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bluandtherestlesshands · 2 months

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Heartstrings

Chapter One: Welcome Home

For Mature audiences

CW: None needed. Aizen is a warning all by himself

Today was cause for celebration. He didn’t show it on his face, but those who joined him from the Soul Society knew what as to come… Aizen sat in his throne, resisting the urge to impatiently tap his finger. After sending someone to retrieve her, he couldn’t stop thinking about her arrival: how she would respond to the environment, how she would be with him physically in the room… Being able to speak to her freely whenever he pleased. As calm and collected as he looked on the outside, on the inside he couldn’t wait to get his hands on her.

Staring off blankly into the room, his eyes refocused at the telltale click, click, click of shoes on the tile. Former Captain Gin Ichimaru approached, carrying someone over his shoulder with that false smile he wore so well. The woman draped over him wore clothing from the human world. Despite Aizen’s opinion of humans, he couldn’t deny she was always well-dressed. Dark slacks, a blouse to complement her fair skin, though he questioned her choice in footwear. Something with a heel, not what he was expecting from an athlete. She truly must have expected something else at the rendezvous point.

”Gin. I trust she is unharmed?” Aizen asked, in a flash he was on the same level as his ally, approaching him.

”She’s alright. She almost ran so I knocked her out.” Gin chuckled, “You know, she surprised me. All those battles and yet she left herself wide open…”

”That’s because she wasn’t anticipating an attack. She often experiences strikes only after engaging in a battle.” He spoke, circling the silver-haired man to begin inspecting the woman. “A surprise attack is not something she’s trained for… Her hair is down. Is this how she arrived?”

”It seems that she was expecting you to show up. I thought it was out of character for her.” Smiling as ever, he turned his head to try and admire the woman. Bouncing her slightly on his shoulder. “Perhaps it was something special she did for you.”

“I see…” Aizen turned to her and leaned down so that he wasn’t towering over her. Using his pointer finger and thumb, he tilted her head towards him as his other hand brushed her hair out of her face. “Chisei, can you hear me?” There was a minute stir, near undetectable, but he took notice. His thumb brushed over her lip while he waited for her eyes to open, smiling at her small reactions. “You made it back to me, Miss Kudake. Speak to me.”

Fluttering eyelashes caused his smile to deepen, though he felt sorry for her when she winced from pain… Perhaps where Gin struck her to bring her here. Big emerald orbs opened slowly, her vision was still blurry… She saw the brunette hair of the man she heard, but this was as far as her recognition went. Once her sight returned, she gasped. Just the other day the man she saw had glasses, shaggy locks in his face, he looked so welcoming and inviting… Now the man that stared at her with his voice instilled panic.

”Sosuke…? Is…?” Chisei breathed out, her movements were slow until she realized someone was carrying her. Her eyes went wide as she forced herself back, kicking herself off Gin’s chest. The man only put up his hands as if to claim innocence while she put some distance between them. “What’s going on!?”

“Oh dear… I might’ve hit her too hard. In a strange new place and she didn’t even draw her weapon.” Gin shrugged, then put his arms down to watch the girl. Chisei Kudake, a woman from Karakura Town that caught the ex captain’s eye over seven years prior. A tiny woman with a history of being a runner… And a unique little Quincy who was a late bloomer. It was almost too easy to lure her here.

”Enough, Gin.” Aizen directed towards his ally, before starting to step towards the woman. He held his hands out to reinforce the idea that he was unarmed. “Chisei, I’m sure that you had some idea things changed. I am still Sosuke Aizen, and I was still the one to ask you to come back to me…”

”You look so… So different.” She said, the only time she could look at him was when she wasn’t averting her gaze to the tile. “Where are we? What is this place? This isn’t…”

”You are right, we are not in the Soul Society. This is Las Noches, A palace that resides within Hueco Mundo. The Hollow World.” He explained. “I built this palace, partly in anticipation of your arrival. You’ve seen some of the Arrancar I’ve sent to Karakura Town… Here I have become their king, their God… Do you remember those questions I asked you, Chisei?”

Referring to himself as a ‘god’ sent a chill down her spine, she took a step back. “You… Wait… Questions?” Shifting gears for a moment, her face began to flush, him continuing to step towards her. “I- Shouldn’t we have that conversation in private?? That’s not…”

”Think nothing of it my dear. All of Las Noches will know of it soon. How you feel for me, and I, you.” Once he was close enough, he took one of her hand in both of his. Unfolding her hand, scanning the cracks and marks in her skin. “After tomorrow, when I announce the arrival of their Queen…”

”A Queen- Wait- Wait what!?” Chisei tried to step back but couldn’t with him holding her, waving her free hand. “That’s sudden, why is it so sudden!?”

“It was made clear when I wanted you to come here.” He said and looked her over, tucking a few strands behind her ear. “Why else did you leave your life behind in Karakura Town?” The woman didn’t speak, but he filled the gap. “To be treated as you deserve to be. I’d like to take you as my queen, my wife… To rule by my side.”

”I… I wasn’t thinking tomorrow… Th-That there wold be some more time between this and… Being your… W-Wife…” She trailed off when those chocolate eyes caught her attention.

”You are in good hands. I will make sure you are cared for. After all, you are far more safe here under my watch.” Aizen spoke matter-of-factly, which only further confused the woman. When her expression that followed wasn’t one of pure adoration, he needed to change tactics. There was a pause before he frowned, pulling away from her and dropping her hand. “Unless… You are not ready for this type of commitment. I wish you had said something during our conversations…” He watched her face contort from the shock before he turned away from her. “I’m sorry if this is too much for you. Of course your family will not know you left, if I arrange to have you brought back now…”

“Didn’t you mention some plan, Captain Aizen?” Gin chimed in, “Something about a letter and instructions..?” His false smile widened into one of genuine joy at the fright on Chisei’s face. He was exactly right… In preparation for coming here, the woman left her family home. How to handle finances for the next year, or until Aizen’s plan is complete. Whichever came first.

”That’s right, Gin. Though it is possible one of them already found it… Are you sure someone hasn’t read it? That letter showed you had made your decision…”

“Don’t take it the wrong way-! I-It’s not that I don’t want to, this is just… So sudden…” Chisei tried to explained, she went between looking at him, and staring at the floor as if it would somehow reveal the words she needed. “I-I didn’t realize what else came with us being together… It… It wasn’t really what I was expecting… I don’t know what I expected, but this… this wasn’t it, I-“

The next time she raised her gaze, a pair of lips cut her off before she could prattle on. Aizen lifted her chin to kiss her, knowing fully well she would ramble herself to the ends of the earth. It was one of those cute flaws he couldn’t get enough of. He held her there, both their eyes closed, and he pulled away by inches before scanning her face. The woman stared into those brown eyes he knew she loved, big emerald orbs still so confused and lost.

”Chisei, listen to me. I will take care of you. You’ve prioritized others long enough. From now on, you will be treated as royalty.” He said, cupping her cheeks. “Let me handle everything. I promise I have more to show you.”

”I… I…. O-Okay…” She gave him a small nod, which earned her another gentle soft kiss. It was short-lived however, as Gin’s voice caught their attention.

”Oh, you’re here? Guess you get to meet her Royal Highness before everyone else.”

Aizen didn’t have to turn yet, he only glanced in that direction as he let go of Chisei’s face. “Ulquiorra. You’re early.”

The Espada stood at attention, expressionless. Something Chisei was able to recognize as normal. “I apologize, Lord Aizen. I will wait for your instruction.”

”Don’t be. We’re finishing up now, this shouldn’t take long.” Aizen spoke, stepping to the side to gesture to his soldier. “This is Ulquiorra Cifer. I don’t believe you’ve properly met. He will be escorting you through the rest of tonight. He is my most loyal Espada. Ulquiorra, consider this an opportunity. You and Szayel Apporo are meeting your Queen early.”

“A Queen? I see.” He approached, though he blinked as something clicked when he got a proper look at her attire. “It’s you. The Quincy woman.”

”Good. So you know her capabilities as well. This is Chisei Kudake.” Aizen smiled to his newly proclaimed wife, now addressing her. “In preparation or tomorrow, I’ve arranged for you to have new clothes made. Ulquiorra will bring you there and then to my personal palace - Our palace. Unfortunately I have other matters that require my attention, but I will be there later for our first night together.”

”Oh how exciting! I know what we’ll be hearing later~” Gin teased as the woman turned bright red. Ulquiorra only blinked, not understanding what just transpired. He admired the innocence of it all, the cute little thing who ideally wanted to wait until marriage. No need to wait if her lover claimed her as his queen.

”Gin. Enough.” The man sighed, then pressed a kiss to the woman’s forehead. “Please ignore him. We can discuss later.” He straightened himself before continuing. “I trust you to keep her safe and on track, Ulquiorra. She is to be treated with the upmost respect. You should have plenty of time to bring her to my quarters.”

”Understood. How should I address her, Lord Aizen?” Uquiorra tilted his head in a very subtle motion.

”’Lady Chisei’ or ‘Lady Aizen’ should suffice.” He watched the woman flinch at the use of his name, and smiled in her direction. “Chisei. You’re going to meet another one of the Espada. Szayel Apporo will be finalizing your clothes tonight. Once brought to our quarters, take the time to settle in. In the morning, your new clothes will be there in time for the announcement.”

”Right…” She nodded to him, slowly stepping her way toward the Espada. “It’s… It’s nice to meet you properly.”

“Lady Chisei. It is good you arrived here unharmed.” Ulquiorra said, doing little in the way of acknowledging her glaring over her shoulder at one of his commanders. He turned. “This way. If Szayel Apporo is expecting you, we should not keep him waiting.” As he started to walk away, Chisei followed closely behind. Out of habit, she wrapped her arms around her waist in an effort to calm herself.

While the two departed, Aizen watched her carefully. Everything was going according to plan…

”So, you gonna explain why you brought her here?” Gin asked once Chisei was out of earshot. “You’re hardly short on prospective suitors, you know… And far more blindly devoted ones.”

”It matters more what she is able to provide on the battlefield. She will be crucial against the enemy.” Aizen said simply. “When the time comes, she will be ready. I will see to it personally.”

#bleach #ao3 fanfic #bleach oc #bleach original character #oc x canon #sosuke aizen #ao3 writer #fanfiction #gin ichimaru #ulquiorra cifer

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dreamerinthemoonlight · 10 months

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Homeward Bound

Summary: Kaeya finds himself in Snezhnaya years after Crepus's death and leaving Mondstadt behind. After meeting Tartaglia, his soulmate, he soon finds himself homeward bound

CW: Injury, violence, mentions of death, hurt/comfort, angst

Word Count: 4565

Pairings: Kaeya x Tartaglia, Diluc x Tighnari

A/N: So, Diluc x Tighnari is totally an experimental ship. I probably won't write it again unless it's requested. And even then I might not.

The snow crunches under Kaeya’s boots as he makes his way across the Snezhnayan countryside.

The world around him is black and white, though for once it’s not merely because he sees in the grayscale of a man who has yet to meet his soulmate. As far as Kaeya can tell, the Snezhnayan wilderness is colorless--a hostile land of ice and cold. And yet, it’s strangely comforting to a wanderer with no home to return to.

The wind kicks up. It carries powder from nearby snow drifts and is laden with the scent of fresh snow to come. Despite several layers of clothing and the natural protection afforded by a cryo vision Kaeya still finds himself gasping for breath as the cold wraps him in it’s vise-like grip

Kaeya picks up his pace, using the map he picked up in a port to the south to guide him towards a natural shelter.

A few moments later the former knight shoves the map in a pocket and bursts into a run, urged on by a sense of malice riding on the wind. What it is, he’s not sure, but he'd rather not be in the open when the storm hits.

Each step takes him further and further into the frigid unknown and he can only hope that he’s still going in the right direction.

After what seems like hours he finds the rocky outcropping he was looking for and dives under its looming overhang.

It’s not one moment too soon, either. The moment he’s under the overhang, the storm hits. It howls and rages, just outside the overhang, occasionally throwing snow underneath the rock’s sheltering shadow.

Kaeya sets up his tent, before digging out a place to start a fire.

Once he has a fire going, sheltered from the winds by a pile of rocks, Kaeya leans back and watches the flame.

As has happened so often before, the white-on-gray flames guides his mind to events now several years past.

The night is dark and the rain is heavy on the roof of the Ragnivindr family manor.

Kaeya stands across the room from Diluc, watching betrayal, rage, and grief play across his brother’s face. He doesn’t miss the way the older man’s hand twitches towards his claymore.

“I’m sorry, Diluc.” He whispers for the third time.

Diluc draws his weapon, setting its edge on fire and rushes at Kaeya who dodges once, twice, three times, waiting for the redhead to calm down.

But he doesn’t. Diluc backs Kaeya into a corner, the flames of his vision scorching the younger man’s face.

Just as Diluc brings his sword down for the kill, a flash of cold accompanied by the clang of steel against steel drives him back.

Diluc stills, horror and guilt now fighting the killing rage.

Kaeya takes the opportunity to put space between him and his brother.

“Get out,” Diluc says, his voice hoarse and broken. “Leave Mondstadt. If you come back, I’ll kill you.”

That night, Kaeya left Mondstadt with nothing but a few sets of clothes, his brand new vision, and the physical scars of hatred on his face.

Kaeya rubs the scarred skin under his eyepatch, using it as an excuse to wipe away a stray tear.

It’s been three years since then. Three years of constant traveling, never staying in one place for more than a few months at most. He’s sure it’s been long enough that any rumors surrounding his disappearance have faded.

For a moment he allows himself the hope that despite the events of three years before, Diluc is living as happy a life as he can, but soon chases those thoughts away.

Kaeya’s stomach growls and he huffs a self-deprecating laugh. Even a traitor has to eat.

A few days pass and the snow storm finally clears. Much to Kaeya’s dismay, the time spent sheltering from the storm consumed most of his food. According to his calculations, there might be three days remaining if he stretches it. Unfortunately that three days of food to last the five or six it will take to get from his current location to the next sizable settlement.

An unwelcome memory springs to mind, one of him and Diluc training for wilderness camping, the two of them laughing and joking as they learned to forage for food. Who would have thought that the lesson learned then would be so useless now. Nothing learned in Mondstadt will serve him finding food in this frozen hellscape.

With the lack of resources in mind, Kaeya is quick to pack his bags and start making his way to the northwest once more.

The first day goes smoothly. With the help of his vision, he’s able to run over the snow drifts without having to break his way through. It saves both time and energy.

The next day is almost as easy, though the reduction in food and the constant cold is starting to sap his energy and concentration. On the third day, however, he finds himself in trouble.

Around noon on the third day, Kaeya crosses a frozen lake, shifting his weight gradually from one foot to the other, while using his vision to stabilize the ice underneath him.

What he doesn’t anticipate is the slight warming trend of the last few days and the weight of the fresh snow weakening the entire icesheet.

By the time he hears the crunch, crunch, crunch of the ice giving way, it’s too late and Kaeya is plunging into the lake.

Kaeya gasps as his muscles seize up in the frigid water and the breath is stolen from his lungs.

It takes everything he has to paddle the last several feet to shore, where he collapses in a heap.

The warmth seeps from his body in a continuous stream as he lays there shivering.

In one last lucid moment he wonders, would Diluc care if he heard that I died here?

“Big brother, hurry up!”

“Wait for me, Teucer” Tartaglia laughs as he follows Teucer down the slope to the ice lake near their home.

“Last one there is a rotten fish.”

“Not fair, Tuecer. You got a head start!”

A few minutes later they reach the shores of the lake.

“Big brother Ajax! Come look at this!”

Ajax frowns at the slight shift in Teucer’s tone and hurries to the boys side.

“What is it, Tuecer?”

“There’s someone down here.”

Ajax furrows his eyebrows. Theoretically, there shouldn't be anyone out in the hinterlands of Snezhnaya. Just him, his family, and his not-so nearby neighbors.

“Tuecer, stay back.”

Tartaglia passes Teucer and pushes the boy behind him.

At their feet is a dark skinned young man, laying still on the lake shore.

Ajax bends down and touches the man’s neck, raising his eyebrows when he finds a weak, but discernible pulse.

“Teucer, go tell Ma and Tonia to get a bed ready. Tell them we found someone unconscious by the lake.”

“Yes big brother!”

Teucer runs off, leaving Ajax to blink several times, scratching his head at the subtle shift in his vision.

Whatever. I just need to get this guy warm.

Tartaglia lifts the man and starts his way back home.

Halfway back, Tartaglia stops in his tracks as he realizes why the world around him looks so different. For the first time in his life the world is full of color.

“Heh, hold on, Mr. Soulmate,” Ajax says before breaking into a run. “We’ll be somewhere warm soon.”

Kaeya and Diluc sit on a hill above the dawn winery. Both are around 16 at this point.

“What do you think our soulmates are going to be like?” Kaeya asks, staring up at the stars.

“I don’t know. Whoever they are, mine will have to love Mondstadt just as much as I do.”

“Are you even sure they’re going to be from Mond? I mean, we know everyone here and neither of us can see color yet.”

Diluc grimaces. “You might have a point. What about you? What do you want your soulmate to be like?”

“They have to be fun. I mean, can you imagine having a boring soulmate?”

Liar, Kaeya’s inner voice whispers. You want someone who isn’t going to hate you for your lies. After all, who would love a spy?

“You’d probably die of boredom.”

The peaceful conversation in the bloom of youth is slowly overtaken by wind and accusatory voices.

“Liar.”

“Traitor.”

“Crepus should have left you in the rain.”

Kayea kneels in the center of the storm of hatred, letting the venom of guilt wash over him in waves.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t have a choice. Someone… Please believe me.”

Ever so slowly, a pleasant warmth and the touch of a callused hand chases away the nightmare.

“Shhh. It’s ok, comrade,” a sweet voice says. “You’re safe. You don’t have anything to apologize for, ok?”

Kaeya drags his eyes open, hisses at the bright lights of the room, and lets his eyes close again.

“You’re awake! Welcome to the land of the living, comrade.”

Comrade?

“Where am I?”

“You’re at my family’s house. My little brother, Teucer, found you on the lakeshore.”

“Oh.”

“What’s your name, comrade?”

“Kaeya. Kaeya Alberich.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ajax, though most people call me Tartaglia or Childe.”

“Ajax! Come get the soup before it gets cold,” a woman’s voice calls.

“I’ll be right back. Ma made some soup, if you want some. Though knowing Ma, she’ll probably insist you eat.”

Kaeya’s stomach gurgles. “I could eat.”

“Then I’ll be right back.”

“Ajax!”

“I’m coming, Ma.”

Once Ajax has left the room, Kaeya opens his eyes again, noting the absence of his eyepatch.

The door opens and shuts again.

“Do you think you can sit up? It’ll be hard to eat laying down like that.”

Ajax helps Kaeya upright, moving the pillows around so that Kaeya can rest comfortably.

Kaeya looks over at the other man and gasps.

Upon seeing Ajax for the first time, the monochrome world falls away, replaced with something Kaeya doesn’t have words for.

“It’s amazing isn’t it,” Ajax asks, deep blue eyes glittering with joy. “It’s nice to meet you soulmate.”

Kaeya, for once, finds himself unable to respond.

Several days pass and Kaeya finds himself drawn into Ajax’s family life.

Tonia, Anton, and Teucer treat him like a big brother, while Ajax’s parents act like he’s just another son.

It’s incredible just how quickly he meshes with the family and how much he enjoys Ajax’s company. For the first time in years he smiles from the heart.

As much as he appreciates the welcome, however, he finds a quiet dissatisfaction growing.

A week after he wakes up, Kaeya sits on a bench swing hanging from the porch eaves. It’s the first chance he’s had to be alone, without the chaos of his soulmate’s family driving away any stray thoughts.

Kaeya unties his eyepatch, rubbing the scar over his eye as the heavy cloth falls away.

Do I deserve this? He wonders to himself, thinking of the affection he’s been given since waking up. Diluc was right. I’m a liar and a traitor twice over, the last person who deserves this kind of life.

Father, what would you say? Why did you have to leave Diluc and I? What do I do now?

“That’s a nasty scar, soulmate.”

Kaeya looks up at Tartaglia. “I suppose so. I try not to look at it.”

“Will you tell me how you got it?”

Kaeya hesitates. “I---”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you look like you could use someone to listen.”

Kaeya looks down at his hands. “I guess. If you really want to hear, I’ll talk.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Ajax sits next to Kaeya, making sure to leave a few inches of space between them. “So? Do you want to talk?”

Kaeya sighs and starts his story.

When he’s done Tartaglia whistles softly. “That’s a hell of a story. I’m sorry you had to live it.”

“I probably deserved getting burned. Bringing it up right after Father died was a horrible idea.”

“It was, but you didn’t deserve it.”

Kaeya gives him a disbelieving look. “I’m a traitor and a liar.”

Tartaglia cups Kaeya’s cheek and turns his face so that the former knight is forced to meet his gaze. “The only ones who deserved to be burned, Kaeya, are the ones who left you there. There is nothing more precious than a child’s dreams, and they took yours away.”

Kaeya is left speechless by the sincerity in Ajax’s eyes. “You really believe that.”

“Of course. And I think, deep down, your Brother knows it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard stories from the fatui in Mondstadt, that Diluc has been actively looking for you for years. Anytime someone from a foreign land comes by, your brother questions them about you.”

“He probably still wants my head.”

“I promise you he doesn’t. I spent some time in Mondstadt last year and was questioned just like everyone else. He looked like he felt guilty.”

Kaeya lowers his eyes. “You really think he’d want to see me?”

“I’m so certain I’d go with you to see him.”

“I-- I want to go home. I miss Diluc and Father everyday. I miss what we once had. I wish I hadn’t brought things up when I did.”

Three years worth of tears finally spill over Kaeya’s lower lashes.

Ajax wraps an arm around Kaeya, pulling him close. “It’s ok to cry, you know. It sounds like you loved Master Crepus just as much as your brother did.”

Tartaglia continues to hold Kaeya until his tears have run dry.

Kaeya pulls back and wipes his eyes. “Thank you, Ajax.”

“It’s my pleasure. Are you going to go make up with your brother?”

“I want to try. I just…. What if he tries to kill me?”

“He won’t. And if he does, he’ll have to go through me.”

Kaeya gives him a questioning look.

“You’re my soulmate, Kaeya. I won’t leave you to face this alone. I promise.”

Kaeya meets Ajax’s eyes once again and finds within it the one thing he’s craved above all else. Acceptance and the promise that he’ll never have to be alone again.

“I think…I will be in your care.”

Far to the south, Diluc stands behind the counter of the Angel’s Share, absentmindedly washing glasses while he keeps a watchful eye on the tavern-goers.

In one corner, Venti the Bard plucks out a tune. Somehow, despite drinking since opening time, the bard is completely in tune and capable of capturing the hearts of the other patrons.

For some reason, however, the bard has chosen something softer than your average tavern song for tonight’s entertainment---though in Diluc’s mind, the effect is reduced somewhat by the sniffling drunks.

Still, it’s enough to send Diluc’s mind down well trodden pathways of memory.

Something about the song brings to mind a tan face and shit-eating grin. He can’t help but remember laughter and many days spent training, the joy they once found. But he also can’t help but remember the last time they met.

Diluc doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the hurt and genuine fear on his brother’s face when he made his escape.

The redhead sighs, looking down at the colorless counter.

“Venti,” he calls out, “the crying is starting to get old.”

Venti giggles, but obliges the tavern owner’s request and concludes his song with a flourish.

The bard approaches the bar. “Are you sure it’s the crying that’s bothering you, not something else?”

“I’m sure.”

“Do you have any requests?”

“Nothing that’s going to make people cry. If you keep doing that I’m going to start losing customers.”

“Spoilsport.”

Diluc groans, fixing the slender man with a glare intended to be firm. Instead it comes across as pleading. “Please, Bard, save the slow songs for closing time.”

“Fiiine. One more wine please.”

“It will be right over.”

Venti returns to his spot and Diluc starts mixing his drink.

As he’s sending Venti’s wine over, the bar door opens.

“Welcome to the Angel’s….”

Diluc glances at the newcomer and the greeting fades away as the world bursts into color.

The newcomer--a slender young man with a pair of long fox ears--pauses for a moment before approaching the bar.

“This is unexpected. My name is Tighnari.”

“Diluc.”

Silence stretches out between the two until Diluc coughs. “What would you like to drink?”

“Hmmm. Apple juice if you have it.”

“We keep some stocked for the minors.”

“Then I’ll have a glass please.”

Diluc pours Tighnari some juice. “Here.”

After a moment, Diluc scratches at the back of his neck. “I don’t think I’ve seen you round here before.”

“No. I’m a traveling scholar with the Akademiya. I’m here to study the flora and fauna in Dragonspine. “Oh.”

Great going, Diluc. At this rate Tighnari is going to think you’re a grump and just leave.

“When does your shift end,” Tighnari asks after another long silence.

“At closing. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me after you get off.”

Diluc shakes his head. “It’s still a few hours before closing time.”

“Then tomorrow perhaps?”

The redhead reaches around for a cloth, using the movement as an excuse to not meet his soulmate's eyes. “I don’t think that will work. I… have somewhere to be.”

Tighnari frowns, nods.

Diluc glances back at Tighnari. “You said you’re going to be studying in Dragonspine, correct?”

“Yes.”

“If you would like, I can accompany you.”

“Are you sure?”

“It can’t hurt to have a pyro-user around. Besides, after tomorrow, there’s nothing I have going on that can’t be rescheduled.”

Tighnari smiles. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Several minutes later, Tighnari sighs. “I should probably go. I have things I need to unload and I need sleep after the long journey here.”

“Very well. In a few days, meet me at the Dawn Winery. We can leave for Dragonspine from there.”

“Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“See you then. Oh.” Diluc stops Tighnari with a word. “It’s very nice to meet you. I look forward to working with you.”

“Likewise.”

A couple days later, Tighnari and Diluc start their journey into Dragonspine.

Once they’re on the road, Tighnari looks at Diluc. “How was your day yesterday? Did you accomplish what you needed to accomplish?”

“I suppose. Yesterday was the anniversary of my Father’s death. I spent most of the day at the cemetery behind the cathedral.”

“You have my condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Tighnari waits for a moment, watching emotions play across Diluc’s face, before speaking again. “You look like you have something on your mind. If you want to talk, I don’t mind listening.”

“We barely know each other.”

“So? We brought color to each other’s worlds. I think I can listen to you talk, if you think it will help.”

“Give me some time to organize my thoughts.”

“Very well.”

The rest of the day passes quietly. Tighnari stops frequently to document plants on the side of the road, making quick sketches before the two continue on.

That night, they sit around a fire at the base of Dragonspine.

“Are you still willing to listen to my thoughts?” Diluc asks after they’ve set up camp and eaten.

“I said I would, so I will.”

Diluc stares at the fire as it dances and crackles, a gentle, contained version of the ones that raged three years before.

“I think Father would be disappointed in me.”

“Why?”

“I nearly killed my younger brother. And then I drove him off. I would have killed him had he not earned his vision.”

“Why?”

“That’s hard to answer without exposing his secrets. Things I haven’t even told the Acting Grandmaster. Kaeya told me his secrets the night Father died and I didn’t react well. Father would have had us talk it out and tried to find a solution or some sort of middle ground. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not that night.

“Father was everything to me. I was powerless to help while he died in my arms. Hearing that Kaeya was not what I thought he was… But I’m not sure that he felt much different than I did. Now that I think about it, Kaeya’s situation is far more complicated than anything I would ever face myself. He’s a damn good liar and I hated him for it, but I think he had to be.

“He trusted me with his greatest secrets and I nearly killed him. He had a father for the second time, came to me, and I told him to leave and that if he returned I’d kill him.”

“You regret it.”

“The only thing I regret more is not being able to save Father.”

“Have you thought of apologizing?”

“All the time. But no matter how many travelers I ask, no one ever seems to know where he is. I don’t even know if he’s still alive or whether his recklessness has gotten him killed.”

Tighnari reaches out and pulls apart Diluc’s clenched fist. Without the gloves that are sitting next to his cloak, his fingernails leave deep grooves in his palm. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to make yourself bleed and I don’t know what local plants are best for first aid. Not yet, anyway.”

Tighnari continues, still holding Diluc’s hands in his. “I think your father would be more disappointed if you were still angry at him.”

“I don’t know how to feel. He lied to me and Father for years. I don’t know if---no that’s not true. Not completely. If the worst case scenario happened, I don’t know if I could trust him. Barring that, he loved Mondstadt just as much as I did.”

“I see. I can send a letter to my friends in Sumeru. If they see him, they can have him return here.”

“Thank you, Tighnari. I would appreciate it.”

“Now we should rest. I want to get an early start tomorrow.”

The two lay back on their bedrolls.

Diluc closes his eyes and falls into a deep sleep.

Three Months Later

Kaeya stands on the prow of a ship, eyes trained on the horizon in front of him. According to the Captain of the ship, land should be in sight within days.

“You look excited, comrade.”

Tartaglia comes up and wraps his arm around Kaeya’s waist.

“Maybe a little.”

“You don’t need to worry so much. I’m pretty sure everyone in Mondstadt misses you.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then you can always come back to Snezhnaya. I’m sure the Tsaritsa would welcome you. Or perhaps the Snezhnayan adventurers guild will. You’re never going to not have a place, loveling. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Three weeks after their conversation at the prow of the ship, The front gates of Mondstadt come into sight.

Kaeya stops in his tracks and Tartaglia nearly trips over him.

“Kae, there’s no turning back now.”

Kaeya doesn’t move.

Ajax walks around him and takes his hand, before gently tugging him forward. “Let’s go.”

Kaeya stumbles after Tartaglia as they cross the bridge, scaring off Timmies pigeons.

“Halt strange yet respectable---Kaeya!” Lawrence bursts into a smile. “You’re back! We thought you disappeared!”

Tartaglia looks back at Kaeya. “Did you even leave a note?”

“Maybe? I left one for Jean, but asked her not to say anything.”

“Swan, go get Diluc!”

Swan glares at Lawrence. “You do it. I’m not leaving my post.”

Ajax smiles. “How about you tell us where to find Master Diluc and we’ll find him ourselves.”

“And you are?”

“Tartaglia.”

“What’s a harbinger doing here without any of your goons?”

“Returning my soulmate home. Don’t worry, I’m not here to cause trouble.”

Lawrence scowls. “You’d better not. Go on through. Kaeya, Diluc wants to see you. He’s supposed to be at the tavern today.”

“Thank you, Lawrence. Maybe I’ll go get some Death After Noon.”

Tartaglia threads his fingers with Kaeya’s as the pair cross through the gates to Mondstadt City.

“So where is this tavern?”

Kaeya sighs, plastering the cocky grin he’s so known for on his face.

“Don’t do that, Kae. Don’t hide from the rest of us.”

“I can’t show everyone else what I show you.”

Ajax frowns, but doesn’t push.

The pair takes a winding route from the front gate to the side one and the tavern beside it.

Before they can enter the Angel’s Share, the door opens, and Diluc leaves the tavern, followed by a green-haired man. “Thank you, Charles. I’ll make it up to--- Kaeya.”

“I’m home.”

Diluc rushes the younger man, wrapping him in a hug. “Thank the archon’s you’re alright.”

“You don’t hate me?”

“The four of us should go upstairs.”

“D---”

“No arguments, Kaeya.”

Diluc leads Kaeya, Tartaglia, and Tighnari up to his second floor room in the Angel’s Share.

When the door shuts behind them he turns to face Kaeya. “Where the hell have you been!”

“Here and there. You didn’t want me here.”

“I---I’m sorry Kaeya. I was wrong.”

“No. I shouldn’t have brought the subject up so soon after Father’s death. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m sorry for lying all those years, to you and Father.”

“You could have trusted us, Kae. We wouldn’t have hated you.”

“So I’m welcome home?”

“You never weren’t. I’ve been trying to find you and ask you to come back since you left.”

Tartaglia smiles and elbows his soulmate. “I told you he’d be like this, Kaeya. Now can I get an introduction?”

“Mhmm. Ajax, this is Diluc, my older brother. D, this is Ajax, my soulmate.”

Diluc narrows his eyes at the mask affixed to Tartaglia’s hair. “A harbinger, Kaeya? Really?”

Kaeya shrugs. “Not my idea. I’m not going to complain, though, He saved my skin a few months ago.”

“Thank you for taking care of my idiot brother.”

“My pleasure. Now who is the guy with fox ears?”

Tighnari inclines his head to Kaeya and Tartaglia. “I’m Tighnari, a traveling scholar and Diluc’s soulmate. It’s nice to meet you. Ajax---”

“Call me Tartaglia.”

“Why don’t we get some air, Tartaglia. I think these two could use some time together.”

Diluc shakes his head. “You two stay here. Kaeya and I have something we need to do.”

Kaeya follows Diluc from the lower tier of the city and up several flights of stairs.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s someone else you need to greet.”

“Who…?”

“Just follow me.”

Diluc leads Kaeya to a headstone in the cathedral cemetery.

“We buried Father here.”

“I didn’t bring any flowers.”

“I don’t think Father cares.”

Kaeya huffs a chuckle and kneels by the headstone. “Father, I’m home.”

Diluc takes a knee beside his brother. “I’m sorry it took so long to bring him back. We’ll take care of each other from now on, so please rest in peace.”

That night, when Kaeya and Diluc return to their soulmates’ sides, both of them smile with hearts as light as the wind that graces every Mondstadter’s heart.

On the roof of the cathedral, seen by none, Venti strums a chord on his lyre. “It took them long enough. They’ve got each other and they’ve got their soulmates. I think you can rest in peace now, Master Crepus.”

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whumpinggrounds · 3 years

Note

Something from Mara's perspective maybe? She's clearly losing touch with her ideals so a couple scenes of her in WRU with everything just becoming more and more normalised would be interesting

okay okay okay i v much appreciated this prompt! here is my best shot below :) and i am tagging the usual lost cause jude crowd!

@shapeshiftersandfire @itstrueiwasthewraithberry and @oceansevaporatetoo

CW: pet whump, lady whump, noncon body modification, intimate whumper, caregiver to whumper, training whump, mentions of/implied noncon,

The scariest part is that whole weeks pass where Mara doesn’t notice the change. She wakes up and goes to work, comes home to happy, smiling Isabella. The days pass so easy, so smooth, like a dream. Work is going well, really well. The higher ups like Mara’s ideas, and her coworkers respect her, and she’s looking at a raise after her second year. At home, Isabella cooks and cleans and jumps at Mara’s word. After months of happy, easy companionship, it feels…well, it feels natural. It feels right.

So, Mara stops thinking about it. It doesn’t do anyone any good to think about whether their arrangement is good or right or fair. It just is. It can’t be changed, and it shouldn’t be. After all, Isabella seems happy enough. She’s always smiling, and she doesn’t have to work too hard, and Mara doesn’t hurt her. Not really.

Well, okay. The stuff they do in the bedroom…plenty of people do that. All kinds of people do that with their partners, and it isn’t anything Mara needs to be ashamed of. She makes sure Isabella has a good time, too, and it isn’t like the Box Babe ever tells her no. They’re programmed to like stuff like that. Mara knows they are. More than that, she knows Jude – or knew Jude, back when she was a person. She knows Isabella’s body, all the little signs. She knows that the pain might make Isabella’s lip tremble, but the pleasure is what makes her close her eyes. Mara reminds herself of that and feels sure again, steady. She feels drawn to Isabella again, wanting to hold her close and make sure she knows that she’s Mara’s, Mara’s, Mara’s. Pets like that. The security. Feeling owned.

As for the rest of it? The rest just kind of…slips. It makes sense, for Isabella to call her owner ‘Miss Mara.’ With all the checkups, it’s safer for both of them. The same is true for like…sitting on the furniture. And, okay, sure, Mara was a bitch during dinner, but Jamie’s not the smartest in any room she’s in. Mara needed to send a message. She has Handler Collins to send one to Isabella, but Mara herself is the only one around to train Jamie.

The only real catch is Violet.

Mara’s girlfriend is gorgeous and interesting and super convenient, though it still makes Mara wince to think about it so cavalierly. Isabella’s fun, sure, but Violet has a brain, and can go places. With both of them around, Mara’s like, on cloud nine. The problem is that Violet is into pet lib. It’s how the two of them met. Since then, Mara’s stopped going to the meetings, because, obviously, it’s too suspicious. Besides, she doesn’t have friends in the local group, nor can she make them, given her day job. Violet still goes all the time, because she’s trained as an EMT, and the local group needs her, but Mara wishes to god she’d stop. They’ve settled the argument about Isabella a thousand times, gone round and round and always, Violet concedes, exhausted, that Mara is right. But the arguments themselves make Mara uncomfortable and edgy and frankly angry. It’s hard for her to be as patient with Isabella afterwards, as understanding. On her grimmest days, Mara has to roll her eyes at that dark irony. Violet would be sick if she knew what consequences her pretty little ideals had in the real world.

But at least Mara has Isabella to comfort her, and a beautiful spotless apartment, and a tidy paycheck at the end of every month. At least she wins every argument, and the arguments only come every few weeks, anyway. Days pass, and then weeks pass, and Mara feels more and more sure of herself. Isabella is safe, and she’s here, with Mara, where she belongs. They’re happy together. It’s sad that Jude’s gone, that she’ll never come back, but in a way, getting a fresh start, a clean slate, is kind of…it’s kind of nice. Mara lets herself be lulled right into feeling happy, feeling secure, and never thinking that any of this might be wrong.

Then comes the day that Mara’s walking down the hallway and she runs into Handler Atkins with a trainee.

They must be going to see Director Hammond for some reason, because they’re not supposed to be on this side of the facility. When Mara sees the boy, she physically draws back, unable to repress the visceral reaction.

The boy trails behind Tracy Atkins, taller and broader but far more hesitant. The handler trots along energetically, boots clicking along the floor, and behind her, her trainee shuffles along barefoot, head bowed. He’s in the usual black shorts and white shirt, and there’s a black leash leading from Atkins’ hand to the collar around his neck.

“Hey, Doc!” Atkins smiles broadly, and Mara forces a smile. “C’mere! Take a look at my boy!”

Swallowing, Mara steps forward, scanning the boy as she does. She can’t resist the urge, and Handler Atkins asked her to, anyway.

The boy behind her is tall, probably six foot. Mara really shouldn’t call him a boy – he’s likely in his late twenties, maybe even older than her – but the nervous, vulnerable, vaguely blank look on his face makes him seem much younger. Dark eyes, dark hair, cut close to his scalp. Handler Atkins tugs him up right in front of Mara, but even as he gets within a few feet of her, his eyes stay fixed on the floor.

“He, uh, looks like he’s almost ready.” Mara tries to keep her voice mild, maybe even impressed. It’s, well, it is impressive. In a fucked up way. But look at Tracy Atkins, this tiny five two woman leading around a six foot man on a leash. Mara smiles, for a second, at the ridiculousness of it, and she can tell that Handler Atkins appreciates it.

“He is.” Handler Atkins coos at her boy, tickling under his chin. He stands stock still and takes it, head bowed, hands folded in front of him. “You’re almost ready to go home, aren’t you, honey? Aren’t you?”

There’s a mean little smirk on Handler Atkins face, like she’s making a joke that Mara doesn’t understand. She jabs her trainee in the side, and he winces. “C’mon, 121, aren’t you going to answer me?”

The boy stays silent, and Mara frowns. That’s not right. Especially at this point in training, the trainee should be jumping to please his handler, should absolutely answer such an easy question.

Handler Atkins glances, snickering, from the silent, withdrawn boy to the confusion on Mara’s face. Finally, she relents. “Chin up, 121.” While Mara watches, Atkins runs her finger over a livid red scar on the boy’s throat, one that had been concealed by his dropped chin. “Prospective paid extra for a Domestic that can be counted on for…discretion, you know?”

Brow wrinkling, Mara stares at the boy, then Atkins, and then horrible understanding hits her. “Oh my god, the vocal cords?”

“It’s a neat little procedure! Only took him two weeks to recover. He’s a trooper, my 121.”

“Yeah…wow.” Mara feels faint, feels sick. This man – this boy – is, is never going to speak again. They’ve – this woman who sits in Mara’s office once every two weeks, she’s taken that from him. Forever.

That day, Mara puts a sign on her door and sits in her office all day, trying to think. A few times she puts pen to paper, but she doesn’t write anything, just scribbles aimless doodles. That night, with Isabella, she’s rougher than she’s ever been.

For the next three weeks, Mara takes long walks through the training division of the facility, until she can look a brutalized trainee in the eyes and not feel anything at all.

#whump #whump writing #wru #bbu #box boy #box babe #noncon body modification #intimate whumper #caretaker to whumper #training whump #mentions of noncon #female whumper

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casualmaraudering · 3 years

Text

/ so, inspired by a fanart i did recently have some fem sirius being a lesbian and having a lot of conflicting feelings!

cw: internalised homophobia, religious (catholic) themes, very brief contemplation of nudity (i guess)

“-inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me,” Sirius slowly whispers to herself, head low, breathing in the scent of smoking incense and burning candle wax.

The chapel is empty - rightfully so, seeing as it is nearing 1 am by now. Only the faint light of the candles atop of the altar shines in the room - it’s far too cloudy for the moonlight to come through the stained glass. There’s no sounds in the air, aside an occasional ambience of the night.

Being by herself, and with no chance of anyone interrupting her, Sirius kneels at the kneeler in the main portion of the small chapel. Rather than in front of the main altar, she’s at the side one, with a marble statue of Virgin Mary right in the centre. She had been taught by a nanny - the one who cared for her since birth - that it’s Mary you should go to if you seek guidance and, most of all, forgiveness. The purest of souls, she had been, and that she continues to be, blessing peace onto those who truly seek it. It’s what she had believed in, and poured that belief into Sirius, urging her to pray, rosary in hand, every night before bed.

It has been years since then, though. Sirius’s view of the world is so much different, now that she’s nearly an adult woman. She has met a great number of people, read a great number of books. Her beliefs are so much more than what they’ve been when she was little, mindlessly following her parents’ every step and command. She is worth more than that, now she knows.

And yet, here she is, once again, kneeled with a rosary in hand, just as she had been as a child. Except when she was small, things had been so simple. That whirlwind of emotions inside her chest and constant battle in her mind were nowhere in sight, not the way they are now, ever-present, constantly nagging her and making it hard to breathe.

She prays for so many things. Forgiveness. Guidance. Knowledge. An answer of any kind, really. A push towards one of the sides of war her mind and soul are battling. She doesn’t know who to believe, she doesn’t know if she should feel dirty or proud, whether she should seek penance and plead remorse, or let go and follow her heart.

If only Mary could answer her. Just that one question. Yes, or no.

Is what the people say true? The nuns and pastors and her parents, are they right? When they say that people like her are a plague on this world, that they’ll burn in hell, is this what awaits her?

“Is it wrong of me to love a woman?”

No answer ever comes, of course. None ever does.

God works in mysterious ways, Father Connolly would say. Frankly, Sirius thinks he’s full of shit.

She has gone through almost twenty beads on her rosary when she hears the unmistakable sound of the chapel doors opening.

She freezes, breathing out quietly, squeezing the rosary in her hand, waiting for a teacher to call her name. She’s no stranger to detention, of course, but maybe this time she could talk her way out - she left her bed, yes, but only to pray in the chapel. Surely whatever nun caught her out of bed after curfew will understand that.

“Sirius?”

At the sound of that voice, her breath catches in her throat. The very same voice that got her kneeling here tonight, torn from the inside, aching with confusion. Burning with desire.

“Remus,” she replies, hoping her voice sounds at least a bit relaxed, not giving away the sudden pace of her heart and the coil in her stomach. She shoves the rosary into the pocket of her jacket, and she quickly turns around, standing up.

Remus walks towards her from the darkness, lit by the gentle candlelight. For the first time, Sirius sees her with her hair loose, falling in curling strands around her face and down past her shoulders, resting on her chest. She’s wearing a nightgown - a white, thin fabric, from the looks of it.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Remus says at sudden, gesturing at the kneeler.

“I was done anyway,” Sirius replies with a smile. She sits down on the kneeler, trying to appear relaxed.

Remus nods, and steps closer to sit right next to Sirius, leaning against the brick wall of the altar, facing Sirius with her head just slightly cocked to the side.

“What are you out here for this late?”

Sirius chooses to shrug - she can’t exactly say why. It’s not like she could tell anyone at all, yet alone Remus of all people.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replies finally.

“So you decided to pray?”

“You have said before that I’m ‘the religious type’,” Sirius reminds her with a smile. “It’s just… I had a nanny growing up. My parents are pretty well off, and it’s like a thing in our family to have someone take care of the kids full time. And that nanny would have me pray before bed, every single night. She said that if I ever need guidance or forgiveness or comfort, I should pray to Mary.”

“And you’re looking for guidance? Or forgiveness?” Remus nudges her with her shoulder, smiling in that particular way of hers that makes all of Sirius’s insides feel as if she’s on fire in the most pleasant of ways.

She looks gorgeous in the faint candlelight. Her hair is wild, curling here and there, a few strands over her face yet she doesn’t seem bothered by it. Sirius can just faintly see the scattering of freckles on her nose - a nose flushed red just slightly, likely cause of the cold outside. Her lips are red too - plump, smooth, soft.

And once she lets her eyes wander, Sirius can’t stop it. Her long neck, the necklace she always wears resting on it. Her collarbones, barely visible from under her hair. A few freckles disappearing under the edge of her gown.

She isn’t wearing a bra, Sirius notes, cursing herself for even noticing. And yet, when Remus leans back on her forearms and turns her head to look around her chapel, stretching her body in an outright sinful way, Sirius can’t not look. The curve of her breasts hidden by the thin fabric - just barely there and yet at the same time drawing her eyes in, taunting her.

“Say,” Sirius says at last - slowly, carefully choosing every word that falls out of her mouth, still letting her eyes bask in the glory of the woman before her. “-do you think that if something is out of your control - you try to go against it as much as you can, but it’s not possible… is it sin? You can’t help it no matter how hard you try, it’s like… engraved into you. Is it still unforgivable?”

Remus is silent for a moment, her head still turned forward towards the chapel. And so Sirius’s eyes remain fixed on her, the curve of her body, the way the fabric falls around those curves, covering some but still letting her see just enough of her silhouette.

Licking her lips, Sirius’s mind wanders back to the thoughts she rarely lets herself have - what would she look like without that nightgown covering her? What would it be like to see her here, posing on display, her whole body uncovered and shameless?

Is loving a woman so bad, if clearly women were made to be worshipped? Sirius can’t imagine not letting her eyes sway around Remus’s body, wishing so badly to as much as see it, touch it just once. It would only be natural to follow those desires. And if this is the forbidden fruit, as if Eve were the forbidden fruit… Adam had succumbed to her. How can Sirius not?

“You are who you are,” Remus answers. She turns back towards Sirius, scooting a bit closer. “-and don’t the texts say that God made us in his image?”

“They do, but-”

“Then how could something within your nature be wrong? If it’s that much out of your control that you can do nothing to stop it, how different is it from breathing? From eating? From living? It’s a natural part of you, and it was intended to be a part of you. You don’t need to ask for forgiveness if there’s nothing to forgive.”

Sirius lets her eyes hit the floor, breathing slowly.

If what Remus says is true, why has she heard, over and over, that people like her are not welcome within their communities? Why have all of their teachers preached against it and acted as if it’s the greatest sin one could commit?

“I know a lot of people talk, but often enough, they don’t know what they’re talking about,” Remus continues, seemingly reading into Sirius’s thoughts or straight into her soul. “We’ve had so many classes on it, read through pretty much every page of the Bible. Do you remember any lines that said it’s sinful? Even one?”

She doesn’t. Maybe she’s forgotten, but honestly, she would have remembered. It would be engraved into her conscience just like everything she had heard people say about it. Her thoughts circle around it every night, when she can’t sleep. Every word, every threat, every stab right in the heart. Sinful, unnatural, wrong, Adam, Eve, Hell.

And yet she doesn’t remember stumbling onto it in the one source that does matter most.

“Of course, you could always read through it again, but I don’t see the point, honestly,” Remus keeps talking, shrugging at her, once again with that smile. “I can tell you, if Mary could tell you, she’d say that you’re good. It might seem terrifying at first, but you’re not the only one that feels this way.”

Sirius blinks slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. It’s as if-

“D-do-... are you-... what?”

Remus laughs - and truly, it is a marvellous sound, one Sirius could compare to what she thinks a choir of angels would likely sound like - and she gets up, brushing off any dirt from her gown.

“I know what you’re talking about, yes,” she confirms, taking a step back, but turning around so she can still look Sirius in the face. “Trust me when I say it - you aren’t the only one.”

She smiles, and Sirius feels like her brain isn’t quite catching up with what’s going on at the moment. And then Remus takes a few steps towards her and brushes a strand of Sirius’s hair behind her ear, her face close enough that Sirius sees the reflection of flickering candles in her honey eyes.

It’s a short, fleeting moment - Remus is there, with her eyes and freckles and hair and nose and smile and smell of chocolate and vanilla -and then she’s gone, taking a step back, then two, then three.

“I’ll see you around. Goodnight, Sirius.”

She steps away. Turns around. And with that she leaves, her white gown fluttering with her movement, her hair bouncing with her step, disappearing into the darkness. Sirius is left to herself in the empty chapel, heart hammering, chest flaming with emotion, stomach tight with desire.

God have mercy on me.

#this is the gayest thing i've written in quite a while #might turn into a full fic #if people will like this damn mess cuz i think it's kinda obscure sfkdsf #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #fem wolfstar #female wolfstar #fem sirius black #female sirius black #fem remus lupin #female remus lupin #just two gals being pals in a chapel #my tag #writing tag #my writing tag

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Get Up: Antoni

CW: Using clove cigarettes to burn skin, burns, burning as torture, conditioned responses and behavior, feverish whumpee, creepy whumper, fucky guilt/self-loathing/self-injury thoughts (of the “I deserve to be hurt” variety, no self-injury occurs). Xenophobic language/xenophobia

Tagging @astrobly, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp and also @oofowouchies and @orphceus for Antoni-specific

“Get up, love.” The voice is low, a rumble from all around him rather than any one direction. He can feel the vibration of it in the hollows of his bones, the aches that throb along his thighs and arms. Breathing seems like pushing up against a weight laid over his chest, stones laid inside his lungs.

There’s a rough hand against his face, a palm pressed to his forehead. “You’re hot.” He whines, only to hear Mr. Davies’ mocking laughter in return. “Fucking dog now, are you? Might as well be, I suppose. I’d treat a dog better than you, if I had one, though. Feed it more, anyway. Get up.”

He tries.

Nothing happens.

He tries again, but all he can manage is limbs that flop, a head that shifts minutely, bones that scream protest at him and demand he be still.

“C… can’t.” His own voice is a breath, a whisper. He is motionless, in the bed, blankets kicked down around his feet. The ceiling fan ticks as it spins lazily overhead, he stares at it through cracked eyelids.

A shadow passes, and he can’t flinch away.

There’s a slap, the smack of skin on skin, and Antoni has no energy to fight it. He only lets his head fly to the side, the sting in his face joining a deeper, weightier throb inside his head.

He moans, maybe.

He’s not sure if the sound comes from his lungs or is only in his head.

“You don’t have access to ‘can’t’ any longer, darling.” The hand is gentle again, rubbing a thumb over the reddened skin on the side of his face. “Pull your shirt up, pretty little ashtray. Let’s see.”

“M-Mr. Davies-”

“Now.”

Antoni’s head tips back, lolls really, showing his neck like an animal baring itself to a predator, hoping for mercy. His hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, soaked with sweat and slightly stuck to him, pale heathered gray soaked dark. He grips onto the soft fabric and pulls it up, shuddering at the sudden brush of cool air over scarred skin. It hurts, to be so exposed. Everything feels like a raw wound. Like a sparking wire.

His ribcage, stomach, and the top edge of his hips are a shifting nearly-flat plane of skin over muscle, with littl softness. Tiny circles with no particular pattern litter his skin, some newer, some older.

So many.

He has deserved them so many times.

“Good boy.” The flick of the lighter, and he feels his body tense all at once, every muscle taut where they wrap around his aching bones. The unmistakable sound of cigarette put to lips, the first inhale and exhale, the enveloping smell of cloves that settles around him, drifts over him. He can feel smoke kiss his face and has a strange, wild sense of fingertips there, just barely brushing his lips.

Not possible. Mr. Davies doesn’t touch that way.

There’s a hand that lays across his throat, over his thick leather collar, to keep him still. His eyes are still slits, cracked barely open, but he can see the soft flare of embers, knows the face behind the flame better than he knows his own, now.

“You refused an order, love. You earned this. You’ve earned every single one.”

“Nyet.” His voice is weak - it’s not a refusal, it’s a whimper. “Nyet, gospodin, ya ne khotel-”

“Not your ratspeak again. I thought we’d broken you of that filthy gibberish. Quiet, or you’ll earn more.”

Antoni’s eyes drift shut. “I-I am sorry-”

“Don’t be sorry, Ashtray. Be better.” The first flicker of pain comes directly on top of a scar he’d already laid before. It’s a kindness, a mercy, that he isn’t taking what clean skin is left and marking it new. Antoni’s breath hitches in at the flush of agonizing sharp pain as the cigarette grinds in with inexorable slowness. A pause. “Lovely,” Mr. Davies murmurs. “One step closer, don’t you think?” The hand that curves around his throat tightens, just a little.

Antoni breathes shallowly, trying not to move. He is perfectly still, and nearly silent but for the tiniest whimpers he cannot hold back. Mr. Davies presses a second burn, a third, a fourth. Each of them carefully laid over existing scars, and he is so merciful to punish Antoni in ways that won’t add to what he has already made his own.

“Beautiful.” Mr. Davies chuckles, drawing a fingertip along the line of the new burns to listen to Antoni’s choked-off high-pitched whines. He can feel the eyes that watch his unwilling little twitches, hands moving with the deep urge to push Mr. Davies away only to be stopped by his own mind, his own fear.

Antoni knows what they will look like now, like jewelry with a slight curve to dip below his navel, bright red, prone to infection if he isn’t given permission to clean them.

Still, he cannot move.

“I think that will earn you a reprieve from worse, for now, love,” Mr. Davies says with pure tenderness, pulling back and away. The scent is still in the air, making Antoni sick, swirling around him. He hears a low murmur and wonders if she’s awake, the girl on the other side of the wall. If she can hear his sounds, the way he listens every night to hers.

“Th-... thank you, Mr. Davies.” He whispers, his throat feels like it’s burning, too, the smoke settling deeper and deeper. Each swallow feels like there’s shattered glass shredding everything from his tonsils to his lungs. He jerks in harsh breaths only with effort. “Thank you for… mercy.”

“You’re welcome. Now. I’ll give you a second chance. Stand up.”

Antoni forces his legs to answer his commands this time, lets out a low groan of pain as he tries to push up onto one elbow and then rolls himself right off the bed only to hit the ground with a thunk. His arms and legs feel like a doll with stitches come loose and he sobs, curled on his side.

His shirt is still pushed up, his back is facing Mr. Davies and it takes only a moment to feel the next burn pressed directly over his spine.

He cries out helplessly. “Pozhaluysta! Pozhaluysta, ne nado…”

“Ratspeak again. You just won’t stop, will you?”

“P-pozhaluysta…” He can’t breathe. Can’t… can’t take in enough air curled up like this but he can’t move. There’s another burn, over his left kidney, then one on his right. “Ne delay mne bol'no!”

“Not until you never speak another fucking word, Russki. Come on, love. Beg.”

“Please, pl-please, please do not h-hurt, pl-please-”

Mr. Davies never makes a new burn, only recreates old ones, and still, Antoni can’t help the garbled, choking sounds he makes from the depth of the pain.

When a hand touches his shoulder he flinches, violently, from the touch, shaking his head as best he can even as the world dizzy-spins around him, freezing cold air burning his skin over the new redness, new agonies over old.

“N-No-... please, no more-”

He can’t get enough air to beg right, he can’t. He feels like he’s wheezing, hands clenched into fists, his forehead pressed against the old hardwood floor.

“Antoni?”

His breath catches again. Eyes crack, rolling slowly upwards, to see the fuzzy spin of the ceiling fan. There wasn’t a fan in his room with Mr. Davies. There wasn’t…

A pale face swims into view, gradually rearranges all its errant shapes and colors into ones he knows. A mouth, a nose, light, nearly-invisible eyebrows furrowed with worry. A flush of blue hair hanging down like a fine, shimmering curtain.

Green eyes.

“Chrisha? I… I was asleep?”

Was he? It hadn’t felt like sleep-

The panic hits him all at once. Can’t let him see. His hands move awkwardly, bumping back into his stomach, and he shudders out a breath with a full-body shake as he realizes his shirt is pulled down, not up, covering the marks that still burn as though they’re new across his body.

Relief like cool water washes down his spine. No one saw how many there are. No one can see how many times he has earned them.

“Are you… are, are you, um-... are you sick?” Chris reaches out to touch him, to help him stand, but Antoni pulls away, managing to get a hand on the side of his bed to steady himself as he pushes up to his feet. He sways - the world goes briefly dark and then back to light again - but he stands.

“M-Maybe. I, I feel… can I-... Chrisha, I need to shower. Can you… help me?”

“H-help you? In, the, the… the-the… in the… to, to, to-to-to… to take-” Chris’s face flares bright red and his eyes drop, all at once, and Antoni shudders with sudden nausea and disgust.

Years later, and still that’s all the words could possibly mean in Chris’s mind.

“Not like that, Chrisha. P-promise. But I cannot… walk well. Now. Will you help?”

His stomach is crawling itching dying skin, his back is flaring hot, he needs… he needs to bath in ice. Run cold water until nothing is left of him, until he is a frozen lake scratched until you can’t possibly see what’s under the surface.

“Sure, Ant, I’ve, I’ve got you.”

Chris isn’t supposed to be here today, but Antoni can’t really think well enough to ask why he’s here now, only be so grateful for his help. He lets the shorter, stronger, younger man slip his arm around his waist and holds back the groan as he unknowingly presses against the new burns that aren’t real, but that Antoni can feel perfectly anyway.

The scent is cloves is still faint around him.

He can still feel breath on the back of his neck.

“Please,” He whispers.

In the moment, he can’t remember any other word.

He burns.

Veins and bones and skin and scars and brain, all of it - all of it burns.

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veliseraptor · 4 years

Text

we haven’t slept in years, 2k, thor & loki, cw: graphic self-harm, references to suicidal ideation/a suicide attempt, a (short) direct sequel to we suffer mornings most of all, instead of writing any of the things I’m actually trying to write I did this which at least went smoother than anything else I’ve been doing lately, so thank you @ratsats for the accidental prompt, happy thanksgiving kids

A long while ago Loki had read, in a book that was now ash, about the formation of storms. He’d been curious because of Thor and his power, but he ended up finding it fascinating in its own right: the complicated confluence of factors that had to fall into place to create a storm. It made him think that Thor had more in the way of magic than he knew. That set off a strange burst of mingled frustration that he seemingly had no plans to train it, and relief at the same.

Loki thought about that a great deal, though. The way that something so natural, so raw, was in fact the result of an intricate set of circumstances that had to come together in the right way, at the right time, and lightning struck.

It was, Loki thought, examining the wreck he’d made of his left arm, a remarkably apt metaphor. A vicious, vivid nightmare. Formless anxiety dogging his heels, whispering of oncoming disaster. A minor but irritating snide remark from Valkyrie, and his own eternally unsteady core. An unstable atmosphere.

He tried closing his fingers and inhaled sharply for the pain that shot up his arm, then wanted to laugh. Enough damage to the nerves that he couldn’t move properly; not enough to avoid the pain. Wasn’t that nice.

At least he was calmer now. Didn’t feel so much like he was going to burn out of his skin. Was it getting worse? Oh, probably. No surprises there.

It didn’t help that it seemed his - endurance training under the tutelage of the Mad Titan’s lackeys seemed to have had an unfortunate side effect when it came to his coping mechanisms.

Now he was going to have to hole up here, safely hidden, until his nerves reconnected and there wouldn’t be awkward questions. Which meant coming up with some sort of excuse, since he could no longer simply disappear for a day or two without Thor-

I only ask that you find me after, Thor said.

Loki worked his jaw. No, he thought. Don’t be stupid.

You swore.

Loki rubbed his forehead with his functioning hand, took a deep breath, and gingerly folded his left arm into a makeshift sling. He cleaned his knife on his shirt - it was already bloodstained anyway - made himself unnoticeable, and went to do penance.

Thor was not, of course, in his rooms; undoubtedly he was off doing some sort of kingly business. Loki let himself inside and sat down, stretching out his legs and trying again to flex his fingers. They twitched, but not more than that. He’d been very thorough, though his memory got a bit blurry after he’d driven the knife between the two bones of his forearm and twisted.

There was going to be a mess to clean up later. This was why he preferred to avoid sharp objects for this sort of thing. Blood was too noticeable.

He’d learned that early on.

Thor’s absence gave him some time to strategize. He still didn’t understand what Thor thought this was supposed to accomplish, other than giving him something else to be worried over; if Loki approached this conversation carefully perhaps he could make Thor see that, too. It was fine, really. He was going to heal, and he was calm, and clear-headed, perfectly in control of himself.

(You weren’t in control when you did it.)

Loki shook that off. Perhaps not, but this was how he regained it.

He moved to the bed, eventually, leaning back and letting himself drift. He was tired, which could be an artifact of the blood loss or of the crash that always followed these - storms. By the time he heard the footsteps approaching he was almost half asleep. They were familiar enough to bring him awake, though he didn’t sit up, just opened his eyes and waited.

Thor opened the door and came to an abrupt halt on seeing him, then frowned.

“For someone who so values his own privacy, you care remarkably little about that of others,” he said, though mildly. Loki shrugged his right shoulder.

“I am just demonstrating the weakness in your security,” he said. “You should ward your doors.”

Thor frowned more deeply. “I cannot cast wards.”

“Have you tried?”

“You could cast them for me.”

“Ah,” Loki said, “but that wouldn’t stop me.”

Thor shook his head, though Loki caught a small quirk of the corner of his lips toward a smile. That was good; the better Thor’s mood the easier this conversation would be. “Are you just here to test me or was there something else you wanted to discuss?” he asked. Loki tapped the fingers of his right hand against his leg.

“A bit ago,” he said, “you asked me something.”

Thor’s brows furrowed. “I’ve asked you a few things,” he said, though now he sounded cautious. “Could you be more specific?”

“Give yourself a moment,” Loki said. “It’ll probably come to you.” He shifted, slightly, adjusting his arm. Thor’s eye flicked over him, the familiar worried line now etched between his eyebrows. The slight smile was gone.

“Or you could refrain from making me guess.”

Loki exhaled. “You asked that I come to you,” he said. “If it was…” Relevant? Necessary? “If there was cause.”

Thor’s eye widened and he jerked forward only to visibly stop himself. He looked Loki over again and seemed to relax. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. So - you are…” He shifted, bracing himself as though about to enter a fight. “What do you need? To keep from…”

“Nothing,” Loki said. “I’m fine now.” He offered a half a smile. If he was lucky - if he was lucky, maybe Thor would think the urge had passed on its own, and Loki would have kept his word, and not lied, and he could figure out how to deal with his handicap without drawing notice.

He’d forgotten that Thor had acquired an unfortunate perceptiveness over the last decade. He went very still.

“What did you do,” he said, studiedly level. Loki sighed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Is it important? As you can see, I am fine.”

“Are you? You’re favoring your left arm.”

Unfortunate perceptiveness. Loki breathed out through his nose and let the glamour fade. “It looks worse than it is,” he said preemptively, but that didn’t stop Thor from making a strangled noise and lurching toward him.

“Let me see,” Thor said.

“I don’t think-”

“Loki,” Thor said, in warning, and Loki gave up and stretched out his arm. The bandages he’d so carefully wrapped were spotted in places. “Did you go to a - no, of course you didn’t go to a healer,” Thor said, and swore under his breath. His hands were gentle, though, cradling his limb lightly; even so, Loki wanted to flinch. He didn’t, just let Thor unwrap the bandaging and study the half-healed mess he’d left behind. Scored down to the bone. With the fog wearing off, Loki could look at what he’d done and feel an abstract kind of horror: well, that isn’t good.

Thor closed his eyes and visibly counted his breaths, probably to hold his temper.

“It’s healing fine,” Loki said. “The only problem is that some of the nerves were severed, so it isn’t going to be very useful for a bit.” And the healing would be excruciating.

Thor’s jaw clenched. “You severed,” he said. “You severed some of the nerves.” He dropped his head forward. “I asked…”

“I know what you asked,” Loki said.

“How can you do this to yourself?” Thor sounded plaintive. It was such a wrong way for him to sound that Loki didn’t know what to do about it.

“Relatively easily, really,” he said without thinking. “All you need is a sharp knife.”

For a fraction of a second Thor looked like he was going to hit him. For another he looked like he was going to cry. Then he just released Loki’s arm and stood, running his fingers through his slowly-growing hair.

“Do you hear yourself?” he asked. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Loki-”

“I know,” Loki interrupted. “Thor, I know that, only - I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say you’ll stop.”

“It isn’t that simple! I tried to explain to you-”

“I know! And it didn’t make any-” Thor sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and continued in a quieter voice. “I know. You did. And you’re right that I don’t understand, but I don’t think you do, either. I think you’ve gotten so used to this that you don’t - even think about there being another way.”

“Because it works,” Loki said.

“It’s dangerous,” Thor said. “It is-”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “Mad? I am that, aren’t I?” Thor’s expression tightened like he wanted to argue, and Loki pressed onward. “I am not saying I will not - try to come to you, as you asked. But I think it would be better for us both if, in the event that I...fail to do so, you were able to remain in blissful ignorance.”

“No,” Thor said.

“Thor…”

“I said, no.” Thor set himself as though bracing for an attack, but when Loki didn’t answer immediately, he deflated a little. “Since we spoke,” he said, “do you know what I have dreamed of? More than once.”

Loki tensed. “No one finds other peoples’ dreams very interesting, Thor.”

Thor ignored him. “Finding you dead,” he said flatly. “I don’t see you for a day, or two, and I go looking and find your body drained of blood, or hanging from a noose, or-”

“I am not-” Loki cut himself off, moving to clasp his hands together only to stop at the violent twinge from his left. “Don’t be absurd.”

Thor’s eye pierced him. “Is it absurd?” he asked. “What is the difference, except in degree rather than kind?”

He wasn’t, Loki realized with a sinking of his stomach, exactly wrong. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t...the Bifrost had been the first surrender. But not the first temptation.

And not the last, either.

Loki glanced aside and bit the inside of his cheek.

“At least if you come to me,” Thor said, “even if it is too late to stop it - at least I know that you are not slipping too far away.”

He sounded - Norns. So unhappy. “I am sorry,” Loki said, the words awkward in his mouth.

“I do not need your apology,” Thor said heavily. “I only ask that you not try to hide from me.” His smile was weak, and not much of a smile. “Haven’t we had enough of secrets?”

Loki sighed. “I suppose perhaps we have.”

Thor’s shoulders fell in clear relief, and he walked back over and clasped the back of Loki’s neck. “Thank you.” Loki shrugged uncomfortably, and Thor jostled him a bit. “I mean it.”

Thank me when I do something right, Loki thought, but he didn’t voice it. The exhaustion was sinking in, again, the pain starting to register properly.

“What happened?” Thor asked, after a few moments of silence. Loki shook his head.

“An unstable atmosphere,” he murmured, and when Thor gave him an odd look said, “it’s complicated. No one thing. Too many, overlapping, colliding, and I can’t…” His lips twisted. “I scarcely realized until it was too late.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Thor said. He sounded a bit disappointed, like he’d been hoping for one single thing that he could have eliminated from the ship. “I am glad you came.”

“Are you?”

“In the end,” Thor said, “yes.” He said it so firmly. Like he really meant it. Which, of course, he did.

“Let me get you fresh bandages,” Thor said into the quiet. “And some salve. I can at least do that much.”

“Yes,” Loki said eventually, half to himself. “I suppose you can.”

#tragic siblings #loki's a goddamn mess #thor is my favorite puppy #a wild fic appeared #self harm cw #suicide mention cw #ratsats

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ratchedspeach · 4 years

Text

Climbing Uphill

Prompt written for Falliam Frenzy Week 2 — “its ok to cry” CW: mentions of body dysmorphia, anxiety, and alcohol abuse (nothing graphic… just angsty) Set in the unseen moments leading up to Fallon and Liam lying in bed together at the end of 2x19 (Life Is a Masquerade Party)

She was blonde when she was younger — a golden, honey hew. It was the color Alexis’s hair had been before she started bleaching it, and it made her envy her daughter more than she already did. Her mother manifested that envy in jabs on her personal appearance, and humor at Fallon’s expense. When she was thirteen, her hair started to change, her father’s brunette genes winning out (typical Blake — even his RNA got what it wanted sooner or later). Alexis would bring her hands through her curls with a calculated smirk, drawing attention to the newfound amber she found there, and tossing her own platinum ringlets over one shoulder before stalking off.

When Fallon sees her for the first time after the accident, her heart almost gives out. It isn’t just that she looks like her, it’s that she’s spent her entire life comparing herself to the tall, slender glamazon that she (sort of) called ‘mom’. It’s that from the time she had been cognizant enough to compare herself to someone else, it had been to her. Even after Alexis abandoned them, she couldn’t help but feel inferior, and it didn’t help that Blake was constantly using their similarities as a dig against her.

He had urged her to try talking to her mother, because he thought it would help, but when she comes back to her room, Liam can’t help but think of Sisyphus — the man condemned to roll a boulder up a mountain for all eternity. He can only imagine that’s what it feels like to speak to Alexis, just one long, exhausting uphill battle.

Truth be told, he doesn’t know the half of it.

“How’d it go?” He tries to keep his tone nonchalant when he asks, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

Fallon glares at him, but she looks more miserable than she does intimidating. He wants to push, but the torment he sees glistening behind her blue eyes makes him hold his tongue, and when she doesn’t move from where she’s leaning against the doorframe, he options to pull himself off the kingsize bed and meet her there. The closer he gets, the sweeter she smells — an amalgam of her hairspray, floral body wash, and Dom Perignon champagne. He vaguely wonders how much she’s had to drink, but realizes he has no right to talk when he detects the levity of his own buzz warming the space behind his eyes.

Her fight or flight instincts kick in as he continues to close the gap between them, kissing her cheek and pulling her into his arms. He smells like sandalwood and juniper berries, Fallon identifies as she practically melts into his contact and buries her face in the nape of his neck.

“Bad day?” He teases gently, reveling in the soft giggle it elicits from her.

If she’s being honest, she’s not sure she knows the meaning of it anymore — her days have blurred together since her mother’s arrival, each one bringing a new slew hurdles for her to only barely scale. She’s felt like she was drowning since … well … since Alexis had literally tried to force her head underwater in their pool.

“Oh please,” She murmurs, and his breath hitches in her throat when her lips form the words against his bare neck, “just another Carrington party. I told you we were a … fun group.”

“You’d certainly give the Brady Bunch a run for their money.”

Fallon groans, her hands gripping the velvet of his suit jacket. She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it’s long enough for the hum of party guests downstairs to dissipate into the faint tinkering housekeepers clearing away glasses and putting furniture back in its place. It would all be gone by morning — any evidence of the masquerade carted away so that it was as if it never happened. The only clue of its existence would be from the hangovers of all that attended, and Fallon knew she would be no exception — hell, she’d probably be the goddamn poster child. She started wondering if her drinking was becoming excessive, but when you have Blake Carrington as your father and Alexis Colby as your mother, alcohol tends to feel less like a crutch and more like a prerequisite for every gathering.

She’s snapped out of her thoughts when he pulls away, taking with him the brief notion of safety that his arms had afforded. Liam’s silver eyes reflect his question before he can even get the words out, so she assures him she’s fine with a faint smile.

“Nothing that a Valium can’t fix.” It’s meant to be amusing, but it hits closer to home than she would have liked.

She grits her teeth, and Liam’s jaw tenses, and it looks like he might reprimand her or burst into tears or both, and God she can’t take it anymore. Fallon comes to perch on the corner of her bed, kicking off her Louboutin heels and wiggling her toes as her circulation slowly returns. She was eleven when she was given her first pair of pumps. They came in a parcel cloaked glossy, pink wrapping paper, and a note in her mother’s handwriting —

Your calves could use some definition. These might help.

She hadn’t worn flats since, save for when she was exercising (even then she wore heels to and from working out). Fallon grimaced, her breath agitating at the remembrance. Maybe I’ll need that Valium after all, she dismayed, only furthering her distress. When she was especially overwhelmed (dare she say … anxious), it felt like her thighs were swelling. It was thanks to years of her mother assuring her that life would be so much easier if she could just find a makeup palette that actually matched her complexion, or fix her nose, or lose a few pounds … Fallon brought a hand to her chest and applied pressure, squeezing her eyes shut and tensing her shoulders.

Liam watched her like it was happening in slow motion. She goes from a grimace, to a scowl, to doubling over like Sisyphus himself was rolling his boulder up her, and … she’s not breathing? Holy shit she’s not breathing.

He brought himself to crouch in front of her, placing a hand on either one of her shoulders and willing her to look at him. “Fallon. Hey … Fallon just … take a breath, ok?”

“I’m fine.” She snapped, the top of her head practically hitting his chin as she swung her body upright.

“No you’re not.” He thought it would make her feel better.

It definitely did not.

“B-but that’s ok.” He backpedalled. “Fallon, that’s not a bad thing. It’s ok to cry.”

She was seven when Alexis told her that crying was a sign of weakness, and weakness would get her eaten alive in the real world, if her own family didn’t get to her first. Her mother had never said anything about anxiety, though, and so here she was … hyperventilating in front of the man she’d married before they could even go on a first date. It dawned on her that she might prefer crying, because at least that wouldn’t make her sweat off her makeup, and blear the corners of her vision — not that she remembered what it felt like to cry. It had been … Christ it had to have been years now. Fallon shook her head.

“This is stupid.” She dismissed, or at least she tried to.

Her voice was uneven and shrill — so very unlike the grounded businesswoman that Liam had come to know. She stood before he could negate the sentiment, swallowing hard and shaking his hands off her frame. There was scotch somewhere in this room, and she’d be damned if she wasn’t going to find it. Usually she had it put out for her before she retired to her room, but on nights the Carringtons held parties, Fallon would get so drunk that she didn’t even remember getting into bed more often than not. Her fingers fumbled with the lock on the cabinet, dialing the numbers into place like she was defusing a bomb. Liam watched her stumble around the room in a mix of panic and intoxication, her energy resembling that of a hurricane, or a tornado, or a goddamn tsunami, or —

This is a stupid analogy. He thought, bringing his hand to slick back his hair before standing.

She jumped when he placed a hand on her shoulder once more, whipping around and meeting his all too pitiful gaze. She looked like a cornered animal — her eyes bloodshot with booze, her skin glistening with sweat, her chest heaving as the last of the adrenaline dispelled from her system.

“Fallon.” He allayed, trying to take the crystal carafe of scotch from where it was in her strangled grip.

She jerked away before he could even touch it, eyes stormy and distant. Liam had heard stories about Blake Carrington’s only daughter long before he had met her on that park bench; heard that she was a spoiled, bratty princess who only cared about herself, and partied way too hard, but this …

This was something else — someone else.

“Fallon, please,” He tried, “please, just give me the bottle.”

“No.”

“Fallon you’re —“

“I’m fine, Liam. Just leave me alone.” She warned, before adding, “You’ve helped enough.”

She took a step like she was trying to brush past him, but her foot got caught on the hem of her dress and she stumbled forward instead. Liam caught her, his arms coming around her waist and steadying her gate. The crystal decanter was lost in the crossfires — shattering as it made contact with the linoleum floor, the brown liquid spilling into a puddle. Liam expected her to yell, to scream and kick and maybe even cry, but she went utterly stagnant, her entire body tensing as he saved her from hitting the floor along with the incredibly expensive (and now wasted) bottle of scotch.

“Hey, woah, steady.” He whispered, his hands coming to fumble with the curls at the base of her skull.

The action elicited a murmur, low and dissonant, and striking him more like the start of a wail as it hit her vocal cords. Fallon’s eyelids fluttered closed, the liquor and champagne already in her system starting to make the light hurt her irises. Liam just held her, hoping it would afford the same comfort it had not ten minutes earlier, and had it really only been ten minutes? This night was starting to feel like a millennia — the conglomerate of too much alcohol and too much stress proving to be a potent cocktail for both of them ( … no pun intended).

She was sixteen the first time she got drunk. Her father had left a bottle of whiskey on his desk, and while no one was looking, she snuck a glass. She equal parts loved and loathed the way spirit burned when it went down, tasting like honey and (very expensive) lighter fluid as it hit her throat. It was an accident, of course — not that Alexis cared when she found her, three glasses in, slumped over in her father’s chair, and quite literally green. She vaguely remembered begging her mother for help, promising with slurred speech that she would never do it again if Alexis would just … “Mom, please!”

This next part she would never forget, no matter how hard she tried: Alexis grabbing the whiskey, pouring her another glass, and forcing her to drink it — over and over until the green hue of her daughter’s cheeks went flush, and she was retching in her father’s recycling bin. Then she would play the doting mother — stroking her daughter’s hair, whispering soothing sentiments in her ear, even wiping the sick from the corners of her mouth.

“Oh darling, I’m only trying to help.” Alexis would condescend, smiling saturninely. “Alcohol can be a useful tool — a sign of power, a truth elixir, even. I’m teaching you a lesson. You’ll thank me for this later.”

She hated this. She hated her mother for this — for leaving, for coming back, for stealing her face — all of it. Fallon swallowed, her mother’s words still ringing in her ears. She could feel Liam pulling her towards the bed, holding her like she was made of glass. Usually, she would push him off and dole her sharpest glare in order to prove that she sure as hell wasn’t fragile, but …

Fallon was tired.

God she was exhausted, and her head hurt, and his cologne was intoxicating in a way that she didn’t know the word could mean. Liam felt the backs of his knees hit her overly plush bed, and sat, pulling her down almost on top of him. She looked like she’d been through war. He realized grimly that Fallon had survived enemy fire, although he wasn’t sure anymore if it was with her mother or with herself.

“I’m sorry.” It came as an admonishment more than a real atonement, but despite knowing relatively little about the woman, he was still able to make an educated guess that it was as close as she could get to the real thing.

Liam smiled sadly, meeting her gaze from where she lay against his left shoulder. The way they glistened caught him off guard more than the apology. He had known Fallon for, what … maybe a month now? And not once had he seen her cry — there had been anger, and insane, zealous, over the top vendettas, and anxiety now, but not tears. He had grown used to it, though. Liam was a quick study, and he had gathered that emotional vulnerability was not looked upon fondly effectively from the moment he had stepped foot in Carrington Manor.

“Don’t be.” He murmured, lacing his fingers through hers, and kissing the top of her head.

Fallon heaved a sigh, biting her lower lip to keep it from quivering. She had been with men before — in fact her body count was high enough that she had grown bored of keeping track. None of them had ever spent the time to comfort her before, though. Usually, they fled at the first sign of turmoil, so this felt … this is … what the hell is going on? Before she could answer her own silent question, Liam snapped her from her thoughts.

“It’s ok to cry, Fallon.” He murmured, and even through the fog of intoxication that blanketed her brain, she knew it was the second time he had said it that night.

She wished she could joke about it, wished she could force a smile and pretend that she wasn’t completely and utterly shaken. Fallon’s chest was tight, her eyes heavy with sleep, and worst of all, she could feel the tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

“I think I need help.” She hadn’t planned on saying it, but there it was — a little garbled, and landing with the weight of her and her mother’s entire history.

Liam didn’t respond, just nodded, and buried his lips further into her hair, reveling in the sweetness of her aroma. He felt her muscles loose, like just admitting the reality of her situation had alleviated the pressure that she was largely putting on herself (although not completely … because Alexis was probably the biggest headache of a woman he had ever met, and that was including his own mother).

“I’m sorry I made you to talk to her.” He offered, his words dripping with so much guild, Fallon thought she might need a shower just to remove it from where it landed in her chest. “I shouldn’t have assumed it would help. There’s clearly a lot I don’t know.”

She felt his lips moving against her hair as he spoke, and her nerve endings tingle and fizzle. Fallon smiled, glowing with the mixture of alcohol and his touch. He felt her doze off somewhere in the midst of his apology and his thumb stroking the palm of her hand. He would ask her about her drinking, he would even suggest therapy for the umpteenth time since they’d met, but …

That was tomorrow’s problem.

For now, he watched the way her chest rose and fell. Her breath leveled in record time, her body going limp with sleep, her lips parting slightly and evoking a murmured sigh. Liam smiled when she warmed with the stillness that unconsciousness brought. It wasn’t long before he dozed off too.

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

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In Sorrow and In Joy- Part 8: To Be Grounded

Luke learns the hard way what it means to be a dad and how to keep his family safe and together. Dad!Luke with a South Asian Reader. This is a collaborative experience with A Family of Five.

CW: Over the course of this series, themes of racism and prejudice on the basis of religion are present. Please read or skip as necessary.

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Luke’s sure prayer is still going on, so he moves about the kitchen as quietly as he can. But that assumption is proven wrong when he hears Zahra’s cry from upstairs. “I have nothing to wear!” He knows for a fact her closet is packed to the hilt with clothes. But that’s not what she wants to hear. So he pauses in the kitchen, waiting for another huff to come. He knows it will. There’s some thuds from above him, sounds like stomping. Please, he begs silently, please just let today go well. Gripping the counter, Luke inhales for three seconds and exhales for five. That’s what his therapist warned him to do when he feels overwhelmed again.

He passed overwhelmed a couple weeks. Right now he’s hanging on by threads. Though he’s positive those threads are gone too now, especially after last night. Last night, he fucked up. He knows he did. He slipped out of bed, snuck into the kitchen, grabbed whatever bottle he got his hands on and sat in the backyard, drinking right from the bottle. It felt good. He felt guilty too, but there was just an ounce of relief behind the guilt. Just enough for him to go for one more swig, when he knew he should’ve stopped. He feels terrible now, thinking about it agan. He feels even more like garbage because he keeps eying the stash.

The stash only exists under the pretense that it’s there for company and company only. And for a while, that’s exactly what it was. Just for company. But now, it’s becoming his solace again. The thing that screws his head, or even unscrews it, when he’s overwhelmed so he doesn’t have to feel again. He has no clue how Calum does it, with three kids. Granted, Calum was always more level headed than he. But still Luke just can’t some days. He tries hard to be there for everything, he tries to understand the nuisance by being a teenager. He remembers what it feels like to have no control over your life. He knows, all too intimately, what it feels like to be someone else’s puppet.

Luke slowly opens his eyes as he hears the soft click of dress shoes on the floor. Zeek rounds the corner, flashing a small smile to his father. “Upstairs is a warzone,” he laughs. “Shoes are flying.”

“It sounds like it,” Luke agrees. He pushes away from the counter, necklace hitting his chest and he waves Zeek over to the stove. “This look right?” he asks, waving over to the dish now simmering.

Zeek nods. “Dad, you’re actually getting better at the whole cooking then.”

Luke’s chest bubbles with laughter. He was not the greatest cook, still isn’t the greatest. But he’s definitely gotten better. “Alright, smart alec,” he teases, ruffling the close crop of Zeek’s hair. Zeek huffs at his father’s antics.

Noor’s the next one to survive the storm, covering the back of her head with her arms. “It’s dangerous up there,” she grins, finally standing to her full height. She pulls at the sleeves of her kurta. It’s similar to the grey one with a green pattern in your possession. Her’s is a light pink with gold accents around the neck and buttons. Noor took once glance to the one in your possession and fell in love with in it. So she begged her grandmother on the next adventure overseas to grab her one.

Luke nods at her comment. He can only imagine the chaos happening up there. He doesn’t mean to leave all the messes to you. But he just can’t handle it right at this moment. He’s barely holding on anymore. He’s probably not holding onto anything anymore. But he can’t give up just yet. So he grabs the oven mitts and moves all the food to the table and kitchen island buffet style.

After a few more minutes, the periodic stomps stop and the rhythmic sound of feet on stairs echoes. He knows it’s Zahra gate. She’s forgone anything too fancy, but still fancy enough in a blouse and billowy pant combination. “She’s arrived,” Luke teases. Ra huffs a little at Luke’s comment. She knows it’s just the band coming over, it’s nothing. But it’s one of the few things that Zahra does that makes her feel wholly herself. The day is hers. Well not really hers, but it puts her in the center. She has no one teasing her, no one prodding her about it. She can exist with no push back.

You follow close behind Zahra, praying that the rest of the day goes without any more issues. With the kids focused on the food, you duck into the back room and grab the gifts. They’re all settled down, eager to receive what they know is behind your back in bags and envelopes. You hands the kids their gifts first, “Eid Mubarak,” falling off in rushed mumbles from their lips. You and Luke return the phrase. Zahra grins, peeping at the green in her hands.

Luke hands his them his gifts. It’s always something extra. Noor immediately places the teardrop earrings on after cracking opening the box. Luke helps Zahra with the necklace and Zeek hugs you over the engraved pen. He’s always wanted a fancier pen to write and sign things his prints with, tired of using his drawing pens. The kids smile at you and Luke before all three rush back up stairs.

“Do you know what’s happening?” You ask Luke.

He shakes his head, asking you with his eyes if you know. You shake your head no, but grin as you hand over the gift for him. He always gives the same reaction, a head shake no, and a half step back. “You didn’t have.” You would think after nearly 15 years of marriage, he’d be used to this. But every year, it’s the same deal.

You roll your eyes. “You are family.”

Luke’s never sure how to handle that. He knows he’s family. But he’s not family like this, this isn’t his holiday. He wasn’t raised on this. He doesn’t want to intrude. “Sweetheart, I’m being serious. Every year you do this.”

You huff a laugh. “And yet, every year you still refuse me.” Shaking the bag at him, you urge him to take the gift. He’s not sure what’s inside, the bag’s big, but not heavy. Cracking it open, he notices the record. He looks to you, eyes widened, jaw dropped.

“How did you--What in the word?”

You just grin. The Rolling Stones record was not easy to come by. But you don’t let on to that. There’s no need. He pulls the record completely from the bag, the neon orange, yellow and red finally exposed. He grins, clutching it to his chest for a second, before flipping over to the back. “God, how long did this take to get?”

“Don’t worry about that. But you like it, right?”

“Babe, I love it,” he says softly, stepping into you. He places the record onto the counter before wrapping you up into a hug. Soft kisses line up around your forehead. The action reiterates his happiness with the gift. But you notice the hug’s not as tight as it usually is. You’re losing him. But you should you bring it up right now. You squeeze him just a little tighter for a beat and then pull away.

The kids return. Noor holding a box and Zeek with a bag. He hands you the bag, watching your reaction. It’s just a book, one you mentioned in passing a couple weeks ago. The note is signed by all three kids. Luke feels his chest constrict as the sight of the necklace in his box. It’s a simple silver chain with a small pendant. On it there’s a circular design that just looks like an amalgamation of swirls. But Zeek talks about how there’s two different Z’s and an N inside the design to stand for the three of them, with your initial made up in the middle. “Guys, I love it. You three at the best thing to ever happen to me,” he says quietly hugging them.

“Besides the band right?” Zeek teases.

“He means before the band,” Noor corrects, lightly slapping at Zeek’s arm.

Zeek rolls his eyes, but laughs. “Forgive me.”

There’s a twinge of disappointment when you realize Luke hasn’t given you anything. He’s always had something at this time. You woke in the morning and expected Luke to shove it into your hands almost immediately. But it didn’t happen, never one to try to make too big a scene you figured to wait. But here you are, waiting, still.

“We waited to get you something else, Mum. But we were stomped,” Zahra confesses, hugging your side briefly.

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the dreading feeling of disappointment from Luke’s lack of a gift. A smile lifts your lips. “I love it. I don’t need much.”

She nods. “But still, sometimes we want to spoil you.” You kiss the top of her head, wrapping an arm around her. As the kids settle down in the living until the rest of the boys and their families arrive, Luke pulls you into the kitchen. “I didn’t forget about you,” he whispers, tucking some of your hair behind your ear.

You only nod. He’s saying that but you notice how his eyes keep leaving your face. What’s catching his attention so much? “You okay?” you ask, forcing his attention back to you.

He’s not okay. He’s not. Luke pushes the glasses up on his face. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to let you know Michael’s bringing your gift. I didn’t forget. I swear to it.”

You nod. Why Michael has your gift is beyond you. But Luke’s not looking you directly in the eye, he keeps fidgeting with fingers. He’s slipping. The album’s taking longer than they originally thought, also they’re slowing down. Now with two of the four of them will fully established families. Michael’s on the verge of a family. He and his wife talk about having kids, but aren’t sure. Ashton’s settled down. But they’re antsy, they need an edge. They feel like they’ve lost it. But it can’t just be the record that’s getting to him.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know,” you state. “Whatever’s going on, tell me.”

He shakes his head. Was he that bad already? “I’m okay.”

“Find me when you feel like telling the truth.” You exit the kitchen. Normally, you aren’t this direct, this confrontational. But you refuse to watch Luke spiral again. Whatever the reason doesn’t matter, you just want him to be honest, to stop bottling things up.

Luke watches the spot you were occupying for a beat too long. His body freezes and his chest squeezes. He’s all too reminded of the day you actually moved out of the house. Harlowe had helped you move your things. She carried Zahra on her hip and you and Luke stood on the porch. He couldn’t beg you not to leave. He begged you instead to remember that promise of a second chance. To let him get himself together. But it still hurt, still made him feel like someone had replaced his air with fire watching you walk down those steps and to your car. It still made him cry for an hour on his front porch when your car backed out first, Harlowe in the U-haul behind you.

Oh he is not going through that again. But he can’t spill his guts right now. He clears his throat and steps out of the kitchen, knowing your gaze is locked dead on him. The doorbell sounds and Luke walks over to answer it. Michael grins at him, the small holding cage in his hands. “Babe,” Luke calls, waving Michael inside.

You immediately notice the small kitten, clawing at the cage. A black persian cat. You know the breed all to well. Luke unlatches the door. He reaches inside and carefully collects the cat into his arms. “You’re not even a cat person,” you whisper.

He crosses the hallway to you. “But you are.” Silently, he offers to small ball of fur to you. “He doesn’t have a name yet.”

Noor walks over, gently petting the cat in your arms on the head. “So we might’ve known about the cat. Do you know how hard it was to keep that a secret?”

“He’s very sweet. He climbed up my arm. I have video,” Michael laughs, pulling out his phone. You’re too busy with the kitten in your arms. His smoked gray almost black fur. The melancholy gaze behind bright blue eyes. For a moment, you are a kid again. You have no worries, no traveling from country to country. There’s no harm, no death, no pain. His fur is soft and thick between your fingers. He studies you intently for a moment, before bringing his gaze around the room.

“He’s absolutely the cutest thing.” The awe is evident in your voice, your voice thick and vision blurring just a hair.

“I told you, I didn’t forget.” Luke scratches the top of the kitten’s head. As you gaze up at him, he thinks for a moment, he’s back on track. It took him weeks to pick out the right cat. He even brought the kids to the shelter several times. It did not take much to get Michael in on housing the kitten until the holiday. Michael, after fostering his first kitten, started undertaking some furry friends into his care more often.

“You don’t like cats,” you huff. You want to keep it together. But the tears are already rolling.

Luke shrugs. “He’s cute. I miss having a furry friend in the house.” You two had Petunia until her end. Which was a hard hit. But sometimes the only way out is through. “It’s not a dog, but he’s still company.”

The kitten peers over your arms, a clear indication that they want to get down, so you gently lower to the ground and watch him inspect the foyer and kitchen. “What are you gonna name him?”

“Oh shit,” you huff. “I-I don’t know.”

Noor gently taps your arm, a warning glare for the curse word. But she grins. “I say Floyd. Because you like Pinky Floyd. But Zeek said Smoke. It sounded dumb to me. But I didn’t say it.”

“I can hear you!” Zeek shouts.

“Love you!” she returns, ducking behind Luke. Zeek peers around the corner and rolls his eyes. She always uses Luke as a shield. But it’s okay, he’s going to get her back. Luke places a hand on her back, laughing. This is what he missed. He misses his kids needing him. Zahra spends most of her time in her room or with her friends. Zeek has always been reserved. He’s close, but he’s not affectionate all the time. Noor at first and to this day is still very close to Luke, but lately instead of running to him for help she calls you more often. If she’s out shopping and can’t choose between a top, she turns to you now. Luke feels like he’s not needed anymore. His whole recovery hinged on his family needing him.

Luke recognizes that he had to get better for himself too. He couldn’t keep down that path, but it was much easier to tell himself it was for the benefit of someone else too. It felt more urgent that way. And now that urgency was leaving him. He had been feeling it for weeks. Just lacked the right way to bring it up to anyone. As the house fills up with Ashton and his partner, followed by Calum and Harlowe and their crew, Luke finds himself able to forget the urge in the pit of his stomach. He’s able to gaze at the stash and not long for it.

“You cannot bring Floyd to the table,” Luke smiles, watching Noor with the cat in her lap.

“Please?” she pouts.

A sigh escapes his lips but he nods. He can’t say no to her. She beams up at him, collecting the kitten and rushing to the table. She throws her free arm around Luke’s waist. “Love you, Dad.”

A few tears prick behind Luke’s eyes. He rubs her back for a moment. “Love you too. Now c’mon, let’s eat.”

Luke’s been on the deck for a while. After the boys left and the kitchen was scrubbed down, Luke slipped out of the house. You had only noticed as the backdoor slipped close. You wanted to walk out after him, but you know better. If he’s not willing to talk, you can’t force him. The kids settle down for a movie after a twenty minute argument of who gets to decide. Floyd’s already asleep in your lap. Another reason for your lack of escape to the backyard. But as the backdoor cracks open and Luke leans into the house, you know you’ll have to move now.

You slide Floyd into Noor’s lap, the closest one to you. Normally this sight would make Luke feel at peace. Normally he’s slide in next to you and tussle Zeek’s hair. He’d do something, but all he can muster right now is the slight nod to the outdoors. You slip through the small crack in the door, brushing up against Luke’s chest in the process. He closes the door behind you. The sky is clear and still. You’d normally ask, pry into what’s going on. But you don’t have to, as soon as the glass shuts, Luke grabs your hand.

“I’m not okay,” he starts. “I feel useless again. I know I was doing so well. The whole point of me getting better was to be here for my family. And I feel like I’m fading.”

“Why? Why do you feel like your fading”

“The kids don’t need me like before.”

“They grow up. Things change. It’s an unfortunate truth.”

“I just--I’m not equipped for it. It feels like it came without a warning.”

“Just like you weren’t equipped for fatherhood. No one can really fix that. I can’t snap my fingers and make things better.”

He sighs, looking out to the night. “I know.”

“Tell me what I can do. What do you need?”

Luke runs a hand over his face. He needs help, he needs to be grounded again. “Come with me to my next appointment. I-I don’t know what I need. I just know I need help.”

Wrapping an arm around his waist, you tuck your head to his chest. “I can do that.”

When shouts start up from the inside of the house, the all too distinct sound of the kids shouting at each other, Luke tenses. It’s too much, his feet are planted to the ground. He needs to be grounded. He has to keep it together. He can’t bare the thought of be separated again from his family. You rub his back. You know you’ll have to do some more heavy lifting in the house. “We’re getting rid of the alcohol too.”

He nods, face buried in your hair. He’s fine with that. He’d prefer it actually. He just doesn’t trust himself to do it. No one said being a parent would be easy, but Luke never thought it’d be this hard for him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I don’t have it together.”

“No one does. It’s okay to not have it together.”

“I’m sorry to do this on Eid. I really couldn’t have picked a worst time even if I tried.”

You laugh, softly, shoulders shaking just a tad. “Just as long as the kids got their gifts, we’re fine.”

“I’ll try to keep it together for the next two days.”

“If you need a breather, just let me know.” They’re kids aren’t particularly known for being the quietest bunch. It’s nothing but love, but it’s a well known fact.

Luke lifts his head after kissing the crown of your head. “Thank you.”

You could say, ‘You’re welcome.’ You could tell him it’s your responsibility to care about his mental health. You could tell him a lot things. But the truth of the matter is that you will always care, you will always be there. “I love you,” you return. The truth of the matter is that even though it’s rocky you’re still by his side. That even though your heart breaks to see the man you love in such anguish, you are not going to give up on him.

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frstbiitten · 3 years

Text

cw: violence, death, mention of gore

The truth is that little of what happened in that mansion had remained in her memory, details that were overlooked after a few hours, needed a shower to leave that odd sensation behind. Being observed was almost as repulsive as being touched improperly, this time for no carnal purpose but with an even more harmful goal. The flash in the bushes didn't leave her mind, it must have got stuck in the front of her skull like a stain of mold on the wall. The water didn't help to remove this memory, as her hands seemed to tremble more than usual, and at the same time, the urge to vomit and fall to the ground increased every time she breathed. Someone was stalking her.

And it wasn't just that Lewis... was alive, she could swear to the gods that she heard his voice on the phone, no one else speaks like him and no one else has the tone of his voice. Something wasn't adding up, because if he was alive, Clarissa had been killed by whom? I doubted that he was the perpetrator of the murder and that the person who mutilated her body had to be someone else with knowledge. It was obvious that he wasn't working alone, he had mentioned something about some dragons, something else he was hiding. The best she could do now was to sleep and talk about this with the girls, maybe they had more information.

As the days went by it only seemed to get more and more stuck in this fog of doubts, nobody knew anything about the Dragons, they couldn't be real since those things don't exist, maybe it was a code name. Neither Jasper nor Violet or Kit knew anything about it, they knew about problems between groups and mafias, that was all if they didn't know with the years of experience of being among them, then, the path was truncated. Perhaps Lewis knew she was looking for them, although two weeks after the absolute silence and no clues, she was forgetting the real tone of that call, in her mind some things had been erased.

If she couldn't find clues, then she would have to draw the attention to herself.

Weeks have gone by without fights in which she participated, the money wasn't much in her pocket at this point, and needed some sustenance, food, anything to continue existing. Frost had already made a name for herself among the spectators and other fighters, despite her somewhat small stature, her presence was to be feared. Was fear and respect the same thing? The latter required seeing others as equals, but none of the rats watching were strong enough to be potential rivals. It was fear that put her over them, which gave her an idea.

Now she had another plan, something riskier.

This time she gave a fight a little longer than the previous ones, her rival was almost as good and fast, but her death was as swift as her previous reflexes, the ice had begun to slow her down, sooner or later she was going to succumb. Frost, for this time, decided to give her a death that wasn't painful, she broke her neck without causing any wound in the skin, rarely was she so merciful with her rivals, this time, only this time, the blood that was spilled was minimal. With defiant eyes, she observed the crowd, this time was fully aware of her surroundings, of those who were watching her, of the screams, of everything.

"I bet no one has ever done it before, but... I think I'm ready for one more round." That surprised the audience there, it was amateur's night for a reason, thought that some organizer would say something but nobody said anything against her idea. "I know that some of y'all put money in my name tonight and that several lucky people just won something to eat tonight or shit like that, still... I want to double the luck of some brave stranger in the audience, if they manage to defeat me, my earnings tonight will go to that person." No one seemed to be brave enough to raise their hand. "It seems that I am surrounded by cowards today." And that didn't sit well with the audience who started booing her, until she saw a hand raised in the crowd, someone wanting to put themselves at risk or make a fool of themselves.

"I want to. I think you have enough potential to be my rival." The voice came from a tall man with tanned skin, dark short hair, as he had nothing peculiar, except for the black cloth that looked like leather, he took it off and handed it to someone by his side. The crowd made a path for him to the hexagon, a tattoo of a dragon with its wings spread out on his back, it seemed that the others knew him, except for her. Neither his defined physique nor his marked accent had any effect on Frost, she had no intention of killing someone who seemed to have a name known to the crowd, even more so than hers. "Let's say you have the honor of facing me."

"Yeah, sure, I don't even know you."

"No, you haven't reached the Red Dragon yet, but you're brazen enough to face its leader."

Her eyebrow arched in doubt and something in her head caught on at that moment. Maybe Lewis was referring to this guy, he seemed intimidating enough and others were afraid of him. She turned to her position, hands steady and ice on her fingertips, was going to do her best to not let her anger lead her to unwanted places. Frost was the first to attack, she was good at using her fists and had become faster with her left arm, but he knew how to block her and with a kick to the stomach she ended with her back on the floor. It was a sharp punch that made the crowd react, her back and the skull only making the pain more intense with every second. This was the beginning and she couldn't give up that easily.

"How fast are you going to fall? I thought you had a little more stamina." Ah, the bastard was mocking her, Frost was trying her best to not lose her temper now. This guy might have some valuable information.

She got up quickly, breathing in air and getting into position, attacking him from the front was not the best option, maybe she was dealing with a madman or a professional. Or both. The last option seemed more appropriate, his punches were almost invisible to her inexperienced eyes, and blocking each blow was turning into a nightmare, the man's fists were directed at her chest to push more and more air out of her. She tried to hit him in the face but her arm ended up twisted and instead of giving a punch, she received one with the same hand with which he had blocked her, with a direct kick to the stomach he had knocked her out.

With her stomach against the ground, some blood in her mouth, and maybe a loose tooth, Frost seemed to have given up this time, at last, part of her was determined to keep fighting until she could win, this guy could not take the victory and the applause, this isn't his territory and yet the audience was cheering for him. Frost tried not to let her anger outweigh her patience as she attempted to stand up, one arm looking bluer than the other, knew this wasn't a good sign. That man had noticed the change in her, one of Frost's eyes had turned completely white while the other was still endeavoring to look normal. Was breathing deeply and slowly, sharp pain in her head was more torturous than receiving a punch, felt the stranger's hand on her shoulder, and then under her chin. This was humiliating, not only because of the paralysis but because a stranger was making fun of her, in a way he was taking control.

"I know what you're looking for." She felt his voice almost like a whisper amidst so much screaming, or maybe it was her imagination, her surprised face didn't go unnoticed, much less when she felt his hand go down to her neck. "Listen to me and play dead."

It was a risk to do this but her desperation seemed to be greater, she could simply leave her doubts behind, let her anger take over completely, and kill him in front of everyone, needed to experience that sense of liberation. But no, why should she care? It was for Clarissa, she was gone and they still had a plan in place that in her head was still latent, and even more so, her heart cried out to get back to her. A painful necessity. Had to think about the possibilities before she slowed down, her hands seemed to move in the direction of her neck but they fell to her sides, eyes were lost in the direction of the incandescent lights and then the darkness once she closed them, letting the blood slide down her lip like a straight line to the floor. Her legs weakened and the strength of her body was interrupted by gravity, pushing her down more, and more. Her body never touched the ground again, and the man grabbed her in his arms as if she was a lady in distress. Having to keep her eyes closed was going to be the hard part.

Heard that this guy was talking and walking, talking, and walking without stopping, she could hear him coming down the stairs of the hexagon and then walking through the crowd towards the exit without anyone stopping him. She heard a car door open suddenly and felt the leather under her body that was from a soft seat, and the smell, was more like pine, it could be pine and something else.

"Okay, you can open your eyes now, sit down, don't relax too much or you might regret it."

When she opened her eyes she noticed that this wasn't an ordinary car, this one had another pair of seats in a somewhat peculiar way, it allowed the other person to make eye contact easily. He was sitting in front of her, in this environment he seemed more threatening than before, but the privacy made her instincts calm down and her skin went back to normal. Although the headaches had not diminished much, at least she was conscious.

"All right, how do we start this: I know what happened to the Sables guy, all of us in this know about it." He began to say as he rested his back against the seat, his knees keeping some distance, seemed like the type of man who had some taste but didn't mind getting his hands dirty. "We can't talk much now, but believe me, you're in trouble."

"Oh yeah? Why can't we talk here?"

"This car isn't mine, it's rented."

That gave some good explanations to her doubts. They spent most of the trip in silence, lately, it seemed like she had to walk into the lion's den with strangers to learn about important things, just hoped this wasn't a trap or that it would end up in the worst possible way. Noticed that he was changing his shoes at some point, sports shoes for some strange boots with metallic details, they had very beautiful arabesques, but with a simple hit in a strategic point of the boots and spikes came out of them like needles from the sole, maybe it was a silent demonstration of power and intimidation. Frost didn't want to admit that he had achieved his goal. The needles returned to their respective place with another hit, it was a dismal sound to hear, also noticed that he had put on some metal bracelets under the sleeves of the long black leather jacket, both bracelets were wrapped by red strings and a kind of harpoon at the tip.

They arrived at an abandoned warehouse, which seemed to be not only immersed in hundreds of trees but also the infinite silence; it appeared that this was the right place. First, he got out of the car and then Frost, she didn't seem uncomfortable with her shorts and black shirt, her shoes were stained with blood, unfortunately. Without warning, he opened the door of the driver who was the same one he gave his belongings to before fighting with her.

"Come on... get out of the car..." His tone when giving orders was always threatening yet calm at the same time, his penetrating gaze resembled an effective physical offense, enough to convince the driver of the limousine to get out. "I need you to bring me something from the back while I talk to the girl." And the driver, without saying anything, took the keys and went to the back of the large car. "And coming back to you, I have to be honest, Snow is a lousy name for a fighter like you."

"I know, I'm trying to convince myself of another name, I like Frost but I don't know it yet." She admitted with a confident tone as if she wasn't talking to a total stranger who just beat her up not so long ago.

"Well, there are always better names out there, but since I haven't formally introduced myself, you have to know that I am Mavado, and although I'm not the one you're looking for, others are." While saying that, he hadn't noticed the strange glow that appeared just above his head, almost like lightning right on the fatal second that would strike him, Mavado took a turn to avoid the blast and without realizing it Frost had paralyzed the driver, not completely but the scare had boosted the adrenaline and the ice came off naturally, reaching the feet of the driver. "Good girl, now be good for me and don't look." Frost listened to him as she returned to normal, turned around but the reflection from the side mirror of the vehicle showed enough of how Mavado was fighting with the driver, he had the great idea of trying to kill him with some peculiar weapons that she had never seen before. Heard something fall and tear, some heavy hits that had broken some bones, and the screams were screeches of pure agony and pain. More heavy strikes against whatever he was destroying, the flesh was being crushed and the bones too, until she heard nothing else but Mavado panting and spitting. "Keep looking forward Frost, don't you dare turn around." Listened to the unmistakable sound of the blades of his shoes coming back into place, once he appeared at her side, his whole chest and face were covered with blood.

"Don't worry, I'm used to this, but come inside with me, now we can talk quietly."

Although still confused by whatever happened behind her back, Frost listened to him once again, accompanying her into the warehouse which inside didn't seem so abandoned. It was somewhat spacious but he took her to a room that didn't look like his office or anything, but rather a place more reserved for leisure.

"Red Dragon... you're part of a gang or a mafia or whatever the fuck this is all about."

"First of all, niña, have a little respect for how you use our name, and secondly: no, the Red Dragon is not a mafia like the Sables and many others in Los Angeles, it is a criminal organization, we have been working under the nose of powerful people and politicians for centuries, my father was a leader too, and my grandfather, and his father's father and so on from the very beginning". As Mavado gave a short explanation, he cleaned himself with what looked like a new rag, wiped the sweat and blood from his body and face. Frost had this gut feeling that every move from his body was nothing but used to intimidate her.

As she sat on a couch and listened to him, she came to a single conclusion. "I mean... a mafia."

And Mavado didn't take this lightly but he had no choice but to threaten her, one look was more than enough. He took another unused cloth to clean his weapons, only the gods knew what those strange things were.

"So? Are you going to be silent?" He challenged her again but to speak, this guy was kind of aggressive.

"Okay okay, but in a way, if you already know what happened to Enrico then you know that before he was shot in the head out of nowhere, he had received a call from someone I'm looking for, and in that call, he mentioned some dragons, I didn't know what it meant but I think it might have something to do with you."

"And do you know who called Enrico?"

"Yes, his name is Lewis, he's the brother of a friend of mine who was killed, her name was Clarissa."

There was a rather long silence between them, until out of nowhere Mavado began to laugh and put his weapons on the floor, sitting next to Frost without hesitation, placing his arm on the back of the sofa but keeping some distance from her.

"Ah, that asshole Lewis, I see he's doing this shit again, ese tío cabrón."

"Do you know him?" So Lewis had dangerous connections as well, and somehow, it surprised her.

"Yeah, I know him, I can tell you he talked to me and made a deal, but believe me, he's not someone worthwhile, well, it's not that I'm a man of high morals, I only do what benefits me, but Lewis is... someone who doesn't know how to plan things, he's done this before and would do it again."

"I know something similar happened with his sister until she was disqualified from because of a struggle with this girl." She remembered everything, remembering what Lewis had told her about Clarissa and the whole story of her confrontation with a minor whose age they didn't know in advance.

"I imagined that he was going to tell that story but no, her sister knows some things about martial arts, but they were the ones who initiated that girl to the fights, they had taught her well, but Lewis went a little further and used drugs with the girl, they knew her age and all that, but it was them who started it. One night everything went wrong, the girl ended severely hurt from a fight, they couldn't kill her because the other rival knew who it was but at that point, it was too late, but I am not surprised that Lewis has lied to you and found an opportunity to use you, is what he likes most. "

Part of Frost's world was unstable, he met a stranger who might well be lying to her right on her face, but Lewis surprised her even more. Who was that girl? There were little chances she could find her alive if she wanted to, but couldn't afford to go through that route. Had no choice but to believe Mavado, even though it might be another lie to protect Lewis. One of her legs wouldn't stop shaking, this need of leaving, run out of this place at any second, and get lost in the woods, didn't know the difference between reality and the lie or even which one was better and worse.

"... And you're helping him cover it up." Remembered that he had mentioned their last communication between the two of them, he could be on Lewis' side, what was he doing with a criminal leader? He had already shown her how easily he had taken her out of the game and forced her to humiliate herself in front of a crowd of strangers. Couldn't be trusted, or maybe her gut feeling is completely wrong from the start.

"Just because we talked and we were close doesn't mean that the money in his pocket is with me, he wanted to make a deal with me so that my men would protect him, from you specifically, but I denied it, I don't trust him, I choose strategically, he does it out of desperation". And now she felt trapped back in a dead-end, Mavado got up from the sofa as he heard his cell phone ringing in his jacket, it sounded like a private call. "Hsu, you're calling at a bad time, I don't care that you didn't get what you wanted... it's not my fault that the generator on your chest is still defective, you did it!" While Mavado seemed to be talking to a partner or something, Frost noticed something very particular on the wall, skulls were hanging like hunting trophies, there was one of a deer, one of an ox and one that looked human but the teeth were something comparable to a monster, they were long and sharp, she was so tempted to touch it, it didn't look real and maybe it wasn't real but at this point, what could she believe in? "I'm sorry, I had an idiot on the other end of the line, it's hard to talk on the phone when you're robbing a bunch of jerks, but anyway, what you need to know is that Lewis is not being protected by me."

"But he mentioned some dragons... Red Dragon... it has to be you."

"No, believe me, if that's the case, then he's got a deal with the Black Dragon." Black Dragon, Red Dragon, there was a blue one missing and it could be complete, but Frost didn't have time to think about nonsense, now Lewis was in her sights, an enemy to add to the board. "They will know that I killed one of theirs who was undercover, very unstrategic on their part, they will know that you have come with me because it's more than certain that more than one has been there with us, you have to be extremely careful of them, but of me too, you have to keep our meeting a secret."

She only shook her head in a gesture of affirmation, could feel herself walking deep into a lake, was in the most dangerous area among eels and piranhas. Swallowed saliva as she thought about how she would have to keep a low profile, was getting difficult to keep up with every day.

"Go back to your house, I can't take you back there, I have a limousine to get rid of and a body to burn. You, keep your mouth shut and watch your back."

"I'm tired..." she confessed with a breath and her eyes already showed signs of forming gray rings around them.

"I don't care, run away from here, and beware of strangers."

Would have a long way to walk and needed enough energy to get there. But as she returned to her place, Frost kept thinking about Lewis and Clarissa. From what Mavado had told her, Clarissa seemed to be almost as guilty as Lewis of the manipulation, but it wasn't convincing. Frost found one of her arms at the bottom of a tub full of ice. She had perished, so, as Frost walked near the road accompanied by the shadows of the trees, she reasoned: Lewis killed Clarissa and kept a large amount of money for himself, she only needs to do is find him, and Elder Gods know what might happen next.

#novel #((well there is a surprise over here))#((at least this first act is getting closer to be finished))

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maandags · 5 years

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Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon!reader) {part iv}

i have no excuse for the wait except that im an idiot who took this school year too lightly yeet

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Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Genre: angst. because whats new

Word count: 8.7K

Notes: CW: graphic violence/blood, emotional manipulation - masterlist - {previous} -- {next }

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if heaven's grief brings hell's rain

then i’d trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

~ Just One Yesterday, Fall Out Boy

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You wake up from a deep, dreamless sleep, disoriented and shivering despite the multiple layers you have on and thick comforter stacked upon you. It takes a moment before the events of the previous night rush back into your mind and cloud your thoughts, and you throw an arm over your face, inhaling deeply.

A huge weight has fallen off your shoulders. Last night, you didn't realise as much, your tired 3 A.M. mind already struggling to focus with the fact that Keith--who had been deathly sick only hours before--was up and about and sitting at your kitchen table and eating chinese takeout. But now that you had the quiet of the early morning to yourself you could feel the knots in your shoulders loosen and the lead seep out of your limbs.

You slowly shift your legs out of bed, still slightly dazed. Sunlight peeks out through the cracks in the shutters covering your window, and you cast a look at the alarm clock sitting on your nightstand. It's barely 7 A.M. And it's also a Saturday. While that doesn't matter much in terms of noise–a city is a city, after all, and this one certainly is never quiet–your neighbours' kids aren't allowed out of bed before nine on Saturdays, which gives you at least two small hours of peace and quiet.

You stagger to the bathroom and let the hot shower water beat down your stiff muscles, trying to draw out the permanent chill that seems to have settled deep into your bones. It works a little bit, but when you get out of the steamy little cell and wrap a towel around your torso you can feel it trickle back into the pit of your stomach, like an icy worm that's decided to make your body its home. It's more of a discomfort than a true pain, though, so you decide to ignore it.

Your hair is still damp when you pull an extra thick sweater over your head, stick your feet in warm socks and tiptoe your way over to the living room.

Keith is still asleep. You don't blame him–he's still recovering, even though he already looks so much better than the previous night. The colour is back in his cheeks. The dark circles and the hollowness under his eyes have started to fade away. He's still thin, and he doesn't smell too good, but you decide against waking him just yet.

In the kitchen, you put on the kettle and pull open the fridge in search of something to eat. The unfinished boxes of chinese sit in front, half-open from when you hastily stowed them away. You pull one out, sniff it, then shrug as you grab for a spoon.

The kitchen windowsill is probably not the spot a lot of people would pick to lounge on, an early Saturday morning. But you've always liked to watch the sun rise over the tall buildings, and the soft orange glow you're treated with today is worth waking up so early for. You rest your face on the knee you've pulled up beside you as you shovel another spoonful of rice into your mouth.

The orange slowly fades out into yellow, then into blue. It's soothing to watch, and you find yourself slow your breathing and close your eyes as the city wakes up beneath you. Noises of starting cars and motorbikes drift up to your window, and chattering fills the street. People exit their homes, throwing delightful glances up at the sunny sky; unexpected after the heavy rain of the previous night.

You finish your takeout, do some chores around the house. Change your bedsheets. Prepare a change of clothes for when Keith finally wakes up. Open the windows to let in some fresh air. Prepare a cup of tea and claim back your spot on the windowsill. It's a peaceful morning, and the air doesn't feel quite as heavy as usual.

And then there's a rustling in the room beside you, and a crash as–you assume–Keith tumbles off your sofa and hits the ground. A faint groan floats past the kitchen doorway and you try to hide your grin. A couple of seconds later a very dishevelled-looking Keith stumbles into the kitchen.

"Morning," you tell him, rolling your shoulders once so they won't go stiff against the windowsill. He nods at you, dark eyes bleary. "Feel better?"

He sniffs. "I don't feel like I just got struck by lightning and dragged behind a racecar over an especially rocky road. So I guess that's improvement."

You blow on the hot tea in your hands. "I'm glad. Would have hated to have gone through all that trouble for nothing. You're quite the guest, you know."

Keith winces at the words, despite your light tone. For some reason, his frown and pained expression tug at your stomach. "But I don't mind it," you add hurriedly. "I mean–it was my own choice to take you in. I very well could not have done that. But–but I did." Shut up, shut up, shut up, you shouted internally.

The corners of Keith's mouth lift ever so slightly. "Lucky for me."

"Lucky for you," you agree with a grin.

It's silent for a while, and in the sunlight, you can clearly see how thin Keith really is. His shirt hangs from his frame in a shapeless lump of cloth, his trousers sagging and almost slipping from his bony hips. While he does look better–the life has returned to his eyes–he still doesn't look good, and the sight of him makes your guts twist. You point to the fridge. "There's leftovers from yesterday. Grab whatever you want–but be careful not to eat too much. I don't want you puking all over my kitchen."

But Keith has already found the other chinese box, and you show him which drawers contain cutlery and in which cupboard are stashed the glasses. He scarfs down the rice in ten minutes flat, and you shake your head in silent judgement. "I'm going to find a way to make you pay back everything you'll cost me, food-wise. You're in debt, starting today."

He gives you a shy grin, but his attention is quickly taken up once more by the food in front of him. You quietly sip your tea, staring out of the window, occasionally glancing at the angel sitting at your kitchen table.

That's when it truly hits you how much of an idiot you're being.

Last night, it had been late. Five days of nothing on your mind but the thought of trying to keep him alive, and finally finding a way to do so, had left you shaky and dazed. Seeing him up and about after getting used to the sound of his ragged, unsteady breathing floating through your apartment had been a shock.

But now the full weight of what you'd done–and what you hadn't done–crashes into you, and you realise you have absolutely no idea how to feel. The air charges with tension, and the angel leans back in his seat. He looks about as uncomfortable as you feel. Your mind whirls with thoughts, all seeming to want something different–the part of you that's curious where this whole situation would lead and is whispering to you to let him stay; the part of you that's still a loyal soldier to the Below and is screaming at you to turn him in; the part of you that wants nothing to do with any of this and is growling to throw him back out on the street. You shake your head, downing the last of your tea and hopping off the counter.

"Take a shower when you're done with that," you mutter. "I have to get back to work soon. My co-workers are gonna ask questions and I need to be prepared."

Keith nods. Your phone is already in your hands and you fire off a quick text to the shelter's manager to inform him you'd be in this afternoon. You don't know Anthony that well–he mostly keeps to the side and handles potential adopters. You prefer to stay with the animals. Almost immediately you receive a reply: he says he's delighted that you've decided to return so soon after taking your unexpected leave. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the barely-veiled passive-aggressiveness.

"Oh, yeah." You turn and point at Keith with your phone. "You can stay for as long as you need to, like, get your bearings and feel somewhat okay again, but then I'm kicking you out. I don't know if you have any idea of how much of a risk I'm taking here, but–"

"I get it," he cuts you off, and you can tell he means it. He needs to work on concealing his emotions, you think off-handedly. He's an open book. It's distracting. "Thank you. Seriously."

The tension builds until it's almost tangible. You shake your head, trying to shake the dizziness away. "It's–yeah. My pleasure, or whatever. I'm locking the door behind me." He gives a brief incline of his head to show he understands. "All right then. Later, I guess. Make–make sure you've showered. You kind of smell," you say apologetically. "No offence."

"None taken," he laughs. "You're right, anyway."

You make a gesture that's in between a nod and a headshake, then make a blind grab for your coat and your scarf before pulling the door closed behind you and locking it.

The shelter's lights are on, and its illuminated windows stand out starkly in the dim grimness of the gloomy street. It doesn't rain, for once, but grey clouds hang overhead and block the sun, the little light that makes it past them flimsy and thin. You pull the door closed behind you. The little bell above the doorway rings once, softly, and barking immediately pipes up from the next room over. You smile.

"Hey, loves," you mutter to each animal as you pass their cages, stopping here and there and sticking your fingers through the bars to give a furry face a pat, or to scratch a scaly butt, or to stroke a feathered head. "I missed you guys."

"They missed you too, I think," comes a quiet voice from behind you. You crouch and open a cage, plucking out a small cat and scritching it behind the ears. "They've been rather unruly in the days you weren't here. Restless, you know."

"Hi, Tony."

"Y/N." He inclines his head. "Did you have a nice leave?" It's a question purely out of politeness, you know, because he's your employer and he's supposed to be polite. As far as employers go, Tony really isn't the worst of them. But you can't shake the feeling that he's fishing for something.

"I did. I've been busy," you say cautiously, not taking your eyes off of the kitten you're cradling. "Sorry for it being so unexpected."

"Oh, not at all," Tony replies smoothly, sailing over to where you sit and leaning on the wall behind you, "We've managed. It was your week off, anyway, and just because you've insisted on working in your free time before doesn't mean that you always will." But it doesn't take amazing detective skills to hear the suspicious edge to his voice.

"That's right," you say, maybe a little too sharply. You can almost smell Tony's raised eyebrow behind you. "Sorry. I've just–I've been a little on edge, lately. I'll–" You scramble up, depositing the kitten back in its cage and dusting fur off your t-shirt. "I'll be in the back." You have the weird urge to salute, but you manage to suppress it. He's already suspicious, you remind yourself. Don't make it worse by acting weird.

It is a shame you can't spend more time with the animals, but you're not the only one who decided to come in today–it's actually quite crowded for a Saturday–so you get storage room duty and instead spend your afternoon putting away boxes of food and medicine and cleaning products. Emmie, one of your co-workers, sticks her head around the corner of your door at the end of the day.

"Hey. We're gonna go get milkshakes, wanna come?"

Your back screams when you push off the chair, eager for an excuse to cut your day short. "You're a godsend." The expression is actually used exclusively as an insult in the Below, but you find you like the Middle Ground version better. "Let me just grab my shoes, I'll be right there."

Hopping on one foot as you finish tying your laces, you join Emmie, Nirina, Adam and Zach as they stride out the door, Emmie and Zach's arms linked. In the back of your mind you recognise that's strange: Emmie and Zach can't stand each other. A smile curls the corners of your lips. You did miss quite a lot this past week, didn't you?

"We're going to this new place a few blocks down," Emmie shouts over her shoulder. You try to chat with Nirina for a bit, but she's more silent than usual, barely saying a word, and eventually she retreats to walk next to Adam behind you. When you don't focus on it, a black, vaguely animal-shaped shadow seems to sit on her shoulder, but when you look directly at it nothing's there.

Something isn't right here.

The feeling creeps into your very bones, making the hairs on your neck stand on edge and your shoulder blades tingle. The sense that you're being watched, and more–as you realise that with Nirina and Adam behind you and Emmie and Zach in front of you, it almost feels like you're being escorted. Guarded.

"Hey, Em," you call. Your hand creeps towards your pocket, but with a start you remember you left your knife at home. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "What's the place we're going called?"

Emmie turns around and flashes you a fanged grin. Your blood turns to ice. "So Above, So Below." And then she pounces--and pushes you straight through the pavement. You don't even have time to scream.

You lose all sense of direction. Up is down and left is right as you fall, fall, fall through a black hole, Emmie's nails still digging into your shoulders, though you're sure if you actually opened your eyes you'd see they're claws. You try to tug yourself loose, but her grip immediately tightens. You hiss when you feel her talons draw blood.

"No getting away, Y/N dear," she giggles into your ear.

Well, at least you know what she–and the others too, by the sound of it–is. Only Bountyhunters can get to the Below or the Above without using one of the doors or passages, instead creating their own temporary ones. You've travelled by Bounty Tunnel before. It's not a memory you cherish. The only thing you can do is close your eyes and hope it'll be over soon.

When you finally make contact, all the air is knocked out of you and for a moment you see nothing but black spots dancing in front of your eyes. Then you suck in a scorching breath and blink, and the familiar stark white ceiling of the Offices comes into view. You groan, and when you try to sit up, your hands catch in ashy grey feathers: your wings have popped. You flush, already feeling Haggar's disapproving scowl digging into your back. How unprofessional, she'd mumble.

Haggar has always hated your guts–even back when you were still loyal to the Below.

Emmie–except she looks nothing like Emmie anymore–tosses her long dark ponytail over her shoulder and sighs. "That was almost too easy. We were told you'd be a challenge."

"I haven't been feeling well," you reply, voice icy as you stand up and shake out your wings. You don't miss the way Emmie's expression sours and suppress a smirk. Bounties don't have wings, and they'll never stop being salty about it. "Also, four against one? That seems a little unfair, even for Management." You pause. "I'm assuming you got hired by Management."

"Of course we got hired by Management, demon," Zach snarls. He runs his fingers through his hair and glares at you, his fangs growing by the second and soon touching his chin. And then his face begins to change, his jaw softening (though not by much), his eyes growing more cat-like, his lips plumping. You frown, because you know this face. You know her.

Zethrid grins, fangs shining in the white LED light. "Long time no see, Y/N." You give a sarcastic wave.

"Yes, Y/N," comes an icy voice from behind you. Your shoulders tense, and your feathers puff involuntarily. "Long time no see indeed."

Haggar glides out of her office doors, and you feel all the stony calm and resistance leave you in one fell swoop. Her yellow eyes bore into yours, and it takes every ounce of willpower inside you not to look away. She nods her head, once. "My office, Y/N. Now."

"You're so dead," mutters Zethrid as you pass her.

"When I get out of here, you're the first person whose throat I'll slit," you hiss in return.

Haggar slumps in her seat and plucks her looking glass from its stand, making it levitate over her hand and glaring like she has a personal vendetta against it. "If it were up to me, I would already have you burning and hanging from the Grand Hall ceiling," she says, vanishing the mirror in a cloud of smoke. You try to ignore the pang of fear stabbing into your chest. You're gonna be fine, you tell yourself. You're going to be okay. But you find it hard to believe the words.

"But–" the mirror reappears in her other hand– "a certain Prince insisted on keeping you alive." She whirls the looking glass around and it floats in front of your face. Prince Lotor of the Below looks at you with a scrutinising gaze, as if gauging how much you'd be worth on the night market.

"Y/N," he says in a clear voice. You nod, then quickly incline your head in a slight bow. Watch your tongue, Y/N. Watch. Your. Tongue. "No need for that." Lotor snaps his fingers, and you look up again, eyes fixed on the rim of the looking glass, determined not to meet Lotor's. You're afraid of what you might see.

It's silent for a moment, and you keep your mouth shut for as long as you can, but you eventually break. "Forgive me, Lord, but–"

"Shut up." It takes all of your willpower not to cock your head and narrow your eyes in indignation. Lotor leans forward, elbows perched on his desk and fingertips pressed together. His cold gaze is calculating and cruel, and your entire body reels with disgust and hatred. "I didn't keep you alive because I care about what happens to you. Because I don't," he clarifies with a raised eyebrow, and this time you can't keep the grimly sarcastic smile at bay. "I kept you alive because I need you to do a job."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think I'm the right person for any job." You try to keep your voice light and your fists unclenched, but it's a harder task than you want to admit.

"Told him so," Haggar mutters from behind the mirror. You can tell she thoroughly disagrees with being used as a TV-stand. "There are so much more competent candidates for this assignment who actually want to prove themselves and their loyalty to us." You have the feeling she's talking directly to Lotor now. "But no, you just had to get the one rogue who'll do everything in their power to get out from this–"

"Enough," Lotor says coolly, and Haggar clamps her jaw shut, though her eyes flash with murder. You don't know who she wants to kill more at the moment: you or Lotor. "Y/N will do the job, and they'll do it without complaining."

"You sound awfully sure." You've since given up on trying to be respectful. Lotor might be the Prince of the Below, but you had wriggled yourself out of more difficult situations than these before. You're already carefully plotting an escape.

Because the mistake most people make when they see you is that they underestimate you. They think they have you pinned down, and then they loosen their hold and up till now, that has always worked out in your favour–you know how to manipulate people and you know how to get out of the Below. You know every single of the dozens and dozens of passageways leading out onto Middle Ground, and from there on you know how to hide. You've done it before, and managed to keep off their radar for quite a while.

In fact, the only reason they caught you now was because you had been too preoccupied with a certain angel to keep your thoughts straight. A mistake, and one you won't be making again.

"I am sure," Lotor's clear voice cuts through your thoughts and pulls you back to the present. "There's a contract on the desk. Sign it, and we'll give you the details."

You can't stop the startled laugh that bursts past your lips. "A Blank Contract? You expect me to sign a Blank Contract?"

Lotor merely cocks his head and smiles that lazy smile of his.

And then the little looking glass shatters and you yelp, taking a step backwards in surprise, feeling your muscles tense. "I do," his voice says from behind you, and you whirl around just in time to see Lotor sail into Haggar's office.

Haggar gives a sharp sigh and brushes shattered glass off her uniform. "Do you always have to do that? Those mirrors are expensive, you know. I'm gonna have you pay for them if you insist on making a dramatic entrance every time."

Lotor ignores her, his gaze fixed on you. He waves his hand, and a piece of paper appears between his fingers. It's mostly blank, save for one thickly outlined black square with an inscription you can't read from where you stand, but you know what they say: Candidate's signature. "I'm not signing." But your voice has a tremor to it, and you suddenly feel a lot smaller as Lotor strides towards you. It was a lot easier to disrespect the Prince of the Below through a looking glass.

His eyes flash with irritation. "You will." Somehow, those two words hold more threat to them than all the insults the Bounties threw at you earlier.

But you set your jaw and clench your fists. "I'd rather die. I'm. Not. Signing." You had vowed to not ever help the Below in any way, shape or form again. It wasn't worth it.

"Told you so," Haggar sing-songs from behind her desk, a maniacal glint to her eye. "Just take one of the actually competent ones. Let me string them up."

Lotor gives a sharp sigh. "Touch them and I'll be stringing you up." Haggar pouts and crosses her arms. He turns to you, and the coolness in his eyes sends shivers up your spine. The realisation hits you like a freight train. He's done something. He knows something. He would never be this sure of himself if he didn't have an absolutely airtight plan.

Then Lotor waves his hand again, and another mirror you hadn't noticed before–a looking glass spanning from the floor to the ceiling, partially hidden by a black curtain–lights up, and the image you see has all the colour drain from your face and your heart skip a beat.

Allura is tied to a chair and breathing hard, her nurse's scrubs hanging crookedly, torn and dirty. A nasty cut spans from her cheekbone to her eyebrow, and blood runs down the side of her face. Tears mix with the grime and blood smearing her cheeks. Behind her stand Emmie and Zethrid the Bountyhunters, crazed smiles painted upon both their faces.

As soon as she sees you, Allura lets out a strangled cry that is muffled by the gag strung over her mouth. Her eyes widen, and you rush forward, stopping just short of the mirror's surface, afraid to break it. Your shaking fingertips hover just shy of the surface before you pull them back to your chest. Tears threaten to spill past your eyes, so you push them down and try to take a breath.

"Is this real?" You know how hallucinations work. You know how powerful illusions can be, and you know exactly how useful of a tool they can be in manipluation. It's a tool you've used yourself.

"Maybe. Maybe not," says Lotor's soft voice. His breath washes over the side of your face, and you can feel sick rise in your throat. All compusure is lost. It's all or nothing now. Thoughts muddle and get mixed up in your mind until all you can focus on is Allura, terrified and hurt, sitting in front of you yet separated by a thin sheet of glass and who knows how many miles.

A crazy thought of Maybe I can free her pops up, but you beat it down immediately again. You don't know where she is. You don't know if this is even real. Lotor would immediately order her killed if you attempted anything remotely similar to a breakout. Then kill Lotor, a ragged voice in your mind screams.

"Come, come, no rash decisions now," Lotor says as if he just read your thoughts. His hands ghost over your shoulders, sliding down until they reach your elbows. He gently forces them to your sides, and you don't even have the strength in you to resist. A fresh stream of tears runs down Allura's cheeks, and she weakly thrashes against her bonds, and in the end, that's what yanks you out of your stupor.

Your chin snaps up. "So you'll let her go if I sign the contract?"

Lotor rolls his eyes. "Look whose wits have returned to them." He lets go of your elbows and takes a step toward the mirror, hands clasped behind his back and his hungry gaze raking across Allura's form. She looks up at him with a mix of hatred and fear in her eyes. She's given up struggling against the ropes, but her jaw is set, and her eyes are steely; terrified, but determined. Her gaze flicks back to you and she gives the tiniest shake of her head.

Lotor reels back and laughs, the sound booming within the office walls. He shakes his head, still chuckling, his long silvery hair swishing behind him as he stalks back to the desk and swoops up the contract. "Feisty. I like that. Doesn't have the slightest clue of what's going on but still tells you to not do the thing you obviously don't want to do." He flashes you a fanged grin that makes your blood run cold. "I just might pay her a visit later myself."

"That's Middle Ground, my Prince," you manage through gritted teeth. "I'll find and kill you before you even have a chance to knock on her door."

"That's some confidence you've got right there, Y/N. Keep it for the job."

"I haven't signed your contract yet."

Lotor cocks his head and his grin widens. "Yet being the keyword here."

You turn back to the mirror, scanning Allura for any sign that she might not be real, looking for something that might hint that her image is off. Something. Anything. But your manic brain is running in circles, looking for loopholes that might not even be there, and you know you're not making sense, because the chance that she's just an illusion is there, but on the off-chance that she isn't, that she actually is in danger–

You would never forgive yourself if she were to get hurt and you could have put a stop to it.

"It's possible," you breathe, your hands curling to fists. "It's possible that none of this is real."

Lotor nods as if your words are perfectly reasonable. "True." There's a beat of silence, and his feverish eyes bore into yours. "But are you willing to take that risk?"

Anyone else–any proper demon–would have laughed in his face and torn the contract to shreds, watching gleefully as Allura got tortured in front of their eyes. But you had left behind your demon ways a good while ago, and you had always been a rotten pupil anyway. So you bite your tongue and snatch the contract and pen from Lotor's waiting fingers, scribbling your signature down hard enough that you pierce the paper.

"See, I knew you'd come around in the end!" He claps his hands in delight and throws a triumphant glance Haggar's way. "I told you so."

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbles, waving a hand as if to dismiss his words. She gives you a slightly disapppointed stare. "I was rooting for you, kiddo. Show some spine next time."

You fight the tears threatening to spill and slap the now-signed contract back onto the desk. "All right. Details, Lotor. What's the assignment?"

His eyes flash. Business; there's something he knows. "We received word that one of the Above's most prized angels has just gone rogue." He starts pacing, and your eyes keep finding Allura's behind him–but she looks at you with pity and something that's almost disappointment, and you have to look away before you break down completely. "It came out of nowhere, too: stellar record, followed orders without a second thought. A great soldier." You don't miss the punch behind the words.

"And you want me to do, what, kill him?" That wouldn't be too hard. At least, you think. Your mind is still a bit muddy, but something ugly and twisted inside you is still desperate for Management's approval. Still eager to prove yourself. I can be a good soldier too.

"Oh no, no," Lotor says with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I just want you to find him and bring him in. It shouldn't be that hard to do–after all, who better to track a rogue than another rogue themselves?"

There's still something else. Something he isn't telling you. Sure, you're good at what you do–at what you used to do–but was it worth going through all the trouble just to get you to sign the stupid contract? As much as you loathed to do it, you silently had to agree with Haggar on this one. There were so many young demons scrambling for their chance to prove themselves and their worth–why not let them take this assignment?

"That–that's it?"

Lotor cocks a brow. "I mean, unless you wanted more work, I guess that's it.'

You give a cautious nod. "Okay. So what do we know about this guy?"

"Not much. My sources weren't able to provide very recent information–"

"Get better sources."

"–But what they do know is that this particular angel has been off the map for years. Quite like you," he adds as he raises his other eyebrow. You roll your eyes. "He's impossible to find, quite hard to track, and a very skilled fighter. Rumour has it he's scouring your city's streets at the moment."

You resist a frown. If this guy has been prowling your streets and you haven't noticed, something is definitely amiss. Might just be that you've been preoccupied with Keith and everything that happened around him, but if this has been going on for as long as Lotor is implying it has... this just might prove an actual challenge.

The old feeling of excitement and anticipation starts to run through your very bones again, and you hate the way it makes you feel–energised. As if you can handle anything thrown your way. Ready. It's a feeling you haven't known in years, and one you haven't missed, though now that it courses through your veins again there's no point in denying that you're enjoying it. The thrill of the chase.

But then Lotor speaks the name of the angel you're supposed to bring in, and everything falls into place, only to shatter into a million pieces a split second after.

You see his lips move. Hear the words spoken, though they take a moment to get processed, and when they do they leave behind an emptiness that has you stare at him, too dumbfounded and untrusting of yourself to speak.

It can't be. This must be the universe's idea of a cruel joke. The very guy you'd risked everything for–the very angel that had caused your distractedness and is the reason you were here in the first place–is the same rogue angel about whom you had just signed a contract.

The crushing weight of it settles on your shoulders. All five days of you struggling to keep him breathing, for nothing. The weird excursion to Coran's shop, for nothing. The goddamn chinese takeout you'd bought for him, for fucking nothing.

But somehow you manage to keep your face straight, and Lotor hadn't been watching you as he said it, instead gazing intently at something over your head, so you can only hope he hasn't noticed the lurch in your expression at the mention of Keith Kogane.

"All right." You're almost shocked at how steady your voice is. "Okay. I've agreed. You got what you want. Now, free Allura." Even though your voice is pretty steady, you curl your hands into fists to hide their shaking.

Lotor doesn't move for a moment, and you seriously begin to think he's having a seizure until he snaps his fingers and Emmie lunges forward.

In her hand is a knife, and she plunges it into Allura's chest without a second of hesitation.

You rush toward the mirror, a strangled "No!" ripped from your throat. Your fingers claw at the smooth glass surface and you watch her slump, blood gushing from the wound and staining her scrubs a dark crimson. Your knees buckle, and your eyes stay glued to her form as she convulses, coughs up blood twice, then goes limp. Her head falls back...

And snaps back up, and you lurch back with a startled cry. Allura's eyes have gone red and are shining with mania. Her skin turns the colour of wet ash, and her hair falls out of its updo and cascades down her shoulders, tendrils black and writhing as if they have a mind of their own...

Demon.

Shapeshifter.

Your breathing comes in short and shallow rasps as the full realisation of things settles in. Allura was never in danger. You were right all along. If only you had put your foot down. If only you hadn't let your feelings cloud your mind.

It doesn't matter now. You signed a contract–and there's no going back from that.

Lotor fingers through the file that bears your signature in black ink. Slowly, the words explaining just what you signed start to appear on the sheets, snaking their way along the curves of the paper as if written in by an invisible hand. A steel fist clenches around your heart, and you struggle to stand up, your muscles turned to jelly. The surface of the mirror has gone black again.

A shaking hand comes up to cover your mouth, and your teeth clench down on your lower lip so hard that they draw blood. Lotor flicks his wrist, and the contract disappears. The fingers of your free hand twitch as if they wanted to grab at the file. You level your gaze with Lotor's, and evidently your years of training finally paid off in the end, because in his eyes you can see how passive your expression is. You'd be a good poker player, your fleeting mind thinks randomly. The only thing giving away your current emotions is the hand mindlessly tugging at your bottom lip, and the fact that your breathing is still rather fast.

"Now," Lotor drawls in his honey-coated voice–sugary sweet, sticky, suffocating–and snakes an arm around your shoulders, "that wasn't so hard, was it?"

And you know you should keep your mouth shut, because he is the Prince of the Below, and Haggar has already expressed her desire to string you up and set you on fire in the Grand Hall for every new recruit to see–but on the other hand, you just signed a contract, and that makes you technically untouchable until Lotor has reason to believe you won't be able to complete the task set out for you.

The very foundation of a plan starts coming together in your mind. You jut up your chin and break free from his grasp. "So do I get assignment-issue gear? A blade? A gun, maybe? If this angel is as good as you make him out to be, perhaps I should need some more useful weapons than your average kitchen knife."

Lotor scrutinises you for a moment, then waves his hand. A set of gleaming double blades appear on Haggar's desk, along with their sheaths and long black gloves. Haggar huffs with an indignant mutter of Sure, use my desk as your summoning surface. Don't mind at all. You ignore her and lift an eyebrow. "That's all you're going to give me?"

"If you're as good as you say, this is all you will need," Lotor replies in that smooth tone of his. His eyes glint; he's gotten what he wanted. He's already won.

But that's fine. Lotor may have won this battle, and you need to make him feel like he has, but in the end you'll do everything in your power to win the war. And Lotor just handed you the weapons that just might be able to get you there.

"Fine," you mutter, snatching up the knives, pointedly refusing to strap them to your back like is procedure, instead securing the harnesses to your thighs as a small act of defiance. Irritation flashes in his eyes. "I'll report to you how often?"

"No reports," Lotor says with a wave of his hand. "We don't want to make any potential spies of the Above suspicious. Just make sure you find him, and when you do..." He tosses you a little disk about the size of a large coin, and you startle at how heavy it is. It's pleasantly warm to the touch, and you have a creeping suspicion as to what it is that is only confirmed with Lotor's next words. "Portal pass. Use it wisely."

You turn the pass over and over in your hands, the familiar weight of the knives at your thighs comforting and seeming to pull you down to the ground at the same time. "Is that–will that be all?" Risky words, risky questions–you're going out on a limb and assume Lotor won't have you hanged for running your mouth: he did just pretend to torture your best friend to coerce a signature out of you, so you suppose he has to give you some slack.

He sails to a halt in front of you, face so close his nose almost touches yours, and you have to stop yourself from recoiling. His expression is cold, his gaze calculating–and the smile that creeps up his lips sends shivers up our spine. "Yes. I think that will be all." He raises a brow and throws a glance Haggar's way, which you find comical as he didn't seem to give a solid fuck about her opinions when he used her office as his personal torture chamber.

Haggar shrugs. "I still think we should string them up and burn them to a crisp."

"Yes, Haggar, I know. Why did I even bother." He gives you a lazy flick of his hand, but you've already turned and your hand is resting on the doorknob, when something occurs to you and you cast a look at him over your shoulder.

"My Prince?" The title feels like hot oil searing down your throat, but you expect the words you're about to say require this small bit of courtesy. He raises a brow and nods. "I'm going to kill the Bounties that brought me here." Your voice sounds oddly bored.

Lotor chuckles. "They're no demons. They don't have a place in the Below." It's like his gaze issues a challenge, and a fresh wave of loathing for this Prince washes over your being. "Go right ahead."

You flash a cold smile and slam the door shut.

– – –

You wipe your blades with some wet wipes and discard them in the trashcan beside you when they get too filthy with blood (the store clerk barely looked up when you came in and purchased a single packet of wet wipes and a duffel bag–apparently the average cashier sees weirder stuff than a maniac with bloodied hunting knives the size of their forearms slamming a pack of wet wipes on the counter on a daily basis). Emmie, Adam, Zethrid and Nirina's bodies have long since turned to dust, and you have to work to keep your breathing steady and to stop your eyes from glowing red as the phone wedged between your ear and your shoulder rings.

Allura picks up on the fourth ring. "'Sup?"

It was just a check. Just to make sure. But if Allura truly did just get tortured, you have a feeling she wouldn't pick up a phone call with a simple 'Sup?

"Hey. How was your day?" Your speech comes out slightly slurred, and Allura laughs on the other side of the line.

"Fine. Work, you know. Routine." You can almost hear the grin on her face as she says, "And you? Weren't you supposed to be at work too, today?"

Work. Work feels like such a long time ago--when it was in reality only a couple of hours back. You nod slowly, though it's more to convince yourself than anything else. "Yeah. I was. Some co-workers and I went to get smoothies afterwards. To welcome me back," you joke.

"Did they pay?"

"Yeah."

"Good for you. Free milkshake. I'm jealous."

You laugh, but it feels hollow in your chest. "Hey--I need to run now, but I'll call you later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Sweet of you to check in, Y/N."

You eye the gleaming blade, running a finger along its razor-sharp edge. "No problem."

After you hang up, you sit back against the wall digging into your back, forcing down the pumping feeling in your limbs.

It's something you've missed, and you can't deny it. The absolute exhilaration you feel when your blades make contact, the thrumming of adrenaline in your veins as you dodge to avoid the blows that four individual enemies are throwing at you. The fear in Zethrid's eyes when she realises she is the only one left standing, and the life seeping from her eyes as you slit her throat.

It doesn't make you feel good, exactly–especially now that the thrill of the moment has worn off and you just feel tired and there's an ache that has burrowed itself deep into your bones–but there's no replicating the rush of power that courses through your very being when you're the one in control.

When the blades of death are yours to wield.

The knives are now securely stored in your new black duffel, and you try and figure out how you're going to pull off bringing two huge knives home without rousing suspicion from Keith. You internally debate whether you shouldn't just find a safe space to stash the duffel until you need it. There are quite a few nooks and crannies you know no one in their right mind would look, but then again, this was a big city. There were plenty of creepier people prawling these streets than the occasional demon.

And then you pass a gym, and an idea sparks in your head.

After casually shoplifting a bunch of sportswear from the nearest Nike store, you return to the gym with the knives in your bag hidden by the copious amounts of t-shirts and trainers stacked on top of them. You get a locker and stuff the bag inside before making your way outside again, smiling at the desk guy as you leisurely stroll out of the gym. The guy narrows his eyes at you–your clothes are still slightly torn and dirty, and you're pretty sure you have a bruise forming on the right side of your cheek, but you don't pay him any mind. He works at a gym. He's seen stranger than you.

But the closer you get to your apartment, the heavier the portal pass starts to feel in your pocket, and the more insecure your steps become. The sun hangs low over the city skyline, but hasn't completely started to set yet, and soft golden light washes over the streets, making them look... wrong. Bleak. Colour in a place where colour shouldn't be. You had just killed in these streets, and nobody noticed.

The thought makes you feel kind of sorry for the Bounties. They would be missed by no one.

You're still lost in thought when you almost hit a door and you snap back to reality. Your feet had carried you all the way up to your apartment. You blinked hard, rubbed a hand over your face and fumbled for your keys.

"Hey. It's me. Did you burn the house down while I was gone?"

Keith looks up from where he sits on an armchair–your armchair, but you understand he wouldn't want to spend another minute on the couch he spent five days on, hallucinating out of his mind–and grins, and your heart does a leap. And then he frowns, and you freeze, and your immediate thought is Oh fuck, he's found me out, he knows everything, he's going to call the other angels and he's going to kill me–

But the words he speaks are soft with concern. "What happened to your face?" And it takes all of your willpower not to break down right then and there.

He puts down the book he was reading and walks over to you, eyebrows knotted with worry, and reaches out to touch your forehead. Only then does he seem to realise how close to you he's standing, and he quickly pulls his fingers back to his chest. They're red with blood. "Let's get that disinfected, yeah?"

Before you can answer, he's already started towards your kitchen. You blink, still stunned, before following him like you're in a daze. He looks over his shoulder and points to a kitchen chair. You plop down, and it's when the weight is taken off your legs that the exhaustion comes crashing into you at breakneck speed, and it takes all your strength not to plunk your head down on the kitchen table and just pass out.

"Where do you keep your first aid kit?"

You vaguely point to a cabinet below the sink, and moments later Keith plops the kit down beside you on the table and plucks out a wad of cotton and disinfecting spray. You don't even feel it sting when he gently dabs at the cut on your forehead and cheekbone. His eyes are firmly trained on the cotton, his dark brows furrowed–there's a little crease between them that your foggy self finds most endearing–and he's chewing absent-mindedly on his bottom lip.

With a shock, you realise this is the closest you've been to him. Ever. This is the first time you can properly study his face, and you can always blame your muddy mind later if he brings up how blatantly you were staring at him, so you let yourself drink in every feature of his face. You find yourself drawn to his eyes most; they're a stunning deep violet, the colour of the sky at twilight, when the sun has just set and the last rays of light streak the heavens with purple. Most of all, they're soft with concern and simultaneously fierce with a kind of fire you haven't seen on him before.

"Aren't you going to ask what happened?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Keith's eyes briefly flicker to yours, and he gives an awkward shrug before going back to gently rubbing at your wounds. "It's none of my business. You haven't asked me about what I was doing on Middle Ground in the first place, and I won't stick my nose into what doesn't concern me." But the words sound like he's reciting them; like a lesson he learned at school. You can see in his eyes that he is in fact curious, but also that he isn't going to press further. How very angelic of him.

You purse your lips, fingering the portal pass in your jacket pocket.

Your mind is a jumble of thoughts, like someone took all your emotions and threw them in a blender. Every moment you spend with Keith in your kitchen–how is it you always end up in the kitchen?–you grow more sure that you can't turn him in. But the contract pulls at your insides, and you know that if you keep ignoring its contents it will keep gnawing at you until you can't take it anymore and snap.

The contract is the contract. Binding and eternal.

"Keith."

His hand freezes, and you carefully guide it to the table, gently forcing him to put down the cotton. "Thank you, really. But I'm okay. I promise."

He nods. Slowly. "Okay."

And oh, how you want to wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips against his, but that would make things a thousand times more complicated than they already are–

Your breath leaves you in one fell swoop. It's the exhaustion talking, you firmly tell yourself, before you yank your fingers back and stand. You're a bit wobbly, but you manage. Keith wisely doesn't attempt to help you, but you can feel his eyes boring into your back as you make your way to your bedroom.

You change. You brush your teeth. You splash some water in your face to clear your head. Everything happens in a haze, your mind too tired to think about anything at all.

But then your eye falls on a piece of paper resting on your pillow. You frown and pick it up, and your eyes widen when you recognise your own scraggly handwriting littering the little parchment card. A hand flies up to your mouth to muffle your startled scream, and you drop the card as if it just burned your fingertips, though your eyes stay glued to its surface.

The words I want Keith to be okay stare back up at you, and with every passing second your breathing gets quicker and more ragged. Your fingers tingle, and as you draw a tentative breath you sink down onto the mattress. Your fingers tingle, but they tingle with warmth, and the feeling is not unpleasant.

Where Keith's own skin brushed yours, the chill that had seeped into your very core and had burrowed there for days, leaving you in a constant state of stiff cold, dissipated. The feeling is so weirdly foreign after having only felt cold for days that you dumbly stare out into nothingness, trying to shake the heat out of your hand. It doesn't work. It feels good, and you want more of it.

For a moment, the contract leaves your mind, replaced by Keith's eyes, the way he'd looked up at you, all softness and worry; the gentleness of his fingers as they cleaned the shallow cuts on your face. You close your eyes and lean back, the little parchment card on the floor seeming to beg for your attention. You never knew paper could be this loud.

For just a moment, you allow yourself to think of Keith and not just see an angel–but something more.

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