the hallway and it opens up into an open kitchen and living space. There are no overhead lights but lamps and candles litter the space, making everything glow quietly. A light floral scent fills the air, but Keith isn’t sure if that’s from the candles or the bouquet of purple flowers that might be lavenders placed carefully on the centre of a – wooden – table. More shelves line the walls, filled with more than just rocks this time, and the walls are painted with bright swatches of colours; muted in the low light but visibly more sunshiney and abstract than the bedroom. The fridge is covered in photos so thickly that the door isn’t even visible. The counters are a mess of opened ingredients, some of which Keith recognises, and a slew of utensils and bowls in various states of disarray.

A man stands at the centre of it all, back turned to Keith.

Keith clears his throat.

The man whirls around, startled, and when he sees Keith he screams at the top of his lungs, mixing bowl clattering to the ground and splattering batter all over the floor and half the cupboards. Keith steps back, heart pounding in his ears, hands held defensively in front of him, mind screaming with various iterations of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. He’d thought he was safe, that his presence was known, that –

“Oh my shitballs,” the man wheezes, hunching over slightly. “Oh Joseph and Mary and Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck. My heart just clawed its way up my esophagus and threw itself out of my mouth, actually. Holy shit.”

“What,” Keith croaks, still frozen in fear.

For a moment there’s silence. Then the man still stands crookedly, but straightens enough to look Keith in the eyes. And Keith –

Keith stops breathing, because he knows those eyes.

The deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul.

“I am. So sorry,” he says, “for yelling. That is my bad. That is On Me. Probably freaked you out good.” He sighs, bending back down and scooping up the mixing bowl. He stares for a long moment at the mess of batter, weighing, then sighs again and more deeply and reaches for a rag. “I don’t mean to be xenophobic, promise. I swear I knew you were there. I just. Haven’t slept. In so many days. Would’ve screamed if anyone popped out, promise.”

“What,” Keith repeats, a little desperate.

The man doesn’t seem to pick up on his tone, though, continuing to work on the rapidly drying mess and rambling.

“– and it’s not your fault, anyway. Been a rough couple of weeks. You really freaked the hell outta the military, huh? I’m glad you’re up now because there was only so much I could do to keep them away. I’m sure they’ll come knocking again eventually, but we’ll figure it out then. Or you’ll go home? I’m honestly not sure. Whatever works. You can stay. I dunno. My brain’s on three percent at this exact moment.”

“You’re…not sleeping?” Intentionally, Keith avoids the whole military thing the man mentioned, because. Well. That freaks him out, if he’s being entirely honest, and he really doesn’t want to hear it. Right now he’s pretending that’s a problem for someone else. He has enough shit to deal with.

The man sighs. He looks dejectedly at the mess. Slowly, so as not to startle him again, Keith walks over to the sink, careful to avoid smears of whatever the man was making, and wets a rag to help him.

He figures it’s the least he can do.

“Yeah, well. I’ve never slept great outside of my bed. It’s cool, though. Sometimes I blink for a few seconds longer than usual and it’s like a micro-nap.”

Keith looks at him in concern. He’s staring off into space, rubbing at a spot that’s been clean for at least two doboshes now. Keith’s not even sure if he’s noticed him beside him. “That seems bad.”

“Eh. Now that you can move around, I can sleep if you’re ever up. All is well.”

“...Wait.” Keith shifts so he’s deliberately in the man’s space, which makes him startle, proving Keith’s earlier guess. “I’m sleeping in your bed?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Keith flushes purple. “I didn’t know I was in your bed!” It’s not that he’s…you know…never slept in anyone else’s bed before, but usually he knew he was doing it. And never a stranger’s, as evidently kind as this stranger has been.

The man blinks. “I have a guest bedroom, but you’re too tall for it.”

“Still!”

“Dude. You showed up at my door in the middle of the night after crashing into the woods so hard the trees shook, bloodied to hell and back and near death. I couldn’t just – shove you in a bed too small for you. It was my bed or the floor, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to make an injured person sleep on the floor.”

“That’s…fair, I suppose,” Keith concedes. But he’s still a little troubled. “But I’m good, now. I can – sleep in the guest room?”

He trails off a little as he suggests it, realising, abruptly, how absurd this whole thing is. He doesn’t know this person. He’s shown up as an unexpected guest to his home – hell, to his planet. And now they’re…making sleeping arrangements? Arguing about sleeping arrangements? Is Keith even planning on staying? What are his other options? How is he going to get home? What happened to his ship?

His head starts to pound again. The man must notice, because he softens.

“Man, just sleep in my bed,” he says. “You’re still hurt.” He gently pries the rag out of Keith’s hand, tossing them both into the sink and standing. Hands still gripped together, he pulls Keith up too, careful of his hurt leg and generally aching body. He begins to tug Keith back to the bedroom, guiding him around the mess on the floor.

Keith squares his shoulders stubbornly. “No.”

“Oh, for the love of –”

The man pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at Keith in exasperation.

“This is what I get,” he says, shaking his head. “For not listening to Hunk about the light. I deserve this. This is Karma.”

“I’m not just going to steal your bed and let you be sleep deprived,” Keith insists.

“Well, I’m not going to let you not steal my bed! And it’s my house, so checkmate!”

“Not doing it.”

“I’ll drag you,” the man threatens. “I did before. I will do it again, do not test me.”

“You dragged me when I was a deadweight,” Keith points out. He straightens to his full height, ignoring the screaming burning in his leg. He has a Point to make. “Go ahead and try when I’m actively resisting.”

The man glowers at him, arms crossed over his chest and fingers drumming on his bicep. He has very long fingers, Keith notices. Kind of – elegant. In a scrawny way. Keith kind of gets those vibes from him as a person.

“Oh,” the man says triumphantly, standing to his full height, too – although he still has to look up to meet Keith’s eyes. “I’ll just sleep on the floor. So you’ll have to use my bed. Ha.”

Keith shrugs. “I’ll just sleep on the floor, too.”

The man glowers at him for several doboshes. Keith stares right back, eyebrows raised.

“Are all aliens this annoying?”

“Are all humans this stubborn?”

A smile twitches at the corner of the man’s mouth. “This is stupid.”

“It is,” Keith agrees, smiling back.

“Just – sleep on the bed.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“What if I sleep in it, too? Compromise.”

Keith’s cheeks heat again, although this time he doesn’t look away. That would be – embarrassing. Far more embarrassing than simply sleeping in someone else’s bed – sleeping with them in it.

But it would get them both to sleep faster. Plus, Keith would be unconscious, so how embarrassing could it be, really? And the bed is huge, so double plus! They probably won’t even be that near each other.

“Compromise,” Keith relents, finally. The man beams, but notably there’s a bit of a flush to his ears, too.

“Come on,” he says, reaching down to grab Keith’s hand again. He does it very easily. Keith tries not to notice. “God, I’m so pumped. I love sleeping. This is going to be the best.”

“...Right.”

Keith follows him, meekly, down the hallway, straight through the second door on the left, and into the bedroom. It has remained unchanged – the comforter is turned over as Keith left it, and the light curtains are swaying, slightly, in the breeze from the open window. The man wastes no time crawling right in, on the right right, sighing loudly as he sinks into the soft mattress. Keith is much more hesitant.

“There,” the man says, as they’re finally settled side by side. “Hopefully it’s not – the worst.”

“It’s not,” Keith tries to assure, voice strangled. He lies as stiffly as he can, careful to keep his limbs to himself, not to crowd. He doesn’t want to – suffocate the man, or something. Who knows. This is a real-life human. Mom says they are largely fragile.

“Goodnight,” the human whispers, several doboshes later. His voice is hushed, sleep-thick. Keith chances a look, and finds him melted into the pillows, eyes closed, face lax. He doesn’t seem to be – bothered. By Keith. By his clawed hands, or big ears, or height. Or proximity.

Keith exhales, and lets himself relax.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and sinks back into unconsciousness.

— — —

later in the universe

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cybrsan · 7 months

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Treasure — J.WY [Pt. 1]

STORY SUMMARY: Wooyoung is moon-blessed, a waterbender born under the Siren Moon that rises once every 88 years. His blessing is believed to be his unique and powerful healing abilities that he has coined “Wavesong.” However, his true gift is that of his prophetic dreams, glimpses of futures yet to unfold—and you just happen to be the subject of his recent visions.

PAIRING: Waterbender Jung Wooyoung x Non-Bender F!Reader

RATING/GENRE: M ; angst, fluff, eventual smut ; ATLA au, enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

WARNINGS: Minor POV switches

A/N: This story has been a long time coming. It is the second addition to my "Ode To ATEEZ" series and the first to my "Together in Harmony" series. I decided to split it into chapters because I believe it will flow better that way. I hope you enjoy!

LINKS: Ode To ATEEZ Masterlist | Together in Harmony Masterlist | Cross-posted on AO3

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Crossing the Desert of Eden is not for the faint of heart. It is one of the world’s greatest paradoxes, a place where nature's most wonderful and most dangerous creatures coexist in a delicate balance. Even the sand itself is an example of this—crystalline and beautiful, ever sparkling under the light of the sun, yet each granule is as jagged as splinters of glass. Without proper foot bindings, your journey cannot even begin.

Amidst the harsh landscape, pockets of life burst forth in brilliant defiance. Rare desert blooms dot the barren terrain with bursts of color. Some hold the power to heal, their petals emitting a fragrance that soothes both body and soul. Others are laced with deadly venom, capable of stopping a heart with but a single touch.

Sand serpents slither through the dunes, their scales nearly translucent, giving them the ability to blend in seamlessly with the landscape. One bite is all it takes for total paralysis to overtake you, rendering you incapacitated for mere minutes to hours at a time. Celestial birds soar overhead, searching for prey, their wings casting shadows on the ground below.

And even if you’re able to avoid those threats, blinding winds carry grains of sand like lashes, stinging skin, obliterating landmarks, and disorienting even the most skilled navigators. The desert swallows the unwary, erasing their footprints from existence.

It is in this very place that Wooyoung finds himself, accompanied by seven of his fellow benders. In normal circumstances, he would avoid a place like this at all costs, his sense of self-preservation persevering over the curiosity of what secrets the desert holds. But things haven’t been normal for a long, long time.

He feels like he’s been walking for days, his legs heavy and leaden. Despite his protective robes, the wind and sand have whipped at his skin, leaving it battered and raw. Just one look at the faces of his companions is enough to prove he isn’t the only one feeling this way. The only one who seems miraculously energized is their de-facto leader, Hongjoong. He moves forward with ferocity, a tinge of madness in his eyes.

To his left, Yeosang stumbles, nearly falling onto the sand below. Wooyoung reaches out for him, a second too slow, but luckily San reacts quicker, catching him by the arm. The exhaustion has begun to take its toll. Everyone comes to a stop, nervous energy flowing between them. Everyone except Hongjoong, that is. Seonghwa, the eldest of the group and the one with the most power after their leader, places a hand on his shoulder.

“We need to rest, Joong. Look at the kids—they’re exhausted. Yeosang almost collapsed.”

‘The kids.’ Wooyoung frowns, the endearment not sparking the same joy that it used to. Seonghwa and Hongjoong may only be a year older than the rest of them—two in Jongho’s case—but they’ve always referred to them that way. Wooyoung used to find it cute, often teasing them about how they acted like an old married couple. He supposes that the recent distaste for the nickname comes from the fact that Hongjoong hasn’t been the same ever since he told him about his dream.

It takes a moment for Hongjoong to comprehend what Seonghwa said, thoughts still elsewhere. Yet once his eyes find Yeosang, he immediately acquiesces, apologizing for not stopping sooner. His entire demeanor seems to soften, making him seem more like himself. Wooyoung already feels like he can breathe better because of it.

“Hopefully we aren’t too far from a Dweller community,” Hongjoong says, taking out his compass. “Let’s go.”

The Dune Dwellers are natives of Eden, having found ways to thrive in even the most unfavorable conditions. They aren’t particularly fond of outsiders, regarding any so-called adventurers as naive and stupid more than anything else. They often find the remains of the less fortunate, bodies lost to the sand. Dwellers are some of the only people who know how to navigate the desert and survive, but even they won’t wander into it aimlessly, searching for a treasure that may or may not exist.

Luckily, it isn’t long until they find one of their communities with Hongjoong’s guidance. Tracking their location becomes easier when you familiarize yourself with the signs the locals leave for one another, like a carving in a rock or some shimmering paint on a cactus. Things that are easy to miss when you don’t know what you’re looking for.

The town is small, cut through the middle by a bustling market area teeming with vendors trying to pawn off their goods. Wooyoung immediately feels some of his tension fade away, the lively environment making him feel more at home. You wouldn’t expect any place in such a barren landscape to be so full of life, but the Dwellers have a thriving community of their own despite their living conditions.

The sounds of haggling and bartering are music to his ears, and he quickly finds himself imbued with newfound energy, eager to start talking to people and fishing for information. Maybe he’ll be able to find some clues as to Pandora’s location, and Hongjoong can finally be appeased. He makes a quick plan with the others to meet at the town’s small inn at sunset before wandering off on his own.

The scent of spices, freshly baked bread, and cooking meat mingle in the air as he walks, making his mouth water. He stops at a stall selling juice made from prickly pears, kept cool by the waterbender who continuously refreezes the ice it sits upon. In exchange for a few copper coins, he buys a glass and greedily gulps it down.

He shivers, the cold drink a shock to his system in the hot, dry climate. It is both tangy and sweet and he hums, pleased, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and returns the glass to the merchant. Just as he goes to pull his hand back, the man grabs his wrist. Wooyoung's heart jumps in his chest and, though he tries to keep his composure, he is sure the shock shows on his face. Dwellers may not greet outsiders with open arms, but they’ve never shown any outward acts of aggression toward them before.

“What are you doing here, nakuto? You’re a long way from the Water Tribe.”

Wooyoung gently removes his arm from the man’s grasp, though he is no longer fearful. The term nakuto, a respectable term for ‘young one,’ brings back memories of his home and instantly puts him at ease. “How did you know I was a waterbender?”

“I don’t see many of my own kind out here; most are exiles from the Fire Nation or native sandbenders. Your necklace gives you away.”

Instinctively, Wooyoung reaches up, fingers caressing the delicate shells around his neck. He supposes it is reminiscent of the Water Tribe, but he’s worn it for years and barely remembers that it’s there. It was a gift from his brother, a good luck charm given to him when he left for the Fire Nation seven years ago.

The man continues, “Did something happen to your Tribe, boy? It’s not safe out here.”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m here with a group of other benders—we’re looking for the eternal library, Pandora.”

“Pandora,” the man scoffs. “A myth. You should turn back while you still can.”

“I’m afraid turning back isn’t an option. Come on, pakana. Surely you must know something.”

The man harrumphs, though Wooyoung can tell the use of the honorific pleases him by the slight smile that tugs at his lips. “You can call me Marok.”

“I’m Wooyoung.”

“Well, Wooyoung, there really isn’t that much information out there about Pandora; I probably don’t know much more than you do.” Marok creates a small stream of water from the melting ice, absent-mindedly spinning it around his fingers as he talks. “I’ll tell you what—go talk to ol’ Nadira. She’s a sandbender, and been here almost all her life. If anyone were to know something, it’d be her. Go west of town and look for a purple tent with yellow flags.”

“Thank you, Marok—I appreciate your help. Yui remoi.”

“Bayui jilok.”

Wooyoung nods, acknowledging Marok’s blessing, and starts to head west. The sun has begun to set, and he suspects he has less than an hour before he has to meet the others at the inn. Hopefully, whoever Nadira is, she’ll be cooperative. With the town being as small as it is, it doesn’t take him long to reach the outskirts, and the bright purple tent is easy to spot, a beacon of color amongst the sand. Just as he reaches the entrance, a girl pushes the flap aside, nearly bumping into him as she exits in a hurry.

“Sorry,” she mutters, barely acknowledging him as she rushes back to town.

The hair on the back of Wooyoung’s neck stands up. He doesn’t get a good look at her face, but her voice and white robes… He stops himself, shaking away the uncomfortable feeling of familiarity. Her eerie similarity to the girl he’s been seeing in his dreams for the past few nights is of little importance. He’s not trusting his visions ever again and will do whatever he can to avoid those uncertain futures. He quickly enters the tent, ready to get some answers so that he and the others can leave this town and the girl behind come morning.

You rush past the boy entering the tent, barely sparing him a glance as you hurry back toward town. Your conversation with Nadira was unsatisfactory, to say the least. She couldn’t tell you much more than you already knew, which is that Pandora is near impossible to find and even harder to get into, especially as a non-bender. It’s rumored to be buried far under the sand, sealed shut by an elemental lock. However, she was surprised by the map you carried with you, saying she hadn’t ever known there to be someone who successfully cataloged all of Eden. She couldn’t confirm whether or not the entirety of it was correct, though she did verify that certain locations lined up with her own knowledge of the desert.

You relax your steps, an exasperated laugh slipping from your lips as you realize you were practically stomping out of frustration. You take a moment to center yourself; as tempting as it may be to sell the map to the nearest street vendor, you’ve traveled too long and too far to give up now. Freedom is nearly in your grasp—you can feel it. You will claw your way to it if you must.

Double-checking that the map is secure inside your sling bag, you tighten the strap around your torso and head through the doors of the inn. The atmosphere is much livelier now that it’s late afternoon, with talking and laughter nearly drowning out the small band playing in the corner. The bar area seems to be where most people are congregating, chugging down mead and ale. The one serving maid is busy juggling orders from all directions, delivering filled mugs to rowdy drinkers who seem to enjoy cheering each other on for every sip taken.

As you weave through the crowded tables in search of a seat, you can’t help but notice a group of travelers that stand out from the crowd. You could sense their disharmony from a mile away—two members seem to be locked in a heated argument, heads close together as they speak in hushed voices. A few of the others seem to be playing a drinking game that involves making silly gestures and mimicking one another while one boy gazes off into the distance, lost in thought. Your interest peaked, you take a seat at the bar, right next to a man who has several empty tankards in front of him. He doesn’t seem too inebriated, but surely he’s drunk enough that his lips will be loose.

You place a few coins on the counter, ordering two drinks. You slide one to the man to capture his attention and nod in the group's direction, asking, “So, what do you know about the new guys in town?”

The man eyes you, scrutinizing your appearance. He must see something that he likes because he decides to indulge you, taking the ale in hand and relaxing further into his seat. “Heard from the barkeep that they’re some adventurers tryna find the library of Pandora.” He huffs and takes a long drink before adding, “A buncha fools.”

You bristle, wanting to defend them as their goal seems to be the same as yours, but you stop yourself, not wanting to discourage the man from sharing more information. “I see. Are they benders?”

He nods. “Yeah, far as I know. One of ‘em is apparently tryna get some information outta Nadira.”

You think back to the boy you saw entering the tent and curse yourself for not paying more attention. You could have talked to him, asked him why he was seeing Nadira, and proposed some sort of alliance. Winning one man over would be easier than winning over seven all at once. But alas, that seems to be your only option. Taking one last swig of your ale, you hop off the bar stool and give the man a two-finger salute.

“Thanks for your time—enjoy the rest of your night.”

He raises his mug and bids you farewell as you turn around, steeling your nerves as you march right up to the group of benders. One of the quarreling men who dons a head of striking red hair notices you first, his eyes instantly narrowing upon your approach. He slides closer to the others, almost protective in his movements, seemingly forgetting his previous argument.

“Can I help you?”

His voice is steady, laced with none of the heat you had expected. Instead, his words are cold, punctuated in a way that cuts you like a knife. However, you refuse to let him intimidate you.

“Yes, actually. I heard you were looking for Pandora.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Why is that of any interest to you?”

“I’m looking for it too.”

“And?”

You grit your teeth, his standoffish attitude grating on your nerves. The man he was fighting with places a hand on his arm and steps slightly in front of him, greeting you with a smile. You can immediately feel the difference in his aura, the gentleness radiating off of him. He is the water to the red-headed man’s fire. Perhaps literally.

“Sorry, Hongjoong is just a bit… on edge lately. I’m Seonghwa.”

He takes a moment to introduce each of the others before asking for your name in return. You’re surprised to find that they’re a pretty well-balanced group, with at least one bender for each element. That will definitely come in handy when it comes to the elemental lock. You almost can’t believe your luck; after all this time, maybe things are finally turning around in your favor.

Yunho, an airbender who was a part of the group playing the drinking game earlier, chimes in. “So, you’re looking for Pandora too?”

You nod. “That’s right. I think we can help each other.” You reach into your bag and wrap your fingers around the map. “You see, I—”

“Wooyoung!”

You’re interrupted by San, a dimpled firebender, who gets up to excitedly greet the missing member of their party; Wooyoung must be the boy you bumped into earlier. Now that you have a moment to actually look at him, you suppose that he’s quite beautiful, with a sharp nose and full lips. His hair is like nothing you have ever seen before—silver on top with blue ends, comparable only to how it looks when the light of the moon meets the sea.

Your lips barely part to greet him when he turns to you, eyes ablaze with hatred. “What is she doing here?”

NETWORKS: @cromernet @kflixnet @pirateeznet

TAGLIST: @nebulousbookshelf @ad0rechuu @seonghwaddict @sanniesbunnie @wooya1224 @tournesol155 @ja3hwa @pocketjoong-reads @lovandr

#wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung smut #ateez smut #wooyoung fic #ateez fic #jung wooyoung fic #kpop writers #kpop writing #my fic

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watercolorfreckles · 5 months

Text

The Pretty Prince of Avenglow

This is a secret santa snippet for @thepenultimateword ! Thank you for arranging this fun event for everyone, and for entrusting me with your prompt. I've been in a long writing rut, so this was really tough for me to finish on deadline. But I did it! I know this is far from the best thing I've ever written, but it is something! Hope you like it!

Her prompt was: "Fragile pretty boy x strong/buff lady. He is super smitten with her. This can be a hero x villian universe thing, or a prince and a lady knight, or a captured sailor/aristocrat/etc. and a pirate queen, or whatever you want, I just really love this type of relationship dynamic"

“Well, now, you must be the prettiest piece of treasure I’ve found all year.”

The prince coughed and spluttered, thrashing at the coils of fishing net that entangled his limbs. His clothes, sodden and leaden, seemed to weigh him to the deck.

“Shh, hush now,” the pirate captain before him spoke again, crouching to his level, balanced deftly on her booted heels. “I take excellent care of my belongings.”

The prince stilled, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. He nearly choked again, though all seawater had since been purged from his lungs.

The stories he’d heard, the wanted portraits pasted on village walls, paled in comparison to the figure leaning over him: Vespertine Crow, captain of the Evening Star.

His insides swirled.

She was a unique kind of beautiful, with long black hair twisted into a braid loosened and tousled by the sea’s salty breath. The contour of her silhouette struck him as statuesque, strong and muscled and gracefully carved. He imagined that she might be as impenetrable as stone, too.

“H-Hi,” he said dumbly.

Vespertine’s lips spread into an amused smile, sharp as the glittering knife twirling between her fingers. She wiggled her free hand in greeting. “Hi, pretty thing. I have to say, I hardly expected my nets to scoop up the Spare Prince, Evrin of Avenglow, soggy and half-drowned in the middle of the Tempest Sea. How serendipitous.”

As he swallowed, the prince's mouth felt abruptly dry. Though he couldn't see past the railing, he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder toward the sunken wreckage of the ship he'd spent days on, cooped up in a damp and creaky cell.

Captain Vespertine followed his gaze, then tilted her head. “Poor thing. Taken and held for ransom, were you?”

The memories flashed behind Evrin’s eyes. It was while he'd been visiting the village to check on his people that he'd been ambushed near the docks, plucked away from the fragile safety of land to be thrown on board the traitors’ ship.

He'd been helpless, no better than a spoiled house cat tossed into the bath.

Evrin managed a nod.

Vespertine made a pitying sound. “Sweet thing. Sinking that vessel was my doing. Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?”

The knife in her hand moved and the prince jerked back.

Vespertine paused and tutted. “Now Your Highness, I could have nicked you. ‘Can't go risking that pretty face of yours, you should know better.” Her voice was a balm against the aching burn of him. Soothing, though the chill of it still had enough bite to nip at his nerves.

He stilled once more.

Unpicking the tangles of net with the edge of her blade, Vespertine cut him free.

It reminded him of a bird he'd freed once, legs and wings knotted up in fishing line. The mental comparison warmed his cheeks.

“That's better.” She tugged the shed netting over his head, tossing it aside and straightening onto her feet. A calloused hand extended out to him. “Up you get, pretty.”

Evrin hesitated, eyeing her hand. His limbs felt terribly heavy. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand if he tried. “Thank you, for….saving me.” The end of his sentence lifted into something more like a question.

That startled a soft laugh from the captain. Her eyes glittered with mischief, holding a Tempest Sea of their own. “My pleasure, Highness.”

When he didn't take her hand, Vespertine reached down, hands locking under his arms, and hauled him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all. Wobbling on weary legs, he caught the pirate's sleeve, looking up at her.

His attention snagged on the fact that she was a few inches taller than him, and certainly far stronger. His belly did a stupid swoop.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Mm… That is the question. Let's discuss it in my cabin, shall we?” Draping an arm around him, the pirate captain swept him away, leading him down below deck and into her quarters.

Her will was as irresistible as the moon's will over the tides.

Vespertine gave his chest a light shove and the prince buckled back onto her bed. Catching himself on his hands behind him, his fingers curled around the woolen blanket atop it. It scratched lightly at his fingertips.

Evrin put up no fight, dazed. She drew his gaze with the same allure as the sky and the bottomless sea. Beautiful, dangerous, powerful. Graceful in its dance of crest and fall.

He watched the captain as she rifled through her closet, pulling out a white, long-sleeved shirt with ties to lace the top, as well as a pair of gray trousers. “Here. I'm sure you'll feel much better when you're out of those clothes.”

The prince's cheeks warmed again. “You…want me to wear your clothes?”

“You're a delicate, skinny little thing, I'm sure you'll fit. Besides.” She unsheathed her sword, leveling it with his chest and using it to lift the fabric above his heart where his crest was attached. The prince's breath caught. “I'll need this from you to prove you're alive if I'm to collect the reward.

“Re…Reward?”

Vespertine shrugged. “I assume they prefer ‘reward’ to ‘ransom.’ One comes with a multitude of fewer threats and scandal. Which do you prefer, Highness?” She pressed the blade a fraction harder into his chest.

The prince itched to skitter away but kept still. “Reward is good,” he breathed.

“Good.”

She wielded her sword like an extension of her being, fluid and quicker than his eyes could track. There was a slash and then his princely crest was in the captain's hand. His eyes darted down to the bare square on his chest, in the spirit of every novel he'd read where the protagonist had been stabbed or harpooned and was too shocked to process the fatality.

His skin was unmarred.

Vespertine threw the clothes at the prince. “Get dressed, unless you're waiting for me to do it for you. I could be persuaded, if you say pretty please.”

Evrin’s cheeks burned at the thought, casting his gaze away from her and down to the clothes in his hands. Awkwardly, he peeled his shirt over his head.

“Smooth, pampered skin.” Vespertine tutted, sheathing her sword and stepping closer to trace a finger over the soft curve of his shoulder. “You've never seen a day of hardship, have you?”

Prince Evrin shivered, shrugging the clean shirt on. Its weight rested warm and gauzy against his skin. Embarrassed, he shucked his trousers off next, replacing them with the clean pair as quickly as he could manage under the pirate captain's stare.

“Not many, not of the physical variety, anyway,” he answered.

He straightened the clothes which fit surprisingly well, picking at the laces.

When he looked up again, she was grinning, blatantly pleased. “There, now. isn't that better? You look like a proper pirate. Very pretty.”

“Like you? I mean-” the prince squirmed, shifting to stand, then changing his mind. Submissive. “Sorry.”

She laughed again. “Sorry? For thinking I'm pretty? I'm flattered, sweetheart. You're quite lovely yourself. Now. Back to business.”

“...business?”

“Well, if I'm to return you safely, I expect a reward of… proper proportions. There's the money, yes, but I want something more from you.”

“O-Oh?”

Vespertine plopped onto the bed beside him, turning to face him. “Firstly, I want a pardon. A clean slate I can dirty all over again when it suits me.” She winked at him, and his heart fluttered between his ribs. “Secondly. Your brother took something from me. I want it back. You will get it for me.”

Transfixed, Evrin studied her face. “What did he take?”

She leaned closer to him, her gaze sharpening into something a fraction more dangerous. “My child.”

Evrin’s eyes widened. “Your child? Who–” He paused. “Iara? He said that she was an orphan; that he took her in to spare her a life of hardship and inequity.”

“Your brother lied.” Her voice was the crack of a whip; lightning striking water. When the prince startled, she softened only a fraction, looking him up and down. “You are…kinder than your brother, I can tell. Mousy, certainly, but. Sweet.”

“He is better fit to be king,” Evrin whispered. “Bolder and stronger and braver.”

“But crueler. Are you cruel, Prince Evrin?”

It seemed, suddenly, as though he was balancing on a very thin wire. He watched her face, tracking her every underlying thought.

“No. No, I’m not.”

Captain Vespertine smiled, the flash of a victory banner, and sat back. “Good. Tell me, Pretty. Spare Prince of Avenglow. How would you like to be king?”

Merry Christmas!

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl, @valiantlytransparentwhispers, @distance-does-not-matter @redbircl, @lilaccatholic, @crazytwentythrees-deactivated @thelazywitchphotographer @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost @tobeornottobeateacher @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuicee , @deflated-bouncingball @maybe-a-cat42, @m0chik0furan, @mercurymomentum, @fairysprinkles , @vuvulia , @amongtheonedaisy , @rose-pinkie, @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000, @ikiiryo , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces ,@7eselt , @annablogsposts , @lunatic-moss-studio , @medusas-hairband

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #my writing #pirate x prince #royalty romance #hero x villain #heroes and villains #secret santa 2023 #writers on tumblr #writblr #writerblr #creative writing #pirates #flash fiction #short story #writing snippet

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blueraineshadows · 3 months

Text

Blood Bound Part Five

Sebastian Sallow 🔺️ F!MC 🔺️Leander Prewett

Sebastian heads into the unknown to break MC out of Azkaban. MC struggles to adjust to the outside world. Leander descends deep underneath London to scope out the illegal duelling ring.

15k words. Tags: NSFW / threat / blood / violence / angst / unresolved sexual tension / torture / organised crime / PTSD / anxiety

Chapter Master List and AO3

Mutuals taglist at the end 💖✨️

Five: The Prince, the Villain, and the Maiden Fair

Sebastian

Looking at the map Black Dahlia had made one last time, Sebastian was fairly confident that he could find his way through the corridors of Azkaban towards MC's cell. The hum of anticipation throbbed through him as he folded the parchment, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and touched his fingers to the blood amulet. Clenching his jaw, he glanced across to where Rosier stood waiting, dressed all in black like him, a serious expression on his pretty face.

He was going to get MC. This time, when he arrived at the cell door, she would be real and not a phantom in a memory.

“I'm ready when you are, mate,” Rosier said, holding out his hand.

Sebastian nodded, reaching out to grasp Rosier along his lower arm, and Rosier grasped him the same way. Their eyes met, an acknowledgement passing between them that they were about to travel into a highly dangerous and horrific place, breaking Wizarding law to bring out a convicted prisoner.

“Let's go,” Sebastian said firmly, his stomach twisting viciously as he visualised the reception chamber from the memory and Disapparated them both with a crack.

The first thing that struck Sebastian was the chilling oppressiveness, his stomach catching up from the long distance Apparition as he stumbled into existence inside the Auror reception chamber, Rosier catching his breath beside him. As his eyes swung about the room, recognising it from the pensieve memory, he shivered at the utter desolation and icy chill that crept up his neck.

“Well, this is nice,” Rosier huffed, ruffling his hair as he gazed around. “I love what they have done with the place.”

Throwing Rosier a dark look, Sebastian stepped up to the signing in book on the counter, his finger brushing over the column of entries written by Prewett. He had been here nearly every day for the last few weeks, the last entry only yesterday. Adrenaline was pulsing through Sebastian, his hands curling into fists as he turned his gaze towards the door that led into the prison proper.

“Have your wand at the ready,” he said quietly, slipping his own out. “Those Dementors will likely be on us straight away.”

“Have you ever come up against one before?”

Sebastian swallowed as he looked at his partner in crime and shook his head. “No, but I’ve practised the Patronus charm plenty enough,” he said, gripping the handle of his wand tightly. “I hope you have, too.”

Rosier’s blue eyes darkened with a memory, and his gaze flicked down. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m up against. Dementors came for my father. I was just a kid, but I’ll never forget it.”

The leaden ball of grief that Sebastian carried in his own chest tugged sharply as he took in the shadows on Rosier’s face. He knew what it was like to lose a parent so young. He nodded and turned his gaze back towards the door, lifting to pat his hand against Rosier’s back in a gesture of understanding.

“We get to the cell, get MC out, and then we get the fuck out of this place. Alright?”

“This girl better be worth it, mate. That’s all I can say,” Rosier said, readying himself.

Sebastian felt his throat constrict, his eyes hardening. “Trust me. She is worth it.”

The frigid weight of despair grew heavier as they walked swiftly down the corridor, the fire sconces casting flickering shadows in their wake as they approached MC’s wing, the distant mournful screams of those trapped here making Sebastian’s heart thud rapidly beneath his ribs. Trying to shut out the sounds became almost impossible as they entered the colossal prison wing, barred cell doors offering unsettling glimpses into life here that he tried to avert his eyes from.

Above their heads swooped the tattered robes of the guards, the chilling rattle of their death breaths spurring Sebastian on quicker, his own breathing harsh and tight as two Dementors broke free from their pack and rushed downwards towards him and Rosier.

“Expecto Patronum!” Rosier cast, his arm thrust upwards, a burst of white erupting from his wand in a swelling arc. The Dementors hesitated, retreating back towards the high ceiling, their shifting shapes being swallowed in the darkness beyond.

“It’s not much further,” Sebastian muttered, already looking forward to getting out of here. He held the back of his hand against his nose, breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench of abandoned humans. The true horror of Azkaban was laid bare as his boots scraped against the dark stone, eyes checking the numbers above the doors until he came to the one he needed, and he slowed his step.

“Is this it?” Rosier asked quietly.

A rasping chuckle sounded from the darkness, and Sebastian glanced to the opposite side of the corridor, the gnarled hands of an old crone grasping the iron bars of her door. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the sight of her, repulsed by the gaping maw of her mouth and the filth of the ragged prison garb she wore. This one had been here a long time and was still clinging to mortality by a thread of madness.

“Merlin’s bollocks,” Rosier hissed, flinching back. He visibly shivered, and the woman cackled even louder. “That ain’t her, is it?”

“Don’t be a twat,” Sebastian scowled, grabbing Rosier by the front of his coat and shuffling him away from the crone and towards MC’s door.

He was impatient to see her, desperate to get her out of here, his guilt making the oppression feel thicker than it had any right to be. With his heart in his mouth, he stepped up to the cold iron bars of her door and peered into the gloom, his eyes sweeping the cell. A slight crease formed on his brow as there appeared to be no sign of her.

“MC,” he whispered, taking hold of a bar of the door and gasping as it swung on its hinges. It was unlocked.

Stomach plummeting, icy fear prickling the back of his neck, he yanked the door open and stepped into the cell, calling her name louder, but the room was empty. It was impossible. Panic gripped his throat, and he darted back out to check the cell number again, certain it was the right place. Tugging out the piece of parchment, he double-checked the details, his chest so tight his breathing sounded too loud to his own ears. He was in the right place.

“What’s going on?” Rosier asked, his eyes glancing up and down the corridor nervously, his throat bobbing.

“She should be here!” Sebastian said, returning to the cell as though MC would have appeared in the seconds he had been gone, but the room remained stubbornly empty. A bucket and a mug stood on the floor, and on a stone ledge, next to a dirty blanket, was a small glass potion bottle, the stopper discarded beside it. “Where is she?”

Rosier shrugged, glancing around the cell himself, the cold squalor of it making his cheeks paler than usual. “Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yes,” Sebastian snapped, his fingers wrinkling the parchment as he felt his fear shift into fury. His cheeks flushed with it, eyes so dark they glittered as he strode out of the cell. “If that bitch, Black Dahlia, has tricked us, then she is going to die a very slow and painful death.”

Rosier was close on his heels, worry creasing his brow as he glanced up at the gathering interest above their heads. “Seb, we need to hurry up,” he muttered. “We need to get out of here.”

Grabbing at his hair in frustration, Sebastian realised that he couldn’t even search the prison in case she had been moved to a different cell. It made him almost choke. MC could be anywhere in this vast tomb of horror, and he had neither the time or the resources to hunt for her.

Fear and fury twisted together and he felt like screaming, the burn of it choking up his throat as he swung his arm out, wand lighting up and blasting a huge ball of fire down the corridor in his rage. The prisoners screamed and yelled, the clanging sound of tin cups on bars filling the air and the rasping, maddening cackle of the crone in her cell.

Ignoring Rosier’s attempts to calm him down, Sebastian rounded on the scrawny hag, his eyes narrowing. She stared at him through the bars, her eyes lit with gleeful madness.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” she crooned, wheezing with delight, her withered frame shaking with mirth. “All these pretty boys after the maiden fair.”

Sebastian stalked towards her, his wand up. The old bitch didn’t even flinch, her eyes pale and glowing with mischief as she eyed him. “Where is the girl from the cell opposite?” He demanded.

Her toothless grin was hideous, and his fingers flexed on his wand, his rage searing through his blood. MC had been within his grasp, and now she had been plucked out of thin air. Gone.

“Tell me!” He yelled. “Where did she go?”

“Bloody hell, mate, easy,” Rosier said, stepping up beside him. “How is she going to know? She’s fucking insane. Look at her.”

The hag tittered, her gnarled fingers clutching excitedly at her bars. “Every maiden fair must have a prince to rescue her,” she rambled. She began to sway, her smile almost idiotic. “But, princes and men can be fickle. He left her, made her scream like he’d torn her heart asunder.”

“What does that mean?” Sebastian demanded, his breaths now shuddering into his lungs. “Who left her?”

She went quiet, her eyes sly as she peered through the bars, her mouth curving into a wicked grin. “This one is jealous. Perhaps he is the villain here. He wants her for himself, but the prince came and took her away.”

Prewett’s name written in the book flashed up behind Sebastian’s eyes. Along with the memory from the pensieve and the sound of Prewett’s name on MC’s lips with that desperate look in her sunken gaze. Teeth clenching so tight it hurt, Sebastian’s fury seemed to flicker in front of his eyes. The very thought of Leander Prewett whisking MC away from under his nose like a knight on a white horse made his blood boil. That wasn’t how things were meant to be.

Why would he take MC out of here? It didn't make sense.

This pathetic witch and her fairy tale taunts were too much, his jealous temper flaring in a white, hot spark that fizzed down his arm as he thrust his wand towards her. Her eyes screamed of madness, and it curdled his blood, the need to expel the horror made the curse burst from his lips.

“Crucio!”

Her howls of pain filled his ears, her skeletal face grotesque as she reeled back from the door, clattering to the floor like a bag of bones as red sparks flickered in the darkness. He waited for the satisfaction to come, but it didn't. The sight of the wretch bucking and screaming did nothing to ease his horror or his fury. Inflicting agony on this pathetic creature wouldn't bring MC back here, and yet he held the curse on her, trying to syphon out his pain.

Those he loved kept being stolen from him, and he wasn't sure how many more times he could take it.

“Bloody hell!” Rosier grabbed him, trying to pull Sebastian’s wand arm back. “What are you doing?”

Sebastian had lost sense of what was going on around him, his fury so thick and hot that he shoved Rosier back, slamming his hand against cold iron with a scream of rage. “Who took her? Where is MC?”

Gasping and drooling, the old crone trembled and clawed at the stone floor, her eyes rolling as she made guttural moans of pain despite the curse no longer holding her. Sebastian’s lip was curled in disgust, his eyes blazing whilst his heart seemed to squeeze behind his ribs. It felt like it had been drained bloodless. How could MC not be in her cell? How could she have left this place without him knowing about it?

A cold thought entered his head, wiping out his fury in an instant, and he stilled, eyes horror struck as he glanced back at MC’s cell.

Was she dead?

Immediate denial slammed through him, but he bent forward, unable to draw breath as the possibility refused to be quieted. He winced as his knees hit the hard stone, all colour draining from his face as he shook his head. Desperate now, he grabbed the bars of the hag’s door, his breathing shallow.

“Did she walk out of here?” He asked, his voice switching to pleading now. “Please, tell me she walked out. She can’t be…no. She isn’t dead. I would know.”

His hand fumbled into his pocket, fingers caressing over the bloodstone amulet, seeking reassurance. Surely, if MC were to be dead, the stone would cease to hold true to the pact. It would shatter into pieces, no longer useful or functional. Much like his heart if he ever lost her.

The hag turned her head, her bloodshot eyes fixing on him with a stare that made him feel even colder, goosebumps shivering along his arms and up his neck. Her mouth worked as she tried to speak, her chin slick with drool and blood where she had smashed her face when she fell. To Sebastian’s horror, she began to laugh. A rasping, gurgling chuckle that escalated into screeching howls of mad cackling, her head thrown back as she clutched at her wasted midriff.

Strong hands gripped him under his arms, hefting him upwards. “For fuck sake, Sallow. Get up!” Rosier berated, pulling Sebastian up to his feet. “We’ve got to run. Now!”

Recoiling from the mad wretch in her cell, Sebastian forced himself to look up, his eyes widening at the gathered mass of Dementors circling above them. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Come on,” Rosier said, pulling on his arm, his wand raised upwards. “Run, for Merlin’s sake!”

They ran, boots thudding on the stone as the other cells passed by in a blur, their breaths beginning to mist from the spreading ice of the Dementors presence. Wraiths began to swoop downwards, and the terrifying rattle of their breathing sounded loud in their ears. Sebastian saw the door to the Auror’s chambers and grabbed Rosier by the arm, hauling him towards it. He felt the brush of tattered robes ghost near his ear, and he ducked, turning swiftly on the spot and jabbing his wand upwards.

With a fierce glare on his face, he allowed his mind to fill with memories of better days, soft dreamy images of his friends at school, Anne running through the fields in Feldcroft with her hair wild about her rosy cheeks. He thought of nights secreted away in the Undercroft with a good book and even better company, summers with his parents sailing on the lochs, and the addictive taste of kisses with the girl who had stolen his soul at the sweet age of sixteen.

Better times, happier times, before the darkness had come to claim him.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The spell burst from his wand with such force he had to clamp two hands around it to hold it steady, the brilliant swell of white light filling the corridor and pressing the Dementors back. As the black wraiths spiralled upwards and away, chased by the white phantom of a leaping fox, Sebastian began to step backwards into the doorway. Rosier watched his Patronus charm with a look of awe on his face, the light of the magic reflecting in his blue eyes.

Slamming the door of the reception chamber open, Sebastian came to a stop before the long counter, bracing his hands against it whilst he caught his breath. Rosier gasped beside him, shaking his head as he planted his hands on his thighs.

“Get us out of here,” he panted. “I am done.”

Sebastian nodded, his gaze catching on the wooden boards hung on the wall opposite him, all the prisoner numbers and their images on display. Eyes moving swiftly, he came to where MC’s prisoner board should have been in the order of cell numbers, and his stomach turned to lead. The board was missing. A blank space with just an iron peg jutting from the stone. She really was gone.

Dragging the heavy signing-in book towards him, he looked at the last two entries for her prisoner number. Harrington and Prewett, and then Prewett again yesterday. If anyone knew where she was, it was going to be Leander. His eyes narrowed in thought. It was time to have a little chat with Andrew Larson. He needed to get to Leander and fast.

Taking hold of Rosier’s arm, he nodded and then Disapparated them out, his feet landing on the wooden floorboards of the small room in the Black Rose that he shared with Rosier. With a flick of his wand, he lit the lamp, pushing back the darkness, craving some warmth and normality after the dark oppression of the prison. Slumping in relief and defeat, Sebastian sat down hard on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. How had it gone so horribly wrong?

Rookwood was going to be furious. They had risked their necks going into that prison, and they had come out empty-handed. Solomon had always said he would amount to nothing, and no doubt would side with Ominis and Anne over his choice of companions lately, but to fuck up at something like this. Solomon would be laughing from his grave, no doubt.

“I always knew you would end up a failure, boy.”

Shuddering at the darker memories of his childhood struggles, Sebastian shoved them away, his insecurities starting to eat into him. His fury now dissipated, Sebastian felt the ball of grief in his chest swell, and he swallowed through it, rubbing his face at the loss of MC all over again.

“What the fuck was that all about back there, Seb?” Rosier asked, still getting his breath back. “You cast Crucio on that crone, and for what? She was crazy, talking about a load of rubbish. Why get so mad?”

Sebastian glanced up at Rosier, once again lamenting his need to keep the man at arms length. When people knew too much, they became a liability, and he rather liked Leo. Losing his temper back at the prison had revealed his hand, and he mulled over his words as he looked up at his camp mate.

“It was fucked up,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I will be lucky if Rookwood doesn't torture my own arse the same way for failing.”

Rosier studied him, slowly taking a seat on the twin bed opposite Sebastian, drumming his fingers on the faded bedspread.

“This girl, this MC. Just what, exactly, does she mean to you, Seb?” He asked, drawing his lower lip into his mouth thoughtfully. “You lost your shit when you realised she was gone, and when you mentioned her being dead, you were as white as a sheet. How would you know if she was dead? What's going on? There's more to this, isn't there?”

Sebastian pressed his fingers to his lips, eyeing Rosier with a sinking realisation that he had definitely revealed too much. He had managed to deflect his questions in the Leaky Cauldron, but Rosier was as smart as a whip, and Sebastian wouldn't be able to fool him for long. With a sigh, he let his hands drop between his thighs, his expression one of defeated exhaustion as he looked at Rosier. He was tired, so very tired of feeling alone.

“She means something to me,” he confessed. “I thought I was going to get her back tonight, and yet her cell was empty. After four long years of waiting, I feel like I just lost her all over again.”

Rosier closed his eyes and nodded, glancing down at his booted feet for a moment before speaking. “Does Rookwood know?”

“He probably suspects,” Sebastian admitted. “I've never openly talked about it, only that I know her.”

“And Lulu?” Rosier lifted his gaze to Sebastian, his eyebrows lifted in enquiry about the beautiful witch.

Sebastian groaned and shook his head. “She hasn't heard a thing from me about MC, so if she knows anything, it's whatever her father has told her.”

“Merlin’s beard, Seb. You walk a tight line, don't you?” Rosier smirked. “I've always had the feeling you've got deep secrets. But, I never realised just how close to the edge you walked with Rookwood. Withholding information, fucking his daughter on the sly…are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Sebastian matched Rosier’s smirk and shrugged. “What's life without a little adventure?”

“You're a slippery bastard, Sallow,” Rosier huffed, shaking his head. He pushed his fingers through his blonde hair and smiled. “I won't say anything about your prisoner girl. I have to say, though, I'm rather looking forward to meeting her. All this excitement surrounding her, she sounds like fun.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “You'll be keeping your hands to yourself, Rosier,” he warned. “Not only do I know where they've been, it would be a shame to hex them. They are rather useful in a scrap.”

Rosier laughed, falling back onto his bed and holding his hands up. “I swear to all gods known to man, I won't make a play for her.”

“Then I guess we can remain friends,” Sebastian smirked, laying back on his own bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling.

A quiet settled over the room as both men processed the last hour or so, shadows of darker memories trying to creep into Sebastian’s thoughts, the echo of the old crones screams pressing on his conscience.

“MC means that much to you, and yet wasn't she serving time for doing your uncle in?” Rosier asked, turning to look at him.

Sebastian worried at his lower lip, keeping his gaze fixed upwards as he thought about Solomon and his cruel mouth, his swinging fists, and unforgiving eyes.

“My uncle was a mean bastard,” Sebastian said flatly. “MC was the only one who really understood.”

She had understood, and she remained at his side. She had bled for him, lied for him, and she had spent four years in that chilling nightmare of a place for him. Seeing the reality of Azkaban and remembering the image of her in that pensieve memory, the leaden ball in his chest that held his guilt and grief seemed to spread into every fibre of his being. Had he really done enough to help her? Her sacrifices were huge in comparison to his efforts to save her, and it weighed heavily on him, his fingers caressing the scar on his palm.

That old hag had called him a villain of MC's story, and Sebastian had retaliated by hitting her with the Cruciatus curse. A curse he had cast on MC in the Scriptorium in order to save himself. Maybe he was the villain of her life, and the thought was not a comfortable one. Next to him, Prewett would be a knight in shining armour, a prince coming to save the maiden fair.

“So, she killed him for you?” Rosier asked. The question hung heavy in the air, rather close to the bone in truth. She didn't take Solomon down, but she took the fall. She did it for him.

“I owe her everything, Leo,” Sebastian said with a sigh. “I've got to find her. Whatever it takes.”

“Then we find her,” Rosier said with finality. “What's the plan? Are we still going to track this Auror down that you knew?”

“That's top of the list,” Sebastian said, determination darkening his gaze. “Prewett knows where she is. His name was in that prison ledger, inked by his own fucking hand, and that nasty crone pretty much told us that MC left with a man. It was him. I know it was.”

“Then that's what we'll do. As long as Rookwood doesn't kill us first.”

Sebastian threw Rosier a smirk as he adjusted the lumpy pillow under his head. “I'd like to see him try. He talks a big game, but I reckon I could take him easily enough. He'd be too scared to get his gentleman's coat dirty in a real fight. That's why he has men like Carrow around to do the hard work.”

Rosier chuckled. “Do you reckon you could take Carrow?”

Sebastian’s grin split his face, his eyes gleaming at the thought. “You're looking at a duelling champion here, mate. I take great pleasure in bringing down bastards like Carrow. I took Prewett down a few times during the duelling matches we used to fight. He might have passed the Auror Program, but I could still take him on.”

The villain against the white knight. He had never wanted to be a villain. He wanted to be the one MC needed. He would rather be her white knight than bring any more darkness into her life. The shadows of their secrets probably made that impossible, so if he had to, he would take on the darker role. He knew that he would do whatever it took to get her back, especially now, no matter how dark.

For once, Sebastian wanted the villain to win the maiden fair, his chest aching at the absence of MC. They could rewrite the trope. Together. She should have been here with him tonight, beside him, where he could hold her close. Whether for her comfort or his own, he wasn't sure who needed it more.

Everything was so clean and bright that her eyes burned in their sockets, her trembling fingers shielding them from the glare of the real world. There were no screams here, no sobbing and wailing, no banging of cups against cold iron. There was just peaceful quietness, the soft sound of the breeze outside the window, and the distant chirp of a bird singing their joy. A fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth that felt like an inferno compared to the cold stone of Azkaban, and yet still MC shivered.

The room she stood in was charming. A picture-perfect image of a country cottage, with an inglenook fireplace and a bowl of fruit on the table. There was a high backed armchair near the fire, similar to those found in the common room, and a settee with deep cushions. Leander had called it a safe house, and she wondered how true that was. It did look soft and warm, inviting, and yet she stood there almost recoiling from it all.

She felt out of place, fractured, like she had wandered into someone else's dreams, and she did not belong. The soft rug beneath her filthy feet was a strange sensation, her toes curling experimentally into what felt like a guilty pleasure. Eyes brimming with tears from the overwhelming emotions swarming in her chest, MC looked up at the man standing next to her, his fingers slipping from her elbow where he had held her to Apparate.

How strange to look at Leander now and be wary of his proximity, and yet she also craved for him to be close, to stand right beside her so that he could hold her up should her wobbling knees buckle. It was dangerous to be so dependent on a person. She used to pride herself on being able to stand against whatever life threw at her, but her eyes were drawn to the tall Auror who had whisked her out of captivity, fearing that he might vanish at any moment and leave her lost and alone. Feeling this fragile had her slamming her walls up out of habit, but there were no Dementors here.

She was no longer in Azkaban. She was free.

The sight of Leander at her cell door after the way he had left her had set her pulse flying, hardly daring to believe he was really there after the way he had said goodbye to her, leaving her screaming for him at her cell door. When he had placed the release parchment into her hands, she had stared at the inked words, trying to make sense of this new turnaround to events. Her cold demand to Harrington in the questioning chamber had earned her freedom, her answers enough to revoke charges and reduce her sentence. The details of the probation seemed like child’s play compared to the horror one faced within the walls of that prison, and she had signed the papers immediately, ignoring the offer of twenty four hours to think about it. What was there to think about? Why stay another day in that hell when she could be free?

Now, though, now that she was out of the dark walls of oppressive cold, she felt the urge to seek out more darkness. It was as though the light would burn her, expose her, and leave her vulnerable. Would her mental walls of protection work out here? Who were her enemies now that she had escaped the malice of the Dementors?

How at ease Leander looked in these lovely surroundings, how neat his clothes, his pretty copper hair shining in the sunlight filtering through the window. Tall, with wide shoulders and slim hips, long graceful fingers, his pale skin sprinkled with dozens of freckles. He stood with confidence, sure of his place in the world, and she envied him. Where did she fit now?

“A Healer will be along shortly to take a look at you. Make sure you are alright,” he said with a soft smile. “There are clean clothes for you in the bedroom and a bath so that you can get cleaned up. The store cupboard is stocked so you won’t go hungry. Would you like me to make you something?”

MC stared at him, her arms wrapped around her midriff as she trembled on the pretty rug, feeling like the ground had been ripped out from under her feet. In the last 24 hours she had been strapped into a chair and questioned, and then he had left her, leaving her sobbing on her cell floor thinking she would be alone in the dark again, and then the appearance of the strange woman in the hooded cloak that had made her question her sanity.

Now, she was here, with him. He had pulled her out of that darkness, bringing her to an image of domestic bliss. His calmness grated on the frayed edges of her nerves. The choking maelstrom of emotions in her chest seemed to fizz through her veins, and she clenched her hands into fists, her face contorting into fury. The smile slipped from his lips as she glared at him.

“Give me my wand,” she hissed, her eyes glowing with fire. “I don’t care about the stocked cupboard and your bath, I just want my wand.”

Leander paled, licking his lips as he moved towards her, his hands out. “Your wand isn’t here. It’s still in secure lock up at the Ministry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, MC.”

Finally, she moved, backing up away from him. Her eyes darted to the side as she sought an exit route, the over stimulation making her mind scream for quiet darkness. “Save your apologies,” she spat, her adrenaline making her shakes become more pronounced as she skirted the settee. His hands reached out again, and she flinched away. “Don’t touch me!”

If he touched her, she would crumble, and she was barely holding up the walls of her defences as it was. It was all so surreal, so outlandish and wrong. She needed her wand. She needed security.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t touch you,” he said, holding his hands up. “But you need to calm down. You are safe here. I won’t let anything happen to you, and this house is warded so nobody can get in or out without permission.”

“So, I am just as much a prisoner here as in Azkaban?” She screeched, her eyes becoming wider, filled with desperate panic. The notion that this might be a trap entered her head, and now she couldn’t shake it, her heart hammering so fast she thought she might pass out. “I can’t do this. I need to get out.”

In her haste to escape, she bumped her leg against a side table, making the lamp there wobble precariously. She stumbled, catching herself on the arm of the settee. She pulsed with the need to flee, to run, to hide. Never would she have imagined that she would miss her cell, but right now, it was the only sanctuary she could think of, encased in the dark walls.

“Where are you going?” He asked, hurrying around the back of the settee to cut her off.

“Away from you,” she ground out, reaching to grab a cushion from the settee, the soft plushness of it a shock to her hands. The urge to squeeze it was almost like an ache, but she ignored it, heaving the cushion towards Leander’s head as she scrambled in the opposite direction to him.

Of course, he caught it, tossing it aside as he hurried after her. Her feet thudded across the wooden floor towards a door, her hands grabbing for the handle, but she was infuriatingly weak, and he caught up to her easily. To his credit, he didn’t touch her. He just slammed his hands against the door to prevent her from opening it, his body towering over hers and effectively pinning her against the wood.

“Please, don’t run from me,” he said, an edge to his voice. “I would never hurt you, MC. I meant it when I said that.”

Panting, her trembling frame pressed up against the door, she refused to look up at him. She kept her gaze fixed on her hands wrapped around the door handle. Her legs were shaking so badly she feared she would fall, her ears roared with her pulse and she felt the tell tale sting of tears behind her eyes.

“You lied,” she rasped. The walls around the cavern in her chest cracked, a whimper leaving her lips as she sagged against the door, her fingers bone white with her grip around the handle. “You left me.”

Leander’s hands slid slowly from the door, and he backed up, her eyes blinking up towards him and catching the look of devastation on his face, his soft lips parted. He shook his head in denial, his gaze one of sad regret. “You will never know how hard it was to walk away from you like that.”

MC squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear that softness, that look on his face that sent tendrils of warmth around her ribs, seeking a way in. She couldn’t let him in, not again. He had walked away, and left her feeling so hollow. Her pride was a broken thing, her head was spinning with a thousand thoughts, and there was still too much light in the room.

Sucking in a shuddering breath, she twisted the door handle and pulled the door open to reveal the well stocked food larder. The irony was not lost on her as she stared at tins of food, a basket of bread sat on a shelf, and herbs were hanging from hooks along the far wall. She huffed a laugh of disbelief at the sight, a cracked chuckle that quickly shifted into tears that scalded her cheeks as they leaked from her eyes.

“MC…”

“I don’t know how to do this,” she sobbed, bringing her hands to her face.

Gentle hands on her shoulders had her turning on the spot, the firmness of his chest pressed against her cheek as his arms enveloped her, holding her in an embrace that dissolved the rest of her defences. Her fingers curled into his waistcoat, her tears leaking into the snowy whiteness of his shirt as she breathed in his scent, something that was becoming so familiar to her.

“You won’t be doing this alone,” he assured her, his hands sliding up the length of her spine until he was cupping the back of her head. “I’m your probation Auror, remember? And I think we both know that this has become more than just a job to me, MC. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

The ancient power that slumbered in her veins meant that she didn’t really need anyone to protect her. If anything, she was more dangerous than the worst of the Ashwinders once she had a wand in her hand. But, for now, she let Leander hold her and tell her that she would be safe. He took her hand and led her to another door, opening it to reveal a bedroom beyond. He paused in the doorway and nodded for her to go in.

“I’ll let you get yourself sorted out,” he said, his hand lingering on hers before he stepped back. “I’ll be right out here if you need anything. Alright?”

Backing into the room, she stared up at him. The risks he had taken, the kindness he had shown, it was more than any other Auror would have done for her. It was true. This was more than just another assigned job for him. Again, she was reminded of how dangerous it was to become close to him. How addictive his warmth was becoming, and whilst craving just that, she was also wary of it.

As the door clicked shut, her hands and forehead pressed against it, a stifled moan of grief tried to escape her lips. She didn’t even know what she was grieving for, but she felt so empty, so heavy and yet faded, like she would drift away into nothing.

Turning, she gazed around a bedroom, just as cosy and warm as the main room. There was a double bed made up with white sheets and thick blankets, and a vase of flowers sat on the bedside table beside a stack of books. Light bathed the space through a window that looked out across fields, the gentle roll of hills in the distance. She had no idea where she was. She could be anywhere.

Gasping in her breaths, she hurried to the window and gripped the floral curtains, yanking them closed to block out the light. The room darkened, but it wasn’t enough. Tight panic gripped her chest again, and she dived for a shadowed corner beside a wardrobe, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms tightly around her legs. Shivering and gasping, she pressed her forehead to her knees and bit back her scream, tears flooding her eyes.

Maybe she wasn’t as free as she first thought. The darkness still held her in its grip, and Leander could only do so much to hold her shadows at bay.

….*....

Stomach hollow with hunger, and her eyes tight and raw from tears, MC sat on the seat before the dressing table and stared at her reflection. The girl who stared back was a stranger. In the dim light of the room, her pale skin looked ghostly, drawn tight over the jut of her bones. Her hair was long and lifeless, but it was her eyes that chilled her the most. She recognised them as her own, but the haunted darkness that dwelled in them spoke of loneliness and loss. The girl she once knew was long gone.

She looked down at her hands, her fingers so pink and clean, the skin puckered like dried fruit from soaking in warm bath water for so long. It had taken three baths to get her clean. The first left the water so black she'd climbed out almost straight away. By the third, she had just sunk under the warmth of the rose scented water, waiting for the comforting feeling to seep into her bones, but it didn't.

After the fire of her tantrum earlier, she now felt numb. She had cried until her chest had hurt, rocking back and forth, her fingers tracing constantly over the scar on her palm. At last, her memories could flood her mind, no longer at risk from being sucked away by the Dementors kiss. Her longing to look upon Sebastian one more time was joined by the fear that he wouldn't even know her, that he had moved on with his life and she was just some girl he used to know.

There was no one else in the world to wait for her. She had no family, and she was sure her friends from Hogwarts would want nothing to do with a murderer. Sebastian was the only one who knew her truth. Closing her eyes, she tried to picture him, the boy she knew.

Sighing softly, she shook her head and looked into the mirror again. No longer a child, she was a woman, and Sebastian would be a man. No doubt he looked different now, perhaps taller and stronger, like Leander. She imagined he was just as handsome, though. Four years was a long time, and she wondered if he had found love with someone new.

Could she blame him if he had? The years stolen from them stretched out like a lifetime. Surely, he would be a different person now, just as she didn’t recognise the girl staring back at her in the looking glass.

Pushing the thought aside before she began to cry again, she stood, smoothing her hands down the front of the pale blue blouse she had chosen from the wardrobe. She couldn't deny the simple pleasure of clean clothes, although she had left the corset where she had found it and chose trousers instead of a skirt. She'd never been one for airs and graces, and she wasn't about to start now.

Moving towards the door, she pressed her ear against it, her brow furrowing slightly at the soft sound of voices coming from the main room on the other side. Slowly, she turned the handle and opened the door, peering out.

At the table sat Leander, a teapot and cups laid out before him, and in a chair adjacent to him sat a beautiful, dark-haired woman. MC’s eyes narrowed as she studied this woman, recognising her as the Auror from Leander’s memory in the pensieve. She had suggested that Leander make her talk by implying that Sebastian was in a relationship with Rookwood’s daughter.

Her mouth tightened with instant dislike. She watched as they talked together, the woman reaching out to touch her hand to Leander’s arm. His cheeks flushed pink, his gaze rather bashful as this simpering bitch fluttered her dark lashes at him. MC’s stomach coiled tightly and she swung the door open wider, stepping out into the room to reveal herself. Leander glanced up, his eyes widening as they swept over her.

“MC…wow…you look…Do you feel better?” He stuttered, getting to his feet. He reached for another cup and placed it before the empty chair on his other side. “Let me pour you some tea. Come, join us. I would like you to meet my colleague, Odessa McKinnon. She will be taking some of the watches here with you, starting with later on this evening.”

MC moved closer as Leander poured tea from the pot, slipping into the chair that Leander hurried to hold out for her whilst keeping her suspicious gaze on McKinnon. Leander tucked her chair in, his fingers grazing her shoulder as he moved to return to his own chair. Cleaner than she had been in years, and feeling slightly more human now that she was dressed in proper clothes, MC felt her spine stiffen as McKinnon gave her the once over.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you, MC,” she purred, one beautifully shaped eyebrow arching slightly as she lifted her tea cup. “I have heard so much about you, all your notorious deeds and wonderful magic. I have to admit, I have been rather intrigued.”

“You’re here to watch me tonight?” MC asked, her voice flat calm. She turned the saucer holding her teacup on the table top, relieved that her fingers did not tremble as she did so, her eyes cold and blank as she stared at the smug woman. “Aren’t you concerned that I might try to kill you?”

Leander hissed air through his teeth in a gasp. McKinnon didn’t move a muscle, but there was a subtle flare in her eyes as she put down her cup. “Out of prison a mere few hours and you’re already risking being thrown back inside,” she tutted. “I didn’t take you for a fool, MC.”

“But you take me for a murderer, correct? I have previous experience in that department. The man whom I thought to be Rookwood disappeared into a cloud of ash by my hands. They would have a hard time proving I did anything to you without a body as evidence,” MC said coolly. Her eyes glittered with cold malice as she lifted her cup and took a sip, the hot liquid washing over her tongue and making it tingle, the flavour blooming inside her mouth after years of tepid water.

Leander rubbed his hand against the back of his neck, his eyes disapproving as he glanced her way, but she only smiled as she returned her cup to its saucer. McKinnon flicked an uneasy frown in Leander's direction and shifted in her chair. “You haven’t tried to hurt Prewett, so your heart can’t be that cold, love,” she said, tilting her head. “If you are trying to scare me, it won’t work. I’ve seen much nastier dark wizards than you.”

“I shall take that as a challenge, then,” MC said with a smirk. She slid her eyes towards a rather awkward looking Leander, and her gaze softened. “Besides, why would I want to hurt Leander? I rather like him. You, on the other hand...”

MC's eyes hardened again on those last words, the instant dislike she had for this Auror setting her teeth on edge. She would need to ensure that her defences were on full alert around this one, there was a gleam in her eyes that MC did not like, a smug assurance that took some of the edge off her beauty. If only she could have her wand.

McKinnon shifted in her seat again, perhaps not as smug as she was trying to portray as she leant her elbow on the table top, her hand supporting her chin. “Luckily, I enjoy a challenge, too,” she said, her eyes becoming devious slits. “Speaking of challenges. Your old flame, Sebastian Sallow, is rather handy with a wand, isn’t he? He put up quite the fight when I tracked him down in Glasgow. Quite the handsome devil, too. I can see why you liked him.”

MC stiffened, her fingers twitching to grip against the table top at the mention of Sebastian’s name. McKinnon’s smile was far too arrogant, too knowing.

“Rookwood’s daughter seems to think so as well. Quite the striking pair they make when they fight,” McKinnon continued.

Leander sighed and shook his head. “Perhaps we should keep the conversation to more relevant topics, ladies,” he suggested.

“How is Sebastian not relevant?” McKinnon asked, shifting her gaze to Leander. “He is in deep with Rookwood, and MC needs to be prepared.”

Trying to keep her temper was difficult considering the violent swing of her emotions today, but MC did her best to sit still and keep her mouth clamped tightly shut. She knew what this bitch was doing. She was trying to bait her, to wind her up and make her show her hand, and MC didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of succeeding. This is what McKinnon had suggested Leander do to her, her snide comments revealed in Leander's pensieve memory, but he hadn’t done it.

Her hands came together, her fingers touching against the scar on her palm, a reminder that Sebastian would never turn his back on her. He couldn’t. Just like she could never turn her back on him. As difficult as it was to think of him being with Rookwood’s daughter, if that is what he wanted, then what could she do? The very thought of him touching another woman made her stomach twist, sadness engulfing the dark space in her chest at the loss of what could have been, but she would never allow McKinnon the satisfaction of knowing that. No matter how harshly it scraped along her deepest fears.

“I am well aware of how Sebastian fights. We used to train together,” MC said, shrugging her shoulders as if she was not concerned. “When the time comes for me to track down the Ashwinders, I can’t see it being a problem. Like you said, I have such wonderful magic available at my fingertips, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Now, that is a showdown I would pay good galleons to see,” McKinnon said. Her sly smirk swung towards Leander. “Perhaps the idea of sending her into the pits is a good one, after all.”

“What pits?” MC asked, glancing between them.

McKinnon chuckled and got to her feet, taking her robe from the back of her chair to put on. Leander stood too, always the gentleman, stepping forward to help her with her robe. MC watched them both, noticing the flirty gleam in McKinnon's eyes as she smiled at Leander when she thanked him.

“I'm sure Prewett will fill you in on all the details regarding the pits,” she said, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. Her smug smile lifted her lips. “I have some errands to run, so I shall say goodbye for now. I will return for my watch duty later.”

“I can't wait,” MC muttered, rolling her eyes.

Leander walked her towards the door that led outside, MC watching through narrowed eyes as McKinnon touched her hand to his arm again.

“I will see you later,” she said, leaning in a little, her voice low and intimate. “And I shall tell Harrington that you will meet him as suggested.”

Leander nodded, that delicate blush staining his cheeks again. “Thank you, Odessa.”

Watching the exchange, MC realised she hadn't given much thought to what Leander's personal life might be like. She had only seen him as the Auror in his visits, with glimpses of the boy she remembered from their short time together at school. For the first time, she wondered what he liked, the kind of books he read, or what his favourite food was.

Did he have a lover? Watching him with McKinnon, she didn't think they were that close, but perhaps the suggestion of something more being possible lingered in their glances and smiles. The idea was oddly repulsive, and MC's mouth tightened with disapproval as she sat back in the chair and folded her arms.

Leander returned to the table and began to gather up the teacups after McKinnon had left. MC watched him, her gaze following him as he took the cups to the sink under the window.

“What are the pits?” She asked.

He turned to face her, brushing his hands together. “There is an illegal duelling club that takes place in the new London underground train tunnels. Rookwood is involved, and his Ashwinders take part in fights for money.”

Her eyebrows shot up with interest. “So, it's like a bigger, more dangerous version of Crossed Wands?”

Leander huffed a laugh and came back to the table and picked up the teapot. “Definitely more dangerous. People die down there,” he said pointedly. He held up the teapot. “Would you like some more?”

MC nodded and slid her cup forward to be refilled. “That delightful colleague of yours suggested I would be sent to these illegal duelling fights. Why is that?”

Leander bit his lip. “That hasn't been agreed upon yet. We need to do some more investigating first before we even consider sending you down there. It could be a good way to infiltrate you into the gang.”

“Does Sebastian duel there?”

Leander slowly put down the teapot and placed his hands on the back of his chair. She could see the reluctance in his eyes, but she needed to know, almost holding her breath as she waited.

“I can't say for sure that he does, but it is likely he will be there,” he said. He met her eyes. “Would you be alright with that? I don't want to place you in situations that might be difficult.”

Whilst her pulse raced, MC once again maintained a cool approach, shrugging her shoulders as she picked up her tea. “I can handle myself. I wouldn't make a very good spy for you if I couldn't. I will be fine.”

Leander pulled back his chair and sat down facing her. He placed a hand on the table top near hers but didn't touch her.

“I meant it when I said I didn't want to hurt you, and that includes placing you in dangerous situations. I know you can handle yourself, but that doesn't mean I won't be concerned. Harrington and I are going to check these duelling pits out later and see what they are like,” he said. “McKinnon will be here while I am gone, and I will tell you what I can once I return. Nothing will be finalised until I speak with you first.”

It was so very hard to maintain that cold exterior when he looked at her like that, his eyes so open and earnest, but she kept her face still as she returned his gaze. She tried to imagine him in a highly dangerous situation, tried to picture the transition from soft hearted Lee to a fighting Auror, and it wasn't easy.

Her hand shifted on the table top, her little finger brushing up against the warmth of his hand.

“Be careful while you're gone,” she said quietly. Her lips twitched ever so slightly. “Don't leave me alone with that smug bitch for too long. I'd rather not risk being sent back to Azkaban, but I won't rule out the desire to slap her irritatingly perfect face.”

He looked down to where she was touching him, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. “I will only be there a few hours, and then I will come back. I promise. Try and get some sleep. McKinnon isn't so bad once you get to know her. We trained together.”

MC stared into his eyes, the air feeling heavy between them. “She fancies you,” she murmured and watched as a deep flush coloured his freckled cheeks.

“We are just colleagues,” he assured her, touching his fingers to his tie to straighten it. “She is naturally flirtatious. She does it with everyone, not just me.”

“Would you like it to be just you she flirts with? The way she looked at you makes me think you are in with a chance there.”

“I’m not sure if that’s entirely appropriate,” he gulped.

Leander cleared his throat, his fingers now fiddling with his tie, rearranging it and ensuring it was tucked neatly into his waistcoat. His flush now darkened his neck, and his gaze skipped away from her as he stood.

MC felt a genuine smile twitch at her lips, seeing the awkward, flustered boy from their youth as he tried to calm his fluster. She reached out and took hold of his hand, her thumb sweeping over the softness of his palm.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tease you, Lee,” she said gently before letting her gaze dip to their joined hands. It was surprising how just that brief and gentle contact could bring such comfort. Reluctantly, she let him go. “Besides, your personal life is none of my business. Forgive me.”

The look that they shared lingered, the moment feeling heavy and poised in the silence of the room. MC felt the hair rise on the back of her neck, a deep ache swelling within her to feel like she belonged somewhere, the black cavern in her chest warping with a loneliness that stole her breath.

“Let me fix you something to eat,” Leander said, breaking the strange tension in the room. “You must be hungry. I could make you a sandwich?”

MC blinked, nodding quickly as she compressed the confusing ache within her, masking it with her walls of cold stone. She was hungry. Although, when Leander placed down the plate onto the table before her, she stared at the cheese sandwich and wondered how she would ever be able to swallow it over the tightness in her throat.

The first bite filled her mouth with stinging surprise, all the texture and flavour so strange against her tongue as she chewed. It had been so long since she had eaten normal food, and as she took more mouthfuls, she began to chew faster. Her stomach gnawed with ravenous hunger, and she ate the entire sandwich, her belly rumbling and squeaking at the new contents she had thrown into it. Immediately, she felt very full, her hand rubbing over her stomach carefully as she groaned.

“It’s probably best to start with small meals until your stomach gets used to eating again,” Leander said, smiling at her like a proud parent across the table. “You will be eating roast dinners before you know it.”

“Thank you,” she said, meeting his gaze, and she didn’t just mean for the sandwich.

He nodded, a knock at the door breaking the moment before it could become loaded again like before. They both turned to look towards the door, and Leander stood. “Ah, that will be the Healer,” he said. “Perfect timing.”

As Leander went to open the door and greet the Healer, MC remained at the table, her belly full and her body feeling clean from head to toes. Although the future stretched out huge and uncertain before her, for the first time since her feet landed on the perfectly swept floors of this house, she thought maybe she could do this after all.

Sebastian

Keeping a lid on his own rage was increasingly difficult as those around him spoke with raised voices, the private room at the back of The Black Rose pub filled with Rookwood’s closest henchmen. Sebastian and Rosier stood near the wall, watching as all hell broke loose, each man having his own piece to say on what they thought the Ministry was up to.

“Since when is a prisoner released without some kind of announcement in the Daily Prophet,” Carrow said, his eyes narrow and suspicious. “Especially a high profile prisoner such as this girl. It was all over the front page when she was convicted and sent to Azkaban. I don’t like it.”

Rookwood sat at the head of the table rubbing his chin slowly, his face in deep thought, his eyes shifting towards Sebastian with a dark look. “This had better not be a trick, Sallow,” he said darkly. “You didn’t get her out and hide her somewhere, did you?”

Sebastian clenched his fists, his face darkening at the suggestion. Rosier tapped his fingers against his elbow, his blue eyes flashing with a warning to be careful.

“You can take the very memory from my head if you doubt me so much,” Sebastian offered, straightening his spine. “Believe me, I’m just as pissed off as you are. We risked our necks going into that place. If anyone is up to trickery, it’s that bitch, Black Dahlia.”

Rookwood hummed thoughtfully, his gaze sliding back to Carrow. “Any word from our little whisperer?”

“Not a thing,” Carrow said, his mouth tight.

Sebastian’s top lip curled with his disgust and fury. There was no love lost when it came to Black Dahlia where he was concerned, but his patience was wearing dangerously thin, his hand lingering near his wand in its holster. He folded his arms and leant against the wall, chewing at his lower lip in frustration, his head drifting into a darker place as he considered painful ways of making her talk.

At the table beside Rookwood sat his daughter, Luella, her blonde curls held up in a twist, loose strands breaking free to hang around her face. She was sitting quietly, taking in the words spoken by those around her, but her gaze kept drifting over towards Sebastian. Her blue eyes were lit with a familiar gleam as they passed over him, lingering on his mouth and wandering downwards over his body with a hunger that had once stirred him.

She had arrived yesterday, curious and eager to meet the escaped prisoner, but had walked into the angry fallout of MC being missing. Last night, Sebastian had dodged her questions, soaking his innards in shots of whiskey to try and drown out the deep ache in his chest. When her hands had wandered, her lips soft against his ear, he had been tempted, but eventually spurned her advances outside his bedroom door. His bleary gaze had wandered over her hair, her eyes, the shape of her mouth, and it was all wrong. She wasn’t MC.

Here, in the meeting room, he was careful to avoid holding her gaze for too long. He needed to keep his distance from her, his main focus now being the seeking out of Leander Prewett and tracking down MC.

He had managed to corner Larson this morning, coercing him into a side alley near Gringotts Bank, and he’d asked him about Prewett. Larson hadn’t changed much since school, but he had surprised Sebastian with a steely determination not to be pushed around. Sebastian had changed tactics swiftly, using his silver tongue to suggest that he just wanted to talk to Prewett, that he had information that could prove useful. He had sent the blonde Ravenclaw off with assurances that his message would be passed on.

Rookwood stood up, adjusting his long gentleman’s coat, his eyes softening briefly as he glanced Luella’s way. He cast his eyes around the room, his eyes lit with a devilish gleam. “Let’s not fret, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll get to the truth of it in due course,” he said, his gaze landing on Sebastian. “Sallow is already chasing a lead within the Ministry, and once Black Dahlia shows her face, her lips had better start moving. For now, let us enjoy some entertainment. There are fights to bet on in the pits, and whores to slake our lusts. I say we adjourn to the tunnels and start the night early.”

A rousing murmur of agreement went up around the room, and Rosier grinned beside Sebastian. “I’m up for that,” he said, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and tucking one between his lips. He held the packet out to Sebastian, but he waved him off. “Are you coming, Sallow?”

Sebastian turned his gaze from Luella and considered Rosier’s question, his fingers caressing along the handle of his wand. “Actually, I could do with a damned good scrap,” he said thoughtfully, the burn of his frustration like an itch in his veins. “A few fast duels ought to satiate the hunger.”

“Or you could put Lulu out of her misery,” Rosier smirked, shaking his head. “Honestly, the eye fucking is becoming too obvious. I’m surprised Daddy Rookwood hasn’t picked up on it yet.”

Sebastian huffed and began to walk towards the door, following the others as they filed out of the room. Rosier joined him, and Sebastian leaned in to speak quietly. “I’m done with all that,” he muttered. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about. If you want to hit her up, go for it. Maybe she will leave me alone once you’ve got your hands on her.”

Rosier looked doubtful. “Lulu has always been picky with her men. She’s only got eyes for you, mate. But, you know me, I’ll give any ride a go.”

Sebastian’s mouth spread into a grin as he looked towards his friend, slinging an arm about his shoulders as they entered the bar of The Black Rose. “I do know you,” he said, ruffling Rosier’s dark, blonde hair. “And I appreciate your enthusiasm for life. Come on, let’s get down into those pits and inflict some damage. My wand is thirsty for some action.”

Leander

Despite it being the evening, the Auror office was just as busy, some at their desks whilst others were having meetings or gathering files for cases. Leander made his way through the desk cubicles, heading for his own to check if the file containing the gathered evidence for the duelling pits was there. He always liked to refresh his thoughts on the most recent information before heading out for field work. Knowledge was power, and going down into those tunnels was risky enough without knowing plenty of details.

His desk was as neat as he had left it, his files stored in a perfect pile in his tray. He flicked through them quickly, frowning slightly as he couldn’t find the one he was looking for. He glanced over at the untidy chaos of McKinnon’s desk and sighed, moving over to begin checking her scattered folders, but it wasn’t there either. Harrington’s desk turned up nothing, and so he headed towards the researcher's room in the hope it was there rather than being back in the archives.

The team of researchers that worked for the British Auror Office were methodical fact checkers, gathering and storing any evidence attained by Aurors and ensuring it was all filed correctly. They were also rather good at picking out patterns in evidence, and they were often an invaluable asset in solving cases. If Leander hadn’t managed to pass the tough Auror program, he had thought to become a researcher as a backup career. It was the pursuit of justice without the field work and fighting, all from the comfort of a desk inside the sanctuary of the Ministry.

As Leander walked down the hall towards the research offices, his head was filled with thoughts of MC. The knowledge that she was safely tucked away in the safe house, warm and comfortable, made some of the tension ease from his shoulders. Seeing her out of that dark and cold prison had brought a lump to his throat, especially when she had stepped out of the bedroom dressed in clean clothes, her hair soft about her face, her skin still slightly pink from her bath. He had been glad that McKinnon had been there to stop him from immediately going to her, his fingers aching to brush against the lines of her cheek, the pull of her stronger than ever despite his effort to hold back.

This case was so big, and she was a key part of it, he could not afford to mess this up. He had to be so careful, but one look at her big, haunted eyes was enough to make that soft part of himself that he hid so carefully behind his ribs, swell to a chest tightening bloom. It was a lesson in restraint to keep his hands to himself, to keep his thoughts on the job and not constantly on her. When she had brushed her finger up against his hand earlier, her lips uttering a soft plea for him to be careful whilst he was gone, it had taken all of his strength to behave like a gentleman.

Entering the research office, he cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, striding past the girl on the reception desk with a polite nod as he made his way towards Larson’s desk. If anyone ought to know where the file was, it would be him. Andrew was indeed at his desk despite the later hour, his head bent over a thick stack of parchment, his fingers pushed into the soft wave of his blonde hair as he supported himself on the desk.

“Good evening, Andrew,” he said, coming to a stop beside him. “That’s quite the stack of bedtime reading you have there.”

Andrew looked up, blinking slowly as he separated his thoughts from his reading material, his lips curving into a smile. “Good evening, Lee. How are you?”

Andrew turned in his chair, pushing the parchment away from him to give Leander his full attention. His facial features had clung to the softness he’d had as a boy, the gentleness still there in his brown eyes, combined with a bright intelligence that Leander had always appreciated. He had known Andrew for a long time and took pleasure in working with him here at the Ministry. He felt privileged to call him a friend.

“I’m well, thank you,” Leander said with a nod. “I was hoping you would still be here. I’m looking for the file on the underground duelling pit in London. I wanted to read up a bit before going down there to have a scout around.”

Andrew’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’re going down there? Has there been a new development on the Rookwood case?”

Leander gave a rueful twist of his lips. “You could say that, yes, although I am not at liberty to say much yet. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you?”

Andrew bit his lip and glanced towards his pile of files on his desk, reaching across to pull one out and hold it up. “Actually, I have it right here,” he said, giving Leander a hesitant look. “I er…I swiped it from your desk earlier today while you were out. I wanted to read up on it myself.”

“Oh? Any particular reason?”

“Yes. Our old school buddy, Sebastian Sallow,” Andrew said with a sigh. He looked up at Leander, a worried gleam in his eyes. “Would you say that was a good reason?”

Leander frowned and reached for a nearby chair, dragging it closer so he could sit. “That depends. What makes you interested in Sallow all of a sudden?”

“He cornered me this morning in Diagon Alley,” Andrew said, rubbing his hand across his mouth, a slight blush staining his cheeks. Leander’s eyes bulged, his lips parting in surprise. “I won’t lie to you, Lee. I wondered what the bloody hell he was going to do. He had his wand out, and I was never all that great at the hand to hand spell casting. That was always your thing, and Sallow is like a coiled serpent with a wand in his hand.”

“What did he want?”

Andrew winced, his eyes becoming grave. “He wants you, mate. He was demanding to know where he could find you. He said he had information that might prove useful to you. I didn’t tell him anything, only that I would pass on the message.”

Leander swore under his breath and put his hands to his face, closing his eyes as old insecurities began to bubble up inside of him. He was twelve years old again, and Sallow was casting Glacius under his feet to make him slip on the stairs, his twin giggling behind him as she clung on to Gaunt’s arm.

It had always been silly pranks, and Leander had gotten his own back a few times with some help from Garreth, but Sebastian always liked to have the upper hand. He always had to be smarter, faster, his cocky smirk plastered over his handsome face. And now he was looking for him. It could only be about one thing. It had to be something to do with MC. Leander blew air through his lips and gripped his thighs, shaking his head. He wasn’t a scrawny twelve year old anymore. He was a graduated Auror, and he could hold his own.

“What else did he say?” Leander asked, licking his lips.

“He said you might catch him in the Black Rose,” Andrew said, frowning slightly. “That is a nefarious pub, make no mistake. I wouldn’t go in there unprepared, Lee.”

Leander nodded and pinched his lips thoughtfully. “He was spotted there recently by another Auror, so it’s no surprise to hear that’s where to find him. Leave it with me, Andrew. I’ll see if I can’t track him down and find out what he wants.”

“Just be careful, alright?” Andrew said, his expression grim. “It can’t be anything good.”

Leander nodded, a tight-lipped smile on his lips as he moved to stand. He touched a hand to Andrew’s shoulder as he said goodbye, leaving the office with the file in hand, fairly certain that he knew exactly what Sebastian wanted, but he wasn’t about to give it to him.

For all Sebastian knew, she was tucked away inside Azkaban, far out of his reach. That’s the way it needed to stay until she was strong enough to step out into the world again and take on the likes of the Ashwinders. If Sebastian was hoping to get information out of him in order to aid a prison break, then he was very much mistaken.

….*....

Leander met Harrington in Monument Street, London, the area reasonably quiet after the setting of the sun. The gas lamps had been lit, casting an eerie glow through the beginnings of a lingering mist that left a damp feeling on one’s clothing. The distant sound of carriages on the main road heading towards London Bridge could be heard as he walked alongside Harrington, past the colossal tower of a monument dedicated to all that was lost in the Great Fire of London in the 1600s, giving the road its name.

“The file said the entrance to the duelling pit was down in the underground tunnel just along from the platform,” Leander said, pulling his collar up a little higher against the chill on the back of his neck. Autumn was beginning to sink its teeth into the weather. “Hopefully the station will be quiet at this time of the evening.”

“Magical folk have been vanishing into the underbelly of London long before the Muggles started sending their fancy new trains down there,” Harrington said. “London has many secrets, and some of the chambers underneath her are ancient. We won’t have any trouble accessing the tunnels. It will be further along that we will have to be more careful. My snitch said there are enchantments in place to avoid the duelling pits being discovered.”

“Nothing a cheeky Revelio won’t show us, I’m sure,” Leander said with a small smile.

They turned into King William Street and headed for the entrance to the Metropolitan Underground railway station of the same name, slipping through the doors in a swirl of mist and began to descend the spiralling iron stairwell into the depths.

“How is our new house guest faring?” Harrington asked as they reached the bottom, the air musty and damp, the only light coming from flickering lamps spaced out along the tiny platform.

“She is looking a lot better after a bath and something to eat, and the Healer said she was physically well despite everything. She has a box full of potions and elixirs to take to build her back to strength,” Leander said, scanning the station’s platform to find it empty. A crease appeared between his brows as he thought of MC. “I’m not so sure about her mental state. That might take a bit more work.”

“All we need her to do is give us enough to bring Rookwood to his knees,” Harrington said, his face grim. “We need to lure the spider out of his cave, and then we can shred his little web of criminals. That’s the main goal here.”

Leander bit his lip against the thoughts sliding across his mind. Harrington wasn’t wrong. That was the goal, but MC deserved more than that. At least, he thought so.

They jumped down off the platform onto the tracks below, the circular maw of the tunnel's mouth gaping before them. A stale breeze was coming from it, the tracks disappearing off into the blackness as though leading them down into the hells. Harrington slipped out his wand and stepped into the tunnel, his Lumos spell guiding their way until they came to the hidden door in the brick wall, marked by runes.

“Be on your guard, Prewett,” Harrington muttered. “We could end up running into anyone down here.”

An iron ladder led them down into a tunnel that had a swift running stream bubbling along the bottom of it, a stone pathway following the gushing water into further darkness. They walked for some time, listening for the sound of boot steps, Harrington casting Revelio at intervals until they came across a charmed barrier invisible to the naked eye. Leander tugged at his collar, feeling the oppressive weight of an entire city above his head as Harrington cleared the barrier, and they continued on.

Eventually, they began to hear the distorted echo of raised voices coming along the tunnel, the anticipation building in Leander’s chest as they drew nearer. Keeping to the shadows, they moved towards the light, the flicker and flash of spells reflecting off the walls in shades of red and white.

Leander wasn't sure what he had been expecting of the pit, the name itself bringing forth images of dark, filthy holes with those duelling battling it out amongst a rabble of a crowd. The crowd part was mostly true. However, they were spaced around an arena that made Leander think of Roman gladiator fighting rings. The staggered levels of the spectators gave them an excellent view into an oval shaped arena with a stone floor covered in wood shavings.

The chamber itself was not dark, nor filthy, the curved arches in the ceiling giving it a classical building feel, the stone work almost attractive, and around the walls were fire sconces that lit up the space with a golden glow. As for the gathered crowd, there was a mixed bunch of witches and wizards, from the poor to the rich. A careful glance around the space revealed that these duels attracted a variety of people, and a lot of them, too.

The place was heaving, the air thick with excitement and the smokey scent of spell casting, the chill of the tunnels exchanged for the warmth of many bodies in close proximity.

“Merlin’s beard, look at this lot,” Harrington said, his eyes casting an experienced eye over the crowd. His gaze narrowed as he looked in the direction of what could only be described as a spectators box. “Well, well, who do we have here?”

There in the box sat Marvolo Gaunt, Amos Carrow, Luella Rookwood, and what looked suspiciously like one of the Minister of Magic’s official aides. No wonder these pits were allowed to continue if they had high up Ministry workers in their audience.

“No sign of Rookwood,” Leander muttered near Harrington’s ear. “What about Sallow? I can't see him either.”

“Try looking lower down in the gutter where he belongs,” Harrington sneered.

Leander looked downwards into the fighting arena itself, and his eyes widened. There he was. Sebastian Sallow. The sleeves were rolled up on his black shirt, the collar open, his freckled skin glistening with sweat, and his wild mop of hair damp at his temples. Flushed and breathing hard, he was duelling against a bare chested man with a skinhead, his face set with intense concentration.

Andrew had compared him to a coiled serpent when he held a wand, and Leander could see that Sebastian still held a masterful prowess when it came to fighting. He moved with lithe skill, the barest flick of his wrist wielding quick spell work that his opponent could barely keep up with. He was no longer a scrawny teenager, his body more thickset, the muscle in his forearm defined. He looked strong, his neck solid and his chest broad, and yet he moved with the sharpness and cunning of a fox.

The bald man was flagging, and Sebastian showed no mercy as he backed him up against the wooden railing at the edge of the fight floor, the crowd leaning forward to jeer and shout. Sebastian wielded with a flourish, the Diffindo cutting through the other man's flesh with horrifying precision, the scarlet of his blood seeping from his wounds at a frightening pace. The crowd gasped and then cheered as he collapsed to the floor, a duelling referee stepping into the oval to lift Sebastian’s arm into the air as the victor.

“Savages, the lot of them,” Harrington hissed, his gaze narrowed in disgust. “It's a shame we don't have any backup. We could raid this circus and nab ourselves a pretty collection of scumbags here.”

Looking at the way the crowd was baying for blood, the punters getting their bet winnings as Carrow and Gaunt looked on with smug looks on their cold faces, Leander felt his stomach twist. The thought of bringing MC here made him feel nauseated, the danger and savageness making him think that this was not the best way forward. He wished he could keep her inside the safe house forever, no matter how unrealistic that sounded.

“Come on, I've seen enough,” Harrington said, nudging Leander’s arm. “Let's get out of here before we are spotted.”

Leander hesitated, watching as Luella Rookwood smiled down at Sebastian, clapping her hands. The way she looked at Sallow certainly gave some credence to McKinnon’s suggestion that there was something between the two. Clenching his hands into fists, Leander dragged his eyes away and began to make his way back through the crowd, heading for the tunnel they entered through.

A shout went up to his left, and then a bloom of purple sparks erupted into the air above their heads. There was a millisecond of utter silence before utter chaos erupted in the chamber. The crowd surged as people made a run for the tunnels, some falling and becoming trampled underfoot, the snap and whirl of Apparition coming from all sides as those who were able to make a quick exit.

Leander had his wand in hand, stumbling and shoving with the tide of people as he tried to work out what was happening. Harrington was lost in the chaos, and Leander swallowed down the flutter of panic that erupted in his chest, and he pulled on his Auror training. Maintaining a manner of calm, he fought his way through to the edge of the chamber, keeping a wary eye on everyone.

A glance to the spectator box revealed it to be empty, Carrow and Gaunt making a swift exit. He spotted Luella hurrying down the steps towards the pit floor, her mouth shouting something that looked suspiciously like Sebastian’s name, but he couldn't be sure over the noise and chaos. He needed to find Harrington and get out of here.

Pushing back through the crowd, he looked for signs of his partner, having to block spells that were being cast across the heads of people as scrapping began to break out. Leander fired off a few spells of his own, diving behind a stack of storage crates at the entrance of a rather large tunnel to avoid a blasting curse.

As the crowd thinned, Leander moved back towards the chamber, scanning the space for Harrington. The scrape of boots on stone behind him made him spin about, his wand held out ready, his heart leaping madly as his gaze met with a pair of blazing, brown eyes.

Sebastian stood a fair few paces before him, his wand held up towards Leander, a gleam in his gaze that could almost be described as feral satisfaction. Sebastian took a slow step to the right, and Leander counter stepped, keeping his wand arm aimed, steady, and true.

Despite the heightened danger of the situation, Leander felt as though they could be sixteen again, preparing to face off in a round of Crossed Wands. Time slipped into insignificance as he stared Sebastian down. Sixteen or twenty-one, it would appear they were fated to always be rivals.

“I should have known to find you here, Sallow,” he said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the mad rush of his pulse. “It's all a little predictable, though, isn't it? Another unsanctioned duelling club. I thought you might have outgrown all that by now.”

Sebastian smirked, his feet creeping closer. Leander maintained a decent distance, his eyes quick and wary as they manoeuvred in the entrance of the tunnel.

“You're not so unpredictable yourself, Prewett. Here you are, coming to wreck all the fun with rules and self-righteousness,” Sebastian said, shaking his head slowly. “I guess some things just don't change.”

A flick of his wrist and a quick cast hit the stone in front of Leander’s boot. The slightest flinch flickered across his face, but he didn't move. Sebastian’s eyebrows went up a notch.

“How about it, Prewett? Do you fancy a round for old times' sake?”

“It will only end with your wrists in chains and a cell, Sallow,” Leander said, his face hardening. “I hear Azkaban is rather cruel this time of year. I guess you will fit right in.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. “You would know,” he hissed, striking hard and fast.

Leander threw up a Protego shield and cast back, both of them assuming duelling stances and falling into a furious back and forth of spells. Sebastian was fierce despite having only just fought in the ring, but Leander was no longer a schoolboy either, his body fit and strong from gruelling training and hours of practice. He gave it everything and even began to push Sebastian further back into the tunnel, shadows darkening their movements and making the spells light up their faces with an eerie glow.

Sebastian’s comment toyed at the back of Leander’s thoughts as they fired spells into the dark. What did he mean? Blocking another swift curse, he used one of Sebastian’s old tricks against him and cast Glacius across the floor. Sebastian’s boots slid on the ice, and he swore viciously as he slammed into the tunnel wall, his wand clattering to the ground.

Leander was on him instantly, grabbing the front of his shirt, breathing hard as he shoved him against the wall. “I hear you've been looking for me, Sallow. What could you possibly have to say that I would find interesting?”

Sebastian growled and tried to shove back, kicking out with his legs in frustration. They struggled, Sebastian swinging a fist towards his face and catching him hard above his eye. Leander grunted at the impact, blinking in shock as his mind spun, but he shook it off and managed to grab Sebastian's wrist and slam him back against the wall. He pinned his arm up to block any more swings, his other hand fisting into his shirt.

As Sebastian’s hand splayed open at the impact against the brick, Leander caught sight of a long, thin red scar slashed across his palm, a complete match to the one MC had across hers. Leander stared at it, his cheeks draining of colour as he remembered the blood pact between her and Sallow.

Sebastian’s head twisted, looking to see what Leander was staring at, his gaze narrowing as he studied Leander's face carefully.

“What's got you all spooked?” He asked and wiggled the fingers on his left hand, his breath panting through his lips. “It's only a scar.”

Leander met his eyes, his grip tightening on the infuriating man against the wall. “I know exactly what it is,” he hissed.

Sebastian’s smugness faltered fleetingly, his throat working as he swallowed. A cold, determined look entered his gaze, and his voice came through gritted teeth.

“Where is she, Prewett?”

Leander stilled, his eyes locked in a battle of wills with his old rival, a dull throb beginning around his eye where Sebastian had punched him. “Who?”

“Don't fuck with me,” Sebastian said, trying to jerk his arms free, but Leander pushed harder against him. “You know who I'm talking about. Where is she?”

The first cold trickle of fear slid down Leander’s spine at the demand, the suggestion that Sebastian knew she had been released. Leander stuck to the lie. “She is in Azkaban. You know that.”

Sebastian huffed a cold, humourless laugh. “You and I both know that's not true, Prewett. Naughty boy, you shouldn't tell lies. MC is not in her cell, and I want to know where she is. You can't keep her from me, not for long.”

Leander wanted to rip the smugness from Sebastian’s face, his own fear and bitterness making his blood run cold. How could Sebastian know that MC wasn't in her cell? How was that even possible? His eyes flicked up towards the scar on Sebastian’s palm as he wondered if somehow the pact could tell him. But then, that would mean he could locate her if she moved. So, no, that wasn't it. His mind raced, the obvious possibility being one he didn't want to admit, the very idea threatening the honour of the British Auror Office.

Sebastian’s grin was slow and knowing. “You thought you were being so clever, didn't you? You thought you could sneak her out, and nobody would know. What's the plan, Prewett? Are you hoping to keep her all for yourself?”

Leander felt his cheeks burn with a flush, and he could no longer bear the close proximity of him. He let Sebastian go and stepped back, swiping his hand across his face as he swallowed hard.

“I'm not sure what it is you think you know, but you're wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm not sneaking anyone anywhere.”

“Liar!” Sebastian hissed, his fists slamming against his thighs, his eyes wild. “You took her out of there, I know you did! Tell me where she is! You might as well, because if not today, I will find out, and I will come for her. She's mine, Prewett.”

“You think your stupid blood pact makes her yours?” He scoffed, gesturing towards his left hand. “MC has her own mind, Sallow. She might not be able to betray you, but that doesn't mean you own her. She can choose to go and be with whoever she wants.”

Sebastian’s face hardened. “Is that right?”

“Yes it is,” he said, nodding. “MC will always have a choice.”

“I suppose you have hopes that she will choose you,” Sebastian said, his eyes narrowing. “Her prince in shining armour who rescued her from the tower.”

He knew. Sebastian knew MC was out. But how?

Footsteps echoed in the tunnel, and they both turned to see Harrington approaching with his wand held up. He fixed his stern eyes on Sebastian, a slow smile appearing on his mouth.

“Look who we have here,” he said. “Mr Sallow. Oh, I've been looking forward to seeing you again.”

Sebastian threw another glance towards Leander, his eyes determined. “I won't give up.”

“Don't you dare…” Harrington snarled, a spell bursting from his wand. But, he was too late.

Sebastian made a dive for his wand and disappeared with a sharp crack, a swirl of black giving way to nothing as Harrington’s spell hit the wall with a flare of white light.

Leander hung his head, his fingers gripping tightly to his wand as his mind raced, the adrenaline from the fight draining from him. Harrington came up beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don't worry, lad,” he said. “We'll get him.”

Leander lifted his head to look at Harrington, his heart sinking at what he had to say. The thought of it filling him with such disappointment even though such a thing wasn't unheard of.

“He knew, Harrington,” he said softly. “He knew MC was out of Azkaban and that I was the one who took her. I think…I think we might have a snitch on the team.”

Harrington glanced towards where Sebastian had been standing only seconds ago, his mouth tightening with fury. “Shit,” he muttered, turning away. His voice lifted into a yell that echoed down the tunnel. “Shit!”

This could compromise the whole operation. It could alert Rookwood to the idea that MC was siding with Aurors, and Leander felt the bitter sting of frustration in his bones.

Harrington rubbed his chin in thought, his gaze catching on Leander’s face. “Bloody hell, that's going to give you a shiner come tomorrow,” he said, stepping closer. “You could do with seeing a Healer.”

Leander touched his fingers carefully to his eyebrow, the dull throb making him wince as he felt warm, sticky blood from the split skin there. “I will live,” he sighed.

“Get yourself cleaned up, and then we need to check on McKinnon,” Harrington said. “If there is a snitch, then the safe house could be compromised.”

Leander's stomach plummeted. He'd left MC there after promising he wouldn't let anything happen to her. “I'll go,” he said firmly. “I'll go right now.”

“You need to see a Healer,” Harrington repeated, pointing at his head.

“I'm fine,” Leander insisted. “Besides, MC is my responsibility. It should be me that goes.”

Harrington gave him a long look and then sighed. “Your soft heart is going to get you in trouble one of these days, lad. Fine. Go to the safe house, but don't take any chances. Pack a bag and get MC out of there. Take her somewhere nobody else would even think of looking, and send me a coded owl once you're safe. Understand?”

Leander nodded, his adrenaline beginning to kick in again. “What are you going to do?”

Harrington gave him a meaningful look. “I'm going to turn Seeker and hunt out this bloody snitch.”

Leander nodded, gripping tightly to his wand as he pictured the safe house in his mind, and Disapparated out of the dark tunnel.

To be continued...

Huge thanks, as always, to @eternalremorse and @slytherin-paramour for their support with this fic 💜

Odessa McKinnon is an OC used with the kind permission of @ellivenollivander

Taglist: @evaslytherpuff @writing-intheundercroft @marketfreshfics @loving-him-was-red13

#hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow #mc x sebastian sallow #leander prewett x mc #leander prewett #hogwarts legacy #blueraineshadows #blood bound

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carnivorousmossbeast · 1 month

Text

Layover

no content warnings. but this is long. Sorry!

Summary: Ghost and Soap are waiting for a flight to take them home.

There's a delicious ache crawling through his thighs, his veins, settling into his biceps and shoulders in that very delightfully restricting way that reminds him of the exhaustion after a good workout. His arms are leaden and tired, straining against the knowledge that he will have to lift them again, he will have to shoulder his gun and pack and march on with his head held high once they clear customs and get their shit returned, because somewhere higher up someone messed up and forgot to bring them back home. When they had arrived at the airfield, all that was left was a bedraggled looking civilian charter that brought them to the closest long-distance hub, and the only available flight had been fucking Paris. Soap's personal hell in the making. He's sure there are blisters on his heels and under his toes, there's concrete dust and plant detritus everywhere from his armpits to his arse-crack, it's wearing down his teeth and tickling inside his ear where he can't quite reach. And now he's sitting in the gate lounge under artificially white light, waiting for a plane that should have dropped them off four hours ago and instead hadn't shown turbines nor wings. It's enough to make a civilian rstless, but Soap feels a little off-kilter, a little unstable and he's ready to claw the concrete walls apart until he finds a high-voltage cable to chew on – or strangle one of the more annoying flight guests with. There are about five too many that fit that category for his taste, and he knows the odds are stacked against him while their flight gets delayed and delayed again, and they remain stuck on these plastic seats like brittle, dry gum and rubber sole stains.

"You know..." Ghost wiggles his knee gently, touching it against Soap's own sore ones. The heavy duty straps of his thigh holster creak and the thick fabric of his uniform creases and protests the movement. Sand and plant bits fall from his legs, creating a halo of debris at his feet. A distinct trail of destruction, in the realm of violence where Ghost is the embodiment of lust and insanity. It's a temple where Soap has learned to worship, a voice he's grown to trust for guidance in a twisted perversion of their own blood-soaked spirituality. There is no arguing with Catholic priests on the rights of gay men, and it hasn't proven particularly effective once Ghost confirms he has the target locked.

His eyes perceive the world in shades of blue-ish grey and with black and red crosshair markers overlaying the view. Soap has watched Ghost's trigger finger caress cold metal with a deranged sort of care, like he's chasing the sensation of the warmth he's about to terminate. Soap has watched Ghost watch bodies cool from orange-red to green-blue in the limited, grainy viewfinder of thermal tactical goggles. As if Ghost waits for those forgotten, listless souls to be consumed into his domain, never quite remembered after a nameless, faceless terror pierced their cerebrum and left their lives shattered across the field.

"I know a lot of things, Lt," Soap answers Ghost's question dutifully, like any good sergeant would his lieutenant, and lays his head back against the stiff collar of his coat. The plate carrier pushes it up awkwardly, and normally he hates the way it bunches on his nape, the way it feels all thick and restricts his movement, but right now it's like a more comfortable cervical spine collar, a pillow to rest his weary soul. "Mainly chemistry and gun maintenance." He turns slightly to look at Ghost, breathing through the ache that shoots down his neck and past his shoulder.

"Smart boy, aren't you?"

"Yeah well, army didn't put me through college for nothin'," Soap drawls and puts on his best and broadest smile for his Lt. Puppy love, they call it, hero worship. They call Soap a dumbass for attaching himself to Lieutenant Riley like a feckin' barnacle, but Soap likes that he got to burrow into the hard shell that makes Ghost bullet proof, that he gets these moments where Ghost knocks their knees together and strikes up a conversation.

Well. He throws Soap the promise of a kibble and Soap hunts it like a particularly stupid blood hound, tripping all over himself while chasing for whisps of conversation that he can uphold.

"Army put ye through college too, sir? Ye one of 'em rare smart boys from Manchester?"

"Careful, sergeant," Ghost says, easy and gentle. It's not really a reprimand as much as it is a reply, a request for Soap to continue this conversation in the hell that is the Charles de Gaulle airport, where they rest their tired, weary bones on the shitty plastic seats and keep themselves alert with full bladders and shitty airport coffee cart coffee. Ratty old dishwater that tastes like the watered down dirt of plates left to sit in the sink for far too long – at least it doesn't upset their stomachs the way sucking on an old dishrag would.

"Always careful, sir," Soap falls into their banter, imagines the smirk distorting the lines on his lieutenant's scarred face. "So, what about ye, then?"

"What about me?" Ghost asks. He sounds amused, knocks his knee into Soap's again. "Got any more of that coffee, sergeant?"

"Ye want more?" Soap asks.

"Not really. Could go for some grub but..."

"The French have a thing about their sauces. Hollandaise, béarnaise," Soap trails off, uncertain about any other French cuisine that isn't escargot and grenouille – and he has feelings about those. Multiple, and all solidly on the negative spectrum. It reminds him a little too much of staring at rats and geckos and wondering when the gnawing pains in his abdomen turned despair into reason.

"Can't name the four staple sauces of the French cuisine?" Ghost clicks his tongue, mock annoyance colouring the air like a joke. It still tastes like heavy-duty cleaning agents and old sweat, typical airport manure coating their lungs like tar and diesel, the civilian version of military vehicle exhaust and cigarettes. It's sweeter somehow, more pure, more peaceful – everything they can't have and that they chase regardless. The promise of peace coating the wisps of used-up civilian space air, hot and humid and covered in the exhales of fried chicken, chips and cheap booze. There's a thrill in how mundane they are here, in this liminal space, where they can be just as all the others. Waiting, tired, caught in overlays and transits and with overpriced food that barely takes the edge off.

"Mirepoix and rouge," Soap says.

"Close." Ghost's eyes crinkle when he leans his head back, legs splayed open. One knee knocks into the dividing wall partition, the other into Soap's. Despite everything that is said about Ghost, he is as human as the rest of them, and he craves human contact just like any social creature. Even if his way is considerably more stilted, and littered with landmines of dark sarcasm and bone-grinding cynicism. Ghost is a bit of an arsehole like that, but Soap is reasonably certain that it's just a wall to protect Ghost from heartache. "But no. Béchamel, Espagnol, Tomate, Velouté and Hollandaise."

"How do you know so much about French cuisine? And what is Béarnaise?"

"Mum used to uh. She used to cook. Taught me a bit."

"She teach you the difference on Hollandaise and Béarnaise?" Soap tries tapping his heel, but the sharp pains and aches from the long mission have him stop with a pained hiss. Ghost pauses before digging in his chest pocket to reveal what looks like a single use packet of sugar, but ends up being aspirin.

"Take this. It's mostly the wine and Béarnaise is just Hollandaise made with shallots and tarragon."

"And here I thought they were entirely different things," Soap hums.

"They're not." Ghost hands Soap the small bottle of water to chase the aspirin, and Soap nods, grateful to be able to wash the taste of stale powder and citrus from his tongue. "They're both oil in water emulsions. One just tastes better."

"Oh ye are a rocket," Soap scoffs and knocks his knee back against Ghost's. "First thing to do back on home soil?"

"Steak and Stout pie. Maybe some Scotch Eggs, nothing fancy." Ghost works his jaw beneath the mask. "A pint, maybe. Sleeping Giant has a new cook that's halfway decent."

It's not an invitation.

"That right, Lt?"

"Could join me. Pay fer your own drinks, though. They don't pay me enough to make a Scottish liver swim."

This, on the other hand, is.

And Soap pretends not to see the crinkle under Ghost's eyes, but cherishes it anyway as he turns away, hiding the mirth playing over his face from the world and the airline passengers that sit with them on the god-awful plastic chairs in the gate lounge, while their flight is gallivanting off somewhere.

#fanfiction #ghoap #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #cod mwii #ug H they disgust me #again I would never take inspiration from actual conversations I had during transports and downtime #art imitates life or something #Dummschwätzen bis es weh tut #pre relationship #none of these procedures work like that #but i decided to write this anyway because something bit me #and now I’m pretending this is absolutely sanctioned #this is fantasy military after all

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chibikyo · 8 months

Text

Day 13 - Size Difference

Onaga x F!Reader

Onaga has decided that his newest prisoner would make the for the perfect Queen, whether she likes it or not. (MK deception Onaga, not MK1 Onaga because the first is just is really big and the second is the size of a fucking mountain)

Warnings: !! Please read !! - non-consensual sex, Size Difference including cum inflation and belly bulge, self-lubricating cock, non-human genitalia, Aphrodisiac laced slick, drugged sex, breeding kink, mentions of cock warming, hurt/no comfort, this is not fluffy like my last few entries it is very non-con you have been warned

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There was a roar throughout the chambers and Y/n shuddered with a sudden, all-encompassing dread that permeated her being. Footsteps followed, heavy and echoing, growing steadily closer until the only thing louder was the beating of her own heart. She knew what was coming for her even before the doors to the dungeon slammed open to reveal her captor, but as his monstrous form was revealed to her, she felt that tight knot of fear in her gut turn leaden. The chains around her wrists had little give, but she struggled to free herself even knowing her efforts were in vain.

Each footstep thundered louder, shook the very foundations beneath her feet, as He grew closer; Onaga, the dragon king of Outworld. Her posture stiffened, shoulders taut, spine straight as he approached, stopping only when he was within a few feet of her. He was tall, well over eight feet and proportionately wide, his broad chest stretching across her field of view. Y/n exhaled softly, doing her best to conceal the fear she felt as she glanced up at him, neck straining to meet his gaze.

Onaga inhaled deep, smelling the terror and anger tainting her pheromones. He leaned down, chasing that intoxicating scent where it clung to her skin. Y/n jerked back but her back hit the stonewall of the dungeon as Onaga’s face drew close, tongue flickering out and licking a stripe up her neck, tasting her fear. His hand drew close, a massive claw stroking her arm gently and Y/n shuddered again.

“I didn’t expect the spoils of this war to taste as sweet as you.” Onaga chuckled. “This nerve you are showing is commendable, albeit nothing more than a falsehood. I can smell the fear within you, young one.” His other hand stretched forward, claws extended as they pressed against her throat. He dragged them down slowly, the press not enough to break skin but Y/n trembled beneath them. When his claws caught fabric the massive emperor grinned, a slow, sinister upturn of lips as he raked his claws down, the cloth tearing like paper.

Y/n gasped, feeling the cold air against her bare skin as the scraps of her top fell to the floor around her. He repeated this action again, his claws leaving the shallowest of scratches along her tender flesh as he slowly stripped her in this way. The chains cut into her wrists as she strained against them, but it was no use, she wasn’t strong enough to break free of the restraints.

“Such a rare combo of strength and beauty.” Onaga growled, his wings curling around to shield her from the cold as his claws curled around her ribs, thumbs stroking the inner swell of her breasts. She snarled, fought harder against her bonds, before spitting in his face. He merely laughed, the action doing nothing to deter his wandering claws. “That’s the fire I crave. That determination you’ve not quite yet buried beneath your terror. I will enjoy taming you, my queen.” “I’m not your anything, Onaga.” Y/n spat, but her voice was quickly smothered by the emperor’s lips pressing against her own. He devoured her scream as he thrust his tongue inside her, pinching her chin between his thumb and two massive fingers to prevent her biting down. His tongue was long, thick, pressing against the back of her throat and she gagged as it slipped further. He fucked her throat with his tongue, imagining that tight, convulsing channel wrapped around his cock as she struggled to pull away.

She took in a ragged breath when he finally pulled back, her eyes were wet with unshed tears that Onaga moved up to taste. One of his massive fingers found her clit, pressed firmly against it as her lower lips spread around the digit. He flicked it a few times, rolled his fingertip against it in a steady rhythm, enraptured by the squelch as a slick slowly coated her entrance, sticking to him the more it gathered. He could see her face grow flushed, humiliated at the growing arousal within her.

“No! Not there! Stop… sto.. Ooh?” She squealed as he carefully slipped his finger into her hole, feeling her walls cling to it as she stretched around it. His hands only consisted of a thumb and two fingers, each nearly as thick as three of her own. She whimpered as he pushed his finger in deeper, his claw scraping gently along her spongy insides as he coaxed her channel to take his finger full inside. She was quivering with need, her thighs clenched tight around his wrist but he barely felt the pressure against the thick hide on his arms. He pumped the finger into her, shallow, careful strokes mixed with the occasional swirl to stretch her wider.

His cock twitched eagerly in his sheath, the tip slowly emerging where it lay hidden beneath the loin cloth hanging from his belt. She clenched around his finger with each thrust, no longer struggling to free herself from the bindings that held her at his mercy. She had ceased begging for him to stop as he fucked her open on his finger. The only sounds she seemed able to make were breathy, gasping moans and whimpers; sweet noises that would drive anyone insane with lust and they only served to fuel Onaga’s desire to conquer his prize body and soul.

Y/n could barely register anything beyond the sound of blood rushing through her ears or the feeling of something thick and hard violating her aching core. Each slide of that unyielding intrusion set her nerves on fire and stoked the flame of arousal slowly and steadily building inside her. She couldn’t see, her vision blurred by tears, but when she felt Onaga’s finger slip out of her with an obscene pop she let out a needy whine, her orgasm ebbing when she’d been seconds away from spilling over.

She heard the chains being ripped from the wall, felt Onaga’s strong hands gripping her hips, turning her around until her arms were braced against the rough stone. She was slowly becoming more aware as she felt him spread her legs, forcing them apart as something slick and big and impossibly hard pressed against her cunt. It rubbed against her crease a few times, each slide against her swollen clit sending fiery waves of pleasure through her body. The tapered tip caught at her entrance and slipped inside before meeting resistance. Suddenly, Y/n was all too aware of what was about to happen.

“Wait! Please, stop, it’s too big!” She shrieked. She pushed away from the wall, her hands shooting down to try and grab at Onaga’s cock, clenching to prevent further penetration, but Onaga merely tightened his hold on her hips, tugging her back sharply as he speared her open on his massive shaft. She screamed, pain shooting down her legs, through her guts, the stretch too much, too soon.

Onaga grabbed one of her arms, then the other, pulled them to her sides and pinned them against her hips beneath his massive palms. He was so tall that her legs no longer touched the ground as he stood up straight and gravity did her dirty by pulling her further down on his cock. She was light-headed from the stretch, dizzy from the combo of pain and pleasure that rippled through her as Onaga waited patiently for her to stop fighting. She eventually sagged forward, defeated, and with a roar of triumph Onaga hooked his arms under her legs, twisted her around to face him. His eyes shown with victor as Y/n clung to his arms, her fingers struggling to find purchase against his massive biceps.

He didn’t need to thrust, merely used his immense strength to move her up and down along his shaft. His cock naturally produced slick, the only miracle in this whole ordeal as it created a smooth slide for himself within her. Y/n felt the pain slowly fading as he worked them up to a steady pace. Each time he dropped her onto his shaft it sank in a little deeper, filled her a little more completely, until she could glance down and see the tip of his cock poking against her stomach, creating an obscene bulge beneath the fat and muscle.

Soon enough it started to feel good, her body adjusting to the thick cock rearranging her guts and her climax slowly building back up. Every drag of that cock inside her set her nerves a blaze with tingling pleasure. Her insides were burning up, skin flush with fever, head swimming in a sea of pure bliss. She wondered, briefly, if his slick had an aphrodisiac within it. Surely something so big should hurt; should not feel this delicious as it ravaged her body? Her mind was fuzzy, tongue thick as she moaned and gurgled unintelligibly. This seemed to amuse the emperor cradling her.

“So warm and tight.” He moaned. “I knew you would be the perfect sheath for my cock. Going to fuck you so full of my seed. You will be my queen and this cock will be your throne.” He started thrusting faster, pressed her back against the wall to support her as he leaned in and ravaged her lips. He felt her walls tighten, knowing she was as close as he was to spilling over. “Does it feel good, my queen? Do you like being stuffed full of your emperor’s cock?” “So full.” Y/n whined. “Please, harder, fill me up. Need it… need you.” She wasn’t sure what she was mumbling, only aware that she wanted more, wanted all of him. She needed him to spill his seed in her. “Please, wanna cum, so close, need you to fill me up so I can cum.” “I know you do. Once my slick absorbs inside you the only thing that will let you cum is by taking my seed.” Onaga roared. “You’ll be a slave to it, craving the sort of pleasure only I’ll bring you. I’ll keep you seated on my cock everyday, let you have as many orgasms as you please. I’ll breed you full everyday, watch you swell with my heir growing inside you. You’ll be my perfect little queen. Now cum!” He thrust in deep, the tip of his cock splitting open her cervix to pump his seed straight into her womb and Y/n screamed from the sudden pain before feeling her orgasm crash down around her, overwriting the pain with a torrent of pleasure that seemed to never end.

It rolled over her, again and again, her vision going white as each hot spurt of Onaga’s cum triggered another orgasm. They each blended together, her body spasming violently as he filled her so full, cum squirting out around his thick shaft, her stomach swollen and heavy with it. He let one hand trail down to rub affectionately against that swell, knowing he had nothing to keep it plugged inside her this time; such a waste.

As his cock slowly retracted back into his sheath, sliding inch by inch out of her aching cunt, the cum in her guts leaked out with it, spilling against the stone floor beneath her in thick globs. Y/n was shivering, shaking, each and every muscle burned. She clenched her hole around nothing, whining at the ache of being empty as Onaga adjusted her into a bridal carry. He cradled her against his chest with a soft trill and hiss in an effort to comfort her.

“Don’t worry, my queen. I will fill you again soon and I'll make sure this time we keep you nice and full. I won’t let anything escape.” Onaga crooned, his heavy footsteps filling echoing around them as he carried her out of the dungeon toward his own, personal chambers. Y/n’s brain was still fuzzy. She had a vague sense of wrongness, like she should be scared of him fucking her again, but it had felt so good. Had she really wanted to escape? She was his consort, his queen. The thought settled in her head, felt so right, even though the rational part of her mind screamed otherwise. She felt that part of her quiet as he hummed, his chest vibrating against her body, holding her tighter to his chest. Oh, she’d been struggling again, hadn’t she? “Patience, my queen. We’re nearly there.”

#mortal kombat #mk #kinktober 2023 #Onaga #Onaga x reader #chibikaosu writes #Chibikaosu kinktober

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scribbling-dragon · 1 year

Note

prompt idea: ranchers are very tired from rebuilding their ranch and so don’t think twice about just falling into the (one) bed together

they wake up in the morning Very embarrassed and flustered (and maybe admit some feelings 👀 👀)

moment of peace

summary:

Sleep.

He hums to himself, turning to look at the bed, shoved in the corner of the room, pressed up against the wall and facing the door. He thinks, maybe, it was done so it was in the best and most defensible position, but right now he can hardly think through his sentences without them becoming muddled with exhaustion and confusion.

Sleeping…seems like a good idea right now.

(ao3 link)

(1,839 words)

didnt quite get to the admitting feelings. but they are so somft in this. it's unbelievable (what's also unbelievable is that you wanna reblog this soo bad. ooooh. yeah, you do (is this working?))

His hands ache, dirt caught beneath the fingernails when he turns them over to look at them. He’s almost surprised at the lack of blisters, from the way his skin burns in odd places, just beside the joints, warm to the touch despite the cold evening air. He clenches his hands, watching as they shake for a moment, knuckles turning white, before he relaxes them again.

His entire body feels as though it is weighed down by leaden weights. His shoulders ache from stretching his arms above his head for the whole day, muscles overused from the rebuilding of the ranch. He aches down to his very bones, the ache long-settled within him- he’s been aching since the sun reached its peak, but he hasn't had the opportunity to stop.

The ranch is looking…better. The smell of smoke still fills the air, and he can no longer tell if that’s his imagination, or if the stench of charred wood is simply lingering around the ranch, as though it remains as a warning- a reminder. The grass is burnt and crisp underfoot, of no use to anything they might want to use it for. It spreads, too, a wide patch of browned grass, circling around the entirety of the building.

He pushes the door open, almost tripping over his feet in what could have been his most embarrassing entrance to a room he’s ever made. Tango looks up as he stumbles in through the doorway, bracing an arm against the wall to prevent himself from faceplanting into the floor.

Tango looks just as tired as he feels, ears drooping and tail dragging behind him on the floor, collecting dust and dirt, as though he’s too tired to hold his tail up. Jimmy’s own wings sag behind him, though they're far too short to come anywhere close to dragging on the ground- far too short to be anything but an inconvenience.

He nods in greeting to Tango, feeling far too tired to summon the words to give even the most simple greeting. Simply speaking seems like an insurmountable task, his entire body aching with fatigue as he simply stands there, blinking, and attempting to decide what to do. The ranch is rebuilt- rebuilt as best as it can be with the resources they have, at least. There is a roof over their heads once more, shielding them from the elements, and the holes in the walls have been patched, preventing the wind from snaking in and nipping at their skin as they attempt to sleep.

Sleep.

Sleeping…seems like a good idea right now.

Yeah. Seems like a really good idea, actually.

He shuffles towards the bed, sinking down onto the very edge of it. It creaks beneath his weight, the bedframe dipping towards the floor as he begins to pull his shoes off, nudging them aside with a foot, before he flops back on the bed.

He grimaces as he lands on his back, face twisting as he lands on his wings. Several feathers twist, misaligned from a long day of being buffeted by the wind. If he thinks about it too hard, which he’s trying his very best not to, he can feel each individual piece of dirt and grain of grit lodged between the feathers in his wings.

He can feel a small pulse of concern and confusion across the soulbond, and he rolls onto his side, completely lacking in grace, turning so he’s facing towards Tango, back to the wall. His partner stares back at him, still stood by the chest he had been rooting through when Jimmy entered.

The tip of his tail flicks across the floor, gathering more and more dust. It’s like…a really large feather duster. But if a feather duster was made from fur rather than feathers. He frowns. He’s not sure what that would actually be called- or if such a thing actually exists. Still, Tango’s tail continues to collect dust, simply gathering it up. He frowns a little deeper, staring at it as it continues to sweep across the floor.

He shuffles down the bed a little, pulling the blanket up from the bottom of the bed, tugging it over his shoulders. It’s a little thinner than the blankets he’s used to, but he cosies into it anyway, tucking it beneath his chin, watching as Tango continues to move idly about their small house.

The sound of shifting fur, the soft sound of Tango’s feet padding over the wood, is something familiar to him. Even with the few days they've spent together, the sound has become something he’s grown used to, listening out for it when they lapse into silence. Tango has a habit of making small noises, filling the silence with small sounds.

The first time Tango made a chirping sound, so similar to that of a cat, he hadn't realised Tango had been the one that made it. Only once an odd feeling of embarrassment that wasn't his own washed over the soulbond, did he realise it had been Tango. He hadn't mentioned it, noting Tango’s slightly red face and tense posture, and leaving it alone.

He hums beneath his breath as he works, too, tail twitching along with whatever beat he’s keeping to in his head. With Tango around, the silent moments are never truly silent- they're quiet moments now, filled with the small noises Tango makes as he works, moving about their ranch.

He allows his eyes to slip shut, tugging the blanket a little tighter around himself, content to listen to Tango moving around. He listens, drifting closer and closer to the edge of sleep, as Tango rummages around in their chests once more, the soft sound of items shifting against each other almost drowning out the sound of Tango’s voice completely, muttering to himself as he looks for something specific.

He’s not sure what Tango mutters, not the specifics of it at least, but the sound of his voice is familiar, something he’s grown used to- grown to expect since they've been partnered together.

As such, it’s easy to fall asleep. Laughably easy, to simply sink a little deeper into the bed and relax, letting everything drift away.

=== === ===

The first sensation that he registers, on the verge of waking up, is that there’s something tickling his face. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, one that makes him squirm slightly in an attempt to escape from the tickling feeling. He stills, rather abruptly, when instead of managing to push himself away from the source of his minor discomfort, he’s instead held in place by a slowly tightening pair of arms, accompanied by a short groan.

That’s enough for him to open his eyes, despite the fact that the sun is barely risen and it's still too early for anyone to be moving about the server. At least, anyone with a little self-respect. People like Pearl are up at all hours of the night, though he’s not sure whether it’s with the purpose of inconveniencing Scott, or simply plain-old insomnia.

Still, he is very much awake right now, and trapped in bed by a slowly tightening pair of arms, keeping them pressed close together.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that it’s Tango pressed up against him, from both the faint smell of smoke and fire that seems to constantly follow the man around, as well as the faint rumbling that he now knows means that the man is purring. Purring.

Now, they may have shared the same bed, rather happily too, for the past few days. Resources are short, and there’s hardly a point in stretching their already meagre resources even further when they can easily share a bed. It had been more convenient at that point, too, with the thin blanket only providing so much warmth, a shared space made it so that neither of them froze their fingers off during the night.

But there had always been a clear divide between their spaces. It wasn't one marked out with pillows, as he has heard people sometimes do - they don't have the resources for that many pillows, either - but simply an unspoken boundary, one that neither of them were willing to cross in fear of what may happen afterwards.

But…he finds himself oddly content like this. Tango has made a rather valiant attempt to smother him completely in his sleep (another point in the nether-cat theory column), and is clinging to him like a limpet to a rock. He can also feel Tango’s tail curled around his calf, the furred tip flicking back and forth idly, brushing along his skin.

If it wasn't for the deep, even breaths he can currently feel brushing against his neck, he’d think the other was awake, but lying just as still as he currently is to avoid waking the other up. But, no, he can feel Tango’s face pressed into his neck, can feel the way the other man shifts and breathes and twitches in his sleep; both of them pressed so closely together that they fit easily onto the single bed, legs tangled up in each other.

It’s actually rather comforting. This small moment of respite amongst the pain and horrors of these games. This brief moment of peace, when everything else is chaos and fire and blood. It’s something he hasn't experienced since the first game- since the first run-through of this song and dance. But the peace then had been derived from their naivety- their lack of knowledge as to what the game truly meant, what would follow once they began turning on each other. The second game was haunted by the ever-looming threat of one of your closest allies turning on you, waiting for the moment you turned your back and found a knife buried in it.

And yet, here, he finds himself comfortable in this moment of peace. It isn't blanketed by naivety, or tainted by distrust of all those he surrounds himself with. Instead, it’s something small and comforting. Something that he might not pay attention to, were they elsewhere. But here, in this moment, he feels entirely at ease.

Perhaps the knowledge that Tango could not- would not, turn on him is what eases his mind so gently. Or, perhaps, it is the simple fact that he can feel his heart thrumming just beneath his skin, and, if he concentrates, can feel another thrumming just beside it, beating to the same rhythm.

He closes his eyes again, curling closer to the warmth that Tango radiates. The soft smell of fire and brimstone hang heavy in the air, yet it’s so incredibly familiar when it comes to Tango.

Five more minutes won't hurt, certainly.

#asks #hoax the ghost #juno.writes #solidaritek #double life smp #dlsmp #trafficshipping #team rancher #ranch duo #jimmy solidarity #tango tek #solidaritygaming #tangotek #solidarity gaming #dlsmp fic #double life smp fic

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bye-bye-sunbird · 2 years

Note

Sunnie, I'm having anxiety rn so is it ok if I ask for a lil fluff with Capitano please? 🥺 Maybe he notices her trembling and hugs her or smth

Warning: Offscreen animal death.

It was snowing the day Capitano returned from his mission. Large flakes fell from the leaden sky and the world seemed colorless, as it often was. There was just a small ray of sunlight that pierced through the sky, but even that was losing its fight against the dark clouds. It was going to rain soon.

His horse, a dark creature every bit as large and intimidating as its rider, walked silently as Capitano held its reigns in his hand. He detested riding for too long, and now so close to home, he deemed it especially unnecessary.

It is impossible to imagine anything less welcoming and more solitary than the castle's entrance. He cared little for the gloomy appearance of the stone sculptures and dead garden, but an effort had been made to give it some life after the arrival of its most beloved inhabitant by planting pine trees and winterberries, which, somehow, made the place look even more somber. But you seemed to like walking there, perhaps because as gloomy as it was, it did not compare to the oppressive darkness inside the castle.

As he entered, a slight sound was heard; a heavenly, divine, ineffable sound, as sweet as that dying ray of sunshine. It was a hymn that came out of the garden's labyrinth; your voice.

You were singing, or crying, he couldn't tell one from the other at times.

He approached swiftly; him and his horse barely fitting between the walls of stone. He found you kneeling next to the labyrinth's main sculpture -a wicked beast of stone-, rocking something out of sight. You didn't have your cape on, and you were shaking like a leaf.

"Child, what are you doing out here dressed like that? You are going to get si--"

You turned to him, tears running down your face. You looked like a scared little girl as you gently show him what you had wrapped in your cloak, with a kind of reverence and pain. It was a small yellow bird.

"It's dead," you say, a sorrow in your tone so immense it pierced him like a sword, "One of its wings got stuck in the statue's jaws, I found it on the ground."

He looked closer at the bird, which turned out to be a canary. A house bird that had probably escaped from its cage and ventured into the harsh, icy winds of Snezhnaya. What a grim, ominous sight... no wonder you were so upset.

"I-It wasn't dead when I found it" you continued, "I thought about bringing it inside but Tempest would've harmed it."

That was true, he thought. You adored the cat he had brought you, but it was a wild, foul-tempered little beast that followed you everywhere you went. Tempest was a fitting name.

"I then thought about the greenhouse, but when I stood up it was... already..." you whimpered, "It was only a moment, I swear...", your trembling got worse as you held back the bird close to you.

Not even a second passed when you felt a heavy and warm fabric fall on your shoulders. Capitano was kneeling in front of you, without his coat, which now protected you against the viciousness of the weather.

"There is nothing you could have done," his words were bitter truth.

He knew you'd rather have a knight with a gentle face and honeyed lies, so it was surprising for him to see you lean towards him and hide your face in his chest. He lets you cry for a minute, delighting in that first voluntary closeness. It's the first drop of water that brought him back to reality.

"Come now, little dove. You are going to freeze to death yourself."

You nod gently, and stand up, still wrapping the bird in your arms.

"I... I can't leave it here."

"Then don't," he grabs you by your waist and places you on the saddle in a swift movement as if you weighed nothing at all. "Host a little funeral for it if that's what you want. But first, you must take a bath and get some warm food in your stomach."

You look down at the bird with a puzzled look.

"I'll guard it against the cat while you do what you are told."

#the capitano agenda #yandere capitano x reader #shumidehiro asks #yandere genshin impact #yandere #genshin impact x reader #yandere imagines #yanderecore #yandere x reader #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui harbingers x reader

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hyuge · 23 days

Text

Pushes Him Whispering

Touya has always hated fire. The irony was not lost on him. As a fire god, humans feared him. He had set one too many villages ablaze on accident. Fire is temperamental. Even as a god, he has struggled to control it most his life. He, himself, was also temperamental. A trait he had developed from his father. He wondered if those born of fire were inherently bad. Touya lost count of how many times he had hurt himself and others. It was more than he cared to admit. Now, he lives in relative solitude. If he doesn't bother anyone then he can't hurt them. The last few centuries he's taken to idly watching the world around him, especially the birds flying free. Touya would never dare touch a bird. They were too fragile. So why did your red-tailed hawk insist on landing by him?

"I'll burn you," he warned on more than one occasion.

The hawk would cock its head to the side and stare at him with unnaturally golden eyes. It watched him and he watched it. Its nest was nearby, having made its home at the top of a very tall tree. The hawk would swoop down, snatching snatching field mice for lunch and Touya would watch. The sun's warmth settled on his skin, blanketing him in sleep. When he woke, the hawk was there, perched just above his head, watching him sleep.

"Like what you see?" He asked.

The hawk inclined its head as if in thought. It was sad to think his only friend was a wild bird.

"Should I name you?" Touya asked the hawk. Its life was fleeting and his was long. Naming the bird would only bring him sadness. "What about Keigo?"

The hawk trilled.

"Keigo it is," said Touya.

With nothing better to do with his eternal life, he continued to watch the bird daily. Sometimes Touya would talk to it as if it had any clue what he was saying. It made him feel a little less lonely and like he wasn't just speaking to himself. The hawk never shied away or attacked him. Maybe it sensed that he wasn't human but it still kept a health distance. That was for the best, lest Touya accidentally burn it. Birds weren't built to handle heat. It was a lazy, quiet life but Touya was content.

Touya hard grown too comfortable in his current environment. The other shoe always inevitably dropped and this time, it came in the form of a nightmare. He woke up to a blazing blue inferno around him and a bird pecking his head. Touya had started a fire in his sleep and Keigo had tried to wake up.

"What are you doing you dumb bird? I'm immortal! You aren't."

Touya sat up in a hurry and called the flames back to him but it was too late. The forest was scorched and the small bird of prey was injured. Keigo's wings were toasted and he struggled to breathe. His chest fluttered with each raspy breath.

"You idiot! Why would you risk your life to save me?" Asked Touya, scooping Keigo into his hands.

Keigo chirped. Shit. He couldn't let this one small creature die. Mortal lives were fleeting and Keigo was just a bird but Touya had to do something. He couldn't be the cause of yet another death. "Hang on birdy," he said.

Touya cut his hand and golden blood flowed from his veins. He let the ichor drip onto Keigo's body and carefully pried the bird's beak open. As blood dripped into Keigo's mouth, he swallowed. Golden eyes glowed in the evening light and his small, feathered body began to grow and expand. Gone was the small hawk that laid in Touya's lap. Now, a man with sharp, golden eyes and hair, and large red wings peered up at him.

"Keigo," breathed Touya.

The leaden weight that has crushed his chest finally lifted. Keigo reached up, touching Touya's hair. "You gave me a name but you've never told me yours."

Touya's eyes widened. "Oh. It's Touya."

"It's nice to meet you, Touya," said Keigo fondly.

Written for DabiHawks Week Day 2: Mythology, hosted by @dabihawksweeks.

Also on AO3

#bnha #fanfiction #fanfic #dabihawks #keigo takami #takami keigo #touya todoroki #todoroki touya #dabi #mha #dabihawksweek24 #day two: mythology #fluff #light angst #fire god touya #keigo is an actual bird

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buwheal · 4 months

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(ignore this if the other anon sends their story I suppose) I am new, not the same storyteller, but I can still give you the end you look for.

CONT.

And the stars said to the boy as his body in the dream became charred under their gaze yet, "We see all things the world upturns, and know how nothing ever returns. Your grief and despair have swayed us. We have seen you turn your head towards our domain since before you even knew what we were. We have watched you grieve and watched you yearn, for things that never were, and thus can never return. And so, we will offer you one boon, little one who mourns."

And to the stars the boy said, "I cannot bear being trapped on the ground. Please, can't you make me like you? I wish to be untethered from the cold mud and colder oceans in which I feel drowned. Let me shine and sing, hung up in the heavens with the stars and moons that dance like angels. That will be my wish, to be freed from this indifferent and sodden mound that pulls me down. If you could make me bright and gleaming like you, I could find what I grieve and what I mourn."

The sky accepted his wish to be cut away from his home and strung up, woven into the sky, but not without a warning.

"You should know: that to be a star is to be a fire that eternally burns. There are so many things that a star can never be, places that can never be visited and thus never returned to. Nor are the void of our skies Heaven, nor are they Hell. Such places exist, but both are empty. Our home however is so, so full and so, so loud. What you grieve and what you yearn are not things that your wish will earn. Though determined as you are, we will help you search and help you learn how to find a way to return to a home never built. And when you burn, we will be there, beside you in the sky."

The boy heard the stars, but did not listen to their words because the sight of his dreams blinded him. Blithely he pleaded to the heavens for instruction on becoming divine.

The stars answered in turn, "Travel to the tallest mountains where the air is thin and the rocky peaks are so sharp they could pierce the hearts of giants. Then, look for the darkest cave upon the mountain and crawl into its narrowest passage. Once you are there, gouge a small groove into the wall until from the stone gushes sticky ink that shines so brightly it hurts to look. For one year you must drink nothing but the sanguine ichor that bleeds from the carving. Through this you will be transformed, and become like us."

The boy asked the stars why the mountains bleed light.

"Long ago, a god abandoned its body and hurled the hollow vessel upon the mountains so that it may become mortal. The gilt and rotting tallow that melted from the carcass made the mountains last eternal, and now within the stone burns the same molten power that we in the sky radiate," the stars sung to him.

When he awoke, the boy obeyed the stars' orders and it twisted him, but not into a star, nor into a moon. His parents grieved his absence, and yearned for his return which would never come. The mountain blood scalded his tongue and throat and sat cold and heavy in his stomach. If from the pain he allowed rivulets to spill down his face, it melted and burnt his skin, searing lines down from the corners of his mouth to the bottom of his jaw. Still he persisted, unable to put to rest that which never was, and will never return. By year's end he felt heavy and strange, the ichor in his system like leaden weights upon his limbs and his voice, stretching and breaking his body into bizarre proportions. He did not care. He believed it would earn him everything that he grieved and everything he mourned.

Waxen wings made of the soft and pure gold of the abandoned god's rendered tallow sit upon his back.

The stars gladly welcomed him into the sky, but upon finally meeting his heaven face to face, their light and their heat set his golden tallow wings ablaze like candles.

As his wings melted, the stars were saddened, but offered him another boon, in hopes he could be saved from such a nasty fall. The boy wished for another chance to sit in their sky. The stars thought quick, and wove ropes and cables from the tails of green comets. The boy was gifted the cables, and he gladly tied them into harnesses on his own body. The stars hung his cables from his world's moon as a pale reflection of their own light and every day they sung their songs to him as he swayed in step with the tides of the oceans he tried so hard to escape. He saw his parents, who grieved upon the muddy ground he ran from, but had no body of their child to bury. He saw all the presents and treats they left to rot at the headstone of an empty grave. He watched his parents tell the people who asked: We grieve. We yearn. For our child who could only bear to be turned towards the sky and now will never return.

- 🥩🕊

answered

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izvmimi · 9 months

Text

Fall Special

cw: crack which suddenly turns into angst. multiple characters involved but this is vil and azul focused, the remainder have unnamed characters associated with them. night raven college is a college au! mentions of cheating and some toxic behavior. mild violence. 3.2k words. a/n: this started off as a joke and went too far lmfaoooo

Fall has truly fallen all throughout NRC and the slow ramp-up of classes before final exams has everyone somewhat on edge. This, of course, makes it the perfect time for the Mostro lounge to announce its highly anticipated cold-weather and warm-drinks autumnal event. Fliers have been posted all throughout the halls of Night Raven from the potionology wings to the halls of technomancy, and nearly everyone is buzzing about it.

You and Vil likely won’t be attending, not because you are uninterested, but because things are still somewhat dicey after all that transpired at the end of your first year, particularly at the spring ball, and also because Azul still has a bone to pick with the two of you. As you and Vil both walk down in step from your last course of the evening, the brightly decorated posted advertisements cannot help but interest you and finally you bite, stopping at the end of a hallway and stepping a little closer to a particularly large poster just outside one of the restrooms.

And that’s when you realize.

“No fucking way.”

Vil quickly finds himself beside you and starts to read the poster as well, and when he gets to the same line, the line advertising the drink specials, you can practically feel his blood boil. Before you can say anything, Vil has snatched the poster down with a loud rip, and he’s proceeding to go down the line, tearing off any and all fliers he can see, muttering to himself.

“If he thinks he can just say anything the fuck he wants to say, he’ll absolutely deal with me,” he says under his breath, tearing sheet after sheet and crumpling it into small crumpled balls of paper he throws behind him. “The sheer audacity to make up a reality! The sheer nerve! Why I oughta make calamari out of him! Sashimi! Inky pasta! Does he truly find this shit funny?”

You on the other hand are frozen in place, the sheer embarrassment like a leaden weight throughout your body. After all, Azul has found a way to label you as a cheater to the entire student body in a much more sinister way than just rumors.

‘Cheater Tea and Homewrecker Biscuits’ is the special combo he’s introducing that night, and what’s more is that he clearly designates that this is a renaming of the popular special that had initially borne your name. The sneaky octopus is using a drink that carries your name and is your special recipe, to insult you, after all this time.

While you continue to reckon with the fact that Azul is telling the entire student body that you’re evil incarnate still, Vil is still ripping through the walls like the Tasmanian devil, and he’s so far down the hall that you can barely see him any more than a flurry of blonde and purple. Clenching your fist as your shock gives way to irritation, you decide you’re definitely going to appear at the Mostro lounge that night, if only to give Azul Ashengrotto a piece of your fucking mind.

—

“Okay, we’re going to be cool when we show up, okay?” you remind Vil as you make your way just feet before the entrance of Mostro lounge, where the eel twins, Floyd and Jade, stand at guard as though they were bouncers. As this is a restaurant on campus grounds technically, they should not technically have the right to refuse anyone admission, but from their crisp, decorated suits and pleasant but malicious expressions, it’s very clear that they don’t intend to follow any rules.

Vil still somehow manages to be angry despite the fact that he’s just had an entire outfit change from outside of his school uniform, his redone eye makeup threatening to crease with every glare.

“Azul doesn’t know what the definition of cool is, so why should I?” he asks.

His irritation is vindicating to you, and he’s right after all, what kind of psychopath behaves like this? You’ve already told him countless times that you did not cheat, everyone you know knows that you did not cheat, but Azul remains slighted and will not let go of your reputation.

Vil marches first, and you follow quickly behind.

It doesn’t take long for Vil to have grabbed Floyd by the collar.

“Where is that snake?”

“Octopus.” Jade corrects, grinning at Vil from the side. Floyd is also smiling despite the tense grip of Vil’s nails on his fine suit.

“Are you going to teach me some fighting moves?” he asks, the slippery nature of his words aggravating Vil further.

“You think this is a joke, don’t you?”

Jade giggles.

“I don’t know what you’re mad about but probably!” Vil lets go roughly and Floyd resettles with a renewed smile on his face, big enough that it narrows his eyes.

“Reservations?” he asks.

“Reservations?” you repeat. “Since when do you-”

“New rules!” Jade chimes in. The eels look at each other and laugh, and Vil grimaces.

“The flier clearly says this is an open event. We’re going to the bar.” Vil pushes past Jade but Jade quickly steps behind him, a movement as fluid as though he were swimming in the deep sea.

“You have to be on the list?” he grins. You look towards Floyd and he nods emphatically.

“You know damn well there’s no list,” Vil insists. You’re pretty sure this is made up as well, but Jade stays put.

“Boss’ order!” His heterochromatic eyes glint in mischief.

While it’s extremely clear that this is made up, you consider saving yourself the embarrassment of insisting. One night of embarrassment might be enough.

Just then, another group of students show up, a few of them coupled, and Jade welcomes them warmly.

“Right this way,” he motions. You gasp as he doesn’t bother to check a list or a reservation, and Floyd leers again at you from the side. Vil is already untying his shoe to throw before you can hear your friend suddenly call your name, which has Vil pause and look towards the source of the sound.

“___! Vil!” she waves. Her arms are linked with Malleus, who seems surprised but otherwise pleased that you’ve both arrived. Floyd welcomes the two of them and steps aside, but your friend stops and glances at the two of you, unmoving. Vil is practically shaking with irritation and you look exasperated if anything.

“Are you not coming inside?” she asks.

“We don’t have a… reservation.”

She blinks, then she turns to Floyd who might as well be the Cheshire cat. Jade swim-walks around the two of you, placing his shoulders on your back which has Malleus raise an eyebrow, and pushes you gently.

“The festivities don’t start without you, our own very Briar Valley royals! Ignore those two, and-”

Malleus gives Jade a look which has him immediately take his hands off of your friend and she then walks over to you to take your hand.

“Let’s go inside,” she says quickly, figuring out exactly what kind of nonsense the twins are up to. You follow, nodding, and Vil considers throwing his shoe at the eels again then decides that the effort to find and repair such an expensive shoe might not be worth it, opting to shake his head and walk into the restaurant instead.

However, when he sees Azul the math might just work out in shoe-throwing favor.

The restaurant is as lively as you expect, bustling with all manners of students from different houses and different levels. You quickly make your way to the bar, where you can see your mermaid friend who seems to have her hands far too full, wisps of red hair sticking to her forehead as she whips from end to end taking orders. At the bar is Rook sitting on a high-top stool and leaning over the counter, his eyes soft and easy as he watches his girlfriend in genuine distress and offers no help. You see her turn into an open oven, and it looks exactly like the wafers that are now labeled homewrecker biscuits and when she looks up and sees you, you can see all the color drain from her face.

“I CAN EXPLAIN!” she yells. The tray clatters on the table and Rook reaches out to grab one with no abandon but before he can take a bite, Vil has seemingly come out of nowhere, and slapped it out of his hand. Rook looks shocked, but turns and sees Vil, says an “Oh la la Roi du Poison”, raising his hands in defeat. Vil glares at him, and Rook then tuts as he hops off the stool to grab the soiled biscuit, but Vil immediately crushes it with his heel, almost taking out Rook’s hand in the process. Rook frowns now, disappointed as Vil grinds the cracker to dust, but as he looks up, Vil grabs him by the collar.

“Did you really order the homewrecker biscuits?! Are you out of your mind?!”

Rook raises his hands again. “But they are delicious?!”

Vil bares his teeth.

“First of all, why are you in here while I was forced to stand outside?”

Rook blinks.

“Ah? Mais you were stuck outside? How come?”

Not bothering to deal with Rook’s usual treachery, you turn to his partner, who looks like she’s about to duck under the table.

“___, how could you make cheater tea and homewrecker biscuits?” you ask, disappointed. “Don’t you know Azul is talking about me?”

The mermaid reddens almost as much as her hair.

“I really need to fund this makeup obsession, I am so sorry.”

Vil overhears this and he might have said something, but even he has to agree that her makeup looks good. Malleus takes a seat throughout all the commotion and tries to catch the bartender’s attention.

“May I have the cheater tea, please?”

His partner looks at him in genuine shock, as do you, Vil, and Rook, who is actively being shaken like a baby in Vil’s two hands.

“Are you for real, Malleus?” she asks.

“What? It’s my favorite drink,” he says, unblinking. His partner looks at him, then at the bartender, then at him again.

“Malleus please order something else.”

“Why?”

She groans and the bartender uses the opportunity to escape, catching the eye of another couple at the other end of the bar. Cater is the one who calls her over, sly looking as he motions for his date to grab a drink. She’s the same girl from the spring ball, and you’re surprised that he’s managed to catch the interest of the same girl for so long and vice versa.

“What would you like?” your mermaid friend almost gasps out. You can see the fingers of her left hand cross, and read the words “please do not say cheater tea” practically written into the distressed crease on her forehead.

“A…”

She holds her breath as the girl decides.

“London Fog.”

“Oh thank God,” the bartender says, letting herself breathe out finally. You, for whatever reason, are also satisfied, and turn away from your other friend trying to explain to Malleus for the fifth time why he cannot order cheater tea in front of you, but you overhear your friend from Savanaclaw whisper to her partner Trey, “Hey, does the cheater tea taste familiar to you?”

Trey takes a sip of the drink as well.

“Wasn’t this previously called ___ after your friend?”

You watch as they both crunch on homewrecker biscuits and you’re about to start screaming, but just as though Lady Luck was suddenly on your side, the true villain of the hour suddenly appears, clapping his hands for attention as he makes his way down the steps of the entrance.

“My, my, isn’t everyone looking great tonight? How’s everybody doing? Are you all enjoying yourselves?”

The music lowers to let him speak and the crowd turns in his direction, a couple whoops in his direction, and all is well, but then your body moves faster than you can think.

Before you know it, all five fingers of yours and the palm have made it across the dapper host’s face. There are a couple gasps from the crowd and soon there is silence. Azul’s hat and glasses all go flying, the lenses shattered, and his face quickly reddens in your handprint. Malleus stifles a laugh which has his partner shush him in polite panic, and the bartender covers her mouth before another timer goes off, reminding her to collect yet another batch of homewrecker biscuits from the oven.

Trey’s partner whispers ‘Damn’ loud enough for the group to hear and looks at Cater’s will-they won’t-they who is wide-eyed and shocked. Vil looks smug and crosses his arms in pride, despite the stiletto hanging from his left hand.

“You have some fucking nerve,” you hiss.

Azul slowly raises his head up, then smiles, not unlike the eel twins.

“Happy to see you join us, my darling.” In his blue eyes are the tides of dislike, bitterness and envy only. “But where’s your reservation?”

The eel twins take this as their cue to arrive, and Floyd goes to pick up the hat and glasses, repairing the glasses quickly with magic while Jade stands beside Azul in case you consider slapping him again or worse. Vil approaches now and is soon beside you as well. You place a hand in front of him to remind him you can handle it, but tears are forming in your eyes. The rest of the restaurant remains in bated breath.

“Do you think they’re gonna fight?” Rook says, far too loudly. No one answers him. The bartender makes it out from behind the bar and kicks his ankle, finally sick of his antics for the night. He whines but knows to be quiet this time.

Malleus’ partner asks him the same question, but quieter. The implication of her words is asking him to make sure it doesn’t get out of control, but frankly he’s quite entertained. He reaches for a biscuit on the table and bites, crunching loudly.

“You banned me from your restaurant AND slandered me? Don’t you know that I’m the one who came up with that recipe in the first place? Where’s my cut?”

Azul’s eyes widen in pretend surprise. “Ah, yes that! Here!” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as though he’s rummaging then pulls out a closed fist.

“Show me your palm,” he says, and reluctantly you do so. He opens his own closed fist and goes “Voila, nothing!”

Vil immediately swings and Azul dodges, but only because Jade pulls him to the side quickly before his fist can connect. Vil goes for another hit but by this time Rook has already come up to prevent an actual fight from breaking out. Malleus crosses his legs but he’s watching intently, now with less amusement and a slight bit more concern. Trey and Cater watch too, with bated breath.

“This is my recipe and it was a drink we made together. Are you fucking serious?”

“This is my restaurant and that was when I was back in love with you. Are you fucking serious?”

You clench your jaw.

“I NEVER cheated on you!!!”

By now, you’re crying, and the entire restaurant can hear. A few people have started picking up their belongings and are making their way out, and even Cater and Trey have escorted their dates out back to Savanaclaw and Heartslabyul respectively. Malleus and his partner have yet to move, but she’s whispering in his ear about this being a little too private of a matter.

The first group of people makes their way out of the restaurant and Floyd finally decides to announce the inevitable -

“Ladies and gentlemen and beastmen and all those in between and neither, we will now announce that the Mostro lounge will be closed for the night. Any reimbursements will go through us, please contact us through our website. Thank you!”

You’re still shaking now, and Azul’s smile turns bitter and poisonous.

“See how you ruin everything,” he whispers, not letting his eyes fall away from you. Vil is practically vibrating with intent to kill but you ask him to leave, and Rook decides to pull him away. Malleus and his date finally decide that it is probably appropriate to leave too, and she gives you a last look of concern as she finally disappears out, her hand tightly held by his.

“Is this a good time for me to resign?” the bartender asks Rook. Rook tries not to laugh now but he will absolutely laugh later. He whispers to Vil, “promise me you won’t do anything crazy,” in an uncharacteristically serious voice, and Vil admits that he cannot make that promise, but Rook sighs and accepts it. He also leads your mermaid friend out who gives you a half frown and motions for you to call her afterwards.

You can barely see for the tears in your eyes. Collecting yourself takes a few moments, but then you wipe the tears from your face with the back of your hand and straighten up your back.

“If me ruining everything makes it easier for you to rationalize our breakup that’s fine. I’m tired of your games and frankly I don’t have anything to lose anymore. So slander my name all you want Azul.”

Azul has a sneer on his face, but he realizes you’re serious because you turn to Vil and take his hand.

“Let’s go.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to…?” Vil starts but when you shake your head, he understands.

“Just drop it. I’d rather spend time with you.”

Azul looks like he’s been hit in the face with this sentence and there’s a tiny bit of satisfaction that comes to you with that. Vil eyes him but doesn’t raise his fist again; Azul’s face is already swelling.

“Probably should apply ice or you’ll get uglier,” Vil says before leaving. You’re too upset to laugh.

—

Back in Pomefiore, Vil sighs loudly, breaking the silence, as you sit quietly on your bed, letting your racing thoughts paralyze you. He brings you tea, not your own blend of spices, but a regular Earl Grey tea and brings it to your lips. You’ve made a fool of yourself, ruined an entire event, and still somehow you feel like Azul won, even though nothing he’s ever said was true. Perhaps you really are the bad person - he certainly made it seem so.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Everyone knows he’s lying.”

You swallow thickly but the warm tea is soothing down your throat anyway. Vil massages your shoulders, and you look at him, eyes still shining brightly although you’ve long since run out of tears.

“I don’t want to be a bad lover… I don’t want to be bad to you,” you say to him.

He nods then kisses your forehead before holding you close.

“You never could be.”

Just knowing that Vil will always be in your corner warms you from the inside out.

#vil x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #daydreams: twst #twst x reader #mimi's notes

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